i have such a hard time engaging with the pitt discourse, because some people fail to realize that people and relationships are allowed to and should be complex.
robby can be a good doctor and a good mentor, while also falling short in some ways — unfortunately, in the 10th episode, it being his own misogyny and self doubt bleeding through. it will never justify speaking to your residents and coworkers that way, however, it does speak levels on how he views his own anxiety and self worth.
langdon can be recovering drug addict, someone who is actively working on himself, while also fully being in the wrong for stealing medications and mistreating santos. being a drug addict does not excuse that sort of behavior. it does explain it. he deserves grace and time, while also being criticized for his decisions.
santos is intelligent, hardworking, and driven. she can also be pushy and unforgiving. she doesn’t owe langdon an apology for turning him in to robby. she, in turn, doesn’t owe him forgiveness for belittling her. trying to push him into a corner and mess up, making it very clear in front of patients of her disdain for him, though, is not professional. that is a matter that should be dealt with away from them.
let these characters be complex and messy and human.
random mother’s day melwump ficlet… not totally happy with it so idk if i’ll post on ao3 but enjoy ⭐️
gen rating, warnings: infidelity, scumbag frank, melpreg affair baby, probably ooc probs delete later
inspired by this fanart and its iconic caption: “she can't take that baby ANYWHERE it's OBVIOUS who the daddy is”
His phone rings at around 11pm that night. The caller ID is conspicuous and vague: “Work”
Abby is in the bathroom, getting ready for bed. He casts a sidelong glance at the door, open just a crack. He can see the steam from her shower has fogged up the mirror, smell her hair products and lotion. She’s doing her skin-care, he can tell by the strange light that bounces off the mirror. Her LED-light therapy mask that he had told her was nonsense and reminded him of Silence of the Lambs. Like with most things, she didn’t consider Frank’s input.
He answers the phone.
“…Doctor Langdon?” Her voice on the other end of the line is small, tearful.
Immediately, his heart drops into his ass. He gets up, walking into the dark hallway, down the stairs. If Abby asks, he’ll tell her the dog had to go out.
“You okay?” He asks, trying to keep his voice even over the phone. He knows she needs someone steady, someone to calm her down. A firm hand. A guiding presence.
“Um…” She sniffs audibly, she sounds terrible, like she’s been crying for some time. He hears her take a big, shuddering breath. His palms start to sweat, “…Frank?”
Shit, his first name? He should start planning how he should get to the hospital, what he needs to tell Abby in order to leave. Got called in, some kind of emergency. That’s sort of what this was, anyway.
“Yeah, baby, I’m right here. What’s wrong, is everything okay? Do you need me?”
She’s silent for a long moment, then she says, quiet as a mouse: “I had the baby.”
Frank almost drops the phone. A cold wave washes over him and for a moment, he feels genuinely woozy, like he might pass out.
Briefly, he imagines how it would play out: He’d go down, hit his head on the kitchen counter on the way down. Abby wouldn’t bother to check where he was until she came down to make breakfast for the kids. By then, Scout would’ve devoured half of him out of sheer spite. Paramedics pronounce him dead on the scene.
He takes a deep breath. He has to get it together, has to be a man with a plan, because at the end of the day, this was all his fault.
“Mel— honey,” He wills his voice not to come out too sharply, knowing he has to handle her like a prey animal. She’ll bolt if she gets scared, “Why didn’t you call me? Is— is the baby okay? Are you okay? I thought we decided…” The words I’d be there die on his tongue. He can’t be angry with her. No matter what, he can’t be angry with her.
“Um,” She’s waffling again, struggling for words, and once again Frank feels like he’s had the wind knocked out of him, suddenly overwhelmingly concerned that something had gone horribly wrong. He rushes over to the front door to get his shoes on, his flannel pajama pants the only thing that makes him pause. She sniffs again, “It’s okay. I mean, we’re okay. I’m… I’m so sorry!”
