[polkedot]

੭꣒ ˖ ❛ bf!langdon who takes the phrase “kiss and makeup” a little too seriously.

c.ws :: mdni , smut , slight degradation , missionary so you can continue arguing , dirty talk.

"stop being so fucking mad at me." frank grumbles out from above, driving the point home by grinding his cock in deeper inside you. your thighs quiver despite yourself where they're hooked around his waist, lewd slapping noises permeating the room just to tease you. “i said sorry an hour ago.”

you keep turning your face, trying to angle it out of reach, or at least force the fury back into your expression. you can’t fight the scrunch of pleasure that crosses your face, however. he can see that too. the grudge held like a stone dam, meant to keep your pride immune and well guarded from the way he's fucking you into the mattress. but it never works.

"m’not-"

"you are." he nips at your shoulder, voice muffled. "you keep clenching up when i talk.” his hips rear back steadily, a wet squelch sounding from where you're joined, then he sinks back in with a grunt of effort. "except down here."

the truth stings worse than the fight itself: frank knows you like the back of his hand. the front and back. he knows exactly how to fuck you until your resentment feels misplaced and petty.

hands that had been pushing against his chest find the silky sheets instead, clutching tight.

"it was a stupid fight," he pushes in again, slowly, allowing you to relish in the thick ridge and veins dragging along your walls while he explains the situation to you.

"and you know it." pride makes you not answer, of course, the only thing you can manage is a soft whine.

"sweetheart," he sighs. "you really gonna let me cum in this pussy while you're busy pretendin' to hate me?" you blink up at him in silent retort. defiance radiating from every inch of your face.

"mmm." the man even has the audacity to pinch the bridge of his nose, like you're the one being unreasonable. like he’s not currently balls deep. "always so fucking stubborn." he reaches between your bodies, thumbing lazily at your clit. "you think i like walking out?"

rage bubbles back up your throat at once, rolling your eyes with the little attitude you had remaining. "you slammed the door — our door — and left."

"you knew damn well i'd come back…” he grunts, not missing a beat to retort. an especially brutal thrust has you seeing stars. "you’re a smart girl, stop acting stupid, yeah?" you try to hitch your hips, to hurry him along but he only holds you down, eyes narrowing.

"go ahead and scream all you want, curse me out, break something if you need to. but don't fall asleep hating me.” he rambles on, shaking his head faintly. “can’t take that shit."

your words come out sharp, bitter once you find your voice. "so what’s your plan, fuck me into forgiveness?”

there's no hesitation in him when a toothy grin splits across his face, "there you go. if we fight in the morning? before work? fine. but if we're sharing a bed like this, we fix it before we close our eyes. understood?" no thought forms twice before your head's nodding stupidly, not an ounce of resistance (or dignity) left in you as he sinks back in.

"good girl, now be sweet to me while i cum."

[luvvyouforever]

holy moly this pic is soooo bf!frank

[cherrywineisawaltz]

MINORS DNI

Inappropriate work relationship with Jack Abbott who knows you have a boyfriend. Stray longing glances that border uncomfortable, tight squeezes in small places that have him pressed up against you, hands bracing your hips to keep you steady when he knocks into you, “Sorry about that, sweetheart, tight space.” Seeking him out in the hurried rush of the emergency room, keening at his praise at each accomplishment, hands holding your shoulders in pride, the contact making you burn up. Shared cigarettes behind the building, sharing the burnt down bud until it threatens to burn the tips of your grazing fingers. His shoulder presses to yours, cool night briskly passing over you, fluorescent lights gleaming from the overheads, fluttering lashes shadowed over your cheek as you peer up at him. Asks about your boyfriend and you shrug. “What was his name again?” asked against your lips while he’s got his fingers fucking up into you against the hospital wall, knuckle deep inside your pussy. Your forehead pressed to his shoulder, holding tightly to his scrubs as his palm bumps up against your clit, pants muffled against the rigid muscle of his shoulder, lips catching on the fabric as you attempt to mask the sounds, “Come on, baby, don’t tell me you forgot? Smart girl like you?” your hips stutter into his palm, his lip grazing the crown of your head, slick wet sounds coming from where his hand is shoved past the band of your scrubs, the obscene sound of his fingers working your cunt through your orgasm, thighs shaking and clenching around his wrist. 

[minswriting]

Tears Run Down My Thighs - Frank Langdon x Fem!Reader

About: You've been absolutely frustrated all day and Dr. Langdon decides to take matters into his own hands, literally.

Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, 18+ content, Frank has no kids, Frank is separated from Abby, semi-public sex, sexually frustrated reader, storage closet endeavors, vaginal fingering, dirty talk, squirting, etc. Don’t like don’t read! I’m just here to be horny and have fun.

Word Count: 2.3k

AO3

Request Guidelines

It wasn't often that you hooked up with people. Being an ER doctor, you didn't always have a lot of time as you focused on working twelve hour shifts and would spend the time you did have at home resting. But yesterday had been your first day off in a while and you had thought it would've been nice to go on a date and get dicked down which is exactly why you had gone onto Tinder a few days prior and set up a date with some guy who seemed nice enough.

The date itself wasn't too bad. You had gone to some Italian place in Pittsburgh that many people had great reviews about and the guy had paid for the meal which you were entirely grateful for. But when he had brought you to his apartment, you were left entirely unsatisfied. The two of you made out on his couch before moving to the bedroom, there was some foreplay but not enough to really do anything, and when the two of you did have sex, he came within five minutes, leaving you unfinished and frustrated.

And so when you had gone to work the next day, you had gone in very annoyed. Your mood had been noticeable immediately. The way you snapped at the interns and your fellow residents and were short with Dr. Robby and the new attending, Dr Al-Hashimi. Your patient bedside manner, which you were usually amazing with, wasn't at its greatest as you simply did your job thoroughly without any emotions or understanding towards the patient.

You felt bad for being so annoyed and frustrated, truly not being able to cum shouldn't be affecting your work like this. But you didn't know how to make it better other than tonight, after work, you will certainly make sure to take out your vibrator and give yourself the most mind-blowing orgasm you can muster. It was the only thing helping you get through the annoying day.

You also felt terrible because it was Frank's first day back since his return from rehab. During the last ten months, you had been the only person to reach out to Frank and help support him in any way that you could. When Abby had found out about Frank's drug problem, she had left him and you had been there to help pick up the pieces. Frank had been in rehab for ninety-days before being put into an outpatient program to attend 3-5 days out of the week for six months. And you had been there to take him to and from the program whenever you could. He had truly become your best friend and whenever you worked a particularly hard shift, Frank would show up to your apartment with takeout and treats to help you feel better.

Frank had immediately clocked that you were in a bad mood. All morning, when he was in triage, it annoyed him that he couldn't be near you to speak to you and see what was wrong. By the time he made his way back to trauma and treatment rooms, you were on your way out from a patient's room. You looked tense with the way your shoulders were tightened and your jaw was clenched. Taking a deep breath, Frank made his way over to you with a soft smile on his lips, hoping you wouldn't snap at him. "Come with me?" He asked as he gently touched your shoulder.

You looked at him in confusion and slight annoyance but didn't disagree as you allowed him to guide you somewhere. The two of you reached a quiet storage closet filled with sanitizers, masks, and gloves. He turned the light on and closed the door behind you before turning to look at you. "What's up with you today?" He asked, crossing his arms as he frowned at you.

"I don't know what you mean," You replied, shrugging your shoulders. Though you knew that Frank could tell you were lying. You knew exactly what he meant with the way you had been acting towards others all morning.

"That's bullshit," Frank said bluntly, his brows knitted together. "You've been acting strange all morning, even to Robby and the new attending. You had a date last night right? How'd it go?”

You groaned in response, your faux non-chalant expression coming undone. "Ugh!" Was the only sound that left your mouth.

Frank's lips curled upward as he tilted his head slightly. "Oh so that poorly then?" His voice held a tease to it as he spoke. "Was he a random loser who couldn't get it up?"

"Frank," You scoffed and rolled your eyes. "I don't see how it's any of your business."

"Judging by the fact that you're acting like a bitch to everyone around you, it sort of makes it my business," Frank sounded exasperated as he spoke, rolling his eyes in response.

You narrowed your eyes at the man in front of you before letting out a breath. "Fine. You really want to know what I'm frustrated today Frank?" You asked, raising your eyebrows in challenge. Frank nodded his head, hoping for you to continue. "I haven't had a proper orgasm in weeks. With working twelve hour shifts non-stop, I've been too tired to even give myself an orgasm. So I've been a bitch because some guy couldn't last even five minutes in bed yet again," You ranted as your frustration rose once again, your hands moving animatedly as you spoke.

Frank stood there silent for a few moments while he processed your rant. It were as though the gears in his head were turning and when he did finally speak, it was the last thing you'd expect out of his mouth. "Then let's give you an orgasm."

"What?" You gave Frank an incredulous look.

"You're frustrated, it's effecting your work. I'm going to make you cum," He stated simply.

"You don't mean that," You frowned in disbelief, shaking your head.

Frank stepped closer to you. "Yes I do," He said. "We're friends. You've taken care of me the last ten months, let me take care of you now."

You would be lying if you said you weren't attracted to Frank; anyone with eyes could see he was an attractive man. The amount of times you've dreamt about kissing him, feeling him pressed against you, fucking you into the mattress, and saying the dirtiest things to you was much more than you cared to admit. Especially since your primary focus these last few months were to make sure he was okay. You never wanted to jeopardize your friendship, let alone his recovery.

