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2024-08-24
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That Kind of Girl

Summary:

It’s not just that she’s been told good girls don’t do that sort of thing. She has done it before. But the few times she did it was fast. Transactional. What was that word… Perfunctory. She just didn’t particularly want to.

But she’s never wanted anyone the way she wants Maxwell. She has never ached for a man’s touch like she does his. She’s in love with every bit of him, can barely keep her hands off of him, and he’s right. The sex is incredible. Mind-blowing. World changing. Even now, even with him right there next to her she yearns for him. God, it’s like she can never get enough of him. 

Notes:

Set after 6.02 ish. Married Max and Fran are everything <3

Work Text:

It’s one of those days that she and Maxwell only see each other coming and going; Fran is juggling the kids and appointments, then a visit with Yetta that drags on (since when does Yetta play mahjong anyway?) Max has important phone calls and auditions and lunch with a potential new investor. She catches him with a quick kiss in the morning as they pass each other in the bathroom doorway--him leaving, her heading in--which is far too brief. Then Max returns from lunch as she’s hustling out the front door for a parent-teacher conference; he pulls her to his side and squeezes her waist with a, “Hello, darling,” murmured in her ear.  

“Hi sweetie, bye sweetie.” And she’s off.

 

Hours later and fifty dollars lighter (thanks to Yetta who, as Fran suspected, has no idea how to play mahjong) Fran is home. 

 

She heads to the study where she hopes Max is, maybe they can have a scant ten minutes together but she's waylaid by Maggie's sudden relationship crisis, and Brighton trying to weasel his way out of a history report.

 

 “I did the math Fran, and it’s only forty percent of my grade so I’d still totally pass.”

 

“I like to think we can do better than barely passing, B.” 

 

He follows her to the kitchen, protesting as she grabs a diet soda from the fridge, “Even a D-average medical student still becomes a doctor.”

 

Fran levels him with a look. “If you think you can manipulate me into letting you skip your homework simply because my greatest wish is to have a son who’s a doctor, well--” She cracks open the can and takes a fortifying sip. “You’re right, but go do it anyway.” She shoos him away. 

 

After Brighton’s dejected form turns the corner on the stairs, Fran leans back against the counter and takes a moment to be still. Quiet. Just for a moment--

 

“Fran!” 

 

Another thirty minutes pass where she has to settle a fight over lip gloss between Gracie and Maggie, and another hour drains away on the phone with Ma who goes on and on and on about a recipe Aunt Frieda stole from her, nevermind that Ma stole the recipe from Edie down the hall in the first place.

 

The doorbell rings and Niles crosses the living room, taking in Fran’s pained expression.

 

“Want me to yell ‘fire?’” he offers.

 

Fran makes a face but waves him off, and Niles lets in whoever was at the door. A tailor. Why is there…

 

Oh. Shoot. “Ma I have to go. I have to go. Yes, it’s a terrible injustice the likes of which the world has never seen. Okay bye, love you bye mwah mwah mwah.” She presses the button on the phone and drops it on the receiver. Sheesh

 

She’d forgotten about the benefit next month, and that Max wanted to get a new bespoke suit that she was supposed to give her input on. Actually, she insisted on giving her input. Fran rushes off to the study. If this tailor talks Max into one more boxy, ill-fitting, double-breasted, itchy wool suit she’ll scream.

 

“Three-piece with a shawl lapel, three-piece with a shawl lapel.” She nearly crashes into Miss Babcock in her haste, who scowls in Fran’s direction before returning to scribbling something in a notepad. 

 

“Everything alright?” Max stands with his arms spread wide and high as the tailor measures him from shoulder to wrist. 

 

Fran smooths her skirt and hair, casual-like. “Yes.” She smiles. “Just, remember how we were going to decide on your suit together?”

 

“Of course.” The tailor moves behind him to measure his shoulders. “Come here,” Max flicks his head, the best he can do under the circumstances. “I’ve missed you today.”

 

As she cuddles up to him, Fran catches Miss Babcock rolling her eyes. 

 

Fran smooths her hands along his chest as they kiss, really kiss, finally, but still not long enough. The tailor clears his throat, his hands now on Max’s chest instead of hers as he measures around. Fran pouts a bit. Okay, a lot.

