missing receipt

Jack finally let loose the sigh that had been building between his ribs, wondering distractedly if the situation was some jagoff businessman’s card declining, an impossible-to-please socialite sending every bite of her food back, or if another influencer was insisting on getting their meal comped in exchange for free publicity on their Instagram or TikTok or whatever.

Jack knew he was old and out of touch—that was why he’d hired one of the daytime servers, Victoria Javadi, to run the restaurant’s social media—but he also knew a scam when he saw it. Someone who genuinely wanted to work with him asked about partnership deals before eating an entire meal they expected to be free.

Grumbling about influencers under his breath, Jack gave the sauce on the stove one last stir, adding a little more salt, then handed the wooden spoon off to his sous chef, John Shen. Quickly, but methodically, Jack took off his gloves, turned to Nazely, and tucked his arms behind his back—a remnant from his days in the army.

“What kind of a situation?” Jack asked, his voice calm and measured even as he was already preparing himself for the worst.

The chef listened attentively as his server explained what had brought her back into the kitchen with that concerned look in her eyes. The frown on Jack’s face deepened the more he heard about the date going decidedly bad in his dining room.

Finally, Nazely finished up her story with a breathless, “Do you want me to have security handle it?”

Jack knew it was the easiest solution, to call security and have them escort the man creating the situation out of the restaurant. But it would cause a scene, and everyone else in the packed restaurant would be talking more about what had happened than his food.

It would be better for Night Shift’s business if Jack could remedy the situation himself, as quietly as possible.

Instead of answering his server’s question, Jack walked to the double swinging doors that led out to the dining room. He peered through the window, feeling a bit like a king overlooking his kingdom, and he had a sudden, fierce impulse to protect it.

“Which table was it?” Jack asked, glancing back at Nazely, who’d followed him to the doors.

“Table 12,” she answered quickly.

Jack looked out across the sea of glamorous guests dining in his restaurant, a swell of pride in his heart when he saw beyond the expensive clothes and glitzy jewelry to the smiles and laughter of people enjoying his food. In his heart of hearts, Jack just wanted to make food people liked eating, and it never failed to overwhelm him when he got a chance to see the delight he brought to complete strangers who’d entrusted their time and money to him.

Pushing those thoughts and feelings aside for the moment, Jack focused back on the room, his eyes tracking along the tables until he found the one Nazely had indicated. For the first time in a long time, Jack Abbot’s heart skipped a beat and he froze at the sight in front of him.

The first thing about you that rendered Jack speechless was your mouth, the curve of your lips, the tension around the edges as you hid a frown behind a sip of wine. Jack knew, instinctively, that your lips would look gorgeous when you smiled, that your mouth would look exquisite while eating his food—and he knew, too, that he’d do anything to make you smile, to feed you, to take care of you.

Jack shook his head at those thoughts, forcing himself to focus on the situation Nazely had told him about, the date going irreparably sideways.

Still, the chef couldn’t help but rake his eyes over you, telling himself he was simply assessing how much distress you were in. Jack noted the stiffness in your shoulders, how you were curling in on yourself slightly, like your body was trying to protect itself. He also noticed the pretty color of your eyes, the curve of your cheekbones, the sweep of your dress at it fell across your thighs.

You were beautiful, enchanting in a way Jack hadn’t experienced in a long, long time—and you were miserable. That much was clear from your body language and the way you regarded your date with no small amount of disgust and fear deep in your pretty eyes.

Finally, the chef dragged his gaze across your table to your date.

Immediately, Jack didn’t like the arrogant slant of the man’s shoulders, the imperious tilt of his chin, or the pompous way he held his glass as he spoke and drank. Even the way the man took a sip of wine, smacking his lips before resuming his tirade where he’d left off, made anger coil like a poised predator in Jack’s gut.

Something shifted in the man, and Jack looked back at you, seeing indignant rage boiling beneath the surface of your expression. Jack watched you say something through bared teeth, hissing at your date like you were trying not to make a scene.

Your hands were braced against the edge of the table, and you pushed to stand—but then your date moved to stop you, grabbing your wrist, and something in Jack snapped.

Later, he’d tell himself he would’ve had the same reaction if any man had put his hands on a woman in his restaurant. But in that moment, he was driven almost entirely by the edge of something else threaded through the fury in his chest—something greedy and selfish that you, and only you, had inspired in him.

“I’ll handle this myself,” Jack growled, tossing the words over his shoulder at Nazely without taking his eyes off where your date’s hand was still wrapped around your wrist, holding you chained to the table like a misbehaving pet.

All Jack could think, as he strode across the dining room, his chest churning with wrath and violence, was that it was a good thing he didn’t have a knife in his hand.

You were on the date from hell.

And the worst part? You weren’t even sure when everything had gone wrong.

Was it when you’d let your coworker set you up with her boyfriend’s best friend, a man named Curtis Larsen?

Was it when you’d gotten your hopes up and donned your favorite dress—the black fabric clinging to your curves in all the right places and showing off your legs—only for Curtis not to say a word when he picked you up from your office building in downtown Pittsburgh?

Was it when you decided you could put up with his pretentious posturing about his job and his golf game to enjoy one night at Night Shift, the restaurant you’d always wanted to try but could never afford?

Hiding a sigh by taking a sip of your wine—a bitter red you’d never have ordered for yourself—you decided that was probably when things had gone wrong.

From the moment you’d gotten into Curtis’s car, he’d been nothing but insufferable. You should’ve left before walking into the restaurant, but you’d heard such good things about Night Shift, and its head chef Jack Abbot, that you’d ignored your instincts and soldiered on.

You were rewarded for your selfishness by watching Curtis talk down to everyone he came across—the hostess, who sat you in the middle of the dining room only for Curtis to complain you weren’t in one of the booths; the server, who tried to recite the night’s specials only to be interrupted by Curtis asking about a specific dish; the sommelier, who had to put up with Curtis acting like he knew more about wine than the man whose job it was.

It was all you could do to offer the restaurant workers apologetic smiles and slip them some money from your own purse when Curtis wasn’t looking. You tried to grin and bear it, to soak up the ambience of the restaurant despite the black hole of unearned smugness sitting across from you.

Truthfully, Night Shift was spectacular enough to almost distract you from your horrible date and everything that was wrong with him.

The space was decorated in rich, emerald greens and dark, roughhewn wood, with real, lustrous plants and other greenery breaking up the dining room to give each table a pretense of privacy. Warm candles and low lighting gave the restaurant an intimate atmosphere, even while it was packed full.

All told, Night Shift was the perfect place for a date. It was too bad you were there with a man who might’ve been worse than the devil.

You were hiding another frown behind a sip of your disgusting wine when Curtis launched into a tirade about how the woman he’d marry should have a respectable job and make a good salary—and she’d also be responsible for keeping his house clean and taking care of his kids.

It took all of your self-control to stop yourself from rolling your eyes at him. You weren’t exactly surprised—you’d been set up with enough financial analysts like Curtis to know a lot of them were useless assholes who wanted a mommy more than a wife. But you could feel your desire to put up with the date for the sake of trying Night Shift’s food slipping away, and you hadn’t even ordered your appetizers yet.

Resolving to treat yourself to a dinner at Night Shift for your next birthday, you interrupted Curtis’s egotistical diatribe about modern women and tried to politely excuse yourself. You were kinder than you thought he deserved when you told him you didn’t think the two of you were a good fit and it would save you both some time to cut the date short.

But Curtis’s eyes flashed in a way that had fear suddenly bursting in your gut, and his expression turned mean as he leaned forward across the small table, invading your space.

“The date isn’t over until I say it’s over,” Curtis said, his voice so cold, you froze in your seat. “You’re not going anywhere.”

For a moment, you sat in your seat in surprise. You’d been on some bad dates, and while some of the men had reacted badly when you’d left early, none of them had scared you the way Curtis was. There was something so aggressive about the way he spoke, and it was then that you noticed a strange haze in his eyes.

Was he… high?

Thankfully, a sever must’ve caught Curtis’s words, or his tone of voice, because she came over to check on you. Her brown eyes were sharp, but kind as they stayed fixed on you, asking if everything was okay.

“We’re fine,” you told her weakly, giving her the most reassuring smile you could offer while silently begging her to help you somehow. You didn’t want to make a scene, and you were sure the restaurant didn’t want that either, but you would if you needed to.

That’s what you hoped to convey, and you thought the server might’ve understood because she gave a firm nod and headed off with a determined spring in her step. You saw her walk quickly toward the kitchen before your attention was diverted by Curtis.

“You better not embarrass me in front of the staff,” Curtis was saying, clutching his wine glass a little too tight and swirling the liquid enough that you worried he’d spill some on the expensive decor. “I bring a lot of high-profile clients here, I can’t have you leaving early—you know how people like them talk.”

The fear you’d felt melted away in the face of indignant anger on behalf of the restaurant staff—who Curtis had treated like garbage since he’d walked in. It was a miracle he was even allowed in the doors after what you’d seen that evening.

“What kind of people is that exactly?” you asked, quiet fury lacing your voice. You could put up with the indignity of being ordered around by your date, but you wouldn’t sit by and listen to him disparage the people who’d only tried to help the two of you that evening.

Curtis clearly didn’t hear the warning in your tone, because he gave a careless shrug of his shoulders, gesturing thoughtlessly with his hand holding his wine. Some sloshed over the edge, spilling on the floor.

“You know, low-class people.”

There was so much casual disdain dripping from his voice, you had to wonder, if Curtis was such a regular at Night Shift, why hadn’t the sommelier poisoned him already—it’s not like the world wouldn’t be better off without your date, who was somehow still talking.

“The type of people too poor to get a real job—like us,” Curtis said, fixing you with what he clearly thought was a winning smile. It did not make him look like a winner.

At the implication that you were anything like Curtis, your stomach roiled unpleasantly, and you were suddenly afraid that what little wine you’d drank was about to come back up.

That was it, you’d officially reached the end of your patience. You didn’t care if it caused a scene, you couldn’t spend another moment in this man’s presence without vomiting.

“You’re a small-dicked, pathetic excuse for a man, Curtis Larsen,” you hissed at him, trying to keep your fury in check as you braced your hands against the edge of the table and moved to stand. “And I would fuck every one of the people who worked here before I let you anywhere near me —”

As you pushed yourself up from the table, Curtis reached for you quicker than you would’ve expected, snatching your wrist in his big, meaty hand. He yanked on your arm hard enough that you sat back down, biting back a cry as a jolt of pain shot through your shoulder.

“Don’t you dare fucking try to leave,” Curtis snarled, his face contorted into an ugly mask of rage. It was clearer, in that moment, that he was high. It was making him more aggressive, so even when you tried to pull free of his grasp, he held on tighter, hurting you even more.

Just then, movement over Curtis’s shoulder caught your attention and your gaze snagged on a man pushing through the door to the kitchen, an air of violence and vengeance about him that made your heart leap in hope. He carried himself with the kind of quiet confidence weak-willed men like Curtis could only dream of, and he was heading straight for your table.

In the brief time it took the man to make his way through the dining room, you took stock of his appearance. The first thing you noticed was how handsome he was. Silvery, steel gray curls were swept back from his face, giving you a clear view of his sharp, hazel eyes, straight nose and a soft mouth bracketed by short stubble.

The man was clearly older than you, in his 50s, but he looked competent and put together in a way that had your belly swooping as your eyes raked down his body. A plain white t-shirt stretched around his bulging biceps, freckles dusted down his tanned, weathered arms. His broad shoulders and narrow waist were accentuated by the brown apron hanging from his neck.

Something about the man looked familiar, like you’d seen him somewhere before, but between the pain in your wrist, the fear inspired by Curtis’s aggressive change in mood, and the sudden attraction you felt toward the handsome chef, you couldn’t place him.

At least, not until you looked back at his face and saw the intent determination in his expression. It was the same exceedingly hot look he’d been wearing in the photos you’d seen—the ones in the article about Night Shift and its chef-slash-owner.

You realized, with sudden clarity, two very important things: The man approaching your table was the restaurant’s owner and world-renowned head chef, Jack Abbot. And he looked furious enough about the way Curtis was still holding on to you that he was liable to murder your date.

Jack Abbot could not kill a restaurant guest.

He could not. No matter how much that guest might deserve it for putting his filthy fucking hands on a woman in his restaurant. No matter how much Jack wanted to rip this guy’s head off for daring to touch someone as sweet-looking as you.

He could not kill a guest. He could not kill a guest.

Those words were a refrain playing in his head as he made his way to your table, the one with the situation Nazely had told him about—a situation that had clearly escalated to physical. Because your date had put his hand on you and all Jack could think about was murder.

He hated the way this pompous asshole was holding your wrist tight enough that it looked painful, though your face was a stony mask like you refused to give the guy the satisfaction of showing him he’d hurt you. And Jack especially hated the fact that he’d stupidly left his knife in the kitchen, so he couldn’t cut off the guest’s hand for the crime of touching you with so much violence.

Jack was nearly at the table when he heard your date talking, and he immediately recognized the smarmy voice of Night Shift’s #1 worst regular: Curtis Larsen.

In that moment, Jack knew he should’ve banned the guy after the last time he came in, when he’d terrorized the staff and tipped basically nothing for their efforts. Well, that was a mistake Jack was going to rectify immediately, once he got you away from the shithead.

So focused on his thoughts, and trying to quell his inclination toward murder, Jack didn’t fully register what Curtis was saying until he was right next to the table.

“—Didn’t take you for such a cheap whore—”

Any possibility of Jack politely interrupting Curtis went out the window when he heard those words. What came out of him instead was: “Sir, you need to shut your fucking mouth.”

Jack was louder than he’d meant to be, making you gasp softly. His gaze found you, wanting to make sure he hadn’t scared you, and he ended up getting lost in your eyes. They were bright and smart, and watching him with such a keen interest, it made Jack feel 20 years younger.

It was then that Jack really looked at you, and he realized just how young you were. Not young enough to make him feel like a complete creep, but… young enough to make him feel at least a little bit like a creep.

Especially when he raked his eyes down your body—telling himself he was just checking to make sure you were okay—and he couldn’t help but notice the way your dress clung to your curves, taunting him with how high the hem rode up your thigh. Your bare legs were a tease beneath the tablecloth, and Jack wondered if your skin felt as soft as it looked…

Reminding himself that you needed help, not to be ogled by a creepy older man, Jack shook himself free of the spell you’d cast on him with your wide, trusting eyes and your pretty, tempting curves. He turned to Curtis, giving the man his most fearsome glower, the one that kept the most unruly of restaurant guests in line.

“And keep your fucking hands to yourself,” Jack growled, making a point of looking down at where Curtis’s hand was still holding your wrist before returning his gaze to the man’s face. “Or do I need to teach you a lesson about putting your hands on woman without her consent?”

Jack knew he sounded dangerous—unhinged, probably—but he couldn’t bring himself to care, not when his thinly veiled threat did the trick and Curtis let go of you like he was dropping a hot pan.

Something settled in Jack’s chest, and he felt soothed knowing he hadn’t even needed to resort to violence to save you from Curtis. But that feeling quickly shriveled as Jack watched you bring your hand to our chest and cradle your wrist.

He had the sudden, inexplicable urge to wrap you up in his arms and tell you no one would ever hurt you again. Not on his watch. But somehow, Jack managed to keep his hands tucked behind his back, even as the tips of his fingers prickled with the desire to touch you, to soothe you.

Those thoughts and urges were troubling enough, but then you lifted your eyes and gave Curtis a withering look that had the other man cowering almost as much as he had under Jack’s glare. The chef felt a threat of pride weave through his heart.

Jack could see your strength, your resilience, and he knew in that moment that you could take care of yourself. You could’ve freed yourself from Curtis’s hold, you hadn’t needed saving, but that only made Jack want to whisk you away all the more. He wanted to take care of you in a way he’d never felt before.

Biting back a sigh at himself, Jack realized one very important thing: He was a goner for you. Already. Even though he didn’t even know your name.

Unable and unwilling to stop himself from acting selfishly, Jack held a hand out to you, giving you a soft, encouraging smile and nodding toward your hurt wrist.

“My name’s Jack, I own this restaurant. Can I take a look, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice as gentle as he could make it, a low, raspy rumble that he hoped felt like a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. “I used to be a medic in the army.”

It made Jack’s heart soar when you looked at him for a moment, like you were taking his measure, and decided you could trust him. Your fingers were soft and a little cold as they slipped into Jack’s plam, his own hand closing reflexively around them to warm you up.

Carefully, Jack turned your wrist one way, then the other, bending low over your hand to examine whether it was injured. All the while, he kept an eye on your face, watching for any wince or twinge in your expression to indicate he was hurting you.

Thankfully—for you, for Jack, and most especially for your date—it didn’t look like Curtis had done any real damage.

“No sprain, just some bruising,” Jack said, giving your fingers a soft, reassuring squeeze and lifting his gaze to yours. He nearly lost himself in the admiration and gratefulness in your eyes, but managed to continue. “I have some ibuprofen in my office.”

Your eyes widened a little in surprise, and Jack was forced to endure the torment of watching you nibble on your lower lip while uncertainty filled your expression. He understood your reticence to trust a man so soon after another had hurt you, so Jack tried to put you at ease.

“Whaddya say, sweetheart, do you want the kitchen tour?”

Jack shot you a cheesy, hopefully charming wink, and when you let out a soft giggle, shaking your head at him like you couldn’t believe how corny he was, he felt like he was flying. He felt like he could soar above all of Pittsburgh with only the confidence he earned from making you laugh.

“That would be nice,” you said, looking up at him from under your lashes. Jack was immediately entranced by your voice, by the way your lips moved as you spoke. “Thank you, chef.”

It did absurdly wild things to Jack’s heart, which was already beating a fast, staccato rhythm in his chest, to hear you call him ‘chef’. It shouldn’t have affected him so much, it was a title he heard about a hundred times a night from dozens of other people.

But hearing it from your pretty mouth made Jack feel like it was a badge of honor, and he was glad to have earned it.

Distracted by thinking of ways to get you to call him ‘chef’ some more, it wasn’t until you clutched his fingers more tightly that he remembered he’d intended to get you away from Curtis as quickly as possible. Using it as an excuse to keep holding your hand, Jack helped you to stand up.

When he was sure you were steady on your feet, after wobbling for a moment in your heels, Jack nodded to your chair and said, “Grab your things, angel. You won’t be coming back.”

Even though Jack was leaning into you when he said it, Curtis must’ve caught the words because his expression turned from icy resignation to red-hot fury as he pushed himself to stand. But Jack was quicker, putting himself between you and your former date, growling at the younger man before he could fully stand up.

“Sit down, sir.”

A stunned Curtis plopped back into his chair. Jack raised his chin, staring down his nose at the other man while he tucked his hands behind his back, standing guard between you and your former date. Images of knives began dancing in Jack’s head, and he let it fuel the anger in his expression to keep Curtis in check.

Jack could sense you moving around behind him. You’d dropped his hand when you’d turned to grab your jacket and purse, but you must’ve been done because you slipped your fingers back into his palm.

You grasped his hand tentatively, and he gave you a reassuring squeeze, his heart soaring in his chest even as he continued glaring at the man at the table, who looked riotous at the thought of Jack stealing you away.

“You can’t do this,” Curtis snarled, trying to puff up his chest and make himself look big, even as he remained sitting in his seat, too much a coward to actually challenge Jack’s authority.

The chef responded to the other man’s posturing by looming over him, an unkind smile on his face. Jack was more than a little satisfied by the way Curtis cowered, just a little, in his seat.

“This is my fucking restaurant,” Jack said, his voice even but ruthless. “So let me tell you how this is going to go.” Jack kept your hand tucked in his, holding you behind him while he dealt with your ex-date. “You’re going to pay your bill, leave your server a generous tip, and then you’re never going to step foot in here again. Do you get me?”

Jack watched emotions flit across the younger man’s face—surprise, frustration, indignation, fury—and he could practically feel the temper tantrum brewing, like a storm rolling in. But he could also smell the booze on him and, if Jack wasn’t mistaken, he could see the telltale signs Curtis had been indulging in more than wine.

Night Shift really didn’t need the scene or the paperwork that would come along with the temper tantrum, which would inevitably lead to someone calling the cops. So Jack went in for the metaphorical kill.

“If I ever see your face in here again,” Jack said, lowering his voice even more so only you and Curtis could hear him. “You’re going to pay for putting your hands on a woman in my restaurant—and I’ll take that payment with my knife.”

Jack watched as Curtis blanched, his tanned skin going ghostly pale as all the fight drained out of him at the threat of actual violence. The younger man’s gaze finally fell to the table, and Jack knew he wasn’t going to challenge him again.

It was completely unhinged to threaten Curtis like that, he knew that, but all Jack worried about was that he’d scared you. When he turned to check on you, though, he found you staring at him with so much admiration, Jack wanted to puff up his own chest and take on every asshole who’d ever wronged you.

You took a careful step closer to Jack, looking at him with those wide eyes, a smirk flirting around the edges of your pretty mouth, and wrapped your other hand around his bicep. “Thank you,” you murmured for only him to hear, and Jack offered you an answering smile.

“Ready to go, sweetheart?” he asked charmingly, squeezing your hand gently.

Your smirk bloomed into a full-blown grin, and he caught the edge of excitement in your expression, making Jack’s heart thump harder in his chest. He could hardly believe someone as young and beautiful and strong as you wanted to go anywhere with him. Not only did you look like you wanted it, you looked eager for it.

“Yes, please, chef,” you purred, the sound of your voice calling him ‘chef’ again going straight to his dick.

Oh yeah, Jack was definitely a goner for you.

You could hardly believe how drastically the course of your night had changed in just a few minutes.

You’d gone from being on the absolute worst date of your life, trying to figure out how you were going to get away from the man who’d accosted you, to being on the arm of one of the most talented—and handsome—head chefs in all of Pittsburgh.

Jack Abbot’s hand was warm and strong in yours, his stride steady and determined as he led you through the dining room toward the kitchen. His presence at your side helped to settle the wobbliness you felt in the wake of the fear and adrenaline that had rushed through you when Curtis had grabbed you.

Leaning further into Jack’s side, you got a hint of his scent—fresh laundry something earthy, like sage or rosemary—and you let it stoke the little ember of interest that burned deep your core, the one that had flared to life when you watched the chef put your date in his place.

What did it say about you that you thought it was inexplicably hot the way Jack had threatened Curtis with his knife? What did it say about you that you felt safer with Jack than you had with any man you’d ever gone out with?

With those questions rattling around in your head, you were glad that Jack didn’t try to make conversation beyond asking for your name as he guided you to the kitchen. He seemed to understand you needed a moment to process everything that’d happened, and he remained quiet as the two of you walked together through the crowded dining room, the soft chatter of the other diners filling the silence so it wasn’t awkward.

When Jack pushed through the double swinging doors to the kitchen, the gentle murmur of the restaurant’s dining room gave away to the chaos of the kitchen. Immediately, you felt the buzzy, almost electric energy, of the staff, and you took your first full breath since you’d walked into Night Shift, something about the kitchen making you feel like you were coming home.

Your eyes were opened wide as you looked around because there was so much to take in—a whole army of chefs and cooks moved around the silver metal tables and big, gas range stoves, grabbing things out of fridges, chopping vegetables and searing meat. It was like a masterfully choreographed dance, the way everyone moved around each other.

And it smelled divine. Herbs and spices and so many other scents filled your nose, making your mouth water and your stomach grumble, though there was no way anyone could hear it over the noise—the clatter of knives and pans, the people calling out orders, the slamming of fridge doors.

Everything seemed to revolve around on particular chef, an Asian man spooning some sauce onto a plate and conferring with a Black woman. He was the calm in the center of the storm, obviously running things while Jack had been dealing with your date.

The head chef himself tugged you to the side of the room, pulling you out of the way of the steady stream of servers coming in and out of the double doors, carrying big trays filled with all kinds of dishes—salads and seafood, pasta and chicken. All of it smelled amazing, looked amazing, and it was all you could do to stare around the kitchen with awe no doubt written plainly on your face.

Gradually, you became aware of Jack’s gaze on your face, and when you looked at the chef, you found him watching you closely, so much intensity in his hazel eyes, it made you feel a little shy. Here was this older, accomplished chef, and he was looking at you like you were the most interesting thing in his entire kitchen—his entire restaurant.

You offered him a tentative smile, your heart skipping a beat when he towed you just a little closer by your still clasped hands.

“What do you think, sweetheart?” Jack asked, and you could tell by the tenor of his voice that he actually cared about your answer. He sounded worried, hopeful, and so achingly interested that it made you unsteady on your feet.

“I think it’s amazing,” you answered honestly, your voice more than a little breathless with wonder. You leaned further into his side, staring into his eyes and getting a little lost in them. “Everything looks and smells delicious, chef.”

A small, pleased smile curved Jack’s mouth, even as his eyes darkened at what you’d called him. It stole the breath from your lungs, the knowledge that you could affect him so clearly just by calling him ‘chef’. It made you want to say it more, to say it while his mouth was on your body, just to see if you could drive him wild…

Tension crackled between the two of you, sharp and electric, sucking all the oxygen out of the room so it became a little hard to breathe normally. Your heart fluttered in your chest, and your legs trembled, and still, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from Jack, your gaze drifting down to his mouth and the silvery stubble that surrounded it.

“Jack?” you murmured his name softly, a question in the single syllable, as you raised your eyes back to his. There was an answer in his gaze, in the way his own eyes dropped to your lips and back up, like he was fighting the same urge as you.

“Everything good, chef?”

You and Jack jumped apart, your hands disentangling as you put a respectable amount of space between your bodies. You watched Jack straighten, his expression shifting into something much more professional, much more appropriate for his workplace, as he turned to the room.

“Gimme a few more minutes, chef,” Jack called back to the Asian man who’d addressed him. You got the sense that the man was amused by the two of you, even though his face remained unreadable. “I’ll be back to dig you out of the hole of the dinner rush.”

The man who must’ve been Jack’s sous chef huffed a laugh and, without looking up from the dish he was plating, said, “Don’t worry about us, old man. We’ve got this.”

“Who’s he calling old?” Jack muttered under his breath, making a laugh burst from your lips at how disgruntled he sounded. A smirk flickered at the edge of Jack’s mouth, like he couldn’t help himself, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement, and he leaned closer to you. “Do you think I’m old, angel?”

Jack’s voice was little more than a rasp, and you swore that you could feel it skim down your spine and settle deep in your core, where heat was blooming hotter. All you could do was stare at Jack, at the weathered lines of his freckled face, and the silver curls that you wanted to run your fingers through, as you tried to think of something to say.

A little lop-sided smile tilted Jack’s mouth, like he could somehow see the odd mixture of awe and lust swirling in your body, in your brain, making you tongue-tied—and he didn’t hold it against you. “Don’t answer that,” he grumbled good-naturedly, his eyes still fixed on your face.

The two of you hung suspended in that moment for longer than was strictly necessary, the hustle and bustle of the kitchen fading away, until you finally remembered how to speak. Though once the words came out of your mouth, you wished you’d stayed silent.

“I don’t think you’re too old.”

That statement got Jack’s attention in a way you hadn’t experienced in all the short time you’d been in his presence. His eyes darkened, dropping to your lips once again before dragging their way back to meet your gaze. A charming grin made his mouth look far too tempting.

“Too old for what, angel?” Jack asked innocently, a hint of playful teasing in his tone that had your body burning hotter. His dark hazel eyes were knowing—like he knew what you really meant to say, that you didn’t think he was too old for you.

But you couldn’t say that, couldn’t answer him. You already felt like you’d said too much, and there were too many emotions still swirling around in your chest, in your belly, between your thighs, to make sense of any of them.

Thankfully, Jack seemed to understand you were overwhelmed and he didn’t push it. Instead, he pressed a hand to your lower back, the heat of his palm scorching through the thin fabric of your dress, even in the warmth of the kitchen. He guided you gently to a narrow doorway tucked into the corner of the kitchen you hadn’t noticed before.

Jack led you into a small office that you knew immediately was his. The space was nice and neat, just like his kitchen, with homey touches that reflected the dining room of his restaurant with emerald green walls and a dark wooden desk, which held a few framed photos and other keepsakes alongside his paperwork and computer.

Also, it smelled like him—fresh and clean, with just a hint of garlic and sage.

The room was small, barely big enough for a desk, chair and a couple of filing cabinets, but it was cozy, and you felt just as safe in Jack’s office as you did in his presence. Being away from the loud clamor of the kitchen also helped to settle your nerves and, without being invited to, you sank into the chair, leaving Jack to lean against the edge of his desk.

“How’re you holding up, sweetheart?” Jack asked gently, crossing his arms over his chest and ducking down to catch your eye. You gave him a weary smile.

“I’m ok,” you said, then paused to take stock of yourself to see if that was really true. “A little shaken, a lot hungry,” your smile tured rueful. “I was really looking forward to trying your food,” you told him, dropping your gaze to where your hands were twisted together in your lap. “But we didn’t even make it to the appetizers.”

Jack shifted closer to you, his knee nudging lightly against yours, and you felt a little zing of happiness at even that small touch. You almost huffed a laugh at yourself for the silly crush you were developing on the hot, older chef, but managed to bite it back and looked up at the man who’d so gently gotten your attention.

“If you want to go home, I can have security escort you out back,” Jack started, his mouth twisting into the vague impression of a frown, like he didn’t particularly like that idea. “Or, if you want, you can hang out in here, I can make you something to eat, and then later, I can give you that kitchen tour.”

He shot you another one of those exaggerated winks and you couldn’t help but giggle softly. Jack was charming and he knew it, and if you weren’t careful, you were definitely going to develop a big ol’ crush on the man. He made it too easy to feel comfortable around him.

“It’s your choice, sweetheart,” Jack said, pausing for a moment like he wasn’t sure if he should go on, but then he did. “I do hope you’ll let me cook for you, though.” He reached out, his fingers brushing gently against the edge of your jaw, his touch so light you could barely feel it. “I don’t like the idea of sending you home hungry.”

Before you could lean into Jack’s hand, he snatched it back, like he was worried he’d crossed a line. He crossed his arms more tightly across his chest, his hands tucked away as if he was worried they couldn’t be trusted not to touch you again, and you had to smile.

Maybe it wasn’t the worst idea in the world to develop a crush on the hot, older chef who’d saved you from the worst date of your life—especially since it seemed like the hot, older chef was having trouble keeping his gentle hands off you.

“I’d like to stay,” you murmured, looking up at Jack from under your lashes.

Almost against your will, your body swayed closer to the charming chef, your hand reaching out to wrap around his forearm. The light dusting of Jack’s hair tickled your fingers, and you couldn’t help but notice how strong and firm his arm was beneath your palm.

Your lips quirked into a small smile, putting a little flirty edge on your words as you said, “If you don’t mind, chef.”

Jack’s eyes were dark, liquid heat as he stared at you for a long moment, and you wondered wildly if he might kiss you. The thought had excitement fluttering to life in your belly, but before you could get your hopes up too high, Jack swallowed and looked away. It was only then that you noticed the faint flush pinkening his cheeks.

“Make yourself comfortable, sweetheart,” Jack said, pushing away from the desk and stepping toward the door. “Ibuprofen’s in the top drawer.”

The movement had your hand dropping from his arm and you immediately missed the warmth of his skin. When he looked back at you, he must’ve caught something on your face, something that had him cracking a small smile.

“I’ll be back soon, alright?” His voice was a little rough, teasing your body with its low tenor, but you managed a smile and a nod.

“I’ll be here,” you said, as brightly as you could. “Thank you, Jack.”

Jack looked at you another moment, his eyes going a little soft, before he ducked through the office door. He pulled it most of the way closed behind him, leaving it open just a crack, somehow knowing you wanted some peace, but not to be cut off from the kitchen—from him—entirely.

Left alone to your own devices, you only had your own thoughts as company. You knew your brain wanted to spiral about your date—Why hadn’t you seen the red flags from Curtis earlier? Why hadn’t you cut the date short sooner?—but instead you focused on what was in front of you.

Tossing your purse and jacket onto the desk, you got comfortable in Jack’s chair, leaning back and noticing a leather jacket thrown over the back. Shooting a quick glance at the door to make sure no one could see in, you tucked your face into the collar and breathed in, a smile curving your lips as you inhaled Jack’s clean, earthy scent.

Once you’d had your fill—or, rather, once your shame caught up with you and you forced yourself to stop sniffing the hot, older chef’s jacket like a mindless hussy—you let your eyes roam around the room, taking in the almost military precision of the organization in the office.

The desk was mostly clear, save for the keyboard attached to his computer monitor, and a stack of order forms for things for the restaurant. There were also the photos and keepsakes. You picked them up one by one, looking closely at the people and things Jack cared about, not bothering to feel bad about your nosiness.

The first photo was of Jack and his whole kitchen crew at the opening of Night Shift, looking worn out but exultant in their success. Another photo depicted Jack with a man about his age, tall with brown hair and a salt and pepper beard, standing next to a motorcycle. They had their arms slung around each other like they were old friends.

Next, your fingers trailed over a medal of honor that was tucked into a corner of the desk. It was purple and gold, in the shape of a heart with a man’s side profile in the center. You remembered Jack’s comment about being in the army and wondered what had earned him the medal.

Feeling like you’d possibly overstepped, you set the medal back in its place on Jack’s desk and focused on finding the ibuprofen. After taking the pills with the glass of water he’d grabbed for you from the kitchen, you snuggled deeper into his chair, your head falling back against the collar of the chef’s leather jacket.

It occurred to you suddenly that you really liked Jack Abbot. You hadn’t known him for long, and you didn’t know all that much about him, but you wanted to.

You wanted to know why he’d named his restaurant Night Shift, and why he’d become a chef after being a medic in the army. You wanted to know what his favorite thing to cook was, and whether he needed readers to read texts on his phone.

You wanted to know if he was going to ask you for your number.

That thought made you stop and smile as you considered what you’d do if Jack asked for you number and actually used it. Your fingers played idly with the soft, supple leather of his jacket, letting the sounds of the kitchen lull you into deeper comfort as you imagined what it would be like to date world-renowned chef Jack Abbot.

You suspected it would be a helluva lot better than going on a date with Curtis Larsen, that was for sure.

Jack Abbot could not be interested in the young, pretty restaurant guest he’d saved from a bad date.

He paused just outside the door to his office, trying to get his head on straight, but all he could think about was the way you’d looked at him, like you were attracted to him, like you trusted him to take care of you. His fingers flexed at his side, and he could still feel the softness of your skin beneath his grazing touch—so pretty, so tempting.

His mind was consumed with the sweetness of your scent filling his office, invading his private space, and how much that pleased him. Jack already knew that scent would haunt him for the rest of the evening, that he’d fall asleep just to dream of you.

Wiping a hand down his face, Jack felt like a creep for even thinking about how you smelled, how your hand felt like a perfect fit in his own, how he wanted you to look at him with nothing but lust in your eyes. He was supposed to be helping you, taking care of you, making sure you got home safe, not thinking about what it’d feel like to put his hands on your body and pull you close…

With a hard shake of his head, Jack refocused on the task at hand—making you something to eat—and strode back into the kitchen. He walked up to stand beside his sous chef, who was busy plating a whole tray of that night’s special. John didn’t even look up as Jack approached.

“How are things looking?” Jack asked, busying his hands by retying the strings of his apron while he took a look at the line of orders still needing to be made. It was a busy Friday night at Night Shift, but his sous chef was keeping on top of things.

“Don’t worry about us, chef, we got this,” John said, before raising his voice and calling out to the rest of the kitchen staff. “Don’t we, nightcrawlers?”

“Hoo-rah!” came the answering reply and Jack had to twist his lips to the side to hide the proud smile that wanted to break through. Annoyingly, John noticed.

“Seriously,” John said, straightening up and setting the last of the plates onto a tray for a server to take them out into the dining room. He turned to Jack. “I’ve got this under control, if there’s somewhere else you’d rather be.”

John’s eyes drifted over Jack’s shoulder in the direction of the office before returning his gaze to the head chef and waggling his brows a little.

“I won’t take it personally if there’s someone else you’d rather be with than me,” the sous chef quipped, grabbing his Dunkin’ Donuts iced coffee from the shelf over the worktable and taking an obnoxiously loud sip.

“It’s not like that,” Jack grumbled, hoping to nip that thread of conversation in the bud before it began. The last thing he needed was for his business with you to get around the kitchen. Everyone who worked at Night Shift were talented, good people, but they gossiped more than little old ladies.

Jack tugged on some black nitrile gloves and grabbed a knife and cutting board. But when he returned to his station with the ingredients he’d need for what he planned to cook you for dinner, John was giving him a skeptical look.

“Right,” John said, not dropping the subject, no matter that Jack was no longer looking at him and was instead focused entirely on chopping up some rosemary and garlic. “That’s why you stepped in and took care of her date instead of letting security handle it.”

John’s tone was dry enough to give the Sahara a run for its money, but Jack refused to rise to the bait. Huffing an exaggeratedly beleaguered sigh, John cut to the chase. “Do you know her or something?”

“No,” Jack said quickly—too quickly, he knew. He could feel John’s indefatigable gaze drilling into the side of his head while he worked. He knew John wouldn’t give up the interrogation until he got something so Jack finally admitted, “But… maybe I want to get to know her.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw a wide grin spread across his sous chef’s face a moment before John clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s great, chef,” he said, but he must’ve noticed Jack wasn’t grinning along with him because he asked, “It is great, isn’t it? I mean, it’s been a while for you, hasn’t it?”

“She’s too young for me, man,” Jack said, his voice harsher than he’d intended. He paused, swallowing, then grabbed a pan and some chicken cutlets, getting to work breading and seasoning them. “Besides, she’s had a rough night—that jackass grabbed her.” Jack had to stop again and take a breath to contain his anger before he went on. “She doesn’t need some old man creeping on her, too.”

“Dude,” John started, before getting distracted by plating up a new round of orders. It took him a moment to get back to the conversation. “You’re not that old,” he said, shooting Jack a look like the head chef should know all his ‘old man’ comments were in good fun. “And if you think she’s not interested, you didn’t see the way she was looking at you.”

At John’s comment, Jack fumbled the pan he was cooking in, nearly spilling oil and chicken into the fire of the stove. He glanced at John, back to what he was doing, then to his sous chef again, who was watching him with a not-so-small smirk on his face.

“H-how was she looking at me?” Jack finally asked, unable to stop himself, not even daring to hope John wasn’t somehow fucking with him.

Sure, Jack knew you’d wrapped yourself around his arm while he’d walked you back to the kitchen, and he couldn’t get the memory of the way you’d touched his arm out of your head. But that wasn’t flirting… was it? And certainly there wasn’t anything particularly interested in the way you’d looked at him. Right?

John’s incredulous look told him otherwise. “Jack, the girl practically had hearts in her eyes when she looked at you,” he said, and when Jack opened his mouth to protest, he cut him off. “She’s into you, dude.”

“What, no—no, no, she’s just…” Jack couldn’t believe how idiotic he sounded, fumbling around his own kitchen while John tried to tell him you were interested. It was like he was a young, inexperienced teenager all over again with his first crush, disbelieving she could ever like him back.

“Ellis, back me up,” John was saying, calling over one of Night Shift’s senior chefs while he set a new round of plated meals onto a tray for a server. “The girl Jack brought back here had heart eyes for our head chef, didn’t she?”

It was only his decades of experience that allowed Jack to continue cooking—boiling water and adding pasta, mixing milk and cheese in with the chicken to create a creamy sauce—while he waited with bated breath for Parker Ellis’s response. Jack trusted the senior chef not to bullshit him or fuck with him the way John sometimes did.

“Oh yeah, full-on heart eyes,” Parker announced, stopping beside John for a moment to drop off some more plates in need of their finishing touches. She glanced at Jack, who was still trying to process her pronouncement. “You gonna do something about it, chef?”

Was Jack going to do something about it? Everything in him ached to do something—to touch you, to kiss you, or, at the very least, ask for your number and take you out for a real meal sometime. He wanted to get to know you, he wanted to impress you with the most romantic of dates, and then he wanted to take you home and take care of you in every way he knew how.

It had been a long time since Jack had wanted any of those things with anyone, and it was a shock to his system to feel them for someone so soon after meeting them. But Jack could tell you were special. There was a spark between the two of you that he knew he’d be a fool to ignore.

However, he was still wary about scaring you off or creeping you out. But maybe he wouldn’t if Jack could take things slow. He could feed you, make sure you were comfortable in his office, and then later, he’d give you a tour of his kitchen and see how things went from there. If you seemed into it, he could ask for your number and take you out on a real date.

Happy with his plan, Jack finally looked up from where he was finishing the meal he’d made for you. He found both John and Parker looking at him expectantly—and a little impatiently. He twisted his mouth to the side to bite back a smirk.

“Don’t you two have something better to do than discuss my love life?” he grumbled good-naturedly, knowing neither of them would take him too seriously.

True to form, Parker snickered and gave Jack a mock salute. “Happy for you, chef,” she said before heading back into the crowded kitchen.

Meanwhile, John was grinning to himself. “Get your girl, old man,” he quipped, giving Jack a sly look out of the corner of his eye.

Jack made a show of grumbling about his impertinent staff while he plated up the dish he’d made for you—chicken and pasta with a creamy, cheesy sauce flavored with plenty of rosemary and other herbs. Then, it was time to bring it to you, and even Jack was a little surprised by how eager he was to get back to you, striding across the kitchen as quick as he could.

Knocking lightly before pushing inside his office, Jack found you curled up in his desk chair, your legs tucked underneath you, an e-reader in your hands. For a moment, Jack was struck by the easy domesticity of the scene—him bringing you dinner while you looked sexy and cozy in his office.

It would be all too easy for Jack to get used to this, having you visit him at his restaurant and waiting in his office for him to finish up for the night so he could take you out for a late-night drink, or some ice cream. And then, he’d take you home and get you underneath him so he could have a late-night snack of his own…

“Oh hi, is that for me?”

Your question dragged Jack from his reverie, and he couldn’t help but smile when he saw your wide eyes looking up at him. He stepped forward to set down the dish and silverware he’d brought on the desk in front of you, your sweet scent tickling his nose before he stood back to give you some room—and so that he could watch your reaction.

You tucked your e-reader back into your purse, and Jack knew the exact moment you smelled the food in front of you because you went still and your eyes slid closed. You took a deep breath in through your nose, and when you exhaled, it was with a low, throaty moan that went straight to Jack’s dick.

For the first time since he’d hit middle age, Jack was actually glad he wasn’t as quick to harden as when he was younger. Still, he had to curl his hands into fists at his sides and tamp down on the instinct to adjust his cock, which was twitching to life, not wanting to bring any attention to how your innocent reaction was affecting him.

Instead, he focused all his willpower on keeping himself from getting harder, which became more difficult when you blinked your eyes open, looking almost dazed with hunger and pleasure. It was all Jack could do to hold himself back from touching you, from tracing the shape of your mouth with his fingers, from kissing you so that the desire in your eyes was all for him and not his food.

“It smells delicious, chef,” you purred, your voice low and husky in a way that Jack could tell wasn’t intentional, which made it affect him all the more.

“Give it a try, sweetheart,” Jack said, unable to keep the gravel out of his voice. He crossed his arms over his chest in an effort to stop himself from reaching for you. He wanted to grab you by your hips, put you in his lap, and feed you. But he reminded himself he was taking things slow, so he leaned against the desk and watched you intently. “I want to know if you like it.”

Bobbing your head in a nod, you grabbed your fork, scooped up some of the pasta and speared a piece of chicken, popping the whole bite into your mouth. Some cream sauce lingered in the corners of your lips, and Jack had to clench his fists to stop from swiping it away with his thumb. He was nearly undone, biting back a groan, when your tongue peaked out and licked it up with a garbled moan.

“Oh my god, that’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” you proclaimed. The pleasure in your voice made Jack harder, but he focused instead on the pride blooming, warm and sweet, in his chest.

Still, he couldn’t completely ignore his cock twitching to life in his jeans. For once, he was grateful for the apron covering his front, helping to shield the bulge growing between his thighs. God, he felt like a fucking teenager.

“Ah, th-thanks,” he said, stumbling over his words, flustered by just how much you visibly—and verbally—enjoyed his food. “It’s a personal recipe, not on the menu.” He shot you a wink, hoping desperately that it came across as charming, and not unbearably cheesy. “I figured you could use some comfort food.”

The somber note in Jack’s voice seemed to strike you right in the heart, and you blinked, your eyes dropping from his for a moment. Jack wondered if he’d made a mistake by referencing your bad date, but then your hand darted out, playing idly with the edge of his apron just below where his arms were crossed.

