honey 🐝

@kingdonmicrofic | july 7 | prompt: karaoke | 472 words

Now

Mel didn’t know how they were going to get away with this if Frank kept looking at her like that.

There were quite a few of their coworkers out at karaoke night, which initially started as a sort of bonding night for the interns and R2s, then quickly blew up to include whatever day shift staff wanted to come. Thankfully, that didn’t include her stepfather or Robby, but Mel knew how easy it was for gossip to spread at the hospital.

Two weeks in, and Mel and Frank didn’t set out to keep their relationship a secret. It was just so new, and he was a senior resident while she was an intern. There wasn’t an explicit rule against it, but there would probably be questions. Not to mention the fact that Mel’s stepfather was technically his boss, and Frank had explained the tension that still lingered between him and Robby.

“You liked her touching you?” he asks, biting hard on her thigh. “Feeling my babies inside you?”

She trembles as he licks a line up her leg, lapping up what leaked from her when she felt his eyes on her earlier, watching his wife kindly ask before touching Mel’s stomach, flattening her palm over where their two babies grew. She had no idea. He felt his blood rush downwards when he saw it, shocked at himself for it, but unable to control how hot it made him to see. 

Mel was in green, a long, cap-sleeved silk dress with purple and white flowers on it, that hugged her just enough for you to see—she was pregnant, around sixteen weeks. That only went back to the start of July, right around the week he came back.

@kingdonmicrofic day 3: gala 493/467. reverse age gap. implied secret relationship

Frank Langdon is sweating buckets from anxiety, dread and the thick suit he borrowed from a colleague who worked in the ICU who had forgotten to mention that it was a winter suit.

Which would’ve been helpful, as the hospital’s annual gala was in July.

It wasn’t mandated to come, but lots of people from upstairs had come down to mention all the networking opportunities events like this came with, how it helps make the hospital look good for the public and in simpler terms if you want to finish your residency here, smile your pretty face to the donors, intern.

And Frank can admit, he’s a charmer. It’s how he stayed out of trouble in school and in college, smiling at teachers and professors, putting on his Southern drawl a bit thicker and laying out an extra ma’am or sir when the situation called for it.

But between the heat, the heavy suit and the ways dozens of people’s eyes turned blank the moment he mentions it’s only his first year at the hospital, the night out was a loss.

So, after a while, here he was people watching beside the bar, surrounded by other colleagues from PTMC that are busy talking amongst themselves; as he holds onto an almost empty champagne glass that he doesn’t want to let go of because he has no idea what to do with his hands.

“You know, you’re supposed to hold the glass at the stem.” A voice comes up from behind him, raising the hairs on the back of his neck.

He’d recognize that voice anywhere, even amongst the constant drawl of ass-kissing and schmoozing in the room. When he turns around, he sees Dr. Mel King, smiling, her crows feet out in force, wearing a simple ankle length light green dress, her hair loose and wavy.

“Enjoying the party?” She smiles, now standing beside him, looking out to the event.

“I am now.” He whispers to her, pleased when Mel rolls her eyes and hits him on the shoulder softly, arm subtly sliding down to his forearm,

“You look…” Breathtaking. Beautiful. Devastatingly hot. Every other completely inappropriate HR-worthy term. “Very lovely, Dr. King.”

She flushes “Mel, please. And thank you, you look lovely as well, Frank.”

“Have you been able to mingle?”

“Oh, yes. Dr. Underwood enjoys showing off her show-pony for autistic representation.” Mel remarks dryly, stealing his finger-print-stained flute glass and drinking the last dregs. “I was actually about to head out when I saw my favorite intern standing by himself.”

“I’ll have to tell Whitaker you hold him in such high esteem.” Frank says lowly, stealing a glance around if someone’s watching, feeling like he’s dancing around something dangerous.

“He could never.” Mel says, kind yet firm, something almost possessive flashing in her eyes

childhood friends to lovers, infidelity, love rosie inspired @kingdonmicrofic

dedicating this one to my lovely friend @kingdonspirits hbd!! ☺️

Mel snags another glass off of one of the caterers walking by. She shifts uncomfortably in her dress. It’s gold and silky against her skin, but it’s strapless and she feels exposed and indecent.

She doesn’t dare look behind her, because she knows if she does she’ll see Abby, beautiful and funny Abby, clutching onto Frank like he’s a life saver and laughing, looking at him with her big brown eyes. And it’ll hurt because Mel knows that’s how she used to look at Frank, before Abby, Liam, before any of all this mess. She can’t look back because Frank will be looking at her, instead of the woman who now wears his ring. It’s a big diamond that cost a fortune, not like the one that belonged to his mother. (She had refused to give it to him when he told her about their engagement.)