 

“Come now.” Max cuffs her chin, tilting it back up. “I have half an hour before my next phone call. Let’s have dinner together, just me and you. Give me five minutes.”

 

“Okay,” she tosses him a flirty look over her shoulder and goes to wait by the door in order to catch Niles and let him know to start something quick for dinner. He’s certain to be snooping nearby.

 

“What I wouldn’t give to trade places with that man right now,” Miss Babcock says low and husky from behind Fran. 

 

Fran whips around, then follows C.C.’s gaze across the room, to where Maxwell’s tailor is on his knees in front of him, head crotch-level, to measure his inseam. Fran flashes with annoyance. She’s aware of Miss Babcock’s feelings. Well, Fran wouldn’t call them feelings exactly. Possessiveness, maybe. Lust, certainly. 

 

 “Excuse me, but do you think that’s an appropriate thing to say in front of his wife? Or at all?”

 

C.C. blinks at her. “Oh. I forgot you existed for a minute there.” She gazes off in the distance. “That was a nice minute.”

 

Fran crosses her arms. Hmphs. “And further, if anyone would be doing that--” Fran blushes a little, but pushes on, “it would be me.”

 

C.C. returns to her notebook, jotting something down and seemingly bored with the conversation already. “Oh please, Nanny Fine. We both know you’re a sweet, nice girl who would never do something like that.” She’s all wide-eyed innocence for a moment before going in for the kill. “As for me, I'm neither.” 

 

Fran gapes and struggles with a response, finally settling on, “Niles!” who immediately pops around the corner. 

 

“Come, Miss Babcock,” Niles says without missing a beat, leading her away with a grip on her elbow. “It’s trash night and I wouldn’t want you to miss your ride.”



They do manage to have dinner together, though not alone. Gracie joins them and spends half the meal chattering about her little school friends. Brighton joins in long enough to attempt the same scheme with his father who also shoos him away and tells him to do his homework.  Maggie stops in briefly, then she’s off to spend time with a boy. 

 

Max announces that he has to get back to work, squeezing Fran’s hand in apology before he goes but truly, Fran is not upset at all. She loves him, loves her family and their busy wonderful life. Sure, she’d like to spend more time with him but, such as it is. She is perfectly content.

 

It’s not until later when she’s relaxing in the tub, reflecting on the day, that Miss Babcock’s words return to her. 

 

We both know you would never do something like that. 

 

It bugs her. Irritates her. Sticks in her craw, so to speak. Fran doesn’t like when people underestimate her, and she really doesn’t like when someone thinks they know better than her what she would or would not do. But it’s mostly the implication that she’s lacking somewhere in her marriage. In what she’s willing to do for her husband, which is limitless. Unconditional. Or so she’d thought. 

 

She’s done with her bath, wrapped in a fluffy robe and absentmindedly dabbing moisturizer on her neck when Maxwell comes in. He groans with exhaustion, tugging his tie loose then off, and drops heavily on the bed to remove his shoes. “What a day.”

 

“Mmhmm.” She dabs and dabs. 

 

“You’re a sight for sore eyes though.”

 

“Am I?” 

 

Max tugs her up from the chair and into his chest. She’s wearing her fuzzy pink robe, her hair is loose, feet bare. Nothing special. 

 

“Very much so,” Max says, nuzzling along her neck, hands wide and warm on her back. “Mmm, you smell good.” 

 

As much as she wants to give in and forget about it; obviously, Max is happy with her. Very happy given the hardness swelling against her stomach. But she just can’t.

 

“Max.” He hums, distracted, kissing her jaw. “Is there anything we’re doing, or not doing I guess, that you wish we weren’t doing, or we were doing, that we aren’t doing, or could be doing?”

 

He pulls back, confusion obvious in the knit of his brows. His hands settle on her hips. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific, dear.”

 

Fran presses her lips flat, fiddling with the buttons on his shirt. This is silly, she never should have said anything, and certainly should not have let Miss Babcock of all people get to her like this. But she’s already said it and Max is waiting so patiently, and she does want to know. At least so she can forget about it and move on already.

 

“In the bedroom, I mean.” She focuses very intently on the buttons to avoid his eyes. “You know, sexually .” 

 

He’s silent for a beat, then, “Everything we do is wonderful.” She nods, assuming he’s being dismissive but she should know him better than that. “I mean it. Being intimate with you is more incredible than I ever dared imagine.” 

