summary you can't help it as you get closer with the night shift attending. and after a day in court, you welcome the chance for a night out with drinks and darts with the doctors.
tags/warnings age gap (mid 20s / mid 40s), workplace romance, slow burn, flirty/tension, hospital setting+legal stuff, bar night, darts + betting, drinking, r. smokes, nicknames, “pinkie pie”, girly/femme reader (skirts, heels, pink everything), dorky/amy santiago energy/she loves pens? u suck at darts sorry x i do too
wc 9.2k words (?? wtf?? it goes by quickly tho)
could read as stand alone, part one (linger) here, part two (strawberry) here, part three (optics) here
“Hey, Pinkie Pie,” Santos says, like it’s your legal name. “Wanna get wasted?”
You blink at her. Once. “I—sorry?”
Behind you, your colleagues, Jane and Charles—composed, senior, deeply invested in whatever clause they were dissecting—look up in quiet, collective confusion. Lovely people. Truly. Also deeply, fundamentally not built for whatever this is.
And, unfortunately, you are, in fact, the Pinkie Pie in question.
You’d gotten to become friends with Trinity Santos in your time there. Turns out, her somewhat lacking bedside manners invited a good amount of legal threats.
“What do you mean you told a guy you’d put his IV up his ass if he asked for a lemonade again?!”
“You weren’t there.”
“He’s trying to sue for ten grand.”
“...I stand by it.”
Santos was a good amount different to you, a bit rougher around the edges, but well-meaning at her core. She’d thrown around many nicknames for you. That has unfortunately also spread around the ER now.
One time, Robby called you Princess Bubblegum. You didn’t know he even knew who that was.
Another time, Langdon threw around Kirby. That made Mel snicker every time.
McKay loved calling you Lotso when you weren’t in a great mood. “Get it? You’re pink, and soft, but you can also be scary. You’ve seen Toy Story 3, right? That’s Harrison’s favourite. I raised a kid with taste, honestly.” McKay explained once.
Jack was nice enough to hold back from nicknames like that. Well, you didn’t think he knew of them, and you were happy to keep it that way.
You stand from your desk, giving lovely Jane and Charles a polite nod as you quickly walk out into the hallway with Santos, gently closing the door behind you.
Santos gives you a look.
You’re dressed particularly formal today, black fitted dress with black tights, and minimal jewellery, your hair done well, black stilettos.
“What’s with you?” She wonders. “Hot date? Funeral?
“What? No,” You say like it’s ridiculous. “Court.”
“Ah, troublemaker.”
“I’m… I’m a lawyer, you know this.” You remind, confused.
“Yeah, I’m messing with you,” she rolls her eyes. “Though you are severely lacking in pink. This is weird. I don’t recognise you. You okay? Want me to book you for a neuro CT? Purely recreational. Discounted.”
You had also received a comment from, shockingly, Jane, in the morning before going into court. “I kind of miss the pink, but the black is a good choice. Makes you look more serious.” She’d said, casually.
You move on quickly. “What were you saying? Drinks?”
“Right.” Santos rolls her eyes like you’ve personally disappointed her. “Wasted. Bar. Drinks. People. You. There. Tonight.”
“Right. Yeah. That—sounds good.” A beat. “Who else is going?”
“Most of day and some night shift,” she shrugs. “You’ll know ’em. Nobody you haven’t worked with.” Then, with a look—“Pretty sure your boyfriend’ll be there.”
You press your tongue into your cheek, giving her a flat look.
“You know,” she goes on, enjoying herself now. “Old. Bit short. Not that charming, really.”
You don’t even dignify that with a proper response.
“Honestly,” she adds, “reminds me of my grandad.”
“Mm,” you hum. “Very funny. Time and place?”
“Tom’s. Down the road. Can’t miss it.” She jerks her chin. “Anytime after seven. Show up, don’t show up—I don’t care.” Then she nods past you, to your office. “What’s with the suits in there? They wanna join?”
“They have families to get back to,” you say, a little defensive despite yourself. “And normal sleep schedules.”
“Boring,” Santos grins. “...You alright? You seem wound up.”
“I’m fine. Long day.” You answer. “Court is a bitch.”
“That’s what I say about my ex-girlfriend, Courtney,” Santos agrees. “See you there, Kirby.” She shoves your shoulder lightly on the way out like that settles it.
You turn slightly, watching her go. “…That’s it?”
“Oh—and a pay rise!” she calls over her shoulder.
You sigh. “Not how it works—”
But she’s already gone.
You stand there for a second, caught between fluorescent quiet and whatever she just presented into your night.
You’ve been here a few months now—long enough that it’s stopped feeling like something to prove and started feeling like something you just do. The edges have worn down.
The language, the hospital, these staff, there’s a rhythm to it now. Contracts, consults, reviewing medical records, internal investigations, employment agreements, do it all over again. And you find as the sun goes down and your colleagues leave the office, it gets quieter, lonelier — it’s an inevitable drift for you to go to the ED.
You tell yourself it’s balanced, but with how you can’t help the preference you held for the night hours. You did try to rationalise it, but gave up after a while. You were well suited to the night shift curfew.
And no shit, it came down to the night shift attending.
You couldn’t really help it—liking him, enjoying him, letting yourself fall into the ease of it. Not when he was… like that.
The Winnipeg case, a five-point-seven million dollar suit against the ED, doesn’t blow up the way it threatens to.
For a while, it looks like it might—demand letter aggressive, numbers inflated enough to make everyone sit a little straighter in meetings. You’re pulled in early, mostly to observe at first, notebook open, listening as your seniors map out exposure and strategy.
It never makes it anywhere near court.
Negotiations take over. Back-and-forth. Offers shaved down, reframed, pushed again. You sit in on most of it, watch the way language shifts depending on who’s in the room.
It settles. Not five-point-seven million. Not even close. A quiet resolution. No admission of liability. Just enough money to make it disappear without anyone having to say they were wrong.
The kind of ending hospitals prefer.
You told Jack as soon as you could leave the meeting and settle down in the ED, like it’s nothing.
Set up at the nurses’ station like you belong there—files spread, laptop open. The ER moves around you in that constant, controlled chaos, but you’ve stopped noticing it as anything more than background, annotating a contract, pen’s ink running dry as you write and finish explaining it.
“They take your approach?” Jack had asked.
He’s leaned against the counter, forearms braced, looking down at you like you’re something he’s still working out. You wore a soft pink skirt that night—something that moves when you do, matches your nails, even your water bottle, the quiet consistency of you.
You nod, a little pleased despite yourself, turning your pen between your fingers. “More or less. I wanted a full dismissal, but…” you shrug, glancing up, “settlement’s better than nothing. No court, at least.”
Jack hums, but he’s not really listening to the words anymore. His eyes drift over you—brief, but not unintentional.
“You in court…” he starts, almost to himself. “God, don’t tell me you wear those shoes as well.”
Your mouth tips into a smile as you glance down at them, a relatively sane four inch wedge heel.
“Oh, I’ve worn worse,” you admit.
He huffs, sceptical. “You’re kidding.”
You shake your head, tapping your pen against the paper. “Eight inch corset heels once. They took me more seriously the taller I was, it was my first year out of law school. You know, I knew a girl who showed up in full on pleasers once.”
He frowns. “In what?”
You look up at him, deadpan. “Stripper heels.”
There’s a beat. Then—
“…Right,” he nods slowly, recalibrating.
You bite back a laugh, ducking your head slightly. “I don’t dress like this for court, though. Judges like presentation.”
“Well, judges like pretty girls,” he says.
It’s casual, and you still, smiling a bit. You tilt your head up at him, pen pausing mid-spin between your fingers. “Aw, you think I’m pretty?”
“Think you’re the prettiest damn thing in this ER,” He says, voice low.
You held his gaze for a second too long, something quieter threading through the space between you. Then you look down, like you’ve decided not to touch that.
Your pen taps back against the page. “Presentation is half the argument in court. That’s my theory, anyway.”
“Mm,” he hums, not disagreeing.
He pushes off the counter then, glancing up at the board. The moment shifts, but not completely—something of it lingers, low and steady.
“Alright,” he says. “I gotta make sure none of my residents are killing anyone.”
You nod, already back in your notes, but there’s a faint smile still there. “Have fun.”
He’s already halfway across the floor, but you catch the quiet chuckle he doesn’t bother hiding. And, annoyingly, you feel it linger longer than it should.
Every once and a while he throws a flirt like that out and you can’t tell if he’s just teasing you or being earnest. You think he just likes making you nervous, and it works.
It doesn’t help.
He leaves himself exits—always does—but he never seems in a rush to take them. And there’s something about the way he watches you after, like he’s waiting. Curious, maybe. Measuring.
He likes when you throw something back. Likes when you don’t and you flush under his gaze. A cadence builds out of it. Not in the obvious moments, but in the quieter ones.
The way your day keeps ending in his car, like it’s not even a decision anymore. Like of course he’d drive you home. Like of course you’d let him. You always do.
It gets easy enough that he starts asking questions like—
“You prefer mint or pine?”
You look up from the nurses’ station, watching him click through charts.
“…Pine,” you say. “Mint makes my nose itch. Why?”
“Got a…. This is gonna sound stupid now that I say it out loud — I got a new car scent, thingy,” he sighs. “And I couldn’t decide which one. Didn’t want you to… I don’t know, not like the smell of my car or something.”
“Your car smells fine.” You shrug, fixing your notes, pen ink dying slowly as you adjust. “Smells like a guy’s car.”
“...Right.” He murmurs, now uncaring for his charts. “In- Is that a good thing?”
You don’t answer, humming to yourself as you make the note look pretty.
He knew your coffee order without asking. Remembered it. Adjusted it when it got colder—less ice, a different milk, something warmer pressed into your hands before you even realised you wanted it.
You weren’t supposed to have favourites.
Not in your line of work. Not in his, either. You’re trained out of it—trained to flatten instinct into objectivity, to treat every person, every problem, with the same measured distance.
And you were good at that. You still are.
You got along with everyone—that was part of it. Being friendly with the physicians and staff to better represent them. And there were some of the obvious examples.
Santos with her relentless nicknames and worse bedside manner, who liked you in a way she’d never admit outright.
Parker, easy and sharp, sending you song recommendations mid-shift like it was as essential as charting.
Shen, who trusted you enough to accept whatever experimental caffeine disaster you handed him.
“...You got him a what?” Jack had said, staring at the drink like it might bite.
“It’s called a Dark Vader,” you’d said, completely serious. “Three shots of espresso, cola, condensed milk, whipped cream. Iced.”
Across the floor, Shen moved like a man possessed—fast, erratic, unstoppable.
“The guy’s basically taken twenty lines of coke.” Jack clearly held back a smile, entertained, and nodded. “This is gonna be fun.”
You’d watched Shen nearly clip a trolley at speed, wincing slightly.
Robby, dry and cutting and occasionally kinder than he let himself be.
Mel, still a little wary of you in that specific way people are when they’ve been burned by lawyers before.
Langdon, steady.
The nurses—Lena on nights, Dana on days, Princess and Perlah whispering in Tagalog over charts, Donnie trying to juggle competence with new fatherhood, Jesse, Emma—all of them.
You fit in.
More than that—you were trusted. They came to you before things escalated. You knew how they worked, how they thought, how to protect them without suffocating them in policy. You weren’t just the lawyer they called when something went wrong—you were already there.
That mattered. It meant you couldn’t afford favourites.
And you didn’t, really. You liked them all. In different ways. For different reasons, professional and personal. Lawyers had to keep their wits and stay objective.
But you let it slip here.
Not because of the flirting.
Not because of the rides home, or the coffees that appeared beside your things without announcement.
Not even because of the way he looked at you sometimes—like he was mid-calculation and didn’t like where it landed.
It was the pens.
“No fucking way—”
It bursts out of you before you can stop it, loud and bright and completely out of place at the nurses’ station. Heads turn. You clamp a hand over your mouth, eyes wide.
“Sorry—sorry,” you rush, already laughing under your breath as you look back down.
Because—Jesus.
“Jack,” you lower your voice, but not your awe, “Oh my god, I wanted these so bad.”
They sit in your hands like something ceremonial. Weighty. Intentional. A matched pair—Montegrappa and Visconti—lacquered in soft pinks and florals that catch the fluorescent light in quiet, expensive ways. Not loud, not tacky—delicate.
Accents that mirror the rings you wear, the little details you build yourself out of every morning. The kind of pens you don’t just use—you research and choose.
You turn one between your fingers, thumb brushing over the barrel, feeling the balance of it, the way it settles. You remember the video you watched—how smoothly it glided, how the nib flexed just slightly under pressure, how the ink laid down like silk.
“They’re—” you exhale, shaking your head a little. “The grip on these is insane, the 23k nib—Jack, these are—this is ridiculous.”
Across from you, he’s watching. Not the pens. You. There’s something quieter in his expression than usual—something almost careful, like he’s braced for you to laugh it off, to not get it. But you’re you. Of course you get it. His shoulders ease, just a fraction.
“Yeah,” he says, like it’s nothing. Like it wasn’t deliberate. “I know. You had that… wishlist thing open last week. On your iPad.” A small shrug. “And you talked about them the whole drive back.”
You blink up at him.
He shrugs. “You also said your current ones were running dry. Figured it was time. No problem.”
Time. Like this is practical. Necessary. Like he didn’t just buy you something you absolutely did not need but wanted in that specific way that feels almost worse.
You look back down at them, turning one in your hand again, slower now. The metal catches the light, soft and warm. You didn’t even know they made them in pink.
“I—these are…” you trail, then laugh a little, breathless. “God, I feel bad. I didn’t get you anything.”
That earns you a look. Not annoyed. Not exactly. Just firm. Maybe offended if you didn’t know he was also fond of you, and these pens were evidence of that.
“When have I ever asked for anything in return, sweetheart?”
It lands easy, like it always does. Casual. Practiced.
You swallow, nodding once, softer now. “Thank you. Really.”
Something shifts in his face at that. Small. Satisfied, maybe. Like that was the part he wanted. He nods it off, leaning back against the counter, slipping back into something looser.
“Well,” he adds, glancing at the pens in your hand, “you know, someone’s gotta make sure the hospital lawyer isn’t signing off on contracts with a dying Bic.”
You huff a quiet laugh. “God forbid. Liability nightmare.”
“Exactly.”
There’s a beat where neither of you move. You’re still holding them. He’s still looking at you.
Then—
“Trauma incoming!”
Everything snaps back into place. Noise, movement, urgency flooding in like it never left. Jack straightens instantly, already turning—then pauses mid-step, hand coming up to his chest.
You’re already reaching for it. His stethoscope sits abandoned beside your notebook, exactly where he left it. You pick it up, step forward, and hold it out.
He takes it from you—fingers brushing yours, brief and warm and grounding in a way that feels disproportionate to what it is.
“'m glad you like ‘em,” he says, already moving.
But he lingers just long enough to glance down—at the pens still in your hand, at the way you’re still half-smiling to yourself.
Something unreadable passes over his face. Gone just as quickly.
Then he’s turning, stepping into the chaos, voice shifting into something sharper, more commanding as he calls out orders.
And just like that, he’s back where he belongs.
You stand there a second longer, the noise rising around you, the weight of the pens still settling in your hands. Careful, you think, turning one once more between your fingers.
★★★
Half the ER is here—sprawled across mismatched tables shoved together like an afterthought, drinks sweating through thin napkins, voices stacking over each other until it’s just noise.
Someone’s already laughing too loud at something that wasn’t that funny to begin with. It’s messy, loud, alive in a way the hospital never quite lets itself be.
It’s your first time out with them like this, and they’re… exactly what you’d expect. Tight-knit, loud, a little unhinged. Easier, somehow, without the constant hum of consequence in the background.
You hold onto your messenger bag tight, nonetheless, hoping whatever leftover nerves and pent up frustration from your day in court has run its course.
Your feet ache, somewhat unusual considering how often you find yourself wearing heels, but a full day of court in stilettos has it pinching at your toes in a way that only court does to you. You ignore it. You need to just… relax. People. Drinks. Whatever Santos said.
You make your rounds—names you know, faces you’ve seen across desks and hallways, now loosened by alcohol and time off. It’s… nice. Strange, but nice.
“No pink?” McKay chuckles as she’s sipping a mocktail, Javadi awkwardly by her side with a sprite.
You sigh. God, does everybody just… notice that you like pink? “Nope.”
“You know, if you ever wanted to try medicine, peades has some cute pink scrubs,” McKay tells.
“Noted. How are you finding the updated contract?” You check. “Gloria was up my ass about it.”
“Fuck Gloria,” She scoffs. “Respectfully, of course. The contract's great. Finally get a few days to Harrison or…. Literally anything else. Considering a spa day.”
“It’s well deserved.” You shrug, fidgety. “I’ll send you a link to my favourite spa place in the city. I worked with the firm that represented them, they send me great discounts.”
McKay scoffs a laugh at that, blowing out air and nodding. “That would… be amazing, thanks. Get a drink, relax.”
You smile at her. You wander the bar.
You drift toward the bar, weaving past bodies and noise until it thins just enough to breathe. Mel’s there—perched neatly on a stool, posture a little too precise for a place like this, ginger ale in hand like it’s been deliberately chosen.
“Hi, Mel,” you say, sliding in beside her. “I really like your shirt.”
She glances down at it, like she has to confirm what she’s wearing. A faded Donnie Darko print, soft with age.
“Thank you, Counselor,” she says, a small nod. Then, after a beat—“You know, you’ve helped with my fear of lawyers.”
You blink, a little thrown. “Oh. That’s good. Your deposition didn’t exactly sell us well, I’m guessing.”
“Not at all,” Mel says, matter-of-fact. “You can be very cruel.”
A pause. She registers it, just a fraction late.
“Not you,” she adds, correcting cleanly. “Lawyers. Structurally.”
You huff a quiet laugh, leaning your elbow against the bar. “Yeah. No, that tracks. Sorry you had to deal with the worst version of it.”
She shrugs—acceptance, not dismissal. Then her eyes settle on you properly, scanning once, quick but thorough.
“…No pink?”
You click your tongue, getting a little irritated. Not at Mel, never at Mel, but god, you did wear other colours. Right? “Nope, no pink tonight.”
Mel nods, processing that like new information being filed. “You’re usually quite pink.”
“I am,” you admit. “This is… a deviation. I don’t just wear pink, by the way. I love… red.”
Another small nod. Filed away. “...That’s like… a variation of pink, but yes. Sure.”
The bartender’s a few seats down, mid-conversation with Santos—who’s leaning in, smiling in a way that makes the outcome obvious. You watch as a napkin gets turned, a pen appears.
Mel follows your line of sight, equally observant, if less invested.
“They’re flirting,” she says.
“Mm,” you hum. “She’s winning, too.”
The bartender laughs at something Santos says, already writing something down.
Mel takes a sip of her drink. “Efficient.”
You snort softly. “I’m gonna give it a minute before I try my luck for a drink. Feels like I’d be interrupting a… negotiation.”
Mel considers that. “Yes. That would be disruptive.”
You glance at her, amused. “You okay here?”
“Yes,” she says simply. Then, after a second—“I like observing.”
“That checks out,” you smile. “See you around.”
She nods once, already half-turned back to the room.
You leave her there, steady in the noise, as you slip back into it.
Jack’s at the dartboard when you find him—Robby beside him, both mid-game. He doesn’t notice you at first. Focused. Brows drawn, shoulders set, that same quiet precision he brings to everything.
The dart hits a good few inches off bullseye.
He exhales through his nose—low, annoyed.
Robby claps once. Smug. “Tragic.”
You slide in at the edge of the high-top, nudging aside a couple of their empty bottles with your wrist, settling there like you’ve always been part of it. Jack takes a sip of his beer, still studying the board like it personally offended him.
Then—without looking fully at you—
“Where’s your pink?” Jack says, like that’s the only detail that matters.
