People Call Me Momo

"Hey, Sammy?"

"Yeah, baby?"

"Shut up."

But you've got this tired and amused grin and he knows you aren't really pissed at him so he just hits you with the:

"Yes, ma'am." 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

I know a well timed "Yes ma'am", from Sammy would have me jumping his bones and I'm sure that mf would know it too and use it to his advantage 😖

oh truuuuust he is so happy where he’s at. this is so so so good, i’m obsessed with sammy and his fiery gf <3

like one time you’re both bickering on the street about where to eat for date night and you turn to him “sammy, just shut the fuck up. i’ll handle it, you’ll love wherever i choose, promise.” and give him a big kiss with a tap on his cheek before walking away with a little wave.

SAMMY BRYANT TUMMY APPRECIATION POST 2/3

Southland: Season 1

honeymoon with sammy bryant in greece. he almost has an emotional awakening of sorts, he just realizes that this is what happiness and love are supposed to feel like! AND as a bonus he has two BEAUUUUUTIFUL views (reader + greek scenery) 😼

Warnings: post divorce sammy, tammi mention (nate is not sammy's son), sammy eats it for breakfast like a true man

Sammy didn't want to wake up. Surely, he would. Surely, this was a dream. Because there was no way that he was actually sitting on a balcony in Greece, feeling the early morning wind ruffle his shirt and the warm weight of your hand in his. A hand with a new addition: a ring on your finger that retained the coolness of the air. A ring that he had put there only a few months before and put its match on his own hand last week. Was it bad to say he didn't remember the wedding? Of course he remembered it, but the small details had blurred at the edges of his mind, fully pushed out by the visage of you in your dress, beaming at him and reciting your vows. You only said them once, but he would remember every syllable for the rest of his life. He'd never tell you. You spent so long planning each centerpiece and tablecloth. But really, all he could think about when he recalled his wedding day was Nate's brotherly hug and fond declaration of their friendship and forcing himself not to cry when he saw you walking down that aisle. He never thought he'd make it this far. Shit. After wasting away his teenage years behind the football concession stand getting high off his ass, conjuring images of his dream life. Some sales job that paid well, probably. That's what his dad did. A wife who adored him and would sit next to him as he went to his four (or five) kids' sports games or recitals or whatever they wanted to do. How much love he could put into his family. Small things. Attainable things. Or so he thought. Before he got fired because of a failed drug test and applied to the Academy as a joke. Before his first marriage failed and Tammi cheated on him. Before the paternity test came back as negative. And yet, here you were. Everything he had ever wished for. And he just couldn't get enough.

"Hey," You called softly, squeezing Sammy's hand in yours. He was looking at you with that wistful, half-dazed look you often found him with. "You okay?" Your words seemed to snap him out of it, and a soft smile pushed up his cheeks. He bounced your joined hands.

"Yea," He hummed "I'm good. Just love you." Even though you'd heard it a million times, the sentiment still made you smile and dip your head sheepishly.

"What do you want to do today?" The sun was still kissing the horizon, spilling pinks and oranges across the mountains in the distance. Sammy tilted his head, resting his temple against the glass door the led to the hotel room. The sheets on your bed were still rumpled from the night before. Sammy had come back from walking to the convenience store down the street to get more wine. He opened the door with a light sheen of sweat and his tropical shirt half-unbuttoned. One glimpse of his damp chest hair and you were a goner. The bottle of wine still sat unopened on the TV table.

"Thought we could find a beach and and a local market," He offered. "I saw signs for one when I went out last night." You nodded eagerly. After a few more moments of sitting in blissful silence, Sammy ran his thumb over the ridges of your knuckles. His gaze dropped to them. "Should probably have breakfast first, though."

"Yea," you agreed, stretching your neck. "Did you have a craving for something specific?" Sammy didn't answer. He caught his plump bottom lip between his teeth. You watched as his gaze traveled down your body. His fingers left yours and fiddled with the knot of your robe. You gave a small huff of amusement. "Sammy," you warned, but didn't move to stop him as he tugged on the sash around your waist. The knot fell through and the flaps of your robe began to flutter, exposing your skin to the cool air. Your breathing became uneven when Sammy's fingertips ran along the center of your chest, stopping above your belly button. He settled his heavy palm on your hip and scooted off his deckchair. He settled between your knees, gently parting them to accommodate his size. "Sammy, we're technically in public," You reminded him. Your husband rolled his eyes and kissed up your inner thigh.

"S'fine," He assured you "I'm a cop."

"In a foreign country."

⋮⟢ drabble: how can pope rob a bank when you’re the teller?

⋮⟢ warnings: meet-ugly lolllll, me having No Idea how to rob a bank but let’s pretend this can hypothetically work, pope’s got love at first sight, reader has no sense of self-preservation but it’s ok because This is the face she’s looking at!!!! this is lowkey a crackfic because once again im not able to write anything. you get pretty privilege because obviously!! pope shows u his gun and threatens u with it. do not take any advice from her - this is inspired by me trying to recount a night where i think i handed my phone over to be stolen after a few too many when someone tried to pickpocket me that i Do not remember!