 

She looks up at him through her eyelashes. “Really?”

 

“Yes. And I am in no way unsatisfied. In fact, I’d say I’m the luckiest man alive. Being with you is earth-shattering. World-changing. Life-altering. Mind-blowing--”

 

“Okay well now you’re just trying to flatter me.” She shoves at him lightly.

 

He smiles. “Is it working?”

 

“Yes.”

 

And if she had any doubts that his words were true, they’re gone at the hungry way he looks at her when she drops her robe to reveal the nothing she’s wearing underneath, and what they do in bed after that.

 

She puts it out of her mind completely for weeks. She’s happy, he’s happy. She’s satisfied, he’s satisfied. What else matters?

 

It’s not until she’s out shopping with Val that she gives it even a scant thought, as she’s waiting in a plush chair while Val tries on clothes. Fran deliberates over two pairs of Louboutins and decides on neither. Intending on sending them back, she looks over to the now-empty service counter where she spots a measuring tape slung over the side. The question bubbles up, unbidden, when Val sits back down next to her.

 

“Say, Val. Do you ever do, you know…” She glances around to make sure they’re still alone and whispers, “Oral stuff. With men?”

 

On the rare occasion Val is with a man, at any rate.

 

Val tries on and discards a single shoe. “Like dirty talk?” 

 

“No, like.” Fran makes a face, trying to get Val to understand her without spelling it out in detail but it’s Val. “As in… On your knees…”

 

Val frowns. “Well, I don’t think he could hear me very well down there.”

 

Right. Fran sighs. “Never mind, Val.”

 

Val shrugs and holds out her foot, she’s wearing bright red cowboy boots. “Should I get these?”

 

“You know what, sure.”

 

After that fruitless conversation, she vows to put it out of her mind again, until. Until.

 

It’s late and the house is quiet. She’s positioned herself in the easy chair in their bedroom,  wearing a silk black nightie and heels that are far too precarious to walk in. Good thing she didn’t buy them for that.

 

Max crouches down to take off her heels, one at a time. He nudges his shoulders between her knees, then slides his palms up along her ankle, her calf, up to the bed of her knee. Then his lips follow the same path, kissing tenderly along her skin, lingering at the bend of her knee and nuzzling the sensitive skin there. That Max loves her legs is nothing new, not for years now. Not since the first time she hopped up on his desk, crossed her legs, and watched as his eyes betrayed his thoughts. In time, his gaze would drift for longer and more often. His hands would twitch to touch. And then they did.

 

But he doesn’t rise up and lead her to bed like she expects. He keeps going. His mouth is hot along her thigh, lips and teeth dragging. He moves up and up, sucking hard just at the join of her pelvis and thigh. She gasps, her hips twitch. Max pushes her nightie up until it’s bunched low on her stomach. He keeps going.

 

Fran squeaks in surprise at the press of his mouth there, his dark head buried between her legs. He stops. Looks up. God, he looks divine , with heavy eyes and swollen lips and desperate for her.  “Alright?”

 

She can’t speak, can barely breathe. She nods. He ducks his head back down, presses his tongue flat, then flicking. It’s so hot and wet and his tongue is in just the right spot, moving against where she’s slick and pulsing. “Oh- Oh, god. Oh my god.” 

 

She grips the arms of the chair, fighting the urge to press her legs against his head and ride his tongue just there, right there only the near-bruising grip he has on her thighs keeping her spread open for him. And then he sucks, pulling her clit into his mouth and--

 

She sees stars. Her whole body tenses and shivers and convulses. She cries out… something, maybe his name, maybe nonsense, maybe prayers and sacrilege, she’s not really sure.  “Oh my god.” Her ears are ringing, her body slack and useless. 

 

She has never orgasmed that hard before, ever. “Did I die?” she says to no one in particular, then answers herself. “I think I did for a second there.”

 

La petite mort,” Max says. He looks awfully smug, but after that, she’ll allow it. 

 

“I don’t speak Spanish but I think I get what you’re saying.” 

 

Max chuckles, then discreetly wipes his mouth.

