pure unadulterated degeneracy @takeme2yourtrees - Tumblr Blog

take me to your breakfasts your sunsets your bad dreams your shoes your nouns - margaret atwood

day - 23, asian/latina, occasional writer, steve harrington and public transit enjoyer (main @areyouamindreader)

masterlist. about/faq. ao3. requests are: OPEN!

MINORS DNI - under 18/ageless blogs will be blocked if found interacting w nsfw posts ✎ cw for rpf, dubcon, noncon and stepcest, will be tagged accordingly

#navi

supernovafics

𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

word count: 4.3k words

summary: in which playing games with steve harrington is one of your favorite things to do

warnings: fwb relationship, jealous!steve, a bit of jealous!reader, LOTS of teasing, bestfriend!eddie, mentions of weed and alcohol (barely described), smut (18+), praise kink, fingering, unprotected piv sex

author’s note: don't hate me for how this ends. a part two will be coming (allegedly) 🫡

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You truly could not care less about what the guy in front of you was talking about, but what you did care about was how much Steve was fuming at the sight of it.

It made you want to laugh harder at the terrible joke Matty just made and happily smile up at him as he went on another tangent about what he wanted to major in in college; he tried to make Accounting sound a lot more interesting than it actually was.

#read later #steve harrington

lemonpeppermintstickshift

if ur doing request… anything frank lol

maybe like nurse!reader x frank or something like that.. unless ur tired of writing for him ofc! <3

favorites - f. langdon x fem!reader

summary: frank knows he's not supposed to have favorites in the workplace, but there's just something about you that he can't seem to resist, for better or for worse.

warnings: SMUT (minors dni, 18+ only), (slight?) infidelity, frank is a munch, fingering, p in v, protected sex, no use of y/n, frank has no kids!! mentions of divorce, regular pitt gore, idiots in love

author's note: I'M FINALLY DONE GET THIS OUT OF MY DRAFTS!! thank you for the request anon!! i hope i did it justice. something actually took over me while writing this... i don't condone infidelity but.......

wc: 9.1k

#langdon #read later

harringtonshoe

I Kind of Think We Could Make it

masterlist

summary: what had started out as a temporary agreement to get you through your intern year had turned into a chain reaction that you never could have imagined. one, you actually enjoyed living with frank langdon. two, you both wound up at the same emergency room. three, you both signed the lease for another year. and after that? you signed it again. it seemed like neither of you had any interest in moving out anytime soon. and three, you think he might be your best friend and the love of your life. chain reaction or chemical imbalance?

warnings: f!reader. bffs to lovers, roommates to lovers, eventual smut. tension tension tension. jealous langdon at one point. also jealous reader cuz abby will have a guest star appearance. no use of yn

01. 02. 03. 04. 05.

#langdon #read later

flowersforbucky

you’re a bad idea (but a real good time)

frank langdon x reader ~ word count: 10.6k+

it wasn’t supposed to be anything more than sex. you barely even liked each other as friends. frank uses you, and you use him. but somewhere along the way, the lines got blurred.

warnings/tags: mdni, smut and implied smut, themes of addiction and recovery, emotional constipation from reader, vague references to prior relationships and trauma, coworkers with benefits to lovers, some angst and some fluff, oblivious idiots in love, frank is divorced, reader has a niece, takes place sometime after season 2, pov switches, reader is afab, resident reader, no use of y/n

author’s note: i needed to torture frank langdon, just a little bit, but i promise it’s a happy ending. also as always shoutout to my girl @fru1t4fr0gs for letting me virtually yap her ear off about this

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Frank’s therapist had cautioned him about replacing one addiction with another.

#read later #langdon

dreamyysouls

everything she wants

mike decided he wants eyeliner with his costume, but he’s never put it on before. you offer some help, but it puts the boy (and you) in shambles for the rest of the night.

or,

mike wheeler is head over heels for his best friend. and so are you.

mike wheeler x fem!reader

word count: 13.2k (i'm sorry but trust it's worth it!)

a/n: yayyyy she's here!! hope you like!!!

read part two here!

tags: a lil suggestive at the end; read at your own discretion!, best friends to lovers, holy crap they are in love, oblivious mutual pining, they overthink everything, au cause yes, puppy dog eyes mike, guyliner (duh), mike is SMITTEN (so is reader), some pov switching but mainly mike-centric, yearning, underage drinking, mentions of gagging, songfic if you squint, mike is taller than reader, halloween party, fake blood, confessions of love, kissing, making out, cursing, Tension

The curse that escaped Mike Wheeler’s mouth hadn’t been one of pain–though it would surely appear that way if you had no context for the situation and took a glance in his direction.

He had been in the bathroom for about five minutes now, busying himself with a container of a red liquid he had bought with you at the discount store just hours ago. Fake blood. Unfortunately for Mike, the price of the liquid was showing, and before he knew it, he and the basement bathroom looked like they had encountered an actual vampire attack.

#mike wheeler #read later

liaissante

apple pie ❀ f. langdon

summary – in which frank langdon comes home from a god awfully long day, but you’re there, so maybe it’s okay. and, he so graciously makes it up to you in the morning.

pairing – frank langdon x fem!reader genre – smut (18+ mdni) tags – oral (m receiving). fingering. oral (f receiving). slight s/d dynamics. softdom!frank. praise. #fingersinmouth! word count – 3k a/n – hello da pittblr my name is lia im 5’4 based in redacted city this is my audition to be apart of your community i rlly hope i get the role ❤️ p.s. new fic format yay!

There’s envy in Frank Langdon’s chest as he trudges through the lobby of his apartment building, backpack slung across his shoulders with an almost unbearable weight. Despite, funnily enough, being significantly lighter than it had been that morning, now that his water bottle and lunch containers were empty.

Sixteen hours since he left home, and he’s sure he’s aged ten years in that time. The envy in his chest, only there because he knows there’s people out there that work less than him—less hours, less effort—but still make the same amount of money, if not more. Those people have everything, he thinks. He’d kill for a job that didn’t drain both the energy and the life out of him.

He runs his hands down his face, index fingers poking into his eyes until stars and flashes of colourful streaks paint his brain, as the elevator ascends past floors. Having an apartment on a high level is great in theory, and great when you’re on your first year of residency and aren’t the one mentoring everybody else. Now, as numbers tick away in the elevator screen, Frank’s wishing he could be any closer to the ground.

#langdon #read later

mariasont

stopppppp now you’re just teasing cause you know how bad we’re gonna be fiening for that house tour Langdon fic 😭 I just know when they finally do it they’re gonna have the most delicious sex ever like she gives me such brat princess energy and I know he’ll get riled up

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

18+ MDNI

the sex would be so exquisitely delicious bc of their dynamic... already frothing at the mouth tbh. like i can just picture her going in thinking she has the upper hand because she's been teasing him for AGES and she knows he wants her now, but langdon feels like the kind of man who would absolutely let her think she's running things right up until he decides he's had enough.

#langdon #read later

letterstotheflre

FELL FROM THE PEDESTAL, RIGHT DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE || FRANK LANDON

summary: you trip in the shower and are forced to make the second visit of the week to the e.r. the only thing is, you didn’t tell frank about either accidents. [frank langdon x clumsy!reader]

cw: none really. possible concussion? first time writing langdon so i apologise if he’s ooc i’m still getting used to him. oh and medical inaccuracies (not a doctor nor from the us so i have no idea how the healthcare system works there)

word count: 2k

a/n: uhhh this turned out a little angstier than i imagined lol i wanted to do something cute but idk it turned into this so whatever. this was also supposed to be part of a much bigger fic w this dynamic but i was really struggling to write it so i think i’m gonna write all those moments separately instead of compiling everything into a huge fic.

