when pope tries to protect you from his family's crude conversations, he ends up having to answer your uncomfortable questions about sex
PAIRING pope cody x bunny reader
WARNINGS suggestive content, explicit talk about sex, obsessive behavior, innocent reader, craig being a dick, mention of crying during sex, pope has dirty thoughts about reader, possessiveness, coercive undertones, age gap, emotional dependency, crude language, if u don't like it don't read!!!!
WORD COUNT 1.9k
The Cody house can be a very uncouth place to be.
Loud in every way possible, in volume and temperament too. Filthy-mouthed. Mean for the pleasure of it.
Craig says something disgusting every third sentence just to hear himself say it, just to get a laugh, just to see who flinches and who doesn’t. Deran’s no better when he’s in the mood to needle. And Smurf, when she wants to, can make a whole room feel dirty with one lifted eyebrow and six words.
Pope has never minded crude things. Never saw much use in pretending to. This place is what it is. He’s used to it. This is his life. This is simply the way he grew up.
But now you’re here, Smurf’s latest little acquisition, her new ornament to polish and put in the window.
Another pretty doll in her crooked collection. All polished and docile and good manners, brought in to handle the things Smurf considers beneath her. Logistics. Errands. Paperwork. Loose ends. The harmless-sounding parts, at least on the surface.
Pope can’t decide how much you actually know. About any of it, really — where the money comes from, whose hands get dirty, which names to never mention again.
He bets you don’t ask, though, and Smurf must love that. Probably loves that you move through the work the way you do everything else: sweet and unassuming, smiling vacantly like you’re still asleep, floating somewhere in the middle of the ocean, eyes closed, nothing beneath you but endless dark water.
Open-hearted, oblivious, too easy and good to survive here.
So now the vulgarity of the Cody house grates on him. Makes him tense. Makes his shoulders bunch up near his ears.
“So this chick tells me she can take it, right? Says she can handle anything. Five minutes later she’s cryin’, tellin’ me it’s too good.”
You stand against the fridge, spoon paused midway to your lips, yogurt abandoned as Craig’s drunk slurred chatter hangs in the air.
Pope watches closely, your expression a cloudy haze, eyes soft and curious and unaffected by words that should shock you into silence.
Pope’s fingers twitch at his side, the urge rising like nausea to shake you awake, to wrench you away to somewhere safe.
He stays rooted instead, his muscles aching from the strain of keeping still as your curious voice cuts through the air.
“Why would she be crying?”
Craig looks at you blankly, his mouth hanging open as incredulity colors his face, like he’s never encountered something quiet so baffling.
A clueless girl in the Cody kitchen. It’s almost funny. It’s definitely not funny to Pope.
Deran, at least, thinks it’s funny, he makes a garbled choking sound and swivels away, a strangled laugh breaking through his arm.
Craig continues to gape, finally managing a long breath, punctuated by hard edges: “Are you fuckin’ serious?” He tries again, mouth twisting into a smirk as he attempts an explanation, “I mean sometimes people cry when they’re gettin’ fu —”
Pope moves before his brain can catch up. His body knows something his mind hasn’t yet processed, and one second he’s pressed flat and invisible against the wall; the next he’s behind you, palms cupping over your ears.
Your startled intake of breath dies softly under his touch, your confusion vibrating delicately against his fingertips.
“Don’t,” he growls, gaze sharp, locked onto his sibling’s stunned face. “You finish that sentence and you’ll spend the afternoon putting your jaw back together.”
Craig shakes his head. “The fuck's wrong with you? She's a grown woman. What, you think she's gonna burst into flames if she hears the word sex?”
Pope’s eyes darken, narrowing into slits as he tightens his hold ever-so-slightly around your ears.
“Maybe she will. Either way, you won’t be around to see it.”
Craig lets out a low laugh, running his hand through his hair like this whole standoff is just another joke, palms upraised like he’s dealing with a wild animal.
“Alright. Relax. Whatever you say, man.”
Pope watches him retreat out of the room, Deran trailing not far behind him, likely to finish his story elsewhere.
And that’s fine. As long as he stays over there and out of ear shot of you.
The tension lingering in his tendons only just starts to loosen when he’s out by the pool.
He feels your hands reach up to pull his wrists away from your ears, fingers tentative around his rough palms. Rough palms that make him notice just how soft you feel, petal-pink nails sinking into the course terrain of his own skin.
The contrast is jarring. Scarred knuckles, raised veins, and a web of old cuts meeting hands that have never know real violence.
You pivot in his space, turning to stand toe-to-toe with him.
You smell like whipped vanilla and candied pears. He forces himself not to lean closer, not to draw in another desperate breath because he wants to pin the scent down, memorize it, peel it apart note by note until he knows exactly what clings to your skin and your hair and your clothes.
“What was that for?” you ask.
Pope looks at you. “You don’t need Craig ‘splainin’ things to you.”
“Does that mean you’d rather explain things to me?”
Is that what he meant? Pope isn’t sure, and the uncertainty bothers him more than he wants to admit. The idea of you coming to him with your honest confusion, earnestly asking him to explain the gritty specifics of things he can hardly voice — no, that sounds like a terrible idea.
You have to know the basics, surely. Isn’t that enough? Pope thinks so. He thinks, really, the less detail you know, the safer your carefully maintained sense of self remains. The longer you stay wrapped in that protective bubble, unblemished by knowledge you shouldn’t have, the better.
Pope doesn't want to be the one who breaks it open.
“I’m no good at explaining things like that,” he says finally. “Just don’t need Craig putting ideas in your head either. Or anyone else for that matter.”
You take a small step back, and Pope feels like he’s finally getting air into his lungs again. It’s short-lived. You scoop another spoonful of yogurt into your mouth, pretty lips pursed around the spoon, before you tilt your head and look at him thoughtfully.
“Then… how am I supposed to learn anything?” you ask.
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, aware of the incremental tightening of his pants. Fucking pathetic, he thinks.
He clenches his jaw tight before speaking. “You don’t need to know everything. Some things you’re better off not knowing, yeah?”
Your brows knit together. “But wouldn’t it be better if I at least knew —”
Pope cuts you off sharper than he intends. “No. You heard me. Drop it.”
You look away from him, nodding as your shoulders sink a little. “Right. Sorry.”
The frown on your face settles like a shadow Pope desperately wants to wipe away.
It sits wrong there, out of place, disturbing, even. He realizes, abruptly, that he hates seeing you even the tiniest bit upset. He’s not used to it; your smiles come so easily that your unhappiness feels tangible, something he’s placed there.
Something he’s responsible for. It’s rare to see your features drawn up like this.
God, he’s really fucking this up, isn’t he?
He’s always been a little awkward, always a little too blunt, and no good at smoothing things over. He doesn’t know what comes next, doesn’t understand how to mend whatever he’s broken. Maybe that’s always been the problem, that hollow feeling at the back of his brain, the missing part, the empty gap everyone else seems born knowing how to fill.
“Shit, listen, kid,” Pope clears his throat, running a hand over his face. “I didn’t mean anything by it, alright? I just meant Craig talks a lot of bullshit and there’s stuff said around here that you really don’t need to learn. But —” He sighs, glancing down at his knuckles. “You’re an adult. If you wanna know things, it’s your call.”
You lift yourself onto the counter, legs swinging gently as you bring another distracted spoonful of yogurt to your mouth.
“So if I do decide I wanna know something…” You pause, eyes turned up to the ceiling as if testing the air, probing at an unknown territory. “You’ll tell me about it?”
“Yeah,” Pope says slowly.
He can’t quite meet your gaze, his eyes tracking the linoleum pattern like it’s the most compelling thing in the room. He knows he has no real choice in the matter. Better he’s the one who delivers the hard truth rather than you seeking answers elsewhere. With someone else.
“So…” you say slowly, voice dipping into something quieter, almost shy now. You lift on foot onto the counter, unthinking, the fabric of your skirt slipping upward. Soft pink underwear flashes at the edge of Pope’s vision. “Why exactly was that girl crying — with Craig?”
He takes two steps towards you, broad shoulders angled slightly to shield you from the rest of the room should someone walk in.
He keeps his eyes steadfastly fixed on your face, even as his fingers curl tense at his side, nails biting deep into his palms.
It’s torture, but he doesn’t glance down. Not even for a second.
He hesitates at your question, searching for words that fit just right. He’s not sure he’ll find them, but he forces himself through it anyway.
“Craig was, uh — he was tryin’ to say she was crying because the sex was good, I guess. But, it’s not always just that. People cry for all kinds of reasons during sex. Could be physical, emotional, whatever. It’s complicated sometimes.” He pauses again, clearing his throat. “People have complex reactions to physical stuff like that.”
“Have you ever —?” Your teeth press carefully into your lower lip. He can see the follow-up question forming in your eyes. “Have you ever cried, you know… during?”
“Yeah.”
Your eyes widen slightly. “Really?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs, uncomfortable already. “Happens.”
The word feels too small for it. Happens. Like it’s the same as catching a cold.
“Oh.”
And then his brain takes a turn and he’s picturing you. A common theme. You with glassy and wide eyes, dark mascara streaking down your cheeks in inky lines as he pounds inside you.
He can almost hear your breath catching, a soft sob, the slick slide of tears along your face for him to kiss away.
Given your question, Pope doubts you’ve ever felt something so intensely vulnerable. Probably never cried during sex.
Maybe you haven’t even had sex, though he tries not to assume things. Still, it seems likely, given your blushes, your hesitations, the way your eyes widen at even the most indirect innuendos. You could have some scattered experiences, maybe, fragments of intimacy without ever fully grasping how it all works.
He doesn’t like the sudden flare of possessiveness he feels; he doesn’t want to imagine anyone else ever seeing you like that.
Pope clears his throat, banishing the image away. “So, uh, did that… answer what you wanted to know? You satisfied now, or?”
Your fingers move to twist the hem of your skirt. You look up through your lashes.
“Yeah,” you murmur finally, a little unsure and entirely too sweet. “I mean, I think so. For now.”
“Yeah,” he says. “You let me know if that changes, then.”
Craig’s voice cuts through the kitchen before either of you can say anything else, his footsteps heavier than usual as he strides back inside from the glass doors.
Pope reaches out and pulls your leg down, adjusting the hem of your skirt in the process.
His skin burns from where he touched you.
“I’m tellin’ you, if she can’t fit both —”
Pope interrupts him by stepping forward, giving him a swift shove against the wall. Hard. Craig smacks shoulder-first into the wall with a loud thunk.
“Jesus, Pope. What’s your damage today?”
Pope steps back with a neutral expression, shaking out the tension in his knuckles. “Just doing everyone a favor.”
He avoids your eyes, heat still burning up the back of his neck.
A/N - this reader series will be a lil different than my usual i think... will end up being pretty dark and twisty!!! read at your own risk! and to reiterate!! if you don't like, don't read!
you scrape your knees by the pool, pope attempts to fix it
pairings: pope cody x bunny reader
warnings: fem!reader, reader wearing a dress, minor injury, scraped knees, blood, wound clearning, hurt/comfort, protective pope cody, possessive thoughts, pope calls read kid, pope calls reader doll, reader has freckles bc i wanted to be self indulgent!!!!, grumpy caretaker pope
wc: 2k
Pope finds you sitting on the low concrete step out back with your legs folded to one side. Delicate and stunned-looking in the harsh afternoon lift. A figurine dropped by accident and left there because nobody wanted to be the first to check for cracks.
You haven’t been drinking, he knows that much. You don’t really drink to begin with. Not in excess, anyway.
He scans you to find the problem. Head. Fine. Chest. More than fine. Stomach. Normal.
Knees.
Your knees are scraped raw.
The marks are not serious, technically. But serious enough that the skin has split open into two wet little blooms, blood bright against the grit, dust clinging where it shouldn’t. It runs down your shins in thin, crooked tributaries, and he hates it.
Hates the sight so sharply it feels like a physical punch. Hates that the world got its hands on you for five seconds and already made a mess of what it shouldn’t have touched. Someone like you who is so pure and untouched.
Pope stops where he is.
His hand closes at his side. Opens again. That is his first correction. The second is his face, which he makes blank, or tries to, because you’re already looking up at him, head snapping back too hard, and his mind supplies the sound of it hitting the door before it happens.
It doesn’t happen. Still, his jaw tightens. Careless with yourself, he thinks.
You swipe at your face with the heel of your hand, and say, “I’m fine.”
No, you’re not, he wants to say. Who the fuck taught you to say that so fast?
Instead he takes a few careful steps toward you, keeping his face still, keeping everything locked down, even as the agitation climbs up the back of his neck.
If he gets close enough, he’ll be able to see it clearly. Where the damage starts. Who he’s supposed to blame.
“What happened, kid?”
You sniff once and straighten your back. Brave little thing. Ridiculous little thing. “Nothing.”
Pope doesn’t respond. His eyes stay on you, molten enough to become a thing in the yard, another source of heat in the sun, and he can feel himself doing it only after your fingers move to your mouth. One neat pink nail presses into the swell of your lip, picks at it, worries the softness there.
He wants to tell you to stop. Wants to take your hand away from your mouth. Wants too many things, which is usually the first sign that he should do nothing at all. So he waits for you to fold.
He knows the first answer was bullshit. Flimsy as tissue paper and he lets it tear on its own.
“I tripped,” you admit finally.
“Where?” he asks.
Your lashes are wet when you blink up at him, clumped together in little dark points, and your mouth does that small uncertain thing, twitching at one corner like you’re embarrassed to explain yourself.
“By the pool,” you say. “There was, like, a crack. Or something.”
He knows the crack. He can see it without looking, some warped seam in the concrete by the shallow end, something everyone steps over, steps around, ignores because it’s just part of the house being what it is. Broken things everywhere. Broken people too.
But you didn’t know to look for it. You move through the Cody house like bad things are theoretical, like the ground itself wouldn’t dare rise up and bite you. It did anyway.
Pope lets out a slow breath through his nose and drops into a crouch in front of you.
Bad idea, probably. Everything is worse down here. It’s inflamed, scratches packed with dirt, blood drying in jagged lines.
You don’t like that part. The mess. He can tell by way your hands twitch helplessly in your lap, like you want to wipe it away, clean it up, make yourself presentable again, but the pain is winning.
Your dress, meanwhile, is perfect. Some pink little sundress cut high over your thighs. No wrinkles or stray staining.
From where he is, he could see up it if he tried. He doesn’t. He keeps his eyes where they belong, on the blood, on the damage, on the part of you he can pretend is the only thing he wants to touch. For now.
You try to pull your leg back the second he reaches for your ankle, some quick little prey-animal flinch that might’ve worked on someone less ready for it.
Pope catches you easily. His hand wraps firm before you can get very far. Not hard enough to hurt, not gentle enough to suggest he’s asking.
“Quit that.”
“It stings,” you protest.
“Yeah,” he says flatly. “That tends to happen when you eat shit.”
Your bottom lip wobbles. You gather it back up so quickly it almost disappears, smoothing the expression off your face like a ripple flattening on water, and Christ, you’re pretty when you cry.
It’s a rotten thought. He knows that. He knows that, and still his body reacts before morality can catch up, because his body is old violence and bad wiring and appetite with a pulse.
He drags his thumb down the line of your calf, feather-light, careful to avoid the scrape itself, as if gentleness in one place could cancel out the ugliness in another, as if he could make himself clean by touching you like you’re made of glass.
“You cryin’?” Rhetorical. More of an indictment.
“No.”
“You are.”
“‘M not.” A tear slips free and runs down your cheek as you say it.
Pope watches the trajectory, the thin shine over warm skin. He wants to lean in and taste it. Salt. Flesh. Proof. He kills the urge under the toe of his boot.
You stare past him, surely furious with yourself for the anatomical betrayal.
He lets out a short, humorless breath that almost passes for a laugh and shakes his head. “Tough girl, huh?”
You nod right away, stubborn as hell. “Mhm.”
Another tear comes down. That settles it. Pope looks at it, then at you. Tough girl. Sure. Tough like a rabbit holding still under a hawk shadow.
“C’mere,” he says.
“Why?”
“So I can clean it.”
Your eyes widen immediately, suspicious now, all that fragile toughness collapsing into practical fear. “Is it gonna hurt?”
“It’ll hurt more if I don’t.”
He’s not actually sure that’s true, but he doesn’t know how else to sell this to you. He just knows he doesn’t want you leaving gravel in there and calling it day.
This patio has probably seen every kind of gross substance known to man. Beer, mud, oil, spit, ash, drugs, blood. A dozen things he doesn’t want in your skin. Enough random bacteria to make him think infection before anything else. Enough that he can already picture your knees tomorrow, swollen and pink and you still insisting it’s nothing.
It seems convincing enough for you because you let him pull you up, though you hiss when your knees straighten.
Stiff little steps. Swallowed noises. A terrible attempt at limping in a way he won’t notice, as if Pope has ever missed anything in his life, as if he might tease you for it.
He probably will, a little, because sometimes teasing gets you moving better than sympathy does, but not much.
Inside, he sets you on the bathroom counter and starts digging through the cabinet for peroxide and gauze. The bathroom is too small for both of you. It shows in the way he can clearly inhale the flowery perfume you have on. Sprayed at the base of your throat and insides of your wrists, most likely.
When he turns back, you’ve gone very still, hands braced on either side of your hips, shoulders pulled up nearly to your ears, eyes fixed on the brown bottle like it might lunge at you.
“I don’t like that.”
“No one likes it.”
You pull a face, and your foot kicks forward once, restless and nervous. Your heel brushes his side. Barely. An accident. Pope feels it through his shirt like a warning shot. You retract your foot immediately.
“Well, I like it less than most people,” you mutter.
He steps in between your knees before you can fuss any more, the cap twisting loose between his fingers.