“I don’t exclusively wear pink,” you continue, a little more worked up than you meant to be. It’s been all day—comments in corridors, in court, even Charles of all people raising a brow like you’d shown up in costume. “I wear other colours. I have range. I wore yellow once. People loved it.”
“Yeah, but,” he shrugs, shooting you a knowing look, “you’re Pinkie Pie.”
You close your eyes. The nicknames have reached him. You want to dump ice over your head. “Not you too.”
There’s a flicker at the corner of his mouth—gone before it fully forms. He throws again.
Better. Much closer. Close enough that Robby lets out an annoyed huff and rolls his eyes like he’s been personally wronged by the improvement.
“You do wear a lot of pink,” Jack adds, almost as an afterthought, already reaching for another dart.
You open your eyes, fixing him with a look. “So do toddlers. Doesn’t make it a defining personality trait.”
“Hm.”
He adjusts his stance—subtle, practiced. Weight shifting cleanly, compensating without thinking. His right leg plants steady, the movement so natural it only really registers if you’re looking for it—balanced, controlled, deliberate.
He throws again.
Closer still. Not quite there.
Robby scoffs. “Getting warmer, grandpa.”
Jack ignores him completely. His gaze flicks to you instead, quick, assessing—like he’s recalibrating something that has nothing to do with darts.
“Funeral?” he asks, nodding at your outfit.
You glance down at the black. Smooth it once over your thigh. “Court.”
“I can feel the joy from here.”
You glance at him. “Have you ever argued in front of a judge who already hates you?”
He doesn’t even look up. “Every day, sweetheart. Different setting.”
You huff a laugh.
Robby steps up, takes his shot—misses by a fraction and swears under his breath. “I blame the beer.”
“Sure you do,” Jack mutters, already holding out a dart toward you without looking. “You wanna play?”
You take one look at the board, then back at him. “No. I have the coordination of a drunk deer.”
“I’d pay to see that.”
Robby snorts.
And Jack—finally—looks at you properly. Not just the outfit, not just the absence of pink. You. Tired edges, sharp mouth, still buzzing from a day that clearly didn’t go your way.
A minute later, Robby excuses himself—something about another round—leaving without making a thing of it. Like he’s done this before. Like he knows exactly when to disappear.
You and Jack don’t acknowledge it.
“You alright there?” he asks after a second. Quieter now.
You glance down at yourself, smoothing your dress. “Mhm. You?”
He looks at you properly then. Not the quick, clinical scan he gives everyone. Not distracted. This is slower. Intentional. It lingers. “I'm doing a lot better now,” he says.
Your brow lifts, curious. “That so?”
“Mm.”
“You wanna elaborate, or—”
There’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. He shrugs. “Haven’t had enough beers.”
“Right,” you hum.
You glance toward the bar—Robby taking his time, very deliberately not looking over, then immediately looking over when he thinks you won’t notice.
“He left,” you point out.
“He did,” Jack says, following your gaze, then back to you. “Very convenient timing.”
“You think he did that on purpose?”
“Definitely. Guy’s got a sixth sense for when to disappear.”
“Good for him.”
“Bad for me,” Jack mutters.
You catch it. “Oh?”
He takes a sip of his beer—finally—like he needs something to do with his hands. “Means I’m stuck making conversation.”
“You’re doing alright so far.”
“Yeah?” he glances at you. “Thought I was bombing.”
“Mm. Strong start. Called me a children’s cartoon character within thirty seconds.”
He nods. “Some would say Little Pony is a universal cartoon.”
“It’s My Little Pony,” you correct.
“Alright, no one’s taking it from you—”
“No, it’s— that’s the cartoon. It’s called My Little Pony. I watched it as a kid,” you insist, smiling despite yourself. “Generational difference. What’d you watch?”
“Other than the gold rush?” he shoots back. “Scooby Doo.”
You nod, amused. “Great show.”
He throws, stance even and steady.
Dead centre.
A sharp, satisfied clap—more to himself than anything—before he looks back at you.
“Nice hit,” you admit.
“First bullseye all night,” he says, then, like it’s an afterthought—“Why don’t you like court?”
You glance at him.
“Isn’t that kind of the cool part of being a lawyer,” he goes on, casual but not careless. “Chatting up a judge, all the stops.”
You glance at him, exhaling. “I don’t mind court,” you say, after a beat. “I just… don’t love what it means.”
He doesn’t look away from the board. “Go ahead.”
You fold your arms loosely. “It’s like—” you hesitate, searching, then find it in his language instead of yours. “You’ve been nursing a patient all night. Stabilising them. Watching vitals, adjusting, talking to them, keeping things from escalating. Maybe a few dips, but nothing you can’t manage.”
He stills, just slightly.
“You’re not trying to send them to surgery,” you continue. “You only do that if you absolutely have to. If everything else fails.”
A small nod from him. Go on.
“That’s law,” you say. “Or… good law. You negotiate, mediate, settle. You keep things controlled. Court is—” you huff a quiet breath, “—something’s already gone wrong. It’s last resort. It’s expensive and takes up peoples time.”
He considers that.
“Well,” he says, finally. “Fair enough.”
You glance at him. “Thank you.”
“But,” he adds, picking up another dart, “that doesn’t explain why you look like you want to set yourself on fire.”
You laugh under your breath, a little helpless. “Because—” you gesture vaguely at yourself—“the AC was broken. I wore stilettos like an idiot. I couldn’t even wear my favourite colour because I was trying to be taken seriously.”
He glances at your heels, then back up.
“And,” you add, more annoyed now that you’ve started, words picking up pace, “I broke one of the gorgeous pens you got me—like an idiot—I dropped it mid-submission, and it hit the edge of the lectern nib-first. Fully snapped it. Just—” you make a small, defeated gesture with your hand, “—gone. In front of everyone.”
You exhale, shaking your head. “So I had to use one of Jane’s shitty office pens that kept cutting out every three words, like it had a personal vendetta against me. I’m trying to make a coherent argument and it’s just—stop, start, stop—like I’m glitching in real time.”
A breath, then you push on, because now it’s all coming out.
“And the client wouldn’t shut up,” you add, incredulous. “Like she just kept going—interrupting, adding things, contradicting herself—just constant commentary. I swear, people talk so much when it is the worst possible time to talk.”
He throws.
Bullseye. Again.
You scoff, genuinely impressed now. “Okay—what the hell.”
He glances at you, a little smug. “Sweetheart, I think you’re my good luck charm.”
You shake your head, overwhelmed, tired. “I doubt that.”
Then he sets the dart down. Finishes his beer. Decides something, a glint of realisation and mischief. “You broke one of the pens?”
“It was an accident! Stop, I've had such a…” You begin.
Then he steps toward you, it’s close enough that it cuts through the noise in your head. You go quiet without meaning to. He doesn’t crowd you—just enough that you feel him there. Solid. Grounding. His brows raise up at you, a small smile twitching at the edge of his lips.
“Relax,” he says, softer. “Messing with you, kid.”
Your breath catches a little, the proximity doing something unhelpful to your pulse.
“Y’had a long day,” he adds, gentler now, brows lifting slightly as he looks down at you. “Get something to drink. Then I’ll teach you darts.”
There’s a beat where you just look at him. At the steadiness of him. The ease.
The way the day starts to loosen, just slightly.
You press your teeth briefly into your bottom lip, trying to collect yourself. “...Sounds good.”
“Doesn’t it?” he says, already stepping back, like he didn’t just shift the entire axis of your evening.
You exhale, finally.
You needed the night out more than you realised.
It settles into you slowly—the noise first, then the warmth, then the way your shoulders finally start to drop from somewhere near your ears. No one’s watching you the way they do in court. No one’s waiting for you to slip. Here, everything’s louder, messier, allowed to be.
You end up orbiting the dartboard with Jack and Robby, the two of them taking turns trying—badly—to teach you.
“Stop throwing it like that,” Robby tries. “You’re not lobbing a grenade.”
“I don’t know how to throw a grenade,” you shoot back.
“I can tell.”
Jack huffs something like a laugh beside you. “Ignore him.”
You throw. It barely makes it halfway.
There’s a pause.
“Jesus,” Jack mutters.
“I told you,” you say, turning to him with a helpless little lift of your hands. “Drunk deer.”
“I’ve seen better coordination from elderly, blind patients,” he says, already stepping in.
This time, he doesn’t talk you through it from a distance. He closes the space—one hand around your wrist, adjusting your grip, the other settling lightly at your elbow.
“Two fingers on the barrel. Not the tip—you’re choking it. Light grip.”
His hand closes around your fingers, adjusting them, precise. His other hand taps your elbow up slightly.
“Elbow stays up. You’re dropping it. And don’t throw—just extend. Straight line.”
It’s unfair, really—decades of muscle memory, steady hands from years in surgery and chaos. He makes it sound simple.
“Eyes on the triple twenty,” he adds. “Even if you don’t hit it.”
“I’m absolutely not hitting that.”
“Didn’t ask you to.”
His fingers linger a second longer than necessary before he lets go. “Try again.”
You do. It hits the board. Not well—but enough.
You grin. “Oh, I’m incredible.”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” Robby says. “That was luck.”
“Let her have it,” Jack says, already reaching for his own dart—but his eyes flick to you again, quick, assessing, like he’s clocking the way you’re smiling.
It doesn’t stay just the three of you for long.
The game grows.
People drift in. Someone suggests betting—because of course they do—and suddenly there’s a loose ring of doctors and nurses, drinks in hand, money out, rules half-agreed on and immediately ignored.
Parker takes over without asking.
“Alright—ten in,” she says, already collecting. “Closest to bullseye takes the pot. No crying, no technicalities.”
“You’re literally creating technicalities,” McKay mutters, fishing out a twenty.
“That sounds like a you problem.”
You end up on the edge of it, drink in hand, watching the chaos build—Whitaker overthinking every throw, Dana cheering like it’s a contact sport, Santos heckling from the sidelines.
Jack plays like he works — precise, confident and controlled. Robby tapped out when more money started to get involved. Langdon makes it decently far.
Parker? Unfairly good.
The final round tightens—Jack, Parker, Shen, who is visibly riding whatever unholy mix of caffeine and tequila he’s been subjected to.
There’s a loose semicircle now. People leaning in. Money already spent in their heads.
Shen steps up first, wobbling just slightly as he toes the line.
“Don’t rush it,” someone calls.
“Don’t listen to them,” someone else adds.
He throws.
It lands in the inner single—respectable, a few inches off the bull. The crowd gives him a half-cheer, half-pity clap.
Jack steps up next. The noise dips—not fully quiet, but it shifts. People expect something from him.
He plants his stance. One foot just behind the other, balanced. Rolls his shoulder once. Dart held clean between his fingers.
You watch his breathing even out. He squints slightly—
“Wait.”
Immediate groans. Booing.
“Come on, man—”
“Don’t be that guy—”
He ignores all of it, already turning his head, scanning until he finds you.
You’re half-hidden behind Santos, drink in hand, amused.
He points. Crooks his finger.
“You—c’mere. Need you here. C’mon.”
“Absolutely not,” Dana cuts in. “No coaching.”
“As if,” Jack mutters. Then, louder—“She’s my lucky charm. Get over here, Pinkie.”
There’s a ripple of chuckles as you step forward, shaking your head, slipping through the crowd.
“What am I doing?” you ask, stopping beside him.
He leans in just slightly—close enough that no one else catches it.
“You stand there,” he says, low, casual, “and you look pretty like you always do, think you can do that for me?”
You nod, because you don’t trust your voice for a second, a warmth in your chest that has nothing to do with the vodka. He chews slightly at his inner cheek, before clearing his throat. Maybe he doesn’t trust his voice either.
You take your place beside him.
You can feel the attention shift again, curious—not to the board, but to the two of you, the shape of it. He resets. Shoulders looser now. Grip easier.
Throws.
The dart lands just kissing the edge of the inner bull—half in, half out, riding the red wire. It's the best hit yet.
A sharp inhale from the crowd—then clapping, louder this time. A few impressed whistles.
“Fuck off,” someone mutters.
“Lucky,” Robby adds, but there’s a grin there.
Jack exhales through his nose, a flicker of irritation anyway—because it’s not clean. He glances at the board like it personally disappointed him.
Parker steps up last.
Jack’s hand finds your arm without thinking—light at first, then firmer as he shifts you both back, guiding you out of her line. It’s absent-minded, almost automatic, but he doesn’t drop it immediately.
You end up with your back near the edge of a booth, him just in front of you, close enough that you feel the heat of him through the space.
Neither of you comment on it.
Parker doesn’t take long.
No theatrics. No reset.
She barely lines it up—just a quick sight, a small adjustment of her stance—
Throws.
Bullseye.
Clean. Dead centre.
There’s a beat—like the room needs a second to register it—
Then chaos.
“Pay up, bitches!” she grins, already downing a shot as a chorus of groans follows.
McKay digs into her wallet like she’s being personally victimised. “This is financial abuse.”
“You agreed to the terms,” Parker shoots back.
“Under duress!”
Jack hands over a hundred like it offends him on principle.
“Extortion,” he mutters.
“Voluntary participation,” Parker corrects.
“Actually,” Donnie cuts in, pointing vaguely in your direction, “we have legal counsel present. Can she weigh in?”
There’s a shift—heads turning, attention snapping to you with sudden, collective interest.
You blink once. “Oh, no—don’t drag me into this.”
“Too late,” Santos calls. “Lotso, is this legal or not?”
You take a slow sip of your drink, considering them over the rim. “Okay, well, I mean— You’ve all entered into an informal wagering agreement with clear terms and voluntary participation—so yes, it’s enforceable in the sense that none of you can suddenly decide you don’t want to pay.”
A few groans.
“But,” you add, lifting a finger, “depending on jurisdiction, private betting like this could fall into a grey area if someone really wanted to push it. So maybe don’t document it and submit it to administration... Just to entertain the actual legality of it.”
“That feels targeted,” Parker says.
“You’re holding the cash,” you point out.
“Hypothetically,” Shen jumps in, still wired, “if I refuse to pay—”
“Then you’re an asshole,” you cut in lightly. “And also potentially in breach of a verbal contract.”
“Jesus,” McKay mutters. “Remind me to never bet against you.”
“Smart,” you nod.
They break apart into smaller clusters—arguments over scores, money changing hands, Parker being insufferable about it. The noise swells again, but it no longer feels like it’s pressing in on you.
You stay where you are.
Jack doesn’t move either.
You’re both half-leaning against the edge of the table, shoulders almost brushing, angled toward the room but not really part of it anymore. There’s a pocket of quiet between you that doesn’t belong to anyone else.
You feel his warmth before you properly look at him.
When you do, it’s quick—meant to be quick—but it lingers anyway.
White t-shirt, sleeves worn just enough to show where the sun’s caught him unevenly—faint tan line cutting across the top of his bicep. His arms are braced against the table behind him, weight settled back, forearms flexing slightly as his hands hook under the edge. There’s a network of veins there you hadn’t noticed before. Or maybe you had and just hadn’t let yourself look.
Freckles, too—scattered across his skin, inconsistent, easy to miss unless you’re close enough.
You are.
The bar lighting softens everything—warmer, less clinical than the hospital, less sharp. It makes him look… different. Not smaller, not softer, exactly—just more real. Less like someone constantly in motion, constantly needed.
Just a man, standing beside you, breathing easy for once.
“Good to know we’ve got legal oversight for our gambling ring,” he says quietly, not looking at you yet.
You drag your gaze back up, like you weren’t just cataloguing details you shouldn’t be noticing.
“Happy to provide my services,” you murmur, lifting your drink. “My rates are very reasonable.”
“Yeah?” He turns his head then, properly, eyes settling on you. There’s something slower in it now. Less distracted. “What do you charge?”
You tilt your head, considering. “Depends. What’re you offering?”
A flicker—quick, sharp.
He opens his mouth, then shuts it. You watch him hold back, the thoughts going through his mind, one by one before he settles. “How about anything you want?”
You click your tongue. You pretend to think, unable to hide the dumb smile that spreads across your cheeks. “I guess that’ll work.”
“Yeah? It’ll work? Tolerable offer?” He wonders, sarcastic and teasing as ever.
“Yeah, tolerable. We can work with that.” You nod.
A beat lingers there—long enough to feel it.
Then Parker shouts something about a rematch, the group pulling back into noise and movement again.
Jack doesn’t move away.
You don’t move away when your shoulder brushes his again. He doesn’t move when your knee knocks lightly into his as you shift your weight.
★★★
Over the next few hours, the bar stretches and softens around the edges—music louder, laughter easier, conversations blurring into one another. At some point, it gets too much in the way good things do. Too many bodies, too much heat, the kind of noise that sits behind your eyes.
You slip out the back without making a thing of it.
The alley is quieter. Cooler. The door thuds shut behind you, muffling everything into a distant, dull thrum. A single overhead light flickers, casting everything in that washed-out yellow that makes the world feel briefly paused.
You lean back against the brick, cigarette between your fingers, phone lighting your face as you scroll without really reading anything.
It’s quiet enough that you hear him before he speaks—footsteps, slower, heavier, familiar.
“You know, those are bad for you.”
You glance up.
Robby stands a few feet away, like he’s not entirely sure how he ended up out here either. There’s a faint crease between his brows, not judgment exactly—more curiosity, maybe a touch of something softer than he’d ever admit.
You smile, flicking your screen off, the glow disappearing. “They give you all doctors the same script, then?”
“Yeah,” he says, easy, stepping in to lean against the opposite wall. “We had a meeting about it.”
A beat settles. Easier than inside. Less performative.
He watches you for a second longer than necessary—not in the way Jack does, not sharp or searching. Robby’s gaze is rougher around the edges, like he’s piecing things together without fully committing to the picture.
“You having a good time?” he asks.
You nod, exhaling smoke slow into the cool air. “Yeah. I needed it after today.”
“Tough one?”
You huff a quiet laugh. “Client from hell. AC broken. Judge in a mood. I wore heels like an idiot. Pen broke. Whole thing felt like a setup.”
“Mm,” he grunts. “Sounds about right.”
You glance at him. “You?”
“Good,” he says, like it’s enough. Then, with a small, crooked smile—“Didn’t lose a hundred bucks to Parker, so that’s a win.”
You smile back, softer. “Who would you have betted on?”
He exhales through his nose, tipping his head back briefly against the brick. “Well. I wanna say Jack. Loyalty, solidarity, all that shit—”
“—Parker,” you both say at the same time.
A shared nod. Easy.
You tap ash to the ground, something quieter settling in.
He studies you again—more openly this time. Takes in the cigarette, the dress, the fact that you’re out here at all.
“You don’t strike me as a smoker,” he says.
“I’m not,” you admit. “Not really. Just… sometimes.”
“Bad days,” he guesses.
You glance at him, a little surprised. “That obvious?”
“Mm.” He shifts his weight, folding his arms.
You look away for a second, out toward the dim alley mouth. Silence again—but not awkward. Just… shared.
Then, after a beat—
"You're good for him, you know. Jack, I mean." Robby suddenly says, maybe surprising himself a bit as he scratches slightly at his beard.
Your fingers tighten slightly around the cigarette. “I don’t—”
“I’ve known him a long time,” Robby cuts in, not unkind. “Long enough to know when something shifts.”
You don’t answer straight away. There isn’t a clean answer to give.
He doesn’t push. Just lets it sit, watching you think.
“But you definitely are lucky to him,” he adds after a beat, lighter now, like he’s taking some of the weight back. “I think. Not that I put much stock in that stuff.”
You let out a small, disbelieving laugh. “You think so?”
“Mm.” He tilts his head. “You should’ve seen him before you walked up to that dartboard.”
You raise a brow. “What—missing?”
“Worse,” Robby says. “Overcorrecting. Thinking too much.” A beat. “Then you show up and suddenly he’s back to muscle memory.”
That earns a real laugh from you.
He smiles at that—brief, but genuine, remembers something.