The emergency department is loud. There’s lots of beeping, nurses and doctors yelling at each other, gurney wheels squeaking along the floor, painful screams and moans, a cacophony of different conversations and you can even hear an ambulance siren approaching.

It makes the pain in your head throb as the nurse guides you to the examination room. She takes your vitals once more. While she slips off the cuff she used to check your blood pressure from around your arm, the doctor that will oversee your case steps into the room.

#langdon #read later

ratonnhhaketon

flare up | f. langdon

divider source || crossposted on ao3 || series pairing: frank langdon x chronically ill! reader warnings: fluff, smut, porn w plot, cunnilingus, p in v smut, protected sex, migraines, chronic illness, afab reader, gender neutral!reader, chronic illness!reader, gn pronouns, post-rehab!divorced!frank langdon, no use of y/n, use of 'babe', 'sweetheart', and 'honey', frank & reader have a cat, probably more dialog than necessary but i love these two, reader is described to have breasts & a vag, frank langdon is a MUNCH, frankie nickname supremacy, reader gets emotional during sex, doctor kink but VERY briefly, tender comfort sex, frank is down bad and reader is somehow WORSE word count: 7.6k summary: Reader is stuck in bed with a migraine and Frank simply cannot stand to see it. He's still in his scrubs, so might as well play doctor just a little bit longer. a/n: fun fact I actually started writing this before clap of thunder but then got hyperfocused on that idea and took off with it! this does take place before that work but you don't need to read them in any specific order to understand the plot or dynamic between reader & Frank.

Frank was well acquainted with migraines.

Between the stress of the ER on a particularly bad day to having two toddlers that have been refusing bed time on his weekends with them, he was no stranger to the throbbing pain that set in deep within the skull, making every nerve and vein feel like it was about to explode.

But that still didn’t make it feel any easier seeing you with one.

#langdon #read later

polkedot

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐌𝐄 . . .

˖ paring: darkish!franklin langdon x fem!younger!reader

• no physical description

˖ warnings: manipulation, hostage situation(??), angsty, narcissism, sleazy frank, degration, humiliation kink, divorce disagreements, mentions of age gap, alcohol consumption, mentions of explicit videos being leaked, mentions of cheating, revenge porn, fingering, smut.

˖ authors note: i’ve been pit-pilled and had this marinating in my drafts for weeks, so frank may be a bit ooc at this point? but generally just a sleaze. i dunno if me writing for the pitt will even do well, so this may just be sorted into my miscellaneous works! 🪽

˖ length: short fic ┊ 18+┊ requests open .ᐟ

You had been sitting alone in the shadows of your shared apartment long enough to finish two glasses of wine and start yourself on a whiskey, long enough for the warm lights that filled Pittsburg to filter up through the floor-to-ceiling windows to stop being comforting and start being only lights. Sitting long enough with the bitter taste of alcohol curdling on your toungue to internally rehearse what you had wanted to say directly to his face so many times before that the words started to jumble in your mind as if actually spoken on your alcohol loosened tongue, directly to his face. Yet the reason why you sat had grown evidently clear to you each time you had chosen to done so. Chosen to sit instead of sleep in one of his ratty old shirts he’d laid out for himself. Chosen to sit instead of blow up Frank’s phone with sweet nothings of just how much you missed him. You sat wondering where it had gone all wrong.

You had told yourself not to be needy, coming from a family with only enough money to put milk and Cinnamon Toast Crunch on a plastic spoon and into your Vaseline smothered mouth. ‘Needy’ wasn’t flirtatious. ‘Needy’ was young and reckless. And you were one of the above. It wasn’t as if Frank was in his mid-fifties with loose grays in his slicked hair, and you, barely twenty. But the age gap was there, visible in his nine-to-five and dried-blood rimmed fingernails, and you, fast asleep in his laid out shirt. You had never understood, not when he first looked at you across a room at some medical conference you couldn’t recall now, and decided, with that icy gaze of his, that you were the one he wanted.

You still didn’t. You never had. You had turned that question over in your mind for years now and still had no answer for it, and maybe that was the problem with your flailing relationship.

Or maybe the problem was something else entirely, someone that smelled like Tom Ford ‘Vanilla Sex’ (a scent you knew personally thanks to your vast plethora of perfume samples) and worked the night shifts he had also rushed to take up in The Pitt only months prior. And all you knew, with a kind of exhausted clarity, was that this ‘someone’ had no business being the reason your three-year marriage felt like it was quietly splintering from the inside out.

There was much else wrong with Franklin Langdon.

Minimum of one call returned a week as opposed to your 134 sent messages…in a day. That huge blue bottle of 3-in-one that held the irritating scent of blue moon ice cream, and always managed to fall directly onto your toes. A relapse he’d managed to explain away like it was a scheduling conflict. A marriage he sometimes treated like it could be rescheduled too. His fly, which he seemed to always keep unzipped after leaving the seat of the toilet flipped up. And somehow, it was always your fault. For all of it.

The lack of sex. The hot water. Your messages taking up his phone storage. ‘Missionary too often.’ The bathroom floor being too slippery with condensation.

And, of course — inevitably — being too needy.

You had tried for longer than you wanted to admit, not to believe it. Had told yourself it was nothing, that you were merely just being foolish, that Franklin Langdon was many things but he was not that, he had never been that. You tried telling yourself that he was just busy, that the acquisition he held was demanding and grueling, that the late nights were about saving lives, not about someone else. You had told yourself that story so many times that, it too, had almost started to sound true.

And then there was the office outing.

Arranged by someone you did know, though not well enough to feel comfortable about it. Trinity Santos.

He had wanted you there, had said it was expected, had kissed your brow with the softest lips you’d ever felt and said he didn't want to go alone. That he wanted to show you off. That he loved you.

He had also said he would pick you up after his shift.

That part, apparently, slipped his “work-addled” mind.

You had still gotten ready like it mattered.

You fixed your hair into the best blowout you could manage, stood in front of the mirror, and layered on whatever makeup you could dig out from under the sink like you were on a damned excavating order to dig up an older version of yourself. For a few minutes, you almost recognized the reflection looking back.

She had smiled at you first, that reflection in the mirror, which was the thing you remembered most. That smile, bright and deliberate, her red lipstick immaculate, her eyes filled with love.

He had in fact, not come to pick you up after his shift.

Seconds became minutes, minutes became an hour. Your reflection began to blur as you store too hard at yourself, as if the mirror was too, disappointed in this endless loop of neglect.

You had ended up in that same old shirt, in his bed, asleep. Once again. Only woken up by the now chapped mouth of Frank as it pressed insistently against your throat. Smudged eyeliner, dried tears, and the taste of wine still lingering in your mouth as you tried to surface into consciousness, trying to shift yourself awake enough to hear his almost inaudible mutters.

Mutters of, ‘Why didn’t you call?’, and soft ‘I missed you’s,’ slowly turned into demanding grunts of, ‘I want you.’

But now you weren’t sure you still believed that.

But now, sitting in the dark with his whiskey burning a slow line down your throat, you weren’t sure you believed what any of it meant anymore. And waiting, as you always did, for the sound you had become too good at recognizing.

His key in the door.

It came at three-fourty-seven am, because you had been watching the clock the way you had once store at your reflection in the mirror, and the unread messages on your phone, tracking the amassing evidence, and the lock turned and the door opened. More of that warm light filtered in from the hallway, a rectangle of it falling across the floor in the shape of a man, and then Frank, still in his scrubs that made a soft ‘swishy’ noise with each step, once a comforting sound.

He reached for the light switch without looking up as his gaze bore down at the phone clutched in his latex-gloved hand.

The lamp in your corner of the room came on.

