Another story with a plot twist ending. This is for everyone who asked for something similar to my Anglerfish-Hybrid!Reader story
Based on a true story. Cw for blood, murder
The contract comes through back channels- the kind that don’t leave paper trails.
Private security needed. Remote estate. Long term placement. Competitive compensation. Discretion required.
Price reads it twice before passing it to Ghost, who reads it once and grunts.
“Too vague,” Gaz says when it reaches him. “No specifics on threat assessment, no client background, no- ”
“She’s offering triple the going rate,” Soap interrupts, scanning the attachment on his phone. “For what sounds like fuckin’ babysitting.”
The client photo is attached. A young woman, maybe late twenties, with soft features and nervous eyes. The kind of face that photographs well, pretty in an understated way, the type men want to protect.
Or ruin.
Price drums his fingers on the table. They’re in a shit pub in a shit part of Manchester, the kind of place that doesn’t have cameras and doesn’t ask questions. The kind of place men like them end up after everything else burns down.
They’d all gotten the same unofficial discharge. No trial. No publicity. Just a quiet severance and an understanding that they’d never work for any government agency again.
The things they’d done had been necessary, Price told himself. War makes monsters of everyone. They’d just been better at it than most.
Better, and worse at hiding it.
“Client is female, alone, no security infrastructure in place,” Ghost observes. His voice is flat, but Price catches the interest underneath. “Remote location. No witnesses for miles.”
“She’s scared of ghosts,” Soap adds, grinning around his beer. “Says the house is haunted. Hear’s things at night.” His grin widens. “Poor lass.”
Gaz shifts uncomfortably. He’s the one who still has enough conscience left to feel guilty about the direction this conversation is heading. Not enough to stop it. Never enough to stop it.
“We taking it then?” he asks.
Price looks at the photo again. Soft. Vulnerable. Isolated.
“Yeah,” he says. “We’re taking it.”
They arrive on a grey afternoon, the kind where the sky and the hills bleed into each other until the world is nothing but shades of colorless damp.
The estate rises from the moor like something out of a gothic novel, all stone and sharp angles, towers that serve no purpose, windows that reflect nothing. The driveway alone is half a mile, lined with trees so old their branches tangle overhead into a tunnel.
“Fuck me,” Soap breathes. “She lives here alone?”
The house is massive. Victorian Gothic, maybe older in places, with additions that don’t quite match: a wing here, a tower there, rooms that jut out at odd angles like the architect couldn’t decide when to stop building.
Or like they’d been following instructions from someone who didn’t think in straight lines.
Price pulls the truck around the circular drive. There are no other vehicles. No lights in most of the windows.
The front door opens before they reach it.
You stand in the doorway, backlit by the warm glow of the foyer, and Price’s first thought is that you look smaller in person. More delicate. You’re wearing jeans and an oversized sweater, hands twisted together, smile uncertain.
“You’re here,” you say, and your voice is soft, relieved. “I’m so glad. I was starting to think- ” You cut yourself off, laughing nervously. “Sorry. I’m rambling. Come in, please. You must be freezing.”
The foyer is beautiful. All dark wood and oil paintings, a chandelier that probably weighs more than their truck. The kind of old money that doesn’t need to announce itself.
You introduce yourself, shaking each of their hands. Your grip is gentle. Your palm is warm.
Price watches your eyes when you look at them, all four of them, big men, scarred and dangerous even in civilian clothes. You should be nervous. Wary.
You just look grateful.
“Thank you for coming all this way,” you say. “I know the job posting was vague, but I didn’t know how to explain without sounding…” You trail off, biting your lip. “Crazy.”
“Why don’t you start from the beginning,” Price suggests, voice gentle. Paternal. “Take your time, love.”
You do.
You inherited the estate three months ago from a distant relative you’d never met. A great-great-aunt or something, the family tree was complicated. You’d been living here for two weeks, trying to sort through centuries of accumulated belongings, and-
“Things happen,” you say quietly. “Doors that I know I left open are closed. Rooms that are freezing cold for no reason. I hear footsteps at night in the hallways, but when I check, there’s no one there.” You wrap your arms around yourself. “I know how it sounds. But I swear, there’s something wrong with this house.”
“You live here alone?” Gaz asks.
“Yes. The previous caretaker staff left before I arrived. Something about not being paid in months, but all the accounts are current, so I don’t…” You shake your head. “Doesn’t matter. Point is, it’s just me. And I don’t feel safe.”
Ghost hasn’t said anything, just watching you with that unnerving stillness he has. You meet his eyes once, then look away quickly, color rising in your cheeks.
Good, Price thinks. Be nervous. Be afraid.
It’ll make everything easier.
“We’ll do a full sweep of the property,” he says. “Check the perimeter, test the locks, set up a security protocol. You’ll be safe. I promise.”
The smile you give him is luminous with relief.
“Thank you,” you whisper. “Really. Thank you.”
You show them to their rooms in the east wing, you explain, close together. Your room is in the west wing, you add, then immediately seem to regret mentioning it.
The rooms are pristine. Four poster beds, heavy furniture, attached bathrooms with clawfoot tubs. The kind of luxury that makes Soap whistle low under his breath.
“Lass is loaded,” he says once you’ve left them to settle in. “Did you see this place?”
“Empty though,” Gaz observes, sitting on the edge of his bed. The mattress doesn’t even creak. “Too big for one person.”
“Too isolated,” Ghost adds. He’s at the window, looking out over the grounds. Nothing but moor and forest for miles. “No neighbors. No cell service.”
“Checked that already?” Price asks.
Ghost holds up his phone. No bars.
“She mentioned the landline works,” Gaz offers. “In the library.”
Price nods slowly, mind already working. Isolated. No witnesses. No way to call for help except a single landline they could cut at any time.
“We’ll take it slow,” he decides. “Get her comfortable. Let her trust us.”
“And then?” Soap’s grin is sharp.
“Then we’ll see how grateful she really is.”
Later, dinner is laid out in a formal dining room that could seat twenty. You’ve set places for five at one end, candlelight making the crystal gleam.
You’ve cooked. Roast chicken, vegetables, fresh bread. The kind of meal that takes hours.
“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble,” Price says.
“I wanted to.” You pour expensive wine, from a bottle without a label. “You’re doing me a huge favor. It’s the least I can do.”
The food is incredible. Soap tells you so between bites, and you smile, pleased.
“My family was big on traditional cooking,” you explain. “Recipes passed down for generations. Some of these are centuries old.”
You eat delicately, like you were taught etiquette. But Price notices your eyes track each of them as you eat. Watching. Cataloging.
Prey behavior, he thinks. Trying to figure out the threat.
After dinner, you give them a tour of the main floor. The library with its floor to ceiling shelves. The sitting room with its massive fireplace. The conservatory with dead plants in ancient pots.
“I haven’t had time to care for them,” you apologize. “I’m not much of a gardener.”
The house is a maze. Hallways that branch and turn back on themselves. Doors that open onto other doors. Rooms that seem to serve no purpose, too small for furniture, too large for storage.
“Easy to get lost,” Gaz comments.
“Very,” you agree. “I’m still finding new rooms. Yesterday I found a whole wing I didn’t know existed.” You laugh, but it’s strained. “This place is ridiculous.”
By the time you show them back to the east wing, Price has mentally mapped maybe a third of the ground floor. The rest is a labyrinth.
“I’ll let you get settled,” you say, pausing at the base of the stairs. “My room is in the west wing if you need anything. Third floor, end of the hall. There’s only one door, you can’t miss it.”
You’re telling them where you sleep. Where you’ll be alone. Vulnerable.
You don’t seem to realize the danger in that.
“Sleep well,” Price says.
You smile. “You too.”
They don’t sleep.
Price gathers them in his room once the house goes quiet. Ghost reports what he found during his “bathroom break” earlier: the windows are original, single pane, easy to break. The doors have old locks, the kind you can pick with a hairpin. There’s a servants’ staircase that connects all the floors, hidden behind a panel in the hallway.
“No security system,” he concludes. “No cameras. Nothing.”
“She’s got money but no sense,” Soap observes. “Living out here alone, no protection.”
“Not anymore,” Gaz says quietly.
They look at each other. They don’t need to say it out loud. They’ve done worse than what they’re thinking. In war, in peace, in the grey spaces between. This is just one more thing.
One more sin that won’t matter in the end.
“We take our time,” Price orders. “Build trust. Let her depend on us. Then- ”
A sound cuts him off.
Footsteps. In the hallway. Slow and deliberate.
They freeze. Ghost moves to the door, cracks it open.
The hallway is empty.
But the footsteps continue, receding down the corridor. Getting fainter.
Going toward the west wing.
Ghost steps into the hall, following the sound. The others trail after him.
The footsteps stop at the end of the corridor. Where the hallway branches.
There’s no one there.
“Wind,” Gaz says, but he doesn’t sound convinced.
“Old house,” Soap adds. “Settling.”
Ghost says nothing. He’s looking at the wall where the footsteps stopped. There’s a door there, narrow, almost invisible in the paneling.
He tries the handle.
Locked.
“Leave it,” Price orders. “We’re not here about ghosts.”
But as they return to their rooms, Price catches a smell. Faint. Metallic.
Like old blood in the walls.
***
Morning comes grey and cold.
You’re already in the kitchen when they come down, humming softly as you flip pancakes on an ancient stove. You’re dressed in soft clothes again: leggings, an oversized cardigan, fuzzy socks. Your hair is pulled back in a messy bun.
You look even younger in the morning light.
“I hope you all slept well,” you say, smiling over your shoulder. “I made coffee. Strong, I hope that’s okay. And there’s tea if anyone prefers.”
The kitchen is warm, full of the smell of butter and vanilla. Soap drops into a chair at the worn wooden table like he belongs there.
“You’re spoiling us, lass,” he says.
“You’re keeping me safe,” you counter. “Fair trade.”
Breakfast is easy. Comfortable. You ask them about their background, military, you already know, but what kind? Where did they serve?
Price deflects, keeping it vague. You don’t push.
“The house,” Ghost says abruptly. “You said you’ve only been here two weeks.”
“Yes.”
“But you knew about the servants’ stairs. Last night, you mentioned a wing you found yesterday.”
You pause, spatula halfway to the plate. “I… yes. I’ve been exploring. There’s a lot to see.”
“House this size, you’d need months to map it properly,” Ghost continues. His eyes don’t leave your face. “But you walk through it like you know where you’re going.”
Something flickers across your expression. Too fast to read.
“I have the original blueprints,” you say. “In the library. They help.”
It’s a reasonable explanation.
Ghost doesn’t look convinced.
After breakfast, you show them those blueprints, massive sheets of yellowed paper spread across the library table. The house is even bigger than they thought. Four floors, not counting the attics and cellars. Wings that branch off like fractal patterns. Rooms within rooms.
“Christ,” Gaz mutters. “Who builds something like this?”
“My ancestor, apparently.” You trace a finger along the main hall. “She started construction in the late 1500s. Kept adding to it for decades. Some of these additions don’t even make sense architecturally.” You point to a tower that seems to serve no purpose. “There are staircases that go nowhere. Doors that open onto walls. It’s like she was building a puzzle instead of a house.”
“She?” Price asks.
“Family legend says it was a woman. Very wealthy. Very private. They say she died here, actually, walled up in one of the rooms.” You say it matter of factly, like it’s not horrifying. “No one knows if it was suicide or murder.”
“Cheerful,” Soap mutters.
You laugh. “Sorry. I know it’s morbid. But the house has history. Dark history. I think that’s why it feels so…” You trail off, looking around the library. The books rise to the ceiling, leather bound and ancient. “Wrong.”
“We’ll make it right,” Price assures you. His hand settles on your shoulder. You don’t pull away. “That’s what we’re here for, love.”
You look up at him with such trust it almost makes him feel guilty.
Almost.
They spend the day doing a security assessment. It’s legitimate work: checking locks, testing windows, mapping sight lines. But it also gives them an excuse to learn the house. To understand the layout.
To plan.
Ghost finds the first oddity in the east wing. A door that, according to the blueprints, should open into a bedroom. Instead, it opens into a narrow hallway that isn’t on any of the plans. The hallway ends at another door, which opens back into the same corridor they started from.
“That’s not possible,” Gaz says, looking between the blueprint and the actual space. “The dimensions don’t work.”
But they do. Somehow.
Soap finds the second oddity in the cellar. A wine rack that swings out to reveal a passage behind it. The passage leads to a room that’s empty except for a drain in the center of the floor.
Just a drain. And walls that show faint, rusty stains.
“The fuck is this?” Soap asks, but no one answers.
Price finds the third oddity on the second floor. A bathroom with a massive clawfoot tub, Victorian fixtures, and a smell that makes his skin crawl. The same metallic scent from last night, but stronger here.
There’s a cabinet beneath the sink. Inside are bottles, old glass, hand labeled in faded ink. He can’t read the language.
He doesn’t take anything. Just closes the cabinet and leaves.
By evening, they’ve barely covered a quarter of the house.
You make dinner again. Beef stew this time, with fresh bread. You’re quiet during the meal, picking at your food.
“Something wrong?” Gaz asks.
“Just tired,” you say. “I didn’t sleep well. I kept hearing…. ” You stop, shaking your head. “Never mind.”
“Hearing what?” Price presses gently.
You hesitate. “Scratching. In the walls. Like something trying to get out.”
The silence that follows is heavy.
“Old houses make noise,” Price says finally. “Pipes, wood settling, animals in the walls. Nothing to worry about.”
You nod, but you don’t look reassured.
That night, Soap offers to walk you to your room. You accept, grateful.
Price watches them go, watches the way Soap’s hand hovers near the small of your back without quite touching. The way he stands too close in the narrow hallway.
When Soap returns twenty minutes later, he’s grinning.
“She asked me to check the west wing,” he reports. “Make sure the windows were locked. Checked behind furniture like she’s five years old.” His grin widens. “She’s scared. Really scared.”
“Good,” Price says.
Day three, and you’re starting to relax around them.
You smile more easily. Laugh at Soap’s jokes. Let Price help you reach books on high shelves, his body warm against your back. You make tea for Ghost without being asked, remembering that he takes it black.
You’re starting to trust them.
You’re starting to feel safe.
That’s when they begin to tighten the noose.
It starts small. Soap stands a little too close when he talks to you. Price’s hands linger when he steadies you on the stairs. Gaz’s eyes track your movements in a way that should make you uncomfortable.
Ghost just watches. Silent. Present. A constant reminder that you’re not alone.
You notice. They can tell you notice. But you don’t say anything.
Maybe you think you’re imagining it. Maybe you think it’s harmless.
Maybe you’re too polite to call them out.
Price starts making decisions for you. Small ones at first.
“Don’t go walking on the grounds alone. Not safe.”
“Stay in the main areas during the day. Some of these rooms aren’t structurally sound.”
“Lock your door at night. Just in case.”
You follow his orders without question. Because he’s the security expert. Because he’s there to protect you.
Because you don’t realize the danger isn’t outside the house.
By day five, you’ve stopped mentioning the ghosts. Stopped jumping at sounds. You’re comfortable now, moving through the house with them like they’re part of the furniture.
You eat dinner with them every night. You sit in the library with Ghost while he reads, working on your laptop in companionable silence. You help Soap fix a loose board in the hallway, laughing when he makes a joke about his carpentry skills.
You’re alone with one of them almost constantly now. You don’t seem to realize they’ve arranged it that way.
That night, Gaz lingers after you say goodnight. Walks you to the west wing. Watches you unlock your door.
“Sleep well,” he says.
“You too.” You pause in the doorway, looking back at him. “Thank you. All of you. I feel so much safer now.”
The irony doesn’t escape him.
By day eight y he smell is stronger now. That metallic, organic scent that permeates certain parts of the house. It’s worst in the bathroom with the clawfoot tub, in the cellar room with the drain, in the narrow hallways that aren’t on any blueprints.
“It’s the pipes,” you say when Gaz mentions it. “I’ve had plumbers out three times. They can’t find the source. Old house, old pipes.” You shrug helplessly. “I’m sorry. I know it’s unpleasant.”
It is unpleasant. But it’s also familiar.
Price has smelled blood before. In sand, in mud, in enclosed spaces where it pools and congeals and rots.
This smells like that. But older. Deeper.
He doesn’t mention it.
That evening, they make their decision.
It’s time.
Tonight, they’ll stop pretending. Tonight, they’ll show you exactly what kind of men you’ve invited into your home.
They’ll take their time. They’ll be careful. When they’re done-
Well. No one knows they’re here. You have no family, no friends who visit. The house is remote enough that you could scream for days and no one would hear.
They have all the time in the world.
Price pours himself a drink in the library, watching the sun set over the moor. The sky bleeds red and orange, beautiful and violent.
Behind him, Soap is checking his knife. Gaz is quiet, but his hands are steady. Ghost is just… Ghost. Still. Ready.
They’re apex predators.
And you’re just a soft, scared girl who made the mistake of inviting wolves into your home.
Price drains his glass.
“Let’s go hunting,” he says.
They move through the house like smoke.
It’s late, past midnight. You’ll be asleep by now, alone in that big bed in the west wing. The door will be locked, but Ghost can pick any lock in under thirty seconds.
They take the main stairs, footsteps silent on the ancient runner. The house is dark except for the ambient moonlight through the tall windows. Everything is shadows and shapes, familiar now after days of mapping.
The west wing is colder. They notice it as soon as they cross into that section, the temperature drops at least ten degrees. Their breath mists in the air.
“Heating’s out here,” Soap mutters.
“Doesn’t matter,” Price says. “We’re not staying long.”
Your room is at the end of the hall. Third floor. A single door, just like you said.
They pause outside it. Price listens.
Nothing. No movement. No sound.
Ghost moves forward, lockpicks already in hand.
The lock turns with a soft click.
The door swings open.
The room beyond is empty.
Not empty like you’re hiding, empty like no one has been there in years. The bed is made with sheets that smell of lavender and dust. The furniture is covered in cloth. The air is stale.
“Wrong room,” Gaz says immediately.
But it’s not. There’s only one door on this floor of the west wing. This has to be it.
Unless you lied.
“Spread out,” Price orders. “Find her.”
They split up, moving through the west wing with increasing urgency. But every room they check is the same: empty, unused, covered in dust. Like this entire section of the house has been abandoned.
“This doesn’t make sense,” Soap says. “We’ve seen her come this way every night.”
“Then where the fuck is she?” Ghost growls.
A sound answers him. Faint. Musical.
Humming.
Coming from below them.
They exchange glances, then move as one toward the stairs. Down. Following the sound.
It leads them to the ground floor. To the back of the house. To a section they haven’t fully explored yet.
The humming stops.
They round a corner and freeze.
There’s a door there. Heavy wood, iron hinges. Old. Very old.
It’s ajar.
Warm light spills from the gap. And that smell- blood and age and something underneath that makes Price’s hindbrain scream danger- rolls out in a wave.
Ghost reaches the door first. He pushes it open slowly.
Stone steps lead down. Down into the earth, into darkness interrupted by flickering light.
Into the place the blueprints don’t show.
“Soap,” Price says quietly. “Go check it out.”
Soap grins, eager. “Finally. Thought we’d never find the fun.”
He starts down the stairs, knife in hand, boots silent on stone.
They wait at the top. Listening.
Soap’s footsteps descend. Ten steps. Twenty. The light grows brighter, warmer.
Then:
“Jesus Christ.”
His voice, awed and horrified at once.
“What is it?” Gaz calls down.
“You need to see this. All of you. Right fucking now.”
They descend together.
The stairs open into a room that shouldn’t exist. It’s massive, the size of the entire ground floor above. Stone walls, stone floor, ceiling lost in shadows. Lit by torches in iron sconces, actual torches, burning with flames that don’t smoke.
And the walls.
The walls are covered in tools. Restraints. Devices that Price recognizes from history books about the Inquisition, about medieval dungeons, about torture chambers that shouldn’t exist outside of museums.
In the center of the room is a table. Stone. Stained. And a clawed bathtub next to it.
And past that, set into the far wall, are cells. Iron bars, thick as a man’s wrist. Empty, all of them.
Except one.
Soap has stopped halfway across the room. He’s staring at the occupied cell.
Price moves to stand beside him.
Inside the cell is a man. Older. Weathered. Wearing clothes that might have been nice once.
He’s dead.
Not recently dead. The body is old, dried and withered. Chained to the wall by wrists and ankles.
His eyes are gone. His mouth is open in a scream that no one heard.
“Fuck,” Gaz breathes. “Fuck, we need to-”
“Going somewhere?”
Your voice. From behind them.
They turn as one.
You’re standing at the base of the stairs. You’re still wearing soft clothes, leggings, an oversized sweater. But something about you is different. Your posture. Your expression. The gas mask on your face.
You’re not scared anymore.
You’re not playing anymore.
“I was starting to think you’d never find this place,” you say conversationally. “Day eight. That’s longer than I expected. Then again, you were… distracted.”
Price’s hand moves to his weapon-
“I wouldn’t,” you say. And your voice isn’t soft now. It’s sharp. Cold. Ancient. “You’re already breathing it. Have been since you came down here. Another minute and you won’t be able to lift your arms.”
Gas. Colorless, odorless. Already in their lungs.
“What- ” Gaz starts, then sways. Catches himself on the wall.
“Old recipe,” you explain. “From before your countries existed. Before your languages. It’s very effective.” You tilt your head, studying them like specimens. “You were supposed to corner me tonight, weren’t you? Force me into a room, lock the door, take your time. I could see it in the way you moved. The way you looked at me.”
You step closer. Soap tries to move toward you and his legs buckle. Ghost catches him, but Ghost is swaying too.
“You thought you were predators,” you continue. “Four big, dangerous men. Military trained. Probably dishonorably discharged for things you can’t talk about. Things that made even your commanders nervous.” Your smile is soft. Understanding. “You’ve killed before. You’ve done worse. You thought that made you apex.”
Price’s vision is blurring. He tries to speak, but his tongue is thick.
“It doesn’t,” you say simply. “It just makes you bait.”
The last thing Price sees before the darkness takes him is your face.
Still beautiful. Still gentle.
With eyes that are far, far too old.
***
Price wakes slowly, consciousness returning in stages.
He’s cold. His head throbs. His mouth tastes like copper and chemicals.
He tries to move and can’t.
Restraints. Heavy metal cuffs around his wrists and ankles, chains connecting them to-
He forces his eyes open.
The clawfoot tub is directly in front of him, white porcelain gleaming in candlelight. It’s full of water. Steam rises from the surface.
The others are there too. Ghost to his left, Soap to his right, Gaz further down. All chained to pipes that run along the walls. All conscious now, struggling against their restraints with increasing desperation.
“Won’t work,” Ghost grunts. “Tried already. Chains are solid.”
Price tests them anyway. Ghost is right. The cuffs are old but strong, the chains anchored deep into the wall. He might be able to break free given enough time and the right leverage, but…
The door opens.
You descend the steps carrying a wooden case, the kind doctors used to make house calls a century ago. You’ve changed clothes. Now you’re wearing something that looks period: a long dress, deep red, with a corset and details that belong in a museum. Your hair is pinned up elaborately.
You look like you stepped out of a Renaissance painting.
You set the case on a small table near the tub, then turn to face them.
“You’re awake,” you observe. “Good. I was worried about the dosage. It’s been a while since I’ve done this.”
“The fuck is this?” Soap snarls, yanking at his chains. “Let us go. Right fucking now.”
You ignore him. Instead, you open the case. Inside, nestled in velvet, are knives.
Medical knives. Scalpels. Tools for very precise work.
Price’s blood goes cold.
“Let me tell you a story,” you say, selecting a blade and holding it up to the light. Testing the edge with your thumb. A bead of blood wells up. You lick it away absently. “Once upon a time, there was a girl. A countess, actually. Very wealthy. Very powerful. Very beautiful.”
You set the knife down, select another.
“She lived in a castle in Hungary. This was in the late 1500s, early 1600s. A time of war and plague and death.” You glance at them. “A time when people disappeared all the time and no one asked too many questions.”
“You’re insane,” Gaz says. His voice shakes.
“No. I’m a survivor.” You return to the case, trailing your fingers over the blades. “The countess, her name was Elizabeth Báthory and she discovered something interesting about blood. About vitality. About the life force that runs through young, strong bodies.”
You select a larger blade. A hunting knife.
“The legends say she bathed in the blood of virgin girls. That she killed hundreds trying to stay young forever.” Your smile is cold. “The legends got some things wrong. I didn’t need virgins. I needed strength. Vitality. The blood of warriors, soldiers, men who’d killed and survived and had decades of life still pumping through their veins.”
Price watches you move around the room, lighting more candles. His mind races, looking for an escape, a weapon, anything.
“They came for me eventually. Arrested me in 1610. Put me on trial.” You pause in front of the tub, running your hand through the steaming water. “And then they sentenced me to be walled up alive in my own castle. Bricked into a room with no door, no windows. Just a small slot for food and water that they barely used.”
“She died in 1614,” Ghost says flatly. “Elizabeth Báthory died in 1614.”
Your smile widens, and in the candlelight, your teeth seem too sharp.
“That’s what they wanted everyone to think,” you say softly. “That’s what the records say. But here’s what really happened.”
You turn to face them fully, and something in your eyes makes Price’s blood run cold. They’re too old. Too knowing. Too hungry.
“They sealed me in that room on December 21st, 1610. Winter solstice. Left me there to die.” You touch your chest, right over your heart. “No food. No water after the first few weeks. Just darkness and cold and the slow certainty of death.”
You walk closer.
“But I’d been consuming blood for decades by then. Strong blood. Soldier’s blood from the wars that raged across Europe. The vitality was in me, soaked into every cell. It kept me alive when I should have died.”
“You’re saying you’re her,” Price says slowly. “Elizabeth Báthory. Who died over 400 years ago.”
“I’m saying I didn’t die.” Your voice is matter of fact. “I should have. Any normal person would have. But the blood I’d taken sustained me. Preserved me. For four years I sat in that room, starving, my body consuming itself, but the stolen vitality kept my heart beating.”
You stop in front of Soap, looking down at him with something almost like pity.
“Do you know what it’s like to starve for four years? To feel your body eating itself from the inside? To exist in total darkness with nothing but hunger?” You tilt your head. “It changes you. Makes you something other than human.”
Your hand reaches out, touches his face. He jerks away, but your fingers trail down his jaw with surprising strength.
“In 1614, they stopped bringing food entirely. Assumed I was dead. The guards stopped checking.” Your smile is terrible. “So I started digging.”
“Bullshit,” Soap spits.
“Four years of accumulated desperation. Four years of superhuman preservation from all that stolen blood.” You hold up your hands, and in the candlelight, they can see faint scars on your fingertips. “I clawed through the mortar. Brick by brick. My fingers bled down to bone and regenerated. Over and over. The blood wouldn’t let me die.”
You pull away, return to your case of knives.
“When I finally broke through, it was winter. 1614. Everyone assumed I’d been dead for months. The castle was barely guarded.” You select the hunting knife again, testing its weight. “I walked out. Stole clothes. Stole money. And I disappeared.”
You approach Gaz, knife gleaming.
“For 400 years, I’ve been hunting,” you continue conversationally. “It’s easier than you’d think. Do you know what men are consistent about, no matter the century? No matter the culture?” You lean closer. “They want to fuck, and they want to fight. Those two drives make them so wonderfully predictable.”
The blade touches his throat. He goes very still.
“Battlefields are perfect hunting grounds,” you murmur. “The Thirty Years’ War. The Napoleonic Wars. The American Civil War. World War I, World War II, Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan.” You press the knife deeper, drawing a bead of blood. “Thousands dying every day. Who’s going to notice one or two soldiers going missing? Especially if they’re the violent ones. The ones with blood already on their hands.”
You collect the blood on your finger, taste it.
“Mmm. You’ve killed recently. I can taste it. The guilt. The violence. It makes the blood richer.”
“Why are you telling us this?” Price demands.
“Because you need to understand what you walked into.” You straighten, addressing all of them. “I’ve been doing this for centuries. I’ve refined it. Perfected it. I’ve taken blood from Crusaders and conquistadors. From samurai and Spartans. From every type of warrior humanity has produced.”
You gesture around the bathroom.
“This house? I built it in 1596, before they caught me. When I escaped, I came back here. It’s been in ‘my family’ ever since; distant relatives who look suspiciously like me inheriting it every few decades. The preservation spells I laid in the foundation keep it standing. Keep it hungry.”
“Spells,” Ghost repeats. “You’re saying magic is real.”
“I’m saying blood has power. Life has power. And I learned how to take it.” You move to the center of the room. “For 400 years, I refined the technique. Learned which blood gives the most vitality. Soldiers are best, men who’ve killed, who have violence in their veins. The more blood on their hands, the more years they give me.”
You look at each of them in turn.
“But it’s gotten harder. Technology. Tracking devices. GPS. Cameras everywhere. Dental records. DNA databases.” Your expression sours. “The old ways don’t work anymore. I can’t just pick off stragglers from battlefields. Can’t seduce soldiers in taverns and leave their bodies in ditches.”
You move to the tub, running your hand through the water.
“So I had to get creative. Private security seemed perfect, men with military backgrounds, often dishonorably discharged, working off the books. Men with violence in their past and no one who’d ask too many questions if they disappeared.”
You smile at them, and it’s the same gentle smile you gave them that first night.
“Men exactly like you.”
Gaz makes a sound. Horror and realization.
“The job posting,” Price says slowly. “The whole setup. You were hunting us from the start.”
“Of course.” You sound pleased that he understands. “I researched you. Knew what you’d done. Knew how you’d been discharged. Knew you were the type of men who’d see a soft, scared girl alone in a big house and think…” You pause. “Well. Think what you were thinking.”
You pick up the hunting knife.
“You thought you were predators. That’s adorable.” Your voice drops. “But I’ve been hunting predators since before your countries existed. Since before your wars had names. Since before the concept of ‘military contractor’ was invented.”
You approach Price, knife in hand.
“I am Elizabeth Báthory. I have been hunting and killing soldiers for 410 years. I have bathed in the blood of thousands of men who thought they were dangerous.” The knife touches his throat. “You’re just the latest crop.”
You pull the blade back and swing, right at his neck.
***
Six months later.
You’re in a coffee shop in Glasgow, laptop open, scrolling through job applications.
The posting went live three days ago. Private security needed. Remote estate. Long term placement. Competitive compensation. Discretion required.
You’ve already gotten forty seven responses.
Most are garbage. Too young. Too connected. Too clean.
But then you find one that makes you pause.
Private military contractor. International experience. Specialized skillset. Discrete operations. Two-man team, prefer to work together. Available immediately.
You draft a response:
Thank you for your interest. I can accommodate a team. The estate is quite remote. I can offer accommodation during the interview process.
Could you provide more details about your experience?
You hit send.
The response comes quickly:
We can be there next week. Monday, 1400 hours.
Our experience is extensive but specialized. The kind that doesn’t look good on paper. Your posting suggested discretion. We can provide that.
We don’t separate.
You smile and type back:
Monday is perfect. I’ll send the address. Looking forward to meeting you both.
Send.
Your phone buzzes.
Received. See you Monday.
- König & Horangi
Based off Countess Elizabeth Báthory of Ecsed and the Winchester House
Mmm just kicking my feet thinking about how toxic Price and Ghost are for each other. I know th fandom tends to write Price and Ghost as equals but John Price doesn’t believe in equals at all. Not in command, not in bed, and certainly not in the twisted knot they call a partnership.
The fist time he meets Ghost emerging from the smoke of a slaughterhouse op like death’s own shadow, Price’s gut twists with raw greed. He wants him. Not as a lover, not as a comrade, but as a conquest. A living legend to mount on his mantle, to polish and parade, because owning the unownable makes Price untouchable. Godlike.
Price craves Ghost not for his skills, but for the glow it casts on his own ego. “Elite operator,” he brags in war rooms, but what he savors is the envy in others’ eyes when Ghost executes flawlessly under his orders, a phantom chained to his will, amplifying his legend until Price isn’t just a captain, he’s the man who tamed the untamable.
He doesn’t bark orders outright; that’s for lesser men. Price engineers the traps instead: falsified intel that strands Ghost in hellfire, radio static that stretches seconds into agonizing minutes, ops where backup “fails” and Ghost fights alone, clawing through blood and bullets until he’s a ragged mess. Then Price arrives, the savior, clapping a gloved hand on Ghost’s bloodied shoulder: “Knew you’d pull through, Riley. Couldn’t let my best go down.”
He’s the puppetmaster who cuts the strings just to sew them back tighter, the arsonist who starts the blaze and sells the extinguishers, reveling in the debt that piles up.
Ghost, hollowed out by a lifetime of neglect, doesn’t just hunger for touch, he’s famished, a starving beast who’d gnaw his own limbs for a scrap of warmth.
Price’s grip on the back of his neck after a kill, the low rumble of “Well done, lieutenant,” hits like heroin, flooding the voids where affection should be. He knows it’s poison, sees the strings Price pulls, but the alternative is the cold abyss he’s clawed out of before.
Better a collar than the void. Better bruises from a possessive hand than the phantom ache of nothing.
Ghost spots the red flags but ignores them, too addicted to the crumbs. He lingers in Price’s shadow during briefings, presses into the casual brushes that leave him aching for more.
Price exploits every crack: Ghost’s aversion to crowds becomes “stay close to me,” his nightmares an excuse for Price to “check in” at odd hours, hands roaming under the guise of comfort until Ghost is begging, broken, for the only touch that doesn’t recoil.
It’s venomous because they feed off the rot. Price hoards his trophy, a feral dog muzzled and leashed, boosting his myth while slowly eroding Ghost’s will. Ghost clings to the abuser who calls it loyalty, handing over his autonomy piece by piece- missions, meals, even breaths timed to Price’s commands.
The leash isn’t just gravity; it’s a noose, tightening with every “good boy” murmured in the dark, every forced submission that blurs into surrender.
Price never needs chains; Ghost forges them himself, welding his soul to the man who sees him as property. And when the cracks show, when Ghost hesitates, eyes flickering with doubt, Price yanks hard, reminding him that freedom is a lie.
They’re locked in mutual destruction, Price’s empire built on Ghost’s ruins, Ghost’s existence defined by the hand that could crush him but chooses to own him instead. Toxic doesn’t even begin to cover it; it’s a slow, willing suicide pact.
The 141 as a pack- not in the found family kind of way, but in the hunting kind of way.
They spot you by accident.
Price is the first to clock you, mostly because he’s the sort who notices exits, shadows, people sitting alone. You’re on a stool near the end of the bar, tucked under a blown out neon sign that flickers uselessly overhead. The rest of the place is a mess of dim bulbs and TV glow, but somehow the shadows around you are softer, edged in a kind of warm sheen.
It’s probably just the jewelry.
Tiny pieces, nothing flashy on their own: delicate chain at your throat, a charm on a bracelet, thin hoops catching the light when you tuck your hair behind your ear. But every time you move, something glints. Not bright. Not gaudy. Just enough to pull the eye.
Soap follows the first flash of gold the way a cat chases a laser pointer.
“Ach, look at that,” he mutters around the lip of his beer bottle, elbow nudging Gaz’s. “Sittin’ all by herself. Cute as a button. Like a wee rabbit waitin’ for a fox.”
Gaz leans just enough to see past him. You’re nursing a drink, straw between your fingers, eyes on the shelves of cheap liquor like you’re reading the labels to avoid looking at anyone else.
“Been here a while,” he says. “Came in just after we did. No one’s come up to her twice.” His brow creases. “Keeps looking at the door, though.”
Ghost says nothing, but he’s watching too, tracking the pattern: every time the door opens, your head lifts and your bracelet catches the dark, giving a quick, soft flash. When you realize whoever walked in isn’t who you were hoping for, your shoulders fall. You go back to tracing the rim of your glass.
Nobody comes to sit with you. Nobody stays near you for long.
Too alone. Too pretty. Too jumpy.
Easy.
Price takes it in, slow and steady.
Pack instinct kicks in before any of them say the word. They don’t need to say anything to align on the same thought. It’s in the way their focus narrows, the way their chairs angle subconsciously toward you. A hunting posture, dressed in civilian clothes and half finished drinks.
They’re not the soft, found family kind of pack people romanticize. They’re the other kind; the kind that closes around a target without thinking.
“Could just be waitin’ on her boyfriend,” Gaz offers, because he’s the one who says that sort of thing, even if he doesn’t quite believe it.
“She wouldn’t still be here if he was worth a damn,” Soap replies. “Look at her. Fella’s either stupid or blind.”
Ghost watches your fingers. You’re not fidgeting like a practiced flirt; you’re rolling the straw wrapper tight, tight, tight until the paper is an over wound thread. The kind of nervous habit you don’t perform for attention; it just happens.
“Doesn’t matter,” Price says, deciding for them. “Place like this, someone’ll try their luck eventually. Might as well be us.”
Us, not me.
Price drains his glass and stands. “C’mon,” he says. “Before some drunk fucker with worse intentions gets there first.”
Soap grins. Gaz pushes off the bar. Ghost follows.
The four of them rise together, scatter of chairs on sticky floor, their approach casual enough not to spook you, coordinated enough to close off any direction that isn’t toward them.
You feel them before you see them. The bar is loud- music, clinking glass, too many overlapping conversations- but when they move, the noise tilts. You feel a shadow fall across your little island of dim light.
You look up- and up- and up.
“Evenin’, love,” Price says, taking the middle, anchoring your attention. His voice is warm, edged with something rough. “This seat taken?”
You look at him, eyes wide, and for a heartbeat he can see the thought stutter through your head: I should say yes. I should lie.
Then your gaze skips over his shoulder, across Ghost, over Soap’s grin, to Gaz’s more cautious face. Four of them. All big. All dangerous, in the way that sets off every alarm bell you’ve ever had.
Your fingers tighten around your glass. Up close, they’re even more intimidating. Big men, all of them. Broad shoulders. Scarred knuckles. The casual alertness that says they’re dangerous even when they’re pretending not to be.
Your throat works around a swallow.
“N-No,” you say, barely loud enough to be heard over the music. “Um. No, it’s not.”
You don’t move away when he takes the stool beside you, though. That’s the first little surrender.
Up close, he can see the jewelry looks even smaller. A fine chain resting in the dip of your collarbone, charm nestled where his eyes keep dropping. A tiny stud in your ear that catches the bar’s dim light and winks at him whenever you turn your head.
“Good,” Soap says, dropping onto your other side like you’re the natural center of their group. “Be a shame to leave such a lovely lass sittin’ on her own.”
Ghost leans against the bar behind you, silent. Gaz drifts just off your shoulder, close enough that if you tried to slip down from the stool, you’d have to brush past him.
You don’t realize you’re boxed in. Not yet.
“Quiet night for a girl like you,” Soap says lightly, accent softening the words. “You waitin’ on someone?”
You pick at the napkin under your glass. “I was. My friend bailed, though, so…” You give a little shrug, embarrassed. “Just…finishing this before I head home.”
“That right?” Price nudges your drink with a knuckle. “Let us get your last one, then. Call it a good deed.”
Your instinct is to refuse. You start to shake your head. “Oh, no, that’s okay, I don’t wanna- ”
“We insist,” Soap cuts in, already nodding at the bartender. “Same again for the lady.”
You fluster. You’re not used to this kind of attention. Your necklace glints when you duck your head, catching the dim light in a quick flash at your throat.
“Thank you,” you murmur when the fresh drink appears. “You…you don’t have to.”
“What if we want to?” Price asks, lips tipping. “Bit rough, a girl like you alone in a place like this.”
You huff a nervous laugh and twist the straw wrapper tighter. “C-could say the same thing.”
Gaz huffs a small breath. “We’ve got each other.”
“Pack of us,” Soap adds, grin widening.
“Oh.” You glance at all of them again, as if that just made them more intimidating. “That’s…nice.”
Price watches the way your shoulders hunch, the way you angle your knees toward the bar, as if you’re half expecting someone to bump you. “Thank you again.”
“S’okay lass,” Soap grins, leaning in. “We’re not that scary once you get to know us.”
You look at the mask, the beard, the scars at Soap’s throat, the quiet calculation in Gaz’s eyes.
“You’re a little scary,” you admit, voice trembling around the edge of a nervous laugh.
Something pleased curls through Ghost’s chest at that, dark and satisfied. Good. You should be.
“Good instincts,” he says. “Most people don’t have ‘em.”
You fluster, ducking your head, and when the bartender sets down the fresh glass, the cube of ice inside catches just enough of the overhead light to bounce it up, up, directly into the small crystal at your wrist. It flashes once, sharp, a pinpoint of brightness in all the gloom.
You talk.
They ask easy questions- about your job, about living near the river, about why you stayed when your friend left. You answer in fits and starts, words tripping, always circling back to sorry and I don’t usually and this is weird, right?
Every time you move your hands, the charm at your wrist gives a soft, quick gleam. Every time you turn your head, the little studs in your ears catch the bar’s failing lights.
They like how nervous you are. How your voice trembles when Soap leans in to tease you. How you can’t quite hold Ghost’s gaze for long. How you keep saying you should go home but never quite stand up.
You’re not sure how to extricate yourself now that four strangers with war in their posture have decided you’re interesting.
“You got far to walk?” Price asks, casually, after a while. “We’re headed out soon.”
You hesitate. Lie on the tip of your tongue: I drove or I’m just around the corner or My boyfriend’s coming.
You don’t say any of it.
“I live a few blocks away,” you admit. “Down by the river.”
At that, four pairs of eyes sharpen. Enough distance to get you alone. Enough darkness. Not so far that you’ll get suspicious if they offer to walk you.
“Not safe on your own at this hour,” Soap says immediately.
Gaz gives a low, almost gentle snort. “You seen the lot that hangs around near the bridge at night? Nah. We’ll walk you.”
You start to protest, shoulders curling, fingers twisting in the strap of your bag, but he cuts you off with a small, easy smile.
“Let us be gallant, yeah? Last good deed of the night. Then we’re gone.”
You don’t have a good reason to argue with that, and they can see the moment your resistance folds.
“O-Okay,” you say. “If…if you want to.”
Price drops some notes on the bar, more than enough to cover their tab and yours. You slide off the stool, nearly bumping into his chest as you steady yourself. His hands go to your hips without thinking, big palms warm and firm, catching you before you can stumble.
“There you go,” he murmurs. “Got you.”
You look up at him from under your lashes, throat working around a small, flustered sound. He feels you tremble, just a little, like a skittish animal not used to being held.
He squeezes, once, possessive.
Then they take you out into the night
The city is wet from some half hearted rain earlier, pavement slick, puddles glimmering in the bruise colored light of far off streetlamps. You walk in the middle of them without being told to, instinct or training or simple common sense putting you where you’re most boxed in.
Price on one side, Ghost on the other, Soap just ahead, Gaz at your back.
You keep your bag strap clutched tight, thumbs stroking the worn fabric. Every now and then your knuckles bump Price’s hand, and every time, he has to stop himself from catching your fingers and not letting go.
“We do this for everyone, you know,” Soap jokes lightly, shoving his hands in his pockets. “It’s a community service. ‘Walks For Strays.’”
You huff a startled laugh. “Is that what I am? A stray?”
He glances over his shoulder, eyes raking down your body in a way that’s anything but subtle. “Aye. You wandered right into our path, didn’t you?”
“Could’ve been anyone,” you say.
Price knows that’s not true.
He remembers the way his gaze kept snagging on you all night, how hard it was to keep his eyes from drifting back whenever you lifted your drink and the light slipped over your rings. How Ghost, normally content to sit with his back to the room and watch every corner, kept glancing in your direction.
“Wasn’t,” Ghost says quietly. “Was you.”
You don’t seem to know what to do with that. Silence falls for a few steps, your shoes splashing through a shallow puddle that sends a little fan of water up your calves. The reflection shivers there, ripples of light from the lamp above breaking apart and reforming, broken stars at your feet.
When you step up onto the drier pavement again, one of those broken stars lingers, caught on the thin chain at your ankle until it fades.
“Here,” you say softly after a while, nodding toward a side street. “This way.”
The road narrows, buildings rising up on either side. Fewer lights. Fewer people. The river’s smell rides the air, damp and metallic.
Price feels that familiar shift in his chest: the one that comes at the end of a hunt, when the world narrows down to the target and the terrain and what comes next.
You don’t notice. You’re too busy watching your footing, stepping around a cracked bit of pavement, apologizing when you bump Soap with your shoulder.
You stop in front of an old brick building with a cracked stoop and a single tired bulb over the door.
