your sweet cherry.

"What? I'm just saying." He takes a lazy sip of beer. "You're way too tense these days. You need to hook up with someone. Let off some steam."

She gasps, swatting at his leg. "I absolutely am not."

He grins, eyes glinting. "Yes you are. I can't put my finger on it, but you just seem so restless lately. Like you're crawling out of your skin."

"It's just stress over work." She pulls the pillow tighter. "Writing for the New York Chronicles is a lot of work. Deadlines, interviews, fact-checking—"

"Uh-huh. And when's the last time you got properly fucked?"

"Ned!"

He laughs, full and unbothered. "I'm serious. Maybe some good dick will help you. Relax those shoulders, clear that head of yours. You're practically vibrating."

On the fire escape, Peter's hands tighten into fists.

She's mine.

The thought crashes through him, possessive and raw. His jaw aches from clenching. He watches her through the window—her flustered expression, the way she hides her face in the pillow, the way she doesn't deny it. She's restless. He knows. He's seen her pace her apartment at 2 a.m., seen her press her thighs together in the bathtub, heard the soft, frustrated moans she thinks no one can hear.

And he knows Ned is right. She needs release. But the idea of her finding that release in someone else—some stranger's hands, some stranger's mouth, some stranger's cock inside her—makes his stomach twist with something dark and violent.

"You're impossible," she mutters, throwing the pillow at Ned.

He catches it easily. "And you're in denial. But okay. Keep telling yourself it's deadlines."

She stands, smoothing her shirt. "I'm leaving before you say something even more embarrassing."

"Text me if you change your mind! I know a guy—"

"Goodnight, Ned!"

The door clicks shut. Ned chuckles to himself, shaking his head.

Peter stays frozen on the fire escape long after she's gone, her scent still lingering in the air, her laugh still ringing in his ears.

He knows what he has to do.

He has to reintroduce himself. Casually, carefully. Slide back into her life before she finds someone else to release those frustrations on. Before some other man touches what's his.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he watches her walk home from a rooftop three blocks away, her silhouette moving under the amber streetlights. He watches her pause at her door, glance over her shoulder like she feels something watching her. She hugs herself, shivers, and disappears inside.

Soon, he tells himself, pressing a hand over his chest where his heart used to belong to her. Soon I'll make you remember. Or I'll make you want me again.

But for now, he waits.

Peter stands outside the coffee shop, his reflection staring back at him from the glass door. He checks his hair three times—runs his fingers through it, smooths the front, tucks a stray strand behind his ear. The black shirt hugs his shoulders just right, and the glasses frame his face in a way that used to make Y/N bite her lip and look at him twice.

She loved these glasses, he thinks, adjusting them once more. She used to say I looked like a secret librarian. A hot one.

He takes a breath, pushes the door open, and walks in with a confidence he's been practicing for weeks.

The bell above the door chimes. Y/N looks up from the counter where she's been scribbling in a notebook—probably working on another article for the New York Chronicles. Her hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She's wearing a simple apron over a cream sweater, and when she sees him, she smiles.

It's polite. Professional. The same smile she gives every customer working at her parent's cafe.

But it's still her smile, and his heart stumbles.

"Hi," she says, setting down her pen. "What can I get started for you?"

He steps up to the counter, leaning an elbow on the polished wood. "Hey. I'll take an iced americano and a chocolate donut."

She nods, writing it down. "Anything else?"

"No, thanks. That's perfect."

She turns to prepare the coffee, and he watches her movements—efficient, practiced. The way she scoops ice, pours the espresso, reaches for the donut with a tissue. When she turns back and hands him the cup, their fingers brush.

It's barely a second. Just a whisper of contact.

But she pauses, her eyes lifting to his face. A flicker of something—recognition? Curiosity?—passes through her gaze before she blinks it away.

"Here you go," she says softly.

He takes the cup, letting his fingers linger just a moment longer than necessary. "Thanks."

She smiles again, a little different this time—warmer, a hint of confusion. Then she turns back to the sink where a few dishes are waiting, rolling up her sleeves.

Peter takes a seat by the window, sipping his americano, watching her from behind his glasses. She's humming softly, something he doesn't recognize. From the back room, he hears Ned's voice, humming some pop song, the clatter of boxes being moved.

Over the next few weeks, he becomes a regular.

He comes in every other day, sometimes every day. Always orders the same thing—iced americano, chocolate donut. Sometimes he grabs a table and pretends to work on his laptop, but really he's watching her. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear. The way she bites her lip while reading. The way she laughs at something Ned says, bright and easy.

Their interactions are casual. Limited.

"Morning Peter." She learns his name.

"The usual?" She asks.

"You know it."

A smile. A quick exchange. Then she's busy, and he's left with the ghost of her attention.

It's not enough.

So one afternoon, when the shop is empty and Ned is in the back, he makes his move.

He walks up to the counter, coffee in hand, and as he reaches to pay, he lets his wrist go slack. The cup tips. The lid pops off. Brown liquid splashes across the floor, a puddle spreading near his feet.

"Shit," he mutters, a little too loud.

Y/N spins around from the espresso machine. "Oh no! Don't worry, I'll get it—"

She grabs a roll of paper towels from under the counter and moves to crouch down, but he's already there. He takes the roll from her hands, his fingers closing over hers for a brief, deliberate second.

"It was my fault," he says, meeting her eyes. "Don't worry about it."

"Really, I can—"

"Nope. I got it." He kneels, wiping up the mess quickly, ignoring her protests. "You have enough to do. Let me take care of this."

She stands there, hands on her hips, watching him clean up her floor with an expression caught between amused and impressed.

"You're not going to let me help, are you?" she asks.

"Nope." He finishes, tosses the wet paper towels in the trash, and straightens up. "See? All good."

She shakes her head, a smile tugging at her lips. "You're stubborn."

"I prefer determined."

"A determined mess-maker."

He laughs—a real laugh, not the careful one he's been using.

They stand there, the air between them easier now, the tension cracked open. She leans against the counter, crossing her arms, studying him with fresh eyes.

"You come here a lot," she says.

"I do. Good coffee. Good donuts." He pauses, letting his voice drop just a fraction. "Good company."

Her cheeks flush. She looks down, then back up, a spark in her gaze. "You're not from around here, are you?"

"Born and raised. Just... been away for a while."

"Ah. A returning native."

"Something like that."

She tilts her head. "What do you do, Peter? Besides cleaning up your own messes?"

"I'm a freelance photographer. I take pictures of the city, the people. Try to capture moments that don't last."

Her eyes light up. "That sounds beautiful."

"It has its moments." He holds her gaze. "Maybe I could show you sometime. If you're interested."

The offer hangs in the air, soft and deliberate. She bites her lower lip, considering, and he feels his pulse quicken.

"I'd like that," she says quietly.

A bell rings from the back—Ned calling something about a shipment. The moment breaks, but it doesn't shatter. It settles into something warm, something potential.

"I should let you get back to work," Peter says, stepping back. "But I'll see you tomorrow. Same time?"

"Same time," she confirms, her smile lingering.

He walks out of the coffee shop, heart hammering, a grin threatening to break across his face. He doesn't look back, but he doesn't need to.

He knows he has her attention now.

Ned slides up beside Y/N the moment the door swings shut behind Peter. He nudges her shoulder with his, a knowing grin already spreading across his face.

"Okay, so that guy? Exactly your type."

Y/N rolls her eyes, but she can feel the heat creeping up her neck. "Peter?"

"Obviously Peter." Ned leans against the counter, crossing his arms. "Like, I get it. He's attractive in that nonchalant way. The whole I just rolled out of bed but I'm still hotter than you vibe. And that confidence? It's practically dripping off him." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Makes you horny, doesn't it?"

"Ned!" She smacks his shoulder, but she's laughing. "Shut up. He's just a nice guy."

"A nice guy who you've been staring at for three weeks straight."

"I have not—"

"You literally watched him walk to the door just now. Like a sad puppy."

She opens her mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. Because he's right. She did watch him. She always watches him.

Ned groans, shaking his head with mock exasperation. "When you two finally hook up, I'm going to be right there to say I told you so."

"He's just a customer, Injun."

"Mhmm. Sure." He pats her shoulder and heads toward the back room, already humming again, leaving her standing there with her thoughts.

She bites her lip.

He's just a customer, she tells herself. But her mind drifts anyway, unbidden.

His voice—low and warm, with a teasing edge that makes her stomach flip. The way he carries himself, relaxed but aware, like he knows exactly what he's doing at all times. His baggy clothes, the way they hang off his frame, hiding and revealing at the same time. The silver rings on his fingers. That little smirk he gives her sometimes, like he's in on a joke she hasn't heard yet.

Her exes were... fine. Nice. Respectful. Boring.

They held doors open and said please and thank you. They kissed her forehead and asked if she was comfortable. They never made her pulse race. They never made her wonder what it would feel like to be pushed against a wall and taken.

Peter does.

He gives her mystery. Maybe even a little danger. The way he looks at her sometimes, like he's holding something back—something intense.

She shakes her head, physically trying to dislodge the thought. Crazy. You don't even know him.

But the thought lingers, hot and stubborn, all the way through the rest of her shift. It follows her home, past the subway, up the stairs to her apartment. It settles in her bones the moment she closes her door.

---

She's restless.

The apartment is quiet, dark except for the lamp by her bed. She changes into a tank top and shorts, lies down, tosses, turns. Her body feels tight—a coil wound too tight, needing release.

She gives in.

From the nightstand drawer, she pulls out her vibrator—a sleek pink thing she's had for years. She lies back, spreads her legs, and lets the hum of the motor fill the silence.

Her mind drifts to him.

To Peter. To his hands. Those rings. What they'd feel like gripping her thighs. His voice, low in her ear, telling her exactly what he's going to do to her.

She presses the vibrator harder against her clit, her breath hitching. She thinks about his smirk, his confidence, the way he holds her gaze a second too long. She chases the image, lets it build—

And then she comes.

A sharp, quick release. A gasp. The tension snaps, but it doesn't dissolve. It just... scatters. Falls apart unsatisfyingly.

She sighs, letting the vibrator drop onto the mattress. Her body feels hollow. Empty. Like the orgasm barely scratched the surface of what she actually needs.

"Fuck," she whispers to the ceiling.

She lies there, staring at the dark, her skin still buzzing with unresolved heat. She wants more. She wants him. But he's a stranger. A customer. Nothing.

She rolls onto her side, pulls the blanket up, and tries to sleep.

---

Outside her window, perched on a fire escape three buildings over, Peter watches the dark shape of her bedroom through the gap in her curtains.

He didn't look. Not directly. He swung toward her building on instinct, drawn by the familiar pull of her presence, and he landed on the adjacent rooftop just in time to hear it.

The buzz of the vibrator. Her soft, breathy moans.

His name. She whispered his name—Peter—on a desperate exhale.

And then the sigh. That disappointed, hollow sigh at the end.

He heard it all.

His fingers curl into a fist against the brick wall beside him. A smirk spreads across his face, slow and predatory, mixing with the ache in his chest.

You're not satisfied, are you, baby?

He knows the feeling. He's been unsatisfied too—in a different way. Hungry for her touch, her voice, her warmth. But that hunger is about to be fed.

He pushes off the ledge, letting the night air rush past him as he swings into the darkness.

Soon. I'll take my rightful place soon.

Below him, the city blurs. Sirens wail somewhere in the distance. Another night of crime waits for him—thugs to stop, civilians to save. The usual.

But tonight, for the first time in weeks, he feels something close to hope.

———

It starts slowly.

A whisper of warmth against her skin. The weight of a body behind her, pressed close, solid and familiar. She can't see his face, but she knows him—or rather, her body knows him. Her back arches into his chest instinctively, seeking more contact.

His hands. God, his hands. Calloused palms sliding up her thighs, fingers digging into her hips with just enough pressure to bruise. She feels the cool bite of metal rings against her overheated skin. A low chuckle rumbles against her ear.

"You've been so good for me, baby. But I'm gonna take what's mine now."

She opens her mouth to respond, but he's already rolling her onto her stomach, pulling her hips up, positioning her on her knees. The sheets are soft beneath her palms. She can feel his cock—thick, hard, pressing against her soaked entrance—and she whimpers, pushing back against him.

"Please," she breathes. "Please, I need—"

He cuts her off with a sharp thrust. He slams into her to the hilt, and she screams, her body clenching around him immediately. He doesn't stop. He fucks her like he owns her, like he's been waiting for this, each stroke deep and punishing, hitting a spot inside her that makes stars burst behind her eyelids.

"That's it. Take it. Take all of it."

His voice is low, rough, almost unrecognizable through the fog of lust. She can't think. She can only feel—the stretch, the burn, the relentless pounding. He wraps a hand around her throat, not choking, just holding, tilting her head back so he can whisper directly into her ear.

"You missed me, didn't you? Your tight little pussy missed me. Say it."

"I—yes—fuck—I missed you—"

He groans, a sound so raw it vibrates through her bones. His pace quickens, his grip on her hip bruising. She feels the coil building, tighter and tighter, her moans turning into desperate sobs—

And then she wakes up.

---

Gasping.

Y/N bolts upright in bed, her tank top soaked with sweat, her thighs sticky with arousal. The sheets are twisted around her legs. Her pussy is throbbing, clenching around nothing, so empty it almost hurts.

She blinks at the ceiling, panting.

What the fuck was that?

The dream is already fading, slipping through her fingers like water. She remembers heat. A deep voice. Being pinned down and fucked senseless. But the face—she can't remember the face. Just a blur of dark hair, broad shoulders, a cruel smirk.

She presses her palm against her cunt, gasping at the sensitivity. She's soaked. Her thighs are slick. Her hole flutters, desperate to be filled.

"Fucking hell," she mutters, flopping back onto the pillows.

It's been like this for almost a week now. Every night, another dream. Some nights she's on her knees, sucking a thick cock while a hand tangles in her hair. Some nights she's tied to a bed, spread open, being fucked so slowly she can feel every inch drag against her walls. Some nights it's just a voice—a low, possessive voice—calling her filthy, desperate, mine.

She always wakes up the same way: wet, aching, unsatisfied.

She reaches for her vibrator on the nightstand, but even as she presses it against her clit, she knows it won't be enough. It never is anymore. She comes—hard, fast, grinding into the plastic—but the release is hollow. An echo of what her body actually craves.

She doesn't know what that is.

Her exes were boring. They never made her feel claimed. They never made her scream.

But her body wants something more, something she's never experienced. Or so she thinks.

She sighs, tossing the vibrator aside. Her cunt still throbs, still clenches, still weeps for something she can't name.

Why does this feel like grief?

---

Across the city, perched on a water tower overlooking her block, Peter watches the distant glow of her window with a dark, hungry expression.

He knows.

He's been watching her sleep through the gap in her curtains. He's heard her moans, her whimpers, the desperate sounds she makes when she's lost in a dream he put there—not consciously, but through the lingering threads of the spell that binds them. She can't remember him, but her body can. Her body is a traitor, whispering his name in the language of her muscles, her slick, her trembling thighs.

He clenches his fists, his cock hardening painfully in his suit.

He lets out a slow, shaky breath.

I'll give you what you're craving soon.

He pushes off the water tower, swinging into the night, leaving his mark on the rooftops like a promise.

But he doesn't go far. He lands on the fire escape just outside her window—close enough to hear her frustrated sigh, the rustle of sheets as she rolls over, the quiet, desperate whisper she thinks no one hears:

"What do I need? What's wrong with me?"

He presses a hand to the glass, his rings glinting in the moonlight.

Nothing's wrong with you, love. You just need me.

————

The morning rush at the coffee shop had been mercifully slow, leaving Y/N and Ned with nothing better to do than wipe down the already-clean countertops in a lazy, synchronized rhythm. The TV mounted in the corner murmured in the background—some local news broadcast about a bank robbery in Midtown. The anchor's voice was tinny, almost an afterthought.

"...and witnesses report that Spider-Man intervened just moments after the robbers entered. No casualties reported. The web-slinger made a quick escape as usual—"

Y/N didn't look up. Neither did Ned. It was New York. Spider-Man stopping a robbery was as routine as a subway delay. They'd both heard the name so many times it barely registered anymore—a ghost in red and blue, flickering across screens, saving lives, disappearing.

Ned hummed a tune under his breath, rubbing a smudge off the granite with his thumb. Y/N's mind was elsewhere. Still half-lost in the hazy aftertaste of another dream from last night—the echo of a deep voice, the phantom weight of hands on her hips, the ache between her legs that hadn't fully faded even after she'd come twice this morning.

She bit her lip, grip tightening on the rag.

Focus. Work. Coffee. Normal stuff.

The little bell above the door jingled.

She looked up.

And there he was.

Peter stepped inside, and she felt the air shift. He was breathing hard, his black t-shirt clinging to his torso like a second skin, dark patches of sweat spreading across his chest and under his arms. His hair was damp, plastered to his forehead in messy waves, and a thin sheen of perspiration glistened over his neck and collarbones.

He looked exhausted. But also... good. Really good.

"Hey," Y/N said, her voice coming out a little too breathy. She cleared her throat. "You okay?"

He offered a tired smile, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "Yeah. Just tired. Killed it at the gym today." He let out a huff of laughter, rolling one shoulder like it ached. "Didn't realize I pushed myself that hard."

She nodded, already moving to make his usual ice americano. Her body went through the motions automatically while her eyes trailed down his frame. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle, veins visible beneath the tanned skin. The sweat highlighted every contour—the arch of his biceps, the column of his throat, the way his chest rose and fell with each controlled breath.

Shit. She felt heat creep up her cheeks.

Her gaze dropped lower, catching a glint of silver at his wrist. A bracelet—woven black cord with a small metallic charm, a roughly shaped star. It looked handmade, well-worn, the edges smooth like it had been touched a thousand times.

She slid the cup across the counter toward him. "That's pretty," she said, nodding at the bracelet.

For a split second, something flickered in his eyes. A flash of emotion too fast to name—hope? Pain? He opened his mouth, and she could've sworn she saw him about to say something, his throat bobbing with a swallow.

Do you remember that you gave this to me?

But the words didn't come. He just watched her as she pulled away from the counter, already turning back to the rag in her hand.

Of course she didn't remember.

"Thanks," she said over her shoulder, already distracted, moving toward the back to restock napkins.

Peter stared at the bracelet on his wrist. The star charm. She'd made it for him on their six-month anniversary, clumsily braiding the cord while sitting cross-legged on his bed, laughing about how she'd never made jewelry before. "So you don't forget me," she'd said, pressing it into his palm. "Wear it even when you're being Spider-Man. I want to be with you, always."

He clenched his jaw, forcing the ache down his throat.

She doesn't remember. Of course she doesn't. You knew that.

Ned slid off his stool and walked over, holding out a napkin. "Hey," he said, his voice soft but pointed. "Your forehead's bleeding a bit."

Peter blinked, reaching up. His fingers came away with a smear of red. Shit. Must've caught a stray piece of debris during the takedown. He'd been too focused on getting there fast—on changing out of the suit in that alley, on making it to the shop before she closed—that he hadn't bothered to check for damage.

"Ah, that." He took the napkin with a casual shrug, pressing it to the cut. "Tripped on the way here. Almost ate pavement. Stupid, I know."

Ned's eyes lingered on him a moment too long, a quiet skepticism behind his gentle gaze. He didn't say anything, but Peter could feel the weight of his unspoken question.

That's a weird place to trip. And you're too banged up for just a fall. And you showed up right after Spider-Man was seen.

But Ned just nodded, taking a slow sip of his own drink. "Be careful," he said simply, and walked back to the counter.

Peter exhaled slowly, pressing the napkin harder against his temple. He watched Y/N move behind the counter, her hair tied in a messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She was beautiful. She was his. And she didn't even know it.

He took a long sip of the coffee she'd made him, letting the bitterness ground him.

He smiled against the rim of the cup, eyes fixed on the curve of her back as she bent down to grab more cups from the low shelf.

The bracelet gleamed on his wrist like a promise.

The morning air in Manhattan carried the usual cocktail of exhaust fumes, pretzel cart steam, and distant sirens. Y/N walked with her messenger bag slung across her body, earbuds in, a playlist of lo-fi beats keeping her grounded. The New York Chronicle skyscraper loomed ahead, all glass and steel, reflecting the pale winter sun. She was running a little early today, which meant she could grab a decent coffee from the lobby cart before heading up to her desk.

She was two blocks away when the screaming started.

At first, it was distant—a ripple through the crowd ahead. Then it grew, a wave of panic rolling toward her. People began sprinting in her direction, faces twisted with fear, elbows knocking pamphlets and coffee cups out of the way. A woman clutching a toddler nearly collided with her.

"What—" Y/N pulled out her earbuds, heart lurching. "What's happening?"

No one stopped to answer. The tide of bodies pushed past her, and she stumbled sideways, grabbing a lamppost to steady herself. Then she saw it: a column of smoke rising from the base of the Chronicle building. Orange flames licked at a collapsed awning. Glass littered the street like crushed diamonds.

Oh god. That's the lobby.

Her feet started moving before her brain caught up. She had to get in there. Had to see if her coworkers—her editor, the layout team, Maria from HR who always gave her extra granola bars—were okay. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She ignored it.

"HEY!"

A blur of red and blue dropped from above, landing in front of her with a soft thud that cracked the asphalt. She yelped, skidding to a halt.

Spider-Man.

His lenses narrowed, body angled like he was about to grab her.

"What the hell are you doing?" His voice was modulated, sharp with urgency. "There's a gas leak—could blow again any second. Get back."

"I have to see if the people in that building are okay!" She tried to sidestep him, but he moved with her, a wall of spandex and muscle.

"I'll check. You stay here." He pointed a gloved finger at the sidewalk behind her. "Don't move."

She barely registered that she'd just been ordered around by a superhero. Her heart was hammering. The smoke stung her nostrils. "I'm not just going to—"

He was already turning, preparing to leap. She took a step forward, following him.

A sharp thwip sliced through the air.

Something snapped around her right wrist—a rope of white webbing, sticky and warm, yanking her arm sideways. She stumbled, grunting, and found herself anchored to the handle of a police cruiser parked at the curb. The web held fast, elastic but unyielding.

"What the hell?!" She yanked at her wrist, but the webbing stretched and held. "Are you serious right now?!"

Spider-Man paused, tilting his head. She could almost hear the smirk behind the mask. "Nope. Wait here. I'll free you after I'm sure it's safe."

And then he was gone, a red streak disappearing into the smoke-filled doorway.

Y/N stood there, arm stretched awkwardly toward the cop car, jaw hanging open. People were still running past her, but the immediate panic was thinning. She looked at her wrist, at the white strands wrapped snugly around it, and felt a jolt—not of anger, but of something else.

The texture. The pressure. The slight give when she pulled.

Her breath caught.

She was in her bedroom. The lights were dim. Her wrist was bound to the bedpost with...not a rope...not a scarf...something else entirely. Her arms stretched above her head and a dark figure hovered over her. She couldn't see his face, but she could feel his weight, his heat, the deep rumble of his voice against her ear.

"Stay still, baby. I'm not done with you yet."

The memory dissolved as quickly as it came, leaving her gasping on the sidewalk, knees weak.

What the fuck?

She shook her head violently, pressing her free hand to her flushed cheek. "I'm starting to feel like a fucking sex addict," she muttered under her breath. Of all the things to think about right now—tied to a car by Spider-Man—her brain was conjuring erotic flashbacks? With...Spider-Man? For all she knew, the guy was a forty-year-old accountant underneath that suit. He could be balding.

But he didn't move like a forty-year-old. And his voice, even through the modulator, had a certain quality—young, confident, teasing.

She shook her head again, harder. Stop it. Focus. The building.

A few minutes passed. The fire trucks arrived. EMTs started setting up a triage zone. Y/N strained her neck, trying to see if anyone was being carried out. She pulled at the web again, frustrated, but it held true.

Then Spider-Man emerged from the smoke, walking casually now, hands on his hips. He jogged over to her.

"Building's clear. No casualties. Gas leak was contained before it got worse. Minor injuries, but everyone's out." He reached for the web on her wrist and gave it a sharp tug setting her free.

She rubbed her wrist, red and slightly raw. "That wasn't cool. You could have just asked me to stay."

"I did. You didn't listen." He shrugged, the motion exaggerated by the suit's padding. "You should be more careful. People get hurt when they run toward explosions."

"I work there." She glared at him. "I was worried about my friends."

He was quiet for a second, his head tilted. She could feel his gaze through the white lenses, studying her. There was something familiar about the angle of his jaw, the set of his shoulders.

Then he straightened. "Bye."

And with a single leap, he was gone, swinging between buildings, disappearing into the Manhattan skyline before she could even respond.

Y/N stood there, mouth half-open, hand still rubbing her wrist. The phantom sensation of the web lingered—soft, taut, possessive. Her skin tingled where it had been wrapped.

Why does that feel like a memory I can't reach?

She stared up at the empty sky, the smoke still curling into the gray clouds.

And for some reason, her thighs pressed together.

Get a grip, Y/N. He's a stranger in a mask.

But her body didn't believe that. Not for a second.

The evening air did nothing to cool the heat lingering beneath Y/N's skin. After the chaos at the Chronicle building, after being webbed to a police car like some disobedient puppy, after the shredded remains of her dignity scattered across Sixth Avenue—she'd gone through the motions. Talked to her editor. Confirmed everyone was safe. Filed a preliminary report on the gas leak. Smiled at Maria's thanks.

But all the way home, her wrist tingled. The ghost of that webbing refused to fade.

Now she stood in her apartment, shoes kicked off, coat thrown over the armchair. The city lights bled through her window, painting amber stripes across her wooden floor. She should shower. Eat something. Answer the three texts Ned had sent asking if she was okay.

Instead, she grabbed her laptop and collapsed onto her bed, flipping it open.

YouTube.

Her fingers moved before she could talk herself out of it. She typed in the search bar: Spider-Man New York 2024.

The results flooded the screen. News clips. Fan edits. Compilations titled "Spider-Man's Top 10 Saves" and "Spider-Man Being a Menace for 12 Minutes Straight." She clicked the first one—a news report from two months ago, shaky cell phone footage of Spider-Man webbing a falling construction beam before it crushed a bus.

She watched it twice. Then a third time.

The comments section was a battlefield.

"whoever is under that suit is DEFINITELY packing i'm not taking questions"

"imagine getting railed by spider-man... the grip?? the stamina???"

"he literally fights crime every night and still has time to help old ladies cross the street... husband material"

"plot twist: he's actually a 50 year old dude with a beer belly and we're all just simping for spandex"

"even if he is 50 i'd still let him web me to the bed 🥴"

Y/N snorted despite herself, scrolling deeper. The thirst was real, embarrassingly real. These women were out there, posting paragraphs about what they'd let Spider-Man do to them. What they'd do to him. She felt a pang of something—not judgment, because who was she to judge—but recognition.

She'd felt that web around her wrist. She'd felt the possessiveness in that single thwip.

And God help her, she wanted to feel it again.

She clicked on another video. This one was different—a street interview, low-budget, filmed by someone's phone. The camera focused on Spider-Man, standing casually beside a hot dog cart, and standing next to him was a little boy—maybe eight years old, holding a notebook.

The interviewer says, "We've got a special guest today—this is Liam, and he wanted to ask Spider-Man a few questions."

Spider-Man crouched down to the boy's level. His lenses softened, tilted—the body language of someone genuinely engaged. He reached out and patted the kid's head, a casual, affectionate gesture.

"Go ahead, Liam. I'm all ears."

And he laughed—a low, warm chuckle that cut through the modulator like a blade through silk.

Y/N's breath hitched.

That laugh. She knew that laugh. It tickled something deep in her chest, a phantom sensation, like a voice calling from underwater. Her fingers tightened on the laptop. She replayed it. Once. Twice. Three times.

"I'm all ears."

The way he said it—teasing, gentle, familiar.

She shook her head, hard. You're projecting. Every guy laughs. It's not him. You don't even know who "him" is.

But her skin was prickling. Her thighs pressed together under the laptop.

She kept scrolling.

There was a Reddit link. r/SpiderManFantasies (NSFW). Her thumb hovered over it for a full ten seconds before she clicked.

The forum was a treasure trove of desperation. Women (and some men) posting photos they'd taken of Spider-Man mid-swing, or perched on a rooftop, or standing in the middle of a street after a rescue. The photos weren't explicit—they couldn't be, he was fully suited—but the captions were anything but.

"If I ever meet him I'm dropping to my knees immediately. That suit does NOT hide what he's working with."

"Imagine him pinning you down after a fight, all that adrenaline still pumping... you'd feel the bass in his chest."

"I don't even care what he looks like. I just want one night. ONE. NIGHT. With whoever is under that mask."

One post showed a blurry shot of Spider-Man crouched on a fire escape, his legs spread, the suit stretching taut across his thighs. The caption read: "I want to sit on his face and never get up."

Y/N closed the laptop so fast the screen clicked shut.

Her heart was hammering. Her cheeks burned. She pressed a hand to her forehead, groaning.

"I'm not above this," she whispered to the empty room. "I'm so far below this it's embarrassing."

She threw the laptop aside and flopped onto her back, staring at the ceiling. The city hummed outside—distant sirens, a neighbor's TV, the low bass of a car passing by. Her skin felt too tight. Her cunt ached, a dull, persistent throb that had been living in her bones for weeks now.

The clock on her nightstand read 11:47 PM when Y/N finally collapsed onto her bed, still wearing her jeans and a thin camisole.

Sleep came heavy and reluctant.

---

She woke with a gasp, thighs pressed together, a dull throb between her legs.

The clock read 2:47 AM.

Her skin was damp with sweat. Her nipples were hard, rubbing against the cotton of her shirt. She'd been dreaming again—fragments of a body above her, weight pressing her into the mattress, a warm mouth trailing down her stomach. She couldn't see his face, but she could feel his hands. Strong, calloused, knowing exactly where to touch.

"I've got you, baby. I've always got you."

She threw an arm over her eyes, breathing hard. She was wet, aching, clenching around nothing. She slid a hand down her belly, into her underwear, her fingers finding her clit swollen and desperate.

She rubbed herself slowly, trying to chase a release that never came. She imagined the web wrapped around her wrist again. Spider-Man's lenses staring down at her. The low laugh from the video.

"Fuck," she whimpered, fingers moving faster. But it wasn't enough. It was never enough. She could feel a shape just out of reach.

Her body remembered. Her mind didn't.

She pressed her palm harder, hips bucking, but the orgasm hovered like a mirage, untouchable. She let out a frustrated sob, pulling her hand away, her chest heaving.

Outside, on the fire escape, a shadow shifted.

Peter pressed his back against the brick wall, his own breathing uneven. He'd heard her whimper through the glass. Heard the wet sound of her fingers working. The whine of her frustration when she couldn't finish.

His cock was hard, straining against the suit. He'd come here to check on her after the explosion—to make sure she was safe, to watch her sleep like he did most nights. He hadn't expected this.

But he couldn't leave. Not while she was aching.

Not when he was the only one who could fix it.

He pressed a palm against the cold glass of her window, the mask hiding the anguish on his face. Soon, he told himself. Soon I'll find a way.

But for now, he just listened to her breathe, and hated the spell that kept them apart.

———

The knock that rattled Ned's door at 11 PM was frantic—three sharp, pounding hits, then a pause, then another. He barely had time to unlatch the lock before Y/N pushed past him into his apartment, her eyes wild, her hair a mess, her chest heaving like she'd run the whole way.

"Okay," she said, hands on her hips, pacing his narrow living room. "You were right. You were fucking right."

Ned closed the door slowly, crossing his arms. He was in sweatpants and an old band tee, clearly winding down for the night. "Right about what, exactly? Because I'm right about a lot of things."

She whirled on him, jaw tight. "The sex thing. The needing-to-get-laid thing. The I'm crawling out of my skin thing." She raked her fingers through her hair, tugging at the roots. "It's not just being horny, Ned. It's like—" She stopped, struggling for words. "It's like my body is craving something specific. A specific touch. A specific rhythm. A specific person. But I don't know who or what. I don't remember. I just feel this ache that nothing fills."

Ned's teasing demeanor softened. He gestured to the couch, and she collapsed onto it, head in her hands.

He sat beside her, voice careful. "An ex? Someone you dated before? Maybe your brain locked away a breakup that hit you harder than you think."

