𝜗୧ call me Vie or Pea, bi-curious lesbian, gross nasty perverted cutesie angel princess girl, any pronouns I’m not picky, white 😔, bunny obsessed, I love milfs <3, baran al hashimi’s wife, sapphic, I finna be in the Pitt, I love: smosh, the Pitt, resident evil, x files, dc comics, challengers, movies (horror movies specifically) and women!! 𝜗୧
#fic rec for my fic recs (obvi)
🍀🍀🍀
I’m eventually gonna post some fic recs but that shits been in my drafts for months so oops 🤸🏻
p.s yeah no, I know that none of this shit is centred icba 🫶
i wanted to like a TikTok about not shipping emma with A Man (you know the one but I’m being polite so i don’t show up in their searches 🙂↕️) but the vibe in the comments is anti-ALL shipping like i need to excuse myself now sorry
bc genuinely what the fuck are you people saying. do you hear yourself. you sound like you’re being satirical with “Even fictional people.” that’s how fucking stupid you sound.
pretty pleaaaase i need to know more about reader and samira and jack. like id love to see how they walk him like a dog (if you want to ofc)
im so glad you asked because i have been thinking about them nonstop tbh
cw - sugar daddy jackabbot, light foot stuff (tbh that's not a thing i thought i'd write for before but here we are)
The warm spray from the shower head rains down on you as you hold your girlfriends face in your hand, moving your lips laguidly against hers. Her hands wrap around your waist, pulling you closer as you let out a little sigh. She tips your head back, kissing at your neck.
"If I get down on my knees right now," she murmurs against your skin, "Will you strap me when we get out?"
"I'm so fucking tired that shift nearly killed me," you groan, slumping against the wall, "I was gonna ask you to."
Silence hands in the air for a moment.
"Should we call him?" Samira asks with a raised brow.
"What, you think he's got plans or something?"
Once you're out of the shower, toweled off and in matching lacy slips, you're hitting the speaker button on the call. You reach over, thumbing Samira's nipple through her nightgown.
"Hey girls," Jack's voice rings through the speakers, "What's going on?"
"Are you busy right now?" you ask, tone playful.
"Some riveting cases on the scanner right now. Don't go to that grocery store on 3rd. Lots of robberies happening in that parking lot."
"Noted. Any chance you can turn the soundwaves off tonight and come over?" you pinch Samira's nipple, making her shout, "We have a dillemma here."
He grunts, "A dillema that requires my dick or my wallet?"
"Why don't you come here and find out?"
20 minutes later he's kneeling in you bedroom, pillow under his bed leg, while you and Samira sit at the edge of the bed, legs crossed looking down at him.
Samira extends her leg, pointing her freshly painted baby blue toes at him. He moves forward, pressing a kiss to her ankle.
"Is that the anklet you got?" he looks up through his lashes, "your…golusu?"
His accent his pitiful but Samira smiles anways.
"Mhm," she brings her foot up to his ear, giving her foot a little shake so the bells toll in his ear, "Thank you."
"Don't have to thank me," he murmrs, kissing her ankle once more.
He looks up at her, waiting for her approval. When she nods he kisses up her leg. She lookes over at you nodding towards him.
Your leg joins them, your foot pressing up against the growing bulge in his pants. Jack shudders, kissing the bottom of Samira's foot. You point down, putting pressure on his dick through his sweats. He's just about wrap his lips around it, when she pulls back.
"Not so fast, Dr. Abbot," she coos, leaning back on her hands, "Our rents due next week. How are we supposed to put out for you with that hanging over our heads?"
Jack's fumbling for his phone while you continue to tease him with your foot. He sucks in a breath when you slide all the way down, putting pressure on his balls. You don't relent, not until he flips the screen around and shows that he's sent the full rent amount to both your accounts.
pretty pleaaaase i need to know more about reader and samira and jack. like id love to see how they walk him like a dog (if you want to ofc)
im so glad you asked because i have been thinking about them nonstop tbh
cw - sugar daddy jackabbot, light foot stuff (tbh that's not a thing i thought i'd write for before but here we are)
The warm spray from the shower head rains down on you as you hold your girlfriends face in your hand, moving your lips laguidly against hers. Her hands wrap around your waist, pulling you closer as you let out a little sigh. She tips your head back, kissing at your neck.
