F - fluff S - smut A - angst
♡ - series ☆ - one shot ◇ - headcanons
last updated - 06/06/2026
⤷ fic count - 42
fic recs: one - two
@abbothecary ——————————
☆ isn't she lovely | F.
⤷ a cute moment with frankie and your bump
@angelloveprincess ——————————
☆ frank langdon x barbie!reader | F.
⤷ on your first day, you’d tried your best to look as put together as you could even if that would all go to shit later on in your shift.
@annsfics ——————————
◇ frank langdon drabble | S. A.
⤷ [ part 2 ]
@bean1ebabie ——————————
♡ damn good doctor | F. A.
⤷ frank langdon is a damn good doctor. he is a good husband and father, but he is an even better doctor. even good doctors make mistakes.
@clarktologist ——————————
☆ tachycardia | F. S.
⤷ your boyfriend accidentally brings home his stethoscope, so you use it to check his heartrate.
☆ two hands [and a bit of teeth] | F.
⤷ you're very clingy with your boyfriend, and he's happy to return the favor. until teeth get involved. OR the three times you bite frank langdon and the one time he bites you back.
@dearkeery ——————————
♡ rein me in | F. S. A.
⤷ frank langdon’s back in pittsburgh ten months post-rehab, post-divorce, and post-moving into a one bedroom apartment with no wife, no kids, and more baggage. the pressure and anxiety coupled with his chronic back pain all happening on the eve of the fourth of july nearly causes him to relapse. a thing he knows could ultimately cost him his medical license and whatever semblance of a life he still had. considering the magnitude of what he’s got to lose, he wills every strength he has left to resist the urge brought by his crippling addiction, one mocktail at a time.
@deerfawnn ——————————
☆ more than we thought | F.
⤷ frank langdon x fem!reader (friends with benefits)
☆ sweet | F.
⤷ frank langdon x fem!reader (established relationship)
◇ this drabble | F.
⤷ when you fall asleep on the couch waiting for frank to get home
◇ this drabble | F.
⤷ headcanons about holding his chin while kissing him or planting a smooch on the divot and him loving it
◇ this drabble | F.
⤷ frank accidentally telling your coworkers that you're dating
@deflow3red ——————————
◇ langdon's gf biting his bicep when they fuck | S.
⤷ biceps. or rather, just bicep. you’re only staring at one right now, propped up beside your head. it has one very prominent vein running down the middle of it, sweat is also running down the whole span of the muscle, and it belongs to dr. frank langdon, your boyfriend of nearly a year.
@fangirl-dot-com ——————————
☆ a vet and a resident walk into a bar(n)... | F.
⤷ frank langdon x whitaker!reader
@felix24601 ——————————
☆ safe here | S. A.
⤷ you and frank are fuck buddies, when he accidentally triggers you and suddenly, things get a lot more real.
@fl0atinspace ——————————
☆ when you move, i'm moved | F. S.
⤷ in which frank returns home from a long shift, exhausted, but determined to give you what you want anyway
@flowersforbucky ——————————
☆ you're a bad idea (but a real good time) | F. S. A.
⤷ it wasn’t supposed to be anything more than sex. you barely even liked each other as friends. frank uses you, and you use him. but somewhere along the way, the lines got blurred.
@flowersforjude ——————————
☆ controlled substance | F. A.
⤷ fighting feelings for your coworker wouldn’t be so hard if loving them wasn’t so easy.
@harringtonshoe ——————————
☆ what a feeling | F.
⤷ you wake up to one of the worst feelings in the world: cramps. lucky for you, your boyfriend is a doctor and somehow knows the key to making you feel better.
@honeyroots ——————————
◇ sloppy makeouts with langdon | S.
⤷ frank langdon has a perfect mouth
@jadeittic ——————————
☆ shared walls | F. A.
⤷ after a nearly fatal accident while you practice, an exhausted frank langdon next door becomes tangled in your recovery.
@langdonsbracelets ——————————
☆ amputation | F.
⤷ single mom reader and a daughter with a broken wrist from a silly accident.
@lastdeeronearth ——————————
☆ divorced soft dom frank langdon x younger inexperienced female reader | S.
@ltsjuly ——————————
☆ back home | F. A.
⤷ stressful day at the ER, go home together, reflecting the day and gentleman behavior
@matchamangolover7 ——————————
☆ best friend's brother | F.
⤷ you’ve been roommates with your best friend aria since you both turned 18 and graduated high school. and she just so happens to also be the sister of your childhood crush. it’s been years since you’ve seen him and you swear your feelings have faded. until you see him again today, right before your first shift at the ptmc, and then again at karaoke night in the local bar.
@maxinebxrnes ——————————
☆ you look beautiful | F. A.
⤷ after months of pining, and the two of you being oblivious. the hospitals charity gala finally gets frank to confess his underlying love to you.
@nostarfights ——————————
☆ i'm on your side | F. S. A.
⤷ with barely anyone else left to turn to as his time in rehab slowly comes to a close, frank decides to lean on you.
@novatheory ——————————
☆ late night talkin' | F.
⤷ the three times you sleep talk in front of frank langdon, and the one time he talks back.
@oatkissedlatte ——————————
☆ sundress season | S.
⤷ a sweet picnic date with frank langdon turns spicy when frank notices what you're wearing, and what you're not wearing.
@redd-blushing-roses ——————————
☆ ring ring... hello?? | F.
⤷ it's never easy being a parent in the emergency department. never. you don't know how frank does it half the time. what he doesn't tell you is it's always the little things that keep him going. the reminder that at the end of the day, he has his family to come home to.
☆ suck it up buttercup | F. A.
⤷ every month, you suck up the pain of being a woman and ignore your pain to help patients with theirs. every month, frank tries to tell you to take it easy, to stop and listen to your body and stop pushing yourself. but it's hard when your whole life you've lived with a "take it like a man" mindset. until one day you can't take it anymore and your body forces you to listen to it. and to frank.
☆ just meant to be | F.
⤷ it was terrible timing. a positive pregnancy test during your first year interning at PTMC turns your carefully planned future upside down. but while you're panicking at the prospect of pregnancy derailing your careers, frank is utterly smitten with the fact he is going to be a dad... and you're going to be a mom.
@reysdriver ——————————
◇ domestic headcanons | F. S. A.
⤷ some headcanons about the soft, domestic, parent life with frank langdon — dad!frank langdon x mom!reader
@shadeofpeach ——————————
☆ panicked girlfriend | F. A.
⤷ frank comes home to find you unraveled on the bathroom floor. your relationship is still too new for him to know your phobia. but as he pieces your terrifying thoughts together, he steps in with the perfect blend of medical calm and boyfriend tenderness to ground you through it.
☆ anticipation | F.
⤷ pregnant reader who can't sleep because she's nervous
☆ wait for mama | A.
⤷ as you fight for your life in emergency surgery, frank clings to your newborn son, praying for the moment he can bring his family back together.
@starlord-s ——————————
◇ this drabble
⤷ a heatwave and your boyfriend just shouldn’t be legal.
@sugartalk-ing ——————————
☆ frank langdon x reader | F. A.
⤷ “you came?” / “you called.”
@tearsof-scarlet ——————————
☆ under fluorescent lights | F. A.
⤷ you’re the newest ER resident, fighting to prove yourself under the relentless scrutiny of doctor langdon, brilliant, distant, and impossible to read. when a fellow resident’s unwanted attention starts crossing lines, dr. langdon begins to take notice.
@uwulyn ——————————
☆ his back making it hard to carry chunky baby | F.
abby and their kids do not exist here...just wanted a little sad scenario with frank's back making it hard for him to carry their chunky baby :< but not too sad!
@withheavenontop ——————————
♡ lover, you should've come over | F. A.
⤷ adelaide solace starts her first shift in her emergency medicine rotation at PTMC and gets stuck with the cocky R2 in triage.
@xxepherr ——————————
☆ compartmentalise | F.
⤷ working with your fiance has never proven to be an issue before. it becomes one when you learn from your coworkers that apparently there's a surprise waiting for you at home.
summary – in which frank langdon comes home from a god awfully long day, but you’re there, so maybe it’s okay. and, he so graciously makes it up to you in the morning.
pairing – frank langdon x fem!reader
genre – smut (18+ mdni)
tags – oral (m receiving). fingering. oral (f receiving). slight s/d dynamics. softdom!frank. praise. #fingersinmouth!
word count – 3k
a/n – hello da pittblr my name is lia im 5’4 based in redacted city this is my audition to be apart of your community i rlly hope i get the role ❤️ p.s. new fic format yay!
There’s envy in Frank Langdon’s chest as he trudges through the lobby of his apartment building, backpack slung across his shoulders with an almost unbearable weight. Despite, funnily enough, being significantly lighter than it had been that morning, now that his water bottle and lunch containers were empty.
Sixteen hours since he left home, and he’s sure he’s aged ten years in that time. The envy in his chest, only there because he knows there’s people out there that work less than him—less hours, less effort—but still make the same amount of money, if not more. Those people have everything, he thinks. He’d kill for a job that didn’t drain both the energy and the life out of him.
He runs his hands down his face, index fingers poking into his eyes until stars and flashes of colourful streaks paint his brain, as the elevator ascends past floors. Having an apartment on a high level is great in theory, and great when you’re on your first year of residency and aren’t the one mentoring everybody else. Now, as numbers tick away in the elevator screen, Frank’s wishing he could be any closer to the ground.
It dings, and he’s brought out from his trance, feet dragging on the floor with the irritating shuffle sound. At least at ten p.m., there’s hardly any people littered around the hallways to see him in such a state.
His keys rattle as he puts them in the keyhole, and he’s acutely aware of how loud the sound is in the otherwise silent hallway. Maybe, if he were any less dead to the world, he’d care enough to be considerate.
Then, it swings open, and he’s hit in the face by an air conditioned warmth, the smell of lasagna, and the yellow glow of the living room lamps still switched on. Among them sits your silhouette, head bowed, no doubt so lost in a book you didn’t hear him come in.
He smiles only to himself, as all sixteen hours of dread and worry melt away with just your figure presented before him. Reminded, immediately, that he too has everything
The door clicking shut behind him alerts you, and your head pokes up from the couch. You brighten, instantly, and he drops his bag down to the floor with a heavy sigh.
“When you said you were gonna be late, I didn’t think you meant this late,” you say as he makes his way over to you, arms wrapping around your shoulders from behind the couch, burying his face into your neck.
“Me neither. I’m sorry,” he mumbles, lips tickling your skin with the movement.
“There’s lasagna in the fridge,” you hum, kissing his forearm just before he loosens his hold and leans back.
His head turns to glance at the aforementioned fridge, “Yeah, I can smell it. I gotta have a shower first.”
You peer up at him through your head tilted back over the couch edge, and when he returns his gaze from the kitchen to you, he laughs, seeing you bat your eyelashes so subtly.
“Do you want something?” he braces his arms beside your head, lowering his face down.
“Do you?”
“I could use the company.”
You jump up in victory (narrowly missing colliding heads with him), racing around the couch. He lets you drag him towards the bathroom, allowing you to exert all the effort into getting the two of you there. Tiredly, he watches you. Your pyjamas—for lack of a better word, really they were his blank navy t-shirt covering some loose shorts—hang off your body, and your hair is still slightly damp, so he knows you’re only joining him in the shower for more time with him, instead of practicality.
You looked so excited, though. To spend time with him. Never mind the suggestiveness behind your fluttering lashes and smug smile.
“Do I have to do everything?” you grumble, and his mind returns to his body as his skin tingles from your fingertips brushing his waist.
“It never goes unappreciated,” he tilts his head, before letting you lift his shirt over his head.
“It will, because you’re tired, and kind of grumpy, so I’m gonna be doing all the work,” you huff, rambling to yourself, really. A string of complaints he knows if he tried to rebut, you’d defend instantly.
He helps you out by taking the bottom half of his clothes off, so you can focus on removing your own articles of clothing—again, technically, they’re his—before he loops his arms around your waist, dropping his lips down to your jawline. “I will make it up to you tomorrow morning, I promise.”
“Ohh, I am holding you to that one, Dr. Langdon,” you jab a finger into his chest, and he laughs, catching your wrist before you can do it again. You drop your hands back by your side after that, jerking your head towards the shower. “In, before I change my freaking mind.”
“Yes ma’am,” he obeys instantly, stepping beneath the shower head.
He takes one for the team, at least, and turns it on, copping the fallout of ice cold water before it begins to heat up to a reasonable temperature.
You get what needs to be done out of the way. Granted, he has to duck down so you can reach your hands up to lather the shampoo against his scalp. It’s a welcome massage that almost makes him forget about how long and unkind this day has been to him.
If he were any less attuned to everything about you, perhaps he’d not catch the art of your hands dancing across his skin suggestively when you brought body soap into the routine. However, he did. Your fingers lingering a little longer than necessary on his thighs, and your eyes spending a bit too much time looking down. Telltale signs of what you were about to do, and yet his breath hitched when you lowered to your knees anyways.
One shift straight from the deepest, darkest depths of hell itself, all drowned out by the sound of the water hitting the shower floor right behind him, and forgotten about immediately from the way you peer up at him.
You were so pretty. A perverse thought to have when you’re on your knees in front of him, though he believes you always look pretty. It’s just, he’s had a really bad day, and you’re confidently leading the mission of distracting him. Brain fried from too many clinical mishaps and body aching from too much running around, he thinks he deserves to tilt his head back and let how pretty you are right now overwhelm his focus.
“Fuck,” he breathes out when you let your lips make contact with his cock, dragging your tongue up the underside of it.
With keen interest, you watch him. The way his face contorts when you take him into your mouth, and the way he has to brace a hand onto the shower wall when you use your hand to cover what you couldn’t fit. Grunting when you set a steady pace, one his exhausted brain couldn’t quite keep up with.
You were inexplicably good at this, and it has always been his kryptonite. Sometimes, you would play this card when you were arguing over meaningless things. Like what to have for dinner, or what movie to watch, and you are effectively able to turn him into putty within your hands.
So, that, on top of how much slower his braincells were moving, he is just forced to entangle a hand in your hair to keep himself upright. Pure selfish need, and not at all to hear the way you mewl in surprise at the feeling of his fingers dragging along your scalp. Entire body on fire with need because you are, at the end of the day, pleasurable by giving.
“Yeah,” he rocks to the side to hold his head against the wet tiles, fluttering his eyes shut as you work his cock expertly. “Fuck, baby. You’re so good at this, you know?”
You hum in content, and he lazily smiles, staring down at you through half-lidded eyes. You were partial to praise, he knew that, and so he focussed on decorating the air with them. Instead of—perhaps the more pressing matter—not coming.
“Prettiest thing in the world—shit—look at you,” he lets his hand glide down from your scalp to your face, cupping your cheek and holding your head, gently. His other hand, still supporting his weight against the wall, clenches into a fist when you lose eye contact with him to take him further into your mouth. He curses, a little louder this time. “You need to—fuck—baby, I need you to stop, or slow down, or—or something, otherwise this is gonna be over real soon.”
You don’t listen. In fact, you hum again, the note vibrating around his cock and making him moan. You follow that by quickening the pace you were going, and it’s what finally breaks him.
He tries to warn you. Stammering out a string of, “Hey—hey, okay, you can—oh my God—stop, honey. Pull back. I’m going to—” that is ultimately cut off by his orgasm. One you don’t back down from, and one that leaves his chest heaving.
Leaning back on your heels, you stare up at him, and he falters upon seeing your throat bob with a swallow. A lopsided grin stretching across your face as you stand from the shower floor, saying nothing as you reach behind him and turn the shower off.
Plunged into quiet, with the only sounds being both of your breathing, you stare at him until he cracks first, laughing and hanging his head, wet hair falling in front of his face.
“My knees hurt,” you sigh, taking slow steps out of the shower, finding a towel to wrap around your body.
“Do they?” he asks, following close behind you. When you nod, he places his hands on your waist, giving you half a second of a warning before he’s lifting you to perch you up on the bathroom counter. “Let me see.”
