#frez writes

[every-second-counts-bear]

Hiiii could you write something about dad!Carmen Berzatto x reader where they go to the park with their baby girl and she walk for the first time while trying to follow the duckies please ? 🩷

les fleurs

dad!carmen berzatto x fem!reader (kind of girly!reader if you squint x)

genres: fluff

author's note: thankyou so much for the request, sorry it took so long! this is a little different than what you asked, but it seems cute to me xx

song: les fleurs by minnie riperton

❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

There’s something so beautiful in the way the sun beats down on Carmen’s back in-front of you, the white material of his vest sticking to the sweaty complexion of his back. His shoulders have browned in the summer sun, freckles dark and abundant as they spatter down his arm, all the way down to the tiniest blemish between his fingers, which sit complacently laced with the chubby fingers of the delicate hand of your daughter. 

She looks tiny beside him, the stray spikes of her curly, blonde ponytail only just bringing her height up to his hip. There’s a little daisy tucked behind her ear, wilting amongst the density of her hair, but it mimics the daffodil tucked behind your own ear, and it’s all that she’s ever wanted, to be like Mama. 

“Daisy-girl, wait for me!”

Carmen turns at the sunshine sweetness of your voice, gripping the little girl’s hand tight as she tries to run to you. Beautiful you, dressed in these flowy, airy clothes for the summer sun, arms full of fresh bread from the market and a hand-crocheted bag full of fruit. 

Sunday market days are the best, Carmen will stand by the fact, because they’re the only days that he’s free to take his girls out, treat them to something nice, exciting.

The grass tickles at Daisy’s feet through her tiny sandals as she makes a run for it across the grass, towards the quiet duck pond that the three of you happened to stumble across a few months ago, in the dead of winter when the grass was covered in frost, and the water was frozen and clear. 

The muscles in Carmen’s arms ripple subtly as he tows to pick up the wriggling toddler, giggling and squealing at the sight of the fuzzy little ducklings, in all of her- almost sunburnt- glory.

“Daisy-girl, you’ve got to be quiet now, yeah? No screamin’ ‘cause you’ll scare ‘em all away.” Carmen’s voice comes out low as he mutters to her, and - although his head is turned away from your perceptive sights - the smile in his voice is so obvious, that gentle smirk painting his lips as he watches his little girl, your little girl, become enamored by the nature around her.

Never in a million years did Carmen think this would be his life. Something sweet, and peaceful, with people so beautiful. 

His hand is gentle as it finds a home at the small of your back, while you break up chunks of bread to pass to your daughter, watching devotedly as she aimlessly throws them to the mallards in the pond. She’s distracted, perfectly obsessed with the duckies ( as she calls them) and you can’t help the way your head slowly dips to meet the solid frame of your Carmen’s shoulder.

“You good?..,” he can never help the way he so attentively checks up on you, both of you, because he can never help the sinking feeling that settles in his chest when he thinks of how this could all be upturned at any moment. 

Something could go wrong, you could up and leave and take Daisy with you and Carmen would never blame you. Ever. 

You’re inculpable, to him. Never in the wrong. Not ever.

Your tender answer of, “never better,” reaches his ears and ceases the cloudy train of runaway thoughts in his mind; it's rewarded with the softest, punctuated kiss against your temple as he moves to squeeze his arm around your shoulder, strong fingers pulsing against your sun-warmed skin where his hand rests diligently. 

It’s quiet, for a while, and all you can seem to focus on is the serenity of the chirping birds, and the overwhelming comfort of your husband beside you, until there’s a squeal of glee, and the embodiment of joy on legs rushing towards the two of you, Daisy finally contented to have finished her nonsensical conversation with the ducks. 

Her sticky hands patter along your legs as she hugs the limbs, burying her face in your skin until she’s scooped up from behind by her father, the prettiest giggle leaving her lips as he sets off down the path with her, balancing her on his shoulders despite promising that he wouldn’t do that anymore, because Daisy is a wobbly girl, and almost always ends up on the floor in one way or another. 

“Carmen!” The playful scolding of your voice does nothing to deter him, but Daisy decides that she detests the stench of cigarette smoke that clings to her dad’s ancient baseball cap, and as soon as she is placed back down on the floor, her feet come charging back down the path to you with a shout of ,“Mama!”

“Oh, I know, baby. Daddy’s a bully, huh?”

She nods and stuffs her face in the fabric of your billowy dress, and Carmen huffs as you swap the bag of fruit for the baby, the toddler settling in your comforting arms as Carmen settles for mangoes and an imperceptibly heavy watermelon on his back.

