nineteen. they / them. yumeship w/ joel. daddy + mommy issues. ocd. autism. uses fiction to cope. fav movies: may, buffalo 66’, dinner in america, and secretary. (@lambs-favs for dividers and fav fics)
‧˚꒰ WARNING ୭ ˚.
DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT ! BLOCK, DON’T REPORT ! dubcon. fauxcest. perverse thoughts. mental illness. more dark k.nks.
‧˚꒰ who i will write ୭ ˚. 𓊆ྀི masterlist to be made . . . 𓊇ྀི
joel miller. tommy miller. dr. robby. dr. langdon. brian quinn. mike schmidt. josh futturman.
dividers by ❥dollywons, ❥cursed-carmine, ❥tsumiinum.
family friend, uncle rich, always lends a helping hand when you're in a bind.
18+MDNI, MAJOR CONTENT WARNING: please do not interact if you do not want to read any of the following—faux incest, descriptive unwrapped p in v sex, age gap (richie 40, reader college-aged), fingering, college partying/drinking, allusions to mikey’s substance abuse mentioned, idk sleazy nasty couch sex? richie with a belly, hairy richie, also richie with a big dick, it is nasty but consensual, no eva but tiffany mentioned, no use of y/n
happy kinktober! i will not be posting every day, but i hope this is enough nasty for now.
your mother, a registered nurse, had more things to worry about than your sneaky self on the opposite side of chicago on a rooftop with sixty other idiots you decided to party with. she was busy making sure no patient croaked, choked, or spontaneously combusted. her mind was not occupied with you “living in the moment of your twenties” because, for the most part, you took care of yourself since your dad skipped town when you were thirteen. you were headstrong and made sure to always have a safe solution to the situations you placed yourself in—like this party for example.
like any other weekend night, you slipped out of the house while your mom was on the graveyard shift and rode with thasia from your library study group.
thasia was trustworthy; she held your hair back while you puked your guts out, told you your boobs were crooked in your top, and checked your ass as you walked to make sure you didn't bleed through your pants. thasia always brought you home and even sometimes stayed the night after—she was a safe solution.
except for the fact that after mingling with some mutuals, having one strongly poured drink, a couple of rounds of grinding against the guy who always eyed you in calc, thasia was nowhere to be seen. the text on your phone that solidified it was ‘call me when you want to leave. left with daniel.” you didn't want to stay here alone, even if thasia wasn't by your side, knowing she was there was better than truly being alone. you also didn't want to ruin whatever little situation she was starting with daniel again.
but what you did know was that you did not want to risk taking a ride from anyone else because they were all past the point of tipsy. taking the “l” was out of the question because then you'd have to hoof it home on a dimly lit street. those were not safe solutions.
you could call your mother dearest, but then you'd have to get the nagging that went along with that, so after a few more moments of contemplation you picked up your cell and called uncle rich.
to your advantage, you were hardly buzzed, and in a conscious state of mind to figure it out. and for that solution richie would probably call you a hotshot for your quick thinking.
richie was clumsy and weird—possibly a little too enthusiastic at times, but he was always there. he used to be the guy who picked you up from soccer practice when your ole’ man couldn't make it. he was reliable, albeit, a little brash. he couldn't ever deny the soft spot he had for you, kid.
it rang and rang, and the second you thought it was going to go straight to voicemail uncle rich was on the other line.
“hey, unc,” you began while distancing yourself from the music and the sweaty partygoers. “hey, can you hear me?” you asked brushing past someone’s shoulder to wedge your way into the stairwell.
“yeah, yeah,” richie confirmed. he was awake, which was a good start. you didn't have to piss him off when asking for what you needed. his voice wasn’t groggy and you could faintly hear his television. he probably couldn't find his phone because it was wedged in the couch cushions.
richie couldn't ever settle himself after slinging sandwiches with his friend mikey, or to you uncle mike, at the beef. he needed a few hours to unwind with extra cigarettes, and some bullshit on the television.
“what's up, kid? it’s late,” richie asked, clicking down the television’s volume and pressing his phone closer to his ear. “really fuckin’ late, actually.”
“um, i need a favor,” you sighed softly as your eyes darted around the room, hearing footsteps from the lower levels drawing closer.
“oh shit, it must be ‘don't-tell-my-mom-hour’ since you're callin’ me. what’d you do this time?”
“i’m at a party, and i’m sorta stuck,” you continued.
“stuck as in somebody is fuckin’ with you? or stuck because you didn't stay with your friend like i told you to before?” richie pressed, although he knew he had full intentions of coming to the rescue. he knew all too well the woes of going out losing a friend along the way. “buddy system, kid. buddy system,” he reiterated.
“my ride didn't even tell me she was leaving,” you explained with a huff. “can you please come and get me?”
“imagine that kiddo is stranded and needs her uncle rich to come and save her,” richie teased although you could hear him shuffling around.
uncle rich was a safety net and not only in times of immediate crisis like your first flat tire or that time your boss would constantly hit on you while you worked. he’d pick you and cousin carmy up from school and stick you in uncle mike’s office at the beef. your mom could finish her shift at the hospital and you and carmy did homework until someone on the staff could get free labor out of either one of you.
“uh-huh. yeah,” you agreed dryly, a little mumble slipping from your lips as a couple passed you. “it’s nowhere shady, i promise. that rooftop off the highway.”
“gimmie like twenty minutes, okay? just stay outta trouble ‘til i get there. no movin’, or talkin’, or doing that roof jumping shit like spider-man. i’ll come up and get ya.”
you laughed, relieved in every sense of yourself. “got it. thanks again, seriously.”
“yeah, you owe me, hotshot. should be chargin’ you a chauffeur fee for as many times you asked me to drag you around.”
you’d been watching from the top of the roof for any sign of richie, and it wasn’t long before you could see his beater of a sedan sliding into street parking.
your goodbyes were quick and unenthusiastic; you were trying to rush to uncle rich as soon as you could, so you didn't keep him waiting. you did him the courtesy of trekking down half the amount of stairs and meeting him on a landing.
richie had a shirt balled in his hand and his keys in the other. his jacket was unzipped, but his hood was up, slides on with baggy sweatpants that he was most definitely free balling in. his oversized t-shirt concealed most of what his missing underwear was meant to do.
your party attire wasn’t exactly impressing him. more so making him question who the hell you were raised by and why in your right mind you would want to spend forty-degree weather without a jacket in sight.
he couldn’t begin at hello if you left the house resembling a girl from the strip club where his wallet got lifted at, but no matter, uncle richie loved you and always came prepared.
“i was fuckin’ right without even having to see you first. put this shit on,” he insisted tossing the wrinkled beef uniform shirt in your direction.
you attempted to pull the plunge of your shirt closer together and dusted your jeans. at least most of your body was covered. he should've seen you during spring break—poor unc would've had a heart attack.
“what?” you grumbled, shaking out the shirt he had given you. a waft of cigarette smoke and snuggle fabric softener hit your nose.
“dressed like a floozy, and guess what? it’s cold. ever thought of that shit?”
your nipples were slightly hardened through the thin material of your shirt. it was cold, but the breeze was light and it was much more lively next to everyone at the top of the building.
“uncle rich, it was a party—”
“and i know what happens at parties because i was the jagoff pickin’ up girls like you. now, put the fuckin’ shirt on.” richie crossed his arms, waiting impatiently for you to slip on his restaurant tee. your copper colored sleeves clashed with the burgundy berf shirt.
the fabric hits at your upper thigh, causing you to tuck it into the front of your jeans in an attempt to still look trendy. you followed richie down the stairs, watching him fiddle with his jacket pocket and rummage for a cigarette without taking the pack out.
“and y’know you’re crashin’ with me tonight, right? because i’m responsible for your hotshot-self now that you’re gettin’ in my car.” richie looked down at you as you spotted his car upon exiting the building.
“tiffany isn't there?” you questioned, jiggling the handle which was always stuck once you approached the passenger’s side. the door handle was the last concerning thing about the entire car, but richie had a system that he swore by although you could never master it.
“nah, not seein’ her anymore,” your uncle shrugged, taking a hit of his freshly lit cigarette.
“you said that last time.”
“yeah, i’m sure your virtuous ass has never been back and forth with a guy. do i need to bring up the gallagher kid?”
“seems like you already brought that back up, okay great,” you grumbled. “you can do better than tiffany. i think she's stuck up.” you hated when he came by and tugged the door just right.
richie furrowed his eyebrows. “i don't think she's—” he huffed, knocking your hand anyway to get a better grip on the rusting metal. “kid—every time—pull up not out, then you gotta—” richie flicked the ash from his cigarette and was prepared to slip his hand next to yours and pop the door open. a soft groan left his mouth as if his explanations had actually ever worked for you before.
