That One Chick

BEHOLD...my stuff! 30 NSFW so 18+ only

[colettebronte]

Buttons, Bee Stings and Butterfly Effects: Chapter 9

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Pairing: Regency!Anthony Bridgerton x Modern!Fem Reader

Summary: A ball, a few important conversations and the return of a certain gentleman. The Viscount has absolutely no feelings about any of this (he absolutely does)

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: 18+ for the series but for this part, nothing. I will put this up on Ao3 and Wattpad so please do not repost my work elsewhere

Author’s Note: Here we are, it's the longest chapter so far! Please do enjoy! Thank you to @fayes-fics for serving as beta and @eulalielatibule for the inspo for this fic

Chapter 9: Jealousy or, The Redemption of Mr. Harley

London, 1814

That night, in your finely appointed bed in Danbury House, sleep does not come easy. When further pressed, Agatha had revealed that, after your sudden departure the previous season, the Viscount had seemed sad, almost despondent, refusing to take up any other dance partners for the remainder of the season.

The Ton at large had attributed his sullenness to the loss of his mistress, but Agatha and, she admitted, Lady Bridgerton herself were certain it was because of you. For several weeks after you had left, Lord Bridgerton had quietly asked Agatha if she had news of you. He had even prevailed upon Eloise and Hyacinth to ask after your address so that they might receive news of you through your own letters. Agatha had gently rebuffed both requests, informing them that you were traveling between various estates and couldn’t be certain where you were at any given time until you reached out to her first.

It was an ingenious lie, for if, as originally planned, you never returned, you were meant to have simply faded from their memories, remembered as a friendly acquaintance they had known for a brief time -  a mere footnote in their lives.

But that, apparently, was not the case for Anthony Bridgerton. And so it seemed, to Agatha and his mother, at least, that rather than explore whatever he had felt for Miss Addison, he pushed all feelings away and decided the best course for his life was to take on a loveless, but amenable marriage. 

Which would ultimately lead to his death. And the sorrow and decline of his family.

As you rolled over and at last felt the tug of sleep, the final thought in your mind was simply this: not if you, Agatha and Coral had anything to say about it.

Over the next few weeks, though, there was not much opportunity to say or even do anything. Whenever you came to call on the family, Miss Hunter was right there, pride of place, sitting between Violet Bridgerton and the Viscount.

You could only watch with increasing anxiety as Miss Hunter slowly won over the rest of the Bridgerton family. She charmed both Colin and Gregory with tales of her travels. She delighted Hyacinth with stories of the gowns she wore to glamorous balls across Europe. She even managed to gain Daphne, the new Duchess of Hastings’ support when she tenderly held her newborn son and declared him, ‘The handsomest baby she had ever seen.’

All of this was done under the proud, almost warm eyes of Lord Bridgerton, who, at every smile and approving nod from his family, seemed to preen a bit more.

At balls, it was much the same. She seemed to hold the Ton in the palm of her hand. Everyone waited for her arrival to see what she would be wearing, and then surely, the young ladies would be dressed in a similar fashion at the next soiree.

And just as the Viscount had vowed, he never danced with you, his waltz firmly held for Miss Hunter, who, you begrudgingly had to admit, floated around the dancefloor in his arms like she was born to it.

The only holdout to her charms, though, was Benedict Bridgerton. While he smiled winningly at her praise and nodded at the appropriate places when she engaged him in conversation, you could see it in his eyes; he was not impressed by Miss Eulalie Hunter.

If only you could tell him just how right he was not to trust her, but frustratingly, you knew you couldn’t.

But you would get the chance to come as close as possible to informing him thus soon enough.

To everyone’s surprise, the Harley family had decided to host another ball. Despite, or maybe because of their recent family scandal, an invitation to their ball was a hot commodity. And naturally, Lady Danbury and Miss Addison were among those on the guest list.

The ballroom at Harley House was nearly identical to when you had attended their ball the previous season, as if Lady Harley was summoning a less scandalous time in her family’s recent history. And indeed Lord Harley and his wife seem relieved to see Agatha and, by extension, you. As you attach your dance card, you realize that by attending, Lady Danbury, who as a close confidante of The Queen, was signalling to the Ton that the family was once again safe to associate with.

A few gentlemen write their names on your card, and then you seek out the Bridgerton family, who had arrived shortly after you. As Agatha makes small talk with Lady Bridgerton, Colin and Benedict add their names. You are pleased to see that Benedict has chosen the Somerfield Set, which means you have a pair of consecutive dances to gauge his true feelings about Miss Hunter and share your own thoughts in return.

You try to ignore Lord Bridgerton, which is difficult because he looks exceedingly handsome in his cropped black velvet jacket, choosing instead to chat with Eloise. It’s while you two are talking that Mr. Harley approaches. You haven’t seen him since the Trowbridge Ball, and he certainly has changed. He has an air of confidence he didn’t have the season before, and you remember that, because his elder brother fled to the Americas with Siena Rosso after he won the duel that had originally ended the Viscount’s life and thus been disowned, the younger Mr. Harley was now the heir.

All of his family’s inheritance was his. You almost feel sorry that such a weight is now on his shoulders. He is different physically as well. Not only is he dressed in a fine suit, but his complexion is also clear, and his blonde hair longer and tousled in a way that makes him look quite handsome.

He offers you a bow, and Eloise steps back, as if using you as a human shield to escape his notice. She has no need to worry, though; his eyes are only on you.

“Miss Addison,” he begins, “If you would be amenable, I would very much like to claim a dance with you.” When he finishes speaking, he holds your gaze with clear, calm eyes, waiting for your consent.

You had purposely worn an older pair of shoes, expressly in case this scenario presented itself. But the fact that he has asked for your permission rather than just taking up your card is a new and welcome development. 

As you offer him your wrist to write his name, you say, “It would be my honor and indeed a pleasure, Sir.” Afterwards, you find that you genuinely mean the words.

As you and Agatha take your leave of the Bridgerton family to make the rounds, you catch the Viscount’s eye, and he’s clenching his jaw, looking displeased.

But then shortly after, Miss Hunter and her uncle arrive, and you watch as he puts on a charming smile and takes up her dance card.

Once the dancing starts, you are obliged for most of the evening. Soon enough, though, Benedict Bridgerton is offering you his arm and the pair of you begin the first of your two dances. He is always an excellent partner, both attentive and a good conversationalist, when the dancing allows.

Luckily, this set does. You spend the first one engaging in small talk, gossiping about a lady’s garish gown, a gentleman’s unfortunate choice of cravat and chatting about an art exhibit you both attended that he has strong opinions about.

Sometime during the second dance, Lord Bridgerton and Miss Hunter glide past you, and Benedict’s expression changes, a sour look on his face, before he catches himself and softens it to one of bland  neutrality.

“I saw that,” you chide him, not unkindly.

Benedict looks momentarily surprised before he relaxes. “It is nothing, Miss Addison. I assure you.”

“If it is about Miss Hunter, then I assure you, Mr. Bridgerton, it is not nothing.”

He appears taken aback and then impressed that you so thoroughly turned his own words around on him. He opens and closes his mouth a few times before settling on, “It would be ungentlemanly to speak ill of the lady my brother is courting.”

You can’t help the sharp grin that overtakes your face. “It would be unladylike of me to do the same, but shall we do it anyway?”

Benedict lets out a loud laugh, which draws curious looks from the couples dancing around you. Once everyone looks away, he smiles and leans in. “I suppose we shall.”

At your answering smile, his face suddenly grows serious, and he spares a glance in his elder brother’s direction before he speaks again.

“There is something about her. I cannot put my finger on it, but she seems too polished, too perfect. And it is strange that she has so thoroughly charmed my entire family, if not the whole of the Ton.”

In one sentence, Benedict Bridgerton has given voice to exactly what you have observed over the last few weeks.

“Not all of the Ton,” you tell him. “But you are correct, she does appear to be incredibly polished, unnaturally so. That she has been to all the places and done all the things she claims is extremely suspect to me, and indeed Lady Danbury thinks so as well.”

He nods. “I had wondered if anyone else had found her stories as incredulous as I have.”

You squeeze the hand holding yours as you turn. “I assure you, Mr. Bridgerton, that is most certainly the case.”

You take a few more turns around the floor before you speak again. “Have you mentioned your concerns about her to your brother?”

Benedict lets out a humorless laugh. “I have tried on several occasions. But the stubborn ass refuses to listen to me, saying only that she is ‘more than suitable’ and then walks away from me,” he pauses as his words catch up to him and says, “My apologies, Miss Addison, for the colorful language.”

You smile. “I assure you, Mr. Bridgerton, that in my head, I have called your elder brother far worse things than merely an ass.”

Benedict laughs. “I have always liked you.” He glances at his brother and then back to you. “I had thought too, so had Anthony.”

Before you can respond, the dance ends, and you acknowledge each other. As Benedict leads you back to Agatha, he leans in and says, “I have done all I can to dissuade him, but perhaps he’ll listen to you. I hope you’ll try.”

“I shall, Mr. Bridgerton,” you tell him, “I swear it.”

When the next dance commences, you join Mr. Harley on the dancefloor. As the music begins, you offer up a silent prayer that your toes remain unharmed. But as you step together, you realize your prayers are unnecessary.

As he spins you under his arm, you are astonished as you ask him, “Mr. Harley, have you taken dance lessons?”

He ducks his head, turning a familiar shade of pink. “I have indeed, Miss Addison. Mother insisted, especially after how things ended last season.” His eyes widen, as if realizing he has said too much.

You change partners and dance away from him. When you come back together, you tell him, “You can speak as freely as you like with me, Sir. Lady Danbury has apprised me of the situation.” You choose your next words carefully, not wanting to offend him. “I hope your brother is content in the Americas.”

Mr. Harley looks at you with surprise and, after sparing a glance at his parents, says, “He is quite well. He sent a letter to his best friend, who then secreted it to me. He is newly married to the young lady he fled with and has started a business. He seems most content with his newfound freedom.”

You nod. “And how are you enjoying being the new heir?”

At your question, he looks sad. “It may sound silly, but I would very much like to marry for love. I had hoped that, as the second son, it was something that could be afforded to me, but now as the heir…”

“All the voracious, fortune-hunting mamas are eying you for their voracious, fortune-hunting daughters,” you finish for him.

He laughs. “Perhaps not in those exact words, but yes.”

You are forced to dance away from each other again, but once you return, you entwine your fingers with his as you make your way around the floor.

“Mr. Harley, I owe you an apology for last season, for allowing Lord Bridgerton to take the waltz that was rightfully yours at the Trowbridge Ball.”

He looks thoughtful for a moment. “It was rather bold of me to claim the dance you always reserved for him. I should have expected no less of such treatment, really.”

“All the same,” you begin, “I think it’s only fair that you take my waltz tonight. In fact, Sir, it would be my honor if you did so.”

He smiles broadly at your request. And indeed, as the dance ends and you acknowledge each other, and after escorting you back to Agatha’s side, he fills in his name beside the waltz before bowing and taking his leave.

As you take a refreshment break, you fill Agatha in on your conversations with both Benedict and Mr. Harley.

Agatha watches the Viscount and Miss Hunter talk, a frustrated look on her face as she tells you, “I am pleased that Mr. Bridgerton has reservations about Miss Hunter, even as his brother is willfully oblivious. And as for Mr. Harley’s plight,” she pauses to look around the ballroom, a considering gleam in her eyes. “By the time he leads you back to me after your waltz together, I shall have assembled a few good candidates for his love match.”

You can only nod and smile as Agatha goes off to work some matchmaking magic. You’re pleased to give her a much-needed distraction.

You turn to watch the dancing couples, and across the floor, the Viscount catches your eye. That feeling you stubbornly continue to refuse to name thrums through your core as he stares at you, his eyes hot and intense, even as you notice Miss Hunter stands beside him, her arm in his.

You turn away, the hair prickling at the nape of your neck, a sure sign that penetrating gaze of his is still laser-focused on you.

Later, Mr. Harley finds you for the waltz. Once on the floor, he keeps a respectful amount of space between you, another new trait of his that gains your admiration. You glance around as the music starts and are surprised to find that Lord Bridgerton and Miss Hunter are the couple on your left.

As you begin to move around the floor, Mr. Harley inquires after your absence, and you tell him the story you and Agatha concocted, but you find yourself embellishing a little, the details of which delight him.

As you continue to twirl together, he regales you with stories about the various lessons his mother has engaged him in. Your favorite by far is how he once, while practising with his dance instructor on the dock of his family estate’s pond, accidentally knocked the poor man into the drink and spent the better part of an hour trying to fish him out, even as they both kept slipping on the sandbar and falling back into the water.

You’re both laughing as the dance finishes, your arm steady in his as he leads you back to Agatha, who, true to her word, is holding court with a variety of young ladies. She introduces each of them to Mr. Harley, whom you watch with genuine happiness. He deserves his love match, you determine. And judging by the quality of the young ladies your partner has assembled, he is certain to find it.

You excuse yourself to freshen up. Leaving the ballroom, you’re about to open the door to the water closet when an arm snakes out and pulls you into a side hall. Rather than scream, your instincts kick in and you stomp down hard on your would-be assailant’s toes, while also elbowing them hard in the solar plexus. They release you instantly, and the groan you hear is all Lord Bridgerton.

Wheezing and doubled-over, he stumbles over to a table and lights a candelabra, which casts a gentle glow around the hallway. As he leans against the table, palms flat, catching his breath, you stalk over to him, your anger causing you to abandon Regency speech.

“Are you crazy? Why would you put your hands on a woman? You are so lucky I didn’t go with plan b which would have been me kicking you in the junk and breaking your nose.”

He stares at you in shock, even as he holds himself around the middle and tries to catch his breath.

“I only…understand…about…four of…those words,” he stutters before standing and stretching, breath still heaving as he continues, “My apologies all the same. You are correct. It was foolish of me to take your arm without permission.”

“To say the least, My Lord,” you huff.

After a few moments of silence, the Viscount seems to have regained his stamina, standing to his full height. You feel a bit calmer and turn to him, momentarily taken aback at how handsome he looks in half shadow, half light.

He gazes at you for a long moment, and you don’t miss how his eyes stay firmly on your face, not once flicking down to your cleavage.

“You and Mr. Harley seem quite close.” His tone is measured and calm, even as his eyes blaze.

You cross your arms. “Not that it is any of your concern, My Lord but, Mr. Harley and I have reached an accord. Dare I say it, I now consider him a friend.”

The Viscount lets out an indignant snort. “A friend indeed. Surely, he has put on airs to entrap you. You are an heiress with vast wealth and properties, and he is…”

“Now the heir to his own family’s fortune,” you say, cutting him off. “It is true that he has improved in both countenance and humor, as well as in his skills as a dancer. But that,” you pause to push into his space in an attempt to emphasize your point, “Is where his charm ends for me. He desires a love match, and I wish him well in his endeavour."

Lord Bridgerton stares down at you, his face mere inches from yours. Voice nearly a whisper, he asks, “And what is it, Miss Addison, that you desire?”

Your brain screams danger as his face moves ever closer towards yours, the rich, spicy scent of his cologne invading your senses. Blinking, you realize the peril you’re in, the pair of you alone in a semi-dark hallway, where anyone could walk by. You step back from him, and the spell he’s cast on you is broken.

You turn to leave, but then his words replay in your mind, and you spin around, indignant, unable to stop yourself. “My Lord, pray tell me, what business is it of yours if Mr. Harley and I were to form an attachment?”

His eyes go wide. “Surely not, Miss Addison. You can do far better.” He crosses his arms, glaring at you, all the petulance of an angry kitten. You can’t help the wry smile that plays on your lips as that old desire to needle him comes to the fore.

“Need I remind you, Sir, that my affairs are my own and no one has any say in what I choose to do or whom I choose to be acquainted with, not the least of all a puffed-up, so-called gentleman whose neck cloth has come undone.”

He glares at you, even as he reaches down to his cravat, which has indeed come askew in the scuffle of him taking your arm and you retaliating. He turns to a mirror on the wall and attempts to fix it with fumbling fingers. You watch him for a few moments and then take pity on him, walking over and reaching up to redo the ivory silk around his neck.

His throat bobs as you fix the elegant knotwork started by his valet, and soon enough, you’re tucking it back in. Stepping back, you wait until his eyes meet yours before you say, “My Lord, you are courting Miss Hunter. Unless that is to change, kindly keep your opinions on my choices to yourself.”

He swallows thickly but says nothing. There is a creaking sound on the floorboards behind you, and you turn to see Lady Bridgerton. She doesn’t seem shocked or angry, only assessing.

The Viscount clears his throat and, after nodding at you, strides away, posture stiff, seemingly ignoring his mother as he brushes past her.

She still says nothing as you cautiously approach her. “My Lady,” you begin, “I was overcome by all the dancing and your son, he,” you pause as she holds up a hand.

Her tone is gentle as she says, “You need not offer up any explanation, I understand perfectly what has occurred. You ought to return to the ballroom, my dear.”

You curtsey to her and begin to head in that direction.

Behind you, she adds, “I heard what you just said to him.”

