Isa Briones’ recent insta story made me so happy to see. It’s okay to love the Pitt, but it’s disrespectful to go after actors and only call them out for one popular role. Especially when they’re performing another role that is EQUALLY deserving of respect and praise!
So please, don’t go see her on broadway and call her Dr. Santos—and don’t go see Becky Shaw and only talk about Patrick’s role as Langdon! Their other works deserve recognition as well! There’s a time and place for everything.
I think some people misunderstand what the criticisms towards Robby are about. Of course Robby doesn't owe Langdon forgiveness. Of course he has every right not to trust him. Langdon screwed up big time, I think we all know that. However, that doesn't make the fact that Robby is handling the whole situation very poorly any less true. He's being unprofessional and borderline cruel. Whether he likes it or not, Langdon is back, and the only thing he's been trying to do all day, other than apologize, is his job. And he is good at his job, and they need all the help that they can get in there, so idk what Robby thinks he'll achieve by insisting on punishing him, but he's not helping anybody.
The other thing is, I'd respect Robby's anger towards Langdon a lot more if it wasn't so obvious that he is mostly offended on his own behalf. If it was really about the patients, why didn't he report him? He's mad because he took Langdon's addiction as a personal betrayal to him, and he's mad because seeing Langdon in his Healing and Making Amends era makes him feel even shittier about himself than he already did. Noah literally said this.
And it's not just the way he's treating Langdon. He has a pattern of being kind of a dick sometimes. And I understand that he is going through the worst days of his life, but so is every other character and Robby is the only one that seems truly stuck and unable to work through any of his issues without making them someone else's problem😭
Mind you I love Robby, I relate to him in a lot of ways, that's why it's so frustrating to watch him sometimes. He's a great doctor and he can be a great teacher when he wants to (he was so good to Mel in that one scene). I want to root for him, he just makes it so difficult bc he's so avoidant and doesn't want to get better. I do love his arc though and I can't wait to see him finally healed in season 55.
You check your phone for the fourth time in two minutes.
9:47 PM.
The screen stays stubbornly empty, no texts, no missed calls, nothing except the reflection of you staring back, all dressed up for a date that’s clearly not happening.
The restaurant reservation was for eight.
You’d even curled your hair.
The apartment is quiet in that loud, mocking way, the kind that makes every second drag. The low lamp casts a warm glow over the living room, over the shoes you chose carefully, the earrings Atsumu once said made you look “stupid pretty,” the dress you’d been saving for something special. You sit on the edge of the sofa now, spine stiff, hands folded in your lap like you’re waiting to be dismissed.
The key finally turns in the lock just after ten.
You don’t look up when the door opens.
Atsumu’s footsteps slow when he sees you. You can feel it, the hesitation, the way his energy shifts when he realizes something’s wrong.
“…Baby?”
His voice is tired, roughened by hours of practice, but there’s a lightness there too, like he expects you to laugh and tease him for being late.
You don’t.
“You’re late,” you say quietly.
He exhales, already rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, practice ran long. Coach was a pain in my ass today—”
“We had a date.”
That makes him pause.
You finally look at him then, and the words seem to land all at once. His jacket’s still on, gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair a mess from sweat and frustration. He looks good. He always does. That almost makes it worse.
“…Shit,” he mutters. “I forgot the time.”
You let out a small, humorless laugh. “You forgot me.”
His jaw tightens. “That’s not what I said.”
“But it’s what happened.”
Silence stretches between you, thick and brittle. Atsumu drops his bag by the door a little harder than necessary.
“You coulda texted,” he says. “I woulda told you.”
“I did text you,” you snap, hurt finally cracking through. “Twice.”
He blinks, pulls his phone from his pocket, and frowns at the screen. For just a second, you see genuine guilt flash across his face.
“I didn’t feel it buzz.”
You stand up then, smoothing your dress out of habit even though your hands are shaking. “I waited for you, Atsumu. For hours. I got dressed, I got excited, I told myself ‘he’ll be here any minute,’ and I just” Your voice falters, and you hate that it does. “I feel stupid.”
“You’re not stupid,” he says immediately, stepping closer.
“Then why do you keep making me feel like I don’t matter?”
That stops him cold.
His mouth opens, then closes. When he speaks again, there’s an edge to his voice, defensive, wounded. “That ain’t fair.”
“Isn’t it?” You gesture weakly at yourself, at the room. “I’m always the one waiting. Always the one understanding. It’s always volleyball first, Atsumu. Always.”
“You know how important this is to me,” he fires back. “I’m playin’ professionally. This is my career.”
“I know,” you say, voice breaking. “I support you. I just wanted one night.”
He runs a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through. “You think I like missin’ shit? You think I don’t work my ass off so we can have nice things, so you can have” He stops himself, then says it anyway. “I’m the one makin’ the money here.”
The words hang in the air, ugly and sharp.
Your chest tightens. “What?”
Atsumu’s eyes widen slightly, like he realizes too late how that sounded, but he doesn’t take it back. Pride flares instead. “I mean, I bust my ass every damn day. I buy you nice things, I pay for this place.”
You don’t let him finish.
You reach down, tug off your shoes, and fling them at him. One hits his shoulder; the other clatters uselessly to the floor. He yelps in surprise.
“If you want them back so bad,” you shout, tears finally spilling over, “take them! You bought them, right?”
Before he can react, you yank the earrings from your ears and throw those too. They bounce off his chest and land somewhere near the couch.
His face hardens.
“Real mature,” he snaps.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” you laugh bitterly. “Should I give you everything else too?”
You turn, storming toward the bedroom, heart pounding. As you pass him, he grabs your wrist not hard, but firm enough to stop you.
“I also bought that dress you’re wearin’,” he says, voice low, cutting. “So what, you gonna take that off too?”
The words slice deeper than anything else tonight.
You wrench your hand free. “Screw you, Atsumu.”
You slam the bedroom door behind you, the sound echoing through the apartment. Your chest heaves as you pace the room, hands trembling as you finally break down, sinking onto the edge of the bed. You scrub at your face, furious at yourself for crying over something that shouldn’t hurt this much, but does.
A moment later, the door opens again.
“Atsumu, I said—”
He closes it gently behind him.
For a second, neither of you speak. The anger drains from his face, leaving something raw and exhausted underneath. He looks small, somehow, without his bravado.
“I didn’t mean that,” he says quietly.
You cross your arms, staring at the wall. “You said it.”
“I know.” He swallows. “And I’m sorry.”
That alone makes you turn back to him.
He steps closer, slow, like he’s afraid you’ll bolt. “I was pissed. And tired. And I hate that I made you feel like like you owe me or somethin’. You don’t.”
Your voice comes out shaky. “You made me feel like I was replaceable.”
His face crumples at that.
“Angel,” he murmurs, stopping just in front of you. “Never that. Not you.”
He reaches out, hesitates, then gently cups your cheek. His thumb brushes away a tear like it physically pains him to see it there.
“I fuck up,” he admits. “A lot. I get wrapped up in volleyball and my own head, and I say dumb shit when I’m cornered. But I never meant that. You’re not some thing I buy.”
You sniff. “Then why did you say it?”
“Cause I’m scared,” he says, honest and unguarded. “Scared I’m failin’ you. Scared I’m not doin’ enough. And instead of sayin’ that, I ran my mouth.”
You let out a shaky breath.
He leans his forehead against yours. “I shoulda texted. I shoulda remembered the date. I shoulda come home earlier. I’m sorry I hurt you, baby.”
The anger in your chest finally gives way, leaving behind nothing but exhaustion. You sag forward, pressing your face into his shoulder, fingers curling into his jacket.
He wraps his arms around you immediately, holding you tight like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.
“I’ll make it up to you,” he whispers. “Not with money. With time. I promise.”
You nod against him, voice muffled. “I just want you here.”
“I am,” he says softly, kissing your hair. “I’m here.”
And for tonight, at least, that’s enough.
——————
back at uni now so i’m now able to write as much but i hope you enjoy! :)
✧.* tags/cw (for this chapter) ⟿ alcohol, there's an 'ew men' scene but it's very brief, mention of past abuse/domestic violence
⋆｡°✩ w/c ⟿ 5.1k
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ a/n ⟿ hi again <3 i did a lot of revising to this chapter from how i'd originally written it, and i really like the way it reads now, so i hope you enjoy it as well!! buckle up because the slow burn has only just begun! ty for reading and please let me know what you think!!! <3
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Atsumu has very quickly learned that dating is hard. He’s never really done this before, so it takes him an embarrassingly long time to figure out how to not make a fool of himself. After three weeks of hopelessly resisting the urge to sleep with everyone he takes out, Atsumu feels lost. It’s not his fault—he’s really trying. There have been a couple people who have followed up days or weeks after, but only for a repeat of the night they spent together, all of them totally uninterested in anything more. He doesn't blame them, he can't really, not when he'd been stuck in the exact same cycle until a few months ago.
In need of a break from his newfound romantic struggles, he finds himself laid out on Osamu’s couch, Sosuke snuggled up on his chest, fast asleep. It’s unbelievable how big he’s gotten in just a couple months—they really do grow up fast. He’s been an angel of a newborn, hardly ever fussy, sleeps well, has no problem nursing. Atsumu’s cooing at him softly when Keiko walks in the room with a laundry basket. He’s quick to offer help, “Y’want me to do it while you hold ‘em? Or I can put ‘em in the bassinet and do it for ya and you can relax?” She smiles at him but shakes her head as she leans over the back of the couch to brush a thumb over her son’s cheek tenderly, “It’s fine Tsumu, I’ve got it.”
He squints at her, “M’serious I’ll do it for ya.”
She laughs, shaking her head again, “No, Tsumu, promise. I’ve got it.” He hums at her, still not convinced.
“Hey Keiko?” She turns to him at his change in tone, listening as he continues, “How did ya know ya wanted to have kids? Get married an' all that?” Her eyes light with surprise and she hums in thought, “Well…hm, I guess I’ve always wanted those things?” She laughs lightly, “My first year of college, before I met Samu, I was in an awful relationship that messed up the way I thought about that kind of stuff—I didn’t think it was for me anymore.” Atsumu nods as he listens. “That eventually crashed and burned, and then I met your brother, told him I didn’t ever want to get married, or have kids for that matter.” There’s a little twinkle in her eye now. “You know how he is, all calm and steady; he just told me whatever I wanted, he’d go along with it as long as we were together.”
Atsumu scoffs and resists the urge to make a gagging sound, Keiko laughs softly at his expression before she continues, “Being with him made me realize that I did still want all of those things, even if I’d convinced myself I didn’t deserve them.” He’s quiet for a long moment, until Keiko adds quietly, “Y’know, it’s okay to change your mind about things.” He hums softly, thinking as Sosuke stirs lightly on his chest. Their eyes are on him as he stretches, fussing lightly. Keiko rubs his back gently, “Let me finish this and I’ll feed him, okay?” Atsumu nods, moving to sit up so he can cradle his nephew to his chest, bouncing lightly as he watches Keiko move down the hall to grab the last of the laundry from the dryer.
A few minutes later Osamu walks in the front door, toeing off his shoes and hanging his Onigiri Miya hat up on his way to the living room. “Didn’t know ya were here, Tsum.” Atsumu stands, careful not to jostle the baby still in his arms; he’s fully awake now, inquisitive eyes focused on the slowly moving ceiling fan.
“How’s the restaurant?” he asks. Osamu hums in response, “S’good, just went ta check on the new hire. He’s a good kid.” He rounds the coffee table to brush his fingers gently against the baby's forehead, pushing back the fine, silky curls there. Atsumu passes Sosuke into his brother’s arms where he immediately buries his head into his dad’s chest.
He checks his watch, it’s already almost five.
He gives Samu’s shoulder a light squeeze and a waves to Keiko as he turns towards the front door. Sosuke gets a big smile and a kiss pressed to his soft curls before Atsumu leaves the house. He’s got a few errands to run before the MSBY end of season party tonight.
This environment is Atsumu’s comfort zone; a rainbow of lights illuminates the crowd of people moving about the bar, the alcohol is flowing, and the dance floor is thick with moving bodies. Meian carries a total of six drinks in the cradle of his large hands, his long fingers curled around the base of the glasses as he offers them to his teammates around the table. “Season’s over boys! First round’s on me!” Cheers go up from around the table as hands grab at the glasses their captain has just placed in front of them.
Next to Atsumu, Sakusa lets out a long sigh, taking a sip of his beer before turning to the blonde with a teasing glint in his eye, “So, how’s dating going? Found the love of your life yet?”
He already knows how it’s going since Atsumu never shuts up about it, but he can’t resist the opportunity to get under his teammates's skin about it. Atsumu narrows his eyes at the wing spiker with a scoff, “How do ya think it’s goin’?” The taller man laughs at Atsumu’s put off expression.
“Y’know, last week I went out with this guy that said he was lookin’ for something serious,” he takes a swig of his drink, “we spent less than thirty minutes at dinner before he insisted on sucking me off in his car and tellin’ me he was just wanted to fuck around.” Sakusa laughs, “I didn’t think I’d ever hear you complain about getting head.”
Atsumu throws his hands up, exasperated, “Nothin’ makes sense anymore, Omi.” His lamenting is interrupted by the distinct sound of Bokuto shouting something unintelligible as he approaches the table. Atsumu does a double take when he realizes it’s not his husband who he walks up with, hands clasped together, but a woman.
Now that’s interesting.
She’s standing slightly behind him, left hand held gently in Bokuto’s right. Keen eyes scanning her surroundings as she takes in each of the larger than life men around the table. Eventually her eyes settle on Meian’s wife, who’s sitting a few seats down from Atsumu. He watches her expression lighten a bit as she shuffles so she’s not quite as hidden behind Bokuto’s broad frame, polite smile turning more genuine when she catches Mira’s eye. There’s something familiar about her, but Atsumu can’t quite put his finger on what it is.
An elbow pokes harshly into his side and he turns to catch Sakusa’s glare. “Quit it.” He huffs, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest, “Omi-kun, m’not even doin’ anythin’, ya jerk.”
Rubbing at his side, Atsumu turns his gaze back to Bokuto just as his husband appears beside him, three drinks in hand. Kuroo sets the glasses on the table, passing one directly into Bokuto’s waiting hand with a kiss on the cheek before passing the other to the woman next to him. Bokuto has let go of the mystery woman’s hand and moves to crouch next to Shoyo’s chair, motions grand as he talks excitedly to his teammate and tries not to spill his drink. Atsumu stands, grabbing his empty glass and making his way to the bar for another; he notices Bokuto’s friend has taken a seat next to Meian’s wife, with her hair tucked behind her ear now, smiling shyly at the woman beside her as they talk.
He uses his short time at the bar to his advantage, taking in the soft glow of her skin under the club lights and the way her hair seems to perfectly compliment the color of her eyes, when she laughs she squints just a little and gets this cute crinkle in her nose when she smiles.
On his way back to the table, fresh whiskey sour in hand, he leans on the back of Hinata’s chair to catch the conversation between him and Bokuto. “-and so now we have a cat!” Hinata laughs at the apparent ending of Bokuto’s story, and Atsumu takes the opportunity to lean close enough to ask, “Who’s yer friend Bokkun?” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and looks up to see that Kuroo is now draped over her chair, chatting with her and Mira, “Didn’t know you and Kuroo added a third.” Bokuto looks confused before following his gaze to the other side of the table, “Oh!” he laughs loudly before saying your name, “I've known her since we were little, she just moved here from Tokyo, so she’s staying with us until she finds a place.” Bokuto then proceeds to turn and shout at you from across the table.
You startle as Kou calls your name, turning from your conversation with Mira. He’s energetically waving you over to where he’s knelt next to a couple of his teammates. One is seated, he looks shorter, but broad at the shoulders, tan skin with pretty ginger hair that glows under the dim lights of the club; the other is hunched over the back of his chair, looking at you in a way that makes you want to squirm in your seat. Platinum hair and eyes like liquid honey, his brows are dipped slightly like he’s trying to pick you apart and examine each individual piece. Kuroo pokes at your side, eyes on his husband as Bokuto’s motions get more exaggerated, “He’s not gonna stop until you go over there.”
You huff as Kuroo chuckles, steeling yourself and grabbing your drink; you offer Mira a wave—you’re glad you’re not on your own in this group of hulking athletes. Bo meets you halfway there, hovering a little. His arm is thrown over your shoulder casually, and he gives it a light squeeze before turning to flash you a reassuring smile.
Bokuto sweeps a hand in front of him, motioning to his teammates as he introduces the three of you. Hinata, the red head, is quick to engage you in conversation when you sit down next to him, the way he talks is animated, and his genuine interest in what you’re saying has you relaxing a bit. You rib at Bo as Hinata regales you with tales of their antics, contributing your own favorite stories involving your childhood friend with easy smiles.
“So, in Rio they have this–” Hinata cuts off sharply, his eyes drawn to something behind before he makes a pleading expression in Bokuto's direction. Without exchanging a word the two of them are on their feet, moving with a purpose towards the bar. You turn to see what they’ve rushed off to, oh—of course, it’s a bartender lighting a line of shots on fire.
You smile at their backs and turn towards the table. Atsumu, who has only spoken a few words since you made your way over, has that inquisitive look in his eyes again and suddenly you feel very alone. Kou’s off potentially catching himself on fire and Kuroo is nowhere to be found, meaning your safety blankets have vanished. You curl in on yourself a bit, letting your hair fall from behind your ear like a shield. When Atsumu speaks it’s soft—well as soft as it can be in the midst of a rowdy bar, “Bokkun said ya just moved here?” His tone is earnest despite the almost calculating look on his face.
Without Bokuto to help you dodge the subject, you’re struck silent for a moment before you answer, “Oh, yeah I uh—I needed a change of scenery.” Atsumu tilts his head like he wants to ask for more details, but you’re quick to turn the question on him instead, “Are you from here?” He thankfully lets it go, shaking his head when he tells you, “Nah, grew up in Hyogo. S’not too far though.”
Atsumu watches you reach for your drink, only to find it empty. His now slightly tipsy brain zeros in on the ring on your left hand. A modestly sized clear stone set low in a plain band, all white gold. Before he can actually think, words are coming out of his mouth, “I didn’t realize ya were married, been long? What does yer partner do?” He watches your face twist in confusion.
You stare at each other for a long enough moment that it becomes awkward.
His eyes flit between your face and your left hand, so you follow his gaze, finally catching the soft shine of the ring on your finger. You can’t help the burst of laughter that makes its way past your lips, bringing your hand in front of your face to shield your smile. Atsumu is still staring at you, still confused, and you swear you see his cheeks go a little rosy.
Your laughter tapers down enough for you to speak clearly, “Sorry, I forgot I was wearing this,” you point to the aforementioned ring. “I um, well—I had a really bad experience last year with a guy at a bar and so now I wear it to deter men…” you trail off with an almost awkward laugh as you watch a flash of something that looks like concern grace his features.
He’s quick to apologize, “M’sorry, I’m not askin’ in a weird way I just…” You raise an eyebrow at him. He makes an exasperated sound that’s also a little pleading, “M’drunk enough that’m’about ta overshare so if ya don’t want that please walk away now.” The alcohol must be getting to you a little bit as well because you just laugh and motion him on despite the clear out he’s given you.
Atsumu's mentally kicking himself for unloading all of this stuff on someone who’s basically a complete stranger, but the amount of alcohol he's consumed in the last hour is not helping, and well—he already gave you a chance to stop him, “So I’m a twin. An’ my brother just had his first kid and it kinda changed the way I see my whole life?” He watches you nod before he continues, “Long story short I’ve never wanted to get married, have a family, all that stuff, until I saw the three a’ them together, and now I’m trying to make up for all th’ time I feel like I wasted fuckin’ around-” it’s like he physically cannot control the words coming out of his mouth, “literally.”
A blush spreads across your cheeks, and you laugh quietly as you glean the meaning of his words. You stare at each other before he hears you utter a soft, “Oh,” and then he’s apologising all over again. He waves his hands in front of him, “M’sorry—again. S’not yer problem, I just asked if yer married cause I’m tryin’ ta understand how to be sure that that’s what I want, ya know?” Something like a sly smile has crept onto your face in the past thirty seconds and it makes him flush, he scrubs his hands down his cheeks in embarrassment just as Kuroo materializes beside him.
The taller man places a hand on Atsumu’s shoulder and points towards you with a smile, “Sorry Tsumu, Bo’s drunk and if I don’t get this lady on the dance floor in two minutes we’re gonna have a problem.” You giggle at your friend when he winks at you playfully.
What he’s saying isn’t untrue, but you can see on his face that he feels bad for leaving you alone and is trying to make up for it. Before you let him pull you away, you turn to Atsumu, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder, a soft smile on your lips when you tell him, “I don’t really have an answer to your question, but good luck anyways.” You give a small wave and Kuroo puts a hand on your waist to guide you to Bo through the sea of bodies.
In classic Bokuto fashion, he is throwing it down on the dance floor when you reach him through the thick crowd. He immediately takes your hands, spinning you before pulling you close to his chest while you laugh loud enough that he can hear you over the heavy bump of the music. Kou’s movements are easy to follow, and his hands guide you with familiar touches as you feel the bass thrum in your chest. You’re tipsy, but you’re sure you’d still be having just as much fun even if you weren’t. Kuroo’s got his phone out next to you, using his mediocre camera skills to take videos of you and Bo lip-syncing to all of your favorite songs under the flashing lights, cheeks flushed with alcohol.
Some time later, when your skin glistens with sweat and you’re out of breath, you pull away from Bokuto and Kuroo to make your way to the bathroom. You’ve got a smile on your face, still riding high on the energy from the dance floor as you turn the corner, spotting the bathrooms and finding there isn’t even a line—a good omen, you think.
You squeeze between a few groups of people when your good omen almost immediately betrays you as someone runs into your side hard.
You’re jostled by the contact, glad you haven’t had any more to drink as you barely manage to stay on your feet as it is. A man, tall and lanky, looms over you as you turn to apologize, immediately taking the blame for the collision whether it was your fault or not. He opens his mouth to say something, brow pinched like he’s mad until he gets a good look at you. The dip in his brow smooths and a devilish smirk settles on his face in its place—the look in his eyes immediately makes you uncomfortable.
You curse yourself for leaving the safety of your friends instead of dragging at least one of them with you when you left the dance floor.
The man leans close enough that you can feel his breath on your cheek, “You lost, doll?” The corner of the club you’re in is a little tucked away, on the opposite side of the dance floor from the bar and the table the team has been occupying. You try to steady the trembling in your hands as you respond, “I’m good, thank you! Just meeting my husband over there.” Making sure to point with your left hand so he sees the ring, you move to walk past him, but he sticks to your side speaking again like he didn’t hear what you just said—or doesn’t care, “M’sure you and me could figure out something much better to do, yeah?” His hand comes up to rest at your waist and you barely resist flinching away.
You can feel the panic welling up in your chest. Bo and Kuroo are somewhere behind you, probably still right in the middle of the sea of bodies on the dance floor, so turning your back to this stranger in search of them isn’t really a great choice at the moment. Fleetingly, you consider going along with it, asking him to buy you a drink on the off chance you can lead him close enough to the table to draw someone’s attention. You’re taking a deep breath, readying your set up for the latter option when a warm body is suddenly pressing against you, a firm chest against your back.
“There ya are, baby,” despite barely meeting him, you immediately recognize the lilt of Atsumu's voice, “I got yer favorite.” A drink is passed to you as a hand wraps gently around your waist where the stranger’s had been moments ago, giving you a reassuring squeeze and not so subtly pulling you away from the man in front of you. You turn to look up at the blonde, noting the tension in his jaw and the way his amber eyes shine with something dangerous as he looks down his nose at the guy. The club is warm but you’re still drawn into him, reaching to wrap an arm behind him and fisting a hand in the fabric of his shirt to stop its trembling. When he speaks his voice is low, deadly, “C’n I help ya with somethin’? Cause if not I suggest ya move the fuck on.”
The man looks like he’s about to say something more, narrowing his eyes at you. Atsumu subtly shifts forward to tower over him and, with a hand still at your waist, turns you back towards the dance floor. Your hands are shaking so badly you’re afraid you’re going to drop the glass he handed you—Atsumu seems to notice this, reaching with a steady hand to take the drink from you. “Y’alright? He didn’t touch ya did he?” His voice is laced with concern and the dangerous spark in his eyes has been replaced with something much softer as he leans down to make sure you can hear him over the loud music.
The hand at your waist is gentle, comforting even. There’s a ringing in your ears and you feel a little shell shocked but insist you’re fine, “Sorry, I should have known better than to go by myself.” Your voice shakes despite the way you try to steady it, “He just bumped into me that’s all.”
Atsumu looks like he doesn’t quite believe you, “Are ya sure? You’ve got a whole team here that would beat the shit out of em if ya asked.” There’s a soft smile on his face and you can tell he means what he says. His honesty has a sound that’s halfway between a laugh and a scoff passing your lips, “I’ll be okay. I just need some air,” you scan the crowded dance floor, “have you seen Bo or Tetsu?” He shakes his head, “Want me to take ya out the back?” His hand moves easily to the small of your back and you can feel his thumb rubbing gently at your skin where there's a gap between your top and the waistband of your pants, “I know the bouncer and I can let Bokkun know what happened.”
Atsumu watches you take your bottom lip between your teeth, brows furrowing a bit in thought, so he amends, “Or I can take you back to th’ table, Mira’s still here and m’sure she’d stay with ya.” A moment passes and he feels your grip on his shirt tighten as you speak, “No, it's okay. Will you stay with me?” He’s surprised by your answer but agrees easily, already guiding you to the back door where the bouncer, Akinori, leans against the wall scanning the crowded space.
Atsumu calls out as you approach the exit, “Aki-kun!” He lays a hand on his shoulder before pulling him close enough that you can’t hear what they’re saying over the music, “Need ya to kick an asshole out, back by the bathroom hallway, skinny, green shirt, brown hair. Real fuckin' piece a work.” They both turn towards the back hallway where Atsumu points the guy out. “If ya see Bokkun or Kuroo can ya tell em ta come find us out back?” he asks. Akinori nods and glances at you, “Do I need to call someone? She okay?” Atsumu shakes his head, “She’s okay, just find Bo and Kuroo if ya can.” Akinori nods before moving towards the back of the club, speaking into his radio.
Atsumu pushes the door open and the sticky summer air is like a balm for your nerves as it settles on your skin. For an alley behind a bar it’s well kept, opening up to a walkway between a few other bars and some small restaurants. Atsumu leads you a few steps to your right towards a bench against the brick wall. He loosens his grip on your waist as you move to sit down, leaning your head back against the wall and closing your eyes.
You're not sure if it's the alcohol or the jarring absence of adrenaline, but your body suddenly feels twice as heavy.
Without opening your eyes you tug the ring off your finger, holding it out in the direction where Atsumu leans against the wall. When you don’t get a response you crack an eyelid to find him tilting his head at you. You smirk at him, “It’s a gift for saving me,” you can see that he’s about to protest, “it’s literally from a vending machine just take it.” He huffs a laugh but takes it from you, fingers brushing against yours before he tucks the ring into his pocket.
Your lips feel loose, and you find yourself telling him, "Y'know, I really was supposed to get married." There’s a curiosity in his eyes that you can tell he’s trying to tamp down. “You can ask if you want,” you assure him. Atsumu furrows his brows like he’s still trying to resist despite your prompting, but after a few moments he asks softly, “What happened?”
You hum, settling into that cold detached place you retreat to whenever you talk about this, “He beat the shit out of me is what happened.” You watch Atsumu’s jaw clench hard but you continue before he has the chance to say anything, “That’s why I moved here.”
Shame settles deep in your chest and you feel your eyes get misty and your gaze unfocused as you go on, “We’d been together for a few years and he’d never put his hands on me…” Atsumu stands almost unnaturally still against the brick as you speak, “then six months after we got engaged, he just snapped.” You clear your throat, “I don’t even remember what we were arguing about really, but something set him off and he hit me. I had bruises for weeks.” You bring a hand to your cheek like you can still feel the ghost of the blow. You laugh darkly, “He apologized a little later that evening and I told him I forgave him, but then when he went to bed I packed a bag and just left. Got on a bullet train in the middle of the night to come straight here. Scared the shit out of Bo and Kuroo.”
As you finish, an apology for oversharing already forming on your lips, Atsumu moves with a quiet grace that’s surprising for someone of his stature, until he’s half kneeling on the concrete in front of you, a hand resting on the bench next to your thigh while he speaks softly, “M’not gonna tell you I’m sorry cause it doesn’t seem like ya want any sympathy from me, but I am gonna say thank you.” His eyes are shining with a sincerity that takes your breath away.
“M’basically a stranger and ya didn’t hafta tell me all that, but ya trusted me with it and I think that’s real brave of ya.” You bite down on the inside of your cheek in an attempt to stop the tears from spilling down your cheeks, “Sorry–” you manage to choke out but Atsumu doesn’t let you finish, shaking his head firmly, “Nothin’ to be sorry for, s’okay.”
Both of you jump when the door slams open and Bokuto stumbles out onto the concrete, eyes frantic. His gaze lands on you and you watch him let out a relieved breath immediately followed by an apology spilling from his lips. “Are you okay? I’m so sorry I should have gone with you I didn–” you stop him, wiping the tears from your eyes before he spirals too far. “Koutaro, it’s okay.”
Bo’s been watching out for you since you were kids, always making sure you felt safe and protected; you know him being so far away from you when everything happened with your ex, not being able to be physically there for you, weighs on him. So in an attempt to placate him a bit you point to the man still kneeling in front of you, “Atsumu was there, so it's okay,” you trail off and turn towards Atsumu, meeting soft brown eyes. You give him a shaky smile and he returns it as he pats your thigh gently before standing and turning to Bokuto, “Already talked ta Aki, he’s takin’ care of it.”
Bokuto nods, grateful, before he puts a hand on Atsumu’s shoulder, a pained look on his face, “Thank you for being there Tsum.” Atsumu gives him a reassuring smile, “Anytime Bokkun,” and turns to go back inside. His name is out of your mouth before you can really think about it, and he stops with the door halfway open, the sounds of the club spilling into the alley. It takes everything in you to keep your voice from wavering, “Thank you.” His answering expression fills you with a warmth that immediately settles into your limbs, wrapping around you like a soft blanket, “Anytime.”
Fifteen minutes later you’re huddled in the back of an uber between Tetsu and Bo, leaning heavily into the former’s side as you fight the urge to fall asleep. The warmth of his cheek pressed to the top of your head and the way Bokuto is rubbing circles on the back of your hand with his thumb is not helping. Eyes closed, you can hear Bo’s guilt before he even opens his mouth to say anything. You address him without moving from your spot against Kuroo’s side, “Don’t even say it, Kou.” Kuroo huffs a laugh under his breath and Bokuto makes a pathetic sound beside you, “But–”
You sit up tiredly from Kuroo’s shoulder to look at him. The remorse in his expression is hard to miss, and it makes your heart squeeze uncomfortably in your chest. You’re so grateful for both of them, but you hate that they have to take care of you so often. The frustration builds and your eyes well up again, voice coming out in a rough whisper, “M’sorry you have to worry about me all the time.” He’s quick to gently pull you into his arms, wrapping them tightly around you with a hand cradling your head on his shoulder, “I’m always gonna worry about you no matter what, ya know?”
You feel the car stop, pulling away to dab away the moisture on your cheeks before following Kuroo out of the backseat and onto the concrete of their driveway. The three of you make your way up the drive, stopping to give the neighborhood cat a scratch behind the ears where she lays on the porch. Kuroo presses his key into the lock and speaks into the quiet night with a small smile, “Sleepover in our room?"
Summary: you and Frank — your long term best friend — had been sleeping with each other for a month and had sworn that you both wanted something casual and fun. But as time went on, it was surprising how uncasual things started to become with you two. 7 times the casual sex became less casual.
word count: 9,764
warning(s): friends with Benefits! This fic isn’t smut per say? It’s got very minimal smut but a lot of sexual language.
authors note: you can find this on ao3 as well here, but i think the Pitt fanfiction is really popular on tumblr so why not post it here too?
I don’t really use tumblr a lot but I’m a huge fanfic writer and i want to get my work out there!
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You and Frank — your long term best friend — had been sleeping with each other and had sworn that you both wanted something casual and fun.
It all started one night when you had lost a patient — a two year old with a heart condition — and were feeling vulnerable. Frank was fresh out of rehab, going through a separation when he had appeared at your apartment after your shift, end of July. It was almost too easy, how quickly he got you into bed that night.
You had chatted on your couch and caught up, you had comforted him on his upcoming return to the ED, and he had comforted you by reassuring you of your medical decisions. The second you leaned in for a hug you both slithered your bodies into each other further, kissing for the first time, and rocked by the electricity, one thing led to another and you had — for the lack of better wording — fucked your best friend.
It had you wondering why you had never done that before…why you were even mad at him a year previous — when he had gotten caught with the drugs. While he was in rehab you couldn’t stop wondering how he sounded, and looked like….you had missed him, and that night was your surrendering.
Soon after, you both had decided that you wanted to do that again, but not in any serious romantic way.
You had sworn it was casual, you had no desire to fall in love anytime soon — you had a history of heartbreak you didn’t want to keep — and for the first few months things were by all accounts casual.
But as time went on, it was surprising how uncasual things started to become with the two of you. You didn’t want to ruin the friendship you had with Langdon, but couldn’t help but notice when things felt, well…romantic…between the two of you.
The first time you noticed, was when you got ready for work together one morning.
You and Frank had been nakedly intertwined in his bed, when his alarm went off, and due to it getting more dark in the morning in September, you were still unbearably tired.
You groaned as you both woke up, 6:00am, you wrapped your arms tighter to him under his comforter, placing kisses along his neck.
“Hmm, stop,” Frank groaned as he rolled over to face you. “gotta get up.” A reply which made his voice husky and sexy from the sleepiness.
Before letting him go, you pulled him down as he hovered over you, and kissed him passionately with enough fever to make him want you again right then and there, until he pulled back and sighed saying,
“Christ, you’re gonna kill me one of these days.” His blue eyes locked to yours, and his smirk increased.
“You’re such a morning person.” You groaned. “God I can just see how energized you are by looking at your stupid face.”
Frank rolled his eyes.
“Can’t help it, some of us were just made for the grind. Now let me go.”
You went slack, letting him go, rolling over onto your back and closing your eyes, before your alarm on the other side of the room went off as well. Frank chuckled from his side of the room, facing the window as he dressed into his scrubs.
