that one with the mystic heart

Your first encounter had been right at the front door, where Robby and Jack were positioned to greet the guests.

This, you were prepared for.

Jack's his best friend. There was no way he wasn't going to be at this wedding. So, you plaster a smile across your face, and put on the show of a lifetime.

Jack's easy. You've always liked him. He was Best Man at your own wedding to Robby.

It becomes more of a struggle when your eyes land on the man you thought you'd be with for the rest of your life. "Michael," You nod curtly, decidedly not going in for the hug you had with Jack.

He holds a hand to his chest in faux-offence. "You wound me, sweetheart. I thought we put the animosity to bed with the divorce settlement."

There hadn't been much to settle. No children, and Robby let you keep the house. The only thing he let you give him was your engagement ring.

The sight of it made you sick. A reminder of all the ways you failed each other.

At the time, it felt like an attack - like he was trying to one-up you, prove that he could be the bigger person. Eighteen months on, you're endlessly glad you didn't have to try and find another place to live while your world was crumbling around you.

"You look good," he continues, and when your gaze meets his, you know he's being sincere.

"I should get inside," is your reply. "I promised Dana I'd grab seats for her and Benji."

And with that, your first interaction with Robby in twelve months comes to a close.

*****

Glancing quickly at the seating chart, your heart sinks when you see your name scrawled next to Michael Robinavitch. Normally Best Man is up beside the couple, but the Mohan-Abbots had opted for a sweetheart table.

Meaning you're doomed to four hours of your ex-husband's company. And what's worse: you're enjoying it.

Robby's always looked good in a tux, but the charm offensive is at its highest today - pressing a kiss to your cheek in greeting, dealing out the compliments in spades, and refilling your glass each time it starts to get low.

"Remember ours?" He asks, voice quiet as he leans over to you during the first dance.

"Of course I do. We danced to Roy Orbison and then my heel snapped halfway through, so I had to go barefoot for the rest of the night."

"That was a good day," He muses, expression unreadable as he watches Jack and Samira. He looks almost... wistful?

"Yeah, it was. Pity they weren't all like that."

Against all the odds, COVID had been one of the better times for you and Robby. Freshly married, where the work had been absolute hell, you'd found solace in each other.

Things were good, until they weren't. Until Robby couldn't outrun his demons anymore, and then stopped trying entirely.

"Yeah, uhm, about that..." He says softly. "I wanted to apologise."

This you weren't expecting. Arching an eyebrow, you turn towards him. "For what?"

"For everything," Robby murmurs, his gaze finally dropping from Jack and Samira to his own hands. He swallows hard, his jaw tight as he traces the line of his thumb. "For checking out. Giving up on us."

Your hand tightens around your wine glass, as you search his expression - looking for the catch, the deflection. You find none. "It's in the past now, anyway." Your voice is barely above a whisper. "We just... weren't meant to be. And that's fine."

"Mhm," is his only response. As if unconvinced.

You're not even sure you've convinced yourself, much less him, and against your better judgement, he talks you into a dance.

Were it not a wedding, you're positive you'd be able to resist him. But when it feels like everybody around you is perfectly happy and coupled up, you find it incredibly easy to slip back into Robby's embrace.

You still have some sense.

Keeping his hand firmly on your waist, rather than slipping downwards to where it used to settle, you try and think of anything but the man in front of you.

The potential melanoma that you saw in clinic last week.

Not the wrinkle lines that crease at Robby's eyes.

Your shopping list for next week.

Not how warm he feels against you.

The fact that you're running out of Black Honey.

Not anything to do with Michael Robinavitch.

You tap out after a ballad, unable to take the proximity to him anymore, and excuse yourself to go mingle with Dana and Perlah.

The rest of the night is spent willing yourself not to look back over at him.

*****

"You know, it'll be us next," Robby says, voice low as he watches you say goodbye to Samira.

"By us, do you mean your ex-wife?" Jack asks, eyebrow arched. "Because I hate to break it to you, brother, but you've already done that. And it went up in fuckin' flames."

"It would be different this time," Robby shakes his head.

"Yeah? How?"

"You'll see." Robby pats Jack on the back, and gets to his feet, moving to intercept you as you make for the door. The stairs down from the venue are pretty steep, and he clocked your Louboutins during dinner.

He bought you that pair on your honeymoon. He wonders if you remember.

"Need a hand?"