Moving the towel out of the way, he crouches down so he can look at your knees, clicking his tongue when he runs his fingers over the skin, and your face distorts in discomfort.
“Happens when you kneel on a hard surface,” he points out, and you glance down at him, annoyed.
“Really? I’m appalled. I knew I should’ve brought a pillow into the shower.”
“That would’ve gone well,” he muses, standing back up, using his palms to rub circles onto your kneecaps. “I think staying off of the shower floor and some rest will fix you right up.”
“Thank you, Doctor. What would I do without you?”
“Have perpetually sore knees, I’m sure,” he says, ducking down to kiss your lips when you open them to protest with something along the lines of, ‘I wouldn’t have sore knees without you’, probably.
You drag him to bed soon after, the post orgasmic haze wearing off and leaving him jellylike in the bathroom. You have to force him through the doorway and into bed, at which he hits the mattress with such force you’re surprised it didn’t collapse the floor beneath it.
“Goodnight to you too,” you huff, leaving the room for only a short second to switch off all the lights.
Once you’ve returned, he’s staring at the doorway expectantly. Foolishly, you fall for the wanting look in his eyes, and climb right into his arms without the hint of a second thought.
“I am sorry you had a bad shift,” you murmur, drawing circles onto his chest with your fingers.
“Only up from here,” he sighs, and though you know that perhaps for tomorrow that may be true, there’s a hundred more shifts just like today waiting for him to live through. It’s a thought that keeps you antsy at night.
“Only up from here,” you agree with a nod.
When Frank wakes up the next morning, his alarm isn’t going off. There’s no sun peeking through the curtains, however the time on his phone reads 04:18, so at least it isn’t the middle of the night. Not at all a reasonable time to wake you up, he knows, but he’s got forty-two minutes until his alarm starts blaring, and he really has to get up. Plus, he promised to make it up to you, and he thinks this waking up before his alarm thing is for a reason.
Slowly untangling your arms from his, he rolls you onto your back, pausing when you stir, then placing his lips against yours.
He trails kisses from your mouth down your jawline, hands running up the sides of your body, until you begin to rouse.
“What time is it?” you mumble, voice coated in that sleep-induced husk that makes him smile.
“Early,” he whispers, nipping your jawline. “You can go back to sleep after, I promise.”
“After what?” you frown, confused.
“I make it up to you.”
You’re still too half-asleep to make the connection in his words, all up until he’s kissed his entire way down your body, stopping short of where your pyjama shirt ends, and your thighs begin. Then, you remember, and you let your limbs sink into the mattress.
“Yeah, okay,” you agree. It sounds halfhearted, but your legs part on instinct, so he continues with hooking his fingers into your pyjama shorts’ waistband and pulling them down your legs.
His breath is warm against your skin, his fingers parting your folds and making you squirm.
He jolts you awake with one long stripe of his tongue, emitting a moan from you almost instantly. Letting the sensation settle into your bones until you’re painfully on edge and waiting for whatever he does next. Then, he does it again.
“This is being mean, not making it up to me,” you scold, quietly, head lulling to one side and keeping your eyes transfixed on him.
“Just wanna take my time with you,” he replies, calmly, dragging a finger up, through your slit, gathering both the wetness from his saliva, and from you naturally, before he brings it back down to help push a finger into you.
“Oh,” you gasp, eyes darting up to the ceiling in an attempt to focus on something other than him. Frank, who is between your legs, hair falling in front of his face, and staring at you with piqued interest.
Piqued interest like he has to figure you out, as if he doesn’t already know every single thing that makes you come. If he really wanted to, he could have you convulsing in two minutes. He has.
He twists his finger around until he hears you involuntarily whine, and so he makes true to his promise to make it up to you, and leans forwards, attaching his lips to your clit.
You moan, the added assault on your already sleepy body doing nothing for helping you remain composed. He circles his tongue around your clit, index finger creating a steady pace of movement.
“Frank,” you whimper.
“Yeah, baby?” he lifts his head, looking up at you, removing the stimulation on your clit, but keeping his fingers at their same rhythm.
“Hi,” you simply smile at him, and he laughs.
“Hey,” he rests his cheek on your thigh, waiting a few seconds before he adds a second finger in, a shudder rolling down your spine at the stretch. “Feel good?” When you nod, he slows his thrusts right down, “Words, sweetheart.”
“Yeah, Frank,” you nod, eyes fluttering shut, “feels good.”
He hums in content, and takes that opportunity to lean forwards again and reattach his mouth to your core.
Flicking his tongue over your clit rather quickly, causing your body to jolt from the unexpected sensation. Then, he does it again, and again, and again, until you’re reckoning with a tightening knot in your stomach, and stumbling over incoherent ‘please’s and curse words.
He pulls back just at the last second, replacing his tongue with his thumb, for no reason other than to commentate. Asshole.
“Yeah, there you go, pretty girl,” he murmurs, palm outstretched on your abdomen to keep your hips firmly on the mattress as you come. “Look at you.”
Your chest heaves, and you stare at the ceiling to recollect yourself, before your eyes divert back to him. He pulls his fingers out at that moment, bringing them to your lips. Instinctively, you part them, and he pushes them into your mouth, where you refuse to break eye contact. It’s a power play that doesn’t really work, because he drags his fingers back out soon after, and lifts himself back up to peck your lips.
“I have to go get ready now,” he informs you, quietly, and you let out a disgruntled moan. “I know, but I do.”
“Or, you could call in sick.”
“Not happening, stop being a bad influence,” he gently bites the corner of your mouth.
You frown when he steps off the bed, leaving you tangled within sheets. Alone. You hope your wide, desperate eyes are enough to get him to get back into bed and forget about his important job that the two of you know he does actually have to go to.
They aren’t, so instead you call, “Come back to say goodbye?” when he heads towards the bathroom. You catch his nod.
However, that’s the last thing you catch.
When six o’clock rolls around, and Frank heads back into the bedroom to stay true to his word, he finds you fast asleep. Head on his pillow, curled up and holding the duvet between your arms. Early morning sun only just peeking through the gaps in the curtains, thin beams of light decorating what skin on you he could see.
So as to not disturb you, he stands there for a minute with a smile on his lips, before slowly, and softly, closing the door.
this was so hot actually i need to take some deep breaths. sleepy sex u will always do it for me fingers in mouth u will always do it for me tumblr user liaissante u will always do it for me
there's is a direct correlation between if a girl was conventionally attractive in highschool or not and the fictional characters they gravitate to most easily. in this essay i will
I’ve been so curious about the dynamic between ER Barbie and Trinity, like if Barbie knows it was Trinity, is Trinity kinda stand off ish with Barbie because of how close she is with Frank?
So much potential in the dynamics between everyone in the hospital
yessss it is such a wonderful and complicated dynamic and i lurveee it!!! i talked about it a little here & here!
but i wanted to write a blurb to show their dynamic teehee so i hope you enjoy <3
"Oh for the love of Aphrodite," you mutter, staring down at the blood welling across your palm.
The torn metal lip of the supply box had caught your hand. It offers no apology.
Dana looks up from her desk the second she hears the crash of cardboard and your wounded-princess tone. Her eyes drop to your hand, then narrow.
"Hold pressure."
"I am holding pressure," you say.
Blood slips between your fingers anyway, thin and bright and completely out of proportion to the crime. Your stomach gives that awful little swoop it does at the sight of it.
You really hate blood.
Across the department, there's movement around one of the trauma b bays. Too many bodies. Too much speed. And right in the middle of it, in navy scrubs, shoulders set and voice clipped into something sharp and maybe a little defensive, is Langdon.
Of course the one time you actually need him to do his whole stern emergency-room cowboy thing, he's elbows-deep in someone's chest cavity. Probably. You didn't look too closely. Seeing your own bodily fluid is already enough to make your head go woozy.
Dana tracks your line of sight, unimpressed. "Don't start."
"I didn't say anything."
"You were about to."
You were. Probably something about how his hands would fix this faster if they were all over you. She doesn't need to know that.
Dana turns her head. "Santos."
From across the desk, Trinity looks up from her charting with the expression of someone who is 99% sure she's about to hate whatever comes next.
"No."
"You've got hands. She cut hers. Clean her up."
Santos finally glances at you, then at the blood, then back to Dana like maybe if she waits long enough the problem will evolve into someone else's.
"You're serious."
"Painfully."
"It's a paper cut."
"That is such a minimizing thing to say to someone in crisis," you butt in.
Dana points down the hall with her pen. "North two. Both of you. Now."
Santos slaps her hand down on the counter as she stands from her rolling chair and nods to the open room. "Come on."
You follow her with your hand pressed in a wad of gauze Dana shoved at you, trying to keep up some approximation of dignity. It is difficult. Dignity, you have found, evaporates fast when you are lightheaded over a cut the size of a piece of rice.
North two is empty when Santos pushes the curtain aside and gestures you in.
"Sit."
You sit.
She opens a drawer harder than necessary and starts pulling things out. Saline. Sterile pads. A bandaid.
You watch her hands because it feels safer than watching her face. They're capable hands, you decide. Quick. Certain. No wasted motion. You've noticed that before. Trinity Santos moves like a person who has no patient for indecision, either in herself or anyone else.
You clear your throat.
"So," you say brightly, because brightness is your preferred form of armor, "this is fun and not weird at all."
"No one said it was fun."
"Right. But it is weird."
That makes her glance up.
"Is it?"
You laugh once. "I mean. A little?"
For a second she doesn’t answer. She just tears open the saline and wets the gauze, eyes dropping back to your hand.
"Give me that."
You hold it out. Her fingers close around your wrist. The blood has slowed now, enough that she can see the cut properly. She angles your hand toward the light.
"It's superficial."
"I get that a lot."
Her mouth does something small and unwilling at one corner. Not a smile. More like one almost happened and got intercepted.
"It'll sting."
She presses it to your skin.
"Shit."
"I warned you."
"I was hoping you were being dramatic."
Santos says nothing to that. She keeps cleaning the cut in small swipes, and the room goes quiet except for the crinkle of wrappers and the distant blur of the ER beyond the curtain. Overhead pages. Rolling wheels. Somebody laughing too loud somewhere down the hall (hopefully not a hot woman in bay four discovering langdon is, against all reason, capable of humor).
"I know you were busy," you say, too quickly, because suddenly the silence feels like standing in front of an open refrigerator in your underwear. "You didn’t have to come do this if you didn’t want to."
Her hand freezes. It's brief. Half a second, maybe less.
"Dana wasn't asking."
"Still."
She resumes cleaning the cut. "It's fine."
It should end there. Probably would, in a universe where you possessed even one healthy instinct about uncomfortable emotional terrain.
Instead you hear yourself say, "You don't have to pretend this isn't awkward."
"It's only awkward because you keep narrating it."
You shrug with your free shoulder. "I feel like I have to. It just kind of seems like maybe you hate me."
Santos blinks.
"I don't hate you."
"Okay."
"That wasn't convincing?"
"No, it was." You try to smile. "I just wasn't expecting you to answer that fast."
She huffs.
"I mean, you're right. It's weird. After the shit with Langdon, I assume you wouldn't want anything to do with me, but you were freakishly still nice. Like out-of-your-way nice."
You frown. "Should I have not been?"
"That's not what I'm saying."
"Then what are you saying?"
Her jaw tightens. For a second you think you've screwed it all up, that she's going to shut down entirely, retreat back into clipped one-word answers and leave you to do what you always do, which is overthink until the situation takes on mythological proportions.
Instead she wraps the bandage carefully over you palm. "This would just be a lot easier if you were a bitch or something."
"Oh."
"I did what I thought was right," she says. It's not defensive. More like a fact she's had to recite enough times that it's worn smooth. "I'm not sorry for that."
"I know,” you say. She seems surprised to hear rhat. "I know," you repeat. "I never thought you should be."
You watch her crack her second knuckle against the tray, clearing her throat as she rises from the stool.
"You should keep it dry for the rest of the shift."
"That feels impossible in this building."
"Figure it out."
You laugh. She tries not to.
When you both step back out into the hallway, Dana glances at your hand. "See? Nobody died."
Across the hall, Langdon is just coming out of the trauma bay, peeling off gloves, face a little sweaty in that tired, focused way that makes your whole nervous system sit up like a dog hearing a can opener.
His eyes flick to you, then drops to the bandage. His whole face changes. "What happened?"
You open your mouth, but he is already moving, already in front of you, fingers closing lightly around your wrist before you can tuck it away.
Santos brushes past him and says, "She lost a fight with cardboard."
Langdon looks between the two of you, clearly sensing something happened here, some subterranean tectonic shift he was not present for and therefore will probably hate on principle.
You smile sweetly.
He doesn't smile back. "Why didn't someone come get me?"
Santos snorts, not bothering to hide her disgust. "Yeah, next time we'll page her personal security detail before we break out the bandaids."
in which frank returns home from a long shift, exhausted, but determined to give you what you want anyway 18+ (smut)
frank langdon x fem!reader (wc: 2.8k)
warnings/tags: oh boy here we go. smut!! and fluff (he loves her so bad), angst if you squint (reader is kind of anxiety ridden and insecure lol), established relationship but it's kind of new, inexperienced!reader (kinda), reader is neurodivergent coded but it's not explicitly stated, reader has long-ish hair, which langdon pulls (yum) but not aggressively, unspecified age gap, reader is vaguely mentioned to work at PTMC but as what? who knows! reader is kind of a little shit but so is langdon so it balances out, cocky!langdon (let me hit), he's also kind of condescending lol!! um softdom!langdon, sub reader, lots of praise, lots of kissing, thigh riding (hot), langdon slaps readers ass like once (hot), shitty ending bc I got tired of staring at my notes app el oh el, abundance of commas, probably bad grammar (fuck it we ball)
a/n: keeping this short because there's so many tags gulp - this is my first fic on this blog and also my first time ever writing smut so if it's bad... that is why. pls be nice. i am but a girl who has been infested by da pitt brainworms
—————————————————————————
When you wake, it’s to a comforting weight on your head—a hand, you think—massaging your scalp. This, combined with the darkness of your room, threaten to pull you back into your slumber.
It’s not until a few foggy seconds later that the implications of the fingers running through your hair rouse you enough to turn onto your side.
“You’re back,” You say quietly, voice groggy with disuse. How long have you been asleep?
A slow smile spreads across Frank’s face, his dimples fighting to make an appearance, like the sun trying to peek through clouds.
“Mhm,” He hums. Your brow furrows, wondering how long he’s been here, and why he didn’t wake you up. Between his work and family and your own life, it’s not like there’s much opportunity to spend time alone together. Date nights are rare and sacred—even if they mostly consist of takeout and a movie.
Sensing your impending spiel, he speaks again.
“Don’t worry, I just got in ten minutes ago. It’s not even eight yet.”
You relax at this, shuffling closer to rest your head on his chest. Your silk pillow is nowhere near as enticing as the soft cotton of his worn band tee. You slowly trace the peeling vinyl of the shirt—S… T… Y… X—getting drowsier by the minute.
“As much as I wouldn’t mind staying here all night, you’re gonna be pissed if I let you go back to sleep.” He seems genuine, but the hand still playing with your hair makes you doubt his true motives.
“I know,” You sigh, voice muffled by fabric. Even despite this, you make no effort to move.
“Honey,” Frank drawls a few moments later, eliciting another huff from you.
You distantly register him bunching up your hair, and the next thing you know, he’s pulling it, guiding your head upright.
It’s not that it hurt, not really, but the tingle at the nape of your neck stirs you just enough to allow you to glower up at him in indignation.
“You’re kind of a bad listener, y’know that?” He speaks through a shit-eating grin—cause for rolling your eyes if you’ve ever seen any.
“C’mere,” He mumbles, his hand abandoning your hair in favour of your waist. The other finds your thigh and hooks it over his own. Still feeling petulant, you offer him no assistance as he forces you into a sitting position. Unfortunately, he doesn’t need it. Smug bastard.
When he’s sure you’re not going to go limp just to be difficult, he releases your waist and begins smoothing a few errant strands of hair away from your forehead.
“My pretty girl, I missed you.” He coos.
