Welcome!

just a nonbinary simultaneously vibing and stressed out

[umbreonpanda]

 they/them ||

hello!! i go by panda, if you called me umbreon or anything else, i would probably not answer you. i’m 22 years old and my pronouns are they/them. i am bilingual, vietnamese/english. i am very terrible with grammar and is still working on it. 

since my blog is 18+, i will occasionally reblog nsfw posts. i would add a masterlist but since im not sure how to do it. good luck with finding my writing.

> got a trigger? please block any tags that have up {tw:}

[kateammann]

Happy Pride Month!!! 🌈💕🌼✨

[daydaydayrk420]

Cole Turner x Male Reader

Cole and the male reader meet at his shop that him and Sadie meet at and they immediately both start flirting and then the male reader goes to his car and kinda like in the film cole goes to his car but to give him his number and he starts walking away the male reader honks and says "get your bubble butt in this car" with a smile on his face so cole does and they go out to coffee and dinner and one thing leads to another and they go back to the male readers house and have sex.

I only see Cole Turner as a Subby bottom so definitely bottom Cole Turner x Top Male Reader and I keep thinking about the scene in the movie where Cole is gagged so maybe consensually of course he gags cole with a pair of socks like in the film but doesn't tie him up.

Coffee and sex

Cole Turner X male reader

⚠︎gagging with a sock, bottom Cole, top y/n, spanking, multiple climaxes, creampie, I didn't rewatch the film for this, I was too lazy ⚠︎ ☢︎︎minors and girls do not interact☢︎︎ ☞︎︎︎Y/n met a cute guy at the market and decided to take him home☜︎︎︎ ✍︎ 3166

Y/n wasn't planning on buying some greenery today, but when he was walking around the market, he couldn't help but stare at the handsome man who sold flowers.

So he made his way towards the stand and pretended to look around.

"Hi, how can I help you?" The seller asked with a smile.

Y/n looked at him and smiled as well. "I'm not really sure what I'm looking for. Just felt like buying a flower." He explained.

The seller smiled. "You're not the first one to do that." He chuckled and looked around his flowers. "So let's try to figure out what you want. Yeah?" He offered.

Y/n chuckled and looked over the pots.

"I'm Cole." The seller said and cleared his throat. Y/n looked at him and smiled. "Y/n." Cole smiled as well.

"So, y/n, what type of flowers do you like?" Cole asked as he looked over the man. He's mostly checking him out for his own liking and to try to guess what he likes.

"Like what you see, Cole?" Y/n teased when he caught the man's eyes on his thighs.

The florist's eyes widened, and his cheeks tinted with pink. He nervously laughed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Maybe I do."

Y/n smirked. "Well, how will your wandering eyes help me choose a plant??" He asked playfully.

Cole grinned. "I can guess what you like by the way you look." He challenged.

"Is that so? Well then, stare all you want." Y/n winked.

The florist stared shamelessly. "How about a monstera?" He asked once he forced his eyes away from the man and onto the flowers he was selling instead. He reached for one of the small pods with a baby blooming monstera. "You look like a man who works most of his time. A monstera doesn't require high maintenance. Water it every 1-2 weeks if the top 2-4 inches of soil are dry. As it keeps growing, you change the pot and add a pole it can climb on." Cole explained as he showed the flower to the man.

Y/n watched him with raised brows as if he were surprised to get actual information from the seller. "That sounds perfect, actually." He said and looked at the flower.

Their brief flirting was forgotten as the men were too focused on the greenery.

"How much for one?" Y/n asked, already reaching for his wallet.

Cole put the plant in a small bag gently. "75." He said as he set it by the register.

Y/n handed 80 and grabbed the flower. "Keep the change." He said as he put away his wallet.

"Thank you. Have a great day." Cole said with a smile. "You as well," Y/n said before he walked towards his car.

He mentally facepalmed for walking away already without at least Cole's number, but it'd be weird now to go back.

Just as he started his car. Someone tapped on his window. He looked up to see Cole nervously smiling. Y/n chuckled and rolled down the window.

"Did I forget something?" He asked with a playful grin.

Cole grinned and handed y/n a piece of paper. "Yeah. You forgot to ask for my number." It was obvious that it took all the courage the florist had.

Y/n's eyes widened as he grabbed the paper. He looked at it before he looked at Cole again. Cole tapped the roof of the car. "Call me?" And with that, he walked away.

Y/n stared at the piece of paper with the florist's number in his hand. He chuckled and honked. He leaned his head out of his window and yelled at the florist, whose attention he got from honking. "Get your bubble butt in the car!"

The florist blushed but made his way back towards y/n's car and got in.

"Coffee?" Y/n asked as he started driving. Cole smiled as he tried his best to relax and not freak out. "Yeah, coffee sounds great."

Y/n drove them to a cozy coffee shop he likes to go to. When they parked, he got out of the car and opened the florist's door.

When they made it inside, they were pleased to find that it wasn't crowded.

They found an empty table and sat down. As they looked through the menu, they both thought about what to say.

However, the waitress was the one to speak up first. "Hi, would you like to order?" She asked with a smile and prepared her notepad.

"Yeah, I'd like a black coffee and two caramel waffles with it, please," Y/n ordered with a smile.

She nodded and wrote it down.

"I'll take the same," Cole said.

The waitress nodded again before leaving.

They looked at each other and smiled. "So... Let's get to know each other." Y/n chuckled as he tried to start the conversation.

Cole smiled. "That would be a great start." He joked.

"So, tell me, why do you sell flowers?" Y/n asked the simplest question he thought of.

"Oh, well, I grew up on a farm, and I grew a liking towards flowers the most," Cole explained while he admired y/n's face.

"Oh? So you grow crops at home?" Y/n asked.

The florist nodded. "Yeah. And they're delicious."

"Well then, I'll have to buy some, one day." Y/n grinned.

Before Cole could answer, the waiter returned with their coffees and waffles. She set them down and left to take more orders from the others.

Y/n grabbed one of the waffles and placed it over the mug. Cole watched him. "What are you doing?" He asked. "I'm melting the caramel inside the waffle. Softening it up." Y/n explained.

"Oh." Cole stared at y/n's coffee before he copied his actions and placed a waffle on his mug as well.

After about two minutes, y/n took the waffle and took a bite. A long string of caramel followed.

They laughed when it landed on his chin. Cole tried it as well. His eyes closed as he enjoyed the taste. "I've been eating these the wrong way my whole life." He laughed.

Y/n laughed as well before sipping his coffee. "Glad I could change that."

Their conversation was pleasant. They talked about anything and everything. About their jobs, their lives, their random childhood stories.

Eventually, they decided to get coffee on the go and go for a walk.

The day was coming to an end as the streets had dimmed with shadows. Y/n and Chris walked side by side through the streets, still mindlessly talking. Their hands occasionally touched, but neither of them reacted.

Eventually, they stopped at a bridge where they leaned against the railing and watched the sky and an occasional plane that flew by.

They admired the view in comfortable silence. Their bodies scooted closer subconsiously. Neither of them realised how small the proximity had become until their shoulders touched. Y/n was the first to react. He looked at Cole with a soft smile. The florist, on the other hand, continued to watch whatever moved.

Y/n was the first to make a move. He wrapped his arm around Cole’s hips and pulled him closer. The florist tensed up with surprise and blushed. He forced himself to relax and looked at the man holding him. “Stealing my warmth, are we?” He teased before leaning further into y/n’s side.

“If I steal too much of your warmth and you get too cold, we can go back to my place. I know a few ways to warm you up.” Y/n teased.

Oh god. Cole’s mind short-circuited. He didn’t know what got into him, but his body moved on its own and pulled the other man into a kiss.

Y/n’s eyes widened with surprise. He smiled into the kiss and cupped Cole’s cheek. The kiss was slow and tasted like coffee. However, it didn’t take long before y/n’s need took over. He grabbed the man’s hips and pulled him flush against his chest. They deepened the kiss until Cole remembered they were still in public. He pulled away with a flushed face. His eyes darted around to make sure no one was watching before covering his face in embarrassment.

Y/n’s eyes stayed closed for a moment before he looked at Cole. He couldn’t help but smile at his flustered behaviour. He didn’t let him go. “What made you so shy?” He chuckled before kissing the florist’s forehead.

“We’re in public!” Cole whisper shouted. He hid his face in y/n’s shoulder.

The other man grinned even more and kissed the florist’s forehead. He kissed the top of his head before pulling away. “Come on, let’s go to my place.” He offered. Cole nodded and took his hand.

When they got to y/n’s place, he offered a drink or something to snack on. The florist was too busy looking around to ask for anything, though. His mind was too focused on something else. His eyes searched for the bedroom.

Y/n smirked as if he could read the man’s mind. He sneaked up behind him and wrapped his arms around his hips. The florist jumped but soon melted into the arms. He looked at y/n over his shoulder and smiled.

“Looking for the bedroom, handsome?” Y/n purred as he started to lead them towards his room. The florist blushed but followed without a second thought. It didn’t take much convincing for him to shed his clothes along the way.

Before they even made it to the room, they were both butt-naked. A trail of clothes followed them to the bedroom door, through which they both stumbled because they were eagerly making out.

Cole was the first to fall into bed. His breathing was already fast, and his eyes hooded. He removed his socks, which were the last thing he was wearing before he hoisted himself higher onto the bed. He spread his legs instinctively and deeply blushed. He felt shy under the other man’s hungry gaze. He’s always been a shy one when it comes to relationships. Always the one to stutter and trip over his own foot, but something about the way y/n looked at him made him feel like it’s his first time all over again.

“Christ, Cole… You look so beautiful like this.” The man practically growled. The way he walked towards the bed and crawled towards the florist was almost predatory. He kissed up Cole’s body as he continued to crawl up. He felt the florist shudder beneath his lips. He couldn’t help but grin. He took his time with the florist’s sensitive chest. He saw how Cole fisted the sheets whenever his lips were too close to one of his nipples.

“Do you want me to prep you, or can you do it yourself?” He asked once he was finally kneeling between Cole’s legs.

“You do it, please.” The florist practically whined as he lifted his hips as an offering. Y/n’s cock twitched at the view. He grabbed the lube from his nightstand and lined up his fingers. He leaned down to kiss over the florist’s chest to offer comfort if needed.

At first, he rubbed the rim, letting Cole get used to the feeling of being touched, before he pushed one finger in. He moved slowly, focusing on how the man reacted.

“Does this feel good for you?” Y/n asked quietly as he added a finger. The florist gasped and grabbed onto y/n’s biceps. “Yes!” Hen couldn’t control his volume. But it clearly wasn’t that bad if y/n didn’t scold him for it. In fact, he praised him for it.

“Look at you, so vocal for me.” He purred into Cole’s ear while curling his fingers to purposely get another moan out of him. The florist arched. His eyes shut tight, and his hole clenched around those two sinful fingers.

His hips moved on their own. They lifted to meet y/n’s hand, as if pleading for more. And so he got more. Three fingers in, and Cole was losing his mind. His hands didn’t know what to do. They went from holding onto y/n to holding the sheets to holding the pillow, the bed frame, y/n’s hair, and y/n’s biceps again. All that for three fingers. Just the knowledge of that made Y/n crazy himself. He could only imagine how the florist would react once penetrated.

He couldn’t take it anymore. He shifted his position to move between the florist’s legs and grabbed his aching cock. He spat on his hand to stroke himself before rubbing the tip against Cole’s fluttering hole. He leaned down to kiss the man as he pushed in with one hard thrust.

The flortist cried out. He wrapped his arms around y/n’s shoulders and his legs around y/n’s hips. His cock shook uncontrorably as he came. His face turned red with shame. He wanted to hide it in y/n’s neck, but the man was already pulling back to look and confirm what just happened.

“Oh, look at you.” He said and ran his fingers over the cum on Cole’s tummy. The florist covered his face, hiding his shame. When he peeked through his fingers, he saw y/n licking the cum off his fingers. A gasp slipped past his lips. Y/n smirked and leaned down again, planting his hands on each side of the florist’s head. “Let’s see how much it’ll take to make you come again, eh?” He teased and started to thrust, painfully slow.

Y/n’s hands grabbed Cole’s hips and lifted them so he could thrust at a better angle. His lips held a smirk as he watched the man beneath him crumble. Cole’s mouth was wide open, his eyes watery, and his hands were holding onto the headboard for dear life.

The pace wasn’t forgiving. Y/n moved like pounding the man beneath him was all that mattered. His grip was no doubt bruising, but all he cared about was the way Cole reacted. The tip of y/n’s cock hit the florist’s prostate just right. It sent shockwaves of pleasure through the already trembling man.

The more pleasure he received, the less control he had over his voice. A loud whine escaped his lips. He didn’t realise how loud he was being until y/n’s hand covered his mouth. Cole’s eyes widened. He looked at the man, embarrassed.

Cole relaxed and nodded. Before y/n could remove his hand, the florist took two fingers into his mouth, mimicking a weak gag muzzle. Y/n’s dick gave an aggressive twitch at the view. He let out a quiet curse.

His thrusts became more aggressive. Fuck what the neighbours think. He wants to fuck Cole into oblivion. If he’s loud in response, so be it. Y/n leaned down to kiss and bite the florist’s neck. “Damn it, Cole. How am I supposed to keep you quiet like this? You sound too delicious to silence you.”

The florist whimpered. He loved that y/n loved hearing him, but he also dreaded the idea of the neighbours knowing what they’re doing. He pulled y/n’s fingers out of his mouth and looked at the floor where he had discarded his socks earlier.

Y/n looked at him, confused, before following his line of sight. When he saw the socks, he couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, you clever dog.” He murmured and reached for them. He held them up. “You want me to muzzle you? Hm?” He teased as he slowed his thrusts.

“Please.” The beg left Cole’s lips faster than he could process the question, but the moment his mouth was gagged, he was cumming again. Y/n grinned. “Another one? Really? You’re adorable.” He teased before pulling out so he could pull Cole off the bed and towards the window. The florist’s eyes widened when his chest touched the cold glass. “Let’s see if my neighbour will hear you even when gagged.” He purred into the florist's ear before pushing inside him again.

