hargreeves-duncan

she/her 🍸 welcome, lovelies!

[hargreeves-duncan]

HARGREEVES-DUNCAN⋆｡𖦹 °.

⎯⎯ welcome to my blog!

she/her. 20s. bisexual. multifandom girlie. resident of chef luca nation. queen of falling in love with characters without watching the media they’re in.

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⋆｡𖦹 °. minors, please dni with any posts marked ‘SMUT - MDNI’ on this account

[ceriseangels]

𝗕𝘂𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗳𝗹𝗶𝗲𝗱 𝗕𝗼𝘁𝗵 𝗢𝘂𝗿 𝗕𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗲𝘀- 𝗠.𝗥.

Pairing- Michael Robinavitch x Abbot!Reader

WC- 7.6k (i'm so sorry yall idk what my problem is)

Summary- You’re planning a surprise party for your brother, Jack. Your secret relationship with his best friend threatens to blow the whole thing up.

Contains- 18+ SMUT MDNI, unprotected p in v (bad idea!!! bc always!!!) oral (m and f receiving), this is honestly just nasty sorry yall, robby being a bitch as always, he tries to be mean and dominant but is Down Bad, they kind of take turns as the brat and the brat tamer, r is bestie with pittlings, alcohol usage, brief mention of park the shark but purely to move the plot forward, trinity being a messy gay, nearly getting caught teehee

A/N- divider from @enchanthings! Obsessed with @mariasont’s abbot!reader and i wanted to take a stab at it <3 as always thank you to my bestie @whatif-ialreadydid for being the best beta reader!

Soft sheets envelop your frame as you hunch over your laptop, criss cross applesauce in your bed. Your manicured nails clack on the keyboard, brows furrowed in concentration as you navigate some stupid e-vite website Javadi recommended. Splashes of glittery pinks and purples erupt in your screen, the words "JJ'S 5OTH" sprawled across the top.

You review the information- day, time, location, a sinister smile spreading across your face. Clicking to your laptop's messages, you send the link to a large group chat containing your brother's colleagues.

A buzz ruptures the peaceful calm of your bedsheets, the large, languid frame next to you turning over to pick up the phone. You avert your gaze from your screen, Michael's arms stretching above his head, eyes squinting to see his phone.

"I need my readers…" he mumbles, and your heart beats thrice as fast.

"Old man," you murmur, lips pursing into a much sweeter smile than before.

You nudge his leg with yours, giggling at his scoffs of protest, the light kicks his tired bones allow. You flop down on your back, curling into the long, rigid frame next to you.

You catch him at the tail end of a big stretch, the hem of his white t-shirt riding up to reveal the patch of hair decorating his lower belly. A shiver unravels his body as your fingers skim over the sensitive skin, fiddling with the waistline of his boxers.

He reaches up to grab your face, bringing you down to kiss him. Your lips slot over his, moving in a tandem that releases butterflies into your belly. You rest your hands delicately on his chest, a low groan reverberating under your fingertips.

"Want you," you whisper sweetly against his lips, swinging your legs over his hips and sinking your weight down.

He breathes out a whine, pressing his eyes shut, pronouncing the lines that decorate the area. You lean in and place a light kiss on each set of wrinkles, before darting your lips around all points of his face- his nose, his cheeks, his lips, his forehead.

You roll your hips against his, your arms crossing over your stomach to lift your (Robby's) shirt over your h-

Bloop.

You both freeze, the cruel reminder of your laptop's presence resting beside you, the lifelong nickname you gave your brother aglow in bright red. All while you're about to get naked for his best friend.

You lean sideways, twisting on his lap, a shiver running down your spine as he grips your waist a bit tighter at your movements. The laptop falls shut, and you turn back, the sight of him stopping you short.

A sliver of morning creeps through the window, illuminating the hair peppering down his chest, teeth sinking in to your lip at the sight. You prop your hands on his chest, leaning your weight ever so slightly.

His arms reach up to graze your forearm, goosebumps unlocking with each touch. A sigh falls past your lips as you find his eyes, your heart palpitating at the softness swirling through the honey brown.

"Michael," you whisper, your eyes falling shut as you start to move your hips. It's slow, teasing and tantalizing. His own eyes fall shut, a groan rumbling past his lips.

"I love it when you call me that," he gruffs. You press your hips in deeper.

His hands start to creep up the loose, tattered fabric falling over your frame. It's a ratty Creed shirt that nearly pre-dates you, and he can't resist you in it. His large fingers grip your waist, kneading your plush skin, the chub of your hips, the fat of your ass.

Your head falls to the side, body going limp at the warmth spreading through your belly. It allows Robby to take over, skilled and swift fingers lifting it over your head. He sits up then, placing a hand on the arch of your back, pulling you to him.

You fall on to him, lips moving in tandem, tongues deftly tasting each other. Your nails reach his scalp, scratching lightly between kisses, reveling in the light whimpers falling out of his mouth, the deep furrow of his brows.

"So sensitive," you tease, your lips kissing and biting and sucking his neck.

His hips jerk involuntarily, the heavy weight of him pressing beneath you. More whimpers, eyes falling shut and head falling back.

"Please," he whispers, "pl-"

The click of the front door robs him of his plea, a loud call of your name sinking the both of you in ice cold water.

"Ffffuuuuuccckkkk," you panic under your breath, scurrying off of Robby as you scramble for a shirt- yours, not his.

Robby throws the sheets off of him, throwing on his sweatpants in record speed.

"Just a sec, JJ!" You call out, trying to control your labored breath. "Just got out of the shower!" You lie, ensuring he won't come in. You've never been more thankful for an en suite bathroom.

He doesn't typically burst in your room, but you are staying at his house for free, and he is your big brother. Sometimes he likes to tackle you awake when you've slept too long for his liking. Not today, Satan.

You push Robby's solid shoulders out the door to your terrace, your eyes peeled on the way his big, broad frame climbs down. You can't help but giggle, the cracking of his knees paired with the juvenility of his actions providing a sweet contrast to the panic coursing through you.

He disappears from sight, and it snaps you back to reality, to the steps of your brother coming up the stairs. You pull on a pair of your own pants, and slide your way out the door. Pressing your back against the closed door, you give your brother an innocent smile. All the while, your ears are peeled for the telltale creaks and whines of Robby slinking down the front of your house.

"Hi JJ!" You chirp, giving him a quick hug in greeting.

"Hey hun," he says, patting you on the head. You smile, rocking back and forth on your feet, eager to tell him to finally take a night off.

"What's this about?" He asks, deadpan in disdain, hand gesturing to your giddy expression. "Why are you looking at me like a crazy person?"

"Well…" you start, walking around him to the steps, "someone has a birthday coming up," you muse. "I just wanted to suggest taking the night off, you deserve the rest!" You say, trotting off down the steps and ignoring his incredulous laugh.

You know it'll take more convincing to get him to actually do it, but you successfully coerced him to let you move into his huge house for free. You're not super concerned about persuading him.

The next couple days are jam-packed with party planning. It's difficult when he's home all day, to pick up flower orders, balloon fixtures, the cake, for goodness' sake. You feel like Magnum P.I., (a movie Robby showed you) skirting around your brother like this.

Of course, it's not the only way you're doing that to him.

Robby's in your bed every night, without fail. Shame burns in your stomach as you wait for him, perched on the bed, the door to your terrace cracked. The soft glow of your lamp wraps around you as you see him climb up, bustling through the railing. By the time he's through the door, he's already peeling his sweatshirt off.

Soft smiles are exchanged as he paws off his shoes, his eyes never leaving you- clad in a small pink cotton tank top, matching shorts stretched under the plush of your thigh. He licks his lips at the sight of them, stretched taut over your thick skin.

His head shakes as he stops, clad only in his boxers and underscrubs that pinch his waist deliciously. You bite your lip at the sight of him, hair mussed, eyes tired, lips turned up in a delicate smile.

"What?" You whisper, tantalizing. "I need you," you pout, elbows meeting in front of you to push your tits up.

"Jesus fuck," he grumbles, scruffing his hand over his beard. "You're just beautiful," he shakes his head, crawling onto your bed. "Can't believe I get to come back from a shift to this."

He rests on his side, turning you toward him, still on your knees. He just takes you in, tired body sinking into your plush bed, eyes not leaving your pebbled tits. The cool night air drifts in from the terrace, and you shiver a bit, chest shaking with the motion.

The thick of his cock plumps up at the sight, his own shiver unleashing down his spine. He reaches a hand up, cupping your cheek and kissing you. He grabs you, pulls you over him so you can press your center into his.

The weight of his hardness beneath you never fails to make you dizzy, your eyes falling closed as you absentmindedly grind into him. His hands are everywhere, pawing at your ass, squeezing and kneading, moving up to your love handles, pinching playfully before finally landing at your tits.

He squeezes them through the thin fabric of your pajamas, thumbs brushing over your nipples. You whine, throwing your head back, pushing your breasts into him further.

"Michaelllll," you draw out, a whiny pitch to your words. "It's already so good. How is this so good?" You wonder out loud, the sole feeling of humping against him rendering you nearly useless.

He wraps his large arms around you, pulling you close to him and planting a hungry kiss on your lips. His mouth is greedy, all consuming as it slots over yours. It takes some serious restraint on his part not to swallow you whole, and the thought of that sends a jolt of electricity through your veins.

"I know, honey," he mumbles against your lips. His own move from your lips, to your cheek, to your ear, nibbling playfully on the lobe. You giggle, and he pinches your ass.

"Your body feels so fucking good on top of me, made for me, hm?" He asks, the point of his nose nudging yours.

You nod desperately, eyes wide and glassy, lips pouty. He kisses it off, and you whine again.

"Made for you," you confirm, picking up the speed of your hips.

You feel him shake under you, his hands coming to your waist to slow your movements. A bratty pout sprouts on your lips once more, your hips disobeying with all their might, desperate for more friction.

"Slow down, you brat," he teases, swatting your ass before you give up, slumpig against his large frame.

He runs his hands up and down your back as you both catch your breath, your chests rising and falling against each other's.

"I was gonna cum. Didn't wanna do that when I wasn't inside you." he admits against your neck, and you squeal in delight.

"Really?" You ask, eyes aglow at the information. "Big Dr. Robby was gonna come in his pants because of me? Really?" You ask again, a teasing lilt to your voice that has him beet red.

"God, fuck don't fucking call me doctor right now," he pulls his head out of your neck, your words rendering him boneless. He flops back onto the bed, hands coming up to cover his eyes.

"Sorry, Doctor," you pout, slinking your knees between Robby's, hitching your hands under his knees and spreading them apart.

You giggle at the crack of his hip, a groan of discomfort falling from his mouth. You stand tall on your knees, resting his calves on your shoulders. You turn to plant a kiss to his ankle, and he whimpers.

Your manicured nails reach under the waistband of his boxer shorts, running one finger along the hem. He shivers at the touch, his nipples hardening under the nylon fabric still donning his chest.

You change that, nails raking up his stomach, ribs, and chest, taking his under scrubs with them. He lifts up his arms submissively, his cheek falling onto the pillow as you pull it off of him.

You take a minute to appreciate him in this position- legs hiked up, soft belly all scrunched, chest heaving up and down. You have no choice but to absolutely devour him.

You set his legs down gently, keeping them apart as you lower yourself to his groin. His bulge is prominent through his boxers. You cup it with vigor, biting your lip at the feeling, the smell, the noises coming from his mouth.

"Want me to put it in my mouth, Doctor?" You ask, peeling the fabric over his hard length. It springs free, and you waste no time wrapping your hand around it.

Your mouth finds his balls, tugging them into your mouth and sucking gently, your fist working his cock. His head falls back on the pillows, a loud cry emenating from his mouth.

"Fuck, that's so good," he whimpers as you press delicate kisses up his shaft to his tip, tongue darting out to clean up his leaky slit. His hands find your hair, petting and rubbing and tugging on it. You take in more of him, hallowing your cheeks and sucking. Hard.

His hips jerk up, forcing you to take even more of him. He hits the back of your throat, and you gurgle around him, eyes watering as he hits your gag reflex, over and over.

The feeling of him in your mouth is a delicious discomfort, stretching your throat and mouth for his pleasure. The thought of this, of treating big mean Dr. Robby so good, has you weak in the knees, butterflies swarming your belly. You tell him so, actually.

"Feels so good," you splutter, spit reverberating off his cock as you speak. You work your hand up and down his length, keeping him right in your palm as you talk. "Love making you feel good, baby. You work so hard, hm?" You ask, voice high pitched. needy, and whiny. It's his favorite, and you can tell by the pre-cum that continues to leak out of him. You lean down and lick some up.

"Yeah," you sympathize, eyes big and watery. "Y'just need someone pretty to hold all of that, just for a little bit. Right?" You asks, and he nods a pathetic answer. "Big, mean Dr. Robby just needs his pretty girl to work his cock out."

"Fuck!" He throws his head back at that, cum sputtering out of him. It covers your hands, his stomach, his chest, your chest. You continue to squeeze it out of him, tightening your hand to get the rest out.

His chest heaves as he comes down from his high, the soft look in his eye unleashing an endless flutter in your tummy. You work your hand until he can't take it any longer, pawing you off of him.

You lean down to lick him clean, and he groans as his thick release coats your tongue. You don't swallow, lifting your head to his to plant a salty, tangy kiss to his lips.

His own tongue starts moving on its own accord, licking and sucking and panting, his large hand covering the expanse of your cheek. You let up just a little, and he's not having it. He plants one, two, three more little kisses before finally releasing you.

"You like tasting yourself?" You whisper against his lips.

He whines, gripping your waist tighter at the question. He buries his face in your neck, face warm, lips planting kisses along your skin.

You chuckle in victory, placing a sweet kiss on the top of his head.

You flop onto your own back, getting yourself comfortable for him to return the favor. He claps a palm to your raised knee, resting on his elbow as he turns towards you.

He slinks himself between your legs, lifting your ankles to his shoulders, just like you did with him moments before. Raw vulnerability is a fire poker to your stomach, laid out before him like this.

He kisses your ankle, your calf, your inner thigh. He lowers himself onto the bed the higher he goes. Your breath hitches the closer he gets to your core, the sharp tip of his nose nuzzling your clit before pressing a kiss there.

"Oh, Michael," you whimper, your brows pinching.

You scoop your legs up with your hands, and he spreads you further with his big hands before going in.

He's ruthless with his assault, licking you from your opening all the way up to your clit, puncturing it with a harsh suck. Your head falls back, whines and whimpers an endless stream pouring from your lips.

"'S good?" He asks against your skin, and the vibrations have you shaking under his touch.

Your stomach twists as he licks, kisses, and sucks. He darts his tongue in and out, next, his thumb rubbing taut circles on your most sensitive spot.

A white hot burn brews in your belly, bubbling like stew.

"Michael, it's so good, your mouth is always perfect, fuck," you moan out, jaw slack at the pleasure coursing through you.

"Always perfect, hmm?" He hums between kisses, his thumb rubbing continuous circles as he looks up at you. "Better than any asshole your age yeah? Needed an old man to treat this pussy right?"

Your face burns at his filthy words, closing your eyes yet nodding yes. Your cheek finds your pillow, and you nuzzle in, while sinking your fingers in his hair, pushing you back to your center.

"I'm close, please keep going," you plead, which he answers eagerly.

"Got you," he mumbles against you, wrapping his arms around your legs and pulling you closer, nearly smashing his face in your center. "Gonna make you feel so good, go ahead, come for me."

His permission unravels you, white hot pleasure hitting you like a tsunami, waves ebbing and flowing as you shake in his arms.

Your chest heaves as you come down, eyes desperate to see him as he crawls up your body. You rake your nails down his chest, reveling in his shiver, greedy fingertips finding his once-again hard length. He freezes, though, and you stop your movements.

"Sweet girl…" he starts and your stomach sinks.

"Robinavitch…" you trail off, propping yourself up on your own elbows, brow raising in suspicion. "Don't tell me what I think you're about to tell me."

"I can't stay," he breaks the news, and rage runs through you like a river.

"What the fuck do you mean you can't stay?" You sit up on your knees, assuming your sultriest pose, desperate to keep him right where you want him.

"We almost got caught last time," he starts, running his palm over his mouth. "I don't think I can afford to do that again."

"Oh, but you could afford to come and get your dick sucked?" You wave your hands in exasperation. He flinches at your wild tone, and your heart sinks. You want to shove him.

"Listen, I'm sneaking in and out through your terrace! I don't think I've done that since the 80s," he holds his hands up in surrender, and it makes you want to smack him.

His words hit you hard, though, like little pinpricks to your heart. The backs of your eyes burn, and you avert your gaze. God forbid he sees you cry.

"You seem to like the benefits of that trek, though, Robinavitch," you quip, ignoring the burning desire to take him in your arms, to wake up and fall asleep with him there.

He has nothing to say to that, and you swear you can feel your heart break, just a little.

"Get out of here," you wave him off before he can see his affect on you.

"I-" he starts, but you whip his clothing at him, effectively cutting him off.

"I don't wanna fucking hear it," you snap, heart racing and adrenaline pumping. "You really thought you could just come over, get your rocks off, and then go? That's all I am here? Just a fun little quest while you're trying to figure your shit out?" Your voice climbs higher with each syllable, and he cringes with each accusation thrown his way.

"Honey, I'm sorry. Of course that's not it, I just-" He starts, but you have no more patience.

"Get out," you point toward the door leading to your terrace. It's a force of habit, since he's never left so early, he technically doesn't have to take that route tonight. You honestly kind of want him to fall, break a few bones on the concrete below. That'll teach him. "Out. Now!" You demand, pushing his half-clad body out the door.

He resists, pushing against you in the direction of the actual bedroom door.

"If that's alright with you," he starts, annoyance pricking his own tone now. "I'm going to use the front door. Like a fucking adult," that last part is pointed, and each word is an arrow to your heart.

"Really, Robinavitch? You wanna go there with me?" You ask, fire spewing from your lips.

You're following him out of the room, trailing behind him down the grand spiral staircase lining your brother's house.

"Where? Where am I going?" He asks, tempting your limits. "I thought I was just going home."

"God, you're such a fucking bitch!" You spew from halfway down the stairs, stomping your foot against the wood like a child. You ignore the pain that shoots through your ankle and up your leg, like you ignore the throb in your heart, the tremble in your lips.

"Least I'm not a child," he calls back, deadpan. "See you tomorrow, pretty girl."

With that, the door slams behind him. You bury your face in your hands, plant yourself on the steps, and cry.

The grief of the night before sits heavy in your chest, a dark cloud rolling over what should be a happy day. Jack is still sleeping, thankfully his shift the night before was taxing enough to knock him out solidly.

You've pattered around the house all day, letting in vendors, grabbing the decorations you've shoved in closets for weeks. Nerves pump through your veins all day, anticipating your brother's reaction to your elaborate surprise.

Around noon, it's finally starting to come along. The sun shines through the bright pinks, yellows, and blues that decorate the backyard. It hangs high in the sky, the peak of the day waiting for you.

You take a moment to soak it up, breathing in the chlorine-scented air to try and ease your nerves.

You're snapped out of your reprieve by the slide of the back door, and you whip around to see your brother, brows furrowed in surprise.

"Woahhhh, what's this, kiddo?" He asks, bringing his arm around you, pressing a kiss to your temple.

"Happy birthday, JJ!" You squeal, hugging him back.

"This is all for me?" He asks, head whipping around, taking in the transformation of his backyard.

"Surprise!" You throw your hands up, your pride burying the heartbreak from the night before, just slightly.

"Friends are coming in about a half hour," you tell him, circling the patio table, setting up various snacks and drinks. "We're just about finished out here, and I'm gonna go get changed! Cheers, birthday boy!" You toss him a can of Coors Light before darting to the glass door he just came out of moments before.

"It's noon!" He calls back, and you roll your eyes.

"It ain't called day drinking unless you start drinking in the day!" You call back, retreating to the quiet of the inside.

You take a moment to appreciate your hard work- it's spotless, the decorations in your living room nearly mirroring the festivities outside.

You slink up to your room, your heart sinking as the memory of last night creeps up your spine like a spider- sharp and biting. You press your fingers to your waterline, desperate to protect your eye makeup from running. You won't ruin hundreds of dollars of makeup for Michael Robinavitch.

You open your closet, grabbing the pink swimsuit you bought just for this occasion. It's a burning, bright pink, straps as thin as can be, paired with a matching sarong. You pull it on, adjusting your chest in the cups of the suit before pulling on your sandals.

The doorbell rings as you jog down the stairs, heart racing in anticipation.

You're greeted by Ellis and Shen, and you throw your arms up in celebration. You pull them both in for a group hug, relishing in the feeling of their constricting muscles under your hands.

"You guys look great! What are they doin' to ya over in the night shift?" You ask, looking back at them while leading them inside.

"Too much, I'll tell you that," Ellis responds, heading straight for the drinks table.

She grabs two, and cracks one of her own. Shen trades his Dunkin' for a can she's holding out to him, and you swipe the latte from the kitchen island. You take a sip, a buttery vanilla coating your tongue.

"Hmm, that's pretty good," you shrug, putting it in the fridge for when he'll inevitably go back to it before his shift later.

"You're gross," he teases, and you stick your tongue out.

People continue to filter in as the afternoon crawls on, the day shift slowly taking over for the night shift as the sun goes down. It's a perfect golden hour when you see him again, and the sight still knocks you off your center, even after all these weeks.

He's greeted with smiles and celebration throughout the backyard, jealousy sliding down your spine like sticky slime. The idea of others seeing him, knowing him, is almost too much for you to bear witness to right now.

You turn away from him, the shiny, sheer fabric of your skirt illuminated by the evening glow of the sun. You perch your hands on the table in front of you, under the guise of leaning closer to see something on Javadi's phone.

You arch your back with the movement, your plush skin moving with your giggles in a way you know will make Robby crazy. You continue to talk to the Pittlings, who have become some of your closest friends since moving back in with your brother.

"You've got someone staring a hole through your back right now, by the way," Victoria says, lifting her drink in Robby's direction.

"More like her ass," Santos adds, slapping you there as she approaches the group, plopping down on the chaise lounge next to Victoria.

"Oh God," you groan, hands covering your burning cheeks.

"How's that treating you, by the way?" Whitaker asks, leaning his elbows on his knees. "Messing around behind your brother's back?"

"Pshh," you huff, rolling your eyes. "Just about as good as you'd expect. He has the emotional depth of an acorn."

"That's being generous," Samira adds, cheering your can with hers in response.

"That bad, huh?" Whitaker asks, and your heart picks up in your chest.

"It's just-" you start, taking a large sip of your drink before you start. "He wants me one second, and then doesn't the next. It's so confusing. I don't know what else I expected when we got together, but this wasn't it."

"I mean, it's honestly enough of a feat in itself that you got him to open up at all," Trinity says, taking her own sip.

This quells your worries only slightly, and you shake your head to ponder her point.

"I guess, but last night he just took off. Didn't spend the night," you mutter that last part quietly, and are met with disapproving groans and wolf whistles from your friends.

"Oh, shit," Samira says, sitting up. "You like him!"

"What? No I don't!" You insist, the words sputtering from your lips.

"Uh, yeah, ya do," Trinity adds, rolling her eyes at the incessant shakes of your head. "If you don't like him, then why are you constantly texting me about how sexy he is?" She asks, pointedly holding up her phone.

"Gross," Samira says, under her breath.

Your cheeks burn.

"You wanna prove you don't like him?" Trinity challenges, and a pit forms in your stomach.

You nod desperately, and she crosses her arms over her chest.

"See that guy over there?" She asks, head nodding towards a certain party-goer.

He's massive, a buff guy with slicked hair that you vaguely recognize from your brothers' stories. He doesn't work directly in the ER, that much you know. Maybe a surgeon?

"Park? Really?" Whitaker asks, disgust tingeing his voice.

"Really," Trinity stands firm on her decision. "If you don't like Robby-" she fakes a gag at that, "then go flirt with Park the Shark."

She wiggles her eyebrows in intrigue as you find his eyes again. He's looking at you this time, a sinister grin on his lips. Something wrong pounds in your heart, but your stubborn resolve wins over.

You stand up straight, flipping your hair over your shoulders, popping your hip before sauntering over. You turn back to your friends, giving a cheeky wink and a wave.

"Watch me," you whisper, slinking your way over.

You spot Robby in your peripheral, his inquisitive eye tracking your every move. He goes rigid when he sees where you're going, and you can't help but buck up a little, pushing your chest out as you descend on your prey.

"Hi!" You chirp, placing a delicate hand on his thick bicep. "I need your workout routine! How is this even possible?" You gush, though each word feels like poison on your lips.

He puffs up, says something stupid about his gym membership, and you continue to ooh and awe, batting him your sweetest lashes.

You feel Robby's eyes on you the entire time, and you don't hesitate to play the part. You shake your hair from side to side, letting the sunlight hit different points of your face. His eyes burn into your face, and your stomach burns, but not with the butterflies you're used to. It's dark, shameful and pitying.

You throw your head in the other direction, under the guise of getting the sun out of your eyes. Really, though, you want to see the sun hitting another man, standing on the other side of the backyard.

The honey brown of his eyes light up with the late afternoon glow, jealousy ferociously coursing through them. You perk up, remembering why you're there. You arch your back, lean into him slightly. Your laughter is a little too loud, bending over a little too far at his jokes.

You spare one more glance. He's setting his drink down, he's running his hands over his mouth. You turn back to the man on your arm.

"I can't believe you can make all that work with such a busy schedule!" You gush, petting his arm up and down.

"Yeah, well-"

"Hey," a gruff voice interrupts him from behind.

You freeze at the familiar sound, your heart falling into your stomach. Your cheeks burn, your eyes frantic as they scan the faces of your friends, an even mix of shock and intrigue.

You turn your body slowly, reluctantly meeting his gaze. It takes the breath out of you when you finally see him, his brown eyes a mix of regret and adoration.

"Hi," you respond, your breath hitched in your throat.

"Can we talk, uh, alone?" His hand reaches to scruff the back of his hand, and your heart nearly melts at the self soothing motion.

"Uhm…" you start, eyebrows raising. "I'm actually talking to someone. Recognize him?"

You know it's bitchy, but you can't help the rage that courses through you at his question. Now he wants to talk? The second you start flirting with someone else?

He clears his throat, the apples of his cheeks tinting red as he now takes in his audience- a colleague so ruthless he's compared to an apex predator.

"You know him, pretty girl?" Park asks.

The familiar name sends a twinge of disgusts from your heart to your belly. Your mouth twists downward, and suddenly, this isn't much fun anymore.

"Yeah," Robby interjects, gripping your forearm. "She does."

He manhandles you away from him, fire burning in his gaze. As mad as you are right now, you're damn thankful he got you out of this.

"What the hell, Robby?" You whisper yell, throwing your hand out in exasperation.

"Meet me inside," he demands, turning to walk inside.

You stand there, frozen, your heart galloping in your chest. You find your friends again, throwing a scared, yet excited glance their way as you start to follow him. They're confused at first, then look towards the door, sending a mix of 'good luck's and 'don't fuck it up's your way.

You pick your speed up as you turn around, a prissy little half jog to catch up to his long strides. He stops before you can catch yourself, causing you to run straight into his broad, strong back.

You collapse with the thin, linen fabric of his shirt, and you can't help but sink your fingers in it to help stop yourself. At least, that's what you're telling yourself.

"Oomph!" You squeal into the fabric, cheeks burning even hotter under his dubious gaze.

You shove him lightly, once, twice, three times before he's finally crossing the threshold.

Thankfully, the living room is empty as you slide the glass door closed behind you. You nick the lock into place, just in case.

The air between the two of you is thick, warm like the humidity radiating outside. You run nervous fingers through your hair, your stomach bubbling with nauseating anxiety.

"What, Robby?" You ask, your heart beating a mile a minute. It pounds in your ears, and you can barely hear his response. "What do you want?"

"I just-" he starts, plowing five fingers through his hair. "I just wanted to see you again. I couldn't keep looking at you with that fucking asshole-"

"Really?" You cut him off. "The only reason you're fucking speaking to me is because you felt threatened? Do you realize how big of an ass this makes you sound?"

"Fuck," he mutters, running his hands down his face in exasperation. "You're gonna fucking kill me, kid."

"What, am I wrong?" You question, voice raising ever so slightly. "Am I wrong?"

"Quiet down!" He hisses, frantically looking around him.

"Oh. My God, Michael," you snap, turning away from him and towards the steps.

You hear him padding behind you, frustrated stomps echoing the plop of your sandals.

"You are so infuriating, you know that?" You ask, starting up the stairs. He follows, and you can feel his gaze nearly burning a hole through your ass.

"You don't even know the half of it," he bites back, reaching up to swat at your backside.

You pause on the landing, turning your body to face him. Your face rages with anger, while your stomach swirls with a sultry warmth.

"What do you think this is?" You demand, tone even bitchier than before, if possible. "Do you think this is just a pump and dump? That you can just do that to me and not spend the night?"

The air grows cold at your last question, the root of this argument finally escaping your lips. Your heart drops, the heat rushing from your face, abandoning you in the bitter cold of being known.

Robby sinks his weight on his back leg, rearing his head back in incredulous frustration. A disbelieving smile spreads across his lips as he props his hands on his hips.

"Is that what this is about?" He asks, tonguing the inside of his cheek to keep a laugh from bubbling over. "You're mad because I didn't spend the night?"

Your mouth twists up in an angry pout, stomping your foot petulantly before turning to finish your ascent up the staircase.

"Are you serious?" He asks, anger lacing his tone as he follows you, eventually into your room.

He shuts the door behind him, a broad stance between you and the outside world.

"You're being a brat because I didn't spend the night?" He asks, sauntering closer to you.

Each step has your heart beating louder in your ears, blood rushing through your veins. You maintain your resolve as best you can, the heady buzz of his proximity weakening your knees.

