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pomelace · 2 months ago

Text

amber liquid

pairing: frank langdon x afab! reader

content warnings: not proofread, no physical desciptors used for reader, implied age gap (about 11 years), takes place after s1 of the pitt, mention of breakup & divorce, alcohol consumption, intoxication, emotional vulnerability, flirting, kissing, mild smut (nothing to graphic, I can't write smut to save my life). as always let me know if I missed anything!

magui speaks! : this legit came to me at 2 a.m. when I should've been sleeping, but honestly, when you have a good idea, you have to write it. I wanted to try writing smut but gave up — I legit can't do it; all props to those who can. let me know if you guys want more fics like this! I really enjoyed writing it and stepping outside of the usual hospital setting. as always, I hope you enjoy, and requests are open! (someone pls request)

word count: 3504

Maybe you should’ve seen it coming. Maybe you should’ve guessed he wasn’t ready. And maybe—just maybe—a small part of you wasn’t either.

But guessing that he didn’t want to be together anymore?

That had never even crossed your mind.

Six years together. Six years of laughter, of holidays spent hand-in-hand, of whispered promises in the dark. You thought you were happy. You were sure he was too.

So what went wrong?

You don’t have an answer as you sit hunched at the bar of the restaurant—the same restaurant where, less than an hour ago, your boyfriend dumped you.

It was supposed to be date night. A special night. You had curled your hair, slipped into your best dress, painted your lips the shade he said he loved. You had even dared to hope he might propose.

Instead, he gave you a goodbye.

Now, you sit at the bar, your hair slipping loose from its carefully pinned bun, staring blankly ahead as the waiter slides a shot of tequila toward you.

You toss it back without hesitation, the liquor scorching your throat, leaving a burn that barely registers. Another. And another. You drink until the line between anger and sadness blurs, until your own misery drums in your ears louder than the soft music playing overhead.

It’s a slow night. Quiet. You barely notice when someone slides into the seat beside you.

You keep your eyes down, tracing the rim of your empty glass.

“What are you drinking?” a voice asks—a man’s voice, low and easy.

“Tequila,” you reply, your voice quick, almost defensive. You glance up—and meet his gaze.

He’s older than you. Not ancient, not graying, but maybe a decade your senior. His blue eyes catch the warm light above the bar, sparking just a little.

Before you can say another word, he lifts a hand to the bartender.

“Another shot for her,” he says, smooth and sure.

You manage a small smile—your first real one tonight—as the fresh shot slides in front of you. You raise the glass, clink it lightly against his, and down it in one quick swallow.

He mirrors you—less gracefully—coughing once as the burn hits him harder than expected.

“Celebrating something?” he manages between coughs, a teasing glint in his eyes.

“More like mourning,” you murmur, your fingertip circling the rim of your glass.

He coughs again, this time from surprise, struggling to find the right words.

“I’m sorry... I’m sorry for your loss,” he says finally, voice soft, almost tangible in the way it wraps around you.

You laugh—a sharp, unexpected sound. He looks confused until you set the record straight.

“No one died,” you say. “My boyfriend broke up with me.”

For a second, Frank just looks at you—then relief floods his face, a lazy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh. Well... in that case,” he says, shifting to face you fully, “the guy’s a goddamn idiot.”

You blink at him, caught somewhere between a laugh and a scoff.

“Smooth,” you say, dry.

He shrugs, utterly unapologetic.

“Hey, I'm not here to win points. I'm just telling the truth.”

For a moment, you just look at him. The easy way he smiles, the unbothered tilt of his shoulders, like nothing in the world could hit him too hard. It’s a little annoying. A little comforting, too.

“I'm Frank, by the way,” he adds, tapping his chest like you might’ve been dying to know.

You glance up, eyeing him with a bit of suspicion.

“Well, Frank, are you always this charming, or is it just the tequila talking?”

He shrugs with a grin, clearly unfazed.

“Maybe a little of both. But I assure you, the charm’s mostly natural.”

You snort. “Natural, huh? More like 'forced'.”

“Hey, I'm not the one drowning tequila like it’s water,” he points out, raising an eyebrow as he gestures to your empty glass.

“I think you’ve got your own coping mechanism.”

You roll your eyes but can’t suppress the smile tugging at your lips.

“Touché. So, what, you just come to bars to offer unsolicited life advice and overpriced shots?”

“Nah,” Frank says, leaning in slightly with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“I’m here to save you from a night of self-pity. A public service, really.”