Pope had almost reconsidered this last bank. The first six went unnervingly smooth, and it briefly made him annoyed. The lack of challenge, the lack of safety, ironically, made Pope want to rob just one more. Everyone was so fucking giving apparently, and Lena could use as much as he can get and more. He could – with just one more – set her up until she’s his age, if not for life. She wasn’t very demanding. Maybe the influx in her account would make her so. Pope sure hoped it did – the girl had spent her entire childhood scraping for her father’s attention; she’d forgotten the material joys of life.

This one was a smaller branch. He knew he was cutting it wildly close. People here were more on-guard simply for that reason. Tellers here actually knew each other’s names, knew the regulars, noticed when a face seemed wrong. There was nowhere to hide or a plethora of bodies to go blank against. Pope kept his hood low, hands where hands were actually meant to go, and his breathing married to the count he’d had to practice. This was professional. One more, and Pope could give himself even more peace of mind that Lena never learns how to go without.

And Jesus, he should have just gone back and transferred all the money into Lena's fund. He immediately realized that the second he stopped at your desk when he was directed to it because there you were. It was unfair. He was sure that you’ve been placed here specifically to fuck up his entire plan. It was like you’d been clayed out of every single weakness in him even he never knew he had. Maybe he was just having a bad day, and you were a fluke from the universe pulled out, the one face that’d stop him cold in his tracks.

MGG as Spencer Reid Criminal Minds S05E20

@matthew-gray-gubler-lover @cynbx @reidsbookclub

»»»— read pinned post for taglist info —«««

Main Masterlist | v.2 Masterlist

Warnings: angst, minor descriptions of injury/illness, light ref to: negative perception of age gap (Grant); violent behavior (Sammy, not toward Reader)

🌘Grant Reilly🌘

Grant learns you’re in the hospital smack in the middle of dinner service at North & Vine. One of the hosts scurries into the kitchen, narrowly avoiding getting hit by a hot pan as one of the line cooks spins to drop it in one of the dish bins. “Try a ‘behind’ next time, man!” The host swallows hard when he comes to stand next to Chef Grant

“What’s up?” Grant says easily, not really looking up at the guy while he finishes plating a four-top. All he really hears is your name and the word “hospital” before he’s untying his apron in a flash. “It’s yours,” he barks at the sous chef, who looks deeply startled, before practically sprinting to grab his car keys from the break room

He feels his breath leave his chest like he’s been gut-punched when he slips past the closed curtain that the registration desk attendant pointed him to. You’re covered in bruises and scrapes that are barely beginning to scab over, and there’s a garish white tube down your throat, taped in place and attached to a rhythmically clicking machine. Your mother looks up when Grant enters

“W-what happened?” he asks, his voice raspy with the terror crowding his throat. “A semi jackknifed on the freeway,” she says in a dead voice, looking back down at you while her eyes fill with tears, clearly not for the first time today. Grant hesitantly steps up to the other side of your bed and lays a hand on your forehead

He knows about your living will - remembers sitting down with you on one of those websites that lets you do it yourself, convincing him to make his with the promise that you would, too. It felt a little morbid at the time, but he always has adored your practicality. Now, it just feels like a cruel joke, like he’s being directly mocked by the image of the letters that make up the instruction not to let you sit on a ventilator for longer than two weeks without improvement

A brief call to Marcus has him set for the moment, his friend instantly ready to do whatever he needed to do in order for Grant to be able to stay here with you. Your mother doesn’t seem overly pleased - but then, she hasn’t been pleased about the relationship to begin with. It doesn’t help that he’s only a few years younger than her

Even in his throes of depressive worry, he still manages to make good company for the hospital staff - by the end of the first week, most of the nurses know him by name, and won’t stop bringing him little treats. It’s helpful in distracting him from his dawning terror as the clock continues to count down

On the tenth day, he thinks he’s barely a person anymore. All he does is clutch your hand and stare at your face, willing you to wake up. He really doesn’t notice that he’s faintly whispering “please, please, please baby, please,” over and over again, until one of the day shift nurses lays a hand gently on his shoulder. “If you and the mom agree, you can override the directive,” she says quietly

Grant sits back a bit and shakes his head. “Can’t do that, it’s not right,” he says in a broken voice. The nurse nods sadly and gives him a small pat before charting your vitals. He’s staring at the ceiling that same evening when he feels your fingers tighten on his, just a little bit. He sits up straight instantly and slams the call button on the side of your bed, the movement jostling the whole thing. And then he sees the sweetest sight he’s ever seen in his entire life - your eyes, cloudy and confused though they are, but open. Tears start to pour down his cheeks

🌑Stan Rosado🌑

Stan’s pacing his dorm room, frantic. He barely mutters an audible “come in,” when someone knocks at the door of it. Casey peeks his head through. “Figured you’d be in here losing your mind,” he says disapprovingly, and Stan just waves a hand in dismissive irritation. “Did you do the rough draft for Dr. K’s class?” “Yes, Case,” Stan replies with an eye roll, “I’m not a total dumbass.”