You sat up, and watched him get dressed, you found him embarrassingly attractive in his black scrubs, and he knew it. But for some reason, as you watched him he didn’t tease you, instead looked at you softly.
“I know you hate mornings, but we gotta do it. So rise and shine sweetheart.”
Frank walked closer to you, picking up your scrubs from the floor, starting with the shirt, he pulled it over you, then wordlessly, you stood up, holding onto his shoulders, you stepped into your scrub pants as he held them for you accessibly.
Frank finally pecked you on the lips lightly, assumadely subconsciously, as you reached for your stethoscope and you realized, as he opened his bedroom bathroom door, that he had never done that before.
Frank spat into the sink, and almost as if you were the only one overthinking that little interaction, Frank emerged from the bathroom to say,
“I made you a key.”
“What?” You said, exiting Frank’s bedroom, having remembered your toothbrush was in the ED’s on-call room, instead deciding on putting your shoes on, and hoping you had misheard what he had just said.
“I said,” Frank paused, grabbing his messenger bag, and baseball cap. “I made you a key, seemed more convenient than waiting for me to get off shift when I run over, you always come to mine anyways since I live closer to the ED.” He shrugged.
He reached into his bag, pulling out a gold key and dropping it into your hand, which you reluctantly held out.
Frank slipped his shoes on, and opened the front door, you stood wordlessly in the kitchen, thoughts looming behind your eyebrows, Frank turned around to face you.
“You coming or what?”
You nodded, and walked out the door behind him.
The second time you recognized it was when you had accidentally stabbed Frank.
You had been at a hospital gala in October downtown Pittsburg in some auditorium, when you had turned to Frank during the dinner portion of the night, and whispered something filthy in his ear, you had not known whether what you said was really that hot or whether it was the singular glass of champagne you had making you believe it was, nonetheless Frank turned to Robby and Dana and excused the both of you. Frank was tense the entire drive home, clearly excruciatingly turned on, and he subconsciously sped your car through the lanes to your apartment, glad that Abby had the kids that week.
There in your apartment he kissed you hungrily, as you dropped both your bags and his foot kicked the door closed, you didn’t bother turning on the lights. You slipped your shoes off just as Frank did, very hesitantly removing your lips from each other, before starting again, this time making out as you slipped each other out of your clothes, it was perfectly orchestrated every time you did that.
He knew all your most sensitive spots, where he could kiss you to get you to unravel, and you knew his, and were excited every time you touched him in a way that made him react just as you had expected him to.
When you had reached down to palm his crotch, he groaned into your open mouth, before his lips clamped back down on yours, and you laughed into the kiss as he grabbed your hips and backed you against your kitchen counter. Your hand snaked its way to the back of his head, running your fingers through his hair, Frank whined and he placed his hands back on your hips, running them up and down, something you had told him drove you crazy one day when he had insecurely told you he didn’t know whether he satisfied you enough.
“What are you doing whispering those things to me around Robby and Dana?” Frank asked, as he moved his mouth to your neck, sucking as he trailed up to that spot behind your ear. “Do you get off on that, huh?”
You whined as he pressed you closer to the counter, his right hand trailing down your front before reaching your crotch.
“I like being your secret.” You whispered. “Although, I will say, they’ve all probably caught on that we’re–”
He kissed you to shut you up, and you smiled at the embarrassment you knew he was feeling.
You wanted to take dominance, so you turned him around and slammed him against the counter, slipping your tongue into his mouth, and listening to him moan when you pulled back to kiss his neck. You kissed him again, pushing him gently toward the bedroom and as you did you reached for the light, and instead your hand knocked something over in the dark, and with a crash you heard and felt something fall in between you and Frank, you disregarded it, assuming it was your wooden spoons, but Frank pulled back swearing in pain.
“Sorry, is this okay? Did I hurt you?”
“Well I’m pretty sure what you knocked over was a knife.”
“No its fine, its probably just–”
Frank turned on the light switch with his left hand.
“Well, I’m pretty sure this is a knife.” He said, lifting his foot.
Frank had — not only a massive boner — but your large paring knife stabbed through his raised foot. You immediately stepped back, knowing that you couldn’t remove the knife until you got to the hospital, and that you were in fact the most careless sexual partner in the world.
“Oh my god, I am so sorry.”
Frank sighed, “This means we have to go to the hospital.”
You immediately grabbed his arm, draping it around your shoulder.
“I know,” You replied, he limped toward his clothes, now much more wrinkled than before.
“Where all our coworkers are.”
“I know, Frank, we won’t tell them anything okay?”
You helped him put them on, and threw yours on as fast as you could before limping down to the parking lot and shoving him in your car.
When you got to the ED, you and Frank embarrassingly walked through the ambulance doors, in wrinkled clothes — the ones you were wearing to the gala — and spotted McKay. Dana and Robby fortunately for you, were off shift probably still at the gala. McKay gasped when she saw you.
“Holy moly, did this happen at the gala?” She asked.
You and Frank shook your heads at the exact same time, your cheeks both pinking up in fluster.
“That would’ve been a much less embarrassing explanation.” Frank grumbled.
McKay led you both to a room, and you helped Frank on the bed. You turned to put some gloves on, reaching for the box that hung on the wall. McKay stopped you.
“I got it, just stay with him while I get a suture kit.” McKay turned to Frank. “And you. You know the deal, no opioids, just tylenol okay, I’ll go grab you some. You both are going to explain what happened when I get back.”
Frank gave her a weak thumbs up.
McKay stepped outside of the curtain heading toward what you assumed was the medical supplies closet. You stood beside Frank. Once McKay was out of earshot, you turned to him and he smiled at you sheepishly.
“God, everyone acts like I’m on the verge of a relapse.”
“You know she was just following your directive order, McKay understands as much as anyone that people change.” You gave him a serious look, your heart making you feel a strange way when he fake pouted at you, before he tilted his head up and down in agreement, his hair falling on his forehead.
“I know, I’m just being an ass.” He whispered. “We should’ve turned the lights on.”
“To be fair, we were kind of preoccupied.”
Frank laughed, and you instinctively reached down and grabbed his hand. You held it firmly. You had held Frank’s hand during sex before, fingers intertwined while he pinned you down to the bed, but you had never outside of that context. It felt nice to be in public and hold him, even if it was just holding his hand.
“I’m so sorry Frank, I understand if this puts you off, we don’t have to sleep together anymore, that was totally my fault I was careless, and I don’t want to put you in danger ever and—”
“Okay, stop,” Frank interrupted. He pulled your hand up to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles. “First of all there is no one I’d rather be sleeping with, you’re my best friend. Secondly, it wasn’t your fault, it was like, a cruel act of fate, it was the universe or something.” He shrugged.
You reached over with your free hand, softly running your hands over his hair.
“You’re my best friend too, you know that.” And when you said it, it felt like an ‘I love you’. Like you were laying your soul out on a platter.
You frowned at yourself, looked down at Frank’s foot and out of fear of the feeling you felt in your chest when you looked back up at him — him looking at you like he was in love with you, and your gratefulness that the knife only landed in his foot, not somewhere vital, your gratefulness in not losing him again — you dropped his hand quickly. He frowned.
“Everything okay?”
“Yea, yea…I’m just gonna go check on McKay, will you be okay if I leave you for a second?”
“Yea,” His eyes looked at your bottom lip, then scanned your face. “Yea, go, I’ll be okay.”
You rotated on your feet and walked around the curtain, toward McKay who was at the hub charting, with the suture kit ready. She placed her chart down, rested her arms on the counter in front of her, and looked at you in the way someone might if they were about to interrogate you. Like a mother who just knew you had told her a lie to actually get high with your best friend.
“Come on, spill the beans.”
You sighed. “You cannot tell anyone. And you can’t laugh.”
“Come on, I’ll be so chill.”
“Oh my god, just– promise okay, promise you won’t laugh.”
“Fine, I promise”
Before you spoke, you looked around to make sure you and McKay wouldn't be heard by others, and you spoke with a soft tone.
“We were making out in the kitchen, in the dark about to have sex, when I knocked the knife on my kitchen counter over by mistake, and then…well, now it’s in Dr. Langdon’s foot.”
You could tell she was trying not to laugh. She took a breath and made her expression serious.
“Wow okay…Dr. Langdon and you? Huh, everything makes a lot of sense now.”
“What?”
“Oh come on, you guys are attached by the hip, more than regular best friends should be. Even Abott was noticing how often you leave work together.”
“Unbelivable.” You muttered.
“So is it just casual sex or–”
“Oh my god!” You whined, like an embarrassed teenager.
“God, you sound just like my son, okay I’ll stop.” She chuckled.
You gave her the biggest eye roll of the century.
She turned to you, “You do know I’m gonna have to tell his ex-wife right?”
“Really? Oh my god.”
“About the injury I mean. Just the injury.” She clarified, clearly loving how mortified you already looked, god she was so good at embarrassing people, probably had a lot of practice with her son.
You blushed in embarrassment.
“Right, yea, Tanner will want to know too.”
“Alright, let's give Dr. Langdon some tylenol.”
You grabbed Frank’s chart off the hub, and followed McKay back to Frank’s room.
The third time you noticed, was when you helped him shave.
When you walked out the ED you heard a swarm of laughter from the hub behind you as you walked into the night. It had been a while since you heard that kind of laughter on shift…Frank had broken his arm when he had slipped on ice one day in November and had been out for a few weeks, he was the one always cracking sarcastic jokes.
Frank had gotten off shift before you that day and you watched him walk through the ambulance door, and his feet slipped from under him comedically, and he fell on his right arm. There was a lot of laughter then too, especially from Robby, who was the one to patch him up and order him some paid rest at home.
That’s where you were headed now.
When you got up to Frank’s sad divorce studio apartment, where you had been many times before, you pulled out your spare key, actually enjoying it as you unlocked his door. You had used it many times since he gave it to you, mostly because you wanted to fuck him, and one time because your upstairs neighbors were having a rager and you couldn’t sleep — you took a liking to Frank’s couch that night, while Tanner stayed in the guest bedroom. This time Abby had taken Tanner for the last week before Frank got his cast off to let him rest. When you entered, you had noticed first and foremost, that Frank was sprawled in his bed, his door open, wincing in pain, and that Frank’s facial hair had been coming in thick and you found that attractive as hell. You decided to help him relieve some of his pain with tylenol and with a blowjob, and when you finished Frank had begged you to help him shave his face.
“Why? It looks so good?” You asked, holding his face in one of your hands.
“I like to be clean shaven. Plus it's so hard to take care of.”
You pouted at him for a minute, ironic that you had just sucked him off and now you were being tasked with shaving his face.
“Please,” He begged, pouting back at you. “You know I’m right handed, I’d do it if I could…but it’s fine, I’ll figure it out with my left hand—” He went to get up, when you shrugged.
“Hey, no no, I’ll do it. I want to take care of you, even in nonsexual ways.”
You grabbed his hand and both got off of his bed, him in his boxers only, you still in your scrubs. You instructed him to sit on his bathroom counter, and he did begrudgingly. You grabbed his clippers, razor, and then shaving cream from his medicine cabinet.
“No painkillers in there this time around.” You said absently. “I’m really proud of you for getting clean, I’m sorry I never say it.”
A year previous, Frank had promised you he was clean, and you tore his bathroom apart, finding painkillers not only in his medicine cabinet, but also under his sink. This was a day before you also found out he had been stealing drugs from work.
At the time you felt like you didn’t know him at all, like you had lost a best friend, but now you trusted him fully. You felt the change in him the moment you saw him for the first time again, and you began to trust him even more as the days went on. You just were scared of losing him to a feeling that was beginning to bloom in your chest, a feeling you were too scared to address just yet.
“Hey,” He looked at you seriously. “Don’t nic me.”
“I won’t.”
He gave you a skeptical look, you glared at him.
“Do you trust me?” You asked.
“Yes.”
“Then let me help you.”
First you started with the electric clippers, shaving sections of his beard in lines. Then when that was done, you switched to a standard razor, shaving what was left. Silence fell over you for a second and it felt intimate, the clippers part was easy, it was fast, what felt intimate at that moment with the razor in hand, was how close your face was to his. It felt strange, not bad, just strange. You had your face close to Frank’s while you fucked, while you kissed, even while you were just friends without the benefits. But now with the added details and emotions it felt like Frank could see right through you, like he could tell what you were thinking.
The scraping of the razor against his facial hair interrupted your thoughts.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sorry. I really thought I had the pills–my addiction under control, and I didn’t know how much it would impact you when you found out. You were the most important person to me…still are. I never should’ve made you feel unsafe.”
“That’s honest, and sincere.” You said, a little surprised, but grateful.
“That’s what they sort of teach you to be in rehab.”
“Well, I forgive you, I’m just glad you’re back with me now.” You went along the other side of his face now, pausing to shake the hair off the razor.
And that was all that needed to be said really, you were tired of missing him, and arguing, this time…you didn’t have to do any of that, you could just be there with your best friend. You could also fuck him, and experience a new level of intimacy you hadn’t with him before, and you were grateful for that too in a weird way.
When you finished shaving his upper lip, you smiled, and he turned around to look at his face in the mirror, then back at you before jumping off the counter to stand in front of you. He reached over with his left hand, applying aftershave to himself somewhat sloppily.
“You did a much better job than I do, even when my arm isn’t broken.” He smiled. “Why don’t we take care of each other this way more often?”
You shrugged.
“Maybe because it feels less good than sex?”
Frank shook his head.
“Feel this, it feels pretty good.”
He turned to you, and booped your nose before leaning his face close to yours, and rubbing his soft freshly shaven cheek against your face. You burst out laughing as he did, and realized the romance in it, as he kissed you, making you smell like aftershave. It was childish, not sexual, it was playful, not foreplay. There was something in that that reminded you Frank was perfect for you, in more than one way. He was right, it did feel good.
“I hope you break your left arm next time, so I don’t have to smell like aftershave ever again.” You replied, pushing the thought away.
He smirked, pulling you by hand into the bedroom.
“Now, let me eat you out as a thank you.”
Now, you couldn’t argue with that.
The fourth time it became less casual, Frank was the one who had noticed something about you. He had noticed how great with Tanner you were.
One day nearing the start of December, while he was running late from picking up Tanner from Abby’s — he had been swamped with traumas, and was catching up on charting — he had turned to you for help. He was surprised by how willing you were to help him out.
“Listen,” He had said, sitting at the hub charting, “I promise I would never put this on you…you’re not my partner or anything–”
You gave him a look that was interpreted as, ‘get to the point’. He fought back nervous laughter, unsure as to whether you could tell his coolness and casualness he swore he had for your situation was literally being hung by a thread. You crossed your arms over your chest.
“Tanner is a really punctual kid, he gets upset if I’m even a minute late, and I promised him we’d put up the Christmas decorations tonight, but I have so much charting to finish up on and–”
“Hey, I got it, I’ll pick him up, just send me Abby’s address.”
“Thank you so much, I texted Abby letting her know, I promise I’m almost done.”
“Just one thing,” You stood awkwardly in front of him. “What if Tanner asks how I know you?”
Frank paused. What he wanted to say was that you were his partner, but that wasn’t entirely true.
“Just tell him you’re my best friend.”
You nodded.
“Sure, I forgot we’re also best friends, not just fuck buddies huh.”
You grabbed your car keys and hurried out the ambulance doors, he felt a ping of relief.
Frank would never admit this to anyone, but you were the only person he would willingly ask for help from. When Robby had caught him with the drugs, a day after you had found his stash in his apartment, he knew that he could go to you for advice and to console him. He was glad he didn’t at the time, he didn’t want to put that responsibility on you, and now it was nice to have your help for things like picking up Tanner. And yes, sometimes sex.
When it all started, he really did want everything to be casual between you two. He went to your apartment to look for comfort from his best friend, but couldn’t help but give in to you. You had been as perfect as you were before he went to rehab, and you were the reason he fought so hard to get sober. He wasn’t ready to get his heart broken again the way he did with Abby, he was so scared to lose Tanner too, scared Abby would fight for full custody, he couldn’t lose the most important kid in his life, and his best friend too, so of course he agreed to the casual relationship. But God things were becoming less casual as the days went on.
He also wouldn’t admit it to anybody, but sometimes…okay most times, the part he liked the most about having sex with you, was that he got to hold you afterwards, that he got to kiss you like he loved you. He really did think you were beautiful too, he liked the fact that he knew every inch of your body, and what made you feel good. He liked the way you looked in his shirts, and your effortlessness in saying intelligent things.
And he couldn’t help but think about you during shifts, not always in a sexual way, and would watch you as you bit your lip in concentration and admired how carefully you carried yourself…how much you advocated for your patients and how everyone in the ED seemed to gravitate toward you. You had been Dana’s favorite that week, he knew because he had seen you share a cupcake on break.
He shook the thoughts out of his head, and took to the charting, hoping Tanner was okay.
When Frank finished his charting he hurried back home, praying to God that Tanner hadn’t thrown a tantrum, he didn’t want to throw the role of a parent onto you just yet. When he hurried up the stairs, into his hallway, and unlocked his apartment door, he saw you and Tanner on the floor. You were sitting with him, in front of a big decorated Christmas tree in front of his apartment window, you had managed to untangle the lights in the bins he got from Abby — she had gotten the other half of the ornaments in the divorce — and had opened the rest of the decorations. You also managed to navigate the kids channel on his TV, putting on his favorite show.
“It’s almost done! Good job buddy.” You said, raising your hand in a high five toward Tanner.
Tanner immediately high fived back, “Can we–uh can we put more on this side?” Tanner asked, and just as he did, you looked up at Frank, noticing him now.
“Hey, look, your dad’s home!” You said, in a childlike voice, he had never heard you speak that way before.
Tanner got up and turned around running into his arms. Frank picked him up and closed the door with his foot, dropping his bag and walking toward you.
“Hey kiddo, looks like you started without me.” He said, ruffling Tanner’s hair.
Frank looked down at you, he watched you mouth a ‘sorry’, he shook his head.
“I like your friend.” Tanner replied, and Frank and you both laughed.
Frank put him down and let him explore the rest of the ornaments that needed to be put up. You looked up at Frank as he took his jacket off and threw it on the couch.
“Sorry we started without you, I guess Tanner and I share a love for Christmas.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, keeping an eye on Tanner, who now navigated toward the couch. Tanner crawled onto the couch, and under Frank’s jacket laying down and yawning. Frank could tell he was close to falling asleep, and was sad to have missed it.
“Yea, I forgot about your weird obsession with Christmas.”
“Hey, you have a weird obsession with Halloween.”
“Not the same,” He said, pausing to look over at Tanner who was now asleep. “I’m sad I wasn’t able to help him decorate.”
Suddenly you grabbed his hand and pulled him down on the floor next to you. Frank resisted the urge to wrap his arms around your waist and bring you onto his lap. You had never really discussed what was too uncasual between you, but that was surely something that qualified, and he didn’t care, he wanted you, now more than ever. Your kindness to Tanner and your reliability made him want you always.
“Hey, the other half still needs decorating. He’s not going anywhere.”
He had needed to hear that, his son wasn’t going anywhere, and he was glad you were the one to have said it.
You took Langdon's hand and pulled him further down to the floor, toward the Christmas tree.
“What are we doing?” Frank asked.
“Just wait.”
You had instructed him to lay down and put his head under the Christmas tree with you, from below he could see all the lights and assorted ornaments in a different way. He turned to look at your face as you both laid there, he knew just from looking at you that you found such joy in seeing the lights this way. The size of the tree was huge, but still small enough that it forced you both to be close together, and this wasn’t unusual for him to be that close to you, maybe in this context it was though, he felt a romance in it. He didn’t flinch or move as you placed your head on his chest, in fear that the moment would be gone forever. He wanted to see joy on your face all the time, to be the reason you had joy on your face all the time, and he knew then that what he felt was much more than lust, much more than friendship, and that it was real. And he was so incredibly fucked.
“I never got this Christmas spirit you have.” He admitted. “But when I look at you and see that joy on your face, I guess I kinda do.”
You turned your head off of his chest to look back at him and there was something in the way you looked at him that made Frank wonder whether you felt it too.
The fifth time you noticed, was when you had yelled at a patient.
You could feel yourself stretching thin throughout your shift, it was 7:00pm in December and the end of your shift was in a couple hours, but at the rate you were going you’d be surprised to get out of the ED by 9:00pm.
You sat down at the hub across from Robby — your back to the ambulance bay doors — with a sigh and started typing in your charts, your feet and back were killing you and you had a headache. The chatter around the ED that day was higher than most days, and you had just finished up with 4 patients, one who needed intubation, the other who was coding for an hour before Robby called it, and the other two were basic wounds that needed sutures.
You swore if you had to do another set of sutures on wounds caused by skating or ice hockey accidents you were going to throw a fit. It didn’t help that the harsh lighting of the ER was making your head pound.
It also didn’t help that you hadn’t seen Frank in 10 days outside of work — the longest you’ve gone without having sex with him, and also the longest you’ve gone without hanging out with him as friends — other than when he was forced to go to rehab.
What a lot of people in the ED knew — despite you insisting they didn’t — was that you and Frank were always big texters.
Before Frank went to rehab, if you left your shift at different times one of you would get home and immediately send a text about something that you had discussed at work or about something that reminded you of him or him of you. If you left work together — and were too tired to hang out at one of your apartments — he’d walk you to your car then say, “I’ll text you later about that thing I was talking about”, and he always did. Or you would walk him to his car and say, “I’ll send you that link to the article I told you about”, for you, an excuse to have something to text about. The conversations would last for hours, you felt like you never ran out of anything to text about, and you liked that his banter sounded good in text too.
When Frank went to rehab you were so lonely you started sending stuff to Robby — who told you he was too old to figure out what you were talking about — then when Frank came back, and your sexual arrangement started up, the texting and hanging out started up again too.
You knew you were fucked when you found yourself smiling at your phone, while reading a text from Frank…and when you saw him smiling at his phone one day during shift you had hoped it was a funny meme or a picture of his kids from Abby and not a text from someone else.
But for one reason or another you hadn’t texted or even seen each other outside the ED in 10 days at that moment and it was killing you.
To be fair you were the one who stopped texting first, to test him, you started to feel like sex wasn’t the only thing you wanted, and you didn’t want to ruin your friendship if you said anything, but you also wanted to know whose court the ball was in and you were pretty sure it was his.
You hoped you came off as cool and casual, that you didn’t care it was his turn to initiate and he hadn’t yet, and you knew if he texted you, then you’d be in his bed in a second. But you also knew that you did care. You knew you were going to have to return the key he gave you, to set some distance further.
You looked up from your charting for a second to think, and caught Robby looking at you over his glasses.
“You good, kid?”
“Headache.”
He hummed in acknowledgment.
“Yea,” He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “those never go away, not while you’re here at least. But ask Dana for Advil and she’ll grab you some.”
Dana — who was across the room from you checking on room 15 — heard you,
“Advil? You got it kid, after I finish this up.”
You and Robby chuckled.
“She’s got hearing like a hawk.” You laughed.
Robby shook his head and looked back at his computer, you gave Dana a thumbs up before looking back down at your own computer charting. You rubbed at your lip with your fingers in concentration, and you adjusted your seat to help your back.
You pulled out your phone, you put your phone away when you saw nothing from Frank. You pretended to not care, putting on your mask of coolness again. You were in a casual relationship, it wasn’t fair to expect him to see you all the time.
“You seen Dr. Langdon?” You asked.
Robby shrugged.
“I’m surprised you don’t know, you guys are attached by the hip these days.”
You shrugged and looked back at your work. Just as you did you heard the swish of the ED ambulance bay doors open for the first time in an hour, and sighed letting Robby take his eyes off his computer to look behind you, toward the doors as he saw the plea of desperation on your face. You sighed, making the motion to swivel in your chair, but Robby waved a dismissive hand at you.
“Mel’s on it.” He said, his eyes looking behind you.
You nodded, staying focused on the task in front of you.
After about 20 minutes Robby got up and retreated to the support room, where a family he had been helping was. Mohan tapped you on the shoulder. You swiveled your chair to face her.
“Please tell me someone is dying, I am in so much pain right now, I mean fine, I’ll get up either way, but definitely if its less urgent than a code please for the love of god–”
“Jesus, you’re not usually in this bad of a mood,” She squinted her eyes at you, her arms folded across her chest. “Does this have something to do with Langdon?”
You were surprised by her bluntness, you faked a surprised expression.
“Why would you think that?”
“Because he’s your best friend, and I haven’t seen you and Langdon arrive to work or leave work together in days, you guys are usually attached by the hip.”
Fuck. Your avoidance was being noticed. You had thought being formal, and pulling yourself back wouldn’t send any signals to anyone…even Frank. You had wanted to pretend like you were cool with the casualness.
You shook your head, grounding yourself, putting on your mask of coolness again.
“No, I guess we’ve just both been busy,” You shrugged. “Anyways, what can I help you with?” You asked, reaching for the box of gloves resting in the hub.
“Mel is crying in the breakroom because the patient that just came in yelled at her.” Mohan spoke quickly.
You immediately jumped to your feet.
“Why?” You demanded, not reaching for the gloves, your first priority was Mel.
“I think Mel ordered a drug test to consider all possibilities, and she was trying to be upfront with the patient about it, and the guy just started shouting at her telling her she was unqualified and I’m pretty sure I overheard the patient say something about Mel being a woman and how that makes her less intelligent?”
“Room?”
“22—where are you going?” Mohan asked, as you walked away.
You had bonded very quickly with Mel, even meeting her sister, who you knew she loved to death. You had admittedly, also told her about your arrangement with Frank, and she followed up with a few questions that you answered about your feelings toward Frank that she wasn’t entirely satisfied with…telling you she thought you weren’t being as chill as you thought you were. Mel promised to keep it all a secret nonetheless.
You also knew Mel was important to Frank, and Frank was important to Mel so you felt an obligation yourself to get to know her. She was as awesome as she seemed. Mel was a very qualified doctor, and you weren’t going to let a patient tell her otherwise, and you weren’t going to let someone make her cry without repercussions.
You pulled the curtain open aggressively, looking at the patients chart to make sure that Mel was the last person to see them. You didn’t want to be yelling at random patients. When her name appeared, you clipped the chart back to the bed.
“What do you think you’re doing yelling at a perfectly qualified doctor, who was simply trying to help you?” You asked, starting with a reasonable tone of voice.
“She wanted to do a drug test, I told her I don’t do no fucking drugs! Women these days can’t understand anything!”
You scoffed and simply had enough, you felt your headache getting stronger.
“Dr. King is a perfectly qualified doctor, she is the most intelligent and kind person I know, and she didn’t go through medical school to deal with patients like you.”
“I see you’re not any more qualified are you?”
That made your blood boil. If you were Mel you would have also ordered a drug test, there was some evidence to suggest drug usage could lead to brain hemorrhage, you also knew a drug test would explain heart rate and could explain withdrawal symptoms.
“If you are unsatisfied with your care, you can always leave against medical advice.” You felt your voice raising. “But I would highly recommend against it!”
“Well–”
“And another thing!” You shouted. “The most qualified doctors I know in this hospital are women. You think you know more than the doctors here who have years of training in medical school, and labs, and numerous medical lectures and conferences, don’t even get me started on clinical rotations!”
At this point your hands were in the air, and the entire ED felt as if it quieted down. You heard footsteps and scurrying behind you, but ignored it as you took a deep breath to start again.
“AlSO! Dr. King ordered a drug test because you are exhibiting symptoms of someone who has just taken a shit ton of drugs, we aren’t stupid, so it's probably in your best interest to stop lying, and let the professionals–”
Before you could finish you felt arms around your torso, and you yelped, Frank had thrown you over his shoulder. You couldn’t believe his fucking audacity, he hadn’t texted you or seen you in 10 days, and now he’s doing damage control for you? No fucking way. You thrashed, protesting his grip, trying to slither down from his shoulder without avail.
“Stop! Christ, y/n.” His voice came out serious, but a laugh escaped underneath, his hands keeping hold of your waist as he walked you both to the breakroom that was now empty.
He put you down, the door still open.
“What were you thinking?” He shouted, the door still open, god this is so humiliating , you cringed. “You can’t be yelling at patients like that!”
Frank closed the door with his foot, with a slam the noise of the ED was muted. Then Frank pulled some Advil from his pocket.
“Dana.” Frank said before you could ask how he knew. “What is your problem?” He asked.
You took the Advil and went to the sink to fill a mug with water, then quickly took the pills, feeling the anger fill your chest.
“I was thinking that Mel didn’t deserve to be treated like that, and I reacted inappropriately.” You admitted. “She okay?”
Frank stepped toward you as you leaned your back on the sink facing him, placing your mug down.
“Yea, she’s fine now, she saw you screaming at the guy, and told Robby about it.”
“Oh god.” You groaned, squinting in embarrassment. “What did he say?”
“Well thanks to you, he yelled at me to go deal with you.”
“He told you to ‘deal’ with me?” You scoffed. “Oh and by the way, you did not need to pick me up like that!”
“Oh come on! I know you well enough to know you wouldn’t have moved from that fight even if I asked nicely. I also know you well enough to know that something else is bothering you, not just that patient! You tell me everything, why not this?”
“Because you haven’t talked to me outside of work in days! Not even a single text, I thought you were my best friend,” You poured your mug out, you felt like that wasn’t the only thing you were pouring out. “That’s why. It's just back pain and a headache Langdon, that’s it.”
You could physically see the blow calling Frank by his last name had inflicted, but you hated when he was right about you, about everything.
“I’m sorry I should’ve asked.”
“I didn’t know Frank Langdon was capable of asking about things nicely.” Your tone harsh.
“Why are we fighting?” He asked, no yelling, just sincerity.
“Because Frank, I miss you and,” You took a deep breath. “I’m not mad at you anymore about the drug thing. I promise. But when you didn’t reach out, it made me remember how lonely I was without you when you were in rehab. I don’t want to lose you again.” And it’s the most honest thing you’ve said all month.
“Yea, I miss you too, it’s just–” He stopped himself, and you could feel yourself almost giving in to something, there were just so many ways to give in you didn’t know which one it was. “I’ve been–uh I’ve been super busy with Tanner’s soccer team this week, I’m sorry.”
You watched his face closely, and you knew something that wasn’t being said needed to be said. But not right then.
“It’s been a rough day for you, I know you want to stick up for Mel, but you have got to keep your cool or else you’re going to crash and burn.” He sighed.
Right. You had to keep your cool. At work and in the relationship. You nodded.
“Mel’s been very kind to me, I think because she knows how important I am to you to be honest, she admires you so much, Frank.”
Frank had a solid glance at you, but you could tell a blush was breaking through. Why was he reacting that way to you saying that? Did Mel know about how he felt about you, was it more than platonic? Or were you justified in your fear that your feelings could ruin everything between you two.
A warmth filled your chest. He stepped closer and placed his hand on the side of your face. You wanted him to lean down and place his lips on yours, despite you knowing you couldn’t. Everyone was watching, you’d be the talk of the town…or the ED, but you felt yourself melt into his touch, for the first time in your life, a particular kind of melting, that you knew too well, that meant you were done for, that you had lost all your cool then and there. The kind of melting you felt, before getting your heart completely shattered. Frank rubbed his thumb on your cheek.
“You had pen on your face,” He spoke, quietly. The eye contact suggested something like restraint, then said, “I’m gonna go check on Mel. Take a break, I’ll let Robby know.”
He turned to go out the door, his hand on the door handle, then he turned to face you, gaze soft.
“Just for the record, I couldn’t stop thinking about you when I was in there…rehab I mean. I missed you just as much. Maybe more.”
And he was out the door before you could mutter a response.
The sixth time things became less casual was when Frank had picked you up after a night out with Mohan.
Frank had been watching an episode of SVU or something — he couldn’t remember, it hadn't been too entertaining — at midnight nearing Christmas, when you had called him clearly intoxicated. You had apologized to him profusely over and over. He had known you were going out with Mohan and Abott for a couple drinks, something about Christmas movies at the nearby pub, but you must have gotten carried away. He laughed and told you he would come pick you up.
He had only slept with you once again after the fight you had in the ED. But after that, he could feel you pulling back, he wondered if he had hurt you in some way, and even if you felt the same feeling he did. You had even returned the key he gave you to his apartment. He had thought you hated him. He had talked to Mel, and had told her everything that was going on between you guys finally. Mel’s opinion was important to him, and it made him happy to know Mel liked you too. He had finally admitted to himself, and to Mel that he wanted more than just sex. Mel promised to keep it a secret.
So Frank was grateful when you called, but scared that your sobriety would make you hate him again.
Frank drove his car downtown Pittsburg, landing at the pub you had mumbled on the phone. When he pulled up, he spotted you on the snowy side walk with Mohan and Abott. You were all bundled in jackets and Christmas lights glared behind you. He parked and got out of his car to approach you all in the dark.
“Look, it’s Dr. Langdon!” Mohan slurred, leaning into Abott affectionately.
You turned around as Frank stepped closer to you, you were laughing hysterically like a child. You grabbed onto his shirt.
“What are you doing here? I missed you.” You mumbled.
Frank and Abott locked eyes, a silent agreement to keep everything a secret. From that interaction alone Frank knew that Mohan and Abott were messing around and maybe more, and Abott knew the same about Frank and you.
“You called me, remember? Told me to pick you up.”
“M sorry.” You slurred. You turned to Mohan and Abott. “Guys! Frank is here to pick me up, isn’t that sweet?” You asked.
Abott chuckled. Even though everything in that moment was agreed to be secret, Frank wanted nothing more than for him to be someone you could love in public. He was scared that was the reason you didn’t want him, that you were ashamed of him. Not just that you might not feel the same.
“I gotta get this one home too,” Abott pointed at Mohan. “Frank, get them home safe. I’ll see you later.”
“Alright let’s go,” Frank said, taking your hand. His heart jumped when you intertwined your fingers with his. “Say bye to Samira and Jack.”
“Bye to Samira and Jack.” You mumbled.
Frank laughed to himself, realizing — for not the first time in his life — that you were frankly adorable. He helped you into the passenger seat of his car. You went to kiss him, and he pulled away, not wanting to start anything when you weren’t in the right mindset, when you weren’t sober. You sighed, and ruffled, pushing his hands away as he tried to buckle you in.
“y/n, come on, you know how many patients who we’ve seen be severely injured from not wearing seatbelts.”
“I don’t like the way it rubs against my neck.”
“Well, its my car, so I say buckle up.” Frank said.
“I’ll do it if you let me stay at yours tonight.” You pouted.
Frank sighed, he was glad to have his best friend there in that moment wanting to come over, but sad to not know what you were feeling, he really wished he could read your mind.
