Balsamic Vin

Benoit’s firm hand squeezed Jud's shoulder as he held Martha in his arms. Her last breath leaving with his forgiving prayer. The priest, with glassy eyes, closed hers, a shuddered sign escaping his cracked lips. But as soon as that cursed pink diamond fell at their feet, Blanc was up and running like his ass was on fire.

With the weight of the day and a hard decision on his hands, Jud quickly pocketed the damned thing before Geraldine was back with medics. They took Martha from him, the ghost of her warmth pulled from his limbs. He stood on shaky legs before joining the purposely absent detective outside.

“You, my boy, need a shower, meal, and a bed. Preferably in that exact order.” Blanc gave him a look over; mud caked on his clothes was now uncomfortably dry. He could only nod, too tired to put up much of a fight as he gently led him to the backseat of his car.

The shower felt like heaven after being wet and cold for such a prolonged amount of time. His muscles ached, the heat slowly loosening the tight knots in his shoulders. He wondered how long was too long to sit under the blissful hot water before Benoit got worried and checked in on him. Begrudgingly, he stepped out and quickly dressed in flannel pants and a loose shirt. Formalities well past them at this point.

Bare feet against the hard wood floor, Blanc heard him as he approached the kitchen. Jud shouldn’t be surprised with his new acquaintance and his near limitless talents but—surprise surprise. The man had thrown together a full meal. Maybe he was in the shower longer than he thought.

“Where did you get all of this? I know we didn’t have a whole chicken…” Benoit turned around from sitting the mentioned bird on the table.

“Oh well I forgot to mention my—“ suddenly a clatter in the office distracted them both.

“Did I not say to leave it alone…” Blanc grumbled before stomping towards the noise. Confused, the priest followed closely behind. Benoit flung open the office door, hands on his hips in preparation for an argument. Jud peaked over his shoulder to see the cause of his irritation.

“What have I told you? I can't take you anywhere!” At first he saw nothing, but then your head sheepishly rose from behind the desk. You wore the biggest shit-eating grin he’d ever seen.

“Oops?” You followed the word by raising a hand, holding what appeared to be a broken frame. Jud's stomach did a flip.

“Um, hello?” He was beyond confused by what was happening in front of him. Benoit walked over to you, hand out in annoyance. You bit your lip to stifle a giggle, clearly unfazed by the stern authority in Blanc's scowl. You handed over the offending item gingerly, standing up from your spot on the floor.

You were shorter than them both, dressed in a light cardigan over a graphic T-shirt of what looked like a scene from a horror movie. His gaze dropped lower, taking in the way your tight ripped jeans hugged your thighs—he cleared his throat looking back up. That caught your attention. Blanc wiped his head to Jud, remembering what he was doing before the interruption.

“I’m sorry Padre, as I was about to tell you. I forgot to mention that my darlin’, (Y/N), would be joining us.” Benoit rounded the desk, sitting the broken photo back down safely to deal with later.

“I had her go pick us up some supplies for dinner. I do apologize, I hope it’s alright she join us?” Jud's brows drew together. Darling? But he thought… he nodded quickly, slightly embarrassed.

With the tailored suits, finely manicured nails, and musical numbers—Jud had kinda assumed Blanc was, well, not straight. So this must be his… wife? His very young, very attractive wife. You looked like you were closer in age to Jud than Blanc. He had noticed Benoit's wedding ring before but—as they say, assuming makes an ass out of you and me.

“S-sure yeah of course, I don’t mind. All's welcome!” He couldn’t help the nervous rambling that tumbled out of his mouth.

“Wonderful!” Benoit jumped back in action, heading to the kitchen to finish setting up for dinner. Jud gave a timid smile to you.

“It’s lovely to meet you, (Y/N). I’m Jud.” You gave him a once over, the corner of your lip upturned.

“Likewise Father.” The syllables dragged out. The look in your eye was a little too friendly; a shiver ran up his spine. Jud swallowed before quickly following in the older man’s footsteps.

–

“Oh God Blanc, is there anything you can’t do?” Jud didn’t realize how starved he had been. One bite and he was shoveling in food like a man who had been lost at sea.

“Oh you flatter me Jud, truly.” You hummed in agreement.

“He’s a total feeder for sure. Stuffs me full anytime he can.” Jud choked a little on his food. You lifted a sharp brow.

“Easy there Jud! It ain’t going anywhere.” Blanc clapped him on the back. He slowed down, chasing his coughs with a drink of water.

“Yeah sorry, I kind forgot to eat much with everything going on.” His recovery was smooth. Benoit dabbed a napkin to his chin.

“Well, it’s been a doozy that’s for sure. I could only imagine what this week has been like for you.” Jud smiled, looking to change the subject.

“I wanted to ask—what brings you here, (Y/N)? Do you normally come with Blanc on cases?”

You ripped into a biscuit, steam rolling off the bread, “Actually I—”

“Oh please! Can I tell him? I never get the chance to brag about you.” Blanc was practically giddy with excitement. You rolled your eyes, gently swatting his arm.

“Not like I could stop you if I tried.” Benoit grabbed your hand on the table, giving it a light squeeze before bringing it up to give your knuckles a quick kiss. Jud watched the exchange closely. Again, your brow raised, but with a quizzical glance.

“(Y/N) just got her Masters degree. Has a job lined up already! It just so happens that it’s one town over. And because she knew I’d be in the area for a case—she came along to check it out. It was odd how well things worked out.” Jud's brows creased.

“Oh, that—that’s amazing. Congrats! Um, are you thinking of moving for long term? Or is this just a temporary position?” Surely Benoit wouldn’t want to move out here; he wasn’t made for suburban life. That Jud was certain of. But it wouldn’t be totally crazy to think they might live separately over long periods of time. Blanc's work must take him all over the world after all.

“I wanna see how I like it, but I’m not opposed to it. I like the area. Who knows?” You shrugged your shoulders. Jud nodded.

“Do you think it’ll be hard living alone?” Things like that can really strain a relationship. You narrowed your eyes, a small smile creeping into your features.

“Hmm, I enjoy my space… and independence. Besides, he could do without seeing me all the time. We can fight like cats and dogs. Gets pretty rough sometimes.” Jud's eyes widened.

Blanc rolled his eyes, “Oh hooyee. You’re the one that’ll drain the life out of me! Exhausting really. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Jud had no good reason for the choking this time, wheezing a cough as Benoit slapped him hard. You couldn’t help it, a throaty laugh exploding from you.

“Father are you alright?” Jud put a hand out, gulping down breaths. Blanc snapped his eyes over to your hyena squeals.

“And why on earth are you laughing at the poor man!” The priest finally calmed down, just as you cleared your throat to steady your bubbling giggles.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Ah. This is better than TV!” Blanc shook his head, confused, Jud joining him with a shrug.

“Father Jud, please forgive me for putting you through this for so long—detective Blanc?” You stuck a thumb at the man beside you. Jud nodded after you waited a beat for a response.

“He’s my dad. My very gayandmarriedtomyotherdad dad.” Jud's face turned into a beet-red cherry tomato. Benoit looked between you both, still in a haze of puzzlement.

“What are you—” He put his face in his hands, too embarrassed to look up. Blanc squinted in thought before jumping back.

“Father Jud! Did you think that we were—oh, I could tan your hide!” You started into another wave of laughter, now at your dad's expense, to the point of tears.

“So worth it.”

–

Jud busied himself with cleaning the table once everyone was finished. Blanc had given you an earful while Jud sat stewing in his shame. You took it in stride, sneaking little glances at Jud throughout the rest of dinner. As he was rinsing a cup, you slid up beside him.

“I am sorry for embarrassing you… you're just too adorable not to pick on. I couldn’t help myself.” You said, pressing into him, your hands joining his in the soapy water.

He felt heat on his face again, and for a completely different reason. “It’s a-alright, all in good fun.” You nodded, scrubbing at a dish.

“Dad is quite fond of you, you know. I can see why.” You tilted your head towards him. He smiled.

“Really? I felt like a thorn in his side the whole time he was trying to save me.” You laughed, the sound light and breezy.

“You wouldn’t be the first, but he likes that. I wasn’t kidding when I said we fight. He enjoys the challenge.” The priest joined you in a chuckle.

“Well I didn’t make it easy for him, that’s for sure.” You nudged his shoulder, reaching for the next item.

“What he likes about you, what I like about you… you freely give yourself to people. Open up and offer them a connection without expectation.” Jud let out a breath, silenced at the sincerity of your words. His hands re-submerged into the sink, fingers grazing yours lightly. He could feel your stare on the side of his face.

Jud risked a quick glance at you, but couldn’t look away from your dark eyes. The light of the kitchen catching them and bringing out the variation of colors within.

“Pretty,” he whispered, unaware of the slip.

You returned his intense stare with a grin, “Huh?”

He coughed, looking back at the now empty sink.

“I mean- Th-thank you. I really needed to hear that.”

And he was right. That moment with Louise had brought out a fear in him, that he was losing that tether to himself amongst the festering cancer of Wicks’ shadow. Connection is what he valued above all else. It was how he knew he could serve God to heal the broken like him.

Your smile softened, hand clasping his under the cooling water. “You’re a good person Jud, don’t ever doubt that. And what you do? For others? It’s everything.” Jud couldn’t help the strained chuckle that shook his bones. The weight of today, the weight of everything he was going through, finally came crashing down. The laugh turned into a hiccup as tears started pouring out of him.

You immediately pulled his hands out of the water, “Hey hey, it's ok. There we are, that’s it.” You maneuvered his body around to face you, bringing his arms around your waist.

“Come on sweetie. I’ve got ya.” Your voice was gentle, filled with soothing comfort. A complete switch from the playful teasing from before. He let himself be moved, sagging into your firm hold.

Your hug was the anchor he needed, finally letting himself break down completely. You supported the weight of him surprisingly well considering the height difference. Your arms wrapped around him, one hand grasping at the back of his head. Still-damp fingers pushing him into the crook of your shoulder. The other at the small of his back, rubbing soothing circles. He openly sobbed into the warmth of your skin.   

Benoit had been standing in the doorway in silence, watching the exchange. His face pinched in worry. You gave him a small smile, the unspoken words between you reassuring. Blanc nodded, creeping away to let Jud have his moment without interruption.

And Jud did. He let out all of the things he had been bottling up. Fingers clinging to the soft knit of your cardigan. Slowly his breathing calmed down. He took a deep inhale into your hair at the base of your neck. The smell of your skin and the faint traces of a perfume long since faded was grounding. He let out a sigh against you. He thought he could feel a shudder run through you. If he did, it was ignored as he squeezed you tighter. You patted his back and he took that as an opportunity to remove himself from your arms.

“Thank you…” he whispered, voice tired and brittle. You brought your hand up to his face, sleeve between your fingers as you dried the damp spots of his face. You kept your hand up, palm resting gently on his cheek.

“Of course.”

—

After, Jud was escorted to his small bed by your father. He was already deep in REM cycle before Benoit could shut the door. He found you In the living room poking at the low burning fire, Blanc came up to sit beside you in the opposite chair.

“What. A. Mess.” His shoulder drooped, finally relaxing.

You nodded, “But he’s going to be alright. Just needs some time and support.” The detective hummed, watching you as you played in the fireplace. He bit the inside of his mouth, thinking.

“Support… yes.” You side-eyed him. “I know that tone. What are you scheming now, pops?”

“Oh come on! I’m n—” You leveled him with a look. “Ok ok… you are going to be in the area. I just thought that—” You leaned over to place a hand over his. It had been tapping at the side of the chair.

“You can’t help it, can you? Always adding more adopted children to worry about. You’d think I was plenty.” Blanc chuckled, patting your hand.

“My darlin’, you’re more than me or your father could have ever hoped for. You know that. I just—I can’t help my concern.” You did know. Both of them gave you a home built on love most can only dream of. And as always, Blanc was a big old softy for the helpless.

“I know, I know. I’ll keep an eye on him. Won't be hard either, with him being a cutie.” You teased. Your father just gave you a look.

“Now, don’t be gettin’ any ideas. He’s got enough on his plate without you overwhelming the man.” You pretended to be offended, hand clutching fake pearls.

“Why Dad! Whatever do you mean?” You giggled.

Benoit continued, “But I would appreciate updates. He’s… he’s a good one.” You knew exactly how he felt. Outside of what your dad had been telling you while working the case, meeting Jud sealed the deal.

“I think so too.”

Jud woke up around noon, days of little to no sleep finally catching up to him. He was in a rumpled state, not bothering to change into his priest clothes since he assumed he’d be alone after last night.

He was wrong.

As he descended the steps, he could hear singing coming from the kitchen. Benoit must have stayed; the melody was dramatic and ethereal. Phantom of the Opera. He couldn’t help but smile. But when he rounded the corner, you were humming along. Your back was to him.

The sun was coming in, creating a soft glow around you. Rays danced in your hair; it was mesmerizing. The song shifted, and you joined in. Voice soft and lush. His heart jumped. You had removed your cardigan, revealing your swaying hips.

You turned around to sit something on the table, eyes locking with Jud’s. “Ah fuck, Father!” You said with a gasp. Something less innocent jumped at that.

Fuck indeed…

“I—I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.” He rubbed the back of his neck as he sat at the table.

You let out a laugh, “It’s alright, was lost in the music I guess.” He nodded.

“When I heard it, I thought you were Blanc—I noticed his taste in musicals.” You laughed, shifting back into your cooking.

“Oh yeah, me and Dad have burned up Broadway many-a-time. Papa doesn’t care for it, so I became his replacement theater bug. Never will forget Dad full-on sobbing to a particularly haunting rendition of Memory.” The image of Blanc crying to Cats made Jud chuckle.

“That’s interesting. I can’t say I’m not a little curious to what kind of person Blanc would be with.” You were stirring something in a pot, the smell making his mouth water.

“Papa? Well, he’s nothing like Dad. As you’ve probably noticed, he’s got a large personality.”

“That’s putting it lightly.” You snickered at that.

“Papa’s name is Phillip. They met on a case when Dad was just starting out as a detective. He was a suspect- of course, but Dad knew immediately that he was innocent.” Jud gave a knowing smile.

“He’s always been like that?” You looked over at him.

“He was obvious, kinda like you, wears his heart on his sleeve. Dad saw straight through him.” Jud felt heat rising to his face, a little embarrassed at being called out. You cleared your throat, brows drawn together.

“I realize that might come off wrong—it—it’s a good thing, Jud. Really. The world would be better with more people like you in it.” Now you were the one embarrassed, having put your foot in your mouth.

Jud gave you a sheepish grin, “No, no. You’re honest—just like your dad. And the same can be said for you.” Both of you stared, silence only interrupted by the ticking of the wall clock. You were blushing too, cheeks and nose rosy. You straightened your posture, returning back to the stove. He wished you hadn’t.

“Anyway—Papa is very mild-mannered compared to Dad. You’d think it wouldn’t work but, man, they’re perfect together. They argue, sure—but it’s kinda adorable and silly when they do. Dad is a total queen sometimes, and Papa just feeds into it. I think they like pushing each other's buttons. Dad’s like that. Again, large personality.” Jud could picture it, and it made perfect sense.

“Papa is a professor; I get my academics from him. Total bookworm.” Jud tried to think of Blanc and what he would assume his type to be, and that checked most of the boxes.

“He sounds sweet; I know he’s a good person if he’s married to Blanc. He’d hate me for saying it but he’s a godsend.” You must have been done, hands now rummaging through the cabinets for a plate.

“He would, but the sentiment would still be appreciated. By that statement I assume he let it be known he’s a staunch atheist?” You had filled the plate and were now bringing it over to Jud. It was some kind of curry over rice. His stomach let out a loud grumble making you grin from ear to ear.

“Yeah, almost immediately. And you?” He didn’t wait for a response before he shoveled the almost too-hot food into his mouth. It was delicious. He almost moaned at how good it was. You looked pleased by his eagerness.

“Simple answer, sure. Dad has some… trauma with institutionalized religion having grown up the way he did. Papa less so. But both let me come to my own conclusions. And that conclusion is… complicated.” That had Jud stop mid chew. You had looked away at that point, now focusing on the twirling wind chime hanging outside the window.

“Complicated?” A ghost of a smile haunted your lips.

“I think that the world is a jungle of confusion. All of us animals trying to find the answers to questions we don’t even know the meaning of.” You let out a deep sigh before continuing.

“Life is hard; it happens to you. None of us ask for it or have any real way of controlling what it does to us in the end.” He looked at you, taking in the way your eyes were eerily clear with something he’d never seen in someone so young. A deep knowing.

“And in the end?” The question was a whisper. You turned back to him, softness returning to you.

“I think that—all that there is to be known—can only be known by the dead. And we aren’t there yet. Are we?” Jud felt a chill from the words, not from the weight of them, but by the weight they had coming from you.

As a priest, even in the youth of it as he was, he’d seen enough working with the dead, dying, and mourning to know when someone had gone through tragedy in life. And with the gentle calm in your voice carrying the heaviness of that message? He knew that you had seen it first-hand.

He reached out a hand to place it gently on yours, giving it a light squeeze. You returned the touch with your other hand, lightly patting the top of his before standing. He watched you as you got your own plate, deep in thought. His mind wandered back to when you took him in your arms—holding him with a comfort and strength that broke what little barriers he had left almost instantly.

You were a mystery of your own, and Jud found himself curious to solve it.

-

You and your father hung around on and off for a couple of days after the funerals. Jud was grateful for it. The detective gave him his contact, insisting he call if anything came up. He still didn’t bring up the diamond and Jud knew he never would. You also gave him your number, and your new address.

“I’m only twenty minutes away. It’s a cute place, you should come by and visit.” He smiled.

“I’d like that, will you let me know when you’re settled?” You nodded before giving him a long hug. Jud was proud to say he only melted into it slightly. Blanc was watching, eyes narrow with study.

They both climbed in the detective’s car, Blanc buckled in before giving you a look.

“(Y/N), need I remind you Jud is a priest?” You looked at him a little bewildered.

“Well duh.” He rolled his eyes at you.

“And priests have vows... Of chastity?” You let out a nervous chuckle.

“Dad! I’m not going to fuck Jud! I promise!” Blanc just side-eyed you.

“Yeah yeah, like you promised not to mess with the rich widow from Italy. I hadn’t even ruled her out yet before you were on her like cellophane.” You huffed.

“You said you’d stop bringing that up. And I knew she was innocent, she was left-handed.” You purposely omitted the detail of only figuring that out when the woman’s hand was up your dress.

“I’m just sayin’, please be mindful. I’d rather not have you calling me up in the middle of the night about the totally preventable existential crisis you might or might not have brought upon yourself.” You folded your arms.

“Well Dad, it takes two to tango, so you have nothing to worry about.” Blanc only thumped his finger on the wheel. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” went unspoken.

You watched the treeline as you drove, a corner of your mouth curling.

I’m gonna fuck that priest.

It was only a few days since you had left that Jud got his first text from you. It was a picture of a poster, a band performing at some local bar. “Are priests allowed to go to punk shows?” He barked a laugh in the silence of his room.

“When are we going?”

—

Jud couldn’t stop flexing his hands, rubbing them roughly on the front of his well-worn dark denim jeans. Despite being fully clothed, he felt completely naked. He had decided against his collar given the occasion and was wearing his spare day clothes he rarely ever touched anymore. The priestly uniform was comforting, familiar. This oddly less so.

White shirt, blue flannel, and dark jeans. He kept checking himself in the mirror. He felt off. During his stay in Chimney Rock, he never had the opportunity or need to wear anything outside his uniform. Bishop Langstrom would probably be worried to know how little he let himself have recreational time. He had been at war with Wicks. Days off felt like admitting defeat.

Now he had no excuse.

The light honk from outside let him know you were there. Jud peeked out the window of the living room and gave you a quick wave. Scooping up his wallet and keys, he glanced one last time in the mirror to mess with his hair.

Your car looked… expensive to say the least. A vintage cherry red Corvette, a convertible with cream white interior. He let out a whistle. “Like her? Papa wants to steal her, Dad says it’s a bit much.”

Jud felt the leather seats, “Damn, I can imagine why. Blanc is probably just jealous—she’s beautiful. I’ve never been in something this nice.” You smiled at his wandering hands, taking in the details around him.

“Well, I thought I’d treat myself since I got my degree and first adult job, ya know?” He nodded.

“New job pays well?” You snorted at that, peeling out of the driveway.

“Not at all.” Jud didn’t pry, but was as curious as ever.

—

The place was already crowded by the time you got there, bodies on bodies. You kept a firm hold on his hand as you weaved through to the bar.

“Do priests drink?” You said, leaning over into his ear for him to hear you better. Your hot breath made him shiver.

“Yeah, whiskey is fine.” He went to pull money from his wallet but you slapped at his hand.

“Keep it, I asked you out—remember? On me.” You gave him a wink before slinking up to the counter to wave down the bartender. Jud shook his head, but couldn't stop his eyes from moving down your body. Tonight you were wearing a high-waisted skirt that hit mid-thigh with tights and heeled booties. Your back was covered with a light jacket, but he had already taken notice of your crop top. The sliver of skin he could see was… He looked back up, suddenly aware of how dry his throat was.

You had managed to grab the drinks quickly, sliding up to him with a cheerful grin.

“To the new and the old.” You raised a glass. He smiled and clinked his against yours. You downed yours quickly and tipped his back up when he tried to set it down.

“Ah ah, you need to loosen up there, big boy. Come on.” His ears tingled with warmth, but he followed the instructions anyway. You were right, after all.

When finished, you took the glasses back to the bar—flagging for a refill. He laughed. He couldn’t help but notice the similar mannerism between you and Blanc. The tell-tale air of calm control. That thought was interrupted when he noticed a woman come up beside you, hand placed on the small of your back.

You turned to her, eyes sweeping down before shifting into a casual smile. The woman whispered something in your ear. You laughed before leaning in, eyes cutting back to the priest. He felt like he was under a spotlight, caught with his hands in the cookie jar. But why, Jud couldn’t explain.

Maybe this was something he shouldn’t see. You just smirked, eyes trained on him as you placed a hand on the woman’s arm. You whispered something, making the woman smile before she slowly slipped her hand into the back pocket of your tight skirt. His throat was dry again.

You leaned into the touch, the woman still whispering in your ear. Your eyes never left his. Then, the woman pulled away. Jud watched as she sauntered over to what must have been her group of friends.

You cleared your throat, startling him, already back with the refills. There was a mischievous glint in your eyes when you handed him the drink.

“Oh th-thanks. Um, someone you know?” You shook your head.

“Nope.” You emphasized the 'p' with a pop of your lips. Your smirk made his stomach do somersaults. Jud nodded, silencing himself with a large gulp. You reached into your pocket, revealing a scrap of paper.

“But she wants to be.” Jud choked on his drink. He could feel the burn in his nose. You let out a howl as he gasped.

“She’s cute,” he murmured after he calmed down the sting in his lungs.

“Yeah, she thinks you are too.” This made Jud tilt his head in confusion. You toyed with your straw.

“What did she say? Oh yeah, something like she wouldn’t mind climbing him like a tree?” His mouth opened, looking back over at the woman who was noticeably watching you both. He turned scarlet.

“I am jealous of your height, mine wasn’t so clever. Just asked me to sit on her face.” Jud’s eyes were wide, you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Wow, um, wasn’t expecting that.” Then you leaned into him, voice low.

“I told her you wouldn’t be able to join. She was only mildly disappointed.” The man looked over, seeing you give the woman a flirty wave.

“Join?” he stammered. You hummed, sliding the paper back into your pocket.

“Just cause you're out of the game, Father, doesn’t mean we all are.” Jud nodded, thoughts spinning as he drank more from his glass. Something slithered in his gut, too uncomfortably close to envy. At who, he wouldn’t acknowledge.

“Does watching break your vows? She looks like the type to enjoy an audience.” Jud choked again, you slapping his back.

“Sorry, sorry. God, it’s so fun to fuck with you.” Jud was going to die of asphyxiation if he hung around you much longer.

—

“Let’s take a break outside, yeah?” You had been listening to the opening band’s set, the heat building as the show started. You tugged him to the side door.

The air felt blissfully cool compared to the sauna of the packed bar. You pulled out your smokes, lighter flicking on. The light caught on your face, highlighting the apples of your cheeks. Jud stood there breathing in the crisp air.

“Smoke?” You said, tilting the open pack at him. He shook his head.

“If you wanted to go hang out with—” he thumbed back towards the bar, “I’d understand.” But he would hate it if he was being honest—and he wasn’t.

“Jud,” you moved up next to him, shoulder bumping into his arm, “I’m here with you. I’d be a shit friend to do something like that.” Friend. He felt a conflicting surge of happiness and disappointment at that.

“And besides, I’ve got her number. But probably won’t use it.” He nodded.

“She… not your type?” The multiple meanings didn’t go unnoticed. You smiled at him.

“Her specifically? No. But women? Yes, about 70% of the time. Other 30, your end of the spectrum.” He shouldn’t have been so excited at the your part.

“Would you want her number?” His head swiveled up from looking at the broken pavement.

“What? I’m—I can’t I—” You giggled at his stammering.

“You’re telling me you don’t partake? Just a little?” Jud’s mouth opened in shock.

“(Y/N), I’m a priest. It kinda comes with a particular set of rules with the position.” You leaned on the brick behind you, taking a slow drag of your cigarette.

“And you know as well as I do that discretion is the name of the game for men of your… position.” Jud didn’t know if the liquor was getting to him but he couldn’t help the little laugh that spilled out.

“You really are something, aren’t you?” You kicked off the wall and stood in front of him. He could smell the smoke mixing with the increasingly familiar scent of you with how close you were. He wanted to bottle it up.

“Jud,” you caught his eyes, “I want you to experience more life. It’s precious. Fragile. You should know this more than most.” He let out a shaky exhale.

“Tonight we are just two people having a good time! God would want you to have this. And you don’t have to feel guilt to enjoy it. Just. Have. Fun.” You said, each word punctuated with a poke to his chest. Jud looked up at the night sky, eyes shut and lips curling into a smile.

You were right. And that’s when he realized. The teasing, the pushing his buttons, the spontaneousness of this whole night—you were distracting him. Giving him a moment in time to have a memory of life.

And you held it, soothing water cupped in your small hands, gently feeding it to his dry, cracked lips. Oasis and mercy. He groaned, pushing his fingers into his eyes.

“Thank you. Thank you for pulling me out of my head.” You raised your arms, hugging him with a loose hold.

“Yeah well, you’re a martyr by nature. Can’t leave you in there too long.” He returned the hug, nerves calm in a way he hadn’t known since arriving in Chimney Rock.

You pulled away slightly, your grin near blinding him.

“Now let’s get drunk, dance, and listen to loud fucking music.”

—

Jud was absolutely fucked.

Actually, fucked wasn’t even close to what he was now. He’d lost count of the amount of liquor he’d had at this point. Your soft hands pulled him along. They were the only thing he could really register at this stage. You were drunk too, but holding yourself together far better than he was.

“Hell, Jud! Who knew you had this much energy.” He was buzzing, skin electric from where you had your hand on his arm. Both of you were in a booth now, a dark corner of the bar, breathing hard from the rocking of your bodies in the small crowd. He was sweating like crazy. Jud started to pull at his flannel.

“Here, let me help.” You were close, chest brushing his as you pushed it down his shoulders. He shuddered. You had also removed your jacket, now tied around your waist, exposing your arms and giving him more skin to take in.

You huffed, exerted by the dancing and wrangling of his clothes. Your eyes sparkled, the twinkling lights from the stage reflecting back at him.

“I haven’t had this much of a workout since I stopped boxing!” He yelled over the music. You laughed, leaning back and fanning yourself. You moved to stretch out your legs, hooking one thigh over his. He instinctively put his hand on your knee, steadying it.

“I knew you were athletic. Shit, you must be ripped under those clothes.” He laughed, shaking his head.

“Hardly, I’m pretty out of shape compared to before.” You leaned up, mouth open in a dramatic drunk gasp.

“Shut up! You out of shape? Next to me, you look like something on the cover of Vogue.” You relaxed a bit, leaning on his shoulder. Jud was the next to open his mouth, out came a barking laugh.

“Oh come on, saying that looking like that. And you just got a woman’s number!” You stilled before leaning over, eyebrow raised.

“Looking like what exactly, Father?” It came out like a purr. Jud swallowed, hand flexing on your knee. The motion caught your attention, eyes back and forth from the touch to his face. He realized how close you were, how intimate your position was. He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“(Y/N)…” he whispered, eyes dropping to your lips. His hand was slipping, almost like he was out of body watching as it moved from your knee to the top of your thigh.

“Jud…” your voice mirrored his, the heat of it caressing his cheek. Sweat peppered your skin, your eye makeup smudged. You were devastatingly beautiful. The distance between you shrunk. Who moved was debatable. But just as Jud’s lips were about to brush yours, you put a hand on his chest.

“Ok, big boy, I think it’s time to call it.” His head was still swimming. You unhooked your leg and sat up, pushing at his side. He followed your lead, letting himself be pushed out of the booth and pulled in the direction of the door. His heart was still beating hard, feeling your hand in his.

You went to the car, Jud stopping suddenly. “(Y/N), I know you’re too drunk to drive.” You smiled at him, opening the back door to pull out your purse. Oh.

“Yes, Jud, and that is why I’m leaving it safely here and walking us home.” You came around, hooking your arm into his. Us?

“Home?” He asked with a lift of his brow. You nodded, pointing down the street.

“Yeah, it’s only a couple of blocks from here. Won’t take a second.” He nodded, wheels in his head turning. He could still feel the heat of your body pressed to his, the soft give of your thigh under his touch. Your arm was the only thing anchoring him in that moment.

You fished out a set of keys before slinging the bag over your shoulder. You huffed out a content sigh, leaning closer to him as you walked. It would be peaceful if Jud wasn’t silently freaking out. You seemed to be none the wiser to his now-clammy hands.

You reached the building, climbing the stairs, his limbs gangly and tripping him up. Laughing, you pulled him against you to help his stumbling—it did the opposite. Unlocking your door, you flung it open, shoving the drunk man inside.

You started losing layers, booties kicked off, jacket slung to a chair in the living room. You giggled your way into the small kitchen while Jud tried to take in details of the apartment. It was still a little sparse, but he could see glimpses of your personality sprinkled around.

A painting here, a knick-knack there. What really caught his eye was a small framed photo. It looked burned at the edges. It was of a couple, arm in arm under the canopy of a willow tree. They looked very in love. And oddly familiar. Jud’s attention was pulled away by the clattering of dishes from the kitchen. He turned, following the noise.

You were humming, hips slightly swinging in front of the stove. Jud wanted to reach out and grab them.

He refrained.

“Whatcha makin’?” he whispered, voice only slightly slurred.

“Ramen, want some?” You whispered with a giggle. Jud came up beside you.

“God, yes.” He was instantly hungry. You continued to pull the bowls, watching the noodles cooking. Jud couldn’t help but take you in, eyes roaming. You had swept your hair from your shoulder, exposing your neck to the cool air of the room. Sweat had dampened the baby hairs at the nape. His hunger shifted from his stomach to lower.

You finished off the bowls, turning to the small counter to sit. Jud sat next to you, shoulder bumping yours. The moment was sweet, the food warm, and your smile cheerful. Life. Everything he needed after the shit this last month had been.

Jud bent towards you, having finished his food, letting himself watch you unapologetically. You joined him, hand tucked under your chin and returning the stare.

“Have a good time?” He nodded, pushing the bowls away and pulling your stool closer to his with his foot. His long legs were now on either side of you. You only grinned wider.

“The best. It was a nice change of pace—thank you.” His voice was low, nerves replaced by a growing confidence. He was now the one toeing the line, knowing that he should stop. He didn’t want to.

“Well, I can’t exactly say my intentions were meant to be… nice.” You met him in tone, facing toward Jud and letting him crowd your space.

“Oh really? I didn’t notice.” He raised a hand up, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear—fingers lingering longer than they should.

“Father, it’s a sin to lie…” You said with a purposefully exaggerated whisper, lips curling with amusement. A hand settled on his left thigh, squeezing it lightly.

“It sure is, isn’t it? Very out of character for me.” He leaned down closer, drunk smile in full force. You chuckled at his adorable state.

“You’ve been full of surprises tonight, Jud.” You inched up, your other hand coming up to hold the side of his face. He hummed, melting into the touch. His idle hand went to your waist, fingers grazing the slip of skin between your top and skirt.

The air was electric; Jud was tingling from the crown of his head to the base of his spine. The touch of your hand on him pulled him in, keeping him alert despite the amount of alcohol in his system.

He felt you move toward him, excitement stirring in his gut. Immediately you tilted his face in your hand, bringing his face to yours. Instead of feeling your plush lips against his, you gave him a quick peck on the apple of his cheek. He turned, a look of surprise and confusion on his face. You smiled, giving the side of his face a light tap.

“Bedtime, big boy.” You stood, body grazing his as you moved out from between his legs. The whiplash was jarring.

“Wait. But I—?” You pulled his hand, pushing him softly onto your couch. He was still slightly slack-jawed as you pulled out a spare blanket and pillow, gently maneuvering him into a position for sleep. You smiled at him, tucking him in like a child with a giggle.

“Jud…” You sat at the edge of the couch beside him, leaning over to be inches from his face.

“I’m drunk. You are drunk. When I do have you?” You moved over to his ear, voice a sensual whisper.

“It’ll be sober and without hesitation.” He swallowed, letting the words sink in. You pulled away, but not before giving him a kiss on the forehead.

When you left him, he was confused, conflicted, and painfully hard.

-

Morning was less than fun. Even with it this early, the sun was already starting to glare at him from the window. One suffers for their sins indeed.

Jud was thankful for the water and bottle of pills placed on the table beside him. You must have had the wherewithal to think ahead—a blessing to be sure. He chugged it down like a dying man. Standing with a groan, he wandered through the apartment looking for the restroom.

He stumbled around, head only slightly pounding. Each door was a disappointment. Closet, no. Office, no. Bedroom… you were still asleep. Arms curled around a pillow, and hair delightfully messy. He could have watched you all morning if not for the fact he was about to piss himself.

“(Y/N)?” He touched your shoulder with a nudge. You whimpered before cracking open an eye. You were obviously not a morning person.

“Jud? E’rythung a‘rght?” You mumbled before sitting up, the blanket pooling at your hips.

“Yeah—um, where’s your bathroom?” He felt awkward disturbing your sleep. You pointed to the corner of the room, the bathroom next to your closet. He nodded before scurrying away.

You were still sitting up when he returned. Jud headed to the door until you grunted. He looked over, and you smacked the bed beside you. He came and sat down. Grabby hands reached over, taking hold of his arms.

“Stay?” You weren’t forceful; the pull on his limbs was only suggesting. Jud nodded, letting you manipulate his limps. His arms were now tucked around your body, wriggling in them to get comfortable. You hummed, content, falling asleep almost instantly. He took a deep inhale at the top of your head, his shoulders finally relaxing. Jud wasn’t far along behind you.

But when he woke up, hands searching around him, he was alone. The warmth of your body was long gone. A new feeling swam in his lungs—disappointment, but also… fear. He lay there, letting himself think.

This was bad.

Before, he could use drinking as an excuse. Even the depression that had been chipping away at him would be considered reasonable, ya know? Seeking companionship was a normal reaction to that sort of thing.

But now he couldn’t use those same justifications for this. Because right now he was sober. He was happy. And in this moment he wanted nothing more than to have you in his arms again in every way, shape, or form.

This was getting out of control. And he was scared.

—

If you noticed him being extra quiet, it wasn’t mentioned. He had gotten up to find you back in the living room, this time with lunch DoorDashed and waiting. Both of you ate mostly in silence. You, probably nonverbal from the hangover. Him? A slow-building freak-out shimmering under the surface.

After finishing, you told him about your plans for the day. The last of your things were being dropped off soon, so you should get him home. He was thankful for the small mercy. Maybe God was taking pity on him.

You parked outside of the rectory, a closed-lipped grin fixed on your face. “I’ll text you later?” He gave you a quick nod before leaping from the car. Again, you said nothing to indicate you noticed.

Jud slid down the door once it was closed and he could hear you driving away. He sighed, shoulders falling forward, face buried in his hands.

“God help me.”

He reached out to Bishop Langstrom for guidance; the older man said he’d be free to visit Tuesday. It couldn’t come fast enough.

“Jud, it's good to see you.” The man clapped his hand in a familiar shake. Jud already felt the edge of his nervousness slipping away.

“You too, thank you for making the trip to see me.” Langstrom waved a hand.

“Of course, with everything going on—I imagine I’ll be needed around here more often in the next few months. Cleaning up this mess will be a lot just for one person, so feel free any time you need.” Jud couldn’t help his grimace.

“Actually, Father, I asked you to come for… personal guidance. If that’s ok?” Langstrom only nodded, following him into the living room.

“The offer for that is always there. You should know that. What seems to be worrying you?” Both sat down, Jud immediately rubbing a hand down his face.

“Bishop, I’m struggling with… temptation? O-of… of breaking my vows.” Langstrom slapped his knee with a chuckle but quickly changed his demeanor once he took in the look on his face.

“Oh, Jud.” The man sat back, not really knowing where to start. Jud didn’t let him.

“I know what we do, why we even have our vows… My relationship with God is everything to me,” he twisted his hands together.

“And yeah, these last few weeks have been the hardest I’ve known… and I always go back to Him! But—but recently I’ve had other… support come into my life.” And you were, truly. Through the short amount of time knowing you, you were becoming something very precious to Jud. And that’s what scared him the most.

He looked down, “It’s becoming hard. Hard to know where that line is. Even harder to know why I shouldn’t cross it—”

“Jud,” Langtrom interrupted him, hand reaching out to his shoulder, “cross it.” His head whipped up, bafflement evident.

“Wha?” he stammered. Langstrom let out a half-amused sigh, face unreadable.

“I’ll be honest with you, Jud. I’m more shocked to find out you haven’t tested those waters yet rather than you’re just now having an issue. How long has it been since you’ve taken your vows?”

“Th-three years—wait, what do you mean by haven’t yet?” Langstrom shook his head.

“Damn, you’ve lasted longer than I did…” Jud’s eyes were like saucers. He straightened his posture, mouth still agape.

“Las—” Langstrom held up a hand, hushing him.

“Son, let me ask you something. Since this… support started, have you had any doubts? Any moments of concern that have tested your faith? Your reason for your duty?” Jud was silent. Langstrom smiled. Had he? Was all of this frustration and fear coming from a moment of religious crisis? Or was it a crisis of something else? He had no answer for that.

“From that reaction, I’d say no…” He still stared at his hands. Langstrom could still feel the conflicting emotions coming off of him in waves.

“Jud,” he looked up to meet the bishop’s eyes.

“Our paths to God aren’t linear. We aren’t machines coded to do a simple task… We work with souls, with life. We wouldn’t be good at our jobs if we didn’t experience it first-hand…” Jud let out a sad chuckle. Life. Of course.

“She gives me that. Life… With all of this death—I… I was starting to lose it.” His voice was almost a whisper, as if saying it out loud would cause some kind of physical harm.

“God is funny like that, offers us mercy in ways we might not want or expect…” Bishop Langstrom’s words struck a chord. The laugh that rumbled out of him was only slightly hollow.

“Sounds like she might be that for you.” Jud felt a cool air wash over him, a comforting hand to his psyche—pulling away the weight he had put on himself. Oasis and mercy. Oh, how bitterly ironic this must all seem.

“Thank you, Bishop.” The man’s shoulders were noticeably relaxed.

“But a warning… if you pursue this support. Please be—”

“Discrete?” he interrupted with a smirk.

“Cautious, more like. Things like this can be a slippery slope, Jud. Wouldn’t want to see another good priest fall through the cracks.” He nodded. The message was heavy, and with it brought reinforced nervousness.

–

Bishop Langstrom’s visit gave him clarity, but also more questions. He wanted to linger on them, but was interrupted by a phone call.

“Father Jud! How ya been?” Benoit’s drawl was heavy with cheerful optimism.

“Blanc, it's great to hear from you. I just had a visit with Langstrom. I’m doing good.” He hoped his tone was clear, no indication of the settling turmoil that still ghosted his thoughts.

“Lovely! My darling (Y/N) was just telling me about your night out!” Jud swallowed, pulse rising.

“Oh yeah! I-it was fun.” He winced at the stutter. Blanc only chuckled.

“Hope not too much; she can be a lot sometimes. Takes after me that way, I suppose.” Jud grinned to himself, imagining a younger Blanc partying in seedy bars. That would be a sight.

“No, no, not at all. I.. I really enjoyed getting out. It was a good distraction.” The detective hummed.

“Wonderful. Now, don’t be a stranger—and don’t let my (Y/N) give you a hard time!” He ended the call, leaving Jud to rake his hand through his hair.

“Hard is one way to describe it.”

You were giving him space, he thinks. The surface-level texts were his only hunch to go off of. He was thankful for it. He needed some time to think over what Langstrom and him had discussed.

He wasn’t an idiot. Or maybe he was for how surprised he’d been at the bishop's implied relations. But still, he knew that it happened. Even you had made the comment that night at the bar. Hell, that’s why Cy Draven was up his ass every few weeks—Wicks’ crossing of the line given form. But still, Langstrom's warning rang in his ear. Slippery slope. Was that what this was turning into?

Were you a temptation that would cause him to fall from Christ? Or were you the only reprieve from the shit he had endured at the hands of others? He lay in bed that night, flopping back and forth with indecision. God loved him before and after sin; that’s why he felt the call to priesthood in the first place. So why would this be any different? He sighed, pulling out his phone and looking at his texts.

You had sent him photos once in a while; the most recent one was his favorite. Your eyes were so bright, cheeks round and dimpled from smiling. “Found my new dessert fix, and the park is just next door!” He looked up at the ceiling.

He liked you; that he couldn’t deny. But couldn’t it stay platonic? This wasn’t the first time since his vows he’d been attracted to someone. But this was the first time he wanted to act on it, and knew painfully that you did too. But then he remembered your words. Hesitation… You were the one to pull back. You knew he would be conflicted. You were being a good friend.

Friends. You were friends! Jud could keep this slice of life without compromising himself. Just keep things platonic, completely PG. The image of you pressed against him, your breath in his ear, how soft you felt under his fingers, flashed in his mind.

Yeah, totally doable.

–

Jud sent you a text, something simple, just to see what you were up to. His phone immediately started ringing.

“Jud! I’ve been meaning to call—listen, I have an event coming up for work. Would you be interested in joining? I know you’ve been busy—” You were slightly out of breath. The sound of something heavy hitting the ground confirmed why.

“Oh, um, sure? What’s going on?”

–

That's how he found himself in an uncomfortably expensive three-piece suit, now standing in front of a tall mirror as you fiddled with his tie.

“This seems excessive…” he mumbled. You huffed, getting frustrated with the fabric.

“Nooo. This is a fundraiser with bougie board members, this is the bare minimum.” He couldn’t help but smile as you bit your tongue in concentration. He put a hand on yours.

“Here, let me. It’s been a minute, but I have tied a tie before.” You grumbled defeat and faced the mirror.

“Well, not me, clearly. I tend to avoid these things out of principle but my boss wasn’t having it.” You leaned on him for support, putting on your heels. As you stood, they disappeared under the length of your gown. It was a silk number that hugged the soft curve of your stomach and thighs sinfully. Jud shifted on his feet.

“Not a fan of rich people functions?” You barked out a laugh at that, eyes rolling dramatically. He fixed his tie quickly.

“You don’t know the half of it.” There was a bite to that statement that piqued his curiosity. But you didn’t give him a moment to ask.