“uncle rich i am ‘finessing the linkage’, so shut the fuck up.” you stopped him before he could even get to the phrase he coined for the car door.
“no, you’re not. you gotta—”
“i’m going to get it,” you protested, blocking him to earn yourself a few more seconds at doing it on your own.
his hand reached for yours to settle your tugging. he used your hand as leverage to anchor the door. he pushed your hand down and popped the handle, making the door creak as you went under his arm to slide into the passenger side.
“it’s okay to need me, kid,” richie assured you before shutting the door.
“yeah,” you sighed. you were passing the crap richie had stuffed onto the front seat into the back. he made himself comfortable in front of the wheel. his seat was almost completely reclined. he was letting his cigarette hang out of his mouth while he cranked the engine. his arm was slung behind your seat as he checked his mirrors.
“but what's this new beef with tiff?” richie questioned, eyeing you as he cracked his window to blow his smoke to the wind.
it wasn't new at all. he just hadn't paid much attention to your disdain towards her.
“she always acts like she's better than everyone. i just don't like her.”
“she's definitely better than me,” richie confessed with a shrug. “i mean i don't have much else goin’ for me. when someone half as pretty as tiff comes into the beef, maybe i’ll move on.”
it was quiet for a while, occupying time as richie smoked. you occasionally side-eyed him, which made him only want to try harder.
“i’m outta smokes, and i’m gettin’ another pack before we get back home. you want somethin’?” bribery was always a good option no matter what age you were, but it was easier to win you over when you were younger.
“no.”
richie was at the counter. you trailed behind him reluctantly because it was better than sitting in his cramped car and waiting.
“my treat, kid. go pick somethin’,” he insisted, tapping the packet of cigarettes on the counter.
you rubbed your chilled arm and sauntered down the aisle, mostly to keep richie quiet.
you brought a can of tea and two bags of candy: sour worms for him and red vines for yourself. you'd end up enjoying yourself once you pulled yourself on his stained sofa and watching reruns of naked and afraid especially when richie started claiming that he could ‘totally do that shit.’
“see, now you're comin’ around. just you, me, and junk. like old times,” richie smiled as he paid with a handful of loose cash.
once back in the car you cracked the tab on your tea and sipped. richie lit another cigarette. the ashtray in his car was overfilled, all the cigarette butts were precariously stacked on top of each other; some already managed to spill to the ground on the unvacuumed carpet.
“you been hangin’ with mikey too much,” richie commented as you dug into your roped candy. “he never stops eatin’ those things.”
you tugged a piece loose and twirled the rest between your fingers. “he doing any better? uncle mike, i mean.”
“uh,” richie paused, clearing his throat. “let’s just say that i’m glad i only got a call from you tonight.”
“sorry, uncle rich.”
“nah, kid. not your fault. mikey’s just got his own way of doin’ stuff.”
richie’s apartment hadn't changed a bit; no matter where he moved, he still had his clutter and an unorganized one-bed-one-bath. the only thing that changed is the available amount of square footage which only ever seemed to decrease.
you left your shoes at the door, not because richie was against shoes indoors, but because you knew you didn't want to dig under the couch after one of them inevitably slid too far back.
he emptied his jacket pockets onto his countertop while you set your midnight snack on the coffee table. you pulled off his uniform shirt and laid it across the unfolded laundry. richie’s ancient radiator always made it suffocatingly warm in his living room.
“you can take my bed when you're tired,” richie offered, peeking his head into the den to watch you try and move his laundry pile to the corner chair. “unless you want to crash next to me on the couch,” he laughed, licking the pad of his thumb.
“bed sounds nice,” you replied too quickly as richie put a couple of the worms in his mouth. the cushion you were currently sinking into had a deep depression likely from richie’s weight being pressed into it nightly.
he sat on the opposite end of the couch, plopping one leg up on the coffee table. his arm was slung over the back of the couch, barely grazing your shoulder as you settled in next to him.
he had his candy package resting on his abdomen as he flipped through the channels to find something mindless to watch. a smirk was present on his lips, trying to contain his residual laughter from his mediocre joke.
“suit yourself, this baby has gotten me through more nights than i can count,” richie joked eating another handful of sour worms while you pulled your legs to sit criss-crossed beside him.
though naked and afraid was not on selected programming tonight, deadliest catch was, and what kind of uncle would he be if he didn’t force you to watch boats on stormy waters haul in crabs?
your knee was resting against the outer edge of his thigh. his arm on the back of the couch was looser and more relaxed, occasionally letting his fingers grasp at the ends of your hair. you didn't mind it, if anything it reminded you of being a little girl barely being able to stay awake past nine o’clock watching the same television set with him.
you'd yawn and rub your eyes with your fist and fight sleep because uncle rich let you stay up until you conked out crooked on the arm of the couch. richie would follow suit after he smothered both of you in a sherpa blanket that was not properly cared for.
currently, you were in the same position, dozing off watching television.
“so is tiff a sore subject or can i say that i broke things off this time?”
you head whipped around, suddenly not as tired as you once were. “what?”
“i just thought i’d mention it because you think she's all high and mighty.”
“i don't care,” you shrugged, although it was evident in your tone that you did. “probably better that you did though.”
“well, i did because i don't think i’m ready to settle down with her yet,” richie admitted, patting your thigh.
your eyes met his, taking a moment to let his fingertips slide back to his candy. he then awkwardly tugged at his large shirt and pulled at the waistband of his sweats—just fiddling.
“yet?” you questioned. your neck was still craned over your shoulder watching his every move.
richie swallowed, shifting uncomfortably on the sofa. “yeah, i mean what girl is gonna really make me happy? they all gotta have somethin’ wrong with ‘em if they go for me.” his lips made a thin line. “but y’know tiff was really one of the good ones? i just can't commit to what she wants.”
you didn't know exactly what tiffany wanted because if it was loyalty and reliability she lost the perfect man for that.
“uh-huh,” you muttered, feeling your licorice breath hit your lip.
“whatever real reason you got for not likin’ her is fine, but i don't think it ever woulda worked because of me.” he pulled the center hem of his sweatpants, shifting his weight again. gross, basically manspread, not having a care in the world that he should definitely not be the guy to go commando.
you rolled your eyes; uncle rich always hated that shit. he still hated it now. he nudged your thigh with a look that said knock it off.
“stop actin’ like that. i gotcha a snack and picked you up off a fuckin’ roof in the middle of the night after i worked all fuckin’ day,” richie scolded lightly, rummaging for another worm.
“i’m not acting like anything.”
“oh-ho, real fuckin’ rich. poutin’ at me because of tiff? when she's only ever been nice to you?” richie jabbed at the look of contempt that was still on your face.
“why are you defending her like you're still together?”
“god, i don't know. only spent fuckin’ forever tryin’ to impress her. which you helped me with by the way. remember that?”
you turned your body, one leg now hanging off the couch and the other one tucked. “that was before i didn't like her.”
richie held his temples with a breathy exhale. “kid, what am i gonna do with you? you never shut your mouth.”
“wonder where i learned that from,” you retorted, crossing your arms and pressing your lower back against the armrest.
richie’s every last nerve was spent on you, and although he wouldn't have it any other way he couldn't stand your smartass mouth which was a direct effect of him.