The florist cried out loudly around the socks, but this time, only y/n could hear. “Atta boy,” He praised as he thrusted at a rough pace immediately. Cole’s hands pressed against the glass. His eyes closed as he rested his cheek against it as well. The cold of it startled it at first, but now it’s very welcomed against his heated skin.

He didn’t bother controlling his voice. He shamelessly moaned and whined as loud as he could. After all, the socks made it much easier. Now that he didn’t need to focus on it, he was far more relaxed. His hips moved back to meet y/n’s thrusts, his hole clenched from overstimulation.

Y/n let out a groan and pressed his chest against the florist’s back. “Fuck… You feel so good. So damn good.” He praised before biting on the florist’s neck. Y/n’s thrusts started to lose their rhythm. He gripped Cole’s waist tightly and pulled him against his thrusts.

“I’m close,” Y/n grunted out as he continued to chase his pleasure. Cole moaned loudly around the socks and pushed back with more determation of getting filled by the man. He looked over his shoulder to watch him with hooded eyes. The other man went dizzy, the way Cole looked so… wrecked. It made him lose what remained of his mind.

With one hand, he reached out to wrap it around Cole’s throat so he could pull him back against his chest. The florist’s hands grabbed y/n’s forearms, but not to pull them away, just to hold on. He could feel his third climax already nearing. His shame was long forgotten. At this point, he was more focused on giving y/n what he wants.

“Please,” Cole pleaded, even though it came out muffled. Y/n leaned in. “What?” “Please,” Cole whined. “Please come in me.” He couldn’t properly form the words, but with the way y/n’s grip on his throat tightened, he knew he understood.

“With pleasure,” Y/n grunted. He bit the florist’s shoulder as he chased his climax. He was so close to cumming, but he needed something more. Without a thought, he pulled the socks out of Cole’s mouth and gave a rough smack to his ass to make him yelp. And yelp he did.

Cole arched his back and loudly cried out. He came over the window and leaned his head back on y/n’s shoulder. Broken whines spilled past his lips as the overstimulation took over his body. Y/n wrapped his arms around the florist to hold him in place as he filled him to the brim.

The florist’s moans and whines died down. Both of them caught their breath and leaned on each other for support.

“I don’t feel my legs…” Cole whispered after a long pause of silence. Y/n chuckled and pressed a gentle kiss over the rough bite mark he had left. “Let’s shower, and then I’ll give you a massage. How does that sound?” He offered.

Cole smiled and melted into the man’s arms. “Sounds amazing.” Without further debate, y/n scooped the man into his arms and carried him to the bathroom.

“In the morning, we’ll have another round.” “Y/n!”

[gxtitobxby]

langdon telling reader all the cool procedures he got to do at work while she rides him...

"— so I realigned his spine," he laughs breathlessly, shakes hair out of his eyes and squeezes at the fat of your hips while you ride him. "his spine, baby. without neuro."

"that's so hot,” you gasp into his mouth, “you’re so hot.”

“had his head in my hands and then i j-just—snap,” his laugh is more delicious this time, and then it gets cut off by a moan when you squeeze around his cock. “fuck, sweetheart, you feel so fuckin’ good.”

“better than a spine realignment?” you smile n bite his lip while he chuckles.

“i don’t know if I’d go that fa—” the rest of his sentence is muffled by a pillow over his face while you gasp in faux outrage through a fit of giggles :’)

[mortuary9]

gn

[imagines-all-day-everyday]

sue me

summary: despite knowing that you're a lawyer, the pitt crew only really see you as the sweet girlfriend of their co-worker frank langdon. that is until a patient targets one of their own and they see a side of you that you usually save for the courtroom.

pairing: lawyer!reader (fem) x frank langdon (established relationship)

warnings/tags: reader being a legal badass, abby and kids do not exist in this universe, established relationship, part of the er ken & lawyer barbie series, the pitt crew lowkey being thirsty af for the reader, misogynistic patient (yuck), flirting, fluff, swearing, usual medical descriptions that you’d expect from the pitt!

notes: this is part of an ongoing series but can be read on its own as well!

likes, reblogs, comments are very much appreciated!

Enjoy my work? Tip me! 🤍

series masterlist

It was an unusually warm evening given the time of year.

Warm enough not to warrant the long coat draped over your arm, to have you wishing you'd packed flats and a loose fitting dress to change into.

You leaned against the brick wall outside of the ambulance entrance to the ER. The exact same spot that Frank Langdon had found you in all those months ago.

You glanced down at your watch. 7:16pm.

Frank had gotten last minute tickets to a show he'd been dying to see and had also somehow managed to snag a last minute reservation at your favourite restaurant.

By some miracle, you'd managed to get here on time, fleeing the office before a partner could lasso you back in for more work.

But as always, when one of you was on time, the other was inevitably caught up in something.

That was just how the two of you functioned. Early on, you'd accepted that both your lives were chaotic and almost entirely dictated by your professions. So, you'd settled into a comfortable acceptance that when you did get to spend time with one another, you had to make it count.

Your phone buzzed.

Stuck - incoming trauma. Come in once you get here.

You were just about to respond when another message came through.

Dana said it's ok

He always knew exactly what you were thinking.

The automatic doors slid open for you with a soft hydraulic sigh, letting in a brief breath of night air before sealing the chaos back inside.

You'd met enough of Frank's co-workers, either within the walls of the ER or outside of them at social gatherings, to feel relatively comfortable with coming in and waiting for him.

But still, even after all this time, you had never quite gotten used to the whiplash of stepping into the pitt.

You were used to the clacking of keyboards, the never ending drone of co-workers on calls in their offices next to you, the clink of coffee cups at client luncheons.

Here, monitors chimed in uneven rhythms, gurneys rattled over polished floors, voices overlapped, sharp and urgent, the smell of antiseptic and burnt coffee settled over everything.

The click of your heels made people glance up.

Your tailored outfit contrasting against a sea of scrubs and hospital blues made them steal a second look. The way you walked with the kind of composure that made people move half a step out of the way without realising why, made them stare.

"Well well well." Abbot was the first to clock you. "To what do we owe the pleasure, your honour?"

You flashed him a grin. "Pleasure's all mine, doc."

"What did Abbot do this time?" Shen teased, taking a sip of his coffee as he eyed you.

"No need to worry gentlemen, you’re safe. I'm not here on business today."

"I knew she missed us." Shen nudged Abbot in the ribs as you walked past which made you roll your eyes affectionately.

The others were quick to notice you after that, some calling out greetings, others talking in low murmurs as you headed towards the nurses station.

Dana glanced up, a wide smile spreading across her lips at the sight of you.

"If it isn't my favourite wag," She slid her glasses off as she rounded the desk to meet you.

"If it isn't my favourite charge nurse."

"Don't tell Lena you said that." Dana teased as you embraced her in a warm hug.

"Oh- I got you something." You exclaimed, reaching into your bag as you pulled away.

"What-"

"-remember that pastry place you love right near my office?” You said as you fished a container out of your bag. The scent of pistachio hit you instantly.

“Of course I remember.” She shook her head, unable to fight the smile on her features as she tried to look stern. “You shouldn’t have.”

“But I did.” You grinned. “Don’t worry, I got more so no one thinks I’m playing favourites.”

You pulled out several more containers, placing them onto the counter.

“Alright, lawyer barbie coming in with snacks.” Mateo called out, jogging over at the prospect of sugar right at the start of his shift.

Dana slapped his hand away as he reached for a croissant. “You’ll start a feeding frenzy in here. Take them to the break room.”

You shot Mateo a grin as he huffed before begrudgingly complying.

“Thanks barbie!” He shouted out over his shoulder.

"I wouldn't let Langdon find out you're putting crumb prone items in your birkin." McKay teased as she and Whitaker wondered over.

"What's the point of a bag if you don't actually use it?" Whitaker queried, glancing down at your bag on the counter.

"Exactly." You emphasised. "I'm pretty sure that's almost a direct quote from Jane Birkin herself."

Dennis blinked. "Who?"

McKay and Dana giggled at the look on your face.

"Never mind." You said, shaking your head.

Dennis just shrugged and followed after McKay towards the breakroom.

"You might have a different view when you find out how much that bag costs." McKay muttered to him.

Javadi spotted you next.

Your name left her mouth with immediate excitement, her face lighting up.

“Hey you.” You smiled. “What are you still doing here?”

"Oh- it's busy." She gestured vaguely. “Just helping out with a few things."

“Hmm.” You glanced over pointedly in Mateo’s direction. “I’m sure that’s the reason.”

“Shh.” She swatted you playfully, her eyes lighting up at your attention despite the heat creeping up her neck.

“Javadi, we need you in Room 7.”

“Coming!” She called back before whipping around back to you with a finger pointed. “Do not say anything to him.”

“I would never.” You said solemnly, your lips twitching as you tried to stay serious.

“But this conversation isn’t over missy.” You called out after her as she hurried away.

Garcia, who had just finished up in Trauma One, made a beeline for you instantly.

“Lawyer barbie.” She smirked as she approached, her eyes dragging down your figure. “You here to pick up ER Ken?”

“Luckily for him, yes.”

A few scattered laughs. Someone muttered something about date night. It wasn’t new - you’d been around enough that your presence didn’t raise eyebrows anymore, although the stares were definitely here to stay.

She inclined her head. “He’s descrubbing in bay one.”

"Thanks."

She watched as you walked away, shaking her head slightly.

"Lucky bastard."

-

He didn't see you at first.

He was sliding off his gloves, goggles pushed up into his hair, a few strands falling across his forehead. A crease sat between his brows - evidence of hours spent thinking too fast, too hard.

You leaned against the doorway, watching him for a second - just long enough to feel that familiar flutter in your stomach that was yet to go away.

"Dr Langdon."

He turned immediately.

There was a flicker of surprise, then warmth, then something softer - something that always felt like it belonged only to you.

"You're early."

Your heels echoed off the walls of the bay as you walked towards him.

"Actually, I'm on time."

"For you, this is early."

You raised a brow. "For your sake, I'll let that one slide."

"Because you know it's true."

"Because-" You countered lightly. "I missed you."

Frank smiled, sliding a hand around your waist, tugging you in closer.

"I missed you too."

He glanced through the glass toward the board and winced.

"So." You pursed your lips slightly as you looked up at him. "Are we making this show or what?"

"We're making it." He said firmly. "I just have to wrap up a couple of things."

He glanced down at you. "Is that ok?"

"Of course. I've always got emails to read."

He squeezed your side before spotting something behind you, his brow furrowing.

"Why is everyone crowded around the breakroom?"

"Oh, I bought pastries from that place Dana loves."

He huffed out a tired laugh. “What is it with you and feeding people in here hm?”

You shrugged, a smile spreading across your lips. “Maybe it’s my love language.”

"Well-" He started, his mouth twitching. "I'm glad they're distracted because that means I get to do-"

He leant down and captured your lips in a brief kiss.

"-this." He murmured against your lips before kissing you once more.

"Ok." He moved back like he had to physically pull himself away to stop himself from kissing you again.

"I'll be back."

His eyes darted down to your lips once more, making you smirk.

You inclined your head.

"Go on. The quicker you get done here, the quicker we can make out in the car before dinner."

Frank Langdon had never moved faster in his life.

-

You folded into the rhythm of the pitt with surprising ease.

You settled into one of the chairs at the nurses station, typing emails on your phone. Every now and then one of the staff would stop by for a chat or to ask a legal question (totally hypothetically of course).

Eventually you put your phone down and quietly observed the ebb and flow of patients, the unspoken communication between staff, the way tension built and broke in waves.

In particular, you watched Frank.

There was something grounding about it - the way he worked, the way people responded to him. Calm in the middle of noise. Precision in the middle of chaos.

Every now and then he'd find your eyes, the ghost of a smile appearing on his lips.

"I'm done." He eventually announced as he walked past you towards the lockers.

"I'll be quick." He assured you before you could say anything.

You shot him a knowing look, slightly shaking your head before turning your attention back to your phone.

Frank had only been gone for a few minutes when the energy shifted.

It started as a raised voice, muffled by a curtain.

Then it sharpened.

Then it was loud enough to cut through everything else.

"I said I don't want her fucking touching me!"

The words snapped through the department, turning heads in unison.

You straightened slightly, eyes tracking the source.

One of the curtained bays, half open. A patient, male, late thirties maybe, sitting upright, agitation radiating off him in sharp, restless movements.

And standing in front of him - Javadi.

"I've been waiting all this time, just for you to tell me that all I need is some stitches, and she can't even manage to do that?"

"I just didn't get the needle deep enough the first time, it won't happen again." Javadi assured him.

"-I don't care!" He barked. "I've been stuck down here for five hours and you're not even sending a real doctor to check on me? It's bullshit."

His eyes stayed on Mateo as he spoke, like he couldn't even be bothered to acknowledge the woman in front of him.

"Sir, she's just trying to-" Mateo began.

You slowly stood up from your chair.

Across the floor you could see Abbot and Robby hovering, assessing if they needed to intervene.

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Frank coming out of the locker room.

You were the closest one to Javadi.

"Sir-" Javadi tried again.

"What's your name?" The patient practically spat, finally turning his rage towards her.

You could see her trying to hold steady - but her wide brown eyes betrayed her, glassy now, like a startled, cornered doe.

"Sir I-" Javadi tried one more time, her voice cracking.

"No seriously, I want your name." He jabbed a finger into her chest as he rose to his full height.

Abbot, Robby and Frank all moved immediately, but you beat them to it.

"Because I'm going to sue you and this hospital for wasting my fucking time and endangering my health by sending me an incompetent student."

You knew this wasn't your business. But there something about seeing another woman be talked to like she was lesser than - something that you'd seen time and time again in your profession - that made you veer from your usual logical, calm approach.

And you'd be damned if a man was going to be the one to tell him off.

He needed to learn that women were not things to be pushed around, and you were more than happy to be the one to do it.

Your footsteps were measured as you crossed the floor - not rushed, not hesitant. Intentional.

The kind of pace that made people notice before you even spoke.