“I can’t thank you enough for getting me out of that situation, Jack,” you said softly, and the chef was so distracted by the sound of his name on your tongue that he almost missed what you were saying. But then you looked up and your gaze was arresting. “I thought I could handle it—could handle him—but I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t been there…”

Jack hated how small you sounded, how unsure of yourself.

Before he knew what he was doing, Jack was sweeping down onto one knee, barely biting back a wince when his prosthetic protested, and settling his hands gently on the outside of your thighs. He tried to ignore the heat of your bare skin against his palms, forcing himself to focus on you and making sure you saw yourself the way he saw you.

“You would’ve been fine, sweetheart,” Jack said in his firmest tone, even as he made sure to keep his voice gentle. He could tell from the uncertainty in your eyes that you were hanging on his every word, and he felt compelled to go on. “You can take care of yourself, and if you’d needed to, you would’ve handled that asshole.”

Something like pride and confidence swirled in your eyes, and Jack let his mouth twist to the side in a smile. It made him feel good to know he could put that look in your eye, and he felt his chest puffing up a little bit before he got control of himself and gave your thighs a reassuring squeeze before continuing.

“I am glad I could help, though,” Jack said, his voice rougher than it had any right to be. But he was kneeling so close to you that he breathed in your sweet scent with every inhale, and it was going straight to his head. “Thank you for letting me feed you—thank you for letting me take care of you.”

Your eyes were wide and bright and fixed so intensely on Jack’s that he barely felt it when your hands settled gently on his shoulders, holding on to him like he was the one steady thing you could count on. His grip on your thighs tightened, drawing you closer until your knees collided with his chest.

“Anytime, chef,” you murmured, your lips parted and glistening and looking so fucking tempting.

A little growl rumbled in Jack’s chest and he watched your eyes flare with interest, before settling back into a heavy-lidded stare. Your fingers tightened on his shoulders, curling into the cotton of his white t-shirt, and he could feel you lightly tugging on him, trying to bring him closer.

Fuck, Jack wasn’t just interested in you, he craved you. It didn’t matter that he’d known you for such a short time, he wanted to devour you. He wanted to take you into his arms and kiss the breath from your lungs, make you come apart and then hold you tight until you put each other together again.

He wanted to go back to work knowing you were safe and sound in his office, eating the food he’d cooked for you, then give you a tour of the kitchen later. When that was done, he wanted to drive you home, make sure you got in safe, and make plans to see you again. He wanted to take up as much space in your head as you were taking up in his.

Jack wanted to kiss you. And, if he wasn’t mistaken, you looked like you wanted him to kiss you, too.

A great crashing sound came from the kitchen, shattering the perfect moment, and Jack’s stomach sank when you flinched. You tried to hide your reaction, staring at him innocently like you hadn’t recoiled at the loud sound, but he was reminded that he should be taking things slowly, carefully, making sure you weren’t overwhelmed by all that had happened throughout the night.

“Eat up, angel,” he rumbled, giving your thighs one last squeeze before moving to stand, pushing himself up with one hand on his desk. He gritted his teeth through the pain in his limb as he settled back onto his prosthetic, and gave you another of his hopefully charming winks. “If you’re a good girl, I’ll make you some dessert to go with your kitchen tour.”

At that comment, you sucked in a sharp breath, a sultry smile spreading slowly across your face. When you looked up at Jack, your eyes were a little hazy, and your body swayed closer to him, almost like you couldn’t help yourself.

“Oh, I’ll be good,” you murmured, looking more sexy than you had any right to curled up in Jack’s desk chair. “I promise, chef.”

There it was again, that title rolling off your tongue and licking straight down Jack’s spine. He had half a mind to gather you up in his arms and kiss you until you were murmuring that word into his mouth, his neck, into the center of his chest while he pressed between your thighs and slid inside you…

“I’ll be back when it slows down,” Jack promised, wrenching himself away from his fantasy and backing toward the door of the office. If he didn’t know better, he thought you might’ve been smirking as you hummed your acknowledgement. “Enjoy your dinner, sweetheart.”

“Thank you, chef,” you chirped sweetly, turning back to your meal—though not before catching Jack’s eye over your shoulder, a flirty spark in your gaze.

A goofy grin spread across Jack’s face, and for a moment, he let himself watch you as you pulled out your e-reader and began to read while you ate the meal he’d prepared. His chest filled with warm sunlight while something in his gut settled. It felt right to have you here in Jack’s office, in his space, looking safe and comfortable and content.

Holding that sense of rightness close to his heart, Jack ducked back into the kitchen, taking a moment to retie his apron before jumping into the fray. He felt steadier than he had before he’d brought you some dinner, and while Jack knew part of that was because he knew you were fed, it was also because he’d accepted it—he was interested in you and he was going to pursue you.

Jack was done feeling guilty or creepy for wanting to spend time with you, even if you were one of his restaurant guests that he’d had to save from an atrociously bad date. Jack believed what he’d told you, that you could take care of yourself, and if you wanted to spend time with him, too, then Jack wasn’t going to feel bad about it.

So he took his place beside his sous chef and got to work on the endless stream of orders coming into Night Shift’s kitchen. He let himself fall into the rhythm of the work, plating up and putting the finishing touches on all kinds of dishes before they were whisked away into the dining room. He worked with a methodical determination, knowing that the sooner he cleared out all the orders, the sooner he could check back in on you.

When things finally slowed down, Jack heaved a sigh of relief. It was a strange feeling, knowing he had someone in his office that he eagerly wanted to get back to, and it wasn’t until he caught John giving him an annoying looked that he realized he was smiling.

Jack tugged off his black nitrile gloves, tossed them in the trash, and flipped off John while he made his way back to his office. Jack’s heart squeezed at the sight that greeted him.

He found you snuggled up in his chair, his leather jacket tucked around you like a blanket, your head lolled to the side as you slept soundly. Jack marveled at the beauty of your face—the soft slope of your nose, the pretty curve of your mouth, the delicate fan of your lashes against your cheeks.

Somewhere deep in his chest, Jack’s heart knocked against his ribs like it was trying to get his attention, and he knew exactly what it wanted to say—you could be his. If you let him, and if you wanted him, too, Jack could fall for you. That night could be the start of something new, something spectacular.

Thinking about how he could very much get used to seeing you in his chair, in his office, Jack tucked his leather jacket a little tighter around your shoulders, holding his breath when your cheek nuzzled against the back of his hand. His heart thumped happily when you smiled softly in your sleep and it took every bit of his strength to pull away.

As quietly as he could, Jack cleared the empty plate and silverware from his desk, taking care not to disturb you. He carried it to the door, where he paused to look at you again, watching you sleep for just a moment longer.

It struck Jack then, like a lightning bolt, that he wasn’t just interested in you or attracted to you. He was completely gone for you. He was yours, and he could only hope that you’d want to be his.

Even before you were fully awake, you knew you were safe.

Warmth, and the scent of leather and herbs, surrounded you, easing you back into reality from dreams about a hot, silver-haired chef and big, capable hands on your body. Desire curled lazily, low in your belly, and you snuggled deeper into the leather jacket wrapped around your shoulders, wishing for more time of with your dream chef.

But before you could slip back into sleep, it struck you suddenly how quiet it was in your little cocoon. You’d fallen asleep to the chaos and clatter of the kitchen at Night Shift, but the noise had dwindled down to a dull murmur. It hit you that you must’ve slept longer than you’d intended.

You’d only meant to close your eyes for a few minutes. You’d been so full from eating the comfort meal Jack Abbot had cooked for you, and you’d felt so warm and cozy once you’d tugged his jacket off the back of the chair and wrapped it around yourself. You hadn’t been able to stop yourself from letting your eyes close and falling asleep.

Reaching out from beneath the jacket, you checked the time on your phone and confirmed you’d not only slept through the rest of the dinner rush, but through Night Shift’s closing time. Slowly, you began to uncurl yourself from your position in Jack’s chair, stretching and looking toward the door of his office, wondering why he hadn’t woken you up sooner.

Had he forgotten about you?

It was a little dizzying, the sheer amount of disappointment that swept through you at that thought, and it took you a moment to wade through the emotions to get back to rational thought. Jack had been so kind and attentive since he’d rescued you from your bad date, it didn’t sit right to think he might’ve forgotten about you.

It also just didn’t make sense based on the way he’d looked at you before he’d left you alone to eat. He’d stared at you so intently with those dark hazel eyes of his, you’d felt like he wanted to consume you. Even just the memory of his stare was enough to warm you from the inside out, heat swirling through your belly before settling between your thighs.

Intending to get to the bottom of why Jack had let you sleep in his office for so long, you did a quick check of your makeup in your phone’s camera and set your feet on the floor. You were just rising to stand when Night Shift’s head chef stuck his head in through the open door.

“You’re up,” he said, his sharp eyes taking in the way you wobbled on your heels, wincing at the pain of wearing them for so long. He came into the room and took your hand, setting a steadying palm on your hip while his fingers twined with yours. “How are you feeling?”

His attentive question sent more warmth spiralling through your chest, and you smiled softly at the chef, leaning into his warmth. He was still wearing the thin white t-shirt that pulled obscenely across his shoulders and highlighted his bulging biceps, but the brown apron he’d had on earlier was gone, leaving him in just a simple pair of dark jeans and black shoes.

Meanwhile, you were still in the little black dress and heels you’d donned for your date, but somehow you didn’t feel overdressed around Jack. You enjoyed the way his eyes raked down your body, appreciating the way your dress clung to your curves—hugging your hips and cupping your tits. It made you crave the chef’s touch everywhere he looked.

“I feel good, chef,” you murmured huskily, your lips quirking into a little smirk when heat flared in Jack’s eyes. “I needed a little rest, but now I’ve got a second wind.”

“Still want that kitchen tour, sweetheart?” Jack rumbled, his hand on your hip pulling you closer, until you could feel the heat radiating off his body, the warmth of it teasing every inch of your bare skin. “You were such a good girl during the dinner rush, I’ve got that dessert I promised you.”

Something deep inside you clenched tight at the way Jack’s voice rumbled over the words ‘good girl’, his praise going straight to the place between your legs that was beginning to throb the longer his hand remained on your hip. To steady yourself, you lifted your hands to Jack’s biceps, feeling his muscles flex beneath your fingers as you looked at the chef from under your lashes.

“Really?” you asked, trying and failing to keep the eagerness out of your voice, out of your smile.

Jack’s mouth pulled to the side in a slow, wicked grin, his eyes sparkling with humor and something that looked a lot like hunger. “How do you feel about coffee and chocolate?”

Excitement bubbled up your throat, and you bounced a little on the balls of your feet as you confirmed your undying love for coffee and chocolate. With another grin that had your core clenching, Jack guided you back into the kitchen, his big hand firm against your lower back.

Most of the kitchen staff had cleared out, leaving the space spotless and easier to navigate as Jack walked you through. He showed you each of the stations, and introduced you to the few remaining kitchen staff—including his sous chef John Shen and senior chef Parker Ellis.

Jack left you chatting with John and Parker while he rustled around in a fridge, pulling out some containers and setting up a work station on one of the long, silver tables in the center of the room. Once he was done, the other chefs each gave Jack a handshake and half-hug before bidding you a goodnight.

As they left, John exchanged a loaded look with Jack that had the head chef’s face twisting into an exasperatedly stern expression, and you had to bite back a smile. It was clear Jack’s staff loved him, respected him—and teased him every chance they got.

It made you feel warm and fuzzy inside, to know that you weren’t the only one who felt safe with Jack. He was a good boss, a good man, to everyone in his life. He was the exact opposite of the man you’d gone on a date with and needed to be rescued from.

Jack Abbot was the kind of man you could be alone with in a deserted kitchen and feel only excitement, only the thrumming awareness that something might happen between you two. You turned to him, your gazes meeting, and for a brief moment, the two of you just stared at each other, silently acknowledging the sparks igniting in space between your bodies.

“Hop up,” Jack said, his voice as rough as a knife on metal. With one hand, he patted the counter beside the cutting board he’d set up, his dark eyes watching you intently.

Your gaze snagged on that hand, on the thickness of his fingers and the smattering of freckles along the back. You remembered how that hand had felt on your hip, on your thigh, and you nearly whimpered with the need to feel his palm on you again, but you managed to bite it back.

Instead, you did as the chef said. You pressed back against the counter, planting your hands on the edge and arching your spine just a little more than necessary to stick out your tits. You were rewarded with Jack’s gaze dropping quickly to your chest before he dragged his eyes back up to your face. With a smirk, you jumped onto the counter, careful not to put too much weight on the wrist your date had grabbed.

The cold metal of the worktable was a stark contrast to the warmth of your bare thighs, and you hissed softly, your shoulders trembling as a shiver snaked down your spine. Instinctively, you wrapped your arms around your body and wished you hadn’t left your jacket in Jack’s office.

But then Jack’s hand was on your knee and he was giving you a concerned look, his silver brows lowered over his hazel eyes. “Cold, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” you answered sheepishly, giving a light shrug and trying to shake off the chill. You leaned into Jack, your body seeking his warmth. “The kitchen gets cold without all the ovens and stoves on, huh?” you asked wryly, trying to get a reaction from the chef, and soften the worried lines of his face.

Jack huffed a laugh, shooting you an amused smirk even as he squeezed your knee in chastisement. The weight of his palm, the soft press of his fingers, had tendrils of heat licking down your spine and settling between your thighs. It took a great deal of effort not to shiver and grab hold of Jack to pull him closer.

“Stay here,” he rumbled, pulling away and striding toward his office. You nearly whined at the loss of his body heat, but you perked up quickly when he returned with his leather jacket.

The chef stepped close enough to your legs that your knees brushed his thighs, and your gaze snagged on his. He was so close, you could see the lines in his weathered face, the silver stubble along his jaw, and the light freckles dusted across his cheeks.

Tension crackled as he wrapped the jacket around your shoulders, his fingers brushing gently against your bare skin, and you leaned closer, until you could feel his unsteady breaths on your lips. Jack went still, his eyes searching yours and you tried your best to tell him without words how much you wanted him to kiss you.

But either Jack didn’t get the message or he chickened out, because he swallowed hard and tucked the lapels of the leather jacket around your shoulders, making sure you were ensconced in its warmth before he moved back to his workstation. It seemed to take him a moment to gather himself before he spoke.

“Better?” he asked, his voice raw with a hunger that made you squeeze your thighs together against a pulsing ache.

“Yeah, better,” you answered, your voice faint, trying and failing to shake off the unslaked desire burning through your body. You didn’t know if Jack was purposefully ignoring all the signals you were giving him, or if he was truly unaware, but you didn’t know how much longer you could last before you simply grabbed the chef and kissed him yourself.

Despite the almost-kiss, you and Jack fell into an easy quiet, him pulling out some dark chocolate and beginning to chop it up into tiny shards while you watched him work.

The muscles in his arms moved mesmerizingly as he worked his knife against the cutting board, his freckled forearms flexing deliciously, his biceps straining the hem of his white t-shirt. You had to wrap your fingers around the edges of Jack’s leather jacket and bury your nose in the collar, breathing in his herby, masculine scent, to keep from reaching out to touch him.

Whatever expression was on your face made Jack smirk when he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. After that, you could’ve sworn he started flexing his arms on purpose, getting fancy with his knife work, like he was trying to impress you.

From anyone else, that might’ve made you roll your eyes, or turned you off entirely, but Jack was so skilled, so charming, and just so downright hot, that it worked for him. His confidence came from his competence, and it was so attractive, it made you squirm where you sat on the counter beside him, the warmth blooming between your thighs becoming nearly impossible to ignore.

“What’re you making?” you asked in a desperate attempt to distract yourself from watching the muscles of Jack’s shoulders shift beneath the obscenely thin fabric of his white t-shirt. That t-shirt looked well-loved, and you had a sneaking suspicion it would feel really good to wear—while staying the night in Jack’s bed…

“We’ve got some leftover coffee mousse from tonight’s dessert special,” Jack answered, seemingly unaware of how you were ogling him as he continued to chop the dark chocolate into little pieces.

His hands were so deft and skilfull, his fingers so thick and sure, you couldn’t help but imagine what it would feel like for Jack to touch you. You imagined him putting his hands on your body, groping your soft curves, slipping his fingers between your thighs to press against your damp panties…

“I’m just adding some chocolate to elevate it a little,” Jack glanced at you, and you knew your filthy thoughts were written all over your face by the way his eyes heated when they raked over your face. “Chocolate makes everything better, doesn’t it, sweetheart?”

Jack’s voice had lowered, sending delightful little tendrils of lust licking down your spine. Even if you’d wanted to, you couldn’t have looked away from Jack’s dark gaze, the steady thwack of the knife against his cutting board matching the rhythm of the pulse between your thighs.

Slowly, you nodded your head. “Yes, chef,” you murmured, your voice raspier than you’d expected, matching Jack’s lower tenor. Your heart was beating so fast in your chest, you thought you might be able to hear it in the quiet kitchen, but it was only your soft, panting breaths.

The measured sounds of Jack’s knife ceased, his eyes dropping to your mouth, watching you breathe for one long moment, and then another, before dragging his gaze back to yours. Tension crackled electrically between your bodies, and it wasn’t until your wrist gave a twinge of pain that you realized your hands were braced on the edge of the counter and you were leaning closer to Jack.

He seemed to notice the position of your body at the same time you did, his eyes darting down to where your tits were bouncing softly with your sharp breaths before looking up, a light pink blush appearing beneath his freckles. His gaze collided with yours, and you could feel the older man holding himself back, keeping himself in check.

But that wasn’t what you wanted. You wanted…him. Badly.

“Jack.” His name was a desperate whimper, barely louder than your breathing, tumbling from your lips. Something in him seemed to break at the sound of his name from your lips, and you thought he might kiss you.

Instead, he surprised you by grabbing a piece of chocolate from his cutting board and lifting it to your lips. He met your stare with his own heated eyes, looking like melted chocolate mixed with caramel.

“Here, sweetheart, have a taste.”

Jack’s words were a low, delectable rumble from deep in his chest, and you couldn’t hold back the shiver that raced down your spine, making your shoulders tremble with excitement under the onslaught of his voice and his closeness. You could smell his earthy, masculine scent, and you wanted more.

The tips of Jack’s bare fingers pressed to your lower lip and, instinctively, you parted for him, allowing the older man to feed you the chocolate. The rich, decadent taste burst in your mouth, and your tongue darted out, licking the pads of Jack’s fingers, making his eyes darken even further as he watched your lips close around the bite of chocolate.

You let the confection melt in your mouth, your eyes sliding closed of their own accord as you savored the delicious dark chocolate. You might’ve felt like you were in your own little world, but Jack’s hand fell to your thigh, his fingers teasing the hem of your dress where it rode high on your leg. You had to stifle another shiver as you hummed in delight, catching the rumble of a muffled groan coming from the chef.

When you opened your eyes again, it was to find Jack’s intense hazel eyes searing into yours, his gaze so blisteringly hot, you felt your core clench in anticipation. And since you knew you weren’t alone in your attraction and lust, you licked your lips, watching Jack track the movement with his gaze.

“Yum,” you whispered, your fingers trailing lightly through the hair on Jack’s arm, nails raking subtly against his warm, freckled skin. You were prepared for him to pull away again, but he didn’t, and you let a small smile curve your mouth. “Do you have anything else for me to taste, chef?”

Although your question was, on its surface, innocent, you imbued your words with enough innuendo for your real meaning to get through to him. You knew that it had when the corner of Jack’s lips quirked into a smile, but instead of leaning forward and giving you what you wanted—his mouth—he pulled away and turned to something at his station.

The chef popped open one of the storage containers he’d taken out of the fridge and swiped his finger through the mousse inside. You almost squirmed in excitement as he held his hand in front of your mouth, offering you the sweet treat.

Wrapping your hands around his wrist, you held Jack’s scorching gaze as you brought his finger to your lips. You licked teasingly at the mousse, making sure not to touch Jack’s skin with your tongue, and had to fight a smirk when he let out a barely suppressed groan.

Putting both of you out of your misery, you closed your lips around Jack’s thick finger and licked the mousse off of him. The bittersweet taste of the coffee mousse exploded in your mouth, with just a hint of salt from Jack’s skin, and it had you moaning around Jack’s finger. His whole body jerked at the sound and the vibrations.

“Christ, sweetheart,” he groaned softly, his other hand grabbing your thigh, gripping you tightly as he nudged your knees open so he could step between your parted legs. “You make the prettiest sounds when you’re eating my food—I just wanna taste…”

Jack’s finger, still sticky with sugar, slid from your mouth and his hand cupped your cheek, tipping your face toward his. For a moment, he lingered with his lips just barely brushing yours, close enough that you were certain he could taste the coffee and chocolate on your breath.

It felt like he was memorizing the moment, savoring the tension that crackled between your bodies, the way your breath hitched with him so close. Your knees squeezed his sides, your fingers dancing up his ribs, and a soft, breathy whined sounded in your throat as you tried to pull him closer.

“Is this alright, sweetheart?” Jack asked, his thumb stroking your cheek, swiping over the corner of your mouth.

The genuine care in his deep, raspy voice was nearly your undoing. This man had done nothing but take care of you since he’d come striding out of the kitchen to save you from your bad date, but you were tired of him treating you with kid gloves. You wanted him so fucking bad.

Fingers curling in the sides of his t-shirt, you tugged Jack closer, sliding your body to the edge of the counter at the same time, uncaring about how high your dress was riding up your thighs. You parted your lips, tilting your head into the handsome chef’s hand as you pressed your soft body against his hard one.

“Yes, Jack,” you whimpered, unable to stand the crackling tension any longer, even as you wanted to bask in it for the rest of your life. “Kiss me. Please, chef.”

Jack didn’t need to be asked twice. He closed the distance between his mouth and yours, capturing your lips in a slow, decadent kiss that had your heart soaring. His lips were soft, but firm, as they moved against yours, taking immediate control while you were left to gasp and whimper into his mouth.

It was everything you’d hoped it would be—the older man kissing you sweetly at first, before pressing his thumb to your chin and tilting your head back so he could sweep his tongue into your mouth. The hot slide of him was determined and possessive and so fucking hot, you moaned against his lips, trembling as you met the fervor of his kiss with your own heady lust.

Unable to keep your hands to yourself, you wrapped your arms around Jack’s shoulders, your fingers sinking into the soft, steel gray curls at the back of his head. Your fingers tangled in the strands, tugging lightly on his hiar as your nails raked lightly against his skin, earning you a desperate groan. Jack deepened the kiss again until you couldn’t do anything else but breathe him in.

The chef’s hands skimmed down your sides beneath the edges of his leather jacket where it was still balanced precariously on your shoulders. His palms were warm as his thick fingers wrapped around your ribs, pulling you even more flush against his chest, your legs splaying wide to make room for his broad body.

His thick, half-hard cock pressed against your soft inner thigh, and you shifted until he was nestled against your warm center. You rocked your hips, grinding against his bulge, dragging a desperate groan out of the older man.

“Fuck, angel, you taste like heaven,” Jack rasped, pressing kisses along your jaw, tickling you with the silver scruff on his cheeks. When he suckled on a spot beneath your ear, you moaned and writhed in his arms, pressing your aching pussy against his hardening cock. “Feel like it, too.”

“God, you feel so good, Jack,” you babbled breathlessly, rubbing against his body like a cat in heat. You hiked your thighs higher around his waist, using the leverage to hump against his thick cock through your clothes. “I want you. Please, chef,” you begged against Jack’s ear, nipping at the lobe and smiling wildly when he shuddered in your arms, his hips grinding his cock harder against your soft core.

“I thought you were going to be a good girl for me, sweetheart,” Jack growled, his voice softly recriminating as he grabbed your hips hard, his fingers digging roughly into your soft flesh.

But instead of dragging you closer and giving you what you wanted, he pushed you back. Lifting his head from your neck, he gave you a stern look, softened by the affectionate twist of his mouth and the spark of desire in his eyes, sending a zing of lust straight to your dripping slit.

“Don’t you wanna be good for me, angel,” he rumbled, his voice deliciously raspy, “and let me feed you some dessert before you start begging me to fuck you?”

Your jaw dropped and you sucked in a sharp breath at Jack’s filthy words, heat suffusing your body so fully, you couldn’t find a single word in your entire head to respond. You could only stare at the older man, your thighs squeezing his hips and wordlessly begging him to put your body out of its misery, but Jack simply chuckled at your reaction.

He stole a kiss from your parted lips before gently extricating himself from your clinging body, shushing you softly when you whined at the loss of him. Giving your hips one last rough squeeze, he stepped out from between your legs and adjusted his thick cock in his jeans as he moved back to his workstation.

It was absurd how cold you felt without him, and you pulled Jack’s leather jacket tighter around your shoulders, pouting at the chef. He pretended to ignore you, scooping up chocolate shards and dumping them into a bowl along with some mousse while you kicked your feet petulantly and whined, “Jaaack.”

That got you an amused smirk. “Just a few bites,” he urged, picking up the bowl and beginning to whisk the chocolate into the mouse, melting it into the dessert. “I promise it’ll be worth it,” Jack said, giving you another of his charming winks.

It had its intended effect, and you softened, endeavoring to wait patiently, though you still made a show of grumbling your discontent even as you got distracted by watching him work. Jack’s arms flexed deliciously while he whisked the chocolate into the mousse, his biceps straining the sleeves of his t-shirt so enticingly, you wanted to bite them, then lick every freckle, then bite him again.

Jack’s low chuckle let you know he’d caught your hungry look, and heat flooded your cheeks, but you didn’t get a chance to stammer out an apology or an explanation before he was setting the bowl down and grabbing a spoon. Scooping up some of the mousse mixture, he lifted it to your lips.

You opened eagerly, already knowing whatever Jack made would be delicious, and let him pop the bite into your mouth. Jack watched you closely as he pulled the spoon out, giving you a moment to taste what he’d given you.

The delectable flavors of rich coffee and velvety chocolate melted on your tongue, and your eyes slid closed as you savored the sweetness, a low moan slipping from your lips at how good the dessert tasted.

“Jesus, Jack, that’s the best thing I think I’ve ever had in my mouth,” you groaned, opening your eyes. You found Jack staring at you, a wild look in his eyes, and so much hunger in their depths, it stole the breath from your lungs. He was looking at you like he wanted to devour you.

You half expected the chef to pounce on you, to kiss the remnants of the dessert from your lips and show you what other things he could stuff in your mouth, but you should’ve known better. Jack didn’t take the bait of your comment as he kept a white-knuckle grip on himself, holding back even as more tension than ever snapped and crackled between the two of you.

“Want some more, sweetheart?” he rasped, holding your gaze.

Your head was bobbing an eager nod before he’d even finished the question, and he lifted another spoonful of mousse to your lips, watching as you ate it happily, humming in delight. When Jack fed himself some of the sweet concoction, you could only watch with rapt attention as it disappeared inside his mouth, his tongue flicking out to catch some left at the corner of his lips.

The need in your body had pulled you taut as a bowstring, your skin practically vibrating with desire by the time you’d finished enough of the dessert for Jack to hopefully be satisfied. It was a testament to his culinary skills that you were still able to taste the chocolatey coffee confection with how much lust was swirling through your body, simmering low in your belly.

You squirmed where you sat, the metal beneath your thighs warm from your skin, and felt how wet you were, your panties nearly soaked with your desire. You were hot enough that you pushed the jacket from your shoulders, and looked directly at Jack, pouting at the chef once more.

“Jack, please,” you whined, your fingers curling around the edges of his t-shirt, knuckles brushing his ribs. You felt him suck in a breath as he let you tug him back between your legs, your body trembling with excitement and need. “I’ve had enough dessert, I need something else…”

The older man didn’t respond immediately, his head ducked, watching as his palms skimmed up the outside of your bare thighs, like he could barely believe you were letting him touch you. Your fingers trailed up his arms, tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, nails raking lightly against his skin. You watched him close his eyes at the sensation, knowing he enjoyed it.

“I’ve been a good girl, haven’t I?” you murmured in Jack’s ear, feeling the tension in his shoulders as they bunched beneath your arms. He let out a slow breath, his hands gripping your thighs tightly. “I’ve been so good, and I want you so bad, Jack. Touch me—please, chef.”

The last thread of Jack’s control snapped at your comment—you felt it in the way his muscles moved, poised on the edge of giving in before he finally let his desire loose after your begging plea. His hands grabbed you roughly, fingers digging into your bare ass beneath the hem of your dress as he yanked you closer.

His mouth descended on yours, capturing your lips in a blisteringly hot, devouring kiss that stole the breath from your lungs. He wrapped you up in his arms, crushing you to his chest as he kissed you, gorging himself on your mouth, his hands groping greedily at your body while you clung to him.

It was everything you’d wanted from the chef, and the corners of your lips curved in an attempt at smile, but then Jack was kissing you harder, overwhelming you until you were moaning mindlessly into his mouth. You’d never felt more desired than you did when Jack kissed you, and you’d never felt more in danger of letting yourself fall for someone.

You were mostly lost to your lust, your nipples puckered and needy where they were pressed against the chef’s chest and your pussy aching to be filled, but it occurred to you that Jack was different from all the other men you’d dated. He was kind and gentle and steady, and he kissed you so good your head spun.

It struck you suddenly that while you knew you were safe with Jack, you were in danger of losing your heart to him. But that was the kind of danger you wanted to be in—especially since you knew that if you fell for him, Jack would catch you.

So you kissed the chef right back, pouring your desire for him into the slide of your mouth against his, holding him close as you flung yourself off the edge, letting emotions swirl and swell in your chest, confident that he’d carry your heart in his hands and protect it with his life.

You’d never been safer in your entire life than you were in Jack Abbot’s arms.

Jack Abbot was in heaven.

In all his years of cooking, of being a chef, he’d never tasted anything as divine as you.

He could gorge himself on you and still never get enough—not of the way your mouth moved against his, your lips soft and tongue eager as it twined with his. He couldn’t get enough of the feel of your body beneath his hands, so sweet and supple and responsive.

Every press of his fingertips into your spine had you arching into him, breathy, little whines slipping from your lips for him to devour. He could taste the coffee and chocolate on your tongue, and he sucked on your plump lower lip, groaning as he savored the combination of the dessert he’d fed you with the natural flavor that was all your own.

Kissing you was making him unbelievably hard—harder than he’d been in a long time—his cock heavy and weeping in his jeans. The only thing that saved him from embarrassment was how enthusiastically you were grinding against his bulge, the dampness of your panties leaving a wet spot where his cock was straining against the dark denim.

Jack dragged his hands up your sides, wrapping his fingers around your ribs, his thumbs brushing against the underside of your tits, teasing you both with the barest of touches. You let out a soft, keening sound against his mouth, making him smirk before he pressed kisses along your jaw and down the smooth column of your neck.

“More, Jack, please,” you begged, your hands fisted in his shirt and tugging on him restlessly. The desperation in your voice, the way you begged for him, it made his cock twitch for you.

He shifted his hands higher, groping your tits through your dress and dragging a filthy moan from your pretty lips. The pads of his thumbs teased your hardened nipples, and he reveled in the way your body shuddered in his arms. Your spine arched, pressing your tits into his hands and he rewarded you by rubbing your nipples more with his thumbs.

“Ya like this, sweetheart?” Jack rasped against your neck, raising his head enough to nip at your ear. “Like letting an old chef feel up your pretty tits?”

“Old, hot chef,” you shot back, correcting him in a deliciously breathless voice.

Jack’s cock twitched at the compliment, and he couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have found you—someone so beautiful and full of life. Someone so into him.

He pressed his smile into the spot beneath your ear, kissing and licking your skin until you were moaning softly.

“And yes, chef, I love it. Touch me more, touch me harder—please,” you begged, squirming where you sat on the metal counter in his kitchen.

What was Jack supposed to do? Deny you?

He couldn’t even fathom the idea of not giving you what you asked for, even if he knew that he was letting things get a little out of control. The two of you were still at Night Shift, and though the staff had left for the night, it wasn’t the best idea to have sex in his kitchen.

But Jack couldn’t seem to stop himself, not when you were making such pretty noises while he sucked a hickey into your neck and teased your nipples with the lightest of pinches. His mouth trailed up your throat before capturing your lips in another kiss, swallowing your sounds of pleasure while he played with your tits.

It had been so long since Jack had lost himself in anyone—there hadn’t been anyone who’d awoken that desire in him the way you did. Not since his wife passed. You were a siren calling him to the danger of your body, to the promise of losing his heart to you, and Jack knew he could drown in you if you let him. He hoped to god you let him.

For long, endless minutes, Jack kissed you and groped your tits, playing with your nipples and seeing how many different noises he could pull from your lips. And for a while, you let him, the sounds of your pleasure growing more high-pitched, your hips working more desperately to hump against his cock.

Eventually, your need must’ve grown too great, your frustration too acute, because you grabbed one of Jack’s wrists and shoved his hand down between your bodies, until his fingers brushed your soaked panties.

“Touch me here, Jack, please—I need it,” you whimpered in his ear, and it was nearly his undoing.

It was his turn to gasp and groan, the tips of his fingers stroking against the sodden fabric as he used every ounce of the self-control he’d learned in the army not to spill himself in his jeans right then. You were so warm and soft, and so fucking wet.

Jack teased his fingers along the seam of your slit through your panties, hoping you couldn’t tell how much his hand was shaking. You felt so perfect, it was overwhelming. He’d stopped kissing you, your mouths close as you breathed each other’s air, panting your excitement together while he pressed into your cunt through your slick panties.

“Like this, sweetheart?” he rumbled, the edge of his mouth pulling up in a smirk when you let out a desperate little mewl. Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging lightly while you rocked your hips onto his hand.

“Jaaack,” you sobbed, and he’d never heard anything as sweet as the sound of his name falling from your kiss-bitten lips, pleasure soaked into your voice.

You pulled harder on his hair, and the jolt of pain went straight to his dick, which leaked even more precum into his jeans. Jack responded by pushing his fingers deeper between the lips of your pussy, his progress restricted by your panties, which prevented him from burying his fingers in your hole.

A violent shiver wracked your body, and Jack wrapped his other arm more tightly around your lower back, holding you close while he fucked you shallowly with his fingers. His thumb teased your clit with a featherlight touch, drawing a feral sound from your perfect mouth.

“Please, oh god, please, chef, touch me—fuck me with your fingers, please, please, please,” you babbled, yanking on his hair to draw him closer. But instead, Jack took the opportunity to lean back and take a look at you—and what a sight you were.

Your head was thrown back, your expression openly desperate with lust. Your gorgeous eyes were dazed with desire, your plump, perfect lips parted and panting for air. Your chest was heaving with heavy breaths, enough that your tits threatened to spill out of your mussed dress, which was hiked up high, Jack’s big hand pressed between your soft thighs.

You looked debauched. You looked so beautiful, Jack’s heart clenched in his chest and he couldn’t stop himself from imagining you looking like this in a million different ways—on the desk in his office, in the backseat of his car, on his couch at home, in his bed.

In that moment, Jack wanted nothing more than to have you in all those ways. He wanted to move you into his place and put a ring on your finger—he wanted to make you his and keep you forever. He was stunned by how much he wanted you.

“Jaaack,” you whined, your sweet voice bringing him back to the moment. Your eyes were wide and pleading as you looked at him. “I was a good girl, wasn’t I?” you asked so pitifully, Jack’s heart ached.

A single tear slipped down your cheek and he cupped your face, panic stealing into his gut and making his stomach drop. He wiped your tears away, already knowing he was going to give you whatever you wanted. If you’d asked him to lay down and die for you, he would’ve done it without a second thought.

“You’re being so mean, chef, when I was so good for you,” you whimpered, your hips worked against his hand. The movement reminded Jack of how he’d been teasing you with his fingers, dragging you to the edge of desperation when all you wanted was to be full of him.

“Oh, baby, baby, baby,” Jack groaned, capturing your lips in a searing kiss.

He held your face in one hand as he kissed you, tasting the salt of your tears on your lips, while the other tugged your panties to the side. He pushed one of his thick fingers into your tight, dripping hole, swallowing your moan like it was the most exquisite decadence he’d ever tasted.

“I’m sorry, angel, you’re right,” he rumbled against your mouth, pumping his finger steadily into your pussy, feeling your gummy walls gripping him tight. “You were such a good girl for me—so good that ‘m gonna make you come on my fingers, alright?”

“Promise?” you asked, pouting up at him from under your lashes, and Jack knew he was in trouble, because that look on your face could get him to do anything you asked.

The corner of your mouth twitched, like you were holding back a grin, and Jack’s heart thumped in his chest because you knew the effect you had on him. He liked that a little too much. He liked that you weren’t afraid of torturing him a little bit after he’d teased you a little too much. It felt intimate, like you were building something real together, something that would certainly last past the night.

“I promise, angel,” he cooed, stroking his finger deeper before adding a second one, watching the way your breath caught on a gasp, biting back a self-satisfied smirk. “There’s a rule in my kitchen, y’know,” he went on, talking out of his ass to keep your attention on him even as he finger-fucked your pussy. “Good girls always get to come on the chef’s fingers—and you’ve been such a good girl for me, baby.”

You let out a soft, breathy giggle at that, just like Jack had hoped, and he pumped his fingers harder into your wet, gripping cunt, making your laugh devolve into a dirty moan. Your body went loose and languid in his arms, and he rewarded you by pressing his thumb against your clit. He rubbed the little bundle of nerves, watching how you reacted until he found exactly what you liked most.

“Think you can take another, sweetheart?” Jack asked, pressing kisses to your heated cheeks and cleaning away the remnants of your tears with his lips. He trailed his mouth down to your neck, enjoying the way you shivered when his stubble rasped against your sensitive skin. “Can you take one more finger in this sweet cunt, baby?”

“Yes, please, chef,” you gasped, clinging to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin through his thin t-shirt.

Every pinprick became throbbing pleasure as it zinged down to his cock. He hadn’t been so close to coming in his pants since he was a teenager, but he fought off his own desire and focused on you. You and your pleasure were what mattered to him, not his dick.

“Good girl,” Jack purred, grinning into your neck when your pussy pulsed at the praise. He eased a third finger into your slick hole, biting back a groan when your tight warmth enveloped him. He pressed his cock against your soft thigh, looking down and watching your pussy take his thick fingers. “Fuck, angel, look at you—taking me so well.”

You leaned back, looking down your body, and Jack knew the moment you saw his fingers disappearing inside your cunt because you clamped down hard around him, like your body was trying to suck him deeper. He stifled another helpless groan, pumping into you, pressing against a spot that had you shivering and moaning wantonly.

You fell back further, planting your hands on the counter to hold yourself up, trying to use your leverage to bear down further on his fingers. But you’d barely rocked your hips in a slow roll when you let out a cry—the tenor making the hairs on the back of Jack’s neck stand up—as your arms gave out and you fell backward.

Quick as he could, Jack slid his free arm up your back, pressing his palm between your shoulder blades to catch you before your head could hit the shelves above the counter. He pulled his hand from between your legs, holding onto your bare thigh with his sticky fingers as he ducked his head to meet your eyes.

“What’s wrong, baby? What happened?” he asked, his gaze searching your face, which was twisted like you were trying to hide your pain. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, his heart clenching painfully in his chest at the thought.

You shook your head, rejecting the idea, which calmed Jack for a moment. Until you spoke.

“My wrist,” you whimpered. “Hurts.”

It took all of a second for Jack to understand what had happened. You’d put too much pressure on the wrist that your worthless excuse of a date had grabbed, had hurt, and it had given out. Rage flooded through Jack’s body, his blood pumping hot with the desire to track down Curtis Larsen and beat him to a bloody pulp.

But Jack knew that wouldn’t help anyone, least of all you, so he worked to rein in his anger. He focused on you, making sure you could sit up on your own before taking the hand of your injured wrist in his.

When he held it up to the bright lights in the kitchen, he could see bruises had formed where Curtis had grabbed you. Before he could stop it, a choked off growl rumbled beneath his sternum, the animalistic sound only ceasing when you stroked your palm down his chest, soothing him.

It took Jack another moment to collect himself, to gather his anger and put it in a box to deal with later. Gently, he lifted your hurt wrist to his mouth and brushed the sweetest, softest butterfly kisses over the bruises mottling your skin.

“I’d kill him if I thought I could get away with it,” Jack confessed, hoping to make you giggle again, his eyes lifting to your face to watch your reaction.

Although you didn’t laugh, his words did the trick of bringing the spark back into your eye. A shy smile curved the corners of your pretty mouth, and you lifted your other hand to cup Jack’s jaw, your thumb teasing over the stubble on his cheek.

“He’s not worth the effort,” you said, and though Jack agreed with you, he didn’t like the idea of letting Curtis Larsen get away with hurting you.

“Hmm,” Jack hummed noncommittally, wondering if he could call the police tomorrow and report the man for assault since it’d happened in his restaurant.

He liked that idea.

He liked the idea of locking up Curtis Larsen and throwing away the key even more. But you were his priority, not that jackass that had been your date, so he focused back on you.

Jack squeezed your thigh, his thumb teasing close to the edge of your panties. “Do you want to keep going, sweetheart?” he asked, his gaze watching you carefully. “I can take you home if you’d prefer.”

The change in your expression was immediate, your lower lip pushing out in a pout, your eyes widening and looking at Jack from under your lashes.

“I want to keep going,” you murmured, almost shyly, meeting Jack’s gaze before it dropped to his mouth. Your free hand fell to his arm, moving his hand from your thigh back between your legs then looking up at him. “I don’t want my shitty date to ruin our night—and you promised me I’d get to come on your fingers.”

A small smile curved Jack’s mouth and he ducked forward, stealing a quick kiss from your pouting lips before he pulled away. His grin was cocky as he pushed your panties to the side and teased your tight hole with the tips of his fingers.

“You’re right—and I always keep my promises, baby,” he assured you, pressing his fingers into your pussy while he watched you closely, making sure he didn’t hurt you.

Once they were buried inside you, he pressed a kiss to the inside of your injured wrist, then brought your hand to his shoulder. He gave you a pleased smile when you lifted your other arm to circle loosely around the back of his neck, your fingers playing with the curls at the nape.

“Hold on to me, angel,” Jack urged, easing his fingers out, then back inside your pussy, feeling your slick, tight cunt stretch around him. He watched your eyes go hazy with lust, your mouth falling open as you panted through your pleasure. “I’ll make you feel good—make you forget everything that happened tonight before I came to your table.”

With a soft, sweet sigh, you draped your arms over Jack’s shoulders, taking all the weight off your wrists, and leaned forward to nuzzle into the side of his neck. Warmth suffused his body, his cock twitching in his jeans when he felt you press a kiss to the underside of his scruffy jaw.

“Thank you, Jack,” you murmured, your voice almost low enough to be drowned out by the quiet whir of machinery in the kitchen. Your warm breath brushed against Jack’s throat and he had to suppress a shiver, focusing on your words. “You’re all I want to remember about tonight.”

Jack’s arm tightened around your lower back, instinctively pulling you closer as his heart gave a heavy thump in his chest. Your sweet words called to something deep in his soul, something that hadn’t been fed in too long for him to be normal about it.

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell you he wanted to spend every night with you, that he wanted you in his bed when he woke up in the morning and to come home to you in his kitchen. He wanted to cook for you and take you out and move you in with him…

But Jack knew it was way too soon to be having those thoughts, let alone say them out loud, so he put on the charm, hoping you couldn’t tell where his mind had wandered.

“And the food, right?” he asked, his tone teasing and light as he fucked you with his fingers again, his thrusts building you back up to where you’d been. He could feel the way your body trembled in his arms, and he held you tighter so he could feel the pleasure work through you. “You want to remember the food, right, sweetheart?”

You huffed a laugh against Jack’s neck, your tongue darting out and swiping up the side of his throat, making him groan helplessly at the obscene feeling of you licking him. His hips bucked forward of their own volition, his cock grinding against your soft inner thigh.

“Oh yes, chef,” you purred in his ear, your voice shaky and breathless and so, so sweet as he pumped his fingers into you harder, his thumb rubbing your clit. “I want to remember everything I got to taste tonight.”

Your words conjured images of your pert mouth on Jack’s cock, your teasing tongue swirling around the tip, licking up his precum before sucking him deep between your soft lips. It was such a hot image, Jack had to duck his head and muffle his tortured groan into your shoulder.

It took him a full minute to get himself together, your giggles echoing softly in the empty kitchen while your nails raked through his silver curls. Once he was able to focus again on the present, Jack pressed his mouth to your collarbone, licking and sucking your skin down to your tits, pushing the top of your dress down so he could take your nipple into his mouth.

