kissing tamaki while he's in his hero costume.... gripping the draping fabric of his cape and using it to pull him even closer to you. the hood is so big that it covers part of your face too, disappearing behind it as you push into him, desperate to keep him.
this is your ploy to make him forget about leaving for the day; wishing he could just stay with you instead. and he wants to forget, to remain in your arms until the end of time, but he can't. he has a job to do, after all, and protecting everyone also means protecting you.
he pulls away, the covering over his face fogged ever so slightly. a hand caresses your cheek, and his thumb grazes your bottom lip as he touches his forehead to yours. he tells you that he needs to leave and gives you one final, gentle kiss to your lips before you can protest. dark blue eyes hold your gaze for as long as possible, and with one last 'i love you', the door clicks shut behind him.
mha boys react ── .✦ your child asking about you after you've passed
characters included — i. midoriya, k. bakugou, s. todoroki, e. kirishima, d. kaminari
cw — mentions of death and grief
i. midoriya
izuku’s lying quietly in bed, a photobook sat across his lap displaying old memories nearly forgotten by most, when your daughter pads into the silent room, your old blanket dragging behind her tiny frame. it’s far too late for a child her age to still be up, but izuku tries to stay understanding. “hey bug, what’s up?” he asks softly, sitting up straight as she climbs into the bed and settles at his side.
“...i miss mommy” his throat tightens at the words. tears prickle at the corners of his eyes but he quickly blinks them away, shrouding your daughter with his arms.
“i know…” his voice comes out unsteady and hardly above a whisper despite his best efforts to stifle the uprising emotions. she stares at an old wedding photo with the two of you for a moment too long, tracing your outline with a fingertip. you're laughing and dancing around with izuku’s hands in your own, the sun illuminating your frame in a way that makes you seem almost angelic. izuku stares as well, a lone tear sliding down his cheek before he wipes it away.
“when is she coming home?” she asks, voice small and quivering as she glances to izuku whos struggling to push it down for any longer. he opens his mouth once to speak but chokes up, instead pulling her in to press a teary kiss into her hair.
“she isn’t, baby.”
“...ever?”
he pulls back to nod slowly, tears now streaming uncontrollably “...no”
she stares at the picture a moment longer, bottom lip trembling. “what if i forget her?”
he pauses for a second, breath hitching almost painfully. "you won't," he whispers, tugging your daughter into his chest as quiet sobs shake through him. "i'll make sure you don't"
k. bakugou
katsukis in the middle of preparing dinner for the both of them when his son comes strolling up behind him, quiet as a mouse. he reaches a small hand to katsuki and tugs at the fabric of his pants to get his attention. katsuki clicks his tongue on instinct, grumbling, "i'm in the middle of dinner kid, what d'you need?" his scowl drops the instant he flips his head back to see your son hugging your old hoodie tight to his little chest, big eyes teary as they gaze up to him.
"oh..." katsuki lets out a quiet, almost devastated sigh. the pans bubbling on the stove behind him now say forgotten as he kneels down to your sons level, fingers toying with the fabric of the clothing. "where'd you find this...?" he asks, voice so soft it hardly resembles himself anymore.
"mommy left it in my room..." he explains quietly, pressing it tighter to himself with a small sniffle. "it doesn't smell like her anymore..." katsukis heart sinks to his stomach. "i miss mommy"
"i know," he whispers, bringing a hand to rest at his shoulder
your son lets out a small sob that racks through his tiny body painfully as he mumbles, "i don't wanna forget her."
a trembling hand smoothes over his face as katsuki struggles to hold it together, stay strong for the one person it matters most to, "shit—you won't kid," he mutters, voice trembling and weak. katsuki tugs his small frame tight into his big arms, a single tear rolling down his cheek now that your son can't see it anymore. "i won't let us."
from then on, nearly every bedtime story is about you. about the little things you loved, the way you laughed, the memories you left behind, and the mark you made that time could never erase. katsuki held a deep resentment toward fate for taking the best thing that had ever happened to him, and he'd be damned if he let it take your memory too.
s. todoroki
it was the weekend, so your daughter was off from school. she’d decided to spend the day looking around at old relics in the crawl space—old craft projects from preschool, shoto’s school photos from U.A., other small memories packed away neatly in little boxes. one in particular, though, caught her attention. a dusty hard drive hidden within a tiny box, labeled only with your name in sharpie. she brought it to shoto instantly.
shoto’s busying himself with stacks of paper work in his office when she finds him, head down and focus entirely engulfed in whatever he’s working on. he hardly would’ve noticed her presence if it weren’t for her quickly taping on his forearm to draw his attention. “dad? i found this in the crawl space…” she mumbles, displaying the little, black drive on her open palm. shoto takes it into his hands silently, studying the outside. “...what is it?”
“i…don’t remember…” he breathes, eyes watering just barely when he spots your name. “y/n…” he reads aloud, though under his breath so she wouldn’t hear. the name now sounds foreign, it doesn’t roll off his tongue the way it once did years ago. that fact alone makes his heart ache painfully. “why don’t we find out?” he speaks steadily, scooting his chair back a bit so your daughter can sit comfortably on his lap.
shoto pulls out his laptop and plugs the hard drive in, breath hitching when the first video begins to play. its a video of you and your daughter that shoto took when she was younger, maybe six or so, playing and dancing in the lush grass of your backyard. your laughter and your daughter's weave together into a sound so warm it almost hurts to hear now. it was filmed on the old camera shoto always insisted on keeping, no matter how many times you teased him that a pro hero could afford an upgrade. now, the grainy footage feels less like a video and more like a memory seen through his own eyes.
the video ends abruptly. “...can we watch it again?” she asks, voice meek and trembling. they do. over and over. around the fourth rewatch, she whispers again, “i don’t remember her voice unless i hear videos.” that nearly kills him. he cracks, a warm tear running down his scarred cheek before he quickly swipes it away. he wraps an arm around her small frame and pulls her tightly in.
“i know, dear, i know…” he reassures her, threading his fingers gently through her hair as he presses a kiss to her forehead. “that’s why we keep them.” they spend the rest of the evening watching old videos of you together—little snapshots of the life you built as a family before it was torn away from them far too soon. it feels unbearably unfair. but grief rarely asks whether you're ready for it, and life has never been gentle enough to spare the people who deserve it most.
e. kirishima
eijirou’s standing patiently at the porch when your son’s bus stops just nearby, a hoard of rowdy children flooding out the doors the second they’re able. he watches for your daughter to come on running home like she usually does, but something's off this time. on a typical day, she’d come bounding towards eijirou at lightening speed, rambling on excitedly about her day before they even set foot into the house. today, she walks with a slump in her tiny shoulders, holding a piece of construction paper tight to her chest as she trudges home.
eijirou walks to the end of the driveway to meet her as quick as he can, kneeling to her level and placing his large hands sympathetically over her shoulders. “hey, hey, what happened, princess?” he asks, voice drenched in an utter concern. peeking down to get a better look at her face, he suddenly notices long tear stains streaking down her puffy cheeks, a small pout across her quivering lips.
“e-everyone made mothers day cards today…” she sniffles, tiny hands crinkling the paper she holds flush against her chest. she glances up to meet eijirou’s gaze with tear-filled eyes, red and puffy from crying. he nods softly, bringing a thumb to her cheek to swipe the tears away as she continues. “i-i made one too.” she pitifully takes both hands and holds the card she was clutching to her chest to eijirou, the paper shaking in her grasp.
he takes it gently into his own shaken fingertips, instantly tearing up the second he gets a good look at the card. little, bright pink hearts are littered across the entire page, surrounding a stick-figure family portrait dead center that features you, her, and eijirou standing hand in hand. she decorated it messily with all sorts of bright colors and childish drawings, filling the page with so much life that it almost hurt to look at under the circumstances.
flipping the card to see the backside if what really destroys him. its a sincere note, dedicated to you. her shaky handwriting and misspelled words read: thank you for being the best mommy ever. me and daddy miss you a lot. please come home soon mommy. a heartbroken sob escaped eijirou before he could stifle it, instantly bringing a hand to cover his mouth.