"If I get down on my knees right now," she murmurs against your skin, "Will you strap me when we get out?"
"I'm so fucking tired that shift nearly killed me," you groan, slumping against the wall, "I was gonna ask you to."
Silence hands in the air for a moment.
"Should we call him?" Samira asks with a raised brow.
"What, you think he's got plans or something?"
Once you're out of the shower, toweled off and in matching lacy slips, you're hitting the speaker button on the call. You reach over, thumbing Samira's nipple through her nightgown.
"Hey girls," Jack's voice rings through the speakers, "What's going on?"
"Are you busy right now?" you ask, tone playful.
"Some riveting cases on the scanner right now. Don't go to that grocery store on 3rd. Lots of robberies happening in that parking lot."
"Noted. Any chance you can turn the soundwaves off tonight and come over?" you pinch Samira's nipple, making her shout, "We have a dillemma here."
He grunts, "A dillema that requires my dick or my wallet?"
"Why don't you come here and find out?"
20 minutes later he's kneeling in you bedroom, pillow under his bed leg, while you and Samira sit at the edge of the bed, legs crossed looking down at him.
Samira extends her leg, pointing her freshly painted baby blue toes at him. He moves forward, pressing a kiss to her ankle.
"Is that the anklet you got?" he looks up through his lashes, "your…golusu?"
His accent his pitiful but Samira smiles anways.
"Mhm," she brings her foot up to his ear, giving her foot a little shake so the bells toll in his ear, "Thank you."
"Don't have to thank me," he murmrs, kissing her ankle once more.
He looks up at her, waiting for her approval. When she nods he kisses up her leg. She lookes over at you nodding towards him.
Your leg joins them, your foot pressing up against the growing bulge in his pants. Jack shudders, kissing the bottom of Samira's foot. You point down, putting pressure on his dick through his sweats. He's just about wrap his lips around it, when she pulls back.
"Not so fast, Dr. Abbot," she coos, leaning back on her hands, "Our rents due next week. How are we supposed to put out for you with that hanging over our heads?"
Jack's fumbling for his phone while you continue to tease him with your foot. He sucks in a breath when you slide all the way down, putting pressure on his balls. You don't relent, not until he flips the screen around and shows that he's sent the full rent amount to both your accounts.
hi hi hi could you write something for dilf!art??? i’ve been thinking abt an age gap, dad’s friend trope🙏 like he’s been a friend of the family, and has always been so caring and attentive towards reader(who is very emotionally distant from her family and is kind of a loner so being treated so softly is something she feels deeply). yet recently reader has been acting different around him, not speaking as much, avoiding looking at him etc all bc she realized she has a crush on him, and is just so shy and embarrassed abt it. so when one day at some family function he tries to make conversation (being as sweet towards her as ever) he sees how she blushes and gets all nervous and hes worried he might have offended her in some way or smth. finally when they get a moment to themselves, he confronts her abt it, wanting to resolve whatever tension is between them (may be nsfw👀)
a/n: i ADORE this trope. sorry it took me so long 😔 lately i’m not that motivated to write but i couldn’t pass on this idea! hope you like it🩷
18+ MINORS DNI
art donaldson the charismatic, brilliant tennis player of the newborn century. to you was always your dad’s best friend, or uncle art—although you never seemed to make that nickname stick.
art and your dad were roommates in stanford but your family moved around a lot so for the first years of your life you never really knew about his existence.
up until your dad was offered a job back in california and you were forced to move once again. that’s when you discovered your dad was apparently best friends with the greatest tennis champion of all time (or of that year for what matters).
when you first came to know him, you were just starting middle school. your dad had invited him to the housewarming party and that’s exactly when you started crushing on him.
it was silly, you were kinda of a loner. your siblings always shined in their light, but you always stood in the corner, tucked into yourself— but Art noticed you, for the first time in your life you felt seen.
he asked about your interests and your dreams, actually payed attention to what you had to say. you were sure to be looking at him with stars in your eyes. you looked up to him, he was a successful athlete and you aspired to be like him.
he never missed a birthday, always showering you with sweet cards and gifts that never failed to paint a smile on your face.
you sensed something changed after you turned eighteen. his gifts got more expensive, his hugs tighter, his hands touchier.