"Sir." You called out.

Your voice wasn’t loud.

It didn’t need to be.

It cut cleanly through the space anyway.

The man turned, irritation already loaded and ready to fire - until he actually looked at you.

"I'd stop talking if I was you."

You came to a stop beside Javadi, holding his gaze without flinching.

"Who the hell are you?"

"I'm her lawyer."

Javadi’s head snapped toward you, her mouth parting in shock.

Silence rippled outward.

Frank froze where he stood.

"Oh my fucking god." Santos breathed out.

"What the hell is she doing?" Robby muttered.

"Beats me - but I think we're about to enjoy a show." Abbot whispered back, a smirk on his lips as he watched on in open delight.

The man let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "Sure you are sweetheart."

You ignored that, folding your arms across your chest.

"You're not going to be suing anyone."

"Oh yeah?" He scoffed. "And why's that?"

"Because before you can even open up your phone to search up 'lawyers near me', you'll have already been served with your own lawsuit."

The man snorted, a smug look still on his face. "I haven't done anything wrong, I just want someone half decent to treat me - although clearly that's beyond this place."

You took a step closer, expression calm, almost disinterested.

"Per section 47 of the Hospital and Health Boards Act, harassment and obstruction of staff employed by a public health service while they are performing their duties is an offence."

"That's not-"

"Interrupt me again." You said lightly, "and we can skip straight to the part where you're escorted out."

He hesitated at that. Just for a second.

You continued smoothly, each word placed with surgical precision.

"Section 48 states that the maximum penalty for contravening section 47 is $150,000. Of course, it would also be open for us to pursue damages-"

You gestured around you.

"And judging by what everyone else in this room has witnessed - all of who I'm sure would be more than happy to testify on my client's behalf - is that your refusal to cooperate combined with targeted, aggressive behaviour has caused not only a disruption to this hospital but also significant psychological stress to my client."

You took a moment to study him.

“Based on that, I’d say she has very strong prospects of claiming aggravated damages in the sum of oh I don't know..." You trailed off, pretending to think.

"An additional $200,000?"

Javadi blinked.

Frank was staring at you now, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

The man shifted, uncertainty creeping in. “You’re bluffing.”

You tilted your head, just slightly.

"Maybe I am."

Then, softer - but sharper you added, “are you willing to test that?”

Silence stretched.

Long enough to make it uncomfortable.

Long enough for doubt to settle in.

You could see anger rising in him, could see the look you’d seen on the faces of so many insecure lawyers before him who couldn’t handle being bested by a woman.

“I’m going to find out your name.” He pointed at Javadi, his finger trembling with rage. “And I’m going to find out your name.” A wrinkled finger pointed at you now.

Frank's fists balled at his side, gearing himself up to intervene if the man so much as thought about touching you.

“And I’m taking this shit to the news, to social media, to anyone who’ll listen about how you’ve treated me here today. I'll ruin you.”

Robby moved forward at that.

Abbot grabbed him. “She’s got this.”

You could see Javadi’s panic rising again.

“Do that.” You said calmly. “And we will sue you for defamation.”

You leant forward just a fraction.

“And if you take it to trial, which I sincerely hope you do, I will hire a private investigator to track down your co-workers, friends, family, anyone you've ever even said so much as one word to.”

His face darkened, flushing an ugly red.

"Then I will subpoena them," You continued, voice steady, "drag them to court and put them on the stand - where I will slowly wring out every dirty secret, every mistake you have ever made until you are left with not a single shred of credibility in the eyes of the judge.”

Then you stepped back half a pace, giving him space.

Any trace of smugness had drained from his face.

“So let me make this very simple for you. Unless you want your dirty laundry aired in open court, I suggest you take one of two options.”

You held up a finger. “First option is you cooperate, apologise, and continue receiving care like every other patient here-“

You gestured towards the exit.

“Or your second option is that you apologise. And then you leave.”

The word landed heavier than it should have.

Final.

The man looked around.

At Frank. At Javadi. At the rest of the staff who were very much watching now.

No one moved to help him.

No one backed him up.

His bravado cracked.

“…This place is a joke,” He muttered, already rippping at the hospital band around his wrist.

“I’m going somewhere else.”

“Please do.”

He hesitated - like he expected someone to stop him.

No one did.

Mateo moved forward just enough to hand him some gauze, purely out of habit. He snatched it before turning toward the exit.

You cleared your throat.

“I think you’re forgetting something.”

You knew you were pushing it.

But there was something about the way that he looked at the staff with such disregard, at Javadi and you with so much contempt.

"And have the decency to actually look at her when you say it."

He opened his mouth like he was thinking about retorting.

He shut it reluctantly when he met your cool gaze.

He met Javadi's eyes briefly, like it was physically paining him to do so.

“…I’m sorry.” He mumbled reluctantly.

Javadi stood still, her body slightly behind yours now.

Everyone watched in silence as he walked out.

Abbot slowly made his way to stand beside Frank.

“Hell of a woman you’ve got there Langdon.” He murmured under his breath.

Frank's eyes stayed glued to you.

“…I know.”

You turned to Javadi the second you were satisfied he was gone.

She watched as your face morphed, softening into something more recognisable, more like the sweet girlfriend of her co-worker who brought pastries and gossiped with her about boys.

“Are you ok?” You placed a hand on her shoulder. “That was awful.”

She opened her mouth but no sound came out as she stared at you.

“There’s pastries in the break room." You added. "You should go have one.”

You turned back toward the rest of the room.

And froze.

Because everyone was staring at you.

And Frank- Frank looked like he was trying to replay the last two minutes in real time.

You blinked. “What?”

“That was-” Whitaker started, then stopped entirely.

Princess just pointed at you. “You just... did that.”

Javadi shook her head slightly as if finally coming out of her daze. “Is that actually… real? What you said? About the damages and stuff?”

A pause.

Then you shrugged, completely unfazed.

“Oh. No. I made all of that up.”

Dead silence.

Perlah's eyebrows shot up. “You - what?”

“Yeah." You shrugged again. "I don’t know anything about health law, but it sounded pretty convincing."

“What- but-weren’t you afraid he was going to figure it out?” Javadi asked.

“Are you kidding me?" You grinned. "That was so fun. I’ve always wanted to legally blonde someone.”

You glanced around when you got no reaction, blank stares reflecting back at you.

“You know… I’m taking the dog dumbass!”

Santos snorted at that.

Princess cracked immediately after, the tension snapping clean in half.

That loosened a shaky laugh from Javadi, like she couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

Frank didn’t laugh.

Not at first.

He glanced over at Robby to see a frown threatening to appear on his features.

Like he was debating whether to chastise you for lying to a patient, or maybe chastise Frank for letting you in here.

“I think you might be the coolest person I’ve ever met.” Javadi stated.

“Then you need to get out more kiddo.” You teased, touching her chin affectionately as your eyes still scanned her face for signs of upset.

“Seriously, go eat something.”

Your turned to Robby and Abbot. “Can one of you tell her to eat and go home?”

Abbot raised his hands, “don’t look at me, she’s one of Robby’s flock.”

Robby studied you for a moment. Then glanced at Javadi, who was looking at you like you’d just rewritten the laws of physics. Then turned to you again.

The second you raised a brow teasingly, like you were daring him to try and fight back, his shoulders dropped as his resolve crumbled.

“Barb-“ He cut himself off, his nose flaring slightly in exasperated annoyance before saying your first name slowly. “-is right, eat and go home.”

Javadi huffed. "Fine."

You nearly toppled over as she unexpectedly embraced you in a tight hug. "Seriously, thanks."

You watched her go, co-workers immediately pouncing on her on the way to the break room to gossip.

The department settled slowly, like a shaken snow globe drifting back into place.

Finally satisfied your job was done, you turned to Frank.

You finally got a chance to properly look at him, letting your eyes run down his figure.

He had changed into a pair of dark grey slacks and the chocolate brown knit you had gotten him for his birthday.

Your eyes dragged back up to his face, shooting him a smile.

“Ready to go?”

He nodded numbly, like he was still in a daze.

You said your goodbyes to everyone, most of who were still staring at you.

Perlah, Princess, Whitaker and Santos watched as you and Langdon walked past, your birkin swinging at his side, your arm threaded through the crook of his elbow on the other.

"Did that really just happen?" Whitaker asked once the two of you were out of earshot.

“I don't know, but mark me down as scared and horny.” Santos answered, making Whitaker snort.

“So… I guess we definitely know who wears the pants.” Perlah observed after a moment.

Princess turned to her. "You seriously didn't know before this?"

“Langdon? A sub?" Santos remarked dryly. "Shocker."

-

Once you were outside you turned to Frank, glancing down at your watch.

“Ok we definitely aren't making dinner, but we might actually make-“

“Screw the theatre.”

You looked up at him, confusion knitting your brows.

“But you’ve been wanting to go for months.”

“You hate the theatre.”

“I don’t hate the theatre-“

“You fell asleep last time.”

“Because I’d worked a 16 hour day!”

Frank huffed, nothing but amusement shining in his eyes.

“I like the theatre because you like the theatre.” You insisted. “I’m happy to go baby.”

“I know, and that’s why I appreciate you.”

He paused.

“But I want to take you home.”

“Oh-“ You started, confusion clouding your expression.

Then you saw it - the shift in his gaze. The hunger, unmistakable, as his eyes traced the length of you.

“Oh.”

A slow, mischievous grin curled at your lips as the energy between you shifted.

“Did that seriously turn you on?”

“Yes." He said, his voice low. "Unbelievably so."

Your cheeks flushed as you held his gaze.

You were so used to tempering this side of you for other men, dimming your sharpness, softening your edges, driven by the fear of emasculating them.

As if he could read your mind, he pulled you closer to him.

"Do you have any idea what you looked like in there?"

"Terrifying?"

He let out a quiet laugh.

"Brilliant." He corrected.

His gaze softened, but didn’t lose its intensity.

“You are the sexiest, smartest, most driven woman I’ve ever met."

He lingered there for a moment, like he wanted you to really hear it.

"And you're mine."

Without another word, you pulled him flush against you, guiding his head down until your lips met in a deep, lingering kiss.

He exhaled shakily as the two of you pulled away, his tongue darting to wet his bottom lip like he was starving and wanted to savour the taste of you.

"I honestly don't even know if I can wait till we get home."

You smiled, slow and teasing.

"Well-" Your hand slid down the front of his sweater, fingers grazing deliberately. "If you get charged with public indecency, I'll get you off."

His eyes darkened at your double entendre.

Then he shook his head, more to himself than to you.

"I want to take my time with you."

Your expression softened just slightly.

"Well in that case, take me home just Frank."

He let out a breathless laugh before kissing you again - softer this time, but no less certain.

"Yes ma'am."

As always always always, feedback is always appreciated because I thrive off praise. Please give it back here and consider tipping me! 🤍

Taglist (open):

@maryhyun254 @trustmeima-doctor @superawesomecool @crazygirlinthisworld @sh00tingstar @kakuchosbff @v33mustdie @parvenu @donttalktosposts @lumestar @simp4f1 @jaehyunlvrs @cosmosnkaz @creamvy @exstazeey @idkkbaleighh @kneelforloki

[tacobacoyeet]

stanfordish!young!art x pregnant! reader

had this in my head during class and typed it out on my phone LOL tw smut!!!!

-you don’t even get the words out properly. you just hold up the test with trembling hands and whisper, “art…”

-he stares at it like it’s a bomb for a full ten seconds. frozen. blinking. absolutely no thoughts behind his eyes

-and then he goes, in the softest, most heartbroken voice, “are you okay?”

-immediately pulls you into him, hands cradling the back of your head like you’re made of glass. “are we okay? are you scared? baby, what do you need?”

-he starts crying before you even do. like not full sobbing, but his face just crumples. “we made a person,” he says with this weird half-laugh, half-sob. “holy shit, we made a person.”

-he icks you the hell out LOL. you tell him he's being fucking weird. i would

-anyway. goes into overdrive within hours. makes a doctor’s appointment, orders five different prenatal books, texts his coach “i won’t be at training today” with no explanation

-so gentle with you in the hours after. tucks you into bed even though it’s 3 p.m., curls up next to you and keeps whispering the sweetest shit

-he’s so emotionally overwhelmed he starts cleaning. like aggressively. it’s the nesting instinct, except it’s his nesting instinct and it’s immediate. reorganizing drawers. researching vitamins. mopping the floor at 2 a.m.

-he starts writing in a little notebook he keeps hidden in his tennis bag. letters to the baby. day one is just: “i found out about you today. i hope you have her eyes. i hope I deserve you.”

-doesn't stop touching you. hand on your thigh, fingers laced with yours, palm against your stomach even when there's no bump yet. just needs the reassurance that you're both real

-you catch him staring off into space later that week, and when you ask what's wrong he just says, "i’m not scared of being a dad. i’m scared of not being good enough"

-he gets super still after that. you pull him close and kiss his forehead. he cries again

-and then, because he’s art, he makes a stupid joke to cut the tension: “this kid is going to be a wreck”

-but later that night, when he thinks you’re asleep, he whispers against your stomach: “I’m so glad it’s you. I’m so glad it’s us.”

-he literally cannot function if you lift even a finger. he will take your shoes off, fluff your pillow, and freak out if you so much as bend over

-“you’re pregnant,” he says with that tortured puppy look, “why would you even think about picking up your backpack?”

-the moment you start showing? he’s done for. like physically incapable of focusing on anything else when you’re in the room. wide eyes, slack jaw, hand always gravitating to your belly like it’s magnetic

-“you’re growing a whole human,” he whispers one night in the dark, tracing the swell of your stomach. “that’s literally god-tier behavior.”

-he talks to the bump like it’s his tiny best friend. “hey, it’s dad. your mom won’t let me feed her pickles and whipped cream at the same time. help me out here.”

-so proud of your changing body. like obsessed. “you look insane right now. angelic. powerful. absolutely unreal.” and then he has to sit down because he’s overwhelmed. just a white boy overwhelmed with the power of female anatomy culture

-he lowk becomes the pregnancy police. “did you drink enough water today?” “have you peed recently?” “i brought you three snacks. no, I insist.”