"I'm not a fucking brat," you spit through your teeth as he nears closer, dropping your head back to stare him dead in his eye.

"Really?" He asks, his hand grazing up your arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake. "To me, a brat flirts with my colleague to try and get a rise out of me."

His fingers find their way under your jaw, gripping enough to gain control, ensuring your eyes never leave his.

"I wasn't trying to get a rise out of you," you lie through your teeth, a sinister smirk curling your lips.

The energy between you is electric, buzzing through every part of your bodies. Heat burns deep in your belly, spreading to the apex of your thighs.

"Really?" He asks, disbelief lacing his tone.

"Really," You insist, nuzzling into the firm grip of his palm, a dreamy look widening your eyes. "He's super hot, thought he might be good in bed-"

You don't get through much else before he's smashing his lips to yours, bending his knees to scoop you up by the backs of your thighs. You waste no time wrapping yourself around him, your arms around his neck, mirroring the grip your legs have on his waist.

He tosses you onto the bed with little regard, and it sends a shiver down your spine. You prop yourself up on your elbows, eyes darkening as he rips off his shirt with one hand. He crawls on the bed, kneeling tall as he creeps in between your legs.

"You really think I'm gonna give in this easy?" You ask, your eyes sparkling.

"Yes," he says, reaching down to untie the sarong constricting your waist. It falls at your sides, revealing your plush skin and the tiny strings of your bikini.

"Christ," he runs a hand down his face. "How is this even legal to wear? So fuckin' tiny."

He flips you over, taking advantage of your cheeky bottoms to land a few teasing spanks on your exposed ass. You whine, your body jerking at the impact. You rest your cheek on your folded hands, arching your back and wiggling slightly, desperate for more attention from his hands.

"Now, see, that…" he starts, landing another harsh smack on your supple skin. "That is something a brat would do," he grits through his teeth, landing one, two, three more spanks.

"Michael," you moan out, wiggling your hips in desperate search of any friction. "Don't tease me," you whine, pouting your lips.

"Ohohoho," he chuckles, incredulously, landing five consecutive, merciless smacks. "Now you wanna be my sweet pretty girl again? Not gonna work that way, sorry baby."

His hand comes up to untie the strap of your bikini top, flipping you over on your back once more. He whips the thin fabric over your head, hands mercilessly palming your sensitive chest. His fingers close in around them, and you arch into his firm grip.

His palms brush against your nipples with each roll of his hands, your eyes falling closed and legs falling open.

You rock your hips into his, relishing in the moan he releases when you move your core up and down his thickening length.

"Take it off, Michael," you plead as his fingers hook under the waistline of your bathing suit.

He smiles wickedly, before pulling the fabric taut against your center, a delicious stretch of polyester pressing into your clit.

"Y'think I'm gonna just give in? Just like that?" He asks sardonically. "Do you even know me, baby?"

"Yes," you quip, echoing his answer from earlier.

At that, he snaps the teeny strap of your bottoms against the supple skin of your hip, and you cry out. Your legs spread on their own accord, knees falling to the bed. He blows out a whistle at the action, shaking his head in revelry.

Your cheeks burn at your neediness, your desperation for the large man above you. You kick your legs slightly, a petulant action that has him pinning you down with his large hands. He swats your inner thigh, and shows no remorse when you whine.

"You wanna be needy now, hm? This pussy's so fucking wet," he slides your bathing suit to the side, skimming his fingers up your slick center. "You need me so bad, huh? Should've thought of that before you decided to fucking flirt with Park."

He spits the name out, disgust coating the syllable. Your tummy turns with regret at your earlier actions. Your cheeks heat, eyes going wide. He clocks it immediately, face immediately softening. He purses his lips, a pathetic coo escaping them.

"Oh, sweet girl," he drags the pet name out, and you kick your legs under him again, desperate for something, anything.

He finally drags the rest of your swimsuit off, pulling himself out and entering you with a swift, merciless thrust.

It knocks the wind out of you, your mouth falling open in a silent gasp. It always takes a moment to adjust to him, especially now, unprepared, but you can't seem to care. The stretch is too tantalizing, too good. You tell him so, in breathless whimpers and moans.

He smiles sardonically, wasting no time moving in and out of you. Each thrust is like a punch to your gut, a desperate little 'uh' falling from your lips with each one. A burning hot sensation builds in your stomach, right where he hits you, over and over again.

"Michaeelll," you whine, scraping your nails down his sturdy chest. You revel in the way his round body meets your hips, your center welcoming his soft belly with each thrust. "Feels so good, you're so beautiful."

Your eyes sparkle while you compliment him, a smile spreading your mouth as he goes red, shaking his head and avoiding eye contact. He thrusts harder, though, reaching a hand down to rub your neglected clit. His rough fingers slide over the wet nub with a delicious friction, a tsunamic wave of pleasure threatening to take over.

"That's a crazy thing to say," he remarks, trying mightily to keep his resolve. His desperation only makes you wetter, warmer, tighter.

"Fuck-" he groans out, "fucking crazy, honey. You're the prettiest one here, yeah? Had every single eye on you in that suit," he punctuates each word with a ruthless thrust.

"Made me so fucking crazy, could only keep it together knowing I was gonna be the one to take it off you. So show me, baby. Show me why you've been letting me get you naked in your brother's house for the past six weeks."

Stars burst behind your eyes at this, insatiable moans ripping from your chest. You grab at him, pulling him close to you as you ride out your high, which has since triggered his. You pulse around him as he twitches inside of you, pumping each drop into you.

You whimper and moan as the sensitivity dawns on you, pushing him off slightly, a silent plea to stop.

"Okay, baby, okay," he whispers, brushing a hand through your hair. It's soothing as he pulls out, and you can't help but grip his wrist, pressing a kiss to the small tattoo there.

"It's okay, I got you," he says, now laying on his side with his arms around your back.

You're snapped out of your peaceful daze by a sharp knock on the door. You both freeze in each other's arms, so silent you could hear a pin drop.

"Hey hun," you hear your brother on the other side of the door, and panic crawls up your throat like a scream you can't hold back. "You okay in there? I know it's hot out, so I just wanted to check on you."

You squeeze your eyes shut, taking one, two, three deep breaths before willing your shaky voice to respond.

"I'm all good, JJ! Just had a bit too much to drink, I think. I'll be back soon!" You manage to sound as normal as possible, whacking Michael when he gives you two sarcastic thumbs up.

"No worries, hun. You take your time, okay?" He responds, and you let a strangled breath go, thinking you're off the hook.

"You haven't seen Robby anywhere, have ya?" He adds, and your heart sinks once again.

Michael stifles a chuckle, one that's too loud, in your opinion. You sit up, whacking him with your pillow. You'd smother him with it too, if you could get away with it.

"No!" You sputter out. "Nope, no-uh- why do you ask?" You cringe in on yourself, pressing two fingers to your temples.

"Just wondering. Haven't seen him in a minute either," he remarks, and you can't tell if there's an accusation in there.

"Weird," is all you can say, after a moment of awkward silence.

"Yeah, really weird," he responds before walking away.

Once he retreats down the steps, a cackle echoes next to you. You grab the pillow again, whacking him once, twice, three times until you're laughing so hard, your belly hurts.

You collapse onto his own stomach, resting your cheek on the peak of his belly. You press a kiss into the skin there, murmuring a 'shut up' into his skin.

"I wouldn't even if you wanted me to," he says, and you roll your eyes.

Your heart skips a beat, galloping at lightning speed in your chest. You are in big trouble.

[cinnxmxngxrl]

ErectileDysfunction!Robby 

Robby Masterlist Updates account

｡𖦹°‧➵ After a long shift, all Robby wants is to get home and bury himself inside you. The only problem? He has to wait for his little blue pill to kick in first.

｡𖦹°‧➵tags/warnings: smut, minors DNI, Robby pops viagra, erectile dysfunction (duh), age gap, unprotected piv, sucking Robby’s limp dick, creampie, Robby has a big soft belly and reader loves it, multiple orgasms, multiple positions, hair pulling, neck grabbing/slight choking,

A/N: This is the result of this poll. Thanks to those who voted, I hope you enjoy it!

The hospital lights faded behind Robby as the automatic doors hissed shut at his back. It was past eight p.m., but the moment the night air brushed his face, the bone-deep tiredness drained away. He knew what was waiting for him at home, there was no space left for exhaustion.

He was fifty-four now. Too old for some people’s tastes, but still young to others. Caught somewhere in the middle where the body began keeping score of  the accumulated stress, every skipped meal, every skipped gym session, and every cigarette smoked. And lately the score included the humiliating betrayal of his own dick.

He fished the small blue pill out of the zippered pocket inside his jacket as he walked the first block on his way home. The tablet dissolved on his tongue as he swallowed it dry, making him grimace at the aftertaste. 

It started about a year ago. It had been just… gradual, first it was a night when the want was there, he was so pent-up, he’d waited all day long to finally bury himself inside you, but the response was sluggish, and for some reason he couldn’t keep his dick up no matter how much he wanted to. Then it was another night where it didn’t happen at all, he’d been incapable of getting an erection in the first place. He’d laughed it off the first few times, said he’d had a long shift, or was too tired, it happened to every man at least once in their lifetime. Except it kept happening, and the truth turned into something he couldn’t keep denying, he had erectile dysfunction. Suddenly he was one of those old men, the ones who needed pharmaceutical help to do what used to happen automatically.

And then there was you, full of that energy that came from not yet having your soul sanded down by the weight of the years. You fucked like you were still discovering how good it could feel, like every time was the first time and the last time all at once. You wanted him constantly, you climbed into his lap after a shower, sent him filthy voice notes at 3 p.m. while he was still at work, you waited up for him in nothing but one of his shirts, with your legs already parted like he’d be able to get hard and inside you the second he walked through the door.

He wanted to give that to you. Christ, he really wanted to. The drive was still there, so strong it was almost painful some nights. He’d be one his way home after a deadly shift, and his brain would flash to the way your thighs clamped around his head when you got close, to that little broken sound you always made when he hit that spot just right, and the way your cunt fluttered and gripped him like it was trying to keep him forever. 

But none of that could get him hard, and it pissed him off. He was pissed with himself. With biology too. Pissed at the unfair arithmetic of it all, he was finally with someone who made him feel twenty-five again in every way except the one that mattered most, in bed. He was supposed to be the experienced one, the one who knew exactly how to unravel you until you were shaking and begging and cumming so hard you forgot your own name. Instead he was popping little blue pills and praying they kicked in before you started minding how long it took

He hated waiting. The worst part was the way you looked at him sometimes, not with disappointment, never that, but with patience. You were so sweet and understanding, and it was your infinite patience that somehow made it worse. He didn’t want patience, Robby wanted to pin you to the mattress and fuck you until the headboard dented the wall. He wanted to feel that raw and animal surge again without needing chemical backup, but it was impossible, his cock had stopped obeying him.

On every red light on the way home, he quickly pressed the heel of his palm against the front of his cargo pants, checking if his dick had decided to react already. But every time he did, he was still soft. 

“Come on,” he muttered to his own traitorous body. “She’s waiting. She’s wet for you. She’s been thinking about this all night. Don’t fucking fail her.”

Once he finally made it to the house you both shared,the place was still dark except for the soft light coming from inside the bedroom. You’d left the bedroom door cracked, the way you always did when you were already in bed waiting for him.

He kicked off his sneakers and placed the jacket and badge on the hook. When he pushed the bedroom door, he found you propped against the headboard in nothing but one of his old faded t-shirts, with the hem riding high on your thighs. Your eyes found his immediately, sleepy, and yet so hungry for him. You didn’t say anything at first, just shifted, letting your legs fall open just enough that he could see you were already wet, the cotton crotch of your underwear dark where a patch of your slick arousal had formed, making the fabric cling to your drenched folds.

“Hi, you,” you whispered.

He didn’t answer with words. He crossed the room in three strides, hitting his knees on the mattress, reaching for you with his hands until he found your face. The kiss was messy and desperate from the start, clicking your teeth together from so much desire. You opened your mouth for him immediately, curling your tongue against his, sliding your hands under the scrub top to drag your nails lightly down his back, earning a from his mouth.

You broke the kiss just long enough to tug the top over his head, and he let you. You still remembered the first time you’d stripped him bare, how he’d hesitated, how embarrassed he’d sounded as he muttered an apology about not having enough time to hit the gym anymore. You’d turned that shame into an obsession for the silver-threaded hair across his chest, and for the way his once-flat stomach had softened into a warm and rounded swell that begged to be grabbed, kneaded, and kissed.

Your hands went to his chest first, sliding your palms through the coarse grey curls, finding a nipple and pinching it sharp enough to drag a moan from his throat. Then you went lower, gripping the meat of his sides, digging your thumbs into the plush give of his belly, stroking and squeezing the soft layer that jiggled faintly under your touch. You mapped every inch like you were claiming it.

“You’re so fucking sexy,” you breathed against his mouth. “Look at this gorgeous body… I’m so wet for you right now. I need your cock inside me, Michael. Please.”

He knew that tone, you were already desperate and he had to distract you before you got impatient for something he couldn’t give you quite yet.

Robby surged forward, latching his mouth onto your throat. He sucked hard, painting a dark bruise just below your jaw while he shoved your shirt up roughly, exposing your tits to the cool air. He closed one palm over your breast, squeezing it with force, his thumb found your nipple and rolled it mercilessly until you were arching your back off the bed and moaning his name in ragged gasps.

“Michael—”

He dipped his head, closing his mouth over one of your stiff peaks, swirling his tongue in circles around it, then flicking it fast against it, making you jolt. He sucked hard, pulling the nipple deep into the heat of his mouth. The suction sent sparks straight to your core, and you could feel yourself clenching around nothing.

Robby used his free hand to knead the other breast, digging into the soft flesh, using his thumb and forefinger to pinch the neglected nipple, tugging until it throbbed. Then he switched, abandoning one glistening and swollen peak with a lewd pop only to latch onto the other, sucking even harder this time, lashing his tongue relentlessly while his teeth grazed the bud just enough to make you cry out.

Robby was already hard enough in his mind, but the rest of him was lagging. You reached down between you, slipping your fingers beneath the waistband of his pants. His cock was still soft. Still heavy and thick, but soft. You traced your fingertips over the hot length of him, trying to coax him to get harder, and he let out a shaky breath against your collarbone.

You pulled back just enough to look at him. “When did you take it?”

“After shift,” he muttered. “Fifteen minutes ago. Maybe twenty.”

You whined needily and unashamed. “I want it now.”

He laughed tiredly. “Greedy girl. You know how this thing goes, gotta give it time to work.”

You pouted, acting a little bratty cause you knew how much it drove him crazy, keeping your hand wrapped around him, stroking his member slowly, sweeping your thumb over the head, the most sensitive part, on every upstroke. “Don’t wanna wait.”

“Too bad.” He said nipping your earlobe. “You’ll wait however long it takes.”

You loved Robby with an intensity that words could never fully capture. And the sex with him? It was better than anything you'd ever felt with anyone else. He was the only older man you’d ever been with, and the first time his cock refused to harden, the panic hit you. You blamed yourself instantly, maybe you weren't turning him on anymore, maybe your body wasn't enough, maybe you'd done something wrong in the heat of the moment.

But Robby had pulled you close, and reassured you that it wasn’t your fault. Then he gave you the unfiltered truth, the medical and biological explanation: As men get older, the arteries narrow, the inner lining of the blood vessels gets less responsive, and the production of nitric oxide, the very chemical that signals those vessels to relax and let blood rush in, drops. That means poorer vasodilation and slower blood flow to the penis. It takes longer to get hard, or it just... doesn't happen, no matter how badly he wanted it.

He’d promised you that his desire for you was still intact, he wanted you the same as the first day, even more than he’d ever wanted anyone else in his life. And you’d never once shamed him, never let the word “impotent” even brush your lips, never made him feel like less of a man. To you he was still your perfect Michael, the one who could wreck you pill or no pill.

If anything, knowing how badly he still craved you only made the want hotter. You wanted him more now, because you could see that frustrated, almost feral edge when he pinned you down, grinding against you, desperate to bury himself deep and fuck you into the mattress until you couldn’t think straight… but his cock stayed stubbornly soft, thick but not hard enough yet. That look on his face, the aching need mixed with irritation. didn’t make you pity him, it set you on fire. Your cunt clenched just watching him fight his own body for you, rolling his hips uselessly against you. You’d whisper filthy encouragements against his mouth “I love how hard you’re trying for me… how bad you want to split me open” just to feel him shudder.

You slid down the bed, pushing at his hips until he rolled onto his back. Your hands found the waistband of his cargo and underwear, and you pushed them down all at once. Robby lifted his hips a little to help you slide them off his body.

He was fully bare under you now, with his cock lying soft against his left thigh. You settled between his legs, tucking your knees under you, with your hair falling forward to curtain your face. He reached down, gathering it in one fist so he could watch what you were about to do.

You started with soft kisses, open-mouthed along the crease of his hip to the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, and then to the base of his member. He twitched just a little, but not enough. You dragged your tongue flat up the underside, tasting the salt and clean flavour of his skin. 

His soft tummy tightened, and a curse slipped out his lips. “Fuck, baby…”

Even when he wasn’t hard yet, the warm slide of your mouth felt incredible against the sensitive skin of his cock. Every swirl of your tongue around the head or suck along the underside, sent jolts of pleasure straight up his spine. And the sight of you kneeling between his spread thighs, with your lips stretched around him, and your cheeks hollowing as you worked him was mentally arousing. His mind was flooded with images of finally getting rock-hard, flipping you over, and pounding into you until you screamed his name. 

You took him into your mouth anyway, despite the softness. It was easy to fit all of him this way, and so you sucked gently, with your tongue cradling the head, letting him fill the wet heat of your mouth without any real pressure. It was more comfort than stimulation right now, and he kept his hand in your hair, not guiding you, just holding. 

Minutes dragged by, and you took your time, alternating between lazy and wet sucks that pulled the soft length deeper into your mouth, and delicate kitten licks along the underside, tracing every vein with the flat of your tongue. You kissed lower, brushing the heavy sac before drawing one of his balls into your mouth with gentle suction. He shifted his hips restlessly, chasing the sensation, twitching his fingers against the sheets. He was still mostly soft gainst your tongue, pliant enough to mold around the curve of your mouth, but there was a change now, a subtle thickening at the base, a new heaviness settling in as blood began getting there. You felt it swell just a fraction against your palm when you cupped him, and then felt the head starting to nudge firmer against the roof of your mouth. Not hard yet, but waking up for you.

You pulled off with a wet sound, looking up at him through your lashes. “Getting there,” you murmured, stroking him with your fist. He was heavier in your hand already, and you noticed how the veins were beginning to stand out.

“Yeah?” His voice sounded wrecked. “Keep going.”

You did. You worked him with patient devotion, moving your mouth and hand in a slow rhythm. You focused on the head mostly, sealing your lips tight around it, sucking gently but insistently while your tongue swirled over the slit, coaxing out every bead of pre-cum and mixing it with your spit until the tip glistened. Your saliva gathered at the corners of your mouth, dripping in strings down the soft shaft, pooling at the base where it met his balls.

You slid down further, taking him deep in one easy glide, relaxing your throat to swallow around the length until your nose was brushing the hair at his groin. You held there for a heartbeat, humming so the vibration rippled through him, and then pulled back, letting your lips drag along every inch, leaving him soaked and twitching.

Every few minutes you paused to worship him properly, pressing kisses and nuzzling the flesh like it was your favorite thing in the world. You whispered dirty words right against his skin, “come on, baby, get hard for me… I can feel you starting to swell… fuck, I love how heavy you feel in my mouth already… just let it happen, I’ll wait as long as it takes to feel you stretch me open. Look at you… so pretty like this… just wait till you’re hard enough to fuck me stupid…”

He laughed breathlessly. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Another minute, or maybe two or three, and his thighs started to tense under your palms. You felt the slow swelling, the way he lengthened against your tongue, until the head nudged the back of your throat now when you took him deeper, making you gag a little.

“There it is,” you breathed, pulling off to watch. His cock stood proud now, flushed dark at the head, glossy with your spit and his pre-cum. Fully hard, finally.

Robby thumped his head back against the pillow. “Jesus fucking Christ. Took long enough.”

You grinned wickedly and triumphant, and gave the head one last kitten lick before crawling back up his body, until you were straddling his hips. 

Once you did, Robby noticed immediately how wet you were. He slid his hands up your thighs, hooking his thumbs under the waistband of your panties. He dragged them down just enough to bare you, then cupped you with one broad palm, sliding his middle finger through your slit. You were dripping, it made his finger glided easily, collecting slick that stringed between your cunt and his hand when he pulled back to look.

“Fuck me,” he said half-laughing. “You’re a lake down here. Been this wet the whole time I was soft in your mouth?”

You rocked against his hand. “Mhm. Couldn’t help it. You taste good even when you’re not hard yet.”

He snorted, but his eyes were dark brown with hunger. “Filthy little thing.” He circled his finger over your clit once, making you jolt and whimper. “All that patience… sucking me off for twenty-five minutes straight just so you could get this messy for me.”

“I wanted to get you hard,” you breathed, grinding down harder, making the head of his cock, gloriously hard, nudge against your entrance. “Want to feel you inside me already.”

“Yeah?” He grabbed your hips, stilling you just enough to lift you up so he could line himself up properly. “Then prove it. Sit on it.”

You took hold of his shaft with one hand, letting it rest right in your entrance. You were soaked, slippery enough that the first press of his head against your cunt made you both moan.

Slowly, you sank down, taking him inch by inch. The blunt head breached you first, parting your slick walls with a burning stretch that made your breath hitch and your thighs tremble. You felt every ridge and every vein as he filled you deeper, making your cunt clench greedily around the gradual invasion until your ass finally pressed flush against his hips.

You were both shaking now, him from the grip of your pussy swallowing him whole, you from the overwhelming fullness that pressed right up against that deep spot inside. His hands clamped on your waist, digging into your flesh, holding you pinned and still for one long heartbeat. 

You looked down and saw the almost pained, overwhelmed expression on his face. “Fuck! Fuck, fuck—” The words tore out of him. “You’re so fucking tight, baby. You gotta relax for me… please.”

He groaned it like a plea. Every time your walls gripped him too hard, the friction turned unbearable,and he needed a second to allow your body to adjust, otherwise the pleasure turned into pain for him. “Just… breathe, baby. Let me feel you open up around me. Fuck, you’re gonna kill me if you keep squeezing like that.”

After a couple of minutes, your cunt finally stretched around his unyielding length, and Robby exhaled a shaky breath. He gave a single nod of permission. “Go on, baby.”

Then you started to move, slow at first, with rolls of your hips that ground your clit against the hair at his base while his thick cock dragged along your inner walls. Every slow circle stretched you anew, the friction making obscene sounds that filled the room as your arousal coated him completely, dripping down his shaft and onto his balls. His head fell back against the pillow with a groan, and you leaned forward, planting your palms firmly on the soft expanse of his chest, feeling the thud of his heart under your fingers.

You snapped harder now, riding him with purpose, up until just the head stretched your entrance, then slamming back down to take him to the hilt again. Each downward grind made you flutter and spasm around him, as his hands slid up to grip your ass, digging his fingers in to help you fuck yourself onto him faster.

“Fuck! Michael… right there—”

He planted his feet flat on the mattress, with his knees bent and hips angled just right beneath you. The shift gave him leverage, and the next time you sank down, he thrust up hard to meet you halfway. The collision was brutal, his cock slamming deep and stretching you open all over again as your ass slapped against his hips. 

He groaned. “That’s it—fuck, take it.”

Each upward snap of his hips met your downward grind, burying himself to the hilt every time. Sweat covered his skin under your palms, nd you watched his rounded belly flexing with every powerful drive. He wasn’t holding back anymore, he gave you hungry thrusts that claimed you from below. You cried out, digging your nails into his meaty soft pecs. He sit up suddenly, banding his arms around your back, crashing his mouth into yours as he fucked up into you with short but punishing strokes.

He watched you mesmerized, one hand palming your breast, the other staying clamped on your hip to guide your rhythm. “Look at you. Riding me like you’ve been starving for it. So wet I can hear it every time you take me.”

“Michael, please—!”

“Please what, baby? Please fuck you stupid? Please let you cum?”

“Yes! Fuck! Yes—”

You came suddenly, seizing as your walls spasmed around his cock, clenching in frantic pulses that milked him deep. A gush of slick poured out of you, soaking his shaft and coating his thighs and the sheets in a messy puddle. Robby didn’t stop, he kept thrusting up into you, grinding the base of his cock right against your swollen clit.

The friction was brutal now, and you whimpered pathetically, jerking your hips as you tried to squirm away, pushing weakly at his chest. “Robby—fuck, too much, I can’t—”

“Not done,” he growled against your lips. “Not even close.”

He flipped you without warning. One second you were on top, and the next your back hit the mattress. Robby hooked your legs over his shoulders, pressing your knees toward your chest. The new angle was brutal, and he bottomed out in one hard thrust, grinding his pubic bone against your clit. 

Robby fucked you with long and punishing strokes, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, snapping his hips with the kind of force that made the headboard thud against the wall. You were loud, you just couldn’t help but moan his name, beg and babble nonsense as he railed you into the mattress.

“So fucking good,” he gritted out between thrusts. “Taking me so well. You were made for me… fuck—gripping me like you never want to let go.”

You felt your orgasm building faster than you could control, the pleasure coiling tighter in your core until it bordered on desperation. Your body moved on instinct, sliding one hand down between your thighs, finding your swollen clit and immediately circling it in little loops. The nub was slick, throbbing under your touch, each rub sending sparks straight up your body.

His eyes dropped to watch, locking on where your fingers worked yourself shamelessly. The sight snapped something in him, and the thrusts turned brutal. “Yeah, that’s it, rub that pretty little clit for me,” he growled. “Show me how bad you need to cum again.”

He angled his hips just right on the next upward, grinding the fat head against your g-spot. You sped up your fingertips on your clit, matching the rhythm of his grinds until you snapped.

You came violently, a cry toreing from your throat as you shook uncontrollably. Robby almost lost it right there when your cunt spasmed around him again. But he wasn’t done, he yanked out of you fast before he spilled. In one rough motion he flipped you onto your stomach, gripping your hips and hauling them up high so your knees dug into the mattress, with your ass arched in the air. 

You pressed your face into the pillow, still dazed from the aftershocks, but he didn’t give you time to catch your breath, just lined himself up and slammed back in from behind in one single thrust, burying every inch to the hilt. The stretch was immediate, your walls being forced open wider in this new angle, his cock punching straight against your cervix.

Robby fisted a handful of your hair, yanking your head back to arch your spine into a perfect curve, until your tits were pressed to the sheets and your ass presented high. “Fuck—take it deeper, baby,” he growled.

The new position let him sink impossibly further, and the added stimulation of his balls slapping wetly against your clit on every drive made you whine his name loudly.

His rounded belly was pressed flush against the curve of your back, molding to your spine until the heat of his body surrounded you completely, cocooning you in his grounding weight that made you feel owned and claimed.

Robby wrapped his big hand around your throat, curling his fingers possessively around the column of your neck, pressing the thumb lightly against your racing pulse. He held you tight like that, arching you back further into him, keeping your body locked in place as he started pounding into you faster.

His stomach jiggled faintly with the impact, and guttural groans spilled from his throat right against your ear, “Fuck… feel that, baby? How deep I’m buried in this tight pussy? You’re taking every fucking inch.” His grip on your neck tightened just enough to make your head spin, holding you exactly where he wanted while he fucked you into the mattress with raw need.

“Cum again,” he ordered. “Cum on my cock one more time. Wanna feel you milk me.”

You had no choice but to obey him. The pleasure crested again, and you climaxed around him for the third time, squeezing him so tight it felt like you were trying to pull him apart. Your arms gave out beneath you, your elbows buckled as you collapsed forward onto your forearms, with your face mashed into the pillow and your ass still high and impaled.

Robby followed right after, his hips stuttered, the thrusts turning erratic until the moment where he buried himself to the hilt one last time, throbbing inside you and pulsing hard with every thick spurt. He came deep, flooding you with rope after rope of his sticky hot cum that filled you so full you could feel the excess leaking out around his shaft, dripping down your thighs and soaked the sheets beneath.

He stayed buried inside you, grinding through the aftershocks, milking every last drop while your cunt fluttered around him. He loosened his hand on your throat, sliding down to stroke your back in sweeps.

Robby pressed a lazy kiss to your shoulder. “Think the wait was worth it?”

You laughed weakly, clenching around him just to make him hiss. “Ask me again when I can feel my legs.”

A/N: I hope you enjoyed this! I’ve written this concept a few times for Joel before, and after getting some asks about it, I finally decided to write one for Robby too.

I’m actually really excited about it because erectile dysfunction is one of the hottest topics for me to explore in fics. I’m definitely not opposed to writing more Robby one-shots with this theme in the future if that’s something you’d like to see.

dividers by: @cafekitsune

[kaylasficrecs]

luca recs

no. of fics = 22 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ last updated = 14.07.26

burn your life down | series | @nolita-fairytale

an exploratory kiss | imagine, fluff | @wtfsteveharrington

pistachio kisses | imagine, fluff, comfort | @springtyme

my hero | imagine, fluff | @miraclesabound

worlds best sous | imagine, fluff | @veryberryjelly

sfogliatella | imagine, fluff | @bullet-prooflove

moving you around | drabble, fluff | @murdrdocs

sunday | imagine, smut, fluff | @thecapricunt1616

noodles | imagine, fluff | @unmistakablyunknown

a slice of life | imagine, fluff | @springtyme

praise | drabble, smut, fluff | @fastboatsmojito

wine and losses | imagine, fluff | @badwritinghabit

cigarette daydreams | imagine, fluff | @claraswritings

secrets | imagine, flangst (more fluff) | @unmistakablyunknown

hello and goodbye⟢pt 2 | two shot, fluff, smut | @badwritinghabit

luca headcanons | headcanon, fluff | @claraswritings

quiet proof | imagine, flangst, comfort | @rainandsentences

call the restaurant | imagine, fluff (some angst) | @rainandsentences

refire⟢pt 2 | two shot, flangst | @tw1sters

soft kneads | imagine, fluff | @springtyme

let me take care of it | drabble, fluff | @merry-ange

christmas market | imagine, fluff | @hargreeves-duncan

[hargreeves-duncan]

Thank you for including me, lovely!!🥰

[hargreeves-duncan]

⎯⎯ NSFW ALPHABET

visual is for vibes only, reader’s appearance is nondescript!

pairing: patrick zweig x fem!reader

warnings: SMUT - MINORS DNI

word count: 1.8k

a/n: cheeky double-upload day for you all - enjoy ❤️

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Patrick isn’t the type of guy to plan in advance. He doesn’t have a specific routine that he’ll follow for aftercare, but he will check up on you.