 

Once her legs are no longer made of jelly, Fran shifts forward to the edge of the chair, pulls the nightie up and off in one fell swoop, and tugs Max over to sit where she just was. Eager eyes follow her movements as she yanks his pajama pants down, climbs into his lap, and hopes she can make him feel half as good as he just made her.

 

But that’s the thing, she thinks later, as Max snores softly beside her in bed. She can make him feel the same way. So why doesn’t she? It’s not just that she’s been told good girls don’t do that sort of thing. She has done it before. But the few times she did it was fast. Transactional. What was that word… Perfunctory. She just didn’t particularly want to. 

 

But she’s never wanted anyone the way she wants Maxwell. She has never ached for a man’s touch like she does his. She’s in love with every bit of him, can barely keep her hands off of him, and he’s right. The sex is incredible. Mind-blowing. World-changing. Even now, even with him right there next to her she yearns for him. God, it’s like she can never get enough of him. 

 

And so, she does want to. 

 

So she will. 

 

 

She has a plan. She’ll wait until they have the house to themselves for a long stretch of time. She’ll light some candles, put on some music. Jazz. No, classical. Actually, no. Jazz is sexier.  They’ll take a bath together. She’ll slowly seduce him and then--

 

“Fran, darling!”

 

She sets her tea cup back in its saucer, brushes the coffee cake crumbs from her blouse, and tries to think of what she did that he could be mad about, given his urgent tone. She stands and goes to him in the study. He doesn’t look angry, but that could easily be a ruse.

 

“Listen, if you should be mad at anyone it’s the salesperson for talking me into it.”

 

He sits back in his desk chair, removes his glasses, tilts his head and arches an eyebrow. “Talked you into what?”

 

“Oh, uh. Nothing.” She tucks her hands behind her back. “What did you want me for?”

 

“Well,” he stands and comes out from behind his desk. He lost his suit jacket at some point during the day and is in only a button-down with the sleeves rolled up enticingly. Fran looks him up and down, blatant.

 

He does the same to her. “You know, we’re alone.”

 

He’s right, they are. She didn’t even realize. The kids are all out with friends, Niles has some Butler’s Association meeting which is a thing, apparently. For once, Miss Babcock isn’t loitering around the house like a stray cat in heat.

 

“How long do we have?”

 

He flicks open the two buttons at his throat. “Probably not long.”

 

His kiss is purposeful and rough, with his hand gripped around the back of her head. She meets him there, opening her mouth to him, head tipped back. She considers, hazy, desire quickly clouding her brain, that there is no time for candles or sexy music or a bath. And if she doesn’t do something quickly she’ll be on her back, splayed across his desk, with him heavy on top of her, and-- Actually, that doesn’t sound bad at all, she’ll just do that. Maxwell backs her up to the desk, the edge of it sharp against her backside.

 

Wait. No. She has a plan. 

 

“Wait, wait, hold on.”

 

Max stops. He pulls back to scan her face quickly. He looks wrecked already, lips red, eyes darkened, hair mussed. Did she do that? She must have. 

 

“Do you not… Want to? Sorry I just thought--”

 

She shakes her head, as much to clear it as to reassure him. “It’s not that it’s just that I.. Well, I.. You see I was thinking…”

 

She can see him struggle to remain patient, hands still gripped on her waist where he’s pulled her up against him. Oh, this is ridiculous, she thinks, even she’s growing annoyed with herself. Just tell your husband you want to blow him for god’s sake.

 

She blushes at the thought.

 

Fran bites her bottom lip. “Okay, I’ll just…” She extricates herself from where she’s squeezed between Max’s body and the desk, then spins them around so their positions are reversed. She takes a deep breath and goes to her knees.

 

“Oh.”

 

She looks up to see Max’s hands grip the edge of the desk, eyes blown dark and wide. Fran unbuckles his belt. Undoes the button of his slacks. Her hands are shaking a little. Silly.

 

“Fran.” His voice is so gentle, his fingers brushing her jaw even more so. “You don't have to just because I did. I did that because I wanted to, not because I expected something in return.”

 

Sometimes she wonders if she could love him too much. Like her heart would burst right open. He’s so wonderful. So good. He cares for her so well.

 

Her hands steady, and her resolve is sure. “I want to.”

 

“Okay,” Max says. He brushes his knuckles along her cheek and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “Okay.”