you didn’t mind, of course, you liked him so who were you to refuse him? you thought he was the most attractive man on planet earth, no one could stand up to him.
your relationships never lasted more than a few months, you’d get bored of them, they weren’t what—or who you wanted.
that was up until two years ago. now you realize your silly, little crush is not that silly, nor that little. blushing at every one of his words, looking at him like he hung up the moon.
you were worried about your parents finding out, that would never end well for either of you. you had to put a distance between the two of you.
lately, you’ve tried your best, sitting far from him at gatherings, trying to not look for his gaze in every room you enter in and even sneaking away whenever you spot him somewhere.
you’d think he wouldn’t notice or care, but you couldn’t be more wrong. he noticed everything about you and he always had.
so you’re surprised when on your way to the bathroom, in the middle of the deserted hallway he grabs your wrist and leads you inside your bedroom.
he closes the door behind him and rests his muscular back on it. you stare at him with widened eyes and a fast breathing pattern “art what the hell was that?!”
art simply furrows his eyebrows “i should be the one asking you that” your face is painted with confusion at his words “i have no idea what you’re talking about”
he bites the inside of his cheek nervously, what is up with him?
“did i do something to offend you?” he blurts the words out his mouth quickly. you blink a few times “what? no—why would you think that?” you sit down your bed and cross your legs.
art’s gaze wanders on your body for a moment before he shakes himself out of it “you’ve been avoiding me” that actually takes your breath away. you were so stupid for thinking he wouldn’t notice you acting different and now you had to make something up.
“i-i’ve just been….you know—busy” you shrug it off trying really hard to be nonchalant about it but the heat on your cheeks is telling you it’s not working.
“busy? with what?” art asks crossing his arms, his biceps popping out his white shirt. you bite your lip looking away to anything but him “busy with…college…stuff” you’re too vague and you’re aware he clearly knows you’re making stuff up.
“you’re lying” he takes one step towards you, and then another, towering over you with that condescending look you hate “tell me why you’ve been avoiding me” he repeats again and you can hear you heartbeat up to your ears.
“i can’t tell you” you shake your head, art’s even more confused and frustrated now. you can tell by his expression, furrowed brows and pouty lips.
“you can’t…tell me?” you simply nod your head and he sighs taking a step back, you notice the distance too much. he seems to think it through, you can almost see the rods twist inside his brain.
“is it because of your dad?” he speaks up softly, taking you by surprise “some of it— yes” he brings a hand up to massage his temple, he looks…stressed? “i can talk to him” you jump up to your feet at his words “wait— no art you absolutely can’t do that”
“why not?” he asks, his arms now dangle down his sides, hitching to reach you “because.. he-he can’t know” you say embarrassed, you wish the earth could swallow you right now.
“know what?” he’s still confused, does he genuinely not know what’s going on?
you breathe out frustrated “that i have a crush on you art!” you say exasperated, covering your face with your hands. there you said it, there is no turning back. art welcomes your freaking out, taking your hands off your face with gentle motions “i know sweetheart” he huffs a laugh fixing your hair.
you swear you could pass out, your admission combined with his sweetness is too much for you to take “oh my god” you take a step back from him “i can’t- we shouldn’t-“ art reaches you in no time, grabbing your hands in his “it’s okay” he smiles, his smugness radiating from every corner of his body.
“i won’t tell anyone” he whispers tilting your head with one single finger, his thumb brushing over the plump of your lips. your breath catches and your knees wobble as he parts your mouth with his finger. his digit bumping into your teeth.
you feel light headed, watching every one of his movements in awe. art lowers down to your height, finally latching his lips to yours in an urgent kiss.
you gasp into his mouth, grasping your manicured nails onto his broad shoulder for leverage. art hums in your mouth, grabbing a handful of your ass and squeezing hard enough to leave a mark, your bodies molding against each other.
when the gravity of the situation finally locks into your head, you gather all the strength in your body to push art away “this is wrong we— we shouldn’t” you back away only to be met with your mattress hitting the back of your knees.
art grins, lips flushed and glossy from your kiss, approaching you with practiced ease. one hand on your hip as he whispers sugared words into your ear “you want it…me. and i want—i need you”
his words trail goosebumps up your spine “don’t act like you don’t want this,bunny” that damn nickname spreads heat all over your body. he has been calling you that for as long as you can remember, and it never fails to make you feel something.
