i'm still relearning tumblr, so forgive me if i make any errors but i wanted to pin my ao3 in case anyone's interested in reading what i've written
everything i write is for fun. all scenarios, stories, and thoughts are purely fictional and in no way a reflection of the characters or actors. i'm just here for a good time, that's all!
my ask box is always open if you're interested in hearing me yap about melfrank freakisms or anything else
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After his breakup with pop icon ABBY (one name, like Beyoncé), rock star Frank Langdon goes off the rails. His team pitches one last-ditch solution: a PR relationship with Hollywood’s sweetheart, Mel King, who’s desperate to shed her wholesome image and prove she has an edge.
@kingdonmicrofic day 12: gold | 340/340 | rating: g
Becca sniffled in the bed across the room, breathing still uneven with upset, even in sleep. In her own bed, Mel snuggled into her mom’s side, blinking back tears that never seemed to fall with an audience. Her mother smoothed down her hair, tugging once on her earlobe, thumb firmly pressed against the gold studs that were still slightly tender from when she got them pierced five months ago. She winced, but didn’t whimper.
You’re always so quiet, her mother whispered. We never have to worry about you.
Her backpack straps dug into her shoulder, shifting uncomfortably in her BIO 313 professor’s office. The bags under her eyes keep growing these days, never enough time in the day for sleep on top of school and Becca and life. With the funeral, she had to miss a week of lectures, too physically exhausted to drive to campus from the apartment that still smelled of her mother’s perfume. It’s understandable why her performance on the midterm was underwhelming. All Dr. Stark had to offer was a bittersweet smile and a knowing look.
You’re a smart kid, he waved off. We never have to worry about you.
Six months into working in Pittsburgh, Mel felt like she was drowning. She worked and slept and worked and slept and nothing else. Every week, she and Becca watched Elf and every week, she’d listen intently to the social dynamics of Middle Hill, living vicariously through her sister’s complex web of friendships to fill the void that she didn’t know she had until a fateful September day. Sometimes, she’d slip up — miss a chart or forget to put in an order. Little things, to see if anyone would notice.
You’re one of our best, Dr. King, Robby assured her instead. We never have to worry about you.
“You really don’t have to do this for me, Frank,” Mel said, hugging her middle tight.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know, but you really don’t have to worry about me.”
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Mel didn’t even lift her head from the breakroom table, “No thank you. I’m not hungry.”
Frank frowned, “You don’t know what I put in front of you!”
Slowly, Mel raised her head. Behind her glasses, her eyes were tired, exhaustion laying across her shoulders like a weighted blanket. She was on day 5 of a grueling week-long stretch of shifts. He would never admit it to her (mostly because she’d deny needing extra attention), but Frank kept an eye. She’d run herself into the ground if she thought she could help one more patient
That wasn’t happening on his watch.
Frank gently nudged the container towards her.
Mel’s lips dropped into a perfect “o.” Her fingers twitched forward, pulling back at the last minute. A slew of emotions warred across her face—Frank caught disbelief, gratitude, wistfulness, and excitement, but the microexpressions were changing too quickly for him to catalog anything else.
“Are these—?”
“Yup.”
“How?”
“They ship them fresh during peak season. Got them overnighted—these were picked two days ago.”
Mel’s eyes shined with unshed tears, finally reaching out towards the basket of fresh Michigan cherries.
She’d mentioned offhandedly, months ago, how she grew up near a cherry farm and her summers were marked with tart cherries passed between her and Becca (even if Becca ate most of them). Frank had gone home and searched the farm, bookmarking the page.
Mel gripped the basket possessively, “Are you going to want any?”
Frank laughed, fondness ribboned in the noise. “You don’t have to share. They’re all for you, sweetheart.”
A cherry was already in her mouth before he finished. Frank felt himself flush as the juices dripped down her hands. Even if it meant a cold shower at the end of the day, he knew the money spent was worth it.