“Let’s go, Father. The fat cats be waitin’!” Now he rolled his eyes, following you out the door.

–

“What did you say your job was again?” The building of the event was old, and the gala-like display of cars put him slightly on edge. You turned the car into the drop-off line.

“Nothing as glamorous as this implies. I work for a museum in collection care. Grunt worker, really. But my director wasn’t taking no for an answer about having me come.” He nodded, watching the people get out of their cars. All dressed like old money.

“I’m gonna stick out like a sore thumb…” He felt his stomach twist.

“And that’s why I brought you. You’ll be more obvious than me.” You smiled, poking his side. He only looked at you flabbergasted.

“And also because I need someone to keep me from drowning myself in the punch bowl.”

–

Your suggestion started to sound appealing by the time Jud had his fifth conversation about someone’s family name and who was married to who. You had left, saying you’d be back soon, but now he was sweating through his first layer. Panic setting in. Jud’s head whipped around, desperate to spot you in the sea of people. He jumped at the feeling of a hand on the small of his back. Turning around, he was beyond relieved to see you, but your face was less than thrilled. A slight frown pulled at your lips.

“Come with me. I need some air.”

You ended up on an unoccupied balcony. You leaned against the stone column—enjoying the cold surface against your skin. Jud kicked at a stray leaf that had fallen from the nearby flowers. When he looked over at you, he noticed how unnervingly blank your face was.

“You ok? Do I need to hide the punch bowl?” You snorted, head tilting back and exposing your neck. He had to look away to keep from staring at you.

“Honestly might. God, I hate these people. But only a few more to talk to and we can head out.” He nodded, freezing when he felt you come up beside him. You reached over, tucking your arm in his.

“Thank you for putting up with this. I don’t think I could have done it alone.” He looked over to you, your normally light and flirtatious tone replaced by something heavy. There was more than frustration behind your eyes… sadness? Melancholy? He couldn’t pinpoint it.

“Hey, don’t mention it.” He put his hand in yours, giving it a gentle squeeze. Jud ignored how nice you felt pressed against him.

–

When you got to your apartment, he was more than ready to get out of his suit. You had only stayed for 30 minutes before you couldn’t take anymore.

“They are so out of touch with reality, it’s ridiculous!” You huffed, plopping on the couch dramatically. Jud joined you, pulling your feet into his lap. You smiled at him, putting a heel on his chest. He took the hint, undoing the straps of your shoes as you leaned back. Looking down to pull it off, Jud noticed scars marking your skin.

His hands stilled.

From the bottom of your feet to the middle of your calf were healed burns—pretty old ones, from the looks of it. You felt him pause and looked down, realizing why.

“I don’t remember it, if that’s what you’re wondering…” Your voice was a whisper. Jud glanced up at you with his worried eyes. He examined them, rough fingers grazing up your skin gently.

“What happened?” His touch sent shivers through you, goosebumps rising under the soft caress. You tilted your head back against the arm of the couch again, letting your body go limp.

You didn’t say anything for a while, just letting yourself enjoy having the tight material be pulled off by gentle hands. You sighed before shifting to the side, reaching out for your clutch to pull out a lighter and cigarettes. Jud watched, not daring to interrupt the moment. After a drag, you returned his eye contact with an intensity that startled him.

“When Dad was twenty-eight?—nine? He got a case about a house fire… Young couple—dead. Husband from an affluent family, but wife was a no-name—a real rags-to-riches love story…” You tossed the lighter on the table with a loud clank.

“And their only child… a toddler, who survived and was talking about boogeymen. Cliché, I know, but it interested him enough to take it.” You grabbed an ashtray off the table. Jud was at a loss for words. You smiled half-heartedly at his stunned expression before resuming your tale.

“Like I said, I don’t really remember much. I was only three, but apparently they were sweet people… Anyway—” you cleared your throat, knocking off some ash. The glow from the lit cigarette brightened as you took another puff. After Jud had set down the heels, his hands returned to your feet, massaging them as you continued.

“Dad immediately attached himself to the kid. Figured out that the boogeymen were actually hired arsonists. Turns out, the husband had inherited an extremely large family fortune. And his brother, who was, as you can guess, next in line, took objection to t-that.” You stuttered a groan as Jud’s fingers applied pressure to a sensitive spot in your foot. He just watched you, devoted attention at every word.

“When he found enough evidence outside weak testimony from a toddler, they were able to arrest the brother. But now the kid was an orphan, one that was set to get a whole lotta money. From a family with a history of trying to kill for it.” Jud had been connecting the dots as you spoke. The low-paying job but nice car. The burned photo of a couple that he now realized shared your features. Your attitude all night being around those pompous assholes…

The way you lived fully and honestly, like any day could be your last—cause it almost had been. God, you had just been a baby at the time.

When you had spoken about life and death in his kitchen, even at the bar, there was something so hauntingly true to how you expressed it. He felt gutted to now know the reason why.

You must have noticed the sadness in his eyes. You shook your head at him, giving him a reassuring smile before speaking again.

“While working the case, Dad fell in love with the kid. She clung to him and only him the whole time—crying whenever he wasn’t near.” You let out a little laugh. Jud loved that sound.

“Him and Papa had been together for about five years at that point. They had talked about adopting… Life is funny like that, huh?” Jud nodded, his hands moving up to your calves. You melted into the firm kneading on your flesh.

“Lord works in mysterious ways…” You only hummed in response. Tension in your body slowly slipped away from the calloused touch on your skin.

“To protect her, Dad petitioned the court to seal off the inheritance until the child was of age. Putting in stipulations that whomever were to become her guardian wouldn’t be able to touch the money. And that if something like, I don’t know, unforeseen death were to happen—the money would all be donated to charity… effectively making it so that no one would get a single penny if they took me.” Your smile was so genuine. He knew that the next time he saw Blanc, it was going to take some restraint to keep from giving him a lung-crushing hug.

“He saved me from them again.” Jud scooted up the couch, pulling your legs over him so that your thighs were draped over his lap. He reached out a hand, grabbing yours and bringing it to his lips. You tilted your head, studying him. Jud felt like he was being analyzed, your eyes picking him apart piece by piece. Eventually, you looked away.

“When Dad brought me home, he hadn’t said anything to Papa. Apparently it was hallmark-quality stuff… Now that I was essentially worthless, it wasn’t difficult for him to get custody of me.” You glanced back at him, face now somber.

“You’re far from worthless…” His voice had dropped, lips returning to the top of your hand. He wanted to trail it higher. Move leisurely up your arm, as if he had all the time in the world. Enjoy the scent of your skin. But that wouldn’t be platonic, would it?

“You’re everything to them, (Y/N).” You stared at him before placing your forgotten cigarette on the table next to you. Turning to him, you placed both of your hands on his cheeks, leaning back into his space. Jud couldn’t scoot any closer without climbing between your legs—something he pretended not to consider.

He pressed against the palms cradling him. They smelled like your perfume. Something sweet… tangy, like honey or fig. It made his mouth water. You were just watching him. He couldn’t tell what you were thinking. Your eyes were tracing his skin. But something felt off. There was a weight there. Did you doubt him?

“And to you, Father?” His lungs squeezed, heart fluttering uncontrollably between his ribs. Your voice felt like velvet. Jud’s eyes left yours, dipping down to your lips. Your pink tongue peeked out, parting them slightly. His throat was so fucking dry. All his thoughts were far from that of what constitutes as platonic.

You were a river, coursing through his veins. Water nourishing his heat-scorched earth, bringing back life to his roots. Ones that had almost shriveled up into dust from the drought that threatened to consume him.

But he would not drink.

“A really good friend.”

The look you gave him was full of pity.

-

Before, you had given him space. Now? Now you wouldn’t leave him alone, and it was driving him crazy. From the outside looking in, you would think that Jud was doing great for the first time since the Wicks catastrophe had started. You had made yourself a fixture in his schedule. Helping with scheduling meetings, even making connections on his behalf. Really you had become his personal PR, and with everything that happened- it was a true blessing.

He hated it.

You were always around, in his space, never giving him a moment that wasn’t filled with you. Sure you had a job, but as soon as you were free, you were at the rectory- checking on him like a mother hen. Like a really good friend…

Jud was going to lose his mind. And still, you were nothing but nice. Any time you shared space you kept your distance. Lingering touches now replaced by reasonable platonic hugs. As soon as he’d start melting into the hold, you'd be pulling away.

And he could smell you everywhere. Once you were gone, driving away in your cherry car, he’d think he would finally get a break. But it was like you still hovered around him, a seductive whisper of pure sin. That honeyed tang that had him acting like a dog in heat. 

Jud knew you were doing this on purpose, but if he confronted you- he’d also be admitting that this thing you had… the growing fire that had him whimpering your name in the deep of sleep… was not friendship.

Weeks went by of this, he didn’t know how much more he could take.

Then Benoit Blanc showed up. And all hell broke loose.

–

“Blanc! What a surprise.” Jud had opened the door expecting only you. But you were behind your dad, giving him a small wave. Benoit pulled the priest into a tight hug. He noticed a man approaching from the car, knowing immediately it was Phillip.

“Sorry for coming unannounced, we were visiting and I wanted to say hello!" Blanc stepped back.

“This is Phillip.” The man in question reached out to grab Jud’s waiting hand, giving it a firm shake.

“Lovely meeting you, I’m sure our darling lamb has told you all sorts about me.” Phillip was charming in a different way than Blanc. He was soft spoken, a complement to his posh accent. He felt approachable, a contrast to Benoit’s strong demeanor. No wonder they balanced each other out.

“All good things, I promise. Come in, please!”

–

Both men had settled in the living room, you joining Jud in the kitchen to make coffee and tea. Since arriving you have been extra quiet. It made him nervous.

“Everything alright?” He said with a nudge of his elbow. You looked him up and down, eyes dark. Hungry.

“Of course Jud, never been better.” Jud could feel his ears burning. Well shit…

–

Phillip had been going on about something at work. Jud couldn’t hear him over the sound of his own heart beat, now alarmingly fast. Amber was being subtle. Had he not made a point to glance in your direction- he would be none the wiser. 

You were wearing a white button up blouse and simple knee-length skirt. Picture perfect professionalism. That is until you had opened the top slowly, revealing the curve of your breasts. Arms folded under to press them forward, plush flesh straining against the top. He might have been able to handle that had you not also shifted your crossed legs. The slit in the skirt now showcasing your smooth thighs. The new angle gave Jud a delicious flash of subtle skin. You were all curves as you leaned against the arm of the chair. He moved in his seat, trying to turn his body away from you and the temptation to stare. 

It didn’t work.

Jud could feel himself getting warmer, rolling his sleeves up higher on his arms to cool him down. Benoit noticed, but made no comment.

“And it’s been a busy time now that we have a new head of the department.” Jud nodded, completely lost.

You shifted again, causing Jud to sneak another glance. Big mistake. You had taken the spoon from your tea, red lips wrapped around it teasingly- sucking off the sweet residue. He almost groaned at the sight. You grinned.

“Jud?” He whipped his head back to Phillip, who had apparently asked him a question.

“I- I’m sorry, what was that?” Benoit’s eyes looked between the two. Again, silent.

“Well I mentioned studying some theological texts, I wondered if you had come across them in your work to priesthood?” Jud nodded a little too quickly.

“R-right, um- I spent more of my time in service over study really. Prefer to work with my hands.” You hummed at that, sitting your empty cup down on the table.

“Trust me, I’ve seen him- he’s very talented.” Jud didn’t mind the thought of the floor opening up and swallowing him whole in that moment. Blanc’s eyes narrowed at his daughter.

“Oh really! What is it you do?” Phillip asked cheerfully. He really was a sweetheart.

“I-um light carpentry actually. I’ve been working on making a new crucifix for the church. Not finished yet but it's getting there.” Jud was nervously wringing his hands. Phillip just launched into another story, leaving him to glance back at you. He gave you a look saying what the hell are you doing? But pouted your lips innocently as if to say I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Blanc just watched you both, fingers tapping on the arm of his chair.

–

“Well Father, I think we’ve kept you long enough. Thank you for having us on such short notice.” Blanc stood, straightened his shirt.

Phillip joined him, as you picked up their empty cups to take to the kitchen. Jud walked them towards the door, giving Phillip a final shake of the hand before he headed out. Blanc purposely lingered, looking to make sure you were out of ear shot.

“Father Jud,” He whispered, coming closer to the man, “do feel free to dismiss my nosiness but I couldn’t help but notice you seemed a little… tense. Is there something you need to talk about?” He felt his cheeks warm.

“Oh I didn’t realize- Um no Blanc. I’m fine, really!” He knew the detective saw through his stumbling but was gracious enough to let him flounder in peace. The look he gave him was unmasked sympathy.

“Okay son, but do reach out if you need to chat.” Jud nodded, palm clapping his in a hurried shake. Blanc joined Phillip outside leaving him alone with you. Coming through,you stopped in front of Jud.

“I’ll be at Il Diavolos later. Around 9? I’d like to hang out longer.” Your voice was low, eyes racking over him. You stood on you tippy- toes, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before joining your parents outside. The contact tingled long after you left. 

“Christ…”

If God had a hand in this, he sure had some humor. Jud was early, sipping on a whiskey in the well-worn vinyl booth of the bar. A little devil cherub figurine was staring at him from its spot by his table. It looked strangely similar to the one on his neck. Its little grin felt devious and judgmental. He tipped his glass back, practically chugging the liquor. 

“Starting without me?” Your silky voice probed, causing him to cough. 

“H-hey, no I um just got here- first glass.” You nodded, slinking in beside him. There were files and a notebook in your hand, which you quickly sat in front of them. Oh.

That wasn’t what he was expecting. 

“Let me get mine, be back in a sec.” Pulling yourself from the booth, you waved down Nicholai. Jud’s shoulders relaxed, a slight disappointment bubbling in his chest. You just wanted to work. 

When you came back, he had already been riffling through the papers. 

“You’d think with a reputation for murder, people wouldn’t be so eager to ask for your help.” Now that you’d gone out to the community- in addition to Louise’s positive gossiping on his account- Jud’s handy man talents were becoming all the rage. 

“I’m just glad to be of service. Any chance I get to help, I want to.” You gave him a warm smile.

“As always Jud, you continue to inspire goodness in me.” He wanted to return the sweet comment, but he hesitated. Was he really good if all his thoughts around you were less so? You nudged him, mouth pursed in concern.

“Hey, you ok?” He straightened, glancing around before finally looking at you head on.

“Are we gonna talk about earlier?” Your eyes widened for a second before you let out a little laugh.

“And what might that be about, Father?” You bent forward slightly, showing off your still visible cleavage. The hand that was on the table between you now lowered itself to the top of his thigh. He stilled.

“Amber..” You moved around some papers with the other, looking at one with feigned interest. All the while the palm on his thigh moved higher. Jud shivered.

“Hm? Sorry, I didn’t catch that. Did you say something?” You took a sip of your glass, red lipstick staining the rim and smudging the corner of your mouth. His hands clenched into fists on the table.

“Please…” It was a whisper. Your hand stopped, a hair’s breath away from where he wanted it most. You turned back to him, a hot giggle caressing his ear.

“Please… Stop? Please… Keep going? Be honest with me Jud, cause you sure as hell aren’t being it with yourself.” A pinky nail ran up the inseam of his trousers. Only the tiniest hint of pressure but it was enough to have him suck in a gasp.  Your voice was both venom and seduction, luring him to his end. 

La petite mort.

“Shit.” He gritted his teeth and faced forward. He sent a little prayer to Nicholai for what he was about to do before giving you a hooded look, pupils blown. The grin on your face was pure wickedness.

“There he is...” You purred, hand finally making contact with his growing hunger. You palmed him slowly, savoring his strained exhale. Jud’s knuckles were white, eyes focusing on the papers in front of him.

“As I was saying, the Dawson’s have some loose roof tiles. They wanted to know if you could come by Thursday?” His shoulders hunched, Jud was fully hard by this point. You were slowly working to free him from his pants. 

“Y-yeah. I’ll come. Sure.” He squeaked out.  You checked off the task with a pin with one hand, the other now wrapped firmly around him. 

“I hope not too soon, big boy.” You murmured. With how touch starved and drunk he was off you, Jud really couldn’t promise anything. Your fingers explored the length of him, thumb coming to rest at the head of his weeping cock. He couldn’t remember the last time he was this turned on. 

“And next week, the library has a summer program asking for volunteers.” He let a pathetic whimper in response, nodding quickly. Another thing marked off the list. You cleared your throat and threw up an unoccupied hand, catching Nicholai’s attention. Jud froze. You must have felt it but paid no mind. Hand now slowly pumped him under the table. 

“Wh-what are you doing?” He stuttered, voice hushed. You just raised a brow at him, lips pouting in confusion. 

“Asking for a menu, I’m getting a little hungry.” He groaned, part in frustration and part in reaction to the twist of your wrist you threw in at the tip of his length. The bartender came over, thankfully he was none the wiser. The table and controlled movements obscuring the obscenity happening in front of him. 

“Hey mini Blanc! Father! Need something?” You leaned into the table, further shielding Jud's body but also showing attentive interest to Nicholai. Jud was too focused on keeping his face blank to pay attention to your words. 

“Hi Nicky! Just wondering what’s cookin’ today. Anything good?” You slowed your hand to a snail’s pace, he struggled not to thrust up to keep the momentum. God help him. 

“Oh well the missus added potato skins- everyone’s been tearing those up. We also got a killer broccoli cheddar soup.” You hummed, fingers tapping on the table in thought. 

“Hm, let me think on it. What about you, Jud? Anything sound appealing?” He jerked, looking between the two now staring at him. He gave a shrug, lips pursed in disinterest. 

“N-nah, had a big um lunch. But thanks.” You tightened your grip, making him lurch forward. Moan barely contained. 

“Okie dokie. Just wave me over if you wanna put in an order.” He walked away. Jud immediately face planted on the table with a grunt. 

“Christ (Y/N).” It came out a whisper. He raised his head to give you a pathetic glare.

“You’re doing so good Jud.” Your praise unraveled something deep in him. His bones turned into putty. Your smile told him you knew exactly the effect it had on him. 

“Only a few more things on the list and we’re done, okay?” He wasn’t sure what that promised him but he nodded anyway. Jud let out a shaky exhale before leaning back. Your hand sped up. 

“And speaking of libraries. Louise’s cousin Denise asked if you’d want to join their book club? It’s mostly nonfiction but they do occasionally dip into current trends. But nothing gory of course. I already asked.” His heart squeezed at that. 

Even with the debaucherous nature of the little meeting, you were still doing shit like this. Things that reminded him of how much you meant to him. You were taking into consideration how squeamish he was, and for a damn bookclub no less. He wouldn’t be able to handle anything related to the trauma and horror he’d previously experienced. Going to the morgue with Blanc still haunted his dreams- he’d nearly vomited after they had left. 

This made his face warm for a completely different reason. 

“Yes, I-I’d really like that. Thank you.” The earnest smile you gave him made his stomach flip. Your dark eyes dipped down to his lips. What he wouldn’t give to be able to kiss you at that moment. 

“Alright- now this one is a bit complicated.” Your movements had never stopped, and Jud could feel himself getting close. His cock twitched your hand, precum slicking the fingers. 

“Mr. Greene from the hardware store is losing his eye sight- has been for some time. Apparently his tools are in a terrible state. His daughter Joyce has tried to get him to let someone help but he’s being stubborn. If you came by, you being your sweet self, he might come around…  I think he needs a friend.”

“Yes yes whatever it is yes.” He rasped, not subtle at all. You stopped, hand gripping him firmly, effectively halting his building orgasm. He stuttered, a look of utter anguish on his face. You tutted him. 

“Father, that isn’t a very attentive response. Try again.” The priest was a complete mess at this point. Jud ran a shaking hand over his face.

“Ok- I. I would want nothing more than to help Mr. Greene.” You smiled wide, slanting your body against his to whisper in his ear.

“Wonderful, and one more question… Do you know how to drive?” Jud’s face pinched in confusion.

“Y- yeah?”

–

That’s how he ended up behind the wheel of your car, now with its owner’s head bobbing in his lap. 

“Shit.” He grunted, hands gripping the stirring wheel like a life-line. 

At the bar, you had quickly and gently-as-you-could put him back into his pants and pulled them from the booth. After being forced into the driver’s seat, Jud couldn’t take it anymore. As soon as you joined him in the car, he was pulling you into a kiss. Rough hands tangling in your hair, you fingers exploring the front of his chest- like two teenagers unable to keep their hands to themselves.

The kiss was full of hunger. The pint up frustrations of touches, heated glances, and the desperate painful need of you finally had him at his breaking point. He moaned into you, the sound utterly debauched. You took his bottom lip into your mouth, biting it lightly.

Jud fell apart. 

“Fucking hell.” He gasped against you, tongue diving into your parted lips. The highs of his drug-addled youth had no comparison to this. You whimpered at the exploring muscle, chasing it with equal excitement. His hand not in your hair slipped to your hip, fingers kneeling the plushness of your curves. You pulled back, palms pushing at his chest. 

“You better start this car now before I climb over there and mount you.” Jud swallowed, mouth opening and closing quickly before his brain caught up with his hands. 

“Right.”

And here they were, your warm lips wrapped around the head of his cock as he drove them quickly to the rectory. As soon as he’d pulled out of the parking spot, you immediately swooped down into his lap. He almost came when he felt the hot breath against his stiff member. 

“(Y/N) I-if you do that, I’m not sure how lon-“ he couldn’t finish the sentence. You had him brushing the back of your throat, grazing it as you moaned on the length. Lips stretched obscenely wide at its girth. You had your work cut out for you, Jud wasn’t small by any means. You hadn’t even gotten to the base yet before a weak gag vibrated against him deliciously. 

“Fuuckk.” Now that you weren’t around an audience, Jud was free to let out all his pathetic whines. Mouth felt like velvet, your sinful throat had him reaching down to run his fingers into your hair. He was trying to be gentle but with a particularly strong suck he was pulling at your roots. You hummed around him. 

Jud was going to faint. 

“Ah shit.” The destination wasn’t that far of a drive, at this point it was only a few minutes away. He wasn’t going to last much longer than that. You must have noticed, your movements getting faster. Gravel under the tires was your only sign that you’d arrived. 

You didn’t stop. 

Moving your hands, you cradled his balls with one and stroked what you couldn’t fit in your mouth with the other. The fingers in your hair tightened again, and with that you let out a loud moan. That’s all it took to send him over the edge. The whimper of your name was almost inaudible, his hips lifting to meet you waiting mouth. You worked him through it, movements slow as the last tremors left his body. 

Your lips came off him with a wet pop, grinning mouth rising to face him. Your red lipstick was completely ruined, drool coating your chin. You were panting, heavy amused little noises escaping with each heaving exhale. Tears coated your lashes, eyes hooded with lust. You leaned against him, bringing your sleeve up to clean the mess he’d made of your mouth. Jud reached over, hand holding a cheek. 

“So pretty.” The warm hue to your skin deepened. Somehow, even after sucking the soul from him, you seemed bashful. A look in your eyes now filled with something too close to love. You cleared your throat, gaze shifting back to hunger. 

“Go inside?”

You didn’t get very far, Jud had his lips on yours as soon as the door closed behind you. He could still taste himself on your tongue, he drowned in it. He stumbled to the couch, your back hitting it with a soft thud. He chased after you, attaching his mouth to your neck. His large hands seeking, searching, feeling all of you without restraint. You keened at the callus fingers pawing at you desperately.

Thumb and forefinger hooked around the button at your cleavage. You arched, pushing up to meet him. Jud quickened his movements, opening your shirt eagerly. He shifted his attention to your bra, removing it with equal speed. His lips moved from your neck, your fingers running through his short curls. 

Chest now free and open to him, he trailed kisses down- savoring the taste of your skin. He groaned, fingers tracing the curve of your hips and stomach. Your softness was a startling contrast to his rough hands. You moaned when his mouth latched onto a nipple.

“Jud.” Your breathless whisper urged him on. He pulled away from your warmth and the couch, moving so that he was now standing in front of you. He fell to his knees, pulling you around so your hips were now at the edge. Your flush chest rose and fell faster.

He slipped his fingers up your thighs, going up and pulling at the top of your skirt. Lips parted, you shifted to help him remove it along with your soaked underwear. Now you were completely naked with the fully clothed priest kneeling between your legs. 

The perfect image of debauched prayer. 

Jud peppered sweet kisses at your knees, his facial hair grazing your skin as he moved to your inner thighs. His broad shoulders had your legs spread wide to accommodate him, exposing your center to his ravenous eyes. Jud couldn’t help the whimper that slipped out. He was a breath away from your glistening folds, the scent of you sweet and heady. 

Jud dove in, hands holding your hips as he pulled you to his face. He moaned at the first swipe of his tongue.

“Christ.” You gasped, his hungry need to taste you had him worshiping your cunt. Licking from the weeping entrance to your throbbing clit with a fevered devotion. Jud was already hard again. Your hand was back in his hair, encouraging pressure to bring him closer into your center. His firm grip on your hips kept you from rutting up against his ravenous mouth. He nosed against your bundle of nerves as his tongue pushed further into you, chasing the taste of your excitement. You tightened your grip.

“Yes baby, fuck that’s it. So good Jud.” He mewled at the praise, peering up at your dark eyes. The look you gave him made the priest’s cock twitch. Like a wolf to the lamb, Jud was completely at your mercy.

And it was everything he needed.

He was tired of the struggle, the complete lack of power- something that had been weighing on him since arriving at Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude. But now, instead of being caged in the claws of a wicked man by force, he willingly offered himself to the kiss of sharp teeth now nuzzling his neck. You would completely consume him, and he welcomed your seductive maw gladly.

“Fucking perfect.” He moaned against your mound, tightened his hold on your hips. You squirmed, chasing the feeling of the thick probing muscle. He removed one hand, bringing it to your aching clit, testing the pressure. You let out a twinkling whine, raising your leg to drape it over Jud’s shoulder. He removed the last hand on your hip, now freeing your movement, letting you crowd him between your hips. A foot now pressing into his back, coaxing. Soft thighs squeezing against his ears with a delicious pressure.

His personal heaven.

Jud shifted his focus. Licking back up to your clit, he suckled at the throbbing bundle of nerves as his hand slipped down to your clenching cunt. Your body eagerly welcomed his long dexterous fingers. Curling two inside, the rough pads of his digits caressing your spongy walls. That earned him a tight squeeze of your thighs, securing him firmly in place. 

As if he’d want to be anywhere else.

“Jud-Jud!” He could feel you getting close, his cock aching in anticipation. You thrust against his face, nails scrapping his scalp. Jud couldn’t help the little whine he murmured against your clit, hips rutting against nothing. The added vibrations sent you over the edge, a throaty scream muffled by the tightly clamped legs surrounding him. Your walls fluttered around his fingers, but Jud only pressed harder against them to enjoy the sounds it pulled from her. Only once your limps released their hold did he stop, looking back up at you with a sloppy grin. 

Your body felt like liquid, your smile blissful. Jud gave your cunt a lazy indulgent taste before you pulled him by the hair. He rose slowly, trailing kisses back up your stomach. He took his time, savoring the salty sweat of your skin. Your hand pet his hair, content sighs slipping from your lips. Once he reached your mouth, you were pulling him against you. The weight of his body perfect. His clothed hard length pressed into you with growing interest. Your amused laugh was quickly swallowed as he deepened the kiss. Before, it was frantic. Starved. But now? The way his lips molded into yours, taking your face in his hands with awed adoration? It was slow and filled with emotion he couldn’t put into words. You sat up from the couch, hands at his chest.

“Could we maybe go to your room?” Jud nodded, pulling you with him as he stood. His lips still sought the warmth of your neck as he followed you up the stairs. 

A month after the case closed, Jud had decided to change rooms. Partially due to the other guest room having a full bed. But also because it felt like he deserved it considering Wicks had purposely assigned him a cot to be a dick. Right now, he was very thankful for the upgrade.

You climbed on the bed, sitting on your knees as you watched Jud hurriedly remove his clothes. He took extra care with his collar, sitting on the nightstand. Once bare, you curled a finger at him to come. He obeyed, climbing to join you. He captured your lips again, arms wrapping around you as he laid you down. Your legs immediately hooked around him, his cock now nestled against your wet heat. Jud shivered.

“Hell...” He whispered. Your laugh was stiff.

“Mm, not too far off.” Jud stopped, pulling back to look into your eyes. They were stormy, you tried to look away but he noticed the conflict there. He reached a hand up, gently pulling your chin back to face him.

“Hey… Hey.” He wasn’t loud, voice almost pleading. You caved in, returning to his dark blue gaze. Silence.

“What’s going on in there?” He tapped a finger to your temple. The small smile you gave him didn’t meet your eyes.

“Jud, we both know what this is to you. I’m not delusional- it's ok! Honest.” His brows furrowed, mouth deepening into a frown.

“(Y/N), I… Shit.” He rested his head on your chest, he could hear your rising heart beat.

“I-I’m sorry, we can stop-” You quickly mumbled. But when he looked up at you, you froze. His eyes were full of tears. You panicked, hands coming up to hold his face.

“Oh God Jud. It’s ok, I-” He shook his head with a broken laugh.

“God (Y/N) I fucking love you. Don’t you see?” Your eyes widened, lips parting in shock. He leaned against the hand on his face, another chuckle bubbling from his chest. He closed his eyes, the tears dampening his cheeks.

“You aren’t some sin. Some- dirty secret I’m going to try and forget… You are everything.” He felt your fingers brushing away the streaks on his skin. When he opened his eyes, you were looking at him with heartbreaking tenderness.

“Jud-” He leaned in to cut you off, stealing a kiss before continuing.

“I- I know I can’t give you what you deserve, I will always be who I am. But (Y/N)... I love you, for whatever that is worth.” He’d never leave his calling, and he knew you’d never ask him to. But what life you gave to him, he couldn’t do the same. 

It broke him. 

But you just smiled, kissing his wet cheeks.

“I’m-,” you laughed, the sound brittle with emotion, “I don't want a normal life, Jud. Marriage? Kids? None of that was ever my plan... I just want you.” His eyes turned sad, voice barely a whisper.

“A lot of me is broken.” You were healing cracks in him he’d never thought would mend. But some things were still splintered. Jagged fragments that would never be the same. You tilted your head, thumb caressing his face affectionately.

“Give me those pieces you hide. I’ll hold those shards tighter, even if they cut me- they’re still you… I-I love you Jud Duplenticy.” 

Jud crashed his lips against yours. You returned the kiss with equal passion. His arms slipped around your waist, pulling you flush to him. You whined, hands pulling at his hair as your hips lifted up to meet him. It only took a few thrusts before his cock was twitching again, rock hard against you. You reached down, grasping it firmly before sliding it along your folds. The thick head bumping into your aching clit beautifully.

“Jud, please.” He moaned, face slotting into the crook of your neck. His hand replaced yours, enjoying the sleek glide of your wet cunt. He notched himself at your entrance, his girth stretching you slowly. You choked at the feeling. Jud paused, taking measured breaths. 

“So fucking tight.” Amber let out an amused moan, hand coming up to grip at the back of his neck. You tilted your hips to take more, Jud whimpered. He eased forward again, sinking into the velvet heat. Little mewls slipped out of your lips, the sound alone made him shudder. You were soaked, walls clenching around him delightfully. Finally his pelvis was flush to yours. 

Jud leaned back to look at you stretched around the base of him, drenched folds parted and exposed. You were panting, chest and cheeks dark. Completely debauched and breathtakingly beautiful.

“You’re gonna be the death of me.” You bit a lip with a smirk before wiggling your hips. Jud let out a groan, falling back down above you. You laughed, bringing your legs around his waist again. He pulled out half-way, moaning at the feeling of you trying to pull him back in. You didn’t fare much better, a sob escaping your lips. His thrusts were slow at first, your muscles relaxing to adjust to the size of him.

“So deep. So good-.” Your hands clawed at his back, enjoying the burning stretch. Jud slipped a hand down, thumb pressing right above you clit- pulling at the hood with every thrust. You shook, hips snapping up at the sensation. Your cunt clamped down on him. Jud choked a moan against your shoulder, increasing his movements. 

“Perfect, baby.” He sighed, your praise melting his bones. A delicious warmth spread through him. His lips found yours, Jud whined against your tongue. You gasped at a particularly hard thrust, the blunt head of his cock kissing your cervix.

“Yes! Fuck, there. Just like that!” He repeated the motion, panting when you fluttered around him.

“(Y/N).” He was snapping his hips into you, the thighs around his waist tightening. He rested his forehead against yours, his breaths coming out in huffs. You cupped his cheek, thumb tracing his open mouth. Jud’s lips wrapped around the digit, whimpering desperately.

“So good for me.” His eyes were round and glossy. The warm feeling now spreading down his chest. You could see the drunk hazy on his blissed out face. All the while, his length pummeled your stretched cunt. The narrow heat of you was overwhelming. Jud shifted a hand back to pull at your leg, bringing it up to hook on his shoulder and deepening the angle of his thrust.

“Fuck fuck. Thank you, so perfect.” He mumbled, lost in the feeling. Your pussy was divine, grip vice-like as you edged closer to your own climax. Jud was a babbling mess. The veins of his cock throbbed, precum further slicking the delicious slide. 

“My good boy, give me all you’ve got. Fucking ruin me, baby.” What little control he had left dissolved, a broken sob left him. Your surprised squeal sounded like bells, Jud now pinning both your legs against your chest. Folding you in half. 

He didn’t hold back.

Punched out huffs, your fingers reaching out grip the blankets around you- Jud fucked you with wild abandon. The ravenous, punishing thrusts of his fat cock were followed by his stuttered muttering.

“Yes, yes, so fucking tight. Perfect pussy, all mine, please.” He chanted, rambling between grunts. Jud thanked you, begged, worshiping your body as a gift from God. Singing prayers in your name. You clenched at the attention, pulling choked sobs from his lips. You were close, he could hear it in your high pitched moans.

“Please, please. Give it to me, baby.” He pleaded, grinding his hips against yours. You reached down, fingers finding you clit with haste. It didn’t take much before your mouth opened in a silent scream, walls clamping down hard. Jud’s eyes rolled into the back of his head. But he fucked you through it, reveling in the divine pulse of you around him. Coming down from your high, you reached over to the hand holding your legs, fingers curling into his.

“Gonna cum for me Jud?” He nodded, hips starting to falter. His blue puppy dog eyes wide with adoration.

“W-where?” He whimpered, struggling. You smiled, biting your bottom lip.

“Inside, fill me up baby.” He dropped his hold on you, sinking down so that you were face to face. Jud shuddered, diving in to capture your lips. Balls drawing up, his orgasm finally rocking his body. He whined into your open mouth. Wave after wave of his hot cum pumped deep into you, little tremors shaking his shoulders.

Jud’s boneless body finally gave out. You held him in your hands, enjoying the feeling of him slumped against you- cock still buried to the hilt. Your fingers ran through his short curls, caressing him.

“Y’okay?” You whispered, voice deep. Jud hummed, laying his cheek against your breast. Chest rising and falling slowly. He went to move. You were probably uncomfortable with the weight of him crushing you, but you stopped him. The hand in his hair keeping him flush with your skin.

“No rush, Jud. We have all the time in the world.” The last of the tension left him, a small hiccup slipped out. He hid his face between your breasts. Small tears dampened your skin. He apologized, muffled against them. You hushed him, stroking the back of his head.

“Don’t, baby. Let it out, it’s ok.” He relaxed, letting himself melt into the hold. Jud couldn’t put it into words, just an overwhelming swell of feeling overcame him. Pure peace. When his breathing calmed down, he shifted to rest his chin against your sternum. You were watching him.

“Thank you for finding me.” His voice was heavy with sleep. Your hands traced the features of his face, like you were mapping it out for memory.

“Thank you for letting yourself be found.” He leaned into the touch, eyes closing. But then they snapped open, alarmed. His cock was soft now, your mixed cum slipping from your connected bodies.

Shit.

“Hey uh, I um.. You. We-we didn’t use protection.” The rising panic in his eyes was obvious. You threw your head back with a laugh, patting his cheeks playfully.

“Jud, calm down. It’s ok, I’m sterile.” You said it so matter-of-factly, but his brows only creased in confusion.

“Sterile, as in like- sterile sterile?” You nodded, tilting your head with a smile.

“Yes sweetie, sterile sterile. I got it done years ago. Like I said, I don’t want kids.” His mouth opened and closed, not sure how to respond.

“I- with what happened to me, my birth parents. It's not something I wanted to risk for another child…” There wasn’t any sadness in your eyes, but Jud couldn’t help his worried face. You flicked him on the nose.

“Hey!” He whined.

“Jud- I meant what I said. This? This is exactly where I want to be.” Your voice was soft, he inched forward to kiss you. Chasing the taste of your honeyed words.

Today was the meeting with Cy Draven, both Blanc and Bishop Langstrom had made the trip for the obnoxious shit show.

“Any hint you’ve sold it, any big charity donations, you fix the roof, you upgrade your shitty communion wine, I will watch, I will audit, I will find out.” Cy was stumbling backwards towards his car. Jud just smiled, hands clasped at his back.

“I hope you come back to the church someday, Cy. Your real inheritance is in Christ.” He just scoffed, car speeding off. You came up behind the priest, shoulder bumping into him.

“God he’s such a-” Langstrom’s steps crunched against the gravel.

“-Little punk bitch.” You looked over, white teeth beaming at the bishop. 

“I see why you like him.” Jud smirked, turning back towards the other man. You walked back over to your father, following him back into the rectory to leave the two of them alone. Langstrom waited until you were out of ear shot before elbowing Jud.

“So this is (Y/N), that support you might have mentioned?” His ears turned red, but his smile was honest, Jud didn’t try to hide the obvious affection he felt for you. The older man nodded.

“She seems good for you. Don’t fuck it up kid.” Jud shoved him playfully, rolling his eyes. But he paused, watching as you waved a hand at him from the window. Your pointer finger beckoning him to come inside. You mimed eating a sandwich, clearly telling him to join them for lunch. The young priest exhaled, shoulders relaxing.

note: this is an old fic i rewrote… very smut. yep. reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!

Life had been hitting you hard lately, and you ended up volunteering at the church after you moved into a small room they offered for the time being. It wasn’t supposed to be a permanent thing, but the roof over your head helped while you tried to get your feet back on the ground. You spent your days cleaning the pews or helping with the chores, and that was how you grew close to Father Jud. He wasn’t like the old priests you usually saw around churches. He was young and actually knew how to joke around with you.

He had a way of being funny without even trying, and his kindness made it easy to talk to him as if he were not even a priest here. It was hard not to notice that Father Jud was handsome, and every woman visiting the church seemed to have eyes for him. The old ladies always made sure to stop him for a long chat, and the younger girls suddenly started listening to his Sunday sermons much more closely. He was a good talker, and his looks definitely didn’t hurt his reputation with the churchgoers. It felt like everyone in town suddenly found a reason to have a lot of sins because the line for the confessional was always full of people just wanting a chance to talk to him.

You watched the way they all crowded around just to get a word with the priest as you realized how much of an effect he had on everyone. Jud, on the other hand, hadn’t expected you to live here longer than necessary, but he couldn’t bring himself to kick you out either. It wasn’t about the money since the church had enough resources to feed another person in need. He began to see your presence as a challenge that God put right in his path to test his resolve. You were always around, helping with the housework, and your kindness didn’t feel like an act just to pay for your place here.

He liked the way you thought about things because you were smart, and the two of you never ran out of things to talk about. The real problem for Jud was how beautiful you were because it made you a constant temptation in his daily life. You were like a plague that got under his skin and messed with his head whenever he tried to focus on his duties. His thoughts kept swaying into things that weren’t holy, and your face lived in his mind. It made his body react in ways he wanted to ignore. He felt like you were infecting him with the urge to sin whenever you walked into a room or smiled at him.

It was a challenge for him to keep his distance, but he only thought about how much he wanted to break his vows just to stop those thoughts. Yet it’s much harder when he also knew all the little details of your life because you told him everything during your weekly visits to the confessional. He listened to every mistake and every small worry you had, but he never judged you for any of it. Truthfully, he probably had way more to confess than you did after all those nights he spent thinking about you in his bed. He kept it to himself, and he focused on being the priest you needed, even though he struggled with his own urges.

“Bless me, Father, for I’ve sinned,” you said, and your voice was soft as it came through the wood. You sounded so innocent, and it was like you didn’t know what you were doing to him while Jud gripped his rosary beads. He looked down at the floor and said a few quick prayers in his mins. “Tell me your sins,” Jud said while his voice sounded deep and rough. He cleared his throat and tried to focus as he heard you move around on the other side. You seemed unsure of yourself, which wasn’t like you, since you’ve always told him everything before.

“I’ve had dirty thoughts, Father. Filthy ones,” you whispered as the words made his hand stop moving over the beads. Jud wondered why this confession felt so different from the others as he listened to you breathe. “What kind of dirty thoughts?” Jud asked because he needed to know the details of what you were doing. You stopped talking for a second while you moved in your seat. He pressed his forehead against the wall to listen to what you were thinking and waited to hear what was so bad that you felt you had to come here.

“I’ve been thinking about things, Father,” you said while a despicable part of him loved hearing about your sins. “I keep having these thoughts about this man, and they just get worse whenever I try to stop,” you continued as Jud bit his hand to keep from making any noise. He was getting hard, and his length rubbed against the rough fabric of his pants while he wanted some relief. It’s embarrassing that he quickly reacted that way after just hearing what you said. He dug his nails into his palms because he knew he wasn’t supposed to touch himself in here. “What kind of dreams are they?” Jud asked, and his voice cracked because it made him think about things he shouldn’t have.

He could smell you through the wood, and it made him think things he shouldn’t have while the booth got way too hot. “I dream he does stuff to me that I’m too embarrassed to even say out loud in a church,” you whispered while you sounded like you were out of breath. He wondered if you were playing with your clothes or touching yourself as you sat there. “I’m scared of what I’d do if I were with him,” you said, but you sounded both guilty and turned on by the idea. He couldn’t help but wonder if you knew how much you were teasing him, and Jud felt like he was about to snap.

“Tell me more about what he does to you in these dreams,” Jud ordered while he stared at the screen. “Is it really necessary for me to say every little thing, Father?” you asked while your fingers picked at the fabric of your clothes. Jud leaned closer to the wood because he didn’t want you to stop now. “God can’t wash away the sins you keep hidden, and you won’t get absolution unless you’re honest with me,” Jud said as he felt like he was running out of air. You took a shaky breath on the other side of the screen. “Well... we were just kissing at first,” you whispered, and Jud didn’t see the problem yet.

“There’s nothing wrong with a kiss, but why does that worry you so much?” Jud asked while he felt the heat rising in the small booth. You adjust yourself a little on your seat, and he hears the wood creak under you. “It wasn’t just a kiss, Father. He had his hands all over me... and he’s not just some random guy,” you admitted as your voice got even lower. Jud gripped the edge of his seat, and he wanted to know who had you feeling this way. “This man isn’t someone I’m allowed to want. I shouldn’t even be looking at him like that,” you said while you sounded like you were about to cry.

Jud felt his blood rush as he realized you were talking about someone off-limits. “Did you do something to get some relief?” Jud whispered as he reached down to rub his hand over the bulge in his pants. He heard you let out a long breath on the other side of the wood. “I touched myself while I thought about him, Father,” you admitted while the sound of your voice made Jud bite his other hand until he tasted blood. He felt his length twitch against the fabric, and he rubbed his palm against it because he couldn’t help himself.