The older man was rewarded with a sharp cry from your lips, your spine arching and pressing your tits further into his mouth. Jack grinned into your soft flesh and began to lavish them with his attention, his fingers still working in and out of your pussy while his thumb rubbed your clit in teasing, maddening circles.

It occurred to Jack that he could stay right where he was for a long, long time and be happy to keep sucking on your tits, learning what made you squirm and moan, all while he fucked your cunt with his fingers. But all too soon, you were hovering on the edge of your release, your pussy fluttering around Jack’s fingers, your cries turning high-pitched and desperate while your body worked to find your pleasure.

Your fingers were threaded in his hair, clutching his head tight to your chest as you moaned and rocked your hips harder on his fingers. Mindless pleas were falling from your kiss-swollen lips, frantic appeals for ‘more’ and ‘harder’, begging him to give you the release you needed.

Jack was torn between drawing out the moment, making it last forever, and giving you what you wanted. Eventually, his need to take care of you won out, and he pushed his fingers deep into your cunt, his thumb mercilessly rubbing your clit while he lifted his head from your chest.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he growled in your ear. “Show me what a good girl you are and come all over chef’s fingers—let go, let me see you come for me.” He pressed his fingers against that spot deep inside your body and stroked your clit, feeling you tighten around him.

Pulling back enough to see your face, Jack watched you succumb to pleasure, your release taking hold of your body and making you throw your head back, a desperate, breathy cry bursting from your mouth. Your fingers tightened in hair, and your pussy clamped down on his fingers, making him work to keep fucking you through the waves of pleasure surging through your body, which trembled in his arms.

“Good girl,” Jack rumbled, his fingers slowly sliding in and out of your pulsing channel, wringing every ounce of bliss from your body. “Sweet girl, perfect girl.”

You curled forward and sobbed your pleasure into Jack’s neck, and when you shuddered at the overstimulation of his fingers, he gently eased you down from your peak. Once your release had ebbed, he slipped his fingers out of your body, and helped you to sit up.

“You gonna keep being a good girl and clean me up, baby?” he asked, touching his wet, dripping fingers to your plump lower lip. Jack didn’t know what had come over him, but the desire to see you taste yourself was too great to ignore, and he hoped he wasn’t making you uncomfortable.

He was pleased when your already unfocused eyes went even more hazy, your head nodding and a smile curling the edges of your mouth before you parted your lips and let Jack slip his fingers inside. You hummed a happy sound that went straight to Jack’s dick then got to work cleaning your own release from his skin.

It was such an erotic sight that Jack thought he could watch you suck on his fingers for the rest of the night, but then he realized he’d given away the opportunity to taste you himself and he got ridiculously jealous. You weren’t done cleaning him up, but he pulled his fingers from between your lips and shoved them into his own mouth.

Jack groaned at your taste, savoring the musky flavor of your pleasure while he held your gaze, letting you watch him lick his fingers clean. Your eyes were hooded and full of renewed lust, your lips swollen and parted as you panted for him.

He couldn’t stop himself. Between one breath and the next, his mouth was crushing against yours in a mindless, feral kiss. He could taste your pussy on your tongue when his delved into your mouth and it drove him wild. His arms wrapped around your body, crushing you to his chest while he kissed you harder, groaning when your fingers pressed into his spine and clung to him just as tightly.

“Jack, I want more,” you cried when your lips wrenched free from his, your fingers trailing around his ribs and down over his stomach until you could cup his thick erection through his jeans. “I need you inside me—need you filling me until I’m so full of your cock, it’s all I can think about.”

“Fuck, angel, you beg so pretty, how can I say no?” Jack teased, his voice only a little unsteady. He tried to pull away, but couldn’t bring himself to when you were stroking his cock through his pants, wringing desperate whimpers from him that would’ve embarrassed him if you weren’t smiling like the cat that got the cream. “C’mere, baby, let me fill up that greedy pussy of yours.”

But when Jack grabbed your ass and pulled you close to he could thrust into your pussy through your clothes, he felt a twinge of pain in his leg where it rubbed uncomfortably against his prosthetic. The pain shot straight up his spine, making his mind go completely blank for a moment, his breath catching in his lungs.

During work, Jack could typically grit his teeth and bear the pain when it hit, but he’d been on his feet for too long. He’d pushed himself beyond his own limits and his body was reminding him that he wasn’t the young, spry man he’d once been.

“Jack?” you asked, your voice thick with concern.

The older man took stock of himself, and realized he’d half collapsed against you, his head on your shoulder, his breath coming in harsh pants as he breathed through the pain. He’d shifted his weight to his one good foot, leaving him a little off-balance and using you to steady himself.

“Are you okay?” you asked softly, stroking your fingers comfortingly through his hair and across his shoulders. When he relaxed into your touch, you held him tighter, not seeming to mind that he was putting some of his weight on you.

“My prosthetic,” he grumbled, not entirely happy that this was how he was telling you, but not shying away from the truth either. “Hurts.”

“Your prosthetic?” you asked after a moment, and Jack paid close attention to the tone of your voice. You sounded confused, maybe a little curious, but Jack was relieved that there wasn’t revulsion or, worse, pity in your tone.

“Lost my leg while I was in the army,” he explained, taking a deep breath as he began to recover his strength. The pain had subsided, leaving him a little shaky and off-balance, but fine.

“Oh, okay,” you said, nothing but acceptance in your tone.

Your fingers were still idly playing with Jack’s hair and that, more than anything else, helped him feel better—though he knew he’d have to get off his feet soon. He was trying to work out how to tell you he couldn’t fuck you on the counter in this position when you took him by surprise with another question.

“Is that how you got the medal?’

Jack paused. Of all the questions you could’ve asked—and he’d heard most, if not all of them—that wasn’t one he’d anticipated. Most folks didn’t know about the medal, and it took him a moment to remember that he kept it on his desk in his office, where you’d spent most of the evening.

The realization that you’d been curious enough about him to look through his desk made his heart soar, a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth. For some reason, it didn’t bother him, you going through his things. It felt right, the idea of you being comfortable in his space.

“Were you snooping through my stuff, sweetheart?” Jack asked teasingly, finally lifting his head to meet your gaze, curious about how you’d react to the question.

He watched your eyes widen slightly, your gaze darting away before returning to his with a sheepish look on your face. “It was on top of your desk,” you mumbled, shrugging, then wincing at how blithe you sounded. “I didn’t go through any drawers or anything, I swear.”

Jack couldn’t help but chuckle at how guilty you looked, and he smoothed a hand down your spine in a reassuring gesture. “You’re adorable,” he murmured, capturing your lips in a kiss to let you know you were forgiven. “And yes, it’s how I got the medal. I’ve made peace with it, but sometimes, it makes things…tricky.”

You nodded somberly as you absorbed that information, your eyes dropping down to where Jack was still half-leaning against you. The chef could practically see the gears turning in your head as you thought, but he was still taken by surprise when you lifted your gaze back to his and asked, “Would it help if I was on top?”

Your question made Jack pause again. He’d been with his wife already when he’d lost his leg, and she’d helped him figure out what worked afterward. It had given him the confidence he’d needed to eventually move on after she’d passed on. But the few flings he’d had since weren’t as easily accepting as you, and none of them had been as considerate.

It made Jack’s heart clench in his chest as he realized all over again how glad he was to have found you. Although he wished the circumstances of your meeting were different—he wished you’d never been hurt by your date—he was grateful that the universe had brought you together.

“Yeah, actually, it would,” Jack said, matching your serious tone with his honesty.

It was another moment where the weight of his feelings for you took him by surprise, especially after knowing you for such a short time. In an effort not to scare you away by revealing how he felt, he used his charm to lighten the mood. Ducking his head, he caught your eye and let a smirk play on his lips.

“Do you wanna ride me, baby?” he asked, his tone teasing, his smirk spreading into a full-blown confident grin when lust bloomed in your eyes, none of it tainted by pity or fear or disgust. It made his cock throb for you. “Wanna ride chef’s cock and make us both feel good?”

“Yes, please, chef. I’d love to ride you,” you purred, pushing him gently back to give you room to move.

You held his gaze as you reached beneath the hem of your dress and wiggled until you’d yanked your panties off, looking at him expectantly. Jack unbuttoned and unzipped his fly, shoving his jeans and boxers down enough for his cock to spring free.

He watched your eyes dart down, then widen when you took in the size of his thick cock. His dick wasn’t the longest, but it was fat enough that his three fingers stretching your pussy would feel small in comparison. Suddenly, he hoped you weren’t afraid.

It was on the tip of his tongue to reassure you, to tell you that you could stop this at any time and the two of you could go slow if that was what you needed. But before he could get the words out, your eyes lifted to his and he saw the spark of eager excitement in their depths, in the curve of your grin.

You looked like a sultry creature feral with lust, your pretty, kiss-bitten lips pulled into a sensuous smile as you hopped off the counter and prowled closer to him, only wobbling a little in your heels. Jack reached for you at the same moment you spun him around and shoved him onto the counter so you could climb on top of him.

“I’m gonna make us feel sooo good, chef,” you promised, settling your knees on either side of Jack’s hips and rising up, wrapping your fingers around his thick cock. Jack’s hands slid up your thighs, pushing your dress up so he could see your bare pussy where you rubbed the tip of his dick through your slick folds. “Gonna ride your cock until you’re coming hard in my cunt. Tell me you want it, too—please, chef.”

For a moment, all words fled Jack’s mind. All he could do was feel the teasing warmth of your pussy kissing the tip of his cock, hear the soft wet sounds of your desire, smell the scent of your arousal. All he could see was you, looking like a goddess above him, promising him pleasure.

Fuck, Jack Abbot really was in heaven, and he hoped he never had to leave.

You were right where you were meant to be.

You couldn’t explain what had come over you—whether it was simply the lust you’d felt at the sight of the older man’s thick cock or if it was everything about the chef—but you had the sense that everything you’d been through that night was worth it because you’d met Jack Abbot.

He was everything you’d been looking for in a partner—kind and capable, charming and funny—and plenty that you hadn’t known you’d wanted, like the way he could talk just as dirty as you, and cook way better than you ever could. He’d been gentle when he’d kissed your injured wrist, but hadn’t held back when he’d fucked you with his fingers, giving it to you as rough as you needed to get off.

Jack had made you feel safe and desired. He’d taken care of you in every way you’d needed throughout the night, and you were in serious danger of falling for him. If you hadn’t already. It might’ve been a little crazy, but you might’ve fallen for him already.

The weight of your feelings were too heavy to tell the chef just yet, so you focused instead on the moment, on the feeling of Jack’s broad tip teasing between the lips of your pussy, of the firm grip of his hands on your hips, and the heat of his eyes as he watched you tease his cock.

It was intoxicating, seeing the unrestrained lust in Jack’s face, darkening his hazel eyes and twisting his mouth into something feral and hungry. The thought crossed your mind that you could try to tease him until he snapped, the last remnants of his patience falling away as he yanked you down on his cock. But just the fantasy had you pulsing with need.

You needed Jack’s cock inside you. Immediately.

But before you could start to lower yourself down on Jack’s bare length, you remembered yourself. You paused, hovering above his thick, throbbing cock, and took a breath to steady yourself. Still, your voice was a little shaky as you spoke.

“I’m on birth control; I’ve been tested, and it was clear,” you rushed to say, hoping Jack could understand your words even as they tripped over each other to fall off your tongue. You braced one hand on his shoulder and looked dead in the older man’s eyes. “I want you bare, Jack, please.”

“Jesus,” he cursed, letting his head fall against your chest. His shoulders were trembling slightly, and it took a moment for the man to get himself together to look at you. You wanted him without a condom too badly to rush him. “I’m all clear, too, angel,” he rasped, staring into your eyes. “It would be the honor of my life to fuck you raw, baby.”

Your heart soared, battering against your ribs like a caged bird wanting to take flight. You were so overcome by emotion, by your desire for this man, that you couldn’t think of doing anything else but kiss him. Jack cupped your face while your fingers sank into his steel gray curls, both of you holding each other tight as you kissed, hard and deep, with all the wild, unfettered emotion you felt.

Before the kiss even ended, you were already pressing down on his cock, only pulling away from Jack’s mouth when the tip pushed inside your body, the stretch making you gasp. He was wider than anything you’d taken before, and it sent a filthy shiver sliding down your spine as you felt your body straining to take him.

“God, Jack, you’re so—fuck, you’re so fucking big,” you whimpered, your eyes crossing a little as you lowered yourself another inch, grateful that he’d already finger-fucked you to orgasm once, since it made the slide slightly easier. You shuddered with the effort not to impale yourself all at once, knowing it would be a mistake if you didn’t go slow.

“Careful, sweetheart, don’t hurt yourself,” Jack warned, but there was a hint of a teasing chuckle in his tone that drove you wild, your pussy clenching around and suckling on the tip of his cock. His words devolved into a pleasured groan that trickled down your spine like warm honey. “Fuck, I can feel you squeezing me already—you’re so tight and warm and wet. Jesus.”

“Uh huh, uh huh, so wet for you,” you babbled, bouncing a little on Jack’s cock to take him deeper. Your pussy stretched to accomodate him and the feeling of fullness stole the breath from your lungs. “You’re splitting me open so good, Jack, fuck—fuck, chef.”

“Mm,” Jack hummed, his hands kneading your ass and sliding up your spine beneath your dress, pulling you flush against his chest. His mouth found your neck, pressing kisses to your skin that had you shivering in his arms. “You’re gonna take it all, aren’t ya, baby,” he rumbled into the hollow of your throat, “because you’re such a good girl for me, huh?”

You couldn’t explain it, but Jack’s words had a ridiculous effect on you, making your pussy gush even more while your heart soared. Your hips rolled, pressing down determinedly and taking his cock nearly to the root, the stretch dragging a gasp from your lips while you clutched the older man close, reveling in the feel of his mouth on your neck.

“Yuh huh, your good girl,” you moaned, feeling Jack’s cock deep in your body. It filled you up so good, stretching you nearly to your limit, but you’d gone slow enough that it didn’t hurt—just made you impatient to have all of him.

You squirmed in his lap, lifting up and pressing back down, taking more and more of him with every downward thrust. Jack chuckled darkly as his hands hand returned to your hips, groping you with those thick, skillful fingers of his while he helped you bounce on his cock.

“That’s right, my good girl,” Jack rumbled, the possessiveness in his voice making your whole body clench, wringing a desperate groan from his mouth. He pulled you closer at the same moment when you spread your knees wide, and the result was your body being finally fully impaled on his cock.

The sudden, complete fullness was a delicious shock to your system and you wrapped yourself tightly around Jack, your arms circling his shoulders while you trembled and adjusted to the size of his fat cock buried in your cunt. It took you a breath to return to the moment, feeling Jack’s hands smoothing over your bare thighs in soothing gestures.

“Atta girl,” Jack praised, pressing a kiss to your sweat-damp temple. “You’re taking me so well, sweetheart. Feels like you were made for me—made to take my cock.”

A soft, breathy laugh burst from your lips, because those words were exactly what you wanted to hear, and it surprised you to hear them from Jack’s mouth. It made you feel like you weren’t alone in the big, overwhelming feelings you were having too soon for the chef, and you pressed your face into his shoulder to silence yourself before you said something too soon.

Instead, you focused on the feel of Jack. Every little movement of your body had his cock shifting inside your tight channel, his heavy length dragging against your sensitive inner walls, making your surprised laughter turn into a helpless moan.

“You feel sooo good,” you murmured, rocking your hips and getting lost in sensation. With your head fuzzy and full of pleasure, you sat up enough to look into Jack’s face, staring deep into his eyes. “If I was made to take anyone’s cock, Jack, I’d want it to be yours,” you said, not realizing until the words were out of your mouth just how revealing they were.

But instead of the depth of your desire scaring the chef, his gaze turned more intense, and a flicker of a smile played around the corner of his mouth. He drew you closer, until your lips were a mere hairsbreadth away from his. His eyes were hot and dark as they stared deep into your soul.

“I’m so glad you came into my restaurant tonight, angel,” Jack rasped, so much genuine affection in his tone, it made you melt further into him, your knees squeezing his hips while you clung to his shoulders. “Meeting you has made this the best night of my life—I hope you’ll let me see you again.”

“Oh, Jack,” you whispered, tears stinging your eyes, not from sadness but a boundless happiness. You tried to blink them away, embarrassed to be crying while Jack’s cock was still buried in your body, but the older man didn’t seem to mind, his thumbs stroking your cheeks and brushing away the few tears that fell. “I’d really like to see you again, too.”

“Good,” he said, his voice so decisive that you knew it was settled. Your heart soared in your chest, and a smile broke across your face. You couldn’t have said which of you leaned forward first, closing the distance so your mouths came together in a kiss, a promise.

The kiss was slow and sensual, one of Jack’s hands cupping the back of your head while you explored each other. It was a delicious kiss, made all the more exquisite when Jack’s tongue licked into your mouth, drawing needy sounds from your lips as he kissed you deeper, like he wanted to remind you that he was buried in more than one of your holes.

You barely noticed when your hips began to rock, fucking yourself on Jack’s big cock. But when his hands dropped to your hips, urging you on, you had to pull away from his mouth with a gasp.

Tossing your head back, you focused on riding your chef, lifting up onto your knees and slamming back down on his hard, thick length. It was dizzyingly glorious, the heat and hardness of him filling your tight hole, punching the air from your lungs until you could do nothing but let out mindless sounds of pleasure.

“That’s my girl, fuck yourself on my cock,” Jack murmured encouragingly, his hands on your ass helping you lift yourself up and slide back down his stiff shaft. He groaned, loud enough to drown out the wet sounds of your pussy and the soft clap of your ass hitting his thighs. “Fuck, angel, you feel so good—such a good girl, riding chef’s cock like a fucking champ.”

A shiver raced down your spine at his praise and your fingers tangled in Jack’s hair, bracing yourself so you could bounce harder on his cock. Every thrust of his dick deep into your cunt was driving your pleasure higher, until your head was filled with clouds and your body was tingling, balancing on the precipice of your release.

“Yes, yes, yes, your girl, your good girl,” you panted, your eyes heavy-lidded but still open as you watched Jack’s face, his skin flushed red, making his freckles stand out in stark relief. “Please, chef, I’m so close—please, I need…”

Your words devolved into a moan as Jack took control of your body, changing the angle of your hips so your clit was grinding against the base of his cock. All you could do was gasp and whimper and whine and try to hold on to him while he helped you ride him.

“My sweet girl, my perfect girl, my gorgeous girl,” Jack cooed, punctuating his words by pulling you down on his cock over and over and over again, making sure your clit rubbed against him with each thrust. “I know what my girl needs—come for me, pretty girl. Wanna see you let go, wanna feel you come on my cock, baby, please.”

Jack’s words and the way he guided your body, helping you find your pleasure, were your undoing. Tension coiled tighter and tighter in your core until it suddenly snapped. You were sent tumbling over the edge of your release, every muscle in your body pulling taut before you exploded with a wailing cry, pleasure crashing through you in violent, euphoric waves.

A groan tore from Jack’s mouth and his arms tightened around your body. He held you crushed against his chest, moaning his own pleasure into your neck while his hips jerked between your thighs, fucking you through both your releases.

You clung on to him, your body writhing on top of his as you eked out every bit of bliss from each other, until the waves of your release began to recede. With a sated sigh, you collapsed against the older man’s shoulder, fingers raking idly through his hair while his hands stroked everywhere on your body he could reach—your hips, your thighs, even down your calves and up your spine beneath your dress.

Between your thighs, you could feel his hot release beginning to leak from your hole, and you squirmed a little at the strange feeling of loss that settled in your gut. Jack pressed one of his palms to your lower back, urging you to settle on his lap, and you let yourself relax, reveling in the feeling of his softening cock still filling your pussy.

After giving you a few moments to recover, Jack’s fingers trailed down the side of your face where your head was laying on his shoulder. He curled a finger around your chin and tilted your head up enough so he could press a sweet kiss to your lips.

“Alright, angel girl?” he asked softly, his voice so low and raspy, it sent little tingles dancing down your spine. You smiled against his mouth.

“Sooo good,” you answered, your mouth quirking into a smirk as you continued. “Or should I say, ‘Thank you, chef, that really hit the spot’?”

Jack huffed a surprised laugh, squeezing you tight in his arms as he shook his head. “What am I gonna do with you, baby girl?”

It was on the tip of your tongue to tell Jack that what he should do was take you back to his place and keep you forever. That thought was so surprising—you’d only known him for one night!—and felt so right, that instead of answering, you kissed him.

You could feel the smile on his lips before he kissed you back, and that little expression had you realizing just how fond you’d grown of the chef in such a short time. It was so astonishingly easy to picture yourself going home with Jack, sleeping in his bed, cuddled up in his arms, then having breakfast together in the morning.

The night had started with you not expecting much from your date. You thought maybe you’d hit it off and see him again, but you hadn’t dared to have much hope.

And now, the night was ending with you kissing a different man, one you’d only just met, and wanting so much more with him. You wanted to get to know Jack Abbot and see if your initial compatibility and attraction could lead to something more.

For the first time in a long time, you had hope. It felt like everything that had happened earlier in the evening was fate conspiring to bring you and Jack together—and you were all too excited to see where things would go.

The best part, you realized, as Jack kissed you back, his mouth moving sensuously against yours, was that he seemed just as excited to get to know you, too. He’d shown you nothing but green flags all night, and had even already asked to see you again. It felt like something close to magic to know that the man you liked, liked you back.

A smile fluttered at the corner of your mouth as you let yourself focus on kissing Jack, knowing there’d be time to overthink everything later. For the time being, you wanted to enjoy the rest of the night with your chef, because you were certain it was the beginning of something beautiful.

For a long while, the two of you were making out just for the fun of it, for the enjoyment of being with each other, until Jack’s soft cock slipped from your body and made you shiver. He grabbed his leather jacket from where you’d tossed it on the counter and wrapped it around your shoulders, giving you one last kiss before he began to ease you off his lap.

“I’ve got to clean up here,” he said, tucking his cock away and zipping up his jeans before he helped you straighten your dress, his eyes wandering shamelessly over your body, like he hadn’t yet had his fill of worshipping you. “Once I’m done, I can take you home. Sound good, sweetheart?”

“That depends,” you said, your fingers snagging in the hem of Jack’s white t-shirt, preventing him from moving too far away. You weren’t usually the clingy type, but you couldn’t bear to be away from him just yet. “Are you gonna take me back to my place, or yours?”

The older man’s gaze darkened and his hands settled on your hips, pulling you close again. Your arms wound instinctively around his shoulders, fingers playing with his hair in a way that already felt so comfortable and familiar.

“I was planning to take you to your home,” Jack began, a smirk curling his mouth when you pouted up at him from under your lashes. “But if you’d like, I can take you back to mine.” His eyes softened as he looked at you, his smirk melting into a smile. “I’d love to cook you breakfast, sweetheart.”

The depth of the affection in Jack’s gaze and his words made you feel suddenly shy, and you ducked your head a little. “I’d like that,” you murmured, sneaking a peek at him and finding the chef grinning like he’d just won the lottery. It gave you the confidence to lift your head and give him a confident smirk. “Be careful, though, if you keep making me such delicious food, you’ll never get rid of me.”

Something devilish flickered across Jack’s face and his smirk was all smug confidence as he swooped in and stole a kiss from your lips, leaving you breathless when he pulled away a moment later. “That’s the plan, angel girl—I’m gonna keep you around any way I can until you get sick of me.”

You were already shaking your head before he’d even finished talking, your fingers tugging lightly, admonishingly, on his hair. “That’ll never happen,” you said, your tone more serious than you’d intended. But your honesty was rewarded with Jack’s mouth twisting into a smile and him kissing you again.

It was such a privilege, you realized, to be with someone who wanted you just as badly as you wanted them—who liked you just as much as you liked them. From the moment you’d met him, Jack had made you feel safe, had taken care of you, had shown you that you were special simply for being you. And you hoped you’d done the same for him.

When Jack finally pulled away from the kiss, you whined a little, making him chuckle. “C’mon, baby girl, let’s clean up and go home,” he rumbled, kissing each of your cheeks, then your nose, before giving you one last kiss on your mouth.

His words and his sweet kisses had you smiling and giggling, and you nodded, your heart warm and light as you let Jack move away to begin cleaning up his workstation. As he did, you fetched your things from his office, turning off the light and closing the door.

By the time you’d returned, Jack was done, and he held his hand out for you to take. You did so happily, handing off your jacket and purse for him to carry when he offered.

Stepping out into the brisk, spring evening, a breeze sweeping through Pittsburgh and making you glad to have Jack’s jacket around your shoulders, you felt like you were leaving the little bubble you and the chef had created. But as you watched him lock up the back door of Night Shift, using only one hand so he could keep holding yours, you knew you didn’t need that bubble.

You may have had to endure the date from hell to meet Jack Abbot, but it felt like fate had designed the night so that you ended up right where you were meant to be—with the hot, older chef who looked at you with so much awe and affection, it made your heart pitter-patter in your chest.

Jack walked you to his car, pushing you gently against the passenger door to kiss you some more before he helped you into the seat. He held your hand as he drove you back to his place, kissing your knuckles every few minutes, then leaning across the center console to kiss your mouth after he’d parked in front of his house.

The two of you didn’t talk much as you got ready for bed, but you didn’t need to. A comfortable silence had fallen over you and Jack, and you didn’t feel the need to fill it, especially with how tired you were. You changed into one of his t-shirts, brushed your teeth with the extra toothbrush he had on hand and cleaned your makeup off your face.

When you slipped into bed beside Jack, he was still massaging his leg, easing the pain he’d felt from wearing his prosthetic all night. You hoped he’d one day let you do that for him—help him to relieve the ache of the day’s grind from his leg, his shoulders, and anywhere else that might pain him.

Before you could gather the courage to offer, though, Jack turned and slid under the sheets beside you. He wrapped you up in his arms, and both of you let out little sighs of contentment. You didn’t know what exactly Jack was thinking, but you suspected it felt just as right to him as it did to you to be in his bed and in his arms.

You fell asleep knowing in your heart that you were right where you were meant to be—with Jack Abbot.

℘ DR ROBBY

making out w ur ass જ deepthroat જ deeper n deeper જ such a tease જ kneading ur ass જ spread ur legs wide open for him જ

ᯤ DR WHITAKER

inked!dennis જ dryhumping જ after shift video જ hasnt seen you in weeks જ involuntary hip movements જ god he loves when u control him જ slow and soft જ

⚡︎ DR LANGDON

loves watching you squirm જ at your mercy જ early morning before his shift જ he loves ur strap જ laid out before him જ loves how you look at him જ

ᝰ DR ABBOT

"Timmy," you said, reaching out to twirl a strand of his wildly overgrown hair around your finger. "You're leg's bouncing pretty hard. Literally. I can feel the desk shaking."

"I'm fine," he muttered, though he didn’t pull away from your touch. In fact, he leaned into it slightly, like a plant tracking the sun. "I just need to finish this routing protocol before Bruce gets back from Berlin."

"Counter-proposal," you whispered, leaning down so your breath brushed his ear. You reached past him, your forearm pressing deliberately against his shoulder, and hit the power button on his main monitor.

The screen went black.

Tim froze. For a second, you thought he might actually code-blue right there in his chair. Then he turned his head to look at you with desperation.

"You're a demon," he argued.

"I'm a delight," you corrected, sliding off the desk and directly onto his lap. He caught you by the waist out of pure reflex, his hands digging into your hips. You reached into the collar of his shirt, your fingers tracing his collarbone, feeling his pulse leaping like a trapped bird. "And you need to sleep. Or, at least, do something that doesn't involve a keyboard..." you trailed off suggestively.

When you kissed him, it was messy. He made a ridiculously desperate sound when you pulled him closer by his belt loops. You left him twenty minutes later, all flushed, dazed, and completely incapable of remembering his own passwords. Mission accomplished.

The problem was that Jason found out by Friday.

Jason didn't do "subtle" which was ironic considering you had the worst on and off since Bruce and Selina. When Jason was pissed, the entire zip code knew about it.

You were walking back to your apartment through a particularly sketchy alley in Crime Alley (mostly because you would rather take that shortcut than get in public transport) when a heavy weight dropped from the fire escape right in front of you.

"We need to talk," Jason growled. He didn't have the helmet on, just the domino mask. He looked massive, very pissed off you wondered why, and entirely too attractive for someone who spent his nights punching people in the face.

"Jay!" you chirped, stepping right into his space. "Did you bring me those kiwi tarts from the place on 5th?" If not, you were okay with getting dicked down by Jason Todd either way.

Jason put a hand flat against your chest, stopping you in your tracks. His palm was warm, even through his glove. "Don't play cute. What the hell were you doing in Drake’s safehouse on Wednesday?"

"Helping him with his… data entry," you said innocently.

Jason’s jaw clenched so hard you heard the click. He stepped forward, forcing you back until your spine hit the brick wall of the alley. he crowded you, his chest pressing against yours, trapping you entirely within his shadow. He smelled like leather, and that expensive cologne Dick had clearly bought him for Christmas that he pretended to hate.

"Data entry," Jason echoed. He leaned down, his nose brushing against yours, his breath hot. "Is that what we're calling fucking my brother now? Because last week, you were in my kitchen, wearing my t-shirt, telling me nobody else knew how to handle you."

"You do know how to handle me, Jay," you murmured, reaching up to grip the lapels of his jacket, pulling him down that extra inch. "You're so… loud about it. I love it, love you" you said casually, but it meant everything to him.

He swore under his breath, and then his mouth was on yours. It wasn't nearly as gentle as Tim had been with you. Jason kissed like hell. He hooked a leg behind your knee, pulling you flush against his thigh, his hands gripping your hair so tightly it pulled you liked it too much to protest. It was angry and messy which was exactly what you wanted.

You stayed with him that night in his bed, let him think he’d won.

And then, on Sunday, you texted Tim a selfie from Jason’s bathroom, wearing nothing but one of Jason's oversized flannel shirts, with the caption 'Found your favorite coffee mug. Jay says hi.'

You knew you were pushing your luck, the Batcomputer probably had a dedicated file on your psychological warfare tactics by now. But you hadn't expected the firstborn to get involved.

You were sitting on the roof of an abandoned clock tower, eating cold Chinese food out of a cardboard container, when you felt someone behind you.

"You know, Bruce is genuinely considering putting a tracker on you," a voice said from the darkness.

You didn't even look up as Dick Grayson stepped out of the shadows. He wasn't in uniform, not completely. He had the tactical pants on, the heavy boots, but he was wearing a tight black compression shirt instead of the full Nightwing suit. His jacket was swung over one shoulder. He looked infuriatingly relaxed.

"Bruce won't put a tracker on me," you said, taking a bite of a crab rangoon. "He's too afraid I'll find a way to stick it on Clark instead."

Dick laughed a little as he walked over and stood right over you, blocking out the light from the Gotham moon. "Probably. But that doesn't mean you get a free pass for what you're doing."

"And what am I doing, Grayson?"

"You're running a demolition derby through my family," Dick said. He dropped his jacket to the gravel and knelt down in front of you, bringing himself eye-to-eye with you. Up close, the ridiculous symmetry of his face was offensive. He looked tired, but under the fatigue there was a sharp intensity that he usually kept hidden behind his golden-retriever smile. "Jason hasn't slept in three days because he's too busy pacing his floor trying to figure out if you're doing that thing with your tongue on Tim too, and Tim spent six hours yesterday trying to hack into Jason's security cameras to see if you actually enjoyed him."

"They're men, Dick. They like to compete," you said, offering him a dumpling.

Dick didn't take it. Instead, he reached out with his fingers wrapping around your wrist. His grip was surprisingly gentle but still hard. He forced you to set the container down.

"It's not a game," Dick said, his voice dropping into a serious tone that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. "They're falling apart over you. And you're just sitting up here watching the fireworks."

"Are you going to tell me to stop?" you challenged, tilting your chin up. "Going to give me the big hero speech about feelings and responsibility?"

"No," Dick whispered. He leaned in closer, his blue eyes darkening in the shadows of the roof. He didn't look like the nice brother anymore. He looked like the boy who grew up in a circus, comfortable with heights and completely unafraid of a fall. "I'm not going to tell you to stop. I'm going to tell you to change targets."

You blinked, your brain momentarily stalling. "What?"

"You heard me," Dick said. He slid his hand up from your wrist, his fingers tracing the soft skin of your inner arm, his thumb pressing against the quickening pulse at your elbow. "You want to play with fire? You want someone who can actually keep up with you without crying to a therapist? Pick me."

"Dick, you're their brother," you laughed, though it sounded a little breathless. Fuck you'd bang that. "That's… incredibly messed up, even for me." It absolutely wasn't. You'd smash him anyday

"I don't care," he murmured. He leaned in until his lips were a mere fraction of an inch from yours, his breath hot and smelling faintly of mint. "I am so tired of hearing your name in the Cave. I am so tired of watching them lose their minds over you. If you want to break someone, come break me. I promise you, I'm a lot harder to shatter than they are."

He stayed there hovering in that excruciatingly tight space, his fingers tightening on your arm, his eyes locked onto yours with a terrifyingly suggestive weight.

"So," Dick whispered, his lips brushing yours as he spoke, teasing little contact that made you ache. "Are you going to keep playing in the sandbox, or are you ready for the real thing?"

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.

By the time you finally escaped into the ambulance bay, the Pitt had descended into the fog that made everyone vaguely mean and snappy to each other. 

A car had decided to plow through the front of a convenience store three blocks away just before noon, which somehow evolved into a gas leak, a grease fire from the kitchen next door, multiple smoke inhalations, and one man who’d managed to impale his own hand on a display rack while trying to “help.” The Pitt had been drowning ever since with no floaties in sight. Stretchers lined the hallways, Robby was barking orders over the chaos, and a med student was getting publicly destroyed for contaminating a sterile field. 

Your entire body ached with exhaustion, and it wasn’t even 2:30 yet. Your scrub top clung uncomfortably to your back, your ponytail was halfway falling out, and the iced coffee you’d brought six hours ago had long since melted into a watery disappointment sitting untouched at the nurses’ station under Dana’s watchful eye. 

You only stepped outside because you needed thirty seconds where nobody was actively bleeding near you. 

The bay smelled faintly like smoke and gasoline, engines rumbling low beneath the distant screams of sirens out in the city. Paramedics moved around in practiced patterns, unloading equipment while firefighters lingered near one of the firetrucks parked crookedly next to an ambulance. You barely paid attention at first, too busy rubbing at the ache gathering behind your eyes. 

You had started to walk back toward the Pitt but stopped entirely when you saw him; well—the back of him anyway with his broad shoulders and dark, soaked curls resting against his nape. Even if you couldn’t see his face, he somehow was able to stand out in a crowd even surrounded by firefighters in full turnout gear. One hand braced against the side of the engine while he spoke to someone beside him, his jacket stretched over his shoulders. 

No matter what, you’d always be able to spot Jack Abbot in a crowd. 

Your eyes dragged slowly over his newfound bright yellow firefighting gear, the reflective stripes glinting. The heavy boots and radio clipped to his chest had you pausing and staring for a solid three seconds, mind trying to process how exactly the man had apparently gone from night shift attending and SWAT medic to volunteer firefighter without mentioning it to anyone. 

But more importantly, mentioning it to you. 

Actually, when you thought about it, knowing Jack, the change tracked perfectly. The man already had a self-sacrificial streak a mile wide. Of course he’d look at one incredibly dangerous side quest and think You know what would make my life even better? Fire. 

A deeply offended laugh escaped your lips, and without thinking too hard about it, you started moving toward him. 

“Seriously, Abbot?” you called out over the noise of the bay. “You take one shift off and suddenly you’re fighting convivence store fires now?” 

The man beside him glanced over first, obviously confused, but Jack turned more slowly, still halfway shrugging out of his jacket as you continued your approach. 

“No, because SWAT clearly wasn’t stressful enough for you,” you continued, tired enough that the words just kept coming. “You looked at armed standoffs and thought, wow, my life is missing a little spontaneous combustion.” 

By the time you reached them, the stranger standing beside him was openly staring at you in amusement. Meanwhile, Jack had gone very still. 

That should have been your first warning. 

But against all self-preservation, you planted your hands on your hips and kept going. “Do you know how insane it is that this is how I’m finding out? I had to see you standing next to a fire engine like some kind of hot, emotionally unstable calendar shoot—” 

Jack finally turned fully toward you, and your brain stopped functioning completely.

Because the man in front of you was not Jack Abbot. 

In your defense, he was close enough to knock the air from your lungs for a second. He had the same dark, hazel eyes, the same rough kind of handsomeness that looked better the more exhausted and grimed up they got. They even had the same intimidating build that made people move out of their way without a second glance. 

But somehow, this man looked older that Jack, more self-assured in a way that only grew as he looked deeply entertained by your humiliation already unfolding in real time. The silence stretched until the firefighter next to him snorted loudly into his fist. 

Your stomach dropped straight through the floor. 

“I’m flattered you think I’m hot.” The not-Jack’s mouth twitched slightly. “But is it a bad time to mention my name’s not Jack?” 

Heat flooded your face so fast it physically hurt. “No,” you breathed, horrified out of your mind. “No, no, no.” 

Now the firefighter beside him was fully laughing, turning away entirely as though witnessing your embarrassment firsthand had become too much for him to handle. 

You covered your face with both hands. “I need someone to hit me with an ambulance immediately.” 

“That feels awfully dramatic,” the man said. 

Your eyes found him through the slats of your fingers. “You have my attending’s face.” 

“I’m starting to gather that.” 

“You even stand like him,” you accused, voice muffled by your palms. “Which is apparently enough for me to lose all critical thinking skills.” 

He laughed softly, low and rough enough to make the situation somehow worse. “Well,” he said, “in fairness, you seemed pretty confident.” 

You lowered your hands just enough to glare at him. “Because I really thought my friend had secretly joined the fire department.” 

The stranger folded his arms across his chest, turnout jacket hanging loosely from one hand while he studied you with open amusement. “So this Jack guy—he always gets yelled at like this by you?” 

“Only when he does something stupid.” 

“I’m starting to think I should meet him.” 

You shook your head, hands finally dropping back to your sides. “You abso-fucking-lutely should not. I think seeing both of you in the same room might kill me instantly.” 

He grinned wildly, quick but devastatingly effective enough it sent tingles up your spine.

Great. Fantastic. Love that for you. One Jack Abbot was hard enough to not stare at as is; having them both in the same room would actually cause a spontaneous combustion of your body. 

You sighed heavily, dragging a hand down your face. “Okay. Wonderful. I’m gonna go crawl into oncoming traffic now if you don’t mind.” 

Before you could make your great escape, he stuck out his hand toward you. “Captain Brett Richards.” 

You looked at it suspiciously for a second before taking it. His grip was warm, firm, and rough with callouses in all the right places. You gave over your name reluctantly, still unable to fully look him in the face without feeling embarrassed all over again. 

Unfortunately for you, he spoke again, timber all deep and ragged. “For the record, I was gonna let you keep going.” 

Your eyes snapped to his hazel ones. “What?” 

“I wanted to see how long it took you before you noticed.” 

“You are a bad person, Brett Richards.” 

“I’m a curious person. There’s a difference.” 

“You stood there and listened to me accuse you of having a hero complex.” 

“Seemed important to you.” 

“I’ve been publicly humiliated!” 

“Just humiliated between me and my friend. I don’t think that counts as the public.” 

You pointed at him accusingly. “You’re creepy.” 

“What?” 

“The tone you’re doing right now.” 

Brett blinked. “What tone?” 

“The exact same tone he uses when he thinks I’m being ridiculous.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“You sound exactly like him too.” 

Now he looked offended. “I do not.” 

“You absolutely do. You’re even doing the whole arms cross and puffing out your chest while simultaneously stretching your neck to look taller.” 

The other firefighter chimed in. “Honestly, Brett? She’s kinda right.” 

Brett looked over, absolute betrayal on his face. “Whose side are you on?” 

“Definitely not yours.” 

You laughed loudly, fatigue finally cracking enough to let something lighter through. At the same moment, your phone buzzed in your scrub pocket. You pulled it out, eyes widening at the incoming message. 

Jack:  Running late. Scene turned into a disaster. Save me a trauma room before some other resident does something stupid. 

“I bet you two text the same,” you grumbled, shoving your phone back into your pocket before looking back up at him. 

He laughed outright at that, shoulders shaking slightly. “Sounds like you know this man intimately. Do you possibly have a type? Or do you grumble at every silver fox in your area.” 

You glared at him as best you could. “I don’t have a type. Do not make this my problem.” 

“Feels like your problem already.” 

“Oh, we absolutely aren’t doing this today.” Still, a smile grew on your face before you started backing toward the ambulance bay doors again. “I’m leaving before this gets more psychologically damaging.” 

Brett called after you easily, “Tell Jack Abbot I’m apparently his hotter firefighter version!” 

You stepped dead in your tracks and slowly turned around. “. . .You know what?” you said thoughtfully. “I actually think saying that out loud near him might start a physical fight.” 

Brett’s grin widened. “Now I definitely want to meet him.” 

_______________________

The worst shifts always seem to end quietly and not anywhere close to peaceful. The Pitt, you liked to think, was incapable of achieving peace. Even now, close to midnight (almost five hours after your shift “officially ended”), you left behind blaring monitors, patients in needed of doctors, and exhausted coworkers who had just started to trade sarcastic insults at the station just to stay awake. But compared to the disaster the evening had started, the hospital had tasted almost manageable to where you believed they had everything handled. 

Your feet dragged as you stepped out through the ambulance bay doors, the night air cool against the lingering heat trapped beneath your scrub jacket. The city smelled faintly damp from rain earlier in the evening, asphalt still dark under the lights. 

You leaned against the brick wall beside the entrance for a second, closing your eyes briefly. 

Today had been brutal in the particular way only emergency medicine could manage. There had been too many patients, too many families crying in the halls, too many moments where things almost went wrong before somebody caught it at the last second. You’d spent more than twelve hours keeping yourself stitched together with caffeine and momentum, and now that things finally slowed down enough, your brain had apparently decided to stop all regular functions, effective immediately. 

Which was probably why, when you spotted a familiar figure standing near one of the patrol cars parked on the other side of the street, the pieces fell into place, your brain beaming Oh, Jack just left too? 

Jack stood with his back partially toward you, shoulders slumped slightly beneath a dark jacket while one hand rested against the roof of the cruiser. His head tilted down toward the coffee in his hand, dark curls shadowed in the lack of street lights. 

You didn’t even think before walking toward the warm, familiar build that held the same tired posture Jack adopted after a nasty shift, almost preparing his body to show up the next day anyway. 

“Please tell me,” you called out tiredly, “that your shift was somehow worse than mine so I can feel better about my life choices.” 

Jack glanced over at the sound of your voice, but you kept talking before fully seeing his face. 

“Because if I have to hear one more over pompous med student stay the words ‘technically speaking,’ I’m actually going to commit a felony.” 

A low huff of amusement answered you. “Long night?” 

“Long life is more like it,” you corrected, finally stepping slow enough to see him properly. 

You froze when he fully turned, because the universe apparently had a personal vendetta against you for probably your past life’s sins. Because once again, the man standing in front of you was not Jack Abbot. Yes, he was close enough to make your stomach drop for a second. His eyes glinted with the same sadness Jack’s did. He even had the same rough exhaustion written lines around his mouth. However, this man looked like someone who absorbed the weight of things instead of fighting against them. 

Also, now that he was turned to you, his officer badge and uniform stuck out like a sore thumb. 

And unlike Brett earlier in the week, this stranger didn’t look quite as amused by your mistake. He just looked tired. 

You stopped short of the cruiser, horror crawling slowly up your spine. “Oh.” 

He blinked once before taking a slow sip of coffee. “Bad start to the conversation?” 

“Fuck me; I did it again,” you muttered to yourself. 

“Again?” 

You covered your face briefly with one hand, humiliation already blatant on your face. “There’s apparently two other guys walking around Pittsburgh with your exact face.” 

“Well, that sound concerning.” 

“I’m very concerned for my mental status.” 

The corner of his mouth twitched, subtle enough you almost missed it. 

You let out a defeated sigh, face turned toward the sky, before gesturing vaguely toward him. “You are not Jack Abbot.” 

“Nope.” 

“Perfect.”

“You wanna try my name instead?” There wasn’t even a hint of annoyance in his voice. If anything, he sounded mildly curious about the situation unfolding in front of him. 