@kingdonmicrofic day thirteen: smoke - 295 words - recreational drug use (marijuana), college au, title from here
Mel doesn’t know what she’s doing. Generally, but also now, sitting on the floor of Trinity’s dorm room with her knees pulled up to her chest while her friends pass around a joint. Mel has never smoked before. She’s had edibles, and she’s liked those, but never inhaled anything.
When Trinity passes her the joint, she tries to copy what she’s watched the others do. She sucks too hard and fast, her lungs filling past capacity, and coughs hard. Frank, sitting to her right—she had been trying not to think about why he sat by her—thwacks her on the back. Says, “Easy, girl.” The words prickle down Mel’s spine, southbound.
“Chill, Mel-sothelioma,” Trinity chuckles. She turns from Dennis, to Yolanda, to them all. “Get it? ‘Cause she coughed?”
But Mel isn’t paying attention to Trinity and her jokes, because her fingers are brushing against Frank’s as she hands him the joint. He smiles at her, a big but private, smile. Southbound.
“Here, like this,” he says lowly, just for her ears. She watches him take a small drag, hold his breath, and then breathe out a steady cloud. “Try again.”
Mel takes the joint back and tries again. It does go more smoothly, and she passes it back to him.
“I think I like the edibles better,” she says, also speaking lowly, just for him to hear, while the rest of the group debates if mesothelioma primarily affects the lungs or not.
Frank licks his lips. His eyes flick to the rest of the group, then back to her. “Try this, instead,” he says. Before she knows it, he has his hand on her face, coaxing her to open her mouth, so he can blow smoke inside.
tags: cheating, pregnancy, smoking, scumbag frank langdon
melpreg summer x @kingdonmicrofic
Abby had always thought smoking was a dirty habit.
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Abby had always thought smoking was a dirty habit.
In college, Frank had never smoked. It was alarming to her that this was something he’d picked up at the hospital. Surely, doctors knew better. She hated when he’d come home from his shifts smelling like it. He would wash his clothes, but she could always tell; it was under his nails, a stain on his index finger, on his breath. She always knew right away if he’d smoked.
Of course, he didn’t do it all the time. She imagined he did it only during very difficult shifts, which softened the image a bit. Her husband, some kind of Byronic hero. Saving people from terrible circumstances, and then decompressing with a cigarette in the ambulance bay. If she was a teenage girl, she would’ve swooned. But she wasn’t. She was thirty-five with two kids. The last thing she wanted was Frank trailing those toxins into the house. Even if he scrubbed it off, she thought of it sometimes while she watched him rock Penny to sleep, that he could stain her somehow, make her sick or asthmatic.
She had complained, bargained, and withheld, but nothing made it stop completely. It wasn’t frequent enough to be a blow-up fight, but sometimes, she made him sleep on the couch when she caught a whiff of it before bed, coming in through the front door with him. Making their house smell dirty.
One day, it just stopped.
Abby thought it was a fluke for a while. A dry spell. But weeks turned into months, and it seemed like he was really done. She avoided bringing it up, not wanting to start up an old argument, but one day, while folding a mountain of laundry, an old sweatshirt made her think about it again.
“What made you finally quit?” She asked, “I haven’t smelled anything on you in months.”
Frank shrugged, “I dunno,” he lied, “maybe it was a… lung cancer patient a few months back.” Then, he promptly changed the subject.
Of course, Abby would think nothing of this until after the fact, when she could trace the day he stopped to the day he found out Mel King was pregnant.
Mel didn't bother arguing with Becca. It had been an excruciating thirty minutes of Becca complaining about being the only one of them with a boyfriend, so by the time she informed Mel that they were going to cast a love spell on Frank Langdon, she just shrugged her shoulders. Whatever.
She did, casually, ask why Frank. Because Becca knew Frank, and he was nice enough.
Sure. It didn’t actually matter. None of it was real, anyway - a “love spell” on Frank would affect exactly nothing, and Becca would be satisfied, and Mel could go to bed. Sure, fine, let's cast a spell.