“I think you’re being a little bit of a baby,” he says, then, before you can get offended, adds, “which is fine.” The cap clicks against the counter. “You can sit there and look at me like I’m about to torture you if that helps. But I’m still gonna clean it.” His eyes flick to your mouth, to the pout already threatening there. “You can do that too. Still not gettin’ out of it.”
You seem to consider pushing back one more time, then don’t.
“...Kay,” you say, barely above a mumble. Giving in. Like you’ve made up your mind, like you’ve already accepted he knows what’s happening next better than you do and you’re fine with that.
He isn’t sure how to feel about that.
“Hold still.”
The peroxide strikes the raw skin and you jolt under his hand, a soft whimper escaping before you can swallow it back, your eyes pinching shut like that might save you from the burning.
Pope gets a hand around your thigh before you can yank it your leg back, a quick learner when it comes to your habits.
“Easy,” he says, tipping the bottle back. “You’re alright.” Another careful pour, less this time. Another little flinch. “You’re doing good, doll. Almost done with the worst of it.”
Your lips push out further, eyes going a little softer and shinier. You shift toward him, knees parting just a little more around where he stands, one hand coming off the counter to catch at his side, then his shirt, then just staying there.
He wipes away the last of the pink fizz and dirt in slow passes.
“There. See? Survived.” He reaches for the bandaids, peels one open with his teeth, and smooths it over the first scrape with the flare of his thumb. Then the second, just as careful. “Wasn’t so bad.”
“Easy for you to say.” Your hand stays bunched in his shirt, fingers curled into the cotton like you forgot you were holding on or decided not to care.
Pope looks down at it for half a second too long, then back to the bandaid before it can become anything. The corner of his mouth pulls, barely.
“Yeah,” he says. “You’re right. Sorry, kid.” He presses the left bandaid down where it’s already trying to peel at the edge. “Next time watch where you’re going, yeah? Makes my life easier.”
Your nose wrinkles. It’s cute. Freckles dotted across the bridge, fanning outward in a constellation of sorts. “Sounds like victim blaming to me.”
“You can be a victim and careless with your well-being at the same time.”
You cock your head at him, considering this, “So… are you done now?”
“Mhm. Done.” His hands settle at your waist and lifts you back off the counter, steadying you once wobbling feet hit the floor.
You look up at him then, and your mouth softens into a small, toothless smile. It’s already too much for him. Already better than the pinched-up expressions you’ve been wearing since he found you outside.
He almost makes the mistake of pointing it out. Before he can, you rise to your tip toes, light hands still at his sides for balance, and press those pretty lips to his cheek, just off his mouth.
When you pull away, your teeth find your lower lip and you look at him from under your lashes. “Thank you, Andrew.”
He wants, suddenly and stupidly, to tell you not to thank him for things like that, not for basic shit, not for cleaning blood off your knees like it’s some grand gesture. But then again maybe in your life it is. Maybe that’s the part that makes something protective rise in him.
So all he says is, “Yeah,” low and rough, like the word cost him a little. He keeps a hand at your waist a second longer than necessary before he lets you go. Watches you walk away.
Later, when you’re distracted somewhere inside the house, he goes back out and finds the crack by the pool.
He fixes it the next day.
A/N - popping my pope cody fanfic cherry!!!!!! yipee
warnings: age gap, reader is twenty one, pope being possessive
word count: 913
summary: only a little thought... just sexy makeout session by the pool and that age gap for extra danger
masterlist here
now playing - 'you're so dark' by arctic monkeys
the first thing you noticed about andrew cody wasn't the way people avoided looking at him for too long - it was how quiet he could be in a room full of chaos.
the cody house was loud even on good days: drawers slamming, televisions humming, someone arguing out by the pool while cigarette smoke curled through open windows. but pope sat at the kitchen counter like he existed somewhere outside of it all, broad shoulders hunched forwards, fingers tapping slowly against a coffee mug gone cold hours ago.
you were younger than the rest of them, too young to understand why everyone treated him like something dangerous left unattended, but old enough to notice the way his eyes always followed you when you walked into the room - careful, unreadable, almost protective. and maybe that should've scared you.
instead, it only made you stay longer.
one afternoon, you were sitting on the edge of the pool, picking at a scab on your knee, when pope came out with a beer in hand. he didn't say anything at first, just leaned against the wall and looked out at the backyard.
his eyes landed on you, watching your legs kick idly in the water, and after a long sip, he murmured, "you're gonna be trouble, kid."
not a warning - almost an acknowledgement. he pushed off the wall, closing the distance in two slow strides, then sat beside you, close enough that his thigh pressed warm against yours.
"why's that?" you asked, turning your head to look up at him.
his jaw tightened. "because you're the only one who doesn't run when i walk into a room."
you smiled, unbothered. a mistake. his gaze dropped to your lips for a heartbeat too long. "that a problem?" you asked, dipping your toes further into the water.
pope didn't answer. instead, his hand found the small of your back - not gripping, barely touching, really - just resting there like he was testing whether you'd let him. when you didn't pull away, his fingers curled slightly into the fabric of your shirt.
"only when people start talking," he said low, his thumb rubbing an absent circle against your spine. "craig's got a big mouth. deran's got eyes everywhere. you keep looking at me like that, they're gonna notice."
"let them," you replied, turning your body toward his, knees bumping against his thigh.
pope's breath hitched, just barely audible, and his hand flattened out on your lower back, pulling you closer. close enough that his arm brushed your side with every inhale. close enough that you could see the dark rings around his irises, the way his adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed hard.
"fuck," he muttered under his breath, his hand sliding up to the back of your neck. his fingers curled into your hair, not pulling but holding you there, his forehead resting against yours. the beer bottle clinked against the pool edge as he set it down without looking.
"you know i'm not good for you, right?" his thumb traced your jawline, his voice a low, rough whisper. but instead of pushing you away, he closed the distance between your faces until his lips brushed yours in the barest of touches. a warning. a question.
you closed your eyes. let him feel your breath hitch against his mouth.
that was all the permission pope needed.
the kiss was nothing like you expected - gentle, almost reverent, like he was afraid he'd damage you. his other hand came up to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing your temple as he tilted your head back, deepening it.
it was slow and drowning, tasting of cheap beer and dark desire.
the fingers in your hair tightened, holding you in place as he explored your mouth, the kiss turning less careful and more desperate, his breathing catching when your hand came up to grip his shoulder.
from inside the house, you heard everyone arrive home, laughing loudly, but pope didn't pull away - he just kissed you harder.
his lips moved to your jaw, his teeth scraping lightly as he marked a path down your neck. he knew his family were about to walk outside - he could hear their voices getting closer.
but instead of stopping, he pulled you onto his lap, wrapping his arms around you like he was trying to hide you from them.
"pope? you out here, man?"
he froze for a split second before his mouth found your collarbone, sucking hard enough to bruise. his hands held you tighter, possessive, as if he could make you disappear into his skin. the footsteps came closer on the concrete.
"pope-"
"yeah, yeah, i'm here."
pope finally pulled back, your lips swollen, neck already blooming with purple marks. his eyes were dark, his breathing ragged, but he gave you a look that made your stomach drop - a silent promise that this wasn't over. he wiped his thumb across your bottom lip, smearing your lip gloss, before turning to face his brother with a smirk.
"took you long enough," pope said casually.
craig stopped short when he saw you. his eyes widened briefly before he grinned mischeievously. "what the fuck are you two doing?"
"nothing you need to worry about," pope shot back, his thumb still tracing your lips like he couldn't bring himself to stop touching you. craig's eyes narrowed, zeroing in on the fresh marks littering your neck, and he let out a low whistle.
okay okay okay first of all, I LOVE YOUR WRITING (especially the smaus)
my request! I’m thinking a smutty texting/smau with Pope Cody. I’m thinking maybe reader is a friend of Craig or Deran. She’s texting about how down bad she is for Pope. Like she’s so horny for this man! But she accidentally sends it to him instead of the intended. Maybe she freaks out & apologizes and then ghosts him lol. Then he becomes super obsessed with her.
Idk if that’s too much or not enough but I’m sure whatever you come up with will be AMAZING!!! 💖💖💖
okay i paired this with another req so i HOPE you don’t mind >_< i just thought they’d pair well together! first req for my follower celebration!!!!!
you approach everything clinically, including poorly constructed sex scenes in books. dr langdon decides to take that as an invitation to give you a proper sex ed lesson.
pairings: nerd!reader x frank langdon
warnings: 18+ MDNI, explicit sexual content, reader reading smut, virgin!reader (kind of implied more than outright stated), innocence kink, corruption kink, langdon supplying reader with an sex book?, literally so freaked out and for what, female masturbation, phone sex, langdon talking you thru it!!!
wc: 6.2k
You’ve always had a somewhat fraught relationship with imagination. People say you lack it, to put it plainly. They say you’re too literal. As if being literal isn’t the reason airplanes stay in the air and bridges remain standing.
But you just happen to find reality plenty beautiful. More than beautiful, actually. Reassuring. There is dignity in a thing that can be tested, reproduced, and counted on.
Newton’s law. The sodium-potassium pump. Entropy. Even the grimmer systems at least are consistent if nothing else.
So naturally, medicine was what you pursued in college. Everything means something. Everything is attached to something else. Symptoms are not random; bodies are not whimsical.
Even if an answer is hidden, it exists, and if you are willing to stay with a problem long enough, turn it over enough times, peel it apart layer by layer and build it back from the inside out, eventually it reveals itself.
Fiction does not afford you that courtesy. Fiction wants you to tolerate blank spaces and gaps. You hate gaps. You love knowing.
Fiction gives you half a scene and waits expectantly, like congratulations, now you do the labor.
Build the room. Place the bodies. Infer the angles. Ignore, apparently, that the human body is not an abstract concept but a heavily regulated system of hinges and limits and gravity and very obvious spatial constraints.
You are experiencing one of those gaps now, staring so hard at the page your eyes begin to sting a little, focus tightening to a punitive little point. You think if you look at it severely enough the scene might resolve into something you can understand.
The book says the woman is “on top,” which should be clear enough on its own, except the next sentence immediately ruins that clarity by describing angles that do not, as far as you can tell, exist in three-dimensional space.
And you have so many questions.
Is there a bed involved here? A couch? A floor? Any surface at all?
You reread the line. Maybe you overlooked a prepositional phrase hiding in plain sight. A detail that will clarify whose leg is bent and why it apparently now has the range of motion of a paper clip.
Nothing. No luck. Still opaque.
Possibly more vague now, because repetition has begun to dissolve whatever confidence you had in your own reading abilities.
It is difficult to overstate how humiliating it is to be bested by mediocre smut.
You sigh and look to your watch. 9:18 p.m. Late. The bus is always late. That’s why you have this book in your hand in the first place, wanting to turn dead time into something educational. Unfortunately that’s not how it’s going.
You blow out a breath as another gust of wind snakes over the exposed strip of skin between your socks and the hem of your jeans.
They used to hit lower on your ankle, but courtesy of your building’s shitty communal dryer, they don’t do that anymore.
“Interesting reading choice.”
It is not a voice you prepared yourself to hear. You weren’t prepared to hear a voice at all, really.
So when you hear the familiar pitch of Landon, your body overcorrects, sending you backward like a startled deer losing traction on ice.
You see the next ten seconds in a flash: the hollow thunk of your head on the pole behind you, the stuttering apologies delivered as your vision tunnels, the concussion protocols that will surely haunt you for weeks, months, possibly forever.
But those ten seconds never actually happens.
Instead, you cautiously peer up into the flat, coolly appraising expression of Langdon, whose hand is placed behind your head, taking the brunt of the impact.
“Oh. Hi. Dr. Langdon. I, um, this isn’t — I’m not —” You’re already floundering, trying to assemble something defensible out of a situation that is not defensible. “It was recommended,” you say at last, which is true, though not in a way that sounds remotely exculpatory once spoken aloud. “By Javadi. She said it was good, which I assumed meant, like, well-written, not — this. Which I know sounds — I hear it, I hear how it sounds, but I didn’t just, like, seek this out independently. I was curious from a clinical standpoint.”
Shit.
You just lobbed Victoria under the bus didn’t you? And unlike the literal bus, this metaphorical one arrived enthusiastically on time, probably even honked.
You add it to the growing ledger of things you owe her. Coffee, at the very least. Something artisanal, thoughtful, handcrafted.
A note, handwritten in apology, because email would be cowardly and texting would feel insufficient, and really — after what you’ve just done, you’re not sure anything short of ink, paper, and a tangible record of shame could suffice.
He removes his hand, the pressure at the back of your head disappearing as he shifts to rest it along the bench behind you instead.
“Clinical,” he repeats. His eyes flick briefly to the book in your hands, then back to you, unimpressed. “And what have you concluded so far, doctor?”
“Not a doctor yet,” you point out. Not sure why you do. “But, um, just that it’s just not very clear? Like, the scenes move really fast, and I feel like I’m missing steps in between, so I keep trying to visualize what’s happening and I just end up getting stuck on, like… where everything is supposed to go and —” You stop, frowning now. “You — you probably didn’t actually want an answer to that, did you?”
His mouth pulls just enough to suggest he’s entertained despite himself. “Not initially.”
You nod. “Okay, good, because I definitely wasn’t planning to provide detail. Just, you know — general plausibility stuff. Realism concerns.”
“Let me see,” he says, and before your frazzled brain can form an adequate objection, he's already reaching forward, extracting the paperback from your suddenly slackened grasp.
You stand abruptly, the bench scraping in a terrible sound against concrete as you reach for the book.
“You really don’t have to do that.”
A correct statement. Useless, however, as he lifts the novel out of reach without even looking at you, arm extending just enough to make it clear that this is not a negotiation, and also, somewhat insultingly, not even difficult.
You briefly consider climbing him. Scaling him like a distressed, socially compromised marsupial and retrieving the book by force.
It feels like a viable solution. You dismiss it only on the grounds that in the last five minutes alone, accumulated enough embarrassment to sustain a normal person for at least two lifetimes.
And theoretically there should be a cap.
There is not, apparently.
Because after a brief glance at the page, he starts reading aloud: “She sank down on him with an aching slowness, savoring the stretch of it, the sweet friction that made her pulse flutter faster with every roll of her body. His hands gripped her waist, guiding her, keeping her there while the pleasure mounted in teasing waves until she was shaking with it, desperate and almost there.”
You feel the heat spark up your spine and towards you neck before saturating your face. The intensity momentarily blurs your vision.
Your hands tighten uselessly at your sides, a strange, unfamiliar tightness coiling low in your stomach.
You try your very hardest not to let your mind start making substitutions. You try not to let the faceless bodies on that page acquire identifiable features. A chin dimple, for instance. You try not to let the voice in front of you fuse itself any further to the text than it already has.
You wrench your gaze upward, fixing it somewhere behind his left ear, hoping that physical distance might somehow dilute your newfound imagination that just five minutes ago you were bashing.
He closes the book with a snap, eyebrow arched. “Sounds perfectly reasonable.”
“I mean, maybe,” you respond, a little too quickly. “If there were just… more specifics? Like, about the positioning. The angle, or where —” You take a quick breath. “Never mind.”
“And exactly how would you clarify it?”
“I’d probably just… add another line,” you say. “Like, specify that her hips are lower, or that her weight is shifted forward so her center of gravity is closer to his. Just so it’s clear what’s actually happening.”
He doesn’t say anything right away and when his eyes flick forward again, they look a little different beneath the dark of the sky, the blue of them deepened into something richer. A little less straightforward, you think. Lapis held in low light, saturated in silver strips and a little too pretty.
You watch as his tongue drags across his lower lip, the briefest glimpse of moisture highlighting the subtle contours and fine, shallow ridges of texture there.
“If you’re that concerned with accuracy,” he murmurs, “I’m sure there’s ways to run a practical demonstration.”
You have a hard time understanding what he means by that and when your mind does attempt to furnish the words with imagery, you have to recoil from your own thoughts.
Does he mean with him?
No, surely not, that is not where he wanted this conversation to go, and besides, that interpretation feels reckless, egotistical even, considering he is almost certainly saying it in the most neutral, solution-driven sense possible.
If that’s what he’s saying at all. He might not be. You can’t tell.
He is offering a suggestion for you.
You are the one making it weird.
“Oh. Well, it’d probably end up being more complicated than it’s worth. I’d need a controlled setup, probably multiple attempts, and at that point it’s less a demonstration and more a full reconstruction.”
A muscle feathers along his jaw as he tips his face towards the moon-lit sky. He seems to do that a lot. Like he’s appealing to some higher power for fortitude to deal with you. Or maybe not you specifically, which would be preferable, expect it does feel rather like you are the central to the current crisis, you just aren’t sure how.
Then he exhales a small laugh, thin with disbelief, and shakes his head once.
“You’re right,” he says, voice deadpan. “Clearly I wasn’t thinking this through. Practicality first.” He glances pointedly at his watch. “It’s late. I’ll give you a ride home.”
You accept his offer without arguing, you’d be a fool not to, and trail him out toward the parking lot. A step behind, then a half step, then back again. You can’t quite decide on the appropriate proximity.
When you reach the row of cars, you realize you’ve never seen his before.
It’s nice. Grey, practical, a four-door SUV that screams fiscal responsibility and weather-appropriate footwear, a vehicle with divorced-dad energy so specific you can practically invent the rest of the man around it: patient at youth soccer, quietly resentful in a grocery store parking lot, pretending not to be wounded by logistical disappointments.
The interior only deepens the impression. It is clean, but not in a forbidding way, not scrubbed of personality.
There is a toy in the cupholder, a crumpled napkin tucked into the side compartment, a few fast-food receipts scattered near the floor like the residue of a life conducted at speed.
