TIMSHEL;

my name is hannah (she/her). this blog is nsfw and not spoiler-free. i’m also griffenly on ao3. url is from a syml song, where’s my love.

if you are interested in making any sort of fan work related to my writing, please just ask first! (and then send me the link, so i can sing your praises.) this goes for fic-binding, fan art, podfics, etc.

please do not share my work to goodreads or another site. please do not share my work with the cast/crew of any of the shows for which i write. please do not put my work through any AI bot. please credit in some capacity if you post snippets to any social media site. please do not use my work for articles without my consent.

all works from now on are locked for ao3 users so the cops (“journalists”) don’t get me.

always happy to take fic requests, though i don’t promise to get to all of them!

if you are interested in providing support, you can find my ko-fi here (no pressure, no expectation, reading/commenting/leaving kudos is more than enough!)

hi fran!!!!

2. when and where do your best ideas tend to strike?

literally at random, lol. my notes app is where i keep any snippets of dialogue that come to mind or random ideas i have — i wish there was a rhyme or reason, but it truly is by the grace of god go i vibes

14. what are your top 3 most used additional tags?

jac ily!!!

6. what's your usual writing environment?

either my desk at work or my kitchen table, usually with headphones in to really #lockin

11. which fic did you do the most research for?

everywhere, everything probably because there's a lot of zooming in on google maps to make sure i'm describing places as accurately as possible, lol (plus harassing @fellowshipincynicism and @thatkingdon for specificities about certain locations). but any fic with abundant medical references (including city baby!) has the most research for sure

16. do you make playlists for your fics?

just answered 1 here

8. what WIP are you most excited about?

which of your fics is your pride and joy?

rivers and roads is the obvious one, i think, because it was so much work and i feel very emotionally attached to those versions of mel & frank. but writing city baby was some of the most fun i've had in this fandom, and i feel especially proud of that one since it's soooo divergent from canon

4. how long do you spend editing?

i do not spend very long editing by myself (i get so bored reading my own writing lol) but there are several people that i hold hostage in my google docs beta read for me!!

10. do you outline?

(Love your writing btw!)

so this is not in-universe, but there’s a lot of tooth-rotting fluff in city baby that’s similar to this! you can skip around if you don’t want to read all 60k hahah

happy holidays, love ✨

read on ao3

Abby hated hospitals. Even the nice ones made her feel vaguely nauseous, and that was including the glossy, expensive facility she'd found for her father's cancer treatment. Frank had plenty to say about that place, vague statements that had the air of criticism, even though Abby couldn't understand the problem. It's all pay to play, he'd sniped in the car, knuckles white on the steering wheel, and she'd kept her mouth shut even as she wanted to snap, Good thing it's my money, then.

She remembered this as she slipped through the throngs of coughing, ill-smelling people gathered in the PTMC ED's waiting room. She had plenty of thoughts she could share, now, but she knew Frank wasn't even here today. She'd made sure of it.

There was a long line to approach a glass window, and Abby joined the back of it dutifully, keeping her arms crossed tight across her chest as if she might protect herself from the general sickness of the room. When she reached the front, she plastered on her best, most unassuming smile, slipping her ID through the slot at the bottom.

"Dana's expecting me," she said cheerily.

The woman at the desk glanced at the ID and then back up to Abby's face. "Langdon," she read, raising an eyebrow as if she had asked a question.

"My husband," Abby confirmed, the word only sticking in her throat a little bit. "I told Dana that - "

"Yeah, she mentioned you might be swinging by." Abby didn't think she was imagining the thread of suspicion in the woman's tone, but then she nodded, clicking a button until a side door buzzed. "Come on in, Mrs. Langdon."

Abby managed a smile and said, "Thank you. Abby is fine," but the woman - her badge was too small for Abby to read from here - had already looked over Abby's shoulder, beckoning the next patient forward.

There was a security guard standing at the door, and he gave Abby a once-over as she entered.

everyone needs to read tay's frat boy frank/professor mel fic NOW because it lives in my head rent-free

read on ao3

There are other arrangements he's tried, of course. The very tiptop of the lecture hall in the last seat on the right. The first row, slightly askew toward her left. A hundred other configurations, the inconsistency of which clearly irked his peers who'd become accustomed to their seat being taken by Frank's lanky body, his limbs strewn about with practiced carelessness.

But he's found the most success with this spot. Dead center of the room. Her eyes have a tendency to hover there in such a way that he wonders if she trained herself to do it, a learned behavior to ensure she's at least feigning eye contact with her students. It only endears her to him further. He feels a little patronizing for even thinking it, but she's so obviously soft that it raises his protective hackles. He can't help it.

Dr. King treads a small circle, her hands clasped together. She's a fast talker, though he'd known that before enrolling in this class. (Her Rate My Professor had a 4.1 out of 5. He could still remember some of the worst reviews, clearly from her first year in the job: they called her meek, boring, weird. He wishes they weren't anonymous. He has some choice words to share right back at them.) All around him, his peers are scribbling or typing furious notes, their eyes bouncing to the screen and down and up again as they try to take down every last morsel of information.

Frank prefers to do this: sit back, arms crossed, and watch. It gives him a little thrill every time she meets his eyes, her brows furrowing in confusion or consternation, the expression making her look like a disgruntled bunny. He likes letting her know that he's paying attention. That even though his classmates might be frantically taking down each word she says, he's actually listening to her.

And he thinks she knows that, based on the way her cheeks flush and she stammers over her sentences whenever she catches his gaze.

"The review guide is up on Canvas for you now," she says, pausing her pacing. "I've extended office hours this week for anyone who would prefer to meet one-on-one." She glances up at Frank again, and he can see her swallow from here. He grins, despite himself. "I'll see you all on Thursday for the exam."

Everyone around him seems to rise at once, laptops smacking shut as backpacks are tossed over shoulders. Frank stays still, watching Dr. King as she tucks her hair behind her ears, lets out a tense breath, gathers her notes, logs out of the university computer, looks back up -

He smiles at her again.

Dr. King bites her lower lip, glancing toward the door and back again. Frank hasn't moved, a solid rock amidst the waves of other university students filtering out of the lecture hall, and he tries to keep himself still as she makes her way toward him, her gaze fixed somewhere over his shoulder even as his never wavers.

Two seats away, she says, "Mr. Langdon," her voice quiet.

"Dr. King."

She flushes, like he knew she would. "I noticed you weren't taking notes."

His grin widens. "Good."

She sighs. "Frank."

"What?" He keeps his tone light, eyebrows raised innocently. She tilts her head in exasperation. "I learn best by watching," he offers with a shrug, pausing before adding, "but you knew that."

Mel stammers, flustered, and he finally stands up to close the distance between them. She has to crane her neck to see him, though she keeps her eyes trained on his throat. Her hands rest on either side of her neck, the way they always do when she gets nervous.

"You can't say things like that in my classroom," she scolds half-heartedly.

He shrugs. "Okay. Then let's go somewhere else."

She hesitates, just like the six times before this, and he watches the emotions cycle across her face like slides in a projector. Desire and embarrassment and worry and pleasure and guilt, one after the other, until her gaze finally meets his own.