summary you and jack have always been a hands-on, can’t-keep-your-hands-off-each-other kind of couple—until you decide to commit to a month-long “detox.” no sex, no touching, no shortcuts. jack feels like the least sought after man in the land. (ao3)
(inspired by sabrina carpenter’s my man on willpower (2025)!)
tags/warnings MDNI (18+) explicit sexual content, age gap (mid-20s / 50s), established relationship, living together, unprotected p in v, oral (f/m, m/f) handjobs (mutual), mentions of masturbation, praise & teasing, domestic, hospital/medical stuff / orthopaedics (r3), wellness / “spiritual” themes, r. can do splits, santos being santos (mentions of santos/garcia breakup), robby lowkey ur third lol, healthy, sane relationship, more romcom than angst (much less sad than the actual song) (written by a law student, not a doctor—medical accuracy idkher)
wc 16.5k words
“I’m sorry,” Jack says slowly, like he’s trying very hard to be reasonable, “I’m still… a little lost here—what exactly are you doing?”
You don’t turn around from the stove. You know that tone. Measured and suspicious. The same one he uses when a story from a patient doesn’t quite add up, or when he’s looking for you to notice what he has noticed in your words.
“I’m doing a detox,” you say, plating the pasta with unnecessary precision. “So—you know, yoga, no alcohol, no drugs, no screens, no shopping, no sex, no soda—”
“—right there,” he cuts in.
You pause, glancing over your shoulder. “…No soda?”
He doesn’t even blink. “No. The no sex.”
You turn back to the counter, like this is completely normal. “What, you can’t handle a month without sex?”
Jack doesn’t bite—doesn’t rise to it like someone your age would. He just watches you, lips pursed, arms folded, weight settled into one hip, expression flattening into something more deliberate.
“Not when it’s without you,” he says, simple.
You huff a small laugh, trying to shake off the way it lands somewhere inconvenient in your chest. “That’s flattering. That will get you very far.”
You slide his plate toward him. He doesn’t take it yet.
“It’s not like I won’t miss it,” you add, softer now. “Same as alcohol. Same as everything else.”
“Yeah,” he says, pushing off the counter finally, crossing the kitchen in a few easy steps. “Difference is alcohol’s not making you come in under ten minutes, and four times in an hour.”
You shoot him a look—sharp, immediate.
He shrugs, already reaching past you into the fridge like he didn’t just say that. “It’s a valid comparison.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“You love it,” he shrugged, knowing, grabbing the cheese. “Point is - you know, it’s a big difference.”
You try not to smile. You fail, a little.
“I just—” you sigh, taking the cheese from him, grating it over your pasta. “I want to do something that requires actual discipline. Reset a bit. Clear my head.”
“Hon,” he says, quieter now, leaning his shoulder against the counter beside you, close enough that his arm brushes yours, “you work ortho and you’re an R3. You’re up for thirty hours at a time, you operate on broken bones for fun, you look amazing, you’re healthy—what part of you needs more discipline?”
You glance at him. He’s looking at you properly now. Not teasing.
You soften a fraction. “It’s not about that.”
“Then what is it about?”
You hesitate. Just a second too long.
“…It’s just a month,” you settle on. “Four weeks. Thirty days. We’ll live.”
He studies you. You can feel it—clinical, almost. Like he’s trying to diagnose something you’re not saying out loud.
Then—
“And this is just penetration?” he asks.
You freeze.
Your silence is loud.
Jack exhales, slow, disbelieving, dragging a hand down over his mouth. “Goddamn.”
You busy yourself with the plates again. “It’s part of the program.”
“Program,” he repeats flatly. “Who the hell put you up to this?”
“Santos. and McKay. We all agreed to do it together.”
That earns you a look.
“…Santos,” he says, like he’s deeply reconsidering several life choices. “Of course this has Santos written all over it - getting you into a nun-cult thing.”
You laugh despite yourself, handing him his bowl. “It’s not a cult. It’s a detox.”
“It’s a sexless cult,” he mutters, taking the bowl.
You nudge his hip with yours. “You’ve survived longer droughts.”
“Yeah,” he shoots back immediately. “In the army.”
You grin. “Oh, here we go.”
“You’re really gonna do this to me?” he says, following you toward the couch. “Make the disabled veteran relive his worst years?”
“Your worst years were not lack of sex, be serious.”
“Debatable.”
You snort, dropping onto the couch, tucking your legs under you. He sits beside you, close—closer than necessary, knee knocking into yours, like he’s testing the boundaries of this already.
You hand him a fork.
“It’ll be good for us,” you say, softer now. “Builds character.”
He looks at you sidelong. “I have enough character.”
“You could always use more.”
“Yeah?” he murmurs.
His hand comes up—absent, habitual—resting warm at your knee, thumb brushing once, slow. Not even thinking about it. Your breath catches before you can stop it.
His mouth twitches, just slightly. Not quite a smile.
“…Fine. I’ll do whatever I can to support you in this… detox, thing,” he says.
You smile, even though his calloused hand is rubbing softly against your skin, warm, rough and inched maybe a little further onto your thigh. “I appreciate that.”
He leans back into the couch, finally picking up his fork, but his hand doesn’t move from your leg.
A pause.
Then—
“We can still watch Housewives?” he asks, like this is the real negotiation.
You let out a breath, tension cracking just enough to smile. “Housewives stays.”
“Right,” he nods. “Good. Thought you were gonna take everything from me.”
You roll your eyes, nudging him with your shoulder. “So you think you can handle this?”
“‘Course I can handle this.”
★★★
“I can’t handle this,” Jack says.
Robby doesn’t even look up as he checks his watch, pulling up his sleeves as they step outside, already smiling like he’s been waiting for this. “It’s just a month, man. Cool it.”
“It’s not just a month,” Jack shoots back, arms folded, pacing a tight line along the bay, outside the ED. “It’s a month without her. There’s a difference.”
Robby snorts. “Oh, I’m sure there is.”
“I’m serious,” Jack says, sharper now. “You don’t get it—you don’t—” he gestures vaguely, frustrated. “When you have her, she’s— she’s everything. It’s not just sex, it’s…. well, it is, but it's also more, it's... deeper? No, it's... you know, I mean—”
“—you were about to say something amazingly poetic and then ruined it,” Robby cuts in, amused.
“Yeah, well,” Jack mutters. “We have sex four to five times a week. Minimum three. And now?” He throws his hands up. “Nothing. She won’t even let me spoon her.”
Robby pauses.
Then looks up slowly.
“…Spooning.”
“Don’t,” Jack warns.
Robby’s grin breaks wide. “Jack Abbot. Spooning. Are you the big or little one? Or does it switch?”
“Oh, shut up.”
“That’s… wow,” Robby shakes his head, impressed. “It’s a cute image.”
Jack drags a hand over his face, already irritated. “Not even—nothing. It’s like I’m in a goddamn monastery.”
“Voluntarily celibate,” Robby nods. “Very spiritual of you.”
“I did not volunteer,” Jack snaps.
“You stayed,” Robby counters.
Jack glares at him, then looking out into the evening. “Where the hell are they? They said two minutes.”
“Relax,” Robby says, still enjoying this far too much. “Also— five times a week? Christ, having that kind of libido at your age?” He clicks his tongue, an exhale. “Impressive. You should get that checked out.”
“Forget that,” Jack mutters. “She’ll kill me if I’m talking about this.”
“Oh, so there’s still fear. Good. That’s healthy.”
Jack exhales sharply, jaw tight, eyes flicking back out toward the ambulance bay.
“How long’s it been since you two…?” Robby asks, vaguely gesturing, curious as to how his friend is already so wound up.
Jack hesitates.
“…Two days.”
There’s a beat.
Robby stares at him. “…Two days,” he repeats.
Jack doesn’t answer.
Robby lets out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “You’re kidding me.”
“I wish I was.”
“You’re like this after two days?”
Jack shrugs, already keyed up. “Look, I mean, that is including any kind of touch and sexual actions, alright—”
“That’s pathetic,” Robby says, still grinning.
“I know,” Jack snaps, pacing again now, faster. “I know, it’s—this is ridiculous. She won’t even kiss me, barely hugs me. She’s… walking around like nothing’s changed—”
“Yeah,” Robby hums. “Almost like she’s not the one with the problem. Just let her ride this out. You expect her to put on a nun costume?”
Jack shoots him a look. “You're not helping.”
“I’m not trying to,” Robby says easily.
Jack exhales, running a hand through his silver waves, agitation sitting just under the surface now. He glances out again, scanning for lights, for movement.
“Where the hell are they?” he mutters. “They said two minutes.”
Robby straightens a fraction, checking his watch again. “Traffic, maybe—”
“Ambulance crashed!”
The shout cuts through the bay, and their conversation is finished quickly as they race out with nurses to help.
★★★
Jack Abbot was a strong man, in many respects.
He’d seen enough—done enough—to have a working relationship with pain, with loss, with the kind of things that hollow people out if they let it. He wasn’t perfect, but he was… steady. More emotionally literate than most men he knew—Robby included, which wasn’t exactly a high bar, but still.
He knew how to sit in discomfort. Knew how to carry it. Knew how to endure.
But this. This thing you were doing…
The thing about you was, he’d never really had to hold back before.
From the moment you’d settled into his life—properly, fully, toothbrush next to his, your things in his drawers, your presence in every corner of his apartment—he’d made a decision: you get all of him. Whatever he has, whatever he can give, whenever you want, it’s yours.
That includes the easy things. The soft things.
And yeah—sex too.
It wasn’t the foundation of your relationship. Not even close. Two years together, six months living side by side, working different departments, different hours—you loved each other in ways that had nothing to do with sex.
But – Christ. It didn’t hurt that the sex was very good.
And you—young, bright, all sharp edges and softness in the right places—you’d woken something up in him he hadn’t realised had gone quiet. Made him feel… not younger, exactly, but awake.
Kept him on his toes. Made him care, in small stupid ways—like going to the gym on his off days so he could keep up with you, so he didn’t feel like he was lagging behind when you dragged him out into the world.
You were tactile in a way that blurred the line between affection and need. Always finding him. You always managed to make him feel like the centre of any and all desires.
Hands on his arm when you passed. Fingers hooking into his belt loops when you walked past him in the kitchen. Leaning into him mid-conversation like gravity pulled you there. Curling into his side on the couch, half on top of him, legs tangled, absentmindedly tracing patterns over his chest like you didn’t even realise you were doing it.
You’d climb into his lap without asking. Kiss him just because you could. Start something in the middle of nowhere—half a joke, half not—just to see the way he’d react.
It didn’t go unnoticed. Robby had picked up on it within the first few weeks.
Some shitty bar down the road with shittier beer, end of shift, nothing special—and all Jack could do was watch you.
“The hell did you find her?” Robby asked, leaning against the bar, eyes flicking between Jack and where you were across the room, laughing too loud at something Ellis had said, drink loose in your hand.
Jack followed his line of sight without meaning to. It softened him, visibly.
“She found me,” he said, like that explained anything. Took a sip of his beer. “Cafeteria. First week at PTMC.”
Robby hummed, unconvinced. “Right. Of course she did.”
Jack shrugged, trying for casual. “She’s… enthusiastic.”
Robby glanced back at you, just in time to see the way your attention shifted mid-conversation—like something had tugged on you. Your eyes landed on Jack immediately.
Locked. And then—there it was. That smile. Not polite, not social. Specific.
“Yeah,” Robby muttered. “That’s one word for it.”
You were already moving.
Didn’t even finish whatever you were saying, just peeled off like the rest of the room had lost its relevance. Straight line to Jack, weaving through people without hesitation.
You slipped into his space like you belonged there, like you always had.
“Hi,” you said, bright, a little breathless. “Missed you.”
Jack blinked. “You’ve been gone fifteen minutes.”
“Felt longer,” you shrugged, already reaching for him—fingers brushing over his bicep, then squeezing, slow and appreciative, like you were reminding yourself he was real. “I love this shirt.”
Robby snorted into his drink. He knew that shirt. Cheap, slightly too tight on purpose. Jack had once tried to pretend it wasn’t a strategy. Apparently, it was working.
You didn’t move away. If anything, you leaned closer—hips brushing his, hand still on his arm, thumb dragging once like you couldn’t quite help it.
Robby watched the exact second Jack stopped pretending this wasn’t affecting him.
“You busy?” you asked, softer now.
You tilted your head, smiling like you already knew the answer.
Then you leaned in.
Close enough that Robby couldn’t hear, but not subtle about it either—your mouth brushing Jack’s ear, your hand tightening slightly on his arm as you murmured something low.
Whatever it was, Jack went still.Immediate. A shift. Shoulders tightening, breath catching, eyes dropping to you like he needed a second to recalibrate.
Robby raised a brow. You pulled back like nothing had happened, smile sweet, completely unbothered. Jack set his beer down.
“We’re heading out,” he said.
Robby stared at him. “You just got here.”
“Yeah,” Jack replied, already reaching for his jacket. “We’re done.”
Jack had called it the honeymoon phase. It wasn’t. It just… evolved.
You stayed exactly as enthusiastic as he’d first described—just more efficient about it. More integrated into the rhythm of your lives. Somehow worse, if you asked Robby.
And when you were stressed—which was often, given Ortho, given your hours, given you—it got worse. Or better, depending on who you asked.
You’d come home wired, exhausted, brain still running at full speed—and instead of shutting down, you’d go straight to him. Like he was the off-switch. Like being close to him, touching him, feeling him, was how you came back to yourself.
You didn’t overthink it. You didn’t ration it.
And now nothing. He’s not sure if he recognises you.
It’s not just the sex. That’s the worst of it, sure. The obvious absence. But it’s everything else that’s starting to wear on him. You’re thorough with it. Annoyingly disciplined.
★★★
Day Six.
He gets home just after eight in the morning, dead on his feet, the kind of tired that sits behind his eyes and dulls everything out.
The apartment’s not quiet. That’s the first thing.
The second— You.
On the floor in the lounge, in the middle of a yoga mat, moving through a pose like this is something you’ve always done. You quit yoga a year ago. Said it was boring. Said you couldn’t sit still long enough.
And yet here you are. And Santos is with you. Which is… its own problem. There’s a lot to unpack there.
Why does Santos know where you live?
Why is Santos doing yoga?
Why are you wearing that—some tight, soft, barely-there athleisure set that looks like it was designed specifically to make his life harder?
“Hi, baby!” you call, bright, easy, like nothing’s changed, as you both move into cobra.
“Gross,” Santos mutters under her breath.
“Hey, hon,” Jack says, voice rough with fatigue as he steps in, toeing off his shoes.
The coffee table’s been shoved aside, the TV playing some overly calm instructor guiding you through it like this is a wellness retreat instead of his living room.
He walks over anyway—automatic, like always. Bends down, aiming for your mouth—
—and you shift just slightly.
It’s subtle. Anyone else wouldn’t clock it. But he does.
His kiss lands on your cheek instead.
You don’t even break the pose.
“No kisses during yoga, interrupts my zen,” you remind him lightly.
A beat.
“Right,” he says, quieter. “Forgot about that.”
There’s the faintest pause—just enough to feel it.
“Feels like it’s all the time lately,” he adds under his breath. Then, correcting himself, “But—yeah. I get it.”
You hum, already moving out of cobra like nothing’s happened.
He straightens, slower now, glancing at Santos.
She rolls her eyes.
“Next pose,” she says flatly.
You shift without hesitation.
“You should shower, then have some breakfast,” you tell him gently, already moving into child’s pose. “I made oats. They’re in the fridge.”
“Oats?” he repeats. “Since when do you eat oats?”
“It’s good for your gut, heart health, digestion, blood sugar,” Santos answers, not looking up. “Cleansing in some cultures.”
Jack blinks at her. “…Right. I’ve been a doctor for twenty years. Think I’ve got gut health covered, Trinity.”
“I don’t think your army rations count as a gut health plan,” she shoots back.
You let out a small laugh into the mat.
“I thought you said oats were for Victorian children and farmers who hate themselves,” Jack adds to you.
“They are,” you mumble. “But these have honey and cinnamon.”
Santos chimes. “And spite.”
Jack just stares at the two of you for a second.
Looking at you—folded into the pose, calm, deliberate. Not reaching for him. Not pulling him down. Like he’s background noise.
“Okay,” he says finally, a little clipped. “You two… have fun.” He drags a hand over his face. “I’m gonna sleep for about five hours.”
He turns, already heading for the bedroom, shoulders a little tighter than when he walked in.
You glance up, watching him go.
There’s a beat of silence.
Santos shifts beside you into a side plank, already shaking slightly. “Jesus Christ.”
You follow, steady.
“He seems… stable,” she says.
“He’s a bit grumpy,” you reply. “We haven’t touched in nearly a week.”
Santos’s head snaps toward you. “So?”
“We’re touchy people.”
“Right,” she nods once. “I hate happy couples.”
You huff a quiet laugh.
“This was your idea, by the way,” you remind her.
“Yeah, and it’s a good one,” she says immediately. “I needed to not text Garcia at 2AM and ruin my life again.”
“You could just… not text her.”
Santos looks at you like you’ve said something deeply stupid. “Oh, yeah. Genius. Why didn’t I think of that?”
You smile slightly.
“She blocked me last night,” Santos adds, flat.
“Oh.”
“Yeah. ‘For her peace.’” She makes air quotes with one hand, nearly losing balance. “Which is crazy, because I’m incredibly peaceful.”
“Well, this detox thing is a great idea. You’ll cleanse yourself of her.”
“Evil lesbians are not for the weak.”
“Hon, where are those scented candles?” Jack calls from the hallway, voice carrying through the apartment.
“I threw them out,” you call back. “They release benzene. Cleansing, remember?”
There’s a pause.
“…Of course you did,” he mutters, just loud enough.
Santos snorts as you both move into the next stretch, threading your arm under your body.
“Bit much, isn’t it?” she says.
You exhale into the mat. “I am going to be so aggressively cleansed by the end of this, you’d consider me the Virgin Mary.”
★★★
Day Nine.
Virgin Mary, my ass.
That’s all Jack can think as he leans in the doorway for a second too long, watching you at the counter. Pink, ridiculous, barely-there panties.
The ones from Valentine’s. His t-shirt hanging off you like it belongs there, cut just high enough that every small shift of your hips flashes skin he knows too well. Music hums low from the radio—something easy, something you’re half-swaying to as you chop vegetables like this is just… normal.
He’s been up maybe five minutes. Has to leave in thirty. And he’s already half-hard. He pushes off the doorway anyway. Walks up behind you like muscle memory.
His arms come around you slow, familiar—settling over your waist, pulling you back into him. He feels the way you soften immediately, that slight melt into his chest like your body still knows him, even if you’re being… whatever this is.
You startle just a little, then relax.
“Hey,” you murmur, turning your head slightly as he drops his chin to your shoulder. “You’re up.”
“Mhm,” he hums, already pressing his mouth to your neck.
He doesn’t even pretend restraint. Just goes for it—slow, lazy kisses wherever he can reach, nosing along your skin, breathing you in like he’s been deprived, because he has.Which—he has.
“What’re you making?” he asks against you, voice rougher than he means it to be.
“Food prep,” you say, though it comes out softer than that. A little breath slipping through when he finds that spot under your ear.
“Shit—Jack,” you add, quieter now, the knife slowing in your hand. “You can’t.”
He smiles against your skin. Not nice about it.
“I can’t,” he repeats, low. “Or you can’t?”
His hands move without asking—sliding under the hem of his shirt on you, palms warm against your stomach first. Familiar. Testing.
You inhale sharply. He doesn’t stop. Just keeps going—slow, deliberate—up over your ribs, feeling the curve of you, the heat of your skin, until his hands settle over your chest. Not rough. Not greedy. Like he belongs there. Because he does. Or he did.
Your hand stills completely on the counter.
“Jack,” you say again, but it’s weaker this time. Less conviction, more breath.
He presses another kiss just below your ear, voice dropping.
“Been real good about this,” he murmurs. “Haven’t I?”
You don’t answer.
Because he has. You're not making it easy, after Santos suggested to have more fun with it. So, sure, you go for panties and shirt, maybe even the barely there nightgowns you bought a while back, feeling as he is completely still besides you in bed.
His touch shifts just slightly—not pushing, not crossing a line, but close enough to remind you exactly how easily he could.
Your head tips back a fraction before you catch yourself.
“No,” you say, firmer now, even as your body lags behind. “Nope. No, can’t. I’m staying cleansed. My book says even too much contact can make you unfocused.”
He exhales slowly, like he’s dragging himself back by force.
“Unfocused.. alright,” he mutters. “Whatever you want.”
But his hands don’t move right away. You finally set the knife down, turning in his arms so you’re facing him. Big mistake.
Because now you’re looking at him properly—sleep-rough, hair a mess, jaw shadowed, eyes still heavy but fixed on you like you’re the only thing in the room. And you know that look. You’ve felt what follows it.
“You should get a hobby,” you tell him quietly.
“Yeah?” he says, not looking away.
“Maybe pottery,” you shrug. “Something that isn’t being a SWAT medic and—” you hesitate just slightly, “—fucking me or whatever.”
His hands slide down your sides, slower this time. Reluctant.
“But I really like my hobbies,” he says, voice low, rough around the edges. “Especially fucking you, or whatever.”
The way he looks at you when he says it—like he’s imagining you in the most vulgar of situations—makes heat climb straight up your neck. You hate that it works.
He doesn’t move.
“Jack.”
“Just one kiss?” He asks.
You open your mouth to say yes, but you bite your lip and think for a second. You lean in pressing a deliberate kiss to his cheek, hand up to his neck, feeling how he melts under your touch.
You fingers briefly fidget with the grey curls at the nape of his neck, as his fingers dig slightly into your hips. You pull back.
“I’ll try pottery,” he mutters.
You smile—small, controlled. Infuriating. Then he lets you go. Barely.
You watch him walk off toward the bedroom, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to shake it off, his own shirt fitted against him, rising, tight against his biceps, and the second he’s out of sight—
You exhale. Your grip tightens on the counter, head tipping forward for a second. This is... harder than you thought it’d be.
It’s him. The way he moves around you like it’s instinct. The way your body still answers before your brain catches up. The way one kiss feels like a warning.
If you touch him properly—if you let yourself lean into it even a little—you know exactly how it goes. There’s no halfway with him. There never has been. You've struggled to hold back with him.
You both work too hard, sleep too little. You orbit each other—shared meals, late-night TV, quiet mornings when they exist. He’s steady, solid, always there. And sex has always been part of that too.
You press your lips together, shaking your head slightly as you keep chopping, trying to focus. You should’ve fought harder on the point about no sex, but Santos seemed so pitiful, you don’t have the heart to tell her you broke or to lie.
Cleanse. Reset. Prove you’ve got discipline. Prove you’re not just running on impulse and instinct and whatever feels good in the moment. Focused...ness. All that.
It’s just you’ve never seen him like this. Not like this kind of worked up. Not this restless, this… needy. Your thighs press together instinctively, heat lingering, annoying and insistent.
“God,” you mutter under your breath, grabbing the knife again like that’ll ground you. “Pathetic.”
★★★
Day Twelve.
“I cannot tell if you’re being serious right now,” Robby says, standing beside Jack in the elevator as they head down from the roof.
Jack doesn’t even look at him. “It’s psychological warfare.”
Robby scoffs. “Oh my god.”
“I’m serious,” Jack insists, dragging a hand over his face. “I can’t think straight. It’s like… cognitive impairment. I should get tested.”
“You need to get a grip,” Robby replies.
“You don’t get it,” Jack mutters. “You haven’t had a relationship like this in—what, a decade? More? This isn’t casual. This is… routine. Structure. Stability.” He gestures vaguely. “We live together. We’ve got a system.”
“A system,” Robby repeats, flat.
“Yes,” Jack says, defensive. “And she’s dismantled it. Completely. No warning. Just—gone. Overnight. You know her, she's all over me usually. And I’m a touchy guy, man, I feel like a sunflower without sun. She is my sun.”
Robby exhales through his nose. “It’s been two weeks.”
“Twelve days,” Jack corrects. “That’s long enough to destabilise a man.”
The elevator dings. Doors open. A couple of nurses step in.
Jack lowers his voice, but not his intensity.
“She won’t even cuddle with me,” he mutters. “Do you understand that? Cuddling. Baseline intimacy. Gone. She almost slept on the couch the other night because she thought she might—”
He cuts himself off as one of the nurses glances over.
Jack exhales sharply, jaw ticking. “It’s like… all that energy I spent with her, is just… Like I’m all—”
“Do not say pent up,” Robby murmurs.
“I’m pent up, man,” Jack says anyway, under his breath. “I don’t—”
“Jesus Christ.”
“And she keeps wearing—”
“—and that’s our stop,” Robby cuts in quickly as the doors open.
They step out into the corridor, quieter now. Both hit the sanitiser on instinct.
Jack rubs his hands together, restless. “She’s doing it on purpose.”
“No, she isn’t.”
“She is,” Jack insists. “She knows exactly what I like. The shirts, the—lack of shirts. The shorts. The yoga. The fucking… tiny nightgowns. Sheer, too. Door open when she showers. It’s targeted.”
“Or,” Robby says, dry, “she’s a twenty-something woman existing in her own home.”
Jack ignores that. “And then—nothing. Won’t touch me. Won’t let me touch her. She kissed me on the cheek three days ago, and I was gonna… ruin my pants like an idiot. I feel like a teenager.”
Robby snorts. “You sound like one. She showers with the door open?”
“I’ve done tours,” Jack goes on, either ignoring or not hearing Robby’s query, quieter now, almost incredulous at himself. “I’ve been shot at. I’ve dealt with death at its worst. And somehow this is what’s got me pacing like a lunatic at three in the morning.”
Robby stops walking.
Grabs his shoulder.
“You hear yourself, right?”
“…Yeah,” Jack mutters. “Hearin' it.”
“Good,” Robby says. “Because it’s insane. And I’m tired of it, brother.”
Jack exhales, trying to reset—then his gaze shifts past Robby’s shoulder.
Locks. You.
At Central Four, mid-discussion with McKay and Mel, one hand braced lightly against a patient’s lower leg as you check the alignment on a fresh below-knee cast—thumbs pressing along the tibial crest, eyes flicking between the limb and the patient’s foot for perfusion. Focused. Calm. Explaining as you go, that steady, assured cadence you’ve grown into over the past couple years.
You look good. You always do, but—today is… worse. Yeah, he’s definitely pent up. Jack’s jaw tightens. Robby follows his line of sight, spots you, then looks back at him.
“You really look like a kicked puppy right now, bud.”
“Don’t.”
“I mean it,” Robby says. “It’s palpable.”
Jack exhales sharply. “I’ll be right back.”
“You aren’t going there.”
“I’m just gonna ask my girlfriend about her day.”
“No, you’re gonna say something deeply unprofessional to your girlfriend in the middle of a ward round,” Robby corrects. “While Shark is somewhere nearby, sensing weakness.”
“Right, ‘course, you’ve interrupted my plan to give her head in the middle of the ED,” Jack says, sarcastically, then a brief beat of thought. “God, If she asked me to I probably w-”
“-We need boundaries, man,” Robby says. “I don’t… You have fun with that.”
“Relax. It’s fine, we’re both clocking off now. Once she wraps up, we’re outta here.”
Jack glances back at you again. You laugh softly at something McKay says, adjusting the cast edge with careful fingers, smoothing it down. Your hand lingers just a second as you explain something to the patient—voice warm, easy, reassuring.
Mel nudges your shoulder, subtle, and tips her chin toward Jack.
You look up. Catch him. Smile. It’s small, but it lands.
Jack stiffens like he’s just been called to attention, gives you a tight nod—controlled, restrained—then abruptly turns and heads toward the station with Robby.
Robby snorts under his breath. “That was painful to watch.”
“I told you. Psychological warfare.”
McKay smirks a bit as she watches Jack retreat.
“What’s that about?” McKay murmurs, rolling her stool a little closer to the patient bed.
“Our detox program?” you say lightly, refocusing as you check distal circulation again. “Not a fan.” You glance to the patient. “Any numbness or tingling, ma’am?”
“No, love. Feels fine,” she says, half-distracted by her phone.
“Good,” you nod. “Let me know if that changes.”
McKay hums, folding her arms loosely. “Ah. The celibacy portion not going down well?”
You let out a quiet breath. “Not particularly. And I’m not being super easy on him about it either.”
“Yeah,” she says, dry. “Can’t imagine why.”
You suppress a smile, smoothing the cast. “Everything else is good, though. I’m committed now.”
“Mm,” McKay says. “Santos bullied us into it.”
“Santos encouraged it.”
“Santos got dumped and decided everyone else should suffer,” McKay corrects.