“You really touched yourself while you thought about this man defiling you?” Jud asked because he needed to hear you say it again. He couldn’t stop thinking about you coming and your mouth hanging open while your toes curled in the dark. “Please don’t make me say it again, Father Jud... I just want to feel clean again,” you begged, and you sounded totally desperate for him to forgive you. Jud pressed his hand harder against his pants, and he didn’t stop because he wanted to hear every single detail of how you wanted this person, yet he knew that was not possible.

“F-Father Jud?” you breathed as the silence on his side made you feel like you’d said too much. Jud bit his hand to keep from making any noise while he fought the urge to pleasure himself through his pants. “Say ten Hail Marys and two Our Fathers,” Jud said with a hoarse voice, and he tried to keep his cool. He felt sick with guilt while he sat there in the dark booth. “God’s going to forgive you. He always does,” Jud added as he gripped the edge of his seat. You didn’t say anything, but he heard you get up from your seat.

“You can go now. God must forgive those who are honest,” Jud muttered while he waited for you to leave. He listened until he couldn’t hear your footsteps anymore, then wiped his sweaty palms on his dark pants. Jud left the confessional quickly because he needed to get away from the thoughts of you touching yourself for him. Jud ignored the questions from the sisters while he left the children waiting for their turn to confess. He walked through the corridors without looking and let his feet guide him until he eventually reached his room. Jud knelt by his bedside before he began to pray and beg for forgiveness.

All the praying he did in his room is worthless when it doesn't help him at all. He barely made it through the rest of his duties because his thoughts kept going back to the way you sounded in the confessional. It was midnight by the time he was finally alone in the church because everyone else had gone to sleep. He was on his knees at the altar while he tried to talk to God, but he heard you behind him. “Why are you here so late?” Jud asked as he didn’t even have to turn around to know it was you. You stopped walking while you kept your head down. “I couldn’t sleep because I had another dream,” you whispered while you looked at the ground.

“I wanted to see if you’re okay, Father,” you added since you were worried about him. Jud crawled across the floor on his knees while his hands shook. He grabbed the hem of your nightgown as he looked completely desperate. “I need to know who you see,” Jud said while he looked up at you with wide eyes. You reached down, and your fingers brushed his face as you tried to get him to stand up. “You don’t look well, Father. Let me help you to your room,” you said and you sounded scared for him. Jud ignored you and rested his forehead against your calves while his hands shook.

“Please, I just need to understand who you’re seeing in those dreams,” Jud said while he held onto your legs. “Who is it?” he asked, and he felt like he was going crazy. You took his face in your hands and cupped his jaw while you treated him like something fragile. “Father Jud,” you whispered as your warm breath hit his skin. “I- Okay. It’s always been you. You’re the man I see in my dreams. You’re the one I touch myself to while I’m alone,” you confessed because you couldn’t keep it inside anymore. You felt heat spread across your face while you looked down at him.

“It’s you I want. It’s you I’m sinning for, so please just go to bed now,” you added since you were scared of what might happen next. Jud felt a rush of excitement because he realized he wasn’t the only one struggling with these feelings. He was happy for a second, but then he felt a wave of guilt as he remembered where he was. He put his hand over yours and entwined your fingers while he stayed on his knees at your feet. “I’m weak,” Jud said as he pulled your joined hands closer and pressed his lips against your knuckles.

He looked up at you with wide eyes while his chest moved fast. “I’m so weak for you, and I crave you more than I should,” he added while he kept his mouth against your skin. Jud didn’t let go of you as he nuzzled into your touch. “Every part of me wants you, and I want to see you do every sinful thing you’ve thought about,” Jud muttered while his lips grazed the back of your hand. He looked completely desperate because he was losing his fight against the temptation. “I should be punished for even thinking like this, but I can’t stop,” he whispered as he held onto you like you were the only thing that mattered.

Jud moved his face closer to your legs while he gripped your hand and leg. He pressed a kiss against your thigh through the fabric of your nightgown and looked up at you as if he was waiting for you to tell him this was wrong. “God wouldn’t want to see you like this, Father,” you whispered while your fingers tangled in his hair. You knew you were standing in a holy place, but you didn’t move an inch to walk away from him. “Lord, forgive me for I’m about to sin,” Jud muttered as he closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against your stomach.

“Please, just let me have this one thing, and I’ll never ask for anything again,” he prayed, and his hands tightened. He started to press slow kisses against the fabric covering your legs and moved higher with every touch. “I can’t stop because I just need to know what it’s like to have you,” Jud said since he was completely under your spell. He didn’t try to remove your clothes, but instead he buried his face between your thighs. Jud pressed his mouth right against your cunt while he kept the material of your nightgown between his lips and your skin.

“Father, we’re in the church,” you gasped while you felt the heat of his breath through the thin layer. You tried to nudge his shoulders back, but your legs felt weak while he knelt there. “I know where we are,” Jud groaned into the fabric while he kept his face buried there. He pressed a kiss against your folds through the cloth and let his nose nuzzle into you. You let out a shaky breath and grabbed his hair while your body felt warm from the sensation. “We shouldn’t do this here,” you whispered while you felt his mouth move against your skin.

Jud didn’t move away because he wanted to feel your pulse against his face while he didn’t move from the floor. You tried to walk back, but Jud moved with you on his knees until you felt the wood of a pew hit your back. He gripped your waist to hold you right there while he looked up at you. “Jud- someone might see us,” you whispered while you glanced around the dark room. He shook his head and kept his hands firm on your body. “Everyone’s asleep. Nobody’s coming here tonight,” Jud muttered because he was too focused on you to care about anything else.

He leaned forward and buried his face against your center. Jud started to press kisses right over your cunt as if he was kissing your mouth. “Is this what happened in your dream? Did I use my tongue on you just like this?” Jud asked while he talked against the fabric. You felt your breath catch while the warmth from his mouth seeped through the cloth. “I want to know if I made you moan just like you did when you were alone,” he added because he wanted to hear you lose control. You gripped the edge of the pew while he kept his mouth pressed against your folds.

“Yes- y-you used your tongue just like that,” you gasped while your knees buckled against his chest. Jud groaned and nuzzled into you while he moved his head side to side. “In those dreams of yours, and did I have my fingers deep inside you, too?” Jud asked while he looked at you with those mesmerizing eyes. He didn’t use his hands, but his mouth was enough to make you feel like you were going to fall over. “I l-liked it- I liked how your fingers felt inside me,” you sobbed while you felt him press his tongue against the material.

Jud pressed his face deeper into you while he made a low sound in his throat. “Tell me if you screamed my name while I did it,” he whispered while he kept his lips on the cloth covering your clit. Your body was almost burning from the sensation as he continued to kiss you through the thin nightgown. “I screamed your name every time, Jud,” you whispered, and he let his hands slide down your thighs until he touched the hem of your nightgown. He bunched the fabric up in his fists and hiked it over your waist before he ducked his head underneath the garment.

You felt his fingers hook into the elastic of your panties and tug them down your legs until they fell to the floor. “You’re so beautiful,” Jud murmured while he leaned in and pressed his open mouth against your wet slit, and his breath warmed your folds. You tilted your head back, and your legs felt like they were about to give up from standing. “Mmm- tell me what you want,” Jud said while he used his nose to nuzzle against you. “I need you, Jud, please,” you begged while looking down at the shape of the body beneath the fabric.

Jud didn’t wait, and he licked a long path from the bottom of your entrance up to your clit. You let out a loud whine when he reached that sensitive spot. “Is this how it felt when you were dreaming about me?” Jud asked before giving it another lick. “Y-yes- ahhn- right there,” you sobbed when he flicked his tongue over the small nub. Jud gripped your ass and pulled you closer to his face before he started to suck on it. He moved his tongue up and down between your folds. “You taste better than any dream,” Jud whispered after he pulled an inch away before he returned his mouth to your cunt.

“I- right there,” you choked out while you pulled your nightgown up with one hand to give him more room. Your other hand tangled in his hair, and you gripped the dark strands to keep him against you. You were definitely going to hell for this, but at least you were going for a good reason. Fucking a priest against a church pew was exactly the kind of mess that would be your downfall, and you almost wanted to laugh at how bad it was while you leaned back against the pew. “Mhm,” Jud groaned against your inner thighs while he licked a long and wet path from the bottom of your slit up to your clit.

He used his tongue to suck on the little nub, and it made you let out a loud cry. “Oh- fuc-” you sobbed while your knees buckled and your fingers tightened in his hair. “You’re so good for me,” Jud muttered when he pulled back just enough to look at you. He didn’t wait for an answer, and he dived back between your legs to flick his tongue over your center. You arched your hips to meet his mouth, and your walls clenched around nothing. He licked inside your heat and found the spot that made your legs almost fall to the floor.

“Haaah- m-more,” you pleaded while you rutted against his face. Jud let out a low sound of delight, and he used two fingers to thrust deep into your cunt. He thrust his fingers against that sweet spot, and he moved his mouth back to your clit to suck it into his lips. “Christ! Please-” you screamed his name while the need inside you is almost there to the point of breaking. Your toes curled against the floor, and your thighs started to shake while he worked his fingers in and out of you. He didn’t slow down, and he licked you faster until you felt like you were about to finish.

“Almost there, I know you are. Give it to me,” Jud ordered while he used his thumb to rub your clit in circles. You finally came, and your body trembled while your walls squeezed his fingers. You make loud noises, and you feel him greedily lap up everything while he moans against your thighs. Jud licked your cunt until he cleaned every drop of your mess, and then he finally stood up. You barely catch your breath when he leans in to press his lips against yours. You tasted your own release when his tongue dipped into your mouth, and you rocked your hips against him instinctively.

That heat in your stomach started to burn up again, and you realized you wanted more than just his mouth. “I love hearing you like that,” Jud muttered while he hovered close to your face. “I want to hear you so loud that everyone knows exactly who takes care of you,” Jud said while his hands gripped your waist. “Well, I want to hear you ask for forgiveness after this,” you teased while you reached out and held his arm. You squeezed his forearm while you looked up at him. “I think you’ll need ten Hail Marys and two Our Fathers by the time I’m done with you, Father Jud,” you said while a small smile showed on your face.

You glanced toward the altar and the wooden cross hanging in the distance. It was a real shame for the two of you to be sinning like this in a church, and you figured God probably had plenty to say about the mess you were making. You figured He was probably watching with a lot of disappointment. God help you both for being such dedicated sinners in His house. You promised yourself you would pray as many times as it took to make up for this, but that was a problem for later. You were sure the big guy upstairs wouldn’t mind waiting a few more hours until you finished up with His favorite priest.

⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀ twenty-twenty-six © addie / musingsofheaven.

⠀⠀⠀

There’s that tone. The one he uses with residents when they’re dancing around something obvious. Not unkind. Just… direct. Your breath catches for half a second. Not nerves exactly—more the weight of being looked at like that. Seen through, a little.

Jack glances at you, something softer there now. A small nod. Go on.

You shift in your seat, tucking one leg under you slightly, grounding yourself before you speak.

“It’s not… open,” you start, careful. “We’re not looking to—change anything. Not really.”

Robby watches you the whole time. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t fill the silence for you.

“It’s just—” you exhale, a small, almost embarrassed huff of a laugh, “—we trust you. Both of us do. And you’ve been… there. With us. For a while.”

“Unfortunately,” he mutters.

Jack snorts. “Speak for yourself.”

But Robby doesn’t look away from you.

You hold his gaze. “It’s not random. It’s not… about finding some person to fool around with. It’s you.”

That lands. You see it in the way his jaw shifts, just slightly. The humour doesn’t disappear, but it tightens around the edges.

“…Right,” he says, slower now.

Jack leans forward, elbows on the table, finally stepping back in. “It’s not a free-for-all,” he adds, dry. “We’re not pitching some kind of ER orgy.”

“Shame,” Robby says flatly.

You almost laugh, tension breaking for a second.

Jack shoots him a look. “Be serious for one second in your life.”

“I am serious,” Robby says. Then, to you—“I’m just making sure I understand what the hell you’re asking me.”

His gaze drops briefly—to your hands, the way they’re curled loosely around your glass—then back up again.

“What are you actually offering here?” he asks.

You hesitate—not because you don’t know, but because saying it out loud makes it real. Jack shifts beside you. You feel his knee press into yours, steady, grounding.

“It’s not just sex,” you say, quieter now.

Robby’s brow lifts. “No?”

You shake your head. “It’s… us. Still us. Just—” you glance at Jack, then back at Robby, “—with you in it. Sometimes. If you wanted that.”

There’s a long beat.

Robby leans back again, dragging his hand over his mouth, thinking. Really thinking.

“You two have been together, what,” he says, glancing at Jack, “two years now?”

“Nearly three,” Jack corrects.

“Nearly three,” Robby repeats. “You know, you… you live together. Don’t kill each other. That’s impressive.”

“Thank you,” you say, dry.

His gaze shifts back to you again, softer this time—but heavier, too.

“And you’re both telling me this doesn’t… complicate things.”

Jack answers this time, steady. “Everything’s already complicated. This wouldn’t change what we’ve got. We’ve talked, we trust each other, we trust you.”

Robby studies him for a second longer than necessary. There’s history in that look. Long-standing, unspoken understanding. The kind you only get after decades of knowing someone.

“…You’re serious,” he says finally.

“Yeah,” Jack says.

Robby exhales, a quiet, disbelieving laugh under his breath. He tips his head back for a second, staring at the ceiling like he’s trying to reset his brain.

“Jesus Christ.”

You don’t rush him. Neither does Jack. When he looks back at you, it’s different now. Less amused. More… considering.

“You’re asking about the three of us…” he tries, trailing off.

You nod. “Yeah.”

His eyes flick, just briefly, to where your leg is still angled toward Jack’s, the easy closeness of it. Then back to your face.

“And you’re both just- you’re… good with it,” he says.

Your voice is quieter when you answer. “Wouldn’t be sitting here if we weren’t. You’re attractive, smart, funny. And I think you’ve always secretly had a thing for at least one of us. Maybe both, but, one way to find out, I guess.”

Robby drums his fingers once against the table, then stills them.

“...Christ,” he mutters again, but there’s a hint of something else in it now. Not just disbelief.

Interest. He looks at you properly then. Not the quick, passing glances from before. This is slower. Measuring.

“You always this persuasive?” He wonders.

You tilt your head, a small smile pulling at your mouth. “Only when it matters.”

That earns the faintest huff of a laugh.

“Yeah,” he says. “I can see that.”

Jack shifts beside you, not tense—but alert. Watching the shift happen in real time. Robby notices that too. His mouth quirks, just slightly.

Your phone buzzes—once, twice, then a string of messages lighting up your screen.

You glance down, already half-standing. “I’ve gotta go. Park needs me—Isla called in sick.”

Jack doesn’t even hesitate. He’s already reaching into his pocket, keys in hand. “Take the car. I’ll ride back with him.”

You take them, brushing his fingers briefly. “Thanks, baby.”

You lean down—meant to be quick, but it doesn’t quite stay that way. Your mouth presses to his, warm, familiar. He lets you, hand coming up to your cheek, thumb catching just under your jaw, holding you there for half a second longer than necessary before you pull back.

There’s a flicker of something in his eyes when you do. You straighten, turning— Robby’s already looking at you. Not subtle about it. Rarely is.

“Michael,” you say, softer, a small nod.

He repeats your name—flatter, rougher, like he’s testing how it sits in his mouth.

You don’t linger. You head out.

The door swings shut behind you.

Jack watches it a beat too long. Then exhales, leaning back into the booth, dragging a hand over his mouth like he’s resetting.

Robby doesn’t look at the door. He looks at Jack. There’s a slow, almost amused curve to his mouth. Not mocking. Just… processing.

“Alright,” he says. “Who’s idea is it?”

Jack doesn’t bother pretending. “Mine.”

Robby lets out a short, disbelieving breath. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“When?”

Jack shrugs, reaching for his beer. “Remember that detox sexless cult thing she did a few months back?”

Robby snorts. “Yeah. You turned into the most unbearable version of yourself I’ve seen in twenty years. Which is saying something.”

“Appreciate that.”

“Walking around like—” Robby gestures vaguely, “—like a cat in heat.”

Jack huffs a laugh despite himself. “Yeah, well. After you left that morning, we had our… you know, usual great sex - not adding as part of the pitch, you already know how good the sex is -”

“-get to the point,” Robby says, with a slight snicker.

“Some point, I mention… I don’t know, marriage, foreplay, a third. We finish up, and… we’re just talking.”

“Talking,” Robby repeats, deadpan.

“Yeah. Try it sometime. With a professional, even, they do that.”

“Hard pass.”

Jack ignores him, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “It came up. Not seriously at first. Hypotheticals. What we’d be into, what we wouldn’t.”

“And you landed on me,” Robby says.

“Yeah.”

Robby watches him for a second. Longer than usual. “…Both of you.”

“Both of us.”

That lands differently.

Robby leans back, dragging a hand over his jaw, thinking. Really thinking now—not just reacting.

“That’s your girl,” he says finally. “You’ve built something there. I’m not—” he shakes his head slightly, “—I’m not interested in screwing that up.”

Jack’s expression doesn’t change much, but something in it settles. He nods once.

“I wouldn’t be asking if I thought you would.”

Robby glances at him, sharper now. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

“No,” Jack agrees easily. “But I do know you.”

A beat.

“And I trust you,” he adds.

it hangs there. Robby exhales slowly, gaze dropping to the table for a second before coming back up.

“…Yeah,” he mutters. “That’s the problem.”

Jack’s brow lifts, faintly amused. “That I trust you?”

“That I don’t take that lightly,” Robby shoots back.

Silence stretches for a second. Then Robby leans forward slightly, forearms braced on the table, voice dropping a notch.

“And you’re fine with it,” he says. Not a question. “Me and her.”

Jack doesn’t flinch. “Yeah.”

“Really.”

“Yeah.”

Robby studies him—searching for cracks, for ego, for something careless. Doesn’t find much. Jack kept his pride in check. He wasn’t a jealous person, not really. He was secure in himself. Something Robby envied, sometimes.

“…She’s—” he starts, then cuts himself off, jaw tightening slightly. “You know what she is.”

Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah. I do.”

“Twenty-something,” Robby continues. “Smart. Looks like—” he gestures vaguely, then shakes his head. “You’ve seen her.”

Jack smirks faintly. “I have, yeah. A lot of her. It’s great.”

Robby’s mouth twitches despite himself.

“And she looks at you like you hung the moon half the time,” he adds.

Jack’s expression softens just a fraction. “Sometimes.”

Robby nods once, slow. Then—

“…You really telling me you’ve never thought about it? About her” Jack asks, casual—but not careless.

Robby lets out a quiet breath through his nose, leaning back again.

“That’s not a fair question.”

Jack tilts his head at his friend. An insistence in his eyes to go on.

Robby tips his head back slightly, staring at the ceiling for a second like he’s debating how honest he wants to be.

Then he looks back at Jack.

“…Well I’m not blind,” he says.

Jack doesn’t react much. Just watches him.

“She’s—” Robby exhales, searching for a word, then gives up and settles for, “—she’s a lot. Sweet.”

Jack’s mouth ticks. “She is… You ever think about her while jerking off?”

Robby lets out a low breath at that, clicking his tongue at his friend's bluntness. Fuck it, they’re being honest. “Yes.”

Robby’s a little surprised when he sees the slow blink from Jack, a nod. Maybe irritable. 

“What?” Robby scoffs. “You’re cool with the prospect of me fucking your girl? But what I do with my hand in my spare time is… what, some sort of line being crossed?”

“I didn’t say anything, alright. I’m all good here. Just didn’t think you’d admit it,” Jack nods with insistence. “What about during sex? Thought about her then?”

“...On occasion, yes, I’ve- she’s popped up there, yeah.” Robby admits with brief hesitance. 

That’s as far as he pushes it—but it’s enough. Jack nods once, like this one he expected. Like it doesn’t threaten anything.

“Fair,” he says.

Robby glances at him, something like disbelief creeping back in. “You’re taking that a lot better than I thought you would.”

Jack shrugs. “She’s hot. You’re not dead. Tells me you’ve got a working dick, at least.”

Robby lets out a short laugh at that, shaking his head.

Jack took a sip of his beer, then—because he wasn’t finished, because he never really was with Robby—tilts his head slightly.

“What about me?”

Robby scoffs immediately, too quick. “Oh, come on.”

“No, seriously,” Jack says, glancing at him sideways. Casual on the surface, not casual underneath. “No shame, total honesty here. Twenty years, no secrets, all that bullshit.”

Robby drags a hand over his beard, already feeling the trap closing. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Have you?” Jack asks, like he was asking about the weather.

A pause.

Robby stares at the table, jaw working once.

“…You first,” he mutters.

Jack doesn’t even blink. “Yeah.”

Robby let out a slow breath through his nose, eyes dropping, like he was doing the math on how much of himself he was willing to hand over tonight.

“Man, it’s not even—” Jack went on, shrugging a shoulder. “Half the time that shit doesn’t mean anything. Brain just throws things at you. Doesn’t make you anything.”

Robby let out a short, humourless huff. “Right.”

“What,” Jack presses lightly, “you worried about the gay implications?”

Robby shot him a look. “Don’t—”

“—What? Say ‘gay’?” Jack says, not unkind, but not backing off either.

Robby glances up as a couple walks past, waits them out, then leans back in his seat, voice lower.

“We’re talking about whether I’ve jacked off thinking about another guy,” he says, flat. “Yeah, the… ‘gay’ of it all crossed my mind. Excuse me.”

Jack just nods, like that was fair.

“I just… I guess, I didn’t realise—” Robby starts, then stops, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I mean, you know, are you—”

Jack shrugs, easy. “I’ve been with a few. Never made a whole thing out of it. Don’t really care to.”

Robby gives a small, disbelieving shake of his head. “Figrues. Army man.”

“Yeah, well,” Jack mutters. “You don’t have to slap a label on it, Rob. Doesn’t have to mean anything bigger than it is.”

“I’m aware,” Robby says, maybe a little sharper than he meant to. Then, quieter—like it cost him something— “…It’s crossed my mind.”

Jack’s mouth pulled into something faintly smug. Not cruel—just… satisfied.

“Crossed your mind,” he repeated. “Interesting wording.”

“Don’t start,” Robby warns, but there was less heat in it now.

Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “It was easier getting you to admit you think about fucking my girlfriend half our age than it was getting that out of you. That’s saying something.”

“Fuck you,” Robby mutters, rolling his eyes—but there was a reluctant grin there now, breaking through whether he liked it or not.

Jack shrugs, taking another sip. “Options apparently on the table.”

Robby shakes his head, but didn’t argue. Didn’t fully look away, either.

Something in the air had shifted—subtle, but real. Not a line crossed, exactly. More like one finally acknowledged.

Robby studied him for a second, longer than necessary. There was history there—years of it, unspoken things sitting just under the surface, things neither of them had ever had to name.

Jack didn’t push. Just leaned back, easy.

“Think about it,” he tries. “Or don’t. Nothing changes.”

Robby nods once, short. “Yeah.” A few seconds of quiet. “…You still need that ride home?” he asks.

Jack snorts. “Oh, a ride home? Wow. Subtle.”

“Shut up.”

“Flirting now, are we?”

“You are not a funny man, Jack Abbot, don’t think otherwise,” Robby says, but he was already smiling, just a little.

★★★

2 WEEKS EARLIER

threesomenoun — three·some — ˈthrē-səm

1: a group of three persons or things : trio

2: a golf match in which one person plays their ball against the ball of two others playing each stroke alternately

3: a sexual encounter involving three people

“Are you trying to say you wanna play golf?” Jack says from the stove, not even turning around as he stirs the pan like it personally offended him.

The kitchen smells like garlic and butter—onions already softened down, carrots and capsicum still holding a bit too much bite. He’s got one hand on the wooden spoon, the other braced on the counter, solid and steady in that way he always is.

You’re perched up on the counter, one leg swinging lazily, phone in hand.

“Yes,” you say dryly, scrolling. “I’m deeply passionate about golf. The balls. The stroking of the balls—”

“—I get it,” Jack cuts in. “You want a threesome.”

You look up at him, unimpressed. “I don’t want a threesome. I love twosomes. Specifically with you.” A beat. “But I’m not opposed to… expanding the sample size.”

Jack snorts, finally glancing over to you. “Expanding the—Jesus. That’s how you pitch wanting to fuck my best friend?”

“You brought it up,” you shoot back, pointing your phone at him like evidence. “Don’t act like this wasn’t your idea. ‘Oh baby, we should add a third, Robby would give me notes’—”

“I did not sound like that.”

“—If anything,” you continue over him, “I think you wanna fuck your best friend.”

“Alright,” Jack mutters, turning back to the pan. “Not what I sound like. And c’mon—you know you’re all I wanna fuck.” He nudges the vegetables again, frowning. “I think these are done.”

“They’re not.” You don’t even look up when you say it. “Anyway… I doubt he’d even be down for it,” you say. “I barely think he likes me as a friend.”

Jack lets out a quiet scoff at that.

You narrow your eyes. “What?”

“I think he’d fuck you in a heartbeat if I said I was okay with it,” Jack says, like it’s obvious. Then, distracted again—“I really think these are done, hon.”

“Test the carrot,” you say, still scrolling. “If it’s soft enough, it’ll break with pressure.”

He presses the spoon into one. It doesn’t budge.

“…Needs longer,” he admits.

“How do you know that?”

“I just did what you said, I—”

“No,” you interrupt, looking at him properly now. “How do you know Robby would fuck me?”

That slows him down.

Jack exhales through his nose, shoulders shifting as he leans back slightly against the counter, thinking.

“I know him,” he says. “Twenty years of it. And I know you.” A beat. “There’s something there. A thing. You’ve always had good chemistry.”

You huff lightly. “A vague… thing, maybe.”

You hesitate, then—because you don’t really do half-truths—

“I did have a bit of a crush on him,” you admit. “Before I met you.”

Jack stills. Not dramatically. Just enough.

“I don’t anymore,” you add quickly. “It faded. Pretty fast, actually. It was early—before I started coming down to ED properly. He’d come up sometimes, consults, whatever. I think it was just…” you shrug, searching, “…older. Authority. Bit of an asshole.”

Jack’s mouth pulls slightly at that, something between amused and unimpressed.

“Glad to know you don’t have a type,” he mutters.

You lean in closer from the counter, nudging his shoulder lightly with your knee.

“Hey,” you murmur. He glances up at you. “I like them a little shorter,” you say softly.

Jack blinks.

Then rolls his eyes, a huff of laughter slipping out despite himself as you grin and go back to your phone.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, turning the heat down, a small smile at the corner of his lips. 

★★★

The thing about a third—about this third—was that it… kind of just felt natural. Like there was so little reason to not do it, to not try it, invite it.

It wasn’t sudden. It was something that had been sitting under the skin of things for so long it stopped feeling foreign the second it was named.

Robby had never been separate from Jack. 

Not really. People liked to pretend friendships had clean edges—this is where I end, this is where you begin—but that had never been the case with them. 

Too many years. Too many nights that blurred into mornings, too many arguments that never quite resolved but never quite broke them either. 

They’d dragged each other through their twenties, stumbled into their thirties, and settled—somehow—into their forties without ever untangling.

They knew each other in ways that made distance feel artificial.

And Robby had always lived in that tension.

He didn’t soften easily. Didn’t trust softness when it showed up uninvited. Jack had always been the exception to that rule—steady enough to withstand it, patient enough not to demand more than Robby could give. But patience didn’t mean absence.

There were things between them that had never been said out loud. Not because they didn’t exist, but because saying them would’ve required a kind of clarity Robby had spent most of his life avoiding. 

It was easier to file it under something else—loyalty, history, proximity. Easier to laugh it off, to redirect, to let it sit in that grey space where it didn’t have to be examined too closely.

Then you came along. And you didn’t disrupt that balance. You just seemed to understand it. 

You didn’t wedge yourself between them, didn’t ask Jack to choose, didn’t look at Robby like he was something to tolerate or compete with. You moved through it like it already made sense to you. Like there was room.

And God—there was something about you.

Not just that you were beautiful—though you were, in a way that made people look twice without meaning to. Not just that you were younger, brighter, sharper at the edges in a way that made everything feel a little more alive. It was the way you saw people.

The way you saw Jack—fully, without flinching, without trying to fix him or soften him into something more palatable. The way you leaned into him like you trusted him to hold the weight of that. The way you touched him without hesitation, like affection was a language you spoke fluently.

And worse—

The way you looked at Robby sometimes, like you were trying to figure him out and already had.

He’d noticed it long before anyone said anything. Of course he had. The small things. The way your attention lingered just a second longer than necessary. The way you didn’t pull back when he got too close, didn’t flinch at the edge in him that made other people cautious.

You met it. Sometimes you even matched it. And that—more than anything—was what made him careful. Because wanting you was one thing.

That was easy enough to dismiss, tuck away under instinct, under biology, under the thousand other justifications people used to avoid looking too closely at themselves.

But wanting you like this—in the context of Jack, with Jack, because of Jack. That was something else entirely. It brushed up against things he didn’t have neat categories for. Things that felt uncomfortably close to lines he’d spent years pretending weren’t there.

And Jack…

Jack, who didn’t do anything halfway, who didn’t offer things he wasn’t sure about—was sitting across from him like this was just another extension of something already solid. Like this wasn’t a risk so much as… an opening.

That was what threw him. It wasn’t the sex or the implication, it was how Jack totally trusted him. With you, with this, with Jack himself.

And Robby didn’t trust himself nearly that much.

That was the problem. Beneath all the deflection, all the dryness and sarcasm, the sharp edges, there was something undeniably real threading through all three of you. Not clean, not simple—but real in a way that resisted being dismissed.

Jack had never been particularly private about you. Not with Robby.

Not in the way people usually were about relationships—careful, curated, keeping the good parts polished and the rest tucked away. Jack wasn’t built like that. He didn’t gush, didn’t sentimentalise—but if he’d had a couple drinks in him and it’d been a long week, you came up. Inevitably.

Not in a soft-focus, hearts-and-flowers way.

In details. In fragments. In the way you got under his skin and stayed there. 

The way you kissed him, made him feel every ounce of his own flesh and blood, grounded, and above at once. In how much he adored your figure, or some ridiculous position, some ridiculous story of stamina and libido, your mouth, his mouth, your hand, his hand.

Robby had learned, over the years, to let it wash over him. Half-listening, half-not. It wasn’t discomfort exactly—more like… he didn’t know where to put it. There was something about hearing your name in Jack’s mouth like that that sat strange in his chest. 

“What the fuck do you mean six times?” Robby had said once, a laugh breaking through despite himself as he tipped his beer back.

They were sprawled out on the grass like they hadn’t aged out of it—backs damp against the ground, shirts sticking, the heat of the day still rising up through the dirt. The city hummed around them, distant enough to ignore. It felt like being twenty something again, except their knees ached when they stood and everything they didn’t talk about sat heavier.

It was one of those nothing nights, sometime back in Spring. End of a shift. A few beers. Waiting for you to finish upstairs while Jack pretended he wasn’t being watched over by the hospital.

Jack didn’t even open his eyes. “I mean she came six times,” he said, easy. “Working up to eight.”

Robby snorted. “You’re talking like it’s a personal best.”

“It is,” Jack said. “You don’t set goals, you stagnate. That’s what my therapist says.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Jack grinned faintly, still flat on his back, arms folded behind his head like he had nowhere else to be. “What’s your number?”

Robby shrugged, taking another sip. “I don’t know. I don’t have a number.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Nope.”

“Bull.”

Robby dragged a hand over his mouth, already regretting engaging. “…Four. Maybe.”

Jack turned his head slightly, considering that like it mattered more than it should. His fingers tapped absently against the neck of the bottle.

“Four,” he repeated.

“Some of us aren’t treating it like a competitive sport,” Robby muttered.

Jack huffed. “It’s not me,” he said. “It’s her. She’s a natural.”

“She really that good?” Robby had slipped as a question. Maybe for his own curiosity, maybe because he knew Jack would’ve gotten to it at some point. Both, likely.

There was a beat.

Robby stared up at the sky like it didn’t matter either way. Jack shifted slightly, something quieter settling into him now.

“She’s—” he paused, like he was trying to find a word that didn’t sound ridiculous and failing. “She pays attention. Like she’s studying you. Figures out what works and then—just… doesn’t let up. Like I’m constantly high around her. And man, she-” Jack cleared his throat. “She does this thing with her tongue.”

Robby exhaled through his nose, slow.

He didn’t say anything.

“She swirls it, right around the underside, traces it—the entire thing with the flat part. Goes between, you know, broad strokes, little ones, then she’ll—fuck,” Jack had mused. “…She’ll use the space beneath her tongue, suck, and still use her tongue at the same time. I can’t describe how good it feels,” Jack had explained, his words slurring slightly but still carrying a strange clarity. “Fucking… incredible.”

Robby couldn’t have helped but picture it. The image of you, on your knees, long lashes batting at him, as you brought him to the edge. He sipped his beer, fingers a bit tighter around the neck of the glass.

“She makes the prettiest noises, like a… I don’t even know,” Jack added, quieter now, almost to himself. “Moans and screams, and so… Christ. Like she doesn’t even realise she’s doing it, possessed.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Robby cut in, not sharply, but firm.

Jack just smirked, eyes still shut. “You asked.”

“I didn’t ask for a breakdown.”

“Semantics.”

Robby shook his head, but there was a faint smile tugging at his mouth despite it. He finished the last of his beer, letting the cold settle something in his chest that had nothing to do with the heat.

A pause stretched between them. Jack sipped his beer. Then—

“What’s the deal with you and Noelle?” Jack asked, casual in that way that wasn’t casual at all.

Robby’s jaw shifted.

“She’s… fine,” he said.

Jack cracked one eye open. “That sounds promising.”

Robby huffed. “It’s not—” he cut himself off, shook his head. “Don’t think it’s going anywhere.”

Jack watched him for a second. Then nodded, like he’d expected that. He handed Robby his own beer, watching as Robby took it after a moment, sipping from it himself

“Yeah,” he said. “Bummer.”

Another beat. Robby sat up, bracing his forearms on his knees, their shared beer dangling loose between his fingers.

“Don’t think I’m built for it,” he said finally.

Jack didn’t move. “For what?”

“This,” Robby gestured vaguely. “Relationships. The staying. The… showing up part.”

Jack was quiet for a second.

Then—

“Now that’s bull,” he said, not unkindly.

Robby glanced at him, a faint, tired smirk pulling at his mouth. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “We’ve known each other, what—twenty years? You’ve stuck around that long.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

Robby didn’t answer that. Jack pushed himself up onto his elbows now, looking at him properly.

“You don’t get to pretend you can’t do something just because you haven’t done it right yet,” he said.

Robby scoffed lightly. “Didn’t realise you were gonna get philosophical on me.”

“Yeah, well,” Jack muttered, reaching for his beer. “Hate to break it to you, man, but you’re not some unfixable case.”

Robby laughed at that—short, real.

“Garcia said I’d make a good ex-husband,” he said.

Jack snorted. “See? Even she thinks you can commit.”

“That’s not what that means.”

“Close enough,” Jack sighed. “Lie down, will you. You’re so damn tense.”

Robby let out a low groan but did it anyway, dropping back into the grass beside him, one arm flung over his eyes like he could shut the world out for a second. 

The ground was still a little damp from the morning rain, cool through his shirt, the air thick and warm in that late-night way where everything feels slower, looser.

They went quiet after that. Easy quiet. The kind that only comes after years—no need to fill it, no need to perform.

“Aw, you two are so cute.”

Jack sat up immediately.

You stood a few feet off the path, lit half by a flickering streetlamp—scrubs wrinkled, hair a mess like you’d been running your hands through it all day, hoodie tied loose around your hips. One of Jack’s old military backpacks hung off your shoulder like it belonged there. 

For a while there, Robby had forgotten the whole reason they’d been in the park to begin with was to wait for you.

“Hey, baby,” Jack said, voice softening without him meaning it to. “You finish alright?”

You just nodded, already moving toward him.

You didn’t hesitate—never did. Leaned down, pressed a quick kiss to his cheek that turned, halfway through, into something closer to his mouth. Warm. Familiar. You lingered just long enough that he had to chase it a second.

“Miss me?” you murmured, barely pulling back.

“Always,” he said, easy. A little drunk, a little honest.

Robby watched it happen from the ground, not even pretending not to.

You dropped down in front of Jack, cross-legged, close enough your knees brushed his thighs. His hands came up immediately—instinct, habit—sliding over your arms, grounding, checking. 

Then his mouth found your neck, a soft press just under your jaw, before his hands settled at your shoulders, working slow circles into muscle that had no business being that tight at your age.

You exhaled like you’d been holding it all day.

“Jesus,” you muttered. “Keep doing that.”

“Yeah?” Jack hummed against your skin, a little smug.

“Mhm.”

You tipped your head slightly, giving him better access without thinking. He took it.

Across from you, Robby shifted, propping himself up on his elbows now, watching the two of you with that same look he always got—half amused, half something else he never quite named.

“Robby,” you said, glancing over at him, “how the hell are you drinking after that shift? You guys were slammed.”

“Sometimes a drink’s all you get,” he said. His voice was steady, but his eyes flicked—brief, involuntary—to where Jack’s hands were still working into your shoulders. Then back to your face. “Ortho must’ve been a dream, though.”

You let out a dry laugh. “Oh yeah. Absolute paradise. Park was being a complete asshole to one of the R1s. Kid looked like he was gonna cry.”

“Sounds about right,” Robby muttered.

Jack’s hands slowed, thumbs pressing deeper into a knot that made you suck in a breath.

“Careful,” he said. “You’re gonna fall asleep right here.”

“Honestly?” you said, eyes half-lidded now, “tempting.”

There was a beat. Quiet again—but different this time. Fuller.

You shifted slightly, leaning back into Jack without thinking. Your hand found his knee, resting there, absent, like it belonged.

Robby noticed that too. Of course he did.

You glanced up at Jack then, studying him for a second longer than necessary.

“…You been talking about me?” you asked.

Jack snorted, immediate. “What?”

“You’ve got that look,” you said, squinting at him. “And he’s looking at me weird.”

“I always look at people weird,” Robby said, flat, from the grass.

You didn’t even look at him. “Yeah, but this is a different weird.”

Jack huffed a laugh under his breath, shaking his head like you were ridiculous, even as his mouth betrayed him. “We were just talking about your—what was it—immense beauty. Your sex appeal. Your many talents.”

His mouth brushed your neck again as he said it, like he couldn’t quite help himself.

Robby let out a quiet breath through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Something drier. “It’s not far off.”

You stilled. Then slowly turned your head, looking at Jack properly now.

“What did you say to him,” you murmured, low, dangerous in a way that wasn’t entirely serious—but not entirely not.

Jack leaned in, said something under his breath—too quiet for Robby to catch. Your reaction was immediate.

You smacked his leg—right on the prosthetic—with a sharp thwack.

“Jack.”

He barely flinched, just grinned, caught your wrist before you could do it again.

“If you actually told him that,” you said, pointing at him, “I swear to god I’ll take this thing off and beat you with it.”

“That’s dramatic,” Jack murmured, still holding your hand. “And also physically unlikely.”

“It’s true, though,” he added, softer now, mouth near your ear again. “You’re very good at it.”

You rolled your eyes, but your shoulders had loosened, leaning back into him again despite yourself.

Robby watched the whole thing like it was a film he hadn’t agreed to sit through, but couldn’t quite look away from either.

“So the tongue thing’s real then?” he asked, almost idly.

Jack groaned. “Alright. We’re done here.”

You laughed—bright, cutting through the heaviness of the day shift still clinging to all three of you—and turned into Jack properly this time.

It wasn’t quick. Not really. Soft at first, then deeper, your hand coming up to his jaw, holding him there. He responded without thinking, one hand sliding to your waist, pulling you closer, grounding himself in something he knew.

Robby looked away. Not fast enough.

You pulled back eventually, brushing your nose against Jack’s.

“I’ll drive,” you said quietly. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk,” he said automatically.

“You’re pretty drunk,” you corrected.

A beat.

“…Alright. Could be a little drunk,” he conceded.

You smiled, already reaching into his pocket for the keys like it was second nature. He let you. Fingers brushing yours as you took them, just for a second longer than necessary.

“Don’t lose the car,” he muttered.

“No promises.”

You stood, stretching slightly, then glanced down at Robby.

“You good?” you asked, softer now.

He met your eyes, something unreadable passing through his expression before it settled back into something easier.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m good.”

You nodded like you believed him.

“Night, Michael.”

There was a flicker at that—something small but real.

“Night,” he said.

Jack let you haul him up, weight shifting automatically to his left as he got his balance, your hand steady at his arm without making a thing of it. He adjusted, rolled his shoulders like he always did, then followed your lead without argument.

“Text me when you get home,” he called back to Robby.

“Sure. Have fun with your girl.’ Robby had said, lying back down.

“I definitely will,” Jack nodded.

You were already walking, his shoulder brushing yours, easy. He leaned down slightly as you hit the path, murmuring something low against your hair that made you let out a quiet, breathy laugh—something private, something just for him.

Robby watched you both go.

Didn’t move.

The grass was still damp under his back when he lay down again, staring up at a sky that refused to give him anything clear.

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand over his mouth.

So, when you and Jack finally put it to him—cornered him in that quiet, deliberate way the two of you had—Robby wasn’t as hung up on the logistics of it as he probably should’ve been. The dynamic, the risk, the aftermath—those were the things a smarter man might’ve led with. But that wasn’t where his mind went first.

It went somewhere simpler. Sharper.

Just how pretty were the noises you made? How soft was your tongue? Would you like it if Robby was cruel—if he held your head down and made you choke on him?

And Jack… steady Jack. What did he look like when he finally came? Did he like being teased, kept right on that edge until it snapped? Would he grip Robby’s hair, or would he stay controlled even then, taking it without losing that composure?

It wasn't an abstract curiosity. It wasn’t even entirely sexual, not at its core. It was about access.

About seeing something of both of you that no one else did. About being let into a space that already existed—intimate, closed, complete—and being told there was room for him inside it.

And that—more than anything else—was what made it difficult to dismiss.

★★★

Ortho is down for a consultation when you get called in.

The patient is already under—intubated and sedated, leg secured in traction. The CT is up on PACS, the fracture obvious even before you zoom in: a displaced mid-shaft femur, clear shortening, classic muscle pull deformity.

“Yeah, that’s a transverse mid-shaft femoral fracture,” you say, pen tapping the screen. “You can see the displacement here, and the overlap—this is why the leg looks shortened clinically.”

Santos leans in, her eyes slightly wide. “Fuck.”

You shake your head. “It looks dramatic, but it’s stable from what we’ve got. No obvious vascular compromise on imaging. Ortho will likely take her for an intramedullary nail.”

Santos lets out a breath.

You scroll through the scan again, adjusting the windowing. “We’ll just want to repeat neurovascular checks pre-op and post-reduction. But she’s straightforward.”

“Thank god,” Santos mutters. “I was so not bothered to call for another consult.

A knock on the glass interrupts you. You glance up.

Robby.

He’s already halfway through sanitising his hands when he steps in, eyes flicking once to the screen before landing on you.

“Ortho’s down in ED?” he says.

“Yeah,” you answer, a little too aware of him in the doorway. “Santos messaged me. Femur fracture.”

He leans in beside you to look at the CT, close enough that the space shifts—clinical, but not entirely neutral. He’s tired in the way only long shifts make you, sleeves pushed up, forearms marked faintly by pressure lines from his undershirt.

“Looks like a clean nail,” he says.

“Assuming ortho behaves,” you reply.

He huffs something like a laugh. “They won’t.”

“No,” you agree. “We never do.”