“This is me,” you say, turning to them with that same small, uncertain smile. “Um. Really. Thank you. For walking me.”
“Be rude to leave it here,” Soap says, tongue in his cheek. “You could at least offer us a cuppa, hen.”
Your eyes widen. “Oh! I, um. I mean, my place is a mess, I wasn’t- ”
“We don’t mind mess,” Gaz says.
Price takes a half step closer, not touching you, but close enough that you have to tip your head back to look at him.
You don’t meet his eyes. “I don’t know,” you say honestly. “I’ve never…”
You bite your lip. Nervous. Thinking. You look at each of them, one by one, like you’re weighing something heavy.
You trail off, skin heating, shame and something else crawling up your neck.
Price files that away like it’s intel. Never. Never taken strangers home. Never done something like this.
But she’s out here, with four men twice her size, letting them walk her into the dark.
You could fumble the lock and slip inside alone, door closing in their faces. You could make up a boyfriend, a roommate, a brother.
You don’t do any of those things.
You nod. Tiny, decisive.
“…Okay,” you whisper. “For a little while.”
The satisfaction that rolls through them is dark and mutual.
“Good girl,” Price murmurs before he can stop himself.
You flush all the way to your ears and fumble the key in the lock. When the door finally gives, you laugh, flustered. “Sorry. My hands are…”
She’s shaking, he thinks, pleased.
They follow you inside.
The hallway is dim and narrow, the overhead light bare and buzzing.
“Sorry,” you say, starting up the stairs. “The landlord keeps saying he’s going to fix the lights on the second floor and then never does.”
“Typical,” Gaz mutters.
On the landing, the bulbs are all dead. The only light seeps up from the stained glass window in the stairwell, painting everything in a murky, underwater wash. It brushes your face when you glance back at them.
For a second, your eyes seem to catch it and hold it, pupils blown wide, irises gleaming oddly in the blue green.
Then you blink, and it’s gone.
“This is me,” you say again, stopping at the first door on the left. You unlock it and push it open into darkness. “I’ll get the- oh. Right. Sorry. The hall light doesn’t reach in here. One second, the lamp is…”
You reach inside, patting the wall, fingers feeling for a switch that isn’t there. The four of them stack behind you, big silhouettes in the narrow hall.
“Here,” Price says, hand settling at the small of your back, guiding you in. “We’re not afraid of the dark.”
You give a breathy little laugh. “I kinda am,” you admit. “Just…don’t leave me standing in it, okay?”
The words make something low in Ghost’s chest twist in a way he doesn’t examine.
“That’s not on the agenda,” he says.
You step fully into the apartment. The dim hall light dies as the door swings almost shut behind them. Shadows swallow everything; the noise of the city outside muffles.
“Lamp’s by the sofa,” you mumble. “Just- hang on…”
They hear you move. The soft thump of your bag dropped on some surface. The scrape of your shoes toed off. Your voice, closer to the center of the room now.
Something inside them unwinds. This is familiar: dark rooms, unknown layouts, a target’s breathing somewhere just ahead. They relax into the predatory rhythm without even meaning to.
Soap’s hand finds the back of the sofa in the dark. Gaz’s foot bumps into the edge of a low table. Ghost’s fingers twitch once, reminding themselves there’s no weapon in them tonight.
“You sure you paid your electric bill?” Soap asks, laughing under his breath when the first lamp you try doesn’t click on.
You huff. “Funny. It worked this morning. I think the bulb just-”
The sentence cuts off.
The silence that follows is sudden and heavy.
“Love?” Price says. “You all right there?”
You don’t answer immediately.
Then, from deeper in the room: “Yeah. Yeah, I’m…here. Just- don’t move for a second, okay? It’ll be easier if you let your eyes adjust.”
There’s a new note in your voice. Not exactly different- still soft, still gentle- but smoother. Calmer. Like something let go.
They stand still, obedient without thinking about it.
The dark presses in.
Slowly, shapes begin to tease themselves out- the paler rectangle of a window, the looming outline of a bookshelf, the shadowed bulk of the sofa.
And you.
You’re standing a few feet away, turned toward them. The faint light from the street outside brushes your outline but doesn’t quite touch your face. For a breath, you look exactly like you did at the bar- small, bare armed, hair falling around your shoulders, the delicate chain at your throat a dim line in the gloom.
The glint of your jewelry answers the glow- your necklace, your bracelet, your rings all picking up that strange, pale color and tossing it back in miniature. It slides over your features, revealing them in slices: the curve of your mouth, the bridge of your nose, the line of your cheek.
Your smile is small.
And wrong.
It’s too wide. Not grotesque, not cartoonish; just a fraction beyond human, the corners of your lips pulled back enough to show teeth that look a shade too long, too thin. Not blunt little herbivore teeth, but fine, needled things that catch the strange light the way deep water catches moonshine.
Price’s hand, half lifted, stills.
“Turn the lamp on,” Ghost says, voice low. A command, not a request.
You tip your head.
“No,” you say, almost apologetically. “I don’t need it.”
The room seems to shift around that answer. The air grows heavier, cooler. The smell of the river outside seeps in under the window frame, only it’s stronger now, richer, like true seawater. Salt and depth and something briny underneath.
The moonlight bleeds in through the window slightly and the faint glow it throws off reveals more details now: the way your pupils have narrowed to vertical slits in eyes that gleam with their own internal shine; the faint, opalescent pattern under your skin along your throat and collarbones, like scales lying just beneath the surface; the way the chain at your ankle has gone almost luminescent, the bones of your bare feet pale as the bellies of deep fish.
Price’s mouth goes dry.
“What are you?” he asks, very softly.
You tilt your head again, studying him.
“You know those fish,” you say, “with the little lanterns? Way down where it’s too dark for anything else to shine?” You give the necklace a small, idle flick, and it swings, hypnotic. “They sit there for hours, just…waiting. Letting the hungry things come to them.”
Soap’s pulse roars in his ears. Gaz swallows. Ghost takes a single, measured step forward like he’s testing how real this is, how dangerous.
You watch him do it. The glow stretched over your face makes your smile seem sharper.
“I didn’t want you to think I was anything but innocent,” you go on conversationally, as if explaining something simple. “That’s important. If the prey knows the hook is there, it won’t bite.” Your gaze roams over them, four big men in a stranger’s dark living room, shoulders tense, instincts finally whispering wrong, wrong, wrong far too late. “Do you know how many things in the deep are drawn to light that won’t harm them? To something that looks small, harmless, soft? They can’t help it. Their brains aren’t built to resist.”
The last word curls like smoke, amused.
“You made yourself pretty,” Ghost rasps, fingers digging into his palms as he fights the instinct to step closer. “So we’d…come to you.”
You tilt your head, pleased. Brilliant boy. You’ve always liked the wary ones. They make the best meals. The most satisfying captures.
“Of course I did,” you say. “The abyss doesn’t chase. It waits. It shines.” You tap your chest lightly with the tips of your fingers. “I just had to sit in the right bar long enough. Predators always think they’re the only ones hunting.”
Your own teeth catch the glow when you smile wider.
“Anglerfish don’t chase,” you say, almost gently. “We wait. We shine.”
The little necklace hangs there, bright and terrible in the pitch black of your living room, and Task Force 141 realizes far, far too late that they never chose you at all.
Alternative Part two of the boys getting dosed by Truth Serum but instead of Soap it was Ghost
You met them in the corridor as they hauled Ghost out of the room. He wasn’t fighting. That was the worrying bit. He walked between Gaz and Soap calmly, mask still on, eyes unnervingly clear and focused in a way that made your stomach knot.
“Get him in the side room,” Price ordered. “Door open. I want him where we can see him.”
They plunked Ghost down in a chair in the small debrief room next to observation. Fluorescent light buzzing. Concrete. Chairs that had seen better centuries.
Ghost sat like a very large, very dangerous statue. Hands folded. Boots planted. Every inch of him broadcast: fine, this is fine, I am absolutely fine.
You’d seen him concussed and bleeding and he’d looked more rattled than this.
Price pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Nobody ask him anything not strictly operational.”
“Copy,” you said, and then- because you are a fool- “How you feeling, Lt?”
Ghost looked up, utterly deadpan. “I want to bend you over this table, push your face down, and fuck you until you’re you dripping and needy, taking everything I give you. I’d keep you there- hand on your back, palm round your throat- ‘til you’re sobbing and soaked through. Want to ruin you for anyone else.”
Soap choked. Gaz left his body. Price closed his eyes and saw the war again.
You stared. “I- what?”
Ghost shrugged, that tiny, indifferent lift of his shoulder. “You asked how I’m feelin’. Well, that’s it.” He paused, head tilting to look at your measuring, clinical. “Be a proper fuckin’ picture, you would. Face down on that table, hands flat, tryin’ to hold yourself together. I’d have you arse up, legs wide, spread out for me, beggin’ me to go easy ‘cause you know I won’t. Wouldn’t let up, not till you’re shakin’, voice gone from moanin’ my name, tears on your cheeks from takin’ my cock so deep you feel me in your cunt for days after.”
“Christ on a bike,” Gaz whispered.
“What the hell, Simon?” You asked, gaping at him.
“Can’t lie, love.” His tone was flat, like he was reciting the weather. His gaze slid down your body; slow, clinical, lingering everywhere it shouldn’t. He took his time dragging back up, fixing you with that heavy stare behind the mask. “And seems I can’t shut up either- every time you walk in, I think about how easy it’d be to get you under me. How you’d sound beggin’ with my hand between your legs my fingers buried in your cunt, how good you’d look with your lips wrapped round my cock, droolin’ for it- fuckin’ fantastic. Been wantin’ to say this for ages.”
Soap leaned his hip on the table, grinning like Christmas had come early. “Oh, I like this.”
Gaz pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is a safeguarding violation with legs.”
Price ignored them. “Simon, focus. You know who we are?”
“Course I do, sir,” Ghost said. “You’re my captain. Gaz is tryin’ not to laugh. Soap’s havin’ the time of his life. An’ she- ” he jerked his chin at you, “- is three seconds from either swingin’ at me or climbin’ in my lap and bounce on it.” He paused. “Maybe both if I’m lucky.”
You made a strangled, high pitched sound you’d deny on your deathbed. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t need to excuse you, love,” he said. “Just need you to stretch first.”
Silence. Even the lights stopped humming to watch the show.
“Statistically.” He clarified, tapped the table, perfectly calm. “You look at my hands when I’m cleaning weapons and then rub your throat. Pupils dilate point two millimetres when I call you ‘love’. You stand closer when I’m in a bad mood. You want the monster. Preferably on your couch. Cushions are useless, by the way. Won’t help your back when I fold you in half and bury my dick in your cunt.”
Price massaged his temples. “Simon.”
“Sir?”
“Go easy.”
Ghost considered. “Negative.”
He turned back to you, flat as ever, eyes half lidded. “Tonight, I’d put my knee on the chair, you on your stomach. One hand holdin’ you down, other between your legs, rubbing your clit while I fuck you deep, feel your cunt choking my cock. Want to hear you cry for it. Want to feel you fall apart on me while you’re pinned under my hand like you’re made to be there.”
Gaz slapped a hand over his ears. “Nope. No. Absolutely not. Where’s the volume control- ”
He spun toward the observation console, hand shooting for the dial that controlled the mic feed.
In the split second before he got there, Soap clocked his intention and launched.
“Don’t you DARE!” Soap yelled, rugby tackling Gaz away from the controls. They hit the floor in a tangle of limbs, both swearing.
“MacTavish you bloody bastard!” Gaz wheezed.
“No!,” Soap crowed, trying to pin him. “If you touch that button to drown him out, I’ll bite yer hand off, I’m not missin’ this!”
Price dragged a hand down his face. “Professionalism. I’d like some.”
“Not today, sir,” Soap said from the floor. “Today’s for the lads and he’s about to submit a three point plan.”
Ghost obliged. “Four point plan.” He turned to you again. “One: I eat you until you’re crying. Two: you beg. Three: I pretend I didn’t hear you and keep going. Four: you get stupid enough to say please and I reward good manners. Training matters.”
Your jaw had left its hinges. “You can’t- you don’t talk like this.”
“I do now.” He hummed. “This is nice. We should do this more often.”
Price looked skyward. “I’m instituting a swear jar for any word related to… that.”
“Fucking,” Ghost supplied helpfully.
“Right,” Price snapped. “That’s five quid.”
Ghost nodded. “Worth it.” He turned that blank, laser focus back to you. “Also worth it: you sitting on my face. I would die there. Happy to. Don’t revive me. Leave me. Carve ‘died doing what he loved’ into a cheap pine box and throw me in a canal.”
Soap wheezed, tears leaking. “He’s gone, captain. He’s with the angels.”
You grasped for some kind of footing. “But you’re… You’re always so rude to me.”
“True,” he agreed. “Y’like it.”
“I do not,” you snapped.
“Y’like it,” he repeated calmly. “Your cheeks go pink when I bully you. You clench when I call you a brat. You want me to pin you to the floor and tell you you’re annoying while I make you come on my fingers. Then you want to choke on my cock until you’re drooling down my thighs.”
Your soul tried to escape your body via the ceiling.
Gaz wriggled out from under Soap just far enough to gasp, “I’m loggin’ this as ‘intelligence leak’.”
“Fuckin’ right you are,” Soap laughed. “He’s leaking something.”
You reached for dignity again and came up with a knife. “Say another word and I’ll stab you.”
Ghost nodded, thoughtful as ever, like he was adding notes to your personnel file “Noted. You get off on threatening me. Could’ve guessed, but now I know for sure. Makes things easy, doesn’t it? Because I’ll be honest- not like I have a choice- every time you aim a blade at me, every time you spit and tell me to fuck off, it goes straight to my cock.”
His tone didn’t waver, just that quiet, factual Ghost delivery. “Means we’re well matched. You threaten to stab me, I get hard. I threaten to pin you down and make you beg, you get wet. Could build a relationship off that. Real healthy foundation mutual arousal by violence. Not sayin’ it’s textbook, but it’s honest. You threaten to kill me and I’ll fuck you harder. Win-win.”
“I-!”
He held up a hand, courtroom sober. “For the record, I doubt Price is going to let me rail you right now but since I can’t keep my mouth shut, I’ll just paint you a picture instead: every filthy thing I’m goin’ to do to you once this shit’s out of my system. So you’ve got time to get ready and prepare your affairs.”
“Prepare my-?”
“Wills. Stretching routines. Hydration.” He pointed at your water bottle. “Finish that. You cramp when you’re dehydrated and then you get a headache and make these huffy little annoyed sounds. Cute as fuck. Makes me wanna ruin you.”
Price put his face in his hands. “I’m too old for this.”
Ghost leaned back in his chair, inexorable. “Scenario A: you knock on my door at oh one hundred ‘for a question’. I open it. You pretend to forget the question. I say, ‘Out with it, love.’ You say, ‘I hate you,’ and then try to kiss me to shut me up. I put you against the wall and do not kiss you until you ask properly. Scenario B: stairwell-“
“Stop giving options!” Gaz begged. “Pick one and perish!”
“- Scenario C,” Ghost continued serenely, “gym. You’re doing bench dips. I stand behind you and correct your form. You moan. Pathetic, sweet little sound you pretend is exertion. I call you out. You deny it. Then I- ”
“Simon,” you said through your fingers, “I am literally going to combust.”
“Not literally,” he said. “But later, yes. Screaming and everything.”
Soap slapped the floor. “Actually going to combust.”
You tried one last, limp defense. “You’re mean. All the time. You don’t even like me.”
“Incorrect.” He watched you like you were something he meant to disassemble and polish. “I like you in a way that is both deeply inconvenient and alarmingly structural. If I were a house, you’d be the load bearing wall. I cannot knock you down. I can, however, knock you up- ”
“OUT!” Price barked, pointing at the hallway like an angry dad. “Med bay. Alone. No one talk to him!”
Ghost stood obediently, chair scraping, then paused in the doorway and looked back at you. The tone didn’t change, still that unbothered, sand dry delivery but something hungry flickered behind it.
“Contingency note before I’m banished,” he said. “You keep saying I’m mean. Okay. But you would still let me fuck you.”
You threw the knife. He caught it without looking and set it on the table like a librarian shelving a returned book.
“Also,” he added, the barest tilt to his head, “you’re going to punch me about this later. I endorse it. Normal reasons.”
“What fucking normal-!”
“For the record,” he went on, already turning away, “before any of that? I’m going to make you dinner, wash your hair, kiss your knees, and tell you you did a good job today. Then I’m going to put you on your stomach and- ”
“MED BAY!” Price bellowed, herding him down the hall with both hands like a sheepdog herding a very large, very horny sheep.
The door shut. There was a stunned quiet. Soap rolled over boneless to the floor, giggling into his palms. Gaz sat up and put his head between his knees.
Price exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for ten minutes. “You alright?”
You stared at the empty doorway, brain white noise, thighs pressed together in a way that absolutely wasn’t because of anything he said. “No.”
“Mm.” Price rubbed his face. “He’ll be himself again in a few hours.”
“God,” you said weakly. “You mean worse?”
“Quieter,” Price said. “But he’ll remember. And he’ll mean every word.”
You let that roll through you, catastrophic and warm and terrible.
From down the hall, through the door, came Ghost’s muffled voice with the same implacable calm: “For later documentation: I am going to put my mouth on- ”
“SIMON!” three voices roared in unison.
You mouthed at the ceiling. Then you grabbed your water bottle- hydration, apparently- and took a long drink.
Gaz cheeks pink, eyes wide. “So… gym tomorrow?”
You capped the bottle with shaking hands. “Absolutely not.”
“-I’ve spent every bloody briefing picturing’ ye bouncing on my cock in that goddamn conference chair, legs spread wide, skirt rucked up- oh, fuck, I can hear myself, please someone gag me-“
You almost trip over your own feet. Soap’s weight is all muscle and dramatic regret, arm slung around your shoulders as you half carry, half drag him out of the interrogation cell. Gaz is behind you, already losing it, shoulders shaking with laughter. Ghost is…well, Ghost, arms crossed, blocking every possible exit and holding all the guns out of reach.
“Truth serum’s a bitch, Johnny,” Gaz snickers. “Can’t wait to hear what else you’ve been hiding.”
Soap’s face is red. Not combat red, not out-of-breath red… just “my soul is leaving my body and it’s taking my dignity with it” red.
He stares straight ahead and groans, the words tumbling out like a confessional on speed. “D’you know I’ve had dreams- actual dreams, like REM sleep; where I’m eatin’ you out in the back of the Rover while Price tries not to crash? And then I wake up and gotta hide a boner all through briefing- fuckin’ hell, I hate this!”
Ghost drawls, unapologetic: “Don’t stop on my account, Johnny. Been a slow week.”
Soap turns to you, desperate “You believe me, right? I don’t want to say this! But my mouth’s got a mind of its own and my mind is just screaming ‘don’t mention the thigh thing, don’t mention the thigh thing- ’ oh, brilliant, now I’m thinking about your thighs. Wanna have your legs over my shoulders while I make you beg, want you whimperin’ and sayin’ my name, christ, just- someone gag me, please, before I die of shame.”
You snort, and he’s so loud the medics look up in alarm as you haul him into the clinic.
“Can I get a sedative or a muzzle?” Soap begs. “Maybe just tie me down, but not in the fun way- oh, fuck, now I’m picturing it in the fun way, shit- rope burn on your wrists, my hand in your hair- GAZ, STOP LAUGHING.”
Gaz wipes away tears. “I dunno, mate, I’m learning so much.”
Soap blinks up at the ceiling in despair. “Right, and I’ll never be able to look at any of you again. Especially you, love. Gonna haunt my nightmares, you will. And my daydreams. D’you know how many times I’ve pictured you bendin’ over the conference table? Do you?”
You try to give Soap a dry look but it comes out amused. “Johnny, focus. Stay with me. Try thinking about something else.”
Soap, instantly, blurts out: “I’ve pictured you sittin’ on my face. I’d skip meals for it, I swear. Breakfast, lunch, dinner- just you, right here-” (he actually points to his mouth; Gaz almost collapses.)
Ghost, utterly deadpan: “Medic says you’ll live. Shame about your reputation, though.”
Soap glares. “You wanna help me, Simon? Or just stand there, looking smug?”
“Nope.” He pops the ‘p’. “This is the most fun I’ve had in months.”
“Love, can you at least pretend you’re not enjoyin’ this? Please? I’ve got one brain cell left and it’s losing the will to live.” Soap pleads.
You pat his chest; maybe too gently. “Almost done, Johnny. You’re doing great.”
“You say ‘good boy’ one more time, I’ll embarrass myself right here in the med bay.” Soap whines. “Already halfway there, honestly- hell, I’ve been picturing your hand around my cock since day one, every night, every cold shower, every bloody PT run- oh god, make it STOP-“
Gaz straights and grins. “Price is on comms. Wants to know what you’re confessing to.”
Soap, looking to heaven and squeezes his eyes. He genuinely tries to bite his lip and keep it inside but the truth serum spews out regardless. “Tell him I said sorry. And that if he doesn’t want me sayin’ how he calls out your name in his sleep, he best not leave me alone with this bloody serum-”
There’s a pause before Ghost informs him. “Heard that. He’s gonna kill you.”
Soap sighs, slumping on the gurney, mortified but somehow still going. “Aye. I’ll die as I lived. Horny and surrounded by bastards.”
He looks up at you, all desperate, blue eyes and a prayer. “Seriously. If someone doesn’t knock me out, I swear to god, Simon, if you don’t give me my gun right now-!”
Ghost just grins like the bastard he is. “Negative, Johnny. You’re the entertainment.”
Alternative Part four of the boys getting dosed by Truth Serum but instead of Soap, Ghost, and Price, it was Gaz
When Gaz stumbled out of the holding cell, rubbing his temples like he'd just woken up from a nap in hell, everyone braced. He looked… normal. Cap on backwards, easy smile, that effortless charm that always soaked through him dialed up to eleven. Except his eyes were glazed, like he was about to narrate a rom com but with all the director's cuts included.
"Right," Price said, steering him into the debrief room with a hand on his shoulder. "Sit down, Sergeant."
Gaz dropped into the chair with the graceful flop of a supermodel, legs stretched out, arms draped over the back like he was lounging at a beach bar. He flashed you a grin that could melt steel.
Price took the chair opposite, elbows on his knees, wearing the look he saved for explosives and his own team. Ghost leaned against the wall, arms folded, and you could feel the amusement radiating off him even through the mask. Soap parked himself on the table, grinning like he'd bought front row tickets to a car crash.
Gaz blinked slowly, dopey smile blooming, eyes finding you and refusing to leave. "You're so pretty," he said, dreamy as a lullaby.
You startled. "I- what?"
He tilted his head, utterly earnest, like he was sharing the world's most important secret. "Proper knock-me-silly pretty. Like if you asked me to walk into a doorframe I'd do it, smiling, an' then say 'thank you.'" He squinted thoughtfully, smile never wavering. "Your mouth's my favorite shape on base."
Ghost's phone appeared in his hand so fast you almost missed it. The camera sound was not muted.
"Are you… are you recording this?" you hissed.
"Evidence," Ghost said, tone absolutely gleeful beneath the deadpan. "For… operational purposes."
"BLACKMAIL purposes," Soap corrected, grinning.
"That too."
"Truth compound," Price cut in flatly, ignoring them both. "Cognition intact, inhibitions nonexistent.”
Gaz nodded enthusiastically, like a puppy who'd just learned a new trick. "Cognition intact! Feelings… loud." His gaze did a slow, appreciative sweep down, then back up, taking his sweet time. "You're trouble, love."
You swallowed hard, feeling your face heat. "Kyle, maybe we should- "
"Define trouble, Sergeant," Ghost cut in, and you could hear the grin under the mask.
Gaz's dopey smile shifted, edges going sharp with heat. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and the room’s temperature jumped ten degrees. "The sort that makes me want to put you on my lap and see how long you can keep that clever mouth closed while I make the rest of you talk."
The room went silent.
Then he kept going, like he was warming to his subject. "And you've got this way of biting your lip when you're thinking- drives me mental. Makes me want to do the biting for you." His voice dropped, velvet soft.
Soap wheezed.
Gaz tipped his head. "I'd start slow. Trace my fingers down your spine, nice and easy, feel you arch into it." His hands moved in demonstration, graceful and deliberate, like he was already touching you. "Whispering how stunning you are while I kiss my way south. Take my time with it."
Your face was on fire. "Kyle- "
"Mm." He rolled your tone on his tongue, eyes going half-lidded with pleasure. "Yeah, say it like that again. Say my name all breathy and I'll be gentle about it."
His hand lifted, two knuckles extending to tip your chin up right there in front of everyone. You jerked back in your chair so fast your chair scraped across the floor. Your heart was hammering, face burning hot enough to set off the fire alarms, every nerve ending feeling exposed and raw. The way he was looking at you made your thighs press together involuntarily.
He smiled wider, lazy and satisfied. "There," he murmured to himself. "That's it. Pretty thing getting all flustered."
Soap slid a look at Price. “Should we… stop this?”
Ghost's phone was definitely still recording. “Don’t stop on our account, Sergeant.”
Gaz's attention snapped to you again, all heat and zero shame. "I'll take care of you," he said, voice dropping into that velvet register that should be illegal. "I've got a twenty-seven-step Korean skincare routine, love. Want you to have the nicest seat in all of London when you're riding my face."
Ghost went still. Then his shoulders started shaking.
He was laughing. Silent, full body, barely restrained laughter.
"Double cleanse, serums, slug it overnight; trust me, you'll thank me when you can't sit down without thinking about me."
You stared at the floor. The floor stared back. “That’s very… thoughtful.” you squeaked.
"I'm texting this to Laswell," Ghost announced.
"Don't you DARE- "
"Already sent. She says, and I quote: 'Put him in a medically induced coma before he gets someone pregnant via voice alone.'"
Soap howled.
Gaz settled back in his chair, looking utterly content, like he'd just won something. "I'd take my time between your thighs, love. Tongue exploring every inch, making you melt like honey on a warm day." He said it like he was describing a sunset, all reverent and sincere. "Want to hear those soft sighs turn into moans. Feel you grip my hair- " he mimed it, fingers curling, "- as I lick you deep, circling your clit until you're dripping for me."
"Jesus Christ," you whispered.
"Begging in that sweet voice of yours," he continued, completely undeterred. His smile went absolutely wicked. "'Kyle, please'- yeah, like that. You'd sound so good begging for me."
Soap fell off the table. Ghost's phone tilted. "Zoom function's incredible on this thing."
Price let out a breath, like he remembered that maybe he should be a Captain right now. "Garrick. How do you feel? Physically."
Gaz hummed, dreamy. "Like I could run a marathon. Or fuck for three hours. Probably both." He didn't even glance over when he answered, too focused on you. "Honestly? I've fantasized about you more times than I can count." He said it like a confession, earnest and unashamed, hand moving to his lap, gripping the crotch and adjusting a very obvious buldge that made your throat tight. You were not looking. You weren’t. "Pictured us in the back of a helo, miles above the ground."
His hands moved again, painting the scene in the air between you. "Your legs wrapped around me while I slide into you slow and deep, feeling every inch." His eyes fluttered briefly, like he was savoring the mental image. "I'd rock into you, hand over your mouth to muffle those gorgeous sounds you'd make."
He demonstrated, palm up, fingers slightly curved, so gentle it was obscene. "Whispering how perfect you feel, clenching around my cock. You'd come undone up there, all flushed and breathless." His voice dropped to almost a purr. "And I'd follow, filling you up just right."
"Kyle, please-!" you flustered, and he groaned, eyes fluttering like he was savoring the sound.
"That's it" Gaz's smile was radiant, delighted. "Even you just saying my name gets me going." He shifted in his chair, getting comfortable like he was settling in for a long chat. "Imagine you on top, riding me, hands on my chest- " he pressed his own hands to his chest, showing you, "- taking what you need, using me."
"I'm imagining being literally anywhere else," you squeaked into your hands.
Ghost's voice was warm with schadenfreude. "But you're not, though. You're right here. With us. Being serenaded by Garrick's horny poetry. And I'm capturing every second."
Gaz’s eyes went distant, dreamy. "I'd guide your hips, tell you how beautiful you look using me like that. How your body's made for this, wet, tight, perfect." The words rolled off his tongue like poetry. "Then I'd flip us over when you're close, pin you down and thrust deep until you shatter."
"Taking notes," Soap announced. "Wet, tight, perfect. That needs t' go on th’ highlight reel, Si.”
Gaz made a soft, satisfied sound. "Whispering 'that's it, love, let go for me' right in your ear. You'd feel so good, clenching around me, saying my name like a prayer- "
"Beautiful," Ghost said, dead serious. "Poetic. Really paints a picture."
Soap was fully on the floor now, gasping. "He's- he's like if Mr. Darcy joined Pornhub- "
Ghost nodded. "Already got the title for the video file: 'Sergeant Garrick's Horny Soliloquy: A Tragedy in Several Parts.'"
Price moved abruptly, chair scraping. "Hydration. Now." He shoved a water bottle at Gaz.
Gaz took it obediently, drank, then set it down with a satisfied sigh. His eyes found yours again, twinkling with mischief and zero self-preservation. "Wanna hear more?"
"No," you said desperately.
"Yes," Ghost and Soap said immediately. "Please. Continue."
"Lovely," Gaz said, delighted. "Honestly, I've fantasized about pinning you against the lockers in the armory. Your back to the cold metal, my hands warm on your hips- " he squeezed the air, demonstrating the grip. "I'd grind against you slow, letting you feel how hard you make me."
He mimed it, hips rolling in the chair with indecent grace. "Then I'd drop to my knees right there." He gestured downward, reverent. "Fingers slipping inside you, curling just right while my mouth works magic on your clit."
His fingers crooked in demonstration, and you wanted to die. You slid lower in your chair. If you tried hard enough, maybe you could phase through the floor.
"I'd edge you 'til you're begging, love." He pitched his voice up slightly, imitating you: "'Kyle, please, more'- yeah, you'd sound just like that." Back to his normal voice, going darker: "And then I'd stand, slide my cock in deep, thrusting with that perfect rhythm until you're clenching around me, coming so hard the whole base hears it."
He pressed a finger to his lips, eyes dancing. "But shh, our little secret."
Soap was making sounds like a dying walrus.
Gaz turned to look at him, genuinely concerned. "You alright, mate?" Then, without waiting for an answer, he swiveled back to you.
"Kyle- "
"You'd look so good on your knees," he said, voice dropping to something intimate and filthy. "Looking up at me with those eyes, lips parted. I'd trace your mouth with my thumb- " he brushed his own thumb across his lower lip, slow and sensual, "- then guide you onto my cock. Let you take me deep, slow. Set your own pace."
Soap crawled back onto the table, hair disheveled, eyes manic. "Cap- Cap- can we keep 'im like this? Please? It's like Shakespeare joined OnlyFans!"
Ghost nodded sagely. "'To fuck or not to fuck, that is the erection.'" He paused. "I'm putting that on a mug."
You choked on your own spit.
Price looked at Ghost. Just looked at him.
Ghost shrugged, still recording. "What? I contain multitudes. Mostly spite and blackmail."
Gaz leaned back, utterly unbothered by the chaos. "Can't stop the truth train, sir. Next stop: nasty."
"We're already there," you hissed.
"Oh, sweetheart." His smile went molten. "We haven't even started."
Ghost's voice was downright cheerful. "I've got two hours of storage left. Don't let me stop you."
Soap wheezed. “This is… romantic and obscene.”
“Pick a lane,” Ghost murmured, adjusting the camera angle.
“I refuse,” Gaz said cheerfully. He gestured lazily, as if rearranging furniture. “Then I’ll put you belly down, hips up, and take my time. Praise you until you’re glassy eyed. Make you ask for every inch.” He tipped his head, sleepy, sly. “If you’re good, you get to climb into my lap and take it how you want while I tell you how gorgeous you look.”
Soap’s howling, rolling like he’s been shot. “Stop! I’m gonna piss meself!”
Price rubbed his face with both hands. "Garrick. I'm begging you. Think about… operational security. The mission. Literally anything else."
"Can't, sir. Currently thinking about her on her knees, looking up at me with those eyes, lips parted- "
Price stood, hauling Gaz up by the collar with the efficiency of a man who'd done this too many times. "Med bay. Now. Before you charm the pants off of her. You two, stop encouraging him.”
Soap put his hands up. “Ahm merely vibing, sir.”
Gaz let himself be hauled up, loose-limbed and boneless, still talking. He stumbled slightly, caught himself, grinned at you over his shoulder. "I’m gonna mark you up real nice to everyone knows it’s my cock you’re bouncing on-"
Price physically turned him toward the door.
Gaz kept talking, voice carrying down the hall. "- made for me, every inch of you, and I'd worship every bit. Start with your neck, work my way down, make you writhe- "
The door shut.
His voice, muffled: "-and I haven't even told you about the shower fantasy yet- "
Silence.
Ghost stopped recording. "That was beautiful. Backed up. Encrypted. Sent to my secure server. This is never going away."
Soap was still on the floor. "I need a minute. Maybe several."
You dropped your head into your hands.
From down the hall: "- waterfalls, love, I'm talking waterfalls- "
Price's bellow: "GARRICK, STOP NARRATING- "
You slump against the wall, laughing weakly, your face on fire. “Next time, we send in a robot.”
11.2k words of porn with plot. Going out with a bang for Halloween (pun intended). Everyone’s hands are everywhere and I may or may not have lost track at some point. M’bad.
It was honestly Graves’ fault.
Not that you’d admit that to him, the man’s ego was insufferable enough without adding fuel to the fire. But the chain of events that led to… well, everything that came after, started with him and his inability to keep his goddamn mouth shut.
Though to be fair, he couldn’t have known what he was triggering. He didn’t understand the fundamental truth about Task Force 141, the thing that everyone who worked with them learned eventually:
They were the most competitive bastards in the entire British Armed Forces.
It wasn’t just legendary; it was documented. There were actual incident reports.
Like the time Soap and Gaz had turned a simple training exercise into a competition over who could complete the obstacle course faster, which escalated into them sabotaging each other’s runs, which culminated in both of them dangling from a cargo net they’d somehow set on fire. Price had made them write individual apology letters to the base commander. They’d turned that into a competition too, each trying to write the most eloquent apology. Price had been furious. The base commander had been confused. The letters were still pinned to the bulletin board in the rec room as a warning to others.
Or the time Ghost and Soap had disagreed over the best way to clear a building, and instead of just… discussing it like normal people, they’d run the same scenario seventeen times in a row, each trying to beat the other’s time by mere seconds. They’d only stopped when Price physically removed them from the kill house and threatened to make them do paperwork for a month. Even then, Soap had muttered that he’d been winning.
Even Price wasn’t immune. There was a pool table in the officer’s lounge that no one was allowed to use anymore after Price and a visiting colonel had gotten into an increasingly intense game that lasted six hours and ended with the colonel’s transfer request. Price maintained he’d won fair and square. The indentation in the wall from where the cue ball had been hit with unnecessary force suggested things had gotten heated.
They competed over everything: marksmanship scores, mission completion times, who could do the most push ups, who could hold their breath longest, who could spot the enemy sniper first, who could drink the most without getting drunk (that one had ended poorly for everyone), and once, memorably, who could go longest without speaking. That had been a peaceful week for you, right up until they’d all broken at the same moment and started arguing about who had technically lasted longer.
Ghost had won that one by pointing out he never spoke much anyway, so it hadn’t been a challenge. Soap had thrown a boot at him.
The thing was, it made them excellent soldiers. That competitive drive pushed them to be faster, sharper, better than anyone else. They held records across multiple bases. Their mission success rate was unmatched. When Task Force 141 was assigned to an operation, people breathed easier because they knew it would get done.
But it also made them absolutely insufferable when they decided something was a competition.
And they decided everything was a competition.
Which brings you back to Graves.
The rec room was unusually crowded with Shadow Company temporarily stationed at the base. You’d been dealing with Graves and his people for three days now, and while professionally everything was running smoothly, personally you were ready for them to leave.
Graves had a way of taking up space, his Southern drawl filling every room he entered. He wasn’t a bad guy, exactly. Just… a lot.
You were refilling your coffee when he sauntered over, that trademark smirk firmly in place.
“Well, well. Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, leaning against the counter in a way that was probably supposed to be charming.
“It’s my base, Graves.”
“Phil, sweetheart. We’re past formalities, aren’t we?” His eyes gleamed with something that made you tense. “Especially considering.”
Across the room, you felt the 141 paying attention. Price had looked up from his report. Soap’s conversation with Gaz had died mid sentence. Even Ghost had shifted slightly in his seat.
You should’ve known then. Should’ve recognized the signs. The 141 had a sixth sense for potential competitions, and they were already alert, already watching.
“Considering what?” you asked, keeping your voice level even as warning bells started ringing in your head.
“Oh, come on now. No need to be shy.” Graves’ smile widened. “Though you weren’t particularly shy that weekend in Berlin, as I recall. Great even.”
The room went very, very quiet.
You sighed internally. Of course he was going to do this. Of course he was trying to posture and mark his territory. “That was two years ago, Graves.”
“Phil,” he corrected again, clearly enjoying himself. “And I gotta say, you’re looking even better now than you did then. If you ever get tired of the 141, Shadow Company’s always recruiting. I’d be happy to conduct your… interview process.”
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
Oh no.
You saw it happen in real time: Soap’s hand tightening around his mug, Gaz going unnaturally still, the way Price’s report crinkled ominously in his grip, how Ghost’s head tilted in that particular way that usually preceded someone having a very bad day.
“I’m good where I am,” you said firmly, trying to de-escalate. “Thanks.”
“Your loss.” Graves straightened, addressing the room now, playing to his audience. “But between you and me, and well, everyone else here” he stage whispered conspiratorially, “totally worth the operation debrief we had to sit through the next morning half dead from exhaustion, if you know what I mean.”
Oh no.
“Graves-” you started.
“I’m just saying.” Graves straightened, clearly enjoying the attention. “But hey, you know where to find me if you change your mind. I’ll make sure to clear my schedule. Maybe we can recapture some of that Berlin magic.”
He winked- actually winked- and sauntered off to join his team.
The silence he left behind was suffocating.
Finally, Soap broke it. “Berlin?”
You shrugged, returning to doctoring your coffee. “It was a joint task force operation. Two years ago, like I said.”
“And you…” Gaz trailed off, eyebrows raised.
“Yes.”
“With Graves.” Soap’s voice was flat.
“With Commander Graves, yes.” You turned to face them, meeting each of their stares head on. “Is there a problem?”
Price folded his paper with deliberate precision. “Did we say there was a problem?”
“You’re all looking at me like I kicked a puppy.”
“We’re just… processing,” Gaz said diplomatically.
Ghost’s voice cut through, dry as bone: “Didn’t take you for someone with poor judgment.”
You snorted. “It was one weekend. Casual. And for the record, it was perfectly good judgment at the time. Mission was over, we were both consenting adults, and I have no regrets.”
“No regrets,” Soap repeated, something dangerous in his tone. “About Graves.”
“Should I?” You challenged, feeling your own temper stir, offended as they questioned your life choices. “I’m pretty sure I’m allowed to have a past.”
“Course you are,” Price said, but his jaw was tight. “Just didn’t realize your past included…”
“Included what? Men you don’t like?” You crossed your arms. “Grow up.”
“How was it?” The question came from Ghost, and everyone turned to stare at him.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Ghost leaned back in his chair. “How was it? With Graves.”
You could’ve deflected. Probably should have. But you’d never been good at backing down, and something about their collective judgment made you want to defend yourself even if a voice in the back of your head said you were just going to poke the bear.
“It was alright,” you said with a shrug. “Better than most, if I’m being honest. Actually…” you paused, taking a sip of coffee, “probably one of the best I’ve ever had.”
The reaction was immediate and visceral.
Soap’s mug hit the table with a thud. “You’re joking.”
“One of the best?” Gaz’s voice had gone up half an octave.
Price’s knuckles were white where they gripped the report.
Ghost had gone preternaturally still.
You blinked at them, genuinely confused by the intensity of their reactions. “What? You asked.”
“One of the best,” Soap repeated, standing now. “Graves. Commander Philip Graves, who can’t shut his mouth for five seconds and wears those ridiculous sunglasses indoors-”
“I didn’t say he was perfect, I said the sex was good. There’s a difference.”
“Better than-” Gaz cut himself off, glancing around the room. They were still in public, even if most people had cleared out when the tension started rising. “Better than most?”
“Are you actually offended right now?” You stared at them. “This is ridiculous.”
“It’s not ridiculous,” Soap said hotly. “It’s-it’s-”
“It’s Graves,” Price finished, and somehow that explained everything.
You looked between the four of them and suddenly understood. This wasn’t about you having a past. This was about their egos. Their pride. Their absolute inability to accept being second best at anything, especially to someone they considered inferior.
And especially not at this.
“Oh my god,” you said slowly. “You’re jealous.”
“We’re not jealous,” four voices said in unison, which was probably the least convincing denial in military history.
“You are.” A laugh bubbled up despite yourself. “You’re actually jealous of Graves.”
“Not jealous,” Ghost corrected. “Competitive.”
“That’s the same thing!”
“It’s really not,” Gaz muttered.
Soap had started pacing. “One of the best. One of the bloody best. What does that even mean? Top five? Top three?”
“I’m not ranking my sexual encounters like a mission debrief, Johnny.”
“Why not?” he shot back. “Seems like useful information.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Can we not do this here?”
“Do what?” Price was genuinely curious now.
“Have a breakdown because I slept with someone and thought they were good.”
“It’s about-” Gaz gestured vaguely. “Standards. You have standards, right? And if Graves meets those standards, then what does that say about-”
“About you?” You finished. “Nothing. It says nothing about you because you’re not in competition with my past.”
The look they exchanged said otherwise.
“Don’t,” you blurted out preemptively.
“Don’t what?” Soap asked, voice too casual.
“Whatever you’re thinking. Don’t.”
“We’re not thinking anything,” Gaz said, which was absolutely a lie.
You knew that tone. You’d heard that tone before, right before they’d decided to turn a simple reconnaissance mission into a competition over who could get the most actionable intelligence. It had been effective but exhausting.
“It was two years ago,” you said firmly. “It was fine, it’s over. Can we please move on?”
“Fine?” Soap pounced on the word. “You said fine? But Graves was great.”
“It was an exaggeration.”
“Was it though?” This from Ghost, who had actually stood up now. “In my experience, Graves is many things, but he doesn’t usually undersell his own accomplishments.”
You stared at him. “Are you defending Graves right now?”
“I’m establishing accurate parameters.”
“Parameters for what?”
The look they all exchanged was brief but telling. In that single moment of silent communication- the kind they’d perfected over countless missions- you saw them come to some kind of collective decision.
“Nothing,” Price said, but his slight smile suggested otherwise. “Just thinking it’s interesting, that’s all.”
“What’s interesting?”
“That you considers Graves some of the best you’ve ever had,” Gaz said thoughtfully. “Makes a man curious about the standards being applied and if someone can raise them.”
“Oh my god.” You could see where this was going now, clear as day. “No. Absolutely not.”
“No what?” Soap asked innocently. Too innocently.
“Whatever competitive insanity you’re all cooking up right now, the answer is no.”
“We’re not cooking up anything,” Price said. “Are we, lads?”
“Nothing at all, Cap,” Gaz agreed.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Soap added.
Ghost said nothing, but his silence was somehow the most ominous of all.
You pointed at each of them in turn. “I know how you people think. I’ve seen you turn loading supply trucks into a competition. You’re not turning my sex life into another one of your challenges.”
“Your sex life?” Price raised an eyebrow. “No, love. This isn’t about your sex life.”
“Then what’s it about?”
He moved closer, and despite everything, your breath caught. “It’s about performance metrics. Ensuring quality control.”
“Quality control,” you repeated faintly.
“We’re the 141,” Soap said, appearing at your other side. “We don’t do second place. In anything.”
“And if Graves-” Gaz made a dismissive gesture, “-thinks he’s set some kind of benchmark, well…”
“Someone needs to correct that misconception,” Ghost finished.
You looked around at all of them, these competitive, stubborn, absolutely impossible men who apparently couldn’t stand the thought of anyone- especially Graves- being considered the best at something.
Even this.
Especially this.
“You’re all insane,” you managed.
“Probably,” Price agreed easily. “But you’re still here.”
You were. God help you, you were still here, and you weren’t walking away, and they all knew it.