“I was just gonna say I’m sure he’d give you an extension if you needed it, given the circumstances,” Casey replies, hurt shining out of his giant blue eyes. Stan blows a sigh out through his lips. “Sorry. I’m just on edge.” “Yeah. I don’t blame you.” Casey finally comes all the way into the room, sitting on the edge of Stan’s roommate’s bed

“I just can’t believe those people won’t let me in,” Stan says, referring to your parents and raking a hand back through his hair, “we’re engaged, for fuck’s sake. I’m not just some loser on the street.” “You know,” Casey finally says furtively, and Stan’s pacing pauses at his tone, “Zeke works over there these days.” “You’re kidding.” Casey shakes his head

“I may have already asked him if he thought he could get you in.” “Bro,” Stan says, his voice thickening with emotion; he covers it with humor, “I knew I kept you around for a reason.” “‘Kept me around,’” Casey scoffs, “who applied here first and who followed along?” “Shut up - give me the details.” So he does, and then he stands abruptly and shoves something small into Stan’s hand

“Put that somewhere in the bed for me, will you?” Stan opens his hand to find a brass coin with a creepy little engraving of an ethereal woman and some kind of goat…lion, eagle, thing on it. “Oh come on, don’t tell me you’re into that witchy shit now, too,” Stan groans, trying to shove the coin back. “Like weirder things haven’t happened!” Casey snaps indignantly, refusing to accept it back, “even if you don’t believe in it, what can it hurt? It’ll either help or do nothing at all.”

Stan considers briefly and finally rolls his eyes. “Fine. Whatever. Just as a favor for setting this up.” He shakes his head at Casey’s wide grin of triumph, and turns to get dressed. That night, Zeke lets him in a side door to the hospital; as instructed, Stan’s wearing a plain gray t-shirt with a dark colored cap and tan cargo pants. It looks remarkably similar to Zeke’s own custodial uniform

“I still can’t believe you’re a janitor, man,” Stan says quietly as they make their way through the halls. “I can’t be a genius in class and at my job right now. Shit’s easy, pays good because I have to deal with blood sometimes, and it fits around my school schedule.” “Alright, alright, Mr. Harvard,” Stan teases. “Hey, Lesley’s a good school, too,” Zeke says encouragingly, gesturing for Stan to go through a door he just opened with his badge

Their back-and-forth dies as they quietly pull the curtain behind your room door. “Shit, man,” Zeke whispers, “I’m sorry.” You look horrid, like a corpse whose chest is only moving in a cruel parody of life. Stan crumples to his knees next to your bed and removes the cap to lean his head against your arm where it rests over the blanket, your skin a strange texture and just a touch too cold. “I’ll keep an eye out,” Zeke says, touching Stan on the shoulder briefly

He spends probably twenty minutes running his hands up and down your arm, clutching at your hand, babbling quiet nonsense at you. God, he misses you. And it’s been awful this last week or so, not able to see you even like this. He wonders if you can hear things around you, like he’s heard people say can happen; wonders if you’ve been missing him, too, and then feels like shit if you have been, because the last thing he wants is for you to be sad

He barely remembers to slip the stupid coin in between the mattress and frame of your bed when Zeke pokes his head back in and whispers that it’s time to go. When he gets the call the next afternoon that you’re awake and absolutely livid that he hasn’t been allowed to see you, Casey’s hanging out on the floor of his dorm room with him, reading some book for one of his medieval lit classes. He smirks once Stan hangs up. “Don’t give me that look,” Stan says, but there’s no bite behind it whatsoever as he’s leaping up to get dressed to go see you, filled with joy and maybe just a tiny tinge of suspicion as to whether that coin was more than a coincidence

🌖Sammy Bryant🌖

“I’m putting you on administrative leave,” Sal says decisively, before Sammy can even sit down in his office. “What the hell, Sal?! I can’t afford that, especially now.” “Paid, obviously, Sam.” Even so, Sammy shakes his head and sits heavily in one of the shitty chairs in front of the desk. “I can’t do that, man. I need to be busy.”

“Well, you also can’t be beating the shit out of CIs because you’re having a crisis.” Sal sighs and rubs two fingers cross his forehead while Sammy scoffs. “I didn’t ’beat the shit out of’ that guy, come on.” “That’s how Nate described it, so I assume you actually nearly beat him to death.” Sammy swallows painfully and clenches his hands together in his lap

“I can’t just go sit in that room and wait, Sal.” “I’m not saying that’s what you have to do. You just can’t work, either.” Sal’s tone is final, and Sammy has known him long enough to know when there’s no pushing back. “Fine,” he says quietly, “need me to turn in my badge and gun?” “No. I have more respect for you than that. Just don’t do anything stupid, yeah?” Nodding miserably, Sammy leaves the office listlessly and grabs his car keys out of his desk drawer