Santos clears her throat. “While I’ve got you—Huckleberry and I are having a Parisian party next Friday. At our place. You should come. You and Abbott, of course.”

You pause slightly.

“A Parisian party?” you repeat.

“Yeah,” Santos says, warming to it. “Paris-themed. Like… French food, wine, decorations. The Eiffel Tower and shit.”

Robby makes a quiet sound behind you—almost a laugh, quickly disguised.

You glance at him, but he’s still looking at the scan like nothing happened.

Santos continues, mildly confused. “Have either of you been to Paris?”

“No,” you say.

Robby: “Nope.”

Santos nods like that still tracks logically. “Yeah, me neither. Barely even been to Canada.”

There’s a beat.

“Anyway,” She adds, already backing toward the door, “You’re invited too, Robby. Maybe the three of you come together or something. You’re all close”

“...Sounds good, Santos, we’ll let you know,” Robby says with a nod. “North Twelve?”

“Consider it done.” Santos says dry, nodding.

The door shuts behind her. Silence settles back in—clean, clinical, familiar. Except Robby is still standing close enough that you’re aware of him in a way you shouldn’t be during a trauma consult.

He glances at the CT again. “Paris-themed party,” he repeats flatly.

“Don’t even,” you say immediately, because you can hear it in his tone already, trying to hide your own smile.

“What?” he says innocently.

You turn slightly toward him. “I know exactly what you’re thinking.”

He finally looks at you properly now, mouth twitching. “I’m not thinking anything.”

“You’re absolutely thinking something and at work nonetheless? Inappropriate.”

“I’m thinking Santos should never be allowed to plan anything,” he says.

“Liar.”

That earns you a brief, quiet exhale of amusement. You finish with the scans and walk out, Robby hot on your heels as you head to the nurses station.

“You think you’ll go?” he asks.

“No,” you say. “Jack and I have the night off. We’ll be busy.”

“Right,” he nods.

A beat.

“You?” you ask.

“I’d rather not spend my night around a bunch of drunk residents,” Robby says with a quiet exhale. “So, no.”

“Come over then,” you offer, stopping at the nurses’ station.

Robby gives you a look. “Thought you said you two were busy.”

“You can be busy with us,” you say, looking up at him, pen tapping lightly against the chart. “Or just Jack. Or just me. He told me you’ve thought about it either way.”

A faint sigh leaves him. “Right. I forgot he can’t keep anything to himself.”

He leans against the counter, lowering his voice slightly as his eyes flick briefly across the station—Dana watching from a few bays away, already narrowing her gaze like she’s clocking something she hasn’t labelled yet.

“Have you?” he asks softly.

“Thought about you? In that way?” you clarify.

He nods, a slight tilt to his head, curious.

You hesitate just long enough to make it honest.

“Yes,” you admit. “You’re tall. Kind. Your beard’s nice. You’re probably a little meaner than Jack, which interests me.”

That earns the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Something deeper in him satisfied.

“Abbot’s a lover boy at heart,” Robby says. “Gives in easily. ‘Specially for you.”

You nod, like that tracks. “Most of the time, yeah.”

That earns a quieter look from him. A pause that sits just slightly longer than professional. Then, more carefully, “Is it true you had a crush on me?”

You tilt your head. “God, he really just— Doesn’t keep anything to himself.”

Robby exhales through his nose. “Not at all. I’ve been subjected to that man and his inner workings for too long.”

You bump his shoulder lightly with yours, just enough contact to make the space between you feel intentional.

“Was it a yes?”

“To the crush?” You consider it. “Yeah.”

That makes his eyebrows lift slightly.

“Before Jack,” you add, like it matters in a technical sense. “Older, authority figure, slightly emotionally unavailable… I think I might just have a pattern.”

Robby hums, low. “Tracks.”

There’s a beat where neither of you moves away. Then he says, quieter, “And now?”

You don’t look away when you answer. “Now, it’s just… different.”

That hangs there. From somewhere down the hall, a monitor beeps sharply, breaking the moment just enough for it not to tip into anything else.

You glance back down at the chart, already half-moving on.

“I’ll let you know when we get a room open for the femur nail lady.”

And then you’re gone—already walking toward the elevator, the conversation left hanging in the air behind you. Robby watches you go.

A quiet breath leaves him through his nose. He taps his fingers once against the counter, then pushes off it, turning back to the screens like he needs something solid to land on.

Dana appears beside him a second later, sliding into the space like she’s been waiting for exactly this moment.

“What’s with that?” she asks.

“...What’s with what?” he replies, arms folding loosely, eyes still on the monitor bank.

“I mean,” she says slowly, “what’s with flirtin’ with Abbott’s girl in front of everybody?”

He doesn’t look at her when he answers.

“That’s not flirting,” he says evenly. “We were just talking.”

Dana hums, unconvinced. “Talkin’ real close.”

Robby exhales, already shifting focus. “New patient?”

“Yeah,” she says, nodding toward the bay. “Just rolled in. Need you over there.”

“Alright,” he says.

And he follows her down the hall, expression already reset.

★★★

“—Hey. Hold on a second,” Jack says, breath a little uneven.

“No, don’t—don’t hold on,” you protest, already moving, frustrated at the interruption. Your hips roll, trying to sink deeper, but his hands clamp down on your waist—firm, grounding, stopping you.

“Hey. Easy.” A breath. “Just—gimme a second, alright?”

You huff, but you stop. Barely. Your thighs tremble, hovering just above his cock, the tip brushing against your wet slit.  “This better be good.”

He lets out something like a quiet laugh, more breath than sound. “Yeah, I’ll try not to waste your time.”

A beat. He looks at you properly now—focused, a little too clear-headed for the situation. His thumb traces a slow circle on your hipbone, soothing, but his eyes are sharp.

“Just… wanna get this straight,” he says.

Your hands shift on his chest, nails dragging lightly. “Okay. Then say it.”

He nods once. “He can be there. He can watch, he can fuck you.” A pause. “But there are lines.”

You tilt your head, watching him. “Such as?”

His grip tightens just a fraction—not enough to bruise, enough to mean something. “Such as—you don’t forget who you’re with.”

You raise a brow, a smirk pulling at your lips. “Hard to forget when you’ve got your dick in me half the time I’m not at work.”

“Smartass,” he mutters. Then, quieter—“I’m serious. He doesn’t get to know how you taste. That’s mine.”

“Uh-huh…” You roll your hips lazily, not sinking down, just letting the head of his cock nudge against your clit, making him hiss. “So this is allowed?” You lift up, then lower just an inch, teasing the tip against your entrance.

“Yeah, allowed,” Jack nods, his jaw tight.

“Mm. This?” You lean down and kiss him—sweet, slow, your tongue brushing his lower lip before you pull back with a soft pop.

He nods into the kiss, groaning when you start to move again, lifting your pussy off him completely. The air hits his wet shaft and he shudders.

“Yeah? What about this?” You wrap your hand around his cock, giving it a slow, deliberate stroke from base to tip, slick with your own arousal. You squeeze just a little, watching his eyes flutter.

“All allowed,” he grates out, “but his mouth isn’t getting near this, alright, that’s all—” He cuts off as he grabs you by the hips, guiding your pussy back down, lining you up and shoving it back in with a single, brutal thrust. Your moan rips out of you—loud, breathy, grateful. His cock fills you so deep you feel it in your throat.

“Yeah? That good with you?” he asks, voice rough.

You nod, already starting to ride him—slow at first, just a rock of your hips, teasing the angle. “What about you and ’im?” you ask, breath hitching as you grind down.

Jack shrugs—or tries to. “What don’t you want?”

“No blowjobs either, then,” you say, voice a little strained as you lift up and drop back down, feeling every ridge. “’S for me.”

“Sounds good to me.” His hands find your hips again, but he doesn’t guide—he just holds, letting you set the pace. Letting you take.

You pick up speed, thighs burning, your clit grinding against his pubic bone with each roll. The room fills with the wet sound of your pussy gripping his cock, and you tilt your head back, letting him see the arch of your throat.

His hand comes up, thumb brushing along your jaw, pulling your focus back to him when you drift.

“Right here,” he murmurs.

You meet his gaze. That same look—steady, a little rough around the edges, but sure. His.

“Good,” he says, softer now. His thumb drags across your lower lip, and you part your mouth, just enough to suck the tip of it in. His eyes darken.

And when you move again, it’s slower. You rock forward, letting his cock hit that deep, sweet spot, and you moan against his thumb. You pull off it with a wet sound, then lean down to kiss him again—dirtier this time, tongue and teeth, whimpering into him.

“Yeah,” he breathes against your lips. “That’s better.”

★★​​★

It’s late into the evening on Friday when you hear Jack on the phone.

“No, can’t,” Jack says, pacing your living room, phone tucked to his ear while he half-heartedly folds laundry and gives up halfway through. “I’m home. She’s cooking. Smells like I’m about to get fat and happy.”

“Baby, can you come try this?” you call from the kitchen.

“One sec,” he says, then quieter, back into the phone—“What’d you wanna do?”

“Nothing,” Robby mutters. “I… I don’t know, man. I don’t feel like crashing Santos and Whitaker’s… house party. We could go for a drive. Hike.”

Jack stops mid-step. “A hike,” he repeats. “At nine-thirty at night.”

A beat.

“Yeah, not happening,” he decides, dropping the laundry basket and heading into the kitchen.

You’re at the counter in that barely-there nightgown—soft, short, riding up your thighs as you lean forward, aggressively chopping an onion like it personally offended you. Eyes glossy, blinking through it.

Jack pauses in the doorway for half a second longer than necessary.

Then—business as usual.

“Alright,” he says, stepping in behind you, close enough that his hand brushes your hip on the way past. “What am I trying?”

You nod at the stove. “Carbonara.”

He leans over, tastes it, hums—low, approving.

“Yeah,” he says into the phone. “She’s showing off.”

You bump his arm lightly. “I am not.”

“You are,” he says, kissing you quick, easy, like he’s done it a thousand times. “It’s working.”

You smile despite yourself, wiping at your eyes.

On the phone, Robby exhales. Rough. Tired.

“Hike’s dumb,” Jack says, shifting tone without making it obvious. “What’s actually going on.”

“Nothing,” Robby says. “Just… can’t sit still. Garcia was on my ass all day, Al-Hashimi wouldn’t shut the fuck up—”

“—Hey,” Jack cuts in, calm, steady. “Take a breath.”

You glance over at him. He’s not looking at you anymore—focused now, locked into that mode.

“You’re good,” he says. “You’re not thinking anything dumb, right?”

A pause.

“…No,” Robby says. “Just need to… get out of my head, I don’t know.”

Jack hears it. You do too. That edge. That restless, pissed-off with nowhere to put it thing.

“He can come here,” you say, like it’s obvious.

Jack looks at you—quick, assessing—but there’s no resistance there. Just a flicker of something else.

“Yeah,” he says into the phone. “Come over. Food’s ready soon.”

“I don’t know, man—” Robby starts.

You reach over and take the phone straight out of Jack’s hand.

“Hey, Michael.”

There’s a beat.

Jack watches you now, not even pretending to focus on the onions anymore.

“…Hey,” Robby says, slower. “Heard you were cooking.”

“Mhm,” you hum, leaning back against the counter, bare leg brushing against Jack’s where he stands beside you. “Plenty to go around.”

Jack’s hand settles at your hip automatically. Not possessive—just there.

Robby hears the shift anyway.

“This a setup?” he asks.

You smile slightly. “You always this suspicious, or just with me?”

A quiet scoff from him.

“You should come,” you add, softer—but not innocent. “You sound like you need it.”

A beat. Jack’s thumb presses lightly into your hip. Grounding. Present.

Robby exhales. “Yeah. Guess I can make it.”

“Guess you can,” you say easily.

Silence again—but it’s different now.

You glance at Jack.

He nods once.

“Door’s unlocked,” you say. “Twenty minutes.”

You hand the phone back.

Jack takes it, fingers brushing yours briefly, then brings it back to his ear. “You heard her. No pressure.”

A pause.

“…Alright,” Robby says.

The line clicks dead.

Jack sets the phone down on the counter, then looks at you properly. A slow once-over. Not subtle.

“What?” You raise a brow.

“Nothing. Nothing at all. I’ll finish the laundry.” He gives you a deep kiss to your neck, hands trailing over your figure as he mumbles into your skin, fingers gently pushing aside the light material. “You gonna stay in this?” He asks.

“‘S that alright?” You wonder, leaning into his touch.

He inhales sharply against your skin, lips leaving your skin. “Sure.”

★★★

You’re out on the balcony when it comes up.

Jack’s place sits high enough that the city feels almost staged—Pittsburgh stretched out in warm light, bridges lit up in clean lines, traffic moving steady below like it never really stops. It’s one of those late summer nights where the air sticks just slightly to your skin, warm but not suffocating. There’s music drifting from somewhere down the block, a party you can’t see but can feel in the background.

The balcony’s not small—wide enough for a proper table, a few chairs, space to lean without feeling cramped. Jack had insisted on that when he bought the place. Said if he was going to spend money, it’d be on something worth standing still for.

Your plates are mostly cleared, carbonara half-finished, wine and beer sweating into the wood.

“Have either of you done this before?” Robby asks.

Jack shakes his head immediately. “No.”

You don’t answer.

You’re thinking—actually thinking, head tilted slightly, finger lifting to tap against Jack’s arm like you need him to hold on a second. That’s when it hits him, belated and faintly incredulous, that this apparently hadn’t come up when the idea itself had.

“…Have you?” Jack asks, turning to you, already suspicious.

“I am thinking,” you murmur, brows pulling together like this is a serious recall exercise.

Robby raises a brow, watching you now, something amused creeping in despite himself.

“What do you mean you’re thinking?” Jack presses. “That’s not… I don’t know, something you half do or something. You’d know.”

“Or something,” Robby mutters under his breath.

You shoot him a look, then roll your eyes. “Okay—no. I don’t think I’ve had a threesome.”

“How can you not think you’ve had a threesome?” Jack wonders.

You lean back slightly, folding one leg under you, the fabric of your nightgown shifting higher on your thigh without you bothering to fix it. You don’t notice how both men’s gaze drop there.

You exhale, already regretting engaging. “Because—technically—no one actually got fucked, there was no penetration by anybody, so, grey area?”

There’s a beat.

Robby’s mouth twitches.

Jack blinks. “...Right.”

“Okay?” you continue, defensive now. “It was—hands. That’s it. Group situation, but not… full commitment.”

Robby huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Group situation,” he repeats.

“Shut up,” you mutter.

“Another guy or girl?” Jack asks, too quickly.

You hesitate just long enough to make it interesting. “…Both.”

Jack leans back like you’ve just told him something deeply inconvenient. “...Huh.”

Robby lets out a low whistle through his nose. “So not a threesome. Just… poor project management.”

You laugh despite yourself. “Oh my god.”

“That’s a foursome that lost direction,” he adds, dry.

“Whatever,” you shrug. “Med school was fun for me. Sorry I had range.”

Jack eyes you, something between amused and slightly thrown. “I’m just saying, that’s a hell of a thing to casually drop over dinner.”

You smirk faintly. “I’m surprised you haven’t.”

Jack scoffs. “I’ve had opportunities.”

“Mm,” you hum, unconvinced.

Robby glances at him sideways. “That sounds like a lie.”

“It’s not a lie,” Jack says, defensive now. “I just—never felt the need.”

“Right,” Robby says. “Till now.”

Jack gives him a look. “Till now.”

Something passes there—quick, familiar, not entirely friendly as Robby sips his beer.

After, you step out to the edge of the balcony, forearms resting against the railing. The city hums below you, the air warmer now, carrying the smell of food and distant smoke.

Inside, you hear Jack moving—plates, running water. Robby’s voice low, asking something, already familiar with the space.

“Thanks, baby,” you say when Jack comes back out, taking your plate.

You lean in, press a quick kiss to his cheek.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, hand coming up to your hair, messing it slightly with a small, easy smile.

You push him away lightly. “Don’t start.”

Robby watches it for a second before picking up the empty bottles, holding them loosely by the necks.

“Next to the fridge?” he asks, like he hasn’t been here a hundred times already—like tonight isn’t slightly different.

“Yeah,” you nod. “Recycling. Thank you.”

He gives a short nod and turns— You catch his wrist. It’s not forceful. Just enough.

“Hey,” you say, softer.

He looks down at you.

There’s a pause—his eyes dragging, just briefly, lower before coming back up. You’re close enough now to feel the heat off him, the faint roughness of his breath after a drink, after a long day.

You use his forearm to pull yourself up just slightly— and kiss him. It’s not rushed. It’s far from tentative either. Close. Testing.

His beard scratches lightly against your skin, rough in a way that makes you more aware of it, not less. He stills for half a second—then responds, mouth softer than you expected, hand hovering like he hasn’t decided where it’s allowed to land. 

Your teeth catch his bottom lip briefly. That’s what does it.

“Starting without me?” Jack’s voice cuts in, dry. “Bit mean.”

Robby pulls back instinctively, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t—even though—

Even though.

You smile a little, letting go of his wrist as he clears his throat.

“Next to the fridge,” Jack adds, nodding toward the bottles.

Robby nods once, wordless, moving past him.

Their shoulders brush as he goes. Not accidental. Jack doesn’t move out of the way.

He watches Robby for a second longer than necessary, then looks back at you.

You end up on the couch.

It happens naturally—plates abandoned in the sink, TV flicked on for noise more than anything else. Some late-night rerun playing low in the background, colours shifting across the room, low lamps lighting the room.

Jack’s in the middle, halfway through some story from work—one of those cases that stuck with him. Complicated, strange, the kind he can’t quite let go of.

You’re tucked into his side, knees curled under you, your hand idly playing at the back of his neck—fingers brushing through his hair, absent, familiar. You nod along, half-listening, more focused on the rhythm of his voice, the warmth of him.

Robby’s behind you. Close enough that you can feel the heat of him through your back, even before his hand settles on your thigh—slow, absent movement, like he’s not even fully aware he’s doing it.

Up. Down. Not pushing. Not asking. Just there.

Jack keeps talking.

You lean in without really thinking about it—your lips brushing along his jaw, then just below it. Light. Familiar. Not rushed.

Jack’s hand comes up to your lower back automatically, pulling you in a fraction closer, steadying you there.

Robby’s hand doesn’t stop. If anything, it shifts—just slightly higher, fingers brushing warmer skin now where the fabric gives way.

Jack feels it. His hand stills for a second at your back—then relaxes again.

He doesn’t pull you away. Doesn’t say anything. You exhale softly against his neck, your breath warm there, your fingers tightening slightly where they rest behind him.

And for a second—just a second—you’re aware of both of them at once.

Jack in front of you, steady, grounding. Robby behind you, quieter, heavier—watching more than speaking.

Jack’s gaze lifts. Meets Robby’s. There’s a beat. Not long. But long enough. Something passes between them—wordless, measured. Something you can’t read.

Jack gives the smallest nod. Barely there. Robby’s jaw shifts slight. Then Jack looks back at you.

Your hand slides from his neck to his jaw, turning him slightly, and you kiss him properly this time—slow, deliberate. He leans into it without hesitation, one hand firm at your waist.

When you pull back, it’s not far. Just enough. Just long enough to turn.

Robby’s already looking at you. Not surprised. Not really. Just watching. You close the distance like it’s nothing—like it’s always been this simple—and kiss him too.

Different. Not softer, not harder—just new. Testing. His hand stills on your thigh for half a second before it shifts, coming up to steady at your side, like he’s grounding himself in it.

There’s a quiet breath from him—almost a huff, almost disbelief.

“This is fun,” You murmur.

You don’t give him time to overthink it.

You lean back between them again, tipping your head slightly, and they follow without being told.

Jack’s mouth finds one side of your neck, familiar, certain.

Robby hesitates for a fraction of a second— then doesn’t.

The other side. Slower. More deliberate. Like he’s learning something he’s not used to having.

You exhale, a soft sound you don’t quite hold back this time, and your hands come up instinctively—one finding Jack’s hair, the other Robby’s, fingers threading through both, holding them there.

For a second, it stays like that. Balanced.

Then you shift, just slightly—hands tightening, guiding as you move the two of them, their lips almost naturally coming to find one anothers, moving them like ken dolls, before you drop your hands, watching with a small smile, as Robby's immediacy for control goes against Jack's. Robby’s hand deepening into your thigh, grip tight as he kisses Jack.

Jack pulls back first, breath uneven but still controlled, his eyes flicking to yours like he’s checking in—like he always does.

His hand slides up your spine, slower now, deliberate where it had been absent before. His palm is cool against your overheated skin, the contrast making you shiver as it traces upward, then back down again, lingering just enough to feel intentional.

You lean back into him, lips finding his neck again—dragging slowly over the roughness of his skin, the faint scrape grounding, familiar. You press a little firmer this time, less thought, more instinct.

When you pull back, it’s only barely. Your breath catches—not dramatic, just… aware. Of him. Of Robby. Of both.

Jack’s hand presses more firmly into your back, keeping you close, steadying you like he can feel the shift too.

“Baby,” he murmurs, voice low, softer than before. “Feeling needy?”

You nod against him, answering with your mouth instead—kissing along his jaw now, slower, more deliberate.

“Yeah,” he exhales, a quiet sort of understanding in it. “I know, hon.” A beat. Then, quieter—“You want me, or him?”

You hesitate. Not long—but long enough to matter.

Robby’s hand shifts on your thigh, moving from the outside to your inner thigh, firm but unhurried, easing you open just slightly—testing, not taking. Waiting to see what you’ll do with it.

“It’s alright,” Jack starts, voice still calm, like he’s talking you through something he already trusts. “Go ahead. She likes it when you—”

“—I’ll ask you for help if I need it, alright?” Robby cuts in, low and even.

They exchange a look—brief, sharp, understood.

You lean over, pressing a quick, soft kiss to Jack’s cheek—something sweet, grounding—before shifting your weight and climbing into Robby’s lap.

He stiffens for a second. Just a second.

Robby’s always been hard to read. Time’s etched itself into his face, but there’s still that wall there—something held back, something controlled. Maybe it’s nerves. Maybe it’s you. His best friend’s girl, sitting on him like this—close, warm, curious.

“You okay there, Sasquatch?” you tease, tilting your head up at him.

His hands find your thighs again almost immediately, like muscle memory kicking in. His gaze flicks—down, over you, then back to your eyes. Briefly to Jack. Then back again.

“Sasquatch? Really?” he murmurs, one hand moving up to cup your breast through your top. His palm is warm against you, sending a shiver down your spine. “That’s what you’re going with?”

“Beard, tall… same thing, no?” you shrug lightly.

That earns the faintest hint of a smirk.

“She always cracking jokes before getting fucked?” Robby asks, giving your breast a firm squeeze. His other hand slides lower, ghosting over your stomach before cupping your mound through your panties

“Depends,” Jack admits. “One time I got G.I Joe for an hour.”

“He was in uniform, in my defense,” You defend, brief before you try moving your hips over Robby’s fingers, eager. “Come on, Michael.” 

Robby's fingers press harder against your core, rubbing slow, firm circles that have you arching into him, a sweet whine escaping your lips, his eyes enamoured with how your mouth parts, breath warm against him. 

“What a cute noise you make, sweetheart,” Robby murmurs. “Ask me nicely now.”

You hesitate, desperate as his fingers continue to move achingly slow over your wetness.

“Ask or I give Jack my hand right now instead and you can wait your turn for another hour,” Robby tells, voice low and soft, not looking away from where his fingers glide over your seeping core.

“Please,” you murmur, voice breathy and desperate. “Please fuck me with your fingers.”

You crash your lips to his—harsh, messy, tongues thrusting quick and slick, his beard scraping rough red trails across your cheeks and chin. He growls low into your mouth, yanking your panties aside with brutal force, calloused fingertips dragging through your dripping folds, parting your lips wide before ramming two thick fingers knuckle-deep into your clenching pussy—no mercy, no prep.

You gasp ragged into the kiss, a high-pitched moan ripping free as your lips break away, saliva trailing shiny strings from his mouth to yours. You latch onto his neck, teeth grazing the salty skin, sucking hard as you grind down fierce onto his invading digits—walls squeezing tight around the stretch, juices flooding hot over his palm.

“Move your fingers toward her ventral,” Jack instructs from the side, voice calm but edged with that teasing know-it-all tone, his hand sliding warm along your spine.

Robby exhales sharp through his nose—mild irritation flashing in his eyes at the unasked advice, jaw clenching as he shoots Jack a quick, heated glare. But he curls his fingers obediently upward inside you, knuckles grinding rough along your front wall to hammer your g-spot precise and relentless. Your moan swells louder, body jolting as fresh gushes of slick coat his hand, pussy slurping obscenely around each pump.

“Christ, you’re making a mess on me, aren’t you, kid? Huh?” Robby rasps, voice gravel-thick with mean delight, eyes locked on the filthy sight—your swollen pussy lips gliding and sucking greedily over his plunging fingers, riding them frantic. 

He twists his wrist sharp, scissoring the digits wide to pry your hole open, thumb mashing down hard on your throbbing clit with every brutal thrust—wet schlicks echoing loud, your thighs trembling slick against his forearm, arousal trickling warm down to soak his jeans.

He adds a third finger suddenly, forcing the burn deeper, stretching your cunt taut as he moves, hooking mercilessly on that spongy spot. 

“You getting close?” He asks, low and rough, listening closely to your moans, how they become pitchier, breathier, as sweet as Jack described. You nod, a loose yes, focused only on how your core winds up to the edge. “That right?”

Your cries pitch wilder, back arching as he pinches your clit between thumb and knuckle, rolling it rough while his fingers churn your insides, coil tight in your core.

“What else she like?” Robby asks Jack, glancing over at his friend now, fingers never slowing their rhythm inside you.

Jack taps his index and middle digit to his lips, nodding toward you. Robby nods back, hums at the sight of you, curious.

Robby yanks his fingers free abrupt—your pussy clenching empty, a whine tearing from your throat at the aching void, hips bucking needy for more. He brings those soaked digits up to your face, gripping your chin firm to still you, watching hungry as you part your lips instinctively. 

His fingertips tease your bottom lip, smearing your own cream glossy, before you suck them in deep—tongue swirling eager around the thick lengths, lapping every tangy drop, hollowing cheeks as saliva drips messy down your chin.

“Atta girl, you’re a fuckin’ mess now aren’t you?” Robby murmurs, gaze glued ravenous to your bobbing mouth, cock throbbing harder under you. “You wanna cum?”

You nod, frantic around his fingers, eyes pleading.

“Not yet,” Robby denies, voice almost gentle, yet harsh at once. “Barely seen what you can do.”

You exhale shaky as he pulls his fingers out with a wet pop, trailing spit from your chin before cupping your whole face possessive, holding you locked on him.

“Go over to him. Make him feel good,” Robby orders, jerking his chin at Jack.

You nod, movements sluggish from the edge he left you on.

“On the floor, knees, now,” Robby snaps, voice brooking no argument.

You slide off his lap reluctant, crawling back to Jack beside him on the couch. He smiles soft at you, fingers threading gentle through your hair, cupping your cheek as he brushes strands aside, gaze roaming tender over your flushed skin.

“You alright there?” he asks nicely, thumb stroking your jaw.

You nod eager, hands diving straight to his sweatpants, palming the rigid bulge straining there—heat pulsing under your touch. 

You tug the waistband down, freeing his cock—thick shaft springing up heavy, veins bulging, head slick with pre-cum. Your fist wraps tight around the base, pumping slow firm strokes up to the tip, twisting slick over the crown to spread his leak.

Jack inhales sharp, but you drop fully to your knees between his spread thighs on the rug, the rough weave biting into your skin. You lean in, lips parting wide to swallow his cockhead first—tongue flicking the slit to lap salty pre, then sliding down inch by veiny inch, throat relaxing to take him deeper.

“Look pretty down there,” Jack murmurs with a small smile, hand light in your hair, just cradling.

“You’re so soft with her,” Robby remarks from beside, voice mixed with mocking and earnestness as he watches you work, his own tenting obvious.

Jack shrugs, a quiet groan escaping as you hollow your cheeks, sucking vacuum-tight while bobbing steady—saliva pooling at the corners of your stretched lips, dribbling down his balls. Your hand strokes what your mouth can't reach, twisting wet on the upstroke, tongue pressing flat along the underside to trace every ridge.

Robby's gaze burns hot—flicking over your arched back, your drool-slick chin, eyes that dart between Jack's tense face, Robby's hungry stare, then flutter shut as you deepthroat him full, nose burying in his pubes. He fixates on Jack's cock vanishing slick between your lips, throat bulging visible. Then up to Jack, whose fingers grip tighter into your scalp—not shoving, just anchoring as his neck cords tense.

“Good job, sweetheart,” Jack praises breathy, hips twitching minimal into your rhythm. 

Your moan vibrates around his length, humming deep to make him shudder, spit bubbling messy as you pop off to lick sloppy stripes up his shaft, sucking each ball into your mouth turn before plunging back down.

He groans low, head lolling back, “Fucking… perfect. So perfect, always.”

Tension crackles thicker between them—Jack's free hand drifts casual at first, then deliberate, palming Robby's thigh before cupping the massive bulge in his jeans, squeezing firm through denim. Robby stiffens, eyes meeting with Jack's, breath hitching as Jack rubs slow circles over the thick outline, thumb pressing the zipper ridge where pre darkens the fabric.

“You alright there, man?” Jack scoffs, a light smile. “Can’t handle it?”

It’s a challenge. It always is with them. Has been since they were twenty something.

Jack knows exactly what he’s doing—knows the tells. The slight tilt of Robby’s head, the way his weight shifts more onto one side, the flicker of something sharper behind his eyes. He’s seen that look in bars, in fights, in operating rooms when things went sideways.

Robby doesn’t back down from anything. Least of all him.

Then Robby exhales slowly, something almost like a laugh under it, eyes locking onto Jack’s—steady, unflinching.

“Oh, I can handle it just fine,” Robby agrees with his own smile. “Go ‘head.”

Jack groans at your relentless mouth—fast and wet, then slowing perfect against him—his hand stroking over Robby’s clothed cock, deliberate and slow, denim rasping under his palm. He leans in first, crashing his mouth to Robby's—sloppy, urgent, tongues battling fierce right above you, beards grinding rough, wet sucks and grunts filling the air. Jack's fingers knead Robby's bulge harder, unzipping halfway to delve inside, wrapping firm around the hot shaft through boxers.

You pull off Jack with a gasp, spit stringing from your lips to his glistening tip, replacing your mouth with your fist—pumping slick and steady along his veiny length, thumb swirling over the slit to smear pre-cum. Your eyes lock on their kiss, Jack's hand slowing on Robby as your thumb teases tentative over his own sensitive crown, tongue darting out to lap the edge of his slit.

“Oh fuck,” Jack moans into Robby’s mouth, breaking away to watch you lick him sweetly, hips bucking light into your grip.

Your free hand joins Jack’s on Robby’s cock, fingers overlapping his as Robby undoes his belt buckle with a metallic clink, shoving jeans and boxers down his thighs. His thick cock springs free. You spit thick into your palm, slicking it hot before gripping him base to tip, stroking in tandem with Jack—your hand twisting wet on the upstroke while his squeezes the root, veins pulsing under your combined pressure. 

Robby hisses through clenched teeth, thighs tensing as you both jerk him off rough, pre dribbling over knuckles, your mouth still working on Jack’s cock.

Jack's strokes on you falter to lazy pumps, his fist gliding easy over your saliva-lubed skin as he watches Robby swell thicker in your shared hold. “Fuck, feel that grip? She’s got hands made for this,” he rasps, voice husky, eyes dark on Robby's face.

Robby grunts approval, thrusting shallow into the double stroke. Jack pulls back suddenly, nodding down at you. “Let him feel how good your pretty mouth is, baby.”

You release Jack reluctant, his cock twitching angry-red in the cool air as he takes over—fist flying fast over his shaft, slick echoing. You shift on your knees, turning to Robby, who grips his base and taps the fat head heavy against your cheek—wet smacks on flushed skin, taunting drip of pre-painting streaks.

“Dreamt about this once,” he admits, voice low. “The way Jack described it, you’d think you have the mouth of an angel. That right? You an angel?” He wonders.

You lick your lips in anticipation, hand between your legs, fingers gliding over your folds.

“Oh, baby, you’re touchin’ yourself too?” Robby notices. “God, so desperate.”

“Seemed pretty desperate for my boyfriend there too,” You remark, not looking away from Robby’s gaze.

His jaw tightens. “He’s pretty good with his hand, but I think you can do better with your tongue.”

You part lips wide, tongue out flat as he slaps his cock deliberately across it, underside dragging salty over your tastebuds before shoving in brutal—half his length in one thrust, stretching your jaw. 

You gag wet but suck hollow, cheeks caving as you bob frantic, hand pumping the rest in sync. Saliva floods fast, bubbling down his sack as you swirl tongue under the ridge, hollowing deep to milk him. Your fingers are quick against your wetness, dripping between your thighs, your other hand planted at Robby’s thigh.

“Shit—yeah, like that,” Robby growls, free hand fisting your hair to guide rough, not forcing but controlling the pace—pulling you off to tap his cock on your tongue again, smearing spit and pre glossy before ramming back in. 

He fucks your face shallow, hips snapping precise, balls swinging to nudge your chin while Jack jerks himself faster beside, groans syncing with yours muffled around Robby's girth.

You sweep the underside of your tongue around Robby’s cock, soft wetness coating him, slow, then fast, hearing how Robby’s hand tightens harder in your scalp.

Jack leans close, breath ragged as his fist blurs over his cock, tip weeping steady. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Fuck off,” Robby mutters, focused on your mouth, your eyes as they look up at him, wide, watery.

Your fingers slip between your thighs, dipping into your soaked pussy, rutting slow circles over your clit as you kneel between them, mouth stuffed full on Robby's cock. Spit drips messy down your chin, mixing with the slick from your own folds as you finger yourself deeper, chasing that tight coil building low in your belly.

“I’m good,” Jack rasps, eyes locked on your hand working your cunt, his fist pumping steady over his own cock. “Slow down, sweetheart.”

Your fingers comply, easing to lazy drags through your wetness, eyes flicking up to watch Jack slow his palm in sync, thumb circling his flushed tip. His free hand drifts back to Robby's thigh, squeezing hard muscle as he watches you deepthroat—throat bulging obscene with each plunge, gags turning wet and rhythmic.

Robby's taunts rumble gravel-deep: “Fucking hell, you gonna let me cum in that mouth, honey?” He pops free with a gasp, cock throbbing inches from your face, tapping insistent on your cheek—left, right, smearing sticky pre over flushed skin—before you dive back voluntary, nose grinding into his pubes as you swallow him full, humming vibration to wrench a guttural curse from his chest.

“She can take it,” Jack murmurs, voice thick. “Can you, baby? Come on, speak now.”

You moan muffled around Robby's girth, pulling off with a slick pop, resting your head against his still-clothed thigh as your fingers plunge back into your pussy, rutting frantic. “Mhm.” You kiss alongside his shaft, tongue tracing veins lazy, lips brushing hot skin.

“So damn sweet now,” Robby murmurs, hand loosening from your scalp to pet gentle through your hair, watching your fingers disappear knuckle-deep. “That feel good?”

You nod against his thigh, licking slow stripes up his cock, pumping your pussy deliberate—thumb flicking your clit, hips rocking into your hand, edge creeping close, breath hitching sharp.

“No more of that, alright?” Robby nods down, eyes sharp on your body. “Yeah? You listening?”

You groan, fingers curling harder inside yourself. “Fuck you—you wanna cum, I get to cum too.”

Robby tilts his head, that piercing look—the one Jack knows spells trouble, before ripping into a resident. Jack nearly laughs, slowing his strokes to a tease. “Not how it works,” Robby says flat, voice dropping steel.

You glance at Jack, pleading.

“Don’t look at him,” Robby orders, tone snapping stricter, hand fisting your hair tight to force your gaze back. You gulp, thighs clenching empty as you pull your fingers free, pussy clenching needy on nothing. “Put both hands behind your back if you’re gonna act like a fuckin’ brat.”

Reluctant, you clasp your hands behind you, knees aching on the floor, tits heaving with each breath. Robby nods approval, gripping his base to feed his cock back past your lips—slow at first, letting you savor the stretch, then thrusting deeper as you hollow cheeks vacuum-tight.

Your tongue flattens under his shaft to lap the frenulum relentlessly, swirling wet around the head on every upstroke before slamming down throat-deep, gag reflex crushed to nothing. Saliva floods obscenely, bubbling at the corners of your mouth, dripping strings to his balls as you bob frantic—suction pulling groans from his gut, nose buried in coarse hair, throat milking him like a fist. 

You hum constant vibration, eyes watering up at him, popping off to spit thick on his length before sucking one ball then the other into your mouth, rolling tongue heavy before plunging back down full.

“Jesus Christ—yeah, there we go…” Robby snarls, hips snapping erratic, free hand clamping your nape to hold you buried as his cock swells impossibly thicker, balls drawing tight. 

He floods your mouth suddenly—hot spurts painting your tongue thick and salty, cock pulsing ropes down your throat as you swallow greedily around him, not spilling a drop. He rides it out shallow thrusts, groaning ragged until spent, pulling free with a wet schlick.

“Fuck,” he pants, watching your tongue swipe clean over his softening head, lapping the last beads from his slit.

You fall back onto your heels, knees throbbing, core dripping wet and aching empty down your thighs. Swallowing his load thick, you stand shaky, and lean down to Robby, core exposed from your barely there nightgown. You grab him by his jaw, fingers at his chin, watching as his hand catches your wrist.

You smile at that. “Go on,” Your fingers linger near his mouth, covered with your wetness. “Jack prefers the real deal. You shy all of a sudden, Mikey?”

Robby reluctantly opens his mouth, trying and tasting your wetness, sucking your fingers clean.

“Atta boy,” You say sarcastically, moving them out of his mouth. “You think you can still fuck me, old man?” You whisper.

“Watch it,” Robby murmurs.

“You can, in the corner, while Jack finally makes me cum.” You whisper. “Jack,” you grab Jack’s hand, walking away with him as Jack follows suit behind you.

“Up and at it,” Jack tells Robby over his shoulder as he follows you.

“Fucking hell,” Robby mutters, taking a second before following after.

You hum satisfied, leading them stumbling to the bedroom, the air electric behind you.

In the dim glow, you strip your nightgown overhead, leaving ruined panties—crotch soaked dark—and a lacey bra barely containing your tits. Their eyes burn hot as you climb onto yours and Jack's bed, kneeling center.

Jack follows instant, standing at the edge, hands cupping your jaw rough-tender, leaning down to crash his mouth to yours—passionate and devouring, tongue fucking deep to taste Robby's cum lingering salty. You moan into it, hand snaking to grip his cock again, stroking firm base-to-tip.

Behind Jack, Robby's hands roam his back, trailing firm over shirt fabric before gripping the hem, yanking it up and off in one pull. Jack moans muffled into your kiss when your fist pumps faster, hips bucking into your grip, but he breaks away gasping as cool air hits his bare chest.

Robby presses close from behind, chest flush to Jack's back, beard scraping his shoulder as lips latch onto Jack's neck—sucking a mark deliberate.

“Baby, lie down for me,” Jack instructs.

You nod, lying down on your back, knees spread apart like second nature. He tilts his head, as Robby’s lips trail over his skin.

“Enjoying yourself?” Robby echoes Jack's earlier words, hand meeting at his cock briefly, feeling Jack stiffen and inhale sharply at that. “You gonna make your girl cum, or do I have to do that?”

“Fuck off,” Jack murmurs. “Go sit in a corner and wait, or somethin’,” Jack mutters, hands dragging you by the underside of your knee, gently towards the edge as he kneels on the bed, as Robby steps back with a chuckle.

“Think I got her ready, though, so, shouldn't take long,” Robby says. “Unless you’re not as skilled as you’ve been bragging to be.”

“Oh, my god, one of you make me cum or else I’m doing it myself, Jesus,” you whine.

“Oh, baby,” Jack murmurs, kissing at your inner thighs. “I’m leaving you waiting here.”

“She’s being a brat. Have some patience, honey,” Robby insists, tilting his head at you in mock. “But she’s right, hurry up, Abbot, Christ.”

Jack swipes his tongue along your core, and you moan, your wetness ready and eager from Robby's fingering and your own arousal. He licks slow and firm, teasing your sensitive flesh. 

Robby watches from the side, his cock still tucked away in his jeans, as he observes you writhing under Jack's talented tongue. His expression is heated, hungry, clearly enjoying the show. 

"Mmm...you look like a-" you moan, too lost in sensation to finish the thought. "A fucking nun, Michael," you finally manage, nodding towards his henley. "You aren't hot in that? Take it off already, fuck," 

Robby clicks his tongue, a light roll of his eyes. "You could ask me nicely. Here I thought you were so polite and sweet," he chides.

Jack’s tongue is a relentless, wet invasion, fucking into you with a rhythm that steals your breath. You clench around him, a tight, pulsing grip, your fingers tangled in his silver curls, thighs locked around his head like a vise. 

Your eyes stay fixed on Robby’s as he discards his shirt, the fabric whispering to the floor. The snick of his belt sliding free from the loops makes you tighten your legs around Jack even more, a shiver of anticipation racing up your spine, as Jack laps at your pussy.

“Wider,” Jack grunts, his voice muffled against your pussy. He pushes your thighs apart with his hard biceps, one big hand splayed over your hipbone, pinning you down. “Stop squirming. Take it.”

From the foot of the bed, Robby watches, arms folded over his bare chest. He looks like a professor observing a dissection—calm, analytical, utterly in control. “How close are you?” he asks, his tone clinical.

“Mm, close,” you manage, the words breaking on a moan as Jack’s tongue flicks hard over your clit.

“You make such pretty sounds. He was right about that,” Robby hums, stepping closer. He sits on the edge of the mattress, his calloused hand coming up to cup your cheek. His thumb strokes your skin, sweetly, but his brow is furrowed, his gaze intense. “Callin’ me a nun, and you still got this thing on, honey.” He hooks a finger under the strap of your bra and flicks it sharply against your skin, a sting of sensation.

Jack’s tongue plunges deep again, and you arch off the bed, a choked cry leaving your lips. Your eyes don’t leave Robby’s as his hand slides down, cupping your breast through the lace. He admires the weight, the shape, his fingers tracing the curve.

“Want me to fuck you first, or GI Joe there?” Robby recalls, a smirk playing on his lips. 

He doesn’t miss the way your mouth curves in a smile, even as your eyelids flutter shut. Jack quickens his pace, his hands now gripping your thighs like he’s holding you together.

You’re too close, teetering on that blinding edge. Words are impossible.

“Answer me,” Robby instructs, his voice dropping low and stern. His hand kneads your breast, then slips inside the cup of your bra, his fingers finding your nipple. He rolls it, pinches it just shy of pain. “Who do you want first?”

“You,” you gasp, the answer torn from you instinctively, desperately.

Robby’s smirk widens. “You hear that, Abbot? I get to break her in first.” He doesn’t look away from you as he says it.

He leans down, his hand sliding between your legs. Jack pulls back without a word, letting Robby’s fingers trail through your soaked folds, delivering a slap to your clit. You shiver violently, a string of high, needy moans escaping as he collects your wetness on his fingertips. He brings them back to your mouth, his other hand still working your nipple.

“I was right,” you murmur, breathless. “Knew you’d be mean.”

“Yeah? You like it?” Robby wonders, though he already knows.

You bite your lip, refusing to answer.

He pushes his wet fingers past your lips, pulling your jaw open with a firm pressure. The look he gives you is pure command—dark, expectant. Obey.