He stops, one tennis shoe half on. Pitifully, she starts to cry in earnest. He curses himself for everything all at once. He wants to pull the phone away from his ear, listening to her breaks his heart, but he doesn’t, because it’s what he deserves. He was the one who took a naïve, trusting girl looking for a mentor, a teacher, and he took advantage of that. Plied her with praise and got her comfortable, made her feel special, and then he fucked her. Typical.
And of course, she got pregnant.
Had carried his baby like a shameful secret under baggy hoodies until she was too big to hide it. And then she had to make up some excuse, some one-night stand. As if that was believable. Mel may as well have told everyone it was an immaculate conception, that would’ve been closer to the truth. He’d taken her and stained her, made her the target of rumors and bets and workplace drama. Sweet, well-meaning Mel who only wanted friends and connection and had found it in the worst place with someone who had used her all up and hadn’t even had the decency to leave his wife. The weight of what he’d done felt heavy, like the permanent strain on his lower back. He thought about OxyContin. Then, he tried to think about something else.
“It’s just— it was mother’s day, and everything, and I knew, um, you’d be with Abby and I really didn’t want to get you into any trouble, b—but— the thing is—“
She’s crying even harder now, big heaving sobs. He balances on one foot, nestling his phone into the crook of his shoulder so he can yank his shoe on the rest of the way, pajamas be damned.
“Honey, I would’ve done anything to be there with you, I swear to God— I’m sick to my stomach thinking about you there by yourself, seriously, I just need to see you, the baby, I—“
She cuts him off, “Frank. Listen.” Her voice suddenly goes a bit stern, although still thick with tears and snot.
“What? Is something wrong? Please, just tell me you’re okay, Mel. Is it your blood pressure? What’s wrong?”
“It’s just…” She takes another deep breath. He can hear some rustling in the room, maybe a nurse. Maybe Becca. Maybe it’s the baby, his baby that he hasn’t even met yet. His stomach turns.
“Frank…” She says again, voice so small, “I think we’re in really big trouble.”
His chest feels like it’s about to explode. He’s got both his shoes on now, and he’s shoving his stupid backpack with his phone charger, a water bottle, granola bars, anything he can grab, “Melissa. What does that mean? You’re killing me, here.” He’s pouring sweat.
“You’re coming, right?” She offers nothing to reassure him, which is fair, all things considering.
“Yes, baby. I’m coming right now. I’m going to run through every red light.”
“Well, please don’t do that— that’s a joke, right?”
“Yeah. Joke.” He’s lying.
“Then, um… you’ll see when you get here.”
In the end, he doesn’t make up any excuse for Abby at all. He just leaves her upstairs with her LED-mask on. There’s no time to do anything else but grab the keys and drive to the hospital, a familiar route which feels alien and bizarre at this time of night. Especially when he turns toward L&D instead of at the big, red EMERGENCY sign.
In his pajama pants and t-shirt, he signs in as a visitor with a nurse who definitely knows him but graciously pretends not to. With thin-lipped politeness, she leads him to Mel’s room.
He isn’t sure what to expect because he has no clue what happened, doesn’t know when she went into labor, whether she had a c-section or not. For all he knows, she had the baby two days ago and just needs a ride home. She didn’t have to tell him, but it would have been nice. But then again, a lot of things would be nice.
He’s relieved when he walks into the room that Mel looks healthy. She’s not extremely pale, no hemorrhaging (he’s checking boxes in his brain), no magnesium drip on her IV-pole, no FALL RISK bracelet on her wrist. She looks tired, her braid loose and hair falling into her face, eyes rimmed with dark circles and cheeks red from crying. She’s beautiful. His good, brave girl who had a baby all by herself. (She always did everything by herself).
He feels a bit stupid, looking at her as she holds their baby to her chest. He can’t see much, just a tuft of dark hair emerging from the nursery blanket. He felt this way with Tanner and Penny, too: stupid. What else is there to feel when Mel cradles the person that she made, that her body built and sustained from practically nothing. It’s enough to blow his fucking mind.