Which is how you would up on Price’s bed with Soap’s head between your legs.
One second you’re in the rec room and the next you’re ushered upstairs, Soap’s mouth on your cunt, and your whole body jerks like someone plugged you in.
It’s wet and hot and pressure. Not a fluttery kiss, he seals over you and pulls, drawing your clit into his mouth and your hips come off the mattress a good inch. His hands slam to your thighs and push, spreading you wider and pinning you at the same time.
“F-fuck- oh god- Johnny.” That’s when your pulse drops, leaves your throat and settles between your legs in a hard, responsive beat. Every time his tongue flicks, it kicks. Every time his mouth sucks, it swells. The nerves there go loud, drowning out everything else.
You can feel your own slick on your inner thighs now, warm and a little messy. When he drags you closer, you slide on it. The sheet under your ass is going to be damp.
He angles his head and finds the exact spot.
You know it because your calves tense and your fingers curl. You try to close your legs around his head, curl around the pleasure, and he just laughs into you, low and smug, and forces your knees apart again. Your hip flexors burn from the stretch. You can feel the tremor start in them.
Above you, the bed dips; someone leans in. A broad, callused palm plants over your lower belly and holds you down. That single extra point of contact changes everything; now you can’t roll, can’t run, can’t arch away. All you can do is feel.
Soap increases his tempo.
Slow at first; long, wet licks from your entrance up to your clit, pausing there, circling. Then tighter, faster, little pulls of suction. Then when you gasp right, he adds tongue and lips and pressure and it becomes this relentless little engine of sensation, over and over, no mercy.
Your stomach knots. Your thighs start to shake properly now, not just twitch. Your nipples rub against the fabric of your bra every time you breathe, and they’re hard, throbbing, needy from the rubbing.
You make a sound.
It’s not pretty. It’s a half choked, wet, needy thing, and it spills out without permission. Someone coos at you for it. A thumb strokes your cheek. Fingers thread through your hair. It all blurs together because the center of you is flooding with heat.
He pushes two fingers inside you and the stretch is immediate; fullness to match the drag of his tongue. A sharp, perfect ache along your inner walls where your body says yes, there. Your cunt clenches around him like it’s trying to pull him in farther. The wet sound is obscene. You hear someone suck in a breath and say “Fuck, look at ‘er.”
Your chest heaves. Your ribs can’t expand enough. You can’t get a full breath because every time you try, Soap does something with his tongue to take it.
You’re right on the edge of that bright drop and your thighs try to close again. He forces them open again.
Your hips try to lift. The hand on your belly forces you down.
Your head tosses side to side, too much, too big, too good. Fingers- whose? Price’s? Gaz’s?- catch your jaw and bring you back to center.
“Look.”
So you do. You blink through the blur and look, and there’s a pair of baby blue eyes watching you come apart, and that alone tips you.
You break.
It’s hot and it’s fast. Your whole pelvis locks, then pulses. Your cunt clamps around his fingers in hard, greedy squeezes. Your clit is burning from the drag of his mouth and you are so wet you can feel your slick slide down toward your ass. Your toes curl, calves cramping, thighs shaking. At the crest, your vision goes white at the edges and your ears rush.
You come hard.
He stays on you.
That’s the killer. He doesn’t back off. He gentles, yeah, but he doesn’t stop. He licks you through it, slow, teasing, gathering everything he pulled out of you, making you feel every last pulse.
Your body shudders in aftershocks. Little heat flares. The muscles in your stomach flutter. You can’t do anything but take it.
Someone’s hand comes up to your chest and rubs, grounding. Another slides under your knee and bends it, easing the strain in your hip. Another strokes the inside of your thigh where his stubble has made it pink.
You sag.
You’re warm everywhere now, skin buzzing, limbs heavy. Your cunt still pulses in little sympathetic squeezes around nothing. If Soap slid his cock in right now, you’d pull him in to the hilt, no resistance.
They move you, fabric drags over your oversensitive nipples and you hiss, arching away, and someone laughs softly and unhooks your bra, slipping it away, soothing your nipples with their thumb. The bed squeaks, wood complaining. A knee slots between your legs and you ride it without meaning to because there’s still ache there, still want.
Another mouth finds your throat. Teeth scrape, gentle. A hand cups you, broad and warm, palm pressing over your still wet clit.
You were still shaking when they decided one orgasm didn’t prove anything.
The bed dipped and shifted around you, weight moving like a tide. You were on your back, knees loose, underwear somewhere halfway down one thigh, trying to remember how to breathe, when a warm hand slid up your stomach and settled just under your ribs. Big palm, callused, heavy enough to say stay right here. Price, then.
“Easy,” he murmured, more in tone than words. You felt it in your skin, not your ears. “You’re alright.”
You were. Your muscles, though, hadn’t caught up. Your thighs had that post release tremble, the one you couldn’t command away. Your belly kept fluttering in little afterpulses. Between your legs you were hot and slick and sensitive, pleasure still fizzing under the surface like it hadn’t decided to leave yet.
And they were all still there.
You were aware of them the way you’re aware of heat behind you. Soap, breathless and smug near your knees. Gaz, closer to your head now, arm along the pillow so you could lean if you needed. Ghost, solid at the side of the bed, one knee on the mattress so he could reach you without crowding.
Four men. Four sets of hands. Four different temperatures of want.
Your body knew it before your brain did: we’re not done.
Price’s hand slid down from your ribs to your hip, then lower, thumb brushing the still damp inside of your thigh. He hummed, quiet, pleased. “Good,” he said like he was noting it for the record. “Soft and wet.”
That should’ve been embarrassing. It wasn’t. Not with the way they were looking at you- like this was data, yes, but also like it was a gift you were like this for them.
Gaz tipped his head, watching your chest rise and fall. “She’s coming back,” he said, the way he might’ve said her vitals are up. “Look.”
You opened your eyes. The room swam into focus- concrete walls, rain on the window, four shadows leaning over you.
Soap grinned down at you, face flushed, mouth a little swollen. “So?” he said. “Better than Graves?”
You meant to snap at him. You really did. But the second your mouth opened, a thumb- Ghost’s, gloved and warm- smoothed over your cheek, and whatever retort you’d had melted.
“Don’t make her talk through it,” Ghost said, voice low. “She’s floatin’.”
You were. Your head felt light, your limbs felt heavy, and under all of it, your cunt still pulsed, slow and needy, because that first orgasm had taken the edge off but not the want. If anything, the want had gotten worse; looser, lazier, more give me more of that.
They saw it.
Price shifted, sitting on the edge of the bed so your back could rest against his thigh. The fabric of his pants was rough against your bare skin, but his palm was warm, moving in soothing circles over your belly. You let your head fall back against him without thinking.
“There we are,” he said voice like gravel. “Let’s get you comfortable.”
Comfortable was relative. Comfortable meant supported while we do more to you.
Soap crawled up again, this time on your left, bracing a hand beside your shoulder, his body radiating heat. Gaz mirrored him on the right, thigh pressed to your hip. Ghost stayed at your feet, big hands sliding up your calves, over your knees, pushing your legs apart again with maddening patience.
Your thighs quivered under his hands. He didn’t let them close.
“Look at that,” Soap said, and there was honest admiration in it. “Still shiverin’.”
“Sensitive,” Gaz agreed, eyes crinkling. “Makes it a fair fight.”
A fair fight. You almost laughed. Nothing about this was fair. It was four world class overachievers deciding one loud American didn’t get to be the gold standard in your head.
Ghost’s hands were firmer now, thumbs pressing into the tender spot where thigh met hip, easing you open inch by inch. You felt the cool air on you again. Felt your own wet, slick and warm against the inside of your thighs. Felt the ache start to build again, low and heavy, because even being held open like that sent a pulse of want through you.
He didn’t touch you right away. That was almost worse. He just kept you open and looked, head bent, breath brushing your inner thigh through the mask. His gaze flicked up to yours, unreadable.
“Still want more?” he asked.
You swallowed. Your throat felt dry. “Yes.”
Price’s hand on your belly stilled for a beat, then resumed, slower. You could practically hear the satisfaction in his silence.
“Good,” Ghost said. “Because we’re not lettin’ Graves win on a technicality.”
Then he touched you.
He dragged two knuckles through your slick and the sensation was so sharp after what Soap had just done to you that your hips tried to jerk away. Price’s arm across your middle kept you exactly where you were.
“Easy,” Price murmured, mouth close to your ear. “Breathe for me.”
You did. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Your body settled, but only in the loosest way. Every nerve from your navel down was on.
Ghost circled you first. Slow, deliberate, dragging wet over the most sensitive part of you in lazy, cruel little loops. It made everything there swell, throb, wake up. It made the ache bloom again, hotter, until you were whimpering into the air, panting from the heat of it.
Then, when you were looking at him, when he had your eyes, he slid two fingers into you.
You gasped. Couldn’t help it. Couldn’t hold it back.
It felt deep immediately. You were still soft and open from the orgasm and your body took him to the knuckle. You could feel your walls flutter around him, a helpless, greedy squeezing. You could feel just how wet you were, how easily he moved, how the motion made obscene, slick sounds between your thighs.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Soap breathed. “Listen to her.”
You heard it too. The wet. The way you caught on his fingers on the way out, then sucked him right back in. Your cheeks burned. Your body didn’t care. Your body wanted more.
Ghost set a rhythm- deep press in, slow pull out, lazy twist at the top that nudged right where you were still sensitive. Every stroke made your hips roll, made your breath catch, made moans spill out past your lips, made that warm, liquid feeling in your belly spread.
Price’s hand slid up to your breasts, fingers curling over the weight of them, thumb brushing your nipples. They were already sensitive and the touch made them tingle more. You arched into his palms without thinking and he made a pleased sound low in his chest.
“Responsive,” he said, mostly to himself. “Like that, do you?”
You managed a nod. Your voice was somewhere under the bed and you could only answer him with moans.
Gaz leaned in and kissed the corner of your mouth. “You look wrecked already,” he murmured, smile against your skin. “That’s good. That’s how we like you.”
Ghost crooked his fingers inside you.
The pleasure changed. Went from warm and spreading to sharp and right fucking there. It sent sparks up your spine. Your thighs tried to close again and Gaz and Soap clamped their hands on the fat of your thighs, held you wide and open, while Ghost worked that spot over and over.
Your breathing went ragged. Your hips started to chase. Your toes curled in nothing. Your hand flew up, searching for something to hold, and landed on Soap’s forearm. You clamped down hard. He just laughed, turned his arm so you could get a better grip.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he said, eyes hungry on your face. “Hold on.”
You could feel yourself climbing again. Already. So soon. Your body didn’t care. It liked his fingers, liked the way they filled and dragged, liked the way Price’s thumbs kept circling your nipples in lazy counterpoint, liked the way Gaz’s mouth kept brushing your jaw, your cheek, grounding you.
“Still with us?” Price asked quietly.
“Yes,” you got out. Barely.
“Good girl.”
Your cunt clenched around Ghost’s fingers at that. Hard. Instinctive. You felt the heat in your face flare.
He felt it too. “Oh, you like that,” he said, tone gone velvet dark. “That what he said to you?” A pointed reference- Graves? Did he say it like that? It should’ve annoyed you but it didn’t. It just sent another pulse of want through you.
“Doesn’t matter,” Gaz said, amused, kissing your temple. “She’s gonna hear it better from us.”
You were too close to answer with a retort. The pressure was right there, sitting low, throbbing. Your thighs were fully trembling now, little uncontrollable shakes. Your belly was tight. Your breath came in hot pants. You knew if he just-
He did.
He added his thumb.
The extra point of pressure on your clit lit you up. It was too much and exactly enough. Your head tipped back on Price’s shoulder. A sound tore out of you, high and helpless.
“Let it happen,” Price said into your hair. “Let it.”
You did.
It rolled over you harder than the first, because your body was already primed, because you were being held this time- one hand at your throat, another at your breast, hips braced, legs kept open. You didn’t have to hold yourself up. You didn’t have to be quiet. You didn’t have to pretend you weren’t falling apart for them.
Your climax ripped through you in tight, fast pulses. Your walls clutched around Ghost’s fingers like you were trying to keep him. Slick flooded out around him, hot and embarrassing and perfect. Your thighs shook, heels digging into the mattress. You might’ve said someone’s name; you weren’t sure which.
They talked but it washed over you. What stuck was touch: Price’s hand on your sternum, grounding; Gaz’s thumb catching a tear you didn’t realize had slipped; Soap’s palm tightening on your knee like there you go, that’s our girl; Ghost’s fingers slowly, carefully easing out of you when the aftershocks got too sharp.
You sagged back, boneless.
Your cunt still fluttered, slow little squeezes in the afterglow. Your thighs glistened. Your skin hummed. You were warm all over, skin prickling, heart finally starting to settle.
Somewhere near your ear, Price chuckled. “That’s two,” he said, smug. “He give you two?”
You huffed a breath that was half laugh, half groan. “Oh my god.”
“She’s not arguing,” Soap crowed.
Gaz leaned his forehead to yours. “That’s because we’re winning,” he said, delighted.
Ghost wiped his fingers on the sheet, then rested his big hand over the inside of your thigh, thumb stroking once, slow. “We’re not done,” he said, and the promise in it made your already overworked nerves spark again.
You believed him. Every part of you, flushed, wet, and trembling, believed him.
Price shifted behind you.
“Alright,” he says, voice low, that command layer threaded through it. “My turn.”
You feel him move, feel the bed dip differently, feel his thighs open so there’s room for you. A hand slides under your knee and guides your leg over his until suddenly you’re straddling one of his legs, back against his chest, his arm a wide band across your front, holding you steady.
He’s warm everywhere you touch him. Solid. Bigger than you in all the places that matter for this. You can smell him, too, smoke, wool, the faint metallic smell of weapons oil. Familiar. Comforting. Infuriatingly hot right now.
You’re still soft from coming. Still wet. When he palms your hip and pulls you backward over him, you feel just how wet; you slide on yourself, on the inside of your thigh, on the sheet. You make a small, uncontrolled sound at your own slickness.
“Yeah,” he murmurs against the side of your face. “That’s what I thought.”
There’s movement below you: a belt unbuckling, the soft metal jingle, zipper down. You don’t have to look to know what he’s doing. Your body knows; your muscles get ready. Your hips go loose and expectant. Your cunt gives a slow, hungry little pulse like yes, now.
He fits his hand between your legs first, checking like he didn’t just watch Ghost make you flood. His fingers drag through you, gather you, stroke you. The touch is gentler than Ghost’s was, not searching for a spot, just confirming you’re ready for weight.
You are. God, you are.
“Still open,” he says, and you can hear the approval. “That’s good, sweetheart. Gonna make this easy.”
You don’t even realize you’ve tipped your head to his shoulder until his beard scrapes your temple. His mouth is right there, breath warm, words for you, just you. That alone makes your chest go hot.
“Hands on me,” he says. “Hold on.”
You do. One arm goes back around his neck, dragging his collar down so you’ve got something to grip. The other braces on his thigh. You can feel the muscle there, hard even relaxed.
The others have gone quiet.
They’re still close. You can feel Soap at the edge of the bed, practically vibrating. You can feel Gaz leaning in to see. You can feel Ghost standing sentry, watchful, but there’s a charged waiting in all of them now; the kind you get right before breaching.
Price angles his hips.
You feel his cock thick, hot, and heavy pressing against you from below. It’s blunt at first, just a nudge at your entrance, sliding in your wet. Your breath stops. Every muscle lower than your ribs goes tight, held in that exquisite almost there.
He hears it. “Breathe,” he reminds you softly. “Don’t lock up on me.”
You force air into your lungs. It shudders on the way out.
Then he pulls your hips down.
It’s a slow, controlled push. He’s too big and you’re too sensitive for him to just drive in, so he eases you over him, inch by steady inch. The stretch is immediate and deep. You feel it all the way up your spine. Your body parts around him because you’re open and slick and primed, but it still burns for a second and tells you you’re getting full.
“There’s it is,” Soap said somewhere off to the side, almost reverent. “Look at how she’s takin’ him.”
You felt it even with your eyes closed: three men leaning in, watching the way your body gave for Price. You were too busy feeling it to be shy.
Because once he got past that first thick resistance, your body just… went. The muscle ring eased, the wet did its job, and you sank. You could feel every ridge, every vein, the heat of him. You could feel the difference between the blunt, stretching first half and the deeper, thicker second half. You could feel your own slick being pushed up around his cock.
Your breath came out on a shaky, “Oh-”
“Good girl,” Price said in your ear, voice gone rough. His arm tightened around your middle to keep you from scrambling away from the intensity. “Knew you’d take me.”
That praise lit you up. Your cunt clenched around him hard. He groaned low in his throat, vibrating against your back where you felt it more than heard it.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Gaz muttered, delighted. “She’s squeezin’ him already.”
“Course she is,” Soap said. “She’s still warm from before.”
Ghost didn’t say anything, but you heard the small, sharp inhale he always did when something impressed him.
Price held you there for a beat, fully seated, your ass on his thighs, your back to his chest, his cock buried in you to the hilt. It was a lot. Full, hot, so deep it nudged at places Ghost’s fingers hadn’t reached. It made your stomach feel heavy and your chest feel light. Your body wanted to move, to rock, to chase, but he didn’t let you. Not yet.
“Feel that?” he asked quietly.
You nodded, too breathless to speak.
“Tell me.”
“S’full,” you slurred, cheeks hot. It felt silly to say, but it was the truth. “You’re- full.”
“That’s right.” He sounded indecently pleased. “That’s the bit he couldn’t give you.”
Your back arched when he pulled almost all the way out.
The drag was obscene, long and slow, your walls gripping, reluctant to let him go. You could feel the way you narrowed again around the thickest part of him, the way your wet clung, glistening on his cock. At the top of the stroke he stayed right at your entrance, head just inside, letting you feel the emptiness he’d leave if he pulled out.
Your whole pelvis tipped, chasing him back.
Price laughed, low. “Oh, you liked that.”
Then he pushed back in, a little faster.
It rocked your whole body every thrust translated through his thighs and into your spine. Your breasts jostled; his forearm across your chest pushed them up. Your head fell back on his shoulder, mouth open.
He found his pace quickly, not jackhammering- he wasn’t showing off for the lads. He was demonstrating. Deep, confident strokes, bottoming out every time, giving you the full length so you couldn’t accuse him of holding back.
Every thrust pressed you down onto the mattress and up into his chest at the same time. Every thrust made your clit drag against the heel of his hand where it was braced on your hip. It stacked sensation- deep stretch inside, blunt friction outside- and your nerves lit right back up.
Your thighs tried to close and his big hand slid down and caught the inside of your knee, pushing it back open, letting the others see him inside you.
“She’s made for it,” Gaz said, softer. “Look at her.”
You were half gone already. Your breathing had gone high, breathy, those quick little pants that always came out of you when you were being taken instead of doing the taking. Your hands had locked on him, your cunt fluttering around him every time he bottomed out, that desperate, helpless squeezing.
He felt it. “There she goes,” he murmured. “She’s climbing again.”
You were. Faster than before. It hadn’t even been five minutes since Ghost worked you over and already your body was stringing itself tight again because now you were full, now you had weight, now you had rhythm. Your clit, still tender, zinged every time he drove you down. Your belly tightened. Your toes curled.
Price angled his hips a fraction and suddenly he was hitting a spot that made your vision blur.
You made a sound- high, keening, moaning.
“There?” he asked, voice tight.
“Yes- yes- don’t stop- please-”
He hit it again. Again. Held you down this time so you couldn’t wiggle off it. Your mouth dropped open. Heat flooded your face, your chest, your whole pelvis. Your legs shook against his hand.
“That’s the one,” Gaz said, almost delighted. “Right there.”
“Keep her there,” Ghost said. “Make it clear.”
He did.
You couldn’t run. You couldn’t even think of running. His arm was a bar across your chest; his hand was a clamp on your thigh; his thighs were solid under you. He just kept driving up, slow and merciless, right into that spot, each stroke punching a breathless sound out of you.
Your first and second orgasms had been waves. This one built like pressure. Tight, hard, insistent. Your cunt started to clamp in short, frantic squeezes. Your nails dug into his shoulder. Your head tipped back, baring your throat.
He bent and bit you there making you gasp.
That did it.
You broke around him, muscles locking and then spasming. Your walls gripped him so hard it dragged a groan out of his chest. Heat rushed down through you, out along your thighs, up through your spine. Your whole body shook. You might’ve said “Cap’in,” you weren’t sure.
He didn’t stop. He rode you through it, pace steady, letting your spasms milk him, letting you feel every inch of him inside you while you were at your most sensitive as he groaned and spilled deep into your cunt with a groan.
“That’s three,” Ghost said, satisfied. “He do three?”
You couldn’t answer. Your brain was white noise. All you could do was gasp and babble and hold on and feel.
Price finally slowed, then stilled, cock still deep, arm still locked around you. You were limp against him, boneless, chest heaving. Sweat was cooling on your stomach. Your thighs were a mess between wet and shaking and being forced open.
He kissed the side of your head. “Good,” he said, praise thick. “That’s my girl.”
Around you, the others moved.
You felt Soap climb onto the bed properly now, not just hovering. Felt Gaz shift closer to your knees. Felt Ghost come around the foot, big and quiet, watching you with that evaluating look.
“You want a turn?” Price asked, still inside you, not even pretending he’d pull out yet.
“Oh, absolutely,” Soap said, hungry. “She’s soft as fuck now.”
Gaz laughed. “You just want to see if you can top that.”
“Mate, I know I can top that.”
Ghost’s eyes flicked over you, taking in the flushed face, the trembling legs, the way you were still clenching around Price even as you came down. “She can take more,” he said.
You made a weak, protesting sound that wasn’t really a protest.
Price chuckled into your hair. “Hear that?” he said. “She wants it.”
Price kept you on him for a moment longer, big arm banded across your front, chest to your back, thighs snug under your ass. You were still pulsing around him in little, involuntary squeezes, and every one of them made his breath hitch warm against your ear.
“Well?” he asked the room, smug. “That feel like Berlin to you?”
Ghost shifted at the foot of the bed, mask tipped like he was taking notes. “So far,” he said, dry as bone, “that’s us: 3. Graves: fuck all.”
You managed a laugh, weak and breathy. “You’re all… ridiculous.”
“Competitive,” all four of them said at once.
Price finally eased you off him. You felt every inch of it; felt the drag, the last thick stretch, the way your body tried to hold him and then had to let go. You gasped softly at the loss, hips twitching. He steadied you with both hands, murmuring, “Easy, love,” as he guided you forward.
The second you were clear, Soap was there.
“C’mere, then,” he said, hands already on your waist, warm and eager. “My turn.”
Soap pulled you onto your hands and knees near the middle of the bed, the mattress complaining. You were loose limbed and shaky, so he did half the work himself, tucking your knees under you, keeping a palm between your shoulder blades so you didn’t fold.
“Oh, look at you,” he said, a low whistle in his voice when he got a full view. “Messy wee thing.”
You flushed hot. You were messy: your slick on your thighs, Price’s cum dripping out of your on the blanket, thighs still trembling. You would’ve dropped your head in your arms if Gaz hadn’t reached in and tipped your chin up.
“Don’t hide,” he cooed. “We wanna see you.”
Ghost made a little approving sound. “That’s the point.”
Soap looked over your shoulder. “So?” he challenged. “Cap do good?”
Price, still catching his own breath, wiped a hand over his beard. “She came,” he said, a little too pleased.
“Then I’ll make it four,” Soap said. “An’ then we can tell Graves to get fucked.”
“You did tell him that,” Gaz reminded him.
“Aye, but now I can tell him why.”
You felt Soap line up behind you, heat against the back of your thighs, chest to your back for a second as he reached down to guide his cock towards your entrance. His left hand stayed right in the small of your back, keeping you in position.
Soap pushed in.
He wasn’t as patient as Price- he was eager, and you felt that in the way he rolled his hips, in the way his hand tightened on you when he felt how easily you took him. You were wet enough, and already open; your body gave. You gasped- couldn’t not, after being so full already. Your arms shook. Gaz immediately slid closer on the bed and let you grip his wrist.
“Price did the hard work,” Gaz said, but he was grinning, cupping your cheek with his free hand so you’d look at him. “How’s he feel, love?”
“S’ good,” you got out, words breaking on a breath. “He’s-”
“Better?” Soap said, smug, starting to move for real now.
You couldn’t answer right away because Soap fucked differently than Price. Price was heavy and deep and sure. Soap was energized. He rolled through his hips like he fought, like he danced, like he couldn’t keep still if you paid him. Every stroke had a little snap at the end, a little lift of your hips, a little grind that dragged over every sensitive place Price had already woken up.
Your arms almost gave. Your elbows dipped. Gaz caught you around the shoulders and pulled you up, settling you half against his chest so you weren’t bearing your whole weight. It changed the angle, your back curving, your hips tipping, and Soap groaned when he felt it.
“Oh, that’s better,” he said. “Fuck, that’s better.”
Price moved in behind him, one hand landing on Soap’s shoulder like, pace. “Don’t blow your load in five seconds, Sergeant.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Captain,” Soap said, but he slowed just enough to keep you from being overwhelmed.
Your body, though, was already there. Every thrust pressed slick heat up where you were still tender. Every time he bottomed, you felt that deep, aching fullness, your walls clinging to his cock. You could hear yourself wet, obscene, a steady rhythm under the creak of the bed. Your thighs started to shake again, traitorous.
“She’s goin’ again,” Soap said, awed, angling his hips, his dick pressing deeper and making you whine against Gaz’s throat.
“She’s not gonna last long with you showboatin’,” Price said.
“She doesn’t have to,” Gaz said, mouth at your ear. “That’s the point.”
Ghost had moved closer, right at the foot now, one knee on the mattress, watching you from the best angle. You could feel his eyes on where you were joined. You could feel the heat of him even not touching you.
“Look at that,” he said, voice gone low, almost hungry. “That’s four. She’s taken two cocks and she’s still asking for it.”
You were. Your hips were pushing back to meet Soap’s, small desperate motions. Your hand on Gaz’s wrist had gone from holding to clutching. Your breath came in high, sweet bursts.
Soap slid his hand around your front, over your belly, down.
“Johnny,” Price warned.
“Relax,” Soap said. “I’m helpin’ her.”
His fingers found your clit, already swollen and slick and went straight to steady, tight circles, timed with his thrusts. Your whole body jolted.
You made a noise that wasn’t words.
“There she is,” Gaz murmured, holding you upright. “There we go. Let it happen, pretty girl.”
Soap laughed, ragged. “Aye, let it- fuck- listen to her.”
You couldn’t hold it back. Your body was too ready, too worked, too wet. The combination- full inside, rubbed right there, held and watched and praised- ripped another climax out of you. This one was messy and loud, your muscles going tight-tight-loose, thighs shaking so hard Soap had to clamp his arm around your middle to keep you from dropping as he buried deep and came, flooding your sensitive cunt with his release.
“That’s four,” Ghost said immediately. “Graves: still nowhere.”
You dropped your forehead to Gaz’s shoulder, breath tearing in and out of you. He cupped the back of your head, pressing a kiss to your hairline. “Good girl,” he said. “So good. You with us?”
“Yeah,” you panted, tears sliding. “Yeah.”
“Need a minute?” Price asked, voice back to that command soft.
You thought about it. Your body was thrumming, muscles liquid, thighs sore in a good way, your cunt still fluttering around Soap where he’d slowed to a lazy grind to keep you from getting shocked. You could have taken a minute.
You didn’t want to.
“No,” you said, surprising yourself with how sure it came out. “Don’t… stop.”
You felt all of them react to that.
“Fuck, I love her,” Soap said, groaning, pulling out slow, another long, obscene drag that made your eyes roll. “Right. Trade.”
Gaz laughed, delighted. “My go.”
He was smoother about it.
While Soap eased out, Gaz was already shifting you, rolling you gently onto your back again, then tugging your hips toward him. His hands were warm, steady, different from the other two: less force, more coaxing. He bent, kissed you once, slow and deep, like a palate cleanser.
“How we doing?” he asked against your mouth.
“Fuzzy,” you murmured. “Good. Fuzzy.”
“Fuzzy’s good,” he said. “Means we’re doing it right.”
He pushed your knees up, opening you again, and glanced back at the others. “You lads want to see?” he asked, shameless. “Come round. She’s gorgeous like this.”
They did.
Price came to your left, hand braced by your head, beard shadowed, eyes heavy. Soap flopped to your right, still flushed, watching like he wanted to dive back in the second he got the nod. Ghost stayed at the foot of the bed, looming, mask down, eyes dark.
Gaz stroked you first, just fingers, slow up your slit, spreading your slick and Price’s and Soap’s cum along your cunt. “Still so wet,” he said, low. “God, you’re perfect.”
Then he pushed into you.
He was between Price’s deep and Soap’s eager. He sank in steady, watching your face, slowing when you gasped, pushing when you relaxed. Your body welcomed him, open and dripping and aching for it. Even so, the stretch made your breath stutter and your hands grab for whoever was closest.
Price gave you his, lacing his fingers in with yours. “Here,” he said, and you held on.
Gaz bottomed out and stayed. You could feel him everywhere, thick inside, pressing low, your walls hugging him after so much use. Your belly fluttered again.
“Fuck,” Soap whispered. “She’s still clenchin’.”
“Means we’re not done,” Gaz said, beginning to move.
His pace was cruel in its own way. Not the driving authority of Price or the showy roll of Soap, this was measured. Just fast enough to keep you on the high, just deep enough to hit where you were tender. He knew he didn’t have to prove he could make you come, Price and Soap had already done the heavy lifting. He wanted to prove he could keep you there.
He did. Within a minute you were right back on the ledge, breath short and hiccuping, thighs trembling, slick loud between you, hands switching from Price’s wrist to Soap’s forearm, back to Price’s shirt, sobbing and sniffling with each thrust. Your clit was throbbing, begging for touch.
Gaz gave it, of course. Thumb down, gentle circles, perfectly in time.
“Yeah,” he murmured when your mouth dropped open and your back bowed and lewd desperate sound fell past swollen lips. “There she is. Gimme another.”
“Another?” you gasped, half pleading, half hysterical laughing.
“You said Graves was ‘one of the best,’” he said, smiling through the words. “We’ve got to bury that score, love.”
You couldn’t even argue because you could feel it right there again, that tight, spiraling tension building from the inside out; because the others were watching you like they were cataloguing every twitch; because Price was murmuring, “C’mon, love,” and Soap was chanting, “There ya go, there ya go,” and Ghost was saying nothing but looked satisfied.
You shattered again.
It rolled over you like a breaking wave, less sharp than the last, but wide, everywhere, making your toes curl and your back arch and your fingers dig into whatever you were holding. Your cunt spasmed around Gaz in hot little pulses. He groaned, hands tightening on your thighs, but kept moving slow to draw it out until you were scrambling and wiggling and sobbing from the sheer pleasure of it.
It was the wild look in your eyes, the near frantic pleasure at being overstimulated, blubbering into the air as Gaz kept thrusting, prolonging your orgasm into too much, that broke him, pushing in deep and stilling with a groan as he added his cum to Price’s and Soap’s.
You whimpered, overstimulated now, hips trying to twist away. Gaz caught it immediately and slowed, then stopped, still inside you but not moving. “Okay,” he said softly. “There we are. Breathe.”
You did, trembling all over now, thighs, stomach, even your arms. Sweat dripped on your neck. Your hair stuck to your cheek. You were aware of everything: the wet between your legs, the steady heat of a cock still buried in you, the weight of hands on your knees, your chest, your cheek.
Then there was Ghost.
“Shift,” he said quietly.
No one argued. Gaz eased out carefully making you whine- God, you felt that- and ghosted back. Price and Soap moved enough to give him room. You were boneless, pliant. You watched him take off his gloves, one finger at a time, setting them on the nightstand.
He came to the foot of the bed and took your ankles in his bare hands. His palms were hot, big enough to wrap nearly around. He slid you down toward him, closer to the edge. Your ass met the edge of the mattress, thighs spread over his forearms, knees kicked up, your back arched because there was nowhere else to go.
You were already wrecked.
Everything from your navel down felt wet, hot, loose. Skin clammy from sweat. Inner thighs slick where your own arousal had dried and then been replaced and then smeared again. Your muscles had that aftershock tremor- little twitches in your quads, belly fluttering, shoulders quaking when you tried to push up on your elbows.
He took one look at you and huffed behind the mask, low and satisfied. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s more like it.”
He wasn’t rushed, but he wasn’t delicate either. He hooked your right leg up over his shoulder; high, opening you farther than the others had and the stretch at the back of your thigh burned.
“Easy,” Price murmured from somewhere by your head, palming your shoulder. “He’s got you.”
Ghost caught your other knee and shoved it out with his hips, there was nowhere to put him. He took up the whole end of the bed, arms, shoulders, chest, all of it. You were small against him now, laid out, thighs spread over a frame that could pin three people if he wanted.
You felt his size before you felt him.
His shadow blocked the ceiling. His thigh brushed the mattress and the whole thing groaned. His hands spanned your hips like they were handles. When he bent a little, bracing one palm beside your ribs, the bed dipped like someone had dropped a sandbag.
“Want more?” he asked.
You nodded, breath already short.
“Good.”
He dragged his cock through you once and that alone nearly short circuited you.
Because you were soaked now, used and soft, and he was thick. Thicker than Price. Different shape than Soap. Longer than Gaz. He slid through your mess in a long, slow stroke, head bumping your clit, smearing heat everywhere. Your hips jumped like you’d been shocked.
“Oh-”
“Christ,” Gaz breathed, watching from beside your knee. “She’s still that wet?”
“Yeah,” Soap said, all wonder. “We did that.”
Ghost lined up.
You saw it only in a flash- cock big, flushed, heavy in his fist and then it was gone, pressed to your swollen cunt, right where you were open. You felt the blunt head nudge and everything in you locked, not from fear but from pure instinct: big, big, big.
“Breathe,” he said, like he’d been waiting for it. “Or it’ll hurt.”
You pulled air. Chest rising, shaking. Price’s hand slid up to your throat thumb under your chin to tip your face up so he could see your eyes.
“Right here,” he said. “With us.”
Ghost pushed.
There was zero give for the first second. You were open, but you were also swollen and sensitive, and he was a lot. The pressure was deep, powerful, like someone slowly forcing a fist into clay. Your mouth fell open in a silent oh, eyes going wide.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Soap said again, because apparently that was his phrase tonight. “Look at her-”
“Johnny,” Price warned, but his voice was tight too.
Ghost didn’t slam. He didn’t have to. He just leaned his weight in, inch by relentless inch, and let your own wet do the rest. Your body had to yield. And that was the moment your brain just… flickered.
Because it was too much.
Stretch, deep in your pelvis. Burn, not sharp but huge. Fullness that pushed on places the others hadn’t. Your back arched hard, heels digging into his shoulders, trying to find leverage that didn’t exist.
“Si-” you gasped, name torn out of you.
“Yeah,” he said, voice low, pleased. “Say it.”
He was halfway in and you already felt full. Crowded. Your cunt squeezed around him in shocked little spasms, trying to pull him in and push him out at the same time.
“Fuck,” Gaz said, softer. “She’s clamping down on him.”
“’Course she is,” Price said, hand still at your throat, thumb rubbing your jaw. “He’s wreckin’ her.”
He was. He absolutely was.
Ghost gave you maybe two seconds to adjust, then he pushed the rest of the way.
It knocked sound out of you. A strangled, punched out cry that wasn’t even a word. Your vision went hot white at the edges. Your hands flew out, grabbing for anything- blanket, shirt, wrist. Soap shoved his forearm under your palm on reflex so you had something solid to claw at.
“Got you,” he said, eyes wide. “S’okay, s’okay.”
Your body took Ghost’s cock, because it had no choice, because you were so wet he could’ve slid forever, because the three men before him had already made you pliant. But where Price and Soap and Gaz had felt like they fit, Ghost felt like he filled. Like there was nowhere he wasn’t.
He bottomed out and held.
You could feel him in your belly- cock heavy, hot pressure low and deep. You could feel him nudging at your cervix, you could feel your own slick squeezed around him, you could feel your pulse beating against the underside of him.
Your brain went white.
Not “I can’t think of a comeback.” Not “wow, this is good.” Actual blank space. Everything narrowed to he’s inside me, he’s so big, I can’t- I can’t- oh god-
You stared up at the ceiling, mouth open, chest stuttering. Sound was distant- men talking, praising, swearing- but it was like it was happening down the hall. The only thing close was his weight and the bed and the way your body was struggling to remember how to relax around him.
“Breathe,” Price said again, firmer. “C’mon, love. In. Out.”
You dragged air. It trembled.
Ghost’s big hand slid down your thigh, over your knee, to the underside of it. He hitched your leg higher over his shoulder, angle changing, hips dipping so he wasn’t ramming your cervix, just pressing deep.
“Good girl,” he said then, and you felt the words more than heard them. “Took me. Look at you.”
You couldn’t. Your eyes rolled a little. Your fingers dug into Soap’s arm; he hissed and let you.
“Look at her,” Soap said, voice gone soft with awe. “She’s floatin’.”
Gaz laughed under his breath, gentle. “She’s gone.”
Ghost started to move, a slow, dragging pull, to the point where you could feel every ridge of him, your own walls clinging desperately, and then a steady, heavy drive back in that rocked your whole body. The mattress creaked. Your breasts bounced. Your mouth kept making these little punched out sounds you couldn’t control.
The best and worst part was the weight. Every time he came down, his hips met the backs of your thighs with a solid, meaty thock, and because he had your legs hooked over his shoulders, it pinned your pelvis to where he wanted you. You couldn’t lift to meet him. You couldn’t squirm away. You could only take that deep, filling stroke.
Your eyes unfocused.
Your mouth went wet and open.
Your thoughts- what was left of them- ran in circles: big, deep, can’t, yes, yes, yes-
“Yeah,” Soap murmured, almost proud. “That’s the one, Ghost. That’s the one that’s gonna wipe Graves right out of her head.”
Ghost’s eyes flicked up at him, dark and amused. “That the brief?”
“Absolutely the brief,” Gaz said. “Mission critical.”
“Then hold her,” Ghost said. “She’s slippin’.”
Price’s arm came under your shoulders and lifted you partway so you weren’t flat, so you had him to lean on. Your head flopped to the side against his chest, lips parted. He cupped your jaw, thumb on your cheek, steady.
“Come back,” he said quietly. “Want you to feel him.”
“I-” you managed, voice thin. “I feel him.”
“Oh, I know you do.”
Ghost changed the angle again, just a small shift of his knee, a deeper drive of his hips and that was it. That was the key. Suddenly he was stroking over that spot inside you the others had found, but from lower, heavier, fuller, and your whole body spasmed.
“Oh- oh, fuck-“
“There she is,” Gaz breathed. “There it is.”
Your climax came up like a sucker punch.
No build. No slow climb. Just here. Your cunt clenched around him so hard it wrung a low, filthy sound out of Ghost. Your back bowed against Price’s arm. Your legs tried to close around his shoulders and couldn’t, he was too broad, he kept you open, made you take every pulse of it.
It was the kind of orgasm that blanks a mind.
Sound dropped out. Vision whited at the edges. Your ears filled with rushing. Your body just contracted around him over and over, pulsing, milking, trying to drag him even deeper. Hot slick spilled around him, down over your ass, onto the sheet.
“Fuckin’ look at that,” Soap said, half-laugh, half-disbelieving. “She’s squeezin’ the life outta him.”
Ghost’s jaw flexed. He held your hips down, taking it. “That,” he said, voice gone rough, “is better than Graves.”
Price laughed, low and triumphant, hand stroking your cheek as you rode it out. “There we are,” he said. “That’s the record.”
You could only whimper, body shaking, cunt still fluttering around the thick length still buried in you. You weren’t thinking about Berlin. You weren’t thinking about Graves. You weren’t even thinking words. You were just full, and held, and done.
Everything cut to soft static; weightless, cotton wrapped nowhere. Sound went muffled, like you’d ducked under warm water. Your body was still humming on some deep, molten frequency, but your mind had…let go. Like someone had hit the breaker.
You felt big hands moving you, but from far away.
Your leg was lifted- careful, careful, don’t cramp her- then lowered. Cool air on your thighs for a second, then something warm pressing in. You twitched, a tiny reflex, and a palm smoothed down your hip right away.
“Shhh. S’alright.”
You heard it as vibration, not words.
Your body knew them, though. Knew the cadence of their voices, the way each one sat in your bones. Even floaty as you were, they were still buzzing in your nervous system. Nobody else could’ve touched you right then.
You were rolled, whining because you were sore, onto something broad and warm. A chest. Hair rough under your cheek. Beard bristle against your temple. Arms closing around you, not tight, just there. A heartbeat under your ear, deep and steady. You made a small noise, half sigh, half childlike hum, and melted.
“There we are,” Price murmured, and even though you barely heard it, your neck relaxed. “That’s it. Got you.”
Everything else turned into hands and heat.
Someone at your legs, wiping between your thighs in slow, respectful strokes. He paused every time you flinched and whimpered, waited, then kept going. Someone else tugging the sheet away and swapping it for a cleaner blanket. Someone tucked the blanket under you so you stayed warm. Someone lifting your limp hand and putting a bottle in it, then guiding it to your mouth.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” Ghost said, low and uncompromising. “Need water.”
The rim tapped your lip; you didn’t open.
A thumb stroked your jaw, firmer now. “Open.”
Your mouth parted on reflex. Cool water slid in, shocking compared to all the heat. You swallowed slow, almost lazily. It dribbled from the corner of your mouth; someone thumbed it away.
“She’s barely there,” Gaz said, voice soft with that pleased note medics get when a patient is post op and not distressed. “Look at her eyes.”
“She’s lookin’ right through you,” Soap said, proud. “We sent her to fuckin’ space.”
You weren’t following the words, but you were following the touch. Every time you slipped a bit deeper- down, down- someone reeled you back just enough. A hand over your sternum. Fingers in your hair. A palm cupping the back of your neck. You didn’t have to do anything. They were moving you like a sleepy doll.
Your arms wouldn’t work. Your legs felt like they belonged to someone else. Your whole pelvis was one slow, warm ache, like the echo of being filled was still there even though you felt…empty? Clean? You couldn’t tell. Everything was soft.
“…never seen her this quiet…”
“…you almost did break her…”
“…well she asked for it…”
“…Graves couldn’t do that…”
You drifted lower, your nervous system had finally decided, oh, we don’t have to do anything now. We can just exist. Your breathing slowed. Your mouth stayed parted. Your eyes blinked slow and out of sync.
“Christ, look at her eyelashes,” Soap repeated, grinning. “She’s fuckin’ gone.”
Price huffed a laugh, hand big and slow on your back. “Yeah. She’s ours now.”
Ghost was the only one still a touch clinical. “She’s pale?”
“Flushed,” Gaz said, checking your cheek with his knuckles. “Warm. She’s good.”
“Heart?”
“Steady. Bit fast.”
“Yeah, well.” Soap’s grin turned sharp. “We were spectacular.”
That actually tugged a weak breath of a laugh out of you, more an exhale with a shape. Four heads turned toward you instantly, like you were a radio that had just crackled.
“There she is,” Price said, pleased. “Back with us?”
You were and you weren’t.
You could hear them better, now that you’d taken water and your brain had floated a smidge closer to shore. But your body was still out in the warm sea, rocking. Every sound was filtered through cotton. Every touch was in slow motion. You had no urge to move. No urge to talk.
You were aware mostly of warmth. Warm arm under your shoulders. Warm thigh under your hip. Warm palm at your nape. Warm blanket over your legs. Warm, satisfied men around you like a wall.
“Alright,” Soap said, mischief back, because of course he would ruin the soft moment. “Moment of truth, then.”
“Johnny,” Gaz said in warning.
“What? We have to know.”
“We already know,” Ghost said, perfectly calm. “Look at her. She can’t remember her own name.”
“Yeah but I want t’hear it.”
“Ask her later,” Price said. “She’s milk-brained.”
Milk-brained. That made you want to laugh again. It came out a tiny smile against his shirt.
Soap saw it and crowed. “See? She’s not dead.”
“Fine,” Price sighed, indulgent, rubbing your shoulder. “One question. Then you let her sleep.”
“Deal.” Soap leaned over you, upside down in your vision, eyes bright, hair a mess. “Hey. Sweetheart.”
Your eyes slitted open. Barely.
“You with us?”
A slow blink. “Mhm.”