She looked up, rolling her eyes so hard it was almost audible. "No. It's not an ex. I don't have any traumatic breakup memory. It's—" She groaned, frustrated. "I don't know. It feels like a ghost. A phantom limb."

Ned was quiet for a moment. Then he said, slowly, "Maybe you don't need to find that specific person. Maybe you just need to try someone new."

She blinked at him. The idea hung in the air, fresh and foreign.

"Someone new," she repeated, tasting the words.

"Someone who doesn't come with baggage or memories. Someone who can just—" He made a vague gesture. "Fuck you into forgetting whatever's haunting you. A clean slate. A hot body. A night of no strings."

She stared at him. Then, slowly, a nod. "Maybe you're right."

His grin spread wide. "I am right. And I know exactly how to start." He pulled out his phone, already scrolling. "There's that new nightclub in midtown. Opened last week. 'Velvet Underground.' It's got black lights, VIP booths, and supposedly a very attractive bartender who does body shots. I've been dying to go."

"A club," she said flatly.

"A club where you can find a guy—or girl, no judgment—who will take you home and fuck you until you forget your own name. That kind of club."

She chewed her lip. The idea terrified her. Thrilled her. She thought of her empty bed, the wet sheets, the incomplete orgasms. She thought of the phantom hands in her dreams.

"Okay," she whispered. "Okay. Let's do it."

Ned clapped his hands together. "Yes. I'll text you the details. Wear something slutty. I'm talking a dress that says 'I'm here to get railed.'"

She laughed—a real laugh, shaky but genuine. "You're such a bad influence."

"Someone has to be."

They spent the next hour planning. What time to arrive. Which drinks to order. An exit strategy if the guy was a creep. Y/N felt lighter than she had in weeks, a fragile hope blooming in her chest.

---

Outside, pressed against the brick wall of the adjacent building, a figure in red and blue watched through the sliver of curtain left uncovered.

Peter's hands curled into fists.

His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

Someone new.

The words echoed in his skull, each syllable a knife twist. She was going to let some stranger touch her. Some random guy from a club. He'd put his hands on her skin, his mouth on her throat...

A low, guttural sound escaped his throat, muffled by the mask.

No. Absolutely fucking not.

He pushed off the wall, landing silently on the fire escape below. His mind raced. He couldn't stop her—not directly. He couldn't reveal himself, couldn't break the spell. But he could intercept. He could follow. He could make sure that no one—no one—got close enough to touch what was his.

Even if she didn't remember it.

He swung into the night, a plan already forming. The club. He'd be there. Not as Spider-Man—too obvious. He'd ditch the suit, put on something tight, something that would make her look. He'd find her on the dance floor, buy her a drink, let the night unfold.

The hunt was on.

The strapless bodycon dress was a weapon, and Y/N knew it.

Black velvet hugged every curve from her collarbone to mid-thigh, the hem riding up just enough to make men's eyes glaze over. She'd paired it with strappy heels that made her legs look miles long and a thin silver necklace that caught the light. Her hair fell in loose waves, makeup smoky and deliberate.

Ned let out a low whistle when she stepped out of her bedroom. "Holy shit."

"Too much?" She tugged at the neckline nervously.

"Not enough. You're going to break necks tonight. Possibly some hearts too, but who's counting." He offered his arm. "Shall we?"

She took it, laughing. "Let's get me laid."

---

The Velvet Underground lived up to its name. The interior was all dark burgundy and dim gold lighting, with a massive dance floor pulsing under black lights that made white fabrics glow. Bodies moved together in a haze of sweat and bass, the air thick with perfume and alcohol.

They claimed a spot at the bar, and Ned ordered them both shots of tequila. "Warm-up," he shouted over the music.

Y/N downed hers, grimacing at the burn. A second followed. Then a third.

By the fourth, the edges of her anxiety had blurred into a pleasant haze. The bass thrummed through her bones, and she found herself swaying, scanning the crowd. Potential candidates everywhere—sharp jawlines, broad shoulders, confident grins.

None of them made her stomach flip.

But then the door opened.

And he walked in.

Peter had planned this.

Tight black jeans that hugged his thighs and sat low on his hips. A simple white T-shirt, thin enough that the outline of his chest was visible when he moved. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing the veins in his forearms. He'd styled his hair messy, like he'd just rolled out of bed, and he wore that lazy half-smirk that had always made her knees weak.

Her favorite outfit.

He remembered the first time she'd seen him in it. They'd been dating for a few weeks, and he'd shown up at her door looking like this. She'd pulled him inside by his collar, pinned him against the wall, and kissed him so deep he'd seen stars. Her hands had tangled in his hair, pulling, while the other roamed down his stomach to palm him through the denim. She'd broken the kiss just to whisper against his lips, "You look so good it should be illegal. I want to ruin you."

And she had. For hours.

He carried that memory in his bones as he pushed open the club door, scanning the crowd with practiced casualness. His eyes landed on the bar.

There she was.

Strapless black dress. Hair loose. Cheeks flushed from alcohol. She was even more beautiful than he remembered—which was saying something, because he remembered every detail.

He pretended not to see her at first. Ordered a drink. Leaned against the bar, letting the black lights catch the contours of his arms.

Then Ned spotted him.

"Hey! Peter!"

Peter turned, feigning surprise. His eyes landed on Y/N, and he let them widen slightly—just enough. "Oh. Hey. Didn't expect to see you guys here."

Y/N's breath caught. Her lips parted, a soft gasp escaping. "Hi."

Just that. Hi. But the word came out breathy, almost involuntary.

Ned gestured him over. "Come join us. We're just warming up. Y/N's on a mission tonight."

"A mission?" Peter raised an eyebrow, sliding onto the stool beside her. Close enough that his knee brushed hers under the bar. "Sounds intriguing."

She opened her mouth to respond, but the words came out slurred. "M'sion... find someone... hot..."

Ned sighed. "I think the tequila hit faster than expected."

Peter smiled knowingly. She always did get tipsy fast. Three drinks and she'd be clinging to him, whispering dirty things in his ear. Four and she'd be begging to go home. Five and she'd be asleep before they hit the door.

"I can help you get her home," he offered, voice steady. "If you want."

Ned looked relieved. "God, yes. I was not looking forward to carrying her six blocks in those heels."

They helped her off the stool. Her legs wobbled, and she stumbled forward—

Right into Peter's arms.

Her palms landed flat on his chest. Her head tipped up, eyes glassy and unfocused. She blinked at him, a dopey smile spreading across her face. "Wow. You're... strong."

His hands caught her waist, steadying her. The velvet of her dress was soft under his fingers, her skin warm beneath the fabric. He could feel the rapid flutter of her pulse.

He lowered his voice, letting it dip into that husky register she'd always loved. "Oh yea?"

She nodded, earnest and drunk. "Mmhm. Like... hero strong."

If only you knew.

Ned was already heading for the door, waving them along. Peter kept one arm around Y/N's waist, guiding her out into the cool night air. The city hummed around them, taxis honking, distant sirens, the buzz of neon signs.

The walk to her apartment was slow. She kept tripping on cracks, leaning into him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. At one point she looked up at him, squinting.

"You smell... familiar."

His chest tightened. "Good familiar or bad familiar?"

"Good." She nuzzled into his shoulder. "Really good."

Ned shot him a look—half curious, half amused. Peter just shrugged, playing it casual, though his heart was hammering.

They reached her building. Ned held the door while Peter helped her up the stairs. At her apartment door, she fumbled with her keys, nearly dropping them twice.

When she finally got it open, she turned around, throwing her arms around both of them in a messy group hug.

"Thank you," she mumbled into Ned's shoulder. "You're the best."

She pulled back, swaying slightly, and turned to Peter.

Her eyes met his.

The air between them thickened.

"You..." She reached up, touching his cheek with drunken clumsiness. Her thumb brushed his jawline. "You look so good tonight."

The words came out soft. Barely a whisper. Heavy with something she couldn't name.

Peter's throat tightened. He wanted to grab her, pull her inside, pin her against that door and remind her exactly what she was missing. He wanted to kiss that drunk confession off her lips and replace it with moans.

But not yet.

Not yet.

He smiled, gentle and aching. "Get some sleep, Y/N."

She blinked slowly, then ducked inside, closing the door with a soft click.

The lock turned.

Peter stood there for a long moment, hand pressed flat against the wood. He could hear her on the other side, shuffling, probably kicking off her heels.

"She say something?" Ned asked from behind.

"Just saying goodnight."

Ned hummed, unconvinced. "You know, for a guy who just met her, you're pretty invested."

Peter turned, keeping his face neutral. "She's a friend. I don't like seeing friends drunk and alone."

"Uh huh." Ned didn't push. "Well, thanks for the help. I'm gonna crash. See you around, Peter."

"Yeah. See you."

When Ned disappeared down the stairwell, Peter let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

He pressed his forehead to the door, listening. On the other side, he heard her humming—off-key, sleepy—as she padded toward her bedroom.

Soon, he promised himself. Soon she'll know.

But for tonight, he'd settle for knowing that even drunk and confused, she still thought he looked good.

That was enough.

For now.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence of his apartment swallowed him whole.

Peter stood there for a long moment, forehead pressed against the wood, listening to the echo of her voice in his head. You look so good tonight. Drunk, slurred, honest. She'd meant it. Even without knowing who he was, her body remembered. Her eyes had traced the lines of his shoulders, the curve of his jaw, and something deep in her gut had stirred.

But she was inside, alone, probably already curled up in bed, dreaming of strangers.

And he was out here. Alone. Again.

He pushed off the door and walked to his kitchen, grabbing a glass of water he didn't want. The apartment was too quiet. Too empty. The walls seemed to press in on him, carrying the weight of every night he'd spent like this—restless, aching, watching the clock tick toward dawn while the city hummed outside.

It's hard when no one loves you and the ones you love can't remember you.

He set the glass down harder than intended. It cracked. Water spilled across the counter.

"Fuck."

He stood there, dripping, staring at his own reflection in the dark window. A stranger in his own life. Spider-Man saved people. Peter saved no one. Not even himself.

He loved being Spider-Man. Loved the rush of swinging between buildings, the wind in his face, the sound of sirens fading as he swooped in to help. Loved the gratitude in strangers' eyes when he pulled them from wrecks, the way kids pointed up at him with awe.

But Peter deserved his own life too. A job he didn't have to hide. Friends who called him by his real name. A girl who looked at him like he was the only man in the world.

He closed his eyes, and there she was. Y/N. Laughing. Touching his face. Whining his name in that breathless way she used to when he was inside her.

"You're so good, Peter. Fuck—don't stop—"

His hand curled into a fist.

Then his spider-sense flared.

Sharp. Urgent. Something wrong.

He sighed, heavy and resigned, and reached for the suit.

---

The city was cruel tonight.

He swung from rooftop to rooftop, the wind biting at the exposed skin of his face and hands. Below, the neon lights of Manhattan bled into puddles on wet asphalt. Somewhere, a woman screamed—he veered toward it, landing on a fire escape to find a mugger wrestling a purse from an elderly lady. He webbed the guy to a lamppost in seconds, returned the purse, and was gone before the woman could finish thanking him.

Two blocks over, a car crash. He helped pull a family out before the fuel line sparked.

A domestic disturbance. He talked a man down from a balcony ledge.

A break-in at a convenience store.

A fire on the Lower East Side.

He kept moving. Kept saving. Kept pretending that each life he touched filled the hole inside him.

But it didn't.

Because the whole time, in the back of his mind, he was thinking of her. Her safety. Her smile. The way she used to trace the scars on his shoulders after a bad fight, her voice soft with worry: "You can't keep doing this, Peter. One day you won't come back."

And he'd kissed her forehead and promised he'd always come back to her.

Now she didn't even know to wait.

---

He landed on a rooftop overlooking her building.

The lights were off in her apartment. She was asleep, probably still drunk, tangled in sheets that smelled like her perfume. He imagined her lips slightly parted, hair fanned across the pillow, the slow rise and fall of her chest.

He pulled out the photo he kept tucked inside his suit. Polaroid, edges worn from handling. Her smiling at the camera, hair messy, wearing his hoodie. She'd taken it one morning after they'd spent the whole night tangled together. He'd been making coffee, and she'd grabbed his phone, snapped the picture just as he turned around.

"So I can look at you even when you're gone," she'd said.

He didn't know she'd end up being the one gone.

He pressed his thumb to her face, tracing the curve of her smile.

Soon.

Soon, he'd find a way. Something drastic. Something that would break through the spell's hold and make her remember—or at least make her feel it, even if she couldn't name it.

Soon, he'd be inside her apartment. Inside her. Reminding her exactly what she was missing.

But for now, he tucked the photo back, turned toward the next siren, and launched himself into the night.

For her. Always for her.

The bell above the door chimed, and Peter walked in like he owned the place.

Y/N looked up from the register, head pounding, eyes barely open. Her hair was pulled into a messy knot, and she was pretty sure she still smelled like last night's cheap perfume and regret. The hangover was a dull throb behind her eyes, a punishment for every shot Ned had convinced her to take.

She squinted at him. Him. The guy with the dangerous smile and the bracelet she didn't remember giving him.

"Morning," she grumbled, not even trying to sound pleasant.

He grinned. Actually grinned, like her misery was the highlight of his day. "Someone had fun last night."

"Someone regrets everything."

He laughed—that low, easy sound that did something annoying to her stomach—and walked past her to the counter. "Just the usual, please."

She turned to make it, moving slow, her head throbbing with every step. The espresso machine hissed, and she winced.

Behind her, she heard the door open again—a small commotion, a child's voice. She glanced over her shoulder.

A little boy, maybe seven or eight, had run in too fast, his backpack swinging. He collided with the table where Peter had set his bag, sending it toppling. But before it could hit the ground, Peter's hand shot out, catching it mid-air with reflexes too fast, too precise.

"Sorry, mister!" the boy said, eyes wide.

Peter just smiled, crouching down to the kid's level. "It's okay, buddy. No harm done." And he reached out, ruffling the boy's hair with an easy, affectionate motion.

Y/N froze.

The gesture. The way his fingers moved through the dark strands, the gentle mock-scolding in his tone. It was exactly how Spider-Man had ruffled that kid's hair in the interview she watched online. She'd watched the clip multiple times, her body heating each time—the way those gloved fingers had been so careful, so human, beneath the mask.

She blinked, shaking off the thought. No. That's ridiculous. Lots of people ruffle kids' hair.

But something nagged at her. The precision of the catch. The casual confidence. The way he moved.

Peter straightened, catching her stare. His eyebrow arched. "Something wrong?"

She realized she'd been staring. Heat crept up her neck. "No. Nothing. Your coffee."

She shoved the cup toward him, maybe a little too aggressively. He took it, amused, and leaned against the counter instead of leaving like a normal person.

She needed to get this over with.

"Listen," she said, forcing herself to meet his eyes. "About last night. I was... a lot. I know I was all over you, and I'm sorry. I don't usually—I mean, I was drunk, and Ned was being an ass, and—"

"Cute."

She stopped. "What?"

"You were cute." He took a sip of his coffee, watching her over the rim. "Not 'a lot.' Cute."

Her face burned. She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. No words came out. Just a stupid, flustered silence.

He smiled—that knowing, crooked smile that made her knees weak—and pushed off from the counter. "See you around, Y/N."

He walked out, the bell chiming behind him.

She stood there, heart hammering, watching him disappear down the street.

Fuck.

She touched her cheek. It was hot. She was blushing like a teenager. And worst of all, she was thinking about him—the scent of his cologne, the strength in his hands when he'd caught that bag, the way his voice had dipped when he said "cute."

She shook her head, turning back to the register.

But as she wiped down the counter, her mind wandered. To Spider-Man. To Peter. To the way both of them made her feel seen in a way she couldn't explain.

Maybe I have a crush on him.

She bit her lip.

Or maybe I'm just that desperate.

But even as she thought it, she knew it wasn't true. There was something about him. Something familiar. Something that pulled at the edges of her memory, just out of reach.

And somewhere across the city, swinging between rooftops, Peter smiled to himself, her blush burned into his mind.

Soon, he thought. Soon, you'll remember.

The city was settling into dusk, streetlights flickering to life as Y/N walked home, her bag slung over one shoulder. The hangover had faded to a dull ache, replaced by the restless energy that had been gnawing at her all day. She was thinking about Peter—the way he'd laughed, the way his hand had caught that bag, the way he'd called her cute.

She was so lost in thought she almost missed the commotion.

A sharp cry. An old man's voice, cracked with panic. "Help! Someone help!"

Y/N's head snapped up. Across the street, a figure in a hoodie was sprinting away, an old leather bag clutched under his arm. Behind him, an elderly man stumbled, reaching out helplessly.

"Hey!" Y/N didn't think. She ran.

Three blocks. Her lungs burned, her legs pumping, the thief weaving through pedestrians. She was fast—she'd always been fast—but he was younger, more desperate. He ducked into a narrow alley, reeking of garbage and stale urine.

She followed without hesitation.

The alley was dark, shadows pooling like liquid. She could hear his footsteps echoing, slowing. He was cornered. She rounded a corner, ready to tackle him—

And then he was gone.

No. Not gone. Pinned.

A figure in red and blue dropped from above, landing silently. The thief was already webbed to a wall, the bag dangling from Spider-Man's hand. The hero turned to her, the white lenses of his mask catching the faint light.

"You really need to stop running into danger," he said, his voice modulated, teasing.

Y/N's heart pounded—not from the chase, but from him. From the way he stood, the way he moved.

She tried to step forward, to get a better look at the thief, to see where he'd gone into the darkness—

A thwip. A strand of web shot out, catching her wrist, yanking it to the brick wall beside her.

She stared at her hand, pinned by the familiar white silk. Again.

"Are you kidding me?" she snapped, yanking at the web. It held firm. "You can't just—"

"Watch and learn," Spider-Man said, and in two quick moves, he had the thief subdued, the bag retrieved, a police call tapped into his comm—all while she stood there, helpless, a memory flickering in the back of her mind.

Webs. Restraint. A voice whispering in the dark. Hands on her wrists, pinning her down. A body pressing against hers, the rough texture of a suit, the heat beneath it.

She blinked, the image dissolving like smoke.

He was in front of her now, the old man's bag tucked under one arm. He reached up and flicked the web on her wrist. It dissolved instantly, dropping her hand.

"You're free," he said. "Now go home. It's not safe."

She rubbed her wrist, glaring at him. "You can't just do that whenever you want! I was helping! I could have—"

She stepped forward, jabbing a finger at his chest plate. "You don't get to decide when I'm in danger! You don't get to just—"

She pushed him. Hard. He didn't move, but she kept going, frustration boiling over, her hands flat against his chest—

And then her foot caught on a loose piece of asphalt.

She stumbled forward, off-balance, straight into him.

Her body collided with his, her hands instinctively grabbing his arms to steady herself. Her fingers wrapped around his biceps, the fabric of his suit smooth and textured beneath her palms.

And something clicked.

The feel of it—the tight compression, the subtle ribbing, the exact way the material hugged the muscle underneath—sent a shiver through her. Her eyes widened. She didn't know why, but her hands began to move, sliding down his arms slowly, almost reverently. She felt the curve of his shoulders, the strength of his forearms, the way his muscles tensed under her touch.

She looked up.

The mask stared back at her, white lenses unreadable. But she could feel him watching her, feel the sudden stillness in his body.

Her breath caught. She could see him beneath the mask. Not his face, but something else. A feeling. A memory just out of reach.

I know you. I've felt you before.

She lifted a hand, reaching for his mask, her fingers trembling—

He stepped back.

Just one step, but it was enough to break her hold. Her hand hung in the air, empty.

"I have to go," he said, his voice tighter now, less playful. He set the bag down. "The police are on their way. Stay safe."

And before she could say another word, he was gone—a blur of red and blue vanishing into the night sky, leaving her alone in the dark alley, the old man's bag at her feet, her skin still tingling where she'd touched him.

She stood there, heart racing, frustration and confusion twisting in her chest.

Why does he feel so familiar?

She clenched her fists. It was like a word on the tip of her tongue, a name she couldn't remember, a face she couldn't see.

And yet, he's a stranger.

She bent down, picked up the bag, and walked out of the alley, her mind churning.

Who are you?

The question echoed in the empty space where Spider-Man had been. And somewhere, high above, hidden in the shadows, Peter watched her go, his hands shaking, his heart aching with the weight of everything she didn't remember.

——————————

The bell above the café door chimed, and Y/N's heart did a little flip she immediately suppressed.

Peter walked in, all easy confidence in a loose black t-shirt and those worn jeans that hung just right on his hips. He ran a hand through his hair—still slightly damp, like he'd just showered—and gave her a small smile as he approached the counter.

"Morning, Y/N."

She should have said something. She should have smiled back, asked for his usual order, made some casual remark about the weather. But her mind was still reeling from last night. The alley. The webs. The way her hands had traced the suit's texture like her fingers remembered what her brain couldn't.

Instead, she just nodded, her movements mechanical as she punched in his order. "Americano."

He blinked, clearly noticing her clipped tone. "Yeah. Thanks."

She turned to make the coffee, her back to him, feeling his gaze on her. She could sense the question in his silence—what's wrong?—but she couldn't bring herself to address it. She didn't know what to say. Hey, I think you might be the superhero who's been haunting my dreams and my subconscious sex life, but I can't be sure, so just pretend everything's normal.

She slid the cup across the counter. He took it, their fingers almost brushing. She pulled back too fast.

"Thanks," he said again, slower this time, searching her face.

She just nodded and turned to wipe down the counter, even though it was already clean.

The café was quiet—a lull between the morning rush and the lunch crowd. Ned was in the back, restocking cups, humming something under his breath. Y/N busied herself with meaningless tasks, acutely aware of Peter settling into his usual table by the window, pulling out his phone.

He didn't look at her again. Or maybe he did, in brief glances she pretended not to notice.

After a few minutes, he stood up, stretching his arms above his head. The motion pulled his shirt up just slightly, revealing a sliver of his stomach. Y/N's eyes tracked it before she forced them away.

"Bathroom," he said, more to announce it than anything, and disappeared through the back hallway.

The moment the door clicked shut, Ned emerged from the stockroom, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

"Okay. Now's my chance."

Y/N frowned. "What chance?"

Ned didn't answer. He darted to Peter's table, where the worn leather messenger bag sat propped against the chair leg.

"Ned, what the hell—"

"Shh." He was already crouching, unzipping the bag with practiced ease. "He's so mysterious. I just want to snoop a little. See if he's hiding anything interesting."

Y/N's heart lurched. "Stop! Put that back." She hissed, crossing the café in three quick strides. "What are you doing? That's his private stuff—"

"Relax, I'm just looking." Ned's hands moved through the bag's contents—a wallet, a phone, a protein bar wrapper, a small notebook. "Boring, boring, boring. How does this guy have no personality in his bag?"

"Ned, I swear to God—"

He pulled out a crumpled piece of fabric. Dark red and blue, folded into a rough square.

His eyebrows shot up. "Oh, he's a fan."

He unfolded it, and Y/N's breath caught in her throat.

It was a mask. A Spider-Man mask. The white lenses stared up at her, empty and familiar.

Ned held it up, smirking. "See? Fanboy. Probably wears it to bed or something." He scoffed, tossing it carelessly back into the bag. "Guess even mysterious guys have heroes."

But Y/N wasn't listening.

She reached down, her fingers trembling, and picked up the mask. The fabric was cool against her skin. She ran her thumb across the surface—the subtle ribbing, the tight weave, the exact texture that had pressed against her palms last night.

The same texture.

Her blood ran cold.

She remembered the alley. The way her hands had slid down Spider-Man's arms. The way the suit had felt beneath her fingers. The way her body had known it, even when her mind couldn't.

This was the same mask. The same fabric. The same—

She looked up. Ned was staring at her, his smirk fading into confusion. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

She couldn't speak. Her throat was tight, her heart pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears.

She was holding Spider-Man's mask.

Peter's mask.

Peter is Spider-Man.

The realization hit her like a freight train, knocking the air from her lungs. She stood there, frozen, the fabric clutched in her hands, the truth burning through her.

He's the one who saved me. He's the one who webs me to walls. He's the one who watches me from the shadows.

He's the one I've been dreaming about.

She thought of the dreams—the vivid, explicit dreams where Spider-Man's voice had whispered filthy things in her ear, where his hands had pinned her down, where his body had moved inside hers like he knew every inch of her. The dreams where she had arched into him, moaning, pleading, coming undone.

Her face flushed, her thighs pressing together involuntarily.

Oh God.

She had been dreaming about him. About the man who had been coming into her café, smiling at her, teasing her, touching her—and she hadn't known.

But her body had.

Her body had remembered.

"Y/N?" Ned's voice was sharper now. "Put it back. He'll be out any second."

She forced her hands to move, folding the mask roughly and shoving it back into the bag. She zipped it closed just as the bathroom door creaked open.

Peter emerged, wiping his hands on his jeans. He glanced at them—Ned standing awkwardly by the table, Y/N frozen behind the counter—and his brow furrowed.

"Everything okay?"

"Fine!" Ned said, too quickly. "Great. Just—telling Y/N about a thing. A thing I saw. Bye."

He scurried back to the stockroom, leaving Y/N alone with Peter.

He walked to the counter, picking up his coffee, his eyes studying her. "You sure you're okay? You seem... off today."

She couldn't look at him. She stared at the counter, at the espresso machine, at anything but his face.

"I'm fine," she said, her voice flat. "Just tired."

He didn't push. He just nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. "Alright. I'll see you later, then."

He turned and walked out, the bell chiming behind him.

Y/N stood there, her heart pounding, her mind racing.

Peter is Spider-Man.

And she had been dreaming of him fucking her senseless.

She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the rapid thrum of her pulse. A strange mix of fear, confusion, and something else—something hot and hungry—coiled in her stomach.

She had questions. So many questions.

But more than that, she had a need.

A need to find out if the dreams were somehow real.

----------

Jack was many things, he often told himself. a highly skilled doctor, a trained solider, a veteran, amputee, but the most important title belonged to the girl sitting in his living room dressed in fuzzy pink socks and a dress; your dom.

you came into Jack’s life three years ago, having met at the store you were working at back then. you had these big eyes that drew him in, begged him to find out more. you were shy that day, your hair pulled back into a ponytail tied with a bow. he couldn’t help himself, complimenting it in the tone he saved for pretty things like yourself.

the blush on your face told him everything. he couldn’t get you out of his head after that morning. he needed to know what you sounded like right when he brought you to that edge, that breaking point that would have your head spinning for days. he wanted to push you so far into subspace that he’d have control of every thought that went through that pretty head.

-

your relationship started innocently enough. that first date was just that; a date. no alternative motives behind his kind smile and laugh. you were ready for him on that first date, he had no doubts. the way you leaned so far over the table to be closer to him; the way your thighs squeezed and rubbed together told him so. you squirmed as he ordered your dinner and drinks for you, as he stared at you when you took your first bites. he insisted he would take care of it if it wasn’t exactly how you wanted it, even after assuring him that it tasted so yummy.

-

even your first time having sex together was vanilla. you figured he ‘was an old fashioned man with old fashioned tastes.’ he guided you onto the bed with a gentleness that made you yearn for more. he was reading every moan, whine, and pant from you to figure out exactly what made you squirt, which he was the first to make you do.

he gathered you into his arms after, taking you into his rather large en-suite bathroom. he set you on the counter and kissed your head, turning to run you a bath. you whimpered at the loss of touch and the older man chuckled. “i’m here baby. just making your bath.” you still whined, arms outstretching towards him.

“such a whiny thing, hm?” he mused as he turned back around. you squirmed on the counter as he came closer. “don’t worry, i’m right here, sweetheart. i’ll get you all clean and then we’ll go lay down, yeah?” he kissed your head again as he lifted you up to bring you to the bath.

-

it wasn’t until a year in when he jokingly compared you to a dumb bunny. a comment that was simply meant to tease you shouldn’t have gotten the reaction you gave it. you blushed harder than normal, eyes darting around to avoid eye contact with the older man. he gripped your chin firmly, forcing you to meet his watching stare. it made you almost cum on the spot as he pressed you.

“what’s wrong, bunny? big bad wolf got you trapped?” his voice was teasing, his other hand gripping your hip so you were caged between his body and the wall. “don’t be such a dumb little bunny and use your words.” you actually whimpered at the phrase. your mouth opened and closed, words not forming as your brain whirled a million directions.

“aww look how hard you’re trying,” he cooed. his hand slid from your hip agonizingly slow across your stomach, right above your waist band. “oh my bunny. what am i going to do with you, hm?”

“Jack…” you batted your thick lashes up at him as his name came out as a desperate whisper. “please..”

“please what, dummy?” he gently tapped your cheek as his hand slipped under your waistband. “need me to help you?” you nodded frantically, not understanding why his words had this strong of an effect on you. “okay…since you asked so nicely.”

-

he was the one who brought it up first the next day, approaching you cautiously. you were sat on the couch, legs tucked under you and wrapped in a blanket. he leaned over you, putting a hand behind your head to grip the back of the couch. your eyes darted to his, watching him closely. “you seemed to really enjoy yesterday,” was his only comment. he wanted you to be the one to lead the conversation so he waited for your answer.

“uh yeah…it was…” you trailed off, trying to find the best word to use. it was everything you needed, you woke up that morning feeling more clear headed than you had in weeks. “fun,” you settled on. his eyebrows raised and nodded. “i’d agree it was quite fun. was a bit shocked you liked that sort of thing.” casual; he’d play it casual to not scare you off.

“neither did i…i just did.” you shrugged as if it was something simple. “what did you like specifically about it?” your noncommittal response was what he was looking for. a halfhearted shrug that poorly covered your flushed face. “words bunny.” he whispered to you and your thighs squeeze together, your hips shifted back and forth.

“i uh…that.” your face was so red that Jack was sure it’d explode. “you telling……tellingmewhattodobe.” you rushed out, eyes shutting with embarrassment. “okay…so you like when i tell you what to do.” he reaffirmed, tone not changing. “what else?”

“Jack please…” you felt so vulnerable telling him about it, scared he’d not like it. “i wanna hear what you liked about it considering it made you cum harder than i’ve seen you before. don’t be embarrassed, i liked seeing you like that.”

you opened your eyes and looked confused. “you did?” he nodded lowering closer to your face. “i wouldn’t have called you a dumb little bunny if i didn’t wanna see how it made you blush and squirm, baby. i promise i like a lot more than just that.”

you had to admit that you were curious about what else he liked, not even sure you knew what you liked. “okay…i guess i like when you called me dumb and when you made the decision for me so i don’t have to think anyway. i’m not even sure if that made sense.” you were flustered now; not from embarrassment, Jack figured, but frustrated you couldn’t express your thoughts properly.

“it did…you did a good job explaining.” he kissed your forehead as a reward and then refocused. “baby do you know what bdsm relationships are?” he wanted you to ask him; wanted you to ask him to take care of you in that way. he wanted you to ask him to be your dom.

you shyly nodded in a way that seemed familiar. “one of my friends had a dom most of college.” you recalled the memory and turned back to him. there was a silence that fell over the room, not a judgmental silence, but an understanding one.

you did, but there was hesitation on your face. “is that something…..” you trailed off, not sure how to ask it. “have you done it before?” he nodded, humming about pretty you looked like this. “if we….i…i don’t want to stop being your girlfriend.” your eyes watered as you looked up at him.

“that would never happen. you’d just also be my submissive.” hearing him say it out loud made you blush. “then okay. i have more questions, but i don’t think i can handle that right now.”

-

now, you had him completely at your mercy, wrapped tightly around your pretty finger with a pink bow. he had you moved in soon after you finally asked him to be your dom, building a small playroom in the spare bedroom that was filled with anything and everything the two of you could possibly need.

the two of you explored different kinks and dynamics, finding out exactly what your limits were and what you enjoyed. most importantly, he had gotten you to finally open up about what exactly you wanted and were scared of; being intimidated by his experience and with you already being shy, you were petrified he’d make fun of your lack of.

Jack often could tell if you would enjoy something, either a new roleplay or kink to try, and knew instantly the moment you no longer enjoyed it. he felt it was his job to help you discover these things, breaking you down only to build you back up time and time again.