“What–” He stopped. Looked at you properly for the first time in weeks, at the stubby glass in your hand and the emptied bottle on the cork table and whatever was on your face, glassy eyes and a tight lipped smile. Something shifted slowly in his expression then, the phone coming down to his side pocket. “What’s going on?”

You looked at him from across the room as you leaned back into the vintage cushion, letting it swallow you slightly as you looked at him across the room. This mann you had married. Your husband of threee years. The man whose shirts you wore to bed, whose ring still caught the kitchen light, whose laugh you hadn’t properly heard in months. And felt the words that you had been repeating internally sit on your tongue heavily. Loaded, waiting almost.

“Where have you been?,” It came out softer than you meant it to, slurred at the edges. There was almost a ‘Frankie’ at the end — habit now threatening to betray you — but you swallowed it down as you gestured weakly to the clock hung upon the wall above him. The kind of soft that wasn’t calm at all, however, the kind of calm that came from trying very hard to hold something together. That…and the alcohol burning its way through your system.

He heard it clear enough. You could tell he heard it by the way something his face began to readjust immediately, setting into a careful expression, the one he put on when he was deciding how to manage a situation. Or lately, how to handle you.

“Work,” he said. “I told you I had a late meeting, I sent you a–”

“A text at six saying you’d be home by nine, it’s nearly morning, Frank.” You kept your bleary eyes on him as you filled in his words, words that he kept reusing so damn often, “Are you using again?”

“Hah- don’t guilt trip me.” It came out quick, and defensive, his voice dropping into something rougher. He reached behind him, almost absentmindedly, checking the lock on the door like it mattered more than your question.

He set his phone down on the console table by the door with deliberate care afterward, shaking his head as he came further into the room, and you watched him move through your home like a man with nothing to answer for and felt something begin to coil tighter in your chest, right behind your ribs.

“How much have you had?,” he asked, almost gently, almost cooing, gesturing toward the bottle, then your glass lazily.

“Frank…that’s not what I asked you.”

“I’m asking you something right now.” He said it the way you said things to children, patiently, reasonably, and you felt your jaw tighten. “How much wine-,” he paused, noting the amber color that sat in your glass in place for a deep red, then sighed, “alcohol, have you had tonight?”

“This is you guilt tripping me now,” you said, “i- I’ve had enough.”

“Clearly,” he said, the word landed with a lightness that was somehow much worse than if he had shouted it, and he draped his jacket over the back of the empty chair and turned to look at you with a patient expression, one that made you feel like a child. Like a needy little child in need for direction. His direction. “Come to bed, sweetheart.”

You felt something flicker across your face that you couldn’t quite stop — something that did infact make you look like a helpless child. Between quiet disbelief and the exhaustion of a woman who had been having this conversation in her head for months and was only now having it out loud. “I don't want to go to bed.” You now sounded much the petulant child.

"You've been drinking by yourself, in the dark," he said, evenly, "which means you've been wallowing in your head all evening, which also means whatever you've decided to pick a fight about is going to seem notably less significant in the morning." He said it like he was doing you a favour. "Come to bed."

"The phone calls," you cleared your throat, trying to sit up properly as you set the now emptied glass next to the discarded wine bottle on the table. Your voice had grown steady, you were proud of that, how steady your voice was, rid of all the cries that threatened to spill behind your quivering lips. "The ones where you have to leave the room at night."

"Every time," you added. “you get up all abruptly, you go to the kitchen- or the hallway…. or wherever it is that you go, then you come back, kissing me sweetly like nothing happened and say you need to go back into the office. Every time." You swallowed. "Just tell me, Frank, who are you taking to?”

"Work," he said, simply and immediate as ever, like the word itself should end the conversation, like you were being slow. “I’m an emergency worker, sweetheart,” the petname somehow morphed itself into a mockery on his stiffened tongue, “work calls me.”

"At ten o'clock at night."

“Yes, some people require emergency care at dire hours.”

"The fucking-..." you sucked in a sharp breath, catching yourself before your voice broke completely. “The work outings,” you pushed on. “Four in the last two weeks. You used to go twice a year.”

"It’s required bonding–"

"You know why?" Something in your face shifted, something you couldn't help, the particular look of a person trying very hard not to feel what they were feeling, but unable to be stopped. The careful knot you’d tied your thoughts into started to unravel, and you knew that if he managed a word first, all of it would tie right back up. “Cause you used to make time for us, Franklin.”

“We have date nights-“

"Date night, three weeks ago, you cancelled ten mintues before, you left me once again. Our anniversary dinner, you were two hours late to the fucking restaurant and you smelled like–" your voice caught and nearly cracked on the word and you pushed past it, "you came home and you held me and you smelled like her, Frank, all vanilla and sex, and you said you needed to go back in, there was something you forgot, and you left me again, and I sat here–"

"That wine," he said, "has clearly gotten to you."

You finally stopped your babbling.

You looked at him once again, properly, at the now calm of his angular features, at the patient set of his mouth he continued to hold, and felt the words die on your tongue as they always did.

"I'm serious," he said, and his voice had gone gentle in the way that made it worse, the way that said I am the reasonable one and you are not, "you've been sitting, working yourself up in the damned darkness…into something and I understand that you're–"

"No-no," you practically whined in response, thin and almost fractured.

"I understand the last few months haven't been easy on you, on us. I know I've been so busy…sweetheart, yeah? I'm not dismissing you–"

"You're doing it right now." Your voice came out harder than before, harder than you planned. "You always do it. You're making me the problem, you’re making you the victim.”

“Because, again, you’ve been sitting in the dark for hours,” he said, and glanced at the bottle in a subtly gesture, “when you’ve had most of that all by yourself waiting to–”

"I'm waiting for you, Franklin," you said, and your voice finally began to crack as your eyes began to gloss over with something other than intoxication. Just slightly, just enough, and you saw it land on his face, hard. His lips began to tighten into a thin line as his eyes too, began to narrow into a thin gaze. “Who told me he’d be home,” you continued, quieter, “with me. In bed. Hours ago.”

The room fell quiet for once, only the clicking of the clock echoed the room.

He crossed to the tiny cork table and sat himself right across from you, close, closer than you wanted, close enough that you could see his piercing eyes clearly in the lamplight, so gently sharp in his analyzing stare that he’d always held. Once charming, now degrading. Slowly, his gloved hands came to rest on the skin of your knees, the latex brushing cooly against flesh in a way that made you feel more his patient than his wife. "I am not cheating on you-“

The words bubbled up in your throat too suddenly for you to stop them, and they came spilling out in a soft cry. “I want a divorce.”

Something moved across his face again, raw, just for a moment, almost as raw as the tears that began to trickle down your flushed cheeks. And then his composure, like a shutter, flickered shut, and his hands slid off of your knees in tow.

"No," he retorted after a beat of silence.

“Listen to me, Frank-“

"God, no." Absolute, the voice of a man who had made a decision and was not interested in discussing it. Like a father denying his child a toy far out of his price range. "We are not doing this tonight.”

You stood abruptly, the room tilting slightly beneath you, but you didn’t let yourself falter. “I'm getting a lawyer- I’ll have a lawyer."

He shot up too, and he was broader than you remembered sometimes, his jaw sharp and set, cheeks ruddy but dulled by frustration, something in his face that was no longer the patient composure, it was something firm and frantic all at once. He watched you sway drunkenly for a moment before his broad hands shot out to grasp at your forearms, gentle, oddly gentle.

You hated the way your body reacted. The brief, traitorous urge to lean into him. To let him pull you in, press soft kisses to your forehead, murmur something sweet enough to quiet everything, to lull you into a sleep you so desperately needed.

"Stop it. Just– listen to me, sweetheart,” the word regained its sweetness then, you resented that too, “listen for a moment.”