“Gonna ask you a very important thing, yeah?”
Another blink. You were so tired. But his tone was playful and your body trusted him, so you let the sound out: “Mm?”
“How,” Soap said, sounding like he could burst from smugness, “do we compare to Graves?”
The name hit your fogged brain like a stone dropped in deep water- plop… sink… gone.
Your brows knitted faintly. Your mouth worked. You genuinely searched and came up empty. Not a coy empty. Not a “I’ll say this to boost your ego” empty. A real, floaty, no file found empty.
“Who…?” you mumbled, voice slurry, eyes already sliding closed again.
The room erupted.
“Fuckin’ yes,” Soap yelled, triumphant.
“Told you,” Ghost said, not loud but so satisfied it rang.
“God, that’s beautiful,” Gaz said, laughing, head tipped back.
Price’s chest shook under your cheek. “That,” he said, pressing a kiss to your hair, “is what I wanted.”
You were already gone again, body boneless in their hands, drifting on their voices like sleep:
Summary: You and Jack have been keeping your relationship quiet for months. It works, mostly, until a firefighter comes in as a patient and one of his teammates decides to flirt with you right in front of him. Jack trusts you. He does. But standing five feet away while another man acts like you’re available? That is a very different problem.
Author’s Note: Huge thank you to the lovely @jackr-abbott who requested this one. “He’s supposed to be your favorite man in uniform” immediately rewired my brain, and jealous, careful, secretly-in-love Jack was so much fun to write. I fear this may be my new favorite smut fic I’ve ever written. I hope this is everything you were hoping for.
Xoxo, Del
The firefighter came in bloody, pissed off, and trying very hard to pretend he was not in pain. It was just after two in the morning, which meant the emergency department had settled into that strange night-shift rhythm where everything felt too bright and too quiet until it suddenly wasn’t.
Crus was at the nurses’ station attempting to fix a jammed printer. Shen was half a hallway down, talking to a drunk college student about the emotional consequences of a fractured wrist. Ellis was already pulling gloves on when the ambulance bay doors opened. And Jack was beside you at the foot of trauma two, expression calm in the way that meant he had already started building a plan before the stretcher crossed the threshold.
“Thirty-four-year-old male, firefighter, injured on scene,” the paramedic said as the stretcher rolled in. “Partial ceiling collapse during overhaul. Took debris to the shoulder and left flank. No loss of consciousness. Vitals stable en route.”
The firefighter on the stretcher opened one eye. “You make it sound dramatic.”
“You got hit by part of a ceiling,” another firefighter said, walking in beside the stretcher with the run sheet in one hand. “It was dramatic.”
The patient frowned. “I walked out.”
His teammate looked down at him. “You were carried out.”
“I assisted,” the patient said.
“You complained,” the other firefighter corrected.
You bit back a smile as you stepped toward the bed. “Sounds like he’s alert.”
The teammate’s mouth curved. “Unfortunately.”
Jack’s mouth did not move, but you felt the almost-smile in him anyway. Jack braced one hand on the rail. “On three. One, two, three.”
The team transferred the firefighter to the trauma bed. He hissed through his teeth, jaw tightening hard as you helped guide his injured side down.
“I’m fine,” the firefighter said.
Jack looked at him over the end of the bed. “That usually means you’re not.”
You almost smiled again.
The firefighter’s teammate noticed. His attention shifted to you, quick and interested, and his mouth curved like he had decided the night had improved.
You held out your hand for the run sheet. “And you are?”
“Mason Brooks,” he said, passing it over. “Station Four.”
You glanced down at the paperwork. “Patient’s name?”
“Ryan Hale,” Mason said. “Lieutenant. Stubborn. Hero complex. Bad at following directions unless there’s active fire involved.”
Hale turned his head on the pillow. “I can still hear you.”
“Good,” Mason said. “Maybe this time it’ll sink in.”
You scanned the sheet. “Any meds? Allergies?”
Mason shifted closer to the end of the bed. “No known allergies. No daily meds. Unless coffee counts.”
“At this hour, it does,” you said.
Mason’s grin widened. “See, I knew I liked you.”
Jack’s hand paused for half a second on the bed rail. Half a second. Nothing more.
You kept your attention on the patient. “Lieutenant Hale,” you said, leaning into his line of sight. “I’m going to cut through your shirt so we can look at your shoulder and ribs, okay?”
Hale grimaced. “Whatever you need.”
Mason leaned a little closer, eyes still on you. “That offer extend to the rest of us, or just him?”
Crus, who had just stepped into the room, looked up immediately. Shen appeared in the doorway at exactly the wrong time, chart in hand. Ellis stopped opening a pack of gauze. You did not look at any of them. You also did not look at Jack. You could feel him perfectly well without that.
“Patient first,” you said, sliding the trauma shears through the fabric of Hale’s shirt. “Flirting never.”
Mason laughed, low and pleased, like you had given him exactly the answer he wanted. His eyebrows lifted. “Never?”
Jack reached over and adjusted the monitor lead near Hale’s shoulder. He did not need to. You knew that because you had already placed it. Still, his forearm came briefly into your space, a clean line of muscle and restraint under fluorescent light.
“Brooks,” Jack said.
The room went still in the way a room could only go still while everyone inside it kept working. Mason glanced at him.
Jack did not look away from the patient. “She needs room.”
Mason lifted both hands, grin still there. “I’m out of the way.”
Jack finally looked at him. “More.”
Crus looked down at the supply cart with sudden, religious interest. Shen pressed his lips together. Ellis coughed once into her shoulder. Mason took one step back. But he did not stop smiling. That was probably what did it. Because he was not being creepy. He was not interfering. He was not saying anything you could not handle. He was just obvious. Obvious enough that everyone in the room knew exactly what he was doing. Obvious enough that Jack had to stand beside you and pretend he did not care.
You palpated carefully along Hale’s shoulder. “Left shoulder tenderness. Possible clavicle involvement.”
Jack moved with you. Again. He stepped in at Hale’s other side, close enough that the two of you fell into the old rhythm before you could think about it. You checked the shoulder. Jack checked the ribs. You reached for gauze, and he passed it to you before you asked. Your fingers brushed. Barely. It was nothing. It was everything.
Jack kept his eyes on Hale. “Any trouble breathing?”
Hale shook his head. “No.”
Jack’s hand stilled near the bruising along Hale’s side. “Pain when you take a deep breath?”
You reached for the tablet beside the bed. “Already paging X-ray.”
Jack’s gaze cut to you. For one second, there he was. Your Jack. Not Dr. Abbot. Not the attending pretending he had not kissed you against your apartment door less than eight hours ago. Your Jack. The one who knew how you took your coffee on the night shift. The one who texted you to make sure you got inside when you drove home after dark.
Then he blinked, and the wall came back up. “Good,” Jack said.
Not thank you. Good. Professional enough to pass. Intimate enough to make your stomach turn over.
Mason glanced between you again, and even though he could not possibly know, you hated that he sensed something.
“So,” Mason said, looking at you while Jack checked the bruising along Hale’s flank, “you always make trauma look this easy?”
You reached for tape. Jack got it first. Again. He handed it to you without looking away from Hale. You stared at the roll in his hand for half a second before taking it.
“Only when men in uniform behave,” you said.
Crus made a strangled noise. Shen turned halfway toward the door like he needed a moment.
Ellis muttered, “Jesus Christ,” under her breath.
Despite yourself, your mouth curved. It was small. Barely there. The kind of smile you would have swallowed immediately if you had realized anyone was watching.
Mason saw it anyway. His own smile turned delighted.
“There it is,” Mason said.
You looked at him. “There what?”
Mason leaned lightly against the wall, still at the distance Jack had ordered him to keep. “That smile. I was starting to think you were going to make me work for it all night.”
Jack set the chart down. Quietly. Too quietly. Crus froze. Shen looked at Ellis. Ellis looked at you.
You kept your voice light, but final. “Mason.”
Mason held your gaze for one second, then nodded like he knew he had found the line.
“Too much?” he asked.
You gave him a pointed look. “Yes.”
Mason lifted one hand in surrender. “Got it.”
And he did. He stepped back, posture still easy, but his mouth finally closed, which you appreciated more than you wanted to admit. Jack moved to Hale’s other side, all precise hands and unreadable expression.
Jack glanced at Mason. “Anything else clinically relevant from the scene?”
Mason looked at him. This time, he did not smile. “No, sir,” Mason said.
Jack nodded once. “Good. Then we’ll take it from here.”
Mason looked toward Hale. “I’ll check back when they decide you’re not dying.”
Hale closed his eyes. “Bring coffee.”
Mason huffed. “You don’t deserve coffee.”
You smiled despite yourself. Mason saw it. Jack saw Mason see it. You knew because Jack stepped closer to the bed, blocking Mason’s line of sight like it was an accident. It was not an accident. Your breath caught. Mason’s gaze flicked to Jack’s back. Then to you. Then he nodded once, like something had finally clicked enough to make him curious.
“Nice to meet you,” Mason said.
You gave him a polite nod. “You too.”
Jack did not move until Mason left the room. Then the trauma bay exhaled. Crus was the first one brave enough to breathe like a person.
He looked at the supply cart. “I’m going to take these somewhere else.”
Jack did not look at him. “Good.”
Crus picked up a pack of gauze. “Great.”
Shen backed toward the doorway with the chart still in his hand. “I have a wrist fracture.”
Ellis gave him a look. “You personally?”
Shen ignored her and left. Ellis glanced between you and Jack, then dropped the unopened gauze onto the counter. “I’ll check on X-ray,” Ellis said.
Jack’s eyes stayed on Hale. “Thank you.”
Ellis left, too. Which left you with Jack, the patient, the beeping monitor, and the awful knowledge that Jack was standing close enough to touch you and still refusing to do it. Hale opened one eye.
“I’m on pain meds,” he said carefully, “so I’m going to pretend I didn’t notice any of that.”
Jack closed his eyes for half a second.
You pressed your lips together. “Notice any of what?” you asked.
Hale looked at you. Then at Jack. Then back at you.
“Exactly,” Hale said.
The corner of Jack’s mouth almost moved. Almost. Then the wall came back up.
“Rest,” Jack said.
Hale shut his eyes. “Yes, sir.”
The trauma bay emptied out in pieces after that. Hale went to imaging. Mason left with the rest of Station Four. Crus disappeared the second Jack gave him another look, though you knew he would be back the moment he thought it was safe to breathe near you again. Shen pretended to have somewhere to be. Ellis actually did. Which left you at the counter outside trauma two, finishing the chart with one hip pressed against the cabinet and the leftover adrenaline of the call still humming beneath your skin.
Jack stood a few feet away, reviewing Hale’s orders on the computer. He had not said much since Mason left. That was not unusual for Jack during a shift. It was unusual for Jack with you. You were still trying to decide whether you should say something when another night shift nurse, Drew, slid up beside you with a fresh roll of tape in one hand and a grin already working its way across his face.
“So,” Drew said.
You did not look up from the chart. “No.”
Drew laughed. “I didn’t even say anything.”
“You were about to,” you said.
Drew leaned his shoulder against the cabinet. “I was about to say Station Four was looking very heroic tonight.”
You paused. Across the counter, Jack’s typing stopped. Only for a second. Then it resumed. You felt your stomach tighten. Drew did not notice. Of course, he did not notice. He lowered his voice in the exact way people did when they thought they were being subtle and absolutely were not.
“Brooks was flirting hard,” Drew said.
You sighed. “He was doing a handoff.”
“Please.” Drew rolled his eyes. “He was doing a handoff, making prolonged eye contact, and trying to get your number through trauma paperwork.”
Jack’s jaw shifted. Tiny. Controlled. You saw it anyway.
“Drew,” you warned.
Drew smiled wider. “What? He was cute.”
“I’m not dating a firefighter,” you said.
Drew frowned. “Okay, but we love a man in uniform.”
Jack went still. Not enough for anyone else to call it that. Not enough to be obvious. But the air around him changed again. You hated that your first instinct was to look at him. You hated more that you could not. Because looking at Jack right now would say too much. Instead, you kept your eyes on the chart and forced your voice to stay light.
“We?” you asked.
Drew pointed the roll of tape at you. “As a community.”
You gave him a look.
Drew shrugged. “A broad and beautiful community of people with eyes.”
Despite yourself, you almost laughed. Almost. Jack closed the chart on his screen. A little too carefully. You heard the click of the mouse. You felt it somewhere behind your ribs.
“I’m good,” you said.
Drew made a face. “You’re still doing that no-dating thing?”
You swallowed. The no-dating thing. Right. The harmless lie you had told people months ago when you and Jack had started becoming something neither of you had wanted to expose to hospital fluorescent lighting.
No dating. Too busy. Not worth the complication.
A clean little excuse that had felt easy at the time.
Now, with Jack standing five feet away while another nurse encouraged you to go for a firefighter who had made him spend an entire trauma case pretending not to know you, it felt cruel.
“I’m good,” you repeated, softer this time.
Drew studied you for a second, then shrugged. “Suit yourself. But if Brooks comes back asking about you, I’m telling him you’re single and mysterious.”
“Drew,” you said.
He lifted both hands. “What?”
You pointed at him. “Do not do that.”
Drew grinned. “Fine. Single and terrifyingly unavailable.”
Jack looked up then. You felt it. His gaze on you. Not long. Not enough. Just a brief, controlled flick of his eyes that landed like a hand around your wrist.
Drew finally seemed to register the temperature of the room. His gaze shifted from you to Jack, then back again.
“Oh,” Drew said.
Your heart kicked once. Jack’s expression did not change.
“What?” you asked.
Drew blinked. “Nothing.”
“Drew,” you warned.
“Nothing,” he repeated, suddenly fascinated by the roll of tape in his hand. “I’m going to restock three.”
He left too quickly. You stood there with your pen in your hand, your chart unfinished, and the awful knowledge that Jack was still looking at you. For one second, neither of you moved. Then Jack lowered his gaze back to the computer.
“Patient in four needs discharge papers,” Jack said.
Professional. Careful. A clean line drawn in the middle of the hallway.
You nodded, even though he was not looking at you anymore. “Okay.”
Jack clicked into another chart. You watched the muscle in his jaw move once. Then nothing. No comment about Drew. No sharp little confession. No hint that he cared whether Mason thought you were single, mysterious, available, unavailable, or anything else. Just Jack going quiet in the exact way that meant he was locking something down before it could get loose.
That was worse, somehow.
Because you knew him well enough to hear everything he refused to say. I know you are not going to go for it. I know you do not want him. I know this is not your fault. I still hated every second of it.
For the next twenty minutes, Jack stayed close. Not close enough for anyone to call it anything. Close enough that you noticed. He took the chart from your hand before Shen could reach for it. He stepped in beside you when Hale came back from imaging. He passed you gauze before you asked, tape before you reached, a fresh pair of gloves when yours tore at the wrist. Every touch almost happened. His knuckles almost brushed yours. His shoulder almost grazed your back. His hand almost settled at your waist when he moved behind you in the narrow space between the counter and the supply cart. Almost. Almost. Almost.
And each time, Jack pulled back before contact could become evidence. It was maddening. It was careful. It was so painfully him that you wanted to scream.
When Mason came back to check on Hale, Jack was already at your side.
Mason stopped near the doorway, gaze flicking from Hale to you. “How’s he doing?”
“He’ll live,” you said.
Hale groaned from the bed. “Barely.”
Jack looked at the tablet in his hand. “No fracture. No pneumothorax. Observation for pain control and repeat exam.”
Mason nodded, but his eyes came back to you. “Good. I’d hate to think I left him in the wrong hands.”
You opened your mouth. Jack answered before you could. “She has it handled.”
The room went quiet. Mason’s brows lifted slightly. You looked at Jack. Jack did not look at you. His eyes stayed on Mason, calm and unreadable.
Mason’s mouth curved, slower this time. “I can see that.”
Jack’s jaw shifted. You set the tablet down before either of them could say another word.
“Lieutenant Hale needs rest,” you said, voice light but firm. “And I need both of you to stop having whatever conversation you think you’re having over his bed.”
Hale opened one eye. “Thank you.”
Mason laughed once, lifting both hands. “Fair.”
Jack finally looked at you. There was heat there. Frustration. Something too sharp to be professional and too controlled to be anything else. You held his gaze for half a second too long. Then Jack looked away first.
“Brooks,” Jack said, voice even. “You can check back in after he’s had some rest.”
Mason nodded once. “Yes, sir.”
He looked at you one last time. “Good seeing you again,” Mason said.
You gave him a polite nod. “You too.”
Jack moved before Mason fully cleared the doorway. It was subtle. A step to the side. A shift of his body. Nothing anyone could call possessive. But it put him directly between you and Mason’s line of sight. Your breath caught. Mason saw it. You knew he saw it because his expression changed just enough. Curiosity. Recognition. Not understanding, exactly. But close. Then Mason left.
Hale looked between you and Jack from the bed.
“I’m still on pain meds,” Hale said carefully, “so I’m going to pretend I didn’t notice that either.”
Jack’s eyes closed again. You pressed your lips together. From the doorway, Crus made the mistake of appearing with Hale’s updated paperwork. He looked at Jack. Then at you. Then at Hale.
“I can come back,” Crus said.
Jack turned his head. “Crus.”
Crus nodded. “Coming back.”
He disappeared immediately. You exhaled through your nose and grabbed the tablet from the counter.
“I’m going to restock,” you said.
Jack’s gaze followed you. “Now?”
“Yes,” you said, not looking at him. “Now.”
You made it halfway down the hall before Jack caught up. He did not call your name. He did not say anything at all. He just reached past you, opened the supply closet door, and said, low enough that only you could hear, “In.”
Your pulse jumped. You looked up at him. “Excuse me?”
Jack’s eyes held yours. “Please.”
That was worse. That was much worse. You stepped inside. The second the door clicked shut, Jack’s hand closed around your wrist. Not hard. Just firm enough to turn you back toward him before you could take another breath.
“Jack—”
He kissed you.
The word disappeared against his mouth. For one stunned second, you froze, caught between the metal shelf at your back and the heat of him in front of you. Then your body caught up faster than your brain did. Your hands found his scrub top, fingers curling into the fabric as Jack stepped closer and kissed you like he had been holding himself back all night. Because he had. You knew it in the way his mouth moved over yours.
Controlled, but only barely. Careful, but not calm.
His hand slid to your waist, pulling you in once before he seemed to remember where you were and stopped himself from dragging you fully against him. When he broke the kiss, his breath was uneven. You stared up at him. Jack’s eyes were dark.
Your lips parted. “Oh.”
His jaw flexed. “Don’t.”
“You’re jealous,” you said.
Jack looked toward the closed door like it had personally offended him. “I’m not doing this here.”
“You pulled me into a supply closet and kissed me,” you replied.
Jack exhaled. “I needed to talk to you.”
You lifted your brows. “That wasn’t talking.”
Jack’s eyes cut back to yours. There he was. Irritated. Wound tight. Too handsome for your peace of mind.
“You’ve been acting strange all night,” you said.
Jack dropped his hand from your waist, but he did not step back. “I’ve been working.”
Your eyes narrowed, “You’ve been keeping me within arm’s reach.”
Jack did not answer. That silence landed harder than a confession.
You softened your voice. “Jack.”
His gaze stayed on yours, stubborn and hot and miserable.
“Is this because of Mason?” you asked.
Jack laughed once, short and humorless. “Mason,” he repeated, like the name tasted bad.
You bit the inside of your cheek. Jack looked away, but this time there was something grumpy and sharp tucked into the movement.
“Drew had plenty to say about him,” Jack said.
The memory came back immediately. Station Four was looking very heroic tonight. He was cute. Okay, but we love a man in uniform.
Your mouth curved before you could stop it.
Jack saw it. His eyes narrowed. “What?”
You shook your head. “Nothing.”
“That’s not nothing,” Jack replied.
You tilted your head. “You’re mad about what Drew said.”
Jack replied instantly. “I’m not mad about what Drew said.”
You gave him a look.
Jack’s mouth tightened. “He said you should go for it.”
You sighed softly. “He was teasing.”
“He said everyone loves a man in uniform,” Jack replied, short, slightly clipped.
You stepped closer, letting your hands smooth slowly up his chest.
“And you think I was looking at Mason in uniform?” you asked.
“I think,” Jack said, each word too controlled, “Brooks knew exactly what he looked like walking into that room.”
You hummed. “Did he?”
Jack's tone sharpened into a warning, “Baby.”
There it was. The first slip. The first crack in the professional distance he had forced between you all night.
Your stomach flipped, but you did not let him off the hook. “He’s not the man I want to see in uniform.”
Jack went still. Not tense. Not cold. Still. Like the words had gone straight through him.
“No?” Jack asked.
You shook your head. “No.”
The supply closet felt smaller suddenly. Too quiet. Too warm.
Jack’s eyes held yours. “Careful.”
You continued despite Jack’s warning. “You are.”
His mouth parted slightly. You let your gaze move over him, slow enough to be cruel.
“And you know exactly what you look like in your SWAT gear.”
Jack’s hand braced on the shelf beside your head. He was not touching you. Not yet. But his body crowded yours, all heat and restraint, and your pulse jumped like it had been waiting for permission.
“I pulled you in here because I was jealous,” Jack said, voice rough. “And now you’re talking about SWAT gear.”
“No,” you said, fingers curling in the front of his scrub top. “I’m telling you, Mason could never.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to your hands.
You tugged him closer by a fraction. “He could never make me feel like you do.”
Jack’s eyes lifted back to yours.
“He could never kiss me like you do,” you said.
Jack kissed you again. Harder this time. The shelf pressed into your back as his mouth found yours, and you made a soft, startled sound that disappeared into him. Jack swallowed it like it belonged to him. His hand returned to your waist, fingers tightening once, and the possessive edge of it made your knees go weak. He kissed you like a man trying to prove a point he had no business proving at work.
Then he pulled back just enough to breathe. You should have stopped. You did not. You caught his wrist before he could move his hand away.
Jack’s eyes sharpened. “Baby.”
You held his gaze and guided his hand back to your waist. “He could never touch me like you do.”
Jack’s fingers flexed against you. You moved his hand lower, slow enough that he could stop you if he wanted to. He did not. His palm settled over your ass, firm and hot through your scrubs, and his jaw went tight enough to make your stomach flip.
Your voice dropped. “Never.”
Jack’s breath left him roughly. His hand tightened once before he forced it still.
“You need to stop,” Jack said.
You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his scrub pants and pulled him closer. Not much. Just enough. Jack’s hips pressed into yours, and the sound he made was low, wrecked, barely controlled.
You looked up at him. “He could never fuck me like you do.”
Jack snapped.
His mouth was on yours before you could take another breath. This kiss was not careful. Not at first. It was hot and rough and immediate, his hand tightening on your ass as he pinned you back against the shelf with the solid heat of his body. Your fingers twisted in his waistband, pulling him closer while his mouth opened over yours, swallowing the small sound that slipped out of you. For one dizzy second, there was no hospital. No night shift. No Mason. No Drew. No secret. Just Jack’s mouth, Jack’s hands, Jack’s body pressed hard against yours as if he needed you to feel exactly how much he had been holding back.
Your hand slid up his chest. Jack’s hips pushed into yours again, and your breath broke against his mouth.
“Jack,” you whispered.
He kissed you once more, deep and hungry, and then stopped like it hurt. His forehead dropped to yours. Both of you were breathing too hard. His hand stayed on you for one more second. Then his fingers loosened.
“Not here,” Jack said.
Your eyes opened slowly. “Jack.”
His voice was rough, almost unsteady. “Not because I’m jealous.”
Your fingers were still hooked in his waistband. You could feel the tension in him, the restraint pulled tight through every line of his body. He lifted his head enough to look at you.
“Not at work,” Jack said. “Not where anyone can walk in and make you pay for it.”
Your chest squeezed, even through the heat still crawling under your skin. “You think I’d regret it?” you asked.
Jack’s expression softened for half a second, but his voice stayed wrecked. “I think I care about you too much to find out in a supply closet.”
You stared at him. “That is so annoying.”
His mouth twitched, though his eyes were still dark. “Yeah?”
“Yes.” You let go of his waistband slowly, even though it cost you. “Responsible. Principled. Deeply inconvenient.”
Jack’s hand slid from your ass back to your waist. Just once. Firm. Careful. Then he let go. He leaned close again, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear.
“Finish the shift,” Jack said.
Your eyes fluttered. “And then?”
Jack stepped back, putting space between you like it physically hurt. His gaze moved over your face, lingering on your mouth before coming back to your eyes. “Then you come home with me.”
Your pulse jumped. You tried to smile. “And?”
Jack reached for the supply closet door, but he looked back before opening it. “And then you can say all of that again.”
You stepped out of the supply closet first. That had been Jack’s idea. He gave you thirty seconds, like that would somehow fix your mouth, your breathing, your pulse, or the fact that your whole body still felt marked by his hands. You made it three steps before Crus appeared at the end of the hall. He looked at you. You looked at him. Crus’s eyes dropped briefly to your mouth. Then he looked at the supply closet door behind you.
You lifted a finger. “Don’t.”
Crus nodded immediately. “Wasn’t going to.”
Your eyes narrowed, “You were thinking.”
“I can stop,” Crus said.
You nodded once, “Do that.”
Crus pointed vaguely toward the nurses’ station. “I’m going to go over there.”
You nodded. “Great idea.”
Crus took two steps backward before turning around completely. You waited until he disappeared, then pressed the heel of your hand beneath your collarbone like that would keep your heart where it belonged. Thirty seconds later, Jack came out. You did not turn around. You did not need to. You felt him behind you the same way you had felt him all night. Close. Controlled. Ruining your life with restraint. Jack passed you without touching you, but his voice dipped low enough that only you could hear. “Breathe.”
Your eyes closed for half a second. “Don’t start.”
Jack paused beside you, his shoulder nearly brushing yours. “I’m not starting anything.”
You looked up at him. “You absolutely started something.”
His mouth twitched, but he kept his eyes on the hall. “Finish the shift.”
You exhaled shakily. “You keep saying that like it’s easy.”
Jack’s gaze cut to yours. For one second, the supply closet was there again. His mouth on yours. His hand at your waist. His voice against your ear. Then Jack looked away first.
“I didn’t say easy,” he said.
Your stomach flipped. He walked away before you could answer. You stood there for one more second, furious with him for being principled and even more furious with yourself for finding it attractive.
You lasted eleven minutes. That was generous, considering the state Jack had left you in. Eleven whole minutes of pretending you could chart, restock, answer Drew’s question about room six, and not think about Jack’s mouth on yours in the supply closet. Eleven minutes of watching him move through the department like he had not just pinned you to a shelf and then ruined your life by being responsible about it. He was at the nurses’ station when you looked up again, one hand wrapped around a paper cup of coffee, the other scrolling through something on his phone. His shoulders were relaxed. His face was calm. He looked controlled.
That annoyed you. It annoyed you enough that you reached into your scrub pocket for your phone. The photo was not new. You had taken it two nights ago in Jack’s bedroom, sitting on the floor in front of his mirror while he was in the shower. Your face was hidden behind your phone, one knee bent, your other leg folded beneath you. Lace hugged your hips, one strap sitting soft against your shoulder, the whole thing intimate and quiet and unmistakably meant for him.
It did not show everything.
It did not have to.
Jack knew what that set looked like in person. Jack knew what it looked like on his bedroom floor. You stared at the photo for half a second. Then you looked across the department. Jack lifted his coffee to his mouth. You selected the photo. Underneath it, you typed: For the record, Mason never got one of these.
You pressed send. Across the station, Jack’s phone lit up. He glanced down. His thumb moved over the screen. For one second, nothing happened. Then his coffee stopped halfway to his mouth. Your stomach flipped. Jack lowered the cup slowly. Very slowly. His jaw tightened.
Your phone buzzed in your hand.
Jack: Fuck. You’re beautiful.
Your breath caught. For half a second, all the smugness drained out of you. Then another message appeared.
Jack: And you know exactly what you’re doing.
Your mouth curved. You typed back. You: Good.
Across the station, Jack looked up. His eyes found yours immediately. Dark. Focused. Not even close to calm. Your phone buzzed again. Jack: Careful.
You slipped your phone back into your pocket and picked up the chart in front of you. Jack kept looking at you. You did not look back. That was the point.
For the rest of the shift, you behaved. Mostly. You answered call lights. You updated Hale’s chart. You helped Drew turn over room three. You gave Ellis the lab results she had been waiting for and listened to Shen complain about discharge instructions with the appropriate amount of sympathy. And every so often, you made Jack’s life worse. Not loudly. Never obviously. You were smarter than that. You brushed past him in the narrow hallway with just enough space between you for plausible deniability and not nearly enough for mercy. Jack’s hand tightened around the chart he was holding. You did not smile until you were past him.
Five minutes later, you reached around him at the counter for a roll of tape you did not actually need. Jack went still when your chest nearly touched his arm.
You kept your voice sweet. “Excuse me.”
His eyes cut to yours. “There are three rolls on the other side.”
You looked down at the tape in your hand. “I like this one.”
Jack’s mouth tightened. Drew passed behind you with a stack of blankets, looked between you and Jack, and immediately changed direction.
“Nope,” Drew said.
You turned toward him. “What?”
Drew kept walking. “I have no questions.”
Jack leaned closer under the cover of reaching for a pen. His voice dropped low enough that only you could hear. “You’re being a brat.”
Your pulse jumped. You looked up at him, all innocence. “Am I?”
Jack’s eyes held yours. “Yes.”
The word landed low in your stomach. You swallowed. Jack noticed. For one second, the corner of his mouth almost moved. Then he straightened, professional mask sliding back into place like he had not just knocked the air out of you with one word.
“Room four needs vitals,” Jack said.
You narrowed your eyes. “Yes, doctor.”
His gaze flicked to your mouth. “Careful,” Jack said.
You smiled because you had no survival instinct left. “Trying.”
You were not trying. You both knew it.
By six, the department had thinned into the gray, half-awake quiet that came right before day shift started filling the halls with fresh voices and clean coffee. Hale had been admitted for observation. Mason had not come back. Drew had given you exactly one suspicious look and then wisely chosen to become fascinated by a supply cabinet. Shen had avoided the trauma hallway entirely. Ellis handed you a stack of discharge papers without comment, then looked at your face for half a second too long.
You narrowed your eyes. “What?”
Ellis lifted one shoulder. “Nothing.”
You exhaled. “That sounded like something.”
“It was internal,” Ellis replied.
You nodded. “Keep it that way.”
Ellis nodded in return. “Absolutely.”
From the attending station, Jack signed off on a chart and handed it to Crus. Crus took it carefully, like it might explode.
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
Crus shook his head. “Nothing.” Jack stared at him. Crus swallowed. “Lots of nothing this morning.”
You pressed your lips together and turned away before you could laugh. Jack’s gaze found you anyway. It landed on the side of your face, warm and heavy and impossible to ignore. You looked down at the chart in your hand and tried to remember how to read. When your shift finally ended, you made it to the staff room before Jack did.
A little after seven, you changed out of your scrub top with fingers that were not as steady as you wanted them to be. You shoved your things into your bag, checked your phone, then checked it again, even though nothing had changed. Jack had not texted. He did not need to. You both knew where you were going. Still, when you stepped into the hallway and found him waiting near the exit, your breath caught. He had changed into a dark jacket over his T-shirt, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other holding his keys. He looked tired. He looked composed. He looked like the man who had stopped himself in a supply closet and expected you to survive that information.
Jack’s eyes moved over you once. “You ready?”
You adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “Are you?”
His jaw shifted. You watched him fight a smile and lose by half an inch. “Car’s this way,” Jack said.
You followed him into the parking garage without another word. The walk to his truck felt longer than it should have. Neither of you touched. Neither of you spoke. Your hands kept brushing close enough that you could feel the almost of it, and by the time Jack unlocked the truck, you were so aware of him it felt embarrassing.
He opened the passenger door. You looked up at him. “Still being responsible?”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “Trying.”
You quirked a brow, “How’s that going?”
His eyes dropped to your mouth. “Poorly,” he said.
You slid into the seat before you could do something stupid in the parking garage, too. Jack closed the door with more care than necessary. The drive to his place was quiet. Not awkward. Just charged. The kind of quiet that had weight. The kind that pressed between your ribs and reminded you of everything waiting on the other side of his front door.
Jack kept one hand on the wheel. The other rested near the gear shift. Halfway there, you reached over and touched his wrist. Jack’s fingers flexed once, but he did not look away from the road.
You traced your thumb over the inside of his wrist. “You okay?”
His throat moved. “No,” Jack said.
Your chest tightened. He glanced at you then, quick and honest in the dark cab of the truck. “But I will be.”
You nodded and left your hand where it was. Jack turned his wrist beneath your touch and threaded his fingers through yours. It was the first real contact since the closet. His thumb dragged once over your knuckles. Slow. Controlled. The way he did everything when he was trying not to lose his mind. You looked down at your joined hands and felt your pulse jump. He was touching you now. He was still holding back.
Jack pulled into the small driveway behind his townhouse and cut the engine. For one second, neither of you moved. Your hand was still in his. His thumb moved once across your knuckles, slow and absent, like he was reminding himself you were there.
You looked over at him. “Jack.”
His eyes stayed forward. “I know.”
You waited. Jack exhaled through his nose, then turned his head enough to look at you. The porch light cut across his face, catching the tired set of his eyes, the rough edge of his restraint, the stubborn line of his mouth. He looked like he had survived the shift. Barely.
“You coming inside?” he asked.
Your heart kicked. You nodded. “Yeah.”
Jack’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth. Then he opened his door. You watched him get out, watched him come around the front of the truck, watched him open your door like the silence between you was not doing half the work for him. He held out his hand. You took it. Jack helped you down, then let go immediately.
You frowned. “Really?”
He shut the passenger door. “Inside.”
The word landed low in your stomach. You adjusted your bag on your shoulder and followed him toward the back door. He did not touch you while he unlocked it. He did not touch you when he stepped aside to let you in first. He did not touch you when the door closed behind him, and the lock clicked into place. That was how you knew you were in trouble. You stepped into the familiar quiet of his townhouse, and something in your chest softened before you could stop it. His boots were lined up neatly by the door. Your shoes from two nights ago were tucked beside them. The mug you always stole was upside down in the drying rack. The blanket you liked was folded over the back of the couch, neater than you had ever left it.
The sweatshirt you kept stealing was draped over the stair railing. Evidence. Everywhere. Tiny, domestic evidence that you belonged here. Jack set his keys in the bowl by the door. You watched his hands. Slow. Controlled. Infuriating. Then he turned back to you.
“Bag down,” Jack said.
Your breath caught. You lifted your eyebrows. “Excuse me?”
His eyes held yours. “You heard me.”
You stared at him for a second. Then, because apparently you had learned nothing from the supply closet, you smiled. “Is this the part where you get bossy?”
Jack stepped closer, not rushing, not touching, just taking up space until the air between you felt thinner. “This is the part where you listen.”
Your stomach flipped. “Because I sent you a picture?”
Jack’s gaze moved over your face. “Because you sent me that picture at work.”
“You liked it.”
His eyes darkened. “I loved it.”
The honesty in his voice nearly ruined your smugness. Nearly.
You tilted your chin up. “Then I don’t see the problem.”
Jack’s mouth curved, but it was not soft. Not yet.
“The problem,” he said, “is that you knew exactly what you were doing.”
You let your bag slide off your shoulder and drop gently beside your feet. “There,” you said. “I listened.”
Jack glanced at the bag. Then back at you. “Good.”
The single word moved through you like a hand. You swallowed.
His expression shifted by half a degree, the corner of his mouth barely moving.
“There she is,” he said quietly.
Your pulse jumped. “What?”
Jack stepped closer. “You were very brave at work,” he said.
You held his stare. “Was I?”
His hand came to the wall beside your head, not touching you, not yet. “Sending pictures. Brushing past me. Reaching for things you didn’t need.”
Your back met the door. Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “You had a lot to say for someone who still had a shift to finish.”
Your breath came shallow. “You told me to finish it.”
“I did,” Jack replied.
You inhaled. “So I did.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth. “You made it difficult.”
You smiled, slow and sweet. “Good.”
His hand finally came to your waist. Firm. Warm. Possessive enough to make your knees feel unreliable. Jack leaned in, his mouth near your ear.
“That’s the last time you say that without thinking first,” he said.
Your eyes fluttered shut. For one second, the brat in you went quiet.
Then you opened your eyes and turned your face toward his. “Or what?”
Jack went still. The room changed. His hand tightened at your waist once, not enough to hurt, just enough to tell you he had heard every bit of challenge in your voice. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark. But there was something else there, too. Something tired. Something honest. Something that made your chest ache even while your body was still humming from the way he had you against the door.
“Or,” Jack said, voice low, “you’re going to make me forget what I actually need to say to you.”
Your smile faded. “Oh.”
His thumb moved once against your waist. “Yeah,” he said.
You softened under his hand. “Jack.”
He looked at you for a long second. Then the confession started, quiet and rough and bigger than the jealousy. “I hated it,” he said.
Your chest went still. You searched his face. “Mason?”
Jack shook his head once. “No.”
You waited. His jaw worked like the words were fighting him on the way out.
“I hated standing there like I didn’t know you,” Jack said.
Your throat tightened. He looked away, but only for a second. When his eyes came back to yours, there was no professional distance left in them.
“I hated hearing him talk to you like you were available,” Jack said. “I hated Drew saying you should go for it and knowing I couldn’t say a damn thing.”
You lifted your hand to his chest. “Jack.”
“I know why we’re careful,” he said.
His voice was low. Controlled. But not cold anymore. Never cold. “I know why it matters. I know what people can be like, and I know your career matters more than me needing to prove a point in a trauma bay.”
You stepped closer. “It’s not more than you.” Jack’s expression shifted. You held his gaze. “My career matters. So do you.”
He swallowed once. “I know you didn’t want him,” Jack said.
“I didn’t,” you agreed.
“I know,” he said again, softer this time. “That was never the problem.”
You took another careful breath. “Then what was?”
Jack looked at you for a long second. Then he said it. “Careful felt a hell of a lot like pretending tonight.”
Your breath caught.
His eyes stayed on yours, tired and dark and finally honest. “And I don’t want to keep pretending I’m not in love with you.”
The room went quiet. The kind that settled around the two of you and made every other sound disappear. You stared at him. Jack’s hand tightened once at your waist. For the first time all night, he looked uncertain. That did something worse to you than the jealousy had. Worse than the supply closet. Worse than his hand on your waist, his mouth at your ear, his voice telling you to finish the shift.
You slid your hand up his chest. “You’re in love with me?” you asked.
His eyes searched your face. “Yes.”
The word was simple. No defense. No sarcasm. No place to hide. Your heart folded in on itself.
You touched his jaw. “Good.”
Jack’s brows drew together. “Good?”
You nodded, your thumb brushing the rough edge of stubble along his cheek. “Because I’m in love with you too.”
Jack’s breath left him slowly. Your chest ached with it. “With me?” he asked.
You gave him a look, even though your eyes were starting to sting. “Jack.”
His mouth curved faintly, but the vulnerability in his eyes stayed. “I had to ask.”
You shook your head. “You did not.”
“I did,” Jack replied.
You shook your head again and stepped closer until your body nearly touched his. “You are a ridiculous man.”
Jack’s hand finally settled more firmly at your waist. Like he had needed to hear it first. Like he had been waiting for permission to believe you. You covered his hand with yours and pressed it harder against you. His eyes darkened.
“There,” you whispered. “That’s better.”
Jack’s jaw shifted. “You have been a problem all night.”
Your mouth curved. “I have?” He gave you a flat look. You widened your eyes. “Was it the photo?”
Jack’s hand flexed at your waist. “Among other things.”
“I took that for you,” you said.
Jack nodded once. “I know.”
You slid your hands down his chest, watching the restraint settle back into his body for a very different reason now. “No one else gets that,” you said.
Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth. “No?”
You shook your head. “No.”
His thumb moved once against your waist. You let your voice soften into something sweet enough to be dangerous.
“No one else gets me in your room,” you said. “No one else gets your shirt on my floor. No one else gets those pictures.”
Jack’s breathing changed.
You lifted your chin. “And no one else gets to touch me the way you do.”
His eyes snapped back to yours. There he was. The same heat from the supply closet. The same jealousy. The same need. But now there was no hospital around it. No door someone could open. No chart waiting. No secret making him stand five feet away. Just Jack’s townhouse. Jack’s hand on your waist. Jack looking at you like he had finally stopped pretending.
“You said something like that earlier,” he said.
Your stomach dipped. “I said a lot earlier.”
His mouth curved, slow and rough at the edges. “You did.”
You held his gaze. “Which part?”
Jack’s other hand came to your hip. “The part where you said he could never.”
Your pulse jumped. You let your hands slide lower, fingers catching lightly at the waistband of his jeans this time.
“He couldn’t,” you said.
Jack stepped into you. Your back met the door again. The sound was soft. The shift in him was not. He crowded you slowly, giving you every chance to stop him, every chance to push back, every chance to choose something else. You chose him. You hooked your fingers more firmly into his waistband and pulled him closer. Jack’s breath caught.
You looked up at him. “He could never make me feel like you do.”
His hand slid from your waist to the door beside your head.
You smiled, because apparently you had not learned a single thing. “He could never kiss me like you do.”
Jack leaned in, his mouth hovering over yours. His voice was low. “You’re still being a brat.”
Your stomach flipped. You held his stare. “Maybe you’re still jealous.”
Jack’s eyes darkened. “Yes, baby,” he said. “I’m jealous.”
Your breath caught. His mouth brushed yours, barely a kiss. “But I’m also in love with you,” Jack said. “So if you want to keep being a brat about it, you’d better be very sure.”
Your fingers tightened in his waistband. You smiled against his mouth. “I’m sure.”
Jack kissed you then. Not like the supply closet. Not like a man trying to steal something before the rest of the world noticed. This was slower. Deeper. Worse, somehow, because there was nowhere for either of you to go now. No alarms. No monitors. No hallway footsteps. No coworker who might round the corner and force Jack to become Dr. Abbot again. There was just his townhouse. The locked door at your back. His hand at your waist. His mouth moving over yours like he finally had permission to take his time. You made a small sound into the kiss and felt his fingers tighten.
Jack pulled back just enough to breathe. “Say it again.”
Your eyes opened. He was close enough that his nose brushed yours, close enough that you could see every careful piece of him coming apart.
You swallowed. “I’m sure.”
Jack’s gaze darkened. “Not that.”
Your chest went soft. Oh. You slid your hand up the side of his neck. “I’m in love with you.”
His breath left him. For one second, he did nothing but look at you. Then Jack kissed you again, harder this time, one hand sliding to the back of your neck while the other pressed at your waist and pulled you fully against him. You went willingly. Of course you did. You had been going willingly all night, even when you were being impossible about it. Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt, and Jack made a low sound against your mouth when you pulled. You did it again, just to hear it.
He broke the kiss with his lips still brushing yours. “Careful.”
You smiled against his mouth. “You keep saying that.”
“And you keep not listening,” Jack replied.
You tugged at his shirt. “Maybe you should do something about it.”
Jack went still. Only for a second. Only long enough for you to feel the air shift.
Then his hand covered yours, stilling your fingers against his chest.
“You are really committed to testing me tonight,” he said.
You opened your mouth, but Jack kissed whatever answer you had been about to give right out of you. Your back hit the door again, softer this time, his body crowding you in. He did not trap you. Not really. The space was there if you wanted it. You did not want it. You wanted him closer. You slid both hands beneath his jacket and shoved it off his shoulders. Jack let you get one sleeve down before he helped, shrugging out of it and dropping it somewhere near your abandoned bag. Your fingers went right back to his shirt. Jack caught your wrists.
You huffed against his mouth. “Jack.”
His grip stayed firm. “Slow down.”
“I waited all shift,” you replied.
Jack exhaled. “You teased me all shift.”
You lifted your chin. “You survived.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. Your pulse jumped. “That mouth,” he said quietly.
You smiled. “You like my mouth.”
His gaze dropped to it. “I love your mouth.”
The words went straight through you. Before you could recover, Jack’s hand slid to the hem of your top. His eyes lifted to yours. You nodded. Only then did he pull it up. You raised your arms, and Jack drew the fabric over your head, tossing it aside without looking away from you. His gaze moved over your bare shoulders, your chest, the rise and fall of your breathing. Not rushed. Not careless. Like he was taking inventory of every inch he had been denied all night.
Your breath caught. “Jack.”
“I know,” he said.