You laughed weakly, hands lightly tapping your thighs. “Honestly, I think I should just stop talking to strangers forever.” 

“You always this extreme when mistaking people for another?” 

“Only when I keep finding multiple emotionally exhausted men who all look exactly like my attending.” 

That earned you a slightly more noticeable smile as he pushed away from the patrol car, holding out one hand toward you. “Sammy Bryant.” 

You shook it, still staring at him in disbelief. “I’m sorry, Officer Bryant, but this is all still genuinely ridiculous to me.” 

Sammy glanced down at your hospital badge as you gave him your name. “You work inside?” 

“Unfortunately.”

“Late shift?” 

You shook your head. “You could say that. I started at seven this morning.” 

His eyebrows lifted. “And you’re still standing?” 

“Barely.” You looked down at your body. “I think my soul high tailed it out of there around hour nine and never came back.” 

A soft laugh escaped him, quieter than Brett’s hand been, but still holding the same warmth that made you feel comfortable. 

You mentally made a decision before leaning back against his patrol car beside him, rubbing at your eyes with one hand. For a moment, neither of you spoke and just listened to the faint noises of the night. 

Sammy took another sip of coffee before nodding toward the hospital. “Was it busy today?” 

A long, shuddering breath whistled through your lips. “One trauma after another. Half the city apparently decided today was a great day to make terrible healthcare decisions.” 

“Sounds about right.” 

“And one student almost gave a patient the wrong dosage because he was trying to impress our boss.” 

Sammy grimaced, lips curling up. “How reassuring.” 

“We caught it before it happened, but still.” Your hair moved slowly across your forehead as you shook your head tiredly. “At some point though you just start wondering if everyone should stop touching things altogether or find some patience before they kill someone.” 

He hummed softly in agreement, hazel eyes drifting toward the street. “You probably already know, but that feeling really doesn’t ever go away.” 

You glanced over at him, taking in his face properly. Like your Jack, Sammy seemed to carry the same heaviness about him, like emergency services hadn’t been kind to either of them. 

“How long have you been on the force?” you asked quietly, taking his uniform details in as your eyes roamed. 

“Twelve years.” 

“Explains your expression.” 

At least he didn’t sound offended when he asked, “What expression?” 

“The one that says humanity was a big mistake.” 

He chuckled lowly. “Yeah,” he admitted. “You nailed that one perfectly.” 

A faint smile hooked onto your lips before your head tipped back against the cruiser window behind you. “Jack has that look too.” 

Sammy looked over. “The guy I apparently share a face with?” 

“Yep.” You looked down at your hands, fingers picking at the skin around your nails. “Him and this firefighter named Richards.” 

“What does Jack do?” 

“He’s the night shift attending, and he volunteers as a SWAT medic during his free days.”

Sammy nodded along, understanding settling across his face as he listened. “That tracks.” 

“You say that like you know him.” 

“Don’t need to.” He shrugged. “You can tell what kind of person someone is by the jobs they stay in too long.” 

For a second, you watched him quietly beneath the moonlight, struck again by how strange this whole thing felt. It wasn’t because he looked like Jack—though that continued to be deeply unsettling—but because talking to him felt easy in the same dangerous way talking to Jack always did; honesty dripping from their mouths the more tired they got. 

Similarly, Sammy studied you for a moment before speaking again. “Are you okay?” 

His question caught you off guard. Again, that genuine earnestness they both seemed to have bled through even if Sammy had only met you moments ago. 

Your eyes traveled back down to your hands for a second before a half laugh bubbled softly under your breath. “You ever have one of those days where you think maybe everyone should stop needing things from you for like . . . twenty-four hours?” 

“Yeah,” Sammy answered. “More than once. My ex-wife used to call me all the time, and I just begged for break.” 

It was now your turn to wince. “Logically, I know it’s a terrible mindset to have as someone working in healthcare, but after the fifth screaming family member and the third guy trying to leave with an IV still in his arm, I’m starting to reconsider my commitment to helping people.” 

“You’re tired,” he said simply. 

“I think cranky is a better term for what I’m feeling right now.” 

“You’re human.” 

You glanced back up at him. “You know, you’re both annoyingly and suspiciously good at this whole peptalk thing.” 

“Me and Jack?” 

“Yeah. You have this calm voice thing. It’s irritating.” 

Sammy smirked into his coffee cup. “Maybe you just trust guys who look too tired for life.” 

“Maybe I need therapy.” 

“That too.” 

You laughed a bit harder at that than the joke deserved, but exhaustion always made you a bit slaphappy. Once the sound subsided, the two of you fell back into a comfortable silence. Sammy stayed leaned beside the cruiser, quiet in a way that didn’t feel awkward, and you realized that the comfortableness was probably the strangest part of the whole ordeal. 

As a senior resident, most people demanded every ounce of energy from you. Conversation. Reassurance. Attention. They picked it all apart until a hollow shell of yourself went home to recharge for another day. But standing here with him felt easy in the same way standing beside Jack did after a nightmare shift. There wasn’t pressure to perform, zero expectation to be cheerful, just silent understanding between two people trying to survive difficult jobs. 

Sammy finally glanced toward you again. “Whoever this Jack guy is,” he said casually, “he must be worth confusing strangers over.” 

“That’s still up for debate.” 

“But you still like him.” 

You opened your mouth to argue before realizing you had no real defense against that, and Sammy absolutely noticed. A knowing sort of amusement flashed briefly across his face before he looked back out toward the street and the Pitt again, giving you an out without pressing further. 

You sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately I do. He’s annoyingly competent.” 

“Dangerous trait to have.” 

And he does this thing where he acts like indifferent while actively solving all the problems.” 

“Real terrible guy.” 

You rolled your eyes fondly. “He’s just the worst.” 

Sammy laughed quietly, and you smiled before finally pushing away from the cruiser. 

“I should probably head to my car before somebody sees I’m still here and decides they need me to pull a double.” 

His eyebrows rose. “Probably.” 

“It was nice to meet you, Sammy.” 

“Likewise.”

As you started in the direction of the parking lot, Sammy lifted his coffee slightly in farewell. 

“And hey,” he called out after a few steps. 

You paused and turned back toward him with a raised eyebrow. 

“If you run into another one of us,” he said dryly, “maybe lead with the name first!” 

Your laugh echoed across the bay as you flipped him the bird to which his boisterous laughter also joined in with yours all the way to the parking lot. 

_______________________

By the fifth twelve-hour shift in a row, the Pitt stopped feeling real. 

Time blurred through patient rooms. Daylight disappeared without warning. Meals became whatever you could hork down before another trauma alarm went off. Entire conversations slipped from your memory the second someone started coding. By three in the afternoon, the Pitt finally settled into a lapping wave instead of a tsunami, something easier to wade through instead of drown in. 

You’d be done in four hours. 

That’s all you could think as you found yourself wandering the full surprisingly empty area near radiology with a vending machine coffee clenched in one hand and your pager clipped crookedly to your scrub pants after catching another consult. 

The coffee tasted burnt enough to qualify as chemical warfare. 

You drank it down anyway. 

Your shoulders ached as you rounded the corner toward the quieter hallway leading to imagine, gravity pulled extra heavily at your limbs. Most of the overhead lights had dimmed this far from the trauma bays, leaving the corridor washed in soft blue-gray shadows only broken by the occasional flicker of a light lucky enough to have had its bulbs changed recently. 

That was when you spotted Jack sitting alone against the wall near the windows. 

Your steps slowed automatically. 

Even half-curled into one of the uncomfortable chairs that had been brought in from check-in, you found the familiar dark curls along his forehead and broad shoulders hunched beneath a black sweatshirt. His long legs stretched out in front of him while his hands rested loosely clasped together between his knees.

Your mind should have caught up by now that there was a 95 percent chance that the Jack in front of you was not actually Jack. The past two times, the odds had been against you. Even as you approached, you honestly weren’t sure if he actually was Jack. 

But his Jack-Abbot shape and Jack-Abbot demeanor mixed with your weighted exhaustion overrode every caution light fast enough you continued to walk steadily towards him. 

“You know handoff’s not for another four hours, right?” you asked tiredly. “Or are you here early again to save the day?” 

Jack’s neck twisted as he looked up at you, and for one brief second, your brain short-circuited again. 

Three and oh. 

You found yourself truly wondering if you had the most absurd luck in finding the men who shared unsettling similarities (hazel eyes, rugged kind of handsomeness, a stillness that carried respect that could command a room) or if you were just unfortunately a Jack-Abbot-doppelganger magnet. 

In this instance, you wished for neither because this one looked sad. 

Where Jack’s exhaustion usually kept him sharp and tightly wound, this stranger looked just as weighed down as you felt. His expression stayed completely unreadable as he stared at you, hazel eyes fixed so intently on your face that you had stopped walking altogether. 

You paused in front of him. “Oh no,” you whispered. “I did it again.” 

The man continued staring at you silently, and you stared back. After a beat, he slowly tilted his head just slightly to one side in a movement so subtle it almost felt animal-like. Your stomach dropped. 

“I’m going to take a wild guess and say you’re name isn’t Jack.” 

Still, he said nothing; such a stark difference from Brett’s flirty amusement and Sammy’s conversational abilities. He just watched you. 

You laughed weakly into the silence. “Okay, statistically this is getting insane.” 

He blinked once before his gaze dropped briefly to the coffee in your hand before lifting back to your face. “Is that good?” 

His voice was the thing to catch you off guard. Where Jack could bark orders quicker than he could blink, this man spoke slowly, careful with his words like he though each one over before letting it leave his mouth. 

A startled exhale flew from your mouth. “No. But, I think I’m legally dead at this point, so what I put in my body really doesn’t matter.” 

Another long pause settled in the space between you, and he didn’t seem bothered at all by it. If anything, he seemed pretty comfortable inside it unlike everyone else you knew (including yourself). 

You shifted your weight awkwardly. “Sorry. Again. I thought you were someone else.”

He methodically nodded once, already having figured that part out. “The same someone else?” 

“Damn, there’s enough resemblance now that people are starting to notice patterns.” You glanced toward an empty chair beside him before looking into his eyes with uncertainty. “Can I sit, or will I disturb the quiet zen you have going on back here?” 

Another pause. 

“You can sit.” 

You lowered yourself carefully into the chair beside him, fatigue instantly sinking deeper into your bones the second you stopped moving. The burnt-gas-tasting coffee warmed your palms while the quiet hallway stretched around you, distant hospital noises muffled enough to sound almost unreal this far away from the Pitt. 

Beside you, the stranger sat perfectly still like he was scared to breach an invisible wall of containment. After a few moments, you began to noticed the differences between him and Jack. He avoided looking directly at the lights. His fingers slowly rubbed against each other every few seconds like he needed the repetitive motion to stay grounded. He kept a careful distance between himself and you. 

“Are you waiting on somebody?” you asked gently. 

His eyes shifted toward you, intense enough that it almost felt like physical pressure. 

“My brother,” he answered after a second. “He got hurt.” 

 Concern softened through your exhaustion. “Is he okay?” 

He gave another small shrug. “He’s alive.” 

His words may have been flat, but you could sense the ache badly enough that you heard it anyway. 

You nodded. “That’s usually a good start around here. Can’t do much on a dead guy.”

A small almost-smile curled his lip. 

You took a small sip of your coffee and grimaced before the liquid even reached your throat. “Holy fuck that’s terrible.” 

His eyes looked down at the cup. 

“How can anyone call this coffee when it tastes like somebody filtered dirty water through cigarette ash,” you informed him. 

He stared at you for a half second longer than most people would have before asking unexpectedly, “Why are you still drinking it?” 

You giggled softly. “Because I still have a few patients to get through before handoffs.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah. I feel the same way.” 

A silence settled again, soft and comfortable where you found yourself glancing sideways at him occasionally while you sat there. Up close, the resemblance to Jack somehow became even more unfair. However, you guessed this is how Jack looked around 10 years ago with brownish-red hair and fewer wrinkles. But yet, the same feeling that both men carried too much responsibility around like extra weight strapped to their shoulders pulled at your heartstrings. 

Also, where Jack’s emotions tended to sit close to the surface—irritation, protectiveness, frustration—this man kept everything buried so deeply you almost wondered if he realized that his expressions gave him away at all. Because despite how blank his face stayed while he either stared at the floor or stared at you, his eyes were devastatingly easy to read. 

Lonely, your brain supplied. 

You tore your eyes away. “So,” you said quietly after a while, “do you have a name, or should I keep mentally referring to you as Not Jack the Third?” 

He pursed his lips. “Andrew.” 

No nickname. 

Not even a last name. 

Just Andrew. 

You smiled faintly. “Well, Andrew, for what it’s worth, you’re significantly less judgmental about mistaken identity than the last two.” 

“The last two?” 

“Long story.” 

He nodded once like that answer satisfied him completely. Another few minutes passed quietly before your pager suddenly buzzed against your hip hard enough to make you jump. Andrew’s eyes tracked the movement carefully. 

“Do you need to go help people?” 

“Yep. Part of the job’s charm.” 

“You’re tired.” 

“There’s no rest for the wicked.” Your head tilted. “Or me for that matter.” 

He looked at you again with that same strange, steady focus. “You should sleep more.” 

“You sound like Jack.” 

Andrew tilted his head slightly. “Is that good?” 

“Yeah,” you answered softly. “It’s very good.” 

His gaze lingered on your face for another long moment before he finally looked away first. You stood slowly from the chair, adjusting your pager against your waistband. 

“I should go save the hospital from itself,” you muttered sarcastically. 

Andrew nodded once. Then, just before you turned away completely, his voice stopped you again. “You looked happier when you talked about him . . . your Jack.” 

You blinked before slowly looking back at him. Andrew sat exactly where you’d left him, hands loosely clasped together, sad eyes fixed on you under the dim hallway lights. He wasn’t flirting or trying to charm you; he was just stating something he’d noticed. His honesty hit harder than it probably should have. 

You smiled warmly back at him. “Have a good rest of your day, Andrew.” 

His gaze followed you all the way down the hallway until you disappeared around the corner and back into the Pitt. 

_______________________

By now, you should have known better. 

Key words: should have. 

Three separate incidents should have been enough to teach your brain not to immediately trust broad shoulders and tired hazel eyes in low lighting, and yet apparently your never-ending exhaustion had burned away whatever survival instincts you normally possessed. At this point, the universe seemed committed to producing endless variations of the same emotionally damaged man just to see how many times you’d embarrassed yourself before learning. 

Unfortunately, tonight really wasn’t helping your judgment. 

Rain hammered steadily against your windshield as you pulled into the near-empty parking garage attached to the hospital, the concrete levels echoing faintly with the sound of tires and distant thunder. Your night shift was supposed to start soon, give or take an hour, but a last-minute emergency surgery had called you in early just in case Jack was held up or if the rain got too much for you to drive safely in. 

All you wanted was to get inside, get your Dunkin from Shen, and live through this shift so that your following two days off were nothing but pure paradise. 

Instead, you killed the engine and sat there for a second staring blankly through the rain-streaked windshield while tiredness settled heavy behind your eyes. 

The parking garage was mostly empty this late at night. Lights buzzed overhead, washing the concrete levels in pale gray while rainwater dripped steadily from the ceiling near the ramps. Somewhere farther down the row, a radio played faintly form another parked car. 

You grabbed your bag from the passenger seat with a tired sigh before climbing out into the cold damp air. The moment you were at full height, you spotted Jack leaning against one of the concrete support pillars a few rows over. You froze, hand still gripping your car door. 

At this point, his face shouldn’t have been as shocking as it was, your stomach dropping every single time you got to lay eyes on him and his salt-and-pepper curls and sexy build partially hidden under a dark jacket while one hand rested causally in his pocket. 

The faintest hint of This is probably another horrifyingly convincing copy of him. And honestly, who even knew anymore. 

Jack glanced up at you as you started to walk; your footsteps echoed slightly. His face was partially shadowed by the buzzing lights. And before your brain could fully catch up, your own mouth betrayed you first. 

Et tu, Brute?

“If you turn out to be another stranger, I’m actually gonna lose my mind.” 

Jack’s eyebrows lifted slightly before the corner of his mouth curled into something that looked far too pleased. 

“Well now,” he drawled, voice salted with a southern accent that instantly threw you off balance, “that ain’t usually how good-looking women start conversations with me.” 

You stopped short, because absolutely nothing about that voice sounded like Jack or confident Brett or sweet Sammy or quiet Andrew. This one was different with something slick underneath his drawl like he found the entire interaction entertaining before it had even properly started. 

“Oh no,” you muttered under your breath, arms wrapping around your middle to somehow protect you from his eyes. 

The now stranger pushed off the pillar slowly, watching you with open amusement as he stepped fully into the lights. And unfortunately, the resemblance to Jack got worse the closer he got. Same face shape? Check. Same hazel eyes? Check (but his sent the wrong kind of chill up your spine). 

However, unlike the others, this man looked at you like he already knew exactly how attractive he was, and that automatically made him the worst one to be around. 

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “Gotta take a wild guess and say your name isn’t Jack Abbot.” 

A wild grin slowly spread across his face. “No, ma’am but sounds like I oughta thank him for the introduction.” 

You actually groaned aloud. “I cannot keep doing this.”  

“Doin’ what?” 

“Finding men who all have the same face.” 

“That so?”

“Yes, and frankly it’s getting psychologically damaging.” 

The stranger laughed softly, low and self-satisfied enough to make your skin prickle slightly. The same quiet internal warning that told you when patients were about to become aggressive before security even notices was sending a tingle up your arms. 

You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder. “Okay. Great. Nice meeting you, mysterious parking garage man, but I’m gonna go before this gets more embarrassing for me.” 

“Funny,” he said casually, “seems like you started this conversation pretty confident.” 

You paused. “That was before you spoke.” 

His grin widened somehow. “Little disappointed?” 

“Concerned, actually. Very concerned.” 

He laughed again, stepping away from the pillar entirely. “Damn, darlin’. You always this mean to strangers?”  

The nickname landed wrong in your chest. Just the way he said it felt off. It wasn’t flirty, it was possessive, almost like he’d skipped straight past normal conversation and decided familiarity for himself. It all felt wrong; he felt wrong. Caution slowly sharpened under your exhaustion. 

Still, you forced a polite smile. “Only the ones lurking dramatically in a hospital parking garage.” 

He pouted, bottom lip jutted out dramatically. “You hurt my feelings a little.” 

“You’ll survive.” 

“Oh, I think I will.” His hazel eyes trailed up and down your body while he spoke. 

Your stomach tightened faintly. This man felt dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with physical violence and everything to do with manipulation. Every work out of his mouth seemed like he’d already calculated it before he said it. The others had felt human and even awkward at times, but they had been grounded below it all. 

This one, you understood a bit too late, was that he’d realized you were uncomfortable almost immediately and was enjoying watching you squirm under eyes that normally made you feel safe. 

He tilted his head slightly, eyes moving over your face with unsettling ease. “So this Jack guy,” he said conversationally, “boyfriend?” 

You sneered. “That’s none of your business.” 

“Mhm.” 

“Do you ask invasive questions to every woman you meet in parking garages?”

“Only the pretty little ones.” 

You physically recoiled a little. “Ew.” 

Somehow that only amused him more. “Do you always look this suspicious, or am I special?” 

“You’re definitely something.” 

Another slow grin spread across his face, but his eyes stayed sharp and watchful. You took a small step backward instinctively, and his gaze dropped to the movement. The awful feeling that he noticed everything tightened your chest. 

“You got a name?” he asked. 

Normally, under any other circumstance, you would’ve answered immediately. But something stopped you this time. The hesitation must have shown on your face because sick amusement flashed across his face and morphed into a look of interest. 

“Smart girl,” he murmured. 

Your spine stiffened. 

The man straightened slightly before offering you a lazy, sleazy half-smile. “Terry. Terry McCandless.” 

You nodded once carefully. “Okay . . . Terry. I’m gonna leave now.” 

“Before tellin’ me yours?” 

“Yes.” 

His eyebrows lifted slightly at your blunt answer before he laughed under his breath, shaking his head like you’d surprised him. “Well,” he drawled, “now I’m definitely curious.” 

You started backing slowly toward the Pitt, grip tightening around your bag’s strap. Terry noticed that too. For one long second, neither of you spoke. Rain echoed heavily through the garage, the entire level suddenly feeling far too empty. Terry tilted his head slightly again, studying you with blatant interest. 

“You know,” he said casually, “most women would’ve already left.” 

You forced a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Most women probably have better instincts than I do.” 

“Mm.” His gaze lingered on you another second too long, so unlike how Andrew had watched you with a quiet curiosity. Here, Terry looked at you like he was hungry. “I don’t think that’s true.” 

Suddenly, you understood with startling clarity exactly how dangerous his personality could become with the wrong person. 

You took another step backward. “Goodnight, Terry.” 

He smiled again, easy and handsome and entirely untrustworthy. “Night, darlin’.” 

You didn’t breathe properly again until you got through the doors leading to the Pitt. And even then, as you walked down the hall and took a glance back toward the concrete pillar where he’d been standing, Terry was watching you the whole time.

_______________________

You hated when Robby voluntold you to attend hospital fundraising events. 

The Pitt survived on donations almost as much as caffeine and trauma surgeons with superiority complexes. New equipment, expanded programs, research grants: all of it depended on wealthy people occasionally deciding to feel generous for tax purposes. However, that didn’t mean you wanted to spend your Friday night pretending to enjoy lukewarm champagne while hospital executives paraded donors around like show dogs ranked somewhere below “paperwork” and slightly above “food poisoning” on your list of favorite activities. 

The ballroom glittered obnoxiously around you, gold light reflecting off crystal chandeliers while a string quartet played softly near the stage. Doctors mingled through clusters of wealthy sponsors in expensive dresses and tailored tuxedos, all perfectly polished smiles and practiced networking. 

Meanwhile, you stood near the bar in horrifically high heel that you knew were actively trying to murder your feet and wondered if you could fake your own death before dessert was served. 

“You look positively thrilled to be here,” a familiar, deep voice sounded behind you, causing you to sigh in desperate relief. 

Without even turning around, you lifted your champagne flute toward him. “Jack, I swear if you’re actually not you and just another man with your face, I’m walking directly off the roof of this hotel.”  

“Well now I’m interested.” 

Your stomached dropped as you turned around slowly. 

At this point, it honestly felt biblical like a divine comedy staring you as the leading role. 

The resemblance hit just as hard as the others had: same hazel eyes, same shoulder width, same cutting-edge jawline, same good looks that apparently existed in endless horrifying variations across Pittsburgh. But where Brett had been charming and Sammy had been grounding and Andrew had carried that quiet sadness around him like a shadow and Terry had been intensely creepy, this man looked completely insane. 

Sure, he exuded a I’m probably the wealthiest mother fucker in this room attitude. His black tuxedo was tailored perfectly across his shoulders, curls styled to perfection away from his face, large ring-adorned hands holding a crystal whiskey glass. He was rich, polished, and handsome enough that half the women in the ballroom had probably already given him bedroom eyes twice. 

But there was something deeply unwell behind the hazel glint. 

He smiled slowly. “How many of us are there?” 

You stared at him in exhausted belief. “Enough that I’m considering neurological testing.”

“How funny it is that you’ve met them all.” 

“I wouldn’t say funny. One of your little clones in a parking garage looked like he might actually kill me to swing a jury.” 

Instead of reacting like a normal human being—wincing or flashing sympathy—the man had the audacity to laugh a rich, warm, delighted sound that absolutely did not match the deeply unsettling energy radiating off of him. 

“Oh, I already like you,” he announced. 

You took a cautious sip of champagne. “Somehow that made me less comfortable instead of more.” 

“I get that a lot.” 

You hummed. “Yes, I’m sure you do.” 

He stepped closer easily, like your personal space was more of a suggestion than a rule. “And what exactly did this Jackdo to earn so such a reaction?” 

“His face apparently exists just to humiliate me in public.” 

“Do you seek his face out often?” 

“Seems like it’s seeking me out more.” 

“Ah. One of those situations.” 

Your eyes narrowed questionably. “You say that like you know what I mean.” 

“I know what obsession looks like, little dove.” Before you could respond, he extended his whiskey glass slightly toward you in a mock toast. “Titus Danforth.” 

Oh. 

Oh no. 

For the first time, you actually recognized the same; not personally, obviously, but the Danforth family practically owned half the city at this point. Generational wealth that seems sketchy with endless political influence and charities where people pretended billionaires cared about humanity because they funded pediatric wings occasionally. 

You straightened your shoulders and mused over his name in your mouth. “You’re that Danforth.” 

His grin widened. “Now, don’t sound too accusatory, or I might think you have a deep resentment towards me already.” 

“Who’s to say I haven’t always had a deep resentment.” 

“Good.” He took another sip from his glass without breaking eye contact. “Most people here are too scared to insult me directly.” 

“And that doesn’t concern you?” 

“It mostly entertains me.” 

You glanced toward the ballroom crowd again, briefly trying to find Robby and considering escape routes. However, Titus seemed to carry Terry’s unnaturally uncanny ability to notice things like that. 

“Relax,” he drawled lazily. “You look like I’m planning to sacrifice you to Satan or something.” 

A chill ran up your spine. “Are you?” 

He looked down at you over his nose. “I’m still deciding on that.” 

You blinked at hi, slowly. “I’m sorry. What?” 

Titus looked downright delighted by being one the receiving end of your scrunched up face. “Oh, come on. You’re at a billionaire fundraiser. You have to know at least half these people are one blood ritual away from immortality.” 

A look of horror washed over your face as your blood ran cold. He stared back, visibly trying not to laugh. 

“You’re joking,” you finally decided on with a small, uncomfortable laugh. 

“That’s the fun part.” He tilted his head slightly. “You really can never tell.” 

Oh, absolutely not. 

Every single alarm bell in your body started ringing simultaneously in a way that hadn’t happened yet. See, Terry hadn’t felt as dangerous as he was calculated and manipulative. Titus felt like mad chaos draped in designer fabric, like someone had handed a deeply unstable man unlimited money and simply hoped for the best. 

“You have the exact same face as someone I trust,” you informed him cautiously, “and you’re doing irreparable damage the longer this conversation continues.” 

“How will you ever recover?” 

“Hopefully the moment we go our separate ways.” 

Titus laughed softly again before gesturing out toward the ballroom. “So, what’s your role here? Underpaid attending? Morally exhausted nurse? One of those residents constantly on the verge of collapse?” 

“You guessed all of those so confidently it’s a bit concerning.” 

“I donate to hospitals constantly, and I’ve watched enough caffeine addictions develop in real time to identify the species.” 

Despite yourself, a small giggle escaped, to which Titus noticed instantly. And the look on his face afterward morphed into something even more dangerous. 

“So you are capable of laughing,” he murmured. “You look less miserable when you do that.” 

The words hit unexpectedly hard because Andrew had said almost the exact same thing days earlier. However, when Andrew said it, it sounded like he did out of a deep concern, but when Titus said it, it sounded like you were a small bug under a microscope. Apparently, this entire cursed lineup shared one collective personality trait, and it was psychoanalyzing you against your will. 

You pointed at him. “No. You don’t get to do that.” 

His eyebrows lifted innocently. “Do what?” 

“You are not allowed to suddenly become emotionally observant when you were just talking about devil sacrifice thirty seconds ago.” 

“Is it a sin to be attentive?” 

“It’s a sin to act like you care when obviously I’m merely just a game to you.” 

Titus grinned into his glass. “Oh, I definitely like you.” 

Before you could spit back another insult, another man suddenly appeared beside you with the kind of smooth interruption that felt almost rehearsed. You silently thanked everything that could hear you when the familiar height towered over you. 

“There’s my favorite resident,” Robby announced as he took your right side. 

You glanced over at him and tried not to melt at the sight of his navy suit that looked slightly less expensive than Titus’s but worn with significantly more exhaustion in the way Robby existed in. His expression softened as he looked down at you. You could have hugged him on sight. 

Robby’s brown eyes, normally filled with kindness, bore fiery into Titus’s. “You don’t mind if I borrow her for a moment, do you? I think one of our department heads was looking into speaking to us on behalf of our emergency department.” 

His lie was painfully obvious but deeply appreciated on your side. You started stepping away before Titus could start another conversation about ritual sacrifice, however, the sound of his voice made you pause and look back just as Titus was pulling out a sleek black checkbook from inside his tuxedo jacket. 

Double oh no. 

He scribbled something quickly before tearing the check free and holding it out toward you between two fingers. “For your hospital.” 

You stared down at the number and tried not to faint on the spot. 

“Titus—” 

“What?” He looked genuinely amused now. “You people keep fixing rich idiots after yacht accidents. Consider it gratitude.” 

“That is way too much money.” 

“Probably.”

“You cannot casually hand people checks equivalent to a small lakeside house in Italy.” 

“Sure I can.” His lips twitched into a smirk. “Watch me.” 

You hesitated before slowly taking in. 

Robby clanged at the amount over your shoulder and physically winced. “Holy fuck. Gloria’s going to be floored.” 

Titus lifted his glass again with a lazy smile. “See? Devil worship pays well.” 

You backed away after that. “Okay. I’m going to leave before you buy me a cursed mansion that makes me blow up or something.”

“How did you know that was next on my list?” 

“It seemed very on brand.” 

Thankfully, Robby took the break in conversation to steer you safely toward the other side of the ballroom, champagne still in one hand and a horrifyingly large Danforth charity check in the other. 

Once the gap was large enough, Robby leaned down enough to whisper, “Tell me I’m not seeing things, and that he didn’t look exactly like Jack.” 

You let out a large, exasperated sigh. “Robby, you have no idea.” 

_______________________

At this point, you genuinely believed the universe was mocking you. There was no other sane explanation for the past few weeks. 

One doppelgänger had been weird coincidence territory. Two had been unsettling. Three had crossed into psychological combat. Four had nearly gotten you murdered in a parking lot. And the fifth had tried to recruit you into what might’ve been a satanic cult before handing you a charity donation large enough to make a hospital board cry (Gloria did indeed faint as well). 

You were simply done. 

Officially. Completely. Done. 

Which was exactly why, when you stepped out of the hospital just after sunrise (the result of a last-minute night-shift swap) and spotted a familiar figure leaning against the hood of a dark truck across the street, your immediate reaction wasn’t relief but unequivocal annoyance. 

The city still looked half-asleep around you, pale morning light stretching across damp pavement while your exhausted coworkers shuffled toward their cars clutching coffee cups like lifelines. Your overnight shift had run disastrously long, leaving you tired enough that your thoughts felt wrapped in cotton. The added lack of a Jack Abbot didn’t do well to settle any wants of seeing the man again with your own two eyes. 

And standing there beneath the weak gold light of sunrise was yet another salt and pepper-curly-haired man with nice shoulders and light hazel eyes. 

Unbelievable.

You didn’t even break stride this time. 

“Nope,” you called out while crossing the sidewalk. “Absolutely not. I’m not doing this again. You can’t pay me enough.” 

The Jack-a-like straightened at the sound of your voice. 

You pointed at him warningly before he could speak. “I don’t care if you’re emotionally repressed, weirdly observant, secretly corrupt, or involved in a ritual sacrifice. I’m done talking to Jack Abbot doppelgangers.” 

A long silence followed before he said one word. 

“What?” 

You frowned at his voice and the way it felt familiar in your ears. None of the others had ever quite managed to get Jack’s timber down correctly. Your steps slowed, and the man pushed away from the truck fully now, confusion pulling at his features while dark circles sat heavily beneath his eyes like he hadn’t slept in days. 

Your chest tightened achingly so, because that—that was Jack Abbot, actually Jack Abbot. 

Your Jack. 

For one horrible second, your brain refused to process it properly. After weeks of running into twisted reflections of him everywhere, seeing the real thing suddenly felt almost unreal itself. It made you suspicious. 

You scoffed at him. “Okay. Which one are you?” 

Jack stared at you with somehow even more confusion, your name coming out oddly through his lips. “Excuse me?” 

“The firefighter was flirty. The cop was emotionally stable. The quiet one stared at me like a sad shelter dog in one of those ASPCA commercials. The southern one was definitely corrupt. And the rich one threatened me with devil worship.” You pointed accusingly at him. “So what’s your thing, and please make it quick because I obviously need more than six hours of sleep.” 

Jack stared at you in complete silence. 

“. . . You met a rich version of me?” 

“You have no idea how bad this has gotten.” 

“Sweetheart, what are you talking about?” 

The utter bewilderment in his face finally settled something inside you, because none of the others had ever looked at you like that. 

Brett had looked entertained. 

Sammy had looked understanding. 

Adnrew had looked curious and quietly lonely. 

Terry had looked scheming. 

Titus had looked delighted with a new play thing. 

But Jack? 

Jack looked at you like he’d been waiting long enough out here for you to start getting worried, like seeing you finally emerge from the Pitt had made him relax just enough. Suddenly, it all clicked at once. 

“Oh.” 

Jack’s brow furrowed deeper. “What?” 

“You’re actually him.” 

“Yeah?” He sounded almost offended. “Who else would I be?” 

A helpless laugh escaped you before you could stop it as you visibly deflated, exhaustion and pure relief tangling together so suddenly it made your eyes sting. 

Jack took a step closer, your name falling from his chest. “Hey. You okay?” 

His immediate instinct to take care of you was what did it. It wasn’t his face or his voice or his tired eyes or broad shoulders or any of the things that the other had shared. His concern for your wellbeing that had seemingly been stitched directly into his bloodstream no matter how tired he got. Your throat tightened unexpectedly. 

Jack’s expression softened as he moved closer. “What happened?” 

“You happened,” you informed him weakly. 

“That really didn’t explain anything.” 

“It does in my head.” 

“Which is terrifying.” 

You laughed again softly, rubbing tiredly at your face before looking back up at him. Now that the real Jack stood in front of you, the differences felt almost embarrassingly obvious. Brett had been warm but too easygoing; Sammy had been grounding in a way that felt comforting but oddly distant; Andrew had carried gentleness around him so openly it hurt to look at; Terry had weaponized familiarity until it felt dangerous; and Titus had turned charm into performance art. 

But above all, Jack felt safe. 

Even as he was standing there exhausted and grumpy in front of you sleep-deprived with yesterday’s hoodie thrown over a wrinkled scrub top, something about him always made your world quiet enough to where it felt manageable, like you could get anything done without worrying about the next moment. 

You stared at him for a long moment before realizing he was still waiting for an explanation. So, unfortunately, your exhausted brain chose honest-to-God honesty. 

“You know what the worst part was?” you asked softly. 

Jack crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I’m scared to answer that.” 

“They all looked like you.” You voice quieted slightly. “But none of them were you.” You glanced away, trying to organize thoughts that had apparently been building for weeks now. “Brett was nice. Sammy was . . . easy to talk to. Andrew was sweet in this sad kind of way. Even the crazy rich one was weirdly funny.” You huffed out a tired laugh. “And every single time I kept thinking maybe that was why my brain kept confusing them for you.” 

He stayed quiet. 

“But each time, they failed horribly at being Jack Abbot for longer than a two-sentence introduction.” You looked back up at him with glassy eyes. “Because all they had was just your face. They didn’t have the way you make everything feel less awful when you walk into a room. They didn’t have the way you pay attention to people even when you pretend that you’re annoyed. They didn’t have the way I never have to wonder if I’m safe with you.” 

Jack looked caught off guard. 

“I kept meeting all these parallel versions of you,” you continued softly, exhaustion making everything spill easier than normal, “and every time something still felt missing.” Your mouth twitched faintly. “Turns out it was just . . . you.” 

He kept quiet for a long moment as the morning traffic hummed somewhere down the street while patients and employees alike trickled from the Pitt’s doors. You bit your bottom lip, waiting with anticipation for him to say something.  

Finally, very quietly, he spit out, “You compared me to a satanic billionaire before saying all that.” 

A tired giggled burst out so suddenly it nearly doubled you over. “You can’t believe how thankful I am that it’s actually you this time.” 

Jack shook his head slowly, but you caught the way his mouth softened slightly. “C’mere.” 

The words barely left his mouth before he was reaching for you, hand gripping your forearm lightly before pulling you forward against his chest with the kind of familiarity that made your entire body finally relax for the first time in days. 

That was another difference too. 

None of the others had ever felt like home. 

You buried your face against his chest with a tired groan. “If another man with your face talks to me this week, I’m filing a police report.” 

Jack’s chest shook slightly beneath your cheek. “Again me?” 

“Wouldn’t be entirely you,” you mumbled. “Just your face.” 

A quiet laugh rumbled through him before his hand settled against the back of your head. 

“C’mon,” he murmured. “I’m taking you home before you start hallucinating more versions of me.” 

You tilted your head back just enough to look up at him. “You promise you’re the real one?”

Jack stared down at you for one long second. 

“Did any of them kiss you?” 

A blooming warmth covered your face. “What?” 

“The firefighter,” he said evenly. “The cop. Satan guy.” His jaw tightened. “Did any of them kiss you?” 

“No,” you admitted quietly. “Wouldn’t let them either because they weren’t you.” 

His hand slid gently against your jaw before he kissed you like he’d been thinking about it the entire conversation. His lips felt warm; the kiss careful and tired in the same way you both were but all the same steady. 

When he finally pulled back slightly, your forehead resting against his, nose brushing along the skin right under his eye, you smiled weakly. 

“Okay,” you said softly out of breath. “Yeah. Definitely the real one.” 

Jack laughed quietly against your mouth. “Are you 100 percent sure?” 

You pretended to think for a second before shaking your head. “Nope. Gotta kiss you again just to be sure.” 

He smirked before pulling you back into another soft kiss. 

Oh, yeah. This was the real one. 

Sue shot him a look across the table, half of the bits of cereal falling from the side of his mouth to the table. His only response was an incredulous look her way, which was met with an affectionate eye roll from his sister.

“He probably just got caught up with something,” Sue tried to calm Ben’s nerves, bouncing little Franklin in her arms as he babbled out nonsense of some kind. That was enough to bring a smile to Sue’s face, her lips pressing a kiss to the side of his little head. “You know how Reed is.”

“Ben’s got a point, though,” Johnny chimed in, as the giant rock hand of his friend swiped his cereal box from his hands. With a defeated sigh, he decided he wasn’t going to start a fight over it, turning his gaze back to his sister and nephew. “Last time he was late for Sunday dinner it’s because you were pregnant and he was having an existential crisis. As much as I enjoyed that crisis, I think we’ve dealt with enough in the last few months.”

He wasn’t wrong, and he knew it. They all knew it. A year later and the aftermath of Galactus and Shalla-Bal still hung in the air. The implications of intelligent, threatening life out there in the universe casting a shadow over every news broadcast across the globe.

“That’s exactly my point,” Ben high fived Johnny from across the table, turning his gaze to Sue as well. “If he’s this caught up with something to miss family dinner, that means he found something.”

“And we all know when your husband finds something, that spells trouble for the rest of us,” Johnny lit his hand on fire for added effect, lips pursed as he waved the burning flames around gently in the air. “For example…cosmic radiation.”

It was clear that Sue wanted to argue with the pair, but Johnny knew there was no arguing with them. Their point was made, and that smirk on his face creeped in as Sue sighed, rising to her feet with Franklin situated on her hip.

“Alright, fine. Let’s go see what he’s up to,”

The chorus of cheers shared between Ben and Johnny from behind was surely making Sue roll her eyes once again. Any moments that Johnny was given to bother his brother in law in the lab was a win in his book.

Following his sister into the elevator, Johnny snapped his fingers in Ben’s direction as they descended toward the lab floor.

“10 bucks says it’s another alien woman,”

Ben’s groan sounded through the elevator, bouncing off the walls. Short laughter from Sue mixed in with it, even as she shook her head in response.

“Johnny, just because the first one dumped you, doesn’t mean you can go chasing after any alien woman in existence,”

“She never dumped me, for your information. She heroically sacrificed herself to save me because of her deep, profound love for me,” the shove Ben gave Johnny’s shoulder pushed him into the wall of the elevator. All he could do was shoot the rock man a glare, following his family out of the elevator and onto the lab floor, but not before pretending to grab at little Franklin’s nose to make the baby laugh. “Plus, I think it’s about time little Franklin got an auntie. A cool one.”

None of them were prepared for the mess of a lab they were stepping into.

Papers scattered the entire floor, from the workstation to the chalkboards. Those chalkboards had a thousand equations scattered across them: some scribbled out, others circled over a hundred times. Poor Herbie was frantically moving throughout the room, trying and failing to pick up every piece of paper that he could and bring some form of organization to the room.

“Uh, Suze,” it was Ben’s voice that cut in first, the trio stood just outside the elevator doors in mild shock at the state of the lab that was usually pristine. “I think your husband may have finally lost it.”

“That or he bought some drugs and tried them for the first time,” Johnny tacked on in a mumble that still got him an unimpressed look from his sister.

Johnny wasn’t wrong, though, and neither was Ben. Reed Richards looked like a certified mess.

He stood at the far end of the lab, moving between workstations at the deep blue tables lining the area in a half circle. He typed viciously, new data points mapped upon the screens adorning the walls. The middle screen, the largest, held a map to the entirety of New York City, markings appearing every so often in certain sections of the city before disappearing.

Even as the group approached, Reed never moved from his place, still typing away as he mumbled to himself.

“Reed,” Sue spoke up, just as her husband stalked across the floor once more.

The freshly written upon papers in his hands fell to the ground the second he laid eyes on them. Hair slightly disheveled, tie almost entirely undone, Reed Richards looked as if he had been rocked by a hurricane.

“Something is coming,”

Those were all the words he had to say. Johnny felt as if the air had been knocked from his lungs, as if all the oxygen in the room had been sucked straight out. He heard the sharp intake of breath from his sister first, before Ben stepped forward.

“Reed, what are you talking about?”

Ben quickly had multiple papers shoved into his hands as Reed gestured to the large screen showing the map of New York. One of the workstations beeped as the scientist quickly logged whatever data his system had just mapped out, another blip appearing on the screen that Reed pointed to desperately.

“For the last fifteen minutes, I’ve been tracking these energy signatures,” the map zoomed in on a focused location of the city. “They’re appearing at strange intervals. They started just a minute or two apart, but have grown to be just seconds apart now. All contained in an area between 24th and 17th street, in conjunction with Park Ave and 3rd Ave.”

“Gramercy Park?” Johnny chimed in, crossing his arms over his chest. He cocked his head slightly, looking at the map and the park that lay directly between the streets his brother-in-law had just named off. Honestly, he was still trying to understand what it was he was looking at, or just understand Reed’s mental state as a whole. “Maybe your baby proofing didn’t work and the Wizard is just out of prison.”

“That was my first thought as well, but the energy signatures proved me incorrect,” Johnny only rolled his eyes, running a hand down his face at Reed’s inability to take a joke. “These energy signatures are different, even more so than those of the Herald. It’s a culmination of dimensional energy–energy that’s being pulled from the fabric of the universe itself–it matches with energies given off by planets, or even stars themselves. But there’s another component to it, something so inherently not scientifically explainable that I can’t understand.”

Johnny shared a look with his sister and Ben, and even a look with confused little Franklin, before Sue chimed in.

“Okay, so there’s some weird space energy in the area-”

“Energy that has organic life woven into it,” Reed emphasized for those standing in front of him. He crossed the room back to his desk, pulling up a clear imaging of the energy itself from a nearby street camera that happened to catch the pulse. It was like a burst of blue strands, interwoven, pulsing and dousing the surrounding area in color, before it blinked away. “This energy beats, like a heartbeat. It moves organically, as if being pushed and pulled by someone. Compare these scans with a simple energy scan of any one of us, anyone in New York for that matter, and the fundamentals match perfectly. This isn’t some cosmic energy seeping into our earth for a moment, there’s something attached to it, something causing it. It’s forewarning something–someone.”

The lab grew quiet, the weight of Reed’s words hung in the air. For Johnny, they hung a little harder.

The last time something–someone–showed up on this Earth, he’d almost lost his family, lost his nephew. He had lost his sister, even for just a brief moment, but that was enough. Enough to never want to be put through this again. Johnny’s jaw clenched at the memory, his gaze flickering back to the screens.

“Why’s the park empty?” he questioned, gesturing to the live feed of the park from security cameras placed around light poles. “It’s not even 8 at night.”

“Suspicious activity in the area over the last week. I spoke to the mayor and had a curfew put in place out of an abundance of caution,” Sue chimed in.

“Okay, so another space alien is coming,” Ben clapped his hands together, the sound echoing as it drew everyone’s attention to him. “We threw the devourer of worlds through a portal to deep space…let’s just do that again.”