You stare at him for a beat, then shake your head with a quiet laugh.

“God, you're a piece of work.”

He grins, unrepentant. “You’re welcome.”

You set your glass down with a soft clink, taking in the ridiculousness of the situation.

“Alright, Frank Langdon. You’re buying the next round, right? Or am I supposed to keep drowning my feelings while you play bartender?”

He lifts his hand in a quick motion, signaling the bartender.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got this. I’m here for the long haul. Just don’t expect me to let you drink your problems away.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And what, you think one more round of tequila will fix it?”

He leans back, a wicked grin spreading across his face.

“Maybe not, but it’ll definitely make it more interesting.”

𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹

By the fifth shot, the tequila had softened the sharp edges of reality.

The hollow ache you'd carried has dulled, replaced by something lighter—something dangerously close to joy. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s the stranger at your side, but for the first time all night, you feel a little less alone.

Tipsy now, you and Frank lean against the bar like old friends, shoulders brushing, each too stubborn to admit just how much easier the night feels with the other there.

He’s in the middle of telling you a story about the time he stitched up his own hand in med school—because he was, in his words, “too stubborn and too drunk to admit it hurt”—and you’re laughing so hard you nearly spill your drink.

“You’re such an idiot,” you gasp, clutching your stomach.

“Certified,” Frank says proudly, slamming his shot glass down. "Got a degree and everything."

You shake your head, grinning. “You’re lucky you didn’t lose a finger.”

He holds up his hand and wiggles his fingers dramatically. “All ten. Still sexy.”

You snort into your glass. “Debatable.”

Laughing, he flips his hand over, showing you a faint scar that cuts across the fleshy part between his thumb and forefinger. Your eyes catch on the mark—small but jagged, like the story behind it—and for a second, you're almost charmed by the ridiculousness of it all.

Almost.

Because that’s when you notice it.

The thin silver band, sitting there plain as day on the fourth finger of his left hand.

You blink, the drunken haze clearing just enough to register what that means.

He’s married, you think, the realization landing with an uncomfortable thud in your chest.

You sit back a little, the weight of what you’ve just seen settling heavier than any amount of tequila.

Frank doesn’t notice at first—still grinning like an idiot, clutching his chest like you’ve mortally wounded him. You watch him, every instinct firing warning shots in your head.

“You wound me, sweetheart,” he says dramatically, tapping a hand over his heart. That cocky, lopsided smile is back—the one you’re starting to realize isn’t an act. It’s just him.

“Don’t call me sweetheart,” you say, your smile fading clean off your face.

He catches the shift instantly, leaning in with a teasing glint in his eye.

“What should I call you, then?” His voice drops a little, playful but not heavy, the kind of flirting that feels easy, harmless—if not for the ring still sitting heavy on his finger.

You open your mouth, ready to fire back something sharp—but all that comes out is a scoff. Your brain is too clouded with tequila and the sudden, sour taste of disappointment.

That’s when he notices. The coldness he hadn’t seen before. Confusion flashes across his face, and he leans in again, trying to catch your eye.

“Did I say something wrong?” he asks, his voice quieter now, genuinely concerned, as if he has no idea what he's wearing.

You tilt your head, voice sharper than you mean it to be: “Does your wife know you’re out here handing out pity shots to heartbroken strangers?”

His smile slips, just a little. A flicker of something unreadable crosses his face before he sits back in his stool, schooling his features into something easy again.

“No wife,” he says. “Not anymore.”

You arch a skeptical brow.

He huffs a low, humorless laugh, reaching for his glass and twisting the ring around his finger.

“Divorced,” he clarifies. “Signed the papers six months ago. Just... haven't taken it off yet, I guess.”

You study him now, properly. The easy charm, the quick wit—it’s still there. But underneath it, you can see the cracks. The exhaustion. The way some people carry their hurt like it’s stitched into their skin.

“Why keep it on?” you ask before you can think better of it.

Frank shrugs, the barest lift of one shoulder.

“Habit. Guilt. Laziness. Pick your poison.”

You don't have an answer to that. So you just nod and reach for your drink, letting the silence stretch out between you, strangely easy, strangely human.

Frank’s eyes stay on you, a little too intense now, like he’s not quite sure whether to keep poking the fire or step back.

He leans in slightly, his grin returning, though it’s more of a soft, knowing smile now—like he’s trying to find the right words, but not quite sure how to approach it.

“You know,” he starts, his voice low but playful, “I could’ve been a counselor, right? Deep stuff, just me and a couple of shots of tequila. I’d charge you, but I’ll give you a free session for tonight.”