“give the bitchin’ a rest, sweetheart.”
you chewed the inner part of your lip so as not to let the creeping smirk plaster over your face. you couldn't stay mad at him forever. richie’s expression formed right back; his eyes almost closing from his grin and his forehead wrinkles softened. you kicked richie lightly in his calf making him flick your kneecap. it was on now because richie tossed his open bag of candy on the coffee table by his foot.
back and forth. you pawed at his fleeing hand landing a jab on his chubby stomach. he pinched your wrist as you retaliated. you leaned forward, rocking forward on your knees to give his forehead a thwap. he knocked your shoulder making you gasp as your hand landed on the tops of his thighs. richie had flinched from the mere thought of his dick, which you narrowly avoided, being crushed by your palm. you swallowed glancing at his lap and then to his piercing blue eyes.
he cleared his throat awkwardly as his eyes wandered across your entire embarrassed face and straight down to your shirt. the damn one he tried so hard to cover after disapproving of it on sight.
you moved one hand to his chest, balancing yourself more appropriately against him until you could comfortably sit back across the couch. that was until you felt richie fidget in his seat. your eyes flicked to his lap, the lump in his pants a lot more evident than it once was.
that’s when you leaned closer to rest your head against his forehead. your mind was jumbled—trying to gasp at any sense you had left before you placed your lips on his.
richie paused for a moment preparing to cross a line that he was leaning over the moment you fell into his lap.
he brought you closer, embracing your waist he sighed into the kiss. the tension in your shoulders relaxed, pressing harder as his lips were fully captured.
you complied the moment he was coaxing you forward with his hands groping each side of your waistband. his legs were now planted on the ground—an open invitation for you to straddle his lap.
your grip tightened on his shirt, moaning as richie straightened his back to hold you closer. his lips began guiding yours into something slower and deeper. the kind where every sensation was tangible. his growing erection below you was only separated by a few pieces of fabric and one of his hands cradled your ass while the other unbuttoned your jeans.
you didn't know why it was so easy or even so tempting to lean over like you did, but no matter why it felt like the place you needed to be.
you softly whined as richie’s tounge entered your mouth. he was tugging down your zipper, resting his fingers against the front of your panties. you were cupping his face, comfortably immersed in this little, heated bubble. your thumb brushed upwards on his facial hair—a gentle reminder that he was being accepted in this moment.
his touch mellowed you; you were so malleable under his guidance while he moved his lips with yours. he dipped into the top of your underwear surpassing your trimmed mound of pubes and squeezing past the constraint your jeans provided to gently rub your folds.
you pulled back gasping softly, hanging onto richie’s wrist as his finger pads dampened with your arousal. his head dipped to your chest, messily kissing your sternum and the sides of your breasts that were peeking from the exaggerated neckline of your shirt.
you squirmed as his scruffy, bearded face grazed your soft skin. grinding into his lap while feeling the brush of his long shaft that was bulging under your seat made your anticipation grow while his fingers prodded your entrance.
“you want me to stop, kid?” richie’s fingers were still toying with your outer folds. he asked because he had to, making sure you wanted him as much as he wanted you in this very moment.
if you hadn't called him to be your lifeline you'd be getting it from some asshole with daddy’s money paying for their tuition while inside of their shared dorm room. at least this way he could watch over you.
“no,” your voice didn't waver. you were almost there to having his fingers inside of you. maybe you were a little desperate and quick to succumb to the teasing richie was demonstrating by dragging his finger pads around your folds and occasionally brushing against your clit.
this was not a quick entry by any means, richie was forcing your jeans and panties down further so his fingers could be enveloped by you. you performed an awkward shimmy to get your jeans and underwear to the bottoms of your thighs, so richie’s hand could sit easily between your thighs and up your pussy.
you moaned with the pitch lifting at the end, taking his fingers easier than you were about to take the restless cock in his pants.
“that okay?” he inquired, as he maneuvered them faster. his breath hit your chest—a little sticky in the space between your cleavage.
you nodded quickly as your nails dug into his arm. his fingers curled to reach your g-spot fully.
it was so stuffy in the den—enough to make your lower back begin to sweat. his palm cupped your cunt as he fingered upwards. you peeled off your shirt quickly, letting your breasts fall, not nearly as pretty and perky in the way the top held them, but no matter the logistics of breast tissue, richie kissed a column of your neck and then the underside of your jaw.
“yeah, good. mhm,” you nodded again, rocking against his hand.
he was keeping you close, not wanting you to stray even as you fussed from pleasure. you were melting in his hand as his fingers repeatedly thrust inside your walls.
you were sinking further down trying to keep his fingers where they were as they filled you so nicely.
there was enough force behind each of his movements, curving against your sweet spot just the way you wanted it. richie’s fingers were completely soaked, working you just right to keep you wanting more. he could feel you bowing forward trying to force more stimulation to your hole, knowing it was time to move on. he’d much rather let you cum on cock to show you how good it could make you feel.
richie removed his fingers from your sex, circling your clit slowly. his thumb rolled over your unstimulated bud. your lips parted in protest as he stopped, leaving it so swollen and begging for him to touch again.
he offered his hand to your mouth. you shly held either side of his hand and bobbed your head as your tounge parted his fingers. you maintained eye contact, feeling him shift again to squeeze his erection through his sweatpants.
“imma fuck you, sweetheart,” richie took his cleaned fingers out of your mouth and gave your lips a quick peck. “jus’ gotta get outta these,” he tugged at your jeans; you shakily stood stepping out of your bottom garments as richie tended to his own.
his pants' waistband was folded sitting directly under his heavy balls. he offered his lap back to you; it looked a little more intimidating this time with his dick fully spring. his filthy fingers jacked himself slowly; his was ruddy tip leaking with pre-cum.
he offered his hand to your mouth as you bracketed his legs again. “go on gimmie somethin’ to work with, baby.”
your eyes flicked to his hand while you spat in it, knowing he was going to take your saliva and stroke his cock so boldly in front of you again.
you hovered wearily above his shaft while richie held the base of his dick. you were sinking onto his tip slowly, breathing through the much different sensation. his cock opened you more than his fingers.
richie’s mouth suddenly went dry, having you begin to mount him. there wasn't any coming back from this now. there was only a guilty conscience later to add to the list of things that kept him up at night. whether he wrapped his dick up or not it wouldn't matter who he’s fucking.
“god, rich,” you whined, squeezing the top half of his manhood in your inner walls. your arousal was making this easier, but his erect length was greater than average.
“you're fine. doin’ good, kid,” richie encouraged. it almost felt wrong to say, but he wasn't taking it back now. you were taking him so good, stuffing yourself with the dick from the guy that honestly cared about you the most.
richie was watching you worriedly as you slid down his length further. your hands were still planted on his shoulders by the time you fully seated yourself on his cock. you eyes were now completely closed, grounding yourself in the moment to relax. his hand still guiding his cock straight into your wet hole, supporting you in the only way he knew how.
“fuck,” you murmured, hiding your face in the crook of his neck. you slid your hands behind him to brace yourself on the back of the couch.
“you’re okay, sweetheart. i got you,” richie consoled, letting out a shaky breath. his hands spread your ass some as if the feeling of the fullness would subside faster. you only nodded; a tightness not only in your throat but in your gripping pussy.
“i got you,” he reassured as you began to work up to an unsteady bounce on his hardened dick.
you hummed in acknowledgement, wiping your forehead on his shoulder before picking your head up to begin quickening your motion on his manhood. your tits jiggled temptingly in front of his face.
licking and kissing at the curves of your breast uncoordinatedly, he immersed himself in your chest. suckling at your skin but also your nipples—the ones that were pebbled so teasingly under your top in the stairwell. his tounge dragged your areolas and then wrapped your nipples in a hefty cover of warm saliva.
richie cursed under his breath when the sticky sound of your cunt filled his ears as you slid down a little harsher this time. you were working his length with a little more confidence as richie groaned.
up and down, your legs cramped but you paid no mind to it, pushing through it to work his length the right way. the slight curve on his shaft was perfect, expanding your walls and making you follow his length all the way down. there was a slight stick from the sweat but your pussy was creaming around his cock.
your legs kept snagging on his shirt with your quick bursts of riding his pole; he bundled the bottom of his shirt right above his hairy belly. the same dark belly hair trailed down to his pubes—overgrown, yet not taking away from any of his length.
you rolled your hips back. with a new sensation against his cock richie peered over your shoulder watching you grind against him.
his eyes suddenly widened, and he could feel his dick slightly twitching inside your pussy. he grabbed the underside of your thighs to slow your riding. he gave an awkward chuckle, which made him swallow. “stand up for me, sweetheart.”
he couldn't believe he was already turning you over, slightly embarrassed—possibly even a tiny hit to his ego. but you, kid, who was always ready to test his every fucking limit was still doing it now. he couldn't even try to make up some sexy excuse because his mind was already fuzzy from being so close. so the last thing he requested was for you to stand.
richie wiped his sweaty forehead on his shoulder sleeve, tugging off his oversized tee. “yeah, that’s good. just hold the back of the couch.” richie’s hand was splayed on your lower back as you positioned yourself, trying to plant your feet firmly as he lined his veiny cock with your entrance. he bit the inside of his lip looking at all the arousal richie helped produce.
a little arch in your back as richie rocked forward moving your entire body forward from the weight behind his thrust. your arms stretched out far and your head favored leaning on your right bicep as it hung low. your legs close together were edging richie’s tip just right as he humped. you had a certain grip on his cock—coating him with that sinful wetness.
richie crouched some, taking his thrusts upwards. his cock nudged at your cervix, making you gasp loudly. you panted into your arm as your legs shook.
his dick ramming into your sex, widening your hole to take all of him in a new position. richie’s opposite hand guided your hips down to him to meet his motions.