"That was different," Your voice came out weakly as you looked at Frank, your heart racing. "It would change our friendship if you did this."

"Friends helping friends," Frank said softly as he moved right in front of you. You could smell his cologne at how close he was. "That's all it needs to be. Or it can be more," He whispered. "But please. Let me do this for you, yeah?"

You really shouldn't agree. The smart thing would be to roll your eyes and push him away, call it all one big joke. But you were needy and desperate for some sort of relief and Frank was offering it. "What would you do?" You found yourself whispering instead of disagreeing.

"Make you feel good," Frank breathed out as he looked at you, his face inching towards yours. Rather than kiss you, however, Frank placed his hands on your hips and turned you around so that your back was pressed against his front. His lips moved to your neck, brushing against your skin.

It was wrong to be so turned on already. He's done absolutely nothing and yet, you knew how wet you truly were. With his hands still on your hips, Frank began peppering kissing along your neck, causing you to gasp. Frank's hands moved to the waistband of scrubs. "Can I pull these off of you?" He asked against your skin.

You nodded your head. "Yes," You breathed out.

He began pulling your scrubs off along with your underwear. You helped as you stepped out of them, kicking them to the side. Frank hummed as he nipped at your pulse point, eliciting a small noise from your lips. "We're going to have to be quick," Frank whispered as his other hand went between your thighs. His middle finger went to your slit, feeling how wet you were. "Fuck," he groaned quietly as he allowed his head to rest on your shoulder for just a moment. "You're so needy, aren't you, baby?"

"Yes," You whimpered softly. "So needy."

Frank's finger went to your clit, slowly rubbing circles along the nub. You gasped and leaned into him. Frank's other arm wrapped around your waist as he held you against him. He said nothing as he rubbed your clit, his breath slightly unsteady. Your eyes fluttered shut at the sensation, grateful for some sort of relief from the tension you've been holding for some time.

His finger then dipped to your entrance, spreading around your wetness before easing his finger inside. A small moan left your lips which Frank responded with by covering your mouth with the arm that had been wrapped around you. "You need to be quiet for me, baby," He whispered hotly against your ear. "Can't have Dr. Robby catching us with my fingers in your cunt now can we?"

The idea shouldn't turn you on as much as it did but as Frank spoke, the walls of your cunt fluttered around his finger. You simply nodded your head, allowing Frank's hand to remain on your mouth. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" He whispered into your ear, a smirk clearly on his face despite you being unable to see it. "Does that turn you on? The idea of being caught with my fingers inside of you? Dirty girl."

You tried your best to hold back the moan that was threatening to escape as Frank added a second finger. The digits moved in and out of you slowly before quickening. You were all hot and bothered, something you hadn't felt with a man in quite some time. You felt Frank pressing against you, his cock rubbing against your ass. "Do you know how tempting it is to bend you over and fuck you in this storage closet? Wish we had the time for me to bury my cock inside of you, to show you exactly how you can cum from a man's cock." Frank's words were vulgar as his fingers curled inside of you, hitting your g-spot and eliciting a muffled whine from your lips. "I'd fuck you so good, baby, make you forget about any horrible dates you've had.

Frank's fingers moved hard and fast inside of you, hitting your g-spot dead on. You were trying your best to stay quiet but you couldn't help but moan against Frank's hand as the sound of your cunt squelching filled the closet room. "Fuck," Frank groaned much louder than he should've. "God, you're so fucking wet," He said as he rutted his cock against you, unable to help himself. You felt a pressure inside of you and with a few more thrusts of Frank's fingers, could feel your thighs getting soaked.

You were so close as Frank's digits worked inside of you. It took only a few more thrusts before you were writhing against Frank, your thighs trying to clamp shut, and your back arching against him. Your mind went blank as your orgasm overcame you, grateful that your moans we're completely muffled by Frank's hand.

When your body went slack against Frank, he removed his hand from your mouth, placing it on your hip instead. His head dipped back to the crook between your neck and shoulder as he kissed your skin lightly. He removed his fingers from your cunt, holding them away from you as to not get your juices on your scrub shirt. "Better?" He whispered.

"Very much so," You breathed out, breathless from the mind blowing orgasm you just had.

The whole interaction had happened so quickly and yet, it felt as though it took so long. You knew realistically the two of you hadn't even been in the room for five minutes. The reality of where the two of you were set in as the sounds of the ER were heard through the door.

Frank pressed one more kiss along your skin before he pulled away from you completely. He turned around to grab some paper towel to dry off his hand before handing some to you. "To dry yourself with," He said with a small smirk.

After drying your thighs from your juices and putting your underwear and scrub pants back on, the two of you worked to clean up the floor as well. And when you were done, both you and Frank simply looked at one another. "So," Frank started. He cleared his throat before continuing. "Should I-"

"Come over tonight." You interrupted him with the invitation. "After work. I'll order us some takeout and perhaps you can…show me what it's like to be 'fucked so good that I forget any horrible dates I've had'" You said with a smirk.

Frank laughed and nodded his head. "Sounds like a date, baby," He replied before leaning in to press a kiss onto your forehead. "I look forward to it."

And with that, the two of you went back to your shift as though nothing had happened. You were no longer frustrated and annoyed with the world and Frank was feeling more confident as the day went on. Nothing more than glances were shared between the two of you as you worked, the promise of what is to happen after work being the only thing to help you guys get through your shifts.

[marvel-hiddles-stark]

Saving Water

summary: frank langdon comes home after a long shift and finds you in the shower. needing one himself, he thinks, why not save water?

tags & cw: 18+ minors GOODBYE, fem afab reader, frank langdon ABSOLUTELY calls you baby, established relationship, reader is depicted washing semi-long hair but texture is not specified, slight praise kink, shower sex, fingering, frank being astronomically down bad, domesticity(?), unprotected p in v (in the wise words of dr. langdon himself, wrap it before you tap it!!!)

wc: 4.1k (uhhh I didn't realize how much this one got away from me LMAO)

a/n: so…i’m about the furthest thing from a medical professional so i took it upon myself to steer as far away from medical terminology as possible. That being said, any fics i write for langdon will almost certainly involve a reader who is not in the medical field, so…do with that what you will!

be sure to check out my dr langdon masterlist!

srry baby, i’ll be a little late tonight. Just finishing up charting. Want me to pick up anything on the way home? Love you

Since being hired on as an attending, Frank was usually one of the last to leave the day shifts, so late nights were not at all uncommon. It sucked, especially on the weekends, but it wasn’t as if the rent—or his med school debt—would pay itself. Quite honestly, sometimes you worried that he was stretching himself thin; although Frank thrived in the chaos of the ER, it could still be a lot for one person—especially one with so much more responsibility, now—to handle alone. Plus, physician burnout was a very real thing. 

And, selfishly, you missed him. 

No worries. I made gumbo tonight, should still be warm when you get home. Drive save xx

Suffice it to say that one hour became two, then three, and eventually you kept busy with finishing some household chores before deciding to treat yourself to a nice, long shower. Your hair was overdue for a wash and your best friend had recently gifted you a self-care basket with some shower steamers you’d been wanting to try. 

Twenty minutes later, and you were stepping into a hot shower with lavender-eucalyptus steam emanating from the floor of the tub. You damn-near moaned at the relief—this was just what the doctor ordered (pun intended). 

It wasn’t long after you washed your hair that you thought you heard the front door. But to be fair, every time you showered you managed to convince yourself you’d heard your entire extended family being slaughtered in the living room. It wasn’t until a familiar, rhythmic knock on the bathroom door that you smiled to yourself. 

For as long as you’d known him, Frank always mimicked the pattern of Anna’s opening knock in “Do You Wanna Build a Snowman?” from Frozen (Penny may or may not be obsessed with the movie. Hell, the last time Abby dropped the kids off she’d been in an Elsa dress and demanded they watch it after dinner. This of course meant Frank was also obsessed by proxy). 

“Come in!” 

The door creaked open, and you could hear Frank’s sigh of exhaustion over the stream of the shower. “Hey, baby. Sorry I’m home so- Jesus, it smells like a spa in here. What is that?” 

“New shower steamers. Too much?” 

“No, just strong.” You heard the soft click of the door. “Fuck, you would not believe the shift I’ve had—” 

“Good bad or bad bad?” you asked, absently wringing the rest of the shampoo from your hair. 

Another sigh. You could barely make out the ruffling of clothes being shed and tossed haphazardly on the tile. Your stomach instantly fluttered in anticipation, but the rational part of your brain hesitated—you might as well kiss your relaxing shower goodbye if your lovely boyfriend was going to barge in. 

“Good bad, thankfully,” came his reply. “A few interesting cases. Some punk kids almost blinded themselves; apparently they thought it’d be fun to try and cook up some mustard gas with one of their mom’s cleaning supplies. Jackasses were lucky they didn’t get more severe chemical burns.” 

You chuckled. “Sounds about right for teenage boys.” 

“Yep, the usual BS.” 

The shower curtain whipped open, revealing one tired-looking Dr. Frank Langdon, beautifully unkempt and deliciously nude. Despite his visible exhaustion, a broad grin plastered itself on his face at the sight of you. “Hi. I missed you.” 

“Missed you too.” When he kept staring, you quirked a brow, unabashedly assessing his body with false scrutiny. “Can I help you?” 

His—very obviously ogling—eyes shot back up to yours, and he made a shooing gesture. “Uh, yeah. Scooch.” 

When you gave no indication of moving, he took matters into his own hands, pulling the curtain all the way open to step over the lip of the tub. Of course, he flinched immediately upon feeling the water—typical man reaction. 