-also soooooo emo about it. like you’ll find him just staring at the ultrasound photo with glassy eyes, and when you ask what’s wrong he’s like, “nothing. it’s just… you’re my family now”

-once cried during a prenatal yoga class because you looked “so peaceful and maternal” while doing a cat-cow stretch. you had to bribe him with froyo to stop sniffling

-has a playlist titled 'baby bonding'. plays it while reading aloud to your belly like it’s storytime at the library

-constantly kissing your belly. at home. in public. before bed. before class. “you’re already the best thing i’ve ever made,” he tells your bump, and then panics because you heard him and now he’s blushing

-absolutely cannot handle how tired you get. if you so much as yawn, he’s tucking you in, canceling plans, whispering “my poor baby” like you just ran a marathon

-not above weaponizing how hot you are. you’ll catch him staring and be like “what?” and he’ll go “nothing. you just look…really good pregnant. like, devastatingly hot.” (and then trip over something. so sweet)

-insists on being the one to rub your back, massage your feet, bring you snacks. feels like he needs to earn the dad title

-and even though he’s overwhelmed and scared sometimes, the way he looks at you, like you’re the beginning and end of every good thing in his life— never falters

-he gets extra needy at night. being close to you, touching you, kissing you. sometimes he just lies between your thighs, head resting on your belly, whispering nonsense and kissing your skin

-you can tell it gets to him when you moan, even from something simple like a massage. he tries to play it cool but his eyes darken, his voice gets low: “you’re gonna drive me insane”

-the first time you have sex after the bump really shows, he goes so slow it’s almost unbearable. he keeps asking if you’re okay, if anything hurts, if he can keep going. you have to pull him in by the collar and kiss him breathless just to shut him up

-worships your body like it’s sacred. palms sliding reverently over your hips, your chest, your belly. tells you over and over how beautiful you are, how full of life, how lucky he is to even touch you

-sometimes he just wants to watch. you ride him slow while he groans under you, hands gripping your thighs, utterly entranced. “look at you,” he whispers. “you’re unreal. you’re everything.”

-he’ll fuck you with one hand on your belly and the other tangled in your hair, eyes locked on yours the whole time. it always ends in whispered praise, shaky breathing, and him clutching you like you’ll disappear

-can you guys tell i've been ovulating this week

[stariteart]

happy pride! 🌈☀️

[tacobacoyeet]

girl dad!clark <3

a/n: hopping on the train!! little blurb for now, but much much more coming soon <3

The biggest villain in the house this morning isn’t some escaped alien warlord or Lex Luthor’s latest scheme—it’s three rumbling stomachs and a too-small box of pancake mix.

Sunlight spills through the kitchen windows in long, golden stripes, warming the checkered tile floor and catching little motes of flour in the air. The house smells like vanilla extract, melting butter, and a hint of something burned—probably from Clark’s earlier attempt at hash browns. The pan still sits in the sink, blackened slightly, like even it gave up trying to correct his enthusiasm.

Your daughter squeals from the table, fists already raised in triumph before the match even begins. She’s dressed like royalty meets superhero: a glittery tutu over pajama pants, a sparkly dish towel knotted around her neck like a cape, and one of Clark’s old T-shirts hanging past her knees. Her curls bounce as she wiggles in her seat.

Clark settles across from her with a theatrical sigh, his hair still tousled from sleep, glasses slightly askew. He rests his elbow on the table with a soft thud.

“Okay,” he says, voice low and serious, like he’s briefing the Justice Gang. “This is for all the marbles. You ready?”

“You can’t cheat this time,” she warns him, sticking out her tongue.

“I never cheat,” Clark replies, somber as a Sunday sermon. He lifts one finger and points it at her dramatically. “Superman’s honor.”

You snort softly from the stove, flipping the next pancake with a practiced wrist. It lands with a sizzle that blends into the chorus of giggles behind you. You glance over your shoulder just in time to see your daughter grip his single outstretched finger with both tiny hands.

“One… two… three—GO!”

For a moment, there’s tension. Real effort, or the illusion of it. Her face is scrunched up in effort, and Clark is biting the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. His hand wobbles, shakes—and then falls dramatically to the table.

“AHHH! Nooo! You’re too strong!” he groans, collapsing backward in mock defeat.

She shrieks in delight, doing a little dance in her chair that sends her juice sloshing dangerously close to the edge of the table.

You set the plate of pancakes down on the counter and watch them. Watched them always. The quiet tenderness he shows her, the way he lets her win like it costs him nothing, the way he’d burn every pan in the kitchen and still call it a good morning if it meant hearing her laugh like that. The way he’s always been your hero, not just the world’s.

“Rematch?” he asks, already propped back up on his elbow.

She gasps. “DOUBLE or NOTHING!”

“You’re on.”

And even though he could bench-press a mountain, Clark Kent loses again.

You shake your head and pour syrup over the stack of pancakes, smiling. The battle rages on—not against monsters or meteors or moral dilemmas, but in the form of sticky fingers and giggles and love that hums soft and golden through the kitchen like sunlight itself.

-----

click here to be added to my superman taglist!

[judblanc]

love everything u have going on but i dont think blanc was raised catholic it was probably southern baptist imo. im not either but ive been exposed to both and am quick to assume that this gay guy out of louisiana rural or not is definitely expressing signs of being ex-baptist idk

eye have no idea what the difference is (<- was raised pretty atheist in eastern european orthodoxy) but i believe u!!

[proud-heretic]

extra funny to me cause my southern baptist father’s number 1 favorite hobby was shading catholicism. My headcanon is that Blanc was lowkey pulling a little bit from that sort of experience when he started ranting about the church to Jud. Also his comment about liking the architecture tickled me because tbf that man probably would have spent a lot of sundays in a church designed like a public school auditorium if he was raised baptist.

[sanlikestowrite]

The Half-Life of Us

SUMMARY: A astrobiologist and his sole surviving crewmate are trapped together in deep space, not realizing how quickly their professional boundaries are about to completely dissolve.

Warnings: Sci-Fi Erotica, Explicit Sexual Content, Rough Sex, Fingering/Anal Fingering, Intensive Edging/Orgasmic Denial, Light Breath Play, Crying/Overstimulation Tears (Dacryphilia themes), Mild Degradation, Touch Starvation, Size Difference. MDNI!

Tags: Ryland Grace/Male Reader, POV Ryland Grace, Dom!Reader, Sub!Ryland Grace, Touch Starvation, Trapped in Space, Slow Burn to High Heat, Science Metaphors, Explicit, Edging, Mind Melting.

Total Word Count: ~3,200 words

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Chapter 1: The Co-Efficiency of Friction

Human skin sheds roughly forty thousand dead cells every single minute.

Yeah. Gross, I know. It was the exact kind of useless trivia Ryland used to throw at his middle schoolers back in his classroom just to watch them write “ew” in the margins of their notebooks. But out here, in the cold, endless void of the Tau Ceti system, it was the only stupid math keeping Ryland from losing his mind. Forty thousand cells a minute. Which meant the Hail Mary wasn't just a spaceship; it was a sealed metal box slowly filling up with the microscopic, physical dust of two men.

Two men. Not one.

When Ryland first crawled out of the amnesia haze of his coma, surrounded by creepy robotic arms and the mummified remains of his actual crewmates, he thought he was totally alone in the universe. But then, in the third pod, there was a heartbeat. A steady, stubborn little beep on the monitor.

You.

It took weeks of grueling physical therapy, a lot of stomach-churning space-slurry feeding tubes, and several frantic breakdowns that Ryland technically hid by locking himself in the lab to get You upright. But now, You were here. Standing in the middle of the science bay, squinting at a digital readout of the Petrova lamps, wearing nothing but a pair of issued grey sweatpants and a tank top that showed off the sharp, clean line of Your collarbone.

Oh, great, Ryland thought, his brain instantly short-circuiting. Fantastic. He's attractive. Just what I needed on a suicide mission.

"Grace," You murmured, Your voice still carrying that rough, low gravel from months of artificial sleep. You didn't even look at him, Your fingers tapping a restless rhythm against the console. "The radiation shielding on the starboard side is fluctuating by point-zero-two percent. Is that normal, or are we about to turn into glowing space meat?"

Ryland stopped washing his beaker. He didn't mean to stare, he really didn't, but his brain was currently undergoing a massive system crash.

For months on Earth, Ryland had been isolated in a sterile underground lab under Eva Stratt’s iron fist. Then came the coma. He hadn't been touched—not truly touched, with warmth and human intent—in almost a year. Every nerve ending in his body felt like a live wire waiting for a spark. And You were standing less than three feet away, smelling like the ship’s recycled water and warm, clean skin.

"Uh. Normal," Ryland squeaked. He cleared his throat frantically, trying to sound like a respectable scientist instead of a guy losing his mind over a clavicle. "Totally normal. The Astrophage is just... settling. It’s like a car engine warming up. No glowing space meat. I promise."

You finally turned your head, a faint, tired smile touching Your lips. "Good. Because I didn't survive a suicide mission to the stars just to get micro-waved."

You stepped closer. Too close. The science bay was a masterpiece of efficient, cramped engineering, which meant any movement required a delicate ballet of dodging elbows and hips. You reached past him to grab a stylus from the magnetic strip, and Your bare forearm brushed firmly against his.

It was a fraction of a second. Just a brief, heavy glide of skin against skin.

Ryland completely froze. A physical shockwave went straight up his spine, so intense his fingers twitched and he nearly dropped the glass beaker right into the sink. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. Holy moly. Touch. That was touch. A real, warm human.

"You okay, Ryland?" You asked, noticing how stiff his shoulders had gotten. You didn't move away. In fact, You tilted Your head, Your eyes scanning his face with a sudden, quiet intensity that made his skin feel tight.

"Yep! Fine! Great!" Ryland muttered, his voice way too high. He frantically wiped the beaker with a towel, over and over. "Just... thinking about data. Lots of data. Brain is full."

You let out a soft huff of laughter, but Your eyes lingered on his mouth for a heartbeat longer than necessary before You turned back to the screen. Ryland stared down at his own hands. He’s a man of science, but right now, the only hypothesis he could form was that if You touched him like that again, he was going to completely fall apart.

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Chapter 2: The Thermal Mass of Two Bodies

The problem with the Hail Mary was that everything was shared. The oxygen, the water, the terrifying burden of saving the human race—and the sleeping quarters.

There were only two operational bunks left after the equipment shift. They were stacked vertically, little more than padded shelves recessed into the bulkhead, separated by a thin privacy curtain. But tonight, the ship’s primary life-support system was running a diagnostic cycle, which meant the heating grids in the bunk area were completely dead for the next six hours.

"It's freezing," You muttered, walking into the main cabin while rubbing Your arms. Your breath formed a faint plume of mist in the dim, emergency-red lighting. "Tell me the Astrophage didn't die."

"Astrophage is fine," Ryland said, huddled on the small bench with a thick insulation blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He probably looked like a miserable space-penguin, his teeth clicking together. "The ship is just re-routing power. It’s going to be like a meat locker in here until zero-four-hundred."

You stood there, shivering, looking at the tiny bench and then at him. The blanket Ryland was holding was the only heavy-duty thermal layer outside of the EVA suits, and it was barely big enough for one person to wrap themselves in completely.

"Move over," You said suddenly.

Ryland's eyes widened. "What?"

"Move over, Grace. Basic thermodynamics," You said, stepping up to the bench and not waiting for his permission. "Two bodies generate more thermal mass than one. If we sit separately, we both freeze. If we share the blanket, we don't. Move your butt."

Oh, boy. Okay. Thermodynamics. Sure. Let's go with that, Ryland’s brain scrambled for a counter-argument—something about personal space, or the psychological boundaries of a command structure—but You were already sitting down right next to him.

The contact was immediate and total. Your thigh pressed firmly against his from hip to knee. Ryland let out a small, choked gasp as You reached out, grabbing the edges of the heavy silver blanket and pulling it over both of Your laps, tucking it in tight around Your sides.

"Jesus, you're like a furnace," You whispered, leaning Your shoulder heavily against his.

Ryland literally couldn't breathe. Every single point of contact felt like it was branded with fire. The touch-starvation he had been trying to ignore for weeks violently rushed to the surface, making his entire body tremble. He wanted to pull away out of sheer, overwhelming panic, but his instincts—the deep, primal part of him that was absolutely starving for human warmth—forced him to stay rooted to the spot.

"I—uh. High metabolism," Ryland managed to choke out. He was staring straight ahead, his arms locked tight against his chest to keep from accidentally grabbing You. "Lots of... caloric intake."

"Mmm. Keep talking," You murmured. Your head dropped, Your cheek resting softly against his shoulder. Your eyes drifted shut, exhausted from the day's repairs. "Your voice is nice. It's warm."

A giant, heavy lump formed in Ryland's throat. He looked down at the top of Your head, the messy strands of Your hair just inches from his lips. You looked so vulnerable like this, stripped of the survivalist bravado You wore during the work shifts. You were just a guy, millions of miles away from everything You had ever known, looking for comfort in the dark.

Slowly, deliberately, Ryland let his arm relax. He allowed his shoulder to sink into Yours, absorbing the heavy, comforting weight of Your body. He let out a long, trembling exhale, his eyes stinging with sudden, hot tears.

He was so goddamn lonely. And You were right here.

Ryland didn't sleep at all that night. He spent the entire six hours frozen in place, listening to the steady, rhythmic sound of Your breathing, his heart keeping time with Yours under the silver blanket, completely intoxicated by the simple, quiet magic of being held.

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Chapter 3: The Breaking Point

The tension didn't disappear when the heat came back on. It got way worse.

It was in the way Your eyes lagged on him while he worked in the lab. It was in the way Ryland's hand would shake whenever he passed You a tool, Your fingers deliberately brushing against his, lingering just a second too long. The air inside the Hail Mary became thick, charged with an invisible static electricity that had nothing to do with the ship's reactors.

The breaking point happened during a routine inspection of the fuel lines in the lower maintenance crawlspace.