“Hi, honey,” He says as soon as the nurse leaves. She doesn’t look up until then, so wrapped up in her little bundle that the rest of the world is completely dead to her.
She blinks at him, as if startled to see him, “You’re here!” She says with a watery smile, not able to hide the look of relief on her face. She suddenly looks, to him, terribly young. Like a babysitter thankful to finally see the real grown-up pull into the driveway after a long day. It makes him feel slightly nauseated.
“In the flesh.” His arms feel numb. Maybe he’s having a heart attack. There’s a long moment of silence.
“Can I, uh, come in?” He’s hovering awkwardly near the door, feeling like he can’t move any further until Mel gives him permission. He’s been bad. To her, to everyone.
“Okay.” Her lower lip trembles, which makes his heart genuinely ache. He wants an EKG.
Slowly, carefully, he walks over to her side and sits down.
He doesn’t feel like he can touch her, so he doesn’t, he keeps his hands in his lap, but he does lean forward, trying to get a glimpse of the baby— their baby.
“We’re in really big trouble.” She repeats, just like she had over the phone, tilting the baby so he was curled up against her shoulder, her hand worrying at his back, patting rhythmically.
“I know,” He says, because they are, but he isn’t sure if they’re on the same page about why that is.
“It’s just— when you see him,” She sniffs, breaking his heart all over again.
“I’d like to see him, if that’s okay.” He’s thinking of every single thing that could be wrong with a baby’s face; skin conditions, vision problems, an extra eye, or something.
“…Alright.” She lets out a sharp breath that she's been holding, then carefully tilts the baby off of her shoulder and into Frank’s waiting arms.
The problem became immediately apparent.
“Oh.” He says, eyebrows shooting straight up as he observes the tiny, scrunched face of his son.
The nose, the eyebrows, the flop of dark hair, the chin— especially the tiny, dimpled chin.
Anyone who looked at this baby and knew him—hell, anyone who had walked past him in a hallway once— would know immediately that this baby belonged to him.
Not even Tanner, his twin in all but hair color, had looked as much like him as this baby did now. Any story Mel had made up, any fabricated one-night stand, was completely futile. From one look at this kid, there was no question about it.
“See?” She said, eyebrows knitting together with worry, hands flying up to rub at her swollen eyes, threatening to spill over with tears once again.
“Oh, baby,” He says gently, reaching up to tilt her little face upwards, bouncing the baby carefully on his knee to keep him calm, “You did such a good job. Look at him. I’m so proud of you. You’re so good, Mel. You’re such a good girl.”
Despite herself, Mel beamed, blinking back tears, “Really?”
“Really, baby.” He leaned forward and kissed her soundly on the head. They were in big, big trouble.
@kingdonmicrofic day 27: opalite | 266/266 | rating: e (sexual content, cumplay)
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah,” Mel breathes in response.
It takes a second for the world to stop spinning and for Frank to really focus and look down at Mel, who is now sitting back on her haunches, opalite beads of his own pleasure dotting across her perfect tits. In the moment, he blacked out and he’s grateful that he managed to only hit her chest and not her hair or her face or oh my god.
Some buried, caveman part of his brain lights up seeing the aftermath of their experiment, him all over her, deriving a sick pleasure from claiming her or something, while the other part of his brain starts spiraling about why he’s thinking that in the first place.
“It doesn’t feel as weird as I thought it would,” she pokes at a glob below her shoulder, smearing his cum around her bare skin, delightfully unaware of his inner turmoil. “Like I thought I’d dislike the texture of it more, but it’s sort of nice.”
After a second of pinching the iridescent liquid between her fingers, she beams up at him, “Was it good for you?”
“Was it—” Frank chokes. “Yeah baby, fuck, I just— I feel like an asshole right now?”
Mel frowns. “Why?”