 “Jesus Christ, woman! How do you not have third degree burns?!” 

“Oh, don’t barge in and then complain,” you tossed back. “Maybe just wait your turn like a normal person. I’m almost done.” Despite what your words might suggest, the protest in your voice was nonexistent, even to your own ears. In actuality, you missed him. A lot. 

Frank shook his head, stepping fully into the shower. “That’s such a lie.” He tucked himself behind you and leaned in close, nosing along your wet hair and making you giggle. “Mm. Mhm. Just what I thought—only shampooed.” 

His cool hands found your waist, skirting the length of your body with gentle intimacy; a tender re-acquaintance with all the parts of you that he’d missed during the day. Despite the scalding hot water, you shivered. 

“O-kay, well. You’re disrupting my zen.” 

Soft lips against the hinge of your jaw nearly eviscerate all rational thoughts in your brain. “Mmmm I know, but I could really use a shower right now. And I missed you. And it’s a chance to lower our water bill. I like to think of it as killing two birds with one stone.” 

You turned to face him, and he immediately swooped in for a kiss that you diverted with a palm planted on his chest. “Fine. You can stay, but no funny business.” 

He stuck his lip out in an exaggerated pout. “One kiss?” 

You gave in, because of course you did. Who wouldn’t?

His thumb and forefinger pinched your chin, gently tugging your lower lip to deepen the kiss. It was a slow, welcome hello after so many hours spent apart. The kind of kiss you could tell Frank had been craving, the familiar warmth of a body that didn’t actively need fixing or saving. He parted only to catch his breath, pressing a soft kiss to your damp forehead. You were still leveling your own breathing when he reached behind you for your lavender body scrub. 

A smile found your features, heart swelling with tenderness at the fact that he was familiar enough with your shower routine to know your exact steps. 

While he fumbled with the lid, you occupied yourself by scattering a few soft kisses across his neck and chest, palms landing over his ribs to ground yourself against his body. It wasn’t entirely meant to be sensual, only affectionate, but it became rapidly apparent that your actions were having the opposite effect. 

You huffed a laugh, glancing down between you. “Seriously? That’s all it takes?” 

Frank almost sounded offended. “Don’t sound so shocked. My beautiful, wet, naked girlfriend touching and kissing all over me? That’s more than enough.” 

“You’re so easy.”

He groaned as you sucked at the soft skin beneath his ear. “You’ve no idea. I got hard from watching you dig around in our garbage disposal once.”   

“Oh my god, Frank. Ew.”

He gave you a lopsided grin. “What? I like a woman who’s not afraid to get her hands dirty.”

When he finally worked the stubborn lid open, he rubbed the scrub into your skin with the sort of accuracy and attentiveness you could only accredit to his doctoral degree. 

“Leg up,” he commanded, pressing hard enough into your calf that you moaned. “Other leg. Arms out; good girl.”

He was doing this shit on purpose, and both of you knew it. It became glaringly obvious when he spent ample time massaging your tits. 

Okay, maybe you were a bit hypocritical, eyes fluttering shut and lip between your teeth as you let him grope you. You were content to let it slide until his thumbs openly grazed your (already very erect) nipples and you remembered you were supposed to be showering. 

“Francis.” 

“Yes dear?” 

“That’s…mm…not exactly a cleansing motion.” 

“Hm, you’re right. Not very effective, is it?” He let the water rinse off some of the scrub, before promptly leaning down to take a nipple into his sweltering mouth, which somehow felt hotter than the shower itself. You gasped sharply, hands flying to his sodden hair. 

“Yeah…much more effective,” he muttered against your skin. 

“A-ah, Frank, God—” 

His tongue swirled around the bud, lips suckling with just the right amount of pressure to make you squirm, arousal boiling low and insistent in your belly. 

“I could’ve s-sworn I said no funny business.” Again, the protest in your voice was feeble at best; you were equally as helpless in denying your boyfriend as he was in denying you. 

Frank only hummed, switching to give your other nipple the same attention. Your fingers smoothed through his hair, now heavy with water. You stumbled back a step to reach for his shampoo, though he was quick to distract you with a kiss that damn near stole the breath from your lungs. 

“Lemme. Wash. Your hair,” you argue between kisses. 

The whine that poured out of him made more than just your stomach flutter. 

“Lemme kiss you,” he fired back, hands cupping the sides of your face like it would physically pain him to let you go. 

You couldn’t help your lovesick smile. “You can, baby. You can. Just…let’s actually get clean while we’re in here, yeah?” 

With a dramatic grumble, Frank finally turned around so you could get a better angle to wash his hair. 

You poked his side, “so sassy.” 

Even if he often disrupted your entire routine, you enjoyed showering with Frank. He craved physical intimacy more than he’d ever admit to you. It didn’t always have to be sexual, either; you knew he loved being touched simply as a means of closeness and having himself be the one getting taken care of for once. 

You kissed the birth mark on his shoulder blade as you lathered your hands, the earthy scent of his sandalwood shampoo enriching the hot steam of the shower. You gently and firmly carded your fingers through his hair, making sure to spend extra time massaging his scalp. You also gifted him a few scattered kisses across his shoulders and the top of his spine, cherishing the way he quivered under your touch. His pleased little hums made you smile, a mix of fondness and desire continuing to bloom between your legs. 

When you were finished rinsing it all out, Frank decided it was time for your hair mask and eagerly returned the favor, his touch tender and thoughtful as he worked the product into your hair; he also speckled kisses across the slope of your neck and shoulder bones.  

When he was done, however, you could sense the mischief in the smirk he pressed against your neck like a sixth sense; his hands were full of intent as they moved your hair out of his way before trailing down your sides, coming to rest just at the crease of your thighs. His lips once again found the side of your neck, his body crowding into yours from behind. Open-mouthed kisses marked a trail along your shower-softened skin. 

Your hand gripped the nape of his neck as he sucked a bruise into a spot beneath your jaw. 

“What’s your excuse this time?” you rasped. 

“Don’t need one,” he muttered innocently. “We’ve gotta let your hair mask sit for at least five minutes. I think the bottle recommends ten, actually.” 

Another laugh bubbled from your chest. You shot him a dubious look. “What happened to saving water?” 

He hid his smirk behind a kiss on your shoulder. “We are. It’s a two-for-the-price-of-one shower.” Another kiss. His hands drifted back to your inner thighs, voice pitching low. “Should save us about seventy-five cents or so.” 

You shuddered when his fingers skirted the edge of your labia, letting your head fall back on his shoulder. “Something tells me this isn’t about the money.”

His breath was pure heat against your ear. “Caught me,” he whispered. 

Fingers slipped lower, seeking and finding your already swollen clit, circling it with gentle precision. His other hand trekked back up your body, slow and sensual, tenderly groping your breast. 

“Missed you. Was thinkin’ about this all day.” 

“Yeah?” Your hand reached up to comb through his wet hair as his touch moved further south, teasing your sensitive opening with firm caresses. Your ass arched back into his hips, dragging a groan from his chest as you ground against him. 

“Mhm.” His middle finger finally slid home, drawing a low whimper from the back of your throat. “Fuckin’ elbow deep in blood and guts and I still couldn’t stop imagining you like this.” 

“Wow,” you scoffed. “So romantic.” 

“You know me.” 

One hand gripped his forearm, feeling the tendons flex with the movement of his fingers. “Fuck, Frankie.” 

The nickname always did a number on him; you felt it in the way his free hand tightened on your hip bone, his breath hot as it hitched against your cheek. 

“That feel nice, sweetheart?” You barely managed to nod your head. “Mm. I’m sure it does. She’s already nice n’ wet for me.” 

Frank crowded you against the wall of the shower, your tits flush against the tile as he slipped another finger in, your body trembling around the intrusion. His free hand came to rest beside your head, lips refusing to leave the wet skin of your neck. His cock was stiff and hot against the cleft of your ass. 

Feeling as though things were a bit uneven, you reached behind you and grasped his cock in your hand, your cunt throbbing at his moan of surprise. 

His tongue licks up the side of your neck, mouth sloppy and shameless in his need for you. 

“Yeah, baby. Love when you touch me like that,” he groans, low and long. 

You whined sharply when his curling digits struck gold, pressing just right against spongy tissue. Damn this man—he played you like a fucking fiddle, plucking all the right strings to get your body to sing; made you crave him like oxygen, miss him like a limb. 

The crescendo of your orgasm was fast approaching, your thighs trembling from the promise of it, skin somehow feeling sweaty in spite of the shower. Your free hand flew to his wrist as he buried his head in your neck, lips hot against your skin. 

“Gonna come?” he breathed. “C’mon, baby. Let her feel good. Chase it.” 

You rose, almost on your tiptoes, body arching away from the onslaught of sensitivity whilst seeking more more more, as you straddled the edge of release. When it finally happened, it was with a sharp cry of your boyfriend’s name, nails biting into his wrist as your body shuddered in his hold. 

“There we go,” his voice pitched a little higher with anticipation, feeling your cunt spasm around him, no doubt imagining it were his cock instead. “There we go, good fucking girl. Mhm. Use my fingers, baby. Get yourself off. Fuck, that’s so good.” 

Your hand stalled on his cock, too distracted by the intensity of your orgasm to focus on anything else. Frank didn’t seem to care, wholly consumed in the reactions he was yanking from your body as he kept his fingers pumping in an attempt to prolong your high. His breath was hot against your ear, praises pouring from his lips that you could barely process in the midst of your release. 