“That’s not—” you start, then pause. “…entirely inaccurate.”
Mel watches all of this with mild fascination, then looks back at the cast. “Um—can I try wrapping the next layer?”
You brighten a little. “Yeah, of course. Come here.”
You shift off the stool, making space. “Alright—support here,” you guide, hands hovering near hers. “Keep your tension even, don’t gap it.”
Mel nods seriously, concentrating.
McKay glances between you and the half-set cast, then back at you. “Are you feeling detoxed?”
You huff a quiet breath. “A little. More flexible, improved sleep, and a deeply irritated boyfriend.”
“Holistic wellness,” McKay deadpans.
You smile despite yourself. “And you?” you ask.
“Nope,” she sighs. “But Harrison’s loving the yoga mat, so at least someone’s thriving. And I wasn’t getting laid anyway, so—no real sacrifice on that front. But the no screens thing is doing wonders. I can feel my brain gaining another wrinkle.”
You snort softly, nudging Mel’s hand. “Smoother there—yeah, that’s it. Keep the overlap consistent.”
Mel adjusts, careful, precise, tongue just slightly between her teeth in concentration. McKay watches her for a second, then leans in a fraction closer to you, voice dropping just enough—
“He looks like he’s about five minutes from a breakdown.”
You don’t look over. “He’ll be fine.”
“Mm,” she hums. “He keeps looking at you between charts.”
“He always does that when I’m down here,” you say, a little softer.
“Yeah,” McKay replies. “Not like this.”
You ignore that, focusing instead on Mel’s technique. “Good—now just secure it there. Don’t pull too tight.”
Mel nods, finishing the wrap neatly. “Like that?”
“Perfect,” you say, genuinely pleased. “Nice work, Doctor King.”
Mel beams, small but proud. Behind you, you can feel it again—Jack’s attention, flicking back over, catching, lingering even when he forces it away.
You keep your eyes on the patient. But you’re aware of him. Constantly. And across the room, Jack shifts his weight, jaw tight, trying—and failing—not to look again.
Later, he finds you around the ED. You’re mid-conversation with Santos, focused, explaining something on the chart.
Jack walks up beside you, close enough that your arms brush. You don’t react. Don’t even break your sentence.
“…so we stabilise first, then reassess once imaging’s back—”
He waits. Nothing. Not even a glance. Santos clocks it immediately. Raises her brows.
“…Hi, Dr Abbot,” she says, dry.
You finally look up. “Oh—hey.”
He stares at you.
“…Hey, just... checking in,” he says, somewhat shy now.
You smile, polite. "All good here." Then turn straight back to Santos. “Anyway—like I was saying—”
He stands there for a second. Then another.
Robby, from across the station, watches the whole thing with poorly concealed amusement.
“…You gonna be okay?” he calls out.
Jack doesn’t look at him. “No,” he says flatly, before walking off.
★★★
Day Eighteen.
You’re supposed to be detoxing. Self-restraint. Discipline. Clarity.
Apparently, that also includes driving your boyfriend quietly insane in your living room.
“You need to be doing that right now?” Jack asks as he finally drops onto the couch, exhaustion dragging at him. Scrubs half-off, shirt discarded somewhere along the way before he drags a fresh one over his head, lazy, spent.
You don’t even look at him. “I can stop if you want,” you say, adjusting your stance—hands walking a little wider on the mat, hips tipping higher as you settle deeper into downward dog, covering a good half of the TV screen.
He watches the shift. The stretch. The way your shorts ride up just enough to be completely fucking useless.
He exhales slowly, dragging a hand over his face. “No, no—carry on. This is great. Very relaxing.”
You hum like you believe him. You don’t.
He leans back, head tipping against the couch as he reaches down, taking off his prosthetic with practiced ease, setting it aside. His body finally settles—but his eyes don’t.
They stay on you.
Track every adjustment.
You shift again—one leg lifting, extending behind you before you draw it through, slow, controlled, foot landing between your hands. Your back arches slightly as you ease into it. Jack’s jaw tightens.
“Park’s been on my ass lately,” you say, like this is normal conversation.
“Glad someone has,” Jack murmurs.
You shoot him a look.
“I’m sorry, baby, I’m just… distracted, I don’t know” He says, somewhat earnestly, dryly. “What is it about Shark?”
“He’s not as bad as you guys make him seem, he’s just got tunnel vision," You try, slowly repositioning. “But he can be such a dick sometimes. No concept of tact. I missed one chart the other day, and he ripped me a new one in front of the med students.”
And then you slide down. Slow. Controlled.
One leg extending forward, the other back, lowering into a full split like it’s nothing—hips sinking, spine straight, hands resting lightly on your thighs.
Jack actually goes still. That’s new.
“…Right,” he says, quieter now.
You keep talking. Like you haven’t just changed the entire atmosphere in the room.
“And I was gonna snap,” you continue, calm, measured, “but I did that breathing thing from the book. Actually worked. I didn’t react. I just… sat in it and breathed, five to two.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice a little rougher. “Looks like it’s working great.”
You shift out of it fluidly, folding in, then rolling onto your back—knees lifting, falling open as you stretch through your hips, one hand braced lightly on your stomach as you breathe through it.
Jack leans forward slightly before he catches himself, hand dragging over his jean clad thigh, like he’s trying to reset.
He’s trying to be good. You can see it.
Trying to sit still. Trying not to react. Trying not to reach for you.
You keep going anyway.
“So then Isla comes into the break room—did you know she’s getting divorced?” you say, drawing one knee closer, holding it there, breath catching just slightly at the stretch.
“Do you need help with that?” he asks, too quick.
“Nope,” you say immediately.
You don’t look at him.
Because you know exactly what that would do. You know exactly what this looks like from where he’s sitting. You know exactly what he’s thinking about, because you’re thinking about it too—the way he’s had you like this before, hands on you, holding you in place, your body not your own for a while.
You switch legs, pushing through it again, slower this time.
“Do you think he cheated?” you ask.
“Who?” His voice is tighter now.
“Isla’s husband.”
“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “Maybe.”
You let your leg drop, exhaling as you roll up, sitting back on your knees. Arms stretch overhead, spine lengthening, chest lifting.
Jack looks away this time.
Briefly.
Then back.
Like he can’t help it.
“I taught her the breathing thing,” you go on. “She calmed down immediately. I could totally pivot into this, you know. Wellness, mindfulness—”
“Yeah,” he cuts in, too fast. “You should absolutely do that.”
You glance at him now.
“Yeah, I’ll give up years of med school and fixing bones to teach whiny people how to lock in,” You joke.
“Whatever you want to do, baby,” He nods, eyes looking down at you on the floor, mind literally anywhere else.
“You look like a kicked dog right now. Was the yoga too much?”
“I’m fine,” he insists. “Robby said the same thing. Maybe I just have a pitiful face.”
You don’t disagree with that.
You look at him. Really look.
He’s not relaxed. Not even close. Shoulders tight despite the way he’s sitting, fingers flexing once against his knee like he needs something to do with them. His gaze flicks over you, then away, then back again like it’s a losing battle.
You stand, cross the room, and settle beside him, curling your feet under you so you’re facing him properly.
He immediately turns his head slightly away, like that helps.
“Thank you for putting up with this,” you murmur, softer now, even though it’s just the two of you. Then, almost casually—“Have you touched yourself at all?”
His inhale is sharp enough to answer before he does.
“No,” he says. Then, like he’s committing to honesty instead of dignity: “Figured we’re in this together. Minus… everything else. I can’t not do a line of cocaine before I go into work.”
That earns a small smile from you.
“Responsible of you,” you say.
“Have you?” He asks.
“Nope.”
“Are you struggling at all? Because it’s… you know, you… you really seem very comfortable with all this. This cleansing thing.”
You inhale sharply. “I’m doing great.” You lie.
“I feel like you’re forgetting how good our sex is,” He says.
You raise your brows, give it thought. “Or… I’m free from such… baseless temptations.”
“Baseless temptations had me eating you out for three hours, three times a week. Which in our line of work is a lot. And, at my age, a cardio workout.” He reminds.
Your tongue darts to your lips, eyes flicking away from him like it helps you regain control. It doesn’t.
“I should go,” you say, too casually. “Errands.”
Jack nods once, like he’s trying to behave. “Two more weeks.”
“Two more weeks,” you repeat.
You lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek.
It’s small. Controlled. Safe.
Except it isn’t, because it’s the first real contact in ten days and your body reacts like it’s been starved of oxygen. Like you didn’t realise how much you were holding your breath until you finally touched him again.
He turns his head slightly before you fully pull away.
Just enough. Just enough to trap you in that in-between space—faces inches apart, his breath warm against your mouth, his eyes locked on yours like he’s waiting to see if you’ll fold, head tilted, just a bit, curious.
You shouldn’t.
You press your mouth to his. It’s chaste, sweet, PG. Lasts maybe three seconds, and it’s not long enough for him as you pull away, as if you’ve rewarded him, but he can’t help but be greedy when it comes to you.
“You can do better than that, baby,” he says quietly.
“Mm,” you reply, steadying yourself. “I can’t.”
A pause.
“Promise I won’t do anything,” he adds.
You look at him for a second too long.
Then you nod.
His hand comes up immediately, settling at the back of your head—gentle, anchoring, familiar in a way your body reacts to before your brain does, mouth agape. His thumb brushes your cheek once, slowly, briefly moves to your jaw and chin, over your bottom lip, your mouth opening, almost instinctually, but he moves it back to your cheek, not entertaining it further.
You kiss him again properly.
It starts off controlled—your mouth on his, testing, like you’re still trying to keep it within the rules you made for yourself. The moment he kisses back, the rules seem very silly. No hesitation, no easing in—just straight into it, like your bodies already know exactly what they’re doing, falling into step all over again.
Your hand lifts like you’re going to hold him off, going to stop it but it just hangs there uselessly, mid-air.
His mouth is on yours harder now, deeper, tongue sliding in like he’s done waiting for permission. Slow, but not gentle. Familiar in a way that makes your stomach drop—like your body reacts before your brain even catches up.
A small sound slips out of you without meaning to.
His hand at the back of your head tightens, fingers in your hair, not yanking but holding you exactly where he wants you. His other hand shifts at his crotch, you barely glance down at the corner of your eye, seeing as his palm moves over his hardening length beneath his jeans.
He exhales into your mouth, rough. “Damnit.”
You kiss him back harder, mouth opening more, his tongue dragging against yours again, slower this time but deeper, like he’s checking how far you’ll go if he just keeps pushing like this.
You make another sound—low, breathy—and he feels it immediately. You can tell by the way his hand tightens at the back of your neck, thumb pressing in like he’s grounding himself there, like he needs something solid to hold onto before he loses the plot completely.
“Mm—no more,” you manage, pulling back slightly, dazed. “No more. Errands. Oxygen. Meditation. Focus. Detox. Okay? Okay.”
“Okay,” he hums back, like he agrees, but he doesn’t move his eyes off you.
You’re both breathing heavier than you should be for a kiss that’s supposedly not doing anything.
He drags his tongue over his lips, slow, watching you properly now. Then his hand drops from your neck and he leans back a fraction—except he’s not actually done. He’s just shifting, exhaling through his nose like he’s trying to reset and failing.
You glance down.
He’s already adjusting himself, palming himself through his jeans, at the feeling and sight of you, far from subtle at all. His eyes flick between your face and your reaction like he’s half curious, half done pretending this isn’t affecting him.
You just stare for a second, hair slightly messier now from his grip, lips swollen, clearly trying to act normal and not really succeeding. Your eyes linger as you watch him become harder under the denim.
“Baseless temptation?” he echoes, dry, almost mocking, interested by your seeming entertainment.
“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter, swallowing, standing up like that fixes anything. “I’m going. Errands.”
“Mm,” he says, already unbuckling his belt properly now, like he’s given up on dignity for the moment. “That.”
You clear your throat, turning away too quickly. “Yeah. That.”
“Great detox, honey,” he calls after you, voice low, almost satisfied, like he’s both impressed and completely fucked by it.
You don’t look back when you walk out.
★★★
Day Twenty Two.
You were even stricter after your brief lapse on Day 18.
Santos had spiralled a bit after Garcia tried to re-enter her life—one text, then another, then a “just checking in” that meant absolutely nothing and everything at the same time. And Santos, for all her bite, was still soft where it counted. So she doubled down.
We resist.
You weren’t going to be the weak link in that. Not when she was white-knuckling her way through it.
So you didn’t argue. Didn’t say that your situation was devolving.
So. Yoga, reading, no screens—none of it was enough anymore. Not because you were failing, but because you’d started treating this like something to actually get through properly.
So you added structure.
Cooking, mostly. Proper cooking, technically normal, but now with a kind of performative discipline to it. Whole-food, vegetarian-heavy meals that smell intense enough to make Jack pause in the doorway like he’s trying to decide if he’s being punished or supported.
You explained something about how Santos had plenty of recipe choices, these were the best. He dreaded knowing the worst.
You’ve always cooked. So has he. It’s part of your relationship—easy, domestic, something you both fall back on without thinking.
But wow, the past three or four days have been a steady rotation of “cleansing” meals that are aggressively healthy in a way that feels almost personal and cruel.
You’ve also tightened everything else.
Early nights. Early mornings. You’re not avoiding him exactly—you’re just very efficient with your time now. No lingering in shared spaces. No sitting too close on the couch “by accident.” No hand brushing his back when you pass him in the hallway, even though that one clearly takes effort.
The hardest part was that you kept missing out on Housewives.
“Hon, you sure?” Jack had tried one night, hovering in the doorway. “It’s the mid-season finale.”
Pitch black room. Eye mask on.
“Tell me about it tomorrow,” you’d said.
He’d watched it alone. Hated it.
Even the small stuff has become intentional.
You’ve started drinking herbal tea that tastes like wet grass just to prove a point to yourself.
He’s started making coffee louder than necessary just to annoy you.
And still—you function.
You were both high-energy people—incapable of just sitting still without developing a new hobby or mild personality trait.
The apartment was proof: books half-read, yoga mats permanently out, easels you didn’t touch, Jack picking up SWAT shifts “for fun” like that’s a normal recreational activity.
And, historically, you’d had a very reliable outlet for all that excess energy. Now that’s been… aggressively decommissioned. So it lingers. In your body, in his shoulders, in the space between you—tight, charged, and just annoying enough to make everything feel a little harder than it needs to be.
The call comes down fast and ugly—trauma bay already prepped, voices sharp, movement tighter than usual.
Open tib-fib. High-energy. Motorcycle versus ute, no helmet.
You’re already pulling gloves on as you move, snapping them tight against your wrists, pace quick to match the rhythm of the room. Doctor Park is a step ahead of you—of course he is—already at the bedside, already assessing, already ten steps into the problem.
Robby and Jack linger to the side, Whitaker working the patient while they observe, supervise. Robby’s still here past his shift—because of course he is.
“Walk me through it,” Park says without looking at you.
“Mid-shaft tibial and fibular fracture, likely comminuted,” you reply immediately, eyes scanning. “Significant displacement. Possible vascular compromise—foot looks pale, delayed cap refill.”
“Good,” Park says shortly. “Check dorsalis pedis. Posterior tibial.”
You nod, moving in.
The leg is… bad. Angulated wrong, skin stretched too tight over something that shouldn’t be pressing there. Blood everywhere, soaked through layers Whitaker is trying—earnestly—to keep under control.
You don’t flinch. You tilt your head slightly, studying it like a problem you already want to solve, something in you clicking into place.
“Dorsalis pedis faint,” you say, fingers pressing in. “Posterior tibial—hard to appreciate.”
“Mm,” Park hums. “We reduce now.”
Behind Whitaker, Jack stands with his hands clasped behind his back, posture loose but attention razor sharp. Tracking everything—monitor, patient, Park.
You.
He hasn’t seen you all day. You left before he got home—left him in a cold bed, a note about oats, and absolutely nothing else. And now, every time he does see you, it feels deliberate. Like you’re making it harder.
Three weeks of this… discipline.
And now you’re here, calm, focused, humming under your breath like you haven’t been systematically ruining his life, like his muscles aren’t taut without getting to feel you under him or on him.
Jack’s jaw tightens.
“Traction,” Park says.
You nod, hands steady as you take hold above and below the fracture. “On you.”
“Now.”
You pull—firm, controlled. There’s a shift. A sickening, mechanical realignment as bone slides back into place.
Whitaker visibly winces.
“Better,” you murmur, almost satisfied.
Jack exhales through his nose. “Hold it,” he says, stepping in just slightly. “Pulse?”
Whitaker checks, brow furrowed. “Stronger. Still thready, but—better.”
“Good. Splint.”
You glance up—just briefly—and catch Jack already looking at you.
Not subtle. Not tonight. Something heavier in it. Sharper. Like he’s been holding onto something all shift and hasn’t decided where to put it.
You hold his gaze for half a second.
“Doctor,” you say, light.
He tilts his head a fraction. “Nice work,” he says, dry. Then, without missing a beat—“You leave that… green-orange situation in the fridge?”
You blink. “Are you—seriously?”
“I got four hours of sleep,” he shrugs. “I’m allowed one grievance.”
You briefly glance to Park who doesn’t seem to care or mind your minor chatter with Jack, looking at the monitors with a hardened gaze.
“It’s vegetable soup,” you say, adjusting your grip. “It’s good for you. Anti-inflammatory.”
Whitaker glances between you, confused. “Soup? Do you two live together?”
Jack ignores him completely. “Tastes like punishment.”
“Funny,” you say. “You seemed very into punishment a few weeks ago.”
Robby lets out a short, sharp laugh from the other side of the bed. “Oh, I’m awake now.”
“Not helpful,” Jack mutters, not even looking at him.
“You started it,” you shoot back, breath steady despite the strain in your arms. “Also, Robby likes my soup. Don’t you, Robinavitch?”
Robby raises both hands. “I’m not being... triangulated into whatever this is.”
“You’re making bone broth for my best friend now?” Jack goes on, like he didn’t hear that. “That’s where we’re at?”
“It’s not bone broth,” you correct. “And maybe I’d cook for you if you weren’t so moody—”
You cut yourself off, refocusing as the splint is brought in.
“Keep traction steady,” Jack says, tone snapping cleanly back to clinical—but there’s an edge under it now. “You’re drifting distal.”
You correct it immediately. “Better?”
“Yeah,” he nods. “Don’t let it shorten.”
Park finally glances back down, unimpressed. “If you’re both done flirting—”
“This is not flirting,” Jack and you say at the same time.
A beat.
Whitaker frowns. “…What is happening?”
Robby snorts. “I’ll tell you about it later. Celibacy ritual.”
“Robby,” Jack says, warning.
“What?” Robby shrugs. “I’m just saying. There’s context.”
“You told Robby?” you shoot at Jack.
He opens his mouth—
“I heard from Santos,” Robby cuts in, enjoying this far too much. “And McKay. Whole department knows you’ve gone monk mode.”
You scoff. “It’s not monk mode, it’s a detox.”
“Yeah,” Robby nods. “Abbot’s detoxing from joy, from what I can tell.”
Jack exhales sharply. “Can we focus?”
“You are the one who brought up soup. Besides, this guy’s gonna be fine. If he wasn’t, Shark here would’ve bit one of your heads off,” Robby shoots back.
Whitaker looks even more lost, Park stands off the side, giving Robby a brief glare before nodding back to you to continue.
“Angle your wrist,” you tell him, cutting through it. “You’re losing medial pressure.”
“Oh—right—sorry—”
“It’s fine. Just don’t let him bleed out.”
“Right. Yeah. Prefer that.”
Jack hovers just behind your shoulder now—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the shift of his weight when you adjust yours.
He leans in slightly, voice low, for you.
“Breakfast tomorrow,” he murmurs. “Is it gonna be more… anti-inflammatory punishment?”
You don’t look at him. “Depends.”
“On?”
“How much you told Robby.”
He exhales a quiet, disbelieving breath, your words just for each other as the others get to work. “Just the basics. Nothing bad, just the weird bunny mask roleplay you’re into,” he jokes. “And I am not moody.”
“Debatable.”
“Reactionary to my dire circumstances some might say,” he mutters.
“You’re ridiculous.” You remark.
There’s the smallest pause. Then, softer, a bit quick, to make sure you know he means nothing bad by it—
“You look lovely, by the way. And I’d eat oxygen if you made it for me, promise. I love all your cleansing meals.”
You don’t respond to that. Not here, a small smile twitching at the corner of your lips.
“Secure it,” Park says, already moving on mentally. “Get him upstairs.”
You guide Whitaker through the final positioning, hands precise, controlled.
Jack steps back, watching you finish the job.
Still looking at you like that.
By the time you strip your gloves off, the room already shifting on, Robby’s watching you. Not subtle about it, an amused hint behind his tired eyes.
“When do you clock off?” you ask, tossing the gloves.
“An hour ago,” he says. “I stay for the live show now. Better than anything on TV.”
You huff. “How is he doing?”
Robby considers that, eyes narrowing like he’s actually weighing it up.
“Clinically?” he says. “Great. On top of it, always is. It’s annoying.”
“And not clinically?” you prompt.
He tilts his head. “Mm… a little rougher than usual,” he admits. “But he’s dramatic. You know ‘im.”
You grin. “Yeah, I do. It’s cute.”
“That’s certainly a word for it,” he mutters, jerking his chin subtly across the room. “Because he looks like he’s about to file a formal complaint with God.”
You follow the glance—Jack, shoulders tight, jaw set, mid-conversation with Park like he’s holding himself together out of sheer professionalism.
You look back, unfazed. “It’s temporary.”
Robby studies you for a beat, then huffs a laugh. “You’re enjoying this.”
You don’t even try to hide it. “A little bit. It’s fifty-fifty. It’s fun seeing him worked up, it’s annoying because we do have great sex. And I know that isn’t TMI for you because he tells me worse about your sex life.” You pause, then add, “Didn’t realise Hastings was so freaky.”
“Jesus,” Robby exhales, scratching at his beard. “You’ve been around him too long.”
“Occupational hazard,” you shrug.
He shakes his head, but there’s a smile tugging at it now despite himself.
There’s a small pause, then—more casually—
“Soup was good, by the way.”
You blink. “The vegetable one?”
“Yeah,” he nods. “Don’t tell him I said that.”
“He called it punishment.”
“He’s wrong,” Robby shrugs. “I had two bowls.”
You brighten, just a fraction. “See? Someone has taste.”
“Let’s not get carried away,” he says. “It’s still soup.”
You laugh under your breath.
He glances around, then back to you. “I think Shark’s already ditched you,” he adds, nodding toward the empty space where Park had been.
You swear quietly. “Fuck. Whatever. Nice seeing you.”
“You too,” he says, stepping aside.
You pass Jack on your way out, offering him a light, professional smile like nothing’s off at all.
“See you at home in a few hours.”
He watches you go, something unreadable flickering across his face.
“Love you,” he calls after you anyway, voice a little rough, arms folded as the room empties out.
“Love you too,” you say as you hurry out, not turning back.
You’re gone. Whitaker stands there for a second, still blood-specked, brain clearly lagging behind everything that just happened.
“I’m… still a bit confused about—” he gestures vaguely between where you were and where Jack is now, “—that.”
Jack shoots him a look. Then Robby. Then just shakes his head, already walking.
“Hey, what have you told her about me and Noelle?” Robby asks, following after, quiet, a bit antsy now.
Jack shakes his head immediately. “Nothing much, just the leash stuff you’re into. Anyway, I think you’re sleep deprived, man. Time to clock off, daywalkers.”
★★★
Day Twenty Nine.
“So, how’re we doing?” you ask, already halfway into the break room fridge like it’s part of your job description.
McKay and Santos are at the table with lunch. McKay looks as composed as ever—tired, but functional. Santos, on the other hand, looks like someone who has emotionally moved on from her entire relationship with Garcia but hasn’t informed her nervous system yet.
“Great,” Santos says immediately. Then, after a beat: “I stopped yoga.”
You glance over. “Why?”
“Pulled my calf,” she replies. “Turns out inner peace is physically unsafe.”
“Unfortunate,” you say, finding Jack’s labelled container and closing the fridge.
McKay watches you sit down. “That his lunch?”
“Yeah.”
“Doesn’t he need that later?” she asks.
“He’ll order takeout,” you say easily. “I’m doing him a favour. He keeps eating the stuff I make, even though I know he hates it, I think he thinks suffering is his virtue.”
Santos snorts. “He and Garcia would get along in a really unbearable way.”
You glance at her. “You miss her.”
She points at you with her fork. “Don’t.”
“You brought her up first.”
“That’s because you brought up food and suffering in the same sentence,” she shoots back. “It’s a trigger.”
McKay, calmly: “You both need to stop talking.”
You ignore her. You exhale, rubbing at your temple. You feel… weird. Wired. Like your body’s trying to replace one habit with ten others. You’ve thought about buying something three separate times this morning. Shoes, candles, a ridiculous blender you don’t need. You haven’t, obviously. Discipline. Wellness. Enlightenment.
“Where’s Robby?” you ask. “I can split this with him.”
“Talking to Gloria,” Santos says. “Looks like he’s in a mood. Snapped at Whitaker.”
“Great,” you mutter. “Two moody old attendings. Love that for you guys. I think Park might actually be more regulated than either of them.”
McKay doesn’t push it, just turns her attention back to you, calmer. “You’ve been very… consistent with this whole detox thing. Very controlled. Composed.”
Santos squints at you. “Almost spiritual, honestly. It’s impressive.”
You blink. “It’s just discipline.”
McKay hums. “Most people don’t call not having sex for a few weeks ‘discipline.’ They call it ‘being busy.’ Or just not having a high libido.”
You sigh, too quickly. “I’m just… glad it’s nearly over. I think Jack’s actually counting down the days.”
McKay tilts her head slightly at that but doesn’t bite yet, a slight purse in her lips. She makes eye contact with Santos. Santos bites back a smile. McKay begins to shake her head, as if reading her mind..
Santos, however, immediately does.
“So,” she says, leaning forward, “what’s he like?”
McKay shoots her a warning look over her fork.
“What?” Santos says, unbothered. “I’m curious. You thought of it too.”
“Like… personality-wise?” you try.
Santos waves a hand. “No. Don’t be boring.”
McKay mutters, “Oh God.”
Santos continues anyway, delighted now. “Like sex-wise. Come on. There has to be a reason he’s walking around like a man personally victimised by fucking… yoga and vegetables.”
You nearly choke. “Santos—”
“What?” she says. “I’m just saying. There’s clearly a secret here. He’s what, fifty-something? Night shift ED attending? You know how fucked you have to be to be the attending on night shift? Robby level fucked up. And you’re—” she gestures vaguely at you, “you. So either he’s got some hidden advantage or you’ve all been lying to yourselves.”
McKay, dry as ever: “Please stop talking.”
Santos ignores her. “Am I wrong?”
You stare at her.
“That’s not an answer,” she says.
McKay finally looks at you properly now, faintly amused despite herself. “You do not have to answer that.”
“I’m not going to answer that,” you say immediately.
Santos leans back, offended. “Okay, so it’s missionary.”
You blink. “And that's my cue to leave.”
“Doggy?” she tries. “Am I warm? Am I cold?”
You stand up. “I’m very happy for you and your recovery from Garcia, truly.”
McKay actually smiles now. “This is why I eat alone.”
Then, casually—
“Do you guys have threesomes with Robby?” Santos adds. “Got a vibe there.”
You don’t even hesitate. “Constantly. He’s actually the glue holding the relationship together. Into weird shit.”
McKay exhales through her nose.
Santos tilts her head. “I don’t believe you.”
“That sounds like a you problem. We host swinger parties, come by next Thursday if you want.”
Santos rolls her eyes, somewhat disappointed by your sarcasm. At that exact moment, Dana walks in. She stops, looks between all of you, then sighs.
“Oh no,” she says, immediately clocking the energy. “We having a party? What are youse talkin’ about in here?”
“Nothing,” McKay says instantly.
Santos says at the same time, “Abbot’s sex life. Featuring Robby, too.”
Dana physically recoils. “Oh Jesus Christ, why?”
You look at her like salvation. “Help.”
Dana points at Santos without hesitation. “No. Absolutely not. I’m not bein’ dragged into whatever this is.”
Then she looks at you, and her whole face softens a little. She gives you a nod, as if to ask if you’re well. You give a nod back, a small smile.
Dana claps once, decisive. “Alright. Trauma two. You two. Now. Move it.”
Santos groans. “You’re ruining my research.”
Dana points again. “Move. It. Out.”
★★★
Day Thirty Two.
Your schedules have always been a mess.
Some weeks you overlap perfectly—same shifts, same hours, brushing past each other in hallways, stealing five minutes in empty consult rooms, syncing like it’s easy. Other weeks, like this one, you exist on completely different timelines.