It was a space less than four feet high, requiring both of them to crawl on their hands and knees amidst a maze of pulsing pipes and bundles of wiring. Ryland was in the lead, holding a diagnostic scanner, his breath echoing loudly inside the cramped metal tube.

"Okay, the primary manifold looks... wait," Ryland stopped, squinting at the screen. "That’s weird. The pressure here is higher than it should be."

"Let me see," You said from behind him.

You crawled forward, Your body moving over his until You were draped over his back, Your chest pressing firmly against Ryland's shoulder blades as You leaned over his shoulder to look at the scanner. The heat of Your torso radiated through his jumpsuit, Your breath hot and sharp against the sensitive skin of his neck.

Ryland's hand shook so violently he dropped the scanner. It clattered against the metal floor.

"Ryland?" You asked quietly.

"I can't—" Ryland choked out, his voice cracking completely. The proximity, the smell of You, the absolute weight of Your body pressing him down into the metal deck was too much. The wire finally snapped. "I can't do this, ███. I can't."

"Can't do what?"

"This!" Ryland burst out, twisting around in the cramped space until he was lying on his back, staring up at You. You were hovering directly over him, Your hands planted on either side of his head, your faces inches apart. His chest was heaving, his eyes wide and frantic. “Do you realize what you’re doing to me? You’re always close—always finding some excuse to touch me. Every glance, every brush of your hand, drives me completely insane. We’re the last two men left in the universe, ███. I should be focused on saving the world, but instead, you’re all I can think about. No matter how hard I try, my mind keeps coming back to you.”

The silence that followed was deafening, save for the low, rhythmic hum of the ship’s engines. Ryland immediately regretted it. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he thought, wanting to dissolve into the floorboards. He just confessed to his crewmate. Now it’s going to be weird forever. Brilliant job, Grace.

But You didn't look shocked at all. Your eyes darkened, a heavy, intense heat flaring in Your gaze that made Ryland's breath catch in his throat.

“You think you’re the only one?” You whispered, your voice dropping into a low, steady tone that made the air between you feel heavier. Your gaze held his firmly as you stepped just a little closer, enough for the space between you to tighten. “Ryland… I’ve been watching you for weeks. The way you move around the lab, the way you talk about science—like it’s the only thing that matters.” Your breath hitched slightly, honesty slipping through the control in your voice. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I honestly thought I was going crazy.”

Before Ryland could even process the words, You leaned down, closing the distance between them.

The kiss wasn't gentle. It was a collision of months of suppressed terror, loneliness, and raw, burning lust. Your lips slammed into his, hard and demanding, parting his mouth instantly. Ryland let out a loud, needy groan, his hands flying up to grip Your shoulders, his fingers digging deep into the fabric of Your shirt as he pulled You down onto him.

The taste of You was intoxicating. Your tongue slid into his mouth, claiming the wet space with a fierce, possessive hunger that made his hips buck involuntarily against Yours. The friction of your bodies rubbing together in the tight, hot crawlspace was a sensory explosion. Ryland’s mind went entirely blank, his intellect completely melting away under the onslaught of Your mouth.

You pulled back just an inch, Your lips slick, Your breath coming in ragged gasps as You stared down at him. "The lab," You muttered against his skin, Your thumb tracing his jawline with a fierce, trembling grip. "Now."

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Chapter 4: The Chemistry of Displacement

The transition from the maintenance shaft to the lab counter was a blur of friction and oxygen deprivation. Ryland’s brain, normally a finely tuned instrument of logic and sequence, was failing him. It was short-circuiting under the sheer volume of tactile data.

You. Your hands. Your weight.

When You shoved him back against the edge of the primary examination table, the cold stainless steel bit into his lower back through his jumpsuit, creating a jarring, freezing contrast to the blistering heat of Your body wedged between his thighs. You reached down, Your fingers hooking into the front zipper of his uniform and tearing it down with a sharp, heavy snap.

"Jumpsuit off, Grace," You ordered, Your voice dropping into a low, quiet authority that Ryland had never heard before. It wasn't the voice of a co-astronaut; it was the voice of someone taking absolute territory. "Hands at your sides. Don’t move."

Ryland's breath hitched, a frantic, high-pitched whimper escaping his throat. He wanted to argue—he was the primary science officer, for heaven's sake—but his arms felt like lead. The touch-starvation he had been harboring for a year had turned into a physical dependency the second Your bare chest pressed against his. His eyelids fluttered closed, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

"Look at me," You commanded, Your palm coming down in a firm, heavy slap against his clothed thigh. The sharp crack echoed through the sterile bay, sending a jolt of pure electricity straight to his groin. "I didn't say you could close your eyes, Grace."

Ryland’s eyes snapped open, his pupils completely blown out, reflecting the emergency red lighting of the bay. He was flushed a deep, brilliant crimson from his chest to his ears. “I’m looking,” he gasped out, his voice cracking with a vulnerability that embarrassed him. “I’m looking. Please...”

You didn't rush. You reached over, grabbing a tube of medical-grade conductive gel from the lab supply rack. Ryland watched in a daze of anticipation as You flipped the cap with Your thumb and squeezed a generous, thick pooling of the clear fluid over Your fingers.

When Your wet, gel-slicked fingertips first touched the tight, un-stretched skin of his entrance, Ryland violently bucked off the table.

“Ah—wait! Wait, that’s—”

“Easy,” You said, Your voice calm but completely unyielding as Your free hand pinned his hip flat against the steel with inescapable force. “You’re too tight, Ryland. If I don’t take my time opening you up, I’ll end up hurting you.” Your hands stayed steady at his hips, grounding him as You leaned in slightly. “Breathe... and relax for me.”

Ryland bit his lip so hard he tasted copper, his knuckles turning white as he clawed at the edges of the metal table for purchase. You pushed one finger inside, testing the resistance, and Ryland let out a ragged, choked sob. It was an overwhelming, invasive fullness. His internal walls convulsed around You, desperately fighting the intrusion, but Your touch was patient and firm. You began to stroke inward, Your thumb pressing against his perineum, deliberately seeking out the hyper-sensitive bundle of nerves inside.

Anatomy, Ryland’s brain scrambled, trying to cling to clinical facts to stay sane. The prostate gland. Approximately two to three centimeters inside. Surrounded by smooth muscle. Oh, great, he was doing biochemistry during a hookup, brilliant—

Then Your finger hooked upward, striking the exact spot, and all scientific thought dissolved into a high, broken wail.

“There it is,” You whispered darkly, watching the way Ryland’s head tossed back, his throat arching elegantly as fresh tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. “You like that, don’t you, Grace? You’re already slick.”

You added a second finger, then a third, stretching him with a slow, agonizingly thorough rhythm that turned his insides to molten liquid. Ryland was weeping openly now, completely undone by the preparatory torture. His lower body was entirely loose, weeping precum onto his own stomach, primed and completely hollowed out for You.

By the time You withdrew Your fingers with a wet, heavy slide, Ryland was shaking from head to toe, completely dependent on Your hands to keep him from sliding off the table.

You didn't give him a moment to recover. You lined Your thick, rigid length against his dripping entrance. Ryland stared down at the sheer scale of You, his breath completely stalling in his lungs. You were thick-veined, heavy, and stretching him open visually before You even entered.

With a slow, deliberate lean of Your hips, You began to sink inside.

“Oh, God… ███—!” Ryland shrieked, a desperate, breathless cry tearing from his lungs as his body was forced to accommodate Your massive girth. It felt like being split open from the inside out, an impossible, suffocating fullness that buried deeper and deeper until You bottomed out, Your hips locking hard against his.

Ryland let out a long, trembling sob, his eyes wide and glazed with a mixture of shock and sheer, unadulterated ecstasy. You were so deep he could feel the throb of Your pulse against his internal walls.

“You took all of it,” You muttered, Your chest rising and falling as You secured Your grip around his waist, holding him firmly against the table. “Now we’re staying right here until you’re completely ruined, got it?”

You didn't rush the climax. For the next forty-five minutes, You subjected Ryland to a brutal, agonizingly prolonged demonstration of human stamina. You locked into a slow, heavy, punishing pace—withdrawing until almost the crowning tip left his hole, only to plunge back in to the hilt, deliberately crushing his prostate with every single stroke. The lab filled with the explicit, wet sounds of Your coupling. Ryland was completely reduced, a sobbing, whining mess under Your weight.

Every time he felt the explosive wave of a climax building in his lower stomach, the desperation became too much to bear.

“Ah... nn-nh, no, please…” Ryland whimpered, his voice dissolving into a broken, high-pitched whine of pure sensory frustration. It wasn't a shout, but a pathetic, breathless plea, completely ruined by the heat. “Don’t stop… ███, please, I’m right there… let me, please let me…”

Beneath You, Ryland's hips bucked frantically in tiny, useless twitches, his internal walls constricting in a desperate, weeping search for friction. He was teetering on the razor-thin edge of a helpless climax, his chest heaving as a soft sob caught in his throat.

But You weren't about to let him off that easily.

With a low growl, You suddenly halted Your rhythm. You buried Your massive length to the hilt, pinning Ryland flat against the desk to freeze him completely in place.

"Ah, ah, puppy," You purred darkly against his ear, Your hot breath making him shudder. "Who told you that you could cum?"

Ryland let out a tortured, wet whimper, his entire body shaking as the sudden lack of movement left him stranded and agonizingly close at the absolute peak. He tried to squirm against Your thickness, a quiet, desperate sob spilling past his lips. But You locked him down, reaching around to wrap Your fingers securely around the base of Ryland's rigid, leaking length—completely blocking his release.

Ryland’s eyelids fluttered open, his blue eyes completely drowned in tears of sheer overstimulation. He looked at Your dominant, unyielding expression and completely fractured. “███,” he wept, his fingers clawing at Your shoulders, pulling You down into a messy, wet kiss. “I’m all yours. M-Move… please, please… move.”

You stopped him once. You stopped him twice. You stopped him a third time, stretching the encounter out for nearly an hour until Ryland’s mind was completely blank, his intellect entirely burned away by the kinky, agonizing denial. He was nothing but a weeping, trembling instrument for Your pleasure.

Only when his internal walls were violently spasming around You in an involuntary, desperate rhythm did You finally release Your grip on his length. You picked up the pace to a blinding, savage blur, hammering into him one final time, driving Ryland over the edge into a messy, cataclysmic release that left him squealing.

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Epilogue: The Equilibrium of Rest

Two hours later, the science bay was quiet again.

The sterile lights had been dimmed back to a soft, ambient glow. The data screens were still blinking silently in the background, tracking the course of the Hail Mary through the infinite dark, but for the first time since the mission began, the ship didn't feel like a tomb.

Ryland was lying curled on his side on the narrow examination bench, his head resting securely on Your bare chest. His jumpsuit was loosely pulled back up to his waist, his skin still flushed, breathing in slow, exhausted drafts. Your arm was wrapped securely around his shoulders, Your fingers mindlessly tracing small, soothing circles into the bare skin of his back.

Oh, wow, Ryland thought, his brain finally functioning at a normal, non-panicked baseline. We actually did that. I just got completely unmade by my crewmate on a sterile lab counter. Very professional, Grace.

But as he felt the steady, heavy thump of Your heartbeat beneath his cheek, the lingering spark of anxiety completely evaporated. The suffocating loneliness that had been weighing down on his chest for months was just... gone. Replaced by a profound, heavy warmth.

"Hey," You murmured quietly, Your voice a low rumble against his ear that made his stomach do a pleasant little flip.

Ryland shifted slightly, a soft, content sigh leaving his lips as he snuggled closer into Your side, his nose pressing into the crook of Your neck. "Hmm?"

"You're not overthinking the physics of what just happened, are you?"

Ryland let out a faint, sleepy chuckle, his fingers reaching out to lightly trace the line of Your jaw. "Actually," he whispered, a tired, dorky smile touching his lips. "I was just doing the math on our proximity. And I think the co-efficiency of friction between us is... absolutely perfect."

You smiled, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead. Out here, in the cold, unyielding void of space, the universe was vast and terrifying. But inside the tiny metal walls of the Hail Mary, tucked securely in each other's arms, You both had found exactly what You needed to survive.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Hey, Writer San here. I’m pretty new to writing on Tumblr, so this is one of my first attempts at a fanfic. I really hope you enjoyed reading it and that it was to your liking…

If you have any thoughts, feedback, criticism, or even some suggestions, I’d genuinely appreciate it. Don’t be shy. Please.

Thanks so much for taking the time to read this. Bye-bye!♥︎

[sinounluheart]

hi just wanna say i love your timmy 4skin blurb so much udek how many times i’ve reread it 🤤🤤 could you expand on the idea sometime pretty please and also tim with foreskin oughh oh my god bro im so bricked

⋆˙⟡ Are You Just Happy To See Me? ಇ.

Warnings: Head while asleep (reader receiving), frothing, AMAB but no pronouns are used for reader, established relationship. No use of y/n.

Note: Pt. 2 of '4 Me?' kinda. Enjoy!!

!!------------------------------------!!

Tim, who’s so obsessed with worshipping your cock to the point where it’s almost a hindrance to your daily schedule. You can’t blame him! (You…totally can). It’s just so inciting, and anything is easy access if you’re quick enough about it.

Every morning without fail, you wake up down his warm throat, Tim will still be in uniform, waving your complaints about him retiring already off. “Can’t sleep without this,” he’ll breathe around your cock, drool slicking down his chin. “N’ you can’t start your day without me either, right baby? Ah, just cum already.”

Really, he just wants to lick up the sweat you've accumulated in your cock hood throughout the night before you wash up. It's his treat for doing such a good job on patrol. The sweetest thing he could ask for.

You're so cute sleeping soundly when Tim enters the room. Even cuter when you groan as he shifts your sleep shorts off, boxers along with it. Your cock is limp, sticking to your thigh, foreskin totally encasing its head, and then some. Tim hasn't been able to get you to shower with him yet. For all you know, it's so he can perv on you. Which is wrong! He...isn't a pervert at all.