“I like it,” you moan around his fingers, the admission almost reluctant. Your grip tightens in Jack’s hair. “Fuck—I’m gonna—oh fuck—”

“Yeah?” Robby hums, petting your hair now, his other hand still at your breast. He watches your mouth hang open, watches the pleasure wreck you. “Eyes on me. Come on. No, no. No closing them. You keep ’em right here.” His gaze holds yours captive. “Good girl… good girl, aren’t you? Bratty, but you just needed to cum a little, isn’t that right?”

You whimper as Jack’s tongue sweeps over your oversensitive clit one last time, lapping up your juices as you shatter. Your orgasm crashes through you, white-hot and convulsing, your body bowing off the bed as you cry out.

“Good job, baby. Fucking hell,” Jack mutters against your thigh, his voice rough with praise. 

He comes up your body, his hand replacing Robby’s on your breast, kneading possessively. His lips find yours in a messy, wet kiss, tasting of you. Tongues swiping, teeth clashing briefly as you chuckle into the kiss, wet and sloppy as he moves to your neck, sucking hard around your jaw, yoru neck, hand trailing over your figure, squeezing, gentle, rough all at once.

“My favourite girl in the world, you know that,” he murmurs against your skin, kissing at your collarbone.

You grin, feeling as Robby captures your mouth with his own, a brief pause as he watches Jack worship your figure. Jack slides a finger over your core, feeling as your back arches, how you gasp into Robby’s mouth.

“You aren’t a brat, are you baby?” Jack murmurs, rubbing tight circles at your clit, hearing how you whimper at the feeling, fresh from your orgasm. “No, honey, not for me, isn’t that right? Yeah, I know, I know… my sweet girl,” He replaces Robby’s mouth with his own, dragging over yours as you nod into the kiss. 

“Told you. Lover boy,” Robby remarks to you.

You grin into the kiss, before Jack pulls away and naturally seems to find Robby’s lips.

You watch, a strange heat pooling in your belly, watching as Jack immediately leans in and kisses Robby. It’s harsh and sweet all at once—a clash of teeth and soft sighs. You thought you might feel a spike of jealousy, but instead, a warm, possessive pride swells in your chest. 

Robby stands, briefly cupping Jack’s jaw in a gesture that’s both dismissal and affection before pushing him gently aside. Jack moves from between your legs, sprawling onto his back on the bed. Robby’s hands are on your waist, and you yelp in surprise as he manhandles you with effortless strength, flipping you onto your stomach.

He drags your ruined panties down over your ass, off your legs, and sends them flying to a corner of the room with a flick of his wrist. Your bra is next; he unclips it with one practiced hand, and the lace joins the panties.

“Ass up, sweetheart,” Robby instructs, his voice thick. He lands a sharp, stinging tap on your bare ass cheek. He has one knee on the bed, the other foot planted on the floor.

You obey, pushing yourself up onto your knees and elbows. Jack is lying in front of you now, his gaze heated. You reach for his prosthetic leg, helping him with the quick-release mechanism. Robby hands you the second one without a word—a seamless, understood exchange. Jack kisses you, sweet and grateful, as he sets the limb aside.

"That's it," Robby mutters, positioning himself behind you. You feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against your slick entrance, teasing, and then he thrusts forward in one brutal, seamless motion.

Filling you so completely the air leaves your lungs in a whoosh. He sets a punishing pace immediately, each thrust driving you forward toward Jack.

Robby inhales sharply at the feeling of you. You adjust to him, moan loud and silent all at once at the feeling.

“Shit,” Robby mutters. “Fuckin’ hell, you know much Jack’s raved about this pussy? Callin’ it the treasure of the fucking ocean.”

His hands grip your hips like anchors, fingernails digging into your soft flesh as he sets a merciless rhythm—pounding into you with a force that drives your body forward with each impact, making the headboard knock rhythmically against the wall. “Perfect fucking pussy, sweetheart, you know that?”

You moan at his words, clenching even tighter around him. 

“How the fuck do you leave home, Jack— Jesus Christ,” Robby says as he quickens his pace slightly, watching as your ass moves from the harsh contact of his hips against you.

“Life or death, and that’s it,” Jack says. 

“Come on, give him some love, kid,” Robby tells.

Jack’s cock is hard and leaking against his stomach. You lean down, taking him into your mouth, swallowing him deep. He groans, his hands coming up to cradle your head. “Fuck, just like that,” he rasps.

You’re split between them—Robby fucking into you from behind with deep, possessive strokes, and Jack’s length hitting the back of your throat. The dual sensation is overwhelming. Robby’s hips slap against your ass, the sound filthy and wet. 

“You like being used like this baby?” Jack wonders, your moans vibrating against him. 

You don’t answer, focused on the sensation of Robby’s cock harsh within you.

“He asked you a question,” Robby pants, moving his hand to your hair, tight as you look up at Jack, watery eyed.

“Uh-huh,” you nod. 

“See? Not so hard,” Robby groans.

Jack smiles a bit at that, caressing your face as you occupy your mouth with Jack’s cock. He groans. The taste of salt and heat floods your tongue as you take him deep, your lips stretching around his girth. You hollow your cheeks, sucking hard as you bob your head, letting him feel every ridge of your throat as you swallow him down. Your nose presses against his pelvis, and he groans, his fingers threading through your hair.

"Just like that… Just like that," Jack chokes out, his head falling back as his hips buck up involuntarily, his hand tightening on your jaw. His thumb presses against your cheek, forcing your mouth wider, and you feel every ridge and vein of his cock sliding deeper down your throat. "Come on now, so close."

The words vibrate through you, but before you can double down, Robby leans over your arched back, his chest sweaty and hot against your spine, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Make him wait."

You pull off Jack's cock with a wet pop, a thick strand of saliva and pre-cum stretching between your lips and his glistening tip before breaking. Jack's frustrated groan cuts through the room, his hips twitching in empty air.

"Fuck off, Mike," Jack growls, but his hand remains gentle in your hair, fingers stroking through the sweat-damp strands as you whimper from the brutal pace behind you. 

Robby's cock is driving into you with relentless accuracy, the head of him hitting that deep, spongy spot inside you with every thrust, sending electric jolts through your core. Your inner walls flutter and clench around him, helpless against the assault.

"You gonna be a brat too, then?" Robby says, shooting a lighthearted glare at Jack over your shoulder. 

Before Jack can retort, you clench down hard around Robby's shaft, a desperate whine escaping your throat. Robby's rhythm stutters for half a second, a low curse spilling from his lips. "Fucking—hell, god, doll. You are so goddamn tight, y'know that?"

His pace becomes brutal, each thrust driving deeper, harder, the angle punishing. His balls slap wetly against your clit with every impact, the sound filthy and rhythmic. You feel the slick heat of your own arousal coating his shaft, dripping down your thighs with every punishing stroke. 

"She's close," Jack murmurs, his voice softer now, almost reverent. 

You shift forward, pressing open-mouthed kisses across his stomach, your tongue tracing the soft lines of his abs, tasting salt and skin, over the light freckles. You moan into his flesh, the vibration making his muscles jump, and then his palm cups your cheek, thumb brushing over your bottom lip, holding you warmly.

"Look at you," Jack whispers, his eyes dark and soft at once. "So beautiful like this. Taking us both. You're doing so well, baby."

“Go ahead, cum,” Robby growls into your ear, his hand snakes around your hip, his fingers finding your clit. He rubs tight circles against the swollen nub while he continues to pound into you, and the sensation is electric—each thrust driving his fingers harder against that sensitive bundle of nerves. “Now.”

You moan around Jack’s cock as you break, your pussy clenching wildly around Robby’s thrusts. The convulsions milk him, and with a low groan, he buries himself to the hilt and pulses inside you, hot and deep.

"Fuck," he breathes, his forehead pressing against your shoulder blade, his body shuddering through the aftershocks.

He pulls out slowly, and you feel his cum begin to seep from you. 

“Goddamnit,” Robby murmurs, a pant. 

Before you can even catch your breath, he spits into his palm, the sound crude and purposeful. He reaches down, slicking up Jack’s cock, which is already hard again and straining against his stomach. Jack groans, a deep, ragged sound at the touch.

“Your turn,” Robby tells him, his voice rough with use.

But instead of letting you face Jack, Robby guides you. His strong hands on your hips turn you, maneuvering your spent body until you’re straddling Jack, but facing away from him. Your back is to Jack’s chest, your ass pressed against his hips. You can feel Robby’s cum, warm and wet, slicking the way as you settle over Jack’s length.

Jack’s hands come to your hips, steadying you. “Easy, sweetheart,” he murmurs, but his voice is tight with need.

From the foot of the bed, Robby watches. He’s kneeling there now, his eyes dark and hungry, fixed on the place where your bodies move against one another, well practiced. Jack’s fingers slide between your legs, through the slick mess Robby left behind. He gathers it on his fingertips, his touch making you shiver, he brings those wet fingers to your lips.

You open for him, tasting Robby’s salty tang on Jack’s skin as he slips his fingers into your mouth. You moan around them, your tongue swirling. Jack’s eyes never leave Robby’s as he then pulls his fingers free, back to your cunt, a slight shudder once more, and brings them to his own lips, sucking them clean, tasting his best friend.

Robby watches this whole exchange, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Atta girl,” Jack pants against your ear, his hands tightening on your hips.

Then he guides you down, and you sink onto him with a broken cry. He fills you completely, the stretch delicious, the sensation of being stuffed so soon after your last climax making your head spin. You’re so sensitive it’s almost painful, a sweet, overwhelming ache.

You begin to move, rising and falling on his cock, finding a slow, grinding rhythm. Your hands brace on Jack’s thighs behind you for leverage. The angle is deep, each descent hitting a spot that makes you see stars.

“That’s it,” Jack encourages, his voice a rasp in your ear. His hands roam your body—gripping your waist, palming your breasts, thumbing your nipples.

You increase your pace, bouncing on him, the wet sounds of your joining filling the room. Your head falls back against his shoulder, your eyes fluttering shut.

“Eyes open, sweetheart.”

Robby’s command cuts through the haze. Your eyes snap open. He’s moved closer, kneeling right beside the bed now, his face level with where you’re joined with Jack. He’s watching every slide, every glide, his expression one of rapt fascination.

“Look at you,” Robby murmurs, his voice thick. “Takin’ him so well."

His praise fuels you. You lean more back, hands coming up behind you to Jack, angle pushing him even deeper, as you whimper, sharp gasps, teetering on the edge again.

“Baby, I’m gonna cum,” Your moan, soft.

“Fucking- shit, go ahead, honey, cum f’me,” he moans. 

Your orgasm crests, a silent scream trapped in your throat as your body tightens. You clench around Jack, a series of violent, fluttering spasms that milk his length.

Jack curses, his hips bucking up into you. “Fucking—just like that—”

As you’re pulsing around him, Robby leans in. He captures Jack’s mouth in a sudden, fierce kiss over your shoulder. You can hear the wet slide of their lips, the soft grunts and sighs. It’s raw and intimate, and it sends another shockwave of pleasure through your oversensitive nerves.

Robby breaks the kiss. “Lift up for a second, kid,” he breathes against your skin.

Dazed and pliant, you raise yourself up, Jack’s slick cock sliding almost all the way out of you. Robby’s hand replaces you, wrapping around Jack’s shaft. He gives him a few rough, efficient strokes, his thumb smearing the pre-cum beaded at the tip.

“Missed the taste of you,” Robby mutters to Jack, his eyes locked on his friend’s face as he works him.

Jack just groans, his head thrown back, his hands gripping your thighs. Then Robby guides you back down, easing you onto Jack’s cock until you’re fully seated once more, stuffed to the brim.

“Go ahead, finish,” Robby growls, his command for both of you.

You begin to move again, a slow, rolling grind now, utterly spent but driven by the need to feel Jack lose control. He’s close—you can feel the tension in his body, the way his breath hitches.

“Come on, Jack,” Robby urges softly, his hand returning to your clit, applying just enough pressure to make you whimper. “Fill her up. Give her what she needs.”

That does it. With a shattered cry, Jack’s hips piston up once, twice, and then he stills, buried deep inside you as he comes. You feel the hot pulses of his release joining Robby’s already there, flooding you.

Jack kisses at your shoulder blades, near your neck, as you relax your body entirely, shaky breaths with your back against his chest. His arm coming around you automatically, instinctive, like it always does. His hand slides up your arm, slow, grounding, fingers brushing your shoulder, your collarbone—checking, not asking out loud but asking anyway. 

Robby puts a hand to your jaw, tapping your cheeks lightly with his fingers, watching as your eyes lazily find his.

“You alright?” he murmurs, voice rough, softer than it’s been all night.

“Mhm,” You nod, catching your breath.

“There she is,” Jack murmurs against you, pressing a kiss into your hair, lingering there a second longer than usual.

Robby doesn’t move right away.

He’s sitting beside you both, elbows on his knees, head tipped slightly forward, breathing steadier now—but there’s something in his posture, something looser than before. The edge is gone. Or at least… dialed down.

You shift, peeling yourself gently from Jack, turning toward Robby. For a second, there’s that flicker—uncertainty, maybe. Not doubt. Just… recalibration.

Then you lean in and kiss him. It’s different now. Slower. Softer. No urgency behind it.

Robby’s hand comes up to the back of your head, not guiding, not demanding—just holding you there, thumb brushing lightly at your hairline. He exhales through his nose, a quiet thing, like he didn’t realize he’d been holding onto something.

When you pull back, you stay close.

“Hey,” you say, softer.

“Hey,” he echoes.

Jack watches the two of you. His hand still rests low on your back, thumb moving in slow, absent circles like it always does when he’s settling you.

Jack kisses gently at your bare back, “Be right back,” he murmurs against you, before you hear him leave the bed, putting on his temporary prosthetic. 

You hear him leave, pulling away from Robby who watches Jack as he leaves the room, headed for the hall.

You groan and flop onto the bed, Robby moving the blanket over you, maybe suddenly prudeish as he picks up presumably Jack’s shirt and hands it to you. You hum, put it on.

“Jesus,” you murmur, voice soft, wrecked. “I think my legs might actually fall off.”

That gets a quiet huff out of Robby.

He’s sitting up at the edge of the bed now, dragging a hand down his face, then through his hair. He looks… different, a little. Looser. The usual edge sanded down.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Think you’ll live.”

You glance over at him, managing a small smile.

He’s already reaching for his boxers, pulling them back on, movements unhurried. The gold chain at his neck catches the low light—the Star of David resting against his chest, rising and falling with his breathing. There’s something grounding about it. Familiar. Normal.

There’s a beat.

Then, softer—

“…You good?” You ask.

He turns your head toward you. “Yeah.” He thinks for a moment, a shake of his head as he lets himself admit– “Needed that. Needed to be… not alone, I think.”

You watch him for a second—something thoughtful in your expression.

“That something you’d wanna do again or is this a one and done situation?” You wonder earnestly, rolling onto your side as you look up at him. “

Robby doesn’t answer straight away. He looks at you—really looks, like he’s trying to figure out what the question actually means underneath what you asked.

Your hair’s a mess, Jack’s shirt slipping off one shoulder, eyes soft but steady on him. Hickies across your neck. Not fragile. Not asking for reassurance. Just… asking.

His jaw shifts slightly.

“…You always this direct after something like that?” he mutters.

You huff a quiet laugh. “I’m an ortho resident. I don’t have time for interpretive dance.”

That almost gets a smile out of him. He exhales, leaning back more fully, one hand rubbing absently at his chest like he’s trying to settle something under the surface.

“It’s not—” he starts, then stops. Tries again. “It’s not really a ‘one and done’ kind of question.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Why not?”

He glances at the door—where Jack disappeared—then back at you.

Because Jack’s not just some guy. Because this isn’t just sex. Because there’s history here that predates you by decades and still manages to feel unfinished. Because he already feels it sitting somewhere in his chest, heavy.

You seem to pick up where his head is at, a nod. “Do you have… like, real feelings for him? Or me?”

Robby scoffs a chuckle. “I don’t have time to think about that.”

“Just time to fuck us though. Well, not Jack, sure he’ll give me a complaint about that later.” You murmur.

Robby smiles a bit. “You two are… perfect for each other. I still don’t get how he found you.”

“I don’t know either, to be honest,” You admit. “But he cares about you. Like a lot. And so do I. And it’s not just because your dick is great, promise. You’re always welcome with us, whether its sex, comfort, food, all three. We aren’t picky people.”

“Picked up on that,” Robby nods, quieter now. “What are your plans? With him, I mean. He mentioned something about marriage.”

You smile a little—more to yourself than anything—your hand drifting, almost unconsciously, to your left ring finger.

“No idea,” you admit. “However long he wants me around, I guess.”

Robby huffs a soft breath, leaning back against the headboard. “Well, if age’s anything to go by, you’ve got a good couple of years.”

You smack his arm lightly. “You’re literally older than him.”

“I’m not marrying you,” Robby shoots back, deadpan.

“You’re an ass,” you sigh.

That earns you a small smile.

The door opens.

Jack steps back in, towel slung over his shoulder, a glass of water already in hand. He pauses just inside, taking in the room in one sweep—quick, practiced. You, curled on your side in his shirt. Robby at the edge of the bed, quieter than usual.

“My leg’s killing me,” Jack mutters, like it’s an afterthought, already moving back toward the bed.

You push yourself up onto your elbows, frowning. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he says, dismissive in that way he gets, like pain’s just background noise. He hands you the glass. “Drink.”

You take it, still watching him. “You say that about everything.”

“Because everything’s fine.”

Robby snorts under his breath. “Yeah. That’s a healthy coping mechanism.”

Jack shoots him a look as he sits down, stretching his leg out carefully. “Oh, I’m sorry—did you want to compare notes?”

Robby raises his brows. “Not particularly.”

Then Jack exhales, leaning back into the headboard. His hand finds your thigh automatically—absent, grounding, like he needs the contact without thinking about it.

His gaze flicks between the two of you, lingering on Robby for half a second longer than necessary.

“What’d I miss?” he asks.

You shift, settling back into him, your cheek brushing his shoulder. “Marriage.”

Jack huffs. “One night with my girl and you’re already trying to steal her? Alright. Good to know.”

Robby lets out a quiet chuckle.

“With you, idiot,” you correct.

Jack glances down at you. “Oh, him and I are getting married now?”

You roll your eyes and, just to be difficult, shift toward Robby instead—curling lightly into his side.

It lasts all of two seconds.

Jack’s arm hooks around you and pulls you straight back against him.

“Relax,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, holding you there against his chest.

Robby watches that, something unreadable flickering across his face before it settles again.

Robby stays the night.

Not in the same way—there’s a natural rhythm to it. He gives you and Jack space without being asked, drifting out into the living room, the quiet murmur of the TV carrying faintly down the hall. At one point you hear the balcony door slide open, then shut again.

He’s not intrusive. Never has been.

But he doesn’t leave, either.

if u havent read it, i'd recommend reading my (wo)man on willpower! this is a spin off of that, i suppose. focuses more on jack x reader, though. :D

a/n: girls i have another like 700 words i had that as a short scene of santos speculating why u didnt make it to her paris party (oh my god im so funny paris because threesome haha i know right, please dont click off this), and i might post that later, but my ao3 will get the full thing if u wanna just see what it was. the 1000 block limit on tumblr genuinely my opp fr.

You could feel your face setting on fire as you desperately tried to think of what to do.

Robby’s eyes weren’t on you anymore as he got rid of his jacket and boots… this would be the perfect time to get up and scurry away towards the bedroom… Robby’s bedroom— Shit.

Your hands went to cover your bare tits as you tried to come up with something else.

“Decided to cut my sabbatical short,” Robby was explaining, “You all were right- as it turns out, I can’t go more than a month without the ED.”

You heard and felt Jack’s snicker, his fingers absentmindedly drawing circles where he still held your waist.

His hard cock was still deep inside you, and as much as you hated having to depart from it, you really needed to get off and try to at least regain some decency.

Which is what you tried to do. You began rising from Jack’s lap, but in an instant, his eyes were on you, his brows furrowed.

“Where you going, sweetheart?”

He can’t be serious right now.

You glanced pointedly at Robby behind him, your voice barely a whisper as you murmured his name.

“It’s alright, honey, Robby doesn’t mind,” he spoke softly, his hands caressing you softly. “Do you, Robby?”

Robby’s soft chuckle came from somewhere closer than where he’d previously been.

“I sure don’t,” He was smirking once you slowly raised your gaze.

He’d walked to the edge of the couch, right behind Jack.

You felt your face burn with embarrassment- and yet your pussy clenched harder around Abbot as you caught Michael’s eyes drink you in.

“We were having such a good time,” Jack murmured, his mouth on your collarbones as he pecked your skin, “Would be a shame to stop now.”

Oh God, he was being serious.

“Jack- I-”

Were you dreaming? Was this one of the sick fantasies that materialized in your mind whenever Robby and Abbot were both on shift, and you had to squeeze your tights together at how incredibly hot of a pair they made?

Everything seemed to point in that direction, except for the fact that the feel of Jack’s fingers removing your hands from your naked chest was very much real- the same went for Robby’s voice.

“You know, sweetheart... we had a talk about you before I went away.”

You were bare again now, and Jack was making use of the space, filling it with delicious, taunting kisses as Michael spoke.

“Decided none of us were gonna try anything... didn’t wanna take advantage of you or anything….” His voice was rough and soft all at once as his hand went to cradle your cheek, “and now look at that.”

Heat bloomed low in your belly and on your cheeks as you heard yourself whimper.

What he was saying was… unbelievable. They liked you- both of them. Just as you liked them.

This was really happening- Dr. Robinavitch was watching you as you sat on Dr. Abbot’s cock. And they both looked incredibly casual, as if this were a daily occurrence.

“Since when has this been going on?”

When you didn’t answer, Jack stopped his ministrations on your neck to speak, “Just two weeks, man.”

“Is he lying to me?” Robby asked you, his head tilted in doubt.

“N-no,” You murmured as you cowered under his stare.

To that, he smirked, shaking his head as he muttered, “A week- that’s how long you lasted.”

“C’mon, man- you knew it was bound to happen.” Jack groaned, looking at you with a smirk as his mouth ghosted yours, “You’re too pretty not to do something about it.”

You felt your heart skip, and your hips involuntarily grind against Jack’s lap- causing you to whimper pathetically.

“Oh sweetheart…” Abbot cooed, his hands going back to rest on your hips, “Go on, take what you need.”

There was nothing you wanted to do more. As unusual as this situation was, you were so turned on that you feared you’d start dripping on the couch any second now.

Yet you watched the two men uncertainly, biting your lip as you went against your instinct to use Jack’s manhood to feel good.

“Go on, baby,” Robby encouraged you once your eyes settled on him, “Do as he said.”

His palm was still on your cheek, his thumb pulling on your lower lip to free it from your teeth’s grip… and you had no choice but to obey.

You started slow, shily grinding onto him, feeling Jack’s dick graze and reach all those sweet spots inside of you as your clit rubbed against his base.

Your mouth hung open as soft whines filtered through your throat. Robby’s hands held your face so you could only look at him- and the look in his eyes… the darkness in his iris and the locking of his jaw gave you all the more incentive to go faster.

You began raising yourself on Jack’s dick just to slide back down again until you found the delicious pace from before your interruption.

Your moans weren’t so quiet anymore as you struggled to keep your eyes open and gripped Jack’s shoulders for dear life, your nails probably leaving crescent moons on his skin.

“So good for me, baby,” Jack murmured against your neck, resuming his kisses on your salty skin as he thoroughly enjoyed the show. “Such a good girl.”

You cried like a desperate little thing at that, his dick hitting that spongy spot inside of you that had you feeling on cloud nine.

“Jack feels good, baby?” Robby’s voice felt muffled, as if the pleasure was acting as a sound shield.

“Y-yes,” You whined, your voice breathless, your movements more and more desperate, “B-big,” you cried brokenly.

You felt Abbot’s growl vibrate against your chest at that, and seconds later, you felt his mouth against your ear as he whispered loud enough for Robby to hear, “You’ve seen nothing yet.”

You didn’t have the brain capacity to understand what he meant by that, or to analyze the grin that spread Michael’s lips at those words, because all you could focus on was the growing sensation that sparked in your belly.

“Oh my god,” You whined, your thighs burning with the effort as the sound of your skin slapping with Jack’s echoed against the walls.

“It’s ok, baby,” Robby murmured, watching closely as your eyes almost closed and your brows furrowed in bliss, “You’re doing so good.”

You didn’t even realize you were doing it, but as Robby guided his thumb into your mouth, instinctually, your lips closed around it, sucking him in further.

“That’s it, baby,” he nodded, the weight of his finger on your tongue making you wish it was replaced by his cock. And that image… that image made your orgasm approach even faster.

Your moans were silenced by Robby’s thumb, but Jack could feel your walls gripping him like a vice.

“Let go, sweetheart,” he commanded, kissing the spot right beneath your ear. “Be a good girl and show Robby how pretty you look when you come.”

That was it.

You didn’t even have time to mentally prepare yourself that a bright white flash of pure ecstasy overtook your soul.

You came like the world would end tomorrow, your pussy spasming around Jack as he couldn’t help but follow suit.

Somewhere in the frenzy, you could hear Abbot’s groans while Robby murmured what appeared to be soft words to you, his hand never leaving your face.

The pounding of your heart thumped in your ears as you tried to calm your breathing.

Your eyes fluttered open to both the men looking at you, Jack’s eyes soft with gratification and adoration, while Robby’s irises swirled with lust and just plain need.

“You wanna switch?”

Jack’s words didn’t even make sense to you. You were still lost in the haze of what had just happened.

“Not on the couch, man.” Robby shook his head, his lips pulling into a small smile as he watched you. “Let’s get on the bed, baby.”

__ __  __

Your legs felt like jelly as Robby towered over you.

You knew what was happening, and yet your brain was still buffering.

His lips were so close to yours… just a few inches and you’d be kissing him.

But that’s not what he had in mind.

“Lay down for me, baby.”

You blinked, needing a second to understand his command and do as told.

The mattress was soft, the comfy duvet wrinkling underneath you as you laid back, your wide eyes watching him.

With a quick move, he removed his shirt, throwing it behind him… in the direction of Abbot.

Your breath hitched at the sight of him leaning against the wall, his eyes dark as he watched the scene unfold.

By the time you looked back, Robby was naked- and your lungs took another toll.

You were propped on your elbows, shamelessly eying all of him. His broad chest, the dark hair on his pecs, on his belly, until your gaze lowered just enough to catch his cock-

You were pretty sure you’d stopped breathing completely.

That’s what they’d been talking about.

You really had seen nothing yet.

You swallowed dryly as his big hand wrapped around his dick, giving it two slow strokes that had him seemingly grow even more.

Your eyes were wide as he stalked closer to you, his smirk everlasting.

“R-Robby,” you stuttered, clearly intimidated.

“’S alright, baby. I’ll go real slow.”

“I-I- How…”

“Don’t worry about it,” he shook his head, “spread your legs for me, baby.”

And even if your heart was going crazy and your brain was telling you that was an impossible fit, you did as told.

“Wider.”

You slid your feet further across the bed, opening yourself up to him completely, eliciting a delighted groan.

“Pretty,” he murmured, his palm going to your mound and his thumb moving to your folds, exploring slowly.

Jack’s come was still leaking out of you, creating a sultry mixture with your own juices.

Your cheeks heated at his unabashed gaze, but then his other hand grabbed the base of his manhood, his tip suddenly parting your folds, and all thoughts left your head.

You were whimpering already, still sensitive from your previous orgasm, and Michael would have done anything to record those sweet sounds and listen to them on repeat all day long.

“It’s ok, baby, relax for me.” That’s all he murmured, as he started guiding his impossibly thick tip inside of you.

“Oh!” You gasped, your eyes wide open as you watched him thrust into you.

He was looking at where your bodies melted into one another, watching your greedy pussy swallow him in.

The stretch burned at first- he had the biggest cock you’d ever seen after all- counting porn- but his soft growls and groans were making you all the more pliant.

His thumb started circling your clit to help you out as broken cries fled your throat.

He was retracting his hips just to thrust softly into you, over and over again, filling you up inch by never-ending inch.

“O-Oh my god,” You were crying, your hands fisting the sheets as he kept going.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he reassured you, his free hand tight on our waist. “Stretching so good for me- such a good girl.”

Your walls tightened around him at that, causing him to hiss.

“Let me in- just like that… good girl”

You knew the moment he was in to the hilt, because you could barely breathe at the feeling of how unbelievably full you felt.

Breathy gasps spilled from your lips as your gazes met.

“Told you you could do it,” he smirked, before he started to move.

The moan you let out at the first full, deep thrust was more of a scream.

“Robby!” you gasped, your fingers gripping his forearm as he started building his pace.

His back hurt like a motherfucker from all those hours on his bike, but he’ll be damned if he denied himself this sight.

“He always makes you do all the work?”

How his voice was still so even when you could barely breathe, let alone think, was a mystery.

You want to tell him the truth, that no, Jack was usually very much adamant in his need to take care of you, to pin you beneath him and fuck you thoroughly well into the day… but all you could manage was a whine.

You watched his lips pull into a grin at the state he’d rendered you in.

“Oh, c’mon, brother, I’ve just come back from a twelve-hour shift,” Jack defended himself from his spot against the wall as your eyes found him.

You could see from the bed, even with his boxers back on, that he was hard again.

God, this was all so hot.

The way both their eyes were only focused on you as Robby’s thrusts had you bouncing up on the bed, your tits moving in tandem with his harsh movements…

“And she hasn’t?” Robby raised his brows, shooting Jack a quick, disappointed look, before coming back to you.

“You don’t have to worry about it now, baby,” he spoke softly, the thumb he still had on your bundle of nerves resuming its torturous movements. “I’ll take care of you like you deserve from now on.”

You felt butterflies in your stomach at those words.

Your hips were chasing his movements, forcing the loud smacking of his skin hitting your core over and over again to get even louder.

You could feel every inch of his dick inside you, every vein and ridge slide against your velvety walls as his tip speared you and reached parts of you no one ever could find but him.

And with a feeling like that… it was inevitable for tears to gather in your eyes, your vision blurring as a knot of pleasure tightened inside you.

“Oh baby, I know it’s a lot.” his voice was calming, soothing your overexited system.

It was a lot. He was a whole damn lot.

“Just take it,” he cooed, “Don’t think about it, sugar, just be good for me and Jack, yeah?”

You slowly nodded, tears rolling down your temples and onto the sheets as the air filled with your moans.

“That’s it, pretty girl— that’s it.”

And suddenly, it was all too much.

“I-I- Oh my-”

He groaned at how tight you got. His chest inflating with the effort not to come on the spot.

“Let go, baby,” he instructed. “Be a good girl and come for me.”

The last thing you saw was his smile; everything after that was sort of a blur.

A tidal wave of pleasure washed over your body; you were pretty sure you were moaning his name like a prayer as you experienced a mind-blowing orgasm.

Your eyes and ears started functioning again as Robby’s thrusts got sloppier, more erratic.

He grinned as you whimpered at the overstimulation, his groans getting louder as he got closer, until he spilled inside you with a feral roar.

“Jesus Christ,” he hissed after several moments, slowly pulling out of you.

Jack had gotten beside him somewhere in the meantime, and both men’s eyes fell to the release spilling out of your spent core.

“C’mere,” you whined, breaking them out of their amazed trance.

They both smiled, and it was Jack who joined you on the bed first, moving you so your head could rest on the pillow as he spooned you, wrapping his arms around you.

“You did real good, sweetheart,” he murmured to your ear, his stubble grazing your skin as your eyes fluttered shut.

You were exhausted.

You didn’t even hear Robby lying down next to you until he placed your head to rest on his chest.

“So… am I gonna have to sanitize every surface of the house?”

A soft laugh fled your throat as Jack grinned amusedly.

“The kitchen should be saf—” The look you sent Jack had him suddenly remember all the alternative meals he’d consumed on the kitchen counter. “No, yeah… the whole apartment.”

“Dr. Abbot,” Dana calls, peering over the top of her glasses. “You’re early.”

Beside her, you glance up from your tablet, meeting his eyes across the ER with that same soft smile.

“Dr. Abbot,” you say, like you can’t quite help yourself.

Jack squares his shoulders and starts toward the nurses’ station, determined not to let Dana and her all-knowing, all-seeing bullshit clock exactly why he’s at work almost two hours earlier than he needs to be.

“Yeah, I’ve got some stuff I didn’t get to wrap up this morning,” he lies.

Princess pops up from behind the desk. “I thought you said you stayed back this morning to make sure everything was sorted?”

Jack’s gaze cuts to her. “Yes. But I forgot something.”

Dana narrows her eyes. “Mhm. What’d you forget?”

“A few notes from the three a.m. GSW,” he replies quickly—too quickly.

It’s weak and he knows it, but there’s nothing else he could think of with Dana watching him like that and your warm, sleepy gaze still lingering from across the desk.

Dana nods slowly, adjusting the chart in her hands. “Right. Two hours early for a few notes.”

Jack just shrugs, avoiding her gaze as he walks past—and he doesn’t look back until he’s safely around the corner, standing in front of his locker. Only then does he risk a glance, just briefly over his shoulder, quick enough to catch a glimpse of you disappearing down the North hall.

God. It’s ridiculous, really. He’s a grown man.

More than that—he's an old man.

Yet here he is staying late at work and coming in early just to see more of you. Because ever since you swapped from nights to days, Jack doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Sure, he could barely concentrate when you were on shift together, but who knew not having you around would be even worse?

He spends the first half of his shift hating himself for being so hung up on someone so young and so impossibly out of reach—then spends the second half anxiously awaiting your arrival for the day shift.

And it’s only been two weeks.

But the absolute worst part?

He doesn’t even know why you swapped shifts. You never even spoke to him about it. You just told him at four a.m. two Saturdays ago that you were switching to day shift. No reason. No explanation. That was it.

At first he wondered if it was his fault—if maybe you’d simply decided you didn’t like working with him.

But you still greet him every morning and every evening with that same warm smile. You still look to him first whenever someone asks for an attending and he’s still around. You still text him whenever the ER cat shows up outside the ambulance bay—which apparently happens much more often during the day shift.

And Jack still buys a packet of freeze-dried liver treats every Sunday to keep in the cupboard above the break room fridge—because he knows how much you love feeding that cat.

“What’re you doing here?”

Jack’s head whips around at the sound of his friend’s voice.

“I—uh—came in early to fix up a few notes,” he says, turning back to shove his bag into his locker.

Robby’s brows lift. “Two hours for notes?”

Jack sighs, slinging his stethoscope around his neck and shutting his locker before turning to face his fellow attending. “Are you of all people really going to lecture me about not having a life outside of this ER?”

Robby chuckles quietly, lifting both hands out of his pockets in surrender. “I wasn’t judging.”

“Good,” Jack mutters, already starting back toward central. “Anything I need to know?”

Robby falls into step beside him. “North Three’s waiting on a CT for possible appendicitis. Kid in Five came in with chest pain but his labs look clean so far. Dana’s still fighting with bed control about moving the pneumonia admit upstairs.”

They both stop at the nurses’ station, glancing up at the board.

“Otherwise it’s been unusually calm,” Robby adds. “Which probably means you’re about to get slammed.”

Jack gives him a flat look. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.” Robby claps him on the shoulder. “Oh—and that R2 you gave me?”

“What about her?”

Robby shrugs. “She’s great.”

“I know,” Jack says, keeping his voice carefully even.

Robby studies him for a second, eyes narrowing just a fraction, the corner of his mouth threatening to lift. The man might be a disaster when it comes to his own feelings, but he has an uncanny talent for spotting everyone else’s.

“We’re alright out here if you want to catch up on your notes,” he says after a moment, already turning away. “Or go make the rounds. Get some very thorough handovers from the residents.”

Jack keeps his eyes fixed on the board. “I hate you.”

Robby huffs out a quiet laugh. “Then why are you here two hours early?”

Jack exhales sharply and steps forward, pulling one of the tablets from the rack.

“Notes,” he says, a little louder than necessary.

Robby just shakes his head, still smiling faintly as he disappears down the North corridor.

For a moment, Jack doesn’t move. He lingers at the nurses’ station, tablet in hand, pretending to analyse the board while ignoring the incredibly unsubtle looks from Perlah and Princess—both of them watching him with the kind of interest that usually means someone’s about to become the subject of a very entertaining conversation.

Then, with a polite nod to each of them, he clears his throat and steps away, turning toward the break room—trying very hard not to hope he runs into you on the way.

And trying not to be disappointed when he doesn’t.

The break room is empty when he steps inside, the noise of the ER dulling as the door falls shut behind him. He sets his tablet on the table—next to someone’s half-eaten lunch and a discarded Lean Cuisine container—and grabs a clean mug from the cupboard, pouring the last of the coffee pot into it.

Then he drops into the seat furthest from the door, his back to the bulletin board, and taps the tablet awake, pulling up the notes for the three a.m. GSW. The same notes he already finished in detail while staying back this morning—before Robby told him to get the hell out of his ER and get some sleep.

He barely makes it through two lines of the chart before the door swings open again.

“Shit, sorry,” you say quickly, stepping toward the table.

Jack’s pulse does the same stupid thing it always does whenever he sees you, making his chest feel hot and his head a little fuzzy.

“What are you sorry for?” he asks, as if it isn’t obvious.

You’ve already stacked the Lean Cuisine container on top of the half-eaten bowl of something grey and mushy-looking and are halfway to the sink with them.

“I only got, like, a five-minute break today and had to run out for a trauma, then completely forgot about my lunch,” you explain, cheeks flushed as you glance down at the bowl. “This is gross. I’m so sorry.”

Jack shifts in his chair. “I’ve seen worse in here, I promise.”

You glance over your shoulder as you turn on the tap, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “Really?”

He nods. “Really.”

He could almost swear your smile lifts a little higher before you turn back to the sink, scrubbing hurriedly at the bowl of slop that probably shouldn’t be going down the drain anyway.

Jack clears his throat. “But—uh—Lean Cuisine? Really?”

You look back at him again, brows drawn. “What’s wrong with Lean Cuisine?”

“Nothing,” he says lightly. “If you’re trying to survive a very stressful twelve-hour shift on only four hundred calories.”

You huff a quiet laugh, turning back to the sink. “I actually managed to eat lunch today. That’s already a win.”

“It’s mostly sodium and sadness,” he adds, almost absently. “Not much protein.”

You finally turn the tap off and spin around, leaning a hip against the counter. “Alright, Dr. Abbot. When I find the spare time to start meal prepping between my very stressful twelve-hour shifts, I’ll let you know.”

Jack opens his mouth—then closes it again. Because what he wants to say is ridiculous.

But it comes out anyway.

“…I cook.”

You blink.

“You cook?”

Jack clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his coffee mug.

“Yeah. Well.” He shrugs. “I’ve been told I’m reasonably good at it.”

You stare at him for a second, brows knitting slightly as you clearly try to figure out where the hell that came from.

“Well,” you say with a quick smile, “I guess your dinner guests are pretty lucky.”

Before he can respond, you grab the Lean Cuisine packet, toss it in the bin, and step toward the door.

“Sorry again for the mess.”

Then you’re gone—leaving Jack alone with his coffee, his notes, and the growing suspicion that there might actually be something seriously wrong with him.

-

“Is that Dr. Abbot in the break room?” Santos asks, falling into step beside you.

You keep your eyes fixed on your tablet.

“Yep.”

She leans closer, steering you out of the way of a gurney.

“But night shift doesn’t start for like two more hours.”

“I’m aware.”

“So, why is he here?”

You exhale sharply and finally look up from your tablet. “I don’t know, Trin. Maybe because the universe hates me.”

She snorts. “Or maybe because he likes you.”

You roll your eyes, turning toward the South corridor. “Please don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” she insists. “I seriously think that old man has a thing for you.”

“Don’t call him that,” you mutter.

“Okay, fine. I seriously think that hot, older man has a thing for you,” she says, stopping beside you at the South desks. “And we all know how you feel about him, so—”

“No,” you snap. “We don’t all know how I feel about Ja—Dr. Abbot.”

She presses her lips together to keep from laughing.

“Besides,” you go on, dropping into a chair. “I swapped to day shift so I could stop being distracted by my attending and actually focus on being a good doctor—so could you please stop distracting me?”

She leans a hip against the desk, completely ignoring you. “And don’t you think that’s a little strange? I mean, you swapped to day shift—what, two weeks ago?”

You glance at her from the corner of your eye. “And?”

“And,” she says dramatically, “for the past two weeks Dr. Abbot has been staying back every morning and coming in early every afternoon.”

Your gaze slides back to the computer. “So?”

She sighs, exasperated. “It’s not a coincidence.”

“Actually, I think it is,” you argue.

She stares at you for a second, eyes narrowing. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re annoying.”

She rolls her eyes and pushes off the desk. “Whatever. You’re still coming out tomorrow night, right?”

Your fingers hesitate over the keyboard. “Uh—I’m not sure yet.”

“Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift that’ll be there,” she says.

You let out a quiet sigh of defeat.

“Fine,” you mutter. “I’ll come.”

“Good.” She grins, already turning away. “Come to my place around six. We can get ready and pregame.”

“Why can’t I get ready at home?” you ask.

“Because,” she calls over her shoulder, “I get to pick what you wear.”

And before you can argue, she slips into a patient room, effectively ending the conversation.

“Great,” you mumble, turning back to the computer. “Can’t wait.”

It’s not like you’re not looking forward to finally joining in on a night out now that you’re no longer on the night shift.

You are. You’re just... nervous.

Nervous, perpetually stressed out, and still adjusting to life as a day-walker. And Santos knows that. She probably knows you better than anyone else at PTMC—even though you’ve spent the better part of ten months working opposite shifts.

Which is exactly why she’s pushing you to join this night out. Because she knows you need it. She knows you need to relax, forget about work, and do something other than obsess over the night shift attending who’s had you completely undone since the day you first met.

God.

Jack Abbot. The single most dangerous man in Pittsburgh.

Not only is he stupidly hot, but he’s also annoyingly competent, irritatingly attentive, and has the starring role in every single one of your most inappropriate fantasies.

He’s also the very reason you’re terrified of having to redo your second year of residency, because that man affects your focus so much you literally can’t function. Like three weeks ago, when you walked straight into the glass door of Trauma One because you were too busy watching him take his jacket off.

His damn jacket.

That was the moment you finally decided you needed to swap shifts—because Dr. Shen couldn’t look at you for the rest of the night without bursting into laughter.

Jack Abbot is a liability to your health and wellbeing—which means he is a liability to your career. And even though asking Dr. Robby to swap to day shift was one of the most ridiculously difficult things you’ve done since starting at PTMC, you stand by the fact that it was the right decision.

The smart decision. The professional decision. Even if… it might not be working yet.

Because now you can’t just glance across central anymore and see Jack leaning against the desk, talking through a case with Lena. You can’t have him step up beside you when you’re unsure about something and quietly walk you through it. He’s not the one across from you in the trauma bays. And there isn’t a coffee cup that magically appears in front of you during the three o’clock lull.

Now you just… think about him instead.

But it’s only temporary. You’re sure of it. You just need to get used to the day shift and figure out how to get Jack Abbot out of your head.

Which… you have a sneaking suspicion is what Santos plans on helping you with this weekend.

You’re pretty sure you overheard her the other day telling Whitaker that the only way to get over someone is by getting under someone else. And maybe that’s exactly what you need to do—get under someone else so you can stop thinking about the maddeningly hot man who’s nearly twice your age and most definitely does not have a thing for you. Regardless of what Santos seems to think.