One of Abby’s bridesmaid’s, dressed in a bright orange dress, clinks her own glass and announces it’s time for the speeches. Abby’s brother goes up first and Mel downs the rest of her champagne and gets her note card ready. Mel had been worried about what to speak about when Frank asked her to be his “Best Man.” They’ve shared thirty something years together, how do you put that down onto a small piece of paper?

Abby’s brother is wrapping up his speech and that’s Mel’s que to start making her way up to the front of the room. She gives the guy a brief smile and takes the microphone from him.

For most of her speech, she avoids looking at Frank. Instead at the faces of everyone in the room as she regails tales of childhood freedom and teenage rebellion, pausing to let everyone laugh at the right times. She glances down at her notes and finally looks at her best friend. The one person who knows her better than anyone else and tucks the paper in her pocket.

“I just… I want you to know that no matter where you are, or what you’re doing, or who you’re with…” Her breath catches in her throat and she feels her eyes burning and Frank is just looking at her, open and raw. “I will always, honestly, truly, completely, love you.”

Abby grimaces and Frank’s eyes are just shiny, like they’re both kids again.

“...Like a sister loves a brother.” She finishes lamely and walks back to her seat quickly, refusing to meet the pitying eyes of her sister, or Frank’s mom, or fucking Abby.

Her phone buzzes on the table.

Frank So. you gonna tell me your room number?

Prompt: Champagne @kingdonmicrofic | 500 words | Rated G | 2/31 | Castle AU

“I still don’t understand why you killed off Derek Storm, Frank.” 

Frank rolls his eyes. This again. “Haven’t you ever wanted anything new and exciting, Abby?” 

“No,” Abby says curtly, leaning against the bar. “What I want is my bestselling mystery writer to not have killed off the best spy since James Bond.” 

“Are you saying that as my bloodsucking publisher, or my bloodsucking ex-wife?” 

“Cute.” 

“Leave it alone, Abs,” Frank says, reaching over to grab a glass of champagne and hand it to her. “It’s a party, didn’t you hear?” 

“And have you found that something new and exciting, Frank?” Abby asks, taking a delicate sip of her drink. “Because my sources say that you haven’t written in weeks.” 

Shit. 

“My sources say that you’ve been listless, sitting around in your pajamas, staring at an empty page. My sources say you’ve lost it.” 

“Your sources are wrong,” Frank lies. So what if his bestselling character bored him to tears so much that he killed him off in the latest book? So what if he’s lost his muse, his creativity, his will to write? “I haven’t lost anything.” 

Abby smiles tightly, taunting him as she makes her way over to the other end of the bar, where a young redhead sits with some headphones, hunched over a science textbook and paying no attention to the party. 

“My sources are never wrong,” Abby says about their teenage daughter, kissing her on the forehead before turning to him. “You owe me new pages next month, or we’re demanding the advance back.” 

“I already spent it,” Frank jabs, “divorcing you.” 

Abby flips him off, gives one last kiss to Penny’s forehead, and then makes her way across the party. 

“What’d you do this time?” Penny sighs, taking off her headphones. 

“Nothing,” Frank protests, motioning to the bartender for another glass of champagne.

“You must’ve done something.” 

“So I killed off Derek Storm, so what.” 

Penny rolls her eyes. “Mom just wants what’s best.” 

“What’s best for who?” Frank says lightly, accepting the drink from the bartender and downing it in one. “Everything with Derek just felt so predictable, I mean come on, I’ve written ten books on him.” 

“Ian Fleming wrote twelve books and two short story anthologies for Bond.” 

“I just wanted something new, something exciting, is that so much to ask for?” 

“Mr. Langdon?” someone says from behind him. 

Frank turns to see a blonde woman in a suit, flashing a police badge at him—oh god. What’s he done this time?

“Detective Mel King, NYPD, we need to ask you a few questions about a murder that took place earlier tonight.” 

“I’m sorry, officer, there must be a mistake,” he says, confused, “I’ve been here all evening.” 

“No, sir,” Detective King says, “you misunderstand. We found a body earlier tonight, it was staged like one of your books. We’d like to ask you a few questions.” 

Huh. 

@kingdonmicrofic, Wedding 'Verse, 499 words, Rated G (read on ao3)

March 8, 2029 (276 days to go)

“Mel, sweetheart, love of my life, it’s your wedding. What do you want?”

Mel groans, “First of all, it’s our wedding. And second, I just want to make a decision. I didn’t want to spend this much time on bridesmaids dresses.”

Frank had returned from his shift to find Mel at their kitchen table, biting her thumbnail while frowning at her laptop, her tea having gone cold. After the usual pleasantries, Frank brewed Mel a fresh cup as she filled him in on today’s wedding planning drama.

Apparently, Becca wanted to wear a champagne dress, while Mel had been leaning towards emerald green. (Booking a December wedding had at least helped narrow down the color palate.)