There wasn’t much to it - Mel suspected that Becca was making it up as she went. A circle of lit candles (mostly the cheap Yankee Candle knock-offs from the drugstore) and a strip of paper with Frank's name in Mel's handwriting, because it had to be hers, Becca said. Mel sat in the circle and held the paper to one of the flames. It caught fast, curling in on itself, and the smoke came off it gray and acrid-smelling. She jumped up to drop the burning paper into the sink, and opened the window.
"So what's supposed to happen now," Mel asked.
Becca pulled the window shut. "Now he's in love with you." She grinned wide, explaining, matter-of-fact: “It’ll be like me and Adam. He'll want to know how your day is going - all the time, every day. He'll remember things you said weeks ago. He'll show up when you need him. He’ll text you all the time, and he’ll send good morning and good night texts, too.”
Mel rolled her eyes. Ridiculous.
Frank already did text her all the time. He asked about her day and then asked follow-up questions. And some of those things - well, he’d been doing them since the start. He’d been there for her since her first day at PTMC, he’d remembered their inside jokes after months away. That didn’t mean he was in love with her. He didn’t even know her back then.
He was just a good guy. When she left her taxes almost too late, he’d turned up at her house and filed them for her. He got dressed up to go to the ren faire with her because he wanted her to have fun and he knew she wouldn’t do it alone - it was nice of him, but it didn’t mean anything. That’s what friends do.
“Trust me, Mel. He’s going to start doing those things and then you can ask him to be your boyfriend! He’ll definitely say yes.”
She blew out the candles one by one. Becca didn’t get it.
@kingdonmicrofic
day 13 -> smoke (496/295) rated T - infidelity, mentions of alcohol
...
The engine idled, low and grumbly, headlights dull as they fanned out into the expanse of amber-leaved trees. Sunrise loomed just beyond reach; evidence of deep, burnt orange along the horizon as the sky steadily began to brighten.
Smoke curled from his mouth, thin and wispy, escaping through the cracked window without ceremony. She’d always hated the smell, and hated the habit more, but succumbed to the same vice after a lick of tequila or warm, frothy beer. The alcohol from their eventful evening lingered, threatening to turn over her stomach, along with whatever unsettling air they were sharing in the cab of his truck.
She buckled, squirmy from the silence, and snatched the pack of cigarettes from the dash. A hot pink lighter rattled inside.
The first breath felt suffocating, and the second loosened something in her chest, finding her own smoke desperately trailing after his, seeking solace in the wild. She peeled the filter from her mouth, finding the taste of artificial cherry overwhelming as she smacked her lips together; the first distinct noise since they’d arrived hours prior.
He didn’t smoke flavored cigarettes, those were more her speed. Thin Cheyenne cigars, the peach ones. He was a Marlboro Reds man through and through.
It took another moment for her to realize it’d been chapstick. The waxy sensation lessened as she rolled her lips around, as her cigarette slowly burnt, leaving the end to thicken with collected ash. She tapped it in the tray and reluctantly took another hefty drag.
He wasn’t even paying attention, too busy lost in thought, his cerulean eyes fixed on the flutter of birds anticipating the morning light off in the distance. She quietly inspected the pack, thumbing every remaining filter, to find each one the faintest bit slick.
Memories betrayed her. The hour he’d gone missing at the party, the disappearance of his cigarettes, only to find them in the back pocket of another woman’s jeans. A blonde she didn’t know, too mousy and soft for such a harsh place.
They’d left so abruptly, then, after she’d found them. He dragged her to the truck and didn’t utter a single word, and eventually they’d ended up here; their favorite lookout, where they’d otherwise be fondling one another in the backseat, thankful for the privacy. But now it felt like they were putting something to rest, saying goodbye to what once was.
His sigh spoke volumes. Reeking of exhaustion, of restlessness, of everything he couldn’t bring himself to verbalize.
Faint golden sunlight glimmered through the windshield, a light breeze sweeping through the trees, birdsongs soft yet proud, and Abby blew out one last plume of smoke, ready to acknowledge what they’d been avoiding for so long.
The words died out, however, as she spotted the small purple mark beneath his left ear, a light, waxy sheen on the bruised skin.
This girl had staked her claim, whoever the hell she was, and there was simply nothing left to say.