You pause in your walking, a lump forming in your throat. Surely you have ruined things between you and Lady Bridgerton, and certainly the family, by extension.

Which is why you are astonished when two days later you receive a personal invitation from her to join the Bridgerton family at Aubrey Hall, a few days ahead of her famous Hearts and Flowers Ball.

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[dragontearsandunicornfears]

Go Benedict! I know a catty bitch like him could clock a fraud from a mile off. And go Violet too! Even if she doesn't know Miss Hunter, she absolutely knows her son.

[colettebronte]

Buttons, Bee Stings and Butterfly Effects: Chapter 9 Sneak Preview

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When the next dance commences, you join Mr. Harley on the dancefloor. As the music begins, you offer up a silent prayer that your toes remain unharmed. But as you step together, you realize your prayers are unnecessary.

As he spins you under his arm, you are astonished as you ask him, “Mr. Harley, have you taken dance lessons?”

He ducks his head, turning a familiar shade of pink. “I have indeed, Miss Addison. Mother insisted, especially after how things ended last season.” His eyes widen, as if realizing he has said too much.

You change partners and dance away from him. When you come back together, you tell him, “You can speak as freely as you like with me, Sir. Lady Danbury has apprised me of the situation.” You choose your next words carefully, not wanting to offend him. “I hope your brother is content in the Americas.”

Mr. Harley looks at you with surprise and, after sparing a glance at his parents, says, “He is quite well. He sent a letter to his best friend, who then secreted it to me. He is newly married to the young lady he fled with and has started a business. He seems most content with his newfound freedom.”

You nod. “And how are you enjoying being the new heir?”

At your question, he looks sad. “It may sound silly, but I would very much like to marry for love. I had hoped that, as the second son, it was something that could be afforded me, but now as the heir…”

“All the voracious, fortune-hunting mamas are eying you for their voracious, fortune-hunting daughters,” you finish for him.

He laughs. “Perhaps not in those exact words, but yes.”

Buttons, Bee Stings and Butterfly Effects, Chapter 9: Jealousy or, The Redemption of Mr. Harley is coming Sunday Night

[dragontearsandunicornfears]

Oooh I was not expecting a signnificant Mr. Harley return. I'm intrigued.

[colettebronte]

Buttons, Bee Stings and Butterfly Effects: Chapter 8

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Previous Next Chapter

Pairing: Regency!Anthony Bridgerton x Modern!Fem Reader

Summary: A reunion, a ball and a black widow to stop. Our ladies are busy

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: 18+ for the series but for this part, nothing. I will put this up on Ao3 and Wattpad so please do not repost my work elsewhere

Author’s Note: We’re back in the Regency Era and into the thick of it now. Please do enjoy! Thank you to @fayes-fics for serving as beta and @eulalielatibule for the inspo for this fic

Chapter 8: The Return of Miss Addison

London, 1814

Miss Eulalie Hunter, as it turns out, moved quicker than either you or even Agatha had anticipated. The afternoon after you arrive back in 1814 London, you and your partner call on the Bridgerton family, only to find the black-widow-to-be in question and her uncle already in their company. Agatha only pauses briefly in her stride at the sight of her, sitting beside Lady Bridgerton, the family gathered around her on the assembled couches and chairs.

As the footman rushes ahead to announce you both, everyone turns. The gentlemen all stand, and you catch the look of annoyance that flashes across Miss Hunter’s face before she organizes her features into a look of curiosity. While everyone exclaims their surprise and happiness at your reappearance, you smile and study her. She is a beauty to be sure, all dark eyes and dark hair, which, as you think back on Siena Rosso, proves that Anthony Bridgerton just might have a type.

After receiving hugs from both Eloise and Hyacinth, they step back as Benedict, Colin and Gregory, who has surely grown a foot at least since the last time you saw him, take your hand in greeting.

Behind you, someone clears their throat, and you turn to see the Viscount striding toward you. Gone are the sideburns, even as the smug glint in his eye and that wry half smile of his are firmly in place.

“Miss Addison, you have returned to us,” he says as he offers you a bow.

You curtsey in return.  “I have indeed, Lord Bridgerton.” You pause to take an exaggerated look at him, just as he once did to you, before adding, “Lady Danbury informs me that you intend to take a wife this season.”

Lord Bridgerton clenches his jaw for a moment before nodding, “That is my intention, yes, to find a suitable future Viscountess.” 

You don’t miss how his eyes flick to your cleavage, and you wonder wryly if comely bosoms are one of his requirements. Before you can ask as much, he speaks again.

“And are you, Miss Addison, back in London in search of a husband? If so, you should be aware that your favorite dance partner, Mr. Harley, is now set to inherit his family title and fortune.”

Lady Bridgerton gasps and then hisses, “Anthony! It is impolite to speak on the Harley family’s misfortune.”

The Viscount merely shrugs, that familiar, unrepentant look on his face that has you hiding a smile behind a gloved hand, even as you nod solemnly.

“To answer your question, My Lord, I am not here for the express purpose of finding a husband. I have business concerns with my lawyers in town, and Lady Danbury has graciously opened her home to me once again while the various matters settle.”

Satisfied with your answer, Lady Bridgerton introduces you to the nearly forgotten Miss Hunter and her uncle, whom the family had made the acquaintance of while at the modiste. You nod politely even as you feel Agatha vibrate with barely-controlled rage beside you, her grip on the handle of her ebony cane like a vice.

On the carriage ride back to Danbury House, she is silent, looking out at the passing streets but lost in thought, not really seeing anything. As you watch her, a sad, horrifying thought occurs to you.

“Agatha,” you begin, using her name to gain her attention, which works as she turns away from the window to face you. “Have you lived through this entire season, hearing about Lord Bridgerton’s death, attending his funeral and watching the family decline once again before returning to the future to retrieve me?”

She stares at you for a long moment, her composed features cracking into a grief so profound it makes your breath catch in your chest. It’s enough to answer your question that you reach out and take one of her hands.

“We’ll change things this time, I swear it, together.”

Agatha nods at your words, giving your hand a firm squeeze.

At that evening’s ball, you make your rounds to the Bridgerton brothers, with Benedict and Colin claiming their usual dances. When you wave your dance card at the Viscount, you watch as his gaze cuts away briefly to Miss Hunter before his eyes return to you. He starts to write his name beside the Supper Set, but you click your tongue.

“My Lord, I realize I have missed a few balls, but surely you recall what the words, ‘the waltz’ look like.”

Lord Bridgerton huffs a laugh. “I do indeed, Miss Addison, but I had hoped to reserve that dance for another.”

You affect an affronted tone, even as a pit forms in your stomach at his words. “Surely not, My Lord, for I shall have no other dance partner but you. ‘Tis a service really, that I save the other ladies of the Ton by claiming you for it.”

He laughs in earnest, shaking his head, as he crosses the start of his name off one line and adds it in full to the correct one.

Holding your hand a beat longer than strictly necessary, he leans in and says, “I have missed you. I shall see you for our dance later.”

You can only nod as he holds your gaze before he releases your gloved hand. Belatedly, you realize that he, too, is gloved, truly a sign that he is serious about his intentions to marry.

Any relief you feel at claiming his waltz is tempered as you watch him walk over to Miss Hunter and write his name on her dance card. She pouts prettily at something he says, and then he bows before walking away to rejoin his family.

By the way she glances at you afterwards, you suspect it has something to do with not receiving his waltz. If you were not on a literal mission to save the Viscount’s life without tipping your hand, you would stick your tongue out at her and gloat.

Other gentlemen claim your remaining dances, and thus, you spend most of the night on the dancefloor.

You take a break for lemonade before the waltz and stand with Eloise while you both enjoy your refreshments.

Clinking your glass with hers, you ask, “How are you liking your season out, thus far?”

“I am enjoying it as much as I imagine one would enjoy receiving a direct stomping of boots upon one's bare feet.”

You huff a laugh. “So you have danced with Mr. Harley then?”

Eloise gasps and grasps your arm tightly with her free hand. “I have not. He has been absent from the season thus far, presumably to avoid the subject of his family’s scandal for a little while longer. But I have heard from Daphne just how horrid a dancer he is.”

You nod solemnly. “I have eight pairs of ruined shoes that can attest that your sister is correct.”

As you chat with her about her family, Daphne’s marriage to the Duke of Hastings and how Francesca is once again spending the season in Bath with another aunt. You hope to meet her someday, but if you succeed in your mission, you know you’ll never get the chance.

You pause mid-sentence as Lord Bridgerton and Miss Hunter float past you, the pair of them engaged in conversation, even as they both effortlessly follow the steps of the dance.

“I quite like her,” Eloise tells you. “She’s read all the latest novels and even passed me a pamphlet she read on feminine rights.”

You close your eyes briefly. Of course, the canny bitch is trying to win over all the members of the family. She’s done her research, you’ll give her that, knowing that the way to seal the deal with the Viscount is to get the family to like her.

Soon enough, though, their dance ends, and Lord Bridgerton comes to find you, taking your arm and leading you onto the floor for the waltz. Agatha catches your eye and nods encouragingly. You nod back, and then the music starts, and the Viscount pulls you so close that the scent of his cologne, something rich and spicy, resembling cognac, fills your senses. Has he always worn this type of fragrance, you wonder. How had you not noticed?

You begin to spin around the floor, your eyes firmly on the man before you. And then at the same time, you start to speak.

“My Lord.”

“Miss Addison.”

You both stop, eyes widening, and then you laugh, “Please, My Lord, you first.”

He nods. Throat bobbing as he swallows before speaking, a look of determination on his handsome face. “Miss Addison, it is my deep regret to inform you that this shall be our final waltz together.”

You feel something jolt in your core at his words, even as you try to make a joke about it. “My Lord, may I know why? Surely it cannot be my dancing, for we both know, I am an impeccable dancer, even if your own skills are just above passable, at best.”

Mirth dancing in his eyes, Lord Bridgerton bows his head in mock conciliation. “It is true you have been extremely generous about my feeble dancing skills, especially when compared to those of Mr. Harley.”

You can’t help the inelegant snort you emit, which makes the Viscount laugh outright, before he again grows serious.

“I have determined that Miss Hunter will make a suitable wife, and thus I shall be talking to her uncle tomorrow about beginning a courtship with her. After which, it would be unseemly of me to share a waltz with any other lady but her.”

An unpleasant feeling cracks through your chest. “Well then,” you say, speaking carefully, just loud enough to be heard above the music, “I suppose we ought to enjoy our remaining turns then, Sir, for this, our final dance together.”

He swallows hard, a sad look in his eyes. He looks ready to say more, opening and closing his mouth a few times, but then he clenches his jaw and nods.

The pair of you finish the rest of the dance in silence, staring into each other’s eyes. When the music ends, you acknowledge each other, and he leads you back to Agatha, bowing to you both. As he rises, you see he looks nearly distraught, before he pastes on a careful, neutral expression and walks away.

The woman grips your arm and hisses, “What happened?”

You take a shaky breath, feeling unsure for the first time since your time-traveling adventure began. You place your hand atop hers.

 “We’re in it now. He’s about to start courting her. What the hell do we do?”

With neither of you in the mood for a ball, the pair of you make your way outside to wait for the open-air carriage.

You’re halfway back to Danbury House when Agatha turns to you. “You may not be able to get between him and Miss Hunter so easily now, but Coral and I shall do all we can to get you time alone to talk to him and convince him to change this course of not marrying for love. You’re the only one who can.”

Hugging your arms, you look up at the starless sky and then back to the woman beside you.

“How can you be so sure that I’m the one who can convince him?”

Agatha sighs, “Because, my dear, I believe that you are one of the reasons he refuses to marry for love.” 

Next Chapter

taglist: @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @faye-tale @cosmiclove330 @abridgerton @fiction-is-life @kmc1989 @alexandrainlove @ietss @multi-fandom-lover7667 @turtle-cant-communicate @liliac-dreamer @hottytoddyhistory @laniec03 @sky0401 @kwbaby24 @spideymanluver @queenofmean14 @jtheteenagewitch @winterassassin1804 @austenesque222 @huening-web @imafangirlofeverything

[dragontearsandunicornfears]

Oh god. Thinking about Agatha, having to see her family fall to ruin all over again 😭. She needs all the hugs.

Also she never spoke but I just know Miss Hunter has that whiney baby voice thing going on. I hate her.

[colettebronte]

Buttons, Bee Stings and Butterfly Effects: Chapter 8 Sneak Preview

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After receiving hugs from both Eloise and Hyacinth, they step back as Benedict, Colin and Gregory, who has surely grown a foot at least since the last time you saw him, take your hand in greeting.

Behind you, someone clears their throat, and you turn to see the Viscount striding toward you. Gone are the sideburns, even as the smug glint in his eye and that wry half smile of his are still in place.

“Miss Addison, you have returned to us,” he says as he offers you a bow.

You curtsey in return, finding, for some reason, your own words difficult to find. “I have indeed, Lord Bridgerton.” You pause to take an exaggerated look at him, just as he once did to you, before adding, “Lady Danbury informs me that you intend to take a wife this season.”

Lord Bridgerton clenches his jaw for a moment before nodding, “That is my intention, yes, to find a suitable future Viscountess.” 

You don’t miss how his eyes flick to your cleavage, and you wonder wryly if comely bosoms are one of his requirements. Before you can ask as much, he speaks again.

“And are you, Miss Addison, back in London in search of a husband? If so, your favorite dance partner, Mr. Harley, is now set to inherit his family title and fortune.”

Lady Bridgerton gasps and then hisses, “Anthony! Surely it is impolite to speak on the Harley family’s misfortune.”

The Viscount merely shrugs, that familiar, unrepentant look on his face that has you hiding a smile behind a gloved hand, even as you nod solemnly.

“To answer your question, My Lord, I am not here for the express purpose of finding a husband. I have business concerns with my lawyers in town, and Lady Danbury has graciously opened her home to me once again while the various matters settle.”

Buttons, Bee Stings and Butterfly Effects, Chapter 8: The Return of Miss Addison is coming Sunday Night

[dragontearsandunicornfears]

Can't wait!!

[sophsun1]

School of Rock (2003) dir. Richard Linklater

[dragontearsandunicornfears]

OMG IT'S FATE!! I literally just saw a production of the musical like a few hours ago and my nephew was Billy!

[colettebronte]

Buttons, Bee Stings and Butterfly Effects: Chapter 7

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Pairing: Regency!Anthony Bridgerton x Modern!Fem Reader

Summary: Now back home, it turns out, there’s still more to fix because Anthony Bridgerton, will ALWAYS be Anthony Bridgerton

Word Count: 1.3k

Warnings: 18+ for the series but for this part, nothing. I will put this up on Ao3 and Wattpad so please do not repost my work elsewhere

Author’s Note: Oh look, it’s that pesky Butterfly Effect rearing its ugly head. Please do enjoy! Thank you to @fayes-fics for serving as beta and @eulalielatibule for the inspo for this fic and the name of a new character debuting in this chapter

Chapter 7: Modern Times, Regency Crimes

Kent, England, Modern Day

You drop your employer’s hands. Without a word, you return to the sitting room, still encased in darkness from the curtains you had closed the night before you left.

Once you pull them all open, the room is bathed in golden, mid-morning sunlight. You stare up at the paintings and clench your jaw; they’re virtually the same as when you had left, with every family member dressed in mourning. The only exception is still the one of The Haughty Viscount, gazing down at you with that smug glint in his eye. Having met the man, you can attest to just how well the artist had truly captured his handsome features.

You go to the couch, your anchor point, and bend down to pick up the ledger you had placed on the floor, still in its same position from when you had left. You read that Benedict took the ledger over in 1814, the date almost a year after he had originally done so in 1813.

Had all your work really only bought the Viscount one extra year of life?

You find Eloise’s diary also on the floor and sit on the couch to read it. The beginning parts are mostly the same. The only small diversion in the 1813 part is a mention of the “delightful Miss Addison,” which makes you smile. There is no mention of a duel at all.

A new section now appears about the 1814 season. There is a mention of her eldest brother stating his intention to marry and, indeed, his speedy courtship and just as fast engagement and marriage. 

Lady Danbury enters the sitting room just as you reach Eloise’s account of the Viscount’s death, which has you jumping to your feet in shock.

“He was killed by a bee sting?” Your eyes blur with unshed tears at reading her words, your voice sounding hoarse to your own ears.

Your employer steps forward, gently taking the diary out of your hands. She has changed from her Regency clothes into a modern pantsuit, the lines sharp and unforgiving. Her tone is firm, almost bitter as she answers you.

“He most certainly was not.” 

You sink back down onto the couch as Lady Danbury places the book down and sits beside you.

Blinking back tears, you ask her, “Didn’t you say something about a black widow?”

She nods. “I did.”

Taking a deep breath, you press your fingers to your temples.

“First, you need to go back a bit. What happened after the Trowbridge Ball? Who duelled in the Viscount’s place? What happened to Siena Rosso? What did you say about my departure?”

Lady Danbury sits forward, leaning heavily on her ebony cane as she starts her explanation.

“The duel still occurred in the early morning hours after the ball. But it was Mr. Harley who found Miss Rosso and her companion on the Dark Walk.”