"No." Your voice starting to sound like a whine once again the more you sniffled, and you pulled away, sharply, the sharpness of it surprised you both. “I am so done with listening to you, Franklin, I’ve done it for months!,” now, you could care less for the tears pouring from your eyes, “I’m getting that goddamn lawyer–"

“A lawyer.” He echoed, letting out a short sound that mimicked a snort of amusement, but retained all of its bitterness. “You think it’s going to be that simple, hm? With what money? You’ll find a hotel too, I bet? With what fuckin’ money?” His voice had gone low again, cruel and he looked at you with those piercing eyes and said, “You think a goddamned lawyer — if you can even manage the money — is going to take a case against me because my wife has had too many glasses of wine and decided I’m cheating on her? Because she caught a whiff of fucking vanilla on my fucking scrubs?”

His words had yet again rendered you completely still, devoid of any sound but little breaths that steamed from your nostrils.

You looked at him, at the cold certainty of his face without the stoic mask he’d always held, feeling a mixture of slight fear and frustration begin to move through you as the mere thought of his fingertips on your skin now made you cringe.

You shook your head, exhaling a humorless snort, "Yeah..that’s right," you said, quietly, more to yourself than him.

“I’m serious, you’re drunk out of your mind–”

"So am I. I’m fucking serious." Turning away from him fully and starting toward the bedroom with furrowed brows. "I'll find someone. I’ll get the money for it all. And you’ll sign the papers once I do."

“You’re not listening to me!,” he shot back, voice raising a few octaves as he began to trail behind you with stern footsteps, raising his hands in a dramatic gesture that you couldn’t even catch as his babbles continued to spill out, “I'm asking you to slow down and talk to me properly, sober up, we are not getting a-"

You slammed the door behind you, hard, right in his face. The force of it reverberating against the frame and cracking through the apartment as you fumbled for the lock, making an audible ‘click’ sound once you managed to turn it with your shaky fingers.

You stood there for a second, only breathing, panting. As if Frank wasnt your husband, but Freddy-fucking-Kruger…whom you had only just managed to outrun with only seconds to spare.

Then, soft but unmistakable, retreating footsteps from the other side of the door.

You started leaving late, no call, no text. Not even the courtesy of a lie. You didn’t owe it to him, or anything for that matter.

Just a faint little smear of your presence left behind, an uncapped lipstick abandoned on the bathroom sink here, the cap rolling somewhere out of sight for him to find after his shift there. A deliberate kind of absence was what you were aiming for.

It was the one thing he hadn’t anticipated.

That, more than anything, seemed to unsettle the balance he’d built, and had intended to continue building. Because in his mind, this was how it was supposed to go: you would break first, you would come to him, teary-eyed and softened, voice small with apology and longing both. You would say you missed him, that this had all just been about absence — about him not being there enough. And he would coo sweetly in your ear, every little whine going right to his cock.

But now, he was there, and you weren’t.

You learned the rhythm of the apartment when he was home like it was a schedule you had to memorize in order to survive. The weight of his familiar footsteps, the soft hum of the shower when he entered, the low murmur of his voice when he took calls you could no longer quite catch through the closed doors of his office.

You lay in bed some nights, wide awake, staring at the ceiling, waiting.

Waiting for the front door to close, then the lock to click shut behind him.

And only then when you were certain enough…did you move.

You slipped out from under the covers and walked through the apartment all quietly and detached, as if you didn’t own it. As if you were some ghost inhabiting a room you once slept in. Opening cabinets, pouring water, standing in the middle of rooms without quite knowing why you were there or what you were looking for.

And he noticed as he did with everything that belonged to him. Of course he noticed.

He started coming home earlier, earlier than he had in months. Mumbling something one evening — half to himself, half to you, though you didn’t respond — about not being needed for night shifts anymore. Like the hospital had suddenly decided his presence was optional, like it had absolutely nothing to do with you at all.

The late-night calls stopped alongside the night shifts. Or at least, they stopped happening where you could hear them audibly.

One morning, you’d found a plate on the kitchen counter moments after waking. A bagel, lightly buttered and toasted. Neatly done, too, spread evenly, placed on one of the vintage plates you had thrifted together months ago.

You stood there in one of his old shirts, the fabric slipping off one shoulder, staring at it longer than necessary as the scent of his musk and sweat filled your senses.

You felt hungry and you felt confused. It twisted unpleasantly into something softer, more complicated, something you didn’t want to examine too closely because it would undo everything you’d been trying to hold together desperately.

You didn’t touch it. Or maybe you did? You couldn’t quite remember afterward. The days blurred together in a different way after that, less emotional, more confusing, but no less practical.

You’d spent most of your time isolated searching for a lawyer. Not just any lawyer, however, one you could actually afford.

A tedious act.

Because he had been right, you had no money of your own. Not really. Nothing that wasn’t tied up in shared accounts, in his income, in a life that technically belonged to both of you but functionally belonged to him.

It was a humiliating thing to finally stumble across, and you wondered if he knew you’d come to that conclusion eventually. If that had been the point. Letting you wander the apartment alone, skin smelling just like him, letting the silence stretch just long enough for reality to settle in.

After a week of phone calls, transfers, awkward conversations with bank representatives, and late-night searches that promised easy money from home in ‘less than a minute.’ They were all bullshit, but you found one on your second week of endless searching.

Jeb Walker, his profile read, graying hair, stern expression. His firm was small, older one of those places that looked like it had only survived decades simply by refusing to lease the property despite one lucky customer a year. Or two years.

You sat across from him and told him everything.

The late nights. The calls. The outings. The perfume. The missed dinner. The way your marriage had slowly started to feel like something you were no longer part of. He listened, never once interrupting, and never once picking up his pen to jot down notes. Only just watched you over the rim of his glasses and sipped gingerly at his coffeelike he was adding up data you couldn’t see.

And when you finished, he nodded once, said he’d take the case with what you perceived to be jazz hands. Just like that, you were fucking free. He handed you the papers, explained what needed to happen next, Franklin’s signature, and if he refused, then court.

Simple, you thought, but the anxiety coiled in your stomach all the same as you signed your name with a hand that only shook a little.

And for the first time in weeks you felt like you could breathe properly.

Your worst decision came immediately after. Not taking the papers to Frank. Not forcing the confrontation when your resolve was still solid and unmarred by mixed emotion and reckless thoughts.

Instead…you celebrated.It felt justified at the time, necessary, even.

Your phone lit up endlessly as you texted your group chat, messages stacking on top of each other in rapid bursts of excitement and mixed disbelief. They were proud of you, loud about it too. Demanding you go out as you clicked in your response with a lopsided grin playing on your exhausted face.

And how could you say no? After everything? You deserved one night, right?

You went home, the apartment empty (with Frank on his day shift), his absence now something you could use instead of something that turned you ghostly. You moved through it lightly this time, almost giddy, pulling open your closet and reaching for something you hadn’t worn in months. A dress. A skimpy little pink dress to be exact, and a pair of dainty kitten heels to match.

You caught your reflection as you turned, smiling, really smiling this time, and thought, fleetingly, about the look on his face when he saw the papers. That stupidly handsome face twisting in disbelief, his jaw tightening, those thick brows pulling together in frustration. The realization settling in his expression that you weren’t as powerless as he thought.

It was a satisfying image you held onto as you left in a uber.

The night itself unraveled quickly; loud, bright, dizzying all at once. Just what you needed, really.

You laughed too — really laughed — for the first time in months, the sound surprising even you as it spilled from your lips with a little too much ease. Drinks appeared in your hands faster than you could finish them, and quickly you lost count of the amount you’d consumed.