“Call me later?” Nate says in a vaguely concerned tone before Sammy can escape. “Yeah. Thanks for trying to cover for me, man.” “You know I got your back,” Nate sighs, “try to do me a favor: don’t just go home and wallow.” Sammy makes a noncommittal noise, and that’s exactly what he does - for a few hours, anyway

He finally stares down into Richter’s giant brown eyes where he’s laid his chin across Sammy’s chest, and sighs. “Yeah. I get it.” He gets to his feet with a groan and finally tugs his tie off, changing into a comfortable t-shirt and shorts. Remembering to snag one of your mystery novels scattered around the house, he drives the ten minutes to the hospital in loaded silence

He cringes in shame at the fact that no one at the front desk even remotely recognizes him - it’s been days, he ought to be a fixture here by now, not completely absent while he escapes into his damn job. When he enters your room, he feels a wave of nausea and resists the impulse to turn right around and walk out. You honestly don’t look that bad - he sort of made you out in his mind to be in some horrifying state of decay. But no, you just look asleep, aside from all the freaky medical shit sticking out of you

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs quietly, smoothing a hand across your forehead, “‘m sorry I haven’t been around. Dunno if you can hear me anyway, but I should’ve been here.” He drags an armchair to your bedside and settles into it, pulling out the reading glasses he had to get last year that you made just so much fun of him about. “Maybe Hercule Poirot will wake you up,” he says fondly, and he starts to read

Sammy makes it a daily habit, leaving in the mornings to go take care of Richter and eat and watch a little mindless TV to try and keep himself sane. A couple of times, he even goes to visit with Nate. After over two weeks, he falls asleep partway through reading you a book, as is usual. What isn’t usual is that he wakes up to feel the book hitting him in the chest gently. He sits up, startled, and sees you frowning, but once his eyes focus on you, yours crinkle up at the corners and you wave at him, the movement uncoordinated and limp, but a wave nonetheless. His face breaks into the humongous, boyish grin that you adore him for, and he scrambles to his feet and begins kissing your forehead frantically until a nurse gently shoves him away

part two to victorias roommate

Main Masterlist | v.1 Masterlist

Warnings: references to violence/possessive behavior, mildly unhealthy relationship dynamics, suggestive content (no smut), very brief mentions of alcohol/marijuana use

a/n: thanks again to @sarah-paulsons-bottom-lip for inspiration on this one (and many to come!!), I hope I’ve done it justice

🧎🏻Pope Cody🧎🏻

Pope’s constantly terrified that someone else is gonna catch your eye - someone better, someone younger, someone with less baggage. And yet every day when he sees you, you still seem just as enthusiastic as the day before about being with him, somehow. Even around his brothers, your attention stays almost entirely on him, and any that you give to them is extremely platonic (sometimes bordering on rude, depending on which one it is)

But god, you’re so nice to people. It’s not that he doesn’t trust you - it’s that he knows how other people take advantage of kindness, and he worries that you never seem to know it too. He’s the lingering presence in the corner during a party, staring down everybody you chat with. Or the looming boyfriend in the background when a bagger at the grocery store gets just a little too friendly with you. And he fucking hates a lot of your coworkers, especially the men

“Hon, I think it’s perfectly normal for coworkers to get together for something like the Super Bowl,” you insist when he protests about the invitation you got from a guy in your department, “and besides, I’m nowhere close to the only one he invited.” But you ask the guy about a plus-one anyway, and you do wonder at his face falling quite so hard even as he says yes

“Ah, this your boyfriend?” he asks when he opens the door for the two of you on the day in question. “Yep,” Pope says flatly. You swat his arm gently and whisper “be nice, please,” in his ear. He fixes a truly unconvincing polite smile on his face while he says, “nice to meet you,” in a tone that really indicates it is not, in fact, nice

Pope’s version of “being nice” throughout the entire get-together is to sit, arms crossed, unless you get up, and then he follows you with his arms still crossed. You think he’s maybe said a total of fifteen words since you got here. You finally snag him into a spare room and ask, “what the heck is going on? You asked me to come to this, love, and you’re clearly having a bad time.”

“I’m not having a bad time,” he counters, but you put a hand on your hip and look at him skeptically. “I’m…not,” he says again, but now his eyes are shifting around the room nervously. “I just don’t like seeing everybody flirt with you like this.” “Who’s flirting with me?” you ask, stymied. “Like, everybody?” he says, frowning in confusion. “I think maybe you’re just, um. A little jealous, today?”