You blink at her in disbelief. “Mr. Harley? But surely he was still in the ballroom when Lord Bridgerton took his waltz with me?”

She holds up her hand. “Allow me to make a correction. Your Mr. Harley was indeed in the ballroom. Rather, it was his elder brother, who obliged himself to the duel. The older Mr. Harley was highly regarded as an expert marksman and thus won the duel. He and Siena Rosso fled to the Americas together, and shortly after, they were wed. He became a successful businessman and she, a famous opera star.”

You sit back on the couch and absorb her words as she continues. “I explained your sudden disappearance by telling everyone you had been called away to deal with urgent matters pertaining to your inherited properties.”

Lady Danbury stands and then seems to think better of it, before sitting back down on the couch, her posture ramrod straight.

“I was most content during the summer, and then the season of 1814 began, and Anthony Bridgerton declared his intention to marry. I shall spare you the full details for now, but he was not looking for a love match and thus unwittingly put himself into the path of Miss Eulalie Hunter.”

The name means nothing to you, but Lady Danbury speaks it as if it’s lethal poison as she continues, “She seemed perfect. She said and did all the right things, and even agreed with him, stating she also desired an amenable partnership versus anything resembling love.”

You wrinkle your nose at the words ‘amenable partnership.’ It sounds exactly like something the Viscount would say.

“She seemed perfect, but was not,” you prompt.

Your employer nods. “Indeed. Shortly after their honeymoon, with just one other witness, Miss Hunter’s uncle, she reported that the Viscount had died from a bee sting.”

You sit forward in your seat. “And everyone just…believed her?”

Lady Danbury sighs. “She was the Viscountess Bridgerton. Her words held great weight. But not everyone did. Benedict Bridgerton spent the years after his elder brother’s death obsessively trying to prove it couldn’t have been a bee sting that killed him. It was an assertion he held until his own death, having exhausted the family’s fortune in an ultimately fruitless attempt to prove himself right.”

You stand and walk over to the portrait of Benedict. Sure enough, while he looks sad, there is also what can only be described as a manic look in his eyes.

Quietly you ask her, “What was his reasoning?”

She stands and walks over to you. “Mr. Bridgerton said that his brother had previously been stung by a bee and had come away from the encounter just fine, never believing his brother had been allergic to bees like their father. He also found it highly suspicious that shortly after receiving her inheritance benefits from the Viscount’s death, Miss Hunter and her uncle disappeared without a trace.”

A pit forms in your belly and you have to turn away from the portrait. “And he was never proven right?”

Lady Danbury sighs as you both walk back to the couch. “Not in his lifetime. In the early 2000s, I had Lord Bridgerton’s body exhumed and sure enough, the forensic investigation found evidence of poison, with the prevailing theory being he was injected with the substance.”

You sink down on the couch, one thought clear in your mind. 

“We have to stop the bitch.”

Lady Danbury taps her cane on the floor. “Indeed we do.”

You stand up again and look around the room. “How do we do it differently this time?”

She stands as well and holds out a hand to you. “This time, Y/n, we do it as partners.”

You look at her extended hand, and the Viscount’s face flashes in your mind. It’s the specific moment he stared at you before he took your arm and led you to the dance floor at the Trowbridge ball. At the time you couldn’t decipher the look in those chocolate brown eyes of his, but now, you realize what it was. Admiration.

And damnit if you don’t feel it too. But you push it away; saving his life is far more important than any little crush. And surely his annoying traits far outweigh his stupidly beautiful eyes and the annoyingly sexy way his lips quirk up in that half smile of his. Not to mention that delicious crinkle in between his eyebrows.

Shaking yourself from your reverie, you clasp Lady Danbury- no, Agatha’s - hand; you correct yourself and nod. “Partners, then.”

She smiles, releasing you to reach into one of the pockets of her pantsuit. She produces another button, silver this time and places it into the palm of your hand.

“Partners, indeed. I briefed Coral before I left to return here. She shall be waiting for us at Aubrey Hall in 1814. I have determined that our return will be just days before Miss Hunter’s arrival. We shall have little time to prepare, I’m afraid.”

You close your fist around the button and glance up at the portraits of the family you’ve gotten to know and count as friends. Your eyes land on the painting of the Viscount, and a feeling you’re unwilling to name makes your breath catch.

Looking back at Agatha, you say. “Well then, it’s best we get started. Immediately.”

Next Chapter

taglist: @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @faye-tale @cosmiclove330 @abridgerton @fiction-is-life @kmc1989 @alexandrainlove @ietss @multi-fandom-lover7667 @turtle-cant-communicate @liliac-dreamer @hottytoddyhistory @laniec03 @sky0401 @kwbaby24 @spideymanluver @queenofmean14 @jtheteenagewitch @winterassassin1804 @austenesque222 @huening-web @imafangirlofeverything

[dragontearsandunicornfears]

This is such an interesting and unique story! I'm really enjoying it!

[levanswrites]

𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: keys mckey x reader 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: walter keys mckey realizes he's in love with his best friend. unfortunately, his best friend is busy chasing someone else. 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: college au, friends to lovers, inexperienced!reader, mutual pining, idiots in love, yearning, lovesick keys, jealousy, unrequited feelings or are they?, angst with fluff, slow burn, eventual romance/smut

✰ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ✰

A lot of people assume that Keys is smarter than his feelings.

Which is funny, because if anything, the opposite is true.

Walter McKey can untangle impossible code at three in the morning while surviving entirely on stale vending machine chips and whatever energy drink happened to be cheapest at the campus store. He can stare at a monitor for six straight hours and notice a single misplaced character buried under ten thousand lines of programming.

In five minutes, he can fix bugs most people don't even know how to find.

But realizing he's in love with his best friend?

That takes him an embarrassingly long time.

Years, actually.

Mostly because every time the truth gets a little too close, he explains it away.

Like, of course he wants to spend every second of every day with you.

You're his best friend.

That's what best friends do.

Of course he starts saving memes on his phone because he knows they'll make you laugh. Half his camera roll is screenshots he hasn't sent yet because he likes building up a little collection for when you're having a bad day.

That's normal.

Of course he shows up to class with your favorite breakfast sandwich without asking; he knows you never eat before your 8 a.m. lectures, no matter how many times you insist you will.

That's normal.

When he finds himself checking his phone at one in the morning because you mentioned going to a party, that's normal too.

Not that he’s a creep, stalking you or anything—you both have location sharing on.

Lots of friends do.

So maybe he checks it before bed if he knows you’re going to be out late.

Maybe he stares at the faint glow of his phone in the dark, watching the little circle with your picture drift across the map until it finally settles at your apartment.

Maybe the tight knot of worry sitting in his chest eases the second it does.

Maybe he sleeps better.

That's normal.

He's allowed to worry.

Friends worry.

When he walks into a crowded lecture hall and automatically scans for you before he even finds a seat, that's normal.

When he spots a sweatshirt in a store window and immediately thinks you'd like the color: normal.

When he buys two coffees and only realizes afterward that you're not actually there: normal.

When something funny happens during the day and the first thing that enters his mind is the sound of your laugh:

That's perfectly normal.

...Right?

The point is, he's got an explanation for all of it.   

He's a computer science major. He runs on logic. Patterns. Variables. Inputs and outputs. Problems that can be solved if you stare at them long enough.

Feelings are just another system.

At least, that's what he tells himself.

Then Ethan shows up.

And suddenly all of Keys' explanations start throwing errors.

Because Ethan is, objectively speaking, kind of a douche.

A frat bro whose entire personality seems to consist of flexing in mirrors, lifting heavy things, and three different sports that all involve chasing a ball around a field.

Yet somehow, you're interested.

Which means every Friday night now consists of you sitting cross-legged on the floor of his dorm room, happily providing updates on Ethan Carter from Alpha Delta Whatever.

And Keys is discovering that he actually hates hearing about him.

A lot.

More than what feels reasonable, or healthy.

More than he can explain away with the same two words he always defaults to:

Just friends.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

Keys is supposed to be studying for finals.

The laptop glows in front of him, three hundred lecture slides stacked into an exam that’s worth sixty percent of his grade, all of it waiting for him to care.

He reads the same sentence four times, retains none of it.

Because every thirty seconds, his attention drifts back toward you.

You're sprawled across the beanbag in the corner of his room, one he definitely didn't buy specifically because you liked sitting in it.

The late-afternoon sun filters through the blinds, laying thin stripes of light across the carpet. Every so often, one of those lines drifts over you, catching on your cheek or the edge of your smile before slipping away again.

A loose strand of hair falls across your mouth while you're talking. You puff air at it without looking up from your phone, still smiling, completely unaware of how beautiful you look when you’re not trying to be at all.

You don't notice him staring.

You never do.

“...it’s weird, ‘cause he’s actually kind of nice in person.”

Keys hums. “Mm.”

“And he invited me to that party next week. You know, the end-of-year one at Sigma Chi?”

Another hum, slightly delayed this time. “Cool.”

You slowly lower your phone.

“Dude.”

“What?”

“You're not even listening.”

“Yeah, I am.”

“No, you're not.”

“What? No, I am, swear.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Okay. What’s his name?”

Keys freezes.

“...Chad?”

Your glare is instantaneous.

Unfortunately for you, Keys finds this particular expression incredibly endearing.

The way your nose scrunches, the tiny wrinkle that appears between your eyebrows and the annoyed huff you let out in barely contained disbelief.

It's adorable.

Which is probably a totally normal thing to think about your best friend.

“Chad? Really?”

“Shit, is it Brad?”

“Keys.”

“Okay, okay,” he laughs, holding up both hands in surrender. "In my defense, statistically speaking, there was a decent chance I was right."

“No, there wasn’t,” you counter, still glaring at him, though the corners of your lips betray you first. “And it’s Ethan.”

Keys grimaces. “That's worse.”

You blink once.

Then you reach forward without a word, snatch the nearest thing on his desk—a crumpled receipt—and fling it at him.

It smacks directly into the bridge of his glasses, bouncing off his nose.  

His face scrunches up reflexively, eyes briefly crossing as he tries to follow where it landed.

“Hey!”

You burst into a laugh, bright and unfiltered, the sound of it filling the tiny space of his dorm room in a way that makes everything else feel quieter by comparison.

And there it is.

That stupid feeling.

That small lift he feels somewhere under his ribs every time he manages to pull that sound out of you.

It happens fast. Familiar by now, but never really less noticeable.  

A feeling he's never quite managed to explain away, no matter how many times he's tried.

It's embarrassing, honestly, how much he likes it.

How your laugh can cut straight through whatever mental noise he’s sitting in and change the shape of it completely.  

And despite the uncomfortable weight that's been sitting in his chest ever since Ethan entered the conversation, Keys can't stop the smile pulling at his mouth.

Because making you happy has always been his favorite thing.

Even when it costs him.

Maybe especially then.

He rubs the bridge of his nose where the receipt hit, nudging his glasses back into place.

He watches you grin from across the room.

The way your pretty lashes flutter in slow blinks as the last of your laughter fades out of you.

Then you glance back down at your phone with a soft hum.

“Ethan said they're renting a DJ.”

The warm feeling disappears so fast it almost gives him whiplash.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

And suddenly, that's all Keys can think about.

Ethan. Ethan. Ethan.

His mind racing, supplying comparisons he knows are unfair.

Ethan doesn't know your coffee order.

The extra pump of vanilla you ask for when you're exhausted. The way you always say you're getting a small and somehow leave with a large. The fact that you'll drink coffee that's gone completely cold because you get so engrossed in conversations you forget it exists.

Ethan doesn't know you hate thunderstorms but love the rain.

That you'll sit by a window for hours listening to it hit the glass. That every single time, without fail, you'll insist you're not sleepy right before falling asleep.

He doesn't know that when you're anxious, you start picking at the skin around your thumbnail.

Or that when you're sad, you rewatch the same three movies you've loved since middle school.

He doesn't know that you hate grape-flavored anything with a level of passion that's honestly a little concerning.  

He doesn't know that when you're upset, the first thing you say is, “I'm fine.”

And that when you're really upset, you call him.

Keys knows all of those things.

He knows hundreds of those things. Thousands, probably.

Little pieces of you gathered over years of lectures and late-night conversations and random Tuesday afternoons that didn't seem important at the time.

And maybe that's what hurts.

Ethan's known you for, what, three weeks?

Keys has known you for four years.  

Four years should mean something.

Shouldn't it?

So what does it say about him—about all those years, all the ways he’s come to know you—if you still look at Ethan the way you do?

And for the first time, Keys wonders if this is what “just friends” is supposed to feel like.

If everyone else’s friends take up this much space in their head.

He clears his throat, and drops his gaze back to the screen.

“I thought you didn’t even like frat parties,” he mumbles, pushing his glasses up his nose.

His voice is perfectly casual, eyes fixed on the blinking cursor in an empty word doc while he pretends to type something he isn’t actually writing.

You shrug. “I mean, maybe this one will be different.”

The cursor keeps blinking.

On. Off. On. Off.

His throat feels strangely tight

“Yeah.” He swallows. “Maybe.”

And in the silence that follows, he's forced to reckon with a truth he's spent years avoiding.

He doesn't actually care about Ethan.

Ethan is just a symptom.

What scares him isn't some frat guy you've known for three weeks.

It's the possibility that, one day, you'll stop being his person.  

The person who gets your random 2 a.m. texts when your brain won’t shut off and you just need someone on the other end of it. The inside jokes that don’t make sense to anyone else. The “holy shit, did you see that?” look you send across a room when something funny happens, because you already know he caught it too. The late-night calls that start with “are you awake?” and drift into silence until one of you falls asleep first. The shoulder you lean into when you’re tired. The hand you squeeze in crowded parties when you feel overwhelmed.

Your safe place. Your home.

One day, he’ll stop being that person.

And someone else will take his place.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

It won’t leave him alone.

The thought that one day, he won’t be the first person you reach for anymore.

So Keys does what he always does when something starts getting too loud in his head.

He overcorrects.

He buries it.

Finals prep becomes a kind of tunnel vision. He scrolls through lecture slides on autopilot, rewrites class notes in slightly different ways just to keep his hands moving, just to keep his brain busy enough that it can’t wander back to you.

Just friends. That’s the rule.

So he acts like it.

He sits a little straighter when you’re close. Keeps his replies a little too short whenever you text.

Just Friends.

And sure, he still shows up to study sessions with your favorite dining hall blueberry muffin and an extra bag of sour gummies—only because you get cranky when you're hungry and always end up stealing his.

Just Friends.

And sure, he helps you set up a study planner app on your laptop—something for exam tracking, color-coded and slightly over-engineered, because you started using sticky notes again and he can't stand how easily they fall off. He ends up fixing it twice when you click the wrong setting and everything rearranges itself—only because it’s easier than watching you struggle through something he knows he can solve in seconds.

Just Friends.

He saves your seat in the library with his backpack without looking up from his screen. Installs the plug-in that stops your tabs from crashing when you have too many open. Renames your files so they’re actually readable when you give up halfway through organizing them. Slides his charger across the table when your laptop hits ten percent because yours only works at a very specific angle.

Just Friends.

He walks you back from the library late at night even when you insist you’re fine on your own, your hands brushing in the dark, slowing his steps to match yours because he knows you hate walking fast.

Just Friends.

He practically lives in the library now. He’s pretty sure his bloodstream is mostly caffeine at this point, the rest denial.

Anything. Literally anything else.

It almost works.

Until it all goes to shit three days before finals.

You’re sitting cross-legged beside him on the floor between two shelves because all the tables were taken hours ago. Both of you are running on fumes, at that late-stage of studying where the pages go blurry and nothing really sticks anymore.

In hindsight, sitting this close was a mistake.

Shoulders pressed together, thighs bumping in the tiny gap of space between you.  

He really should be studying.

He isn’t.

His laptop is open in front of him—half a presentation deck finished, a blinking cursor waiting in a paragraph he stopped reading ten minutes ago. He’s moved on to his coding assignment instead, because logic feels easier than thought right now. But even that isn’t going right. He keeps rewriting the same function, changing variable names that don’t matter, deleting lines just to put them back again.

He pushes his glasses up harsher than necessary, jaw tight, eyes narrowed at the screen as his fingers fly across the keyboard.

Delete. Rewrite. Undo. Redo.   

Beside him, your hoodie shifts as you lean closer, grazing his arm. He feels it right away—the soft rustle of fabric, the familiar scent of your body spray—and his attention snags on it before he can stop himself.

You've stopped looking at your notes.

You’re looking at him.

He doesn’t look back.

“Keys?”

“Mm?” he answers automatically, still typing.

“Keys, can you stop typing for a sec?” your voice is quieter than usual. “I need to ask you something.”

“Yeah, hold on, I just have to—” he starts, eyes still locked on the screen.

Your hands slip into his space before he finishes his sentence.

They settle over his fingers, gently stilling him in place. Your thumbs press lightly over his knuckles, rubbing soft and slow, and his breath catches in a way he doesn’t manage to hide.

You’re close.

Close enough that he can’t escape anymore, nothing left to hide behind.

He swallows, eyes flicking down to where your hand is still covering his before forcing himself to look up at you.   