Park needs you flexible. Jack is the schedule. So you miss each other.
You leave just as he’s getting in. He leaves while you’re dead asleep. Nights bleed into days, days into nights, and suddenly it’s been forty-eight hours of doubles and you’ve communicated more through texts and post-it notes than actual words.
Eat something.
You too.
Left food in the fridge.
Miss you.
Jack finally makes it back into the apartment, adrenaline high shaking in his veins, excited to finally see you, feel you.
He shuts the door behind him, exhales—and then pauses.
“How are you cooking after working that long, baby?” he calls out, already loosening up as he moves toward the kitchen. “Challenge is over, I am going to give you the best damn head of your life and then cuddle like—”
“I’d cuddle with you,” Robby says from the stove, “but I’m busy right now. Preferably not the head part, though.”
Jack thinks for a moment, a slow nod.
“…You are not my girlfriend.”
Robby glances over his shoulder, unimpressed. “I like to think of us as work husbands, but yeah. Good observation.”
Jack just stares at him for a second, processing.
Then—“Why are you in my apartment?”
Robby sighs, turning back to the pot like this is his burden to bear. “This is not turning out well.”
He gestures vaguely at the spaghetti bolognese like it’s personally offended him.
“I followed her recipe,” he adds.
Jack moves further in, slower now, dropping his bag, still trying to catch up, somewhat antsy as he taps the counter repeatedly. “Where is she? She texted me she was home.”
“Shops,” Robby says. “Said she needed a few things. Asked me to start this because she didn’t wanna get changed and dirty her clothes, a surprise, or something.”
A beat.
“I think I’ve screwed this up,” he admits.
Jack sinks onto the stool at the island, scrubbing a hand over his face. “How do you fuck up spaghetti?”
Robby turns to him, dead serious. “Who puts that much sugar in a sauce?”
Jack doesn’t even hesitate. “She does. It’s good.”
Robby squints. “It feels offensive.”
“It’s not,” Jack mutters. “It’s… you know, balanced.”
Robby gestures at the pot again. “It’s dessert.”
Jack leans forward, peering into it like he’s assessing a trauma. “Did you reduce it?”
“…Did I what?”
Jack looks at him slowly. “Oh my God.”
“I stirred the thing, I don't know,” Robby defends.
“Yeah, I’m sure that helped,” Jack says dryly, already pushing himself up despite the protest in his leg. “Move.”
Robby steps aside with zero resistance. “Be my guest, chef.”
Jack takes over, grabbing a spoon, tasting it, making a face—not terrible, but not right.
“You didn’t salt it properly,” he says.
“I salted it.”
“You absolutely did not. I can even smell the absence of salt.”
Robby watches him work for a second, then glances at him sideways. “You look like shit, by the way.”
“Feel like it,” Jack mutters.
“You two haven’t seen each other?”
“Not properly.”
Robby nods once, like that explains everything. Then—casual, but not really—“Once you finally get laid and stop being so damn dramatic, I need help with Noelle. Bring your girl if you want, I told her the two of you’d meet. Tomorrow night?”
Jack doesn’t even look up. “My girl and I will be very busy, if all goes well, so, unlikely.”
“…I hate knowing things about you,” Robby mutters.
Jack huffs, stirring the sauce.
The front door clicks open. Both of them look up.
“Robby, you didn’t salt it—I can smell it,” you call out immediately as you step inside, toeing off your shoes.
“Salting it now, sweetheart,” Jack shoots back, not missing a beat. He flicks Robby a look. Robby scoffs.
You come in fully then, arms loaded with shopping bags—Victoria’s Secret, a couple of clothing stores, something small and overpriced in tissue paper. You were pretty keen to break that no shop rule, apparently.
“When’d you get back?” you ask.
“Five minutes ago,” Jack says, already moving toward you. “You walk? I would’ve picked you up.”
“I was trying to surprise you,” you say, smiling. “Robby wasn’t supposed to be part of it.”
“Shocking,” Robby mutters.
You barely register him—because Jack’s right there, closer now, and you really do not care about some cleansing shit anymore. You grab his shirt and pull him in, kissing him quick—warm, familiar, a little rushed like you’re making up for lost time in a single second.
You pull back just as fast.
“You look like shit,” you tell him, joking and dry.
“Yeah,” he says, softer now. “You look… really good.”
His hand slides up, brushing through your hair, lingering there a second longer than necessary.
You clear your throat, stepping away first. “Okay, how bad did he fuck the sauce?”
“I did not fuck the sauce that bad,” Robby says.
You move to the stove, peering in, grabbing a spoon. Taste. Pause.
“…It’s not that bad,” you admit. “Maybe a bit more sugar, not enough salt.”
Robby throws his hands up. “Of course it does. Why not throw chocolate in there while we’re at it?”
“Don’t tempt me,” you say lightly.
Robby exhales, grabbing his jacket. “Alright. I’m off. Dana’s gonna love that I delayed my shift because I was domestic here.”
“Tell her I said hi,” you call.
“I’m not telling her anything,” he mutters, heading out.
He pauses at the door, glances back at the two of you—at the way you’ve both unconsciously drifted closer again without noticing.
“Don’t give him a heart attack. At that age you never know,” he adds.
“Out!” Jack says.
Robby leaves.
The door shuts.
And just like that—
It’s quiet. No monitors. No pages. No interruptions. Just you and him. You don’t move at first, still standing by the stove, spoon in hand. He’s leaning against the island, watching you. Really watching you.
“Day Thirty Two, by the way,” he says.
“Really? Didn’t notice,” You shrug.
He nods, coming up besides you, watching as you stir the sauce.
“This is gonna take ages. He didn’t reduce anything. Useless,” You murmur, mostly sarcastic, as you look at it.
“Oh, you know Robby,” Jack sighs. “Can’t do anything right.”
You put the lid on top, lowering it to a simmer. You hum to yourself, feeling Jack’s eyes on you.
“C’mere,” he says.
You step in between his legs, your gaze dragging over him as his hands catch your waist, pulling you in. His grip is heavy, grounding, sliding over your hips like he’s relearning the shape of you after weeks of not touching.
“This alright?” he asks, quieter now—though his hand dips, squeezing your ass through the thin fabric of your dress.
You nod.
“Speak,” he adds, low.
“Yes.”
That does something to him. You see it—jaw tightening, breath shifting, his eyes darkening as they move over you slowly, deliberately. Chest. Lips. Eyes again.
“What am I gonna do with you?” he murmurs.
His hand comes up, sliding to the back of your neck, fingers spreading there, warm and steady. He tilts your face up, thumb brushing along your jaw, holding you in place like he’s taking his time deciding something.
You can’t quite read him. It’s too much at once.
His thumb drifts lower, pausing at your bottom lip. You hesitate—barely—but he notices.
“Go on,” he murmurs, giving a small nod.
You do. Tongue slow, tentative at first, wrapping your mouth around the digit, then steadier, your focus slipping as his breathing changes—subtle, but not enough to hide it. His shoulders pull back slightly, tension running through him like he’s holding himself in check.
He exhales, eyes still locked on you.
“Yeah,” he mutters under his breath.
“Want another?” he asks after a second, voice rougher now.
“Mhm.”
He moves his index and middle, thumb dropped to your chin, your saliva coating your jaw slightly as you suck the digits. He watches you for a beat longer, like he’s considering pushing it further—then drags his hand away instead, jaw tightening again.
“Bedroom,” he says, quieter, but it lands just as firm.
His other hand slides down your side, lifting the hem of your dress just enough to make his gaze dip—brief, restrained—before he turns you, your back to his chest, guiding you away.
“I’m running on an adrenaline high from work, I’m gonna fuck you, then we’re gonna cuddle and sleep for twelve hours,” he adds, voice low behind you. “That sound good to you?”
You turn your head, looking at him behind you. “Love you too,” You give him a quick kiss to his lips, feeling him smile from that.
You head down the hall, already pulling the dress up and over your head, not looking back—but you can feel his eyes on you until you disappear.
Behind you, the stove clicks off.
A second later, you hear him move—quick now, like whatever control he had left is running out.
“You know, I was talking to Santos about our whole… challenge,” you start, slipping your dress off and draping it over the chair. You catch your reflection in the mirror, thumb swiping under your eye to fix the faint smudge of mascara. “Turns out she lasted all of ten days before she slept with Garcia.”
He huffs a quiet breath against your shoulder, voice rough where it meets your skin. “So all that torture for nothing?”
“Torture’s dramatic,” you murmur, but there’s a smile tugging at it.
“You did it on purpose,” he counters, hand sliding up to cup your tit, squeezing through the fabric of your bra like he’s testing a theory he already knows the answer to. “Walkin’ around in those… stupid shorts, the yoga, that little nightgown—won’t even kiss me, won’t even touch me.” His thumb drags slow, deliberate. “You know what that does to a man? That kind of taunting?”
You let your head tip back against his shoulder, soft, unbothered on the surface even as your breath shifts. “I think I’ve got an idea.”
“Yeah?” His mouth finds the space under your ear, kisses turning slower, heavier—less rushed now, more deliberate. He sucks at your neck, groaning low when you push back into him, feeling the way he’s already half-hard under your touch.
You turn suddenly, hands braced on his shoulders, guiding him back until his knees hit the mattress. “I lied,” you admit, pressing him down to sit. “About not touching myself.”
His brows lift, something amused and dark flickering there as his hands move instinctively—reaching behind you, unclipping your bra with practiced ease. “You? Lie?” he mutters, watching as you pull it off and toss it aside. “What happened to Miss Wellness Mary Magdalene?”
You barely get a breath out before his hands are back on you, over your tits, fingers pinching at your nipples, rougher now, less patient—palming, shaping, like he’s reacquainting himself. His mouth follows, pressing to your tits, tongue warm, stubble dragging just enough to make you jolt.
“It’s bullshit,” you breathe, the words breaking as he closes his mouth around your nipples, the sensation sharp and grounding all at once. “I was miserable the whole time.”
“Yeah?”
“Mm. The vegetable soup was shit. I miss my phone. Yoga is boring. I like tequila,” you say, feeling his chuckle vibrate against your skin as he kisses over your sternum.
“What else?”
“I like sex,” you tell him, whimpering as his teeth drag over your nipple briefly, the sharp tug making your core clench. His other hand travels over your stomach to the pink panties, fidgeting with the sides of the material over your hip.
You climb onto him, knees spreading wide beside his thighs, your body hovering just above his. “I really like it when you touch me. I like touching you. I like when—” He cups your clothed pussy, his palm pressing firmly against the damp fabric.
“You like that?” he wonders, voice low and almost casual, watching as you moan at the contact, your arousal soaking through the panties instantly. “Speak, sweetheart.”
“You know I like that,” you gasp, grinding down against his hand instinctively.
He nods. “Damn right I do,” His fingers slip beneath the edge of your panties, tracing the slick folds of your pussy with deliberate slowness, teasing the entrance before pushing one thick digit inside you.
The intrusion is warm and welcome, stretching you just enough to make you clench around him. He curls it slowly, stroking that sensitive spot deep within your walls, the pad of his finger rubbing in firm, unhurried circles that make your thighs tremble and your breath hitch.
You rock against his hand, chasing the building pressure. He adds a second finger without warning, scissoring them gently to open you up, then pumping them in and out with deliberate thrusts—shallow at first, then deeper, his knuckles brushing your clit on every inward slide.
His thumb finds your clit, circling it with rough, insistent pressure, alternating between tight loops and light flicks that draw out breathy cries from your lips. The wet sounds of his fingers fucking you fill the room mingling with your moans as he watches your face intently, eyes dark with hunger, drinking in every twitch and gasp.
“How about this? You like it when I fuck you with my fingers?” he asks, his voice a gravelly rumble, free hand gripping your hip to steady your grinding.
“Mhm,” you whine, riding his hand harder now, your pussy fluttering around the invading digits as they twist and probe, hitting that spot again and again.
He slides in a third finger, gently stretching you out, the fullness making you gasp as he kisses at your neck, lips hot and sucking lightly on the skin. You moan into his mouth when he claims your lips in a messy kiss, tongues tangling as his fingers maintain their rhythm—curling, thrusting, spreading you wider with each pass.
He varies the pace, slowing to a torturous drag that lets you feel every ridge and vein on his fingers, then speeding up to plunge deep and fast, his palm slapping wetly against your mound.
“That’s right, atta girl, doin’ so well, aren’t you?” he murmurs against your throat, nipping at the pulse point while his thumb resumes those relentless circles on your clit, pressing harder now, building the ache into something electric.
He watches as you ride his fingers, your juices dripping down his wrist, the obscene squelch growing louder with every movement.
“What’d you think of when you touched yourself, honey? You thinka me?”
You nod frantically, words caught up in your moans, your walls clenching tighter around him. “Uh-huh,” you whine as he curls his fingers deeper into you, hooking them to stroke that bundle of nerves with precision, his other hand sliding up to pinch and roll your nipple, adding sparks of sensation everywhere.
He keeps you teetering, easing off just when you get close—pulling his fingers almost all the way out before slamming them back in, thumb pausing its circles to let the tension simmer. Then he ramps it up again, fingers pistoning faster, thumb vibrating against your swollen clit. Sweat beads on your skin, your breaths coming in short, desperate pants as the coil in your belly winds impossibly tight.
“C’mon, baby, let go f’me,” he murmurs, kissing at your neck with open-mouthed presses, his teeth grazing your earlobe.
He feels as you tense and tighten around his fingers, hips bucking erratically, thighs quivering you come undone, jaw agape as your body stills over him, warm and melting.
“You come when you touch yourself?” he asks, quieter now.
His hand leaves you, trailing over your hips as he guides you back onto the bed. You go easily, breath unsteady, the anticipation settling into something heavier as you lie there, bare and waiting.
You shake your head.
“You?” you ask, your hand drifting instinctively over yourself, fingers trailing over your core, testing the sensitivity, your eyes flicking back to him.
He gives a short shake of his head, rolling his neck once like he’s trying to keep himself together.
“Still got enough in you?” you murmur, a little teasing. “Or did that shift kill you?”
He huffs a breath—half laugh, half something tighter. “I’d find the energy,” he says, stepping out of his scrubs, not taking his eyes off you. “Don’t worry about that.”
You watch him move, slower now but deliberate, like he’s pacing himself instead of rushing it.
“You wanna take that off?” you start, glancing down to his prosthetic.
He follows your gaze, then looks back at you. “In a minute,” he says, already leaning over you again. “Wanna make sure I remember what you taste like first.”
He slides a pillow beneath your head, then gently eases your knees apart. You give a small nod. When his tongue traces slowly across your center, your body responds instantly—back arching, breath catching. His palm presses firmly against your stomach, keeping you anchored.
“Stay still f’me, can you, baby?” He murmurs against you, barely enough for you to hear.
You gasp his name between ragged breaths, managing to nod yes, your fingers threading through his salt-and-pepper curls. His mouth moves against you with deliberate patience—soft yet demanding—and your lungs empty completely, replaced by something molten and urgent.
“Atta girl, you feel good yeah, baby?” He hums.
You nod fast. Your thighs tremble against his shoulders as he tastes you with unhurried determination, as though time has ceased to exist beyond this bed, beyond this moment. When his tongue finds that perfect rhythm, that perfect spot, coherent thought dissolves into desperate pleas that barely form words.
He groans against your center, vibrating against you as you claw at his nape, nails digging into his sun-kissed, freckled skin with desperate urgency. “God, fuck, I missed this,” you say,
His tongue, slick and insistent, flicks against your clit, drawing out your orgasm with relentless precision. You feel the heat of your release coating his tongue, his lips, and he devours it hungrily, as if it's the sweetest nectar he's ever tasted.
“Please, please, fuck,” You mumble, brain foggy as his tongue sweeps over you with a kind of desperation of a starving man.
His fingers digging into your hips, holding you in place as he feasts on you. You can feel his hot breath against your sensitive flesh, his tongue delving into every crevice, every fold as you come undone, moans loud to the point where you throw your hand over your mouth, biting down into your palm.
You let out a shaky breath, head back as he kisses your inner thighs, gentle, stubble coated in your orgasm before he climbs back over you, kissing you, deep, as you taste yourself on his tongue.
“Once I wake up—after fucking you—obviously,” He murmurs against you, sloppy tongues colliding. “I’ll do that for three hours, until you can’t walk, alright?”
You moan at the thought, nodding. You believe him because he’s done it on many occasions. You think he just likes doing it to get you to go to sleep sometimes or knock you out and he can take care of you or something. That and he just entirely gets off on you.
“Fuck willpower,” He says against you as he briefly tests your folds with fingers over your sensitive clit, watching your mouth open in a small whine, lashes fluttering, another hand pulling your body even closer, as you wrap your legs around his waist. “Fuck being cleansed, alright?”
“Mm,” You say, watching as he swallows, you’re watching maybe the toll of his shift start to come back physically and you move your hands to his cheek, away from where’d he place them above your head.
You don’t say anything, just still him briefly, eyes wide, a nod, a check in. He nods, mouth twitching in a smile.
He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, pushing them down with a practiced ease born from years of undressing after long shifts. His cock hard and eager, his breath hitching as you wrap your hand around his length, your touch sending electric shocks through him.
You spit into your palm, the wet sound echoing in the quiet room, and he groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through him. Your hand moves over his cock, slick and smooth, your fingers tracing the veins, your thumb rubbing over the sensitive head. He curses under his breath, a string of words that would make a sailor blush, his hips jerking forward, seeking more of your touch.
“Shit… fucking hell– You keep doing that this is gonna a lot quicker than I mentally planned for.” He tells you.
“What’d you mentally plan for?” You chuckle, a low, sultry sound that sends shivers down his spine, your hand never pausing in its slow, torturous rhythm.
“Well, six hours of foreplay,” he moves his cock over your pussy, gliding it over your folds, amused by your gasp of a moan. “Six hours of shower sex, kitchen, couch, each. Obviously six… emotionally… intelligent, beautiful conversation about life and marriage. Ever thought about wanting a third?”
“I don’t know, have you?” You murmur, watching as he taunts you as he moves his cock over your pussy, the head slipping through your folds, coating itself in your wetness. You gasp, your back arching, your hips lifting to meet him. He groans, his eyes fluttering closed, savoring the feel of you.
“Christ,” He murmurs, absentmindedly, then, with a slow, steady push, he slides into you, his cock filling you completely. You moan, your nails digging into his back, your body arching into his. “Maybe. I don’t know. We can talk about this later.”
He’s still for a moment, body hot and warm above you as his hand grips onto your hips. You let out a shaky breath and smile. “You alright there, old man?”
“Heavenly,” he says quite earnestly, leaning to kiss you down at your neck. “Missed this. God, it’s like you’re made for me. So goddamn perfect.”
You clench slightly at his words, hearing as he groans at that, vibrating against your skin. A moment passes before you start getting desperate for action.
“Please move, baby,” You ask, looking up at him with eagerness.
“‘Course, whatever you want, sweetheart,” He kisses your lips softly, before moving.
Pulling out slowly before sliding back in, his pace steady and sure. With each thrust, he swallows your moans with his kisses, his hands tangling in your hair, his body pressing you into the mattress. You can feel every inch of him, every ridge and vein, and it's perfect.
His tongue dances with yours, exploring your mouth, tasting you. His hand tangles in your hair, his grip firm but not painful, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. You moan into his mouth, your body arching into his, your nails digging into his back.
He pulls back, his breath ragged, his eyes dark with desire. "You feel so good," he murmurs, his voice hoarse. "So fucking good."
You can only nod, your words lost in the pleasure that's coursing through your veins. He starts to move faster, his hips snapping forward, his cock sliding in and out of you with increasing urgency. You can feel the pleasure building, the tension coiling in your belly, your pussy clenching around him.
His hand travels from your hair to your face, cupping your cheek, keeping your eyes on him. You gasp, your eyes fluttering closed, your body arching into his touch. He groans, his cock twitching inside you at the sight of you losing yourself in his touch.
He gently moves two fingers down your chest and stomach, landing at your core, above where he fucks you. He circles your clit, his touch firm and steady, drawing tight circles that make your hips buck off the bed. You let out a low moan, your body tensing, your breath coming in short gasps.
He can see your arousal coating his cock, your slick gathering around the base, and it spurs him on. He leans down, his lips finding your ear. "You like that, don't you?" he murmurs, his voice low and rough. "You like feeling me stretch you, filling you up?"
“Yes, yes, mhm,” you try, nails moving from his back to his biceps, hard and taught beneath your touch.
He starts to move faster, his hips slamming into you, his cock sliding in and out of you with increasing urgency. You can feel the pleasure building, the tension coiling in your belly, your pussy clenching around him.
His weight edges off just enough, bracing more through his arms and left side, breath going a touch uneven where it presses against your shoulder. Not stopping—he’d push through it if you let him—but compensating. You feel it.
Your hands slide up his back, slower now, anchoring “Take it off, baby,” you murmur softly, glancing down toward the prosthetic. “You’ve had it on too long.”
He eases to a stop, controlled, careful not to jostle you as he shifts his weight fully off. You guide him back with you, hands steady at his sides, both of you moving without needing to overthink it—this part practiced, familiar.
He settles against the pillows with a small exhale, rolling his shoulder once as if resetting himself. You stay close, one hand resting at his hip, the other brushing briefly up his chest—grounding, not rushing him.
He reaches down, undoing the prosthetic with efficient movements, years of muscle memory. There’s no awkwardness to it, no self-consciousness—just a small release in his face as it comes free. You take it from him without comment, setting it at the foot of the bed like you always do.
“Better?” you ask, thumb tracing idly along his side.
He nods once, eyes flicking back to you, something softer under the edge of want. “Yeah. C’mere.”
You shift back over him, settling in close again, your knees bracketing his hips, easy and familiar. You lean down to kiss him, long and sweet, less immodest as your other ones, maybe. Just maybe, as his hands immediately find your ass, helping your back arch into him, cock still hard as you slide over it, folds wet and sensitive.
“God, you’re–” He groans as you bite at his bottom lip, pulling it back, as you kiss down his chest. “Gonna be the death of me.”
You lean down, your tongue flicking out to taste his skin, tracing a path down his chest, over his stomach, until you reach the V that leads to his cock. You look up at him, your eyes meeting his, and you can see the anticipation in them.
You take your time, your tongue sliding over his shaft, from base to tip, feeling him pulse under your touch.
“Great way to go,” he murmurs as he watches you.
You take him into your mouth, feeling him slide over your tongue, your lips stretching to accommodate him. He groans, his hand finding your hair, not pulling, just gripping, as you take him deeper, your mouth warm and wet. You can feel him, hard and throbbing, and you know he's close, with how his arms tighten and tense, fingers tighter on your scalp.
You pull back, your tongue flicking over the head of his cock, tasting the precum that beads at the tip. You sit back, straightening your spine, and look at him. His eyes are on you, hungry and intense.
You spit on his cock, watching as the saliva slides down his shaft, making it glisten in the soft light. You rise up, your knees bracketing his hips, and lower yourself onto him, feeling him slide into you, inch by inch.
“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck,” you whimper as you settle on top, nails over his chest.
He groans, his hands finding your hips, holding you in place as he thrusts up into you. You can feel him, deep and hard, filling you completely. You start to move, your body rolling and grinding against him, your hips moving in a slow, steady rhythm.
His hands roam over your body, one staying on your hip, guiding your movements, the other trailing up your stomach, over your breasts, squeezing them, his thumb brushing over your nipple. You gasp, your head falling back.
His thumb circling your nipple, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. He starts to talk you through it, his voice slow and steady, a counterpoint to the fast, hard rhythm of your bodies. "You're so fucking beautiful, riding me like this. God- so tight and wet for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?"
His words send a shiver through you, your body tensing, your breath hitching in your throat.
“Yeah? Yeah, that’s right, that’s right," he mutters. “C’mon, baby, right there f’me, you’re doing so good.”
“Please,” you moan, hips grinding down against him.
“You need help, honey? Just ask,” He sits up, his chest pressing against yours, his breath hot on your neck. He reaches between you, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles over the sensitive bundle of nerves.
You whine, your body arching into his touch, your hips moving in time with his fingers.
“C’mon, words for me,” he says, breathing heavily against you as he finds himself closer to the edge at how you clench down on him, tight and warm.
“Wanna cum,” you pant, your body tense, your breath coming in short gasps.
“Again? So greedy,” he mocks. “Go ‘head, you can do it”
His words push you over the edge. You move, your body rolling and grinding against him, your hips moving in a fast, frantic rhythm. You can feel it, the pleasure snapping, your body convulsing, your nails digging into his back, your mouth open in a silent scream.
"Good girl," he groans, his body tensing, his cock pulsing inside you. He follows you, his release hot and hard, filling you completely.
You collapse onto his chest, your body spent, your heart pounding in your ears. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close, his body still trembling with the aftermath. You can feel his heart beating in time with yours, and you know, in this moment, everything is right.
You stay there a little longer than you mean to, half sprawled over him, your cheek pressed to his chest, skin still warm, damp, real. His arm is draped around you—loose now, heavy with exhaustion—but his fingers keep moving anyway, absentminded, tracing slow patterns over your back like he can’t quite stop touching you yet.
Like he doesn’t want to.
You draw lazy shapes over his shoulder, connecting freckles you already know by heart, like it’s something you’ve done a hundred times—because you have.
“I love baseless temptations,” you murmur.
Jack lets out a quiet laugh, the sound low in his chest, vibrating under your cheek. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough but easy. “Me too.”
There’s something softer in it now. Not the edge from before. Just… him.
You shift slightly, listening to his breathing settle, feeling the way his body gives into the mattress—finally. Like he’s been holding himself upright all day and only now gets to stop.
“Fourteen hours,” you mumble, almost to yourself, remembering your insane schedules. “And you still managed to—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” he cuts in, dry.
You grin against his skin. “I was gonna say ‘impress me.’”
“Sure you were.”
“I was,” you insist, lifting your head to look at him properly. “Honestly, I thought you’d pass out.”
He cracks one eye open at that. “Have a little faith.”
“I do,” you say, brushing your thumb over his jaw, softer now. “I also have eyes. You look like you got hit by a truck.”
“Feel like it,” he mutters.
“Mm.” You lean down, press a brief kiss to his chest—nothing urgent, just there. “Still did good.”
He exhales a quiet laugh at that, head tipping back. “Christ. It’s alright, I’ll probably crash in twenty minutes. Took tomorrow off, at least.
You watch him for a second—really watch him. The lines of tension finally easing out of his face, the way his shoulders have dropped, the way he looks… settled. Not asleep, not yet. Just here. With you.
It hits you again, softer this time, how much of him is usually in motion—pulled in a hundred directions, needed everywhere at once—and how rare it is to have him like this. Still. Letting himself be here, with you, without reaching for the next thing.
You smooth your hand over his chest, slower now, grounding.
“You gonna keep up the meditation thing?” he asks, voice rough with the edge of sleep.
You huff quietly. “Probably not.” A beat. “Unless you’re suddenly interested.”
“Mm. I think I’ll stick to therapy,” he murmurs. Then, after a second, a little more awake—“You still think I need other hobbies?”
You glance at him, mouth curving. “No. I’m actually very supportive of your current hobby.” You lean in, kiss him soft. “Big fan. Please continue exclusively.”
He laughs into it, low and tired, something easy settling back into him.
“I’ll be right back,” you add, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “Gonna clean up, check the spaghetti. You’ll eat something, then we’ll watch Housewives in bed. Deal?”
“I can help, I’ll—”
“—Stay,” you cut in gently, pressing him back into the pillows. “I’ve spent a stupid amount of money while I was out this morning, this is more for me than it is for you, trust.” You tell, already slipping out from under the sheets.
You move around the room in one of his old shirts, easy, familiar—tidying, grabbing what you need, the quiet domestic rhythm of it settling everything back into place. It’s almost meditative, in a way that none of the actual meditation ever was. This is the version that works for you: him in the bed, you in the room, the soft comedown of it all.
When you come back, he hasn’t moved much. One arm over his eyes, breathing slower now, like he’s finally letting himself drop. You sit beside him, brush your hand over his chest again, then pass him a bowl.
“Eat, quick, before it gets cold,” you say.
He obeys, because of course he does, getting through a few bites before setting it aside with a quiet exhale.
You keep going, perched cross-legged beside him, the normalcy of it comforting after a month of physically pushing him away to be cleansed, when ironically, you feel more cleansed than ever to be near him.
There’s a pause.
“So,” you begin. “What was that thing you said? Earlier? About a third?”
He chuckles. “I was just kidding, hon,” he says, a little rough, like he’s not fully back yet. He presses a lazy kiss to your head. “Why?”