“can you at least—lock the door?” you sigh defeated, you couldn’t possibly say no to him. he’s all you’ve ever wanted after all.
art’s smile spreads across his face, making both of his dimples pop out “yes m’am” he leaves a kiss on your cheek before walking to the door and locking it. you shift nervously on your feet while you wait for him to come back, which he does in a matter of second.
his hands fly to your hips, keeping you steady while he kisses up your neck and jaw “we-we have to be quick” art simply hums against your skin, licking and biting wherever he can reach.
your fingers scratch his scalp, making him grunt. he grabs the hand on his head and leads it above his jeans covering his bulge “feel that bunny? all for you” you bite hard down your bottom lip at his words, grabbing at his belt and quickly pulling it off.
art chuckles at your greediness “sit” you tell him, he obeys quickly after. once he’s comfortably seated he pats his lap, urging you to take a seat on it “c’mon” he says with a tilt of his head.
you oblige, straddling his hips in a heartbeat “there you go, was easy wasn’t it?” he coos, you nod your head in awe, you can’t believe this is actually happening.
art grins and lifts the hem of your dress “let me see those, sweetheart” you spread your legs as much as you can on his lap, showing him your strawberry red panties. he sucks in a breath when he spots the wet patch between them.
“what got you so worked up bunny?” you blush and try to close your legs but he simply won’t let you, his grip on you is too strong “tsk,tsk” he shakes his head “don’t hide from me…can i?” he asks hooking his finger on the edge of your underwear.
“yes art—please” he slips his digit inside your underwear, gathering your wetness before moving circles above your clit. you gasp while your head falls into his shoulder “yeah? you like that?” art smirks and slips a finger inside you, your moans are enough of an answer for him.
your velvety walls suck his digit further inside, wanting to be full. it’s not enough.
“art…need you inside” you whine nudging your nose against the curve of his neck “something’s missing…” he teases and you whimper frustrated as his finger keeps pistoning in and out of you.
“please fuck me” art grins content and slips the digit out of you, licking it clean into his mouth.
he unbuttons his jeans with fast hands, he lowers them down enough to slip out his cock from his underwear.
you stare at it for a few moments, taking in his leaky tip and the girth of his shaft. you’re not sure you can take it.
“i’m sure i didn’t steal your tongue when i kissed you?” he jokes huffing a laugh while he soothingly rubs the side of your hip “i’m just not sure it’ll fit” you tilt your head with a sigh still not taking your eyes off his dick.
art just chuckles “it’ll fit, i know you can take it” he bumps his nose with yours and leaves a kiss on your lips “up” he pats your bum and you stand on your knees.
he slides your panties to the side and he lets you sink down his length on your own time. you slowly take the head inside of you, the stretch makes you curse out.
“you can do it” his chocked out but reassuring words encourage you to take him further inside. you take a deep breath, sinking down his dick inch by inch.
art’s head is thrown back, taking deep breaths and trying sooo hard not to thrust his hips up.
when you bottom out, you both exhale and laugh in each other’s faces afterwards “you’re actually inside me right now” you blink realizing it’s actually happening and there’s no going back.
“best place i’ve ever been in” he leaves a kiss on your temple “ready to move?” you nod your head “think so”
you start by circling your hips, you feel pleasurably full. the tip of his dick brushes your cervix at every slight movement. you’re leaking down his thighs, it’s messy and slick.
when you get used to the stretch you start going up and down, eventually catching your pace.
“just like that…up and down, bunny” art squeezes at the meat on your hips, guiding you through half lidded eyes “oh fuck…art” you whine riding him faster.
your cunt squeezes his cock at every jump, making art let out a loud groan. he’s not gonna last long if you keep that up, but you can’t help it. the way your cunt feels every one of his veins or the way you can practically feel how his tip leaks inside of you.
“my fucking girl…taking it so well” art grunts into your ear, now thrusting his hips up into you. you cover your mouth to hide your moans, there’s still a party going on downstairs and you’ve been missing for too long.
“next time i fuck you i want to hear you okay?” you can’t help but nod, registering his words just a moment later. next time? he wants this to happen again?