Jack was driving home after his 4th night shift in a row, exhausted yet excited to get home to his girl. he could picture you now; a pink mug of hot chocolate on the coffee table as you played on your ipad on the couch, waiting so patiently for him to get home.

he could see your hair pulled back in your favorite clip, your body wrapped up in a blanket as you played the next level in whatever mobile game you saw in an ad on your last obsession. Jack pulled into the driveway of your shared home and let out a sigh. you were so good to him, taking your training with such grace it was almost second nature to you.

you would tell him it was due to his excellent teachings, his expert hands giving out whatever punishment he deemed not only appropriate, but exactly what your little head needed then. as much as he knew what got you going, you knew exactly how to press him. when to push, when to pull, when to beg him for more, when to egg him on in hopes for a punishment that’ll relieve whatever stress had been eating at him that day.

you had taken to the role so well, Jack thought. being his perfect little toy was not only second nature, but the only thing you wanted. he remembered going collar shopping with you; watching you try to pick the best one that didn’t scream ‘collar’ but showed a form of ownership.

Jack walked into the house, setting his keys down on the table next to the door. “princess?” he called out, confused that you didn’t meet him at the door. recently the two of you created a list of rules you’d follow as a dip into what a total power exchange dynamic would be like. where you’d give him full control over yourself.

since it was a recent addition, you only a a couple of them to follow for the time being. one of the rules the two of you settled on was you were to greet him every morning at the door when he got off shift.

“i’m sorry!!” was your meek response when you ran to meet him, clearly out of breath. Jack set his coat on the hanger before crossing his arms, eyebrow raised. “(y/n). i know this rule is new and you’re still learning, but this is the second time.” his voice was steady and firm, no room for discussion, yet you pressed.

“i was in the potty! i didn’t hear your car.” your voice had an edge that stirred something in his stomach. “what time do i get off?” you looked down at your pink fuzzy socks and mumbled “7..” you already knew what he was going to say. you knew it too; he was strict about his schedule, always home by 7:30. that’s why you had the rule. it would force you to wake up at a specific time, force you to get ready, and Jack enjoyed seeing you as soon as he walked in.

he stepped forward, hand grabbing your chin to force it up. “what does this mean?” he waited, expectantly. “i broke a rule….means i get punished.” you pouted, crossing your arms. “i don’t know why you’re acting like a brat. you’re the one who broke the rule; or does your dumb fucking brain not get that?” he was stern with you, fingers squeezing your chin as your eyes glazed over in the way he wanted; they filled with a desperate need, a want.

“ ‘m sorry daddy…am too dumb. need reminder.” you batted your lashes at the older man, who just shook his head with a dark smile. “yeah i’ll give you a reminder alright.” he patted your cheek before pointing down towards his work boots, “off.”

you got right to work, dropping to your knees so fast that the thud made when your knees connected to hardwood made Jack tense. you ignored the dull ache and took his left foot in your lap. dutifully unlacing the boot with a care and gentleness Jack marveled at. how beautiful you looked like this, on your knees before him, caring for him even though his tongue was sharp.

you set his left boot in its spot next to the door before pulling his right foot to replace it. you took a moment to pause and look up at Jack, eyes wide and begging for release. you looked happy, fulfilled. “my little bunny…how good you’re doing.” he cooed, stroking your cheek and brushing your hair back. you practically glowed as you leaned into his hand. “thank you sir.” your voice was so soft that it made him want to weep.

once both boots were removed, you looked up at Jack again, waiting for your next order. “you did so good love. i don’t know why you don’t listen when i tell you to be right here, just like this,” his fingers danced over your hair, “when i get home. does your brain just only listen when you’re horny?” he ran his fingers through your hair before gripping a section at the back of your head. he leaned down and pulled your face closer to his by your hair when you didn’t answer.

“i asked you a question, baby.” you gasped at the pain, eyes shutting as you planted your hands on your thighs to steady yourself. your core was on fire and your clit was aching. you wanted nothing more than to pull him into your playroom and let him fuck you however he wanted. “ ‘m sorry! yes daddy! only think when i want you!” you cried out, eyes filling with fat tears.

“you’ve been doing so good on your training, bunny…don’t slip up.” he was firm, pulling you to stand up. “playroom. now. clothes off and kneeling on the bed.” your breath picked up as you nodded, “yes sir.”

Jack took his time to go the playroom. he wanted you to sit for a bit, let the anticipation build on it’s on as you sat in your nerves. he loved this part, lived for it; the before the punishment when his pretty sub got herself so worked up on just the thought alone that it just made it all so much better.

Jack did a small amount of prep for aftercare before heading to the spare bedroom. it wasn’t a big room by any means. there was a black four-poster bed full of white fluffy pillows against the wall in the center of the room, white lace curtains draped across, creating a veil around the bed.

against the wall closest to the door were two black wood dressers full of different pink toys for Jack to use on you and little lacy outfits that Jack often bought and tore off you. he was a man of many pleasures, dressing his little toy up in whatever he wanted being a big one.

Jack’s favorite piece in the room was a black leather arm chair in the corner, a matching black wood side table next to it. it was his favorite for many reasons, but a main was to just watch you. watch as you put on shows for him; touching yourself on the center of the bed. watch as his closest friend Robby take you over and over again. it had the perfect view and it was comfortable. many post scene naps took place there.

on the wall next to the chair was a floor to ceiling mirror that also had the perfect view of the bed. Jack loved when he occasionally caught you staring at yourselves in it.

your favorite piece was a black pet cage in the furthest corner of the room. it was big, stuffed with all sorts of fuzzy things. a big pink and white pet bed was on the bottom with as many pink pillows as you could get padding the sides. a pink blanket with a separate piece of baby pink lace laid on top to give the cage a princess’s touch.

and there you were, at the center of it all. you had done exactly as told; naked on your knees, sitting with your legs tucked and palms facing up on your lap. your head was down and you were silent as he approached the bed.

you could feel the weight of his gaze on you, examining every bare inch of your skin. his hand reached out and his fingers glided down your shoulder to your wrist. they wrapped around your wrist, giving a gentle squeeze, then he pulled you forward slowly.

guiding you to rest on your hands and knees, Jack stepped back and crossed his arms. “look at you…” his voice dripped with a lustful honey that blanketed your mind, silencing all the racing thoughts he knew you had spiraling. “all laid out for me. ready to take,” he paused, admiring your body as you preened under his gaze. your hips shifted as your back arched just a touch.

“why are you being punished, beautiful?” he asked, turning towards the dressers behind him. he sorted through a drawer while awaiting your response.

“i wasn’t at the door when you got home. was distracted,” your voice cracked with need, not turning to see whatever he grabbed. you listened as your dom moved around the room, feeling the bed dip only slightly next to you signaling he put a couple toys down.

you felt the back of his hand on your ankle, warning you of his touch. he gently pet the outside before lifting your ankle slightly to slide what you immediately identified as the pair of white leather feet cuffs he so dearly loved. the pair of bonds were worn with use and love, but the soft fabric on the inside was a comforting embrace as Jack locked your ankles in. he then grabbed the thigh cuffs that attached to the ones at your ankles. the position it forced you to keep was a bit difficult but he would be right there. you just knew

“good girl,” he rubbed his hand over your back as he came to sit next to your arms. “now what did we agree would be the punishment?” he reached up and gently pushed your hair out of your face. you were trying to think of the agreed punishment and Jack waited patiently for you, hand rubbing your back.

“10 spankings.” you lowered your gaze, face flushing red at how intensely he was staring at you. Jack nodded, smiling at you. “oh good job baby,” he hummed, kissing your cheek. “i know how hard that must’ve been. thinking isn’t easy for dumb little girls, is it?”

your brows relaxed, smiling lazily at him. “is not easy, daddy.” you mumbled in response, earning a warm chuckle. “that’s why i’m here baby girl. daddy’s here to think for you.”

Jack stood, turning to face your lower half and wrapped his left arm loosely around your middle. his right hand reached out to rub your ass. he felt your body tense beneath his arm and he shushed you. “i want you to count for me, yeah?” he gently patted your ass cheek and you agreed.

the first strike startled you, forcing a yelp from your throat. “one!” you leaned against Jack’s side, using him for support. you felt his grip around your waist tightened and he delivered the next two strikes.

you counted out each hit, each slap of his hand made your core heat. Jack couldn’t help but be mesmerized by the whole scene; the way your pussy gleamed in the soft light. he paused after the 5th slap, rubbing your already red cheeks.

“my my baby…i wish you could see how red this pretty little ass is. hmmm does it hurt?” he mocked your whimper. “maybe now you’ll remember to be a good sub and be waiting by the door. look at how wet you are baby, fuck.” his fingers dipped down to push your puffy lips apart and swipe down your dripping center.

you gasped and pushed your hips back, moaning out for him. “oh don’t start that with me.” he growled and delivered a particularly brutal slap to your clit. your body almost collapsed as a sinful gasp came from your lips. Jack felt like his erection was about to explode from his pants, so he grabbed your hips and pulled you closer so your thigh was pressed tightly against his clothed dick.

you were familiar with this move, your hips rolling subconsciously so your thigh would grind against his length. you continued the count.

by spank 8, you could feel your arousal drip down your thighs. you weren’t sure if you could take any more. Jack had teased your clit more, pushing his fingertips in and out at an agonizing pace.

“9…10!” you cried out as the last strikes came down in quick succession, a mercy you were thankful for. Jack had your body trapped with his strength, his hand soothing your now maroon, borderline purple, cheeks. “what a brave bunny. my brave little girl…you did so good, hm?”

his hand rubbed down the back of your thigh as you cried. “daddy! please. it hurts.” your whimpers send shock waves to his cock and he couldn’t help but just eat up the fat tears that rolled down your face. “oh sweetie don’t worry. daddy’ll take care of that.”

true to his word, though without his normal softness, his fingers ran over your dripping clit. “so wet from your spankings. such a naughty little girl. you like being spanked?” two of Jack’s fingers skillfully pushed their way in your center with ease. there wouldn’t have been resistance with how utterly soaked you were.

you moaned as his fingers curled and pumped in and out, his pace steady and sharp. “tell daddy how much you liked your punishment and i might let you cum around my cock.” your head tipped back against his arm and you begged. begged for him to fuck you hard because you just couldn’t help but love your punishment.

you loved his rough hands leaving angry marks to claim and remind you of him. you could only see the side of his face as you begged for his cum too, his lips twitching up into a dark smile. “don’t worry baby, daddy’ll fill you up good with his seed.”

he needed to stretch your pussy out before he could dive in. he wanted to do a lot of things to you but with how wet you were and how tired he was from shift, he just wanted to be in you. so he bullied his fingers into your clit over and over, feeling it pulse around them.

you were babbling, hips a bit shaky but still raised. you pushed back in time with his fingers, deepening the stretch. “c’mon baby, little longer and i’ll have my cock in you,” his words soothed you as he curled his fingers over and over again, pulling you closer and closer to the edge.

“oh god! daddy! ‘m close!” your shoulder dipped as your thighs shook, fighting against the restraints. you chanted ‘daddy’ over and over as his fingers fucked you harder and harder. your arms tremble trying to hold your weight, but you could feel a wave of intense pleasure building.

“come for me, bunny. turn that dull brain off for daddy and come on my fingers.” he smirked as his thumb lightly teased your hole while his fingers pounded into you over and over again.

the new sensation caused your release, a loud pathetic moan erupted as your arms finally gave out. it didn’t matter as Jack already held most of your body weight up, taking the rest as you rode the high. Jack looked over you while he reached above to grab a pillow. he shoved it under your hips and slowly released you. your hips still raised, but your arms gave out so your cheek rested on the mattress.

Jack moved around you freely, adjusting your thigh cuffs to tilt your legs open enough for him to fit behind you. he then reached to pull your arms back behind you, grabbing the other set of cuffs he grabbed and locking them in place. he rubbed your sore behind and leaned down to kiss the bruises. “bunny...” he mused and he grabbed onto your hips again. “i’ve been dreaming about your little pussy all night, little one…been thinking about your cries as my fat cock abuses your holes.” you pressed your lower half back until you felt his cock pressed against your clit. you turned your head to try and see his face, your hips sliding side to side to grind against him.

Jack reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled the fabric up and over his head. you felt the warmth of his skin on your ass and sighed happily. next to go were his pants, pulling his belt off then the jeans. you ground against his hard length through his underwear. he moaned loudly, feeling your wetness through the fabric. “fuck baby girl…”

he pushed the briefs down and stroked a hand over his thick member. you wanted to touch him, taste him even.

his fat tip poked at your entrance, Jack carefully lined his length up before pushing in slowly. you gasped at the stretch, as you did every time. he tried his best to prep you, but his thickness stretched your hole open painfully yet oh so deliciously. once he was fully in you, he paused and allowed you to soak in the fullness.

Jack leaned over to cage you against the mattress, one hand on your hip and the other planting on your chest to lock your back against his. you were writhing and whimpering, pussy completely full to the brim. “feel good angel? feel good stretched out on my cock? i wish you could feel just how tight your little pussy is.” he whispered lowly in your ear, feeling how you fluttered against him. “i bet you’re already so cock dumb and i haven’t even moved.”

he was right, all thought shut down as soon as he entered you. why even bother thinking of anything other than his thick cock almost split you in two. “please daddy~” you purred, leaning back against his shoulder, “please fuck me daddy. don’t be nice, hurt me.”

the older man chuckled darkly against your neck, warm breath sending chills down your spine. his hand trailed from your chest up to your throat, his thumb and index fingers resting on the sides in a domineering way. a light squeeze made your head even more fuzzy and you whimpered. “since you asked so nicely, pet.” he kissed your earlobe before you felt him shift into a better position.

the pull out was slow, but the slam in was sinful. it was delicious as he bullied his cock into you over and over as he had done with his fingers. his hand on your hip gripped so hard you knew you’d have bruises later; good, you wanted them there.

your stomach rest on the pillow as his free hand gripped the back of your neck, affectively pinning you and absolutely pounding you into the mattress. “god fucking damn baby….i’ll never get over how good you feel on me. you’re taking me so well, i know you can take more,” he reached over to the side you couldn’t see, releasing your hip. he did not relent as you heard a toy whirl to life.

the buzzing was unmistakably, a recent addition to your collection, having caught your interest a while before. the loud buzz indicated the power and strength you weren’t sure you could handle with his unrelenting strokes. a hitach wand with a larger head and a longer handle. your stomach churned as you heard him flip through the different settings, quickly deciding on a middle level.

you expect to feel the vibrator on your clit, ready for the powerful shaking to instantly send you over the edge. when you felt it instead on that sensitive hole he teased earlier, your head jerked back. the moan that ripped through you was louder than Jack had heard before. he greedily drank it in, fucking you harder while the wand buzzed against your hole.

“daddy! oh!!” you felt drool on your chin, babbling as your pleasure built up and up. “oh shut up baby girl. just let daddy take care of that dumb head. feel so good angel.” Jack groaned as he felt the vibrations ripple through his cock down to his balls.

he leaned back and watched as you desperately fucked yourself on his cock, hips pushing back and forth. he slapped your sore and definitely now purple ass and you yelped before giggling. the man looked up at you and saw you looking back with eyes filled with tears.

“keep looking at me like that and your ass will be blue.” he growled, leaning over your body. your hips held so high and your face buried in the mattress as he sunk his teeth into your shoulder. your moan drove him to lick the mark up to your ear. “you gonna come again for daddy?” his pace was unrelenting, fucking deep into you with a grip so firm, legs still pinned by the cuffs. “you want daddy to fill you up good? get you all full of my seed, pretty girl.” he kissed your ear, you having gone silent a minute prior.

Jack needed to be deeper, need to brutalize your warm and wet core. he pulled out and you whined loudly in discomfort. “sh shhh. only for a second, daddy’s got you.” he put the vibrator down, it roared against the mattress, and unlocked the cuffs at your wrists. then he flipped you on your back, pausing to take you in. you looked like your brain was floating as he moved you. adjusting the pillow beneath you to rest higher on your back, he pushed your hips up into the air and forced your legs as open as they’d go.

grabbing the wand and holding against your weeping clit, Jack pushed his cock deep inside you as he towered over. your legs locked and open, hips high to allow him as deep as you could take. your sore arms reached out for him, each hand gripping one of his arms. your moans were pathetic, tears free falling as you babbled on and on. the vibrator adding to it all, making your head spin.

“daddy’s getting so close bunny. you want my cum? want it deep inside you? say please.” he grunted as his pace got rougher, sloppier. you looked up at him with pleading eyes, “please cum in me. wanna cum with you,” you begged, hands desperately clinging to him as he turned the vibrator up a level, the buzzing sending shock waves of pleasure up your spine.

Jack nodded, his release right there. “cum for daddy. i’ve got you bunny.” after a few more expertly timed thrusts, you felt such intensity in your gut. your whole body trembled as a white light filled your vision.

you heard your moan but didn’t remember letting it go. Jack felt his orgasm hit him like a brick, slowing his thrusts as his hands shook. he continued to hold you there, vibrator attacking and his cock thrusting his seed deeper into your womb. your head was thrown back and your mouth wide. he wish he could keep you right here forever. he would if you’d let him.

“mmfph..daddy..” you cried and he was instantly moving. he turned off the wand and set it to the side, slowly pulling out of you. “daddy’s here, little one. float back down to me.” he soothed as he lowered you down and removed the cuffs. you were in another world and felt him move around you. your eyes closed and he just moved on autopilot, falling into his caretaker role.

he cleaned you up and carried you from the room, bringing you to your shared bedroom. you could bath and eat later, he was tired and you were in no state to disagree. so he grabbed a couple waters and tucked you in first before stripping himself of his prostheses and joined you.

“you did so wonderful for me, little bunny…’m so proud of you.” he praised, kissing your face softly. “sleep, i’ll be here when you wake up. just sleep love.” you just nodded, eyes fluttering closed. he pressed a kiss to your lips and settled down himself into the bed. eyes closing, he soaked in the morning, feeling so warm and so loved.

end.

Robby wanted it to be known that he really, really, really did not want to like you. 

You, who was headstrong, stubborn and particular. You were a Presby transfer, one of their prized senior residents who just didn’t get along with their team. It was hard and impacted your ability to work and after one too many cruel schoolyard jokes, you jumped ship. You took to the teaching hospital’s ways and its momentum quite quickly. You didn’t hesitate to correct an intern or med student. You never gave a second thought to questioning an attending or fighting a call someone made that you didn’t agree with. 

You, who was also patient and kind. You took extra time with struggling interns, calling them into labs to practise sutures or to go over procedures they couldn’t seem to crack after your shift - time you knew you wouldn’t be paid for. Any mistake a student made during procedures was gently amended, be it by putting your hand on theirs to guide them or just by giving additional verbal instructions.

This was all mostly fine to Robby. Really, he told himself he could handle it for someone Presby was borderline crying over losing.

It was all fine until you walked in on him absolutely whaling on Samira Mohan.

You stood at the door, expression changing immediately. You gawked at him when he told you he was busy, and to ask Dana if you needed something.

Mohan’s case was not too complicated, all things considered. A lady came in after being hit by a car. The car wasn’t going all that quickly, so she wasn’t too badly injured. You had overseen Whitaker doing some of her sutures and knew they had it handled. No internal bleeding, great GCS level, maybe a minor concussion at most.

Nobody had accounted for her general melancholy throughout the procedure. She was lamenting about how late she’d be for work. There wasn’t much anyone could say to that, she needed treatment and she was getting it in a very busy, very understaffed ER. Mohan ran it by you afterwards and you approved the discharge.

She was back in maybe an hour later. She had jumped from a three-storey height. It was hopeful when she first arrived, but things turned complicated and she never even made it to surgery. Time of death, 6:12PM.

Robby’s brows were so furrowed they were pretty much touching. He was going on and on about missed signs and how the car accident had clearly been a suicide attempt. You stood up and argued back - how could she possibly have predicted someone would do that? Her sadness was chalked up to the adrenaline leaving her system, and why wouldn’t that have been the answer? She was just in a car accident!

You sent Samira out, and he reminded you that you had absolutely no authority to do that. You told her to go, anyway. The two of you went back and forth and back and forth until he finally relented. This wasn’t anybody’s fault. You’re doctors, not mind-readers.

After that ‘blatant disrespect’ he had suffered, he was doing everything he could to try and find fault with you. He needed something to write you up, to ride you about. He needed to even the score, and remind you he was top-dog around here.

He followed you from case-to-case, watching how you spoke to everyone and did everything. This was when he noticed something about you.

You were very, very quick to dole out praise.

Whitaker assisted you in a really clean intubation? “Good man, that’s exactly what we want.” Javadi catching a small symptom that could have turned fatal? “Amazing catch, we’d be lost without you.” None of it was sarcastic or felt over-the-top. It was warm and fond and real. You loved teaching them, you loved seeing them gain their confidence.

You were shy, too. Not usually, but sometimes. When you got a taste of your own medicine with a ‘good save’ or a ‘nice job’, you got so bashful. All red and quiet, for once. He filed this information away, although he really didn’t know why.

You weren’t warm to him. You were strictly professional after you caught him with Mohan. You seemed to be good friends with her. He liked Samira, he really did. She was talented and could be brilliant if she applied herself like he wanted. Maybe he pushed too hard, she seemed to perform perfectly with you.

Abbot really liked you as well. You worked a double in your first week and you - unsurprisingly - got along just as swimmingly with the ‘night crawlers’ as you did with the day shift. It was starting to piss him off at this stage.

Every time he and Abbot met up at home, you were the first topic of conversation. He ranted and raved about what you did and what you didn’t do and why it annoyed him and why he didn’t think you were gonna be a good fit in the long run.

His husband listened, of course, and empathised with him. It’s hard to work with someone you don’t seem to like at all. But days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months. This time, when Robby started, Abbot had to intercept. “Mike, baby. This is becoming an obsession." When Robby opened his mouth to argue back, Abbot couldn’t help but take notice of the slight flush on his cheeks. The same flush he had had every time he brought her up recently.

At first, he had assumed that he was just getting worked up about you, but now… “Honey, I think you might have a little crush.” Abbot said softly. Robby scoffed in response. “Well, I’m hardly gonna leave you at this stage.” He put his palms on his eyes and pressed hard. Abbot leaned over and gently lowered them before he hurt himself. “She’s fake as fuck, brother. You should hear how she talks to the others. It’s like a fucking kindergarten.” He groans, squeezing Abbot’s hands. “What, all this ‘cause she won’t call you a good boy?” He joked, but he smiled when Robby blushed harder.

“Ohhhh, brother.” He laughed, scooping Robby up into his arms and squeezing him. “You got a crush, it’s okay.” “I’m married.” Robby whispered into his shoulder. “Yeah, I know, champ. I was there.” Robby raised his head to glare at him. “I can’t avoid her. She’s fuckin’ everywhere.” Robby moaned, sounding genuinely displeased. “I wouldn’t want her to be anywhere else. I mean…” Abbot looked down at Robby, wiggling his eyebrows emphatically. “I wished she’d have preferred nights for a while.” Now, Robby’s head flew up. “You’ve thought about her?” He asked. “Not as much as you, hon. But, yeah, I have.” Abbot squeezed him gently again. “W- why?” Robby’s question was fair. They’d swung for a bit, yeah. But Abbot didn’t go for women. Not after his late-wife. Robby fiddled with Abbot’s blackened out band, resting underneath their matching ones.

“Well, she’s pretty. Seems like she’s a good girl, too.” Abbot said, shrugging off his concern.

“Don’t tell her that.” Robby huffed, rolling his eyes. “It fucks with her flow.” “Does it now?” Abbot intoned. He found that very, very interesting.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had been a few weeks since you last ran into Jack Abott. Robby was off and Shen had covered the day. He did a hand-off and ran for the hills. Abbot is secretly glad he doesn’t prefer the days. He’s a pretty vital part of his crew. Abbot met you just as you were surveying the board for the last time. “Anything you need to warn me about?” He asked. You laughed, this guy was a sucker for gossip. “Nothing too interesting. Central 12’s a biter, though. Relative distance is recommended.” You supplied, lips thinning even with your smile. “Doin’ anything for the night?” “Nothing, just sleeping.” You responded, sighing. This little tell was the closest to complaining he’d seen you. Abbot nodded. You looked like shit. “Eat something nice and go straight to bed.” He didn’t quite order you to do it, but it definitely wasn’t a suggestion either. “Sir, yes, sir.” You gave him a mock salute, standing up straight. “Good girl.” He said, patting your shoulder and walking away. He looked back after a moment to look at you and sure enough, you were short-circuiting. Very interesting, indeed.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Like Robby had been doing for you, you very much actively tried to avoid him. Which didn’t typically work. You couldn’t seem to stop running into him.

Your frosty demeanor didn’t waver with him, but his had softened greatly with you. He had taken to sticking around for your procedures again, nodding affirmatively when you did the right thing, or offering a gentle “ah-ah” when doing something he thought wrong. He often went to you after a tough patient, asked if you needed anything or if you wanted to talk. You tried to be open to it, you really did. But he got under your skin. You were waiting for the other shoe to drop.

You had spoken to Samira about how Robby was when first started, kind and encouraging. How quickly he turned cruel and empathetic when he found a new ‘star student’. You didn’t want to be his star student, but you seemed to have had most of his attention recently. 

You knew he’d turn on you again, and when he did the others would follow. It happened at Presby, and it’ll happen here. You could feel it in your bones, you wouldn’t let them get the leg up on you like that.

The day finished up and like always, you searched the board. You wanted any reason to stick around for a bit, to chat to someone, to be useful to someone else. Robby walked over and prattled on about his weekend plans. Him and Abbot were both off, something that almost never happened. “C’mon, you got here early. I’m not gonna let you do any overtime.” Hands on your shoulders, he gently steered you towards the exit. You hadn’t brought in anything other than your worn hoodie and your phone, both of which were in your possession, so you had no excuse to not follow. “You got a ride?” He asked, eyeing your lack of keys. “Car’s at the shop.” You admit sheepishly. “I’m walking today.” Robby frowned. “No, you’re not. I’ll give you a ride.” He shook his head, hand going to your shoulder to hold you in place before crossing the road. He used the same hand to lead you across the road. You couldn’t help but relax a little at the action. You liked just following along with whatever people wanted at the end of the day. I mean, your whole job revolved around making choices to save lives, who would want to make a decision about themselves after that? “You really don’t have to, Dr. Robby.” You murmured. “He’s not, I am.” A gravelly voice caused you to look up. Jack Abott stood by their car, dangling the keys until they made a jingleing noise. You clearly weren’t the only one surprised. Robby’s eyebrows shot up. He went over and kissed Abbot on the cheek. “We actually had a question for you.” Abbot spoke, hand rubbing Robby’s back. “If you don’t have plans tonight, would you have dinner with us?” Your brows shot up this time. “But- you…” Your eyes shifted between Abbot and Robby several times.” “Want you to have dinner with us? Yes.” Robby finished off what he assumed your sentence would have been. “I- I’d hate to intrude.” Was all you could think to say, because one part of your brain immediately wanted to say ‘yes!’. “Good thing you wouldn’t be, then.” Abbot smiled at you, winking. “Look, if you don’t want to, you don’t have to. We want you to, but your word is final. We won’t be offended.” “We can pretend this never happened. We drive you home and we don’t talk about it again.” Robby confirmed softly. “No, I- I don’t have any plans. Dinner would be nice…” You admitted, stomach starting to grumble. Robby’s did too, causing Abbot to laugh. 

He ushered both of you in the car and drove to what you could only assume was their house. A real nice, big townhouse a little ways outside the city. It was quiet, but thoughtfully decorated. The lawn was stunning and the colour pleasing to the eye. You were invited inside to see the gorgeous interior. The kitchen was a mix of modern furniture with retro colour schemes - reds, blacks and blue used interchangeably. The house seemed to be lit according to mood, with the kitchen lights on full whack and the dining room a little dimmer.

“I actually have it all ready, just sit down anywhere.” Abbot instructed, not caring that he admitted he assumed you were going to say yes. “Can I help?” You asked. “Yes, by sitting down.” Robby replied, pointing to one chair in particular. Right to the head of the table. Abbot’s voice rang out again - “Do you drink wine?” - Upon hearing your affirmative, his head popped through the doorless frame. “White or red?” “Red, please. Will I help set out the drinks?” You asked for the second time. “You can stay right where you are, please.” You are told for the second time.

After what feels like an eternity (it was 5 minutes), a small bowl is placed in front of you and your wine is topped up just slightly. Robby took the seat in front of you and Abbot beside you, at the head. All three of you ate in relative silence, before you broke it to compliment the soup. It was potato and leek, so creamy and starchy that you didn’t even feel the crunchy onion-y texture. “Thank you, you’re very sweet.” Abbot smiled at you. You tried to control your blush, ducking your head modestly. “Isn’t she just?” Robby agreed, as you hurriedly spooned another mouthful of soup into your gob. The first course passed quickly after that. Robby collected the bowls, pushing you down in the chair when you got up to help him. He disappeared into the kitchen. “You don’t know when to give up, do ya?” Abbot asked, laughing slightly. “I’m not good with being idle.” You admitted, laughing along. He stared at you for a bit. “You can relax, you look so tense. Did you have a bad day?” He asked kindly. “No, no. Everything went very well. I’m just… I’m just like this.” You laughed again, albeit a bit more nervously this time. “Uh-huh, well, I want everyone who walks in here to feel better when they walk out. Is there anything I can do for you?” His gaze followed yours, ducking his head to look you in the eyes. It’s hard to ignore the husky undertone in his voice. “Look up at me, please. It’s not good to slouch.” He gently corrected and you rushed to remedy yourself. “Sorry, Dr. Abbot.” “You’re okay, I just don’t want your back to get sore. And, call me Jack when we’re not working.” “Yes, sorry Jack.” “Good girl, you’re okay.” He doesn’t miss the way the tension leaves your shoulders. You stare at him for a moment, your eyes almost glazing over before Robby returns. “Roast should be ready in 20.” He murmured, squeezing Abbot’s shoulder as he passed him. Him and Abbot exchanged a few looks before Robby began again. “You’re a very smart girl.” He stated simply, you couldn’t help but whip your head over to him. “Settle.” Abbot huffed a small laugh. “I’m sure you can see we didn’t call you just to eat with you.” You didn’t know what to say to that. You simply hummed and nodded for him to continue. “Jack and I have a particular… void that needs filling. And you seem to be the perfect candidate.” Robby continued, watching your face very closely. He saw your brows furrow. “We aren’t asking you to have sex with us.” Abbot spoke very quietly, “That isn’t what we want.” “Then what is this ‘void’?” You asked cautiously, not sure if you felt relieved or disappointed you attendings didn’t want to have sex with you.

“We’re old men, who make a lot of money and don’t have family to look after. We want someone to take care of.” Robby informed you. “You want me to be your sugar baby?” You asked, a bit incredulously.

Simultaneously, you heard a ‘no’ and a ‘sort of…’. Abbot glared at Robby.

“Are you familiar with BDSM dynamics, honey?” You tried not to react when Abbot called you honey but judging by the way he looked at you, you failed. “I-yes, I am.” You mutter, looking down again. “Ah-ah, look up.” Abbot couldn’t help but remind you. Robby gawked at him, but you looked up automatically. Abbot tipped your chin encouragingly.