“uncle rich,” you moaned. your eyes became teary while his shaft ravaged your walls. “i think i’m gonna cum,” you exhaled; the wobble in your legs becoming more apparent as your cunt throbbed around him. “n-no, i’m really gonna cum,” you rambled again, feeling that pool in your belly building stronger.
deep in your core, that orgasm was rising to the surface, and richie wasn't stopping. “me too, baby. me too. gonna cum too, baby,” he agreed.
he could feel how heavy it was in his balls—no more edging, no different positions. his hips bucked as you clawed for stability on the couch.
“uncle rich,” you whined again, becoming louder as your climax hit. his wild humps continued until you were pulling forward unintentionally from your come down.
he pulled out quickly, holding not only the base of his cock but your hip. you felt his seed shoot on your lower back, slightly cringing as the hot viscous substance landed.
“fuck. okay. hold on,” he blurted, steadying you while he pulled up his sweats. he massaged your hip gently as he grabbed a discarded takeout napkin—the quickest solution although undesirable.
you unsteadily waddled to grab the shirt he loaned you previously. with yourself half-dressed richie sat you next to him on the sofa.
richie held either side of your face, placing gentle kisses against your forehead every few seconds. his chest was still rising and falling rapidly. your body was curled into him.
your smudged makeup only worsened when you rubbed your knuckle on your under eye. richie brushed your hair back and then tugged the blanket off the back of the sofa. with a bit of fluffing and fixing, that old sherpa fabric covered you both.
suddenly you weren't blocking out the noise of the television. the wind was still slinging cages and the crew was scrambling onboard. richie now moved to rubbing your cheek with his thumb, quietly trying to settle your trembling body.
“you good, kid?” he questioned, making your head flick up.
“yeah.”
“you wanna talk about—”
you cut him off, “thanks for picking me up, uncle rich.”
there wasn't enough time tonight to dissect what just happened, nor did you want to. you didn't want to pick apart your daddy issues or the oddly good feeling of validation it just gave you to know that richie didn't push you away.
begging all day for richie's cock. you keep trying everything else... pacifier, your thumb, pens, lollipop, you even tried your old favourite dildo but none of it is doing the job. so you've been following richie around, all sniffly n whimpery, tugging at his sleeve n rubbing your face on his arm...
"need dad's dick that bad ? fuckin' drooling for it, christ. but you know damn well begging doesn't get you anywhere."
and you do know that, so why do you feel so surprised when he's pushing you to your knees and pulling out his gun instead. there's a rush of fear down your spine and you're pretty sure you should be scared, your panties are wet so you think you are. but its so wet how're you supposed to know if it's pee or... or just you. just the effect richie has on you.
he's careful, meticulous, you drool just watching his hands take out the magazine n click on the safety. before you can process that part though the barrel is nudging your lips apart, pushing against plush flesh.
"open up, baby, don't wanna chip a tooth, do ya ? no, no my girl hates the dentist. open wide, dad'll give you somethin' to suck on... atta girl... look at those pretty eyes. awwwee, shhh, no crying. just wanted something in your mouth."
and you can't help the way your hips are twitching until you hit the edge of his shoe, rocking with deliberation while your eyes roll back. the heavy metal against your tongue and the pressure on your clit and the way richie's hand is fisting in your hair and he's groaning like it's really his cock in your mouth. you're just so fucking dizzy with it the moan that bubbles out of you along with spit trailing down your chin when you cum. it's a damn miracle richie's got the instincts to pull his gun from your mouth before you go completely limp, dropping your cheek against his thigh warming his jeans with deep, warm, panted breaths.
richie's practically petting you now, thumbing away a few tears. "there y'go. my needy lil girl feeling better now ? yeah she is. you just stay there for a sec 'nd then we'll getcha all cleaned up. cousin 'nd uncle mikey are comin' over later, can't have you lookin' a mess."
calling dada langdon at work because you miss him and wanna touch yourself because it feels sticky down there and everyone around him thinks he’s on the phone with his daughter because he’s being so gentle and so soothing (bc he is, isn’t he?)😵💫
🪶
“hi sweetheart, i know you miss dad. got a few more hours left of my shift and i’ll be home. you be good, okay?” and everyone is like wow it’s so cute you’re daughter calls you when she misses you. and langdon is just nodding like “yep. my daughter. she misses me.”
dr. frank langdon and his controversially younger girlfriend who he introduces as his daughter to strangers. “oh, this is my daughter. my little miracle. i was a teen dad, it was hard but worth it.” when you latch onto his arm he’s telling everyone, “sorry— she’s so shy. it’s always just been her and me.”
begging dada to not go to work because you need his cock that bad :( he’s either letting you suck on it for 15 minutes before he really has to go or he’s calling in because his poor girl is so needy :(🪶
“my daughter is sick. i can’t come in,” he says on the phone while he’s balls deep in you. when he hangs up, he’s kissing your eyelids and telling you to open you eyes because he can’t have you falling asleep on him when you were just begging for his dick.
“you’re soaked, baby,” frank would say, rocking his hips in and out of you, “we might need to get you a check up, sweetheart.”
omg i love you so bad that bubbles ask made ME feel shy. bubbles having a huge crush on frank is how i genuinely feel like of course she gets nervous!!!!!!!have u seen him!!! oh i love them <3 thank you honey!! something something dad n bubbles being giggly in the morning after their night together. i love ittt
n frank is always teasing her for her lil crush. “my girl has a crush on her dad, hm?” and “you want lap time with dad, baby?” he loves to see her get so shy n bashful around him. esp when she’s playing w her toys and he’s watching her and she feels him staring :(
“dad, don’t stare!”
“why? you’re so creative sweetheart.”
“cause…” bubbles!reader trails off, a little shake in her voice and tears forming in her eyes.
“okay okay,” frank mumbles, “i get it, you’re being shy. you gotta big crush on dad. it’s no big deal, sweetheart, but i’ll stop watching.”
⚠︎ — 18+. fem!reader. brat taming. sub!reader. oral (f receiving). daddy kink (reader calls frank dad).
On hot summer days, you often prance around the house in just Frank’s t-shirt and a pair of cotton panties. The New York heat is dry in the day but humid at night, and you can’t stand the way your sweat makes clothes cling to your body. The less articles of clothing, the better. On especially hot days like today, your go to method to avoid any heat-induced-sensory-meltdowns is to starfish on the couch while nursing a fruit flavored popsicle.
“Sweetheart,” Frank blocks your view of the television as he places himself in front of you, the tips of his fingers brushing against your knees. “Not that I’m keeping track, but don’t you think that’s enough popsicles for the day? Maybe some real food soon, yeah?”
You move your head, trying to avert your eyes back to the television, but he moves once more to force you to focus on him. “Mmm, maybe later. I’m watching this! Can you move?”
His brows furrow, a disappointed frown tugging at his lips. With a sigh through his nose, he reaches for the remote and turns your show off. Your whine is something he has learned to tune out when you’re acting messy, but when your legs spread apart to reveal a wet spot in the plane of your undies, sticking to the outline of your cunt, Frank realizes just how he can get you to eat some real food, regardless if you’re overstimulated by the heat. “You’re not being very nice, baby.”
“Why’d you turn the tv off?” You groan, throwing your almost finished popsicle onto the hardwood floor. That’s something you’d regret later, but right now you wanted Frank to feel as frustrated as you. It only makes you more upset when he doesn’t acknowledge the delinquent act. He chalks it up to too much sugar, not enough water, and the fact that your cunt is begging for some stimulation. Frank knows he shouldn’t reward bad behavior, but his girl gets overstimulated and he feels bad for punishing you when you’re just struggling to communicate needs. Instead, he’ll nip this behavior in the bud by going the other route.
Frank gets on his knees, his joint cracking as he squats down to get a good look in between your legs. The panties you wear are so practical— nothing lacy or made of spandex, just simple cotton that doesn’t hide your arousal very well. “You want a kiss?”
Wide eyes stare down at him, your head nodding in a hesitant manner, knowing your behavior doesn’t warrant special panty kisses. “Yes…” you trail off, tacking a “please” at the end.