He can see that you're about to decline, before taking a sample step, and letting out a sigh. "Yes, please."

Robby tries not to let the contact get to his head too quickly as he slips an arm through yours. He hadn't even realised until tonight just how much he's missed you.

Truly.

The days after he moved out of your shared house had been some of the worst of his entire life. After about six months of no-contact, he'd finally decided that he needed to get his life together, and move on with things.

Get back on the horse, as Jack put it.

Except now it's eighteen months on from the divorce, he's been on exactly zero dates, and all he can think about is winning you back.

"This is purely because I can't walk in these shoes," You warn. "Nothing more."

Robby's jolted from his daydream and back to reality. Right. You don't want him back at all.

He's gotta find a way to change that.

Number two. Nineteen months post-divorce. A persistence.

After Jack and Samira's wedding, you're not expecting to see Robby again until they start having kids and you're invited to the baby shower.

That doesn't appear to be the case when you watch his motorcycle pull into the parking lot of your clinic exactly one week later.

A notch appears between your brows immediately, but you're still in the middle of a consultation - you have a feeling that your patient wouldn't be too thrilled with you leaping up to investigate.

Instead, you assure her that her mole has not, in fact, grown three centimetres since you saw her last week. It takes multiple pictures and two rulers before she'll even consider that it may be stress-related.

By the time you're finished, the last person you want to deal with is your ex-husband.

At least it's a paeds clinic after lunch. The children tend to be much easier to handle, and usually have straight-forward presentations. Eczema, contact dermatitis, or psoriasis for the teens.

All things you can do in your sleep.

But first, lunch. And getting Michael Robinavitch to leave.

He's leaning over the desk at reception, one of his more charming smiles plastered across his face as he talks to Pippa at reception. “I was just wondering if you knew when she'd be finish– oh, there she is. No need. Thanks for all your help.”

You've known Pippa for two years, and you've never once seen her crack a smile out in the lobby. She's practically grinning at Robby.

Uh oh.

This is bad.

Still scowling at him, you reach for the collar of his shirt and tug sharply, forcing him to fall into step behind you as you head for your office.

You don't need to air all your dirty laundry in the middle of your practice.

As soon as the door clicks shut, you're spinning on your heel. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Robby just shrugs. “You said you work Fridays usually. Thought you might like some company for lunch.”

“You know - ex-husbands don't usually just hang out with their ex-wives.”

“When have we ever been ordinary though?” He's exhaustingly chipper today - a far cry from his demeanour during the latter years of your marriage.

You take him in, trying to work out if this is all some big practical joke. After trying to tell yourself that the Abbot-Mohan wedding was a fluke, you grudgingly have to admit to yourself that Robby does look good.

He's got exactly the right amount of scruff going for him right now, he's lost the alcohol bloat, and he seems like there's less of the world's weight on his shoulders.

“I don't think this is a good idea.”

“Lunch is always a good idea,” He replies easily. “Three meals a day, and all that.”

There's no way out of this. Once Robby sets his mind to something, he's going to get it. Sighing heavily, you reach for your bag and jacket. “Only if you're paying.”

“Always, sweetheart.”

You fight the urge to remind him that your salary exceeds his by about 40k a year these days, with all the private work.

Even when you were married, you were still the official breadwinner of the family. Skin pays more than emergencies.

“And don't call me sweetheart.”

You're expecting some kind of quip, or snarky remark, but he just nods, and offers you his hand. “Got it.”

“We're not holding hands.”

Another nod, and he follows you out of the clinic and onto the street. You pretend to miss the looks exchanged between your staff.

A few of them know Robby already, and you're betting the ones that don't are wondering why you've been keeping him a secret.

“Noted. Hand-holding's more of a date two activity then?”

The expression on your face is nothing short of murderous. “This is not a date. It's lunch.”

“With somebody you've slept with many, many times before.”

Whatever illusions you'd managed to conjure of Robby after the wedding are completely shattered.

Because Michael Robinavitch is many things, but cool and suave are not amongst them. He's annoying and persistent, and a bad husband.

“I'm going back inside and ordering from Uber Eats-”

“No, no, no - wait!” A hand curls round your wrist, and you think that there might be a hint of desperation in his tone. “M'sorry, shit - just, don't go.”

“Why not?” Yanking your arm out of his grasp, you cross them both over your chest, and do your best to stare him down.

He swallows heavily, voice dropping to barely more than a whisper. “I miss you.”