You spend the rest of your shift catching up on charting and trying very hard not to think about Dr. Abbot.

When someone asks for an attending, you call Dr. Robby. When you hear his voice just around the corner, you change paths as quickly and inconspicuously as you can. And when your notes are up to date and night shift starts rolling in, you find Dr. Ellis and give her—and only her—the rundown on your patients.

By the time you shut your locker and sling your bag over your shoulder, the sky outside is dark and there are only a few day shifters left lingering around the nurses’ station.

“Did you drive today?” Whitaker asks, shutting his locker only a moment after you.

“Yeah,” you reply. “Need a ride?”

He nods sheepishly. “That’d be great. Santos left already, said I was taking too long.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, I bet it had nothing to do with whatever she and Garcia were whispering about in the stairwell.”

Whitaker winces. “I just hope they’re at Garcia’s tonight.”

You huff a small laugh and hitch your bag higher. “You ready?”

He nods.

You both turn and start back toward central—but just as you reach the nurses’ station, his steps slow.

“Do you need to…?”

He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

You frown. “Need to what?”

He hesitates. “Don’t you normally say goodbye to Dr. Abbot?”

Your eyes widen slowly. “Uh—no. Why would you say that?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought you two were close.”

“We’re not close,” you say, a little too quick.

“Sorry,” he mutters, raising both hands in surrender. “I just—I don’t know. I thought because you were his resident you two were… close.”

“I’m not his resident,” you snap. “I’m just… a resident. I don’t belong to him.”

“Okay,” he says slowly, brows drawing together. “I’m sorry, I just thought—”

“You thought wrong,” you mutter, glancing over your shoulder to make sure no one is listening.

Thankfully, the two nosiest nurses in the ER have already gone home for the day.

“Let’s just go.”

You grab his wrist and walk quickly toward the ambulance bay doors, giving Ellis and Shen a small nod as you pass—completely missing the middle-aged attending who just overheard most of your conversation.

The car ride to Santos and Whitaker’s isn’t long. Whitaker fills most of it anyway—rambling about the shift, about the kid in Five and whether night shift is going to get slammed, about how Dana looked like she was two seconds away from strangling bed control by the end of the day. And every few minutes he circles back around to apologising for making you drive him home.

You wave him off each time.

“It’s fine, Whitaker.”

“Seriously though,” he says as you pull up outside their building. “I really appreciate it.”

He slings his bag over his shoulder and climbs out of the car, pausing on the sidewalk to give you one last wave before heading toward the front door.

The moment the passenger door falls shut, the quiet settles in. You let out a long breath, tipping your head back against the headrest and letting your eyes fall shut for a moment. And immediately—inevitably—your brain drifts straight back to the same place it always does.

Jack Abbot. Of course.

You scrub a hand over your face before shifting the car back into gear and pulling away.

The rest of the night passes the way most nights do—with a quick shower, something vaguely edible scavenged from the fridge, and half-heartedly scrolling through your phone until exhaustion finally drags you to bed.

When your head finally hits the pillow, you tell yourself you’re too tired to think about him. It’s been a long day—long week—and all you need right now is sleep, not fantasies.

But that doesn’t stop your brain from doing it anyway. Because sometime in the early hours of the morning, Jack Abbot shows up in your dreams. Not in the ER. Not standing beside you at the nurses’ station or leaning over a chart.

He’s in a kitchen. Cooking.

Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, moving around the stove with the same quiet confidence he carries through the hospital—like he knows exactly what he’s doing and expects the rest of the world just to trust him.

And in the dream, you do.

You lean against the counter and watch him the way you sometimes watch him in the trauma bays, telling yourself you’re just observing. Just curious. Just learning.

He glances over his shoulder eventually, catching you staring—and says something you can’t quite hear over the soft clatter of the pan. But he’s smiling.

Then the dream shifts the way dreams tend to—logic slipping sideways until suddenly you’re standing much closer than you should be. Close enough to smell whatever he’s cooking. Close enough that when he turns toward you the space between you disappears entirely.

His hand settles at your waist like it belongs there.

Your back meets the edge of the counter.

And when his mouth brushes your neck—

You wake with a sharp inhale, staring up at the ceiling, heart racing.

“Fuck,” you mutter, dragging a hand over your face.

So much for getting him out of your head.

For a while, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, watching the first pale line of sunlight creep across until it touches the wall opposite your window.

At some point you realise you’re still replaying the dream in your head.

The kitchen. The way his hand had felt at your waist. The warmth of his mouth against your neck.

You groan quietly and drag the blanket over your face.

“Get a fucking grip.”

Then you throw the covers back and force yourself out of bed, heading straight into the kitchen in search of coffee.

Your small apartment is always quiet—but this morning it feels too quiet. Too still as you silently sip your coffee, one hip leaned against the kitchen counter. Which, unfortunately, leaves far too much room for your brain to wander right back to its favourite topic.

Jack Abbot.

After coffee, you take yourself for a long walk around the block, hoping the cool morning air might help clear the remnants of the dream from your head.

It doesn’t.

But by the time you make it back to your apartment, your legs feel loose and your mind feels a little quieter, and for the briefest moment you almost manage to convince yourself that you’re excited about tonight. That you’re going to be able to do what Santos is clearly angling for and go home with an attractive stranger so you can stop draining your vibrator battery with inappropriate thoughts of your attending.

The rest of the day drifts past in a slow blur of small, forgettable things. Laundry. Answering a couple of messages in the group chat. Half-heartedly reviewing a few notes from earlier in the week before deciding you absolutely refuse to think about work on your day off.

Eventually the afternoon light begins to soften and stretch across the floor, which means it’s probably time to start getting ready if you’re actually going to make it to Santos’ place before she decides you’re bailing and comes knocking to drag you there herself.

So you shower, change, pack a bag, and throw it over your shoulder on the way out the door—trying very hard not to feel disappointed that Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift who’s going to be at the bar tonight.

It really is for the best.

You, alcohol, and Jack Abbot in the same room is a terrible idea.

“Alright, I’m ready,” Santos announces, finally stepping out of the bathroom.

You, Javadi, and Whitaker—who have spent the last twenty minutes on the couch chatting and sipping beer—look up.

“Aw, I wish I could do winged eyeliner like that,” Javadi says. “It just doesn’t suit my eye shape.”

“Don’t look too close,” Santos mutters. “It’s super uneven, but I don’t have time. I still have to fix this one before we go.”

She tips her chin toward where you and Whitaker are sitting on the opposite end of the lounge.

Whitaker’s eyes go wide. “Me?”

Santos scoffs. “Not you, Huckleberry. God, I don’t have enough time in the world to fix whatever’s going on there.”

Whitaker frowns, glancing down at his navy-blue button-up shirt. “What’s wrong with this?”

“Everything,” Santos says, already turning away.

Whitaker lifts his head, glancing between you and Javadi. “Is it really that bad?”

Javadi leans forward, lowering her voice. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Whitaker. You look great.”

You pat his shoulder. “It’s fine, really. She’s just—”

The words die on your tongue as Santos reappears, holding what can only be described as a sparkly scrap of fabric on a hanger.

Javadi tilts her head. “What’s that?”

Santos grins. “A dress.”

Whitaker chokes on his beer. “That’s… not a dress. That’s a glittery napkin.”

“Oh my God.” Javadi snorts. “My mom would kill me just for buying that.”

“I didn’t buy it,” Santos says lightly. “A friend in college gave it to me, but it’s never fit quite right.”

She steps forward, extending the hanger toward you.

“But I know you’ll be able to pull it off,” she adds, her grin sharpening.

You stare at it—glinting in the low evening sun spilling through the windows.

“Santos… this is a work thing,” you mutter.

She rolls her eyes. “It’s not a work thing. It’s just an outing with people from work.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?” Whitaker asks.

Santos sighs. “No, it’s not. And are you forgetting our main objective?”

You blink at her.

“To get you laid.”

Javadi giggles nervously, trying to hide it behind a swig of beer.

“Come on,” Santos says. “Just put it on and if it doesn’t work, we try something else.”

You hesitate, staring at the glittery thing like it might catch fire at any moment. Which, given enough sunlight, it probably could.

“Fine,” you say at last, pushing off the couch. “I’ll try it on, but that does not mean I’m wearing it.”

Santos’ eyes sparkle with excitement. Or maybe it’s just the dress.

“That’s my girl.”

You take the hanger from her and trudge into her room, nudging the door shut behind you. It takes a minute for you to figure out how the glittery napkin is supposed to go on—but once you do, you shed your comfortable clothes and shimmy into the most sparkly piece of fabric you’ve ever worn.

And somehow, the shimmering scrap of nothing turns out to be an actual dress—short, sparkling, and just structured enough to stay where it’s supposed to while still feeling mildly illegal.

With a deep breath, you turn away from the mirror and open the door, stepping back out into the lounge room.

“So?”

For a moment, no one says anything.

Whitaker’s mouth falls open.

Javadi’s eyebrows lift. “Oh.”

Santos, meanwhile, tilts her head appreciatively, one hand on her hip, eyes gleaming as she looks you over from head to toe.

“I knew it,” she says smugly.

Whitaker blinks. “That is not a dress.”

Javadi elbows him. “Stop talking.”

You tug awkwardly at the hem—which doesn’t actually move much because there isn’t very much hem to tug.

“Santos,” you say carefully, “I’m not sure—”

“Relax,” she says. “You look incredible.”

She circles you slowly, like a stylist inspecting her work.

“And you’re definitely going to get laid.”

“I feel like I shouldn’t be here,” Whitaker mutters, his face bright red.

Santos rolls her eyes. “You’re only here because you live here, Huckleberry. Now go grab that bottle of tequila from on top of the fridge—we’re going to need some liquid courage before we head out.”

After two shots of tequila and Santos’ finishing touches to your makeup, you all head out the door. Whitaker calls an Uber, the four of you pile in, and you carefully keep Santos’ leather jacket wrapped around yourself for some semblance of modesty.

You don’t really plan on taking it off for the rest of the night—even if it isn’t that cold.

The ride to the bar isn’t nearly long enough. Javadi spends most of it excitedly talking about how she can finally go out drinking now that she’s twenty-one, which Santos encourages with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly intends to make the most of that milestone.

You mostly just stare out the window. Trying not to think about the dress you shouldn’t have agreed to wear and the night shift attending you definitely shouldn’t be missing right now. Because if someone asked you where you’d rather be tonight—the bar or the ER with Dr. Abbot—your honest answer would be incredibly depressing.

Who would rather be at work than out with their friends on a Saturday night?

“We’re here,” Santos announces, nudging your side a little too hard.

You all thank the driver before climbing out, gathering yourselves on the sidewalk in front of the familiar establishment Santos loves dragging everyone to.

“Relax,” she says, dropping a hand on your shoulder. “You don’t need this.”

She tugs at the leather jacket, pulling it off your shoulders until it’s bunched at your elbows.

“I feel naked,” you mutter. “Like this is some nightmare where I show up to work in my underwear.”

Whitaker snorts. “Not far from it.”

Santos rolls her eyes. “Well, you’re not at work. You’re at a bar. And this is supposed to be fun.”

Right. Fun.

That is the entire point of tonight. Go out. Have a drink. Meet someone who isn’t Jack Abbot. Ideally forget Jack Abbot exists for at least a few hours.

Completely achievable.

Right?

“Fine.”

You draw a deep breath and drop your arms, letting the jacket slide off completely. Santos grins as you sling it over one elbow, trying not to instinctively hold it in front of your body like armour.

“See?” she says. “Much better.”

“Let’s just go inside before I change my mind,” you mutter, already starting toward the door.

Javadi loops her arm through yours. “You look amazing. Seriously.”

You give her a small smile, trying not to feel quite so awkward as Santos leads the way toward the main entrance.

It’s just a bar. Just a normal Saturday night. You’ll be fine after a few more shots of liquid courage.

You glance through the front window as you approach—more out of habit than anything else, your eyes drifting lazily over the crowded room inside.

People. Low lights. Patrons lingering around the bar.

And—

Your brain stalls.

Because there’s a man leaning against the bar with one elbow braced on the countertop, his shoulders broad under a tight black shirt, head tipped slightly as he talks to someone beside him.

A familiar someone.

Dr. Ellis.

And the man—

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Your stomach plummets.

Jack fucking Abbot.

Your feet stop moving, your whole body suddenly forgetting how to function.

Your pulse kicks violently against the inside of your throat as a wave of heat rushes up the back of your neck, sudden and dizzying and sharp enough to make the edges of your vision blur for half a second.

Because he looks—

He looks so good.

Relaxed in a way you’ve never seen at work. One hand curled loosely around a glass as he frowns slightly at something Ellis is saying, that small crease between his brows you know far too well.

And suddenly you are extremely, violently aware that you are standing outside a bar wearing approximately three square inches of glitter.

“Hey,” Javadi says beside you. “What’s—”

“Santos.”

She doesn’t stop.

“Santos,” you say again, your voice almost breaking.

She glances over her shoulder. “Hm?”

“You knew.”

She stops, her hand hovering near the door.

Whitaker glances between the two of you. “What’s happening?”

“Technically,” Santos says slowly, “I didn’t know. I just... suspected.”

“You said Ellis was the only one from night shift who’d be here.”

She winces. “I did, but what I meant is… Ellis is the only one who actually told me she’d be here.”

You stare at her. “So you did know?”

“I knew it was his night off.”

“Santos, I—” You glance back at him through the bar window. “I can’t go in there like this.”

“Like what?” she asks. “Smoking hot?”

“Half naked.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, you can.”

“I will actually die.”

“No, you won’t,” she says firmly. “You’re an adult. You can wear whatever you want, talk to whoever you want, and just because your incredibly inconvenient attending crush happens to be inside does not suddenly revoke your civil liberties.”

She pulls the door open.

“Now stop panicking and get in the bar.”

-

“He swore the chest pain had nothing to do with the seven energy drinks he’d had that night,” Ellis says, still rambling about a patient who pissed her off two nights ago, “which was a bold position to take with a heart rate of one-forty.”

Jack snorts softly. “And did you believe him?”

Ellis’ eyes go wide, and she takes a long drink before continuing her rant about night shift patients and the strange confidence people have when explaining why their terrible decisions definitely have nothing to do with the symptoms they’re currently experiencing.

Jack nods along, offering the occasional comment or question where needed, meeting her gaze now and then—but mostly keeping his attention on the door. Waiting. Because he’s not stupid enough to ask anyone if you’re going to be here tonight, but he is naïve enough to hope you will be.

He wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight—his first night off in two weeks.

He was supposed to be at home, cooking something decent for dinner, enjoying the rare luxury of not wearing scrubs, and inevitably indulging in his favourite guilty pleasure—involving nothing but his hand and some very inappropriate thoughts of you.

But he’s not.

He’s here. In a crowded bar, sipping cheap scotch, listening to Ellis complain about the night shift patients and their weird confidence, just… waiting.

For you.

He’d wanted to ask you yesterday if you were coming to the bar tonight—before he agreed to join—but he’d barely seen you before the end of your shift. And you didn’t even say goodbye. Which isn’t unusual, given how chaotic the ER can be, but then he’d overheard your conversation with Whitaker—and something about it made his chest feel too tight.

It wasn’t anger. Not exactly. Not jealousy, either. It was just... wrong. Not because what you said was wrong, but because he hates that it was right. That you don’t belong to him. Even if Robby calls you ‘his R2’ and Whitaker thinks you’re close because you’re his resident—none of it changes the fact that he has no real claim over you.

Which is ridiculous. He knows it.

He shouldn’t feel territorial. He shouldn’t want this. Want you. And yet, his chest still feels too tight—a slow, hot coil of frustration and longing curling up into his throat, and he hates it. Hates hearing it out loud, hates how much it matters, hates that he can’t make it not matter.

“Oh.” Ellis glances over her shoulder. “Looks like Santos and the others are here.”

Jack’s gaze flicks back to the door.

He tries not to react, not to straighten, not to square his shoulders as if he’s bracing for something—but he can already feel his composure slipping.

Santos steps in first, her head turned slightly as she talks to Whitaker, who walks in behind her. Then it’s Javadi, an unusually wide smile on her face as she looks at—

You.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Jack stops breathing.

His chest burns. His stomach flips. His hand tightens dangerously around his scotch glass.

It’s you. Of course it’s you. You’re perfect.

But then—

That dress.

God.

That dress—short, sparkling, clinging just enough to make every nerve in his body snap awake. It shimmers under the low lights as you move, and he hates himself for noticing every subtle curve, every shift of fabric, as if time itself has slowed just to torture him.

It’s all too much.

He can feel his pulse in his throat, heat burning beneath his skin, blood rushing in the one direction it really, really shouldn’t be right now. In public. In front of his coworkers.

He blinks, finally tearing his gaze away from you.

And that’s when he notices the rest of the bar. All staring. All stunned.

He hates them all.

He hates that they can even look at you. Hates that the universe allows it. Hates that they might see even a fraction of what he sees—and feel a fraction of what he feels.

And he hates, more than anything right now, that you’re not his.

“Dr. Abbot,” Robby says, appearing beside him and slinging an arm across his shoulders. “What’s your poison tonight?”

Jack lifts his drink, knuckles still white around the glass. “Scotch.”

Robby claps his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “You might not want to have too many of those.”

Then he slips past both Jack and Ellis and raises a hand to flag down the bartender.

“Alright,” Ellis says, pushing off the bar. “I’m going to go grab a seat before the table gets too crowded.”

Jack nods, but he doesn’t follow. He stays beside the bar, rigid now, eyes fixed on the group of men at a high table just a few feet from the front door. They’re muttering to each other, leaning in, voices low—but nothing about it is subtle. Their gazes are glued to you as you weave through patrons and tables to greet the rest of the PTMC crew gathered in a booth near the back.

One of them—the dumbest looking one, Jack’s already decided—slowly slides off his stool, nodding along while his friends murmur their advice.

Jack glances back at you, now standing beside McKay, sliding your arms into the leather jacket you’d been carrying. Santos grabs your wrist, tilting her head toward the bar as she starts dragging you with her.

And, like a fourteen-year-old boy with a crush, Jack’s pulse starts racing.

“Dr. Abbot,” Santos says, grinning as you both approach the bar. “Fancy seeing you somewhere other than the ER on a Saturday night.”

“I do have a life outside of work, you know,” he says dryly, lifting his drink and looking anywhere but at you.

“Like playing bingo at the senior centre?” Santos asks, resting both forearms on the bar.

You step up on her other side, squinting at the shelves of liquor on the back wall like they’re the most interesting thing in the room.

“Bingo’s on Wednesdays,” he says mildly. “Try to keep up.”

Santos snorts, shaking her head as she reaches for the small leather-bound bar menu. But out of the corner of his eye, Jack sees your head dip—just slightly—and you try to hide a small laugh against your shoulder.

Jack feels it like a punch to the ribs.

Because you’re listening.

And apparently… you think he’s funny.

“Alright,” Santos says, lifting a hand. “I think we need some tequila over here.”

The bartender steps away from where he’d been serving farther down the bar, but his attention quickly drifts past Santos and lands on you. He leans in, resting one palm flat against the bar while he wipes down the counter with a rag that doesn’t really need wiping.

“So,” he says to you, not Santos. “What are you drinking tonight?”

Santos blinks.

“I just told you,” she says flatly. “Tequila.”

The bartender barely glances at her.

Jack’s jaw tightens.

You look briefly confused, glancing between Santos and the bartender.

“Uh—whatever she orders is fine.”

“Yeah. Tequila,” Santos repeats, slower this time.

The bartender laughs like she’s joking—and Jack sets his scotch down slowly. Carefully.

His eyes stay locked on the man now lining up four small glasses in front of you, still completely ignoring Santos. The way he’s watching you is too much. Too close. The faint curl at the corner of his mouth makes Jack want to punch the smirk right off his face.

And by the way you shift a little closer to Santos—pulling your jacket tighter around yourself—he knows you’re uncomfortable.

His hand clenches at his side.

Robby pauses as he walks past, a beer in each hand.

“Easy, tiger,” he mutters. “She can handle herself.”

“I know,” Jack says, voice low. “Doesn’t mean she has to.”

Robby gives him a look—a brief, knowing glance, somewhere between amusement and warning. “Careful.”

Jack doesn’t respond. He just turns back to you and Santos, watching as you each knock back two shots of tequila, your nose scrunching as the burn hits. And he can’t help the small twitch at the corner of his mouth, because the face you make as you set the second glass down is ridiculously cute for someone wearing a dress like that.

“Okay,” Santos says. “I need a vodka soda before I start making bad decisions.”

The bartender nods, already reaching for another glass—and before he can even ask if you’d like another drink, someone else steals your attention.

“Hey,” the guy says, stepping up beside you. “Can I get you another one?”

He leans in, just enough to be heard over the noise—but it’s still too close.

You shift slightly, angling toward him. “Oh. Uh—sure.”

Santos presses her lips together, clearly fighting a smile as she turns back to the bar, suddenly very invested in whatever the bartender is doing. The second he sets the vodka soda in front of her, she scoops it up and drops a few bills on the counter.

She lifts the drink to her lips as she turns away, pausing just long enough to glance at Jack over the rim of the glass.

Her brows lift. “You really gonna let that happen?”

Jack frowns. “What—”

But Santos is already gone, drink in hand, halfway back to the booth where everyone else is.

Where Jack should be headed too—because there’s no reason for him to stay here. No reason for him to linger, to hover, to make sure you’re okay, to stand there glaring at the guy buying you a drink like that’s going to change anything.

It’s not like he can blame him. If Jack thought he had a shot with you, he’d take it too. The difference is, Jack wouldn’t need the dress. Or the drinks. Or the crowd. He’d take that shot with you even when you’re tired and stressed out and covered in blood at the end of a bad shift in the ER. He’d take it any time. Any place.

But Jack doesn’t get that shot.

Because you’re young. You don’t have baggage. And you’re a resident—maybe not his resident, but still a resident.

It’s just too inappropriate.

Jack sets his glass back on the bar a little harder than necessary—and the bartender glances over, brows raised as if silently asking if he’d like another, but Jack just shakes his head.

His eyes flick back to you. To the way you’re smiling now—soft, not uneasy. To the way you seem to have forgotten about keeping your jacket closed, and now the idiot talking to you is looking anywhere but your face.

Then you laugh—light, easy—and something in Jack’s chest tightens again.

He looks away. He can’t keep standing here. He’s not going to stand here and watch you flirt with some idiot at the bar like he has any right to care.

With a deep breath, he forces himself to turn away and start walking back to the table.

Where he should have been five minutes ago. Where he plans on staying for the rest of the night.

Half an hour later, most of PTMC’s day shift staff are gathered in the booth, half still wearing their scrubs after coming straight from the hospital. The volume of conversation builds with the growing collection of empty glasses in the middle of the table, voices overlapping, getting louder with every round—but Jack doesn’t order another scotch. At some point, Ellis sets a beer in front of him, which he nurses until it’s too warm to enjoy.

Every now and then, he makes a point of nodding or laughing or glancing at someone across the table—pretending to follow the conversation, pretending he’s paying attention—when really, all he can focus on is you. You and your smile. And your laugh. And the way your hand settles lightly on a man’s bicep when he says something that makes you blush.

Not the same man as before, either. No—this one is new. This one swooped in when the first one excused himself to take a phone call, and now that one is back at the table with his friends, sulking.

Kind of how Jack is right now, sitting at the table with his friends. Sulking. Glaring. Plotting.

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it’s none of his business. But he can’t stop himself from trying to come up with an excuse to interrupt you. To get you away from those men and their lingering stares.

Not that he’s any better.

“Abbot.” Robby nudges his side. “Hungry?”

Jack blinks, finally dragging his gaze away from you to where Ellis is standing, looking expectant.

“Hm?”

“Are you hungry?” Ellis asks. “I’m going to order some wings.”

Jack frowns. “Uh—no. I’m good. Thanks.”

Ellis nods once and turns away, heading straight for the bar.

Robby huffs a quiet laugh beside him. “You might want to turn your hearing aids up, old man.”

Jack doesn’t even look at him. “Funny.”

“I’m serious,” Robby says mildly. “You’ve missed, what, three questions in the last five minutes?”

“I heard her,” Jack mutters. “I was just... thinking.”

Robby hums like he doesn’t believe that for a second.

Jack shifts, pushing his chair back as he sets his warm beer on the table. “I’m gonna hit the head.”

Robby’s brows lift, slow and knowing, his gaze flicking briefly toward the bar.

“Mm,” he says. “Sure you are.”

Jack does, in fact, turn toward the bathrooms first—mostly because he needs a second away from all the music and chatter to try and clear his head. To try and stop himself from doing what he really left the booth to do.

He locks himself in the accessible bathroom—not that he needs it, but it’s more private than the men’s—and stands in front of the vanity. He presses his palms into the porcelain sink, shifting his weight forward with a deep, steadying breath.

This is ridiculous, and he knows it.

He’s a grown man. He shouldn’t be acting like this.

This is trivial shit, for God’s sake. Jack is a vet. A seasoned ER doctor.

So why is a goddamn crush undoing him like this?

Why are you undoing him like this?

He lifts his head and stares at his reflection—jaw tight, shoulders rigid—trying to get a grip. Trying to remember that he is a grown ass man, not some idiot who can’t keep his shit together.

His gaze drifts across his face—the day-old stubble, peppered hair—then to the reflection of the bathroom behind him. The graffitied walls, covered in stickers and spray paint, a chaotic collection of late nights and inebriated thoughts. He wonders, briefly, how many people came in here intending to leave something behind.

Then he spots something scrawled in the corner of the mirror in thick black marker.

HESITATE AND SOMEONE ELSE WON’T.

Jack tilts his head.

That’s not exactly... subtle.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it?

He doesn’t hesitate.

Not in the trauma bay. Not out in the field. Not when it matters. Not when someone’s life is on the line and everyone else is waiting for someone to make the call.

So what the hell is this?

This… standing back. Watching. Letting it happen.

Like he doesn’t know what he wants. Like he hasn’t already made up his mind.

He drags a hand over his mouth, shaking his head once—sharp, annoyed.

“Jesus Christ.”

It’s not caution. It’s avoidance.

With another deep breath, Jack reaches for the tap and braces his hands beneath the stream. He scrubs them together—quick and thorough—then turns off the water, grabs a paper towel, and dries his hands with more focus than necessary. He tosses the towel in the bin on his way out the door, his gaze sharpening as he scans the bar—finding you immediately.

You’re still standing where you were, maybe a few steps closer to the back of the room. There’s a new guy in front of you now, closing you in, crowding your space just enough to make Jack’s eyes narrow.

The man’s hand settles at your waist, a little lower than what could be considered innocent. And anyone else watching might think you’re okay with it—but Jack knows you. He sees the small flicker of discomfort that crosses your face, the subtle drop of your shoulder as you try to angle yourself away without seeming rude.

Good thing Jack doesn’t mind being rude.

He’s already moving before he’s fully decided to. Just a few long strides and he’s there—close enough to cut through the space between you and the guy without touching either of you, his presence alone enough to interrupt whatever the hell this is supposed to be.

He looks at you. Just you.

“Hey.”

Your head turns immediately—and the shift in your expression is instant. Relief.

“Oh—hey,” you say, a little breathless.

And then you step into him. Not too close. Not in a way that draws attention or suggests anything—but enough to make Jack’s pulse jump. Enough for him to feel your warmth and the way it settles under his skin.

“Hey, man,” the guy says, holding out a hand. “I’m Trent.”

Jack ignores him.

“You alright?” he asks you.

You nod slowly. “I am now.”

Your fingers curl into the back of his shirt, just for a second—like you didn’t even think about it. Like you just needed something solid to hold onto.

Jack goes still.

Trent clears his throat. “Sorry—uh—who are you?”

You glance at him with a tight smile. “This is my attending.”

Jack likes being called your attending.

Trent frowns. “What?”

“Remember how I said I was a doctor?”

Trent just stares at you.

“Well, Dr. Abbot is my attending,” you go on anyway. “He’s like my supervisor. I’m his resident.”

His resident.

“Right,” Trent mutters, eyeing Jack. “Cool. So—you’re a doctor?”

Jack doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay fixed on you.

“Are you hungry?” he asks. “Ellis is ordering wings—we can grab a menu.”

“Starving,” you reply, the corner of your mouth lifting slightly as you look up at him.

“Great.” His hand settles at your shoulder, firm but casual. “Let’s get back to the others.”

“Wait,” Trent says. “Are you—”

“It was nice meeting you,” you cut in, flashing him one last tight-lipped smile before Jack steers you away.

He keeps his arm around your shoulders until you’re halfway back to the booth of PTMC doctors and nurses. Only then does he pull back, clasping his hands behind his back like he needs the physical restraint.

“Thanks for that,” you murmur. “He just wouldn’t take a hint.”

Jack nods. “I noticed.”

He doesn’t look at you as he turns back toward the other end of the table, toward his seat beside Robby—because if he did, he might not be able to leave your side. From the corner of his eye, he sees Santos reach for you, already asking what happened as she pulls you into the seat between her and McKay.

And for twenty blissful minutes, Jack feels okay. The most okay he’s felt all night.

Because you’re here, at the table, talking to Santos and McKay—and not some idiot who thinks he deserves a chance with the prettiest girl in the room. In the world, according to Jack.

But only for twenty minutes—because once you finish your drink, Santos drags you back to the bar.

Another shot. Another drink. Another guy.

Jack shifts in his chair, trying to listen to whatever it is Ellis and Mateo are arguing about, but he can’t focus—not when your hand settles lightly on this new guy’s shoulder. And especially not when it slides down his bicep, flirty in a way that makes Jack want to get out of his chair.

He tells himself he’s not going to. That he shouldn’t.

But the second the lights dim and the music gets louder, he pushes out of his seat.

He finds you at the edge of the dancefloor, catching your wrist before you can disappear into the crowd.

“Hey,” he says, voice raised over the music.

Your head whips around, your brows lifting slightly in that soft, expectant way—like you’re waiting for him to say whatever it is that’s so important he had to stop you right here.

Jack clears his throat. “Have you been drinking water?”

You frown. “Um. Not really.”

“You should really drink some water,” he says, tipping his head toward the bar.

You hesitate, glancing back over your shoulder at the man waiting for you to follow him into the crowd.

Then you look back at Jack.

“Uh, yeah. Okay. Water.”

He knows he shouldn’t have done it. He knows it was stupid and petty and jealousy-driven—but he can’t help the flicker of satisfaction when you follow him to the end of the bar with the self-serve water tower.

The music is too loud for conversation—and even if it wasn’t, he’s not sure what he’d say. Not when you’re looking at him like this. A little drunk. A little curious. Your brows drawn, your skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, your lips wet from the water.

God. This has the be the finest form of torture.

Because here you are—so young and so sweet, so trusting in Jack that he’s just trying to look after you, when all he can think about is the fact that you’re not his. That they think you’re fair game. That every man in this room thinks he has a chance.

And the fact that he’s not going to let them anywhere near you.

-

The third time Jack Abbot appears at your side, he catches your elbow just as you’re about to step out the door with a man named Leo. Not to leave the bar—just for some air—but then Jack says something about Mateo buying a round of shots and guides you back inside.

You don’t mind. Not really. Especially not when a free drink is involved.

So you line up beside your coworkers and sink another shot of tequila with a grimace before Santos drags you back to the dancefloor.

The fourth time Jack Abbot intercepts you, you’re just about to start dancing with a handsome stranger Santos accidentally made you bump into—but before you can even take the man’s hand, Jack pulls you away, insisting you take a seat for a minute and drink more water.

Which, fine. Whatever.

But by the fifth interruption, you’re starting to notice a pattern.

And you’re getting a little annoyed.

“Oh my God,” Santos says, her eyes going wide as the opening notes to ABBA’s Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! start blaring through the speakers. “We have to dance. Come on!”

You barely have time to scoop your drink up off the bar before she’s dragging you onto the dancefloor—into the throng of warm bodies all moving to the beat beneath the single, sparkling disco ball.

The music pulses through the floor beneath your feet, the bass thrumming in your chest as Santos drags you deeper into the crowd. Somewhere between Mateo’s round of shots and your tenth song on the dancefloor, your jacket disappeared—and now your dress catches the light with every movement, glittering under the shifting colours as bodies press in from all sides.

The bar is still pretty full, even if the PTMC booth has already lost a few soldiers. There are still plenty of prospects—plenty of strangers who might offer to take you home and make you forget all about Jack Abbot. Which is still very much the plan.

If only the man himself would stop interrupting every interaction like he’s doing you a favour.

At some point during the second—or maybe third—chorus, Santos subtly steps away and a guy ends up in front of you. You’re not even entirely sure how. One second you’re dancing and screaming the lyrics, the next he’s there—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, his hands hovering like he’s trying to decide where to put them.

You let it happen. Because this is what you want, right?

This is the plan.

He leans in and says something you don’t quite catch over the music, but you laugh anyway—more out of obligation than anything else.

Then his attention shifts.

His eyes flick past you. And just like that—he falters.

It’s subtle, but you feel it. The hesitation. The way his body pulls back a fraction, like something just snapped him out of it.

“Uh—actually,” he mutters, already stepping away. “I—yeah. Sorry.”

Then he’s gone.

You blink, frowning slightly as you glance over your shoulder and—

Of course.

Jack Abbot, standing just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, drink in hand, eyes locked on you with a look that makes your stomach drop.

Not angry. Not exactly.

But intense. Sharp. Focused in a way that feels… deliberate.

You stare at him for a second—frustration flickering across your face—then turn back to Santos, who is still dancing with her vodka soda lifted in the air.

You lean in, raising your voice just enough to be heard over the music. “Your plan isn’t working!”

She turns to face you, frowning. “What do you mean it’s not working?”

You stare at her. “The plan to get me laid? It’s not working.”

“Why not?”

You huff out a laugh, incredulous.

“Because of him,” you say, nodding toward Jack. “Because I let him save me from one bad interaction and now he’s just—hovering. Interrupting. Scaring people off.”

Santos’ mouth twitches.

“I think he thinks he’s being helpful,” you add, shaking your head. “Like he’s doing me a favour or something, but—God, I’m never going to get a stranger to take me home with a hundred-and-ninety-pound war vet glaring over my shoulder every five minutes.”

Santos just looks at you for a second—then smiles. Slow. Knowing.

“And what part of my plan isn’t working?”

You frown. “Are you even listening to me?”

“I said I was going to get you laid,” she says, lifting her drink to her lips. “I never said anything about going home with a stranger.”

It doesn’t land straight away.

You blink at her, still frowning as you try to follow the logic—because that doesn’t make sense, that’s not the plan. If you’re not going home with a stranger, then who—

And then it clicks.

Your stomach drops.

“Wait—Santos,” you start, eyes widening. “You don’t mean—”

Santos just looks at you over the rim of her glass. Calm. Patient. Smiling faintly, like she’s been waiting for this exact moment all night.

You glance toward the side of the dancefloor again—to the man still focused on you in a way that feels far too intentional now. Arms folded, jaw set. He doesn’t even pretend to look away when you meet his stare.

“Actually,” Santos says, her hand closing around your wrist. “I think my plan is working perfectly. Now, come on—” she nods toward the booth where everyone else is, “let’s play a game.”

A game?

Before you can argue or even question it, Santos is dragging you off the dancefloor toward the booth at the back of the bar. The thrum of the music dulls the further you get from the crowd, and by the time you both slide into empty seats at the table, you no longer feel like you need to yell just to be heard.

The PTMC crew has thinned since you were last sitting here. Robby, Dana, and Donnie are gone, and McKay is holding her purse in her lap like she’d been trying to leave when Mateo cornered her with another rant about how no patient actually seems to understand the pain scale.

“Alright,” Santos announces, picking up someone’s abandoned drink and taking a sip like she owns it, “we’re playing a game.”

Whitaker leans forward. “A game?”

“Yes, Huckleberry. A game.” Santos glances around the table with a lazy half-smile. “It’s called Never Have I Ever.”

Mateo snorts. “That’s a middle school sleepover game.”

“Great,” Santos replies. “Then it should be easy for you.”

There’s a ripple of laughter around the table, but no one else seems to object.

“Can I start?” Mohan pipes up beside Santos. “I’ve got a good one.”

Santos nods. “Be my guest.”

You’re not entirely sure when Jack rejoined the table, since he’d been at the edge of the dancefloor just a few minutes ago, but now you’re suddenly very aware of his presence across from you. Like the few people that called it a night have unintentionally left a smaller, more intimate group behind—and now Jack Abbot is almost directly across from you while you play one of the most notorious, tension-raising middle school games of all time.

“Okay,” Mohan says, sitting up a little straighter. “Never have I ever… called in sick when I wasn’t actually sick.”

McKay laughs. Mateo groans. Almost everyone at the table lifts their drinks.

“Really?” Santos says. “That was your good one?”

Mohan shrugs. “I thought—”

“Never mind,” Santos cuts her off. “My turn.”

Her gaze moves slowly around the table before landing on you, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly.

“Never have I ever,” she starts slowly, “fantasised about someone else sitting at this table.”

Your pulse jumps.

McKay snorts.

Mateo leans forward. “Like, intentionally. Or…?”

Whitaker frowns. “You’ve accidentally fantasised about someone here?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes the wrong people pop up, you know?”

Santos rolls her eyes. “Oh my God. Whatever. Intentional or not.”

Mateo nods once and lifts his drink. Javadi sinks lower in her chair as she lifts hers—and you try not to look around at the rest of the table as you bring your own up to your lips.

Beside you, McKay drops her purse to the ground and straightens, clearly invested now.

“Alright, I’ve got one,” she says, grinning. “Never have I ever… faked it.”

Javadi chokes, Santos snorts, and across from you, Jack huffs out a quiet laugh.

“Never?” Ellis asks, eyes wide. “So you always—”

“Oh, God, no,” McKay laughs. “Definitely not. I just refuse to fake it.”

Laughter moves through the table again, a little louder this time, and everyone takes a second to decide whether or not to raise their drinks.

You lift yours slowly, looking anywhere but at Jack.

“Okay, my turn,” Ellis announces, shifting in her seat. “Never have I ever… hooked up with someone at work.”

The table reacts around you, a mix of laughter and quiet protest, but it all blurs at the edges when you finally glance up—because Jack is already looking at you.

Not surprised. Not amused.

Just… watching.

He doesn’t laugh or say anything. He just lifts his drink, slow and deliberate.

And something sharp twists in your chest.

“What’ve you got, Langdon?” McKay asks, nodding at him across the table.

Langdon strokes his chin thoughtfully for a moment—then sighs.

“Alright, I already know I’m going to get shit for this, but—” He clears his throat. “Never have I ever… had sex in public.”

McKay laughs, loudly, and lifts her drink to her lips without hesitation. Ellis and Santos drink too, while Mohan laughs into her hand and Javadi sinks even lower in her chair.

Across from you, Jack sips his drink again like it’s nothing.

And that sharp twist in your chest doesn’t ease.

Because of course he has. Of course there are other people. Other women.

And you—

You catch Santos’ gaze from the other end of the table—sharp, knowing, daring.

Your grip tightens slightly around your glass.

And before you can talk yourself out of it—

“Okay, my turn,” you say lightly, sitting up a little straighter.

Everyone turns to you, but you keep your eyes fixed on your glass.

“Never have I ever,” you say slowly, “…finished during sex.”

For a second—nothing.

Then the table erupts.

“What—no—” Mateo is already laughing, leaning forward like he thinks you’re joking. “You’re kidding.”

Javadi chokes on her drink, coughing as she turns toward you. “Wait, seriously?”

“Oh my God,” McKay says, half-laughing, half-staring at you like she’s trying to figure out if you’re lying.

Langdon huffs out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Well… that’s unfortunate.”

Whitaker just blinks at you, caught somewhere between surprised and confused, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that information.

Santos doesn’t say anything. She just leans back in her seat, watching you over the rim of her glass with a slow, satisfied smile.

And across from you—

Jack just goes still.

Completely still.

His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes does—sharp, dark, focused in a way that makes your stomach flip.

It takes you a minute to remember how to move. How to breathe. How to laugh and sip your drink and keep playing the game that doesn’t stop just because it feels like your heart did.

Eventually, everyone eases off the third-degree on your embarrassingly real confession, and Mateo pipes up next with something ridiculous that makes the table groan. Then Javadi comes out with something surprisingly rebellious—and blushes hard when Mateo flashes her a wink.

And so it goes on.

You know it does.

You can hear it—voices overlapping, laughter breaking out again, someone arguing over what counts, someone else swearing they’re being misrepresented—but it all feels… distant.

Like it’s happening a few steps away from you instead of right here at the table. Because now, all you can focus on is Jack. On the way he’s hardly moved. Hardly spoken. Hardly looked away from you.

At some point, he mutters his own confession with a small smirk and everyone laughs—but you don’t catch the words. You’re too aware of everything else to hear them. Too aware of your pulse pounding in your ears, the thrum of the music beneath your feet, the way Jack’s jaw ticks every time you glance back at him.

Another round starts. Then another.

Someone groans. Someone laughs too loud. Santos says something that earns a chorus of reactions—but it all slips past you, unimportant, forgettable.

Time stretches. Blurs.

Your drink empties, refills, empties again.

People shift in their seats. Someone stands. Someone leaves.

Then suddenly—

“You ready?”

You blink.

Santos is standing beside you, brows raised.

“Ready?” you echo.

She nods toward the door. “Time to go. Most of us have to work tomorrow.”

You glance around at the empty table. “Oh.”

Santos is already halfway to the door by the time you gather your things and catch up to her. You’re still pulling your jacket on as you step outside, bracing against the cool night air that nips at every inch of exposed skin—which, in this dress, is a lot of skin.

“The Uber’s just around the corner,” Whitaker says.

“Great,” Mohan mutters, hugging her jacket tighter. “I’m freezing.”

You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or just the heat lingering beneath your skin from the way Jack had been watching you earlier, but you’re not nearly as cold as you should be.

“You sure you don’t mind if I stay over tonight?” Javadi asks, glancing between Santos and Whitaker.

Santos shrugs. “As long as you don’t mind the couch—and Dr. Shamsi isn’t going to have us arrested for kidnapping.”

Javadi lets out an awkward laugh. “Uh—no. It’s totally fine. I told my dad.”

“Are you working tomorrow?” Whitaker asks.

Javadi shakes her head. “Day off. You?”

Whitaker sighs. “Yeah.”

“So am I,” Santos adds. “And if I don’t get at least five hours sleep, I cannot be responsible for other people’s lives.”

“That’s reassuring,” Jack mutters, almost startling you as he steps out of the bar.

He buries his hands in his pockets, hardly sparing you a glance as he steps closer to the group. There’s a faint hitch in his step—something you recognise from the waning hours of a night shift, when he’s been on his feet for too long and starts to favour one leg.

“This is us,” Whitaker announces, nodding toward the car pulling up at the curb.

Mohan hurries forward first, yanking the door open and climbing into the back seat—and Javadi is next, flashing you a smile before she ducks in beside her. You step forward—then hesitate. Whitaker is already holding the front passenger door open, and Santos is standing at the curb, about to join the others in the back.

“Wait.” Your pulse jumps. “There’s too many—”

“You’re with Dr. Abbot,” Santos says lightly, her mouth twitching like she’s trying not to smile.

Your stomach drops.

“I—I’m what?”

Santos shrugs. “Javadi’s staying over and Mohan’s place is on the way to ours. Just makes sense.”

Then she climbs into the car, shuts the door, and rolls the window down.

“See you tomorrow!”

There’s a chorus of goodbyes from the others before the car pulls away from the curb—and the cool, quiet night settles in too quickly. The only sound is the dull thrum of music from the bar, and the pounding of your pulse in your ears.

