pairing: frank langdon x fem!reader
the pitt masterlist | jamie's y(2k)sleepover (open event)
wc: 2k
summary: after hours at the pool
contains: making outttt, criminal activity, divorced!dad!frank
a/n: from this request - thank u, I’m so proud of this one!! be sure to get your requests in for my 2k celebration <3 | dividers from @strangergraphics
The sun has set, the city skyline blinking around where you stand in the center of Frank's apartment complex, making googly eyes at the pool.
The water glistens and dances in the light of the two lampposts bookending either side of the fence. The lounge chairs —the quantity of which you can count on your fingers— lay scattered across the cracked concrete in varying states of disrepair.
It's not much, but it's clean, and the record-breaking July heat means this shoddy pool is an oasis.
“Closes at 11,” Frank murmurs, reading off the sign posted on the gate, locked by a number pad with a code supplied to residents. Pouting, he kicks a rock, sending it rolling under the bottom gap of the fence.
Any other day, you might be worried about the chemicals —or lack thereof— in the water. You might fluster over the possibility of a property manager reneging on Frank’s lease or a neighbor snitching on you for trespassing.
It’s too goddamn hot to care about any of that.
You square up to the steel-barred fence, about seven feet tall, nibbling on your tongue in concentration. This whole week, even after sundown, you’ve existed in a perpetual, thin sheen of sweat. A bubble of perspiration.
The still, blue water mocks you.
Probably isn’t even that cold, you reason, having sat in direct sunlight all day. Trying to convince yourself you don't need it. Even if you were thinking about cool water splashing over your skin all day.
“Let’s just go inside,” Frank sighs behind you. “I’ll blast the AC, we can stand in front of the freezer and not touch each other. Like a normal, loving couple.”
You barely hear him, too focused on the siren call of the water. It would be such a relief, even if it’s only ten degrees cooler than the air.
“Baby?” Frank asks.
You launch your towels over the fence. “Give me a boost, Frankie.”
His bewildered reply: "What?"
You whip around to see his head cocked to the side, an adorably confused German shepherd.
No, a golden retriever.
"Give me a boost," you insist, jerking your chin in the general direction of the pool.
"Are you serious?"
"No, I just threw our towels over for fun," you mock him, too miserable in your own skin to pretend you're playing instead of straight-up being mean. "Yes, I'm serious!"
"We might get it trouble," Frank protests, much to your surprise.
"No doy, dummy," your voice ventures further into annoyance territory. "Come on, it's too hot to play by the rules."
"God, you were the kid pressuring everyone to drink at parties in high school, weren't you?" He asks, crouching and beckoning you forward.
As you clamber into his grip, you grumble. "That would require me to have been invited to parties in high school."
Frank punches your weight up, giving you enough momentum to vault over the fence.
Your ankles scream when your flip flops smack against the concrete, but you're otherwise unharmed. You beckon Frank towards the metal bars.
He doesn't move.
"Come on, Frankie," you coo, giving your best impression of Marilyn Monroe. The air around the water is humid, but inviting.
You tug on the strap of your swimsuit cover-up —a dress made of towel material. "Don't you wanna see me in my swimsuit?"
"Got a pretty good view when your legs flew over my head, Tinkerbell."
Your doe eyes tighten to daggers. "Pervert."
Frank snorts and grabs a fistful of the materal through the gap in the fence. "Tease."
You smack his hand away.
"Come on," you step out of his reach. "I don't want to break the law by myself."
"But you look so cute in orange."
"Frank!" You whine now, going so far as to stomp your foot.
"Ok, ok. Jesus," he holds his hands like you've got him at gunpoint, then glances around.
Frank finds a concrete block by the gate, and uses the extra six or so inches to white-knuckle the top of the fence. He grunts as he swings himself over and lands in a shaky squat. The chlorine instantly infiltrates his nostrils.
You stand with all the patience of a feral cat, your hip jutted out at an angle. Lips pressed tightly together.
The urge to kiss that disgruntled look off your face is all-consuming, but Frank has learned from experience that it's far too warm for you to appreciate —nay, tolerate— any physical displays of affection.
The heat wave this past week has been hell for many reasons, but the worst of all is how touch-starved Frank has been.