“Guy’s got a tell,” Robby continues. He gestures vaguely, like he’s mapping it out in the air. “You’ll notice it now. His stance. When he’s tired or pushing too hard, he’ll compensate—puts more weight through the left side, shortens his step. Not dramatic. It's just… there. Years of it.”
You picture it before you realise you are—how Jack stands at the board, at the nurses’ station, in hallways. The subtle shift of weight. The way he settles.
“But when he’s… calmer,” Robby continues, “not in his own head so much—he evens out. Gait’s cleaner. Less guarding.” A small shrug. “Closer to neutral. Thinks he’s subtle.” A beat. “He’s not.”
You look down at your cigarette, then back up. “And you are?”
Robby huffs. “God, no.”
Another quiet stretch passes.
The door behind you opens—light spilling out for a second, laughter cutting through before it shuts again.
Robby pushes off the wall first, rolling his shoulders like he’s resetting himself.
“You coming back in?” he asks.
“In a minute,” you say.
He nods once, already moving toward the door. Then he’s gone—door swinging shut behind him, noise swallowing him back up.
You’re left in the quiet again, cigarette burning low between your fingers, his words settling somewhere you don’t quite want to look at too closely.
From inside, you can hear Jack’s laugh—low, familiar, cutting through the rest of it.
You don’t stub the cigarette out right away.
★★★
The night winds down in pieces.
People peel off in twos and threes—Dana half-carrying an overly enthusiastic intern, Parker victorious and loud, counting crumpled notes like she’s just robbed a bank, Shen still vibrating faintly from whatever chemical warfare he put in his system earlier.
There are hugs, sloppy goodbyes, promises to never drink again that nobody means. It softens, slowly, into something quieter. Smaller.
By the time you step out onto the street, the air feels cooler than it should.
Santos and Whitaker stumble out just behind you.
“Do not tell me you two are driving,” Santos says immediately, pointing between you and Jack like she’s personally offended by the concept.
“What?” Jack deadpans. “I see double. Means I can drive twice as good.”
You snort.
“Course not,” he adds, nodding toward you. “Gonna grab her a cab.”
“You could share with ours,” Whitaker offers, already swaying a little, like the suggestion might stabilise him. “Cheaper.”
Jack shakes his head, easy. “Don’t really have to worry about that.”
Whitaker nods like that tracks, like he’s suddenly remembering his own bank account.
“Whatever, we get it, moneybags,” Santos sighs, looping her arm through Whitaker’s. “Come on, Huckleberry. We’ll take one of the poor taxis.” She throws you a grin. “Night, Pinkie.”
They disappear down the street in a mess of laughter.
And then it’s just you and him.
The quiet lands differently now—no buffer of people, no noise to hide behind. Just the two of you under a streetlight that flickers every few seconds like it can’t quite decide if it wants to stay on.
Jack rolls his neck, working out the last of the tension, then glances down at you. “Uber should be here soon.”
You nod, slower this time, the alcohol softening the edges of everything. “Thank you.” A small pause. "'m sorry I wasn't so lucky for your gambling ring."
He shakes his head, quieter than you expect. No quip, no easy deflection. “You’re still lucky.”
You huff, looking down at the pavement, scuffing the toe of your heel against it. “I don’t feel that way. Not most of the time.” A beat. “Today really… set that in stone.”
He watches you for a second—properly this time, not the quick glances he usually allows himself. There’s something steadier in it, less amused, more… considering.
“Bad days don’t get to rewrite the whole thing,” he says.
You let out a small laugh. “That sounds like something you tell patients. Or your residents.”
“Yeah,” he shrugs. “Because it’s true.”
You glance up at him. “You believe that all the time?”
“No,” he says, easy. “But I say it anyway. Sometimes you catch up to it.”
It lands. You don’t brush it off. A car passes, headlights briefly washing over the two of you before the street settles back into that dim, flickering quiet.
You fold your arms loosely, tilting your head. “So what, I’m... I'm lucky because I exist? That’s your medical opinion?”
He huffs a quiet breath, something like a smile pulling at it. “No.” A beat, like he’s choosing the words instead of defaulting to something easy. “You’re lucky because you give a shit. And you’re… tough about it. You don’t fold—you adjust. Get smarter. Compromise.”
You blink at him, a little thrown. “I think that’s just stubbornness.”
“Same difference.”
“Not really.”
“Mm,” he hums, unconvinced. Then, softer—“You showed up tonight anyway.”
You shrug, but it doesn’t quite land casual. “I needed a drink.”
“Yeah,” he nods. “And you came to us.” A small pause. “To me, some might say.”
There’s something in the way he says it—dry, almost throwaway, but it sits heavier than that.
You glance at him, a crooked little smile pulling at your mouth. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
“Too late,” he says, dry. “Already built a whole narrative.”
The quiet settles again, but it’s different now—closer. You can feel the heat of him beside you despite the cold, the way you’re both standing just a little inside each other’s space without acknowledging it.
He shifts, weight evening out, one hand dropping from his hip. His gaze drifts—slow, not subtle anymore. Your dress, your tights, the slight tear near your thigh, the way you keep tugging it down without realising.
“You might not... feel lucky,” he says, circling back, quieter. “But you are.”
You meet his eyes. “Because I’m your good luck charm?”
“Partly,” he admits. “Selfishly.”
You raise a brow. “Honest.”
“Sometimes.”
“Better.”
That small smile again—real this time, sitting easier on him.
A car turns the corner, headlights slower now—your Uber—but neither of you moves yet.
“You ever think,” you start, then hesitate, the alcohol making you just honest enough to say it anyway, “that maybe I just like being around you guys because it’s… easier?”
He watches you. Doesn’t interrupt.
“Like,” you go on, quieter, eyes dropping for a second, “at work it’s all liability and contracts and people who’ve been screwed over trying to screw the system back. Everyone’s defensive. Or waiting for you to mess up so they can use it.”
You glance back up at him.
“With you— with all of you,” you correct, but it lands a little pointed anyway, “it feels… normal. Human. No one’s talking down to me. No one’s waiting for me to trip.” A small breath. “You trust me. That’s—” you shrug, softer, “—rare.”
He takes that in properly. You can see it.
“So yeah,” you add, a faint smile returning, “that’s why I bother you all the time.”
“That’s a generous read,” he says.
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah,” he nods. “I do.”
A pause. The engine of the Uber idles somewhere behind you now, unnoticed.
“Goes both ways,” he adds.
You tilt your head. “What does that mean?”
He pauses—long enough that you think he might dodge it. You can see the instinct there, the easy out.
Then he exhales, like he’s too tired to be anything but honest.
“You’re easy to be around,” he says. It lands quieter, but heavier. “Things get lighter when you’re there.”
You don’t look away.
“Even when you’re not,” he adds, glancing off for a second like he’s already annoyed at himself for saying it. “People are… better. I’m better.”
You let out a small breath, almost a laugh. “That feels like a lot to pin on one person.”
“Yeah,” he nods. “It is.” A beat. “Doesn’t make it wrong.”
Your fingers tighten slightly around your messenger bag, something in your chest pulling in a way you don’t quite want to name.
“I think you’re romanticising me,” you say, softer now.
“Kid,” he huffs, a faint smile tugging at his mouth, “I’m old enough to know when something’s actually making my life easier.”
You glance up at him through your lashes. “How so?”
“Quieter in my head. Less… noise.” A small shrug. “Doesn’t happen much.”
That lands somewhere deeper than it should.
The Uber pulls up properly this time, engine idling.
He glances at it, then back at you. “That’s you. I’d come with, but I’m making sure Robby gets back safe. He’s somewhere across the park, last I checked.”
“Okay,” you say—but you don’t move.
You’re standing close enough now that it would be easy to close the gap. Easy to do something about the way he’s looking at you, the way your hand keeps brushing his arm when you shift.
Your lips press to his, warm, a little tentative at first. He stills—caught for half a beat—a hand pulling yours against him by his bicep, and he leans into it, answering you properly. It’s brief, but it’s not nothing. There’s weight in it. Recognition.
You pull back first—quicker than you meant to.
He almost follows. You feel it—the way he leans in a fraction before stopping himself, jaw tightening slightly like he’s reining it in.
“For luck,” you murmur, a little breathless despite yourself, your hand still resting on his forearm. “With Robby. He seems like a confused drunk.”
A corner of his mouth pulls, but his eyes stay on you—darker now, steadier.
“Mm,” he nods, voice rougher than before. His gaze drops briefly to where your fingers rest against his arm—nails brushing the cotton material of his t-shirt, dragging down over his skin. “Could’ve used that a couple hours ago against Parker. I'd be a hundred dollars richer.”
You snicker softly, the tension not quite breaking.
Neither of you moves.
Your hand slides down from his forearm slower this time, not quite ready to let go. You try to ignore how your heart might fall out of its chest, how he watches you with such intensity and curiosity.
“You’ll call me?” you ask, like it’s casual. Like it doesn’t matter.
“Yeah,” he says, immediate. Certain. “I will.”
You nod, like that’s enough. Like you believe him.
He steps forward first this time, opening the door for you, his hand settling at your back—warm, steady, guiding you in. It lingers a second longer than necessary, just enough to make your breath catch again before you sit.
“Get home safe,” he says.
“You too,” you murmur.
You look up at him once more before the door closes—him under the flickering streetlight, a little rumpled, a little tired, still watching you like he’s not quite done with this moment yet.
The door shuts.
And as the car pulls away, you catch him in the side mirror—still standing there, shoulders set, hand flexing once at his side before he drags it back through his silver curls, exhales, and finally turns toward the park.
part one (linger) here, part two (strawberry) here, part three (optics) here
a/n: guys idk if this is that good im feeling iffy about it. but yk what we can always edit it, come back to it another time. just didnt wanna keep yall waiting any longer
guys! ive been so !!! agh. school. uni. work. life. whatnot. burns!! sorry for the time on this. actually im not, i kinda just wanna post when i wanna post, and im really trying to work on a few wips at once. but yeah anyway hopefully i can pump out another one of these in the next week or so, idk how many i'll do of these, its a cute fun little dynamic, but im rlly curious about you guys and ur thoughts on where it could go, if theres anything we could explore here
how i'd love to go to paris again (and again) | j. abbot
pairing jack abbot x fem!reader x michael robinavitch
summary after jack casually floats the idea of adding a third, you don’t let it stay theoretical for long—what starts as curiosity turns into something a lot more real when robby gets pulled into the space you and jack have built together. (#threesometime #neverforgetchallengers) (ao3)
tags/warnings MDNI (18+) explicit sexual content, age gap (mid-20s / 50s), established relationship with you and jack, living together, unlabelled jack and robby sexualities (bi?), attempt at a true love triangle (et tu, challengers (2024) except no cheating & u and jack r <3. but rabbot under(over?)tones), unprotected p in v, oral (f/m, m/f) handjobs (f/m, m/m), masturbation, praise & teasing, dom!ish robby, bratty!ish reader, lowkey switch/softdom jack idk, finger sucking, domestic, drinking, brief hospital/medical stuff / orthopaedics (r3), porn with... context?, hint at robby internalised homophobia? possibly ooc for jack sorry, title reference to the 1975 but not inspired by the song more just bad pun bc... paris... threesome... get it
wc 18.3k words
spin off of the fic: my (wo)man on willpower | j. abbot - can be read solo!
Robby doesn’t look confused so much as… unconvinced.
He sits back in the booth, one arm slung along the backrest, beer loose in his hand, eyes moving between you and Jack like he’s watching a consult go sideways.
“…You two wanna try that again,” he says, slow, “but in English this time?”
Jack huffs under his breath, already regretting opening his mouth. He drags a hand over his jaw, glancing at you like he’s half-tempted to pull the plug on the whole thing.
“Told you,” he mutters, low. “Bad pitch.”
You nudge his knee under the table—not hard, just enough. Don’t bail.
Robby catches it. Of course he does. His eyes flick down, then back up, something sharpening.
“Oh, don’t tap out now,” he says, leaning forward, forearms braced on the table. “You brought it up. I’m listening.”
Jack opens his mouth again—
“—No,” Robby cuts him off, not even looking at him. “She talks.”
There’s that tone. The one he uses with residents when they’re dancing around something obvious. Not unkind. Just… direct. Your breath catches for half a second. Not nerves exactly—more the weight of being looked at like that. Seen through, a little.
Jack glances at you, something softer there now. A small nod. Go on.
You shift in your seat, tucking one leg under you slightly, grounding yourself before you speak.
“It’s not… open,” you start, careful. “We’re not looking to—change anything. Not really.”
Robby watches you the whole time. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t fill the silence for you.
“It’s just—” you exhale, a small, almost embarrassed huff of a laugh, “—we trust you. Both of us do. And you’ve been… there. With us. For a while.”
“Unfortunately,” he mutters.
Jack snorts. “Speak for yourself.”
But Robby doesn’t look away from you.
You hold his gaze. “It’s not random. It’s not… about finding some person to fool around with. It’s you.”
That lands. You see it in the way his jaw shifts, just slightly. The humour doesn’t disappear, but it tightens around the edges.
“…Right,” he says, slower now.
Jack leans forward, elbows on the table, finally stepping back in. “It’s not a free-for-all,” he adds, dry. “We’re not pitching some kind of ER orgy.”
“Shame,” Robby says flatly.
You almost laugh, tension breaking for a second.
Jack shoots him a look. “Be serious for one second in your life.”
“I am serious,” Robby says. Then, to you—“I’m just making sure I understand what the hell you’re asking me.”
His gaze drops briefly—to your hands, the way they’re curled loosely around your glass—then back up again.
“What are you actually offering here?” he asks.
You hesitate—not because you don’t know, but because saying it out loud makes it real. Jack shifts beside you. You feel his knee press into yours, steady, grounding.
“It’s not just sex,” you say, quieter now.
Robby’s brow lifts. “No?”
You shake your head. “It’s… us. Still us. Just—” you glance at Jack, then back at Robby, “—with you in it. Sometimes. If you wanted that.”
There’s a long beat.
Robby leans back again, dragging his hand over his mouth, thinking. Really thinking.
“You two have been together, what,” he says, glancing at Jack, “two years now?”
“Nearly three,” Jack corrects.
“Nearly three,” Robby repeats. “You know, you… you live together. Don’t kill each other. That’s impressive.”
“Thank you,” you say, dry.
His gaze shifts back to you again, softer this time—but heavier, too.
“And you’re both telling me this doesn’t… complicate things.”
Jack answers this time, steady. “Everything’s already complicated. This wouldn’t change what we’ve got. We’ve talked, we trust each other, we trust you.”
Robby studies him for a second longer than necessary. There’s history in that look. Long-standing, unspoken understanding. The kind you only get after decades of knowing someone.
“…You’re serious,” he says finally.
“Yeah,” Jack says.
Robby exhales, a quiet, disbelieving laugh under his breath. He tips his head back for a second, staring at the ceiling like he’s trying to reset his brain.
“Jesus Christ.”
You don’t rush him. Neither does Jack. When he looks back at you, it’s different now. Less amused. More… considering.
“You’re asking about the three of us…” he tries, trailing off.
You nod. “Yeah.”
His eyes flick, just briefly, to where your leg is still angled toward Jack’s, the easy closeness of it. Then back to your face.
“And you’re both just- you’re… good with it,” he says.
Your voice is quieter when you answer. “Wouldn’t be sitting here if we weren’t. You’re attractive, smart, funny. And I think you’ve always secretly had a thing for at least one of us. Maybe both, but, one way to find out, I guess.”
Robby drums his fingers once against the table, then stills them.
“...Christ,” he mutters again, but there’s a hint of something else in it now. Not just disbelief.
Interest. He looks at you properly then. Not the quick, passing glances from before. This is slower. Measuring.
“You always this persuasive?” He wonders.
You tilt your head, a small smile pulling at your mouth. “Only when it matters.”
That earns the faintest huff of a laugh.
“Yeah,” he says. “I can see that.”
Jack shifts beside you, not tense—but alert. Watching the shift happen in real time. Robby notices that too. His mouth quirks, just slightly.
Your phone buzzes—once, twice, then a string of messages lighting up your screen.
You glance down, already half-standing. “I’ve gotta go. Park needs me—Isla called in sick.”
Jack doesn’t even hesitate. He’s already reaching into his pocket, keys in hand. “Take the car. I’ll ride back with him.”
You take them, brushing his fingers briefly. “Thanks, baby.”
You lean down—meant to be quick, but it doesn’t quite stay that way. Your mouth presses to his, warm, familiar. He lets you, hand coming up to your cheek, thumb catching just under your jaw, holding you there for half a second longer than necessary before you pull back.
There’s a flicker of something in his eyes when you do. You straighten, turning— Robby’s already looking at you. Not subtle about it. Rarely is.
“Michael,” you say, softer, a small nod.
He repeats your name—flatter, rougher, like he’s testing how it sits in his mouth.
You don’t linger. You head out.
The door swings shut behind you.
Jack watches it a beat too long. Then exhales, leaning back into the booth, dragging a hand over his mouth like he’s resetting.
Robby doesn’t look at the door. He looks at Jack. There’s a slow, almost amused curve to his mouth. Not mocking. Just… processing.
“Alright,” he says. “Who’s idea is it?”
Jack doesn’t bother pretending. “Mine.”
Robby lets out a short, disbelieving breath. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“When?”
Jack shrugs, reaching for his beer. “Remember that detox sexless cult thing she did a few months back?”
Robby snorts. “Yeah. You turned into the most unbearable version of yourself I’ve seen in twenty years. Which is saying something.”
“Appreciate that.”
“Walking around like—” Robby gestures vaguely, “—like a cat in heat.”
Jack huffs a laugh despite himself. “Yeah, well. After you left that morning, we had our… you know, usual great sex - not adding as part of the pitch, you already know how good the sex is -”
“-get to the point,” Robby says, with a slight snicker.
“Some point, I mention… I don’t know, marriage, foreplay, a third. We finish up, and… we’re just talking.”
“Talking,” Robby repeats, deadpan.
“Yeah. Try it sometime. With a professional, even, they do that.”
“Hard pass.”
Jack ignores him, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “It came up. Not seriously at first. Hypotheticals. What we’d be into, what we wouldn’t.”
“And you landed on me,” Robby says.
“Yeah.”
Robby watches him for a second. Longer than usual. “…Both of you.”
“Both of us.”
That lands differently.
Robby leans back, dragging a hand over his jaw, thinking. Really thinking now—not just reacting.
“That’s your girl,” he says finally. “You’ve built something there. I’m not—” he shakes his head slightly, “—I’m not interested in screwing that up.”
Jack’s expression doesn’t change much, but something in it settles. He nods once.
“I wouldn’t be asking if I thought you would.”
Robby glances at him, sharper now. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”
“No,” Jack agrees easily. “But I do know you.”
A beat.
“And I trust you,” he adds.
it hangs there. Robby exhales slowly, gaze dropping to the table for a second before coming back up.
“…Yeah,” he mutters. “That’s the problem.”
Jack’s brow lifts, faintly amused. “That I trust you?”
“That I don’t take that lightly,” Robby shoots back.
Silence stretches for a second. Then Robby leans forward slightly, forearms braced on the table, voice dropping a notch.
“And you’re fine with it,” he says. Not a question. “Me and her.”
Jack doesn’t flinch. “Yeah.”
“Really.”
“Yeah.”
Robby studies him—searching for cracks, for ego, for something careless. Doesn’t find much. Jack kept his pride in check. He wasn’t a jealous person, not really. He was secure in himself. Something Robby envied, sometimes.
“…She’s—” he starts, then cuts himself off, jaw tightening slightly. “You know what she is.”
Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah. I do.”
“Twenty-something,” Robby continues. “Smart. Looks like—” he gestures vaguely, then shakes his head. “You’ve seen her.”
Jack smirks faintly. “I have, yeah. A lot of her. It’s great.”
Robby’s mouth twitches despite himself.
“And she looks at you like you hung the moon half the time,” he adds.
Jack’s expression softens just a fraction. “Sometimes.”