“I feel bad that I like it. Like I’m being a guy about it. In a bad way”
“Well, that’s silly,” she tilts her head. “I asked for it. You delivered.” Frank watches her swipe another bead off her chest, bringing her finger to her mouth and licking and his brain shortcircuits. “I think you’re thinking too much.”
PTMC has implemented the new M.E.L. (Medical Evaluation Liaison) AI system. Frank is lonely.
AO3, Rated M, 4.5k words
This is a full version of my kingdon microfic post for day 22: connect. There is an accompanying S.A.M.I.R.A. piece, but no ETA on that one just yet.
PTMC INTERNAL SYSTEM // M.E.L.
Medical Evaluation Liaison v.2.0.4 | Authorized User: F.Langdon
SYSTEM: New session initialized. Connecting...
MEL: Good morning, Dr. Langdon. How may I assist with patient evaluation?
@kingdonmicrofic day twenty-seven: opalite - 266 words - infidelity, past addiction
captainscurvy25: I spend more money on my AP
I (41MM) spend more money on my AP (37SW) than my spouse (40MW). I don’t have to. Me and AP are both doctors. My spouse is a kindergarten teacher. She could stay at home, but she likes her job.
Last weekend was my 14th anniversary with my spouse and my 9th with the AP. I’m an ex-addict and I relapsed 9 years ago. My AP is my best friend and took me in when my wife kicked me out. One thing led to another.
The 14th anniversary is opal, so I bought an opal tennis bracelet for my wife. 9th is leather. I bought my AP a pair of Italian leather boots. The opal bracelet cost me like $200 and I imported the boots from Italy. Cost me over $1K.
My wife knows. She doesn’t stay for the kids (M13, F11, M4) because she knows I’d pay child support and the AP would be a great stepmom (she basically already is.) I think it’s to punish me. I was a shitty husband.
Whatever, I’m a doctor who spoils my mistress. Like I’m the first guy in the history of the world to do that.
snakesinmypants_78:
You buried the lede there. Like we’re all for infidelity here but come on. You’re an addict cheating on your kindergarten teacher wife with another doctor??? You had another kid in that time??? WAS a shitty husband??? Still are bucko. Who tf cares about how much money you spend on them you just wanna brag Dr. Dickhead [COMMENT DELETED BY MODERATOR]
captainscurvy25:
Ex-addict
frank langdon is the worlds most annoying partner probably and he wants attention ALL DAY. oh my god he's probably all up in ur business touchy feely (licky??? bitey??) and he's always up under you no matter what you're doing, impeding on your personal space and driving you up the wall
making dinner?? on a phone call???? brushing your teeth??? he's probably groping somewhere or biting your shoulder or staring at you incessantly until you can give him your undivided attention again
and he's always texting you some bullshit like "did you see the meme i sent you??????" or "i miss you do you miss me??" (you saw him ten minutes ago)
and while we're on the subject, abby made frank into a very well trained husband.
he's a wake-you-up-with-coffee man. he makes the bed while you brush your teeth in the morning. he probably cleans, fills, and puts everyone's water bottles in the fridge at night so they are ready in the morning. the kids lunchboxes are packed before bed. he carries in the groceries. he fills your gas tank every weekend and has the car washed regularly.
he probably hears you mention something you want once and then it appears in your doorstep within the next few days. complained about your nails chipping? there's money for it in your bank account, and what time did you want to go to the nail salon? he's going to drop you off. you have a headache? he's taking the kids to the park, go take a nap. bad day at work? he ordered your favorite dish from your favorite restaurant for dinner.
the best part, though? every now and then, when you give him the slightest bit of credit for it, he’ll try and play it off (“pssh, yeah, right!”) but he's also blushing and damn near kicking his feet at the praise.
thinking about supply closet sex w/ langdon but also post-rehab!frank who comes back less angry and really in need of a hug
idea stolen from my own post :)
cw: smut talk & fluff angry frank, written with afab reader in mind but doesn't need to be, discussion of sex in a supply closet, he's kind of a mean asshole before he gets therapized, fade-to-black smut, i had fun with this and i don't care if it's canon accurate or not
wc: ~ 1k
You know Franks tells.