It feels lived in, which is somehow more intimate than if it had been spotless.
It is, disconcertingly, human. More human than you expected from a man who often carries himself like a sealed document.
Nice, you think again, and then, unhelpfully, him, the two notions beginning to blur together before you can stop them.
It’s a relatively quiet drive to start. The radio tuned to some Catholic station it must have picked up nearby, murky and hard to decipher, while streetlights drift past in bands of orange and green, staining the inside of the car with color and then taking it back.
“Javadi really recommended that?” Frank asks suddenly, piercing the silence.
“Yeah,” you admit, then wince almost immediately. “Well, sort of. I mean, I probably should not make it sound like she shoved it into my hands in some kind of corrupting-the-youth campaign. She mentioned it, but I was already curious. It was not not my idea.” You glance down, suddenly very interested in your own hands. “I’ve just been trying to do a little research, I guess.”
His fingers tap once against the steering wheel.
“And what, specifically, are you hoping to learn?”
Your mouth presses thin for a second. You’re not sure if you should continue.
“I was mostly just trying to get a better sense of... how certain things work in real life,” you say, picking each word carefully. “As opposed to in theory. Or in whatever version of reality people usually pretend is self-explanatory.”
He says nothing at first. Then through grit teeth: “You mean because no one’s explained it to you?”
You glance over, caught a little off guard by the question. “Well, not in any useful sense.”
His jaw flexes.
“And the alternative,” he says slowly, “was assigned reading.”
You wince. “When you phrase it like that, it does sound bleak.”
“When I phrase it like that, it sounds like you’re trying to teach yourself something most people learn by experience.”
“Well,” you mumble, “yes. More or less.”
The light changes and he brakes, the red wash from the signal pouring through the windshield and across his face, tinting his skin rose-gold.
He screws his eyes shut for a brief second, hands drawing tighter on the wheel before he exhales.
“In that case,” he says, opening his eyes again, “I’m not entirely convinced that’s the most reliable educational resource.”
“Why?” you ask, with enough sincere confusion to make it clear you are not arguing so much as requesting clarification.
The light turns green.
“Because it’s not source material. It’s entertainment.” His tone stays level, but only just. “It takes whatever is most dramatic, most flattering, most appealing, and presents it like it’s standard. It leaves out the parts that are inconvenient or unsexy, which means if you treat it as educational, you’re going to come away with a very distorted sense of how any of it actually works.”
“I guess that makes sense,” you say. “There were definitely sections where I kept thinking, surely that cannot be how that happens. Or at least not without significantly more preparation, flexibility, or orthopedic intervention than the text was willing to acknowledge.”
“So I gathered.”
You fall quiet after that, though not for lack of further questions. In fact the opposite is true, because now he has accidentally positioned himself as a person with knowledge of how sex works.
But that would be inappropriate on at least six different levels.
He is driving you home as a favor, not volunteering to become some kind of after-hours consultant on the mechanics of sex, and there is no universe in which asking for elaboration would make you seem anything other than catastrophically unwell.
You almost ask him anyway.
But before you can make what would almost certainly be the worst possible decision available to you tonight, the car slows, turns, and then stops.
You stare at the windshield, disoriented by the fact that you are suddenly at your apartment.
“Right,” you say, gathering your bag with the abrupt, clumsy movements of someone trying to recover from her own thoughts. “Thank you. For the ride.”
He gives a brief nod, one hand still resting on the wheel. “It was no trouble.”
You do not believe that for even a second. Still, you murmur goodnight and let yourself out, hurrying inside with as much dignity as can be salvaged after a conversation like that.
A couple days later, you’re sitting in the breakroom with your head propped in your palm, devoting a frankly heroic amount of effort to not drop face-first into the laminate.
You are exhausted, which is surely unrelated to the fact that you stayed up too late conducting what can only be described as independent research.
There is, it turns out, an astonishing amount of positions.
More than seems necessary, honestly. Far too many names. Far too many diagrams. So many that appear to require either exceptional upper body strength or a level of mutual coordination that feels statistically unlikely in the average civilian population.
Some are perfectly straightforward. Many are not. Several seem just down-right wrong.
The door opens and you glance up, prepared to offer some vague nod of recognition to whoever has come to interrupt your private collapse.
Langdon.
“Oh,” you say, straightening a little too quickly. “Hi, Dr. Langdon.”
That seems to be your automatic response to his presence.
His eyes narrow. “Rough morning?”
You give a small shrug. “M’fine.”
“You’ll have to excuse my skepticism.” He drags the chair across from you and sits.
“Just stayed up too late.”
You hope that doesn’t inspire follow-ups.
He slides something across the table toward you. A book. You stare at the cover. Then at him.
“This,” he says, tapping two fingers once against the cover, “is at least designed to explain things.”
Slowly, as if touching it too fast might make this more real, you pick it up and turn it over.
The back is dense with tidy paragraphs about desire, arousal, and the science of how women’s bodies actually work, all written in the reassuring language of expertise, which would be comforting if your pulse were not currently behaving like it had something to hide.
“That’s… unexpectedly thoughtful,” you murmur. “Thank you.”
“Don’t make too much of it.”
“I won’t,” you say, which is a lie so poorly constructed it barely qualifies as one.
You are, in fact, almost certain to make too much of it later, probably in bed, probably while staring at the ceiling.
Then the door opens again. You nearly jump. You pull the book against your chest like you are protecting classified material. Langdon’s eyes narrow a fraction.
Garcia steps inside a second later, pauses, and looks between the two of you.
“...Am I interrupting something weird?” she asks.
You stand so quickly the chair legs scrape against the floor.
“Nope,” you say. “Not at all. Nothing weird. Not even slightly.” You clutch the book tighter. “I do, however, suddenly need to go be elsewhere. For work-related reasons. Very legitimate ones.” You nod once. “Okay. Bye.”
It’s late when you finally start to read the book Langdon gave you. Your first mistake, really. You have to be up in four hours. Four.
But the book turns out to be more useful than expected. It has information. Real information. Terminology and diagrams and explanations that move in a sequence a human brain can follow, one thing leading intelligibly to the next instead of that gauzy, vague, everyone-just-knows-what-to-do, magical event nonsense.
And this all should, theoretically, be enough to satisfy you.
Except every answer you get splits open into three more questions, hydra-style, the whole thing multiplying the second you think you have a grip on it.
And yes, sometimes Google is enough. But sometimes it is not.
Too broad, too contradictory, too many tabs open at once, too many Reddit posts written by men with misplaced confidence.
So now you are sitting on your bed staring at your phone, typing a message, deleting it, retyping it, deleting it again. Because this is weird. It is weird to text him.
But then again, he did hand you the book.
He did, in a very real sense, amplify this situation. And maybe giving you additional reading material counts as tacit approval for further questions. A follow-up. Continuing education.
You hit send.
hi dr. langdon. sorry. i have a question about the book!
It takes only a couple seconds for him to answer.
Go ahead.
You sit up so fast the book slides off your leg and drops onto the bedspread with a soft thump.
You stare at the screen.
You expected eventuality, a response tomorrow morning maybe, sometime after sunrise, sometime under the polite cover of daylight when everybody involved could collude in pretending this was a normal academic exchange and not you texting a senior resident after dark about sex-adjacent material like you were requesting clarification on electrolyte imbalance.
You glance at the clock and frown.
What is he even doing up?
Surely you didn’t wake him. You cannot imagine he sleeps with his ringer turned up loud enough for that. No, he feels like a phone-on-silent, notifications-curated, emergency-contacts-only kind of man.
You spend four minutes composing the question. You send six words.
what does “building sensation” actually mean?
Need more context than that.
You photograph the page. You send it. You put your phone face down on the quilt and do not look at it for a full minute.
When you finally make yourself turn the phone over, he’s answered.
It’s the physiological buildup to orgasm. Increased blood flow, heightened sensitivity, pelvic muscle tension. Sustained and constant stimulation. The sensation compounds on itself.
Your thumb catches idly on the hem of your pajama shorts, worrying the fabric back and forth while you stare at the screen. It takes a long amount of time to realize you’re doing it. You stop. Then start again without meaning to, fingertips slipping under the edge to press against your thigh.
is consistency about location or pressure or both? the book implies they're interchangeable.
Both. Generally location first, then pressure. If you keep changing where you’re touching, it’s harder to build anything. If the location is consistent but the pressure is erratic, same problem. They’re related, but not interchangeable.
Your free hand has drifted north to the waistband of your shorts, thumb pressing little crescent moons into overheated skin. Almost feverish.
Location first.
An unfortunate instruction to receive while being aware of the exact location in question, muted now by two thin layers of cotton.
You should stop there. Obviously.
You should set the phone down, turn off the lamp, go to sleep, and revisit all of this in the morning when you are less suggestible.
Instead your hand keeps moving, slow enough that you can perhaps pretend you have not consciously decided anything, slipping lower until it hovers over your underwear, where your clit presses back against the fabric. Swollen. And then lower than that, wet.
That startles you more than anything. From what, exactly? A sex manual? A few texts? Him?
No. That last one is inadmissible. Wildly inappropriate.
So you drag your mind back to the book instead, using it as a kind of corrective, something technical to blunt that he is, however indirectly, implicated in this.
Start with indirect stimulation. Let the body acclimate. Don’t rush the thing. Let the thing, apparently, arrive on its own like a skittish woodland creature you are trying not to scare off.
Fine. Whatever.
You press your thumb down and make a circular motion, sucking in a breath so sharply it almost hurts, mostly because the sensation is immediate and strange and good. You wouldn’t say overwhelming. Though maybe you would. You can’t think straight. Surprising, then. Concentrated.
Like pressing a bruise, except the complete inverse of that, if they lit up instead of aching. It makes you want to do it again.
So you do.
Small circles. Experimental. Testing the waters.
And it’s not like this is technically new. You have tried before.
But before was rushed and graceless and was the sort of thing done half-curiously and abandoned quickly, with no patience for your own body.
You were raised sheltered, and beyond that, serious. Preoccupied with things that seemed more pressing, more worthy of your attention, as though this part of yourself could be indefinitely postponed without consequence.
You pick the phone back up with your unoccupied hand.
okay. that makes sense.
You stare at it, dissatisfied. Too final. Too capable of ending the conversation. You add another line before you can overthink yourself out of it.
and if the sensation is building, when are u supposed to switch? like to inner stimulation, i mean. or are you not supposed to unless what you’re already doing stops working?
The typing bubble appears instantly.
You don’t have to switch. That’s the first thing.
External stimulation is usually more important, especially early on. Inner stimulation is optional, not a required next step.
Little gasps keep escaping you as you refine the motion, not changing much, just enough pressure to sharpen it, back arching into the mattress.
It feels good. You don’t remember it ever feeling this good.
Maybe because before did not involve a very attractive doctor explaining your own body back to you in real time.
It is getting harder to text. Harder to think in complete sentences. Still, you manage, so if it’s working, is it better to not change anything? even if it starts feeling a lot more sensitive?
Your phone starts ringing.
You freeze when Frank's name flashes across the screen.
For a moment you can only stare. Your pulse jumps in your throat, fluttering there like something trapped, and then you are yanking your hand from your shorts and grabbing for the phone with fingers that suddenly seem to belong to someone much less coordinated than you.
“Hi —,”
“What are you doing?”
“What do you mean?” you ask, though your voice already sounds guilty, chest rising and falling unevenly. “I’m — nothing. I’m just reading.”
“You’re not a very good liar.”
You frown at the dark ceiling. “I hate the confidence with which you say things.”
“It’s usually earned.”
You make a face at that, even though he cannot see it.
“I wasn’t prepared for a pop quiz,” you mutter. “You called out of nowhere.”
“A call seemed appropriate,” he says through the soft buzz of static.
“Why?”
Your whole body feels keyed up now, strung too tight, humming with a surplus of energy like you have been plugged into the wall and simply left there to glow.
It's hard to keep still under the blankets. Harder with his voice in your ear, that low grain of it roughened by the hour, touched with that tired edge that makes him feel closer than he is. He sounds warm. He sounds half-undone.
You can picture him without trying. In bed. Hair rumpled from sleep or from his hand shoved through it one too many times, one stray piece fallen near his eyes. Maybe in pajamas. Maybe not. Either option is equally disruptive. You brain offers a shirt pushes up a little, one arm behind his head, a strip of stomach, a line of hair disappearing into plaid boxers.
You shift on the mattress. Your hand trails back down your front, fingers resuming their place on your underwear.
“Because your last text didn’t read like a theoretical question,” he says. “I wanted to hear whether I was right.”
The words move through you, like he has reached through the phone and pressed a hand flat to your lower stomach.
“And were you?”
Your hips shift on the mattress again, angling into your own touch.
You bite your lip around the small throb of pleasure that follows.
“Yeah. I was.” His voice comes through coarser now, the line fuzzing around it, but not enough to hide the change. “And if I’m hearing you correctly, you haven’t stopped.”
You squeeze your eyes shut.
“...maybe.”
There's a brief pause on the line. You hear the rustle of him moving, before he speaks again. “Tell me exactly what you're doing.”
“I’m, uh…” You mouth goes dry. “I mean, you know.”
“I can’t tell you what to do if you won’t tell me what you’re doing,” he says. “You need to be specific.”
You swallow.
“I’m touching over my underwear,” you admit finally, the words coming out hushed and a little uneven. “Just with my thumb. I’m not really… doing anything more than that.”
A soft exhale crackles through the phone.
“That’s good,” he murmurs. “Tell me if it feels good.”
Your lashes flutter at the words. Your thumb keeps tracing the same spot, a little more rhythmically now, and every so often your hand falters when the sensation catches unexpectedly bright, a live wire under your skin.
Flashing hotter and hotter and hotter until you can barely stand it.
Your thighs draw in on instinct, then ease apart again, restless, unable to decide whether they are trying to hold the feeling or escape it.
“Mhm.” It’s all you can manage.
You start to picture him again. Existing in real time in the dark on the other end of the line now.
It sends the throbbing in your cunt up tenfold, sharp little bursts of color flying behind your eyelids, green and orange and something almost gold.
You use your imagination to conjure up the image of him doing the same. Him with the phone in one hand and the other moving in lazy unhurried strokes around his cock, like this is no great strain for him, like he is as controlled in private as he is everywhere else.
You wonder what it looks like. His cock. Probably big and pink and veiny.
You know, rationally, that he is probably not doing that at all. He is probably just lying there in the dark, listening, talking, being composed for both of you.
But it is a nice thought anyway. More than nice, really. Your body answers it before you can caution it otherwise, your clit going heavier and more swollen, as you move to touch yourself without the barrier of your panties. It’s more sensitive that way. And your whole lower half seems to lean vainly into your own hand, practically preening toward the touch.
“Now I’m, um, touching myself directly.”
“Alright. Want you to try something. Can you do that for me?”
“Yeah,” you say quickly. A little too eager. “I can.”
“Good girl.” The praise makes your stomach tighten. “Want you to slide two fingers into yourself a little. Not all the way, just enough to get them wet, okay? Then bring them back to your clit and keep using your thumb, or your fingers if that feels easier. Same pace as before.”
You nod even though you know he can’t see it and slip two fingers down, enough to feel the sticky warmth of yourself, coating your digits.
You bring it back up, smearing it over your nub.
“Oh,” you mumble breathily.
“Yeah?” he teases quietly. “That better?”
“A lot.”
“Good. It’s easier like that. Less friction. If you’re getting more sensitive, too much drag starts working against you.”
He’s right. He’s always right. You feel a little strange and floaty now, like your whole body has narrowed down to one incandescent point.
“How do you know all this?” you prod.
A pause. Then, “Experience.”
“Right. That.” Another circle, another spark of pleasure down your spine. “I don’t exactly have that.”
“I gathered.”
Something in his tone makes you go a little still. Not enough to stop, but your hand falters, tightening around a thought before you can even identify it.
He notices immediately. He has some terrifying sonar for you specifically, some private frequency calibrated to every tiny shift in your breathing, every dropped beat, every half-second hesitation.
“Hey,” he says pointedly. “Don’t get in your head now. Never said it was a bad thing. Keep going. Think about something else.”
“Such as?” you whisper.
There’s the sound of breathing from the phone before he answers, “that’s up for you to decide.”
You suck in a sharp breath, squirming as you adjust phone closer to your ear
“Can you just… keep talking to me?”
There’s a huff on the other end, almost a laugh. “That’s not very specific.”
“I know.” You’re sure you’re not making much sense right now. “I just — don’t stop. Please. Just wanna hear you say anything.”
He’s quiet for a second, like he’s trying to decide what, exactly, you’re asking for. The problem is, you’re not entirely sure either.
You only know there’s a strange, tightening warmth low in your stomach, something gathering there, and his voice seems to nurture it instead of breaking it apart.
You hear something clang on the other end of the phone.
“Fuck. Okay. First need you to breathe, okay? You're tensing up, I can hear it. Relax your legs.”
You try to do as you're told.
In. Out. In. Out.
Each breath feeding the whole thing oxygen, driving you nearer and nearer to the vanishing point until your eyes threaten to roll back and your body feels like on extended nerve.
“I —” A breath. “Sorry, I just —” Another one. “Frank I think I'm — I'm close, I think, I don't — It's really intense and I don't know what I'm —” You lose the thought entirely. “I just don't know what I'm supposed to do when it starts feeling like this. Do I stop, or —”
“Shit baby, you've never gotten there before? Not even —”
“No,” you manage.
“Oh, poor thing.”Quiet. Almost to himself. “Okay. ‘S okay. Don't stop. I need you to stay with me and just let it happen, can you do that?”
“I think —”
“Don't think,” he cuts you off. “For once in your life, don't think. Just feel it.”
Something in you finally gives.
You feel all of it at once.