Robby nods once, slow. Then—
“…You really telling me you’ve never thought about it? About her” Jack asks, casual—but not careless.
Robby lets out a quiet breath through his nose, leaning back again.
“That’s not a fair question.”
Jack tilts his head at his friend. An insistence in his eyes to go on.
Robby tips his head back slightly, staring at the ceiling for a second like he’s debating how honest he wants to be.
Then he looks back at Jack.
“…Well I’m not blind,” he says.
Jack doesn’t react much. Just watches him.
“She’s—” Robby exhales, searching for a word, then gives up and settles for, “—she’s a lot. Sweet.”
Jack’s mouth ticks. “She is… You ever think about her while jerking off?”
Robby lets out a low breath at that, clicking his tongue at his friend's bluntness. Fuck it, they’re being honest. “Yes.”
Robby’s a little surprised when he sees the slow blink from Jack, a nod. Maybe irritable.
“What?” Robby scoffs. “You’re cool with the prospect of me fucking your girl? But what I do with my hand in my spare time is… what, some sort of line being crossed?”
“I didn’t say anything, alright. I’m all good here. Just didn’t think you’d admit it,” Jack nods with insistence. “What about during sex? Thought about her then?”
“...On occasion, yes, I’ve- she’s popped up there, yeah.” Robby admits with brief hesitance.
That’s as far as he pushes it—but it’s enough. Jack nods once, like this one he expected. Like it doesn’t threaten anything.
“Fair,” he says.
Robby glances at him, something like disbelief creeping back in. “You’re taking that a lot better than I thought you would.”
Jack shrugs. “She’s hot. You’re not dead. Tells me you’ve got a working dick, at least.”
Robby lets out a short laugh at that, shaking his head.
Jack took a sip of his beer, then—because he wasn’t finished, because he never really was with Robby—tilts his head slightly.
“What about me?”
Robby scoffs immediately, too quick. “Oh, come on.”
“No, seriously,” Jack says, glancing at him sideways. Casual on the surface, not casual underneath. “No shame, total honesty here. Twenty years, no secrets, all that bullshit.”
Robby drags a hand over his beard, already feeling the trap closing. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Have you?” Jack asks, like he was asking about the weather.
A pause.
Robby stares at the table, jaw working once.
“…You first,” he mutters.
Jack doesn’t even blink. “Yeah.”
Robby let out a slow breath through his nose, eyes dropping, like he was doing the math on how much of himself he was willing to hand over tonight.
“Man, it’s not even—” Jack went on, shrugging a shoulder. “Half the time that shit doesn’t mean anything. Brain just throws things at you. Doesn’t make you anything.”
Robby let out a short, humourless huff. “Right.”
“What,” Jack presses lightly, “you worried about the gay implications?”
Robby shot him a look. “Don’t—”
“—What? Say ‘gay’?” Jack says, not unkind, but not backing off either.
Robby glances up as a couple walks past, waits them out, then leans back in his seat, voice lower.
“We’re talking about whether I’ve jacked off thinking about another guy,” he says, flat. “Yeah, the… ‘gay’ of it all crossed my mind. Excuse me.”
Jack just nods, like that was fair.
“I just… I guess, I didn’t realise—” Robby starts, then stops, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I mean, you know, are you—”
Jack shrugs, easy. “I’ve been with a few. Never made a whole thing out of it. Don’t really care to.”
Robby gives a small, disbelieving shake of his head. “Figrues. Army man.”
“Yeah, well,” Jack mutters. “You don’t have to slap a label on it, Rob. Doesn’t have to mean anything bigger than it is.”
“I’m aware,” Robby says, maybe a little sharper than he meant to. Then, quieter—like it cost him something— “…It’s crossed my mind.”
Jack’s mouth pulled into something faintly smug. Not cruel—just… satisfied.
“Crossed your mind,” he repeated. “Interesting wording.”
“Don’t start,” Robby warns, but there was less heat in it now.
Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “It was easier getting you to admit you think about fucking my girlfriend half our age than it was getting that out of you. That’s saying something.”
“Fuck you,” Robby mutters, rolling his eyes—but there was a reluctant grin there now, breaking through whether he liked it or not.
Jack shrugs, taking another sip. “Options apparently on the table.”
Robby shakes his head, but didn’t argue. Didn’t fully look away, either.
Something in the air had shifted—subtle, but real. Not a line crossed, exactly. More like one finally acknowledged.
Robby studied him for a second, longer than necessary. There was history there—years of it, unspoken things sitting just under the surface, things neither of them had ever had to name.
Jack didn’t push. Just leaned back, easy.
“Think about it,” he tries. “Or don’t. Nothing changes.”
Robby nods once, short. “Yeah.” A few seconds of quiet. “…You still need that ride home?” he asks.
Jack snorts. “Oh, a ride home? Wow. Subtle.”
“Shut up.”
“Flirting now, are we?”
“You are not a funny man, Jack Abbot, don’t think otherwise,” Robby says, but he was already smiling, just a little.
★★★
2 WEEKS EARLIER
threesomenoun — three·some — ˈthrē-səm
1: a group of three persons or things : trio
2: a golf match in which one person plays their ball against the ball of two others playing each stroke alternately
3: a sexual encounter involving three people
“Are you trying to say you wanna play golf?” Jack says from the stove, not even turning around as he stirs the pan like it personally offended him.
The kitchen smells like garlic and butter—onions already softened down, carrots and capsicum still holding a bit too much bite. He’s got one hand on the wooden spoon, the other braced on the counter, solid and steady in that way he always is.
You’re perched up on the counter, one leg swinging lazily, phone in hand.
“Yes,” you say dryly, scrolling. “I’m deeply passionate about golf. The balls. The stroking of the balls—”
“—I get it,” Jack cuts in. “You want a threesome.”
You look up at him, unimpressed. “I don’t want a threesome. I love twosomes. Specifically with you.” A beat. “But I’m not opposed to… expanding the sample size.”
Jack snorts, finally glancing over to you. “Expanding the—Jesus. That’s how you pitch wanting to fuck my best friend?”
“You brought it up,” you shoot back, pointing your phone at him like evidence. “Don’t act like this wasn’t your idea. ‘Oh baby, we should add a third, Robby would give me notes’—”
“I did not sound like that.”
“—If anything,” you continue over him, “I think you wanna fuck your best friend.”
“Alright,” Jack mutters, turning back to the pan. “Not what I sound like. And c’mon—you know you’re all I wanna fuck.” He nudges the vegetables again, frowning. “I think these are done.”
“They’re not.” You don’t even look up when you say it. “Anyway… I doubt he’d even be down for it,” you say. “I barely think he likes me as a friend.”
Jack lets out a quiet scoff at that.
You narrow your eyes. “What?”
“I think he’d fuck you in a heartbeat if I said I was okay with it,” Jack says, like it’s obvious. Then, distracted again—“I really think these are done, hon.”
“Test the carrot,” you say, still scrolling. “If it’s soft enough, it’ll break with pressure.”
He presses the spoon into one. It doesn’t budge.
“…Needs longer,” he admits.
“How do you know that?”
“I just did what you said, I—”
“No,” you interrupt, looking at him properly now. “How do you know Robby would fuck me?”
That slows him down.
Jack exhales through his nose, shoulders shifting as he leans back slightly against the counter, thinking.
“I know him,” he says. “Twenty years of it. And I know you.” A beat. “There’s something there. A thing. You’ve always had good chemistry.”
You huff lightly. “A vague… thing, maybe.”
You hesitate, then—because you don’t really do half-truths—
“I did have a bit of a crush on him,” you admit. “Before I met you.”
Jack stills. Not dramatically. Just enough.
“I don’t anymore,” you add quickly. “It faded. Pretty fast, actually. It was early—before I started coming down to ED properly. He’d come up sometimes, consults, whatever. I think it was just…” you shrug, searching, “…older. Authority. Bit of an asshole.”
Jack’s mouth pulls slightly at that, something between amused and unimpressed.
“Glad to know you don’t have a type,” he mutters.
You lean in closer from the counter, nudging his shoulder lightly with your knee.
“Hey,” you murmur. He glances up at you. “I like them a little shorter,” you say softly.
Jack blinks.
Then rolls his eyes, a huff of laughter slipping out despite himself as you grin and go back to your phone.
“Unbelievable,” he mutters, turning the heat down, a small smile at the corner of his lips.
★★★
The thing about a third—about this third—was that it… kind of just felt natural. Like there was so little reason to not do it, to not try it, invite it.
It wasn’t sudden. It was something that had been sitting under the skin of things for so long it stopped feeling foreign the second it was named.
Robby had never been separate from Jack.
Not really. People liked to pretend friendships had clean edges—this is where I end, this is where you begin—but that had never been the case with them.
Too many years. Too many nights that blurred into mornings, too many arguments that never quite resolved but never quite broke them either.
They’d dragged each other through their twenties, stumbled into their thirties, and settled—somehow—into their forties without ever untangling.
They knew each other in ways that made distance feel artificial.
And Robby had always lived in that tension.
He didn’t soften easily. Didn’t trust softness when it showed up uninvited. Jack had always been the exception to that rule—steady enough to withstand it, patient enough not to demand more than Robby could give. But patience didn’t mean absence.
There were things between them that had never been said out loud. Not because they didn’t exist, but because saying them would’ve required a kind of clarity Robby had spent most of his life avoiding.
It was easier to file it under something else—loyalty, history, proximity. Easier to laugh it off, to redirect, to let it sit in that grey space where it didn’t have to be examined too closely.
Then you came along. And you didn’t disrupt that balance. You just seemed to understand it.
You didn’t wedge yourself between them, didn’t ask Jack to choose, didn’t look at Robby like he was something to tolerate or compete with. You moved through it like it already made sense to you. Like there was room.
And God—there was something about you.
Not just that you were beautiful—though you were, in a way that made people look twice without meaning to. Not just that you were younger, brighter, sharper at the edges in a way that made everything feel a little more alive. It was the way you saw people.
The way you saw Jack—fully, without flinching, without trying to fix him or soften him into something more palatable. The way you leaned into him like you trusted him to hold the weight of that. The way you touched him without hesitation, like affection was a language you spoke fluently.
And worse—
The way you looked at Robby sometimes, like you were trying to figure him out and already had.
He’d noticed it long before anyone said anything. Of course he had. The small things. The way your attention lingered just a second longer than necessary. The way you didn’t pull back when he got too close, didn’t flinch at the edge in him that made other people cautious.
You met it. Sometimes you even matched it. And that—more than anything—was what made him careful. Because wanting you was one thing.
That was easy enough to dismiss, tuck away under instinct, under biology, under the thousand other justifications people used to avoid looking too closely at themselves.
But wanting you like this—in the context of Jack, with Jack, because of Jack. That was something else entirely. It brushed up against things he didn’t have neat categories for. Things that felt uncomfortably close to lines he’d spent years pretending weren’t there.
And Jack…
Jack, who didn’t do anything halfway, who didn’t offer things he wasn’t sure about—was sitting across from him like this was just another extension of something already solid. Like this wasn’t a risk so much as… an opening.
That was what threw him. It wasn’t the sex or the implication, it was how Jack totally trusted him. With you, with this, with Jack himself.
And Robby didn’t trust himself nearly that much.
That was the problem. Beneath all the deflection, all the dryness and sarcasm, the sharp edges, there was something undeniably real threading through all three of you. Not clean, not simple—but real in a way that resisted being dismissed.
Jack had never been particularly private about you. Not with Robby.
Not in the way people usually were about relationships—careful, curated, keeping the good parts polished and the rest tucked away. Jack wasn’t built like that. He didn’t gush, didn’t sentimentalise—but if he’d had a couple drinks in him and it’d been a long week, you came up. Inevitably.
Not in a soft-focus, hearts-and-flowers way.
In details. In fragments. In the way you got under his skin and stayed there.
The way you kissed him, made him feel every ounce of his own flesh and blood, grounded, and above at once. In how much he adored your figure, or some ridiculous position, some ridiculous story of stamina and libido, your mouth, his mouth, your hand, his hand.
Robby had learned, over the years, to let it wash over him. Half-listening, half-not. It wasn’t discomfort exactly—more like… he didn’t know where to put it. There was something about hearing your name in Jack’s mouth like that that sat strange in his chest.
“What the fuck do you mean six times?” Robby had said once, a laugh breaking through despite himself as he tipped his beer back.
They were sprawled out on the grass like they hadn’t aged out of it—backs damp against the ground, shirts sticking, the heat of the day still rising up through the dirt. The city hummed around them, distant enough to ignore. It felt like being twenty something again, except their knees ached when they stood and everything they didn’t talk about sat heavier.
It was one of those nothing nights, sometime back in Spring. End of a shift. A few beers. Waiting for you to finish upstairs while Jack pretended he wasn’t being watched over by the hospital.
Jack didn’t even open his eyes. “I mean she came six times,” he said, easy. “Working up to eight.”
Robby snorted. “You’re talking like it’s a personal best.”
“It is,” Jack said. “You don’t set goals, you stagnate. That’s what my therapist says.”
“Jesus Christ.”
Jack grinned faintly, still flat on his back, arms folded behind his head like he had nowhere else to be. “What’s your number?”
Robby shrugged, taking another sip. “I don’t know. I don’t have a number.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Nope.”
“Bull.”
Robby dragged a hand over his mouth, already regretting engaging. “…Four. Maybe.”
Jack turned his head slightly, considering that like it mattered more than it should. His fingers tapped absently against the neck of the bottle.
“Four,” he repeated.
“Some of us aren’t treating it like a competitive sport,” Robby muttered.
Jack huffed. “It’s not me,” he said. “It’s her. She’s a natural.”
“She really that good?” Robby had slipped as a question. Maybe for his own curiosity, maybe because he knew Jack would’ve gotten to it at some point. Both, likely.
There was a beat.
Robby stared up at the sky like it didn’t matter either way. Jack shifted slightly, something quieter settling into him now.
“She’s—” he paused, like he was trying to find a word that didn’t sound ridiculous and failing. “She pays attention. Like she’s studying you. Figures out what works and then—just… doesn’t let up. Like I’m constantly high around her. And man, she-” Jack cleared his throat. “She does this thing with her tongue.”
Robby exhaled through his nose, slow.
He didn’t say anything.
“She swirls it, right around the underside, traces it—the entire thing with the flat part. Goes between, you know, broad strokes, little ones, then she’ll—fuck,” Jack had mused. “…She’ll use the space beneath her tongue, suck, and still use her tongue at the same time. I can’t describe how good it feels,” Jack had explained, his words slurring slightly but still carrying a strange clarity. “Fucking… incredible.”
Robby couldn’t have helped but picture it. The image of you, on your knees, long lashes batting at him, as you brought him to the edge. He sipped his beer, fingers a bit tighter around the neck of the glass.
“She makes the prettiest noises, like a… I don’t even know,” Jack added, quieter now, almost to himself. “Moans and screams, and so… Christ. Like she doesn’t even realise she’s doing it, possessed.”
“Alright, that’s enough,” Robby cut in, not sharply, but firm.
Jack just smirked, eyes still shut. “You asked.”
“I didn’t ask for a breakdown.”
“Semantics.”
Robby shook his head, but there was a faint smile tugging at his mouth despite it. He finished the last of his beer, letting the cold settle something in his chest that had nothing to do with the heat.
A pause stretched between them. Jack sipped his beer. Then—
“What’s the deal with you and Noelle?” Jack asked, casual in that way that wasn’t casual at all.
Robby’s jaw shifted.
“She’s… fine,” he said.
Jack cracked one eye open. “That sounds promising.”
Robby huffed. “It’s not—” he cut himself off, shook his head. “Don’t think it’s going anywhere.”
Jack watched him for a second. Then nodded, like he’d expected that. He handed Robby his own beer, watching as Robby took it after a moment, sipping from it himself
“Yeah,” he said. “Bummer.”
Another beat. Robby sat up, bracing his forearms on his knees, their shared beer dangling loose between his fingers.
“Don’t think I’m built for it,” he said finally.
Jack didn’t move. “For what?”
“This,” Robby gestured vaguely. “Relationships. The staying. The… showing up part.”
Jack was quiet for a second.
Then—
“Now that’s bull,” he said, not unkindly.
Robby glanced at him, a faint, tired smirk pulling at his mouth. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “We’ve known each other, what—twenty years? You’ve stuck around that long.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?”
Robby didn’t answer that. Jack pushed himself up onto his elbows now, looking at him properly.
“You don’t get to pretend you can’t do something just because you haven’t done it right yet,” he said.
Robby scoffed lightly. “Didn’t realise you were gonna get philosophical on me.”
“Yeah, well,” Jack muttered, reaching for his beer. “Hate to break it to you, man, but you’re not some unfixable case.”
Robby laughed at that—short, real.
“Garcia said I’d make a good ex-husband,” he said.
Jack snorted. “See? Even she thinks you can commit.”
“That’s not what that means.”
“Close enough,” Jack sighed. “Lie down, will you. You’re so damn tense.”
Robby let out a low groan but did it anyway, dropping back into the grass beside him, one arm flung over his eyes like he could shut the world out for a second.
The ground was still a little damp from the morning rain, cool through his shirt, the air thick and warm in that late-night way where everything feels slower, looser.
They went quiet after that. Easy quiet. The kind that only comes after years—no need to fill it, no need to perform.
“Aw, you two are so cute.”
Jack sat up immediately.
You stood a few feet off the path, lit half by a flickering streetlamp—scrubs wrinkled, hair a mess like you’d been running your hands through it all day, hoodie tied loose around your hips. One of Jack’s old military backpacks hung off your shoulder like it belonged there.
For a while there, Robby had forgotten the whole reason they’d been in the park to begin with was to wait for you.
“Hey, baby,” Jack said, voice softening without him meaning it to. “You finish alright?”
You just nodded, already moving toward him.
You didn’t hesitate—never did. Leaned down, pressed a quick kiss to his cheek that turned, halfway through, into something closer to his mouth. Warm. Familiar. You lingered just long enough that he had to chase it a second.
“Miss me?” you murmured, barely pulling back.
“Always,” he said, easy. A little drunk, a little honest.
Robby watched it happen from the ground, not even pretending not to.
You dropped down in front of Jack, cross-legged, close enough your knees brushed his thighs. His hands came up immediately—instinct, habit—sliding over your arms, grounding, checking.
Then his mouth found your neck, a soft press just under your jaw, before his hands settled at your shoulders, working slow circles into muscle that had no business being that tight at your age.
You exhaled like you’d been holding it all day.
“Jesus,” you muttered. “Keep doing that.”
“Yeah?” Jack hummed against your skin, a little smug.
“Mhm.”
You tipped your head slightly, giving him better access without thinking. He took it.
Across from you, Robby shifted, propping himself up on his elbows now, watching the two of you with that same look he always got—half amused, half something else he never quite named.
“Robby,” you said, glancing over at him, “how the hell are you drinking after that shift? You guys were slammed.”
“Sometimes a drink’s all you get,” he said. His voice was steady, but his eyes flicked—brief, involuntary—to where Jack’s hands were still working into your shoulders. Then back to your face. “Ortho must’ve been a dream, though.”
You let out a dry laugh. “Oh yeah. Absolute paradise. Park was being a complete asshole to one of the R1s. Kid looked like he was gonna cry.”
“Sounds about right,” Robby muttered.
Jack’s hands slowed, thumbs pressing deeper into a knot that made you suck in a breath.
“Careful,” he said. “You’re gonna fall asleep right here.”
“Honestly?” you said, eyes half-lidded now, “tempting.”
There was a beat. Quiet again—but different this time. Fuller.
You shifted slightly, leaning back into Jack without thinking. Your hand found his knee, resting there, absent, like it belonged.
Robby noticed that too. Of course he did.
You glanced up at Jack then, studying him for a second longer than necessary.
“…You been talking about me?” you asked.
Jack snorted, immediate. “What?”
“You’ve got that look,” you said, squinting at him. “And he’s looking at me weird.”
“I always look at people weird,” Robby said, flat, from the grass.