On a typical day, his hands find your body through countless excuses. At work, he often 'needs to slide past' you, strong palms finding your shoulders in a firm squeeze.
From the moment you leave the hospital, he's a stage-five clinger. Holding hands. Finding any reason to cup your cheek, scratch your back, tug at the hem of your shirt. Whether you like it or not is irrelevant. You put up with it as a comfort to him, and he's grateful for the grounding the skin-on-skin contact provides on a daily basis.
You've never complained. Until this week.
And Frank agrees, it's too hot to be swapping oxygen back and forth for any length of time, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't miss it. Deeply.
To the point where glancing up your little towel-dress-thingy was enough to send him into orbit.
And now, as you tug the dress over your head, the water casting a soft, yellow-blue glow over your sweat-polished skin, Frank's breath catches in his throat.
Your swimsuit's nothing to write home about, objectively speaking —just a white one-piece decorated in little pink stars. But it sculpts over every last one of your delicious curves. Frank thinks he might like to have it framed.
After folding your dress into a neat rectangle, and setting it atop your towel, you clock Frank gawking at you like a schoolboy.
"Is your back okay?" You ask.
"Huh?"
"Your back, Frank," you reply, all concern as you step closer. Entering his personal space for the first time in a week. "You've got this horrible look on your face. Did you tweak your back?"
"N-no," Frank stutters through a broken laugh, then blows out a long huff of air. "Let's just… let's just get in the pool before we get caught, yeah?"
"Okay, weirdo," you scoff, then take the clip out of your hair. Tresses spill from where they'd once been secured, falling around your shoulders in waves. Frank's heart trips over itself.
He peels his own shirt off then, dropping it beside the towels in a heap beside your neatly folded cover-up. There's a splash behind him.
When he turns around, you're emerging from the water, hair now slicked back against your neck. You rub the water from your eyes, and smile up at Frank for the first time in a week.
"Oh my god, Frankie, it's fucking amazing in here," you exhale all in one breath. Water ripples around you.
The water is almost perfect, perhaps a hair too warm, but still an ice bath compared to the muggy, thick heat hazing over the rest of Pittsburgh.
Frank squares up to the deep end, creating distance between him pool's edge. You scrunch your whole face up at him, perplexed, until you see him take a running start.
"Frankie, no, we gotta be quiet!" Your words are drowned out by the enormous splash that reverberates through the whole pool as result of Frank's cannonball.
Water flies in all directions, small waves erupting through the water. You're lucky enough to miss the brunt of the splash, but that's the least of your concerns.
You flick your head around, searching for anyone who might be around to bust you for trespassing. Once the cool(ish) water sent relief through your body, the mild delirium started to clear, and now you're dreadfully aware of how much toruble Frank could be in, lest you get caught.
When his head bursts out from underwater, you glare at him.
"You're gonna get us in trouble!" You growl from where your feet can still touch, hanging on to the concrete side.
"Wanna see me do a handstand?"
Your frown persists as a long silence passes between you. Him, wanting attention. You, denying it.
He swims to you in wide, broad-shouldered strokes, the cords of his arms rippling with each arc. His hands find your hips under the water, tugging you closer.
You shove his shoulder, but make no real move away from his touch. "I actually wanted to cool off, not just have a five-second dip in the water," you complain.
"Grumpy, grumpy girl," he tuts, relief spreading through his visage as he spreads his hands over your backside. "I wanted to show off. Can you blame me? You're just so pretty."
"Hmph."
"Grumpy Gus," his touch drives your hips, angling you so your back presses against the side of the pool. "You didn't like my cannonball?"
"You're a child."
"You're the one who broke into the pool," he counters, tilting his head closer to yours. "I missed you."
"I haven't gone anywhere," your brows knit together as Frank's lips find your neck.
"No, you've been gone," he husks between wet, pointed kisses, tingles shooting up and down your arms. "The heat took you from me."
You purse your lips in the side of your mouth, not quite giving in to the desire starting to rumble in your tummy. "I didn't realize I was so terrible in the heat."
Frank pulls his head back, frowning at you. "Baby," he scoffs.
"Frank."
"This week has been awful for everybody," he explains.
"But apparently I'm grumpy and terrible to be around and not at all myself," your mouth flattens, arms still flopped, useless, at your side.