“gonna make you scream bunny” you bite down your lip “oh art— i’m so close” you cry out. art grabs your hips harder, slamming you against him faster, determined to tip you over the edge.
it all happens in a matter of minutes. you come hiding your face in the crook of his neck, saying his name like a prayer.
art cums quickly after, he couldn’t take the way you looked, all spent and content on top of him. he spills his load inside of you with one last thrust “there you go…so good for me bun” he breathes heavily and leaves a kiss on top of your head.
it really, really pisses me off when a writers entire blog is so blatantly ai, yet they still have so many people interacting with their posts and praising them for their "writing".
i genuinely feel crazy thinking im the only one who can tell that its ai. please just write fics on your own its always better than that slop and I CAN TELL ITS AI IF YOU USE IT.
☝️exactly this. I have an account in mind that keeps posting stories that are SO blatantly AI generated. And yet people keep liking and commenting. It’s a person who posts about Jack and Andrew and Stan (I saw them writing about Marvel characters too.)
Confessions of a Night Shift Nurse - The Pitt SMAU - PT. 13
+18 MDNI
pt. 12 / pt. 14
summary: some flirty texts between reader and abbot in the week leading up to their date
content: nurse!reader, fem!reader x jack abbot, age gape (reader is late 20s/early 30s), very lewd conversations, heavy flirting, sunshine and jack want each other so bad it makes them both look stupid, jack teasing reader, reader teasing jack.
a/n: we're almost to the end! their big date (and the heavy smut) are next chapter!!!!! there will be an epilogue after that chapter, and im considering maybe continuing the series with sporadic little text convos between reader & jack after they've already gotten together.
when your suitcase gets lost on the way to greece, jack abbot lends you clothes to get by. between nosy coworkers, spilled wine, and jack's teasing, the situation becomes much harder to survive than it should be.
𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ interested in how the pitt crew got approved for a week in greece? the original invitation is still posted
PAIRING: jack abbot x reader
WARNINGS: fluffity fluff, borrowed clothes, coworkers to something, public embarrassment, flustered reader, teasing, mild jealousy implications, suggestive dialogue, sexual rumors / assumptions, wine spilling, santos being ur number 1 opp and number 1 supporter at the same time, flirting!!! lots and lots of flirting
PROMPT: here!
WC: 1.8k
There are, you feel, worse fates than ending up marooned in Santorini wearing Jack Abbot’s clothes.
A plague of locusts, for one. Stepping on a lego barefoot perhaps. Or, in what may in fact be the cellar floor of human suffering, finally getting your suitcase back only to unzip it and find nothing inside but hideous hospital scrubs and lonely, misshapen shocks instead of your cute little outfits and your even cuter, very tiny bikinis you were supposed to be wearing on this trip.
And honestly that’s not entirely outside of the realm of possibility.
You packed at two in the morning with the executive function of a feral raccoon rifling through a gas station dumpster, so really the universe would be well within its rights to punish you.
This, then, was fine. More than fine. A salvageable situation. A win, even, if you angled your head and refused to inspect it too closely.
Except for the microscopic issue that his clothes smell like him.
Which you understood in a distant, theoretical way you know rain is wet or fire is hot or men’s clothes tend to smell like the men wearing them.
But now you understand it in that immediate, full-body way of a person trapped inside the atmosphere of a man she is trying, with only moderate success, not to be weird about.
Tobacco. Leather. Something dry and woodsy underneath, oak maybe, something warm and stern and impossible to separate from him now that you’ve noticed it.
It smells like competence. Like an almost-choice. Like the split second before you do something you already know you’ll have to lie about later.
And now it’s all over you. In the collar. In the cuffs. In every breath you take like your lungs have joined the opposition.
You huff it in like an addict and make your way into the living room.
Rain taps steadily at the tall glass windows, turning the whole house dim and silver at the edges.
Most of the group has collapsed into the couch in various stages of damp-haired, wine-soft sprawl, limbs overlapping without much regard for ownership, all of them fixed on some black-and-white film flickering across the tv screen.
The kitchen counter is crowded with wine glasses in varying stages of neglect, some nearly full, some reduced to lipstick ghosts and shallow red smears at the bottom, and you decide this is as good a moment as any to acquire one of your own.
You deserve it, after all.
You grab an unused glass and pour a generous amount.
From the end of the couch nearest to the kitchen, Victoria looks up from her phone, takes one look at you, and arches a brow.