He’ll hold you in his arms for a while after, letting you come back to reality and feel grounded again. His fingers will trace up and down your back or thighs.

He’ll usually get himself a glass of water, that he’ll then pass on to you, and if things are really messy then he’ll get a flannel to clean you up.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Your tits. He loves cupping his hands over them, whether they engulf them or barely fit around them, he just wants to get a hold of you.

As you make out, he’s more than likely to be slipping his hands into your bra, making sure he feels every bit of your skin. Your top is always the first thing to come off, he could stare at your tits all day.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Patrick loves being messy with you. He loves coming on your tongue and over your face, bonus points if it gets in your hair.

In fact, he’ll come over you almost anywhere. Patrick loves the idea that he’s the only one to see your perfect appearance absolutely wrecked and dirty.

If you’re not in the mood for the mess, he’ll fill you up instead. He’ll let it drip out of you and then fuck it back into you with his fingers or his tongue. It keeps your pretty face nice and clean, and his dick painfully hard.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He’s fantasised about fucking you with Art more times than he could count.

Patrick knows it’s wrong, on account of the fact that neither you nor Art know about his perversions, but he just can’t help it.

The idea of watching Art fuck you whilst he watches is more enticing than he’d like to admit. Having only his fist to pleasure himself as he watches you writhe against the pillows, hearing Art’s pitiful whines as you clench down on him… it’s enough to kill a man.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Very. If anything you’re under-experienced next to the beast that is Patrick.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Doggy, no doubt about it. Whilst his favourite part of you is your tits, it’s absolutely triumphed by the view of himself disappearing inside of you.

He also has a soft spot for cowgirl, if he’s feeling lazy. Getting to sit back and watch your tits bounce as you ride him, grunting all the while, is just as fun.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Patrick isn’t exactly goofy, but he’s not entirely serious either.

Sex with him is usually hot and heavy, but more than anything, Patrick is just… cocky.

He’ll smirk when you gasp, throw out a teasing ‘Already?’ when your legs start trembling, or whisper something filthy just to see you squirm and blush.

He loves getting reactions out of you, be it a moan or a glare, it all feeds his ego.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Patrick’s lazy when it comes to upkeep, especially during the New Rochelle era, so he’s got a full bush.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Most of the time, sex with Patrick is in the heat of the moment. It’s passionate, it’s intense and it’s all consuming.

He shows his love with how dedicated he is to see you satisfied and completely wiped out each time he has you. He’ll go all night long to see his girl happy, sex is his favourite way to give back to you.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Patrick masturbates a lot. When he’s alone, he’ll scroll through old videos or pictures of the two of you, a hand down his pants.

He’ll still be vocal, even though he’s alone, murmuring to the air as if it’s you with praises and your name alike.

Occasionally, he’ll use his flesh light if he’s feeling particularly needy for you.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Size kink, for sure. Pat is obsessed with watching his cock squeezing in and out of you.

A breeding kink goes hand in hand with it, Patrick could spend hours forcing his cum back into you. The thought of you swollen and round with his kid? It’s heavenly.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

His car. It’s not all that big and Patrick loves that it forces you both into close proximity. He loves taking you, still half-dressed, in the backseat with your panties pulled to the side.

And when he’s driving and you reach over to touch him or, even better, suck him off? He’s a gone man. It’s so, so dangerous but you look so hot doing it and trying to keep driving with your soft lips around his mouth is torturously good.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Arguments. There’s something about seeing you get so riled up over the littlest of things he’s done that makes him want to ruin you.

Your hands’ll fly around as you groan and snap at him and Patrick has to hold back his smile as he watches. You’re so hot when you’re furious with him and he loves to make it up to you in the sheets.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Weirdly, what you never expected is for him to not be into degradation.

Over time, you’ve learnt that whilst Patrick loves seeing you wrecked, he doesn’t like seeing you disrespected, so, that’s a big no for him.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Patrick LOVES receiving, you might even say he’s obsessed with it - especially if you look up at him whilst you’re doing it.

He’ll grab your hair and guide your head down, melting at the sight of you on your knees for him.

He’s painfully good at giving too. He eats you like a man starved, no matter what state you’re in. If you’re fresh from a workout, or still half-asleep, he’ll eat you out. He loves the raw bitterness of your cunt.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

It depends on what he’s feeling… 9 times out of 10, it’s rough and hard with him planting sloppy kisses down your neck down to the valley of your breasts.

But the other time? It’s soft and sensual. Patrick, savouring the view of your cunt swallowing him greedily with every stroke.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

He lives for them. As someone with a high sex drive, Patrick’ll take you anywhere, even in public - it only adds to the thrill of it.

He doesn’t always even need the full thing, Patrick’s happy just to have five minutes alone with you, to get off on your thigh or your hand.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

He’s up for anything. No risk, no reward, as they say, and Patrick lives by that statement.

He’s always up for pushing your boundaries, be it emotionally or physically, and he loves to see you push back at his too.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

2 rounds is usually his limit before he needs a break, but he’s always quick to bounce back.

When it comes to your pleasure, he’ll happily keep taking care of you with his fingers or his tongue as many times as you need…

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Yes. He’s got a flesh light that he takes on tour with him for when he’s really missing you. He’ll watch back old videos you guys have taken together and fuck into it like it’s the real thing.

As for when he’s with you, he likes using a dildo on you. It doesn’t matter where it goes but Patrick loves the view of you with two cocks inside of you.

He claims he bought it for your pleasure, but, selfishly, it’s to fuel his own fantasy of what it’d be like for him to share you with Art. Some days, he’ll convince you to try and take him and the dildo in the same hole and it feels like winning the lottery.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He’s brutally unfair. Patrick will drag foreplay on for the longest time. He knows once he starts, he’ll be jackhammering into you, so, he has to make it last elsewhere.

He can spend upwards of an hour, running his tip over your folds or rubbing up against you, still fully clothed. He likes to really push it as much as he can until you reach your breaking point and beg, or, sometimes, tear up.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Quite loud. Those strained groans he always makes drive you crazy. That’s not to say that he’s moaning constantly, he’s more of a yapper.

Patrick will mutter soft praises under his breath without even realising. Pussy drunk, he’s sure to start babbling about how beautiful you look on top of him or how needy you are when you beg for him to stop teasing and just put it in already.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Absolutely adores eye contact. To see your eyes looking up at his so sweetly as you suck his cock, or when you’re spread out on the bed, all pretty, just waiting for him, is his favourite sight.

There’s something about keeping your eyes on one another that makes your sex feel so much more intimate to Patrick. So, he’s quick to remind you to keep your eyes on him, when they start rolling back.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

The perfect fit. He’s almost seven inches and so he persisted that you have to round it up when you first asked him.

He’s thick too, enough to make you feel the stretch when he’s inside of you.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Very. Patrick’s almost always horny and he’ll take every opportunity you give him to have sex of any kind - he’s not picky.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

If it’s either rough or fast, he’s out like a light in under ten minutes. His limbs will be messily tangled with your own, and arm slung over your waist, and you won’t be moving for the rest of the evening.

But if it’s softer, he won't sleep for a while. He'll lie beside you awake, one hand resting on your stomach, as he silently watches you. His afterglow has him thinking of what his future with you could be.

[swordfighterjayden]

I FOUND GOLD

[hargreeves-duncan]

AHHHHH THANK YOU!!

[lotuspetalss]

I’m obsessed with the thought of young Daryl and reader being losers and just spending their days by the lake doing nothing but drink and kiss sigh…….

[sugarroott]

the archer & his bird - daryl dixon x clingy f!reader

part 1 - trees - wrd 1.7k series master | next

see ml for warnings & info - ps i dont edit shit if you see a mistake IM SORRY if you don't know how to or are not capable of climbing trees, surprise yes you actually can.

Three stories high, supported by a cluster of branches, you stared down at the man in leather. He circled the oak tree three times and still hadn’t given up. It’s where your tracks start and end, but you were nowhere to be seen. 

Normally you’d cover your tracks, a habit you picked up some time ago, but you didn’t have time. You barely made it out of sight as it was. 

“Maybe she ran off,” one said, his partner in crime it seemed, “she took off fast.”

“Nah,” the man in leather rumbled, “she’s around here somewhere.” 

“We’re losing daylight Daryl, we can circle back tomorrow.” 

Daryl. Daryl in the leather vest. Only Daryl seemed to know better, because you wouldn’t be here tomorrow. If you made it out of this spot they’ve cornered you in, you’ll be long gone before they make it back to the camp they claimed to have. 

“Can’t just leave her out here t’die, you saw her…” he trailed off, kicking over a loose stone, “looked like she forgot what food is.” 

You peered down, curiosity getting the better of you. That wasn’t a comment made lightly. It wasn’t a comment a man who wanted you for all the wrong reasons would make. Your shift caught the hunters attention and you snapped back into position. The blend of earth tones you’ve scavenged camouflaging you against the rough bark. 

“Alright,” Daryl muttered, eyes on you and pretending not to see a thing, “I’ll just leave her m’pack, come back around like you said.” 

You shifted slower this time, eyes on his, watching the torn up canvas backpack strip off him.

Him, all sweat and muscle and discretion. 

It looked good, too good.

Against your better judgment, you stayed. You picked apart his pack, and he left more than you’ve scavenged in months. A pocketknife, freshly sharpened. Water half drank and a well loved plastic bag that had some form of jerky in it. There was a long sleeve shirt, socks with holes in the heels, and an arrow that had snapped clean in two. 

All usable. All needed. 

The forest shifted. The birds went quiet, the breeze softened, and his boots crunched softly against the stiff leaves. 

He was surveying the space. Slow movement, skilled in the practice of careful quiet. You watched curiously as he got closer, waiting for the louder, more obvious set of shoes, but nothing followed.

“You’re Daryl,” you whispered, lingering closer to the forest floor than before. 

He looked up, and there you were, dressed up in his clothes. He dropped his crossbow with a hesitant nod. 

You fiddled with the sleeves of the oversized long sleeve, anxious to be wearing it but needing the extra layer it added more. 

“Is it just you?” 

“Just me,” he replied instantly, words rougher than boots on gravel. 

You walked gracefully down the branch, clinging to the center of the tree trunk to get a better look at the archer. “You left me things.” 

“You needed it.” 

“Why?” 

“Shits hard out here alone.” 

“I get by.” 

“I see that,” he muttered, placing the bow at his feet and shrugging a different pack off his shoulders. It was cleaner, heavier too. “Got some more water, food too.” 

“Why?” 

He glanced up, a mess of yellowing leaves and dying branches and you. He was so undeniably taken with you. Your dirt stained cheeks, the intentional mess of hair and twigs that hides you so effortlessly. “You need it.” 

“What do you want from me?” 

His eyes softened for no more than a blink, “nothing.” 

You wanted to believe that. You almost did. You felt something deep in your bones that was vaguely familiar to trust, but you knew better. “Good people don’t exist anymore.”

“That ain’t true where I’m from.” 

“Where are you from?” 

“Come down here and maybe I’ll tell ya.”

You climbed up rather than down. Fleeing from what you were absolutely sure was a trap. “I don’t want it.” 

“Yeah y’do,” he drawled, setting out the contents of his pack like he had packed for a picnic. 

A blanket folded neat. Two bottles of water, crystal clear and mouth watering. Foil covered something that looked enough to feed you for days. 

“Think about it,” he muttered, shrugging on the empty bag with a step back. 

“You’re leaving?” Your voice squeaked more than you wanted it too. 

He kept moving. That same graceful movement that suggested he and the forest had mutual understanding, “I’ll be back.” 

He came back the next day. More food, more water, a jacket your size. You still didn’t come down from your perch. 

It didn't sway him, and the visits became routine. A part of your day that was anticipation and excitement you did too well at hiding. Every time he came to your corner of the forest, you were closer. Curious but quiet.

He pushed, but never far enough to trigger your fight or flight. He would gently remind you of the offer on the table. Safety in numbers. Safety with fences and walls. A roof over your head and food that didn’t come at a cost. 

It seemed too good to be true, and so did he. The man who visits like an old friend, leaving gifts at your tree like you were a forest fairy considering granting him a wish. 

Your feet were dangling today. Swung over the branch, no longer hiding at the familiar pattern of his light steps through the terrain. 

You still had his long sleeve on, his socks. Hair clean and braided back thanks to the soap, brush, and hair ties he left out yesterday. 

You looked more like yourself than you had in a very long time. 

He approached with caution but his bow was down. He wasn’t searching, just walking. 

“Brought you something,” he muttered, shrugging off his pack as he got closer. 

“I never would’ve guessed.” 

He glanced up. A joke. Not enough to make him laugh but enough to get his attention. He took a second to look at you. For a woman living in the trees, you clean up okay. 

The dirt across your cheeks was a memory, the rat's nest that was once your hair had been sorted. Still, you looked like you belonged up there, like you and the trees were a package deal. 

Your feet swung sweetly underneath you and he noticed a hole in the seam of your boots. His socks, a few sizes too big for you, visible through the crack. 

“I’m gonna pull it out and imma need you to stay calm ‘bout it.” 

You tensed. He knew you would, but warning you only seemed fair. He dragged the zipper down and pulled out a gun. 

Small, simple, something that wouldn’t be missed. 

You didn’t move. You didn’t breathe. And he set it down at the base of the tree like an offering. 

“It ain’t much but it’s got bullets.”

“Why?” 

“Didn’t like the idea of you out here without one.”

Your voice went small, weak and disbelieving, “thank you.” 

“Ain’t nothing,” he shrugged. 

He liked his time outside the walls too much sometimes. He loosened up each step further from the safe haven in the making. There was no one watching him, thanking him, or trying to talk about nothing.

Outside the prison it was just him, the breeze, and you. 

He was getting ready for the day, taking no more than his fair share of rations, when the lecture he had been anticipating started up behind him. 

“You don’t think you’re wasting your time?” 

“Nah,” Daryl rumbled, inspecting the spare sets of boots in the shared pantry. He had done a pretty decent job at guessing your sizes so far. The jacket fit well, the beanie he gave you was warm and snug, but his view of you is limited by bark and leaves.

“She won’t even leave the tree.” 

“She’s scared.” 

“Or she’s using you for resources.” 

Daryl finally looked up, entering into a stone-cold staring contest with Rick. 

The prison had plenty, more than enough of everything to go around. The people were clothed, fed, safe under an actual roof and behind two layers of fence. You were alone. He didn’t know for how long, maybe he’d ask one day, but it didn’t really matter. 

You were trusting him. Allowing him closer, little by little, and that wouldn’t stop because Rick wasn’t convinced you’d finally come back down to earth. 

Rick broke first. A long dramatic sigh and a step back. “I’m just saying, you’re out there everyday. We’ve got people here, work to be done.”

“My works done.” 

“You haven’t been on a run in two weeks. You spend more time with her than you do on the hunt.” 

Daryl scoffed and shoved two different sizes in his bag to be safe. “Tell that to the deer y’had for dinner last night.” 

The branches swayed in the afternoon light, golden rays blocking his view of the heavens you live in. 

“I know yer out here,” he rumbled, squinting with a hand over his eyes. You switched it up. Three trees down, higher up than you’ve ever been. Out of sight but certainly not out of mind. 

You weren’t hiding. Testing, maybe even teasing. 

“You gonna make my old ass climb this damn thing?” He asked, still looking up the wrong tree. The tree you prefer. 

The branches are thicker. There’s a blunt edge you hang your bag on. The base where the main branches split creates a decent enough spot to sleep in. It’s not much but it’s been your home. 

“I don’t know, can you?” 

His head turned so fast his neck cracked, but he still couldn’t see you. Your words were soft and they echoed around the quiet woods, making it hard for him to pinpoint the source. 

You peered down cautiously, clinging to the thin branches as he walked through the brush. Back and forth, until he stared up at the canopy of dying branches with a huff. 

“C’mon now.” 

He was looking right at you, though he didn’t seem to know it. You rolled an acorn between your fingers before tossing it down, giggling softly when it hit him dead center in the forehead. 

“For a hunter you’re not very aware of your surroundings.” 

“I’m a tracker,” he muttered, crunching the acorn you’d tossed under his boot, “ain’t no tracks up in the trees.”

“I have a gun now,” you said, climbing down to a more manageable level, “I could shoot you.” 

“Y’could try,” he countered, tapping his shin with the crossbow that wasn’t yet loaded. 

“If I come down…you promise you won’t do anything?” 

“Only one way yer gonna find out.” 

You considered it, for too long maybe, but you made your way down. Grace with each move, one branch at a time until his hand was in reach.

A silent offer, and to his genuine surprise, you took it.

fingers crossed this isn't total buns. cheers to the squirrel man, thanks for reading, love you bye.

taglist: (lmk if you want to be added/removed at any time!) @idkmanimjstired @firefirefeline @philiasoul @bedshrooms @lillybahng @t0xicsl33p @wizardparfait @jewellthebooknerd

I do not consent to having my work copied, and I absolutely do not consent to having my work fed to or translated by AI.

[hargreeves-duncan]

⎯⎯ THE WALKING DEAD MASTERLIST

✩ = fluff | ✧ = smut | ✦ = angst

Daryl Dixon -

Advent Calendar Day 9 - x fem!reader - ✧

Shane Walsh -

Lost Boys - x fem!reader - ✦

[hargreeves-duncan]

⎯⎯ LOST BOYS

visual is for vibes only, reader's appearance is nondescript!

pairing: season2!shane walsh x fem!reader

summary: the longer you’re out here, the more your husband slips away

warnings: marital conflict/heated argument, emotional neglect, mentions of canon-typical violence, death

word count: 1.6k

a/n: twd has really put me on a writing kick lately, everyone rejoice!!!

You hadn’t paid it any mind in the beginning.

Shane had always been your rock. He had always been the one to call the shots, even before the world had gone to pieces, so you hadn’t thought twice about it when his walls had started creeping higher after the outbreak.

He was a little shorter with people now. Quicker to snap. He counted every can of food that came into camp and divided it equally and insisted somebody was always on watch.

Sometimes he’d go hunting before sundown and wouldn’t come to bed sunrise.

But you never held it against him.

If anything, you admired him for it.

Somebody had to keep everyone alive. Somebody had to stop your little group from dissolving into fear and panic the second things went wrong.

Shane had never been afraid of making the hard calls.

Besides, no matter how rough the day had been, how many arguments you’d gotten into, you always found your way back to each other.

He still reached for your hand whenever you crossed the road, even though the only cars left on the road were your own.

And you still brought him something to drink every morning. Water now instead of the coffee he’d always preferred, but the gesture remained all the same.

Those things seemed so inconsequential but they were little reminders in themselves that no matter what happened, you were still his and he was still your Shane.

So, you told yourself that Shane was no different than anyone else. That he was learning to cope with a new world and grieving how things used to be, in his own way.

But after Otis, you couldn’t ignore it anymore.

Whatever had happened out there had pushed him over the edge.

He never spoke to you about it but you could see the change in him clear as day.

He was quieter and he smiled less and less as days went by until they disappeared altogether.

Sometimes you’d catch him staring across the fields surrounding Hershel’s farm, and you’d have to call for him three times before he’d blink, and that distant veil lifted from his eyes when he looked at you, like he’d only just remembered where he was.

One evening, after he’d come in late, you’d heard the tent flap go and the soft grunt of your husband as he tied it shut again.

“Long hunt?” you mumbled from where you were already buried up to your neck in blankets.

“Something like that.”

The thud of his clothes hitting the floor as he stripped filled the tent.

You sat up on your elbows and had to stop your eyes from widening.

His head had been shaved so close to the scalp that he’d littered the sides of it with angry little nicks. Tiny speckles of red mingled amongst the remnants of his dark hair.

You’d held each other’s eyes for far too long.

He looked terrified, waiting for your reaction. You were just as terrified by what it had made you realise — it was only a matter of time before you lost him completely.

If you hadn’t already.

You wished you’d noticed sooner.

Maybe then things wouldn’t have become so hard.

The change had been so gradual that you couldn’t pinpoint where your husband had ended and this new version of him had begun. Every day he’d seemed that bit harder to reach, until one morning you’d woken up and realised you couldn’t remember the last time the two of you had had a real conversation.

Some days, in your darkest moments, you found yourself wishing he wouldn’t come back from a hunt.

That maybe the others would come back to camp, and he wouldn’t be with them.

Or maybe he’d fall ill and let himself be vulnerable for you, even if only when he was an inch from death.

Not because you actually wanted him dead.

God, never that.

But you were so tired and you weren’t sure how much more you could mourn a man who was still alive.

You felt sick every time you thought about it. You hated yourself for doing so. But you couldn’t help but feel it was the merciful choice.

It had all come to a head when Shane had stumbled in late one night.

It was well past supper time.

Everyone else had eaten hours ago. You hadn’t. You’d waited for him.

The plate in front of you had long since gone cold.

So had his opposite you.

And he’d just ducked through the tent flap without so much as looking your way. Too busy filing away his hat and boots.

He didn’t notice you at first.

He shrugged off his jacket, set his rifle carefully against the wall of the tent and rubbed a tired hand over the top of his raw scalp.

Only when he turned did his eyes finally land on you and the plates.

His expression softened, “Baby, you ain’t eaten?”

“Was waiting for you.”

He sighed, crossing the tent in two quick strides and shaking his head, “Why the hell would you do that?”

Your eyebrows snapped to your hairline, “Because you’re my husband.”

He shook his head again, never once meeting your eye, “You should’ve eaten.”

He gave your wrist a squeeze and leant over you to take your plate, “You’re gonna make yourself sick.”

“I wasn’t hungry.” you replied stubbornly.

“Bullshit. I know you,” he laughed bitterly, “When’ve you ever not been hungry?”

You didn’t answer.

He scoffed, already slipping into some shoes to make the trek up to the farmhouse, “I’ll warm this back up.”

“You don’t need to. It doesn’t matter.”

He stood up straighter, frowning at you.

“Course it matters. You haven’t eaten, baby.” he set the plate back down, instead letting his thumb brush absentmindedly over your knuckles.

You looked up at him, saw the worry behind his dark eyes, and could’ve cried.

For the tiniest second, you saw your husband.

The man who’d loved you since you were both kids, who used to make you breakfast on your days off because he knew you never bothered to, who’d drive halfway across town to get you an ice cream on a hot day.

And you couldn’t understand it.

How your husband was there, and then just as quickly, he wasn’t. He hadn’t looked at you like this in weeks.

“Stop that.” you shook your head.

He has the audacity to frown at you with concern. To make his voice go softer as he said, “Stop what, baby?”

You laughed bitterly, tears pricking at your eyes and wobbling your voice.

“Acting like everything’s alright!”

“Now, I ain’t-“

“Like you’re alright. When everything is…”

Your words died off as they left your throat.

Shane waited.

“Go on. When everything is what?”

“When everything is so… so fucked!” you groaned in frustration, gripping the sides of your head and willing yourself not to break down.

His eyes went cold.

“Fucked up?” he repeated, squinting at you like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, “You’re callin’ this, what we got here, fucked up?”

“Yes!” you sighed frustratedly, wiping your eyes with clenched fists.

“Far as I can see, you’re breathin’. You’re safe. Ain’t nobody in this camp gone hungry for days. Doesn’t seem fucked up to me.” he gestured around the tent, “We’re alive. That’s what matters.”

“No!”

The word leapt from your throat as you groaned. He still didn’t get it.

“No, Shane. That is not the only thing that matters! There is more to life, you-“

You threw your hands up helplessly.

“You’re never even here anymore!”

Shane barked out a humourless laugh, taking a step back and pointing his finger at you.

“Lemme ask you somethin’, then.”

His voice had grown a dangerous edge that you’d never heard directed at you before. You bowed your head.

“If I ain’t here…” he jabbed a finger against his own chest, “Then how’re you still alive?”

He took another step closer, “Who keeps this place in order?”

His breathing grew heavier.

“Who’s pullin’ watches when everybody else is asleep?”

He lowered his face until it was beside your and whispered;

“Who’s makin’ the supply runs?”

He snatched your plate up off the table.

“Who’s puttin’ this food on the damn table?” he roared.

His grip slipped.

The porcelain hit the floor and exploded into a hundred speckled shards. You flinched.

Tears rolled down your cheeks as you crumpled in on yourself, turning away from him.

“Do you hear yourself?!” you screamed angrily through your sobs.

He was scaring you now.

He wasn’t in control.

“This ain’t you,” you sniffled, cradling your own head, “I don’t know what’s happening to you, but we can figure it out. We always figure things out.”

“Please.”

Your voice came out weak from where it was tucked beneath your knees.

“There ain’t nothin’ to figure out.”

You lifted your head, willing any God out there to let your husband hear your pleas.

“Shane…”

“This is the way things are. I’m just the only one who’s accepted it. I don’t need no fixing,” he spat, throwing his jacket over his shoulder.

“Shane, are you kidding?” you laughed weakly before your eyes widened, “You’re really just gonna ignore all of this… What are you-“

He pulled back the tent of the flap.

“Where are you going?” you tried to sound strong but it came out a whimper as you wiped your eyes, “Shane!”

“‘M going for a walk.” he muttered, shoving the flap back down.

All you could do was fall apart as you realised that the Shane you’d known was there, but he didn’t want saving.

And, he was never coming back.

[muppetlesbian]

Those people who constantly reblog your stuff but you never really talk:

[miserymorgue]

how i'd love to go to paris again (and again) | j. abbot & m. robinavitch

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.”

Dana hums, unconvinced. “Talkin’ real close.”

Robby exhales, already shifting focus. “New patient?”

“Yeah,” she says, nodding toward the bay. “Just rolled in. Need you over there.”

“Alright,” he says.

And he follows her down the hall, expression already reset.

★★★

“—Hey. Hold on a second,” Jack says, breath a little uneven.

“No, don’t—don’t hold on,” you protest, already moving, frustrated at the interruption. Your hips roll, trying to sink deeper, but his hands clamp down on your waist—firm, grounding, stopping you.

“Hey. Easy.” A breath. “Just—gimme a second, alright?”

You huff, but you stop. Barely. Your thighs tremble, hovering just above his cock, the tip brushing against your wet slit.  “This better be good.”

He lets out something like a quiet laugh, more breath than sound. “Yeah, I’ll try not to waste your time.”

A beat. He looks at you properly now—focused, a little too clear-headed for the situation. His thumb traces a slow circle on your hipbone, soothing, but his eyes are sharp.

“Just… wanna get this straight,” he says.

Your hands shift on his chest, nails dragging lightly. “Okay. Then say it.”

He nods once. “He can be there. He can watch, he can fuck you.” A pause. “But there are lines.”

You tilt your head, watching him. “Such as?”

His grip tightens just a fraction—not enough to bruise, enough to mean something. “Such as—you don’t forget who you’re with.”

You raise a brow, a smirk pulling at your lips. “Hard to forget when you’ve got your dick in me half the time I’m not at work.”

“Smartass,” he mutters. Then, quieter—“I’m serious. He doesn’t get to know how you taste. That’s mine.”

“Uh-huh…” You roll your hips lazily, not sinking down, just letting the head of his cock nudge against your clit, making him hiss. “So this is allowed?” You lift up, then lower just an inch, teasing the tip against your entrance.

“Yeah, allowed,” Jack nods, his jaw tight.

“Mm. This?” You lean down and kiss him—sweet, slow, your tongue brushing his lower lip before you pull back with a soft pop.

He nods into the kiss, groaning when you start to move again, lifting your pussy off him completely. The air hits his wet shaft and he shudders.

“Yeah? What about this?” You wrap your hand around his cock, giving it a slow, deliberate stroke from base to tip, slick with your own arousal. You squeeze just a little, watching his eyes flutter.

“All allowed,” he grates out, “but his mouth isn’t getting near this, alright, that’s all—” He cuts off as he grabs you by the hips, guiding your pussy back down, lining you up and shoving it back in with a single, brutal thrust. Your moan rips out of you—loud, breathy, grateful. His cock fills you so deep you feel it in your throat.

“Yeah? That good with you?” he asks, voice rough.

You nod, already starting to ride him—slow at first, just a rock of your hips, teasing the angle. “What about you and ’im?” you ask, breath hitching as you grind down.

Jack shrugs—or tries to. “What don’t you want?”

“No blowjobs either, then,” you say, voice a little strained as you lift up and drop back down, feeling every ridge. “’S for me.”

“Sounds good to me.” His hands find your hips again, but he doesn’t guide—he just holds, letting you set the pace. Letting you take.

You pick up speed, thighs burning, your clit grinding against his pubic bone with each roll. The room fills with the wet sound of your pussy gripping his cock, and you tilt your head back, letting him see the arch of your throat.

His hand comes up, thumb brushing along your jaw, pulling your focus back to him when you drift.

“Right here,” he murmurs.

You meet his gaze. That same look—steady, a little rough around the edges, but sure. His.

“Good,” he says, softer now. His thumb drags across your lower lip, and you part your mouth, just enough to suck the tip of it in. His eyes darken.