“Or every day,” he mumbles. You put your hand on his cheek tenderly. “You don’t have anything to be jealous about, you know? Any day, anywhere.” He sighs and closes his eyes, leaning his head against your hand. “I just still can’t believe it,” he whispers. “Believe what?” “That, um…that you give a shit about me.” You feel tears start to creep into the corners of your eyes, wishing you had some better way to communicate to this man that you don’t just give a shit about him - he’s your everything

You settle, for the moment, for pressing a kiss to his lips demandingly, trying to feed all the amount that you want him into the force of it. Later that evening, when the game is almost over, the party host corners you in the kitchen. You’ve finally gotten Pope to engage with some of your friends and he didn’t follow you in here. “Hey,” the guy says awkwardly, “so, uh…you and that guy aren’t like, serious, right?” “No, we’re pretty serious,” you say lightly, trying to skirt around him with your drinks in hand, but he blocks you

“Okay, but like - we’ve been working together for years, and you never even gave me a shot,” he protests. “Uh…” you don’t really know what to say to that. He’s so close to you that you can’t even see around his torso - which is maybe a bummer for him, considering you can’t warn him that Pope has entered the kitchen - not that you probably would’ve. Pope’s fist to the guy’s nose is clinical, precise - brutal. But honestly not overly violent, especially for Pope. It was a warning, not a punishment. The dude is on the ground spluttering about how he’s gonna sue Pope, and you laugh as Pope winds you protectively under his arm. “Good luck with that,” you say above the guy, “I didn’t see shit.”

🏃🏻‍♂️‍➡️Titus Danforth🏃🏻‍♂️‍➡️

You’re fairly certain there should be some studies done on how a man can be so confident and entitled while simultaneously being so worried that he’s not good enough. That man is Titus, and you know his ridiculous family is to blame, but you also don’t know what on earth you’re supposed to do about it. He’s so blasé about other people trying to flirt with you - which happens fairly often, thank you very much - and quite frankly, you’re really craving a little possessiveness

“I didn’t start dating a scary, secretive, filthy rich man just to be laughed at when I mention that my brother’s friend offered to ‘shotgun weed right into my hot little mouth,’” you tell your friend morosely at brunch, staring down into your cranberry mimosa while it bubbles. “Then tell him you let the guy do it,” she says casually, shrugging a shoulder. “What?!” “Tell him you’re entertaining these offers.” “Oh, Jesus,” you say, laughing, “I don’t know if I’m capable of lying like that.” “Alright,” she relents, “well you could at least imply that the offers are intriguing for you.” “Hmm. Maybe,” you say skeptically

You decide to try it, not entirely sure why you’re looking to play games with a man who is, in fact, pretty powerful and secretive and scary. But it thrills you - and you have a feeling somewhere in the back of your head that maybe it’ll thrill him too. You’ve downed a solid two glasses of wine at dinner in preparation. “So, um, you remember my brother’s friend I told you about?” “Hmm?” Titus says, sounding bored, “oh, I suppose so. The one who wants to ‘shotgun’ and is fond of your mouth?” He’s smirking and seems deeply unconcerned. “I’m going over to his house on Thursday,” you blurt, and you nearly follow it immediately with no I’m not I’m lying oh my god

But, you do see something dark flash in the back of Titus’s eyes, and it makes your stomach tighten. At least, you’re pretty sure you see it - it’s gone in a second, and he smoothly says “hmm. Have fun with that, then. Just make sure you’re back in time for breakfast with my father on Friday.” He slips his glasses back on and goes back to reading the novel in his hand while you both wait for dessert to come out. You slump in your chair, frowning and pouting disconsolately - entirely missing the fact that Titus is not reading a word, but rather staring at you sharply with an eyebrow raised and a knowing smirk spreading across his lips

You make yourself scarce on Thursday evening, hiding in the back corner of a bookstore a town over with coffee and a veritable stack of books, determined to make Titus sweat a little bit. He sits quietly in the backseat of his Range Rover outside, sunglasses obscuring his face and ignoring his driver’s very subtle impatient finger taps that occur every half hour or so, watching you through the window. As soon as you’ve finally returned your coffee cup without getting it refilled and begun collecting your books into the designer tote bag he got you last month, he directs his driver to take him home

He’s sitting ramrod straight on the sofa when you return, and you feel a little thrill of triumph at the furious look on his face - but it’s mixed healthily with a dose of anxiety, because damn - he really does look mad. “Where have you been?” he demands as soon as you’ve set your bag down. “I told you I was going to see my brother’s friend,” you say smugly, “you didn’t seem to much care.” “Really?” he says, sounding far too controlled as he stands and walks you back against the corner of the entryway, “that’s very interesting. As far as I understand, that young man has been…indisposed.” “I-indisposed?” you stutter, your heart thudding once in trepidation. “Mm,” he confirms, “as in, not home. As in, tucked away somewhat safely in an ICU bed,” he finishes with a snarl

“Titus, oh my god,” you breathe, “what did you do? I wasn’t even going to see him! I was at a bookstore all evening!” “The one near the meeting hall, I know,” he says smoothly, voice suddenly light, backing away from where he’s cornered you, “you had quite a few americanos, eh?” You’re gaping at him in confusion. “Don’t try to trick me darling, ever, it simply doesn’t work.” He gives you a tiny shrug, like it’s not his fault he’s this good. You snap your mouth shut and rub your forehead nervously

“How mad are you right now?” you finally whisper, looking at the floor. “None,” he says, stepping in front of you again, but it’s markedly less predatory than before, “but…” He’s quiet for long enough that you peer up at him in anxiety. “I would like confirmation that you’re not, in fact, planning to be ‘shotgunned’ by any odd little men anytime soon.” He won’t meet your eyes, and you laugh in disbelief. “You’re not actually worried about that, are you? I thought trying to trick you would be fun because you’d know already it wasn’t possibly true.”