"So's everybody else," Frank says like this makes it all better. When you don't cave, he slides his hands to your shoulders, squaring you up to him. "Baby, you've always been high-maintenance. You can't look at me and tell me that's not true."
Your expression tightens.
"You think I'm high-maintenance," you phrase it as a statement rather than a question.
"Everyone thinks you're high-maintentance," Frank shakes your shoulders like you're a ragdoll. "But, listen, okay? I like being the one maintaining you. It's, like, my favorite job. Second only to Dad."
Frank presses his wet thumb to the corner of your mouth, coaxing a half-quirked smile.
“There's my girl," he hums, then ducks his head to kiss you.
On instinct, your palms slide up his bare chest, winding around his neck. You reach up and pierce your fingers through his sopping hair.
He hugs you closer by the hips, one hand traveling to squeeze your rear.
Frank’s tongue juts out to play with yours, lapping you up like… well, water. But these aren’t kisses you’ve gotten before. These are a homecoming, missing-you, glad-to-have-you-back kisses.
You whimper. He swallows the sound, legs tangling with yours under the water.
“You’re not so grumpy anymore, are you, baby?” He hums, voice low and breathy, as he squeezes the curve of your ass.
“It was just hot,” your pout rematerializes, but Frank’s just as quickly kissing it away.
“I know,” he sympathizes. “But you’re all cooled down now, aren’t you?”
One hand bursts from the water to cup your jaw, rubbing with pressure. Under the water, his fingertips dip beneath the taut nylon at your thighs. It’s a tight fit, teasing you under your bathing suit, but he manages somehow.
“Not here,” you shake your head in a whine, and Frank’s fingers leave the warmth under your suit. You crave his touch, but you aren’t willing to risk trespassing and public fornication. Not tonight. “Later, though.”
“Mmm, okay,” Frank hums, then kisses you again.
It’s just as deep and long and wanting, the promise of what’s to come once you’re out of the pool, out of this suit, out of your heat-induced bad mood. He nibbles and sucks at your bottom lip. Where your hips square up to his, you feel a distinct firmness.
Your man. Your best friend. The guy who breaks into a pool with you half past midnight.
"You do a good job at it, Frankie," your voice comes out a half-moan, a squeaky lilt. "Maintaining me."
"I know," he pulls back to shoot you a cheeky grin. "Now will you please watch me do a handstand?"
frank and robby's unresolved resentment comes to a head when their rivalry turns sexual and they start using you as the middle ground.
MASTERLIST | RULES | PINTEREST
PAIRING michael robby robinavitch x reader x frank langdon
WARNING 18+ MDNI explicit smut, fem!reader, AFAB!reader, ménage à trois, boyfriend!langdon & boss!robby, freaks being freaks, hate sex?, robby and langdon using reader as a stress toy and therapist all in one <3, possessive!langdon, robby is condescending per usual but like in a hot way, oral (male & female receiving), robby picks up reader to throw her on mattress at one point, voyeurism, lots of pet names (sweetheart, baby, doll, etc), starts with robby and frank at odds with each other, ends with them teaming up against you... wink wink, lots of dirty talk, robby and frank talking about reader to each other, langdon lowkey degrading robby? idk yall
WC 4.2k | REQUEST here!
You didn’t think this little plan of yours all the way through.
Which, in your defense, implies there was a point at which there had been a thought-through version, and that feels charitable now that you’re standing in the middle of your living room with a paper plate in one hand and a steadily souring sense of dread in the other.
Because really, what sort of person invites her chief attending over to the apartment she shares with her resident boyfriend while the two of them are still in the world’s iciest little bro-divorce?
Your sort, apparently. Certified dim-bulb. Girl who sees a gas leak and thinks, hm, maybe a sparkler would improve this situation.
But in your defense the frost between them had been spreading and you were tired of pretending it wasn’t. Tired of pretending it wasn’t affecting the job itself. Everyone was.
So yes, maybe engineering one contained, inescapable little social crucible had felt wise at the time. Healing, even. Put two men in a room and let nature take its course.
Frost can’t survive fire, you told yourself. What you failed to remember was that fire tends to not be warm in any benevolent way. Fire bites. Fire blackens. Fire leaves marks.