The laptop light washes over your face in soft blue, catching on your lashes, the faint tension between your brows. You’re chewing on the inside of your cheek.

A nervous habit, he’d know it anywhere.  

“Okay, so…” you start, chest lifting in a quick breath, like you’re trying to steady yourself before you lose your nerve. “I need to... ask you something.”

You inch closer, still not letting go of his hands.

“And you have to promise you won’t make it weird.”

That makes him pause.

“Make what weird?” he asks carefully.

“Just—” you frown, shaking your head a little. “Just don’t laugh, okay?”

His expression shifts immediately. Eyes sharpening, concern cutting straight through the exhaustion that’s been dragging him down for hours.

He’s tired, but he knows that tone.

It’s the one you get when you’ve been worrying about something for too long and finally run out of ways to deal with it on your own.

“Hey,” he whispers, softer now, brows pulling together as he studies you. “I’m not gonna laugh. What’s going on?”   

Your gaze drops to your hands, thumb brushing over his knuckles again.

“So... hypothetically… if I needed to learn how to, um…”

You stop again, fingers tightening around his.

Keys is painfully aware that you're technically holding hands right now.

“...how to what?”

You swallow.

Then, like ripping off a bandage, you blurt it out all at once:

“I don't know how to give a guy a blowjob.”

And Keys’ brain does something it’s never done before.

It stops.

Whatever thought he had a second ago drops out of reach like it’s been yanked away. A hard screech, all the gears in his head catching at once and locking up the whole system.

Even running on two cans of Monster and finals-week delirium, he has absolutely nothing.

For a second, he just stares at you.

Then the heat hits.

It starts at the back of his neck, rushes up along his jaw, spreads straight to the tips of his ears. The pink flooding his cheeks is bad enough. Surely it can't get any worse.

Then you blurt out the rest.

“And I need you to teach me how.”

Well.

Shit.

So much for Just Friends.

✰ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ✰

[dragontearsandunicornfears]

Keys went full 404 🤣🤣

[hatussy]

at the risk of sounding like a fandom elder, tiktok has caused new fandom writers to tag their shit wrong.

DO: tag the primary character and pairing (eg. clark kent, clark kent fanfic, clark kent x reader etc.)

DON'T: tag the actor/every other character in the media to boost your fics to people via the tags. people will find your fic if it's tagged properly.

DO: use a read more. there is nothing worse than having to scroll past a 15k post that wasn't put under a read more. here is a handy guide.

DON'T: tag blogs in your fics unless they have asked to be tagged or previously shown enthusiasm in a fic and you're posting a second/third part. even then, only do that if they have expressly shown interest and have asked to be tagged.

DO: use proper trigger warnings (eg. tw pedophile, tw kill, tw ed/tw eating disorder).

DON'T: tiktok-ify your trigger warnings (eg. pdf file, unalive) it makes the filter function null in void and ends up showing the content to people who have serious triggers.

[dragontearsandunicornfears]

Just some headcanons about...

Frank “LOML” Langdon

These have no basis in anything. Just random thoughts I had while stuck in traffic the other day. I have some about other Pitt characters too that I might post. Let me know your thoughts.

Hometown: Ann Arbor, MI

I’ve read so many fics that make his hometown Philly but I wasn’t sure if that was canon (did I miss a scene or something?). But he just gives me like midwest suburb white guy vibes.

Academics: A to B- student

Was a good student, competitive and strived to be the best but I feel like he would have struggled a little in some of his classes, not for lack of intelligence but lack of interest. Idk I can’t see him doing well in english class because he just doesn’t get symbolism.

Extra-Curriculars: Co-Captain of the Swim Team

The character himself could come to life, cradle my head in his hands, and say that he played football and I still would not believe it. I might accept baseball but that man is a swimmer.

Popularity: B-Group

He was kind of popular but not top of the pyramid popular. In a stereotypical teen movie, he would be the guy that the main girl’s 2nd best friend would date.

College: University of Michigan undergrad, University of Pittsburgh med school

He went to school on a merit scholarship

Ok that's all, BYEEEE!

[imagines-all-day-everyday]

Lawyer barbie helping langdon with his back pain. Idk massages? Maybe researching what he can apply to his back for pain (even though he's a doctor lol)

lavender & turmeric (lawyer!reader x frank langdon)

series masterlist

Frank winced as he took the small flight of stairs up into the lobby of your apartment building.

His hand slid down to his lower back, rubbing small, feeble circles into the ache lodged there as he waited for the elevator.

His back had been getting progressively worse over the past few weeks. What had started out as a small niggle had slowly spread into a constant, pulsing ache, occasionally sharpened by sudden jolts whenever he bent the wrong way or spent too long on his feet.

Which, unfortunately, was everyday.

He'd been trying to stay on top of his physio exercises, he really had, but work had been so flat out that by the time he dragged himself home after a 15 hour day, the last thing he felt like doing was getting out his roller and spending 15 minutes in agony.

The elevator dinged open.

He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed into one of the tight points near his spine, trying to loosen it as best as he could before he got to your door.

You had been flat out at work too, the last thing he wanted to do was to bring you down by talking about his pain. Or worse, make you worry that he might relapse.

So by the time he reached your apartment, he'd shoved the pain into the same small mental box he shoved everything else into.

He inhaled through his nose and exhaled through his mouth as he knocked on your door.

"It's open!"

Even hearing your voice faintly through the door made him feel better.

The smell hit him immediately when he stepped inside.

Lavender. Eucalyptus. Something warm and herbal drifting through the apartment.

He dumped his overnight bag by the door, brow furrowing when you were no where to be seen.

"Baby?"

"Sorry, I'm here!"

You appeared from the hallway a second later and his exhaustion eased on instinct the second he saw you.

Your pyjama shorts sat low on your hips, swallowed almost entirely by an oversized graphic tee that matched one of his. The lettering across the front read 'we belung together' with a badly drawn set of cartoon lungs underneath.

"Hi." You smiled as you walked towards him.

"Hi." His voice softened automatically as he leaned down to kiss you.

You tasted faintly like peppermint tea.

Frank lingered for a second longer than intended before pulling away slightly.

"Why does it smell like a massage parlour in here?"

Your grin widened immediately.

"Because, tonight this is a massage parlour."

His brows knitted together.

Your smile somehow widened further as you laced your hand through his and tugged him towards your room. He came to a stop at the doorway, brows shooting up as he took in the sight before him.

Towels had been laid neatly across the bed. Candles flickered softly around the room, casting warm golden light across the walls. A line of massage oils sat organised on your dresser beside what looked suspiciously like hot compresses and ice packs. An incense stick curled lazily in the corner.

And on the bedside table sat a steaming mug.

Frank blinked slowly.

"...what is all this?"

"Well....I know your back has been bad lately."

His mouth opened automatically.

"And before you deny it-" You cut in immediately. "-don't. I know you."

Frank shut his mouth again.

"I know this probably isn't going to magically fix anything." You continued as you hurried over to the bedside table, "but I did some googling-"

Frank's mouth twitched.

"-don't be mean." You warned without any bite.

"I'm not saying anything."

"Your face is saying things."

He bit the inside of his cheek as he tried to fight the smile threatening to appear.

You carefully picked up the mug and chaperoned it back over to him.

"Anyway-" You continued determinedly. "-apparently hot and cold therapy can really help muscle inflammation and spasms, and lavender oil is supposed to help with relaxation-"

Frank glanced down at the mug as you handed it over to him.

"-turmeric has anti-inflammatory properties and the corner store near work where I get my peppermint tea also sells turmeric tea so-" You paused as you gestured to the warm cup. "Hopefully it tastes alright."

"....How did you have the time to do all this?" He asked after a moment.

You shrugged half-heartedly. "I made time."

Frank stared at you.

He didn't have the heart to tell you that none of this would probably fix his back.

But that wasn't the point.

Because no one had ever done something like this for him before. Like despite everything he was still something worth taking care of.

You shifted slightly under his gaze.

"I know this is probably all pseudoscience crap and sounds really stupid but-"

"It doesn't." He cut you off gently.

Frank swallowed hard, suddenly feeling something tight lodge in his throat.

"It doesn't sound stupid at all." He continued, quieter now.

Your expression softened instantly.

You watched intently as he lifted the mug up and took a tentative sip.

He nodded, taking another larger gulp. "It's good."

You smiled.

"Come here." You said softly, easing the mug out of his hands once he'd taken a few more sips. You set it down before gently tugging him towards the edge of the bed.

He obeyed without complaint, sitting down heavily with a low groan that made your face pinch with concern.

"Jesus, Frankie."

"I'm fine."

"Mhm." You deadpanned. "Take your shirt off."

His mouth twitched despite himself.

"Yes ma'am."

You rolled your eyes affectionately as he peeled his shirt over his head, but your expression faltered the second you saw the way the muscles along his back spasmed.

"Frank..." Your fingertips ghosted lightly over his shoulders. "You're so tense."

"Occupational hazard." He remarked as he laid down onto his stomach.

You shook your head before reaching for one of the cold compresses you'd prepared. Carefully, you pressed it against his lower back.

He hissed quietly through his teeth.

"Too cold?"

"No." He exhaled slowly as the cold seeped into his muscles. "Actually... shit. That feels good."

A tiny, triumphant smile spread across your face.

"Told you my googling was useful."

Frank let out a quiet laugh.

You worked slowly, methodically - alternating between the cold and warm compress. Then you switched to your hands, rubbing lavender oil into the tight muscles lining his spine. Your touch was gentle at first, exploratory, before growing firmer when you felt how knotted he really was.

Frank's head dropped forward.

He hadn't realised how bad it had gotten until now. How much tension he'd been carrying around without noticing.

Your thumbs pressed into a particularly tight spot near his lower back and he groaned quietly.

"Marry me."

You snorted. "I think that might be the least romantic proposal anyone's ever received."

"I'm serious." His voice came out muffled by the pillow he'd buried his head into. "You can have literally everything I own."

"So.... scrubs and take-out containers?"

"Hey don't forget the crippling emotional baggage."

"Already got that for free."

A laugh escaped him then - real and warm and helpless.

Your hands slowed slightly at the sound, your expression softening.

"I've missed that."

The quiet honesty in your voice hit him harder than expected.

Because lately he'd been exhausted. Distracted. Coming home with barely enough energy to hold a conversation before passing out beside you.

But you still did all of this for him. Still supported him no matter what.

Frank reached back blindly until his fingers found your wrist.

"I love you." He said simply.

Your chest tightened.

"I love you too."

You brushed your fingers through his hair. "Feel any better?"

Frank exhaled slowly as you slid off him so he could twist onto his back.

"Honestly?" He said as he laid back to look at you properly. "Yeah."

And he meant it.

The ache was still there, dull beneath the surface, but it wasn't consuming him anymore. For the first time in weeks, he felt relaxed.

"Really?"

Your smile made his heart stop.

Frank tugged you closer, your legs straddling his waist. "Really." He murmured.

Then he tilted his head up and kissed you, slow and lazy, grateful.

Your fingers slid into his hair instinctively as you kissed him back, smiling against his mouth when he made a soft content noise.

"See?" You said smugly against his lips. "Who needs a medical degree when you have google?"

He huffed out a laugh.

"Right, I might tell your clients the same thing."

You shoved his shoulder lightly and he laughed again - softer this time.

The kind of laugh reserved only for you.

"Ok." Frank leant over to grab the massage oil. "Now it's my turn to repay the favour."

Something in his expression that made your brow arch.

"Uh huh."

"What?"

"You just want an excuse to grope my ass."

Frank placed a hand dramatically over his chest. "How dare you. As a doctor, I care deeply about your muscle recovery. I know how tight your shoulders get. "

You hummed disbelieving, leaning down to kiss him again.

"Although." He mumbled against your lips. "Seeing you all oiled up is a perk."

You laughed softly before pulling back just enough to dramatically cross your arms over your chest and narrow your eyes at him.

"I'm not undoing all my hard work by having sex with you and immediately throwing your back out again."

Frank grinned lazily up at you as his thumbs drew circles on your hips.

"If you want me to be a pillow princess tonight, just say the word baby."

You let out a dramatic groan.

"I seriously regret teaching you that term."

His smile widened as you failed to stay serious and giggled.

He tugged you down onto the bed beside him. You landed half on top of him with another laugh before immediately trying to shift off him carefully.

"Don't move too fast-"

"I'm fine." He wrapped an arm around your waist before you could pull away completely. "Besides, lying here with you actually counts as medical treatment."

"Oh yeah?"

"Definitely." He pressed a kiss against your temple. "Benefits include reduced stress levels. Improved mood. Lower blood pressure."

You snorted.

"You're an idiot.”

"Maybe." He smiled against your skin. “You still love me though."

Your heart swelled at that.

"Always."

Frank looked at you for a second like he still couldn't quite believe that.

Then he kissed you again - softer this time, slower.

The candles flickered around the room while your fingers drifted through his hair, and for the first time in weeks, Frank let himself relax completely.

main masterlist

taglist (open):

@maryhyun254 @trustmeima-doctor @superawesomecool @crazygirlinthisworld @sh00tingstar @kakuchosbff @v33mustdie @parvenu @donttalktosposts @lumestar @simp4f1 @jaehyunlvrs @cosmosnkaz @creamvy @exstazeey @idkkbaleighh @kneelforloki @staygoldsquatchling02 @ilocuras24 @aoi-warrior @queenofthe-nerds @pinkpantheris @sassypostpatrol @s0ftdr1nks @orisitslow @inherdiary77

[dragontearsandunicornfears]

[felix24601]

so fun fact about me I used to be v involved in anti choice world in my teens. one day at 15 I sat down to write a paper for an “pro-life” essay contest and the thesis was about the supossed illusion of choice. I wanted to talk about coercion or forced abortions

I eventually gave up bc although I could find some things here and there about forced abortions I couldn’t find literally any evidence that many women were coerced and by and large found women were happy and didn’t regret it

forced and coerced abortions DO happen and those who got through that deserve all the love and support in the world because that is a violation of bodily autonomy

but that, by and large , is an incredible minority

Choice means choice either way.

[dragontearsandunicornfears]

Thank you for sharing this. It can be really difficult to for people to talk about detrimental beliefs they used to hold but have since deconstructed. I existed in a similar world but mine was more focused on anti-lgbtq ideas. It was so helpful to me to read and hear from other people who had walked the same or similar path as me. It was easier to walk away when I knew I wasn't alone.

[gaysie]

i can’t wait til we’re all in our fifties on this website live-blogging our menopause symptoms

[dragontearsandunicornfears]

Yo I'm freshly 33 and am already in the thick of it. Hot flashes girl, I'm sweating out my will to live.

[geminigirl0298]

Convalescence

Summary: Post rehab, Frank Langdon walks into the wrong meeting before his first day back at work and happens to meet just the right person.  

Or 

A doctor walks into a grief group thinking it’s an NA meeting. 

Pairing: Frank Langdon X Celebrity Reader!

Tags: drug-use, rehab, addiction, explicit sexual content later on (will be marked)

Masterlist

Previous

Chapter 14

 There was a man in your bed when you woke up.  

     Not Justin, because he was dead, and certainly not Frank, who you would have preferred; but Sebastian. Clothed and with pillows between you, but in your bed nonetheless.  He had his back against your headboard, laptop open as he clicked away at some keys. When he saw you, his brow lifted.  “Good morning, sunshine.” 

     “My head hurts.”  

      “Getting blackout drunk will do that to you.”  He nodded towards your chest. A bottle of vodka lay empty in your hands, clutched like a lifeline to your body.   

      You pulled the covers over your head with a pout.  Sebastian had been nice enough not to open the curtains that morning. “I hate being drunk.  Why didn’t you stop me?”  

      “I stopped you from drunk dialing that doctor.  When I tried to take the bottle, you almost bit my head off.” 

      “Doesn’t sound like me,” you mumbled.  “I’m usually very docile.” 

      “Livy’s downstairs-” 

      Your head popped up.  Almost immediately, it began to throb.  “Fuck.  Is she still mad at me?” 

      Last night was a mess of screaming and tears and one slammed door- the latter coming from Livy.  She held up pretty well during the fight.  You were in one corner, her in the next, Sebastian in the middle like a referee. It was around round five that Livy promptly walked off on you and went up to her room.   

       You decided not to hold it against her. She must have been terrified when she couldn’t get ahold of you.  You did decide, however, that she needed a visit with her therapist before the week ended, as did you.   

       “I spoke to her a bit last night.  She’s mad, but more upset.  I promised her we’d take her to breakfast this morning.”  He caught the look you gave him, the one that said ‘I have a migraine, let me die’.  “Nope.  I tried to stop you.  Gotta suck it up.” 

       “I hate you.”  The words came out weak.  You could never hate Sebastian. “How did you get here so fast?  The news only broke yesterday morning.” 

        Sebastian closed the laptop.  He put it on your beside table and brought his thumb and forefinger to your temples. “I was already on the way,” he explained, fingers massaging your headache away in practiced circles.  “Just drove straight here instead of the hotel when I saw the news.  I’m sure they already gave up my reservation…” 

         “You can stay here, you beggar. Don’t be so dramatic.”    