His hand came back to your waist, his palm warm against your skin. His thumb brushed the line where your bra met your ribs, slow enough to make your stomach tighten. You reached for his shirt again. This time, he let you. Your fingers dragged the fabric up his stomach, over his chest, and Jack ducked his head enough for you to pull it off. You dropped it beside your scrub top and forgot about it immediately. Because Jack was there. Warm skin. Bare chest. The muscles in his stomach shifting as he breathed. The dark look in his eyes when he realized you were staring. Your mouth went dry.
Jack’s hand slid up your side. “Still thinking about Mason?”
You almost laughed. It came out breathless instead. “No.”
His brow lifted. “No?”
You set both hands on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. “I told you. He could never.”
Jack’s jaw shifted. You felt it under your fingers, that tiny fracture in his control.
“He could never what?” he asked.
You knew what he was doing. You knew he wanted to hear it. You also knew you had spent the entire shift making him wait.
So you gave it to him. “He could never make me feel like this.”
Jack’s hand tightened at your waist. “Good girl,” he said.
Your knees nearly gave out. His mouth found yours again, and the kiss turned messy for the first time. Not uncontrolled. Jack was never uncontrolled. But rougher. Hungrier. His hand slid to your back, unclipping your bra with a practiced motion that made your entire body go hot.
You broke the kiss to look at him. “That was fast.”
His mouth brushed the corner of yours. “I’m a doctor.”
You laughed once, breathless and ruined. “That is not a medical skill.”
Jack slid the strap down your shoulder. “It is today.”
Your laugh caught when the bra slipped down your arms. Jack’s gaze followed. His expression changed. Not dramatically. Not in some obvious, theatrical way. But enough that your teasing vanished.
His thumb brushed beneath your breast, barely touching. “Fuck.” Your breath shook. Jack looked back up at you. “Beautiful.”
Your chest tightened at the softness in his voice. You reached for him again, but Jack caught your wrist and pressed your hand back to the door beside your head.
“Not yet,” he said.
You stared at him. “Not yet?”
His mouth curved faintly. “You heard me.”
You swallowed. Jack leaned in, his lips brushing your jaw, then the sensitive place beneath your ear. His hand moved slowly down your body, over your ribs, your waist, your hip, stopping at the waistband of your scrub pants.
“You were very brave at work,” he said against your skin.
Your eyes fluttered. “Was I?”
“Sending that picture,” Jack said. “Brushing past me. Reaching around me for tape you didn’t need.”
You gripped the doorframe with your free hand. “I liked that tape.”
Jack’s teeth grazed gently beneath your ear. Your breath caught.
“You liked making me watch you pretend you weren’t doing it on purpose,” he said.
You turned your face toward his. “Maybe.”
His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your pants. Your hips shifted toward him before you could stop yourself.
Jack’s mouth curved against your jaw. “There she is.”
You hated how much you loved when he said that. You hated more that he knew.
Jack drew back enough to look at you. “Say my name.”
Your lips parted. “Jack.”
His eyes darkened. “Again.”
You swallowed. “Jack.”
He kissed you once, deep and slow, then hooked his fingers in your waistband and started to pull. You lifted your hips from the door just enough to help him. Jack lowered your pants inch by inch, taking your underwear with them, his eyes on yours until the fabric slipped down your thighs. You stepped out of them. He stayed standing. Still half dressed. Still in control. Still watching you like he had all the time in the world. You were bare in front of him, goosebumps erupting across your skin. Jack followed your gaze. His mouth twitched.
You narrowed your eyes. “It’s cold.”
Jack’s hand slid to your bare hip. “Baby, you are shaking for reasons that have nothing to do with the temperature.”
Your face warmed. “You’re very smug right now.”
“I’m very patient right now,” Jack corrected.
You gave him a look. “Are you?”
Jack’s eyes moved over you once, slow and devastating. “No,” he said. “But I’m trying to make a point.”
Your stomach dipped. “What point?”
He stepped closer, his jeans brushing your bare thigh. “That you are going to remember exactly who you came home with.”
Your breath left you. Jack’s hand came to the back of your neck, tipping your face up.
“Who did you come home with?” he asked.
You stared at him. “You.”
His thumb brushed the side of your throat. “Say my name.”
“Jack.”
His mouth ghosted over yours. “Good girl.”
You surged up to kiss him, but Jack pulled back before you could catch his mouth. You made a frustrated sound. He smiled then. Just barely. Mean enough to make your pulse trip.
“Upstairs,” Jack said.
Your body went still. “What?”
His hand slipped from your neck to your jaw, holding you there gently. “Upstairs,” he repeated.
You looked down at yourself, then back at him. “Like this?”
Jack’s gaze dropped over you. Then came back to your face. “Yes.”
Your breath caught. You glanced toward the stairs, then at his jeans, still very much on, still entirely unfair. “You’re dressed.”
“I am,” Jack replied.
You glared. “That seems uneven.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “You had your fun at work.”
You blinked at him. “So this is revenge?”
His expression softened for half a second, just enough to remind you that underneath all of this, he loved you. Then his thumb brushed your lower lip. “No,” Jack said. “This is me taking my time.”
Your stomach flipped. You turned toward the stairs, trying very hard to pretend your legs felt steady. They did not. Jack stayed close behind you as you started up, close enough that you could feel the heat of him without him touching you.
You looked back over your shoulder halfway up. “You coming?”
His eyes dragged over you, slow enough to make you regret the question. “Keep walking,” Jack said.
You faced forward immediately. Behind you, Jack made a low sound that might have been amusement. You gripped the railing and kept going. By the time you reached his bedroom, your skin felt too tight, every nerve lit with the awareness of him behind you. The room was dark except for the faint glow from the hallway and the weak morning light edging around the curtains. You had been in this room before. You knew the dresser. The bed. The chair in the corner where Jack folded his clothes too neatly. The mirror where you had taken the picture that had started all of this. But with Jack behind you and your clothes scattered downstairs, it felt different. It felt like a consequence. Jack stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. You turned toward him. He looked at you for one long second. Then his gaze flicked to the bed. “Sit,” Jack said.
You sat. Jack did not move right away. He stood near the closed bedroom door, shirtless, jeans low on his hips, hair slightly mussed from your hands, and looked at you like you were something he had been waiting all night to get alone. Your knees pressed together on instinct.
His gaze dropped briefly, then came back to your face. “Don’t hide from me now,” he said.
Your breath caught. You eased your knees apart. Not much. Enough.
Jack’s jaw shifted. “Good girl,” he said.
The praise went straight through you. You gripped the edge of the mattress. “Jack.”
He stepped closer. “What?”
You looked up at him, bare and aching and already tired of him being so controlled. “Come here.”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “That sounded like an order.”
You lifted your chin. “Maybe it was.”
His eyes darkened. For a second, you thought he might make you take it back. Instead, Jack crossed the room slowly, each step measured, until he was standing between your knees. Close. Still too dressed. Still too smug. You reached for his waistband. Jack caught your wrist. Your pulse jumped.
His grip was gentle, but it stopped you completely. “No,” he said.
You blinked up at him. “No?”
Jack’s thumb moved over the inside of your wrist, the same place you had touched him in the truck. “You’ve had your hands where you wanted them all night.”
Your stomach flipped.
“You sent me a picture at work,” Jack said. “You brushed against me every chance you got. You reached around me for tape you didn’t need.”
“I liked that tape,” you murmured.
“And now,” he said, ignoring you completely, “you think you get to decide when you touch me.”
Your mouth went dry. Jack looked down at your hand, still caught in his. Then his other hand moved to his belt. The buckle clicked open. Your fingers went still.
His gaze lifted to yours. “There she is.”
Your breath caught. “Jack.”
He slid the belt free slowly, leather dragging through denim, the sound quiet and devastating in the dark room. Your thighs tensed around his legs. Jack folded the belt once in his hand. Then he stopped. His expression changed, just enough that the heat in the room made space for something steadier.
“Tell me no, and it goes on the floor,” he said.
Your chest rose and fell once. Then again. You looked from the belt to his face. He was not smiling now. He was waiting. Making sure. Letting you choose.
“Yes,” you said.
Jack did not move. “Yes, what?”
Your pulse beat hard beneath his fingers. “Yes,” you said, quieter now. “Use it.”
Only then did Jack move. He brought your hand to your other one, gathering your wrists together with a care that made your throat tighten. He looped the belt around them once, then again, not tight enough to hurt, not tight enough to frighten you, just enough that when he held the end in his fist, your hands belonged exactly where he put them. Jack slid one finger beneath the leather, checking the space. Your stomach fluttered.
“Too tight?” he asked.
You shook your head. His eyes held yours. “Words.”
“No,” you said. “It’s not too tight.”
“Good.” He lifted your bound wrists and kissed the inside of one. The gentleness almost ruined you. Then he guided your hands above your head and pressed them to the mattress as he leaned over you. Your back met the bed. Your breath left you. Jack hovered above you, one hand holding the end of the belt, the other planted beside your head. His body did not cover yours yet. Not fully. He was making you feel every inch of space. Every second of waiting. Every consequence of what you had done to him all night.
“You still feel brave?” he asked.
You swallowed. “A little.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “A little?”
You tugged experimentally at the belt. His hand tightened. Not rough. Certain. Your body reacted before you could pretend it hadn’t.
Jack’s gaze sharpened. “Oh,” he said softly. “More than a little.”
Your face warmed. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Yes,” Jack said. The honesty made your stomach drop. He leaned down, mouth brushing your jaw, then your throat. “I loved the photo.”
Your eyes fluttered shut.
“I loved knowing you took it for me,” he said against your skin. “Loved knowing no one else gets that.”
His mouth moved lower, over your collarbone, down the center of your chest. Your wrists shifted above your head. Jack held them there.
“But you knew exactly what it would do to me,” he said.
You arched when his mouth brushed your breast. “Jack.”
He paused. His eyes lifted to yours. “Say it again,” he said.
Your mind felt slow. “What?”
“My name.”
Your breath shook. “Jack.”
His mouth closed over you. Your back arched off the mattress. Jack’s grip on the belt held firm, keeping your hands above your head while his tongue moved over you with the same patience that had been ruining you all night. You pulled against the restraint. He did not let you move. You made a frustrated sound.
Jack lifted his head. “What do you want?”
You stared at him. “You.”
“You have me,” Jack answered.
You exhaled, “Jack.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Use your words.”
Your thighs shifted restlessly. “Touch me.”
He kissed the center of your chest. “I am touching you.”
You wanted to hit him. You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to never stop hearing him sound like that. “More,” you said.
Jack’s eyes darkened. “There you go.”
He kissed lower. Slowly. Too slowly. Down your stomach, over your hip, along the inside of your thigh until you were trembling before he had even put his mouth where you needed it. You tried to reach for him. The belt stopped you.
Jack looked up from between your thighs. “Hands stay there.”
Your breath caught. “You’re holding them there.”
“I know,” he answered.
You huffed. “Then why are you telling me?”
His mouth brushed your inner thigh. “Because I like hearing you try to listen.”
Your eyes closed. “You’re impossible.”
Jack kissed higher. “You love me.”
Your chest went soft and hot at the same time. “I do,” you whispered.
Jack went still. Not completely. Just enough. Then his eyes lifted to yours. “Say it again.”
Your breath caught. His hand loosened on the belt slightly, not enough to free you, just enough for his thumb to brush over your knuckles.
You looked at him, your chest tight, your body aching. “I love you,” you said.
Jack’s expression shifted. For one second, all the teasing left him. All the controlled heat. All the jealousy. There was only Jack, looking at you like he had heard something sacred. Then he turned his head and kissed the inside of your thigh.
“I love you too,” he said against your skin.
Your eyes burned. Then his mouth found you. Your thoughts scattered. “Oh—” Your back arched. “Jack.”
He hummed low, one arm hooking beneath your thigh to hold you open, the other still keeping the belt steady. His mouth moved like he had been waiting all night for this too, like every second of restraint had sharpened into focus. You tried to close your thighs around him. He did not let you. “Jack, please.”
He lifted his head just enough to answer. “Please what?”
You made a sound that was almost a sob. “Please don’t stop.”
His eyes darkened. “That’s better,” he said.
Then he went back to you. You lost track of the room after that. There was only Jack’s mouth, his hand, the belt around your wrists, the rough warmth of his voice when he told you to keep saying his name.
“Jack,” you gasped.
His fingers joined his mouth, careful at first, then certain when your body opened for him. Your hips moved. Jack held you down with one forearm across your lower stomach.
“Stay,” he said.
You shook your head against the mattress. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can,” Jack replied.
You started to say, “Jack—”
“You wanted to make your point,” he said, voice rough. “Make it.”
You blinked down at him, dazed. “What?”
His fingers curled. Your whole body jerked. Jack’s eyes stayed locked on yours. “Who makes you feel like this?” he asked.
Your breath came in short, broken pulls. “You.”
He did it again. You cried out. “Say my name,” he said.
“Jack,” you said immediately.
His fingers curled inside you. “Again.”
“Jack, please,” you moaned.
His mouth returned to you, and the sound you made was not quiet. You pulled hard against the belt, your body tightening, thighs trembling around his shoulders. Jack did not stop. He did not rush. He kept you there, right on the edge, until you were almost crying with it.
“Tell me,” he said.
You could barely think. “Only you.”
Jack’s fingers slowed. Not stopping. Threatening to.
Your eyes flew open. “No, no, please.”
“Only me what?” he asked.
Your breath broke. “Only you can make me feel like this.”
His eyes flashed. “Keep going.”
You shook beneath him. “Only you can touch me like this.”
“Good girl.”
Your body tightened at the praise. Jack felt it. His mouth curved against you, and then he gave you exactly what you had been begging for.
You came hard.
Hard enough that your vision went white at the edges. Hard enough that your voice broke around his name. Hard enough that your wrists strained against the belt and your back bowed off the mattress while Jack held you through it, mouth and fingers working you through every second until you were shaking too much to do anything but take it.
“Jack,” you gasped. “Jack, Jack—”
“That’s it,” he said, voice low and wrecked. “There you go.”
You were still pulsing around his fingers when he lifted his head. His mouth was wet. His eyes were dark. He looked absolutely ruined. And somehow, somehow, he was still wearing his jeans.
You stared at him through the haze. “That is so unfair.”
Jack’s mouth curved. He withdrew his fingers slowly, and your whole body twitched. “Careful,” he said.
You laughed once, breathless and weak. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No,” you admitted. “I really don’t.”
Jack kissed your thigh, then your hip, then your stomach, moving back up your body with devastating patience. When he reached your mouth, he kissed you deeply. You tasted yourself on him and whimpered. Your wrists shifted above your head. The belt held.
Jack pulled back just enough to look at you. “You okay?” he asked.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
His eyes searched your face. “Tell me.”
Your chest rose and fell beneath his. “I’m okay.”
The last bit of tension in his jaw eased. His thumb brushed over the inside of your bound wrist. “Still good?” Jack asked.
Your throat went tight at the care in it. “Yes,” you said. “Still good.”
“Any pain?” he asked.
You shook your head. “No.”
His gaze stayed on yours for one more second. Then the heat came back into his face. Slow. Certain. Dangerous. “Good,” Jack said.
You reached for him on instinct. The belt stopped you. Your breath caught. Jack looked at your wrists, then back at your face.
His mouth curved faintly. “I didn’t say you were done listening.”
Your stomach flipped. “Jack.”
He stood at the edge of the bed, shirtless and still in his jeans, the loose end of the belt wrapped securely in his hand. You were naked beneath him. Still shaking. Still trying to catch your breath. Still so sensitive that the way he looked at you felt like another touch. Jack’s gaze moved over you slowly. Then he said, “Watch me.”
Your mouth went dry. He kept one hand on the belt as his other moved to his jeans. The button was already open. The zipper followed. The sound moved through the room like a warning. Your wrists shifted again.
Jack’s eyes flicked to them. “Hands stay there.”
You exhaled, “They are there.”
His mouth curved. “Good girl.”
Your breath caught. Jack pushed his jeans lower on his hips, just enough, and your whole body went hot. He was hard. Thick. Flushed. Affected. For all his control, for all his patience, for all the ways he had made you fall apart first, there was no hiding what you had done to him.
Your voice came out thin. “Jack.”
His hand wrapped around himself. You pulled against the belt before you could stop yourself.
Jack’s gaze snapped to yours. “No,” he said softly.
You swallowed. “I want to touch you.”
“I know,” he replied.
“Please,” you said, barely a whisper.
His hand moved once, slow and firm. Your breath caught so hard it almost hurt. Jack watched your face as he touched himself, his jaw tight, his eyes dark, the muscles in his stomach shifting with the effort of his restraint.
“This is what that picture did,” he said. Your body clenched around nothing. His mouth parted slightly as his hand moved again. “This is what you did every time you brushed past me,” Jack said. “Every time you looked at me like no one else in that hospital knew what you were thinking.”
“Jack,” you whispered.
His grip tightened around the belt. “Say my name again.”
You obeyed. “Jack.”
His eyes closed for half a second. Only half. Then they opened, and the look on his face nearly ruined you all over again.
“Only me?” he asked.
Your chest rose and fell too fast. “Only you.”
His hand moved over himself again. You whimpered. Jack’s gaze dragged down your body, then back to your face. “Only I get you like this?”
You nodded quickly.
His eyes narrowed. “Words.”
“Yes,” you said, breathless. “Only you get me like this.”
Jack’s breathing changed. You could see it now. The crack in him. The place where his control had thinned to almost nothing. He touched himself once more, slower this time, deliberately enough that your thighs shifted apart without you meaning to.
His mouth curved, rough and pleased. “Look at you.”
Your face went hot. “Jack.”
“You came two minutes ago,” he said, his hand moving over himself again. “And you’re still looking at me like that.”
Your wrists strained against the belt. Jack’s gaze lifted to yours. “You want more,” he said.
Your breath shook.
His mouth curved. “Tell me.” Jack’s thumb moved over the head of himself, and your wrists strained against the belt. You glared at him weakly. His hand slowed. You made a small, desperate sound. Jack’s gaze sharpened. “Tell me what you want,” he said.
You answered immediately. “You.”
Jack grinned. “You have me.”
Your breath shook. “I want you inside me.”
Jack went still. There it was. The shift. The end of patience. He let out a rough breath, then leaned over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other holding the belt.
His mouth hovered over yours. “Say it again,” he said.
You lifted your hips toward him. “I want you inside me.”
His eyes dropped to your mouth. “Good girl,” Jack said.
Then he kissed you. It was not gentle. It was not patient. Not anymore. Jack kissed you like the last piece of his restraint had finally snapped, one hand still gripping the belt above your head while the other braced beside your shoulder. His body came down over yours, hot and solid and finally close enough that you could feel how much he wanted you. You arched into him. Jack groaned into your mouth. The sound went straight through you.
Your wrists pulled against the belt on instinct. “Jack.”
He broke the kiss just enough to breathe. “I know.”
You gasped. “You don’t.”
His eyes lifted to yours. “Don’t I?”
You shook your head, already gone enough to be honest. “I need you.”
Jack’s expression shifted. Something hot. Something pleased. Something almost undone. His hand tightened around the belt. “Say my name.”
Your breath caught. “Jack.”
His mouth brushed yours. “Good girl.”
You whimpered, hips lifting toward him. Jack’s gaze dropped between your bodies. Then he cursed softly under his breath.
“Turn over,” he said.
Your pulse jumped. You stared at him. “What?”
His eyes came back to yours, dark and focused. “Hands stay where they are. Turn over.”
Your stomach flipped hard. “Jack—”
He leaned down, mouth at your ear. “You said he could never.”
Your breath caught.
His lips brushed the side of your jaw. “You were right.”
You swallowed. Then you nodded. Jack loosened his hold on the belt enough to guide you carefully, never letting the restraint pull too hard, never letting your wrists twist uncomfortably. Even now, with his control hanging by a thread, he moved you like you were something precious. Something his. You rolled onto your stomach, then shifted onto your knees when his hand settled at your hip. The belt stayed around your wrists. Your hands pressed into the mattress above your head, and Jack gathered the loose end in his fist again, holding it with just enough tension to remind you that he could move you exactly where he wanted you. Your cheek brushed the sheets. Your whole body trembled. Behind you, Jack went quiet. Too quiet. You turned your face enough to look back over your shoulder.
He was staring at you. His jeans were pushed low, his hand wrapped around himself, his chest rising and falling like the sight of you had cost him something.
Your voice came out soft. “Jack?”
His jaw flexed. “You have no idea what you look like right now,” he said.
Your thighs pressed together. Jack’s hand came to your ass, broad and warm, smoothing over the curve of you once before gripping. Your breath caught. “Open,” he said.
You shifted your knees apart. His hand tightened. “More.”
Your face went hot, but you listened. Jack exhaled roughly. “That’s it,” he said. “Good girl.”
The praise made you clench around nothing.
Jack’s thumb dragged along your hip. “Look at you.”
You swallowed. “What?”
His hand tightened, just enough to make your body answer before your mouth could. “So good when you want something.”
Your eyes fluttered shut. “Jack.”
He bent over you, his chest brushing your back. His mouth found your shoulder. “You were very mouthy downstairs,” he said.
You shivered. “You liked it.”
His teeth grazed your skin. “I did.”
His hand slid along your side, then down between your legs from behind. You jerked when his fingers found you. Jack made a low sound against your shoulder. Your wrists strained against the belt. Jack’s gaze lifted to yours. “You want more,” he said.
Your breath shook. His mouth curved against your shoulder. “Tell me.”
You closed your eyes. “I want more.”
“More what?” Jack asked.
You made a frustrated sound. “Jack.”
His fingers slowed. You almost sobbed. “More what?” he repeated.
You turned your face into the sheets. “More of you.”
His breathing changed behind you. “There you go,” Jack said.
He withdrew his hand, and you heard him shift behind you. Your body went tight with anticipation. Then Jack paused. One hand slid up your spine, warm and grounding. “Hey,” he said.
You turned your face enough to see him. “What?”
His eyes searched yours. “Still good?”
Your chest softened. “Yes,” you said.
Jack’s thumb brushed along your back. “No pain?”
You replied instantly. “No.”
“You need me to stop, you tell me,” Jack said.
“I know,” you whispered.
His gaze held yours.
You swallowed. “I promise.”
The last bit of tension in his face eased. Then the heat returned. Slow. Dark. Certain. Jack reached toward the nightstand and pulled open the drawer. You heard the quiet tear of foil, the rustle of movement, the sound of his breath catching once as he rolled the condom on. The waiting nearly killed you. You shifted back toward him. Jack’s hand landed on your hip.
“Still,” he said.
You bit your lip. He noticed. His thumb pressed into your skin. “Don’t.”
You released your lip slowly. Jack’s hand moved from your hip to your jaw, turning your face just enough for him to see you.
“That’s mine too,” he said.
Your breath left you.
He leaned over you, mouth brushing yours from the awkward angle. “Say it.”
Your eyes stung with how badly you wanted him. “Only you.”
His eyes darkened. “Only me what?”
“Only you get me like this,” you answered.
Jack kissed you hard. Then he pulled back and lined himself up behind you. The first press of him made you gasp. Jack froze. One hand stayed on your hip. The other still held the belt.
His voice was rough. “Talk to me.”
You shook beneath him. “Don’t stop.”
His jaw tightened. “Baby.”
“Please,” you said. “Please, Jack.”
He pushed in slowly. Inch by inch. Careful enough to make you ache. Deep enough to make your hands curl uselessly against the mattress. Your mouth fell open. No sound came out. Jack stopped when he was only halfway inside you, his fingers digging into your hip like he was fighting himself.
“Breathe,” he said. You tried. It came out broken. He bent over you, his mouth at your shoulder, his voice low against your skin. “That’s it,” Jack said. “Take your time.”
You turned your face toward him. “I don’t want to take my time.”
A rough laugh left him. It barely sounded like a laugh at all. “You never do when you’re being a brat.”
You pushed back against him. Only a little. Enough.
Jack’s hand tightened on the belt. “Careful.”
Your breath hitched. “Make me.”
Jack went completely still. For one second, there was nothing but the sound of both of you breathing. Then his hand slid from your hip to the back of your neck, not pressing, just holding you there. His mouth brushed your ear. “There she is,” he said.
Your whole body went hot. Then Jack pushed the rest of the way inside you. You cried out. He groaned at the same time, low and broken, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as his body finally met yours completely. For a second, neither of you moved. You could feel him everywhere. The weight of him behind you. The belt at your wrists. His breath against your skin. The stretch. The fullness. The way your body had no idea what to do with finally having him after waiting all shift.
“Jack,” you gasped.
His hand tightened at your waist. “Say it again.”
“Jack.”
He pulled back slowly. Then pushed in again. Your eyes rolled shut.
“That’s it,” he said. “That’s my girl.”
The words broke something open in you. You clenched around him, and Jack’s rhythm faltered. His curse was rough against your shoulder. “Do that again,” he said.
You barely managed a breath. “What?”
His hips rolled into yours, deeper this time, and your voice broke. “That,” Jack said. “When I call you mine.”
Your wrists pulled against the belt. “I am yours,” you gasped.
His pace changed. Not fast yet. Not careless. Just harder. More certain. Each thrust pushed you higher on the bed, and Jack held you where he wanted you, one hand gripping the belt, the other locked at your hip.
“You spent all night trying to make me jealous,” he said.
You shook your head against the sheets. “No.”
Jack thrust into you again. Your answer turned into a moan. “No?” he asked.
“I was trying to remind you,” you breathed.
His hand stilled on your hip for half a second. Then his body covered yours again, chest against your back, mouth near your ear. “Remind me of what?”
You turned your face enough to find his eyes. “That I’m yours.”
Jack’s expression broke. Just for a moment. Then his mouth found yours, messy and desperate from the angle, and he kissed you while he started moving again. This time, he did not hold back as much. The bed shifted beneath you. Your breath came in short, helpless sounds. Jack kept his mouth close to your ear, voice rough and low and entirely yours. “Who makes you feel like this?”
“You,” you gasped.
His hips drove into yours again. “Say my name.”
You gasped. “Jack.”
“Again,” he said.
“Jack, please,” you cried out.
His hand slid from your hip to your stomach, pulling you back into him, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. “Please what?”
You were shaking now. “Please don’t stop.”
Jack exhaled. “I’m not stopping.”
You began, “Jack—”
“I’ve got you,” he replied.
Your eyes burned. He did. He had you. Every part of you. The secret part. The soft part. The bratty, aching, desperate part that had sent him that photo and brushed past him all shift because you wanted him to know no one else even came close.
“Only you,” you said, voice breaking.
Jack’s rhythm faltered. “What?”
You swallowed a moan. “Only you can make me feel like this.”
His grip tightened. “Keep going.”
Your body tightened around him. “Only you can touch me like this.”
Jack made a rough sound behind you. “Good girl.”
You were close again. Too close. Already. It rolled through you fast, heat building low in your spine, your thighs starting to shake. Jack felt it. Of course he felt it. His hand slid between your legs, fingers finding you exactly where you needed him. You sobbed his name.
“There,” he said. “That’s it.”
“Jack, please,” you begged.
“You going to come for me again?” Jack asked.
You nodded desperately. His fingers slowed. Your eyes flew open.
“Words,” he said.
“Yes,” you gasped. “Yes, please.”
“Only me?” he asked.
Your breath broke. “Only you,” you said. “Only you can make me come like this.”
Jack’s control snapped. He drove into you hard enough to make you cry out, his fingers working you in tight, perfect circles, his mouth at your shoulder, his voice wrecked in your ear.
“Come for me,” he said. “Say my name and come for me.”
You did.
You came with his name in your mouth, your whole body locking down around him as the pleasure ripped through you. It was harder than the first one, deeper, dragging every sound out of you until you were shaking beneath him, helpless against the belt and his hands and the way he kept talking you through it.
“That’s it,” Jack said. “Good girl. I’ve got you.”
You barely heard him over the rush of your own pulse. But you felt him. The way he held you. The way his rhythm turned uneven. The way his breath broke when your body kept tightening around him. He lasted three more thrusts before his control finally broke. You felt it happen. In the sudden uneven snap of his hips. In the way his hand tightened around the belt. In the rough sound that tore out of him when your body kept clenching around him.
“Fuck,” Jack breathed.
His forehead dropped to your shoulder. You felt his whole body go tense behind you, every muscle locking as he drove in deep and stayed there. Your name left his mouth. Low. Broken. Almost helpless. Then he came hard, hips jerking once, twice, his breath hot against your skin as he buried himself as deep as he could get and held you there through it.
For a few seconds, Jack did not move. He just breathed against you, heavy and uneven, his chest pressed to your back, his hand still wrapped around the belt like letting go too soon might undo him completely. For a moment, everything went still. Jack’s body was heavy over yours. His breath was hot against your skin. His hand loosened on the belt, but he did not let go completely. Not yet. You both stayed there, tangled and shaking, while the morning light edged slowly around the curtains. Then Jack kissed your shoulder. Once. Twice. Softer each time.
“You with me?” he asked.
Your throat felt raw. You nodded.
His mouth brushed your skin. “Tell me.”
You closed your eyes. “I’m with you.”
Jack exhaled against you. Then, carefully, he shifted his weight and eased out of you. Your body twitched at the loss. Jack noticed.
He kissed the back of your neck. “I know.”
You laughed weakly into the sheets. “You do not get to be smug right now.”
His mouth curved against your skin. “I’m not.”
“You are,” you replied.
“A little,” Jack admitted. You huffed, but it came out soft. His hand moved to your wrists. The belt loosened immediately. Jack unwound it with careful fingers, taking his time now for a different reason. When your hands were free, he caught both wrists and brought them down slowly, rubbing warmth back into your skin with his thumbs. You rolled carefully onto your back. Jack sat beside you, still breathing hard, still bare, still looking at you like he was trying to memorize whether he had hurt you anywhere. He checked one wrist, then the other. His thumb brushed over the place the leather had been.
“Okay?” he asked.
You nodded. “Okay.”
His eyes lifted to yours. “Really?”
Your chest went soft. You reached for his face. “Really.”
Jack turned his head and kissed your palm. The room went quiet again. Not charged this time. Warm. Full. He leaned down and kissed your wrist. Then the other. You watched him, throat tight.
“You know,” you said softly, “Mason really could never.”
Jack froze for half a second. Then his shoulders shook once with a quiet laugh. He looked up at you, exhausted and amused and so painfully yours that your chest ached.
“Baby,” Jack said. “I’m begging you.”
You smiled. His mouth curved. Then he climbed back onto the bed and gathered you carefully against his chest, one arm wrapping around your waist, the other hand still holding yours like he was not quite ready to stop touching you. You tucked your face against his neck. Jack kissed your hair. For a long moment, neither of you said anything. Then you felt his thumb move over your knuckles. Slow. Absent. Tender.
“Still jealous?” you asked.
Jack sighed against your hair. You felt his mouth curve. “A little.”
You pinched his side weakly. He caught your hand and kissed your fingers. “Completely in love with you,” he said. “The jealous part is secondary.”
Your heart folded. You lifted your head enough to look at him. “Secondary?”
Jack’s eyes softened. “Very secondary.”
You smiled. He kissed you once, slow and sweet and nothing like the door. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. “No more pretending,” he said.
Your chest tightened. You brushed your thumb along his jaw. “No more pretending.”
Jack kissed you again. And this time, there was nothing careful about the way he held you.
Summary: Jack Abbot is going to propose to you. That part is easy. The harder part is honoring your very serious, definitely-binding request that your best friend be consulted on any future ring purchase or proposal plan. Which is how Jack ends up in a coffee shop with John Shen, four ring photos, one proposal plan, a folder labeled Proposal Committee: Preliminary Review, and a cinnamon latte that may or may not become evidence in a future homicide investigation. But when the ring finally arrives six weeks later, Jack realizes the plan was never really about the candles, the takeout, or the timing. It was always about knowing you.
Warnings: fluff, proposal, engagement, emotional intimacy, established relationship, Shen being Shen, best friend/work husband chaos, brief lingerie mention, Jack being deeply in love, crying, happy tears, mild language
Author's Note:
The clause saga continues, and this one is pure proposal chaos with a deeply emotional center. Jack is trying so hard to be normal. Shen is taking his advisory role with terrifying seriousness. The reader is, of course, two steps away from figuring everything out at any given moment. This is for everyone who wanted Jack to honor the best friend clause, survive the proposal committee, and still get his perfect kitchen proposal. I hope you love it.
Xoxo, Del
Previous Parts: The Work Husband Clause & The Best Friend Clause
Jack Abbot was going to propose to you. He had known that for a while now. Not in the vague, distant, maybe-someday way people talked about marriage when they were trying not to scare themselves with the size of what they wanted. Jack had passed that point weeks ago. Months, maybe. It was hard to track the exact moment when wanting forever with you had stopped feeling like a thought and started feeling like a fact. Maybe it had been the first time you fell asleep on his couch with one hand tucked under your cheek and one foot pressed against his thigh like you had decided he was furniture.
Maybe it had been the morning you stole the last sip of his coffee, kissed his jaw, and told him you loved him before walking out the door wearing two different socks. Maybe it had been the night you looked at him with a straight face and told him that your best friend needed to be consulted on any future ring purchase or proposal plan. Jack had laughed. Briefly. Naively. Like a man who did not yet understand that you and John Shen could turn a joke into binding infrastructure if given enough time, caffeine, and access to the Notes app. But Jack loved you. God help him, he loved you enough to take the request seriously.
Which was why he was sitting in the back corner of a coffee shop on his day off with a black coffee, a notebook, four ring photos, and a level of preparation that would have embarrassed him if he had not been so determined to get this right. He had chosen the table carefully. Back corner. Clear sightline to the door. Not too close to the register. Not too close to the bathrooms. Not in your usual section of the café, because apparently, he now had to account for your caffeine habits as if planning a covert operation. There were easier ways to buy a ring. Jack knew that.
Normal men probably went to jewelry stores. Normal men probably texted a sister or a friend, asked a few questions, picked something beautiful, and moved on with their lives. Normal men did not arrange a committee meeting with their girlfriend’s work husband, best friend, former contractual betrothed, and active proposal advisor. Jack looked down at the top page of his notebook. Advisory Only. He had underlined it twice. Then the front door opened, and John Shen walked in wearing sunglasses, a baseball cap, and a jacket collar pulled high enough to suggest either espionage or a deeply suspicious errand. Jack stared at him.
In one hand, Shen carried a folder. He scanned the café once, spotted Jack, and crossed the room with the grim focus of a man approaching a hostage negotiation.
Jack waited until Shen reached the table. Then he said, “Absolutely not.”
Shen did not sit. “Meeting here was a tactical error.”
Jack looked at the sunglasses. Then the hat. Then the folder.
“Was the tactical error the coffee shop,” Jack asked, “or whatever this is?”
Shen removed the sunglasses and set them carefully beside Jack’s black coffee. “The coffee shop.”
Jack leaned back. “Why?”
Shen’s eyes moved once toward the counter. “She can sense when I’m getting coffee without her.”
Jack stared at him. Shen stared back.
“That is ridiculous,” Jack said.
Shen glanced toward the menu board. “I need coffee.”
Jack’s brow furrowed, “You just said meeting here was a tactical error.”
“Yes,” Shen replied. “The error has already occurred.”
Jack watched him walk to the counter. He was thirty seconds into the meeting, and Shen had already arrived in disguise, declared the location compromised, and left Jack alone with a folder labeled in neat black marker. Jack looked down.
Proposal Committee: Preliminary Review
God give me patience. He thought. At the counter, Shen ordered something Jack could not hear. The barista nodded. A minute later, Shen returned with a cinnamon latte. Jack looked at the drink. Then at Shen.
Shen sat down. “Seasonal offering.”
Jack picked up his black coffee. “Of course.”
Shen’s phone rang. Both men looked down. Your name lit up the screen. For one perfect, terrible second, neither of them moved.
Then Shen said, very quietly, “Oh no.”
Jack looked from the phone to Shen. “Answer it.”
“I can’t,” Shen said.
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Why not?”
Shen looked genuinely alarmed now, which was, frankly, more unsettling than the sunglasses. “She’ll kill me if she finds out I got coffee without her.”
Jack stared at him. Shen stared back. The phone kept ringing. Shen’s gaze dropped to it.
“Answer it,” Jack said. “Or she’ll get suspicious.”
Shen looked at him as if Jack had just suggested walking directly into traffic.
Jack pointed at the phone. “Dunkin.”
Shen exhaled once, then picked up the call with the stiff posture of a man accepting his fate.
“Hello,” Shen said.
Jack immediately closed his eyes. Shen’s voice was too calm. You were going to hear it.
“Hey,” you said, bright and easy on the other end. “Jack had to go to some hospital meeting, so I’m bored. Do you want to get coffee?”
Shen’s eyes went wide. Jack’s head snapped up. Shen looked across the table at Jack like this was somehow Jack’s fault. Jack mouthed, No. Shen blinked at him. Jack shook his head once, sharper this time. No.
“No,” Shen said.
Jack’s eyes widened. There was a pause on the other end.
“You can’t get coffee?” you asked.
Shen sat perfectly still. “Correct.”
Jack dragged one hand down his face. God give him strength.
You were quiet for half a second. Then, suspiciously, you said, “John.”
Jack pointed sharply at Shen and mouthed, Errands. Shen’s gaze flicked to him. Jack mouthed it again, more aggressively. Errands.
“I am running errands,” Shen said.
Jack gave him a tight nod.
“Oh,” you said. “Great. I wanted to stop at the mall. We could meet up there?”
Shen froze. Jack froze with him.
“The mall?” Shen asked.
“Yeah,” you said. “Victoria’s Secret is having a sale, and I wanted to pick something up to surprise Jack.”
Jack’s forehead dropped to the table. Not hard. Not enough to hurt. Just one quiet, controlled thunk against the wood. Why? He thought. Why did his girlfriend tell Shen these things? Why did Shen receive these things like standard operational updates? Why was this his life? Jack asked any higher power with relevant insight. At this point, he wasn’t picky. Across the table, Shen’s eyes widened.
“John?” you asked.
Jack stayed face-down beside the ring photos. Shen stared at him.
“John,” you said again. “What was that?”
Shen lifted one hand and knocked twice on the table beside Jack’s head. Jack did not move. Shen knocked again, faster this time. Jack turned his head just enough to glare at him with one eye. Shen pointed sharply at the phone. Jack mouthed, Fix it.
Shen straightened. “Nothing.”
There was a pause.
“That was not nothing,” you said.
Shen’s grip tightened around his phone. “ I’m at the grocery store.”
Jack slowly closed his visible eye.
You were quiet for half a second. Then you said, “John.”
“I have to go,” Shen said quickly.
“What?” You asked, confused.
“Groceries, checking out, ” Shen said. “Bye.”
“Okay, talk to you lat—”
Shen ended the call and lowered the phone to the table with extreme care. Neither of them spoke. Jack still had his forehead pressed to the table. Shen waited. Jack did not move. Finally, Shen lifted one finger and knocked once beside his head.
Jack’s voice came muffled against the wood. “Do not knock on me.”
“I knocked near you,” Shen said.
Jack lifted his head slowly. “Why does my girlfriend tell you these things?”
Shen adjusted the folder in front of him. “Because we are best friends.”
Jack stared at him.
Shen added, “Best friend clause active.”
Jack pointed at him. “Do not invoke the clause during a Victoria’s Secret incident.”
Shen nodded once. “Boundary noted.”
Jack leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. This was his life. This was how he was planning to propose to his girlfriend. Sitting in a coffee shop across from John Shen, surrounded by ring photos, proposal notes, and the knowledge that you were apparently out in the world, attempting to buy lingerie while Jack attempted to behave like a composed adult. Fan-fucking-tastic. He thought. Shen’s phone lit up. Both men looked down.
You: If I find out you went and got that new cinnamon latte without me, I will murder you.
A second text appeared.
You: Jack will help me hide the body.
Jack stared at the screen. Shen stared at the screen. Then, slowly, both of them looked at the drink Shen had ordered. The cinnamon latte. Untouched. Obvious. Damning.
Jack’s eyes lifted to Shen. “You got the cinnamon latte?”
Shen’s expression remained perfectly still. “It was a seasonal offering.”
Jack’s eyes widened. “She specifically named it.”
“I did not know she had surveillance capacity,” Shen replied, clearly distressed.
Jack dragged a hand over his mouth. Shen turned the phone face down.
Jack leaned back in his chair. “She’s going to kill you.”
Shen adjusted the folder with great care. “You are named as an accomplice.”
“I am not helping her hide your body,” Jack replied.
Shen frowned, “The text suggests otherwise.”
Jack looked at him. “Dunkin.”
Shen looked down at the latte again. Then he slid it across the table toward Jack. Jack looked at the cinnamon latte. Then down at his own black coffee. Then back at Shen.
“What are you doing?” He asked.
“Drink it,” Shen said.
Jack’s eyes lifted slowly. “No.”
Shen’s eyes widened in panic, “We have to get rid of the evidence.”
“I have coffee,” Jack replied, lifting his coffee.
Shen pushed the latte closer, “This is different coffee.”
Jack pointed at the cup, “This is a murder latte.”
Shen looked mildly horrified. “It is not a murder latte.”
Jack shrugged, “My girlfriend just threatened homicide over it.”
“She threatened my homicide,” Shen said. “You were listed as logistical support.”
Jack stared at him.
Shen pushed the cup another inch closer. “Drink it.”
Jack pushed it back with two fingers. “Absolutely not.”
“Abbot.” Shen pleaded.
Jack sighed, “Dunkin.”
Shen glanced toward the front windows, then back to the latte. “If she finds us, the latte becomes material evidence.”
Jack looked at the latte. Then at Shen. Then at the proposal folder. God give me strength. He thought. Jack loved you. That was the thing. He loved you enough to consult John Shen before buying your ring. He loved you enough to honor the ridiculous best friend clause. He loved you enough to sit here while Shen treated a cinnamon latte like contraband in a federal investigation. He did not love anyone enough to drink the murder latte.
“I’m screwed, aren’t I?” he muttered.
Shen paused. Then he picked up his pen. “Emotionally or logistically?”
Jack looked at him. “Do not write that down.”
Shen wrote something down.
Jack pointed at him. “Dunkin.”
Shen did not look up. “Noted.”
Jack closed his eyes. For one second, he let himself imagine proposing to you in a world where none of this was happening. A quiet room. Your hand in his. The ring in his pocket. Your face when you realized what he was asking. No folders. No committee language. No seasonal beverages with criminal implications. Then Shen opened his folder. Jack heard the soft scrape of paper against paper. He opened one eye. There were tabs. Internally, he said, God give me strength. There were tabs.
Shen clicked his pen. “We are already behind schedule.”
Jack stared at him. “Behind whose schedule?”
Shen looked down at the folder. “The proposal committee’s.”
Jack sat forward and flattened both hands on the table. “There is no proposal committee,” he said.
Shen glanced at the ring photos. “Then why am I here?”
Jack held his stare. Shen held it back. The cinnamon latte sat between them like evidence.
Finally, Jack exhaled through his nose, “Advisory only,” he said.
Shen nodded once. “Limited strong advisory.”
“Do not start,” Jack warned.
Shen looked down at his folder. “Starting is item one.”
Jack stared at him. Shen slid a printed page across the table. At the top, in clean, merciless lettering, it read:
Proposal Committee: Preliminary Review
Jack looked at the page. Then at Shen. Then at the murder latte.
“I should have proposed in private and lied to everyone,” Jack said.
Shen picked up his pen. “She would have known.”
Jack hated that he believed him. Shen looked down at the page, then toward the front windows.
“We need to get down to this before she finds us,” Shen said.
Jack stared at him. “Do not make my girlfriend sound like an approaching weather event.”
“She is mobile, suspicious, and under-caffeinated,” Shen said.
Jack hated that Shen was right. You were out there somewhere. Mobile. Suspicious. Under-caffeinated. Potentially armed with a Victoria’s Secret bag and the ability to detect cinnamon-based betrayal through walls.
Jack dragged a hand over his mouth. “Fine,” he said. “We start with the ring.”
Shen nodded once. “Agreed.”
He opened the folder. Jack saw the tabs immediately. Ring Preferences. Proposal Constraints. Wooing Requirement. Embarrassment Avoidance. Post-Proposal Notification Protocol.
Jack pointed at the last one. “What the hell is post-proposal notification protocol?”
Shen glanced down. “I assume you will notify me after she says yes.”
Jack paused. “After,” he said.