Your orgasm peaks so fast it almost feels like losing power everywhere at the same time, every room going dark together, and your back comes off the pillows and your hand presses harder before you even mean for it to and a gasp tears out of you, high and helpless and so unlike anything you have ever heard from yourself that for a second it barely sounds like yours.
“That’s it,” Frank says, low in your ear.
It rolls. That's the only word for it.
It rolls outward from your pussy in a slow, stunned series of tremors moving through your thighs, your spine, your chest, each wave its own distinct thing and yet not distinct at all, each one its own event, its own brief undoing.
You cannot do anything except lie there and take it, receive it as it passes through you, because there is nothing else available to you now, no other function left online, no thought, no dignity, no language, only this long bright aftershock and your body answering it whether you understand it or not.
Your breathing takes a while to come back to anything recognizable.
At first it is just air dragged in and let back out. Sweat has glued a few strands of hair to your forehead. Your hand has gone slack.
“You still with me?”
That is when your brain comes back. All at once. Hard. Fast.
Because now you are not just a body coming down from an orgasm.
Now you are yourself again. And Frank Langdon just talked you through getting off.
Frank Langdon, your coworker. Frank Langdon, your superior. Frank Langdon, whom you have just used as a combined anatomy instructor, practical demonstration guide, and live sex education resource.
“Yes, yeah, sorry.” You swallow, wipe at your forehead with the heel of your hand. “I'm here.”
“Glad to hear it,” he says. “Your sensitivity's going to be elevated for a minute, so just let your muscles relax and let your breathing even out. If you feel shaky, that's normal. If you heart's racing, also normal. Get some water when you can. Sit up slowly if you're going to move.”
“Okay,” you murmur, because he sounds so certain that for a second it is easy to borrow some of it. You try to unclench by degrees, thighs, stomach, shoulders, one thing at a time. “I am a little shaky, which is good to know is normal and not, like, a sign that I’ve accidentally broken something."
“No,” he says, and there is that low note of dry amusement under it now, just enough to catch. “You didn’t break anything. If you had, trust me, we’d be having a very different conversation.”
“Right, no, I know. Though sex-related injuries are not exactly unheard of. Do you remember that girl in the ER who had a condom stuck in her for over two months and didn't realize it? That would suck."
"Mm. It would," he agrees. "Protection is important. Equally important to make sure it actually comes back out with you."
You let out a small giggle at that and shift on the bed, drawing yourself up a little slower this time, careful like he told you to bed. The quilt bunches under your legs.
A quiet opens up. And it might be comfortable if it with anyone else. But it is not with anyone else.
You break first.
“So what happens now?” you ask, trying for light and missing by a little. “Do we pretend this was a totally normal educational exchange and never speak of it again?”
“I don’t think you’re capable of pretending that,” he says.
You flush hot all over.
“And you are?”
A pause.
“No.” The room goes still around you. You wait for him to elaborate. He doesn’t, but he does say: “You should get some sleep.”
“Yeah,” you murmur. “Probably.”
You have to be up in three hours now. Have to see him in four.
Another beat. Neither of you hangs up.
Then, very quiet, very even, he says, “Next time, ask sooner.”
“Next time?”
“If you’re going to use me as a reference source,” he says, all dry composure again, though now it feels a little put on, “I’d prefer a more reasonable hour.”
Your cheeks heat with the power of a thousand suns.
“Oh, well, Dr. Langdon, I think —”
“Goodnight.”
The line clicks dead.
You lie there staring into the dark, phone still pressed to your ear, and understand with awful, perfect clarity that this has not ended anything at all.
More gaps in your knowledge.
And you really hate gaps.
A/N: this has been sitting in my drafts 4 ten thousand yrs!!!!!!!! thinking about writing a part two but we shall see. anyway thanks for reading!! love ya always
I feel like all my posts are disappointing recently, I promise SMAU has not been abandoned and a new post will be out soon!!! I’ve just been so stressed and busy recently but I have not abandoned it I promise
(For anyone wondering why I’ve been so busy I went to london recently and got to see Sadie sink!!! She was amazing!!! )
when barbie and frank finally start dating, i stg one of them isn't going to notice, the shift in relationship so gradual one of them doesn't even realize it, and the other is like "we've been dating for 3 months"
er!barbie!reader x frank langdon
LOL this is such a funny concept to me that i can totally see. more so with er barbie bc i can genuinely see her not even notice that they're officialy dating. at all (which i know isn't exactly what you're saying but bear with me). it probably never occurs to her to ask or define it, because it just feels so natural and right and she's been mentally dating him for months anyway, so the actual transition just doesn't register?
meanwhile, poor frank, in his slightly anxious doctor brain, has checked off every box for a real relationship without ever openly announcing it. he assumed she knew. because obviously, right?
it starts super small. coffee on her desk every morning, frank standing slightly closer in the trauma bay, him automatically reaching out to steady her when she wobbles in heels. barbie’s just like, "wow, frank’s so nice lately 🥰," while frank’s thinking, "it’s official, clearly."
they start spending time together outside of work — dinners, quiet nights watching medical documentaries (frank’s choice), or reality tv (barbie’s choice). she brings her fuzzy blanket to his apartment, leaves her favorite scrunchies and lip gloss in his bathroom, and starts stealing his penguins hoodie without asking.
dana asks barbie casually, "so how long have you two been together?" barbie genuinely sputters, "oh, we’re not — like, we’re just friends. who occasionally cuddle. and have dinner. and hold hands? wait."
barbie panics, confronting frank in a flustered, accusatory whisper in the supply closet: "why does dana think we’re dating?!" frank, deadpan: "probably because we are dating." barbie, voice climbing several octaves: "SINCE WHEN?"
frank, genuinely bewildered: "i mean…probably around three months ago?" barbie, horrified, counting back: "THREE MONTHS?"
and franks like: "we have dinner multiple times a week. you sleep at my place regularly. i took you to my niece’s birthday party, and we bought joint christmas gifts for robby and dana. we’ve been dating."
LOVIN' YOU IS JUST LIKE SIPPING ON STRAIGHT SYRUP, SUGAR, STICKY SODA
after inviting robby to your birthday drinks on impulse, you're shocked when he actually shows up and even more shocked by how much you like having him there.
bet u wanna MEET THE READER! ── .✦ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
PAIRINGS: sunshine!intern!reader x michael robinavitch
WARNINGS: fem!reader, age gap, attending/intern dynamic, workplace crush, alcohol consumption, tipsy!reader, bar setting, flirting, reader being embarrassing as always, reader's friends being just as embarrassing, mention of a wet dream
WC: 2.5k
PROMPT: here!
Michael Robinavitch, as it turns out, is a person who owns blue jeans.
It is not an extraordinary fact. It is barely a fact at all, really, more a mundane administrative detail of being alive.
Men own jeans. Men stand in public places and are not, generally speaking, treated as if they have split themselves open and revealed some secular miracle inside.
Attendings must have closets. They must have drawers. They must have lives that continue after the hospital spits them into the dark.
You know this. You are not stupid.
You understand that he does not simply power down and reconstitute at six in the morning with coffee and stubble.
Still, seeing him like this feels indecently revelatory, like a curtain has been drawn back on a room you were not supposed to know existed.
Your eyes behave terribly. You don’t know where to put them.
On his face seems too intimate. On the floor seems weird. Anywhere else feels like a confession written in neon. So, disastrously, they go everywhere.
Lace-up boots. Dark denim. A forest-green shirt stretched over his shoulders, fraying soft at the seams, unbuttoned just enough at the throat to show that dark, shadowed wedge of chest hair.
You blink twice, fast, sharp little pulses of irrational worry that if you stare too long, too openly, reality might self-correct and whisk him back into scrubs.
“You actually came.” Even to your own ears it sounds slightly crooked. You wouldn’t say drunk, exactly. You’re fine. Maybe just like your mouth has been left too close to a space heater and is beginning to lose structural integrity.
His brow folds, only just. It’s such a minor movement and still you read too much into it, because with him every expression feels calibrated beyond your access.
Concern, maybe. Or disapproval. Or that cooler, harder thing that is not quite either, simple disbelief that this — you, here, like this — is what he has arrived to.
“You invited me,” he remarks.
“I didn’t think you’d say yes.”
“No,” he says, glancing pointedly at your drink, “I gathered that.”
And it’s true. You really did not expect him to come.
You had mentioned it in passing at the end of shift, flinging the invitation at him with all the composure of someone throwing bread at a duck and running away: “You obviously don’t have to come. I just didn’t want to not invite you and then have that be weird, because then I’d be rude, and then I’d think about it all night, and then I’d probably apologize tomorrow, which would be awkward for both of us.”
An appalling performance, in hindsight.
And he had given you almost nothing in return, which you had interpreted, reasonably as a big fat stinking no. And that was fine. Expected, even.
He is Dr. Robinavitch, after all. He does not do birthday bars trips with interns and paper sashes and cheap cocktails named things like Malibu Meltdown. He does not stand around while someone you went to med school with screams, “Shots for the birthday girl!”
That was the assumption, anyway.
“Do you want a drink?” you ask. “Or, um, I can get you one. I don’t actually know what you drink, or if you drink, but the bartender’s been really attentive to me tonight. I think because it’s my birthday. Which you know. Since this is my birthday party. Not, like, a party-party though, that sounds too juvenile. It’s more of a… birthday gathering. Night out. Socially acceptable adult celebration.”
His eyes flick over your face.
“I’m familiar with birthdays,” he comments dryly.
“Right. Of course. Sorry. Obviously. You’ve had several.”
His mouth does something dangerously close to amusement before he glances toward the crowd packed around the bar.
“And yes, I drink. But I’m not sending you into a crowded bar like this, so either tell me what here is worth ordering, or I’ll improvise.”
“So bossy outside the hospital too,” you say, and the sentence is already out, already alive in the world, already standing between you with a little cigarette and a criminal record before you can drag it back by the collar.
Shit.
Heat climbs your face in one violent sweep, right up into your ears.
The rum is not helping. The rum, actually, seems thrilled. It is doing bright, idiotic laps through your bloodstream, waving tiny flags, encouraging candor, dismantling your career prospects molecule by molecule.
Because that is not something you say to your superior. Maybe to a friend. Maybe to a boyfriend, in some speculative future where you have not died of embarrassment before acquiring one.
Maybe to a stranger, even, someone disposable and inconsequential whose opinion evaporates when the night ends.
Maybe to literally anyone whose opinion is not attached, however indirectly, to your future in medicine.
Bosses are meant to be bossy. That is the central organizing principle of bosses. They boss. They point. They correct. They say things like “eat something that didn’t come out of a vending machine” and somehow make it sound less like advice and more like a law passed by a small, attractive dictatorship.
They are not, however, supposed to be informed of this quality by their subordinates in bars.
His eyes sharpen all at once.
“And are you always this mouthy off the clock?”
You gasp.
“No I —” you start, then have to stop and regroup because everything coming up feels wrong. “I’m not usually this mouthy. With you, I mean. Specifically with you. Not that I’m secretly walking around being mouthy with everyone else, because that sounds like a terrible character witness statement and also probably untrue. I just meant I don’t usually say things like that out loud. To you. Because you’re… you.”
Stunning work. Absolutely no smoke coming off that wreckage.
You swallow. “Sorry. I’m making this worse.”
“You can stop apologizing.”
“Right.” You nod, too fast. “Okay. I will. Starting now.”
You rock backwards onto your heels, which turns out to be an ambitious choice. Your center of gravity defects. The room gives a lazy little swim.
His hand catches at your elbow.
He’s frowning again. Always with the frowning. Beautifully shaped lips wasted on a man devoted to austerity.
You wonder if he ever smiles without that sardonic slant to it.
Probably not.
That would be too generous of the universe, and the universe has already given him the look of his thighs in jeans.
“Jesus —”
“Is that him?” comes a hiss from somewhere over your shoulder, and the thing about alcohol, you are discovering, is that it makes people believe hissing is discreet when it is, in fact, just yelling with theatrical intentions.
You recognize the voice as one of your friends.
Before you can pretend you have never met her in your life, another one of your so-called friends grabs at your shoulder and leans in, “You didn’t say he was this hot.”
You go cold and hot at the same time.
Your free elbow shoots backward into the soft, shrieking mass of your friends, and you start swatting at them with one hand, all frantic wrist and whispered threats, trying to disperse them the way one might scatter pigeons from a sidewalk or raccoons from an unsecured trash can.
A hopeless gesture. A paper fan against a house fire.
Someone yelps, then laughs into your hair, delighted by your suffering in the specific way only women who love you can be delighted by your suffering.
You look back at Robby, hoping he somehow didn’t hear, which is stupid and sweetly, fatally naive because everyone heard. The whole bar heard. Nearby wildlife heard. Someone in Ohio paused mid-bite and thought, wow, that girl is going through it.
His hand is no longer at your elbow.
It’s at the back of his neck now, rubbing there as he tilts his head, that sardonic smile making its appearance like he reached into your private thoughts and decided to prove a point.
“I’m going to get that drink now,” he says.
Once he leaves, you turn back to the table with violence in your eyes, or at least the most violence your face can plausibly organize while warm-cheeked and wearing lip gloss, and receive only laughter for your trouble.
Someone squeezes your arm. Someone calls you dramatic. Someone else says, “He smiled,” like a jury of your drunk peers has already reached a verdict and you are simply too emotionally compromised to accept it.
As if.
However, you have no good defense against it.
You have several bad ones, most of them involving the words respect and he’s my attending and please stop looking at me like that, but even inside your own head they sound frail and paper-thing, so you do the only dignified thing available to you, which is finish your drink and pretend the burn in your throat is from the alcohol.
Robby comes back with his drink at some point. A beer. Boring.
He remains near you for most of the evening, sometimes at your shoulder, sometimes at the end of the booth, sometimes not even speaking to you but close enough that your body keeps quietly including him in its map of itself.
There is the table, there is your glass, there is the sticky patch under your elbow, there is Robby. Nearby. Adjacent. With you, your brain offers, idiotically, filing him into that category.
You decide it is concern.
That makes sense.
You are, at this point, a liability in a nice top.
He is simply watching your intake, your balance, your pupils, your increasingly loose relationship with volume control. Concern means he has identified you as a drunk, underfed, and prone to smiling at people with the trusting expression of someone who could be kidnapped at any moment.
That is all.
And he stays close to you even as people begin to leave. When the clock strikes 2 am and rideshares announce themselves. When coats are pulled from the backs of chairs and goodbyes stretch and collapse.
Someone hugs you too hard, Jenna, you think, their perfume clinging to your hair, and tells Robby to “make sure she gets home alive.”
Then the bar empties by degrees, the music dips lower, the tables clear, the night loses its crowd until there is no buffer left.
Just you. Just him. And the water glass in your hands, ordered sometime around drink five, refilled once without you noticing, condensation slipping cold over your fingers.
Finally, he glances over, his beer long abandoned in front of him with an inch left at the bottom. “You have a good birthday?”
You roll the glass between your palms, watching the ice turn and collide and diminish, all those hard little edges softening into water because that is what happens when something is held too long. It changes. It gives up its shape.
“Yeah,” you answer, then smile a little. “I think I did.”
“You think?”
“I mean, I learned a lot.”
“About?”
“You.” The word slips out too easily, then you rush to soften it. “Against my will, obviously. Under extreme peer pressure. Very little of it admissible.”
It was no surprise to you that your friends had interrogated him earlier in the night.
Once they sensed there was a locked door somewhere inside Michael Robinavitch, they had all immediately taken turns jiggling the handle.
And for weeks, maybe months you had been feeding them little scraps of him like contraband: the mysterious older doctor who lived in your daydreams and, on the more morally indefensible nights, your wet dreams. Dr. Robinavitch said this. Robby thinks that.
And then they had him in front of them. Flesh-and-blood proof of your worst little confessions.
What did surprise you was that he had answered their questions at all.
Reluctantly, unevenly, like every harmless personal detail had to be pried from him with dental tools, yes, but still. He had given them something. A handful of small, strange offerings placed on the table between empty glasses and damp napkins.
You now know the following:
He had once reset his own dislocated finger against the edge of a kitchen counter.
He could identify a medication by the sound of the pill bottle shaking, which everyone found impressive until he clarified that he meant “sometimes.”
He believed birthday candles were unsanitary.
He kept his apartment too cold.
He preferred aisle seats.
He never ordered dessert but would eat half of someone else’s if it was placed near him.
It wasn’t a complete portrait. Barely even a sketch. A few dark lines. A corner of light. The smallest picture of a life continuing somewhere out of frame.
Still, it was more than you’d had yesterday.
“I wouldn’t make a habit of confusing that with a good night.” His mouth tugs at one corner, before clarifying, “I don’t think the success of your birthday should be measured by how much you learned about an old asshole like me.”
“You’re not that old.”
His eyes flick to yours.
“That’s the part you’re disputing?”
You shrug your shoulders. It’s no secret that Dr. Robinavitch could be an asshole with a capital A. In fact, you were wanted about him several times over before even stepping foot in PTMC.
“I’m just saying,” you manage, slowly, because every word has to be chosen with tweezers now, “accuracy matters.”
“Then accurately, you should have had more interesting material for your birthday.”
“Maybe I did.” You look at him and hope he catches the meaning.
His expression shifts, almost imperceptibly.
Something tightens around his eyes, something catches and fails to smooth out fast enough, like the compliment has entered the room with wet shoes and no one knows whether to offer it a towel.
He looks down and drags his thumb through the sweating ring left by his bottle, smearing the neat circle into something uneven.
“Maybe,” he says at last, voice low enough that you almost miss it, “you’re too easy to impress.”
You smile into your glass. The water smells faintly of lemon and melting ice, cold against your lip, a ridiculous little shield. “And maybe you’re harder to dislike than you think.”
