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Hello, would you be willing to write for Frank Langdon?
I feel like he’d have a mad breeding kink (considering he had kids) you’re more than welcome to disregard the fact that he’s married :)
nsfw | mdni
frank has such a breeding kink!! divorced dad frank langdon lives on my brain all of the time. when he’s pounding into you, uncaring about how loud either of you were being as he fucked you into the mattress, he would say the dirtiest things regarding breeding you. “fuck baby, i’m so close. i’m gonna fill you up so good, yeah? make you full of my cum. you’d like that, right? of course you would, dirty girl.“ and when he does finally cum, burying his cock deep inside of you as he spills his load, frank is groaning incoherently about getting you pregnant.
"supply closet sex with frank" this, "sneaking off into an empty exam room with frank" that
no...i raise you... sneaking off into a supply closet for 2 minutes of silence and hug w hands under his scrub shirt because that man needs peace and emotional regulation thrice a day
"supply closet sex with frank" this, "sneaking off into an empty exam room with frank" that
no...i raise you... sneaking off into a supply closet for 2 minutes of silence and hug w hands under his scrub shirt because that man needs peace and emotional regulation thrice a day
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
thinking about... divorced!frank who spent his whole marriage being told he takes up too much space at home and now it shows in all his behavior, particularly when he's sick
tags: frank langdon x reader, fluff, post divorce!frank, reader has no specified gender, illness (the cough medicine kind)
As you enter your shared apartment, you kick your shoes onto the tray by the door. You place your bag on the table, and then your keys into the tray atop it.
Usually, you'd find Frank’s belongings neatly placed into the same places. Today things are different. His work shoes are haphazardly tossed in the general direction of the tray they belong in. His keys and his work bag sit on the kitchen table next to his jacket. The coffee cups you'd sipped from that morning are still sitting on the counter. And if you've learned one thing about Frank in the months you've spent living with him, he is meticulous.
Just as you turn the lock on the door, you hear footsteps down the hall heading your way.
A very disheveled looking Frank rounds the corner, pajama clad and barefooted.
“You're home so early,” he says. He makes a few attempts to paw at the light switch before it turns on, leaving him squinting.
“Yeah,” you nod. “I got a text from Dana. She said you went home and looked ‘like death’.”
He scrubs at his face. “You didn't need to leave work.”
“Well, you do look like death, for one,” you start. “And then you didn't answer my text, so I got a little worried.”
A guilty look crosses his face. “I’m sorry. I just came home and crashed.”
“You don't need to be sorry.” You make your way towards him, intending to pull him in, but he catches your arms before you can get there.
“You should- I don't want you to get sick. I was gonna sleep on the couch, and then put the bedding in the wash so-”
“If I'm catching whatever you've got going on, it's already a lost cause,” you chuckle. “And you're in no shape to be doing laundry or sleeping on the couch.”
“I guess.”
He folds quickly, letting you slide your arms around him. His chin sits on your shoulder for a brief moment, and a tired sigh escapes him.
“Did you take something yet?”
“Uh-uh,” he mumbles. “I’ll do that, and then I'll put away my scrubs and-”
“I am so not worried about that,” you reply. “I'll grab it. You need to go get back in bed.”
He straightens, hands still at your waist.
“I'll get it.”
“Go. Lie. Down.” You retort.
He grumbles, but obliges. You follow him down the hall, ensuring he's back in bed before veering away to locate the cold medicine in the cabinet.
When you return to the bedroom, cap of purple liquid in hand, he takes it. It doesn't shock you when he tries to return it to the bathroom to wash it out and put it away.
“Dr. Langdon, you are a horrible patient,” you jest. You snatch it back from him before he gets too far. “Get yourself in bed.”
He chuckles to himself, but for once in his life, he listens.
So you put the cup away and return the bottle to its place. You take the time to wash out the coffee cups, put his work bag into its home by the door, and ensure his scrubs make it into the hamper. By the time you get into your own pajamas and settle into bed, propping yourself up in the pillows he's very much fighting sleep.
“Come on,” you gesture.
The last shred of energy he's saved is spent on the journey from his side of the bed to yours, where he places his head in your lap, with no pushback about the hands you've already put in his hair.
“Thank you,” he yawns.
“You don't need to thank me,” you say. “You're supposed to let people take care of you sometimes.”
He grumbles something incoherent before succumbing to sleep.
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