         “Ah.  My savior.”  He massaged your head in silence for a bit.   You almost fell back asleep, until he said something that had your heart starting up again.  “She spoke to Frank last night.”  Now you flew up. 

        “What? Ow!”  Your hand went to your head.  No sudden movements, you reminded yourself.  “When?” 

        “Called him first before she even called me.  Heard her talking to him last night when I went to speak to her.   They’re pretty close, aren’t they?” 

      Your lips spread into a small smile. “Yeah.  She likes Frank a lot.” 

      “Like mother, like daughter.”  Tears sprung to your eyes out of nowhere, spilling down your cheeks as you swiped them away to no avail.  “Fuck, I’m sorry.  Come here.” 

       “It’s not you.  Its me.  God, I need a therapy appointment.” 

        “Already set one up for you later today.” 

        “Thank you.” 

        He stood up, hands stretched towards you,   “Come on.  Livy’s downstairs. You two need to talk.” 

oOo 

         Livy was on the couch when you came downstairs with Sebastian.  She was in the middle of texting two people; her boyfriend, and Frank.  The latter had been checking in every hour or so since her call last night. Now that he knew you were back, those check ins had increased.  

        Is she okay? He wanted to know. Then, that’s a stupid question. Of course she’s not.  Can I do anything? 

       Livy had just finished replying to him when she felt arms surround her. “Hey baby.” 

      “Hey, mom.”  It was so easy for her to forgive you.  “I’m sorry I slammed my door.” 

      “I’m the one who should be apologizing.  We have a strict ‘always be reachable’ rule, and I broke it.  I’m so sorry I scared you.” 

        Livy placed her phone face down.  She didn’t want you to see that she was texting Frank (although she did have to admit things would be a lot easier if he just got over here like she suggested).  “Jake was asking if you’re okay.”  Not entirely a lie.  “I told him you were.  What the hell happened yesterday?” 

       “It was bad, kid.”  A mug appeared in front of her- chai- and a bottle of water and two Advil for you. “You’re outta chai.  We’ll stop by the supermarket after breakfast.” 

      “Thanks, Sebby.”  After her talk with him the night before, she felt a little better.  Whether it was explaining why she couldn’t have ice cream before dinner when she was seven or telling her that yes, it was okay that she freaked out that you didn’t come home in time, Sebastian always got through to her. It was probably why she had once secretly hoped you and him would end up together.  It was definitely why she was so standoffish to Justin in the beginning. 

         She regretted it now; glad that she had gave him a chance.  Livy saw now why you and Sebastian would never work.  You didn’t always have to marry your best friend, and she was glad you didn’t. Sebastian’s life revolved around traveling and staying away from home for far too long.  You’d never be happy with a husband like that.  It was better that you stayed friends.  

       And of course, there was another reason she was glad you two never got involved romantically.  

        “I should probably let you know Frank’s freaking out.”  She felt you stiffen, saw you choke on the meds and watched Sebastian pat your back.  “He’s been checking in all night.” 

       “I didn’t get a call from him,” you said, once the Advil was dislodged from your throat and sitting in your stomach.  “I don’t blame him.  I’d never talk to me again after yesterday.” 

       Sebastian scoffed. “Now, who’s dramatic?”  He kicked his feet up on the sofa.  Livy leaned into him.  “As a guy, I can confidently tell you that if he wanted nothing to do with you, he wouldn’t be checking in.” 

      “I could have told you that,” Livy muttered.  She opened her Twitter, and promptly closed it.  “They’re taking him apart online.  Gosh, I almost started fighting with people on Twitter. You guys have been trending all day.” 

       “You’re gonna have to say something,” Sebastian instructed, slipping into his PR mode.  He’d had no shortage of run-ins with the media while trying to get his business off the ground, and even still, Livy saw the posts about him.  The disbelievers who didn’t want big tech companies to ‘take over’.  She thought it was all nonsense.  “If anyone’s innocent here, it’s him.” 

      “I know-” 

      “Guy probably had a heart attack when he saw all those people.  It can be jarring.” 

      “I actually don’t know how he reacted.  I slipped in through the doors and met him in the hallway.   He was confused, and a little angry…”. You looked over at Livy. “Is no one on his side? He didn’t do anything wrong.” 

        “Some people are.  Nobody’s mad because they think you’re dating. They’re mad because they think he’s still married.  Nobody likes a cheater.” 

      “He’s not cheating,” you groaned. “We’re not even dating.  It’s all a misunderstanding.” 

      Livy watched you pick up your phone. She knew what you were looking for.  

          “He just texted me.”  She wasn’t planning on telling you, but watching you go through your phone for a hint of communication from him was not fun.  It also made her a little pissed at him, because she had told him to call you.  “He’s worried. I told him to call you.” 

       “It’s okay if he doesn’t.”  You locked your phone, putting it face down on the chair.  Livy shared a look with Sebastian.  Both knew you were lying.  “He’s with his family, and I’m with mine.  Now, what was this about Sebastian taking us out for breakfast?” 

oOo 

          Breakfast was a much-needed affair. Livy picked a pancake house a half hour drive from home and the three of you huddled in a secluded booth.  Despite your headache, your appetite that morning was ravenous.  It occurred to you then that you hadn’t eaten anything in about twenty four hours.  

      “Gosh, these are good,” Livy mumbled between bites of waffles.  “Missed them so much.” She reached over to you to grab the extra berries Sebastian ordered.  “Mom, we should show Sebby around today. What do you wanna do first?” 

    Sebastian chuckled.  “The tourists are gonna show me around? Do you two know anywhere besides matcha and coffee spots?” You elbowed him- soft enough that it wouldn’t leave a bruise.  

    “Hey, I know lots of places, thank you very much.  There’s the center.” Where you met Frank.  “That little cafe and boba place.” Where you had lunch with Frank. “This new falafel place.” That you were supposed to go to with Frank.  “Huh.” 

     “What?”  

      “I just realized that I know all those places because of-” 

     “Frank!”  You spat out your hot chocolate.  

     “What?” 

     “It’s Frank!”  Livy pointed out of the window. “Look, look!” 

       It was Frank- in jeans and a T-shirt and no baseball cap.  He looked… tired.  It was the first  time you had seen him so unshaven.  Had he even washed his hair? 

      “Oh fuck.”  You ducked under the table, Livy following suit.  Sebastian stared at you two like your behaviour was normal- which for him, it was.  He’d grown used to your eccentricities and didn’t even start, just sipped his coffee and craned his neck for a better look. 

       “Well, he’s definitely your type doll.  Should we go say hi?” 

        “Don’t be a cun-” 

       “I’m kidding!” Sebastian leaned back in the booth, eyes trained on the man you could no longer see.  “He’s inside now.  Walking to the counter… Looks like he’s just picking up takeout.”  Sebastian took a few more sips of his coffee, nonchalant as if two people weren’t  hiding below the table.  The doorbell jingled.  “He’s gone.” 

      “Tell me when he’s back in his car.”  You didn’t feel like suddenly being the object of a surprise window shopping.  “Like tell me when it drives out.” 

      “It’s out,” Sebastian said.  You climbed back up, stomach suddenly nauseous and no longer wanting food.  Livy popped up up next to you.  “Well, it’s good you two didn’t overreact. That would have been embarrassing.” 

      “I’m not hungry,” you announced.  “I need to go call my therapist. Livy, baby, can you show Sebastian around for mommy?” 

    Livy shrugged.  “Sure thing.  Let’s get over to the supermarket first to pick up some chai.”  Her eyes dipped down to her food- still steaming with whipped cream melting on the golden brown.  “After I finish this.  I’m still starved.” 

oOo 

       Frank was having an even worse day than yesterday.  

       He woke up with the worst acid reflux known to man, brought on by not eating anything in hours except a leftover Red Bull at Abby’s, and got even more annoyed when he realized that he was at Abby’s.  Not because he couldn’t stand her, or because he didn’t want to be around the kids, but because there was no razor in sight. He hated stubble, and badly needed a shave.  

     Abby greeted him that morning with a quirked brow upon seeing the empty energy drink can. “I thought you quit?” 

      “Relapse,” he joked, then sobered up when he saw her face. “Right.  Not funny.” 

      “Not in the slightest.”  She placed a dry mug in front of him and dropped in a tea bag.  “Try this.  Good for the nerves.” 

      “I’m not nervous.”  He let her pour the water in anyway.  “I just wanna get back to work.” 

      “Did anyone call since the ‘outbreak’?” 

       “Got an email from HR asking me to come in Friday for a meeting.  I’m off until then. Dana and Cassie called, Samira texted.  Mel’s beside herself because she thinks the paparazzi are gonna come back  and Javadi won’t stop defending me on TikTok-” Abby set the teapot down with a bang. 

       “I saw that!  I watched a piece of her live last night.  She really laid into those bloggers and paparazzi.”  Abby took a sip of her tea and reached for the honey.  “She was walking around the hospital getting everyone to give testimonials on what a good guy you are.  Jack’s was pretty convincing. You’ve got a hell of a team behind you, Frankie.” 

       “Yeah…” the corner of his mouth lifted slightly, full smile prevented because of one tiny little fact; all he could think about was you.  This was the longest he’d gone without talking to you since the day he met you.   

       “Did you call her yet?” 

        Frank didn’t bother feigning innocence. “No. Picked up the phone so many times last night and couldn’t hit the call button.”  He took a sip of the tea, surprised by the fruity taste. “I don’t think she wants to talk to me.” 

      “That’s absurd,” Abby informed him.  “I’m sure that’s all she wants to do.  Thing is, she won’t call after what you told her yesterday.  So you have to make the first move.” 

       “I know.”  Frank opened his phone again.  There was a reply from Olivia- one in a very long text thread between the two.  She often texted him for advice on Jake, or random health stuff, or even for help with her advanced Biology and History homework.  Frank loved history, and had helped her fact check many a paper over the past few weeks. “I want to. I will.”  

       She’s fine. Olivia replied.  You should call her.  Or come over.  She thinks you hate her.  

       Frank almost scoffed.  He felt a lot of things for you, but hate would never be one of them.  “She thinks I hate her.” 

      “I would too.”   

      “You’re on her side now?” He wanted to know.  “Is that it?  Bag on the ex-husband?” 

    “As easy as it is to bait you, that’s not why I want you to call her.”  Abby set her cup down and reached for another tea bag.  “You’ve been moody all night, and you’re still moping now. I allowed it when we were married.  Now, I can finally tell you how annoying it is.  Just call her.” 

     “Papa!”  Two kids came downstairs; sleepy but happy to see he was still there.  Penny crawled up onto his lap, and Tanner attached himself to his leg. “Good morning, mama.” 

      “Morning, babies.”  Abby placed a kiss on both their cheeks.  “What do you guys want for breakfast?” 

      “Pancakes?” Penny asked.  Her eyes were on her father, all big and green, and Abby rolled her eyes. “Papa?” 

      “We’re out of pancake mix,” Abby said.  “How about we go to that place you guys like?” 

     Tanner let out a small whine.  “Can we eat in front of the TV with you and dad? Wanna spend time with you.” 

    Frank and Abby shared a look.  He was already pulling out his phone. “Take out it is.” 

   “We’ll all go.  I need to get some things from the store.” 

oOo 

      The supermarket was only a five minute ride from the breakfast place.  Truthfully, you could have walked it. You didn’t want too. Livy jumped into the passenger seat of Sebastian’s sports car (she asked to drive and he almost let her) while you sprawled out in the back. You closed your eyes and let them fight it out.  Sebastian knew you didn’t want her driving such a fast car.   Soon, you heard it rev to life.  

      Now you were traipsing through the aisles with your arms around Sebastian’s bicep.  Chai soon became bread, then milk, then chocolates, then the three of you were completing a full restock before you even knew what was happening.  

      Livy lead your trio, putting an even mix of sensible options and binge - worthy goodies in the cart.  You spied the items to make sure she didn’t overdo it. Sebastian pushed the cart, and you hung onto him as he practically dragged you through the supermarket.  

      “You’re being a baby,” he told you.  “He’s not gonna magically materialize in front of us.  I saw him get his food and go into the car.” 

      “Ah ah.  You seem to have forgotten my penchant for bad luck-” 

     “You do not have bad luck.” 

     “-Alas.  Ever since I broke that mirror two years ago.  I do believe I have five years left.” 

     Sebastian bit his lip.  “You’re so dramatic, doll.  What does your therapist think about this belief that you’re a walking omen?” 

     “She thinks I believe in it to avoid doing the work and doing what I have to do for myself.”  Your words were met with a low whistle. “What?” 

     “She has you there, doll.” 

      “What do you mean?” 

      Sebastian brought the cart to a stop.  Livy went ahead of you to the cereal aisle, leaving the two of you alone to talk.  “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, but I think you can hear this now; you are dangerously neglectful of yourself.” 

      Your mouth opened and closed like a fish- a mix of gasps and being at a loss for words. “I do not neglect myself.  I shower everyday, my brows are always done and my toes are downright gorgeous. I could start an OnlyFans for feet if I wanted!” 

      “You always put everyone before yourself.  Your sister, Livy, Justin, even me.” 

       “Livy’s my kid,” you reminded him, “and Justin died.” 

      “I know.” Sebastian came to a stop. “Doll, I know.  You’ve always been like this but it’s been getting worse since he passed.  Why did you move to Philly?  I told you and Livy to come move in with me  a bit.  I would have taken time off from work. You needed to breathe after Justin.” 

       “That’s not what Livy needed,” you argued. “My sister wanted her to go to that school. Livy wanted to go to that school.” Sebastian rolled his eyes.  

          “You could have sent Livy to that school years ago.  You only did so when Justin died because you run away from problems.  And what Livy wanted, was for you to be okay.  She needed you to take care of yourself-” 

         “I took care of her!” Now you wanted to slap him.  “That’s all I’ve ever done, Sebastian! Is take care of her!” 

       He stepped closer to you, eyes darting around to make sure no one heard your rising voice. “You did, but things changed after Justin died.  You picked Livy up from her life and plopped her in the middle of the one her sister wanted.  Livy’s a good kid.  She loves you. She’d never have said no to you. She’s even looking at colleges here in case you decide it’s too painful for you to go home.” 

       “Oh, that’s fucking bullshit. Livy was just taking a look.” Sebastian raised a brow. 

       “Is she?  Or is she just becoming like her mother- ignoring what she wants for everyone else?  Livy loves LA.  She always wanted to go to college in LA.  Philly was your sister’s dream, not hers.” 

         Tears burned in your eyes. Not because you were sad, but because Sebastian was right. He was right.  It was everything your therapist had been trying to get through to you, and only your stubborn refusal kept it at bay.  Now your best friend was telling you to your face, and you hated it.  

        Because he was right. 

       “I wanna go home.”  You reached for the cart.   

        Running again, your mind said.  You shook your head to rid it of the voice.  “Now.” 

      Sebastian sighed.  “Doll-”  

      “Let’s go.” 

       You gripped the cart with more force than necessary, blood seeping out from the capillaries in your knuckles as your hold tightened. You weren’t even paying attention to where you were going.  The cereal aisle could have been behind you for all you knew. With the speed you were going at, and the tears blurring your vision, you didn’t know which direction you had started in.   

      Which is how it made sense that, as you turned the corner, your cart crashed directly into another.   

       And because you were filled with such bad luck, as you were literally just telling Sebastian,  the owner of the cart happened to be Frank. 

Chapter 15

Taglist:

@sam2007sstuff @gardonromsey @lunadi1una @saccharinespirit @sophsthebest @crazyunsexycool @annatortilla @dessxoxsworld @crazygirlinthisworld @noodleisodd @patchs-curiosity-corner @sheneedsanapp @imaginexred @kickyourasswinston @perksofbeingatrex @faelvz @kaldurahms-lover

[dragontearsandunicornfears]

GAAAAHHHHH cliffhanger! Yo I am desperate for them to just talk about their feels and I'm not above pulling the "my birthday is on Tuesday, wink wink" card.

[geminigirl0298]

Convalescence

Summary: Post rehab, Frank Langdon walks into the wrong meeting before his first day back at work and happens to meet just the right person.  

Or 

A doctor walks into a grief group thinking it’s an NA meeting. 

Pairing: Frank Langdon X Celebrity Reader!

Tags: drug-use, rehab, addiction, explicit sexual content later on (will be marked)

Masterlist

Previous

Chapter 13

  Frank knew Abby was pissed at him. Suspected it from the phone call, let it settle in on the drive to the hospital and accepted it when he got there.  Her jaw was set with the same disappointment he had only ever seen once before; the day he admitted to his substance abuse. He gulped against a dry throat when he saw her at the entrance.  It was like she had a beacon on him and knew when to step outside so he’d spot her as the car pulled in.  

      “You’re late,” she told him.  “The kids have calmed down.  We’re ready to go.”  Frank could feel the blame through her words.  Knew she was cursing him out in multiple languages in her head (she’d double majored in literature and foreign languages in college), and he would have let it go.  Except, he was peeved at her too.  

      “Sorry,” he snapped back. “I’ll plan the paparazzi ambush a little earlier next time.” 

     “Don’t be cute,” she warned.  “Come.” 