For a second, you don’t turn around. You can’t. Not now that you’re alone with him.

Then—

“I’m this way,” he says, voice low and rough and maddeningly hot.

You nod, but don’t dare look at him as you start following the line of parked cars up the street.

The night air feels sharper now, cooler the further you get from the bar—and it makes you pull into yourself, arms folded tightly while your jacket barely does anything to help.

Jack keeps an easy pace beside you, not crowding you, not touching you, but close enough that you’re aware of him anyway. Of the space he takes up at your side. Of the way he adjusts slightly so you’re walking on the inside of the path, further from the curb, without making a thing of it.

Neither of you says anything.

It’s not awkward. It’s just… quiet in a way that feels heavy, like the silence is holding onto everything that happened inside instead of letting it go.

Your heels click unevenly against the pavement, catching slightly every few steps, and you’re suddenly, painfully aware of everything—the way your dress shifts as you move, the cool air against your skin, the way your pulse hasn’t quite settled.

You feel too sober. Too aware.

When his car finally comes into view, he moves ahead of you just slightly—just enough to reach the passenger door first and hold it open.

God. He’s so annoyingly considerate.

You give him a small, tight smile before climbing into the passenger seat.

The car is still warm, still holding onto the heat from earlier in the day, and it smells like him in a way that’s subtle but unmistakable—clean, familiar, something faintly sharp beneath it that you can’t quite place but instantly recognise. The seat gives slightly beneath you, softer than you expect, and for a second you just sit there, hands hovering like you’re not entirely sure where to put them.

It’s his.

All of it.

The way everything is exactly where it should be, nothing out of place. The faint scuff on the console. A pair of sunglasses tucked neatly into the centre compartment. His backpack thrown into the back seat like he’d discarded it in a hurry and never thought about it again.

The sound of the driver’s side door opening almost startles you.

You drop your hands into your lap, shifting slightly and smoothing your dress down over your thighs like that might ground you somehow.

The car immediately feels smaller when Jack climbs in. More intimate. Closer in a way that’s almost stifling.

You keep your eyes fixed out the windshield.

Waiting.

For the engine to start. For the car to move.

But nothing happens.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, settling into every inch of the space between you.

And then—

“You can’t say shit like that around me.”

You blink, finally turning toward him—and regretting it immediately. He’s so irritatingly handsome, so annoyingly gorgeous in a way that makes you want to be stupid and reckless and climb across the console into his lap.

“Say what?” you ask, your voice embarrassingly thin.

He looks at you—not fully, just turning his head slightly.

“You know what,” he says, his voice low and rough with something that sounds a little too close to control slipping.

And you do.

You know exactly what he means.

But before you can say anything else, he turns the key and the engine rumbles to life. The radio crackles a little before some late-night news station fills the silence—and he doesn’t move to turn it off, doesn’t even turn it down. He just drives.

The radio reporter’s voice hums through the car like white noise, talking about something you’re not really listening to as you try to focus on keeping your breathing even.

You can still hear his voice.

You can’t say shit like that around me.

The way he said it. Low. Controlled. Like it cost him something to keep it that way.

Your fingers shift slightly in your lap, smoothing over the fabric of your dress again without thinking, and your mind starts turning his words over before you can stop it—pulling at them, testing them, trying to make them mean something that makes sense.

Because what does that even mean?

You glance at him, quick, like you might catch something you missed—but he’s focused on the road, jaw set, one hand loose on the wheel like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just change everything with eight little words.

You look away again.

No. He didn’t mean it like that.

He’s just—he’s your attending. He’s responsible. Of course he’d say something. Of course he’d—

Except he didn’t say it like that.

Your stomach tightens as your thoughts circle back, slower this time, more deliberate.

The way he kept pulling you away from people tonight. The way he’d been watching you. The way he didn’t laugh, didn’t joke, didn’t let it go.

The way he said it.

Around me.

Not here. Not in front of people.

Around me.

Your breath catches slightly, and you shift in your seat, suddenly very aware of the space between you—of how close he is, of how easy it would be to just turn your head, lean in and—

No.

No, that’s not—

You swallow, gaze fixed stubbornly ahead.

You’re just reading into it. You have to be.

Because the alternative—

Your pulse jumps.

God. The alternative is too much to even consider.

But the thought lingers anyway.

It settles in the back of your mind, quieter now, but heavier—pulling at everything he said, everything he did, everything you might have missed until now. The words circle back, sharper this time—until—

The car stops—and you blink.

For a moment, you don’t move. You can’t.

Then Jack clears his throat.

“Oh—uh—thanks,” you mutter, reaching for your seatbelt buckle.

He nods once. “Anytime.”

You push your door open before you can think too hard about it, stepping out into the cool night air that hits a little harder this time. Your heart is still beating in your throat, your pulse still too loud, your thoughts are still circling those eight words—eight little words that feel like they weigh far more than they should.

You hesitate—one hand on the door, the other gripping your keys in your jacket pocket.

God.

This is stupid.

This is reckless.

This is—

“Do you—” You clear your throat, the words catching slightly before you force them out. “Do you want to come up?”

He stares at you for a second, then lets out a short, disbelieving breath, like he’s not quite sure he heard you right.

“You can’t be serious.”

Heat rushes up your neck, quick and unwelcome, and for a second you just stand there, wishing you could take it back—rewind a few seconds and keep your mouth shut.

What the hell were you thinking?

“Yeah,” you say, a little too quickly. “No, that was—that was stupid.”

You turn away before he can say anything else, pushing the door shut harder than you mean to as you step back onto the sidewalk. You don’t look back. You refuse to. You just keep walking toward the lobby door, drawing your keys from your pocket and fumbling through them to find the right one.

It takes longer than it should, but eventually you find the lobby key and wriggle it into the lock.

This door has never been your friend. It’s old, a little rusted, and the lock has always been janky—but now your hands are shaking, and this stupid old door seems to think that’s funny, because it won’t budge.

You jiggle the key and try again, but nothing changes.

Then—

“Here.”

His voice is low. Close.

Your hand stills as he steps in behind you, not touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back—the solid line of his chest just shy of pressing into you as he reaches past your shoulder.

His fingers brush yours as he takes the key—and the lock turns easily this time.

Of course it does. Traitorous fucking door.

His arm lingers there for a second longer than it needs to—then he pushes the door open.

You don’t even glance at him as you step inside, already turning back to grab your key before the door swings shut—but he’s still holding it, barely a step behind you.

He tilts his head slightly, nodding toward the lobby. “Go.”

It’s quiet. Controlled.

Not a suggestion.

Your breath catches, just for a second, and you hesitate—long enough to feel it, whatever this is, tightening between you—

Then you turn and keep walking.

And he follows.

He follows you across the lobby, up the fire stairs, down the corridor, all the way to your apartment door. He stands a little closer than necessary as you unlock it—almost like he doesn’t think you know how doors work now—but the key turns smoothly this time.

You push the door open and step inside.

The apartment is quiet, dim, and you shrug out of your jacket without thinking. You can feel him watching you as you drape it over the arm of the sofa, and it’s a little... thrilling. Dangerous. Because Jack Abbot is in your goddamn apartment right now, looking at you like he’s a man on the edge—

And you’re daring him to jump.

“Drink?” you offer, keeping your voice light—innocent.

He clears his throat. “Water, please.”

You can’t help the small smirk on your lips as you brush past him, a little closer than necessary.

“So polite,” you murmur.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t shift—but you can feel him there, tense just beneath the surface.

You open the fridge and bend over to grab a bottle of water, letting your dress ride up the backs of your thighs in a way that’s totally unnecessary. Jack clears his throat again, just a little too sharp, and when you glance back toward him, he’s turned away completely.

You press your lips together to keep from smiling too wide as you straighten again.

“Here,” you say, stepping toward him and holding the water out.

He turns hesitantly, taking it. “Thank you.”

Your eyes catch his, a slow smile tugging at your lips before you bite the corner gently, just enough for him to notice. He looks away quickly, jaw tightening as he focuses on uncapping the water bottle.

You brush past him again, still a little too close, and move toward the sofa, dropping onto it and leaning forward to take off your shoes.

Jack takes a long swig of water, then clears his throat for the third time.

“Are you working tomorrow?” he asks.

You glance up, still leaned forward, and it’s hard not to notice the way his eyes dip from your face.

“Isn’t that something you should already know?”

The corner of his mouth twitches, like he can’t quite help himself.

“You’re impossible. You know that?”

Heat rushes up your neck at the way he says it—short, sharp, loaded—and you bite back a grin, letting your eyes glint just a little as you straighten.

“Am I?” you murmur, tilting your head just slightly. “Only one way to find out.”

He freezes for a second, shoulders tight, hand curling slightly around the water bottle—and it crackles softly under his grip. His breath hitches, just barely.

“I should go,” he mutters, voice low and clipped.

He takes a step toward the door—and you shoot up from the sofa, heartbeat racing.

“Wait—uh—before you go,” you say, stepping toward him, “could you help me with something?”

He hesitates, turning slowly, as if every second in here is costing him something.

You move until you’re almost between him and the door, looking up at him through your lashes.

“Could you help me out of my dress?”

The second the words leave your lips, you forget how to breathe.

Jack’s jaw tightens, his shoulders coiling ever so slightly. His fingers twitch around the bottle, just a whisper of movement, as if holding himself together by force. His eyes catch yours, dark and sharp, taking in the faint scrunch between your brows, the small pout on your lips, the way you’re offering him something he never thought he’d be allowed to have.

He nods once—careful, controlled—but the tension radiating off him is almost unbearable.

Your stomach flips.

Without a word, you turn, sweeping your hair out of the way while your pulse hammers in your ears.

You feel him shift, his warmth, and the ghost of his touch at the nape of your neck. And that first, tiny contact sends a shock straight through you—hot, sharp, impossible to ignore.

He pauses, just a heartbeat, and you catch the tiniest hitch in his breath.

Then he moves again, slow, deliberate, dragging the zipper down almost painfully slow, his knuckles grazing your skin—warm, rough, controlled, just enough to make your heart pound in your throat.

“How do you do it?” you whisper, voice catching slightly. “How are you always so… unaffected by everything?”

“Unaffected?” he murmurs, almost tasting the word, as if testing it against himself.

His knuckles brush the small of your back, pausing where the zipper ends—but he doesn’t stop. His fingertips graze your skin, deliberate, teasing, tracing the line of your spine upward again, slow enough that it drags your breath with it, sharp enough that heat blooms through every nerve.

“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice low and rough, almost breaking, “how much you affect me.”

Your breath catches, sharp and sudden. Everything in your chest pulls tight, something hot and dizzying blooming low as his words sink in.

You turn before you can stop yourself—and he’s closer now. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the shift of his breath, the space between you narrowing into something fragile and dangerous.

For a second, neither of you move.

And then his hand finds your neck—

Not rough, not rushed—just firm enough to anchor you there, thumb pressing under your jaw like he needs to feel that this is real, that you’re real. His other hand tightens where it still holds the loosened fabric of your dress at your back, fingers curling into it like restraint is slipping through his grip.

He hesitates, just for a breath. Like he’s giving himself one last chance to walk away.

Then he kisses you.

It’s not tentative. There’s nothing careful about it. It lands like something he’s been holding back for too long, all that control finally snapping under the weight of you standing here, asking for him, looking at him like that.

His mouth is warm and certain against yours, a sharp inhale breaking through you as you lean into him without thinking, your hands finding him just as quickly—his stomach, his chest—anything to hold onto as the world tilts. He makes a low sound, barely there, but you feel it more than you hear it, the vibration settling deep in your chest as his grip tightens.

You melt before you can stop yourself.

Your head tilts back, giving him more, and he takes it immediately, deepening the kiss with that same quiet intensity that steals the breath right out of you. His thumb shifts along your jaw, not lingering, just enough to guide you where he wants you, and the control of it—God, the way he still tries to control it after everything, after all that restraint—makes something in your stomach flip hard.

His hand at your back slips under the loosened zipper, fingers pressing into your bare skin now, warm and steady, but there’s tension in it. You can feel it in the way his grip flexes, like he’s still trying—still—to hold the line even as he pulls you closer.

It doesn’t work.

Not when you press into him like this, not when your fingers curl tighter in his shirt, not when you kiss him back without hesitation, without thinking about consequences or lines or anything except how he feels against you.

He exhales against your mouth, sharp, like you’ve just undone him, and for a second the kiss falters—not because he’s pulling away, but because he’s trying to.

You feel it. The conflict. The split second where he almost stops.

Your hand slides up to his jaw, fingers catching there, holding him in place before he can even try.

“Don’t,” you whisper, barely pulling back, your lips brushing his as you speak.

And something in him gives.

You see it in the way his eyes darken, in the way his hand tightens at your back, pulling you flush against him this time, the last inch of space gone like it was never allowed to exist in the first place.

When he kisses you again, it’s deeper.

Less restrained.

Like he’s finally stopped pretending this isn’t exactly what he wants.

It’s different now—harder, hungrier, like something in him has shifted for good. His hand slides from your jaw to your waist, gripping tight as he steps into you, crowding you back without breaking the kiss, without giving you a second to think.

Your back meets the door with a soft thud.

He doesn’t stop.

If anything, it only makes him sharper, more certain, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of urgency that steals the air right out of your lungs. You barely get a breath before he takes it again, and you let him—God, you let him—tilting into him, giving him everything he reaches for.

His hand tightens at your waist, then slips lower, dragging you flush against him again, like he needs to feel exactly how close he can get before he loses control completely.

And you can feel it—how close he is.

It’s in the way his grip flexes, in the way his breath turns uneven against your mouth, in the way the kiss keeps deepening like he can’t quite stop himself from taking more.

Your fingers find his shirt again, pulling him closer, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to drag in a breath, his forehead almost brushing yours, like he’s trying—one last time—to get a handle on this.

He doesn’t.

His hands are on you again, immediate, sliding up your sides, pushing the straps of your dress from your shoulders in one smooth, decisive motion. The fabric gives easily, slipping under his hands like it was never meant to stay there in the first place—and it falls to the floor, pooling at your feet.

His breath catches, and his gaze drops—just for a second, but it’s enough.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice low, rough—nothing steady about it now.

You meet his eyes, chest rising and falling fast, heat still sparking under your skin.

“Bedroom,” you murmur.

For a second, he just looks at you.

Something in his expression shifts—tightens—like that word landed exactly where it shouldn’t. His gaze searches yours for a moment, checking for hesitation, for doubt.

But he doesn’t find any.

He nods once—and you turn, already moving toward the bedroom. You can feel him right behind you, close enough that his hand finds your waist again before you’ve even taken two steps, steady, grounding, like he’s not about to let you get too far ahead of him.

It’s barely a walk.

More like being guided—pulled—across the apartment toward your room, your pulse loud in your ears, every step charged with the knowledge of what you’ve just set in motion.

The door barely makes it closed before he’s on you again.

Not rushed—never rushed—but certain, like the decision has already been made and there’s no point pretending otherwise. His hands find you first, steady at your waist, turning you back toward him before you can take another step into the room.

Your breath catches as you look up at him. There’s something in his expression you’ve never seen before. It’s not soft, not gentle—just stripped of whatever distance he’d been holding onto all night.

Gone.

His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, and this time there’s nothing in the way of it—nothing to hide behind, nothing to buffer it—and the heat in it settles low in your stomach, heavy and immediate.

“Still want this?” he asks, voice rough, quieter now—but it lands heavier here.

You don’t answer. You just step into him.

And it’s all the permission he needs.

His hand tightens at your waist as he pulls you back into him, and the kiss this time is slower, deeper in a way that feels intentional—like he’s choosing it, not chasing it. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of controlled hunger, every shift measured, every breath deliberate, like he’s letting himself feel it fully instead of fighting it.

Your fingers curl into his shirt, and he exhales against your mouth, something unsteady finally breaking through.

His grip shifts—firmer now—guiding you back a step, then another, not hurried, not careless, but unrelenting all the same. You feel the edge of the bed behind your knees before you fully register moving at all, your focus too caught in the way he’s kissing you, the way his hand anchors you like he’s not about to let this get away from him.

His mouth breaks from yours just long enough to draw in a breath, his forehead pressing briefly to yours.

Not hesitation. Control.

Or what little he has left of it.

“Last chance,” he murmurs, quieter now.

You drop back onto the bed, gaze locked on his, breath still uneven.

“I’m not the one holding back.”

You barely have time to move up the mattress before he’s there, crowding over you, hands braced on either side as he follows you down. The mattress dips under his weight, the space between you gone in an instant—replaced by the solid heat of him, the firm press of his hips against yours.

His mouth finds yours again, hot and insistent, teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to pull a soft sound from you—but it’s different now. Slower. Not restrained, but deliberate. Curious, almost.

Like he’s learning you.

The way you react. The way you move under him. The way you give.

Your hands slide up his chest, fingertips digging in as heat coils low in your stomach—but they don’t stay there long. He shifts his weight slightly, steady, controlled, one hand lifting off the mattress to catch your wrist.

His fingers close around it—not tight, not forceful—just certain, guiding.

He lifts your hand above your head.

“Jack,” you whisper. “I—”

He shushes you.

“Let me do this, okay?” His voice is rough, thick with something unsteady beneath it—something that makes your stomach knot. “I’ve got you.”

And you believe him.

His hand slides down your body, slow and sure, brushing over your chest, your waist, the curve of your hip—each touch deliberate, like he’s taking his time even now, even like this. His fingers hook at the inside of your thigh, grip firm as he nudges your leg wider.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”

The words go straight through you.

You can already feel the damp heat between your legs, the slick fabric pressed close, but the way he says it—the way his voice drops—makes your hips shift up instinctively, chasing something you can’t quite reach.

Chasing him.

And he notices. Of course he does.

You only just catch the faint lift at the corner of his mouth before his lips are back on yours, swallowing the breath from you as your back arches, pressing yourself up into him without thinking. Your fingers curl into the sheets above your head, tension pulling tight through your body as everything narrows down to where he’s touching you—where he isn’t touching you.

His hand drags back up your thigh, slower this time. Intentional. And when his fingers finally press against you through the thin fabric, you gasp.

He takes the sound from you immediately, mouth moving against yours, deeper now, like he’s feeding off it, like every reaction just pushes him further. His fingers start to move—slow, circling, testing—while his mouth leaves yours to trail along your jaw, your cheek, the side of your neck.

With your mouth free, the sounds slip out before you can stop them.

Soft. Unsteady. Needy.

And he loves it.

You feel it in the way his breath shifts, in the way his grip tightens just slightly, in the way his hips rock—slow, controlled, a subtle pressure of denim that’s more suggestion than friction.

“Jack—” your voice catches, breaking on his name. “Please. I want—”

“Tell me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your shoulder, voice low and coaxing.

“More,” you manage, breath shaking. “Need more.”

He groans against your skin, the sound low and rough, his body settling heavier over yours like any space between you is something he can’t stand.

Then his hand shifts.

Your breath catches as his fingers slide beneath the damp fabric, dragging through your wet heat in one slow, deliberate stroke.

Your whole body jolts. “Fuck—Jack—”

The reaction pulls something from him—a sharp inhale against your neck, his mouth pressing there like he needs to ground himself for a second before he loses it completely.

You’ve never felt like this before. Never this hot, this open, this aware of every inch of your own body.

And you’ve never wanted anyone like this before.

“God,” he murmurs, voice thick, lips tracing back up your throat. “You’re so wet for me, sweetheart.”

All you can do is nod, whimpering softly, your hips lifting without permission, chasing him, asking for more without the words—and he gives it to you. Of course he does.

His finger slides inside you, slow at first, letting you feel it—the stretch, the heat—before he pushes deeper, and the sound that breaks from you is swallowed instantly as his mouth finds yours again, your back arching beneath him as he starts to move. Not fast. Never fast. He sets a rhythm instead, steady and controlled, curling his finger just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make your hips move against him again.

And when you press into it, when your body starts to chase that feeling properly, he adds another finger, the stretch pulling a broken sound from your throat as your hands tighten in the sheets and your body rolls beneath him, helpless to it now, completely caught in the slow, deliberate way he works you open.

Every movement is intentional. Every curl hits deeper, sharper, building something tight and aching low in your stomach that makes your whole body tremble, your breath coming out in uneven gasps as you press into his hand, chasing, needing.

Then his thumb finds your clit, and the contact is immediate—devastating.

You cry out, sharp and breathless, your whole body tightening as he starts slow, deliberate circles that send heat spiralling through you, your hips lifting again, desperate now, unable to stay still under him.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice rough, barely steady. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

You can’t answer—not when his mouth is everywhere, your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he can’t decide where he wants you most before he finds your lips again, and this time the kiss is different again. Hungrier. Messier. His tongue presses into your mouth just as his fingers push deeper, his thumb working harder, more deliberate now, and the moan that tears from you is swallowed whole.

“Please,” you whimper against his mouth, breath breaking. “Please, I—need you.”

He lifts his head, dark eyes searching yours, brows pulling together just slightly.

“You sure?”

You stare at him, trying not to whimper as your whole body clenches around his stilled fingers, the sudden stillness almost worse than anything he was doing before.

“Never have I ever finished during sex, remember?” you manage, breathless but steady enough to land. “You gonna fix that, or what?”

Something feral flickers across his face.

And then it’s gone—replaced by something heavier. Something decided.

He kisses you again before you can catch your breath, all teeth and tongue, the restraint he’s been clinging to snapping clean in half as he groans into your mouth, the sound dragged straight from his chest. You feel the loss of his fingers immediately, your body protesting it, but it’s replaced just as quickly by the slow, deliberate roll of his hips, the friction of denim against your soaked panties making you gasp against him.

“Fuck,” he breathes, like he can’t quite believe it.

He pulls back just enough to shift, bracing himself on one arm while the other moves to his belt, not rushed but far from steady now. There’s a hitch in his breath, a tension in the way his fingers work at it, shoving his jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself, and your gaze drops before you can stop it.

He’s already hard—fully, heavily—flushed and slick at the tip, and the sight of it sends a sharp pulse of heat straight through you, your mouth going dry even as your body reacts in the complete opposite way.

“Fuck—” he chokes, the word breaking out of him. “I haven’t been this hard in—” His eyes flick back up to yours, dark and molten, and whatever he was going to say changes. “—ever.”

It hits you low and deep, twisting something tight in your stomach that makes your hips shift under him without thinking. You finally let go of the sheets, your hands finding him, sliding up to wrap around his neck as you pull him back down, needing him closer, needing him everywhere.

Your legs come up around his waist, drawing him in, urging him forward, and his breath stutters as he presses in, his swollen tip dragging against the damp fabric between you. The contact is just enough to make your head fall back, a broken sound slipping from your throat as he tries—tries—to hold himself up, one arm braced, the other moving between you.

You can feel the strain in him now, the way everything is slipping in real time, in the slight shake of his arm, in the uneven rhythm of his breathing as his hand hooks into the waistband of your panties.

“I’ll buy you new ones,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough, almost distracted, like the thought barely registers before it’s gone. “Promise.”

And then the fabric gives.

The sound of it tearing—sharp, sudden—goes straight through you, your breath catching hard as he pulls the fabric out of the way, the last barrier gone in an instant.

It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

But it is.

Jack Abbot—controlled, composed, always holding the line—losing it enough to rip your panties off you?

Fuck.

He sinks into you in one steady thrust, and both of you gasp at the stretch—the sudden, overwhelming closeness, the way want crashes hot and heavy between you. Your pulse hammers in your ears, that dizzy edge of fear and urgency tangling together until all you can think is him—here, now, inside you.

For a moment, you just breathe—pant, really—eyes squeezed shut, hands locked on his shoulders as your body clenches around him, like you’re trying to keep him right there, like you never want to let him go. He drops his head to your neck, breath hot against your damp skin, and you feel the way it shakes out of him.

“You—fuck—you’re so tight, sweetheart,” he pants, voice rough and muffled where his mouth presses into you. “I’m not gonna last—”

“Then don’t,” you murmur, your voice softer but no less certain. “Just fuck me. Please, Jack.”

A groan tears out of him, low and wrecked, and you feel it through his chest as he shifts above you, hips pulling back, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that makes your stomach coil tight, sparks chasing across your skin. You suck in a sharp breath, your grip tightening on him—and before you can brace, he drives forward again, deeper this time.

“Fuck—” you cry out, the sound breaking loose without warning. “Jack—”

He doesn’t stop. His hips roll back again, slower now, controlled in a way that almost makes it worse, his head lifting so he can look at you, really look at you, like he’s checking, like he needs to see it.

“You ready, sweetheart?” he asks, voice low, rough, barely holding together.

The anticipation coils tighter in your chest, sharp and electric, lighting up every nerve in your body until it almost hurts.

“Mhm,” you manage, breath unsteady, nodding as your arms wind tighter around his neck, pulling him closer, needing him closer, like it still isn’t enough.

For a second—just a second—you’re distracted by something stupid, the feel of his shirt between you, the barrier of it, the way you want it gone, want skin on skin, want to see him, feel him, all of him—

And then he thrusts forward again. Harder again. And the thought disappears completely.

Your body jolts beneath him, every movement knocking the breath from your lungs, and the sound that leaves you is loud—too loud—echoing back off the walls in a way that would make you self-conscious any other time.

But not now.

Right now, you don’t care who hears. Not when it feels like this.

His name spills from your lips in broken gasps, tangled with raw cries, and he answers with a rough sound against your shoulder, biting it back as his hips drive into you at a relentless pace. He’s barely holding himself up now, his weight pressing into you in a way that feels like too much and somehow still not enough, the strain in him obvious in every uneven breath, every sharp exhale against your skin.

His hand drags down your side, back to your thigh, fingers digging in as he pushes your leg wider, and the shift—small as it is—hits something deeper, sharper, your vision flashing white as your head tips back and the knot in your belly pulls tight. His grip slides to your hip, anchoring you there, holding you in place so every thrust lands exactly where it needs to, deep and unrelenting, the sound of it filling the room, wet and rhythmic and impossible to ignore beneath the broken sounds you’re both making.

And then his hand moves between you.

You feel it immediately—the change, the focus—as his fingers find your clit in the slick mess between your bodies, steady despite everything else, despite the way he’s losing himself in every way. Your back arches, breath catching sharp as his touch turns deliberate, circling, pressing, coaxing, sending jolts of sensation straight through you until it’s too much, not enough, everything all at once.

“Jack—” you whine, the sound falling apart as soon as it leaves you. “Fuck, I—”

“I know, sweetheart,” he mutters against your jaw, voice wrecked. “Come on my cock, yeah?”

Your hips lift to meet him without thinking, chasing the rhythm he’s set, chasing the pressure, the friction, the way he’s working you with a precision that feels almost cruel now. His hand doesn’t falter, his fingers moving with intent, building and building, every touch sending sharp bursts of pleasure up your spine as the tension in your stomach pulls tighter, tighter, until it feels like it might snap.

It’s never felt like this before. You’ve never felt like this before.

Your whole body tightens, back arching, legs trembling around him as your hips grind up against his, desperate, chasing something you can’t hold onto. He keeps hitting that same spot, again and again, relentless, his pace rougher now, less controlled, while his fingers stay locked on you, steady, practiced, pushing you right to the edge and holding you there.

You cry out, the sound raw, breaking from your chest as everything finally tips.

The release hits all at once—sharp, overwhelming, tearing through you in a rush that steals your breath and leaves nothing behind but heat and tension snapping loose. Your body locks up around him, tightening, pulsing, your hands gripping at him as your legs shake, your hips still moving against his like you can’t stop, like you don’t want to.

“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, his voice wrecked as he keeps moving inside you—slower now, but deeper, like he’s chasing every last pulse of you, like he doesn’t want to miss a second of it. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

His rhythm falters, hips stuttering, and then he loses it completely—a broken sound tearing from him as he drives into you one last time, deep and hard, spilling inside you as his whole body tenses, shuddering above yours.

You feel it—every part of it—the way he comes undone, the way he clings to you through it, like he needs something to hold onto just as much as you do. Your bodies keep moving together, slower now, instinctive, chasing the last fading edges of it as your breathing stays uneven, your chests rising and falling in sync, skin slick and overheated where you’re pressed together.

It takes a moment to come back down—a long one.

But eventually, the tension drains from him and he collapses almost fully above you, face buried into your shoulder, his weight heavy and grounding as he exhales, slow and spent. It makes it a little harder to breathe—but you don’t mind.

Not when you can feel his heartbeat against your chest, strong and real, still racing like yours.

-

For the first time in two weeks, Jack Abbot isn’t stupidly early for his shift. He couldn’t be, really. Because he’d woken up late this morning, limbs tangled with yours in warm sheets that smelled so much like you it made his head spin—and that had thrown off everything else he needed to get done today.

If it was up to him, he wouldn’t have left at all—but he had to. He had police paperwork to finish, a neighbour’s cat to feed, and sleep he should’ve caught up on before being back in charge of an entire emergency department for twelve hours. But on the bright side? He knows you have a swing shift today, which means he doesn’t need to be early to see you, because you’re going to be stuck at PTMC until at least ten p.m. tonight.

With him.

And he really shouldn’t be looking forward to that as much as he is.

“Afternoon, Dr. Abbot,” Dana says, glancing over the top of her glasses. “Wasn’t sure we’d see you today. Aren’t you usually here by now?”

“I’m on time,” Jack mutters. “I’m a busy man.”

Dana hums, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly as her eyes drop back down to the tablet in her hands.

Jack tries not to appear too conspicuous as he scans the department, glancing toward the trauma bays and South corridor as he passes the nurses’ station. He shouldn’t be this anxious to see you again—not in the apprehensive kind of way, but in the way that makes it feel like his lungs won’t quite fill until you’re near him again.

“She’s not here,” Dana says without looking up from her chart. “Wasn’t feeling well, so Ellis came in early.”

Jack spots Ellis across central, exiting one of the rooms with Santos at her side, and he opens his mouth to say something—defend himself, maybe, lie about what or who he was looking for—but he hesitates, unsure what he could say that wouldn’t incriminate him further.

So instead, he just drops his head and keeps walking, fumbling for his phone in his pocket.

He’d seen you this morning. Just this morning. You were sleepy, had a headache, so he got you water and Tylenol and kissed you before he left—but you hadn’t said anything about feeling so unwell you were going to call in sick.

Jack doesn’t stop until he reaches the lockers, then turns back to survey the ED one last time before leaning a shoulder against the wall and pulling up his text thread with you. He hadn’t texted you today because he knew he’d see you tonight and didn’t want to seem… overbearing. Even now, he’s not sure if he should—but he feels off in a way he hasn’t in years, like he’s waiting on something he can’t control and it’s making him feel sick.

What if last night hadn’t meant what he thought it did? What if you regretted it? What if it was just—

“Hey, kid,” Dana calls from the nurses’ station. “Big night?”

Jack’s head snaps up—and there you are.

The relief hits before he can stop it, sharp and instant, loosening something in his chest he hadn’t realised was wound so tight. He swallows it down just as quickly, his expression settling before anyone can clock it.

“You don’t know the half of it,” you mutter.

Dana huffs a short laugh. “I have a feeling I don’t want to know.”

Jack can’t help but watch as you cross the floor toward him, your backpack hanging from one shoulder while the other hand presses two fingers to your temple, like you could massage the headache away. There’s a smug little smile on your lips when you reach him, slowing your steps until you pause just beside him—not too close, but enough to make his breath catch.

You glance down at his phone, at the open message thread where his thumb is hovering, and your smirk curves a little higher.

“Miss me?”

Jack locks his phone and tucks it back into his pocket.

“Thought you were sick.”

You lift one shoulder. “A little hungover, so Ellis swapped with me.”

For a second, neither of you move. He just looks at you—and you look right back, like you both know exactly what’s changed, even if neither of you is about to say it out loud. Not here. Not now.

“And I missed the night shift attending,” you say finally.

Then—before he can respond, before he’s even fully processed what you said—you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek. Only brief. Barely anything.

But it feels like everything.

And just like that, Jack Abbot is done pretending he isn’t yours.

"please—"

it wasn't the first time you'd begged. you'd begged for many, many things in this same position, truth be told. robby behind you, jack below. both of their cocks splitting you open. jack was thick, just like the rest of him—thick fingered, thick bodied, thick cock throbbing and twitching where it stuffed your pussy. robby, on the other hand—long and curved up to the right—enjoyed fucking you in your tight puckered muscle, making you whine and squirm beneath him.

robby laid down over you, crushing you further into jack's chest, who moaned with you at the change in angle. robby’s breath was hot against your ear, his lips pressed into the shell.

"please what, baby? hmmmm?" he groaned, his voice hoarse and cracked, his chest wiry with hair against your slick back.

you brought your hand up to fist in his hair, holding on tight as he pulled his length from you almost to the very tip before thrusting slowly back in.

"oh my god," you heard jack curse, his hands tightening at your hips, his mouth opening in a gasp.

both of them were to the right of you—your face laid down on jack's collarbone, robby's chin hooked over your right shoulder. they were so close. breathing one another's air, enough that you could feel jack’s breath leave him and robby’s cheek shift against the side of your head when he opened his mouth to kiss the crest of your shoulder.

you tightened your grip in the latter's hair.

"wanna see you kisssss—"

jack let out a breathless little laugh, robby chuckling into your shoulder.

"baby, we talked about this—" jack said, his voice hardly more than breath, his chest heaving under yours.

"—but it would be so hottttt," you whined.

robby ignored you. "how's she feel, brother?"

jack's head tipped back into the pillow beneath him, and you watched the rough scruff of his unshaved neck shift as his adam's apple glided up and down, swallowing around the broken gasp he pulled in.

"so god damn good—go a little harder, she squeezes me so fucking tight when you really give it to her, mike."

you barely had time to register the gleam in robby's eyes before he was swinging his hips back again, this time thrusting hard against you, his skin slapping hard, balls clapping right above where jack's cock was buried deep inside.

you squealed and jack groaned loudly. your hand hung on tighter to robby's hair, your other hand digging into jack's shoulder beside your head.

"ohhhh fuck—" you mewled. "so—so deep, robby, oh god—"

"she sounds so pretty when she makes those little noises," jack strained to say, turning to kiss you on the nose. "huh, honey? robby's dick feel good like that? yeah? gimme a kiss."

you tilted your chin, pushing into his lips lazily, your tongue reaching out to lick at his, wet muscles sliding together. when you began to drool out the side of your lips, you brought robby's head down closer, resting your cheek back to jack's chest.

"your turn—" you murmured sleepily, your brain fucked out of any logic.

nothing passed through you but the ecstasy of having these two men and being sandwiched between them and their weight pressing in around you. jack began jerking his hips up into you, making you hiccup and whine, his thrusts getting erratic, his breath heavier.

robby's cock pushed deeper into you too, the pressure of both of them at the same time making you feel so content, so full, so cock drunk.

"please, please," you chanted. "wanna see you kiss so badly—"

"she really does beg so cute, doesn't she?" robby murmured, kissing your shoulder.

"yeah—" the other breathed, a light groan strangling the word as both of them slid in and out of you in tandem—full of jack's cock, then robby's, empty. then again, both of them filing you at the same time. the rhythm made your jaw go slack, your thoughts thinning. it felt so right, with jack below you, robby behind you, both of them too big, too hot, too much. still, you wanted more. wanted this so badly the need burned behind your eyes.

"like this—" you said, ignoring their cooing, and you craned your neck, pressing a chaste kiss to robby's lips.

it was hardly a second, your brain too foggy to make it anything more.

"that's it, huh? that's what you want, honey?" robby murmured, voice even hoarser with mirth as he smiled at you.

"yesss!" you whined, kicking your feet into the bed beneath.

"not good enough to have both of us, huh?" he teased. "such a needy little girl."

"be nice, mike—" jack moaned. "she's a good girl."

his praise always effected you—making you flutter around him, and you knew he could feel it, even with the increased fulless from robby deep inside you with him. he cracked a little knowing smile between moans.

"oh, i know she's a good girl, brother," robby said, and his mouth dragged over the back of your shoulder. "no doubt about it. but we've spoiled her. she thinks she can have whatever she wants."

you pouted, the prick of tears in your eyes not from him denying you, but from the utter fullness of their cocks punching in and out of you. from the easy back and forth of them—robby pretending there wasn’t a soft spot in him you could reach with the simplest look. and jack caught it every time and teased him for it.

"enough talking—" jack cursed. "fuck, fuck, she's tightening up on me— think she's gonna come, mike, oh god—"

"please—" you moaned louder, thrashing a little bit out of frustration.

"fuck it—" robby growled.

he leaned down and placed a kiss on the corner of jack's mouth.

they didn't stop entirely when robby pulled his lips away from jack's. their thrusts only softened into shallow rocks, jack's hands tightening on your skin, both his and robby's throbbing lengths still pressed deep enough inside you that every quiet breath made you feel the stretch of both of them. you held yours without meaning to—waiting, feeling both of them still around you.

robby's chest pressed heavier against your back as he breathed through his nose. you felt jack's beneath you, his ribs expanding, pressing against your breasts.

"yes," you whispered, though not wanting to rush them. your mouth brushed jack's skin when you said it, soft against the damp hollow below his collarbone. "more."

"you're right—" jack huffed a little laugh that shook his chest on the way out. "she really is needy."

robby smiled, as if grateful for the lightness, "told y—"

but he couldn't say anything else, because jack's lips were suddenly on his.

a deep, harmonized groan passed between the two of them, and it did something terrible to you. your stomach dropped, your hips jerked. even a little lick of jealousy flamed in you, warming your skin, but they looked good together. so good. exactly as you pictured it. it made you moan and writhe to see their mouths slot against one another, lips parting, tongues sliding, jack's stubbled jaw working under the rough scrape of robby's beard.

"oh my god," you whispered.

when they paused their kissing, a string of spit connected them, shiny and wet.

"d'you feel that?" robby whispered.

"yeah," jack answered, his one hand squeezing your hip while the other came up to robby's hair along with yours. "her pussy is gripping me like a vice—"

"yeah, she really tightened up—fuck, c'mere."

robby's hand went up to jack's hair too, fisting in the messy graying curls. jack's mouth fell open in a guttural groan, and robby's other hand came to the nape of your neck in answer. he pulled you into himself harshly, his tongue sliding against yours as your mouths met.

it was slick and wet and lewd, and just when you began to moan in earnest, their thrusts picked up again. harder now, less patient. jack fucking up into you from beneath, robby driving into you from behind, the bed frame knocking against the wall harshly again and again.

then you felt a second tongue at the corner of your mouth.

you pulled back only enough to welcome it—jack's tongue sliding against yours, robby's flicking against the two of you together.

the room filled with louder moans and the thick slap of skin, the wet drag of mouths, jack's rough little curses disappearing against your lips. robby's hand stayed tight at the back of your neck, holding you there for it, making you take the kiss you had begged for. you gushed around them, pussy fluttering and convulsing in pleasure.

"come for us, baby," robby whispered between kisses. "come for jackie. he wants you to come all over his big cock."

jack groaned under you, his hips jerking up harder, his member punching even deeper.

"I wanna feel it too," robby said. "c'mon now, gave you what you wanted. now I get to feel this perfect little ass take my come."

"just wanted your boyfriends to kiss, huh, baby?" jack cooed, his hand moving up to grip your face, forefinger and thumb squeezing your cheeks. his thumb hooked into the tender hinge of your lips, sliding along your molars to pry your mouth open wider for the two of them.

you cried out around his salty skin, and he pouted in mock pity as he looked at you.

"come on my cock, baby," jack moaned, leaning in to keep licking and nipping at your lips. "know you wanna, come on my cock now—gonna fill you up so good, mmmm—"

"i'm—i'm—i'm coming—oh, god, oh god—"

"yeah, that's it, that's it—oh fuckkk—" robby groaned, his thrusts slamming harder, turning erratic before he froze up, jaw unhinging, breathing hotly against wanton mouth.

jack's opened too, in shock, in awe, and when you looked at him you saw his eyes go wide before they rolled back behind his eyelids.

your orgasm ripped through you, a heady pressure down your spine and tightening your hips, making your legs lock up before it crested you like an ocean wave swelling and crashing. your hand clenched in robby's hair as your mouth fell open around jack's thumb. both of them groaned in tandem, trapping you between them, both buried deep while your body squeezed down, making jack curse and robby bare his teeth.

as the euphoria eased and your body went loose with the oxytocin flooding your blood, the three of you kept kissing—gentle little nips, soft flicks of tongue, spit sliding and glistening at the corners of your mouths, collecting where lips met and parted. jack retreated his thumb from your mouth to gently pet at your cheek, and they let you have as much as you wanted, just like always. spoiled thing, they'd tell you again afterwards, while they washed your hair in the bath and cleaned you up.

but for now, you kissed them as your eyes grew heavier and heavier, your breathing deepening against jack's chest. robby's weight behind you felt heavy and comforting, tucked between two men, utterly spent and completely content.

The friends from high school– ones you had never seen since, much to your mother’s delight, since heading for different colleges– had shown you how to smoke, had cut class with you to sneak off to the strip mall, had laughed at you when you told them that you’d never been kissed. What would they say now that you were pressed close on a bench with a silver fox, all alone out the side door of a hard-to-navigate wedding venue?

For a little while you both sat there, slowly smoking and enjoying the quiet moment after the utter chaos of the day so far.

“Your mom told me that you were a good girl, you know,” Jack said as he looked you over again, and his eyes definitely rested on the bust of your green sundress that pushed your cleavage up. Before you could even formulate a response to that he shook his head. “Can’t be that good if you’re bumming a smoke from a perfect stranger.”

“You’re not a stranger,” you protested. “Robby always calls you his brother. Doesn’t that make you my, uh. Uncle?”

He laughed, tipping his head back, and it was almost a cruel sound. Like you’d fucked up, and you started to shrink into yourself, pulling away from where your bare leg brushed against him.

“Hey, no,” he said quickly, as soon as he noticed, and put his hand on your knee, rubbing his thumb in a reassuring motion. “Sorry. You’re just gonna kill me, kid.”

Your phone buzzed loudly in the little clutch next to you, but you didn’t move a muscle to grab it. Probably the wedding planner, asking where the hell you’d gotten off to. You ignored it, not wanting to break the spell of Jack next to you and touching you and looking at you with those dark eyes.

But then his phone rang, too, and the spell was broken. He reached into his pocket with his free hand to check his messages and he frowned. 

“Duty calls,” he said, and used his hand on your knee to help himself push up from the bench. Once he’s standing he wasn’t touching you anymore and you frowned, looking down at your leg. “I know, but we can catch up later,” he said, as if he could read your mind, and when you look up he’s got a hand still outstretched like he wanted to put his hand under your chin.

The door to the venue opened and someone yelled looking for you.

“On my way,” you called back.

His hand redirected itself to help you up, his touch lingering for a touch longer than it needed to once you’re on your feet. 

“Come on,” he said, and then you both quickly stubbed out your cigarettes and hustled back inside.

With the chaos, you never had a second alone with him again that night, and even though you didn’t dare look at him for too long, you could feel him watching you. Right in front of your step dad like it was nothing, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You didn’t even have his phone number or his email or anything. But with Robby moving into your house, and them being close as brothers, you figured it wouldn’t be too long until you saw him again.

⊹ ⊹

Robby’s note popped into your inbox halfway through fall semester, when reading something from him was actually kind of nice for once, since it was anything else besides studying for midterms.

Jack’s deployed– I think I mentioned that? It would mean alot to him if you’d drop him a line, he put in the email, after a picture of the bathroom that was getting remodeled and a reminder to get some sleep and practice safer sex. God, he emailed like such an old person.