“Nice sweatshirt,” she remarks. “Should we be thanking you for your service?”
Your eyes drop to the enormous ARMY stamped across your chest, which, in hindsight, does feel a touch less subtle than you might have hoped. Not understated, exactly. More like a public service announcement.
“Lost suitcase,” you say, heat climbing to your face as you fuss with a sleeve that falls halfway over your hand. “Jack let me borrow something, so… blame the airline.”
Santos lets out a sharp little laugh from beside her, all pleased with herself before she’s even opened her mouth. Never a promising sign.
“That’s a new one. Usually people skip straight to admitting they’re sleeping with him.”
You sputter around a mouthful of wine, swallowing too fast, too badly, eyes watering as you whip around to glare at her over the rim of your glass.
“Trinity,” you stage-whisper, eyes huge. “Jesus Christ.”
“Who’s sleeping with who?”
Jack’s voice lands from somewhere directly behind you.
You turn and there he is.
Grey sweatpants riding low on his hips, black t-shirt skimming a chest and shoulders broad enough to make the whole rest of the room look underbuilt, all of him calm and self-contained in a way that makes you feel, by contrast, like a person assembled in a rush from spare parts.
You force your eyes upward with considerable effort and bite your tongue hard enough to keep from openly staring.
Santos is dead. Santos is dead and, before she dies, you are taking every single one of her beach towels. Let her drip-dry for the rest of the trip. Let her know hardship.
“Nobody,” you say quickly, then quicker, before somehow the first version had not been convincing enough. “No one is sleeping with anybody. There’s no sleeping happening. That is not a thing that is, um, happening.”
Jack gives you a quizzical look at that. You imagine he might be considering have you checked out.
Then his mouth tips at one corner. “Shame. For a second there it sounded interesting.”
Before you can scrape together anything remotely usable in reply, Jack is already moving past you, one hand catching lightly at your waist as he goes, casual, thoughtless, the absent sort of touch that means nothing to him and enough to shave several fiscal years off your life.
He heads straight for the couch, dropping into it.
Santos leans toward Victoria and mutters, in a voice carrying all the discretion of a car alarm, “Yeah. Real shame.”
You choose, with great maturity, not to acknowledge her. Which is easier to commit to in theory than in practice, especially when you turn toward the choice and realize your choices have narrowed to two.
One, the far corner, between Robby and the intern under a blanket that is doing a pathetic job of concealing whatever the hell is going on beneath it.
Or two, the open seat beside Jack.
You cross the room and lower yourself into the space next to him, careful to leave what you hope reads as a normal, socially unremarkable amount of distance between you.
He doesn’t look away from the movie.
“No need to get that defensive about your love life, kid,” he murmurs. “We’re all adults here.”
“I was not defensive,” you whisper back, which, admittedly, sounds suspiciously like the sort of thing a defensive person would say. You take a sip of wine. “It was a misunderstanding. That’s all.”
At that, Jack finally turns his head and looks at you properly. “So you are sleeping with someone?”
Dana’s eyes flick up from the movie, sharp and curious for exactly one second too long.
“Will you keep your voice down?” you hiss, then immediately drop yours lower still, because apparently hypocrisy is one more thing you’ll be sampling tonight. “No. I am not sleeping with anyone. And even if I were, that would be none of your business.”
He lifts both hands in surrender.
“Fair enough. Not my business,” he agrees. You exhale, which turns out to be premature, because then, after a beat, he adds, “Could’ve fooled the room. They seem to think everyone about you is my business.”
Your fingers twitch, and the wine makes its move, sloshing clean over the rim and splattering across the front of your — his sweatshirt in one dark, awful splash.
“Shit,” you blurt, already half setting the glass down, reaching for the hem in a burst of useless panic, like maybe if you rub at it fast enough you can bully time into reversing itself. “Jack, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to, I just, you said that and I…”
“Hey,” he says, catching at your wrist before you can make the stain worse. “It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not,” you say, mortified. “I just spilled red wine all over your sweatshirt.”
“You spilled red wine on an old sweatshirt,” he corrects.
Before you can launch into a fresh round of apology, he leans in and lays a hand flat over the stained part of the sweatshirt like he’s assessing damage. Entirely practical. Entirely innocent. A normal thing to do when something has been spilled on his clothes.