You tilt your chin up slightly, watching him. “I don’t know.” Your head ring vaguely with Santos’ words from the other day. He reads pretty quickly where your train of thought is going.
“Hypothetically. If you had to pick someone.” You ask.
He looks at you properly now, narrowing his eyes just a fraction like he’s trying to read the angle. Like there’s definitely a wrong answer here and he’d quite like to avoid it.
You just hold his gaze, completely neutral.
A beat passes. Something unspoken flickers between you—quick, familiar.
Who would you pick?
Who do you think I’d pick?
Are we about to say the same name?
“…Robby,” you both say at the same time.
There’s a pause. Then Jack lets out a quiet, disbelieving huff of laughter, shaking his head against the pillow. “Jesus Christ.”
You grin a little, unable to help it. “I mean—objectively—”
“He’d be… fucking insufferable about it,” Jack cuts in immediately. “You know he would.”
You refrain from commenting, leaving your spaghetti aside, as you open your computer. Jack groans, dragging a hand over his face. “He’d give me notes or something.”
You’ve got Housewives on your computer. It’s obviously the New York one, still early days - Season 4.
“So what happened in the mid-season finale again?” You ask as you settle against him.
“I barely remember, honestly,” He sighs. “Ramona’s being difficult, someone brought the wrong wine, it’s a mess. Cindy is great, though.”
His arm tightens around you again, a quiet, grounding squeeze.
The episode keeps playing. His commentary gets more frequent—dry, half-interested, pretending he’s above it while very clearly tracking every single detail.
You let it happen, tucked into him, warm, fed, a little tired in the best way.
Cleansed, in a way none of the yoga or herbal tea ever managed. Just this—him, you, the low hum of something ridiculous on screen, and the easy, familiar weight of being exactly where you’re meant to be.
a/n: i love this song! I got this though from when i watched a robby x abbot tiktok edit to my man on willpower, and if im desperate for inspo i go to my tiktok edits and see if i can spur some ideas, and i was like, oh maybe abbot like not fucking you or something because of some self care thing and i was like, god he’d never do that. he’s fucking whenever, life is short, he would want to treat his partner as much as he can mentally and physically handle i think. And then i was like. Wait, lets switch the beat…. anyway i had to restrain myself from writing more orlike writing everyday and unpacking different interactions. i wrote a scene where'd try to seduce you with his "slutty pyjamas" (his army uniform) and you gaf or something but i felt too much 2nd hand embarrasment. im so tired i have triivia to go to now i have no idea if this is good i just want it done so i caan study and work on the lawyer series!
DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT — cnc, primal play, uhm... some dub-con if you squint, bondage, the mask stays on, degradation, hair pulling, outdoor sex, blood!! reader is a little dumb and got injured, overstimulation, creampie, dex is taking his job way too seriously
1.3k words...
chased and fucked
you kept on running and running. giggling to yourself as you looked behind you. seeing him just walk after you. you hated that. oh my gosh, he wasn’t even trying. like he already knew how this would end.
so you turned a sharp corner. sprinting faster. putting as much distance between the two of you as possible. your breaths came out in quick bursts. your lungs burned. you ran and ran that you didn’t notice the silence behind you.
you looked over your shoulder. nothing. maybe he took the wrong turn or he lost you? your heartbeat disagreed.
is this how his fucking victims feel?
you swallowed hard before slipping into another narrow alley. trying to catch your breath. then your foot landed on an old can. it rolled loudly across the pavement.
you stumbled. your knees slammed against the concrete and pain bloomed instantly. blood trickled down your skin. “...ow…”
as you looked up, there he was. already standing at the end of the alley. watching. he started walking again. not hurried. not excited. fuck, you don’t understand. every step echoed. you instinctively crawled backwards. which got you more confused because that is literally your boyfriend. why would you be scared?
“dex…” another step. “wait... wait…” closer. “i can’t... my... my knees…” closer. “can we…” he stopped right in front of you. then lowered himself onto one knee. one arm rested lazily over his thigh. his head tilted. like you had just asked the dumbest question imaginable.
those eyes. god.
even if he was wearing his mask, his eyes were so expressive that it made you wonder so many emotions in there. confusion. curiosity. amusement. excitement. excitement?
you couldn’t breathe. you reached for his sleeve. your fingers lightly tapped against his arm. “...please?”
he simply looked at your hand. and back at you.
his hand went to the wound on your knee. tracing the blood. “hurts, baby? want me to stop?”
you were confused by his tone. unsure whether or not he was serious or mocking you. either way, you nodded so stupidly.
“that sucks.” he simply responded. you could see him smiling through that mask from how his eyes lifted up. before you could even respond, his hands went under your skirt and ripped your panties off. well… you did purposely wear a skirt for better access but you did not expect him to just straight up rip your panties off in an alley.
you gasped as you immediately closed your legs. he slapped your thighs and kicked your legs apart. you whimpered in pain. you struggled and tried to push him but he easily caught your wrists together as he took his belt off.
“dex- wait-” you struggled again. groaning as you felt your knees aching and still bleeding.
he couldn’t care less. you hated how that made you wetter. this wasn’t your boyfriend who’s about to fuck you. this was bullseye.
he wrapped his belt around your wrists tightly. he fisted your hair then leaned into your ear. “need you to be quiet for me, pretty girl. can you do that?” his voice was a lot deeper and lower. the way it was slightly muffled by his mask did not help the achy feeling in your cunt. tears well up your eyes at how hard he was tugging. “answer me.” he growled in your ear as he tugged your hair harder. actually making your head yank back a little.
you quickly nodded. “yes… yes, dex.”
he simply nodded back before he unzipped his pants. then pulled his boxer down until his cock sprang out. you’ve never seen him harder before. it made you stare for a moment that you forgot that he was about to put that thing inside you. your eyes just widened and you shook your head as he slowly pushed the head inside.
your aching knee shook. which he noticed and put it on his broad shoulder while leaving the other on the ground.
he pushed further and further until he was filling you completely. more tears fell out because he was really stretching you out. his cock felt different or maybe that’s just because of how he is treating you. then he started thrusting inside. not gentle, not passionate. obviously not.
he was fucking you. absolutely fucking you.
he started at a rough, aggressive pace. the sound of your skins slapping together was so loud that it made you scared that people who are sleeping at this time would wake up to the sound and see what’s happening. which… made you clench tighter around him.
“you like this, huh? you wanna be a dirty whore and get fucked outside? is that it?” he pounded you faster and harder. his cock kept on reaching the deepest spot inside you. your tied hands held onto his arm as he was still fisting your hair. trying to pull away but wouldn’t work. you were too weak.
he turned his head to the side, seeing the blood all over your knees that was slowly dripping down your thigh as he kept it raised on his shoulder. he kissed it through his mask. the blood smudging over the fabric. probably the most romantic thing he’d done to you for the past couple of minutes.
you watched as he kissed down. your face was wet with tears. he stopped holding your hair. and delivered a sharp slap to your face before fucking you harder. your legs instinctively close together… which… was no use to him.
everything was so humiliating. you’re getting fucked in a dark alley and you’re literally bleeding and your cunt is getting stretched and-
“dex- i’m- i’m gonna-!” you panicked and whined. he grabbed your face with his free hand. squeezing your cheeks together. he leaned down further until you could feel his fast breathing against your neck.
“oh i know, sweet girl. i know. come on. be a nasty slut and come all over my cock.” his thrust was getting sloppier. he kissed your tears through his mask. your own blood that stuck to his mask smudged a little on your cheeks.
before you could moan again, you felt yourself cumming all over his cock. shaking and sobbing from the feeling. your legs wrapped around his waist.
he keeps pounding you through your orgasm as he chases his own. you whined and cried from overstimulation. trying to push him but he pinned you on the dirty ground.
he let out a heavy whimper as he came inside you. burying his face on your neck. he pounded slowly as he buried his cum inside you. “oh fuck…” he groaned.
you both panted for a while. then he moved. pulling his cock out and tucking it back inside his pants as he watches you. still sobbing and shaking.
he gently helped you sit up. the moment you were steady, you let yourself melt against his chest with a tired sigh. without a word, he reached for the belt still secured around your wrists. his fingers worked carefully, making sure not to rub against the reddened skin as he loosened it. once it slipped free, he set it aside. his hand came up beneath your chin, lifting your head just enough to look at you. you were smiling.
he let out a long, quiet sigh. “this is the only time,” he murmured. “you hear me?” his thumb brushed lightly over the scrape on your knee before he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. “i’m serious.”
you only smiled wider, eyes soft and entirely unconvinced. knowing that this surely won’t be the last time because all you need to do next time is to bat your lashes at him. it’s that easy.
sammy bryant, who takes his gf to a pool party and gets lots of jeers along the lines of "do you know what to do with all that?" from his coworkers as she lays out in a lounge chair in a cute little bikini.
yes anon. YES! such a lovely idea i hope i brought it to life properly <3
thinking about how sammy bryant and everyone else thinks you’re way out of his league.
it started with the obvious, you were the most beautiful person he’d ever laid eyes on. sammy was all nervous and tongue tied around you from the moment you came into the department as an important witness for one of his cases. it took about three months of coming around for questioning and also just stopping by to ‘stay updated’ before you had to be embarrassingly direct. “sammy? are you ever gonna ask me out or should i stop with the muffin and coffee visits?” he had been absolutely baffled that you wanted to date him.
and so was everyone else at the station. you started coming around more often, no longer a witness but as his girlfriend. you charmed everyone instantly with your sweet personality, bubbly conversations, and of course… you’re hot at shit. all the detectives can’t keep their eyes off you when you prance into the department in a tiny skirt and lunch that you made for sammy.
and they especially can’t look away right now. in the backyard of one of the detectives houses as you sit in the cutest little bikini with bows on it. you’re stretched out on one of the lounge chairs giggling and getting to know to the other girlfriends and wives of sammy’s coworkers. sammy is at the grill with all the other guys, uncomfortably flipping burgers while they all jeer at him.
they start off strong with their taunts. “you payin’ her sammy?” and “how much prison time did ya threaten her with if she didn’t date you?”. sammy is beet red at this point. he’s about to snap and pull up the sex tape the two of you made last night where you were sobbing from how good he made you feel, when the new rookie chimes in. “yeah bryant. do you even know what to do with all that?”
“of course i do!” his angry yell rings out through the backyard. everyone turns their head at the noise. sammy looks around sheepishly at the wide eyes he gets. he finds yours that are filled with concern “everything okay sammy?”. he nods once, then turns back to the grill as the other detectives double over in laughter.
little do they know, on the other side of the pool you’re telling the other women that sammy bryant knows exactly what to do with ‘all that’.
"you've seriously gotten a noise complaint!?" one of the wives asks you. you giggle through your response, probs too tipsy and oversharing. "we've gotten so many i stopped keeping track! what can i say? he always makes me scream." all jaws drop to the floor, mascara'd eyes blowing wide at your words. "really?" a blonde asks you in disbelief. you scoff and shrug casually as if what you're about to say is the bare minimum. “big time. it’s because he makes sure i come at least twice before he even tries to have sex. never settles ladies." all female eyes curiously trail across the yard to your boyfriend with a newfound respect for the man that apparently keeps you more than satisfied.
you're feeling wayyy too comfortable at this point, so you're a little glad when you hear sammy's voice cut through your next admission. "oh and! he does this thing with his tongue that makes me literally black out right when he-" "baby?" your head snaps to your boyfriend who is now only a few feet away. he has a plate of food put together for you of everything you like without you even having to ask. all the women clock it, then glare at their partners who are already eating at the outdoor table. sammy looks very flushed as he hands it to you, most definitely from hearing your words.
actually, all of the detectives hear your words. but not from you. nope, sammys coworkers got an earful about your amazing sex life later that night at home from their spouses. the next day at the station, they all stare at sammy as if they've never seen him before.
sammy's instantly flustered and heavily confused at the almost astonished looks he's receiving. it isn't until the same rookie who had questioned his abilities the previous night comes up to him and says, "hey man... if you're ever um- givin' out any tips for... y'know- i would uh, appreciate it." that he understands that everyone now knows exactly how he gets a girl like you to date him.
how i'd love to go to paris again (and again) | j. abbot & m. robinavitch
pairing jack abbot x fem!reader x michael robinavitch
summary after jack casually floats the idea of adding a third, you don’t let it stay theoretical for long—what starts as curiosity turns into something a lot more real when robby gets pulled into the space you and jack have built together. (#threesometime #neverforgetchallengers) (ao3)
tags/warnings MDNI (18+) explicit sexual content, age gap (mid-20s / 50s), established relationship with you and jack, living together, unlabelled jack and robby sexualities (bi?), attempt at a true love triangle (et tu, challengers (2024) except no cheating & u and jack r <3. but rabbot under(over?)tones), unprotected p in v, oral (f/m, m/f) handjobs (f/m, m/m), masturbation, praise & teasing, dom!ish robby, bratty!ish reader, lowkey switch/softdom jack idk, finger sucking, domestic, drinking, brief hospital/medical stuff / orthopaedics (r3), porn with... context?, hint at robby internalised homophobia? possibly ooc for jack sorry, title reference to the 1975 but not inspired by the song more just bad pun bc... paris... threesome... get it
wc 18.3k words
spin off of the fic: my (wo)man on willpower | j. abbot - can be read solo!
Robby doesn’t look confused so much as… unconvinced.
He sits back in the booth, one arm slung along the backrest, beer loose in his hand, eyes moving between you and Jack like he’s watching a consult go sideways.
“…You two wanna try that again,” he says, slow, “but in English this time?”
Jack huffs under his breath, already regretting opening his mouth. He drags a hand over his jaw, glancing at you like he’s half-tempted to pull the plug on the whole thing.
“Told you,” he mutters, low. “Bad pitch.”
You nudge his knee under the table—not hard, just enough. Don’t bail.
Robby catches it. Of course he does. His eyes flick down, then back up, something sharpening.
“Oh, don’t tap out now,” he says, leaning forward, forearms braced on the table. “You brought it up. I’m listening.”
Jack opens his mouth again—
“—No,” Robby cuts him off, not even looking at him. “She talks.”
There’s that tone. The one he uses with residents when they’re dancing around something obvious. Not unkind. Just… direct. Your breath catches for half a second. Not nerves exactly—more the weight of being looked at like that. Seen through, a little.
Jack glances at you, something softer there now. A small nod. Go on.
You shift in your seat, tucking one leg under you slightly, grounding yourself before you speak.
“It’s not… open,” you start, careful. “We’re not looking to—change anything. Not really.”
Robby watches you the whole time. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t fill the silence for you.
“It’s just—” you exhale, a small, almost embarrassed huff of a laugh, “—we trust you. Both of us do. And you’ve been… there. With us. For a while.”
“Unfortunately,” he mutters.
Jack snorts. “Speak for yourself.”
But Robby doesn’t look away from you.
You hold his gaze. “It’s not random. It’s not… about finding some person to fool around with. It’s you.”
That lands. You see it in the way his jaw shifts, just slightly. The humour doesn’t disappear, but it tightens around the edges.
“…Right,” he says, slower now.
Jack leans forward, elbows on the table, finally stepping back in. “It’s not a free-for-all,” he adds, dry. “We’re not pitching some kind of ER orgy.”
“Shame,” Robby says flatly.
You almost laugh, tension breaking for a second.
Jack shoots him a look. “Be serious for one second in your life.”
“I am serious,” Robby says. Then, to you—“I’m just making sure I understand what the hell you’re asking me.”
His gaze drops briefly—to your hands, the way they’re curled loosely around your glass—then back up again.
“What are you actually offering here?” he asks.
You hesitate—not because you don’t know, but because saying it out loud makes it real. Jack shifts beside you. You feel his knee press into yours, steady, grounding.
“It’s not just sex,” you say, quieter now.
Robby’s brow lifts. “No?”
You shake your head. “It’s… us. Still us. Just—” you glance at Jack, then back at Robby, “—with you in it. Sometimes. If you wanted that.”
There’s a long beat.
Robby leans back again, dragging his hand over his mouth, thinking. Really thinking.
“You two have been together, what,” he says, glancing at Jack, “two years now?”
“Nearly three,” Jack corrects.
“Nearly three,” Robby repeats. “You know, you… you live together. Don’t kill each other. That’s impressive.”
“Thank you,” you say, dry.
His gaze shifts back to you again, softer this time—but heavier, too.
“And you’re both telling me this doesn’t… complicate things.”
Jack answers this time, steady. “Everything’s already complicated. This wouldn’t change what we’ve got. We’ve talked, we trust each other, we trust you.”
Robby studies him for a second longer than necessary. There’s history in that look. Long-standing, unspoken understanding. The kind you only get after decades of knowing someone.
“…You’re serious,” he says finally.
“Yeah,” Jack says.
Robby exhales, a quiet, disbelieving laugh under his breath. He tips his head back for a second, staring at the ceiling like he’s trying to reset his brain.
“Jesus Christ.”
You don’t rush him. Neither does Jack. When he looks back at you, it’s different now. Less amused. More… considering.
“You’re asking about the three of us…” he tries, trailing off.
You nod. “Yeah.”
His eyes flick, just briefly, to where your leg is still angled toward Jack’s, the easy closeness of it. Then back to your face.
“And you’re both just- you’re… good with it,” he says.
Your voice is quieter when you answer. “Wouldn’t be sitting here if we weren’t. You’re attractive, smart, funny. And I think you’ve always secretly had a thing for at least one of us. Maybe both, but, one way to find out, I guess.”
Robby drums his fingers once against the table, then stills them.
“...Christ,” he mutters again, but there’s a hint of something else in it now. Not just disbelief.
Interest. He looks at you properly then. Not the quick, passing glances from before. This is slower. Measuring.
“You always this persuasive?” He wonders.
You tilt your head, a small smile pulling at your mouth. “Only when it matters.”
That earns the faintest huff of a laugh.
“Yeah,” he says. “I can see that.”
Jack shifts beside you, not tense—but alert. Watching the shift happen in real time. Robby notices that too. His mouth quirks, just slightly.
Your phone buzzes—once, twice, then a string of messages lighting up your screen.
You glance down, already half-standing. “I’ve gotta go. Park needs me—Isla called in sick.”
Jack doesn’t even hesitate. He’s already reaching into his pocket, keys in hand. “Take the car. I’ll ride back with him.”
You take them, brushing his fingers briefly. “Thanks, baby.”
You lean down—meant to be quick, but it doesn’t quite stay that way. Your mouth presses to his, warm, familiar. He lets you, hand coming up to your cheek, thumb catching just under your jaw, holding you there for half a second longer than necessary before you pull back.
There’s a flicker of something in his eyes when you do. You straighten, turning— Robby’s already looking at you. Not subtle about it. Rarely is.
“Michael,” you say, softer, a small nod.
He repeats your name—flatter, rougher, like he’s testing how it sits in his mouth.
You don’t linger. You head out.
The door swings shut behind you.
Jack watches it a beat too long. Then exhales, leaning back into the booth, dragging a hand over his mouth like he’s resetting.
Robby doesn’t look at the door. He looks at Jack. There’s a slow, almost amused curve to his mouth. Not mocking. Just… processing.
“Alright,” he says. “Who’s idea is it?”
Jack doesn’t bother pretending. “Mine.”
Robby lets out a short, disbelieving breath. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“When?”
Jack shrugs, reaching for his beer. “Remember that detox sexless cult thing she did a few months back?”
Robby snorts. “Yeah. You turned into the most unbearable version of yourself I’ve seen in twenty years. Which is saying something.”
“Appreciate that.”
“Walking around like—” Robby gestures vaguely, “—like a cat in heat.”
Jack huffs a laugh despite himself. “Yeah, well. After you left that morning, we had our… you know, usual great sex - not adding as part of the pitch, you already know how good the sex is -”
“-get to the point,” Robby says, with a slight snicker.
“Some point, I mention… I don’t know, marriage, foreplay, a third. We finish up, and… we’re just talking.”
“Talking,” Robby repeats, deadpan.
“Yeah. Try it sometime. With a professional, even, they do that.”
“Hard pass.”
Jack ignores him, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “It came up. Not seriously at first. Hypotheticals. What we’d be into, what we wouldn’t.”
“And you landed on me,” Robby says.
“Yeah.”
Robby watches him for a second. Longer than usual. “…Both of you.”
“Both of us.”
That lands differently.
Robby leans back, dragging a hand over his jaw, thinking. Really thinking now—not just reacting.
“That’s your girl,” he says finally. “You’ve built something there. I’m not—” he shakes his head slightly, “—I’m not interested in screwing that up.”
Jack’s expression doesn’t change much, but something in it settles. He nods once.
“I wouldn’t be asking if I thought you would.”
Robby glances at him, sharper now. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”
“No,” Jack agrees easily. “But I do know you.”
A beat.
“And I trust you,” he adds.
it hangs there. Robby exhales slowly, gaze dropping to the table for a second before coming back up.
“…Yeah,” he mutters. “That’s the problem.”
Jack’s brow lifts, faintly amused. “That I trust you?”
“That I don’t take that lightly,” Robby shoots back.
Silence stretches for a second. Then Robby leans forward slightly, forearms braced on the table, voice dropping a notch.
“And you’re fine with it,” he says. Not a question. “Me and her.”
Jack doesn’t flinch. “Yeah.”
“Really.”
“Yeah.”
Robby studies him—searching for cracks, for ego, for something careless. Doesn’t find much. Jack kept his pride in check. He wasn’t a jealous person, not really. He was secure in himself. Something Robby envied, sometimes.
“…She’s—” he starts, then cuts himself off, jaw tightening slightly. “You know what she is.”
Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah. I do.”
“Twenty-something,” Robby continues. “Smart. Looks like—” he gestures vaguely, then shakes his head. “You’ve seen her.”
Jack smirks faintly. “I have, yeah. A lot of her. It’s great.”
Robby’s mouth twitches despite himself.
“And she looks at you like you hung the moon half the time,” he adds.
Jack’s expression softens just a fraction. “Sometimes.”
Robby nods once, slow. Then—
“…You really telling me you’ve never thought about it? About her” Jack asks, casual—but not careless.
Robby lets out a quiet breath through his nose, leaning back again.
“That’s not a fair question.”
Jack tilts his head at his friend. An insistence in his eyes to go on.
Robby tips his head back slightly, staring at the ceiling for a second like he’s debating how honest he wants to be.
Then he looks back at Jack.
“…Well I’m not blind,” he says.
Jack doesn’t react much. Just watches him.
“She’s—” Robby exhales, searching for a word, then gives up and settles for, “—she’s a lot. Sweet.”
Jack’s mouth ticks. “She is… You ever think about her while jerking off?”
Robby lets out a low breath at that, clicking his tongue at his friend's bluntness. Fuck it, they’re being honest. “Yes.”
Robby’s a little surprised when he sees the slow blink from Jack, a nod. Maybe irritable.
“What?” Robby scoffs. “You’re cool with the prospect of me fucking your girl? But what I do with my hand in my spare time is… what, some sort of line being crossed?”
“I didn’t say anything, alright. I’m all good here. Just didn’t think you’d admit it,” Jack nods with insistence. “What about during sex? Thought about her then?”
“...On occasion, yes, I’ve- she’s popped up there, yeah.” Robby admits with brief hesitance.
That’s as far as he pushes it—but it’s enough. Jack nods once, like this one he expected. Like it doesn’t threaten anything.
“Fair,” he says.
Robby glances at him, something like disbelief creeping back in. “You’re taking that a lot better than I thought you would.”
Jack shrugs. “She’s hot. You’re not dead. Tells me you’ve got a working dick, at least.”
Robby lets out a short laugh at that, shaking his head.
Jack took a sip of his beer, then—because he wasn’t finished, because he never really was with Robby—tilts his head slightly.
“What about me?”
Robby scoffs immediately, too quick. “Oh, come on.”
“No, seriously,” Jack says, glancing at him sideways. Casual on the surface, not casual underneath. “No shame, total honesty here. Twenty years, no secrets, all that bullshit.”
Robby drags a hand over his beard, already feeling the trap closing. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Have you?” Jack asks, like he was asking about the weather.
A pause.
Robby stares at the table, jaw working once.
“…You first,” he mutters.
Jack doesn’t even blink. “Yeah.”
Robby let out a slow breath through his nose, eyes dropping, like he was doing the math on how much of himself he was willing to hand over tonight.
“Man, it’s not even—” Jack went on, shrugging a shoulder. “Half the time that shit doesn’t mean anything. Brain just throws things at you. Doesn’t make you anything.”
Robby let out a short, humourless huff. “Right.”
“What,” Jack presses lightly, “you worried about the gay implications?”
Robby shot him a look. “Don’t—”
“—What? Say ‘gay’?” Jack says, not unkind, but not backing off either.
Robby glances up as a couple walks past, waits them out, then leans back in his seat, voice lower.
“We’re talking about whether I’ve jacked off thinking about another guy,” he says, flat. “Yeah, the… ‘gay’ of it all crossed my mind. Excuse me.”
Jack just nods, like that was fair.
“I just… I guess, I didn’t realise—” Robby starts, then stops, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I mean, you know, are you—”
Jack shrugs, easy. “I’ve been with a few. Never made a whole thing out of it. Don’t really care to.”
Robby gives a small, disbelieving shake of his head. “Figrues. Army man.”
“Yeah, well,” Jack mutters. “You don’t have to slap a label on it, Rob. Doesn’t have to mean anything bigger than it is.”
“I’m aware,” Robby says, maybe a little sharper than he meant to. Then, quieter—like it cost him something— “…It’s crossed my mind.”
Jack’s mouth pulled into something faintly smug. Not cruel—just… satisfied.
“Crossed your mind,” he repeated. “Interesting wording.”
“Don’t start,” Robby warns, but there was less heat in it now.
Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “It was easier getting you to admit you think about fucking my girlfriend half our age than it was getting that out of you. That’s saying something.”
“Fuck you,” Robby mutters, rolling his eyes—but there was a reluctant grin there now, breaking through whether he liked it or not.
Jack shrugs, taking another sip. “Options apparently on the table.”
Robby shakes his head, but didn’t argue. Didn’t fully look away, either.
Something in the air had shifted—subtle, but real. Not a line crossed, exactly. More like one finally acknowledged.
Robby studied him for a second, longer than necessary. There was history there—years of it, unspoken things sitting just under the surface, things neither of them had ever had to name.
Jack didn’t push. Just leaned back, easy.
“Think about it,” he tries. “Or don’t. Nothing changes.”
Robby nods once, short. “Yeah.” A few seconds of quiet. “…You still need that ride home?” he asks.
Jack snorts. “Oh, a ride home? Wow. Subtle.”
“Shut up.”
“Flirting now, are we?”
“You are not a funny man, Jack Abbot, don’t think otherwise,” Robby says, but he was already smiling, just a little.
★★★
2 WEEKS EARLIER
threesomenoun — three·some — ˈthrē-səm
1: a group of three persons or things : trio
2: a golf match in which one person plays their ball against the ball of two others playing each stroke alternately
3: a sexual encounter involving three people
“Are you trying to say you wanna play golf?” Jack says from the stove, not even turning around as he stirs the pan like it personally offended him.
The kitchen smells like garlic and butter—onions already softened down, carrots and capsicum still holding a bit too much bite. He’s got one hand on the wooden spoon, the other braced on the counter, solid and steady in that way he always is.
You’re perched up on the counter, one leg swinging lazily, phone in hand.
“Yes,” you say dryly, scrolling. “I’m deeply passionate about golf. The balls. The stroking of the balls—”
“—I get it,” Jack cuts in. “You want a threesome.”
You look up at him, unimpressed. “I don’t want a threesome. I love twosomes. Specifically with you.” A beat. “But I’m not opposed to… expanding the sample size.”
Jack snorts, finally glancing over to you. “Expanding the—Jesus. That’s how you pitch wanting to fuck my best friend?”
“You brought it up,” you shoot back, pointing your phone at him like evidence. “Don’t act like this wasn’t your idea. ‘Oh baby, we should add a third, Robby would give me notes’—”
“I did not sound like that.”
“—If anything,” you continue over him, “I think you wanna fuck your best friend.”
“Alright,” Jack mutters, turning back to the pan. “Not what I sound like. And c’mon—you know you’re all I wanna fuck.” He nudges the vegetables again, frowning. “I think these are done.”
“They’re not.” You don’t even look up when you say it. “Anyway… I doubt he’d even be down for it,” you say. “I barely think he likes me as a friend.”
Jack lets out a quiet scoff at that.
You narrow your eyes. “What?”
“I think he’d fuck you in a heartbeat if I said I was okay with it,” Jack says, like it’s obvious. Then, distracted again—“I really think these are done, hon.”
“Test the carrot,” you say, still scrolling. “If it’s soft enough, it’ll break with pressure.”