And best of all…the impending barrage of mockery. Leaned over your phone with your friends, his Instagram pulled up like some kind of inside joke, each comment sharper than the last.

As if, three years ago, you hadn’t been in the exact same position, giggling over how much you loved him, how lucky you felt. As if he didn’t look fucking sexy in all of his beach photos — cause he did — that you very clearly took.

The irony didn’t escape you. It just didn’t matter in the moment. His hotness wasn’t the point, nor was your photography skills.

The drinks blurred together after a while, you truly stopped counting somewhere between the third and the sixth, slipping into a loop of your own disappointment. Drink, laugh, dance, mock, dance, drink, and again.

At some point, you found yourself pressed against a stranger you’d snagged from the bar. some poor man who had likely approached with something harmless in mind, conversation or a little compliment but ended up with you instead. A drunkard, grinding back against him.

By the time your foot started to cramp and your hair had fallen out of whatever careful shape you’d given it hours prior, you collapsed back into the velvet booth, breathless and slightly flushed by drink. Everything buzzed inside of you, everything felt far away, and simultaneously so so close, pressing insistent against your skin.

One of your friends sat beside you, unusually still for her jittery nature.

You barely noticed at first, too busy reaching for another drink, signaling lazily toward the bar. You assumed it was something trivial — some headline about politics, some tragic celebrity death, something unimportant.

Until she shifted abruptly, turning her frame directly toward you with a soft smile filled with missed caution

“Hey-…uh, you doin’ alright?”

You giggled in response, nodding a little too enthusiastically, missing the way her words seemed to hesitate as you fussed the straw out of your mouth.

“Yeahhh,” you slurred lightly, lifting your glass. “I think divorce suits me, y’know?”

“Mh…mhm.” She nodded, but it wasn’t convincing. Her fingers toyed with the edge of her glittery phone case, her eyes flicking between you and the screen like she was trying to decide something. You didn’t notice, of course, not until you felt her staring.

“Why?” you asked, smiling with a mock pout, straightening slightly in your seat. “Do I look sad?”

She hesitated, and you finally caught it, rolling your tongue against your inner cheek with slight impatience.

Her gaze dropped, her thumb tapping quickly against her screen before she turned it toward you. Her expression had shifted fully now. Cautious. So blatantly cautious, almost wary with parted lips and furrowed brows.

“No—no, I just…” she murmured, the words trailing as if she wasn’t entirely sure how to finish them. “Just look.”

She held the phone out between you, not quite pushing it into your hand, more like offering it, carefully, like it might burn.

You took it slowly, some of her unease slipped into you the moment your fingers closed around the device, your earlier giddiness dimming at the edges as the alcohol began to churn in your stomach. The screen was already open, a message thread from an unknown number, a single link sitting there, a form. Or something that looked like one.

Your thumb hovered over it and for a second, you just stared. There was a strange, tightening feeling in your chest. Instinctive? Like your body knew something your mind hadn’t caught up to yet? You quickly (and internally) chastised yourself for that thought, a quiet breath slipping out through your nose as you shook your head slightly. ‘Get a grip,’ nearly fell from your lips, but you refrained from further appearing like an aimless drunkard.

You pressed down with a jutted thumb as he screen shifted into a video, paused.

The lighting was low, dim enough to appear slightly blurry, the quality wasn’t good either, grainy in that way that made everything feel much like some sort of illegal snuff film. Lke something not meant to be seen clearly.

For a second, you didn’t understand what you were looking at, and simultaneously, you were scared that it actually was some sort of gore link.

And then you saw it as your bleary eyes roamed the paused screen, a small, sharp glint in the corner of the frame. Familiar, too familiar. Glancing down just for reference, you lifted your hand slightly. Your ring.

Catching what little light there was, unmistakable even through the blur and the horrendous quality.

Your stomach dropped so fast it had actually felt like your heart slipped down to your ass.

The room around you seemed to tilt, sound pulling back into a hum as everything in you narrowed to that single frame, shifting now uncomfortably against the booth.

You knew exactly what this was, but something in you needed the confirmation.

And without warning, as if reading the thoughts stirring behind your furrowed brow, it began to play.

The camera’s light was a demons eye as it reflected against your skin in the video, winking in the dim light of the bedroom you knew so well, in his hand aimed directly at his unmade bed and you.

You knew those sheets. Milky blue duvet with little flowers speckled across it. But a gruff voice, practically forcing its way out of the phone speakers cut your spiraling thoughts off rudely.

“Oh honey,” that gruff lilt, clearly a drunken garble from a man you knew well, a low predatory purr directly against your ear — the woman’s face was currently out of view, but you knew well enough who’s ear it was. There was a faint ruffling, and an almost inaudible ‘No,’ followed by a soft giggle, unmistakably yours, ‘turn it off.’

“Don’t get shy on me now, sweetheart, what’d you say t’me in the car?” Whoever was stood behind the camera Frank, angled the camera down, letting any creep who pleased to click on the grainy thumbnail titled with a vulgar string of words to see your body. Your entire body. Your entire naked body, all sprawled out and being gradually split open by long fingers pumping slowly into your slick folds. You felt your neck burn with the heat of humiliation as you simply watched your own cunt betray you, swallowing his fingers up so desperately as you fought to squeeze your thighs together — only to be detained and spread open further by one of Frank’s unclothed knees. The position you were laid out in was nothing short of revealing.

Everything was on display, down to your drooling pussy.

“I said-…hic…I-I need you-“ And of course, your voice was the only coherent one so far, even when muffled by hiccups and helpless tears. The undisclosed man hummed in approval as you writhed back on the flowery sheets, letting the neediest cry you’ve ever heard escape your lips the second he drew his fingers away from your leaking hole, tutting gently as he reached over to prop the camera up on a nearby bedtable.

The angle favored Frank’s ambiguous presence as it mainly closed in on your balmy form beneath him, only his hips, thighs, and arms could be seen notably. Even though the video was merely twenty seconds long, each one stretched on like hours, the bar growing into a more distant hum around you as you brought the phone closer to your lap, right into your personal space.

Fearful of any on-lookers as if the clip itself wasn’t spreading like fucking wildfire.

Just below the crude title was a number, displayed in an aerial font that seemed mildly insulting in the moment: 43,025 clicks…in only three hours. You didn’t dare scroll to the comments lurking below, which also seemed to hold a staggering number.

Then, pulling you out of your thoughts once more, the energy of the video shifted as a corded arm came down to your hip, flipping you with ease onto your stomach, a free hand shooting out to collect your mussed hair in a tight, wounded fist, holding you pressed face-down into the sheets.

It was unclear when his cock had thrusted inside of you, but it was extremely clear of how you arched back into his pistoning thrusts, giving your hair a yank each time a moan spilled past your lips — after a few more seconds of a blurred mix of his grunts, your gasps, and the lewdly wet sound of bodies meeting did he yank your head up and off of the pillow you’d been buried into.

Craning your head back for you, he shoved your face right into the camera.

And there you were. Finally, you think, almost sarcastically, but you still feel puke threatening to bubble up your throat.

Forehead collecting sweat, plump lips spread open, eyes wet with unshed tears, whole face flushed in the most pornographic expression you think you’ve ever seen. “Who do you need?..hm?” A voice groans out behind your lolling head, being jerked back slightly with every harsh thrust he delivers.

And then…

“You Frank…I need you-“

“That’s right. Thatsa’ girl.”