“You’re just jealous ‘cause you’re not her favourite,”  it’s a salty reply, sassy and ineffably jealous as he slows his pace to stick his tongue out at the toddler. 

And the argument falls short as Daisy just snuggles into your sternum, sleepily rubbing her eyes as the warmth of the sunshine lulls her breathing into that soothing, unconscious pattern. 

Tattooed fingers deftly work to pull the flower out from behind her ear, settling the petals to sit atop your own daffodil as the two of you walk in tandem, his stubble gruff against your blushered cheek as he nuzzles every few steps, love sick and sun drunk and so irrefutably pleased with himself. 

Never in a million years did Carmen think this would be his life. Something sweet, and peaceful, with people so beautiful. 

But it’s been a nice day.

[every-second-counts-bear]

death with dignity

(part 1 of ‘all my friends’)

pairings: father!michael robinavitch and (adult) child!reader, michael robinavitch x jack abbot, reader x frank langdon

genre: angst, real life , with doctor!reader

warnings: suicidal ideation (about robby), themes of loss, grief and trauma

author’s note: this is part one of my new series ‘all my friends’. reader is the twenty-five year old child of dr robby, there will be eventual frank langdon x reader. in my mind, this takes place after the events of season one, but frank’s rehab and divorce from abby have occurred in the past. please enjoy, like, comment and reblog if you would like to! i’m always open to asks!

1.8k words.

The walk home from the shift from hell seems even more like a nightmare than the previous fifteen hours of a mass casualty.

Your Dad seemed to be doing fine after his breakdown in paeds, Whittaker working his oddly comforting magic, and the drinks on that little park bench seemed to numb the shaking of his nerves just a little.

His limbs feel buzzed as he moves through the street, bag heavy on his back as his muscles ache. Something twinges in his back, and his teeth grind as he lifts his head, bleary eyes focused on a distant streetlight that gives off a hazy glow in the night, yellow tinged and inviting. So different to that daily clinical harshness.

You aren’t quite sure when that heaviness returns to his chest, but there’s an undeniable hum of sadness that weaves its way through the taunting breeze, working its way through the hollows of Robby’s ears and into the mingling cacophony that is his brain. It might be when you sling an arm around his waist, that the heaviness returns, because he subconsciously feels himself leaning onto you, his broadened frame reliant on you. His own flesh and blood.

It should be the other way around, he thinks. It should be him walking you home, holding you up, solid throughout that exhaustion that he knows must be seeping into your bones by this hour. But he isn’t. And you’re left to look after dear, old dad once again. God, he’s so pathetic.

It’s dark out, and the moon glows brightly through the clouds, but the stars seem to be hiding, shying away from the dense cloud that hangs over Robby’s head. The sun must have long since set while the two of you were still cooped up inside the hospital, the fluorescent lights and lack of windowed space warping any sense of time or climate, the exhausted mind confused.

Robby is thankful that the air is clear, the sky seemingly smokeless and the pavement dry, because he doesn’t think that his aching chest would be able to cope with breathing through the dreary, rainy air that seems to have been plaguing the changing, September, Pittsburgh weather.

It’s been like this for so long, just you and your dad, so maybe that’s why the silence between you is both comfortable and harrowing at the same time. For twenty-five years, Robby has joked that he doesn’t know peace, because you’re constantly telling him something, even if it’s meaningless and stupid. But you’re quiet now, and he feels as though he’s ruined everything. He’s ruined you.

Maybe you’re not worried, maybe you’re just sick of him. It’s a lot, living at home with just him, working with him, eating with him, commuting with him. Maybe you’re realising that your father isn’t some saviour, some big messiah that’ll look after you for the rest of your life.

It was bound to happen sometime soon, he thinks.

You’ve been like this since you followed Uncle Jack up to the roof when you finally caught a break, chasing him down to ask him if he was coming over for dinner on Tuesday, like he always does. Because nothing ever changes in your mundane little life. Robby doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the look on your face when you pushed past the silver-haired man to see your own father stood there, toes hanging over the concrete ledge, his tormented mind contemplating allowing his aging body to drift down to meet that peaceful bliss beneath a soccer mom’s Range Rover, with a bearded cheek plastered to the tarmac.

That heaviness seems to grow when stops to rub at his eyes, because your face stares back at him, eyes a mirror of his own and he can see your future flashing through those shared chocolaty windows. He’s sure to have passed it on, this niggling feeling, that constant self-loathing and he hates himself for it. He’s hurt you before he’s even let you live.