“i wanted to give it to her like the other kids,” she sniffles, rubbing a fist over her teary eyes. “but i couldn’t.”
eijirou sniffles and holds back another sob with every last ounce of strength he has left in his body. he genly takes her small hands into his own, enveloping them completely as he shakes. “she would love this, baby.” he pauses momentarily as the words catch painfully, somewhere between his throat and heart. “it’s beautiful.”
she looks back up to eijirou, face brightening instantly despite the slight, persisting quiver of her bottom lip. “really?” he nods with certainty, giving her a small shaky smile. “...can we keep it?”
“of course we can,” he pulls her into a big, bear hug with the words, one hand cupping the back of her head as his fingers thread gently through her hair. once they get inside, he places the heartfelt card right next to your photo above the fireplace, an everlasting reminder of what could’ve been.
d. kaminari
it was a particularly rainy day, the kind you always used to love. the rain thudded rhythmically against the windows and pooled into small, muddy puddles all around your house. the air held an aroma that felt fresh and new, familiar even. dancing out in the pouring rain was always your favourite pastime in dreary weather like this, in which denki and your daughter would every time without fail join you. lighthearted memories like that held a different weight after your passing, one that turned them almost sour in your absence.
denki seemed to miss you far more on days like these.
he found himself curled up on the couch with a photo album in hand, flipping through the countless pages of nearly forgotten memories and distant times where “family” meant something a little less bitter. even the simple act of looking over the once joyful photos felt like driving a stake straight through his heart, reminiscing on a life never to be.
your daughter found him there after a few minutes and hopped up to cuddle right at his side. she enjoyed looking over old photos of you, it made the pain just a little more bearable to know there was a time with her present.
denki flipped through the pages with her, thoroughly explaining each and every one in dramatic detail, sound effects and all. that was until he came across the one from your wedding day. you stood, wrapped in each other's arms during the first dance. your princess-like dress trailed on the tile behind you, hair done perfectly and falling gracefully over your shoulders like some kind of angel. your eyes were closed, caught mid-laugh, but denki’s seemed glued solely to you. they always were. maybe they always will be.
“she looked beautiful…” she whispers, tilting her head to rest carefully on denki’s shoulder. his breath hitches painfully, tears stinging at his eyes.
“yeah…” he says shakily, biting down on his bottom lip in a half-assed attempt to stifle his sobs. “she always was.”
there’s a long moment of silence, the two staring down mournfully at the candid photo. he forgets to even flip the page for five minutes straight before your daughter’s voice suddenly knocks him out of the haze. “dad?” she starts, turning her head to look directly at him now. he glances up with wide, teary eyes. “...what was mom’s favourite song?”
he chuckles for a second and pulls out his phone, sniffling as he says, “i have it somewhere in here, hold on…” denki closes the album and places it gently to the floor beside him, scrolling through a playlist titled “y/n <3” til he reaches what he’s looking for. he stands and offers out his hands to your daughter as soon as the song starts playing. “c’mon,” he persuades with a dopey grin, laughing and dancing all around the living room the second she complies.
they dance together to all of your favourite songs for nearly thirty minutes straight, laughter mingling sweetly with the neverending downpour of rain. and even in the carefree moment, denki can’t help but imagine you there with them, dancing and laughing how you always loved. maybe in another life, you were. maybe in another life, you lived.
ou guys, this one hurt to write. i'm very happy with how it turned out, though !! angst is def one of my strong suits🥹🤞
He turns his head to the side to look at you with a raised brow. "My nose?"
"Mhm." You nod, eyes meeting his, then back to his nose.
You'd been admiring it for the last hour you've been lying together. He had been lost in thought, and you noticed the occasional scrunch of it. You loved the curve and shape of it. The way you can feel it whenever he's nuzzling into your neck. How it scrunches with his expressions and as he laughs. Even when he does that weird thing where he starts sniffing the air intensely for no apparent reason.
"It's adorable. I just wanna bite it." You reached out to boop the tip of it with your finger. "It makes you look so handsome. Ever noticed that?"
"Not sure that I have darling." He smiles. You could see the tips of his ears turning red. Leaning forward you kissed the tip of his nose, then nuzzled it with your own. He lets out a noise that sounded like a purr and responds with the same sentiment.
"Well now you know."
"Don't think I ever been complimented for my nose...." His hand, originally resting on your shoulder comes up to play with your hair. "Thanks, love..."
"That's a crime....But, I'm glad I get to be the first."
A bad day leads to drunken conversations with your friend Frank Langdon.
Author’s note: This hasn’t been proof read, wrote this to help with my bad day and satisfy a Frank Langdon craving. Enjoy the fluff <33
Can you guess what the text messages were?
Tags: @bees-library3 @kyrasworldd
You had, had a terrible day. You were emotionally and physically exhausted and yet you still went to the drinks in the park after work. Despite Frank subtly telling you not too, which made you wonder if he was jealous as Trinity had forbade him from coming.
But you didn’t press it, your friendship had only just started up again. 10 months was a long time and he had only occasionally texted you throughout. You could tell he was more nervous than he used to be, since his first day back you had provided him with subtle support and not wanting to overwhelm him, you never forced anything.
You rarely saw him after work anymore, since his last night out which neither of you could remember. There had always been something that blurred the lines of professionalism and friends, especially since his divorce.
When he sent you the text confirming it, you had stared at it for a few while before typing out a reply. You were unsure about the emotions that flew through your body but it definitely wasn’t anything sad and it made you feel guilty.
It had started out as a small work crush but once he had typed his number into your phone, it was more than that. You felt sad when he had stopped talking to you and you assumed your feelings had fizzled out but the moment his name highlighted on your screen, nothing could had stopped the feelings that emerged.
You had tried to date other people, heck you even slept with a few but everything lead back to your friend and boss Frank Langdon.
And slowly but surely, the awkward few weeks disappeared, you had fallen back into your familiar pattern with him at work that sometimes poured onto outside of work. Hiding your feelings in the comments and teasing between patients, neither of you wanting to press it any further.
“I’ll be fine, Frankie.” You smiled at him as he tightened the straps of his bag.
Those beautiful tired eyes staring back at you, a concerned expression on his face. The blue and yellow hoodie hiding his filthy scrubs, he couldn’t argue with you at work. You weren’t together so he didn’t have much of a say and you knew that nickname made him melt.
So he shrugged off his obvious thoughts and nodded, his hand simply brushing your shoulder as he began walking towards the exit. Hating to admit that you were surprised with his sudden dismissal, he did usually challenge you even if he had no right.
The flirty banter, the teasing, the witty comebacks, the obvious eye fucking throughout every shift was no longer lingering in the gaps.
Hurrying to catch up with his quick footsteps, ducking under his arm as he opened the door. A twitch of a smile on his face as he watched you wriggle your body from under him.
“You okay” you breathed into the hallway, softer footsteps side by side as neither of you wanted to leave.
“Im just tired, another early start tomorrow” he shrugged, his eyes holding your gaze for a minute longer than necessary.
“Yeah me too, what a day” you sighed, a small laugh escaping your lungs. Standing shoulder to shoulder.
The cool night air hitting your cheeks as the exit to the ER was behind you, the busy traffic, the familiar wail of sirens but all you could think about was how close Frank’s fingers were to yours.
“Tomorrow will be just the same, so get some rest. Need my favourite resident feeling their best” he smiled reassuringly, a twinkle of something in his eye.
You were glad for the shadows against the harsh yellow light of the street, for your cheeks were violently flushed at his comment. You could have sworn his fingers touched yours after he spoke but you were surely dreaming. Right?
Smiling up at him, taking one last look of him before you positioned yourself to go the opposite direction.
“Good night, Frankie” you breathlessly exhaled, not wanting to turn away.