“Have you had any experience with it?” He asked and Robby turned his attention back to you. “Uh, a bit, yeah.” You admitted in a whisper. God, this was so fucking embarrasing. Robby reached across the table for your hand, which had clenched around itself. He unwinded your fingers and placed his hand on top of yours, rubbing circles onto it. “Can you tell us what you were doing?” He asked softly. Suddenly, it was hard for you to remember why you didn’t like Robby. “I was- I was a submissive. Sometimes for sex, but usually domestically.” You murmured, feeling a bit lost in his gaze. “Thank you for answering. You had a regular dom then?” He asked. You blinked up at him slowly. “No, I was a part of this, like, group. You texted in and someone usually responded. I knew a few of them well but not all of them. I just… I just needed to be out of my head.” You shared, feeling a bit like a common whore. You went to look down again, but Robby clicked his tongue. “I believe Jack asked you not to do that.” “Sorry, Dr. Robby.” “Michael, please.” “Sorry Michael.” You murmur automatically. “No apologies necessary, sweet girl. That must have been hard to tell me.” You nodded without thinking. Abbot piped up again. “That’s exactly what we want. A submissive. You don’t have to fuck us. We want to feed you, bathe you, dress you up. We want you to listen, and do as you’re told, and to feel free.” Abbot took your other hand, thumb rubbing up and down your wrist. “You don’t have to even try it. If you’re not interested, we eat dinner, drop you home and pretend none of this happened.” Robby promised, squeezing your hand. “No pressure. If you want to think about it, then same thing.” Abbot assured. “I… I do want to try. I haven’t done it in a bit, I might be a bit shit at it.” You admitted, feeling a bit exposed. “You have been doing absolutely wonderfully.” Robby reassured you quickly. “You wouldn’t have to worry about a thing, we’d do that for you.” Abbot added. “Okay, I’ll try it with you. But if I don’t fall deep, don’t be upset.” You warned “Stop getting in your own head about this, we’ll take it as we go, babe.” Robby brought your hand to his lips, kissing each finger between words. You revelled in the attention for a moment, and you knew they knew. You felt yourself settle down, the weight rolling off your shoulders. You didn’t notice Abbot getting up beside you, so you jumped when a plate was placed in front of you. Abbot petted your hair soothingly. “Hush, it’s only me. Here, Mike…” As he passed Robby his own. He placed his own down and quickly plucked the cutlery from your hands. “Would you like it if I fed you, hon?” Abbot asked quietly, waiting for your response. You nodded slowly. “Brave girl.” He noted you must have been wrecked to give in so easily. The plan had initially been to just ask you tonight. Talk to you a bit about it, get to know you. You’d talk about expectations and fears and all of you would set a schedule. Which would still need to be made, but tonight was not the night. Abbot really hadn’t meant to start domming you before you’d even discussed it, but you were plain irresistible. It irritated him how you couldn’t see it. He could see you needed it tonight, Robby could too. You were barely hanging on. “Do you like to try everything separately first or do you usually go straight in with your meal?” Robby asked before Abbot began. “Separately, if it’s not too much trouble.” You disclosed, reaching to take the fork from Abbot’s hand preemptively. Abbot gently lowered it. “Hands on your thighs or on the table, please. Thank you for telling me, I’d like to feed you.” They had a feeling you would need more than a simple instruction. You seemed to be a lot more insecure in yourself than they originally thought. Clear instructions, easily-won praise often, and many reminders of the initial order or rules. They could remedy that, if you would let. They could only hope you would.

“I want to know. Breakfast?” 

“Yeah, oatmeal.” 

He grins. “Me too.” 

Nobody would ever believe that this is your boyfriend when he’s commanding a room during a profile, or apprehending an UnSub with his impassive, furrowed brow. You assumed it was the honeymoon phase at first. It’s not like his affection makes much sense, but if he’s not stressed, it just means he loves you, which is nice. You hold the back of your hand to his cheek, laughing in a shock when he turns his face and traps it between his cheek and his shoulder. 

“No more late mornings,” he says decisively. 

“I wasn’t technically late. I wasn’t early enough to come up to see you, is all. Are you upset I didn’t bring you your coffee?” 

“Is that what you think?” he asks, smiling as he kisses your wrist, before straightening. You let your hand fall and he catches it on the way down. 

“I don’t know. You’re much too touchy. I’m trying to deduce why, but…” 

“Profile me,” Aaron says. He gives your hand a squeeze. “You know how to do it, honey. Figure out my motive from my past behaviours.” 

Aaron’s only ever this sweet on you when you’re in his bed. Well, ‘only ever’ is harsh, but he’s never not sweet on you in the afterglow. And that’s because intimacy is a constant reminder of how close you really are to one another, why he loves you, and why you love him. So perhaps he’s being sweet on you because you’ve reminded him how loved he is? But it doesn’t make much sense. You forgot his coffee.

Your stomach goes warm. “Oh. Oh,” you say, “I called you last night.” 

“You did.” 

“I was tired.” 

“But you were beautiful,” he says, and what does that mean? It’s not as though he could see your face. “I can’t remember the last time you were like that. Not since we were in Helena.”

You can’t remember it clearly. Threads of what you’d said come back to you slowly. Love you, my sweetheart, my Aaron. Can you come over? I know it’s late, I need to see you. You were too tired to function, let alone call someone, and yet. 

Your face is on fire. 

“Sorry I couldn’t come over, honey,” he says, chucking you under the chin with a curled finger. “I would’ve, I promise, but I had Jack until we swapped this morning.”

You go hot all over. “No, I know. It’s fine, I shouldn’t have called you–”

“Who says you can’t call me?” 

“Nobody, but I shouldn’t have.”

“You can call me anytime you want.” He tips your chin up. “Quick, Spencer’ll have finished what I asked him to do soon. Can I kiss you?” 

“I forgot it was your day for Jack–”

He takes your face into his hand. “Doesn’t matter, honey. Kiss?” 

You have always been an organized person, you loved your detailed to-do lists, and you loved living by your schedules. It was rare for you to not stick to your schedule, which is why Robby and Jack started to get worried when you still hadn’t texted them around 10:30 am; you always woke up at 9am on Saturdays. Jack was immediately on edge when he didn’t receive a text from you 10 minutes past 9. 

He was sitting at the kitchen island as he looked down at his phone. Robby, who was making coffee, tried to reassure him that you just needed extra sleep after your long night. You had gone out with your study group from college to prepare for a big project, and despite their protests, you had stayed at your apartment; it was just for the best. Your apartment was closest to where the hang out was, and you didn’t want to keep them up. 

But of course, they didn’t get a wink of sleep until they received a text from you, telling them you were home and safe, along with a cute selfie of you in bed. That just made them miss you even more; they couldn’t wait for the morning. 

Today was one of those rare and cherished days when neither of them had to go back to work, and all they wanted was to spend the day with you. They had gone grocery shopping together once Robby got off shift, buying your favorite foods for a big breakfast. They were gonna spoil you all day with love and affection, knowing you had been stressed about your project. They were missing you and were really regretting not having you stay at theirs, and as the time went on without a word from you, the more worried they got. 

Both of them texted and called you and got no answer. And before they could hear your voicemail for Robby’s second call, Jack was standing at the front door, waving the car keys and holding out Robby’s jacket for him; the look on his face was saying he wasn’t going to wait anymore. They knew every shortcut to your apartment, getting there in no time. The doorman gave them a nod before he let them up, already familiar with the doctor duo. 

Jack quietly unlocked our front door with his key, his hand pausing around the door handle before he could fully turn it. He stood there for a second. He hated how his mind always went to the darkest place, and the paranoia always crept back. Robby placed a reassuring hand on Jack's lower back, his touch pulling Jack out of the dark place. 

He quickly opened the door, immediately getting welcomed by the strong and comforting vanilla and cinnamon smell that your apartment always had. Robby closed the door behind him. Your apartment was clean and had that warm homey vibe like always. Jack’s eyes immediately went to the emergency backpack he had made for you. It was hanging up next to your purse and keys. Robby’s eyes went to your kitchen, where he saw Jack and his designated mugs right next to yours on the counter. Little bits of them were all over your apartment. 

“Sweetheart?” Jack called out as the two of them made their way through your apartment, walking down the hallway that led to your bedroom. They didn’t hear your sweet voice answer them or the sound of your shower. Jack got to your cracked-open door first; he could hear the sound of your defuser as he quietly pushed your door open. Robby stopped at Jack's side as their eyes zeroed in on you in your bed. 

There you were sprawled out on your stomach, your face snuggled into your pillow, and your blanket rested low on your hips. They could immediately tell by the way your back was rising and falling that something was wrong with your breathing; your bedside table was covered with a bunch of tissues. Robby immediately moved to sit at the edge of your bed at your side, his hand moving to touch your forehead. You were burning up. 

Robby looked over at Jack as they shared a Quick Look. By the sight of your labored breaths and runny nose and the heat your body was projecting, they knew what was wrong. Their poor girl was sick. Robby softly rubs his finger against your cheek before he stands up, saying quietly to Jack as he rubs his beard. “I’ll make breakfast, we all need to eat something, you try to wake her up and get some water into her?” 

“Yeah, go on, I got this.” Jack nodded as he brought his hand up to gently grasp Robby’s wrist, pulling his hand away from his chin to stop his fingers from picking at his beard, a bad habit that he’d do when stressed. Robby lets out a heavy breath before he nods. He gives Jack a weak smile and sends you a lingering look of worry before he leaves the room. 

Jack looks back at you and lets out a small sigh before sitting down at your side. He brought his hand up to softly brush a few strands of your hair out of your face, feeling your hot skin under his fingertips. He hated to wake you up, especially with seeing how hard you were sleeping and knowing you hadn’t been sleeping well lately, but he knew it was for the best. 

“Hey, sweet girl, time to wake up.” his tone was soft as he brushed his thumb against your cheek before gently rubbing your back to rouse you from sleep. You barely stirred from his touch and voice, nuzzling your sore nose against your pillow, that sleepy haze slowly lifting from you the more he rubbed your back. 

God, you looked so adorable like this, he thought. Your hair messy, and your face smushed against your pillow with your sleepy pout. You scrunched your nose as a sleepy whine mixed with a groan left your sore throat as you started to wake up. His voice filled your ears, causing you to stir a little, your voice coming out hoarse and cracked, “Jacky?” 

“Hi, baby, how’re you feeling?” Jack hummed as he continued to rub your back, slipping his hand under your shirt to rub at your lower back, his touch sending chills down your spine. You tried to form words, but nothing could come to your mind; it felt like you had some sort of fog in your head. Only one word came to your mind, and it came out muffled from your face pressed against your pillow: “Gross.” 

“Come on, baby, roll over for me—let me see your pretty face,” he said softly as he moved his hand from your lower back to rest on your hip, giving it a reassuring, gentle squeeze. His words caused butterflies in your stomach, or was that a stomach ache? You let out a small huff at the feeling of your achy body moving as you slowly turned around, your words coming out as a whine as you complained, “Don’t feel pretty.” 

“Oh, that’s impossible,” he tilted his head with a small smile as he carefully moved your hair out of your face, leaning closer so he could help you fix the pillow behind your head. You wanted to smile, tell him how sweet he is, but all you could do was let out a small sniffle as you let yourself lie back down. 

“Where’s Robby?” You mumbled as you brought your hands up to rub the sleep from your eyes. You knew if Jack was here, Robby had to be close. You rest your hands on your lower stomach as you let out a small groan as you stretch your legs out, scrunching your nose when you realize you were missing a sock. Jack rests his right hand on your leg over the blanket, giving it a reassuring squeeze as he answers you, “By the smell, he’s in the kitchen making some soup.” 

Your eyes widened at the mention of breakfast, and a pit of guilt and sadness formed in your stomach as you realized that the breakfast plans were ruined. You fidgeted with the blanket as you frowned, your tone crestfallen, “Oh, our breakfast plans…I’m sorry.” 

Jack’s eyes softened as he stopped himself from frowning. He hated how it was your default to always blame yourself first. He would save that conversation for another time. Instead, he reached for your water bottle on your bedside table, holding it out to you with a teasing smirk after he took the cap off. “All is forgiven if you drink some water.”  

“Manipulation, cute,” you muttered dryly as you narrowed your eyes at him, but nonetheless you took the water, bringing it up to your lips, your eyes not leaving his. He smiled as he watched you drink the water, his voice teasing as he nodded, “Drink up, Sugar.” 

“You’re up and drinking, good.” Your eyes were immediately drawn to the doorway at the sound of Robby’s voice breaking the moment of silence. You watched as he walked across your room and around your bed so he could sit on the other side of you.

You pulled the bottle from your lips, showing off your dramatic pout as you looked up at Robby. ”Jack threatened to shove it down my throat.” 

Robby chuckled as he sat down, a weight lifting off his shoulders, knowing that you still had your humor, a good sign. Robby decided to play along. He shook his head in faux disappointment as he clicked his tongue, “He’s mean, like that isn’t he?” 

“Oh, I’ll show you mean,” Jack said slowly as he turned his head to look at Robby, his tone more flirty if anything. Robby rolled his eyes playfully, his cheeks warming up under Jack's gaze. Jack smirks knowingly at how flushed Robby got. Robby licked his bottom lip before he cleared his throat, trying to ignore Jack as he kept his attention on you. 

”How are you feeling, angel?” Robby asked softly as he placed his hand on her leg, giving it a reassuring squeeze as his eyes assessed you. Jack took the water from your trembling hand as you rested your head back against the pillow, that cute frown decorating your face once again, accompanied by a sigh as you answered seriously, ”I think I’m sick.” 

“Yeah, angel, I’m afraid so.” Robby gave you a sideways smile. 

“Was anyone not feeling good last night?” Robby asked, hoping to get some clarity or confirmation on you getting the cold that was going around. They watched as you furrowed your eyebrows as you tried to look back on last night, but everything came up blank. You couldn’t really remember much; it must be the sick brain fog. 

”I don’t remember,” you muttered with a frown as you fidgeted with the blanket, suddenly feeling bad for not being able to tell them more. 

“That’s okay,” Jack said earnestly with a reassuring nod as he took one of your hands in his. His rough hand engulfed your small and soft one, the pad of his thumb softly caressing your knuckles as he watched you closely. 

“I heated up some of that chicken noodle soup,” Robby hummed as he softly rubbed your leg. You almost always had soup in your mason jars in the fridge; Jack’s love for meal prepping had gotten to you. He continued, “I know you hate eating in bed, but I wasn't sure if you were up to getting out of bed.”  

“Couch?” You suggested quietly. 

“I’ll go get it all ready for you.” Jack pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles before he stood up, not leaving the room without sending the two of you a wink. He stopped in front of one of the hallways closest, grabbed a few of the extra blankets and pillows, he wanted to make sure you were as comfy as possible. 

“Let me help you up, Angel.” Robby slowly stood up as he offered his help, but it came out more as a statement. You slowly sat up, Robby’s hand moving to your lower back to help you stay steady. You pulled the blanket off your legs, a small chuckle leaving his lips at the sight of your feet, one of your floral and Snoopy printed socks was halfway off your foot, while your other foot was missing a sock entirely.  

“Cute” he murmured under his breath as he leaned down to fix your sock before he lifted the blanket to search for the other, you watched him with a flustered look as he carefully put your sock on once he found it, his fingers softly brushing against your skin. As if you were too delicate to touch. 

“You know I can move around by myself,” you smiled faintly as you looked up at Robby, who had his arm wrapped tightly around your waist so you could lean into his side as he led you into your living room. You tilt your head to look over your shoulder to see Jack in your kitchen, his back to you as he stood at your stove before you continued, “I’m sick, my legs aren’t broken.” 

“Can you blame me for not wanting to risk it?” Robby smiled weakly as he pressed a quick kiss to your temple. Jack, who heard your comments, called out from the kitchen in a joking manner, “It’s basically the same thing!” 

Your eyes softened, and your heart skipped a beat when you saw your spot on the couch, having the blankets and pillows perfectly placed, as you like them, to be seen is to be loved. “Michael, please,” you huffed, but it turned into a giggle when you felt him accidentally poke your side as he tucked you in once you sat down. He shushed you, his face telling you to just deal with it. 

“Well don’t you look cozy” Jack chuckled as he walked into the living room, seeing you sit there still, the blanket covering your whole body as it was pulled up to your chin. Robby sat at your side, cleaning his glasses. You pulled your arms out from under the thick blanket, taking your favorite soup mug from Jack's hands as you played along “i think Robby wants me to sweat it out” 

After a few minutes, the three of them got situated in their spots on the couch, Jack sitting on the chaise lounge so he could put his legs up, bringing the soup mug to his lips to sip on the broth. You sat next to him, curled up in your blanket as you slowly ate your soup. You didn’t have much of an appetite but knew you needed to. Robby sat at your other side, manspreading and glasses almost fogging up from the steam from his soup. 

“You know what you want to watch yet?” Jack wonders, his voice soft as he glances between you and the blank TV. You looked up from your soup, your mind going blank. You shrugged and gave Jack a tired smile. “You guys can pick.” 

“I’ll pick, I’m not spending all day watching mash,” Robby sent a playful jab towards Jack's taste of shows as he reached for the remote on the coffee table. Jack was quick to pull the spoon out of his mouth and defend himself. You giggle into your mug as you listen to them; they were more entertaining than anything that could be put on. 

After a while, you finished up your soup, eating much more slowly to not upset your stomach and throat. Robby took the mug from your hand and set it on the coffee table next to his and Jack's. And before you could blink, Jack was pulling you into his arms, placing a long kiss on your temple. You didn’t even bother to try and complain that you would get him sick, already knowing that they would give you that long response that they wouldn’t get sick. 

You let yourself melt in Jack’s arms, reaching under the blanket to take Robby’s hand in yours. The minutes go by, and their commentary and soft touches make you forget about your cold, and the next thing you knew you were lying your head in Robby’s lap while Jack hugged your waist. The sounds of the TV and their voices lulling you to sleep. 

┊࿐ ❛❛ continue on to my….au masterlist & main masterlist ❜❜

roro's note. oh I love them so bad ,, they make me so happy !! I’m so sorry it’s taken me so long to get a post out for them. I’ve just been soo busy :( I have another request for them ‘Fawn reader who likes to cook and she bring some food to the other staff then she sees her cuties and she jumps on them with happiness!’ I would love some ideas 💡

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Disclaimer: YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO REPOST MY WRITING ANYWHERE ELSE WITHOUT MY CONSENT. REBLOGS ARE ENCOURAGED THOUGH. YOU MAY NOT FEED MY WORK TO ANY AI DATABASES OF ANY KIND OR TO USE MY WORKS TO TRAIN AI. FUCK AI.

You met Jack first after he decided to pull a double. Not unusual, but he was crankier than normal for some reason, the bitter and grainy taste of the coffee in the lounge wasn’t going to cut it, so he made his way up to the hospital cafeteria in search of fresh coffee.

You had just started your shift, still groggy and a little hungover from the night before. You were not supposed to be here that morning, but your boss had called at the ass crack of dawn to tell you that your coworker was sick and you needed to be the one to open. So to say you were in a bad mood would be an understatement.

Jack approached the counter, all arrogance and self-importance, and ordered an americano. No hello, no good morning, no nothing other than a dry, demanding voice. And you’re having none of it. But you don’t fight, you truly don’t give a fuck. You ring him up and get to work on his drink. There’s no one else around since it’s still very fucking early. So instead you decided to fuck with him.

You make a disgustingly sugary drink. I’m talking vanilla syrup, caramel, whipped cream — the works. And his americano, of course, you’re not a monster. But since he didn’t even deign himself to give you his name, you simply set your sugar explosion on the counter while you finish his up.

Without thinking about it, he picks it up and takes a swig, practically gagging as you crack a smile. You can tell he’s about to chew you a new one when he realizes that you’re holding out his cup and he’s the one in the wrong for assuming that the world belongs to him.

That made him stop for a second and reevaluate. He quickly blinks away the shame he feels from his behavior, finally looking at you like a human being, a kid just trying their best at seven in the morning. You offered him a kind smile and he reciprocates, brushing your fingers with his on purpose as he grabs the cup from you.

“I’m Jack.” Finally, some decorum. You tell him your name and he asks if he can take the other coffee as well, handing you a twenty as a half apology, half bribe. You nod and he literally goes right back down to the Pitt to do the exact same thing to Robby.

You met Robby a few days later. The morning rush long gone, you’re starting prep for lunch when he appears, basically materializes out of thin air. It’s always a shock the way he moves around so stealthily.

It’s been a rough morning, you can tell by how his entire body is tense and there’s lingering blood spots on the collar of his white undershirt. You don’t comment, you don’t even give him your overly cheerful, customer service greeting. Instead, you meet him where he’s at, soft and open.

He orders everyone doughnuts and you gladly chat him up while you fulfill his order. Three dozen, all baked this morning, glaze still shiny and not dry. He returns your conversation, engaged and not dismissive. He’s in it, asking you questions in return and seemingly interested in your answers.

He tells you about how Jack pranked him with the disgusting caramel latte and questions how in the world you could drink something like that. You tell him the truth, that Jack was being a dick so you wanted to mess with him. That makes him laugh loudly, the tension disappearing from his body for a few seconds. You reveled in it, in his attention, in now having a secret you two shared.

His pager goes off unexpectedly, as it usually does with doctors. You’ve been working at the hospital enough to notice that there’s never enough time, but the few moments that can be found to decompress here and there are everything to them.

He thanks you for the laugh, and the doughnuts, and returns to the Pitt without so much as a final glance. Much to your dismay.

You spend the next few days stuck in your head, in the daydream and fantasies of those two handsome doctors. You start asking around, a little unsubtly at times, but manage to get enough information on them for your silent crushes to only grow further out of control.

They’d never go for someone like you. They’re fucking doctors for fuck’s sake. Almost twice your age too. You’re just a kid who barely finished your college degree, lost and confused, too afraid to confront your own life. What the fuck could they possibly see in you?

You force yourself to not seek them out. It could be so easy too, just go downstairs at shift change, which you now knew was 7 am and 7 pm. Drop off leftovers from the day, or night, depending on what shift you were working. It made sense, wasn’t overly eager. There was a calculated, reasonable purpose behind your presence in their domain.

And it would’ve stayed as just a simple, stupid fantasy, had it not been for them coming back. It was innocuous at first. Robby would swing by every other week to get a pick-me-up for his staff and you’d chat. Or Jack would saunter through for a coffee around midnight and you’d take your break with him, making sure he ate something after the first time you’d heard his stomach grumbling and he seemed to not notice it himself.

They made you feel wanted, because you were. They were taking time out of their busy day, or night, to come all the way to the third floor and spend ten, fifteen, twenty minutes with you. And honestly, you would take as much as you could get. Between the two of them, there was always something to look forward to.

It was after a few months of this back and forth that you finally allowed yourself to venture down to the Pitt after a long night shift. Your manager had been a particular ass about throwing away perfectly good food, so you’d decided to stick it to him and taken the leftovers down to the ED in a final act of rebellion.

Your arms were full. So much so that you kept praying that you wouldn’t drop anything. You could not handle the humiliation of that happening. Thankfully, by the time you pushed open the staff exit into the floor, two of the nurses caught you immediately and helped take the boxes off you. You thanked them and the three of you made your way out to the hub where you caught the tail end of shift change.

The nurses were nothing short of boisterous about your generosity, announcing your arrival and putting a spotlight on you, causing all heads to turn. You tried your hardest not to run away and hide, blush already creeping up your cheeks as you caught a glimpse of Robby’s characteristically warm smile and Jack’s barely there smirk.

You did not dare look at them, you were not here for that, even though you desperately were. Instead, you cracked a joke, telling them that this was your little secret, your manager, who, everyone knew and disliked, couldn’t know you were doing this.

It took no time for them to dissipate as, well…the emergency department never stopped moving. A few more pats and thank you’s from doctors and nurses alike and you finally allowed yourself to meet their stare. Big mistake.

Robby had leaned down to whisper something in Jack’s ear and the blonde fully smirked now. Oh god this was bad. When he finished saying whatever the hell he was telling his friend, Robby shot you a sly wink and left, following his residents like a concerned parent.

Jack turned to you then and you finally noticed how stupid you must’ve looked standing there, in the middle of this chaotic room, like a deer caught in headlights. Pathetic, honestly. Self-consciousness crept up before you even knew it was there and you practically bolted. No goodbye, no nothing. You simply turned around and left through the main entrance this time. You didn’t stop until you were outside in the warm summer air.

You had no idea how long you’d been standing there when you heard him call your name behind you. “You alright, kid?”

You nodded, shoving every ugly emotion as deep as you could. “Yeah, just waiting for you.”

He chuckled at that, shaking his head in disbelief. “And here I was thinking you were running away.”

“You must feel so embarrassed right now.” You teased.

“Hilarious,” he stepped closer yet still gave you the distance you needed in case you didn’t appreciate his advances. “Where are you going now?”

“Home. You?”

“Home.” 

You two sucked at flirting. You stepped closer then, distance shortening.

“You wanna get breakfast first?” He asked you then, finally.

You simply nodded and he led the way to his truck. 

Back inside, Robby almost couldn’t believe his eyes. Jack Abbot was not there anymore. No whining, no fighting, no trying to bargain his way into a double shift. Surprised yet deeply amused, he finally noticed you’d left him, specifically him, a packed lunch and a perfectly made cup of coffee, one sugar, one creamer, just like he liked it.

Jack took you to a local diner for breakfast and you had finally spilled your guts to him about your whole life situation in general. Student loans, no idea what you were doing with you life, the whole impending doom and overwhelming anxiety of thinking about the future.

He’d opened up to you too, tragic backstory and everything. You couldn’t help but feel a deep empathy for him, for all that he had been through. And you definitely didn’t kiss him out of pity, no, you leaned forward out of a deep instinct that you couldn’t quite stop, not until your lips met his and you became overwhelmed with showing him how much you could feel his pain, his grief, his hurt and wanted nothing more than to help lighten his load.

Thankfully for you, he wasted no time kissing you back, the middle console of his truck effectively cock blocking him as he tried to pull you in closer. You giggled against his lips and he bit down in retaliation, causing a moan to spill out of your perfectly plump lips. That was all it took for inhibitions to get thrown out the window.

How you found yourself in his bedroom was a blur of reckless driving, a hand practically burning through the fabric of your jeans as it wrapped itself around your thigh, far too high up to be appropriate yet decent enough to force you to calm down. He called the shots here. And your core tightened at the knowledge.

Jack lived in a one story house, a quiet neighborhood, very family oriented. And since it was the middle of the morning and no one around to witness, he was unafraid to be seen. He parked with a screech of the brakes, desperate and eager, wasting no time to walk around to open your door for you, ever the gentleman. 

But the second you were out of the car, his greedy hands wrapped themselves around your waist and his lips claimed yours once more. He pinned you back against his truck, his tongue making itself at home in your mouth as his hands raked higher and higher up your abdomen under your shirt.

You shivered, your own hands returning the sentiment, finding themselves tangled in his hair, pulling him closer to you, until his hips were pressed against your own and you could feel how hard he was under his pants.

That was enough for his patience to run out. He picked you up over his shoulder and practically ran into his house. You were so high, head feeling airy and body tingling with anticipation. The next thing you knew you were thrown on his bed, cold and perfectly firm yet soft.

He admired your already fucked out expression, reveling in the fact that he'd done that to you before he got on his knees in front of the edge of the bed. He pulled you towards him by your calves, slow and methodical hands kneading at them as he checked in with you. You gave him your consent eagerly and he practically salivated.

He undressed you quickly, boots, socks, pants — and then he paused at your underwear. It was a lacy number, white and absolutely drenched. He peppered kisses up your legs, his strong hands pulling your legs apart as he buried his nose by your pelvis. You couldn't take your eyes off him, he looked so — feral. Pupils dilated, breathing ragged, fingertips definitely leaving bruises from the death grip on your thighs.

“Please.”

That’s all it took. He slipped your underwear off your body and before you could even register, his mouth was on you, hot and wet, tongue savoring every ounce of you he could find. Lips sucked on your clit before moving his tongue down to your opening, teasingly. He repeated the motion for far too long, drunk off the pretty moans that you fed him in response.

When you began to whine and thrash against him, seeking more pressure, more friction, more anything, he locked in. He latched onto your clit, one hand leaving your thigh and inserting two fingers into you. You gasped, the feeling so perfect you could barely keep track of your breathing anymore.

You felt the pressure in you rise out of nowhere, your core contracting in search for release. He looked up at you, eyes almost daring and you stammered a string of incoherent pleas, begging for permission to cum. Oh he could’ve blown his load right then and there, of course you would ask for permission, you had always been well mannered, raised right.

He granted it immediately, doubling his efforts to get you over the ledge. You came hard and loud, writhing against him, hands tangled in his hair, pulling deliciously as your body trembled beneath him. He had done that to you. Pride made him blush, a new reason for him to keep going emerging.

He pulled out of you after you’d ridden out your orgasm, tent in his pants almost painful now. He searched the bedside table for condoms and groaned loudly when he couldn't find any. You giggled, watching him teasingly as he ran into his bathroom, hoping to find at least one so he could pound you into the mattress like he’d been wanting to for months.

There was none. He could not have been more frustrated. But when he returned to let you know, his disappointment quickly turned into excitement as he found you naked, on your knees exactly where he’d just been moments ago. God you were perfect. 

And then you smiled at him and asked, may I? He almost stumbled with how eagerly he stepped forward. You took that as a yes and your hands got to work immediately. He should’ve stayed in his scrubs, the belt, button and zipper of his jeans now such a nuisance to him, but you made quick work of them. 

Your hands were a little cold as they dipped into his boxers and pulled out his cock, sending a thrill across his body. Your eyes glossed over in what he could only describe as lust and hunger. He had never been self conscious of his body before, but the way you looked at him then, all veneration and desire made him realize he'd never loved his body as much as you seemed to be.

His cock twitched, precum leaking, the vein on the underside pulsing. And you salivated, opening your mouth eagerly and taking him into your warmth without hesitation. You took your time, slow and deliberate, tongue swirling around his tip as an appetizer before you took him further, head bobbing at a moderate pace in retaliation for what he had done to you earlier.

He chuckled darkly as he connected the dots. You were a brat indeed. And he couldn’t wait to tame you, to bend you to his will, to wreck you into submission. His hands found their way into your hair, discarding the hair tie and wrapping his fist in it instead. He began to set the pace, deliberate, demanding, in control.

You let him, throat relaxing at his display of dominance, hands wrapping around the base you simply couldn’t reach yet when you gagged around him. Too fast, too soon. He’d adjusted after that, slowed down, smiled at the streaks of mascara running down your cheeks.

And then, in an act of defiance, reminding him that you were not simply going to lie there and take it, your hands cupped his balls, massaging them with enough pressure to catch him off guard. He came down your throat with a gasp that quickly devolved into a groan, loud and powerful, feeding your ego just as much as you had fed his.

He pulled you off him with a pop as he caught his breath. Tension lingered, the spark of fear for what happened next. But then you laughed and turned his whole world upside down. He chuckled, it could be this simple. He helped you off your knees and brought you flush against him to plant a kiss on your lips. You could taste each other as he deepened the kiss, quickly getting you riled up and ready for round two.

Jack refused to let you leave until the last second. He had his shift and you had your evening off as they switched you back to days for a while, so he was determined to get as much of you as he could until time simply slipped from his fingers.

You’d ordered lunch, electrolytes and condoms, and he had graciously paid and faced the poor delivery guy. Being with Jack was easy, uncomplicated, at least in your little pocket of heaven. You’d managed to keep your hands off each other long enough to eat, nap and then he’d woken you up with his tongue deep inside of you.

When he finally buried himself inside of you, there were no words to describe how you were feeling. And luckily, he shared the sentiment as his eyes closed in pleasure, hips stilling as he let himself feel your walls around him, your pounding heart against his own, your choking breath against his ear.

He’d insisted he wanted to be on top, even after you begged him to let you ride him so he could be more comfortable. But he would have none of it. So there you were, on your back, legs wrapped around him as he thrust into you, both legs planted on the floor to get better traction. 

He was ruthless in his approach, not shy about how rough he wanted it, about the high he was chasing after. And the way your nails dug into his back, the way you clenched around him encouragingly, the way you moaned and gasped into his ear, his mouth, his everything in response to even the slightest movement made him go feral for good reason.

His fingers were unashamed, moving against your clit with fervor, desperate to have you cum before him so he could finally stop thinking about what he was going to do to you and actually make it a reality.

He didn’t even wait for you to ask for permission, instead it was like he knew you were close by the way you clung to him tighter. He commanded it out of you, with words and actions, and you came like a tidal wave, wrecking, wet and without warning.

He buried himself deep inside of you and finally let himself fill up the latex, satisfied and satiated for the first time in god knows how long. You stayed like that for a while, wrapped around each other until he softened inside of you. He made quick work of the condom, cleaning you up with his tongue, playful and teasingly, before he pulled you into him and the two drifted into an easy slumber.

By the time his alarm woke you up, you could feel him tense beneath you, reality knocking down the door to your little paradise. You reassured him instantly that he would see you again, that he had nothing to worry about. And that seemed to do the trick as you messily made it to the shower. You made a mess before you finally allowed yourselves to clean up and wash the past two days away with deliciously scented soap.

You let him get ready as you rummaged through his fridge, gathering whatever you could find to put together a few meals for him. You knew he rarely ate, the adrenaline something that kept him awake and alert most of the time. But that didn’t mean you were not about to let him continue with these annoying habits. So you packed him food while he repacked his bag.