Your body reacts like it has never encountered human contact before, going warm and taut all at once, every nerve abruptly standing at attention.
You become excruciatingly aware of the space between you, which is to say there almost isn’t any.
“It’ll wash out,” he concludes, drawing his hand away.
You swallow, still staring at the stain because the stain is safer to look at than his face. “I feel awful.”
“You look awful.”
Your head flies up so fast your neck nearly protests. He catches the horror on your face and, finally, there it is, the quick flicker of amusement.
“Upset, I mean. More upset than I am.”
“Of course I’m upset. You were nice enough to let me borrow your clothes and within, what, an hour, I’ve turned one of them into a crime scene.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“It’s merlot on gray cotton. I ruined it.”
“It’s not ruined,” he says, easy as anything. “And even if it was, I’ve got more.” His eyes flick briefly to the sweatshirt. “I was going to let you keep it anyway.”
Your brain, already functioning at reduced capacity, latches onto I was going to let you keep it anyway and immediately begins behaving like it has never encountered a normal sentence before. Which is ridiculous. It is a sweatshirt. People loan each other sweatshirts all the time. Probably. In very casual, emotionally neutral circumstances. None of which feel remotely relevant here.
“This is exactly the kind of thing that happens,” you murmur, “when the airline loses your entire life. Murphy’s law ans all that.”
He laughs softly through his nose.
“What all was in the suitcase?”
“Everything,” you say. “Clothes, makeup, skincare, my will to live.” Then, because apparently embarrassment has made you reckless, you add, “My bikinis too, which was kind of the point of coming to Santorini in the first place.”
He is quiet for a second.
“Too bad,” he says. “Would’ve liked to see those.”
Santos lifts her head from the couch like a shark catching blood in the water.
“Gross,” she says. “Can you two either make out or shut up? Some of us are trying to watch sad people chain-smoke in peace.”
A quiet laugh ripples through the room. Dana hides hers behind her wineglass. Victoria doesn’t look up from her phone, but the corner of her mouth gives her away.
You lock your eyes on the television with the rigid focus of a person trying not to burst into flame in public.
Your face is hot enough to qualify as an environmental hazard. A flare-up risk. One loose spark away from requiring intervention.
Beside you, Jack shifts back into the couch, looking unbothered.
“Good movie,” he murmurs.
You take a long sip of wine and decide, not for the first time, that the airline owes you financial compensation, emotional damages, and possibly a public apology.
this fic was part of my 2 year celebration: maria's summer in santorini
𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ to learn more, click here!
langdon discovers your weakness: being correct. you discover his: needing to argue with you about it
𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ interested in how the pitt crew got approved for a week in greece? the original invitation is still posted
PAIRING: frank langdon x nerd!reader
WARNINGS: fluffity fluff, nerd!reader, sunshine!reader, intern!reader, pre-relationship pining, academic flirting, shirtless langdon, reader is clumsy, langdon manhandling once again, beach setting, slow burn as always
PROMPT: here!
WC: 0.9k
You’re crouched by the rocks, thinking (maybe overthinking, definitely overthinking) about how tides are basically nature’s very slow, very patient way of rearranging furniture, nudging the shoreline grain by grain. Erosion as decoration, oceanic feng shui.
Your toes, lacking imagination or enthusiasm for your existential oceanic musings, wriggle unhappily in gritty sand, damp and insistent, like the world’s least appealing exfoliation treatment.
But you’re stubborn, and stubborn means you’ll ignore discomfort if there’s something captivating enough to distract you. And just ahead, caught in the safe anonymity of shadow, is a small crab. It skitters sideways, freezes mid-motion, as though playing the world’s tensest, tiniest game of red light, green light.
You’ve never really gotten the hang of “enjoying” the beach like a normal person, have you?
Even as a kid, your beach trips meant scraped knees and awkward contortions above tiny tide pools. Scientist postures adopted decades too early. Your mind always running away from you, darting through an endless maze of questions that refused resolution.
Once you tried to smuggle an entire jar of seawater home, insisting it was important, vital even, despite overwhelming visual evidence that it was just… salty water with a few grains of drifting sand.
“Brachyura,” a voice says from behind you, abrupt and far too close to your ear to belong to a stranger. Your breath hitches and your foot slides ineptly in the damp sand.