Something felt different tonight, rawer with no teasing comment to end the day. You were left wondering as you turned on your heel, the brush of his hands still lingered on your body. Turning your head to look back at him, you noticed that he had just turned his head forward.
Was he looking at you too?
Trying not to think about it, you pulled out your phone. Double checking the group chat, everything appeared to be in full swing at the park. With a scattering of photos, Whitaker laughing with Trinity and an anxious looking Javadi in the background.
Laughing to yourself, you felt yourself shift away from the tension of Langdon as you walked closer to the park. The cars whizzed passed you, people stumbling on the pavement as you held onto your bag.
You could hear the group before you saw them, taking a heavy inhale before stepping across the road. You were going to be in for a long night.
A few hours had passed since you were stood with Langdon, the beer cans had piled into the cooler they originated from. You had joined in the festivities, a few of the older members had long gone home. Leaving Whitaker, Mateo, Trinity, Mel, Javadi and you sat together on the cold benches with little to drink and a mind full of thoughts.
“So, did anyone notice Langdon slink off earlier in the shift?” Trinity spoke into the silence, her hatred oozed off her tongue.
Your stomach twanged at the mention of his name, especially in the context of such malice. Whitaker and Javadi separately met your eye, a smirk tugging at Whitaker’s lips.
“I think we should go to a bar” you blurted out, hoping that it served its purpose.
It worked, no one else continued Trinity’s obvious dig at Langdon and the discussion started on where to go. As the rest of the group charged ahead, the sounds of trinity and Whitaker bouncing off each other enthusiastically in front, you lingered behind with Javadi.
You were tipsy as you tripped on a crack in the concrete, forcing yourself to clutch into her for support. Her awkward laugh as she helped you regain balance, the amount of alcohol between you all was enough to start your own brewery.
“So, I noticed that you and Langdon have become close” her voice was low, not wanting to attack attention from the rest of the group.
Eyes snapping up, scanning her face as you felt your heart pound in your ears. Had someone noticed?
“Well, yeah we are friends” you huffed, hoping to hide your true feelings.
Unfortunately, you were shit at lying whilst drunk. Emotions written across your face, the excitement in your eyes at the mention of him.
“Sure you are, and im not working in emergency psychiatry” she laughed rather harshly, pulling on your arm.
Letting the group charge ahead, she stared at you. The alcohol sticky on her lips, the interest in her eyes.
“I’ll make you a bet, if you send Langdon a text and he doesn’t reply. I’ll have to ask Mateo for a drink” her eyes flickered ahead towards his figure. Her voice shook slightly.
Sighing heavily, you knew that Javadi had fancied Mateo for a while now and there was no obvious first date in sight but she was friend and she had listened to you ramble on subtly about Frank since his arrival back. Yet this felt scary, it felt real.
You were happy to border on the what ifs whilst at work and replay each comment in the comfort of your shared apartment but texting him whilst drunk was bound to be a disaster. Yet, you could never back down from a deal.
“Deal” you grinned, the alcohol coursing through your bones as the sound of the group yelling at you both made you run.
Excitement and nerves flowed through you about the night ahead. The bar was crowded for a Friday night, drinks were ordered as the live band began to play. The crowd enthusiastically joined in, your back pressed into the bar as you stood next to Javadi.
The night continued, shot after shot was downed. Words were slurred, lyrics were shouted and you danced until Javadi pulled you aside. The mention of the deal made your heart thump, you had secretly hoped that she had forgotten but her eyes showed no sign of backing down.
“A deal is a deal” she shouted into your ear over the loud music.
“Okay, okay fine. But what do I say?” You asked pathetically, as if she had more experience text than you.
Rolling her eyes and tutting, she grabbed hold of your wrist and pulled you in the direction of the toilets. The vibration of the music disappeared as the door closed behind you both, your eardrums settled at the noise change and you whipped out your phone.
Your last message to Frank was bright as Javadi snatched it out your hands with such force, her fingers moving quickly as she typed. You tried to peer over to view what she was saying but she moved away until it was thrusted back into your hands.
In text bar was something only a drunk person would have written, your cheeks flushed red as your fingers hovered over the send button. Anxious to actually go through with it, feeling rather stupid about this but the swift sound of the message being sent startled you.
And there it was, a drunk text from you to Frank Langdon. Something you had never dared to do before, the message was about to blur the lines even more and it made you nervous.
“Cheer up, he might not reply and you can blame it on me if it all goes wrong” she said rather bluntly, her slight reassurance didn’t last long before you were pulled back out into the bar.
Music filling your ears as you were once again surrounded by the sweaty and excited crowd, your friend group had just ordered another round but all you could think of was that sent message.
You tried to enjoy the rest of the night, your phone sat uncomfortably in your pocket as you were pulled to dance until your feet began to ache and the urge to check your phone was overwhelming. The rest of the group continued to dance and drink as you lingered in the corner, staring down at the unread message on your lock screen.
Heartbeat drumming loudly against your chest, your thumb pausing to open it. Taking a heavy inhale and one last glance at the dance floor, anxiety filling your chest as you swiped the message up.
Trying to hide your relief and the smirk that was tugging at the corner of your lips at his reply, the glee that cursed through your bones was worrying but you couldn’t help it.
Your mind briefly wondered to Javadi, feeling rather sorry for her as her chance to ask Mateo out wasn’t on the cards but you had a feeling she knew Frank would reply. Even if you didn’t.
You were startled by the sound of your group nearing in on you, the mention of going home flew over your head as your fingers typed at the text bar before removing it. Feeling too eager to reply so soon after, you made plans with your flatmates to order a taxi.
Everyone clambered into the taxi outside the bar, your phone thrusted aggressively into your pocket as you felt yourself be squished into the side of the car. Focusing very hard not to be sick inside it as the driver served in and out of traffic, stopping and starting, the various goodbyes until it left you and Javadi.
Your keys hitting everything but the keyhole as you both shivered on the doorstep, her whining for you to hurry up until you both fell through the door. Disappearing into your seperate bedrooms with promise to discuss it in the morning.
As you collapsed onto the bed with a sigh, reminiscing on the night that had passed. Your bad day had turned into a somewhat good night. Eyes fluttered as tiredness sinked into your bones but you weren’t able to find sleep.
The ring tone loudly filled your ears before the familiar voice vibrated against the speaker of your phone, gasping in shock you scrambled to find your phone.
“How’s my favourite resident?”
“Im so sorry, an accident” you gasped, your phone hot against your ear.
“Hmm, is okay. you have a good time” his voice was raspy and sleepy.
You felt guilty that you had clearly woken him up.
“It was okay” you sighed, your eyes fluttered closed.
“Well, Im disappointed. I would have been able to let you get away with being hungover if the night was good” he said with a soft sigh, a rustle as you heard him move.
“Really? Don’t wanna disappoint you Frankie, will go to sleep right now” you mumbled into the speaker, your voice slightly whiny.
You heard his breath shudder slightly before he exhaled heavily,
“Fuck, don’t call me that. I take all the disappointment back” his voice was softer and quieter as he spoke.
“Why, you don’t like it?” You teased slightly, tiredness was seeping into your veins making everything much harder.
“Quite the opposite actually so you can’t call me it okay? and im not disappointed in you. I want you to have a good night, makes the lack of sleep worth it” he sighed, something lingered in his voice as the phone went silent.
“Maybe I’ll say it even more, for the fun of it.” You teased, your voice straining slightly.
“You feeling better than when I saw you last?” Changing the subject, his voice was quiet and filled with concern.
“Much better now, mm sorry for texting you though” you sighed, the guilt of keeping him awake was killing you.
“Don’t apologise, it was cute” he chuckled, the sound making your chest flutter.
Cute? You weren’t sure how you felt about that compliment, didn’t friends only say that to each other?
“Yeah right, I should let you sleep” embarrassment burnt your cheeks as you lied there.
“Stay on the phone a little longer” he whispered, slight pleading in his voice. Not speaking louder as if he was afraid it might come back and bite him.