His hands roamed freely over your ass, up your hips until they landed comfortably around your waist. You had stolen a pair of his boxers and a dark navy long sleeve shirt. He was hard just at the sight of you in his clothes. You smelled like him too. It was honestly a miracle that he didn’t call in sick right then and there. No, you had to bribe him with a blowjob and a promise to see him before you clocked in for work the next morning.

He dropped you off at your apartment building and made a mental note of the address for later as you added your contact into his phone. With one last kiss, he finally let you go back to your life as he drove off into the distance into his own.

When he made it to work, renewed and with a lightness he hadn’t felt in a while, it took Robby no time to notice.

“You were right,” Jack confirmed and the two quickly found themselves grinning at the prospect of what was yet to come.

You were late for work the next morning. How could you not be? Your body ached, deliciously so, yet every step you took was a drag. Your alarm had awoken you far too early for your liking, having been used to the night shift for long enough that waking up at five am was now torturous.

You texted Jack that you would not be able to see him, already being on thin ice with your manager, you simply couldn’t afford a detour since you were already cutting it pretty close. He understood yet he was disappointed. Next time. Yes, of course there would be a next time. So why did you feel like there was a pit in your stomach, twisting and turning, bubbling with fear and self-consciousness?

You didn’t register immediately, but oh my god did it fucking burn. Your head turned to the oven in slow motion as if your brain had finally registered what you had done. Your hand wrapped around the edge of the scalding hot tray, no oven mitt, nothing to protect you. Fuck.

You cursed loudly, your coworker acting quicker than you as you retracted your hand and ran over to the sink. She turned on the faucet, cold water soothing the burn for only a second before the pain returned. And to make matters worse, that’s when he decided to show up.

Robby called your name instinctively, going from zero to sharp medical professional in a second. He unlatched the staff door and entered the small stand, gently grabbing your hand and pulling you out and towards the elevator. Keep your palm open, don’t worry, you’re gonna be fine, that’s it, you’re doing great. You did as he asked, moved wherever he led you.

You mimicked his breathing, long and deep, making sure to work through the pain. By the time you made it down to the ED, he was barking orders and asking his staff questions that you didn’t dare concern yourself with. All you knew is that within seconds you were sitting on a bed, Jack’s shirt was being cut so they had better access to your hand, and you were being hooked up to a few machines.

Robby’s eyes stayed locked with yours, always soft, always gentle. He took the opportunity to quiz his residents and you made the conscious effort to watch him do it. He commanded the room in a way that made you feel safe and seen. Where Jack gave orders, Robby gave space for those around to fill with answers.

You knew he’d made a big deal of such a small thing by the way Dana was looking at him, a knowing glance which caused you to finally put two and two together. You couldn’t help but stare at him wide eyed as he removed himself from the room after course of treatment was decided — something for the pain, something to treat the burns. Easy peasy. 

He returned about an hour later with discharge papers. He could’ve easily sent anyone to do this but he hadn’t and that’s when you knew for certain. He walked you through the steps you had to take, signs to look for in case of infection and just general things to keep track of. You thanked him, practically purred your words, just as soft and kind as him, and you could see the blush turning his ears red.

And then the guilt settled in. You couldn’t possibly pursue him, what about Jack? Wait, had he spoken with him? Did he know about your day together? Was that what he had whispered—?

All questions remained unanswered as your roommate pulled the curtain aside, panic and concern crystal clear in her expression. You quickly shifted, Robby scribbling something on the back of your prescription, grateful for the interruption. He handed your roommate the packet and said his final goodbye to you, eyes heavy yet hopeful, almost. You watched him leave cautiously, unsure of where you would go from here.

You were off on medical leave for the next few days until your hand could heal. You stubbornly refused to tell Jack about the accident, he probably already knew anyway, Robby must’ve told him. It wasn’t until later that evening that your roommate had stepped out to go grocery shopping and help you by getting your prescription that she texted you a picture of what he had written on the back of it. His phone number, clear as day, with a little note to call him if you needed anything.

That only made the guilt grow stronger. You would not get in the middle of their friendship, you couldn’t. So you didn’t. You ghosted them both. For a good 24 hours until you woke up from a nap, the sun had already set, the city enveloped in stillness, but your fucking hand throbbed.

Your roommate had left to spend the weekend at her girlfriend’s, Jack had just started his shift and you would be damned if you asked him for help now, and so that only left…

Robby was at your door in a record twenty minutes. He found you panicked and crying, your pretty face scrunched in distress as you tried not to show it but he knew. He was so unbelievably gentle. Soft hands on your arms, he led you to your couch, trying his best not to linger on the coziness of your apartment. He sat you down and expertly removed the bandage, cleaning the wound all while he soothed both the burn and your reeling mind.

You’re doing so well, it’s not as bad as it looks, deep breaths for me, that’s it. If you had not been in so much pain you would’ve relinquished yourself to his praise and taken him in your mouth, whatever lingering fears be damned. It was easy to calm down after that, easy to melt into his touch, easy to let him do what he did best. It wasn’t awkward, it wasn’t weird for him to be there, at least you didn’t think so anymore. He filled the space as though he’d always been a fixture within it.

Once he was done, he gave your knee a little squeeze and stood to leave but your hand grabbed a hold of the bottom of his shirt and he stilled. To hell with feeling guilty. You asked him to stay, to let you invite him to dinner since he had been so kind to come all this way after a long and grueling shift.

Your breathing hitched when he agreed. You ordered takeout since you couldn’t cook and spent the next hour chatting about anything and everything that wasn’t Jack related. You avoided the topic like the plague and he wasn’t about to bring it up himself. 

At some point you fell asleep, body dropping to rest your head on his lap. You had curled up on the couch, a silly movie on the TV. You were so comfortable, Robby’s fingers gently tracing circles over your exposed arm, lulling you into slumber. He watched you for a while, to make sure you didn’t roll over your hand, he told himself, but the truth was definitely not that.

He only remembers blinking awake a few hours later. You had shifted in your sleep, now practically sprawled across his lap, curled in on yourself, hot breath blowing against his erection. He stifled a deep sigh, practically biting his tongue in an attempt to not wake you. He couldn’t, not right now and especially not like this. 

From what Jack had told him that morning, you were eager, boundless and feisty. Jack loved that energy, fed off it, turned him on aggressively. Robby would be lying if he said he didn’t find it incredibly hot as well, however, you had always been gentle with him and in return he had been gentle with you. He didn’t want to tame you, he wanted to…steer you in the right direction. And the way you had responded to his praise — his cock twitched. Fuck, he had been playing with fire, afraid to burn you or get burnt himself.

He scooped you up in his arms, determined to carry you to bed and leave, but he gravely miscalculated your mischief because the second your ass came into contact with his front, you ground down on him.

“Jesus Christ, honey,” he huffed, causing your eyes to blink open as sleep left you. You felt it all at once, like a jolt of electricity. His grip on you faltered and you, almost too eagerly, readjusted yourself so you were straddling his hips. He let you with no pushback.

You sank your core down against him, the friction eliciting a shy moan from you. He grabbed your hips, pushing you to rut against him harder. The movement caused a surge of courage to rush through you. You moved your hips in circles first. Slow and thorough. You wanted more than anything to feel him, all of him, and if the hard outline was any indication, you were sure he would’ve sent you right back to the ER. 

So instead you enjoyed the friction, the possibility, the way the fabric of his jeans brushed against your clit, how his hardness pulsed against your aching hole.

He pulled you in close, your chests firmly against each other as he leaned in and whispered deeply into your ear. “That’s it, use me, honey. Make yourself cum.”

You shivered, turning your head to catch his gaze. You mouth hung open as you caught a glimpse of his pupils, his forehead scrunched in concentration, a tiny bead of sweat falling from his temple. Your lips grazed the corner of his, searching and curious, and he reacted instantly, closing the distance unapologetically.

He kissed you like his life depended on it, like he needed to put everything out into the open with this one kiss, because he wasn’t sure if he would ever get the chance to do it again. Certainty soon devolved into desperation as your tongue sought entrance and he let you, surrendering to your exploration, no longer shy or cautious.

You were so busy up there that you’d neglected what was happening downstairs, your hips stilling for a second. He was having none of it, his grip on your hips tightening as he moved you himself. Moans flew from your mouth into his and he could’ve sustained himself from just that. He was so close, oh god, he was about to cum in his pants from just a little humping like a desperate, hormonal boy, wasn’t he?

“Touch yourself,” he commanded and your good hand disappeared under the band of your shorts, fingers desperately running your clit.

“‘M close, please, fuck, may I please cum?” you whimpered into his mouth and he lost it.

“Yes, fuck—”

He didn’t hold back, groans and moans and ragged breaths hot on your cheek like a prayer. You snapped soon after, body shaking, your spend rushing out of you enough to mix with the wet patch that now adorned his jeans.

It took you both a second to catch your breath, to come back to the reality of your apartment. He peppered kisses along your jaw, showered you in praise and compliments, his good girl. You hummed in appreciation, growing desperate to show him just how much you liked it.

After a while of this he began shifting under you. “I have to go, honey.”

The nickname made you wetter and he could definitely tell as you weren’t subtle anymore, your face scrunching in pleasure enough for him to notice.

“Stay.” You demanded. He appeased you with a quick kiss but remained firm.

“I have work in a couple of hours and I can’t exactly walk in like this.”

He was right, he definitely couldn’t. You laughed at the state of his pants, earning your thigh a sharp smack in return. Your body tensed, clouded eyes turning back to him, no longer playful but hungry. He laughed then, a powerful belly laugh that only made your resolve to misbehave stronger.

“Tonight,” he soothed. “Definitely tonight.”

That’s when your bubble burst. The promise of next time. Just like you had Jack.

As if he could read your mind, he shifted your gaze to his. “He’s got today and tomorrow off. I’ll tell him to come over and we can all…talk.”

You were unsure if he actually meant talking but still nodded dumbly, his words somehow soothing the panic and ache within you. If he was so secure about this then you could be too.

“Good girl.”

Ignoring all medical advice, because let's be honest, who ever listens to doctors anyway, you found yourself clocking in for your shift the next morning. Only, instead of finding the stall unlocked, you found your manager locking it up for the first time since you'd began working there.

All hell broke loose when he saw you, accusatory finger in your direction as he blamed you for shutting the place down. Your accident had apparently triggered an internal audit by the hospital, something about work place safety. You tried to explain that it was a mistake you made but he wouldn’t have it.

In the next few minutes, you were out of a job and so unbelievably pissed off you— well, you walked your ass down to the Pitt looking for release.

And you found it in the form of a 6’1, bearded man, glasses hanging low on his nose as he typed up a report. It appeared like a calm morning so you slipped into the single stall bathroom and texted him to come find you.

He stood up almost too quickly, too eagerly and you couldn’t help but bite down a laugh. You watched as he made his way to the bathroom, glancing behind him occasionally to make sure that no one was particularly focused on him before he entered and locked the door.

You were on him before he could even turn around to greet you. Desperate lips clashing against his, eager hands undoing the knot of his scrubs and pulling out his cock before he could even tell you to stop. Once your mouth wrapped around his tip, any and all pushback dissipated.

You had been right, he was big, girthier. You tried your best to suck him off cleanly, but the truth was that you simply needed it to be sloppy. He leaned back against the wall to support himself, making sure to pull you away from the door in case someone decided to walk past and linger. It was all tongue and lips, wet and fast, no time to ask, no time to let yourself think.

He was close when he pulled you off him, lifting you up and pinning you against the now warm concrete instead. He asked you what was wrong then but you refused to tell him. All you managed was a need you inside of me now. Your gaze defiant, as if to say that you’d go look for the release you craved somewhere else.

That did it. He would give you what you needed, your empty threats of running off to Jack nothing more than a successful tactic to force his hand. You pulled a silver wrapper from your coat pocket and he rolled his eyes. Clever girl, cleverer trap. He ripped the wrapper with his teeth and rolled it down his length before swiftly holding you up with one arm beneath your ass while the other pulled your underwear to the side and aligned himself with your entrance.

Thank God for short skirts and easy access. It didn't matter how wet you were, he still needed to pace himself, entering you slowly to not cause you any unnecessary pain. You tried your best to relax around you, but it was impossible and you were getting more and more frustrated. So he pulled back. If this was as far as he could go then so be it.

He began thrusting his tip into you, slowly building a rhythm that was comfortable, that he could use to thrust more and more into you each time. By the time the first gasp left your lips, his own crashed over them, stifling you. He shot you a look of warning and you nodded, submitting to his lips without question.

He thrust into you quick and raw, desperate for release, for this to be over, for you to be satiated and for him to be able to relax back into the flow of the day. His thumb pressed against your clit, rough movements as he circled it. He didn’t wait for you to think, to process, to feel the rush, he just made you cum.

And that you did. Biting down on your lip so hard you almost drew blood. He followed you soon after, head falling to the crook of your neck as he caught his breath, reveling in the waves of your aftershock, powerful and constant. 

“This,” he pants. “Never here again. Am I clear?”

You nodded, the reality of what you had just done finally weighing heavy on your shoulders. “‘M sorry.”

He couldn't stay mad at you, at least not now. He simply nodded in acceptance and kissed you deeply, for once not caring if he had been gone too long. He pulled out, readjusted, asked you to dispose of the condom outside of the hospital cause evidence, and with one final kiss, he reminded you to be on your best behavior until that night. You’d be meeting at his place, he would send a car for you.

He left the bathroom first and you followed fifteen minutes later, easily sneaking off as if you’ve done this plenty of times before.

You were suspicious that they must’ve done this before. It was clear by how comfortable they were around each other. You had made it to Robby’s apartment a little after eight, hand feeling much better and grieving process already underway. You’d cried all day, taken a much needed nap and even texted Jack to apologize for going MIA. He confirmed your suspicion that they did indeed talk to each other about you and promised that you’d hash it all out later.

So why were you so damn nervous?

You stepped out of the car just as Jack pulled up. His gaze locked with your own and kept you frozen in place as he got out, paid the meter and stalked towards you.

“Hey kid.” As if nothing had happened. You visibly relaxed and he took it as invitation to wrap an arm around your waist, pulling you into him as his lips claimed yours, demanding and hungry. “You still taste like him.” Your entire body tensed and the asshole simply chuckled against your lips, possessively forcing you to walk with him into the building.

He didn’t try shit, only kept you close to him as the elevator took you up to Robby’s place. He didn’t even knock, instead he pulled out a key. Cocky motherfucker had a key. Of course. You scoffed, unbelievable, and he smirked in response, opening the door and ushering you inside.

Robby’s home was much like yours, homey and alive, full of reminders of the beautiful life he has lived. You found Robby in the kitchen, boldly entering his home as if you’d always lived there. He turned to look at you, clean clothes, causal yet put together, hair still slightly damp.

“Hi honey,” he stepped towards you, leaning down for you to do the obvious. You did, obviously, without even realizing that Jack was leaning against the door frame, eyes watching you like a hawk.

“Whatcha making?” You asked him, curious.

“Nothing for you to concern yourself with,” Jack scolded, his tone definitely not playful anymore.

You turned to him, fire in your eyes, and pouted. “Robby, Jack’s being mean.”

Oh this was the game you were going to play. Unfortunately for you, little did you know that Robby and Jack, well they had talked, and gotten on the same page about how the night was going to go.

“Don’t worry, honey,” Robby started. “He’s gonna get much meaner in a bit.”

You turned to him, aghast, metaphorical pearls clutched as Robby only smiled softly, like he hadn’t just betrayed you. 

“We can do this one of two ways, kid,” Jack announced, stepping into the kitchen so you could not escape now. “We either eat now and talk later, or we deal with you first and eat after.”

“I’m not hungry yet,” you replied boldly. It was a lie, you were hungry, but the thrill of adrenaline that rushed through you at the prospect of being dealt with was so strong that you were now starving for something else entirely.

You found yourself on Robby’s couch, sprawled over Jack’s lap, ass in the air, arms restrained behind your back by one of his hands while the other lifted your dress over your ass, the same one Robby had fucked you in earlier.

“What do you think, Mikey? One for blowing me off yesterday, another for getting injured and not telling me about it, a third for only calling you over for help, a fourth one for cornering you at the ED so that you could fuck the thoughts out of her head—”

You whined at that, the guilt only rising as he listed off every one of your offenses.

“That’s at least three,” Robby replied, casually, as he continued setting the table in front of you.

“So what’s that? Six?”

“Sounds fair.”

You couldn’t help the annoyed groan that left you, bratty and antagonizing. If they wanted to play rough you would give them exactly what they craved. Jack quickly smacked your ass, sharp and firm. 

“None of that attitude,” he hissed. “You made your bed, lie in it with your head held high and we may be lenient.”

You huffed, eyes searching Robby’s for help but if his previous action were any indication, you would not find any. Instead he set down the plate in his hand and made his way over to you, kneeling down so he was at your eye level, a much needed pause in the game you were playing.

“Stoplight us if it’s too much, alright, sweetheart?” He stated, calm and gentle, zero judgement, no repercussion. As if to emphasize, Jack’s hand rubbed your reddening ass reassuringly.

“Okay.” You murmured, grateful.

“Okay.” Robby mimicked, getting up and this time, instead of returning to his busywork, he sat down on the armchair in front of the couch, legs spread open, gaze darkening. You whined softly and he turned back to Jack, a simple nod to proceed.

“You’re gonna count them for us,” he explained, voice deep and with a new edge. You could feel his erection poking into your side and could visibly see Robby’s pants already straining. God, they were perfect. “And you’re going to thank us, both of us, for each one.”

“Yes, sir.”

A combination of jesusfuckingchrist and motherfuckinghell spilled out of their mouths and you giggled, causing Jack to land another smack in retaliation. 

“Easy kid, don’t enjoy this too much,” Jack warned but you couldn’t stop smiling, gaze locked into Robby who looked like he was about to lose all composure and fight Jack for a chance of dismissing all this punishment in search of the satisfaction of being inside of you once more.

“We’ll circle back to that later,” he told Jack and the man under you smirked in response.

“Alright,” and with no more preamble, Jack lifted his hand and landed the first real slap against the plushness of your ass.

The sound reverberated across the apartment, music to both the men’s ears. It took you a second to process, to allow your body to feel the sting.

“One,” you offered through gritted teeth. “Thank you Robby,” you said sweetly. “Thank you Doctor Abbot.”

Robby couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him, quickly clearing his throat at what you assumed was Jack throwing him a death glare.

“Is that how you wanna play this, baby?” Jack rasped, hand kneading in emphasis.

“‘M not playing at anything,” you mocked.

That got a rise out of him as he landed two smacks back to back. Not holding himself back anymore. You moaned loudly, half in pain, half in pleasure.

“Two — three, fuck, Jack.”

“Much better,” he praised, as much as you would get out of him.

“Thank you,” you trembled.

“Halfway there, honey,” Robby’s voice was thick and heavy, you’d never heard it that deep before and it caused a rush of wetness to pool between your thighs. Jack chuckled then, turning you so your ass was facing Robby, so that he could see.

You tried to turn your head to see his reaction, but you simply couldn’t.

“I’m flattered, sweetheart,” Robby teased and you shivered.

“Alright, enough of that,” Jack sounded almost…jealous? He returned you to your previous position, hand hovering in anticipation.

You shuddered, body starting to strain, impatient. You squirmed, whined, arched your back. But nothing. For a second you panicked, had you done something wrong? But the second you began to second guess, Jack eased it all with a resounding smack.

You moaned a slurred thank you and he landed another in response. You could get used to this, to the comfort of structure and care.

“Four,” you swallowed. “Five. Thank you Jackie.”

“What, nothing for poor Robby?”

You huffed, turning your face back to look at the man before you. “Thank you, Robby.”

He shot to his feet at that and both you and Jack stared wide eyed as he made his way over and landed the final spank right over you soaked cunt. You wailed, pleasure oozing out of every single pore, body seizing with lust and need.

“Fuck— thank you, thank you, thank you. Six. Oh my god.”

Tears fell down your cheeks, your chest heaved, your arms ached and your ass pounded in sweet, delicious pain.

Jack chuckled as he released your arms, shifting beneath you as he and Robby helped you get comfortable over his lap. You curled into him as Robby leaned over you, wiping the tear stains from your face and kissing away whatever hurt may have lingered. Jack held you close to his chest, lips practically attached to your temple as he kissed down the side of your face.

“You did so good for us honey,” Robby murmured against your lips and you returned a tired yet content smile in return. “I’m gonna check on dinner, I’ll be right back.”

You whined a little but didn’t complain. Instead, your fingers searched for Jack, soft touches over his jaw and lips begging him to lean down and kiss you. And he did, airy and gentle, with a softness you had not gotten from him yet.

You made out for a while, it was all you could do to keep yourself anchored to reality and yet it was not enough. At some point your eyes closed and you couldn’t open them back up.

You woke up a little later to the sound of warm laughter. You were still on the couch, Robby’s unbelievably large and comfortable couch, blanket wrapped around your frame. Jack was no longer there with you, instead, the two men sat at the dinner table, seemingly having just finished their meals.

You couldn’t help but watch them intently. They were so beautiful, especially like this. It was clear they knew each other very well and were comfortable with each other even after such an intimate encounter. It was easy for them to talk, to extend the bounds of their relationship to this, to you. 

You started rubbing your thighs together unknowingly, the friction causing you fuss in search for more. But you had to be quiet, needed to if you were going to keep watching them. Your good hand snaked under your dress and panties, desperately in search of that warmth within you. As if almost on cue, the second that your fingertips grazed your clit, their conversation stilled and you didn’t even realize, too far gone from the simple pleasure of your tentative touch.

“Stop that right now, kid.” Jack’s voice boomed, effectively stilling your movements. 

“We don’t wanna have to punish you again.” Robby finished.

“Yet.”

Gaze focused on them again, you stopped your movements, sitting yourself up on the couch. “Well if I can’t do anything about it then you do it.”

It was half a taunt, half an invitation, one that had both men shooting up to their feet instantly. You laughed at their eagerness and they graced you with shy smiles and blushed cheeks.

“You get her started while I put this away,” Jack offered, uncharacteristically composed and calm. Your eyebrows shot up in surprise which quickly turned to an almost inebriated happiness as Robby approached you.

“Hi sweetheart,” he greeted as he lowered himself to his knees in front of you.

“Hi,” you replied sweetly, your hands wrapping themselves around his neck without prompting.

“How’re you feeling?”

You sighed. “So horny”.

He laughed, full and warm, as his own hands trailed up your knees, your thighs and snaked under your dress. He pulled you towards him, bottom half hanging off the side of the couch. He distracted you with his movements, firm and just the right amount of pressure.

“I meant how’s your ass,” he hummed, hands trailing over it underneath your dress. You flinched slightly and he knew but still wanted you to tell him.

“Little sore.”

“Just a little?”

You nodded.

“Was that too rough?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

You nodded, enthusiastically. 

“He could’ve hit me a little harder,” you whispered so only the two of you could hear and Robby smiled.

“Good to know.” He shifted. “And me?”

“You?”

He pinched your thigh, a silent watch it. “Yeah, me.”

You shivered at the action and the memory. “Very fucking sexy.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm.”

He rewarded you by hooking his fingers underneath your underwear and pulling it off your body. They were drier now but the smell of your arousal lingered on the cotton sinfully. He bunched them up and made the show of stuffing them in his pocket, causing you to roll your eyes.

“I’ll get you new ones.”

“You better.”

Wasting no more time as Jack’s antics in the kitchen became louder, more desperate, Robby bunched your dress around your waist and pried your legs apart, resting one over his shoulder while he bent the other at the knee. His lips were on you before you could even react, hot tongue licking desperately. You erupted in a fury of moans, fingers threading into his hair and pulling him further into you. His lips sucked your clit in retaliation, teeth grazing you bud and sending a thrill across your body.

“You were right!” He groaned loudly enough for Jack to hear. “She’s delicious.”

You rewarded his words with a gush of wetness that spilled out of you. He scooped it clean with his tongue, one long, arduous swipe from your entrance back up to your clit. He moaned against you, savoring it.

His fingers entered the mix quickly after, two, without warning, thrusted in and out of you to the hilt. You were a writhing mess beneath him and he was becoming addicted to every sound he managed to pull out of you. 

“Gotta get you nice and wet, don’t I, honey?” He was trying to kill you. “Can’t have a repeat of this morning.”

You nodded dumbly. If you could not take Robby fully now you would probably die of frustration. So instead you focused on the consistency of that familiar high you were chasing. Relaxing into him, losing yourself to the feeling.

“That’s it, honey, just come around my fingers, show me you’re my perfect, good girl—”

He didn’t get to finish as you exploded, coil snapping, body shaking in pleasure as your orgasm took over. He continued his movements through it, slowly helping you through.

“Jesus fucking Christ that was hot,” you heard Jack comment somewhere in your vicinity but you simply could not be bothered to pay him any mind. Robby did, however, and shot him a smile.

It took you a second to come back to, but the second you did, Robby was pulling your dress over your head, chuckling darkly at your choice of, or rather lack there of, a bra. He pulled you up to your feet, eyes raking over every inch of exposed skin, turning you around to revel in all of it that he hadn’t been able to see before. You giggled at how his eyes darkened, practically salivating all over again.

You eagerly helped him take off his own clothes before he sat down on the couch, condom wrapper mysteriously appearing out of thin air as he wasted no time putting it over his ever impressive length. Jack came into the room then, a playful smack on your sore ass before he turned you around to face him, his lips meeting yours in an all consuming kiss.

He used it to distract you as he moved you backwards towards Robby’s open legs. Finally, when you were within his reach, Robby pulled you down onto his lap, aligning his cock with your entrance and sitting you on him. You moaned loudly, fuck he was still so big. You braced yourself on his knees as he let you slowly sink yourself onto him. 

“Look at him,” Robby encouraged and your eyes shot open to put on a show for Jack who was now sitting on the coffee table in front of you. He began to take off his clothes, painfully slow, almost mimicking your movements, daring you to pick up the pace, to take his friend quicker and as a reward you’d get to see him naked faster.

You did, rolling your hips to gather more of your slick around Robby before you took him further down. You fucked yourself on his dick painfully slow, making sure to get yourself even wetter before you even attempted to bottom out.

Jack’s shoes were gone, along with his pants and his shirt, leaving him bare in only his boxers, the final piece. He teased, hand ghosting over his clothed cock.

“Please,” you begged him but he wouldn’t budge. So you turned to Robby, eyes filled with tears. “Please, Robby.”

“You sure, honey?”

You nodded, desperate. “I need it, I just—”

“I got you,” he kissed your temple before he pulled your arms against your back and pulled you to sit upright, the last inch of his dick finally burying itself deep inside of you. The sound that flew out of your lips was inhuman. You were so fucking full. Jack’s eyes sparkled something dangerous as he stepped forward, his hand grazing down your stomach making you shiver and Bobby throb. Fuck, you could feel it and by the look on Jack’s face, he could see it. Robby moaned behind you, obviously seeing the same thing you were, the expression of pure lust adorning the other man’s face.

After a second of shock the squirming began. It was painful now. Jack reacted before Robby, pulling you off him. The man beneath you moaned loudly, slick gushing out of you as he pulled out.

“C’mere baby,” Jack prompted, sitting down on the other side of the couch and pulling his boxers down to reward you. “On your back, head on my chest.”

You did as he told, spreading yourself open for Robby who had regained his mental faculties and was now kneeling on the couch. Your hand wrapped itself around Jack’s dick before he even commanded you to, eager lips taking his leaking head into your mouth and taking care of him dotingly as Robby entered you again, the new angle much more pleasurable.

“You’re too fucking big,” Jack scolded.

“I know—”

“Gotta be more careful.”

“I know—”

You clenched around him, forcing a moan from his chest as he thrust into you at a tamer pace.

“I don’t wanna hurt you honey,” thank God for Robby reading your mind.

You squeezed again and he relented, hips slamming into you without fear. Jack chuckled beneath you, causing your attention to move back to him. Your eyes darkened as you took more of him into your mouth, teeth subtly raking up his shaft, causing his hips to jerk and for you to gag around him.

“Oh that’s how it’s gonna be?” He asked playfully as he grabbed a hold of your head, hips shallowly thrusting into your mouth as you did your best to relax your throat to accommodate him.

Your eyes became glossy once more, expression euphoric and blissful. Robby leaned down, mouth latching itself onto your nipple and sucking. The pain mixed deliciously with the intense pleasure they were giving you and you only got wetter at the prospect of him leaving a mark.

Jack shifted his position, turning onto his side to face you and have better access to your throat. You took everything he gave you, eager and hungry. You knew Robby was close when he started to rub your clit, a silent yet clear indication that he wanted your attention on him now. You tapped Jack’s hand around your head twice and he gently pulled you off him with a satisfying, wet pop, both of you turning to the spectacle that was Robby.

Brow scrunched in pleasure, one hand digging into your hips, the other rubbing your clit desperately as his gaze remained locked on how his dick slid in and out of you so perfectly. He curved his hips upward, hitting that particularly delicious spot inside of you, causing you to slump over Jack’s abdomen.

“Yes, please, fuck, more, more, right there,” you egged him on and Jack snaked one of his hands to your clit, taking over for Robby so he could focus on pistoning into you. He did, without hesitation, thrusts becoming sharp and thorough. “Robby ‘m close please, oh my god, please may I cum, I need—”

“Yes, yes, cum sweetheart,” he groaned, burying himself as far as he could go and finally letting himself go. His body went still on top of you, his moans a beautiful symphony of relief and satisfaction. Your orgasm flooded all of your senses. It was sharp and a little painful, the overstimulation starting to kick in as Jack continued to rub your clit. Your hand wrapped itself over his, trying to stop him but he was having none of it, so all you could do was let him do whatever he wanted.

When Robby pulled out of you, you felt categorically empty. Wetness stained the couch but you simply could not care as he caught his breath, sweat causing his body to glisten deliciously. He stumbled towards the bathroom as Jack stayed with you, pulling you up back to him, chest against his own, both your legs on either side of his.

You hid in the crook of his neck, still shaking a little from that. He chuckled against your ear, kissing your temple delicately as he ran his hands up and down your back, soothing.

“You up for round three?” He asked you, not pushy, simply checking in.

You smiled against him, straightening so you were face to face, and nodded.

“It will never be enough, huh?” He asked against you lips.

You smiled, blissfully. “You’re more than plenty.”

“Good,” he kissed your jaw. “Cause we don’t like sharing.”

And just like that, Robby reappeared, a clean pair of sweats on and a silver wrapper in between his fingers for Jack to grab.

With protection taken care of, you wasted no time sinking down on Jack. This time, you weren’t rushing after anything. You knew Jack was, but you were thankful for the few minutes of respite he allowed, where you could take things at your own pace and put on a show for the two doctors. 

Robby sat down beside Jack, enjoying how your tits bounded with each roll of your hips and how quiet his friend had gone, no demands, no commanding energy, just a sucker enchanted by your pussy.

When Jack started thrusting up to meet your movements, it was all over. His hands wrapped themselves around your ass, claiming and demanding, causing the pain from earlier to ignite sparks within you. You clenched around him, picking up the pace. Now you were playing with fire.

Robby chuckled darkly, hand reaching out to play with your nipples as he admired his handiwork from earlier already purpling over your flesh.

“Make him cum, honey,” Robby purred. “He had a long night, he deserves it.”

You nodded, squeezing tight as you continued your movements. Jack let out a wail, the obscene, wet slapping sounds filling the apartment in the most satisfying way possible.

“That’s messed up, baby,” Jack scolded, his lips latching onto your other nipple. He tugged, causing you to scream in return.

Robby simply sat back and enjoyed, his own arousal slowly creeping back up, surprising him. It had been a long time since he’d been this…eager? He wasn’t young anymore, by any means, and with time came complications. But watching you and Jack in that moment, he had never felt more alive.

“Just cum,” you mocked.

“You first,” Jack teased.

“I insist.” You whined.

“I won’t lose, baby.”

“Please,” you moaned into his ear. “Please daddy, just—”

That did him in.

His orgasm took him by surprise. Profanities slipping from his lips, grip on you bruising, his things quaking. You and Robby locked eyes then, a joyful, knowing look between you. It was unbelievably satisfying to do this to Jack and the thought alone, the high of this power you held over him, made you cum for the third time.

You let your body get consumed by pleasure, almost falling off Jack but Robby was here to catch you, a steadying hand at your back. You hummed, content in every single way imaginable, as you let the waves crash over you, over Jack, and the man emptied himself inside of you.