And when you move again, it’s slower. You rock forward, letting his cock hit that deep, sweet spot, and you moan against his thumb. You pull off it with a wet sound, then lean down to kiss him again—dirtier this time, tongue and teeth, whimpering into him.

“Yeah,” he breathes against your lips. “That’s better.”

★★​​★

It’s late into the evening on Friday when you hear Jack on the phone.

“No, can’t,” Jack says, pacing your living room, phone tucked to his ear while he half-heartedly folds laundry and gives up halfway through. “I’m home. She’s cooking. Smells like I’m about to get fat and happy.”

“Baby, can you come try this?” you call from the kitchen.

“One sec,” he says, then quieter, back into the phone—“What’d you wanna do?”

“Nothing,” Robby mutters. “I… I don’t know, man. I don’t feel like crashing Santos and Whitaker’s… house party. We could go for a drive. Hike.”

Jack stops mid-step. “A hike,” he repeats. “At nine-thirty at night.”

A beat.

“Yeah, not happening,” he decides, dropping the laundry basket and heading into the kitchen.

You’re at the counter in that barely-there nightgown—soft, short, riding up your thighs as you lean forward, aggressively chopping an onion like it personally offended you. Eyes glossy, blinking through it.

Jack pauses in the doorway for half a second longer than necessary.

Then—business as usual.

“Alright,” he says, stepping in behind you, close enough that his hand brushes your hip on the way past. “What am I trying?”

You nod at the stove. “Carbonara.”

He leans over, tastes it, hums—low, approving.

“Yeah,” he says into the phone. “She’s showing off.”

You bump his arm lightly. “I am not.”

“You are,” he says, kissing you quick, easy, like he’s done it a thousand times. “It’s working.”

You smile despite yourself, wiping at your eyes.

On the phone, Robby exhales. Rough. Tired.

“Hike’s dumb,” Jack says, shifting tone without making it obvious. “What’s actually going on.”

“Nothing,” Robby says. “Just… can’t sit still. Garcia was on my ass all day, Al-Hashimi wouldn’t shut the fuck up—”

“—Hey,” Jack cuts in, calm, steady. “Take a breath.”

You glance over at him. He’s not looking at you anymore—focused now, locked into that mode.

“You’re good,” he says. “You’re not thinking anything dumb, right?”

A pause.

“…No,” Robby says. “Just need to… get out of my head, I don’t know.”

Jack hears it. You do too. That edge. That restless, pissed-off with nowhere to put it thing.

“He can come here,” you say, like it’s obvious.

Jack looks at you—quick, assessing—but there’s no resistance there. Just a flicker of something else.

“Yeah,” he says into the phone. “Come over. Food’s ready soon.”

“I don’t know, man—” Robby starts.

You reach over and take the phone straight out of Jack’s hand.

“Hey, Michael.”

There’s a beat.

Jack watches you now, not even pretending to focus on the onions anymore.

“…Hey,” Robby says, slower. “Heard you were cooking.”

“Mhm,” you hum, leaning back against the counter, bare leg brushing against Jack’s where he stands beside you. “Plenty to go around.”

Jack’s hand settles at your hip automatically. Not possessive—just there.

Robby hears the shift anyway.

“This a setup?” he asks.

You smile slightly. “You always this suspicious, or just with me?”

A quiet scoff from him.

“You should come,” you add, softer—but not innocent. “You sound like you need it.”

A beat. Jack’s thumb presses lightly into your hip. Grounding. Present.

Robby exhales. “Yeah. Guess I can make it.”

“Guess you can,” you say easily.

Silence again—but it’s different now.

You glance at Jack.

He nods once.

“Door’s unlocked,” you say. “Twenty minutes.”

You hand the phone back.

Jack takes it, fingers brushing yours briefly, then brings it back to his ear. “You heard her. No pressure.”

A pause.

“…Alright,” Robby says.

The line clicks dead.

Jack sets the phone down on the counter, then looks at you properly. A slow once-over. Not subtle.

“What?” You raise a brow.

“Nothing. Nothing at all. I’ll finish the laundry.” He gives you a deep kiss to your neck, hands trailing over your figure as he mumbles into your skin, fingers gently pushing aside the light material. “You gonna stay in this?” He asks.

“‘S that alright?” You wonder, leaning into his touch.

He inhales sharply against your skin, lips leaving your skin. “Sure.”

★★★

You’re out on the balcony when it comes up.

Jack’s place sits high enough that the city feels almost staged—Pittsburgh stretched out in warm light, bridges lit up in clean lines, traffic moving steady below like it never really stops. It’s one of those late summer nights where the air sticks just slightly to your skin, warm but not suffocating. There’s music drifting from somewhere down the block, a party you can’t see but can feel in the background.

The balcony’s not small—wide enough for a proper table, a few chairs, space to lean without feeling cramped. Jack had insisted on that when he bought the place. Said if he was going to spend money, it’d be on something worth standing still for.

Your plates are mostly cleared, carbonara half-finished, wine and beer sweating into the wood.

“Have either of you done this before?” Robby asks.

Jack shakes his head immediately. “No.”

You don’t answer.

You’re thinking—actually thinking, head tilted slightly, finger lifting to tap against Jack’s arm like you need him to hold on a second. That’s when it hits him, belated and faintly incredulous, that this apparently hadn’t come up when the idea itself had.

“…Have you?” Jack asks, turning to you, already suspicious.

“I am thinking,” you murmur, brows pulling together like this is a serious recall exercise.

Robby raises a brow, watching you now, something amused creeping in despite himself.

“What do you mean you’re thinking?” Jack presses. “That’s not… I don’t know, something you half do or something. You’d know.”

“Or something,” Robby mutters under his breath.

You shoot him a look, then roll your eyes. “Okay—no. I don’t think I’ve had a threesome.”

“How can you not think you’ve had a threesome?” Jack wonders.

You lean back slightly, folding one leg under you, the fabric of your nightgown shifting higher on your thigh without you bothering to fix it. You don’t notice how both men’s gaze drop there.

You exhale, already regretting engaging. “Because—technically—no one actually got fucked, there was no penetration by anybody, so, grey area?”

There’s a beat.

Robby’s mouth twitches.

Jack blinks. “...Right.”

“Okay?” you continue, defensive now. “It was—hands. That’s it. Group situation, but not… full commitment.”

Robby huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Group situation,” he repeats.

“Shut up,” you mutter.

“Another guy or girl?” Jack asks, too quickly.

You hesitate just long enough to make it interesting. “…Both.”

Jack leans back like you’ve just told him something deeply inconvenient. “...Huh.”

Robby lets out a low whistle through his nose. “So not a threesome. Just… poor project management.”

You laugh despite yourself. “Oh my god.”

“That’s a foursome that lost direction,” he adds, dry.

“Whatever,” you shrug. “Med school was fun for me. Sorry I had range.”

Jack eyes you, something between amused and slightly thrown. “I’m just saying, that’s a hell of a thing to casually drop over dinner.”

You smirk faintly. “I’m surprised you haven’t.”

Jack scoffs. “I’ve had opportunities.”

“Mm,” you hum, unconvinced.

Robby glances at him sideways. “That sounds like a lie.”

“It’s not a lie,” Jack says, defensive now. “I just—never felt the need.”

“Right,” Robby says. “Till now.”

Jack gives him a look. “Till now.”

Something passes there—quick, familiar, not entirely friendly as Robby sips his beer.

After, you step out to the edge of the balcony, forearms resting against the railing. The city hums below you, the air warmer now, carrying the smell of food and distant smoke.

Inside, you hear Jack moving—plates, running water. Robby’s voice low, asking something, already familiar with the space.

“Thanks, baby,” you say when Jack comes back out, taking your plate.

You lean in, press a quick kiss to his cheek.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, hand coming up to your hair, messing it slightly with a small, easy smile.

You push him away lightly. “Don’t start.”

Robby watches it for a second before picking up the empty bottles, holding them loosely by the necks.

“Next to the fridge?” he asks, like he hasn’t been here a hundred times already—like tonight isn’t slightly different.

“Yeah,” you nod. “Recycling. Thank you.”

He gives a short nod and turns— You catch his wrist. It’s not forceful. Just enough.

“Hey,” you say, softer.

He looks down at you.

There’s a pause—his eyes dragging, just briefly, lower before coming back up. You’re close enough now to feel the heat off him, the faint roughness of his breath after a drink, after a long day.

You use his forearm to pull yourself up just slightly— and kiss him. It’s not rushed. It’s far from tentative either. Close. Testing.

His beard scratches lightly against your skin, rough in a way that makes you more aware of it, not less. He stills for half a second—then responds, mouth softer than you expected, hand hovering like he hasn’t decided where it’s allowed to land. 

Your teeth catch his bottom lip briefly. That’s what does it.

“Starting without me?” Jack’s voice cuts in, dry. “Bit mean.”

Robby pulls back instinctively, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t—even though—

Even though.

You smile a little, letting go of his wrist as he clears his throat.

“Next to the fridge,” Jack adds, nodding toward the bottles.

Robby nods once, wordless, moving past him.

Their shoulders brush as he goes. Not accidental. Jack doesn’t move out of the way.

He watches Robby for a second longer than necessary, then looks back at you.

You end up on the couch.

It happens naturally—plates abandoned in the sink, TV flicked on for noise more than anything else. Some late-night rerun playing low in the background, colours shifting across the room, low lamps lighting the room.

Jack’s in the middle, halfway through some story from work—one of those cases that stuck with him. Complicated, strange, the kind he can’t quite let go of.

You’re tucked into his side, knees curled under you, your hand idly playing at the back of his neck—fingers brushing through his hair, absent, familiar. You nod along, half-listening, more focused on the rhythm of his voice, the warmth of him.

Robby’s behind you. Close enough that you can feel the heat of him through your back, even before his hand settles on your thigh—slow, absent movement, like he’s not even fully aware he’s doing it.

Up. Down. Not pushing. Not asking. Just there.

Jack keeps talking.

You lean in without really thinking about it—your lips brushing along his jaw, then just below it. Light. Familiar. Not rushed.

Jack’s hand comes up to your lower back automatically, pulling you in a fraction closer, steadying you there.

Robby’s hand doesn’t stop. If anything, it shifts—just slightly higher, fingers brushing warmer skin now where the fabric gives way.

Jack feels it. His hand stills for a second at your back—then relaxes again.

He doesn’t pull you away. Doesn’t say anything. You exhale softly against his neck, your breath warm there, your fingers tightening slightly where they rest behind him.

And for a second—just a second—you’re aware of both of them at once.

Jack in front of you, steady, grounding. Robby behind you, quieter, heavier—watching more than speaking.

Jack’s gaze lifts. Meets Robby’s. There’s a beat. Not long. But long enough. Something passes between them—wordless, measured. Something you can’t read.

Jack gives the smallest nod. Barely there. Robby’s jaw shifts slight. Then Jack looks back at you.

Your hand slides from his neck to his jaw, turning him slightly, and you kiss him properly this time—slow, deliberate. He leans into it without hesitation, one hand firm at your waist.

When you pull back, it’s not far. Just enough. Just long enough to turn.

Robby’s already looking at you. Not surprised. Not really. Just watching. You close the distance like it’s nothing—like it’s always been this simple—and kiss him too.

Different. Not softer, not harder—just new. Testing. His hand stills on your thigh for half a second before it shifts, coming up to steady at your side, like he’s grounding himself in it.

There’s a quiet breath from him—almost a huff, almost disbelief.

“This is fun,” You murmur.

You don’t give him time to overthink it.

You lean back between them again, tipping your head slightly, and they follow without being told.

Jack’s mouth finds one side of your neck, familiar, certain.

Robby hesitates for a fraction of a second— then doesn’t.

The other side. Slower. More deliberate. Like he’s learning something he’s not used to having.

You exhale, a soft sound you don’t quite hold back this time, and your hands come up instinctively—one finding Jack’s hair, the other Robby’s, fingers threading through both, holding them there.

For a second, it stays like that. Balanced.

Then you shift, just slightly—hands tightening, guiding as you move the two of them, their lips almost naturally coming to find one anothers, moving them like ken dolls, before you drop your hands, watching with a small smile, as Robby's immediacy for control goes against Jack's. Robby’s hand deepening into your thigh, grip tight as he kisses Jack.

Jack pulls back first, breath uneven but still controlled, his eyes flicking to yours like he’s checking in—like he always does.

His hand slides up your spine, slower now, deliberate where it had been absent before. His palm is cool against your overheated skin, the contrast making you shiver as it traces upward, then back down again, lingering just enough to feel intentional.

You lean back into him, lips finding his neck again—dragging slowly over the roughness of his skin, the faint scrape grounding, familiar. You press a little firmer this time, less thought, more instinct.

When you pull back, it’s only barely. Your breath catches—not dramatic, just… aware. Of him. Of Robby. Of both.

Jack’s hand presses more firmly into your back, keeping you close, steadying you like he can feel the shift too.

“Baby,” he murmurs, voice low, softer than before. “Feeling needy?”

You nod against him, answering with your mouth instead—kissing along his jaw now, slower, more deliberate.

“Yeah,” he exhales, a quiet sort of understanding in it. “I know, hon.” A beat. Then, quieter—“You want me, or him?”

You hesitate. Not long—but long enough to matter.

Robby’s hand shifts on your thigh, moving from the outside to your inner thigh, firm but unhurried, easing you open just slightly—testing, not taking. Waiting to see what you’ll do with it.

“It’s alright,” Jack starts, voice still calm, like he’s talking you through something he already trusts. “Go ahead. She likes it when you—”

“—I’ll ask you for help if I need it, alright?” Robby cuts in, low and even.

They exchange a look—brief, sharp, understood.

You lean over, pressing a quick, soft kiss to Jack’s cheek—something sweet, grounding—before shifting your weight and climbing into Robby’s lap.

He stiffens for a second. Just a second.

Robby’s always been hard to read. Time’s etched itself into his face, but there’s still that wall there—something held back, something controlled. Maybe it’s nerves. Maybe it’s you. His best friend’s girl, sitting on him like this—close, warm, curious.

“You okay there, Sasquatch?” you tease, tilting your head up at him.

His hands find your thighs again almost immediately, like muscle memory kicking in. His gaze flicks—down, over you, then back to your eyes. Briefly to Jack. Then back again.

“Sasquatch? Really?” he murmurs, one hand moving up to cup your breast through your top. His palm is warm against you, sending a shiver down your spine. “That’s what you’re going with?”

“Beard, tall… same thing, no?” you shrug lightly.

That earns the faintest hint of a smirk.

“She always cracking jokes before getting fucked?” Robby asks, giving your breast a firm squeeze. His other hand slides lower, ghosting over your stomach before cupping your mound through your panties

“Depends,” Jack admits. “One time I got G.I Joe for an hour.”

“He was in uniform, in my defense,” You defend, brief before you try moving your hips over Robby’s fingers, eager. “Come on, Michael.” 

Robby's fingers press harder against your core, rubbing slow, firm circles that have you arching into him, a sweet whine escaping your lips, his eyes enamoured with how your mouth parts, breath warm against him. 

“What a cute noise you make, sweetheart,” Robby murmurs. “Ask me nicely now.”

You hesitate, desperate as his fingers continue to move achingly slow over your wetness.

“Ask or I give Jack my hand right now instead and you can wait your turn for another hour,” Robby tells, voice low and soft, not looking away from where his fingers glide over your seeping core.

“Please,” you murmur, voice breathy and desperate. “Please fuck me with your fingers.”

You crash your lips to his—harsh, messy, tongues thrusting quick and slick, his beard scraping rough red trails across your cheeks and chin. He growls low into your mouth, yanking your panties aside with brutal force, calloused fingertips dragging through your dripping folds, parting your lips wide before ramming two thick fingers knuckle-deep into your clenching pussy—no mercy, no prep.

You gasp ragged into the kiss, a high-pitched moan ripping free as your lips break away, saliva trailing shiny strings from his mouth to yours. You latch onto his neck, teeth grazing the salty skin, sucking hard as you grind down fierce onto his invading digits—walls squeezing tight around the stretch, juices flooding hot over his palm.

“Move your fingers toward her ventral,” Jack instructs from the side, voice calm but edged with that teasing know-it-all tone, his hand sliding warm along your spine.

Robby exhales sharp through his nose—mild irritation flashing in his eyes at the unasked advice, jaw clenching as he shoots Jack a quick, heated glare. But he curls his fingers obediently upward inside you, knuckles grinding rough along your front wall to hammer your g-spot precise and relentless. Your moan swells louder, body jolting as fresh gushes of slick coat his hand, pussy slurping obscenely around each pump.

“Christ, you’re making a mess on me, aren’t you, kid? Huh?” Robby rasps, voice gravel-thick with mean delight, eyes locked on the filthy sight—your swollen pussy lips gliding and sucking greedily over his plunging fingers, riding them frantic. 

He twists his wrist sharp, scissoring the digits wide to pry your hole open, thumb mashing down hard on your throbbing clit with every brutal thrust—wet schlicks echoing loud, your thighs trembling slick against his forearm, arousal trickling warm down to soak his jeans.

He adds a third finger suddenly, forcing the burn deeper, stretching your cunt taut as he moves, hooking mercilessly on that spongy spot. 

“You getting close?” He asks, low and rough, listening closely to your moans, how they become pitchier, breathier, as sweet as Jack described. You nod, a loose yes, focused only on how your core winds up to the edge. “That right?”

Your cries pitch wilder, back arching as he pinches your clit between thumb and knuckle, rolling it rough while his fingers churn your insides, coil tight in your core.

“What else she like?” Robby asks Jack, glancing over at his friend now, fingers never slowing their rhythm inside you.

Jack taps his index and middle digit to his lips, nodding toward you. Robby nods back, hums at the sight of you, curious.

Robby yanks his fingers free abrupt—your pussy clenching empty, a whine tearing from your throat at the aching void, hips bucking needy for more. He brings those soaked digits up to your face, gripping your chin firm to still you, watching hungry as you part your lips instinctively. 

His fingertips tease your bottom lip, smearing your own cream glossy, before you suck them in deep—tongue swirling eager around the thick lengths, lapping every tangy drop, hollowing cheeks as saliva drips messy down your chin.

“Atta girl, you’re a fuckin’ mess now aren’t you?” Robby murmurs, gaze glued ravenous to your bobbing mouth, cock throbbing harder under you. “You wanna cum?”

You nod, frantic around his fingers, eyes pleading.

“Not yet,” Robby denies, voice almost gentle, yet harsh at once. “Barely seen what you can do.”

You exhale shaky as he pulls his fingers out with a wet pop, trailing spit from your chin before cupping your whole face possessive, holding you locked on him.

“Go over to him. Make him feel good,” Robby orders, jerking his chin at Jack.

You nod, movements sluggish from the edge he left you on.

“On the floor, knees, now,” Robby snaps, voice brooking no argument.

You slide off his lap reluctant, crawling back to Jack beside him on the couch. He smiles soft at you, fingers threading gentle through your hair, cupping your cheek as he brushes strands aside, gaze roaming tender over your flushed skin.

“You alright there?” he asks nicely, thumb stroking your jaw.

You nod eager, hands diving straight to his sweatpants, palming the rigid bulge straining there—heat pulsing under your touch. 

You tug the waistband down, freeing his cock—thick shaft springing up heavy, veins bulging, head slick with pre-cum. Your fist wraps tight around the base, pumping slow firm strokes up to the tip, twisting slick over the crown to spread his leak.

Jack inhales sharp, but you drop fully to your knees between his spread thighs on the rug, the rough weave biting into your skin. You lean in, lips parting wide to swallow his cockhead first—tongue flicking the slit to lap salty pre, then sliding down inch by veiny inch, throat relaxing to take him deeper.

“Look pretty down there,” Jack murmurs with a small smile, hand light in your hair, just cradling.

“You’re so soft with her,” Robby remarks from beside, voice mixed with mocking and earnestness as he watches you work, his own tenting obvious.

Jack shrugs, a quiet groan escaping as you hollow your cheeks, sucking vacuum-tight while bobbing steady—saliva pooling at the corners of your stretched lips, dribbling down his balls. Your hand strokes what your mouth can't reach, twisting wet on the upstroke, tongue pressing flat along the underside to trace every ridge.

Robby's gaze burns hot—flicking over your arched back, your drool-slick chin, eyes that dart between Jack's tense face, Robby's hungry stare, then flutter shut as you deepthroat him full, nose burying in his pubes. He fixates on Jack's cock vanishing slick between your lips, throat bulging visible. Then up to Jack, whose fingers grip tighter into your scalp—not shoving, just anchoring as his neck cords tense.

“Good job, sweetheart,” Jack praises breathy, hips twitching minimal into your rhythm. 

Your moan vibrates around his length, humming deep to make him shudder, spit bubbling messy as you pop off to lick sloppy stripes up his shaft, sucking each ball into your mouth turn before plunging back down.

He groans low, head lolling back, “Fucking… perfect. So perfect, always.”

Tension crackles thicker between them—Jack's free hand drifts casual at first, then deliberate, palming Robby's thigh before cupping the massive bulge in his jeans, squeezing firm through denim. Robby stiffens, eyes meeting with Jack's, breath hitching as Jack rubs slow circles over the thick outline, thumb pressing the zipper ridge where pre darkens the fabric.

“You alright there, man?” Jack scoffs, a light smile. “Can’t handle it?”

It’s a challenge. It always is with them. Has been since they were twenty something.

Jack knows exactly what he’s doing—knows the tells. The slight tilt of Robby’s head, the way his weight shifts more onto one side, the flicker of something sharper behind his eyes. He’s seen that look in bars, in fights, in operating rooms when things went sideways.

Robby doesn’t back down from anything. Least of all him.

Then Robby exhales slowly, something almost like a laugh under it, eyes locking onto Jack’s—steady, unflinching.

“Oh, I can handle it just fine,” Robby agrees with his own smile. “Go ‘head.”

Jack groans at your relentless mouth—fast and wet, then slowing perfect against him—his hand stroking over Robby’s clothed cock, deliberate and slow, denim rasping under his palm. He leans in first, crashing his mouth to Robby's—sloppy, urgent, tongues battling fierce right above you, beards grinding rough, wet sucks and grunts filling the air. Jack's fingers knead Robby's bulge harder, unzipping halfway to delve inside, wrapping firm around the hot shaft through boxers.

You pull off Jack with a gasp, spit stringing from your lips to his glistening tip, replacing your mouth with your fist—pumping slick and steady along his veiny length, thumb swirling over the slit to smear pre-cum. Your eyes lock on their kiss, Jack's hand slowing on Robby as your thumb teases tentative over his own sensitive crown, tongue darting out to lap the edge of his slit.

“Oh fuck,” Jack moans into Robby’s mouth, breaking away to watch you lick him sweetly, hips bucking light into your grip.

Your free hand joins Jack’s on Robby’s cock, fingers overlapping his as Robby undoes his belt buckle with a metallic clink, shoving jeans and boxers down his thighs. His thick cock springs free. You spit thick into your palm, slicking it hot before gripping him base to tip, stroking in tandem with Jack—your hand twisting wet on the upstroke while his squeezes the root, veins pulsing under your combined pressure. 

Robby hisses through clenched teeth, thighs tensing as you both jerk him off rough, pre dribbling over knuckles, your mouth still working on Jack’s cock.

Jack's strokes on you falter to lazy pumps, his fist gliding easy over your saliva-lubed skin as he watches Robby swell thicker in your shared hold. “Fuck, feel that grip? She’s got hands made for this,” he rasps, voice husky, eyes dark on Robby's face.

Robby grunts approval, thrusting shallow into the double stroke. Jack pulls back suddenly, nodding down at you. “Let him feel how good your pretty mouth is, baby.”

You release Jack reluctant, his cock twitching angry-red in the cool air as he takes over—fist flying fast over his shaft, slick echoing. You shift on your knees, turning to Robby, who grips his base and taps the fat head heavy against your cheek—wet smacks on flushed skin, taunting drip of pre-painting streaks.

“Dreamt about this once,” he admits, voice low. “The way Jack described it, you’d think you have the mouth of an angel. That right? You an angel?” He wonders.

You lick your lips in anticipation, hand between your legs, fingers gliding over your folds.

“Oh, baby, you’re touchin’ yourself too?” Robby notices. “God, so desperate.”

“Seemed pretty desperate for my boyfriend there too,” You remark, not looking away from Robby’s gaze.

His jaw tightens. “He’s pretty good with his hand, but I think you can do better with your tongue.”

You part lips wide, tongue out flat as he slaps his cock deliberately across it, underside dragging salty over your tastebuds before shoving in brutal—half his length in one thrust, stretching your jaw. 

You gag wet but suck hollow, cheeks caving as you bob frantic, hand pumping the rest in sync. Saliva floods fast, bubbling down his sack as you swirl tongue under the ridge, hollowing deep to milk him. Your fingers are quick against your wetness, dripping between your thighs, your other hand planted at Robby’s thigh.

“Shit—yeah, like that,” Robby growls, free hand fisting your hair to guide rough, not forcing but controlling the pace—pulling you off to tap his cock on your tongue again, smearing spit and pre glossy before ramming back in. 

He fucks your face shallow, hips snapping precise, balls swinging to nudge your chin while Jack jerks himself faster beside, groans syncing with yours muffled around Robby's girth.

You sweep the underside of your tongue around Robby’s cock, soft wetness coating him, slow, then fast, hearing how Robby’s hand tightens harder in your scalp.

Jack leans close, breath ragged as his fist blurs over his cock, tip weeping steady. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Fuck off,” Robby mutters, focused on your mouth, your eyes as they look up at him, wide, watery.

Your fingers slip between your thighs, dipping into your soaked pussy, rutting slow circles over your clit as you kneel between them, mouth stuffed full on Robby's cock. Spit drips messy down your chin, mixing with the slick from your own folds as you finger yourself deeper, chasing that tight coil building low in your belly.

“I’m good,” Jack rasps, eyes locked on your hand working your cunt, his fist pumping steady over his own cock. “Slow down, sweetheart.”

Your fingers comply, easing to lazy drags through your wetness, eyes flicking up to watch Jack slow his palm in sync, thumb circling his flushed tip. His free hand drifts back to Robby's thigh, squeezing hard muscle as he watches you deepthroat—throat bulging obscene with each plunge, gags turning wet and rhythmic.

Robby's taunts rumble gravel-deep: “Fucking hell, you gonna let me cum in that mouth, honey?” He pops free with a gasp, cock throbbing inches from your face, tapping insistent on your cheek—left, right, smearing sticky pre over flushed skin—before you dive back voluntary, nose grinding into his pubes as you swallow him full, humming vibration to wrench a guttural curse from his chest.

“She can take it,” Jack murmurs, voice thick. “Can you, baby? Come on, speak now.”

You moan muffled around Robby's girth, pulling off with a slick pop, resting your head against his still-clothed thigh as your fingers plunge back into your pussy, rutting frantic. “Mhm.” You kiss alongside his shaft, tongue tracing veins lazy, lips brushing hot skin.

“So damn sweet now,” Robby murmurs, hand loosening from your scalp to pet gentle through your hair, watching your fingers disappear knuckle-deep. “That feel good?”

You nod against his thigh, licking slow stripes up his cock, pumping your pussy deliberate—thumb flicking your clit, hips rocking into your hand, edge creeping close, breath hitching sharp.

“No more of that, alright?” Robby nods down, eyes sharp on your body. “Yeah? You listening?”

You groan, fingers curling harder inside yourself. “Fuck you—you wanna cum, I get to cum too.”

Robby tilts his head, that piercing look—the one Jack knows spells trouble, before ripping into a resident. Jack nearly laughs, slowing his strokes to a tease. “Not how it works,” Robby says flat, voice dropping steel.

You glance at Jack, pleading.

“Don’t look at him,” Robby orders, tone snapping stricter, hand fisting your hair tight to force your gaze back. You gulp, thighs clenching empty as you pull your fingers free, pussy clenching needy on nothing. “Put both hands behind your back if you’re gonna act like a fuckin’ brat.”

Reluctant, you clasp your hands behind you, knees aching on the floor, tits heaving with each breath. Robby nods approval, gripping his base to feed his cock back past your lips—slow at first, letting you savor the stretch, then thrusting deeper as you hollow cheeks vacuum-tight.

Your tongue flattens under his shaft to lap the frenulum relentlessly, swirling wet around the head on every upstroke before slamming down throat-deep, gag reflex crushed to nothing. Saliva floods obscenely, bubbling at the corners of your mouth, dripping strings to his balls as you bob frantic—suction pulling groans from his gut, nose buried in coarse hair, throat milking him like a fist. 

You hum constant vibration, eyes watering up at him, popping off to spit thick on his length before sucking one ball then the other into your mouth, rolling tongue heavy before plunging back down full.

“Jesus Christ—yeah, there we go…” Robby snarls, hips snapping erratic, free hand clamping your nape to hold you buried as his cock swells impossibly thicker, balls drawing tight. 

He floods your mouth suddenly—hot spurts painting your tongue thick and salty, cock pulsing ropes down your throat as you swallow greedily around him, not spilling a drop. He rides it out shallow thrusts, groaning ragged until spent, pulling free with a wet schlick.

“Fuck,” he pants, watching your tongue swipe clean over his softening head, lapping the last beads from his slit.

You fall back onto your heels, knees throbbing, core dripping wet and aching empty down your thighs. Swallowing his load thick, you stand shaky, and lean down to Robby, core exposed from your barely there nightgown. You grab him by his jaw, fingers at his chin, watching as his hand catches your wrist.

You smile at that. “Go on,” Your fingers linger near his mouth, covered with your wetness. “Jack prefers the real deal. You shy all of a sudden, Mikey?”

Robby reluctantly opens his mouth, trying and tasting your wetness, sucking your fingers clean.

“Atta boy,” You say sarcastically, moving them out of his mouth. “You think you can still fuck me, old man?” You whisper.

“Watch it,” Robby murmurs.

“You can, in the corner, while Jack finally makes me cum.” You whisper. “Jack,” you grab Jack’s hand, walking away with him as Jack follows suit behind you.