“Okay, you can have the bed while I sleep on the couch.” He said, pulling the seatbelt over you finally, and clipping it in successfully, he felt he needed to separate you this way till he knew where you two stood again.
Frank closed the door and got into the driver's seat.
“Sorry I called you, I know you’re not my boyfriend or anything but, I missed you.”
“It’s okay really, I’m glad you called, I was starting to think you hated me.”
You giggled as he pulled onto the main drag.
“I don’t hate you. Far from it, dingus.”
There was a silence that ran over you as he drove carefully through the snow, he didn’t know what to say, he knew what he wanted to say: do you feel the same? Instead he went with,
“Did you have fun?”
“Mhm, we watched Home Alone, and played a drinking game to go with it,” That explained the drunkenness. “Samira is so cool! And so is Jack,” You paused.
You began rolling your window down — not a great marker on the Frank Langdon’s perfectly accurate not nauseous to nauseous scale — then you went to turn down the heat — also not a great sign on the scale, Frank’s anxiety to not have you throw up in his car heightened.
“They are such a great couple too, I know they only started dating, but sometimes I wish I had that with you.”
Your confession shocked Frank, he cleared his throat, still hoping to get to his apartment in time for vomit to go either outside the car or in a toilet. He stopped at a red light. Were you saying you did feel the same? Would you remember this in the morning?
The truth was that he wished he had that with you too, and he knew that you speaking that out loud had fundamentally changed your dynamic. He knew that what was going to be said past that point needed to be thought through, needed to be intentional, even if you weren’t going to remember it. He wanted to be as honest as possible with you, if you felt the same, if what you were saying was true, then he wasn’t going to start whatever you were going to be off with dishonesty.
“Really? You wouldn’t be ashamed of me?” He asked shyly, a surprise to himself too that he was being vulnerable enough to ask.
“No, why would you think that?”
“Because not everyone at the ED trusts me entirely anymore, I clearly have a reputation, which is deserved I guess but—”
“Frank, if you woke up one day and decided you wanted me, I would want you just as much, probably more.” An eerie moment of drunk clarity.
He had finally pulled up to his apartment — into the parking lot near the car pressure washers he hoped he wouldn’t need to use — just as you said that, ready to respond, your eye contact piercing through whatever tension you had been upholding for the past few weeks, when you gagged and threw up all over yourself and the passenger seat, then slinked back in your seat to close your eyes.
The worst part was not that Frank’s car was now covered in vomit, it was that Frank had looked at you afterwards and thought, they are so beautiful when tired. Frank took that as his cue to help you get some rest, and got ready to carry you up.
The seventh time you noticed, you finally acknowledged it .
You woke up in Frank’s car the next day, your head pounding, forgetting that that December 23rd you had drunk way too much with Mohan and Abott, and embarrassingly called Frank. You stretched your limbs under his black comforter, and jolted up when you remembered admitting everything.
Technically, you didn’t actually confess your feelings, but you knew Frank would’ve caught on with how direct you could be while drunk. You had to set the record straight.
You heard vague noises outside, and it had snowed even more, it was Christmas eve. You groaned, took the tylenol Frank had so graciously set on the night stand, and you jumped out of Frank’s bed. You were still dressed in your clothes from the night before, and walked out into the apartment. When you didn’t see Frank, you scurried to the window, beside the Christmas tree and peaked through the blinds. You saw Frank, holding a power washer in his hand, spraying it into the passenger seat of his car, while he was wrapped in winter clothes. You cringed, before deciding to wrap yourself back up in your winter clothes and head down to talk to him.
You trudged through deep snow, to get to his car, and the blast of the power washer, plus the smell of your leftover vomit was enough to make your hangover worse.
“Frank!” You shouted over the sound of the washer.
Frank stopped and turned toward you, he was comedically wrapped in a red scarf, along with a red hat, his trenchcoat zipped all the way.
“Hey, I’m sorry about last night.” You said, walking closer, he put the power wash down. “Seems like I did quite a bit of damage to your passenger seat.”
“It’s fine, it's almost cleaned up.” He shrugged.
“Listen about what I said last night–”
“Hey, its fine, you were drunk and–”
“I meant it. I want more than just sex with you, and I understand if you don’t feel the same, but that’s how I feel and I should’ve said it instead of pulling back.”
Frank smiled, a red glow on his cheeks appearing.
“It’s a Christmas miracle!” He exclaimed. “I want you to know I’m all in, I won’t let you down this time. It was so hard to not want you all this time.”
“God we were idiots, oblivious idiots, literally everyone else could see. McKay, Mohan Abott–”
Frank stepped over to you, and placed his cold hand over your face, the steam coming out of both of your mouths to interrupt your upcoming tangent. Your heart was beating, and you thought, finally, we’re acknowledging what I’ve been thinking all these months. Then as you stepped closer to him, both of your feet gave way from ice hidden under the snow. You tumbled on top of him, and he fell onto his back in the snow.
“I’m so sorry, there must’ve been ice under–”
Frank pulled on the front of your jacket to bring your face down to his, before kissing you, softly, passionately. Like he was loving you, not about to fuck you, like he was trying to warm you up. It was a kiss that said: hey I want you for a long time. You laughed in embarrassment, and you sat up, pulling him into a sitting position too before kissing him again.
“I want all the cheesy romantic stuff, even if it means you’ll break my heart.”
You blushed.
“I won’t break your heart if you promise not to break mine.”
He held out his pinky finger.
“Deal.” He said “Why don’t we start with this.” Frank grabbed a handful of snow and threw it on your head, before getting up and scurrying away from you, the passenger side of his car still open.
You gasped and shook your head, letting the snow fall off, then grabbed a handful of snow yourself.
“You’re dead Langdon!” You shouted, chasing him across the parking lot.
pairing: frank langdon x fem!reader (no use of y/n!)
summary: frank langdon’s been your sworn rival since med school. he’s a mean, arrogant prick who, for some reason, made it his lifelong mission to beat you at every single thing you did. but, when you’re forced to transfer out of your residency in boston, you’re placed at the pitt with the one person you swore you’d never share a floor with again. and, as you two are forced to work together, you both realize there might be a little more to each other than meets the eye.
word count & rating: 14.1k, R (lots of swearing, M-rated stuff coming next chapter)
warnings: slow-burn, rivals to friends to lovers trope in full force, they're 'enemies' who have a wild amount of respect for each other, afab!reader, reader enters the pitt as an R3, lots of swearing, banter, slight angst, mentions of child death (case gone wrong) mentions of addiction, mentions of a previous, inappropriate but consensual workplace relationship, reader was engaged in med school, likely inaccurate medical talk (i am a woman with google, reddit, and a dream), not beta read please do not roast me for typos i missed
author’s note: the pitt has grabbed the attention of my hyperfixation-rotted brain in such a severe way that it made me write something for the first time in months. i know some of y’all don’t like langdon but you don’t get him like i do. i can sniff out an asshole with a redemption arc from a mile away. i stand by my canceled wife. also: need that. i blacked out while writing this, so i can’t be held accountable for anything in it.
also, this was supposed to be one long 44k fic but tumblr has a paragraph limit now and wouldn't let me post it as one. if you want to read it as one whole fic instead of in two parts, you can access it on ao3! see you on the other side, love ya tons -mags
JULY 1ST, 2024. (7:00 AM)
When it came down to thinking about the worst-case scenario, you always tried to be an optimist.
It was a hard thing to do, particularly in your line of work, but you’d always enjoyed a challenge. And in an industry full of pessimists, you figured there should be at least one person whose brain didn’t immediately jump to the most awful thing in the book.
But this? This situation you were in? This was, without a doubt, the worst possible case scenario.
You hadn’t expected your transfer to be simple. Transferring in any shape or form was rarely ever easy, even for the best of doctors. But you were especially bad with change. You didn’t like new places, new people, or feeling like you were out of the loop in any sort of way. And unfortunately for you, that’s exactly what transferring residencies entailed.
Fuck, you hadn’t even wanted to leave. You liked Mass Gen. Loved it, actually. You’d loved the people, you’d loved the city, and you’d loved the majority of the patients you’d treated. Sure, you were looking back on it with some major rose-colored glasses now, but still… you missed it already.
You missed him already.
You hated yourself for it, but it was the truth. Despite how awful of a person he was, how unfair he was to you, how he’d practically forced you to uproot your life, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. You weren’t going to see him when you clocked into work anymore. He wasn’t going to be on your shift, nudging your shoulder discreetly when you did something well, or brushing his fingers against yours when he passed you by. You weren’t going to spend all of your days off at his apartment in the city or sleep in his bed that smelled a little too much like him.
Everything was different now. Now, everything was terrible.
And it was only going to get worse.
As an already accomplished doctor in your third year of your residency, your transfer to Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Hospital hadn’t exactly been your choice. It wasn’t that it was a bad hospital (though the reviews and patient satisfaction scores would speak differently)— you knew that there were incredibly competent, wonderful people who worked there and performed miracles every day. But, when this transfer had been presented to you, it was for one reason and one reason alone: Doctor Michael Robinivinch.
He told you that he’d been friends with the hospital’s Attending Doctor Robinivich for years. That there’d be an opening for an R3 this coming July, and you’d be an absolute shoo-in for his program. Not just because of your research or your performance or even because of the things you could do on the floor, but because he could put in a good word.
You could have transferred anywhere. You could have stayed in Boston to spite him. You had connections at Brigham and Women’s and at Beth Israel. You could have moved to New York and worked at Presbyterian or moved to Baltimore and worked at Hopkins. You were good enough to have gotten into to any goddamn program with an opening that you wanted, but, like a kicked fucking dog, you listened to him. Took what he gave you. Kept coming back. And you agreed to give it a shot.
Why did you? Who had you become? What had happened to you?
But none of that mattered. Not anymore. What mattered was that you were here in Pittsburgh and he was there in Boston, and there was nothing you could do about it. The only thing you could do was suck it up, live with the consequences, and do your job.
Taking a deep breath, you walk through the doors and are greeted with a scene that’s a little calmer than you were expecting. The floor was still alive, doctors and nurses moving from room to room, but comparatively, it’s light work. There’s something that tells you it’ll pick up within minutes.
From behind the desk in the center of the room, a blonde woman immediately clocks your confusion. “You the new resident?” she asks, squinting at you from above her glasses to get a better look at you.
You offer a polite smile and wave, taking another breath to calm yourself before you start walking over. “That’s me,” you say, giving her your name and holding out your hand.
“Dana,” she replies. “Charge Nurse. Doctor Robby will be in shortly. He’s excited for you to get started.”
Your brows raise. “Is he?”
“Oh, yeah,” she chuckles, shaking her head. “No one gets a letter of recommendation from Doctor Klein. Ever. Especially for a transfer, and especially not one that was as glowing as his was.”
It’s a struggle not to grimace at the sound of his name. Of course. Of course he couldn’t have been fucking normal about it. You hadn’t read the letter before you’d submitted your application. You knew it would hurt too much. But you could imagine exactly what he’d written. Praise for his prodigy. His ever-important stamp of approval and promise that you were something special. He had to talk about you in a way that raised a few brows. He couldn’t let you be normal, could you? He had to be attached to your success somehow.
“Oh, God,” you mutter, forcing the smile to stay on your face. “Let’s hope I live up to it.”
“I’m sure you will.” She nods at you reassuringly, then turns to start pointing out important people and places on the floor. “So, we’re in the process of switching over from—”
“No way,” a voice says from across the desk.
It’s one that rings a bit too familiar. Your stomach starts to churn as, uncharacteristically, the worst-case scenario starts to play out in your head. No. There was absolutely no way. It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t be here. Why would he be…
That voice interrupts your thoughts before you’re done spiralling. “No fucking way,” it repeats, now accented by a disbelieving laugh. “Flight Risk?”
Hearing the god-awful, horrible nickname that plagued you all throughout med school sends a genuine chill down your spine. Slowly, you turn your head, praying that it’s not who you think it is.
But your prayers go unanswered, and the worst-case scenario is now playing out in front of you.
Frank Langdon stands opposite you, a shit-eating grin stretched across his lips.
Not him. Anyone but him.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” you say, unable to move in your state of shock.
You feel like shaking Dana’s hand and wishing her a good day, and walking out of the doors you just entered through, never to be seen again. It would go against everything that was in your application, everything that told programs that you were competent, professional, and reliable, but right now, you didn’t care. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t happen. You couldn’t work with him again.
Not again.
Frank Langdon had made your life an unadulterated living hell for the entirety of medical school. You associated him with a whole other lifetime of yours— one that felt far away and slightly hazy. One where you were younger, less world-weary, less weathered. You were engaged, you had a dog, you had, what you assumed at the time, was your forever life. It had been perfect. Everything back then was more manageable. Everything but Langdon.
(That, of course, wasn’t the truth. You’d figure that out within the first six months of medical school. You’d end your first year single, without a ring, without your dog, and on antidepressants. But, yeah. Langdon didn’t help.)
He had been hostile, ultra-competitive, and, for lack of a better word, an absolute fucking asshole for all four of the years you’d spent with him. Calling him your rival sounded rudimentary, but frankly, that’s what the two of you were. Rivals.
Any exams you took? He was actively comparing your scores and letting you know how you could have done better. Research papers? Any topic you showed relative interest in, he’d be there, ready to claim it. Labs? He was over your shoulder, watching each thing you did with a hawk-like intensity that never failed to get on your nerves. You run into him when studying in the library? He’d stay just as long as you did, if not longer, simply to prove a point.
You’d tried to ignore him, but he had made it so hard to do so. As someone who was also ultra-competitive, every little thing he did motivated you to beat him. Every comment, every time he scored higher than you, performed better than you had, anything. It had all messed with your head and made you focus on one thing and one thing alone— being better. Better than him. Better than everyone.
And you were. Of course, he was great too. You hated him with a vitriolic passion, but you knew just how good he was at what he did. It wouldn’t have been fun or fulfilling to beat him if he weren’t.
(Fun was a stretch. It was actually agonizing to compete with him. But it made you feel good every time you won.)
This rivalry only ended when you were matched to your residency programs. All of your friends and fellow students shot for the moon. Your school regularly produced some of the best talent the medical world had seen, who were often placed into the best hospitals in the country. You were no exception.
Massachusetts General Hospital was your top choice. You weren’t unique in that aspect. But you were the only one to get placed there in your class.
Match Day had been a whirlwind of emotions, and after finding out where you’d been assigned, you basically blacked out the rest of the day. You didn’t remember a whole lot from those next couple of hours. All of your hard work had paid off, and in your professional opinion, your brain had shut down from exhaustion.
The only thing you remember from that day was the conversation you had with Langdon outside of one of the bars your cohort frequented. The celebration was in full swing, complete with your classmates and loved ones drinking and dancing to the songs of whoever had taken over the TouchTunes. You only remembered talking to him because it was one of the only civil conversations the two of you had ever had. In your drunken stupors, you’d compared placements, bragged about each of your respective programs, and ended on…
Well, it was a note you couldn’t define then. You’re not sure if you could define it now.
While you remembered having that conversation, you’d forgotten after all this time that this was where he’d been placed. You hadn’t seen him in almost three years. You’d barely thought about him, least of all where he was. After those four years, there was nothing you wanted less than to dwell on your time with him. You weren’t checking in on him on social media, couldn’t have been bothered to ask your friends who still spoke to him— nothing.
Perhaps that was your own fault.
You could delay your residency a year, couldn’t you? You could take a year off, travel the world, add on to your student loans, and then apply to some other program where he wasn’t. Yeah. That seemed like a better alternative.
As you continue to stare at each other, Dana glances between the two of you in confusion. “I take it you two know each other?”
Langdon’s eyes never leave yours, but his smile grows. “Flight Risk and I went to med school together.”
There was that stupid fucking nickname again. You thought you’d been freed from it when you’d gone to Mass Gen. You’d hoped that it was some teasing name that had stuck for everyone after he’d said it, but would be gone when you graduated. You never, ever considered that it would come back to haunt you in a professional setting. Especially not from him.
Dana’s brow quirks. “Flight Risk?”
You sigh, long and heavy. “It’s not important.”
“Not important?” Langdon asks, like he’s offended. He rounds the desk to stand beside you and look at Dana. “It’s very important. It’s who she is.”
You suppress the urge to choke him out with the stethoscope around his neck. “It’s not who I am—”
“First day of class,” he interrupts you, “we were watching this video that covered an abscess draining—”
“Abscess drainage on the first day of class?” Dana asks, making a face.
“Don’t ask. The professor was a freak,” you say. You return to glaring at Langdon immediately after. “And this is so irrelevant, can we please—”
“The video freaked her out so bad that she ended up running out of the classroom to throw up,” he finishes. You shut your eyes in annoyance. “But she got right back in there and got her shit together, didn’t you, slugger?”
“I did,” you say, forcing a faux smile to match his condescending tone. “Same way you got back on the horse after sawing our cadaver’s spine in half during our first lab, right, champ?”
His grin falters. “That saw was faulty.”
“So was my stomach that morning,” you reply. Your voice is syrupy sweet. “I didn’t get everyone to start calling you Leatherface.”
Dana’s eyes bounce between you two like she’s watching tennis. There’s the beginnings of a smirk on her lips as she asks, “Is this gonna be a problem? You two working together?”
“No,” you say quickly, abandoning and resigning from your pissing contest with Langdon immediately. You see him glance at you in surprise out of the corner of your eye. “It won’t. We— I’m totally professional. Just wasn’t expecting this.” Trying your best at a real smile this time around, you nod at your new charge nurse. “No issues. And if it ever becomes one, please let us know.”
Your incredibly cordial and smooth response has Langdon dipping his head in laughter, and the second you notice it, you whack him hard on the arm. It seems to be enough to kick him into gear. “Yeah, Dana,” he chuckles. “We’ll be good. I swear.”
It’s clear that she one-hundred-percent does not believe you. Still, she says, “Good. This place doesn’t work unless we’re all on the same page.”
“I’m liking it here already,” you say, earning a slightly more genuine smile from her.
“Robby will be in for rounds in a minute,” she tells you. “Hang tight until then. And you,” she says, now looking at Langdon. “Don’t be an asshole, okay?”
He has the audacity to act offended. “I would never.”
With a roll of her eyes, Dana turns back around to take care of some other task that needs her attention, and she leaves you with Langdon standing at your side. You’re expecting him to leave, to go cherry-pick a case (he seemed like the type), or go chat with one of the other residents who were clocking in. But he doesn’t.
He just lingers. It’s as if he’s excited by this. Excited by you.
It instantly makes you anxious in a way that you haven’t felt since school.
“And if it ever becomes one, please let us know,” he parrots, changing octaves to imitate you. Fucking child. “I haven’t heard that voice since rotations.”
“Oh, will you just shut the fuck up already?” you hiss. Any sense of professionalism or niceties had been completely thrown out the window now that you were alone. There’s a piece of you that hates how he’s been able to get under your skin so quickly, but the other part is so angry and frustrated with him that you can’t seem to care. “I’m trying to make a good impression on my first day, and you’re opening with the Flight Risk bullshit less than five minutes in?”
Langdon clenches a fist in victory. “There she is,” he all but cheers, though he’s kind enough to keep his voice down. “Man, I thought Mass Gen had made you boring and polite. But it’s great to know you’re still in there.”
“Same to you,” you mutter. “It’s reassuring to know that three years in the ED gave you absolutely zero growth.”
“I have to know what you’re going here,” he says, bulldozing your last comment. “Going from where you were to The Pitt of all places? That’s—”
“That’s what you guys call this place?” you question, glancing around the room.
“You’ll catch on.” He turns to you with his arms crossed over his chest. “So, what happened? What did you do? Did you kill someone?”
“Not yet,” you reply with a glare. “Day just started, though.”
“Yeah, Klein wouldn’t have written you a letter if you had,” he reasons to himself, like you’re not even there. “How did you pull that off, by the way?”
You’re exhausted by him already, and your frustration seeps into your voice. “I’m really fucking good at what I do,” you say.
“No, that’s not it.” He shakes his head, and you restrain yourself from reaching over and hitting him again. “You’re good, sure. But plenty of his people are good.”
“You are such a jackass,” you scoff.
He’s already moving on to the next thing. “No, but seriously. What happened? Did you flunk out? Did they dismiss you? Or did it get to be a little too much and you couldn’t handle it?”
You wish you knew your way around this place so you didn’t have to stand here and take this. “I don’t have to disclose that to you.”
“That’s exactly what it was, wasn’t it? You ran out and bailed.” He grins to himself. “Oh, Flight Risk. That is so like you.”
Clenching your jaw, you steel your expression so as to not give anything away. No, you want to tell him. That’s not what happened. That’s not even close to what happened. You didn’t want to leave. You didn’t want to run. Not this time.
But you did. You had.
So, you don’t correct him. You’re open to letting him think whatever it is he believes, so he’ll ask fewer questions. The last thing you want to do is talk about it. Not with him. At all.
Lucky for you, you’re saved by the bell. A taller, older guy in a zip-up sweatshirt walks over to the two of you, and while there’s a small smile on his face, there’s a hint of hesitancy in his expression as he watches you and Langdon interact.
You recognize Doctor Robinovitch immediately, having met him a handful of times (mostly over video chat and once in person) before you were accepted into the program. Despite that, you still find yourself straightening up and plastering a smile on your face.
“How we doing over here?” he asks, holding his hand out to shake yours.
Meeting his hand, you practically step in front of Langdon to cut him out of the conversation. “Great. It’s so good to see you again. I’m excited to get started.”
“I’m excited for you to get started,” he says. “Klein called me last night to sing your praises again and remind me to be nice to you. He says you’re special.”
You hope the rage that brews in your stomach doesn’t show on your face. “Did he? That was kind of him.”
“Yeah, well. When he likes someone, he likes them, y’know?” Right. Robby points between you and Langdon. “Dana told me you two went to school together?”
“We did,” you say, hoping to control the situation before Langdon can butt in.
He decides to be the exact dickhead you know him to be. “And she sure is special.”
Robby’s eyes narrow slightly at his response, but thankfully, he decides to ignore Langdon’s tone. “Two endorsements from people who don’t give ‘em out,” he says to you, nodding over at Langdon. “Not too bad, Doc. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
And as you set off on your first case at The Pitt, and as Langdon grins at you in that sardonic way that always seems to get under your skin, you wonder just how long you’ll actually make it around here.
JULY 1ST, 2025. (7:00 AM)
One year later, you’re still here.
It’s an absolute whirlwind of a year, and it goes by faster than you could have imagined. The day you’d joined had ended up being one of the craziest days you had ever worked, and between that, the fact that you were still reeling from leaving Boston, and working with Langdon for the first time in years? You didn’t know if this place was for you.
But you were never one to give up on things easily.
And every day since, you’ve been thankful you didn’t. You’d found friends in the majority of your coworkers, a sense of belonging in a city you didn’t know, and you’d learned more from Robby in three months than you’d ever learned from… him.
While Pittsburgh wasn’t your favorite city on earth, you’d grown to love it in its own way. You loved your little neighborhood. You loved your apartment and the coffee shop you’d found down the street that made an insane flat white. You actually liked the work you were doing.
You hadn’t felt like that in months.
You had made friends with some of your neighbors over the course of the year, and each time you talked about a bad day at work with them, one of them would ask what made you go back every shift. Each time, your answer was the same.
You loved the work and you loved the people. Rekindling that was like magic.
Of course, not everything was perfect. The floor was unforgiving. There was always something new every day— and some things you weren’t prepared for. You lost patients. You lost children. You had days when all you wanted to do was hide in the break room and cry.
But, as Robby would remind you whenever he saw that look on your face, you saved more than you lost. You won’t forget the ones you’ve lost, but you can try to be better the next time around. And that’s all you could do.
You supposed that was true enough.
The only outlier of the great Pitt equation, however, was Langdon.
You knew he would be the second you joined the team. He had been a constant pain in your ass for the entirety of med school, and now that you were back in each other’s lives, he saw no reason for that to change. He was just as competitive, just as snarky, and just as much of an asshole as he used to be.
But, thankfully, he was professional about it. That was the only thing that had changed between you. Now that you two were legit, full-fledged Doctors, title and all, he wasn’t as overt about his disdain for you. He’d heeded your warning from your first day and had actually listened to you.
You refused to commend him for doing the bare minimum, but it was nice to know he wasn’t an idiot.
While he may not have been an idiot, what he was was a fucking nuisance. Any case you wanted to take on? He was already running to the room. Any time there was an opportunity to show you up or call you out for something wrong? He took it. Any chance he had to trick you into taking a case he knew you’d hate? There he was, ready with some sort of story.
(“Doc, Robby wants you in South Five,” he had told you about a month in. He motioned you over, watching as your ears literally perked up. You were on your feet following him in seconds. “Major foot trauma with mycetoma, it’s not looking good.”
It took every bone in your body not to bolt out of the room when you saw the patient’s foot was infested with maggots, something he’d clearly, purposely left out. He’d whipped around to type something into the computer in an attempt to hide his laughter the second you’d turned to glare at him.
You’d whacked him upside the head with your chart after you’d successfully cleared the guy.
“I told you it didn’t look good!” he shouted after you as you practically ran to the bathroom to re-wash your hands.)
Or, there was the rare occasion where he’d come to you with his tail between his legs, actually asking for your help. It didn’t happen often, certainly not in your first couple of months, but when it did and he’d slump down beside you with that look in his eye, you’d take it on hesitantly.
And somehow, it always kicked you in the ass later on.
(Langdon had taken on a case with a younger, tween girl who refused to talk to him. Getting people to open up wasn’t exactly something he was proficient in. There were others in the ED who were good at the social aspect of this job, and most of the time, he was fine with being better at the action side.
But not right now. And unfortunately for him, you were one of those people who were good at getting through. And, even more unfortunately for him, you were the only person who was currently available.
When he came to ask for help, you almost laughed in his face. But this time around, he seemed resigned. Slightly resentful and begrudingly flustered. It was real.
So, with a sigh, you followed him to the room.
Within five minutes, you had the girl talking with you. You remember the look on Langdon’s face as she did. The way his head dipped in a quiet laugh, graced with disbelief and the slightest bit of annoyance. It felt like a win.
She keeps her eye on Langdon, who observes you two from the corner, cheeks going red each time she meets his eyes. As you check her vitals, she grabs your arm, weakly bringing you down to her eye level. She motions for you to come closer, then cups her hand to her mouth to whisper in your ear.
“He’s really cute,” she says, middle-school embarrassment clear as day in her voice. For her sake, you refrain from rolling your eyes and rattling off every single awful quality about him and why she should actually hate him. “I was so nervous to talk to him.”
You give her a small smile, shaking your head. “Well, if you’re more comfortable chatting with me, I’m happy to stay and hang out for a little. But you’re in good hands with Doctor Langdon,” you respond, the volume of your voice matching hers. Glancing over your shoulder, you find that he’s still watching you, his expression having morphed into something more gentle. He’s been trying to get this girl to open up for an hour, and here you are whispering with her five minutes in.
He’d never get you. He’d resigned himself to that idea.
But that look of his was wiped off his face the second you turn back to the girl, who immediately starts coughing up blood onto your face and scrubs. There was no time to laugh or be grossed out as the two of you immediately jumped into action, truly working together for the first time since you began to figure out what was going on.
After you had stabilized the girl, you demanded his card for ScrubEx credits, but returned to the floor with a pout, wearing new scrubs that were two sizes too big for you. The snickering from him, Dana, and Princess at the nurse's station makes you hang your head.
“This is the only size it had,” you grumbled, working to roll up the waistband of your pants.
“Oh, bless your heart,” Dana said. “You look adorable, kiddo.”
“Adorable and very professional,” Langdon agreed. “I need that sad Charlie Brown music to start playing every time you walk.”
You scowled at him. “This is your fault.”
McKay chose this time to check in and began laughing as soon as she saw you in your oversized set. “What, is it bring your kid to work day? I should have brought Harrison in.”)
However, as time went on, you learned how to work with him. You still did not get along in any way, shape, or form, but every so often, when you two worked on the same case, you’d be able to put aside whatever difference you two had and work like real, true colleagues.
The arguing was still there. My god, was it still there. But, when it came down to it and you two got serious, there was always some sort of energy between you. You were always working in tandem. Always on the same page.
Mohan had once told you that it was like a dance. That it was hard to look away from. Frankly, you didn’t know what that meant and were a little afraid to ask.
(Six months in, the EMTs bring in a guy in his mid-fifties who’s been slipping in and out of consciousness since they got him. As you run over to the gurney, they tell you he fell down the stairs, and one of his kids had found him and called it in. Langdon’s on your heels, rounding the gurney, assessing the scene immediately.
“Guy’s name is Anthony,” one of the EMTs says. “He’s got a major concussion, a couple of broken bones, and is bleeding rapidly from the back of his head.”
“He shouldn’t be bleeding this fast,” Langdon mutters. “Is he on thinners?”
“Anthony? Are you with us?” you ask, rubbing his chest in the hopes of drawing his attention back to you. His eyes open slowly, and he looks up, dazed. “You’re in the hospital, Anthony. You fell down the stairs, and you’re bleeding pretty bad. Do you take any medication? Any blood thinners?”
Anthony takes a moment to think, eyes casting to the ceiling. “Yeah,” he slurs. “I don’t… know what it’s called. My wife deals with my pills. It’s like… Wa… War-friend?”
Your eyes snap to Langdon’s, who rolls his and suddenly grabs the gurney a bit tighter. “Warfarin?” you ask lightly, and the second it leaves your lips, everyone around the bed picks up the pace a little.
“Yeah,” Anthony says again. “That’s… it.”
“Okay, Anthony,” you reply, directing everyone into Trauma Two. “You’re about to make a lot of friends really quickly.”
Langon moves by you to put on a gown, then passes you your own. “It’s always fucking Warfarin.”
“War-Enemy,” you correct, shaking your head. “That shit is not my friend.”
You hear him chuckle softly, and you pass him a pair of goggles over your shoulder. As he grabs them from you, he says, “I’m calling the FDA to get them to change the name.”)
But, sometimes, on the rarest of occasions, you’d get along.
Typically, it happened under more tragic circumstances than you’d hope for. When something went wrong on the floor. When you had lost someone. When you’d tried everything you could on a case and nothing worked. It was only then that the two of you would be anything more than civil.
It didn’t always feel as strange as you thought it would.
(You lose a five-year-old girl eight months in.
It’s a peanut allergy. She eats a cookie at a neighborhood party that the parents were unaware had peanuts in it. She’s rushed in by said parents, who can barely speak because of how torn up they are. Her EpiPen isn’t working.
She’s in full anaphylaxis by the time you get her on the table, and she’s barely breathing. Your head snaps to the door as Langdon runs into the trauma room, and you’re throwing a pair of goggles at him before he can even ask what you’ve got. You slip into that dance you do a bit too easily, and it instills enough confidence in you that you think you’ll actually be able to save her.
There’s a moment where you think that she’ll be okay. Every person in this room has done enough procedures like this before. This should be easy.
But it’s not. She’s too far gone. She dies four minutes in. You couldn’t save her. She is five years old. And you couldn’t save her.
And it hits you hard.
Seeing the look in your eye, Robby sends you into the break room, letting you know that he’ll handle the parents. You nod at him in thanks, not having the words to say it.
You find yourself sitting against the wall, headphones plugged into your ears and legs tucked to your chest. It’s a pathetic, desperate search for comfort. You shut your eyes in the hopes of pulling yourself together.
You don’t notice Langdon coming into the room. You’re so in your head and the music’s just a bit too loud that you don’t register his presence until he takes a seat next to you. That’s when you feel him. And you don’t even have to open your eyes to know it’s him.
When you finally do, you don’t say anything. You just look at him. His legs are splayed out on the floor, head inclined back against the wall.
As if he feels your gaze, he turns his head to meet it. For a moment, you just stare at each other. Then, wordlessly, you reach up and pull an earbud from your ear and offer it to him.
He huffs a humorless laugh through his nose, shaking his head. But he accepts it.
You don’t talk. Not a word. You just sit there together, trying to recoup, listening to a playlist you’d made when you’d first started your residency. If the circumstances were different, it might just be nice.
Two songs later, you two leave the break room. You never speak about it again.)
You weren’t friends. You barely tolerated each other. But on the rare occasion that the two of you were put on the same case, you did work together. Pretty well, at that.
The fact that you’d been at The Pitt for a year now was something that was still mind-blogging to you. While you were only slightly miserable for the first couple of months, once you’d gotten your bearings, time had flown by. Change was never kind to you. It wasn’t something you sought out. But looking back, this was probably one of the best things you could have done for yourself.
It’s something you think about as you clock in for your shift and see the new recruits surrounding the nurse's station. You don’t envy them. Being the new kid as an R3 was hard enough-- you couldn’t imagine the anxiety the med students and interns were feeling. Especially with the stuff you saw here on a daily basis.
You take an earbud out of your ear as you approach the station, Dana’s eyes lighting up when she sees you. “Happy one year, Doc,” she calls to you. “I feel like we should throw a party.”
“We can start popping champagne when we clock out,” you reply, leaning on the counter. “Something tells me we’re gonna need it anyway.”
“The Oracle of Pittsburgh has spoken,” Dana tells Collins, who’s just walked in behind you. “Bad day today.”
“I hate when you do that,” she all but whines. “At least let me start my day before you curse it.”
You shrug. “I’m not responsible for my predictions. I’m just burdened with knowledge.”
“Well, close that third eye or whatever,” Collins mutters. “I need a good day for once, Risky.”
“Compromise,” you pose, pointing at the two of them. “The second you guys stop calling me that, I’ll foresee a good day.”
(Yeah, unfortunately, Langdon’s god-awful nickname had stuck. It’d been amended slightly and changed it to be just a bit more palatable, but you still fucking hated it. Langdon couldn’t have been more pleased that it had caught on.)
Dana and Collins exchange a glance, then look back at you. “I think we’ll take our chances,” Dana says.
You scowl at them. “One of these days, I’m actually going to call HR on this entire floor. Name-calling is a serious offense. I’ll file with Lisa for bullying and harassment.”
“If my name’s in that report, Lisa will throw it out,” says a voice from behind you. You hold back your sigh as Langdon appears at your side. “She loves me.”
You look at him blankly for a moment, then turn to your friends. You motion to Langdon. “See? I told you. Bad day.”
“Is that the official Oracle report?” he asks. His eyes find the new students and residents gathered together and he sucks his teeth. “God help the newbies.”
Dana huffs a laugh. “You can say that again.” Then, realizing the group before her, she pats the counter. “Happy fourth year, you three.”