The proof of your terrible idea now sits on opposite ends of the sofa. Robby on one, Frank on the other, a clean swatch of empty cushion between them while they chew their food in perfect, hostile union — bite, grind, swallow, repeat — ostensibly watching the TV.
The screen washes them in intermittent blue light, giving them both somewhere neutral to stare, somewhere that is not each other’s face.
You give it three more seconds. A generous three, really. More than either of them deserves. Then your patient collapses inward on itself. With a sigh, you deposit your plate on the coffee table and cross the room.
If they want to commit to this pageant of masculine emotional constipation, fine. You can be disruptive. You turn and reverse yourself right into Frank’s lap, crossing your legs at the ankles.
His breath catches against your neck, a fracture in an otherwise composed exterior, surprise or shock of you climbing on him in front of your boss, but he stays statue-still except for the palm that migrates to your thigh and clamps there.
“Robby, you still think their rookie QB’s gonna choke in the red zone?” you ask, making a doomed little bid for peace with the ragged scraps of football knowledge you’ve managed to absorb by osmosis, your chin tipping toward the drive unfolding onscreen.
Without so much as a glance your way, Robby grunts, “Kid’s overdue for a disaster,” a verdict delivered to the television but seemingly tagged for his recovering subordinate to his left.
The half-smirk that follows is pure instigation, and Frank answers it the only way he can in mixed company: “Disaster? He just took them eighty yards in two and a half minutes. Think that earns him at least a little faith.”
And spiteful tone notwithstanding, the words pass between them minus bloodshed, which you decide counts as a victory.
Maybe not a large victory, not something they’d name a holiday after, but you’ll take whatever pocket-sized miracles the universe is handing out before it changes its mind.
Robby finally cuts Frank a sidelong look, head ticking just enough to register annoyance. “Faith won’t change the fact he’s already gift-wrapped the defense a few choice turnovers. Odds say he does it again once the end zone feels too close for comfort.”
Frank’s knee bobs once with a scoff, bouncing you with just enough force that your t-shirt shifts, neckline dipping. Robby’s gaze snaps there like iron to a magnet; he tips his beer to hide a grin, but the swelter in his stare is anything but subtle.
Interesting.
It’s not the first time you’ve caught Robby looking at you like that.
There have been other moments, in passing, usually at work. You’ve caught him with that glazed, faraway stare before he could reel it back in when you bend over a counter to grab a pen or crowd too close beside him in those paper-thin scrubs.
It’s always just been filed away under things that are none of your business, because you are Frank’s and happily so, and desire from other men has always struck you as one of those minor background inconveniences of having a body in public.
But now this feels less easy to write off. Like all that tension that had been hard and almost boring in its predictability has warped into something else entirely. It feels humid and unstable and just this side of visible.
You can’t name it yet, but it waits there all the same, right at the edge of articulation, poised like it knows you’ll eventually have to.
“Real rich, coming from you,” Frank says to himself and you, but the tail end mutters itself into “— jackass.”
They both return to the TV after that, or pretend to, shoulders squared forward, expressions set into the particular blankness of men who are absolutely not done arguing but have decided, temporarily, to ferment.
You take advantage of the attention shift, letting gravity slump you into Frank’s chest, hips shifting in an absent figure-eight as you settle. It would’ve been innocent if the movement didn’t drag you directly over the hard proof of his excitement beneath you.
Your brows lift.
Another interesting development.
Useful, too, knowing whatever strange atmospheric disturbance has rolled through the room has not passed over him untouched. Not just Robby, then.
“Easy.” His inhale saws across your nape, voice pitched for you alone, the consonants clipped and almost panicked. “You tryna start something?”
You really weren’t, but you know he’s not in a position to believe you right now after you made a show of climbing on top of him not two minutes earlier.
Across the cushions, Robby’s tongue drags across his lower lip like he’s cleaning a knife, bottle slack in his hand.
“Hmm? Third-and-four, babe. Pay attention.”
“You don’t even know what third-and-four means,” he growls under his breath. “You’re already on thin ice after springing Robby on me — so do us both a favor and quit squirming.”
“Should probably listen to him, kid,” Robby says suddenly. You and Frank turn at the same time, guilty in stereo. He reclines deeper into the couch, lids at half-mast, utterly unmoved by Frank’s incoming glare. “If Langdon wants you to quit squirming it’s only ‘cause he’s struggling to keep up,” he drawls, eyes flicking to the tell-tale bulge under your ass. “Guy’s never been great at thinking and feeling at the same time.”