“Up and at it,” Jack tells Robby over his shoulder as he follows you.

“Fucking hell,” Robby mutters, taking a second before following after.

You hum satisfied, leading them stumbling to the bedroom, the air electric behind you.

In the dim glow, you strip your nightgown overhead, leaving ruined panties—crotch soaked dark—and a lacey bra barely containing your tits. Their eyes burn hot as you climb onto yours and Jack's bed, kneeling center.

Jack follows instant, standing at the edge, hands cupping your jaw rough-tender, leaning down to crash his mouth to yours—passionate and devouring, tongue fucking deep to taste Robby's cum lingering salty. You moan into it, hand snaking to grip his cock again, stroking firm base-to-tip.

Behind Jack, Robby's hands roam his back, trailing firm over shirt fabric before gripping the hem, yanking it up and off in one pull. Jack moans muffled into your kiss when your fist pumps faster, hips bucking into your grip, but he breaks away gasping as cool air hits his bare chest.

Robby presses close from behind, chest flush to Jack's back, beard scraping his shoulder as lips latch onto Jack's neck—sucking a mark deliberate.

“Baby, lie down for me,” Jack instructs.

You nod, lying down on your back, knees spread apart like second nature. He tilts his head, as Robby’s lips trail over his skin.

“Enjoying yourself?” Robby echoes Jack's earlier words, hand meeting at his cock briefly, feeling Jack stiffen and inhale sharply at that. “You gonna make your girl cum, or do I have to do that?”

“Fuck off,” Jack murmurs. “Go sit in a corner and wait, or somethin’,” Jack mutters, hands dragging you by the underside of your knee, gently towards the edge as he kneels on the bed, as Robby steps back with a chuckle.

“Think I got her ready, though, so, shouldn't take long,” Robby says. “Unless you’re not as skilled as you’ve been bragging to be.”

“Oh, my god, one of you make me cum or else I’m doing it myself, Jesus,” you whine.

“Oh, baby,” Jack murmurs, kissing at your inner thighs. “I’m leaving you waiting here.”

“She’s being a brat. Have some patience, honey,” Robby insists, tilting his head at you in mock. “But she’s right, hurry up, Abbot, Christ.”

Jack swipes his tongue along your core, and you moan, your wetness ready and eager from Robby's fingering and your own arousal. He licks slow and firm, teasing your sensitive flesh. 

Robby watches from the side, his cock still tucked away in his jeans, as he observes you writhing under Jack's talented tongue. His expression is heated, hungry, clearly enjoying the show. 

"Mmm...you look like a-" you moan, too lost in sensation to finish the thought. "A fucking nun, Michael," you finally manage, nodding towards his henley. "You aren't hot in that? Take it off already, fuck," 

Robby clicks his tongue, a light roll of his eyes. "You could ask me nicely. Here I thought you were so polite and sweet," he chides.

Jack’s tongue is a relentless, wet invasion, fucking into you with a rhythm that steals your breath. You clench around him, a tight, pulsing grip, your fingers tangled in his silver curls, thighs locked around his head like a vise. 

Your eyes stay fixed on Robby’s as he discards his shirt, the fabric whispering to the floor. The snick of his belt sliding free from the loops makes you tighten your legs around Jack even more, a shiver of anticipation racing up your spine, as Jack laps at your pussy.

“Wider,” Jack grunts, his voice muffled against your pussy. He pushes your thighs apart with his hard biceps, one big hand splayed over your hipbone, pinning you down. “Stop squirming. Take it.”

From the foot of the bed, Robby watches, arms folded over his bare chest. He looks like a professor observing a dissection—calm, analytical, utterly in control. “How close are you?” he asks, his tone clinical.

“Mm, close,” you manage, the words breaking on a moan as Jack’s tongue flicks hard over your clit.

“You make such pretty sounds. He was right about that,” Robby hums, stepping closer. He sits on the edge of the mattress, his calloused hand coming up to cup your cheek. His thumb strokes your skin, sweetly, but his brow is furrowed, his gaze intense. “Callin’ me a nun, and you still got this thing on, honey.” He hooks a finger under the strap of your bra and flicks it sharply against your skin, a sting of sensation.

Jack’s tongue plunges deep again, and you arch off the bed, a choked cry leaving your lips. Your eyes don’t leave Robby’s as his hand slides down, cupping your breast through the lace. He admires the weight, the shape, his fingers tracing the curve.

“Want me to fuck you first, or GI Joe there?” Robby recalls, a smirk playing on his lips. 

He doesn’t miss the way your mouth curves in a smile, even as your eyelids flutter shut. Jack quickens his pace, his hands now gripping your thighs like he’s holding you together.

You’re too close, teetering on that blinding edge. Words are impossible.

“Answer me,” Robby instructs, his voice dropping low and stern. His hand kneads your breast, then slips inside the cup of your bra, his fingers finding your nipple. He rolls it, pinches it just shy of pain. “Who do you want first?”

“You,” you gasp, the answer torn from you instinctively, desperately.

Robby’s smirk widens. “You hear that, Abbot? I get to break her in first.” He doesn’t look away from you as he says it.

He leans down, his hand sliding between your legs. Jack pulls back without a word, letting Robby’s fingers trail through your soaked folds, delivering a slap to your clit. You shiver violently, a string of high, needy moans escaping as he collects your wetness on his fingertips. He brings them back to your mouth, his other hand still working your nipple.

“I was right,” you murmur, breathless. “Knew you’d be mean.”

“Yeah? You like it?” Robby wonders, though he already knows.

You bite your lip, refusing to answer.

He pushes his wet fingers past your lips, pulling your jaw open with a firm pressure. The look he gives you is pure command—dark, expectant. Obey.

“I like it,” you moan around his fingers, the admission almost reluctant. Your grip tightens in Jack’s hair. “Fuck—I’m gonna—oh fuck—”

“Yeah?” Robby hums, petting your hair now, his other hand still at your breast. He watches your mouth hang open, watches the pleasure wreck you. “Eyes on me. Come on. No, no. No closing them. You keep ’em right here.” His gaze holds yours captive. “Good girl… good girl, aren’t you? Bratty, but you just needed to cum a little, isn’t that right?”

You whimper as Jack’s tongue sweeps over your oversensitive clit one last time, lapping up your juices as you shatter. Your orgasm crashes through you, white-hot and convulsing, your body bowing off the bed as you cry out.

“Good job, baby. Fucking hell,” Jack mutters against your thigh, his voice rough with praise. 

He comes up your body, his hand replacing Robby’s on your breast, kneading possessively. His lips find yours in a messy, wet kiss, tasting of you. Tongues swiping, teeth clashing briefly as you chuckle into the kiss, wet and sloppy as he moves to your neck, sucking hard around your jaw, yoru neck, hand trailing over your figure, squeezing, gentle, rough all at once.

“My favourite girl in the world, you know that,” he murmurs against your skin, kissing at your collarbone.

You grin, feeling as Robby captures your mouth with his own, a brief pause as he watches Jack worship your figure. Jack slides a finger over your core, feeling as your back arches, how you gasp into Robby’s mouth.

“You aren’t a brat, are you baby?” Jack murmurs, rubbing tight circles at your clit, hearing how you whimper at the feeling, fresh from your orgasm. “No, honey, not for me, isn’t that right? Yeah, I know, I know… my sweet girl,” He replaces Robby’s mouth with his own, dragging over yours as you nod into the kiss. 

“Told you. Lover boy,” Robby remarks to you.

You grin into the kiss, before Jack pulls away and naturally seems to find Robby’s lips.

You watch, a strange heat pooling in your belly, watching as Jack immediately leans in and kisses Robby. It’s harsh and sweet all at once—a clash of teeth and soft sighs. You thought you might feel a spike of jealousy, but instead, a warm, possessive pride swells in your chest. 

Robby stands, briefly cupping Jack’s jaw in a gesture that’s both dismissal and affection before pushing him gently aside. Jack moves from between your legs, sprawling onto his back on the bed. Robby’s hands are on your waist, and you yelp in surprise as he manhandles you with effortless strength, flipping you onto your stomach.

He drags your ruined panties down over your ass, off your legs, and sends them flying to a corner of the room with a flick of his wrist. Your bra is next; he unclips it with one practiced hand, and the lace joins the panties.

“Ass up, sweetheart,” Robby instructs, his voice thick. He lands a sharp, stinging tap on your bare ass cheek. He has one knee on the bed, the other foot planted on the floor.

You obey, pushing yourself up onto your knees and elbows. Jack is lying in front of you now, his gaze heated. You reach for his prosthetic leg, helping him with the quick-release mechanism. Robby hands you the second one without a word—a seamless, understood exchange. Jack kisses you, sweet and grateful, as he sets the limb aside.

"That's it," Robby mutters, positioning himself behind you. You feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against your slick entrance, teasing, and then he thrusts forward in one brutal, seamless motion.

Filling you so completely the air leaves your lungs in a whoosh. He sets a punishing pace immediately, each thrust driving you forward toward Jack.

Robby inhales sharply at the feeling of you. You adjust to him, moan loud and silent all at once at the feeling.

“Shit,” Robby mutters. “Fuckin’ hell, you know much Jack’s raved about this pussy? Callin’ it the treasure of the fucking ocean.”

His hands grip your hips like anchors, fingernails digging into your soft flesh as he sets a merciless rhythm—pounding into you with a force that drives your body forward with each impact, making the headboard knock rhythmically against the wall. “Perfect fucking pussy, sweetheart, you know that?”

You moan at his words, clenching even tighter around him. 

“How the fuck do you leave home, Jack— Jesus Christ,” Robby says as he quickens his pace slightly, watching as your ass moves from the harsh contact of his hips against you.

“Life or death, and that’s it,” Jack says. 

“Come on, give him some love, kid,” Robby tells.

Jack’s cock is hard and leaking against his stomach. You lean down, taking him into your mouth, swallowing him deep. He groans, his hands coming up to cradle your head. “Fuck, just like that,” he rasps.

You’re split between them—Robby fucking into you from behind with deep, possessive strokes, and Jack’s length hitting the back of your throat. The dual sensation is overwhelming. Robby’s hips slap against your ass, the sound filthy and wet. 

“You like being used like this baby?” Jack wonders, your moans vibrating against him. 

You don’t answer, focused on the sensation of Robby’s cock harsh within you.

“He asked you a question,” Robby pants, moving his hand to your hair, tight as you look up at Jack, watery eyed.

“Uh-huh,” you nod. 

“See? Not so hard,” Robby groans.

Jack smiles a bit at that, caressing your face as you occupy your mouth with Jack’s cock. He groans. The taste of salt and heat floods your tongue as you take him deep, your lips stretching around his girth. You hollow your cheeks, sucking hard as you bob your head, letting him feel every ridge of your throat as you swallow him down. Your nose presses against his pelvis, and he groans, his fingers threading through your hair.

"Just like that… Just like that," Jack chokes out, his head falling back as his hips buck up involuntarily, his hand tightening on your jaw. His thumb presses against your cheek, forcing your mouth wider, and you feel every ridge and vein of his cock sliding deeper down your throat. "Come on now, so close."

The words vibrate through you, but before you can double down, Robby leans over your arched back, his chest sweaty and hot against your spine, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Make him wait."

You pull off Jack's cock with a wet pop, a thick strand of saliva and pre-cum stretching between your lips and his glistening tip before breaking. Jack's frustrated groan cuts through the room, his hips twitching in empty air.

"Fuck off, Mike," Jack growls, but his hand remains gentle in your hair, fingers stroking through the sweat-damp strands as you whimper from the brutal pace behind you. 

Robby's cock is driving into you with relentless accuracy, the head of him hitting that deep, spongy spot inside you with every thrust, sending electric jolts through your core. Your inner walls flutter and clench around him, helpless against the assault.

"You gonna be a brat too, then?" Robby says, shooting a lighthearted glare at Jack over your shoulder. 

Before Jack can retort, you clench down hard around Robby's shaft, a desperate whine escaping your throat. Robby's rhythm stutters for half a second, a low curse spilling from his lips. "Fucking—hell, god, doll. You are so goddamn tight, y'know that?"

His pace becomes brutal, each thrust driving deeper, harder, the angle punishing. His balls slap wetly against your clit with every impact, the sound filthy and rhythmic. You feel the slick heat of your own arousal coating his shaft, dripping down your thighs with every punishing stroke. 

"She's close," Jack murmurs, his voice softer now, almost reverent. 

You shift forward, pressing open-mouthed kisses across his stomach, your tongue tracing the soft lines of his abs, tasting salt and skin, over the light freckles. You moan into his flesh, the vibration making his muscles jump, and then his palm cups your cheek, thumb brushing over your bottom lip, holding you warmly.

"Look at you," Jack whispers, his eyes dark and soft at once. "So beautiful like this. Taking us both. You're doing so well, baby."

“Go ahead, cum,” Robby growls into your ear, his hand snakes around your hip, his fingers finding your clit. He rubs tight circles against the swollen nub while he continues to pound into you, and the sensation is electric—each thrust driving his fingers harder against that sensitive bundle of nerves. “Now.”

You moan around Jack’s cock as you break, your pussy clenching wildly around Robby’s thrusts. The convulsions milk him, and with a low groan, he buries himself to the hilt and pulses inside you, hot and deep.

"Fuck," he breathes, his forehead pressing against your shoulder blade, his body shuddering through the aftershocks.

He pulls out slowly, and you feel his cum begin to seep from you. 

“Goddamnit,” Robby murmurs, a pant. 

Before you can even catch your breath, he spits into his palm, the sound crude and purposeful. He reaches down, slicking up Jack’s cock, which is already hard again and straining against his stomach. Jack groans, a deep, ragged sound at the touch.

“Your turn,” Robby tells him, his voice rough with use.

But instead of letting you face Jack, Robby guides you. His strong hands on your hips turn you, maneuvering your spent body until you’re straddling Jack, but facing away from him. Your back is to Jack’s chest, your ass pressed against his hips. You can feel Robby’s cum, warm and wet, slicking the way as you settle over Jack’s length.

Jack’s hands come to your hips, steadying you. “Easy, sweetheart,” he murmurs, but his voice is tight with need.

From the foot of the bed, Robby watches. He’s kneeling there now, his eyes dark and hungry, fixed on the place where your bodies move against one another, well practiced. Jack’s fingers slide between your legs, through the slick mess Robby left behind. He gathers it on his fingertips, his touch making you shiver, he brings those wet fingers to your lips.

You open for him, tasting Robby’s salty tang on Jack’s skin as he slips his fingers into your mouth. You moan around them, your tongue swirling. Jack’s eyes never leave Robby’s as he then pulls his fingers free, back to your cunt, a slight shudder once more, and brings them to his own lips, sucking them clean, tasting his best friend.

Robby watches this whole exchange, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Atta girl,” Jack pants against your ear, his hands tightening on your hips.

Then he guides you down, and you sink onto him with a broken cry. He fills you completely, the stretch delicious, the sensation of being stuffed so soon after your last climax making your head spin. You’re so sensitive it’s almost painful, a sweet, overwhelming ache.

You begin to move, rising and falling on his cock, finding a slow, grinding rhythm. Your hands brace on Jack’s thighs behind you for leverage. The angle is deep, each descent hitting a spot that makes you see stars.

“That’s it,” Jack encourages, his voice a rasp in your ear. His hands roam your body—gripping your waist, palming your breasts, thumbing your nipples.

You increase your pace, bouncing on him, the wet sounds of your joining filling the room. Your head falls back against his shoulder, your eyes fluttering shut.

“Eyes open, sweetheart.”

Robby’s command cuts through the haze. Your eyes snap open. He’s moved closer, kneeling right beside the bed now, his face level with where you’re joined with Jack. He’s watching every slide, every glide, his expression one of rapt fascination.

“Look at you,” Robby murmurs, his voice thick. “Takin’ him so well."

His praise fuels you. You lean more back, hands coming up behind you to Jack, angle pushing him even deeper, as you whimper, sharp gasps, teetering on the edge again.

“Baby, I’m gonna cum,” Your moan, soft.

“Fucking- shit, go ahead, honey, cum f’me,” he moans. 

Your orgasm crests, a silent scream trapped in your throat as your body tightens. You clench around Jack, a series of violent, fluttering spasms that milk his length.

Jack curses, his hips bucking up into you. “Fucking—just like that—”

As you’re pulsing around him, Robby leans in. He captures Jack’s mouth in a sudden, fierce kiss over your shoulder. You can hear the wet slide of their lips, the soft grunts and sighs. It’s raw and intimate, and it sends another shockwave of pleasure through your oversensitive nerves.

Robby breaks the kiss. “Lift up for a second, kid,” he breathes against your skin.

Dazed and pliant, you raise yourself up, Jack’s slick cock sliding almost all the way out of you. Robby’s hand replaces you, wrapping around Jack’s shaft. He gives him a few rough, efficient strokes, his thumb smearing the pre-cum beaded at the tip.

“Missed the taste of you,” Robby mutters to Jack, his eyes locked on his friend’s face as he works him.

Jack just groans, his head thrown back, his hands gripping your thighs. Then Robby guides you back down, easing you onto Jack’s cock until you’re fully seated once more, stuffed to the brim.

“Go ahead, finish,” Robby growls, his command for both of you.

You begin to move again, a slow, rolling grind now, utterly spent but driven by the need to feel Jack lose control. He’s close—you can feel the tension in his body, the way his breath hitches.

“Come on, Jack,” Robby urges softly, his hand returning to your clit, applying just enough pressure to make you whimper. “Fill her up. Give her what she needs.”

That does it. With a shattered cry, Jack’s hips piston up once, twice, and then he stills, buried deep inside you as he comes. You feel the hot pulses of his release joining Robby’s already there, flooding you.

Jack kisses at your shoulder blades, near your neck, as you relax your body entirely, shaky breaths with your back against his chest. His arm coming around you automatically, instinctive, like it always does. His hand slides up your arm, slow, grounding, fingers brushing your shoulder, your collarbone—checking, not asking out loud but asking anyway. 

Robby puts a hand to your jaw, tapping your cheeks lightly with his fingers, watching as your eyes lazily find his.

“You alright?” he murmurs, voice rough, softer than it’s been all night.

“Mhm,” You nod, catching your breath.

“There she is,” Jack murmurs against you, pressing a kiss into your hair, lingering there a second longer than usual.

Robby doesn’t move right away.

He’s sitting beside you both, elbows on his knees, head tipped slightly forward, breathing steadier now—but there’s something in his posture, something looser than before. The edge is gone. Or at least… dialed down.

You shift, peeling yourself gently from Jack, turning toward Robby. For a second, there’s that flicker—uncertainty, maybe. Not doubt. Just… recalibration.

Then you lean in and kiss him. It’s different now. Slower. Softer. No urgency behind it.

Robby’s hand comes up to the back of your head, not guiding, not demanding—just holding you there, thumb brushing lightly at your hairline. He exhales through his nose, a quiet thing, like he didn’t realize he’d been holding onto something.

When you pull back, you stay close.

“Hey,” you say, softer.

“Hey,” he echoes.

Jack watches the two of you. His hand still rests low on your back, thumb moving in slow, absent circles like it always does when he’s settling you.

Jack kisses gently at your bare back, “Be right back,” he murmurs against you, before you hear him leave the bed, putting on his temporary prosthetic. 

You hear him leave, pulling away from Robby who watches Jack as he leaves the room, headed for the hall.

You groan and flop onto the bed, Robby moving the blanket over you, maybe suddenly prudeish as he picks up presumably Jack’s shirt and hands it to you. You hum, put it on.

“Jesus,” you murmur, voice soft, wrecked. “I think my legs might actually fall off.”

That gets a quiet huff out of Robby.

He’s sitting up at the edge of the bed now, dragging a hand down his face, then through his hair. He looks… different, a little. Looser. The usual edge sanded down.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Think you’ll live.”

You glance over at him, managing a small smile.

He’s already reaching for his boxers, pulling them back on, movements unhurried. The gold chain at his neck catches the low light—the Star of David resting against his chest, rising and falling with his breathing. There’s something grounding about it. Familiar. Normal.

There’s a beat.

Then, softer—

“…You good?” You ask.

He turns your head toward you. “Yeah.” He thinks for a moment, a shake of his head as he lets himself admit– “Needed that. Needed to be… not alone, I think.”

You watch him for a second—something thoughtful in your expression.

“That something you’d wanna do again or is this a one and done situation?” You wonder earnestly, rolling onto your side as you look up at him. “

Robby doesn’t answer straight away. He looks at you—really looks, like he’s trying to figure out what the question actually means underneath what you asked.

Your hair’s a mess, Jack’s shirt slipping off one shoulder, eyes soft but steady on him. Hickies across your neck. Not fragile. Not asking for reassurance. Just… asking.

His jaw shifts slightly.

“…You always this direct after something like that?” he mutters.

You huff a quiet laugh. “I’m an ortho resident. I don’t have time for interpretive dance.”

That almost gets a smile out of him. He exhales, leaning back more fully, one hand rubbing absently at his chest like he’s trying to settle something under the surface.

“It’s not—” he starts, then stops. Tries again. “It’s not really a ‘one and done’ kind of question.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Why not?”

He glances at the door—where Jack disappeared—then back at you.

Because Jack’s not just some guy. Because this isn’t just sex. Because there’s history here that predates you by decades and still manages to feel unfinished. Because he already feels it sitting somewhere in his chest, heavy.

You seem to pick up where his head is at, a nod. “Do you have… like, real feelings for him? Or me?”

Robby scoffs a chuckle. “I don’t have time to think about that.”

“Just time to fuck us though. Well, not Jack, sure he’ll give me a complaint about that later.” You murmur.

Robby smiles a bit. “You two are… perfect for each other. I still don’t get how he found you.”

“I don’t know either, to be honest,” You admit. “But he cares about you. Like a lot. And so do I. And it’s not just because your dick is great, promise. You’re always welcome with us, whether its sex, comfort, food, all three. We aren’t picky people.”

“Picked up on that,” Robby nods, quieter now. “What are your plans? With him, I mean. He mentioned something about marriage.”

You smile a little—more to yourself than anything—your hand drifting, almost unconsciously, to your left ring finger.

“No idea,” you admit. “However long he wants me around, I guess.”

Robby huffs a soft breath, leaning back against the headboard. “Well, if age’s anything to go by, you’ve got a good couple of years.”

You smack his arm lightly. “You’re literally older than him.”

“I’m not marrying you,” Robby shoots back, deadpan.

“You’re an ass,” you sigh.

That earns you a small smile.

The door opens.

Jack steps back in, towel slung over his shoulder, a glass of water already in hand. He pauses just inside, taking in the room in one sweep—quick, practiced. You, curled on your side in his shirt. Robby at the edge of the bed, quieter than usual.

“My leg’s killing me,” Jack mutters, like it’s an afterthought, already moving back toward the bed.

You push yourself up onto your elbows, frowning. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he says, dismissive in that way he gets, like pain’s just background noise. He hands you the glass. “Drink.”

You take it, still watching him. “You say that about everything.”

“Because everything’s fine.”

Robby snorts under his breath. “Yeah. That’s a healthy coping mechanism.”

Jack shoots him a look as he sits down, stretching his leg out carefully. “Oh, I’m sorry—did you want to compare notes?”

Robby raises his brows. “Not particularly.”

Then Jack exhales, leaning back into the headboard. His hand finds your thigh automatically—absent, grounding, like he needs the contact without thinking about it.

His gaze flicks between the two of you, lingering on Robby for half a second longer than necessary.

“What’d I miss?” he asks.

You shift, settling back into him, your cheek brushing his shoulder. “Marriage.”

Jack huffs. “One night with my girl and you’re already trying to steal her? Alright. Good to know.”

Robby lets out a quiet chuckle.

“With you, idiot,” you correct.

Jack glances down at you. “Oh, him and I are getting married now?”

You roll your eyes and, just to be difficult, shift toward Robby instead—curling lightly into his side.

It lasts all of two seconds.

Jack’s arm hooks around you and pulls you straight back against him.

“Relax,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, holding you there against his chest.

Robby watches that, something unreadable flickering across his face before it settles again.

Robby stays the night.

Not in the same way—there’s a natural rhythm to it. He gives you and Jack space without being asked, drifting out into the living room, the quiet murmur of the TV carrying faintly down the hall. At one point you hear the balcony door slide open, then shut again.

He’s not intrusive. Never has been.

But he doesn’t leave, either.

if u havent read it, i'd recommend reading my (wo)man on willpower! this is a spin off of that, i suppose. focuses more on jack x reader, though. :D

a/n: girls i have another like 700 words i had that as a short scene of santos speculating why u didnt make it to her paris party (oh my god im so funny paris because threesome haha i know right, please dont click off this), and i might post that later, but my ao3 will get the full thing if u wanna just see what it was. the 1000 block limit on tumblr genuinely my opp fr.

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!

[incaim]

oh no, you are horny? you might as well do this quiz to see exactly what kind of horny you are because we all know that information is super important.

[bebx]

[verdantdrawzstories]

Reminder that fanfic authors write the stories you like

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[hargreeves-duncan]

HARGREEVES-DUNCAN’S RECS LIST V2 ⋆｡𖦹 °.

Ran out of recs to read? Not to worry! I’ve got 50 more wonderful fics on their way, written by just as wonderful authors, for you to enjoy below the cut 🍸✨

last updated: 10/07/2026

more recs here

⎯⎯ Criminal Minds

‘Secret’ Admirer - Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader - @ssahotchnerr - summary: reader gets flowers/candy/etc on valentine’s from a “secret admirer” because of an office-wide candygrams initiative and the team is busy at work trying to figure out who its from but she knows it’s from her boyfriend, Aaron

⎯⎯ The Pitt

Tender - Jack Abbot x fem!reader - @mcybank - summary: the worst-cared-for girl in the county keeps washing up in Jack’s er, and he can’t help but start paying attention - (SMUT - MDNI)

How I’d Love to Go to Paris Again (And Again) - Jack Abbot x fem!reader x Michael Robinavitch - @miserymorgue - 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 - (SMUT - MDNI)

⎯⎯ The Walking Dead

The Archer & His Bird Series - Daryl Dixon x fem!reader - @sugarroott

©. hargreeves-duncan. 2026.

[mcybank]

Tender — Jack Abbot

pairing — jack abbot x college!reader

summary — the worst-cared-for girl in the county keeps washing up in jack’s er, and he can’t help but start paying attention.

warnings — 19.2k. large age gap (jack’s fifty/reader’s in twenties), doctor/patient dynamic initially, power imbalance (attending/nursing student, age, life experience), yearning!jack, protective!jack, jealous!jack, and literally every single word in the book, mutual pining, slow burn, he falls first, hurt/comfort, reader shows signs of adhd but it isn’t explicit, alcohol use (recurrent drunkenness, mention of alcohol poisoning, ER, and repeated intoxication played somewhat lightly), loneliness/self isolation, low self-worth, it’s very difficult for her to accept care, lack of family support/implied estrangement, financial stress and overworking, she’s also spending an unrealistic amt of time hanging out in the ed but it’s fanfic so it’s ok, jokes about financial stress, injuries (sprains, split lip, bruising, gravel burns), medical setting, blood, referenced patient death (patient dies, off-page, Jack grieves), making out/heavy kissing, suggestiveeee content (thumb-in-mouth beat, grinding) but nothing explicit. 

notes — oops sorry this fic is so so self-indulgent 🫶 i literally loved writing them tho i was thinking about them for days on end. tried to take a swing at this based on this idea i had + thank you @ker0senebunny for inspriring the shoe scene!!!! inspired by this post + my er visits where i was literally the worst patient ever

Friday and Saturday after midnight, the board filled up with the same predictable words; alcohol poisonings, bar-fight lacerations, the kids who’d taken things they couldn’t name and showed up convinced they were dying when they were mostly just twenty and having a large thought. Jack triaged it on autopilot, and he’d stopped finding any of it interesting somewhere around year seven. 

Sure, sometimes there were some cases that got a mild laugh out of him or turned his head. There was a kid who’d superglued his halloween mask on his own face for a dare. The guy who’d lost a bet and swallowed something he wouldn’t name in front of his mother, who was present and furious. The occasional genuinely strange thing the human body did that still, after all these years, made Jack think huh, that’s interesting, the small grim curiosity that was about the only part of the job the years hadn’t fully sanded down. He kept those and told them to new nurses over shitty coffee at four a.m. because he supposed that was a better story than what he could say about the Middle East. 

The first time you came in, he’d handed you over to Shen. You were a sprained wrist and a BAC that explained the wrist, sixteen other things were louder, and Shen was free then. 

He’d clocked you for half a second on his way to a GI bleed in bay nine: girl on the gurney, one heel too high on, and one somewhere in the greater metropolitan area, some little pink lace-trimmed thing sliding off one shoulder, telling Shen with enormous seriousness that she was so sorry, she didn’t usually do this, she’d had a singular margarita. Only.

Singular. He’d categorized it under the thousand other single margaritas he’d sworn to in this department and forgotten you before he’d reached the bleed. 

The second time, he didn’t take you either, but he noticed the wrist. 

Same wrist. Different night — a Saturday, three weeks in, the sort of shift where the waiting room sounded like a kennel — and he caught it sideways while he reviewed another chart. It was the same left wrist, taped this time, the nails on that one hand done in some soft pinky color gone chipped at the tips as though the week itself outlasted the manicure, somebody walking you through the discharge paperwork you clearly were ignoring. Something thought for him instead of him thinking much for it, some pattern-recognition thing buried under twenty-some years of reading bodies fast, the same instinct that made him glance twice at something almost normal. A wrist that kept coming back, he supposed. A thread snagging on a nail, there and gone. 

The third time, it was Shen, breezing past the station with his Dunkin, saying over his shoulder, “Frequent flyer’s back.” 

He shrugged, not yet placing that you were the frequent flyer, and went to bed four.