He presses the spoon into one. It doesn’t budge.
“…Needs longer,” he admits.
“How do you know that?”
“I just did what you said, I—”
“No,” you interrupt, looking at him properly now. “How do you know Robby would fuck me?”
That slows him down.
Jack exhales through his nose, shoulders shifting as he leans back slightly against the counter, thinking.
“I know him,” he says. “Twenty years of it. And I know you.” A beat. “There’s something there. A thing. You’ve always had good chemistry.”
You huff lightly. “A vague… thing, maybe.”
You hesitate, then—because you don’t really do half-truths—
“I did have a bit of a crush on him,” you admit. “Before I met you.”
Jack stills. Not dramatically. Just enough.
“I don’t anymore,” you add quickly. “It faded. Pretty fast, actually. It was early—before I started coming down to ED properly. He’d come up sometimes, consults, whatever. I think it was just…” you shrug, searching, “…older. Authority. Bit of an asshole.”
Jack’s mouth pulls slightly at that, something between amused and unimpressed.
“Glad to know you don’t have a type,” he mutters.
You lean in closer from the counter, nudging his shoulder lightly with your knee.
“Hey,” you murmur. He glances up at you. “I like them a little shorter,” you say softly.
Jack blinks.
Then rolls his eyes, a huff of laughter slipping out despite himself as you grin and go back to your phone.
“Unbelievable,” he mutters, turning the heat down, a small smile at the corner of his lips.
★★★
The thing about a third—about this third—was that it… kind of just felt natural. Like there was so little reason to not do it, to not try it, invite it.
It wasn’t sudden. It was something that had been sitting under the skin of things for so long it stopped feeling foreign the second it was named.
Robby had never been separate from Jack.
Not really. People liked to pretend friendships had clean edges—this is where I end, this is where you begin—but that had never been the case with them.
Too many years. Too many nights that blurred into mornings, too many arguments that never quite resolved but never quite broke them either.
They’d dragged each other through their twenties, stumbled into their thirties, and settled—somehow—into their forties without ever untangling.
They knew each other in ways that made distance feel artificial.
And Robby had always lived in that tension.
He didn’t soften easily. Didn’t trust softness when it showed up uninvited. Jack had always been the exception to that rule—steady enough to withstand it, patient enough not to demand more than Robby could give. But patience didn’t mean absence.
There were things between them that had never been said out loud. Not because they didn’t exist, but because saying them would’ve required a kind of clarity Robby had spent most of his life avoiding.
It was easier to file it under something else—loyalty, history, proximity. Easier to laugh it off, to redirect, to let it sit in that grey space where it didn’t have to be examined too closely.
Then you came along. And you didn’t disrupt that balance. You just seemed to understand it.
You didn’t wedge yourself between them, didn’t ask Jack to choose, didn’t look at Robby like he was something to tolerate or compete with. You moved through it like it already made sense to you. Like there was room.
And God—there was something about you.
Not just that you were beautiful—though you were, in a way that made people look twice without meaning to. Not just that you were younger, brighter, sharper at the edges in a way that made everything feel a little more alive. It was the way you saw people.
The way you saw Jack—fully, without flinching, without trying to fix him or soften him into something more palatable. The way you leaned into him like you trusted him to hold the weight of that. The way you touched him without hesitation, like affection was a language you spoke fluently.
And worse—
The way you looked at Robby sometimes, like you were trying to figure him out and already had.
He’d noticed it long before anyone said anything. Of course he had. The small things. The way your attention lingered just a second longer than necessary. The way you didn’t pull back when he got too close, didn’t flinch at the edge in him that made other people cautious.
You met it. Sometimes you even matched it. And that—more than anything—was what made him careful. Because wanting you was one thing.
That was easy enough to dismiss, tuck away under instinct, under biology, under the thousand other justifications people used to avoid looking too closely at themselves.
But wanting you like this—in the context of Jack, with Jack, because of Jack. That was something else entirely. It brushed up against things he didn’t have neat categories for. Things that felt uncomfortably close to lines he’d spent years pretending weren’t there.
And Jack…
Jack, who didn’t do anything halfway, who didn’t offer things he wasn’t sure about—was sitting across from him like this was just another extension of something already solid. Like this wasn’t a risk so much as… an opening.
That was what threw him. It wasn’t the sex or the implication, it was how Jack totally trusted him. With you, with this, with Jack himself.
And Robby didn’t trust himself nearly that much.
That was the problem. Beneath all the deflection, all the dryness and sarcasm, the sharp edges, there was something undeniably real threading through all three of you. Not clean, not simple—but real in a way that resisted being dismissed.
Jack had never been particularly private about you. Not with Robby.
Not in the way people usually were about relationships—careful, curated, keeping the good parts polished and the rest tucked away. Jack wasn’t built like that. He didn’t gush, didn’t sentimentalise—but if he’d had a couple drinks in him and it’d been a long week, you came up. Inevitably.
Not in a soft-focus, hearts-and-flowers way.
In details. In fragments. In the way you got under his skin and stayed there.
The way you kissed him, made him feel every ounce of his own flesh and blood, grounded, and above at once. In how much he adored your figure, or some ridiculous position, some ridiculous story of stamina and libido, your mouth, his mouth, your hand, his hand.
Robby had learned, over the years, to let it wash over him. Half-listening, half-not. It wasn’t discomfort exactly—more like… he didn’t know where to put it. There was something about hearing your name in Jack’s mouth like that that sat strange in his chest.
“What the fuck do you mean six times?” Robby had said once, a laugh breaking through despite himself as he tipped his beer back.
They were sprawled out on the grass like they hadn’t aged out of it—backs damp against the ground, shirts sticking, the heat of the day still rising up through the dirt. The city hummed around them, distant enough to ignore. It felt like being twenty something again, except their knees ached when they stood and everything they didn’t talk about sat heavier.
It was one of those nothing nights, sometime back in Spring. End of a shift. A few beers. Waiting for you to finish upstairs while Jack pretended he wasn’t being watched over by the hospital.
Jack didn’t even open his eyes. “I mean she came six times,” he said, easy. “Working up to eight.”
Robby snorted. “You’re talking like it’s a personal best.”
“It is,” Jack said. “You don’t set goals, you stagnate. That’s what my therapist says.”
“Jesus Christ.”
Jack grinned faintly, still flat on his back, arms folded behind his head like he had nowhere else to be. “What’s your number?”
Robby shrugged, taking another sip. “I don’t know. I don’t have a number.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Nope.”
“Bull.”
Robby dragged a hand over his mouth, already regretting engaging. “…Four. Maybe.”
Jack turned his head slightly, considering that like it mattered more than it should. His fingers tapped absently against the neck of the bottle.
“Four,” he repeated.
“Some of us aren’t treating it like a competitive sport,” Robby muttered.
Jack huffed. “It’s not me,” he said. “It’s her. She’s a natural.”
“She really that good?” Robby had slipped as a question. Maybe for his own curiosity, maybe because he knew Jack would’ve gotten to it at some point. Both, likely.
There was a beat.
Robby stared up at the sky like it didn’t matter either way. Jack shifted slightly, something quieter settling into him now.
“She’s—” he paused, like he was trying to find a word that didn’t sound ridiculous and failing. “She pays attention. Like she’s studying you. Figures out what works and then—just… doesn’t let up. Like I’m constantly high around her. And man, she-” Jack cleared his throat. “She does this thing with her tongue.”
Robby exhaled through his nose, slow.
He didn’t say anything.
“She swirls it, right around the underside, traces it—the entire thing with the flat part. Goes between, you know, broad strokes, little ones, then she’ll—fuck,” Jack had mused. “…She’ll use the space beneath her tongue, suck, and still use her tongue at the same time. I can’t describe how good it feels,” Jack had explained, his words slurring slightly but still carrying a strange clarity. “Fucking… incredible.”
Robby couldn’t have helped but picture it. The image of you, on your knees, long lashes batting at him, as you brought him to the edge. He sipped his beer, fingers a bit tighter around the neck of the glass.
“She makes the prettiest noises, like a… I don’t even know,” Jack added, quieter now, almost to himself. “Moans and screams, and so… Christ. Like she doesn’t even realise she’s doing it, possessed.”
“Alright, that’s enough,” Robby cut in, not sharply, but firm.
Jack just smirked, eyes still shut. “You asked.”
“I didn’t ask for a breakdown.”
“Semantics.”
Robby shook his head, but there was a faint smile tugging at his mouth despite it. He finished the last of his beer, letting the cold settle something in his chest that had nothing to do with the heat.
A pause stretched between them. Jack sipped his beer. Then—
“What’s the deal with you and Noelle?” Jack asked, casual in that way that wasn’t casual at all.
Robby’s jaw shifted.
“She’s… fine,” he said.
Jack cracked one eye open. “That sounds promising.”
Robby huffed. “It’s not—” he cut himself off, shook his head. “Don’t think it’s going anywhere.”
Jack watched him for a second. Then nodded, like he’d expected that. He handed Robby his own beer, watching as Robby took it after a moment, sipping from it himself
“Yeah,” he said. “Bummer.”
Another beat. Robby sat up, bracing his forearms on his knees, their shared beer dangling loose between his fingers.
“Don’t think I’m built for it,” he said finally.
Jack didn’t move. “For what?”
“This,” Robby gestured vaguely. “Relationships. The staying. The… showing up part.”
Jack was quiet for a second.
Then—
“Now that’s bull,” he said, not unkindly.
Robby glanced at him, a faint, tired smirk pulling at his mouth. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “We’ve known each other, what—twenty years? You’ve stuck around that long.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?”
Robby didn’t answer that. Jack pushed himself up onto his elbows now, looking at him properly.
“You don’t get to pretend you can’t do something just because you haven’t done it right yet,” he said.
Robby scoffed lightly. “Didn’t realise you were gonna get philosophical on me.”
“Yeah, well,” Jack muttered, reaching for his beer. “Hate to break it to you, man, but you’re not some unfixable case.”
Robby laughed at that—short, real.
“Garcia said I’d make a good ex-husband,” he said.
Jack snorted. “See? Even she thinks you can commit.”
“That’s not what that means.”
“Close enough,” Jack sighed. “Lie down, will you. You’re so damn tense.”
Robby let out a low groan but did it anyway, dropping back into the grass beside him, one arm flung over his eyes like he could shut the world out for a second.
The ground was still a little damp from the morning rain, cool through his shirt, the air thick and warm in that late-night way where everything feels slower, looser.
They went quiet after that. Easy quiet. The kind that only comes after years—no need to fill it, no need to perform.
“Aw, you two are so cute.”
Jack sat up immediately.
You stood a few feet off the path, lit half by a flickering streetlamp—scrubs wrinkled, hair a mess like you’d been running your hands through it all day, hoodie tied loose around your hips. One of Jack’s old military backpacks hung off your shoulder like it belonged there.
For a while there, Robby had forgotten the whole reason they’d been in the park to begin with was to wait for you.
“Hey, baby,” Jack said, voice softening without him meaning it to. “You finish alright?”
You just nodded, already moving toward him.
You didn’t hesitate—never did. Leaned down, pressed a quick kiss to his cheek that turned, halfway through, into something closer to his mouth. Warm. Familiar. You lingered just long enough that he had to chase it a second.
“Miss me?” you murmured, barely pulling back.
“Always,” he said, easy. A little drunk, a little honest.
Robby watched it happen from the ground, not even pretending not to.
You dropped down in front of Jack, cross-legged, close enough your knees brushed his thighs. His hands came up immediately—instinct, habit—sliding over your arms, grounding, checking.
Then his mouth found your neck, a soft press just under your jaw, before his hands settled at your shoulders, working slow circles into muscle that had no business being that tight at your age.
You exhaled like you’d been holding it all day.
“Jesus,” you muttered. “Keep doing that.”
“Yeah?” Jack hummed against your skin, a little smug.
“Mhm.”
You tipped your head slightly, giving him better access without thinking. He took it.
Across from you, Robby shifted, propping himself up on his elbows now, watching the two of you with that same look he always got—half amused, half something else he never quite named.
“Robby,” you said, glancing over at him, “how the hell are you drinking after that shift? You guys were slammed.”
“Sometimes a drink’s all you get,” he said. His voice was steady, but his eyes flicked—brief, involuntary—to where Jack’s hands were still working into your shoulders. Then back to your face. “Ortho must’ve been a dream, though.”
You let out a dry laugh. “Oh yeah. Absolute paradise. Park was being a complete asshole to one of the R1s. Kid looked like he was gonna cry.”
“Sounds about right,” Robby muttered.
Jack’s hands slowed, thumbs pressing deeper into a knot that made you suck in a breath.
“Careful,” he said. “You’re gonna fall asleep right here.”
“Honestly?” you said, eyes half-lidded now, “tempting.”
There was a beat. Quiet again—but different this time. Fuller.
You shifted slightly, leaning back into Jack without thinking. Your hand found his knee, resting there, absent, like it belonged.
Robby noticed that too. Of course he did.
You glanced up at Jack then, studying him for a second longer than necessary.
“…You been talking about me?” you asked.
Jack snorted, immediate. “What?”
“You’ve got that look,” you said, squinting at him. “And he’s looking at me weird.”
“I always look at people weird,” Robby said, flat, from the grass.
You didn’t even look at him. “Yeah, but this is a different weird.”
Jack huffed a laugh under his breath, shaking his head like you were ridiculous, even as his mouth betrayed him. “We were just talking about your—what was it—immense beauty. Your sex appeal. Your many talents.”
His mouth brushed your neck again as he said it, like he couldn’t quite help himself.
Robby let out a quiet breath through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Something drier. “It’s not far off.”
You stilled. Then slowly turned your head, looking at Jack properly now.
“What did you say to him,” you murmured, low, dangerous in a way that wasn’t entirely serious—but not entirely not.
Jack leaned in, said something under his breath—too quiet for Robby to catch. Your reaction was immediate.
You smacked his leg—right on the prosthetic—with a sharp thwack.
“Jack.”
He barely flinched, just grinned, caught your wrist before you could do it again.
“If you actually told him that,” you said, pointing at him, “I swear to god I’ll take this thing off and beat you with it.”
“That’s dramatic,” Jack murmured, still holding your hand. “And also physically unlikely.”
“It’s true, though,” he added, softer now, mouth near your ear again. “You’re very good at it.”
You rolled your eyes, but your shoulders had loosened, leaning back into him again despite yourself.
Robby watched the whole thing like it was a film he hadn’t agreed to sit through, but couldn’t quite look away from either.
“So the tongue thing’s real then?” he asked, almost idly.
Jack groaned. “Alright. We’re done here.”
You laughed—bright, cutting through the heaviness of the day shift still clinging to all three of you—and turned into Jack properly this time.
It wasn’t quick. Not really. Soft at first, then deeper, your hand coming up to his jaw, holding him there. He responded without thinking, one hand sliding to your waist, pulling you closer, grounding himself in something he knew.
Robby looked away. Not fast enough.
You pulled back eventually, brushing your nose against Jack’s.
“I’ll drive,” you said quietly. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m not drunk,” he said automatically.
“You’re pretty drunk,” you corrected.
A beat.
“…Alright. Could be a little drunk,” he conceded.
You smiled, already reaching into his pocket for the keys like it was second nature. He let you. Fingers brushing yours as you took them, just for a second longer than necessary.
“Don’t lose the car,” he muttered.
“No promises.”
You stood, stretching slightly, then glanced down at Robby.
“You good?” you asked, softer now.
He met your eyes, something unreadable passing through his expression before it settled back into something easier.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m good.”
You nodded like you believed him.
“Night, Michael.”
There was a flicker at that—something small but real.
“Night,” he said.
Jack let you haul him up, weight shifting automatically to his left as he got his balance, your hand steady at his arm without making a thing of it. He adjusted, rolled his shoulders like he always did, then followed your lead without argument.
“Text me when you get home,” he called back to Robby.
“Sure. Have fun with your girl.’ Robby had said, lying back down.
“I definitely will,” Jack nodded.
You were already walking, his shoulder brushing yours, easy. He leaned down slightly as you hit the path, murmuring something low against your hair that made you let out a quiet, breathy laugh—something private, something just for him.
Robby watched you both go.
Didn’t move.
The grass was still damp under his back when he lay down again, staring up at a sky that refused to give him anything clear.
He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand over his mouth.
So, when you and Jack finally put it to him—cornered him in that quiet, deliberate way the two of you had—Robby wasn’t as hung up on the logistics of it as he probably should’ve been. The dynamic, the risk, the aftermath—those were the things a smarter man might’ve led with. But that wasn’t where his mind went first.
It went somewhere simpler. Sharper.
Just how pretty were the noises you made? How soft was your tongue? Would you like it if Robby was cruel—if he held your head down and made you choke on him?
And Jack… steady Jack. What did he look like when he finally came? Did he like being teased, kept right on that edge until it snapped? Would he grip Robby’s hair, or would he stay controlled even then, taking it without losing that composure?
It wasn't an abstract curiosity. It wasn’t even entirely sexual, not at its core. It was about access.
About seeing something of both of you that no one else did. About being let into a space that already existed—intimate, closed, complete—and being told there was room for him inside it.
And that—more than anything else—was what made it difficult to dismiss.
★★★
Ortho is down for a consultation when you get called in.
The patient is already under—intubated and sedated, leg secured in traction. The CT is up on PACS, the fracture obvious even before you zoom in: a displaced mid-shaft femur, clear shortening, classic muscle pull deformity.
“Yeah, that’s a transverse mid-shaft femoral fracture,” you say, pen tapping the screen. “You can see the displacement here, and the overlap—this is why the leg looks shortened clinically.”
Santos leans in, her eyes slightly wide. “Fuck.”
You shake your head. “It looks dramatic, but it’s stable from what we’ve got. No obvious vascular compromise on imaging. Ortho will likely take her for an intramedullary nail.”
Santos lets out a breath.
You scroll through the scan again, adjusting the windowing. “We’ll just want to repeat neurovascular checks pre-op and post-reduction. But she’s straightforward.”
“Thank god,” Santos mutters. “I was so not bothered to call for another consult.
A knock on the glass interrupts you. You glance up.
Robby.
He’s already halfway through sanitising his hands when he steps in, eyes flicking once to the screen before landing on you.
“Ortho’s down in ED?” he says.
“Yeah,” you answer, a little too aware of him in the doorway. “Santos messaged me. Femur fracture.”
He leans in beside you to look at the CT, close enough that the space shifts—clinical, but not entirely neutral. He’s tired in the way only long shifts make you, sleeves pushed up, forearms marked faintly by pressure lines from his undershirt.
“Looks like a clean nail,” he says.
“Assuming ortho behaves,” you reply.
He huffs something like a laugh. “They won’t.”
“No,” you agree. “We never do.”
Santos clears her throat. “While I’ve got you—Huckleberry and I are having a Parisian party next Friday. At our place. You should come. You and Abbott, of course.”
You pause slightly.
“A Parisian party?” you repeat.
“Yeah,” Santos says, warming to it. “Paris-themed. Like… French food, wine, decorations. The Eiffel Tower and shit.”
Robby makes a quiet sound behind you—almost a laugh, quickly disguised.
You glance at him, but he’s still looking at the scan like nothing happened.
Santos continues, mildly confused. “Have either of you been to Paris?”
“No,” you say.
Robby: “Nope.”
Santos nods like that still tracks logically. “Yeah, me neither. Barely even been to Canada.”
There’s a beat.
“Anyway,” She adds, already backing toward the door, “You’re invited too, Robby. Maybe the three of you come together or something. You’re all close”
“...Sounds good, Santos, we’ll let you know,” Robby says with a nod. “North Twelve?”
“Consider it done.” Santos says dry, nodding.
The door shuts behind her. Silence settles back in—clean, clinical, familiar. Except Robby is still standing close enough that you’re aware of him in a way you shouldn’t be during a trauma consult.
He glances at the CT again. “Paris-themed party,” he repeats flatly.
“Don’t even,” you say immediately, because you can hear it in his tone already, trying to hide your own smile.
“What?” he says innocently.
You turn slightly toward him. “I know exactly what you’re thinking.”
He finally looks at you properly now, mouth twitching. “I’m not thinking anything.”
“You’re absolutely thinking something and at work nonetheless? Inappropriate.”
“I’m thinking Santos should never be allowed to plan anything,” he says.
“Liar.”
That earns you a brief, quiet exhale of amusement. You finish with the scans and walk out, Robby hot on your heels as you head to the nurses station.
“You think you’ll go?” he asks.
“No,” you say. “Jack and I have the night off. We’ll be busy.”
“Right,” he nods.
A beat.
“You?” you ask.
“I’d rather not spend my night around a bunch of drunk residents,” Robby says with a quiet exhale. “So, no.”
“Come over then,” you offer, stopping at the nurses’ station.
Robby gives you a look. “Thought you said you two were busy.”
“You can be busy with us,” you say, looking up at him, pen tapping lightly against the chart. “Or just Jack. Or just me. He told me you’ve thought about it either way.”
A faint sigh leaves him. “Right. I forgot he can’t keep anything to himself.”
He leans against the counter, lowering his voice slightly as his eyes flick briefly across the station—Dana watching from a few bays away, already narrowing her gaze like she’s clocking something she hasn’t labelled yet.
“Have you?” he asks softly.
“Thought about you? In that way?” you clarify.
He nods, a slight tilt to his head, curious.
You hesitate just long enough to make it honest.
“Yes,” you admit. “You’re tall. Kind. Your beard’s nice. You’re probably a little meaner than Jack, which interests me.”
That earns the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Something deeper in him satisfied.
“Abbot’s a lover boy at heart,” Robby says. “Gives in easily. ‘Specially for you.”
You nod, like that tracks. “Most of the time, yeah.”
That earns a quieter look from him. A pause that sits just slightly longer than professional. Then, more carefully, “Is it true you had a crush on me?”
You tilt your head. “God, he really just— Doesn’t keep anything to himself.”
Robby exhales through his nose. “Not at all. I’ve been subjected to that man and his inner workings for too long.”
You bump his shoulder lightly with yours, just enough contact to make the space between you feel intentional.
“Was it a yes?”
“To the crush?” You consider it. “Yeah.”
That makes his eyebrows lift slightly.
“Before Jack,” you add, like it matters in a technical sense. “Older, authority figure, slightly emotionally unavailable… I think I might just have a pattern.”
Robby hums, low. “Tracks.”
There’s a beat where neither of you moves away. Then he says, quieter, “And now?”
You don’t look away when you answer. “Now, it’s just… different.”
That hangs there. From somewhere down the hall, a monitor beeps sharply, breaking the moment just enough for it not to tip into anything else.
You glance back down at the chart, already half-moving on.
“I’ll let you know when we get a room open for the femur nail lady.”
And then you’re gone—already walking toward the elevator, the conversation left hanging in the air behind you. Robby watches you go.
A quiet breath leaves him through his nose. He taps his fingers once against the counter, then pushes off it, turning back to the screens like he needs something solid to land on.
Dana appears beside him a second later, sliding into the space like she’s been waiting for exactly this moment.
“What’s with that?” she asks.
“...What’s with what?” he replies, arms folding loosely, eyes still on the monitor bank.
“I mean,” she says slowly, “what’s with flirtin’ with Abbott’s girl in front of everybody?”
He doesn’t look at her when he answers.
“That’s not flirting,” he says evenly. “We were just talking.”
“Yeah,” she says, nodding toward the bay. “Just rolled in. Need you over there.”
“Alright,” he says.
And he follows her down the hall, expression already reset.
★★★
“—Hey. Hold on a second,” Jack says, breath a little uneven.
“No, don’t—don’t hold on,” you protest, already moving, frustrated at the interruption. Your hips roll, trying to sink deeper, but his hands clamp down on your waist—firm, grounding, stopping you.
“Hey. Easy.” A breath. “Just—gimme a second, alright?”
You huff, but you stop. Barely. Your thighs tremble, hovering just above his cock, the tip brushing against your wet slit. “This better be good.”
He lets out something like a quiet laugh, more breath than sound. “Yeah, I’ll try not to waste your time.”
A beat. He looks at you properly now—focused, a little too clear-headed for the situation. His thumb traces a slow circle on your hipbone, soothing, but his eyes are sharp.
“Just… wanna get this straight,” he says.
Your hands shift on his chest, nails dragging lightly. “Okay. Then say it.”
He nods once. “He can be there. He can watch, he can fuck you.” A pause. “But there are lines.”
You tilt your head, watching him. “Such as?”
His grip tightens just a fraction—not enough to bruise, enough to mean something. “Such as—you don’t forget who you’re with.”
You raise a brow, a smirk pulling at your lips. “Hard to forget when you’ve got your dick in me half the time I’m not at work.”
“Smartass,” he mutters. Then, quieter—“I’m serious. He doesn’t get to know how you taste. That’s mine.”
“Uh-huh…” You roll your hips lazily, not sinking down, just letting the head of his cock nudge against your clit, making him hiss. “So this is allowed?” You lift up, then lower just an inch, teasing the tip against your entrance.
“Yeah, allowed,” Jack nods, his jaw tight.
“Mm. This?” You lean down and kiss him—sweet, slow, your tongue brushing his lower lip before you pull back with a soft pop.
He nods into the kiss, groaning when you start to move again, lifting your pussy off him completely. The air hits his wet shaft and he shudders.
“Yeah? What about this?” You wrap your hand around his cock, giving it a slow, deliberate stroke from base to tip, slick with your own arousal. You squeeze just a little, watching his eyes flutter.
“All allowed,” he grates out, “but his mouth isn’t getting near this, alright, that’s all—” He cuts off as he grabs you by the hips, guiding your pussy back down, lining you up and shoving it back in with a single, brutal thrust. Your moan rips out of you—loud, breathy, grateful. His cock fills you so deep you feel it in your throat.
“Yeah? That good with you?” he asks, voice rough.
You nod, already starting to ride him—slow at first, just a rock of your hips, teasing the angle. “What about you and ’im?” you ask, breath hitching as you grind down.
Jack shrugs—or tries to. “What don’t you want?”
“No blowjobs either, then,” you say, voice a little strained as you lift up and drop back down, feeling every ridge. “’S for me.”
“Sounds good to me.” His hands find your hips again, but he doesn’t guide—he just holds, letting you set the pace. Letting you take.
You pick up speed, thighs burning, your clit grinding against his pubic bone with each roll. The room fills with the wet sound of your pussy gripping his cock, and you tilt your head back, letting him see the arch of your throat.
His hand comes up, thumb brushing along your jaw, pulling your focus back to him when you drift.
“Right here,” he murmurs.
You meet his gaze. That same look—steady, a little rough around the edges, but sure. His.
“Good,” he says, softer now. His thumb drags across your lower lip, and you part your mouth, just enough to suck the tip of it in. His eyes darken.
And when you move again, it’s slower. You rock forward, letting his cock hit that deep, sweet spot, and you moan against his thumb. You pull off it with a wet sound, then lean down to kiss him again—dirtier this time, tongue and teeth, whimpering into him.
“Yeah,” he breathes against your lips. “That’s better.”
★★★
It’s late into the evening on Friday when you hear Jack on the phone.
“No, can’t,” Jack says, pacing your living room, phone tucked to his ear while he half-heartedly folds laundry and gives up halfway through. “I’m home. She’s cooking. Smells like I’m about to get fat and happy.”
“Baby, can you come try this?” you call from the kitchen.
“One sec,” he says, then quieter, back into the phone—“What’d you wanna do?”
“Nothing,” Robby mutters. “I… I don’t know, man. I don’t feel like crashing Santos and Whitaker’s… house party. We could go for a drive. Hike.”
Jack stops mid-step. “A hike,” he repeats. “At nine-thirty at night.”
A beat.
“Yeah, not happening,” he decides, dropping the laundry basket and heading into the kitchen.
You’re at the counter in that barely-there nightgown—soft, short, riding up your thighs as you lean forward, aggressively chopping an onion like it personally offended you. Eyes glossy, blinking through it.
Jack pauses in the doorway for half a second longer than necessary.
Then—business as usual.
“Alright,” he says, stepping in behind you, close enough that his hand brushes your hip on the way past. “What am I trying?”
You nod at the stove. “Carbonara.”
He leans over, tastes it, hums—low, approving.
“Yeah,” he says into the phone. “She’s showing off.”
You bump his arm lightly. “I am not.”
“You are,” he says, kissing you quick, easy, like he’s done it a thousand times. “It’s working.”
You smile despite yourself, wiping at your eyes.
On the phone, Robby exhales. Rough. Tired.
“Hike’s dumb,” Jack says, shifting tone without making it obvious. “What’s actually going on.”
“Nothing,” Robby says. “Just… can’t sit still. Garcia was on my ass all day, Al-Hashimi wouldn’t shut the fuck up—”
“—Hey,” Jack cuts in, calm, steady. “Take a breath.”