You almost break, almost—but you’ve always been stubborn, for better or worse.
This only seems to amuse Frank more. He leans forward, pressing a kiss to the crease of your brow, then the bridge of your nose, then the tip. By the time his mouth lowers to your own, you’re moments away from bridging the gap yourself.
“Kiss?” He whispers, so quiet you probably wouldn’t have heard it if you weren’t so focused on his every movement.
You swallow back a please, instead pressing your lips to his.
It’s sweet at first—it usually is. He’s smiling most of the time and eventually, you are too.
“I missed you too,” You mumble against his lips, bringing your arms around his neck.
He breathes out a laugh, “You did?”
You nod, snaking a hand into his hair as you close the gap between you once more. When you exhale into him, he parts your lips with his tongue, earning a soft sound from you. Then he’s grabbing your hips, bearing you down onto his thigh. You warm against him, feeling each of your nerve endings come alive as he grips your jaw, tilting it to the side.
You breathe unevenly, bleary-eyed as you watch him inspect your neck with a surgical precision. Before you can question him—or even begin to catch your breath—he’s leaning down and latching onto your skin. You gasp as his teeth skim your pulse point, tightening your hold on his hair to ground yourself. Your other hand falls to his stomach, skimming the waistband of his sweatpants.
He pulls back from your neck, his hand slowly finding your wrist. His grip is gentle, but firm enough to effectively halt your movements. All the while, he’s peppering kisses along your jaw.
“Mm-mm,” he shakes his head, stubble brushing your chin. The sound reverberates through you, making you shiver.
“But—“
He pulls back, his pupils dilated as he regards you.
“We can’t have sex right now, baby.”
“Why?” You ask, voice so desperate it’s almost pitiful.
He smiles sympathetically, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d say there’s an air of condescension to it.
“Because if I have sex with you right now, I’ll fall asleep—“ he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, “—and then we won’t be able to watch that movie like you wanted.”
You pout, trying and failing to find a way around this dilemma. Intimacy with Frank is a spectrum; when he’s pent-up with nervous energy—usually before or during a shift (sometimes, when the ED’s slow and he has time for a rare lunch break, you’ll eat together in his car—which, on more than one occasion, has turned into you riding him desperately in the front seat, trying to make the most of your limited time whilst he mindlessly chatters about some high-risk procedure he just did). After a shift is 50/50; sometimes it’s all you can do to get through the front door before he’s pushing you up against the nearest wall. Other times—like now, you suspect—he’s too tired to indulge anything but your kisses.
I mean, it’s not like you couldn’t have sex tomorrow morning. You're both off.
“Okay,” You nod, prepared to sever all physical contact, if only just to stop your body thrumming with barely contained energy.
He doesn’t let you dismount him, though. You turn to glance down at the large hand kneading the flesh around your hipbone, flicking your gaze to him when he tracks your movement with a tilt of his own head.
“I said I couldn’t have sex with you. That doesn’t mean you can’t get off.”
Oh.
You feel your face—no, your whole body, flush.
“Oh, um, okay.” You straighten, adjusting the strap of your tank top. “Would you… want to use your fingers or, um, your mouth?”
It takes you a while to get the words out, and by the end, your eyes are squeezed shut, trying to shield yourself from your own embarrassment. You’ve never been good about talking about this sort of thing—at least, not as good as Frank. He’s older and more experienced and a fucking doctor, so talking about sex doesn’t faze him.
Meanwhile, you can barely say the word without blushing like a middle-schooler. And god forbid you have to talk about the specifics. Unfortunately, that’s all he seems to be interested in—what you want and where you want to be touched and let me hear you say it—
“Neither.”
One of your eyes flit open at that, trying to assess if he’s joking or if this is yet another thing you don’t seem to be knowledgeable or experienced enough to understand.
“What?”
“Neither. You can make yourself come.” He states, like it’s obvious.
You blink, waiting for the punchline.
There is none.
“I mean, yeah…” You trail off.
Yeah, you could make yourself come. You could also revert back to using a Nokia, but you wouldn’t, because the newer, better cellphone is right there. What you mean is—you haven’t gotten yourself off in months, because Frank has always been there—with far longer, more capable fingers than your own. And if he hasn’t… well, you just wait until you see him next.
Honestly, you’re beginning to doubt if you can still come without his input.
Without warning, Frank leans in, nipping at your bottom lip. As he pulls back, you furrow your brows in confusion, pouting.
“Sorry,” he smirks, not selling the whole apologetic thing, “you looked like you were spiralling.”
Well.
His voice takes on a gentler, more serious tone when he speaks next.
“You don’t have to do anything if you don’t feel like it, honey.”
But you do. Even with your apprehension, you’re antsy with need, shifting uncomfortably on top of him.
“No, I want to, I just… don’t know if I can… without your help.” You mumble, looking down at your thighs, which still encase his own.
A pause, and then he’s lifting your jaw with his thumb.
“Oh, sweet girl, did you think I wouldn’t help at all?”
You noticeably perk up at that, like a dog hearing the word ‘treat’. This seems to amuse him, and he gives the fat of your hip a loving squeeze before continuing.
“Do you know how I’m going to help you?”
You shake your head slowly.
“Do you want me to show you?”
His voice is syrupy sweet, almost hypnotising. You’re nodding before you even register his words fully, gripping the hem of his shirt with both hands. When he leans in, your eyelids flutter shut, waiting for the press of his lips against yours.
It doesn’t come. At least… not yet.
He just hovers there, moving away whenever you try to chase him. Time seems to warp and stretch until you’re unsure how long you’ve been waiting for him to just do it already. You’re sure he can feel your patience dwindling, and just when you’re sure you’re about to snap, he presses his lips to yours.
The kiss is long and deep and so good you sigh with relief. You try to slow yourself down, to savour the domestic, tenderness of it all—but you can’t. Your lips part on a gasp and you press yourself onto the hard muscle of his thigh before you can help yourself. You’re too consumed by his lips that you don’t pay much attention to the subtle rock of your hips. It’s not like you’re doing anything, really. It’s just to alleviate some of the ache between your legs.
That’s when Frank pinches your thigh, just hard enough to draw attention to your movements. You pull back, breathing hard and half-annoyed at him for stopping your motions.
“Do you understand now?” He breathes, sounding as wrecked as you feel. His hair is a mess thanks to your toying and his eyes seem to have taken on a darker hue of blue. Though it could just appear that way, given that his pupils have almost doubled in size, leaving little of his iris to be seen.
It takes you a minute to comprehend what he’s saying—distracted by how he looks and the persistent throbbing between your legs. You do get there eventually, though.
“You want me to…” You swallow, heat creeping up the base of your neck.
He huffs out a laugh. “Use my thigh to get yourself off? Yeah, I do.”
His words send a shiver down your spine, but don’t dissuade you. You take a deep breath and nod, looking up at the ceiling instead of Frank. You need to concentrate.
“Okay.”
“Okay.” He parrots, reassuringly, leaning back just a little. “Take your time.”
You try to remember what you were doing before, and begin rocking your hips slowly. You struggle on a few false starts, adjusting your weight a couple times before you find a rhythm that feels… okay.
“Does that feel good?” Frank looks up at you from where he’s leaning against the headboard, utterly transfixed by the way your brows furrow in determination and the worry of your bottom lip between your teeth.
“Um…” You squint, trying to figure out what you’re doing wrong. Maybe this is just another way in which you differ from Frank, another reminder of what he could be getting from someone else that he’s not receiving from you.
“Can I…” His hands linger at either side of you, waiting for your go-ahead. When you nod, he grips onto you firmly, lifting you up just enough to spread your legs open a little farther with his thigh, before pressing you back down onto him.
“More friction,” He mumbles, with a clinical kind of disconnect, guiding your hips back into the rhythm you started, watching your face for any sign of a difference. You’re about to make a joke about feeling like a lab rat, or maybe one of his patients, when a wave of pleasure shoots through your abdomen.
“Oh,” You whisper quietly.
“Yeah?” Frank chuckles cockily, sensing a newfound enthusiasm in your movements. “You can go faster if you want, honey. You’re in control here.”
He’s right. Even with his hands guiding your hips, you’re the one setting the pace. You speed up a little, ever cautious that you might do something incorrectly. Your sighs and quiet whimpers on particular drags surprise you, but if Franks facial expression is anything to go by, you think he likes them. Of course, he says this plenty too.
“Doin’ so well baby. Jesus, look at you.”
You laugh self-consciously, letting it taper off into a small whine when he bounces his leg ever so slightly.
“Didn’t mean it when I said you were a bad listener before. You’re so good, honey, doin’ exactly what I said.”
Your pace quickens at his praise, hearing the obvious arousal in his voice. You’re not sure you understand why your pleasure seems to turn him on so much, but it’s not off-putting by any means. If anything, it brings you closer to an orgasm you weren’t even sure you could achieve ten minutes ago.
“Can I kiss you?” You pant, not letting up.
Frank smiles, sitting up. The slight jolt has you biting back a moan.
“Of course you can, beautiful.”
The second his face is close enough, you’re lowering your lips to his. It’s uncoordinated and filthy and you’re whining into his mouth most of the time but the extra stimuli feels so good that you keep losing your momentum, huffing every time the pleasure you’ve been building up recedes.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got it.” Frank whispers, seizing your hips with a steady grip. No longer in control, you’re forced to simply take the unforgiving push-pull rhythm he sets. You’ve given up on kissing him at this point, opting to rest your forehead against his instead, jaw dropping as you approach a fast-building climax.
“Just like that—please,” You careen, squeezing your eyes shut.
“I know,” Frank coos, pressing his lips to the tip of your nose, your cheekbone, your eyelid.
“Knew you’d love this. Can never keep yourself still when you’re on my lap, always squirming, aren’t you, sweet girl? At least now we know you can come like this, yeah?” He rambles, seeming half lost in pleasure himself. “Don’t even need to fucking touch you, that’s how bad you need it, huh?”
It’s the unexpected harshness of his words that makes your stomach drop, lighting your nerves up neon. Your head slumps to Franks shoulder as you cry out, feeling your muscles tense and then relax all at once. Slow waves of pleasure roll through you as Frank continues to rock you against him, forcing you to ride out your high as he mumbles praise you’re too overwhelmed to hear.
Very gradually, you start to come down. You lift your head, noticing the patch of drool you’ve left on his shirt. You lean back to meet his eyes and he chuckles as he wipes a thumb over your lip. You certainly hope you’re not still drooling.
“You with me?” He asks, pulling your tank top down where it must’ve rode up at your stomach.
“Mhm..” You nod, still seeing stars dot across your vision. You shudder as the last of the shockwaves make their way through your body.
He smiles dotingly, “Did you like that?”
You nod once more, attempting to fight back a yawn, but it’s futile.
“I’m glad,” he smiles, seeming genuinely pleased that he’s discovered a new way to make you come. You think he might have a list, but you’re too sleepy to ask about any potential tallying he’s doing.
“Okay, I’m ordering us food before you fall asleep, again.” He gently prise you off of his lap, setting you down on wobbling legs. Before he gets up to make his way to the kitchen, though, he slaps your ass gently—which, in your fragile state, is enough to elicit a yelp from you. He laughs in earnest, flicking on a lamp on as he turns around, tapping on your door frame to a random tempo.
“Do you want to order from the Thai place on Sixth? They only forgot the spring rolls once in the last four times we’ve ordered from there—which is more than the one on the strip can say—so I’m feeling pretty good about it.”
You offer him a thumbs up, which he returns, because of course he does (dork) before turning on his heel and heading down the hallway.
in which frank returns home from a long shift, exhausted, but determined to give you what you want anyway 18+ (smut)
frank langdon x fem!reader (wc: 2.8k)
warnings/tags: oh boy here we go. smut!! and fluff (he loves her so bad), angst if you squint (reader is kind of anxiety ridden and insecure lol), established relationship but it's kind of new, inexperienced!reader (kinda), reader is neurodivergent coded but it's not explicitly stated, reader has long-ish hair, which langdon pulls (yum) but not aggressively, unspecified age gap, reader is vaguely mentioned to work at PTMC but as what? who knows! reader is kind of a little shit but so is langdon so it balances out, cocky!langdon (let me hit), he's also kind of condescending lol!! um softdom!langdon, sub reader, lots of praise, lots of kissing, thigh riding (hot), langdon slaps readers ass like once (hot), shitty ending bc I got tired of staring at my notes app el oh el, abundance of commas, probably bad grammar (fuck it we ball)
a/n: keeping this short because there's so many tags gulp - this is my first fic on this blog and also my first time ever writing smut so if it's bad... that is why. pls be nice. i am but a girl who has been infested by da pitt brainworms
—————————————————————————
When you wake, it’s to a comforting weight on your head—a hand, you think—massaging your scalp. This, combined with the darkness of your room, threaten to pull you back into your slumber.
It’s not until a few foggy seconds later that the implications of the fingers running through your hair rouse you enough to turn onto your side.
“You’re back,” You say quietly, voice groggy with disuse. How long have you been asleep?
A slow smile spreads across Frank’s face, his dimples fighting to make an appearance, like the sun trying to peek through clouds.
“Mhm,” He hums. Your brow furrows, wondering how long he’s been here, and why he didn’t wake you up. Between his work and family and your own life, it’s not like there’s much opportunity to spend time alone together. Date nights are rare and sacred—even if they mostly consist of takeout and a movie.
Sensing your impending spiel, he speaks again.
“Don’t worry, I just got in ten minutes ago. It’s not even eight yet.”
You relax at this, shuffling closer to rest your head on his chest. Your silk pillow is nowhere near as enticing as the soft cotton of his worn band tee. You slowly trace the peeling vinyl of the shirt—S… T… Y… X—getting drowsier by the minute.
“As much as I wouldn’t mind staying here all night, you’re gonna be pissed if I let you go back to sleep.” He seems genuine, but the hand still playing with your hair makes you doubt his true motives.
“I know,” You sigh, voice muffled by fabric. Even despite this, you make no effort to move.
“Honey,” Frank drawls a few moments later, eliciting another huff from you.
You distantly register him bunching up your hair, and the next thing you know, he’s pulling it, guiding your head upright.
It’s not that it hurt, not really, but the tingle at the nape of your neck stirs you just enough to allow you to glower up at him in indignation.
“You’re kind of a bad listener, y’know that?” He speaks through a shit-eating grin—cause for rolling your eyes if you’ve ever seen any.
“C’mere,” He mumbles, his hand abandoning your hair in favour of your waist. The other finds your thigh and hooks it over his own. Still feeling petulant, you offer him no assistance as he forces you into a sitting position. Unfortunately, he doesn’t need it. Smug bastard.
When he’s sure you’re not going to go limp just to be difficult, he releases your waist and begins smoothing a few errant strands of hair away from your forehead.
“My pretty girl, I missed you.” He coos.
You almost break, almost—but you’ve always been stubborn, for better or worse.
This only seems to amuse Frank more. He leans forward, pressing a kiss to the crease of your brow, then the bridge of your nose, then the tip. By the time his mouth lowers to your own, you’re moments away from bridging the gap yourself.
“Kiss?” He whispers, so quiet you probably wouldn’t have heard it if you weren’t so focused on his every movement.
You swallow back a please, instead pressing your lips to his.
It’s sweet at first—it usually is. He’s smiling most of the time and eventually, you are too.
“I missed you too,” You mumble against his lips, bringing your arms around his neck.
He breathes out a laugh, “You did?”
You nod, snaking a hand into his hair as you close the gap between you once more. When you exhale into him, he parts your lips with his tongue, earning a soft sound from you. Then he’s grabbing your hips, bearing you down onto his thigh. You warm against him, feeling each of your nerve endings come alive as he grips your jaw, tilting it to the side.
You breathe unevenly, bleary-eyed as you watch him inspect your neck with a surgical precision. Before you can question him—or even begin to catch your breath—he’s leaning down and latching onto your skin. You gasp as his teeth skim your pulse point, tightening your hold on his hair to ground yourself. Your other hand falls to his stomach, skimming the waistband of his sweatpants.