And that — somewhere between the third time and a number he stopped keeping an honest count of — was where it stopped being a chart and became some sort of thing. A bit, he’d say. The nights the bars let out and the board lit up, he’d find himself reading the incoming names a half-second longer than triage required, and feeling something wrong in his chest when yours wasn’t in them. 

Pittsburgh was notoriously interesting, Jack learned through you, in that it apparently contained an infinite supply of ways a girl could get herself in trouble. He was convinced he could’ve drawn a map of the city by your injuries. There was the ankle, of course, a recurring grievance, always the shoes, never your fault. There was one time you’d burned your hand on a curling iron getting ready tipsy and come in more upset about the makeup you’d had to redo (because of crying it off) than the blister. The night you’d gone over in a parking lot because you refused to look at the ground while walking — looking at the ground, while drunk, you informed him, was how you trip — and the time you sliced your finger open trying to shotgun a White Claw with a key because someone had bet you couldn’t. You were really proud of the last one, you’d won the bet. 

You were never the same disaster twice, he had to give you that. A little too keen on busting yourself up here and there, sure, but at least it was the wrist once, then a knee that met a curb, then a memorable evening involving a fence you’d been certain you could clear. You came in apologizing — always apologizing, to him, to the nurses, once, memorably, to the wall — and you came in sweet, which was the part that got under him, because drunk people in this ER were a lot of things and sweet was rarely one of them. 

“Mmm,” you hummed the fourth or fifth time, the second your eyes found him through the gap in the curtain, going boneless with relief like Jack was the cavalry and not the man who was meant to flash light into your eyes for thirty seconds. “The pretty one.” 

Jack let out a huff. “Thanks, doll.” 

“Doll,” you repeated, the word going gummy in your mouth. “He calls me doll.”

“Eyes open. Follow the light.” 

“You call everyone that, Dr. Abbot?” you said, his name coming out in a cluster like you were losing thread of it, the Abbot dissolving into something closer to a hum. 

“Sure do,” he lied. “Track the light.”

You looked at his mouth, then his hands, then back up, a slow uncoordinated sweep because your eyes had stopped reporting to anything in particular, much less what they had to. Pupils blown wide and lazy. He thumbed your eyelid up a fraction to get the light where he needed it; your lashes were clumped and starry with whatever mascara had survived the night. 

He held the penlight steady and waited you out. He had nowhere to be. That was the thing about the dead hours after bars closed; the bleed had been signed up to the floor, the chest pain turned out to be a panic attack and a large energy drink, and there was just you, and the saline ticking into your arm one slow drop at a time. 

“What’d you get up to tonight?” he murmured, thumb finding the pulse at your wrist, counting without meaning to.

“S’fast ‘cause you’re here,” you said, sounding very pleased with yourself.

“Sure it is. Where’d you hurt yourself tonight?”

“... stairs,” you said after a moment, like your brain had to run a few laps to get to the word. 

“Oh, yeah?” He hummed. You lifted your free hand a little off the mattress, lost track of it, and dropped it back down. “How many?” 

“Mm. Four?” You squinted at the ceiling. “Maybe three. I dunno. Not the Great Wall or somethin’. Promise.” 

“I believe you.” He nodded, then turned your forearm to the light, finding the scrape you’d come in with. It was gravel-burn, raw, the heel of your hand and a stripe up your wrist. Nothing that needed more than cleaning. You watched him do it with your head tipped against the pillow, gone quiet so the talking had run out for a second, which never lasted.

“Should I get a better first aid kit?” you asked, then clenched your jaw for a second like you felt something was wrong with it. “S’I don’t have to bother you all the time?” 

“Might be a good idea to invest,” he said. He pulled the swab through the gravel-burn slowly, and you hissed and tried to pull back the hand on reflex. “Easy.” He kept it, his grip light yet unmoving around your fingers. “Almost done. Don’t fight me.”

You hummed, like you wanted a different answer.

Jack wet his lips, shaking his head slightly. He worked the grit out of the scrape, a fleck of it catching raw skin, and he tilted your arm to the light, getting it on the second pass, and wiped it on the gauze. Your hands twitched in his, and he pressed your fingers flat to the mattress with his thumb, and they stayed.

“You’d have to do it yourself, though,” he said. “Bathroom sink at three in the morning with one hand.” He reached for fresh gauze. “You’d make a mess of it.”

You frowned at the ceiling, nodding. “Sounds a little bad.”

“It’s a lot bad.” He laid the gauze over the scrape, thumbed the tape down at the edge of your wrist slowly, smoothing it flat where it wanted to lift. His knuckle dragged once over the thin skin there, and he felt your pulse jump under it. “You’d scar, probably.” His thumb passed the chipped polish, the chunky gold ring you’d kept on, even for this. “You’ve got nice hands. Shame to wreck ‘em over the sink.”

It took you a second. “You think so?”

“Don’t wreck ‘em.” 

“You like when I come in,” you said, delighted. 

“What I’d like,” he said, flat, lifting his eyes to yours, “is you off the stairs and down to the one drink.” His thumb settled over the back of your hand again. “But if you’re set on flinging yourself down, then you come here. Deal?”

Your fingers had curled around two of his somewhere in there loosely, without you noticing. He felt them settle, and he held very still so as to not spook you. He chose to not acknowledge it or look at it.

“Deal,” you mumbled, somewhere far off, probably forgetting the front half of the terms. 

He let it go at that, taping down the last edge and turning over your wrist once more to be sure of it. Then he set your hand back on the mattress, yours still loosely hooked through his, going nowhere.

“Anyone out there to get you home?” he asked. 

“Dunno.” Your nose scrunched. “Was gonna Uber.”

He sighed through his nose. “Where’s that girl — the one you came in with last time? Why don’t you call her?” 

“That’s annoying, Dr. Abbot,” you said, almost in a whine. 

“Yeah?” He kept looking at the wall behind you. “What’s annoying about a ride home?” 

“Calling people. Making it a thing.” Your free hand flopped vaguely. “Then they gotta come get you, and they’re all — have to be nice about it, but you can tell.” Your nose scrunched. “It’s a whole production.”

He pressed his thumb flat back over your hand where your fingers were still caught in his. 

“Oh? Nothing annoying about it, sweetheart. You call, she comes. Simple as that.” He turned to face you. “But if you insist on it, I’m not signing you off until you’re good enough to go home alone. So you call your girl, or you sit right here and keep my department company till you’ve cleared enough that I’ll sign off on it.” 

Your eyes narrowed as you looked at him as though he’d spoken a different language. “Second one?”

“Obviously you pick that one,” he said. 

He pulled the stool over and sat. For a few minutes, he had nowhere to be, and now, apparently, neither did you.

It wasn’t that you simply didn’t let people help you, either. Jack had never seen anyone so committed to being simply fine. Jack had met the stoic kind before; construction guys who walked in with rebar through a forearm acting like it was a small inconvenience; old ladies who’d been having a heart attack since last Tuesday and didn’t want to be a bother. But Jack had always believed those people to be suppressing, and you were just convinced, somewhere down in the foundation, that needing anything was an imposition. 

That was also why the shoes confused him so much. 

“This is the same damn ankle,” Jack said, turning your foot in his hands, watching the swelling outside of it. 

“You don’t have to remind me. Most men buy me a drink before they get this familiar with my ankles,” you said, then groaned as you looked at his eyes going over the swelling. 

“No drink.” He pressed along the bone. “Not my fault you keep handing your ankle to me.” 

You tipped your head back against the pillow, groaning again. “Dr. Abbot, they look so bad. I feel like I’m pregnant.” 

“I can do a quick blood draw and we can rule it out.” His palm flattened on the mattress beside your feet, leaning over to meet your eyes again. “But I think it’s those heels of yours, doll.” 

Your eyes snapped to him. “Don’t be a dick, Dr. Abbot.”

He tilted his head, then pointed at the laminated paper stuck to the wall. “Aggressive behavior of any kind toward healthcare workers is a felony.” 

“Then arrest me, doctor. I’ll die on this hill — and they’re not heels.” Your lips pursed, and the corner of your mouth kicked up. “Cuffs may be a little forward for a date, but I won’t stop you.” 

“Aren’t you just so sweet,” he muttered. “What are they, then?”

“Bottega Lido Mules.”

The words meant absolutely nothing to him — could’ve been a pasta dish, a town in Italy, a wine — but they clearly did to you, so he remembered them. 

“That’s nice, doll. They’ll be the reason I see you again.” 

“Maybe, ‘cause I’ll never stop wearing them.” 

You said the words your whole face, hands coming off the mattress to make the point with a drunk theatrical conviction as you argued something that genuinely mattered to you. Jack thought, not for the first time since he’d met you, that you’d have been magnetic stone-sober at a dinner party, the kind of girl that made a table lean in. It was just that he only ever got the 3am version.

At least you had a hill you’d die on and didn’t apologize for, Jack supposed. 

“You married, Doctor?” you asked as he started icing your ankle. 

“No,” he said, holding your eyes for a second. “Why — you got a boyfriend I should know about, then?” 

He almost wished you did have one. He wished that there were somebody whose name you’d have said just now who’d be in the waiting room with his jaw tight because you’d gone and hurt yourself again. Somebody who’d take care of the ankle when you walked out of here in crutches, who took the keys when you had too many. He wished there was a person in the world whose job you were. 

And you weren’t his first patient who he’d understood to not have someone taking care of them. He knew that if he carried them all, he’d drown inside a month if he tried to be the person nobody else had been. He’d never once had it turn into a wish, standing here with an ice pack in his hand going slack in his hand because he was too busy resenting someone who didn’t exist for not being in the waiting room. 

He wondered when down the line you’d stopped letting the people in your life around you be the ones you could call, became a girl who said sorry for bleeding and had nobody, nobody, and looked at him like he was the warmest place she’d been in all week.

You laughed. “If I had a boyfriend, would I be laying it on so thick?” 

He let out a breath through his nose, despite himself. “Stop wearing the heels, doll. Not nice to not have a foot.”

The next time you came in, it was a Thursday. With some pileup of bad luck, you came in somewhere past one with a split lip and a story about a dance floor he only half got the shape of. Jack hadn’t even been assigned to you yet, he’d just seen your name on the board, and reassigned himself quietly enough that dared anyone on shift to comment. Nobody did. 

“Lip’s not bad,” he said, tilting your chin up under the light, thumb at your jaw. The split was already going fat and shining at the center of your lower lip, and he found his eyes stayed on your mouth a second past the part that was his job, on the soft unhurt swell of it under the hurt. He moved his thumb. “Doesn’t need anything. You bit it when you fell down. That’s all.”

“S’throbbing, Doctor,” you mumbled, the word coming around muffled around the split. 

“It’ll throb. You’ve got a swollen lip.” He let go of your jaw and reached for the penlight. “Eyes on me.” 

“I was so cute before this,” you said through a groan. 

The huff that came out of him was almost a laugh, dragged out against his own will, and he shared a fleeting look with Bennet — a fairly new nurse — who had tilted his head briefly and was too afraid to meet your eyes.

“Alright. Still the prettiest girl I’ve treated tonight,” Jack said when your brows had furrowed together.

“You treat other girls?” 

“It’s a hospital,” he said. “Few hundred a week.”

Your face looked wounded. “Few hundred.”

He leaned in slightly, faking a whisper. “You’re my top three.”

You were further gone than usual tonight. He’d noticed it the second he came around the curtain, the way your head was having a hard time holding itself up, the loose unmoored swim of your eyes that took longer than it should to find his finger. A piece of hair had come loose and stuck to the gloss at the corner of your mouth and you hadn’t the coordination to deal with it, and he had the unprofessional impulse to, and didn’t. 

Bennet kept working the blood pressure cuff up your arm, half an eye on you, half on his own work. 

“Track the light,” Jack murmured. “Slowly.”

“Too bright.”

“Tough.” The corner of his mouth moved up slightly. “You can bat your lashes at me when we’re done. Right now, I need ‘em open.” 

You batted them anyway, slowly and theatrically, just to be a problem about it. They were long, and the theater of it was so ridiculous, and Jack had to bite down the inside of his cheek to keep his face flat to wait you out, until you gave up and tracked the finger. Your pupils were reactive, equal, and lagging half-a-beat behind. He clicked the light off. 

“Too bright,” you said again. 

“It’s off,” he drawled, chuckling. 

Bennett thread a line into the back of your free hand, and you watched him sink it with a drowsy focus. 

“Why’s it go in the back of the hand?” you mumbled. “More nerves there. Hurts more. Why not the — inside. By the elbow.” You tilted your head slightly to let your eyes wander to the crook of your arm. “Bigger vein. The antec—antecubital,” you said carefully, sounding out each syllable, afraid of messing it up. You wet your lips and turned to face him, then Bennet. “Why’s nobody use the good one?” 

Jack pursed his lips and looked at you for a moment. 

“Saves the good one,” he said, catching up, eyes going back to your chart. “AC vein blows easily when somebody’s moving around, and you —” He tipped his head at you, raising a brow, the squirming drunk of you. “ — Are gonna move around. Back of the hand’ll hold. I’d rather you be sore than re-stuck twice ‘cause you couldn’t sit pretty for thirty seconds.” He paused as he saw your eyes glaze over. He sighed. “Ask me how I know that about you.” 

You’d gone busy, lips moving slightly like you were repeating it back to yourself so it’d stick, and Jack felt something in his chest shift a degree as he watched you do it. 

He sighed, dragging a palm over the lower half of his face. “Where’d you learn that, then?” 

“School,” you said to the ceiling, a small hint of pride taking over your voice. “M’gonna become a nurse. Gonna be good at it.”

Bennet snorted, finishing the tape. “Gonna be patching up drunk girls just like you then, huh,” he said. “Full circle.”

Jack watched the pride go out of your face slowly, like a house losing its power. Your chin dropped and your eyes slid from Bennet to the curtain as your hand fisted in your lap. 

“Yeah,” you said, almost curiously. “Guess so.” 

Jack’s jaw clenched involuntarily. It wasn’t the guy’s fault, not really. It was a nothing joke, the sort the whole department tossed off a hundred times a shift, the gallows shorthand that kept you sane at two in the morning. Jack had made worse about patients who’d never know, about drunks who wouldn’t remember, about exactly this, exactly girls like you. He’d just never had one of them go quiet before, watched the bright thing fold itself up and get tucked away. 

“Bennet, you done?” 

“Yeah, line’s good — ”

“Then go take vitals on six. I’ve got her.”

Bennet went, and it was just the two of you again. 

Jack pulled the stool over with his foot and sat — lower than he had to, level with you, taking himself out of the column of people standing over you tonight and telling you what you were — and waited until your eyes came up off the curtain and found him.

“There she is,” he said when your eyes found him. He turned your taped hand over under the light like there was still something to do with it. There wasn’t, he just wanted his hands on something of yours while he undid what the room had done. “Look at me. Nothing good on the curtain.” 

“How’s school treating you then, doll?” he asked, aiming for offhand and not steering you off whatever Bennet had knocked loose.

“Hard,” you said, but a small smile had crawled up your lips. “But I like it.” Your shoulders came up loosely.

“Yeah?” He kept his thumb moving over the back of your hand slowly, like he could press the bright thing back up to the surface where it belonged. “I think you’ll be good at it.” 

It was such a strange feeling, Jack distantly noticed, to feel this utter conviction. He was rarely sure of anything good anymore. Sure of plenty else; sure within ten seconds of a bad rhythm which way the night was going to break, sure of which of the kids wheeled in at 2 am he’d see again and which he wouldn’t, a grim accumulated certainty that had nothing in it he’d ever wanted to be right about.

The job had made him an expert on the downslope of things. He could read the exact moment a body wanted to quit better than he could read most of what people said to his face. And here you were, and he was so sure of the other direction, and he felt the same weight of it behind his sternum, except it had swung and pointed at something good for once. You were going to be excellent at this. 

It bothered him a little, how much he wanted to be there to see it, whoever you were going to be once you stopped washing up on his floor on the worst nights of your week. He’d known you, what, a handful of shifts as a frequent flyer, a bit, a name his eyes unconsciously caught on. He had no business feeling certain of anything about you, and he was, and he’d let himself feel it. 

Your eyes found him properly again. “Liar.”

He huffed out a short laugh. “Tell you what. You finish that program, you get through all that mess where they try to drown you.” His thumb smoothed over the tape. “Then you come find me here and we’ll see if we can get you here with me on nights. Clearly you’re at your finest then.” 

It was maybe something silly to say, and Gloria may have his head for it. He had no actual standing to say anything like it, even though you’d never remember it. He knew better; hope was a controlled substance in his field and he was stingy with it on purpose, because he’d seen the withdrawal.

But God, he’d love to see the part of you he could only catch glimpses of through the wreck like a light under the door. He’d love to be the one who taught you which arrogance to keep and which to let the job take away. He’d love, plainly and without anywhere to put it, to watch you become who you’d just told him you were going to be. 

It was a lot of loving for a girl who’d been in his department and wouldn’t recall his face or a word of this by tomorrow morning. He was getting sentimental, or old, or both; the years stacked up behind his eyes until he started mistaking everything for a second chance at something. 

Your lips moved. “So I can patch girls up like myself?” 

“Nah.” He kept looking at your hand. “You can patch up old bastards like me, too.” Then, he pointed his index finger of his free hand at you, mock-stern. “Gotta make sure you’re not at point three BAC, though. Will have to do that work to get you working with me.”

“Mm.” Your eyes flickered up to the ceiling, weighing it with the enormous gravity of the very drunk as though he’d posed a very real proposition to you. “Okay. For you, I’d stop.”

“For me?” he repeated, mostly to buy himself a second.

“Mm-hm.” You turned your face to him and said it with such ease, no glance away to leave yourself an exit. “You’re worth not drinkin’ over.”

Your words went in clean, the way the best and worst things do, under the ribs where he kept nothing armored because nobody ever aimed there. Jack felt the back of his neck go warm and was abruptly, intensely grateful for the light that wouldn’t display it. 

Jack huffed, having to look away at the floor then. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all year, and you’re not gonna remember it. Hell of a thing.” 

When he made himself look back up, you’d tipped your face into the pillow, watching him from the side with your eyes gone soft and heavy, the smile arriving unguarded across your mouth. The split tugged one corner of it, that small wince folded right into the sweetness, and you seemed to not feel it. 

He had the sudden, idiotic wish to have met you on a night you’d remember. To have perhaps caught you when you fell at the bar, to have been the stranger whose arm happened to be there, not the doctor it eventually routed you to. Perhaps he could’ve been a man in your night instead of a stop in it.

He shook his head. “You’re trouble, you know that, right? Saying all these nice things. What’s a man supposed to do with that?” 

He’d have liked to have been remembered, was the bottom of it. By you specifically. He’d spent decades being the man people were grateful to and glad to forget.

“What’s your name, Doctor Abbot?” you asked, drowsy.

He looked down at his badge, then back up at you. “Take a wild guess?” Then, he added, “You never looked at my badge?” 

“Sorry. Didn’t read.” 

“Don’t apologize to me. It’s Jack.”

Jack was doing his usual rounds this Friday, on a rush from a chest pain in two that turned out to be a panic attack and a kid in five who’d put a kitchen knife through the meat of his own palm trying to halve a frozen bagel when Ellis caught him by the elbow at the board.

“Heads up, Abbot,” she said, grinning. She nodded toward triage, toward the doors. “Bed three. Your, uh—” The grin tipped over, delighted with itself. “Girlfriend’s got a boyfriend.” 

It was a running thing now. Somewhere around the fourth or fifth time you’d washed up on his shift the staff had started on it — your frequent flyer, your stray, your girl’s back — and Jack had stopped bothering to deny it because that’d only feed it, and he’d learned not denying it had a way of starving the joke faster. 

He looked, and was immediately able to notice what you weren’t doing more than what you were; you weren’t grinning at the ceiling, weren’t doing that boneless sweet-relief thing. You were sitting up too straight on the bed, hands folded in your lap, and there was a guy fitted to the chair beside you with one arm slung along the back of yours and a hand resting on your knee like he’d put it there to mark the spot. He was saying something low to the side of your face, and you were nodding at it, and not looking at anybody.

Jack felt a muscle tick in his jaw, immediately not feeling anything nice about the situation. “I got it — you mind taking six for me? I’ll come in a couple minutes.” 

By the time he’d made it to you, he’d settled his face into something unbothered. You could read it, he’d realized at some point during your frequent visits, and that only meant he had to be on his better behavior around you. 

“Evening.” He pulled the curtain half-round behind him, glanced at the chart clipped to the foot of the bed, then at you. “What’d we do tonight?”

“She caught an elbow,” the guy answered. “Some asshole on the dance floor. It’s nothing — she’s fine. She’s just a lightweight, aren’t you — ” A little squeeze on your knee. “ — didn’t even really need to come in, but y’know. Better safe.” 

You weren’t a lightweight, he immediately wanted to correct. He’d seen you put away enough over the months to know your tolerance better than this guy apparently did; he knew the difference between the nights you were genuinely wrecked and the nights you came in clearer than you let on, and looking at you, tonight, you weren’t anywhere near the state implied. 

“You,” he said, tipping his chin in your direction. “Not him. Where’d it get you?” 

You lifted your hand up from your lap and touched your cheekbone, movement slow, and Jack stepped in and tipped your head up toward the light with two fingers under your chin, thumb resting just shy of the scrape. The skin had gone dark along the bone, tender, an elbow’s worth of it. Nothing that needed more than an ice and a night, but you were still holding still under his hand and not meeting his eyes, and that he didn’t like at all. 

“It’s okay,” you said. “Really. S’not even — ”

“Let me be the judge of that, sweetheart. Gettin’ paid for this.” His eyes flicked down to yours and caught, holding it there a second with a small question in the rise of a brow, before he went back to the bone, thumb tracing the edge of the bruise so light you barely felt it. A small frown pulled at the corners of his mouth at the sight. “Follow my finger. Eyes only.” 

You followed, pupils fine and equal. No concussion in it. 

“She’s fine, I told you,” the guy said from the chair, a little laugh under it like he was inviting Jack in on something. “Hardly. She bounces back.”

Jack clicked the penlight off and turned to the side. “Gonna need the room.”

“I’ll stay.” The hand went back to your knee. “I’m all good here.”

“Can’t clear a head strike with people in the room. You get it.” Jack tilted his head to the side, raising a shoulder. “Liability. Coffee machine’s down the hall. Give me two minutes with my patient.”

The easy smile on the guy’s lips went thin around the edges, looking for a thing to push against and not finding it. He stood up slow, making a show of it, squeezing your knee and letting you know he’ll be back in a minute, babe, a hand trailing your shoulder on the way past, all of it aimed less at you and more at Jack holding the curtain. Jack pressed his lips in a thin line as he met the guy’s eyes. 

The second the curtain closed behind him, a breath left you, tiny and involuntary, and your shoulders came down in the empty room. 

“Sorry, Dr. Abbot,” you murmured. “I keep being a mess at this place.” You took in a short, almost shaky breath. “Sorry.” 

“None of that,” he almost grumbled, penning your chart. “Your folks down here, sweetheart?” 

“No,” you said to your lap, picking the edge of the blanket. “Back home. A few states over.” You let out a laugh. “Just me out here. S’nice.” 

Jack forced a small smile, having to look at the ceiling while you looked down at your lap, shaking his head, more of an action for himself than for you. He pulled the stool over with his foot and sat, getting level with you. 

“What’s goin’ on with you, huh?” he asked quietly, making sure there was nothing sharp in his tone at all. “Honest. I like seeing you but not like this bruised up with a guy who talks for you.” His thumb found your wrist. “So talk to me. What’s going on?” 

“He’s fine,” you said. “Just likes being around.”

Jack tilted his head, dipping his head to meet your eyes that were still facing down. “Not the important part of the question, and you know it.” 

You sighed. “Sorry, Jack.”

“Quit it. The only thing I want from you tonight is some honesty, alright?” 

A corner of your lip kicked up, even though the dimness in your eyes held. “Your eyes look really pretty tonight.” 

“Heard that one before,” he drawled. “Had ‘em fifty years. Try a new one.” 

“Your neck’s going red,” you mumbled, fingers reaching up to press flat to the warm of his skin, right there below the jaw, like you just had to feel whether it was true.

Jack stilled. Your fingers were cold on his neck. He distantly registered his pulse was probably going under your fingertips, and you’d feel it if you held there a second longer. And then you caught yourself, hand snapping back to the blanket.

“Sorry. Sorry — I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have done that — ” you said, the words coming out in a taut string. 

“Easy,” he said, voice coming out rough. He swallowed. “Got me all flustered and now you’re gettin’ all shy?” 

You huffed a small laugh, your hand still fisted in the blanket where you’d snatched it back. “I’m not allowed to do that. I don’t think.” 

“Had no idea you knew how to behave,” he leaned a little back from the stool, crossing his arms. “Should I be worried about that guy out there?”

“Jealous, Doctor?” 

He rolled his eyes slightly, not responding. 

You sighed when you realized he wasn’t taking the bait. “He’s fine. He just likes being around.” 

He stood off the stool and reached for the discharge clipboard at the foot of the bed.

“Whatcha doing there?”

“My job.” He clicked the pen. “Clearing you. You’ve got no concussion. You’re not dying tonight.” He scrawled on the paper. “And I’m writing you a script for the bruise and a code for an Uber — ”

“No, no,” you said immediately. “Please don’t do that.” 

He raised his hand with the pen, palm open. “You never let me Uber you back when you’re alone. At least have this.” Your face scrunched up, and he could practically feel the guilt building in you. “Don’t need to use it now. Or ever. You can keep it for whenever.” He set the slip on your lap before you could push it back at him, the matter completely closed on his end. “Goes in your phone case. You can forget it exists until you need it.”

“You can’t keep handing me stuff — ”

“Department’s got a whole stack. You’re not special.” He capped the pen, though the corner of his mouth made it slightly visible that his words were false. “Don’t flatter yourself, doll.”

You looked down at the slip, your thumb worrying the edges of it. “I don’t like taking things.” 

“I noticed. A few hundred times now.” He tucked the pen back in his scrub pocket, and his voice came down a notch. “If it really makes you feel so bad, though, then maybe we can start taking care of ourselves so you don’t have to keep ending up here?”

Jack was in the middle of hand-off, Robby doing his thing before Robby left and did whatever the hell he did. They were at the board, Robby running down the floor. It was six-fifteen in the ugly hour, the in-between where the day shift was dragging itself toward the door and the night hadn’t started biting yet, the light through the ambulance doors gone gold and slanted and almost decent for once.

And then the doors slid, and you came through them. Jack’s attention peeled to you the second your shape entered the room, except this was wrong, he distantly registered. It was daylight and six in the evening and you were on your own two feet, upright and, assumedly, sober and walking in through the front like a person as opposed to a patient. You were wearing a jacket that swallowed you, and he assumed underneath it was shorts of some sort. He could see a stripe of navy cotton peeking from under the collar of your jacket as you adjusted a tote bag on your shoulder. 

You looked, frankly, like a completely different species from the one he scraped off bed four on weekends. The jacket was too big — his first thought was that it was a man’s, and his second thought, which he didn’t care for, was about whose — sleeves shoved up to your forearms, a stripe of soft navy cotton on the collar, and below it bare legs and shorts and sneakers that had likely never seen the inside of a club. Your hair was up and a little damp at the temple and your face was scrubbed clean.

You looked like somebody’s whole good day, he thought. You looked around around the waiting room with slightly widened eyes, a lost expression coating your features like you’d built up a lot of nerve to walk in here and had no idea what to do with it. 

“ — and the tox screen is still pending, so don’t let them,” Robby was saying. 

“Mhm,” Jack said, attention already halved. 

And Bennet, breezing past the triage desk with cheerful obliviousness, caught your figure and said, out loud, “Don’t tell me you’ve started day drinking. It’s barely past six, you gotta pace yourself — ” He let out a small laugh at his own joke, and kept walking, and didn’t see the way it landed. 

Your body stiffened, and you looked like a deer in headlights. Your mouth opened, some sort of flustered apology forming, he was sure. 

Jack let out a short groan, shaking his head. He set the tablet on the counter, already moving to cross the floor toward you. “Finish the hand-off with Shen. I gotta go deal with something.” 

Robby said something at his back — deal with what? — but Jack was already gone, crossing the floor slowly but somehow still eating the distance fast, and he watched you spot him coming and watched the relief crash over your face. Except you were sober now, in the daylight, and your whole face was going soft and grateful and just slightly wrecked at the sight of him.

He stopped a couple feet short of you, closer than a doctor, further than he stood to you at night. He wasn’t sure what to do with his hands — there was no chart to hold (he should’ve brought the tablet) or wrist to take or a penlight to shine — so he clasped them behind his back, and tilted his head to get a better look at you. 

“Hi,” you breathed.

“Hey,” he said, eyes doing a quick once-over to make sure you really didn’t have any new injuries.

You shifted the tote under his gaze and clutched whatever was in the bag a little tighter.

“Jack —” you started, stopped, like the name had come out wrong. “ — Dr. Abbot.” You winced, pinching your eyes shut for a second. “Jack?” you tried to say again, smaller, your eyes flicking up to check his face to check if you’d overstepped. “Sorry, I don’t know which — ”

“Jack’s great.” His mouth tugged up, despite himself. “You’ve called me a lot worse. Jack’s a step-up.” 

You let out a startled little laugh, your mouth coming over your mouth like you could catch it, as your body eased a degree. 

“I’m sorry — I don’t — God, this is so embarrassing. I’m sorry.” 

“You know how many times you’ve apologized to me? Quit it.” He rubbed a finger over his lips. “What’s got you here today, then?”

“Um, I came to see you.” He raised a brow, and you let out a short breath, then continued, “I might not remember a lot of it, but I remember you took really good care of me. And my friends who came in with me sometimes said you took really good care of me.” The words came out softer now, flowing, more earnest. “Even though I was a mess. Especially when. So I just wanted to —” You shrugged, smiling slightly. “ — come say thanks.”