“This isn’t Galactus,” Reed muttered, voice just loud enough to be heard by everyone in the room as he turned back to the screens before him. “This is something else.”

Before anyone else could speak again, another pulsation of blue energy directly in the center of the park this time. Bigger than the others, strands of energy moving and beating in the air. Growing brighter, bathing the park in light.

The power of the building flickered for half a second before the live feed into the park cut off suddenly. Reed tapped incessantly, trying to bring it back, but it was no use.

“Reed…what is that?”

On the main screen, right in the center of the park on the New York City map, was one single blip of energy. Unlike the other blips, this one didn’t leave. It held steady.

“Johnny-” his name had barely left Reed’s mouth before Johnny was at the windows of the lab, swinging them open before streaking through the air in a blaze of red and orange.

No one was threatening his family again.

Gramercy Park wasn’t far away from the Baxter Building, especially not for a man who could light himself on fire and streak through the air at speeds humans couldn’t comprehend.

The park and every surrounding street was quiet the second his feet touched down on the pavement, flames dissipating from his body with a single thought.

The trees rustled above him in the night time breeze, stray leaves breaking off of the branches and falling to the ground. In the distance Johnny could faintly hear the usual sound of New York traffic, the muffled sound of sirens streets and streets away.

Straight ahead of him, down the path, laid the circle of greenery and flowers planted around the statue that sat in the middle of the park.

When he approached the center of the park apprehensively, flaming fist at his side ready to attack, the last thing he expected to see was you.

Pacing back and forth until the point he was sure you’d burn lines into the ground under your feet, you were glancing up at the sky over and over, muttering something to yourself. He cocked his head as he creeped closer, taking in the clothes that adorned your body: a pain of jeans adorned with so many tears and holes he couldn’t comprehend why you were still wearing them, and a tight fitting shirt that plunged way too far down your sternum to be considered decent to wear…anywhere. He wasn’t sure he’d even seen a woman wearing a shirt quite that revealing before.

His foot hit a single branch littering the pavement, ten feet from you now, before you froze and spun on your heels to face him. Johnny was pretty sure every bit of oxygen in the air was ripped away the second his eyes locked with yours.

Well, fuck, you are the prettiest fucking woman I’ve ever laid my eyes on.

It was the only thought capable of filtering through Johnny’s head. Reed must have gotten something wrong in his data, been tracking something that didn’t really exist, because there was no way that you were the blip that had appeared on the map. You were just another New Yorker–a drop dead gorgeous one, at that–who was out past the mandatory curfew…even if the clothing you bore threw him for a loop.

You didn’t look scared of him, his hand still burning with flames at his side. He could see the way your eyes drifted to the fire, head almost tilting in curiosity, before you glanced back at his face. Your hands were held out at your sides, fingers flexing as if you were prepared to defend yourself if the need arose. 

Johnny wasn’t going to hurt you. You were a civilian, one who should be in her home during this curfew. Just another normal civilian that he would definitely be coming back to this area for the following day so he could figure out where you worked, or which cafe you visited most often so he could orchestrate a way to run into you again-

His watch beeped, that familiar alert sound. Johnny’s eyes tore themselves away from you for just a second to glance down: an energy reading, matching the same one from Reed’s lab, pointed directly at you.

Way to go, Johnny. Get the hots for yet another alien woman that’s probably here to destroy your world and kill your family. Nice job. Way to go. Ben totally isn’t going to make fun of you for this.

“I’m not usually one for telling strong, pretty women what to do,” Johnny quipped, flames igniting on his other hands, both now burning bright at his sides. “But you’re out after curfew.”

“Curfew?” you had practically barked out a laugh, and fuck Johnny hated the fact that even your voice was pretty. Even as it was dripping in disbelief. “Yeah, right. I haven’t seen a single curfew ever go into effect in this city through the multiple alien incursions it’s seen.”

Johnny cocked his head immediately: multiple alien incursions? Given that Shalla-Bal was the only alien he’d watched descend into Times Square, he was utterly confused.

“Makes sense–given that you’re another one of those alien incursions–that you don’t know about the curfew,” flames burning just a tad bit brighter, crawling up his forearms, Johnny raised his hands in your direction as he took a cautious step forward. “I’d prefer not to hurt you, doll, so why don’t we do this peacefully and you just come with me?”

It happened in the blink of an eye. Johnny’s eyes never left you as your head tilted just slightly, a flash of blue crossing your eyes as your fingers twitched at your sides, before suddenly his arms were enveloped.

Like a casing of blue tinted energy, pulsing around his hands and up his forearms, the flames that ignited Johnny’s skin were extinguished in moments. Blue eyes shooting wide open, he shook his hands frantically. Willing himself in his head, telling his flames to ignite, but they wouldn’t. Every wave of his arms did nothing, the blue energy unmoving and shifting with him.

“No use trying, pretty boy. There’s not a single ounce of oxygen in the air around your arms right now, so I suggest you keep the flames at bay because I’d prefer not to do that to your entire body,” you shot back at him. With a single wave of your hand, the casing of energy dropped from around his arms. Johnny let the fires reignite for just a moment, confirming that he could indeed use his power again, before his wide eyes shot back to you.

“...I’m going to be so honest, I can’t tell if I’m terrified or completely turned on right now,”

“I’m, also, not an alien. I grew up upstate. And, why does Gramercy Park look so…weird?” Johnny’s comment was ignored, even though it was a valid question that he was trying to work out in his head. He instead watched you spin around on your heels, pointing around the park and up toward the surrounding buildings. “I know I haven’t left the Sanctum in a few days, but I feel like I would’ve heard construction. That building was never white, that one–wait, how did they build an above ground subway system? That wasn’t there three days ago when I got in, and I know for a fact the city doesn’t have the budget for this.”

In all of his life, Johnny Storm had never been more confused. He’d sat through countless lectures from Reed about matters of organic chemistry that he didn’t understand in the slightest, or cooking lessons from Ben that ended in him shoving his hand deep into a box of cereal, and this was more confusing then all of those combined.

Your clothing, something just about the way you talked and looked, whatever the hell this blue energy was it looked like you were controlling–and what the hell was a Sanctum?

“Back up…the Sanctum?” Johnny chose to start there as you turned back to him. He chose to keep his flames at bay, having a gut feeling that if you really did want to cut off the oxygen around him you could, and he wasn’t in the mood to deal with that. “Isn’t that, like, some type of Church thing? Are you from some weird alien cult?”

“I literally just told you I wasn’t an alien. The Sanctum Sanctorum, over on Bleeker street? You know…Wong, Stephen Strange, the Masters of the Mystic Arts?” you must have seen the confusion on his face grow, because Johnny could see the moment your back seemed to straighten. “Wait, you have no clue who they are? Actually–beyond that–you have powers. How do I not know who you are?”

“Great question, sweetheart. The Fantastic Four kind of just saved the world a year ago, so I’m about as lost as you are,”

Johnny wanted to be apprehensive, wanted not to trust a word you were saying. He wanted to be cautious, to put his walls up, because the last time someone had come down into his world like this, he’d almost lost everything.

But you weren’t Shalla-Bal. You weren’t standing on a silver surfboard, speaking with confidence and heralding the end of the world.

No, when Johnny looked at you now, he saw pieces of himself. Of little him, hugging Sue, losing their mother forever. Of the version of him that came back to Earth over four years ago forever changed: confused and scared. The version of him that locked himself away in Building Q, charring the sheets and everything around him as he cried, trying to understand what was happening.

“I meant what I said, by the way,” Johnny cut in, that usual charm infiltrating his words. You were still the prettiest thing he’d ever seen, and he was curious, more curious then he was the moment a woman coated in silver appeared in the air. You had his full attention, even if he was still trying to figure out who the hell you were, but he hoped showing off his charm would ease the tensions a bit. “You’re a very pretty woman…and I might be turned on right now, the jury is definitely still out on that one. Took my breath away when I first saw you, and you could literally do that if you wanted to. That’s hot.”

He watched as you huffed out the semblance of a laugh, still teetering back and forth on if he was a danger to you. Given the fact that you had demonstrated your ability to cut off his oxygen…he was hoping you wouldn’t see him as a threat anymore.

“Ah, a charmer, aren’t you? Knew someone like that, been awhile since I’ve seen someone so brazenly flirt with a woman,”

“Oh darling, that’s my whole brand,”

You hummed across from him, but he caught your body language. Slightly more at ease, not as rigid anymore.

“The Fantastic Four?” your eyebrow shot up, eyes still wide with confusion, but slightly less apprehensive than before, as you brought the conversation back to that name he’d dropped. “Bit of a pretentious name to give yourselves.”

“That was all the fans,” Johnny shot back with a hint of a grin. A ghost of a smile seemed to find your mouth as well, and Johnny mentally cheered to himself that it seemed he was able to convince you he wasn’t a threat to your life.

“Fair enough. The Avengers was chosen for us…I feel like I would’ve heard about another new superhero team being formed in our absence, though,”

Johnny’s confusion was back again as he mulled over your words.

“Avengers? What are they, some superpowered band?”

It was your turn to mull over his words.

“You…you don’t know who the Avengers are?”

There was a whirl through the air as Johnny watched you glance behind him. He turned too, eyes landing on the familiar blue of the Fantasti-Car landing behind him on the pavement, Sue, Reed and Ben stepping out just moments later, practically running down the pavement toward him.

“Johnny-!”

“No, no, wait!” he called out frantically, glancing back at you again. Your hands were rigid at your sides again, fingers flexing, eyes narrowed in a terrified glare in their direction. He glanced back at his family, holding out a hand for them to stop just behind him. “She’s not a threat, I swear!”

Ben’s thunderous steps came to a halt, his head thrown back to the sky as he let out the loudest sigh in the world. “Johnny, seriously, you can’t keep falling for every alien woman you meet-”

Johnny didn’t let him finish, spinning back around to face you. His eyes pleaded with you, hoping you would see his hesitance to hurt you, feet shuffling forward a few steps. You took one back for each step he made forward, that same blue energy dancing around your hands once again.

“I really don’t want to hurt you,” you spoke, voice steady and loud enough to carry through the air. Your eyes glanced past Johnny, to his family. “Any of you. It’s not who I am, that’s not what I do. But if I have to, I will.”

“We won’t,” Johnny promised, taking a glance back at his family. Ben seemed unsure, Reed apprehensive, but Sue watched him. Curious, unsure of what he might do next. He glanced back at you. “I won’t. We’re just as confused as you are right now.”

You laughed. “I really doubt that.”

Reed brought a device out from his pocket, that same alert that came from Johnny’s watch ringing through the air as he pointed it in your direction.

“It’s coming from her,” Reed announced. Johnny tried desperately not to roll his eyes and make a comment of ‘obviously’ toward his brother-in-law. “These readings are coming from her. I was right: she’s controlling this dimensional energy, bending it to her will.”

Johnny hung his head with a sigh, still mulling over making a comment as he turned his gaze back to you. It was apologetic, accented with an eyeroll, one that brought a hint of a smirk back to your face. It worked, though, as you dropped your hands, body relaxing once more as Johnny confirmed for you once again that they didn’t want to hurt you.

With a single flick of your wrist, the device in Reed’s hands was enveloped in that same energy, wrapping around it and carrying it over to your hands before their very eyes. Johnny froze, along with the three directly behind him, as they watched it happen.

“Not energy–well, not technically–it’s magic,” you explained, never taking your eyes off the device in your hands as you fiddled with the controls. “This thing is…so strange. It looks like such a primitive piece of tech but functions so modernly. Did you get this from Stark Industries? Is this some old prototype of Tony’s that Pepper sold you?”

“I designed it,” Reed answered after a moment. You hummed, flicking your hand again as the device made its way through the air and back to Reed’s hands. “Stark Industries, are they a foreign company? Do you work for them?”

Johnny watched that confusion bubble up in your features again, tinged with nerves now. He caught it, the way your leg began to shake as the pacing you’d been doing when he first showed  up resumed once again. All he could do was watch.

“T-This doesn’t make any sense. I’ve never heard of you guys, everything about New York looks different, you don’t know the Avengers, hell you don’t even know who Tony is!” you laughed, incredulously this time, as your eyes locked with Johnny’s again. “This has to be a joke, right? A-Are one of you Wong in disguise, trying to teach me a lesson for opening a book to perform a spell that I wasn’t supposed to touch-”

You stopped in the middle of your sentence.

Johnny took another step forward the second you cut your own words off with a gasp. Hand flying up to cover your mouth, your wide eyes never left him as he took a cautious step forward.

“We just want to help you. What are you talking about? Help us understand,”

“The Book of Vishanti,” you said it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, like the four standing in front of you were supposed to understand it. “Wong thought I was ready for powerful light magic, h-he invited me so that he could show it to me, so that I could learn from it. I should’ve listened to him, I shouldn’t have snuck down there-”

Sue stepped up to Johnny’s side. He watched his sister, the easy look on her face, the understanding in her eyes, as she spoke softly to you.

“What happened before you showed up in this park?”

“I touched the book without him, I thought I could teach myself things without him,” you spoke quickly, shaking your head frantically. “I could barely read the spell and yet I performed it anyway. Either I fucked it up, or I did it right and I didn’t know what I was doing because…this isn’t my earth. It can’t be, not with all the differences.”

Reed and Ben joined either side of Johnny and Sue now, all four of them staring down at you in front of them as you came to a realization of what had truly happened.

Through it all, Johnny just couldn’t take his eyes off of you. Curiosity pulled at him, more than it ever had before.

“What are you saying?” Reed chimed in.

“I’m saying this isn’t my universe…I think I accidentally traveled the multiverse, and I have no idea how to get back,”

❤︎

Performing a spell from the Book of Vishanti that you couldn’t yet read was, in hindsight, probably the worst idea that you had ever had in your entire young adult life.

When the Sorcerer Supreme believes that you’re ready to handle a book such as that, lined with the most powerful magic and spells and knowledge of light magic that have ever existed…it’s not hard to get an ego about it and jump the gun. You could already hear the berating you’d get from Wong, the things that Steve would’ve said to you if he was still around, the things that Sam most definitely would say to you when you got back to Washington.

If you ever got home, that is.

It was a thought you tried not to dwell on. Every night, as you closed your eyes, you saw them. The ones still here, the ones taken from you even as you fought with every ounce of you to save them all. The final look in your best friend’s eyes before she destroyed the version of herself that she had become, destroying what felt like a piece of you in the process. All so you could wind up in a world without any of them, a universe so far away from your own, nursing what felt like a shattered heart as you tried to find a way home.

You cried enough every time your head hit the pillow of the bed that wasn’t yours, you wouldn’t let the tears find you during the day too.

To their credit, the Fantastic Four were the most welcoming and kind group of people you’d ever met. If a strange woman basically crash landed in your universe, claiming to be a witch, you too would probably have hesitated. But here you were, a week later, having taken up the space on the unused guest floor of the Baxter Building at the insistence of Susan Storm. Trapped in a universe so similar to your own, but so different.

You weren’t alive in the 60s of your Earth, but now you got the chance to experience it firsthand…with a twist. It was strange how retro and yet futuristic this Earth was. The technology was advanced, sometimes more advanced than anything you had seen in your own universe, and that was all thanks to Dr. Reed Richards. You had thought that Bruce Banner and his 7 PhDs was the smartest person you would ever meet, but Reed and his 18 Doctorate degrees blew him out of the water by miles. But beyond the advanced technology of the world, everything else was still so primitive.

The clothing was different, more modest and brightly colored than anything you were used to seeing before. The hairstyles were different, sometimes shorter, almost always poofier than they were in the 2020s. They talked differently, the music was different, everything felt so familiar and yet so wrong at the same time.

This little team, this family you had stumbled upon, had been nothing but helpful, even if they were still wrapping their minds around the idea of the multiverse. The protectors of their Earth, the only superheroes this universe had compared to the plethora yours seemed to have, but some of the most down to earth people you had ever met. Reed Richards was abrasive sometimes, but curious, asking a thousand questions when you would venture out of the guest floor about your magic and the scientific properties surrounding it and its composition. Ben Grimm was kind, giving you space, but always dropping off something to eat on the guest floor for you every day. Sue Storm was kind and bright, strolling in with confidence and her son, Franklin, perched on her hip, filling your closet with an array of clothing to wear so that you would be comfortable.

Johnny Storm followed you like a puppy dog, hanging off every word you spoke and popping up in every corner of the building you found yourself in, much like he was now.

“Find anything in there?”

You rolled your eyes, tossing the book borrowed from the city library onto the coffee table of the guest floor living room. It landed with a thud on the multiple other books that Sue had picked up for you before you glanced over your shoulder, seeing Johnny stalking toward the couch you were sitting upon from the elevator.

“Just more confirmation that witches don’t seem to exist in your universe, except in the fairy tales," you shot back with a sigh. Your gaze turned to the floor to ceiling windows adorning the wall before you, giving you a glimpse of the New York skyline as night crept in on it, the sun dipping below the horizon line in the distance. “Which leaves me with exactly what I started with: nothing.”

Johnny hummed, hands grasping the back of the couch from beside you as he too glanced out over the skyline. The record player in the corner played some Elvis tune, something to fill the silence.

“Can’t you just, like, do the spell again to get home?”

“If I knew what spell I did, probably,” came your answer as you glanced over to him, finding his blue eyes already watching you. “No clue what spell I did, so without that I have no means of traversing the multiverse.”

Your gaze watched him as he left the couch, stalking across the room toward the record player. Another eye roll left you as he plucked the Elvis record off the turntable in seconds, muttering something about how that record ‘wasn’t good enough,’ before combing the collection beside it for another one.

This wasn’t the first time he’d done this over the course of the week. It felt like Johnny Storm practically lived on this guest floor with you: he’d brought his dinner down every night to eat with you, lounged around the living room while you searched through book after book, and had gone through every bit of clothing his sister had procured for you and made comments about which ones he thought you’d look best in (spoiler alert: it was every single item).

You didn’t entirely mind. His presence felt like a soothing balm over the pain that still sat within you, his ability to joke and make anyone around him smile, able to slap a bandaid over what felt like a gunshot.

“What’s music like in the 2020s?” he called out from across the room, settling on a Bob Dylan record instead that he dropped the needle down onto. “Does everyone have giant record collections now, ones that would rival my own?”

“Music is…much different than what you’re used to now,” was the response you settled on, chuckling slightly as you tried to imagine the man across the room listening to the likes of Eminem or even Taylor Swift. Taking a sip of your drink settled on the table in front of you, you dug your now dead cell phone out of your pocket, waving it around. “We listen off our phones, can connect headphones to them wirelessly. Vinyl collections are usually just collections now, not typically used to play music.”

Your cell phone was plucked straight out of your hands by Johnny himself, who had crossed the room with impressive speed. With a chuckle, you shook your head at his antics, leaning your head against your hand as you watched him inspect the dead device.

“I should tell Reed to invent this thing. Have to use that big brain for something useful,”

“And somewhere in Chicago, I can hear Martin Cooper crying that his invention is about to be stolen,”

Johnny tossed your phone back onto the cushion next to you without another thought, plopping down right next to it. Head thrown back against the back of the couch, he turned to look at you again with a giddy grin.

“Ignore the little talking box device for now, can you show me more of your magic?”

That was the question Johnny had asked at least three times a day in the week you had been on his earth. It was cute, the way his eyes would light up with excitement like a little kid every single time you showed him something new. That sparkle in them, the grin that lit up his face every single time, as he’d beg you to show him again.

You tried not to focus too much on how cute it actually was.

“What haven’t I shown you at this point?” you laughed, smile bright, though you already knew the answer. There was a neverending stream of things you could show him.

“There has to be something,” he sat up a little straighter, leaning even more into your personal space now. “Come on, I have a witch sitting in front of me. I thought those only existed in movies and books. You can’t blame a guy for being interested, baby.”

Ignoring that pet name that so easily fell from Johnny’s lips, you took a quick glance around the room. Acting as the centerpiece of the table sat a fresh bouquet of wildflowers, curated by Sue herself and brought up as a gift. Leaning forward, you plucked a single daisy from the bunch, leaning back and holding it in the space between you and Johnny.

Your eyes never stopped watching him as that familiar swirl of blue magic seeped from you, enveloping the delicate flower. The thin, white petals merged together into five beautiful petals, the white coloring fading into an enchanting ombre of orange and pink. Then, as fast as it started, your magic dissipated and the blue hue that lit up Johnny’s face disappeared.

He took the new flower from you with the brightest of grins, a sight that stirred something deep within your chest you were keen to ignore. He took a single sniff, eyes glancing back to you as his smile slipped into a charming little smirk.

“What did that poor daisy ever do to you?”

“It wasn’t a Plumeria,” you shot back with a slight laugh, plucking the flower from his hand and slipping it back into the vase. “They’re my favorite flower.”

“Noted,” he casually stretched his arm over the back of the couch, resting it over the portion directly behind your head, as that charming smirk grew even more. “Want them incorporated into the wedding decor, or should I pin one to my suit jacket so you can see it while we stand together at the altar?”

With a bright laugh, your hand met his face, pushing him back slightly as you rose from the couch, sauntering over into the kitchen with your empty glass. You could feel his eyes on you with every step.

“I have to hand it to you, Johnny, your flirting this past week has definitely gotten more brazen with each passing hour. Be careful, you might fall in love,”

“Too late, that happened when you first turned around,” shooting a glance back at him on the couch, he dramatically flopped backward on the cushions, pretending an arrow had just struck him in the chest. It was impossible not to shake your head and laugh at the sight. “I took one look at you and thought…wow, that’s the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen.”

You hummed in response, pouring yourself another glass.

“Does your charm and your flattery typically get you places with the ladies?”

“Depends, is it working right now?”

Ben had warned you about Johnny’s charming personality and what would surely be incessant attempts at flirting, but you hadn’t thought the man would be as persistent as he had been this past week.

You’d taken to keeping a running list in your head of some of your favorite lines of Johnny’s that he’d thrown your way.

Are love spells a thing? You could put one on me and I wouldn’t even notice: I’m already too far gone for you, baby.

Do you think you fell into our universe because you and I were made to find each other?

Before you head back to your universe eventually, we should send you back with the last name Storm. I think it fits you nicely.

Each one had made you laugh, and you begrudgingly had to admit that most of them were quite cute. It helped that Johnny Storm was as charming as they came.

From the moment you had laid eyes on him in that park that night you’d known it. This man was a heartbreaker, a face that girls across the world surely had hanging on their bedroom walls and were fawning over. Magazines called him a playboy, his personal fan club, The Flaming Hearts, swooned at his feet over how he was the ideal man women should strive for. You saw why they fawned: Johnny was attractive, anyone with eyes could see it. Perfectly swept to the side blonde hair, blue eyes that felt deeper than the ocean, and the charm and wit to have you laughing into the night.

He could flirt all he wanted, but it was going to take more than a flirty comment and a pretty smile to make you feel a thing. Johnny Storm wasn’t the first charming man you’d ever encountered, and he surely wouldn’t be the last.

“Sorry, pretty boy,” you shook your head, finishing off your glass that you’d just poured before dumping it into the sink for later. “Takes a little more than superficial flattery to butter me up.”

“I’m pretty sure you just called me pretty, that has to count for something,”

“It doesn’t,” you shot back, leaning against the island counter as you looked across the room toward him. Johnny was rolling off the couch in the most unelegant way, hopping back up to his feet to lean against the other side of the counter from you, shooting you a wink.

“You know what they say–denial is the first step to falling in love,”

“Acceptance. The quote ends in acceptance,” you barked out another laugh, shaking your head as the man as you stood up straighter. “Now, what did you actually come up here for, or was it just to bother me?”

Johnny clapped, eyes going wide as he seemed to remember exactly why he’d come upstairs in the first place.

“Right! It’s Sunday, family dinner night. You’re invited, and I was volun-told to come and get you,”

“Of course, because I’m sure you really protested being given that job,”

As charming as ever, he shot you another wink as he banged his hands on the table.

“You already know me so well, darling,”

“Are the pet names necessary?”

“Why, are they making you swoon?” yet another wink was shot at you.

“Johnny, I’m sure your charm works on just about every other woman in this universe. You want me to swoon? It’s going to take a lot more than that,” you pointed toward the shirt on his body, the bright blue logo over his chest shining in the light. “Plus, wearing your own team merch all the time? How superficial of you.”

He feigned hurt over your comment, looking down at the logo himself.

“I’m just representing the team. Plus, it’s comfortable, like our suits are too,” Johnny instantly snapped his fingers, eyes wide again as he giddily smiled toward you across the counter. “Your suit! You’ve never shown me your superhero suit! Come on, I’m dying with anticipation here, baby.”

Even as you rolled your eyes, you indulged his request. With a single flick of your wrist, your clothing shimmered in blue tendrils of magics, transforming it into the suit you knew like it was a second skin. Reinforced black and blue fabric that trailed high up your neck and down to your wrists, down your waist and finally tucked into the black boots that sat directly below your knees. That shimmering silver “A” still sat on your belt, something you were never able to part with.

Johnny let out a low whistle, teeth biting into his bottom lip as his eyes scanned you up and down over and over again.

“Hot damn…remember that comment I made about being turned on? Yeah, yeah this is doing it for me,”

With yet another eye roll, something you were learning you did quite frequently around him, you waved off the magic and dissipated the suit once again. The look you shot at him was anything but impressed, even if you were trying to hold back laughter.

“Why are you like this?”

Before some other flirty comment could fall from his lips, the elevator dinged across the room, its large doors sliding open. Neither of you were expecting it to be little Franklin Richards stumbling out on his tiny, wobbly legs.

Tufts of blonde hair on his head, blue eyes wide as could be, a happy little smile overtook his face as he spotted the two of you in the kitchen. His little hands clapped together, incoherent but otherwise happy babbles falling from his lips.

“Frankie! What has your mom told you about playing with the elevator, little guy?”

Johnny was across the room in seconds, sweeping Franklin into his arm with a single swipe. The laughter of little Franklin echoed through the room as Johnny dipped him, practically holding the little guy upside down, before spinning him upright. The little boy wearing a matching grin to his uncle, the man he could practically be a twin of, continued to laugh as Johnny pulled his shirt up, blowing a raspberry directly into his stomach and muttering something about how ‘magic babies never listen to their mothers.’

The skip your heart did at the sight was enough to have the beginnings of a flush crawling up your skin. Maybe his charm didn’t work on you, not his flirty jokes, but this? Seeing the side of Johnny Storm that the media didn’t see, the part that wasn’t the persona he played up for the world, was enough to bring a soft smile to your face and to fully understand why people across the world fell for him so easily.

Willing the blush to go away, desperate to hide the evidence that you did, in fact, find this man cute, you stalked across the room until you came to stand beside the man and his laughing nephew. They both turned to look at you, looking like twins with their bright smiles and blue eyes. Another round of giggles fell from Franklin as you swiped your finger over the edge of his nose slightly, pushing past them both toward the waiting elevator.

“Well, come on then. Guess I shouldn’t be late for my first family dinner with the Fantastic Four,”

In all honesty, you needed Johnny to put Franklin down. He looked too adorable, making faces at the little boy as he pressed the button for the main living area on the elevator. Franklin just continued to clap, babbling nonsense.

“You’re good with him,” you cut through the silence after a moment, smile still soft as you watched the two of them beside you in the confined space.

Johnny glanced up, an air of sheepishness finding him as he laughed lightly, looking back at Franklin. The little boy was watching you once again.

“Yeah, well, what can I say? Always loved kids,”

Bringing your hand up between the two of you, with a single thought you let a little ball of blue magic appear along your fingertips. Franklin’s eyes widened, following the movement of the little ball of magic as you rolled it around your fingertips, dancing it around his head and back to your hand.

Your eyes flickered to Johnny after a moment. His head rested against the wall of the elevator still slowly moving its way down. His smile was soft, softer than you’d seen it look at you before this week, his eyes holding a gentle pensiveness as they watched you.

“What?” you questioned lightly. He shrugged, adjusting Franklin on his hip.

“Nothing. You’re just good with him, too,”

“Well, he’s not the first baby in my life,” you answered, the edges of your smile dropping just a fraction as you thought about her. The little girl that was only, what, 6 years old now? Brown hair and eyes just like her father’s, the wit and sass to match it. Universes away from you, a little piece of someone you used to hold so dear that you may never see again.

“Whoever you’re thinking about,” Johnny was more observant than you gave him credit for, picking up immediately on the thoughts that seemed to plague your mind, even if he didn’t know the full extent of them. His fingers lightly grazed your cheek, an action that you so wished didn’t feel so nice. Comforting, warm with the heat that burned within him, brushing a strand piece of hair back behind your ear, tucking it there. You met his gaze, burning with a quiet determination. “You’ll see them again. We’ll get you home.”

Ignoring the slight flutter behind your ribcage, you raised an eyebrow at him.

“Oh, you’re suddenly content with letting me go? I remember Ben telling me yesterday that you were planning to keep me trapped here forever,”

His laughter echoed into the living room as the doors to the elevator pushed open, allowing the three of you to step out into the room fully. Ben was hard at work in the kitchen, calling out things to their little helper robot, Herbie, who zoomed around the kitchen at his command. Reed’s arm stretched out across the room, setting the table without ever leaving the kitchen, his other arm wrapped around his wife as Sue laughed at something he said.

“Oh I’ll help get you home, but there are conditions to your departure,” Johnny shot back, walking alongside you toward the dining room. “The one non-negotiable is that you have to leave unequivocally in love with me-”

“Whoa, that’s a big word for you, Johnny-”

“You also have to leave admitting that I’m the most charming man that you’ve ever met-” he cut back in, cutting you off after you had cut him off.

“I mean, you’re definitely on your way to joining the ranks of Tony, Quill, and Joaquin-”

“You also have to leave with the last name Storm,” Johnny spun, back facing the kitchen, as he shot you a wink. “We can negotiate that one. I don’t want to rush our wedding, but I’d prefer you go back home with it. A little something to remember me by.”

Sue Storm was quick to slap Johnny on the shoulder as he dipped into the kitchen, practically tossing the laughing baby into his sister’s arms, before ducking around her to dip his hand into the pot of sauce that Ben was working to season. His rocky hand whacked Johnny on the shoulder, who pretended to crumble to the ground in pain as Ben cried out “you haven’t even washed your hands!”. Reed’s arm stretched across the room, coming between the two and pushing his brother-in-law to the other side of the kitchen without a word, trying to maintain a semblance of peace.

Sue sighed, pressing a kiss to her son’s head, before she turned to you: still standing still, frozen in place by the dining room table, watching the events before you unfold with a smile you couldn’t hide if you tried.

“Welcome to family dinners,” she told you with a laugh, Ben once again yelling at Johnny in the background as he dipped his hand into a cereal box. “Before you ask: yes, it is always this chaotic.”

The chaos was nice, it almost felt like home. A home you hadn’t known for years now. Watching them, you could almost picture them all, the family you used to have: a flash of Natasha’s red hair in your head, the sound of Steve’s laughter, Tony’s quips that Sam always met back just as quick, Wanda muttering to you about how you worked with idiots.

Johnny’s eyes met yours again, a soft smile and a playful wink sent your way before he ducked out of the way of Ben’s arm again, and that was somehow enough to soothe that ache in your heart for just one night

❤︎

“I know people usually look exhausted after leaving Reed’s lab…but you were down there for two hours. I’m surprised you’re alive,”

Stalking across the room into the kitchen of the Baxter Building, you faked a laugh in Ben’s direction, dipping into the fridge for a bottle of water to nurse the headache you could feel approaching. The man let out a laugh at your actions, shaking off his oversized trench coat and tossing it over toward the dining room as he placed the multiple paper bags in his hands down on the counter.

“I am, too,” you shot back at him, hopping up onto the island counter beside him to sit. Ben just laughed at your antics, rifling through the bags on the counter from the market down the street. “He asked for more blood tests, so I consented even though I told him he’s not going to find any answers to why I have magic in my blood.”

“And did he?”

“NO!”

Ben’s laugh thundered through the room as he put some of the groceries away in the cupboards. Returning to the island counter, he dipped into a smaller, white paper bag, producing a small sleeve of paper holding a warm cookie within. The headache you felt coming on almost completely dissipated the second the sweet smell filled the air.

“Good thing I grabbed some of these, then. Eat, before you pass out from blood loss,” you didn’t argue, taking the gooey chocolate chip cookie from him with a smile and sinking your teeth in. “It’s from Maisie’s. Figured it was about time I showed you the best cookies in town, not sure how I held off for two months.”

Two months. It was a time period you tried not to dwell on. If you thought too long about how long you’d been stuck in another universe with no way back home, you were sure you’d start spiraling more than you did every night that your head hit the pillow of the guest floor. The guest floor that was slowly just becoming your floor.

If you thought about it too long, you’d remember how you were starting to forget the sound of Sam’s laugh. How this was the longest you’d gone without visiting Pepper, how Morgan was probably asking where you were. You hadn’t put flowers at Nat’s grave in so long, you could only hope her sister had gone and changed the flowers.

“Well, it’s quite good,” with a slight shake of your head, you sent Ben a strained grin, enjoying the taste of the cookie. It wasn’t a lie, it was quite possibly the best cookie you’d ever had. 

Ben hummed, holding your gaze for a moment, before he smiled. It was soft, but you could see it woven in: the pity.

“Thinking about home?”

You swallowed, both the bite of the cookie you’d taken and the lump that formed in your throat.

“Yeah…always am. I hate how good you are at reading me, by the way,” Ben chuckled at your comment, returning to putting the rest of the groceries away in their designated spots. “Reed offered to invent multidimensional travel again today.”

“Did you say yes?”

“No, I turned him down like I do every time,” Ben returned as you shook your head with a wry laugh. “It sucks because I know he could do it, he’d have me home within a week. But multiverse traversal spells exist, they have for a very long time, which means they obviously don’t blow a hole in the space-time continuum. I don’t need Reed to accidentally blow a hole in the entire multiverse just to get me home.”

Ben hummed. Placing one hand on the counter, his other rocky hand laid across both of your legs, delivering the slightest of squeezes in comfort that he was able to. You looked up, meeting his eyes, and practically melted under the kindness and comfort in them.

“You’re going to go home, I promise you that. You’re homesick: it’s where you belong, it’s full of the people you love, and we’ll get you back there. But think of it like this: you’re in a different universe, how many people get to experience that? Take it in, enjoy it, learn from it, eat all the Maisie’s cookies this world has to offer. The people you love will still be waiting for you back home, no matter how long it takes to get there,”

He moved away, his hand sliding back down to his side and he returned to the groceries. But his words stuck with you, hung in the air, settled deep within you.

The quiet hung there in the room for a moment as you just watched him, placing cereal box after cereal box on a shelf near the fridge. He met your gaze again when he turned around, rocky brow raising in question as you let a sigh slip past your smiling lips.

“You remind me a lot of Steve,” Ben waited, letting you collect your thoughts, never pushing. “He always knew what to say, especially to me. That’s how it feels talking to you a lot, like I’m talking to him again. I…I miss being able to talk to him.”

“Well, you can talk to me anytime,” he motioned his hand toward the cupboards of the island counter blocked by your legs. Sliding off the countertop, you stepped to the side as he bent down to put another bag away. “Who do the others remind you of?”

You mulled the question over in your head, grabbing a bag from the counter and helping Ben place the rest of the groceries away across the kitchen.

“I think Reed has to be Bruce, simply because they’re both too smart of their own good. Sue reminds me a lot of Natasha, with the way she takes care of everyone. Nat was quiet about it, but she was always picking up after the boys. Johnny…unfortunately reminds me of Tony. He’s got his same sass, wit, charm and flirtatious nature,”

Ben waved his hand in the air, a grimace on his face.

“Please, no, I don’t want to think about there being another Johnny out there in the multiverse,” you laughed, catching the bottle he threw in your direction to slot into the fridge. “Speaking of matchstick, where’s he at? He’s usually attached to your hip, what with his whole plan of whatever he calls it-”

“Ah, you mean Johnny Storm’s Complete Guide to the 60s?”

It was the dumbest name in the world, but given that Johnny had named it, you weren’t surprised. He’d taken it upon himself to give you a complete guide to what the 60s were like, with the added footnote that the weirdly futuristic 60s they lived in was bound to be different than the 60s of your own universe. Johnny had claimed you were too ‘cooped up’ on your floor of the building, and it was time you got out and ‘lived a little’ since you were here.

Johnny’s guide to the 60s began with bowling. He’d been so excited, sliding into those custom shoes for the alleyways, that you didn’t have the heart to tell him until you were beating him by 70 points in the 8th frame that bowling was very much the same game in the 2020s.

“No, that’s unfair!” Johnny had called out, mouth dropped open as he pointed an accusatory finger in your direction. The manual scoresheet in his hand was all but crumpled at this point. “You didn’t tell me bowling was still a thing!”

“To be fair, Johnny, you didn’t ask,” was the only response you could manage through your laughter, grabbing your ball once more and aligning yourself with the lane in front of you. “Bowling is very much still around, and very much the same game. I guess you just aren’t as good at it as you think you are.”

You weren’t laughing long, a spark of heat igniting along the back of your hand just as you let go of your ball. Your hand jerked immediately at the feeling, sending your ball rolling straight into the gutter. Mouth dropped open, it was your turn to point an accusatory finger in Johnny’s direction.

“Hey!”

“Leveling the playing field here, baby,” he teased, skirting by you as his fingers bumped your chin slightly, before he grabbed his own ball as his body was racked with laughter. “Now, let me show you how good I really am at this game.”

Johnny’s own laughter was short-lived. His ball made it halfway down the lane before coming to a sudden stop along the slick surface, surrounded by a hum of blue magic that flicked it off into the gutter. His betrayed face turned to face you, met with your smirk and hand held out toward the ball. You only batted your eyelashes at him.

“Hey, if you’re going to level the playing field with powers, then I am too. It’s only fair,”

“Oh, I’m going to show you fair-”

The laughter that poured out of you mixed with a shriek the second Johnny practically tackled you, throwing your body over his shoulder like it was nothing and parading you down the alley, highfiving little kids along the way as you could do nothing but laugh, smile never slipping for a second.

Go-Karting, on the other hand, was definitely a little different in the 60s. The karts themselves were much different, a lot less structurally sound at times and incapable of doing the speeds that you knew Johnny really had wanted to drive them at. He had claimed to win the race fair and square, even as you pointed out that he’d gone as far as to melt one of your tires right before you crossed the finish line.

Record stores, golfing, roller-skating, you named it and Johnny dragged you off to do it. He filled every moment with vibrant stories: the record store was one that Sue liked to take him to when they were growing up, golf was something he fell in love with after coming back from space with powers, and how roller skating was something he swore he’d never do, but the smile on your face the entire time had been well worth it.

The diner had been your favorite. Griddles & Waffles, nestled deep in the heart of Queens. A 24/7 joint that sold breakfast and breakfast only, a beloved place by locals. Johnny had been awake into the early hours of the morning that night, the only one still up, diving into a box of cereal buried in the kitchen when you screamed. The next thing you knew, he was practically diving out of the elevator onto your floor as you shakily grabbed a glass of water in the kitchen, eyes wide and panicked as he informed you that he could hear you scream floors away. One look at the state you were in and he was shoving you into the hoodie he was wearing and shoving you out of the building and into his car.

“You took me to a place with waffles in the name, and you ordered pancakes?”

Johnny’s eyebrow shot up, half of the stack of pancakes in front of him practically shoved into his mouth as he pointed the fork in his hand in your direction.

“Don’t you ever diss these pancakes, you hear me? Best flat pieces of dough in the entire state of New York,”

You couldn’t help but laugh lightly under your breath as he barely got his words out through the food in his mouth. Taking another bite of your own waffle, it was easy to get lost in the decor of the diner. Bright colors, shiny metal gleaming under the lights, it looked exactly like the recreations that existed in your own universe. The simple thought of home brought your frown back in seconds, and Johnny was instantly snapping his fingers.

“No, there’s no frowning in Griddles & Waffles, you hear me?” you rolled your eyes, but that simple thought weighed heavy on you, lips still pulled into a frown. Johnny made some motion toward the waitress before he leaned into the table toward you, drawing your gaze to him and his waiting, patient, gentle eyes. “Honey, I’m surprised that scream didn’t wake anyone else up. What’s wrong?”

“It was nothing. Just a nightmare…a memory of a day I don’t like thinking about,” you tried to deflect, shoving your fork around your plate, scraping it against the ceramic. Johnny’s hand caught yours, his eyes still soft and gentle, as he gave your hand a gentle squeeze until you relented. “It’s…I don’t like talking about it. I don’t get nightmares about it often anymore, but when I do, it feels like I’m there again: in that forest full of nothing but blood and dust.”

The blonde hummed, fingers gently rubbing small circles into your knuckles. His skin was warm, unusually warm from the heat that coursed through him, the feel of it on your skin bringing a sense of comfort. Then, he took his hand away, holding both his hands out like he was presenting something, that dazzling smirk of his lighting up his face.

“Have no fear, because Griddles & Waffles has the perfect cure for sadness!”

The waitress came back, sliding a single tall glass onto the table between the two of you with two straws tossed down onto the tabletop. You glanced at it: one large, over the top, classic chocolate milkshake with a large cherry resting right on top. You looked back up at him, your eyebrow raised this time.

“A milkshake? At two in the morning?”

“Have some faith in me, baby,” Johnny teased, slipping the two straws into the shake with ease. He took the cherry between his fingers, easily biting off the majority of the fruit as he twirled the stem between his teeth. Your eyes flicked down for just a second, to the stem between his lips and the hint of red juice that covered them, before your skin flushed and your eyes were back on his. “This is about to be the best milkshake you’ve ever had, and it’s going to cure every bit of sadness in your body.”

Johnny was known for exaggerating, but you indulged him anyway. With a short eyeroll you leaned in, taking a single sip from the straw pointed in your direction. Johnny waited, his smile wide and bright as his fingers tapped against the table, the sound echoing through the mostly empty diner in the middle of the night.

“...alright, it’s pretty damn good,”

His cheer echoed through the diner, the waitress shooting him an unimpressed look as his hands banged down on the table. Another round of laughter slipped past your lips as you shook your head at his antics.

“See? You have to trust me more often,” Johnny teased, leaning in to take a sip of the shake from his own straw. “These milkshakes are the cure to sadness.”

You didn’t have the guts in that moment to tell him the shake didn’t cure anything. No, you felt lighter simply from that boyish grin and the laughter that fell from Johnny Storm’s lips, something you weren’t keen to admit quite yet.

“Talking about me, baby? I leave you alone in the lab for a few hours and you miss me that much?”

As if hearing his name from floors away, Johnny Storm himself came strutting straight into the kitchen, charm rolling off him with every step he took. That smile of his was as bright as ever, eyes wide and full of mirth.

He practically skipped up to your side, tossing the box of food in your hand somewhere onto the counter. Cradling your hand in his, he brought it to his lips without another thought, pressing a featherlight kiss to your knuckles. His gaze never wavered from you the entire time.

With a roll of your eyes, though paired with a smile full of affection, you shoved him off, placing the box of food he’d just tossed away into its rightful place as you shot him a look over your shoulder.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Johnny. Contrary to what you think, you are not the only thing I’m thinking about,”

“You see, but that implies that I am one of the things you’re thinking about,” his response came easily as he made his way over to Ben, stealing one of Maisie’s cookies from the bag before he could be stopped. Ben only let out a sigh that could probably be heard from the other side of the city. “Nevermind that, though, I came here on a mission. The sun is setting and we’ve got a 40 minute drive, so get upstairs and attempt to look even cuter than you already do, if that’s possible.”

Exchanging a quick look with Ben as Johnny walked backwards out of the kitchen and back into the living room, you both looked back at the blonde moments later.

“Get ready for what?” you questioned. “To go where?”

“Long Island, sweetheart. Your guide to the 60s continues tonight,” he paused at the stairway, one hand on the railing and the other pointing across the room toward you. “Meet me in the lobby in ten minutes, got it?”

You considered arguing, but the truth was, you didn’t want to. Every one of these excursions with Johnny so far had been fun, had been enough to fill that little hole in your chest for a fleeting moment, and right now you wanted that more than anything.

“Alright, ten minutes,”

He clapped, beginning to move up the stairs as he practically shouted across the room.

“Good girl. It’s a date-”

“It is not a date-” your words fell on deaf ears as he went sprinting up the stairs, yelling out a distant “It very much is a date!” from the next floor. It was impossible to ignore the heat spreading in your cheeks at his words, though.