"Robby," You sigh, but he cuts you off.

"We were in each other's lives for almost a decade - don't you think it's a little unnatural for that to have all disappeared? Surely we can be friends."

You have to bite back a scream. "If I remember correctly, it was you who didn't want to be friends."

"I didn't want us to break up in the first place!"

It slips out without thought, and you're suddenly regretting taking a lunch break at all. "I'm not doing this here," You start, but he beats you to the draw.

"Fuck, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." He scratches the back of his neck, and glances around the sidewalk before his chin drops to his chest. "I've been doing the work. Going to therapy, no more alcohol, you name it. M'even taking some time off work to really get into it all."

The Robby you were married to would never have considered taking the blame for his actions.

"Can't undo the last decade, Michael," you reply softly.

"I know," he insists. "I know. Believe me. It's a well-discussed topic in therapy. I just... I'm trying to be better. And I want to try and make things right with you. One hundred percent platonically."

"You literally just called this a date," you deadpan.

He scoffs. "I didn't say I was perfect."

Number three. Twenty months post-divorce. Another man.

Apparently, you and Robby text now.

You're as surprised as anybody else, but in the time you've been separated, Robby's persistence appears to have intensified greatly.

Each Thursday, he meets you at the clinic for lunch, having bribed newly-qualified attending Frank to cover for him.

He offers to pick you up after nights out, which you accept more often than not (you hate getting Ubers when you're drunk).

Currently?

He's fixing your busted boiler.

You'd be lying if you said that you hadn't dropped it into a text because you knew that he would drop everything to come and fix it for you. Even with a sabbatical looming in just a week, his reply had been instantaneous.

Now, you're perched on the washing machine while you watch a sweaty Robby tinker around in the washroom.

He's already been warned that you have a date tonight, and therefore has to be finished by seven - complete honesty is the main policy of this tentatively developing friendship.

All you'd received in response had been a thumbs up.

That means he's furious.

Really, it had been a little mean on your part. But he doesn't have a claim to you anymore, and you need him to know that if he's going to still be in your life.

When you excuse yourself to the bathroom, you're not expecting your phone to be in Robby's hand when you return. "Roger from Hinge said he's going to be late tonight."

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Your phone vibrated. Thought it might have been an emergency."

You snatch it out of his grasp and scowl. "Why would an emergency text and not call?"

You both go to step at once, awkwardly colliding chest-to-chest. "Can I see a picture of him?"

"What? No!"

"Why not? Thought we were being honest."

It amazes you that Robby manages to somehow be the most serious man you've ever met, and also emulate a toddler with his petulance. You reach for your phone, and don't even notice Robby dipping his head.

His lips are on yours, and suddenly you're twenty-six again and making out with your attending for the first time after the worst shift of your life.

You'd already decided that Emergency Medicine was not for you, but that Michael Robinavitch absolutely was.

In your head, it was going to be a fling. Something sexy and secret for your final year of med school.

The wedding had been a surprise - you never thought that Robby was the type.

The 3 carat emerald cut bezel had told you otherwise. You'd never been able to build up the courage to ask him exactly how much money he spent on it.

The divorce had been an even bigger surprise.

Not to you, by the end. The last eighteen months of your seven-year-marriage had been decidedly less-than-stellar, to the point where couples counselling couldn't even make a dent.

After COVID and Pittfest, you didn't even recognise your husband anymore. You didn't recognise yourself.

While your mind might be surprised by the contact, your body certainly isn't, and you gasp into his mouth.

His hands are everywhere, hauling you closer to him, and you can feel your carefully-applied lipstick smudging across his cheek.

It's only after two minutes of kissing that you finally pull back, and surface to catch your breath. "Robby, I have to go - I have plans."

He's not quite so easily deterred, though. "Yeah, with a guy who looks just like me." You didn't even make it to showing Robby his photo, and yet he's right. Tall, dark, and broody - you've very clearly got a type. He leans in to kiss you again, feeling a perverse sense of pleasure when you melt into his touch. "You could have the real thing, baby. I'm right here."

That's the problem. Ever since you reconnected with him at Jack and Samira's wedding, it's like Robby has been everywhere.

He's practically inescapable.

He moves to suck a mark onto your collarbone, and you make the feeblest of attempts to push him off. "This is a bad idea."

"It's only a bad idea if we make it one," Robby hums, crowding you up against the kitchen counter, as you feel your willpower start to seep away. You have plans with Roger in thirty minutes.