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@kingdonmicrofic Day 12: Gold (481 words, explicit, tw: infidelity)
Abby wanted their rings to match. Gold on gold. Her grandmother’s diamond paired with a classic band for him.
Frank never liked the ring he chose, but it was the one they could afford. He looked wistfully at the sleeker, more stately platinum option and still went with the bright yellow gold that practically glowed under florescent lighting. Abby smirked when he complained about it.
“Good,” she laughed, pulling her dark hair away from her face. “It’s like a warning sign. Stay away, he’s taken.”
She never thought he would be the one she’d have to worry about.
***
Frank always had a thing for blondes. It was such a cliché to admit, and of course, he could play it off. A celebrity crush on Margot Robbie was innocent enough, boring to most.
No one knew it actually came from Caitlin Redwine, the lifeguard at the Science Hill Community Pool. She was nineteen when Frank was thirteen, and he was well into his twenties when she stopped being the first person in his mind when he wrapped his hand around his cock, the freckles across her nose and long braid down her back.
He did a double-take at Mel her first day, that same shade of dirty blonde woven tightly together, a little mole below her eye. It was his teenage crush all over again, and when he thought about her midway through his second rehab stint, hand down the front of his boxers after Abby missed visitation again, Frank came within seconds.
A fantasy, he told himself, reaching past his ring for the box of tissues on his nightstand. Nothing more.
***
Abby started wearing her rings again in June, and Frank did the same.
It was odd, cold to the touch and heavy. By August, it started to feel normal again when Frank would wear it more places than around the house and the hospital, when he stopped slipping it on and off in the parking lot, wondering if that morning’s fight was the last straw.
He thought he might never take it off again, but that was before he kissed Mel King, giving into his fantasy outside a 24/7 diner; before her eyes went dark, and she told him that she lived just on the next block; before he followed her up past the front door and into her bedroom, clothes in a pile on the floor.
“Leave it on,” Mel panted against his lips as he started to remove his ring. “You might forget it.”
Frank nodded and kissed her again, pressing her down against the mattress, exploring her soft, slick folds and teasing her entrance before sliding his finger in up to the last knuckle. She whined, hips bucking up against his hand. He slipped in another finger, and her tight cunt clenched around him, the shiny metal of his ring tangled up in her soaked curls.
Mel used to be one of those kids, the annoying ones who would dramatically cough when someone smoking a cigarette passed by, to make them rethink their choices. She didn’t realize until later in life how black and white she saw the world back then, everything fitting neatly into the categories of good or bad.
Frank Langdon, she’d realized, was one of life’s many gray areas. He was smart, empathetic, strong; she watched him excel through the end of his residency, land a job as an attending at PTMC, and that didn’t even come close to the way he loved her. He braided her hair when she was too tired, made sure she took her medicine every morning, and had given her orgasms so mind-melting she couldn’t describe them.
He was also brash, self-doubting, and, since rehab, a smoker. He asked her out a few months after coming back, and when he picked her up for the first time, she struggled with the lingering scent of stale tobacco in his car.
“Sorry. I can quit smoking in here,” he said, rolling down the windows and blasting the AC.
“No, don’t worry,” she said, a daring hand moving to his thigh. “I’ll get used to it.”
The first time he’d kissed her, she tasted the smoke on his tongue, light and sweet. She liked the newness of it, the unfamiliarity. The first time he took her home, her face buried in his sheets, she smelled it, faint and mixed with the clean scent of his detergent, and she let out a moan.
The problem was that now, every cigarette she smelled reminded her of him. A patient came in after smoking three packs in a night, hyperventilating from nicotine overdose, and she zoned out, thinking only of his tongue against hers. When her neighbor smoked his pipe in the morning her stomach would flutter, remembering the fogged windows of his car, the pack of American Spirits that she saw in the center console when she leaned over to suck his cock.
In the ambulance bay one day, after a particularly devastating case, he lit one up while she held onto him, grounding each other until both of their breathing had returned to normal. The smell of the smoke took her brain elsewhere, watching the way it drifted from his perfect lips. She couldn’t help but lean in, kissing sloppily at his jaw when he moved to ash it.