You glance over at him. He’s not looking at you anymore—focused now, locked into that mode.
“You’re good,” he says. “You’re not thinking anything dumb, right?”
A pause.
“…No,” Robby says. “Just need to… get out of my head, I don’t know.”
Jack hears it. You do too. That edge. That restless, pissed-off with nowhere to put it thing.
“He can come here,” you say, like it’s obvious.
Jack looks at you—quick, assessing—but there’s no resistance there. Just a flicker of something else.
“Yeah,” he says into the phone. “Come over. Food’s ready soon.”
“I don’t know, man—” Robby starts.
You reach over and take the phone straight out of Jack’s hand.
“Hey, Michael.”
There’s a beat.
Jack watches you now, not even pretending to focus on the onions anymore.
“…Hey,” Robby says, slower. “Heard you were cooking.”
“Mhm,” you hum, leaning back against the counter, bare leg brushing against Jack’s where he stands beside you. “Plenty to go around.”
Jack’s hand settles at your hip automatically. Not possessive—just there.
Robby hears the shift anyway.
“This a setup?” he asks.
You smile slightly. “You always this suspicious, or just with me?”
A quiet scoff from him.
“You should come,” you add, softer—but not innocent. “You sound like you need it.”
A beat. Jack’s thumb presses lightly into your hip. Grounding. Present.
Robby exhales. “Yeah. Guess I can make it.”
“Guess you can,” you say easily.
Silence again—but it’s different now.
You glance at Jack.
He nods once.
“Door’s unlocked,” you say. “Twenty minutes.”
You hand the phone back.
Jack takes it, fingers brushing yours briefly, then brings it back to his ear. “You heard her. No pressure.”
A pause.
“…Alright,” Robby says.
The line clicks dead.
Jack sets the phone down on the counter, then looks at you properly. A slow once-over. Not subtle.
“What?” You raise a brow.
“Nothing. Nothing at all. I’ll finish the laundry.” He gives you a deep kiss to your neck, hands trailing over your figure as he mumbles into your skin, fingers gently pushing aside the light material. “You gonna stay in this?” He asks.
“‘S that alright?” You wonder, leaning into his touch.
He inhales sharply against your skin, lips leaving your skin. “Sure.”
★★★
You’re out on the balcony when it comes up.
Jack’s place sits high enough that the city feels almost staged—Pittsburgh stretched out in warm light, bridges lit up in clean lines, traffic moving steady below like it never really stops. It’s one of those late summer nights where the air sticks just slightly to your skin, warm but not suffocating. There’s music drifting from somewhere down the block, a party you can’t see but can feel in the background.
The balcony’s not small—wide enough for a proper table, a few chairs, space to lean without feeling cramped. Jack had insisted on that when he bought the place. Said if he was going to spend money, it’d be on something worth standing still for.
Your plates are mostly cleared, carbonara half-finished, wine and beer sweating into the wood.
“Have either of you done this before?” Robby asks.
Jack shakes his head immediately. “No.”
You don’t answer.
You’re thinking—actually thinking, head tilted slightly, finger lifting to tap against Jack’s arm like you need him to hold on a second. That’s when it hits him, belated and faintly incredulous, that this apparently hadn’t come up when the idea itself had.
“…Have you?” Jack asks, turning to you, already suspicious.
“I am thinking,” you murmur, brows pulling together like this is a serious recall exercise.
Robby raises a brow, watching you now, something amused creeping in despite himself.
“What do you mean you’re thinking?” Jack presses. “That’s not… I don’t know, something you half do or something. You’d know.”
“Or something,” Robby mutters under his breath.
You shoot him a look, then roll your eyes. “Okay—no. I don’t think I’ve had a threesome.”
“How can you not think you’ve had a threesome?” Jack wonders.
You lean back slightly, folding one leg under you, the fabric of your nightgown shifting higher on your thigh without you bothering to fix it. You don’t notice how both men’s gaze drop there.
You exhale, already regretting engaging. “Because—technically—no one actually got fucked, there was no penetration by anybody, so, grey area?”
There’s a beat.
Robby’s mouth twitches.
Jack blinks. “...Right.”
“Okay?” you continue, defensive now. “It was—hands. That’s it. Group situation, but not… full commitment.”
Robby huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Group situation,” he repeats.
“Shut up,” you mutter.
“Another guy or girl?” Jack asks, too quickly.
You hesitate just long enough to make it interesting. “…Both.”
Jack leans back like you’ve just told him something deeply inconvenient. “...Huh.”
Robby lets out a low whistle through his nose. “So not a threesome. Just… poor project management.”
You laugh despite yourself. “Oh my god.”
“That’s a foursome that lost direction,” he adds, dry.
“Whatever,” you shrug. “Med school was fun for me. Sorry I had range.”
Jack eyes you, something between amused and slightly thrown. “I’m just saying, that’s a hell of a thing to casually drop over dinner.”
You smirk faintly. “I’m surprised you haven’t.”
Jack scoffs. “I’ve had opportunities.”
“Mm,” you hum, unconvinced.
Robby glances at him sideways. “That sounds like a lie.”
“It’s not a lie,” Jack says, defensive now. “I just—never felt the need.”
“Right,” Robby says. “Till now.”
Jack gives him a look. “Till now.”
Something passes there—quick, familiar, not entirely friendly as Robby sips his beer.
After, you step out to the edge of the balcony, forearms resting against the railing. The city hums below you, the air warmer now, carrying the smell of food and distant smoke.
Inside, you hear Jack moving—plates, running water. Robby’s voice low, asking something, already familiar with the space.
“Thanks, baby,” you say when Jack comes back out, taking your plate.
You lean in, press a quick kiss to his cheek.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, hand coming up to your hair, messing it slightly with a small, easy smile.
You push him away lightly. “Don’t start.”
Robby watches it for a second before picking up the empty bottles, holding them loosely by the necks.
“Next to the fridge?” he asks, like he hasn’t been here a hundred times already—like tonight isn’t slightly different.
“Yeah,” you nod. “Recycling. Thank you.”
He gives a short nod and turns— You catch his wrist. It’s not forceful. Just enough.
“Hey,” you say, softer.
He looks down at you.
There’s a pause—his eyes dragging, just briefly, lower before coming back up. You’re close enough now to feel the heat off him, the faint roughness of his breath after a drink, after a long day.
You use his forearm to pull yourself up just slightly— and kiss him. It’s not rushed. It’s far from tentative either. Close. Testing.
His beard scratches lightly against your skin, rough in a way that makes you more aware of it, not less. He stills for half a second—then responds, mouth softer than you expected, hand hovering like he hasn’t decided where it’s allowed to land.
Your teeth catch his bottom lip briefly. That’s what does it.
“Starting without me?” Jack’s voice cuts in, dry. “Bit mean.”
Robby pulls back instinctively, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t—even though—
Even though.
You smile a little, letting go of his wrist as he clears his throat.
“Next to the fridge,” Jack adds, nodding toward the bottles.
Robby nods once, wordless, moving past him.
Their shoulders brush as he goes. Not accidental. Jack doesn’t move out of the way.
He watches Robby for a second longer than necessary, then looks back at you.
You end up on the couch.
It happens naturally—plates abandoned in the sink, TV flicked on for noise more than anything else. Some late-night rerun playing low in the background, colours shifting across the room, low lamps lighting the room.
Jack’s in the middle, halfway through some story from work—one of those cases that stuck with him. Complicated, strange, the kind he can’t quite let go of.
You’re tucked into his side, knees curled under you, your hand idly playing at the back of his neck—fingers brushing through his hair, absent, familiar. You nod along, half-listening, more focused on the rhythm of his voice, the warmth of him.
Robby’s behind you. Close enough that you can feel the heat of him through your back, even before his hand settles on your thigh—slow, absent movement, like he’s not even fully aware he’s doing it.
Up. Down. Not pushing. Not asking. Just there.
Jack keeps talking.
You lean in without really thinking about it—your lips brushing along his jaw, then just below it. Light. Familiar. Not rushed.
Jack’s hand comes up to your lower back automatically, pulling you in a fraction closer, steadying you there.
Robby’s hand doesn’t stop. If anything, it shifts—just slightly higher, fingers brushing warmer skin now where the fabric gives way.
Jack feels it. His hand stills for a second at your back—then relaxes again.
He doesn’t pull you away. Doesn’t say anything. You exhale softly against his neck, your breath warm there, your fingers tightening slightly where they rest behind him.
And for a second—just a second—you’re aware of both of them at once.
Jack in front of you, steady, grounding. Robby behind you, quieter, heavier—watching more than speaking.
Jack’s gaze lifts. Meets Robby’s. There’s a beat. Not long. But long enough. Something passes between them—wordless, measured. Something you can’t read.
Jack gives the smallest nod. Barely there. Robby’s jaw shifts slight. Then Jack looks back at you.
Your hand slides from his neck to his jaw, turning him slightly, and you kiss him properly this time—slow, deliberate. He leans into it without hesitation, one hand firm at your waist.
When you pull back, it’s not far. Just enough. Just long enough to turn.
Robby’s already looking at you. Not surprised. Not really. Just watching. You close the distance like it’s nothing—like it’s always been this simple—and kiss him too.
Different. Not softer, not harder—just new. Testing. His hand stills on your thigh for half a second before it shifts, coming up to steady at your side, like he’s grounding himself in it.
There’s a quiet breath from him—almost a huff, almost disbelief.
“This is fun,” You murmur.
You don’t give him time to overthink it.
You lean back between them again, tipping your head slightly, and they follow without being told.
Jack’s mouth finds one side of your neck, familiar, certain.
Robby hesitates for a fraction of a second— then doesn’t.
The other side. Slower. More deliberate. Like he’s learning something he’s not used to having.
You exhale, a soft sound you don’t quite hold back this time, and your hands come up instinctively—one finding Jack’s hair, the other Robby’s, fingers threading through both, holding them there.
For a second, it stays like that. Balanced.
Then you shift, just slightly—hands tightening, guiding as you move the two of them, their lips almost naturally coming to find one anothers, moving them like ken dolls, before you drop your hands, watching with a small smile, as Robby's immediacy for control goes against Jack's. Robby’s hand deepening into your thigh, grip tight as he kisses Jack.
Jack pulls back first, breath uneven but still controlled, his eyes flicking to yours like he’s checking in—like he always does.
His hand slides up your spine, slower now, deliberate where it had been absent before. His palm is cool against your overheated skin, the contrast making you shiver as it traces upward, then back down again, lingering just enough to feel intentional.
You lean back into him, lips finding his neck again—dragging slowly over the roughness of his skin, the faint scrape grounding, familiar. You press a little firmer this time, less thought, more instinct.
When you pull back, it’s only barely. Your breath catches—not dramatic, just… aware. Of him. Of Robby. Of both.
Jack’s hand presses more firmly into your back, keeping you close, steadying you like he can feel the shift too.
“Baby,” he murmurs, voice low, softer than before. “Feeling needy?”
You nod against him, answering with your mouth instead—kissing along his jaw now, slower, more deliberate.
“Yeah,” he exhales, a quiet sort of understanding in it. “I know, hon.” A beat. Then, quieter—“You want me, or him?”
You hesitate. Not long—but long enough to matter.
Robby’s hand shifts on your thigh, moving from the outside to your inner thigh, firm but unhurried, easing you open just slightly—testing, not taking. Waiting to see what you’ll do with it.
“It’s alright,” Jack starts, voice still calm, like he’s talking you through something he already trusts. “Go ahead. She likes it when you—”
“—I’ll ask you for help if I need it, alright?” Robby cuts in, low and even.
They exchange a look—brief, sharp, understood.
You lean over, pressing a quick, soft kiss to Jack’s cheek—something sweet, grounding—before shifting your weight and climbing into Robby’s lap.
He stiffens for a second. Just a second.
Robby’s always been hard to read. Time’s etched itself into his face, but there’s still that wall there—something held back, something controlled. Maybe it’s nerves. Maybe it’s you. His best friend’s girl, sitting on him like this—close, warm, curious.
“You okay there, Sasquatch?” you tease, tilting your head up at him.
His hands find your thighs again almost immediately, like muscle memory kicking in. His gaze flicks—down, over you, then back to your eyes. Briefly to Jack. Then back again.
“Sasquatch? Really?” he murmurs, one hand moving up to cup your breast through your top. His palm is warm against you, sending a shiver down your spine. “That’s what you’re going with?”
“Beard, tall… same thing, no?” you shrug lightly.
That earns the faintest hint of a smirk.
“She always cracking jokes before getting fucked?” Robby asks, giving your breast a firm squeeze. His other hand slides lower, ghosting over your stomach before cupping your mound through your panties
“Depends,” Jack admits. “One time I got G.I Joe for an hour.”
“He was in uniform, in my defense,” You defend, brief before you try moving your hips over Robby’s fingers, eager. “Come on, Michael.”
Robby's fingers press harder against your core, rubbing slow, firm circles that have you arching into him, a sweet whine escaping your lips, his eyes enamoured with how your mouth parts, breath warm against him.
“What a cute noise you make, sweetheart,” Robby murmurs. “Ask me nicely now.”
You hesitate, desperate as his fingers continue to move achingly slow over your wetness.
“Ask or I give Jack my hand right now instead and you can wait your turn for another hour,” Robby tells, voice low and soft, not looking away from where his fingers glide over your seeping core.
“Please,” you murmur, voice breathy and desperate. “Please fuck me with your fingers.”
You crash your lips to his—harsh, messy, tongues thrusting quick and slick, his beard scraping rough red trails across your cheeks and chin. He growls low into your mouth, yanking your panties aside with brutal force, calloused fingertips dragging through your dripping folds, parting your lips wide before ramming two thick fingers knuckle-deep into your clenching pussy—no mercy, no prep.
You gasp ragged into the kiss, a high-pitched moan ripping free as your lips break away, saliva trailing shiny strings from his mouth to yours. You latch onto his neck, teeth grazing the salty skin, sucking hard as you grind down fierce onto his invading digits—walls squeezing tight around the stretch, juices flooding hot over his palm.
“Move your fingers toward her ventral,” Jack instructs from the side, voice calm but edged with that teasing know-it-all tone, his hand sliding warm along your spine.
Robby exhales sharp through his nose—mild irritation flashing in his eyes at the unasked advice, jaw clenching as he shoots Jack a quick, heated glare. But he curls his fingers obediently upward inside you, knuckles grinding rough along your front wall to hammer your g-spot precise and relentless. Your moan swells louder, body jolting as fresh gushes of slick coat his hand, pussy slurping obscenely around each pump.
“Christ, you’re making a mess on me, aren’t you, kid? Huh?” Robby rasps, voice gravel-thick with mean delight, eyes locked on the filthy sight—your swollen pussy lips gliding and sucking greedily over his plunging fingers, riding them frantic.
He twists his wrist sharp, scissoring the digits wide to pry your hole open, thumb mashing down hard on your throbbing clit with every brutal thrust—wet schlicks echoing loud, your thighs trembling slick against his forearm, arousal trickling warm down to soak his jeans.
He adds a third finger suddenly, forcing the burn deeper, stretching your cunt taut as he moves, hooking mercilessly on that spongy spot.
“You getting close?” He asks, low and rough, listening closely to your moans, how they become pitchier, breathier, as sweet as Jack described. You nod, a loose yes, focused only on how your core winds up to the edge. “That right?”
Your cries pitch wilder, back arching as he pinches your clit between thumb and knuckle, rolling it rough while his fingers churn your insides, coil tight in your core.
“What else she like?” Robby asks Jack, glancing over at his friend now, fingers never slowing their rhythm inside you.
Jack taps his index and middle digit to his lips, nodding toward you. Robby nods back, hums at the sight of you, curious.
Robby yanks his fingers free abrupt—your pussy clenching empty, a whine tearing from your throat at the aching void, hips bucking needy for more. He brings those soaked digits up to your face, gripping your chin firm to still you, watching hungry as you part your lips instinctively.
His fingertips tease your bottom lip, smearing your own cream glossy, before you suck them in deep—tongue swirling eager around the thick lengths, lapping every tangy drop, hollowing cheeks as saliva drips messy down your chin.
“Atta girl, you’re a fuckin’ mess now aren’t you?” Robby murmurs, gaze glued ravenous to your bobbing mouth, cock throbbing harder under you. “You wanna cum?”
You nod, frantic around his fingers, eyes pleading.
“Not yet,” Robby denies, voice almost gentle, yet harsh at once. “Barely seen what you can do.”
You exhale shaky as he pulls his fingers out with a wet pop, trailing spit from your chin before cupping your whole face possessive, holding you locked on him.
“Go over to him. Make him feel good,” Robby orders, jerking his chin at Jack.
You nod, movements sluggish from the edge he left you on.
“On the floor, knees, now,” Robby snaps, voice brooking no argument.
You slide off his lap reluctant, crawling back to Jack beside him on the couch. He smiles soft at you, fingers threading gentle through your hair, cupping your cheek as he brushes strands aside, gaze roaming tender over your flushed skin.
“You alright there?” he asks nicely, thumb stroking your jaw.
You nod eager, hands diving straight to his sweatpants, palming the rigid bulge straining there—heat pulsing under your touch.
You tug the waistband down, freeing his cock—thick shaft springing up heavy, veins bulging, head slick with pre-cum. Your fist wraps tight around the base, pumping slow firm strokes up to the tip, twisting slick over the crown to spread his leak.
Jack inhales sharp, but you drop fully to your knees between his spread thighs on the rug, the rough weave biting into your skin. You lean in, lips parting wide to swallow his cockhead first—tongue flicking the slit to lap salty pre, then sliding down inch by veiny inch, throat relaxing to take him deeper.
“Look pretty down there,” Jack murmurs with a small smile, hand light in your hair, just cradling.
“You’re so soft with her,” Robby remarks from beside, voice mixed with mocking and earnestness as he watches you work, his own tenting obvious.
Jack shrugs, a quiet groan escaping as you hollow your cheeks, sucking vacuum-tight while bobbing steady—saliva pooling at the corners of your stretched lips, dribbling down his balls. Your hand strokes what your mouth can't reach, twisting wet on the upstroke, tongue pressing flat along the underside to trace every ridge.
Robby's gaze burns hot—flicking over your arched back, your drool-slick chin, eyes that dart between Jack's tense face, Robby's hungry stare, then flutter shut as you deepthroat him full, nose burying in his pubes. He fixates on Jack's cock vanishing slick between your lips, throat bulging visible. Then up to Jack, whose fingers grip tighter into your scalp—not shoving, just anchoring as his neck cords tense.
“Good job, sweetheart,” Jack praises breathy, hips twitching minimal into your rhythm.
Your moan vibrates around his length, humming deep to make him shudder, spit bubbling messy as you pop off to lick sloppy stripes up his shaft, sucking each ball into your mouth turn before plunging back down.
He groans low, head lolling back, “Fucking… perfect. So perfect, always.”
Tension crackles thicker between them—Jack's free hand drifts casual at first, then deliberate, palming Robby's thigh before cupping the massive bulge in his jeans, squeezing firm through denim. Robby stiffens, eyes meeting with Jack's, breath hitching as Jack rubs slow circles over the thick outline, thumb pressing the zipper ridge where pre darkens the fabric.
“You alright there, man?” Jack scoffs, a light smile. “Can’t handle it?”
It’s a challenge. It always is with them. Has been since they were twenty something.
Jack knows exactly what he’s doing—knows the tells. The slight tilt of Robby’s head, the way his weight shifts more onto one side, the flicker of something sharper behind his eyes. He’s seen that look in bars, in fights, in operating rooms when things went sideways.
Robby doesn’t back down from anything. Least of all him.
Then Robby exhales slowly, something almost like a laugh under it, eyes locking onto Jack’s—steady, unflinching.
“Oh, I can handle it just fine,” Robby agrees with his own smile. “Go ‘head.”
Jack groans at your relentless mouth—fast and wet, then slowing perfect against him—his hand stroking over Robby’s clothed cock, deliberate and slow, denim rasping under his palm. He leans in first, crashing his mouth to Robby's—sloppy, urgent, tongues battling fierce right above you, beards grinding rough, wet sucks and grunts filling the air. Jack's fingers knead Robby's bulge harder, unzipping halfway to delve inside, wrapping firm around the hot shaft through boxers.
You pull off Jack with a gasp, spit stringing from your lips to his glistening tip, replacing your mouth with your fist—pumping slick and steady along his veiny length, thumb swirling over the slit to smear pre-cum. Your eyes lock on their kiss, Jack's hand slowing on Robby as your thumb teases tentative over his own sensitive crown, tongue darting out to lap the edge of his slit.
“Oh fuck,” Jack moans into Robby’s mouth, breaking away to watch you lick him sweetly, hips bucking light into your grip.
Your free hand joins Jack’s on Robby’s cock, fingers overlapping his as Robby undoes his belt buckle with a metallic clink, shoving jeans and boxers down his thighs. His thick cock springs free. You spit thick into your palm, slicking it hot before gripping him base to tip, stroking in tandem with Jack—your hand twisting wet on the upstroke while his squeezes the root, veins pulsing under your combined pressure.
Robby hisses through clenched teeth, thighs tensing as you both jerk him off rough, pre dribbling over knuckles, your mouth still working on Jack’s cock.
Jack's strokes on you falter to lazy pumps, his fist gliding easy over your saliva-lubed skin as he watches Robby swell thicker in your shared hold. “Fuck, feel that grip? She’s got hands made for this,” he rasps, voice husky, eyes dark on Robby's face.
Robby grunts approval, thrusting shallow into the double stroke. Jack pulls back suddenly, nodding down at you. “Let him feel how good your pretty mouth is, baby.”
You release Jack reluctant, his cock twitching angry-red in the cool air as he takes over—fist flying fast over his shaft, slick echoing. You shift on your knees, turning to Robby, who grips his base and taps the fat head heavy against your cheek—wet smacks on flushed skin, taunting drip of pre-painting streaks.
“Dreamt about this once,” he admits, voice low. “The way Jack described it, you’d think you have the mouth of an angel. That right? You an angel?” He wonders.
You lick your lips in anticipation, hand between your legs, fingers gliding over your folds.
“Seemed pretty desperate for my boyfriend there too,” You remark, not looking away from Robby’s gaze.
His jaw tightens. “He’s pretty good with his hand, but I think you can do better with your tongue.”
You part lips wide, tongue out flat as he slaps his cock deliberately across it, underside dragging salty over your tastebuds before shoving in brutal—half his length in one thrust, stretching your jaw.
You gag wet but suck hollow, cheeks caving as you bob frantic, hand pumping the rest in sync. Saliva floods fast, bubbling down his sack as you swirl tongue under the ridge, hollowing deep to milk him. Your fingers are quick against your wetness, dripping between your thighs, your other hand planted at Robby’s thigh.
“Shit—yeah, like that,” Robby growls, free hand fisting your hair to guide rough, not forcing but controlling the pace—pulling you off to tap his cock on your tongue again, smearing spit and pre glossy before ramming back in.
He fucks your face shallow, hips snapping precise, balls swinging to nudge your chin while Jack jerks himself faster beside, groans syncing with yours muffled around Robby's girth.
You sweep the underside of your tongue around Robby’s cock, soft wetness coating him, slow, then fast, hearing how Robby’s hand tightens harder in your scalp.
Jack leans close, breath ragged as his fist blurs over his cock, tip weeping steady. “Enjoying yourself?”
“Fuck off,” Robby mutters, focused on your mouth, your eyes as they look up at him, wide, watery.
Your fingers slip between your thighs, dipping into your soaked pussy, rutting slow circles over your clit as you kneel between them, mouth stuffed full on Robby's cock. Spit drips messy down your chin, mixing with the slick from your own folds as you finger yourself deeper, chasing that tight coil building low in your belly.
“I’m good,” Jack rasps, eyes locked on your hand working your cunt, his fist pumping steady over his own cock. “Slow down, sweetheart.”
Your fingers comply, easing to lazy drags through your wetness, eyes flicking up to watch Jack slow his palm in sync, thumb circling his flushed tip. His free hand drifts back to Robby's thigh, squeezing hard muscle as he watches you deepthroat—throat bulging obscene with each plunge, gags turning wet and rhythmic.
Robby's taunts rumble gravel-deep: “Fucking hell, you gonna let me cum in that mouth, honey?” He pops free with a gasp, cock throbbing inches from your face, tapping insistent on your cheek—left, right, smearing sticky pre over flushed skin—before you dive back voluntary, nose grinding into his pubes as you swallow him full, humming vibration to wrench a guttural curse from his chest.
“She can take it,” Jack murmurs, voice thick. “Can you, baby? Come on, speak now.”
You moan muffled around Robby's girth, pulling off with a slick pop, resting your head against his still-clothed thigh as your fingers plunge back into your pussy, rutting frantic. “Mhm.” You kiss alongside his shaft, tongue tracing veins lazy, lips brushing hot skin.
“So damn sweet now,” Robby murmurs, hand loosening from your scalp to pet gentle through your hair, watching your fingers disappear knuckle-deep. “That feel good?”
You nod against his thigh, licking slow stripes up his cock, pumping your pussy deliberate—thumb flicking your clit, hips rocking into your hand, edge creeping close, breath hitching sharp.
“No more of that, alright?” Robby nods down, eyes sharp on your body. “Yeah? You listening?”
You groan, fingers curling harder inside yourself. “Fuck you—you wanna cum, I get to cum too.”
Robby tilts his head, that piercing look—the one Jack knows spells trouble, before ripping into a resident. Jack nearly laughs, slowing his strokes to a tease. “Not how it works,” Robby says flat, voice dropping steel.
You glance at Jack, pleading.
“Don’t look at him,” Robby orders, tone snapping stricter, hand fisting your hair tight to force your gaze back. You gulp, thighs clenching empty as you pull your fingers free, pussy clenching needy on nothing. “Put both hands behind your back if you’re gonna act like a fuckin’ brat.”
Reluctant, you clasp your hands behind you, knees aching on the floor, tits heaving with each breath. Robby nods approval, gripping his base to feed his cock back past your lips—slow at first, letting you savor the stretch, then thrusting deeper as you hollow cheeks vacuum-tight.
Your tongue flattens under his shaft to lap the frenulum relentlessly, swirling wet around the head on every upstroke before slamming down throat-deep, gag reflex crushed to nothing. Saliva floods obscenely, bubbling at the corners of your mouth, dripping strings to his balls as you bob frantic—suction pulling groans from his gut, nose buried in coarse hair, throat milking him like a fist.
You hum constant vibration, eyes watering up at him, popping off to spit thick on his length before sucking one ball then the other into your mouth, rolling tongue heavy before plunging back down full.
“Jesus Christ—yeah, there we go…” Robby snarls, hips snapping erratic, free hand clamping your nape to hold you buried as his cock swells impossibly thicker, balls drawing tight.
He floods your mouth suddenly—hot spurts painting your tongue thick and salty, cock pulsing ropes down your throat as you swallow greedily around him, not spilling a drop. He rides it out shallow thrusts, groaning ragged until spent, pulling free with a wet schlick.
“Fuck,” he pants, watching your tongue swipe clean over his softening head, lapping the last beads from his slit.
You fall back onto your heels, knees throbbing, core dripping wet and aching empty down your thighs. Swallowing his load thick, you stand shaky, and lean down to Robby, core exposed from your barely there nightgown. You grab him by his jaw, fingers at his chin, watching as his hand catches your wrist.
You smile at that. “Go on,” Your fingers linger near his mouth, covered with your wetness. “Jack prefers the real deal. You shy all of a sudden, Mikey?”
Robby reluctantly opens his mouth, trying and tasting your wetness, sucking your fingers clean.
“Atta boy,” You say sarcastically, moving them out of his mouth. “You think you can still fuck me, old man?” You whisper.
“Watch it,” Robby murmurs.
“You can, in the corner, while Jack finally makes me cum.” You whisper. “Jack,” you grab Jack’s hand, walking away with him as Jack follows suit behind you.
“Up and at it,” Jack tells Robby over his shoulder as he follows you.
“Fucking hell,” Robby mutters, taking a second before following after.
You hum satisfied, leading them stumbling to the bedroom, the air electric behind you.
In the dim glow, you strip your nightgown overhead, leaving ruined panties—crotch soaked dark—and a lacey bra barely containing your tits. Their eyes burn hot as you climb onto yours and Jack's bed, kneeling center.
Jack follows instant, standing at the edge, hands cupping your jaw rough-tender, leaning down to crash his mouth to yours—passionate and devouring, tongue fucking deep to taste Robby's cum lingering salty. You moan into it, hand snaking to grip his cock again, stroking firm base-to-tip.