But no matter how much sympathy you seem to conjure in that gorgeous expression, he can’t seem to pull himself out of the slump he found himself entering early this morning. He’s dug himself a hole that he can’t get out of, and the way the space between your brows crinkles reminds him terribly of your mother.

Michael Robinavitch is a weak, weak man.

“Papa, come on..”

It’s gentle and sweet as it leaves your lips, but it feels thick and viscous as it reaches your father’s ears, his brain seemingly not computing the words as you attempt to guide him to keep moving, to keep walking home before you both become an easy target in the urban night. He’s in no position to keep you safe in this state, but he can’t stand to feel your eyes watching him as he just stares down at his feet moving on the pavement, as if they’re completely foreign entities, not connected to his own body.

⋆♱ ⋆♱ ⋆♱ ⋆♱ ⋆♱ ⋆♱ ⋆♱ ⋆♱ ⋆♱ ⋆♱

The evening just seems to get worse and worse, both of your hearts sinking as the voices of the Beach Boys turn haunting at the end of ‘God Only Knows’, your shared airpods tauntingly and teasingly blasting the oddly depressing song into your shift-weakened ears.

“Stupid fucking key,” comes the grumble from beside you, as your father feels the weight of his bag leave his back, sighing as he feels your hands rub at his shoulder where the strap must have irritated his skin. His shaky hand fumbles with the lock on the door of your shared apartment, the metal of the key seeming tiny between his fingers. He turns it once more and tries the handle, the old turning door-knob jamming once more. A pitiful laugh leaves him, low and frustrated, and you’re almost surprised that it doesn’t turn into those heartbreaking tears once again.

“Papa, I’ll do it.”

“No, you won’t.”

He won’t let you help, of course he won’t, because to him - a stubborn, overachieving man - this is just another chance to reaffirm his competence. Since when did opening a door feel like such a challenge? It isn’t long until he feels like peeling the skin from his hands once more, thinning, wrinkled piece by sun-aged, leathery piece.

“Don’t argue with me, kid.” It sounds oddly resigned, despite his attempt to seem authoritative. It should be upsetting, but even your patience must wear thin every once in a while.

“Who said I was going to?...”

That’s your mother’s mean streak. Maybe behaviours are genetic.

⋆♱ ⋆♱ ⋆♱ ⋆♱ ⋆♱ ⋆♱ ⋆♱ ⋆♱ ⋆♱ ⋆♱ ⋆♱

The sounds of the apartment are dull and monotonous, the scraping of forks on plates in the sink, the running of the tap as your aching hands work to clear the dishes that accumulated this morning. There’s no music like there normally is, no tinny sound of your father’s old records scratching and skipping on the forty dollar record player he bought you from Urban Outfitters on your fifteenth birthday.

There’s a rigid fracture between the movement of your body in the living room, pottering about aimlessly, working at errands, and the still and lifeless haze that hangs over Robby’s bedroom.

Maybe you’re just scared to speak to him, too apprehensive to say the wrong thing in that torn up way that you always seem to feel. Or, maybe you’ll never speak to him again…

Then he’d be left alone, to himself, to a big quiet apartment, with no distraction from those awful thoughts in his old-man mind and he’d be able to do whatever he wanted to himself. There’s no responsibilities when you’re gone, there’ll be no one to look after, and no one to look after him.

He’d be gone by the time you’d emptied your old wardrobe.

And a selfish part of himself thinks that you’d be free, then. You’d be able to live your life, out in the big exciting world, all on your own, and you wouldn’t have a flight risk of a father to worry about. You’d marry Frank, he likes to think, and you’d move in together, somewhere new and nice and far away from this dismal life he’s managed to bring you up in.

Just do it, Michael. Let them go. Let the kid be free.

He doesn’t know when you come to him. He feels as though he’s lost all concept of time. He knows that he isn’t asleep, because all that he can see is the glow of the numbers on his alarm clock that light up the room a dangerous shade of red.

The wobble in your voice as you stand in the doorway should do something to him, should awaken this fatherly instinct to protect, to look after you, to care. But he can’t bring himself to as he lays atop his covers, still in his work clothes and shoes, looking awfully pitiful and weak despite the broadness of his frame.

You shouldn’t have to see him like this.

“Papa?..”

And he doesn’t answer. Because he doesn’t deserve that sweetness right now. He doesn’t deserve that gentle name that used to slip from your lips when you’d had a nightmare and would appear at the foot of his bed, stuffed animal tucked under your arm, night light in hand. Or when you needed help reaching something from the kitchen cupboards, that still happens sometimes now, because he finds himself putting the plates or the cups on a higher shelf that he knows you’ll never reach, because he just needs to feel needed somehow.