You had come to understand them well in the months before he'd gone to rehab. He was angry, sometimes at nothing. Often at others. He would walk around ER, visibly ticking. You could hear the drumming of his fingertips against the counter at the nurses station from across the room and know.
It always went the same way. That sound, or his huff of frustration would clue you in. Then you'd wait to catch his gaze and that moment of confirmation before dipping off into whichever room was available.
If you were lucky, you'd get an empty room, but it was often a supply closet. Always dimly lit and devoid of any comfort. Not that there was much, anyway–not when he was in a mood like this.
He was never gentle. You never got that side of him. The door would barely be clicked shut behind you before you were smushed back up against it.
There was always a good thirty seconds where he'd try to do the full bit. A few good kisses before the situation would descend into chaos, and his mouth would veer off down your neck, or his hands slide up under your shirt.
He could try to be patient, but you both knew it was pointless. You'd kick your shoes away, and kick off your pants before he could ask, and get whisked off your feet in an instant.
When he was really pissed off, you'd find yourself folded over the shelving or an exam table, making desperate attempts to hold onto anything you possible could to counteract the sheer force of him.
Perhaps the best part, though, was hearing the way his tone changed more and more as he fucked you.
“Fucking-Robby, and his ego… always in my way. Always,” he'd start. Then a hand would twist itself into the back of your hiked up scrub top for more leverage.
He'd keep up like that for a bit, grumbling about anything and anyone, until he'd successfully gotten enough anger out to sober up and relax.
He'd lose his grip on your shirt, letting the new wrinkled-up material go. That hand would instead slide up, under the front of your shirt, holding your back against his chest to finish the job.
“I’m sorry, honey. I shouldn't be so rough with you,” he’d pant. “But you just take it so good. Always so good for me.”
With time, he knew what buttons to press to get exactly what he wanted. He'd learned that you'd finish faster when he'd hold you tighter or talk sweeter, and doing that would make you eager to jump at the next chance to do this again.
That was mostly correct. Today, with ten months between your last encounter and his return to work, there was a noticeable change in his demeanor.
He was kinder, and even a bit softer. Even when you'd been witness to moments that would have set him off previously, he simply did not react with the same anger. He was reasoning with people (even Robby) and making attempts to apologize.
From your spot behind the computer screen, you watch him wander across the ER floor. No anger, no clenched fists or jaw, but a kind of kicked puppy look that was entirely new to him.
He makes his way over, looking over his shoulder once as if to ensure no one is watching. He places his hands on the edge of the counter in front of you, but hesitates to say anything. You bite first.
“Hi,” you try. “You need something?”
He exhales.
“Ye- uh… maybe.”
Your brows furrow. “Is it something you can find in… the supply closet?”
“I think so,” he replies.
You nod, and click out of your tab on the computer before making your way there. As usual, he trails further behind, and a few minutes later enters the small space behind you.
When he presses the door shut behind him, there's no immediate jump to action. He waits, looking at you like he's unsure.
“I kinda thought you were over this,” you say.
“No. God, no. Definitely not.” He shakes his head.
You chuckle, feeling some relief in the answer. One step closes the gap between you, and you let your hands find his sides. His own hands, in a very unsure manner, find your arms. It's not a rejection, but a pause.
“I think I owe you an apology.”
Your head tilts.
“Why?”
“Because this,” he gestures between you, “got out of hand. I wasn't in my right mind. I think you deserve a lot better than how I treated you.”
“I think you're forgetting the part where I was a willing participant,” you explain.
A shadow of blush crosses his face, but he nods.
“Well, yeah. But I'm still sorry.”
“You are forgiven. And I really missed this.”
You slide your hands around him, and belly to belly, looking up at him, waiting for his next cue. It's not one you expect.
“Can we just… do this? For a little bit?”