You didn’t even look at him. “Yeah, but this is a different weird.”
Jack huffed a laugh under his breath, shaking his head like you were ridiculous, even as his mouth betrayed him. “We were just talking about your—what was it—immense beauty. Your sex appeal. Your many talents.”
His mouth brushed your neck again as he said it, like he couldn’t quite help himself.
Robby let out a quiet breath through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Something drier. “It’s not far off.”
You stilled. Then slowly turned your head, looking at Jack properly now.
“What did you say to him,” you murmured, low, dangerous in a way that wasn’t entirely serious—but not entirely not.
Jack leaned in, said something under his breath—too quiet for Robby to catch. Your reaction was immediate.
You smacked his leg—right on the prosthetic—with a sharp thwack.
“Jack.”
He barely flinched, just grinned, caught your wrist before you could do it again.
“If you actually told him that,” you said, pointing at him, “I swear to god I’ll take this thing off and beat you with it.”
“That’s dramatic,” Jack murmured, still holding your hand. “And also physically unlikely.”
“It’s true, though,” he added, softer now, mouth near your ear again. “You’re very good at it.”
You rolled your eyes, but your shoulders had loosened, leaning back into him again despite yourself.
Robby watched the whole thing like it was a film he hadn’t agreed to sit through, but couldn’t quite look away from either.
“So the tongue thing’s real then?” he asked, almost idly.
Jack groaned. “Alright. We’re done here.”
You laughed—bright, cutting through the heaviness of the day shift still clinging to all three of you—and turned into Jack properly this time.
It wasn’t quick. Not really. Soft at first, then deeper, your hand coming up to his jaw, holding him there. He responded without thinking, one hand sliding to your waist, pulling you closer, grounding himself in something he knew.
Robby looked away. Not fast enough.
You pulled back eventually, brushing your nose against Jack’s.
“I’ll drive,” you said quietly. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m not drunk,” he said automatically.
“You’re pretty drunk,” you corrected.
A beat.
“…Alright. Could be a little drunk,” he conceded.
You smiled, already reaching into his pocket for the keys like it was second nature. He let you. Fingers brushing yours as you took them, just for a second longer than necessary.
“Don’t lose the car,” he muttered.
“No promises.”
You stood, stretching slightly, then glanced down at Robby.
“You good?” you asked, softer now.
He met your eyes, something unreadable passing through his expression before it settled back into something easier.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m good.”
You nodded like you believed him.
“Night, Michael.”
There was a flicker at that—something small but real.
“Night,” he said.
Jack let you haul him up, weight shifting automatically to his left as he got his balance, your hand steady at his arm without making a thing of it. He adjusted, rolled his shoulders like he always did, then followed your lead without argument.
“Text me when you get home,” he called back to Robby.
“Sure. Have fun with your girl.’ Robby had said, lying back down.
“I definitely will,” Jack nodded.
You were already walking, his shoulder brushing yours, easy. He leaned down slightly as you hit the path, murmuring something low against your hair that made you let out a quiet, breathy laugh—something private, something just for him.
Robby watched you both go.
Didn’t move.
The grass was still damp under his back when he lay down again, staring up at a sky that refused to give him anything clear.
He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand over his mouth.
So, when you and Jack finally put it to him—cornered him in that quiet, deliberate way the two of you had—Robby wasn’t as hung up on the logistics of it as he probably should’ve been. The dynamic, the risk, the aftermath—those were the things a smarter man might’ve led with. But that wasn’t where his mind went first.
It went somewhere simpler. Sharper.
Just how pretty were the noises you made? How soft was your tongue? Would you like it if Robby was cruel—if he held your head down and made you choke on him?
And Jack… steady Jack. What did he look like when he finally came? Did he like being teased, kept right on that edge until it snapped? Would he grip Robby’s hair, or would he stay controlled even then, taking it without losing that composure?
It wasn't an abstract curiosity. It wasn’t even entirely sexual, not at its core. It was about access.
About seeing something of both of you that no one else did. About being let into a space that already existed—intimate, closed, complete—and being told there was room for him inside it.
And that—more than anything else—was what made it difficult to dismiss.
★★★
Ortho is down for a consultation when you get called in.
The patient is already under—intubated and sedated, leg secured in traction. The CT is up on PACS, the fracture obvious even before you zoom in: a displaced mid-shaft femur, clear shortening, classic muscle pull deformity.
“Yeah, that’s a transverse mid-shaft femoral fracture,” you say, pen tapping the screen. “You can see the displacement here, and the overlap—this is why the leg looks shortened clinically.”
Santos leans in, her eyes slightly wide. “Fuck.”
You shake your head. “It looks dramatic, but it’s stable from what we’ve got. No obvious vascular compromise on imaging. Ortho will likely take her for an intramedullary nail.”
Santos lets out a breath.
You scroll through the scan again, adjusting the windowing. “We’ll just want to repeat neurovascular checks pre-op and post-reduction. But she’s straightforward.”
“Thank god,” Santos mutters. “I was so not bothered to call for another consult.
A knock on the glass interrupts you. You glance up.
Robby.
He’s already halfway through sanitising his hands when he steps in, eyes flicking once to the screen before landing on you.
“Ortho’s down in ED?” he says.
“Yeah,” you answer, a little too aware of him in the doorway. “Santos messaged me. Femur fracture.”
He leans in beside you to look at the CT, close enough that the space shifts—clinical, but not entirely neutral. He’s tired in the way only long shifts make you, sleeves pushed up, forearms marked faintly by pressure lines from his undershirt.
“Looks like a clean nail,” he says.
“Assuming ortho behaves,” you reply.
He huffs something like a laugh. “They won’t.”
“No,” you agree. “We never do.”
Santos clears her throat. “While I’ve got you—Huckleberry and I are having a Parisian party next Friday. At our place. You should come. You and Abbott, of course.”
You pause slightly.
“A Parisian party?” you repeat.
“Yeah,” Santos says, warming to it. “Paris-themed. Like… French food, wine, decorations. The Eiffel Tower and shit.”
Robby makes a quiet sound behind you—almost a laugh, quickly disguised.
You glance at him, but he’s still looking at the scan like nothing happened.
Santos continues, mildly confused. “Have either of you been to Paris?”
“No,” you say.
Robby: “Nope.”
Santos nods like that still tracks logically. “Yeah, me neither. Barely even been to Canada.”
There’s a beat.
“Anyway,” She adds, already backing toward the door, “You’re invited too, Robby. Maybe the three of you come together or something. You’re all close”
“...Sounds good, Santos, we’ll let you know,” Robby says with a nod. “North Twelve?”
“Consider it done.” Santos says dry, nodding.
The door shuts behind her. Silence settles back in—clean, clinical, familiar. Except Robby is still standing close enough that you’re aware of him in a way you shouldn’t be during a trauma consult.
He glances at the CT again. “Paris-themed party,” he repeats flatly.
“Don’t even,” you say immediately, because you can hear it in his tone already, trying to hide your own smile.
“What?” he says innocently.
You turn slightly toward him. “I know exactly what you’re thinking.”
He finally looks at you properly now, mouth twitching. “I’m not thinking anything.”
“You’re absolutely thinking something and at work nonetheless? Inappropriate.”
“I’m thinking Santos should never be allowed to plan anything,” he says.
“Liar.”
That earns you a brief, quiet exhale of amusement. You finish with the scans and walk out, Robby hot on your heels as you head to the nurses station.
“You think you’ll go?” he asks.
“No,” you say. “Jack and I have the night off. We’ll be busy.”
“Right,” he nods.
A beat.
“You?” you ask.
“I’d rather not spend my night around a bunch of drunk residents,” Robby says with a quiet exhale. “So, no.”
“Come over then,” you offer, stopping at the nurses’ station.
Robby gives you a look. “Thought you said you two were busy.”
“You can be busy with us,” you say, looking up at him, pen tapping lightly against the chart. “Or just Jack. Or just me. He told me you’ve thought about it either way.”
A faint sigh leaves him. “Right. I forgot he can’t keep anything to himself.”
He leans against the counter, lowering his voice slightly as his eyes flick briefly across the station—Dana watching from a few bays away, already narrowing her gaze like she’s clocking something she hasn’t labelled yet.
“Have you?” he asks softly.
“Thought about you? In that way?” you clarify.
He nods, a slight tilt to his head, curious.
You hesitate just long enough to make it honest.
“Yes,” you admit. “You’re tall. Kind. Your beard’s nice. You’re probably a little meaner than Jack, which interests me.”
That earns the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Something deeper in him satisfied.
“Abbot’s a lover boy at heart,” Robby says. “Gives in easily. ‘Specially for you.”
You nod, like that tracks. “Most of the time, yeah.”
That earns a quieter look from him. A pause that sits just slightly longer than professional. Then, more carefully, “Is it true you had a crush on me?”
You tilt your head. “God, he really just— Doesn’t keep anything to himself.”
Robby exhales through his nose. “Not at all. I’ve been subjected to that man and his inner workings for too long.”
You bump his shoulder lightly with yours, just enough contact to make the space between you feel intentional.
“Was it a yes?”
“To the crush?” You consider it. “Yeah.”
That makes his eyebrows lift slightly.
“Before Jack,” you add, like it matters in a technical sense. “Older, authority figure, slightly emotionally unavailable… I think I might just have a pattern.”
Robby hums, low. “Tracks.”
There’s a beat where neither of you moves away. Then he says, quieter, “And now?”
You don’t look away when you answer. “Now, it’s just… different.”
That hangs there. From somewhere down the hall, a monitor beeps sharply, breaking the moment just enough for it not to tip into anything else.
You glance back down at the chart, already half-moving on.
“I’ll let you know when we get a room open for the femur nail lady.”
And then you’re gone—already walking toward the elevator, the conversation left hanging in the air behind you. Robby watches you go.
A quiet breath leaves him through his nose. He taps his fingers once against the counter, then pushes off it, turning back to the screens like he needs something solid to land on.
Dana appears beside him a second later, sliding into the space like she’s been waiting for exactly this moment.
“What’s with that?” she asks.
“...What’s with what?” he replies, arms folding loosely, eyes still on the monitor bank.
“I mean,” she says slowly, “what’s with flirtin’ with Abbott’s girl in front of everybody?”
He doesn’t look at her when he answers.
“That’s not flirting,” he says evenly. “We were just talking.”
“Yeah,” she says, nodding toward the bay. “Just rolled in. Need you over there.”
“Alright,” he says.
And he follows her down the hall, expression already reset.
★★★
“—Hey. Hold on a second,” Jack says, breath a little uneven.
“No, don’t—don’t hold on,” you protest, already moving, frustrated at the interruption. Your hips roll, trying to sink deeper, but his hands clamp down on your waist—firm, grounding, stopping you.
“Hey. Easy.” A breath. “Just—gimme a second, alright?”
You huff, but you stop. Barely. Your thighs tremble, hovering just above his cock, the tip brushing against your wet slit. “This better be good.”
He lets out something like a quiet laugh, more breath than sound. “Yeah, I’ll try not to waste your time.”
A beat. He looks at you properly now—focused, a little too clear-headed for the situation. His thumb traces a slow circle on your hipbone, soothing, but his eyes are sharp.
“Just… wanna get this straight,” he says.
Your hands shift on his chest, nails dragging lightly. “Okay. Then say it.”
He nods once. “He can be there. He can watch, he can fuck you.” A pause. “But there are lines.”
You tilt your head, watching him. “Such as?”
His grip tightens just a fraction—not enough to bruise, enough to mean something. “Such as—you don’t forget who you’re with.”
You raise a brow, a smirk pulling at your lips. “Hard to forget when you’ve got your dick in me half the time I’m not at work.”
“Smartass,” he mutters. Then, quieter—“I’m serious. He doesn’t get to know how you taste. That’s mine.”
“Uh-huh…” You roll your hips lazily, not sinking down, just letting the head of his cock nudge against your clit, making him hiss. “So this is allowed?” You lift up, then lower just an inch, teasing the tip against your entrance.
“Yeah, allowed,” Jack nods, his jaw tight.
“Mm. This?” You lean down and kiss him—sweet, slow, your tongue brushing his lower lip before you pull back with a soft pop.
He nods into the kiss, groaning when you start to move again, lifting your pussy off him completely. The air hits his wet shaft and he shudders.
“Yeah? What about this?” You wrap your hand around his cock, giving it a slow, deliberate stroke from base to tip, slick with your own arousal. You squeeze just a little, watching his eyes flutter.
“All allowed,” he grates out, “but his mouth isn’t getting near this, alright, that’s all—” He cuts off as he grabs you by the hips, guiding your pussy back down, lining you up and shoving it back in with a single, brutal thrust. Your moan rips out of you—loud, breathy, grateful. His cock fills you so deep you feel it in your throat.
“Yeah? That good with you?” he asks, voice rough.
You nod, already starting to ride him—slow at first, just a rock of your hips, teasing the angle. “What about you and ’im?” you ask, breath hitching as you grind down.
Jack shrugs—or tries to. “What don’t you want?”
“No blowjobs either, then,” you say, voice a little strained as you lift up and drop back down, feeling every ridge. “’S for me.”
“Sounds good to me.” His hands find your hips again, but he doesn’t guide—he just holds, letting you set the pace. Letting you take.
You pick up speed, thighs burning, your clit grinding against his pubic bone with each roll. The room fills with the wet sound of your pussy gripping his cock, and you tilt your head back, letting him see the arch of your throat.
His hand comes up, thumb brushing along your jaw, pulling your focus back to him when you drift.
“Right here,” he murmurs.
You meet his gaze. That same look—steady, a little rough around the edges, but sure. His.
“Good,” he says, softer now. His thumb drags across your lower lip, and you part your mouth, just enough to suck the tip of it in. His eyes darken.
And when you move again, it’s slower. You rock forward, letting his cock hit that deep, sweet spot, and you moan against his thumb. You pull off it with a wet sound, then lean down to kiss him again—dirtier this time, tongue and teeth, whimpering into him.
“Yeah,” he breathes against your lips. “That’s better.”
★★★
It’s late into the evening on Friday when you hear Jack on the phone.
“No, can’t,” Jack says, pacing your living room, phone tucked to his ear while he half-heartedly folds laundry and gives up halfway through. “I’m home. She’s cooking. Smells like I’m about to get fat and happy.”
“Baby, can you come try this?” you call from the kitchen.
“One sec,” he says, then quieter, back into the phone—“What’d you wanna do?”
“Nothing,” Robby mutters. “I… I don’t know, man. I don’t feel like crashing Santos and Whitaker’s… house party. We could go for a drive. Hike.”
Jack stops mid-step. “A hike,” he repeats. “At nine-thirty at night.”
A beat.
“Yeah, not happening,” he decides, dropping the laundry basket and heading into the kitchen.
You’re at the counter in that barely-there nightgown—soft, short, riding up your thighs as you lean forward, aggressively chopping an onion like it personally offended you. Eyes glossy, blinking through it.
Jack pauses in the doorway for half a second longer than necessary.
Then—business as usual.
“Alright,” he says, stepping in behind you, close enough that his hand brushes your hip on the way past. “What am I trying?”
You nod at the stove. “Carbonara.”
He leans over, tastes it, hums—low, approving.
“Yeah,” he says into the phone. “She’s showing off.”
You bump his arm lightly. “I am not.”
“You are,” he says, kissing you quick, easy, like he’s done it a thousand times. “It’s working.”
You smile despite yourself, wiping at your eyes.
On the phone, Robby exhales. Rough. Tired.
“Hike’s dumb,” Jack says, shifting tone without making it obvious. “What’s actually going on.”
“Nothing,” Robby says. “Just… can’t sit still. Garcia was on my ass all day, Al-Hashimi wouldn’t shut the fuck up—”
“—Hey,” Jack cuts in, calm, steady. “Take a breath.”
You glance over at him. He’s not looking at you anymore—focused now, locked into that mode.
“You’re good,” he says. “You’re not thinking anything dumb, right?”
A pause.
“…No,” Robby says. “Just need to… get out of my head, I don’t know.”
Jack hears it. You do too. That edge. That restless, pissed-off with nowhere to put it thing.
“He can come here,” you say, like it’s obvious.
Jack looks at you—quick, assessing—but there’s no resistance there. Just a flicker of something else.
“Yeah,” he says into the phone. “Come over. Food’s ready soon.”
“I don’t know, man—” Robby starts.
You reach over and take the phone straight out of Jack’s hand.
“Hey, Michael.”
There’s a beat.
Jack watches you now, not even pretending to focus on the onions anymore.
“…Hey,” Robby says, slower. “Heard you were cooking.”
“Mhm,” you hum, leaning back against the counter, bare leg brushing against Jack’s where he stands beside you. “Plenty to go around.”
Jack’s hand settles at your hip automatically. Not possessive—just there.
Robby hears the shift anyway.
“This a setup?” he asks.
You smile slightly. “You always this suspicious, or just with me?”
A quiet scoff from him.
“You should come,” you add, softer—but not innocent. “You sound like you need it.”
A beat. Jack’s thumb presses lightly into your hip. Grounding. Present.
Robby exhales. “Yeah. Guess I can make it.”
“Guess you can,” you say easily.
Silence again—but it’s different now.
You glance at Jack.
He nods once.
“Door’s unlocked,” you say. “Twenty minutes.”
You hand the phone back.
Jack takes it, fingers brushing yours briefly, then brings it back to his ear. “You heard her. No pressure.”
A pause.
“…Alright,” Robby says.
The line clicks dead.
Jack sets the phone down on the counter, then looks at you properly. A slow once-over. Not subtle.
“What?” You raise a brow.
“Nothing. Nothing at all. I’ll finish the laundry.” He gives you a deep kiss to your neck, hands trailing over your figure as he mumbles into your skin, fingers gently pushing aside the light material. “You gonna stay in this?” He asks.
“‘S that alright?” You wonder, leaning into his touch.
He inhales sharply against your skin, lips leaving your skin. “Sure.”
★★★
You’re out on the balcony when it comes up.
Jack’s place sits high enough that the city feels almost staged—Pittsburgh stretched out in warm light, bridges lit up in clean lines, traffic moving steady below like it never really stops. It’s one of those late summer nights where the air sticks just slightly to your skin, warm but not suffocating. There’s music drifting from somewhere down the block, a party you can’t see but can feel in the background.
The balcony’s not small—wide enough for a proper table, a few chairs, space to lean without feeling cramped. Jack had insisted on that when he bought the place. Said if he was going to spend money, it’d be on something worth standing still for.
Your plates are mostly cleared, carbonara half-finished, wine and beer sweating into the wood.
“Have either of you done this before?” Robby asks.
Jack shakes his head immediately. “No.”
You don’t answer.
You’re thinking—actually thinking, head tilted slightly, finger lifting to tap against Jack’s arm like you need him to hold on a second. That’s when it hits him, belated and faintly incredulous, that this apparently hadn’t come up when the idea itself had.
“…Have you?” Jack asks, turning to you, already suspicious.
“I am thinking,” you murmur, brows pulling together like this is a serious recall exercise.
Robby raises a brow, watching you now, something amused creeping in despite himself.
“What do you mean you’re thinking?” Jack presses. “That’s not… I don’t know, something you half do or something. You’d know.”
“Or something,” Robby mutters under his breath.
You shoot him a look, then roll your eyes. “Okay—no. I don’t think I’ve had a threesome.”
“How can you not think you’ve had a threesome?” Jack wonders.
You lean back slightly, folding one leg under you, the fabric of your nightgown shifting higher on your thigh without you bothering to fix it. You don’t notice how both men’s gaze drop there.
You exhale, already regretting engaging. “Because—technically—no one actually got fucked, there was no penetration by anybody, so, grey area?”
There’s a beat.
Robby’s mouth twitches.
Jack blinks. “...Right.”
“Okay?” you continue, defensive now. “It was—hands. That’s it. Group situation, but not… full commitment.”
Robby huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Group situation,” he repeats.
“Shut up,” you mutter.