Jack felt the complete warmth of you land somewhere he kept no armor. “It’s the job,” he said quickly, before he could stop himself. “You didn’t have to come down here for that. That’s — it’s what we do. Anybody on shift would’ve done the same.” 

Your expression faltered for a moment, and your eyes dropped to the tote at your side as your shoulders came in. You shook your head, a small motion, then smiled again. 

“Right. No — yeah, of course.” You chuckled. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make it a — I know it’s your job.” You shifted the bag, then shifted your weight from one foot to another. “Still, though. You did, so I wanted to.” 

Jack already wanted to take his words back, but he couldn’t, so he just shook his head. “Hey, you’re my problem, though. So thank you. For the thanks. We’re even.” 

Your shoulders eased and you nodded. “Well, I also have something for you.” You hauled a container out of your tote and held it out to him with both hands before you could chicken out. “It definitely doesn’t make up for all of the times you helped me.” You looked down at the container. “And I don’t know if you’re lactose intolerant, or have a peanut allergy or anything. I’m sorry if you do — I can — ”

“I’ve got a cast-iron everything. The cookies won’t kill me.” When you pushed the container further to him, he took it off your hands, eyes quickly scanning the round chocolate chip cookies, forcing a smile down. He swallowed whatever had lodged in his throat. 

“These are homemade?” He weighed the container in both hands, absurdly. You nodded. He swallowed whatever on earth had lodged in his throat at that.“Didn’t have to do all that for me.” 

“I wanted to,” you said quickly. “I wasn’t sure how the food here is, so thought it might be a nice change.” 

“Worse than you’re imagining,” he said, then tipped his head to the side as the memory crawled into his brain, uncalled for. “You’ve actually thrown a sandwich across the room.” 

Your palm came up to your mouth, and you let out a muffled, “I’m so sorry.” 

Jack snorted, shaking his head. Then, after a moment, he cleared his throat before it could get away from him. He looked back toward the board, then at you, knowing time was slipping and he’d have to go back to work and you’d have to go somewhere else, most likely. 

“You got finals or anything coming up soon?” he asked. 

Your lips curved down, and you nodded. “Yeah, in a couple weeks.” 

“Am I gonna be seeing you getting wheeled in wasted?” 

“I want to say no,” you said, smiling a little crooked. “I’m working on it. But I’ve said that before and ended up here. So.” You shrugged, lips jutting out like you were also unimpressed with yourself. “Ask me again in a couple weeks, I guess. I’d like it if you didn’t, though.” 

“Then quit doing the hard nights alone,” he said, leaning in just slightly. “You keep yourself off the stairs, and you can come bother us instead here with a textbook.” He raised a brow as he held your eyes. “We’ve got a family room that’s almost always empty at night.” 

“I couldn’t — ”

“Won’t be a bother. Trust me. You’d be silly not to use people’s help when they’ve clawed through the same exams to get the badge. You get stuck, somebody’ll know it cold.” He shrugged. “Half of ‘em are bored out of their minds some nights. You’d be doing us a favor.” 

You let out a breath, brows pinching together. “That’s — yeah.” You let out a short laugh, looking away for a second. “I’d like that. A lot. Thank you, really. As long as you don’t mind.”

“This is a teaching hospital, doll. I don’t mind, so long as you don’t mind the company. Might be nice for me, too.”

You smiled and for a moment, neither of you moved to end it. Then you shifted the tote back up your shoulder, and Jack felt the pull to keep you here one more second before he could stop himself. 

“Go home,” he said gruffly. “And I’ll be looking for you. So actually turn up, don’t make me look for nothing.” 

The whole sun of you came up at that, stunned, like you hadn’t expected to be looked for by anyone. Jack felt the ground go quietly out from under him, the vertigo of having reached for a person’s happiness on purpose and connected, of being, for once, the cause of a face doing that. He’d gotten so used to delivering news that took the light out that he’d forgotten it ran the other way, too.

“I’ll turn up. I promise.” 

He nodded, clearing his throat and turning for the board, bidding you a throaty goodbye. 

“She’s the girl that everyone on night talks about?” Robby asked immediately, falling into step beside him. 

Jack looked at him sideways, shaking his head. “You got something to say, too?”

“No,” Robby said, rubbing his palm at his chin like he was holding something in. “You like her or something?”

Jack halted for a second, pointing his index at Robby as he lowered his chin. “You shut up. She’s gonna be a nurse.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Robby laughed. “Looks like she’s gonna be your nurse, old man. You’ll need it soon enough.”

Thank god you did turn up. Jack had the sense that maybe he’d scared you off altogether by his offer, and the line he’d toed had two very alternate spectrums: you’d find a new hospital altogether to go to in the metropolitan area after your falls or poisonings, or you’d be here a lot more often, which he still wasn’t sure would’ve been often enough. 

The first time you came in, it was well past midnight and Jack had unfortunately not been able to catch you off the bat because he was in an emergency surgery. He’d walked out of it with his blood-stained surgical gown still on to be met with the sight of you by the nurse’s station, writing something down on the back of a discharge form for Lena, with another Tupperware laying on the table. He made the guess that you’d brought the whole floor something and were three minutes from having Lena eating out of your hand. 

You’d found a corner of his department and made yourself a small soft home in it inside of ten minutes, and you were leaning in, and Jack stood there for a moment with the bad night still ringing in his ears and felt something unclench in his chest by a fraction.

“ — no, but you gotta,” you were saying to Lena in earnest as Jack approached closer. “If you put the brown sugar in while the butter’s still hot, it’s just — it’s a different cookie.”

“You taking the recipe, Lena?” Jack asked then, fully submerging into the knot you’d made with his charge nurse. 

You turned to face him, a smile forming on your lips almost immediately, and then your eyes dropped over him, to the gown, the rust-brown stain dried dark across the front of it, the set of his shoulders. 

“I am,” Lena replied. “Gonna make these for the kids.” She punctuated her sentence by holding up one of the cookies. 

“Gonna make some for us, too, then?” Jack asked, raising a brow, and settled his elbows over the table. He turned his neck to face you properly, putting on his best smile.

Lena laughed shortly. “I don’t like you enough.” She pushed off the counter with some forms in hand. “Her, maybe. You can have whatever she leaves behind.” She shot you a look that was almost warm before she went and disappeared down the hall. 

“Could be you someday,” Jack said, tilting his head in the direction of Lena’s chair. 

You shook your head, then pushed the container in his hands. “I’ve got to graduate first. And pass pharm, which is currently — ” You patted your tote bag, textbooks heavy. “ — trying to kill me.”

Jack nodded toward the family room, placing the container on the table for a second beside him. “C’mon, then, doll. Let’s see what the pharm’s doing to you.”

“You don’t have to — ” Your eyes flicked down the gown again. “You just came out of surgery. You don’t have to help me study.”

“Actin’ like I’m the one who got the surgery,” Jack muttered, chuckling slightly. He was already peeling off the gown one-handed, balling it up to toss. He started walking, and you followed behind him. “C’mon. It’s pretty empty right now.” 

It’d been pleasant that night and the few after to have five to ten minute increments of sitting with you helping you study in between doing his actual job. He’d duck in between things — a lull after discharge, the dread stretch while he waited for a CT scan, the ten minutes a trauma took to roll in once the call came — and you’d be there in the family room with your stack of cards on the couch. He’d drop on the chair across you or the couch beside you and pick up wherever you’d left off like he hadn’t left at all. Then his pager would buzz and he’d be gone, and you’d still be there an hour later when he came back, and he’d sit back down, and both of you’d pretend this was a completely normal way to study.

It’d annoyed him the first night how badly the flashcards were failing you; he’d seen you stare at the words and your eyes would glaze and slide right off it like they were greased. You’d memorized or retained nothing. And then he’d said, half to himself, a story for the why to click, and he’d watched it lock in you. 

So he’d stopped quizzing you primarily off the cards and started telling you stories instead and you’d talk it back to him, reasoning out loud, getting there in the saying of it the way you never got there on the page. 

The nights stacked up. The first week, you’d sat at a table across from him. By the second, you’d migrated to the chair beside him. Your coffee, the one by the far end of the table, was right by his elbow. Lena started leaving a second cup at the station when she saw you come in, his and yours, and never commented.

You’d stopped apologizing for taking up his time somewhere in there. He noticed when you’d started saving him the worst looking cookie on purpose because he’d once told you he liked the ugly ones. He’d noticed when you learned the rhythm of his pages; you’d go quiet and just hand him the next card when his eyes drifted to the board through the window of the door, would have it ready when he came back, like you’d kept his place for him while he was off keeping someone alive. 

He noticed that he more than looked forward to it. Somewhere in the dead middle of a bad shift, his feet would take him toward the family room before his brain could catch up on the why of it all. An empty table on a night you didn’t come in sat wrong with him, a tiny disappointment he didn’t have anything in him to figure out why.

Sometimes, like now, you’d get distracted. Jack had learned. He’d walked into the family room to see you and Ellis folded into opposite ends of the couch, the flashcards abandoned in a fanned mess on the cushion between you, both of you mid-argument and enjoying yourselves too much.

“Poaching my study hall, Ellis?” he said, finally moving in. 

Ellis pointed one stern finger in your direction as she pulled herself off the couch. “Do the crossword, not the sudoku.” 

“She’s gonna make you a worse student,” Jack said to Ellis’s back.

“She’s making me a worse doctor,” Ellis said cheerfully, already at the door. “I’ve been here twenty minutes. I have patients.” She turned to you one final time. “Crossword. You’ll thank me later.” 

She gave Jack a knowing look on her way out, one he didn’t want to read too much into, and she was gone, the door swinging shut behind her in one slow plunge. 

You watched the door settle, and the entire wattage of your attention turned to him. He hadn’t gotten used to that, and he didn’t think he ever would. “Looks like I’ll never be a nurse.” 

“Don’t say things like that.” He came around and lowered himself onto the couch beside you. “What’re you stuck on? Hit me.”

Your palm met his upper arm, a small smack. 

He narrowed his eyes at you. “Hit me all you want. You’re not getting out of this.” 

“But Jaaaack,” you drawled, tipping your head back on the couch. “Not here to study today.”

His eyes flickered over to your form briefly as he gathered the cards and squared them. “Oh, no? What’re you here for then?”

“Dunno.” You pulled your knees up to the couch. “Didn’t wanna be at mine. And work was a lot and boring.” You turned to face him then, a small smile growing on your lips. “Thought I’d bother yours instead.” 

He set the squared deck on his knee. “Lucky me.”

He’d caught it, though, how you’d folded the sad thing in the middle of the sentence where it’d draw the least attention and moved on before it could sit. He let it move on, but he kept it. The image of you on a Tuesday, work behind you, and the choice you’d made was to drive to a hospital rather than go home to your own quiet. He was getting a picture of what that quiet looked like and learned that he didn’t like it very much.

“Work was boring, huh,” he said, though he couldn’t imagine what a fun day looked like as a waitress. “You working more?”

“Mm. Saturday girl quit, so now I’m on Saturdays, too.” You picked at your sock. “S’okay. Tips are good. I learned that old guys tip better when you call them ‘sir.’” 

He huffed. “Do they?”

“Huge. It’s a cheat code.” You tilted your head at him, smiling shyly. “You’d tip well, I think. You’d overcompensate.” 

“I’m not gonna sit here and get profiled by you in the only few minutes where I can catch my breath.” He held the card up, front to himself. “And I tip twenty-five percent like every functioning adult, thank you.”

You groaned. “Where can I get tipped more than that?” 

“You don’t want me to answer that.”

“I do. I do. I’m a broke student. Point me to the money — where should I apply?” You shifted on the couch, fully facing him now, the cards apparently abandoned for the moment. “C’mon. You’ve lived a hundred years. You’ve gotta know where I can make some quick cash.” 

“You’re sweet to me, doll,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. He set the cards down and looked at you, genuinely considering it now. He tried to ignore the fact that you likely had money troubles and tried to think about how he could actually help. “Define quick.” 

“Like — by next Thursday.” 

“Legally?”

“No.” 

“Legally, you can sell plasma. Twice a week, they pay you, you sit there with a juice box.” 

Your nose scrunched. “I don’t love needles in me sober.”

“You’re gonna be a nurse.”

“In other people. That’s totally different.” You waved it off. “Next. What else?”

“Sleep studies pay you to sleep. Egg donation pays a whole lot but it’s a whole process, not a Thursday deal.” He was ticking them off on his fingers, now fully committed. “Medical research’ll pay you to test things. Phase-one trials. You take an experimental drug and they watch you for side effects.”

“That’s the one.” You sat up. “How much?”

“No,” he said immediately, shaking his head. “Absolutely not. I bring you in here to keep you from blacking out. I’m not gonna have you volunteering to get poisoned for a quick four hundred bucks.” He pointed at you. “Maybe start laying on the ‘sir’ a little too thick from now on.” 

“Sir.” You tested on him directly, dropping your voice, leaning in an inch, lashes going slow. “Could you help me out, sir? Tips have been so slow, sir.” 

He turned his face away from you, now making himself look out the window. “I’m not entertaining this.” 

“Oh, but sir.” You’d fully abandoned the cards now, scooting closer, a hand under your chin, the picture of innocence. “I’m just a girl. A poor, hardworking girl trying to be a nurse. Don’t you want to help me out, sir?”

“I am trying.” He pulled up the flashcards. “If it’ll help, I’ll bring my SWAT buddies into your place and they can run up a tab.” He waved a card in front of your face, trying to get your attention back to it. “You do this, I’ll have eight cops eating mozzarella sticks in your section by Friday, overtipping ‘cause I saved their lives. Won’t even have to call ‘em sir.” 

“Right. No, that’s — ” You let out a little laugh too quickly, eyes widening at his words, and you took the card out of his hand mostly to have something to do with yours. “You don’t have to do that. Obviously. I was kidding — ” You batted the whole thing away with a shake of your head. “God. No. I’m okay, I promise. I was kidding.”

“I’m half-kidding,” he said, raising a brow. “I do know those guys. It’s no skin off me. But it’s okay.” 

He let the offer sit like that, and he saw you pinch your eyes shut. He watched the whole thing happen on your face, the small involuntary recoil you always had when anyone offered you real kindness. You were bad at it. For a girl who lied so charmingly about how much she drank and how her night went, you had absolutely no poker face for being cared about. You had not the first idea how to hide it.

He found it unbearably endearing.

You opened your eyes and looked a little caught, a little sheepish as your thumb worried the corner of the card.

“You’re a strange girl,” he mumbled, fond, before he could stop it. “You know that?”

“Shit — Jack,” you said through a small laugh, shaking your head. “I don’t — I’m — ” You pressed your lips together and your shoulders came up almost to your ears in a stiff shrug. “Is there anything I can do for you? I can’t just accept — all your help.” 

He snorted. “What help? I give you a study room and review flash cards.”

“Let me do something. I’m a good cleaner — ”

His head went back slightly, shaking his head. “You’re really not.”

“Okay,” you continued, rallying. “A dog? Guys like you always have dogs they don’t walk ‘cause of their hours. I can walk dogs.” 

“No dog.” He raised his hand when he saw your mouth move again, stopping you. “You pay me back by passing your boards. You can pay me back plenty if you end up working here, doing good at the job.”

You went quiet for a second. “That’s just me doing my own thing. That’s not real.”

“That’s real to me.” He shrugged, like he hadn’t just made your whole future the price of his kindness. “I get a good nurse out of it someday.” He pulled himself off the couch. “And now I gotta go. Floor’s not gonna run itself.”

“Boo,” you said, pulling the entire deck on your lap now. “You’re the worst study partner. You leave constantly.”

Tonight, Jack had come into the family room after leaving you for a longer stretch of time than usual — a multi-vehicle situation that had eaten two hours and most of his patience — and found the studying had long since lost.

You’d migrated to the couch at some point. The textbook was open face-down on the cushion beside you like a small tented roof, your flashcards fanned across the middle seat, and you were folded in the corner with your knees pulled up and cheek mashed into the worn armrest, fighting your eyes and losing completely. You’d dimmed the overhead lights, lighting the lamp in the corner, the one nobody used, throwing everything low and gold.

He paused in the doorway. “You awake?” 

“Mhm. Need a cat nap, though,” you murmured.

Jack snorted, shutting the door behind him as he walked closer to you. “How far’d you get?”

“Far enough.” Then, you added, “Cat nap.”

“Sayin’ it like I’m gonna not let you have one.” 

Your eye cracked open a sliver, tracked him, then fell shut again. “Feel like you’re gonna make me do more cards.”

He toed the leg of the coffee table aside, reached down, and started clearing your mess off the cushions. He lifted the textbook and shut it around the receipt you’d jammed as a bookmark; gathered the flashcards and squared them in his palm; capped the highlighter and pocketed it. You watched the cleanup through one half-open eye, not lifting a single finger, your cheek staying flat to the armrest. 

“There. No more cards. You’re done for tonight, doll.” 

“Hooray,” you mumbled. 

He nudged your socked foot where it had crept up across the cushion. “C’mon. Budge up a second. Don’t want you wrecking your neck sleeping like that.”

You made a small sound of protest but you went, peeling your cheek off the armrest with reluctance. There was a crease pressed into your skin where the fabric seam had been and your hair was flat on one side and mushed on the other. You blinked up at him, swaying where you sat, eyes glassy and unfocused in the gold lamplight.

He sank into the space he’d cleared, the cushion dipping, tipping the two of you a fraction into each other. That was all the invitation your body apparently needed, because you folded into him without a beat of thought — too tired to second-guess it, he supposed — your temple finding the warm of his shoulder, your whole side melting against his. You drew your knees up and tucked them against his thigh. Your hand came to rest on his chest, palm flat, fingers spreading once before they went still. You exhaled after a moment, long and slowly, and burrowed your nose into his neck. 

Jack stilled. 

“Ten minutes,” you murmured, the words barely coming out as words.

He took his arm off the back of the couch and settled it around your back, broad hand spanning between your shoulder blades and drawing you that last fraction deeper into him. You went boneless with it, a small contended hum slipping out of you. 

Because he couldn’t help himself, he tipped his head down a fraction to say into your hair, “Been doin’ really well, y’know that, sweetheart?” 

You hummed, the sound of it vibrating against his throat, your fingers curling the faintest bit in his scrubs. “Thanks, Jack.”

“Gonna be a good nurse,” he murmured, thumb moving once along your shoulder. 

“Gonna work with you,” you mumbled, three-quarters gone. “You said.”

“Mhm.”

“Holdin’ you to it.” 

“Yeah, I know you are.” The corner of his mouth flicked up where you couldn’t see it. “Go to sleep. You can hold me to it in ten minutes.” 

When you didn’t answer for a second, Jack realized you were already gone. You were warm and trusting at his side, your hand slack over his heart, your breath sinking deep and even into his neck. 

Jack let his head tip back against the couch, pinching his eyes shut at the feeling of you, at the feeling you caused. His hand spread slowly across your back, feeling the breath go through you — the proof of you — and he let his thumb find the curve of your shoulder and rest there, keeping his eyes shut. He sat with the enormous fact of you, the girl he’d not seen anyone circle back for, gone soft and so pliant in his arms like she’d always belonged there, and he stopped pretending he wasn’t already lost. 

The ten minutes came and went. He let them. He’d have given you the whole night, the whole shift, the whole of whatever this was turning into. There wasn’t one place on the earth worth standing up for, and he’d known it for weeks, and only now, with your breath slow against his throat, did he let himself sit all the way inside of the knowing.

Jack came out of the OR and signed — albeit distantly, mind running a meter a minute about nothing good — what needed signing and said the things he was meant to, feeling the familiar piece of his own damn soul rotting away in the place those things went to rot. He knew the spot by now. It’d been decades of depositing them into the same place, and the place didn’t fill, exactly, but it never emptied, either. It just sat there, getting heavier, like things usually do when you keep adding to it and never take anything out.

This one would sit a while. Jack had started to sense it around the first year in this job; the ones that stayed had a weight, and you knew on the table whether you were getting one of those or whether it’d wash off by morning. This one wouldn’t.

He stripped his gloves, and somebody said something he answered without hearing, and then his feet simply walked past the board, carrying him down the hall toward the one door on the whole floor that wouldn’t have somebody else’s catastrophe behind it. 

His hand was flat on the door. He was still wearing the gown, and he looked down and registered it too late. He should’ve changed it, left the thing in the dirty bin with the rest of what the shift had taken, the way he always did before he came to you, kept the two halves of the floor separate on purpose. 

He opened the door. You were on the couch, one leg tucked under you and the other foot on the floor and a half-empty cup of coffee on the table going cold. You’d been doing something on your phone, or nothing, when the door opened, and you looked up with the easy expectant expression on your face you always had before it dropped. He watched it melt.

“Hey,” you said, making your voice soft.

“Hey.” His voice came out rough, and he almost winced as he heard it himself. 

You set your phone face-down on the cushion and unfolded yourself from the couch and stood, crossing the room to close the gap between you. You stopped in front of him and looked up, your brow doing a small worried thing, and he let himself be looked at.

“Sit down,” you said. “You look like you’re gonna fall through the floor.”

He distantly registered you walking him to the chair — your hand finding his forearm, a light touch — and he let you. He folded into the chair like the strings of his own body had been cut, his elbows finding his knees and head dropping.

He heard you move, small domestic sounds of you filling a cup, the tap somewhere down the hall turning on then shutting off. Then your socks were back in his eyeline, toes pointed to him.

“Here.” You crouched, came into his lowered field of vision, and pressed a cup into his hands — water, cold — and folded his fingers around it when they were slow to close. “Drink it all.”

He drank because that was the path of least resistance. The water caught something he hadn’t registered was bone-dry. You took the empty cup out of his hands when he was done, setting it on the table behind you, and then he felt your hands find his shoulders.

He flinched just slightly, the smallest involuntary thing, for nobody touched him like that. Nobody put their hands on him that weren’t shaking one of his or needing something from him. You settled your thumbs into the iron base of his neck and pressed slowly, working the knots the night, the days, the weeks, and probably the year had wound there.

Your thumbs were unsure of themselves — you weren’t good at it, you weren’t trying to be, you were simply trying — and that was somehow worse because it got further to him than skill would have; there was the unpracticed earnestness to it, like you’d simply decided his shoulders had been holding too much and you wanted to put your hands there to take some of it down. 

He felt his head drop lower, coming forward on its own, the tension bleeding out of his neck by degrees under your hands. Your thumbs found a place at the top of his spine that had been clenched so long that it had stopped registering as pain, and you pressed there, and a fraction let go. He felt his shoulders drop the inch they’d been holding up all night, and an uneven breath went out of him.

You kept your hands moving, your thumbs working the meat of his shoulders through the cotton, occasionally finding a knot and leaning your weight into it until it gave. 

His head tipped a little forward after a stretch of time — chasing, or simply falling — and it found the soft of your stomach. His forehead rested against the front of you, where you stood close in the gap between his knees. He hadn’t intended for it, or maybe he had, somewhere under where the intention happened, his body had chosen to stop holding its own weight and give it to the nearest thing that felt like it’d take it. His eyes were already shut, and he stayed there, hands coming up on their own to rest at the sides of your waist. His fingers anchored into the fabric of your shirt.

“Shitty job sometimes,” he mumbled after a moment.

“Yeah,” you said softly above him. “I bet it is.” 

Your fingers had found his hair, threading through the curls. Then, you added quietly, “But you’re really good at it.” 

His fingers tightened a fraction at the fabric on your waist as he let out a short huff. 

“Didn’t help him,” he said finally, the words coming out muffled behind his own mouth. “Whatever I’m good at didn’t help him.” 

“Maybe not.” Your fingers scraped carefully at his scalp. “I think you were the best shot he had.”

He breathed you in, choosing to let the words rest in his skull for a while instead of fighting them. 

“I’m — ” He heard you take in a breath and felt it go through your whole body. “I’m really grateful I met you, Jack.”

For some reason, he waited for you to take it back. There was a primally fast thing in him that told him that you’d take the words back, and he’d have understood.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you added. “I just wanted you to know. While you’re here being all — ” Your thumb moved at the back of his neck, tender and so gentle. “ — Figured it was a decent time to tell you I’m glad you exist.” 

He took in a shaky breath against you, fingers tightening again. 

“Thank you, sweet girl,” he said, and it sounded like it’d been punched out of him. “Likewise. More than you know,” he finished, his arms wrapping around the rest of your waist now, pulling you in like he could just fold himself smaller if he held hard enough.

Your fingers kept moving slowly in his hair, your other hand coming around the back of his head to hold him there. He couldn’t think of the last time he’d let anybody do this; as far as he could remember, he’d decided in some wordless permanent way that he’d carry his own weight from then on, that it was cheaper, that needing somebody was a bill that came due eventually and he’d rather not run the tab. 

“You should sit,” he said after god knows how long without letting go. “Selfish, keepin’ you standing here.”

“It’s okay.”

He hummed, thumb moving once at your waist. “Two more minutes then.”

“Whatever you need, Jack,” you said, voice quiet. “I’m not going.”

Jack’s phone lit up on the arm of the couch at 10:52, face-down, buzzing itself a quarter-inch off the leather before he caught it. 

He’d been working his way, with grim completionist patience, through an iceberg video you’d sent him three days ago with the message ‘THIS rabbit hole i need you to fall down.’ You’d followed it up by telling him, ‘do Not skip tiers!!’ He hadn’t skipped tiers. He was, in fact, ninety minutes deep and only about two-thirds down the pyramid, somewhere in the tier where a young man with a serious voice was explaining internet folklore he couldn’t believe was real. 

He was fairly sure it’d been invented by some teenager, but Jack only shrugged, distantly wondering why on earth anyone would spend the labor — the diagrams, alone — hoaxing a thing this elaborate for an audience of complete strangers. He also wondered why on earth you were so interested in this. As quickly as the thought arrived, he realized that he was working down the iceberg himself.

Working down a thing you’d handed him felt adjacent to sitting next to you, and his apartment had become the sort of quiet that made adjacent worth ninety minutes of contemporary folklore. He’d sooner have chewed glass than admitted it out loud.

It was a good apartment and an unwitnessed one. He’d realized somewhere in the past year it was untouched by any hand but his. Every object was exactly where he’d last set it down, for there was no second person to nudge the remote three inches or leave a hair tie on the counter or ask why there was a mug in the sink and no bowl. His leg was off for the night, propped against the arm of the couch, the whole standing weight from his night shift to SWAT calls finally set down somewhere it was allowed to stay.

So, the phone going off, went off loud in the silence that had become almost-permanent. Your name lit across the screen, and the picture with it (one you’d set yourself, commandeering his phone to do it). It was already strange that it was a call. You never called; you texted in floods, six messages deep before he’d gotten to the first, but the ringing meant the thing had gotten past the point where typing it out would hold. 

He looked at your laughing face buzzing on his phone for a second too long, the cold little instinct, and thumbed it green.

“Hey,” he said. “You know it’s almost eleven on my night-off. This better be good.”

You stayed silent for a second, and he could hear your breath and the hollow of a call connected in a car, the cooling engine’s tick and automotive acoustics. 

“Hey,” you said finally, and Jack felt it wrongly. The back half of the word had gone soft and unsteady at the end.

Jack was already sitting up. “Hey, yourself,” he said. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” He heard you swallow quickly. “Sorry. God, this is so dumb. You — were you asleep?” 

“I was almost through with your iceberg, if you want the truth.” 

You made a sound that tried to be a laugh but didn’t clear the runway, breaking apart halfway. “You watched it?”

“Almost.” His fingers were drumming against his prosthetic leaning by the couch now. “Are you out?”

“I’m —” You paused, then hummed like you were debating. “I’m kind of near your place, actually?” Your voice rose toward the end, like you were embarrassed or questioning it all yourself. “I know. It’s creepy. But I think I need to — talk to you.” 

“Yeah?” He tried to keep his voice light, though he could already feel something in his body start racing, panicking. “You break something?”

“No. No. Promise. It’s nothing like that.”

For some reason, that put a deeper hook in him. If it wasn’t a wrist, an ankle, or your body doing something it shouldn’t, then it was the other kind, and he had no idea how to hold something like that. He wasn’t sure what he could do with a sprain he couldn’t ice.

“Okay — ”

“Wait,” you interrupted, voice pitching higher, and he could see you were psyching yourself out. “I could just say it now, honestly. It’d probably be easier over the phone.”

Jack’s eyes widened a fraction at that. His stomach suddenly felt cold. 

“No,” he said, voice rougher than he’d intended. “I won’t make it hard. Whatever you want to say, I promise. Just — not like this, okay? Come here.” 

He listened to you breathe as you weighed it and knew, with bone-deep certainty, that he wouldn’t like what you were going to say. “Okay,” you breathed. “I’ll be there in fifteen.” 

Jack opened the door after the first knock, unembarrassed of waiting. You’d come as you were, a coat thrown open over sleep clothes, good wool hanging loose over a thin cami with lace at the collar and soft shorts and bare legs down to the sneakers you hadn’t laced properly. The second fact that registered to Jack was that you’d been crying; there was a soft ruin around your eyes, the mascara long gone, wiped with a sleeve somewhere back in the evening. Your hair was up and losing, a claw clip hanging looser than he believed it was meant to.

“Hi,” you said, eyes raising to meet his. “Thanks for letting me come by.”

Jack felt his shoulders rise to his ears just slightly at the formality. He felt like a bucket of ice had been dropped upon him because somewhere in the past few weeks, you’d stopped apologizing to him as much, which had felt like a small victory he never told you he was counting. And here it was again, your stiff little courtesy, the door swung back shut on a thing that had been open. Jack didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all. 

“You don’t thank me for coming by,” he said gruffly, opening the door wider.

You came in, but only just. Before he could steer you to the warmth of his apartment, you were already reaching into the bag on your shoulder — hands shaking, he realized, with a fine tremor — and pulling out a folded piece of paper, creased hard down the middle and then again like you’d tried to bundle it up into a fist.