You snort, trying to fight the grin threatening to tug at your lips.

“Uh-huh. What’s your rate, then?”

He gives you an exaggerated, thoughtful look.

“Well, it’s a sliding scale. But for you? Free. For now. We’ll work out the details after you pay with a drink.”

You roll your eyes, but the laughter slips out anyway.

“You’re ridiculous. What else do you charge for? Self-pity sessions?”

“Of course,” Frank says with a deadpan expression.

“I’m a pro at helping people feel bad about themselves while simultaneously offering unsolicited life advice. It’s a talent.”

You chuckle, shaking your head.

“I think you’re selling yourself short. You could really make a business out of that.”

“Hey, it’s a full-time gig,” he grins, leaning back in his chair.

“It’s all about commitment to the cause.”

You shake your head, feeling the liquor starting to work its way through you, loosening your muscles, softening the edges of the night.

“I guess I should be grateful. I was about to start feeling sorry for myself. Instead, I get a free therapy session.”

“Least I could do,” Frank says, his voice taking on a quieter tone.

“But don’t expect any miracles. I’m no miracle worker.”

His words hang in the air for a moment, and something shifts between you two. He isn’t joking anymore. There’s a sincerity to the way he watches you, like he can see something in you that maybe you’re trying not to acknowledge.

The silence lingers just a beat too long, and you can’t help but feel a tug in your chest.

You glance away first, clearing your throat as you take a long sip from your glass.

“Guess we’ll see if the tequila does its magic, huh?” you say, trying to brush it off.

Frank nods, but his eyes stay locked on you, searching, like he’s trying to figure out what’s behind your smile.

“I think it’s already doing its job,” he says softly, his gaze lingering.

“But maybe not in the way you think.”

You meet his eyes, and for a moment, it feels like the air is charged, a quiet tension settling between you two. The playful edge from before has softened, replaced by something more unspoken, more intimate.

For a second, you almost wish you could just forget the world outside of this conversation, forget the hurt that brought you here, forget the ring on Frank’s finger that keeps reminding him of the reality he lives in now.

But the weight of it all presses down, and you break the silence with a soft laugh, the sound forced but somehow real.

𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹

Frank had insisted he take you home, by that, he meant riding a cab with you. You two were far too drunk to get behind the wheel, and to walk straight without stumbling.

The cab pulls up in front of your house, the engine humming to a slow stop as the late-night air wraps around you like a cool blanket. For a moment, you just sit there, staring out at the dark, quiet street.

The lights from the porch are soft and welcoming, but the weight of the night presses in on you like a fog.

The door opens, and Frank is the first to step out. He moves with that same easy confidence, like everything in the world is exactly where it should be. He stands outside the cab, waiting for you to follow.

You hesitate for a second, your mind buzzing with a mix of tequila and too many unanswered questions. The cool breeze hits your face, clearing some of the fog in your head. Frank turns back toward you, catching your hesitation, and gives you a playful grin.

“You know,” he says, his voice teasing but with an edge of something softer, “I’m not gonna carry you to the door if that’s what you’re waiting for. I’m already pushing my luck by not falling over on the sidewalk.”

You laugh lightly, the sound a little more genuine than you expected. You push the door open and step out, the ground under your feet feeling a little less solid than it should.

“Good thing I can walk myself,” you say, brushing past him.

He hands the cab driver some money and asks him to wait as he follows you at a leisurely pace, matching your steps but keeping his distance—just enough to give you space, but close enough that his presene is felt.

As you approach your door, the key feels heavier in your hand than it should. You fumble with it, trying to fit it in the lock, and Frank steps up beside you, leaning slightly against the doorframe as if he's been here a thousand times before.

“You need help with that?” he asks, his voice a little quieter now. The playfulness has faded, replaced with something that feels almost... careful.

You shake your head, finally getting the key to turn. The door clicks open.

“Thanks for making sure I got here,” you say, your voice quieter now, more serious.

“I probably would've ended up face-down in a bush if I tried it alone.”

Frank chuckles, a low sound that rumbles in his chest, easy and warm.

“Of course,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

As you reach for the handle and push the door open, you almost stumble, your balance slipping for a second.

Frank moves instinctively, a hand shooting out to catch you, but you tighten your grip on the handle just in time, steadying yourself with a small, breathless laugh.

You turn back to him, lingering in the doorway, the porch light throwing a soft halo around the two of you.