“This? Hug?”
He nods. “If it's not weird.”
“No,” you shake your head.
Your limbs fall into place, comfortably snaked around him. You eventually find a settling point, your hands snaked up under the back of his shirt, his chin tucked against your shoulder, and you linger there for a while.
Eventually, you break the silence.
“I heard you and Robby had an actual conversation,” you say.
He huffs. “I made an attempt. He wasn't having it.”
You pull away enough to look up at him.
“Maybe you should just… let it all out. Get into it.”
Frank huffs, a hint of a smile on his face. “Yeah? Why would that be?”
He shuffles you further into the room, and you can't help but laugh.
“Maybe it will be good for you,” you play.
“Mhm. I'll just get really angry."
He lifts you off your feet, just enough to place you on the shelf behind you. Your legs instinctively wrap around him in the process.
thinking about supply closet sex w/ langdon but also post-rehab!frank who comes back less angry and really in need of a hug
idea stolen from my own post :)
cw: smut talk & fluff angry frank, written with afab reader in mind but doesn't need to be, discussion of sex in a supply closet, he's kind of a mean asshole before he gets therapized, fade-to-black smut, i had fun with this and i don't care if it's canon accurate or not
wc: ~ 1k
You know Franks tells.
You had come to understand them well in the months before he'd gone to rehab. He was angry, sometimes at nothing. Often at others. He would walk around ER, visibly ticking. You could hear the drumming of his fingertips against the counter at the nurses station from across the room and know.
It always went the same way. That sound, or his huff of frustration would clue you in. Then you'd wait to catch his gaze and that moment of confirmation before dipping off into whichever room was available.
If you were lucky, you'd get an empty room, but it was often a supply closet. Always dimly lit and devoid of any comfort. Not that there was much, anyway–not when he was in a mood like this.
He was never gentle. You never got that side of him. The door would barely be clicked shut behind you before you were smushed back up against it.
There was always a good thirty seconds where he'd try to do the full bit. A few good kisses before the situation would descend into chaos, and his mouth would veer off down your neck, or his hands slide up under your shirt.
He could try to be patient, but you both knew it was pointless. You'd kick your shoes away, and kick off your pants before he could ask, and get whisked off your feet in an instant.
When he was really pissed off, you'd find yourself folded over the shelving or an exam table, making desperate attempts to hold onto anything you possible could to counteract the sheer force of him.
Perhaps the best part, though, was hearing the way his tone changed more and more as he fucked you.
“Fucking-Robby, and his ego… always in my way. Always,” he'd start. Then a hand would twist itself into the back of your hiked up scrub top for more leverage.
He'd keep up like that for a bit, grumbling about anything and anyone, until he'd successfully gotten enough anger out to sober up and relax.
He'd lose his grip on your shirt, letting the new wrinkled-up material go. That hand would instead slide up, under the front of your shirt, holding your back against his chest to finish the job.
“I’m sorry, honey. I shouldn't be so rough with you,” he’d pant. “But you just take it so good. Always so good for me.”
With time, he knew what buttons to press to get exactly what he wanted. He'd learned that you'd finish faster when he'd hold you tighter or talk sweeter, and doing that would make you eager to jump at the next chance to do this again.
That was mostly correct. Today, with ten months between your last encounter and his return to work, there was a noticeable change in his demeanor.
He was kinder, and even a bit softer. Even when you'd been witness to moments that would have set him off previously, he simply did not react with the same anger. He was reasoning with people (even Robby) and making attempts to apologize.
From your spot behind the computer screen, you watch him wander across the ER floor. No anger, no clenched fists or jaw, but a kind of kicked puppy look that was entirely new to him.
He makes his way over, looking over his shoulder once as if to ensure no one is watching. He places his hands on the edge of the counter in front of you, but hesitates to say anything. You bite first.
“Hi,” you try. “You need something?”
He exhales.
“Ye- uh… maybe.”
Your brows furrow. “Is it something you can find in… the supply closet?”