Jack’s head slumped forward against your chest as you both regained your breathing, slow and steady. He chuckled against your skin, kisses trailing from your breasts until his mouth met yours in a sloppy, wet kiss.

“You played dirty.” He reasoned.

“I played to win,” you kissed him again, biting his bottom lip in yours. 

Robby helped you off Jack and into his master bath down the hall, bath all made up with bath salts, lavender scented soaps and candles, scalding hot like you liked it. He helped you in as Jack returned, boxers back over his body, a glass of ice cold water and a piece of Robby’s chocolate cake for you to share.

This truly was perfection.

Conversation flowed easily as they confirmed they had done this before, not to this degree, but certainly in this shape. They were young, in med school, cunning rivals who hated each other and it turns out that all they needed to do to resolve it was to have a threesome with some girl they met at a bar one night. But that never went anywhere and so they had accepted their fantasy as nothing more than just that, something to bond over, to masturbate to late at night.

And then you came along and something in them just clicked.

“So what happened this morning? Why were you at the hospital?” Robby asked, spoonful of cake hovering just out of reach of your lips.

“Oh I got fired.” You said it so nonchalantly that they didn’t have time to process as you took the spoon into your mouth, grabbing it from him and continuing to eat. Jack burst out laughing first, but Robby didn’t follow, only stared at you dumbfounded.

“What’re you gonna do?” He asked softly.

“I dunno,” you replied honestly. “Go to culinary school, get really into pilates, keep you both busy.”

That made him crack a smile. The men before you shared a glance and they knew it without having to voice it. You were theirs now, and they were more than happy to take care of you, because you took care of them too, in more ways than they could count.

“Oh kid, we’re definitely gonna keep you busy.”

“So busy.”

You smiled brightly. “Can’t wait.”

Next chapter

a/n: i have a few more bits and bobs thought out for them but please send me requests. i am foaming at the mouth

Stupid.

That’s the only word you’ve been able to use to describe yourself for two whole days.

So stupid it hurts.

You’re gripping the lip of your bathroom sink hard enough to ache just to ground yourself to some semblance of reality as you try to convince yourself not to call off work. This is a stupid reason to call off work. It’s a stupid thing to be so upset about in the first place. You’re being stupid, stupid, stupid. You wash your face robotically, scrubbing hard enough to roughen your cheeks until they sting, and wipe your skin harshly with an old towel. You’re trying to make your face look alive instead of half-dead like it’s been since Friday night.

Digging through your dirty laundry, you find the most acceptable pair of Figs you can, maroon from last Thursday, and tug them on. You didn’t do your laundry this weekend. Couldn’t. The scrubs barely cover the bruises at the tops of your arms, a fading reminder of when you still had hope for a new dynamic that could give you what you want. Need. If you’re being honest. You imagine in excruciating detail someone at work catching you with bruises. Fuck, is that a hickey above your neckline? Dammit, you told the guy not to do that. Stupid, desperate, useless – and in med school. Good work, Lefty.

Turtleneck it is.

The whole bus ride over – you miss the first one, of course – you’re just trying not to cry. Eyes burning, breaths shallow, little old ladies glancing your way with concern on their faces. You fidget with your sleeves, pick at your hang nails, anything to avoid checking your phone for the billionth time to see if he’s messaged you or returned your calls or done anything but give you the radio silence that’s had you questioning yourself every second of every day since he left you in your bed.

Pushing into the hospital, you take a few deep breaths and try to let the familiar sterile smell steady you. The clock in the locker room nags at you for being half an hour late. The tears nip at your waterline again and you focus on the deep breaths, giving yourself mental orders to keep your head on straight. Open your locker. Put your bag away. Clip on your badge. Head to the nurse’s station. Plaster on an apologetic smile and beg.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” you say as you check in with Dana. “I missed my bus by, like, thirty seconds and-”

“Save it, kid, we need you working ASAP.”

She hands off your clipboard with notes from the day shift and you pore over it as quickly as you can. With embarrassment burning your lungs, you mumble, “Right. Of course. Thank you.”

You turn around – and walk directly into Langdon after not even three steps.

“There’s my favorite fourth year,” he sighs sharply. “Late and careless; strong start to the night as usual, Lefty.”

“Sorry, Dr. Langdon, I just-”

“Can it. We’ve got an MVC five minutes out and I need you to take my patients in six and nine.”

You nod quickly and take a step back from him because you can’t breathe all of a sudden. “No problem. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“From you?” He rolls his eyes. “I’m sure I won’t.”

It cuts you deep. Frank’s been sharp with you for years now and usually it slides right off your back; most nights, you can even match him and reach a point where he borders on respecting you. But not tonight. Tonight, you take the charts from him and walk away, meek as a mouse. Your heart’s pounding and your palms are sweaty just from the way he looked at you. Like you’re stupid.

Because you are.

And everyone knows it.

The universe apparently can’t even give you one second of pity, though, because the next person you walk into – shoulders bumping too hard – is Dr. Abbot. Unlike Langdon, though, he immediately steps back. “Shit, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

Oh god. You can’t look at Dr. Abbot right now. Sweet, intense, gorgeous Dr. Abbot. His eyes are always too sharp, seeing right through you, with that edge of paternal kindness that makes your knees weak. With your eyes anywhere but his face, you grimace and reply, “All good. Don’t worry.”

I always worry about you. He gives your shoulder a soft squeeze and says, “It’s good to see you, ace. Didn’t see your check-in on the shift board earlier.”

Your eyebrows pinch together. You miss the first half of the greeting, of course, brushing past anything nice anyone could have to see about you because it couldn’t be true. Instead, that familiar coil of guilt wraps tighter around your throat. “Fuck, I know, I’m sorry, it was just a really slow start to the day and I was running for the bus and I missed it by like thirty seconds and…”

As your voice trails off into self-conscious awareness, he presses gently, “And?”

He’s the first person so far who hasn’t interrupted you. So you have to stop yourself because what would’ve come tumbling out would be way too much for the workplace and especially for Dr. Abbot specifically. You force a half-smile. “Nothing. Just a hard weekend. But, y’know, Dr. Langdon asked me to take his patients, so I’m getting back on the horse.”

He shakes his head. “Hand those off to Javadi; we’ve got an MVC coming in.”

You hold onto them like a lifeline, though. “Dr. Abbot, I, um, I think I’d like to keep Dr. Langdon’s patients instead. If that’s okay with you, I mean.”

He studies you for the spare few seconds he has. “Are you sure? I’m guessing Langdon was just being a dick. We could use you.”

“No, I- I don’t mind.” Before he can prod, you avert your eyes and stammer out, “I’m, um, I’m kind of still recovering from the weekend. Need to, I dunno, warm up a little, I guess.”

Jack tilts his head at you. Curious. Eyes narrowing. “Alright. I’ll page Javadi.”

Relief floods you.

The last thing you need right now is pressure. A life in your hands.

Precisely why it was stupid of you to take a risk like you did on Friday. You can’t act like this in emergency medicine and you know it. You know it but you still decided to be selfish and desperate and pathetic and-

“I can see you overthinking something from here.” Jack’s hand goes to your shoulder and your eyes snap upwards at the interruption to your derailing train of thought. Suddenly his tone lowers and he takes one small step closer to you. You smell his sharp aftershave. Then he says in that perfectly gravelly voice of his, “You know you can talk to me, right?”

You hear your voice threatening to break as you reply, “Of course. Thank you.”

But he doesn’t move his hand. And he doesn’t drop his eye contact. Your heart rate starts to pick up because you can see the care in his eyes and it’s too much for you to cope with. You need to be small, invisible, a crack in the wall he walks past without paying attention to. But he goes on, “I mean it, ace. Everyone has their off days, especially in this job. Find me if you need someone to talk to.”

His offer is so human it borders on hysterical. You honestly want to laugh. Off days. This isn’t an off day. This isn’t a normal med student having a normal slip in their composure. This is your own fault and you just have to get through it. So you try to muster your courage and assure him, “I’m fine.”

“You don’t always have to be,” he murmurs softly. Then the sound of sirens at the nearest bay takes his attention. You don’t catch him cursing under his breath as if the incoming trauma is nothing more than a distraction from being able to talk to you first and foremost. Finally his hand leaves your arm and he repeats, “Find me if you need me, okay?”

With your heart pounding against your chest, you nod. “Okay, Dr. Abbot. Thanks.”

And, finally, blessedly, you can escape.

For once, you’re thankful that Langdon was being a dick. He’s pawned off two incredibly easy cases to you, which means you can breathe and calm down as you check on them. You definitely give too much attention to the nervous, heavily pregnant patient who has nothing wrong with her but needs reassurance. And you listen to every single concern from the man whose wife took a fall and broke her wrist. She’s healthy as a horse otherwise, as she repeatedly insists, but there’s something soothing about helping him eliminate everything from the mental checklist that’s been driving him crazy with fear for hours on end. You manage to make it all the way to your lunch break without being snatched into any life-or-death situations, hiding in the comfortable shadows of scut and stitches.

Meanwhile, in every quiet moment of supervising the trauma, Jack replays your conversation. Something about your expression felt too familiar to him. The darting of your slightly glassy eyes, stuck on a skipping record going between thoughtlessness and overthinking a million times a second. Too far away but also claustrophobically close. One hand twitching at your side while the other gripped the chart for dear life. Too many contradictions to fit inside your precious, shallow-breathing body.

As soon as both his patients are stabilized and headed up to surgery, Jack’s scanning the ED for your familiar silhouette. He’s done two full laps before deciding concretely that you aren’t with any patients and you aren’t handling any traumas. He finds you in one of the breakrooms, standing with the fridge door open and your brows furrowed.

Just to start the conversation, Jack puts on a soft lilt and tries a joke first. “Whitaker forget his leftovers in there again? You’re mean-mugging the shelves.”

Slowly, robotically, you close the fridge. Still looking at the handle, you reply, “I thought I packed myself a lunch, but I guess I didn’t.”

He doesn’t miss how absent your voice sounds. Like a glass shattered on the kitchen floor that you’re trying to piece back together without nicking your bare hands.

That’s when Jack realizes.

The hesitation in your movements. The foggy way you’re speaking.

You’re dropping.

Well, more accurately, you’ve dropped. You’re in the middle of it now.

Jack’s been a dom since soon after he left the army. He missed the structure, the protocol, the sense of control. In emergency medicine, he’s always putting out fires that someone else started. When he’s with a sub, he gets to break someone down and build them back up, to make the decisions and get the rewards that come from them, to be the center of someone’s universe for even a few moments. More importantly, he has someone to care for. That matters more than he would’ve admitted when he was a cocky 25 at one of the local kink clubs.

He’d had suspicions about you before. How you puff up your chest at the slightest praise, how you crave rules and rewards in equal measure, how you’re always so hesitant to answer questions about your personal life and especially your dating life. All things that he could write off easily – but, now, with your eyes clearly searching for something you can’t find, the details are slotting into place.

With you still frozen in place, Jack takes his own lunchbox from the fridge. Then he touches the small of your back, nods at the nearby table, and tells you firmly,  “Sit with me. Have half my sandwich and we’ll both get something from the vending machine after. The good one on the third floor.”

You stare at him for a second. Gears grind against each other in your mind. Autopilot flicks on. “That’s okay, Dr. Abbot, I can just- It’s alright. I’ll order something to the hospital.”

“You won’t,” he counters. Soft. Certain. You’re lying to him and he knows it. His expression says you won’t be getting away with that. He pulls out a chair at the table and insists, “Sit.”

It’s uncomplicated. Direct. Clear.

Your current haze has turned even the most mundane tasks into foreign mazes, but Jack’s decisive, simple instruction feels like a map to get out.

So you sit.

He sits with you.

You try to argue again when he cuts the sandwich in half on the diagonal, but a single look from him quiets it. He slides it over on a hospital paper plate and asks, “Where’s your water bottle?”

Staring at the objectively delicious-looking sandwich – Jack goes all out with fancy bread and farmer’s market fillings – with no semblance of hunger, you tell him, “I left it in my locker. I’ll go and grab it in a minute.”

He shakes his head and stands. “I’ll get it now. Does your locker have a lock on it?”

The answer settles heavy in your gut. You whisper, ashamed, “I forgot to put it on this morning.”

Christ, he wants to strangle whoever left you alone like this. He doesn’t know what’s going on in your personal life – if this is a breakup, a hookup, a mistake – but he knows a good partner wouldn’t leave someone who looked even a fraction as broken as you look right now. Most of your coworkers are surely assuming this is just ‘one of those days.’ Even Abbot had thought that at first. But now he can see the splinters in your irises. You can’t push through this on your own. You need someone else to put you back together.

Not wanting to overstep or push prematurely, he gently touches the top of your head and says, “Just eat. I’ll be right back.”

Jack swears he’s never made the walk to and from the locker room faster. No matter how fast he goes, though, he can’t outrun your racing thoughts. When he returns, you haven’t touched a bite of the sandwich, just picking apart tiny pieces of the crust. In that moment, he guesses you haven’t had a full meal since…whenever this started. He saw you at work on Friday, so sometime this weekend. He sits down across from you and hands over your water bottle. “Here. Drink some.”

You take a few small sips of water and mutter a thank you.

Jack doesn’t say anything, but the way he looks at the tiny mountain of crumbs you’re creating on your plate bores through your skin. He knows you’re putting off eating. When he lifts his own triangle to his mouth, you do the same, mirroring his movements. You don’t want to disappoint him, too. He swallows, you swallow. He takes a swig of water, you take a swig of water. He doesn’t push you to talk, least of all to interrogate you about your mood, but his presence anchors you.

Before you know it, you’ve actually finished eating. You hadn’t felt hungry, but you somehow notice its absence.

Then Jack smiles at you. Sincere and warm. “Good job. I’m proud of you.”

The words open up a dusty window in your chest. A touch of warmth and light breaks through the mildew and cobwebs. Objectively, you know it’s silly. Proud of you for…eating half his food? For doing the absolute bare minimum to keep yourself alive? But that’s not what your brain’s saying right now. Your mind is begging for more of his soft affirmations. All you can manage is a soft, “Thank you.”

Jack watches you incredibly closely from there. He’s not sure if he should bring it up to you. That he knows. It would seismically shift the dynamic of your relationship. If he plays it wrong – makes you feel embarrassed, ashamed, afraid – then you’re never going to see him as anything but a dom and you as a sub, a permanent power imbalance that goes far deeper than mentor and student ever could. You’ll always feel like a weak, pathetic little thing if he doesn’t handle your drop correctly.

While he decides whether or not to reveal his hand, he resolves to help you in a way he knows only he can. Sure, you could go to Dana the way you often do when you need something. You can vent to Whitaker or lean on Ellis. But there are ways he can support you that are unique. That’s what he tells himself as he scribbles your name in the journal he’s kept for his past subs, writing out his observations about your current state and how he thinks he can address it. He always makes sure to keep himself in order first and foremost. If he brings his best self to you, he’ll inherently help more than if he didn’t dedicate time to it.

He resolves to guide you as much as he reassures you, to praise you twice as often as he corrects you, to watch out for you and shield you. And he’ll make sure you eat, take your breaks, and don’t push yourself too hard. That’s what you need to get through this. Someone to see you. Someone to care for you. If he’s careful, you won’t even notice the role he’s going to step into until you’re sure on your feet again.

He tells himself it doesn’t have to mean anything. That this isn’t an admission of the feelings for you that he’s been shoving deep down for – if his drunken confessions to Robby are anything to go by – years. You’re older than most of the students in your year, more sure, and kinder. Life has made you kind the same way it’s made you vulnerable. He needs that in his life, a compliment to his closed-off brashness. You bring out his ability to be open with patients and softer with his doctors.

So helping you through this certainly isn’t about his feelings. It’s for the good of the night shift and the hospital as a whole, really.

Really.

After another shit day of sleep and half-finished breakfast, you’re more irritated than anything the next night when you clock in. At least you’re on time today, so there aren’t any jabs about your arrival – which is good, considering you’re ready to bite the head off anyone who bothers you. You felt it before you even fell asleep this morning, restless and sweaty. Your racing thoughts have stopped pulling you under and now they’re just pissing you off. You’re fidgety and annoyed with fingers that flutter absently at your side and a jumpy heart rate that leaps when anything catches you off guard.

While you flip through the charts left by the day shift, Jack strolls into the ED with two boxes of donuts from a shop he knows you like. He breezes past, giving you a warm smile, and takes them straight to the breakroom. Unsurprisingly, a row of ducklings follows him to snag their favorite ones. You don’t bother; your stomach still feels more like a twisted fist than something you actually want to put a meal into. You’d made it through half a bowl of cereal before your shift, which is the best you’ve done on your own since Friday.

But, as you start to put together an order of operations for the first half of the shift, Jack approaches you with his hands behind his back. “Morning, ace.”

“Evening, Dr. Abbot,” you reply without looking up.

“Just wanted to make sure I let you know how good of a job you did yesterday with Mrs. Jacobs yesterday. The pregnant patient with anxiety. She filled out a patient satisfaction survey-” which Jack had personally asked her to do “-and you got tens across the board.”

That perks you up slightly. “Really?”

He nods, happy to see you on the verge of smiling, and grabs an iPad from the charging station. You don’t notice him setting down a small box so he can handle it. After tabbing through for a minute, he reads off, “‘When I left, I felt heard, like she actually cared about me as a person. It’s the most validated I’ve felt by a medical professional in a long time.’” Jack’s smile is affectionate. Proud. Like he’s really seeing you for who you are. “Great work. Bedside manner is one of the hardest skills for doctors to master. Keep it up.”

Trying not to let your lip wobble, you near-whisper back, “Thank you for telling me. It means a lot to know I didn’t screw everything up yesterday.”

Moving his large hand to your arm, he corrects, stern in a way that makes you bite your lower lip inadvertently, “You didn’t screw up anything.”

“But I didn’t help with that car crash and-”

He shakes his head. Something in the way he does it – maybe the tiny scoff under his breath, maybe the way his silver hair catches the light, maybe just the fact that he’s slowing down your inner monologue – makes you shut your mouth to listen to whatever he’s going to say. He gives your arm one more gentle squeeze and tells you seriously, “Being a good emergency medicine doctor is about more than scrubbing in for complicated, impressive procedures and saving lives with beating hearts in your hand. Your notes were perfect, you cared about your patients, and you showed up. It’s the beginning of your career; I’d say that’s damn good.”

After biting back tears for a minute, you put on a semi-teasing smile and nudge him. “You’re being awfully nice today, Dr. Abbot. Compliments, donuts.”

“I’m always nice,” he replies, smirking conspiratorially. He nods back towards the breakroom and asks, “What’s your go-to?”

Grimacing, you reply, “I usually get a bear claw, actually.”

“I’m glad I remembered correctly.” Jack takes the smaller box he’d set down and opens it to flourish a big, fluffy, thickly-glazed bear claw like a proud magician, holding it out to you with wax paper. “Got one for you special.”

Your irritation at the day so far breaks. When you look up at Jack, it’s with eyes that are innocent and wide. You take the bear claw from him like it’s an engagement ring or something even more precious. A crown jewel. Your voice goes a little breathless as you ask, “You remembered my favorite pastry?”

He chuckles, “The gray adds ten years; my mind’s not going on me yet. Maybe I should dye it so people stop assuming I’m ancient.”

You giggle, “No, the gray is sexy.”

You only realize you’re saying it when it’s already tumbled out of your mouth. As pink creeps into Jack’s cheeks, you snap your lips shut and avert your eyes. Fuck, you’re so disoriented you actually said it out loud instead of keeping it in that apparently very, very smooth brain of yours. Stupid. The word that’s been haunting you just keeps on knocking around your psyche. You stammer out, “Sorry, Dr. Abbot, that was- I’m sorry. I’m still, um, waking up.”

Then he reaches forward and tilts your chin up with his thumb and forefinger. The gesture is way too intimate for standing in the middle of the ED, but the world has just narrowed in to the two of you and nothing else, so you don’t care in the slightest. God, his hazel eyes. They’re smoldering with warmth. You want to curl up by his feet. To have him hold you. To rest under his protection. When he’s satisfied at your eye contact, he slowly withdraws his hand and says, low and firm, “Don’t apologize. Eat.”

There’s no way out of eating the hearty pastry – it’s not like you can put it in your backpack or trash it right in front of him – so, even though your brain is still screaming that you don’t deserve to eat by not sending hunger cues, you take a bite. If nothing else, the soft sugary flavor is nice. Jack doesn’t move and you can tell it’s a silent order, like when he ate lunch with you yesterday. So you force yourself to take another bite and then another. When you finish it, you lick the sugary glaze from your fingers and Jack prays you don’t notice how his eyes are glued to your pretty lips.

After rolling his shoulders, Jack praises, “Good job. We can get going now. You’re shadowing me today.” Nodding in another direction, he informs you, “We’re starting off rounds in trauma four.”

He didn’t offer you any other options, so you can’t go searching for them. The thousand directions your day could’ve gone in fizzle away into one path: You’re shadowing me today. His clarity is pure relief compared to the chaos of your mind. 

You follow behind him obediently and start the shift.

Things make more sense when you’re under Jack’s direct supervision instead of Langdon’s or even Dana’s. You feel more like yourself, like you can trust your own hands because you know there’s a second pair waiting in case you fail. Any time he lets you take the lead on a minor procedure, even something as simple as sutures, he places a hand on your back or your waist or your arm, never holding you too close or too hard to be suspicious. It doesn’t melt you; it builds you. He’s scaffolding.

You’re just starting to feel like your feet are firm beneath you when all the attendings are pulled into a major trauma, leaving you unmoored without the north star of Jack for you to follow. You’re taking a rare moment to fill your water bottle and drink it when you hear Langdon’s voice a few rooms down.”

“Lefty, get in here!” He sounds seriously urgent, in his gown and gloves, so you jog over right away. He’s tying on your gown before you’ve even gotten a look at the patient. “You’ve done a vaginal delivery before, yeah?”

Gloving up, you nod and confirm, “A handful – supervised.”

He leads you back into the room where a barely-conscious patient with a gnarly head wound is in very, very active labor. There’s a lot of blood around her head and neck; you can’t tell what’s wrong. But Langdon focuses you: “OB’s on the way from her house, but I have to focus on getting mom stabilized up here. She’s nearly crowning; we’ve gotta get the baby out.”

Standard vaginal delivery. You run through the steps mentally, visualizing the ones you’ve both observed and assisted. “How far apart are contractions? Where’s she at?”

“Two and a half minutes. Fully effaced and dilated.” He gives you a pointed look as he resumes his work on the patient. “Should be simple.”

“Got it.” You take your position in front of the stirrups, checking over the equipment that a nurse has prepared for you. After checking the fetal vitals and taking a second to compose yourself, you guide the mother through the next contraction. Despite her obvious exhaustion and pain, she’s able to push and make progress. You smile and praise her louder than Langdon’s gruff grunting, “Head is out. You’re doing great, mama, just stay focused on your breathing, okay? A couple more contractions and we’ll be done and you’ll both be on the road to recovery.”

She gives you a woozy nod and half a smile. No matter how hard she’s fighting it, you can tell she’s tethered to consciousness by thread thin as floss.

You watch the next contraction wash over her – and the baby’s head doesn’t move. His chin tucks forward a little. Shit. His shoulder is stuck behind her pubic bone. Keeping your voice calm, you tell Langdon, “Doctor, I think I’m seeing shoulder dystocia.”

Distracted at her chest, he replies quickly, “You’re going to need to deliver the posterior arm.”

The posterior arm. Right. In this position, you aren’t even sure which one that is. You haven’t done your OB rotation yet. So you offer, “Should I go and get-”

The patient slips out of consciousness before the question’s out. Langdon curses as the monitors go off. He snaps at you, “Just pull!”

“No, that’s-”

He’s not listening to you.

He’s not listening to you and the baby can’t take a breath yet.

I know that’s not the right thing to do. That’s not the right thing to do. But what the fuck is the right thing to do?

You know the situation requires very specific maneuvers that you just can’t do, especially not without someone very heavily guiding and supervising you. “Dr. Langdon, I really think we should switch places at the very least. I can handle stabilizing while we wait for the-”

Sweat on his brow, he shouts back, “Shut up and let me focus.”

You nod. Try to steady yourself. As careful as you can be, one shaky hand slips to your pager on your waist while the other desperately tries to stay in place. Your mind races. The baby’s face is still nice and pink, not yet going dusky, so you know there’s time. But that time is ticking by fast.

You know it’s more dangerous for you to try something you’ve never been trained in than to find someone else to take over, even if it uses up the sixty seconds you have before things get serious. So you look at the baby’s straining face and whisper, “It’s okay. Just hang on, alright? Dr. Abbot’s gonna come and help you. He always comes when I need him.”

After a deep breath, you try again, more firmly this time, “Dr. Langdon, I don’t know how to do the McRoberts maneuver by myself and I can’t move from this spot without someone else stepping in. I really, really think we need to-”

Langdon slams a hand down on the table where his equipment is laid out. “You don’t need to think anything! Just fucking get it done!”

The door shoves open behind you, cold air rushing into the claustrophobic space. Jack storms in, grabbing his gown and gloves and moving superhero comic book fast. “What the hell is going on that I’m getting an emergency page for a vaginal delivery?”

Langdon’s hands keep working over the patient as he starts to admonish, “Seriously, Lefty? You paged our-”

You manage to find the courage to cut him off, informing Jack as clearly as you can with your heart in your throat, “Baby’s presenting with shoulder dystocia. OB is on the way but I- I need help. I can’t do this. I don’t know how.”

Jack rapidly scrubs and assesses the situation. Seeing that Langdon’s doing procedures you could’ve handled while other help came, he barks, “Langdon, why the hell haven’t you switched with her?”

“Because I thought your star pupil could handle one goddamn-”

“She’s a fucking student, Frank!” Jack shouts back and drops down onto his knees next to you. He places his hands over yours, prepping for the maneuver, and says, “You can let go, ace. I’ve got him now in plenty of time.” You collapse backwards from the relief as the nearest nurse moves in to assist Dr. Abbot. Your heart’s pounding and tears bite at your eyes. In the split second before he gets to work, Jack makes determined eye contact and orders, “Go get some air. You did the right thing. I’ll find you after.”

It’s another half hour before Jack’s able to go searching for you. On a normal day, he would’ve expected you to bounce back, take a quick break, and jump to another patient, probably seeking out Shen to get your hands on something interesting from the ambulance bay. But not this week. Definitely not this week. Jack knows a handful of your usual hiding places, so he scouts through them going from the closest to the patient's room out, using his last break of the night for you.

He finds you in a far, seldom-used stairwell, underneath the first set of steps so you’re completely invisible. The only sign of you is quiet sniffling; Jack opens the door quietly so the sound doesn’t startle you. He’s met by your soft, tentative voice carefully peeking out from behind the stairs. “Dr. Abbot?”

Following your voice, he tucks into the dusty corner and sighs. You’re sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around your knees, eyes puffy from panicky tears. You haven’t stopped crying since you left the delivery; he’s sure of it. “Hey, ace.”

“You shouldn’t call me that,” you whisper. “Not when I keep fucking up whenever someone needs to rely on me.” Before Jack can contradict the self-hatred, though, you swallow hard and ask, “How are the patients? Did the baby- Did you deliver him okay?”

“Baby’s up to the NICU for monitoring, mom’s in surgery.” Jack sighs – heavier than you’ve ever heard – and tells you, “Langdon shouldn’t have put you in a position like that knowing full well you’re a student and not a doctor yet. He wanted to make the dramatic save, not deliver a baby. Selfish prick could’ve cost both their lives for his own goddamn ego. I’m filing a report.”

You shake your head and pinch your eyes closed. “I should’ve-”

“Should’ve what? Ripped a baby’s arm off trying a complex delivery? Let him go hypoxic? Risk a maternal hemorrhage?" Jack leans down and offers you his hand, hoping that you’ll take it so he can pull you back out of the ocean of doubt. As he helps you off the floor, he urges gently, “You did exactly the right thing. You questioned the doctor who was giving you bad orders. When it was obvious he wasn’t going to listen, you called for help. Langdon’s gonna take it poorly because he’s an ass, but you were perfect. That was a master class in handling yourself well under pressure.” He touches your cheek, just enough to get your attention, and adds, “Makes me even more certain you’re going to be a great doctor.”

You can’t even say thank you. Your throat’s too thick with how badly you needed to hear his sweet and true affirmation after Langdon shouting at you and making you second-guess everything you’ve been taught. The problem, though, is that your brain keeps pushing back against it. Your lungs are hot and tight as you struggle to even breathe. Jack’s eyes are just too warm, too kind, too lovely for you to possibly deserve. You hang your head and try to focus on breathing as your thoughts move too fast for you to even get a look at them.

Seeing you falling apart beneath the praise, Jack touches your chin to make eye contact. There are a thousand questions on his lips, but ultimately he asks the simplest one: “Can I hug you?”

It hangs for just a moment too long. Jack doubts himself for a split second.

Then you nod. It’s tiny, meek, hesitant.

But when he wraps his arms around you, strong and steady, you break. The sobs come hard and fast and frantic as a child lost in a store. You’re weak and small. You ball your fists up in Jack’s shirt and heave out wicked, fast tears so intense they make you want to throw up. Everything shakes like the chase scene in a horror movie. It hurts.

With his arms absolutely locked around you, Jack orders, stern but soft, “Match your breathing with mine for a minute. In and out. You can do it.”

You keep sobbing and shaking against his chest, but he stays steady. His chest rises and falls. His breaths are warm and slow against your ear. And eventually the rhythm pulls you out of the fear and the doubt and the panic. Your breaths are trembling and hiccuping, but you manage to force them to calm down.

As you begin to come down, Jack rubs your back and murmurs, “Good. That’s good.”

“Jesus, this is so stupid.” You sniffle, pulling away from him a bit, and swat at your tears like they’re parasites. He hates how rough you are when you touch your own skin. He’d never show you anything but softness. You ramble on, “Sorry for being so – I don’t know– ridiculous the last few days. This isn’t- I promise I’ll be better. This is- It’s a temporary thing. I promise.”

Jack takes your face between two hands. They’re calloused and experienced but perfectly and completely gentle. He vows, “I’m here for you – even if it isn’t.”

You’re silent for a long time. The only sound is the soft whooshing of the vents in the stairwell, the cinderblock walls insulating all the chaos of the ED. Realizing slowly that Jack is still holding you close, you whimper, “Why are you being so nice to me?”

Jack almost scoffs. “Because you deserve it.”

The response is so immediate you have to believe it: “I don’t.”

Sensing that this might be his one opportunity, he asks with nothing but sensitivity on his lips, “Who made you think that? You were fine last week; what happened?”

You drag in one more breath that wavers. Shame is heavy in your gut but you’re spilling it out like vomit, unable to hold it all by yourself anymore. “I- I had this date on Friday night and he- We were having a really good time- What I expected. And then I needed- I needed him to stay but he- he left. And I was alone and I know that doesn’t make sense and it sounds crazy compared to how I’ve been acting but-”

“It doesn’t sound crazy.” He cups your face in one hand. His calloused thumb brushes your cheek so sweetly it makes your throat tighten up. He’s treating you like gossamer. “I understand.”

Biting your lower lip, you reply, sound small and alone, “You don’t. I’m sorry, but you don’t.”

Jack takes a step forward, his body pushing yours, so you’re pressed against the wall.

Placing one hand on the side of your head, he rakes you over with a gaze that burns.

In one look, your whole body turns to melting wax and drifting smoke, burned to the bones by how completely and totally dominant he looks in this moment. It’s not frightening and you can tell he’s not even trying to be as sexy as he is. Which is very, very sexy. His biceps push against his short sleeves and his jawline is tight and you’ve only ever caught flickers of this particular darkness in his eyes. Little moments over the years – protecting one of his doctors, advocating for a patient, taking command of a crash – you’ve seen a flash of how he’s looking at you right now.

But you never realized what it is.

Then he repeats, “I understand.”

And it’s clear as day after a long night shift.

“I’m here for you, ace, because I understand completely.” He wraps his arms around you one more time, tight and fast, and says, “Until you’re through this, I’m here for whatever you need. You can always come find me. Got it?”

The relief that washes through you is nothing short of heavenly. You needed this. Needed someone to know. Even if Jack isn’t your dom, he still sees the truth of what’s happening. That’s enough to matter a hell of a lot. You take a breath – no shaking – and give a tiny smile. “Thanks, Dr. Abbot.”