You don’t even have time to be embarassed before Frank’s growling, “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Robby.”
“Is that right?” he challenges with raised brows. “Well, you’re welcome to show me.”
Heat prickles along your neck, a phantom fingerprint.
Surely that’s not the invitation you take it as. You just have your mind in the gutter. A mind that happily projects the image anyway. Robby reclined in that same spot, beer perched on his knee, gaze foggy with lust while Frank’s mouth maps yours and your hips test how steady the good doctor’s hands really are.
It is, on reflection, not nearly as appalling a thought as it should be, which feels like a separate problem and also, perhaps, the main one.
“Relax, Frank. If you can’t handle it, just say the word — I’m happy to keep her occupied.”
Oh. You stand corrected.
Frank’s lips peel back in something just shy of a grin. His hand slips from your thigh only long enough to cup your jaw, turning your head until the room blurs to the halo of his face.
“She’s already occupied,” he tells Robby, but his eyes stay on you, a dare stretching between eyelashes.
You don’t blink. Don’t breathe. Don’t so much as twitch, and that tiny surrender is apparently all the permission Frank needs.
His lips crash into yours, teeth scraping, soda-sweet fizz sparking on this tongue while his arm bands tight around your waist. The couch groans under the sudden torque of bodies. Denim grinds denim until sparks pop behind your eyes and every rational neuron shrugs, clocks out, leaves libido in full command.
The instant your mouths part for air, Robby’s bottle clinks onto the table.
You turn just as he leans in, forearms braced on his knees, broad shoulders now blocking half the TV’s glow. Up close, his stare tracks the smear of Frank’s spit on your bottom lip, the way your chest still heaves in uneven intakes.
A shadowy smile carves on cheek as Robby tilts his head, dark eyes roaming from your swollen mouth to Frank’s white-knuckled grip on your thigh.
“Could use a closer angle,” he mutters.
“By all means,” Frank sneers, one fist gathering your waistband, tugging you a slow quarter-turn until you’re astride him, chest to chest, knees snug to his hips.
On the short but damning list of Professional Conduct Hell-Nos, “make out with your boyfriend while your boss spectates” probably ranks very high. Somewhere between falsifying patient charts and starting a fistfight in the ambulance bay. Possibly above stealing narcotics, which feels in poor taste to think with both men in the room, but then again, the evening has already wandered several zip codes past good taste.
It wanders even further when Frank kisses you again.
The list of reasons this is wrong atomizes into glitter until even Robby’s razor-keen gaze becomes another blur at the edge of the frame, taking in tremors you no longer have the bandwidth to hide.
But the awareness of the extra set of eyes of you only seems to dump pure accelerant into your bloodstream until you’re arching into Frank and rolling your hips down against the thick seam of his fly, bumping perfect pressure against your clit.
A wet rush answers between your thighs, lace sticking to your folds, and your breasts mash against Frank’s chest until you can feel your own heart ricochet through peaked nipples.
You break the kiss again only to clamp down on his lower lip in your teeth and tug, over-dramatic, leaving a sticky sheen that practically screams look what you’re missing, Dr. Robinavitch.
“Sure he’s convinced, Frankie?” you ask, breathless, thumb dragging over his lower lip to soothe the place your teeth had just nipped at. “Convinced I’m tied up and off-limits?”
Frank laughs, a thin, rattled sound. His hand coasts up the slope of your back, ironing himself into every dip and imperfection.
“Dunno, baby.” He ghosts a kiss at the corner of your grin, another softer one under your jaw. His gaze darts over your shoulder to Robby, then sinks back to you, trouble puddling in the dimples you love. “You wanna show him? Show him how much you like taking care of me?”
You’re nodding before the sentence is half-born, a frantic little yes-yes-yes of motion.
In your haste you misjudge your own limbs, nearly knotting them with Frank’s before scrambling free. You drop between his thighs, the carpet scraping your knee raw as one hand shoots out to catch the dense muscle of his quad for balance.
To your left, Robby shakes loose a low, entertained hum. “Poor thing was just waiting to be useful.”