Shen looked up. “I am not asking to be present.”
Jack relaxed by two percent.
Then Shen added, “Unless requested.”
Jack pointed at him. “You will not be requested.”
Shen nodded once. “That seems likely.”
Jack dragged one hand over his mouth again. “This is already too much.”
“You asked for advisory input,” Shen said.
Jack pointed at him, “I asked for limited advisory input.”
“Yes,” Shen replied. “We should begin with the ring.”
Jack looked down at his own notebook, then at the ring photos stacked beside his black coffee. Fine. That was why they were here. Not the latte. Not the tabs. Not the fact that Shen had arrived dressed like he was about to commit a minor felony. The ring. Jack pulled the photos closer. Shen’s gaze dropped to them, then shifted briefly to Jack’s notebook.
Jack covered the page with one hand. “No.”
Shen blinked. “I did not say anything.”
“You were about to,” Jack replied.
Shen frowned, “I was observing.”
“Observe the rings,” Jack said.
Shen nodded once. “Reasonable.”
Jack slid the first photo across the table. “Start there.”
Shen picked it up. For all the nonsense, for all the committee language and the cinnamon latte currently threatening to become a crime scene, something in the air shifted when Shen looked at the picture. Jack felt it immediately. This was why he was here. Not because he could not choose a ring. He could. He had. Mostly. But you had asked for Shen to be consulted, and Jack had listened. Because he loved you. Because Shen mattered to you. Because forever, apparently, came with advisory obligations.
Shen studied the first photo for half a second. “No,” he said.
Jack blinked. “No?”
“No,” Shen repeated.
Jack frowned, “You looked at it for half a second.”
“That was sufficient,” Shen said.
Jack’s jaw flexed. “Reason?”
Shen set the photo down. “It is trying too hard.”
Jack looked at the ring. Then at Shen. “It’s a ring.”
“It is a ring with anxiety,” Shen said.
Jack stared at him.
Shen folded his hands. “She would feel obligated to like it.”
Jack looked down at the photo again. Annoyingly, that made sense. He hated it when Shen made sense. Jack slid the first photo aside and picked up the second one.
“Fine,” he said. “Next.”
Shen accepted the second photo.
This time, he looked at it for three seconds. “No.”
Jack leaned back. “You’re going to have to start using more words.”
“She would like this for someone else,” Shen said.
Jack frowned. Then, against his will, he understood exactly what Shen meant. The ring was pretty. Elegant. Clean lines. Not too much. The kind of thing you would point out in a store window and say was beautiful. For someone else. Jack took the photo back without arguing.
He slid the third photo across the table. “This one.”
Shen picked it up. He did not reject it immediately. That was something. Jack kept his face still, but his fingers tightened once around his coffee. Shen studied the photo longer than the others. His eyes moved over the center stone, the setting, the band, the details Jack had looked at for far too long the night before.
Finally, Shen set it down. “Closer,” he said.
Jack’s chest tightened. “But?”
Shen tapped the edge of the photo with one finger. “Still not hers.”
Jack looked down at it. He had known that too. It was close. Closer than the others. Romantic without being loud. Pretty without trying to announce itself from across the room. But not quite right. Not quite you. Jack exhaled through his nose and moved it aside.
Shen watched him. “You already knew.”
Jack did not answer.
Shen’s expression did not change, but his voice shifted slightly. “You brought comparison options.”
Jack looked up. Shen looked back at him calmly.
Jack’s jaw moved once. “I brought options.”
“You brought one option,” Shen said. “And supporting evidence.”
Jack stared at him. Shen waited. Jack reached for the final photo. He did not slide it across right away. For a second, his thumb rested on the corner of the paper. He had found it last. After hours of looking. After too many tabs open on his laptop. After too many rings that were beautiful and wrong and almost and no. He had found this one and gone quiet in his kitchen with his phone in his hand because, suddenly, he could see it. Your hand in his. Your fingers brushing his jaw. The ring catching light when you reached for his coffee. Your face when you realized what he was asking. Jack slid the photo across the table.
Shen picked it up. This time, he said nothing. Jack did not rush him. The coffee shop moved around them, quiet and warm and ordinary. Someone laughed near the counter. Milk steamed behind the bar. The murder latte sat between them, untouched and irrelevant for the first time since Shen had ordered it.
Shen looked at the ring. Then he looked at Jack. “That one,” Shen said.
Jack’s chest loosened before he could stop it. “Good,” he said.
Shen held the photo out.
Jack took it back carefully, his thumb brushing over the edge. “That’s the one I liked best.”
Shen nodded once. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Shen said, “Then you did not need me.”
Jack looked down at the photo. The ring was not flashy. Not plain, either. It had detail where it mattered, small and intentional, something you would notice more the longer you looked at it. Like you. Like the life he wanted with you.
“I didn’t need you to choose it,” Jack said.
Shen waited.
Jack looked up. “I needed to ask.”
Shen went very still. It was subtle. Almost nothing. A pause in his hands. A slight shift in his eyes. The kind of reaction most people would miss. Jack did not.
Shen looked down at the photo again. “She will like that.”
Jack glanced at the ring. “The ring?”
“No,” Shen said. “That you asked.”
Jack’s throat went tight before he could stop it. He looked down at the picture again because that was easier than looking at Shen. Then Shen picked up his pen.
Jack’s eyes narrowed immediately. “Do not write down that I’m emotionally evolved.”
Shen paused.
Jack stared at him. “Were you going to?”
“No,” Shen said.
Jack did not believe him.
Shen looked back at the folder. “I was going to write that ring selection is complete.”
Jack leaned back. “Good.”
Shen turned another page in his folder. “Proposal plan.”
Jack looked up. “I have one.”
Shen paused with his pen over the page. “One?”
“One,” Jack said.
Shen studied him for a second. “You brought four ring options.”
“Three comparison options and one ring,” Jack corrected.
Shen’s mouth barely moved. “Progress.”
Jack ignored that and opened his notebook to the page he had written the night before. There were not three plans. There were no backup locations, alternate timelines, or a ranked list of restaurants based on privacy and lighting. There was one plan. Because every time Jack tried to imagine asking you anywhere else, it felt wrong. Too staged. Too public. Too much like he was trying to perform forever instead of ask for it. Shen leaned forward as Jack turned the notebook around.
Jack tapped the page once. “At home.”
Shen looked down. Jack watched his face carefully.
“Dinner,” Jack said. “Her favorite takeout. Not something too formal. Candles, but not too many. Flowers, but not some apology-looking arrangement.”
Shen’s eyes flicked up.
Jack looked at him. “What?”
“Nothing,” Shen said.
Jack narrowed his eyes. “That was not nothing.”
Shen glanced back at the page. “You accounted for apology flowers.”
“She hates arrangements that look like someone is trying to apologize,” Jack said.
Shen nodded once. “Correct.”
Jack hated how good that felt.
He moved his finger down the page. “Music. A playlist, songs she actually likes. Songs from us.”
Shen kept reading. Jack’s thumb rested near the last line. He did not tap it right away.
Then Shen looked up. “Location?”
Jack exhaled through his nose. “Kitchen.”
Shen went still.
Jack bristled on instinct. “What?”
Shen’s gaze stayed on him. “Why?”
Jack looked down at the page because that was easier than explaining it while Shen watched him like that.
“Because she always ends up there,” Jack said.
Shen did not interrupt.
Jack’s voice went quieter despite himself. “She sits on the counter when I cook. Steals food off the cutting board. Drinks my coffee even when she has her own.”
Shen’s expression did not change, but his attention sharpened.
“If she’s upset, she stands by the sink and pretends she’s getting water until she can talk,” Jack said. “If she’s happy, she dances there. Sometimes badly.”
Shen blinked once.
Jack glanced up. “Do not write badly.”
Shen looked down at the folder. “I did not.”
Jack did not believe him. He kept going anyway.
“She thinks the kitchen is where nothing big happens,” Jack said. “Which is why everything does.”
Shen was quiet. The coffee shop noise moved around them. Milk steaming behind the counter. A chair scraping against the floor. Someone laughing near the door.
Jack looked down at the notebook. “I can’t really imagine doing it another way.”
Shen looked at the page for another second. Then he nodded once. “Good.”
Jack lifted his eyes. “Good?”
“This is perfect,” Shen said.
Jack went still. Shen did not soften the words. He did not make them bigger than they needed to be. He just looked at Jack across the table and said it like a fact.
“She will know what it means,” Shen said.
Jack’s throat tightened before he could stop it. He looked back down at the notebook. The word kitchen sat there in his own handwriting, underlined once. He had written it because it felt like you. Because when he pictured asking, really pictured it, he did not see a restaurant or a scenic overlook or some perfectly orchestrated setup with strangers nearby and flowers arranged by someone who did not know you. He saw you barefoot in his kitchen. He saw you laughing at something he said under his breath. He saw your hand on his chest. He saw himself reaching into his pocket because he could not wait one more second.
Shen tapped the page once. “The goal is not to make it look like a proposal.”
Jack looked up. “That is the point.”
“No,” Shen said. “The point is to make it look like you know her.”
Jack went quiet. There it was. The thing he had been circling for weeks. Not spectacle. Not performance. Not proof for anyone else. Just you. The way he knew you. The way he loved you. The way he wanted to ask in the middle of an ordinary place because nothing about loving you had ever felt ordinary to him.
Jack swallowed once. “Kitchen,” he said.
Shen nodded. “Kitchen.”
Jack pointed at him. “No committee language.”
Shen looked down at his notes. “I will avoid it during the proposal.”
Jack stared at him. “During the proposal?”
Shen paused. “Before and during the proposal.”
“Better,” Jack said.
Shen made a note.
Jack leaned forward. “What did you write?”
“Kitchen plan approved,” Shen said.
Jack looked at him.
Shen added, “No committee language.”
Jack sat back. “Good.”
Shen wrote one more thing.
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Dunkin.”
Shen did not look up. “I am writing that the wooing requirement is satisfied.”
Jack closed his eyes. God give me strength. By the time Jack left the coffee shop, the ring was no longer a photo. It was purchased. Ordered in your size. Expected to arrive in six to eight weeks. Jack had stared at the confirmation email in his car for a full minute before putting his phone facedown in the cupholder and breathing like a man who had just done something irreversible. Which, technically, he had not. He had not asked yet. You had not answered yet. The ring was not even physically in his possession. But it was yours. That was the part that got him.
Somewhere, in some warehouse or workshop or carefully organized back room, there was a ring being prepared for your hand. Jack sat in the driver’s seat and let that fact settle into him. Then he drove home, hid every piece of evidence with the kind of precision usually reserved for narcotics and classified documents, and spent the next ten minutes making absolutely certain there was no chance you would find the folder, the notes, the receipt, the confirmation number, or the phrase ‘Wooing requirement satisfied’ written anywhere in his home. Only then did he let himself come looking for you.
Your shoes were by the door. One heel tipped sideways near the entryway. Jack looked at it and \ immediately thought of Shen’s story about the emotionally load-bearing heel. God help him, even your shoes had lore now.
“Baby?” Jack called.
“Bedroom,” you answered.
There was something in your voice. Jack stopped with one hand on the back of the couch. Not suspicious. Not exactly. But soft. Warm. Waiting. His pulse shifted before he could talk himself out of it. Jack walked down the hall, still carrying the leftover tension from the coffee shop in his shoulders. The ring. The confirmation email. Shen’s folder. The murder latte. Advisory capacity. Limited strong advisory. The exact shape of forever. He had been thinking all day. Planning all day. Trying to keep every secret tucked safely behind his teeth.
Then he reached the bedroom doorway. And every thought in his head went silent. You were sitting on the edge of the bed. For one impossible second, Jack did not understand what he was seeing. Then he did. The bag from the mall was folded on the chair beside you. The receipt was on the dresser. You were wearing something soft and pretty, something that held your body in a way that made Jack’s heart forget what it was supposed to do. Something you had picked for him. That was the part that stole the breath from his chest.
Not just the lace. Not just the delicate straps or the way the bedroom light touched your skin. You had stood in a store, thought of him, and chosen this. For him. Jack stopped in the doorway. All day, his mind had been full. Now there was nothing. No thoughts. No schedule. No committee. No higher power accepting inquiries. Just you.
Your smile started small. “Hi.”
Jack stared at you.
You tilted your head. “You okay?”
Fuck no. He thought. Absolutely not. I am not okay. Jack opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
Your smile widened. “Jack?”
He blinked once. Then, very carefully, he said, “I need a second.”
You laughed softly. “A second?”
Jack nodded once, still staring. “Maybe several.”
Your expression softened, but the amusement stayed at the corner of your mouth. “Bad meeting?”
Jack let out a low, helpless laugh. Complicated did not begin to cover it. He had spent his afternoon with John Shen in a coffee shop, choosing the ring he was going to put on your finger and planning the night he was going to ask you to keep him forever. He had listened to Shen say the words ‘wooing requirement’ with a straight face. He had ordered a ring. He had hidden the evidence. He had come home prepared to act normal. And then there you were. Sitting on his bed in something you had bought with him in mind, looking at him like he was exactly where you wanted him.
“Complicated,” Jack said.
“With administration?” you asked.
His eyes lifted to yours. The lie sat there for half a second.
Then Jack walked toward you. “Something like that,” he said.
You watched him come closer, your smile shifting into something softer, warmer, almost shy now that he was close enough to touch. Jack liked that too much. He liked all of it too much.
You reached for the front of his jacket and hooked your fingers there, drawing him between your knees. “You look tense.”
“I was tense,” Jack said.
You raised a brow, “Was?”
His hands settled at your waist. You were warm beneath his palms. Real. Here. His. Not officially. Not yet. But soon. God, soon. Jack looked down at you, and the thought hit him so hard he almost had to close his eyes. He had spent the whole day trying to plan the moment he would ask you to marry him. And now you were in front of him, soft and warm and smiling, and the question felt almost ridiculous. Not because it mattered less. Because in every way that mattered, it was already true. You were his future. You were sitting in his bedroom wearing something meant to surprise him, and Jack could barely remember how to breathe.
Your fingers smoothed over the front of his jacket. “You’re thinking too much.”
Jack looked down at you. For the first time all day, that was not true.
“No,” he said, his hand sliding along your waist. “I’m really not.”
Your smile went quiet. Jack bent and kissed you. Slowly at first. Carefully. Like he had time. Like he had all the time in the world. Your hands moved up his chest, and Jack felt the last of the day leave him. The coffee shop. Shen’s folder. The tabs. The timeline. The ordered ring tucked somewhere safely out of reach. All of it went quiet. You made a soft sound against his mouth, and Jack’s hand tightened at your waist. There you are, he thought. Not the proposal. Not the plan. Not the future arriving in six to eight weeks. Just you. Right now. Jack pulled back only enough to look at you.
Your eyes opened slowly. “Hi.”
His mouth curved. “Hi,” he said.
You touched his jaw. “You’re better now.”
Jack’s thumb brushed over your side. “Yeah.”
You smiled, pleased with yourself. “Good.”
Jack looked at you sitting there, soft and beautiful and entirely unaware that somewhere in the world, a ring was being made for your hand. He pressed another kiss to your mouth. Then one to your cheek. Then one to the corner of your jaw, just because he could.
Your fingers slid into his hair. “Jack.”
His eyes closed for half a second. He loved the way you said his name. He loved that you had no idea what was coming. He loved that even if you did, Shen would probably claim you had known because of abnormal detection patterns, and Jack would probably have to hear about it for the rest of his life. He smiled against your skin.
You leaned back slightly. “What?”
Jack lifted his head. “Nothing.”
Your eyes narrowed with familiar suspicion. “That was not nothing.”
“No,” Jack said, his hands warm at your waist. “It was good.”
You studied him for another second. Then your suspicion softened into something sweeter.
“Okay,” you said.
Jack bent and kissed you again before you could ask anything else. Because he could keep the secret. He could. For six to eight weeks, he could keep this tucked safely inside his chest. He could wait for the ring. He could plan the kitchen. He could survive Shen’s advisory committee. Probably. But standing there with you, looking at him like that, Jack knew the truth. The ring was coming. The question was coming. The rest of his life was coming. And for once, he was not thinking too much. He was only thinking yes. Six weeks and four days later, the ring arrived.
Jack knew because he had checked the tracking more often than was medically reasonable. He had checked it before work, again between patients, once in the parking lot, and one final time while standing outside his front door with his keys in his hand and his heart somewhere dangerously close to his throat. Delivered. A single word on the screen. Small. Ordinary. Absolutely devastating. For one second, Jack just stood there.
He had known it was coming. Obviously, he had known. He had ordered it. Paid for it. Read the confirmation email until the words started to blur. Spent six weeks pretending he was not thinking about the ring every time you reached for his hand. But knowing it was coming was different from knowing it was here. The ring was no longer a photo. No longer a plan. No longer a coffee shop conversation with John Shen, a murder latte, and the phrase ‘Wooing requirement satisfied’ haunting him from a folder with tabs. The ring was real. The ring was here. The ring was yours.
Jack found the small delivery box exactly where the notification said it would be, tucked near the side door, hidden enough that you would not have noticed it first if you had come home before him. Jack stared at it for half a second too long. Then he picked it up, unlocked the front door, went straight to the bedroom, and hid every trace of the packaging with the focus of a man handling evidence.
Box broken down. Shipping label removed. Receipt tucked away. Jewelry box transferred to the inside pocket of the jacket he had already laid out for the night. Confirmation email archived. Deleted from the visible inbox. Recently deleted cleared. Then checked again. God give me strength. He was proposing marriage, not committing wire fraud. Still, with you, caution felt appropriate. Only when the evidence was gone, and the ring box was safely hidden, did Jack let himself breathe.
Then he went back to the kitchen and started setting up. He had done exactly what he said he would do. Favorite takeout ordered. Candles, but not too many. Flowers, but not the kind that looked like someone was apologizing. Music playing softly from the speaker by the cookbooks. Not proposal songs. Not anything obvious enough to make your eyes narrow the second you walked in. Songs you liked. Songs from the two of you. A real date night at home. Private. Warm. Specific. The kitchen plan. Shen had called it perfect. Jack had tried not to care about that. He cared.
The front door opened before the food arrived. “I’m home,” you called.
Jack’s hand stilled near the wineglasses. For one impossible second, he forgot what he was supposed to be doing. Then you appeared in the doorway, still in your coat, your bag on your shoulder, your eyes moving over the kitchen with immediate suspicion and a slow, pleased smile.
“Oh,” you said, softer now. “You meant date night.”
Jack looked at you. “I said date night.”
“You say a lot of things,” you said, stepping farther into the kitchen.
His mouth curved. “Do I?”
You set your bag down on one of the chairs. “You also say them in your serious voice, and then I have to decide if you mean dinner or a medical emergency.”
“This is not a medical emergency,” Jack said.
Your eyes moved over the counter. The candles. The flowers. The wine.
Then your gaze came back to him, warmer than before. “Good.”
Jack held your eyes for one second too long.
You noticed. Your head tilted slightly. “You okay?”
Jack turned toward the drawer before you could see too much on his face. “I’m good.”
“You sound weird.” You replied.
Jack looked at you, “I’m getting silverware.”
Your brow furrowed, “That does not usually affect your voice.”
Jack opened the drawer. “Maybe I care about presentation.”
You laughed and crossed the kitchen toward him. “You do not care about presentation.”
“I care about presentation for you,” Jack said.
That quieted you. Jack felt it happen before he looked at you. When he did, your expression had gone soft in that way that made his chest feel too full for the space inside it. Jack’s hand tightened around the silverware. God. Six weeks and four days. He had waited six weeks and four days. He could wait through dinner. He could. That was the plan. You moved closer, rose onto your toes, and kissed the corner of his mouth. Jack closed his eyes for half a second. No. No, he probably could not. The doorbell rang before he could make a catastrophic decision in the middle of the kitchen.
You pulled back, smiling. “Saved by takeout.”
Jack looked at you. “Temporarily.”
Your eyebrows lifted. Jack took the opportunity to turn away before you could ask him what that meant.
“I’m going to change,” you said, already stepping back. “Give me five minutes.”
Jack nodded once. “Take your time.”
You narrowed your eyes playfully. “That sounded suspiciously patient.”
“I am capable of patience,” Jack said.
You smiled as you backed toward the hall. “Sure.”
Then you disappeared into the bedroom. Jack stood still until he heard the door close. Then he exhaled. Jack tipped the delivery driver too much, locked the door, and carried the bags into the kitchen with both hands. This was it. Favorite takeout. Candles, but not too many. Flowers that did not look like an apology. Music low by the sink. The ring in his jacket pocket. Six weeks and four days of waiting, and now he was arranging containers of noodles and rice like his entire future depended on whether the dumplings went near the vegetables. God give me strength. He set out plates. He opened containers. He poured wine.
The bedroom door opened down the hall. Jack turned. You came back into the kitchen barefoot. That was what did it. Not the candles. Not the wine. Not the music. Not the ring sitting heavy in his jacket pocket. You. Barefoot in his kitchen, smiling. You had changed into jeans and a sweater, your hair tucked behind one ear, your sleeves pushed to your elbows like you were ready to steal food off the counter before he finished setting it out. You looked comfortable. Happy. Home. Jack stopped with a takeout container in his hand. He was not making it through dinner.
You came closer, eyes dropping to the open containers on the counter. “Oh my God, you got my favorite.”
Jack set the container down. “Obviously.”
“And extra sauce?” You asked hopefully.
He nodded. “Obviously.”
Your smile went bright. “I love you.”
Jack looked at you. He knew you meant the food. Mostly. Probably. It did not matter.
“I love you too,” he said.
Your expression softened again, but then the music shifted, and your smile came back. You reached for the wineglass he had poured for you, took a sip, and climbed onto the counter like you had done a hundred times. Jack watched you settle there, one knee bent slightly, your bare feet kicking lightly against the cabinet beneath you. You bounced your shoulders a little to the song playing from the speaker. Just once. Barely anything. Enough to ruin him completely.
“This smells amazing,” you said.
Jack stared at you.
You took another sip of wine and looked over at him. “What?”
Nothing. Everything. The ring was in his jacket pocket. The kitchen was warm. You were sitting in front of him, barefoot and happy, moving to the music like the whole world had narrowed to this one room and this one night and the woman he could not imagine living without. Jack let out a breath that was almost a laugh.
“I was going to do this after dinner,” he said.
Your feet stopped moving. The wineglass lowered slowly from your mouth. “Do what?”
Jack looked at you for one more second.
Then he shook his head, helpless against it. “I can’t wait.”
Your lips parted. Jack turned, reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, and felt the box fit into his palm like it had been waiting there forever. When he turned back, you were completely still.
“Jack,” you whispered.
He stepped closer. “I had a plan,” he said.
Your eyes dropped to his hand. Then back to his face. “You did?”
Jack smiled faintly. “A whole one.”
You made a small, shaky sound that might have been a laugh if your eyes had not already started to shine. Jack moved between your knees, close enough now that he could see your breath catch.
“I was going to let you eat first,” he said.
You blinked quickly.
“I was going to be patient,” Jack continued.
Your mouth trembled.
“I was going to wait for the exact right moment.” He looked around the kitchen, then back at you.
Then his voice softened. “But this is the exact right moment.”
Jack opened the box. For half a second, the world went very, very quiet. Your hand flew to your mouth.
“Yes,” you said immediately.
Jack froze. Then he laughed. It broke out of him before he could stop it, startled and breathless and happier than he had any right to be when he had not even gotten the question out.
“Baby,” Jack said, smiling so hard it almost hurt. “At least let me ask.”
You were already crying. “Okay.”
Jack took a breath. You nodded at him, helpless and eager and already reaching for him even though he still had the box in his hand. Jack’s chest went tight. He loved you so much it was almost inconvenient.
“I love you,” he said.
Your face crumpled.
Jack’s voice stayed low. “I love this. I love coming home to you. I love finding you in our kitchen, stealing my food, drinking my coffee, dancing badly when you think I’m not watching.”
You laughed through the tears. “Badly?”
“Beautifully badly,” Jack said.
You pressed one hand over your heart. Jack looked at you sitting there in the kitchen, your wine forgotten beside you, your eyes wet, your whole face open and shining like you already knew every answer he could ever ask of you. His throat tightened.
“I love the life I have with you,” he said. “I love every quiet part of it. And I want all the rest of it, too.”
You made a small sound.
Jack held your gaze. “Will you marry me?”
“Yes,” you said again.
Then you launched yourself off the counter. Jack caught you with one arm around your waist, the ring box still clutched safely in his other hand, as you wrapped yourself around him. Your mouth found his, messy and smiling and wet with tears. Jack kissed you back, laughing against you, holding you so tightly your feet barely touched the floor.
“Yes,” you said against his mouth.
Jack’s arm tightened around you. “I heard you.”
“Yes.” You said again.
Jack exhaled a happy laugh, “I heard you the first time.”
You kissed him harder. Jack let himself have it for another second. Two. Three.
Then he pulled back just enough to breathe. “Baby.”
You chased his mouth. “What?”
He laughed softly and lifted the box between you. “Let me put it on you.”
You looked down at the ring like you had forgotten there was a step after saying yes.
“Oh my God,” you whispered.
Jack took your left hand. Your fingers were trembling. So were his. He slid the ring onto your finger slowly, carefully, watching it settle exactly where it belonged. It fit. Of course, it fit. Shen would be unbearable about that later. But Jack could not care about Shen right now. Not when you were staring down at your hand, crying and laughing at the same time, turning your fingers slightly so the kitchen light caught the ring.
“Oh my God,” you said again.
Jack looked at it. Then at you. Then back at the ring. His chest went tight and full and almost painful.
“It’s perfect,” he said, his voice rough.
You looked up at him. Jack shook his head a little, like he still could not believe he was seeing it outside his own imagination.
Your mouth trembled. “The ring?” you asked.
Jack smiled, helpless and sure. “You.”
You looked down at the ring again. For a few seconds, neither of you said anything. You only held your hand between you, fingers trembling slightly, turning it one way and then the other so the stone caught the kitchen light. Jack watched your face. Not the ring. Not really. The ring was perfect. He knew that. He had known it when he saw the photo, when Shen confirmed it, when he opened the box in the quiet of your bedroom after it arrived. But this was different. This was your face while you wore it.
This was you crying in your kitchen, wine forgotten on the counter, takeout going cold behind him, your bare feet still tucked close to his on the floor. This was everything.
You lifted your eyes to his. “We’re engaged.”
Jack’s smile came slow and helpless. “Yeah.”
You let out a laugh that broke halfway into another sob. “We’re engaged.”
Jack’s hands found your waist. “Yeah, baby.”
You looked down again, then back up at him, like you needed to make sure both things were still true. The ring. Him. The life suddenly opening in front of you.
“You asked me to marry you,” you said.
Jack brushed his thumb over your side. “I did.”
“In the kitchen.” You continued.
His mouth curved. “I did.”
You beamed. “With my favorite takeout.”
“Romantic,” Jack said.
You laughed wetly and pressed your forehead to his chest. Jack wrapped both arms around you, holding you there, his chin dipping toward the top of your head. He closed his eyes for half a second. There it was. Quiet. Finally. No tracking updates. No hidden receipts. No Shen folder. No committee language. No murder latte. Just you in his arms, your ringed hand curled against his shirt, saying yes over and over again without saying a word. Jack breathed you in. Then you went very still. He felt it immediately.
Jack opened his eyes. “What?”
You lifted your head. “John.”
Jack closed his eyes again. “No.”
You pulled back enough to look at him. “Yes.”
“No,” Jack said, more firmly.
“He needs to know.” You insisted.
Jack groaned, “He can know in the morning.”
Your eyes widened like he had suggested something deeply unethical. “Jack.”
“We have been engaged for less than five minutes,” Jack said.
“And he has post-proposal notification rights.” You replied.
Jack’s eyes opened. He stared at you. You stared back, beautiful and tearful and absolutely serious.
“I knew that tab was going to ruin my life,” Jack said.
You were already reaching for your phone on the counter. “This is not ruining your life.”
“It is interrupting my life.” Jack amended.
You shrugged, “It is part of your life now.”
Jack pointed at you. “That sounded like Shen.”
You smiled through your tears. “Best friend clause.”
Jack grimaced, “Do not invoke the clause during our engagement.”
You lifted the phone. “Too late.”
Jack dragged a hand over his mouth as you tapped Shen’s contact and started a FaceTime call.
“Can we have one private moment before committee notification?” Jack asked.
You looked up at him with watery, sparkling eyes. “We did.”
“That was thirty seconds,” Jack replied.
You nodded seriously, “It was a very meaningful thirty seconds.”
Jack stared at you. You smiled. God give me strength. He thought. The call connected on the second ring. Shen’s face appeared on the screen. He was in scrubs, standing somewhere that looked suspiciously like a hallway at PTMC, his expression flat and expectant in a way that told Jack he had absolutely been waiting for this.
“Accepted?” Shen asked.
You made a strangled sound. “John.”
Shen blinked once. “That was not an answer.”
You laughed and cried at the same time, turning the phone so your face and Jack’s shoulder were both in frame. “Yes.”
Shen’s expression did not change much. But Jack saw it. The slight softening around his eyes. The small release in his jaw. The way his gaze flicked from your wet face to Jack and then back to you, as if confirming that you were happy before allowing himself to react.
“Good,” Shen said.
You laughed again. “Good?”
Shen nodded once. “Expected, but good.”
Jack leaned closer to the phone. “Expected?”
Shen looked at him. “Yes.”
Jack’s brows lifted. “You couldn’t give me that level of confidence six weeks ago?”
“You did not ask for reassurance,” Shen said.
“I asked for advisory input,” Jack replied.
Shen shrugged, “Different category.”
Jack pointed at the phone. “Dunkin.”
You wiped under your eye with your free hand. “Look.”
You held your left hand up to the camera. For the first time since he answered, Shen went completely still. His eyes dropped to the ring. You turned your fingers a little so he could see it properly. Shen studied it for two seconds.
Then he nodded once. “Correct.”
You let out a watery laugh. “Correct?”
Jack closed his eyes. “Of course, that’s what he says.”
Shen looked at you through the screen. “It is the correct ring.”
Your mouth trembled.
Shen’s voice softened by the smallest degree. “It’s perfect.”
That did it.
Your face crumpled again. “Oh, John,” you whispered.
Jack’s annoyance disappeared before it could fully form. Because Shen was quiet on the screen. And you were looking at him like the little piece of history between you had just folded itself into this new thing, this future Jack had asked for, this life that somehow had room for all of it.
Shen cleared his throat once. “Are you happy?”
You nodded quickly. “So happy.”
“Good,” Shen said.
Jack’s hand settled at your waist.
Shen’s gaze shifted to him. “Well done.”
Jack went still. You looked up at him.
Jack looked at Shen through the screen. “Thank you.”
Shen nodded once. “The kitchen was the correct choice.”
You froze. Jack froze. The kitchen went silent except for the music still playing low by the sink. Slowly, you turned your head toward Jack. Jack looked down at you. Your eyes narrowed.
“John knew,” you said.
Jack closed his eyes. “Here we go.”
“John knew?” you repeated.
Shen looked between you two on the phone. “I was consulted.”
Your mouth fell open. “You were consulted?”
Jack opened his eyes. “Advisory only.”
Shen added, “Limited strong advisory.”
Jack pointed at the phone. “Do not help.”
You stared at Jack, then at the phone, then back at Jack. “You asked John to help plan my proposal?”
Jack’s jaw shifted. “You told me to.”
Your expression changed. The shock softened first. Then the realization. Then something so tender crossed your face that Jack forgot how irritated he was supposed to be.
“You listened,” you said.
Jack’s voice went quieter. “Of course I listened.”
Your eyes filled again. Shen looked down briefly, giving you privacy in the only way he knew how.
Jack touched your cheek. “You said he needed to be consulted.”
You laughed through another tear. “I was mostly joking.”
Jack’s thumb brushed under your eye. “I wasn’t.”
You stared at him. For one second, Shen did not exist. The phone did not exist. The food did not exist. Only Jack’s hand on your face and the ring on your finger and the knowledge that he had taken every ridiculous, silly, sacred piece of you seriously.
Then Shen said, “The wooing requirement was satisfied.”
Jack’s eyes closed. “Dunkin.”
You gasped softly. “A girl needs to be wooed.”
Shen nodded once. “Correct.”
Jack looked toward the ceiling. Any higher power currently accepting inquiries, this was still a good time.
You looked at Jack, glowing now. “You satisfied the wooing requirement.”
Jack’s eyes dropped back to you. “I proposed to you in my kitchen.”
“Our kitchen,” you corrected softly.
Jack stopped.
Your smile trembled. “Our kitchen,” you said again.
Jack’s hand tightened at your waist. Something in his chest gave way. He looked at you for a long second, then bent and kissed you, because there were only so many words a man could survive in one night. You kissed him back, smiling against his mouth.
On the phone, Shen cleared his throat. “Post-proposal notification protocol is complete.”
Jack pulled back just enough to glare at the screen. “Goodbye, Dunkin.”
Shen looked at you. “Congratulations.”
Your smile softened. “Thank you.”
Shen paused.
Then he said, “You were never going to die alone.”
The kitchen went quiet. Your breath caught. Jack felt it. He remembered the story from the bar. You on the floor with pizza. One heel still on. Shen sitting across from you with the worst comfort imaginable and somehow exactly enough of it. Your eyes filled all over again, but this time your smile was different. Older. Softer. Grateful.
“I know,” you said.
Shen nodded once. “Good.”
Jack could not even be annoyed at that. Not this time.
You held up your hand again. “I’m getting married.”
Shen’s mouth barely moved, but it was almost a smile. “Yes.”
“To Jack.” You added.
Shen looked at Jack through the phone. “Also correct.”
Jack shook his head. “That’s your blessing?”
Shen paused, “That was my factual acknowledgment.”
You laughed.
Jack reached for the phone. “And that’s enough.”
“Wait,” you said, pulling it away.
Jack looked at you. “Baby.”
You turned back to Shen. “I love you.”
Shen went still. Jack’s hand paused at your waist. On the screen, Shen blinked once.
Then he said, quietly, “I love you too.”
Your mouth trembled. Jack kissed your temple.
Then Shen looked at Jack. “Take care of her.”
Jack’s expression shifted. He did not make a joke. He did not bristle.
He only nodded once, steady and sure. “Always.”
Shen studied him for a second. Then he nodded back. “Committee adjourned.”
Jack closed his eyes. “There it is.”
You burst out laughing. Shen’s mouth twitched.
Jack finally took the phone from your hand. “Goodnight, Dunkin.”
“Goodnight, Abbot,” Shen said.
Jack ended the call.
You looked up at him immediately. “That was rude.”
“We are engaged,” Jack said, setting your phone facedown on the counter. “He’ll survive.”
You smiled and wrapped your arms around his neck. “We’re engaged.”
Jack’s hands settled at your waist. “Yeah.”
You looked down at your ring again. The kitchen light caught it. Jack watched your face soften.
Then you looked back up at him. “Our kitchen?”
His throat tightened. “Our kitchen,” he said.
You smiled. Jack kissed you again, slow and certain, his hands warm at your waist, the takeout cold on the counter, the flowers catching candlelight beside the sink, the music still playing softly around you. No committee. No notes. No hidden evidence. No higher power needed. Just you. Your ring. His kitchen. Your kitchen. And the rest of his life saying yes.
Summary: Jack Abbot is not jealous of John Shen. He is grateful you had someone before him. He respects the friendship. He understands that Shen was there for the supply closet breakdown, the horrible date extraction, the pizza debrief, and the birth of the deeply cursed domestic partnership contingency agreement. He simply objects to the phrase “contractually betrothed” on legal, emotional, and deeply personal grounds.
Warnings: fluff, established relationship, Shen and Reader being menaces, work husband lore, fake marriage pact, bad date mention, alcohol/drinking, suggestive jokes, Jack being emotionally evolved under protest.
Author's Note: @honeyteanocoffee wanted lore, so here it is. The lore behind the work husband clause is here, and yes, Shen and Reader are somehow worse when they have espresso martinis and an audience. This is a companion/sequel to The Work Husband Clause, but it can probably stand on its own if you’re willing to accept that John Shen has advisory privileges and Jack Abbot is suffering beautifully.
Xoxo, Del
By the time the nachos hit the table, Jack already knew the night was going to become a problem. Not a real problem. Not a medical problem, a staffing problem, or the kind of emergency department problem that required gloves, pressure, and someone yelling for another unit of blood. A you and Shen problem.
Which, in Jack’s professional opinion, was often worse.
It was rare enough for the night shift crew to have the same night off that everyone had treated the plan like a minor miracle. No one was in scrubs. No one was holding a chart. No one had a pager clipped to their waistband. For once, the five of you were tucked into the back corner of a bar instead of circling the nurses’ station under fluorescent lights, loose-limbed and hungry and pretending you had not all checked the department group chat at least twice.
The booth was large enough for everyone to fit and small enough for everyone to steal from the same plates. Nachos sat in the middle of the table, already half-destroyed. A basket of wings had migrated toward Crus. Fries were scattered across three napkins, and the cheese curds were disappearing at a rate Jack found medically concerning.
Ellis had claimed the outside edge of the booth with a drink in one hand and a fry in the other, already looking too pleased with herself for anyone’s safety. Crus sat beside her, close enough to the wings to defend them and far enough from responsibility to deny involvement in anything that happened next.
Shen sat across from you, calm and composed, his sleeves pushed to his forearms and an espresso martini in front of him like he had come to the bar for hydration, judgment, and legally questionable caffeine.
You had one too.
Jack had noticed. He had also noticed the way you and Shen had ordered them at the same time without discussing it, which apparently meant something to Ellis, because she had stared at both glasses for a full three seconds before looking at Jack with open delight.
Jack ignored her. He was trying very hard not to reward the behavior.
You were tucked into Jack’s side on the opposite bench, your thigh pressed against his, his arm stretched along the back of the booth behind you. His hand rested near your shoulder, fingers loose and warm, not quite holding you in place. He did not need to. You had settled against him like you belonged there.
Jack liked that.
He liked it a dangerous amount.
Ellis pointed between your glass and Shen’s. “Do you two always order the same drink?”
“No,” you said.
“Yes,” Shen said at the same time.
Jack looked down at you. You lifted one shoulder. “We’re sluts for coffee.”
Jack closed his eyes.
Crus made a choking sound into his beer.
Shen considered the phrase. “Crude, but not inaccurate.”
Jack opened his eyes and looked at him. “Do not agree with her when she says things like that.”
Shen lifted his espresso martini. “I believe in precision.”
“You believe in making my life worse,” Jack said.
Shen paused. “Also accurate.”
You smiled into your drink and took a sip. Jack’s thumb brushed once against your shoulder, a quiet warning or a quiet admission that he was already losing. It was hard to tell with him sometimes. Across the table, Shen reached for a cheese curd at the same time you did. Your fingers bumped over the basket.
You both stopped.
Jack looked down.
Shen looked up.
You looked at Shen.
For one brief, terrible second, the two of you held eye contact like a treaty was being negotiated.
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t,” he said.
You turned your head toward him, innocent. “Don’t what?”
Jack looked pointedly at your hand, still hovering near Shen’s over the cheese curds. “Whatever this is.”
Shen withdrew his hand by one inch. “Appetizer coordination?”
“You know that is not what I mean,” Jack said.
Crus leaned forward. “No, wait. Let them do it. I want to see where it goes.”
Ellis nodded, already smiling. “Same.”
You pressed closer to Jack’s side and stole the cheese curd first. “Nothing is happening.”
Shen picked up the next one. “Agreed.”
Jack looked between you. “That’s worse.”
You bit into the cheese curd to hide your smile. Ellis watched the three of you for another second, then set her drink down with purpose. “Okay. I have a question.”
Jack exhaled through his nose. “No.”
Ellis looked at him. “I didn’t ask it yet.”
“I know where this is going,” Jack said.
Crus grinned and dragged the wings closer. “I don’t. Ask it.”
Ellis leaned her elbows onto the table and looked between you and Shen. “I still don’t understand the work husband thing.”
Shen’s expression did not change. Yours brightened.
Jack felt it happen against his side. “No,” he said again.
You patted his thigh under the table. “It’s fine.”
“It has never been fine,” Jack said.
Shen folded his hands on the table. “That is subjective.”
Jack pointed at him. “Dunkin.”
Shen looked mildly resigned. “There it is.”
Ellis ignored them both and focused on you. “I need the timeline.”
“The timeline?” you asked.
“Yes,” Ellis said. “Were you two always like this, or did the ED do this to you?”
Crus lifted his drink. “Important question.”
Shen considered that. “The ED accelerated preexisting conditions.”
Jack turned his head slowly. “Preexisting conditions?”
You nodded. “Mutual stubbornness.”
“Poor sleep hygiene,” Shen added.
“Unreasonable confidence in hospital coffee,” you said.
“Poor emotional disclosure,” Shen continued.
You pointed at him. “That was mostly you.”
Shen looked at you. “You cried in a supply closet and called it allergies.”
Jack’s hand stilled behind your shoulder. For half a second, the table quieted.
Then you pointed your cheese curd at Shen. “That is privileged friendship information.”
Ellis’s eyes widened. “Supply closet?”
Crus sat forward. “Crying?”
Jack looked down at you, his voice softer than it had been a moment before. “You cried in a supply closet?”
You glanced up at him. “It was before you.”
That did not make Jack like it more. It only made something in his chest pull tight and quiet. Shen noticed. Shen noticed everything inconvenient.
“It was early in her night shift tenure,” Shen said, evenly. “She had been yelled at by three families, one drunk patient, and a man who tried to remove his own IV because he believed the saline was government tracking fluid.”
Crus nodded slowly. “Classic.”
You looked at Shen. “And the cafeteria had run out of fries.”
Ellis looked between you. “So Shen found you crying?”
“I was not crying,” you said.
Shen looked at Jack. “She was crying.”
You turned back to him. “I was having a private emotional reset.”
“In a supply closet,” Shen said.
“Exactly,” you replied. “Private.”
Shen picked up his water. “It was a public supply closet.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. Shen took a drink. Jack watched the exchange, his hand moving from the back of the booth to your shoulder. His fingers brushed there once, gentle and grounding. You felt it. He knew you did, because your body softened almost instantly into his side.
Ellis leaned closer. “What did you do?”
Shen set his glass down. “I needed gauze.”
Crus blinked. “That’s what you did?”
“I got gauze,” Shen said.
You rolled your eyes. “He opened the door, found me crying—”
“Emotionally resetting,” Shen corrected.
You pointed at him. “Do not use my words against me.”
Shen tilted his head. “Then use better ones.”
Jack looked at him. “Dunkin.”
Shen glanced at Jack. “She appreciates honesty.”
“She appreciates many things,” Jack said. “Choose another one.”
Your mouth twitched.
Shen looked back at Ellis. “I got the gauze. Then I got her water and vending machine pretzels.”
You lifted one finger. “Peanut butter crackers.”
Shen’s brow furrowed. “Pretzels.”
“Crackers,” you said.
“Pretzels,” Shen repeated.
You leaned forward slightly. “John.”
Shen held your gaze. You held his.
Jack looked between you again.
Then, slowly, Shen reached across the table, palm up. You put your hand in his with grave solemnity.
Jack looked down at your joined hands. “No,” Jack said.
Ellis covered her mouth. Crus whispered, “Oh my God.”
You looked at Jack. “This is a sacred friendship dispute.”
Jack pointed at your hand in Shen’s. “Release my girlfriend.”
Shen’s expression remained perfectly neutral. “We are honoring the origin story.”
“You can honor it verbally,” Jack said.
You squeezed Shen’s hand. “It was a difficult time for us.”
“It involved sodium,” Shen said.
Jack stared at him. “Release her.”
You sighed dramatically and withdrew your hand. Shen let go at the exact same time, calm as ever. Jack’s arm settled more firmly behind your shoulders.
Ellis looked like Christmas had come early. “This is already better than I hoped.”
Crus pointed at you with a fry. “So he brought you pretzels-slash-crackers, and that was it? Friendship?”
“No,” you said.
“Yes,” Shen said.
You looked at him. “No, it grew.”
Shen nodded. “Regrettably.”
You kicked him lightly under the table. He did not react, which meant you knew he felt it.
“It grew,” you repeated, looking back at Ellis. “He started noticing things.”
Shen looked down at his drink. “You were inefficient at self-maintenance.”
Jack’s eyes shifted to him.
You smiled faintly. “He means I forgot to eat.”