(let’s ignore how clearly rushed this one is…xoxo!! 💗🪽)

#langdon #read later

beau-bambi

PRAGMATIC!READER x FRANK LANGDON

SUMMARY you and frank share a mutual and cordial dislike for each other. after sharing a patient, your true feelings are revealed in a dingy storage room

WORDCOUNT 3.4K

WARNINGS/TAGS insanely horrible medical inaccuracies (if you’re in the medical field run before i throw apples at you) ⊹ making out ⊹ misunderstood enemies to frenemies (?) ⊹ blood mentioned ⊹ r*bby mentioned ⊹ no beta— we die like r*bby should ⊹ dr. collins and kiara resurrected because i can ⊹ forced proximity ⊹ reader’s job unspecified ⊹ reader has a minute attitude problem

frank hated you, well he didn’t exactly hate hate you. he hated you in the way performative people pretended to hate roses because everyone loved them, he ached to feel that kind of admiration again, to get attention one could only get from being good at their job as well as seemingly having their shit together. well, between his wife leaving him and taking the kids and him only just getting out of rehab, it was safe to say, frank langdon did not have his shit together.

the hardest withdrawal for him was the praise and he didn’t even choose for that to happen, no one told him it was going to happen but he felt the shift— he wasn’t stupid.

he felt it when he clocked in for the first time; after robby had taken the metaphorical gold star pinned to his scrubs and ground it up into powder in his beefy fist. he felt it when dana couldn’t hide the concern in her warm blue eyes when she let out a “hey, sweetheart,” and it hurt him more because he could feel worry in her tone in the pores of his skin pressing up behind his eyes. it filled his nose and his mouth so that when he fixed his lips to speak, all that she received was a tight lipped grimace and a nod. when princess and perlah smiled at him then their faces contort into deep frowns as quick, burning chunks of tagalog escape from their lips. when heather glanced at him like she was examining him from the inside out and santos brazenly eyed him with a startlingly equal dilute of disdain and concern.

he didn’t, however, feel it with you and that stirred an odd, irritated feeling in the pit of his stomach. he’d grown used to the coddling and the fussing, he revelled in the stares and the murmurs behind his back and the ‘are-you-okay’s and the ‘how’s-life-treating-you’s because he had to get his attention-fix from somewhere. it wasn’t fucking benzos. it’s not like you could steal it from a patient and stow it away for later, you couldn’t buy the shit in a plastic baggy from shifty guys in filthy alleyways; he’d take whatever he could.

he knew it was messed up, hell, he felt the shame every time he was assigned an easy case because robby couldn’t bring himself to truly trust him again even if it was unsaid. the shame followed him around all the like an emaciated stray dog except this dog had him on a leash.

“are you just gonna sit on your ass all day, then?” you asked in the break room glancing at langdon who was deep in whatever reverie he’d gotten himself into and sitting idly on the shiny black plastic of a chair in the corner of the room as you slammed your fist atop the coffee maker willing it to work, you knew there was no point in taking the faulty thing up with gloria, she couldn’t even make extra room for patients upstairs let alone alakazam a functioning nespresso machine out of her ass.

“excuse me?” he asked, switching on the self deprecating, kicked puppy routine you saw him turn on for your colleagues, it made you feel sick.

“if so, you’ll need a more comfortable chair.” you snorted as the coffee machine spurted sporadically into your paper cup, you exhaled in relief; good, proof of life.

he chuckled dryly, revealing a version of himself you had never seen before, with sharper edges and attentive eyes. “just like you to itch with fury when you see someone relaxing. bad case, i take it?” he asked with just enough faux sympathy that you almost missed it.

“not too bad,” you started, treacly sweet “how have yours been? i heard scraped knees and bronchitis are extremely complex matters for someone of your calibre,” you regretted it the minute it escaped your mouth, you did have a bad case— a bad shift actually —robby was being an ass and everyone was overwhelmed, you knew you needed the release but that was unfair.

frank stood up in his full flickering glory pushing past you to leave and bumped shoulders with you in a way that made scalding hot coffee splash out it’s brown ribbed cup and dribble down down your fingers but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

there really was no time to think in a hospital. like new york, the pitt never slept and it’s lights never went out. except, the pitt’s lights were blinding and depressingly cool toned.

you were in conversation with dana at the hub to pass time, the typical ‘my-job-is-slowly-killing-me-but-i-will-tell-you-about-my-two-cats-instead’ small talk that escapes your mind the minute you turn away when a kind looking, older gentleman was being rushed in on a stretcher, an angry, swelling beetroot coloured bruise adorning the dappled, papery skin on the right side of his neck. you rushed over to where they were and hastily asked the EMTs for details.

“oscar cranston, 63 year old male.” started one.

“sustained traumatic anterior neck injury after he slipped in the bathroom and struck his neck on the counter.” finished the other grimly.

you leaned over oscar with as gently as you could to see what exactly was going on with his neck, trying not to let that jittery, sped up feeling you always had when seeing a patient control you.

“hello, mr. cranston,” you greeted him warmly, trying to maintain a calm environment. “you’ve taken quite a fall haven’t you?”

“please, young lady, call me ozzie, all my friends do.” he croaked, hoarsely still smiling despite everything.

“okay, ozzie,”— you grinned despite yourself —“let’s get you to trauma one shall we?” you said whilst walking briskly over to trauma room one passing dana by the hub.

“you need any help sweetheart?” she asked in her familiar, maternal tone.

“ozzie here looks like he might need an NPL,” you huffed. “so maybe send over dr. mohan, please?”

“she’s real busy right now, got a delicate family case and she’s trying to check with kiara to see if they qualify for medicaid. you know samira, our very own martyr, i can send over langdon though?”

you fought the expression of protest that was about to grace your face and instead nodded grimly.

“go easy on him, hun, he’s been spoon-fed shitty cases all shift,” she raised her eyebrows at you as if she could read your thoughts, a trait of hers that terrified you at times.

“‘kay,” you huffed an stalked back to the trauma room where oscar was waiting for you.

“atta girl!” dana called out.

you took a deep breath and patted the side of your thigh to ground yourself, the last thing you wanted was to lose focus ergo losing control, and pushed the door open.

you walked past where he was laying to check his vitals which were seemingly fine, you knew how quickly the body could just flip a switch.

“here’s the thing, ozzie, in a couple seconds, i hope,”— you glanced at the watch clipped to breast pocket of your scrubs —“one of my colleagues will come in to assist me in an NPL, which is an invasive procedure where i’ll be inserting a small, flexible scope into your nose to see what exactly is going on in your throat. that okay?” you asked gently.

“well, it doesn’t sound too exhilarating but as long as i’ll be up and running soon, eh?” he rasped cheerily.

you smiled, this was the second time he’d made your day a little brighter. “that’s the spirit oz,”

frank sauntered in without urgency, that’s something, you noticed, he still couldn’t shake: the arrogance of assuming he’d save the day and having everyone fall to his feet, no matter how much he’d changed, old habits die hard.

“langdon!” you greeted him with faux enthusiasm. “you’ve arrived seven minutes after dana sent you to me,” you stepped closer, looking up at him contentiously.

unwilling to back down from confrontation, he stepped forward too. you hated how the scent of his cologne was filling your senses and you hated how you didn’t really hate it at all.

“god, who are you, the time police?”

you laughed despite the situation. “that wasn’t the dig you thought it was,” you stepped back biting the inside of your cheek and turned to the patient laying behind you and not so inconspicuously watching the tension build between you two.

“apologies, mr. cranston, not all of us know the importance of time around here,”

“yeah and not all of us walk around with a calendar marked with every event for the next decade up our asses,” frank muttered under his breath.

you pretended not to hear, there’s no way you’d let him of all people would get a rise out of you.

“no, please!” oscar exclaimed jovially, “my jenny used to watch drama shows like this all the time, i have no excuse to tune in now she’s gone.” he finished a little sadly.

you paused exhaling deeply, you felt like a total asshole now and judging by langdon’s face he did too. “we’re sorry to hear that, mr. cranston, it must be awful losing a— wife?” you asked cautiously.