“She’s useful all the time,” Frank murmurs, and there’s no bite in it. His fingers sink into your hair and comb it gently back from your face. With his other hand, he pops the button of his jeans, zipping sliding down slow enough to hear every metal tooth give way. “Just happens to be especially pretty when she’s desperate to prove it.”
A guttural breath escapes Frank as he eases himself out, fist wrapped around a length that stands fierce in his hand, the flushed head of his cock blushing deeper with every absent pass of his thumb.
Your lips part, tongue wetting the seam, gaze fixed with the naked intent of an animal staring down dinner. Satisfaction flickers in his eyes. He offers a slow, decisive nod.
You don’t wait for a second invitation. You are many things but wasteful is not one of them.
Fingers wrap him in one cautious loop, then tighten once his inhale hiccups above you. You lean in and drag your tongue in one flat stripe from base to tip, tasting salt and the darker thing that’s only his.
He hisses through his teeth, every muscle in his thighs wiring tight under your palms, his hands balling like he’s fighting the reflex to bury them in your hair and steer.
Before he’s recovered, you’re already sliding him past your lips, and all that soft worship knifes into raw, unfiltered hunger.
His fingers finally tangle at your nape, gathering the curtain of your hair back in a practiced sweep, granting him an unobstructed view as your mouth sets a slow pulse around him. Like he needs to see every inch of what you’re doing to him or he’ll die from not knowing.
Your hand picks up the slack, stroking the length your mouth vacates.
“Jesus.”
“Told you,” Frank says. “She likes takin’ care of me.”
And you are. Eager. Greedy. Shamelessly so, student-raises-her-hand-before-the-question-is-finished so. You take Robby’s little barb as praise anyway, letting it roll down your spine, because if he wanted you less eager then maybe he should stop sounding so interested in it.
You work him deeper, spit glazing the shaft, smearing over your knuckles. Saliva puddles in the cradle of his pants, printing a wet halo.
Frank’s head thunks back against the couch. “If you had her mouth on you, Robby,” he grits, “you’d be begging for the same… enthusiasm.”
“You offering?” Robby asks Frank. “Because I’ll admit — she’s a lot more tempting on her knees than being a smartass during rounds. I could get used to that view. Might even teach her some new tricks.”
You answer with a muffled growl that vibrates along Frank’s cock. He twitches under it.
That is such bullshit. You are not a smartass indiscriminately. You are a smartass with standards. A smartass in self-defense. A smartass only when Robby shows up in his holier-than-thou vestments and wonders aloud if you’re “having trouble following directions” for daring to question a single judgment call, or when he lofts that patronizing brow at a truth everyone else is simply too cowardly to say, or when he coaxes your attitude out of you with all the patience of a snake charmer and then acts scandalized when it finally bares fangs.
And yes, fine, maybe you’ve needled him once or twice simply because the little pinch of his mouth brings you joy.
Sue you. People have hobbies. Frank has terrible coping mechanisms. You have this.
Your nose nudges the downy trail at Frank’s belly, saliva threading between your lips as your throat opens, then you draw up in one long, slow drag.
Warning flashes through every tense line of him a second before his breath punches out in a fractured little curse.
“Fuck, sweetheart —”
Frank’s fist eases you off him, and when your mouth slips away with a wet pop, he’s panting, cock flushed bruise-dark, a string of precum still kissing the corner of your lip before it snaps.
“Sorry — shit. You keep doing that and I’m gonna come down your throat in front of your boss.”
You shrug. “I wouldn’t mind.”
Robby whistles. “Pretty sure we crossed that line a while ago, Langdon.”
Something hair-thin cracks across Frank’s face, a little fault line opening where the smirk had been, sour and old and too personal for the room you’re currently kneeling in. You can’t place it. Can’t tell how Robby managed to find the bruise when he’d only seemed to brush the skin.
“Kind of rich, you saying that.”
Robby’s smile doesn’t move, but his eyes freeze over. “You implying somethin’?”
“Implying nothing. You love quoting policy til it suits you to break it.”
“You wanna pick a fight with me right now?” Robby scoffs. “Because I gotta say, your sense of timing’s still shit.”
“At least I’m consistent”
“Listen, Langdon, the day I take a lecture on —” The rest of Robby’s retort dies when you stand, stepping straight into the line of fire and blotting out the last scrap of civility left between them.