He pulls back from your neck, his hand slowly finding your wrist. His grip is gentle, but firm enough to effectively halt your movements. All the while, he’s peppering kisses along your jaw.
“Mm-mm,” he shakes his head, stubble brushing your chin. The sound reverberates through you, making you shiver.
“But—“
He pulls back, his pupils dilated as he regards you.
“We can’t have sex right now, baby.”
“Why?” You ask, voice so desperate it’s almost pitiful.
He smiles sympathetically, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d say there’s an air of condescension to it.
“Because if I have sex with you right now, I’ll fall asleep—“ he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, “—and then we won’t be able to watch that movie like you wanted.”
You pout, trying and failing to find a way around this dilemma. Intimacy with Frank is a spectrum; when he’s pent-up with nervous energy—usually before or during a shift (sometimes, when the ED’s slow and he has time for a rare lunch break, you’ll eat together in his car—which, on more than one occasion, has turned into you riding him desperately in the front seat, trying to make the most of your limited time whilst he mindlessly chatters about some high-risk procedure he just did). After a shift is 50/50; sometimes it’s all you can do to get through the front door before he’s pushing you up against the nearest wall. Other times—like now, you suspect—he’s too tired to indulge anything but your kisses.
I mean, it’s not like you couldn’t have sex tomorrow morning. You're both off.
“Okay,” You nod, prepared to sever all physical contact, if only just to stop your body thrumming with barely contained energy.
He doesn’t let you dismount him, though. You turn to glance down at the large hand kneading the flesh around your hipbone, flicking your gaze to him when he tracks your movement with a tilt of his own head.
“I said I couldn’t have sex with you. That doesn’t mean you can’t get off.”
Oh.
You feel your face—no, your whole body, flush.
“Oh, um, okay.” You straighten, adjusting the strap of your tank top. “Would you… want to use your fingers or, um, your mouth?”
It takes you a while to get the words out, and by the end, your eyes are squeezed shut, trying to shield yourself from your own embarrassment. You’ve never been good about talking about this sort of thing—at least, not as good as Frank. He’s older and more experienced and a fucking doctor, so talking about sex doesn’t faze him.
Meanwhile, you can barely say the word without blushing like a middle-schooler. And god forbid you have to talk about the specifics. Unfortunately, that’s all he seems to be interested in—what you want and where you want to be touched and let me hear you say it—
“Neither.”
One of your eyes flit open at that, trying to assess if he’s joking or if this is yet another thing you don’t seem to be knowledgeable or experienced enough to understand.
“What?”
“Neither. You can make yourself come.” He states, like it’s obvious.
You blink, waiting for the punchline.
There is none.
“I mean, yeah…” You trail off.
Yeah, you could make yourself come. You could also revert back to using a Nokia, but you wouldn’t, because the newer, better cellphone is right there. What you mean is—you haven’t gotten yourself off in months, because Frank has always been there—with far longer, more capable fingers than your own. And if he hasn’t… well, you just wait until you see him next.
Honestly, you’re beginning to doubt if you can still come without his input.
Without warning, Frank leans in, nipping at your bottom lip. As he pulls back, you furrow your brows in confusion, pouting.
“Sorry,” he smirks, not selling the whole apologetic thing, “you looked like you were spiralling.”
Well.
His voice takes on a gentler, more serious tone when he speaks next.
“You don’t have to do anything if you don’t feel like it, honey.”
But you do. Even with your apprehension, you’re antsy with need, shifting uncomfortably on top of him.
“No, I want to, I just… don’t know if I can… without your help.” You mumble, looking down at your thighs, which still encase his own.
A pause, and then he’s lifting your jaw with his thumb.
“Oh, sweet girl, did you think I wouldn’t help at all?”
You noticeably perk up at that, like a dog hearing the word ‘treat’. This seems to amuse him, and he gives the fat of your hip a loving squeeze before continuing.
“Do you know how I’m going to help you?”
You shake your head slowly.
“Do you want me to show you?”
His voice is syrupy sweet, almost hypnotising. You’re nodding before you even register his words fully, gripping the hem of his shirt with both hands. When he leans in, your eyelids flutter shut, waiting for the press of his lips against yours.
It doesn’t come. At least… not yet.
He just hovers there, moving away whenever you try to chase him. Time seems to warp and stretch until you’re unsure how long you’ve been waiting for him to just do it already. You’re sure he can feel your patience dwindling, and just when you’re sure you’re about to snap, he presses his lips to yours.
The kiss is long and deep and so good you sigh with relief. You try to slow yourself down, to savour the domestic, tenderness of it all—but you can’t. Your lips part on a gasp and you press yourself onto the hard muscle of his thigh before you can help yourself. You’re too consumed by his lips that you don’t pay much attention to the subtle rock of your hips. It’s not like you’re doing anything, really. It’s just to alleviate some of the ache between your legs.
That’s when Frank pinches your thigh, just hard enough to draw attention to your movements. You pull back, breathing hard and half-annoyed at him for stopping your motions.
“Do you understand now?” He breathes, sounding as wrecked as you feel. His hair is a mess thanks to your toying and his eyes seem to have taken on a darker hue of blue. Though it could just appear that way, given that his pupils have almost doubled in size, leaving little of his iris to be seen.
It takes you a minute to comprehend what he’s saying—distracted by how he looks and the persistent throbbing between your legs. You do get there eventually, though.
“You want me to…” You swallow, heat creeping up the base of your neck.
He huffs out a laugh. “Use my thigh to get yourself off? Yeah, I do.”
His words send a shiver down your spine, but don’t dissuade you. You take a deep breath and nod, looking up at the ceiling instead of Frank. You need to concentrate.
“Okay.”
“Okay.” He parrots, reassuringly, leaning back just a little. “Take your time.”
You try to remember what you were doing before, and begin rocking your hips slowly. You struggle on a few false starts, adjusting your weight a couple times before you find a rhythm that feels… okay.
“Does that feel good?” Frank looks up at you from where he’s leaning against the headboard, utterly transfixed by the way your brows furrow in determination and the worry of your bottom lip between your teeth.
“Um…” You squint, trying to figure out what you’re doing wrong. Maybe this is just another way in which you differ from Frank, another reminder of what he could be getting from someone else that he’s not receiving from you.
“Can I…” His hands linger at either side of you, waiting for your go-ahead. When you nod, he grips onto you firmly, lifting you up just enough to spread your legs open a little farther with his thigh, before pressing you back down onto him.
“More friction,” He mumbles, with a clinical kind of disconnect, guiding your hips back into the rhythm you started, watching your face for any sign of a difference. You’re about to make a joke about feeling like a lab rat, or maybe one of his patients, when a wave of pleasure shoots through your abdomen.
“Oh,” You whisper quietly.
“Yeah?” Frank chuckles cockily, sensing a newfound enthusiasm in your movements. “You can go faster if you want, honey. You’re in control here.”
He’s right. Even with his hands guiding your hips, you’re the one setting the pace. You speed up a little, ever cautious that you might do something incorrectly. Your sighs and quiet whimpers on particular drags surprise you, but if Franks facial expression is anything to go by, you think he likes them. Of course, he says this plenty too.
“Doin’ so well baby. Jesus, look at you.”
You laugh self-consciously, letting it taper off into a small whine when he bounces his leg ever so slightly.
“Didn’t mean it when I said you were a bad listener before. You’re so good, honey, doin’ exactly what I said.”
Your pace quickens at his praise, hearing the obvious arousal in his voice. You’re not sure you understand why your pleasure seems to turn him on so much, but it’s not off-putting by any means. If anything, it brings you closer to an orgasm you weren’t even sure you could achieve ten minutes ago.
“Can I kiss you?” You pant, not letting up.
Frank smiles, sitting up. The slight jolt has you biting back a moan.
“Of course you can, beautiful.”
The second his face is close enough, you’re lowering your lips to his. It’s uncoordinated and filthy and you’re whining into his mouth most of the time but the extra stimuli feels so good that you keep losing your momentum, huffing every time the pleasure you’ve been building up recedes.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got it.” Frank whispers, seizing your hips with a steady grip. No longer in control, you’re forced to simply take the unforgiving push-pull rhythm he sets. You’ve given up on kissing him at this point, opting to rest your forehead against his instead, jaw dropping as you approach a fast-building climax.
“Just like that—please,” You careen, squeezing your eyes shut.
“I know,” Frank coos, pressing his lips to the tip of your nose, your cheekbone, your eyelid.
“Knew you’d love this. Can never keep yourself still when you’re on my lap, always squirming, aren’t you, sweet girl? At least now we know you can come like this, yeah?” He rambles, seeming half lost in pleasure himself. “Don’t even need to fucking touch you, that’s how bad you need it, huh?”
It’s the unexpected harshness of his words that makes your stomach drop, lighting your nerves up neon. Your head slumps to Franks shoulder as you cry out, feeling your muscles tense and then relax all at once. Slow waves of pleasure roll through you as Frank continues to rock you against him, forcing you to ride out your high as he mumbles praise you’re too overwhelmed to hear.
Very gradually, you start to come down. You lift your head, noticing the patch of drool you’ve left on his shirt. You lean back to meet his eyes and he chuckles as he wipes a thumb over your lip. You certainly hope you’re not still drooling.
“You with me?” He asks, pulling your tank top down where it must’ve rode up at your stomach.
“Mhm..” You nod, still seeing stars dot across your vision. You shudder as the last of the shockwaves make their way through your body.
He smiles dotingly, “Did you like that?”
You nod once more, attempting to fight back a yawn, but it’s futile.
“I’m glad,” he smiles, seeming genuinely pleased that he’s discovered a new way to make you come. You think he might have a list, but you’re too sleepy to ask about any potential tallying he’s doing.
“Okay, I’m ordering us food before you fall asleep, again.” He gently prise you off of his lap, setting you down on wobbling legs. Before he gets up to make his way to the kitchen, though, he slaps your ass gently—which, in your fragile state, is enough to elicit a yelp from you. He laughs in earnest, flicking on a lamp on as he turns around, tapping on your door frame to a random tempo.
“Do you want to order from the Thai place on Sixth? They only forgot the spring rolls once in the last four times we’ve ordered from there—which is more than the one on the strip can say—so I’m feeling pretty good about it.”
You offer him a thumbs up, which he returns, because of course he does (dork) before turning on his heel and heading down the hallway.
You distantly register him bunching up your hair, and the next thing you know, he’s pulling it, guiding your head upright.
It’s not that it hurt, not really, but the tingle at the nape of your neck stirs you just enough to allow you to glower up at him in indignation.
this is insane. so insane that im about to pull out my own hair just to feel something UGHHHHH frank is so smug and sweet and annoying and obsessed with the reader i am going to DIE
“I mean, yeah…” You trail off.
Yeah, you could make yourself come. You could also revert back to using a Nokia, but you wouldn’t, because the newer, better cellphone is right there. What you mean is—you haven’t gotten yourself off in months, because Frank has always been there—with far longer, more capable fingers than your own. And if he hasn’t… well, you just wait until you see him next.
this is so funny LMAO like yeah girl!!!!!! why WOULD you downgrade when premium is sitting right there
ANYHOW this was so hot and i remain a proud thigh riding truther/defender/activist. thank u for your service <3
in which frank returns home from a long shift, exhausted, but determined to give you what you want anyway 18+ (smut)
frank langdon x fem!reader (wc: 2.8k)
warnings/tags: oh boy here we go. smut!! and fluff (he loves her so bad), angst if you squint (reader is kind of anxiety ridden and insecure lol), established relationship but it's kind of new, inexperienced!reader (kinda), reader is neurodivergent coded but it's not explicitly stated, reader has long-ish hair, which langdon pulls (yum) but not aggressively, unspecified age gap, reader is vaguely mentioned to work at PTMC but as what? who knows! reader is kind of a little shit but so is langdon so it balances out, cocky!langdon (let me hit), he's also kind of condescending lol!! um softdom!langdon, sub reader, lots of praise, lots of kissing, thigh riding (hot), langdon slaps readers ass like once (hot), shitty ending bc I got tired of staring at my notes app el oh el, abundance of commas, probably bad grammar (fuck it we ball)
a/n: keeping this short because there's so many tags gulp - this is my first fic on this blog and also my first time ever writing smut so if it's bad... that is why. pls be nice. i am but a girl who has been infested by da pitt brainworms
—————————————————————————
When you wake, it’s to a comforting weight on your head—a hand, you think—massaging your scalp. This, combined with the darkness of your room, threaten to pull you back into your slumber.
It’s not until a few foggy seconds later that the implications of the fingers running through your hair rouse you enough to turn onto your side.
“You’re back,” You say quietly, voice groggy with disuse. How long have you been asleep?
A slow smile spreads across Frank’s face, his dimples fighting to make an appearance, like the sun trying to peek through clouds.
“Mhm,” He hums. Your brow furrows, wondering how long he’s been here, and why he didn’t wake you up. Between his work and family and your own life, it’s not like there’s much opportunity to spend time alone together. Date nights are rare and sacred—even if they mostly consist of takeout and a movie.
Sensing your impending spiel, he speaks again.
“Don’t worry, I just got in ten minutes ago. It’s not even eight yet.”
You relax at this, shuffling closer to rest your head on his chest. Your silk pillow is nowhere near as enticing as the soft cotton of his worn band tee. You slowly trace the peeling vinyl of the shirt—S… T… Y… X—getting drowsier by the minute.
“As much as I wouldn’t mind staying here all night, you’re gonna be pissed if I let you go back to sleep.” He seems genuine, but the hand still playing with your hair makes you doubt his true motives.
“I know,” You sigh, voice muffled by fabric. Even despite this, you make no effort to move.
“Honey,” Frank drawls a few moments later, eliciting another huff from you.
You distantly register him bunching up your hair, and the next thing you know, he’s pulling it, guiding your head upright.
It’s not that it hurt, not really, but the tingle at the nape of your neck stirs you just enough to allow you to glower up at him in indignation.
“You’re kind of a bad listener, y’know that?” He speaks through a shit-eating grin—cause for rolling your eyes if you’ve ever seen any.
“C’mere,” He mumbles, his hand abandoning your hair in favour of your waist. The other finds your thigh and hooks it over his own. Still feeling petulant, you offer him no assistance as he forces you into a sitting position. Unfortunately, he doesn’t need it. Smug bastard.
When he’s sure you’re not going to go limp just to be difficult, he releases your waist and begins smoothing a few errant strands of hair away from your forehead.
“My pretty girl, I missed you.” He coos.
You almost break, almost—but you’ve always been stubborn, for better or worse.
This only seems to amuse Frank more. He leans forward, pressing a kiss to the crease of your brow, then the bridge of your nose, then the tip. By the time his mouth lowers to your own, you’re moments away from bridging the gap yourself.
“Kiss?” He whispers, so quiet you probably wouldn’t have heard it if you weren’t so focused on his every movement.
You swallow back a please, instead pressing your lips to his.
It’s sweet at first—it usually is. He’s smiling most of the time and eventually, you are too.
“I missed you too,” You mumble against his lips, bringing your arms around his neck.
He breathes out a laugh, “You did?”
You nod, snaking a hand into his hair as you close the gap between you once more. When you exhale into him, he parts your lips with his tongue, earning a soft sound from you. Then he’s grabbing your hips, bearing you down onto his thigh. You warm against him, feeling each of your nerve endings come alive as he grips your jaw, tilting it to the side.
You breathe unevenly, bleary-eyed as you watch him inspect your neck with a surgical precision. Before you can question him—or even begin to catch your breath—he’s leaning down and latching onto your skin. You gasp as his teeth skim your pulse point, tightening your hold on his hair to ground yourself. Your other hand falls to his stomach, skimming the waistband of his sweatpants.
He pulls back from your neck, his hand slowly finding your wrist. His grip is gentle, but firm enough to effectively halt your movements. All the while, he’s peppering kisses along your jaw.
“Mm-mm,” he shakes his head, stubble brushing your chin. The sound reverberates through you, making you shiver.
“But—“
He pulls back, his pupils dilated as he regards you.
“We can’t have sex right now, baby.”
“Why?” You ask, voice so desperate it’s almost pitiful.