“Jack,” he corrects gently. “I want you to call me Jack from now on.”

Dr. Abbot – Jack – wipes your tears, leads you through a few more breaths, and then guides you back to the ED and through the rest of your shift. He makes it perfectly clear that, until you feel back to normal, your job is to stick to him like glue, only leaving his line of sight if absolutely necessary. With that order in your mind, the night ends easily. Your charts are immaculate, your notes clear, your sutures straight as an arrow. All because Jack sees you. Every layer of you.

As you’re collecting your backpack from the locker room – you haven’t been changing at work this week because of the bruises all over your body – Langdon approaches you. Jack, idling a few paces away as he waits to walk you out, stiffens up as soon as Frank’s shadow eclipses your light.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” he says quietly. Quickly. Like it’s a shameful secret. “I was in over my head, too, and all the attendings were out, so I just- I snapped. I’m gonna have to do a review and everything so, just, y’know, first steps. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks, doctor,” you reply, barely above a whisper. “I understand.”

“Alright, good. We’re cool, then. Great.” He runs a hand through his hair, touches your shoulder, and says, “See you tomorrow, Lefty.”

You sigh and force a smile. “Bye, Dr. Langdon.”

As Langdon heads out, not even able to look at Abbot, Jack nods for you to join him. You fall into step on the way to the staff entrance and he asks, “Why do they call you that anyway? You’re right-handed, yeah? Must’ve started on day shift; I never heard the story.”

The familiar embarrassment of the nickname you can’t shake warms your neck and chest. Trying not to sound affected by it, you begin, “Langdon started it. As a joke, I guess, not that it- I don’t think it’s funny, obviously. Maybe it is and I just- Whatever. At the end of my first handful of shifts with him. I don’t think people even remember why anymore. They just hear a nickname and repeat it. Like Crash.” You shrug a bit, grimace, and explain, “Lefty. Because I can’t do anything right.”

Jack rolls his shoulders and sucks in a sharp breath.

Rage shreds his ribs apart.

He doesn’t exactly need more reasons to loathe Langdon – having him stuck in nights the last month has made him seriously debate his ‘no groveling to Robby’ rule – but he knows one thing for certain: Nobody’s calling you that in his ED again. Nobody’s going to make you feel small. Not while he’s dedicating himself to building you back up.

Out of nowhere, Jack turns on his heel, takes you by the elbow, and says, “Come on, let’s go to the skills lab. I’ll get us food after. I’m gonna teach you the damn McRoberts maneuver.”

You don’t freeze because you’re in Jack’s orbit, once again following your sunshine, but you still ask, “What? Why?”

Jack doesn’t even have to look at you; you can feel the intensity in his words. The protectiveness. This is personal to him. He growls back, “Because you’re not fucking stupid.”

By Sunday night, the last shift of your seven on, you’ve actually gotten a full night’s sleep and eaten a breakfast with real protein and carbs. And honestly? You’re doing it because you know that Jack’s going to glow with pride when you tell him. Stepping off the bus and into the light, you feel most of the way to being a person. Being yourself.

Jack’s waiting at your bus stop.

You hop into his field of vision and laugh. “What are you doing here, Jack?”

“Thought you could use some company for your walk,” he replies effortlessly. He takes your backpack from your hand and slings it over his own shoulder. “Weather’s gorgeous and I thought we could use a minute to check in before the day starts.”

You can’t contain the grin that comes with Jack going out of his way for you. Heading toward the hospital, you ask, “Anything in particular we need to check in about?”

He starts simple: “How’d you sleep?”

“Pretty good, actually. No nightmares for once.”

Jack nods, making a mental note. “What did you have for breakfast?”

“Eggs on toast,” you tell him. The way it feels like you’re reporting back to a teacher about finishing your homework helps your brain get itself in order for the day ahead. Wanting your gold star sticker, you tell him, “And I packed a big lunch with a couple snacks for my breaks.”

“Good job. Really good job.” He gives you a smile that’s nothing short of hunky. “I know you wanted to do laundry last night. Any luck there?”

You shake your head meekly. “I was way too tired. I didn’t shower before my shift, either.”

“Did you brush your teeth?”

“Yeah, and flossed.”

“That’s enough for today,” he assures gently. Pushing through the staff entrance, he asks, “Have any plans for your week off besides R&R?”

“I think I should probably take it easy,” you admit with a sad little sigh. “I want to catch up on cleaning and get back into my self care routines.”

“That sounds like a plan. I’m off, too; we can call when you need accountability.”

You smile and look at your sneakers, thankful that he can’t see your heart stammering for more and more of his attention. “Perfect. Thank you.”

He hands your bag over again before you reach the locker room, not wanting to catch any wayward eyes. “It’s no trouble, ace.”

The way he says it, you believe him. He really doesn’t mind carving out space in his life to help you, even if it feels silly and stupid and frivolous at times. He’s too human to let you fall. The two of you put your bags and lunches away. You fall into step behind him as usual, following him like a puppy to the nurse’s station where he goes through handoff with Robby. You listen intently as he gives orders to everyone, catching up on patients and procedures that need to be tended to.

Once the ED starts churning for the night shift, you go to check on one of your patients from yesterday who’s still admitted. At the same time, Langdon’s approaching you with a fresh chart, his step peppy. “Evening, Lefty, ready to-”

Jack’s bark – from more than ten feet away at the nurse’s station – interrupts him: “Langdon, c’mere a second.” Despite cutting him a suspicious look, Frank walks over to Jack at the nurse’s station. You follow slightly behind, curious. Jack was listening to Langdon with borderline military skill, trained in on a conversation far on the periphery just because you were in it. When Langdon’s close, Jack says, short and direct, “I don’t want to hear any of that nickname shit anymore. No Crash, no Lefty. No more putting each other down. Job’s hard enough as it is.”

Langdon laughs and puts on his puppy dog eyes, gazing over at you as if that could help him get off Jack’s shit list when he’s already deep in it. “Aw, but Lefty doesn’t mind, do you?”

Jack slams his hand on the counter and snaps, “If I hear you call her that one more time, we’re going to have a serious problem.”

You try to squeak out, “It’s okay.”

When he turns to you, all the anger leaves his face. There’s nothing but softness, that desire to help you right at the surface. “It’s not. It’s really, really not okay with me. Give us a second, ace.” After you scamper away, headed back to your intended patient (suppressing a smile because you know Jack is about to ream Langdon on your behalf), Jack tugs Langdon close by his scrub top. Frank’s never seen his eyes so dark. “Don’t say it again. Or you’re gonna be ‘Righty.’”

Langdon rolls his eyes to hide his nerves. “And what’s that mean, gramps?”

“You’ll have nothing left when I’m done with you.” Jack lets go of Langdon’s shirt and shoves the center of his chest. “Better yet? Stay away from her. Until HR’s reviewed your case from yesterday, I don’t want you within six feet of her.”

“I think that’s a little bit of an overreaction to-”

“You don’t want to see me overreacting,” Jack bites back. His words are gravel to be picked out of an open wound. “Do your job. That’s it.”

The shift is a killer. The kind you’ve been dreading all week. It’s non-stop energy. As a med student, you spend the whole night running around from doctor to doctor, nurse to nurse, jumping in wherever they need you and clearing up paperwork and doing all kinds of scut. The flow is intoxicating and stressful at once, both rejuvenating and draining. You feel your adrenaline spike every time the exhaustion threatens.

But, every step of the way, there’s Jack. He’s a whirlwind, but he’s always there. A touch to your waist, a quick word of affirmation, maybe just a brief moment of eye contact to ground you. Even when he’s not actually by your side, you hear his voice in your head. Great work, ace. Smooth and steady. You know this. You’ve got this. Somewhere amid the chaos, that voice mingles with your own. You start to actually believe in yourself again. Jack’s been the scaffolding, but you’re still the structure he’s been repairing. Your breaks have been mended, your scars patched. And in the surfing wake of Jack’s healing, you’ve remembered that you’re worth something on your own. Even when you lose sight of it, that can’t truly be taken from you.

You’re so deep in the rhythm of the shift that you barely notice the night passing. By the time Dana taps your shoulder to remind you to take your last break, you’re practically glowing because you’re so proud of yourself for getting through emergency after emergency without breaking down. With your Gatorade and granola bar in hand, you peek around for Jack and frown when he isn’t in any of the usual spots. Because it’s become commonplace, you shoot him a text: i cant find you anywhere :(

His text back is almost instant. Just enough time to take his phone from his pocket and type. Roof.

You’re in the elevator within seconds. The ride up feels ten times as long as usual and the final set of stairs to the roof access is even worse.

Jack’s right where you expect. Where he often is this time of night. Watching the sunrise over the city. His silver hair is illuminated by glowing pink and orange, making him positively radiant as he smiles at you. “Good morning, ace.”

You join him by the railing, taking in the sunshine and opening up your granola bar with a smile stained to your lips. “Morning, Jack.”

His eyes trace every line of your face. A tiny smirk plays with his lips as he notices, “You’re smiling again.”

“I’m happy,” you hum in return. “I did a thoracostomy all by myself. Shen said I was perfect.”

Jack has to bite his cheek to resist the urge to scoop you up and spin you around. He’s been fighting all week to see that self-assured smile he loves so much. “I’m sure you were. That’s my girl.”

Those two words reverberate around your chest, warm and cozy. The two of you stand in comfortable silence for a minute, you finishing off your granola bar and him admiring either you or the city depending on if you’re at risk of catching him staring or not. As you tuck your trash in your pocket, you nibble your lip a moment and then tell him, “It’s been really nice working so closely with you this week, Jack.”

Eyes linked with yours, he assures, “The feeling’s mutual.”

You want to ask if that’s the only feeling that’s mutual.

But you can’t bring yourself to. The fear of his rejection is too heavy. After days of coming to rely on his strength, you can’t imagine blowing it and losing the foundation you’ve built. Anxious all of a sudden, you ask him softly, “You really don’t think it’s kind of, I don’t know, pathetic to be so affected by some shitty one-off dom ditching me?”

Jack scoffs and turns toward you properly. “Pathetic?” He gives your hand a quick squeeze, shakes his head, and explains, “When you open yourself up like that to a partner, it’s sacred. It means everything. You’re saying, ‘hey, here’s all of me,’ even if it’s new. For someone – anyone – to take that trust and use it up and then leave without building it back up…” He swallows hard and runs a hand through his curls. You can tell he’s choosing his words carefully. “Honestly, that makes me fucking sick. You’re not pathetic in the slightest. He is. If you were my- I would never treat my sub like that. Never.”

You wrinkle your nose like a bunny. “Sounds like I might need to raise my standards.”

“If the standard is basic aftercare and courtesy, I’d definitely agree.” He leans against the railing, tries not to imagine you as his, and asks, “Where do you even meet a chucklefuck like that?”

“FetLife.”

“Figures.” Jack takes a long pull from his water bottle like it’s a beer. “He block you on everything right after?”

You cringe and confirm, “Mhmm.”

“What a dirtbag.” 

“Mostly I’m just mad at myself,” you admit sheepishly. “I was being-” at his challenging eyes, you quickly adjust your wording “-irresponsible. I skipped steps that I usually follow. I wasn’t as thorough as I’ve been in the past. All just because I really need to be-”

You close your mouth and laugh at yourself. Yeah, as close as you and Jack have gotten this week, he definitely doesn’t need to know how that sentence was going to end.

It still goes straight to his cock.

Because he knows.

I really need to be hurt.

I really need to be punished.

I really need to be worshiped.

I really need to be dominated.

Spanked, slapped, bruised, beaten, adored, ordered around, tied up, kissed, devoured, owned.

Jack takes a deep breath and sighs it out. No matter what you need from a dom, he knows exactly how he’d give it to you. But this isn’t the time nor the place to broach the possibility of that. He just tells you, “We’ve all done shit like that when times are tough. The important thing is bouncing back and learning.”

You giggle at the idea. “You’ve made some reckless kinky decisions?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he laughs. “Last one? Summer 2021. Post-pandemic munchies, if you will.”

Your eyes widen. Jack’s being playful with you. It’s…everything. “Seriously?”

“Ended up hogtied suspended from the ceiling.” He shakes his head at himself again. The way he chuckles is worth drinking down. “I had to use my Alexa to call Robby to get me out. Never gonna live that one down.”

Your brain’s positively tingling. “You’re a switch?”

“No,” he confirms, saying it like the idea’s ridiculous, “but I like to try things out myself before I have a sub do them. Call it a safety obsession. I don’t screw around with unnecessary risk. Submission is a gift; I protect that gift. Treasure it.”

Fuck, that’s hot.

You want to drop to your knees.

He can taste it in the air.

Into the way-too-thick silence, Jack urges, “So stop punishing yourself. We all crave that connection and sometimes it gets the better of us. Just keep yourself safe; that’s all you can do.” Then he opens up his arms and offers, “C’mere.”

It’s impossible not to slide into the embrace. The morning air nips at your ears but Jack’s warmth counteracts everything. Your hands settle just below his ribs; you can feel the taut muscles beneath his shirt where you fist your fingers in the fabric. He sighs into the hug, deepening it with his breath, and you just breathe together like that for a minute. Maybe two. Maybe five. In, out. Jack, you.

“You’ve done such a good job this week. It’s so hard to put yourself back together when someone takes advantage of you,” he murmurs against your ear. “I’m so proud of you.”

Sweet and placid as soothing chemicals bristle through your body, a mix of lightness and laughing and desire, you coo against his impossibly broad chest, “Thank you, daddy.”

The moment you hear the word tumble from your lips, you stagger away from him like you’ve been shot. Anxiety strangles you. All of the calm, earned confidence of the previous moment sloughs off and sheds at your feet, leaving you raw and exposed. “Oh god- Oh god I- I’m so sorry. That wasn’t- I don’t know why I said that. I was just feeling so safe and- I promise that- Fuck fuck fuck I’m so-”

“Don’t you dare,” he almost snarls, the sudden flare not directed at you but at anything that’s ever made you believe it. The low rumble of his voice is downright possessive. “Don’t you dare call yourself stupid again after all the progress you’ve made this week.”

Jack takes your hand and tugs you back to face him. Close. No disgust in his eyes like you’d feared. Tears flood your cheeks and land on your chest, darkening your shirt. You’re on the verge of hyperventilating now. You can’t bear to look at him, the shame too hot and too alive, so he bends down, catches your eyes, wipes your tears. He pulls you into an embrace and kisses your hair, over and over, until you realize he’s not shutting you down but letting you in.

When he feels you shaking from the intensity of your vulnerability, he rests his chin on your head, creating a cocoon with his body, and breathes, “My sweet, sensitive girl. I hate that you’ve had to be so scared and so brave when all you need to thrive is someone to take care of you.” Touching his forehead to yours, he pleads tenderly, “Would you let me take care of you?”

Your heart’s fast-beating in your throat.

The sun’s risen now and the sky is blue.

The sky is blue.

Jack’s pager goes off and he sighs, checking it with furrowed brows. The bubble of the moment pops. Still, he doesn’t move. He holds you. Lets the intensity fade naturally. He urges, “I need to get back onto the floor, sweetheart. Would you come home with me so we can talk?”

“I think-” You swallow hard and try to tamp down the butterflies whirling around inside of you at a thousand miles a minute. Deep breath. You bite your lower lip a minute, then smile, then nod. “I think I’d like that, Jack.”

He kisses your forehead. It lingers a moment. Like he’s breathing you in to fortify himself for the rest of the shift. “Wait by my car at the end of your shift.”

It’s actually Jack who ends up waiting for you, but he doesn’t seem to mind as you jog up to his truck with a bashful smile. Sweat clings to your hairline from the last few tasks of the night and your scrubs are rumpled and you know you look like hell, but Jack’s gazing at you like a damn princess on a throne. He wraps you in a quick hug and confirms, “You still okay with this?”

“Completely and totally,” you confirm – but your voice shakes a bit. It’s a mix of nerves and excitement and adoration and so many more things you don’t even have words for.

Jack notices. Of course he does. He makes sure nobody can see the two of you around his truck and then leans in, hand going gingerly to the side of your face. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m nervous,” you admit, biting your lip for a moment.

Jack touches his thumb to the place where your teeth connect. “We need to work on that habit.”

Your cheeks warm, especially hot where his hand lingers. “We?”

He gives you a cute, sly smirk. “I have a funny feeling that I’m going to be holding you accountable very soon.” Dropping his hand, he walks you around to the passenger’s side, opens the door for you, and then goes back to slide in next to you on the bench seat. Turning over the engine and heading out of the parking lot with his arm slung behind your shoulders, he urges, “Tell me what you’re nervous about.”

It takes a minute to recover from the feeling of Jack’s arm hair tickling the back of your neck, so simple and so sexy it’s hard to think straight. When you’ve finally accepted that Jack is comfortable with touching you so easily now, you glance at him sideways and reply, “I just like you, honestly. A lot. And I feel like maybe this could be, y’know, something big. Something good and important and- and real.”

His eyes flick over to yours. His expression manages to be both teasing and warm. “And that makes you nervous.”

“Yeah.” You stifle the corresponding laugh that threatens. “Really nervous.”

His hand slides from the back of your neck, down your arm, and to your thigh. Even through your scrubs, the touch sparks with electricity. “I’m sure I can fix that in no time.”

Your breath catches in your throat and a nervous laugh makes its way out. “Touching my thigh certainly isn’t helping with the nerves.”

“Your nerves aren’t a bad thing,” he replies simply. His hand slides toward your inner thigh, pinky brushing the seam. “That just means you care about how this goes. You’ll feel better the more comfortable you get and you’ll get more comfortable when you realize I’m not going anywhere.” Then, as he pulls off into a lush neighborhood full of old, cozy family homes surrounded by spring blooms, he tells you, almost whispering, “I’m nervous too, if that helps.”

You scoff, torn between wondering which of these expensive houses belongs to Jack and actually paying attention to him. “What could you possibly be nervous about? You’re the hot salt-and-pepper doctor who always swoops in to save the day. I’ve seen enough Grey’s to know where that gets you.”

He eyes you and chuckles. “Brain dead due to a delayed CT scan?”

“I meant more ‘able to fuck any med student you want,’ but I’m absolutely thrilled to know you’ve seen the show.”

As he parks the truck in the driveway of perhaps the cutest storybook house you’ve ever seen, he replies modestly, “Well, I’ve never wanted to fuck a student before.”

Giggling so that you don’t have to acknowledge the butterflies once again launching into your chest, you tease, “I don’t believe you for a second.”

Jack snickers; the idea is so ridiculous to him. “Cross my heart.”

He gets out of the truck and then opens your door, offering a hand to help you down the step. When you’re on your feet, he grabs your backpack and shoulders it along with his own. Then he leads you inside the front door, which opens into a living room outfitted in soft fabrics and neutral tones. You’d pegged Jack for being modern and industrial, lots of leathers and woods, but the reality is far more intimate and endearing.

Like he can read your mind, Jack mutters, “Don’t be too impressed; I hired some lady who wore too much turquoise to pick all the stuff out when I bought the place.”

“It’s nice,” you say, really only speaking so that you don’t retreat back into your nerves.

He nods toward the nearby couch – plush boucle like a cloud – and says, “Sit down; I’ll bring you something to eat and then you can shower.”

“I don’t have a change of clothes.”

He sets both your bags on the floor and says, “I’ll grab you something of mine to wear.”

Once you’re sitting on the couch, your posture a little too stiff, Jack kneels in front of you. He methodically unties each of your shoes and then slides them off your feet to set by the door where he’s abandoned his. Your heart stutters. He’s so fucking gentle with you. After pressing a kiss to each of your knees, he stretches himself upwards and instructs, “Just relax for a minute. I’ll be right back.”

As he leaves the living room for the adjacent kitchen, you try to get comfortable. You imagine Jack curled up here with a book or his laptop, walking up the nearby stairs to his bedroom, which has a lofted split-level balcony overlooking the living room. Fuck, his bedroom. You’re going to find out what Jack Abbot’s bedroom looks like. Does he have a soft mattress or a firm one? Does he sleep on one side or in the center? Does he make his bed before work? Shit, of course he does. That’s obvious from, well, everything  about him.

Jack returns with two steaming plates of fried rice and orange chicken, already apologizing as he sits by your side. “Not the sexiest meal I could’ve offered, but I didn’t think we’d be doing this tonight.”

“Leftover takeout is fucking perfect after tonight,” you assure him, digging in right away. After you’re satisfied by a few bites, you nudge his knee with your own and ask, “Didn’t think we’d be doing it tonight or didn’t think we’d be doing it at all?”

“Tonight,” he replies. Blunt. Immediate. “I didn’t want to push you. Or do things too soon. Be too much. But I wasn’t going to let you go home thinking you’d made a mistake by calling me-”

“Don’t say it,” you blurt out. “It’s too embarrassing.”

“I’m not allowed to say it?” Mischief lights up his eyes and he turns his body properly towards you, setting his plate on the coffee table. Then he says, way too sexy for his own good when he’s being torturously cutesy, “Daddy, daddy, daddy. Thank you, daddy. Hi, daddy. Yes, daddy. I need it, daddy.”

You shriek, hands flying over your face. “Jack, please!”

“Oooh, I love that one,” he purrs, pouncing on you like a leopard. You lean onto your back as he cages you between his arms. A grin splits your lips open even if you’re way too exposed to meet his eyes. His knee slots between your legs, right against your core, and delight bubbles up in your core. He nips up your neck and teases mercilessly, “Please, daddy, stop it, daddy, I’m so embarrassed, daddy, it’s too much, daddy.”

Your face is absolutely burning and you squirm in your skin, covering your silly grin because Jack’s lightness is so delicious you can hardly stand it. “Fine, fine! It’s not embarrassing, you win!”

Finally he relents, letting you breathe in the laughing quiet, and says, “I liked when you called me daddy. A lot. I hope it wasn’t for the last time.”

And then you’re kissing him.

You physically can’t stop yourself from pulling him down by his scrub top, letting him bracket you with his weight, and crashing your lips into his. You’ll forever remember the way he laughs into that first kiss, bright and vibrant, not shying away from being as silly with you as he is sweet and stern. When you pull back, a little breathless, you insist, “It definitely wasn’t the last time.”

He kisses you again. Slower this time. Tongue gentle but insistent. Hand on your waist, over your stomach, in your hair. Against your lips, he murmurs, “Good girl.”

And you know you’re done for. You’re soaking wet from thirty seconds of teasing and your mind is a serene summer lake. He’s got you. Hook. Line. Sinker.

Jack maneuvers himself off of you, shaking his head and laughing under his breath one more time.

The two of you finish eating in a charged but comfortable silence, legs brushing, smiles threatening, everything becoming easy. Your nerves are still beyond present but they’re hotter now, sharper, more exciting. You don’t dread; you want.

After clearing your plates – he insists that you don’t need to do anything – Jack offers you his hand and says, “C’mon, sweetheart, let’s go upstairs.”

You take his hand eagerly. Outside of the hospital, you don’t have to worry about anything when it comes to Jack. Neither of you ever mentions this being an out-of-bounds relationship, whether because of age or status, because it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but Jack’s hand around yours, leading you up the stairs toward his bedroom suite.

It’s perfectly neat, which you’d expected, but there are undeniably more signs of Jack here. It’s his sanctuary. The books on his shelves downstairs are neat and new; the ones in here are dog-eared and leafed through time and time again. Elbow crutches lean against the wall next to the bed. On the nightstand, there’s a pair of reading glasses, a folded plug-in heating pad, a small black Moleskine notebook, and an old-school analog alarm clock.

Jack opens up the door to the spacious en suite bathroom and the closet before telling you, “Have a shower. I’ll use one of the guest bathrooms.” He throws a wink at you and adds, “Figured you’d like a chance to snoop uninterrupted.”

You scrunch up your face. “Okay, you’re not wrong, and I hate you for that, but what about your shower chair? Pull bars? Don’t make things harder for yourself for me.”

“You’re so considerate,” he sighs affectionately. A little quieter, he adds, “You’re so fucking special; you have no idea.” After another beat, he goes on, “All the showers in the house are accessible, though, so don't worry. Lots of other stuff around the place, too – lower table and counters so I can use my chair while I cook, pull-down shelves so I don’t have to strain, voice-activated lights so I don’t have to move. New construction perks.”

“That’s awesome,” you say, sounding almost drunk, very distracted by the fact that he’s stripping off his shirt and tossing it in his hamper. Absently, you add, “I’ll have to think about what I can do in my apartment to make things easier.”

He smiles to himself again. Considerate. He loves loves loves that about you. Even though he wants to say ‘just stay here with me whenever you want,’ he’s grateful for your thoughtfulness. You’ll make the perfect little plaything for him, always eager to please. If it were any other day, he’d tease you unrelentingly for how you’re ogling his bare chest, make you list off every pathetic thought you’re having when you see him, but this morning, he has other goals. So he just repeats, “Shower. The towels on the rack are clean. Take whatever you want to wear from the closet. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

You nod obediently, feeling yourself slipping into a soft headspace with Jack watching out for you every step of the way. He gives you one more soft kiss before leaving you alone. Since he invited you to, you decide to do just a little snooping. The bathroom is categorically boring. There’s supplies for caring for his residual limb, a perfectly organized skincare routine that impresses you, and a medicine cabinet that screams of order. Medication labels facing out – an antidepressant and a blood pressure pill, not particularly surprising – next to a pill case that’s clearly never experienced a missed dose. Naturally, Jack Abbot is a religious floss pick and mouth wash user.

Showering with Jack’s products is weirdly and wonderfully intimate. You’re wrapped up in his scent, all woodsy and sharp and masculine, as steam curls around your body like a lover’s touch. The water pressure is amazingly harsh and there are shower heads on both far walls. It’s built for showering together. God, you’ve never met someone who manages to be so hot when he isn’t even in the room.

After your shower, it’s time for snooping in the closet. The surface level is boring – how could one man own so many white, gray, black, and navy clothes? – but you find some hidden gems. For example, most of his boxer briefs are patterned. Red hearts, peaches, bumble bees, dinosaurs. There’s so many you wonder if he has one of those subscription services for new cute ones every month or something. He’s also got a collection of old band tour tees. If these are all from concerts, he must’ve spent a few years dirtbagging following bands around. Green Day, Nirvana, Oasis, Blink-182. You tug on a Rage Against the Machine one, worn and soft, and some heather gray boxer briefs.

Once you’re dressed, you discover an entire dresser in his closet dedicated to kink gear, neatly organized and methodically maintained. Ropes in different colors and materials, sets of restraints from cuffs to straps, implements you only recognize from the couple of clubs you’ve visited where more experienced people did scenes for everyone. Crops in more than one size, a bamboo paddle full of holes, a many-tailed flogger, a fiberglass cane. An entire range of sensations waiting to be inflicted. A ball gag, a bone bit gag, a ring gag with a large opening. The toy collection is particularly impressive. Dizzying almost. A flight of butt plugs in different sizes alongside small and large beads, different clit-sucking toys, vibrating wands from pocket-sized to plug-in beasts. Your nightstand drawer pales in comparison, even with your blindfold and bunny tail plug at the ready.

Your whole body’s tingling with anticipation.

Suddenly Jack’s voice behind you snaps you back into reality. “Snoop to your heart’s content?”

You turn to him, eyes widening when you see him still shirtless, gray sweats slung low, the outline of his soft cock mouthwatering. You give a sheepish smile and admit, “I absolutely did.”

He takes a step closer. Predator to prey. “Find anything you like?”

“Mhmm.”

“Want to share with the class?”

You shake your head and giggle, “Uh-uh.”

“Keeping your cards close to your chest I see.” He smirks and closes the distance between you, hands going to your waist. Discovering the slope of your hips. His thumbs rub circles along yours sides. His eyes devour you. He runs his fingers lightly beneath the hem of the tee, checking to see which one you’re wearing, and praises, “You look good in my clothes.”

“You look good. Period.” Finally, you let yourself touch him. Careful. Your fingertips on his stomach. You can feel the strength of his stomach beneath a soft layer of comfy middle age fat. His chest hair is wispy and silver. Freckles dust his shoulders, sparkling down his chest and arms. You dip down and kiss a few particularly enticing clusters, just needing to taste his skin, clean and yielding. He hisses in a breath when your lips make contact with his collarbones. You feel his abs flex beneath your hands like he’s holding himself back from demolishing you. Lifting your eyes again, you tell him, “You’re really beautiful, Jack.”

“And you’re exceptionally sweet,” he replies. Studying your expression like only he can, Jack checks in, “How are you feeling? Tired? Nervous?”

You shake your head and nudge up onto your toes so your lips are even with each other. You wrap your arms around the back of his neck, give him a soft kiss, and murmur, “Horny.”

As he chuckles – you’re getting addicted to his low raspy laugh – you deepen the kiss and press yourself against him. The warmth of his chest, the safety of his arms. His hands go to your waist and then they part, one going to loop around to your lower back and the other cradling the back of your head. Embracing you. Cradling you. Cherishing you.

You feel his cock hardening against your hip and try not to smile too self-satisfactorially. Honestly, it boosts your ego a bit to know you get him as worked up as he gets you. You reach down to palm him through the sweats with a hungry little moan when you feel how thick he is.

Then Jack’s hand covers yours. When your eyes open in surprise, he lifts your hand to his lips and kisses your fingers, telling you, “Not today, baby.”

Your eyes water immediately. Your headspace is so vulnerable that rejection feels unbearably heavy, especially from Jack. Blinking back the tears that make you feel pathetic, you manage to whimper out, “You don’t want me?”

Jack shakes his head ardently, seriously, and assures, “I want you, sweetheart. I want you more than anything.” Touch as soft as if he were handling a Fabergé egg, his thumb traces your cheek and his eyes stay on your face. He explains, low, slow, serious, “But I’m not going to fuck you today. Right now, you don’t need my dick; you need someone to take care of you. I want to be that someone for you from now on.”

Hope and gratitude pools inside you. “From now on?”

He smiles at you, so warm it’s like a home-cooked meal in the dead of winter. “This week I’ve realized I can’t go on pretending I don’t want you to be mine – and only mine.”

You repeat gently, “Yours.”

“Mine.” His first finger drags along your jawline. Inspecting. Discovering. “If you’ll have me.”

You give a tiny nod and gently whisper, “I need you. I want you.”

“Then I make the decisions today. I decide what you need from me and when – because you obviously need me to tell you what to do, you silly little thing.”

As you start melting beneath his intense, owning gaze, he positions you in the center of the room. Trying not to squirm under his gaze, you ask, “If you’re not going to fuck me, what are you going to do?”

Jack’s lips trace the tendons of your neck. The only contact between you. He places feather-soft kisses that make your toes curl. When his lips reach your pulse point, just beneath your ear, he breathes out, “I’m going to worship you.”

“Jack, I-” You swallow hard and let out a deeply pathetic high-pitched whine as his breath tickles your rising goosebumps. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“Then don’t say anything,” he replies easily. You can tell he’s being so sincere and so wanting as he insists, “Let me do all the thinking. Just let go for me. Let me take everything for you. Can you do that?”

Despite your shaking breath, you tell him, “I’ll try.”

“That’ll do for now,” he assures, pressing another soft kiss to your forehead. Then he steps back and informs you, “I’m going to take a good long look at you now. I want to learn every inch of my new favorite toy. Is that okay?”

“Very okay,” you confirm breathily. The word ‘toy’ has sent you through the stratosphere and into the stars. “And you don’t have to ask permission.”

“I do,” he corrects, eyes roving along your limbs instead of meeting yours. Though you can see the lust plain as day in the pink of his cheeks and the quickening of his breath, his gaze is more scrutinizing than desiring. Clinical. Doctor Jack Abbot. “Until we establish your safewords and I learn to read you, I’m always going to ask when I start something new. You’re in charge here.”

Even though you nod, you definitely don’t feel in charge when he starts to examine you like a piece of furniture he’s thinking about buying. First, he takes your shirt off. It’s borderline unceremonious; the fabric is nothing more than a distraction between him and his possession. That’s what you feel like. A possession. His hand-selected treasure to keep and cherish and know. When the air conditioning perks up your nipples, your breaths get heavier and you squirm, shifting your weight eagerly from foot to foot just to get some friction against your clit.

In that gravelly voice of his, he orders,“Be good.”

God, he’s reading your mind.