“I mean she forgot to eat,” Shen said.
Ellis’s expression softened. “John.”
Shen shrugged one shoulder. “Someone had to notice.”
Jack was quiet. The table felt it, but for once, no one jumped in to ruin it.
You looked down at your hands for a second. “And I noticed things back.”
Shen glanced up.
“You hate when people talk to you before coffee,” you said.
Shen nodded. “Most people.”
“You like the corner computer because nobody stands behind you there,” you continued.
“Correct,” Shen said.
“And if you go completely silent after a bad case, it does not mean you want to be left alone forever,” you said. “It means you want someone to sit nearby and not make it worse.”
Shen looked at you for a beat too long. Then he nodded once. “Also correct.”
Jack’s hand found yours under the table. You looked down as his fingers slid between yours, warm and steady against your palm. He did not say anything. He did not need to.
Crus cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with sincerity lasting more than four seconds. “Okay, so when did this become legally weird?”
Your smile came back all at once. Jack closed his eyes.
Shen picked up his glass. “The horrible date.”
Ellis gasped. “There was a date?”
“There was a man,” you said.
Shen considered that. “Barely.”
Crus put both hands on the table. “I need everything.”
Jack opened his eyes and looked at you. “Do you?”
You squeezed his hand beneath the table. “You’re doing great.”
“That was not an answer,” Jack said.
Shen took a calm sip of his espresso martini. “It started with a rescue request.”
Jack looked at him. “A what?”
You grimaced. “I texted John from the bathroom.”
Ellis leaned forward. “During the date?”
“I had to,” you said. “He said women in medicine were intimidating but hot.”
Crus made a face. “Oh, no.”
“It got worse,” you said.
Jack’s thumb moved once over your knuckles. “How much worse?”
You glanced at him. “He asked if my job made me too tired to be feminine.”
Jack went very still.
Shen looked at him. “That was when I was summoned.”
Jack’s voice went flat. “Good.”
You patted his hand. “See? This is why John rescued me.”
Jack looked at Shen. For one second, his expression was not annoyed. Not exasperated. Not territorial. Grateful.
Then Shen ruined it by setting his glass down and saying, “Your husband is here.”
Jack blinked. Ellis blinked. Crus blinked.
You groaned. “No, don’t start there.”
Shen looked at the table. “That is where the rescue began.”
Jack turned fully toward him. “You said what?”
Shen’s hands folded again. “Your husband is here.”
Crus stared at him. “To the date?”
“Yes,” Shen said.
Ellis slapped a hand over her mouth.
You dropped your forehead briefly against Jack’s shoulder. “He walked right up to the table and said it like a police notification.”
Shen’s brow furrowed. “It was effective.”
Jack looked down at you. “Your husband.”
You lifted your head. “In my defense, I was also alarmed.”
Shen nodded. “She recovered quickly.”
You pointed across the table. “Because I am adaptable.”
“You said, ‘John, thank God,’” Shen replied.
Crus was laughing now. “What did the guy do?”
“He said, ‘Husband?’” you answered.
Shen nodded. “With concern.”
Jack stared at Shen. “And what did you say?”
Shen took a fry from the basket, apparently needing nourishment before ruining Jack’s night further. “I said yes,” Shen replied.
Jack’s jaw flexed. You squeezed his hand. “Baby.”
Jack looked down at you. “I’m fine.”
“You look upset.”
“I’m grateful,” Jack said.
“You look grateful in a violent way,” Crus said.
Jack did not look away from Shen. “That happens sometimes.”
Ellis leaned toward Shen. “And then?”
Shen looked at you. You looked at Shen.
Jack’s eyes narrowed immediately. “Do not reach across this table.”
You leaned back into his side. “We weren’t going to.”
Shen paused.
Jack looked at him. “Were you?”
Shen picked up his water. “Not anymore.”
Ellis laughed into her drink.
You sighed and continued. “Then I grabbed my purse, told my date I had to go, and left halfway through dinner.”
“She had not eaten,” Shen said.
Jack looked back at you. “You left before dinner?”
“He had just explained that he preferred women who could be independent but not argumentative,” you said.
Jack’s expression went blank.
Shen nodded. “I paid for her appetizer.”
You blinked. “You did?”
“Yes,” Shen said.
You softened. “John.”
Jack watched that too. The softness. The surprise. The history sitting there between you and Shen, old and strange and real.
He did not hate it.
That was the thing.
He hated the words. He hated the paperwork. He hated the hand-holding theatrics and the fact that Shen could weaponize a neutral expression better than most people could weaponize a scalpel.
But he did not hate that Shen had shown up for you.
Jack’s hand tightened around yours.
Crus pointed at Shen. “So where did you go after the fake husband extraction?”
You and Shen answered at the same time.
“Her apartment,” you said.
“Pizza,” Shen said.
Jack looked up.
Ellis slowly smiled. “Oh, this is getting good.”
Jack looked down at you. “Is it?”
You took a careful sip of your espresso martini. “Depends on your definition of good.”
Shen set his glass down. “It was a productive evening.”
“It was the worst date of my life,” you said.
“Before the extraction,” Shen clarified.
Crus leaned into the table. “I need to know why you went to her apartment.”
Jack’s hand tightened around yours under the table. Not hard. Just there. You looked at him, but his eyes were on Shen.
Shen looked back at him calmly. “She had not eaten.”
Jack blinked. That, apparently, was enough of an explanation.
“She left before dinner,” Shen added. “The date had compromised the meal.”
Crus nodded. “Emotionally or physically?”
“Both,” you said.
Shen glanced at you. “Primarily emotionally.”
You pointed at him. “He ruined the bread basket for me, John.”
Jack’s expression went blank. “What did he do to the bread basket?”
You looked up at him. “He said carbs were why women got tired after thirty.”
Crus made a sound of pure disgust.
Ellis lowered her drink. “No.”
Shen nodded once. “That was when I paid for the appetizer.”
Jack looked at Shen again. Grateful. Still a little violent about it. But grateful.
Shen either did not notice or had the decency to refrain from reacting to it.
“So,” Ellis said, settling in with visible delight, “you rescued her from the date, then went back to her apartment for pizza.”
“Correct,” Shen said.
You nodded. “I changed into sweatpants.”
“She took off one heel in the entryway,” Shen said.
Crus frowned. “One heel?”
“The other was emotionally load-bearing,” you said.
Jack looked down at you. “That means nothing.”
You frowned. “It meant something at the time.”
Shen lifted his espresso martini. “She also said love was a scam.”
You winced. “I was processing.”
“You said romance was a marketing scheme created to sell candles and expensive pasta,” Shen continued.
Ellis stared at you. You shrugged. “I stand by part of that.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “You do love candles,” he said.
“And expensive pasta,” you said.
Shen took a sip. “Contradictory data.”
You looked at him. “You were eating my pizza.”
“I paid for half,” Shen replied.
“You rescued me,” you said. “The pizza should have been included in the service.”
Shen tilted his head. “Rescue services and pizza reimbursement are separate categories.”
Jack closed his eyes. Crus pointed at him. “He’s doing really well.”
“I’m aware,” you said, patting Jack’s thigh beneath the table.
Jack opened his eyes and looked down at your hand. Then he looked back at Shen. “Continue.”
Shen set his glass down. “She sat on the living room floor.”
You leaned into Jack’s side. “Because the couch felt too formal.”
“And said she was going to die alone,” Shen finished.
Ellis’s smile softened at the edges. Jack’s thumb moved once over your knuckles. You glanced down at your joined hands and tried not to let the warmth in your chest show on your face.
“It was dramatic,” you said.
“It was inaccurate,” Shen replied.
You looked at him. “You didn’t know that.”
“I knew enough,” Shen said.
The table quieted for half a second. Then Crus, because he had the survival instincts of someone allergic to sincerity, lifted one hand. “Wait. Are we getting a flashback or a transcript?”
Shen considered that. “The transcript would be more accurate.”
“No,” you said.
Ellis nodded. “Flashback.”
Jack sighed quietly. “Of course.”
You smiled into your glass. And, because the night had apparently become an official oral history, you gave them one.
Your apartment had smelled like rain, takeout menus, and the vanilla candle you lit every time you wanted to convince yourself your life was under control. It was not under control. Not that night. That night, you had kicked one heel off by the door and left the other on because taking it off felt like a commitment to the collapse. Shen stood in your entryway holding a pizza box and a two-liter bottle of soda, his coat still on, watching you with the careful neutrality of a man observing a patient who might bolt.
“You can sit,” you told him.
Shen looked at the couch. You looked at the couch. Both of you looked at the single abandoned heel in the middle of the floor.
“I’ll stand,” Shen said.
You dropped onto the living room rug instead. “I’m going to die alone.”
“No,” Shen said.
You looked up at him. “That was very fast.”
Shen stepped around the abandoned heel and set the pizza box on your coffee table. “It was an easy correction.”
“You don’t know that,” you said.
“Statistically, it is unlikely,” Shen replied.
You stared at him. Shen stared back, apparently comfortable with being deeply unhelpful in your living room. “That is not comfort,” you said.
Shen glanced down at the pizza box. “Pizza might be.”
You held your hand out. Shen opened the box, lifted a slice onto a paper towel, and handed it to you with the solemn care of a man distributing medication. You took one bite and immediately felt worse because it helped.
“I hate that this is working,” you said.
“You were hungry,” Shen said.
You pointed the slice at him. “I was emotionally devastated.”
Shen sat down on the floor across from you, still too upright, still too composed, his shoes carefully avoiding the edge of your throw blanket. “And hungry.”
You chewed angrily. Shen picked up his own slice and folded it with clinical precision.
You watched him do it. “Why are you like that?”
“Effective?” Shen asked.
“Unsettling,” you said.
He considered that. “Practice.”
You huffed a laugh despite yourself. Shen looked at you for a second, then lowered his gaze to his pizza. “You are not going to die alone.”
You looked down at the slice in your hand. “You don’t know that.”
“No,” Shen agreed. “But I know you.”
That made you quiet. You hated that too. The apartment hummed around you, the refrigerator too loud in the kitchen, the rain ticking against the window, the candle flickering on the coffee table like it had not just witnessed you declare love fraudulent in one heel.
You picked at the crust. “What if this is just it?”
Shen’s brow furrowed. “Pizza?”
You looked up at him. “Dating. Men. Love. All of it. What if I never find someone?”
Shen went quiet. That was when you learned one of the most dangerous things about John Shen. He was at his most alarming when he was trying to be helpful.
“Okay,” Shen said.
You narrowed your eyes. “Okay, what?”
“How about this?” he asked.
“No,” you said immediately.
Shen paused with his pizza halfway to his mouth. “You don’t know what I’m going to say.”
“I know your tone.”
Shen set his slice down on the paper towel with care. “If neither of us has found a long-term partner by forty, we enter a domestic partnership.”
You stared at him. He waited. You kept staring. Shen added, “For logistical purposes.”
You put your pizza down. “John.”
“Yes?” he replied.
“Are you proposing to me over pizza?” you asked.
“No,” Shen said. “I am offering a contingency plan.”
You frowned. “That is worse.”
“It is more accurate,” Shen said.
“You’re trying to comfort me with tax strategy,” you said.
“Among other things,” Shen replied.
You blinked. “Among other things?”
He pulled his phone out of his pocket. You watched, horrified and fascinated, as he opened the Notes app. “What are you doing?” you asked.
“Drafting,” Shen said.
You leaned forward. “Drafting what?”
“The contingency plan,” he replied.
You raised your brows. “Right now?”
Shen looked up from his phone. “You seem distressed by uncertainty.”
“I am distressed by men,” you corrected.
“That is less easily solved,” Shen said.
You pointed at him. “Do not be reasonable with me in my own apartment.”
Shen titled the note with his thumb. You leaned closer to read it.
Domestic Partnership Contingency Agreement.
You sat back slowly. “You are the least romantic person I have ever met.”
“It is not romantic,” Shen said.
“That is obvious,” you replied.
He shrugged. “It’s practical.”
“John,” you said, offended now. “If I am entering a backup marriage at forty, I deserve romance.”
Shen looked up from his phone. “Why?”
You gasped. He blinked. “Why?” you repeated.
“It was a question,” Shen said.
You frowned. “It was a terrible question.”
Shen looked back at the note. “Romance is not necessary for the stated objective.”
“The stated objective is not dying alone,” you said.
Shen nodded once. “Correct.”
“A girl needs to be wooed, John,” you said.
Shen’s thumbs paused. “Wooed is vague.”
You glared. “It is not vague to women.”
“It is vague contractually.”
You reached across the pizza box and grabbed the phone from his hand. Shen let you, which meant he had either accepted defeat or was gathering evidence.
You started typing. “Contractual romance.”
Shen leaned slightly forward. “That is not a standard category.”
You grinned. “It is now.”
“What are you adding?” he asked.
“Quarterly flowers,” you said.
Shen frowned. “Why quarterly?”
“Because annually is insulting,” you replied.
Shen looked confused. “Flowers die.”
“So do all of us,” you said. “Stay focused.”
Shen blinked once. “That was bleak.”
“I just survived a date with a man who blamed pasta for aging,” you said with a shrug.
He nodded. “Proceed.”
You typed again. “Monthly date night,” you said.
Shen glanced from your face to the screen. “In a non-romantic domestic partnership?”
You nodded. “In my non-romantic domestic partnership.”
“That seems contradictory,” Shen said.
“You offered to be my backup husband,” you said. “Suffer.”
Shen watched you type. “Birthday recognition cannot be limited to a text?”
“Correct.”
Shen frowned. “What if the text is thoughtful?”
“No,” you replied instantly.
Shen sighed. “What if it contains an itinerary?”
You looked up from the phone. “Especially no.”
Shen went quiet.
Your eyes narrowed. “Were you about to suggest a birthday itinerary?”
“It could be useful,” Shen said.
You pointed at him with his own phone. “This is why the clause exists.”
Shen took the phone back and read silently for several seconds. Then his brow furrowed. “No,” he said.
You lifted your chin. “Yes.”
He looked up. “Annual passionate lovemaking?”
You folded your arms. “For morale.”
Shen stared at you. You stared back. The rain hit the window. The candle flickered. Your abandoned heel lay in the entryway like a fallen soldier.
Finally, Shen looked down at the note again. “This is poorly drafted.”
You sat up straighter. “That is your concern?”
“Yes.”
You raised a brow. “Not the passionate lovemaking?”
Shen’s eyes stayed on the screen. “That is part of the drafting issue.”
You made a strangled sound. “John.”
“What constitutes annual?” Shen asked.
You stared at him. “Once a year.”
“Calendar year or year of agreement?” he asked.
You stared harder. Shen kept reading. “If the agreement begins in April, the obligation period requires clarification.”
“I cannot believe you are editing my sex clause,” you said.
Shen looked up. “I cannot believe you wrote one with no definitions.”
You sighed dramatically. “It was supposed to be romantic.”
Shen clicked his tongue. “It was vulnerable to interpretation.”
“Good,” you said. “Romance should be.”
Shen’s face tightened like that sentence had caused him physical discomfort. You smiled for the first real time all night. “There,” you said. “That’s the contract.”
Shen looked down at the note again. Then he typed something.
You leaned across the pizza box. “What are you doing?”
“Revising,” he answered.
“John.”
“Annual intimacy maintenance,” Shen read.
You stared at him. “Absolutely not.”
Shen kept his eyes on the phone. “It is clearer.”
“It sounds like an oil change,” you said.
“It defines the function,” Shen replied.
You reached for the phone. Shen lifted it out of reach.
You narrowed your eyes. “Give me the romance back.”
“You used the phrase passionate lovemaking,” Shen said.
You shot back, “You used intimacy maintenance.”
Shen glanced at the screen like the answer was obvious. “It is more precise.”
“It is more horrifying,” you said, reaching for the phone again.
Shen considered that. “Both can remain.”
You paused. He looked at you. You looked at him. Then, despite yourself, you laughed. Shen’s mouth did not move much, but his eyes shifted in the way they did when he was pleased with himself.
“Fine,” you said. “Both can remain.”
“Good,” Shen replied.
“But I want the record to show that a girl needs to be wooed,” you added.
Shen typed. You frowned. “Did you just write that down?”
He nodded once. “Yes.”
“As a clause?” you asked.
“As a note.”
You held out your hand. “Read it.”
Shen looked at the screen. “Addendum: a girl needs to be wooed.”
You nodded, satisfied. “Perfect.”
Shen saved the note. Then he handed you another slice of pizza. And somehow, impossibly, you did not feel like you were going to die alone anymore.
Back at the bar, Crus was staring at both of you as if you had just delivered congressional testimony.
Ellis had both hands over her mouth.
Jack had not moved. Not once. His hand was still wrapped around yours under the table, but his expression had gone very still in the way that meant he was processing too many competing feelings at once.
You squeezed his fingers. “You okay?”
Jack looked down at you. Then he looked at Shen. “I’m trying very hard to remain grateful,” Jack said.
Shen nodded once. “That seems appropriate.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Do not make me regret it.”
Shen picked up his espresso martini. “I rarely control that outcome.”
Crus let out a laugh and leaned back against the booth. “So let me get this straight. You wrote a backup marriage contract after a bad date and pizza.”
“Contingency plan,” Shen corrected.
“Contractual betrothal,” you added.
Jack immediately said, “Void.”
You looked up at him. “Suspended.”
“Void,” Jack repeated.
Shen looked at Jack over his glass. “Currently suspended due to Abbot.”
Jack pointed at him. “Do not say it like I’m a scheduling conflict.”
Shen considered that. “Due to your active romantic claim.”
“Worse,” Jack said.
You patted Jack’s thigh. “He means because I love you.”
Jack looked down at your hand, then back at Shen. “He can say that instead.”
Ellis was nearly vibrating. “I need to see the clauses.”
“No,” Jack said.
“Yes,” you and Shen said together.
Jack closed his eyes.
Crus lifted his beer. “I want to know more about annual intimacy maintenance.”
Jack opened his eyes. “Absolutely not.”
You leaned into his side, smiling sweetly. “For the record, the clause is obsolete.”
Jack looked down at you. “It is?”
You took a slow sip of your espresso martini. Then you looked up at him through your lashes.
“I’m getting more than annual intimacy maintenance now that I have you, Jack.”
The table went dead silent.
Jack stopped breathing.
Crus lowered his beer. “Oh.”
Ellis whispered, “Wow.”
Shen blinked once. “That does render the prior clause redundant.”
Jack turned his head slowly. “Dunkin.”
Shen looked at him. “I was agreeing with you.”
“Do not clinically assess my sex life,” Jack said.
Shen nodded. “Boundary noted.”
You smiled into your glass. Jack looked down at you, his ears pink now, his hand still locked around yours under the table.
“You,” he said, voice low, “are trouble.”
You leaned closer to him. “You knew that.”
His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “I did,” Jack said.
Shen lifted his glass. “For what it’s worth, the contingency plan was always unlikely to activate.”
Jack looked at him.
Shen’s expression stayed calm, but something in it gentled. “She was never going to die alone.”
Your smile softened. Jack’s did too, just a little.
Then Shen added, “But legally, I felt better with a backup.”
Jack pointed at him without looking away from you. “Void.”
Shen nodded once. “There it is.”
Crus was still staring at Shen like he had just discovered an entirely new category of person.
“So wait,” Crus said, setting his beer down. “Are you two actually best friends, or is this just a tax thing?”
You opened your mouth.
Shen set his glass down first. “That depends,” he said.
You frowned. “Depends on what?”
Shen looked at you. “Whether you are prepared to acknowledge the previous harm.”
Crus pointed between you and Shen. “I want the harm.”
“You do not,” you said.
“I do,” Crus replied. “I very much do.”
Shen folded his hands on the table. “She once introduced me as her coworker.”
Jack blinked. You dropped your head back against the booth. “John.”
Shen did not look away from Jack. “Her coworker.”
Ellis gasped quietly. “Oh, that’s cold.”
“It was not cold,” you said.
Crus shook his head. “No, that’s cold.”
You looked at him. “You don’t even know the context.”
Shen lifted one finger. “The context was after the supply closet incident, the horrible date extraction, the pizza contingency plan, and the printer failure.”
Jack’s brows pulled together. “Printer failure?”
You pointed at Shen. “Do not add new lore right now.”
Shen glanced at you. “It is relevant.”
You frowned. “It is not relevant.”
“It was emotionally significant,” Shen said.
Jack looked between you. “A printer was emotionally significant?”
Crus leaned toward Ellis. “I believe it.”
Ellis nodded. “Same.”
You sighed and looked up at Jack. “It was a hospital fundraiser.”
“You were standing in the corner silently holding shrimp,” you said.
“I had been abandoned,” Shen replied.
You stared at him. “I was talking to a donor.”
“You introduced me as your coworker John,” Shen said, deeply wounded.
Jack’s mouth twitched. You saw it immediately. Your eyes narrowed. “Do not.”
Jack looked down at you. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought something.”
“I did,” Jack admitted.
You sat up a little straighter. “You’re taking his side?”
Jack’s hand moved on your thigh, warm and apologetic. “On this? Yes.”
Your mouth fell open. Shen nodded once. “Justice.”
Jack pointed across the table without looking away from you. “Temporary alliance.”
“Noted,” Shen said.
Ellis was smiling so hard it looked painful. “Wait. What should she have introduced you as?”
Shen looked at her. “Friend.”
You looked across the table at him. For once, he did not say it like a joke. He did not even say it like a correction. He said it as if the answer had always been obvious. Something in your chest went soft.
Then Crus ruined it by lifting a wing and asking, “Best friend?”
Shen’s gaze shifted to him. You took a sip of your espresso martini. Jack looked down at you. You avoided his eyes.
Ellis’s smile widened. “Oh.”
“No,” you said.
Crus leaned in. “No, what?”
“You all have faces,” you said.
Jack’s mouth curved. “We do?”
“You especially,” you told him.
Jack’s thumb moved once over your thigh. “What face am I making?”
“The face that says you are about to be emotionally reasonable, and it is going to ruin my fun,” you replied with a frown.
Jack looked at you for a second. Then, very dryly, he said, “God forbid.”
Shen picked up his glass. “For accuracy, the designation is best friend.”
You turned toward him. “John.”
He took a calm sip of his espresso martini. Ellis made a delighted little sound. “Designation?”
“It was added after the coworker incident,” Shen said.
Jack closed his eyes. “Of course it was.”
Crus pointed at Shen. “To the contract?”
“No,” Shen said.
You nodded. “Yes.”
Shen looked at you. “It was not part of the domestic partnership contingency agreement.”
“It was in the same shared note,” you said.
“That does not make it part of the agreement,” Shen replied.
You leaned forward. “It was under Friendship Clarifications.”
Jack opened his eyes. “Friendship Clarifications.”
Ellis put both hands around her glass. “I need this note more than I need air.”
“No,” Jack said immediately.
“Yes,” Crus said at the same time.
You smiled at Shen across the table. Shen looked back at you.
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Do not.”
You and Shen both reached for each other’s hands at the same time. Jack’s hand came down gently over yours, pinning it to the table.
You looked up at him. “Excuse me.”
Jack did not look away from Shen. “Preventative medicine.”
Shen glanced at Jack’s hand over yours. “You interrupted a historically accurate reenactment.”
Jack looked at him. “Use puppets.”
You laughed so hard you had to lean into Jack’s side. His hand softened over yours immediately, fingers slipping between yours.
Shen’s eyes flicked to the movement. Then he looked at Jack. For a second, the humor eased out of his face. “For clarity,” Shen said, “I am not competition.”
The table quieted. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just enough.
Jack’s thumb stilled against your knuckles. “I know,” Jack said.
Shen studied him. You stayed very still against Jack’s side.
“She was my friend before she was your girlfriend,” Shen said.
Jack nodded once. “I know that too.”
Shen’s gaze shifted to you, then back to Jack. “I took care of her.”
Jack’s hand tightened around yours. The pressure was small. Steady.
“I know,” Jack said again.
Shen folded his hands around his glass. “Dating you should not mean losing me.”
Your throat tightened before you could stop it. Jack looked down at you. His expression softened immediately.
Then he looked back at Shen. “It doesn’t.”
Shen’s face went still in that way it did when he had heard something more important than he was ready to show.
Jack’s voice stayed even. “I’m glad she has you.”
You stopped breathing for half a second. Across the table, Shen blinked once. Ellis looked down at her drink like she was giving the moment privacy. Crus, for once in his life, did not say anything.
Shen nodded, small and quiet. “Me too.”
Jack held his gaze for another second.
Then Shen added, “Seniority recognized.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Do not make me regret personal growth.”
Crus broke first, laughing into his hand. Ellis pressed her lips together, losing the fight almost immediately. You dropped your forehead against Jack’s shoulder and laughed, even though your eyes felt warm. Jack’s arm came around you at once.
Shen lifted his espresso martini. “I am simply acknowledging the timeline.”
Jack looked at him. “You are acknowledging nothing.”
“I was there first,” Shen said.
Jack’s hand flexed at your side. “I’m going to be there last.”
The table went quiet again.
You lifted your head and looked at him.
Jack did not look away from Shen at first. Then his eyes dropped to you, and his expression changed. Not embarrassed. Not uncertain. Just sure. Painfully sure.
“When you want that,” he said, quieter.
Ellis stared into her drink like it had suddenly become fascinating.
Crus whispered, “Damn.”
Shen took a slow sip of his martini. Then he set it down. “Future claim noted.”
Jack looked back at him. “Does that mean the previous claim is void?”
Shen considered him. Then, with great reluctance, he nodded. “Emotionally superseded.”
Jack paused. You looked between them.
Jack’s jaw shifted. “Acceptable.”
Shen nodded once. “Progress.”
You leaned back into Jack’s side, still holding his hand under the table.
Crus let out a long breath. “This is the weirdest dinner I’ve ever been to.”
Ellis shook her head. “No, this is art.”
Shen reached for a cheese curd. Jack watched him.
Shen paused with his hand hovering over the basket. “Appetizer coordination only.”
Jack stared at him.
Shen withdrew his hand. “Understood.”
You smiled into Jack’s shoulder. Jack looked down at you, his expression soft despite himself.
“You okay?” he asked.
You nodded against him. “Yeah.”
His mouth brushed your hairline, quick enough that no one else would have noticed if Ellis had not immediately made a sound.
Jack looked across the table. “No.”
Ellis lifted both hands. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to,” Jack said.
Crus pointed at Ellis. “She absolutely was.”
Shen picked up his glass again. “For the record, the best friend designation remains active.”
Jack sighed. You smiled. Then Jack looked at Shen and said, “Fine.”
Shen stilled. You did too.
Jack’s arm stayed warm around your shoulders. “Best friend designation active.”
Shen stared at him. Jack pointed one finger across the table. “Contractual betrothal void.”
Shen’s mouth twitched. “Accepted,” he said.
Ellis slapped the table lightly. “I cannot believe I witnessed treaty negotiations over cheese curds.”
Crus lifted his beer. “To the best friend clause.”
You lifted your espresso martini. Shen lifted his. Jack looked at all of you like he loved you and regretted every one of his choices. Then, finally, he picked up his drink.
“To the void contract,” Jack said.
Shen’s eyes narrowed. “That was hostile.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “Good.”
The toast did not end the argument. It only relocated it.
By the time the five of you made it outside, Crus was still asking whether “emotionally superseded” had any real contractual weight, Ellis was insisting the shared note should be entered into evidence, and Shen was explaining, with the patience of a man who had never once considered simply letting something go, that the phrase had been chosen for precision.
Jack walked beside you a few steps behind them, his hand warm at your lower back, his thumb brushing there once every few seconds. The night air was cool after the bar, damp enough to make the streetlights blur slightly against the pavement. You tucked yourself closer to his side, and Jack’s arm came around you immediately.
Ahead of you, Shen said, “Emotionally superseded does not erase prior documentation.”
Jack looked over your head. “Void.”
Shen did not turn around. “Superseded.”
“Void,” Jack repeated.
You smiled into Jack’s shoulder. “You know he’s never going to give you void.”
“I know,” Jack said.
“You’re still going to keep saying it?”
Jack nodded once. “Yes.”
You laughed softly. Jack looked down at you, and whatever dry argument had been sitting in his face eased into something quieter. The streetlight caught the color in his eyes, turning them softer at the edges. You thought about him at the table, his voice calm when he told Shen it did not mean losing him. You thought about his hand around yours when he said he was glad you had someone. You thought about the way he had looked at Shen and said, with no hesitation at all, that he was going to be there last.
Your chest warmed all over again. “You meant that?” you asked.
Jack’s brow shifted. “Which part?”
You slipped your arm around his waist. “Being there last.”
Jack stopped walking. Because Jack never did anything halfway. He did not make the moment dramatic on purpose. He simply stopped beside you on the sidewalk, his arm still around your shoulders, his whole attention settling on you like everyone else had gone quiet and distant. Ahead of you, the others noticed. Ellis stopped first. Crus nearly walked into her. Shen stopped last, then turned with visible suspicion.
Jack ignored all of them. “Yes,” he said.
Your breath caught.
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “When you want that.”
You smiled before you could stop it. Soft at first, then a little wicked.
Jack’s eyes narrowed immediately. “Why did your face change?”
You blinked up at him. “My face?”
“That one,” Jack said.
You frowned. “What one?”
Jack sighed. “The one where you are about to make my life difficult.”
Crus leaned toward Ellis. “He knows her so well.”
Ellis nodded. “It’s beautiful.”
You ignored them and smoothed one hand over Jack’s shirt. “I just think it’s good that you’re already thinking ahead.”
Jack looked down at your hand, then back to your face. “I am.”
“I respect that,” you replied.
His mouth curved faintly. “Do you?”
“I do,” you said.
Shen’s voice came from several feet away. “That phrasing feels intentional.”
Jack closed his eyes. You smiled wider.
Then you looked up at Jack and said, “But if you are planning on making a formal replacement to the void contract, Shen needs to be consulted.”
Jack opened his eyes. No one moved. For one perfect second, the sidewalk went completely still.
Then Jack said, “No.”
At the exact same time, Shen said, “Yes.”
Jack turned his head slowly. “You were not invited into this conversation.”
Shen folded his hands in front of him. “I was invoked.”
Crus made a sound of pure delight. Ellis pointed between all three of you. “Ring committee.”
Jack looked at her. “Absolutely not.”
You leaned into his side. “He knows my taste.”
Jack looked down at you. “I know your taste.”
“He knows my ring taste,” you said.
Jack’s jaw shifted. “Since when?”
Shen adjusted the cuff of his sleeve. “There was a Pinterest incident.”
Jack closed his eyes again. “Of course there was.”
“It was extensive,” Shen added.
“Do not elaborate,” Jack said.
You patted Jack’s chest. “He should also be consulted on the proposal plan.”
Jack’s eyes opened. “Proposal plan?”
You nodded, solemn now. “A girl needs to be wooed, Jack.”
Shen nodded from the sidewalk. “Established clause.”
Jack looked between you and Shen. For a second, he seemed genuinely caught between wanting to kiss you and wanting to personally delete the Notes app from every phone in a ten-mile radius.
“I am going to regret allowing the best friend designation to remain active,” Jack said.
You tilted your head. “Are you?”
His arm tightened around you. Jack’s expression softened despite the glare he was still aiming in Shen’s direction. “No.”
Your smile went warm. “No,” he said again, quieter. “I’m not.”
Ellis made a tiny sound. Crus looked at her. “Are you crying?”
“No,” Ellis said immediately.
Shen looked at her. “You appear emotionally compromised.”
Ellis pointed at him. “Don’t ruin this for me.”
Jack looked back down at you. “For the record, I can pick a ring.”
“I know,” you said.
“And plan a proposal,” Jack added.
You smiled. “I know.”
“And ask your best friend for input without giving him veto power,” Jack continued.
Shen lifted one finger. “Advisory authority traditionally includes—”
Jack looked at him. “No.” Shen paused. Jack’s voice stayed calm. “Advisory only.”
Shen considered him for a beat. “Strong advisory.”
“Advisory,” Jack repeated.
You slid your hand into Jack’s. “Maybe strong advisory.”
Jack looked down at you. You smiled up at him. His jaw flexed once.
Then he looked back at Shen. “Limited strong advisory.”
Shen nodded. “Acceptable.”
Crus stared between them. “I cannot believe I just watched proposal governance happen in real time.”
Ellis wiped under one eye. “I can. This is exactly them.”
Jack ignored both of them and looked at you. “Anything else I should know?”
You pretended to think about it. “No public proposals.”
Jack nodded immediately. “I know.”
“No ring in food,” you added.
His brows pulled together. “Obviously.”
“No sports arena screens,” you continued.
Jack looked offended. “You think I would do that?”
“No,” you said, smiling. “But Shen would ask for confirmation.”
Shen nodded once. “I would.”
Jack sighed. You squeezed his hand. “And it should feel like us.”
Jack’s irritation softened into something else. Something private. “It will,” he said.
Your heart stumbled.
Shen, to his credit, did not interrupt that part. Not immediately. Then he said, “I will require a planning timeline.”
Jack did not look away from you. “You will receive what I give you.”
Shen looked at Ellis. “Hostile committee environment.”
Ellis nodded. “Noted.”
Crus lifted both hands. “I’m just happy to be here.”
You rose onto your toes and kissed Jack’s cheek.
His attention snapped fully back to you. “What was that for?” he asked.
“For being emotionally evolved,” you said.
Jack’s mouth twitched. “That’s what that was?”
You smiled. “And for accepting the best friend clause.”
His arm settled around your waist. “I accepted it under protest.”
You shrugged. “You accepted it.”
“I did,” Jack replied.
Shen lifted one hand from the sidewalk. “Best friend clause active.”
Jack looked over your head. “Void contract.”
Shen’s mouth curved, barely. “Active committee.”
Jack pointed at him. “Dunkin.”
You laughed and tucked your face against Jack’s chest. Jack kissed the top of your head, still glaring at Shen over you like a man who had just agreed to share classified information with the enemy. But his hand was gentle on your back. His mouth was soft against your hair. And when you held onto him, he held on right back.
“Come on,” Jack said, voice low near your ear. “I’m taking you home.”
You looked up at him. “Advisory committee approved?”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. Then he glanced at Shen. “You objecting?”
Shen looked at you. Then at Jack. Then he nodded once. “No objection.”
Jack’s hand tightened around yours. “Good,” he said.
Summary: John Shen brings you a 48-ounce Dunkin' iced latte; fake marriage paperwork is discussed; and Jack Abbot discovers his girlfriend has a work husband.
Warnings: Established relationship, workplace teasing, jealous-but-not-really jealous Jack, Shen, and Reader being absolute menaces, fake marriage pact, excessive Dunkin, one deeply offensive sweet coffee beverage, no real angst.
Author’s Note: This is pure nonsense, and I love it. Jack is secure in his relationship, but unfortunately, his girlfriend and her work husband have paperwork, annual reviews, and a beverage vessel. Pray for him. Thank you @jennataurus for the idea!
Xoxo, Del
Jack saw Shen before he saw the drink. That was his first mistake. Shen walking into the emergency department was not unusual. Shen walking into the emergency department with that particular expression on his face was.
Too calm. Too neutral. Too deliberately innocent.
Jack narrowed his eyes from the other side of the nurses’ station.
Then he saw what Shen was carrying.
For one brief and terrible second, Jack thought it was medical equipment.
Then he saw the ice. Then he saw the straw.
Then he saw your face light up like Shen had walked in carrying a diamond ring, a rescue puppy, and a winning lottery ticket.
“Oh my god,” you said, already abandoning your chart. “You got it.”
Shen set the container on the counter with the solemn care of a man presenting evidence in court. “Blueberry Cobbler Iced Latte. Forty-eight ounces.”
You pressed both hands to your chest. “John.”
Jack looked at the bucket. Then he looked at Shen. Then he looked at you.
“No,” Jack said.
You turned toward him, smiling. “You don’t even know what this is.”
“I know enough,” Jack replied.
“It’s the bucket,” you said, like that explained anything.
“It is not a bucket,” Shen said.
Jack stared at him. “It absolutely is.”
“It’s a beverage vessel.” Shen corrected.
Jack stared at him. “It has a handle.”
“That doesn’t make it a bucket,” Shen grumbled.
You leaned over the counter and kissed Shen’s cheek. Jack went still. Shen went very still, too, but not because he was nervous.
No.
Because he knew.
Jack watched Shen’s mouth twitch once before he smoothed his expression back into something infuriatingly calm.
“Thank you,” you said sweetly.
Shen nodded. “Of course.”
Jack pointed between you and Shen. “Don’t love that.”
You blinked at him. “What?”
“The cheek kiss,” Jack answered.
Shen looked down at the drink. “It was a gratitude kiss.”
Jack’s eyes shifted to him. “Dunkin.”
Shen’s brows lifted. “Is that me?”
Jack nodded once, “It is now.”
You pressed your lips together. Jack knew that face. He loved that face. He also knew that face meant you were about thirty seconds away from making his life worse on purpose.
“Jack,” you said gently.
“No,” Jack said. “You don’t get to ‘Jack’ me when Dunkin just walked in with forty-eight ounces of sugar and got kissed for it.”
Shen glanced down at the container. “It does have two straws.”
“That makes it worse,” Jack replied.
You picked up one of the straws with reverent fingers. “It’s for sharing.”
“With your boyfriend?” Jack said, jerking his head in John’s direction.
You smiled. “With my work husband.”
Jack’s jaw tightened. There it was. Shen took one small, thoughtful step closer to you, like a man approaching a live wire just to see what would happen.
Jack watched him do it. He watched you notice. He watched both of you decide, silently and instantly, to be problems.
“I’m sorry,” Jack said. “Your what?”
“My work husband,” you said, very seriously.
Shen nodded once. “It’s an administrative title.”
“Administrative,” Jack repeated.
“Very little romance involved,” Shen said.
Jack stared at him. “Very little?”
You touched Jack’s chest. “Jack, be fair. John and I have survived a lot together.”
Jack looked between the two of you and inhaled slowly through his nose.
He was a grown man. A physician. A professional. He had handled trauma bays, impossible calls, mass casualties, and patients who thought WebMD had more authority than medical school. He was not going to let two adults and a container of dessert coffee dismantle him in the middle of his emergency department.
You slid the bucket toward Shen. “First sip goes to the provider.”
Jack’s head turned. “Provider?”
“He provided the bucket,” you said.
Shen took the straw with grave dignity. “I accept this responsibility.”
Jack watched him take a sip.
You leaned in, eyes bright. “Well?”
Shen considered it for a moment. “Sweet.”
You nodded. “Expected.”
“Artificial blueberry,” Shen said.
“But fun artificial?” You asked.
Shen took another sip. “Aggressively fun.”
You pointed at him. “That’s what I thought.”
Jack stared. “You haven’t even tasted it yet.”
You gave Jack a look, “I know John’s palate.”
Jack went still again.
Shen lowered the straw. “You walked into that one.”
“I did not walk into anything,” Jack said.
You looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “Are you jealous of John’s palate?”
“No,” Jack replied immediately.
Shen tilted his head. “He seems jealous of my palate.”
Jack pointed at him. “You are on thin ice.”
“Appropriate,” Shen said, glancing at the bucket. “Given the beverage.”
You made a sound like you were trying not to choke.
Jack looked down at you. “Do not laugh at that.”
You covered your mouth. “I’m not.”
“You are,” Jack said.
You pointed to Shen and said, “I’m being supportive of my work husband’s humor.”
Not yet, he told himself. It is too early in this shift to ask God for intervention.
When he opened them, you were holding the straw toward him.
“Try it,” you said.
Jack shook his head, “No.”
“One sip.” You implored.
Jack’s brow furrowed. “I already know I’m going to hate it.”
“That’s not very scientific,” Shen said.
Jack didn’t look away from you. “Dunkin, I am not discussing the scientific method with you over a bucket of sugar milk.”
You lifted the straw another inch. “For me?”
Jack looked at your face. That was unfair. Everything about your face was unfair. He sighed like a man accepting his own execution, leaned down, and took the smallest sip possible. His face changed immediately.
You brightened. “Well?”
Jack swallowed with effort. It was worse than he expected. It was sweet in a way that felt personally aggressive. It tasted like someone had taken a blueberry muffin, drowned it in melted ice cream, panicked, and added more sugar.
Jack looked at both of you. “Well, that’s horrific.”
You gasped. “Jack.”
Jack grimaced, “It tastes like someone liquefied a blueberry muffin, panicked, and added more sugar.”
Shen took the bucket back and considered that. “Not inaccurate.”
You pointed at him. “Do not side with my actual boyfriend against me.”
Jack’s head turned. Actual boyfriend. That helped. He hated that it helped.
He was not jealous of John Shen. He was not jealous of the drink. He was not jealous of the cheek kiss, the work husband title, or the fact that Shen apparently had a detailed working knowledge of your coffee preferences. Jack was simply opposed to nonsense.
That was all.
You smiled up at him. “Yes. Actual boyfriend.”
Shen lifted one hand. “Work husband acknowledges the hierarchy.”
Jack looked at him. “Temporary husband.”
Shen blinked. “I don’t remember agreeing to temporary.”
“You don’t need to agree,” Jack replied.
Shen frowned, “I feel like I should.”
“You shouldn’t,” Jack said.
You took the bucket back from Shen. “For legal accuracy, the arrangement is currently suspended.”
Jack looked down at you. “The arrangement.”
You nodded solemnly. “Until further notice.”
“Or forty,” Shen added.
Jack’s gaze moved slowly back to him. “Excuse me?”
Shen took a careful breath, like he was about to present lab results. “If neither of us is married by the time we are forty, we’ve agreed to enter a mutually beneficial domestic partnership.”
You nodded. “For practical reasons.”
Jack stared at you.
“Tax benefits,” you said.
“Shared expenses,” Shen added.
“Emergency contact efficiency,” you said.
“Mutual tolerance,” Shen added.
Jack looked between you. “You rehearsed that.”
You and Shen said, “No,” at the exact same time.
Jack’s eyes narrowed. You smiled. Shen sipped the drink.
Jack looked toward the ceiling.
Dear God, he thought, then stopped himself. Not yet. He could still handle this.
“You’re not single,” Jack said.
You patted his chest. “I know.”
“So the pact is void.” Jack continued.
Shen lifted one finger. “Suspended.”
Jack pointed at him. “Void.”
“Suspend—”
“Void.” Jack cut him off.
You sighed softly. “This is a difficult day for the marriage.”
Shen nodded. “We’ll need time to heal.”
Jack stared at the two of you. “Marriage.”
“Future potential marriage,” you clarified.
Jack frowned, “Not better.”
Ellis, who had been pretending not to listen from two feet away, slowly lowered her chart.
“Do I want to know?” Ellis asked.
“No,” Jack said.
“Yes,” you and Shen said together.
Jack looked down at you. You smiled up at him, bright and delighted and absolutely unrepentant.
Ellis’s eyes landed on the bucket. “Is that coffee?”
“Allegedly,” Jack said.
Shen lifted the container. “Blueberry Cobbler Iced Latte. Forty-eight ounces.”
Ellis blinked. “That sounds disgusting.”
Jack pointed at her. “Thank you.”
You gasped. “Ellis.”
Ellis glanced at Jack’s face, then at Shen, then at you. “Why does this feel like I walked in on something personal?”
“Because you did,” Jack said.
Shen shook his head. “It’s not personal. It’s a product review.”
Jack looked at him. “You announced a suspended marriage pact.”
Ellis looked delighted. “What else is in the paperwork?”
Jack pointed at her. “Do not encourage them.”
Shen cleared his throat. “There is the intimacy clause.”
Jack went completely still. Ellis’s chart lowered another inch.
“The what?” Jack asked.
“The intimacy clause,” you said, very seriously.
Shen nodded. “One night of passionate lovemaking per calendar year to maintain the marriage.”
Jack stared at him.
You nodded along solemnly. “For the health of the union.”
“And morale,” Shen added.
Jack’s head turned toward you. “Morale.”
“It’s important,” you said.
“Vital,” Shen agreed.
Jack pointed at the bucket. “Dunkin.”
Shen blinked. “Yes?”
“Never use the phrase ‘passionate lovemaking’ in a sentence about my girlfriend again.”
Shen considered him. “Would ‘annual intimacy maintenance’ be better?”
Jack looked at him, “No.”
You pressed your lips together. “Less romantic.”
Jack looked down at you. “You are not helping.”
“I’m grieving the clause,” you said.
Jack stared at you.
Ellis made a strangled sound behind her chart.