“I think so,” he replies.
You nod, and click out of your tab on the computer before making your way there. As usual, he trails further behind, and a few minutes later enters the small space behind you.
When he presses the door shut behind him, there's no immediate jump to action. He waits, looking at you like he's unsure.
“I kinda thought you were over this,” you say.
“No. God, no. Definitely not.” He shakes his head.
You chuckle, feeling some relief in the answer. One step closes the gap between you, and you let your hands find his sides. His own hands, in a very unsure manner, find your arms. It's not a rejection, but a pause.
“I think I owe you an apology.”
Your head tilts.
“Why?”
“Because this,” he gestures between you, “got out of hand. I wasn't in my right mind. I think you deserve a lot better than how I treated you.”
“I think you're forgetting the part where I was a willing participant,” you explain.
A shadow of blush crosses his face, but he nods.
“Well, yeah. But I'm still sorry.”
“You are forgiven. And I really missed this.”
You slide your hands around him, and belly to belly, looking up at him, waiting for his next cue. It's not one you expect.
“Can we just… do this? For a little bit?”
“This? Hug?”
He nods. “If it's not weird.”
“No,” you shake your head.
Your limbs fall into place, comfortably snaked around him. You eventually find a settling point, your hands snaked up under the back of his shirt, his chin tucked against your shoulder, and you linger there for a while.
Eventually, you break the silence.
“I heard you and Robby had an actual conversation,” you say.
He huffs. “I made an attempt. He wasn't having it.”
You pull away enough to look up at him.
“Maybe you should just… let it all out. Get into it.”
Frank huffs, a hint of a smile on his face. “Yeah? Why would that be?”
He shuffles you further into the room, and you can't help but laugh.
“Maybe it will be good for you,” you play.
“Mhm. I'll just get really angry."
He lifts you off your feet, just enough to place you on the shelf behind you. Your legs instinctively wrap around him in the process.
bf!langdon who is sooo annoying at work(writing this w curvy!reader in mind)
he bothers you so much. i can see him hooking his finger with the waistband of your scrubs and underwear and snapping it harshly against your skin. you wince, and he laughs. when ur trying to catch up on charts, he leans his head on your shoulder to be nosy; you try to push him away, but he ignores you and gets closer. he barely lets u work. sometimes he steals ur energy drinks just to piss off. thats all without mentioning the endless touching and groping he does. like grabbing your ass and thighs, and you have to yell at him because he's gonna get you two in trouble with robby and hr. other times, you're alone with him in the break room, and he'll slip his hands up your scrub top. sometimes he'll only leave them on your stomach, so you let him even when you shouldn't. then, sometimes, he can't help himself but grab your bra-clad breasts, squeezing until you squirm away and swat at him.
then, he always catches u in the breakroom, where coincidentally, you always end up alone with him. you don't even realize he's there until you hear the door click slightly after he closes it. "frank . . . ," you say his name sternly as he come behind you, his fingers digging into your hips.
"i'm not even doing anything," he mutters like a lectured child against your neck as you focus on making ur coffee. he really isn't doing anything until you feel his erection against your ass. he whines when you try to step away, his arms sliding around your waist. he doesn't even care when you warn him that he can get both of you in trouble. instead, he just rolls his hard dick against your scrub-covered ass, groaning in your ear because he knows how it turns you on, even when you're trying not to be.
he's so mean; he'll have you sandwiched between the counter and his body just to pull away and leave the room—he jerks himself off in the bathroom afterward. he finds it amusing how annoyed you get.
sometimes he drags you into supply closet, and he'll eat you out or finger you until you're about to cum and pull away, dick throbbing in his scrubs from the way you whine. he's so entertained by the way you ignore him the rest of the shift.
all that just to fuck you when you get home, lying on your stomach and his body weight squishing you against the mattress with his arm around your neck, squeezing every time his dick shoves deep inside your pussy. "still mad at me, baby?" his lips brush your ear. his hips roll, dick kissing your cervix. your gummy walls clamp around him, brain empty—opposite of how frantic it were while you were working. he groans deeply and kisses your temple. "that's what i thought."