He clears his throat and purses his lips, still looking at the wall behind you. “Oh, Titus,” you say, not pitying but just sad now, “honestly, I don’t even remember what other men are since I’ve been with you.” He finally looks at you, beautiful hazel eyes brightening by the second. “It…would be my preference that you kept it that way,” he says stiffly. In response, you pull him in for a kiss, which he rapidly takes control of and intensifies. Once you pull away from him, breathless, you do have to confirm, “you didn’t actually do anything to that guy, right?” “No,” he says, rolling his eyes, “but I will if he ever says shit like that to you again.” “Noted,” you tell him, biting your lip and burying your head in his chest

🤳🏼Dr. Jack Abbot🤳🏼

You and Jack have a pretty healthy adult relationship. It’s hard not to - he’s a fairly together, responsible man who’s actively in therapy and has a job that requires him to be in definite control of himself. And he’s truly past the age where games and drama are appealing to him in any way, shape, or form. So over breakfast while he’s absolutely rambling on, just really gushing about one of the R3s that he hopes will end up attending at the Pitt, you try so hard to just keep a pleasant smile plastered on your face

You feel your own stomach drop even as you open your mouth to say “good lord,” in a high-pitched, strained voice, “why don’t you just go ahead and fuck her? Get it over with?” You immediately look down at your eggs in regret and wish you could suck the words right back into your mouth. Jack sits back against his chair. “Where’d that come from?” he asks gently. “Nowhere,” you mumble, “I’m just. I’m just tired, I’m sorry.” “Mmm, nah, not buyin’ it,” he says

You huff in exasperation. “I don’t know, Jack, I’m just…out of sorts. I worry, you know?” “About what, baby?” he says in genuine confusion, “you’re the only person I see that way.” “I believe you, but I’m sure not the only person who sees you that way.” “You’re silly,” he begins, but you cut him off. “No, don’t do that, don’t make it out like I’m crazy just for knowing that everybody thinks you’re the hottest thing in that ED!” “I don’t…think you’re crazy,” he says slowly, “but I do think maybe you’re…a bit incorrect.” He flattens his lips down dramatically

“Ugh, don’t meep, it’s distracting,” you tell him despairingly. “I still do not know what that word means.” “It’s the…thing you’re doing with your mouth right now, very cute - yknow it doesn’t matter, just. I’m being unreasonable. I know it.” He still looks a little baffled, but leans forward to grab your hands and presses on with “what can I do here, baby?” “I don’t even know. Just - don’t let me forget that, like…you think I’m…ugh. Exceptional, too?”

“Shit, is that it?” he says with a scoff. You frown at him. “I guess so?” “We should’ve started there, sweetheart, that’s easy.” He stands up and dumps your mostly-empty plates in the sink before pulling you up by one hand. He starts to bend to pick you up, but you smack him lightly on the top of the head. “We don’t need a repeat of last week, yeah?” you tell him severely, and he gives you a crooked grin in return, but relents, simply pulling you along down the hallway. He spends the couple of hours before bed telling and showing you exactly how exceptional he thinks you are

It’s a few days later when Park the Shark is - in his sharp, clinical, very detached way - really laying the praise on thick while you handle a nasty open rib fracture. Everyone’s fairly focused on their respective tasks while Park quietly continues to alternate every instructive statement with one of affirmation. Suddenly, out of nowhere, you hear Jack at the patient’s feet burst out with, “Jesus Christ, do you two want to get a room, or can we move on with this trauma?” Everyone looks at him wide-eyed for just a split second (except Park, who barely reacts) before bustling on with their work - you catch Jack’s cheeks reddening rapidly

Later, by the nurses’ station, he’s rubbing the back of his neck in front of you. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, baby, that was totally inappropriate-“ You cut him off with a big, sloppy smooch in front of everybody. When you pull back, he looks absolutely puzzled. “Nah, that? That hit the spot,” you tell him cheekily, tapping him on the chest with one finger, “that was perfect.” “Wha- perfect for what?” “We’re so good, old man, keep it up.” You spin on your heel and toss him a parting smile over your shoulder. Jack meets Robby’s eyes across the department and makes a what the fuck? gesture. Robby shrugs dramatically back at him before another gurney rolls in through the ambulance bay

Main Masterlist | v.2 Masterlist

Warnings: none! Very fluffy

✨Grant Reilly✨

All Grant really knows how to do is try and fix things. He creates, he modifies, he tweaks until he finds as close to perfection as he can get. So when you get sick and he can’t fix it back down to you being well, he gets antsy as all get-out

“Darlin’, you need to go to the hospital,” he’s insisting. “Grant,” you say in exasperation, rolling your eyes and stifling a cough, “I absolutely do not. It’s a cold.” “It’s been days!” he protests, fisting his hands on his hips and pausing his pacing around the living room. “Yeah, but I’m getting better, not worse. You’re feeding me, you’re medicating me, you’re absolutely dousing me in fluids,” you pause in a choking giggle at the raised eyebrow he gives you, “okay, bad choice of words - but, you get it. You’re already doing all the things for me that they could do there, I promise.”