You couldn’t say no to his voice when it sounded like that and so you didn’t hang up, silencing filling the air for a while. The faint sounds of both of your breathing, there was never any urgency to fill the gap when you were with him.
“I’m going to feel rough in the morning” you laughed, breaking the silence after a while.
“Don’t worry, I’ll look after you” the words slipped out of his mouth before he could stop them.
Both of you freezing, your breath hitched as the words floated around your mind. The flutter in your chest grew bigger with every word, this things that weren’t said were sharp as you heard him exhale. You were never allowed to express more than a flirting joke or a glance at work but here, in different rooms with only the phone as evidence.
It felt somewhat safe, the early hours of the morning creeping in through the faint gaps of your curtains. Every sense of professionalism or friendship would not be found here.
“Thank you Frankie, makes me excited to go to work” you mumbled, a lazy sleepy smile on your face.
“Doesn’t it already excite you?” He teased, a yawn slipped between his lips.
“Ask me again tomorrow but for now, I need you to sleep” you yawned contiguously, missing his response between it.
“You want your favourite resident to be rested don’t you? Well I want my favourite doctor to be the same” you flirted sleepily, yawning once more.
“Good night sweetheart” he whispered, his voice raspy and deep. Filling up the speaker as you smiled.
“Good night Frankie” you sighed, biting your lip to avoid crossing anymore lines.
As the phone beeped the call away, leaving you alone in your room. Your mind buzzing with the memory of his words and his voice, you knew you were fucked and that maybe it was more than a crush.
So much for not crossing the line.
You went to bed that night with mixed emotions, the anxiety of seeing Frank was overwhelming but the excitement was even worse. You had no idea where to go from here and hoped that he would.
Reblogs and feedback are much appreciated. Thank you for supporting me <3
"You know," Denki mumbles for what has to be the fifth time in the last ten minutes, his voice muffled where his face is tucked into the crook of your neck, "it's actually against the law to make the birthday boy let go of his fiancée." His arms tighten around your waist before you can even pretend to wiggle free, all warm limbs and lazy affection despite the sun having long since climbed through the apartment windows. The media would never believe that the same Pro Hero Chargebolt, who confidently stood before cameras and coordinated rescue operations with startling precision, spent his birthdays acting like an oversized house cat. You laugh, reaching back to rake your fingers through the soft blond strands sticking up every which way. "I'm literally just trying to make you breakfast." "I don't want breakfast." He pauses just long enough to press a sleepy kiss beneath your ear. "I want... this." "You're impossible." "I'm the birthday boy," he says, entirely too pleased with himself. "It's my legal right to be unbearable today." His grin brushes against your skin, and somehow, impossibly, he still manages to sound proud when he adds, "Besides, you said yes to marrying me. This is kind of on you."
"You've been staring at me," you point out later, setting a mug in front of him as he sits at the kitchen counter, chin propped in both hands. "I have." "It's a little creepy." "It's incredibly romantic." He doesn't even blink before answering, watching you wander around the kitchen with the same soft smile he's worn all morning. Every now and then, your eyes catch his, only to find him exactly where you'd left him—completely, unapologetically smitten. "You're making coffee like it's the most fascinating thing in the world." "It is when you're making it." "Denki." "What?" He shrugs with exaggerated innocence. "I'm appreciating my fiancée. You should be grateful I'm not writing poetry." You snort. "Oh? You write poetry now?" "No." He reaches for your wrist the moment you're close enough, gently tugging you between his knees until you're standing right in front of him. "That's why I'm staring instead. Much lower chance of embarrassing myself." He tips his forehead against yours, eyes fluttering closed for a brief second. "Also..." A sheepish smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. "I kinda missed you while you were over there." You glance back toward the coffee machine, barely three steps away, before looking at him again. "...It took me forty-five seconds." "Longest forty-five seconds of my life."
By the time evening settles over the city, his phone has finally stopped buzzing with birthday messages from friends, coworkers, and agencies wanting just five minutes of the Number Whatever Hero's time. It's forgotten on the coffee table now, buried beneath wrapping paper and ribbon, while the two of you sit curled together on the balcony with nowhere else to be. Denki traces absent-minded circles over the back of your hand, quieter than he'd been all day, his usual chatter replaced by the comfortable silence he only ever seemed to share with you. "Can I tell you something?" he asks eventually. "Always." He hums, squeezing your fingers once. "Birthdays used to be about seeing who remembered." His smile is small, almost shy as he glances over at you. "Now I just... keep thinking how lucky I am that every single one ends with you beside me." You don't answer right away. Instead, you lean over and kiss his temple, lingering just long enough to feel him melt against you. "Happy birthday, Denki." He lets out the happiest little laugh, wrapping both arms around you again before resting his chin on your shoulder. "Best one yet," he murmurs. "But next year?" You raise an eyebrow. "I'm requesting even more cuddles." "More?" "Mm-hm." He grins. "I'm a growing hero. I have growing emotional needs."
just thinking about the relationship you'd have with langdon's kids while you're dating him...
at first you're cautious when you meet them because you're scared they'll hate you; not to mention, it's likely hard on them for their father to be with someone that's not their mom. i was thinking about them starting to miss you when you were working or at home while frank has them after a while. like frank facetiming you after they beg to see you. i imagine they'd make you your own version of his bracelet. and he would love for all of you to go out. it makes him so happy to see you out with his kids especially after struggling with addiction and everything with abby. i can seem him having so many pictures of you with penny and tannerrr
⋆˚࿔ reader is 29 + Robby's younger sister who works as a surgeon and has worked at the Pitt before. Included phone call transcript between reader, Langdon + Walsh - make sure to read every part before so it makes sense. also gonna start posting every part at 5pm BST !
prev - next
call - answered
Frank: Y/n? Are you okay?
Y/n: Frankieeee! Yeah, yeah i’m [hiccup] i’m okay. What are- what are you doing?
Frank: Y/n I- I can barely hear you.[trying to turn his phone up louder] Where are you?
Y/n: Im with Yoyo and Em at the club, did you not see?
Frank: No I- I didn’t. [pause] Why are you out clubbing on a thursday?
Y/n: [laughs] Because of you, idiot.
Frank: What do you mean because of me? You didn’t even ask me if I wanted to come. [confused tone]
Y/n: Yeah because [hiccup] you- you got mad at me over Samira.
Frank: [sighing softly as he pinches the bridge of his nose] For a valid reason.
Y/n: But I really like you, Frank. I don’t care what anybody else thinks [laughs] - dicks too good to let go.
Emery: Y/n!! [bangs on the door]
Y/n: [whispers] uh-oh, I’ve been caught.
Emery: Y/n, cmon!! You’re not spending the whole night in the toilets.
Y/n: [shouts back] Give me a sec! [groans + whispers again] Can you come pick me up?
Frank: Sweetheart, you’re with your friends. Have fun.
Y/n: [whines quietly] But I want to see you. [sits up and unlocks the door for Emery with a sigh]
Frank: You can come see me tomorrow, okay?
Emery: Is that frank? [nods towards the phone + takes it out of your hand, ignoring your pleas to give it back]. If she’s asked to be picked up, don’t let her do something stupid Langdon. She’s fine with us.
TAGS- fluff! lots of making out! no smut but implied! lovey dovey frank! foreplay! fem! reader! frank has kids in this but no abby! both of you are jusy horny for eachother really! a blurb! this is barely proof read and written at 3am so soz :p !
frank and you clambered onto the cemented porch of his townhouse, lips devouring eachother in a frantic rush. his lips barely leaving yours as he punched in the door code. it buzzed repeatedly. signalling it was an error each time.