You’re already shaping up, he thinks to himself, that’s good. A curt nod is all Frank offers before dipping his head in between your legs and kissing your fluttering core over your panties. The taste of your arousal is familiar, and the sound of your moans is like a soft symphony Frank is the only audience member for. Thighs clench around his ears as his lips pull and tug over your clothed clit. With an arched back, you forget about the heat, forget about the television, forget about the sour mood you were in, and focus on the impending orgasm caused by Frank’s skilled mouth.
His mouth slowly opens, tongue thrusting into your hole, but it’s restricted by the underwear, and when you let out a breath that sounds like you’re about to tumble over the edge, he pulls his face away from the inside of your legs.
“Dad?” you look at him with a hurt expression. It’s not often he edges you, but you did throw the sticky popsicle on the hardwood. Maybe you deserved this.
“Hey,” he taps your knee like he’s trying to reassure you before tears start to prick at your waterline. “I’ll let you finish, but you have to get up and clean your popsicle off the ground, and then I want you to sit at the dinner table because I’m going to make you something to eat. Gotta have real food, even when it’s hot out.”
You want to whine, to protest, to demand he’s finished what he’s started, but you already know you’re on thin ice and he’s offered you more grace than you deserve. “After I eat my food, you’ll help me?”
“Yeah, babydoll. Go get the wet wipes and clean up this mess,” he flickers his gaze down to the now melting popsicle, a downward curve present on his mouth to signify his dissatisfaction with your actions.
“‘Kay,” you mutter, slightly embarrassed— he can tell by the way you won’t look at him, “M’sorry.”
“All good,” he mutters, “I know you’re gonna be responsible and take care of it.”
uhhhh is this a safe space to say that this made me think of rough playing w bro!frank and it ends w the two of you fight fucking.. (maybe it’s you on top tho idkkk)
OHHHHHHHHH you're both so feral and annoying and love bickering and you'll be wrestling and slowly lose one item of clothing then another then another and he'll bite you until his teeth marks become bruises and will pull your hair and spank you and then you'll get the upper hand and end up on top with a hand around his throat squeezing until his cheeks flush and his cock twitches inside you, eyes lidded lips in a smirk looking up at you bark bark bark
+ every time robby gets home he has to inspect every inch of both of you and catalogue each bruise and mark :( makes you explain them while he assess you over the rim of his glasses grr
saying “uh oh” so much that it starts to bleed into dada langdons vocab. like if he bumps into someone at work, he’s saying, “uh oh, my bad.” you’re just on his mind all the time
saying uh oh is so fun. anything happens and you’re saying “uh oh.” you spill a drink, uh oh. your blanket falls off the bed, uh oh. uh oh just works for so many things. langdon starts saying it with patients too. he sees a college aged girl with a cut that needs stitches and he’s saying “uh oh! what happened?”
listen baby… pitt three way where it just starts with jack and he loves you to the friggin moon but you’re just so young and needy an he is old (hot) and I kind of imagine he’d maybe be on an ssri so he’s doing his best sex wise, he just worries he’s not keeping up :( thank fucking god robby starts showing an interest in you because two dicks is so much better than one for keeping up with a young woman’s sex drive! however, as we know, robby is also old (also hot). so that’s when they have to enlist frank. the closer. they’ll do their thing and by that point you’re pretty sweet and sated but still needy, just how frank wants you 😏
you and jack finish and you’re ready for round two immediately, but he just can’t keep up with that. his refractory period is long, even longer now that he’s older. “sweetheart, i can kiss your pretty pussy for a little while but i can’t do another round.” you’re looking at him with a disappointed face, your brows turned inward and your lips presenting with a frown. with a quickness, you wipe the unsatisfied expression from your face because you don’t want to make jack feel even worse than he already does.
that’s when robby comes into play. after you finish around jack’s cock, your cunt drenched with his orgasm and your own slick, you’re ready to go again. you just can’t get enough of the way jack presses against your g-spot and stimulates you from every angle. “you want michael to give you some more, baby? look how needy you still are…” jack trails off, opening your legs just enough to see your cunt flutter around nothing. “poor baby, you just need a little more, don’t you?”
robby keeps up as much as he can, but you just want to keep going. they’re starting to question how active your libido is because you should be satiated by now. with whines and pouts, they decide to reach out to frank. he’s a little younger, he can keep up with someone like you. frank coos at you when he sees you splayed across the bed. your blissed out expression from getting thoroughly fucked is so sweet. “you need me to finish you up, sweetheart? let me take a look,” he says as he spreads your legs open, slipping his body in between to press his cock against your wet folds and tease the slit with his tip. “so wet, baby.. let me put you to sleep, my good girl.”
frank L. with a little sweetie girl who thinks he’s the smartest man on earth for the simplest things because he’s a doctor! of course he’s smart! like she’s having trouble opening a jar and he shows her a little trick and she’s like “omg!! frankie you’re like a genius!!!!!!!” and franks just patting her head because the things that you think make him so smart are frightfully common sense, but it strokes his ego that you’re so reliant so he won’t spoil it for you
“wow frank! you’re so smart! can’t believe you went to school for so long! you probably looked so cute studying. were all the girls clinging onto you? i hope not!” you’re babbling is bordering nonsense as he helps you figure out how to assemble the candle melter you got with the most basic instructions.
he’s just kind of nodding along as he sets the thing up, barely even following the instructions because putting it together is just common sense. you put the top on, then put the wax cube in the holder, then plug it in. “yeah, yeah, babygirl. i went to school for a really long time, yep. girls were all over me, uh huh. uh huh.”
“they were? really? but what about me?” you sigh with disappointment, eyebrows creased as you begin to pout.
“baby, i didn’t know you. they didn’t know you. c’mon, sweetheart, you were with guys before me.”
“nuh uh,” you deny, “never felt like them the way i feel about you.”
summary. Ten months since you kissed your attending in the on-call room. Ten months of guilt, of telling yourself it meant nothing. Now he’s back, freshly divorced, and apparently you’ve learned absolutely nothing.
word count. 5.1K
warnings. smut, 18+, MDNI, inappropriate workplace relationship, power imbalance, public-ish sex (on-call room), unprotected pnv, pussy slapping, lowk mean langdon, possibly ooc langdon (in the series, we don’t see him doing relationship stuff, so who knows), cheating bc reader and langdon kissed when he was still married, reader makes bad choices, Langdon is toxic, reader is toxic, everyone is fucking toxic, no use of y/n.
notes. baby’s first long Langdon fic, please be nice to me 😭 took some liberties, made Langdon an attending, bc I genuinely didn’t know he was an R4? (In my defence, there’s only 3 years of residency for Emergency Med in my country) By the time I realised he wasn’t an attending, I’d already finished writing the fic. So please work with me here 😭 thank you @sheriff-bodecker for saving me from a crash out.
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They said he’d be back in eight months. Then they said it should be nine. Then ten. That was around ten months ago.
Somewhere during that, you’d stopped doing the mental arithmetic which was either personal growth or denial. Probably both. You’d stopped being able to tell the difference around the same time you stopped sleeping well.
You’d told yourself it would be fine. You’d been telling yourself that for so many months, you’ve started to believe it a bit.
He’d come back, you’d be professional, you’d be exactly what you were supposed to be. A third-year resident with a decent attending’s evaluation and no catastrophic personal decisions on her record.
That’s easy. Simple.
You’d kissed him once. People kiss people all the time. People kiss people once and recover. It's normal.
But people don’t kiss married people who are not married to them.
The kiss had happened on a Tuesday, which still bothered you, because things like that were supposed to have context. There should be a reason like bad shifts, long nights, the particular delirium of hour thirty of a 36 hour stretch.
The least it could’ve been is a Friday, when the week has already gone sideways.
You’d had none of that.
It had just been a regular Tuesday at the end of a totally regular shift. You were in the on-call room, Frank was saying something about the new bet, and you were laughing.
After that, details blurred. He’d kissed you. Or you’d kissed him. It was one of those things that happened in the half-second before the brain catches up with the body. His hand framed your jaw, the touch enough to send your body into a frenzy.
The brain soon caught up because you both pulled back. The kiss was brief enough that you could’ve called it an accident, if either of you had been willing to do that.
But neither of you were. So you just sat there afterward in the specific silence of two people who’ve tremendously fucked up.
He was married. He was your attending. Two reasons. Two very big, very destructive reasons.
You’d catalogued them both in real time, sitting three feet apart on a cot that smelled like disinfectant, staring at your respective patches of wall.
“That—” you’d started.
“Yeah,” he’d said.
And that was the whole conversation. The stand and the end of it.
As fate would have it, he went to rehab the next day. While he was there, his wife had filed for divorce. Dana told you that in the break room with the specific tone of someone who has noticed more than they’ve said.