“Woah, slow down,” he said with a smirk.
“I’m sorry,” she whined, “I can’t help it. I think the smell just drive me crazy now because it reminds me of you.”
He laughed and shook his head, taking another long drag as he stared at her.
“You can’t really be telling me that the smell of cigarettes makes you horny.”
She blushed, burying her face into the scrubs on his shoulder.
“Mel, angel,” he said, lifting up her chin, “you Pavlov’d yourself.”
@kingdonmicrofic day 13: smoke | 295/295 | rating: g (infidelity, spiritual successor to laughter)
Frank isn’t even fully through the door before a laptop screen monopolizes his field of vision.
“Who the fuck is this?”
“Jesus, Abs,” he startles, trying to push into the house, past the computer being shoved toward him, closing the door to stop the neighbors from hearing whatever argument is about to happen. “What are you talking about?”
“Do you think I’m an idiot? Are you an idiot?”
“Woah, let’s just—” he replies, confused. “Stop waving— I can’t see what you’re showing me, Jesus.”
When her arms steady and she pulls the screen back, he’s staring at Dana’s Facebook profile, who it seems has posted all her pictures from tonight. Most of them are hazy from the smoke or blurry or just too dark, only the orange blaze of the bonfire in the background. Abby keeps scrolling up and down the page so quickly, he really can’t see any of the pictures, much less the someone he’s supposed to identify.
Frank shrugs, unsure of what to say. “Ok?”
She scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Ok? That’s it?”
“I mean, fuck, yeah Abs, like what am I supposed—”
Abby flips the screen back around to him, a singular shot picked out of the bunch, zoomed in on two figures huddled together. An arm thrown over a shoulder. The pattern of his flannel draped across the smaller figure, a long, messied blonde braid glowing in the dark.
Two figures that he knows aren’t in the majority of the evening’s pictures.
“Oh. That’s Mel,” he answers, watching carefully as an icy expression crystalizes on his wife’s face at the incriminating affection in his voice. “I was just— being a good friend, she was cold.”
@kingdonmicrofic // July Day 13 // Smoke // WC: 295
It was cold as fuck. His fingers trembled as he searched for the lighter in one of his pockets. He did feel stupid, cutting so much of his life but still needing this habit to keep composure. Whatever, a break is a break, let the man contaminate his own lungs while taking a breath, the irony of it all.
Click, fire, ash, rolled paper against his lips, smoke and snow mixing in front of him. The picture was pretty if not a little deathly. So is life, he guessed. He hugged himself against the puff of his jacket. Frank enjoyed the ritual of it all, clearing his head, allowing not to think for a minute.
“Doctor Langdon, you are here,” he turned around to the voice. It was Mel, staying inside, hugging the glass doors, a loose hair strain dancing through the small wind current. “Perlah has been looking for you, she has the results of central 12.”
Hmm. A broken bone, it could wait.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” he shook his hand to show the still lit cigarette.
“You know, that’s a terrible habit.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“So I’ve heard.” Mel took a second, still behind the glass, lips poured, as if thinking. “Have you ever thought of quitting?”
“Not really.” He chuckled, “gotta keep one bad habit, keeps the body questioning the mind.”
“Yeah, sure,” she sighed while leaning against the glass. “You know, if you stop, I might -” she breathed against the glass, letting in fog. With her finger, she wrote some letters, but he couldn’t quite make up what it said, “ - you.” With that, she left.
Frank got closer to the door. It was mirrored, hard to read, but definitely there.
@kingdonmicrofic day 11: surprise (391/186) mild nsfw warning
“No fuckin’ way.”
She hadn’t meant to keep it from him. In fact, there is very little now that Frank doesn’t know about her, thanks to the compulsive urge to tell him everything and his compulsive urge to ask. He started getting nosy far before anything happened between them, wanting to know what movies she liked (Waitress and Indiana Jones), the music she listened to (90’s Hip-Hop), and her favorite snacks so he could keep extra in his locker (chocolate chip granola bars).