His email address was the first and only direct line you had to Jack: he wasn’t on facebook, and after the wedding you’d seen him once at a seafood place when your mom and Robby invited a few of their friends out for dinner. The group was too small for you to make any move, to try to lean in close and ask for his number or anything of the sort. He smiled at you, but when you didn’t approach him he seemed to accept that and kept his distance.

You drafted the email on your phone without really knowing what to say– hi, hope you’re okay, see any good movies lately? It sounded so awkward and stilted, because you didn’t know this guy: you just had one almost flirty moment together and you’d just sometimes thought about his fingers on your thigh, his eyes tracking you across the room, his deep voice right in your ear while your hand was down your underwear in your dorm room all alone.

A new notification popped up from Kyle that just made you sigh with annoyance. 

I want to see you

please? one picture? maybe 2?

we’re both stressed out, yeah? It’ll help :)

The texts came one after another, all time stamped 2:01, and it was honestly as good as a you up text since you’d been hooking up with him on and off all semester since that Kappa party during syllabus week.

But he was right: you were stressed, and you wouldn’t be opposed to going over to his place later that week. Might as well.

You took two pictures– tasteful, your face but no nudity in one and your bare body but no face in the second. You answered the door for your drunk roommate who forgot her key again, and then refilled her water from the fountain downstairs, and then remembered to finish off your email to Jack and send it, and then cleared away all the books on your desk, and then finally texted the pictures to Kyle.

Midterms could not end soon enough, your brain was fried. You collapse into bed, your alarm set for not enough hours of sleep.

Hot, Kyle texted back with a dick pic. You rolled your eyes and put your phone down for the night, not thinking twice about the email.

How could you know that Jack got back to his bunk after a long shift, pulled out his laptop to check his emails, and saw a letter from you that made him smile before he even opened it.

Hi Uncle Jack, you’d written at the top, and he knew already that he was going to repeat himself in the email, call you kid and say you’re killing me. 

How could you know that the two attachments took their sweet time to download on his shitty internet access? He finished reading what you wrote– boring, mostly, aside from mentioning a party which made him want to ask what was in the punch– and you hadn’t mentioned the two jpegs. Probably pictures from before the party, or of your dorm room since you’d talked about that, too.

How could you know that he’d just taken a sip of water when the first one finally loaded, you in a full length mirror wearing just lace panties and an arm covering your nipples, pressing your boobs up to emphasize your cleavage. He sputtered and coughed, and leaned in to check to make sure it was really your face, smiling in the selfie. Looking a little coy, a little mischievous.

How could you know that he clicked over to the next picture, still just a buffering sign, and waited with his eyes wide to see what the fuck that one could be? He was almost prepared for it when it loaded, your smile at the top corner of the frame and your fully naked body in the mirror. 

How could you know that he thought about deleting them, for one single heartbeat. It would be the right thing to do, since you probably hadn’t meant to send them. But he wanted to hold onto these, and with everything else in his life being kind of shit– who was he to deny himself that?

You didn’t check your personal email again til the next night, too busy before that with a full day of studying as well as a midday trip to Kyle’s dorm that was thoroughly fine but not what you’d been looking for. 

Jack had replied, and you read over it quickly– he answered with info about his own room he was sleeping in (a single with no roommate, unlike you) and what movies he’d seen recently and at the end, a paragraph you didn’t expect.

You’re so gorgeous. The people around you are so fuckin’ lucky, do they know that? Thanks for the photos, I’ll keep them in a safe place.

There’s a photo at the end of the email, a selfie of Jack on the weight bench at the gym in one of those tank tops that’s barely there, and you have to read his note again to try to make sense of it. Photos?

You felt your cheeks flush with heat when you look back at what you’d sent him.

But when you replied, an hour later, you added two more photos– older ones, since you’re too tired to pose in the mirror again, one from when you were tipsy after a party and smiling so wide in the skimpiest dress you’d ever worn and another nude picture you’d sent to Kyle some weeks back.

If you like them, I have more, you wrote at the end of your otherwise boring email.

⊹ ⊹

“Did you ever email Jack?” Robby asked a week into your winter break as you’re cleaning up after breakfast on his day off. 

You were so glad that your back was to him because you knew you made the stupidest expression for a moment, your eyes widening and a little grin before you bit it back and shrugged like it was no big deal. 

“I did,” you answered. “You were right, he is easy to talk to.”

You didn’t mention that the last two months, ever since midterms, you’d been emailing him, calling sometimes when your schedules lined up, and sending pictures and videos that he always replied so nicely to, always along the lines of gorgeous and just what I needed, goddamn.

“Do you know how long he’ll be gone?” You hadn’t wanted to ask, had wanted to keep your messages positive. 

“Spring, probably,” Robby answered, looking up from his newspaper. “Why?”

“Just wondering how long I’ll be emailing for,” you answered, and with a clean kitchen you bounded up to your bedroom.

Unlike your dorm room, this one was private, so you could actually take your time. You’d even looked up some tips on editing, downloaded some software that you hoped hadn’t given your laptop any viruses, so that you could do more than just hurriedly record yourself getting off while your roommate was at a party or in class.

“I got this for myself yesterday,” you said into your camera once it’s propped up against your bookshelf. You held up a dildo, sort of a ridiculous blue color, but you’d been flustered at the sex shop and had wanted to get out quickly so you’d just grabbed something.

You skimmed your hands over your body and moaned and put on a bit of a show for Jack, and cried out his name during your second climax without even planning to. When you were panting and idly playing with your nipple, you looked right into the camera and smiled for him. “Hope you liked that, Jack,” you said before getting up to turn off the camera.

When you came down for lunch, Robby was still in the living room, flipping through some medical journal. He looked up at you and raised his eyebrows.

“Studying?”

“Just a project for myself,” you replied with a smile.

So perfect for me, he wrote back the next day and had a photo of himself, naked in his bed. He was splayed out, his arm holding the phone out to try to get all of him from his strong shoulders and abs all the way down to where he’d taken off his leg for the night. His selfie skills had improved since the time he first asked if you wanted a dick pic, rather than just shirtless ones. You were pretty sure that he was doing his own research, just like you were.

⊹ ⊹

For spring semester you settled into school again, classes that you mentioned in your emails along with the photos and hurried videos. 

Are you having fun at school? I’m not distracting you? Jack asked once, as if he was worried that he was holding you back from some part of college. You got drunk that weekend at a party and got your friend to record you shotgunning a beer, and sent that along with a picture with your glassy-eyed smile to him on Saturday night. 

I’m doing everything I want, you told him. You wondered if he was worried about you sleeping with someone else– you hadn’t talked about it, but you’d quit talking to that guy Kyle after you realized that thinking about Jack, thousands of miles away, made you come way harder than he’d ever been able to do. I just want to be talking with you.

He called you my sweet girl the next time in a recording he sent, the repetitive sounds of jacking himself off quiet as he groaned and said all mine before he came. You saved the track onto your phone and listened to it again as you walked back from class.

Robby emailed again two weeks before spring break, double checking that you would be driving home and hadn’t made some other plans.

I wish you were here, you wrote to Jack the next day. Then I’d just lie and tell him that I was going to see my boyfriend. 

You laughed aloud when he didn’t seem to mind that. The idea of his best friend– your mom’s new husband who sent you amazon gift cards and reminded you to eat vegetables from the cafeteria– finding out about your relationship was so wild that you didn’t clock his exact wording until the second time you read through it. 

I would tell him myself that I’m your boyfriend and that I wanted all your time, no lies needed.

Your boyfriend. It sounded so juvenile, but you hadn’t had one before. You tell your friend after class about your boyfriend with a dreamy lilt in your voice. 

He can not know, you clarified to Jack. If he knew– if your mom knew– you’d be mortified. Your mom had still called you her little girl when she posted about your twenty-first birthday on her facebook wall.

Whatever you say, cutie.

As it was, you didn’t really have spring break plans. You were going to study some, and make another backlog of the louder, better videos for Jack. Maybe go see a baseball game with Robby, since you’d first met him a year ago the last time you'd come home for spring break when he took you and your mom to a Pirates game. It could be the start of a sweet tradition even if your mom was going to be out of town for work. 

Robby’s email the last day before you were supposed to drive back to Pittsburgh left you utterly speechless. Heads up, Saturday afternoon I’m picking Jack up from the airport– did he tell you? If you get in early you can go with but you might still be driving. He’ll be with us for dinner either way.

He had not told you, and you were tempted to email Jack to demand answers. But if he was supposed to be back in Pittsburgh by the afternoon, you couldn’t even begin to guess where he was now or what time zone he was dealing with.

You had planned to sleep in on Saturday, get home whenever, but if seeing Jack is on the line, you set your alarm for five and went to bed early without an email. It was only the second time you’d skipped sending something, even just a line or two or a topless photo, since you’d sent the pictures during midterms. Even if he didn’t answer everyday, busy as he was, you made sure that you were on top of it.

Been thinking about you, Jack’s email read when you woke up, and he still hadn’t mentioned that he was coming back so you just ignored it. 

You made good time on the road, already in your car by the time the sun was rising, because you’d be damned if you missed seeing him the second you were able. Even if it meant being in front of your step dad and having to keep your hands to yourself, giving him just a polite hug reserved for a family friend you had supposedly been emailing only occasionally and barely knew. 

Robby’s head poked out of the main bedroom when you walked in and dropped your duffle bag by the door, just before noon.

“Oh, you’re an angel,” he said with relief in his voice, and you frowned in confusion as he looked at you like you were exactly what he needed. “The attending on shift got injured and they’re calling me in– can you pick Jack up? I was about to text you, if not I’ll be telling him to grab a taxi.”

You smiled wider than you should have before you could contain it. You really were going to have to practice being normal about Jack, and quickly. “Not a problem,” you nodded.

A minute later he came out in his scrubs and with his work backpack over one shoulder, and he pulled you into a hug and kissed the top of your hair. “Thanks, kiddo,” he said, breathing in for a second like he was getting ready for the work ahead of him. 

⊹ ⊹

The moment you were both in the front seat of your car, you climbed over the console to get on top of Jack. The kiss in bag claim that made someone wolf-whistle at how long the two of you were together hadn’t been nearly enough. Neither was the way his arm had wrapped around your waist on the walk back to the parking garage, pulling him into his side like you might wander off if he let go for a second.

And it’s not like you were willing to wait until you got home to get your hands on this man. That could be half an hour in the traffic.

You settled over him, your hands pushed up under his shirt to feel the muscles you’d only ever seen on your screen so far, and he tipped his head back to look up at you with hunger in his eyes.

“Didn’t want to get your hopes up,” he said softly, again, when you feigned a stern expression again at him not telling you, because it was sort of fun to make him wait even though you were over him, your hips slowly rocking back and forth over his hardening length.

“A heads-up would have been nice,” you pouted. “If Robby had told me in person about you coming back it would have been so obvious.”

“Let ‘im find out,” he nearly growled, and put his hand behind your neck to pull you in for a proper kiss, his tongue against the seam of your lips and pressing in like he had every right to be there. And he did, your boyfriend, finally here, and just thinking about it made you whimper against his touch and sink further into his lap, earning some low possessive sound from him as his other hand gripped your ass.

By the time you were rubbing off against him in earnest, you wondered if you should have made him get a taxi home. You’d parked in the back of the garage, though, and it’s not like anyone would see what was going on, so you didn’t put up more than a feeble protest when he pulled your shirt off you and he kissed his way down your neck to suck hickeys on your chest, right up to your bra line.

“Can’t,” you murmured when one of his hands started making valiant progress at undoing the hooks on the one piece of clothing left between you and your nipples being out in public.

He exhaled loudly in disappointment but didn’t stop, and one of the hooks popped loose.

“Ja-ack,” you whined, and reached around to awkwardly try to swat his hand away. 

He shook his head but did let himself be pulled away from the bra. He leaned his head back against the headrest, eyes closed and his breath heavy as the moment– however long it had been– starts to fade between you two. The reality of being in a car, almost topless and splayed out on Jack’s lap, crashed into you.

“I should drive us home,” you said softly, and he nodded. He put a hand on your side to help you navigate back to the driver’s side and handed you back your shirt.

You didn’t comment on how he had to adjust himself with a little wince in the passenger seat a few times on the way home, because you were pretty sure that if you looked over for more than a glance, you’d never be able to tear your eyes off him.

“How was your flight?” You asked once you were at least halfway home and mostly in control of yourself again, like you really were just the friendly daughter of his best friend there to pick him up.

His hand reached over to grab your leg, just like it had that first day at the wedding. “Long. Glad to be back.”

You kept up pleasant conversation, small talk to keep your mind off the way his hand was inching its way higher, his thumb rubbing circles against the thin fabric of your leggings. It was your early emails all over again, boring whatever messages with nudes and videos attached that you barely mentioned for the first few weeks.

You parked the car out front of the house and you looked over at him with a serious little tilt of your head. “No kissing me outside, alright? Robby knows the neighbors.”

He winked at you and gave a sideways grin. “If you insist.”

The moment the door closed behind you, Jack dropped his bags on the floor and pushed you against the door, trapping you in a kiss that picked up exactly where you’d left off. 

“Bedroom?” He asked, when he pulled back from you just enough to get the words out with his lips still brushing against yours.

“Upstairs,” you squeaked out.

You led the way, your hand gripping tightly to his as you pulled him with you.

⊹ ⊹

You knew that you’d be telling your roommate about the welcome home dinner once you got back to college– how Robby had met you both at the restaurant after his shift, had hugged Jack and called him brother and then hugged you and thanked you for being so flexible.

The look that Jack gave you, mouthing the word flexible where Robby couldn’t see, made your cheeks heat again as you nodded and called it no big deal. Under the table, Jack’s boot kept bumping against your shoe, and you cautiously returned the touch.

The week was heaven. Jack had the time off before his normal civilian job put him back on the schedule, you had barely any responsibilities, and Robby was at work before you woke up most of the time. In the mornings you’d head over to Jack’s house, or he came to yours, and between getting very acquainted with each other's beds you almost played house– helping him restock his kitchen or cooking together or watching tv with his head in your lap as you idly combed your fingers through his hair. 

You insisted that you not go to any of the closer restaurants, in case someone Robby knew recognized you, so he had you dress up and took you to a nice lunch in the suburbs, and afterwards you thanked him by showing him the vibrator you’d bought a week earlier, planning to film with it when you had the privacy of your own room.

“That good, baby?” he asked, holding the toy against your clit as you squirmed and panted. You’d just come twice, it was nearing in on too much but when he looked at you like that, his other hand intertwined in yours, you wanted to be good for him and keep going as long as he wanted.

“Yes– fuck, please, Jack, please–” you said, not sure what you were even asking for anymore. For it to stop? For him to finally touch you with more than just his fingers? 

He turned the vibrator off and cast it aside, and you thought you were in for a reprieve so you closed your eyes, relaxing as you waited for his next move.

The bed shifted as he laid between your legs, and you looked down just as his breath hit your overstimulated nerves. 

“Is this alright?” He asked, eyebrows raised, and maybe this was exactly what you had been begging for earlier, because as soon as you nodded he set his tongue to work and you saw stars.

Another two orgasms later, when you pushed him off with a whimper, he shimmied up in the bed so you could curl against him, your head resting on his chest as he wrapped his arm around you and held you close. 

“Want me to–” you started to offer, but he kissed your forehead and snorted softly.

“No, you catch your breath. Doing so good for me, you know that?”

His rumbling voice was so soothing, and you were so damn spent from the day, that you fell asleep on him. When you roused from your nap, he did take you up on your offer and you crawled down the bed to return the favor.

⊹ ⊹

On Friday the tv was playing one of his shows, some silly first responder thing where the fire fighters seem to have more deep conversations than emergencies to handle, so you gently turned his head and kissed him to keep yourself entertained.

“I was watchin’ that,” he protested, but his hands were on the elastic waistband of his shorts before he even finished the sentence.

After the week you’d had, it was the most natural thing in the world to take a second and pull your clothes off while he did the same, and pull out a blanket from the basket to sit on top of. You straddled him, your slick folds rubbing over his length, back and forth lazily.

“Am I just your little toy, then?” He asked, voice right in your ear as you kept your head out of his way so he could keep an eye on whatever crap unfolded on screen.

“You don't want me to feel good?” You said, pouting for dramatic effect. The way you were moving had the head of his cock gently rubbing over your clit in a way that made you sigh.

His hands run up and down your bare back, pausing occasionally to grab at your ass or gently graze his blunt fingernails over your skin in a way that makes you jolt with pleasure. “No, I like it. Maybe we oughta set up your camera later, get this pretty sight on tape so when you’re-”

The deadbolt softly clicked, and you turned your head, trying to tell if you heard the door or if it was just part of the show.

And then the front door opened, Robby’s voice ringing out. “Kiddo? It’s just me,” he called, loud enough that you’d hear it from your room, so you wouldn’t wonder who the hell just barged in.

The couch was just out of sight of the front door, the living room a little off center, but you knew that once he took three steps- maybe two- you’d be fucked. There was nowhere to hide, and even if you could, you were naked and Jack was naked and his leg was off and leaning against the couch, so what would his story be?

Jack’s hands came down to your hips, holding you steady since really, that was the only option. “It’ll be fine,” he reassured you, quietly, before raising his voice. “Hey, Robby,” he called.

“Jack? What are you-” your step dad’s voice asked, and without turning you knew exactly when he stepped far enough into the house to see, his question cut off.

For a moment, you were utterly frozen, looking at Jack’s face, who seemed too calm for this whole thing, smiling over at his friend. You turn to take a peek, and that movement jolted Robby out of his own momentary pause from taking in the scene.

“Don’t let me interrupt, sorry,” Robby said with a chuckle, a hand coming up to rub at his beard as he looked over the two of you. “I guess I’ll grab lunch.”

You shoved your face into Jack’s neck, wanting to hide entirely. Your ass was out, and from the view Robby had you don’t know if he can see Jack’s balls, or how wet you’ve made him just rutting over him.

“Sorry,” you called weakly, and you’d bet that Jack can feel the heat of your cheeks against his neck from how much you’re blushing. 

The door opened again. “Is she being good for you?” Robby asked, his sensible shoes squeaking as if he turned back in a oh, one more thing kind of move. 

You couldn’t see, and you didn’t want to, but you felt Jack’s hands tighten on your waist. 

“Oh, the best, brother,” Jack purred, almost directly in your ear, and the whole confusing thing made you shiver and you clenched against Jack in a way you knew he could feel.

Robby made an amused sound back. “Ah, I figured as much. I’ll leave you to it.” After another beat, the door slammed shut and then the deadbolt clicked into place.

“You liked that, didn’t you?” Jack murmured, kissing at your exposed neck. Not trying to get to you to peek out, giving you a second to hide away as you processed what the fuck just happened.

“No,” you whispered, and he laughed at how it sounded like a lie, even to you.

⊹ ⊹

A/N: it seems like Jack could? have? still deployed with the military after losing a limb, from my quick googling.

You rest practically on top of him, Jacks strong arms looped around you , letting your head tuck into the crook of his neck, keeping close. Its warm, comfortable, safe as the TV play's some show you'd lost focus on a while ago, too wrapped up in the heat of jacks body beneath yours.

One of his large hands drifts from rubbing over your back when you shift against his chest, a soft whine passing pouty lips half conscious. Mind struggling to drift off all the way despite the overtired exhaustion in your bones.

You dont notice that shift, too preoccupied in between dream and drift off. Not when the pads of his fingertips span your belly beneath your top, thumb soothing carefully, nor do you make a peep when they tuck just beneath the band of your sweats. Infact, if anything, you seem to press into the warmth of him like a kitten it's mother.

Still, he waits until you grumble again, scratchy stubble on his jaw rubbing your hair when you nuzzle in, before he lets them dip any further.

They creep down, slow and gentle, until he's cupping you over the cotton of your panties, pressure light to keep you drifting. You feel hot, even with the fabric barrier keeping your pussy from full contact.

Jacks fingers move back up the gusset, two chubby pads offering just a little more pressure, rubbing lazily. His chin dipping to plant a soft kiss to your temple.

The combination stirs you, makes your hand grip into the center of his shirt just a little tighter, sleepy eyes blinking up oh so blearily.

"Jack? What- mmph- what're you?-"You mumble, hips unconsciously tilting into the fingers that are still working your covered cunt.

Jack just smiles against you, cooing quietly, a freckled arm squeezing you a little tighter to him. "Shhh S'okay, Jus wanna feel my baby f' a bit, s'that alright? Jus' my fingers, Help you get all sleepy"

You must think about it for a single moment, a fleeting millisecond of coherence in that fuzzy little brain, before your head tucks back in and your leg drapes over his middle to allow more access.

Every whine, every whimper, you let bubble out holding a fragility that makes Jack's chest (and cock) ache.

And that, for a while, is how it goes. You, mewling into his neck, while Jack rubs your pussy over your panties. Just enough to keep you calm, to let you doze gently without drifting too far.

That is, until he finally slides the now drenched cotton to the side, his fingers making complete contact with the puffy, sticky lips of your vulva. Your head peaks out to moan, a sound that goes straight to Jack's cock.

"Ohh, s'that feel better? Hm?" he breathes, meeting your lips in a sloppy press that just about resembles a kiss.

Every brush, every lick of pressure to your clit has your hole drooling out arousal, pulsing as it tries to pull the digits that tease the outer edges in.

"Whats the matter, you need somethin inside?" your hips only tilt down, letting the tip of his middle dip just a little into where you need him. "Yeah.. Yeah you do, Alright, Nice n easy.. Big breaths, Jus feel it"

You take that breath against his mouth, shakey and tapering off into a soft cry, the thickness of his middle finger snug as it pushes inside your walls to the knuckle. He relishes in the moment, driving the single digit in and out, letting your wetness libricate the move before he begins to curl it with expert ease.

Jack can feel the heat radiating off of you, feel it pushed against his chest, every puff of your breath fanning hot. Even when you begin to squirm, rocking your hips in time as he presses against that spot that makes you keen, you remain devastatingly close- practically on top of him.

"S' Right there isn't it, thats the spot.." he murmers knowly, drawing out to circle your clit wetly. "Gonna give you another 'kay, big breaths good girl"

And If the first finger felt good, the stretch of two is like heaven, his middle and ring finger slipping in with little resistance. The rough pads curling up and pushing so perfectly against you that its obscene. Especially how, with every full plunge into your weepy cunt, you can feel the cool band of his wedding ring grow warmer- wetter.

And then, palm flush against your core once more, you hear it. The Filthy, muffled squelches that only make the lewdness of the situation worse.

Torn between nuzzling in deep to hide and the need to feel Jacks lips devour yours, You end up somewhere between the two when you mewl next, Cheek dragging open mouthed along the stubble of his jaw. Nimble fingers scrabbling to grip onto his forearm as the warmth in your belly burns hotter. "A-ah m' so- s'close Jack"

"Oh i know, i know.. S'right there isn't it" he shushes, squeezing your arm again, a faux kind of sympathy on his tongue. The heel of his palm plap, plap, plaping against your sticky, puffy clit as he curls his fingers perfectly deep. "cmon, cum it out sweetheart. Haven't gotta do nothin but let go, you can do it"

And truly, it doesn't take much more encouragement than that to make you shatter. His rough voice in your ear, fingers deep inside your rippling pussy as it squeezes him tight. The intensity has you shaking, lips dragging along his neck as you cry out. Each breath wracking your lungs as you heave it in. Heartbeat so loud in your ears you just about catch the gravelly drawl of jacks praise in your hair.

"That's my girl, yeaaahhh, there we go, makin me proud"

And jack, nothing if not totally content in your pleasure, doesn't stop, not until your squirming anyway. Struggling in his hold, hips writhing from the sensitivity, his fingers making sure to draw out the final sparks of heaven from your cunt before he snakes them free from you entirely.

Sticky, soaked and covered in the creamy mess of your release as they slide out of your panties and waistband up to his mouth.

You more so feel the guteral grumble at the taste, what with the way sleep finally seems to flood your system, fuzzy little head just about coherent enough to catch his final hum.

Job hunting was exhausting. You were recently laid off since your temporary contract expired. It was your first job after college, completely unrelated to what you studied, and you took it only to pay the bills. Still, even if you didn't feel particularly inspired by the drab office and the fat man who was your primary supervisor, you did your job well and earned respect as an excellent personal assistant. The only call back you received was from the McLaren car company who needed a new office assistant for a year of someone's maternity leave. You took it, of course. Not that you knew anything about cars. It didn't matter, really, what the job was about. You would just make schedules and run about with coffee. This is how you got put as an emergency personal assistant to the newly contracted James Hunt, whose previous personal assistant left in a fury the week before the race. "And who is this little darling?" James looked down on you with a flirty smile when the manager introduced you. "That's your new personal assistant," his manager said dryly. "If I hear anything about a harassment lawsuit, your ass is mine." James raised his hands in mock surrender and winked at you. You looked helplessly at him, unsure how you were supposed to make this man do anything. "Ah, um, it's nice to meet you," you said softly, looking at him with a small smile. He huffed, muttering something. You tilted your head. "It's nothing," he sighed, "Just, I don't know, be around or something. Tell me what I have coming up in the day, things like that. Just for a week, isn't it? Don't worry about it." You nodded, lowering your eyes a bit. Didn't seem like he needed your help much. Still, you wanted to do your job well and followed him around with a perpetual bottle of water and a scheduling board. "Mr. Hunt, you have a press conference at one today," you said, arriving freshly next morning with a bottle of ice-cold water. "Do you drink coffee? I didn't know, so I brought water." "Sweety, anything out of your hands," he said, smiling at you. It seemed he was in a better mood. You blushed a little. "Okay, Mr. Hunt." For the next few days you were stationed at the McLaren camp, mostly because James was there, going over last details with their mechanics and everything about the care. You tried to keep out of everyone's way by positioning yourself in a tiny corner, flinching every time from a loud burr of the drill or the welding equipment or whatever they were using on those cars. That is, until a heavy arm descended upon your shoulders. "Unused to the noise, are you? Let's get you out of here, darlin'," James said, leading you towards the entrance of the mechanic shop. "We'll just take a walk." You nodded, eager to get away. James is a good person, you thought. No matter his reputation, but he tried to do right by his team, of which you were now part of. You walked for a while, with James mostly talking about some wild story from bar hopping the week prior, when he trailed off and you saw a full, mischievous grin grow on his face. "Oh, darlin', why don't we go say hello to our friends from the Ferrari club over there?" He practically lifted you up with the force of his excitement and you barely nodded before being dragged to the Ferrari camp where James made a direct line towards Niki Lauda.

"Niki!" You watched the curly haired man's head lift from whatever drafts he was looking at. You felt your face heat. Most people considered James the most attractive racer, you knew, but this man in front of you, with such serious eyes and confident air, made your breath stop briefly. James dragged you until you were practically at arms length to Niki, and you could see how long his eyelashes were. Niki's eyes shifted from James, whose large, blond, loud presence drew the eye, and fell upon you, basically smothered under James's arm. "That's my new personal assistant," James boasted, pushing you a bit forward, like he was showing off a shiny car. "Now don't go being all mean like always, this one is as shy as a kitten." Niki's eyes met yours and you lost your thoughts for a short, empty moment. Niki's face turned a bit rosy. Oho, thought James. Niki nodded at you. "Nice to meet you." I nodded back, smiling a little to be polite. He was handsome, but it seemed like he wasn't really interested. "Well, you'll be seeing her more often now," James said with a wide smile, "I'll be bringing her with me everywhere like a good luck charm. To every race," he said meaningfully. Niki turned his head away from him. "You'd need a charm, at this rate," Niki said, prompting James to roll his eyes. Niki stole a glance at you and looked away again. "And you," he said, clearly addressing you without even looking, "I suppose there is no harm to his image left to be done. You're safe." That made you smile. "Thank you, Mr. Lauda." "Niki is fine," he said. That was how your work with James Hunt started. Typically a day involved various engagements for his sponsorships, and you would fetch coffee or water when needed, and book hotels, things which made his life easier. It also meant that wherever James went, you went, and he often went to Niki. Mr. Lauda was a very straightforward person. He was blunt, but you saw that everything he said was true. It was annoying to his mechanics and opponents, but you thought it was a great quality to have. He would never lie maliciously, or cheat, or sabotage anyone. He was a good person, you realized. It was too bad you didn't seem to amount to much in his eyes. He almost never talked to you. James, however, insisted that it was the opposite. "Niki likes you, trust me," James said, "He even let you touch his car!" You looked at James sceptically. "It was because he knew I didn't know anything about cars. Couldn't do any harm to it." James threw his arms in the air. "You don't get it. The car!" You looked at James with scepticism. He rolled his eyes. "Unbelievable."

-

A few days before the race there was a press conference. James was good at this sort of thing, talking to people. You easier with every funny joke he made for the reporters, and your attention drifted to Niki. He made clipped replies, furrowing his brows at times. "Niki, are you confident you will win?"

"Are you nervous for the race, Niki?"

You heard a fire of questions open as soon as he finished answering just one. Soon you can tell Niki has had it, with questions getting progressively more rude by the minute, and you could almost predict the moment he would stop the conference.

He waved his hand at them, signalling that the conference is over, and stepped out from the table. He saw you standing behind James and motioned to follow him. Once you were out of the interview room, Niki turned to you. "There is a party after this, I'm sure. James won't miss the opportunity. Are you going?"

You shook your head. "No, it's all a bit too loud for me. I spend a lot of time in the noise of the paddock either way, so..."

"I see," said Niki, "Then come with me to dinner." His eyes roamed your face. His eyelashes were long, you thought. Pretty.

"You won't go to the party?"

"And do what? Drink, talk to those assholes?"

You smiled. "Okay. Let's skip the party and go somewhere nice. Any suggestions?"

There was a small smile on Niki's face. "I'll drive."

-

The restaurant was a quiet, hidden spot somewhere in the tight brick-laid alleys of the city, illuminated by the lanterns beside it. The waiter led Niki and you into a booth with soft leather seats.

Niki's features grew warm in the light of the muted dimmed room. He looked at the menu and then at you, asking if you've decided on what you'd like. You nodded and he ordered for the both of you.

"What made you want to work with the McLaren?" Niki asked, in his usual blunt way, though his eyes conveyed more curiosity than you've seen before in him, "You don't seem like a car girl."

"I'm not," you said, and hastily added, "Sorry." You looked down for a moment. "I really needed the money, and they were hiring, and I was just applying for everything under the sun back then without a single call back... So it was a real chance for me." You watched his expression for disappointment, but his face barely moved a muscle.

He nodded briefly, in that Austrian curt manner you liked. "The reality of having to make a living. What would you rather do?" He looked at your embarrassed blush and raised his eyebrow.

"I think I might have gone to illustration school," you said quietly, "Not that I have any talent, but, you know. Some school, to build a portfolio, and then something. An illustrator job. Making pictures of cute animals for children's books." Niki's eyes softened.

"You should do that."

"I don't have any skill or talent," you said, laughing it off. "Not like you and racing."

Niki looked at you a moment longer. "I have ability," he said, "But there were many who had it also. I just had the last name banks knew enough of to keep giving me loans to start my career in F1. I didn't do anything else with my time. Just this."

At that moment, the food arrived. Steak course for him, pheasant with vegetables for you, and red wine for the both of you. He looked at you, eyes full of meaning. You let out a breath.

"Niki..."

"What?"

"I will have no money to survive on my own, will have to start from zero skills, and there would be thousands of artists better than me vying for the job." You cut down the pheasant breast right across the grain, dipping it in creamy sauce, chef's specialty.

"So the money is the biggest issue, is it not? You worry you would have no roof over your head and no food." Niki paused, and set his knife and fork on the plate. "Have you tried finding a lover?"

You almost choked on the piece of fowl. "Niki, I could not ask someone just fund my whole life."

He shrugged. "Why not? You are a beautiful woman. All that the men want."

You watched your static vegetables with the interest of a cat. "I don't know. It doesn't happen like that."

There was a longer silence between Niki and you, and you asked him about his hobbies outside of racing to switch to a less depressing topic. You didn't want that to be his impression of you. Niki huffed, but talked about taking flying lessons at the academy nearby, hoping to get a pilot's license so he could fly without an instructor.

"Do you like working for James?" Niki asked when you were digging into the chocolate cake with a tiny silver spoon.

"It's good," you said, "He's very extraverted. I can see he's a good person. Doesn't yell at me or anything. Though maybe it's because I'm a woman - his mechanics get some of the brunt of it sometimes."

Niki nodded, as if he already knew. "Good." He motioned for the waiter and paid the bill for the both of you without asking, making you blush at the gesture. It felt old-fashioned, but inexplicably you felt taken care of.

He drove you to the apartment complex you directed him to, in the nice part of town you picked to be close to the job, but in an old apartment which looked dark and uninviting. Niki slowed in front of it, and frowned. "You live here? Alone?" You nodded and endured the brief concern in his expression. "It was the best choice. At least the neighbourhood is not that bad," you tried to smile. Niki looked at you, and you were struck by the intense feeling in his hawk-like eyes.

Then he sighed as if nothing happened. "It was a nice evening," he said. "I would like to do another."

Your face brightened into a rosy pleasure at that. "Me too," you said, in a near whisper. You took one last look at him, and got out of the car, walking towards the entrance to the building, until you stepped inside the lobby and heard the sound of tires move.

-

The McLaren paddock was abuzz again. You walked in, noticing the workers and James all standing around something. Another piece of equipment, probably, you thought, and moved to your single little desk in the corner. James noticed you and cawed, "Darling, your secret admirer sent you some new stuff!"

Your eyes widened, blush filling your cheeks at a fast rate, making James grin in glee. "What, you won't come to see what it is?"

You moved towards the circle and when you got closer, you saw an open courier box. You chuffed; the boys probably thought it was oil or one of the car parts and opened it. Inside the cardboard box was a rather large, state-of-the-art drawing tablet, "Wacom" running along the edges of the packaging. Your breath stuttered, and you touched the pristine package with your fingertips. You noticed a small envelope sticking to the side of it and fished it out to open. You ripped the paper open at the side and pulled out a sheet of paper.

Thank you for registering for ILLU1001. Please see the class time schedule below for Section 2. Note that the final project deadline...

You looked at the words like they made you dumb. You felt James's lanky frame lean over your shoulder to read it for himself. He whistled.

"Taking classes? Shit, did they check your age when they hired you?"

You batted him away like a fly and he laughed.

"Is the Registrar's Office full of red, perhaps?" He asked, eyes glinting knowingly. You averted your eyes.

"Let's see," He put a finger to his chin, and you knew he was trying to be as annoying about it as possible. "First the flowers, then a bag," he looked meaningfully at the tote you carried everywhere now, "And now this. All anonymous, of course." He winked at you and mouthed 'of course' in an exaggerated whisper. You rolled your eyes. "Nothing to do with anyone in F1, right?"

"I don't think it's what you think it is, James," you sighed, setting down the registration slip. "I told him how much I wanted to do this, and maybe he felt pity or something, I don't know."

James looked at you, affronted. "Honeycakes, you might explain this new box like that, but men don't gift flowers and bags to women they pity. No, no, the feeling is called a bit different. Niki's smitten with you."

You hid your face in your hands. "Don't say that!"

"Why not? It's clear as day. A man like that takes his mind away from racing... sets it on a pretty thing like you..."

You shook your head. "There is Marlene."

"Ah, Marlene," James said, setting his arm around your shoulder and leaning to tell you conspiratorially, "Dear Marlene's ex-boyfriend, that actor what's-his-name, came back begging for a second chance. Lots of roses, from what I hear. Niki is unattached, though he says he is 'focused on the next race'. I can see where he is focused, " James shot a look at the box.

"He hasn't said anything," you said, chewing your lip, "I don't want to misinterpret..."

James rolled his eyes and groaned. "Oh, for... Fine, fine, don't say I didn't try," he said, and walked off to one of the mechanics working on suspension. You looked at his back and shook your head, but his words made something in you flutter with excitement.

The gifts that started appearing at the McLaren paddock and at your apartment's concierge booth were a surprise after that not-date at the restaurant. What concerned you was that they were going up in value with each gift. You appreciated all of them, loved them really, but you didn't want Niki to think you were a gold digger.

The work day, aside from the box, was uneventful. Just more clanking metal noises, some menacing words with James when he wanted to go bar hopping citing happy hour, some more meetings with sponsors who wanted to see the McLaren superstar for themselves.

You walked towards your apartment building exhausted by the demands of the job. It was the perfect environment for extraverts, you thought. People, noise, speed.

You stopped. There was an expensive car parked in the front, with a fire you knew leaning on it.

"Niki," you breathed out, smiling. He looked up from the book he was occupying himself with to meet your eyes and his features smoothed over into a brief softness. "What are you doing here?'

"I was waiting for you. Get in," he said, eyes focused on your face, and opened the passenger side, waiting. You tilted your head and came closer.

"Really? Where are we going?" This close you noticed that Niki was much taller than you. He wasn't as tall as James, but you nevertheless felt even safer around him. Maybe it was that he was smarter. The scent of sandalwood and motor oil clung to him.

"You'll see." Niki sat behind the wheel and started the car.

You drove through the streets until you started recognizing the more upscale areas where James and Niki lived. All of you rented, of course, races pulling you out of your home cities. F1 is a different league in many aspects, you thought when you saw the gates.

"Are we going to your place?" You asked Niki.

"Something like that," he said, driving in smooth turns through the meandering pavement that ran through the woodsy area dotted with separate lodgings. "You'll see."

He stopped the car in front of the rather large house in a traditional style, not nearly as ostentatious like some of the others you've seen during the drive, but you could still feel the money in it. Old money. It had an entrance door painted warm red and a white porch. Niki got out of the car and opened the door for you to follow.

He pulled out the keys out of his pocket. You waited for him to put them into the keyhole and open the door, but he turned to you with the keys in his clenched hand. He took your hand in his other one and you felt the moisture from it.

"I thought I should just let you see for yourself. I have a free room, and it's just me in the house. You can stop paying whatever you pay for your rent, and come live here for free." Niki was serious when he looked into your eyes. You looked back uncertainly.

"I don't want to leech..." You started, but he held out a palm and you trailed off.

"You are nothing of the sort. In fact, it is more like shoving a pill down a cat's throat and having to massage its throat to make it go down." Niki used the keys and opened the door, guiding you inside with his hand on your lower back. "You realize that most people have someone help them start out, yes? Parents who buy them a beat up car, that kind of thing. Something. It is nothing less than what you should have."

His eyes stayed locked on your face, tracking the confusion and shame fleeting through. You stayed silent for a while, and then whispered, "Why did you do it for me? I'm just James's assistant."

He frowned. "You are James's assistant. But there is nothing 'just' about you." He took your face in one hand, pinching your cheeks together, making your face ridiculous. "You know what to do with your life. Why wouldn't I invest?" He let his thumb rub your heated cheekbone.

"Say you accept."

Your eyelashes fluttered and you leaned into the calloused hand holding your cheeks. "You won't regret it? What if it amounts to nothing?"

"I won't. Even if you decide not to draw another piece of art ever again after the course is finished, I won't regret it."

You thought your heart beat stronger in your chest. You could almost feel the beats of it against your breastbone.

"I accept," you said in a whisper, looking into Niki's eyes.

He smiled.

-

You were living with him for a couple of months already. It was surprisingly easy to get used to each other's presence, to the rhythm of routines orbiting one another's. At first James made a whole spiel about fraternizing with the enemy, but after a while he had acquired the habit of dropping in at all times of day to 'check out the rat kingdom', as he put it.

The racing season was ending. Soon Niki would return to Vienna, you'd be forced to move out and find something else, and all will go back to how it was before. The thought of it often kept you up at night and showed itself in the dark circles under your eyes.

You took to sitting in the living room and watching Niki move around. He was making coffee on his day off, swirling the teaspoon to dissolve the sugar, when he spoke.

"What's wrong?"

"What do you mean?" you said softly.

"You've been more...sad, lately," he said, and stopped the swirling motion. The teaspoon clinked against the rim. "What is it about? And don't lie."

You exhaled.

"I keep thinking of when this ends," you said, your eyes lowering, unable to look at him. Niki was pragmatic, you knew that, and maybe the thought didn't bother him as much. It was a logical conclusion. He has already done more than anyone else ever did to help you.

Niki frowned and came closer. He continued to stand even when you shifted on the sofa.

"When this ends."

You nodded. "When you move to Vienna."

"What will change?" He looked perplexed.

You blinked, now unsure of the direction of the conversation which seemed so clear to you. "You'll go to Vienna. I'll have to move back to my country. This," you gestured over the room in a swoop, "this will stop."

Niki had a small smile on his face now. You frowned at the sight of it.

"You are unbelievable," a breathy chuckle escaped him, "Oblivious."

"What?"

Niki came closer, until he was standing right next to you, and tilted your head up.

"James told me it wasn't enough to move you in for you to get a clue," he said conversationally, but you could see his pupils expand and turn his brown eyes black. "I see now he was right." And then he leaned down until his nose touched yours. "It was obvious to the whole F1 what my feelings towards you were. Tell me, darling, are you going to Vienna with me?"

A small whine escaped you, eyes watering. "With you? Together?"

Niki's eyes turned mirthful. "Yes, sweet thing, together." He kissed you. "Like this," he murmured, looking at your lips, "If you haven't realized yet."

You finally smiled. "I want to."

"Good. James will have to find a new assistant, of course," Niki said, grinning, "And it's unlikely he'll find anyone quite as pretty as you. Another loss for McLaren, but they should be used to it by now."

You laughed. "Is this when you say you won a prize again?"

Early morning light paints the house in a golden hue, spilling through open windows while a gentle breeze wafts through an open window.

There's sizzling on the stovetop, food in the pan cooking slowly. Niki has his back to you as you enter the kitchen.

He turns his head to look at you when he hears you or senses your presence. His face is caught in the direct line of light from the window, highlighting every dip and curve of his face.

His scars are most prominent like this. When he has no hat on. No racing balaclava on. When it’s just him– his skin and flesh exposed to your eyes.

The stovetop has attention again, and his face turns away.

You approach him from behind, feet tiptoeing across the floor tiles. Once in distance, you wrap your arms around his neck, hugging him from behind.

Niki seems surprised, his body going mildly taught as he turns to face you. There is a smile on his lips, but the rest of his face is pulled into a bit of a quizzical look.

You smile back at him, eyes tracing the contour of his face with affection. Slowly and tenderly, you lean forward to place a kiss along his shoulder. You don’t say anything. He doesn’t question. Gingerly, you lift your hands up to cup his face when you get that high. Your fingers run along his skin as you follow one of the many scars dappled along his skin. Without a word, you press your lips against his skin, placing more kisses along his face.

At his face, you start at his jaw, placing a few soft and lingering kisses along his jawbone. With dedication and determination you work your way up to the corners of his mouth.

“What are you doing?” He mumbles finally, his eyes watching you as you pepper his face and body with your lips.

Your lips feel like an angels touch against his skin– each gentle press against an individual scar feels like its healing some part of him. Niki is a shattered piece of stained glass, and your golden touches aim to glue the pieces back together.

“Loving you,” you mumble, pausing your motions to reply.

He sighs when you continue, his eyes fluttering closed. He’s giving off the impression he is annoyed with your affection– yet the way he remains where he is without another word of protest tells you otherwise.

For a few minutes you continue the assault before the smell of singed bacon brings the two of you back to the present. He’s apologizing softly to resume cooking, pulling away. But its the promise he makes of ‘later, you have my word’ that has you content to wait, knowing that when he is finished with cooking, you may resume.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ || ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ || ɴᴀᴠɪɢᴀᴛɪᴏɴ