He smiles sympathetically, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d say there’s an air of condescension to it.
“Because if I have sex with you right now, I’ll fall asleep—“ he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, “—and then we won’t be able to watch that movie like you wanted.”
You pout, trying and failing to find a way around this dilemma. Intimacy with Frank is a spectrum; when he’s pent-up with nervous energy—usually before or during a shift (sometimes, when the ED’s slow and he has time for a rare lunch break, you’ll eat together in his car—which, on more than one occasion, has turned into you riding him desperately in the front seat, trying to make the most of your limited time whilst he mindlessly chatters about some high-risk procedure he just did). After a shift is 50/50; sometimes it’s all you can do to get through the front door before he’s pushing you up against the nearest wall. Other times—like now, you suspect—he’s too tired to indulge anything but your kisses.
I mean, it’s not like you couldn’t have sex tomorrow morning. You're both off.
“Okay,” You nod, prepared to sever all physical contact, if only just to stop your body thrumming with barely contained energy.
He doesn’t let you dismount him, though. You turn to glance down at the large hand kneading the flesh around your hipbone, flicking your gaze to him when he tracks your movement with a tilt of his own head.
“I said I couldn’t have sex with you. That doesn’t mean you can’t get off.”
Oh.
You feel your face—no, your whole body, flush.
“Oh, um, okay.” You straighten, adjusting the strap of your tank top. “Would you… want to use your fingers or, um, your mouth?”
It takes you a while to get the words out, and by the end, your eyes are squeezed shut, trying to shield yourself from your own embarrassment. You’ve never been good about talking about this sort of thing—at least, not as good as Frank. He’s older and more experienced and a fucking doctor, so talking about sex doesn’t faze him.
Meanwhile, you can barely say the word without blushing like a middle-schooler. And god forbid you have to talk about the specifics. Unfortunately, that’s all he seems to be interested in—what you want and where you want to be touched and let me hear you say it—
“Neither.”
One of your eyes flit open at that, trying to assess if he’s joking or if this is yet another thing you don’t seem to be knowledgeable or experienced enough to understand.
“What?”
“Neither. You can make yourself come.” He states, like it’s obvious.
You blink, waiting for the punchline.
There is none.
“I mean, yeah…” You trail off.
Yeah, you could make yourself come. You could also revert back to using a Nokia, but you wouldn’t, because the newer, better cellphone is right there. What you mean is—you haven’t gotten yourself off in months, because Frank has always been there—with far longer, more capable fingers than your own. And if he hasn’t… well, you just wait until you see him next.
Honestly, you’re beginning to doubt if you can still come without his input.
Without warning, Frank leans in, nipping at your bottom lip. As he pulls back, you furrow your brows in confusion, pouting.
“Sorry,” he smirks, not selling the whole apologetic thing, “you looked like you were spiralling.”
Well.
His voice takes on a gentler, more serious tone when he speaks next.
“You don’t have to do anything if you don’t feel like it, honey.”
But you do. Even with your apprehension, you’re antsy with need, shifting uncomfortably on top of him.
“No, I want to, I just… don’t know if I can… without your help.” You mumble, looking down at your thighs, which still encase his own.
A pause, and then he’s lifting your jaw with his thumb.
“Oh, sweet girl, did you think I wouldn’t help at all?”
You noticeably perk up at that, like a dog hearing the word ‘treat’. This seems to amuse him, and he gives the fat of your hip a loving squeeze before continuing.
“Do you know how I’m going to help you?”
You shake your head slowly.
“Do you want me to show you?”
His voice is syrupy sweet, almost hypnotising. You’re nodding before you even register his words fully, gripping the hem of his shirt with both hands. When he leans in, your eyelids flutter shut, waiting for the press of his lips against yours.
It doesn’t come. At least… not yet.
He just hovers there, moving away whenever you try to chase him. Time seems to warp and stretch until you’re unsure how long you’ve been waiting for him to just do it already. You’re sure he can feel your patience dwindling, and just when you’re sure you’re about to snap, he presses his lips to yours.
The kiss is long and deep and so good you sigh with relief. You try to slow yourself down, to savour the domestic, tenderness of it all—but you can’t. Your lips part on a gasp and you press yourself onto the hard muscle of his thigh before you can help yourself. You’re too consumed by his lips that you don’t pay much attention to the subtle rock of your hips. It’s not like you’re doing anything, really. It’s just to alleviate some of the ache between your legs.
That’s when Frank pinches your thigh, just hard enough to draw attention to your movements. You pull back, breathing hard and half-annoyed at him for stopping your motions.
“Do you understand now?” He breathes, sounding as wrecked as you feel. His hair is a mess thanks to your toying and his eyes seem to have taken on a darker hue of blue. Though it could just appear that way, given that his pupils have almost doubled in size, leaving little of his iris to be seen.
It takes you a minute to comprehend what he’s saying—distracted by how he looks and the persistent throbbing between your legs. You do get there eventually, though.
“You want me to…” You swallow, heat creeping up the base of your neck.
He huffs out a laugh. “Use my thigh to get yourself off? Yeah, I do.”
His words send a shiver down your spine, but don’t dissuade you. You take a deep breath and nod, looking up at the ceiling instead of Frank. You need to concentrate.
“Okay.”
“Okay.” He parrots, reassuringly, leaning back just a little. “Take your time.”
You try to remember what you were doing before, and begin rocking your hips slowly. You struggle on a few false starts, adjusting your weight a couple times before you find a rhythm that feels… okay.
“Does that feel good?” Frank looks up at you from where he’s leaning against the headboard, utterly transfixed by the way your brows furrow in determination and the worry of your bottom lip between your teeth.
“Um…” You squint, trying to figure out what you’re doing wrong. Maybe this is just another way in which you differ from Frank, another reminder of what he could be getting from someone else that he’s not receiving from you.
“Can I…” His hands linger at either side of you, waiting for your go-ahead. When you nod, he grips onto you firmly, lifting you up just enough to spread your legs open a little farther with his thigh, before pressing you back down onto him.
“More friction,” He mumbles, with a clinical kind of disconnect, guiding your hips back into the rhythm you started, watching your face for any sign of a difference. You’re about to make a joke about feeling like a lab rat, or maybe one of his patients, when a wave of pleasure shoots through your abdomen.
“Oh,” You whisper quietly.
“Yeah?” Frank chuckles cockily, sensing a newfound enthusiasm in your movements. “You can go faster if you want, honey. You’re in control here.”
He’s right. Even with his hands guiding your hips, you’re the one setting the pace. You speed up a little, ever cautious that you might do something incorrectly. Your sighs and quiet whimpers on particular drags surprise you, but if Franks facial expression is anything to go by, you think he likes them. Of course, he says this plenty too.
“Doin’ so well baby. Jesus, look at you.”
You laugh self-consciously, letting it taper off into a small whine when he bounces his leg ever so slightly.
“Didn’t mean it when I said you were a bad listener before. You’re so good, honey, doin’ exactly what I said.”
Your pace quickens at his praise, hearing the obvious arousal in his voice. You’re not sure you understand why your pleasure seems to turn him on so much, but it’s not off-putting by any means. If anything, it brings you closer to an orgasm you weren’t even sure you could achieve ten minutes ago.
“Can I kiss you?” You pant, not letting up.
Frank smiles, sitting up. The slight jolt has you biting back a moan.
“Of course you can, beautiful.”
The second his face is close enough, you’re lowering your lips to his. It’s uncoordinated and filthy and you’re whining into his mouth most of the time but the extra stimuli feels so good that you keep losing your momentum, huffing every time the pleasure you’ve been building up recedes.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got it.” Frank whispers, seizing your hips with a steady grip. No longer in control, you’re forced to simply take the unforgiving push-pull rhythm he sets. You’ve given up on kissing him at this point, opting to rest your forehead against his instead, jaw dropping as you approach a fast-building climax.
“Just like that—please,” You careen, squeezing your eyes shut.
“I know,” Frank coos, pressing his lips to the tip of your nose, your cheekbone, your eyelid.
“Knew you’d love this. Can never keep yourself still when you’re on my lap, always squirming, aren’t you, sweet girl? At least now we know you can come like this, yeah?” He rambles, seeming half lost in pleasure himself. “Don’t even need to fucking touch you, that’s how bad you need it, huh?”
It’s the unexpected harshness of his words that makes your stomach drop, lighting your nerves up neon. Your head slumps to Franks shoulder as you cry out, feeling your muscles tense and then relax all at once. Slow waves of pleasure roll through you as Frank continues to rock you against him, forcing you to ride out your high as he mumbles praise you’re too overwhelmed to hear.
Very gradually, you start to come down. You lift your head, noticing the patch of drool you’ve left on his shirt. You lean back to meet his eyes and he chuckles as he wipes a thumb over your lip. You certainly hope you’re not still drooling.
“You with me?” He asks, pulling your tank top down where it must’ve rode up at your stomach.
“Mhm..” You nod, still seeing stars dot across your vision. You shudder as the last of the shockwaves make their way through your body.
He smiles dotingly, “Did you like that?”
You nod once more, attempting to fight back a yawn, but it’s futile.
“I’m glad,” he smiles, seeming genuinely pleased that he’s discovered a new way to make you come. You think he might have a list, but you’re too sleepy to ask about any potential tallying he’s doing.
“Okay, I’m ordering us food before you fall asleep, again.” He gently prise you off of his lap, setting you down on wobbling legs. Before he gets up to make his way to the kitchen, though, he slaps your ass gently—which, in your fragile state, is enough to elicit a yelp from you. He laughs in earnest, flicking on a lamp on as he turns around, tapping on your door frame to a random tempo.
“Do you want to order from the Thai place on Sixth? They only forgot the spring rolls once in the last four times we’ve ordered from there—which is more than the one on the strip can say—so I’m feeling pretty good about it.”
You offer him a thumbs up, which he returns, because of course he does (dork) before turning on his heel and heading down the hallway.
in which frank returns home from a long shift, exhausted, but determined to give you what you want anyway 18+ (smut)
frank langdon x fem!reader (wc: 2.8k)
warnings/tags: oh boy here we go. smut!! and fluff (he loves her so bad), angst if you squint (reader is kind of anxiety ridden and insecure lol), established relationship but it's kind of new, inexperienced!reader (kinda), reader is neurodivergent coded but it's not explicitly stated, reader has long-ish hair, which langdon pulls (yum) but not aggressively, unspecified age gap, reader is vaguely mentioned to work at PTMC but as what? who knows! reader is kind of a little shit but so is langdon so it balances out, cocky!langdon (let me hit), he's also kind of condescending lol!! um softdom!langdon, sub reader, lots of praise, lots of kissing, thigh riding (hot), langdon slaps readers ass like once (hot), shitty ending bc I got tired of staring at my notes app el oh el, abundance of commas, probably bad grammar (fuck it we ball)
a/n: keeping this short because there's so many tags gulp - this is my first fic on this blog and also my first time ever writing smut so if it's bad... that is why. pls be nice. i am but a girl who has been infested by da pitt brainworms
—————————————————————————
When you wake, it’s to a comforting weight on your head—a hand, you think—massaging your scalp. This, combined with the darkness of your room, threaten to pull you back into your slumber.
It’s not until a few foggy seconds later that the implications of the fingers running through your hair rouse you enough to turn onto your side.
“You’re back,” You say quietly, voice groggy with disuse. How long have you been asleep?
A slow smile spreads across Frank’s face, his dimples fighting to make an appearance, like the sun trying to peek through clouds.
“Mhm,” He hums. Your brow furrows, wondering how long he’s been here, and why he didn’t wake you up. Between his work and family and your own life, it’s not like there’s much opportunity to spend time alone together. Date nights are rare and sacred—even if they mostly consist of takeout and a movie.
Sensing your impending spiel, he speaks again.
“Don’t worry, I just got in ten minutes ago. It’s not even eight yet.”
You relax at this, shuffling closer to rest your head on his chest. Your silk pillow is nowhere near as enticing as the soft cotton of his worn band tee. You slowly trace the peeling vinyl of the shirt—S… T… Y… X—getting drowsier by the minute.
“As much as I wouldn’t mind staying here all night, you’re gonna be pissed if I let you go back to sleep.” He seems genuine, but the hand still playing with your hair makes you doubt his true motives.
“I know,” You sigh, voice muffled by fabric. Even despite this, you make no effort to move.
“Honey,” Frank drawls a few moments later, eliciting another huff from you.
You distantly register him bunching up your hair, and the next thing you know, he’s pulling it, guiding your head upright.
It’s not that it hurt, not really, but the tingle at the nape of your neck stirs you just enough to allow you to glower up at him in indignation.
“You’re kind of a bad listener, y’know that?” He speaks through a shit-eating grin—cause for rolling your eyes if you’ve ever seen any.
“C’mere,” He mumbles, his hand abandoning your hair in favour of your waist. The other finds your thigh and hooks it over his own. Still feeling petulant, you offer him no assistance as he forces you into a sitting position. Unfortunately, he doesn’t need it. Smug bastard.
When he’s sure you’re not going to go limp just to be difficult, he releases your waist and begins smoothing a few errant strands of hair away from your forehead.
“My pretty girl, I missed you.” He coos.
You almost break, almost—but you’ve always been stubborn, for better or worse.
This only seems to amuse Frank more. He leans forward, pressing a kiss to the crease of your brow, then the bridge of your nose, then the tip. By the time his mouth lowers to your own, you’re moments away from bridging the gap yourself.
“Kiss?” He whispers, so quiet you probably wouldn’t have heard it if you weren’t so focused on his every movement.
You swallow back a please, instead pressing your lips to his.
It’s sweet at first—it usually is. He’s smiling most of the time and eventually, you are too.
“I missed you too,” You mumble against his lips, bringing your arms around his neck.
He breathes out a laugh, “You did?”
You nod, snaking a hand into his hair as you close the gap between you once more. When you exhale into him, he parts your lips with his tongue, earning a soft sound from you. Then he’s grabbing your hips, bearing you down onto his thigh. You warm against him, feeling each of your nerve endings come alive as he grips your jaw, tilting it to the side.
You breathe unevenly, bleary-eyed as you watch him inspect your neck with a surgical precision. Before you can question him—or even begin to catch your breath—he’s leaning down and latching onto your skin. You gasp as his teeth skim your pulse point, tightening your hold on his hair to ground yourself. Your other hand falls to his stomach, skimming the waistband of his sweatpants.
He pulls back from your neck, his hand slowly finding your wrist. His grip is gentle, but firm enough to effectively halt your movements. All the while, he’s peppering kisses along your jaw.
“Mm-mm,” he shakes his head, stubble brushing your chin. The sound reverberates through you, making you shiver.
“But—“
He pulls back, his pupils dilated as he regards you.
“We can’t have sex right now, baby.”
“Why?” You ask, voice so desperate it’s almost pitiful.
He smiles sympathetically, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d say there’s an air of condescension to it.
“Because if I have sex with you right now, I’ll fall asleep—“ he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, “—and then we won’t be able to watch that movie like you wanted.”
You pout, trying and failing to find a way around this dilemma. Intimacy with Frank is a spectrum; when he’s pent-up with nervous energy—usually before or during a shift (sometimes, when the ED’s slow and he has time for a rare lunch break, you’ll eat together in his car—which, on more than one occasion, has turned into you riding him desperately in the front seat, trying to make the most of your limited time whilst he mindlessly chatters about some high-risk procedure he just did). After a shift is 50/50; sometimes it’s all you can do to get through the front door before he’s pushing you up against the nearest wall. Other times—like now, you suspect—he’s too tired to indulge anything but your kisses.
I mean, it’s not like you couldn’t have sex tomorrow morning. You're both off.
“Okay,” You nod, prepared to sever all physical contact, if only just to stop your body thrumming with barely contained energy.
He doesn’t let you dismount him, though. You turn to glance down at the large hand kneading the flesh around your hipbone, flicking your gaze to him when he tracks your movement with a tilt of his own head.
“I said I couldn’t have sex with you. That doesn’t mean you can’t get off.”
Oh.
You feel your face—no, your whole body, flush.