Behind Jack, Robby's hands roam his back, trailing firm over shirt fabric before gripping the hem, yanking it up and off in one pull. Jack moans muffled into your kiss when your fist pumps faster, hips bucking into your grip, but he breaks away gasping as cool air hits his bare chest.
Robby presses close from behind, chest flush to Jack's back, beard scraping his shoulder as lips latch onto Jack's neck—sucking a mark deliberate.
“Baby, lie down for me,” Jack instructs.
You nod, lying down on your back, knees spread apart like second nature. He tilts his head, as Robby’s lips trail over his skin.
“Enjoying yourself?” Robby echoes Jack's earlier words, hand meeting at his cock briefly, feeling Jack stiffen and inhale sharply at that. “You gonna make your girl cum, or do I have to do that?”
“Fuck off,” Jack murmurs. “Go sit in a corner and wait, or somethin’,” Jack mutters, hands dragging you by the underside of your knee, gently towards the edge as he kneels on the bed, as Robby steps back with a chuckle.
“Think I got her ready, though, so, shouldn't take long,” Robby says. “Unless you’re not as skilled as you’ve been bragging to be.”
“Oh, my god, one of you make me cum or else I’m doing it myself, Jesus,” you whine.
“Oh, baby,” Jack murmurs, kissing at your inner thighs. “I’m leaving you waiting here.”
“She’s being a brat. Have some patience, honey,” Robby insists, tilting his head at you in mock. “But she’s right, hurry up, Abbot, Christ.”
Jack swipes his tongue along your core, and you moan, your wetness ready and eager from Robby's fingering and your own arousal. He licks slow and firm, teasing your sensitive flesh.
Robby watches from the side, his cock still tucked away in his jeans, as he observes you writhing under Jack's talented tongue. His expression is heated, hungry, clearly enjoying the show.
"Mmm...you look like a-" you moan, too lost in sensation to finish the thought. "A fucking nun, Michael," you finally manage, nodding towards his henley. "You aren't hot in that? Take it off already, fuck,"
Robby clicks his tongue, a light roll of his eyes. "You could ask me nicely. Here I thought you were so polite and sweet," he chides.
Jack’s tongue is a relentless, wet invasion, fucking into you with a rhythm that steals your breath. You clench around him, a tight, pulsing grip, your fingers tangled in his silver curls, thighs locked around his head like a vise.
Your eyes stay fixed on Robby’s as he discards his shirt, the fabric whispering to the floor. The snick of his belt sliding free from the loops makes you tighten your legs around Jack even more, a shiver of anticipation racing up your spine, as Jack laps at your pussy.
“Wider,” Jack grunts, his voice muffled against your pussy. He pushes your thighs apart with his hard biceps, one big hand splayed over your hipbone, pinning you down. “Stop squirming. Take it.”
From the foot of the bed, Robby watches, arms folded over his bare chest. He looks like a professor observing a dissection—calm, analytical, utterly in control. “How close are you?” he asks, his tone clinical.
“Mm, close,” you manage, the words breaking on a moan as Jack’s tongue flicks hard over your clit.
“You make such pretty sounds. He was right about that,” Robby hums, stepping closer. He sits on the edge of the mattress, his calloused hand coming up to cup your cheek. His thumb strokes your skin, sweetly, but his brow is furrowed, his gaze intense. “Callin’ me a nun, and you still got this thing on, honey.” He hooks a finger under the strap of your bra and flicks it sharply against your skin, a sting of sensation.
Jack’s tongue plunges deep again, and you arch off the bed, a choked cry leaving your lips. Your eyes don’t leave Robby’s as his hand slides down, cupping your breast through the lace. He admires the weight, the shape, his fingers tracing the curve.
“Want me to fuck you first, or GI Joe there?” Robby recalls, a smirk playing on his lips.
He doesn’t miss the way your mouth curves in a smile, even as your eyelids flutter shut. Jack quickens his pace, his hands now gripping your thighs like he’s holding you together.
You’re too close, teetering on that blinding edge. Words are impossible.
“Answer me,” Robby instructs, his voice dropping low and stern. His hand kneads your breast, then slips inside the cup of your bra, his fingers finding your nipple. He rolls it, pinches it just shy of pain. “Who do you want first?”
“You,” you gasp, the answer torn from you instinctively, desperately.
Robby’s smirk widens. “You hear that, Abbot? I get to break her in first.” He doesn’t look away from you as he says it.
He leans down, his hand sliding between your legs. Jack pulls back without a word, letting Robby’s fingers trail through your soaked folds, delivering a slap to your clit. You shiver violently, a string of high, needy moans escaping as he collects your wetness on his fingertips. He brings them back to your mouth, his other hand still working your nipple.
“I was right,” you murmur, breathless. “Knew you’d be mean.”
“Yeah? You like it?” Robby wonders, though he already knows.
You bite your lip, refusing to answer.
He pushes his wet fingers past your lips, pulling your jaw open with a firm pressure. The look he gives you is pure command—dark, expectant. Obey.
“I like it,” you moan around his fingers, the admission almost reluctant. Your grip tightens in Jack’s hair. “Fuck—I’m gonna—oh fuck—”
“Yeah?” Robby hums, petting your hair now, his other hand still at your breast. He watches your mouth hang open, watches the pleasure wreck you. “Eyes on me. Come on. No, no. No closing them. You keep ’em right here.” His gaze holds yours captive. “Good girl… good girl, aren’t you? Bratty, but you just needed to cum a little, isn’t that right?”
You whimper as Jack’s tongue sweeps over your oversensitive clit one last time, lapping up your juices as you shatter. Your orgasm crashes through you, white-hot and convulsing, your body bowing off the bed as you cry out.
“Good job, baby. Fucking hell,” Jack mutters against your thigh, his voice rough with praise.
He comes up your body, his hand replacing Robby’s on your breast, kneading possessively. His lips find yours in a messy, wet kiss, tasting of you. Tongues swiping, teeth clashing briefly as you chuckle into the kiss, wet and sloppy as he moves to your neck, sucking hard around your jaw, yoru neck, hand trailing over your figure, squeezing, gentle, rough all at once.
“My favourite girl in the world, you know that,” he murmurs against your skin, kissing at your collarbone.
You grin, feeling as Robby captures your mouth with his own, a brief pause as he watches Jack worship your figure. Jack slides a finger over your core, feeling as your back arches, how you gasp into Robby’s mouth.
“You aren’t a brat, are you baby?” Jack murmurs, rubbing tight circles at your clit, hearing how you whimper at the feeling, fresh from your orgasm. “No, honey, not for me, isn’t that right? Yeah, I know, I know… my sweet girl,” He replaces Robby’s mouth with his own, dragging over yours as you nod into the kiss.
“Told you. Lover boy,” Robby remarks to you.
You grin into the kiss, before Jack pulls away and naturally seems to find Robby’s lips.
You watch, a strange heat pooling in your belly, watching as Jack immediately leans in and kisses Robby. It’s harsh and sweet all at once—a clash of teeth and soft sighs. You thought you might feel a spike of jealousy, but instead, a warm, possessive pride swells in your chest.
Robby stands, briefly cupping Jack’s jaw in a gesture that’s both dismissal and affection before pushing him gently aside. Jack moves from between your legs, sprawling onto his back on the bed. Robby’s hands are on your waist, and you yelp in surprise as he manhandles you with effortless strength, flipping you onto your stomach.
He drags your ruined panties down over your ass, off your legs, and sends them flying to a corner of the room with a flick of his wrist. Your bra is next; he unclips it with one practiced hand, and the lace joins the panties.
“Ass up, sweetheart,” Robby instructs, his voice thick. He lands a sharp, stinging tap on your bare ass cheek. He has one knee on the bed, the other foot planted on the floor.
You obey, pushing yourself up onto your knees and elbows. Jack is lying in front of you now, his gaze heated. You reach for his prosthetic leg, helping him with the quick-release mechanism. Robby hands you the second one without a word—a seamless, understood exchange. Jack kisses you, sweet and grateful, as he sets the limb aside.
"That's it," Robby mutters, positioning himself behind you. You feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against your slick entrance, teasing, and then he thrusts forward in one brutal, seamless motion.
Filling you so completely the air leaves your lungs in a whoosh. He sets a punishing pace immediately, each thrust driving you forward toward Jack.
Robby inhales sharply at the feeling of you. You adjust to him, moan loud and silent all at once at the feeling.
“Shit,” Robby mutters. “Fuckin’ hell, you know much Jack’s raved about this pussy? Callin’ it the treasure of the fucking ocean.”
His hands grip your hips like anchors, fingernails digging into your soft flesh as he sets a merciless rhythm—pounding into you with a force that drives your body forward with each impact, making the headboard knock rhythmically against the wall. “Perfect fucking pussy, sweetheart, you know that?”
You moan at his words, clenching even tighter around him.
“How the fuck do you leave home, Jack— Jesus Christ,” Robby says as he quickens his pace slightly, watching as your ass moves from the harsh contact of his hips against you.
“Life or death, and that’s it,” Jack says.
“Come on, give him some love, kid,” Robby tells.
Jack’s cock is hard and leaking against his stomach. You lean down, taking him into your mouth, swallowing him deep. He groans, his hands coming up to cradle your head. “Fuck, just like that,” he rasps.
You’re split between them—Robby fucking into you from behind with deep, possessive strokes, and Jack’s length hitting the back of your throat. The dual sensation is overwhelming. Robby’s hips slap against your ass, the sound filthy and wet.
“You like being used like this baby?” Jack wonders, your moans vibrating against him.
You don’t answer, focused on the sensation of Robby’s cock harsh within you.
“He asked you a question,” Robby pants, moving his hand to your hair, tight as you look up at Jack, watery eyed.
“Uh-huh,” you nod.
“See? Not so hard,” Robby groans.
Jack smiles a bit at that, caressing your face as you occupy your mouth with Jack’s cock. He groans. The taste of salt and heat floods your tongue as you take him deep, your lips stretching around his girth. You hollow your cheeks, sucking hard as you bob your head, letting him feel every ridge of your throat as you swallow him down. Your nose presses against his pelvis, and he groans, his fingers threading through your hair.
"Just like that… Just like that," Jack chokes out, his head falling back as his hips buck up involuntarily, his hand tightening on your jaw. His thumb presses against your cheek, forcing your mouth wider, and you feel every ridge and vein of his cock sliding deeper down your throat. "Come on now, so close."
The words vibrate through you, but before you can double down, Robby leans over your arched back, his chest sweaty and hot against your spine, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Make him wait."
You pull off Jack's cock with a wet pop, a thick strand of saliva and pre-cum stretching between your lips and his glistening tip before breaking. Jack's frustrated groan cuts through the room, his hips twitching in empty air.
"Fuck off, Mike," Jack growls, but his hand remains gentle in your hair, fingers stroking through the sweat-damp strands as you whimper from the brutal pace behind you.
Robby's cock is driving into you with relentless accuracy, the head of him hitting that deep, spongy spot inside you with every thrust, sending electric jolts through your core. Your inner walls flutter and clench around him, helpless against the assault.
"You gonna be a brat too, then?" Robby says, shooting a lighthearted glare at Jack over your shoulder.
Before Jack can retort, you clench down hard around Robby's shaft, a desperate whine escaping your throat. Robby's rhythm stutters for half a second, a low curse spilling from his lips. "Fucking—hell, god, doll. You are so goddamn tight, y'know that?"
His pace becomes brutal, each thrust driving deeper, harder, the angle punishing. His balls slap wetly against your clit with every impact, the sound filthy and rhythmic. You feel the slick heat of your own arousal coating his shaft, dripping down your thighs with every punishing stroke.
"She's close," Jack murmurs, his voice softer now, almost reverent.
You shift forward, pressing open-mouthed kisses across his stomach, your tongue tracing the soft lines of his abs, tasting salt and skin, over the light freckles. You moan into his flesh, the vibration making his muscles jump, and then his palm cups your cheek, thumb brushing over your bottom lip, holding you warmly.
"Look at you," Jack whispers, his eyes dark and soft at once. "So beautiful like this. Taking us both. You're doing so well, baby."
“Go ahead, cum,” Robby growls into your ear, his hand snakes around your hip, his fingers finding your clit. He rubs tight circles against the swollen nub while he continues to pound into you, and the sensation is electric—each thrust driving his fingers harder against that sensitive bundle of nerves. “Now.”
You moan around Jack’s cock as you break, your pussy clenching wildly around Robby’s thrusts. The convulsions milk him, and with a low groan, he buries himself to the hilt and pulses inside you, hot and deep.
"Fuck," he breathes, his forehead pressing against your shoulder blade, his body shuddering through the aftershocks.
He pulls out slowly, and you feel his cum begin to seep from you.
“Goddamnit,” Robby murmurs, a pant.
Before you can even catch your breath, he spits into his palm, the sound crude and purposeful. He reaches down, slicking up Jack’s cock, which is already hard again and straining against his stomach. Jack groans, a deep, ragged sound at the touch.
“Your turn,” Robby tells him, his voice rough with use.
But instead of letting you face Jack, Robby guides you. His strong hands on your hips turn you, maneuvering your spent body until you’re straddling Jack, but facing away from him. Your back is to Jack’s chest, your ass pressed against his hips. You can feel Robby’s cum, warm and wet, slicking the way as you settle over Jack’s length.
Jack’s hands come to your hips, steadying you. “Easy, sweetheart,” he murmurs, but his voice is tight with need.
From the foot of the bed, Robby watches. He’s kneeling there now, his eyes dark and hungry, fixed on the place where your bodies move against one another, well practiced. Jack’s fingers slide between your legs, through the slick mess Robby left behind. He gathers it on his fingertips, his touch making you shiver, he brings those wet fingers to your lips.
You open for him, tasting Robby’s salty tang on Jack’s skin as he slips his fingers into your mouth. You moan around them, your tongue swirling. Jack’s eyes never leave Robby’s as he then pulls his fingers free, back to your cunt, a slight shudder once more, and brings them to his own lips, sucking them clean, tasting his best friend.
Robby watches this whole exchange, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
“Atta girl,” Jack pants against your ear, his hands tightening on your hips.
Then he guides you down, and you sink onto him with a broken cry. He fills you completely, the stretch delicious, the sensation of being stuffed so soon after your last climax making your head spin. You’re so sensitive it’s almost painful, a sweet, overwhelming ache.
You begin to move, rising and falling on his cock, finding a slow, grinding rhythm. Your hands brace on Jack’s thighs behind you for leverage. The angle is deep, each descent hitting a spot that makes you see stars.
“That’s it,” Jack encourages, his voice a rasp in your ear. His hands roam your body—gripping your waist, palming your breasts, thumbing your nipples.
You increase your pace, bouncing on him, the wet sounds of your joining filling the room. Your head falls back against his shoulder, your eyes fluttering shut.
“Eyes open, sweetheart.”
Robby’s command cuts through the haze. Your eyes snap open. He’s moved closer, kneeling right beside the bed now, his face level with where you’re joined with Jack. He’s watching every slide, every glide, his expression one of rapt fascination.
“Look at you,” Robby murmurs, his voice thick. “Takin’ him so well."
His praise fuels you. You lean more back, hands coming up behind you to Jack, angle pushing him even deeper, as you whimper, sharp gasps, teetering on the edge again.
“Baby, I’m gonna cum,” Your moan, soft.
“Fucking- shit, go ahead, honey, cum f’me,” he moans.
Your orgasm crests, a silent scream trapped in your throat as your body tightens. You clench around Jack, a series of violent, fluttering spasms that milk his length.
Jack curses, his hips bucking up into you. “Fucking—just like that—”
As you’re pulsing around him, Robby leans in. He captures Jack’s mouth in a sudden, fierce kiss over your shoulder. You can hear the wet slide of their lips, the soft grunts and sighs. It’s raw and intimate, and it sends another shockwave of pleasure through your oversensitive nerves.
Robby breaks the kiss. “Lift up for a second, kid,” he breathes against your skin.
Dazed and pliant, you raise yourself up, Jack’s slick cock sliding almost all the way out of you. Robby’s hand replaces you, wrapping around Jack’s shaft. He gives him a few rough, efficient strokes, his thumb smearing the pre-cum beaded at the tip.
“Missed the taste of you,” Robby mutters to Jack, his eyes locked on his friend’s face as he works him.
Jack just groans, his head thrown back, his hands gripping your thighs. Then Robby guides you back down, easing you onto Jack’s cock until you’re fully seated once more, stuffed to the brim.
“Go ahead, finish,” Robby growls, his command for both of you.
You begin to move again, a slow, rolling grind now, utterly spent but driven by the need to feel Jack lose control. He’s close—you can feel the tension in his body, the way his breath hitches.
“Come on, Jack,” Robby urges softly, his hand returning to your clit, applying just enough pressure to make you whimper. “Fill her up. Give her what she needs.”
That does it. With a shattered cry, Jack’s hips piston up once, twice, and then he stills, buried deep inside you as he comes. You feel the hot pulses of his release joining Robby’s already there, flooding you.
Jack kisses at your shoulder blades, near your neck, as you relax your body entirely, shaky breaths with your back against his chest. His arm coming around you automatically, instinctive, like it always does. His hand slides up your arm, slow, grounding, fingers brushing your shoulder, your collarbone—checking, not asking out loud but asking anyway.
Robby puts a hand to your jaw, tapping your cheeks lightly with his fingers, watching as your eyes lazily find his.
“You alright?” he murmurs, voice rough, softer than it’s been all night.
“Mhm,” You nod, catching your breath.
“There she is,” Jack murmurs against you, pressing a kiss into your hair, lingering there a second longer than usual.
Robby doesn’t move right away.
He’s sitting beside you both, elbows on his knees, head tipped slightly forward, breathing steadier now—but there’s something in his posture, something looser than before. The edge is gone. Or at least… dialed down.
You shift, peeling yourself gently from Jack, turning toward Robby. For a second, there’s that flicker—uncertainty, maybe. Not doubt. Just… recalibration.
Then you lean in and kiss him. It’s different now. Slower. Softer. No urgency behind it.
Robby’s hand comes up to the back of your head, not guiding, not demanding—just holding you there, thumb brushing lightly at your hairline. He exhales through his nose, a quiet thing, like he didn’t realize he’d been holding onto something.
When you pull back, you stay close.
“Hey,” you say, softer.
“Hey,” he echoes.
Jack watches the two of you. His hand still rests low on your back, thumb moving in slow, absent circles like it always does when he’s settling you.
Jack kisses gently at your bare back, “Be right back,” he murmurs against you, before you hear him leave the bed, putting on his temporary prosthetic.
You hear him leave, pulling away from Robby who watches Jack as he leaves the room, headed for the hall.
You groan and flop onto the bed, Robby moving the blanket over you, maybe suddenly prudeish as he picks up presumably Jack’s shirt and hands it to you. You hum, put it on.
“Jesus,” you murmur, voice soft, wrecked. “I think my legs might actually fall off.”
That gets a quiet huff out of Robby.
He’s sitting up at the edge of the bed now, dragging a hand down his face, then through his hair. He looks… different, a little. Looser. The usual edge sanded down.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Think you’ll live.”
You glance over at him, managing a small smile.
He’s already reaching for his boxers, pulling them back on, movements unhurried. The gold chain at his neck catches the low light—the Star of David resting against his chest, rising and falling with his breathing. There’s something grounding about it. Familiar. Normal.
There’s a beat.
Then, softer—
“…You good?” You ask.
He turns your head toward you. “Yeah.” He thinks for a moment, a shake of his head as he lets himself admit– “Needed that. Needed to be… not alone, I think.”
You watch him for a second—something thoughtful in your expression.
“That something you’d wanna do again or is this a one and done situation?” You wonder earnestly, rolling onto your side as you look up at him. “
Robby doesn’t answer straight away. He looks at you—really looks, like he’s trying to figure out what the question actually means underneath what you asked.
Your hair’s a mess, Jack’s shirt slipping off one shoulder, eyes soft but steady on him. Hickies across your neck. Not fragile. Not asking for reassurance. Just… asking.
His jaw shifts slightly.
“…You always this direct after something like that?” he mutters.
You huff a quiet laugh. “I’m an ortho resident. I don’t have time for interpretive dance.”
That almost gets a smile out of him. He exhales, leaning back more fully, one hand rubbing absently at his chest like he’s trying to settle something under the surface.
“It’s not—” he starts, then stops. Tries again. “It’s not really a ‘one and done’ kind of question.”
You tilt your head slightly. “Why not?”
He glances at the door—where Jack disappeared—then back at you.
Because Jack’s not just some guy. Because this isn’t just sex. Because there’s history here that predates you by decades and still manages to feel unfinished. Because he already feels it sitting somewhere in his chest, heavy.
You seem to pick up where his head is at, a nod. “Do you have… like, real feelings for him? Or me?”
Robby scoffs a chuckle. “I don’t have time to think about that.”
“Just time to fuck us though. Well, not Jack, sure he’ll give me a complaint about that later.” You murmur.
Robby smiles a bit. “You two are… perfect for each other. I still don’t get how he found you.”
“I don’t know either, to be honest,” You admit. “But he cares about you. Like a lot. And so do I. And it’s not just because your dick is great, promise. You’re always welcome with us, whether its sex, comfort, food, all three. We aren’t picky people.”
“Picked up on that,” Robby nods, quieter now. “What are your plans? With him, I mean. He mentioned something about marriage.”
You smile a little—more to yourself than anything—your hand drifting, almost unconsciously, to your left ring finger.
“No idea,” you admit. “However long he wants me around, I guess.”
Robby huffs a soft breath, leaning back against the headboard. “Well, if age’s anything to go by, you’ve got a good couple of years.”
You smack his arm lightly. “You’re literally older than him.”
“I’m not marrying you,” Robby shoots back, deadpan.
“You’re an ass,” you sigh.
That earns you a small smile.
The door opens.
Jack steps back in, towel slung over his shoulder, a glass of water already in hand. He pauses just inside, taking in the room in one sweep—quick, practiced. You, curled on your side in his shirt. Robby at the edge of the bed, quieter than usual.
“My leg’s killing me,” Jack mutters, like it’s an afterthought, already moving back toward the bed.
You push yourself up onto your elbows, frowning. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” he says, dismissive in that way he gets, like pain’s just background noise. He hands you the glass. “Drink.”
You take it, still watching him. “You say that about everything.”
“Because everything’s fine.”
Robby snorts under his breath. “Yeah. That’s a healthy coping mechanism.”
Jack shoots him a look as he sits down, stretching his leg out carefully. “Oh, I’m sorry—did you want to compare notes?”
Robby raises his brows. “Not particularly.”
Then Jack exhales, leaning back into the headboard. His hand finds your thigh automatically—absent, grounding, like he needs the contact without thinking about it.
His gaze flicks between the two of you, lingering on Robby for half a second longer than necessary.
“What’d I miss?” he asks.
You shift, settling back into him, your cheek brushing his shoulder. “Marriage.”
Jack huffs. “One night with my girl and you’re already trying to steal her? Alright. Good to know.”
Robby lets out a quiet chuckle.
“With you, idiot,” you correct.
Jack glances down at you. “Oh, him and I are getting married now?”
You roll your eyes and, just to be difficult, shift toward Robby instead—curling lightly into his side.
It lasts all of two seconds.
Jack’s arm hooks around you and pulls you straight back against him.
“Relax,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, holding you there against his chest.
Robby watches that, something unreadable flickering across his face before it settles again.
Robby stays the night.
Not in the same way—there’s a natural rhythm to it. He gives you and Jack space without being asked, drifting out into the living room, the quiet murmur of the TV carrying faintly down the hall. At one point you hear the balcony door slide open, then shut again.
He’s not intrusive. Never has been.
But he doesn’t leave, either.
if u havent read it, i'd recommend reading my (wo)man on willpower! this is a spin off of that, i suppose. focuses more on jack x reader, though. :D
a/n: girls i have another like 700 words i had that as a short scene of santos speculating why u didnt make it to her paris party (oh my god im so funny paris because threesome haha i know right, please dont click off this), and i might post that later, but my ao3 will get the full thing if u wanna just see what it was. the 1000 block limit on tumblr genuinely my opp fr.
anyway thank u guys all for the support on my (wo)man on willpower, so proud of that fic and so sweet the reblogs and comments! i wish u could see my grin every time! and yall hammered me for this so i hope its up to standard, meets an expectation or two. i had a lot of fun just exploring the dynamic, you x robby, robby x jack, jack x you, like i am a true believer in true love triangles, so hopefully that came across, but admittedly, still keeping jack and reader endgame obvi, so.. also sorry if it aint gay enough, i told yall i do not read mlm stuff, just not for me. i love it! just dont like, actively read it yk! i also just wanted to have fun with the prose, emotional stuff, etc, and idk. hopefully the smut isnt terrible, that shit is hard as hell! like, positions, dirty talk?! dirty talk is hardddd guys!! then like the build to it, ugh. i wish i had a smut class at my uni or something so i could really get into the weeds of it, and spend time endlessly editing it. i really couldve spent another few days editing this but honestly wanted it OUT and DONE !! need to lock in got exams soon team. okay sorry for this long as hell authors note ! lmfaoo. hope yall liked!
summary: the new ER personnel does not yet know who Jack is married to. You're a pretty scary ortho attending that seems to always be fighting with Jack
genre: fluff --- be aware: medical inaccuracies
masterlist | sunshine version
You had met Jack in a training centre in Texas. You'd been with the army a couple of years at that point, having joined straight after pre-med. You were specialising in orthopedics because you liked the people working the field and it was a place where you could make a difference to people's life.
Jack had been an emergency lover from the start, so you'd butted heads more then once when you had different opinions. You had heated arguments about patient care, strategies and new techniques. Your fights weren't pretty, but you found you enjoyed them none the less. At some point you found yourself hoping he'd be on shift when you were, aching to see him and bite his head of. He asked you out on a date when you'd saved six patients together in one night.
When Jack got injured and left the army, you handed in your resignation and went with him. You got married as soon as Jack had recuperated enough to get himself down the isle.
You'd started at the PTMC together, Jack downstairs in the Pitt, you upstairs surrounded by ortho bros. Now you were an attending, having been promoted easily because of your natural leadership and medical capabilities and experiences. You were a tough one. New med-students and residents would try to avoid you the first couple of weeks, getting scared when you would sneak up behind them to judge their work. You were harsh and strong, but you were a good teacher and a damn good doctor.
You and Jack were a true enemies to lovers tale, and though you'd arrived at the lovers' side of it now, the snarky comments and fierce looks hadn't stopped. You'd fallen in love through your fighting in emergency situations, and so you kept it up. It felt part of you to act this way towards Jack inside the hospital, the part of you that had started out as enemies never fully left. It made sense for you to work together in this way, and strangely it made you both better doctors when you were biting each other's heads off.
For your colleagues this could be a strange dynamic. They'd get a little nervous if arguments got too heated, but mostly they just ignored and laughed at the names you'd cal each other. Sweetheart was a favourite, although said in a very sarcastic tone. Most people knew that the two of you were hopelessly in love, but they liked to make a game out of it for anyone new. There was, of course, a betting pool when new students or residents would arrive, placing bets on how long it would take the newbies to figure it out. The record was held by Dr. Mohan, who had taken almost four months to figure it out.
You and Jack were both in on the plot, secretly loving it when new doctors would come in and get scared by the hostility between you two in the trauma bay. You two would even amp it up a little bit when you knew the rookies had been gossiping about hospital relationships. You were usually caught because one of Jack's colleagues couldn't stop smirking at your behaviour.
When Mel, Santos, Whitaker and Javadi had been in the ER a couple of weeks, they heard whispers about you. You'd been off to train some combat medics for a month, and had missed Pittfest. Rumours were that you'd be back that day and the entire ER staff was gearing up for it.
Abbot was a couple of hours early that day. He said he'd heard about a multiple collision on the radio and wanted to come in to help. Dana laughed at him. "You tell yourself that, Jack. Just keep the shouting down later. If I hear one more sarcastic sweetheart I might just start throwing things at you."
Mel overheard the conversation and looked away from the board, trying to figure out what she'd missed. Jack was smiling at Dana.
The trauma came in and Jack called for her. "King, you're with me. Degloving injury of the lower right leg. Let's try to get it figured out before ortho comes in to ruin it." They'd been running the trauma for a couple of minutes when you barged through the door. "Right," you ordered, "Who's this and what's going on." You locked your eyes on Mel. "You're the resident running this? Go on, make your report, we haven't got all day. Don't look at Abbot, he doesn't know shit." Mel presented the patient, stumbling over her words because she was flustered by the intensity of the ortho attending. Jack tied off a tourniquet and you stepped in to bump him out of the way.
"Keep your hands of that tourniquet. Did they give you your degree with a carton of milk? I'm taking over." She loosened the tourniquet, trying for a pulse on the foot.