Eventually your twitching hips started to slow as your body attempted to come down, but Frank was having none of it. 

“Nuh-uh. Keep going. You’re not done,” he breathed against your ear. “Can still feel her twitchin’ on me.” He ground his palm against your throbbing clit, drawing a sharp cry from your lips as you jolted from the sharp tenderness of it. 

“Frank,” you pleaded, lungs heaving from his continued attention. Your body was quickly getting overwhelmed, almost overstimulated, but the plea of his name wasn’t a warning; it wasn’t a ‘no’ or a ‘stop’ or even a ‘slow down’, though you knew at any point a simple utterance of red would have him backing off immediately. It was none of those things, and both of you knew it. Your hand gripped his wrist as you moaned, slack-jawed and shameless, skin dewy from sweat and humidity. 

“Good girl,” he praised, right in your ear. “C’mon. She wants another one, I can feel it.” 

With a sharp cry, your body spasmed right into its second orgasm, nearly curling in on itself from the pleasure that bordered on pain. Frank was there to hold you up, though, the arm that wasn’t currently buried between your legs crossing around your front to keep you upright and pressed into him. 

“Fuck. Fuck. That’s it, there we go, shh…” 

He found your panting mouth at some point, messily kissing along your lower lip and chin as he finally retracted his fingers from your cunt. 

“You okay, baby?” he asked, his soft voice a total 180 from the way he’d been talking moments ago. 

You nodded weakly, breathing hard, a lazy smile appearing on your face as your nervous system slowly returned to normal. Frank was still flush against your back and hard as a rock, so you indulged him in a slow, messy kiss that drew a longing moan from the back of his throat. 

“We can be done,” he said, sounding genuine. Some might be surprised to learn that Frank Langdon was a giver in bed—to the point that his own pleasure was inconsequential at times. 

“No, it’s okay. I’m okay,” you insist, shifting your hips back against his to make a point. “I want it like this,” you whispered against his lips. 

Frank’s groan made your belly do flips. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

He was quick to give in after that. 

“Fuck, okay. C’mere. Arch your back a little, sweetheart.” 

His cock was hot and heavy, parting the lips of your cunt and sliding up to tease your swollen clit. His voice was molten heat in your ear. The world once again narrowed to his presence, his voice and his touch. Your clit was hypersensitive, a harsh sort of hot pleasure that made you slightly dizzy. 

Frank placed a few salacious kisses up the back of your neck. “Gonna let me put it in? Just a little bit, hm?” 

You were prepared to beg for it, actually. 

“Yes, yes. Please, baby, wan’ all of it—”

“Oh?” His grin was like a Cheshire cat’s. “You want all of it, do you? After I already gave you two orgasms? Such a greedy girl.” 

“Mhm, mhm. Please."

He let out a disbelieving chuckle, like he couldn’t fathom how lucky he’d gotten. “Okay, baby. Okay. You can have all of me.” 

The push into you is near effortless with how wet you are, but you still moan in bliss at the delightful stretch of him, eyes rolling into the back of your skull. Frank isn’t abnormally long, but he’s thick, a burn that blazes through every one of your cells. 

“Oh fuck, baby. God. Squeezin’ me so good, mmmfuck—”

That only makes you clamp down harder, head dizzy with the familiar stretch, your arms and palms braced against the wet wall of the shower. 

The kiss behind your ear was soft, then. 

“You okay?” 

You nodded frantically, trying to encourage him to move with a backwards thrust of your hips. The water sluices your joint bodies, everything hot and wet, clean and filthy, push and pull. Your head tips back against his shoulder, jaw slack with a sharp gasp. 

Frank groans, the sound a guttural noise in his chest, as he works his hips into you with building gusto. You open your eyes and peek over a shoulder to find a pinch in his brow, a blend of focus and strain. One of your hands moves to grip the back of his thigh, nails biting into skin, urging him along with the movement of your own hips. 

“S-so good to me,” you pant, knowing in secret that he has a thing for praise, too. “You’re so good, Frankie. M-making me feel so good and so special, fucking me like this. I love you so much.” 

Another whimper careens from his parted lips, hands bracing on the shower wall beside your head as he picks up speed. 

“I bet this is just what you needed, hm?” You squeeze his thigh harder. “A nice, good fuck. Does it feel good, honey? Can you feel how much I missed you?” 

He nods breathlessly, and when his eyes finally reopen you’re nearly overwhelmed at the look in them, flooding with lust and love and worship. He’s looking at you like you’re something divine, something worth more than a million words could ever convey. 

A hand moves to cradle your jaw, panting into the centimeters of space between you. “Kiss me, baby. Please.” 

You oblige instantly, twisting slightly to get a better angle. 

A positively mouth-watering whimper stumbles from his mouth into yours when your pussy tightens around him, your orgasm precious moments away as he presses you further against the shower wall.   

“Feels so fuckin’ good, sweetheart. I missed you so much.” 

You respond in kind, offering a whine of your own as he pounds into you. “M-missed you too.” Desperation and emotion cloud your voice. “I hate when you have to stay overtime.” 

“I know baby, I’m sorry. I hate it too,” he breathes, peppering kisses across your cheek. “But I’m here now. I’m not goin’ anywhere.” His voice pitches lower, words making your pussy flutter around his cock in warning of your impending release. “Just wanna feel you come on me, honey. Make my whole night, c’mon. One more.” 

You center all of your focus on that singular goal, feeling him rock inside your tender pussy. The brink is borderline painful the third time around, a building burn that festers in all of your lower muscles and springs tears to your eyes. But you are nothing if not determined, willing at all costs to give Frank everything that he wants because he fucking deserves it, and you want to come so badly that you power through it, chasing that final, blissful fall. 

Frank is grunting in your ear, and you’re suddenly overcome with the urge to see him, watch him as he falls apart and the vision of it has you frantically tapping on his thigh. 

“Turn me, turn me,” you demand. 

It takes a second for your words to land. “Wha- are you okay?” 

“Y-yeah, yes, I just…I just want to face you. Please, Frank.” 

He does as you ask, hiking a leg up onto his hip and immediately getting back to work. You yelp from the deeper angle this position allows, arms looping loosely around his neck as you watch him with hooded eyes. 

“God, baby,” he curses. “You’re so perfect. So, so, beautiful.” 

“Mm…Frankie. G-gonna—” 

“Yeah? C’mon. C’mon hon, you got it.” 

His fingers dash between your bodies, and the startling stab of his thumb working over your worn clit is what finally does it. Not even a few thumb strokes later and you’re shattering around his cock, nearly sliding down the shower wall and losing your balance if Langdon weren’t there to catch you. He fucks you through it, only barely, a string of profanities and your name pouring from his lips. 

“S-shit, baby. M’gonna come, fuck—” his grip on your hip tightens. “Where do you want it?” 

“Inside,” comes your immediate—albeit somewhat loopy—response. “Always, baby. Please, insideinsideinside—” 

This seemed to undo him; he pitches forward to sink his teeth into the meat of your shoulder. A full-body shudder rolls through his body, quickly followed by a long, drawn-out groan. His thrusts turn into sloppy, erratic movements of his hips, like he’s trying to burrow himself as deep as possible as the familiar warmth of his release floods your nervous system. 

His breathing starts to slow as he runs his hands up and down your sides, grounding himself in the nearness of your body. Then his head lifts, and you barely catch the dopey smile on his face before he smothers it against your lips, his kiss deep and unhurried. You take it for what it is—an intimate thank you, a conveyance of his gratitude for having him, for letting him have you. 

“I think,” you run your fingers through his hair, “I think my hair mask is probably ready to be washed out.” 

Frank chuckles, hiding his face in your neck. His five o’clock shadow makes you itchy. 

“Yeah. Sorry, sweetheart. I swear I didn’t have ulterior motives.” You scoff, and he laughs again. “Okay, fine, maybe I did. Just…not to this extent.” He pulls his head out of your neck, and that happy grin of his is back, making your heart stutter in your chest. “But no regrets, though?” 

You roll your eyes fondly. “No, my love. I really did miss you today.” You peck the dimple on his chin, “only…now can we really shower? Because somehow I’m feeling more gross than when I initially got in.” 

His grin widens, affection and love written in the lines of his pearly white smile. When he leans close, his forehead brushes yours. “Yeah, baby. We can.” 

masterlist

[mariasont]

failure of imagination

you approach everything clinically, including poorly constructed sex scenes in books. dr langdon decides to take that as an invitation to give you a proper sex ed lesson.

pairings: nerd!reader x frank langdon

warnings: 18+ MDNI, explicit sexual content, reader reading smut, virgin!reader (kind of implied more than outright stated), innocence kink, corruption kink, langdon supplying reader with an sex book?, literally so freaked out and for what, female masturbation, phone sex, langdon talking you thru it!!!

wc: 6.2k

You’ve always had a somewhat fraught relationship with imagination. People say you lack it, to put it plainly. They say you’re too literal. As if being literal isn’t the reason airplanes stay in the air and bridges remain standing. 

But you just happen to find reality plenty beautiful. More than beautiful, actually. Reassuring. There is dignity in a thing that can be tested, reproduced, and counted on.

Newton’s law. The sodium-potassium pump. Entropy. Even the grimmer systems at least are consistent if nothing else.

So naturally, medicine was what you pursued in college. Everything means something. Everything is attached to something else. Symptoms are not random; bodies are not whimsical.

Even if an answer is hidden, it exists, and if you are willing to stay with a problem long enough, turn it over enough times, peel it apart layer by layer and build it back from the inside out, eventually it reveals itself.