“Oh, um, okay.” You straighten, adjusting the strap of your tank top. “Would you… want to use your fingers or, um, your mouth?”
It takes you a while to get the words out, and by the end, your eyes are squeezed shut, trying to shield yourself from your own embarrassment. You’ve never been good about talking about this sort of thing—at least, not as good as Frank. He’s older and more experienced and a fucking doctor, so talking about sex doesn’t faze him.
Meanwhile, you can barely say the word without blushing like a middle-schooler. And god forbid you have to talk about the specifics. Unfortunately, that’s all he seems to be interested in—what you want and where you want to be touched and let me hear you say it—
“Neither.”
One of your eyes flit open at that, trying to assess if he’s joking or if this is yet another thing you don’t seem to be knowledgeable or experienced enough to understand.
“What?”
“Neither. You can make yourself come.” He states, like it’s obvious.
You blink, waiting for the punchline.
There is none.
“I mean, yeah…” You trail off.
Yeah, you could make yourself come. You could also revert back to using a Nokia, but you wouldn’t, because the newer, better cellphone is right there. What you mean is—you haven’t gotten yourself off in months, because Frank has always been there—with far longer, more capable fingers than your own. And if he hasn’t… well, you just wait until you see him next.
Honestly, you’re beginning to doubt if you can still come without his input.
Without warning, Frank leans in, nipping at your bottom lip. As he pulls back, you furrow your brows in confusion, pouting.
“Sorry,” he smirks, not selling the whole apologetic thing, “you looked like you were spiralling.”
Well.
His voice takes on a gentler, more serious tone when he speaks next.
“You don’t have to do anything if you don’t feel like it, honey.”
But you do. Even with your apprehension, you’re antsy with need, shifting uncomfortably on top of him.
“No, I want to, I just… don’t know if I can… without your help.” You mumble, looking down at your thighs, which still encase his own.
A pause, and then he’s lifting your jaw with his thumb.
“Oh, sweet girl, did you think I wouldn’t help at all?”
You noticeably perk up at that, like a dog hearing the word ‘treat’. This seems to amuse him, and he gives the fat of your hip a loving squeeze before continuing.
“Do you know how I’m going to help you?”
You shake your head slowly.
“Do you want me to show you?”
His voice is syrupy sweet, almost hypnotising. You’re nodding before you even register his words fully, gripping the hem of his shirt with both hands. When he leans in, your eyelids flutter shut, waiting for the press of his lips against yours.
It doesn’t come. At least… not yet.
He just hovers there, moving away whenever you try to chase him. Time seems to warp and stretch until you’re unsure how long you’ve been waiting for him to just do it already. You’re sure he can feel your patience dwindling, and just when you’re sure you’re about to snap, he presses his lips to yours.
The kiss is long and deep and so good you sigh with relief. You try to slow yourself down, to savour the domestic, tenderness of it all—but you can’t. Your lips part on a gasp and you press yourself onto the hard muscle of his thigh before you can help yourself. You’re too consumed by his lips that you don’t pay much attention to the subtle rock of your hips. It’s not like you’re doing anything, really. It’s just to alleviate some of the ache between your legs.
That’s when Frank pinches your thigh, just hard enough to draw attention to your movements. You pull back, breathing hard and half-annoyed at him for stopping your motions.
“Do you understand now?” He breathes, sounding as wrecked as you feel. His hair is a mess thanks to your toying and his eyes seem to have taken on a darker hue of blue. Though it could just appear that way, given that his pupils have almost doubled in size, leaving little of his iris to be seen.
It takes you a minute to comprehend what he’s saying—distracted by how he looks and the persistent throbbing between your legs. You do get there eventually, though.
“You want me to…” You swallow, heat creeping up the base of your neck.
He huffs out a laugh. “Use my thigh to get yourself off? Yeah, I do.”
His words send a shiver down your spine, but don’t dissuade you. You take a deep breath and nod, looking up at the ceiling instead of Frank. You need to concentrate.
“Okay.”
“Okay.” He parrots, reassuringly, leaning back just a little. “Take your time.”
You try to remember what you were doing before, and begin rocking your hips slowly. You struggle on a few false starts, adjusting your weight a couple times before you find a rhythm that feels… okay.
“Does that feel good?” Frank looks up at you from where he’s leaning against the headboard, utterly transfixed by the way your brows furrow in determination and the worry of your bottom lip between your teeth.
“Um…” You squint, trying to figure out what you’re doing wrong. Maybe this is just another way in which you differ from Frank, another reminder of what he could be getting from someone else that he’s not receiving from you.
“Can I…” His hands linger at either side of you, waiting for your go-ahead. When you nod, he grips onto you firmly, lifting you up just enough to spread your legs open a little farther with his thigh, before pressing you back down onto him.
“More friction,” He mumbles, with a clinical kind of disconnect, guiding your hips back into the rhythm you started, watching your face for any sign of a difference. You’re about to make a joke about feeling like a lab rat, or maybe one of his patients, when a wave of pleasure shoots through your abdomen.
“Oh,” You whisper quietly.
“Yeah?” Frank chuckles cockily, sensing a newfound enthusiasm in your movements. “You can go faster if you want, honey. You’re in control here.”
He’s right. Even with his hands guiding your hips, you’re the one setting the pace. You speed up a little, ever cautious that you might do something incorrectly. Your sighs and quiet whimpers on particular drags surprise you, but if Franks facial expression is anything to go by, you think he likes them. Of course, he says this plenty too.
“Doin’ so well baby. Jesus, look at you.”
You laugh self-consciously, letting it taper off into a small whine when he bounces his leg ever so slightly.
“Didn’t mean it when I said you were a bad listener before. You’re so good, honey, doin’ exactly what I said.”
Your pace quickens at his praise, hearing the obvious arousal in his voice. You’re not sure you understand why your pleasure seems to turn him on so much, but it’s not off-putting by any means. If anything, it brings you closer to an orgasm you weren’t even sure you could achieve ten minutes ago.
“Can I kiss you?” You pant, not letting up.
Frank smiles, sitting up. The slight jolt has you biting back a moan.
“Of course you can, beautiful.”
The second his face is close enough, you’re lowering your lips to his. It’s uncoordinated and filthy and you’re whining into his mouth most of the time but the extra stimuli feels so good that you keep losing your momentum, huffing every time the pleasure you’ve been building up recedes.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got it.” Frank whispers, seizing your hips with a steady grip. No longer in control, you’re forced to simply take the unforgiving push-pull rhythm he sets. You’ve given up on kissing him at this point, opting to rest your forehead against his instead, jaw dropping as you approach a fast-building climax.
“Just like that—please,” You careen, squeezing your eyes shut.
“I know,” Frank coos, pressing his lips to the tip of your nose, your cheekbone, your eyelid.
“Knew you’d love this. Can never keep yourself still when you’re on my lap, always squirming, aren’t you, sweet girl? At least now we know you can come like this, yeah?” He rambles, seeming half lost in pleasure himself. “Don’t even need to fucking touch you, that’s how bad you need it, huh?”
It’s the unexpected harshness of his words that makes your stomach drop, lighting your nerves up neon. Your head slumps to Franks shoulder as you cry out, feeling your muscles tense and then relax all at once. Slow waves of pleasure roll through you as Frank continues to rock you against him, forcing you to ride out your high as he mumbles praise you’re too overwhelmed to hear.
Very gradually, you start to come down. You lift your head, noticing the patch of drool you’ve left on his shirt. You lean back to meet his eyes and he chuckles as he wipes a thumb over your lip. You certainly hope you’re not still drooling.
“You with me?” He asks, pulling your tank top down where it must’ve rode up at your stomach.
“Mhm..” You nod, still seeing stars dot across your vision. You shudder as the last of the shockwaves make their way through your body.
He smiles dotingly, “Did you like that?”
You nod once more, attempting to fight back a yawn, but it’s futile.
“I’m glad,” he smiles, seeming genuinely pleased that he’s discovered a new way to make you come. You think he might have a list, but you’re too sleepy to ask about any potential tallying he’s doing.
“Okay, I’m ordering us food before you fall asleep, again.” He gently prise you off of his lap, setting you down on wobbling legs. Before he gets up to make his way to the kitchen, though, he slaps your ass gently—which, in your fragile state, is enough to elicit a yelp from you. He laughs in earnest, flicking on a lamp on as he turns around, tapping on your door frame to a random tempo.
“Do you want to order from the Thai place on Sixth? They only forgot the spring rolls once in the last four times we’ve ordered from there—which is more than the one on the strip can say—so I’m feeling pretty good about it.”
You offer him a thumbs up, which he returns, because of course he does (dork) before turning on his heel and heading down the hallway.
you consistently test the boundaries, secure in the knowledge that jack abbot will inevitably rescue you from your own decisions.
bet u wanna read my masterlist! ── .✦ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
pairing: jack abbot x reader
warnings: fem!reader, brat!reader, med student reader, flirty reader, age gap, power dynamics (student/teacher), mentor/mentee relationship, fluff!!!!!!!!!, frequent abuse of puppy-dog eyes, professionalism? never heard of her fr, reader is a terrible student tbh, also probably has adhd bc she’s just like me fr
wc: 1.5k
Sometimes Dr. Jack Abbot scares the absolute shit out of you.
Which you have said, out loud, multiple times, and every single time, without fail, the entire room stares at you like you’ve decided to be a contrarian on purpose. As though you woke up and thought, Hmm, what controversial opinion can I stand behind today?
But, honestly, it’s just because they don’t see what you see.
Day shift gets Robby, who’s undeniably an asshole, sure. But a predictable one, the way a microwave is: you know the exact second it’s about to ding, explode, or both.
With Robby, you get buildup, dramatic pauses, theatrical tension, the entire emotional overture. Plenty of advance warning to brace yourself.
But Abbot doesn’t do preludes or overtures or trailers. He is the human embodiment of an emergency siren that only starts wailing after the tornado’s ripped your roof off.
And unfairly or fairly (if you’re being honest and less bratty, which, fine, maybe), it usually lands smack dab on you.
The Wicked Witch of the East.
Granted, yes, your mouth runs faster than your common sense, which probably doesn't help matters. So it’s possible, the reaction might be, fractionally, justified.
You’ve always had a propensity to… adjust instructions. Your mother preferred the term “creative listening.”
Where instructions became suggestions, open-ended invitations to improvise. She would stand there, watching you nod while explaining that yes, your room was clean, you had simply taken the liberty of reorganizing everything into a superior system, and really, if anything, she should’ve been grateful.
Teachers found it less adorable, probably because you smiled a bit too sweetly while insistently dissecting their instructions into a million tiny loopholes.
You loved semantics, of never quite letting anyone pin you down to a single narrow interpretation, because who gets to decide there’s only one correct reading of anything?
And something about Abbot sets that impulse ablaze, bright and sudden like a firework exploding behind your eyes.
Your brain clocks him, takes one eager glance, and immediately goes — oh, this one, this is a good one — and before you’ve even realized, you’re halfway through nudging some indivisible boundary line, one you’re not even sure exists yet.
In hindsight, as a med student, this is not something you would advise. Wouldn’t recommend it to anyone with even the slightest impulse toward survival or sanity.
Pushing at an attending like this?
Playing chicken with someone who could casually scribble one dismissive line on an evaluation and send your entire carefully planned career trajectory cartwheeling off a cliff?
Not exactly peak life choices.
You could, if pressed, compose a poetic, eloquently phrased treatise on precisely why it's reckless, ill-advised, perilous.
And yet here you are anyway, standing in front of him, hands loosely clasped behind your back like that somehow reads as harmless, offering up your best approximation of wide-eyed, well-meaning innocence.
The flat, unimpressed look Abbot aims directly into your soul clearly suggests he is absolutely not buying this charade.
Smart man.
It's reassuring to know at least one of you is thinking clearly here.
“ —Well, okay, not a question per se, just — a smallish clarification? You know earlier when you mentioned differential prioritization, in intake, I mean, and you said something about not overcomplicating initial impressions, which I totally agree with, completely, obviously. But then last week in lecture they kind of implied sometimes initial impressions can be misleading if you’re not contextualizing or whatever, which reminded of — that patient, you know, bay three? Because technically, if you think about it — and I was definitely thinking about it — then actually we might’ve —”
“Land the plane.”
“I’m working on it.” You press two fingers into the side of your cheek. “It’s just a slightly scenic route, small turbulence, nothing serious.”
“You've been sightseeing for quite a while.”
“But you need the background first,” you insist, a touch more earnest now. “Otherwise how are you supposed to know which particular mess I've made that you need to fix?”
“Maybe try telling me exactly what you need first,” he suggests, voice a perfect flatline. “We can fill in details later.”
You wrinkle your nose before you catch yourself. A small, dissatisfied pinch of lips, a little exhale that communicates clearly and concisely just how difficult he’s choosing to be right now.
Entirely unnecessarily, you might add.
And you're about to clearly communicate this (eloquently, charmingly) but then he's looking directly at you.
And there it is: the terrifying side of Dr. Jack Abbot that everyone else refuses to acknowledge.
His eyes deepen increasingly, the pale amber darkening into something richer, deeper, like damp earth freshly disturbed after rain.
Arguing suddenly feels infinitely harder, your tongue stumbling clumsily over the clever comeback you'd only half-constructed, leaving you speechless.
“I — right, okay,” you say quickly, attempting a desperate verbal swerve at the last second, “I just… might have —” you falter, because suddenly wording feels important, “rearranged my assignment priorities somewhat creatively.”
Those same chocolate eyes narrow into slits.
“The very same assignment that I distinctly recall advising you, explicitly, not to leave to the eleventh hour, given your professor’s intolerance for anything rushed?”
You hesitate. Just for a second. Half a second, really, but inside your head, the pause inflates generously, expanding and stretching until you're sure, somehow, that if you just hold perfectly still the accusation will lose its shape, dissolve harmlessly into something vague and untrue and safely impersonal.
Wishful thinking, because yes, of course, it’s exactly that assignment.
And the worst part is you remember the conversation perfectly, the way you nodded along, all solemn agreement, said I definitely won't procrastinate, like you meant it, which you did.
At the time.
“…I was going to start it earlier,” you try, weakly.
“And exactly what prevented you from doing that?”
It's not a real question, no genuine interest, just waiting patiently for your neatly packaged confirmation of exactly the excuse he's already decided you have.
“Nothing actually prevented me, technically speaking,” you hedge carefully, “but things just shifted around in my schedule, priorities kind of rearranged themselves? You know how it happens. There was that double shift, obviously important, unavoidable, and then the case review, which seemed urgent at the time. And to be fair I genuinely, repeatedly, thought about starting, multiple times, honestly, except something else would always pop up, conveniently and inconveniently. And the thing is, I just — really didn't want to rush it? Which I realize sounds incredibly flimsy right now, but back then, at least in the moment, it felt impressively responsible. Mature, even.”
You finish slightly breathless. It makes it sound like you’re scrambling. You’re not. You’re explaining. There’s a difference.
He looks at you, calmly, silently for a beat, then inhales a slow breath, pointed enough that you can practically hear him saying "take a breath" without a single word passing his lips.
You squint at him but you catch yourself mirroring it anyway, lungs reluctantly expanding, inhaling fully, obediently.
You try again.
“Fine, yes, okay, clearly I’ve made a series of questionable choices, happy now? Lesson learned. Again.” You lift your chin slightly, giving him your best wounded-puppy look. “Now, will you please help me? Pretty please? Like, really please?”
He sighs, slowly pinching the bridge of his nose.
“You realize that look lost its effectiveness roughly two crises ago, right?”
You tilt your head slightly, fingertips grazing his sleeve gently. “That's funny, because your face right now says it's still at least a little effective.”
He doesn’t move his arm away. Progress.
“My face,” he corrects quietly, “is saying I’m deciding whether helping you is worth encouraging this behavior.”
“I promise to behave exactly how you want. Responsibly. Boringly. Starting right now. If you help me.”
You watch closely, biting gently at the inside of your cheek to hide the satisfied grin trying so hard to slip free.
You can see the exact second he gives up, surrender settling behind his eyes like someone reluctantly waving a white flag.