“Another guy or girl?” Jack asks, too quickly.
You hesitate just long enough to make it interesting. “…Both.”
Jack leans back like you’ve just told him something deeply inconvenient. “...Huh.”
Robby lets out a low whistle through his nose. “So not a threesome. Just… poor project management.”
You laugh despite yourself. “Oh my god.”
“That’s a foursome that lost direction,” he adds, dry.
“Whatever,” you shrug. “Med school was fun for me. Sorry I had range.”
Jack eyes you, something between amused and slightly thrown. “I’m just saying, that’s a hell of a thing to casually drop over dinner.”
You smirk faintly. “I’m surprised you haven’t.”
Jack scoffs. “I’ve had opportunities.”
“Mm,” you hum, unconvinced.
Robby glances at him sideways. “That sounds like a lie.”
“It’s not a lie,” Jack says, defensive now. “I just—never felt the need.”
“Right,” Robby says. “Till now.”
Jack gives him a look. “Till now.”
Something passes there—quick, familiar, not entirely friendly as Robby sips his beer.
After, you step out to the edge of the balcony, forearms resting against the railing. The city hums below you, the air warmer now, carrying the smell of food and distant smoke.
Inside, you hear Jack moving—plates, running water. Robby’s voice low, asking something, already familiar with the space.
“Thanks, baby,” you say when Jack comes back out, taking your plate.
You lean in, press a quick kiss to his cheek.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, hand coming up to your hair, messing it slightly with a small, easy smile.
You push him away lightly. “Don’t start.”
Robby watches it for a second before picking up the empty bottles, holding them loosely by the necks.
“Next to the fridge?” he asks, like he hasn’t been here a hundred times already—like tonight isn’t slightly different.
“Yeah,” you nod. “Recycling. Thank you.”
He gives a short nod and turns— You catch his wrist. It’s not forceful. Just enough.
“Hey,” you say, softer.
He looks down at you.
There’s a pause—his eyes dragging, just briefly, lower before coming back up. You’re close enough now to feel the heat off him, the faint roughness of his breath after a drink, after a long day.
You use his forearm to pull yourself up just slightly— and kiss him. It’s not rushed. It’s far from tentative either. Close. Testing.
His beard scratches lightly against your skin, rough in a way that makes you more aware of it, not less. He stills for half a second—then responds, mouth softer than you expected, hand hovering like he hasn’t decided where it’s allowed to land.
Your teeth catch his bottom lip briefly. That’s what does it.
“Starting without me?” Jack’s voice cuts in, dry. “Bit mean.”
Robby pulls back instinctively, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t—even though—
Even though.
You smile a little, letting go of his wrist as he clears his throat.
“Next to the fridge,” Jack adds, nodding toward the bottles.
Robby nods once, wordless, moving past him.
Their shoulders brush as he goes. Not accidental. Jack doesn’t move out of the way.
He watches Robby for a second longer than necessary, then looks back at you.
You end up on the couch.
It happens naturally—plates abandoned in the sink, TV flicked on for noise more than anything else. Some late-night rerun playing low in the background, colours shifting across the room, low lamps lighting the room.
Jack’s in the middle, halfway through some story from work—one of those cases that stuck with him. Complicated, strange, the kind he can’t quite let go of.
You’re tucked into his side, knees curled under you, your hand idly playing at the back of his neck—fingers brushing through his hair, absent, familiar. You nod along, half-listening, more focused on the rhythm of his voice, the warmth of him.
Robby’s behind you. Close enough that you can feel the heat of him through your back, even before his hand settles on your thigh—slow, absent movement, like he’s not even fully aware he’s doing it.
Up. Down. Not pushing. Not asking. Just there.
Jack keeps talking.
You lean in without really thinking about it—your lips brushing along his jaw, then just below it. Light. Familiar. Not rushed.
Jack’s hand comes up to your lower back automatically, pulling you in a fraction closer, steadying you there.
Robby’s hand doesn’t stop. If anything, it shifts—just slightly higher, fingers brushing warmer skin now where the fabric gives way.
Jack feels it. His hand stills for a second at your back—then relaxes again.
He doesn’t pull you away. Doesn’t say anything. You exhale softly against his neck, your breath warm there, your fingers tightening slightly where they rest behind him.
And for a second—just a second—you’re aware of both of them at once.
Jack in front of you, steady, grounding. Robby behind you, quieter, heavier—watching more than speaking.
Jack’s gaze lifts. Meets Robby’s. There’s a beat. Not long. But long enough. Something passes between them—wordless, measured. Something you can’t read.
Jack gives the smallest nod. Barely there. Robby’s jaw shifts slight. Then Jack looks back at you.
Your hand slides from his neck to his jaw, turning him slightly, and you kiss him properly this time—slow, deliberate. He leans into it without hesitation, one hand firm at your waist.
When you pull back, it’s not far. Just enough. Just long enough to turn.
Robby’s already looking at you. Not surprised. Not really. Just watching. You close the distance like it’s nothing—like it’s always been this simple—and kiss him too.
Different. Not softer, not harder—just new. Testing. His hand stills on your thigh for half a second before it shifts, coming up to steady at your side, like he’s grounding himself in it.
There’s a quiet breath from him—almost a huff, almost disbelief.
“This is fun,” You murmur.
You don’t give him time to overthink it.
You lean back between them again, tipping your head slightly, and they follow without being told.
Jack’s mouth finds one side of your neck, familiar, certain.
Robby hesitates for a fraction of a second— then doesn’t.
The other side. Slower. More deliberate. Like he’s learning something he’s not used to having.
You exhale, a soft sound you don’t quite hold back this time, and your hands come up instinctively—one finding Jack’s hair, the other Robby’s, fingers threading through both, holding them there.
For a second, it stays like that. Balanced.
Then you shift, just slightly—hands tightening, guiding as you move the two of them, their lips almost naturally coming to find one anothers, moving them like ken dolls, before you drop your hands, watching with a small smile, as Robby's immediacy for control goes against Jack's. Robby’s hand deepening into your thigh, grip tight as he kisses Jack.
Jack pulls back first, breath uneven but still controlled, his eyes flicking to yours like he’s checking in—like he always does.
His hand slides up your spine, slower now, deliberate where it had been absent before. His palm is cool against your overheated skin, the contrast making you shiver as it traces upward, then back down again, lingering just enough to feel intentional.
You lean back into him, lips finding his neck again—dragging slowly over the roughness of his skin, the faint scrape grounding, familiar. You press a little firmer this time, less thought, more instinct.
When you pull back, it’s only barely. Your breath catches—not dramatic, just… aware. Of him. Of Robby. Of both.
Jack’s hand presses more firmly into your back, keeping you close, steadying you like he can feel the shift too.
“Baby,” he murmurs, voice low, softer than before. “Feeling needy?”
You nod against him, answering with your mouth instead—kissing along his jaw now, slower, more deliberate.
“Yeah,” he exhales, a quiet sort of understanding in it. “I know, hon.” A beat. Then, quieter—“You want me, or him?”
You hesitate. Not long—but long enough to matter.
Robby’s hand shifts on your thigh, moving from the outside to your inner thigh, firm but unhurried, easing you open just slightly—testing, not taking. Waiting to see what you’ll do with it.
“It’s alright,” Jack starts, voice still calm, like he’s talking you through something he already trusts. “Go ahead. She likes it when you—”
“—I’ll ask you for help if I need it, alright?” Robby cuts in, low and even.
They exchange a look—brief, sharp, understood.
You lean over, pressing a quick, soft kiss to Jack’s cheek—something sweet, grounding—before shifting your weight and climbing into Robby’s lap.
He stiffens for a second. Just a second.
Robby’s always been hard to read. Time’s etched itself into his face, but there’s still that wall there—something held back, something controlled. Maybe it’s nerves. Maybe it’s you. His best friend’s girl, sitting on him like this—close, warm, curious.
“You okay there, Sasquatch?” you tease, tilting your head up at him.
His hands find your thighs again almost immediately, like muscle memory kicking in. His gaze flicks—down, over you, then back to your eyes. Briefly to Jack. Then back again.
“Sasquatch? Really?” he murmurs, one hand moving up to cup your breast through your top. His palm is warm against you, sending a shiver down your spine. “That’s what you’re going with?”
“Beard, tall… same thing, no?” you shrug lightly.
That earns the faintest hint of a smirk.
“She always cracking jokes before getting fucked?” Robby asks, giving your breast a firm squeeze. His other hand slides lower, ghosting over your stomach before cupping your mound through your panties
“Depends,” Jack admits. “One time I got G.I Joe for an hour.”
“He was in uniform, in my defense,” You defend, brief before you try moving your hips over Robby’s fingers, eager. “Come on, Michael.”
Robby's fingers press harder against your core, rubbing slow, firm circles that have you arching into him, a sweet whine escaping your lips, his eyes enamoured with how your mouth parts, breath warm against him.
“What a cute noise you make, sweetheart,” Robby murmurs. “Ask me nicely now.”
You hesitate, desperate as his fingers continue to move achingly slow over your wetness.
“Ask or I give Jack my hand right now instead and you can wait your turn for another hour,” Robby tells, voice low and soft, not looking away from where his fingers glide over your seeping core.
“Please,” you murmur, voice breathy and desperate. “Please fuck me with your fingers.”
You crash your lips to his—harsh, messy, tongues thrusting quick and slick, his beard scraping rough red trails across your cheeks and chin. He growls low into your mouth, yanking your panties aside with brutal force, calloused fingertips dragging through your dripping folds, parting your lips wide before ramming two thick fingers knuckle-deep into your clenching pussy—no mercy, no prep.
You gasp ragged into the kiss, a high-pitched moan ripping free as your lips break away, saliva trailing shiny strings from his mouth to yours. You latch onto his neck, teeth grazing the salty skin, sucking hard as you grind down fierce onto his invading digits—walls squeezing tight around the stretch, juices flooding hot over his palm.
“Move your fingers toward her ventral,” Jack instructs from the side, voice calm but edged with that teasing know-it-all tone, his hand sliding warm along your spine.
Robby exhales sharp through his nose—mild irritation flashing in his eyes at the unasked advice, jaw clenching as he shoots Jack a quick, heated glare. But he curls his fingers obediently upward inside you, knuckles grinding rough along your front wall to hammer your g-spot precise and relentless. Your moan swells louder, body jolting as fresh gushes of slick coat his hand, pussy slurping obscenely around each pump.
“Christ, you’re making a mess on me, aren’t you, kid? Huh?” Robby rasps, voice gravel-thick with mean delight, eyes locked on the filthy sight—your swollen pussy lips gliding and sucking greedily over his plunging fingers, riding them frantic.
He twists his wrist sharp, scissoring the digits wide to pry your hole open, thumb mashing down hard on your throbbing clit with every brutal thrust—wet schlicks echoing loud, your thighs trembling slick against his forearm, arousal trickling warm down to soak his jeans.
He adds a third finger suddenly, forcing the burn deeper, stretching your cunt taut as he moves, hooking mercilessly on that spongy spot.
“You getting close?” He asks, low and rough, listening closely to your moans, how they become pitchier, breathier, as sweet as Jack described. You nod, a loose yes, focused only on how your core winds up to the edge. “That right?”
Your cries pitch wilder, back arching as he pinches your clit between thumb and knuckle, rolling it rough while his fingers churn your insides, coil tight in your core.
“What else she like?” Robby asks Jack, glancing over at his friend now, fingers never slowing their rhythm inside you.
Jack taps his index and middle digit to his lips, nodding toward you. Robby nods back, hums at the sight of you, curious.
Robby yanks his fingers free abrupt—your pussy clenching empty, a whine tearing from your throat at the aching void, hips bucking needy for more. He brings those soaked digits up to your face, gripping your chin firm to still you, watching hungry as you part your lips instinctively.
His fingertips tease your bottom lip, smearing your own cream glossy, before you suck them in deep—tongue swirling eager around the thick lengths, lapping every tangy drop, hollowing cheeks as saliva drips messy down your chin.
“Atta girl, you’re a fuckin’ mess now aren’t you?” Robby murmurs, gaze glued ravenous to your bobbing mouth, cock throbbing harder under you. “You wanna cum?”
You nod, frantic around his fingers, eyes pleading.
“Not yet,” Robby denies, voice almost gentle, yet harsh at once. “Barely seen what you can do.”
You exhale shaky as he pulls his fingers out with a wet pop, trailing spit from your chin before cupping your whole face possessive, holding you locked on him.
“Go over to him. Make him feel good,” Robby orders, jerking his chin at Jack.
You nod, movements sluggish from the edge he left you on.
“On the floor, knees, now,” Robby snaps, voice brooking no argument.
You slide off his lap reluctant, crawling back to Jack beside him on the couch. He smiles soft at you, fingers threading gentle through your hair, cupping your cheek as he brushes strands aside, gaze roaming tender over your flushed skin.
“You alright there?” he asks nicely, thumb stroking your jaw.
You nod eager, hands diving straight to his sweatpants, palming the rigid bulge straining there—heat pulsing under your touch.
You tug the waistband down, freeing his cock—thick shaft springing up heavy, veins bulging, head slick with pre-cum. Your fist wraps tight around the base, pumping slow firm strokes up to the tip, twisting slick over the crown to spread his leak.
Jack inhales sharp, but you drop fully to your knees between his spread thighs on the rug, the rough weave biting into your skin. You lean in, lips parting wide to swallow his cockhead first—tongue flicking the slit to lap salty pre, then sliding down inch by veiny inch, throat relaxing to take him deeper.
“Look pretty down there,” Jack murmurs with a small smile, hand light in your hair, just cradling.
“You’re so soft with her,” Robby remarks from beside, voice mixed with mocking and earnestness as he watches you work, his own tenting obvious.
Jack shrugs, a quiet groan escaping as you hollow your cheeks, sucking vacuum-tight while bobbing steady—saliva pooling at the corners of your stretched lips, dribbling down his balls. Your hand strokes what your mouth can't reach, twisting wet on the upstroke, tongue pressing flat along the underside to trace every ridge.
Robby's gaze burns hot—flicking over your arched back, your drool-slick chin, eyes that dart between Jack's tense face, Robby's hungry stare, then flutter shut as you deepthroat him full, nose burying in his pubes. He fixates on Jack's cock vanishing slick between your lips, throat bulging visible. Then up to Jack, whose fingers grip tighter into your scalp—not shoving, just anchoring as his neck cords tense.
“Good job, sweetheart,” Jack praises breathy, hips twitching minimal into your rhythm.
Your moan vibrates around his length, humming deep to make him shudder, spit bubbling messy as you pop off to lick sloppy stripes up his shaft, sucking each ball into your mouth turn before plunging back down.
He groans low, head lolling back, “Fucking… perfect. So perfect, always.”
Tension crackles thicker between them—Jack's free hand drifts casual at first, then deliberate, palming Robby's thigh before cupping the massive bulge in his jeans, squeezing firm through denim. Robby stiffens, eyes meeting with Jack's, breath hitching as Jack rubs slow circles over the thick outline, thumb pressing the zipper ridge where pre darkens the fabric.
“You alright there, man?” Jack scoffs, a light smile. “Can’t handle it?”
It’s a challenge. It always is with them. Has been since they were twenty something.
Jack knows exactly what he’s doing—knows the tells. The slight tilt of Robby’s head, the way his weight shifts more onto one side, the flicker of something sharper behind his eyes. He’s seen that look in bars, in fights, in operating rooms when things went sideways.
Robby doesn’t back down from anything. Least of all him.
Then Robby exhales slowly, something almost like a laugh under it, eyes locking onto Jack’s—steady, unflinching.
“Oh, I can handle it just fine,” Robby agrees with his own smile. “Go ‘head.”
Jack groans at your relentless mouth—fast and wet, then slowing perfect against him—his hand stroking over Robby’s clothed cock, deliberate and slow, denim rasping under his palm. He leans in first, crashing his mouth to Robby's—sloppy, urgent, tongues battling fierce right above you, beards grinding rough, wet sucks and grunts filling the air. Jack's fingers knead Robby's bulge harder, unzipping halfway to delve inside, wrapping firm around the hot shaft through boxers.
You pull off Jack with a gasp, spit stringing from your lips to his glistening tip, replacing your mouth with your fist—pumping slick and steady along his veiny length, thumb swirling over the slit to smear pre-cum. Your eyes lock on their kiss, Jack's hand slowing on Robby as your thumb teases tentative over his own sensitive crown, tongue darting out to lap the edge of his slit.
“Oh fuck,” Jack moans into Robby’s mouth, breaking away to watch you lick him sweetly, hips bucking light into your grip.
Your free hand joins Jack’s on Robby’s cock, fingers overlapping his as Robby undoes his belt buckle with a metallic clink, shoving jeans and boxers down his thighs. His thick cock springs free. You spit thick into your palm, slicking it hot before gripping him base to tip, stroking in tandem with Jack—your hand twisting wet on the upstroke while his squeezes the root, veins pulsing under your combined pressure.
Robby hisses through clenched teeth, thighs tensing as you both jerk him off rough, pre dribbling over knuckles, your mouth still working on Jack’s cock.
Jack's strokes on you falter to lazy pumps, his fist gliding easy over your saliva-lubed skin as he watches Robby swell thicker in your shared hold. “Fuck, feel that grip? She’s got hands made for this,” he rasps, voice husky, eyes dark on Robby's face.
Robby grunts approval, thrusting shallow into the double stroke. Jack pulls back suddenly, nodding down at you. “Let him feel how good your pretty mouth is, baby.”
You release Jack reluctant, his cock twitching angry-red in the cool air as he takes over—fist flying fast over his shaft, slick echoing. You shift on your knees, turning to Robby, who grips his base and taps the fat head heavy against your cheek—wet smacks on flushed skin, taunting drip of pre-painting streaks.
“Dreamt about this once,” he admits, voice low. “The way Jack described it, you’d think you have the mouth of an angel. That right? You an angel?” He wonders.
You lick your lips in anticipation, hand between your legs, fingers gliding over your folds.
“Seemed pretty desperate for my boyfriend there too,” You remark, not looking away from Robby’s gaze.
His jaw tightens. “He’s pretty good with his hand, but I think you can do better with your tongue.”
You part lips wide, tongue out flat as he slaps his cock deliberately across it, underside dragging salty over your tastebuds before shoving in brutal—half his length in one thrust, stretching your jaw.
You gag wet but suck hollow, cheeks caving as you bob frantic, hand pumping the rest in sync. Saliva floods fast, bubbling down his sack as you swirl tongue under the ridge, hollowing deep to milk him. Your fingers are quick against your wetness, dripping between your thighs, your other hand planted at Robby’s thigh.
“Shit—yeah, like that,” Robby growls, free hand fisting your hair to guide rough, not forcing but controlling the pace—pulling you off to tap his cock on your tongue again, smearing spit and pre glossy before ramming back in.
He fucks your face shallow, hips snapping precise, balls swinging to nudge your chin while Jack jerks himself faster beside, groans syncing with yours muffled around Robby's girth.
You sweep the underside of your tongue around Robby’s cock, soft wetness coating him, slow, then fast, hearing how Robby’s hand tightens harder in your scalp.
Jack leans close, breath ragged as his fist blurs over his cock, tip weeping steady. “Enjoying yourself?”
“Fuck off,” Robby mutters, focused on your mouth, your eyes as they look up at him, wide, watery.
Your fingers slip between your thighs, dipping into your soaked pussy, rutting slow circles over your clit as you kneel between them, mouth stuffed full on Robby's cock. Spit drips messy down your chin, mixing with the slick from your own folds as you finger yourself deeper, chasing that tight coil building low in your belly.
“I’m good,” Jack rasps, eyes locked on your hand working your cunt, his fist pumping steady over his own cock. “Slow down, sweetheart.”
Your fingers comply, easing to lazy drags through your wetness, eyes flicking up to watch Jack slow his palm in sync, thumb circling his flushed tip. His free hand drifts back to Robby's thigh, squeezing hard muscle as he watches you deepthroat—throat bulging obscene with each plunge, gags turning wet and rhythmic.