“can’t believe im being cockblocked by my own door right now.” he mumbled out, his lips finally separating from yours, but yours continued to trail down his neck, his 5 o’clock shadow tickling against the soft plush of your lips.
your hands slipped underneath the button up, the collar bunched up and the top three buttons undone, showing off his chest hair.
he had looked delicious tonight, sporting a off white blouse, and dark wash denim jeans, accessorized with his bracelets that was made by his kids. he once tried to remove it for a date, feeling like it ruined the look but you dismissed it, saying it made him more sweeter. it showed a part of who he is, and you adored him for it.
once frank succeeded, he wrapped his arms around your waist, hoisting your legs up to envelop his middle. you squealed a bit as you felt his big hands go to your ass, supporting you.
your lips connected once again, the hunger increasing as the champagne and arousal worked hand in hand, making you guys dizzy, increasing your heartbeat as you felt frank subconsciously make his way to his bedroom.
“fuck, baby you look good tonight.” frank mumbled against your lips, setting you down at the foot of his bed. the two of you broke apart for a moment to catch your breath.
the view that was bestowed upon you, was beautiful.
his hair that was meticulously gelled to the right spot, was now tussled from your roaming hands. his lips and chin were stained pink from your carefully applied lipstick. his eyes were half lidded and his chest heaved from the lack of air.
“i need you.” you nearly growled out, feral and hungry for your boyfriend, muttering for him to strip off his top but your hands beat you to it. frank smirked before his lips crashed onto yours again, unzipping your dress. his fingertips trailed along the curve of your spine, before travelling up to the nape of your neck, fisting your hair at the scalp.
you quickly flip the two of you, pushing a now shirtless frank on the bed, capturing a quiet yelp from him.
“someone’s real eager tonight?” frank taunted, smiling at you, his breath hitching as he watched your lingerie clad body crawl towards him. your breasts brushed against his chest as you enveloped his mouth in a deep and sloppy kiss.
your lips takes a field trip, placing wet kisses along his body. his neck, his collarbone, his sternum, his abdomen.
you reach to the cool metal of his belt buckle, your fingers prying away at it like it was an safe, slowly revealing to the hidden treasure.
frank’s head was leaned back on his pillow, feeling your hands and mouth explore his body before he felt an stillness.
“what’s wrong baby?-” he picked up his head, craning his neck to find you looking at his pelvis, an smile growing on your face. he felt your fingertips trace over his zipper, looking down to see the green embroidered letters, strung to say lucky you.
“lucky me?” you questioned, cocking your head to the side, which was returned by frank giving you his best ‘i’m very impressed with myself right now’ smile.
“you read that right. lucky you.”
“just when i thought you couldn’t be any more cockier, you just had to buy pants to say it for you?”
“what can i say?”
“you’re so lucky this turns me on.” you smiled, wrapping your fingers around the waistband of his pants and boxers, yanking it off.
Holding you extra tight when you sleep at night. Her kisses only get deeper the longer you're interlocked.
She's tired of dealing with the rest of the idiots in the mansion, tired of the constant ticking. Tired of the bullshit. You're pure, untainted by her cynicism. You embrace her and all of her quirks. No judgement, you just love her for all that she is.
This only motivates her to love you harder.
Possess all of you, so you'd never look at anyone else and leave her behind. Spending your time with someone else? That was probably her current worst nightmare. You still don't mind, how could you hate her dominance? That possession is what you've always wanted.
Someone (probably Jeff) would make some obscene comment and Natalie wouldn't hesitate to threaten their life. Catching someone staring for too long and she's holding their gaze with a firm glare. "C'mon." She'd simply guide you away, someplace private.
Her favorite spots to take you were mostly secluded parts of the woods, but she'd always love you in her bed.
Tangled in the sheets, flipping through some book.
It gave her time to watch you, trace the lines of your body, kiss your skin just to distract you. That sweet huff you'd make before pouting, "Nat, I'm trying to read." She would smile, tossing the book to her nightstand before rolling to her back and pulling you on top of her.
You made her feel like she had all the time in the world.
Soft, sweet kisses. Your hands placed so sweetly on her chest, trying to keep yourself supported while each peck got more desperate. Hungrier for more of her sweet girl.
Her hands held tight on your hips, grinding up against your seat on her lap. Smirking at your innocent expression. "You wanna?" She would offer, and of course you'd agree. Your shyness only went so far, you always gave into Natalie's wants.
Next thing you know, she's buried between your thighs. Taking her time kissing at the plush of your inner thighs, an occasional bite or nip while she watched your expression. Your clenched fists trying to cover your mouth failed to muffle the sweet whines and mewls that escaped. Her smile widening with each twitch, each lift of your hips that begged for her touch.
She wasn't cruel to her lover, Natalie loved this near-selfish need of yours.
Planting a kiss over your clit, her tongue giving you a generous swipe up from your hole that begged for any ounce of attention. She watched you sink into the bliss of her old mattress while slipping two fingers inside easily. You were so used to her by now, she almost wondered how easy it'd be to strap you down and fuck you till you begged for mercy.
Natalie tried to shake the thought out of her head, needing to take care of you.
Lapping up every bit of your slick that dripped down your heat, her fingers hooked inside of you. It was amazing watching you try to keep down the moans that resulted, she would make sure you had no choice but to cry out for her.
When she speeds up her fingers pace, you whine louder. Thrashing into the bed, grasping tightly onto the sheets enough to pull a fitted corner free. Her mouth giving your clit all the attention it needed, her previously chapped lips now glistening with remnants of you. Your cunt pulsed around her, nearly crying with you when she pulled back to focus on finishing you off with just her two digits.
"C'mon, cum for me." She grins as you cry out her name, arching into her while she bounced you in place.
Only slowing down the harder you shook. The release ripping through you, holding her intense gaze while she watched you unravel.
The clock ticked, but all she wanted to hear was your voice begging her to come hold you. Your hands unlatched from the sheets, reaching out for her. Your chest rising and falling, lips parted.
Natalie just smirked.
"No, baby...I think we have time to play a little more, right?"
comment . . . HAPPY PRIDE. clockwork is lowkey my passion. she reminds me of my handsome butch husband so i needed to put this out before june ended. ive got 100 wips rn that im working on but i NEEDED to release this into the world. theres a serious lack of natalie out there and i felt like this was really necessary
any other updates....i have chapter 3 of caldonia finished, chapter 4's draft is in progress. i guess im just holding it back until i finished up a request that ive been working on. im getting slower the closer i get to my period so spare me pls im trying my best
mm my birthday is next week, so id also like to write something as a treat for myself, keep an eye outttt
Reader and Tim having a pretty young kid, like 2 or so, and Tim and reader use nicknames and pet names so often for one another, their kiddo always thought Tim's real name was "Honey" and thought readers real name was "My love"
So when reader yells out Tim's full name the kiddo is just sitting on the ground coloring and is like
Who tf is Timothy.....???
the epiphany
genre: oneshot
subgenre: fluff
pairing: tim wright “masky” x gn!reader
additional: tim and reader are parents and have a daughter together, tim’s nickname is “honey” and reader’s is “love”, mainly daughter’s pov, dialogue heavy
author’s note: i loved writing this!! it was so fun!! ^_^
the smell of homemade breakfast wafted through the air of the small cottage. bacon sizzled in the toaster oven, eggs fried on the stovetop, coffee brewed in the coffee pot. it was the familiar aroma of a lazy saturday morning.
in the living room, your daughter was laying on the soft rug, contentedly coloring away. her tongue stuck out as she focused on perfecting her masterpiece. she was so focused, in fact, that she hadn’t realized her father had returned home.
it was only the sound of his voice saying, “love, i’m home!” that pulled the young girl out of her trance.
she looked up curiously, only to be met with a large, warm hand ruffling her perfectly braided hair.
“hi, button. how’s the drawing going?” tim asked, carrying a bag full of groceries in his other hand.
the button in question giggled in delight. “going good, papa.” she lifted up the unfinished drawing to show him. “look! look! isn’t it pretty?”
the drawing consisted of three figures: you, tim, and your little button in the middle. a big, red heart was drawn around all of you.
tim’s heart swelled with affection.
he smiled fondly and smoothed down the girl’s hair. “better than picasso.”
she smiled proudly at the compliment. it was a compliment, right? she was better than this ‘picasso’ guy, whoever he was.
suddenly, your tender voice carried from the kitchen, “honey, can you come help me please?”