“oh, yes, jenny was my wife.”— he sat up and fumbled for a well-kept, deep brown leather wallet in his pocket, opening the flap to show you an aged black and white picture of a beautiful young woman with a sharp face and shoulder length (what you assumed to be) brown, downy hair. —“you remind me of her a lot, actually, personality wise. keeping your guy in his place, you’re a looker too!” he laughed, the wrinkles on his face shifting to reveal decades of smiles.

you ducked your head at a loss for words. how beautiful was it, to be compared to someone by the person that loved them the most. langdon’s eyebrows shot up but his eyes shon as if this was the most entertaining thing to happen to him all day, which, considering how life had been since he was back, it probably was.

you cleared your throat, “we’d better get started, before robby comes in and calls us every known species of snail in the book.” you rolled your eyes. “we’re gonna start on that NPL now, you might feel a little discomfort but it’s necessary for us to see what exactly happened.”

frank wheeled out the tools to oscar’s bedside and snapped on his gloves.

“alright, oz, can you sit straight up for me?” you said whilst mirroring frank’s previous actions and putting on your own gloves.

“before i do that,” he started suddenly. “i won’t die will i? my granddaughter, lydia, would be pretty annoyed with me. i’m still teaching her how to play piano when she visits, you see,” he said matter-of-factly as if death was a minor inconvenience shared exclusively between grandfathers and their mildly irritable granddaughters.

you held back a laugh and glanced up at langdon, who shook the tresses of his unfairly glossy, boyband-esque hair falling across his forehead out of his face to smile wryly at you.

“no mr. cranston,” he started “you’re not going to die, you see her?”— he nodded towards you —“she’s a better doctor than me, less attitude anyways,” he shrugged sheepishly as if he hadn’t meant to say that much.

you felt a burning heat fill your pores and prickle your face as you tried (and failed) to ignore the rollercoaster ride your heart had hopped on against your will.

you watched as langdon grabbed a bottle of gel based topical decongestant and squeezed it onto his index and middle finger rubbing the two together with his thumb and exhaled a long breath you didn’t know you were holding.

“alright, mr. cranston, i’ve applied this gel to your nose to numb your nasal passage so it won’t hurt too much when she puts the scope up there. okay? i’m gonna talk you through everything that i’m doing— no need to worry.”

in that moment you wished he had said your name instead— wait what?

frank looked glanced over at you quickly, raising a brow quizzically.

“are you just gonna stand there all day, then?” he asked mockingly. god, you just wanted to smash his smug face against something, preferably your own. you frowned at your own thoughts, what was wrong with you?

you sprung back into action, how unlike you to be wasting time thinking such stupid thoughts.

“right sorry,” you cleared your throat as if that would somehow clear your mind too.

“alright, oscar, my colleague here has already lubricated this scope for me and i’m just gonna slide it in. sorry if it hurts it won’t take too long, i swear,” you murmured, then pursed your lips in focus.

the room was eerily quiet and you could feel langdon’s eyes burning holes into your back. every so often you glanced up at the screen that was mirroring everything the scope monitored. you went through the standard procedure, asking the patient to take a deep breath in, say something and swallow.

after what felt like an eternity (looking down at your watch it was only three minutes and forty nine seconds) you drew the scope out of his nose and placed it down gently on the silver tray next to you.

you turned to langdon for a second opinion, “conclusion?” you pressed.

“clearly, a right-sided hematoma,” he began.

“and major swelling in the airway, i don’t even know how he’s managing to talk.” you finished his sentence, gnawing at the corner of your bottom lip anxiously.

“he’ll definitely need to stay over for monitoring and he’ll need some strong medication to reduce the swelling and ease the pain,” he stated as if it was second nature.

“benzos?” you suggested then your eyes widened. holy shit. “sorry,” you said automatically and somehow you regretted that more.

frank’s eyes looked glazed over but not in a drug induced way; rather like he was remembering something far away. something that never concerned you or anyone for that matter, a silent battle between him and who he could be. “no need.” he responded jerkily.

a microscopic part of you pitied him; he could’ve been so great, someone’s attending or mentor, have the big name he always wanted, the one he needed. you shook the feeling away, trying to ignore the itching sensation of uncomfortableness under your skin.

you turned to oscar, bless him, he had the patience of a saint. maybe piano lessons with mildly irritable granddaughters by retirement home bay windows was a good character builder.

“sorry for yet another delay, mr. cranston, i promise i’m usually more time conscious,” you smiled sappily. “i recommend you benzodiazepines, for the swelling in your throat and as for everything else you’ll have to stay a couple days in the hospital for monitoring,” you concluded.

you walked out after exchanging goodbyes with your patient and walked out briskly, on to the next.

frank stepped out of the room feeling like he’d been holding his breath for too long. he felt like someone was pumping his head full of helium and if he thought one more thing he might just float away.

whilst running a hand through his hair, he tried to do one of those breathing exercises mel taught him. the fading bracelet tanner gave him rolling up and down his wrist.

this couldn’t be happening. not now, he didn’t need that right now.

he tried to think of something to distract him as he bounded down the halls, lingering body spray, saccharine smiles and snappy remarks about keeping time—what? he really must be losing his shit now. honestly, he doesn’t even talk to you like that, doesn’t even like you like that. you’re so rude to him, anyways, it’s not like he’s into it…

he pauses in front of the storeroom, not one of his best moments but he needs to breath, preferably where no prying eyes lurk.

it’s dark in there and he still feels like someone’s watching him, this time he knows he’s not just in his head.

“oof— shit, sorry, wait who is this?” you apologise earnestly from in front of him. but softer around the edges none of the bite you reserve for him, no, this was your colleague voice, your hospitality voice.

he says your name dryly as if there were a million places he’d rather be— and there were but not for the reasons you’d think.

“oh, langdon.”

“someone’s excited to see me,”

he could practically hear your eyes roll and he doesn’t exactly mind it. he kind of likes the short leash you have him on, not that he’d ever say it out loud.

a short silence ensues, one that speaks more than a conversation ever could.

“what’s your deal?” he asks plainly, unguarded, he trusts you and he doesn’t know what to do with that.

“with this crappy hospital or the world because i have a long winded answer for both actually,” you answered dryly.

“you know what i fucking mean,” he snapped.

he could practically hear the way your eyebrows shoot up, he could hear the cogs turning in your head; you weighing out your choices: ‘cuss him out or be honest?’

“i just think you’re just an attention whore and you’re afraid to admit it,” you shot out. you stepped forward bravely, barely leaving any room between you two in the already cramped room.

he laughed softly to put up an uncaring front and silently thanked every deity he knew that you couldn’t see his reddening face.

“oh yeah?” he asked mockingly, stepping forward to match you. you were practically breathing in the same air, he could smell the mist of your perfume and the spearmint gum you chewed on the way here.

you paused, he waited. too far?

“y-yeah!” you responded, a little weaker than your previous jibe. you were flustered and he could tell, cute.

you scoffed, you knew you were caught. “oh, fuck you langdon“

he exhaled sharply, indignation filling the air.

“well, i could say the same to yo—“

you crashed your lips against his suddenly. a noise of confusion caught in frank’s throat but he quickly leaned into it, his large hands wandering the expanse of your upper body.

it wasn’t a pretty kiss— not at all —rather a sloppy, nose bumping, teeth clashing, tongue fighting kiss. it was the kind of kiss that parents turn off tvs for, a kiss that led to sacrilegious things: one frank certainly didn’t expect from you but he didn’t object at all.

he bit your lip in the process and pulled away at the gritty iron taste of blood, “shit, i’m sorry— you okay? are you hurt?” he scrambled for words disconcertedly, the taste of your lipgloss was making him delirious.