“If you don’t like that color, just say no. It’s not Becca’s decision, she’ll have to deal.”

Mel frowned. “I know that, but I still want her to be happy and like what she’s wearing- she’s the maid of honor!”

Mel and Becca had come a long way since their July 4 falling out, but over a decade of acting as surrogate parent, twin sister, and caregiver meant that even now, years later, Mel still struggled to not automatically give in to Becca’s whims.

Becca had gotten used to that dynamic- adjusting it had taken significant time and effort. It hadn’t been easy, and was still a work in progress, but Frank gladly supported Mel as she cultivated and enforced healthier boundaries with her sister.

Frank leaned across the table and took her hand, rubbing his thumb across the back in an attempt to sooth the worry written across her face.

When it came to wedding planning, Frank felt fortunate he’d done this before. He’d admittedly taken a back seat to Abby and her mom, and hadn’t engaged with it as much as Abby wanted, much to her chagrin.

This time around, he swore to himself that he’d be a better partner in this process, as well as in life. He wouldn’t take this second chance for granted.

“Mel, honey,” he started, softly, “everything is going to work out fine. Becca loves you, she wants you to be happy too.”

Mel sighed, bringing one of his hands to her mouth, lightly kissing it. “I know. You’re right. It’s just a dress. It’s just- it feels so much bigger than that, you know? I never thought I’d get to have this and now I do. I just want to enjoy it.”

Frank stood up from his chair and kissed her forehead. “You will. I know you’ll find the right compromise. If you need backup, I’ve got you.”

Mel hummed, pulling him down for a tender kiss. He felt the stress leave her body as she relaxed into his touch.

“I’m gonna call Becca and work this out, can you start on dinner? I got some chicken out to thaw.”

“Of course, baby.”

for @kingdonmicrofic & @kingdonspirits (HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!) wc: 158 | rating: e | cw: ddlg, infidelity, sleezy frank, dirty talk, references to blindfolding & bondage

“Oh, it’s cold.” Blindfolded with hands tied to the bedpost, Mel squirms as the champagne spills across her skin. “And messy.”

Licking between her breasts, Frank savors the bitter taste. “Good.” He’ll buy Abby new sheets later. “Open up for me, baby.”

“So you go, but you don’t go as yourself?” Frank clarifies.

“Well, no, she’s like an alter ego. Like a character,” Mel explains sheepishly.

Silence stretches for a moment and when she looks back up, he raises his eyebrows expectantly. “Well, go on.”

“You want to hear about it?” Her voice thick with disbelief.

“Yeah,” he replies, scoffing like it’s the most obvious thing in the world that he would. She’s still getting used to him listening to her and wanting to understand who she really is. Still getting used to having a friend. All her own. It’s nice, really nice.

“Well, she’s a seventeenth-century French milkmaid. I have this whole binder at home with research in it, oh my gosh, everything is period accurate to the Champagne region at the time. A couple years ago, I actually hunted down this specific fabric to make part of the chemise I wear.” 

She’s never liked hockey.

She prefers baseball, likes the endless statistics and methodically keeping score like his dad taught her at one of Penny’s softball games. She does this even when they watch Pirates games at home, Tanner checking over her shoulder to make sure he’s doing his scorecard the right way, too, Penny playing with the dog at her feet and Frank always sitting by her side, his thumb rubbing over her kneecap.

But hockey is Frank’s favorite, the quick pace and ceaseless action matching the way his brain tended to move at one million miles per hour. Even in the breaks in play, something was always moving – a player skating to the bench, a puck gliding across the ice, the occasional fist fight breaking out despite the referee’s whistles.

When she overheard one of the new surgical attendings talking about selling her pair of rinkside tickets to game seven of the Stanley Cup Final between the Penguins and the Sharks, she couldn’t pass up the opportunity. She and Frank were both already off that day, the cosmos seemingly aligning to Get Frank Langdon to a Stanley Cup Playoff Game.

And she’s never liked hockey, almost told him to take Donnie. But now – surrounded by the stench of spilled beer, sweaty men with their shirts off and so much yelling – she knows she made the right choice, coming with him.

“There’s confetti in your mouth.”

He looks at her. She doesn’t know how he heard her voice through the noise, but maybe she shouldn’t be surprised; it’s him. He’s always heard her, no matter how metaphorically or literally improbable it seemed.

He looks at her. Sure enough, there is black and gold confetti on his lips.

“What?”

He shouts obliviously around the confetti, above the roar of the crowd celebrating the fact that the Penguins just won the Stanley Cup. She goes to speak, but then she really looks at him (as much as she can through all the aforementioned confetti). Splotchy skin, flared nostrils, and are those tears in his eyes?

The same hat on his head that he wore that first day he came back to her.

“Never mind,” she decides.

He grins at her, that confetti smile.