Fiction does not afford you that courtesy. Fiction wants you to tolerate blank spaces and gaps. You hate gaps. You love knowing.

Fiction gives you half a scene and waits expectantly, like congratulations, now you do the labor.

Build the room. Place the bodies. Infer the angles. Ignore, apparently, that the human body is not an abstract concept but a heavily regulated system of hinges and limits and gravity and very obvious spatial constraints. 

You are experiencing one of those gaps now, staring so hard at the page your eyes begin to sting a little, focus tightening to a punitive little point. You think if you look at it severely enough the scene might resolve into something you can understand.

The book says the woman is “on top,” which should be clear enough on its own, except the next sentence immediately ruins that clarity by describing angles that do not, as far as you can tell, exist in three-dimensional space. 

And you have so many questions.

Is there a bed involved here? A couch? A floor? Any surface at all?

You reread the line. Maybe you overlooked a prepositional phrase hiding in plain sight. A detail that will clarify whose leg is bent and why it apparently now has the range of motion of a paper clip.

Nothing. No luck. Still opaque.

Possibly more vague now, because repetition has begun to dissolve whatever confidence you had in your own reading abilities.

It is difficult to overstate how humiliating it is to be bested by mediocre smut. 

You sigh and look to your watch. 9:18 p.m. Late. The bus is always late. That’s why you have this book in your hand in the first place, wanting to turn dead time into something educational. Unfortunately that’s not how it’s going.

You blow out a breath as another gust of wind snakes over the exposed strip of skin between your socks and the hem of your jeans.

They used to hit lower on your ankle, but courtesy of your building’s shitty communal dryer, they don’t do that anymore.

“Interesting reading choice.”

It is not a voice you prepared yourself to hear. You weren’t prepared to hear a voice at all, really.

So when you hear the familiar pitch of Landon, your body overcorrects, sending you backward like a startled deer losing traction on ice.

You see the next ten seconds in a flash: the hollow thunk of your head on the pole behind you, the stuttering apologies delivered as your vision tunnels, the concussion protocols that will surely haunt you for weeks, months, possibly forever.

But those ten seconds never actually happens.

Instead, you cautiously peer up into the flat, coolly appraising expression of Langdon, whose hand is placed behind your head, taking the brunt of the impact.

“Oh. Hi. Dr. Langdon. I, um, this isn’t — I’m not —” You’re already floundering, trying to assemble something defensible out of a situation that is not defensible. “It was recommended,” you say at last, which is true, though not in a way that sounds remotely exculpatory once spoken aloud. “By Javadi. She said it was good, which I assumed meant, like, well-written, not — this. Which I know sounds — I hear it, I hear how it sounds, but I didn’t just, like, seek this out independently. I was curious from a clinical standpoint.”

Shit.

You just lobbed Victoria under the bus didn’t you? And unlike the literal bus, this metaphorical one arrived enthusiastically on time, probably even honked.

You add it to the growing ledger of things you owe her. Coffee, at the very least. Something artisanal, thoughtful, handcrafted.

A note, handwritten in apology, because email would be cowardly and texting would feel insufficient, and really — after what you’ve just done, you’re not sure anything short of ink, paper, and a tangible record of shame could suffice.

He removes his hand, the pressure at the back of your head disappearing as he shifts to rest it along the bench behind you instead.

“Clinical,” he repeats. His eyes flick briefly to the book in your hands, then back to you, unimpressed. “And what have you concluded so far, doctor?”

“Not a doctor yet,” you point out. Not sure why you do. “But, um, just that it’s just not very clear? Like, the scenes move really fast, and I feel like I’m missing steps in between, so I keep trying to visualize what’s happening and I just end up getting stuck on, like… where everything is supposed to go and —” You stop, frowning now. “You — you probably didn’t actually want an answer to that, did you?”

His mouth pulls just enough to suggest he’s entertained despite himself. “Not initially.”

You nod. “Okay, good, because I definitely wasn’t planning to provide detail. Just, you know — general plausibility stuff. Realism concerns.”

“Let me see,” he says, and before your frazzled brain can form an adequate objection, he's already reaching forward, extracting the paperback from your suddenly slackened grasp.

You stand abruptly, the bench scraping in a terrible sound against concrete as you reach for the book.

“You really don’t have to do that.”

A correct statement. Useless, however, as he lifts the novel out of reach without even looking at you, arm extending just enough to make it clear that this is not a negotiation, and also, somewhat insultingly, not even difficult.

You briefly consider climbing him. Scaling him like a distressed, socially compromised marsupial and retrieving the book by force.

It feels like a viable solution. You dismiss it only on the grounds that in the last five minutes alone, accumulated enough embarrassment to sustain a normal person for at least two lifetimes.

And theoretically there should be a cap.

There is not, apparently.

Because after a brief glance at the page, he starts reading aloud: “She sank down on him with an aching slowness, savoring the stretch of it, the sweet friction that made her pulse flutter faster with every roll of her body. His hands gripped her waist, guiding her, keeping her there while the pleasure mounted in teasing waves until she was shaking with it, desperate and almost there.”

You feel the heat spark up your spine and towards you neck before saturating your face. The intensity momentarily blurs your vision.

Your hands tighten uselessly at your sides, a strange, unfamiliar tightness coiling low in your stomach.

You try your very hardest not to let your mind start making substitutions. You try not to let the faceless bodies on that page acquire identifiable features. A chin dimple, for instance. You try not to let the voice in front of you fuse itself any further to the text than it already has.

You wrench your gaze upward, fixing it somewhere behind his left ear, hoping that physical distance might somehow dilute your newfound imagination that just five minutes ago you were bashing.

He closes the book with a snap, eyebrow arched. “Sounds perfectly reasonable.”

“I mean, maybe,” you respond, a little too quickly. “If there were just… more specifics? Like, about the positioning. The angle, or where —” You take a quick breath. “Never mind.”

“And exactly how would you clarify it?”

“I’d probably just… add another line,” you say. “Like, specify that her hips are lower, or that her weight is shifted forward so her center of gravity is closer to his. Just so it’s clear what’s actually happening.”

He doesn’t say anything right away and when his eyes flick forward again, they look a little different beneath the dark of the sky, the blue of them deepened into something richer. A little less straightforward, you think. Lapis held in low light, saturated in silver strips and a little too pretty.

You watch as his tongue drags across his lower lip, the briefest glimpse of moisture highlighting the subtle contours and fine, shallow ridges of texture there.

“If you’re that concerned with accuracy,” he murmurs, “I’m sure there’s ways to run a practical demonstration.”

You have a hard time understanding what he means by that and when your mind does attempt to furnish the words with imagery, you have to recoil from your own thoughts.

Does he mean with him?

No, surely not, that is not where he wanted this conversation to go, and besides, that interpretation feels reckless, egotistical even, considering he is almost certainly saying it in the most neutral, solution-driven sense possible.

If that’s what he’s saying at all. He might not be. You can’t tell.

He is offering a suggestion for you.

You are the one making it weird.

“Oh. Well, it’d probably end up being more complicated than it’s worth. I’d need a controlled setup, probably multiple attempts, and at that point it’s less a demonstration and more a full reconstruction.”

A muscle feathers along his jaw as he tips his face towards the moon-lit sky. He seems to do that a lot. Like he’s appealing to some higher power for fortitude to deal with you. Or maybe not you specifically, which would be preferable, expect it does feel rather like you are the central to the current crisis, you just aren’t sure how.

Then he exhales a small laugh, thin with disbelief, and shakes his head once. 

“You’re right,” he says, voice deadpan. “Clearly I wasn’t thinking this through. Practicality first.” He glances pointedly at his watch. “It’s late. I’ll give you a ride home.”

You accept his offer without arguing, you’d be a fool not to, and trail him out toward the parking lot. A step behind, then a half step, then back again. You can’t quite decide on the appropriate proximity.

When you reach the row of cars, you realize you’ve never seen his before.

It’s nice. Grey, practical, a four-door SUV that screams fiscal responsibility and weather-appropriate footwear, a vehicle with divorced-dad energy so specific you can practically invent the rest of the man around it: patient at youth soccer, quietly resentful in a grocery store parking lot, pretending not to be wounded by logistical disappointments. 

The interior only deepens the impression. It is clean, but not in a forbidding way, not scrubbed of personality.

There is a toy in the cupholder, a crumpled napkin tucked into the side compartment, a few fast-food receipts scattered near the floor like the residue of a life conducted at speed.

It feels lived in, which is somehow more intimate than if it had been spotless.

It is, disconcertingly, human. More human than you expected from a man who often carries himself like a sealed document. 

Nice, you think again, and then, unhelpfully, him, the two notions beginning to blur together before you can stop them.

It’s a relatively quiet drive to start. The radio tuned to some Catholic station it must have picked up nearby, murky and hard to decipher, while streetlights drift past in bands of orange and green, staining the inside of the car with color and then taking it back.

“Javadi really recommended that?” Frank asks suddenly, piercing the silence.

“Yeah,” you admit, then wince almost immediately. “Well, sort of. I mean, I probably should not make it sound like she shoved it into my hands in some kind of corrupting-the-youth campaign. She mentioned it, but I was already curious. It was not not my idea.” You glance down, suddenly very interested in your own hands. “I’ve just been trying to do a little research, I guess.”

His fingers tap once against the steering wheel.

“And what, specifically, are you hoping to learn?”

Your mouth presses thin for a second. You’re not sure if you should continue.