Tim only wants to watch you pull your own skin down and clean between the hood. Then perv out on you, jeez.

If time allows, he also likes to see you off before he heads back out again. Pushing you down against one of the couches or up against the wall. Palming your cock with all his might so that he can froth his hood onto yours. It's a little silly, but Tim would be lying if he said he wasn't jealous of how long your foreskin is. His doesn't even fully encase his tip!

"Hah...[name]," He hisses, jerking his clammy palm over the girth of your combined thickness. While you can only writhe in pleasure, Tim's laser focus on the slit of your tips peaking out with every thrust down his hand pulls. "Baby...shit, fuck yeah. That's the stuff."

Tim can get used to living like this forever.

[cheacegirl]

I made a bad comic and now you have to look at it

[girlnextvore]

dude im not even horny i am just filled with a inhuman hunger

[marveldaily]

The Punisher: One Last Kill dir. Reinaldo Marcus Green | 2026

[lovebugism]

Snowed in with The Pitt??? I’m currently stuck inside. Maybe snuggling up in an on call room or something???

FLUFFY (& SLIGHTLY SMUTTY) HEADCANONS BELOW THE CUT FOR: jack abbot, frank langdon, and michael robinavitch !

JACK ABBOT X READER — you and jack are stuck between a rock and a hard place, aka a dry spell and a snowstorm. the on-call room gets christened acccordingly (pitt crew!reader, established relationship cw for heavy mentions of smut | 1.2k)

Jack Abbot slips you a note when you pass him in the hallway.

You don’t think anything of it at first, not after two days stuck in the PTMC with no real end in sight. The borderline cabin fever has you moving on autopilot — you pour yourself into the work in hopes of distracting yourself from the snowstorm raging outside, only for the exhaustion to turn you into a shell of a human being accordingly.

So, you take the folded piece of paper from your lover and forget about it a second later, until Dana calls after you — “Oh, so we’re passing notes now? What is this, middle school?”

You force out a laugh in response because, in all honesty, you’d barely heard her, as you unfold the paper with tired hands. You find a key card trapped inside, along with Jack’s sloppy handwriting scrawled on the back of a flier sent from corporate, destined for the recycling bin. “Come find me.”

You trace him to the on-call room, where he paces back and forth in anticipation of your arrival. He pauses in place when the locked door buzzes and creaks slowly open. A ray of white-blue fluorescent lighting pierces through the velvet darkness, pervaded only by a deep golden hue from the lamp on the desk and the soft purple night from the small square window across the room. Falling ice raps gently against the glass and fills the quiet with its wild cadence.

“Very clever, Dr. Abbot…” you lilt quietly as you step inside.

Darkness engulfs the room once more when you shut the door behind you. Jack’s towering figure returns to shadow, though a sliver of his scruffy face is still adorned by the dim, orange lamplight. It allows you to see the quiet smile he gives you — a mere hint of a grin that’s more expressive in his dark, mischievous gaze.

“Well, you know I pride myself on my subtlety…”

He closes the distance between you in a few short strides. You threaten to melt into a puddle at his feet when his fingers smooth over your waist, calloused palms sneaking beneath your scrubs to caress your warm skin. He swaddles you in his wide hands and his familiar scent — of lingering cologne, hospital soap, and distant sweat from the long day(s). The mixture fills your senses when he ducks down to kiss you.

His lips meet yours in a chaste, lingering kiss. His nose juts into the side of yours as his unshaven scruff scratches at your delicate skin. You exhale hard through your nose in a sigh of contentment and raise your hands for the stethoscope around his neck, grabbing either end and using it as a leash to pull him impossibly closer to you.

It’s the first time you’ve felt him like this in days — a bitter dry-spell that the storm is threatening prolong.

Jack’s mouth curls into a lazy smile against your wanting mouth when your warm breath fans over his cupid’s bow. You fall further into his chest when his wide hands hold you tighter by the waist. It takes everything in you to pull away from him, kissed mouths smacking quietly in protest.

“I can’t stay in here for long,” you tell him in a grieved whisper. “You know that, right?”

Jack jerks his chin back to peer down at you as his brows raise to his hairline, going lighter to match his greying curls. “I don’t know if you know this, honey, but our shift ended hours ago.”

“Yeah, and there’s no way I’m getting any sleep when I know I could be helping everybody out there.” You nod your head towards the locked door behind you, where the never-ending noise of the E.R. has been slightly muffled. It fills you with an unwavering surge of panic that prevents you from getting any real rest. “We both know I’ll just have a bunch of nightmares that’ll wake me up every hour, and it won’t be fun for anyone, so…”

“Well, how about just give me half an hour, then, huh?” Jack asks you in low murmurs, one step away from getting on his knees and begging. “I feel like this is the first time I’ve gotten to see you in two days.”

“Thirty minutes?” you echo, lips curling into a mischievous grin. “That sounds very generous for you, don’t you think?”

Even in the muted darkness, you catch his eyes flickering something playful as he tells you, “Well, I was talking about sleeping, but… Good to know your head’s in the gutter, Doc.”

Your face flares with embarrassment as you slide out of his hold. His quiet laughter follows you the short distance to the twin-sized bed by the window. The thin mattress squeaks softly when you drop onto it, slouching against the wall with your heavy head in your hands.

“Sorry… It’s just— It’s been a while, and it’s starting to mess with my brain…” you confess behind your palms.

“Well, we can’t have that, now can we?”

You peek through your fingers and find Jack’s towering figure sauntering towards you, with his strong hands curled around the edges of his stethoscope, and with a knowing smirk hinting at the very corners of his mouth.

“Don’t,” you say, still slightly muffled by your hands.

“Don’t what?” Jack shrugs with an air of feigned innocence. His knee digs into the edge of the creaking mattress as he looms over your slouching form.

“You know what,” you argue, peering up at him from beneath your lashes to hold his gaze. You drop your hands into your lap but make no move to stop him when his fingers reach for the drawstring of your scrubs, loosening the knot there. “Robby would flip if he found out we were fooling around in here—”

“He won’t,” Jack interjects in a gruff murmur, keeping his attentive gaze on your face as his warm fingers slip under the waistband of your pants. Your breath hitches when his fingertips brush the silk bow at the center of your underwear, and a smile lifts the corner of his mouth. “But if he did, I think he would respect that I was taking time out of my day to assist one of our best doctors…”

Your mouth parts to speak, but nothing comes out as his hand creeps further between your thighs, which part instinctively to welcome his touch. A warm feeling settles in the pit of your stomach as his fingers slide over the coarse thatch of hair above your pussy and closer to the honey you leak for him, made far more sensitive after so many weeks without him.

Jack watches your eyes glaze over with desire as his own flicker with mischief. “‘Cause we can’t have anything messing with that pretty little head of yours now, can we?”

You shake your head slowly, wordlessly.

His tight-lipped grin widens as your velvety folds swaddle his middle finger in silk. “Want me to take care of it for ya, honey?”

Your whispered plea fills the golden, lamplit room. “Please…”

FRANK LANGDON X READER — after a brief fling with your coworker, you swore that you'd never spend another night with langdon. the snowstorm as other plans (enemies to lovers, one bed trope cw for very brief allusions to smut | 1k)

Frank Langdon is no stranger to spending his nights at the PTMC.

He’s come to know the hard cots and thin blankets quite well over the years — back when he first started his residency, and more recently, when he and Abby weren’t getting along. He told her that he’d already found a place to stay when she kicked him out some months back, which wasn’t totally a lie, because he was staying in the on-call room at the time.

So, while everyone else is grumbling about having to stay the night until the snowstorm passes, Frank is taking it all in stride.

“Do you know if there are anymore free cots?” he hears you ask Dana from across the work station.

“Uh. Yeah. I think so,” the older woman answers, half-distant, as her eyes flit back and forth between the overhead monitor and the tablet in her hand. “I’m pretty sure there’s only one left, though, so I’d get a move on if I were you—”

“Too late,” Langdon says, turning away from his computer to peer over his shoulder at you. His blue eyes are stern but no less playful when they lock with yours. “It’s mine. I already called it.”

“Wow…” you lilt, voice dripping with sarcasm. “And they say chivalry is dead…”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Frank hums, spinning in his swivel chair to face you. He extends his long legs out in front of him and stretches his strong arms over his head. His biceps strain against the fabric of his dark black scrubs, the hem of which rides gently up his torso to reveal a faint sliver of his pale skin. His pink smile widens when he catches you staring. “I never said I wasn’t willing to share…”

Your eyes narrow into thin slits. “In your dreams, Langdon.”

“Holy shit, how’d you know?” he quips.

“Language,” Dana scolds on instinct, without looking at either of you.

Frank laughs quietly to himself and goes to turn back to the monitor until he catches you walking away in the corner of his eye.

He works with swift, practiced hands to save his chart and log off entirely before following after you. It doesn’t take him long to catch up on considerably longer limbs; though, in a feeble attempt to beat him there, you quicken your stride before you turn the corner into the presentation room.

The lights there have been dimmed to their lowest setting, a faint orange glow, to accommodate the sleeping bodies on the floor. The rectangular table and accompanying chairs have been pushed off to the side to make room for the rows of cots, where your coworkers try to catch some much-needed sleep.

You make a beeline for the last remaining bed, sitting empty by the window, where the swirling snowstorm blinds your view of the city and adds a bitter chill in the air. Frank, meanwhile, heads straight for the long table where the stack of pillows and blankets have been whittled down to one of each.

“Have fun sleeping on the on-call room floor, Langdon,” you whisper with a tight-lipped grin.

“Hey, I got the last blanket on the whole floor,” he retorts, voice bassy and low. Rogue strands of brown-black hair sway over his forehead as he saunters towards you, looming over your form as you lie back on the hard cot. “So, unless you wanna hike all the way up to the O.R., it looks like you’re gonna be freezing to death.”

“Honestly, Langdon…” you sigh. “I’m so exhausted— As long as I get to sleep, I don’t really care at this point…”

Frank exhales hard through his nose, jaw clenching in distant frustration as your eyes flutter shut and your arms fold behind your head. He drops his arms to his sides, with a folded blanket under one and a thin pillow under the other.

“Let’s just compromise here, alright?” he whispers. “Like the responsible adults we’ve never been.”

“No can do, Langdon,” you quip within a yawn. “Ever heard of the proverbial phrase, ‘you snooze you lose…’?”

“Jesus Christ…” you hear a half-asleep McKay scold from the opposite side of the room. “You guys are worse than children, you know that?”

“Sorry…” you grimace. “Frank was just leaving, actually.”

You flash the man above you a knowing look before turning onto your side. The thin, canvas fabric creaks under your weight as you turn away. You smile to yourself when you hear the man grumble like a storm cloud behind you. For a moment, you think that he might actually leave — until you hear a brief bout of shuffling, accompanied by a warm body sliding in behind yours.

Your head whips over your shoulder, and you flinch back when you find Frank’s face mere inches away from yours.

“What the hell are you doing?” you snap in a sharp whisper.

“I’m going to sleep— What’s it look like I’m doing?” he whispers back, squeezing the pillow under you with one hand and throwing the blanket over your bodies with the other. His long legs entwine with yours as he fights to keep himself steady on his shared sliver of the small cot. “Could you give me a little room here? Jeez…”

“There is no room,” you scold, but shift on the hard canvas anyway.

Frank settles further in behind you; a warm weight against your back, a firm shield from the cold window beside you. His taller body contorts instinctively to the shape of yours, and it takes everything in him to keep his hands to himself. Your arms stay folded and tucked under your cheek as you struggle to rest with your giddy heart pounding against your ribcage.

“See? I fit perfectly,” he hums, warm breath fanning over the shell of your ear, making you fight back a shiver that crawls down your spine. Then, more quietly, he mutters, “Wow, if I had a nickel for every time I said that to you— Ow!”

He winces when your elbow digs hard into his ribs.

“You’d still be broke, Langdon,” you quip in a soft whisper with your eyes still closed. “Because that was just a one-time… two-time thing…”

Frank sighs hard through his nose in place of a laugh, relaxing further against your body and fighting back the feeling that he could spend every night sleeping next to you like this — hard cot and snowstorm be damned.

Even though you’re not looking at him, you can still hear the smile in his voice when he tells you, “Yeah, we’ll see about that…”

MICHAEL ROBINAVITCH X READER — the only time alone you get with robby during a snowstorm is in a jammed elevator (pitt crew!reader, secret relationship cw for very brief allusions to smut | 1.1k)

Michael Robinavitch waits by the elevator and, in his fatigued state, forgets to press the down button for an embarrassingly long moment. You catch him standing there, waiting for a lift that’s never coming, and make a beeline to put him out of his misery.

He blinks hard when you appear suddenly at his side, pressing your knuckle against the down arrow for him. It feels like it’s the first time he’s seen you all day, and he thinks it probably has been. The blizzard outside has turned the PTMC into your new home for the time being, and most everyone is floating around like ghosts, between working and trying to catch some much-needed shuteye.

Seeing you now feels a little like a shot of espresso.

“Can’t sleep?” you wonder with a teasing grin, despite the exhaustion sitting heavily in your own eyes.

Robby inhales sharply through his broad nose and crosses his arms over his chest to fight the primal urge to hold you. His hairy arms flex under the navy jacket pushed up to his elbows as he jokes, “Is it that obvious?”

“Not at all…” you scoff.

The elevator dings. The doors part. The two of you step inside in tandem. It’s all business as usual, despite the heavy tension that threatens to pull the two of you together like magnets.

“How’s uh… How’s the patient in central 14?” Robby asks, scratching at the gray patch in his brown beard with an absentminded hand.

“He’s stable. For now, anyway— I’m still waiting for his C.T. results,” you answer with a sigh and press the button for the E.D. floor. Your heavy head swivels to the man beside you as the doors whir to a close. “How’s the Jane Doe in pedes?”

“She’s good,” Robby nods with a distant smile, bracing his hands on the railing behind him as the lift carries you downwards. “She’s taking the formula really well, she’s going to the bathroom normally, she’s…”

He trails off, brows furrowing in a silent look of confusion as he watches you reach again for the button panel. The knuckle of your pointer finger presses hard into the bright red stop switch, and the elevator jerks to a harsh standstill a second later.