The silence of the room only hung there for a minute before Ben’s laughter filled it, echoing off the walls. Shutting your eyes for a moment, you let out a deep breath, trying to understand the enigma that was Johnny Storm sometimes, before patting Ben on the shoulder as you moved toward the elevator.

“Well, wish me luck on whatever this next excursion is. Hopefully it doesn’t involve him almost whacking me in the head with a golf club again,”

“You’ll be just fine,” Ben called out from the kitchen, speaking through his laughter. You could clearly hear the underlying teasing tone to his words. “Have fun on your date-”

“Benjamin, don’t start with me!”

It might not have been a date, but that didn’t mean you weren’t going to try. There really was no reason to, though: Johnny had seen you at your worst over the last two months. Always arriving on your floor sometimes at the crack of dawn with an idea for the day, startling you before you even had a chance to wipe away the mess of tears streaking across your cheeks from yet another nightmare you’d just awoken from.

It wasn’t a date. Just because you chose the cutest pair of pants and a sweater that the closet full of 60s style clothes offered didn’t mean anything. Not a damn thing.

You hated to admit how good Johnny looked in just a simple grey sweater and some slacks. Strutting toward you through the lobby of the Baxter Building, employees already sent home for the day and leaving the lobby bathed in silence, he let out a short whistle as he came to a stop in front of you.

“You say it’s not a date, but you sure do look nice,”

“That’s because your sister filled my closet with all nice clothing,” you shot back.

Johnny hummed, eyes still scanning you up and down. Eyes finding yours again, he held out his arm to you, just as he typically did on these little excursions.

“Come on,”

Hand resting in the crook of his elbow, the cool night air sank deep into your bones as you stepped outside. Johnny’s hand was quick to find the handle to the passenger side door of his custom blue Corvette, swinging it open and taking your hand in his to help you into the leather seat, just as he always did. 

The leather made a noise as you shifted, buckling yourself into place as Johnny cooly slid into the driver’s seat. One hand rested on the wheel, the other drumming along the knob of the gearshift as his foot hit the gas, sending you speeding out of the drive of the Baxter Building and onto the roads of New York.

“What’s today’s adventure?” you asked after a few moments of silence. Johnny’s grin simply brightened, his glance finding you beside him for a second before his fingers turned the knobs of the radio on, filling the call with music as he continued to cruise down the streets he knew like the back of his hand.

“That’s a surprise, sweetheart. Just enjoy the drive,”

It was easy to enjoy it. The same city you’d grown up in, yet so different at the same time. Every building looked new, the atmosphere felt lighter than New York had for you in years, everything about the city you knew so well felt different. The lights, the skyline, everything still felt like home as you crossed the East River, flying through the streets of Brooklyn and eventually Queens.

The heaviness eventually found you, though, just like it had every day for the last two months. As city lights shone off the windows of the Corvette, bathing you in its light, your mind still wandered back to memories. The first time Tony had driven you upstate to the new compound in the passenger seat of the god awful orange Audi. The quietness that came with the blip, the way the entire city fell still. The sweeter moments, like dragging your best friend from the compound late one night and sneaking into the city, sitting along the Brooklyn Bridge to admire the lights.

“Hey,” those memories came to a halt, Johnny’s hand brushing across your knee, settling there with a gentle squeeze. “You’re thinking hard over there.”

You hummed, head still resting on your hand as your elbow sat against the window of the car door. You let your eyes settle on his hand, just watching the way his thumb drew circles into the side of your knee.

“Reminiscing on my New York, that’s all,”

“Ah, getting homesick,” the sight of Johnny nodding was just barely visible out of the side of your eyes, His hand slid from you, joining his other hand on the wheel. “You’ll go home, back to your futuristic universe eventually, I know it. Then you can forget all about us in this little universe.”

The radio was blaring a Frank Sinatra song, something much too slow for the night time around you. The song crackled through the speakers as you glanced over, observing the side of Johnny’s face. For a man that hid behind such an extravagant persona for the media and the fans, you could see right through it. That hint of sadness in his own features, woven into the creases of his eyes and the lines around his lips, at the thought of you leaving.

I fall in love too easily, I fall in love too fast. I fall in love too terribly hard.

“I think you’re underestimating how much I will miss you guys when I go home,” you told him simply, the music playing lightly through the speakers. It really was that simple, it was the truth. “I’ll miss you guys a lot. I’ll miss you.”

Johnny’s hand seemed to tighten along the steering wheel for just a second, so quick you almost missed it. Those blue eyes glanced over at you, catching your gaze. His features were riddled with something you couldn’t understand, but could see how gentle it was, until his charming smile was back, wiping away any trace of the strange emotion you had seen.

“Careful there, little witch. It’s starting to sound like you’re falling unequivocally in love with me-”

His laughter filled the car, overtaking the sound from the radio as your hand reached out and shoved his shoulder, your own laughter mixing in with his own.

“You’re fucking impossible, Johnny Storm,”

Of everywhere that you could’ve thought Johnny would be dragging you to, a drive-in theater was the last place you would’ve imagined. 

The entire stretch of lawn buried deep within the heart of Long Island was packed with cars of all different kinds, vintage ones you had never seen in person. There was a group of teenagers crowded around one of the cars, hugging their friends and talking animatedly between each other. Some couples walked through the lines of vehicles, giggling together under their breath as they carried their food from the little stand off to the side.

Johnny pulled the car to a stop in one of the last remaining spots, side windows immediately rolling down to allow the sound from the mounted speakers to infiltrate the car. Night had set in, an announcement projected onto the large screen that the movie would begin soon, as you turned to find Johnny already watching you with a wide grin.

“Come on, don’t tell me you’ve been to drive-in theaters too?”

“They’re still a thing, but I’ve never been,” was the response you gave, a small laugh falling from your lips as he excitedly punched the air. “I have always wanted to go to one, though”

“Then your wish, princess,” in his usual dramatic fashion, Johnny stole your hand in his. With a kiss placed to your knuckles, he was already halfway out of the car before you could truly process the moment. “Is my command. Be right back with the snacks.”

You watched him the entire time he was gone. From the moment he slipped out of the car to ordering something from the snack stand, you watched. Even as the young girl working behind the counter seemed to fangirl at the sight of the Human Torch in front of her.

His charm was stupid most of the time. Little one liners, flirtatious jokes, touches that were all but friendly in nature. You didn’t care for a single one of those moments. It had been awhile, but you’d seen Tony use the same tricks. In the briefest of time you had known Peter Quill even he had tried it. Those moments meant nothing to you, but these did.

Bringing you breakfast in the morning just so you didn’t have to be alone. Dragging you around the city to participate in a thousand activities on the off chance that you hadn’t done them before, once again so that you wouldn’t feel alone and left with your thoughts. Hearing a single scream from you, seeing a single tear, and dragging you through New York in the middle of the night just to see you smile again. Those moments worked on you–meant something to you–more than you wanted them to.

The moment he was swarmed by a bunch of little kids trying to leave the snack stand didn’t help the turmoil you felt inside either. Johnny didn’t complain, not once, simply balanced the food in one arm so he could lean down and high five one of the girls, ruffling the hair of another little boy standing right next to her. He smiled wide, you could see the shake of his chest as he threw his head back in laughter, igniting his hand quickly as the kids all clapped and gasped in awe at the sight of their own personal superhero. There was a news reporter nearby, calling out for a photo that Johnny happily posed for with the kids, leaving them with one last story that had them all looking up at him in awe and adoration.

You hated the stutter that occurred in your heart. You weren’t dumb–you knew what it meant. Johnny Storm was charming, handsome, a literal superhero that had captured the hearts of the entire world. He, also, was the most down to earth man you had ever met sometimes, more observant than you gave him credit for, and too sweet for his own good.

If you thought hard enough, you could almost hear Wong’s voice in your head, scolding you for slowly falling for a man from an entirely different universe. The definition of a man you could never have, never meant to be yours.

“Got swarmed by some little kids, had to make sure I showed off the flames,” Johnny’s voice broke through your thoughts as he slid back into the car, passing a bag of popcorn over the console and into your hands. Just as he did, the large screen in the lot changed, the beginnings of the movie beginning to play as some of those teenagers from earlier began to clap and holler. “Just in time.”

Shaking those thoughts from your head, trying to will them away, you brought your gaze back to the screen. The opening shots of the credits, directors names and actors names plastered across the screen as it dove into the first scene without hesitation, situated on some mountain with hoards of people who were dressed for an even more vastly different time period than now.

“Spartacus?” a questioning glance was thrown Johnny’s way from you as you took a quick bite of your popcorn. “An action/adventure movie was your choice for a drive-in movie date?”

“Hey, you’re the one who said this wasn’t a date,” Johnny retorted, meeting your glance as he took in another handful of popcorn himself with a cheeky grin. “Besides, I didn’t peg you to be a romance movie kind of girl.”

“On some occasions I can be,” you gave back with a shrug. “A good action movie is definitely more my speed, though, so good choice.”

“What can I say, I know you,”

He did. He really did.

It was barely an hour into this three hour movie when your mind finally began to drift off again. Legs curled up on the seat under you, your own popcorn bag finished off and discarded at your feet as you reached over to steal from Johnny’s own bag, you found your thoughts leaving the movie once more. But instead of thinking about home, about the people you lost or the ones waiting for you to come back, you found them on Johnny once again.

Watching the side of his face quietly, you couldn’t help but smile as you watched him mouth some of the words to the movie under his breath, almost mimicking the accents of the actors themselves. It was enough to elicit a small giggle from your lips, bringing his gaze from the movie over to you instead.

“Are you quoting this movie word for word?”

“Hey, don’t knock it. I happen to really like this movie,” your giggles persisted, even as Johnny reached into his bag and tossed a handful of popcorn in your direction. “You should see Ben watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s, he could probably act that entire movie out for you. Don’t tell him I told you that.”

“You’re both such dorks,”

“Come on, don’t you have a movie you can quote?”

You hummed, letting the question sit with you for a moment, memories rushing back over you.

“Not a movie, but a show. Full House,” Johnny’s gaze never left you, the movie long abandoned in his eyes for a moment. An idea sprang to mind, your head tilting ever so slightly as you shot him a grin. “Want to see it?”

Excitement crawled into Johnny’s eyes immediately, his head nodding as he sat up straighter in the driver’s side seat.

You took a deep breath. Holding up your hand to the door beside you, that familiar blue magic seeped from your fingertips as that same color glowed in the irises of your eyes, crawling along the interior of the car until it reached the windshield. Your eyes were watching Johnny once again, the absolute wonder in his eyes as his windshield shimmered in blue, before the screen through the windshield changed before your very eyes: gone were Kirk Douglas and Laurence Olivier, replaced instead by John Stamos and Bob Saget in that iconic kitchen of their San Francisco home.

With another flick of your hand, the speaker at your car switched, playing the sound of the show you were now broadcasting instead of the movie.

“Don’t worry, no one else can see or hear this. Just us,”

Johnny was barely paying attention to what you said, too busy dipping his head in and out of the window in shock and awe, the screen beyond the windshield still playing Spartacus while within the confines of the car your tv show was playing.

“You…I don’t know how you do it, but you somehow get hotter every time you use your magic,”

Laughing, you reached into his popcorn bag and threw an unpopped kernel at the side of his head. Resting back into your seat, arms wound around your knees, you found yourself lost in the scene before you on the screen.

“This was one of Wanda’s favorite shows,” after a minute of silence, engrossed in the scene, you told him. You could feel Johnny’s eyes watching you instead of the show. “She always liked older shows, like Bewitched or I Love Lucy. We used to watch this one all the time in the compound, whenever Steve didn’t have us training constantly.”

Johnny didn’t say anything for a moment, just watched you.

“She was your best friend, wasn’t she? I don’t think you’ve ever said her name,”

“That’s because it’s hard to talk about her,” finding his gaze again, the gentle comfort shining in his gaze washed over you, as if draping you in a blanket. Swallowing the lump in your throat that always formed when you thought too hard about her, you offered him the smallest smile you could muster. “Just a few weeks before I wound up in your universe, I lost her. She lost herself to dark magic, let it consume her, so like the brave woman she was, she chose to protect the world from herself.”

Your words hung in the air, neither of you speaking for a moment. The scene from the show continued to play out before you swiped your hand through the air, dissipating the magic and letting the picture and sound of the movie return to the screen and the little speaker. It hurt too much to relive those moments.

“Hey, do you think by showing me a show that hasn’t come out yet in my universe, this will mess up, like, space and time? Like, what if I go pitch this show to Hollywood real quick and get it made a whole decade before it’s supposed to get made?”

The car got quiet, the only sound being the audio from the movie still playing through the speakers. Raising an eyebrow, entire face contorted in confusion, soft  laughter sputtered out of your lips at the simple comment.

“I…what? Johnny that…” his smile grew, as did your laughter as you struggled to get your words out. “Johnny, that doesn’t make any sense?”

“I’m aware,” his hand reached out, thumb and index finger pinching your chin between the soft pads of his fingers. Your breath caught, laughter dying down as you just stared at him, as he drew small circles into your skin, heat blooming under his touch. “You were getting sad. I just don’t like seeing you sad.”

Johnny’s words were so sincere. Not a hint of his usual charm, not a single signature Storm smirk in sight, just genuine affection. Genuine care for you, for your thoughts, for the way your memories made you feel.

The idea of never going home again hurt, but the idea of leaving the Fantastic Four? Of never seeing Johnny Storm again? That was starting to hurt even more.

Even as his blue Corvette was parked in front of the Baxter Building again late that night, headlights flickering off and plunging the car into darkness except for the street lights around the building, your eyes kept flickering back to him.

Driving through Queens, you no longer thought back on the memories of walking through the city one night with Steve when you were younger. Now, you thought about the diner, about the smile on Johnny’s face as he watched you try that milkshake in the dead of night. As you crossed over the bridge into the city, you didn’t think of the nights you and Wanda would sit on the edge and watch the city lights, you instead watched the way the lights danced over Johnny’s skin through the glass.

The elevator of the Baxter Building popped open on the floor of the main living room. The building was quiet, just a lamp in the corner by the staircase to the bedrooms lit up, everyone else fast asleep.

Johnny stepped out of the elevator, pausing just barely still in the doorway. One arm leaning on doors, keeping them open, you both just stood still and watched one another for a moment.

“For a not date, this very much felt like a date,” you threw at him after a moment. Those blue eyes of his lit up, smile lines etching themselves into his skin as his little grin grew immediately.

“Oh sweetheart, this definitely wasn’t a date. Our first date would be a lot different, trust me,”

You hummed, taking a step forward in the elevator, eyes never leaving his. There was barely space left between the two of you now. Johnny's sharp intake of breath was evident, the smile on your lips growing as you ignored every little voice in your head telling you this was a terrible idea.

“What would our first date be like?”

Surprise crawled into his expression. Eyes wide and bright, the smile on his face warped into something you couldn’t quite place. The hand tucked into the pocket of his slacks crawled forward, gingerly placing itself against your waist. Not pulling you closer, just lying there: steady, grounding, present. You didn’t push him away.

“The Regent,” he spoke softly but certainly, eyes never straying from yours. “Exclusive little dance hall just a few blocks away. Live band every night. You’d look just as beautiful as you always do, and I’d get to spend the entire night spinning you around in circles. Making you smile, watching you laugh, holding you close. That would be our first date.”

You hummed, stepping just a hair closer to him. His fingers flexed along your waist, squeezing ever so slightly, as one of your hands came to rest on his chest, looking up at him through your lashes.

“Sounds like you’ve thought about this,”

“Every night since the moment I realized you weren’t a threat that was coming to destroy my entire world…again,”

“I don’t know,” you teased, hand curling into the fabric of his shirt. “According to Sue, you’re kind of into that thing. I could always coat myself in some shiny silver paint if that does it for you.”

He huffed out a puff of air in laughter, tugging you in until you were pressed to his chest in the doorway of the elevator.

“No, you just have to be you. The pretty little witch that could cut off my oxygen supply with a flick of her wrist is all I need. All I want,”

Your eyes trailed down, along the bridge of his nose, until they settled on the pink of his lips. As you spoke, you never looked away from them.

“When would this date be?”

“Tomorrow night, 8 on the dot,”

“That’s so soon, eager?”

“Extremely, I’ve only been thinking about this for two months,”

Your laughter was soft as your eyes finally trailed back to his, only to find them settled on your lips in turn.

“It’s a date, then,”

His blue eyes found yours, shining with an affection that made your knees week. The hand gripping your waist trailed up, fingers dancing along every curve of your body, until it curled around your cheek to cup it within his hand. The heat of his skin bloomed through yours, sending a single shiver down your spine.

“You know,” his voice was low, eyes blown slightly wider than they had been before, as his eyes quickly darted back down to your lips for a moment. “This would be the moment during the date where I’d probably try and kiss you.”

Even with the flutter of butterflies through your chest, head feeling lighter than it ever had before, your lips curled into a wide grin. Eyes glowing blue for just a moment, a small burst of magic left the hand resting on his chest, pushing him backward and out of the elevator doors.

Johnny’s wide eyes watched you as he caught himself, steadying himself on the ground as he stared at you with a dumbfounded smile. You only returned the look, pressing the button for the guest floor without ever breaking eye contact.

“Guess you’ll have to try your luck tomorrow night,”

Even with the amount of bravado laced into your words as the elevator doors swung shut, cutting you off from Johnny’s captivating gaze, nothing could quell the swell of emotion building behind your chest at the simple thought of the blonde man who’d managed to capture your heart without even really trying.

❤︎

“I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that you want to go on a date with matchstick. I mean, he’s my buddy, he's a great kid, but come on. There’s no one waiting for you back in your universe?”

Ben’s comment earned him another affectionate eyeroll from you, along with a deadpan look shot across the kitchen island counter.

He was deep into making a fresh batch of cookies that he had been given the recipe for, the little old woman he’d met claiming they could match the quality of Maisie’s cookies. Reed was skeptical of the recipe, trying to offer advice from further down the counter, but Ben waved him off every single time.

Little Franklin was sitting in his highchair at the counter between you and Sue, babbling incoherently as he played with the little pieces of cereal laid on the counter in front of him. You were simply flicking the little pieces around with little tendrils of blue magic, Sue laughing every single time Franklin tried to catch a piece and you yanked it away.

“No, Ben, there’s no one waiting for me back home,” was the answer you gave the man, never looking up once as you continued to toy with the food on the counter. “Being a superhero for most of your life kind of makes dating an impossible situation.”

“I, for one, fully support this,” Sue chimed in, rising from her chair to refill Franklin’s bottle on the counter. She passed behind you, reaching out to help smooth down the white long sleeve blouse along your shoulders, forcing you to adjust it along your waist where it was tucked into the navy blue slacks she had helped you pick out earlier on. “This is the first time I’ve seen Johnny so head over heels for a woman in a way that might just stick. He worships the ground that you walk on, I love to see it.”

“It helps that you could kill him if you really wanted to,” Ben threw in for good measure, ducking the slap that Sue tried to land on his shoulder. “Sometimes I think it’s a secret kink of his-”

“Okay, I don’t want to hear about what kinks my little brother may or may not have,”

You laughed at the antics you had grown so used to from the group in front of you. Franklin got upset with the constant moving of his little cereal bits, grabbing a handful and tossing them toward you. Wide eyed at his antics, you grabbed onto his tiny hand, blowing a raspberry into the palm of his hand as his shrieks and giggles sounded throughout the room.

“Reed, I’m surprised you don’t have any comments to add in,” you threw in the super genius’ direction. “Nothing about how we’re from two different universes, or how this could blow up the entire multiverse?”

“I’ve been taking notes regarding it, actually,” Ben’s groan sounded through the room the second Reed said it, pulling a notebook out of his back pocket and flipping it open. “Your genetic makeup, based on previous tests, seemed to align with ours, but that doesn’t mean that fundamentally there isn’t something woven into your DNA that doesn’t match with ours. There’s also the idea that, given you’re from two different universes, you were never supposed to meet, so if you managed to fall in love there could be an unforeseen breakdown of the fabric of the-”

Sue’s hand immediately clamped over her husband’s mouth, giving him an unimpressed look, as she shot you the brightest smile she could manage. She slid the now refilled cup for Franklin across the counter to you as you caught it, laughing under your breath at the entire situation as you handed it over to the little boy beside you who made grabby hands in its direction.

“What Reed means to say is that you’re good for him, and honestly, we haven’t seen you as happy as you’ve been the last few weeks since you started spending more time with him. Since you got here he hasn’t done a single PR nightmare worthy thing. I think Lynne might want to get you the keys to the city for it,”

“What are we getting my girl keys to the city for?”

Maybe his charm never worked on you, his endless flirtatious moves and jokes. But in this moment, as he descended the stairs into the living room and your heart stuttered over several beats, you finally understood the hoards of women across the universe that had Johnny Storm plastered across their walls and their hearts.

The navy blue button up he adorned clung to him, almost slightly too tight on him as the fabric pulled in the creases under his arms and by his waist. It was tucked into a pair of white chino pants, accented with navy blue dress shoes. His smile was bright, cheeky as it always was, his hands clasped together behind his back as he made his way across the living room.

Taking a semi-shaky stand on the strappy heels that Sue had helped you into before, you met him halfway across the room, a hush having fallen over the kitchen as you felt their eyes watching every movement both of you made.

Johnny’s eyes trailed up and down your body the second you came to a stop in front of him, taking in the navy blue of your pants and the white of your blouse, before he cheekily shot you a wink.

“Twinning on the first date? What’s the slang they use in your time for that? Couple goals, wasn't it?”

“Couple?” your eyebrow shot up. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Storm. You have to earn that.”

“Oh, I’ll earn it,” his hands finally unclasped from behind his back, thrusting out toward you. “For you, gorgeous.”

A beautiful bouquet of flowers: Plumeria flowers. Glittering in an ombre of pinks and oranges, taking you back to one of those first nights on that couch just a few floors away. 

You took the bouquet in your hands, eyes never leaving Johnny’s as you inhaled the sweet scent that wafted from the petals. The adoration that shone in his blue eyes sent your heart into another flutter.

“My favorite,” you responded.

“What, did you think I’d forget?”

“Kind of,”

“Give me a little more credit, darling,” he lifted one of your hands from the bouquet, cradling it in his as he left a kiss along your knuckles. “When it comes to you, I don’t think I could forget even if I tried.”

“Can you two leave for your date and go flirt elsewhere? My god, this is painful to watch,”

Sue laughed at Ben’s comment, and you joined in. Johnny shot the man a look, flipping him the bird that you were sure was being shot right back at him from behind your back.

Sue saddled up to your side seconds later, plucking the bouquet from your hands with a soft smile.

“I’ll put these in water for you and leave them upstairs,” she shot her eyes to Johnny, narrowing them. “Treat her well or I will cover for her when she drags your lifeless body back later tonight.”

Too busy laughing, you never even noticed Johnny’s eye roll toward his sister. The only thing you could comprehend as he pulled you into the awaiting elevator was the feeling of his fingers slipping into the empty spaces between yours, intertwining your hand with his.

It felt right. Too right for two people who should have never met one another.

The Regent was situated just a few blocks away from the Baxter Building, the perfect distance to walk straight there. You weren’t complaining, not with the way Johnny gripped your hand like he was afraid you’d pull it away, every so often tugging it gently so that your body fell into his,  arm brushing against his arm.

“We fought with Moleman–well, I guess he prefers to be called Harvey–right here,” he pointed out just a few blocks from the Baxter Building, gesturing toward the blocked off area right beside a small park. There were fences up around what looked like a giant hole in the ground with just the very top of a building sticking out of it, signs indicating ‘keep out’ to everyone that walked past. “He runs Subterranea, the whole civilization under New York.”

“There’s an entire city under this city?” you questioned, looking up at him in alarm.

“Oh yeah, you guys don’t have that?” he quirked an eyebrow toward you as you shook your head in response. “He stole the entire Pan Am building, sinking it down into the ground before we could stop him. Been years and they’re still working on what to do with it.”

You took a single glance around: 45th Street and Park Avenue. The familiar intersection made you smile, one that Johnny seemed to understand all too well. Taking a quick glance around to  ensure that there weren’t too many people watching, you slipped your hand from Johnny’s in order to tilt his head to look at where the building used to stand. With a single wave of your fingertips toward his temples, blue seeping into his eyes, you could see the moment they widened at the sight you were projecting to him.

“In my world, this was the site of the Avengers tower,” you could see the glamour you were showing him, but you knew it like the back of your hand. The tower that hung high above the skyline of the city, the shining ‘A’ that matched the one hanging from the belt of your suit. “It was Stark Tower, until Tony decided to fashion it into a base of operations for the team after the battle of New York.”

The vision faded, the traces of your magic leaving Johnny’s eyes, as they turned back to look at you. His hand found yours again without hesitation, fingers tangling with yours again as if it was the most natural thing in the world for him.

“How do you possibly get cooler and more interesting with every passing thing you tell me and show me? It’s not fair,”

Johnny filled every second of the walk with story after story. A diner on the corner that he’d rescued a little girl from during another fight in the city, and the way she’d hid behind her father shyly the second he’d dropped her back down on the ground. Another diner just a block away that he’d dragged Reed to after he’d locked himself in his lab for upwards of 48 hours, not having eaten a single thing to the point where Sue was concerned he’d just pass out on the floor in front of his chalkboard. The bakery that sat underneath a row of apartments that Johnny was convinced had the best pie in the world, but Ben still argued there wasn’t a single bakery in the world that could compare to Maisie’s over on Yancy Street.

Before you knew it, you were standing before The Regent. Elegant, sign shimmering and lighting up the darkened sidewalk before it. One single man stood at the door, surveying the area. With one look to Johnny, he nodded his head toward the door to grant him access.

Stepping into that room felt like entering an entirely new world. Light wooden floors that matched the light wood of the walls, which were decorated themselves with photographs upon photographs of couples and celebrities dancing and performing on the stage. The stage itself was beautiful, shining bright at the end of the room as the lights illuminated the band that was currently engrossed in some Elvis song that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. The walls were all draped with velvety red curtains from the ceiling to the floor, accenting the dimly lit room, dance floor, stage and bar in color. Couples, friends, groups all mingled about, dining at the tables elevated at the back of the room, mingling along the walls, and dancing together in front of the stage.

“Of everything you’ve dragged me to these last few months,” you spoke up, voice rising to be heard over the music as the band switched songs, playing a cover of River Deep - Mountain High now. “This is the most 60s feeling thing yet.”

“And that, sweetheart, is why I saved it for a proper date,” Johnny appeared in front of you, your hand still clasped in his, as he tugged you forward. “Come on!”

Your laughter rang through the room as Johnny pulled you into the throws of people, finding an open spot among the crowd on the floor.

He spun you, that smile never dropping from his lips as you twirled in circles. Each twirl left you dizzy as the song played on in the background, the groups of people around you clapping along to the beat from the band. It was inevitable that you’d eventually stumble in the heels you weren’t accustomed to. Johnny’s arm was there, like you somehow knew it would be, curling around your waist. He dipped you, cheekily pretending as if it was all meant to happen, before spinning you back up onto your heels and pulling you into his chest.

“Come on, I can’t have you tripping and falling for me just yet,” he teased, hands holding yours as he spun you out once again just to pull you right back in.

“You try dancing in heels!” you shot back at him, earning a bright laugh from the man still dancing you around in circles. “We never danced like this at Tony’s parties.”

“I thought you said he threw a lot of those,”

“Yeah, but they were more stand around, drink, and talk parties than dancing,” you took a single glance around the room, at every woman being danced around by their friends and their partners. Swishing skirts, some almost touching the floor, loosely hanging from their bodies. “Not that the dresses I was forced to wear would've allowed for dancing. Too tight fitting–the one had a slit almost the entire way up my thigh.”

Johnny’s hand tugged you in at that moment, your chest flush against his. His lips skimmed over the edge of your ear, voice husky as he whispered into it just loudly enough for you to hear.

“I need you to not give me a mental image of your 21st century clothing while we’re in public, honey,”

A laugh bubbled from your throat as you pulled back to see him fully. The ways his eyes had darkened just slightly, the blue of his eyes almost completely overtaken, had your stomach doing a flip. But it wasn’t enough to stop the slightly sadistic smile that overtook your lips.

“Why? It’s so much fun, seeing you all worked up,” you let your fingers touch his jaw gently, nails dragging down the expanse of his neck and to the small bit of skin just barely visible along his collarbone, before you pushed away from him. “Come on, let’s get drinks!”

You could just barely hear his groan of “You’re going to be the death of me,” behind you as he followed you diligently through the crowd, his hand finding the small of your back within seconds so that you were never quite far from him.

Seated on one of the barstools, sipping gingerly at the drink Johnny had procured for you, it was impossible not to watch Johnny. 

The way he animatedly retold a story about how they’d been invited to a fundraiser years ago in a dance hall, how he’d talked Ben into getting up onto the stage to dance. The way he so enthusiastically greeted those around the bar that did recognize him, as they slid in little comments about if you were the “mystery woman” that the papers had begun to pick up on over the last two months. He deflected them with ease, remembering many of those that said hello to him, asking such personal things about their families, their jobs, as if they were his best friends.

Your laughter spilled into your drink as the band played their own version of The Twist, and Johnny chose to demonstrate his moves directly in front of you. He smiled wide, eyes never leaving you, as he mouthed the words in your direction, following along with the dance every other person in the club was doing along with him.

“Johnny Storm: a superhero, an avid golfer, a lover of space, and now we can add dancer to that extensive list,” you teased, taking the final sip of your drink before leaving the empty glass on the counter behind you. “Do you frequent these dance halls a lot?”

“When I was a teenager I found my way here pretty often,” he answered easily as the song came to an end, the room cheering out and erupting in applause for the band. With one arm, he leaned against the counter beside you, looking up at you. “I wouldn't call myself a dancer, though. Just had enough practice to be semi-decent.”

“Practice, huh?” you questioned, just as the band started back up again. “How many girls have you taken dancing before?”

The band kicked back up, their next song already ready to go. You recognized it immediately: that same Frank Sinatra song that had played in the car through Long Island barely 24 hours prior. Johnny only smiled softly, standing out in front of you with his hand outstretched toward you.

“None. Promised myself that only one woman would ever have the pleasure of seeing me dance. Now, will you do me the honor?”

It wasn’t a line, not one of his usually charming, flirtatious lines. Not the way in which he said it: so genuinely, so vulnerably. You slipped your hand into his without a second thought.

Johnny guided you back out onto the dance floor, finding another open space among the couples around with ease. His arm slid around your waist, resting there as if it was the most natural thing in the world. You didn’t want to dwell on the fact that it really did feel so right, in a way you had never felt before.

His hand pressed firmly into your lower back, holding your body close to his. You could feel that unnatural heat that radiated off of his skin through the layers of clothing that adorned your body. One of your arms found its place around his shoulder, hand curled around the back of his neck and tangling just slightly with the hairs that laid there. Your other hand was clasped in his, taking in every bit of warmth that seeped from his palm into yours.

I fall in love too easily, I fall in love too fast. I fall in love too terribly hard for love to ever last.

“Can I ask you something?” you asked him quietly, nose just barely brushing along the edge of his jawline as you danced together, swayed back and forth across the floor with him.

“Anything,”

“You didn’t have to trust me that day in the park. You could’ve assumed I was a threat, taken me out. Instead, you took me in,” you closed your eyes, leaning in just slightly as your nose brushed over his jawline once again. “Then, you took it upon yourself to make me feel comfortable, to not let me feel alone in a universe that isn’t mine…why?”

“I mean, from the moment I saw you I thought you were pretty, but it was because I felt like I was looking at me,” Johnny’s answer was simple. No charm, no jokes, just the truth. “I saw myself for a moment, the me I was when we came home from space with powers. Confused, angry, terrified of what I had become. I didn’t know what to do. You looked so lost, so alone, and you continued to look that way every day. I didn’t…I didn’t want you to feel alone. I didn’t want you to feel like I did when I came home that day, when I felt like I had to lock myself away. It didn’t help that…I kind of fell for you along the way.”

Any hesitation in your heart, any thought in your brain still telling you that this was a terrible idea, that it could never work, melted away in that single second.

My heart should be well schooled ‘cause I've been fooled in the past. And still I fall in love too easily, I fall in love too fast.

“Can I ask you something?” he tacked on as your brain and heart still searched for a way to respond to him. All you could give him was a nod, one he could feel from where your skin touched his. “I’ve been flirting with you every day since we met. What made you finally say yes to a date?”

“Because I wasn’t saying yes to Jonathan Storm, the Human Torch, one of the four protectors of this Earth,” you told him simply, leaning back just slightly so that you could catch his gaze as you spoke, bodies still swaying back and forth to the swell of the violin. “I was saying yes to Johnny. The flame boy who decided to trust me. The guy that does the dumbest shit just to make his nephew laugh. The only one who’s made the pain of what I’ve lost lessen these last few months. I didn’t fall for all the bravado, or the charming lines, I just fell for him.”

Your confession was laid bare, as was his. He didn’t say a single word. Johnny simply smiled, leaning forward to press a kiss to the crown of your head, before letting his eyes close and his forehead rest against yours. You followed suit, mirroring him, simply existing in the space within his arms.

My heart should be well schooled ‘cause I've been fooled in the past. And still I fall in love too easily, I fall in love too fast.

What felt like hours later, while also feeling like no time had passed at all, you found your hand clasped in Johnny’s once more. Roaming the streets of New York in the cool air of the night, a giddiness present in each of you that could only be compared to the feeling of pure childlike wonder and joy.

All you could think about was how right it felt, being with him. Having his hand in yours. Being in his arms. Universes separated you, but in this moment, you felt as if you had never belonged somewhere more than you did right now.

“Okay, okay,” Johnny forced out through his laughter, leaning into you as you turned another street corner, trying to find the next question to ask in the long line of questions you had been throwing back and forth. “Favorite fight that you had with the Avengers?”

“Oh god, I don’t know if I can answer that,” you responded easily with a laugh, shaking your head at the thought. “None of them were really fun, they all kind of left immense damage in their wake. One ended with me locked in a high security prison in the middle of the ocean for a short period of time, so, I guess that was fun.”

“That…that sounds like the opposite of fun,”

“Oh, it was. It sucked immensely,” he shoved his shoulder into yours for the comment. “Okay, my turn. Favorite memory with Reed?”

“When he asked me permission to marry Sue. I thought he was going to piss himself, I’ve never seen the man look so nervous,” Johnny laughed, tugging on your hand to bring you in closer to his side again. “Okay, how about your favorite thing you can do with your magic?”

Now that was a show instead of a tell question. Dropping his hand, you slid into the space in front of Johnny on the side walk, shuffling backwards against the pavement. He cocked an eyebrow as you shot him a tiny grin, before your hands at your sides began to glow in that familiar blue as your body lifted off of the grow by just a few feet, uncaring for anyone that could possibly see you in the area.

Johnny stopped in his tracks, dumbfounded as his wide eyes looked up at you. He sputtered for a moment, trying to find his words.

“Wait–you could fly this entire time, and you didn’t tell me?”

“You never asked!”

Johnny’s body ignited in flames, a sight you’d sparingly seen over your time in their world. From the chest down, every bit of him burned in those bright orange and red licks of fire as he, too, flew above the ground before you, back to being level with you once more.

“We could’ve been flying everywhere instead of driving!”

“Well, let’s just have some fun with it now,” you shot back with a wink, before propelling yourself upward. “Keep up, flame boy!”

The chill in the New York breeze was a familiar feeling, beating against your face as you propelled yourself up into the air, flying along the edge of the buildings. Johnny followed along right beside you, the heat of his flames fanning out over you and cancelling out the chill that night air brought with it.

His eyes never left yours as you spun around a corner of the building, propelling yourself further up into the air. You looked down, watching him with a smile as you hung there high above the buildings and the city of New York. Johnny joined you in seconds, hovering just in front of you. The clouds practically kissed your body, the city so far down below you both, leaving you alone together among the clouds.

You could see it, the glint in his eyes, the way they flickered down to your lips for just a second before glancing back up, pretending as if they’d never strayed away. He leaned in, and you let him for just a moment, before letting your body fall backward and freefall through the air back toward the city.

His laughter echoed through the sky as he flew down after you, following the sound of your own laughter. He saddled up to your side, flying down alongside you once again before you took a sudden turn, propelling yourself toward the rooftop of a building just barely in the distance.

Your feet touched down on the private rooftop moments later, magic dissipating from your fingertips as you landed, taking in a deep breath as the rush of flying left your body in one fell swoop. The rooftop garden you’d landed in was clearly one for a private residence, somewhere you probably shouldn’t have been, but you didn’t care. Not with the smell of the flowers invading your senses, the glint of the dim fairy lights strung around the roof bathing you in their light, and the view of the Baxter Building dead ahead.

Johnny’s feet touched the ground just moments after you, the sound of his shoes hitting the flooring alerting you. Spinning, he was standing just a few feet away, watching you with a little smile as he shook his head with laughter.

“You might be insane,”

“Sorry,” your giggles fell into the mix with his own laughter. “It’s been a minute since I’ve flown. I’ve missed it.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever flown with someone on a first date,” Johnny countered, taking just a few steps forward toward you. “Unless you count Shalla-Bal throwing me off her surfboard in space, but that wasn’t really a date.”

“Guess this was a first for both of us, then,”

You matched his steps, barely a few feet between the two of you now. Johnny didn’t make another step forward, though, didn’t close the space separating you. 

His Adam’s apple bobbed, his foot tapped against the ground, and his hands clearly didn’t know what to do with themselves.

“What’s wrong?” you asked gently, even though you could practically see the nerves rolling off of him. He laughed, shaking his head as he glanced to the ground for just a moment, before back to you.

“I…I’m kind of nervous, if you can believe it,”

You hummed, taking the initiative to step up into his space, barely a few inches separating the two of you now. Your eyes never left him.

“Why? I thought the charming Johnny Storm had been on a bunch of first dates?” you teased.

He laughed breathily, eyes darting to your lips for just a second.

“Not ones that mattered…not like you do,”

You barely let him finish his sentence before you curled your hands around the back of his neck, tugging him down to you and slotting your lips against his.

It was short, but poured every bit of passion into it that swarmed through your heart and your head. Your lips moved against his just slightly, still testing the waters as the heat that coursed through his skin and into yours felt as if it was sinking straight down into your bones. Johnny’s lips were soft, supple, a shaky breath leaving his lips and fanning out over yours the second that they touched for the first time. Something in your head clicked at the feeling, something that you couldn’t quite put your finger on, making you light-headed as your fingers just barely curled into the hair kissing the nape of his neck.

It was you that pulled away first. Barely a few inches away, the heat of his body still filling the air between you. His blue eyes bore down into your, wide and full of awe, lips slightly parted. A smile stretched across his face first, a matching once crawling across your own as you let your hands fully dive into his hair.

Johnny moved first, hands enveloping your waist and tugging you until your body was almost one with his, his mouth devouring yours in a kiss that had your knees almost crumbling to the ground.

Those heated hands swarmed your body desperate to touch every single expanse of you that they could in the way you were sure he’d thought about, in the way you never wanted to admit you sometimes dreamed about. Goosebumps crawled across your skin with every move of his hands, with every flex of his fingers and they pressed into you. His lips moved against yours like a starved man, slick with spit as your mouth opened to him, letting him invade every bit of you that you could, his tongue slipping just barely in and grazing over your bottom lip. A moan fell–from you or Johnny, neither of you knew–but the sound only spurred you both on.

His hands tightened their grip around your waist, holding him to you like a possession, one he couldn’t bear to lose. Claiming you. Your hand wound into his hair, tugging to elicit a groan from him, as you let your other trail down to rest over the patch of skin just barely visible under the single unbuttoned part of his shirt.

When your lips finally broke, soft pants filling the air between you, neither of you dared to look away. You couldn’t. It was like being in a trance, being pulled to the man in front of you almost magnetically. He leaned in, pressing a series of soft pecks against your lips, hands still flexing across your hips with each little peck that sent the butterflies in your stomach into a frenzy.

“This is crazy, right?” he muttered out between kisses. You hummed in response, matching each kiss of his with your own through your grin, hands still carding through his hair.

“What, falling for each other when we come from completely different universes?”

“Exactly that,” he responded, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose, before his forehead rested against yours. Those blue eyes bore down into yours, a soft smile over taking his kiss bitten lips again. “I don’t care much, though. Not when it just…feels so right.”

Your smile matched his in seconds as you leaned forward, stealing yet another kiss that flooded your body with warmth.

“Me too,”

Maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t so crazy: falling for someone universes away from you. Even universes away, maybe Johnny Storm was always meant to be yours, always meant to be the missing piece to your incomplete puzzle.

❤︎

Johnny Storm had been called many things over the years by the media. A playboy, a womanizer, noncommittal. They were all wrong.

He preferred the term hopeless romantic, especially when it came to you.

Especially in this exact moment, leaning against the doorway of his bedroom in the early hours of the afternoon to see you sprawled out, tangled in the covers that were halfway off his bed. You looked as if you belonged there, and in Johnny’s eyes, you did. There was nowhere else that you belonged than right by his side.

Crossing the room quietly, trying not to disturb you, he gently placed the glass of water he’d ventured into the kitchen for down on the bedside table. He got distracted, as he typically did, at the sight of the polaroids splayed out across the wooden table. Taking them gingerly in his hands, terrified to ruin them, the smile that crossed his face couldn’t be wiped away.

You wrapped in his arms along the Coney Island beach in the early hours of the morning. One of just you, sprawled out in his bed in nothing but one of his button downs that fell down to your thighs. You on the couch, Franklin curled into your lap as you read him a book. His favorite one, sneakily taken by Sue late one night, wrapped in his arms on the balcony of the Baxter Building, lips pressed together through smiles.

He loved you. Johnny loved you more than he ever believed he could love someone in life. Multiverse be damned, you were it for him. You were meant to be his and his alone, and he was hell bent on loving you to the fullest extent every single day that he could, knowing someone could come along and rip you away at any moment.

But the universe had given him a year. An entire year to love you in every way that he could, to prove to you that you were it for him. He thanked whatever being out there in the multiverse he needed to every single day for the time he’d been given with you.

Johnny crawled onto the bed, tugging the comforter down from around your shoulders so he could fully see you. His pillow was clutched between your arms, the space in which he usually occupied. His white t-shirt, bearing the 4 logo that you’d made fun of him for months ago, covered your body, falling to the middle of your bare thighs.

He leaned in with a smile, pressing kiss after kiss to the bare skin of your arms he could see, trailing down to leave heat filled kisses to the bare skin of your thighs. He’d barely left three there before he could hear your giggle, body flipping over onto your back so that you could look down on him with a raised eyebrow and a grin.

“You left me,” you teased with a fake little pout. “I had nothing to hold but a pillow.”

“I’m so sorry, princess,” Johnny mumbled through his smirk, pressing yet another kiss into your thighs. His hands traveled up the sides of your legs, pushing his t-shirt with them as his kisses trailed further up the expanse of your skin. “How could I ever make it up to you?”

“I-I don’t know…round three doesn’t sound that bad,”

Johnny hummed through his laughter, mumbling a quiet “I love you” into your skin. He knew you could hear it, though, he knew that you knew it.

He reveled in every little noise that left your lips, every puff of air that was on the cusp of being a moan as he lavished every inch of your skin in a kiss.

“Look, you’re both adults so I try not to tell you what to do, but it’s the middle of the afternoon and–JESUS CHRIST, JOHNNY!”

He’d never sprang away so fast, throwing himself so hard to the side of the bed that he fell straight off of it to the floor with a thud. Your laughter filled the room as he crawled back up the side of the bed, your hand covering your mouth to conceal your laughter and the comforter pulled back up your legs.

Johnny immediately shot a glare at his sister, standing in the doorway of his room with her eyes covered by her hand.

“Sue, you have no one to blame but yourself for this–”

“You could have closed the door! I don’t need to see you doing all of that, my god,” Sue shook her head, peaking between her fingers to finally see that there was nothing happening, before dropping her hand. “Reed wants you in the lab for a few more tests, okay, he promised those would be the last ones this week. Just…look decent and meet us down there, okay?”

She grumbled the entire way out of the room, muttering comments about scarring her for life.

Johnny only rolled his eyes, throwing himself back onto the bed to hover above you. Nothing could ruin his mood, not when you looked up at him like that, smile bright and eyes full of adoration.

“That’s the third time this month she’s done that,” you managed to speak through giggles, slapping him lightly on the shoulder. “She’s going to kill us one of these days.”