“You’re drunk,” he says.
“Less than I was.”
“That’s not the standard I’d use.”
“It’s the standard I have available.”
He looks away toward the windows, where the night has gone glossy and black and the streetlights are smudging themselves into little halos on the wet pavement.
You hear someone laugh too loudly beyond the door. Then a car rolls past with its bass trembling through the glass, a dull little pulse you feel more than hear.
Your phone buzzes against the table. Your ride’s here.
You stand too quickly, then pretend you didn’t when his hand twitches like he might catch you again.
You also pretend not to see it.
Outside, the humidity sobers you.
Your car waits at the curb.
Robby stands beside you with his hands in his pockets, looking tired in the amber light.
He looks real again. Less like a thought you’ve been having all night and more like a man you might actually miss when he turns around.
“Happy birthday,” he mutters, voice dipping two octaves as he places a hand on your shoulder. The contact burns.
It’s weird. People have been saying it all day with varying degrees of sincerity and intoxication and one deeply questionable song, so by now you should be immune to it, probably.
It feels vastly different from him.
“Thank you for coming.”
His mouth tilts, barely.
“Against my better judgment.”
You get into the car smiling like you’ve won something.
A tiny victory you hadn’t even realized you’d been fighting for. Maybe it was unfair to ask him here. Maybe his better judgment is the responsible adult in the room and you’re both just ignoring it, but the idea of Dr. Robinavitch losing even a fraction of control over something as simple and inconsequential as you feels strangely exhilarating.
His judgment, clearly, never stood a chance.
you can find my michael robinavitch masterlist here!
summary: babygirl says some hurtful things to jack.
—
She’s tired, a little overstimulated, and he’s trying to get out the door for night shift without being late.
“Shoes on,” he says, grabbing his keys.
“I don’t want to,” she mutters, dragging her feet.
“You have to,” he replies, patient but firm. “We’re going right now so you and mommy can drop me off.”
“I don’t care.”
He glances at you, then back at her. “Hey. We’re not doing this tonight.”
That tone. She hears it and doesn’t like it.
“I said I don’t care!” she snaps, louder now.
“Okay,” he says, steady. “But you still have to listen.”
She huffs, arms crossing, face scrunched.
“You’re so annoying,” she says.
He lets that one go. But then it comes.
“I wish you weren’t here.”
Everything stills. You both freeze. She doesn’t even fully register it yet. It just comes out, sharp and fast, the biggest thing she can throw at him.
Jack goes quiet, keys still in his hand. Not angry. Just quiet. That hurts more.
“…hey,” you start, but he shakes his head slightly, stopping you.
He crouches down in front of her, calm but softer now. “That hurt my feelings, kid.”
Her face changes immediately. Just a flicker, because she didn’t expect that. Didn’t expect him to say it like that.
“I didn’t mean…” she starts, but she’s already unsure.
“It’s okay,” he says. “You don’t have to fix it right now. I just wanted you to know.”
He stands, grabs his jacket, and leaves. No raised voice, no argument. Letting you know softly that he will just drive himself to work.
She barely touches her dinner. Nods when you talk but doesn’t really listen. Keeps picking at her sleeves like she’s trying to work something out in her head.
When you tuck her in, she’s too still.
“You okay?” you ask softly.
You leave the door cracked, but you don’t go far. You can hear her shifting, little sniffles she’s trying to hide.
Eventually, it comes.
“Mommy?”
You’re there straight away. “Yeah, baby?”
“I can’t sleep.”
You sit on the edge of the bed, brushing her hair back. “What’s wrong?”
She tries to shake it off, but it spills out anyway.
“I hurt Jack.”
Your chest tightens. “Hey…”
“I didn’t mean it,” she says quickly, voice breaking. “I just said it because I was mad.”
“I know,” you say gently.
“I need to tell him,” she insists, sitting up now, urgent. “Right now.”
You glance at the clock. It’s late.
“He’s at work, baby…”
“I know,” she says, tears spilling now. “But I need to tell him. My heart hurts.”
“Your heart hurts?”
She nods hard, pressing her hand to her chest. “It feels bad.”
Guilt. Big, overwhelming, five-year-old guilt.
You exhale slowly. “…okay. Get your shoes.”
The ER is quieter than usual, but not empty. It never is.
Still, the second his head snaps up, you know someone’s told him you’re here.
“She’s here?” Jack’s voice cuts across the floor.
He’s already moving before anyone answers properly, because all he heard was her name.
He rounds the corner and drops straight to her level. “What happened?”
His hands are already checking her, scanning for injuries. “Are you hurt?”
She shakes her head, tears already falling again.
“I am hurt.”
His expression tightens. “Where?”
She presses her hand to her chest.
“My heart hurts.”
“Oh,” he murmurs.
She looks at him, crying properly now. “I didn’t mean it. I was just mad. I don’t want you to go away.”
He pulls her into him immediately, holding her tight. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’m sorry,” she sobs into his shoulder. “I really, really love you.”
His hand comes up to the back of her head, steady and grounding. “I know. I know you do.”
“I didn’t mean it,” she repeats.
“I know you didn’t.”
“I was just upset,” she mumbles.
“Yeah,” he says. “That happens.”
He pulls back just enough to look at her, brushing her hair back from her face.
“But we don’t say things like that when we’re upset, okay?”
She nods quickly. “Okay.”
“You hurt my feelings,” he says gently.
Her face crumples again. “I know.”
“You still have to go to work?” she asks, quieter now.
He glances at you, then back at her. “…yeah.”
Her lip wobbles.
He presses a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll come home as soon as I can.”
She lets go slowly, still holding his hand for a second longer before stepping back.
“Okay.”
He watches you both leave, making sure she’s okay, that she’s calmer, that she’s breathing properly again.
First time fic! Did I proof read this? Barely. Am I confident on anything medical? Of course not.
Brendon Park x Fem!Reader
He remembers the day he first saw the blue marks on his skin. He was 9 years old, and it wasn’t something he had really thought about before. He cared more about baseball and school. Brendon wasn’t even sure he was going to have a soulmate, not everyone did, but he knew enough not to celebrate it - this did not promise a future of love or companionship. He may not be able to find them. The soulmarks were a light blue, and he rarely felt them, telling him that his soulmate wasn’t close to him. The soul bond was not governed by proximity, but the marks were. The colder the marks felt and the deeper blue they were meant that your soulbound was close, and people would drop everything, questioning strangers, just to find them once a dark blue mark appeared on their skin.
His parents, particularly his mother, were thrilled. Her serious, cerebral son had someone out there in the universe who was meant to be his match, meant to help him carry the heavy load of life, and of course they were destined to meet. Over the years, she would survey the marks that would randomly blossom, clicking her tongue when she realized that his soulmate was not living an easy life. These marks only appeared when someone was hurt, and this person was hurt often. Marks along his right arm indicated a break when he was 13, rough lines across his back appeared when he was 14 - was his soulmate being whipped or beaten? And she didn’t know if the marks stopped, only that her son stopped showing her during high school and always kept a shirt on. Sometimes she’d watch him rub his shoulder, or run his fingers along his ribs, and she knew that the hurt wasn’t gone. She took some comfort in the amount of visible marks decreasing, but it was an uneasy feeling.
Once she asked him if he thought of his soulmate, if he wanted to take a gap year to travel the world and find her. Maybe her timing wasn’t the best, she asked him while he was recovering from his ACL injury, his dreams of playing football in college stopped in their tracks. He looked at her blankly.
He didn’t open his mouth and give voice to his fears, that he didn’t even know himself anymore, want to be himself anymore, so why would his soulmate want him? That he needed to get stronger for this person who had been so hurt so often. That his big body needed to be good for something, and he thought it was football and now he was reevaluating everything. That he was sorry to have painted his soulmate blue because he never wanted them to carry a mark from him.
He kept his mouth shut, and his mother knew to drop it. She hoped he would learn to dream again in time. She hoped he would learn that his soulmate was seeing these marks and hurting for him, and that being him was enough.
———————————————————————
Some people take a knife to their skin to communicate with their soulmate, and sometimes he fantasized about it, letting his person know where to find him. Hi, I’m a premed student at John’s Hopkins. My name is Brendon. Because he felt the empty gnawing in his stomach that kept him up at night, telling him that she (over the years he became certain it was a woman, but stopped himself from daydreaming what you looked like. The real you would be better than any dream) was missing in his life. Where are you I need you let me take care of you where are you where are you where are you -
Once, when he was in his second year of residency, the marks faded completely. He woke up one morning completely bare and the room began to spin. How could he lose her when he never had her? He could breathe again when, three weeks later, he saw a small, light blue dot on his shin. Maybe she ran into something, it was probably a bruise. He rubbed his fingers over it and smiled. She was out there and she was okay. He counted his bare skin as a blessing, but still looked for marks every morning and night. They became rarer and rarer, but would pop up every so often. Life is not gentle but he couldn’t help but hope that she wasn’t being hurt anymore.
He told himself that once he was an attending he could go and find her. The marks were fluctuating in saturation, he knew she was closer than before. Based on the color, he was fairly confident she was in Pittsburgh. He made himself promise that he’d get out of the hospital and go to one of those cringey speed dating events or put out a personal ad.
Maybe she was searching for him too.
And when that time came he still didn’t feel ready for her. He knew his path to surgery had hardened him. That his quest for his old man’s approval had left an invisible mark. He knew he worked long hours and was essentially married to his OR. And he knew what they called him, an asshole, an apex predator, a shark. Someone with a dead mother and family he barely spoke to. He wasn’t warm, not someone this person, who could use softness, could love. And so he never submitted that ad, never went to events designed to find ‘the one’. Casually dated because he was human, but never committed. Couldn’t.
When he thinks about it, he would have continued that way, maybe forever. Until during a routine tib fib repair he feels like he’s doused in ice cold water, and he stills. Lets the resident take over and is thankful that they were wrapping up anyway. He feels like he’s hyperventilating while he scrubs out. He tries to control his shaking as he goes to the locker room to strip off his scrub top. The marks are barely blue, they look like ink and stretch across his chest and back, snaking up his arms and down to his hips.
She’s close, probably in the hospital. And she’s hurt.
She’s hurt.
And for once maybe he can help her.
For a moment, he’s stunned. And then he’s moving, yanking his shirt back on. He’s not going to let her slip through his fingers, not when she might be only doors away. Even if he has to tear the hospital apart with his bare hands.
His attention sharpens as scenarios fly through his head. Where could you be?
The charge nurse, Sarah, is holding a phone to her ear as he rounds the corner.
“ED ortho consult. Do you want me to send Jake-“
He barely spares her a glance. “No, I’ll take it. I’m on my way.”
You were gonna get part 8 yesterday but it turned out a guy I was speaking to was lowkey a neo-nazi and I had no idea!!! (what the fuck?) so I’ve been so busy and haven’t even had time to make it because I’ve just been like processing and sorting everything out and blocking him so you’ll get the next chapter by Sunday latest I promise and I’m so sorry!!!!
Summary: running into jack before your scheduled date has your plans turning into something better than either of you could’ve ever expected.
Warnings: mentions of minor injuries, talks of ER/ED, explicit language, TONS of fluff, age-gap, slow burn, pinning, mentions of widower jack, yearning/longing, probably some scientific & medical inaccuracies.
Word Count: 3k+
Author’s Note: i’m absolutely feral for these two, so here’s part 2 !! i can’t wait to continue this story for you guys !! find part 1 here !! <3
Saying you lived for your job would be an understatement. While the weekend brought you some time to yourself and out of the Aquarium, your job hardly stopped. You found yourself gravitating towards any body of water you could.
The large pond at the park was your favorite. Sure, it’s wasn’t necessarily marine by any means, but it was still aquatic, and that was good enough for you.
So here you were on your day off, crouching down along the pond’s edge, searching for any signs of life you could. You took note of all the different types of moss and algae—bright blue notebook in your hand; jotting down the different fish and tallying the number of each. You’d sometimes take water samples to bring in to work later in the week and look at under a microscope.
You were in what your friends deemed as one of you your ‘natural habitats.’ So as you were crouching there like the little marine life goblin you are, the last person you expected to see jogging by was Jack Abbot.
You’d kept it touch, texted here and there in the days since his visit to your workplace. A little flirting here and there, but it was mostly casual, looking forward to the days leading up to your scheduled date that’s supposed to take place this evening. You hadn’t seen him since the aquarium tour, but that didn’t stop him from occupying a big space inside your brain.
So when the familiar, low voice called out to you—unexpected was the first thing that crossed your mind.
“Hey stranger”, He spoke, his words coming out slightly breathy.
You almost dropped the notepad in your hands when you turned to look up at him.
There he was in all his glory; sweaty and very, very shirtless.
He was thick in a strong, muscular way. Hands proudly gripping his hips. Skin pale but decorated oh so perfectly in thousands of freckles. Sweat made his greying curls darker, a few sticking to his forehead. His biceps flexed as he moved his arms, abs doing the same as he breathed. A small line of sweat trailed down his chest. The grey gym shorts he was wearing hugged low on his hips in a way that should be considered criminal.
Strong thighs and calf muscles as he shifted on his feet, and oh? A runner’s prosthetic on his right leg just below the knee.
You watched him point the opposite direction; “Ocean’s the other way, Skipper.”
You pushed yourself to your feet, mimicking his stands with your own hands on your hips.
“Yeah? About two hours that way”, You lick your lips out of habit; “Hospital’s that way too, Doc.”
He laughs, a real genuine laugh that rumbles up from his chest.
“Ya got me.”
You watch him look around, scratch the back of his head once and sigh as he catches his breath.
“Thought I wasn’t gonna see you until tonight”, He says, but it’s not a question.
Smiling, you reply; “Universe has a funny way of working.”
You can’t help letting your eyes rake him up and down, the farmer’s tan on his biceps has your mind reeling and your mouth drying out.
He notices, of course he does. It’s his job to notice. But he doesn’t falter as the pink shade sneaks up his neck. Just keeps smiling at you.
“I’m actually gonna head down to the big pond next…if you, uh-“, It’s your turn to rub at the back of your neck; “Would you want to come with me?”
You squeeze your eyes shut, expecting him to say no, but the words that leave his mouth are the complete opposite.
“I’d love to”, He says softly; “You sure I won’t be in the way?”
“Never.”
“‘Cmon”, He gestures for you to follow; “Let me drive you.”
─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─
The drive there is quiet in a comfortable way, Fleetwood Mac playing softly through his truck radio. Seats leather and faintly smelling like him. The windows are cracked, letting the breeze flow through your hair and dry the sweat from his.
He’d slipped a shirt back on when you reached his truck. You’re only slightly disappointed. The way his biceps pull the black fabric tight around them make up for it.
Before you know it you’re leading him down a rocked path, hovering closer to him than necessary to make sure he doesn’t trip.
“Relax, sweetheart. I’m not gonna fall”, He smirks when you finally reach the bottom of the path; “Even if I did, I’m certainly not gonna let you go tumbling down with me.”
You store the nickname in the back of your mind for later. His hand’s hovering at your lower back as he walks up beside you, broad shoulder brushing lightly against your arm in a way that sends electric shocks up and down your spine.
“I thought you were a doctor?”, You tease.
He scoffs a laugh; “Doesn’t mean I actually want you to get hurt…quite the opposite, actually.”
His voice is soft and warm at the end, lowering as his gaze softly flicks over your face. You feel your cheeks heating up again.
“So”, He finally ask, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear in a sudden boost of confidence; “What’re we looking for?”
“Anything we can find.”
Jack raises his brows at that—like he’s suddenly anticipating what’s to come and what he got himself into—but having no idea what that actually might include.
“Is it hard, doing what you do and being so far from the ocean?”
You sigh; “A little. I grew up by the ocean. My parents used to call me their little sea otter. I was 100% sure I was going to be a mermaid when I grew up.”
Jack snorts; “You’d make a good one.”
You smack his arm playfully, he’s still slick with sweat. It makes your chest squeeze. You force yourself to continue scanning the shoreline.
“Well when I found out that wasn’t possible I was disappointed to say the least. But my parents started buying me all these books on marine life and I was hooked. I was at the shore every free second I got looking for animals and shells.”
Jack nods.
“I bet you miss it.”
He doesn’t like the way your face drops a little.
“Incredibly so”, You say, shaking your head to bring yourself back to the present; “But schooling was here, my friends are here. Just never seemed right to move away. Besides, a two hour drive every other weekend is worth it.”
Jack files that away in the same spot he’s been putting every thing he’s learned about you; a special spot in his brain with your name on it. He’s already planning a beach trip he’d like to take you on, be the one to drive you to your favorite spot. He’d do anything for you to smile the way you do when you talk about it, give anything to see you on the beach in person.
You’re suddenly squealing, making Jack’s ears and brow perk up.
Spinning around on your heels you present Jack with your finding, hands clasped carefully but firmly as you shove it towards him.
“A frog?”
“Not just a frog”, You roll your eyes, like it’s common knowledge; “A bullfrog. A male one too.”
Jack’s already smiling, putting his hands up in surrender, but keeps up the skeptical front he’s putting on; “How can you tell?”
“The bright yellow throat and large ear membranes. They’re used for breeding calls. Females have white throats and are usually bigger in size”, You tell him.
It baffles him how you rattle each fact off like it’s the easiest thing in the world. But he doesn’t ever want you to stop.
“What?”, You ask sheepishly, catching his eye.
He shakes his head; “Nothing, you’re just really smart…you really know your stuff, huh Skipper?”
Your blush deepens; “Says you, Mr. Doctor. Cmon that’s smart.”
“Two people can be smart in separate but respectable fields, sweetheart.”