Day 22: connect Word count: 467 (infidelity, Abby's POV, a little nsfw)
AO3
Abby loved her family. She loved Tanner's endless curiosity, Penny's slobbering kisses, and Frank.
Of course she loved her husband. He had perfect dark hair that fell perfectly on his forehead in strands —she worked really hard to convince him to get that haircut when they met. She loved that he was exactly three inches taller than her so their selfies together looked stunning on her instagram profile.
They were the perfect couple with the perfect kids.
Lately, though, she found herself stalling inside her car in the garage.
She just needed a minute.
She'd take a few deep breaths and gather up the courage to lift her head from the steering wheel, turn off the engine, and get to her family to be mom-slash-wife again.
She grabbed her purse from the passenger seat when the screen on the car lit up: “Bluetooth Connected”, it read. Abby was tired of telling Frank to turn off his Bluetooth when he wasn't using it. It drained his battery, and then he'd disappear for hours with a dead phone.
His voice echoed inside the car. By the sound of it, he was playing a video. There was some rustling and heavy breathing in the background, and for a second she thought it was something recorded by accident —he was such an old man with technology— then she heard his voice.
“You are such a good girl, baby,” he praised. “Letting me record you like this.”
Abby's blood ran cold. More rustling came through and then the breathy sounds became louder.
“Open up,” he said, his deep voice demanding but gentle. “Suck.”
There was the unmistakable sound of a woman sucking on Frank's fingers, followed by the wet pop of her mouth pulling away —she was sure. He had a thing for it that she found a little disgusting and avoided at all costs considering what he did with his hands at work.
“Oh, I know, baby,” he cooed at the desperate mewls of the other woman, like he was charmed by it.
He was moaning too, praising her sounds, her beauty, how good her pussy was taking his fingers, how wet she was just for him.
“Dr. Langdon,” the woman said. A shiver ran down her spine.
Abby knew that voice. It was distorted by the intensity of her pleasure but the deep tone of it was a giveaway. That was Melissa King, the woman who treated Tanner when they visited the hospital for his sprained wrist. Dr. King, R4 who was under her husband's supervision —in more ways than one.
Abby's stomach twisted with disgust.
Suddenly she lost connection.
Abby needed a minute to turn off the engine, take a few deep breaths and get inside the house.
She loved Tanner and Penny. She was ready to kill Frank.
thinking BIG! about frank x hand kink!reader who is absolutely not normal about it at any point ever and has no intention to be
nsfw material below the cut - minors + ageless blogs dni
The first time he notices it he's being a sly little fuck. He's discovered that you squirm at the taste of yourself on his lips after he eats you out, and so he thinks he’ll try something different this time to make you whine.
Much to his surprise you don't even make a face when he pulls slick fingers from between your thighs and presses them against your mouth. His eyes narrow, somehow surprised (but not really) at the way you actively accept the gesture, gripping his hand with both of your own to ensure he doesn't try and pull away.
Then he’ll hit you with the obligatory “Oh, really?” To which you don't bother to respond, too busy with the access he's granted you.
He thinks it's funny for a bit, but then he realizes later you lack the ability to be at all normal about it. It could be an act as simple as typing something up on the computer, demonstrating a suture technique at work, hell, setting up the coffee machine in the morning, anything benign– and there you are, watching, absorbing the sight, eyes narrowed in a very particular way.
“You freak,” he jokes.
And then, of course, is the way you have trained both yourself and him to fall asleep, so that no matter how you're curled up around him you get his entire arm and hand wherever you want them. You don't really care so long as his big warm palm is right up against your skin.
He’ll tease you for it, sure. But he probably loves the fact that he doesn't really need to do anything to rile you up. I think it gives him a weird ego boost and he leans into it (more than he'd care to admit).✨
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