By the time they finally slept together, frenzied on her couch in the late afternoon, he could’ve written a novel filled with all of her quirks and habits, what made her laugh or wrinkle her nose. And after that first time, when Frank proceeded to stay at her apartment the whole weekend, fucking her into her mattress, cooking for her in the cramped kitchen, Mel knew he was hers completely.
“Mel, baby,” his voice is choked.
“I just never found an opportunity to mention it. I promise, Frank, I didn’t mean to keep it from you!” Mel’s tone is placating but not wholly serious, as she knows he is far from angry – shell-shocked, if anything. She wiggles a little in place, settling herself more comfortably across his legs.
“When did you–”
“After my mom died.” It’s a little silly to talk about while she’s ass-up on her boyfriend’s lap, but she presses on, giving him the CliffsNotes. “She had a thing about good luck charms. There were horseshoes all around the house, that and rabbit’s feet – Becca liked those. My uncle kept horses, too. We would visit his barn in the summer and ride them.”
“Just like your earrings,” he mumbles, and that makes her feel warm down to her toes. And then, finally, he’s touching her again, running his fingers delicately over the tattoo on her lower back, her small and dainty horseshoe. “It’s–” a pause as he palms her ass and squeezes, making her squeak. “It’s really sexy, Mel.”
“Oh, yeah?”
Frank exhales, long and slow, moving to pull her panties down the rest of the way. He flings them unceremoniously to the other side of her bedroom, and they catch on the corner of her dresser, hanging. Before Mel can laugh, his large hand is between her legs.
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Mel corners him at precisely 6:42 AM. Red Bull in hand, sweating and uncracked, crinkling beneath his tight grip from the way she pushes and pushes, until his shoulder blades thud against the wall and her minty breath fans up into his face in determined little puffs.
“What did that mean?” her voice, low and husky, carries an undercurrent of something sharper that Frank hasn’t had the pleasure of hearing.
He blinks at her. “What did what mean?”
Her brows pull together, lips tightening up. “Your text, last night,” she says, and moves closer, if that’s even possible. Until her chest brushes against his own and he becomes very aware of her breasts, held taut by a sports bra, thick straps barely visible on her shoulders beneath her plain t-shirt. “I sent you that picture of me at the bar, the one Samira took, and you said that you, quote, were “dying for a taste” and “ready to feast” .”
“Uh..” his jaw goes slack, utterly dumbfounded, now forced to face the consequences of his actions.
It was late, I was tired, I meant— no, he knew exactly what he was saying, that he’d been having heart palpitations over his coworker/best friend/trainee who was out drinking, looking all flushed like a spring cherry blossom and wearing a top that showed so much of what he never got to see at work. Or like, ever.
“I, um,” he swallows thickly, vision tunneled, not at all worried about anyone who may stumble upon them, solely focusing on Mel’s wiry lashes and frustrated, red tinted cheeks. “You looked.. really good. I was.. complimenting you.”
She isn’t convinced. “But that’s not what you said.”
“Right,” he’s a total fucking sleaze and here she is calling him out on it.
How truthful is he allowed to be right now? Can he say that he dreamt of her last night, with his back turned to his wife, and woke up with an insatiable urge so intense that it made him dizzy? Is he allowed to admit that he wished she’d called him for a ride home, and maybe let her hands wander during the drive? Invited him into her apartment, ignoring the evidence of a promise on his finger that he made to someone else? Can he?
The look on his face must say it all because Mel’s head tilts, and the left side of her mouth slowly turns up, satisfied.
“I see,” she says. “Did you mean it?”
“Yes,” he rasps with a weak, pitiful nod. “Yes, absolutely, yes. Of course—”
Her eyes brighten, twinkling beneath the fluorescents. “Oh, that’s so good to hear,” she says, earnest and soft. “So, you’ll come over tonight, right?”
It takes all of Frank’s strength not to sink to the floor, to nuzzle against her navel and fucking sob.
Her parting words solidify the bulge in his scrubs, dooming him to twelve hours of pure agony: “I think that outfit is much cuter in person anyway.”