There’s that nickname again, rolling off his tongue so casually, like it belongs there. It suddenly occurs to you that you’ve never heard him talk bad about anyone’s work or position. That he in fact does the opposite, makes everyone feel important in their own way.
“You’re not just saying that?”
He shrugs; “I already got you to agree to a date, why would I lie?”
God, he’s so…charming.
You’re suddenly spending hours at the lake with Jack, taking pictures and notes of everything you find. Carrying on conversation with him like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like you’ve known him forever. You laugh when he pinches his nose up in disgust at the group of snails you’ve plopped into his hands.
“It’s like snot”, He grunts, nose crinkled as they move across his hands.
But you just laugh and take his picture, your photo album filling up with shots of him and various living things. A small collection of Jack.
You sit along the shore with him on some rocks, watching people fish in the distance, pointing out what kind of fish they’ve caught each time one is reeled in.
“Largemouth bass”, You say, pointing it out casually.
Jack squints; “How can you tell from over here?”
You poke his arm; “I’m not blind yet, gramps.”
He fakes offense; “Oh that’s how we’re gonna play it, huh?”
But there’s no heat behind it, in fact he’s enjoying your banter and teasing.
He fails miserably when you try to make him guess the next fish and the two after that, and the types of turtles that keep poking their heads out of the water.
You still have time before sundown, so you scoop a vial of pond water before stretching your back out.
“Gonna run this under a microscope in the lab, see what kind of critters are in there”, You tell him, slipping the vial into the small bag around your waist that’s been getting fuller by the minute.
“Can I see?”, Jack asks, almost like he’s shy, “…How you do that?”
You pause; “You wanna see my lab?”
He’s already nodding; “I’d love to.”
So you take him.
A playful banter and easy conversation flows between you, never seeming to run out of things to talk about. He tells you about some of his early days at PTMC, how he met Robby, some of the weirdest cases he’s seen. It’s all music to your ears. So is his voice; gruff and deep yet so smooth and soothing. You could listen to him talk forever.
He’d say the same about you.
─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─
The overhead lights flicker on when you enter your lab, already abandoned by your coworkers who have gone home for the day.
You lead him to a little swivel stool and plop you bag down, slipping a pair of gloves and depositing your water sample onto a slide, adjusting your microscope and leaning in closer.
Jack stands next to you, arms behind his back as he takes in everything around him. All the lab equipment, some similar to stuff he’s seen and used in the ED, some completely foreign to him. There’s a few Aquarium and aquatic posters, the Aquarium logo printed on one of the longer walls. He could imagine you working in here, looking so natural and at ease.
“There”, You say, sitting back in the chair and crossing your arms.
Jack whips his head over, following your finger that’s pointing at the microscope lens; inviting him to look.
He hesitates for a moment, before bringing the lenses up to his eyes, feeling stupid for a moment when all he sees are squiggles and random shapes.
“…What am I looking at?”, He asks, sheepishly.
You lean up next to him.
“See that squiggle?”, You ask.
He hums in confirmation.
“Those are teenie tiny amoebas. Tiny life forms. Just chilling out.”
Jack feels his breath hitch.
How could something so small be alive?
“They don’t get any bigger?”, He asks, feeling dumb.
You shake your head; “Nope. Just lil guys.”
He watches them for another moment, pulling out his phone and pressing it to the lens to take a picture, before letting his gaze fall back to you.
“That’s-“, He takes a deep breath; “That’s amazing, Skipper. I had no idea.”
You shrug; “It’s what I do.”
He smirks, then lets his face fall into a more serious expression.
“I’m serious”, He says, placing one of his hands gently on your arm; “I don’t think you give yourself enough credit.”
He sees you freeze, but keeps going.
“You’re so smart. You know so much. To the point I was reading random articles over the weekend to try and seem like I knew something.”
Your fave softens; “Jack, you don’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to”, He says, “I don’t think I ever want you to stop talking.”
The room falls silent, your breath stolen from your lungs as he holds his gaze, hand only dropping slightly when you don’t react.
“Sorry if that was too forward I-“
You cut him off, smashing your lips against his, ripping your gloves off so you can cup his face in your hands, fingers sliding to his nape and playing with the shorts curls there.
He freezes for a moment, brain reeling as he catches up before he’s kissing you back, lips moving softly against yours as he breathes out through his nose; like he’s been holding his breath all day.
You pull back once to look him in the eyes, finding him smiling all dopey at you—no doubt feeling like a teenage boy—and you shake your head.
“Shut up, old man.”
He laughs against your lips as he pulls you back in. Hands steady on your waist, not moving too far or too fast, but making it known how much he’s wanted this.
His phone alarm going off makes you pull back.
“Need to get that?”, You ask, still playing with his curls.
He shakes his head; “Nah, just a reminder for midnight shift swap with Shen.”
His eyes widen the same time yours do.
“Is it really that late?”, You ask, suddenly feeling shy.
“Afraid so, sweetheart.”
You gasp; “Our reservations! Jack, I’m so sorry. I was so caught up in my work I made us miss our reservations.”
But he’s already shaking his head.
“Sweetheart, tonight has been so much better than sitting at some restaurant in a dark corner. We can do that another time”, He says, brushing hair out of your face; “I don’t know about you, but I haven’t connected with someone like this in a very long time.”
You let his words sink in before opening your mouth to tease him, just because you have to.
“So there’s gonna be a second date?”, You ask, wiggling your eyebrows.
He throws his head back with a groan; “Oh now I’m regretting it.”
“Too late!”
A soft silence falls between you again, smiles on your faces, fingers thrumming against tabletops before Jack speaks again.
“You hungry?”, He asks softly.
“Starved.”
He grabs your hand, already pulling you out of the lab; “Come on, I know a great little place.”
You find yourselves around the corner at a small 24 hour cafe that serves the best breakfast sandwiches you’ve ever had.
Jack’s sipping on a decaf black coffee, you with a sugary frappe that almost made him have a sugar high from the sip you offered him. You almost died at how sour his own was.
“This is so good, Jack”, You say between mouthfuls, “How did I never know this was here?”
He shrugs; “Most people don’t. I only found it a few years ago when the owner offered me a free sandwich after he came into the ED for some stitches.”
“Hell, I’d learn how to give stitches if it meant I could have another one of these.”
Jack almost snorts into his coffee, reaching across the table to put his hand over yours; “I’ll buy you as many sandwiches as you want, sweetheart. No need to go switching job fields on us.”
You nod in agreement; “Yeah, I think i’ll stick with my sea critters.”
Jack throws his hands up in mock joy; “The human race is saved!”
You kick his good leg softly under the table, earning a fake glare and a signature Jack Abbot twitch from the corner of his lips.
When you both finish eating he’s walking you back to his truck, listening as you tell him more stories, his hand fully on the small of your back now, no longer just hovering. He fishes his keys out, looking around for your car, frowning when he doesn’t see one.
“You walk here?”, He asks.
“Mhm”, You nod, “I live just around the corner, like a block or two. It’s not far-“
“Absolutely not. It’s the middle of the night. Get in.”
His voice is stern, showing you he means it, but still soft around the edges, letting you know he wouldn’t make you do anything that would make you uncomfortable. But you’re already agreeing, climbing into his truck again as he holds the door open for you.
He rounds back to the drivers seat, soft sounds of Fleetwood Mac returning as the engine hums to life, and for the first time as Jack starts driving, he reaches his hand over to the console in the middle, palm facing up for your own hand to take.
Without a thought, you slide your fingers in between his, heart beating faster by the second. Neither of you say anything, just enjoy the moment for what it is, and secretly hope it never ends.
He walks you to your door when he reaches your building, neither of you in any rush for you to go inside. He carries on the conversation from the cafe and the truck like it never stopped, inching closer to you and playing with a piece of your hair he had intended to tuck back behind your ear but forgot to in the process.
“Not to assume anything but, i’m off tomorrow…if you don’t have anywhere to be, would you want to come in?”, You ask, so softly Jack almost misses it.
The beaming smile that breaks across his face tells you he didn’t.
He nods once; “Yeah”, before biting his own bottom lip, looking almost boyish in the moonlight; “I’d like that a lot.”
Next thing you know, he’s leaning in again, face inches from yours when a loud pitter-patter and the sound of scratching nails against the inside of your door interrupts you.
You close your eyes, laugh fanning across Jack’s face as he joins you.
“That’s Cove”, You say.
“Cove?”, He asks with a quirk in his brow.
You nod, biting your lip to suppress your own smile; “I hope you like dogs.”
Jack inhales dramatically, swaying on his heels again; “Oh no, that’s the deal breaker.”
He watches your expression change quicker than he can blink, disappointment flicking through your eyes and he can’t help but laugh. The guilt gets to him too quickly and he’s cupping your cheek again, pressing a kiss to your hairline.
“M’Kidding, sweetheart. I love dogs.”
He can feel your sigh of relief against his chest, and the smack of your hand that follows soon after as you reach for your key, turning them in the lock. You look back at him which a mischievous grin at the last second before you open the door and unleash the beast behind it;
summary: you're a highly strung lawyer, he's an emergency doctor trying to find his feet again. theoretically, your worlds should never collide. that theory holds true until a paralegal takes a tumble and you end up at the ER.
pairing: lawyer!reader (fem) x frank langdon
warnings/tags: frank being a cutie, reader being a legal badass, reader and frank lowkey have some vices in common (read between the lines here so i do not have to spoil things!), abby and kids do not exist in this universe, the pitt crew lowkey being thirsty af for the reader, ogilvie kinda being a creep, everyone lowkey just wants you ok!!! flirting, fluff, swearing, usual medical descriptions that you’d expect from the pitt!
notes: i lowkey ran away with this fic but I'm not mad about it. also...me not using a gif for a fic for the first time ever... i'm getting with the times!
likes, reblogs, comments are very much appreciated!
Enjoy my work? Tip me! 🤍
masterlist
"That went better than expected."
"Don't jinx it."
You pressed the pedestrian crossing button, impatiently glancing left and right before you stepped out onto the road.
"I'm not jinxing anything! I'm just saying I think the judge might actually-"
You turned at the sound of a sharp yelp from behind you.
"Oh my god - Amy!"
She was sprawled out on the road, her stiletto lodged in between the cracks of a grate. Her ankle was twisted at an odd angle, her face contorted in pain.
"I'm fine, I'm fine-" She insisted, already trying to push herself up.
You crouched beside her, dropping your bag without a second thought. “Don’t move, you might make it worse.”
Passersby began to slow down, a few drifting closer as if to ascertain if they were going to be obligated by their conscious to offer to assist.
“I’m fine.” She repeated.
You stared at her, then at her ankle, which was already starting to swell.
“You are very much not fine.”
“Look, I can get up just- fuck!” She cursed loudly as she tried to put weight on her twisted ankle to hoist herself up.
You gripped her arm firmly, stopping her from toppling down again.
She looked up at you sheepishly.
You merely raised a brow.
“Ok." She admitted, wincing. "Maybe I’m not fine.”
“Yeah no shit.”
You glanced around, spotting a taxi rank only about a hundred metres away. You straightened, already pulling up your phone to google the nearest hospital.
“We’re taking you to the ER.”
“Wait no but what about-“
“-I’ll deal with it.”
The emergency room of PTMC was exactly how you remembered it - too bright, too busy and full of people who all seemed to be having worse days than you.
You stayed close to Amy, guiding her to a waiting chair and helping her fill out her admittance forms as her pain worsened.
“There's so much work to do, you shouldn’t be wasting your time here with me.” She muttered guiltily.
“You’re being ridiculous.” You reprimanded, although your tone was gentle. “I’ve got it sorted.”
You tried to ignore the constant buzzing of your phone in your pocket.
“Although, I think you’re banned from stilettos for a little bit.”
“But they’re Jimmy Choo.” She pouted.
You huffed a laugh despite yourself.
“Amy Saint-Clair?” A nurse called.
You glanced down at her ankle. It had nearly doubled in size since you first walked in.
“We might need a wheelchair.”
-
You followed closely as the nurse wheeled Amy through the swinging doors.
If you thought the waiting room was chaotic, the actual ER was something else entirely.
A hive of activity that somehow seemed to function as one organism - a single stream of consciousness, doctors and nurses weaving through the chaos with practiced fluidity.
“What have we got here-“ Another nurse stops, eyes dropping to Amy’s ankle.
You didn’t miss the way the nurse’s eyes widened ever so slightly as they looked up at their colleague.
“Dana, is there a room open?” The nurse called out as a blonde woman swept past them.
“Room 8’s free.” She replied without looking back.
“Great.”
In one fluid motion, the first nurse handed the wheelchair over, disappearing back to the admittance area before you could blink.
Finally, the nurse turned to you both.
“Sorry about that, today has been chaotic. I’m Perlah.”
“That’s ok, I’m Amy.”
You introduced yourself when Perlah turned to you before tacking on "concerned co-worker."
Perlah smiled. “Alright Amy let’s see what we can do for your ankle.”
Your heels hit the polished floor loudly as you hurried to keep up with Perlah, who was moving the wheelchair at an impressive pace given her size.
The sound carried.
Unbeknownst to you, heads turned. Subtle at first, then less so.
Santos let out a low whistle.
Whitaker cut her a look out of his peripheral. “Nice. Very professional.”
“What? She's hot...in my professional opinion.”
He shook his head, forcing himself to stare back at his computer.
“Who’s the hottie in room 8?” They both glanced up to see Javadi peering around her monitor.
“Who the hell says hottie?”
"What's this about a hottie?" McKay's ears piqued, causing her to divert from her route immediately.
"Pretty friend of a patient in Room 8." Jesse piped up from his desk.
"You lot are worse than teenagers." Dana roused, looking at them over the rims of her glasses.
She glanced up at the electronic board.
"We do actually need someone to go check-"
"-I'll go." Santos volunteered, already moving to jump up from her stool.
"Sit back down missy." Dana snapped. "You're way too behind on your charting."
Dana's gaze swept over the pitt, then paused.
She did a double take when she saw a flash of dark hair accompanied by a familiar slouch and forlorn expression.
"Doctor Langdon."
Frank looked up, mildly startled at the sound of his name being called.
"Just the person I wanted to see." Dana smiled as she inclining her head. "Patient for you in Room 8, looks like a nasty ankle trauma."
Frank swallowed a very obvious sigh. He'd been hoping for even just a ten minute respite from what had been an incredibly shitty shift so far.
"On it."
Everyone watched him leave. Then almost in unison, their attention snapped back to Dana.
"Dana, what the hell-" Santos began to protest.
"Save it." Dana continued typing, sliding her glasses back up the bridge of her nose.
"He's moody today." She added as she glanced over her shoulder to Room 8 as Frank pulled the curtain aside.
"So?"
A small smirk twitched up onto her lips as she shrugged innocently.
"Thought it might cheer him up a bit."
-
"A doctor should be with you shortly." Perlah reassured Amy as she helped settle her onto the hospital bed.
You thanked her, your hand coming up to pat Amy's shoulder, thumb brushing absentmindedly in a soothing rhythm when you caught her grimace.
"Jake's still coming, right?" You asked, trying to pull her focus somewhere other than the pain.
"Yeah." Amy nodded, exhaling shakily. "Said he'll get here as soon as he can but traffic's a nightmare. Said something about a six car pile up on the motorway."
You both looked up as the curtain slid open.
He was tall.
That was your first thought.
Dark hair, slightly tousled like he’d run a hand through it one too many times. A stethoscope hung loose around his neck, like it belonged there rather than being placed there. And his eyes - a striking shade of blue.
Those piercing eyes flicked from you to Amy and then back to you again.
"Hopefully none of them need a trip to the ER."
His voice was warm. Grounded and steady in a way that immediately made you feel like everything was a little more under control.
"No I don’t think so, my boyfriend said it didn't look too serious." Amy chuckled awkwardly.
“Well that’s a relief. I’m Doctor Langdon by the way.” He introduced himself as he squeezed a pump of sanitizer into his hands.
“Amy.”
“Nice to meet you Amy.”
His eyes met yours again, this time holding your gaze just a touch longer.
You offered your name, hoping it sounded more casual than you felt, as you resisted the urge to stare longer than was appropriate.
Then he smiled, just slightly.
Ok, he was hot.
He took the tablet from Perlah, glancing through the intake notes.
“Now, I’ve heard we had a nasty fall on your ankle, is that right?”
“I wouldn’t say it was nasty-“
You shot her a silencing glare. “It was nasty. Her shoe got caught in a grid at a crosswalk and she practically faceplanted."
Frank nodded, attention sharpening on Amy’s ankle.
“That sounds painful.”
“Very.” Amy admitted.
“Alright, let’s take a look Amy.” He slid on a pair of gloves and crouched beside the bed.
He had barely even brushed a finger over the area when Amy let out a hiss of pain.
Frank glanced over his shoulder to Perlah.
“Push four of morphine.”
You didn’t mean to watch him so closely.
The way he moved - careful, deliberate. The way his brow pulled together just slightly as he focused. The quiet, almost automatic gentleness in the way he handled her ankle.
Your phone buzzed in your pocket again.
You ignored it.
You told yourself it was because Amy needed you, and definitely not because you were suddenly, acutely aware of the attractive doctor in front of you.
"Does this hurt?"
His voice softened as he gently rolled her ankle forward.
Amy flinched, "yeah that really hurts."
“Alright. That’s helpful. Not fun, but helpful.”
There was something about the way he said it - dry, but kind - that made Amy visibly relax despite herself.
After a moment he stood, unfolding back to his full height.
"Well Amy, we're going to need to do a CT of your ankle to see if there are any fractures."
"Do you think it's broken?" She asked anxiously.
"Unfortunately it's hard to say right now given the amount of swelling. It might just be a really bad sprain."
He turned slightly, murmuring something to Perlah, pointing at the tablet.