She steps away from you then, moving to take care of some new problem that had come up. The sentiment is left with you, and a tiny bit of pride bubbles in your stomach. You knew you were going to make it to your final residency year. Since you’d graduated, there had only been one instance that you’d ever questioned your career path. Since that moment, you hadn’t had a second thought.
But still. You had done it. It wasn’t a linear path, but you’d done it. You allowed yourself to be proud of that.
You glance over at Collins, who seems to be on the same wave as you. You bump her shoulder with yours, and she grins at you, then walks over to her desk area to get set up for the day.
“Did you ever think that we’d end up finishing our residencies together?” Langdon asks you when you turn back to him.
You refrain from laughing in his face. “Fuck, no. I was hoping to be as far away from you as possible. Still want to be.”
“And yet,” he says, “here we are.”
A sickly sweet smile takes over your lips. “Fellowships can’t come soon enough.”
His eyes narrow. “Don’t act like you won’t miss me.”
“Talk to me at the end of next year,” you mutter, taking a step back to follow Collins. “But I don’t foresee that happening.”
“Is that the official Oracle report?” he repeats.
“It’s the clearest thing I’ve seen all day,” you say from over your shoulder.
JULY 1ST, 2025. (11:00 AM)
As it turns out, the clearest thing you’ll see all day was your first prediction. The day turns out to be more than bad. It’s an apocalyptic, undeniable shitshow that’s unlike anything you’ve seen before.
It starts out slow. The new residents continue to work at their new positions and better understand the environment. The med students look at you with wide eyes as you correct them. They ask questions and get acclimated to the work. You find yourself getting paired with the med student Whitaker and the intern Santos the most-- two working experiences that couldn’t be more different.
Whitaker is careful. He’s warm. He’s good with the patients. He’s hesitant. Incredibly unlucky. Then again, you could have guessed those things about him the second you saw him.
(“I want that one,” you say to Collins at Rounds, nodding in his direction. “The one that looks like a mouse who made a wish to become human for a day. I want him with me.”)
But he surprises you with how hard he tries. He cares. He plays most things by the book. You can tell exactly when he’s freaking out, despite the way he tries to hide it.
You see a sliver of your younger self in him, and perhaps, that’s what endears you to the kid.
Santos, on the other hand, is on the farthest end of that spectrum. She’s a bit more abrasive. Cares a little less about bedside manner. She thinks she’s leagues above the newbies, and honestly, she might just be. She’s incredibly competent and is already surprising you with what she knows.
She’s also rather confrontational. Just a bit reckless. She doesn’t understand the well-established hierarchy, and while you don’t think this is a fundamentally bad thing, it’s not ideal for a first year. You told her as such fifteen minutes ago.
(You observe her working to treat a man who’s hooked up to a double lumen port and has been in the ED for a couple of hours. There’s a suspected port infection, and you ask exactly how you think this should be handled.
She’s correct when she tells you intermittent antibiotics. She’s correct when she suggests Vancomycin. She’s wrong when she orders half doses to be put into both sides of the double lumen.
It’s a mistake you almost don’t catch, but thankfully, you do. She tries to argue with you, saying that her math is right, it makes sense, and that he’ll be getting the full dose. She’s wrong.
You glance at Donnie, order the correct rate, and then pull her outside.
“Listen to me,” you tell her. Your voice is soft but assertive, and it makes her shut her mouth almost immediately. “I’m assuming you graduated top of your class, right? Or you were at least up there?”
She blinks at you, obviously not expecting you to pose whatever reprimand you’re about to lay on her like that. “Uh, yeah. I did.”
“I know. I can tell. You’re good.” You cross your arms over your chest. “You’re a resident now, and that’s a big deal. You’ve made it. But just because you’re good or that you’ve made it, it doesn’t mean that you get to make all the calls.”
She looks away from you. “I’m not making all the calls. It’s the right dose—”
“Theoretically, yes. But in practice, it’s not,” you say slowly. “Double lumens aren’t super common, I know. And yeah, two half-doses make a full one. But when you push two halves, you’re pushing them at the same time. That means you’re doubling the rate of the Vancomycin.” You see the realization hit her the second the words leave your mouth. “That’s when we get Direct Mast Cell Activation--”
“And I send that guy into Red Man,” she mutters, eyes shutting.
You nod with a soft sigh. “Right.”
She shifts uncomfortably in front of you. “That just slipped my mind. I’m a little overwhelmed. I didn’t—"
“Nobody means to miss things, Santos. But we miss less when we’re not diving in head first without goggles on,” you say. “Take a second to breathe when you’re in there. Think about everything. You’ve proven that your first instinct is right most of the time, but just… consider all options.” Patting her on the arm, you nod at her. “And take the advice the older residents give you. We’re not all incompetent idiots, alright?”)
She’s quick. She’s argumentative. She’s a nicknamer. She makes mostly effective, snap decisions that you couldn’t imagine making as a first-year. She—
Holy fuck, she’s Langdon. She’s so Langdon that it actually makes your head spin. Perhaps, that’s what makes you a bit uneasy about her.
(What you don’t see, however, is what happens when you walk away from Santos. She sighs and runs a hand down her face, narrowly avoiding Langdon as he walks toward the scene he was quite obviously watching.
“Did Risky just yell at you?” he asks, staring as you walk away.
“Kinda,” she huffs, frustrated and clearly not in the mood for whatever he’s got for her.
“Wow,” he chuckles. “The only person she yells at is me. You must have pissed her off.” Before Santos can respond and piss off another resident, he walks away saying, “Whatever she said, listen to her. She’s the smartest person on this floor.”)
You find him at the nurse’s station after you finish triage with a patient. He has his phone out, showing Dana a photo. Then, he mentions something that genuinely makes you laugh out loud.
“You got Abby a dog?” you ask, fully intruding on the conversation. Langdon jumps as the med chart you’re holding clatters on the counter.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “We need to get you a bell or something.”
You completely ignore him and instead choose to rephrase your question. “You’ve been bitching about never being home for the last three months and you bought your wife and two children a dog?”
“It’s so like you to hate puppies,” he says. “I take it you have a problem with World Peace and babies, too?”
You catch Dana rolling her eyes out of the corner of yours, clearly fed up with the two of you already. “The hell are you talking about? I love dogs. I used to co-parent one with my ex back in med school.” Langon looks at you in surprise, and you wave him off. “Jamie got custody of the ring and the dog when I left him. But I’m just saying. If you hate your wife, you should have just told her. You didn’t need to give her an animal.”
He narrows his gaze at you, a sneer already curling at his lips. “The fuck—? I don’t hate—”
“You’re never home. Your wife works. You have two kids under four—”
“Tanner says he’s going to take care of it.”
“Yeah, and when I was four, I told my parents the same exact thing when I wanted them to buy me a dog at the mall.” You nod in faux enthusiasm. “You know what they did when I asked? They bought me a Tamagotchi instead.” Dana shakes her head, but you can see her holding back a smile. “I killed it two days later.”
“Well, that’s because you’re you,” Langdon says. “And you’re the fucking Antichrist.”
“I’m just saying.” You shrug, moving over to look at the screen to see which patient to take next. “If you wanted to drop two thousand dollars, you should have taken your wife to a spa and gotten Tanner a tablet with Roblox. Not a living creature that shits on the floor.”
He scoffs as he follows you. “And raise an iPad baby? Pass. I see too many of those here a day.” His arm brushes yours as he parks himself beside you and crosses his arms over his chest. You physically cannot help the way your lip curls up in disgust, and you’re not in control of your body when you step away. “Do you want the dislocated shoulder in South Seven or the kidney stones in North Three?”
“I don’t cherry-pick,” you mutter, trying to sound as self-righteous as possible. You don’t have to look at him to know that he’s rolling his eyes. “Skull fracture in Six needs to be tended to. I’m going there.”
He frowns. “I wanted that one.”
You’re already moving in the direction of South Seven. “Great. Take it. I wanted the dislocated shoulder anyway,” you say.
He’s protesting as you practically run away. “So much for not cherry-picking!”
You throw up your hands in a shrug. “Give Mr. Skull Fracture a hug for me!”
JULY 1ST, 2025. (2:00 PM)
You crack into your second energy drink of the day, ignoring the look that Mohan gives you as you do so.
“Unless you’d like me to fall asleep with a scalpel in my hand, I don’t want to hear it,” you tell her.
“I’m just saying,” she replies, “there are better options. I’ve been really into--”
“If you tell me that matcha is a good replacement for the two hundred milligrams of caffeine that I get from this chemical weapon, I’m going to yell at you,” you warn, pointing a finger at her with the hand that’s holding your can. “It’s like offering me coke and then giving me a salad.”
You hear McKay chuckle from behind you. “It’s a lost cause, Samira.”
“She’s been trying for the last six months,” you say to her from over your shoulder. “I admire the tenacity.” You turn back to Mohan. “I’m forcing a vodka-Red Bull down your throat when we go for drinks next week, when I finally get you out of your cave of an apartment, you can finally experience the magic.”
“I’m just trying to help you,” Mohan grumbles, completely ignoring your last comment. “There’s a lavender matcha that I’ve been getting at the coffee shop on my way here that’s really good. I’ll bring you one tomorrow. We’ll start making the switch.”
“I love you. I do,” you tell her, voice gentle. “But I also refuse to let you waste your money. You can send matcha powder to my grave when you’re old and out of debt after these things kill me.”
Mohan shakes her head. “It’s not as fun to say ‘I told you so’ when you’re dead, though.”
“Take what you can get,” says Langdon, interrupting the conversation in that way he loves to do. “I’m still riding the high from when I was able to say it back in 2019.”
You give him the fakest of fake smiles. “Crazy how you haven’t been able to say it since.”
“It’ll happen again one of these days,” he says. “I know it.”
“Yeah, I’m not seeing that,” you reply. “And I’m the Oracle here.”
“That you are,” he mutters, glancing at Mohan and McKay. He then nods at you, motioning for you to follow him. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
Confusion warps your face. “Me?”
“I’m looking directly at you,” Langdon says, like you’re the idiot.
“I’m sorry,” you mutter. With that confirmation, you do, in fact, round the nurse's station to let him lead you into the break room. You ask to his back, “But when have you ever pulled me to chat? Typically, you go the public humiliation route.”
He doesn’t say anything as you enter the room, but shuts the door the moment you’re inside. It’s only then that you notice the look in his eye. It’s slightly crazed and just a bit paranoid. What the hell?
“Are you good?” you ask hesitantly.
He nods again, but it’d be clear to anyone that he’s lying. “Have you…” He shuts his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Have you heard anything about me today? Anyone ask you anything about me? Say anything?”
Your perplexed expression only grows. “Uh… no? Should I be? Hearing things, I mean? Did you do something?”
“Why do you assume I did something?” he asks.
You’re astounded by the nerve of him to be frustrated with you after he pulled you away from work to talk about petty shit like this. “Because you’re kidnapping me and taking me into the break room to ask if the popular girls are gossiping about you.”
His nostrils flare. “I’m serious.”
“I am, too,” you say. “This isn’t high school, Langdon. Nobody’s passing notes in the hall or starting rumors to get you kicked off the football team. I haven’t heard anything.”
(This was a lie, of course. Word traveled fast in this hospital, and there wasn’t a nurse on the payroll who didn’t love a gossip session. But, no, you hadn’t heard anything about him.)
The way he stares at you has you asking, “Are you okay? What’s got you so freaked out?”
“Nothing,” Langdon answers, perhaps a bit too quickly. Your eyes narrow. “I mean it, it’s--” He pushes both hands outward, like he’s expelling some sort of negative energy. “It’s nothing you want to be a part of. I just wanted to ask.”
You purse your lips, questions on your tongue, but you know they’re not worth asking. “O-kay,” you say instead, drawing the word out.
But he’s not done. Before you can make your exit from this delightfully awkward and strange conversation, he grabs your arm. You turn to him with wide eyes. “Just— if Santos comes to talk to you… let me know, okay?”
You’re three kinds of confused and are experiencing some major whiplash. You take his hand off of you, throwing it to the side. “Wha— Santos? What the hell is she—” You cut yourself off with another question. “Are you already fighting with the fucking intern?”
“No,” he says defiantly. “I’m not. Jesus. Just, please—”
“Then what is it? Did something happen?”
He shakes his head, blowing past you to get to the door. “It’s nothing. Don’t— don’t worry about it.” He meets your eyes briefly before turning back around. “Forget I said anything.”
He knows you won’t. Forgetting wasn’t something you did. He knows he just fucked himself over by simply bringing it up to you, but it’s too late to do anything about it now.
He walks out the door, his anxiety festering, and your suspicion rising.
JULY 1ST, 2025. (4:55 PM.)
Two hours left, you tell yourself. Two hours.
Despite the fact that there are only two hours left of your shift, you’ve been trying to ignore a migraine for the last thirty minutes. Literally and physically.
It had developed when Dana got hit. You were coming out of Trauma Two with Whitaker when you saw her stumble in, immediately springing into action alongside Robby. It took a look from him and a hand on your shoulder from Dana to keep you from running out into the parking lot to go find the guy and do God-knows-what, so you’d settled for keeping her company when she went to get a CT.
The migraine surfaced when she’d returned to the floor and had burned a hole in your head since then. You’d glance at her, letting her know that you were going to go run and grab some ibuprofen from your bag in your locker and that you’d be back in a minute.
(“I’m getting you some too,” you say as you walk away.
“I’m fine!” she calls after you, ice pack over her eye.
“I’m still getting you some!”)
You hadn’t meant to overhear it. You hadn’t meant to be there.
You don’t process it at first. You just hear what sounds like Robby and Langdon arguing. You hear the way Robby’s voice waivers as he tells Langdon to go home. What? He was being sent home?
And then it all comes crashing down.
Langdon’s pleading. He’s telling Robby it’s not what he thinks, that he’d hurt his back some time ago when moving. That he’s not an addict. An addict couldn’t do what he does.
It takes you a moment to put it all together, the shock of it all clouding your brain and your judgment. An addict? Who was…
Had Langdon been using? Is that what he was so worried about in the break room? Was he— Did he—?
You stumble backward, hand tracing the wall as you try to balance yourself and escape the area. There was no way this was happening. No fucking way.
But then you hear Robby chuck Langdon’s things at him and suddenly… It's all real.
You don’t want to be anywhere near this. This isn’t your business. This is something that’s between them-- something that Robby knows how to deal with. He always knows the right way to deal with everything. That’s kind of his thing.
You don’t want Robby to know you know. You don’t want Langdon to know you know.
So, you quietly walk back to the ED, migraine intensifying, and feeling more lightheaded than ever.
When you return to the floor empty-handed, Dana immediately notices. The sickly look on your face has her asking, “Where’s that ibuprofen?”
You blink twice, staring at her as you try to find the words. “I, uh—” You clear your throat. “I think I ran out. I-I’m gonna go see if I can find some.”
You take off before she can question anything else.
When Robby comes back and tells her that Langdon went home and he needs her to do a pharmacy audit, Dana puts two and two together.
(“I’m not gonna ask-- I’m not,” she says, eyeing him carefully. “But, just so you’re aware, Risky just came back from the lockers looking like she saw a ghost.”
Robby shuts his eyes, both hands rubbing against his neck to latch behind his head. “Nothing’s ever fucking easy, is it?”)
The next time you see your attending, you share a look. It’s a stone-faced plea on his end, an unspoken agreement on yours. He nods and then asks you to assist him in Trauma One.
Neither of you utter a word about it.
JULY 1ST, 2025. (6:55 PM)
You can’t breathe.
You’re caught in the height of the PittFest disaster, and there is just so much.
There’s been so much blood. So many people are hurt. So many people are dead. So much trying and not enough saving. There’s just so much… everything.
And you’re the only R4 left on the floor.
Collins left. You told her to. Robby told her to. After what she went through today, she should be gone. But Langdon…
Langdon’s gone. Potentially for good. And it’s his own fucking fault.
Of course, you know it’s more complicated than that. But right now, you can’t decipher up from down, let alone right from wrong.
The two people you’ve learned to rely on most (for better or for worse) are gone, and you’re in way over your head. You’re drowning, trying to stay above water. But as you continue to work, as you order your younger residents and med students around, knowing they’re floundering just as much as you are, you can’t help but freak out.
You’re supposed to hold down the fort. You’ve got Abbot and Robby and Mohan, you’ve got Walsh and Ellis and Shen, but you don’t have your people.
You don’t have Langdon.
He was so much better at situations like these than you were. He didn’t get flustered, he didn’t freeze up, he never had a problem with drowning. He was always cool and alert and ready for whatever was thrown at him.
And fuck— as much as you hated to admit it, you got used to him having your back out here. You got used to him.
As someone who hated change, that’s just about what tipped you over the edge.
You take what you think is a minute to yourself. You step back from the carnage in front of you to grab a new pair of gloves and take a second to breathe.
But you can’t find your breath. And it takes more than a second to realize that.
You only come to when you hear an inaudible voice from beside you. It sounds like whoever is speaking to you is underwater, drowning with you.
They grab you by the shoulders and turn you. You blink, dazed as you see Langdon’s face. His confused expression drops as he sees the look on your face and the speed at which your chest is moving up and down.
“Nope,” he says simply, shaking his head. “None of that. Get your fucking head on straight.”
A wheeze escapes your chest. “What are you— How are you—“
You can’t even get the words out. They’re overtaken by the breath you can’t catch. You try to contain it, not wanting to do this-- to be like this in front of him, but you’re too far gone. Too deep into it.
Langdon’s having none of it. “You’re not Flight Risk-ing it right now. Not now.” He grips your shoulders tighter. “We need you out there. We need you to be on it because no one out there can do what you do.”
“I can’t—” Your voice comes out unstable. “I just need— I was out—”
“Breathe,” he tells you. “Are you listening to me? Breathe. We need you.” He looks directly into your eyes. “I need you, okay? I fucking need you, so get the fuck out of your head and let’s go.”
As if those were the magic words, your brain flips a switch. You slowly regain your footing, any anxiety now replaced with anger toward him. You have no idea if that was his intention, or if he truly meant that, but the second your breath becomes something resembling regular, you use both hands to push him off of you. His lips part in surprise.
What a fucking joke. He needed you? You needed him and it was his own fucking fault that he wasn’t here.
“I was out there,” you barely manage to get out. You point toward the door with a shaking hand. “I was out there on my own. Without you. You’re always here when things go to shit and you weren’t fucking here, Frank.”
You watch as your words hit him. They’re said with such anger and resentment that he just barely registers that you’ve called him by his first name. You barely realize it. You’re not sure if you’ve ever done that before. That same anger also makes him think that you might know more about his situation than he thought.
But there’s no time to focus on that. No time to dwell on his feelings or yours. There are more important matters at hand.
“Well,” he says, throwing his hands up in a shrug. “I’m here now. And you can be pissed off at me out there. As long as you’re on the floor.”
You bite your tongue. There are so many things you want to say to that. So many. But he’s right. You need to get back out there. Your little panic attack can wait. You can bitch him out after you clock out; whenever this nightmare ends.
So, you resign and nod, finally breathing right. “Fine.”
He nods, giving you a once-over. You’re covered in blood. It’s smeared on your cheek, caught in your hair, and all over your scrubs. Your eyes are still wide, blown-out like you’re shell-shocked. But, you’re still you.
He doesn’t know what to do with the comfort that gives him.
He pushes all of that aside for now. “You good?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you breathe. “As good as I can be. You?”
“I’m good.” You don’t laugh in his face like you want to. “You ready?”
“No,” you answer honestly. “But that doesn’t matter, does it?”
You get a rare, genuine smile from him. It’s small, but it changes the entire composition of his face. “That’s the spirit.”
He waits for you to return to the floor before he follows. When the two of you take a moment to stop and observe the chaos before you rush right back into it, you exchange one last glance.
He nods at you, and then he’s off.
You break off in the opposite direction, refusing to focus on anything but the patients and doctors who need you.
JULY 1ST, 2025. (7:25 PM.)
Langdon’s had his eye on you since he returned to the ED.
You’ve been on the opposite side of the action, helping Robby and other red-banded patients. He’s worked with you once since he got back in, and while you seemed to be able to compartmentalize enough to collect yourself, he’s still worried about you.
He knows it’s rich coming from him, given everything that’s currently going on, but still. He’d never seen you like that, not even in med school when you were more neurotic than you were presently. He prays he won’t ever have to again.
But right now, he’s even more nervous about it because he can’t find you. And he needs you.
He can’t access a vein for the current patient he’s working on, and if he doesn’t, he’s going to lose the guy. As he racks his brain for solutions, he freezes.
You. Shit, he needs you.
He knows, in theory, what to do. But you know exactly what to do and how to do it.
But again, he can’t find you. You’ve disappeared from his line of sight, and it freaks him out more than it should. The guy he’s operating on just tried to pull a gun. He figured he had a right to be worried.
Fuck it. He didn’t have time to look for you. He’d do it himself. He’d read about it a couple of years ago anyway.
Langdon runs back to the guy like a bat out of hell, with necessary supplies in hand. Mohan’s eyes go wide when she sees him. “What are you doing?” she asks.
“Giving this guy a chance,” he replies, getting his bearings. “He needs a big central line for fast transfusion.”
Mohan’s brow furrows. “You can't do an IJ without an ultrasound, especially on a guy this big.”
Mateo looks up at him, continuing his chest compressions. “You'll kill him if you collapse a lung or hit the carotid.”
“I’m not doing an IJ,” Langdon says, glancing at Mohan. “Unhook that blood line. Bring it up here.” She does as she’s told, watching intently as Langdon sets up everything he needs. “This is a supraclavicular subclavian. If you have to go in blind, this is the only safe way to access a giant vein.” He goes to move Mateo out of the way. “And hold compressions.”
Readjusting himself, he continues, “A centimeter from the lateral head of the sternocleidomastoid, a centimeter off the clavicle, aiming at the contralateral nipple.” He successfully inserts the syringe he’s holding, and he begins to draw blood. “I'm in. Okay! Resume compressions.” As they do, and everything starts to work normally again, he feels the nerves wear off. “And squeeze blood!”
It works. Of course it fucking works. It takes everything in Langdon’s body to stop himself from laughing.
Mohan stares at him in awe. “Where’d you learn that?”
Subconsciously, he finds himself scanning the room for you once more. You’re back in the action as if you were never gone, drilling an IO for a patient and moving on to their injuries with the grace and ease that had become synonymous with your name.
His gaze dips as he takes off his gloves. He shrugs, glancing over at you briefly once more as you readjust your loupes to fix up the patient’s GSW. “Some research paper from 2021.”
Mohan tracks the exact place his eyes went, a small, disbelieving grin growing on her lips as she puts the pieces together. “Seriously?”
“Don’t tell her,” he mutters, passing her to move on to the next patient. “She’ll never let me live it down.”
JULY 1ST, 2025. (9:43 PM.)
It’s the first thing Mohan tells you after you clock out.
After you grab your things from your locker, you run into her on your way outside. You almost don’t realize that she’s beside you, somehow too dissociated from the world and too focused on what you’ve tasked yourself with to register anything.
You flinch when she starts speaking, her shoulder bumping into yours. “Random question,” she says. The way she speaks tells you it’s not random at all. “Did you write a paper about performing a supraclavicular subclavian?”
You blink at her in surprise. Your brain’s completely fried, and you’re slow to process her words, but when you finally do, your brow furrows. “Uh, yeah. Like, forever ago in school. How do you—”
“Langdon did one on one of the mass casualty patients today.” There’s a small smile on her face, as if she knows something you don’t. “He saved the man’s life. I didn’t even know that was a thing. It was pretty cool.”
That first piece of information catches you more off guard than anything else that was thrown at you today. You’re sure it shows on your face. He… what?
You’re so, completely overwhelmed by everything that you don’t hear the sound of the ER doors opening behind the two of you. Mohan glances past you, and luckily, she misses the dazed look on your face. She sends a small smile to Abbot and Robby, and she’s already moving on before you even have a chance to answer her previous question. “Can you send that to me?” she asks. “Or any other research you’ve done on weird, niche procedures? I’d love to learn how to do it.”
“That’s Risky’s specialty,” Abbot chimes in from behind the two of you. The sound of his voice makes you jump out of your skin. “Never met a research freak like her.”
Ignoring the way that your mind’s spinning, you lean over and narrow your eyes at him, a small smile twisting your lips. “The next time you want to see my case notes, I’m burning them in front of you.”
“A fire hazard in a hospital should be good for everyone,” he replies.
You shrug. “After today, I think we can handle a little fire.”
Abbot huffs a laugh in agreement. “Fair enough,” he says, then nods toward the park. “You coming for a drink?”
“Not tonight,” you reply. “I’m here at seven tomorrow. Samira’s got me trying to cut back on my Red Bull intake, so unfortunately, I’ve got to get at least six hours or I’ll lose it.”
Mohan scowls at you, but before she can say anything, Robby pats you on the shoulder, speaking up for the first time since he got out here. “Get some sleep. You did great today.”
Your smile grows, and you shake your head. “Heard. Thanks, Doc.” You glance back over at Mohan. “And I’ll send over what I’ve got,” you tell her, taking a step back to exit the conversation. “We still on for drinks later this week?”
A hesitant look overtakes her expression. “I don’t know, I—”
“What did I say? I’m getting you out of your cave.” You shoot her a look. “Don’t make me threaten to withhold my research.”
Finally, you get a smile. “Fine. Yes. We’re still on.”
“Good,” you say, turning to walk away. From over your shoulder, you call, “Get some rest. All of you!”
“Not sure I know what that is,” Abbot responds.
You find yourself chuckling as you walk away. It’s only then, when you hear the crinkling in your pocket, that your steps falter. Suddenly, you remember what you originally came out here to do. Who you came out to find.
And now, you’ve got something else to talk to him about.
You find Langdon toward the back of the hospital. You knew he’d still be here. Of course, he’s still here.
He’s sitting on the curb, head between his legs and in his hands. Your shoes scrape against the pavement, and the sound makes his head snap up. There’s a look of hope on his face-- hope that you, maybe, were someone else. It’s evident by the way his expression disappears the second he meets your eyes. He sighs, and it’s something heavy and labored as his head drops back into his hands.
Neither of you says anything. He doesn’t know why you’re here or what you want, but frankly, he couldn’t give less of a shit. He was at the end of the worst day of his life. He might as well round it out with a conversation with you.
After a hesitant moment, you take a seat on the curb next to him. There’s just enough space between you two that it’s not overwhelming, but still mildly intimate. It’s safe. You never thought you’d want to be this close to him, but after today? Anything goes.
As Langdon’s mind continues to spin, he’s pulled out of his misery by the sound of that same crinkling that stopped you in your tracks. It’s obnoxious against the quiet of the night, but it confuses him more than anything. He lifts his head to look over at you, only to see a bag of Peanut M&Ms outstretched in your hand.
It’s your version of a peace offering. He glances up at you, suspicion written across his face with the smallest glint of humor in his eyes. When he doesn’t immediately take them, you push the bag out at him once more, as if the offer’s going to expire.
With another long, heavy sigh, he snatches it from you, and you have to pretend like that doesn’t end a wave of relief through you. You fish through your sweatshirt pocket to find the bag of regular M&Ms you bought for yourself, tearing into them once they’re in your hand.
For a long while, neither of you speak. It’s an odd, stark contrast to what you’re used to with him. There’s no bickering, no expectation for a quick and witty rebuttal to shut him up. It’s just you and him, sitting on a curb outside the hospital, coming down from an adrenaline high the likes of which you’ve never felt. You’re two people who went through something completely, out-of-this-world awful, eating M&Ms together with no words to exchange. You’re still shaking.
(Langdon notices the way your fingers tremble as they reach into your bag, but he doesn’t say anything about it. Perhaps that’s his peace offering.)
Instead, he asks, “Vending machine?”
He doesn’t look over at you. It’s a casual question, one asked as he chews, as if he’d asked for the weather or what the time was. But you’re open to it.
“Yup,” you say shortly. “You got the last bag.”
Langdon nods. “Cool.”
“Yup,” you repeat.
Another beat passes between you. Then, he asks, “How’d you know?”
You glance over as he lifts the bag up, then shrug. “It was your study snack,” you reply. “Only thing I ever saw you get from that loud-ass machine in the library.”
He nods again, but it’s slower this time. “You were always good at that.” When he feels your eyes on the side of his face, he finally meets them. “Noticing things.”
“Yeah,” you say with a shrug, because you’re not sure what else to say. “It’s kinda part of the job.”
You both turn away from each other again, the air between you two feeling just a bit tighter this time around. You can’t hear anything but the sounds of the city and the hospital, and the crinkling of your candy bags.
You’re the first to speak this time. “You alright?”
It comes out more timid than you had wanted, but he doesn’t seem to react to it. “Yeah,” he replies. You know it’s a lie. “You?”
A sigh creeps up on you. “Yeah,” you repeat.
He knows it’s a lie. There’s a silent agreement between you that you won’t call each other out.
“I heard--” You clear your throat as your voice comes out a little too raspy for your liking. “I heard you did a supraclavicular subclavian?”
He stops mid-chew and shuts his eyes. “Fucking Slo-Mo.”
His reaction has the beginnings of a smile tugging at your lips. If you needed any sort of confirmation that Mohan was telling the truth, he just gave it to you. “You read my paper?” you ask.
Your voice is light and just a bit teasing, but there’s a fondness in it that Langdon’s not sure he’s ever heard directed at him. It’s enough to have him muttering, “I could have read or heard about that anywhere--”
“But you didn’t,” you say. “You read my paper.”
Langdon nearly groans. “I told her not to—”
“You read my paper,” you repeat again, grin growing larger. “All that talk in med school about how you didn’t trust my research and—”
“I always trusted your research,” he interjects, pointing at you. “You were way too much of a meticulous, pedantic freak for any of that to be wrong. I didn’t trust your indecisive, game-time, on-the-spot procedures.” When he sees you rolling your eyes, he suppresses his own smile. “But a case study written by that meticulous freak about a new, risky procedure? I’m reading that entire thing front to back.”
You hate the feeling that stirs in your chest. You hate the fact that his validation still gets that type of reaction from you. You don’t need it. You knew that paper was good. You had the acclaim and accolades to prove it. But hearing it from him and knowing that he didn’t just read it, but he fucking remembered it well enough to use it in an emergency situation?
That’ll get you. That’ll get you every time.
Fuck, you hate yourself for it.
Despite all of that, your smile stays on your face as you nod along. You lean in slightly when you ask, “It’s pretty cool, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, waving you off. The humor in his voice isn’t missed. “It’s cool.”
You don’t know why you do it. Maybe it’s your exhaustion. Maybe you’re still reeling from the day. Maybe it’s because you suddenly feel closer to him than you’ve ever felt before. Maybe it’s because he’s being open and as nice as he can muster up right now.
Whatever it is, you pop an M&M in your mouth and say, “I read a couple of your papers, too.”
Now, it’s his turn to be surprised. You don’t look at him, but you can see the smirk growing on his face out of the corner of your eye. “Did you?”
“One or two of them,” you shrug. “Had to know what riveting content my mortal enemy was researching. Couldn’t have him writing a better paper than me.”
“I’m sure that’s what it was.”
“It was,” you insist, though you know it’ll fall on deaf ears. “I’m nothing if not competitive.”
Langdon huffs. “Don’t I know it.”
“I wouldn’t be talking,” you scoff. “If I’m competitive, you’re--”
“I know. I’m bad too,” he says, chuckling softly. “Wouldn’t have been half as fun if we weren’t.”
Your brow lifts in agreement. “Right on.”
You lean back, holding yourself upright with your arms behind you. The mulch on the ground sticks into your palms, but you’re too exhausted to care. With another long sigh, you stare up at the sky, the lights from the hospital and the city clouding your view of the stars. You’re about to muse about how much you miss seeing them when he says, “‘Mortal enemy,’ huh?”
“I don’t have a ton of them.” You shrug. “You didn’t have a lot of competition.”
He hums. “Guess I should be lucky that I’m number one.”
“Easiest thing you’ve ever won,” you say, failing to bite back your grin.
“Only thing I didn’t have to compete with you for.” He shakes another M&M into his hand. “Of course it was easy.”
That grin of yours falters slightly. When you try to respond, you find that your words fail.
Luckily, he continues by asking, “So, what did you think?”
“Of what?” you question.
“My papers,” he says. “The ones you’ve read because you trust my work so much.”
That strange feeling stirs in your stomach again, but this time, it’s a little different. While it’s familiar, you can’t define it. It causes enough discomfort in you that you feel yourself withdrawing from him. This is too comfortable. Too nice.
There’s a piece of you that needs things to return to normal. To get back on course. But that other piece of you, the one that harbors all of your anger toward him-- that one suddenly overtakes you. It’s like you remembered what you really came out here for. It wasn’t just to find him and eat candy with him. It wasn’t to joke around like you’re old friends. Because you’re not.
You came out to make sure he was stable. Okay. And then, you came to yell at him.
You don’t look at him when you say it. Your eyes return to the night sky, and you sigh. It’s deep enough for Langdon’s expression to morph into something confused.
“I’ll let you know when you get back,” you say, voice soft and sad.
He doesn’t get it at first. That confusion he wears becomes more prominent, and his brows knit together. But then, you look at him. You’re disappointed. You’re angry. You’re upset. He’s seen all of that, but never all together. Never like this.
Then, it clicks.
The color drains from his face. “Did fucking Santos tell you? Because I swear to God, if she—”
“Do not,” you begin, voice so lethal that it has him snapping his mouth shut, “blame Santos for this. She did exactly what she was supposed to do. She’s not the one using. She’s not the one who fucked up. That is on you.”
He scoffs, shaking his head. “Jesus, did she tell everyone? I don’t fucking need this from you—”
“She didn’t tell me,” you say. Your voice is firm, and he chances a look at you. “She didn’t need to. I heard you and Robby fighting.” Lighter, you add, “You pulling me into the break room and talking about Santos didn’t help your case either. I kind of put two and two together.”
He doesn’t have anything to say to that. He just sits there, drained and miserable, unsure of where he stands with… anything. His eyes shut, and he turns away from you, jaw trembling.
When he finally speaks, his words are quiet. “I’m not an addict.”
“You are,” you reply, and a small piece of your heart breaks as his shoulders slump, defeated. While you may not be his biggest fan, you don’t like seeing him like this. It’s so hard to hate him like this. “But you’re going to fix that.”
A humorless, rough laugh escapes his lips. “Because it’s that easy.”
“It’s not. And it won’t be,” you state, refusing to bite at his attempt at an argument. “It’s going to be hard every single day going forward. But you’re going to do it.”