“shut the fuck up.” you sighed exasperatedly as if he were inconveniencing you to even think of pulling away.

he was itching to throw out a snarky response. but when your hand moves up, up, up, and curls tightly into his hair, he presses right back up against you. a low, guttural noise of pleasure escaping his throat.

his hand cupped your breast under your shirt, and he nearly wept right there. what kind of fucking spell did you have on him? you kissed him until he couldn’t tell where your mouth ended and his began and he would’ve gladly stayed in the confines of the storeroom if it meant he’d be doing whatever the hell this was.

a loud, grating trill burst out from your pocket causing you two to jump apart. you fumbled for the source of the noise and found your pager, you held the screen up to the sliver of light emitted from the crack of the door and read it feverishly.

“sorry, langdon, they need me in trauma two,” you offered indifferently.

“fuck, can’t you just wait a couple more minu—“

“no.” you said firmly as if that was that.

frank scoffed in disbelief. “you’re so…”

“look, you’ll tell me exactly what you think of me later, i’m losing time here.”

and without a second look back you strode out, leaving a cloud of your perfume in frank’s wake.

a/n: my goofy ass should never write again is what i’ve concluded from this because i couldn’t stop giggling at myself, definitely a more ‘for myself’ piece of writing but if you enjoyed this i’m glad to contribute to your disorder ALSO couldn’t stop thinking abt this tweet while writing the last half can you tell?

──────────────────────

#langdon #read later

moonstoneandmoonlight

I DON'T DANCE | steve harrington

Steve Harrington somehow ends up cast as one of the lead parts in the spring musical and you're tasked with teaching him how to dance.

pairing: steve harrington x reader words: 2.1k contains: high school musical au, king!steve, enemies to lovers (maybe), fluff, sexual tension, female reader, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns for reader

author's note: request by my love @goldiwrites | this has been in my inbox for a little while and finally got an idea for it that i loved. this one is for my musical theatre girlies! also there is potential for a part two here, i have a few ideas...

to be added to my taglist | masterlist | requests page

The fact that Steve Harrington had been cast as your partner in the spring musical pissed you off. A lot.

From what you had heard, he had lost a bet with Tommy and auditioned for one of the lead roles as a forfeit. Everyone had thought it would be laugh—the star of the basketball trying to sing, making a fool of myself. And so, the day Steve had auditioned, the auditorium filled up, ready to laugh at King Steve’s attempt at an audition for a musical.

But no one—absolutely no one— had expected for Steve Harrington to have an incredible singing voice. Even you were impressed.

But still, you had thought that singing alone wasn’t enough to land the lead role.

Turns out, you were dead wrong.

And now you were spending your Wednesday and Thursday lunches trying to teach Steve Harrington how to dance and not trip over his own feet, as if rehearsals for the show with him every Tuesday and Friday after school weren’t already enough.

Plus the fact that the show would end with a kiss between your characters—well, you were beginning to regret auditioning for the show in the first place.

#read later #steve harrington

imagines-all-day-everyday

three's a crowd

summary: your head being turned due to frank's return leads dennis to unexpectedly snap in the breakroom.

pairing: fem!reader x dennis whitaker, fem!reader x frank langdon

warnings/tags: season 2, ep 14 spoilers!, abby and kids do not exist in this universe, jealousy, jealousy and more jealousy!! lowkey dennis is a little bit of a dick in this (maybe?) but it's just because he's got unresolved feelings and insecurities okkkkk, kinda possessiveness but not really? flirting, angst, swearing, usual medical descriptions that you’d expect from the pitt!

notes: this gif makes me feel things. that is all.

likes, reblogs, comments are very much appreciated!

Enjoy my work? Tip me! 🤍

masterlist

The first thing Dennis noted when he woke up was that it was hot. Disgustingly so.

The kind that settled over your skin before you were even fully conscious, already clinging, already demanding. The air in his apartment felt thick - stale and unmoving - like it had been sitting there all night waiting for him to wake up and breathe it in.

Hot weather made patients come in even more on edge then usual - like the heat burned through whatever restrained they usually had. Like the sweat melted their frontal lobes, prohibiting them from making logical decisions.

Mix that with a public holiday and excessive drinking?

He already didn’t feel like working today, but now he was dreading it.

His phone buzzed against the bedside table.

Still on for fireworks after today's torture session?

His mouth involuntarily curved upwards as he read your text.

The tension in his chest eased before he could stop it, something softer threading through the irritation.

Dreading it might have been an exaggeration.

Because for Dennis, nothing that involved you had ever felt like something to dread, even a 12 hour shift on the fourth of July.

Definitely, but don’t be surprised if I ask if I can be catapulted into the sky too by tonight.

You laugh reacted his message just as he walked through the doors of the pitt.

A smile was still lingering on his face as he headed towards the lockers.

He heard the familiar sound of your voice before he saw you.

“Oof, 10 months off and you’ve already been demoted to bottom locker status, kinda harsh.”

“Got to find some way of keeping me humble.”

Dennis slowed for a split second as he rounded the corner, before freezing at the sight that greeted him.

You were there, as he'd expected. But what he wasn’t expecting was that you’d be standing there, leant against the lockers, laughing with Frank Langdon.

He knew you and Langdon had been close, and he knew Langdon would be coming back to work eventually, he just didn’t realise it was going to be today.

#read later #langdon #whitaker

se7entyrell

another man's jeans masterlist

a frank langdon exes to roommates to lovers fic

this fic is COMPLETED.

It's been a long ten months for Frank Langdon. Rehab, endless meetings to prove he's fit for his job, and losing you.

It's his own fault. He knows that. He couldn't handle the pressure of his entire life going to shit, and combusted, destroying your life in the process. If things had gone to plan, the two of you would've been married by now. Instead, you're near strangers, and Frank doesn't know how long he can watch you date a guy that absolutely doesn't deserve you.

Until you turn up on his doorstep, with nowhere else to go after being kicked out by your ex.

And so, Frank Langdon's second chance begins.

warnings: 18+, mdni! this fic will feature medical gore, a little bit of violence, and explicit sex. more detailed warnings on each chapter individually

prologue

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six

chapter seven

chapter eight

#read later #langdon

imagines-all-day-everyday

due diligence

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! 🤍

series masterlist

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.”

#read later #langdon

tearsof-scarlet

Under Fluorescent Lights

Pairing: Frank Langdon x Reader

Synopsis: You’re the newest ER resident, fighting to prove yourself under the relentless scrutiny of Doctor Langdon, brilliant, distant, and impossible to read. When a fellow resident’s unwanted attention starts crossing lines, Dr. Langdon begins to take notice. Tags: Workplace Tension, Jealousy, Forced Proximity, Protective Langdon, Power Imbalance, Sharp Banter, Mutual Pining, Emotional Confrontation, Eventual Kissing Warnings: **Unwanted Advances**, Workplace Stress, Cold calling, Power Dynamics, Emotional Distress, Medical Setting Words: 10k~

A/N: I am not American and have the barely any knowledge of how US medical school works so please ignore any inaccuracies!!

You're a new resident in the ER, the bottom of the food chain, badge still shiny under fluorescent lights, white coat not yet saturated with antiseptic and exhaustion. Your handwriting is still neat, your pockets still organized: penlight, trauma shears, folded index cards with drug doses written in careful ink.

You don't report to him directly. Technically. But in the way gravity technically doesn't report to the sun, you still orbit Dr. Langdon. You work with him. Somewhat under him. He doesn't sign your evaluations, but he signs off on your decisions with a look. Working relationship? None in sight. In fact, there is no relationship at all.

#langdon #read later

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