Gravity lurches enthusiastically toward public embarrassment, already whispering promises of sandy humiliation, but a pair of hands find your shoulders, tugging you gently upright like an oversized marionette whose strings they’ve begrudgingly learned to untangle.
You crane your neck up, blinking upward through eyelashes clumped from salt air.
Langdon.
Fresh from the water, apparently. Incarnation of stern practicality wrapped in saltwater shine. Hair dripping small rivulets of ocean down his neck, skin glistening damply, sunlight skittering over his features as if it, too, is uncertain it will find a kinder place to rest.
“I — uh, well yes, that’s — technically that’s just the infraorder,” you stumble hurriedly, words tumbling like dominoes, trying desperately not to acknowledge the persistent warmth of his hands still bracing your shoulders. You straighten your spine, awkwardly graceful (okay, mostly awkward), as your mouth rushes ahead without permission from your brain — “Which is good, infraorders are perfectly good places to start, broad strokes and all that, but, if you want specificity, which I assume you do, since you’re you and everything, accuracy-wise, I’d guess Grapsidae? Because of, um, the carapace? Although I realize that’s probably not visible from your angle, which makes this an educated guess — or maybe an overly ambitious one? Anyway, I might be wrong — though, honestly, I don’t really think I am.”
Langdon’s eyebrows lift fractionally, and without explicitly calling out your obvious spiral into nervousness (small mercies), he simply crouches next to you, hands moving from your shoulders to his knees, leaning forward into your shared fixation on the tiny creature.
“Carpace shape would definitely clarify,” he agrees softly, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Of course, if accuracy’s our goal — and you’re right, that’s very much my thing — we could always catch it and verify. Or is speculation more your comfort zone?”
“Catch it?” You practically squeak, eyes wide, picturing your clumsy human hands accidentally crushing something so small and helpless, immediately spiraling into guilty imagined apologies and crab funerals (poorly attended, perhaps only yourself, a few baffled seagulls, and the soundless waves). “No, no, speculation is good. Excellent, actually. Much safer for everyone involved, particularly tiny, defenseless beach residents.”
“Probably wise,” he murmurs, his voice barely louder than the tide hushing at your feet. “Better not to risk it. I suppose some things are best left unconfirmed.”
You shift infinitesimally closer, almost involuntarily, and find your voice tumbling out again before you can reconsider, earnestness coloring each syllable: “I'm still inclined to think it's Grapsidae, though.”
Langdon hums in soft acknowledgment, a small sound that vibrates through him into you, startlingly intimate in its resonance.
“Confidence is appealing, even misplaced confidence,” he remarks casually. “Though I’d argue it looks more Portunidae.”
“No — no, see, Portunidae is — well, not impossible exactly, but definitely unlikely, because the back legs on Portunidae are paddle-shaped, distinctly modified for swimming, right? And this crab, if you look closely, has pointy, ordinary walking legs, which —” Your eyes flicker upward, catching the small, barely-there curve of his mouth. “Oh. You’re… you're totally messing with me right now, aren’t you?”
Langdon’s smile broadens just enough to confirm your suspicion, eyes glinting. He lifts one shoulder in a lazy half-shrug, lightly apologetic in theory, not remotely in reality.
“Guilty. Sorry,” he admits. “I have this innate desire to contradict you. Consider it a character flaw.”
You tilt your head slightly, making an unsuccessful attempt at hiding your grin, cheeks undeniably warm. Purely sun-induced warmth, naturally (or at least that’s what you tell yourself).
“That explains everything,” you say, affecting an exaggerated, mock-serious air. “Honestly, this puts your whole personality into clearer perspective.”
Langdon chuckles quietly under his breath, the sound rare and low enough to draw your eyes back to his face. “Well, now you know. Incurably flawed, I'm afraid.”
“Deeply incurable.”
He holds your gaze for a second longer, a quiet smile playing softly at the corners of his mouth, before turning toward the distant line of waves.
“Come on,” he says, voice gentle, almost affectionate. “Let's walk. We'll leave our mysterious friend to its existential privacy.”
You follow, still smiling, sand soft beneath your feet and heart inexplicably lighter.
this fic was part of my 2 year celebration: maria's summer in santorini
𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ to learn more, click here!