But when Robby sinks to his knees in front of you, hiking one leg over his shoulder, you forget he even exists. “Say the word, and I will,” He mumbles.

There are many words that would end this right now.

Stop. No. Don't.

And yet, your lips can't seem to conjure any of them. You try and form each of the letters, but the only one that forms is an R.

Then an O.

Two B's.

And a Y.

He doesn't need to move your underwear to get you where you need to go. Kissing and nipping, licking and sucking - your grip on the doorframe tightens with every passing second.

Suddenly, you're struck with a vision of a morning with Robby, a week before you filed for divorce. A vision of what your future could be like if you let him in again.

The television hums in the background, something neither of you is watching. Dinner's been sitting in the oven on low for almost half an hour. The chicken is drying out.

You hear him sigh before he even rounds the corner into the kitchen.

"Hey." His voice is flat. Tired.

You look up from the sink. "Hey."

He drops his keys into the bowl by the door. Misses. Doesn't bother picking them up.

"Long day?"

"Mhm."

You wait for something more. Anything. But it doesn't come.

"You want me to plate up dinner?"

"If you want."

It's always 'if you want' these days. It's a Herculean effort to bite your tongue. "My brother called - asked if we wanted to come round next weekend."

"M'working." It's barely more than a grunt.

"You've worked the last six Saturdays - surely someone else could cover. Jack would cover. You could tell them no for once."

"I can't."

"You mean you won't."

"Stop!"

Your voice is the firmest it's been all night. Chest heaving, it's all you can manage to scramble away from Robby. He kneels where he is, hands hesitating where you were just a second ago.

"W-What's wrong? Did I do something?"

Your lip is trembling. “I don't think I can do this again. You hurt me so much, Michael. I-I mean, you're fucking leaving in a week-”

Robby's face falls.

“M'going on sabbatical, not leaving. I'm really trying to work the rest of my shit out. Let me do that, and then let me win you back. Please. I haven't done any of this solely to get you back. But I can't imagine being with anyone else.”

He folds his hands together.

"I spent a long time thinking providing was enough. That if I worked harder, put in more hours, kept the lights on, paid the mortgage..." He shrugs. "That was love."

"You stopped talking to me."

"I know."

"You stopped letting me in."

"I know."

Finally, you summon the courage to ask the million dollar question. "Would it be different this time? If we did it again?"

"Yes." He sounds so sure of his answer that you're almost envious.

But you're still not quite ready. "I hope you're not expecting me to sit at home for three months and wait for you."

"Never," he replies immediately, and you genuinely believe him. "I just want to be in the running again. And earn it. Properly."

Number four. Two years post-divorce. A date.

Robby. 22:01. Just got back to town What are you up to?

You hate your heart for doing a little flip as soon as it sees Robby's name flash on your phone.

Two years ago, the same sight made you sick to your stomach.

He had told you that he'd be in touch when he was finished with his sabbatical, but you assumed that meant you'd get a call a week after he was home. Not the same night.

Maybe Michael Robinavitch has had some character growth. Maybe he could be a good husband this time round-

No. You can't let yourself think like that.

You and Robby got divorced for a reason. Many reasons. More reasons than you got married in the first place.

He was married to his work, first and foremost. Never once did he stray, and he barely even glanced at the nurses and interns who would look at him with stars in their eyes, and yet you were still the other woman within your own marriage.

Then there were the self-destructive tendencies. The times when he'd hit the alcohol a little too hard after a long shift, and be almost unresponsive for hours as he slept it off.

Mostly, you think it was the refusal to try and help himself.

To try therapy. Properly. Not just a few meetings before calling it quits, but really making some efforts towards self-improvement. He couldn't do it for himself, and he wouldn't do it for you.

You couldn't handle the stress long-term. Of not knowing when he'd be home that night, or whether you were getting sweet, romantic Michael, or sour-faced Robby.

It had been the hardest decision of your life, serving him with divorce papers.

But it clearly all worked out for the better. You're both healthier apart, though happier is probably debatable. You like the peace that being single affords you.

So why are you considering letting him back in, after all the therapy and work to get over him?

"Is everything okay?" Mark's voice cuts through your spiral, and your gaze snaps up to him.

"Hm?"

"You get bad news or something? You've been staring at your phone for like two minutes."

Shit.

Your fingers start moving before you can consider your response. If Robby's matured so much, he'll be perfectly alright with this.