“sure, love. be right there.” was the response.
your little girl could listen to that familiar exchange all day. honey and love. her beloved parents.
“keep at it,” tim said, making his way towards the kitchen. “i wanna hang it on the fridge, okay?”
“okay!”
for a while, only the sound of her parents talking to one another was heard. a soft “here you go” here, a gentle “thank you” there. it was a memorable rhythm.
the girl was in the middle of making the final touches until —
“timothy wright!”
her crayon snapped.
your voice sounded… giggly, sweet. happy. as if you had just been tickled.
now, your button had heard a lot of names that her parents would call each other. obviously, there was honey and love, but those were their name-names! she had heard sweetheart, sugar, mouse, angel face, baby, sweet bottom… but never this!
who was this ‘timothy wright’?
your little girl was determined to find out.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
“hi. hi. hi. hi.”
your daughter was currently nudging your arm, insisting that you acknowledge her. you, on the other hand, were reading a book, glasses perched on the bridge of your nose.
finally, after the nth ‘hi’, you turned your head to glance down at your button, who stood patiently beside the nightstand.
“yes, button? what’s wrong?” your voice was exasperated in a fond, parental way.
“have a question.”
she took it upon herself to perch herself on your lap, just like a spoiled kitten would. well, there goes tonight’s reading.
“about what?”
the little girl rested her head against your chest, nuzzling into your warmth. yup. just like a kitten.
“who’s tim…tim-othy…” she tried to properly pronounce his name. “…timothy wright?”
you blinked, flabbergasted.
“why, that’s your papa, button.” you chuckled, your lips curling into a smile.
your daughter huffed. “no, it isn’t. my papa is honey! and you’re love!” her lips were pouted in childish frustration.
surely, this wasn’t the answer to the mystery.
(“who said my name?” came tim’s voice from the bathroom.
“nobody, honey. keep brushing your teeth.” you responded, half-minded, before returning your focus to your child.)
she only huffed once again. “see? papa is honey! not timothy wright!”
you laughed warmly. “button, that’s papa’s real name. honey is just a little nickname i gave him, that’s all.” you pinched her cheek. “just like how your nickname is button.”
wait, button was just a nickname? great. now she was having an identity crisis at the ripe age of three years old.
when you overhear a comment frank makes to mateo, you decide to back off. frank doesn't like that one bit and does everything in his power to get your attention back.
bet u wanna meet the reader! ── .✦ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
MASTERLIST | RULES | PINTEREST
PAIRING frank langdon x er!barbie!reader
WARNINGS overheard conversations, miscommunication, mutual pining, idiots to lovers, girly!reader, post-rehab frank langdon, recovery themes, yearning to the max, repression also to the max, flirtation as a coping mechanism, kissing!, making out on the job!
WC 3.9k | REQUEST here!
“The new intern claims Barbie’s been doodling your name with little hearts all over her forms. Somebody’s got it bad.”
Mateo’s statement floats over the nurses’ station diver.
It manages to slam straight into your self-image. Delicate tissue at the best of times, wedged between your left ventricle and the tiny circuit that compels you to adopt every sad house-plant at Trader Joe’s.
Yes it’s true, you do, for the record, employ thematic embellishments. A heart here. A flourish there. (Morale matters; medicine is bleak). That is not the same thing as ‘having it bad’.
But the problem is apparently people can’t make that distinction, and now you can see it too clearly, a pack of first-years huddled together, snickering over your smittenness, spider-webbing a hairline crack right through the high-gloss competence you spent seventy-eight paychecks shellacking.
It’s that eighth-grade deja vu: the day Jack Harrison caught you tracing Mrs. Jack Harrison in bubble letters on your planner and passed the page down the row like contraband.
The heat that bursts behind your ears now is the exact temperature of that day, when the whole cafeteria seemed to sync with your cardiac rhythm — thump, she likes him, thump.
You straighten behind the med cart, ready to emerge and correct the narrative before it mutates any further, when Frank speaks first. “Ignore it. It’s just noise — I’m sure she’ll lose interest soon enough.”
Oh.
Something clamps shut inside you so abruptly it almost audibly clicks.
Like you’ve been fizzing under pressure all shift and someone, somewhere, has just screwed the cap on tight. The carbonation tears around blind, frantic for an exit.
Noise. The word expands until it feels the whole corridor. Noise, as in background nuisance, as in easily tuned out, as in the thin electrical whine of a dying bulb that nobody bothers fixing until someone from maintenance finally rips it out and tosses it.
So that’s what he hears when you talk? A squeaky hindrance he tolerates out of courtesy?
The lively back-and-forth you stored under maybe someday morphs, in one breath, into you pawing at a deadbolt while he waits for the scratching to stop.
You pivot on silent flats, slip down the side corridor before Mateo or Frank registers movement.
Three steps in, a shoulder clips yours — McKay, clutching a stack of imaging requests. Clipboards explode across linoleum.
“Whoa, road-runner much?” she laughs, stooping. Her grin falters when she meets your deer-in-the-headlights stare. “Hey, you good? You’re kind of… vibrating.”
There’s no better word for it. Your fingers keep sparking against each other, your chin keeps twitching toward the main hall, and every nerve ending chants the same directive: bolt, wounded-fawn style, into the nearest underbrush before the hunter looks up.
You drop to your knees, paper edges nicking your skin as you herd the spill into something vaguely stack-shaped.
Out of the corner of your eye, Frank and Mateo both turn at the clatter. Frank’s brows notch, mouth already forming the silent You okay?
You slap the stack into McKay’s hands.
“Peachy!” you babble, already sidestepping to block Frank’s sight-line. “Totally good. Very busy. High-priority sticker emergency. Life or death if you’re, like, six and waiting for discharge.”
Your shoes squeak as you bolt.
There are several indicators, in Frank’s opinion, that suggest you’ve come down with something terminal, and the first arrives in the form of his inbox.
Or rather, the absence of its usual infestation.
When he finally gets ten uninterrupted minutes to wade through his overnight emails, there is only one from you.
A curt administrative note about revised intake-labeling protocol, plus an attached spreadsheet for the week’s front-desk coverage.
It is concise. Properly punctuated. Horrifyingly lucid.
Frank stares at it a full second longer than necessary, as if more of you might reveal itself under scrutiny.
Because, usually, by this point, there are at least twelve.
They arrive in glitter-bomb bursts throughout the day. A few carry actionable intel. Most are digital magpies’ nests: random URLs, blurry memes, rogue exclamation points, and the kind of half-formed shower-thought nonsense you apparently consider too important to trust to your own mind.
He spends longer than he’s willing to admit at the computer waiting for more emails to come in.
They never do.
The second indicator presents itself when he swipes into radiology and, for the first time in recent memory, does so alone.
No sudden apparition at his elbow, no imploring eyes, no breathless little “oops, forgot mine again,” delivered as though this is an unforeseeable act of the gods rather than a behavior pattern.
He tends to just hand the badge over without questions.
There is no point doing otherwise. If not him, you’ll simply latch onto the next available soft touch with security clearance, and Frank would rather it be him.
He frowns when the reader spits its green light at an empty hallway.
The third, and by far the most worrying, indicator arrives in the break room.
Frank boxes himself into a stolen minute, pours a cup, looks up too late, and finds you standing at the same counter.
Usually this is your opening. Your preferred habitat.
You’d reach across his body for sugar you absolutely do not need (you’re sweet enough as it is), clip his front with your ass, crowd his elbow while stirring, then look up like none of it was intentional, like he’s just a piece of furniture placed unfortunately in your path.
He braces for impact. Nothing happens.
Instead you give a brisk nod, measure out a generous amount of creamer into your cup, and keep your radius fanatically intact.
You leave before he can tally the damage.