Beautiful, honestly.
Victory tastes sweet, slightly fizzy, bright and bubbly on your tongue.
“Fine. Listen carefully. Go grab your assignment guidelines, print them out because I know you haven’t yet, and meet me in the conference room in ten minutes. You will bring actual notes, a functioning pen, and zero complaints. Understood?”
You throw your arms around him, feeling muscle tense under your touch, before relaxing incrementally.
“Thank you thank you thank you,” you exhale dramatically, eyes twinkling with exaggerated gratitude. You pull back just to meet his gaze. “Have I ever told you you’re my favorite attending? Because you definitely, definitely are. I’ll even write a glowing recommendation letter if you want. Five stars. Would recommend.”
He arches a brow, hands settling at your hips. Reluctantly.
“A letter of recommendation from a med student who regularly ignores instructions. I'm sure that'll carry significant weight, but the sentiment is noted.”
“So harsh.”
“I prefer the term strict.”
“And strict you certainly are, Dr. Abbot,” you agree, smothering a smile into your hand.
He levels that familiar stare at you once again.
Twice now in a single day; genuinely impressive. Really, you’re surpassing yourself at this point.
You raise your palms defensively, already moving away.
And okay, maybe you stretched your creative listening skills too far this time, but honestly?
If the consequence was spending half an hour alone in a room with Jack’s full attention, then you were prepared to repeat this particular mistake at least one or two (or several) more times.
Strictly for academic purposes, obviously.
a/n: my first jack fic yay!!!! everybody cheered!!! mostly just me!!!! anyhow will probably turn this reader into a reoccurring reader bc i am crazy and insane!
welcome to virelia, where affairs of the state bleed into affairs of the heart. this is a living index of all known entanglements between high-ranking officials and their closest liabilities. updates occur without warning. tampering with these records is punishable by reassignment. or worse.
-> onboarding packet!
PERSONNEL INVOLVEMENT
click here for the reader's roles within virelia
diva!reader — contracted to the institute / reports to steve harrington
bimbo!assistant!reader — foreign agent placed within the capitol / linked to aaron hotchner
sweetheart!reader — daughter of the prime minister / shadowed by aaron hotchner
neighbor!reader — logistics liaison to secret service / assigned to aaron hotchner
bimbo!receptionist!reader — administrative plant / placed with spencer reid
translator!reader — rising intelligence officer / in direct conflict with spencer reid
shy!reader — civilian prisoner / held under spencer reid's personal oversight
er!barbie!reader — triage floor chief / interacts with frank langdon
intern!reader — legislative fellow / placed within prime minister michael robinavitch's office
you couldn't stop thinking about robin's comment. and well... curiosity killed the cat. or, more accurately, demolished your cat in a storage closet
bet u wanna read my masterlist! ── .✦ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
pairing: steven harrington x fem!reader
warnings: fem!reader, smut, p in v, dick-induced psychosis, public-ish sex, closet sex, pwp with feelings, oral thoughts no action, dirty talk, blasphemy in the name of science praise kink, fingering, penetrative sex, no condom usage (DONTTTTTTTTT), twinkie (i refuse to say creampie), humiliation kink but it’s just reader embarrassing herself, reader gets high on hypothetical dick, robin haunts this fic like a ghost of horny instigation
prompt: here!
wc: 4.3k (maria shut the fuck up challenge)
“Steve hears that all the time and he goes in anyway, don’t ya Steve?”
You wish there were a drug (prescription, over-the-counter, homemade in a bathtub, you’re not picky) that could hose the last twenty-four hours clean out of your brain. Like a mental Clorox bomb. Rip the wallpaper off. Burn the couch. Scrub the inside of your skull until you couldn’t recall your own name, let alone that sentence.
The one currently rerouting every single one of your thoughts back to Steve Fucking Harrington and the inadvisable fixation on whatever situation he’s got going on in his Levi’s.
Incredible. Gold-star behavior. You should be on a watchlist.
You splash cold water on your face as if it’s holy, hoping it’ll scald the thoughts right out of you if you’re devout enough about it.
It doesn’t. If anything, now you’re just damp and distracted.
You scrape your hair into a ponytail with trembling hands, snaring your fingers on knots you don’t have the patience to untangle. Your reflection meets you in the mirror with narrowed eyes and a contempt so sharp it could peel paint.
Maybe it’s fine. This is just textbook human behavior.
Curiosity kept the species alive, didn’t it? Curiosity made fire, built tools, landed on the moon. You just… redirected it. A little. Preoccupation plus sleep deprivation equals temporary psychosis.
And Steve Harrington’s size is just an equation you haven’t solved yet. That’s all.
However, your brain doesn’t want the excuses you’re giving yourself. It wants contact. And the second you try to intellectualize it, it slips the leash, teeth bared, wrecking itself on imagery and impulse and the sheer kinetic force of your own dumb, dumb hunger.
You know what he was like in high school. Or what he was supposed to be like, if the teenage hivemind was to be believed. House parties every Friday. Cheap beer on his breath. Pretty girls folded into the backseat of his car.
You barely spoke, back then. Might never have, if not for the apocalypse flattening the social hierarchy and parking you two side-by-side in survival’s waiting room.
There’s something kind of poetic about that, if you squint.
And yeah, with a reputation like that, it’s not exactly shocking to imagine he’s got... experience. The rumors made sure of it. Especially the ones that got real creative below the belt.
You open the bathroom door too fast. Before your heartbeat has settled, before your mind has purged even a fraction of the things you just let yourself picture.
Terrible, wonderful things involving you and him and way less clothing.
You step out with heat still coiled under your skin, eyes unfocused, and crash straight into him.
Hard. Chest to face. His chest, your face.
The impact should’ve knocked the thoughts clean out of your head. But they just double in volume. Multiply like gremlins.
You’re ninety percent sure he’s looking straight into your frontal lobe and watching the mental porn reel on loop.
“Shit, sorry — I was just, um, doing the cold-water-to-the-face thing. That’s why I’m wet. My face, I mean.” You motion to your cheeks, as if this will clarify anything. “Not because I’m sweating. I mean, I am sweating, but not — okay, that’s not important. Anyway. Didn’t mean to, uh, crash into you.”
“Whoa, hey, you’re fine,” he says, all gentle grin and slow hands, like he’s trying to calm a skittish animal. He leans in instead of backing up, tilts his head. “You alright? You’re burning up.” His knuckles skim your cheek. “What were you doing in there, running laps?”
Your heart might stop. Or rupture. Or just melt into a little puddle and drip out of your ear, leaving behind a chalk outline and a puff of smoke.
His touch is so steady, so casual, it makes your own body feel uninhabitable.
“I’m okay,” you blurt. “I mean, I’m warm, but I’m always warm. Homeostasis, you know? Higher basal body temperature.” You blink. “Not sick, though. No fever. I checked. Not checked, but I’d know. Probably. I think.”
Steve studies you for a second longer than necessary before his hand falls away. The cool air rushes in where he was, and you almost flinch.
“You sure?” he asks, brow pinched. “You look kinda…” He stops himself. Swallows. “Never mind.”
His fingers move to his belt, fidgeting without thinking, you’re sure. You follow the motion like he’s got you on a string, and you're the world's most suggestible puppet.
His jeans are tight. Unreasonably so.
Is this new? Has he always looked like that? Or are you simply being punished? Because your thoughts are not kind anymore. They are filthy and frantic and belt-shaped.
“I’m fine. I promise. Seriously. Don’t start psychoanalyzing me.”
“Right,” he says, lips twitching like he almost smiles. “Just saying, you’ve been a little… scarce. Thought maybe you were avoiding me.”
Your foot pivots, heel to toe, heel to toe. “No, I’m not avoiding you. Why would I —?”
And there it is. The stumble. The dead end.
“Good question. Why would you?”
“I wasn’t!” you say too fast. “I just… figured if I gave you space, it’d keep things from getting…” You wince. Shit. “I mean, no. I wasn’t avoiding you, really.”
Steve leans back against the wall like it was built just for him, arms crossed, smirk dialed up to lethal.
“Yeah?” he says. “Because from where I’m standing, it looked a lot like someone running scared.”
“I just think it’s completely fair to occasionally take space, okay?” you ramble, hands flailing. “Sometimes people just need time. Alone. To recalibrate. It’s healthy. Especially if, hypothetically, someone maybe said something that stuck in your head like a thumbtack and now you can’t stop thinking about it, and it might not even true but it feels true, and —”
“What feels true?”
You try to reroute. Hit the emergency eject. Say literally anything that doesn’t involve Robin or Steve or his dick size.
Your mouth moves, but nothing intelligent follows.
“I — uh.” Good start. “It’s nothing. It’s stupid. It’s — wow, I’m bad at this.”
You don’t specify what this is. You pray he doesn’t ask.
But then his brow twitches, just a little. And his eyes widen with that soft, dooming interest that means he’s put something together.
“This is about what Robin said.”
You choke on the inhale. “What? No.”
Steve actually looks sorry for you.
It’s worse than laughter. Worse than death. It’s in the eyes, the little tilt of his head, the amused pinch of his lips like he’s fighting the urge to ruffle your hair and tell you to sit this one out.
“Jesus,” he says, grinning. “You might be the worst liar I’ve ever seen.”
“I wasn’t — I haven’t been, like, dwelling on it or anything.”
“If it’s been keeping you up at night,” he murmurs, almost innocently, “I could just tell you. Might help you sleep.”
You cover your face with both hands. “Please stop talking.”
“What?” he laughs. “You’ve got questions, sweetheart. I’ve got answers. This is a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
“I don’t!” you say, voice pitching an octave too high. “I do not have questions. Maybe — okay, fine — maybe I had a thought. Singular. One unit of mental disturbance. But that’s not the same thing, and I definitely don’t need answers, because answers imply interest, and I’m not interested. I’m so far from interested.”
“So you’re telling me, just for the record, that there’s zero interest in whether or not Robin was exaggerating... or proof she wasn't?”
You immediately take a step back like his words physically shoved you.
“You can’t — don’t say things like that. You can’t say things like that.”
He follows anyway. A goddamn golden retriever walking into the flames, all softness and sunlight, warmth invading every inch of your body like light through the blinds.
He smells like vanilla and ocean wind and the kind of summer you only remember in snapshots. Melting popsicles. Sweat-slick heat. Grass stains on your shins.
Your gaze dips to the slope of his collarbone, to the tiny freckle just beneath it.
You think about mouthing over it like it’s the last clean sin left in the world.
“Why not?”
“I — because.”
“That’s not an answer.” He takes a half step. “You sure you don’t want to know?”
“I’m sure I don’t need your charity.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is this?”
“This is me giving you the chance to just ask,” he murmurs. “Because I think you’ve want to.”
“I just don’t want you to think I’m…” You trail off, suddenly unsure what the ending of that sentence is. What? Pathetic? Presumptuous? Clingy in that skin-crawling, middle school way? “It’s embarrassing, okay?” you say instead, voice barely above a whisper. “So if you’re being nice, stop. Please.”
“Do you really think I’d be standing here if I didn’t want to be?” he says. “That I’d be — what? Entertaining you out of pity?”
“I don’t know, maybe?” you say, hands flying up. “You’ve always been nice to me, Steve, and maybe that’s just a you thing, maybe you’re just pathologically polite and constitutionally incapable of making a clean exit from a conversation because you’re scared of being rude and I get that, I really do, but I’m kind of a lot, like, objectively, and sometimes I can’t tell —”
He leans in and kisses you.
The moment detonates, no warning or countdown, just pure combustion, like his mouth struck the match and you were already soaked in gasoline.
Or maybe it dissolves instead, maybe it disappears entirely and takes you with it, because suddenly there’s nothing solid left to stand on.
Your thoughts scatter in every direction, slippery, clattering out of reach before you can grab onto even one of them. Maybe it’s relief, or maybe it’s panic, or maybe it’s both in equal measure tangled so tightly you can’t separate them, because the kiss doesn’t feel sweet or soft or safe.
It feels like something that’s been waiting. Pacing. Burning its way through the walls of his chest until it finally found a way out through your mouth.
This isn’t a kiss you’ll bounce back from. This isn’t a kiss you can shrug off later or file under harmless flirtation, Steve being Steve, like always. Because this is not harmless. This is not casual. This is not anything close to friendly.
It’s blistering. It’s possessive. It’s entirely incompatible with every version of this relationship you’ve tried to pretend was normal.
Your brain blanks. Your lungs forget how to function. You can’t even remember what you were saying before your mouth is full of heat and your brain is full of him, and all the polite categories you sorted him into are collapsing like paper in the rain.
No one kisses like this out of pity.
He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes drag over your face like he’s assessing the wreckage, seeing what parts of you still work.
You’re flushed. Breathless. Somewhere between euphoric and humiliated and already hungry for more.
“You talk too much,” he says, almost fondly. But his eyes catch on your mouth, and the way they darken doesn’t feel fond at all. “Maybe I should keep kissing you until you forget how to speak.”
His thumb traces your lip like he’s considering biting it next.
You blink past him, looking anywhere that isn’t his mouth or his eyes or his neck or the absolutely devastating angle of his jaw, because you’re pretty sure if you keep staring at him, you’re going to forget basic laws of human decency. And public indecency.
Like Joyce Byers walking out of the breakroom with a mug that says “World’s Best Mom” and catching you looking like a couple of hormonal teenagers in the AV room.
“Steve,” you whisper, half-mortified, half-dizzy. “We can’t just make out in the hallway.”
“Then let me take you somewhere we can.”
You nod before the sentence even fully lands, a reflexive, eager little movement that tells on you immediately. So much for playing it cool. So much for dignity.
He doesn’t comment on it, thank the gods, but he does capitalize on it, fingers already hooking into your wrist as he pulls you backward, mouth never quite leaving yours, like he’s discovered a loophole in reality where consequences can’t reach him as long as he keeps kissing you.
The hallway blurs, your awareness narrowing to the press of his body and the sound of a closet door being located purely by faith.
“You know,” he mumbles, voice rough and amused between kisses, “there’s a middle ground between unresolved sexual tension and closet makeouts, but clearly we skipped it.”
You giggle helplessly against his mouth. “You’re the one who kissed me!”
“Mmhm.” He presses another kiss to the corner of your smile. “And look at that —” kiss “— still doing it. Can’t seem to stop.”
There’s a clever comeback balancing precariously on the edge of your tongue, but it never makes it past your lips because his tongue gets there first, hot and shameless, swallowing the thought whole as he presses you back, deeper, until your spine meets cinderblock and your heel kicks something papery and hollow that might’ve once been a box but is now a casualty of lust.
The sound is distant. Muffled. Everything is. Except him. Except the way his fingers, practically dipped in snow, slip beneath your shirt, finding your hips to flatten against the give of flesh.
Your body jerks toward him like a tide you don’t remember starting. He meets you halfway, grinding in slow and steady, the thick ridge of his jeans dragging across your thigh but not there, not where you actually need him.
You know that smile. You can feel it ghosting across your mouth, equal parts smug and merciless.
You brace one hand on his shoulder like you might push him back, but it’s a lie. You just need something to hold onto.
“You’re being mean.”
“Thought I was nice,” he murmurs, not even bothering to hide the grin stretching across his face. “That’s what you said, right? ‘You’ve always been nice to me, Steve.’” His hand drags slow over your waist, inching lower. “Funny how quick your definition changes when you don’t get what you want.”
“You’re twisting my words on purpose.”
“Maybe.” His hand palms your ass, full and greedy, and a faint noise punches out of you. “Or maybe I’m just demonstrating,” he says then rolls his hips forward until the you feel the line of his length presssing right against you through the fabric of your skirt. “People wouldn’t keep saying things if there wasn’t something to back it up.”
Oh.
Well. That clears that up. No more half-smiles or “wouldn’t you like to know” bullshit, no more overheard rumors or vague commentary from people who’ve allegedly seen things, because now you’ve seen things.
Now you’ve felt things. Not secondhand or exaggerated or imagined, but actual, firsthand, physically-verifiable evidence currently pressing against you like an anatomical threat.