      He followed her down the hall and into a wide open seating area.  It was so different from what he was used to at his hospital.  A bright space with sunlight streaming in, colors on the walls and play areas for the kids. Two of them were his; Tanner and Penny, sitting on the puzzle mat floor with various toy cars.  When they saw him, two tiny pairs of feet ran towards him. 

      “Hey, guys.”  He sat before they could jump on him- his back couldn’t take another tweak so soon- and allowed them to crawl into his lap.  “Heard you guys had a pretty interesting day today.”  He ruffled Tanner’s hair. The boy was unusually quiet. “Anything you wanna tell me?” 

     “I didn’t mean to bite him so hard,” Tanner explained. “I got angry.  They were talking about you and Livy’s mom…” The five year old made an expression eerily similar to the one on Abby’s face right now. 

        Frank, in all his parenting glory, told him, “We can’t bite people when we get angry.” 

      Tanner tilted his head to the side.  “Not even a little?” 

     “Not even a little,” Frank’s voice was firm.  He heard Abby’s heels click up to him and heard her ask the kids if they were ready to go. Unfortunately, Frank was still annoyed at her for what she said about you earlier in the day. “What about you, babygirl?  How do you feel?” 

      “Tanner bit a boy,” she told him.  “Got blood all over my dress.” Frank winced.  

       “That sounds terrible.  The pink one?”  When she nodded her head, he frowned. “That’s you favourite one. “ 

       “Hmhm.”  She bobbed her little head up and down, and her curly ponytails moved with the action. “Said he was sorry. Said I can have his teddy bear.” 

          “Is this him?  Is this the father?”  The voice came from a smartly dressed woman with a red updo and a mauve tone lipstick very similar to one he’d seen you wear.  It was odd how he remembered.  It was odd he knew the word mauve.  Abby would often tease him about not being able to differentiate between shades. Now he could pick yours in a lineup.   “Are you Frank Langdon? Your son bit my kid!” 

      He rose to his full height, kids still clinging to his legs. “Yes, I am.  I’m so sorry about your kid. My son has never done something like this before.” 

      “So your wife said.”  The woman folded her arms, lips pursed in a terse expression. Frank felt his phone vibrate and didn’t dare look at it. “She explained it all.  My younger son used to have bouts of violence like this-” 

      “My son doesn’t have bouts of violence.”  He looked at Abby, who was not meeting his eyes.  

      “I’m not judging. Having a broken home can cause behavioral issues. I wanted to give you this.” 

       He watched the bird like woman fish through her purse. The entire time, he wondered what the hell she was talking about.  Tanner didn’t have behavioral issues.  Tanner wasn’t an angry kid. He was a good kid that had gone through a parental divorce and was dealing with it the best way he could. 

     “Here.”  It was a number for a child psychologist printed on a heavy, expensive paper card.  “Dr. Fran is excellent.  You should give her a call.” 

     “My son doesn’t need a psychologist.  He-” 

      “Thank you.”  Abby took the card from the other mother’s hand. “Really. I appreciate your understanding.” 

      The woman nodded, then sauntered her way back into the wards. Frank turned on Abby as soon as her red bun disappeared out of sight.  He looked at the card in his ex-wife’s hand and the solemn expression on her face.  It confused him to no end, as did the way she tucked the card into her pocket. Not her purse, her pocket, which she always cleaned out before throwing in the wash.  And to make matters worse, his damn phone never stopped vibrating.  

      “My phone keeps fu-” Frank  bit off the curse word right before the kids heard him, and finally slid it out of his pocket. The name that flashed wasn’t yours. It was Olivia’s, and that made his heart speed up. He answered immediately. 

     “Frank?” 

     “Olivia?” Her panicked tone sent shivers down his body.  After today, she wouldn’t be calling him unless it had something to do with you.  “What’s wrong?” 

      “Are you with my mom?” 

       “Your mom? No, she left the hospital hours ago.”   

         He could feel Abby’s eyes on him.  See her mouth something to Tanner and heard him begin to explain who Olivia was.  He knew she wouldn’t be happy.  She’d be even more pissed and probably call you out your name again like earlier. But he was too focused on the tense teenager on the other end of the receiver. 

      “She hasn’t come home and she’s not answering her cell!  I think she turned it off. My mom never turns her phone off!” 

       Fuck.  Fuck fuck fuck. Frank wanted to beat his head against a wall.  Like he needed yet another disaster to today.  “I know.  I know.  Calm down, Olivia.” 

      “I can’t calm down I don’t know where my mom is!” 

       A call came through the other end- Jake- and he felt his panic decline just a little.  “Olivia, give me a second.  I’m getting a call.” He switched over to the newly eighteen year old with shaking fingers.  “Jake. Wherever the hell you are, go to Olivia’s now. She’s freaking out.” 

      “I know.  She called me.”  He heard the tell tale sounds of beeping horns and rushing winds from Jake’s end.  

       “Are you using your cell phone and driving?”  Hundreds of motor vehicular accidents flashed in his mind.  Kids and yelling and metal and parents screaming at the top of their lungs.  “Jake-“” 

    “I’m pulling into her street now.  I’ll stay with her until her mom gets here but Frank… I- I saw the article.  I know things are bad and I think you should get over here.  Liv’s a fucking mess.” 

       He knew he should be there.  He wanted to be there. He also wanted to yell at you for freaking your kid out so much- but his family was here.  Tanner and Penny and Abby were here and he could only play hero for one family; so he chose his. “I’ll try.  I promise.” 

      “I’m here.  Talk to you later.” 

      The call ended, and Olivia’s frantic voice came back on. “Jake’s here. God, mom would kill me if she knew I had a boy over alone at home.” 

      “Something tells me she’ll have to let this one go,” Frank told her. “Jake’s gonna stay with you until your mom gets home.  And she is coming home.  I know she’s upset but you know she won’t leave you.  She loves you.” 

      He heard slight sniffles in the background, and the recognizable rumble of Jake’s voice. Then, “When are you gonna get here?” 

      Frank paused only a little.  Abby, sensing his oncoming paralysis, grabbed his arm and marched him and the kids to the parking lot.  She loaded the kids up in his car- because her sister had driven her and the kids to the hospital- and folded her arms at Frank.  Her message could not be more clear.  She wanted him off that damn phone.  

       “Kid, I’m not gonna be able to make it anytime soon. Tanner and Penny are pretty upset about the article-” 

       “Right, right. The article.  Frank, I’m so sorry. Please don’t be mad at my mom.” 

         “I’m not, kid.  There’s just a lot going on right now.” He felt a lot of things about you right now.  None of them could really be deemed anger.   

         “I know.  I’ll call you if my mom shows up.  Tell Tanner and Penny I say hi?” 

         “Will do.  Call me if you need anything.  I mean it.” 

        “I’ll call Sebastian too. He needs to know about this.” 

         The call ended.  Frank stared at the blank screen.  There were many things going through his mind right now. Why was your phone off?  How the hell could you not tell Olivia where you were? Would Jake have the common sense and hormone resistance not to get your daughter pregnant right now.  All those things paled in comparison to what Olivia said last.  

      Because who the fuck was Sebastian, and why the fuck did he need to know where you were? 

     “Was that her daughter?  What’s going on?” 

      Frank slid the phone back in his pocket.  “That was Olivia.” 

     “She sounded tense,” Abby pressed. 

     “Her mom isn’t home yet.  The kid’s only seventeen and they’re joined at the hip.  She’s freaked out.” 

     Abby absorbed the information with her mouth in a grim line. “So she called you?”  Frank shrugged.  

     “She trusts me.” 

      “You’re not her father,” Abby reminded him.  Her tone was as scalding as he’d ever heard it. “You’ve got two children.  Focus on them.” 

      “I always focus on them.  I’m here right now.  I’m here when I can be-” 

      “Until you’re not with them.  Unless you bring them along to your friend’s-” 

       “Don’t do this.”  Frank’s voice was ice.  A little bit of uncertainty slid into Abby’s eyes “Not now. Not here.  None of this is my fault, and it’s not Olivia’s. Leave her out of this.”  He opened the car and ushered a stunned Abby inside. “We’re going home.” 

OoO 

         You drove around for hours before you realized what time it was.  And truly, it was only the change from day to dark that alerted you to how long you’d been riding around blubbering. When it finally dawned on you just how much time it had been, your first thought  was for Olivia.  

       You grabbed your phone from where you flung it on the passenger seat earlier.  “Fuck.”  It was dead.  Had probably been for hours, and you knew it held countless phone calls and messages from a frantic Livy.  “Fuck!” You mashed on the gas.   

    This had to be the stupidest thing you’d done in a while.  Livy was a head on kid but she had deep rooted abandonment issues.  You knew she was at home freaking out.  She probably already alerted your parents, Sebastian …. Frank.  Had he tried to call you too? 

      You hated that half your mind was still in that hospital stairwell.  Still with him.  It trapped your arms against your body and did not let you do what you wanted: hold onto him, scream apologies and beg him not to walk away.  Instead, you walked away first.   You walked away and you had no idea if Frank would ever talk to you again. You wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t. 

        Frank had enough problems in his life without you.  And the thing was, he was doing so much better.  He was going to therapy, work was excellent, the kids were under control and he was even applying to fellowships in other states.  Abby didn’t know.  No one at work knew.  It was only late one evening on a phone call with reruns of Friends playing in the background did he whisper it to you. 

      “I applied to a fellowship in LA.” 

      You paused the show you’d barely been watching.  “Huh?” 

      Frank must have shifted, since you heard the now- familiar sound of his bed springs creaking under his weight.. It had become a habit- the two of you over a long phone call on nights he didn’t have the kids.  Even longer, if he didn’t have an early shift the next day. “I applied to a fellowship in LA.”  

       “That’s great,” you breathed.  You could imagine him shrugging those lean shoulders over the phone.  

       “It’s not a teaching position like the one I had lined up yesterday before.” 

       “Do you even like teaching?”  Frank paused.   

       “I don’t… not like teaching.  I do it if I have too. Not my first choice.” 

       “What did Abby say?” 

       “She doesn’t know.  It’s not like I can go even if I get it.” 

       “Why?” you asked, as though the answer were not glaringly obvious.  Then, “oh.” 

      “My kids?” He reminded you with a chuckle.  “Thing 1 and Thing 2 who climb me like monkeys?  I can’t leave them.” 

       “Right.  LA is amazing though.”  Wistfulness entered your voice; a deep, yearning whine for the palm trees and sunny skies of your preferred home.  “It’s worth at least a visit.  The kids will love it.” 

      “I think family vacations are out of the equation right now.  Abby and I still have a bit of animosity.” You heard him grunt, a telltale sign that he was stretching and approaching dreamland. “I just applied on a whim. An older buddy of mine applied a few years ago and got in.  Hasn’t looked back since.” 

         “How’s he like it?” 

         “Loves it.  Not nearly as heavy as PTMC and shifts are better.  Better pay… Gets to see his kids a lot.  He posts about them all the time.  He’s got two girls around Tanner’s age. He’s teaching ‘em to surf.” 

       You flipped over onto your stomach, show long forgotten.  “I’m shit at surfing. Justin was so good at it.  He tried to teach me a few times but I never got far off the shore.  It-” You bit your lip. Echoes of Justin’s laugher filled your mind. “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to dampen the mood.” 

      “You know you can talk about him, right?  You don’t have to apologize for it.” 

      It wasn’t the first time you had this conversation.   

      “I know,” you said.  “I will.”    

       And then you changed the subject completely.  

       Headlights were on in your driveway when you got there.  A car- just about to drive out- blurring your vision into wishful thinking.  

       Frank!  He was here.  It had to be.  You jumped out of your car with it barely coming to a stop.  The headlights turned off.  Not Frank’s SUV, but a sleek, silver sports car that belonged to- “Sebastian?” 

     He stepped out of the car as handsome as ever, now sporting a scruffy beard and tired green eyes.  Still, he smiled when he saw you.  “Dollface.  Saw you on the news.” 

    “Ugh!”  You slammed the door with great force.  Your car shook, wheels squeaking as if to say ‘well, fuck you too!’   “That shit was on the news?”   

      Sebastian reached you in two long strides.  He cupped the back of your neck and guided your face to his chest.  “It was entertainment news, if it makes you feel better.”  You groaned into his shirt, allowing his familiar scent of mint to envelope you.   

      “I’m not even good enough for the real news.  This is atrocious!”  Sebastian laughed at your muffled words.  It felt good to be held by him. His shoulders held years of your tears- more so than Justin- and it was so easy to fall back into your safe place.  “I fucked up.” 

      “No you didn’t.” 

      “His kid got in a fight because of me.  The other kid is in the hospital.”  You paused then, remembering Sebastian would only know about Frank what he’d seen or read in that day.  “Frank’s the doctor who-” 

       “Who you’re not dating but really want to?  Yes.  Livy caught me up to speed between bouts of panic attacks.” 

       Livy.  

       “Livy!”  Your head popped off his chest. “Oh my god!  She’s probably-” 

      “Asleep,” Sebastian told you. “On the couch. I let her boyfriend stay over because I was about to go out looking for you.”  He pressed his lips to the top of your head. “You really scared the kid, doll.  You really scared me.” 

      “I know.”  Your words came out like a whine- childish and petulant.  You didn’t care.  “I know.  My phone died and I was driving and… Today was a mess.” 

      “It happens.”  Sebastian led you inside.  “You know I know.”  At the beginning of your fame, rumours around you and Sebastian swirled like crazy.  They only ebbed when Justin entered the picture, and to this day, there were still blogs and TikTok pages dedicated to you two.  “The media will be the media.” 

       “And fans will be fans.”  You dropped your phone on the wireless charger at the kitchen island and watched it come to life.  “God, they must be taking him apart online.”   Someone called your name- Jake- and you looked over your shoulder.  Livy was resting with her head on his lap, a blanket pulled over her while he sat as stiff as ever. “Jake, thank you for staying with her.” 

      “Are you okay?  I saw what happened.” 

      “Not reaching for the bleach, so I’d say it’s a 50-50.”  Jake laughed. Sebastian did not. “I’m sure your mom must be worried.  You can go on ahead home.”  He gave you a salute- fully serious- and carefully extracted himself from under your daughter’s head.  

      “It was nice to meet you, Sebastian.” 

      “Likewise.”  You watched as the two men dapped each other up.  “You’ll keep me updated on that application, huh?” 

       “Of course.  Thank you, again.” 

        “What application?” You asked, once Jake was out the door and you watched his car pull out.   

       Sebastian shrugged.  “Kid has a pretty good tech idea. Told him to enter the grant competition my company has every year.” 

      “I thought applications were closed?”  Sebastian flashed you a grin. 

       “I made an exception.”  

       A rueful smile made its way onto your lips. “You do that a lot.”  Whether it be employees who needed loans, college students who needed internships or parents that needed paid time off, Sebastian seemed hell bent on saving the world all by himself.  You knew it was a result of his own toeing the breadline upbringing.  He worked his way up and wanted to do the same for everyone else.  “You need a kid, and a wife.  Things to do.” 

       “How can I have time for that when when I’m busy raising you two.”  His tone was light, hand raising to point in Livy’s direction.  She was awake, and did not look happy with you. “Round two?” 

oOo 

       Abby nee’ Langdon knew when her ex- husband was upset with her.  He didn’t get mad in the passionate way- screaming and yelling and arms flailing- but in the soft, passive way that made her want to pull her hair out.  Whilst a blessing that Frank never raised his voice at her, she soon came to realize it was more than just a good upbringing and a father who would smack the hell out of him if he did; it was them. 

     They weren’t in love.  When it came to them, they just loved. They were cordial, goals agreeable. Met at a bar one night in college and hit it off.  Frank was safe and had his head on and Abby wanted that; a husband, kids, a house.  And then she got it… and it was nothing like she thought it would be.  

       Frank was a good father.  Present when physically there and endlessly patient with the kids.  He was also a good provider, good with her emotions, good (great) in bed… She wondered where it went wrong for a long time after the divorce.  It took her a while to realize the truth.  It never went wrong.  She and Frank simply weren’t meant to be.  

      ‘A marriage of convenience’ their counselor told her during a solo session.  ‘He was what you thought you wanted.  You were what he thought he needed.  You’re not the same people anymore.  Your wants and needs have changed.’  It hit her like a ton of bricks.  Abby cried on the chair, in the car, and even in the shower that night.  Her husband loved her, but he wasn’t in love with her.  

     But he was in love with you.  

     She could tell by the way he kept staring at your contact in his phone, thumb hovering over the digits with indecision, that you were very present on his mind.   

      “Would you just call her?” 

      Frank locked his phone.  He shifted a bit, careful not to wake the sleeping children on either side of him, and clenched his jaw.  “Weren’t you the one who told me not to talk to her again?”  Abby blanched.  “Your exact words were ‘I don’t ever want that spoiled bitch around you or my kids again!’  Very mean girl of you.” 

         Abby shook off his last comment- clearly picked up by spending time with your teenage daughter.  “Okay. I admit I overreacted.” 

       “And then telling me I’m not Olivia’s father. I know that.  I can’t help that the kid formed an attachment to me.” 