You. 22:04. I'm on a date, actually

"Sorry, it was just work. Asking for a consult." Your smile is tight, and you're hoping he doesn't see through the very obvious lie.

If he does, he doesn't comment on it, and you return to your conversation about shares, or stocks, or something equally boring.

Robby had handled all the investment stuff while you were married, and now you pay someone to do it for you.

Finally, he heads up to the bar to get more drinks, and you slip your phone out again.

Robby. 22:05. When will you be done? I'll come and pick you up. Miss my girl.

A text like that from anybody other than Robby would have earned an instant block. Unfortunately, despite his three months away, you're still not immune to the Robinavitch charm.

You never have been.

Besides - you'd already decided you weren't going to sleep with Mark tonight. He's a nice enough guy, but the deal had been sealed when you'd been discussing music, and he hadn't known who Patti Smith was. This man is not your soulmate. But going home alone would mean a date with your vibrator, and one orgasm at most.

Robby would double that, at least.

You. 22:21. ...Not your girl But you can pick me up around 11.

You shoot him the address of the bar, and consider how you're definitely going to hell for this.

The rest of the date passes in half-time, so painfully slowly that you figure you must have a few new wrinkles than you did at the start. Finally, it's time to make your escape. To ease the impending blow, you throw down your half of the cheque in notes, along with a sizeable tip. "You know, I'm really sorry, but there actually was a work emergency. Thought it would be okay, but they need me in."

"A... dermatology emergency?"

"They're more common than you'd think - my colleague is coming to pick me up," You lie through your teeth. "But I had a really nice night."

Another lie.

You try to dart out so that Mark won't see you leave with Robby, but no luck. The motorcycle is pulled up to the curb with Robby leaning against it, a second helmet in his hands.

“I thought you were going to bring the car!” You hiss, throwing Mark an apologetic glance over your shoulder.

"Bike was what I was riding, and I missed my girl. Mark have a problem with that?"

"If he knew you were my ex, probably."

Maybe you and Robby do deserve each other. God, you're awful. Robby clips the helmet under your chin, and you pretend to not notice your date's gaze staring at you both while he waits for his car to be brought round.

"You ready?"

You nod, though you feel anything but. You've never liked the bike, much to Robby's chagrin. One of his favourite things is having you wrap your arms around his waist while he drives.

*****

Fuck, he knows you too well. It's almost unfair, that even after over a year of separation that he still knows you better than anybody in the world.

There are no pleasantries. No discussions. Just a beeline for the house, before clothes are discarded in a haphazard manner as you try and make it to the bedroom in one piece.

You don't quite make it there before Robby gives you orgasm number one. Torso on the top landing, he gets carried away on the staircase, leaving you totally seeing stars.

Thankfully, he's more than familiar with the house layout, and carries you the rest of the way.

“W-Wait - condom," You interrupt. Last thing you need is a baby to complicate matters. He reaches for the bedside table, complete muscle memory, but you shake your head. “Down one.”

He huffs a little, obviously put out at the change in what he still considers to be his home.

Of course, the fact that you have these at all makes his blood boil a little.

Not that you can't have seen other people.

You've been separated for almost two years, and were growing apart long before that, but god is he so glad to have you like this again. In the home that you both shared - on the bed that he paid for.

Like nothing ever went wrong.

Determined to put the memory of all other men to shame, Robby takes you around his cock, before giving you his fingers and tongue again. By the time you come down, you're more spent than he's ever seen you before.

You're barely awake as you curl into his side. "How was the trip?"

"Really great," he answers honestly. "Did me a lot of good, but I'm glad to be back. Missed you too much."

"Shouldn't be telling you this," you hum slightly, eyes fluttering closed. "But I missed you too."

Number five. Three years post-divorce. Forever.

“You have some white coming in,” You hum, fingers carding through Robby's hair where his head rests in your lap. The windows are cracked open just enough to let a breeze in, and you can hear the faint sounds of a lawn mower down the street.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

You separate a few strands between your fingers, tilting his head toward the light. "Right here. My favourite old man."

Robby scoffs. "That feels excessive."

"Well, you did marry a woman eighteen years younger than you. Feels like something you brought on yourself."

You think back to the man who used to come home after twelve-hour shifts, kiss you on the forehead, tell you he was just tired, then carry the weight of the world around in silence until it crushed everything else.

This version of Robby still has bad days.