He’s hard. Through the layers. Thick and hot and very, very real. So real it’s bordering on impolite.
You don’t understand how he’s just… lived like this. Walked around. Sat next to you. Carried on entire conversations with that much potential sitting in his pants. It’s inhumane.
You want to help. You want to unzip, unburden, atone. You want him in your hand, in your mouth, carved into every version of your imagination like an overdue upgrade.
And you’re going to make that happen. Even if your brain’s just looping ohmygodohmygodohmygod like a broken fire alarm.
“M’wanna see,” you mumble, voice dipped in sugar and challenge and please.
Your hand slips down before you can even finish the thought, trembling with the kind of anticipation usually reserved for Christmas mornings and divine interventions.
You find his belt blindly, drag your knuckles over the stiff leather like it might melt under your palms, and start working at it with a kind of frantic desperation.
But it’s hard, and he’s big, and your fingers are trembling, and the buckle just won’t —
“C’mere,” he says softly, catching your wrist before you can make it worse. His fingers brush yours as he takes over, the buckle opening instantly under his hands like it’s been waiting for him specifically. “So eager, aren’t you?”
“‘S not my fault,” you whisper, almost defensively.
You’re not even trying to play it cool anymore. Because you’re not. Cool, that is. You’re boiling. Bubbling. Practically vibrating with need.
You are eager. Ridiculously so.
“Not your fault,” he echoes, voice gone hoarse. “No, baby. I did this, didn’t I?”
He hums in his throat, hands drifting up your thighs. His fingernail grazes a scar, a stretch mark, a patch of skin you’ve never liked. He draws absent little shapes that make you twitch. One circle. Then another.
You open your mouth to respond, but nothing coherent makes it out, just your own shallow breathing, tangled in vowels.
Your hands are trying to get into his pants, trying to do something, but it’s all angles and nerves.
You get as far as his waistband before his hand finds the damp heat of your underwear and presses down.
Whatever you were going to say evaporates instantly, lost in the whimper that slips out instead.
He groans softly when at that, thumb starting slow circles over your swollen clit, like the sound just fuels him. “There it is. That’s the noise I was waiting for.”
His other hand slips into his boxers, palm wrapping around himself with a hissed breath.
He drags himself free and your eyes drop instantly, your breath catching like he’s knocked the wind out of you.
It’s… obscene. Thick and flushed and heavy and pretty, if cocks can be pretty.
He’s big. Bigger than any rumor. Bigger than anyone should be. The head’s already slick, angry pink, twitching the wrap of his fist.
Your thighs clench automatically.
Steve sees the look on your face and huffs a breath that’s almost a laugh, hand stroking himself once.
“Go ahead, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “You wanted it. Touch.”
Your hand wraps around him like you’ve been waiting your whole life for the opportunity, thumb swiping the slick at the tip without thinking.
“Robin was so right, oh my god, and did you know she once said you probably broke up with that girl because your dick was too big? I thought she was being so rude and now I’m like — shit, maybe she was being nice —”
“Christ,” Steve growls.
You don’t stop. Can’t. “And those stupid rumors in gym? With the thing about the baseball team? And the —”
He cuts you off with two fingers pushing inside you like punctuation. Deep. Perfect.
You gasp like he stole your oxygen. Clutch his cock like it’s your last tether to reality.
“There,” he mutters. “That’s better.”
You whine, then moan, high and sharp, your head tilting back. Your hand twitches on his length, trying to keep up, trying to do something, but your rhythm’s off, messy, helpless.
“Steve — I — I’m trying to — I’m just —”
His free hand finds your jaw.
“Shh, baby,” he says, “just breathe. Let me take care of you, yeah?”
You can’t think. You really can’t. There’s static where your thoughts should be, white noise words once lived, and all of it being overwritten by the flex of his fingers. Your body spasms on instinct, like it’s trying to trap the sensation and keep it.
What kind of person is this good? What kind of boy-next-door-has-a-bat-in-his-trunk knows how to ruin someone with just two fingers and a thumb?
Not that you’re complaining. You’re just… processing. Or trying to. Which is hard, because he looks so beautiful like this. Hair mused, pupils blown, jaw slack. You want to keep him like this. Want to memorize this version of him.
“Want you,” you materialize. “Steve, please. I want you inside me.”
“Yeah?” he says, jaw tight, like the word almost chokes him.
Your eyes well and you nod, fingers digging into his skin. “Yeah. Please — please, Steve.”
“I’ll give you what you want, sweetheart,” he says, thumb brushing your clit once, then pinching, gentle, filthy, mean. “Want it so bad, don’t you?”
You’re nodding frantically before he’s even finished lining himself up, the head of his cock pressing hot and slick against your entrance.
“Are you sure?” he asks, voice cracking with restraint. “You sure you —”
You cut him off with action, sinking down without waiting, a breathless cry catching in your throat.
“Fuck,” he grits. “Okay. Okay. Baby, slow down.”
He’s big, so big, and you knew that, and you’ve said that, and now it’s too late, he’s already inside you, and you swear you can feel him everywhere, not just between your legs but in your chest, your throat, your teeth, like he’s in your bloodstream now, branded into your nerve endings, and it stretches, stretches, stretches until it feels like you might split in half and you don’t care because it’s so good, impossibly good, the kind of good you didn’t think was even real outside of books or porn or those random sleepover stories where girls said it hurt the first time and then got quiet and dreamy and said but it felt amazing too, and now you understand, now you get it, because this… this is transcendent.
You materialize those thoughts into words as best you can: “I — I didn’t know it could feel like this.”
“Fuck. I’m trying so hard not to move,” he pants, knuckles whitening where he’s gripping you.
“Please, Steve,” you babble, hands curling around his biceps. “I’m okay. I’m okay. Promise. You can move, I need you to.”
But you don’t sound okay. You sound wrecked. Because he’s so close, so real, his sweat dripping onto your collarbone, his breath tangled with yours like it’s shared, like you’re not two separate people at all.
“You sure?” he pants, but he’s already circling your clit again, already letting his hips roll forward like he needs it to survive. “You tell me if it’s too much, yeah?”
The pleasure’s cresting again, thick and dizzying and curling in your belly like your body’s working ahead of your brain, chasing a high you can’t articulate.
“Funny,” he mutters in your ear, “you got all flustered over kissing me in the hallway, and now look at you…” He thrusts hard, then again, a little growl pulsing in his throats. “Letting me fuck you in a closet where anyone could walk by. Anyone could hear.”
“I don’t care,” you breathe, eyes wide and glassy. “Let them — let them hear.”
You’re clenching around him, tighter, desperate, the idea of getting caught only making everything worse.
“Yeah?” he says, hips stuttering as your cunt flutters around him. “You want them to hear how needy you sound?” He circles your clit rougher now, chasing it. “You gonna come for me right here? Gonna soak my cock and let the whole building hear it?”
You should be ashamed. You should be mortified. But instead you’re gasping into his shoulder, cunt clenching around him like your body’s forgotten how to let go, and your brain is stuck on loop of his words.
Because you are, you’re going to, because he’s still thumbing at your slit like he knows exactly what your breaking point sounds like and he wants everyone else to know it too, and it’s so hot it feels like being worshipped and ruined at the same time.
“Steve, I’m gonna — I’m gonna come —” The words fracture as your hips jerk, body trying to meet him stroke for stroke.
“I’m right there — just let go, baby, come with me.”
The orgasm builds and breaks in you like a tidal wave, folding over every nerve ending, leaving you gasping, trembling, clutching at his shoulders like you’re afraid you’ll drift away. They might. You don’t know anything concrete right now.
He groans your name as his rhythm falters, hips stuttering, and then he’s coming too. You feel it, the rush of heat, the way his cock throbs inside you in sync with every last sound that crawls its way out of his throat.
His breath is warm against your cheek, lips brushing yours but not kissing, just hovering there, like even that would be too much. You’re both trembling, sweaty and flushed and completely gone, still pressed together like if you separate too fast the world might not start spinning again.
You can feel him inside you still, the rush of his seed spreading and pooling.
Everything’s cotton and fog. Your whole body hums. You don’t know what to do with your hands.
Steve kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheekbone, then your forehead, whispering your name like he’s checking for a pulse.
“Still with me?” he breathes, nudging your nose with his. “You okay?”
You nod. Or think you do. Maybe you just melt a little more into him instead.
You blink up at him, eyes glassy, breath still not fully your own. “That was…”
You trail off, because no word feels big enough.
Steve smiles like he knows what you meant anyway, like he felt it too. He brushes your hair off your damp cheek, kissing your temple.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Me too.”
It was weird how gentle he was afterward, like the same hands that just took you apart couldn’t stop smoothing you down, wiping sweat from your hairline, murmuring sweet nothings between kisses.
You were still trembling, your thighs sticky and your thoughts barely functional, so when he cupped your face and whispered, “Do you maybe want to go on an actual date with me?” it took you a full five seconds to realize he wasn’t joking.
You blinked, dazed, nodded (maybe said yes?) and then you were pulling your shirt down, slipping past mops and shelves and half-melted brain cells toward the exit.
You were still smiling when Hopper strolled past with a grunt and a raised brow.
“Ten bucks says you knocked something off the janitor’s schedule.”
You nearly fall over. Steve turns bright red. You both pretend very hard not to exist.
oh my god. this was OBSCENE!! FILTHY!! DOWNRIGHT OFFENSIVE!! …and EXACTLY what i wanted and needed but do not have the beautiful mind to conceptualise or articulate
thank you maria sont you are a messenger of god and an icon of slightly perverted girls
synopsis: retired from the BAU, spencer learns to find the joy in life again through his daughters and a frosty windowpane.
genre: fluff
pairing: (post show) twin dad! spencer x reader
wc: 1.4k
notes/tags: this is set in the present day!! 44 yr old spencer!!! spencer is retired and happy and at peace because it’s my fic and i want him to be. the show does not control me. not much action or dialogue but spencer is such a sap and he loves his family so so much. holy yap. <3
masterlist // please reblog if you enjoyed it helps promote the fic so much!!
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Frost lined the outside of the windowpane, swirling and splintering across the cool glass with all the grace that a tranquil early morning often carries. From inside, delicate wisps of steam coiled into the air from the mug tucked tight between Spencer’s hands. He’d woken early this morning. No nightmares, no 4am calls into work. No rushing around trying to grab his coffee and his clothes and the stack of files strewn about his desk. He’d simply just… woken up. He was still in his pyjamas, shirt slightly wrinkled where your hand had been buried in it for the better part of the night. A book sat closed in his lap, there for the comfortable familiarity more than anything as he settled further into his armchair, gently adjusting the throw blanket draped over him as he gazed out into the morning light.
The first snow of the year. Something often seen as a symbol of purity, of renewal, of chances to begin again. Every regret and every bad day becomes obscured, far out of reach beneath a thick, glistening blanket that on the next sunny day, the next time it’s shown some warmth, melts away and washes every worry away with it. A fresh start- although Spencer hardly ever felt like he needed them anymore.
He never used to like the snow much. He’d only really become accustomed with it when he grew up, his main memories being the way it bit with it’s cold, icy fangs at his nose, at his fingertips and at his cheeks during those dreaded winter cases. Or how it would pile in his shoes on his way home, making a bad day worse as he felt his socks begin to soak through. One has to grow up with snow, he thought, to really appreciate it. Yet as he sat and watched droplets glow golden under the streaks of the street lamps, watched as it decorated the empty trees and blanketed the shrubs below, he began to think there was more to it than that.
Sure it still bites, sure it still soaks. But there’s warmth to be found in it too when you have children of your own. There’s joy in the rosiness of their little cheeks as he tugs their scarves just a little tighter, and in the piles of wet socks that lay on the floor as he helps them roll on warmer, fuzzier ones instead- mismatched, of course, but always matching each other’s. Spencer especially finds beauty in snowflakes. No matter how similar they look at first glance, each one takes on it’s own path down to tiny, molecular intricacies that to an untrained eye seem insignificant but to those who stop to look - to really look - they make all the difference. No matter how hard you search you will never find two the same. They remind him of the girls. Of his girls.
Alike in every way conceivable on the surface, with the same brown locks and slight bump in their noses he’d passed down to them but wonderfully unique in a way that fascinated him to his core. If you paid attention you’d see the way one always had the same twinkle in her eye that her father had, the one that made her brain overflow with a myriad of questions, while the other’s fingers would twitch with the need to explore and to find answers for herself. Both as insatiably curious as him, and as individual too.
He thinks of how later one will rush out to make snow angels, tossing herself into the snow and making herself squeal in glee as she watches it kick up around her, while the other will immediately begin gathering it into her gloved hands before winding her arm back with an athleticism Spencer believes could only have come from you. He chuckles as he thinks of how one daughter will bundle herself up far too much while the other will insist that no, she doesn’t need another layer on beneath her coat, Dad. When you both bring them inside, cold and red and tired in that way that indicates a fun day was had, he knows that one will insist on only pink marshmallows in her hot chocolate while the other will demand the white, only for them both to pick them out and eat them before drinking anyway.
A creak sounded somewhere behind him, the sound of shuffling feet dragging on a rug pulling Spencer’s gaze from the window as he turned around. His eyes landed on you leaning against the doorframe in your pyjamas, hair mussed on one side where your head had laid on his chest (then on his pillow when he had woken up and gently detached himself from you). Sleep clung to your eyelids as they blinked lazily at him, one pyjama pant leg was still bunched up near your knee and you’d not yet stopped to pull up the sock that had half escaped your foot through the night. Spencer was sure you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
“What’re you doing up?” You mumbled, stifling a yawn as you continued shambling towards him. Instinctively, he set his coffee down and moved the book from his lap.
“It’s snowing.” He answered, voice slightly raspy as it ushered out its first words of the day. How wonderful, he thought, to start a day like this. How many morning breaths were spent taking phone calls, groggily muttering “Doctor Reid speaking” into the receiver before he was even fully awake? How many days had he kissed your forehead with an apology on his lips as he slipped out of bed before he could even say good morning? Before the sun had even risen?
You hummed contently as you draped yourself over his lap like a cat, wrapping your hands loosely over his shoulders as you followed his focus back to the window. A light fog was beginning to clear, hazy rays of yellow shyly peering through the branches of the trees in your back yard.
“Have you been up long?” You asked, smoothing down his hair with a gentle stroke of your hand.
His brow furrowed as he thought about it, realising he hadn’t checked the time once that morning. He hadn’t felt the need to. “I’m actually not sure.”
“Well, it can’t have been too long or I would’ve woken up sooner.” A tiny smile tugged at his lips, his hand finding its way to your calf and giving it an affectionate squeeze as you snuggled further into him.
You craned your head slightly, catching the title of the book he’d set aside. You recognised it as one of his many Sherlock Holmes copies, spine lovingly cracked by hands that had cradled it extra tight in recent years and pages creased in the corners. It was dog-eared now, somewhere around the middle despite him having started the book again last night. He often read a little slower these days.
“It almost doesn’t look real.” Spencer murmured and you turned back to where he was tracking a small bird with focused eyes as it hopped through the yard. Tiny tracks trailed through the snow behind it, so shallow that they disappeared almost as fast as they’d been left. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen it like this before.”
The sun was poking its head out now, a rich amber glow filling the sky and blending into hues of pinks and purples as it waved the moon goodbye. On the ground, the snow twinkled as if it were making up for the stars as the night faded. The streets were still fairly silent, bar the distant rumble of a car engine and the bright coo of a bird somewhere out of sight as the world began to wake up.
“You should enjoy it while you can.” You tucked a curl behind his ear as he turned to face you, pinching his brows as he waited for you to elaborate. Smiling, you shifted to check the clock on the wall before gazing back down at him. “In about 30 minutes it’s going to be covered in a million little footprints.”
Spencer huffed a laugh, picturing the moment when the girls would leap out of bed, bounding down the stairs as they announced with high pitched excitement that it was snowing and that they had to go outside and play ‘right now!’
“I wouldn’t laugh too much if I were you.” You teased, despite the fond grin on your own face. “It’s you they’re going to be dragging out there.”