Johnny only hummed, ignoring the comment. Instead, his fingers trailed down your neck, grasping the chain of the necklace that rested against your chest, a little charm of a Plumeria dangling off the end. His Christmas gift to you, one of the many you received as you were showered in them by his entire family. He pressed a kiss to the flower, looking up to you, only to see that same soft look in your eyes.

“I love you,” he whispered out, leaning in to capture your lips in his before you could speak back. He could feel you sigh into the feeling, your fingers dancing over his cheek lightly as you kissed him back just as softly.

“I love you, too,” you whispered back against his lips, before your hand rested on his chest with a little push. “But we’re going to go down to that lab because if we stay here another second, Sue is going to be walking in on a sight that she really doesn’t want to see.”

Johnny groaned, but relented. Falling back to his knees, his hands wound under the covers to your hips, pulling you up to your knees quickly on the bed. His mouth found yours in an instant, cementing another kiss there just for good measure.

“Round three after, right?”

It was your magic this time that pushed him, sending him tumbling back off the bed as your laughter rang out through the room.

“If you can behave, then maybe,”

Still clad in his t-shirt, having thrown on the old pair of ripped jeans you’d arrived in this universe in over a year ago, Johnny tucked you under his arm the second you stepped out of his bedroom, unable to go a second without touching you in any way shape or form. You never complained, even leaned into him as he pressed a kiss to your hairline.

“Lynne was able to get us reservations at that one restaurant you’ve been wanting to try for tonight, by the way,” he told you as you stepped into the elevator, hitting the button for Reed’s lab instantly. He grinned at the way your smile brightened, eyes turning to look up at him.

“Oh my god, that new one in Times Square?”

“That’s the one,” Johnny shot back. He let his arm fall from your shoulders, letting it wrap around your waist. His hand found the edge of his shirt, dipping beneath it so that his hand could press against the skin of your bare back. “Thinking maybe afterward we could go for a little fly around the city, sit down on the Brooklyn Bridge for a little while.”

Your hands cupped his cheeks almost instantly after he spoke, pulling him into a kiss. A feeling Johnny was sure he would never grow tired of, never get enough of.

“It’s a date,”

Stepping out into Reed’s lab, the entire team was gathered around. Reed was fussing over a machine, just as he normally was, with Sue trying desperately to calm him down. Ben was entertaining Franklin over on the couch, reading to him one of his favorite books.

“Oh, good, you’re here,” Reed called out, ignoring the doting of Johnny’s sister as he waved you over frantically. “I just want to run a few more tests for this week. I changed some of the parameters, I just want to make sure that we have all of our bases covered.”

You gave Johnny’s hand a quick squeeze before crossing the room, sliding into the same chair you always sat in for Reed’s tests, presenting your arm for the usual blood draw. Reed was convinced that it was necessary to test your blood, to do weekly scans of your body, to ensure that there were no lasting effects on your from staying in the wrong universe for an extended period of time like you had.

Johnny joined Ben and Franklin over on the couch, leaning down to leave a little kiss on his little nephew’s forehead, one that left the boy smiling and giggling.

“Johnny,” Franklin was barely able to say his name, stumbling over most of the letters, but he heard him loud and clear. He ruffled the boy's hair with a laugh, kneeling down in front of the couch.

“Hey buddy,” Johnny glanced over at Ben, at the smirk on the man’s rocky mouth, and raised an eyebrow in question. “What?”

“Nothing, nothing. Love just looks good on you, kid,” Ben teased.

Johnny shot a look over his shoulder, straight toward you. Smiling in that chair, laughing at something Sue said, as Reed drew the blood from your arm with a practiced ease for his various tests.

“Nah, it’s just loving her,” Johnny glanced back at Ben, a hint of a sheepish grin on his lips as he shrugged. “I don’t know how to describe it, man. She’s just…I think she’s just it.”

Ben smiled, that knowing one that he always had, as his rocky hand came down to pat Johnny’s back.

“I think so too. You deserve this, matchstick. You were practically made for each other,”

Johnny agreed. He was trying to decide mentally if one year was too soon to officially make your last name Storm like he had promised months ago.

The quiet, the lightheartedness that filled the lab, couldn’t stay forever. Not when the alarms across the room began to blare.

Every head shot up at once, turning to look down the length of the lab to the computers where the alarm was blaring. Reed shot to his feet, taking a step in front of Sue as you ripped the needle from your arm in seconds to join them.

“Johnny-”

“On it!”

He’d practically sprinted halfway down the lab at that point, pulling up the alarm system at the designated workstation. That same map that had foreshadowed your arrival blinked on the screen, the same blip that showed your arrival in Gramercy Park blinking on the screen–right on the Baxter Building.

“It’s the same readings as when she got here,” Johnny called out down the lab, eyes frantically darting back and forth between you and Reed. “The blip, though, it’s right here on the building-”

There was sound from right beside him, startling him. Johnny whipped around, little sparks of yellow and gold flashing in the air beside him.

He instantly took steps back, shuffling backward and away from the growing sparks until his legs hit the back of the couch. Ben stood somewhere behind him, holding Franklin protectively in his arms. Reed held onto Sue across the room from where Johnny stood, keeping her at his side, as you stepped up in front of them: eyes glowing, magic dancing at your finger tips.

Until those sparks of energy grew, larger and larger, until they formed the makings of a small circle. Johnny could hear the second your breath caught, that glow in your eyes fading and the magic at your fingertips vanishing in seconds as you took another step forward.

“O-Oh my god…”

The sparking circle grew, almost the size of an entire person, before it stabilized, and out of what Johnny could only assume was a portal stepped a man. Older, tired, short hair and the remnants of cuts along his face. Body draped in elegant robes of purple and yellow he’d never seen before. His eyes darted around the room, before they landed on you, and he let out the loudest sigh Johnny had ever heard.

“Oh, thank god-”

“WONG!”

You’d practically flown across the room and into the man’s arms. Wong hadn’t wasted a second, hugging you back just as tightly as you cried, holding onto the man for dear life.

Johnny froze: Wong. He’d heard that name before. You talked about him all the time. The Sorcerer Supreme, the man you were supposed to wait for before you performed the spell that had landed you here in the first place. Johnny felt his heart break at the realization. He could feel the eyes of his sister on him from across the room.

His time had finally run out. Home had finally come to take you back from him.

“When I tell you that you aren’t to touch the Book of Vishanti without me, it is not a suggestion,” Wong scolded, hands clasping your shoulders as you violently wiped your tears across the room. “I already had to deal with Stephen breaking into the restricted section years ago, I do not want a repeat of that again. Do you know how difficult it is to find your energy signature through the vast multiverse?”

“I know, I know,” you nodded your head, before shaking it back and forth. “No performing any spells from an ancient book without your supervision. I got it.”

Wong nodded once, before his eyes finally glanced over the rest of the room. They settled on Reed and Sue, Ben and Franklin, and finally on Johnny.

“Do I need to worry about-”

“No, no, they’re friends. They’re practically family,” you assured the man, turning and gesturing out to the room. “This is the Fantastic Four. They’re essentially the Avengers of their universe…”

Your words trailed off as you finally met Johnny’s eyes again. He could see it, the moment that the realization seemed to settle in over you like it already had for him, and he thought his heart was going to break all over again.

From the corner of his eyes, he could see the glance that Wong sent between both you and him. A knowing one, one that spoke volumes without having to speak at all. He sighed, the sound ringing through the otherwise quiet lab, as he squeezed your shoulder.

“Five minutes,” Wong told you gently, his gaze drifting back to Johnny for just a minute. “There’s no telling if your time here has done any damage to the time streams. We need to get you home…I can give you five minutes.”

You only nodded, tearing your eyes away from Johnny. There was no arguing.

He knew this day would come, even if selfishly he wished it never would.

His eyes never left you as you crossed the room, practically flying into Sue’s arms. Johnny felt as if his head was under water. He could see your lips moved, Sue’s lips moving, but he couldn’t hear a word either of you said. 

In his head, Johnny could guess what you were saying. A thank you for taking you in, for taking care of you, for all the times Sue had helped you dress for a date or taken you out into the city with her. He was sure Sue was thanking you for simply loving her little brother.

Reed pulled you into a tentative hug, short but still sweet. You didn’t exchange many words, but he could make out a “thank you” on his brother-in-law's lips.A thank you that simply encompassed everything, everything that he was sure Reed struggled to say.

Johnny saw your tears again when you stepped into Ben’s arms finally. A conversation that he was sure detailed the many early morning trips you’d made to Maisie’s together, or the late night talks that happened on the couch over drinks as some movie played on TV.

Franklin’s cries pierced the air, his hands making grabby motions toward you as he cried. You placed a single kiss to his head, walking away before you broke down.

Finally, you stood before him. Mascara running just slightly, tear stains littering your cheeks and down to your chin. You mustered the smallest of smiles that you could for him, albeit watery. Johnny tried to do the same, feeling the lump in his throat beginning to form.

“I thought I had three rules for you before you went home,” he managed to say, trying to swallow back the burning need to cry. You laughed, though the sound almost sounded like a sob, as you nodded your head.

“I’m leaving having accomplished two of those things. I guess that counts as a win,”

Johnny nodded, the beginnings of a sob almost bubbling out of his throat. Like two magnets pulled together, you fell into his arms. Head buried into his neck, Johnny’s one hand curled into your hair, tears slipping down his cheeks and soaking into the skin of the side of your head as your own tears soaked into his neck, your cries muffled by his skin.

“I love you,” he muttered into the side of your head, pressing kiss after kiss to your skin. “I don’t care. I love you. I love you more than anything.”

You pulled away, those red rimmed and watery eyes finding him, as you cupped his cheeks in your shaking hands.

“I love you too,” you whispered, stealing a kiss from his lips that took every bit of breath out of him. Your next words were whispered against his mouth. “This isn’t goodbye. I promise.”

Johnny managed a laugh, stealing another kiss as he gripped you as tightly as possible, hoping if he held on tight enough you wouldn’t slip away.

“What, you’re going to find a way to defy the multiverse to see me again? Abandon your home?”

“For you? Yeah,” you answer was short, meaningful, determined, definitive. Johnny believed every word. “I’ll see you again. And next time, I won’t have to leave. Because you’re my home, too.”

Johnny managed a smile, hoping it was as comforting as he wanted it to be, as he stole one last kiss. Not a goodbye, he wasn’t sure he could handle a goodbye. He wasn’t sure he could handle the idea of never seeing you again. This kiss was a promise. To what? He wasn’t sure. Maybe just a simple promise that he was yours.

“I’ll be counting the days,”

He couldn’t bear to look down at you again, afraid if he kissed you again he’d shove Wong back through that portal and find a way to hold you here forever. Johnny settled for a single kiss to your forehead, accented with the tears that were still running silently down his cheeks, before he let you go.

You slotted yourself back to Wong’s side, wiping at the tears that stained your cheeks. He placed a hand on your shoulder, and even Johnny could see how much it pained him to do this to you. He caught the slight flick of your hand, though, the slight burst of your magic, so small he wasn’t sure at first if he’d seen it correctly.

The room was silent as you and Wong stepped back through the glittering gold portal and onto the floor of the other side. Your eyes met his one last time, a watery smile crossing your lips, before it closed.

And in the blink of an eye, you were gone. Gone as if you’d never been there in the first place.

Franklin’s cries were still the only thing he could hear in the room, No one dared to speak, dared to break through the air, as Johnny’s eyes stayed locked on the last spot you had stood in.

“Johnny…”

He turned, tear filled eyes meeting with his family. The heartbroken look on Ben’s face, the conflicted look on Reed’s, and the absolute pity that shone through on Sue’s. She took a single step forward, but Johnny waved her off immediately, shaking his head as he wiped at his tears, forcing a smile.

“I-I’m fine. I just…I just need a minute,”

No one rushed after him, and he was thankful for it.

The entire elevator ride back up to his room was done in a daze, in a haze of emotions. His vision was blurry the entire time, but no more tears fell. He wasn’t sure he had more to cry.

Stepping into his room again, he felt like he could muster a few more tears. The bed was still unmade. The scent of your perfume, one you’d picked a few months ago with Sue, lingered in the air. Your clothes from the night before were strewn over a chair by his record player.

It was the only sign that you had, in fact, existed here in his universe. You weren’t a figment of his imagination.

Approaching his bed, wanting to bury himself in the lingering scent of you, his breath caught.

Lying there, on the unmade sheets, was a single flower. A single little Plumeria, remnants of blue magic dancing over and around its petals. Right below it? That same Polaroid Johnny loved so dearly.

He clutched it in his hands, willing himself to be back in the moment: holding you on the balcony that night, kissing you, telling you he loved you. As he did, your magic seeped across the bottom white edge of the photo, scrawling your handwriting across the bottom.

Unequivocally yours.

That, alone, was enough to bring a smile back to his lips.

Multiverse be damned: you were his. There was no one in this life or the next that Johnny Storm was convinced he could love more, just as there was no one that could love you the way he could.

The release is instant. The three of you barely have time to react before a thick, pale green vapor hisses from the canister, spreading out around you in a slow, curling cloud.

"Shit," Jason curses, jerking back, but it's already too late.

Instinctively, he pulls you with him, yanking you closer to his chest as if that could shield you from whatever the hell is happening. His arm wraps tight around you, his body stiffening as the vapor swirls around all three of you.

The gas spreads, clinging to your clothes, sneaking past your masks. You inhale before you can stop yourself, and—

"Wait," you murmur. "Why does it... smell good?"

Jason and Dick freeze, both of them taking tentative sniffs. The air is thick with something warm and sweet—notes of honey and spice, deep and rich like fresh blooms in the summer sun. It's nice. So nice, in fact, that for a second, the three of you just... stare at each other, confused.

Jason exhales sharply, waving a hand in front of his face. "Okay. What the fuck?"

Dick coughs, looking around at the dissipating mist. "Maybe it's, uh... a trap? Some kind of knockout gas?"

"We'd be on the floor by now, Grayson," you point out.

There's a beat of silence. The three of you just stand there, letting the last wisps of the pollen drift away, waiting for some kind of reaction—dizziness, nausea, anything.

But nothing happens.

Jason huffs. "So lemme get this straight. Ivy had all these bombs set up, and instead of droppin' us where we stand, it just..." he gestures vaguely, "Makes Gotham smell better?"

The absurdity of it hits you all at once. A soft giggle bubbles up in your throat, and then another, until you're actually laughing, shaking your head.

"Damn," you say, breathless. "Deadliest eco terrorist in Gotham, and she really just gave us a perfume sample."

Jason snorts. "The horror."

Dick rolls his eyes, standing up and dusting himself off. "Okay, well, if this was supposed to be some big master plan, I think we can call it a bust. Let's get back to the cave and let Bats know."

Jason claps a hand on your back, steering you toward the exit. "Yeah, yeah, before Ivy shows up and actually does somethin' dangerous."

None of you notice it yet. The subtle heat creeping into your limbs, the faint buzz just beneath your skin. By the time you're in the Batmobile, it's in you.

The car hums beneath you, the quiet rumble of the engine filling the space as Gotham blurs past the tinted windows. Jason's driving, one hand gripping the gear shift, the other draped lazily over the wheel. Dick's in the passenger seat, his mask still on, head tilted slightly like he's lost in thought.

And you? You're burning up, but not in a sick way. Not in an oh God, something's wrong way. It's just... heat. Low and thick, curling beneath your skin, settling deep between your thighs in a way that has you shifting uncomfortably in your seat. You tug at your collar, brows furrowing, but it doesn't help. Nothing does.

It's all there, wrong but right at the same time, pooling in the pit of your stomach, thrumming between your legs. Your thighs press together, the friction sending a sharp little spark up your spine.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to stare out the window, pretending like you're not embarrassingly close to squirming in the backseat of the goddamn Batmobile like some desperate, needy mess.

Maybe it's just—God, maybe it's just them. Jason and Dick, sitting up front, broad shoulders filling out their suits, muscles flexing with every shift of the steering wheel, every casual movement.

That's it, you tell yourself. That has to be it.

This is just because you've been down bad lately, right? Because let's be honest, you've spent way too many nights with your hand or your toys between your thighs, gasping their names into your pillow. It's ridiculous how often it happens, how they've completely hijacked your brain.

Jason, with his sharp mouth, broad chest, big hands. That stupid smirk that makes your stomach flip. His voice, rough and lazy when he calls you "doll" like it's the easiest thing in the world.

And then there's Dick. All smooth charm and soft lips, stupidly pretty even when he's bleeding, the kind of guy who can talk anyone into anything. That boyish grin, those ridiculous acrobat's hips. The way he looks at you sometimes, all teasing and playful but just sharp enough to make you wonder.

Truth be told, you're painfully under fucked. Gotham's dating scene is trash, and while you could technically take the edge off yourself, your current stash of sex toys is... underperforming. No matter what setting, what angle, it's just not enough. Not enough pressure, not enough stretch, not enough them.

Because the worst part? The part that keeps you up at night, panting into your pillow, legs shaking from overstimulation?

You don't think about some faceless, nameless fantasy. You think about them.

Jason, his big hands pinning your wrists down, his voice rough against your ear as he stretches you open. Dick, slick with sweat, his mouth everywhere, moaning into your skin as he fucks you deep.

Sometimes—fuck—sometimes, it's both. One of them eating you out while the other fucks your mouth, one stuffing you full while the other whispers the filthiest things in your ear.

Your fingers have been the next best thing, but they always leave you wanting. And now, sitting here, feeling hotter by the second, it's all rushing back—every desperate, aching thought.

No. You shake your head, pressing a hand to your cheek. Get a grip. You are not about to get horny in the goddamn Batmobile. Except... you already are. And you're not the only one.

Up front, Dick shifts in his seat, biting the inside of his cheek, his fingers curled into fists on his thighs. His suit is... well, not built for this. The material is thick, durable, but not forgiving. His cock is already half hard, twitching every time the car hits a bump in the road, the sensation sparking something hot and needy down his spine.

His jaw tightens. His thoughts have already turned against him, flashing back to every moment he's ever had to force himself not to look at you, not to stare too long at the way your suit hugs your curves, not to think about how sweet you probably sound when you moan.

But now? Now it's like those thoughts are pumping through his veins. He shifts again, pulling his hand over his lap, casually resting his elbow on the car door, tilting his head like he's just relaxing. But his fingers curl into his thigh, his cock throbbing against the fabric, and shit, he can't stop thinking about you.

He clenches his jaw. This is fine. He can just breathe through it, ignore it. Right?

Because it doesn't make sense. One second, he's fine, the next, his skin is tight, his pulse is loud, his body thrumming like it's been wired wrong. His mind flashes back to the warehouse, to the smoke. Shit. Okay. Okay, this is fine. Except it's not fine because he chances a glance in the rearview mirror.

And that is a mistake. Because there you are, brows furrowed, teeth sinking into your lip, looking so warm and soft and pretty.

He forces his gaze forward, but his dick throbs insistently against the fabric of his suit, demanding attention, aching in a way that has him pressing his thighs together and shifting in his seat, trying to be subtle about it.

But Jason notices, because of course he does. His grip tightens on the steering wheel, fingers flexing as he watches Dick shift uncomfortably in his seat. The way his chest rises and falls a little too fast. The way he adjusts himself as subtly as he can.

Jason grits his teeth. Goddammit. This is already bad enough. He's used to getting hard, and that's not really news, considering he's around you.

It's embarrassing at this point. He's used to this constant, low level problem whenever you're near. The way his body responds to you like some fucking reflex. A glance, a laugh, a casual touch, and suddenly, he's half hard in his jeans like a goddamn teenager.

But this? This is different. This is fucking brutal. The heat is unbearable, his whole body buzzing with tension, his dick pressing uncomfortably against his pants. And fine, maybe he shouldn't be thinking about you right now, but his brain isn't listening.

It's giving him vivid fucking images—your lips wrapped around his cock, your pussy stretched around his fingers, the little gasps you'd make if he spread you open, if he fucked you just right. He exhales through his nose, gripping the steering wheel tighter, focusing on the road. Not now. Not fucking now.

And then there's Dick. Sitting there. Shifting around. Acting all innocent, but Jason knows. He sees the way Dick's jaw is clenched, the way he's hiding behind his fucking hands, the way his shoulders keep tensing like he's fighting something off.

And that's a whole other problem. Because Jason does not get hard around Dick. But now? Now, his cock is aching, pressing insistently against the inside of his jeans, and it's fucking weird because Dick is right there.

No way in hell he's acknowledging this. He focuses on the road, breathing in through his nose, willing the heat to settle, willing the blood to go anywhere but his dick. It doesn't work. His suit is hot, the collar too tight, his whole body buzzing with restless, frustrated energy.

His fingers flex against the wheel. "Goddamn it," he mutters under his breath.

Neither of you hear him, and that is concerning. And then, Jason chances a glance in the rearview mirror, and you're squirming.

Not a lot, but enough. Shifting in your seat, pressing your thighs together, lips parted ever so slightly, brows still drawn like you don't even realize you're doing it. He forces his eyes forward, gripping the wheel tight enough to hurt.

Oh, this is so fucked. And he knows—knows—it's about to get worse.

The second the Batmobile rolls into the cave, you're out.

"Okay—" you blurt, voice higher than usual. "I think I'm gonna take a shower."

You don't even wait for their answers before you're practically sprinting toward the locker room.

Jason clears his throat. "I think there was somethin' in that fuckin' smoke bomb."

"Yep," Dick says, shifting his weight from foot to foot, looking like he wants to say more but physically cannot.

Jason glances away, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "Y'know what, maybe she's right. A shower wouldn't hurt. Maybe wash these clothes, too, given whatever the fuck was in that shit is on us."

"Yep," Dick repeats, and then, without another word, both of them hurry toward the showers.

The locker room is sleek—clean lines, dark tiles, recessed lighting that casts a soft glow instead of that harsh, clinical brightness most locker rooms have. It's modern but comfortable, not cold or uninviting, just functional.

The walls are lined with neatly organized gear, each section personalized to its owner, creating a sense of quiet efficiency. Even the air has a faint hint of something metallic, like fresh tech waiting to be put to use. It's a space that serves its purpose, but it also feels like it's built for those who belong, making it almost... homey in its own way.

The showers are set up in a row, each with tinted glass dividers that fog up easily with the heat—not fully clear, but not enough to hide everything, either. No doors, no curtains, just a spacious, open layout that suddenly feels like the worst possible decision Bruce could've made.

Not that you're thinking about that. Nope. You're focused on the water cascading over your skin, the steam curling around you, the way your body still burns in a way that has nothing to do with the hot spray.

And okay, fine. You might be a little slow on the uptake, but even you have to admit now that this? This is not normal. You've never felt this desperate before. Not even after a dry spell, not even after the nights you spent aching between your sheets, body wired with need that just wouldn't settle. This is different. Worse.

You exhale sharply, pressing your palms against the cool tile as the water rushes down your back. Okay. Deep breaths. Just... get through this. It'll wear off.

But then you fucking hear it. Jason's low muttering as he steps under the spray, the deep groan he lets out when the hot water crashes over him. Dick exhaling hard, shifting around, the slap of water against skin as he pushes his hair back. And now, somehow, this is fucking worse.

Because your brain? Yeah, it's not helping.

It's giving you images. Images of Jason, big and broad and dripping, water sliding down his chest, over those stupidly defined abs, down to his cock, hanging thick and heavy between his legs.

And Dick, all lean muscle and smooth skin, his own cock probably flushed and aching, his face tipped back under the spray as he runs a hand over his body, slicking up every inch of himself.

You squeeze your eyes shut. No. Nope. Not doing this. Not right now.

But the heat between your legs is unbearable. Your fingers twitch at your sides, your clit throbbing, aching for relief, and fuck it, you slip your hand between your thighs.

Your breath stutters, thighs trembling as you press your fingers against your puffy, soaked clit, rubbing tight, desperate circles. And God, you're so fucking wet. Soaked. You can feel it, slicker than you've ever been, dripping down your thighs, mixing with the hot water as you rub yourself with quick, jerky movements.

This should do. Probably. Hopefully.

You bite your lip, forcing your moans down, listening, but the water covers any sound, the steady rush of the showers masking the way you whimper when your fingers slide lower, teasing at your entrance, dipping inside just enough to send a shudder up your spine.

This is fine. They can't hear you. They don't know. Right?

Dick exhales sharply, bracing one hand against the tile as the hot water rushes over him. His body is wired, his skin flushed, his cock still painfully, achingly hard even after scrubbing himself down, after doing everything in his power to focus on literally anything else.

But it's not working. It's. Not. Fucking. Working.

His jaw clenches as he glances down, swallowing hard at the sight of his cock—thick and heavy, desperate, the tip drooling precum as it twitches in the air. Okay, he can fix this.

It's just... the pollen. That's what this is. Not him, not you.

It's just a chemical reaction, and the fastest way to get this out of his system is to handle it. Quickly. Before it gets worse.

So he wraps his fingers around himself and gives a slow, experimental stroke. The relief is instant.

A shudder rolls down his spine as his breath hitches, his hand tightening just slightly as he jerks himself once, twice, watching the way his cock twitches, the way another thick bead of precum leaks from the tip, slicking up his palm.

Fuck, this is bad. Because now, now that he's touching himself, now that he's letting himself feel it—you're there. Well, not right next to him. Not really.

But in his head? You're everywhere. Your mouth on his, warm and desperate, your hands roaming down his chest, slipping lower, wrapping around his cock, pumping him with slow, teasing strokes.

Your breath, hot against his ear as you whisper his name, your tits pressed against him, soft and warm, your nipples dragging over his wet skin as you shift in his lap, grinding against his cock, your pussy so wet he can feel it even through the heat of the shower. His pace stutters, his breath turning ragged as his hips rock forward, fucking into his fist like a desperate, needy idiot.

Because fuck, he is needy. And the worst part? You're. Right. There.

A few feet away, just behind that glass divider, water rushing over your body, slicking up every inch of your skin, dripping down your tits, your stomach, your thighs.

And he wants you. Has for a long time.

But now? Now, it's not just want. It's need, and it's fucking unbearable. His hand moves faster, breath catching as his muscles tense, his balls pulling tight, his whole body thrumming with the need to cum.

Because he just needs to cum, and then this will be over. Right?

Jason has the exact same fucking thought.

Because his dick? Yeah, it's not going down. Not even slightly. His head tips back against the tile, a slow, heavy breath hissing through his teeth as he fists his cock, thick fingers wrapping tight around the swollen length. He's had plenty of inconvenient boners before.

That's just part of the package when he's got you in his life—skintight suits, little smirks, the way you fight like you own the city, like no one can touch you.

Yeah, he's used to being hard when you're around. But this? This is fucking ridiculous.

His whole body feels wired, too hot, like there's an electric current running under his skin. His dick hurts, heavy and flushed, leaking against his knuckles as he starts to stroke himself, slow and firm, the pressure making his breath hitch. This should help. This has to help.

He forces himself to think about other things—literally anything else—but his brain? Yeah, his brain is not cooperating.

Because all he can see is you. Your body under the spray, your tits glistening with water, your ass round and perfect, your thighs slick and parted just enough for him to see the way your pussy clenches, desperate and aching.

And fuck, you're right there. Right. Fucking. There.

So close he could just step over, press himself against your back, run his hands down your body, feel the way your slick little pussy drips against his fingers.

Fuck. His strokes get faster, hips bucking up into his own grip, stomach tightening as he groans under his breath, low and rough, trying to chase that sharp, bright edge of relief.

Because yeah, if he just gets this out of his system, if he just cums, then maybe he won't be thinking about how he wants to bury his cock inside you so fucking bad he's starting to lose his mind.

You rub your clit in tight little circles, slick and needy, but it's not enough. The ache between your thighs burns hotter with every second, but you can't tip over the edge. Not like this.

Not with Jason and Dick right there, close enough that your mind keeps conjuring them instead of whatever weak fantasy you were trying to focus on. You bite your lip, hips shifting slightly as your fingers work faster, but it's no use, because all you can think about is how good their hands would feel instead.

Jason's fingers, thick and rough, stretching you open. Dick's tongue, wet and eager, lapping at you until you're a trembling mess. Fuck. You let out a shaky breath and force yourself to stop, frustrated beyond belief, body pulsing with need that refuses to be satisfied.

Meanwhile, Jason is in his own personal nightmare. Fisting his cock was supposed to help. He thought if he just got off, the unbearable need would settle. But no, he's still rock hard, twitching in his grip, and he's gritting his teeth so hard it's a miracle his jaw hasn't snapped.

It's worse because you're right there. He knows you're showering only a few feet away, completely naked, slick water running down that perfect fucking body of yours, and it's driving him insane. His strokes slow, and he tips his head back against the tiled wall, a groan tearing from his throat before he can stop it.

And that's when Dick stiffens. Not just in the obvious way, though yeah, he's still rock hard, still throbbing, and still aching for more, even after cumming. His skin is flushed, chest rising and falling in deep, uneven breaths, and his cock hasn't softened at all. He's still leaking, still desperate, and it takes everything in him not to wrap his fingers around himself again and just keep going.

Then Jason groans again, and it clicks. Dick's movements still. His brows furrow slightly. And before he even thinks it through, his gaze shifts—just barely—toward Jason's stall.

Jason, who is definitely still jerking off. Heat rushes up Dick's spine, a mix of embarrassment and something else—something dangerous—curling deep in his gut. They're both fucked.

Jason must feel the stare, because his grip falters. He huffs a breath, tilting his head to the side just enough that their eyes meet through the fogged up glass, and... oh. Oh, fuck.

The realization is heavy between them, thick with unspoken tension. Dick's lips part slightly, his fingers twitching at his side, and Jason—still flushed, still panting—grits his teeth, dragging a hand down his face like this is somehow his fault.

"This shit is fucked," Jason mutters, voice rough and strained.

Dick sways awkwardly, still pulsing with unbearable heat, and nods. Jason swallows hard, and when his gaze flicks to Dick, he finds the same wide eyed, panting, wrecked expression staring back at him. They're both so far gone it's pathetic. And if they're this fucked, then you must be even worse.

And then? You step out of the stall.

Wrapped in nothing but a towel, beads of water dripping from your skin, steam curling around you like a fucking wet dream. And when you lift your gaze and see them, your breath catches.

Jason is still gripping his cock, hand frozen mid stroke, his whole body stiff. Dick is still hard, still flushed, his eyes wide and dark as he takes you in. The tension is suffocating.

You all know what's happening here at this point. You swallow hard, your body throbbing with heat, and realization slams into you: none of you are getting through this alone.

The silence is thick, the kind that clings, all steam and heat and unsaid words hanging heavy in the air. All three of you just stand there, dripping wet, but you're the only one still clinging to any semblance of modesty, wrapped in a towel that suddenly feels too tight, too hot against your skin.

Dick and Jason? They're just there. Naked.

And maybe you'd all just keep standing here, awkward and unbearably turned on, if Dick didn't clear his throat and break the silence.

"So, uhm..." His voice cracks a little, and he grimaces before trying again. "There was something in the—"

"I know," you cut him off, and your voice is not as steady as you'd like it to be.

Jason, ever the blunt one, just snorts. "Yeah, so jerkin' off isn't doing shit."

That gets a laugh out of you, sharp and a little breathless. "You don't say."

And you really shouldn't be looking. You shouldn't. But they're right there. And when you finally, really let yourself look, trailing your gaze over bare skin, all toned muscle and broad shoulders and glistening tattoos, your eyes flicker down to their laps.

Fuck.

Your eyes drop before you can stop yourself, trailing down to where they stand, cocks heavy and thick against their stomachs, hard and mouthwatering, flushed at the tip.

Jason's hands flex at his sides, itching to reach for you.

Dick sways forward slightly, like he's barely restraining himself, like he wants to drop to his knees right then and there. And you whimper. A soft, needy little sound you cannot take back, and it feels like the air gets sucked out of the room.

Jason notices first—of course he does, always the one to pick up on the filthiest shit—and his eyes darken as his fingers twitch like he's about to grab you.

"So," he starts, voice thick, rough, the kind that settles low in your gut. "Maybe we should, uh... try and help each other out?"

You snap your gaze up to his face so fast your neck nearly cracks, and when you glance at Dick, he's already looking at you.

There's no denying it. There never has been. The attraction between you three has always been there, simmering under the surface, never acted on, never spoken out loud. You've thought about it. Of course you have. Working alongside them, running into them on patrol, spending late nights at the manor or in Jason's safe house—how couldn't you?

You know they like you. They know you like them. But friendship has always come first.

You know you're all good; you get tested regularly, a necessity when you're constantly fighting Gotham's worst, and besides, you're on birth control. You could walk away, end this right here, but they're right there. Naked, wet, needy, dicks that have no business being that fucking big, let alone rock solid.

And you want them so bad. So you do the only thing that makes sense: you let the towel slip from your fingers and drop to the floor.

The second it hits the tiles, their eyes devour you. It starts at your face, flicking down over the curve of your neck, the soft swell of your tits, the dip of your waist, the plush of your thighs, until finally, finally, both of them are staring straight at your bare, aching pussy, slick already glistening between your thighs.

And they look wrecked just from seeing you. Jason's jaw clenches, a muscle jumping in his cheek, and Dick sways slightly on his feet, but neither of them speak, too caught up in the sight of you until Jason finally breaks the silence.

"Fuck," he rasps, voice rough and thick. "You're fuckin' gorgeous."

Your face burns hotter, if that's even possible, heat rushing to your cheeks as they reach out almost in sync, hands gripping the knobs on their respective showers, twisting the water off in one smooth motion before stepping out.

And shit, they're even bigger up close.

Not just big, but big. Tall, broad, all muscle, sleek and strong, shoulders wide, thighs thick, every part of them defined—from the solid lines of their chests to the way their abs flex as they move, glistening wet, drops of water trailing down their skin in slow, teasing paths.

But it's their dicks that have you aching, twitching hard, flushed, heavy, and when Dick's cock gives a sharp throb, you bite back a moan so desperate it nearly chokes you.

Jason steps in first, heat radiating off him as he cups your cheek with one big, calloused hand, tilting your head up, eyes dark and hungry as he leans in.

And then he's kissing you. Hard, deep, hungry. His lips move against yours, hot and insistent, tongue sliding into your mouth like he's been waiting for this, starving for it, and fuck, he kisses like he fights—possessive, dominant, all consuming.

His other hand doesn't hesitate, palms smoothing over your skin, rough fingers sliding straight down to your ass, grabbing a handful, squeezing tight, yanking you up flush against him until his cock presses firm against your belly.

You moan into his mouth, body shuddering as heat coils in your gut, hands clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into muscle, every inch of him burning against you.

Behind you, Dick curses under his breath, and you can feel the heat of his stare, feel the way his breath comes out sharp, ragged, as he watches Jason kiss you like he owns you.

Dick steps up behind you, heat radiating off his body, slick skin pressing against your back, and you melt between them. Sandwiched, trapped, caught between two broad, solid bodies, both of them flushed and aching, cocks hard and hot against your skin. Jason groans when your tits press into his chest, and then Dick—fucking Dick—lets out the softest, neediest little exhale against your ear as his hands slide up your sides.

His fingers trace over your ribs, then higher, cupping your tits, thumbs rolling over your nipples, teasing, stroking, making you gasp as Jason leans in and kisses you again.

It's not like before. This kiss is slower, deeper, Jason taking his time to drink you in. His tongue licks into your mouth, lazy, hungry, and his hands roam, one gripping the back of your neck while the other settles on your waist, fingers flexing like he can't decide whether he wants to pull you closer or just hold you there and enjoy every shaky breath you make.

Behind you, Dick's mouth is everywhere—pressing open mouthed kisses to your shoulder, up your throat, teasing your ear as his hand dips lower. Fingertips ghosting down, past your belly, until they finally find your puffy, swollen clit.

You twitch at the contact, a sharp little gasp escaping against Jason's lips, and Dick groans, louder this time, pressing a little firmer, rubbing teasing little circles as he mutters, "You're so fucking wet."

Jason pulls back just enough to watch your face, brushing his thumb over your kiss swollen lips.

His voice is strained, rough as he asks, "You okay with this? With whatever's about to happen?"

His eyes are dark, intense, filled with want but laced with concern, because they need this, need you, but not like this, not unless you want it just as badly. You nod quickly, already breathless, but Dick? Dick's not having it.

He dips his head lower, mouth brushing right against your ear as he whispers, "Use your words, love. We don't wanna push you into anything."

It's almost cruel, the way his fingers slow down, teasing, playing, rubbing lazy, barely there strokes over your clit when all you want is more.

"Yes," you gasp, pushing into his touch. "Please."

That's all it takes. Jason and Dick lock eyes, silent for a moment, and then? Dick nods once, sharp, decisive, and says, "Sauna. Now."

Jason groans. "Jesus fuck, Dickie-bird."

But he doesn't argue. He just watches as Dick takes your hand, lacing his fingers with yours, guiding you toward the sauna with Jason trailing behind, adjusting the settings so it's warm, comfortable—not stifling, just enough to chase away the cold still clinging to your damp skin.

And the sauna? Yeah, of course it's luxurious as hell. Bruce built it, after all. The benches are smooth, made from high quality wood, wide enough to lie down comfortably, and the warm lighting overhead makes everything feel softer, deeper. It's the kind of place you usually use when you're sore and beaten up after patrols, when you need to relax and let the heat soothe your body.

But tonight? Yeah, you're about to use it for something very different.

Before you can even process what's happening, Jason spins you around, hands everywhere, and lifts you up like you weigh nothing.

You yelp, legs spreading instinctively as he hooks his arms beneath your thighs, locking you open, exposing you, presenting you, and Dick fucking drops to his knees.

"Oh, fuck," he breathes, eyes locked on your dripping pussy, hands already reaching, fingers brushing your inner thighs as his mouth parts in awe. "Look at you."

Jason groans behind you, rolling his hips up just enough to grind his cock against your ass, kissing the side of your head, whispering, "You should see what you do to him, baby. He's fuckin' mesmerized."

And Dick? He kind of is. His chest rises and falls in shallow, desperate breaths as he stares, like he's starving, like he can't decide if he wants to taste you or just kneel there and worship.

Dick's hands grip your thighs, fingers pressing firm, grounding himself as he leans in, eyes fixed on your swollen, dripping pussy. His breath stutters out, warm against your slick skin, and he groans, low and wrecked, because fuck, this is so much better than he ever imagined.

And he has imagined it. More times than he'd ever admit. Nights spent fisting his cock to the thought of you, to the way your suit hugs your curves, to the way you smell when you're close, the teasing, flirty little smiles you send his way. He'd always wondered if you'd taste as good as you look.

"Fuck," he breathes, his voice shaky.

With two fingers, he spreads you open, watching your slick drip, glistening in the dim heat of the sauna, and his tongue flicks out, hungry, catching a taste before he can stop himself.

And it wrecks him. His mouth seals over your cunt, tongue pushing deep, groaning as he devours you, hot and wet, lapping up every drop like he's been starving for it. His hands tighten on your thighs, holding you steady as he buries himself between your legs, tongue stroking, circling, pushing in deep before dragging back out, flicking against your clit in slow, teasing swipes.

And the sounds you make? Insane.

Breathless, needy, these little gasps and whimpers that make Jason groan behind you, arms flexing as he adjusts his grip, holding you up like you weigh nothing. Solid and so hot against your back, his cock pressing thick against your ass, twitching every time you moan.

"Fuck, Grayson," Jason mutters, voice strained. "She's gonna lose it."

And you are.

Because fuck, Dick knows how to eat pussy. He's skilled, dedicated, every lick and suck sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. He moans into you, the vibrations making you shudder, thighs trying to squeeze together, but Jason's grip doesn't let you move.

"Feels good, huh, baby?" Jason murmurs, lips brushing against your ear, his tone all smug and filthy, like he's enjoying this just as much as Dick is.

You can't even speak. Your fingers tangle in Dick's damp hair, clutching hard, back arching against Jason's chest as Dick flicks his tongue against your clit in quick, teasing strokes, like he knows exactly how to unravel you.

Jason groans behind you, his arms tightening around your legs. When your head falls against his shoulder and your eyes meet his, he kisses you.

Hard, deep, like he's claiming you, like he needs you just as much as Dick does. His tongue licks into your mouth, swallowing your moans, his hands gripping your thighs tighter, bruising.

You whimper against his lips, and he groans, rolling his hips against your ass, grinding his cock against you, needing friction, needing something, because fuck, this is too much.

And Dick? He just moans against your pussy, tongue fucking into you, making you shudder so hard Jason has to tighten his grip just to keep you steady.

"So fucking good," Dick mutters, pulling back just enough to flick his tongue over your clit before sucking it into his mouth, making you sob his name. "So sweet. Fuck, I could eat you for hours."

Jason breaks the kiss just to groan, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. "Christ, Dickie, you're gonna kill her."

Dick grins against your skin, licking another slow, teasing stripe up your pussy, savoring the way you twitch, the way your fingers tighten in his hair, the way your little gasps turn into full whimpers, desperate and broken.

His fingers ghost over your entrance, teasing, barely there, making your pussy clench on nothing. You squirm in Jason's hold, breath hitching as anticipation coils tight in your stomach, but Dick takes his time. Watches the way you drip for him, spread open and helpless, Jason's arms locked under your thighs to keep you wide and vulnerable.

"Fuck," Dick rasps, his voice thick with arousal, his breath hot against your pussy. "You're soaked."

His thumbs part your folds, and he groans at the sight—slick, glistening, so fucking pretty. His tongue flicks over your clit again, and your whole body jerks, a whimper spilling from your lips.

Jason tightens his grip, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, his cock twitching against you as he murmurs, "Easy, baby. Let him take care of you."

And fuck, Dick does take care of you. His mouth works you over, tongue lapping at your swollen clit, lips wrapping around it to suck, firm and slow, drawing needy little noises from your throat. His hands grip your thighs, holding you steady, keeping you from writhing too much even though all you want to do is grind against his face, chase the pleasure that's building fast.

Then his fingers press at your entrance again, just the tips, teasing, and you moan, the need to be filled overwhelming. He chuckles against you, the vibration sending another pulse of heat through your core before he finally pushes a finger inside.

It's so much thicker than yours, so much longer, stretching you just enough to make your walls flutter around it. He eases it in, lets you adjust, then curls it up, searching, until—

"Fuck—" you gasp, back arching as he finds that spot, rubbing against it before sliding another finger in beside the first.

The stretch burns just a little, but the way he moves them—God, the way they scissor inside you, slick and warm, thrusting deep—has your mind blanking.

"Feel good, sweetheart?" Jason murmurs, brushing his lips along your jaw, hands adjusting their grip on your thighs as he holds you steady.

You nod frantically, but it's not enough. Not when you feel like you're unraveling from just this. "More," you breathe. "Please."

Dick groans like the plea physically pains him, but he doesn't stop, doesn't hesitate. His fingers thrust deeper, faster, stretching you open as his lips wrap around your clit again, sucking just right, tongue flicking against the swollen bud.

Your thighs tremble, pleasure tightening, the slick sounds of his fingers fucking into you obscene, messy, wet. You're dripping, leaking down his hand, onto his wrist, but he doesn't care. His cock is throbbing, leaking against his stomach, but he doesn't fucking care.

All he wants is to make you cum on his tongue. And God, you're close. You can feel it winding tighter and tighter, pleasure curling deep, building fast. Your mind is spinning, flooded with heat and hunger, desperate to feel them everywhere. Their mouths, their hands, their dicks stretching you wide—

Fuck, you're gonna cum.

It hits you fast. A sharp, electric snap of pleasure, burning through every nerve, sending you spiraling. Your whole body locks up, and then, you're cumming, and it's so much. Your cunt tightens around Dick's fingers, pulsing, fluttering, sucking him deeper as wave after wave of heat crashes through you.

It's almost too much. Your thighs tremble, your back arches, and a broken moan spills from your lips as your orgasm drags you under, pleasure rippling through every inch of you. You don't know if it's that fucking pollen messing with you or if Dick just knows how to make you come undone like this, but it feels insane. Shattering, like you're falling apart in Jason's arms, completely helpless to the pleasure tearing through you.

But Dick doesn't stop. He fucks you through it, thrusting his fingers deep, curling them just right, rubbing against that spot inside you that makes your vision white out. His mouth stays locked around your clit, sucking, flicking his tongue over it, dragging you higher, stretching out your orgasm until it's too much, too intense.

All you can do is choke out a breathless, "D-Dick, wait—"

But he doesn't.