That name makes his stomach turn now, makes the bile rise in his clawed throat and sends a pang of pain through his left arm, a swelling to his temples.

Maybe it’s because it reminds him that he’s about to throw twenty-five years of love down the drain.

“Uncle Jack’s gonna come help you in the shower…, and I think that he might stay with you for the night…”

Because Uncle Jack isn’t just Uncle Jack to your Papa. No, that much has been obvious - to you, at least - for years.

Uncle Jack has always been around, every Tuesday night for dinner, and every Saturday to watch the game. Uncle Jack has always slept in your father’s bed, and sits close to him on the couch on movie nights. Uncle Jack takes your father out for drinks, holds his hand across the centre console when the two of them are too tired to remember that you’re tucked away in the back seat. And he’s the one that came to every single one of your school plays, parents’ evenings, science fairs, not your mother.

Michael Robinavitch just needs to learn to stop being a coward.

“Tell him I don’t want him to,” comes too gruffly, too low, to choked into the softness of his pillow.

“Papa,” comes too sweetly, too gently, because you’re incessant and far too stubborn to be complacent.

“Lovebug!”

It’s too loud and too harsh and echoes in the silence of the room, alongside the hitch of breath, and the wobbly sob that leaves your worried lips.

Michael Robinavitch doesn’t think he’s ever hated himself more.

⋆♱ ⋆♱ ⋆♱ ⋆♱ ⋆♱ ⋆♱ ⋆♱

please feel free to give me feedback! part 2 shall come soon!

[every-second-counts-bear]

bless the telephone

(part 2 of 'all my friends')

pairings: frank langdon x reader, michael robinavitch x jack abbot, father!michael robinavitch and (adult) child!reader

genre: hurt comfort, with doctor!reader

warnings: complicated family dynamics, mentions of addiction, feelings of inadequacy

author's note: this is part two of my series 'all my friends', and i understand that it is very late, but i'm a busy girl! as i said in part one, this takes place after the events of season one, but frank's rehab and divorce from abby have occurred in the past. please enjoy - like, comment and reblog if you would like to! i'm always open to asks!

1k words. part 1 here

There’s an odd sense of silence when the shower stops running, the hiss of the steaming water no longer flowing in the bathroom, the pipes no longer performing their clinking and clanking rhythm as the boiler kicks into action. 

There’s the low hum of Uncle Jack’s voice travelling down the hallway, creeping out from beneath the closed, heavy, wooden door to your dad’s bedroom, where he’s attempting to talk him down from this self-depricating spiral that he’s managed to settle himself into.

But it does nothing to quell the stillness of the corridor, in fact, it makes you more anxious as your vinyl begins to spin on the cheap record player that acted as a birthday gift from Parker a few years back.

If anything came from your relationship at all, she could never say that you weren’t grateful. 

The softest sound of Etta James rings out through your candlelit bedroom, the warmest glow cast over your rumpled duvet as your bed welcomes you with open arms. 

It’s dark, and late when the cat manages to curl itself upon your chest, long and silvery hair tickling at your nose. The dial tone of your phone seems loud in the peacefulness of your room, foreign and implausible until it clicks into action,

“Hey, baby… What’s going on?..”

Frank’s voice comes low and gruff over the phone, deep and loving, clearly roused from his fleeting sleep. But it all seems okay as his ears accept the sweetness of your tone, upset.

Wanting.

“Frankie,” it comes out strained, and he can tell that your throat is tight and that your eyes are teary.

“Hey, hey, talk to me baby, you’re okay…”

God, he doesn’t know what to do. He’s never been so far away from you when you’re upset.

Or maybe you’ve just never thought to call him. 

It's a haunting thought. That you've been alone... with no one to speak to.

“Why don’t you turn your camera on, hm? Let me see you, beautiful..”

Frank Langdon has been through a lot. Addiction, rehabilitation, a divorce, and being iced out of his family, but nothing could prepare him for the sight that greets him when he sees your teary eyes, face streaked and blotchy, snotty nosed and swollen-lipped.

His brows seem to twitch as they furrow deeply, those irritatingly beautiful baby blues blinking slowly as he lets out a breath. 

It’s not that he sounds disappointed; it’s tired, exhausted. And it leaves you thinking that maybe you shouldn’t have called him. 

You should have just left him be, let him sleep, let him rest, instead of forcing him to deal with this ridiculously irritating recurring action of pain and comfort and pain and comfort. 

“God, I’m sorry, just… just forget it, forget it Frank, you can go..”