He’s quiet for a long while again. He obviously doesn’t know what to do with you right now. He’s not used to talking like this with you. It’s just as uncomfortable for him as it is for you.
But then, “You sound so sure.”
His sarcasm comes off half-hearted. It’s like he’s trying to put up that ever-familiar wall between you two, but can’t. There’s too much uncertainty in it. For the first time in years, you feel like he’s being one-hundred-percent vulnerable with you. You figure you owe him the same kindness.
“I am,” you tell him. There’s no room for arguing.
You watch him nod. “How do you know?”
A smile graces your lips. “Because I know you,” you say. His heart pulls at how honest you sound. “And when the hell have you ever given up on something just because it’s hard?”
If he didn’t know what to say to your previous comments, you’ve left him dead in the water with this one. It feels like a good parting line, and you don’t have much more to say.
So, you stand, brushing the dirt off your hands onto your scrub pants. He’s still looking at you intently, like he’s trying to figure you out. He walked into work today with his relationship with you completely cut and dry. You didn’t like each other. You didn’t get along, and you had your history, but you worked well together. That was it.
But you’d lived through something traumatic together today. Not only that, but you knew why he’d be taking a leave of absence. Now, he felt exposed, as if you could read him better than anyone else. Maybe you could.
You hadn’t weaponized it, though. Not that he thought you would. But still… You could have. You hadn’t. There had to be something to that.
Before you can say your indefinite goodbyes or leave, he clears his throat. Gently, he says, “I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me today.”
With a small, sad smile, you readjust your bag on your shoulder. “Just be there for the team next year,” you tell him. “We’ll call it even.”
He doesn’t know why you’re being so kind to him. He doesn’t feel like he deserves it. You’ve never been like this with him before. Perhaps he didn’t give you the opportunity to.
Before you leave, you nod at him. “Good luck, Langdon,” you say.
As you walk away, he can’t help but feel like you’re taking something of his with you.
synopsis: You start having an affair with Dr. Langdon, something purely need driven, or at least that’s what you tell yourselves.
warnings: SMUT 18+, cheating!frank, swearing, 3400+ words
It started on a rainy Tuesday evening.
You’d been in a shitty mood all day. You and your husband, Jake, had had a massive blow-up first thing in the morning. The words exchanged had been rushed and hurtful and in the midst of you hurrying to get ready for your shift in the ER. Words that echoed, rattled you even during the busiest hours of your workday.
There had been a lot of tension in your marriage for months, always stemming from the same issue. Your work. It took a toll, the long hours, and the constant tragedies you absorbed daily didn’t exactly help your mood when you were home. But you’d been trying, really trying, so it was like a punch in the gut when he brought it up again in a way that diminished all of the hard work you were doing. Not only that, but Jake wasn’t exactly the most perceptive guy, especially when it came to your feelings. In the throes of all of your conjoined problems, he’d never once noticed how unhappy you were with him.
You’d never been one to dwell on your own needs and wants; you simply accepted the hard truth that asking for what you want doesn’t make it so. Especially with him. A fact you learned in the early stages of your relationship, and now looking back, wished you’d advocated for yourself more. Because it’s always his needs and what he wants, never a lingering consideration for you. The resentment you harbored for him always took a backseat because deep down, you felt it was silly. Pathetic.
You and Jake hadn’t had consistent sex, or good sex, since the work issues really started kicking off. What started as a simple turn away in bed during a fight escalated into fragility, hesitancy to touch even when you weren’t arguing. You were always the one to try and start something in the bedroom, and as the months progressed, the more he pulled away. Almost like a punishment. And when he did accept your advances, he put nothing into it. No foreplay, no talking, just fifteen minutes in the dark that left you unsatisfied.
The weight of it all hit you in the parking garage after your shift with the realization that you’d have to return to it. Jake hadn’t sent a single text all day, a sign that he had no intention of speaking to you when you arrived home. You sat there, the engine on, staring at the concrete wall through the windshield wondering how many bones you could break if you hit it hard enough.
You’d been contemplating a strong seven or eight when a knuckle tapped on your window. You looked up to see Langdon, your fellow senior resident, standing there with his hand still up in the knocking motion. You rolled down your window.
“Didn’t get enough of me for the day?” you said, the twinge of banter you usually have in your tone defeated to an exhausted, strained one.
He huffed a laugh, resting his arm on the window ledge. “No comment on that,” he quipped back, also sounding just as tired. And tense. “My, uh, car won’t start. Think you could give me a ride home?”
You nodded immediately. The idea of having a little extra time before you had to face Jake is exactly what you need. Langdon threw his bag in the backseat before jogging around to the passenger side. He settled in, leaned back with a sigh and ran a hand through his hair.
“Thanks.”
“Trust me, it’s not a problem,” you replied, turning around to back out of the spot. “Just put your address into my phone.”
“Can you open it for me?” Langdon held the phone towards you.
You waved him off, “It’s 0707, maps is in the top right corner.”
He put the code in quickly. Turned his head, eyes full of curiosity. “Any reason you picked that one?”
You gripped the steering wheel and bit down the urge to roll your eyes at his question. “It’s me and Jake’s anniversary.”
In your peripheral vision, you caught Langdon’s expression. Confused, even more curious. Clearly, you weren’t doing a good job at hiding your bubbling aggravation towards your husband. But thankfully, he didn’t say anything, just finished typing the address in and put your phone back on the dash.
Both of you sat in silence for most of the drive, the only sounds the muffled radio and the rain as it pattered on the windows. You’ve never been close at work, but in that moment you were really hoping he’d start talking. Just to keep your mind off of it all. The longer you stayed in your own thoughts, the more the anxiety grew.
“How’re your kids?” you blurted out when the anxiety got to be too much. Knuckles flushed at the insane grip you had on the wheel.
Langdon whipped his head toward you, whatever reverie he was in seeming hard to shake off. You could’ve sworn he seemed just as volatile in the way he fidgeted with the bracelet on his wrist and the tightness in his jaw.
“Great,” he replied, blank and unassuming. “Tanner made the baseball team, so that’s good.”
“That is good. Good for him.”
A lot of ‘good’ being used by two people who seemed much of the opposite. You side-eyed him when he turned back to the passenger window. There was definitely something off about him, and your question appeared to have made it worse.
“How’s Jake, by the way?” he suddenly asked, voice distant and faraway in his thoughts.
“Fine,” you said all-too-quickly. Holy shit am I bad at pretending tonight. Get it together.
When you didn’t elaborate, Langdon turned back to you with the same curious look he had before. “That’s it?”
“Yep.”
Still facing you, he leaned towards the passenger window, as if sizing you up. Raised eyebrows, parted lips. “Okay,” he finally said. “If you say so.”
“As if you’d care anyway,” you muttered under your breath, not as a dig, but a rogue thought that popped out of your mouth subconsciously. Langdon’s brows reached new heights, shocked by your sudden aggression. “No offense, we just don’t talk about that kind of stuff with each other.”
He nodded in understanding, face neutral again. “True. None taken.” Again, he turned away, resumed fiddling with the bracelet. “But if you wanted to talk about it, I’d listen.”
You shook your head. “No, it’s whatever. Better if I don’t right now anyway.”
It’s your turn to be confused when you arrived at his destination. It’s a ballpark, stocked with two sets of bleachers and dugouts and a small baseball diamond. It must be where his son plays.
“Why did you want to be dropped off here?”
Langdon faced in front of him and stared out into the field, eyes hollow, drained. He sighed in the way you do after an especially rough night with Jake.
“I don’t live far from here,” he stated plainly in the dark, eyes transfixed on the rain now coming down in sheets.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I don’t want to go home, and no, I don’t want to talk about it.”
You couldn’t help but stare at him. His eyebags were more pronounced, veins protruding from his neck like he was holding a mountain of baggage back. Is this what I look like?
“That’s okay,” you murmured softly, flickering your stare to the rain, too. “But if you ever want to talk about it, I’d listen.”
Langdon snorted; an empty smile appeared on his face. You smiled, too, but you didn’t need a mirror to know it didn’t reach your eyes either. Hypnotized now by the worsening weather, you both stayed like that for a long time. Just staring forward, trying to let your afflictions wash away with the rain. It was refreshing to have someone next to you, just being there, not feeling like they have to say anything to comfort or make you feel like you have to do the same.
“What’re you gonna to do about your car?” you suddenly asked. Breaking the barrier between you and the rest of the world.
He shrugged, stifling a laugh at your random question. “Don’t know. Thought maybe I’d set up camp in the parking garage for a while or something.”
“Can I join?”
You both laughed, genuine ones at that. Spent the next hour dreaming up intangible scenarios to avoid the shitty parts of your life. Planning how you’d both fit in a small four-door Toyota Camry, how efficient it would be to get to work, how you’d hold a big barbeque after a rough shift with the new grill Langdon’s brother-in-law got him for his birthday. For the first time all day, you felt like you could breathe. And you could tell he felt the same.
It didn’t last as long as you’d hoped. Once the laughs had died down, they were replaced with the inevitably of your responsibilities. Your respective families would be wondering where you were soon. The realization was like a knife, quick and fast, jumpstarting your anxiety again. You glanced over at Langdon to see he was already staring at you, eyes scouring, as if trying to read your thoughts.
“My husband hates my job,” you uttered abruptly. Your gaze flickered to your lap. “And I think he hates me, too.”
“Doubt that. Well, the second part at least,” Langdon said, hard eyes softening. There was a vulnerability in him after he said that. Shoulders slumped, eyebrows sloping downward. “Do you hate him?”
His tone was nonchalant, but the question was a boulder. “I-…I don’t know.”
You’d considered how you were feeling about him, but not nearly enough to have really fleshed it out. All of your focus had been on Jake, and how we was feeling, and how you needed to fix things.
“If it’s any consolation, my marriage isn’t doing any better,” Langdon muttered, tone now filled to the brim with bitterness.
“It isn’t,” you whispered, gnawing at your cheek.
“It feels pathetic sometimes,” he continued on as if you’d not said anything at all. “She’s supportive, she’s there, but I just—”
His sentence ends strangled, unable to fully emerge. You couldn’t tell if it was because he thought he’d said too much or because it was just too difficult to admit out loud. Probably both. Something about the rigidity in his words, in his body language, feels familiar. You’d had the same tautness anytime you thought about the conversation you wanted to have with Jake about your intimacies.
“Feel like you’re asking for too much?” you finished for him, posing it as more of a guess.
Langdon snapped his eyes to yours, a quiet understanding between you. He slowly nodded, as if he was processing something. Then he spoke words that went straight to your chest, an undirected stab.
“I feel like I shouldn’t have to ask her to just…want me.”
Your face fell, again unable to hide the obvious emotion etched on your face. The car felt like a cage all of a sudden, almost as if you’d said the words yourself. Not sure how to respond, you just nodded, hoping your eyes showed the cognizance you failed to vocalize.
Langdon took a beat to digest your acknowledgement before he pushed the car door open and fled out into the rain. You watched him, pitiful tears clinging to your lashes as you felt sorry for yourself. And him.
He stood with his hands in his jacket pockets in the glow of the headlights, his back to you. You could see how slick his hair already was from the storm, strands blowing in the harsh winds. This was the opposite of how you’d known him; he’d never seemed the angsty type, just a normal resident with a bad mouth and an attention-deficient disorder. And seeing him like this, it changed the way you saw him. Less shallow, and pitifully, more attractive.
Which is part of the reason you also stepped out of the car, slammed the door, and approached him with absolutely no hesitation. He turned at your presence seconds before you lassoed a hand to the back of his neck and jerked his mouth onto yours.
It was rash, dangerous, ethically just fucking wrong. You weren’t thinking about anything but what it would feel like to have someone crave you. You weren’t asking for someone to want you; you were demanding it.
Langdon was surprised, body stuttering, but he didn’t miss a beat. His wet hands grasped your back like a lifeline, lips parting to take a single breath only to slam back onto yours. Your other hand trickled its way into his hair, balling up a section to yank towards you. You hadn’t felt this turned on in a long time, unable to stop yourself from moaning directly into his mouth as his teeth ground into your bottom lip.
“Backseat,” he fumbled out breathlessly. He kept his hands on you wherever he could as you both booked it to the car, haphazardly discarding your soaked jackets behind the seats.
You fell into the back seat first, back against the opposite door, legs stretched out as he climbed in between them. The undressing was vicious, carnal, fingers tearing at the fabric of your clothes. Once you were both just in your underwear, Langdon gripped your hair, yanking down so your head thudded against the seat before reconnecting your lips. His other hand roamed down the column of your throat as if to feel your unsteady breaths.
You parted your lips to bring his tongue to yours, devouring every inch of his mouth like you’d never taste it again. And maybe you wouldn’t. Then you felt something spongy slide onto your tongue, eyes flashing open at the spearmint flavor.
“Didn’t have time to spit it out,” Langdon said, hovering just above you, rain droplets bleeding onto your cheeks. You responded by pulling him in again, tongue exchanging the gum back to him, causing him to let out an aroused groan.
Your hands scoured his back, fighting the urge to scratch into the skin. He lifted your leg to wrap around his back, the other following suit. He pulled back to start licking at the column of your throat, sucking softly to garner a moan from you.
“Can’t leave marks,” you rasped out, but your head fell back against the seat anyway. Langdon hummed in agreement then kissed lower until his lips enveloped your left nipple. The silver nipple ring you had on danced between his tongue, causing you to indent your nails into his shoulder blade and release a loud moan.
“Fuck, sorry,” you gasped out at the realization you’d left crescent moons in his skin.
“If I could have you the way I want, I’d let you,” he responded in the midst of sucking, and as fucked up as it is, it only made you wetter.
As his teeth gnashed at your nipple, one of his hands travelled lower until it found your panties, finger stalled above the fabric, right where you need him. He drew circles on your clit, and though it wasn’t direct contact, your hips jutted forward for him without thought. You could feel his growing smile on your nipple at your reaction.
“Frank, I need you. Now.” you demanded, despite the brittleness of your voice. Langdon sprang into action, ripped open a condom he found in the center console, and shimmied out of his boxers. You helped him put it on when you noticed how shaky his hands were and pushed your damp panties to the side.
Then he’s lined himself up, towering over you with beads of rain or sweat dripping onto your heated skin. You wrapped your hands around the base of him, wanting to feel him bottom out inside you.
“Holy shit,” Frank stammered as his hips meet yours, the arm that held him up faltering. You exhaled at the feeling, all of the worries and frustration from earlier leaking out of your body like a balloon. It’s wrong – definitely wrong, but it feels so good. “God, you’re so wet.”
He started to thrust, hard, right out of the gate. You pushed yourself up on your elbows and gripped the back of his neck. Your foreheads were touching, but you both closed your eyes, chasing after the high and avoiding all of the guilt that comes with it.
Strings of curse words leapt between you, you rocked into him to quicken his pace and kneaded circles on your clit. Then you dared to open your eyes, feeling Langdon’s hot spearmint breath fanning your face. Eyes shut, his lips were parted in ecstasy, neck thrust up to expose his throat. There’s nothing else in the world but you two in that moment, just you, him, and the blissful feeling of him thrusting in and out. You dipped down, glistening lips meeting his throat, teeth grazing there.
Langdon moaned in response, and his eyes flashed open. You leaned back up to level yourself to him, and without words, opened your mouth.
His pace faltered at your ask and his eyes were swimming as if intoxicated by you. He wrapped his mouth around yours, tongue gliding out to pass the gum. You accepted it immediately, leave the kiss with a pop and stared right into his defenseless eyes.
It was completely accidental, or at least you convince yourself of it, that right in the moment after you pass the gum, Langdon reached his high, tumbling forward with a groan. All he managed to choke out was a slurred, “fuck, I’m—” before it happened. He had you pinned to the seat, faces inches apart, thrusting through his orgasm. The recognition of what you’d just done sent you tumbling over the edge, your hips jutted into his with an unholy string of moans.
Only a minute passed of you both regaining your composure before reality set in. Langdon pulled himself upright into the opposite seat, unable to meet your eyes as he pulled the condom off and tossed it out the window. You remained lying there, eyes transfixed at the ceiling.
What the fuck have we done?
The air was thick and heavy when you both redressed. The car being so small, it was difficult to do so without brushing against one another, every movement another shocking reminder of the betrayal. You silently passed him a brush from your work bag without looking at him. He took it and began to cover his tracks.
“We fucked up,” you state with a voice overflowing with dread.
Langdon was quiet for a long time. You finally looked over to see him gripping the brush with white knuckles.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “We did.”
Silence returned, stifling the conversation but igniting all the worries you had been trying to escape. The worst part was even in the thoughts of regret and self-pity and excuses, deep down it felt like a façade. Like that’s what you were supposed to feel. Because as awful as what you’d done was, you’d felt wanted for just a few minutes. And given the option to take it back, you wouldn’t.
“I regret it, but I…I don’t,” you found yourself saying, not necessarily to him, but just to say it. To analyze if this was real, if you truly felt that way.
Langdon’s head turned; guilty eyes fastened to yours. He leaned towards you, a palm reaching to wipe off the rain splattered to the side of your face. A simple gesture, not something you’d usually dwell on, but at this moment, it’s an unspoken agreement. He wanted it, too, and in the dark parts of him he doesn’t let anyone else access, he still did.
You both found a way to curb the need you’d been too scared to ask for, and though it wasn’t a sensible way to get it, it was now out there as an option. And, as much as you hated to admit it, an easier one.
So with a newfound arrangement, a deep-seeded, unspoken one, you drove him home. And then you went back to your turbulent home, your turbulent husband, and went to bed alone.
Despite every fiber in your being screaming that it was all wrong, you went to sleep knowing you’d be giving Langdon rides home for as long as he needed them.
TW: graphic medical trauma, mass casualty event, active shooter (off-screen), gunshot wounds, blood and injury descriptions, cardiac arrest / CPR, loss of consciousness, near-death experience, hospitals / emergency medicine, emotional distress, relationship conflict, addiction (referenced, not detailed), fear of losing a loved one
Morning comes softly, the way it always does when you’re not on call.
Sunlight slips through the blinds in thin, pale stripes, cutting across the rumpled sheets and the bare stretch of Frank’s back beside you. He’s already awake—you can tell by the tension in his shoulders, the way he’s staring at the ceiling like it’s giving him answers it’s never going to give.
You shift closer, pressing your knee into his calf, your arm draping over his waist.
“Hey,” you murmur, voice still rough with sleep.
He hums in response. Doesn’t turn his head.
That’s the first thing that feels wrong.
Normally, he’d roll over, pull you in, bury his face in your neck like he’s trying to steal five more minutes before the world gets its claws in him. Normally, mornings are easy. Domestic. Safe.
This morning feels… brittle.
You lift your head, studying him properly now. The dark circles under his eyes. The way his jaw is set too tight, like he’s bracing for impact.
“You okay?” you ask.
There’s a pause. Just long enough.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “Just tired.”
You don’t say anything right away. You’ve learned that silence is sometimes louder than confrontation. That if you wait, people reveal themselves.
Frank doesn’t.
He swings his legs out of bed, rubbing a hand down his face, already halfway gone. You watch him stand, pull on his sweatpants, move like someone going through the motions of a life he knows by heart.
Something cold settles in your chest.
Breakfast is quiet.
You make eggs. He burns the toast. You don’t comment. He doesn’t apologize. The kitchen smells like coffee and something unspoken, the air thick with it.
Your little sister is supposed to be here in an hour—PitFest plans scribbled on the whiteboard, hearts drawn in the margins where she insisted you add them. You’re looking forward to it. A day off. Noise. Normalcy.
Frank leans against the counter, staring into his mug like it might confess something if he stares hard enough.
You set your plate down and turn to face him fully.
“Frank.”
He looks up. Forces a smile that doesn’t quite make it to his eyes.
“What?”
You hesitate. Not because you don’t know what to say—but because you know exactly what happens once you say it.
“You’ve been off,” you say carefully. “For weeks.”
His shoulders tense.
“I told you, it’s just work.”
You nod. “Work is always work. This is different.”
He exhales sharply, already defensive. “You’re reading into it.”
“No,” you say, quietly but firmly. “I’m not.”
He looks away.
And that—that—is when something in you snaps.
You rest your hands on the counter, grounding yourself. Surgeon instinct. Calm voice. Precision.
“Are you hiding something from me?”
Frank lets out a humorless laugh. “Jesus. No.”
You hold his gaze. “Then why does it feel like you are?”
Silence stretches between you, taut as a wire.
“I don’t tell you every single thing,” he says. “That doesn’t mean I’m hiding something.”
“I’m not asking for every single thing,” you reply. Your voice is steady, but your chest feels tight. “I’m asking for honesty.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
That hurts more than you expect.
You straighten. “I’m being honest.”
He runs a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through now. “What do you want me to say? That I’m stressed? That the ED is a mess? That I don’t sleep enough?”
“If that’s the truth, then say that,” you snap back. “But don’t lie to me and expect me to just—what—smile and nod?”
“I didn’t lie.”
“You did,” you say, and your voice cracks just enough to give you away. “You looked me in the eye and told me everything was fine when it’s clearly not.”
He scoffs. “So now you don’t trust me?”
You laugh once, sharp and disbelieving. “No. You don’t get to flip this on me.”
His eyes flash. “I’m not flipping anything. You’re the one interrogating me over breakfast.”
“Because I’m trying to build a life with you,” you say, heat rising now. “And I can’t do that if I don’t know who I’m standing next to.”
“That’s unfair.”
“What’s unfair,” you fire back, “is asking me to commit to a future built on half truths.”
That lands.
You see it in the way his face goes still, like you’ve struck something delicate. Something he doesn’t want touched.
“I love you,” you continue, softer now, because you do. God, you do. “But love doesn’t survive secrecy. Trust is the foundation, Frank. And right now, it feels like it’s cracking.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it.
You wait.
He says nothing.
The quiet that follows is devastating.
Your phone buzzes on the counter—your sister’s name lighting up the screen. Outside!
You swallow, nodding to yourself.
“I’m taking her to PitFest,” you say. “We can talk later.”
Frank nods stiffly. “Yeah. Later.”
You grab your jacket. Your keys. You pause at the door, hoping—stupidly—that he’ll stop you.
He doesn’t.
———
PitFest is loud and bright and alive in a way that feels almost obscene after the morning you’ve had.
Your sister chatters beside you, eyes wide, pointing at everything, dragging you from booth to booth like she’s determined to wring every ounce of joy out of the day.
She glances at you for the fifth time in ten minutes, frowning.
“What?” you ask, forcing a smile.
She stops walking. Turns fully toward you.
“Something’s wrong,” she says. “Did you and Frank have an argument or something?”
You exhale slowly.
“You’re too perceptive,” you mutter.
She hooks her arm through yours. “Try me.”
So you tell her.
Not everything. Just enough.
About the tension. The lies. The feeling that you’re reaching for him and coming up short. About how scary it is to love someone who won’t let you all the way in.
She listens quietly, jaw tight, eyes soft.
“That’s stupid,” she says when you finish.
You snort. “Wow. Insightful.”
“No,” she insists. “Not you. Him. You’re asking for honesty, not his social security number.”
You laugh despite yourself.
“Come on,” she says, tugging you forward. “We are not letting some emotionally constipated ER doctor ruin PitFest.”
You roll your eyes, but you let her pull you toward a food truck, laughter bubbling up as she launches into a dramatic reenactment of your argument, wildly exaggerating Frank’s tone.
Frank’s phone is already in his hand as he bolts out the door, heart pounding, calling your name.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
No answer.
He dials your sister.
Straight to voicemail.
And the only thing louder than the sirens is the sound of his own breathing as he runs.
———
The department doesn’t slow.
It never does.
Frank loses track of how long he’s been in trauma lane three because time stops behaving like time and starts behaving like pressure—constant, suffocating, impossible to escape. Every time he thinks there’s a lull, another gurney crashes through the doors, another body hits a bed, another set of hands reaches for him because they recognize competence when they see it.
“Langdon—help me here.”
He steps in without thinking, already gloved, already focused. A patient with a gunshot wound to the flank is shaking violently, teeth chattering hard enough Frank can hear it over the noise.
“Cold,” the nurse says. “Going hypothermic.”
“Warm fluids,” Frank replies. “Bair hugger if we’ve got one. Keep pressure.”
He presses down, feels the wound give under his palms, blood seeping through the gauze in slow, relentless waves. He adjusts, tighter, firmer, until the bleeding slows just enough to matter.
“Okay,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. “Okay.”
The patient groans, eyes rolling back.
Frank’s gaze flicks up—just for a fraction of a second.
Dark hair.
Wrong face.
He exhales through his nose and refocuses.
Across the lane, Robby is working another patient, movements clipped and precise, expression unreadable. He doesn’t look at Frank. He hasn’t, not really, since he told him he wasn’t cleared.
Frank doesn’t blame him.
He keeps his head down. Does what he’s told. Hands off when he’s ordered to hand off. Steps back when Robby steps in.
And still, somehow, it isn’t enough to quiet the noise in his head.
Because your absence is loud.
Because every minute that passes without you coming through those doors feels like a threat.
The next ambulance unloads two patients at once. No stretchers left—one is half-carried in by a paramedic whose arms are shaking from exhaustion.
“Red and pink!” the medic shouts. “Pink’s breathing, red’s not!”
Frank pivots immediately.
He goes for the red.
Airway compromised. Chest not rising. Frank tilts the head, sweeps the mouth, seals and breathes, counting under his breath because it gives his hands something to anchor to.
“One—two—three—”
The patient coughs weakly, sputtering blood.
“Good,” Frank says. “Good. Keep breathing.”
He hands the patient off and steps back just as Robby appears at his shoulder again.
“Langdon,” Robby says sharply.
Frank turns. “What?”
Robby’s eyes are fixed past him, toward the doors.
“We’ve got another incoming,” he says. “Barely conscious. Possible minor.”
Frank’s stomach tightens. “Okay.”
Robby hesitates.
Just a beat.
Then: “Name’s Y/S/N.”
The sound doesn’t register at first.
It slides past Frank’s brain like static, meaningless.
Robby says it again, louder this time, cutting through the noise.
“Y/S/N.”
Everything in Frank stops.
The room doesn’t go quiet—but something inside him does, like all the air has been sucked out at once.
His head snaps toward the doors.
“No,” he says, before he can stop himself. “Where is she?”
Robby’s jaw tightens. “Langdon—”
“Where is she?” Frank demands, voice cracking despite his best effort to hold it steady.
They’re already bringing her in.
Your sister is slumped on the gurney, pale, eyes half-lidded, blood smeared along the side of her face and down her arm. She looks impossibly small under the harsh lights, festival wristband still on her wrist, stained dark.
Frank is at her side in two strides.
“Oh my God,” he breathes. “Hey—hey, can you hear me?”
Her eyes flutter, unfocused.
Robby steps between them, hands already moving. “Frank, get back.”
“Where’s Y/N?” Frank asks, panic spilling over now, no longer contained. “Where’s her sister—where’s she hurt?”
Robby doesn’t answer.
He’s too busy working.
“She’s hypotensive,” a nurse says. “Barely responsive.”
Frank’s hands hover uselessly, shaking. “Please,” he says, voice low, breaking. “Robby. Tell me where Y/N is.”
Robby finally looks at him then.
Really looks at him.
“You need to step back,” Robby says firmly. “I need room to work.”
“She’s her baby sister,” Frank insists. “Please—”
“Langdon!” Robby snaps. “Back. Now.”
Frank hesitates, torn between instinct and terror.
Then he steps back.
He watches as Robby works, efficient and focused, your sister slipping further into unconsciousness as they stabilize what they can. Frank stands frozen, hands clenched into fists at his sides, blood drying stiff on his sleeves.
She’s alive.
He can tell that much.
But you—
You’re nowhere.
Robby wheels her out toward surgery without another word, and Frank is left standing in the trauma lane, chest heaving, heart pounding so hard it hurts.
He pulls his phone out again with shaking hands.
Calls you.
Nothing.
Calls your sister.
Nothing.
His vision blurs, just for a second.
He drags in a breath, scrubs his face with the back of his hand, and forces himself back to work because stopping now would mean collapsing—and there are still people dying.
Thirty minutes pass.
Or an hour.
Or maybe it’s only ten minutes.
Frank works two more patients on autopilot, hands moving while his mind is somewhere else entirely, replaying Robby’s silence over and over again.
The woman on it is soaked in blood, clothes shredded, skin ashen, unmoving. For one horrifying second, Frank doesn’t recognize you at all.
Then Robby’s voice cuts through the chaos.
“Y/N,” he calls, loud, sharp. “Y/N, can you hear me?”
Frank feels it before he understands it.
Something in his chest fractures completely.
He runs.
Not thinking. Not asking. Just running.
“Frank—!” someone shouts after him.
He skids to a stop at the foot of the gurney.
You look—
Bad.
Worse than anything he’d imagined. Worse than the images he’d forced himself not to picture all night. Blood everywhere. Too much of it. Your face slack, eyes closed, chest barely moving.
“Oh my God,” he whispers.
Robby is already working, hands flying. “Multiple wounds,” he barks. “Get me pressure—now!”
Frank steps in automatically, takes a position without being told, hands pressing down where Robby directs him. Blood immediately floods his gloves, warm and slick and horrifyingly familiar.
You don’t move.
“Come on,” Frank breathes, leaning closer. “Please—please—”
Your monitor screams.
Flat.
“No pulse!” someone shouts.
Robby swears under his breath. “Start compressions!”
Frank doesn’t wait.
He’s already climbing onto the bed, hands locked, arms straight, pressing down hard and fast, counting out loud because it’s the only thing keeping him from screaming.
“One—two—three—”
Blood splashes with every compression, soaking his scrubs, his hands, his forearms. He doesn’t feel it.
He doesn’t feel anything except the desperate need to make your heart start again.
Robby moves to take over.
Frank shakes his head violently. “No—no, I’ve got her—”
“Langdon,” Robby warns.
Frank doesn’t stop.
He won’t stop.
Not now.
Not ever.
“Frank.”
Robby’s voice cuts through the chaos like a blade.
“Langdon—listen to me.”
Frank doesn’t.
His hands are locked, elbows straight, shoulders stacked over yours exactly the way they’re supposed to be. He drives his weight down into your chest, hard enough to feel ribs shift beneath his palms.
“One—two—three—four—”
Blood pools under your shoulder blades, darkening the sheet with every compression. Someone is suctioning near your neck, the sound wet and relentless, trying to keep your airway clear.
“No pulse,” a nurse confirms, fingers already sliding away from your carotid.
“Bag her,” Robby orders. “Get oxygen on her—now.”
A mask is pressed to your face. Frank doesn’t stop compressions as someone squeezes the bag in rhythm, oxygen forced into lungs that don’t seem to want it anymore.
“Frank,” Robby says again, louder this time. “You’re too close.”
“I’m not stopping,” Frank snaps, voice breaking through clenched teeth. “I’ve got her.”
Robby steps in, grips Frank’s forearm. “You’re compromising the code.”
That lands.
Barely.
Frank’s hands falter for half a second—just long enough for Robby to slide in and take over compressions, movements just as forceful, just as precise.
“Step back,” Robby orders. “Now.”
Frank stumbles off the bed, chest heaving, hands shaking so badly he has to fist them at his sides to keep them still. He’s covered in your blood—on his sleeves, his neck, his hands. He doesn’t wipe it away.
He watches.
Robby works like someone who has done this too many times to afford panic.
“Time of arrest?” Robby asks.
“Unknown,” a nurse replies. “Found down. Massive blood loss.”
“Okay,” Robby says, nodding once. “We work her.”
The defibrillator pads are slapped onto your chest, adhesive barely sticking through blood and sweat. Someone calls out a rhythm check.
“Still asystole.”
Robby doesn’t hesitate. “Epi. One milligram.”
The syringe is already there. The drug disappears into your IV line.
“Resume compressions.”
The room tightens around the sound of hands hitting your chest again and again.
Frank’s vision tunnels.
You’re too still.
Your face looks wrong—ashen, lips tinged blue, lashes clumped with blood and sweat. This is not how you’re supposed to look. This is not how he’s ever seen you.
“Come on,” he whispers, so quietly no one hears him. “Come on, sweetheart.”
Minutes stretch.
Robby pauses compressions again. Fingers to your neck.
Nothing.
“Again,” he orders. “Don’t stop.”
Another dose of epi.
Another round.
Another minute carved out of nothing but effort and hope.
Frank realizes he’s not breathing.
He forces air into his lungs just as Robby calls, “Hold compressions.”
Everyone freezes.
It’s a heartbeat’s worth of silence.
Then—
“I’ve got something,” the nurse says, startled. “Weak carotid.”
Robby leans in, eyes sharp. “Check rhythm.”
The monitor flickers.
A line stutters.
Then—chaotic, ugly spikes.
“ROSC,” someone says. “We’ve got a pulse.”
Frank’s knees nearly give out.
Robby doesn’t celebrate. He never does.
“Secure the airway,” he orders immediately. “She’s not protecting it.”
A laryngoscope appears. Someone suctions again, clearing blood, clearing vomit. The tube slides in smoothly—clean, practiced.
“Tube’s in.”
“Confirm.”
Chest rises. End-tidal CO₂ color changes.
“Good.”
Frank steps forward without realizing he’s moving.
“Pressure’s still unstable,” a nurse says. “She’s crashing again.”
Robby nods. “She’s exsanguinating. We’re not fixing this here.”
He looks up, eyes meeting Frank’s.
“Surgery,” Robby says. “Now.”
Frank doesn’t respond.
He can’t.
They wheel you out fast, monitors screaming, IV bags swinging wildly from the poles. Frank walks alongside the gurney until Robby puts a hand on his chest.
“You’re not going with her,” Robby says firmly.
“I need to—”
“No,” Robby cuts in. “You don’t. She needs a surgeon, not a boyfriend.”
That word hits Frank harder than anything else tonight.
He watches helplessly as you disappear through the OR doors.
The doors slam shut.
And just like that—
There’s nothing left for him to do.
The adrenaline drains all at once, leaving his limbs heavy, his chest aching like it’s been caved in. He leans back against the wall, sliding down until he’s sitting on the floor, head dropped into his hands.
He doesn’t cry.
He can’t.
Not yet.
A nurse passes him, pauses, then gently presses a towel into his shaking hands.
“You’re covered in blood,” she says softly.
Frank stares at the towel like he doesn’t know what it’s for.
Across the hall, another gurney screams past.
Another life hangs in the balance.
The night isn’t done.
But for the first time since the sirens started, Frank isn’t moving.
Because you’re alive.