You watched the folds of Amy's face crease into an anxious frown. You crossed your arms as an unexpected bubble of irritation burst in you.
"You know, it’s ridiculous that there’s even a grid there. That’s where you’re supposed to walk.” You huffed to Amy. “And it’s right in the middle of the city where thousands of women in high heels walk every single day.”
Frank’s mouth twitched faintly.
He and Perlah exchanged a look.
“It is kind of silly.” Amy agreed half heartedly.
“It’s not just silly, it’s negligent." You insisted, the familiar rhythm of advocacy settling within you. “I should write to the council you know. Threaten to sue or something, because otherwise nothing will actually get done about it like usual because they're-“
You stopped yourself abruptly when you remembered where you were.
You were not at your desk angrily typing out a letter to an opposing party, you were in a hospital.
You cleared your throat.
"Sorry." You glanced sheepishly between Doctor Langdon and Perlah. "I can get...worked up sometimes."
"More like highly strung." Amy grumbled, causing you to shoot her a glare.
"What are you, a lawyer or something?" Frank asked as he slid his gloves off, a quiet thread of amusement in his voice.
You winced.
"Just a little bit, yeah."
He looked up at you again, his eyes wide. "Wait seriously?"
"She's not just a lawyer, she's a great lawyer." Amy boasted proudly.
Langdon glanced between the two of you.
"So you're-"
"-a concerned colleague." You jumped in.
"She's my boss." Amy corrected. "I'm her paralegal."
"Ok firstly, you're not my paralegal, you're a paralegal at the firm I work at. And secondly, I am not your boss - you're making me sound old."
Frank huffed a laugh at that. It slipped out of him easier than it had all day - maybe even all week.
Amy rolled her eyes fondly at you in a way that only someone in a great working relationship could.
"We were coming back from court when I tripped." She explained.
Frank nodded, but his eyes still hadn't quite left you.
"Well...boss or not, it's very nice of you to come and wait here with her. Not a lot of coworkers would do that."
"Oh." You glanced at Amy and then back at him. "Well... she always uses the correct font type and size, so I'm a little attached."
Amy snorted. "And who says romance is dead?"
That loosened another quiet chuckle out of Frank, and for a second his eyes lingered on you just a little longer than necessary.
You felt it. That small shift, like the air had changed pressure. A flicker of something as your heart skipped a beat.
Perlah smirked as she slipped out of the room.
"Ok well-" Then Frank's attention was on Amy again, as if that moment had never happened, like flipping a well worn switch. "it might take a while before your CT, so just try to relax and if your pain gets worse let a nurse know and we can increase your morphine dose."
“What’s a while mean in doctor speak?”
“Could be half an hour, could be a couple of hours. It really depends on if we get anything urgent come in. But we’ll try and get you through as fast as we can.” He reassured her.
Amy shot you a panicked look.
"Ok, thanks doc.” You answered for her as you grasped her hand and squeezed.
"No problem."
His eyes flickered to you once more before he disappeared through the curtain.
Frank pulled the curtain shut. Unable to help himself, he hovered outside as your muffled voices pierced through the thin fabric.
"You should go, seriously. I can't ask you to stay here for hours."
"I'm not leaving you here on your own."
"But there is so much work to do- ok wait pass me my laptop and I can start-"
"Amy, you're not working, you're in the hospital for christs sake. Nothing we do is that important."
Frank knew he should walk away, but he couldn't bring himself too.
"But-"
"-no buts." Your voice was gentle, but had a firm edge, one that made it clear you weren't budging. "I can do it all tonight."
"But you already have so much to do." Amy's voice grew softer as her resolve waivered.
"Exactly, so what's a couple more things to add to a never ending list?"
Frank heard Amy let out a defeated sigh. "Well at least there's one positive to all this."
"Oh yeah? what's that?"
A beat, and then-
"Doctor Langdon is hot."
He didn’t let himself hear your response.
Frank moved fast. Down the hall, around the corner, going anywhere but there.
His jaw tightened, heat creeping up the back of his neck despite himself.
Perlah made her way back to the desks clustered in the middle of the ER, the hum of monitors and overlapping conversations swelling around her again.
Princess pounced immediately.
“Javadi says there’s a gorgeous woman in Room 8.”
“There is. She’s a lawyer.”
“Oh." Princess' brows lifted. "Beauty and brains.”
“I like her, seems fiery.”
They both looked up, falling silent as Langdon walked past.
“And Langdon’s treating her?” Princess murmured in Tagalog, their eyes tracking his every movement.
“Yep, and he’s smitten.”
Frank stopped at one of the computers and swiped his ID.
He glanced over at Princess and Perlah to see them giggling. They fell silent when they noticed his gaze, before sharing a glance and bursting into another fit of involuntary laughter.
He shook his head, jaw tightening as he turned back to the screen, willing the faint heat creeping up his ears to disappear as he began typing.
"Heard you've got a stunner in Room 8."
Frank didn't bother to look up from his screen as McKay leaned across the desk, her tone far too casual to be innocent.
"Really? I can't say that I noticed."
McKay scoffed. "Sure you didn't."
She paused for a moment and then, "so... is she single?"
Frank finally looked up at her over his monitor. "I don't know." He said flatly. "I was busy treating my patient, you know - doing my job."
McKay rolled her eyes. "Why is everyone so boring today?"
He shook his head and cursed quietly under his breath.
Frank Langdon had handled a lot in this ER. He'd intubated critical patients, manually pumped hearts, stood knee-deep in chaos during mass casualty incidents without flinching.
And yet, the truth was, he was more rattled by you then anything else he'd stumbled upon in the pitt.
He'd nearly tripped over his own feet when he pulled back that curtain and saw you sitting in that chair.
You were a blur of long and graceful limbs, legs crossed neatly, posture perfect despite the chaos around you. Those sky-high heels tapping faintly against the floor, like you carried your own rhythm into the room.
Then, your eyes met his.
Your hair fell in soft, deliberate curls, framing a face that was too gorgeous to be sitting under harsh fluorescent lighting in the middle of an emergency department.
It had taken everything in him not to stare.
He was a professional, he had to remind himself. One who was lucky to even still be practicing.
Then, you'd started speaking. And that had somehow made it even worse.
You were fiery, well-articulated, confident - something that no doubt came as a result of your profession.
But there was a softness to you too, a kindness that made him slightly weak in the knees.
The way your hand had settled on Amy’s shoulder. The way your voice shifted when you spoke to her.
It had caught him off guard.
After a few minutes, he glanced out of the corner of his eye to see Dana a few feet from him, writing something out onto a chart.
"You knew."
Dana didn't even look up at first.
"Knew what?" She asked innocently.
Frank pursed his lips and kept his eyes glued to his charts as he muttered his next words. "You knew that she was gorgeous when you sent me in there."
"Really? I can't say that I noticed."
His eyes narrowed as she echoed his words back at him, a knowing smile on her lips as she shot him a wink.
He shook his head, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
Now that you were satisfied Amy was comfortable, you finally dared to look at your phone.
Three missed calls, thirty unread emails, seven teams messages and a voicemail from a very unimpressed partner.
"Go." Amy insisted, nudging your arm when she saw the look on your face. "Call whoever you have to call.”
“It’s fine-“
“You’re doing that thing where you pretend you’re not stressed but you’re actually two minutes away from having a meltdown.”
“I am not-“
“-you are.”
You sighed, your shoulders dropping just slightly as you glanced back down at your screen.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m morphined up and have endless tiktoks to scroll through. I’ll be fine.” Amy insisted.
You hesitated for a moment, then nodded.
“Ok…just try not to injure any other part of your body.”
“No promises.” She beamed back.
You shot her one last glare as you yanked the curtain back - and stepped straight back into the chaos.
It hit you all at once.
Voices overlapping. Monitors beeping. The constant movement like a fast flowing tidal wave.
You paused for half a second, scanning for someone who looked even remotely interruptible.
“Excuse me.” You hurried over to a young doctor with a mop of curly brown hair who was typing away frantically.
He swivelled around in his chair at the sound of your voice.
His eyes widened as he looked up at you.
“Sorry- is there somewhere I can take a phone call?” You asked as you held up your buzzing phone.
"Um-" His cheeks grew red. "Uh well you could maybe uh-"
"Ignore Ogilvie. He's new." You looked up to see the older blonde nurse from earlier.
"Work call?"
"Unfortunately."
She flashed you a sympathetic call as she jerked her thumb behind her. "Go use the ambulance bay sweetheart, just make sure you stay out of their way if one of them rolls in."
"I will, thank you." You flashed her and Ogilvie a smile before hurrying in the direction she pointed you in.
Ogilvie watched as you walked away, his mouth slightly ajar as your hips swayed in your tight skirt.
"Sweet lord have mercy." He breathed out.
You moved quickly, heels clicking sharply against the floor, cutting a clean line through the chaos.
You passed an older doctor, offering a polite, automatic smile as your eyes met his.
Robby slowed slightly, turning around to watch you as you walked past.
He blinked slowly, then glanced toward Dana, who was flipping through a stack of folders like nothing unusual had just walked past.
"Is there a lawsuit going on that I don't know about?"
"More like Ogilvie's about to get served with a restraining order if he doesn't stop gaping." Santos remarked dryly as she walked past.
Robby's stare hardened. Dana slid off her glasses, using them to point vaguely in your direction.
"She's the co-worker of the patient in Room 8, Langdon's looking after her."
"I bet he is." Ogilvie muttered.
Robby shook his head slightly as he raised his hands up in defeat.
"On second thoughts, I don't want to know."
You groaned softly, rubbing at your temples as you leaned back against the cool brick wall just outside the ER doors.
You'd successfully calmed down two partners, delegated three tasks and promised to 'circle back' and 'touch base' on something that you absolutely did not want to circle back or touch base on ever again.
And in the process, created an impossibly large to-do list for yourself.
A familiar tension headache was starting to creep up the right side of your neck, settling stubbornly at the base of your skull.
You closed your eyes briefly, exhaling through your nose.
Frank had come out to take a breather.
Robby had been on his ass the entire shift, Santos was still giving him the evil eye and his back had started that low, persistent ache that never really went away - like it was just waiting for the worst possible moment to remind him it was there.
He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw you.
You, in his usual hiding spot, tucked just out of sight from everyone unless they actively came looking.
Now that you were standing, he could take you in properly. You'd abandoned your matching suit jacket at some point, but the rest of your outfit was still immaculate - leaving you in a tight skirt that fell just below your knee and a structured top with capped sleeves.
You looked like you'd just stepped out of an episode of Suits.
Completely out of place, and yet somehow not at all.
He cleared his throat, causing you to startle slightly as your eyes snapped open.
"Hi." You blurted out.
"Hi." He echoed.
There was a small beat where you just looked at each other.
"Sorry I um- one of the nurses said I could take a call out here. I hope that's ok."
He smiled softly. "Yeah of course." Then he nodded towards the phone still clutched in your hand.
"Everything ok?"
"Oh, yeah." You said automatically. Then, after a second - "I mean no, but it will be."
He nodded like he understood.
"Work stuff?"
You let out a dry chuckle. "Always."
His eyes moved over your face more carefully this time, catching the faint shadows beneath your eyes - half-hidden by makeup, but not invisible.
"We're in the middle of a big trial." You explained. "So it's a little hectic at the moment, client's stressed, partner's stressed, so naturally... everyone's stressed."
Frank nodded again. "Sounds..."
"Stressful?" You offered, pulling a chuckle from him.
"Yeah, stressful."
"It is." You admitted, chewing the inside of your cheek. "But I mean-" You waved towards the ER. "it's nothing like what you guys deal with in there."
Frank frowned slightly at your deflection. "Stress is still stress."
"Yeah but when I'm stressed over a typo in a court document I have to remind myself that I'm not performing heart surgery to calm myself down." You tilted your head, looking up at him. "While you guys are literally performing heart surgery."
"Alright touche." Frank raised his hands in mock surrender. "But still, sounds like you've had a big week."
"More like a big year." You huffed, the honesty slipping out before you could catch it. "But yeah, big week."
"Lot of late nights?"
Your eyes narrowed slightly. "Is that your polite way of saying I look haggard?"
Frank let out a huff of disbelief, "trust me, you are far from looking haggard."
You tried to ignore the annoying way your stomach flipped at that.
He seemed to realise what he’d said a fraction too late.
He straightened slightly, clearing his throat, one hand lifting in a vague, corrective gesture.
"I just mean-" he motioned toward you, "you look like you’re running on about three hours of sleep."
You folded your arms across your chest, leaning more into the wall. "Is that your professional medical opinion?"
"It's a guess." He shrugged his shoulders. "But I'm usually right."
Your eyes narrowed further at the slight humour in his expression. There was no chance in hell you were going to admit he was practically right on the mark.
Before you could answer, your phone buzzed again.
Langdon watched as your eyes darted down, a grimace flashing across your features as you read whatever email had just come through. Your grimace only deepened as your phone began ringing.
“I’ll let you get that.” He made to go back inside.
“No it’s fine, I’m very intentionally ignoring it.” You shoved the phone back into your pocket, as if to emphasise your point.
“He’s a partner on the other side of this matter.” You explained, shaking your head. “He thinks ringing me is somehow going to make him get his way.”
"I'm guessing that happens a lot." Frank leant his shoulder against the brick, angling his body towards you.
"People underestimating you."
You studied him for a moment, searching for any sign of insincerity or expectation of praise for acknowledging something that was quite literally the bare minimum.
You were pleasantly surprised when your fine tuned bullshit detector didn't sound alarm bells.
"It does." You acknowledged after a moment. "But it makes it more fun when I inevitably run rings around them."
Your accompanied smirk made Frank let out a genuine laugh. "I have no doubt about that."
As his laughter faded, your eyes stayed locked. You felt it again - the shift. Something you couldn't quite name, or maybe were too afraid to just yet.
Your phone buzzed entitledly again.
"Sorry-" You glanced down at the caller ID. "I do actually have to take this one."
“Partner?”
“Oh- no I’m single.”
Frank blinked. Then a smirk broke through, unguarded.
“I uh- I meant law firm partner.”
“Oh.” Your phone was still buzzing in your hand, now completely forgotten.
“But that’s very good to know.” Or something of that ilk is what Frank wanted to say.
"Amy should be next in line for her CT, so it shouldn't be too much longer of a wait."
Is what he said instead as he pushed off the wall.
Professional, safe, controlled.
"Thank you doctor."
"Frank." He corrected you automatically. "What I mean is- just Frank is fine, you don't have to call me doctor." He added hastily as he began to slowly back away.
Smooth.
A smirk tugged at your mouth. "Ok." You said lightly.
"Well thank you... just Frank." You teased before finally placing your phone to your ear.
The way you said his name - low, deliberate, just teasing enough - landed in his chest, in his throat, somewhere inconveniently deeper than either.
He shook his head as the sound played over and over in his head as he slipped back inside the ER.
Frank exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face.
He was, to put it professionally, completely and utterly fucked.
Half an hour later, Amy was no closer to getting her CT scan.
You were back in your waiting chair beside her, posture far less composed than before, one leg bouncing slightly, still frantically glued to your phone.
And while you were trying your best to work, annoyingly all it seemed you could think about was Frank Langdon.
You exhaled sharply, dragging your focus back to the email in front of you.
The two of you looked up from your phones as the curtain slid across the railing.
And as if you'd manifested him with your thoughts, your eyes locked with Frank's blue ones.
Frank stepped inside, a coffee cup clutched in one hand, his other already reaching to pull the curtain closed behind him.
"Hey Amy, sorry for the wait. I just wanted to check to see how you were doing?"
"Oh I'm fine, just keep the morphine coming." Amy grinned.
"We can definitely do that." Frank chuckled.
He shifted his weight slightly, glancing between the two of you.
"You were next in line for CT but a trauma came in, I don't think it'll be too much longer now though."
"No problem, thanks for letting me know." Assuming the interaction was over, Amy glanced back down at her phone.
Suddenly, Frank's eyes were on you. There was the slightest pause, like he was debating something.
His tongue darted out to wet his lower lip as he extended his hand holding the coffee out towards you.
"I got you this-"
"oh-"
"-figured you might need it if you're going to have a late one."
Amy’s head snapped up so fast it was almost comical.
"You really didn't have to do that Frank." Despite your words, your mouth was already salivating at the prospect of caffeine. Your hand already reaching, your focus locked on the cup like it might disappear if you hesitated.
"Thank you."
Your fingers brushed against his as the cup changed hands.
"You're feeding my addiction you know."
Frank’s mouth lifted as he adjusted his grip on his stethoscope, buying himself a second.
"Luckily you're not my patient then."
As if suddenly remembering Amy - his patient and whole reason for being here - was in the room, his attention snapped back her.
"Sorry Amy, no liquids other than water before a CT."
Amy's eyes darted between the two of you, a knowing grin forming on her face. "Oh that's ok, don't worry about me Frank."
You shot her a warning look behind his back.
If Frank noticed, he didn't say anything. Instead he just shot you another smile.
"Alright." He said, glancing back at you one more time - quicker now, but no less intentional. "I'll check back in after your scan is done."
You pressed the cup to your lips, using it as a shield to avoid Amy's stare as he left.
"Ok. What the fuck was that?"
"What was what?" You answered innocently as you busied yourself with your phone.
"You really didn't have to do that Frank." She mocked in a low, sultry tone.
"I do not sound like that." You snapped, your eyes finally meeting hers.
"You were practically eye fucking him."
"I was not!"
A heartbeat later you added quietier, "we talked for a bit when I was outside making work calls. He told me to call him Frank."
"Oh my fucking god." She let out a cackle of disbelief. "You want him."
"No I don't."
"Yes you do. Admit it! You want to fuck the hot doctor-"
"-would you keep your voice down!" You hissed, glancing over your shoulder.