He huffs through his nose slowly, finally coming to sit down next to you on the couch. “I’m just worried,” he finally says quietly into his chest. “I noticed,” you tease him gently, running your fingers through the front of his silver mop of curls. He hums in a pleased tone, lifting his head into your touch before he slides his hand to cup your knee

“If it’s not better - I mean, quite a bit better - in two days, will you at least go to an urgent care or something?” He’s giving you great big puppy eyes, and you tilt your head back to groan, the noise cracking on the mucus in your chest. “Yes,” you finally relent, reaching over to the side table for a tissue. “Good,” he rumbles, petting his hand across your head rhythmically for an absurdly long time, almost sending you to sleep

You rouse with a tiny jolt of adrenaline when he stands and presses a long kiss to your forehead. “I have to get to work, they’ll already be behind without me. You have your alarms set for your next two doses?” “Mhm,” you mumble sleepily, then without really thinking on it, you sigh, “wish I could have a real kiss. Don’t wanna get you sick, though.” “Well, I can do you one close,” he says cryptically, leaning down over you again. Grant presses a long, open-mouthed kiss against your collarbone instead of your lips, and despite your exhaustion, you press forward against him

He pulls back and chuckles, brushing your cheekbone with his thumb. “Keep feeling better, darlin.’ Need you back at a hundred, huh?” You nod sleepily and curl up under the blanket a little tighter. Rousing unwillingly to your first alarm of the afternoon, you stumble into the bathroom and find all your medications laid out on the counter with a little sticky note from Grant that says “promise I’m thinking about you the second you read this, whenever that might be” with a tiny, almost offensively perfect heart drawn underneath it

Suddenly there’s even more snot crowding the back of your throat as you start to tear up, choking out a little overwhelmed laugh as you start to pop shit out of blister packs. You dutifully take everything he went to the store and got for you, finally taking a semi-deep breath once you slather some Vicks on your chest, then forcing down about half a bottle of Gatorade with a grimace

Huddling back on the couch, you text Grant, knowing he’ll likely see it just before dinner service starts when he tucks his phone in his locker. “Took my next meds,” it reads, “you being the sweetest man alive is officially a medical problem now - don’t make me cry when I’m sick!!! I love you bunches, hope service is amazing, yes my other alarm is set.” You throw something mindless on the TV and lay back down, falling back into a heavy sleep

Rather than being woken by your next alarm, you’re slightly startled awake by a warm hand on your head. You jump, a little squeak triggering a small coughing fit. “Aw, I’m sorry, baby,” Grant says regretfully, kneeling down in front of the couch, “I wasn’t trying to scare you.” “What - what time is it?” you say groggily, wiping your hand across your mouth. “Almost seven.” “What are you doing here? Service is starting!” He rolls his eyes and laughs

“You don’t say?” he teases, resting his elbow on the arm of the couch to go back to petting your forehead gently, “I helped with prep and then I turned it over to the new guy. You remember Marcus hired him so I could have a night off occasionally?” “Is he ready for that?” “Honestly, I don’t really care. I wasn’t gonna be able to focus on anything tonight anyway. Sit up a little.” So you do, and he climbs onto the couch behind you, pulling your head down onto his lap once he’s settled. You turn into his thigh gratefully and doze back off for a while

⚡️Stan Rosado⚡️

Stan’s wrinkling his nose down at his calculus assignment. “Shouldn’t have gone for the fuckin’ grad level class,” he mutters at himself, leaning back in his chair. He’s distracted by a sound on the other side of the wall, realizing suddenly that he’s actually heard the same sound a few times over the last ten minutes or so. It’s quiet, but definitely audible in the tiny little apartment you two share just off campus

He steps out into the hallway as silently as possible, peeking around the corner for a moment. It’s only a few seconds he has to wait before he figures out the source of the noise - you’re muffling a coughing fit into the blanket you’re buried under. He comes into view, frowning at you deeply

“Babe,” he chastises, “you are getting sick.” “I’m not getting sick,” you say miserably, pulling the blanket over your head, “I’m already sick.” “Why didn’t you come get me? Or kick me out so you could come nap, at least?” You can hear him pad over to the couch, right before he lifts your bundled legs and sits under them, letting them rest back in his lap

“‘Cause you’re studying,” you say, peering back over the edge of the blanket to look at him with narrowed eyes, “and that’s important.” He pulls his mouth to the side, looking overly grateful, and somehow equal parts exasperated. “I can study out here,” he says gently. “The light’s bad, makes your head hurt.”