Still wakes up anxious sometimes. Annoyed. Still gets overwhelmed by work. Still occasionally retreats to the garage or the backyard for half an hour when his head gets too loud.

The difference is that he always comes back.

And he lets you help.

Sure, it had been a little embarrassing announcing that you were back with your ex-husband - especially after all the shit that had gone down between you both.

But Robby had been right.

There's no one else you could ever imagine being with.

Despite all this, you're still shocked when the next words fall from his lips. "Marry me."

"What?" Your fingers freeze mid-motion, and you try to gage from his upside-down expression whether he's joking or not. You don't think he is.

"Marry me. Again."

"Holy shit," You breathe, head spinning. "What? Are you joking?"

He sits up, turning to take your hands in his. "Deadly serious, sweetheart. I uh, didn't really know what the etiquette was for this kind of thing - I know you liked your first ring, but that felt sort of like bad karma. So I was thinking, if you say yes, we could go shopping for a new one together."

A few years ago, you would have been making the biggest mistake of your life. Now, you don't feel a shred of hesitation. "Yes."

His face breaks into a smile. "Yeah?"

You nod, lip between your teeth as you fight back tears. "Fuck it. Let's get married again."

“Seriously?” He looked exasperated but amused by your pleading as you wiggled on his lap. “You want it that bad?”

“Yes,” you held up the small, silver hoop, turning it to let the low light of his living room catch it and throw sparks of light across his face. You’d chosen silver on purpose, wanting it to match his hair and stubble. “Just for a bit. Wanna see it on you.”

He sighed, his hands squeezing your hips. He really didn’t understand your fascination with this, but he really was a push over when it came to you.

“Fine,” you squealed with joy, but he caught your wrist before you could lunge for his ear. “But I’m taking it out after an hour. I’m not wearing it full time anymore. I’m 50, not 25, sweetheart.”

You were pretty confident you could get him to cave and wear it for you logner, but you didn’t argue.

“Can I put it in now?”

Jack smirked a little, resisting the urge to make a joke.

“Yeah, baby,” he turned his head, giving you the space to work. He dropped your wrist, both of his hands returning to your hips. “You can.”

You could see the small, nearly invisible hole where the earring would go. Keeping your touches light, you traced from the top of the cartilage down to the lobe with one finger. Beneath you, you could feel Jack shudder.

Interesting.

Unclasping the hoop, you took the lobe between two of your fingers, holding it steady. His breathing was picking up and his fingers were digging into your sides. You slowly slid the post of the hoop through his ear, leaning in close and letting your breath ghost over the shell of his ear.

You could feel him getting hard between your legs, and, subconsciously, his hands were starting to drag your hips over his. Leaning into it, you ground down on him as you closed the hinge, securing the little earring in place.

“So pretty,” you murmured as you sat back to admire him. Jack was flushed, eyes wide and pupils blown as he turned to look up at you. The shining glint of silver in his ear had your walls clenching and feeling much too empty.

“This what you wanted?” Jack pushed his hips up into yours, pulling you down against the his hard cock.

“No, this is,” your hands fell to the waistband of his sweats, pushing the fabric down just enough to free his length. You pumped him once, gathering the little drops of fluid already leaking from his head and spreading it down the rest of him. He sucked in a hard breath, his own hands shifting down to where your underwear barely kept you covered. 

“You wanna ride me while I look like a pirate, pretty girl? S’that what you’re into?”

You laughed, lifting your hips to allow him to yank your underwear to the side. His fingers dipped through your slit, finding you more than wet enough to take him without any prep.

“Well, you’ve already got the peg leg. You should probably just lean into your new aesthetic.”

Jack didn’t seem to think you were all that funny. His hand came down against your ass, jolting you forward and into him as you gasped.

“You gonna keep talking or are you solve the little problem you created?” He moved you again, lifting you up until the tip of his cock was aligned with your entrance. You slid down slowly, gasping as he stretched you around him.

“I don’t think I’d call it little,” you bit back a moan as you took him fully, settling down into his lap. Your hips rocked back and forth in small, stuttering grinds as you got used to him. “I’d say it’s pretty sizable.”

“Oh yeah?” Jack looked smug, like he always did when he first entered you. No matter how many times the two of you fucked, you always needed a moment to get used to the way he stretched you, more than any partner had before.

“Mhm,” you started rolling your hips, rising an inch or two up off him before sinking down and grinding your clit against him. Your hand twisted in his hair, pulling his head to the side so you could stare at the little sliver hoop. “We gotta get you an eyepatch. Really complete the look.”