"Yes, obviously he is attractive ok?" You muttered reluctantly.
"And-" She sat up straighter in her bed. "He clearly wants you too."
"Ok no-"
"- he just bought you a coffee." She interrupted, ticking it off like evidence, "which was clearly an excuse to come and talk to you by the way, and he couldn't keep his eyes off you. What kind of doctor does that unless they're into you?"
"Really nice ones?" You meekly suggested.
She shot you a deadpan stare. "You're too smart to be saying such dumb things."
Your brow furrowed. "I don't like your tone missy."
"What are you going to do about it? I'm not your paralegal, remember? Besides why is any of this a bad thing? Honestly when was the last time you actually got laid because-"
"Alright Amy-" Perlah barged in before you could retort back. "Finally time for your CT."
"Saved by the bell." You muttered.
Perlah tried her best to fight the grin threatening to spill onto her cheeks. Neither of you had to know that she'd heard every word.
As time wore on, your stomach started to grumble, promptly reminding you that you had not eaten anything since stuffing down a muesli bar this morning on your way to court.
The idea of hospital cafeteria food was enough to turn you off the idea of eating all together.
You could hear two staff chatting outside.
"Thank god this shift is nearly over."
"I know, I'm starving."
"I really could go for an unethical donut right now, but don't tell Dana I said that."
An idea started to take shape.
You googled the number of a local pizza place that you knew was half decent and open. You pressed the phone to your ear, tapping the well worn arm of the chair impatiently as it rung.
"Hello? Hi yes- look I was just wondering- would you by any chance deliver to a hospital?"
-
Frank glanced at the clock.
Only an hour left of this seemingly never ending shift.
Despite how busy they had been, it seemed the entire emergency department had found the time to learn about your existence and more annoyingly, his apparent thing for you.
Every time he walked past someone he was greeted with a shit-eating grin and a snarky remark.
"I didn't know you liked Legally Blonde, Langdon."
"Permission to approach the bench?"
"Is your girlfriend going to sue me if I stuff this intubation up?"
He slowed as he watched his co-workers flocking towards the break room.
"What's all this?" He asked Mel.
"Oh um- someone got us pizza."
"Upstairs send another gift?"
"Nope.” Mel shook her head. "An anonymous delivery apparently."
"Anyway." She shrugged after a moment. "I'm getting a slice. I just hope they ordered Hawaiian."
Frank frowned slightly, watching as Mel joined the feeding frenzy.
Dana stopped beside him, silently handing him a receipt.
"What am I looking at?"
"The online order receipt." She smirked up at him. "You might want to cross check it with Room 8’s emergency contact."
While still waiting for Amy to come back from her scan, you had finally relented and pulled out your work laptop.
You'd kicked off your heels at some point, abandoning them beneath the chair, and were now perched awkwardly with one leg tucked under you, using Amy’s side table as a makeshift desk.
You peeked over the top of your monitor at the sound of a throat being cleared.
Frank stood tentatively at the threshold, as if he was mindful not to intrude.
"Hi."
"Hi."
"I thought you might be hungry."
You glanced down to see he was holding a slice of pizza on a paper plate, a napkin folded neatly underneath.
The way the napkin was folded so deliberately made something unfurl beneath your ribs.
"First a coffee and now pizza?" You teased as you closed your laptop halfway. "I didn't realise food delivery was in the job description of an emergency doctor."
"It's an unwritten but vital part of the job." He answered smoothly, handing it over to you.
Your fingers brushed again as you took it.
Except this time, neither of you pulled away particularly quickly.
You glanced down at the plate to see two pills placed neatly beside your pizza.
“Pain killers."
He motioned to his own neck. "You keep bunching your shoulders up around your ears, probably because your neck’s tight from sitting at a desk all day."
You tilted your head slightly.
"Which means, you more than likely have a tension headache right now.”
You stared at him for a moment.
“What are you, a doctor or something?” You teased, repeating his question to you hours earlier.
“Just a little bit, yeah.” He echoed your words right back.
You huffed out a quiet laugh, your head pounding a little too hard for you to bother to try and deny its existence.
"Well, thank you." You shot him a smile as you placed the pills on your tongue, reaching for the water beside you. As you tilted your head back you were very aware of his attentive gaze.
He took a seat on the edge of Amy's bed, leaving just enough space between you to be appropriate.
"You know." He cleared his throat again, glancing down at his hands. "Dana forced the delivery driver to give her the contact number for the order. Said she needed to make sure it wasn't a poisoning attempt or something."
You let out a real laugh at that. "A mass poisoning event? Sounds like the perfect opportunity for a class action, my firm's great at defending those."
Frank hummed, observing you take your first bite.
"You know you put your phone number down as Amy's emergency contact right? So it shows up in the system."
"I’m innocent until proven guilty."
"You didn't have to do that." Frank was unable to hide the affection in his voice.
"Do what?"
You held his gaze for a second and then broke, a smile tugging at your mouth as you finally relented and offered up an innocent shrug.
"I wanted to. You guys work hard."
You glanced back at your laptop. "I was going to come and grab some but I got stuck."
"Ignoring misogynistic partners?"
You snorted. "I wish. Putting out fires instead."
"Another late night?"
"Looks like it."
Frank hummed again, his teeth catching briefly on his lower lip as he watched you.
"I know you're worried about work and Amy." He said slowly. "But it's important to take care of yourself too."
You looked up. There it was again. The sincerity, the kindness, the softness in his voice that made your stomach flutter.
"Should I take that as official medical advice?"
"I'm just saying-" Frank emphasised. "I've seen a lot of hardworkers end up in here, I wouldn't want that to happen to you."
"Well it's a little too late for that." You remarked dryly.
You glanced up when silence followed. Your eyes widened as you realised you'd said those words out loud.
"I um- what I meant was-"
"You don't have to explain." Frank cut you off, but you were already shaking your head.
"No it's fine, I um-" You hesitated, then exhaled. "I got admitted here once during law school." You admitted quietly.
Frank stiffened.
"I was so stressed and studying so hard and getting no sleep obviously, and then next thing I know a friend of a friend is suggesting I try these pills that apparently made you focus for like twelve hours straight."
You let out a small, humourless breath as the words continued to pour out of your mouth. The weeks of sleep deprivation weakening your usual posterity.
"Of course I told myself it was safe because everyone at law school was using them so why couldn't I? And I was smart so I could control it and-"
You cut yourself off when you realised how much you had been rambling.
"Sorry." You pinched the bridge of your nose between your thumb and pointer finger as your headache pulsed, too soon for the painkillers to take effect. "I don't know why I'm telling you this." You confessed.
"I've been clean for years, so no need to report me or anything."
Your attempt at lightening the mood flatlined.
You inwardly cursed yourself, glancing down at your lap. Why did you have to open your mouth? Any chance of him being interested was going to completely fly out the window-
"Benzos." Frank murmured.
You looked up with a start. "What?"
"Benzos." He repeated, this time a little louder, his eyes meeting yours. "That was my vice."
Your face faltered. You closed your laptop lid fully, slowly, as if you might spook him if you made any sudden movements.
"Dexies."
Something deeper formed between the two of you. Recognition, understanding.
You both saw the irony then too. You were two sides of the same coin, two professionals albeit in vastly different fields - one chasing a high, the other a low.
You saw the pain in Frank’s face, unable to be concealed by a weak attempt at a smile.
Your struggle had been years ago.
His… wasn’t.
“You know-“ You began gently. “-addiction doesn’t define us.”
Frank let out a sharp chuckle, more terse then he’d intended.
You winced. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like an Alcoholics Anonymous brochure.”
That got a genuine but short lived smile out of him. “You don’t need to apologise. The last few months have just been…” he paused, like he was trying to choose between words.
“Shit.” Was what he finally settled on.
You nodded slowly in understanding.
“It's hard not to feel like it defines you." He continued. "Working here."
"I know that feeling." You said quietly. "Like you've failed at something. Like you were supposed to have control over this innocuous thing and couldn't handle it."
He looked at you intently.
"That you should have been able to fix it yourself, without anyone else knowing. That everyone else is judging you for it."
His eyes stayed on you.
"How do you not feel like that?" His voice was smaller this time.
"I try and remember that everyone has shit going on, even if they're good at hiding it."
You smoothed your skirt as you shifted your weight.
"I have clients - CEOs, executives - the type of people you think would have everything under control, who royally fuck up and I mean royally. It usually starts with something small. Something they think they’ve got handled. And then it spirals."
You gestured outside. "You see people at their worst here everyday. People who ignore your advice, who try to convince themselves they can take care of themselves just fine without help."
Your gaze softened. "And you save them."
You offered him a small shrug. "So yeah, addiction sucks. But it isn't going to be what people remember. Not unless you give them a reason too."
You reached out instinctively to take his hand, to offer another layer of comfort. You stopped just shy, remembering yourself in time. Instead, you patted the edge of the hospital bed awkwardly.
Frank studied you for a moment. He barely knew you, and yet, you were one of first people since coming back to make him feel like he wasn't just a problem to be fixed. Like he was wanted, seen.
Frank ran a hand through his hair, letting a few strands of hair flop forward. His eyes flickered down to see that you still hadn't moved your hand from the bed.
"You know." He began, his voice lighter this time. "You're quite persuasive when you want to be." He placed his hands by his side, fingers curling over the iron frame of the bed.
"Oh yeah?"
The edge of his pinky brushed yours.
"Yeah. You should think of making a career out of it."
Your lips curved, "I'll keep that in mind."
You could have asked further questions - you had every right to want to know. But you didn't pry further, as if you knew the wounds were still so fresh they had barely begun to scab. Like you knew he wasn't ready to rip the temporary band aid off just yet.
That restraint said more than anything else could have.
It made something in his chest tighten.
It only made him want you more.
Like always, Jack Abbott had arrived early for his shift.
He strolled through the ER, taking stock of patients and preparing himself for whatever mess the day shift had left for him to mop up.
He glanced briefly through the slightly ajar curtains of Room 8.
He came to a stop as his brain caught up with his eyes. Then slowly he took a step backwards.
He blinked a few times, letting himself process what he was seeing before turning around and walking back towards the epicentre of the chaos.
"Someone want to tell me what's going on in Room 8?"
A few heads lifted as he glanced around at his colleagues.
"Is Langdon getting sued or something?"
Javadi snorted. "He's getting something alright."
Jack looked around for someone to promptly resolve his bewilderment.
"She's the co-worker of one of his patients." Whitaker supplied.
"Yes." Robby cut in, not bothering to look up from what he was doing. "So like everyone who walks in here, she should be treated with dignity and respect."
Jack raised a brow.
"Well, whatever's going on in there-" He said, glancing back towards Room 8. "I volunteer to be next in line."
Laughter erupted. Mohan shot him a glare from across the room.
"Oh for the love of god." Robby buried his head in his hands. "Would you please stop encouraging them."
"Robby!" Dana called out. "Trauma incoming, two minutes tops."
The laughter stopped just as quickly as it had started.
-
You peaked out from behind the curtain, watching as the doctors and nurses sprung into action.
Frank had bolted the second he'd heard the word trauma.
You watched as he kitted up for the trauma room, pulling on gloves, movements quick and efficient.
He slid his glasses on, those annoyingly attractive strands of his fringe still flopping over his forehead.
It was like the Frank who had been sitting beside you minutes ago, quiet and open and real had ceased to exist. He was replaced by something precise, calm, unmoveable.
You watched him step into the trauma room without hesitation.
And something about that - the competence, the confidence, the way the chaos seemed to bend around him instead of swallowing him - it did something to you.
Looks were one thing. But this? It was enough to make you weak in the knees.
-
"Don't worry kids, the adult has arrived."
Frank stepped back as Garcia sauntered into the trauma room, Robby immediately jumping in to explain the patient's symptoms.
"I'm going to need to make an incision."
Wordlessly a scalpel was placed into her outstretched hand.
"So Langdon-" She started casually. "I've heard you've got a hot lawyer down here." She said it so nonchalantly it was like she was running a knife through butter, not a person's chest cavity.
"Jesus- OR knows about this?"
"Everyone knows about this." She corrected him.
"Must be a slow news day." He grumbled as he went to check the patient's vitals.
"She bought us all pizza." Mohan unhelpfully added.
Garcia glanced up. "Really?"
"Really." Mohan confirmed.
Garcia's brow lifted slightly as she worked.
"So this woman is hot, smart and buys your co-workers food seemingly out of the goodness of her own heart?"
McKay let out a snort.
"Better find a way not to screw this one up Langdon."
"Trust me, I'm working on it." He mumbled under his breath.
Across the room, Robby noticed it.
There was something different in Langdon. He moved like he was more sure of himself, less in his head.
That dark, heavy layer that he'd been carrying since he'd returned was not gone completely, but it was like something had finally cut through it, even just a little.
Robby’s expression didn’t change, but he watched him for a second longer than necessary.
He was still so angry at him, the sting of the betrayal of his adopted prodigy still fresh. But he couldn't ignore the flicker of something in him. It was brief, gone as quickly as it came, but still identifiable.
Relief.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Amy and Perlah trundled back into the room from her journey upstairs.
Frank wasn’t far behind.
"It’s just a bad sprain." He confirmed. "Painful - but nothing we can’t manage."
Amy let out a dramatic sigh of relief.
“We’ll put you in a moon boot and give you some crutches." He added before crouching down at the foot of her bed.
You tried to focus back on your phone, but your attention kept drifting.
To the way he worked. The quiet focus. The gentle way he handled her ankle, explaining everything as he went.
And occasionally, to the way his eyes flicked up to you.
From somewhere just outside the curtain, voices filtered through.
"Have you seen the lawyer yet?"
"Yeah she's really pretty."
"I know. Langdon's whipped. He's doing that thing."
"What thing?"
"The soft voice."
"He always has a soft voice."
"No - this is softer."
Your cheeks burned.
Frank very intentionally ignored them.
"This is amazing." Amy whispered.
"Please stop." You whispered back.
"Ok!" Frank jumped up with just a touch too much enthusiasm to be natural.
"You should be all good to go. You’ll have to keep weight off it for at least a week.”
“So no Jimmy Choos?”
“Definitely no Jimmy Choos.”
Amy pouted out her lower lip.
“I’d be happy to look after them for you.”
Amy cut you a side eye. “You have enough pairs of shoes to supply a small village.”
Frank smirked to himself at your bickering. Your eyes met briefly, training on one another long enough for Amy and Perlah to exchange a look.
"Um actually I think I need to go to the bathroom before I go." Amy announced loudly. "Perlah, do you think you could help me?"
"Of course."
"It might take a while." Amy held up one of her crutches. "You know, being impaired and everything."
"So plenty of time to talk." Perlah piped up.
You watched them go, both of them barely containing their giggles as they slipped out through the curtain.
Silence fell, thicker this time.
"Well, that was subtle." Frank remarked once the two of you were alone.
You let out a breathless laugh.
"Very."
Another pause.
It felt different now. Quieter. Like something was waiting to be said.
The two of you eyed eachother for a moment, as if daring to see who would break the silence first.
"So-" Frank relented first. "I um- I finish my shift in about ten minutes and I know you're busy but-" He paused, his cheeks tinging pink as he tried to phrase his words eloquently.
"I was wondering if maybe you'd like to go have dinner? There's a decent Japanese place just around the corner."
You couldn't fight the way your mouth instantly curved upwards.
"I thought doctors couldn't date their patients."
"We can't." He said quickly. "But you're not my patient. I even checked the hospital's guidelines just to be sure."
Your brow quirked up. "Did you now?"
"I did. Section 14, paragraph 5 provides the definition of patient - in case you wanted to do your own due diligence."
You laughed as if he might not be serious.
You didn't need to know that ten minutes ago he had been frantically flicking through the guidelines on his phone. Checking once, twice and then a third time just to be safe.
He was still on shaky ground here, he didn't want to do anything to rock the boat further. But there'd been a part of him that would have been willing to risk it regardless, to listen to the voice shouting at him that you were worth it.
"So technically ok but maybe just morally grey then?" You teased.
Langdon shrugged. "Maybe, but isn't that the area where you lawyers love to operate in?"
You snorted. "Wow. You know, if you ever decide you need a career change, you should consider the law Doctor Langdon."
"Something tells me the law is better off in your hands."
Your smile widened.
"So-" He said after a heartbeat, a little softer this time. "Is that a-"
"-it's a yes."
You surprised yourself at how quickly you answered.
There was a time not that long ago where you would have hesitated.
You hadn't dated in a long time, you were too busy with work, telling yourself that you weren't going to waste your limited spare time with mediocre men - which Pittsburgh seemed to supply in abundance.
But now, standing in front of Frank, you felt all of those worries fade away into the background.
Relief flickered across his face, quick but unmistakable.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
Frank smiled - warm, a little shy, genuine.
"Ok, cool."
"I'll wait outside with Amy, her boyfriend should be here soon - finally."
"Sounds good, I won't be too long."
You moved to gather your things, slipping your laptop away, but paused as you reached for your bag.
"Everyone's going to be staring at me out there, aren't they?"
"...probably."
"And it's not because they want free legal advice?"
Frank chuckled. "I'm afraid not."
You nodded slowly as you digested that information.
Then, your mouth curved into a small smile.
“Well-“ You slipped your heels back on, straightening to your full height.
"Better give them something worth looking at then."
Frank let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking his head, not even bothering trying to look away as you walked past him.
As the faint click of your heels echoed once more down the hallway, something settled in his chest. He felt more grounded, more sure of his place here.
And for the first time since walking back in through the doors to the pitt, Frank Langdon felt truly glad to be back.
As always always always, feedback is always appreciated because I thrive off praise. Please give it back here and consider tipping me! 🤍