You’d nodded and gone back to work and spent the subsequent months telling yourself that you were fine, that it was nothing, that you’d kissed him once and he’d gone to rehab and his marriage had ended and that it was his fate, not yours. That the divorce had nothing to do with you. That you weren’t a contributing factor in the quiet dissolution of a marriage you’d had no business brushing up against. That the timing was coincidence.
You’d repeated that one a lot. The timing was coincidence. It probably was.
It would be fine when he came back. You’d be fine.
You walked into the morning handoff and saw him standing at the nurse’s station with a chart in his hand. Your whole nervous system clocked you as the most terrible liar in the history of liars.
He was just standing there, and your hear rate was nearing a hundred. That’s not the behaviour of a person who’s going to be fine.
He hadn’t even looked up yet and your brain had already filed the entire situation under dangerous and started running contingency plans.
If things were going wrong already, he looked up and that was the start of things going wrong-er.
His eyes found you fast, without effort.
He gave you a nod. You nodded back. Very professional. Completely normal.
The handoff started. You listened and took notes and were a model of clinical focus. You also thought about the way his hand had felt against your face. About his wife. About whether she knew she’d been married to a man capable of kissing someone the way he’d kissed you, and whether that knowledge would’ve changed anything for her, or for you.
Fine. Completely fine.
You avoided him for the first four hours through a combination of genuine busyness and strategic routing decisions. It also helped that he was banished to the triage.
The east hallway was longer but the west hallway meant walking past him, so east it was.
You took your lunch break at a time you knew he wouldn’t be in the break room.
You reported back to Dr. Robby, and Dr Al Hashimi, even though she was new, and you don’t do well with new people.
Things were fine, even starting to look up, maybe a little more than fine, until Dr Al Hashimi brought him back.
That didn’t faze you though, because here’s the problem, the real problem, the one you’d been talking around for ten months.
He wasn’t married anymore.
That was one reason down. Which left you with one more reason.
That one was real and serious and you weren’t dismissing it. Except your body had apparently decided that one reason was an inconvenience rather than an actual deterrent.
Because every time his name appeared on the screen or his voice came, the back of your neck went hot and you thought about that Tuesday with a clarity that was frankly insulting.
You caught yourself thinking about it during a wound closure at two in the afternoon. His hand on your face. The fact that there was no hesitation in that kiss whatsoever. The small sound he’d made.
And underneath all of it, the thought you kept trying to bury: his wife had filed while he was in rehab. While he was already at the lowest point of his life, she’d filed. You didn’t know the marriage. You didn’t know what had happened inside it, what years of him had looked like from the inside, what she’d absorbed. You had no right to feel anything about it.
You felt things about it anyway. That was its own kind of guilty.
You were in serious trouble.
As most unavoidable things, he caught you in the supply closet at four. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
The tone was diagnostic, it was almost funny. Almost because it was happening to you.
You didn’t look up from the IV bag. “I’ve been busy.”
“You went around the triage like you were avoiding a plague.”
“I like the walk.”
Silence. You could feel him looking at you with that attending’s focus, the kind that made patients confess things they’d planned to keep to themselves, and you kept your eyes on the bag and your face very still.
“End of shift. On-call room. B wing.”
He walked away before you could respond, which was probably intentional.
You stood in the supply closet, contemplated your life choices and went back to work because you’re a resident and you have no other choice.
You should’ve probably got an Oscar or at least an Emmy, because you played ‘unbothered doctor’ so well for someone who was actively dying on the inside.
At 7.55, you handed off your patients.
At 8.36, you stood outside the B wing on-call room with your hand not quite on the door and had a brief, intense internal argument with yourself.
Do not open the door. What could go wrong?
It’s fine. It is absolutely not fine.
It’s one conversation. It's supposed to be one kiss too. Actually it wasn’t even supposed to be one kiss.
Against all odds, you knocked anyway and went in.
He was already there. Sitting on the edge of the cot, still in his scrubs.
The lights were off, it was just the small strip of light from the door. It was a terrible idea to notice what that did to the angles of his face, so you didn’t, officially. You let the door shut behind you. That should be better.
For the lighting, of course.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.”
All that waiting and you were back to that. You crossed your arms, which you were aware was a tell, and stayed near the door. Walking closer could and would result in improper physical contact.
“You heard about the divorce,” he said. Same way he’d say a diagnosis.
“Dana told me. A while ago.”
He nodded. “I wanted to tell you myself. I was—” he exhaled through his nose. “I was in rehab, so.”
“I know where you were.”
“Right.” He looked up to meet your eyes, you blamed your amazing dark adaptation. “How’ve you been?”
“Frank.” His name came out sharper than you intended. “Can we skip the—”
He stood up. “Yeah. Okay.”
He was closer standing up. You’d forgotten, somehow, in ten months of his absence, the specific fact of how he occupied a room.
There was no way anyone could ignore his presence. And you were not just anyone, you’re the one who kissed him, or who he’d kissed. Anyway, it’s much harder for you to ignore him.
You pressed your shoulders back against the door.
“I thought about you… in there. More than I should’ve. I’m aware that’s—” a pause where he looked like he’s recollecting himself. “I’m not telling you that to make something happen. I just didn’t want that to be the way things were left.”
You thought about what it meant, that he’d been sitting in a facility in western Pennsylvania doing the serious work of rebuilding himself, and you’d been one of the things occupying space in his head. Whether that was flattering or just sad, you honestly couldn’t tell. Both, maybe. It felt like both.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine. You’ve been going out of your way all day. I’ve watched you do it.”
“Because this is complicated,” you interjected him too fast. “Because you’re still my attending. It’s your first day back from rehab, and you’re my attending, and I—” you stopped, because you had only one argument. “You’re my attending, even if the married thing is gone. I’m aware. But you’re still—”
“I know what I am.” He took a step toward you. “I know exactly what this is.”
“Then you know why I’m standing by the door.”
“Yeah.” He was close enough now that you could see the tiredness in his face, the hollowness of his eyes. He looked like a man who had been forced to do stuff, even if that stuff would only make him better. Whether he wanted to or not, the result was something steadier than what you remembered. It made things harder. “I know why you’re standing by the door.”
He just looked at you with those dark eyes, and you thought about the Tuesday, and the ten months after the Tuesday.
No, no you should not do this. You should absolutely not kiss him.
You pushed off the door and kissed him.
He met you in the middle of it. This kiss was nothing like the first time. The first time had been this cautious, surprised thing, a moment catching both of you off guard.
This was not that. This was the two of you grabbing at each other in the dark of an on-call room with the full information of what you were doing and doing it anyway.
His hands were in your hair and yours twisted in the front of his scrubs. The sound he made was nothing like the one he made ten months ago, but this one had the same effect. You’d be thinking about this for ten more months. Or forever, who’s to say.
He walked you back into the wall, kissed your throat and you let your head hit it. There was a moment when his hips pressed onto yours, and you realised with complete lucidity that this is going to be a disaster.
And then you stopped thinking.
“Frank—”
“Yeah.” His hands worked your scrub top up and over your head and yours did the same to his. You spread your palms on his chest and felt the warmth of his skin and the unsteady rhythm of his breathing, that somehow comforted you. That you had the same effect on him that he had on you.
Mirroring that, he looked at you in the dim light with an expression that had absolutely no composure left in it. You’d never seen his face like that before. It made your stomach bottom out.
“How long?” You were not entirely sure what you were asking.
He seemed to know anyway. “Longer than that Tuesday.”
That’s wrong on so many levels. On that Tuesday, you were an R2 and he was married. Which meant there’d been a stretch of time where Frank Langdon had looked at you in a way that wasn’t professionally appropriate while he was still going home to Abby. You didn’t know what to do with that. You filed it under later, which was the same drawer you’d been stuffing things into all night.
You also liked how he remembered that it was indeed a Tuesday. You did have the same effect on him, that he had on you.
Then, you grabbed the back of his neck and pulled his mouth back to yours.
He unclipped your bra with one hand, the other flat on the wall beside your head, and dropped it somewhere behind him like it was irrelevant. Which it was.
His palm cupped the heavy swell of your breast, thumb brushing the hardened peak of your nipple with a stroke that made your breath hitch. Soon after, his mouth dragged down from your throat to your collarbone, then lower, latching onto the sensitive bud with a hot, wet suction that sent a jolt straight to your core. You felt the warm pressure of his lips close around your nipple and your head knocked back against the wall.