“I was mostly just trying to get a better sense of... how certain things work in real life,” you say, picking each word carefully. “As opposed to in theory. Or in whatever version of reality people usually pretend is self-explanatory.”

He says nothing at first. Then through grit teeth: “You mean because no one’s explained it to you?”

You glance over, caught a little off guard by the question. “Well, not in any useful sense.”

His jaw flexes. 

“And the alternative,” he says slowly, “was assigned reading.”

You wince. “When you phrase it like that, it does sound bleak.”

“When I phrase it like that, it sounds like you’re trying to teach yourself something most people learn by experience.”

“Well,” you mumble, “yes. More or less.”

The light changes and he brakes, the red wash from the signal pouring through the windshield and across his face, tinting his skin rose-gold.

He screws his eyes shut for a brief second, hands drawing tighter on the wheel before he exhales.

“In that case,” he says, opening his eyes again, “I’m not entirely convinced that’s the most reliable educational resource.”

“Why?” you ask, with enough sincere confusion to make it clear you are not arguing so much as requesting clarification. 

The light turns green.

“Because it’s not source material. It’s entertainment.” His tone stays level, but only just. “It takes whatever is most dramatic, most flattering, most appealing, and presents it like it’s standard. It leaves out the parts that are inconvenient or unsexy, which means if you treat it as educational, you’re going to come away with a very distorted sense of how any of it actually works.”

“I guess that makes sense,” you say. “There were definitely sections where I kept thinking, surely that cannot be how that happens. Or at least not without significantly more preparation, flexibility, or orthopedic intervention than the text was willing to acknowledge.”

“So I gathered.”

You fall quiet after that, though not for lack of further questions. In fact the opposite is true, because now he has accidentally positioned himself as a person with knowledge of how sex works.

But that would be inappropriate on at least six different levels. 

He is driving you home as a favor, not volunteering to become some kind of after-hours consultant on the mechanics of sex, and there is no universe in which asking for elaboration would make you seem anything other than catastrophically unwell.

You almost ask him anyway. 

But before you can make what would almost certainly be the worst possible decision available to you tonight, the car slows, turns, and then stops. 

You stare at the windshield, disoriented by the fact that you are suddenly at your apartment.

“Right,” you say, gathering your bag with the abrupt, clumsy movements of someone trying to recover from her own thoughts. “Thank you. For the ride.”

He gives a brief nod, one hand still resting on the wheel. “It was no trouble.”

You do not believe that for even a second. Still, you murmur goodnight and let yourself out, hurrying inside with as much dignity as can be salvaged after a conversation like that.

A couple days later, you’re sitting in the breakroom with your head propped in your palm, devoting a frankly heroic amount of effort to not drop face-first into the laminate.

You are exhausted, which is surely unrelated to the fact that you stayed up too late conducting what can only be described as independent research.

There is, it turns out, an astonishing amount of positions.

More than seems necessary, honestly. Far too many names. Far too many diagrams. So many that appear to require either exceptional upper body strength or a level of mutual coordination that feels statistically unlikely in the average civilian population. 

Some are perfectly straightforward. Many are not. Several seem just down-right wrong.

The door opens and you glance up, prepared to offer some vague nod of recognition to whoever has come to interrupt your private collapse. 

Langdon.

“Oh,” you say, straightening a little too quickly. “Hi, Dr. Langdon.”

That seems to be your automatic response to his presence.

His eyes narrow. “Rough morning?”

You give a small shrug. “M’fine.”

“You’ll have to excuse my skepticism.” He drags the chair across from you and sits.

“Just stayed up too late.” 

You hope that doesn’t inspire follow-ups.

He slides something across the table toward you. A book. You stare at the cover. Then at him. 

“This,” he says, tapping two fingers once against the cover, “is at least designed to explain things.”

Slowly, as if touching it too fast might make this more real, you pick it up and turn it over.

The back is dense with tidy paragraphs about desire, arousal, and the science of how women’s bodies actually work, all written in the reassuring language of expertise, which would be comforting if your pulse were not currently behaving like it had something to hide.

“That’s… unexpectedly thoughtful,” you murmur. “Thank you.”

“Don’t make too much of it.”

“I won’t,” you say, which is a lie so poorly constructed it barely qualifies as one.

You are, in fact, almost certain to make too much of it later, probably in bed, probably while staring at the ceiling. 

Then the door opens again. You nearly jump. You pull the book against your chest like you are protecting classified material. Langdon’s eyes narrow a fraction.

Garcia steps inside a second later, pauses, and looks between the two of you.

“...Am I interrupting something weird?” she asks.

You stand so quickly the chair legs scrape against the floor.

“Nope,” you say. “Not at all. Nothing weird. Not even slightly.” You clutch the book tighter. “I do, however, suddenly need to go be elsewhere. For work-related reasons. Very legitimate ones.” You nod once. “Okay. Bye.”

It’s late when you finally start to read the book Langdon gave you. Your first mistake, really. You have to be up in four hours. Four.

But the book turns out to be more useful than expected. It has information. Real information. Terminology and diagrams and explanations that move in a sequence a human brain can follow, one thing leading intelligibly to the next instead of that gauzy, vague, everyone-just-knows-what-to-do, magical event nonsense.

And this all should, theoretically, be enough to satisfy you.

Except every answer you get splits open into three more questions, hydra-style, the whole thing multiplying the second you think you have a grip on it.

And yes, sometimes Google is enough. But sometimes it is not.

Too broad, too contradictory, too many tabs open at once, too many Reddit posts written by men with misplaced confidence.

So now you are sitting on your bed staring at your phone, typing a message, deleting it, retyping it, deleting it again. Because this is weird. It is weird to text him.

But then again, he did hand you the book.

He did, in a very real sense, amplify this situation. And maybe giving you additional reading material counts as tacit approval for further questions. A follow-up. Continuing education.

You hit send.

hi dr. langdon. sorry. i have a question about the book!

It takes only a couple seconds for him to answer.

Go ahead.

You sit up so fast the book slides off your leg and drops onto the bedspread with a soft thump.

You stare at the screen.

You expected eventuality, a response tomorrow morning maybe, sometime after sunrise, sometime under the polite cover of daylight when everybody involved could collude in pretending this was a normal academic exchange and not you texting a senior resident after dark about sex-adjacent material like you were requesting clarification on electrolyte imbalance.

You glance at the clock and frown.

What is he even doing up?

Surely you didn’t wake him. You cannot imagine he sleeps with his ringer turned up loud enough for that. No, he feels like a phone-on-silent, notifications-curated, emergency-contacts-only kind of man.

You spend four minutes composing the question. You send six words.

what does “building sensation” actually mean?

Need more context than that.

You photograph the page. You send it. You put your phone face down on the quilt and do not look at it for a full minute.

When you finally make yourself turn the phone over, he’s answered.

It’s the physiological buildup to orgasm. Increased blood flow, heightened sensitivity, pelvic muscle tension. Sustained and constant stimulation. The sensation compounds on itself.

Your thumb catches idly on the hem of your pajama shorts, worrying the fabric back and forth while you stare at the screen. It takes a long amount of time to realize you’re doing it. You stop. Then start again without meaning to, fingertips slipping under the edge to press against your thigh. 

is consistency about location or pressure or both? the book implies they're interchangeable.  

Both. Generally location first, then pressure. If you keep changing where you’re touching, it’s harder to build anything. If the location is consistent but the pressure is erratic, same problem. They’re related, but not interchangeable.

Your free hand has drifted north to the waistband of your shorts, thumb pressing little crescent moons into overheated skin. Almost feverish.

Location first. 

An unfortunate instruction to receive while being aware of the exact location in question, muted now by two thin layers of cotton.

You should stop there. Obviously.

You should set the phone down, turn off the lamp, go to sleep, and revisit all of this in the morning when you are less suggestible. 

Instead your hand keeps moving, slow enough that you can perhaps pretend you have not consciously decided anything, slipping lower until it hovers over your underwear, where your clit presses back against the fabric. Swollen. And then lower than that, wet.

That startles you more than anything. From what, exactly? A sex manual? A few texts? Him?

No. That last one is inadmissible. Wildly inappropriate.

So you drag your mind back to the book instead, using it as a kind of corrective, something technical to blunt that he is, however indirectly, implicated in this. 

Start with indirect stimulation. Let the body acclimate. Don’t rush the thing. Let the thing, apparently, arrive on its own like a skittish woodland creature you are trying not to scare off.

Fine. Whatever. 

You press your thumb down and make a circular motion, sucking in a breath so sharply it almost hurts, mostly because the sensation is immediate and strange and good. You wouldn’t say overwhelming. Though maybe you would. You can’t think straight. Surprising, then. Concentrated.

Like pressing a bruise, except the complete inverse of that, if they lit up instead of aching. It makes you want to do it again.

So you do.

Small circles. Experimental. Testing the waters.

And it’s not like this is technically new. You have tried before.

But before was rushed and graceless and was the sort of thing done half-curiously and abandoned quickly, with no patience for your own body.

You were raised sheltered, and beyond that, serious. Preoccupied with things that seemed more pressing, more worthy of your attention, as though this part of yourself could be indefinitely postponed without consequence. 

You pick the phone back up with your unoccupied hand.

okay. that makes sense.

You stare at it, dissatisfied. Too final. Too capable of ending the conversation. You add another line before you can overthink yourself out of it.

and if the sensation is building, when are u supposed to switch? like to inner stimulation, i mean. or are you not supposed to unless what you’re already doing stops working?

The typing bubble appears instantly.

You don’t have to switch. That’s the first thing.