Then he lifts one of your arms, turning your hand over to expose your pulse, where he places a kiss that embeds itself into your veins and pumps straight to your heart. Then he lifts your arm with one hand and drags the other down your side, tracing the entire length of you from fingertip to hip, stopping only at the waistband of your underwear. When he grazes the side of your breast, not paying attention to the sensitive skin but just skating by, you can literally feel wetness pooling between your legs. Which is new. You usually have to use lube or a hell of a lot of foreplay with a new partner, but you have a feeling that getting you wet isn’t going to be an issue for Jack.

And he’s noticed.

Of course he has.

On his way to the other side of your body, he taps your inner thigh and orders, “Widen your stance.”

Once you do, his fingers drag up the damp center of his own gray boxer briefs, darkened with your wetness, eyes locked to your face to memorize every reaction. He bends down to kiss your stomach and then over your hip, tongue writing in cursive along the stretch marks you’ve had since puberty. He runs his index finger underneath the waistband of the underwear, still refusing to touch you anywhere that you really crave. He smiles, almost to himself, and coos, “You’re already being so good for me, baby. I’m going to have so much fun with you.”

Breathily, you moan, “Jack, if you’re not gonna fuck me, you should probably stop turning me on so much.”

His movements still and he gazes back up at you with challenging eyes. “I didn’t say I wasn’t going to get you off.”

You whimper. Literally whimper.

Jack tugs down the underwear, carefully sliding them down your legs and then helping you step out of them. His hands roam all along your legs, bristling every single hair follicle and goosebump and nerve, the whole time he’s talking. Unrelenting touch. “Look, baby, sometime soon – very fucking soon if I have anything to do with it – we’re going to sit down and have a good long talk. I’m going to write down all of your limits and commit them to memory and tell you mine. You’re going to tell me all about your history with doms and vice versa. You’ll tell me every single thing your brain and that pretty little pussy of yours want – no matter how embarrassed that makes you. And I’m going to use all that information to be the best fucking dom you’ve ever had. The kind you actually deserve.”

With your breaths speeding up and shallowing, Jack finally touches your nipples. One thumb on each. So gentle. So fucking stupidly awfully gentle. Barely more than a ghosting breath. Somehow that’s way sexier than if he shoved you onto the bed and took you as hard and as fast as you know he’s craving. His self control is honey.

Standing up again, Jack rests his hands on your waist, kisses you, and says, “Until then – until I know everything I need to know – you have to be good and take what I’ll give you. No brattines or begging. Because the most important thing to me is always going to be keeping you safe, princess. You’re still coming out of some really nasty sub drop; I’m not going to do anything intense to you right now that might send you back under. And I’m always intense when I’m fucking.” His eyes own yours and he goes on, “I’m just gonna get you off enough times to know you’ll sleep well in your new daddy’s bed. That sound good to you, sweet girl?”

You nod eagerly, chest rising and falling with lust as he plays with you.

Jack tuts, the sort of sound you’d make at a puppy having an accident. With his dominant fingers teasing gently through your pubic hair, he instructs, “You have to use your words with me. You’re gonna figure it out soon enough on your own, but I’m big on talking. Wanna hear that sweet voice say the filthiest things. Tell me what you want.”

You bite your lower lip until his eyes catch you red-handed. You’re so desperate for him that you’re stupid all of a sudden – stupid in the best way. Not the ‘stupid’ you’ve been weaponizing against yourself. No, this thoughtlessness is safe and breezy. It’s anticipation and toes curling and trust. You’ve never had a dom place so much focus on you. Not just tossing you around and calling you names but getting inside of your head and making you viscerally present in the moment. It has you tongue-tied and wide-eyed.

Jack crosses his arms over his chest and insists, “I’ll wait as long as it takes. Deep breaths.”

You match your breathing with his for a minute, one thing that always makes you calm down. He notices, slowing his breaths, guiding you without saying a word. When you can finally come up with the words, they’re so wanting and breathless it honestly surprises you even in your current state: “Touch me, daddy.”

Pure want blows Jack’s pupils wide and dark and all-consuming.

“There’s my good girl,” he purrs, closing the small distance between your bodies. “On the bed. Spread your legs and get comfortable. And I mean actually comfortable – don’t try to pose yourself for me. I promise you’re always going to look sexiest when you’re not overthinking it. Understood?”

With lust filling your every nook and pore, you sit back on the large, comfortable bed’s silky soft linens and tell him, mustering the confidence you know he wants, “Understood.”

He gives you an approving nod – so you get comfortable. You move his many pillows around until you’re fully supported and relaxed. Legs spread. His eyes are locked onto your glistening pussy, so inviting to him it might as well be his drug of choice. He sits in front of you on the bed and breathes, “Jesus, your body is…fucking perfect. No other way to say it. I’ve imagined this so many times I can’t believe you’re even more gorgeous than I pictured.”

“You’ve pictured me naked?”

Unashamed, he grabs rough handfuls of your inner thighs just to watch you gasp and writhe as he answers, “Absolutely. I’ve spent hours and hours on these thighs alone.”

Jack bends down and drags his teeth over your sensitive flesh. His canines dig in just slightly, clearly testing the waters, learning your sensitivity. He lets up only when you let out a sharp cry, nowhere near your personal limit but enough to discover your first pain threshold.

“And your hips,” he croons, kissing one as he grips the other. His hands are so strong and commanding; you can’t help imagining how good that exact grip would feel wrapped around your neck while he pounds into you. As his thumbs rub circles into your waist, he sighs, “You have no idea how many times I’ve imagined bending you over just so I can grab these perfect fucking hips. Look so good even in your damn scrubs.”

Then he finally lets himself gaze at your tits. He’s looking at your body like you’re a piece of meat. You never understood that phrase until now; Jack Abbot looks like he wants to devour you. Stone-cold serious, he nods and remarks, “These may be the prettiest nipples I’ve ever seen in my twenty years as a doctor.”

You let out a self-conscious laugh. “That’s your medical opinion?”

“Purely objective, I assure you,” he replies, wearing that sexy smirk of his. Then he bends down, one palm by your head, and wraps his lips around one of your nipples. The way his eyes flutter shut spikes your confidence like little else ever has. He’s positively rapturous. He really has been envisioning this moment longer than you would’ve let yourself dare believe. When he sucks hard, he pinches and rolls the other side between his thumb and forefinger. Instinctively, your legs snap up to wrap around his hips as you gasp. With a satisfied groan, he lets up and confirms, “Yup, the best. Objectively the best.”

Then he gives you a slow, unhurried kiss. His index finger tilts your chin upward and he tells you, voice like a lullaby, “Only thing better is this pretty face of yours.” His thumb parts your lips, gently brushing the tender places where you bite your lower lip. “I’m going to take the best care of you, princess. Treat you better than you even thought possible.”

You believe him.

You believe him.

In response, you open your lips further and take his thumb into your mouth. When you swirl your tongue around the digit, he fights to suppress a moan. You see it in the flex of his stomach and the setting of his jaw. He admires the shape of your lips wrapped around him, imagining how lovely it’ll be to watch them stretch around his cock. Soon, he reminds himself so that he can stay calm. As he withdraws his thumb slowly, he poses, “Fuck, you’re gonna take care of me, too, aren’t you?”

You nod, all mischievous and coy. “I’m gonna be your new favorite hobby.”

“I don’t have a single doubt about it,” he chuckles. Drawing his hand down once more – your neck, your chest, your stomach, your pubic hair – he orders, “Now look me in the eye while I fuck you with my fingers for the first time.”

He knows you’re fucking soaked, so there’s no question of whether or not you can happily and comfortable take his two fingers sliding into your entrance. As he gradually pushes them inside, you let out a sound that starts as a moan and turns into a squeaky, pathetic little thing that lights Jack’s brain on fire with need. Your eyes start to roll back from finally getting the attention you need, but Jack grabs your jaw with his free hand and forces your face to center. “I said look at me.”

Your doe eyes lock onto his.

He curls his fingers back toward himself, right against your g-spot, and your mouth falls open with pleasure and need. His thumb moves upward to find your clit effortlessly, adding firm pressure. You nearly weep out, “Thank you, daddy.”

Jack smiles in earnest. “You’re welcome, baby. You can relax now. Just enjoy yourself for a while.”

You half-giggle/half-moan, “Yes, sir.”

Jack snickers. “Mmm. That’s what I like to hear, pretty girl.”

Then the time for talking and flirting is over. Jack shifts his weight so he can focus completely on getting you off. He twists his wrist so that you feel the full thickness of his two middle fingers as he works them in and out of you, not so much thrusting as massaging. At the same time, the fingers of his other hand replace his thumb, adding more precise pressure around your clit in methodical circles. You go between watching Jack’s rapt face, locked on your swollen pussy, and closing your eyes, lost in the way his fingers stretch you and please you.

You feel the orgasm building for a hell of a long time before Jack finally lets you fall over the precipice into pleasure. It’s slow and controlled, the way he works you up, like carefully turning a corkscrew. So when he does finally decide you’re ready to cum – you’re grinding against his hand, moaning and whining, babbling out cute little pleas – it’s champagne. You burst into a million bubbles that run down Jack’s greedy hand and wrist.

The whole time, there’s his voice. Insistent and low. Good girl, that’s it, right there, huh? Joining you all the way through. Never letting you get lost. When you open your eyes at the peak, you find his hazels staring back at you. His tousled hair. His freckles. His everything.

When you’ve finally simmered through all the aftershocks, you expect Jack to pull back and put you to sleep. But he doesn’t. He leans forward and replaces one of his hands with his mouth, tongue effervescent on your over-sensitive clit. You whine out his name and he just grunts into your pussy, making it perfectly clear that he won’t be letting up any time soon. Not until he’s satisfied with how totally blissed out he can get you using nothing but his mouth and hands. It’s an ego high like no other to have you losing yourself all over his tongue. His high-strung, deeply competent student turned into nothing but babbles and whines like a needy toddler.

With you falling – no, leaping – into that perfectly simple headspace where nothing exists but the bliss between your legs, Jack lets himself get drunk on your taste. Bitter and sweet, creamy and sharp, like a custom cocktail of summertime and holidays. He’s finding himself dipping in deeper, nose on your clit, tongue deep in your cunt, just chasing the high  of you.

He feels a fresh wave of wetness and your pussy fluttering around his fingers and he knows you’re close again. Your moans get deeper and slower. You’re relaxing into him now – no hiding, no acting, just pure admission of need. He can feel you becoming his as surely as he can feel the muscles of your thighs tightening around his ears and neck. No better accessory than a woman getting off. Jack focuses his tongue’s attention on your clit, staying firm and strong against it, while his fingers speed up and grow more intense. Curling. Insistent. Fuck, his forearms look so good when he’s pumping his hand like this. When he adds a third finger to your hungry cunt, your whole body shudders, back arching, thighs clamping, fingers in Jack’s hair, moans rolling out of your mouth and down your body and straight into Jack’s ears.

You cum again and think that has to be it – you’ve never even been together before, for Christ’s sake – but Jack doesn’t let up. Not completely. His turns his touches slow and light, caressing instead of consuming, but you’re the exact opposite – bucking like a bronco from the overstimulation of him latching onto your swollen, sensitive clit. You whimper out, “Too much, Jack. I- I can’t-”

Because it’s new and you’re at where you’re at, Jack listens. He carefully withdraws his fingers from inside of you, licks them clean, and moves up the bed. On top of you not, propped on his hands, he plants blooming kisses over your face, your warm cheeks and your sweat-sheen forehead. In between gentle kisses, he asks you, “Think you can do one more for me, baby girl?”

Eyes wide and hazy, you reply, “I- I dunno, daddy. Dunno anything.”

He smirks and runs his thumb across your lower lip, all swollen and cute from biting while you got off. He checks, “The good kind of ‘dunno anything’ or the bad kind?”

“Good kind,” you giggle back, all bashful and sweet as you nudge up to catch another kiss. Then you nuzzle into his shoulder, pulling him down to embrace you and breathing in his scent. “Feel really good, Jackie.”

“Jackie,” he repeats with a chuckle. “Been a hell of a long time since anyone called me that.”

You pull back and look at him with eyes on the verge of watering. “Is that okay?”

He places a firm kiss on your forehead and assures, “Honey, you can call me whatever the hell you want as long as you’re mine. You’re too good and too cute for me to deny you anything.”

You give him a silly grin. “Yeah?”

“Absolutely.” He turns you both onto your sides and asks, “Now, do you want more or do you want to get ready for bed?”

You shake your head, still buried in the crook of Jack’s shoulder, and murmur, “You pick.”

“Uh-uh,” he tuts. After kissing your temple, he insists, “Not this time. We’re not skipping any steps here; I can’t learn what you need when you need it if you don’t know and tell me first.”

You go still for a minute and then look at him with something close to anxiety in your eyes. Jack clocks it: Fear of rejection. “I think I’m ready to be done and go to bed. Is that okay?”

Jack feels that familiar flicker of protectiveness in his gut. He holds your chin and his expression turns serious. “You are always allowed to be done. Even when we reach the point where I’m making all the decisions and you’re just my dumb little slut following orders, you’re safe to tell me whatever you need whenever you need it.”

You poke him in the chest and giggle again, “You’re whipped already, Dr. Abbot.”

“Yeah, I am,” he admits freely. “All I want is to be yours.”

Jack stands up next to the bed, loops his arms beneath your body, and lifts you like it’s no big deal. You squeal out of a laugh and he smiles back, the perfect mix of silly and strong. 

He takes you into the en suite bathroom, sits you on the low countertop next to the sink, and orders, “Open your mouth, sweetheart.” You do so without question and get met with another lovely ‘good girl’ that makes your heart dance, more of a waltz than a tango now that you’re coming down. Jack’s brow furrows in concentration like he’s performing a complex procedure as he brushes your teeth, covering each quadrant with military precision. His free hand holds your chin carefully so he can tilt your head based on the teeth he’s cleaning.

Once he’s satisfied with his work, he lifts a cup of water to your lips and says, “Swish and spit.”

Again, you follow his orders. Folding into Jack’s guidance is so natural for you. It’s easy. And in a life where so many things are so fucking hard, that’s worth everything. Then he winds floss around his fingers and you sleepily offer, “You don’t have to do all that.”

“I’m going to,” he responds plainly. Opening up your mouth again and getting to work, he says, “I take care of what’s mine. When you’re with me, you don’t have to do anything for yourself unless you want to.” He throws the floss out and kisses the tip of your nose. “I always tend to my pet.”

“He couldn’t even make me cum,” you groaned, throwing your head back against the cushions. “Like, not once. A year together and nothing. Do you know how depressing that is?”

Lily’s eyes widened, then narrowed, sharp and wicked. “Wait,” she said slowly. “Nothing?”

“Nothing,” you repeated, sipping your wine. “I swear he didn’t even try half the time.”

Her lips curled into a smirk that made your stomach twist. “Babe. That’s criminal. You’ve been cheated out of orgasms. And I won’t allow it.”

You laughed, half-tipsy. “What are you gonna do, sue him?”

“No,” she said, already reaching for her phone. “I’m gonna fix it.”

Before you could ask, she was typing fast, grin growing wider.

“Lily…” you warned. “What are you doing?”

She winked. “Texting Oscar.”

Your mouth went dry. “Wait, what-” By the time you’d grabbed the phone, it was too late. Message sent.

Come over. Bestie’s never cum in her life. We’re fixing that tonight.

Your heart pounded. “Lily!”

But she just giggled, topping up her wine. “Trust me. You’ll thank me later.”

Oscar showed up twenty minutes later. Hair messy from his hoodie, eyes curious as he dropped onto the couch beside you. “What’s this about?” he asked, glancing between you and Lily.

“She’s never cum,” Lily said bluntly. “And we’re going to change that.”

Oscar blinked. His gaze snapped to you, heat flickering instantly in his eyes. “Is that true?” he asked softly.

Your cheeks burned. “I- I mean- not from anyone else. Just me.”

Oscar swore under his breath, running a hand through his hair. “That’s fucked.” Then his eyes softened, a little smile tugging at his lips. “Good thing I like a challenge.”

Lily smirked, leaning closer to you. “See? We’ve got you.”

Before you could protest, Lily was kissing you, soft at first, then deeper, her hand sliding up your thigh. You gasped against her mouth, only to feel Oscar’s hand on your other leg, squeezing gently. “You okay?” he murmured.

You nodded, breathless. “Yeah.”

“Good,” he whispered. “Then let us take care of you.”

They worked in tandem, peeling your clothes away slowly, reverently. Lily’s lips trailed down your neck while Oscar’s fingers teased the waistband of your shorts. By the time they had you stripped, you were trembling.

“Fuck,” Oscar groaned, eyes roaming over you. “You’re gorgeous.”

Lily grinned, pressing a kiss to your breast. “Told you.”

Oscar slid two fingers between your thighs, testing, and groaned again when he felt how wet you already were. “And all this just from a few kisses. You’re going to fall apart so fast for us.”

You whimpered, arching into his touch. “Shh,” Lily cooed, brushing your hair back. “We’ve got you.”

Oscar eased his fingers inside you, curling just right, while Lily sucked at your nipple, her hand holding your hips down when you tried to buck. The combination made your head spin, your moans spilling freely. “That’s it,” Oscar praised, his voice low and rough. “Good girl. Let us hear you.”

The first orgasm hit before you even knew it was coming, leaving you crying out as your body shook.

“That’s one,” Lily murmured against your skin. “We’re just getting started.”

Oscar smirked, fucking his fingers deeper. “Told you. Challenge accepted.”

You barely had time to come down before Oscar was pulling his fingers free and Lily was sliding off the bed. She knelt by her nightstand, rummaging through the drawer with a mischievous grin. “I’ve got toys,” she sing-songed, pulling out a sleek vibrator. She glanced at Oscar. “Want the honors?”

He smirked. “Absolutely.”

Before you could beg for a break, he had the vibrator pressed against your clit, the hum low but relentless. Your whole body jerked, a strangled moan tearing from your throat.

“Fuck- too much-”

Oscar leaned over, his hand wrapping lightly around your throat. Not squeezing, just there, grounding. His eyes locked on yours, calm and dark all at once. “Breathe. You can take it.”

You whimpered, thighs trembling, but the steady weight of his hand made you obey. “That’s it,” Lily cooed, sliding back onto the bed beside you, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Be good for us. Let it happen.”

The orgasm ripped through you fast and violent, your back arching as your scream was muffled against Oscar’s shoulder. He didn’t move the toy.

You sobbed, thrashing weakly. “Oscar- please-”

“Shh,” he whispered, his thumb stroking your throat as the vibrator buzzed mercilessly. “You said you couldn’t cum. We’re proving you wrong.”

Lily giggled, catching his hand, guiding spit-slick fingers to your mouth. “Suck,” she ordered sweetly.

You did, desperate, moaning around his fingers as another orgasm tore through you, wetter and messier than the last.

“Fuck,” Oscar groaned, watching you gag around him. “She’s perfect.”

“Perfect little slut,” Lily agreed, smirking as she kissed down your stomach. “Takes everything we give her.”

You came again, and again, each one blurring into the next until you were crying, babbling nonsense against Oscar’s hand.

“That’s four,” he counted low, the vibrator still steady. “Let’s see how many before she breaks completely.”

Lily reached between your thighs, sliding two fingers inside to join the toy. You sobbed, clenching tight, your nails digging into the sheets. “Too much!” you cried.

“Not enough,” Oscar growled, his hand tightening just slightly on your throat. “You’ve been starving for this. You’re going to cum until you don’t remember his name.”

The overstimulation shattered you. Orgasm after orgasm until you were wrecked, your body limp, your voice gone. When Oscar finally turned the toy off, you collapsed against his chest, trembling. Lily curled up on your other side, stroking your hair back gently.

“Good girl,” she whispered, kissing your cheek. “So fucking good.”

Oscar kissed the top of your head, his arm wrapping around you protectively. “Told you we’d fix it.”

You laughed weakly, tears still drying on your cheeks. “Fixed is an understatement.”

Lily smirked, her hand stroking down your thigh. “Don’t worry. We’re not done with you yet.” And the way Oscar’s hand tightened on your waist told you she meant every word.

The sunlight was soft when you stirred, streaming through Lily’s curtains. Your body ached everywhere, thighs sore, throat raw, your skin marked where Oscar’s fingers and Lily’s lips had claimed you. You barely had the strength to move, sprawled between them, when Oscar’s hand slid up your thigh under the covers. “Still breathing?” he murmured, voice gravelly from sleep.

You whimpered, half-asleep still, and Lily giggled, brushing your damp hair from your forehead. “She’s alive. Barely.”

Oscar smirked, kissing your shoulder. “Good. Because I’m not done with her yet.”

You whined, your hips shifting automatically when his fingers found you still soaked from the night before. He slid them in lazily, curling just enough to make you moan.

“Fuck- Oscar-”

“Shh.” His lips grazed your ear. “Don’t think. Just let us use you again.”

Lily propped herself on one elbow, watching with a wicked smile. “Look at her. So pliant. Like she was made for this.” She trailed her fingers down to your breast, pinching your nipple until you gasped. “Still such a good toy.”

You moaned, burying your face in the pillow, and Oscar chuckled darkly. “She’s gone, Lily. We broke her last night.”

“Mm,” Lily hummed, leaning down to kiss your neck. “So let’s break her again.”

Oscar pulled his fingers free, sucking them into his mouth with a groan. Then he pushed you gently onto your stomach, pulling your hips up. “Stay still,” he ordered, sliding into you slow but deep. The stretch made you whimper, still sensitive, but his hand on your spine kept you down.

“Fuck,” he groaned, rocking into you lazily. “Tight as ever. Wrecked and still perfect.”

Lily slipped down the bed, her tongue finding your clit, and you screamed into the pillow.

Two sets of hands on you; Oscar’s grip bruising your hips as he fucked you slow, Lily’s fingers digging into your thighs as she devoured you. The overstimulation from last night came flooding back, every nerve sparking, your body clenching helplessly.

“Cum,” Oscar commanded, his voice low, and Lily hummed in agreement against your clit.

You shattered again, trembling, your cry muffled as your whole body gave in. Oscar groaned, spilling inside you, his forehead pressed to your back. Lily kissed her way up your spine, smirking against your ear. “That’s it,” she whispered. “You’re ours now. Our perfect little toy.”

The grip you had on his hair was unrelenting, his tongue moving in circles as you pushed your core closer to his face, practically begging him for more, begging for him to make you cum for a third time that night.

He had practically bent you over the second he was through the door, having not seen you in weeks, he was insatiable, eager to see you, eager to get the chance to be inside you, to have his tongue pressed to your clit. To have you moaning his name. Shaking for him.

Your clothes lay in tatters on the floor, bruises forming on your hips, your breasts, up the side of your neck. 

Oscar’s skin wasn’t much different. Scratch marks littered his arms, his back, love bites were forming all over his chest and neck. His lips bruised and puffy, practically aching to be kissed again. 

“You gonna be good and cum f’me, baby? Gonna gush all over my lips? Been so good for me all night, know you can give me one more, c’mon,” he taunted you, a finger circling your entrance before pushing inside.

He had stretched you out nicely on his cock earlier in the evening, the finger he had pushed inside of you barely satisfying the ache that was yearning for more, desperate to feel him inside of you again. Mixed with his tongue, though? It was indescribable, it was everything you were craving and more.

And he knew that. Knew what he could do to make you scream for him, to make you soak his face in your juices.

Which was exactly what he was doing. Pushing a second finger inside you alongside his first, his lips and tongue slurping, sucking, and licking at your clit; the whimpers were falling from your lips, your hips unable to keep still as you continuously pushed up into his face.

If there was one thing Oscar was sure of; it was that he could die happy if he got to eat you out for the rest of his life. The sounds you made, the way you gripped his hair, the way you begged him, the way you directed him on what you like, the taste of you… it was everything and more to him.

He loved everything about you, but he especially loved this. Was honoured that you trusted him enough to do this, to make you feel good day-in and day-out.

He could tell you were getting closer as he began lazily flicking his tongue, still pumping his fingers in and out of you. Your core muscles began clenching, the grip on his hair tightening as he groaned into your cunt, the slick of your pussy increasing as the sounds you were making grew louder.

Oscar helped you ride through your orgasm, your thighs tightening around his head as your entire body shook. It felt like you were flying, your third orgasm of the night rushing through your body as moans fell from your lips.

It didn’t take long for the Australian to crawl up your body, his hardened member easily slipping inside your wet core; soft groans falling from both of your lips. He had already cum once tonight, and knew he likely wouldn’t again; but he couldn’t resist the opportunity to feel your tight, wet heat wrapped around him again.

Lazily looking up at him, a soft smile was directed down to you before he was pressing his lips to yours. You could taste yourself on him, on his tongue as he pressed it against yours. You couldn’t help the moan that fell from your lips at the realization. Something about it had you bucking up into him, into his cock that was slowly thrusting in and out of you.

“So pretty f’me, baby. So pretty all fucked out, look at you. God. Bet you’d let m’fuck you all night, wouldn’t you? You’d let me sleep with my cock inside you, y’just wanna be close to me all the time, hm? Gonna warm my cock?”

Pussy-drunk Oscar Piastri was a different type of aroused. He talked like a mad-man, like all he could talk about, all he could think about, was you.

“Mhm, course’ Osc. Would let you fill me up all night long, keep your cock inside me til’ we woke up. Let you fuck me in the morning, too,” you groaned, his legs stuttering at your words.

Bottoming out, Oscar grunted as he watched your lips open in a long-drawn out moan. His own moan followed, as he turned the two of you onto your side, maneuvering both bodies so his member remained sheathed inside you.

“God, baby. I love that we both already finished and your legs are still shaking,” he said.

Practically rolling your eyes, almost four orgasms later, what did he expect? It was hard to even attempt to keep your legs still. 

You slapped at the hand that began slithering towards your clit again. Your hips bucked as he began to rub a gentle circle on the enflamed nub, the sensitivity overtaking you as you shook your head at him.

“N’more, please. I can’t take it.”

Shushing you, Oscar pressed a kiss to the skin behind your ear.

“One more, baby. Y’can do it, promised me you’d be a good girl. One more, then w’can go to bed, hm?”

Mewling at his words, you knew you could give him one more. Could be a good girl for him, like you always were.

foreglow:

the glow of light appearing in the sky preceding sunrise

-

the sunrise casts a tangerine foreglow over your bodies, the bed, everything the light can touch.

lando’s slumped against the headboard and you’re sprawled over his lap, legs hooked over his, with his hand working between your thighs.

it’s been hours. he’s had you spread out for him, countless positions and locations utilised. you were paying for your behaviour over the race weekend, but really, it was all his fault.

he’d been too cocky, looked too good, the australian air getting to his head. you’d been glowering at him since you’d arrived in the land down under, watching in erotically charged horror as he paraded around looking, to put it simply, slutty. tight shorts, arms out, neck on display for all to see. his fucking neck. god, it looked so thick, flexing every time he turned to smirk at you. the heat rendered you delirious, and so did he.

and you couldn’t even think about that fucking daddy bracelet he’d been sporting.

you decided you needed payback, in the form of some carefully constructed, harmless flirting with everyone from the mechanics to the guys on the pit wall old enough to be your father. but lo and behold, it worked, and that’s how you found yourself in this position.

the position in question?

being fucked every which way lando deemed fit until the sun came up.

“you learnt your lesson yet, baby?” lando grunts into your ear, pinching your clit between his fingers.

your thighs are soaked, shaking uncontrollably, and your head has lulled back against his shoulder. you’re breathing heavily, your back flush against his front and he’s restless. you’ve lost count of the number of orgasms you’ve been pushed to.

“lan.” you breathe, eyes fixated on the bracelet adorning his wrist. the kitschy trinket sends liquid fire down your spine and you spasm as he continues to swirl his calloused thumb over your clit.

“that’s not an answer.” he tuts, slipping his fingers through your slit until he’s circling your weeping entrance. you’re coated with slick, some of it his from where he’d fucked you up against the wall a good few hours ago. “have you,” he kisses your shoulder, trailing his fingers that were digging into your hip up your belly. “learnt your lesson?” his teeth sink into your flesh at the same time he pinches your nipple.

you gasp out a cry of his name, slurring incomprehensibly, “yes, yes, ‘m sorry, i’m so sorry.” you sob. his chest rumbles cruelly with laughter and you’re hurtling towards another release, the overstimulation making it easy for him to get you off.

“that’s all you needed to say, honey.” lando coos condescendingly.

as if he’s rewarding you for owning up, two of his fingers sink into your entrance, sliding deep. the sound of your wetness sends your eyes rolling back as he scissors his digits in and out of you, speeding them up into a delicious grind. you’re a mess in seconds, slumped into him as close as can be. kisses over your neck soothe you and you feel the wet rush of your release approaching quicker than you can comprehend it. you gush all over his fingers, dripping down his wrist, coating that annoying fucking bracelet.

“there you go, baby. so good for me.” he whispers, slowing his thrusts. “can you turn over for me? want you to look at me.”

you pant as you wriggle around in his arms until you’re straddling his lap. you can feel yourself dripping on him, his thick length sliding between your folds. the exhaustion renders you languid, ready to let him do just about whatever he wants to you next.

lando cups your breast, stroking gently over your nipple while he runs his tongue all over his long fingers. he loves to make you watch, torturing you until you’re needy for another release.

“you think you can do a few more for me?” lando smirks, bringing the fingers that he’d just licked clean to your other breast, fiddling with your other nipple. he has you rolling your hips against him, inadvertently chasing another high already. he loves it, revels in how he can reduce you to this, so desperate that you’re grinding down on his cock, a wet mess in his lap, all for him.

“yeah, lan.” you nod profusely, your tired eyes locked with his. the early morning sun hits them enticingly, making them sparkle green in the warm light. he looks disgustingly gorgeous like this, soft and yours, resting against the headboard, curls spilling over his forehead and into his eyes. if you didn’t know that he was mulling over a million twisted ideas in his brain that involved resorting you to tears of pleasure, you’d think he looked adorable.

“good.” he grins. “not even nearly done with you.” he looks evil; your thighs clench around his hips.

without moving you off of his lap, he uses his strength to slide down the bed until he lays flat. he beckons you to crawl up his body, and you find the strength to wriggle over him, thighs resting on either side of his neck when he stops you.

“you gonna slide your pretty little cunt over my neck?” lando asks, wrapping his huge hands around your thighs. you gulp, staring down at him dumbfounded. “don’t look at me like i’m crazy, baby. you think i don’t see you staring at it with that special little look in your eyes?” he teases. “get to fucking work, i’m not gonna ask again.”

hesitantly, you lower yourself against his his skin, flaming red with embarrassment and lust. you can’t lie and pretend that you aren’t utterly enticed by this, that you aren’t leaking down your thighs at the prospect of sliding your pussy along his tanned, flexed flesh. the adventurousness of the escapade makes your legs tremble, nerves eating you alive, but it’s all worth it when you feel that first glide.

you curse out, loud and breathy, the new sensation creating lewd sounds between you. he’s obsessed, staring up at you in mischievous awe as you rock your hips backwards and forwards. you tangle one hand in his hair, tugging hard in sheer desperation, while the other hand balances you against the headboard so you don’t crush him. he guides your hips like he wants to die like this, suffocated by you and everything you have to offer him.

“oh my fucking god.” you choke out a moan, jaw hanging agape as you continue to slide against him. every time you move forwards, you feel the delectable prickle of his trimmed facial hair scratching against your inner thighs and your eyes squeeze shut each time, pure pleasure bubbling in the pit of your belly.

“you have no idea how fucking good you look.” lando rasps, digging his fingertips into the meat of your thighs. you’re so tense, teetering on the very edge. the strength he possesses, his composure while you’re sitting on his fucking neck makes you throb.

you gaze down at him, feral, and it does something to him, because he’s yanking you up onto his parted lips, burying his face as far as it will go. you yelp, collapsing into the headboard as he holds you down on his tongue, lapping up your mess.

“can taste us.” he mumbles into the flesh of your cunt, barely audible, but you hear it and it makes you shiver. you black out as your orgasm hits, your ears ringing as bliss courses through your limp body like a delicious electric shock. your nerves are shot when he rolls you onto your back.

“fucking heaven.” lando groans, crawling over you as he licks his lips.

he’s invigorated by the taste of you, how spent you are, and how it’s all his fault. you can’t string a sentence together, but you’re grabbing at his toned body like you’re begging silently for more, anything. he needs to drive into you, fill up up, make you remember that your little games will always lead back to this, the reminder that you’re his.