He watches as your shaky fingers move towards the big red button in the middle of the screen, and this burning feeling fills his chest as he goes to cut you off, heart pounding as he rolls over onto his back. 

“No, no, no, don’t be silly… I want you to talk to me.”

“What if I don’t want to talk?”

“That’s fine by me…, we can just sit here, be quiet…, just stay on the phone, yeah?..”

It’s scary how desperate he sounds. He says it as if you can’t be trusted whatsoever. As if you’re totally socially inept, and will end up dead by daylight if he doesn’t stay on the line. 

God, are you really that much of a liability?

There’s a long silence, despite the sniffles that come from you every few seconds, and Frank feels stupid as he racks his brain for something to say. Anything to distract you from the heavy sobs of your father that have started down the hall. 

“Why don’t you come stay with me for a little while?... I don’t have Tanner or Penny for like, three weeks while they’re on vacation, so..”

It takes a lot for Frank to let those words flow from his chest, voice soft and quiet as the line crackles. It’s so close to your ear, and you let the warm words wash over you as the phone rests on the pillow beside your head. It’s close, he seems close, almost right next to you, but it does nothing to quell the separation, because the niggling, self-aware part of your brain knows that he’s curled up in his own lonely bed, halfway across the city, towards the opposite side of Pittsburgh. 

And part of you wants to, move in with him for a little - that is - because things don’t feel too new and too fresh anymore. Frank has been through some awful things, worse than these midnight breakdowns. 

So letting you- inherently self-destructive you- into his space doesn’t seem too scary. 

“I… I’d like that,” the words come clawed from your throat, meek and feeble as your hands come to grip the phone delicately, angling the camera back towards your tear-puffy face. 

And he’s there. Just watching. Skin pale, a five o’clock shadow decorating his jaw, ready for his morning shave, blue eyes concerned, lighting up in the slightest gleam as his eyes lock onto yours. 

The white pearls of his canines slowly make their appearance, lips stretching into a grin as he bites at his bottom lip. It feels wrong to be so joyful at your sorrow. 

“Bring some clothes to work tomorrow and you can come home with me, yeah? That sound good?”

“Really good.”

He can’t suppress the little laugh that leaves his chest as you grin, his own cheeks rosy as he watches you burrow your nose into your duvet. 

So strong. Yet so dependent.

As he hangs up the phone, things feel a little lighter. Maybe it’s because the sobbing has stopped resounding from every corner of your cramped apartment. Maybe it’s because the cat has finally removed itself from your chest and has settled at the bottom of the bed. 

Or maybe it’s because Frank Langdon is the most loving man you’ve ever met.

That sounds like a walking oxymoron. 

Yet, it does nothing to discourage the lighting up of your phone screen a few minutes later, the gentlest ping! of a notification.

Frankie: get some sleep

i’ll see you in the morning, babylove

It's okay.

Everything feels just a little bit better.

[every-second-counts-bear]

'𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐲'!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

'girly'!reader's playlist:

Lord, Let That Tesla Crash - CMAT High - 5 Seconds of Summer Go Go Juice - Sabrina Carpenter Alfie - Dionne Warwick One of Us - ABBA

'girly'!reader who likes to get dressed up, is all colour and happiness, never taking anything out on anyone else. 'girly'!reader who likes to drink anything sweet, and can never resist the lull of a warm embrace and a soft, fuzzy blanket.

'girly'!reader who hates the rain, but loves spring time walks in the park. 'girly'!reader who would do anything for their partner, loyal and loving, utterly devoted at the sight of a single glance. who can blame them?! 'girly'!reader is a hopeless romantic!

current works with 'girly'!reader:

major credit to @pittsick and @voidsuites and many others for these reader aesthetics!!

credit to @cursed-carmine for dividers.

[every-second-counts-bear]

new pitt fic being posted tomorrow, perhaps tonight if i can stay awake!!!

[every-second-counts-bear]

doctor!reader

doctor!reader's playlist:

Marigold by Nirvana Spiders by Lola Young God Only Knows by The Beach Boys Novocaine For The Soul by Eels Struttin' by Thumpasaurus

doctor!reader who never missed a single day of med school, and follows all of their training and protocol very regimentedly, and feels very strongly for their patients. a little empathy suddenly snowballs into huge emotion when doctor!reader is looking after you.

doctor!reader who loves to sleep after a shift, but not before reading a new medical article every night, a routine set up from middle school when they became obsessed with anything anatomy. doctor!reader who hates being called upon for doctor duties in public, but never shies away from anyone in need.

doctor!reader is a literal lifesaver!

current works with doctor!reader:

credit to @cursed-carmine for dividers.