External stimulation is usually more important, especially early on. Inner stimulation is optional, not a required next step.

Little gasps keep escaping you as you refine the motion, not changing much, just enough pressure to sharpen it, back arching into the mattress.

It feels good. You don’t remember it ever feeling this good.

Maybe because before did not involve a very attractive doctor explaining your own body back to you in real time.

It is getting harder to text. Harder to think in complete sentences. Still, you manage, so if it’s working, is it better to not change anything? even if it starts feeling a lot more sensitive?

Your phone starts ringing.

You freeze when Frank's name flashes across the screen.

For a moment you can only stare. Your pulse jumps in your throat, fluttering there like something trapped, and then you are yanking your hand from your shorts and grabbing for the phone with fingers that suddenly seem to belong to someone much less coordinated than you.

“Hi —,”

“What are you doing?”

“What do you mean?” you ask, though your voice already sounds guilty, chest rising and falling unevenly. “I’m — nothing. I’m just reading.”

“You’re not a very good liar.”

You frown at the dark ceiling. “I hate the confidence with which you say things.”

“It’s usually earned.”

You make a face at that, even though he cannot see it.

“I wasn’t prepared for a pop quiz,” you mutter. “You called out of nowhere.”

“A call seemed appropriate,” he says through the soft buzz of static.

“Why?”

Your whole body feels keyed up now, strung too tight, humming with a surplus of energy like you have been plugged into the wall and simply left there to glow.

It's hard to keep still under the blankets. Harder with his voice in your ear, that low grain of it roughened by the hour, touched with that tired edge that makes him feel closer than he is. He sounds warm. He sounds half-undone.

You can picture him without trying. In bed. Hair rumpled from sleep or from his hand shoved through it one too many times, one stray piece fallen near his eyes. Maybe in pajamas. Maybe not. Either option is equally disruptive. You brain offers a shirt pushes up a little, one arm behind his head, a strip of stomach, a line of hair disappearing into plaid boxers.

You shift on the mattress. Your hand trails back down your front, fingers resuming their place on your underwear.

“Because your last text didn’t read like a theoretical question,” he says. “I wanted to hear whether I was right.”

The words move through you, like he has reached through the phone and pressed a hand flat to your lower stomach.

“And were you?”

Your hips shift on the mattress again, angling into your own touch.

You bite your lip around the small throb of pleasure that follows.

“Yeah. I was.” His voice comes through coarser now, the line fuzzing around it, but not enough to hide the change. “And if I’m hearing you correctly, you haven’t stopped.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“...maybe.”

There's a brief pause on the line. You hear the rustle of him moving, before he speaks again. “Tell me exactly what you're doing.”

“I’m, uh…” You mouth goes dry. “I mean, you know.”

“I can’t tell you what to do if you won’t tell me what you’re doing,” he says. “You need to be specific.” 

You swallow.

“I’m touching over my underwear,” you admit finally, the words coming out hushed and a little uneven. “Just with my thumb. I’m not really… doing anything more than that.”

A soft exhale crackles through the phone.

“That’s good,” he murmurs. “Tell me if it feels good.”

Your lashes flutter at the words. Your thumb keeps tracing the same spot, a little more rhythmically now, and every so often your hand falters when the sensation catches unexpectedly bright, a live wire under your skin.

Flashing hotter and hotter and hotter until you can barely stand it.

Your thighs draw in on instinct, then ease apart again, restless, unable to decide whether they are trying to hold the feeling or escape it.

“Mhm.” It’s all you can manage. 

You start to picture him again. Existing in real time in the dark on the other end of the line now.

It sends the throbbing in your cunt up tenfold, sharp little bursts of color flying behind your eyelids, green and orange and something almost gold.

You use your imagination to conjure up the image of him doing the same. Him with the phone in one hand and the other moving in lazy unhurried strokes around his cock, like this is no great strain for him, like he is as controlled in private as he is everywhere else.

You wonder what it looks like. His cock. Probably big and pink and veiny.

You know, rationally, that he is probably not doing that at all. He is probably just lying there in the dark, listening, talking, being composed for both of you.

But it is a nice thought anyway. More than nice, really. Your body answers it before you can caution it otherwise, your clit going heavier and more swollen, as you move to touch yourself without the barrier of your panties. It’s more sensitive that way. And your whole lower half seems to lean vainly into your own hand, practically preening toward the touch.

“Now I’m, um, touching myself directly.”

“Alright. Want you to try something. Can you do that for me?”

“Yeah,” you say quickly. A little too eager. “I can.”

“Good girl.” The praise makes your stomach tighten. “Want you to slide two fingers into yourself a little. Not all the way, just enough to get them wet, okay? Then bring them back to your clit and keep using your thumb, or your fingers if that feels easier. Same pace as before.”

You nod even though you know he can’t see it and slip two fingers down, enough to feel the sticky warmth of yourself, coating your digits.

You bring it back up, smearing it over your nub.

“Oh,” you mumble breathily.

“Yeah?” he teases quietly. “That better?”

“A lot.”

“Good. It’s easier like that. Less friction. If you’re getting more sensitive, too much drag starts working against you.”

He’s right. He’s always right. You feel a little strange and floaty now, like your whole body has narrowed down to one incandescent point.

“How do you know all this?” you prod.

A pause. Then, “Experience.”

“Right. That.” Another circle, another spark of pleasure down your spine. “I don’t exactly have that.”

“I gathered.”

Something in his tone makes you go a little still. Not enough to stop, but your hand falters, tightening around a thought before you can even identify it.

He notices immediately. He has some terrifying sonar for you specifically, some private frequency calibrated to every tiny shift in your breathing, every dropped beat, every half-second hesitation.

“Hey,” he says pointedly. “Don’t get in your head now. Never said it was a bad thing. Keep going. Think about something else.”

“Such as?” you whisper.

There’s the sound of breathing from the phone before he answers, “that’s up for you to decide.”

You suck in a sharp breath, squirming as you adjust phone closer to your ear

“Can you just… keep talking to me?”

There’s a huff on the other end, almost a laugh. “That’s not very specific.”

“I know.” You’re sure you’re not making much sense right now. “I just — don’t stop. Please. Just wanna hear you say anything.”

He’s quiet for a second, like he’s trying to decide what, exactly, you’re asking for. The problem is, you’re not entirely sure either.

You only know there’s a strange, tightening warmth low in your stomach, something gathering there, and his voice seems to nurture it instead of breaking it apart.

You hear something clang on the other end of the phone.

“Fuck. Okay. First need you to breathe, okay? You're tensing up, I can hear it. Relax your legs.”

You try to do as you're told.

In. Out. In. Out.

Each breath feeding the whole thing oxygen, driving you nearer and nearer to the vanishing point until your eyes threaten to roll back and your body feels like on extended nerve.

“I —” A breath. “Sorry, I just —” Another one. “Frank I think I'm — I'm close, I think, I don't — It's really intense and I don't know what I'm —” You lose the thought entirely. “I just don't know what I'm supposed to do when it starts feeling like this. Do I stop, or —”

“Shit baby, you've never gotten there before? Not even —”

“No,” you manage.

“Oh, poor thing.”Quiet. Almost to himself. “Okay. ‘S okay. Don't stop. I need you to stay with me and just let it happen, can you do that?”

“I think —”

“Don't think,” he cuts you off. “For once in your life, don't think. Just feel it.”

Something in you finally gives.

You feel all of it at once.

Your orgasm peaks so fast it almost feels like losing power everywhere at the same time, every room going dark together, and your back comes off the pillows and your hand presses harder before you even mean for it to and a gasp tears out of you, high and helpless and so unlike anything you have ever heard from yourself that for a second it barely sounds like yours.

“That’s it,” Frank says, low in your ear.

It rolls. That's the only word for it.

It rolls outward from your pussy in a slow, stunned series of tremors moving through your thighs, your spine, your chest, each wave its own distinct thing and yet not distinct at all, each one its own event, its own brief undoing.

You cannot do anything except lie there and take it, receive it as it passes through you, because there is nothing else available to you now, no other function left online, no thought, no dignity, no language, only this long bright aftershock and your body answering it whether you understand it or not.

Your breathing takes a while to come back to anything recognizable.

At first it is just air dragged in and let back out. Sweat has glued a few strands of hair to your forehead. Your hand has gone slack.

“You still with me?”

That is when your brain comes back. All at once. Hard. Fast.

Because now you are not just a body coming down from an orgasm.

Now you are yourself again. And Frank Langdon just talked you through getting off.

Frank Langdon, your coworker. Frank Langdon, your superior. Frank Langdon, whom you have just used as a combined anatomy instructor, practical demonstration guide, and live sex education resource.

“Yes, yeah, sorry.” You swallow, wipe at your forehead with the heel of your hand. “I'm here.”

“Glad to hear it,” he says. “Your sensitivity's going to be elevated for a minute, so just let your muscles relax and let your breathing even out. If you feel shaky, that's normal. If you heart's racing, also normal. Get some water when you can. Sit up slowly if you're going to move.”

“Okay,” you murmur, because he sounds so certain that for a second it is easy to borrow some of it. You try to unclench by degrees, thighs, stomach, shoulders, one thing at a time. “I am a little shaky, which is good to know is normal and not, like, a sign that I’ve accidentally broken something."

“No,” he says, and there is that low note of dry amusement under it now, just enough to catch. “You didn’t break anything. If you had, trust me, we’d be having a very different conversation.”

“Right, no, I know. Though sex-related injuries are not exactly unheard of. Do you remember that girl in the ER who had a condom stuck in her for over two months and didn't realize it? That would suck."