“Will you shut up?” Jack slapped your ass again before using his hold on your hips to start moving you harder against him. 

Your teeth were itching for something to bite down on as Jack manipulated your body, driving deep into you. 

With your craving and just how tantalizing that little piece of jewelry looked, it was inevitable that you leaned forwards and grasped the thin metal with your teeth.

“Oh fuck!”

Jack’s hips jumped up, slamming into yours and forcing a cry from your lips, but you held on. Gently, you worked the lobe of his ear between your teeth, letting your tongue swipe over the soft skin and cold metal. 

He was working you harder, dragging you down against him and thrusting up into you with force you hadn’t seen from him before. Every collision of his hips against yours sent little moans flying from your mouth. They were muffled slightly by his flesh still trapped by your teeth, but every sound went straight from you and into his ear.

“Fuck,” Jack was panting, his head turned and ear presented to you like a prize. “Fuck you sound so good, feel so good. Keep doing that.”

You had no intention of stopping, but you did move. You released the lobe of his ear, letting your tongue swipe over the cartilage as you let your pants and whines out, not holding any back anymore.

When Jack’s fingers found your clit, circling the little bud faster than you were ready for, your whole body jerked. Your teeth bit down on the shell of his ear. A loud moan ripped out of you as Jack tugged you back down on him in response, bullying his cock fully inside you.

His whole body shook as the first warm spurts of his release filled you, seeping out around his cock and pooling in his lap. He didn’t stop his fingers, though, keeping up the pace and pushing you over the edge.

Your teeth let go as you came, not wanting to bite him too hard in your haze, but your head didn’t move. You kept it right there next to his ear, letting him hear every moan and whine and gasp as you came.

You clenched hard around him, rolling your hips and grinding between his fingers and his hard length, still filling you up. Your toes curled as the strongest waves passed through you, making your head pleasantly fuzzy.

When your orgasm had passed, you slumped against him, head buried in his shoulder and your hands weakly pushing his still circling fingers away from your core. He relented, moving his soaking fingers away and cradling you in his arms as the two of you panted and tried to recover.

“We should do that again,” your voice was almost completely muffled by his shirt.

“Do what again?”

“Dress you up like a pirate.”

Jack laughed, pulling your head away from him so he could look you in the eyes. He pressed a soft kiss to your lips.

“I didn’t know that was something you’d be into, baby.” 

You pouted, reaching out to tug at the hoop still in his ear. To your delight, his breathing hitched and the softening length of his cock, still buried deep inside you, twitched.

“And I didn’t know you’d be so into having your ears played with,” you ground down against him, swiveling your hips and fiddling with the earring between your fingers. Jack gasped, gritting his teeth as his cock began to fill out once again. “Guess this means you’ll have to keep wearing this pretty little hoop.”

“Not a chance, you evil little minx,” he held your hips still.

“Really?” You tugged again, thoroughly enjoying the way his eyes slid shut and his hips gave an aborted little thrust. 

You leaned forward again, until your lips were right next to the shell of his ear. Your tongue darted out, tracing over the ridges. He shuddered again and you could feel just how hard he was already.

you moan, your hands clawing at robby’s chest, fingernails digging into his skin as his digits push deeper, curling, dragging against that spongy spot inside you. your hips buck, trying to fuck his hand, but he pins you down with his other palm flat on your belly.

“fuck, i’m gonna—” you cut yourself off with a high, desperate whine as he curls his fingers just right, the pads of his middle and ring fingers rubbing against your g-spot in tight, focused circles.

“there you go, there you go,” robby murmurs, watching your face twist — your mouth open, breath hitching, eyes fluttering. he looks over at jack. “i asked you what your record was. five?”

“for her?” jack hums as he steps out, just a towel on, hair still wet after his shower, watching you on the bed, naked and needy.

robby nods, looking to jack as if they’re just having a regular conversation, as if you’re not really there.

“six,” jack says. “in... fuck, honey, what was it?”

you can barely think straight, babbling incoherently as robby pushes you toward another peak. his digits pump in and out of your dripping cunt, driving you wild.

“he asked you something,” robby says sternly, tapping your cheek lightly. “speak. now.”

your brain is barely able to form words as you mutter, “three hours. it-it was three hours — fuck me, i’m gonna—”

“yeah? you’re gonna what?” robby wonders, helping you get to that high.

you hesitate with your answer, only focused on how he pushes you closer to the edge, until he raises his brows at you with a nod, tapping your chin.