Robby's taunts rumble gravel-deep: “Fucking hell, you gonna let me cum in that mouth, honey?” He pops free with a gasp, cock throbbing inches from your face, tapping insistent on your cheek—left, right, smearing sticky pre over flushed skin—before you dive back voluntary, nose grinding into his pubes as you swallow him full, humming vibration to wrench a guttural curse from his chest.
“She can take it,” Jack murmurs, voice thick. “Can you, baby? Come on, speak now.”
You moan muffled around Robby's girth, pulling off with a slick pop, resting your head against his still-clothed thigh as your fingers plunge back into your pussy, rutting frantic. “Mhm.” You kiss alongside his shaft, tongue tracing veins lazy, lips brushing hot skin.
“So damn sweet now,” Robby murmurs, hand loosening from your scalp to pet gentle through your hair, watching your fingers disappear knuckle-deep. “That feel good?”
You nod against his thigh, licking slow stripes up his cock, pumping your pussy deliberate—thumb flicking your clit, hips rocking into your hand, edge creeping close, breath hitching sharp.
“No more of that, alright?” Robby nods down, eyes sharp on your body. “Yeah? You listening?”
You groan, fingers curling harder inside yourself. “Fuck you—you wanna cum, I get to cum too.”
Robby tilts his head, that piercing look—the one Jack knows spells trouble, before ripping into a resident. Jack nearly laughs, slowing his strokes to a tease. “Not how it works,” Robby says flat, voice dropping steel.
You glance at Jack, pleading.
“Don’t look at him,” Robby orders, tone snapping stricter, hand fisting your hair tight to force your gaze back. You gulp, thighs clenching empty as you pull your fingers free, pussy clenching needy on nothing. “Put both hands behind your back if you’re gonna act like a fuckin’ brat.”
Reluctant, you clasp your hands behind you, knees aching on the floor, tits heaving with each breath. Robby nods approval, gripping his base to feed his cock back past your lips—slow at first, letting you savor the stretch, then thrusting deeper as you hollow cheeks vacuum-tight.
Your tongue flattens under his shaft to lap the frenulum relentlessly, swirling wet around the head on every upstroke before slamming down throat-deep, gag reflex crushed to nothing. Saliva floods obscenely, bubbling at the corners of your mouth, dripping strings to his balls as you bob frantic—suction pulling groans from his gut, nose buried in coarse hair, throat milking him like a fist.
You hum constant vibration, eyes watering up at him, popping off to spit thick on his length before sucking one ball then the other into your mouth, rolling tongue heavy before plunging back down full.
“Jesus Christ—yeah, there we go…” Robby snarls, hips snapping erratic, free hand clamping your nape to hold you buried as his cock swells impossibly thicker, balls drawing tight.
He floods your mouth suddenly—hot spurts painting your tongue thick and salty, cock pulsing ropes down your throat as you swallow greedily around him, not spilling a drop. He rides it out shallow thrusts, groaning ragged until spent, pulling free with a wet schlick.
“Fuck,” he pants, watching your tongue swipe clean over his softening head, lapping the last beads from his slit.
You fall back onto your heels, knees throbbing, core dripping wet and aching empty down your thighs. Swallowing his load thick, you stand shaky, and lean down to Robby, core exposed from your barely there nightgown. You grab him by his jaw, fingers at his chin, watching as his hand catches your wrist.
You smile at that. “Go on,” Your fingers linger near his mouth, covered with your wetness. “Jack prefers the real deal. You shy all of a sudden, Mikey?”
Robby reluctantly opens his mouth, trying and tasting your wetness, sucking your fingers clean.
“Atta boy,” You say sarcastically, moving them out of his mouth. “You think you can still fuck me, old man?” You whisper.
“Watch it,” Robby murmurs.
“You can, in the corner, while Jack finally makes me cum.” You whisper. “Jack,” you grab Jack’s hand, walking away with him as Jack follows suit behind you.
“Up and at it,” Jack tells Robby over his shoulder as he follows you.
“Fucking hell,” Robby mutters, taking a second before following after.
You hum satisfied, leading them stumbling to the bedroom, the air electric behind you.
In the dim glow, you strip your nightgown overhead, leaving ruined panties—crotch soaked dark—and a lacey bra barely containing your tits. Their eyes burn hot as you climb onto yours and Jack's bed, kneeling center.
Jack follows instant, standing at the edge, hands cupping your jaw rough-tender, leaning down to crash his mouth to yours—passionate and devouring, tongue fucking deep to taste Robby's cum lingering salty. You moan into it, hand snaking to grip his cock again, stroking firm base-to-tip.
Behind Jack, Robby's hands roam his back, trailing firm over shirt fabric before gripping the hem, yanking it up and off in one pull. Jack moans muffled into your kiss when your fist pumps faster, hips bucking into your grip, but he breaks away gasping as cool air hits his bare chest.
Robby presses close from behind, chest flush to Jack's back, beard scraping his shoulder as lips latch onto Jack's neck—sucking a mark deliberate.
“Baby, lie down for me,” Jack instructs.
You nod, lying down on your back, knees spread apart like second nature. He tilts his head, as Robby’s lips trail over his skin.
“Enjoying yourself?” Robby echoes Jack's earlier words, hand meeting at his cock briefly, feeling Jack stiffen and inhale sharply at that. “You gonna make your girl cum, or do I have to do that?”
“Fuck off,” Jack murmurs. “Go sit in a corner and wait, or somethin’,” Jack mutters, hands dragging you by the underside of your knee, gently towards the edge as he kneels on the bed, as Robby steps back with a chuckle.
“Think I got her ready, though, so, shouldn't take long,” Robby says. “Unless you’re not as skilled as you’ve been bragging to be.”
“Oh, my god, one of you make me cum or else I’m doing it myself, Jesus,” you whine.
“Oh, baby,” Jack murmurs, kissing at your inner thighs. “I’m leaving you waiting here.”
“She’s being a brat. Have some patience, honey,” Robby insists, tilting his head at you in mock. “But she’s right, hurry up, Abbot, Christ.”
Jack swipes his tongue along your core, and you moan, your wetness ready and eager from Robby's fingering and your own arousal. He licks slow and firm, teasing your sensitive flesh.
Robby watches from the side, his cock still tucked away in his jeans, as he observes you writhing under Jack's talented tongue. His expression is heated, hungry, clearly enjoying the show.
"Mmm...you look like a-" you moan, too lost in sensation to finish the thought. "A fucking nun, Michael," you finally manage, nodding towards his henley. "You aren't hot in that? Take it off already, fuck,"
Robby clicks his tongue, a light roll of his eyes. "You could ask me nicely. Here I thought you were so polite and sweet," he chides.
Jack’s tongue is a relentless, wet invasion, fucking into you with a rhythm that steals your breath. You clench around him, a tight, pulsing grip, your fingers tangled in his silver curls, thighs locked around his head like a vise.
Your eyes stay fixed on Robby’s as he discards his shirt, the fabric whispering to the floor. The snick of his belt sliding free from the loops makes you tighten your legs around Jack even more, a shiver of anticipation racing up your spine, as Jack laps at your pussy.
“Wider,” Jack grunts, his voice muffled against your pussy. He pushes your thighs apart with his hard biceps, one big hand splayed over your hipbone, pinning you down. “Stop squirming. Take it.”
From the foot of the bed, Robby watches, arms folded over his bare chest. He looks like a professor observing a dissection—calm, analytical, utterly in control. “How close are you?” he asks, his tone clinical.
“Mm, close,” you manage, the words breaking on a moan as Jack’s tongue flicks hard over your clit.
“You make such pretty sounds. He was right about that,” Robby hums, stepping closer. He sits on the edge of the mattress, his calloused hand coming up to cup your cheek. His thumb strokes your skin, sweetly, but his brow is furrowed, his gaze intense. “Callin’ me a nun, and you still got this thing on, honey.” He hooks a finger under the strap of your bra and flicks it sharply against your skin, a sting of sensation.
Jack’s tongue plunges deep again, and you arch off the bed, a choked cry leaving your lips. Your eyes don’t leave Robby’s as his hand slides down, cupping your breast through the lace. He admires the weight, the shape, his fingers tracing the curve.
“Want me to fuck you first, or GI Joe there?” Robby recalls, a smirk playing on his lips.
He doesn’t miss the way your mouth curves in a smile, even as your eyelids flutter shut. Jack quickens his pace, his hands now gripping your thighs like he’s holding you together.
You’re too close, teetering on that blinding edge. Words are impossible.
“Answer me,” Robby instructs, his voice dropping low and stern. His hand kneads your breast, then slips inside the cup of your bra, his fingers finding your nipple. He rolls it, pinches it just shy of pain. “Who do you want first?”
“You,” you gasp, the answer torn from you instinctively, desperately.
Robby’s smirk widens. “You hear that, Abbot? I get to break her in first.” He doesn’t look away from you as he says it.
He leans down, his hand sliding between your legs. Jack pulls back without a word, letting Robby’s fingers trail through your soaked folds, delivering a slap to your clit. You shiver violently, a string of high, needy moans escaping as he collects your wetness on his fingertips. He brings them back to your mouth, his other hand still working your nipple.
“I was right,” you murmur, breathless. “Knew you’d be mean.”
“Yeah? You like it?” Robby wonders, though he already knows.
You bite your lip, refusing to answer.
He pushes his wet fingers past your lips, pulling your jaw open with a firm pressure. The look he gives you is pure command—dark, expectant. Obey.
“I like it,” you moan around his fingers, the admission almost reluctant. Your grip tightens in Jack’s hair. “Fuck—I’m gonna—oh fuck—”
“Yeah?” Robby hums, petting your hair now, his other hand still at your breast. He watches your mouth hang open, watches the pleasure wreck you. “Eyes on me. Come on. No, no. No closing them. You keep ’em right here.” His gaze holds yours captive. “Good girl… good girl, aren’t you? Bratty, but you just needed to cum a little, isn’t that right?”
You whimper as Jack’s tongue sweeps over your oversensitive clit one last time, lapping up your juices as you shatter. Your orgasm crashes through you, white-hot and convulsing, your body bowing off the bed as you cry out.
“Good job, baby. Fucking hell,” Jack mutters against your thigh, his voice rough with praise.
He comes up your body, his hand replacing Robby’s on your breast, kneading possessively. His lips find yours in a messy, wet kiss, tasting of you. Tongues swiping, teeth clashing briefly as you chuckle into the kiss, wet and sloppy as he moves to your neck, sucking hard around your jaw, yoru neck, hand trailing over your figure, squeezing, gentle, rough all at once.
“My favourite girl in the world, you know that,” he murmurs against your skin, kissing at your collarbone.
You grin, feeling as Robby captures your mouth with his own, a brief pause as he watches Jack worship your figure. Jack slides a finger over your core, feeling as your back arches, how you gasp into Robby’s mouth.
“You aren’t a brat, are you baby?” Jack murmurs, rubbing tight circles at your clit, hearing how you whimper at the feeling, fresh from your orgasm. “No, honey, not for me, isn’t that right? Yeah, I know, I know… my sweet girl,” He replaces Robby’s mouth with his own, dragging over yours as you nod into the kiss.
“Told you. Lover boy,” Robby remarks to you.
You grin into the kiss, before Jack pulls away and naturally seems to find Robby’s lips.
You watch, a strange heat pooling in your belly, watching as Jack immediately leans in and kisses Robby. It’s harsh and sweet all at once—a clash of teeth and soft sighs. You thought you might feel a spike of jealousy, but instead, a warm, possessive pride swells in your chest.
Robby stands, briefly cupping Jack’s jaw in a gesture that’s both dismissal and affection before pushing him gently aside. Jack moves from between your legs, sprawling onto his back on the bed. Robby’s hands are on your waist, and you yelp in surprise as he manhandles you with effortless strength, flipping you onto your stomach.
He drags your ruined panties down over your ass, off your legs, and sends them flying to a corner of the room with a flick of his wrist. Your bra is next; he unclips it with one practiced hand, and the lace joins the panties.
“Ass up, sweetheart,” Robby instructs, his voice thick. He lands a sharp, stinging tap on your bare ass cheek. He has one knee on the bed, the other foot planted on the floor.
You obey, pushing yourself up onto your knees and elbows. Jack is lying in front of you now, his gaze heated. You reach for his prosthetic leg, helping him with the quick-release mechanism. Robby hands you the second one without a word—a seamless, understood exchange. Jack kisses you, sweet and grateful, as he sets the limb aside.
"That's it," Robby mutters, positioning himself behind you. You feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against your slick entrance, teasing, and then he thrusts forward in one brutal, seamless motion.
Filling you so completely the air leaves your lungs in a whoosh. He sets a punishing pace immediately, each thrust driving you forward toward Jack.
Robby inhales sharply at the feeling of you. You adjust to him, moan loud and silent all at once at the feeling.
“Shit,” Robby mutters. “Fuckin’ hell, you know much Jack’s raved about this pussy? Callin’ it the treasure of the fucking ocean.”
His hands grip your hips like anchors, fingernails digging into your soft flesh as he sets a merciless rhythm—pounding into you with a force that drives your body forward with each impact, making the headboard knock rhythmically against the wall. “Perfect fucking pussy, sweetheart, you know that?”
You moan at his words, clenching even tighter around him.
“How the fuck do you leave home, Jack— Jesus Christ,” Robby says as he quickens his pace slightly, watching as your ass moves from the harsh contact of his hips against you.
“Life or death, and that’s it,” Jack says.
“Come on, give him some love, kid,” Robby tells.
Jack’s cock is hard and leaking against his stomach. You lean down, taking him into your mouth, swallowing him deep. He groans, his hands coming up to cradle your head. “Fuck, just like that,” he rasps.
You’re split between them—Robby fucking into you from behind with deep, possessive strokes, and Jack’s length hitting the back of your throat. The dual sensation is overwhelming. Robby’s hips slap against your ass, the sound filthy and wet.
“You like being used like this baby?” Jack wonders, your moans vibrating against him.
You don’t answer, focused on the sensation of Robby’s cock harsh within you.
“He asked you a question,” Robby pants, moving his hand to your hair, tight as you look up at Jack, watery eyed.
“Uh-huh,” you nod.
“See? Not so hard,” Robby groans.
Jack smiles a bit at that, caressing your face as you occupy your mouth with Jack’s cock. He groans. The taste of salt and heat floods your tongue as you take him deep, your lips stretching around his girth. You hollow your cheeks, sucking hard as you bob your head, letting him feel every ridge of your throat as you swallow him down. Your nose presses against his pelvis, and he groans, his fingers threading through your hair.
"Just like that… Just like that," Jack chokes out, his head falling back as his hips buck up involuntarily, his hand tightening on your jaw. His thumb presses against your cheek, forcing your mouth wider, and you feel every ridge and vein of his cock sliding deeper down your throat. "Come on now, so close."
The words vibrate through you, but before you can double down, Robby leans over your arched back, his chest sweaty and hot against your spine, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Make him wait."
You pull off Jack's cock with a wet pop, a thick strand of saliva and pre-cum stretching between your lips and his glistening tip before breaking. Jack's frustrated groan cuts through the room, his hips twitching in empty air.
"Fuck off, Mike," Jack growls, but his hand remains gentle in your hair, fingers stroking through the sweat-damp strands as you whimper from the brutal pace behind you.
Robby's cock is driving into you with relentless accuracy, the head of him hitting that deep, spongy spot inside you with every thrust, sending electric jolts through your core. Your inner walls flutter and clench around him, helpless against the assault.
"You gonna be a brat too, then?" Robby says, shooting a lighthearted glare at Jack over your shoulder.
Before Jack can retort, you clench down hard around Robby's shaft, a desperate whine escaping your throat. Robby's rhythm stutters for half a second, a low curse spilling from his lips. "Fucking—hell, god, doll. You are so goddamn tight, y'know that?"
His pace becomes brutal, each thrust driving deeper, harder, the angle punishing. His balls slap wetly against your clit with every impact, the sound filthy and rhythmic. You feel the slick heat of your own arousal coating his shaft, dripping down your thighs with every punishing stroke.
"She's close," Jack murmurs, his voice softer now, almost reverent.
You shift forward, pressing open-mouthed kisses across his stomach, your tongue tracing the soft lines of his abs, tasting salt and skin, over the light freckles. You moan into his flesh, the vibration making his muscles jump, and then his palm cups your cheek, thumb brushing over your bottom lip, holding you warmly.
"Look at you," Jack whispers, his eyes dark and soft at once. "So beautiful like this. Taking us both. You're doing so well, baby."
“Go ahead, cum,” Robby growls into your ear, his hand snakes around your hip, his fingers finding your clit. He rubs tight circles against the swollen nub while he continues to pound into you, and the sensation is electric—each thrust driving his fingers harder against that sensitive bundle of nerves. “Now.”
You moan around Jack’s cock as you break, your pussy clenching wildly around Robby’s thrusts. The convulsions milk him, and with a low groan, he buries himself to the hilt and pulses inside you, hot and deep.
"Fuck," he breathes, his forehead pressing against your shoulder blade, his body shuddering through the aftershocks.
He pulls out slowly, and you feel his cum begin to seep from you.
“Goddamnit,” Robby murmurs, a pant.
Before you can even catch your breath, he spits into his palm, the sound crude and purposeful. He reaches down, slicking up Jack’s cock, which is already hard again and straining against his stomach. Jack groans, a deep, ragged sound at the touch.
“Your turn,” Robby tells him, his voice rough with use.
But instead of letting you face Jack, Robby guides you. His strong hands on your hips turn you, maneuvering your spent body until you’re straddling Jack, but facing away from him. Your back is to Jack’s chest, your ass pressed against his hips. You can feel Robby’s cum, warm and wet, slicking the way as you settle over Jack’s length.
Jack’s hands come to your hips, steadying you. “Easy, sweetheart,” he murmurs, but his voice is tight with need.
From the foot of the bed, Robby watches. He’s kneeling there now, his eyes dark and hungry, fixed on the place where your bodies move against one another, well practiced. Jack’s fingers slide between your legs, through the slick mess Robby left behind. He gathers it on his fingertips, his touch making you shiver, he brings those wet fingers to your lips.
You open for him, tasting Robby’s salty tang on Jack’s skin as he slips his fingers into your mouth. You moan around them, your tongue swirling. Jack’s eyes never leave Robby’s as he then pulls his fingers free, back to your cunt, a slight shudder once more, and brings them to his own lips, sucking them clean, tasting his best friend.
Robby watches this whole exchange, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
“Atta girl,” Jack pants against your ear, his hands tightening on your hips.
Then he guides you down, and you sink onto him with a broken cry. He fills you completely, the stretch delicious, the sensation of being stuffed so soon after your last climax making your head spin. You’re so sensitive it’s almost painful, a sweet, overwhelming ache.
You begin to move, rising and falling on his cock, finding a slow, grinding rhythm. Your hands brace on Jack’s thighs behind you for leverage. The angle is deep, each descent hitting a spot that makes you see stars.
“That’s it,” Jack encourages, his voice a rasp in your ear. His hands roam your body—gripping your waist, palming your breasts, thumbing your nipples.
You increase your pace, bouncing on him, the wet sounds of your joining filling the room. Your head falls back against his shoulder, your eyes fluttering shut.
“Eyes open, sweetheart.”
Robby’s command cuts through the haze. Your eyes snap open. He’s moved closer, kneeling right beside the bed now, his face level with where you’re joined with Jack. He’s watching every slide, every glide, his expression one of rapt fascination.
“Look at you,” Robby murmurs, his voice thick. “Takin’ him so well."
His praise fuels you. You lean more back, hands coming up behind you to Jack, angle pushing him even deeper, as you whimper, sharp gasps, teetering on the edge again.
“Baby, I’m gonna cum,” Your moan, soft.
“Fucking- shit, go ahead, honey, cum f’me,” he moans.