His wide eyes follow your form as you lean against the wall with your head tipped back and your arms crossed over your chest.

“What are you doing?”

“I just… I need a second…” you sigh, lashes dancing against your cheeks as your eyes flutter closed. “I haven’t slept in almost twenty-four hours, and Frank’s snoring way too loud in the on-call room, and I just… I need a little quiet. Just for a second.”

Robby knows what you really mean. He always does. He has a way of understanding you without words. It’s why you work so well, he figures, and how you’ve managed to stay together despite the merciless job that often demands so much of your time.

So he doesn’t say a word when he reaches out for you, and you don’t say a word when you melt into his embrace.

He presses his scruffy cheek into your hair and wraps his strong arms around your shoulders. Your cheek squishes into his chest as your fingers curl into his jacket, all but melting against his warm body. You savor the sound of his heartbeat in your ear and the smell of his fading cologne in your nose.

You need to be in his arms like this far more than you want to be home, and god do you want so desperately to be at home.

“Any idea of when the storm’s gonna let up?” you ask him, half-muffled against his chest.

“They said two more days before the ice melts, at least.”

“Shit…”

“Yeah…” Robby huffs, cradling you gently by the back of your neck with one calloused hand, while his other scratches up and down the length of your spine over your scrubs. “I mean, we could always just say fuck it and hike through the blizzard together. And hope you don’t freeze to death in the process… I’ve already forgotten what our bed feels like…”

You part from him, just far enough to meet his brown-eyed gaze, gone all squishy around the edges from time and from how softly he looks down at you. Your chin bobs against his chest as you joke, “You’d really risk frostbite just to spend the night with me?”

“In a heartbeat,” Robby answers without a second thought.

“How romantic…” you lilt drily to compensate for the warmth swelling in your chest.

He shakes his head and ducks down to kiss you. It’s a chaste and fleeting thing, a coming and a leaving, but still the most affection you’ve gotten to share since you got stranded here a day ago.

“Mm…” Robby hums on an exhaled breath against you, pulling away to quip in a gruff murmur, “I almost forgot what that felt like, too…”

Your lips thin into a mischievous smirk that you cage between your teeth.

“Well, then, let me remind you…” you lilt and rise to the tips of your toes to close the distance between you once more.

You kiss him deeper, hard enough to bruise. You press your lips to his like you’re stamping hot wax on paper, leaving a mark on him that’ll hopefully get you through another agonizing shift that’ll inevitably force the two of you apart again.

His soft beard scratches gently at your delicate skin when Robby smiles against you. His mouth parts from you with a soft click as his glittering eyes turn down between your bodies, where your hands trail down the zipper of his jacket, headed straight for his scrub bottoms.

“What are you doing?” he wonders lowly with a cautious gaze, brows raised until his forehead wrinkles.

“Reminding you,” you lilt with an innocent shrug.

His large hands wrap around your wrists before you can untie the drawstring on his pants. His long fingers cage you firmly there as he flashes you a stern, dark-eyed look that makes your stomach do a backflip.

“Not here,” he tells you.

“I can find us a room, if that’s what you’re worried about—”

“We don’t have time for that—”

“Well, I know you, Robinavitch,” you squint. “And I know you can be pret-ty quick…”

“Oh, you are just asking for it, aren’t you?” he quips playfully.

“I’m about half a second away from begging for it, actually, yeah.”

You share a pair of knowing smiles and another languid kiss. You can taste spearmint gum and coffee on his tongue when you lick into his mouth. You sigh heavily through your nose and melt further against him. Neither of you realizes that the elevator has started moving again until it’s too late — until the doors are dinging open, and you’re jerking back from him like he’s burned you.

You’re wiping Robby’s spit from your mouth with the back of your hand when you find yourself face-to-face with Dana, who wears a tight-lipped smile and a knowing look behind her heavy glasses. If she’d caught the two of you in the act, however, she makes no mention of it now.

“Hey, I was just looking for you guys,” she says in her usual raspy voice in lieu of an actual greeting. “Dr. Santos has been lookin’ for you, Dr. Robby— And here are the test results for Mr. Campbell in central 14.”

She passes you a clipboard, and you flash her a wavering smile, praying you aren’t wearing the evidence of Robby’s kisses all over you now. “Oh. Great. Thank you. I’ll, uh… I’ll look ‘em over.”

You give her a curt nod as you step out of the elevator, flashing Robby a wide-eyed look over your shoulder as you go. You almost think you’ve made it out scot-free until Dana’s voice follows you: “I saw that, by the way.”

Your head whips in her direction. Robby pauses mid-stride behind you. You guys couldn’t be casual if you tried.

“Saw what?” you wonder in a voice an octave higher than normal, and with a mouth more swollen than usual, too.

“You know what,” Dana answers drily.

“Actually, I don’t,” Robby chuckles with his brows raised to his hairline. “I think the cabin fever’s starting to get to you, Evans.”

The older woman scoffs in response. “Yeah, you aren’t lyin’ about that, at least…”

She heads in the opposite direction, and Robby falls into step with you. You exhale sharply through your nose — a breath you didn’t realize you were holding; a breath that catches again a second later when Robby ducks down to mutter in your ear.

“Meet me on the eighth floor. Thirty minutes.”

You spend the next half hour reminding yourself to breathe.

[mariasont]

handle with care

5 times frank langdon manhandles you and the 1 time you manhandle him back

bet u wanna read my masterlist! ── .✦ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

pairing: frank langdon x intern!reader warnings: fem!reader, sunshine!reader, intern!reader, power dynamics, mild manhandling/rough physical guidance, touch-starved characters, mutual pining, mean!langdon, slow burn, frank langdon is grumpy asf, mild panic attacks and dissociation, caretaking to the MAX, i had my med student best friend proof read this so if it’s wrong blame her not me!!!! wc: 4.4k

1 Unauthorized Draping in a High-Risk Zone

Heel. Toe. Heel. Toe. Heel. Toe. It’s not a conscious thing you do, but you move anyway. You figure it’s your nervous system trying to siphon off all the anxious energy that perpetually resides within you.

This is just how your body chooses to cope, with tiny, repetitive motion, as if it can shake the dread loose before it calcifies into tears or sweat or both.

You make an effort to stop. To try and plant your feet, tell yourself to be good and normal and someone who belongs in this intimidating world.

But your brain pipes up with its favorite playlist: don’t touch anything blue, don’t lean on anything that costs more than your rent, don’t talk unless someone with a PhD says your name first, don’t be weird, don’t be you.

Not you-you. Not the klutzy, apology-powered wind-up doll who says “sorry” when someone else steps on your foot and once high-fived a paper towel dispenser by accident (don’t ask).

“Wrong hallway. Wrong badge.”

Shit.

Every neuron in your body slams on the brakes at once, and when you turn, it’s with the same slow, dawning horror of someone realizing they’ve just wandered into the morgue by mistake, except instead of toe tags and chillers, you’re greeted by six feet of brutal posture and eyes that look like they haven’t seen joy since the inventions of pagers.

You look down at his own badge and frown. Dr. Langdon. The senior resident with the god complex and the too-loud temper and the rehab stint. 

He’s severe. That’s your first thought. Gaze that makes your mouth dry up and hate how immediately attractive you find him in that hyper-competent, morally disapproving kind of way.

You open your mouth to say something, anything, hi, sorry, I swear this was an accident, maybe even please don’t kill me but you don’t get the chance, because he’s already moving.

Coming close enough that you can see the indent on his chin, flexing with every angry breath he takes.

His hand then moves to your shoulder while the other catches the tie at your gown and tugs it with quick efficient impatient.

What is happening?

Your ears burn, heart going loud, obnoxiously so, like it’s trying to escape your ribcage and run laps around the hallway.

This is the part where you do something. Step back maybe? Speak? React? Anything that might come across to the effect of: hey stranger danger why are you touching me like that?

Instead, you freeze completely, letting him reposition you like an object with poor spatial awareness, standing there like the world’s most pathetic statue. 

“I — wait, I thought —” you squeak, and it’s not a strong performance, not even close, just a frantic jumble of syllables strung together with the blind optimism that maybe, just maybe, he’ll let you explain yourself.

He doesn’t. He talks right over you, his words slicing through your sentence. 

“You’re not cleared,” he says, cool and direct, the kind of tone that doesn’t invite conversation so much as it ends it. Then, as if the knife needed twisting: “No one told you to suit up.”

He undoes the final knot, as if he’s unwrapping an inconvenience instead of peeling the last bit of your dignity off your shoulders, and when you don’t drop the gown fast enough he just takes it from you, tossing it in the linen bin.

He shoves a chart into your hands.

“Triage notes need updating,” he says. “Do that.”

You’re still rooted to the spot, stunned into inaction, gripping the clipboard like it's the only thing keeping you upright. 

You manage one step backward. Then another. It feels like learning to walk again.

Behind you, he adds, “And drink some water. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

2 Manual Dexterity: Failed Check

You’re staring at your hands. More specifically, the gloves that reside there. They feel weird on your skin, too loose at the fingertips, too bunchy on the palms.

There’s this awful puff of air trapped between your fingertips and the latex, and you keep flexing your hands like that’ll make it better, but it only makes the squish-snap worse. 

You could take them off and grab a better-fitting pair, but that would involve drawing attention, and you’re already pushing the acceptable intern limit for “visible fumbling.”

Especially not with Dr. Langdon standing nearby. Dark hair, cutting eyes, that carved-from-contempt expression that already seems to say you’re wasting his time just by existing. His whole aura screams, I have better things to do than acknowledge your carbon footprint, and it works, you’re been trying to stay out of his way since the Gown Incident (capital G, capital I), but he has this unnerving talent for appearing exactly where you don’t want him to be. 

And you could maybe cope with that, if your body didn’t decide to implode every time he got close. Five feet is the threshold, apparently. Any closer and all the blood rushes to your cheeks.

You’re so focused on pretending to be normal (chin up, shoulders back) that you don’t even realize he’s moved until it’s already happening.

A common theme, apparently.

His hand is around yours, lifting up your own like it’s some sort of misfiled lab result and brings it up under the light. He turns it over once. Then again.

You think for a second he might have forgotten it’s attached to a living, breathing person.

His brows furrow in what you assume is either concentration or deep disappointment. Probably the later.

“What are you doing?” you whisper, because that’s all your vocal cords will give you right now and you’re deeply afraid of drawing more attention than he already has.

He doesn’t answer, but rather just releases you hand. The loss of contact leaves a strange chill behind.

He stalks off toward a shadowy corner of the room that apparently hides a second supply cart.

A cart you’ve walked past, what, twenty times? He crouches, grabs a glove box from the bottom shelf, glances at the size like he’s memorized your hands from the quick thirty second glance over he gave them, and straightens in one fluid motion.

He’s back in front of you before you can fix your face, reaching for your hand to unpeel the glove in a way that makes your knees whisper things like maybe buckle now?.

The material slides away with a snap, leaving your hand bare and tingling in the open air. 

“I can do it,” you hiss, “I knew they looked weird. I mean, not my hands, the gloves obviously, my hands are normal, at least I think they’re normal, unless you — no, sorry, what I meant was — I just didn’t know there were any smaller ones and I didn’t want to slow anyone down and —”

He positions the new, correct-sized, glove and slides it onto you, smoothing it down with expert hands. 

He has really nice hands you realize. You mourn the second the go out of view.

“Wrong size compromises dexterity.”

“Oh,” you say, and then immediately regret it, because oh is not a real response to anything, so you tack on a breathless, “Thank you. I mean — for noticing. And fixing it. Sorry again.”

You’re smiling now. Why are you smiling?

“Don’t thank me.”

“Right,” you say, nodding. “No, yeah. I didn’t. I mean, I did, but… un-thank you. Consider the gratitude rescinded. Retracted. Gone.”

What a loser.

You wish the floor would do you a solid and just open up, suck you in, maybe relocate you to a dimension where you’re not inventing new ways to embarrass yourself in front of the grumpiest man alive. Preferably somewhere tropical and remote. With no gloves.

He looks at you like he’s deciding whether or not to dignify that with a response.

Then: “You done?”

“Uh-huh,” you say, “Done. Done talking. So done.”

He lifts his chin, gestures down the hall toward curtain three, and starts walking.

You follow like a kicked puppy. A very polite, professionally dressed, medically licensed kicked puppy.

3 Redirecting a Human GPS Malfunction

“She’s hyponatremic but still alert, which makes me think it’s chronic rather than acute, and the reflexes were intact except for a slight delay on patellar, so I’m leaning away from neuro, but if her cortisol’s low again I think we need to rule out secondary adrenal insufficiency, especially since her ACTH levels haven’t come back yet and nobody seems concerned about the mild orthostasis.”

Dr. Langdon hums low in his throat. It’s not disapproval. But it’s not agreement either. It’s a sound that lives somewhere in the neighborhood of try again, but smarter.  

“And if the ACTH comes back low?”

“Then I’d want a CRH stimulation test to see if the pituitary’s response because if both ACTH and cortisol are low, we could be looking at hypothalamic suppression instead of adrenal failure, and at that point, imaging the pituitary would be the next step. Unless she’s been on chronic steroids, but I didn’t see anything in her med list to suggest that.”

“Good. But keep an eye on the sodium trend, if it spikes with fluids, you might be chasing the wrong diagnosis.”

Good.

It’s one word. One syllable. Not even said warmly, more of a clinical stamp of temporary adequacy. But your brain grabs onto it like a starved plant seeing sun for the first time in weeks.

You want to keep your face still. You really try. You train every muscle into neutrality, schooling your expression like a child behind glass. But inside… inside it’s glowing. Confetti. Champagne. Tiny internal high-fives.

You got a good. From him. From Dr. Langdon, who looks at most people like they’re bad test results. Who’s allergic to praise. Who speaks in critiques and glares and weaponized silence.