        “I know.”  Abby came to sit beside him, Penny between them like a shield to their verbal spar.  “I was pissed about today.  The news hit and then Tanner bit that kid and I needed someone to blame.  She was right there.” 

      “It’s not her fault.”  Abby could tell he really believed what he was saying.  “She could have told me, but it’s not her fault.” 

       “It’s not your fault either.”   

        “Yeah, but I didn’t react well.  I told her what you said-” At Abby’s alarmed look, Frank hurried to amend his statement. “Not the bitch part.  She was worried about Tanner and wanted to come see him.  I told her you weren’t sure you wanted her around me or the kids anymore.  I could have said it nicer. I don’t even know why I said it in the first place.” 

      To scapegoat me, Abby thought, then wiped the quip from her mind. It was easier to fight with Frank than it was to comfort him.   

      “I can’t imagine how you must have felt when all those people showed up.  My phone’s been ringing all day. All our friends saw the news.  They think she’s your sugar momma.” 

      Frank made a face.  “She’s three years younger, and it’s not like that.  We’re just-” 

      “Friends?” Abby suggested.  “You’ve been saying that for quite some time now. I even think you still believe it.”   

       The pair quieted then, Abby willing him with her eyes to admit his feelings for you and him pointedly not meeting her gaze.  Finally, he spoke.  

      “Why’d you take that card from the lady?”  Aw jeez.  “There’s nothing wrong with Tanner.  He’s a good kid.” 

       “A good kid whose parents got divorced and whose dad went away to rehab for months.”  She saw the effect her words had on him- a frown pulled out of thin air, tension seeping into his shoulders- but Frank had to hear this.  She couldn’t keep him in the dark anymore.  

       “Frankie, you’re better now, so I can tell you this.  Tanner is not doing okay.  We can blame it on him being a kid, or we can tell the truth.  He’s angry.” 

       Frank shifted uncomfortably in his seat.  “I know he’s been a little quieter than usual…” 

      “Frank, Tanner was downright unmanageable when you went to rehab.  I never told you, because I didn’t want to stress you out.  My sister had to move in to help me with the kids.  He was always sad, always getting into fights and always crying for you. I don’t want it to get worse.” 

       Guilt sparked in Frank’s blue eyes.  Abby wished she didn’t have to tell him this, but it was unfair of her to bear this alone.  “I didn’t know it was that bad.   Jesus,” Frank reached for her hand.  “Abs, I’m so sorry.” 

        “I’d really like him to meet with that psychologist,” she continued.  Tears pricked her eyes.  “He needs someone to talk to that isn’t us.”   

        “Of course.”  Abby let out a breath of air.  Frank squeezed her hand. “Anything you want.  If I had known it was that bad…” 

         “It’s okay.”  

         “No it’s not.  You never should have had to go through that alone.  I’m so fucking sorry, Abs.” She leaned forward- experimental at first, then relaxing into his shoulder like they had done a thousand times before.  The only difference was that there was nothing romantic about it.  “Okay.  New rule.” 

         “Huh?” 

        “We can have our separate lives, but the kids always come first.  I mean it.  No secrets when it comes to them.  There’s a problem? Call me.  You think I can’t handle it?  Call me faster. I’d do anything to make sure you and the kids are okay, but I can’t if I don’t know. Okay?” 

         “Okay.” 

         And as she sat there with her head on her ex husband’s shoulder, the kids asleep and the squeeze of his palm on hers, Abby finally began to understand the importance of closure.  

Chapter 14

Taglist: @sam2007sstuff @gardonromsey @lunadi1una @saccharinespirit @sophsthebest @crazyunsexycool @annatortilla @dessxoxsworld @crazygirlinthisworld @noodleisodd @patchs-curiosity-corner @sheneedsanapp @imaginexred @kickyourasswinston @perksofbeingatrex @faelvz @kaldurahms-lover

[dragontearsandunicornfears]

The god have blessed me!

Thumbs up for the healthy but realistic divorced couple.

[tastefullyoffensive]

Meet Frank. (photos by OhSweetFancy)

[transsapphoholic]

This may be my new favorite post.

[chibbycookie]

@beastkachu

[dragontearsandunicornfears]

This is one of my all time favorite posts on this entire hellsite and now that I am deep in my Pitt/Frank Langdon era, I love the idea of Frank having a bestie/partner who likes to quote "Frank, you pancake-shelled dickweed" out of nowhere and Frank being like "duh fuck did I do?!"

[crimsoncoatedscalpel]

Enemy Lines - 4: The Papers

click for chapter & character trope index ^

frank langdon x fem!reader

wc: 3.7k

synopsis: your shift from hell seemed to be of the past with new shifts going smoother, which helped you out of your dark space for a moment. things ended up getting difficult, of course, but not because of patients. (characters included/mentioned: c.mckay, d.whitaker, y.garcia, the m.robinavitch, d.evans, p.alawi, l.perez, & v.javadi)

cw/s: injuries, descriptions of said injuries, care for said injuries (medical procedures/surgery), mentions of past addiction, mentions of relationship/familial problems, potential medical inaccuracies.

a/n: set during the same month as s2 (july), just not the same day (july 4th). no use of y/n, y//n, y/n/n, but the nickname 'Sunshine' will be used. absolutely zero use of ai to write/edit. searching the pitt set floor plan is recommended if you'd like (extremely helpful with visualizing paths characters take and the layout of the rooms). reblogs are always welcome. as always, thank you. indulge.

“You should really lay off of him.”

You looked over at Cassie as she spoke. “I am, I keep my distance all of the time.”

Another week had passed, the start of a new one leaving you hopeful to not encounter nearly as many patient losses as you had previously.

“You know what I mean.” She crossed her arms, looking like a disappointed mother.

“Cass, I’m not Harrison.”

She squinted, thinning her lips with a low hum. “What’s your issue with him, anyway? Langdon, not Harrison.”

“You didn’t need to clarify. Harrison’s a cool little dude, respectful. Langdon, on the other hand-”

“Needs you in Trauma One.”

You rolled your eyes at the sound of his voice, beginning to follow him as he passed you by, but not without a small wave to Cassie.

“Couldn’t get anyone else?”

“Oh, trust me, I tried.”

Again, you rolled your eyes. “Not hard enough, it seems.”

Ignoring your comment, he pushed the door open with his back, keeping it ajar so you could enter.

“I can open and hold doors for myself.”

He paused, looking at you with an expression you couldn’t pin. “Right…Anyways, this is nine year old Makiyah. Crush injury to her left leg due to getting run over, resulting in a fractured tibia.”

Your heart stuttered at the information and the sight of the little girl.

“Non-displaced fracture, which is good, but she has compartment syndrome.” He finished.

Immediately gloving and scrubbing up, you made your way to her beside. She was decently stable, given the situation, so that was good. “Did she come in with any adult, legal guardian, anything?”

“Mom is talking with a social worker, but we got consent for the procedure.”

“Good.” You reply, turning your attention to the girl who was wide awake but relatively calm besides the huffing and puffing, telling you she was calming down. “Is she prepped for a fasciotomy or?”

“Yeah, we did a nerve block.”

It was only at the sound of his voice that you noticed Dennis. You’d tried to fight the fact, but your dislike for Frank was distracting you. It burned red hot, simmering under your skin anytime you saw him or heard his name—so often that it became one of the first things you focused on when in a room with him. Your usual surveying of the room to see who you’d be working with was down the drain if he was present. It made you dislike him more.

Clearing your throat, you let your gloved hands hover over the girl's leg. “How’re we feeling Miss Makiyah?”

She sniffled. “A little better. Not really hurting anymore, but I’m scared.”

“That’s completely normal, don’t beat yourself up about it. I’m just glad you’re not hurting much.”

“Me too.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

She shook her head.

“Okay, awesome. I’m going to gently examine the area with my hands, shouldn’t hurt since you’re all numbed up, but if you feel anything you let me know.” You instructed, beginning to check for any necrosis.

After a long pause, Frank began to talk. “So, Makiyah, what’s your favorite color?”

“Rainbow.”

You smiled, and when you briefly glanced up, you saw he was smiling too.

“Great answer. All of the colors are awesome. But if you absolutely had to choose…” He trailed off.

“I like green the most.”

Frank oo-ed at that. “Solid pick.”

“What’s your favorite?” She returned the question.

“Hm…” He hummed, thinking. “I like purple, but I’m more of a blue guy myself.”

“Purple is third for me.”

“What’s second?”

“Pink. Or yellow.” She sighed dramatically. “This is why I said rainbow, it’s hard to choose.”

“Rainbow is the best answer.” You flashed her a friendly grin before looking at Robby who had silently been observing. “No necrosis.”

“Alright, Makiyah, Doctor Sunshine here is going to make a couple cuts on your leg to release some pressure. It may sound scary, but it’s going to help you a ton.”

She looked at you. “Your name is Sunshine? That’s really cool.”

“It’s not, but you can call me Sunshine.”

“What’s your favorite color, Doctor Sunshine?”

She surprised you, not batting an eye at what Robby had said. Telling her your favorite color, you grabbed your scalpel, preparing to make your first incision. That’s when she began to freak out, face dampening with fresh tears. It was bound to happen eventually, wasn’t it?

“Wait, wait! I don’t- I don’t want to see, please-”

“Hey, you don’t have to watch.” Frank assured her. “You can look at literally anything else, I promise.”

“You can also close your eyes, if you prefer that.”

She nodded, closing her eyes tightly as she reached for Frank’s hand, squeezing it tightly. He didn’t budge away, instead leaning into it, letting her squeeze his gloved hand so tightly you could’ve sworn you saw the red and white displays of pressure from beneath the blue latex veil.

Blade about to cut her skin, you began to sing softly, not caring about anyone else in that room right now but her. “Somewhere over the rainbow…”

She didn’t open her eyes, but she smiled as she continued the song with you. “Way up high.”

“I knew you’d know it.” You grinned to yourself before continuing to sing in tandem with her, beginning the first incision. “And the dreams that you dreamed of, once in a lullaby…”

The two of you continued to sing together as you worked at the initial incision.

You eventually finished up, and everything went well. You were extremely glad to have gotten her as your patient. She was full of light, genuine light. If anyone were to be called Sunshine, you think it should be her. You weren’t sure if adults were able to house sunshine like that, how children do. To them, the world is sunshine and rainbows—until it’s not. Though the injury she sustained didn’t seem to knock her down at all.

Standing up with a muffled groan of pain from the stabbing sensation that shot into your lower back, you turned around to see who you assumed was her mom standing and observing, hand held to her heart. Excusing yourself, you exited the room.

“Are you Makiyah’s mother?”

“Yeah, that’s my little girl.” She inhaled a deep breath, looking from the trauma room to you. “Is she going to be okay?”

“The surgery went well, dare I say textbook perfect.” You smiled.

“I heard you singing to her. I only caught the last bit, but…” The woman sniffled, dabbing a tissue under her nose. “I sing that same song to her almost every night before bed. She’s getting older, so sometimes she just wants it to play on her TV, but you know. Thank you.”

Ever the empathetic one, your eyes began to sting with tears. “She said her favorite color was rainbow, that song came to mind.”

“That girl does not mess around when it comes to rainbows. She was coloring a rainbow into the driveway with chalk.”

“Is that when the injury occured?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Her brother just got his license, didn’t see her laid out. I’m just glad she was kicking her feet so it wasn’t both that got caught.”

“Well, she’s tough. Everything went just fine. And I’m not sure if anyone informed you yet, but her tibial fracture is non-displaced, it’s unlikely it requires surgery. Given the circumstances, this is playing out in the best-case scenario, in my opinion.”

“Can-can I go see her?”

“Oh, absolutely.” You replied, opening the door and letting her in. “That is Doctor Robby, our day shift attending here at PTMC.”

“Thank you, Sunshine.” Robby butted in, taking over the encounter. “Nice to meet you, Miss Gardner…”

You began to close the door just as Frank approached. He caught it last second, exiting just beside you.

Against the simmering beneath your skin, you refrained from negative comments and opted for a compliment. “Hey, you did great in there, comforting that kid. Beat me to it.”

He found your sudden words of kindness odd, but he didn’t complain. “I’d hope so, I have two of my own. Abby would scoff if she heard you say that.”

“Is Abby one of them?”

He scoffed out a humorless laugh, scratching at the nape of his neck. “No, no, uh…Abby’s their mom. My wife. Well, legally anyways, and that’s coming to a close so…better get in the habit of not calling her that.”

For a split second, you actually felt remorse—sympathy, beyond what you felt initially before you learned he stole from the hospital and patients. “Sorry to hear that.”

“It sucks, but, y’know, it’s her response to my…actions. Can’t blame her all that much, though it doesn’t make things any easier.” He wanted to slap himself for spilling personal details like that. You were rude and judgemental to him and the fact he struggled with addiction, so why would he tell you any of that? If anything, he just gave you more ammo. His wife had the reaction she had and you’re having the reaction you’re having, but for some reason yours stings more. Abby had given him a chance…multiple, actually. You, on the other hand? Nothing. He was fucked from the second you found out he went to rehab.

“Best of luck.” You gave him a small, genuine smile as you began to walk away.

“Did she just smile at you?”

“You always appear at the worst times, Yolo. The worst times.”

It only took a couple more hours in the shift for things to tense up again, and Dana was sick of it.

“No, I want you to tell me. What about him bothers you so bad? If he did something to you…”

You shook your head. He did do something, just not to you. He stole. “No, it’s not anything like that.”

“Then what is it, girl? Give me something to work with.”

“He was a dick to me, the day I met him. Brushed me off, insisted on Garcia. Didn’t even give me a chance.”

She looked skeptical. “That’s it?”

You frowned. “What do you mean ‘that’s it’?”

“You’ve dealt with assholes before, I’ve never seen you hold a grudge like that.”

“There’s a first for everything.”

She sighed. “You’re selling me a half-truth.”

“What?”

“I’ve worked with you long enough, Missy. I can tell.” She leaned in, lowering her voice. “Is it because of his struggles?”

Your heart sped up. “Struggles with what?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

“Dana, I’m having a good day, one of my first since I got back from vacation, okay? I…I don’t need this.”

“Did you mean to rhyme?” She grinned, referencing your own words before returning back to her serious self. “Tell me, is it because of that?”

“No.” You answered softly.

“That’s another half-truth.”

“I’m going back upstairs.”

Dana sucked her teeth as she watched you usher away, tilting her head before ultimately deciding to follow you. “Wait a second.”

You stopped. “Is there a patient?”

“No-”

You went into the stairwell. “Okay, then I’m going back up.”

Dana followed you in, grabbing your arm. “You’re not telling me something.”

“Jesus Christ, Dana, are you a fucking lie detector? Lay off, please.” You hated how you snapped, but come on.

“Something like that. After working with people for so long, you pick up on a thing or two. Now tell me what’s going on. Can’t have conflict like that in here, too fragile of an environment for hostility-”

“I agree, it is a fragile environment, so it must be taken care of with hands of integrity.”

Well, now it’s out, isn’t it?

“This is about him stealing?”

“Oh, so you know. Wasn’t exactly sure who all was aware of this and let it slide.”

“Listen, he’s back and he’s been doing good. Little shaky at first but he’s been making it to all his urine tests and-”

“Yeah, sorry, I’m not going to applaud a fish for swimming. You all can go ahead though. I dislike him because he stole not only from the hospital, but from patients. That…that’s fucked up. But right now, Dana, he thinks I dislike him because he was a dick when we first met and I’d like to keep it that way, makes things easier. I don’t want to debate with him about his sticky fingers, helps nobody. Keep this between us.”

“Neither does dishing out judgements on someone's past decisions.”

You sucked in a breath, closing your eyes as your head fell back. “I don’t want to do this, Dana. Please. Keep this between me and you.”

“If it continues to annoy me and everyone else-”

“I know.” You let out a breath.

You found yourself back in the ED before long, like always. Now, you were in Trauma 2 cleaning up from performing surgery on a patient with an incarcerated hernia. It went smoothly, so you allowed yourself to relax a bit, ignoring the dull ache in your lower back.

Robby clapped his hands. “Alright, great j- Woah…” He walked out of the room and you followed, and then so did everyone else who was in the room besides Perlah who stayed with the patient, even though they were sedated. The sounds of shouting echoed through the ED and you acted quickly, following the sound in hopes it wasn’t a code Hula Hoop. The sounds of arguing led you through the Central and West wings before ultimately leading you just before the triage and reception doors. There stood Frank, hands interlocked behind his head as he took what the woman was saying…before he didn’t.

“Abby, you served me this shit at work, in the middle of a shift-”

“You wouldn’t come by and get it. I had no choice.”

“Where are the kids?”

“With my mom. Sign the papers so I can go get them and take them home.”

“Excuse me, what’s going on?” You interjected.

“I don’t believe that’s your business, I’m not talking to you.”

Your brows raised at her words. Her audacity.

“Yeah, but I’m talking to you, so.”

Now it was Frank's brows that were raised, only noticing your presence when you spoke up. Out of all the people he expected to interfere, it wasn’t you. Not in a million years.

Abby ignored you, continuing to shake papers in her hands.

Clearing your throat, you stepped closer. “You either go into chairs and talk to him through the reception windows or you leave. He’s busy, we’re all busy. Nobody has time for this.”