Barely.
And he has never been more terrified in his life.
———
Frank doesn’t get time to sit with it.
He barely gets thirty seconds before Robby’s voice cuts back through the haze.
“Langdon.”
Frank looks up slowly. His face feels tight, like it doesn’t belong to him anymore.
Robby is already moving again, gloves back on, blood drying at his cuffs. “You’re still on your feet,” he says. “Which means you’re still useful.”
Frank nods once.
That’s all either of them can afford.
“Trauma lane five needs hands,” Robby continues. “You assist. You do not leave your assignment. If I see you disappear again, I will personally walk you out. Understood?”
Frank swallows. “Understood.”
Robby hesitates.
Just barely.
“She’s in good hands,” he adds, quieter. “Both of them are.”
It’s not reassurance. It’s a fact.
Frank latches onto it like a lifeline.
He stands, scrubs stiff with blood, muscles protesting now that the adrenaline has cracked. He peels off gloves, washes his hands mechanically at the sink until the water runs pink, then clear, then pink again where it splashes his sleeves.
There’s no time to change.
There never is.
Trauma lane five is worse than the last.
A man with multiple extremity wounds, tourniquets biting so tight the skin beyond them has gone waxy and pale. A woman sobbing uncontrollably, no visible injuries but shaking so violently she can’t be assessed properly. A teenager with a graze wound who keeps insisting he’s fine while blood drips steadily between his fingers.
Frank moves through them like he’s underwater.
Assess.
Intervene.
Move on.
He doesn’t ask names.
He doesn’t look at faces longer than he has to.
Every few minutes, his eyes flick instinctively toward the OR doors down the hall.
They stay closed.
At some point—hours later, maybe—someone announces that the flow has slowed. Not stopped. Just slowed enough that people start realizing how tired they are.
The floors are sticky now. Every step makes a faint pulling sound, shoes threatening to give way if you’re not careful. Used gauze is piled into bins that overflow onto the floor. Empty IV bags dangle from poles like limp flags.
Frank finishes assisting with a chest tube placement and steps back, hands shaking for the first time since this all began.
A nurse notices.
“Sit,” she tells him, firm. “Two minutes.”
He doesn’t argue.
He sinks onto a stool against the wall, elbows on knees, staring down at hands that still look red no matter how much he washes them.
“But you didn’t run,” Robby adds. “You stayed. You worked. That counts.”
Frank doesn’t trust his voice, so he just nods.
The sun is coming up by the time the overhead lights dim back to their normal setting.
The chaos doesn’t vanish—it just settles, heavy and exhausted. Patients are redistributed. Bodies are moved. The hospital exhales.
Frank finally gets permission to change.
He scrubs his hands raw, peels off blood-soaked clothes, stands under the shower longer than necessary just to feel something that isn’t panic. The water runs red at first, then clear, then steam-fogged.
He dresses in clean scrubs and walks back out with damp hair and hollow eyes.
Robby meets him outside recovery.
“She’s awake,” Robby says.
Frank’s breath catches. “Can I—”
“She asked for you.”
That’s all it takes.
He moves down the hall on legs that feel unsteady, heart pounding harder now than it did during the codes. He stops outside the door, hand hovering for half a second before he pushes it open.
You’re pale.
Bandaged.
Connected to more machines than he likes to count.
But you’re breathing.
Your eyes flutter open when he steps closer.
Frank’s chest cracks open completely.
He’s at your side in two steps, careful hands framing your face like you might shatter if he’s not gentle enough. He leans down, presses a soft kiss to your forehead, then your temple, then your cheek—avoiding wires, avoiding bandages, reverent like a prayer.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he whispers.
Your lips part.
The first thing you say is barely more than a breath.
“My sister.”
You try to move.
Frank immediately presses a hand to your shoulder. “Hey—hey—don’t. Don’t do that.”
“Frank,” you whisper, panic flaring. “Where is she?”
“She’s alive,” he says quickly. “She’s okay. She’s out of surgery. She made it.”
Your face crumples.
A sob tears out of you, sudden and broken, and Frank immediately leans in, wrapping an arm around you as carefully as he can, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.
“I thought I was going to die,” you choke. “I couldn’t—there was so much blood and I couldn’t get to her and I just—”
“I know,” he murmurs, voice thick. “I know.”
“I just wanted to protect her,” you say, tears soaking into his scrub top. “And I wanted to tell you—I wanted to tell you I was sorry. I didn’t want us to end like that.”
Frank pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes red-rimmed, jaw tight.
“There is nothing to be sorry for,” he says. “You were right.”
You blink at him.
“I was hiding,” he admits quietly. “And I shouldn’t have been. Not from you.”
He presses his forehead to yours. “When I couldn’t get through to you… I thought I’d lost you. And I don’t care about being right or wrong or scared anymore. I just—” His voice breaks. “I just need you here.”
You nod weakly, fingers curling into his sleeve.
“I’m here,” you whisper.
He holds your hand like it’s the only solid thing left in the world.
ᯓ★ ATSUMU MIYA - TRACK 01: KISS ME THROUGH THE PHONE
⏾SUMMARY. What are you supposed to do when a random number sends you a dick pic? Surely not text them back...right? What are you supposed to do when you find out it's from the guy you sit next to in class? Well at that point you're just fucked. ;)
⏾WARNINGS. College au! Gender Neutral Reader! x Atsumu, NSFW, smut, bad attempts at humor, sexting, masturbation (mutual?), dickpics, Tsumu's flirting is a warning in itself ngl, slight degradation,
⏾A/N. First fic yay! How this series works is every character will have around 3-5 fics all with a overarching story inspired by a song. note: reader's text are in orange (did not feel like doing html to make them yellow)
▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| | part two | Part three
xxx-xxx-xxxx
image
In the middle of your late night cram session for college algebra you hear your phone buzz on the table. A text from an unknown number? If it wasn't an image you would've ignored it. Maybe it's some stupid scam, or maybe it's a promotion from some store you're subscribed to or-
Nope it's neither of those things.
It's a dick pic...
The guy's hand wrapped around the base, the head flushed pink and pre cum beading at the tip. Cock heavy between milky thick strong thighs. You can tell he's laying in bed by the angle. You're staring at it for at least ten seconds before you snap out of whatever haze you're in when you see he's typing.
At a loss for words?
Don't worry my dick has that effect on people
Arrogant much? You think to yourself. Your brain is more so focused on if you should reply back over his cocky attitude. Do you? If you don't he's just gonna keep sending messages. But if you do...what do you say? You've got the wrong number. He'll be so embarrassed but...oh well...it's not like you know the guy.
Right?
...you got the wrong number
Your finger hovers over the send button for a few seconds before finally pressing it. He's typing again immediately and you can feel the heat rushing to your face.
stop fucking with me
you can see how desperate I am for you can't you?
Jesus. Is this guy slow or is he really that desperate?
I'm deadass
You have the wrong number...
Maybe he'll get the memo and say sorry or something?
This isn't (roommates name)?
No fucking way. Your roommate gave some random guy your number instead of theirs? Either they were drunk as fuck at that party last night, or they lost their damn mind.
No...I'm their roommate
Oh shit...they punked me?
well if that's the case....
you like what you see?
What. the. fuck. What are you even supposed to say to that? It's not like you've been sent dickpics before. Is there a rubric for rating them or some shit? You subconsciously scroll back up to the pic, scanning it over. This is so stupid. You should've left him on read and blocked him, but no, you're analyzing his hard, girthy cock instead. It's a good picture, the lighting makes every vein in his shaft visible, you can even see the mole on his thigh. It's not even his dick that's making heat pool in the lower of your stomach, no it's everything else.
It feels oddly intimate for a dickpic.
Take your time
I know it's beautiful aint it?
Your cocky for a guy that just sent a random # a dick pic
You don't even know what I look like
Then let me see you
no pressure tho
no doubt in my mind you're gorgeous
Gorgeous. You just got complimented by a man who's face is a mystery to you. Should you send a picture of yourself? No. Entertaining your roommates rejects shouldn't even be on the table. And yet you're on your feet, turning off the lights and sitting against the headboard of your bed and finger pressed against the camera icon.
What do you take a picture of? You don't want to show your face yet since he hasn't shown you his. You don't want to get naked yet either...maybe a close up of just your lips? After going back and forth...you finally cave and just take the damn picture. Your thumb pressed against the plush of your bottom lip. It's not enough to decipher the rest of your face or who you are...but it is enough to get him to text you back immediately.
pretty lips
would look better pressed against mine tho
image
With another picture. The lower half of his face, his lips curled into a grin, jawline strong, and you can see a faint bit of pink on his cheeks. A light sigh leaves your mouth. You don't even have to see the rest of his face to know he's attractive. Oh god, what did your roommate get you into?
Wow just how desperate are u?
You meant it as a diss not an invitation for more.
This desperate
video
At this point your done trying to question right and wrong. You press play and heat immediately swirls through you. His deep sighs of pleasure play low in time with his hand stroking his cock. Your eyes mesmerized when he slows down and his thumb presses against the slit that's flowing pre cum. A strangled sound so close to a moan escapes his lips. His abs flexing and thighs quivering. You would've never thought it was possible for a man to be this much of a whore.
You have no shame huhsending a stranger nudes and vids of you jerking offso damn dirty
You have no idea where this side of you is coming from. Your imagination runs wild, day dreaming of this stranger having his hands on your skin. Deep voice strained in your ears. Cock hitting all the right spots as you ride him to your heart's desire. Or maybe you'd ride his thigh, feel the muscle flex under your weight, feel every flinch and shiver while your hand jerks him off.
Keep talking to me like that
please
Fuck. You shimmy out of your comfy sweatpants, now just in your underwear and a oversized hoodie. You let the fabric of the hoodie hide your ruined underwear, and take a picture of your legs pushed together.
image
Sexy legs
Could die between your thighs
Can I please see more?
If you want more then show me more first
Is my dick not good enough? :(
It is I just want more
Thought you were desperate
Or maybe youre too scared?
Youre mean...
I like that
image
This time you can see his chest and the lower thirds of his face. Broad shoulders, pecs you want to squeeze and mold, biceps the size of your face you can hold. You can tell he's much bigger than you just from this picture alone.
You play a sport?
I'll only answer if you show me more
Touché
image
You send a picture similar to his, of your naked chest, heart hammering deep inside. Hoodie forgotten on your floor. Hands clammy to touch yourself but no, not yet.
Fuck you really are gorgeous.
image
It's his face. Blonde hair, honey brown eyes hazy and thick eyebrows furrowed in pleasure. His bottom lip caught between his teeth, probably holding back the dirtiest moan. The tiniest sense of familiarity hits you in the back of your mind but you don't realize it until later...
you didn't have to show me your face ya know
You asked for more
And I have no shame
video
His hand back on his cock stroking so fast. You can tell he's so close, the head red and begging for release. Groans of pleasure turn into moans near the end.
your so close aren't you?
Hell fucking yes
Your hand finally drags down to where you need it most. Shivers of pleasure travel up your spine at your own touch. You imagine it's his, imagine it's his hand on you right now. His hands groping your skin. His lips marking every inch. His breath against your arousal before it's his mouth. An involuntary moan escapes at that image in your head. His head between your thighs, putting those pretty lips of his to work.
You open the camera again and this time take more than a picture, this time it's a video of your hand past the waistband of your underwear, playing with yourself. And then you send another, but of your face this time while you continue. Your eyes big and seductive as your lips wrap around two of your fingers, you can taste yourself on your tongue.
video
video
Holy shit you're so hot...
id do anything to have those lips on my dick right now
I'm so fucking close
You can picture it all, his poor cock weeping to cum already, hand stroking as fast as he possibly can, eyes screwed shut and thick eyebrows scrunched together. His handsome face twisted in pleasure, body waiting for you to say the word, voice begging to cum.
You gonna cum for me?
Yes fuck yes
Then cum pretty boy
image
The last picture he sends you is one of his stomach painted white, cum dripping down his chest and stomach. A stranger, you've never physically seen before in your life, just came to you. Came for you and you don't even know his name.
Best accident ever
Your roommate is a real one
I beg to differ but sure
So you got a name you wanna tell me or u wanna be stuck as 'sexy stranger' in my contact list?
You roll your eyes at the nickname but a smile tugs at your lips.
(your name)
Cute name
I'm Atsumu
I play volleyball btw
explains the body
You should come to a game sometime
I've actually never been to a volleyball game
That's a crime
You deserve jail time
Never had a reason before
But i guess I do now...
Damn right
The conversation shifted to casual so fast, a little too casual. Crazy how it's easier to respond when you're sexting over texting normally.
Hey don't be a stranger
But keep being sexy ;)
No promises
You let the conversation die there. Sure he's somewhere on your college campus right now, but there's no way you'll actually run into each other. There are thousands of people on campus. And yet...when you sit down in college algebra the next day you see a familiar head of blonde hair across the lecture hall. And when his eyes wander while he's chatting up some girl they catch you and you freeze like a deer caught in headlights.
i'll keep every promise (if it's a promise with you) | oikawa tooru x reader
oikawa tooru has a bad habit of breaking promises and running from his first love.
or: the four times oikawa breaks his promises and the one time he keeps one
( a / n ) - oh my god this is my magnum opus... my baby.. its a little bit of angst and a little bit of fluff and a little slice of life. u go through ages 6 to 28 LMFAO. iwaizumi + you + oikawa were such a fun trio to write for and i hope u guys enjoy !!
gn! reader | 2k words | happy birthday OIKAWA
Oikawa Tooru has a guilty conscience and a bad habit of breaking his promises.
For every promise made and every promise broken, Tooru repents: 200 yen slid in a saisen-bako, a ninety degree bow, two wishes at a shrine. An offering to counter every promise he breaks, ample water to wash away his sins, and apologies written on wood.
( Iwaizumi has made the grand suggestion of: Maybe not breaking your promises? on several occasions, but Tooru can’t help it. )
He’s broken four promises and made eight wishes so far: four on blue Tanzaku and four atop Ema boards, followed with a prayer and an offering if the promise broken was particularly heinous or particularly his fault.
He breaks his first promise at six years old– one made with you and Iwaizumi when the three of you were four and freshly neighbors. It was Tooru’s birthday, and he had promised this:
I swear that I will take us all to the Ryokan before I turn six.
It’s a small promise: one that neither you nor Hajime had expected him to follow through with. But Tooru believed it, and Tooru had tried. He takes every single chore and odd job in the Oikawa household, scraping together a two-year-old Ryokan trust fund with mismatched coins and crumpled bills. He saves his allowances and puts everything in a glass jar next to his bed, and dreams.
Two Julys pass. Oikawa blows out four candles and then five, the jar gets bigger, you start Elementary school, and you and Hajime forget about the Ryokan. And then, on the third July, when Tooru turns six, you and Iwaizumi find Tooru mumbling about a broken promise— courtesy of his failure to take the three of you on an all inclusive trip to that Snow Monkey Ryokan that Iwaizumi wanted to go to.
So he apologizes through prayers at a shrine and two wishes under a red Torii gate. It’s a thirty five stair climb to the neighborhood shrine: Hajime and Tooru race up and you come last, but the view is gorgeous and Tooru feels considerably less guilty.
It is 100 yen for each wish on a colored paper strip. Hajime says they’re called Tanzaku. Hajime drops one coin, Tooru drops four, you drop two. Seven thunks, four wishes.
Tooru gets the honor of tying your tanzaku on bamboo branches as the tallest of your trio, and with it, the honor of reading your wishes.
Iwaizumi’s wish is messy and scrawled on bright red— Tooru tells him to Please work on your handwriting, but it’s legible and all well wishes for volleyball and you and Oikawa and cicadas.
Tooru’s got two wishes— a cyan one and a turquoise one, but he only lets you and Hajime read the cyan one. His cyan one is a little neater than Iwaizumi’s and reads:
Sorry I couldn’t take us to the Monkey Ryokan.
He hangs the red one on his tippy-toes. Cyan next. Hajime cheers a little when Tooru hangs turquoise next to your pink one, and then asks:
“Whaddya need two wishes for anyways?”
He shrugs.
“Guilty conscience, maybe?”
You’re thirteen when Tooru promises that he is going to ask you out in two years. Tooru is not allowed to date until he’s in high school, so he tells you under a blanket of stars that when the two of you are a little older, he will ask you out properly and maybe take you on a date.
He walks you to school every morning. Hajime comes too, but the pink skies before the sun rises are for you and Tooru. Moments before you make it to Iwaizumi’s block are moments that Tooru gives you his scarf, and then his gloves, and when the wind bites at your cheeks too hard his jacket is draped over your shoulders. On rainy days, Tooru holds the umbrella and laughs as your fingers brush and your cheeks flush. Some mornings he brings you toast: and tells you in hushed whispers to eat it before Iwa-Chan sees.
Oikawa and Iwaizumi walk you home after cram school and volleyball practice. Hajime’s house is first— so Iwaizumi bows first, heads back inside first, waves goodnight first. When the door closes and the light turns on, the black sky and twinkling stars are for you and Tooru. He always says Good Night saccharine sweet with a smile like the sun that makes you feel like you really can’t wait to turn fifteen.
Oikawa blows out fourteen candles. The three of you graduate in blue and walk home like usual. Summer passes, another July goes by, Oikawa blows out fifteen candles, and high school starts.
You learn several things in your first year at high school: you really like the student council, Hajime is actually pretty smart, and Tooru is afraid of commitment.
Tooru is popular: he is athletic and tall and the Volleyball Club’s golden first year. He smiles at the girls in his class, he slings arms around their shoulders, he winks when he passes by the student council room, and he preens a little and shines a lot.
Oikawa is fifteen when he goes on his first date with a girl from another school: and when he tells you and Iwaizumi after he gets home, he plays dumb as Hajime gives him a look and takes you home, overhearing Iwaizumi’s apologies and your crestfallen voice as you say something about a promise.
Oikawa’s chest hurts that night so he walks to the shrine with 200 yen in his pocket and a sorry scrawled on two pieces of colored Tanzaku.
Oikawa turns sixteen and goes to the shrine again.
This time, it’s a broken promise with a girl in his class. She was popular– she smelled like cotton candy and reminded Tooru of strawberries and daisies, so when she asked Tooru out, he had said Sure, and he had smiled like she was the sun.
But he’s a bad boyfriend– a terrible boyfriend– because he’s only there when it’s convenient and he ditches her for volleyball practice and maybe sometimes he catches himself thinking about a certain childhood friend when she holds his hand and buys him milk bread at lunch.
She was sweet and she was terribly pretty, but he doesn’t feel anything when she kisses him or when she rests her head on his shoulder.
Iwaizumi asks him what he’s running from after practice one day. Tooru knows Iwaizumi is asking why he is running from you.
Tooru is a little scared of how you make him feel too much. Oikawa likes being in control and Oikawa likes stability, so when he realizes that his heart thumps erratically whenever you’re around and he finds himself all consumed with thoughts of you and a burning desire to please you; he rejects and refrains. And runs.
His girlfriend dumps him after a few months. Tooru says sorry, removes her phone contact, and faintly remembers a promise he made with her four weeks ago.
I swear I’m not in love with someone else.
from: tooru (23:20)
shrine time!!! ٩(◕‿◕｡)۶
from: hajime (23:21)
You broke another promise?? Ur a piece of shit lol
from: tooru (23:22)
iwaaa chan U￣ｰ￣U ur so mean !
from: you (23:24)
bro . don’t tell me it was about ur ex
ur a manwhore !!!!
from: hajime (23:25)
Average Shittykawa moment
from: tooru (23:25)
i can’t help it !! (✿ ♥‿♥)
everyone wants a piece of me !!!
ill pick u guys up and we’ll go to the shrine and ramen after plsss ☆
from: hajime (23:26)
Ur treat?
from: tooru (23:27)
iwa-chan’s treat !! i’m going through a nasty breakup, remember ? \_( ◉ 3 ◉ )_/¯
from: you (23:29)
hajime we know his address we can burn his room down
from: tooru (23:30)
OK FINE my treat! it’s on me!!! everyone say thank you tooru !!!
from: hajime (23:31)
thank you tooooruuu chan (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧
tooru and y/n reacted with: Scared !
from: tooru (23:32)
um please don’t do that ever again
Oikawa’s fourth promise is one to himself and one to Seijoh.
We will make it to Nationals.
He doesn’t leave his room for a week when he breaks it. He’s inconsolable. He says he’s sick: he’s got a bad fever, it’s contagious, he’s bedridden, he’s fine. But the lights are never on in his room, his curtains are always drawn, and you know that Tooru devoted everything for a chance and a dream and a volleyball.
He comes to you first. He’s standing in your doorway and there are bags under his eyes and he says, Hi, and then, I’m fine. He tries for a smile— and then you give him a look, and suddenly he’s in your arms and sobbing.
He cries for two hours. Tooru ugly cries– his chest racks when he sobs and his arms are tight around you and digging into your back. Oikawa Tooru is not weak: but he is not a prodigy.
He falls asleep in your bed with his head in your lap and your hands in his hair, but his eyebrows are furrowed and he’s shifting a lot and he’s probably having a nightmare. You call Hajime before gently shaking Tooru awake.
He blinks up at you— all puffy eyes and tousled hair and swollen cheeks, but he sees you and he softens.
“Wanna go to the shrine?”
Iwaizumi still grumbles the whole way up the thirty five steps, but he’s quiet as Oikawa slips two coins into the saizen-bako. Hajime wraps an arm around your shoulder as the coins rattle in the box and you know he’s upset too— his hands are slightly shaking and he keeps sniffing. Nationals might have been Oikawa’s dream but Iwaizumi was also a dreamer, and sure, Oikawa was going to go, but they were going to go together.
Tooru hangs two Ema boards and for the first time, he bows at the Honden. Two claps. Head down and hands together as he prays. Iwaizumi joins him: and you watch as Oikawa apologizes to him and Hajime shakes his head- because it was Hajime’s promise too.
Oikawa is twenty-eight and on a plane when he finally keeps his first promise.
It’s a small promise: but a promise nonetheless, one that he made before he left for Argentina. He tells you he loves you at the airport but he has his boarding pass in one hand and his passport in the other. And you tell him you love him too, but also that he’s being unfair, and no you won’t go out with him. And Oikawa knew you would say that, but he still finds himself making a promise– a promise you laugh at because Oikawa Tooru never keeps his promises.
If we’re still single in ten years, I’m going to find you, and I’m going to ask you out.
You cry, and Tooru wraps his arms around you and cries too— and then Iwaizumi’s there, and Iwaizumi’s crying, and you don’t know which part of you is Oikawa or Iwaizumi. Oikawa leaves for Argentina with a heavy heart but a hunger for the future.
In the ten years that pass he plays a lot of volleyball. He tans a lot. He learns some Spanish. He tries beach volleyball. And then, he buys a plane ticket on his birthday.
from: y/n (21:12)
happy birthday tooru !! me n hajime r having an honorary drink for u. hope ur having fun in argentina!!! hajime and i say te amo !!!!
from: tooru (21:15)
i’d like a hot sake plssss thank u!!! ( ˙▿˙ )
from: y/n (21:15)
LMFAO. no. me and haji r drinking ASAHI DRRRRRRYYYYYYYY for u
bro also hajime got BUFF wat the hell
hope ur tanning good in argentina
from: tooru (21:16)
well tell BUFF iwa chan that ill be there in 5 and i want a HOT SAKE and also YES i tanned good SO EYES OFF IWAIZUMI
from: y/n (21:17)
?
what?
ur funny lol
…
TOORU?
Tooru is twenty eight and might retire soon. Thirty five stairs is too many to climb and keeping promises is far more fun than breaking them. So he taps your shoulder, hands Iwaizumi your bouquet, and takes your cheeks in his palms to tilt your chin over.
i do Not think i will ever be over love being used to describe atsumu.
even the twins’ backstory chapter itself is titled “love.” atsumu’s origin story begins with love. he discovers volleyball and falls in love with it, and osamu is there with him every step of the way on the same journey. throughout the series, it’s clear the two things atsumu loves and cherishes the most in the world are volleyball and his brother.
asshole supreme, but his name, 侑, is often used in the phrase 侑食 which means “to offer food or to urge people to eat more.” think like, aggressive asian aunties at family dinners.
here’s an interesting breakdown of the kanji:
(source)
furudate said they named him in the hopes he will take care of and help others. he decides at a young age he wants to play setter because “only the best players get to play the coolest position.” he considers it cool that the best players are the ones who let their teammates play with ease because of them. he wants to score by offering what he has, that is, the “best” of what he can give.
but atsumu is generally disliked by his peers because he has no tact in his interactions, running purely on his drive & hunger for volleyball. also let’s be real, because of his personality in general. he expresses his love for volleyball by being rude and demanding, aggressive and competitive.
he gets into one of his worst fights with osamu over the latter’s decision to not continue playing volleyball after high school. he’s furious because his brother’s his partner, his other half; inextricably intertwined with the sport he loves to the core. they spent their whole lives playing together and winning together. there’s nothing in the world he cherishes more in the world than volleyball and his brother and it’s been this way since he was a child; in atsumu’s mind, it’s inconceivable to have one without the other.
his relentless love for volleyball means he never backs down from a challenge, no matter how reckless or impossible it may seem. during their first game at nationals against karasuno, he sees hinata and kageyama’s freak quick and immediately wants to try it out simply because it looks cool; he even successfully pulls it off several times throughout the match. his love for volleyball that enables him to fearlessly move forward into the unknown with no hesitation. his love for volleyball and pride in his skills that allows him to see endless possibilities for himself with virtually no limits.
the way he puts so much care into his tosses to the point he finds it insulting if his hitters don’t score with them. the way he is fiercely confident in his values and play style because he absolutely knows he’s giving his players the best and easiest to hit tosses. he practices for years and years to be able to set “easy to hit” tosses, anywhere and anytime.
he perfects two deadly serves by the time he’s a 2nd year in high school because (besides the fact he just wants to be badass and intimidating) he wants to ensure as many points for his team as possible, in as many ways he can.
these are some of his most memorable lines to me because they encapsulate so much of his character. with his extremely deft skills and reflexes, he made the unusual but deliberate decision in that situation to set the ball overhand (with ten fingers) despite the awkward position when most setters would dig it (two arms). when suna asks him why he did it, he responds cheerfully that that’s what a setter does: support. ten fingers give him more control than two arms, ten fingers means he can support the team better. a better set means his hitters can spike with more ease to the best of their abilities. the lengths atsumu goes to set the ball every single time with as much care as he can impart says so much about his love and dedication to volleyball.
HE IS FILLED TO THE BRIM WITH LOVE FOR HIMSELF, VOLLEYBALL, HIS TEAMMATES, HIS BROTHER. THE IRONY IN THE FACT OTHERS AROUND HIM MISUNDERSTAND THIS LOVE BECAUSE IT COMES OUT IN ALL THE WRONG WAYS WHEN HE EXPRESSES IT LITERALLY BRINGS ME TO MY KNEES.
it’s in the way he gives as much as it’s in his expectations from others.
atsumu is literally the human embodiment of love, in all of its raw and imperfect forms.
The main issue with Oikawa is that he's not naturally gifted, which is emphasized a lot in the show. For example, the last episode of the season one match of Karasuno vs Seijoh was named "Oikawa Tooru is not a Genius". Despite that, he's still the best player on Seijoh, and is highly respected by his teammates as a setter and their captain. Due to not having any natural skill or technique, Oikawa resorted to compensating with his own tactics. He knew that, no matter how hard he tried, he would never have the same technical skill as a genius like Kageyama. Instead, he used his own skills in analysis and communication to bring out the best in his spikers.
This is why, despite being called Grand King, Oikawa is depicted as a mighty general. He leads his soldiers, and in return, they trust him with their lives and fight with him. The amazing thing about Oikawa's leadership is that his teammates trust him because they know he can lead them. They understand that Oikawa has honed their skills and improved them all as players. He's helped them all, and when a game comes, they understand that all he asks of them is to keep trusting him. Trust that he'll send them a good toss, trust the strategies he'll formulate, trust his leadership.
At the end of the day, Oikawa knows he doesn't have the technical skill of a genius, so he dedicates his focus to improving his whole team. The origin of this focus would probably come from the episode where he almost backhands Kageyama in middle school. Iwaizumi intervenes and literally knocks some sense into him. They fight and yell, but then Iwaizumi tells Oikawa, "There are six people on court! The team with the best six players is the best!" Oikawa seems to have an epiphany then. He seems to realize exactly what his best friend is saying. It seems very straightforward at first, but it clearly not all that simple. Oikawa thought that he had to improve himself as a setter so he could carry his team to victory. He was trying to be a king. Luckily, he had Iwaizumi to cut off that train of thought very early on.
I loved how the show compared what Iwaizumi said to multiplication and addition. Oikawa thought that he had to improve himself because he thought you just mushed together the strengths of each player. That's wrong. He learned that you multiply the strengths of each player instead. It took me a bit to understand that one too. The way I look at that, it means that each player will affect one another when in a team. They can't just play as individuals that happen to be on the same side of the court. By trying to add the powers of your team, you just stack them on top of each other. By multiplying, you take what you already have and make it greater by merging it with something else.
If you like visuals, think of oil and water vs baking soda and vinegar. Adding oil to water increases the overall volume of liquid, but they never combine. If there is a cup of water and a cup of oil, you get two cups of liquid. Baking soda and vinegar doesn't just stack; it explodes. If you have a cup of vinegar and a cup of baking soda, they'll make way more than two cups when they combine. The players get stronger when together.
So, Oikawa stops trying to become a king. He obviously does keep trying to improve as a player, but he starts to focus more on his spikers. He realizes that he can compensate for his lack of natural technical skill by using his own natural skill of reading people and adjusting his responses adequately. Oikawa is a versatile player, and a very flexible setter. He gives his energy to improve his team, and they respond by giving their energy to get better and win. I found it interesting how loyal his teammates were to him. It brings me back to Oikawa being a general and not a king. Kageyama is high, untouchable, and barks out orders as the king, while Oikawa is the brave general who leads the soldiers. Oikawa fights alongside his soldiers. Kageyama stays in his palace, highly revered, but alone. The difference between them is that people are forced to follow Kageyama because of his unparalleled power. People follow Oikawa because they trust him with their life.
It's actually one of my favorite pieces of symbolism in Haikyuu. Kageyama was a genius from the beginning. His skill was something he was born with, and now he's king. When the eldest prince is born they have the birthright to become king. Kageyama got his title simply because he was lucky (
I love Kageyama, and I know he worked very hard, but he was mainly able to get there because he's a natural born genius. Generals have to rise through the ranks and work for their position. Some soldiers in history were actually more loyal to their general than to their king. Generals risk their lives with their soldiers. The king commands from the palace. The analogy doesn't really work for their relationship, but it's great for their individual characters.
As for Oikawa's relationship with Kageyama? It's complicated, as most things with Oikawa are. Oikawa is Kageyama's upperclassman, and It's evident that Kageyama once looked up to him. At first, I never understood why Oikawa hated Kageyama so much. It was fairly obvious that his underclassman basically worshipped him, and I thought it would do wonders for his ego. However, it seems so much more obvious after a bit of rewatching. Middle school Kageyama was a natural from the start, and middle school Oikawa was just a mess of overworking, burning out, and crippling insecurity masked by egoism.
Oikawa hated that he worked himself to death to make the cut, then some random bright eyed prodigy first year just comes in and steals the show. Maybe it wasn't reasonable to hate him so much, but middle schoolers aren't reasonable. Some people say Oikawa was supposed act more mature and responsible, an that he should have had more self control with his feelings. They seem to forget he was a CHILD. He was a literal child; he just entered adolescence, and he was still learning. He shouldn't be expected to handle things like an adult when he isn't one. Oikawa was just SCARED. He loved volleyball and didn't want to be replaced by Kageyama. He overworked himself so he wouldn't be dispensable. I agree that he should not have tried to hit Kageyama. However, you can't say that it makes him a bad person or character.
Oikawa wasn't really in his right mind at the time. It was clear that he was in the middle of an adrenaline rush of sorts from overworking himself. He was visibly agitated and overwhelmed, but, Kageyama approached him. This isn't Kageyama's fault either. While I do think he should have been able to tell it was a bad time to ask, Kageyama was an even younger child. He was never good at reading people either, so Kageyama can't be held accountable. Imagine, though, how Oikawa felt. He was in the middle of training so he wouldn't be replaced, and who decides to interrupt? The person he's trying not to be replaced by. Again, not Kageyama's fault, but you must understand that Oikawa was afraid. He was stuck in this swarm of negative thinking, and the very source of so much of his fear and insecurity was suddenly right in front of him. It wasn't right of him to do that, but you can understand why he did it.
That's another very interesting part of Oikawa. It was his worst fear come to life when he was subbed out for Kageyama in one of their games. It was too much for him, and he just finally snapped. Thankfully, Iwaizumi's lecture struck a chord in him, and he made an apparent effort to remember it. However, I don't think it made his fear go away. In fact, I think his fear of being replaced originated much before middle school. Obviously, I have no idea when exactly, but I would have to guess it started around the middle of elementary school at the latest. This is mainly because I believe Oikawa's obnoxious personality is a sort of defense mechanism used against this fear. Oikawa is objectively very good-looking, flamboyant and charming; he's also very popular among girls.
I found it very interesting that he was portrayed to be a heartthrob by the media, but was seen to be very immature and honestly quite annoying. Around his friends he acts very childish, but switches again to his charming persona when around fans or other classmates. It was fairly clear that something wasn't right. I wanted to believe it was just inconsistent writing, but one of Furudate's greatest strengths is building characters; I also saw no clear consistency problems with other characters. I believe that Oikawa switches personas depending on what reputation he's trying to uphold. We know Oikawa is insecure at heart, and we see him trying to play it off by being prideful.
If we go back to his fear of being replaced, I find reasonable to believe that Oikawa acts the way he does so that people don't get bored of him. He wants a reputation, because that means people will know about him. Something that is consistent about his personas is that he's very sociable in both. He's childish, loud, and constantly wants attention, or he's always laughing, flirting, and joking. It's almost as if he believes that everybody will find someone new if he doesn't remind them he's still there. He thinks people will get bored of him, so he constantly tries to make sure people stay interested. A lot of people say that Oikawa is too annoying and narcissistic, but he does it because he's afraid people will get rid of him if he doesn't keep their attention.