“I want to say I'll see you around,” you murmur, sincere and soft, "but we probably won't."

Frank’s smile falters, the grin fading into something smaller, more real. He scratches the back of his neck, looking suddenly, painfully sober.

“Who knows,” he says, a thread of hope weaving through his voice.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. Then you offer him a small smile — the kind that feels like a goodbye and a maybe all at once.

Before you can turn away fully, Frank shifts his weight, like he’s fighting with himself. His hand brushes lightly against the doorframe, hesitating.

“You’re not the only one who needed tonight,” he says, voice low, almost rough.

You freeze, heart catching somewhere between your ribs. The air between you stretches, electric and fragile. For a moment, neither of you breathes.

Then you’re moving — or maybe he is — it doesn’t matter, because the next thing you know, you’re reaching for him, pulling him by the collar of his jacket.

Your mouths collide in a kiss that's messy and desperate, all teeth and heat and aching need. His hands find your waist like he’s done it a thousand times before, anchoring you against him.

The cab outside gives an impatient beep beep — a harsh reminder of the real world waiting just beyond your front porch. Frank breaks the kiss for half a second, glancing back toward the street — then without a word, he guides you inside and kicks the door shut behind him, the soft thud echoing through the quiet house.

And then he's on you again — gripping your hips, your back hitting the inside of the door with a soft thump. You gasp against his mouth, and he swallows the sound, kissing you harder, hands sliding up under the hem of your dress like he can't get close enough.

Clothes, decisions, consequences — they all fall away, unimportant in the face of this electric, reckless need.

Frank lifts you with startling ease, and you wrap your legs around his waist without thinking, your arms tightening around his neck.

He carries you a few steps deeper into the house, bumping blindly into a wall, laughing quietly against your mouth like he can’t quite believe any of this is happening.

You break apart just long enough to catch a breath, your foreheads pressed together, both of you panting. His hands skim down your thighs, rough and reverent all at once, as if grounding himself to reality through you.

“Bedroom?” he murmurs, voice wrecked and breathless.

You nod, dazed, and point down the hall.

Frank doesn’t hesitate — just turns, still holding you close, and starts down the hallway, kissing you between every few steps like he physically can't stop himself.

The world narrows to the feel of his mouth on yours, the strength of his hands on your skin, the way he murmurs your name like a secret he’s afraid to lose.

When he finally finds the door, he shoulders it open and stumbles inside, both of you laughing breathlessly through the haze of want.

He drops you onto the bed with a gentleness that doesn't match the wildness in his eyes, then crawls over you, kissing you again — slower now, deeper — like he’s determined to memorize every inch of you.

You thread your fingers into his hair, tugging him closer as his mouth moves from your lips to your jaw, down the line of your throat. He lingers there, breathing you in, his hands splaying wide across your ribs like he’s trying to steady himself.

“God, you’re...” he starts, voice breaking like he can’t even find the words. He kisses you again before he can try.

Clothes become an afterthought — a barrier that both of you work to strip away with frantic hands, punctuated by soft gasps and half-laughed curses when fabric gets stubborn or tangled.

Frank pauses every few seconds, checking your eyes, searching for any hint of hesitation. But you just pull him closer, giving him your answer without a word.

When there’s nothing left between you but heat and skin, he looks at you like he’s seeing something he doesn’t think he deserves. His thumb traces the line of your cheek, gentle, reverent.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” he says, rough and honest.

And then he’s kissing you again — slower, more deliberate now, like he's savoring every second, like he’s afraid it’ll be ripped away.

His hands map your body with careful, aching thoroughness, every touch setting your nerves on fire.

His hand roams down the curve of your sternum, slow and sure, until he cups one breast in his palm. You gasp, the sound spilling from your lips before you can catch it, your back arching into his touch.

He strokes his thumb lightly over your skin, reverent, almost awed, as if he’s memorizing you one careful inch at a time.

He touches you with such aching tenderness, like you're something precious — fragile, irreplaceable — something he’s terrified to hurt or lose.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmurs against your collarbone, his voice so low it’s almost a prayer.

You shake your head, threading your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer.

“Don't stop,” you whisper, barely audible, but it’s all he needs. His mouth finds yours again, a little more desperate this time, his hands mapping every curve of your body like he’s trying to brand the memory of you into his skin.

You cling to him just as fiercely, drowning in the way he feels, the way he makes you feel — alive, needed, wanted.

Tonight, you’re not thinking about tomorrow.

Tonight, you’re just feeling.

©pomelace 2025

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