“gonna-gonna cum. please. fuck—” you whine.

“you’re being a dick,” jack murmurs as he goes back into the bathroom, finishing brushing his teeth.

“she loves it,” robby sighs. “i think i can break that.”

“break what? my record?” jack scoffs from the bathroom.

“yeah. six in three? she’s about to do three in one. that’s another one per hour. i could bring it to two, make it eight. go ahead, honey. make it three for me,” robby hums, not looking away from you now as you come undone under his fingers, whining low and pitchy all at once as you scratch at robby’s chest, hair digging under your fingernails slightly as you peak. “good girl. good girl, yeah, feels nice, doesn’t it?” he hums as he watches you soak his fingers again.

jack spits into the sink again. “if you make it eight, then i have to make it ten. it’s an honour thing. my girlfriend — i have to hold the record.”

“if you make it ten, i have to make it twelve,” robby remarks as you pant beneath him, his fingers dragging out of you. a light slap over your folds makes you whine as you drag your hands over his cock. “less an honour thing, more pride.”

“are you seriously making this — what? some sort of competition?” jack scoffs as he walks out of the bathroom. he leans down toward you and kisses you sweetly. “hey, baby.”

you moan into his lips before jack moves away.

“me? competitive? not at all,” robby groans as your hands wrap around him. “fuckin’ — give me a second, will you? needy tonight,” robby murmurs, kissing at your tits sweetly as you slow your movement before pulling back and looking to jack, who’s headed to his dresser to get dressed. “but you? you love competition.”

“bullshit,” jack sighs as he drops his towel, pulling on his boxers before sitting down in an armchair.

“yeah? what was that situation last—” robby groans when your fingers find their way over his tip. “oh, sweetheart, fucking...” he hums, hanging his head into the crook of your neck.

jack watches with a hum as robby manhandles you beneath him, switching positions as robby sits at the head of the bed, moving your hips over his, lining his cock up with your core before guiding you down over him, feeling you ride him, fingers digging into his shoulders.

“what was that... situation you had with shen, then? last month? most patients in twenty minutes?” robby recalls, groaning as he watches you bottom out on him, pussy warm and tight around him.

“that’s different. we were helping people,” jack sighs.

“we’re helpin’ someone,” robby shrugs, a hand over the back of your head, gripping at your scalp. “isn’t that right, sweetheart? we’re helping you.”

you moan, clenching tighter around him. robby hums, groaning softly.

“think you’re just afraid i’m gonna win.”

jack scoffs, rolling his eyes as he moves to sit next to the two of you on the bed, beside robby, as if this is the most casual conversation they could possibly have while you ride him.

“oh, brother, you aren’t gonna win. i know her body. know what she responds to,” jack sighs as he watches you.

“think i do too.”

robby’s fingers work magic on your clit, rubbing gentle circles as he moves your hips to a new angle. your back arches, a low moan escaping your lips as the pleasure builds.

“goddamn it, right there, honey, right there,” robby groans, hitting his head against the headboard as he loses himself in your tight heat. his cock throbs inside you, coated in your slick arousal.

“fine, fine. we’re doing this,” jack sighs, leaning against the headboard as he watches you take robby’s cock. “what should we cap it off at? what are the rules?”

“i don’t know. fucking hell,” robby groans, fingers rubbing firm circles on your clit. your hips buck against his hand, desperate for more.

“now you’re pussy-drunk?” jack says with a smirk. “see what you did to the mean one now, baby? made him an idiot.”

robby slaps jack lightly on the chest, telling him to shut up. jack grabs his wrist and moves robby’s hand to his own cock, making him stroke him.

“you wanna talk rules?” robby scoffs as he moves his hand up and down jack’s shaft. jack inhales sharply at the contact, letting go of robby’s hand as he leans back, watching you intently.

“well, we aren’t animals... gotta make her feel good first and foremost,” jack says, eyes glued to your bouncing tits and pretty moans.

“she’ll be fine.” robby speeds up his hand over jack’s cock before giving up, too focused on you. jack sighs and takes over stroking himself, fisting his thick shaft as he watches you take robby’s cock like a pro.

robby’s hips thrust up into your wet heat, fucking you harder, deeper. his fingers rub firm circles on your clit, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.