“Would you quit bein’ so self-sacrificing all the time?” he huffs, “makes me feel like some kinda high-maintenance guy.” “You’re not high-maintenance at all - you just don’t give yourself enough maintenance to begin with,” you protest, choking off another cough as it starts to tickle your throat

“I’d like to maintain you from time to time, ever think about that?” he shoots back, but there’s no bite behind it, particularly since he leans over to pet your head soothingly. You preen up into the touch even as a little nausea threatens to rise into your throat. Stan frowns as his palm grazes across your temple

He lays his hand fully on your forehead, then flips it to put the back of his hand against your skin. “You’ve got a fever and everything,” he says disapprovingly. “Sorry,” you mumble, and he purses his lips. “It was not an accusation,” he dismisses, lightly tapping you on the nose before he slides out from under your legs

“I’m going to the drug store,” he announces, and you sit up properly. “You don’t need to do that!” you squeak, desperate for him to get back to his work; you’re well aware of how hard calc has been for him, and moreover, how bad it’s been making him feel about himself

“Look,” he says, folding his arms and looking down at you, “if I do any more work tonight I’m gonna set the papers on fire. So let me use you as an excuse to take a break.” “Fine,” you humph, reaching behind you for a tissue. Once you’ve blown your nose, you peer back up at him, asking, “can I come with you, though?” “D’you really want to?” he says skeptically, but you nod. “Alright,” he acquiesces with a one-shouldered shrug, “let’s get you comfy, then.”

He grabs you some soft sweatpants and your slippers, along with one of his hoodies, and absurdly, he also snags the tattered little stuffed puppy you’ve been hanging onto all afternoon. Once he’s opened the car door for you, he leans in to buckle you in, and you roll your eyes with a wet scoff. “I’m not dying, Stan.” “Shush, this is part of the maintenance,” he dismisses you with a little kiss to your temple. You hide a smile into the collar of his hoodie while he rounds the front of the car

💫Sammy Bryant💫

Sammy’s very used to having to parse everything around him for the things that are actually problems versus the things people just think are a problem. He does it in his job every day, having to separate relevant information from bullshit, and he grew accustomed with Tammi to having to determine quickly if she actually needed something or if she was just looking to complain for a bit. In essence, he’s got a lot of practice getting way too much information and doing whatever he needs to with all of it

So when you end up in his life, he has zero idea what to do with the fact that you don’t offer up useless information easily - just about everything you tell him is relevant, or interesting, or useful, and it’s intentional, you’re so desperate not to waste any of his time when he has so little to spare anyway. It’s just unfortunate that in your brain, letting him know you’re not feeling well doesn’t fall under any of those categories

“Baby, are you alright?” he asks sharply one night as he feels you stumble slightly against his back while the two of you make dinner together. He’s turned to see you white-knuckle gripping the handle on the oven while you chop at the ground beef in the pot, swaying slightly. “I’m - I’m good, yeah,” you reply, breathless and entirely unconvincing

“Hey, you’re not,” he says harshly, laying the knife down on the counter and turning fully to put his hand at the small of your back, “what’s goin’ on?” He reaches around you to turn off the burner, and you make a little noise of protest. “I’m just a little woozy, that’s all.” “Have you eaten enough today? Had enough water?” You nod, but that makes you dizzy again and you lean back against him without meaning to. He catches you firmly around the waist with one arm

“Alright,” he says decidedly, and he leads you over to the table, pulling a chair out and gently nudging you down onto it, “do we need to go to the doctor or somethin’?” “I don’t think so. I’m just a lil sick, is all. I’ll be past it soon enough.” “What do you mean si- how long have you been sick?” “Two or three days,” you mumble, ducking your head down towards your chest, “I’ve just had a small fever and stuff and my head hurts. Been taking Tylenol, though.” “Why didn’t you say something?”

He’s leaned forward in a chair of his own with his head tilted to peer at your face, and he snags one of your hands from your lap as you give a tiny shrug. “Didn’t wanna bug you, I guess. It’s not really that bad, anyway.” He closes his eyes for a second and sighs, short and sharp. “Knowing you need something or need help with something is not ‘bugging’ me. Okay?” “Okay,” you mutter, and he tuts, leaning forward to tilt your chin up with two fingers, forcing eye contact

“Okay?” he repeats pointedly, and you huff with an eye roll before you finally settle your gaze onto his. “Okay, Sammy,” you finally actually acquiesce, and he gives a single satisfied nod before he leans back and blows a breath out through his lips. “Now, what do I need to go get you?” “I don’t actually know, Tylenol is kind of all I could think of,” you admit. “Alright, well…soup can’t hurt, and plenty of water. We’ll go to the doctor’s office tomorrow.”

He calls and makes you an appointment for the early morning so he can take you himself before work. “What if it takes too long?” you say worriedly in bed that night, “I don’t want you to be late.” “That’s the nice thing about being good at my job,” he mumbles into your hair from where he’s wrapped around the back of you, “I can be late every now and again and no one really gives a shit.” “What if Sal does give a shit this time?” “Then I’ll tell him you’re sick. He thinks you hung the moon, it’ll be fine. Now sleep,” he grouses, and tightens his arms around your middle