 

With a renewed surety, she undoes his zipper, pulls the waistband of his boxers down the angled ridge of his hips. She’s been very pleased up to this point to have no complaints whatsoever in the size department, a real Goldilocks situation if there ever was one, but now wonders if she should have done some calculations in her pre-planning phase. No matter, she’ll figure it out.

 

Fran wets her lips and starts kissing up the hard curve of his shaft. Above her Max’s breath hitches on a sharp inhale. He smells good here, she finds. He's always meticulous with his grooming, thankfully, so he’s clean and his skin there is soft, and he smells a little like the cedar soap he likes and a little like-- Well, like sex. Like pheromones and mild earthy musk and oh. Oh, she likes that, a lot. 

 

She lifts up on her knees a little, grips the base of his cock, and takes the tip and a little more into her mouth, closing her lips around him. He tastes salty and silky and not entirely unlike the skin elsewhere on his body except for the fluid that’s gathering already at the tip of his cock. Fran drags her lips back up around him, then darts her tongue out to gather the bead of precum.

 

Max mutters a string of swears, unusual for him. She grins at her performance thus far. Not bad, then. Not bad at all. She takes him back in her mouth, father down now, lips tighter and tongue dragging flat along the veined underside as she moves back up, then down. Max’s hands sink into her hair and when he tugs, just a little, she moans in encouragement. She gets a rhythm going, and when she uses her hand to cover what her mouth can’t reach, Max’s hips buck and his fingers twist in her hair, sending sparks of pleasure-pain across her scalp. 

 

“Fran, Fran, Fran,” he chokes out. “I’m--”

 

He’s close, she can tell by the uncoordinated grasp and release of his fingers, how raspy his voice has gone. She dares to look up at him and he’s the picture of debauchery; head tipped back, chest heaving. In their haste, they left the widows of the French doors uncovered. Anyone could see them. Anyone could see what she’s done to him and she’s lust-mad and power-drunk so she takes him deep, as far as she can, and swallows. She pulls off sputtering a bit as he comes, on her lips, her chin, his own stomach, dripping down the trail of dark hair there.

 

She stands as he catches his breath, wincing at the ache in her knees. 

 

It’s awkward, just a bit, for a moment, while he tucks himself back away and she dabs at her mouth and chin with a tissue. She cracks a joke, just to break the silence. “I’m ready for that performance review anytime, boss.” It’s a little role-play they do sometimes, joking but not.

 

Max laughs. “Well I’d give you a raise but you already have access to all my money.”

 

“You can buy me something then.”

 

His tone shifts, serious. “Anything. Anything at all you want, it’s yours.” She takes that as an A review, then. He holds out a hand.  “Now get over here, I’m not finished with you.”

 

So maybe she can love him a little more.

 

A few weeks later, the tailor returns with Max’s new suit, a three-piece shawl lapel as she’d requested. Max puts it on in the downstairs guest bath. It needs some alterations, and Max tells the tailor they’ll have to make the adjustments in his study while he’s on the phone schmoozing a casting agent for some star power in a new leading role.

 

The kids come home from school, school bags and books thudding onto the table, carelessly discarded in favor of cookies and chips and soda grabbed from the fridge. Brighton waves a packet of papers in Fran’s face before taking the stairs two at a time and disappearing. And would you look at that, a B on his history project despite his near non-stop kvetching about it for days on end.

 

She takes the report in to show Max so when he gets a minute they can have the look at what you’re capable of when you apply yourself talk with Brighton; his fault really for putting the idea of him going to medical school in her head. 

 

When she reaches the study, she finds Max standing next to his desk. He’s still on the phone, with the tailor crouched in front of him, pins held carefully in his teeth to cinch up the too-baggy high inseam of Max’s suit. Miss Babcock is watching, of course, with a look Fran doesn’t like at all. And frankly, the tailor is on thin ice, too. Across the room, Niles is dusting, or pretending to anyway. He lifts his eyebrows. Fran grins wickedly. 

 

“Ooh, be careful,” she says, loud enough for everyone to hear. Then turns and says, just loud enough for C.C. (and Niles, what doesn’t he hear?) “When I do that he likes to pull my hair.” 

 

She winks, C.C. sputters, Niles cackles, and Frans sashays exaggeratedly out of the room, knowing Max only has eyes for her.