“Frank—”
He only sucked harder, his tongue swirling around the peak in lazy, teasing circles while his teeth grazed the underside just enough to make you gasp. His eyes though, they were locked on your face the whole time. Watching.
That was the thing that made you unravel. The watching, constant and clinical and completely indecent all at once. Like he was memorizing every twitch, every flush creeping across your skin.
His teeth grazed again, a sharp little nip that bordered on pain, and you grabbed the back of his head to keep him there, which he seemed to find interesting, because he smiled against your skin before switching to the other side.
Your fingers tightened in his hair. He took his time. His patience was now pointed somewhere it had absolutely no business being.
The sounds coming out of you had already exceeded what you’d have considered acceptable for an on-call room, but the part of your brain monitoring ‘acceptable’ had clocked out around the time he’d walked you into the wall.
Eventually his mouth moved lower. He traced the valley between your breasts with his tongue, dipping into the dip of your navel before kneeling slightly. His breath ghosted hot over the waistband of your scrub pants as his hands hooked into the elastic. His hand slid into your waistband.
“Here?” He asked against your navel.
“Obviously here.” Your voice came out wrecked. “Don’t stop.”
Something that was almost a laugh came out of him, felt more than heard. His fingers found you and you were already embarrassingly wet, slick heat coating his fingertips as he parted your folds with a slow, exploratory stroke, circling your entrance teasingly before dragging up to smear the wetness over your swollen clit.
Nothing could’ve prepared you for the sound he made. It was rough, involuntary, pressed into your skin like he was trying to muffle it.
“Christ.” Like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. His forehead dropped to your ribs. “Ten months.”
“Don’t.” The more he spoke about the ten months, the more you thought about how unfair and horrible this all is.
“Don’t what?” He looked up at you. Even in the dark the expression was legible. “I’m just observing.”
He worked one finger into you first, then a second, stretching you open with a curl that hooked right against that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids, his thumb pressing firm circles over your clit in a rhythm that had your thighs trembling.
He worked two fingers into you slowly, watching your face do things you had no control over. The stretch of it pulled a sound out of you that you’d be cringing about in approximately two hours. His thumb found your clit and moved in a slow circle, the kind of pace that made it very clear he wasn’t in a rush, that he intended to do this for exactly as long as he wanted, and the fact that you had opinions about the timeline was charming but irrelevant.
Your hips moved. Chasing it.
He stopped.
Not all the way though. His fingers were still inside you, thumb lifted just enough. You made a sound that was not your finest moment.
“Tell me something,” he spoke against your skin, the soft underside of your breast.
“Frank—”
“You went around the hallway twice.” His fingers moved barely, a suggestion of a touch. “You took your lunch break forty minutes early. You reported to Al-Hashimi, who you don’t even know, rather than coming to me.” The fingers curled slightly and your jaw went slack. “So tell me. Have you been thinking about this all day, or just since you knocked on that door?”
“No—”
“Wrong answer.” He withdrew his fingers entirely and delivered a sharp, stinging slap right to your soaked pussy, the wet smack echoing in the dim room as your hips jerked forward involuntarily.
A fresh wave of heat flooded between your legs at the unexpected bite of it. The embarrassing part wasn’t the sound it made. The embarrassing part was how much more wet you got from it. You genuinely could’ve wept from the sudden emptiness, your clit throbbing from the impact.
He waited, eyes locked on yours, that gaze daring you to lie again while his hand hovered, fingers glistening with your arousal in the faint light. “Try harder.”
You bit your lip, thighs clenching as the sting faded into a pulsing ache, but he noticed and slid his hand back up your thigh, teasing the edge of your folds without giving you more. “Frank, please—”
“Not good enough.” Another slap, firmer this time, landing square on your clit with a slick, obscene sound that made your knees buckle, the jolt of pleasure-pain ripping a whine from your throat as your body arched toward him. His thumb brushed the stinging flesh soothingly after, just enough to make you chase it again.
The denial burned in your chest, but so did the need, coiling tighter with every denied thrust of his fingers. “All shift,” you gasped finally, the words tumbling out broken. “Since handoff. God, since I — ahhh — saw you.”
“Closer.” He rewarded you with one finger plunging back in, shallow and torturous, his palm grinding against your mound but not quite hitting where you needed it most. “But not all of it. Keep going.”
You shook your head, dignity fraying, as he added a second finger, scissoring them slowly to stretch you wider, the wet sounds of your arousal filling the room like an accusation. “I can’t—”
“You can.” He pulled them out again, the loss making you clench around nothing.
This time, the slap was a quick, targeted flick to your inner thigh, inches from your dripping core, making you spread your legs wider. “Or I walk out right now, and you finish yourself off thinking about what you almost had.”
The threat hung there, his fingers tracing lazy patterns over your hip instead, close but not touching, until the ache became unbearable. “All day.” The words came out before your dignity could intervene. “Since — Since you looked up and I imagined you bending me over the desk, fucking me raw right there with everyone listening.”
“Fuck.” Back in with his fingers, deeper this time, three fingers now, curling hard against your g-spot while his thumb pressed down with actual intent, rubbing firm, insistent circles over your throbbing clit that had your walls fluttering around him. And the sound you made echoed somewhere it shouldn’t have. “Was that so hard?”
“I hate you.”
“No.” His mouth was at your ear. “You’ve been wet since 7 AM — soaking through your panties during rounds, clenching around nothing everytime you heard my voice. Try again.”
He fucked you with his fingers in earnest,, the heel of his hand grinding against your clit with every thrust, building you up until your vision blurred.
You came with your fingers digging crescents into his arm, your forehead dropped hard to his shoulder.
The orgasm wrung you out in waves, and left you feeling stupid. He worked you through every second of it without stopping, prolonging it with a final, twisting curl of his fingers that had you gushing over his hand, your release slicking his wrist.
When you finally stopped shaking, he withdrew his hand and you heard him licking his fingers clean with a groan, the wet suction of his tongue obscene in the silence.
That alone made your skin go hot all over again.
When you looked at him, his expression was very focused and very dark and had no composure left in it whatsoever.
He kissed you before either of you could say something that would ruin it.
Getting the rest of the scrubs off was not graceful. Yours caught on your ankle, the cot made squeaks when you both hit it, his elbow found the wall with a thud that you both ignored.
He settled between your thighs, his thick cock nudging insistently against your soaked entrance, smearing your wetness along his length as he rocked his hips teasingly. His precum coated you in return.
He looked like exactly what he was: a man who’d done real damage, to himself and other people, who’d spent months in a room somewhere reaping what he sowed.
“Stop,” you said.
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re looking at me.”
“I’m allowed to look at you.” He dropped his head to kiss your jaw, your throat. “You’re in my on-call room.”
“Your on-call room?”
“I was here first.” His hips shifted and you felt him right there. The blunt head of his cock breached you just enough to stretch your entrance, teasing the slick, sensitive rim without pushing deeper.
And every coherent thing you’d been about to say dissolved completely. Your body did something embarrassing and obvious, tilting your hips toward him, asking without asking. “You know what I keep thinking about?” He asked.
Words apparently couldn’t make out of your mouth, you only whined in response.
“You knocked on that door.” His words were muffled against your throat. “You stood outside it for a while first. I could see the shadow under the door. But you knocked anyway.” He pushed in, just the head, parting your walls with a slow, burning stretch that made you gasp as your body yielded to him inch by torturous inch, and breath left you entirely. “And now look at you.”
He paused there, buried only shallowly, his cock throbbing inside you as he gripped your hip hard enough to bruise, letting you feel every ridge, every vein pulsing against your clenching heat.
Then he pushed inside fully, bottoming out in one smooth, deep glide that filled you completely, your pussy stretching around his girth until your walls fluttered and gripped him like a vice.
The sensation was so overwhelming you could feel him nudging against your cervix. His whole body went still at it, every muscle locked, breath coming out slowly against your cheek while he waited.
You felt everything. You felt the stretch, the fullness, the particular and specific reality of Frank Langdon that your 2 AM imagination had constructed and gotten completely wrong.
You’d underestimated it. Ten months of underestimating it, underestimating him.
“Move,” you said when you could.
“Mm.” He pulled back slowly, dragging his cock out until only the tip remained, coated in your creamy arousal. He pushed in slower, grinding deep on the re-entry so his pubic bone pressed flush against your clit. “You had a whole plan, didn’t you? You’d stand by the door, hear what I had to say, then go home.” Another slow drag, the wet slide of him pulling free making your pussy clench emptily, and your fingers curled into his back. “What happened to that?”