This is what you wanted, right? The attention snapping toward you. Both of them suddenly silent because you have become, for one second, more interesting than their pride.
You catch both set of eyes as your fingers hook beneath the hem of your shirt, skimming it up your ribs, knuckles brushing the goose-pimpled slope of your stomach.
The cotton’s off before either man can inhale a protest, pooling at your feet like a dropped flag, and for a heartbeat you let them see you in nothing by the pale, breath-strained lace of your bra: straps sliding, cups stretched indecently tight, nipples pebbling hard enough to ache.
You reach behind, flick the clasp, and let the bra fall too, shoulders rolling back so your breasts lift, unapologetic, into the hush.
Frank reacts the way he always does, as if this is a miracle he’s somehow been deemed worthy of witnessing — never mind that he’s had your tits in his mouth four times already this week.
But it’s Robby’s look that reroutes every living cell in your body. No wide-eyed marvel here, just pure clinician, jotting mental footnotes on nipple angle, respiratory excursion, overall breast biomechanics.
He’s studying you so hard you swear the room compresses, a slow squeeze that coaxes your back to arch and your knees to drift tighter, slick pulse drumming a reminder of why you stood up in the first place.
You channel their attention straight into your backbone, thumbs hooking the waistband of your shorts and tugging until they puddle beside your discarded shirt, leaving you to stand in nothing but a damp lace thong.
“If you two would rather keep the pissing contest going, that’s fine,” you say. “I’m perfectly capable of finishing solo.”
A bluff — half bluff — because you could, but gods you’d rather make them beg to help.
You turn, gifting them a sway of your ass, all bravado, as you saunter toward your shared bedroom.
You make it exactly three steps. An insulting distance, really, before Frank’s hand brands the small of your back and Robby’s palm spreads wide over your belly, both of them converging so fast your brain barely has time to document the win under effective tactics.
Together, they swing you back into the wall hard enough for the plaster to kiss your shoulder blades.
The air leaves your lungs in a little hmph, quickly swallowed by Frank’s mouth claiming your collarbone, while Robby’s thigh muscles between yours and pins you there, your pussy dragging firm against his pant leg.
“Sensitive little thing,” Frank murmurs, thumb stroking the underside of your breast while his lips charts a slow latitude up your throat.
Robby catches your chin between his fingers and tilts your face, giving Frank better access and forcing your gaze up to his at the same time. Efficient. Very attending of him.
“All that attitude for a fifteen-second wait? Spoiled, aren’t we?” He glances at Frank, amused as he jerks his thigh higher to your clit. “Think she even remembers why she started the tantrum?”
“Doubt it,” Frank answers, sliding a palm between your panties and robby’s leg to cup at the wet heat there. A tremor shoots down to your toes. “Memory’s about to get a lot worse, too.”
“Good,” Robby says, smiling crookedly as his hands make their way up your thigh. “Maybe then she’ll let the adults talk.”
Adults, you want to scoff, but Frank’s thumb circles over your clit and you forget what else you wanted to say about that.
“Bedroom,” he decides.
“Copy that,” Robby answers, and then before you can blink, you’re scooped over his shoulder, world flipping until you’re staring at his (very nice) backside.
His hand smacks your ass once, proprietary punctuation as Frank follows, tossing directions like you’re precious cargo being delivered: “Second door on the left.”
You hit the mattress with a squeak. Plush bedding cups your spine, breasts pitching up and down before settling into a slow rhythm that seems to hypnotize them both.
You blink up into the twin eclipse of their silhouettes. Four eyes drinking you in. Every rise of your chest pulls a twitch from Frank’s jaw, drags Robby’s lower lip between white teeth. Shared silence of men who have finally found a reason to put their differences aside.
Robby looks to Frank for permission. “Can I?”
Frank gives one curt nod. “Hands and mouth only.”
“I can work with that,” Robby says.
He crawls forward, knees depressing the mattress, settling between your thighs.
He leans in, and suddenly his eyes are galaxies: black centers swallowing brown until just a thin halo glows like caramel on a burner.
It’s a weird feeling. How Robby, the same man who can watch arterial spray and merely sigh for suction, is gazing down at you like he’s the one white-knuckling the edge.