That also leads to another major part of Oikawa's character. I actually believe this may be the biggest part of his overall character. There's something that sets Oikawa apart from every other character. Regardless of if you like him or not, you can't deny that there's an energy about him that's just different. He's the closest you'll get to an antagonist in Haikyuu, but you also get to see his soft sides. We see the love he has for volleyball and for his teammates. It's strange to see so many different sides of a character. It's also interesting how Ushijima wanted Oikawa join Shiratorizawa. It's understandable, considering Kageyama still hadn't developed and Oikawa was the best setter in the prefecture.
So, the question I always wanted to answer: Why didn't Oikawa go to Shiratorizawa? Yes, the fandom exaggerates it and loves to joke about it, but it was a real question for me at first. Oikawa wanted to go to Nationals, and joining Shiratorizawa would have guaranteed it. Best ace and best setter in the entire prefecture on one team? They would blow the competition away. It would have been much easier if Oikawa had indeed swallowed his pride and joined Shiratorizawa. However, it seems that it wasn't necessarily about all about "worthless pride". Of course it was a factor, but Oikawa wouldn't let his pride get in the way of his dreams; he's smarter than that.
It was then that I started to notice a recurring pattern with Oikawa. He's a direct opposition to the main characters. He refused to join a powerhouse team for an easy ticket to Nationals. He uses his personal strengths to improve instead of being upset over what he doesn't have. Oikawa is an incredibly unique character because of his sheer will to do things the way he wants. Oikawa is a setter; he's a control freak, but in a less direct way than Kageyama. He doesn't force everyone to adapt to him, yelling, "You better follow me!" Rather, he goes his own way and says, "Follow me if you dare."
He carves his own path, regardless of what others say. Seijoh was destined to lose from the beginning. Furudate loves symbolism in Haikyuu. Notice how every national level school is represented by an animal? The mighty eagle of Shiratorizawa, the wild crow of Karasuno, the clever cat of Nekoma, the soaring owl of Fukurodani? What does Aoba Johsai have? A castle. Aoba Johsai translates to Blue Castle. While the other teams fight, jump, and soar, Aoba Johsai is beautiful, strong, and reliable, but they will never fly. It was almost as if Oikawa went to Aoba Johsai simply to prove he didn't need Ushijima to go to Nationals. Looking at it like that, it indeed makes it look like Oikawa refuses to go to Shiratorizawa out of pride. However, I like to see it as more than that.
First of all, Oikawa's greatest wish was to defeat Shiratorizawa in order to go to Nationals. OIKAWA DOES NOT SETTLE. He refuses to settle for only half his dream. Maybe it's too prideful, but it would invalidate the years of hell he put himself through trying to accomplish it. It was like Ushijima was telling him, "Hey, you tried your best, didn't you? You can't beat me, and all your years of work are for nothing. Just join us and give it up." It was insulting to him. Oikawa's sheer perseverance was what got him where he was. He took everything the world threw at him and threw it right back. Suddenly, it all stops and he's offered an olive branch of sorts. The world doesn't offer everything he wants, but it's something. Just enough to get him to stop fighting back.
Oikawa wants all or nothing when it comes to his passions. It's risky, maybe not a very smart decision, but that's just who he is.He doesn't want the olive branch; he wants the whole damn tree. Oikawa wants to look at Ushijima, to scream from the top of the world, and tell everybody who didn't think he could make it, "I DON'T NEED YOU." He wants to show people they were wrong. No, he's not a genius, but he doesn't need to be one. He wants to follow his dreams his own way or he doesn't want it at all.
Second of all, Oikawa wanted to go to Nationals with Iwaizumi. Oikawa and Iwaizumi were together their entire lives. They played, they laughed, they cried, they won, they lost, but they were always together. Oikawa needs Iwaizumi specifically because he trusts that he'll never be dispensable to his best friend. Iwaizumi is his support, the way he grounds himself when things are too much. Oikawa and Iwaizumi want to go to Nationals together. It's not some fantasy they conjured up; it's their childhood dream. Oikawa wouldn't be willing to let go of that. Again, Oikawa refuses to settle. He wants to lead a team to Nationals with his partner, or he doesn't want it at all.
Oikawa was willing to risk everything. He wanted to go all in. Maybe it was wrong, and maybe it was just worthless pride. Regardless, it shows us his unparalleled passion for the sport. He deserved so much better than what he got, but life isn't fair. Haikyuu shows us that. It's almost discouraging to see Oikawa lose. If you look at it, between Oikawa and Kageyama, Oikawa is actually the underdog. Kageyama is the genius player and Oikawa just tries his best. Haikyuu is an underdog story, but sometimes the roles are not as we think.
(⚠️!!SPOILERS FOR THE LAST CHAPTER!!⚠️)
When Oikawa is seen as the "final boss" as the official setter of Argentina's Olympic team, it's the cherry on top to confirm what type of character he is. THIS MAN WAS SO DAMN PETTY AND DETERMINED TO FOLLOW HIS DREAMS THAT HE IMMIGRATED TO A DIFFERENT HEMISPHERE. He was so determined to make his own path that he made a name for himself on the other side of the world. He was virtually unknown, and had to start from scratch all again. What happened? He actually did it, and now he's the main focus of his team. I have such a ridiculous amount of respect for Oikawa. The determination that man has is unparalleled.
I believe Furidate also uses Oikawa as a model to teach us that, yes, it's discouraging to be surrounded by people better than you, and failure is inevitable. However, it you can use those failures as a lesson to improve yourself, and if you stick to your goals until the very end, the world will get tired and it'll work out in the end. Oikawa tells us that it's okay to be bold; he tells us to understand that it takes time to succeed, and you will succeed. He tells us to treasure those who support us, because the trust they have in you is more than you could ever know. In the end, Oikawa really accomplishes his dreams. Maybe Iwaizumi isn't with him, but Oikawa has learned by then how to live without him and vice versa. Instead, he gets to fulfill his promise of defeating him when they face each other.
Oikawa never got to go Nationals, but now he's at Internationals. Now he finally gets to beat Ushijima, Kageyama, and Iwaizumi all in one spot. We don't even get to see the result of the match, which is actually something I love. Oikawa is the only one we know in Argentina; it would be unrealistic to try to decide a winner between the two teams if we don't know the strengths and weaknesses of each player. Regardless, we finally get to see Oikawa get what he deserves. Maybe it will work out for him, and maybe it won't. Something amazing about leaving an open ending is that we get to analyze the characters as we please, and we get to imagine what happens ourselves. It's actually one of Furudate's best pieces of symbolism in the whole series.
Their stories are not over yet. Maybe Oikawa loses again, but he keeps going. Maybe he finally throws the towel. Who knows? Characters are ever changing, but I believe Oikawa will stick to it. Then again, maybe his knee injury will force him to quit. Life is unpredictable, but Oikawa's determination has been constant throughout the whole show. The way he grew as a person, a player, and leader, just enraptured me to no end. Oikawa is one of the most fascinating characters I've ever come across. I don't like picking favorite characters, but I genuinely believe Oikawa is the most well written and complex.
That concludes my 3,000+ word rant/essay about the wonderful anomaly that is Tooru Oikawa. Honestly, there's definitely more that I forgot to incorporate or have not thought of, but this is what I have!! Thank you for reading through all that?? Also, I'm not going to go through that and edit it, so feel free to comment if anything makes no sense :)
As im refreshing myself with haikyuu and the characters I loved in middle school, I fucking came across this masterpiece. hello?? I was thinking to myself, "hm, I should remind myself about Oikawa, so I dont mischaracterize him in this fic im working on." LO AND FUCKING BEHOLD BRO. this is so amazingly written and descriptive. my fucking god. Kudos to the writer. I have no words. this interpretation of his character and who he is, is just-- so fucking chefs kiss.
Hi! This is my first time writing anything in the request boxes, hope I don't sound too cringe. I was just wondering if you're thinking about finishing the atsumu miya fanfiction with oral fixation. I absolute loved it! It was so good, I had to tell all my friends which simultaneously annoyed them (from the amount of times I mentioned it) and actually made them read it.😅
Not pressuring you or rushing, just wanted to know the final verdict, so my friends and I could get closure.
feral!atsumu miya eating shy!reader up
two degenerates finally fuck (ending)
warnings. explicit nsfw. minors DNI
details. fem!reader / college au / rough sex / almost angry sex / cowgirl + doggy / fingers-in-mouth / reader has braces / atsumu is a creep / oral fixation kink!atsumu / needy!atsumu / friend-zoned!osamu / narcissistic!atsumu / primal vibe / 2.7k words / part one here.
You weren't sure where Atsumu's room actually was, in terms of the layout and proximity to Osamu's.
Until now, slung over the fake blond's shoulder, you never dared to venture up the stairs.
No- you were more focused on the view you had of his ass in those gym shorts. So, you had no clue about how many doors were passed, what direction he turned, or how long the journey took, to get to some privacy.
He delivered you to his mattress and turned, leaving you for a quick moment, to lock the door.
Atsumu ditched his shirt by pulling it off the back of his neck with one arm. He abandoned it where he stood and left you, shivering, to drink in the sight.
Wasn't it fast? Wasn't this--
Before you could protest, or tell him how beautiful his body was, he was lifting you into his lap.
Big hands pushed past your shirt, eyes nothing but an empty hunger, and his palms found your chest so easily you'd think he was touching his own body. He was kissing everywhere but your mouth, since you wouldn't return them.
You stiffened. Despite the fact that you wanted this, your forearms pushed against his chest anyway.
"Let me guess," He sighed, not quite disappointed, but a little bored, "You've 'never done this before'?"
Your eyes narrowed at him.
"Mm...no-"
A subtle shock lifted his tired gaze.
You counted on your fingers and looked up, ruminant, "My safe word is tree. I like eye contact. Aaand light choking is fine."
He cocked his head, compliant, with your terms. You both had your secrets.
"Why 'tree'?" He drawled and brought you down hard on his thigh. Now he wasn't morally obligated to be gentle with you. Not that it was ever his plan.
You sucked in a shaky breath and closed your eyes at the rocking, the grinding.
"Because...Wh-en would you- ever say it in the bedroom?" You weren't as strong in your delivery as you wanted. He chuckled at you and sucked a slow, deliberate kiss to your jaw.
Looks like your courage came from a finite source.
"Why don't we talk about 'em?"
You glanced around his face, searching, for exactly what- you didn't quite know. The indication of a joke. A softness. Some kind of chip in the armor.
Because, in truth, something in him scared you.
"You seem like you wanna talk, baby," He explained himself in a sigh.
For now, he teetered back and forth on the edge of just alright and too much.
The weighty, disinterested look that made him so intimidating gave only to this... animalistic edge. His blacked out eyes were unforgiving, in both their persistence to study you, and their complete occupation with your differences.
Was he a bad person? Did it matter?
His hands knew what they were doing. He tugged on the curve of your spine, bringing you against him, and your body just begged to be filled.
It reminded you.
"You're--," You panted between his frenzied, and admittedly very messy kisses, "So- shredded..."
"Mm."
You felt a tiny smile against your lips.
He seized your wrist and pulled your hand to his torso as he leaned you both backwards. He slid your own hand around until you got the message that he wanted you to touch him. To praise him.
Under your soft hand, he sucked in a breath through his teeth and finally closed his eyes. He settled on helping you roll your hips the way he wanted, up and down his barely-clothed shaft.
"H-mnh," He flexed, fingers spreading to grab more of you.
God, he was built like nothing you'd ever seen before. The rhythm of his heavy breathing was foreign- his abs never quite disappearing even with a full breath in- how nothing on him was soft, but his body wasn't as rock-hard as you had imagined.
He was massive. And boy, did he sweat. His larger adjustments left prints of his limbs in the sheets. Your hands were slipping more and more across his taut figure.
You figured, with a guy like him, you didn't have to ask.
So you pulled him out of his shorts- and surprise, surprise, he wasn't wearing anything underneath. Diabolical; the gall to go to the gym with no underwear on.
Not that you judged him in the moment. He was hung. His stupid arrogance explained down to a simple and crude detail.
You swiped the precum from down the side of his shaft, taking note that he might be a premature kind of guy, and pumped him.
He cock flexed and his hands let go of you to clasp behind his head.
"Shit," He seethed.
His sudden pliability made you smile. He only grew softer, shakier, with each twist. You managed to get off with little hip circles on top of his big, strong thigh.
"God-!" Atsumu groaned with a half-laugh- his fingers raked down the side of face- "Fuck me, you're so cute."
You spat on him, and quietly celebrated that you could still shock what appeared to be quite the sociopath. It brought another grin to your face.
"Hmm," He pushed his hair back and made sure to keep staring at you.
He bucked slow against your grip, flexing his leg, "You got'a boyfriend?"
That smile was another way of telling you, 'I hope you have one, so I can be a bigger nuisance.'
"No," You breathed.
"You want one?"
Something told you he wasn't about to offer himself to you. You pumped him quickly as your answer, close to the tip, and laughed at his wincing.
If you weren't so adorable, he'd wipe that grin right off your face. You got away with more than you realized.
"F-uck," He glowered at you, a restrained twitch in his already harsh face, "I wouldn't mind fuckin' my brother's girlfriend."
The idea made him dissatisfied with your arrangement. He wanted more.
He reached for you, interrupting, and brought you in for another messy kiss. It made you wonder if he was actually bad, or just trying to make you say something about it.
"You wanna taste it?" He sighed. His big fist full of your hair made you a little weak.
"Mnn--,"
You could barely take your lip back from his teeth, and had to avoid his attempts at more kisses, "U-mm, I- can't."
Atsumu looked up at you like you stabbed him. He softened his grip, but it was clearly an afterthought.
"They're- they're new, so," You grew warm, evading his hard eye contact, "I can't open my mouth that wide."
"Oh-gh my'god,"
His cherry-red face was covered up in his oversized palms. "Fuck... Fu-ck-,"
He could've been a selfish asshole and yeah, asked you to take them out just to suck his dick, but this reality -your jaw, restricted, and his cock being 'too big' in any sense - was more of a turn-on.
Rushed, he began to rid you of your panties, "How 'bout I take these off, then?"
While he may have gotten off a dozen times to 'breaking you in,' he preferred the lack of responsibility that came with your experience.
You weren't scared of his cock. You knew how to take him.
"Shit-," He grunted, hips meeting yours, as he readjusted his slipping grip to better match you.
"H-ahh," His eyes darted up from your shared heat to your rolled back eyes, a sharp-toothed grin taking hold, "Takin' me so good already..."
You hummed at how good that sounded from a gravelly voice.
He let you lead while you had the energy. Watching, fucking you while you played with your clit-- cowgirl actually wasn't his favorite, but you were starting to change that.
You guided his hands to palm your chest- warm inside at how much he could hold- and gave a tiny gasp at how he started fucking you harder. No warning, just intuitively knowing you had enough of your fun.
Strength flooded his veins from your open-mouthed sobs of pleasure.
He could even see the colorful little bands in the back of your mouth.
"Shh..." He grinned, an eye roll both at how loud you were and how close you got him already.
He bottomed out- rough enough to spur a sharp whine. He drank it up in a kiss.
"I like ya on top," He confessed against your mouth. He sounded surprised, like he didn't do this much.
You pushed against his chest, huffy at how far he stretched you.
"C'mere," He threaded a hand through the nape of your neck and kept your restless body still, "Y'know my brother's right next to us?"
His thumb pushed too hard against your lip- forcing your braces to scratch against the inside.
"M-hm--," You slipped out of his tricky grasp to tell him, head tilted away, "Don't press- it hurts, like that."
"Oh... I'm sorry..." He sang.
He didn't sound sorry at all. He didn't do it again, but he didn't take his thumb off of your lip, and his gaze didn't falter.
It left you with some chills that never quite vanished.
You tasted blood a moment before he started to kiss you.
"Mmm..." He slid, slick, filling you and leaving you empty over and over again till you missed the full feeling bad enough to fuck him back.
He was coated in sweat, rendering it difficult to push against him. Since he was waxed down there, though, it felt real good on your pussy.
Him being so smooth, combined with many of his other habits, already gave the impression that he was full of himself. He didn't have to continue gloating, but he couldn't help it.
"Better tha-n-- Aughh-! Osa-mu, yea-h?"
Osamu. Your tummy twisted at the name- that nice sweater he had on today, how pleasant his hair smelled when he leaned down to listen to you at the door. It was only a brief moment, but Atsumu could feel your body respond before you had a chance to answer.
Your own reaction surprised you. It felt like you had confessed to a crime you didn't realize you committed, whilst on the stand.
"G-od-- you s-erious?" All he did was whine.
"Mmnh-," He grunted, burying himself deep in you, not providing you a second to think coherent or sensible ideas. Just Osamu. How he was nicer, a little bigger, and would probably be sweeter.
But-
Maybe Osamu wouldn't be so needy.
Atsumu's glossy stare; there was nothing pitiful about it, but it made you feel a tiny bit bad for him. You didn't want him as much as he wanted you. His desperation to outdo his brother, to this extent, was the final nail in the coffin.
It filled you with a tingly buzz. You were warm-- no, hot with a hunger for more of his yearning.
The sensation moved a grin, slow to spread but nice and real across your jaw. And he'd take that bait all day.
"S-o cute..." He sighed.
He palmed your neck like it was nothing and guided you back down for more of those difficult kisses.
You weren't perfect. They were twins. Plus, this filthy crush on Atsumu was never supposed to come to light in the first place.
Never in a million years would you have bet on him having a crippling kink for braces. You were pissed you didn't see it sooner, because you would've gotten off to it a long time ago!
You had to struggle once again to refuse his sloppy kisses.
This time, he was only disappointed for as long as it took to get your breathy request out:
"Can you fuck me face-down?"
Being on top didn't quite compare to getting pounded into the sheets.
You were happy to have started off that way, though; because the filthy image his big, sculpted body helped you take it.
"Ah---h-mn-!!"
His fingers found your open mouth and let themselves in. They felt not for your tongue- but for the outside of your teeth, for all the metal and the rubber that already filled your jaw.
"M-mn-!"
Your tummy tightened at the depraved sounds of his hips slapping yours.
There was no way the sound didn't carry to the other room, but you didn't struggle with it as much as you thought you would.
Fondness couldn't beat getting railed.
Atsumu wasn't a quiet guy either. Broken grunts, groans, curses spilled from him, unrestrained and raw.
When he pulled his hand back, you came to and realized that you had been biting him mercilessly.
His fingers wrapped around your throat as it occurred to you. Right before the overwhelming weight of his body pushed you further into his bed, his hips heavy and rough.
"Break- my fuckin'- hand--,"
"Mmh!" You cursed, muffled, into his sheets.
"Huh? Y'like that?" He squeezed your throat just right. Enough to make you all fuzzy and warm.
You groaned, proximity to your orgasm and all his rudeness making you a little mean, too-- you swallowed the spit gathered in your mouth and twisted to grin at him sideways.
Your pretty little noises and whore'd out expression murdered that shy demeanor he once wanted to break.
When he stalled, you thought he was only trying to deny you.
You pushed back on him, but he let out a higher, breathy whine and squeezed you still.
Poor thing was close. But so were you-- and you refused to go easy on him. He already got his, and you still wanted yours.
"D-on't-- h-ahh-," His wince was probably the most vulnerable thing you'd seen him wear today.
"Pl-ease..." That desperation sounded really hot on him.
Some big, mean jerk with too many people telling him yes all the time- doing whatever the fuck he wanted- dripping sweat, begging, you to stop being so cute or he'll cum inside of you.
You stretched back into him, a broken and cruel giggle at his nails ripping the through the thread count in his comforter. You felt more of his sweat hit your spine and shivered, clenching, around him.
"Stop-sta-hh-," He swallowed, sick and shaky with effort.
You were nearly there. Just a little bit more-- you tried to move again, but were foiled.
Big hands snaked forward, his thighs pushing to keep you coiled up tight and still.
His groan in the shell of your ear was disapproving.
In the adjustment, in the chill that his groan sent shooting down your back-- a tight spring snapped.
Your orgasm was slow to crest and whiny. It didn't leave easily with nothing to encourage it gone.
On the edge of a cliffside, Atsumu growled at how you still didn't listen to him. His muscles were tight with restraint.
Most of the time, you came to a rise in intensity, something that crescendo'd-- so his stupid wrestling-submission-hold was not what you had in mind.
He tried to flex his own away, but it was a losing battle with you spilling such sweet sounds, spasming around him like that.
You were weak, and growing weaker. He loved feeling it run through you. A little too much.
"F-uu-uh-ck--," His stuttery groan drowned yours out.
As soon as he pulled out, he was painting white all over the curve of your back- mixing with his sweat and yours.
Post-nut clarity rendered him useless, usually.
But that exhausted giggle against his sheets saved him from falling into the depths of despair and regret, for a moment.
"You better wipe that off of me," You teased and slid onto your tummy.
He smirked at your stretch, especially proud of your poorly hidden flinch, and kissed your ass.
"Y'think I'm some kind of monster?"
You groaned, "Mmmhm."
As he passed you to grab a cloth, you eyed his still-hard, very-bouncy cock.
Maybe if he hadn't fucked you so hard, you'd be down for a round two. Everything ached, you realized, as he cleaned you up.
It was warm and pleasant. He was thorough, too, in a way you didn't expect. And when he was done, he didn't kick you out right away. He actually invited you under his sheets for cuddles.
"So..." He began.
You were prepared for him to ask for another one, but waited, confused, as he stared at his hand.
"I think you broke my finger."
links: my masterlist. more haikyuu. my side. my inbox.
notes: no worries anon! hope this ending satisfies your thirst as it has done for me. atsumu/osamu miya are just hard to write for me, unsure why?
taglist: @sqwidgurl @lildickgirl1122 @mncxbe @annieslittledreams @bagofshinyrocks @grelliyt @pinksugadookie @chosslut @thisiswhereishitpostalot
heian!sukuna reclines on one elbow, palm cupping his cheek in a posture of idle sovereignty. the persimmon rests heavy in his palm, its skin burnished and taut, autumn condensed into a single globe. his thumb digs in, and it opens like a wound, trickling over his fingers in viscous rivulets, staining the creases of his palms. ruby red eyes regard it with dispassion, as he has watched blood do the same.
the scent blooms at once—honeyed, almost fermenting. its lush interior a glistening mass of pulp. fibres stretch as he prises it apart. the gore reminds him of a human heart. he has torn out plenty of those.
(love is an inane thing. an affliction. unbecoming of a man who has torn villages apart with these same hands.)
sukuna lifts a segment between his fingers and brings it to your mouth, an intimacy that would scandalise any courtier foolish enough to witness it. the pad of his thumb guides your lips open. juice spills, tracing a sticky amber line down your chin. before you can lift your own hand, he swipes a finger beneath your chin. you smile at him then, tilting your head so that your face is now nestled comfortably against his perlicue.
if this is what it feels like to give one’s heart—
ridiculous, he thinks, to feel as though he is the one being fed. in offering you a morsel of sweetness, the king of curses has placed something vital and beating into your keeping.
tutor! katsuki bakugo x camgirl! reader ── .✦ university au!
𓂃 tw / cw (18+) ; masturbation, katsuki has sexual thoughts about us, constant self-doubt, y/n gives a dildo a boob job
𓂃 synopsis; now that katsuki's found out about your dirty little secret, he's adamant on keeping the relationship strictly educational between you two. but, with the sound of your pretty moans and plump breasts in his head 24/7, just how long does that last?
𓂃 note ɞ; omg guys i added a twitter vid cause it felt like that could be so immersive lol. also y'all like my drawing like if i do feel like drawing my own fanart...for my own freaking fanfic, i'll probably just blur y/n or something..also a bit unedited by this is genuinely lagging my laptop..
w/c; 9,634
⊹
ever since the laptop incident, paranoia has lived a little too comfortably in your chest.
you were so sure he saw the filth on your screen, but you were also certain he didn't know it was you.
even so, you've been living your waking days at uni actively avoiding him. it became instinct, the kind of quiet adjustment you make when something private threatens to bleed into real life. every step on campus felt heavier, charged with the guilty reminder that your secret was at risk of unravelled. so, you compromised.
during lectures, you took a seat in the far font corner of the hall, close enough to the board so you'd be forced to keep your vision to the front. when you had afternoon shifts at the cafe, you'd pray he wouldn't come in, and when you had to study, you just went straight home.
it shouldn't have been a big deal, but at the same time it was. because you knew how you still liked him. and liking someone made everything feel more exposed.
even if video you opened to on hotcam.web hadn't been yours, katsuki still saw that you were actively engaging with the website. and that still scared you, just not equally as much.
but you knew that you couldn't hide from him forever, because he was still your tutor, and your life still heavy revolved around upcoming deadlines.
eventually, you'd have to sit across from him again.
the announcement comes through on a tuesday morning.
final assessment schedule released.
exam period is in five weeks.
you stare at the uni board a second longer than necessary, the dates blurring together before they finally settle into something real. a month. close enough to feel immediate, and far enough to still pretend you have time.
your stomach tightens anyway. it comes close to something like panic, but not yet. just awareness.
later that week, you’re back in your ta, linda’s office.
she looks different today. lighter, almost pleased, as she scrolls through something on her screen. you sit across from her, hands folded neatly in your lap, waiting for the familiar sigh that never comes.
“you’ve actually improved,” she says instead.
you blink. “i have?”
“seriously,” she nods, turning the laptop toward you. “your recent quizzes, your last assignment. this is a noticeable jump. whatever you’re doing, it’s working.” she looks back up at you, smiling.
something in your chest loosens.
“i’ve just been… keeping up,” you say, careful not to oversell it. because you're still struggling, just not as much as you were starting out.
linda nodded approvingly. “keep doing that. the last stretch of semester is always the hardest. final tasks are being released this week, and with exams in a month, it’s going to feel like everything’s happening at once.”
you nod. you already feel it, deadlines and stress filing away into your mind.
“i’m going to increase your tutoring frequency,” she adds. “twice a week now, at least until exams.”
your breath catches only briefly. “with bakugo?” you ask.
“he’s agreed,” she says easily. “he actually suggested it.”
that sticks with you longer than it should.
the first extra session happens two days later.
same room. same table. same careful distance.
katsuki looks the same as always. focused, composed, pen already in hand when you arrive. this time he's wearing a normal black tee, biceps protruding from beneath the material.
when you settle down, his gaze lingers a fraction longer when you sit. not on your face. just… there. you sink into yourself and grace yourself with the time you take to set up your equipment.
“we’ll go faster today,” he says. “exam pace.”
“okay,” you reply, already opening your notebook.
the session moves smoothly. better than before. you keep up with him more easily now, catch mistakes before he points them out. when you do get something right, he nods once, like it was expected.
halfway through, you pause, frowning at a problem.
“wait if i rearrange this term, it simplifies, right?”
he glances at your page. “yeah.”
you grin, small and proud.
“see?” he adds. “you’re thinking ahead now.”
the praise lands warm, swelling gently in your chest. you nod slowly, eyes fixed on the paper before you. "yeah."
“what did you get back for the assignment?” he asks, casual. “let’s look at the comments.”
“oh, yeah,” you say, already reaching for your laptop. “i’ll pull it up.”
you flip the screen toward him.
the comments load.
and there it is.
the sticky note, half-hidden on the corner of your screen, neon against the dull grey of the dashboard in front of you. not a site name. not a link. just your username, with a password that you constantly forget.
petalvoid
and, beneath it, the password, emphasized in a matching bold font.
your breath catches too late.
katsuki’s gaze flicks down. just once, like he’s scanning for a header or a grade.
he doesn’t react, and again, he doesn’t stiffen. doesn’t blink.
“scroll,” he says, tapping the trackpad lightly. “they usually bury feedback at the bottom.”
you do, fingers numb.
the room feels louder now. the hum of the lights, the scrape of a chair somewhere down the hall. he leans in a fraction, close enough that you’re suddenly aware of your own breathing.
after a beat, he speaks again.
“you might want to move that,” he says evenly, nodding toward the note without looking at it. “shouldn't have your password up like that.”
that’s all. there's no question. no change in tone. no pause to let you explain.
he points to the comment thread. “here. this is what they’re marking you down for.”
and the session continues. numbers. notes. corrections.
but the warmth in your chest has gone taut, replaced by a thin, electric awareness because he didn’t ask what it was.
he didn’t ask why it was there.
he treated it like a fact already accounted for. somehow, that felt worse than being caught.
you shrank into your seat, sweaty fingers clamped around your pen as you felt paranoia sink in deep. you mentally curse at yourself for the same slip up.
this continues.
in your next tutor session, the room is quiet again. different building this time. later hour. fewer people around.
you’re sitting side by side now instead of across from each other, laptops open, knees almost brushing. katsuki scans your work while you wait, hands folded, trying not to think about how close he is.
“petalvoid,” he says suddenly. it rolls of his tongue swiftly.
your spine stiffens.
“…i'm sorry?”
he doesn’t look at you. instead, his eyes stay on the screen, one hand resting near the trackpad like this is just another annotation.
“that’s a nice name,” he adds, eyes flickering down to mark your work.
your throat tightens. “it’s...it's just something i use.”
“i figured.” a pause. then, casually. “what made you get the idea?”
your mind blanks.
“for… the name?” you ask, too carefully. you try to play your cards right. if you act like your nervous, it'll give it away. but if you act confident, a part of you is scared he'll go ahead and find it.
“yeah.” he finally glances over, expression blank, curious in the most neutral way.
you shrug, forcing lightness into it. “i don’t know. just sounded right.”
he hums, considering that.
“it does,” he agrees. “it's bold. the name suits you.”
he scrolls a little, then stops.
you decide to seal your lips shut. maybe if you just didn't respond, he'd drop it. but you speak before you follow through.
"thank you..."
“names like that usually mean something,” he continues, tone unchanged. “people don’t pick them randomly.”
your pulse is loud in your ears. you've never heard katsuki speak this much in a minute, let alone in a whole hour session.
“guess i’m not very random,” you say, trying to smile.
“no,” he replies easily. “you’re not.”
then he points at the screen, completely bypassing the topic.
“this part,” he says. “see, you overcomplicated it. next time, just simplify.”
the conversation is over. just like that.
he leans back slightly, giving you space again, attention fully returned to the work. the rest of the session continues normally. equations, corrections, the occasional nod of approval when you get something right.
but the words linger.
nice name.
the name suits you.
he never presses. never circles back. never gives you anything to push against. that’s what makes it torment. because he isn’t fishing, he's just making small talk and it happens to land right where it gets personal.
yeah. you had to be more careful from now on.
the shopping centre is half-asleep when you step out of victoria’s secret.
most of the stores are shuttered, lights dimmed, floors freshly cleaned to a shine that makes your footsteps sound louder than they should. the bag in your hand holds a bright orange bra set, covered by a pair of orange pj's that were on sale.
you shouldn’t feel self-conscious, but you do anyway.
you’re adjusting your grip on the flimsy handles of the mesh bag when you hear a bundle of familiar voices.
you look up.
of course.
katsuki’s a few metres away, walking with a couple of his friends, gym bags slung over shoulders, voices low and tired, the easy kind of confidence that comes with late nights and nowhere urgent to be.
his eyes flick to you.
then, immediately, to the bag.
his pace slows just a fraction, and you expect him to just ignore you and continue walking. instead, he stops. a breath later, he's already changing direction, closing the distance between you before you've fully registered it.
“hey,” he says, casual.
“hey,” you reply, hoping your voice sounds normal.
one of his friends glances between you, then at the bag, then keeps walking, giving you both space without comment.
katsuki doesn’t smile, he never really does, but something in his gaze sharpens. not surprised, not amused. just aware.
“late night,” he says, nodding once toward the store behind you.
“yeah,” you shrug, shying away as you stare down at your shoes. “got paid extra this week.”
his eyes follow the motion, dropping down to linger on the victoria's secret bag this time. convenient that it had to be a stupid see-through mesh bag.
“orange this time?” he adds mildly, crossing his arms. there's a smugness to his tone, but his flat facial expression matches nothing like it.
your stomach flips.
“what?”
he finally looks back up at you, expression completely neutral.
“oh,” he says easily. “i just meant you wear a lot of pink. didn't take you as someone who liked orange.”
“oh! well, it's fall season coming up, so..."
he tilts his head, considering you for a moment like he’s deciding how much to say.
“that's right,” he answers.
your grip tightens on the bag handles.
there’s a beat of silence that settles between you. the hum of escalators. distant footsteps. a cleaner pushing a cart past the food court.
katsuki shifts his weight.
“i'm going to have to move our tutoring session on thursday to tomorrow,” he adds, eyes flicking down once more. “something came up.”
you nod, pondering. “i...i can do that, yeah that's fine.”
“sure,” he agrees immediately.
then he steps back, already disengaging, the moment sealed and filed away like everything else. this was a just a normal interaction, nothing else.
“night,” he says.
“night.”
he turns to catch up with his friends, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed like he hasn’t just said something that’ll echo in your head the whole way home.
you seriously cannot tell if you're just paranoid and hyper-analyzing everything, or if it's your guilty conscious coming back to you, and that everything katsuki happens to say just lands where it shouldn't.
you stand there for a second longer, heart beating a little too fast, the victoria’s secret bag suddenly feeling heavier in your hand.
he never mentioned a screen, never mentioned a username. never mentioned anything you could point to.
he just spoke like someone who already knew. somehow, that makes it worse.
you were going to have to pause posting for a bit.
⊹
katsuki almost rushes home once he's finished his gym session. he does everything he needs do - clean dishes, clean up his apartment a bit, take a cold shower, and go through his notes for all his other courses. it's mundane, strict and curated for the goals he wants to reach.
but tonight, he works faster. because his phone awaits beside him, browser already opened.
at first, at the start of this newly introduced part of this nightly routine, he felt guilty about it. but, not enough to stop. now, he's grown used to it.
it's been a week.
once he's done his final problem set and some assignment work for the night, he's already grabbing the lotion from his bed-side table and pushing his boxers down to his knees. he's already typing petalvoid into hotcam.web, hands sweaty as his dominant hand begins pumping absentmindedly.
he clicks on a video from a few weeks ago. he was tutoring you at this time. it's kind of interesting to him. assuming that these were all recorded at night, did that mean after all your tutoring sessions, you'd go home and do this filthy shit after he told you to study that night?
katsuki knows before the video even loads who it’s going to be. his thumb hesitates over the screen, not out of doubt, but because his body is already reacting, that familiar pull low in his gut tightening like it’s been waiting for nurturement.
petalvoid.
he wastes no time pressing play.
"j-just imagining this is your cock..." there, right there. that's you, undivided between the shift of you at uni, and you here. your voice is just as soft and gentle. there's no difference.
you slide your covered breasts onto the dildo, using your hands at first to push the fat of your chest more. the overhead lights glisten just right on your chest, illuminating the lube you have slathered on.