“Frank—”
“You’re taking my cock in the on-call room is what happened.” His pace stayed measured, each push intentional, his hips rolling in a way that made his shaft stroke every sensitive inch of you. “All that effort today. All those reroutes.” His mouth brushed your ear. “And here you are, creaming all over me like you were made for it.”
“Shut up,” you managed, which would’ve landed better if your voice hadn’t cracked down the middle.
“You shut up.” He shifted his angle, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder to open you wider, allowing him to plunge even deeper, his balls slapping wet against your ass with every thrust. He did it again, watching your face, filing it. “There. That’s the one —right there, where you're squeezing me so tight I can barely move.”
He pounded into you now with a rhythm that shook the cot, as he chased that angle, his cock splitting you open over and over, your tits bouncing with the force of it.
The filthy sounds of it were loud enough in the quiet room that you were dimly grateful for the distance to the nurses’ station.
Somewhere in the back of your head, your brain supplied that he’d been sober for ten months. This was his first night back. And you were here, you were the thing he’d come back to, or one of them. What did that make you in the story of his life. What part were you playing.
You pulled him closer. You’d think about that later.
You stopped trying to maintain anything. To hell with the composure, the distance, the careful architecture of self-possession you’d been constructing and maintaining for ten months.
It came down. All of it, at once, under the specific and targeted demolition of Frank Langdon. His forearms were braced on either side of your head, his face close to yours, refusing to let you look anywhere else.
“You feel—”
“Don’t stop.” Not at the sentence. At all of it.
“I know... you feel fucking incredible.” His hips snapped forward, burying himself to the hilt in a brutal thrust that made your vision white out. “You’ve been wanting this since that day and so have I, and we both—” another thrust, harder, his pace turning feral as he fucked you into the mattress, the slick sounds of your pussy taking him mingling with his ragged grunts. His control was gone, you could feel it dissolve. “We both made different choices and none of them—” his rhythm stuttered. “None of them fixed it —none of them stopped me from jerking off to the memory of your mouth on mine, imagining this exact fucking thing.”
That almost made you cum. The thought of him jerking off to you, like marriage be damned. Your nails were in his back. You’d apologize for that later, maybe. The pressure was building fast and you grabbed his shoulder and held on, your cunt starting to spasm around him, milking his cock with rhythmic squeezes that had him cursing under his breath.
“Come on then,” he said, almost gone. “Let me feel it. You’ve earned it, all those months—cum on my cock like the good girl you are, let me fill this pussy up.”
You came apart completely. Your orgasm crashed over you in waves, your walls clamping down hard on his thrusting length, gushing around him as you cried out.
He shuddered and followed. His whole body went taut, cock pulsing as he spilled inside you, hot ropes of cum flooding you, marking you deep as he ground against your cervix with a final, broken groan of your name.
His weight was half on you, half off, his softening cock still twitching inside you, a trickle of your combined release leaking out around him.
You stared at the ceiling and let your pulse find its way back down from wherever it had gone.
He moved first. Rolled to the side, pulling out with a wet pop that made you both wince, his spend dripping down your thighs in a sticky reminder.
There was now cold where he’d been, and you didn’t react to it. You sat up, found your scrubs on the floor, and started putting yourself back together. He did the same beside you.
Your badge was near the foot of the cot. You lipped it back on. The normalcy of the gesture felt briefly insane. “I don’t know what this is.”
“Neither do I.”
That was honest, at least. You stood. He stayed sitting on the edge of the cot, staring at the floor. His usual composure was not fully reassembled. You’d done that. You did that to him.
When you got to the door, you could hear his voice, “tomorrow.”
Just tomorrow. Like it was already a given. like it was already on the calendar, like you’d both signed off on it somewhere between the wall and the cot and the rest was just the hours between now and then.
Your hand stayed on the door.
The thing was, he wasn’t wrong. You’d known it when you knocked. Known it when you kissed him, known it when you stopped running the argument halfway through and just let it go. Probably you’d known it since the day, ten months ago. Since you’d pulled apart and told yourself this was a thing that would not happen again.
The responsible and correct thing, the thing a person with any functional self-preservation instinct would do, was to say no. Or nothing. To leave and let the silence be its own answer. To remember that he is your attending, that this is your career, that you’d spent ten months building very sensible walls and had just spent the last forty minutes enthusiastically dismantling them.
You didn’t say yes.
You also didn’t say no.
You just let go of the door handle and walked out, and the thing that followed you down the hallway wasn’t guilt, exactly.
It was something more complicated than guilt. Something that didn’t have a clean name yet and would probably still be sitting in your chest tomorrow morning. Something you hoped would prevent you from knocking the same door at the same time tomorrow.
my masterlist !
extras. I lowk suck at writing mean characters, sorry if the smut was boring or bad 😭
I do have a taglist, it is just Bucky atp, but I do plan on writing Frank more. Lmk if you want to be added.
Whats the sleeping/bedroom arrangement like w robby/frank/reader?
18+ mdni
i kinda picture that they have their own bedrooms since they’re on that dual doctor income… but you end up in either frank or robby’s bed to sleep like 99% of the time. and you ALL end up in robby’s bed like 75% of the time <3 sometimes robby acts crabby about it but he loves it
some nights after you’ve given robby and frank attitude you’ll make a point of going to your own room to sleep… but robby will be woken up not 20 minutes later to you crawling onto the mattress next to him and worming your way into his arms <3 he’ll huff and hold you tight and mutter “goodnight, brat”
ugh and im picturing you and frank going to bed in his room… but when robby walks by an hour later he can still hear you giggling, both of you moaning, and the bed creaking. he pokes his head in and says “Go to bed. You have work in the morning, Frank.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Frank sounds breathless as he fucks into you under the covers. You just stare at Robby with your palm clamped over your mouth, looking caught. “We’ll finish up.”
so robby goes to bed… then gets up to pee in the middle of the night… and lo and behold he STILL hears your muffled whimpers and frank’s hushed voice. he sighs and goes to the bathroom then on the way back pushes Frank’s door open. “Alright, that’s enough. C’mere, sweetheart.”
frank stops dead in his tracks and stares at robby, who’s now walking into the room— “Shit, man, I’m almost—“
“You said that two hours ago.” Robby mutters. Then he meets your eye where you’re blearily peeking out from behind Frank’s bicep. “You’re coming with me.”
you pout but obediently wiggle out from under frank who hisses when his cock slides out of your wet pussy </33 you’re moving clumsily, all sleepy and fucked out, so robby grasps under your arms and hoists you up to be carried, murmuring a gruff but soothing “I know, I know.” when you whimper.
“Deal with that,” Robby gestures vaguely towards Frank’s hard-on where it bobs leaking in your wake, “and get some fucking sleep.”
peeing on langdon!! you get a little cut on your finger trying to make dinner and he’s putting a bandaid on it but you’re just so spooked by all of it that you pee all over his scrubs right on the kitchen counter :(
cw: piss, age play in a vague aura
OH ! ): and you feel extra silly abt it because langdon's always saying to wait til he gets home to use the knives just in case. you're fully capable of cooking he just has a perpetual fear of you being brought into the pitt on a gurney and he cannot deal with that. he wouldn't be allowed to be your doctor legally if you did, at least at home he can doctor you all you need like right now.
"it's alright, hey, just a cut. doesn't even need stitches, baby," he's muttering reassurances while rifling through the junk drawer for a box of bandaids. charming smile on display when he finds one to wrap around your fingertip even while you sniffle n whimper. "still scary though, huh ?"
and you wanna tell him no, it wasn't scary, i'm a big girl ! but then you follow his gaze to the counter beneath you, your shorts n panties soaked ): inner thighs wet n a small puddle forming on the counter that just makes your quiet blubbering grow louder. it's spreading toward the edge, getting on langdon's scrub top making the flood of embarrassment that much worse.
you're halfway through a mumble of an apology when langdon's pressing the softest kiss against your wobbly bottom lip, hands holding your head up so you can't look down at the mess. once he's sure you'll keep looking at his face, he's tugging off his scrub top to do a quick rudimentary clean up between your legs.
"shh, shhhh, no big deal. you got scared, nothin' to worry about. thats what the washing machine is for. why don't we get a bath going for you and then i'll clean up the counter before i come back to help get you into some clean clothes. yeah? sound good?" he asks, peppering a few more kisses over your face until you're giggling amidst the sniffles, nodding in agreement. "that's my girl, c'mon."
*ੈ𑁍༘⋆ sweeter than candy ☺︎ @lambsfiction - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