The space beside him turns freezer-aisle cold. Frank’s fingers blanch on the mug handle. He blames the overzealous hospital ventilation for about half a second, then hears the excuse rattle around his own head and die there.
He has half a mind to go after you. Catch you by the wrist before you get too far, steer you into a vacant bay, and do the whole thing properly since apparently no one else is treating this personality drop as emergent.
History, exam, differential. What’s been siphoned out of you, and can he replace it?
In a better universe, that line of inquiry earns him one of your usual responses, “Should I unbutton for the stethoscope, Doctor?”
But he can’t do that. Can’t go stalking after you like some lovesick asshole with a savior complex and a death wish.
Especially not now when he is, at best, one bad headline away from vaporizing the fellowship he’s been clawing toward for years. He needs HR to stop looking at him like one more incident will finish the job rehab failed to.
And beyond that, he’s been trying to starve the gossip before it gets any bigger. Partly for himself, sure. Mostly for you.
This place has a long memory when it comes to his mistakes and a short one when it comes to anything decent he’s ever done.
He’s not about to hand the hospital a fresh excuse to staple your name to his and let people act like you’re just another piece of collateral from the mess he made of himself.
But shit he misses you. He wants your attention back on him. And the flirting and the smart mouth and the little collisions of your body with his like you’ve forgotten where one of you ends and the other begins.
So if he can’t be obvious, he’ll be strategic. He’ll do what he does best. Lay the bait and wait for you to come to him.
At two he messes with the thermostat.
There’s a woman in Facilities who’ll adjust it for him without putting in a work order, no questions, an ongoing favor from the time she showed up in the ER with split knuckles and a story about slipping while replacing a vent cover.
Frank stitched the cut closed in under six minutes, declined the point out that the wound looked a lot more like she’d punched through something than brushed against it, and earned himself a useful little pocket of goodwill in the process.
And, more often than not, Frank squanders that usefulness on you.
A degree warmer in the mornings, sometimes two if the night crew has left the department with all the ambient warmth of a crypt, timed just before you blow in the front doors, already looking faintly wounded by the concept of central air.
It’s at sixty-six now.
Low enough to summon you, high enough that no one can accuse him of weaponizing infrastructure for attention.
Although that is precisely what he’s doing.
But it takes longer than expected for you to appear in his line of sight. And when you finally do, you pay him no mind.
You putter through the department in several layers: cardigan, coat, fleece, thermal tights, hands tucked into your sleeves.
You look pissed. You look adorable. Frank resents learning those two things can coexist so easily.
He tries to catch your eye but you just keep moving through the pit like an overdressed cumulonimbus radiating indignation at every ceiling vent, refusing to seek him out.
It makes no sense. You should have filed a verbal complaint with him by minute eight.
And at minute forty-five he watches (sourly) as Garcia slides up beside you, a still-steaming warmer blanket perfectly folded over her arm.
“You look frostbitten,” she murmurs, settling the plush square around your shoulders.
You exhale a blissed little thank-you and lean into her, soaking up the heat Frank had planned to supply by proxy.
Garcia lifts her gaze, finds him across the pit, and winks. Problem solved, ER Ken, she mouths, fluffing the blanket with exaggerated care just to make sure he clocks her fingerprints all over his failed experiment.
Problem not solved. In fact, freshly enlarged.
Frank later lumbers down the hallway toward your office like a kicked senior dog chasing the last scrap of affection from its owner. He clutches the print-outs in his hand so tight they rasp with every step.
He finds you at your desk, hair fallen in stray ribbons across your face, mouth pulled down at the corners while the monitor paints you blue. Concentration or maybe displeasure. Hard to tell from this angle.
He hovers, suddenly unsure whether to knock on the actual door or just the wall of silence you’ve erected.
He opts for the literal door, two knuckles, two quick knocks.
Your head lifts. Something bright like excitement sparks across your face then the expression collapses, shutters down to business. Like you remembered all at once the circumstances surrounding him and whatever stupid hope had leapt up before you could stop it.
He hates that expression immediately. Hates that it exists. Hates even more that he can’t quite sort out why seeing it on your face feels like a personal failure.
“Need this form revised,” he says, lifting the mangled stack. “Thought maybe you could escort me to radiology? Could use the company, and you terrify the techs less than I do.”
It’s needy and transparent and he knows. He doesn’t care how it sounds as long as you say yes.
“I’m, uh, really busy at the moment, Dr. Langdon. Pending labs, two admits… might be a while.” You rattle it off too fast, like reading a grocery list you just wrote in your head. He knows every item is invented on the spot.
“Humor me, okay? I’ve had seven hours of people telling me to wait my turn. I need one cooperative face before I implode.”
You worry the inside of your lips, eyes flicking to the doorway.
Finally you nod. “Fine.”
One syllable, and it hits like epinephrine. He can’t stop the microscopic lift of his chin, lungs taking in a fuller breath as if permission itself has oxygenated the air.
He angles toward the hallway, offering the smallest tilt of his shoulder so you can merge.
“Thanks,” he says, voice pitched towards casual.
“Sure.”
He glances at you to his left. Goosebumps litter the expanse of your arms. He eases his stride so you’re shoulder-to-shoulder instead of half a step behind. “You cold?”
“Nope. Perfectly comfortable.” You answer while simultaneously yanking your sleeves down to your knuckles.
He snorts. “Yeah and I’m the post child for impulse control.”
You stop mid-stride, eyes narrowing. “That’s not funny, Frank.”
His first name. That’s progress, he thinks. Even laced with contempt, hearing it from you feels like an exhale after hours underwater.
He knew you wouldn’t like the joke. Made it anyway, cheap currency to buy a spark out of you. If spark equals fury, so be it. Fury beats indifference every time.
“Yeah, poor taste. Reflex, I guess.” He winces, thumb rubbing the knot at his collar.
You huff through your nose and pivot forward again, pace clipped. Frank falls in step a half-pace behind, then edges closer.
“Cardigan looks new,” he ventures. “Color suits you.”
“It’s old,” you say, eyes still on the hallway ahead.
Frank smothers another wince. Stupid. By this point the day has offered him more than enough evidence that the usual methods are dead on arrival.
Compliments, bait, orchestrated coincidence, all of it useless now that you’ve apparently decided to treat him like a mildly inconvenient coworker.
That’s the part he likes least. The sudden sense that he can’t locate himself in relation to you anymore.
The part he likes least changes when he finds you twenty minutes later, stationed beside some orthopedic meathead, looking luminously alive.
No longer wan or withdrawn or visibly dying of whatever new strain of virus you’ve contracted. But smiling. A laugh bubbling out, fingers corkscrewing a curl the way they do when you’re charmed.
Apparently you can still flirt. You can still sparkle. You just can’t seem to do it anywhere near him.
Before his cortex can veto, he’s crossing the floor, stopping dead at your shoulder.
“Just need a status update on Mrs. Carlson’s tib-fib before radiology locks the board.”
Mrs. Carlson, insofar as he knows, is fictional, but her imaginary fracture buys him two startled glances and three precious seconds inhaling the vanilla-and-alcohol warmth of your laugh.
Meathead flips through pages. “Um… we don’t have a Carlson today.”
Frank fakes a thoughtful frown. “Huh. Alias, then. Happens every weekend — patients think we’re the witness-protection program.”
Ortho squints. “I can pull the day-sheet again —”
“Good idea,” Frank says, nodding like a supervising attending. “Check PACU and the boarding queue; wouldn’t want to miss an imaging window.”
The guy mutters agreement and slinks off, shoulders hunched in duty. Frank turns to you, expression suddenly softer.
Crossing your arms, you cock a hip where Ortho had been. “Impressive diversion tactic. Did Mrs. Carlson spring fully formed from your imagination, or is she a previous imaginary friend?”
The fury’s back again.
Frank scratches at his jaw. “Didn’t think it through.”
“You think plenty. Maybe just tell me what you want instead of throwing Jason under a bus.”
Jason. Stupid name for a stupid guy, he thinks.