Shen took a slow sip from the bucket. “This is difficult for all parties.”
Jack closed his eyes. Dear God, grant me patience, Jack thought. Because if you grant me strength, Shen is not making it out of this emergency department.
Then Shen set the bucket down and hooked an arm around your shoulders. You did not miss a beat. You slid your arm around Shen’s waist and leaned into his side with a grave little nod. “Privacy would be appreciated during this difficult transition.”
Jack opened his eyes. Ellis’s mouth opened slightly.
Jack pointed between you and Shen. “Separate.”
You blinked at him. “What?”
“Immediately,” Jack said.
Shen looked down at you. "Our bond threatens him.”
“I am threatened by nothing,” Jack said.
You patted Shen’s stomach. “It’s okay. He’s processing.”
Jack’s jaw flexed. “You have three seconds.”
Shen’s arm stayed exactly where it was. “Before what?”
Jack smiled.
It was not a nice smile.
Shen removed his arm.
You removed yours too, biting your lip hard enough that Jack could see the fight not to laugh all over your face.
“Smart,” Jack said.
Shen picked up the bucket again. “For the record, that separation felt hostile.”
Jack looked at him. “Good.”
You let the moment hang for exactly one second. Then you slid right into Jack’s side, your body fitting against his like that was where you had meant to be the whole time.
Jack’s eyes dropped to you.
Your smile went soft and wicked at the same time. “Better?”
Jack held your gaze. He was still annoyed. He was still trying not to look pleased. He was still failing.
“Marginally,” he said.
You hummed and smoothed your hands over his scrub top. “Only marginally?”
His hand settled at your waist before he could pretend he wasn’t going to touch you. “You’re pushing it, sweetheart.”
You grinned. “Don’t worry, Jack. You’re hotter than him.”
Shen’s head lifted. “Rude.”
Jack didn’t look away from you. “Dunkin.”
“Yes?” Shen replied.
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Drink your muffin soup.”
You laughed into Jack’s chest. His mouth twitched despite himself, and his hand tightened gently at your waist.
“Better,” he admitted, quieter this time.
Ellis finally gave up pretending she was working. “Can I try the divorce coffee?”
Jack’s eyes shifted to her. For the first time since Shen walked in, Jack looked almost pleased.
“Divorce coffee,” he repeated.
You brightened. “Oh, that’s good.”
Shen nodded. “Accurate, but emotionally painful.”
“It is not emotionally painful,” Jack said. “It’s legally clarifying.”
Ellis held out a hand. “So can I try it?”
“Don’t,” Jack warned.
“Yes,” you and Shen said together.
Jack looked down at you. You smiled up at him, bright and delighted. Jack looked at the bucket. Then at Shen. Then at you. Then he exhaled slowly through his nose.
“Okay,” Jack said.
You blinked. “Okay?”
Jack nodded toward the other end of the nurses’ station. “You’re coming with me.”
Your mouth fell open, offended and delighted at the same time. “What?”
“I have been very patient,” Jack said.
“You have,” you said solemnly.
He continued, “I tried the muffin soup.”
“You did.” You agreed.
“I tolerated the cheek kiss,” Jack added.
You nodded, “You did.”
“I tolerated the work husband,” Jack said, almost with a grimace.
“Barely,” Shen said.
Jack pointed at him without looking away from you. “Temporary husbands do not get commentary.”
Shen nodded. “Understood.”
Jack looked back at you. “And now I’m taking my girlfriend ten feet that way so I can remember why I love her without Shen making tax comments.”
You glanced back at Shen, then at the bucket in his hand. Your face went dramatically mournful.
“No,” you whispered. “My husband. My coffee.”
Jack went completely still. Ellis made a sound behind her chart.
Shen looked down at you with grave sympathy. “I’ll miss you.”
Jack’s head turned slowly toward him. “Dunkin.”
Shen lifted one hand. “Right. Sorry.”
You pressed your lips together, shoulders shaking.
Jack looked down at you. “You are walking away with me, or I am confiscating the coffee.”
Your eyes widened. “You wouldn’t.”
“I absolutely would,” Jack replied.
You frowned, “You hate it.”
“I hate many things about this situation,” Jack said. “That has not stopped me yet.”
Shen hugged the bucket closer to his chest. “For the record, I object to seizure of communal property.”
“It is not communal property,” Jack said.
“It’s divorce coffee,” Ellis said.
Jack pointed at her. “Helpful.”
Ellis smiled. “Thank you.”
You slid your hand into Jack’s. “Fine. I’ll go.”
Jack’s fingers closed around yours. “Thank you.”
“But under protest.” You added.
Jack nodded once, “Noted.”
“And I want visitation rights.” You said.
Jack looked at you. “To Shen or the coffee?”
You looked genuinely torn. Jack’s eyes narrowed.
“The coffee,” you said quickly.
Shen nodded. “Hurtful, but wise.”
Jack tugged gently on your hand. “Move.”
You let Jack lead you away, still laughing under your breath. Halfway down the nurses’ station, you glanced back over your shoulder.
Shen mouthed, I miss you.
You coughed to hide your laugh.
Jack stopped walking. You froze.
He looked down at you. “What did he do?”
You replied quickly. “Nothing.”
Jack turned. Shen looked immediately busy with a chart, one hand still wrapped around the bucket.
Jack narrowed his eyes. “Dunkin.”
Shen did not look up. “Yes?”
“Do not make me come back there.”
Shen nodded, still not looking up. “Of course.”
Jack stared for another second, then turned back to you. You smiled up at him, innocent and hopelessly pleased. Jack shook his head, but his hand squeezed yours.
“You’re trouble,” he said.
Your smile brightened. “You love me.”
“I do,” Jack said.
You stepped closer, sliding your free hand up his chest again. “And I love you.”
Jack’s irritation loosened instantly. He hated how fast it happened.
No, he didn’t.
He loved it. Loved the way you could tug him out of himself with three words and one hand on his chest. Loved the way you smiled at him like he was exactly where you wanted to be, like Shen and the coffee and every ridiculous thing you had said were only funny because Jack was there to react to them.
“Even if John brings me forty-eight ounces of coffee,” you said.
Jack’s mouth twitched.
“Even if he’s my work husband.” You continued.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“Former work husband,” you corrected.
Jack nodded once, “Better.”
You smiled and rose onto your toes, brushing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’re my actual everything.”
Jack went very still.
Behind you, Shen called, “Rude.”
Jack didn’t look away from you. For once, he didn’t even answer Shen. His hand slid more firmly around your waist, and his voice dropped low enough that only you could hear it.
“Yeah?”
You nodded, still smiling. “Yeah.”
Jack’s expression softened completely. Then he dipped his head and kissed you, quick but warm, like he couldn’t help it. When he pulled back, he looked almost annoyed with himself for melting so fast.
You grinned. “Better?”
Jack exhaled, thumb brushing once at your waist. “Much better,” he said.
girl can you pleaseeee write more katsuki as a 3rd year. anything you want really
Horny 3rd Year Katsuki
nsfw
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3
Katsuki who has learned absolutely nothing from previous events. He’s learned nothing about keeping his hands to himself in the presence of others, sure, you could say that he’s not as bad, but it’s still pretty bad. Apparently Kirishima along with your other friends hearing the two of you in action wasn’t enough to teach him anything. Because here you are, lounging around on the common room couch, joining your friends for a movie night, with Katsuki’s hand shoved down your pants. He’s reallyyyy taking them into consideration with the blanket draped over the two of you, seriously.
Katsuki who’s face looks so smug. Especially after you told him you two really had to tone it down. But no, here you two are. You’re not entirely complaining though, he really knows how to use his hands; unfortunately that does make it really hard to keep your composure. About half way through the movie he’ll probably remove his hand and keep them completely to himself right before you’re able to have an orgasm just to taunt you. So really it’s not a surprise to Kirishima when he sees you literally dragging Katsuki to your dorm the second the movie ends.
Katsuki who’ll follow you into the bathroom when you go to shower. It doesn’t happen very often however due to conflicting schedules. But of course, you know what he’s doing and it’s really doing something for you two, so you purposefully leave the door unlocked, something you don’t do when he’s not around… But the look of pure satisfaction on his face when you pull back the curtain is worth it.
Katsuki who gets so turned on at the sight of you doing literally anything. But he especially likes watching you do homework, for some reason the sight of you concentrating, playing around with the pencil in your hand, bringing it up to your lips while you’re thinking, it gets him so hard. So needless to say he’s practically suffering during classes.
Katsuki who’ll facetime you on the nights he doesn’t sneak into your dorm. He’s not a huge fan of it but when he’s desperate for a release, he’d rather do it in person but hearing your voice is good enough for him. You don’t even have to be doing anything yourself as long as you keep talking. Don’t worry, he’ll show you everything.
Katsuki who’s face is buried in your boobs any chance he can get. It doesn’t even have to be sexual at the time, he’s doing it for comfort. But that being said his dick will definitely harden, it’s just a matter of if he’s willing to deal with it or not. If he does choose to deal with it, you can expect him to grind into your leg for a while, slowly teasing you in the process. If he doesn’t feel like dealing with it he’ll probably just doze off, or ask you to jerk him off.
Katsuki who’s dragged you to the bathroom in the middle of the night. To be fair, your friends were all sleeping on the floor of your dorm room, and you really didn’t wanna risk them hearing or seeing anything, the two of you can get pretty loud at times so it’s probably the best decision you could make. But the thought of it turns him on, the thought that your friends are literally on the other side of the door.
Katsuki who’s got you pinned against the door, your chest squished right up against it. He’s got you in a slight arch while his hands are resting on your hips, panties pushed to the side while he’s slowly thrusting into you, he’s teasing you, testing how far he can push you before you beg for more. Before you decide to say fuck it and let them hear. He really doesn’t have a pace set, it’s more of him pulling back when you try to sink down on him, only thrusting back in when he hears a little frustrated whine escape your mouth.
Katsuki who eventually slips a hand down around your hips, slowly sliding it down towards the panties you’ve still got on, slipping his hand inside to rub at your clit. When he finally decides to speed up with his pace you’re convinced that the others can hear you. There's a small thump against the door with every thrust, there's the sound of his hips meeting your ass, the slick only adding to it.
Katsuki who’s finding it so hard to try and keep quiet. The tight, wet heat between your legs is just sucking him in so well. His head is tucked into your shoulder and neck, he can hear every single whine and gasp leaving your mouth. He can hear snoring coming from the other side of the door, and the thought of one of them needing to use the washroom, only to find the two of you fucking inside, gets him so hard. Not that he wants them to see you, because he certainly doesn’t. That’s a sight he’d like to keep to himself.
Katsuki who can’t stop himself from spilling inside of you. Still not even bothering to try and pull out. He stills inside of you, the torment on your clit not stopping until a very audible whine leaves your mouth. One you two worry could’ve woken someone up. You don’t spend very long cleaning up, trying to hurry back in the event someone does actually wake up. Instead quickly leaving the washroom and hurrying back to your bed. Falling asleep in his arms, the evidence of your escapade still spilling out of you.
Katsuki who’s the first person awake in the morning, scrolling through his phone while waiting for you and everyone else to begin waking up. And everything’s going perfectly fine. Perfectly fine until Sero decides to open his mouth. “Did you guys hear that weird thumping last night?” “Yeah I did! It was so weird.” Neither of you can even look in their direction. But Kirishima knows; he was unfortunate enough to be awake through most of it…
can you do more about katsuki x his gf while they're both 3rd years?
Horny 3rd Year Katsuki
nsfw
part 1 Part 3 Part 4
Katsuki who sneaks into your dorm every night after patrol. He knows exactly when the teachers do dorm sweeps, but honestly they’ve really started to give up lately. Horny teenagers are gonna do as they please. He ends up cuddled next to you all night, hopefully you’d convinced him to shower, otherwise he’s just covering your bedsheets in sweat. Although the two of you usually end up doing that regardless….
Katsuki who loves spending the weekend in the dorms. Because that usually means he’s spending it in you! Thankfully most students go home or out for a couple of hours, which gives you guys time to not have to care too much about the noise level, or the bed hitting the wall. You two aren’t forced to find a position that doesn’t rock the bed, you’re able to move as freely and aggressively as you please.
Katsuki who lounges around in your room in just his boxers. He makes sure the door is locked. Not that anyone walking in would see anything they haven’t before… If the weather is a bit cooler he’ll wear sweats with nothing underneath. He likes teasing you, he knows how much you like to stare at his dick, plus it gives you easier access to shove your hands down there.
Katsuki who’ll invite you into his dorm under the guise of doing homework. Both of you are very aware how it’ll end, and you’re more than prepared for it. He’ll have you face down ass up in his bed. With your face stuffed in the pillow, instead of some dirty talk he’s teasing you about whatever you were supposed to be studying, asking you questions while stalling just to watch you squirm and trying to wiggle back into him.
Katsuki who knows it's not safe, but he just loves going raw. The two of you are young and he really doesn’t see himself being with anyone else so why the hell not. The first time it happened was because the two of you ran out of condoms, but the two of you were just way too horny to care. The second time it happened was because it just felt so good the first time. And it was fine.. Until he stopped pulling out… which awoke something in both of you. Birth control exists..
Katsuki who spends his nights alone fantasising about your future. The place the two of you will move into together after school. Life as pros.. What it would be to defile every surface of that house together. The furniture you’d decorate with, what you’d look like naked and bent over said furniture. But what he’s most excited for is not having to sneak around, not that the two of you were hiding anything, everyone kinda already knew you two were insatiable; but the idea of being able to fuck whereever, whenever and not having to censor yourselves, that really turned him on.
hey girl!! can you do bakugo and reader making out in either of their dorms? they're 3rd years atp
Horny 3rd Year Katsuki
nsfw
Part 2 Part 3 Part 4
Katsuki who’s got you sat up on his lap while the two of you are aggressively making out on his bed. This hadn’t been the plan, originally you’d gone to his room to study for an upcoming final. But clearly that wasn’t happening anymore. But you couldn’t really complain, this was much more engaging.
Katsuki who’s got an arm round around your waist. His hand groping your ass, squeezing way harder than necessary. His other hand is wrapped around the back of your neck. Not allowing you to escape the messy makeout session the two of you magically fell into.
Katsuki who’ll tighten his grip around your waist. Pushing you down into him while he’s busy grinding his hips up into you. He’ll only pull away from you to hear you moan, he’s addicted to the noises that you make. Addicted to hearing you whine his name. Addicted to hearing you beg for more. Beg for his dick.
Katsuki who’s grown so used to having to kick your friends out of your dorm, just for some alone time. He has to physically drag them out, just so he can get on top of you. He likes to push you down on your own bed, towering over you. He likes trapping you under his weight. Feeling you squirm beneath him, wiggling your hips up into his; it’s not even fully intentional on your end, but it turns him on just as much.
Katsuki who’ll shift his hips to just the right angle. Grinding his clothed dick into you, huffing into your ear as he slowly gets himself off. He loves making out with you in this position, you’ve really just gotta sit there and take it. And he knows you like it by the way you tug at the hair on the back of his head. How you moan into his mouth.
Katsuki whose tongue loves your mouth. He loves brushing his tongue against your lips until you give in and allow him entry. He loves how the act takes both your breaths away, how it leaves both of you so fucking horny. You get so fucking whiny when he does it.
Katsuki who totally forgot to lock the door. So two hours later, mid makeout session the two of you are completely unprepared for Mina to barge into your dorm unannounced. And she’s definitely not alone, Kiri, Denki, and Sero are right behind her. Getting a great view of the two of you. You lie flat on the bed while Katsuki’s body lays atop yours, they can see the way his hips are grinding into yours. And they definitely see him trying to shove his tongue down your throat. They can see how red and swollen both your lips are when the two of you pull away. And they can see just how red Katsuki’s face is as he chases them out all over again…
Very much blows my mind when people infantilise Doctor Ryland Grace, a man who canonically told someone they were a waste of carbon (ie kys fucken lmao), took mystery pills (presumably in college) from strangers, literally got into a bitching match seconds after meeting Dr Lokken and ignored Armando when he woke up in favour of getting fucking drunk
☄︎ Warnings: NSFW, threesome, not proofread, everybody smoochin, reader is a lil mean,
☄︎ Pairing: F!Reader x Dean Di Laurentis, F!Reader x John Logan, Dean x Reader x Logan
☄︎ Rating: 18+, MDNI
☄︎ Words: 6427
☄︎ AN: i got SO carried away here. written for this ask, hashtag bring back challengers summer!! i was raised by katherine pierce so her vibe is here too. i love mean (to men) women <3
also sorry for the pic idk how to use photoshop lol
i cannot stress enough that i haven't proofread this and i don't have the energy to so good luck!
🎵 Listening to 🎵
Candy - Doja Cat
Hockey away games were your favourite.
On campus, you lived in a bubble that you could not escape, not that you wanted to. Your whole life was planned out; finishing university and then go on to become the top tennis player in the country, after that the world. You had the talent and skills to do both now, but completing university with a top degree had to be your focus. You didn’t want your only skill in life to be hitting a ball with a racquet.
Your professors were demanding, your coursework unrelenting, and your coach would have you pushing your body to limits that you didn’t even know existed. You didn’t have the time, nor the emotional bandwidth, for distractions.
And that worked just fine for you. Distractions offered nothing for you. Without the crushing weight of the obligations that you had imposed on yourself, you couldn’t breathe. The demand for perfection outweighing any other want you could have.
Off campus, was a different story entirely, you allowed yourself the momentary distraction. While you knew that tennis was your fated love, you couldn’t ignore the draw to hockey. The Briar U hockey team were always more aggressive when they played away, as if they had something to prove. That’s probably what drew you to hockey. The raw athleticism and passion exuding from every player was dizzying. The boos from the opposition’s home crowd only spurred them on. You had to press your legs together at every match.
When you were 50 miles away from the university, you weren’t the you that demanded perfection from yourself, there’s something so thrilling about forgetting yourself. Instead, you sought it in others.
You really loved away games; you’d always returned to campus refreshed. With a glow that only could come from the feeling of being reckless. You excused yourself to do things you knew you shouldn’t, with people you shouldn’t. Usually, that meant you were sneaking in a hockey player from the opposing team into your room, but recently, something within you had snapped, you wanted to play closer to home. After all, what happened at an away game, stayed between the four walls of whatever hotel it happened in.
You stood in the brightly lit hallway of the hotel the team was staying at. The hotel’s they stayed at were always immaculate, only the best for the stars of Briar U. The players were always allocated their own rooms unless they specified otherwise, but you knew that both Dean Di Laurentis and John Logan were in this one together. And they were waiting for you.
You’ve known of them both for a while now, having spent semesters watching them compete for the highest grades, glory on the ice, and, eventually, for your attention. The first time you had really seen them was at one of your matches. When you played, there was always a large crowd, all on the edge of their seats. You knew how to put on a show and you knew how to win, and people loved to see all the new ways in which you’d dominate the court.
You’re not sure how, or why, you were able to pick them out of all the people there. Perhaps it was the way they looked at you, one and the same expression on two different faces.
That day, they were both sat leaning forward in the crowded bleachers, elbows on their knees. The blonde, Dean you later found out, watched your every movement without blinking, his mouth slightly parted. The dark haired one, Logan, had an intensely focused expression, his jaw clenched. They didn’t track the movement of the ball like the other spectators; they had just watched you.
That’s when you had started to really pay attention to them during their hockey games. You’d alternate between jerseys, sometimes wearing 22 and sometimes 66, it all depended on who you, in your expert opinion, played the best or who performed the best in class. Any attention you gave one fuelled the other, they were smarter in class because of it. They were more aggressive on the ice because of you. As much as it pleased you to see, really, you were doing them a favour.
Outside of hockey matches and the occasional shared lecture, they barely saw you. You ignored every invite sent for one of their infamous house parties; cheap alcohol, drunk people, and loud crowds that weren’t cheering for you had never been your scene. Being so elusive meant that every minute mattered when it came to earning your attention, and you never gave them enough time to ever feel satisfied, always chasing the next hit of you.
So, you waited for 10 minutes before you knocked on their door. You had already arrived 15 minutes later than you said you would. The wait was torturous for you too. Anticipation had pooled deep in your belly. You weren’t dumb, you know that they had invited you over in the hopes that you’d finally choose one of them. But you weren’t going to choose. The rivalry meant too much to you. They may not be ready to admit it, but it meant the same to them.
While you wouldn’t choose tonight, you would give them some encouragement. There was only so long you could puppet them without having touched either of them. Besides, they had earnt a piece of the thing that you knew they were craving. You.
The last few games you went to, they were at peak performance. You were pleased.
Enough time had passed, so you raised your hand to knock firmly on the door. You smiled as you immediately heard the muffled sound of blankets being kicked off, followed by a heavy thud and a “watch it, dickhead.” Two seconds later, the deadbolt clicked and the door swung open.
Dean Di Laurentis stood in front of you, chest puffed forward as if he hadn’t just run to the door. He was wearing nothing but grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. His damp hair was pushed back, and a slow, familiar smirk played on his lips as his eyes tracked down your body and back up to your face. You were wearing gym shorts and a tank top, simple, but it was tight and showed off your curves.
Dean didn’t stand back to let you in. Instead, he lent one thick forearm against the doorframe and tilted his head down to you. “Look who finally decided to show up,” Dean jabbed, you could tell he was annoyed at you for making him wait. You revelled in thinking about how easily he’d lose his anger once you smiled at him.
“I’m so sorry I kept you waiting,” you pouted a little and looked up at him.
The heat in Dean’s eyes immediately died, as it always did when it came to you. He didn’t move though; he stared at you as you watched him with a seductive playfulness.
“Are you going to let me in or are you planning on standing there looking pretty all night?” You asked smoothly, crossing your arms over your chest.
A voice from inside the room interrupted the staring competition. “Just let her in, Dean.”
Dean rolled his eyes and stepped aside. You dragged your hand against his bare chest as you slipped past him and entered the room. Logan was sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed; his legs crossed at the ankles. He also wore nothing up top, but he had a pair of shorts on instead of sweatpants.
The room was as brightly lit as the hallway. It was also small, dominated by the double bed in the middle of it. The TV was on but muted, a hockey match with teams you did not recognise was playing. On the floor in front of Logan, a laptop was open and there was an iPad with some diagram of an ice hockey rink with a load of circles, arrows, and crosses on it. You had no idea what it meant but you did know it had to do with game tactics.
Even right after a game, they were still thinking about hockey, analysing how to get better. You liked how consumed they were with hockey. How desperately they wanted to be better. Logan was good because he worked at it, Dean was good because he had a natural talent.
“If you boys are too busy for me, I can leave,” you teased, even as you walked further into the room.
“Never,” Dean said as he shut the door and locked it. At the same time, Logan hurriedly shut his laptop with a ‘click’, putting that and the iPad on the desk in the corner.
Logan turned to lean against the desk, his arms crossed as he took you in. “Dean was just explaining his terrible third-period positioning.”
“My positioning was fine,” Dean snapped, though there was no heat in his voice and a competitive spark in his eye. He moved to stand next to you and you both faced Logan. “You’re just mad that you didn’t get the assist.”
“I don’t need the assist when I’m the one scoring,” Logan shot back smoothly. While Dean was watching Logan, Logan was watching you. He wanted to see your reaction to the things he was saying to Dean.
You let out a soft, amused, hum. Your head turned upwards to look at Dean, his form towering over you. Then your head turned back to Logan.
The contrast between them was an intoxicating combination. Dean had effortless charm and a devastatingly cocky smile. He was loud and he commanded the room by drawing attention. Logan was quieter, almost like he was always calculating his next move. He also commanded a room but through his eyes, they were always dark and intense.
That was their default, but they weren’t always like that. Sometimes, Logan would smile, laugh even. It’d feel like when the clouds parted to reveal the sun.
Especially when jealous, Dean’s jaw would click, his playful smirk hardening into something sharper, something hungrier.
They were two sides of the same coin, two halves that made the whole. That’s also why you would never choose.
“Is that right, Logan? Because from where I was standing, Dean had to pick up your slack in the second period.” Logan’s dark eyes narrowed at you.
Dean let out a sharp laugh, he threw his hands up and looked to the sky. “Finally, someone with eyes. I’ve been telling him that since we left the ice.”
“She’s fucking baiting you, man. She just likes watching us like this.”
You felt Dean’s gaze fall on you, but you were watching Logan with a satisfied smirk. Fair point. “Oh, come on, Logan,” you purred. “Don’t be a sore loser.”
This is the longest you’ve ever been in the same room with both of them; you’d never seen them like this. You usually planted the seed and then left. This time, you planned to be here to reap the rewards of it.
It felt like there wasn’t enough oxygen in the room, their chests were heaving as they made subtle jabs toward one another. All three of you had the same twinkle in your eye.
You turned, kicked off your shoes, and sat at the foot of the bed. “Come here,” you said, patting the bed on either side next to you.
At your command, the arguing immediately ceased. Both Logan and Dean ran to take their place on either side of you. They both turned their body to face you.
You instinctively bit your bottom lip as your head swivelled between them both. Their eyes watched you hungrily, both of their hearts racing as they waited, entirely at your mercy, for your next move.
Who to choose first, you wondered. You felt Logan’s hand begin to snake around your waist so you turned your head to face him, leaning in slightly. His eyes fluttered closed as you leant further in. Just before you fully reached his lips, you pulled back and turned to Dean. Logan was impatient, so Dean gets to have you first.
Your hand tangled in the damp hair at the nape of Dean’s neck as you pulled him in. He tasted like mint, and you wondered if he knew he’d be kissing you tonight. The kiss was full of Dean’s usual confidence; his tongue slid past your teeth with a practised ease. You sighed into Dean’s mouth, and his eyes locked onto Logan’s across the bed, marking his place. Logan watched with ragged breaths as you melted in.
Dean was smiling against your lips a little too confidently so you pulled back, you weren’t only his tonight. Satisfaction flared within you when you looked down to where his sweatpants were tented.
With a smile, you turned to Logan. Your bottom lip was wet and flushed. Logan didn’t move slowly towards you this time; he leant in and claimed your mouth. His kiss was possessive, his need to be better than another pouring out into you. It was the complete opposite to Dean’s smooth and relaxed kiss.
Dean leant back in, his lips traced a slow path down your neck, pressing kisses as he went along. The kiss with Logan began to get sloppy, spit pooling at the corners of your mouths.
Logan’s hand came to cup your breast whilst Dean’s hand came stroke your thigh. You had them right where you wanted them, but they too, had you.
You pulled away from the kiss with a laugh. “Easy boys,” you cooed. They both pulled away from you but their hands remained where they were. As you leant back against the mattress, Logan’s hand dropped to rest on the thigh Dean wasn’t holding.
You propped yourself up on your forearms. They both look down at you. A slow, wicked, smile spread across your face. “I want to see just how well you play together.” Your voice like a velvety command.
Both of sets of eyes flashed to one another before Logan’s flashed back to you. Dean, ever the life of the party, began leaning in towards Logan. Logan continued watching you until you raised your eyebrows and jerked your head in Dean’s direction.
“Not sure you could handle me?” Dean murmured, voice dropping to a rough whisper.
With that, Logan leant into him. The kiss started entirely too masculine, rough and competitive. The energy and hunger that had been building for months between them finally having an outlet. Even as the kiss began to soften, neither man’s grip on your thighs lessened.
You watched them, a spark of triumph flaring in your chest. The sound of their breathing grew heaving and ragged. A low, involuntary groan was dragged from the back of Logan’s throat, muffled by Dean’s mouth. That caused your thighs to squeeze together. ‘Time to leave,’ you thought to yourself. You weren’t sure you would be able to stop this going further if you didn’t.
“Okay,” you said. That pulled them out of their trance. They sat back, a line of spit connecting them. You took the opportunity to slip out from between them. “I’m going to bed now.”
Both looked up at you with dazed expressions.
“I’m sure you can take care of each other,” you mused as you looked at their dicks, straining against the restraint that their clothes provided.
“Can’t we at least get your number?” Logan begged in the neediest way you’d ever heard.
A sigh escaped your lips. This was a bad idea, this was supposed to stay here and not follow you back to campus, but how could you say no when both sets of eyes pleaded with you like this. “Whoever plays the best over the next five games, can have my number.”
That night in your hotel room, you had to make yourself cum three times just to come down from the image of their joy when you’d given them that sliver of hope.
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Once back on campus, it wasn’t as easy for you to slip back into your usual routine as you’d wanted. Involuntarily, your mind would drift back to them, the moments in the hotel room.
Your actions in the room had the outcome you’d planned, they were even better on the ice. But you hadn’t planned for it to affect you in the way that it had. The need hit you at a strength you’ve never felt before.
You noticed the way their posture straightened when you’d look over to them in passing. They’d both look in your direction when they did anything noteworthy in their games, as if they expected you to be keeping note. You were.
The last of the five games ended with a huge home-game win against Harvard. The arena emptied out, fans, coaches, and the opposition team had all left, but you had stayed. You were sat, waiting for your boys, on a bench not too far outside the double doors.
The rest of the Briar U boys had left 10 minutes ago, they all piled onto a bus, likely to head back to the hockey house for the after party.
It had been a while since you last dressed like this, it was too cold a night for you to be wearing the cute sun dress that you were; it stopped half-way down to your knees. Heat flooded your body; you couldn’t feel the cold. It was weeks since you last wore one of the player’s jersey’s, you didn’t want to show favouritism or potentially bias the results. You were always so fair.
You turned at the sound of the door slamming open. They walked over to you, determined expressions on their faces. You didn’t rise from the bench as they came to a halt in front of you. They dropped their big duffle bags and crossed their hands behind their backs as they waited for you to tell them their fate.
You let your eyes roam over their bodies. The match was physical; it was some good fucking hockey. Dean had a faint, forming, bruised cut on his jawline, he was smirking down at you. Full of confidence. Hot.
Logan’s face was unmarked, his expression guarded and serious. Also, hot.
“Well?” Dean asked when the silence stretched on for too long. “Don’t keep us waiting, sweetheart.”
It was the first time he had used that nickname with you. You tilted your head up and crossed one knee over the over, deliberately letting your already too short dress rise further up your legs. “You both played wonderfully, I’m very happy.” It was high praise coming from you, both of their chests puffed. “Dean, your assists were flawless, truly. And the way you put your body on the line to block those shots. Mwah, chefs kiss.”
“But,” you countered, sliding your gaze up to Logan. “Logan scored the game-winning goal and he hit the Harvard captain so hard, I could hear it from where I was sitting. That is passion.”
Logan let out a breath that he didn’t know he was holding as Dean let out a self-pitting laugh. “That’s brutal,” he muttered. “Alright, don’t fuck this up, Logan.
Dean leant down to give you a kiss, you let him. He gave you one last look, before picking up his bag and heading to his car. You watched Logan as the sound of Dean driving away faded into the distance.
“Are you going to give me your number, then?” Logan’s voice was low and gravelly.
You rose from the bench and stepped so close to him that you had to look up through your eyelashes. “My number? Is that all you want? Are you telling me I froze my ass off in this short ass dress for nothing?” You tilted your head. “I think I might have even forgotten to put on underwear.”
You hadn’t.
“Fuck,” Logan breathed, “you’re driving me out of my fucking mind. I did that for you, you know. I played for you.”
“I know,” you purred, a manipulative smirk on your lips. “And you deserve to be rewarded for that.”
A voice in your head reminded you that Dean had also played for you. You wouldn’t forget that. Tonight though, Logan had won you fair and square.
“My car’s parked over there.” Logan pointed to the car in the car corner. He and Dean had opted to drive separately to the rest of the team, knowing one of them would likely be leaving with you.
“I’m fixing it up,” he told you sheepishly as you approached his beat-up car. “It’s a work in progress.” You didn’t really care what his car looked like; you just needed him inside of you.
10 minutes later, you were on Logan’s lap in the back of the car. The two seats at the front of the car were as far forward as they could go. He was leant as bar back as he could, one leg bent on the driver’s side of the car and the other on the passenger’s side. It was cramped, you couldn’t sit up fully and had to lean forward into him. The windows were already fogged up, the heat radiating from your bodies contrasting with the cold night outside. You could barely see the details of his face. This was better, you supposed. You really weren’t supposed to allowing this distraction on campus.
You didn’t need to think about that now, though. Your panties were already discarded, dress hiked up, and his pants were around his ankles. You ground down into him, your naked, slick folds leaving a trail of arousal on his rapidly hardening cock. His hands were holding your hips, not controlling, just resting there.
“That’s it,” he encouraged as your grinding picked up speed.
Logan pressed his lips to yours, heavy and desperate. He bit your lip, not hard enough to draw blood, but with enough force to pull a gasp from you. He used that opportunity to slide his tongue into you, claiming you as he did that night in the hotel.
“Tell me what you want, tell me you need me,” Logan pleaded.
You ground down harder into him in response, eyes rolling back as you found the perfect angle for your clit to get enough friction. You let out little whines as you started rolling your hips. It felt good but it was just not enough.
“More,” you rasped into his neck.
One hand left your hip to grab hold of his throbbing dick, the other gripped harder on your hip, urging your body up. You raised your hips slightly so he could line himself up. He dragged the tip along your folds, his pre-cum mixing with your arousal. He circled your clit with his dick and your thighs shook around him.
“Stop teasing, I need you to fuck me now,” you moaned.
Logan obliged, you felt the head of his dick glide across your entrance before slowly entering you. As Logan continued to guide you down onto him, his serious, guarded, look had shifted into something entirely more desperate. Your nails dug into him as you fully sat on him.
You look at him through hooded eyes. You feel every vein on his dick as it stands inside of you. It curved in just the right way to be nudging at that sweet spot inside of you.
One hand gripped the seat behind Logan’s head while the other rested against the fogged window as you bounced on his lap. Both hands came back to your waist, giving him the leverage to slap up into you. The car rocks as he fucks you with force. There are no pleasantries, just pure, unadulterated, purpose.
Logan was a grunter, you found. He’d grunt at each flick up of his hips, he grunted as you bit down into his shoulder. The way you wrapped around him so perfectly had his orgasm rising quicker than he anticipated.
“Perfect, you’re so perfect.”
One of his hands left your waist to find your clit. He pressed down, circling you with the same frantic pace as your bounces.
You clenched tightly around him as your orgasm hit you. His pace increased, the sound of your moans as you orgasm having breathed life into him. Logan didn’t last much longer; he came with a grunt. He wrapped his arms around you as he shot warm ropey cum up into you.
Your hips slowly continued to roll as you came down, you could feel him twitching inside of you as you continued milking him.
He kept hold of you even after he had gone soft. You didn’t protest, remaining in his arms, his cock still nestled in you. Gravity had pulled on his cum, it ran down over his shaft, onto his balls, then the seat of the car.
“Tell me this wasn’t just because I won the bet,” he stuttered into the darkness.
You don’t give him the easy reassurance he was looking for. Instead, you slid off of him and used your discarded panties to wipe his release from where it had flowed out of you. Ignoring the way he looked at you, you wished him a good night as you opened the passenger door and walked home.
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You had met, and fucked, Logan many times in the three weeks after you had left him in the back of his car. The release it provided you was like a drug; you couldn’t stop yourself from coming back for more.
You especially needed it because Dean was avoiding you. The only times you saw him in the last three weeks were when you went to his games. He never took his helmet off, so you couldn’t even really see him. He stopped coming to your matches and any lectures that you once shared. The more he avoided, the more you went on the hunt for him. He was a master at evasion.
You had even forced yourself to go to a party on campus that you heard he *might* be at. You did find him, but he had his head buried between this leggy blonde’s legs. The sex with Logan was rough that night, you couldn’t stop talking about Dean. About how his form on the ice had significantly dropped.
But this was on you. One of your boys was drowning, and it was your fault. Logan, while still performing, also didn’t have the passion he once showed on the ice. The last night of the five-game bet just proved to you that they both needed you to be at their best. They needed to be able to compete for you. More importantly, they needed to have an excuse to compete against each other.
You broke another one of your rules for yourself as you climbed up the fire escape that you knew led to Dean’s room. Logan had so innocently given you a tour, not knowing you were using it as an excuse to plan your way in.
Inside the dimly lit room, Dean was laying on his bed, one arm bent behind his head as he scrolled through his phone. You tapped your knuckles against the glass window, not too loud as to draw the attention of others. His head snapped towards your direction, he wasn’t expecting anyone especially you.
His eyes narrowed at you for what felt like an eternity before he came to slide the window open. You climbed over the desk that was against the wall. His eyes were still full of suspicion, even as he helped you over the desk to standing.
It had been weeks since you last spoke to him. Your heart was fighting its way through your ribs as if it wanted to pop out.
For the first time in a while, you didn’t know what to say. He had every right to be looking at you in the way that he was. You had basically abandoned him. You gave him a slight smile, he didn’t return it, but he did soften.
“Why are you here?” The harsh tone that came out of Dean’s mouth did not match the way his eyes were soft as they roamed over you. Logan had won, and he was doing his best to respect that. But here you were, seeking him out.
“I missed you, is that an acceptable reason?” You pouted. It was pure honesty.
“What game are you playing?” Dean’s eyes scanned yours as he crossed his arms over his chest. He couldn’t tell if you were just a tease or if you were really here for him.
“Why? Do you want to play with me?” you challenged softly. He watched as your tongue darted out to lick your lower lip. You wanted him.
Dean let out a dark, breathless chuckle. He looked down at your lips before looking back into your eyes. He stepped closer to you and you slipped away, going to sit on the edge of his bed.
He turned to follow you, coming to kneel between your open legs. “I want to play,” he said.
Sex with Logan was fast, messy, and hot. But Dean liked to take his time, a master in the art of seduction. He leant back on his knees as he peeled his shirt off. He pressed a kiss to your bare knee and then your inner thigh. “Arms up,” he whispered.
You immediately obliged and he pulled your top over your head. His hand came to cup your breast; he rolled a nipple in between two fingers whilst his other hand kneaded your breast.
You let out a sharp exhale and Dean smirked. He was going to take his time learning everything you liked. He rose up on his knees to take a nipple into his warm, wet, mouth, your hands came to his hair, urging him on. You hadn’t been touched this sensually before, and it was driving you wild.
“I want to taste you; can I do that?” Dean asked, warm breath fanning your erect nipple.
“Mhm.” You mumbled, overcome with need.
“Vocal, I need you to be vocal.” Dean’s voice came through clear against your dazed thoughts.
“Yes, yes, fuck me with your mouth.”
You whined as Dean moved from between your legs to lie back onto the bed.
“Come take a ride,” he said, gesturing to his face.
You peeled off your shorts and climbed onto him eagerly. You moved up his body until your thighs were caging his face in. His nose brushed against your clit as you lowered down. You leant forward, holding on to the headboard as he used his hands to spread your folds apart.
Flattening his tongue, he licked a long, wet stripe up you. It was agonisingly slow, and you ground down in frustration.
He rubbed his nose against you, “you smell so good.”
“Dean,” you whimpered. You never whimpered. “Please.”
He continued licking around your folds, coming close to your clit then going back down. “How can someone so mean taste so sweet, it’s not fair,” he growled between licks.
There was no shame in you as you grinded down into his face, chasing that high that he wanted to prolong for you. Sensing your urgency, Dean shifted you slightly so he could get easier access to your clit. He licked, sucked, and flicked as you wantonly moaned, not bothering to try and stay quiet.
His hands were on your ass, helping you to drive your hips as he mercilessly went at your clit. You came just as easily for him as you had the first time you slept with Logan. Like your body was always on the precipice of orgasm just waiting for them to release it.
Dean held you as you rode his face through your orgasm. He continued lapping up your arousal.
Once your body stopped twitching. He grabbed your hips and guided you down his body. He kept pushing your hips down until you brushed against his hard dick. Dean looked up at you through hooded eyes.
“I take it you missed me,” you smiled down at him. A genuine one.
You eased yourself down on his dick and rode him as if your life depended on it. And, in some ways, it did.
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The next few months continued on in a beautifully orchestrated chaotic mess, only becoming messier when your injury caused you to be unable to play a sport competitively for months. There was so much built within you, and no outlet. There was nothing you could do but channel that though them.
They knew that you were with both of them, using both of them, whispering sweet nothings to both of them. It did wonders for their performance on the ice. It left scouts breathless and opponents bruised, and they were doing it all for you.
The sex got even better, both of them desperately trying to fuck the memory of the other out of you. It was a game you loved to play with them and they willingly participated.
Some nights you’d slip from one room to the other, still smelling like the other man sometimes even wearing their clothes. During the away games they could hear you through the hotel walls, your muffled moans being so close to torture. You’d turn up to Logan’s room with dark, blooming hickeys on your chest. Dean avoided your neck, where anybody could see it. He only needed Logan to know.
You’d walk into Dean’s room wearing the necklace he knew belonged to Logan. It would dangle in his face as you rode him.
They wouldn’t confront you about it until after the last away game of the season. Both of their doors were left unlocked; they never locked it now as they waited to see which room you’d enter after each game.
You found them both waiting for you in Logan’s room. Dean was sitting on the edge of the mattress. Logan was sitting back against the headboards. Despite the win, the air in the room felt heavy. Both had the same expression on their face.
“So, we’re gathered here today to…?” Both you and Dean smiled, Logan didn’t, not in the mood for a joke.
“You have to choose,” Logan said. “Once and for all. Him or me.”
You looked over at Dean, his head was tilted up in arrogance, then turned your head to look at Logan.
“No,” you said simply. There was no way you’d let this rivalry stop. You needed it to breathe.
Dean smiled, as if he expected that answer. Logan didn’t protest either.
“Am I not taking good enough care of you both?” You voice was dipping with sweet manipulation. You pulled your top over your head letting it drop to the floor.
You weren’t stupid; you knew the real reason they were both in this room together. You knew why they had waited until the season ended to broach this topic. What if you had agreed to choose? Then they’d have no excuse to go against each other the way they did. To look at each other the way they did.
They could hide behind the rivalry they had for you, using your body as the only bridge between them.
“You don’t want me to choose,” you murmured, “because if I pick one, this game ends.” You pulled off the rest of your clothes, stood completely naked in front of them.
The room was consumed with heat in light of the silent truth being brought to light.
“You’re a menace,” Logan rasped.
Dean reached out to grab you and pull you onto the bed. He wasted no time in spreading your legs and settling in between them.
Logan didn’t move an inch from the headboard, but his chest heaved as he watched the way Dean’s mouth moved around where you were most sensitive. Dean was on his knees at the edge of the mattress, his head buried between your thighs.
Dean’s large hands came under your butt, his calloused pals lifting your hips higher off of the sheets to give him better access. At this new angle, he slid his tongue flat and deep into your pussy. You threw your head back, making eye contact with Logan.
“Logan, join me,” Dean called out, his voice rough and breathless between the hot, wet, kisses he pressed to your pussy. “Come taste her.” He didn’t look up, his tongue already sweeping back across your entrance.
Logan finally slid down the mattress and knelt on the bed next to you. Dean focused on tongue fucking you, adding a finger and curling it in you, as Logan focused on your clit.
“Ah~ Fu-Fcuk. My boys, yes.” You were babbling incoherently.
The two of them worked in a frantic synchronisation. Occasionally, Dean would flick his tongue against your clit, his tongue brushing against Logan’s.
Your hands gripped onto the sheets as they worked you. The sound of them both moaning back into you had you grinding your hips. The feeling of them both finally here overwhelmed you in the best way. Fire pooled low in your belly as the pleasure began to rise until it began to overfill. Your body tensed as you came harder than you ever had, your vision fading to black.
“That’s it, cum for us, good girl,” Dean mumbled against you. Dean gently lowered your hips back down to the mattress.
As they came up from between your legs, Dean and Logan locked eyes. Dean’s chin glistened with your arousal. They stood up from the bed eyes on the way each other’s pants tented.
This time, Logan was the first to lean in. He licked Dean’s chin before running his tongue along the blonde’s lower lip. They kissed, both tasting of you and their tongues swirled around each other’s mouths.
You crawled to the floor, sitting on your knees in between them. As you pulled down their boxers, both cocks sprung free. You began working them, licking the leaking slit of one whilst your thumb ran over the slit over the other, then you switched.
They were moaning into each other’s mouths as you worked them with all you had. Dean’s dick was thick, the tip bright pink. Logan’s was a deeper, angrier red. The colours looked so pretty together as you rubbed the tip of their dicks together. They rolled their hips into your hands.
They came like that, grinding against each other in your hands.
All because of you.
⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚𝐒𝐭✰𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚ @rosaebriar - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