Your orgasm crests, a silent scream trapped in your throat as your body tightens. You clench around Jack, a series of violent, fluttering spasms that milk his length.
Jack curses, his hips bucking up into you. “Fucking—just like that—”
As you’re pulsing around him, Robby leans in. He captures Jack’s mouth in a sudden, fierce kiss over your shoulder. You can hear the wet slide of their lips, the soft grunts and sighs. It’s raw and intimate, and it sends another shockwave of pleasure through your oversensitive nerves.
Robby breaks the kiss. “Lift up for a second, kid,” he breathes against your skin.
Dazed and pliant, you raise yourself up, Jack’s slick cock sliding almost all the way out of you. Robby’s hand replaces you, wrapping around Jack’s shaft. He gives him a few rough, efficient strokes, his thumb smearing the pre-cum beaded at the tip.
“Missed the taste of you,” Robby mutters to Jack, his eyes locked on his friend’s face as he works him.
Jack just groans, his head thrown back, his hands gripping your thighs. Then Robby guides you back down, easing you onto Jack’s cock until you’re fully seated once more, stuffed to the brim.
“Go ahead, finish,” Robby growls, his command for both of you.
You begin to move again, a slow, rolling grind now, utterly spent but driven by the need to feel Jack lose control. He’s close—you can feel the tension in his body, the way his breath hitches.
“Come on, Jack,” Robby urges softly, his hand returning to your clit, applying just enough pressure to make you whimper. “Fill her up. Give her what she needs.”
That does it. With a shattered cry, Jack’s hips piston up once, twice, and then he stills, buried deep inside you as he comes. You feel the hot pulses of his release joining Robby’s already there, flooding you.
Jack kisses at your shoulder blades, near your neck, as you relax your body entirely, shaky breaths with your back against his chest. His arm coming around you automatically, instinctive, like it always does. His hand slides up your arm, slow, grounding, fingers brushing your shoulder, your collarbone—checking, not asking out loud but asking anyway.
Robby puts a hand to your jaw, tapping your cheeks lightly with his fingers, watching as your eyes lazily find his.
“You alright?” he murmurs, voice rough, softer than it’s been all night.
“Mhm,” You nod, catching your breath.
“There she is,” Jack murmurs against you, pressing a kiss into your hair, lingering there a second longer than usual.
Robby doesn’t move right away.
He’s sitting beside you both, elbows on his knees, head tipped slightly forward, breathing steadier now—but there’s something in his posture, something looser than before. The edge is gone. Or at least… dialed down.
You shift, peeling yourself gently from Jack, turning toward Robby. For a second, there’s that flicker—uncertainty, maybe. Not doubt. Just… recalibration.
Then you lean in and kiss him. It’s different now. Slower. Softer. No urgency behind it.
Robby’s hand comes up to the back of your head, not guiding, not demanding—just holding you there, thumb brushing lightly at your hairline. He exhales through his nose, a quiet thing, like he didn’t realize he’d been holding onto something.
When you pull back, you stay close.
“Hey,” you say, softer.
“Hey,” he echoes.
Jack watches the two of you. His hand still rests low on your back, thumb moving in slow, absent circles like it always does when he’s settling you.
Jack kisses gently at your bare back, “Be right back,” he murmurs against you, before you hear him leave the bed, putting on his temporary prosthetic.
You hear him leave, pulling away from Robby who watches Jack as he leaves the room, headed for the hall.
You groan and flop onto the bed, Robby moving the blanket over you, maybe suddenly prudeish as he picks up presumably Jack’s shirt and hands it to you. You hum, put it on.
“Jesus,” you murmur, voice soft, wrecked. “I think my legs might actually fall off.”
That gets a quiet huff out of Robby.
He’s sitting up at the edge of the bed now, dragging a hand down his face, then through his hair. He looks… different, a little. Looser. The usual edge sanded down.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Think you’ll live.”
You glance over at him, managing a small smile.
He’s already reaching for his boxers, pulling them back on, movements unhurried. The gold chain at his neck catches the low light—the Star of David resting against his chest, rising and falling with his breathing. There’s something grounding about it. Familiar. Normal.
There’s a beat.
Then, softer—
“…You good?” You ask.
He turns your head toward you. “Yeah.” He thinks for a moment, a shake of his head as he lets himself admit– “Needed that. Needed to be… not alone, I think.”
You watch him for a second—something thoughtful in your expression.
“That something you’d wanna do again or is this a one and done situation?” You wonder earnestly, rolling onto your side as you look up at him. “
Robby doesn’t answer straight away. He looks at you—really looks, like he’s trying to figure out what the question actually means underneath what you asked.
Your hair’s a mess, Jack’s shirt slipping off one shoulder, eyes soft but steady on him. Hickies across your neck. Not fragile. Not asking for reassurance. Just… asking.
His jaw shifts slightly.
“…You always this direct after something like that?” he mutters.
You huff a quiet laugh. “I’m an ortho resident. I don’t have time for interpretive dance.”
That almost gets a smile out of him. He exhales, leaning back more fully, one hand rubbing absently at his chest like he’s trying to settle something under the surface.
“It’s not—” he starts, then stops. Tries again. “It’s not really a ‘one and done’ kind of question.”
You tilt your head slightly. “Why not?”
He glances at the door—where Jack disappeared—then back at you.
Because Jack’s not just some guy. Because this isn’t just sex. Because there’s history here that predates you by decades and still manages to feel unfinished. Because he already feels it sitting somewhere in his chest, heavy.
You seem to pick up where his head is at, a nod. “Do you have… like, real feelings for him? Or me?”
Robby scoffs a chuckle. “I don’t have time to think about that.”
“Just time to fuck us though. Well, not Jack, sure he’ll give me a complaint about that later.” You murmur.
Robby smiles a bit. “You two are… perfect for each other. I still don’t get how he found you.”
“I don’t know either, to be honest,” You admit. “But he cares about you. Like a lot. And so do I. And it’s not just because your dick is great, promise. You’re always welcome with us, whether its sex, comfort, food, all three. We aren’t picky people.”
“Picked up on that,” Robby nods, quieter now. “What are your plans? With him, I mean. He mentioned something about marriage.”
You smile a little—more to yourself than anything—your hand drifting, almost unconsciously, to your left ring finger.
“No idea,” you admit. “However long he wants me around, I guess.”
Robby huffs a soft breath, leaning back against the headboard. “Well, if age’s anything to go by, you’ve got a good couple of years.”
You smack his arm lightly. “You’re literally older than him.”
“I’m not marrying you,” Robby shoots back, deadpan.
“You’re an ass,” you sigh.
That earns you a small smile.
The door opens.
Jack steps back in, towel slung over his shoulder, a glass of water already in hand. He pauses just inside, taking in the room in one sweep—quick, practiced. You, curled on your side in his shirt. Robby at the edge of the bed, quieter than usual.
“My leg’s killing me,” Jack mutters, like it’s an afterthought, already moving back toward the bed.
You push yourself up onto your elbows, frowning. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” he says, dismissive in that way he gets, like pain’s just background noise. He hands you the glass. “Drink.”
You take it, still watching him. “You say that about everything.”
“Because everything’s fine.”
Robby snorts under his breath. “Yeah. That’s a healthy coping mechanism.”
Jack shoots him a look as he sits down, stretching his leg out carefully. “Oh, I’m sorry—did you want to compare notes?”
Robby raises his brows. “Not particularly.”
Then Jack exhales, leaning back into the headboard. His hand finds your thigh automatically—absent, grounding, like he needs the contact without thinking about it.
His gaze flicks between the two of you, lingering on Robby for half a second longer than necessary.
“What’d I miss?” he asks.
You shift, settling back into him, your cheek brushing his shoulder. “Marriage.”
Jack huffs. “One night with my girl and you’re already trying to steal her? Alright. Good to know.”
Robby lets out a quiet chuckle.
“With you, idiot,” you correct.
Jack glances down at you. “Oh, him and I are getting married now?”
You roll your eyes and, just to be difficult, shift toward Robby instead—curling lightly into his side.
It lasts all of two seconds.
Jack’s arm hooks around you and pulls you straight back against him.
“Relax,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, holding you there against his chest.
Robby watches that, something unreadable flickering across his face before it settles again.
Robby stays the night.
Not in the same way—there’s a natural rhythm to it. He gives you and Jack space without being asked, drifting out into the living room, the quiet murmur of the TV carrying faintly down the hall. At one point you hear the balcony door slide open, then shut again.
He’s not intrusive. Never has been.
But he doesn’t leave, either.
if u havent read it, i'd recommend reading my (wo)man on willpower! this is a spin off of that, i suppose. focuses more on jack x reader, though. :D
a/n: girls i have another like 700 words i had that as a short scene of santos speculating why u didnt make it to her paris party (oh my god im so funny paris because threesome haha i know right, please dont click off this), and i might post that later, but my ao3 will get the full thing if u wanna just see what it was. the 1000 block limit on tumblr genuinely my opp fr.
anyway thank u guys all for the support on my (wo)man on willpower, so proud of that fic and so sweet the reblogs and comments! i wish u could see my grin every time! and yall hammered me for this so i hope its up to standard, meets an expectation or two. i had a lot of fun just exploring the dynamic, you x robby, robby x jack, jack x you, like i am a true believer in true love triangles, so hopefully that came across, but admittedly, still keeping jack and reader endgame obvi, so.. also sorry if it aint gay enough, i told yall i do not read mlm stuff, just not for me. i love it! just dont like, actively read it yk! i also just wanted to have fun with the prose, emotional stuff, etc, and idk. hopefully the smut isnt terrible, that shit is hard as hell! like, positions, dirty talk?! dirty talk is hardddd guys!! then like the build to it, ugh. i wish i had a smut class at my uni or something so i could really get into the weeds of it, and spend time endlessly editing it. i really couldve spent another few days editing this but honestly wanted it OUT and DONE !! need to lock in got exams soon team. okay sorry for this long as hell authors note ! lmfaoo. hope yall liked!
Summary: Titus wants you to respect how rich you are now that you're a Danforth.
Tags: sort of sugar daddy titus but obviously you are married and in love, this is just about him being horny for you spending his money, there is ALMOST smut, some dirty talk, LOTS OF KISSING :)
A/N: just a little something based on this post for funsies! set after The Debut! might do more little drabbles in the DWV, calling them my Little Bites :)
AO3 Link if that's your preference!
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The thing about suddenly going from paycheck to paycheck, to joining the richest and most powerful family in the world, is that there will always be a part of you stuck in a mode of self-preservation.
Alex tried to spoil you. Even though he was disconnected from his family, he still reaped the benefits of the Le Domas fortune, and he tried so many times to spend it on you. But you knew better than to let a man pay for your bills or buy you nice things, no matter how much you thought you loved him. The most you let him spend was on your wedding dress and well. Yeah that sure worked out.
But with Titus...it’s forever. This isn’t some guy trying to charm you and lovebomb you into staying with him, making you dependent on him. This is the man you were destined for, you tied your blood to, sold your soul for. This is the only man in the world who has truly seen you.
When he tells you to go out and buy something nice for yourself, he doesn’t mean throw $1000 cash on one little black cocktail dress from Dior. He means buy the entire floor display, right down to the shoes they put on the mannequin.
“You don’t like it?” you ask with a frown, looking down at the lacy dress that hugs your curves perfectly. You’d put it on as soon as you got home, when he asked to see your haul.
“Of course I do, Baby,” Titus sighs. “But...that’s it?”
“Well it...” you hesitate upon the sight of frustration and almost...sadness in his eyes. “Titus, this dress was five thousand dollars. That’s more than I’ve ever spent on clothes at one time.”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” Titus says through gritted teeth. “But you’re a Danforth now. You don’t have to be...frugal about anything.”
“Maybe I didn’t need anything else,” you mumble, twiddling with your fingers.
“Need?” Titus snaps, looking up from his work papers to see you standing there, so pretty and forlorn. “It’s not about need. It’s about what you want. You’re acting like I can’t give you everything you want in the world, how is that supposed to make me feel?”
“Are you seriously mad at me for not going on a million dollar shopping spree?” You ask, scoffing.
“No, Baby I’m not mad,” Titus huffs, sighing out another long breath. He pushes himself up from his desk and makes his way around to you, taking your twitching hands in his, kissing each of your knuckles. “You went to what? Ten stores with Ursula today? You can’t honestly tell me there wasn’t a single other thing in all of those stores that you didn’t want. Hm?”
“Well...” you trail off, lip worried between your top teeth as you look up at him through your lashes. “I mean...I don’t really think Dior is my style past this but...there were some things at Vivienne Westwood I liked...”
“Yeah?” Titus asks, tipping your chin up with his thumb, forcing you to look at him, to see the hint of excitement in his eyes. “Tell me.”
A heat pumps through your heart, like you feel the blush rushing through each of your veins, and you crack a small smile. Oh. You get it. You see it in the excited curiosity in his expression, feel it in the stutter of his breath against your cheek.
“Well...there were a couple necklaces, and a jacket or two...” You say, voice growing light and airy. Your hands go to his chest, flattening against him, fingers playing with the buttons on his shirt.
Titus licks his lips, pressing himself closer to you, eyelids shutting just a little. “Yeah?”
“Mhm,” you nod. Now you can really feel it, how hard he’s getting at just the thought of you in these expensive pieces. You smirk up at him, rake your hands up his chest and over his shoulders, pressing down the lines of his suit. “And this...lighter. It’s shaped like her orb symbol...special limited edition release from some old design...apparently they only made like 100 this time around.”
“Baby...” Titus groans. “Why didn’t you get it? You should have bought all of it. Don’t you have my Black Card?”
You shrug. “Yeah...but I didn’t—” you stop yourself from using the word need again. “I guess I was just overwhelmed. Ursula basically made me try this on when we got to Dior and I couldn’t really say no when everyone was telling me how good I looked in it...”
“You’re so beautiful,” Titus mumbles, voice gravely, as he kisses your cheek.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about that lighter, though,” you continue. “Had this image in my mind of the two of us sitting right over there...” you glance at the chair behind his desk, the ornate wood carvings on the back. It used to be his father’s seat. “Me in your lap, maybe after a long day, you need to relax and all that. You pull out one of your cigars...I use the Vivienne to light it for you...”
Titus’s hand tightens on your jaw, forcing you to look up at him again, expression full of intense desire, hunger. “You should have bought it, Baby. I want you to—"
“You’re really turned on by the thought of me spending all your money?” You giggle, darting your tongue out to lick at his thumb.
“Guess so,” Titus grunts, then suddenly, he grabs you by the waist and hoists you up on the desk, kicking your legs open with his so he can settle between them.
You gasp into the biting kiss he lays on you, laughing into it as he presses his hard body against yours, forcing you on your back. He traps your hands above your head, holding you by your wrists, tight enough to leave bracelets of bruises. You hum against his lips, “Calm down sugar daddy.”
His hips jerk into yours at that comment, teeth nibbling at your bottom lip. “Little Lamb, I’m gonna fuck you right here, keep that pretty new dress on for me. And then I’m taking you back to the stores to buy every single thing you wanted, I’ll make them all stay open until midnight if you want.”
A flush of excitement ignites in your belly. How could you say no to such a delicious offer? “Gonna give me a budget?”
“Budget?” Titus scoffs, disgust furrowing in his brow. “No budget. No limit. How about a minimum amount? You have to spend at least... Five hundred thousand dollars by midnight.”
“Or what?” You tease, heart racing.
Titus smirks. “What? You need me to threaten you to spend my money?” He laughs when you shrug under him. “Alright. Spend half a million by midnight, or I’ll spank you so hard you won’t be able to sit for a fucking week, Baby. Sound good?”
And you’re about to say something about how that doesn’t sound much like a punishment at all, pussy clenching at the very thought of his thick hands leaving angry red marks on your ass. But who are you to argue with such an offer?
+
That night, you ended up spending just over seven hundred thousand on dresses, jewels, bags, and a few pairs of shoes. Titus ended up sending it over a full million with a Tiffany pearl and diamond necklace.
Then he made you put all the jewels on and fucked you in the middle of your bed, coming on your belly then your flushed face. He commemorated the moment with several polaroids of every inch of your body.
It keeps going like this.
Titus gives you his cards, opens a few in your name, and makes sure you always get everything your heart desires, no matter what.
Any time you show the slightest hint of apprehension, he always tells you, “What’s the point of being the most powerful family in the world if you can’t take every single thing you want?”
Even Ursula enables this behavior, which sort of surprises you since she always comes off as the more reasonable twin. But when she showed you the warehouse of vintage shoes and bags she’s been collecting since she was a teenager, you realized this truly is the life expected of you.
Titus loves it.
Any time you come home with piles of shopping bags, he’s on you. Begging to see what you bought, dick tenting his pants before you can even get through the first bag.
It’s not just clothes, either. It’s everything.
One time when the two of you were at brunch, you expressed your interest in a new car, since you’ve been driving the ones from the family’s private collection, you want one just for you.
“Baby, if you came home with ten new hundred-thousand-dollar cars and the deed to a vacation home in seven countries, I wouldn’t even blink,” Titus says to you, face cracking into a bright smile as he sips his coffee.
So a week later you came home with a custom rose gold Astin Martin DB9 convertible, with pink leather interior, and a custom plate that reads: LTTL LMB.
Titus lays you out on the hood and eats you out right there in the driveway.
He also loves it when you buy things for him. Whether it’s new hunting clothes or suits or watches, each time you toss a new box or bag and tell him to get dressed, it thrills him to no end.
Sure, it’s his family’s money, but the fact that you’re the one picking things, the one dressing him up like your own personal Ken doll, that’s what makes him happy. He always liked to be spoiled, that’s not exactly a secret about the son of Chester Danforth.
Little by little you warm to the idea that spending his money is not something to ever feel guilty about. You eventually stop all hesitation, and it’s not that you just buy every expensive thing, but that you don’t stop yourself from anything that you truly want. Sometimes, you scroll through GoFundMe and just finish out donations that people need, simply because you can. Because underneath all the glitz and glamour, you’ll always be that orphan girl who had nothing.
Your metamorphosis into a true Blue Blooded Danforth, is solidfied in Titus’s mind the day you tell him that Penelope and Ursula convinced you to buy a new vacation home in Granada.
Sitting in bed, Titus in his reading glasses that you find to be ridiculously sexy, scrolling through his phone, while you lay next to him, tapping your fingers in a light trail up and down his bicep.
“Penelope and Elton have this adorable cottage, she was showing me pictures, but then Ursula mentioned that this big mansion just up the hill from them was going on sale...anyway we were looking at it online, and maybe I should have asked you to take a quick trip to see it in person first but...well Urse liked it too so I figured I’d just call the realtor up, put in an offer—”
Titus cuts you off with a kiss, tossing his phone to the side carelessly, as he climbs over your body. You let out a delighted squeal at his touch, and he moans into your mouth, “Fuck, that’s my girl, you finally got it.”
“You don’t think we should have looked at it first?” You ask playfully, running your fingers through his soft, silver hair.
“Fuck that,” he grunts, grinding his already stiffening cock against you, breathing hitching at the feeling of your satin panties on him. He pulls them to the side, rubbing the head of his cock up and down your soaking cunt. “Now the first time we step foot inside,” he groans out the last word as he slides his cock into you, agonizingly slow, swallowing your whimper with a kiss, licking his tongue into your mouth. “It’ll be all fresh and new, we can explore it together, I’ll fuck you on every surface...”
You lick your lips, whining when Titus pushes all the way inside, filling you up in that way that drives you crazy, makes you feel so deeply connected to him. He keeps mumbling in your ear as he fucks you, things about how proud he is of you, how much he loves you, how he loves taking care of you. You smile and take it, take his cock, accept his words, let him fill you, let him take care of you.
It makes sense now, Titus’s obsession with you showing your wealth, his wealth. It’s not just some frivolous thing, it’s another way to show your status over the world, even if most people will never know how you got it. It’s another way for Titus to show everyone in their circle that you are his.
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