"gonna fuck you like this using my tits, okay..?"
god, you sound so erotic here than in real life. katsuki fists his cock, his grip tightening at the way you sound.
he exhales slowly through his nose, jaw setting, shoulders going rigid for a moment before he forces himself to relax back into his chair.
no face. never a face. he doesn’t need it, because his mind already slots you in.
it’s your voice that does it. that soft, deliberate cadence you slip into when you’re alone, unguarded in a way you never are with him. it’s different from how you speak in study rooms, different from the careful tone you use when you’re nervous.
but it’s still you. too you. and that alone, weirdly turns him on even more.
you're not gentle with the way you bounce your breasts either. in fact, you're bouncing your whole body up and down, slamming your tits up and down to the base of the dildo.
the sound of you skin against the plastic has his balls clenching. his stomach tightens, warmth blooming slow and heavy this time, not rushing anywhere, just spreading. settling. his breathing deepens without him meaning to, chest rising fuller as his focus narrows until the rest of the room fades out completely.
he watches with intent now. not curiosity or confusion. attention. attention to the way your soft breathes come out forced as you successfully arouse your audience. the way your pretty breasts fuck the inanimate thing.
every movement on the screen feels familiar in a way that makes his jaw clench. not because he’s seen it before, but because this he can picture you doing it. he can make out what facial expression you'd be making, because all he can think about is the way his brain fills in the gaps with memories that have nothing to do with what's happening on screen.
you sitting across from him, pen tucked between your fingers. you shifting in your seat when you’re concentrating. you going quiet when you’re overwhelmed.
and how obvious you are. he know he's got you all figured out in the last tutoring session. it's the way your cheeks flush undeniably, voice quiet and cautious now. and how your fingers tense around the hem of your sweater when he says something that hits close to the existence of petalvoid.
the contrast hits hard.
his hips shift unconsciously, a slow roll he doesn’t correct. the sensation builds steadily, a dull pressure turning sharp as the video continues, your sounds build through him like they’re being pulled straight from his chest.
his brows knit, focus absolute. this isn’t anonymous to him anymore. this is private. something personal in your life that he's getting off to.
his breath grows uneven, shallow now, heat coiling tighter with every second, every sound. his body reacts like it already knows the rhythm, like it’s responding to you instead of what’s on the screen.
“fuuuck,” he mutters quietly, watching the way your breasts beg to slip out of that flimsy thing you call a bra.
"bet you're all gonna cum real soon, yeah?"
you let out more drawn out moans, louder this time. your movements are more purposeful, heavy as the heat between your breasts eliminate any friction that was ever there.
katsuki's wrist moves a bit faster, tighter around his cock. because it's true. he is about to cum, and he's going to cum to the sight of your pretty breasts fucking your hot-pink dildo that's definitely been inside of you before.
pre-cum rolls off his raging, pink tip, cloudy white as some of his thumb catches it to drag it down his cock. then it happens. you're too loud, your breasts keep slapping against the desk. and it's the first thing he sees.
your left tit pops out from your bra, your dusty nipple flashing the camera, round and fat.
"o-oh, f-fuck!"
katsuki quickly pauses the video this time just to stare at it. light, pleasured grunts leaving his lips as he locks his gaze onto it. this is what your breasts look like, bare, naked. all sweaty and lubed up.
katsuki thinks it's so pretty. so pretty, that his abs clench as he drains his balls clean over his fist, cum spurting everywhere. he continues the video as his hips take over, slower, powerful thrusts as he watches you quickly cover back up.
"this will be the one time you ever see my breasts. bare.."
katsuki allows himself another minute of fucking his hand through the overstimulation till he feels that it's enough.
he’s conscious of it, and the decision he’s made. he’s aware of how easily his body betrays him. aware of how cleanly the line between you and this version of you has dissolved.
by the time the video ends, the warmth in his stomach is sharp, humming, his pulse loud in his ears. he doesn’t move right away.
he just sits there, breathing heavy, grounded by the weight of what he knows now.
because the first time, he could pretend.
this time, there’s no pretending at all.
petalvoid isn’t a stranger.
it’s you.
and his body has already decided what to do with that information, way long before his mind catches up.
the tutoring session the next day comes with a sense of dread from katsuki. it wasn't that he hated tutoring you, he was just tired. in fact, he hadn't slept well the night before.
at precisely 3:59 pm, he arrives before you and sets up. once you walk through the room, it's different this time. you look the exact same. your rosy cheeks, gentle eyes, your ridiculous collection of knitted sweaters, hair messy from the wind. just you.
but when you sit down, all he can think about is your breasts. he tries to keep his eyes far from your chest, but he's beginning to notice smaller things.
the way the outline of your chest presses against the desk, pushing up the fat up a bit. how supple your hands like, clasped together as if waiting for a permission. and today is a little different, because this time your wearing a skirt, and it rides up as you shift in your chair. and all he can really think about in this present moment is bending you over this table.
katsuki's grip tightens at the thought before shutting it down.
the sound of you rummaging through your textbook pulls him out of a trance.
get it together.
he's never been a horn ball. he didn't even watched porn often. so, what seems to be the issue?
"i'm a little stressed with finals..." you start off, always in that quiet tone. "the last lecture kinda confused me, i tried to go over it last night, but it just wasn't clicking."
katsuki raises his eyes, pushing his glasses a bit. "okay, give it here."
you slide your notebook toward him, fingers brushing the edge for half a second longer than necessary before pulling back. he notices. he notices everything now.
he scans the work quickly. too quickly. the math is fine, not perfect, but workable. that isn’t what slows him down.
it’s the way you’re watching him.
not openly, definitely not expectantly. just that quiet, unconscious focus you get when you’re overwhelmed. like you’re anchoring yourself to something solid, and in the moment, it happens to be him.
“you didn’t misunderstand the concept,” he says. “you rushed the application.”
you frown. “i did?”
“yeah.” he taps the page once. “here. you skipped ahead.”
you lean closer to see what he’s pointing at, shoulder brushing his arm. barely there. still enough.
his jaw tightens.
he adjusts in his chair, forcing his attention back to the problem instead of the warmth creeping low in his stomach; that familiar, unwelcome awareness he’s learned to sit with.
“finals do that,” he continues, tone steady. “make everything feel louder than it is.”
you hum softly in response. the sound lands heavier than it should.
he clears his throat.
“walk me through what you thought you were doing,” he says. “out loud.”
you hesitate, then start explaining. you always do this thing when you’re unsure, talking slowly, like you’re feeling your way through it instead of reciting. he listens closely, more closely than he probably should.
he notices how your voice shifts when you gain confidence. how it dips when you doubt yourself.
“stop,” he says gently when you trail off. “right there. that part was correct.”
your eyes lift. “it was?”
“yeah,” he nods. “keep going.”
he meets your gaze for a second too long. there's a silence that hangs in the air.
“you do that a lot,” he adds. “second-guess when you don’t need to.”
you smile faintly. “working on it.”
“i know,” he says.
and he does. more than you realise.
he slides the notebook back toward you, pointing again, closer this time. “try it again. slower.”
you follow his lead, pen moving carefully now. when you get it right, he feels it immediately, that quiet satisfaction, the same one that hits when something finally clicks into place.
“there,” he says. “see?”
your shoulders ease a fraction. the praise lands. he can tell.
“you’re thinking ahead now,” he adds, almost without meaning to.
you nod slowly, eyes back on the paper, but he catches the way your breath changes. softer, steadier.
he leans back, giving you space, forcing himself to keep things where they belong. because you’re right there. warm. real. focused.
and no matter how many times he’s seen another version of you behind a screen, you stammering your love to him back in high school, and this — this quiet, concentrated presence. he sees it. there's nothing different about either versions. he just managed to catch you a more personal, secluded light. who was he to judge you for what you did in your free time..
and besides, it wouldn't mean anything coming from him, because he is just as guilty, if not even more than you were.
he's the one who gets off on your content, the one who works just a bit harder so by 8pm, he's in bed fisting his cock to your videos.
he's the one slowly getting addicted to petalvoid.
“keep going,” he says calmly. “you’ve got it.”
he watches you work through the rest of the problem, slower now, more confident. you still have that habit where you hesitate. but you're improving, quite a lot since he's started out.
still, something feels off.
he closes his notebook the moment you finish, a little sharper than necessary. the sound lands louder in the quiet room. he quickly recognises it as premeditated guilt catching up to him.
“yeah, we'll leave it at that,” he mutters, already standing.
he doesn’t wait for you to look up. doesn’t sit there like usual, reviewing what you should focus on next. he grabs his books, shoving them into his bag with brisk efficiency, movements clipped.
this isn’t how he does things and he knows it.
“same time next session,” he adds, slinging the strap over his shoulder.
“yeah,” you say. “see you—”
“yep.”
too fast.
he’s out the door before the word fully leaves your ears.
the hallway is cooler, emptier. he walks quickly, jaw tight, mind loud in a way he doesn’t appreciate. he hates this part.
the lag. the static. the moments where his thoughts don’t line up cleanly anymore.
he’s starting to notice things he never used to notice.
the way your voice changes when you’re concentrating. the way you sit closer without realising it. the way his attention drifts where it has no business drifting.
and worse. the way it stays there.
it’s inefficient. distracting. unnecessary.
this was meant to be a form of entertainment from him, but it's beyond that point. he can't even stop getting hard whenever he thinks about it.
god, he shouldn't even be thinking about your breasts and your pussy for fuck sake.
he exhales through his nose, forcing his pace to steady.
this doesn’t happen to him.
he doesn’t lose focus. he doesn’t let irrelevant variables into equations that don’t need them. he prides himself on control, on clarity, on knowing exactly where everything belongs. on being the best in the cohort, academically and in every aspect in his life.
and lately, that’s been slipping.
just slightly. barely enough to name, but enough to bother him.
because whatever this is, whatever sexual, lust-driven thought that keeps trying to surface, he already knows he doesn’t like where it leads.
and he refuses to follow it.
not yet.
⊹
for the past week, katsuki's been agitated in ways that don't quite add up. it feels like being back to square one with him, except this time, there's tension where there used to just distance.
the moment you sit down, you know something’s wrong already. you can feel it in the air, and you think maybe someone's pissed him off.
katsuki doesn’t ask how you’re doing. doesn’t comment on the time. doesn’t even look up when you pull your notebook out. he’s already flipping pages, pen in hand, posture rigid like he’s bracing himself.
“start,” he says. “show me the last problem set.”
you blink. “oh, okay.”
you slide your notebook over. he scans it quickly. too quickly. his jaw tightens.
“why’d you do it like this?” he asks.
“…that’s how the lecturer did it?”
he scoffs under his breath. “yeah, and you copied it without understanding.”
heat creeps up your neck. “i did understand it—”
“then explain it,” he cuts in immediately.
no patience. no softness. it's like he just wants this study session to be done and over with.
you try, words tumbling over each other as you rush to keep up with his pace. he interrupts twice, tapping the page harder than necessary.
“no. wrong.”
“you skipped a step.”
“that’s sloppy.”
each correction lands sharper than the last.
you grip your pen tighter, heart thudding, trying to keep up as he flips forward.
“again,” he says. “from the top.”
you stumble. you always do when he goes this fast.
he exhales sharply. “you’re not thinking.”
“i am,” you say, quieter now, shrinking into your seat.
“then stop hesitating,” he snaps. “you didn’t do this last week.”
that stings more than it should. you force yourself to breathe, to focus, to ignore the way he’s leaning closer than usual. not intimate, just looming. like pressure made physical. and somehow, pathetically, your chest still warmed.
you make another mistake.
he catches it instantly.
“seriously?” he mutters. “we’ve been over this.”
“i’m trying,” you say back, slipping through your own patience.
“try harder,” he replies flatly.
silence snaps tight between you.
he drags a hand down his face, irritated, like he’s arguing with himself more than you.
“finals aren’t forgiving,” he continues, tone clipped. “you don’t get points for pointless atempts, this is just shit effort.”
you nod, biting the inside of your cheek.
the session keeps moving. fast. relentless. no pauses to check in. no praise when you get something right, just an immediate shift to the next problem.
you’re exhausted halfway through.
by the end, your notes are messy, brain buzzing, chest tight with a mix of adrenaline and something else you can’t name. normally after a very productive study, your head aches like this. but this time, it's twisted into something more emotional.
katsuki closes his notebook abruptly.
“we’re done,” he says.
you look up. “already?”
“yeah.”
he shoves his books into his bag, movements rough, uncharacteristically careless. he doesn’t meet your eyes when he stands.
“review this,” he adds, voice curt. “you can’t afford to fall behind.”
you swallow, staring down at the sheet. “did i do that bad?”
his hand pauses on the strap.
“you could do better.”
he doesn’t explain. he just slings the bag over his shoulder and leaves, footsteps sharp against the floor.
you sit there for a moment after, staring at the page in front of you. he wasn’t wrong.
but the way he pushed, the way he looked wound tight, irritated, like he was fighting something the entire time, that was new.
and somehow, it unsettled you more than the teasing ever did.
during your night shift, your emotions come in waves. during the first quarter, you spent trying to figure out why katsuki's been acting this way. then on your break, you realised that...wait...he's always been like this by nature so it couldn't have been anything. and then at the half-way point, you were spiraling once more.
"y/n, are you okay?" your coworker asked, voice soft and private. "you haven't been talking that much this shift."
“yeah,” you say, too fast. “just tired.”
but the tension lingers, coiled and unresolved, long after the warmth of the drink is gone from the counter.
whatever this is, it isn’t easing. it’s tightening.
the dynamics practical is worse than the lectures.
at least in lectures, you can sit at the back and disappear into your notes, let the numbers blur until they stop feeling personal. but pracs don’t let you hide. they’re built on participation. movement, speaking.
and katsuki is there.
you notice him immediately — how could you not? — standing with his group near the front, sleeves pushed up, posture easy and confident like this room was designed for him. he’s already skimming the task sheet, brows drawn together in focus, nodding once like the problem’s already halfway solved in his head.
you take a seat at one of the benches near the middle, bag tucked close to your legs. your stomach twists as you read the instructions.
free-body diagram. equations of motion. assumptions.
your pen hesitates.
“okay,” the demonstrator says, clapping their hands. “work in groups of four. you’ll be presenting your reasoning at the end.”
your heart sinks.
people shuffle. chairs scrape. someone asks if the bench is taken. you nod, mute, and slide over to make space. introductions are quick, shallow. names you’ll forget. you try to focus, you really do.
but every time you glance up, you see him.
katsuki leans over his bench, pointing at the setup, explaining something with sharp, efficient gestures. his group listens. writes. nods. no confusion. no pauses.
you hear someone from his table fawn over him. "bakugo, how are you so quick with these ideas?"
you feel stupid for comparing.
“what do you think?” someone in your group asks.
you flinch slightly. “sorry?”
they repeat the question. something about assumptions. frictionless surfaces. you nod along, even though your mind is blank.
“i think… we can neglect air resistance,” you say carefully.
there’s a pause.
“…yeah,” someone replies. “obviously.”
heat crawls up your neck.
you shrink back into your notes, fingers tightening around your pen. you write slower than everyone else. erase more. your diagram looks messier, less confident, something very similar to chicken scratch. every step feels like you’re asking permission to be there.
halfway through, the demonstrator walks past your bench.
“how’s it going here?”
one of your groupmates answers immediately. you don’t speak. you don’t trust your voice not to shake.
across the room, katsuki’s group gets a nod. “good work.”
you don’t look at him when he glances over, but you feel it. brief. unreadable. gone.
it shouldn’t matter.
you tell yourself that over and over.
but it does.
because you remember being the girl who raised her hand in chemistry. who stayed back after class. who tried. and now you’re the one counting the minutes until the prac ends, hoping you won’t be asked to explain anything out loud.
when it’s finally over, chairs scrape again. people pack up. chatter fills the room.
katsuki leaves with his group, talking once, dismissive.
you don’t hear what they’re saying.
you don’t want to.
you sling your bag over your shoulder and walk out slower than everyone else, eyes fixed on the floor, chest tight with something dull and heavy.
it’s not jealousy. it’s worse.
it’s the quiet, sinking feeling that you’re falling behind in a place you worked so hard to be. and the one person who knows exactly how much effort you’re putting in doesn’t look back to check if you’re keeping up.
somewhere between packing up your bag and walking out of the building. between the echo of the lab and the hollow feeling in your chest.
you can’t do it today.
by the time you reach the bus stop, the decision feels heavier, but solid.
your phone is already in your hand. you stare at his name for a long moment before typing.
l/n:
hey, i don’t think i can make it to tutoring this afternoon. something came up, will be there next sesh :)
you read it twice. three times.
it’s not a lie. not really.
your thumb hovers, then you hit send.
the message delivers instantly.
no typing bubble.
no reply.
you spend the ride home replaying the prac in your head. the way your voice disappeared. the way you felt smaller than you’ve felt in a long time. the way katsuki didn’t look back.
by the time you get home, the silence from your phone feels loud.
you drop your bag by the door and sit on the edge of your bed, phone resting face-up beside you like it might move on its own.
nothing. minutes pass.
then, a buzz.
bakugo:
alright
that’s it.
no question mark. no follow-up. no “you good?” no irritation you can brace yourself against.
just acceptance. that hurts worse.
you stare at the word until the screen dims.
you don’t know what you expected, annoyance, maybe. insistence. a reminder about finals. something that proves you matter enough to notice.
instead, he lets you go. you lie back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, chest tight.
you told yourself this was a gamble. you just didn’t realise how much you were hoping he’d call it.
that night, you finally log back in.
it feels strange at first, like slipping into something you haven’t worn in a while. familiar, but stiff around the edges. you sit on the edge of your bed with your laptop balanced in front of you, room lights dimmed just enough, fairy lights casting a soft glow against the walls.
you reach into your drawer and pull out a fabric.
it’s simple. satin-soft. pale, with a thin band that ties behind your head. it covers your eyes completely, dipping just low enough that the bridge of your nose is hidden, but not your mouth. not your jaw. not the faint curve of your cheeks.
you hesitate with it in your hands.
you’ve never shown this much before. no face. no identifying features. that was always the rule.
but tonight feels different.
you tie the mask on anyway.
when you start the stream, you’re quiet at first. your greeting comes out soft, almost tentative, voice lower than usual. the chat ticks on beside the screen, familiar usernames appearing one by one, hearts and greetings stacking up faster than you expect.
you don’t smile right away.
your shoulders are tense. you can feel it. the way your body hasn’t quite let go yet, the way the day still sits heavy in your chest. you talk slowly, carefully, like you’re testing the water.
but then you breathe.
just once. deep, nice and slow, more for yourself.
you adjust your posture. shift closer to the camera. your shoulders ease, inch by inch, and with them, your voice steadies. the words start to come more naturally. the cadence returns not forced, not performed, just… there.
this is familiar territory. the mask helps a bit.
there’s something freeing about knowing they can’t see your eyes. can’t read you fully. you control what’s given. you always have.
you talk. you listen. you let the tension drain out of your muscles as the minutes pass. the chat responds, warm and attentive, the way it always does. not demanding. not invasive. you talk the time to talk to your viewers.
by the time you glance at the clock, you realise your jaw doesn’t ache anymore. your shoulders have dropped. your breathing is even.
yeah.
this is okay.
this is what you needed.
you don’t think about campus. or dynamics. or tutoring. or the way katsuki looked across the lab earlier, distant and sharp.
here, you’re just a voice. a presence. a carefully held version of yourself that doesn’t have to shrink or catch up or explain.
when you finally end the stream, the room feels quiet but not lonely.
you untie the mask slowly and set it aside, fingers brushing over the fabric like it still matters.
for the first time all day, your chest feels light.
whatever happens next, at least you know this part of you still exists.
and for now, that’s enough.
the next day comes by gently, soft sunrays kissing your skin as you made you way to lectures, and disappearing by the time you go to tutoring.
by the time you're walking to the building, the warmth has faded. your shoulder feel tighter, and the calm you carried out of your room has long folded inward.
you try to convince yourself to just act normal, and that it's just routine.
still, you rehearse what you'll say, and what you won't. and whatever happens next in that room, another regular tutoring session with katsuki, at least you know this part of you is untouched.
because today's been untouchable. good. almost perfect. from the time you stepped out of bed, to moving on campus, the paranoia was almost non-existent. you took notes, and when you called on in your pracs, you answered. just like how you subconsciously nod in lectures like you're keeping up, even when you're not sure you are.
you've always been good at looking capable, you think.
engineering has a way of making you feel like you're either brilliant or you're nothing, and you've spent too many weeks hovering in that uncomfortable middle space. a monotone grey area where you're smart enough to understand what you're missing, but not confident enough to trust what you do know. so, instinctively, you overcorrect. you oversaturate the space around you so it buries your self doubt.
it's so stupid, and you know it is.
but it's the same instinct that makes you tuck your hands in your lap when you talk to a tutor, like if you keep your body contained, your mistakes will stay contained too, and compensate for the times you stammer out something stupid.
petalvoid is one more thing you can't afford to be careless with. not when you feel like you're constantly proving you belong here. not when one slip could make you the kind of person people look at differently, the kind they assume is faking it till they make it. faking her grades to avoid pitiful glances. faking her confidence. faking her existence.
you can't afford to handle more agitation. you can't handle more noise in your head.
by the time you reach the door, you've already decided that you'll just control what you can. you're going to go into the room polite, so eager to learn that it masks you a year of your lustful sins. you're going to sound competent even if it feels like you don't know what you're even doing. you're going to explain everything before katsuki has the chance to think you're stupid.
you'll just ...ambush him with content about yesterday's lecture. then, there'll be no room for that awkward silence. maybe then, if there's no silence, then there's no gaps. nothing that he could say that'll fill it with something worse.
when you enter the room, it's too quiet. not empty, just sealed. the kind of quiet that presses back when you shift. you sit across from katsuki, notebook already flipped open, pen tight in your grip.
"okay," you keep your eyes trained on the chicken-scratch before you. "so, for this one, i thought maybe i'd try a different approach because last time i-"
"hold on."
you pen stills. katsuki doesn't look at you as he finishes writing something in the margin of your page. it's neatly, decisive. considerately executed. only then, does his gaze lift to yours.
"you're explaining things i didn't ask about," he says. "just do it."
heat crawls up to your neck, you continue anyway. "i just-" you stop yourself, then start again. "i mean, i thought if i showed you how i got there, it'd make more sense. i know it's not perfect, but i was trying to-"
"you don't have to justify it."
his words are rounded, measured to hit right where it shouldn't. that's what makes it land wrong.
you blink, smiling a bit. "i wasn't.."
"yes, you were."
katsuki leaned back in his chair, arms folded over his chest loosely. his eyes are steady on you like he's watching something come into focus. not the work, not the multivariable calculus written in obscure handwriting, not the fact that you scribbled out half a page of working out. you.
"stop narrating like if you explain yourself enough, it'll make the mistake smaller."
your throat tightened. "i'm just trying to be clear," you say, careful with your words. why does it feel like his words have some sort of inuendo?
"i know."
there. that!
that stupidly observant tone. the same tone that's grown from hoarse, brashness to something reduced to an unpredictable stillness. it makes your stomach dip.
you tear your gaze from katsuki, glancing back down at your notebook. suddenly, all your thoughts are louder than before. you hadn't realized you were talking to much, filling in space that's already been filled.
katsuki tapped the page once. "the math's fine, algreba's perfect, but this part here," he points. "that's where lose it. seems like more of a confidence issue than skill."
you swallow. "could you evaluate?"
silence settles again, and it's thicker one. why must katsuki always be the blunt-ended? you wish you had a different tutor. it's painful sitting in these uncomfortable silences where you feel like you're navigating a landmine.
you shift in your seat, adjusting your grip on the pen before you realize you're doing it. your thumb pressed into your palm, grounded yourself without meaning to.
you stop, unclenching your fist.
too late.
katsuki's gaze has already flicked down, catching sight of your containment.
something cold slides into place in your chest. maybe guilt?
"i'm sorry," you splutter, reflexive. too quick.
"for what?" he asks.
you open your mouth. nothing comes out. not because the words are stuck, but because you don't even know what you're apologizing for.
his sharp vermillion eyes linger on you for a second longer before shifting to the space before him.
"listen," he says, tone changing. it's not softer, exactly, but more intention. "we're not doing that."
"doing what?" you ask, quietly, scared that anything that you say could turn into something personal.
he gestures between you, the table, the work. "this. you shrinking. you thinking you have to explain yourself into permission," he continues. "i'm not your academic advisor, or your therapist. i'm here to teach you and make sure your ass doesn't fail."
your fingers curl tighter around the pen. you're surprised you haven't let go.
"i don't mean to."
"i know you don't," he replies. "but intent doesn't change the pattern. you're slipping."
your pulse is loud in your ears now. you feel too visible, like you've been turned concave outwards into the light without being asked. there's this tingle that spreads selfishly along your spine, that tells you to just spit it out. you know he knows. because how could he not? he's already hinted so many times he's known.
you know because from the second you stepped into this room, you had everything under covers. not once did you suggest anything internal, or that suggested something was happening outside of this room. from the second you opened your mouth, this was already his conversation.
you should have never become a cam girl. if you wanted to show someone what your wet panties looked like, you should've just looked for someone in real life like a normal person. if you were sexually frustrated, you should've just gone to the club. if you just wanted to feel noticed, you should've put yourself out there.
not do this anonymous crap where you fuck yourself in your dark room with a hot pink dildo, touching yourself to the thought of a boy in this room, who's made it clear he doesn't feel the same.
katsuki leaned forward, forearms resting on the table, closing the distance just enough that you're forced to pay attention.
"here's how this works," he says. "in this room, we focus on the work. that's it. you don't owe me explanations about anything else. i can tell. whatever you're trying to compensate for, i don't need to hear about it here."
your breath stutters. there's something tight, almost suffocating in your throat. the feeling spreads throughout your chest, up your thyroid and..
he holds you gaze, unblinking.
"whatever you do outside this room isn't my business."
the sentence lands cleanly. solid. right on the bullseye. it's not an accusation at this point, just a solid fact.
"and it won't become my business unless you want it to."
there it is. he knows. he fucking knows. your eyes scan rapidly for anything, anything that tells you he doesn't know! anything the suggests misinterpretation. a crack, a tell. heck, even a potential chance to rewind the last ten seconds and pretend this is about something else entirely. but you can't.
katsuki's attention is steady, locked onto yours, unflinching. this is the longest, the most, and probably the only time he's looked at you like this. as uncomfortable as it was, a part of you, buried deep down blossoms in the warmth of his attention. the sensation bubbles in you, urging you, almost commanding you to just..
something in you goes very still. then it comes out like word vomit.
"you know, don't you?"
the words hang between you.
katsuki doesn't answer right away. you can tell he's studying you. in fact, you feel it right in your core. he's checking if somethings off too, as if he's confirming a conclusion he reached a while ago.
"yeah." he says.
that's it. that's all it took. it didn't feel as loud, or heavy, or preamble as you thought it would've felt.
but, still, your chest collapses in on itself.
with every ounce of salvageable competency you have left, you manage to speak. "how long?"
"long enough."
the answer isn't cruel, and it isn't as confronting as you'd imagined either. it's honest in the way katsuki always is, stripped down to what matters and nothing beyond that.
you swallow. "and you just... didn't say anything?"
"i didn't need to," he replied. "i could tell you weren't read to hear it."
the words string because they're accurate. your fingers curl into the fabric of your sleeves, and you realize you've never felt more exposed in a way that has nothing to do with skin.
"are you-" you stop. start again, cleaner. "are you judging me?"
that finally makes his facial expression change. "don't put words in my mouth," he says. "if i was judging you, you'd know."
"i...i don't know, it just felt like it."
he pulled back from you slightly, giving you space. real space, not distance. the kind that makes it clear he's not cornering you.
"you're an adult," he continues. "you're not hurting anyone, and you don't owe me a justification for how you exist. it's not my business to judge."
you breath shakes on the way out. "then why bring it up at all?"
his eyes meet your again, unwavering. "because i could tell it was starting to mess with the work."
of course, practical direct katsuki.
"and," he adds, after a beat, "...because secrets like get heavy when you carry them alone."
your throat burns, but you nod. he's right. "so, what now?"
katsuki considers you for a moment. he has this thoughtful expression in that quiet way of his.
"now?" he pauses. "now nothing changes unless you want it to."
the words echo his boundary from earlier. its deliberate, and somewhere beneath those words, lie and offering that you don't fail to notice.
"this says professional," he continues. "unless you say otherwise. i'm not going to push, i won't hint if you don't to. and i'm not going to pretend i don't know." he pauses. "but i'm not going to use it against you."
somehing in your chest loosens. not relief, exactly. it's recognition.
"you're in control here," he finishes. "don't forget that."
you sit in the weight, letting it sink in. "okay."
that's it. katsuki knows. you know that he knows. it's okay.
katsuki reaches for his pen, tapping the page once like a period at the end of a sentence. "good, now back to the problem." he leans a bit closer to write on the page. "you were overthinking this part."
and just like that, he moves on. not because it didn't metter, but because the line down the page has already been drawn, and he trusts you to decide what happens next.
you finish packing in silence.
paper stacked. laptop shut. pen slid back into its case with a little more care than necessary. the room feels different now — not tense, just… aware. like everything has shifted half an inch to the left and you’re still adjusting your footing.
katsuki is already standing when you sling your bag over your shoulder. he gathers his things efficiently, like he always does. no hesitation. no rush.
you almost let it go.
almost.
“bakugo,” you say.
he pauses, hand resting on the zipper of his bag. looks at you. patient. expectant.
the question burns on your tongue. you hate that it does. hate that your heart starts beating faster like this matters more than it should.
“…have you,” you start, then stop. swallow. try again.
“have you watched them?”
the room goes very still.
katsuki doesn’t react right away.
he doesn’t look away either.
katsuki exhales through his nose. not annoyed. not embarrassed. just… caught between answers.
“yeah,” he says.
you swallow. “why?”
he doesn’t dodge it, but you can tell the confrontation hits him.
“because i was curious,” he replies. “and because it didn’t stay that way.”
your heart kicks harder.
“you’re asking if i watched for work reasons,” he continues, tone flat. “or because it did something for me.”
you nod. barely.
his jaw tightens. “the second one.”
it lands heavier than anything else he’s said today.
you don’t look away. neither does he.
“i’m not gonna dress it up,” katsuki adds. “i watched because it turned me on. i didn’t plan on that. didn’t think it through. but i’m not gonna lie about it.”
your chest feels hot. exposed. strangely steady.
“and?” you ask. “after that?”
katsuki threw you a look. “after that?” he looked away. “what...what do you think?” a pause.
"i don't want to assume..."
he gives you an annoyed look, huffing. "fuck, l/n, yes. i've jerked off to your videos. happy?"
“…you jerked off to my videos,” you say.
it comes out softer than you expect. not accusing. not shocked. more like you’re testing how the words sound in the room.
katsuki doesn’t flinch.
“yeah,” he replies. simple. grounded. like he’s already done pretending that part didn’t exist.
you blink once. then a quiet laugh slips out of you before you can stop it.
“wow. um, oh wow! haha, i-" you can't believe what you're hearing. “okay.”
that makes his brow crease. not offended, just recalibrating.
“that wasn’t the reaction i was expecting,” he says.
“what were you expecting?” you ask, genuinely curious.
“don’t know,” he shrugs. “not… that., maybe mad?”
you tilt your head, studying him. there’s something strange about how calm he is. how honest. how this doesn’t feel like a confession so much as information being placed on the table.
“i guess i just needed to hear it out loud,” you say. “it’s different when it’s not… implied. i've been going crazy these past few days.”
he hums. “fair.”
there’s a beat.
then you add, carefully, “and you’re not, like… weird about it?”
his eyes flick back to yours.
“i wouldn’t have said anything if i was,” he says. “and i wouldn’t be standing here if i thought this was gonna turn into a mess.”
that lands.
“…so,” you say, dragging the word out a little. your fingers find themselves at the hem of your top. “you know...you watch. you jerk off. to me. i mean to petalvoid, not really me...”
his jaw tightens, but not in discomfort. more like awareness.
“still you, but yeah.”
you take a breath. let it settle in your chest. katsuki bakugo, your crush since high-school, the same boy who rejected you, jerked off to your videos.
"...i don’t hate that,” you admit, deciding to go full with it.
that gets his full attention.
you rush on before he can interrupt. “i’m not saying i planned for that. or that it has to mean anything. i just—” you gesture vaguely between the two of you. “it doesn’t freak me out.”
katsuki studies you in silence. long enough that you start to second-guess yourself.
“okay,” he says finally.
just okay. but there’s weight behind it, and it just comes out.
"i don't want to like, be weird or anything, like maybe i'm reading this totally wrong, but like now that you know..." you backtrack immediately. "nevermind! nevermind, sorry i don't know what i was thinking."
"you asking if we can fuck?" katsuki said openly. there's a willingness in his tone.
you don't reply instantly, weighing in on the actual reality of the conversation, but there's a heat down there.
"...what would you get out of it?"
katsuki paused, pondering, but you can tell there's a big thought behind it. this time, he just chooses not to say it. "stress-relief."
"true..."
“then let’s be clear,” he continues. “because if this goes anywhere, it doesn’t get sloppy.”
you nod. immediately, too fast. “i mean...yeah, okay.”
“no assumptions,” he says. “no entitlement. if you say stop, it stops.”
“same goes for you,” you reply, words spilling like a conscious decision.
his mouth quirks, not quite a smile. “yeah.”
another pause. heavier now. charged in a way that has nothing to do with the room and everything to do with the honesty sitting between you.
“…so this would be,” you say slowly, “friends with benefits. if it happens.”
“if,” he echoes. deliberate.
you meet his gaze. “if.”
he nods once. decisive. “then we talk about it before anything actually happens.”
you feel your chest warm.
“yeah,” you say. “i’d like that, cause you know...yeah.” your words trail off, empty and open for interpretation. but what you really wanted to say what that this is honestly a dream come true, but i'm a bit scared that i'll get too attached and maybe we'll be stuck as fuck-buddies.
katsuki grabs his bag, slinging it over his shoulder, but he doesn’t move toward the door yet.
“good,” he says. “then we’re on the same page.”
he finally turns to leave, hand on the handle.
“and for the record,” he adds, not looking back, “you didn’t imagine it. your videos are hot.”
you can see the tips of his ear brighten. the door clicks shut behind him.
you stand there for a second, heart beating a little faster, not because he said it.
but because now, it’s a conversation. not a secret. not something you'll carry alone, but a part of you that now shares itself with katsuki bakugo.