But then the galaxy eyes disappear and in their place returns Dr. Robinavitch. Cool and insufferably sure. His expression settles into something almost cruel, like he’s caught you noticing the crack and intends to punish you for it.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, thumb stroking a glistening stripe through your underwear. “Soaked through already. That’s pathetic, sweetheart.”
He punctuates the verdict with an almost tender kiss to the inside of your knee, then another, higher. Instinct yanks your thighs together, but Frank is suddenly there on your right, palm bracketing one knee and pressing it outward again.
“Don’t hide now,” he chides.
A raw, useless sound breaks from your throat.
“There she is,” Robby praises, mouthing higher. “Nothin’ smart to say?”
You do. You must. Somewhere. But you find only ache. Voice trembling, you plead, “Please… Robby.”
He answers with action, sealing his lips over your clip through the fabric, drawing a slow, punishing suction that makes you cry out.
Frank’s hand pushes your abdomen down, steadying the tremor, while his voice near your ear sounds: “That’s it — let him see how polite you can be.”
You look to your right to see his cock sitting against his stomach, free hand doing lazy strokes up and down the base.
Robby hums low, mouth dragging down the damp seam of your underwear in languid swipes. His tongue flattens, gathering your taste, then flicks upward. His nose nudges your swollen bud with every rise.
“Press a little harder right there,” Frank tells Robby. “She’ll act like it’s too much, but she likes it. Don’t let her squirm away.”
Robby listens. You hate that, you decide. How he’s on Frank’s side now.
You had been counting on his natural contrarianism to save you from Frank’s encyclopedic knowledge of all your most intimate buttons. No suck luck.
He bears down on the pulse point Frank named, then tongue-blades upward. White heat flashes through you and you flinch, trying to shear sideways, but his grip tightens, thumbs denting soft skin.
“Uh-uh, baby — stay right there and take it,” Frank croons, the up and down rhythm he approaches with his cock kicking up speed. “You know it feels good, let him give you every drop.”
Robby works you relentlessly, sloppy and dirty, tongue alternating broad licks and focused circles that make you arch off the bed. You bury both hands in his hair, nails scratching his scalp, unable to keep your moans at bay.
“Good girl,” Frank drawls. “Let him make it up to you. All those times he’s been a dick at work. Seems only fair he uses his mouth for something useful.”
Robby shoots him a murderous side-eye but doesn’t slow. Instead he hums, vibration punching straight through the fabric. Your moan breaks into pieces — so close you can taste it.
“Michael, I’m gonna —”
He hears his first name like a starting gun. His tongue locks onto your clit in punishing patterns, each lap faster than the last, crooked nose grinding everything just right.
In two heartbeats the world pinpoints to a blistering of sensation. Your vision whites out, fingers clawing uselessly at this hair and the sheets as your climax slams through you. A ragged cry spills against Frank’s thigh while every muscle locks, then ripples.
Still, Robby doesn’t relent. His mouth stays on you, tongue lapping through the quake, coaxing aftershocks that make your thighs quiver against his braced shoulders.
Only when tremors give way to trembling afterglow does he ease back, breath hot against the sodden fabric, leaving you boneless and blinking, pleasure echoing through every nerve like a fading siren.
Robby lifts his mouth, chin and beard glistening.
“Thought about this every damn shift,” he says, tongue darting out to chase another bead of you from his lip. “Tastes even better than the fantasy, doll.”
Your eyes drag into focus by inches.
“That’s wildly unprofessional,” you mumble, the words softened by the fact that your thighs are still trembling around his head. You try to look stern. You suspect you look freshly exorcised. “You should probably report yourself.”
Frank’s hand tightens where it rests on you, his voice dropping to something rougher.
“Don’t worry, baby. We’ll give him plenty to confess to.” He looks over your body, then to Robby. “Think she’s ready to find out what happens when we stop taking turns?”
“She’s ready,” Robby responds. “And if she isn’t, she’ll tell us. Won’t you, angel?”
A twin grin blooms across two previously warring faces.
This is not how you pictured getting Frank Langdon and Michael Robinavitch back on the same page.
But if this is what conflict resolution looks like nowadays, who are you to stand in the way of progress?
MARIA NOTE posting and ghosting this one bc i lowkey don't know what came over me when i wrote it
the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be a part of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