What he wants is one honest conversation and maybe your ass back where it belongs — in his personal space. He can’t say that last part though, so he settles for the first in the only terms he knows how.
“What I want is a five-minute consult with you. Somewhere quieter.” He flicks a glance at the empty bay down the hall, then back to your crossed arms. “Please.”
You study him for a moment, then nod once.
“Bay twelve’s open. Five minutes, then I’m due back at my desk.”
Frank files the claim under Questionable. You treat workstations like bar stools — occupied only until something shinier beckons. It’s not the desk ticking in your head; it’s the idea of being walled in with him past the half-life of your composure.
He watches tension climb your scapulae as you march ahead, timing yourself like a patient on a stress test.
Bay 12 yawns open and swallows you both.
The instant the noise of the corridor seals off, Frank feels his pulse redeploy to places it has no business patrolling. Temples, wrists, the hollow just above his sternum.
For one beat you stand opposite like combatants in a children’s-duel-turned-board-meeting: arms folded, backs straight, pretending neither of you can feel the static in the air.
“Right.” He claps once (why did he clap?) and immediately regrets it. “Consult.”
Your brows tip up, perfectly polite, perfectly guarded. “On our imaginary tib-fib?”
Frank’s ears go hot.
“Yeah, about that. I might have — misallocated resources.” He forces a laugh that sounds like a cough that sounds like a car refusing to start. “Look, I just —” A breath, steady, like he tells interns before a lumbar puncture. “I’ve noticed you’ve been… different. Quieter. Less —” he gestures vaguely, like there’s a medical term for starlight. “I thought maybe I’d done something.”
“Frank, I’ve been at this hospital for three years. You’ve existed in approximately one and a half of them. If I’m different and you assume it’s about you, that’s either breathtaking narcissism or —” a small, lethal smile “— maybe something else.”
Something else. He recognizes your own bait and still lunges.
“Yeah. Maybe.” Quiet. Direct. No place to hide in it. “Maybe I did assume it had something to do with me because I wanted it to.” His knuckles sweep his jaw. He never looks away from you. “Because if it’s not that, then I’m standing here making an ass out of myself for no reason, and I’d actually prefer the narcissism.”
You hesitate. “I’m just… giving you a little breathing room, okay?”
“Breathing room?” He moves toward you impulsively before catching himself, eyes wide, almost pleading. “I don’t — fuck, I don’t want breathing room. What are you doing that for?”
“What do you think?” You laugh, but it’s hollowed out completely. He doesn’t like the sound. “I spend half my shift practically trailing after you. Everyone sees it. I just —,” you purse your lips. “I don’t want to embarrass myself any more than I already have.”
He frowns at that. You’ve never once moved through this place like someone worried about looking foolish.
You flirt when you want to flirt, laugh when you want to laugh, and say things most people would bury alive before letting them leave their mouths. You leave little traces of yourself everywhere. Lip gloss prints on coffee lids. Heart-dotted notes. Sweaters draped over chairs that aren’t yours. There is nothing cautious about you, nothing particularly governed by social survival.
Even your embarrassment tends to be theatrical, temporary, burned through fast and replaced with another bad idea. He has never known you to care this much about the audience.
“What are you talking about?”
He watches as your eyes break off and land somewhere past his shoulders, as if the answer might be stapled to the wall.
“I heard what you said earlier.”
Frank’s brow furrows harder, causing a headache. “What?”
“With Mateo.” Your arms tighten across your middle. “About me being ‘just noise.’ About how I’d lose interest soon enough.” Your eyes flick up to his for a second. “So I thought maybe I should help you out with that.”
Blood sluices out of his skull, then surges back so hard his vision pulses.
For a beat, Frank just stands there, knocked completely sideways by the realization that you heard that, heard those exact words with none of the context that had made them make sense in his head. Christ.
No wonder you pulled back. No wonder you’ve been different. He’d been cornered by Mateo outside the med-supply cage, half-listening to him gleefully recycle some intern gossip thread like it was harmless entertainment, and all Frank had been trying to do was kill it fast.
Shut it down. Mateo was fishing for a reaction, for confirmation, for anything he could carry back into the staff room and let breed.
Robby’s got a disciplinary file half built with his name on the tab. One more thing and he’ll be back in that carpeted purgatory explaining how “post-rehab Frank” was just a limited-time offer.
The only thought had been do not feed this. Do not let you become a bigger target than you already are.
“No, that’s — fuck.” He breaks off, already hating how badly he’s said everything. “That’s not what I meant. I called the intern noise. The gossip. The whole stupid conversation. I meant she’d get bored and move on if I didn’t exacerbate it. I did not mean you.”
If anything, the entire point had been to avoid throwing you under the bus by acting like there was nothing there to poke at. And somehow that attempt has landed here, in front of him now, having done exactly the opposite.
You look at him for a second like you’re trying to decide whether to believe him and coming up short.
“I can handle it, you know. I’m a big girl. If I’m too much, or if I’ve been making you uncomfortable, you can just tell me.” The flat seam of your lips is more withering than any shout. “I’d rather hear it straight than keep walking around here feeling like some joke everybody else is already in on.”
“I know you could,” he says, too fast, like he needs to get there before you decide otherwise. “I know you could handle it. And if that was what this was, I would’ve said it, yeah?” His chest keeps punching at the scrub top, lungs over-ventilating around the terror of being misunderstood. “I don’t want you to stop flirting with me. I don’t want you to stop hovering or talking or… any of it. I — I fucking need it — You.”
“Frank…”
His eyes flick down to your mouth, then up again, like he hates that you can see him thinking it.
“If I do something stupid right now,” he says, voice low, “are you gonna slap me?”
He’s half begging for the hit, half begging on the green light.
Your exhale stutters into a breathy laugh. “Depends how stupid.”
Stupid wins.
Frank closes the last inch and touches his mouth to yours.
Soft at first, like he’s half-afraid you’ll vanish. You don’t. You stay… then soften… then melt, and everything inside him rushes forward. The second your lips part, the kiss deepens. Hunger and apology braided tight.
His hand rises to the back of your neck, thumb stroking the hair there, and the kiss tips from cautious to greedy in a single heartbeat.
He’s been starving himself on purpose, convincing the ache it was dietary. You don’t feed a craving that noble, he’d told himself in a dozen graveyard-shift pep talks. Now the craving is kissing back, and his resolve crumbles like a sugar packet.
You curve forward, spine bowing until his shoulders hit the curtain and the metal rings screech on the rail, but the world past the vinyl may as well be orbiting another sun. You both break into breathless laughter, but neither of you stops.
They warned you about selfish addicts, a voice needles.
This is exactly what they meant: taking the one thing that makes the ward bearable and unintentionally hurting its feelings to keep it safe — then stealing it anyway.
He swallows the guilt, chases it with another taste of peppermint.
Frank pulls back just far enough to speak, foreheads still touching. “No more breathing room, okay?”
You pretend to ponder, then glance at the inch (maybe) separating your bodies. “Pretty sure you just repossessed every cubic inch of it.”
“Good,” he says, thumb stroking the tendon at your nape like he’s checking his own pulse there. “I’m keeping it.”
Selfish, a reprimand flickers, but he can’t imagine surrendering the warmth that’s finally tugged his chest open.
Then the hallway pager shrieks, reminding you that the world still exists and someone probably needs a doctor who isn’t currently making out behind a curtain.
You both straighten, slower than necessary, Smooth hair, reset badges.
As you step through the divider he catches your hand, gives it a quick, secret squeeze.
You squeeze back, and the grin you trade in that split-second says everything the rumor mill never could: whatever this is, it’s no longer background noise.
MARIA NOTE hi hi hi thank you for reading and witnessing er barbie and franks FIRST KISS!!!!!!!!!! behind a questionably sanitary curtain, no less. may their pager batteries die forever so we get more smooch time. ₊ ⊹🪻 ✧˚. ᵎᵎ 🪴
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