“And yet you’re still talking to me.”

You let out a small, humorless laugh in attempts to keep your composure. “Because you’re being disruptive and inconsiderate to every single patient present when you’re not even supposed to be back here.”

“Frank, sort it out.” Robby’s voice called out from where he stood before walking off. As long as it wasn’t a patient or staff getting physically harmed, he wasn’t too concerned so much as annoyed.

“Abby, please.” He pleaded and Abby rolled her eyes, exiting and rounding to the reception windows. Frank walked behind the desk, standing beside Lupe, who complained.

“It’s too busy in here for all this, Langdon-”

“I know, I know, just give me two seconds.” His hairline was dampening with sweat as he leaned forward, finally eyeing the papers as Abby slid them through.

You shouldn’t have, but you walked into the reception room and stood beside him. His eyes met yours, and he looked drained like he had seen a ghost. But it wasn’t because of you, it was because of the papers. Divorce papers. You leaned in, viewing the papers and you knew exactly where to look.

“Hey, this is none of your business.” Abby’s tone was more clipped now as she tapped at the glass.

“You made it everyone’s business by storming in here and yelling.” You replied, turning your attention back to Frank. “Can I see them?”

“What? Why? No.” The last thing he needed was someone else having more shit to use against him.

“Langdon, I could help. Let me see, please.”

“Don’t involve some random cunt in our marital problems, Frank.”

You ignored her now.

He sighed, looking at Abby as he slid the papers over to you. Taking them into your hands before Abby could try and snag them back, she began to shout. Again.

“You’re reading that without my consent, that’s illegal.”

You skimmed the papers, not even reading much of its contents, rather looking for tell-tale signs that they were false. You already had an inkling when it was her delivering them, as that’s prohibited.

Frank was antsy. “Sorry, what’re you looking for exactly?”

“These aren’t real.”

Abby was practically fuming. “Excuse me?”

“What?” He looked confused. He was confused.

Stepping beside him, you pointed at all the signs. “First of all, she can’t deliver these herself. Second of all, this court stamp looks shitty and was clearly printed, not properly stamped on a previously existing document. Third of all, there’s a few typos I noticed just at first glance, and missing signatures. I’m assuming she’s here to urge you to sign them so she’ll leave quicker and stop causing a scene. It’s manipulative.”

“Get your fucking nose out my business.”

You ignored her more. “She just gave you falsified documents.”

He blinked, taking the papers back from you to look for what you described. “How…do you know that?”

“I studied law before I switched to med school.”

“Ambitious.” Lupe chimed in and you gave her a warm smile.

“Unless you want me to sue you, I’d suggest you bud out of my relationship.” Man, she didn’t stop talking, did she? You couldn’t help it, you snorted.

“You, of all people, are threatening to sue? You just gave him divorce and custody papers you printed at home. This isn’t arts and crafts.”

Before she could respond, you took the papers from Frank and slid them back through to Abby.

“Did you do zero research? You waltzing in here to ‘serve’ him these papers is quite literally prohibited. You want to talk about illegality?”

“You’re a fucking doctor, not a lawyer.”

“Even one day studying law is more than you ever did, I assume. So, no, I’m not a lawyer, but I know certain basic things. And that?” You gestured to the papers she nearly crumbled in her hand, “That is not how any of this works. Unless you want to make this whole process harder on yourself, I’d suggest you take those falsified documents home and shred them up and wait until the real documents are ready.” You let out a breath, looking at Frank. “And for future reference, she isn’t allowed to serve those herself. No exceptions, not unless you decide to sign an acceptance form, which I personally wouldn’t since she’s clearly one for roleplaying.”

Victoria popped into the room. “Hey, Sunshine, we need you.”

“Okay.” You nodded, leaving Frank and his marital problems alone like you should’ve in the first place. Following Victoria, she led you into the trauma bay so you could help a patient who had a burst appendix.

“Hey.”

You turned around, seeing Yolanda, the two of you back in your department. “Hey.”

“You all finished with charting?”

“Yep.” You sighed, hiking your bag over your shoulder. “You?”

“Same.”

You could see it on her face, she either knew something or wanted to learn about something. “What?”

She smiled. “I heard Abby came in today. You were down there, weren’t you?”

The two of you entered the elevator, going down to the ED.

“I was, yeah. Why?”

She shrugged.

“God, you’re bad at pretending you don’t want to know. He’s your friend, ask him about it yourself, and if he doesn’t want to tell you, then clearly I’m not supposed to tell you either.”

“You’re boring.”

“I prefer respectful, but sure, that works too. Better than ‘cunt’.”

“Who called you a cunt?” Yolanda looked ready to defend you, and then the look on your face told her everything. She laughed. “Holy shit, Abby called you a cu-”

The elevator doors opened to reveal Frank.

“Oh, hey.” He sighed, eyes meeting yours. “I was uh, just coming to find you.”

Yolanda bit back a grin.

“Hey, Yo-yo.”

“Hey, Ken.” She replied, walking out of the elevator. “Bye, Ken.”

In her absence, he looked back at you. “Can we talk?”

“About what?”

He huffed out a breath of disbelief. “Really?”

You walked out of the elevator and passed him.

“Please?”

You stopped, sighing deeply. “I’m tired, Langdon-”

“It’ll be quick. Let me walk you out.”

Fuck.

Inhaling the breath you’d just released, you accepted it. “Fine.”

He sped up, meeting your side as you continued to walk. “Why’d you help me earlier?”

“I wasn’t helping you. I was helping the disturbed patients and distracted staff.”

He blinked a few times. “You said, and I quote, ‘Langdon, I could help. Let me see, please.’”

“So?”

“You helped me.”

You grumbled. “At first it was for the reasons I said, but then I realized the nature of the papers and on top of that the fact they were fake, so…yes, I put my nose where it doesn’t belong, and…I’m sorry.”

He said your last name. “I’m not mad, I’m thanking you. My mind was so scrambled earlier, I wouldn’t have realized.”

“I didn’t do it for you. I did it for your kids.”

“Why? You don’t know how I am with them, I could be awful.”

“True, but I believe in legal fairness and justice.”

“Yeah, I caught that.” He said, opening the door to exit through chairs. “So, law, huh?”

Dodging his question, you shot him a look. “What did I tell you? I can open and hold doors-”

“For yourself, I know. But listen, I mean it, thank you.”

“Yeah, it’s no big deal.”

You walked ahead of him, exiting the hospital and taking in the fresh air.

“How can I repay you?”

“I said it’s not a big deal.”

“But-”

You looked over your shoulder at him. “If you insist on repaying me, continue doing what you’re doing. Just…stay out of my way. Deal?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Deal. I’ll do my best.”

“Can’t wait.”

There was a moment of silence that stretched until he couldn’t take it anymore. “Sorry she called you a cunt. That’s not cool.”

The way he delivered it almost made you laugh. “That’s also not a big deal.”

“Okay, Katy Perry.”

You watched as he walked off, finding his car and getting in. Katy Perry? He must have a daughter then. It warmed your heart momentarily. Only momentarily.

Only when you saw him pull out did you walk right back into the hospital. “Back to the shithole.”

🏷️ taglist: @santoslovebot @birthdaycakesprinkles

[dragontearsandunicornfears]

This is fun! I don't know if that's the best way to describe it given the tension but it's fun to read! You capture the feeling of chaos really well.

Looking forward to the next installment!

[colettebronte]

Buttons, Bee Stings and Butterfly Effects: Chapter 1

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Pairing: Regency!Anthony Bridgerton x Modern!Fem Reader

Summary: The new property manager arrives, takes stock and meets their new employer

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: 18+ for the series overall, but for this part, nothing, it's all just set up. I will put this up on Ao3 and Wattpad so please do not repost my work elsewhere

Author’s Note: Here we go! I did promise Chapter 1 would not be far behind the Prologue, and here it is.  Please do enjoy! Thank you to @fayes-fics for serving as beta and @eulalielatibule for the inspo for this fic

Chapter 1: Kent, England, Modern Day

You enter into the main hall of the great house, so named Aubrey Hall, according to the notes you’ve been given. The large, old-fashioned ring of keys you used to enter the house jangles in your hand as you walk around, taking stock of all the details, noting the extensive restoration that has taken place in nearly every room you go into.

As a property manager, you’ve been hired by the owner of the estate, a woman whom you've yet to meet in person but can imagine perfectly just by the brusque tone of her texts and emails.

As far as you can tell, your employer has no familial connection to the original owners. Based on the land records you looked through before taking the job, the estate had been in the same family since ancient times, before being abandoned in the late 19th century, only to be purchased by your employer’s family in the 1920s and restored in the years since.

In her first enquiry, she declared she was looking for someone with extensive knowledge of Regency and Georgian life and architecture and had been directed towards you. It was indeed your specialty, having cultivated a fascination with that time period as a young woman through novels and movies and turned that interest into a career as Specialized Property Manager.

Your company is small, just you, your cousin, who is your secretary and the small ground crew you kept on. And thus, you were surprised the owner sought you out, but nonetheless, you were happy to take the contract, even if it came with an odd condition.

You were to reside in the house while you catalogued the contents of the estate, assessing both the quality of the renovations done over the last eight decades and the property’s fitness to be used once again as a residence, whether private or commercial. 

The drive from London to this part of Kent takes you an hour and a half. Normally, you prefer spending the day working and then going home to sleep in your own bed, but your new boss was so insistent that you be in residence during the job that she wrote it into the contract as a non-negotiable term.

You walk into what must have been the original family’s sitting room. Light pours in from large windows with heavy, pale blue and gold curtains tied back by gold-braided rope. 

The room is sparsely furnished, with a large, inviting couch upholstered in pale blue fabric sitting squarely in its center. You run a hand over the sturdy white-painted wood, and you can tell instantly that, while it is an original piece from the early 19th century, it’s been heavily restored sometime in the 1950s, based on the sheen of the glaze used to seal the paint. 

A pianoforte sits in the corner of the room, half covered by a cream-colored tarp. It’s a beautiful piece, all original and in immaculate condition, as if waiting for its owner to wander in from the garden and pluck out a few notes. 

Looking up, you see more tarps covering the walls, marking out nine large rectangles lining the facades. Both professionally and personally curious, you pull down the coverings. They fall in a line, one by one, as if connected.

Dust kicks up and then settles as each portrait is revealed, the fabric falling to the floor. You go to the couch, where you had dropped your tote bag, which holds two books sent to you by your new employer. 

The first is a ledger, started by Anthony, the 9th Viscount Bridgerton in 1810 and finished in 1815 by his brother, Benedict Bridgerton, who had refused to take on the title but led the family after his elder brother’s death.

The second book is the diary of Eloise Bridgerton, dated from 1812 to 1815.

Reading the diary of this woman who lived over two centuries ago is like reading words written to you by a best friend. Her private thoughts and opinions are delightfully forthright, and more than once she has you laughing and wishing you could have met her.

As you walk around the perimeter of the room, you study the portraits. The first eight display individual men and women dressed in mourning clothes, their names displayed on little gold plaques. 

The ninth and final one is different from the rest. A man stands in repose, resting one foot on a chair. He’s dressed in a blue jacket and white trousers. A cream-colored top hat held in one hand, his dark mop of curls is mussed while he gazes out from the portrait, looking smug. He’s handsome, you decide, even with the terrible mutton chops.

There’s no need for you to glance at the name plaque; you are certain this was the 9th Viscount. Information on Anthony Bridgerton is sparse, and in truth, the most information you glean about him comes from his younger sister’s diary. She wrote of how he left home one day,  just before dawn, with his best friend, the Duke of Hastings, only to return mid-morning slung over the other man’s shoulder, barely clinging to life. A doctor was called, but little could be done, and the Viscount died later that night from a fatal gunshot. 

Though she didn’t know the details at first, one of Eloise’s older brothers later confessed to her that Lord Bridgerton had been involved in a duel defending the honor of his mistress, and the other participant was a far better shot than the viscount.

Eloise Bridgerton’s diary continued for another two years after his death, but something had changed; her tone was subdued, her opinions dulled by the loss.

You’re still staring up at the portrait of Anthony Bridgerton, so lost in thought that you don’t even notice someone else has entered the room until you hear the tapping of a cane on the floor.

You turn to see a woman, tall and elegant, dressed effortlessly in a black designer pantsuit. She’s leaning heavily on a cane with carvings of wisteria etched into the ebony wood. You don’t even have to ask her who she is.

You extend a hand to her. “Hello, Lady Danbury.”

She squints at you before she takes it in a firm grip. “Ms. Y/l/n, it’s good to meet you in person at last.”

She continues to hold your hand as she looks you up and down, her face inscrutable. When she releases you, she nods and murmurs, “Yes, you’ll do nicely.”

You raise an eyebrow and stutter, “I…I’m sorry?”

She glances at you once more and then casts her eye around the room. “For this job, you’ll be perfect, I have no doubt.”

Before you can thank her for the compliment, she’s turning on her expensive heels and calling out for you to follow her.

For someone using a cane, she moves with astonishing speed throughout the house, pointing out details you had missed on your initial tour.

Lady Danbury at last comes to a stop in a kitchen beside the sitting room. “I added this in the early 2000s. It was once the butler’s pantry and linen closet, but I was tired of trudging up and down the stairs to the main kitchen every time I wanted a cuppa.”

For a former closet and storage room, it’s quite spacious. The room is painted a cheery yellow accented with pale blue. The refrigerator, double-oven, induction stovetop, microwave and dishwasher are all stainless steel. On the counter sits an electric kettle, a coffee maker, a French press and an espresso machine. A high, marble-topped island sits in the middle of the room with a pair of well-cushioned barstools in front of it.

Lady Danbury brings you back to the sitting room. Going over to the couch, she reaches into a shopping bag, from Louis Vuitton you note, and hands you a large, leather-bound book the size of an encyclopedia, with the words, “Bridgerton Family Bible” embossed on the cover in fading gold leaf.

“Read this tonight, before you go to sleep,” your employer orders you in a clipped tone. You heft it back over to the couch, placing it down beside Eloise’s diary. Lady Danbury’s eyes fall upon it, and for a moment, you swear she looks sad before her gaze shutters, and she looks back up at you. She reaches into her pocket briefly, then holds her closed palm out to you.

You place your hand under hers, and she drops something small and cold into it. You look down to see it’s a gleaming brass button with some sort of design carved into it.

“This is a token of my appreciation,” Lady Danbury says to you, adding, “You ought to keep it on your person tonight, for good luck.”

You continue to study the button in your hand. Smoothing your thumb over the raised design, you tell her, “One can never have too much luck.”

Your new employer says nothing for so long that you look up to find her once again studying you with that inscrutable look. When she finally speaks, her words surprise you.

“I believe, Ms. Y/l/n, that we shall work exceptionally well together.”

She leaves shortly after, promising to see you in the morning.

The day has gotten away from you, you realize, as you look out the open curtains at the setting sun, that you haven’t even had a chance to decide on where you’ll sleep for the night.

The bedrooms were out of the question, as none of them had any actual beds, and the few that had couches in them looked fairly uncomfortable. The former servants’ quarters were completely bare, and even the rooms in the guest wing held just a few tables and chairs.

Which left just two rooms. The first was what Lady Danbury had referred to as The Viscount’s Study. It was remarkably restored with a beautiful wooden desk and a comfortable-looking couch. The room smelled of cedar and old books, in the best way. Two of the walls held floor-to-ceiling shelves full of books, both old and new.

The other room was the sitting room with its beautiful blue and white couch and the pianoforte in the corner. 

And all the family portraits lining the high walls.

You can’t explain it, but you feel a pull to stay in the sitting room. You find a table lamp in the study and plug it in to use as a bedside lamp.

You go back to your car and bring in your luggage as well as the blanket and pillows you had taken from home. You have always been particular about pillows, and after so many disappointments while traveling, have decided it is just best to bring your own whenever possible.

You set up the couch as a bed and, over a large cup of Pot Noodles, begin to read the Bridgerton Family Bible as Lady Danbury had told you to.

It’s less an actual bible and more a history of the family itself. Names and birthdates are inscribed into the inside front and back covers in various inks and hands, some faded, some clear, starting in the 1100’s and ending in the late 19th century.

You read until the words begin to blur together. Sliding the heavy book onto the floor beside the ledger and Eloise’s diary, you pull the button out of the pocket of your pajama pants. Holding it up to the lamplight, you notice that what you thought was a random pattern is actually a looping script with the letters “BL.”

You put the button back into your pocket and flick off the light, falling asleep to the thought of wishing that whoever “BL” is, they do indeed bring you luck.

You wake up the next morning, without your comfortable blanket and pillows and with sunlight streaming in from the windows, when you had definitely closed the curtains the night before. After rubbing the sleep from your eyes you stare around you at the fully furnished sitting room, every piece freshly-polished and wholly original. Looking up, you can see all the portraits on the walls, save for the one of The Haughty Viscount, are completely different from the ones watching over you the night before. As you slide off the couch in shock and onto the lush, pale blue carpet, you feel completely justified in yelling out, “Where in the bloody hell am I?”

Next Chapter

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