He unfolded it and smoothed out the edges, eyes looking for yours briefly, but you’d already looked away. Your bottom lip was between your teeth and you were looking at the ground. He forced himself to look down.

It was your pharmacology exam. Your cramped looping handwriting scattered the margins, a star drawn to one question because you starred everything. There was red pen all down the side and a number circled on the top. The number, Jack saw immediately, was not catastrophic, not a failure even. It was a low pass, the sort of grade that would’ve stung for Jack in his school days and evaporated by the next exam. He’d expected worse from the way you’d been shaking holding it. 

He looked back at you, confused more than anything. “Congratulations, you passed.” 

Your jaw tightened, and he could see your eyes go bright and wounded. “It’s a seventy-one.”

“That’s a pass.”

“Barely. Barely.” You took the paper out of his hands, folding it away like you couldn’t stand looking at it anymore. “And you helped me with this so much and I still couldn’t. I’m so tired of — ” You stopped, looking up at the ceiling as you pressed your lips flat. “It’s not about the test.”

“Okay.” He leaned back against the counter, giving you the whole floor of the room. “Talk, then.” 

You looked at him, and he watched you gather it all up, deciding, as it settled into your face, your mouth, whatever you’d come here to say.

“I don’t wanna waste your time anymore,” you said, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth as your eyes landed on the wall behind him. “I can’t — it’s not fair.” 

Jack felt the whole floor shift under him and felt his brows go up an inch as he tried to keep his face seem collected. 

“You’re you,” you continued. “You’ve got a whole life, a hard one, and I’ve been just — dumping mine on you. Making you sit there and hold my hand through studying and I’m — ” You shook your head, face going grim as you said the words. “It’s not fair to you. You’ve been carrying me for so long, and it’s not fair. None of this is yours to carry. I’m not yours to carry.” 

His nose scrunched just slightly, something like burning blooming at the center of his face. Something in his chest had cracked along the seam he had no idea was there, because he’d never had to look at it once straight on. It was easy to carry your own weight when there was no one asking to take some. It was easy to call solitude a principle when nobody had ever made the alternative real. And you had. You’d made it real for months, and here you were proposing — no, telling — to take it back, to hand him his loneliness again because of some measurement of fairness. 

The horror of how much Jack didn’t want it — how badly, how completely he didn’t want to go back to how it was before you — was the first honest look he’d taken at himself in longer than he could stand to count. 

“That so?” was all he could say, voice roughening as his brows narrowed at you. 

“Yes.” You mistook the roughness for agreement, or maybe you just needed to do so, because you kept going. “You don’t have to help me. The only thing I can think is you’re — you are a good person and I was there. And you help people, it’s what you do.” Your hand waved in the general direction of him as your voice cracked. “So help someone who’d actually make it worth it. Who won’t barely pass and keep getting too drunk and — ” You laughed slightly, and it was all wet and terrible, the sound. “I’m a bad use of you. You’re this — you are so much, Jack, and I’m a bad place to put it. So put it somewhere better.” 

Jack had to force a swallow when you ended your words with a sharp intake of breath, the pool behind your eyes slipping free slowly down your cheeks. You’d run out of anything that’d make you wipe it away now, and that undid him worse than the crying itself, that you were standing there and letting it fall, done hiding, wrung all the way out. 

“I’m sorry — ” he started.

“It’s okay,” you said immediately, shaking your head.

“For making you think that’s what it was,” he said, lowering his voice. “That’s on me, that you talked yourself into thinking this has been some sort of charity.” He cocked his head to the side then, wishing you’d look up at him. “But you’re gonna quit shaking your head for one minute, and hear the rest, ‘cause you got it wrong. All of it, backwards and upside down.”

He came off the counter and closed the space himself, until you had to lift your chin to keep his eyes. 

“I’m not a man who spends his nights on a stray out of the goodness of his heart. Ask anyone I work with what I’m like. I don’t have that lying around spare.” His jaw tightened. “So take the halo off. That’s not what this was.”

“Then why — ”

“You,” he said plainly, for he learned it cost him nothing to do so, and a lot if he didn’t. “I wouldn’t do this for just anyone. There’s nowhere else I want to put it.”

He watched everything in your face tighten at his words, the disbelief and reflex to argue all curdling underneath. 

“If you don’t want this.” Me. Me, he wanted to say. “Say it. I’ll leave you alone. You don’t owe me anything.”

“That’s not — ”

“But don’t act like it’s some favor for me.” He was closer now than he’d been. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving for my sake. That’s a lie.”

“It’s not — ”

“It’s a lie,” he said, voice going flat and so final, as he slowly nodded his head. He looked at you a second, lips coming between his teeth, then looked away as he felt something physical seize over his entire body.

Jack himself had to process the words as he said them, because he was only just realizing how much truth they held.

“You make it good.”

He forced himself to look back at you, and you had tilted your head now to look up at him, caught and still as stone, the arguing gone completely off your face now and replaced with something more frightened.

“Don’t — ” One of Jack’s shoulders came up in a half-hearted shrug. “You’re the one part of my day that doesn’t take anything out of me. Just — get that straight, sweetheart.” 

You were just looking up at him with your whole face undone, the tears gone still on it, as though his words had knocked your own clean out of you.

“I don’t know what to do with that,” you said quietly. “People don’t — that’s not a thing that happens to me, Jack. Being — ” Your sentence broke apart and your hand had come up and fisted loosely in front of his shirt without either of you deciding it should, holding on, holding him there. “I don’t know what to do with it.”

“Nothing.” His hand came up slowly and covered yours where it fisted in his shirt, holding it flat there against his chest. “It’s just true.”

You made a small, pained sound and dropped your forehead against his sternum, right where his hand held yours, and he felt the whole strung-tight weight of you gave at once and settled into him. He felt you breathe against his shirt at the same time he felt his own pulse going too fast on your knuckles; he wasn’t bothered enough to try and slow it, because there was no point now. You’d already found out. 

“Very grateful for you,” he murmured, his other hand pulled up to rest over the back of your skull. “Told you so earlier. Meant it more than you let yourself hear.”

You huffed against his shirt — half a sob, half a laugh, maybe the ruined cousin of both — and he felt it go through the cotton and land warm against his skin, felt your fingers uncurl a fraction from the fist they’d made then re-fist, like even now some part of you was checking he was still there to hold onto. 

Jack held still for it, same as you had in the family room for him. He was good at holding still, it was half the job, but this was a different kind — he supposed — where there was a plain animal willingness to be a wall for as long as you needed one and not move a muscle that might spook you out of it. 

He rested his chin at the top of your head, murmuring, “I don’t have to tutor you anymore, if that’ll help.” He swallowed, closing his eyes as he breathed in your faint perfume. “We can scrap the whole thing, if that’s what’s making you feel so bad.”

You stilled for a second, then made a small sound against him. 

Despite himself, despite it all, he let out a short chuckle. “S’okay. I’m the reason you got a seventy-one. You’re allowed to switch.” 

“You’re the reason it’s a seventy-one and not a thirty,” you said, and it came out muffled and immediate. You almost sounded cross, like you didn’t want the slander against him to stand even now.

After a moment against him, you added, “I don’t want to be just someone you help, I think. I don’t want to be somebody — I guess — that you’re just good to.”

When Jack hummed, you continued, “I don’t know what I wanna be instead. Just — a friend — or, I don’t know. Something that goes both ways.”

Jack’s chest swelled at the words. He felt that he’d have been anything you asked of him, simply because it had just become how it was. It was almost outrageous how, if you’d asked, he’d have handed it over, the whole rest of it, whatever you wanted the name to be, whatever box you needed him in.

A man his age was supposed to be past this. He was supposed to have calcified somewhere in the second decade of the job into something that didn’t reorganize himself around what someone he’d known properly only for the better part of the year had asked him.

“Consider it done,” he murmured, letting the word settle. Friend.

You breathed against him, and Jack felt himself want to remain exactly here and knew that he shouldn’t. He knew that the kind thing now was to give you somewhere to put your face that wasn’t his chest, some ordinary ground for you to set your feet back down on. 

“C’mon.” He got a hand on your shoulder and eased you off him gently, a slow, slow reclaiming of the eight inches of air between your body and his. He dipped his head to catch your eyes, which were pink-rimmed and swollen and doing their utter best to avoid his now that the worst was out of you. “Do you want me to order food?”

Your neck rolled back slightly as you met his eyes, caught slightly off-guard at the shift of tone. You blinked. “That was a lot, and now you’re asking about food?”

“It was a lot,” he agreed. He reached up and thumbed a smudge of leftover mascara from under your eye briskly, and you let him. “And now it’s done. So, food, and we can watch the stupid video you sent me before you head home.”

It had been six days since you showed up at his apartment, and Jack had embarrassingly counted every single one of them. You’d left his apartment somewhere past two with your eyes finally dry and a paper bag of his leftover Thai you’d protested and taken anyway, and he’d walked you down to your car and stood in the lot like some idiot in a movie until your taillights turned off his street, and then he’d gone back up to a quiet that felt, for the first time in years, like something had been in it.

Since then it had gone like it always had and nothing like it; you still turned up with flashcards and left a graveyard of half-drunk coffees on every surface. But he’d noticed how you started letting him sit closer now, let a compliment land without flinching off, and once, mid-story, had reached over and fixed his scrub top where it had folded under, casual as breathing. 

Friend was the word you’d settled on. Jack was thinking about that when Shen dropped into step beside Jack with a cup of fresh Dunkin sweating in his hand. 

“You know it’s not standard to let your girlfriend occupy the family room for three hours of your shift, right?” 

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Jack immediately clarified. It seemed more important to do now than it was earlier, when people only knew you when you came in as an emergency. Still, it felt wrong, like a key going in the wrong hole. “And you got a problem with it?” 

Shen lifted the coffee in surrender, unbothered. “You know we’ve grown to her. She and I do the Wordle every midnight.” Then, he spread one hand. “Administratively, she’s not staff. She’s not a patient. She’s not family of a patient. Which leaves the category I’d have to call —” He tilted his head, faux thoughtfulness. “ — Abbot’s girlfriend, and I don’t think that’s in the handbook.” 

“Try again,” Jack drawled, thumbing a form he wasn’t reading that didn’t need to be read. “She’s a nursing student getting hours of free tutoring off a board-certified attending. Put that in the handbook. Teaching hospital. I’m teaching.”

Shen shook his head, letting out a small laugh. “Alright. Alright. She’s not your girlfriend. Mind if I ask her out, then?” 

Jack snorted. “If you could only be so lucky.” 

“Clearly she has a type for attendings,” he pressed, grinning. “Or is it just the ones with gray hair?”

Jack looked at him sideways. “This is getting a bit weird, even for you.” 

“I’m happy for you, man. Even if you’re gonna make us all watch you not do anything about it for the next six months.”

“Mind your own damn business.”

“Sure,” he turned, lifting a hand over his shoulder as he went. “Close the blinds anyway. There’s a window on that door. Everyone can see her making you dumb.” 

Jack looked down the hall and set the form down before going there to close the blinds — telling himself it was for the window, for Shen’s real talk — and knowing, somewhere under that, that he was really just going to you. 

He could see you through the window in the door before he reached it, which was, he supposed, exactly Shen’s point. You had a textbook open in your lap and you were chewing the end of your highlighter, brow pulled in, mouthing something to yourself, working a card over your head. You’d pulled the sleeves of one of his old sweatshirts down to your hands, the one you’d swiped from his locker two weeks ago and never given back and that he’d never once asked for, because he’d found he didn’t want it back, found he liked seeing it swallow you.

You gave him a smile when he walked in. He reached up and tipped the blinds shut on the window with two fingers, the floor outside tipping away. 

“Why’d you close them?” you asked, slightly bored.

“Apparently the whole department’s been getting a show.”

You furrowed your brows then. “A show of what? Me failing?”

“Somethin’ like that.” He let it go at that, coming around and lowering himself onto the couch beside you, the cushion dipping and tipping you toward him a degree, what it always did that neither of you ever corrected. “How’s it going? Honest.”

“Honestly?” You blew out a breath, closing the highlighter. “I’d kill for a drink.”

“Oh?” Jack settled back against the couch, his arm coming up along the top of it behind you. “Telling that to the one man who’s seen what you look like at the bottom of the bottle.”

“Jaaaack,” you said, almost in a whine. “Let’s go to a bar.”

He snorted, dragging a hand down his face. “Now I’m wondering what’s pushing you toward the edge.”

He picked the flashcard you had set on the textbook, the one you’d been studying. He read the front of it without much intention — your handwriting was cramped and looping, a star drawn next to it — and turned over and checked the back. He did the same thing he always did, the story, the image; he’d done it a hundred times by now. He could do it half-asleep, and most nights he half was. 

You thought about it for a second, your bottom lip tugged between your teeth, then walked yourself to the answer. 

“Mhm. See. Good,” he murmured. He flipped the card to the back to check you, and you’d had it. Of course you’d had it, you’d had more of this than you ever gave yourself credit for. “Tell you what. Get the next three right, and I’ll get us a drink once your exams are done.” 

Your brows narrowed. “Bribe?”

“It’s an incentive.” He held up the next card, eyes on you. “Don’t think. Just answer me.” 

You did. One, then the next, then the one after. You were quicker now that there was something on the end of it, your lip caught between your teeth as you walked yourself there each time. He noticed you worked when there was something to earn. After all three, he hummed. “See. Good girl, there you go.” 

He felt you go still beside him, and his eyes flickered up to you to see your eyes dropping to your textbook. He stayed silent a second, eyes raking over you, your thumb running the worn edge of a card back and forth. 

Jack knew better than to point out how you being flustered was almost silly when he’d said the same words many times while taping you up or shining a penlight in your eyes. He let his arm stay where it was along the couch, hand not quite touching your shoulder, and watched the side of your face.

“You wanna do some more?” he said finally, voice coming out rougher. “Or are we done for the night?”

You held up a finger, as if telling him to wait.

“Okay, then,” he mumbled, leaning back further against the couch. “Take your time.”

After a second, he turned to say something dry to break the silence. You’d turned your head, too, and were closer than he initially realized, your eyes coming up off the card and finding his, near enough that whatever he had bubbling in his throat died there immediately. 

Jack hummed involuntarily. You closed the sound by pressing your mouth to his, the feeling of the plushness so very featherlight, there and barely there, the softest press. 

He went still as stone, every system in him locking at once. His hand was still along the back of the couch and his mouth hadn’t answered yours, not because he didn’t want to — God, he did — but because the entirety of him had gone still with the disbelief of it, with the you, here, choosing this — him — and the half-second of nothing stretched into a second, too damn long. 

He’d seized on you, the fact you’d nearly walked, had stood in his kitchen finding the kindest way to disappear, and here you were, closing the last of the distance yourself.

You pulled back like you’d touched a stove, a gasp leaving your mouth, replacing where his own had been. 

“Oh god.” Your hand flew up to your mouth, your eyes going wide before pinching shut completely. “I’m sorry — I’m so sorry, Jack. I read that so, so wrong. You’ve been so nice and I — fuck, I’m sorry.”

Jack made a pained sound that was lost somewhere in your ramble, at the sight of you snatching it back. Nothing had gone wrong. Jack knew you’d read nothing wrong, and that the only thing that had happened was that he’d been too slow, too stunned, too thirty-years-rusty to catch what had been handed to him in good reflex.

His hand came off the back of the couch and he caught your jaw, thumb on your chin as he pushed slightly against your skin. He was distantly aware that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so afraid about leaning in to kiss a woman, and went in to try and give you back the second he lost, mouth finding yours the exact way every bone in his body knew he should’ve the first time. 

You made a startled sound against him before the entirety of you melted. His mouth worked against yours, thoroughly, making sure not to fumble it twice. His thumb stayed on your chin, tilting your face the half-degree he wanted it, and when your lips parted on half a breath, his entire upper body leaned in to follow it, deepening it. 

It was you who moved first. Of course, it was you, always you. You followed it, the kiss pulling you up and forward, your knee coming over his thigh, and then you were settling over him. Jack let out the throatiest of a chuckle, still intent on keeping your mouth, as your hands slid from the front of his scrubs to his jaw. 

Jack’s hands caught yours on instinct — one at your waist, one at your hip — steadying you down to him, your hips still slightly in the air like you weren’t sure you could close the last of the distance, your weight held in the suspended air in the ache of almost, thighs braced on either side of his. 

Jack pulled back just enough to look at you, letting his head fall back against the back of the couch, dragging his eyes up the length of you poised over him. He blew out a short breath, the corners of his lips kicking up as his palm glided up and down on the side of your waist, catching onto your tank top on accident to show a sliver of skin at your lip — warm, soft, the band of your shorts sitting low — and he watched his own hand do it before he dragged his eyes back to your face.

“Nothing halfway with you, huh?” he said, the words practically coming out from his chest. His thumb rested against that bared sliver of you. “Climbing me at my work.”

You lowered your head, and your nose grazed against his. “You started it.”

“I did?”

“You closed the blinds.”

He let out a surprised laugh. “I can promise you I didn’t expect this when I did that.” 

Your lips ghosted over his for a second, and his chest swelled at the sight of you trying to tamp down the sweetest smile. “Problem?” 

“No.” The words came out immediately, because apparently somewhere in him, there was still something insatiable and teenage that had lurched up at the sight of you. “No. No problem.”

His hand spread flat and warm against the small of your back, fingers slipping under the hem of the top to your warm skin there, and he drew you down, finally, that last suspended inch collapsing as he settled your weight flush over him. 

He had to pinch his eyes shut a second, then open them again to take in the whole sight of you. His hand came up to your jaw. The light caught the loose hair at your temple, the bare line of your shoulder where the strap had slipped. Your mouth was full and flushed from his, parted slightly, your breath coming. The skin under his hand at your back was hot to the touch, and he spread his fingers wider against it just to feel more of it. 

You were trying not to smile. Your lip caught between your teeth, the corners pulling anyway. 

His finger perched against your jaw moved to your lips, dragging slowly across the lower one, parting it under the pad of his thumb. He watched it give, your breath warm against his skin. 

Your eyes flicked up to his as your lip closed around the first knuckle, your tongue hesitantly pressing flat against the pad, the wet heat of it catching him so completely off guard that the air went out of him in a rough exhale. His other hand fisted at the small of your back, turning over to gather the hem of your tank in his grip. 

“Oh.” His eyes had dropped to your mouth and fixed there, his jaw slack as his head cocked to the side. “Pretty.” 

His gaze was locked on the sight of his thumb disappearing past your lips, no hesitation in it, that same no-halfway boldness turned filthy and sweet all at once. The tired man in him went down all at once. 

His thumb dragged free, catching on your bottom lip and tugging it down before it slipped loose. His chest heaved harder now under the warm weight of you. 

“Where’d that come from?” he muttered gruffly, almost to himself, thumb pressing the slick of your own lip back against you. His palm moved to cradle your face, tapping your cheek softly once. “Can’t be doing things like that here, doll. I’m on call.” 

“Then don’t make it so easy.” Your lips brushed his thumb, then you moved down to press your mouth to the line of his jaw, the stubble catching your lips, then lower to the warm of his throat.

“You callin’ me easy?” he said through a chuckle, letting his head tip back. You scraped your teeth over the cord of his neck and felt the whole of him go tight underneath you, his fingers flexing hard into the bare skin of your back. 

“Alright.” His voice had dropped to stone. “You’ve had your fun.. No more of that,” he said, though made no move to stop you.

You peppered a line of pecks down his throat down to where his collar had started, your lips dragging over the jut of his collarbone through the thin cotton. He swallowed. One of your hands slid up to the back of your neck, fingers pushing into the soft gray at his nape, scratching light, and the other flattened over his chest, over the steady-then-not rhythm, fisting slow in the fabric just to feel him breathe wrong because of you.

You sat back an inch to look at him. His head was still tipped back against the couch, his throat bared where you’d left it momentarily pink and glossy, his eyes half-lidded. His hands had gone heavy and possessive at your hips, giving up pretending he wanted them anywhere else, you anywhere else.

You dragged your thumb over his bottom lip, watched it give, the same way he did to you. 

“Can I ask you something?” you asked, quietly, your hips settling more firmly into his lap. 

“Mm.” His hands spread wide, settling you down harder against him. “My social security number is — ”

You laughed. 

“Two-two-six — ”

“Jack — ” You swatted at his chest, the seriousness dissolving into something giddier. “I’m being serious. Stop.” 

“Okay, okay.” The corners of his mouth lifted up, and his hands squeezed slightly at your hips. He pulled his head up off the couch to meet your eyes properly. “Shoot. Doubt I could stop you.” 

“Are you seeing anyone?”

He let the question sit, humming. His thumbs moved idly at your hips, head tilting against the couch like the question required any real thought. “There’s a few women,” he said, lowering his voice as he looked at you, like he was letting you in on a secret. “There’s a nice lady who brings me fruit baskets.”

Your hand, on the flat of his chest, slid up slow to his throat and he kept talking like he didn’t notice.

“ — there’s this nurse on days who keeps leaving me her number at the station — ”

You leaned in and closed your teeth slightly on his earlobe. He let out a short laugh, one that was dragged out of him, his head tipped to give more of it to you without permission. 

“Alright. Okay,” he said as your nose dragged the line of his jaw. “Stop doin’ that. I don’t wanna explain teeth marks to the whole floor.” 

Your hips set firmer into his lap. “Jack,” you warned. “I can’t do this if you’re seeing fifty other women.” 

He sobered a degree, his thumb going still at your waist, his eyes coming up to actually hold yours. The joke drained out of his face as he realised the edge of seriousness you tried to tamp down, and he momentarily short-circuited at how it was even possible for you to wonder. 

“Hey.” His hand came up off your hip, pushed the hair back from your face and stayed there, cradling. “Until five minutes ago, there were zero women. Forget fifty.” 

Your only response to that was a smile and your cheek leaning further against his palm. He let his thumb move once across his cheekbone, watching the way your cheek turned into his hand. Your eyes drifted half-shut. There was a speck of dried highlighter ink on the side of your finger where it curled against his throat. The strap of your top had slid off your shoulder again; he looked at all of you and stopped bothering to pretend, even to himself, that he was looking at anything other than the only thing in the room he wanted.

“What about you? You seein’ anyone?” His thumb stayed where it was, but his voice had gone quieter. “‘Cause I’ve seen people bring you in. And I never liked one of ‘em.”

You huffed a small laugh, your nose grazing his. “Jealous, Doctor?” 

“Yeah.” He watched the laugh stall on your face at how easy he gave it up. “If there is, he should be worried. I’d like to take you on a nice date to change that.” 

“Ohhhh,” you drawled through a laugh. “There’s no one, but I won’t say no to the date.”

“Then you’ve got yourself one, doll.” He kissed you on it — short, sure, his hand still cradling your face — sealing the thing as the corner of his mouth caught yours before he pulled back. He let his forehead rest against yours for a second and breathed you in. 

Then, with a short groan, he tipped his head back off of yours. 

“I gotta get back out there.” His thumb was still moving at your jaw, clearly working against the very thing he was saying. “My work ethic’s going wrong and my residents might actually report me.” 

Then, his hands found your waist and he lifted you off, setting you off his lap and onto the cushion beside him where the entire thing had started. You landed with a small affronted sound, your hand fisting in his collar a beat longer before he had to let it go. 

You flopped back into the cushion where he’d deposited you, one hand pressed flat to your chest, the picture of wounded. “I guess it’s true what they say about old men. They use you. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am.” 

He stood up and scrubbed his palm down his face like he could wipe the last ten minutes off it before he had to walk out and be a doctor again. He could still feel the heat sitting at the back of his neck and even though he’d tried to scrub your gloss off, he was sure there was a remnant somewhere the worst possible person would notice. 

“Yup, got exactly what I wanted. Thank you, ma’am.” His hand came down to rest at the top of your head and gave it a slow, condescending pat, ruffling the wreck of your hair worse than it already was. “I’m a terrible man. You’re welcome to stay here while I go be one somewhere else.” 

He made himself step back and snagged his pen off the table, the badge, the small armor of the job clipping back into place piece-by-piece. The whole time his eyes kept catching on you, sprawled and rumpled where he’d set you down, looking up at him like the night had gone exactly where it was supposed to. He’d seen this room a thousand nights. He’d never once not wanted to leave it. 

“Mm. Gotta go home. S’almost three,” you mumbled. “And you get off at seven.” 

“I do.”

“So.” You pushed yourself off the cushion, slow, gathering your hair back off your face and pushing up your strap, putting yourself back together piece by piece the same way he was, the night closing in on both ends. “I’ll go and let you be a doctor. You’ve been very neglectful.” 

“Don’t I know it,” he muttered. He watched you reach for your textbook, your highlighter, the flashcards, and sweep it all back into your bag, feeling the small stupid pull of not wanting the room to empty out. 

He stepped in before you finished, catching your jaw, tilting your face up to kiss you once more. You went still under it, the bag forgotten halfway zipped, your hand coming up to rest light on his chest. He pulled back an inch to look at you.

“Text me when you get home,” he said, thumb dragging along your jaw. 

You chuckled, brows pulling in. “It’s a ten minute drive.”

“Text me. Humor an old man, since I’m so terrible to you already.”

[clarktologist]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ BABY, BABY!

summary: jack abbot is a big fan of calling people pet names. it drives you nuts. pairing: jack abbot x resident!reader tags: afab reader, pet names [sweetheart, best girl], jack abbot being a cocky flirt, r has a huge crush on him word count: 0.9k notes: for all of those that were victims of workplace crushes <3

Doctors are not nice. Never have been, never will be. Even your professors in medical school had been made of stone, steel-faced and stubborn, refusing to let even a slight slipup happen without any consequence. It was excusable, the behavior of doctors, due to what they saw everyday and what they held in their hands. You have felt yourself becoming thicker-skinned as you’ve spent your years inside of the emergency department, an unmovable object in the unfair windstorm of life.

But Jack Abbot is not mean. He is not unfair or harsh. He is empathetic and gentle despite the consistent pressure always put on his shoulders. It’s jarring, compared to all of your other mentors. Dr. Robby, who will scold you until his face turns red beneath that beard and scruff, or the residents that have inherited their attitudes from him.

It’s only human nature, the fact that you find yourself so drawn to Abbot. Beneath the cool demeanor you keep, you’re just a being of nerves and flesh and blood and synapses, all willing to work on their own without your help. The drastic difference between how others treated those beneath them and Abbot was enough to get your stomach churning and heart racing, as much as you passed it off as a stupid workplace crush.

The worst part was that he couldn’t keep his nicknames to himself.

“You alright, sweetheart?” He asks as he steps beside you, a respectful amount of inches away as he glances at the patient board you’ve been so adamantly focused on for the past few minutes. “You’ve been standing here for a while.”

The name settles deep in your gut, an uncomfortable feeling that makes you fidgety. Your thumb drums against the counter as you pass the most nonchalant look you can summon over at him, lips pulling into a tight smile. “Fine. Just dozed off a little bit.”

Jack’s gaze travels over you like he’s trying to find something physically wrong, taking in the way you jut out your hips to take some pressure off of your back. He reaches out to press his hand into the small of your back, nudging you to sit up straight again. “Go take a break. Sit down and rest your feet for a moment, get a snack and a cup of coffee, come back your best self.”

“No, Dr. Abbot, really,” you argue. A hand raises defensively while the other gestures to the bustling hallways of the emergency room. “I have a few patients I need to check on and another couple that need to be discharged ‘cause they’ve already been here all night.”

Despite your protests, your attending simply crosses his arms over his chest and stares you down. “I’ll check with Lena and handle all of that.”

Immediately, the two of you end up in a staring contest. You with parted lips and a complaint hanging on the tip of your tongue and Jack with a clench of his jaw and a flex of muscle in his bicep. Finally, your shoulders drop in defeat, causing your attending’s face to relax in victory. “Go on, then,” he coaxes.

With a childish huff, you spin on your heel, irritation prickling up your spine. Who did Jack Abbot think he was, telling you when you needed to take a break? When was the last time he had taken a break? Sat down? Ate a snack in the middle of a busy night shift?

His cocky face is imprinted in your mind as you burst into the break room, sitting down on one of the chairs so abruptly that it screeches against the linoleum. You’re pouting, and deathly aware of it, but in the closed room of the breakroom there is no judgement to be cast and so you allow yourself to be grumpy about being sidelined.

Stupid Jack Abbot and his stupid nicknames and his stupid empathy for every little thing.

After approximately fifteen minutes of staring at the wall and allowing your brain to shut off for the first time all night, the door to the breakroom creaks open slowly, bringing in a wave of noise until it shuts again. 

“How’s my favorite girl?” Jack asks, bracing his hand on the back of an unoccupied chair. “Do you feel better?”

There it is, that foolish gut feeling again the minute that sweet timbre hits your ears. You’ve never been one to crave praise, or even be flustered by it, however it was infuriatingly different when it came from your extremely handsome attending.

You prop your elbow up on the table, placing your chin in the palm of your hand and giving him your best bored look. “Dying of boredom from being sidelined,” you grump.

He just chuckles at your antics, reaching over to grab your wrist. In response, you lift your head so that he can place your hand down, breaking down your grumpy exterior physically. “You weren’t sidelined, you were told to take a break, there is a difference.” His hand lands on the top of your head, fingertips scrunching your hair and loosening it from your ponytail.

With an irritated grunt, you swat away his hand. “I don’t see you tellin’ anyone else to take a break.” You scrunch your nose at him mockingly, leaning back in your chair to look up at him.

Jack is the picture of amused, reaching out to pinch your chin playfully. “I don’t worry about anyone else that much,” he replies.

Finally, he pats your cheek gently with just his fingertips. “C’mon, sweetheart. Stop pouting and get out there.” With that, he turns and exits the breakroom, leaving you to gape at the door while trying to find a way to steady your own tachycardia.

How were you supposed to treat patients when Jack Abbot was so tempted to make you one?