Your body jerks, overwhelmed, but he doesn't stop. His fingers work you open, deep and relentless, his tongue still lapping at your clit, pushing, pushing—

And then you gush. A sharp, full body shudder racks through you as hot, slick arousal pours from your cunt, drenching his fingers, his wrist, his fucking face.

It splashes against the sauna floor, and heat flares in your chest, embarrassment creeping up your spine as you gasp, "S-shit, I'm s-sorry—"

Jason lets out a rough groan, voice thick with arousal. "Fuck. A squirter, huh? That's so fuckin' hot, doll."

Dick doesn't care. He doesn't stop. His mouth stays on you, licking up every drop, his fingers fucking you slow, coaxing another trembling aftershock out of your spent, twitching cunt.

Your body is wrecked, boneless in Jason's grip, but Dick soothes you. Soft kisses pressed to your puffy clit, to your inner thighs, murmured praises against your overheated skin.

Jason groans against your ear, nipping at your jaw as he murmurs, "So pretty when you lose it, baby."

Dick finally pulls his fingers from your soaked pussy, and you whimper at the emptiness, body still twitching in the aftermath. He stands up, lifting his hand between you, watching the way your slick drips from his fingers before he licks them clean, moaning like he just tasted the best thing in the world.

And then he's kissing you.

It's not like Jason's kisses—Jason devours you, rough and desperate, all teeth and tongue. Dick? Dick takes his time. His lips move slow over yours, teasing, coaxing, his tongue sliding into your mouth, letting you taste yourself on him.

His cock grinds against your swollen, soaked pussy, dragging thick and leaking between your folds, and you feel the heat of Jason against your back as he presses closer, lips finding your neck, licking and sucking at the sensitive skin, leaving marks.

Dick pulls back just enough to look at you, breathing hard, eyes dark with need.

"You still with us, love?" he murmurs, voice low, sweet, but so thick with hunger.

And you are. But you need more. Jason slowly lowers you to the ground, careful, like he knows your legs won't hold you up yet. And he's right. The second your feet touch the sauna floor, your knees almost buckle, but they're right there.

Jason's strong hands steady your waist, while Dick's arms wrap around you, letting you melt against his chest, your cheek pressed to his flushed, sweat damp skin. His heartbeat is racing, just like yours.

They try to soothe you, even though they're still buzzing with need, cocks aching, pulsing, leaking against your skin. You can feel it, how hard they both are, how they're holding back, muscles tensed like they're barely keeping themselves together.

Dick's fingers brush against your jaw, tilting your head up as he murmurs, "You okay?"

His voice is strained, rough with hunger he's barely keeping in check.

You nod, breathless. "I need more. I want you both, I want—"

Jason groans, low and wrecked, because fuck, his dick hurts, throbbing, hot, swollen with need. He's usually not like this—he's got control, he can push past anything, but this?

That fucking pollen? His logic is gone. The only thing left is the raw, aching need clawing at his gut, the sight of you, flushed and needy, still dripping from what Dick did to you.

"You sure?" Dick asks, voice tight, hesitant, because they care, because you're friends, because this is everything all at once.

"Yes," you gasp. "Fuck, I can't—I need more."

They try to resist. Try to be good, to be the men who have held themselves back all these years, who have ignored the teasing, the tension, the way you've always looked at them.

But it's too much. You're naked, hot, trembling between them, still soaked with slick and sweat, so fucking desperate for them, just like they are for you.

They exchange a look, like they're about to actually say something, like they're going to make one last attempt at self control.

But you're having none of it.

You grab both their hands, lacing your fingers with theirs as you guide them toward one of the benches, the air thick with tension, steam, and the undeniable pull of something you've all been trying to ignore for too long.

You stop in front of Dick, looking up at him through heavy lidded eyes as you say, "Sit down."

And he does, because of course he does. Because he knows better than to fuck with you when you've made up your mind, and even though you're smaller than both of them, you've always had a way of getting what you want.

You grab a few towels, spreading them on the floor in front of him because, honestly? Your body is already gonna be wrecked when this is over—bruises, hickeys, everything—and you really don't need your knees all fucked up on top of it.

Then, slowly, you kneel between his legs.

Jason is still standing behind you, watching, stunned, because sure, you've always been bold. You've flirted, teased, laughed in their faces when they tried to resist you, but this? This is something else.

You turn your head, looking up at Jason through heavy lashes, and say, "I need you to fuck me while I suck Dick off."

They both go still. Like their brains just short circuited. Like they can't quite believe what the fuck just came out of your mouth.

And you can see it happening, the exact moment something inside them snaps, because they've both fantasized about this, both thought about it more times than they'd ever admit, and now? Now you're on your knees, looking up at them, demanding it.

Dick swallows hard, his cock twitching, leaking against his stomach. His hands clench at his sides like he's trying so fucking hard to keep control. Jason? Jason just lets out a rough, breathless laugh, shaking his head, because fuck, you're gonna kill him.

Your ass wiggles as you shift into position, and behind you, Jason groans, deep and rough. "Fuck, look at you."

His big hands settle on your hips, hot and firm, fingers flexing like he's trying so hard to keep himself in check. And he can't help it, so he slaps your ass, the sharp sting sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your cunt.

"Oh—"

You gasp, thighs twitching, and Jason smirks, rubbing the mark he left behind, soothing the heat with his palm. "You like that shit, huh?"

You nod, looking over your shoulder at him with wide, glassy eyes, and his grip tightens.

"Got it, baby."

Then you turn back to Dick, gaze dropping to his cock. And God, he's just as long as Jason, maybe a little thinner, but just as pretty, thick and flushed, the veins along his shaft standing out against the hot, velvety skin. Precum beads at the tip, glistening, and when you lick your lips, Dick shudders, his breath hitching in his throat.

Behind you, Jason's hands slide lower, thumbs dragging over the curve of your ass before he spreads you open, groaning when he gets a good look at you.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he mutters under his breath, almost dazed, like he can't believe what he's seeing.

You're so wet, swollen, your slick dripping down your thighs, smearing against the inside of his fingers. And your pussy? Fuck, it's the prettiest fucking thing he's ever seen—hot, flushed, clenching around nothing, like you're begging for something to fill you up.

His head tips back for a second, like he needs to pull himself together, but when he looks down again, when he sees your cunt flutter around nothing, aching to be fucked?

He's fucking gone.

Because he knows you're gonna squeeze his dick like a glove, knows you're gonna be so fucking tight, so hot and wet around him that he might actually lose his mind. You're perfect. And this? This can't be real.

But oh, it is.

You shift your weight onto your knees, looking up at Dick, and he looks like he's about to lose his fucking mind too. Especially when you wrap your fingers around his cock. He sucks in a breath, head falling back against the bench as your grip tightens, your palm gliding over his length, slow and teasing.

Then you lean in, pressing soft, open mouthed kisses to the inside of his thigh, and Dick whimpers. The sound makes your cunt throb, pleasure sparking up your spine, because he looks so good like this—so flushed, so desperate, so pretty.

His cock pulses in your hand, leaking all over your fingers, and you purr, "Poor Grayson," before pressing a soft kiss to the tip, tongue flicking out to lap up his precum, tasting the salt and heat of him.

Behind you, Jason curses under his breath, and then you feel the hot, thick weight of his cock press against your dripping cunt.

You gasp, back arching as he rubs the wet head of his dick over your slit, dragging it up and down, teasing your swollen, puffy folds, mixing his precum with your slick until you're soaked in it.

And you? You're trembling. Because you need this. You need them. The second your lips part, taking Dick's cock into your mouth, his hand tangles in your hair. His fingers thread through the strands, tugging just enough to make your scalp tingle, a sharp contrast to the warmth of his other hand cradling your cheek.

You moan around him, the sound vibrating through your throat, and he hisses, his head tipping back against the bench. "Fuck—"

You take him deeper, inch by inch, your jaw stretching to accommodate his length. He's thick, hot, the weight of him pressing against your tongue as you hollow your cheeks and suck. His thighs tense under your palms, muscles jumping when you bob your head slow, teasing, testing how much of him you can take.

His fingers tighten in your hair, his hips twitching—just barely—but you feel it, the way he wants to thrust, to fuck himself down your throat, but he waits, panting, letting you set the pace.

Behind you, Jason is shaking. Shaking.

His fingers dig into the flesh of your hips, his whole body tight, because fuck, your ass is wiggling, pushing back against him, grinding against his cock like you're trying to drive him insane.

And it's working. His dick throbs, thick and aching, leaking against your soaked, swollen cunt as you shift again, tilting your hips just right, and Jason snaps. He lines himself up and starts to push in, slow, deliberate, even though his whole body is telling him to fuck you, to take you, to split you open and wreck you.

But he waits. He has to wait. Because he knows he's big, and with how tight you are—so hot and wet, squeezing around just the tip—he can't move, not even if he wanted to.

His whole body trembles as he leans over you, pressing his chest to your back, grounding himself as much as he's grounding you. His big hands smooth up and down your sides, soothing, steadying, feeling the way your breath shudders as you try to relax, try to take him deeper.

But he waits, even though every muscle in his body is coiled tight, his jaw clenched so hard it aches, because even through the pollen haze, Jason cares. He needs you to feel good.

Your walls stretch around him, clutching at him, and he slides in so easily, your pussy welcoming him, pulling him in. He sinks in slow, inch by inch, splitting you open until he's fully sheathed inside you, buried to the hilt, and you can't help but moan. The vibration makes Dick's hips jerk, a curse tumbling from his lips as his fingers tighten in your hair.

And Jason?Jason groans, burying himself inside you, his forehead dropping against the back of your shoulder.

"Breathe, baby," he mutters against your skin, his lips trailing slow, soft kisses along your shoulder, his body trembling as he forces himself to stay still, to let you adjust, even though he wants to move so fucking bad.

He gives you time, even though his entire body is screaming at him to fuck you, to finally lose himself in the heat of your cunt.

"You're doin' so good," he rasps, voice strained, like the feel of your pussy wrapped around his cock is driving him straight to the fucking edge.

You slide off Dick's cock with a gasp, a line of spit still connecting your lips to his flushed tip. Your fingers tighten around the base, stroking him as your head dips forward, and Jason groans behind you, eyes clenching shut, breathing through it, fighting against the way your pussy is milking his cock.

You can't breathe. You can't think. The feeling is overwhelming, his cock pulsing deep inside you, stretching you so wide you feel full. Too full, almost, but Jason soothes you through it, his lips trailing soft, slow kisses along your skin.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he mutters under his breath, his jaw clenched, his whole body so tight he thinks he might snap in half.

And then, finally, you shift against him. A tiny moan leaves your lips, and Jason can't wait any longer. Slowly, he pulls out, his cock dragging against your sensitive, fluttering walls, making your whole body tremble. Then he pushes back in, just as slow, filling you up again, stretching you, claiming every inch of your cunt.

It burns. It aches, just a little. Your whimper is soft, almost inaudible, but Jason hears it.

And he shushes you, kissing your shoulder again, whispering, "You're doin' so fuckin' good for me."

Jason's grip tightens on your waist, fingers digging into your soft skin as he starts to move, slow and deliberate, pulling out almost all the way before pushing back in, filling you up again, making you moan.

It's too slow, too teasing. You need more.

So you refocus, letting yourself drown in the heat of Dick's body, the way his cock twitches in your grip, thick and flushed and leaking all over your fingers. You slide your tongue over the tip, swirling around the slit, savoring the salty taste of his precum before taking him back into your mouth, sinking deeper this time.

The stretch is obscene, your lips stretched wide around him, your jaw aching as you push further, inch by inch, your throat tightening as he hits the back of your mouth. You gag, drool spilling from the corners of your lips, dripping down your chin, but you don't care.

You love it. It's better than every fantasy you've ever had, better than every late night thought of them, better than you could've ever imagined. Because they feel so good, sound so good, and you know you're not coming back from this.

Dick is gone. His fingers tangle in your hair again, watching the way you take him, the way you look up at him with glassy, desperate eyes, and fuck, you're so pretty like this, drooling all over his cock, taking him so fucking deep.

His whole body tenses, muscles tight, abs flexing, the veins in his forearms standing out as he tries to control himself, to hold back, but Jesus Christ, you're making it so fucking hard.

Jason is just as wrecked. His pace is still slow, but he's obsessed, his mind fuzzy with how good you feel, how tight you are, how fucking perfect your pussy is wrapped around his cock, gripping him like a vice.

He has to see it.

So he moves his hands from your waist, big palms spreading over the curve of your ass, gripping the flesh before pulling your cheeks apart, groaning when he gets a clear view of your soaked cunt stretched so tight around his dick.

His cock twitches, a groan slipping from his lips because fuck, you're swallowing him whole, your pussy gripping every inch of him, making a mess all over his cock, slick glistening along his length.

This is the best pussy he's ever had. But he knows it's you. It has nothing to do with that pollen. It's you.

And he's so fucking gone over you.

You whimper around Dick's cock, your eyes flicking up to meet his, watching the way his chest rises and falls in quick, desperate pants. And then, slowly, you let him slip from your mouth again, gasping for air, your hand tightening around the base as you pant.

"Fuck my mouth."

Dick freezes, his breath hitching, his lips parting as his brows furrow, like he's not sure he heard you right.

"W-what?"

You lick your lips, eyes heavy lidded, spit glistening along your chin as you repeat, slow and clear. "Fuck. My. Mouth."

His whole body shudders, and he doesn't even think. Doesn't hesitate. He does it.

His grip tightens in your hair as he tilts your head back, and then he's pushing in, slow but firm, guiding his cock past your lips, groaning as the heat of your mouth wraps around him.

And behind you, Jason hisses, his fingers tightening on your ass before landing another sharp slap, making you jolt forward.

"Shit," he groans, his voice thick with arousal, dark with want. "You're freaky as fuck."

Dick's grip tightens in your hair as he starts to move, slow at first, thrusting shallowly, watching the way his cock glides over your slick tongue, the way your lips stretch around him, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth.

"God, baby," he groans, voice strained, wrecked, his abs flexing as he pushes deeper, testing your limits, his hips jerking when you moan around him. "You feel so good—fuck, you're perfect. So sweet for me, taking me so well."

His words make your pussy clench around Jason's cock, the praise making your head spin, making you drool more as you relax your throat, letting Dick push deeper, the head of his cock nudging the back of your mouth. Your eyes flutter, heat sparking in your core as he fucks your mouth in slow, deliberate strokes.

His breath is ragged, his voice thick as he murmurs, "Just like that, pretty girl. You're doing so good. Such a perfect little thing."

Behind you, Jason groans, his grip bruising as he watches you take it, eyes dark, hungry.

"Fuck," he rasps, his voice rough, thick with need. "Look at you. So fuckin' nasty, baby. Goddamn, you're gonna make me lose my shit."

His hands slide over your ass, squeezing, spreading you open so he can watch the way your pussy stretches around his cock, gripping him like a fucking vice, sucking him in, milking him.

"You're so tight," he groans, his cock twitching inside you, his jaw clenching. "So fuckin' wet. Jesus Christ, this is the best pussy I've ever had."

The words make your walls flutter, make your body throb, and you can't help yourself. You push back against him, grinding your ass into his hips, moaning around Dick's cock as Jason curses, his fingers tightening on your ass.

And then he snaps. His patience shatters, his control slipping as he slams into you, knocking the breath from your lungs, making your eyes roll back.

"Fuck, yeah," Jason growls, dragging you back onto his cock, setting a relentless rhythm, fucking you deeper, harder, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing through the steam filled air. "That's what you wanted, huh? Wanted me to fuck you like this? Shit, you're so fuckin' needy, baby."

Your moans vibrate around Dick's cock, making him groan, his hips stuttering.

"Jesus Christ," he gasps, his fingers tugging on your hair, his head tipping back as he watches you, his cock throbbing as you swallow around him. "You're so fucking good, baby."

Jason groans, his cock dragging against your walls, each stroke sending sparks of pleasure skittering down your spine.

"Look at you," he rasps, voice low, dark, wrecked. "Gettin' your mouth fucked, gettin' your pussy fucked—shit, baby, you're drippin' all over my dick."

His words send a sharp throb through your core, making your walls squeeze around him, making him curse.

"Yeah, you like that? You like bein' a messy little thing?"

His words mix with Dick's soft, sweet praise, the contrast making your head spin, making your body ache for more, more, more. You're soaked, you're gone, and you're about to cum so hard.

Dick's fingers clench tighter in your hair, his whole body shaking as you take him deeper, swallowing him down until your nose brushes against the soft patch of hair at the base of his cock. His moans grow louder, ragged, his hips jerking forward, his self control slipping between his fingers.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, his voice wrecked, shaking. "You're—shit, you're gonna make me—"

You hum around him, hollowing your cheeks, sucking him harder, and that's it. That's all it takes for him to lose it.

His cock twitches on your tongue, the thick veins pulsing against the heat of your mouth as his orgasm slams into him, ripping through him like a live wire.

"Oh, fuck—"

His breath catches, his whole body locking up as the first hot pulse of his cum spills onto your tongue, thick and heavy, coating your throat as he shudders, trembles, his head tipping back against the wall, his lips parting in a wrecked, shaking moan.

You swallow it all, every last drop, your throat working around him, and it's too much. His thighs tense, his abs flex, his breath coming in sharp gasps as his hips jerk, his cock throbbing, overstimulated, as you keep sucking, drawing out every last spurt of his release.

"Jesus Christ, baby," he whimpers, his grip tightening for a second before his hand slips from your hair, his body melting, shaking, spent.

You finally let him slide free with a soft, wet pop, licking the last traces of him from your lips, and when he finally cracks his eyes open, looking down at you with flushed cheeks and a dazed, blissed out expression, he groans.

"God," he breathes, still catching his breath, his thumb stroking along your bottom lip, cleaning up the mess he left behind. "You're so fucking good."

You only have a second to grin before Jason grabs you. His arm wraps around your waist, yanking you up, pulling you against his chest as he slams his cock back into your pussy, the force of it making you gasp, your body arching as he fills you up again, stretching you all over.

"Fuckin' shit," Jason growls, his voice low, desperate, his breath hot against your ear as he pounds into you, his cock hitting deep, slamming into that spot inside you that makes your whole body tremble.

His free hand slides down, finding your clit, rubbing in quick, tight circles, his fingers slippery with your arousal.

"You gonna cum for me, baby?" he grits out, his voice dark, wrecked. "Gonna soak my fuckin' dick?"

You whimper, nodding desperately, your nails digging into his arms, your whole body coiling tight, every thrust, every press of his fingers sending you closer to the edge.

Your head tilts back, your lips parting, and Jason takes it as an invitation. His mouth crashes against yours, the kiss filthy, messy, his tongue sliding against yours as he fucks you harder, deeper, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the steam thick air.

It's too much. The way he's pounding into you, the way his fingers are rubbing your clit, the way his mouth is devouring yours—it's all too much.

You shatter. Your orgasm hits like a tidal wave, your body locking up as your walls clamp down around Jason's cock, your pussy spasming, milking him as you moan into his mouth, your whole body shaking from the force of it.

But he doesn't stop.

"Yeah," Jason groans, his pace relentless, his fingers still working your clit, pushing you higher, keeping you right there, shoving you into another orgasm before you can even catch your breath.

"Oh—fuck—"

Your whole body seizes, and then you gush, hot, wet, soaking his cock, the mess dripping down your thighs, pooling on the towels beneath you as your mind goes blank. Jason groans, his grip bruising, his voice full of awe and lust and pure fucking greed.

"Shit, baby," he growls, his hand sliding up your stomach to cup your tits, squeezing, his hips still slamming into you. "You're so fuckin' hot—goddamn, look at this mess you're makin'."

You're gone, trembling in his arms, panting, whimpering, still coming, your body wrecked, and he loves it.

But even after you've soaked his dick, even after you've cum so hard your legs shake and your body trembles, he just keeps going, fucking you through it, chasing his own high, refusing to let you catch your breath.

Your thoughts are a mess, a haze of heat and pleasure and pure, desperate need. Every time he thrusts back inside, it knocks the air from your lungs, sending another sharp jolt of electricity up your spine, making your toes curl.

His dick is so big, so hot, so thick, stretching you to your limit, the swollen head hitting your cervix with every deep, brutal stroke, the impact sending sparks of pain-laced pleasure licking up your spine.

Jason groans, his breath hot against your ear, his big hands sliding from your waist to your tits, squeezing, kneading, rolling your sensitive nipples between his fingers.

"Fuck, baby," he moans, voice wrecked, breathless. "You feel so good—tight little pussy's so fuckin' wet, takin' my dick like a fuckin' dream."

His voice is a growl, his breath ragged, filthy, and it makes you clench around him, your body reacting to the sheer, raw hunger in his voice.

"Drippin' down my fuckin' balls, makin' a mess all over me," he mutters, his pace getting faster, his hips snapping against your ass, the sound of wet skin slapping against wet skin filling the air. "Such a fuckin' good girl, lettin' me fuck you like this—shit—"

His moan is deep, gritty, his lips brushing against your neck, and it makes your brain melt.

You can feel Dick watching.

His heavy, ragged breathing, the way he groans softly under his breath every time your tits bounce from the sheer force of Jason's thrusts, the way he's still hard, his cock resting heavy against his abdomen as he watches Jason destroy you.

Jason buries his face in your shoulder, his pace stuttering, and then his voice turns urgent, desperate. "Shit," he pants. "Where do you want me to cum, doll?"

The words slip out before you even think.

"Inside," you whimper, the plea ragged, breathless. "Inside me, please."

Jason groans, his arms tightening around you, his body shaking. "Fuck."

He grabs your waist, slamming into you, fucking you like a man possessed, like he's starving for you, like he needs to be as deep as possible, stretching you wide, filling you to the fucking brim.

And it's like something in Dick snaps. He drops to his knees, his big hands sliding up your thighs, and then his fingers find your clit.

"Oh—fuck—"

Your whole body seizes—Jason's cock splitting you open, fucking you deep and hard, pounding into your soaking cunt while Dick's fingers rub your puffy, far too sensitive clit, quick and precise, pushing you higher, driving you insane.

Then Dick leans in, his lips brushing against yours, swallowing your moans, devouring them, and God, this has to be the hottest fuck of your life.

His tongue, hot, wet, messy against yours, kissing you like he needs you, like he's starving for the taste of your pleasure.

And shit, these two men—hot as fuck, sweaty, desperate, ruining you. They are going to wreck you for anyone else for sure.

Jason groans, his pace brutal, his cock pounding into your swollen, soaked pussy, stretching you so wide, splitting you open, filling you so deep you can feel him in your stomach.

He's right there, right on the edge, voice rough, breath ragged as he mutters, "C'mon, baby, I'm so close. Fuck, gimme one more, let me feel you."

And then, Dick starts slapping your clit slightly. It's sharp, the sting mixing with the unbearable pleasure of Jason's cock fucking you stupid, and that's it, you snap.

Your whole body locks up, your pussy clenching down hard around Jason's cock, milking him, your legs trembling as your orgasm crashes through you, drowning you in wave after wave of pure, burning pleasure.

Your mouth falls open in a wrecked, wordless moan, eyes rolling back, sweat dripping down your skin as you shake, your whole body on fire, pleasure exploding behind your eyelids, your clit throbbing, your walls spasming around Jason's thick cock.

And he loses it.

"Fuck—" His breath punches out of him, a deep, desperate groan rumbling through his chest, his grip on your hips turning bruising as your pussy chokes his cock, squeezing him so tight he can't hold back.

He buries himself to the hilt, grinding deep, grinding so fucking deep, and then, he cums. Thick, hot spurts of cum flood your pussy, painting your walls, filling you up so much you can feel it, dripping out around his cock, mixing with your slick as he lets out a deep, wrecked groan.

But he doesn't stop.

Even as his dick throbs, even as he pulses inside you, he grits his teeth and fucks it deeper, slow, deep rolls of his hips, making sure every last drop stays buried inside you, making sure you feel it.

Dick's fingers never stop, still rubbing your aching clit, making you whimper, making your whole body jolt, your thighs quivering, your nipples aching, your pussy so full and sensitive that every little movement makes you twitch.

And then Dick finally lets you breathe.

He breaks the kiss, his lips swollen, his breathing uneven, his eyes dark with lust as he soothes you, his hands smoothing up your back, down your arms, pressing soft kisses along your jaw, your temple, whispering soft praises against your skin.

Your breath shudders out of you, your head dropping forward onto Dick's shoulder as Jason stills behind you, his chest rising and falling, sweat slicking his skin, his grip still tight on your waist, grounding you as you tremble in their hold.

Jason does the same, his big hands rubbing slow, warm circles into your waist, his lips brushing against your shoulder, his breath deep, calming, as he lets you come down.

But it's not enough. You still need more.

Your whole body buzzes with it, aching with it, and before you can stop yourself, before you can even think, the words tumble from your lips, breathless, desperate, "I need... I—w-want you both at the same time."

Jason freezes. "Fuckin' shit."

His arm tightens around your waist, his cock still buried inside you, twitching just at the thought of it.

And Dick? His breath catches, his fingers tightening against your skin, his lips parting as his brows furrow, something unreadable flickering across his face before he cups your cheek, pressing soft, sweet kisses all over your flushed skin.

"Love, maybe we should—"

"No," you shake your head, chest heaving. "I need it. I—fuck, I need more."

Dick hesitates. "But we'd need lube, and—"

"I have some," you gasp. "In—in my locker. In my bag."

They both freeze. Jason raises a brow, his lips twitching, while Dick blinks at you, head tilting slightly.

"...You what?"

Your face burns. "I just bought it—I was gonna take it home, but I kept forgetting—"

Jason smirks, shaking his head, while Dick huffs out a quiet laugh before turning on his heel.

"I'll get it."

Your thoughts swirl, still dazed, still high from pleasure. It's really just a coincidence, something you bought last week and forgot to leave at home, but now? Now, you're just grateful you have it.

The second Dick is gone, Jason leans in, his lips brushing against yours, slow, deep, his tongue dragging along your bottom lip before slipping into your mouth. You moan softly, body pressing into his, heat still pooling low in your stomach.

When he pulls away, his smirk is sharp, eyes dark.

"You just bought it, huh?"

Your eyes dart away, face burning, and he chuckles. Then Dick is back, the bottle of lube in hand, and he's grinning, but there's something in his eyes, something darker, something hungrier.

He tosses the bottle onto the bench, his gaze flickering between you and Jason before he murmurs, "That's real convenient, sweetheart."

Jason's lips brush against your neck, hot and damp with sweat, his breath still ragged as he drags his mouth along your skin, pressing open mouthed kisses to the flushed heat of your throat. His hands slide down your waist, holding you, still keeping you close, as if he doesn't want to pull away just yet.

But then he does. His cock slips free, and the loss makes you whine, your walls clenching around nothing, feeling so empty after being stretched and filled so deep.

Jason chuckles, low and rough, pressing another slow kiss to your shoulder before he straightens, his hands steady on your waist as he helps you up, keeping you from collapsing completely. And then, his cum starts dripping out of you.

Thick, warm, messy, streaking down your thighs, slick and obscene, mixing with your own wetness, making your skin glisten under the dim lights.

Jason groans, watching it, his fingers squeezing at your hips before he turns you around, cupping your face with both hands, tilting your chin up so you have to look at him.

He kisses you, deep, messy, wet.

His tongue pushes past your lips immediately, curling against yours, dragging along the roof of your mouth, swallowing the small gasp you let out as he dominates the kiss.

It's all spit and heat, his grip firm, his fingers digging into your jaw as he devours you, groaning into your mouth, his own hips twitching forward instinctively, as if he's not done with you yet.

And maybe he's not. When he finally pulls away, your lips are slick with spit, swollen and tingling, your breath coming in short, shaky gasps.

But Jason just smirks, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip as he murmurs, "Took me so fuckin' well."

The praise sends a shiver down your spine, heat coiling in your belly, but you don't even have time to dwell on it because you're already turning to Dick, your whole body still thrumming with need.

"Lay on the bench."

His brows lift, lips parting slightly, but he doesn't question it. He grabs some towels first, spreading them out so he can sit more comfortably, before laying back, his cock still hard, standing thick and flushed against his stomach, twitching slightly as he watches you, pupils blown.

You barely give him time to think. You climb on top of him, straddling his hips, and the moment your soaked pussy presses against his cock, dragging along his length, he groans, his head falling back slightly.

"Fuck," he breathes, his hands gripping your thighs, sliding up to cup your ass. "That pollen fucked us up badly."

You nod, whimpering, rubbing yourself against him, smearing Jason's cum and your own slick all over his cock, making it all slippery, all hot, and then, Dick grinds right back.

His hands tighten on your ass, his hips rolling up against yours, rubbing the thick, leaking head of his cock against your throbbing clit, making you moan, making your thighs tremble from the overstimulation.

But you need him inside. Now. Lifting yourself up, you barely hesitate before sinking down onto his cock, and it's so easy. You're soaked, dripping, stretched wide and ready from Jason, and Dick slides right in, filling you up in one smooth, wet motion, the thick length of him pressing against every sensitive spot inside you.

Dick gasps, his fingers flexing against your ass, his chest rising sharply as his brows furrow, his mouth falling open in a soft, breathless moan. His thoughts are a mess.

He's inside you. He's inside you, and you feel so fucking good. So tight, so warm, so fucking wet, and it's all for him.

Well, for him and Jason, all of you caught up in this fever, this unbearable need, and fuck, he never thought this would happen, never thought he'd get to feel you like this, but now... now he can't stop thinking about it.

Can't stop thinking about how you feel around him, how you're squeezing him, how your slick drips down his length, coating his cock, making it so easy to slide deeper, making it so fucking hot.

"Jesus," he groans, his head tipping back, his fingers gripping at you. "Baby, you feel... fuck, you feel so good."

Dick can't stop kissing you. It's like he's obsessed, like he needs his mouth on you just as much as he needs to fuck you.

Every time his hips drive up, his cock sinking deep inside your dripping cunt, he's pulling you down to meet him, his lips crashing against yours, groaning into your mouth like he's drunk on the heat of you, the taste of you, the way your walls grip him so tight every time he moves.

"God, baby," he pants against your lips, voice breathless, wrecked, his fingers digging into your hips as he thrusts up into you again, harder this time, his cock rubbing against every tender, sensitive spot inside you. "I can't stop, I can't—"

You moan, your arms wrapping around his shoulders, clinging to him, feeling every shift of his muscles, every snap of his hips as he fucks into you with slow, deep, needy strokes.

And across from you, Jason watches. His lips are slightly parted, his chest rising with each heavy breath, his eyes locked on the way Dick's cock sinks in and out of your soaked, used pussy, slick noises filling the sauna, making his jaw clench.

"Fuck," he mutters, his grip tightening around his cock, stroking himself slowly.

His breath catches as he watches the way your body takes it, how easy it is for Dick to slide into you after he already ruined you, stretching you out, leaving you so wet that it's effortless.

His free hand slides up your back, fingers tracing along the sweat slick curve of your spine, following it down to your ass, where he grips the flesh and spreads you slightly. The moment he does, he groans at the sight of Dick's cock fucking into your pussy, your hole clinging to him, soaked and messy, your juices dripping down to your thighs, making the whole thing so fucking filthy.

You hear the slick pop of a bottle being opened, and then, his fingers, cool and slick with lube, gliding over the rim of your other hole. A soft, teasing touch.

Your breath hitches, a shiver running through you even as you grind down onto Dick's cock, making him groan, his hands flexing against your hips. Jason smirks, rubbing slow circles around your rim, massaging the tight muscle, teasing it, not pushing in just yet.

"Gotta stretch you open first, doll," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the dip of your spine. "Don't wanna hurt you."

You nod, panting, pressing back into his hand as he finally, slowly, pushes in the tip of his finger. Your body twitches at the stretch, a sharp inhale escaping you as your walls flutter around Dick's cock at the same time, making him groan, his brows furrowing as he tries to keep himself from losing it.

Jason waits a moment, watching the way you react, his other hand rubbing slow circles along your waist, his voice softer this time when he asks, "You okay, baby?"

You exhale shakily, nodding, your body adjusting to the new sensation, the slight pressure of his finger stretching you open.

And then he starts to move.

Slowly, teasingly, fucking you with the single finger, slipping it in and out in careful strokes, feeling the way your body responds, the way your walls tremble around him, your moans growing softer, more desperate as he adds another finger.

A low, drawn out out moan escapes you, your body twitching, your walls fluttering around Dick's cock again, making him groan, his fingers gripping your hips harder.

"You're so fuckin' tight," Jason mutters, his forehead pressing to your shoulder as he works his fingers in deeper, stretching you open, his cock twitching at the way you pulse around him.

His movements stay patient, calculated, letting you get used to every single sensation, letting you feel it, your body reacting to both him and Dick at the same time, your nerves lighting up from how much stimulation there is, how they're everywhere all at once.

By the time he slides in a third finger, you're trembling, panting, your nails digging into Dick's shoulders as he groans at the way you keep clenching around him.

"You're doin' so good, baby," Jason murmurs against your back, pressing a slow kiss between your shoulder blades, fingers curling inside you, stretching you wider.

Dick keeps kissing you. He can't stop.

His lips keep finding yours between every breathless moan, every shaky exhale, every soft noise that leaves your lips as Jason's fingers work you open, stretching you wider, preparing you for his dick.

You can barely think. Your body is trembling, nerves buzzing, your mind foggy with want, with need, your hands gripping Dick's shoulders as he pants against your lips, "You feel so good, sweetheart, I—fuck, I need to feel you."

Jason growls against your skin, his fingers sinking deeper, pushing past the tight ring of muscle until he's knuckle deep, fucking them in and out in slow, filthy thrusts. He watches you shudder, listens to the way you gasp, the way your thighs tremble when he curls his fingers just right.

"Relax," he murmurs, dragging his teeth over your neck, his free hand gripping your hip to keep you still. "You're already takin' me so fuckin' well, baby—bet you'll stretch around my dick like a dream."

He spreads his fingers, stretching you wider, dragging them back just to push in again, deeper, rougher, wetter. The slick, obscene sounds of it make heat curl in your belly, make your whole body tighten, aching, desperate.

"Fuck, you feel this?" Jason grunts, his fingers twisting, pressing, stroking in slow, teasing circles. "So tight, so fuckin' perfect—gonna ruin you, baby."

Dick presses another kiss to your lips, then another, then another, each one deeper, more desperate, more needy, because he has to. He has to taste you, has to feel you, has to lose himself in you while Jason kneels behind you, his cock hard and aching, the tip glistening as he slowly, carefully pulls his fingers out of your ass.

A low groan rumbles in his chest at the sight, his hands gripping your ass, spreading you slightly, watching the way your body twitches, the way your ass clenches, still slightly open from how deep his fingers had been.

"Relax, doll," he murmurs, his breath warm against your spine as he slicks himself up with lube, rubbing the tip of his cock against your hole, teasing, pressing just slightly to gauge your reaction.

Your whole body shudders, and Dick cradles your face, kisses you slow, deep, as he whispers against your lips, "Breathe, pretty girl. I got you."

Jason presses in. Slowly. The stretch is immediate, intense, your body clenching around him as he sinks in, inch by inch, his jaw tight as he groans, hands gripping your hips, feeling the way you shake as you adjust to the sheer size of him, to the way he's filling you.

Dick can feel it too. Your walls clenching around his cock, getting tighter just from how Jason is stretching you open, making him groan, his hands flexing against your waist.

"Fuck, baby," Jason grits out, his breath coming out shaky as he finally bottoms out, his forehead pressing against your back, his chest rising and falling in deep, heavy breaths. "You feel so fuckin' good."

You're a mess. Your breath is shaky, your pulse racing, your body overwhelmed in the best way possible, stuffed full, stretched wide, both of them inside you, filling you to the absolute brim.

Still, it's not enough. You need more. And the moment you shift, rolling your hips slightly, feeling the way it makes Jason's cock nudge deeper, Dick lets out a sharp, wrecked sound and tightens his grip on your hips.

"Hold still, love," he breathes, his voice low, strained, adjusting his grip on you, making sure you don't have to move, don't have to do anything except take it.

And you will. You'll take all of it. Because they need this just as much as you do, and neither of them can hold back much longer.

Jason exhales hard through his nose, his grip steady on your hips, his cock pulsing, buried deep inside your ass as he presses his chest flush against your back.

His lips graze your shoulder, his breath warm, voice low and gruff when he murmurs, "Good? Still with us?"

You nod quickly, too quickly, your brain foggy, words barely forming as you pant, "M-Move, please..."

Dick is the first to obey. His fingers flex at your waist, his muscles tensing beneath you as he rolls his hips up, fucking into your soaked cunt slow and deep, dragging a moan from your throat as the thick length of him stretches you open all over again.

Jason groans at the sight, at the way your tight little hole clenches around Dick's cock, the way your body shudders when Dick fills you to the hilt, rubbing against the spots that make you gasp, make you shake.

And then, Jason moves. It's slow, deliberate, his hips grinding forward, easing himself out just to push back in, filling your ass just as Dick fills your pussy, the slow stretch making your breath catch, making your fingers curl against Dick's chest.

Your mind is blank. Absolutely fucking blank. You can barely register the words Dick is whispering, his voice soft, warm, each praise making you clench down tighter, "God, sweetheart, you feel so good—so tight, so perfect—taking both of us so well, baby, so fucking good—"

His words make your breath stutter, make your walls squeeze around him, make Jason groan, his hands gripping your hips, thumbs stroking your skin as he kisses your back, your shoulders, your neck, his lips soft, reverent, even as he fucks you.

And you can barely breathe. Your mouth falls open in a silent moan, your body trembling as they thrust into you, stretching you, filling you, overwhelming you with the sheer amount of pleasure you're drowning in.

Jason's hand slides around you. Finds your puffy little clit. Presses down. You wail.

Your whole body jerks, your breath shattering as Jason grins against your skin, his fingers circling the sensitive bundle of nerves, slow and cruel, all while his cock grinds deep into your ass, making your walls clench around both of them.

Dick chokes on a moan, his hips jerking, his fingers digging into your waist, his cock stuffing your pussy, pushing deeper, hitting that spot that makes you keen.

Jason groans at the reaction, pressing his forehead to your shoulder, muttering, "Fuck, baby, that's it—take it—"

And you do. You take everything. The stretch, the pressure, the fullness, the filthy praise whispered into your ear, the heat of their bodies against yours. The way their cocks move inside you, making your vision swim, making your mind blank, making your whole body tremble as they keep fucking you.

And there's nothing—nothing—you want more.

Jason's fingers keep working your clit, slow and teasing one moment, rough and insistent the next, rubbing tight little circles that have your thighs trembling, your body caught between the steady drag of his cock in your ass and the deep, devastating thrusts of Dick's cock inside your pussy.

Your breath shatters, your body taut, stretched wide, so full, their cocks filling you over and over, slick and hot, the filthy sound of it echoing off the walls, slick wet noises mixing with your gasping moans, their groans, their praises.

Dick slides a hand up your waist, warm and firm, fingers trailing the sweat slicked curves of your body, before moving higher, higher, until he cups your breast.

A strangled moan gets caught in your throat as he palms you, rolling your nipple between his fingers, his grip firm, possessive, desperate, his hips never slowing, cock driving deep, kissing your cervix with every thrust.

Jason groans behind you, his cock throbbing, pulsing inside your tight, hot ass, his grip almost bruising at your hip as he watches Dick squeeze your tits, watches how you whimper and twitch, body so fucking responsive.

"Fuckin' hell," Jason rasps, pressing his forehead against your back, panting, "You're so tight, baby—grippin' me so good—"

Dick is all needy and breathless as he mutters, "You're so perfect—so wet, so fucking soft—"

And fuck, fuck, it's too much.

Your whole body tenses, muscles coiling, pleasure spiking, your slick dripping down, coating Dick's cock, soaking his thighs, Jason's fingers still rubbing your clit, still teasing, still playing with you.

Your vision blurs, your mouth falls open in a silent moan, and then you snap. Your orgasm rips through you like a fucking supernova, a shuddering, gut wrenching explosion of white hot pleasure. Wave after wave crashes into you as your pussy clenches, gripping Dick's cock so tight he chokes on a groan, hips faltering, hands gripping your waist to hold you there, fuck you through it, hips rutting up in messy, desperate thrusts.

Jason curses loud and filthy, his free hand digging into your hip as your ass tightens around him, milking his cock, making him throb, his jaw clenched so tight it aches as he rubs your clit faster, dragging out your orgasm, making you whimper, tremble, shake.

"That's it, doll," Jason growls, voice rough, filled with lust, "Fuck—look at you, so fuckin' messy, so good—"

Dick is moaning beneath you, his grip on you tightening, his cock still buried deep inside your spasming cunt, still rutting up into you, and it's so much, too much, your whole body a trembling, sweaty, soaked mess.

"M-more—"

Your voice is a broken little whimper, barely a sound at all, your body hot between them, overstimulated and fucked senseless, but still, still, you beg for more.

"H-harder—fuck—p-please—"

And that's it. That's it. Jason curses under his breath, and Dick's fingers tighten on your hips as something inside them just snaps, and they ruin you.

Jason grips your waist, holding you steady as he slams into your ass, hips snapping forward with messy, needy thrusts, cock stretching you wide, stuffing you so full, his abs flexing, sweat dripping down his chest.

Dick isn't any better. He's never fucked like this before, never felt like this before, usually so careful, so sweet, because he likes making love, likes taking his time. He's usually all slow, sensual touches and soft whispers, but the pollen, the fucking pollen.

You're soaking his cock, clenching around him, your pussy hot and wet and so fucking tight, making these little whimpering sounds that make his brain short circuit, that make him lose every single ounce of restraint.

He pounds into you, moaning, hips driving up to meet yours again and again, his mind blank, wrecked, obsessed with how you feel around him, how good you take it, how you keep begging for it.

"Yes—yes—yes—more—fuck—"

You can't stop babbling, pleading, brain melting under the push and pull of their cocks inside you, their hands gripping you, keeping you in place, using you, fucking you.

"More—more—more—"

You're whimpering, gasping, trembling, bouncing between him and Jason like you belong to them.

"F-fuck—"

Jason feels like he's burning alive, the heat of your body, the way your ass grips his cock, the way you tremble every time he fucks you deeper, the sweat dripping down his back, his chest, his hips slapping your ass, his free hand sliding up your spine, grabbing the back of your neck, squeezing just a little, just enough to make you gasp.

"Shit, baby, you're so fuckin' tight—"

And then—

"Fuck—fuck— fuck—"

Dick breaks.

His whole body tenses, back arching, muscles coiling as his cock jerks inside you, and then he's cumming, gasping, groaning, fucking his seed deep into your cunt, pumping you full, stuffing you so full, hot and thick. His arms lock around your waist, holding you down as he ruts up into you, still moving, still fucking you through it because he can't stop, can't fucking stop.

And you—

You feel it, feel the hot rush of it inside you, feel it leak out around his cock, smearing on your swollen folds, on Jason's fingers still working your clit, on his balls, sticky and messy, so fucking filthy. You love it, love the way it drips out of you, love the way Dick whimpers as he fucks through his orgasm, love the way Jason grunts behind you, voice rough, guttural.

"Christ, look at that—fuckin' drippin'—"

And he's still fucking you, still grinding against you, his cock still hard, still deep, still pounding your ass, and you whimper, still shaking, still so fucking sensitive.

Jason's fingers are merciless.

They press against your swollen, throbbing clit, slick with a mess of cum, circling it, teasing, rubbing just right.

"F-fuck, Jay, I—"

Your words break, barely more than a whimper, and Dick shifts beneath you, his hands tight on your hips, his cock still stuffed deep in your wrecked pussy, and he feels it.

He feels the way your walls are fluttering, spasming, gripping him, the way your whole body is starting to shake.

"That's it, baby, let go—"

Jason's voice is low, gravelly, and then it hits you.

A wave of white hot pleasure, so intense, so overwhelming, your whole body tenses and breaks at the same time, back arching, mouth falling open in a silent, shattered sob as you clench around both of them, your pussy squeezing Dick so tight he groans, hips jerking, and your ass—

"Shit—fuck—"

Jason chokes on his own breath, the sudden tight, spasming grip around his cock making his rhythm stutter, making his fingers falter, making his whole body tense as heat coils low in his gut, hot and throbbing, his hips snapping forward in shallow, desperate thrusts.

"Fuck— baby—"

His hand locks onto your waist, fingers digging into your soft, sweat slicked skin, and he buries himself deep, cock throbbing, pulsing, spilling inside you, thick and hot. He can't stop moving, can't stop grinding into you, fucking it deeper, groaning, shuddering against your back as his orgasm wrecks him.