“Yep. Sodium. Absolutely,” you nod eagerly. “You know, I read this case study once where a woman presented with severe hyponatremia after a hot yoga retreat and it turned out she’d been drinking like three gallons of water a day because she thought it was detoxing her live, and her sodium dropped to 118, which is horrifying, but she was totally asymptomatic until she passed out in her car.”

He looks at you. “You ever do that?”

You blink. “Sorry, do what?”

“Hot yoga.”

“I have! Um, I went through this whole phase junior year where I was like, trying to become one of those ‘balanced’ people who wake up early and do gratitude journaling and drink matcha and just like, glow all the time? So I signed up for a free week at this studio that was supposed to be ‘soul-transforming,’ which in hindsight should’ve been a red flag, but I was optimistic, and kind of desperate — anyway, I made it halfway through the first class before I realized I’d accidentally worn fleece-lined leggings, and then I couldn’t leave because the instructor locked the door for ‘heat-integrity,’ and —”

His fingers close over your collar, tugging you just enough to redirect you a few steps to the left before you cheek meets drywall.

“— and I was already sweating like crazy but trying to act normal because everyone else looked so serene, and then —”

He stops walking. You stumble to a halt just behind him, trying to get a handle on your breathing and your mouth, which have both been sprinting ahead without a permit.

“Watch where you’re going,” he says, flat and unbothered. “I’m not doing that again.”

You’re not quite sure what he means, but apologize anyway, “Right. Sorry.”

He pauses. Glances over his shoulder. “And stop apologizing.”

“Mhm. Got it.” You give him a weird little salute. Loser strike two.

“Go check on your patient.”

“Going!”

You make it three steps before his fingers wrap around your elbow. He spins you back around with minimal effort. “Wrong way.”

You glance sideways. “Thought you weren’t doing that again.”

He doesn’t let go yet. Just raises one eyebrow. “Don’t be a smartass.”

His mouth twitches. A small, tiny flicker of amusement. It feels like a secret you weren’t supposed to see, so you pretend not to.

4 Medical Intervention (Sandwich Required)

You’re not even sure when you stopped standing and started leaning, all you know is the supply cart is cool and metal and solid under your palm, which is more than you can say for your knees.

Sixteen hours in, eight traumas logged, and your internal organs are currently operating on a diet consisting of two cups of hospital coffee (burnt and betrayal flavored) and a single saltine you found crumpled in your pocket.

You blink against the sudden fuzz crawling at the edges of your vision, but it’s no use, the black spots are doing synchronized jumping jacks now. Little warning flares that you’re probably pushing your luck. Again.

Dana steps into your line of sight, eyes narrowing. “You okay, kid?”

You slap on a smile like a band-aid over a bullet wound. Your special-sauce if you ever had one.

“Yup! All good. Just needed a minute. Long day. A lot of… exciting cases. You know how it is.” You do a vague jazz-hands motion. “Crushing it.”

Your vision pulses again. You do not, in fact, appear to be crushing it, you’re very sure of that. Maybe in the way a soda can gets crushed under a steel-toed boot. 

“And I’m the Queen of England.” She takes one long look at your pale face and glassy eyes. “Sit. Before you faceplant and I have to explain to Gloria why we lost one to stubborn optimism.”

“I promise I’m fine! I just — stood up too fast.”

“Bullshit.” 

His hand appears at the same time as his voice, both faster than your excuses.

One moment you’re vertical and the next you’re yanked with just enough force, like he knows how much pressure you can take without crumbling.

His grip is all calloused heat, palm pressing into your arm as he pulls you into the chair.

The world tilts once, then slams back into place. Cold metal bites into your thighs. His hand lingers a second too long, fingers flexing like he’s still gauging whether you’ll tip over again. 

“I could’ve sat on my own, you know,” you grumble half-heartedly.

You glance toward Dana, hoping for backup, or at the very least a supportive eyebrow raise. She meets your gaze, chews her gum, and shrugs one shoulder in a perfect display of girl, please. Entirely unsympathetic. Possibly amused.

“Nope,” she says. “You were about one sway away from eating tile. Survival of the smartest, sweetheart. ”

“Don’t care if you could’ve,” he says as he crouches. “I’m not scraping you off the floor because you’re too much of a hard head to sit when you’re clearly crashing.”

Then, without asking (because when does he ever ask), he takes your wrist in his hand, thumb pressing gently into the inside. You try not to squirm.

“There’s a difference between committed and careless.” His brow furrows as he counts the beats under his thumb. “Right now, you’re leaning toward the wrong one.”

“I wasn’t trying to be careless, I swear. I just lost track of time, which is funny because I’m usually really good at that, like I even set alarms for hydration, but I ignored all of them because I didn’t want to miss rounds and then one trauma turned into five —”

You stop when you realize he’s still holding your wrist. And staring.

He exhales hard through his nose and shakes his head.

“You’ve got ten minutes here with food,” he says. He jerks his chin at Dana, who nods and heads for the cart without needing more. “Then fluids. Then, and only then, you can check on the lac in bay four.” His eyes cut back to you. “And if I see you wobble even once, you’re off the board for the night.”

“Yes. Yes sir – uh, not sir, just — yes. I’m staying.”

Dr. Langdon nods once, brushes his fingers briefly over your shoulder in what might be the lamest pat in human history (the universal ‘don’t make me come back’ signal), and walks off without another word.

Dana returns with a sandwich and a raised brow.

You unwrap it slowly. “Is he always so — uh — intense?”

She barks a laugh. “That was him being gentle.”

5 Objects in Motion (You) Meets Immovable Force (Also You, Apparently)

“—I’m telling you, he’s been on my ass before the sun even showed up,” Santos grumbles, tapping her pen against the desk. “I said good morning, and he looked at me like I suggested we kick a puppy together. Someone pissed in his Cheerios, and now I’m the one getting crucified for it.”

You tilt your head. “Maybe he just needs a snack. Or like… a hug.”

She snorts without looking at you. “I was thinking more along the lines of a double whiskey and a week locked in solitary with nothing but his own guilt complex, but sure. Hugs. Why not.”

“That’s so mean! Dr. Robby is not that bad. He just… glares at people like they personally ruined his life on occasion. He’s usually very kind.”

“Next you’re gonna tell me he’s just misunderstood and has a good heart underneath it all.”

“I mean… yeah. I kind of believe that about everyone. Doesn’t mean I’m right, but like… I’m not not hoping.”

Santo swivels in her chair, stares. “Even Langdon?”

You falter there. Step back. Physically, even, as if that’ll help distance you from the question, from the thought, because now it’s in there. 

Dr. Langdon. Frank Langdon. The man who speaks in flat tones and judgmental silences. Who glares like it’s a sport and you’re always losing. 

And now you’re thinking about him with… layers. Like, not just as a terrifying force of workplace intensity, but as someone who maybe carries all that stormy energy because he doesn’t know what to do with the softer parts.

Someone who maybe, just maybe, has a good heart buried underneath a mile of barbed wire

You chew on the thought like it’s an overcooked piece of gum — rubbery, bitter, sticking to the inside of your skull even as you try to spit it out — and you’re not even sure what part is more disturbing: the possibility that Langdon has hidden depths, or the fact that your brain insists on exploring them like a museum exhibit you weren’t emotionally prepared for. 

But before you can get to the part where he maybe owns houseplants or secretly feeds stray cats behind the loading bay, the thought shatters, violently, like someone dropped a wine glass in the middle of your mental dinner party.

Noise. Sudden. Loud. A voice shouting something urgent, boots hammering the floor, movement that feels too fast for the space.

You flinch instinctively, start to pivot toward the commotion, but before your body can even decide what direction to go, a hand snaps around your waist and then you’re moving, pulled into something broad and unyielding and extremely human-shaped.

Specifically, Dr. Langdon-shaped.

Your cheek brushes the starchy edge of his scrub top. His arm curls in front of you, protective like a steel beam, while a crash cart screams past, inches from where you were just standing, the air it kicks up biting against your skin.

You realize, distantly, that you would’ve been directly in its path if not for him.

You can feel his heartbeat through the wall of muscle between you and everything else.

You can smell him, too. Clean, masculine soap invading your senses.

You shift, just slightly, enough to tilt your face upward.

He’s looking down at you like you’re a particularly complicated equation he’s trying not to solve out loud. And for a second, you don’t breathe. Not really. Because his grip tightens and you swear, you swear, his eyes flick down to your mouth.

“Jesus,” Santos mutters, breaking the spell as she peers after the cart. “You good? That thing was flying.”

You blink, realizing a second too late that Santos was talking to you.

“Huh?” You clear your throat, a sound that comes out way too dry. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

At the same moment, Langdon steps away. Lets go. And the absence is bizarrely loud, like someone hit mute on the part of your body that had been braced against him.

You’re suddenly hyper-aware of not being touched. Of gravity reasserting itself. Of how your arms feel too light and your chest feels too tight and none of it makes any damn sense.

“You could’ve gotten flattened,” he mutters, jaw tight. It sounds like criticism, but there’s something else under it. Concern, maybe. Or frustration aimed more at the situation than at you.

You rub at your forearm, pretending it itches instead of tingles. “Yeah, well. I’m thinking of investing in high-vis tape and a ‘please don’t run me over’ sign.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just stares at you with that signature flat, heavy-lidded expression like even he can’t believe how often he has to save your life from your own proximity to disaster.

You can’t really believe it either.

“I won’t say thanks,” you say. “I know you hate that. And apologizing. But uh… I didn’t die. That’s… cool. For both of us. I mean, mostly me. But also you, probably, because paperwork would’ve sucked. I’m gonna leave before I say something dumber than that, which is a very low bar, so —”

“Do you really believe that?” he says behind you.

You stop. 

“What?”

“What you said earlier. About everyone?”

It takes a second. He’d heard that?

You scratch your cheek, suddenly feeling exposed.

“Yeah,” you say finally. “I really do.”

+1 Please Just Stay

The stairwell is freezing, cement bones and rebar spine, and you’re crumpled against the wall like a misfiled piece of paper. It’s quiet here, except for the stupid way your breathing bounces off the walls and makes it sound like someone else is crying too. 

But it’s just you. It’s always just you. The tears keep coming, hot and salty and mortifying. You wipe them away with the back of your hand, again and again, but they just keep returning, stubborn as guilt.

Everyone said it wasn’t your fault. In serious tones people use when they want to sound very sure. As if it makes a difference. It really doesn’t. 

It was your first patient death.

He was somebody’s father. Somebody’s brother. Somebody’s son. And in the end, you were the last person to touch him. You watched the monitors go still. You felt his hand lose its warmth. 

Footsteps echo up the stairwell. 

Your body reacts accordingly, jolting upright like you’ve been caught doing something illegal (crying isn’t illegal, you remind yourself, but it sure feels like it), and your hands fly to your face.

Both of them. Too rough, too fast, trying to erase the emotions by brute force.

Your shoulders curl in, chin tucking down so far it could hit your collarbone. Hide, hide, hide. You try to stop the sniffling, will it down your throat, but it stutters out of you anyway, weak, wet, pathetic. Perfect.

“Oh — shit. Sorry.” It takes you half a second to recognize the voice. A half second too long, because by the time it clicks, it’s already too late. Dr. Langdon. 

Your stomach flips so intensely it feels like it’s trying to escape through your throat, a sudden swoop of nausea and disbelief tangled together. Of all people. 

You hear the shift, his footsteps faltering, uneven now, breath snagging mid-step before everything goes still. The stairwell swallows the sound. 

Then: “You’re crying.”

You let out a exhale that stumbles out halfway between a laugh and a cough.

It sounds pathetic, honestly, but you don’t have the energy to care. “That obvious, huh?”

Silence stretches long enough to get awkward, and you start to hope maybe he took the hint. Maybe he backed away, quietly, like a decent person who knows how to pretend they didn’t just catch someone crying their face off in a desolate place. Maybe you get to keep your breakdown private.

However, you aren’t so lucky.

“First time I lost a patient, I threw up in the supply closet.” He doesn’t sound embarrassed by it, just matter-of-fact, like he’s naming a side effect. “I told the attending that it was food poisoning. It wasn’t.”

You twist toward him, shoulders still hunched, face hot and raw. You’re sure you look like hell, and he sees all of it, but he doesn’t react. No flicker of discomfort. No awkward glance away.

“Does it… ever get easier?”

It sounds fragile on your tongue. Like you’re scared of the answer, but more scared not to ask.

He looks past you for a second. 

“No,” he says. Then, almost like an afterthought, “If it did, that’d be worse.”

You swallow around the lump in your throat. “Yeah,” you whisper. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

He nods and you see the look on his face that suggests maybe he wants to say more. But he doesn’t.

“Take a minute. If you need anything…” He hesitates. “Come get me.”

He turns, just slightly, like he’s giving you privacy. Respect. Distance. 

And maybe that was what you needed. What you thought you wanted not even two seconds ago. But not anymore.

Because the second he turns, the second his body shifts and his presence starts to pull away even by the smallest degree, panic claws its way up your chest like a reflex, like a toddler reaching out in the dark, and your hands shoot forward without asking permission from the rest of you, both of them closing tight around the soft fabric of his scrubs. Clumsy and fast and maybe too hard. 

You don’t even know what you're holding onto exactly, not really, except it’s him, and he’s warm and real and not going anywhere, not unless you let him, and for a second you just stand there like that, fists full of fabric, heart full of please don’t leave.

“Don’t —” you choke, the word cracking like it’s too big for your throat, and you bite it down fast, try again, quieter this time, like whispering might make it less desperate. “Can you just… stay. Just a minute. Please.”

He doesn’t say anything right away, and for a terrifying, breath-holding moment, you think maybe you misread it, maybe he’s about to step back, untangle himself from your grip, do the polite thing and leave you to cry in peace like people do when they don’t want to deal with someone else’s damage. 

His eyes drop to where your fists are bunched in his scrubs

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah. Okay.”

His arms come around you. Not expertly either. It’s real and maybe a little uneven, a little unsure, like he’s not totally certain where his hands are supposed to go.

But he does it anyway, one hand finding the back of your head, fussing with the tag on the back of your shirt, the other curling around your back.

And for the first time all day, you don’t feel like you’re falling.