"Mm. It would," he agrees. "Protection is important. Equally important to make sure it actually comes back out with you."

You let out a small giggle at that and shift on the bed, drawing yourself up a little slower this time, careful like he told you to bed. The quilt bunches under your legs.

A quiet opens up. And it might be comfortable if it with anyone else. But it is not with anyone else.

You break first.

“So what happens now?” you ask, trying for light and missing by a little. “Do we pretend this was a totally normal educational exchange and never speak of it again?”

“I don’t think you’re capable of pretending that,” he says.

You flush hot all over.

“And you are?”

A pause.

“No.” The room goes still around you. You wait for him to elaborate. He doesn’t, but he does say: “You should get some sleep.”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Probably.”

You have to be up in three hours now. Have to see him in four.

Another beat. Neither of you hangs up.

Then, very quiet, very even, he says, “Next time, ask sooner.”

“Next time?”

“If you’re going to use me as a reference source,” he says, all dry composure again, though now it feels a little put on, “I’d prefer a more reasonable hour.”

Your cheeks heat with the power of a thousand suns.

“Oh, well, Dr. Langdon, I think —”

“Goodnight.”

The line clicks dead.

You lie there staring into the dark, phone still pressed to your ear, and understand with awful, perfect clarity that this has not ended anything at all.

More gaps in your knowledge.

And you really hate gaps.

A/N: this has been sitting in my drafts 4 ten thousand yrs!!!!!!!! thinking about writing a part two but we shall see. anyway thanks for reading!! love ya always

YOU CAN FIND MY FRANK LANGDON MASTERLIST HERE

[butimdaredevil]

is the party still here?

[classylady-1]

[gentilllefille]

[wonderbatwayne]

It’s missing my found family hours

[livingforkastle]

the soft "yeah?" when she utters his name—the visible, bare restraint he was holding until she starts to pull away.....i can't

[butimdaredevil]

His anthem btw

[lunisvfx]

A first look at bullseye in season 3 of daredevil born again

[xxdrixx]

@darlingshane ONE LAST KILL COUNTDOWN | Day 22: "Workout" The Punisher Season 1 Episode 07 - Crosshairs

[roseannem88]

This is very sensitive topic for me

[butimdaredevil]

Please no

[dexgirlfriend]

fbi!ben poindexter has this bad habit of referring to you as his. it comes off weird to outsiders, occasionally, because you obviously aren't an object to be owned; you know, though, he doesn't mean it like that. in his mind, it's an equivalent exchange—he's as much yours as you are his.

my girl, he introduces you to colleagues sometimes. my perfect baby, he breathes into the space between you at night, sweat-slicked chest pressed to yours. so good to me, for me. in the mornings, while cooking breakfast: my pretty girl sleep well? mine, mine, mine.

and then, other nights, he's begging you to say it back, pleading for you to acknowledge that he belongs to only you, pressing your hands to his neck 'til your fingers wrap around it and euphoria fills his veins and you lean down to kiss him and call him yours. when he's bored, maybe at the checkout queue in the grocery store, or waiting in his car at a red light, he presses kisses to each of your knuckles, murmuring something against them you never quite seem to catch—i'm yours. my benjamin poindexter, you say once, in passing, and he's always hated his name, but he's just so flustered, cheeks flushed the prettiest pink, and just this one time, just this once, he might be okay with it.

or he overhears you talking to your friends when he's working in the other room—he doesn't mean to, really, he's just attentive, a good boyfriend—and you say you don't know how you got so lucky; you don't deserve your beautiful boy, and his brain short-circuits, because how dare you say that first part, and what did you call him? you don't make the correlation, though, that night, when he's somehow even more devoted to you than usual, telling you how obsessed with you he is, his gorgeous, gorgeous girl. must be a little pent up, you think, but you don't know how wrong you are.

after the events of s3 you don't expect him to come home, of course not. who walks out of that?

your boyfriend, apparently. much stronger than the last time you saw him, twice as built—you don't know what to expect from ddba!dex. he's obviously different, because that shit back there changes you, and not always for the better, right?

and yes, he's still your boyfriend, whether you're single or dating someone or you have a ring on your finger—not that it matters much, because if there is someone, he'll take care of them before he comes back home to you. neither of you will have to worry about them anymore.

and you're his girl, after all; even if you're scared or horrified or disgusted by his actions, you'll find yourself completely uncaring by the end of the night, when he's holding you in a headlock, firm bicep pressing into your airway and his chest pushed up right against your back. you're in tears, overwhelmed by everything you're feeling, everything you know is wrong (he's an escaped convict, for heaven's sake), and his breathless words are low and urgent in your ear—who do you belong to, c'mon, say it, that's right, my good girl—

and maybe he's a little scared that you'll still leave him after this, maybe he's gone too far. but you're lying under him, boneless, and his arms are braced on either side of you, and you push yourself up on your elbows (with considerable effort) and say, if he's still really yours, won't he kiss you again? and he smiles the biggest he has in a while, because he knows he won—and with you, he always will.

hi im back. sorry. i hate myself too. this man will be the death of me. 0.6k words

[p1ttlings]

have i watched daredevil or daredevil: born again or the punisher? two episodes of born again and nothing else! have i touched the bullseye x reader tag? no! did i watch a tiktok of someone analyzing that despite being a killer, he positions his hands loosely and carefully around women because of the power in them and he doesn’t want to seem threatening to them and it sent me down a rabbit hole of videos of him being obsessed with a woman and now im obsessed with him being obsessed with me and stalking me? well yes!!  warnings . . . smut, mdni!!!! 18+++, stalking, masturbation, voyeurism?? loosely??, stalking, obsessive bullseye what’s new

—

dex who gets so hard while he’s stalking you >_<  

it’s innocent, he told himself. nothing crazy. he’s just watching over you!! you’re too pretty to be working so late at night!!! you smile too big at the gross, fat men you have to serve!!!! he’s only watching out for the pretty waitress! that’s all it is! he’s evening out the scales by taking care of a pretty thing like you!!!!! he can go out and do evil and kill the little men for the powerful men and, still covered in blood, he’s watching you, taking care of you. he’s doing bad but the good cancels it out or whatever. 

he felt disgusting the first time he touched himself as he watched you. his hands had tightened around the steering wheel to his classic sedan, nothing worth remembering, completely unassuming. all you had done was bend over to feed a street cat. you were wearing baggy jeans, nothing that showed off your figure. and the act was one of kindess. the good of your heart. and yet, you bent over and all he could picture was you bouncing on his cock. he wasn’t sure how he multitasked. but one hand was on his steering wheel and the other was stroking his cock as he followed you. he felt so guilty afterwards :( he was sitting in his cum, cock still twitching from his fist and he forced himself to look away from you. he doesn’t deserve it anymore. 

but he was back at it the next day. and the next. and the next. he kept following you. kept watching you. kept digging more into you. what you like. what you don’t like. hobbies. favorite music and literature and the games you have downloaded on your phone for when you’re bored on the bus. he tried to fight it but cloning your phone and laptop were too fucking easy. why are you so fucking easy? why would you leave your laptop AND phone at your spot in the library? this is why you need him. you’re, for a lack of better words, quite dumb for a girl pursuing higher education. but it’s okay!!! you have him!!!!!

he tries so hard for so long to not touch himself while watching you. he couldn’t focus too hard on you or his jeans would tighten. but it’s so hard. everything you do is so tantalizing to him. if he’s watching you between the books at the library? the way your fingers turn a page, he can imagine them wrapped around his cock while he begs you to let him cum. the way you bite your bottom lip, he can imagine biting them after a long night of love making, kiss swollen. even the way you’re hunched over, posture TERRIBLE, he can picture his hand in your hair, ass bouncing against him, back arched forcing your face to his, not in a harsh manner, never! to whisper sweet nothings in your ear and ask how good he’s doing with you. 

while you’re walking home and he’s following?? even worse. that’s usually when he gives in, in the privacy of the car that he stole to follow you. he’s used to people doing weird and gross and embarrassing things when they think no one’s watching. you often skip over cracks, jumping over them like you truly believe in the stupid superstition. the way your tits bounce? sometimes the shirts are tight and he can see the spillage of your tits from your bra, you wear the wrong size sometimes, he can tell. when it’s big t-shirts, he can’t see as much but he can picture them bouncing as you ride him still.

you tripped over a piece of lifted pavement one night and fell on your hands and knees. that drove him crazy. you stayed in that position, afraid to look up, embarrassed despite the fact that there’s no one around. well, except for him. and he could picture pounding into you from behind, back arched and gripping onto the sheets. 

and you finally pulled off your arms and just sat on your knees, looking up at the night sky as if cursing whatever god is up there. and that was more gasoline to the fire. he could picture you just like that, using those gorgeous eyes of yours to look up at him so sweetly as you pawed at his cock through his jeans. could picture your eyes teary eyed as he fucked your mouth.

and despite the pavement being gross and dirty, you drop yourself onto the ground, as if giving up on whatever this is. you lie flat on your back, in a starfish position. then he pictures hovering over you, noses touching, eyes on each other as he fucks you in a mated position, hips pushing so deep inside of you that his vision blanks into a static screen. 

then his vision does white out because he was pumping his cock the entire time. and he knows he can’t go any longer without officially meeting you. he knows everything about you. knows what will get you to fall for him, it’s simple. it has to be. he plans how and when he’ll get you deeper into his life and nothing and no one will stop him!! cheers!!!!!!!!