"He's going to bleed out if you don't tie of that tourniquet, sweetheart." He sneered at you. You scoffed at him. "Don't tell me what to do. If we tie it off he's losing his leg for sure, just hang another o-neg and let me look at him first. Can't have everyone limping around like you, sweetheart, so just let me work my miracles." Mel felt her throat constrict when you said it. She was sure Jack was going to burst into anger now. Jack did not, however, and he smiled at you with a twinkle in his eyes. "By all means, you quack. Take all the time you need, I know you always need a little longer to get up to speed. I'll just try to make sure he lives in the meantime."
The jabs continued back and forth and Mel had to take a moment after the trauma to refigure her confused emotions. You'd gone up to the OR with the patient and Jack was working on another one of the collision victims.
Dana found Mel in the hall, staring into it. "Tough day, kid?" Mel nodded. "They're intense, Dr. Abbot and the ortho attending." Dana laughed at that. "Don't I know it. You'll get used to it before long. It's just names they're calling each other, they always figure out the best course of action. It works, one way or another, they're both at the top of their game. But intense is the right word for it." She patted Mel on the back. "Come on kid, it's time for shift change."
Two days later Javadi was caught between one of your arguments, trying to referee it. She couldn't make herself heard over your raised voices. "You're plainly in the wrong, sweetheart. What does your husband think of these idiotic ideas on patient care?" Jack shouted at you. Your eyes turned to thunder. "That's the path you're taking? Do you want to hear what your wife's opinion on the matter is?" Javadi fled.
A week later both Javadi and Mel were running a code with Dr. Abbot when you came bursting through the doors. "I was scrubbing in to a ACL reconstruction, this better be serious or I'm going to kill you all for wasting my time." Mel's face lost some of its colour. "Come on, present the patient!" You barked at her. "It's enough that your attending is always wasting my time. Get on with it." Mel's eyes turned huge and she was picking at her hands from anxiety. You trained your eyes on her, anger evident in the way your brows had furrowed. "Now, if you please! I thought you were a resident, not some nervous med-student. Stop wasting my damn time!" Javadi swallowed her fear and tried to press herself into the corner of the trauma bay.
Dr. Abbot stepped in front of you. "That's enough. You don't get to bitch at my residents. They're not some cadets that you're training. Get over yourself and don't take your anger out on them." You huffed at him. "Jesus, Jack! Are you really quoting my therapist to me? Are you fucking serious?" Jack continued to stare at you. Javadi and Mel got even more confused by the conversation and looked at each other anxiously. Javadi was trying to gauge wether it was best to flee again.
It took ten seconds for you to calm down and apologise to the two women. "Sorry." You told them. "I was out of line and I shouldn't have shouted at you. I apologise. Let's get back to the patient now."
You leaned over the patient to check for any damage to the lower back, dog-tags falling out over the top of your scrub top. Mel could see a golden ring hanging next to them. Jack did the same opposite to you, his dog-tags clanking as they met the wedding ring that was also on his chain. It looked like the one on your neck, only it was a little smaller and it had a beautiful green emerald.
Mel took a step forward and examined the dog-tags on your neck. It took her a moment, but then she could plainly see the name Jack Abbot written on them. Mel blinked in confusion. "Dr. Abbot," She began, "She's wearing your tags." Jack stopped assessing the patient, satisfied that he'd live. He looked at you. "I sure hope she is because otherwise she would have lost them. She already lost my wedding ring once and that's more than enough." You turned away from the patient and snapped your gloves off. "You've got to stop bringing that up Jack, it was years ago. Besides, you're the one who wants my ring around your neck, you possessive man. It's only fair that I get yours in return. Patient will be fine, just sent him up for a CT. I'm gonna scrub for my ACL." You turned to walk out the door. Jack called after you. "We're still on for coffee around 10, right?" You turned back to Jack and kissed him on the lips. "Of course, sweetheart." you said, "Don't forget my creamer." Then you walked off, leaving Mel and Javadi without words.
Javadi finally found her voice after a minute. "That is your wife?" She gasped out. "She is absolutely terrifying." Javadi slapped her hand in front of her mouth as soon as she'd said it.
Jack just laughed at her, walking back to the board. "Yes, isn't she lovely? What do you gen-z-ers call this, having a terrifying partner? I think Shen told me once." He scratched his chin. "Ah, I remember. Scary dog privilege!"
➤ summary: you decided to test a theory that asking for rafe’s help might push him to finally make a move on you
➤ w/c: 3.5k
➤ warnings: kiiinda obsessive/softie rafe, sexual tension, making out, a bit suggestive at the end
masterlist taglist
You and Rafe have been circling each other for months.
It started seemingly out of nowhere. One day neither of you seemed to care or notice each other’s existence, and the next you became painfully aware that he was everywhere. Like the bulb just lit up in your head, and your eyes started catching him in your peripheral vision all the damn time—at the bonfires, at the beach when you came there with your girlfriends, at the country club with that smug grin on his face as if he knew he was the best, at the dinners that your families held together. Well, at least that's what it was like for you.
You caught his eyes staring at you more times than you could count, and you started looking back, thriving on the attention, loving the way he always noticed you even in a room full of people. Not to mention how hot he actually was and how it made you feel whenever he brushed past you—all big and warm—accidentally touching your arm and mumbling a low “sorry” as if it were just an accident.
You were in somewhat similar circles, so you made sure to give him all the cues that you didn’t mind him actually approaching you to talk for more than two seconds.
But he never made a move.
Which, on its own, was ridiculous to you. You waited. Because duh—he was Rafe. He was the one who usually approached girls and flirted like his life depended on it. He was the one who, apparently, didn’t give two shits about anything or anyone enough to care what people were thinking of him, but when it came to you, he suddenly was hesitant.
Every random run-in became more tense, more weird—the heavy glances, the smirks, the way his tongue ran over his lower lip when you caught him staring again, the way your fingers just barely glazed each other whenever he passed you the cup at the party. You probably would never forget when you accidentally bumped into him when he walked out of the corner so suddenly, because the look in his eyes was priceless. You clearly caught him off guard, and he didn’t expect to meet you. In a few seconds a thousand different emotions flashed through Rafe’s face, from surprise to a sudden, ever so noticeable millisecond of shyness, then back to his usual nonchalance. His eyes then darted down to the floor, and he brushed past you. Just like that.
You knew you weren’t crazy. You could feel it in your bones that you were right about all the little signs. And honestly, after hearing a stupid yet interesting idea from your friend, you were done waiting. She said something about guys getting stupidly attracted when you ask them for small favors. It makes them feel needed and useful, even rewarded, and since Rafe already looked at you like he wanted you, you might as well give him an idea that you don’t mind him taking care of you.
It seemed like you didn’t even have to try to find an excuse to ask for his help, because one day when you and your girlfriends went to the country club for some fun time, Rafe and his buddies were already there, standing in the back area of the main building and seemingly waiting for somebody else.
You saw them when you walked out of the back door to get the forgotten tote bag with all of your swimming stuff you planned to use for a day near the pool. The door squeaked heavily under your weight as you pushed it to open, and you groaned, both palms flat against the slick glass, realizing that they still hadn’t fixed it despite the many complaints from the visitors.
Your eyes caught his immediately after you got under the bright sun, his form straightening up a bit the moment he saw you walking out of the building, and you couldn’t help but smile at the way Rafe's eyes studied you briefly in your baby blue bikini and a cover-up at your hips.
“Hey, guys.” You greeted them, moving past the group with only your flip flops now slapping against the pavement, like nothing was happening, like you weren’t really excited to see a certain someone you’d been planning on. The bag felt heavy on your shoulder, but a few intense gazes at the back of your head were sure as hell even heavier, but you decided to ignore them for now and get back into the building to not cause any more interest.
You walked past them looking straight ahead of you, as confident as ever, but then you reached the handle of the door, pulling it once, twice, and then again with both of your hands. It stayed closed shut, and your slippers were only sliding off your feet the more effort you put into it. You groaned, frustrated instantly, looking back at the guys to see Rafe still looking directly at you like it was the most normal thing.
You smirked to yourself before turning back around to face the group. “Rafe?” You asked softly, your voice smooth and light, which made his brows shoot up instantly. Well, that was new. “Could you help me open the door, please?” He moved before you could even properly end the sentence, slightly jogging towards you to reach you faster, all while his friends were snickering and grinning like idiots at the sight of it all—Rafe Cameron willingly helping someone without a single complaint or roll of his eyes.
And then he was right in front of you. All tall, big, and tanned from the never-ending days on the golf course or his boats, with his cap turned backwards and light shirt clinging to his broad shoulders. You could read the surprise on his face, the sliver of hesitation because of your sudden ask, which quickly turned into something completely different the moment his eyes roamed over you again—the little bit of fabric that you had covering your body had suddenly stripped his mind of all of the other thoughts.
“I really hate that they still didn’t fix this damn door, I can barely move it on my own.”
“Sure.” He rasped finally, hand reaching out to open the heavy door with little to no effort, and stepping aside to let you walk in.
“Thank you, Rafe. You’re my savior.” A smile touched your lips again as you looked up into his bright and surprised eyes. You reached with your hand without even thinking, briefly touching his forearm in a thankful yet innocent gesture, before you walked inside and left him standing there with a million things on his mind.
Not even three days later Sarah called you to say that she maxed out Ward’s card. Which, in your language, meant a shit ton of new clothes that you could possibly steal or borrow from her, and which meant a girls’ night at Tanneyhill.
By the evening basically all of the available surfaces in her room were covered in clothes, while the bed looked like Sarah’s closet had just exploded. In the middle of it all you stood in the shortest turquoise dress you’d even worn, with your friend promising that you looked hot as fuck in it. You twirled in front of the mirror, looking at yourself from different angles, being slightly unsure about the model and an unusual color.
“I am telling you, this dress was literally made for you, babe. Everyone would go nuts if they saw you in it.” Sarah laughed again, while still digging through the pile on the floor to find the skirt she wanted to pair her new top with.
“You think so?” You turned around again, looking at your legs, which did look good with that exact length. You looked at your friend, biting your lip at the lie that was about to roll off your tongue. “I have to go pee real quick, okay?”
You didn’t have to. But there was an idea that sounded way too good in your head, and never-ending voices of the guys from downstairs made your skin itch with the thought that Rafe was not that far away and it was way too good of an opportunity to miss it.
You padded down the stairs into the main room, almost instantly walking into something you knew Ward didn’t allow when he was at home—Rafe, Topper, and Kelse sprawled on the expensive leather couches, beer bottles on the glass table, and some random football match on.
“Rafe?” You turned your head to the side as you called his name, noting the way he, once again, straightened up and gave you his full attention. So damn pathetic, he thought. “Quick question, but do you think the dress looks good? Sarah says it does, but I'm not really sure about the style and color. I need an unbiased opinion.”
Rafe found himself almost choking on air the moment those words left your mouth because, why in the hell, were you asking his opinion? His one was for sure far from unbiased when you looked like that. The tips of his ears instantly started warming up, indicating how thrown off he felt, the palms of his hands slid down the jean material on his thighs in a weirdly nervous way.
He tried not to stare at you like an idiot and tried to get back to his usual routine of rolling his eyes at any stupid question people tried to ask him. But with you it felt different, and he couldn’t bring himself to be rude when you seemed so soft and genuine. When you wanted his opinion out of all people.
You twirled again, the material riding up your thighs just the tiniest bit, but sure as hell enough for Rafe’s eyes to go there. “So?” You smiled impatiently, half actually wanting his approval and attention and half just enjoying how jittery he looked.
“Yeah.” Rafe's voice sounded hoarse. He looked up and down again, eyes heavy-lidded and as intense as always, adjusting himself on the couch as if he felt uncomfortable. “It’s pretty.”
He wanted to say that you were pretty but bit his tongue at the last moment to not make it seem weird. He shifted his body so his elbows rested against his knees and you couldn’t help but focus on the tanned skin of his biceps that now bulged from the polo. You bet he was as soft and warm as he looked.
You smirked, content enough that you managed to throw him off again. You mumbled a small and almost way too intimate “thanks,” looking him straight in the eyes before stepping back toward the stairs.
“We also think it looks good.” Kelse snickered at the fact that you didn’t even acknowledge any of them, making it seem like he was aware of the game that you were playing.
You paused, as if remembering that it was a bit impolite to so bluntly ignore boys who were barely holding back their smirks. You totally forgot that they were even there.
“Yeah, well, thanks!” You smiled at them, a bright contrast with how you responded to Rafe, before turning around and running back upstairs.
He thought he was going crazy. You were making him go crazy. And he wasn’t even sure whether you were just that oblivious or if it was your fucked-up plan all along.
As if the first two instances were not enough, over the next weeks you seemed to become overly dependent on Rafe, or at least somehow you always ended up in a situation where you would be able to ask for something. That one time when you asked him to make you a drink at a party because “Topper’s always tastes like shit,” or when you really needed to make a call from his phone, or when you and your families were sitting at a restaurant and you asked him to bring you your charger from the car. And it was just things off the top of his head.
Each time you looked up at him with those soft doe eyes, a small smile was on your lips that always made him stare just a tad bit longer than it was acceptable. He made you a drink. He let you make a phone call. He got your charger. Just to hear your gratitude each time, as his name naturally rolled off your tongue.
Just to get that weird kick of pride every time he was useful for you.
Just to then step back away from you, sit at the farther corner of the table, and sulk in his own weirdly warm and kind of uncomfortable feelings. Rafe could feel your fragrance stuck around him like some sticky honey even if he still hadn't gotten the chance to touch you. His eyes returned to you not even a minute later to see you already looking at him but then focusing on something else as if he didn’t just catch you.
You smiled to yourself, not looking at him anymore—fixing your hair or your necklace, checking your phone, or already switching your attention to anybody else—as if knowing that that little favor got him hooked on you for the rest of the night. It made his skin itch and leg jump nervously, because whatever you did, it worked.
Now Rafe stared at your name on his phone with a mixture of emotions. You were calling him. For the first time. And he knew that it was you because a few months ago he accidentally found your phone number and had it saved “just in case,” not thinking too much about it.
Now it was ringing in his hand while he looked down at it with brows drawn tightly together and jaw tight from sudden nerves. He couldn’t understand what the fuck was going on for the life of him.
He swiped right with a weird tremor in his hand, his throat suddenly dry as if he had eaten a handful of sand.
“Yeah?” Rafe winced at the sound of his own voice. His hand reached up to the back of his neck, rubbing it even before he could hear your answer.
“Rafe? Hi, it’s me.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.” Your voice sounded so soft, and he swore he could hear you smile. Rafe fell back against the back of the couch, sprawling against the sleek leather and patiently waiting for you to speak again. His eyes focused on the shadows on the ceiling, but in the back of his mind he thought about how you probably looked now—soft, probably twirling something in your hand the way he saw you doing a million times, and, well, probably planning on torturing him a bit more. “Um, yeah, okay! So I didn’t want to bother you—like, really—but I kinda need some help with the boxes at my place, and I just though…” You trailed suggestively. Rafe shut his eyes, jaw tight. “Maybe you could help me out, please?”
He was there not even fifteen minutes later. Pathetically enough, he couldn’t say "no." He didn’t want to. He felt the tugging feeling in his chest that maybe you were using him because he was so fucking obvious with his crush. Maybe you were, in fact, just like the other girls on the island who were not new to manipulating guys for their money or things they could get, even if deep down he knew that it was dumb to even consider that. But Rafe still, like a desperate teenager who got a sliver of attention from the cool girl from his school, came around and let himself be useful to you, because what if…
“I’m so sorry that I called you, Rafe!” You greeted him the moment he jumped out of his truck, all smiley and friendly as always. You were dressed in a cute little set of shorts and a tank top, which was good enough for Rafe to take a double look down your body. His palms were sweating from the sudden want to run over the soft material that hugged you perfectly and in all the right places. “I really need to get this into my car, and my dad’s out of town.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, jaw tight. “It’s fine.” Short. Gruff. He hated how unsteady he felt around you lately—like his skin was too tight and his thoughts too loud. Yet not a single part of him was able to resist you when you looked at him like that or when you murmured his name. It was something that he could only imagine before that, something that made him feel useful and crave your approval more.
Rafe moved quickly, picking up boxes from the front steps of your house and then loading them into the trunk of your car, while you followed him back and forth. Your eyes never left his body, lingering on the way the veins on his arms bulged from the heavy weight, wondering how they would feel on you when he finally pulls himself together. While Rafe thought of it as sweet, sweet torture, because what else could he call it when you fully enveloped him in your scent and stood way too close to him, so whenever he bent down for a box, he was only met with your silky-smooth legs right in front of his face?
When the last box slipped into the trunk, he closed it with a soft thud, dusting off his hands, and turned to face you. You leaned against the side of the car, hands crossed across your chest, eyes already set on his face as if you were waiting for him to notice. Rafe’s pulse spiked up. He finally got too aware that you two were the only ones standing on the street, and the sun was setting behind him and coloring everything around you in a warm golden light. You were almost too pretty like this, and the nauseous feeling of realization made his face twist involuntarily.
“What?” You murmured softly.
“Why me?” He asked bluntly, his voice low and rough. Rafe stepped closer, backing you against the side of the car, trying to regain at least some part of the control you got over him. “You’ve got friends. Family. Half the island would trip over themselves if you asked them for anything. But you keep picking me. The door. The dress. Drinks at parties. Now fucking boxes. What game are you playing?”
You didn’t flinch. Instead, you tilted your head, lips curving into a slow, flirty smile as you looked up at him through your lashes. Probably for the first time since you've known Rafe Cameron, you saw him being actually nervous with his emotions all over the place.
“Maybe I like that you’re helping me. Maybe I like that you can’t say “no” to me. Maybe I wanted to stay on your mind all the time.” Your hand reached out to the collar of his polo, fixing it. Innocently, but enough for Rafe to feel blood pumping in his ears. “Did it work?”
Fuck.
You could visibly see the realization settling in, the way his pupils dilated and the baby blue got almost fully consumed. His throat bubbled, yet he still couldn’t say a thing. You waited a few long moments, observing his reaction, trying to figure out what was going on in that head of his that seemed to never actually turn off. His jaw flexed like he was fighting every instinct he had.
Rafe’s hand shot up, cupping the side of your face as he closed the last inch of space between you. The kiss hit like a storm—hungry, desperate, months of circling and teasing exploding all at once. His mouth claimed yours with bruising heat, tongue sliding deep and possessive, tasting you like he’d been dying for it, even if you felt just the tiniest tremor in his hand. You moaned into him, fingers tightening in his shirt as you kissed him back just as fiercely, bodies pressing together against the warm metal of the car.
Rafe groaned against your lips, finally giving in to the urge of touching you, allowing his free hand to gently land on your waist and, the next moment, fully circle around it to bring you impossibly closer to him. He was everywhere around you, filling all of your senses, completely shutting down your brain, until the only thought was how right it felt. When he sucked your bottom lip between his teeth and tugged gently, you whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders.
He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, both of you breathing hard, lips brushing with every exhale. His voice was hoarse this time. “You’ve been driving me insane… on purpose.”
You didn’t deny it. Instead, you smiled, soft and wicked, then silently tightened your grip on the front of his shirt. Your eyes held his as you started walking backward toward your front door, tugging him along.
Rafe followed without a word, like an obedient puppy with big, hungry, and glassy eyes, letting you pull him inside.
reader with ex-husband!simon riley and fourth of july w/ the kids
idk i'm a day late but that photo in the middle is singing to me - [MDNI. cw: piv.]
"You're looking good, little yankee." Your ex-husband says to you in a horrible yet somehow sexy country accent, hopping out of his pickup truck. He tips his cowboy hat at your red, white, and blue outfit for the day. You eye him up and down. Even in a casual outfit of a white t-shirt and jeans that are too tight around his thighs, he still manages to look hot.
Stupid hot Brit.
You'd be lying to yourself if you said that the way you're dressed right now was not to spite him. You chose a matching set with a push-up bra just so your tits looked better in your top. You put a little more time in styling your hair today and makeup, just so he could get a tease of what he couldn't have anymore.
You shrug your shoulders, "I mean it's the Fourth. What else would I wear?" You fidget with the handle of your outdoor wagon, heavy with all the things the girls wanted in there along with bug spray, a picnic blanket, and portable fans.
Simon opens the door of his truck and your two little girls hop out, twinning in red and white gingham tops with jeans shorts and white shoes. You coo at their pigtails, clearly done by Simon but perfect for their hair type. He watches you greet them with sweet kisses to their cheeks. He notices the heavy outdoor wagon you're holding with one hand trying to greet them, and he silently takes it from you.
"Look it. All of my girls are red, white, and blue today." You squint at the way he puts you into his statement and not the twins alone. He smirks and walks closer to you, "behave today, for our girls and America, yeah?" You couldn't help but roll your eyes. Simon drags the wagon while taking the hand of one of your girls, Ayla, while you take the tiny hand of Kyra.
Finding some grass on the field for you all to sit on, Simon sets the picnic blanket onto the ground and gestures to you to make yourself comfortable first. By instinct, he sits next to you, placing a gentle hand on your back. You spot your twin girls playing with their bubble guns, giving you a chance to smack his hand away. "Don't even think that me being here means I want you. I'm here for our girls and to look at pretty fireworks, not to suck you off after."
He chuckles and takes off his cowboy hat, rubbing it against his chest in mock-hurt, "So mean to me, lovie." He frowns, "cause I'm British, huh?"
You roll your eyes. You know he's just teasing but this constant banter has continued even after your divorce. "It's too hot for this." You turn around and look in the wagon for a portable fan.
Luckily for Simon, he was given a perfect view of you on all fours looking for this portable fan. Your back arched slightly, your tits spilled a little out of your top, and your butt was perked perfectly to him. If it weren't for all these people here, he'd make use of your positioning here on this picnic blanket. All he needed was for you to stretch your torso a little further until...perfect.
Your bottoms lower slightly down your back but enough to let the red lace of your panties peek out and Simon feels himself grow harder by the second. Thankfully, his hat is more than big enough to cover his growing bulge. You're his ex-wife on paper, sure, but how can he forget all of the restless nights you shared while you're being an unintentional tease. You turn back around and start waving the fan around yourself, clueless about Simon's conflict.
To beat the awkward silence that you're both experiencing, you decide to stroke his ego a little, "their hair looks really good," you nod your head to the twin girls.
Simon's eyes light up at your compliment. He reclines himself a little, sitting now with his arms behind his back. "I'm glad you think so. They kept telling me 'only mommy does it good' until I was finished." He laughs recalling the scene of the girls sitting on his bathroom sink. Simon maneuvered their hair and the gel with tactical precision for the perfect pigtails and topped them off with American flag pigtail bows. He sighs before letting out a low, "I've mis--"
"Daddy!" The twin girls run in unison towards the both of you, bubble guns still in hand.
Ayla, a spitting image of you, speaks up, "when are the fireworks starting?"
Simon whips out his phone to check the time, "any minute, angel."
Kyra, who looks exactly like Simon, settles into your side and whispers a low, "I want Daddy to come with us after the fireworks."
You sighed because you hated that you wanted the same thing and all you could say was, "we'll see."
The fireworks finally started, making it Simon's cue to stand up and carry the girls in each arm so they could get the perfect view. You videoed them with the fireworks in the background.
After plenty of fireworks, the girls were finally tired and you walked back to Simon's truck, parked right next to your car. You stuck to Kyra's word and decided to ask Simon, "The girls want you to come back to my place." You pause, looking for any excuse for him to decline, "But you're probably on duty so I--"
"No." Simon shakes his head, cowboy hat on. "I'm a reservist right now. Don't worry." He crosses his arms and his forearms pump just a little but enough to make your legs clench. He walks closer to you and nudges you with his bicep, "Besides, don't think me saying yes means I want you. I'm coming for the girls, not to get sucked off after." He winks, slyly aware of his own remark.
It's going to be a long night.
Now in your house, which used to be the primary residence before the divorce, Simon changes out of his jeans into gym shorts. He spots you bent over the damned wagon again, but now in loungewear. He can't tell whether this wagon you bought was a blessing or curse.
Without any cowboy hat to hide his bulge now, he sucks it up and notifies you that he'll put the girls to bed. Not only because he's a good dad, but one more minute with you and he'll use that wagon to keep you situated as he bends you over in doggy. Bloody tease, he thinks to himself.
After putting the girls to bed, he passed the master bedroom that you two used to share. He walked in and thought it was missing something:
The both of you.
Before you could comprehend what was going on, your red lace panties were pulled to the side and your stomach was lying on that room's bed, abandoned for years until this moment.
You could feel Simon's torso sweat on your back as he pressed against you to slide in deeper. He settles his mouth by your ear, just where you like it. "You feel so good, mama." He finishes his statement off with a kiss to your temple. "Teasing me the whole day." He groans in pleasure and annoyance.
"Pretty red bra."
Thrust.
"Pretty red panties."
Thrust.
"My pretty woman." Thrust.
Your left hand clutches the mattress, while you try whipping your right arm back towards Simon in an effort to push him off because it felt too good.
"Si," you mewled into the bed. "We're not using protec--"
He speaks roughly into your ear, now sensually sliding in and out. "You want a third one?" He lifts his torso off of your back, now using his hands to massage your lower back and hips as he keeps his tempo. "I'll come in this pretty little pussy right now. Get you pregnant. Say the word baby."
Two weeks later, an on-duty Simon in his office wasn't surprised when he got a text from you. A pregnancy test on a bathroom sink with a clean and clear "Pregnant" is attached, along with your text, I better not be popping out two babies this time.
Dex was unfamiliar with the concept of physical touch and romance until he begins dating a seamstress that has rendered him desperately hungry for more and he begins to understand why most people found dating enjoyable.
CW: SMUT, Fluff, implied that he's older, readers features are never stated, no use of Y/N, inexperienced Dex but it's not stated, he's a freak. HE'S FILTHYYYY!!!!
Word Count: 7k
AN: I don't have a dad so that probably explains why I like Dex so much... Dex having no play is cannon here.
To Dex, the physical topography of another human being had always been a calculus of vulnerability. His mind was a machine, capable of mapping the dimensions of an enclosed space within milliseconds and identifying the precise trajectory required to sever an artery. He understood the mechanics of the anatomy; he knew exactly how much pressure it took to snap a collarbone or drop a grown man to his knees. But touch and affection? Affection was a foreign, deeply distressing dialect. It was a sensory input that rendered his internal programming entirely mute. He knew every ligament in the body, where to assault to cause torment but God forbid he uses his hands for softness.
There was a profound, quiet irony in a man of his age and lethal competence being so utterly paralyzed by the simple proximity of soft skin. Hell, he almost pitied himself for it. For decades, the concept of a romantic relationship hadn’t been relegated in his mind. It had been buried beneath layers of institutional survival, psychological trauma, and the crushing weight of an existence spent entirely on the defensive. Dex was not a lover and he had never been, affection and care was unnatural to him.
He could still recall the sharp, sterile scent of the office belonging to his first therapist, the singular human anchor he had at the fragile age of sixteen. He had cared for her, though his developing mind lacked the emotional framework to define what care actually meant. To Dex, care was synonymous with structure. It was the methodical way she re-aligned his straying thoughts, the unnatural patience she extended far beyond the boundaries of her hourly compensation. That was the closest Dex ever got to care. And when death claimed her, his internal architecture had shattered into something feral and defensive. Standing beside her hospital bed, looking down at her failing form, he had chosen to weaponize his grief, hissing that he hated her. He didn’t hate her for who she was, but for the betrayal of leaving him entirely alone in a world without parameters. After that care became just another word without meaning to him.
Then came Julie.
Julie had been an exercise in aesthetic symmetry. She was safe, correct, and perfectly aligned with the script he desperately tried to perform. Dex had cared for her in the same detached, appreciative manner you might have for a beautiful painting in a museum. Admired from a calculated, safe distance, entirely devoid of genuine visceral heat or want. He never wanted Julie, despite how it might have looked, Dex wanted to be her. How easily life came to her was just so fascinating to a man like him. He remembered the exact moment she had offered him a farewell hug at the Suicide Hotline Center, just before he transitioned into the stark world of the Bureau.
The physical contact had been an absolute shock to his nervous system. And he remembers it even now years later. First came the ice, a sudden, freezing sensation that trickled down his spine the precise millisecond her palms pressed against his biceps, his body mistaking the gesture for an ambush. His muscles had coiled instantly like overwound springs, his vertebrae stiffening in a violent protest against the proximity. But then, right before he could pull away, the ice had thawed into an invasive, confusing warmth. Before his mind could categorize or fixate on the sensation, she had already retreated, leaving him standing in the corridor, thoroughly deregulated by a three-second interaction.
That brief, fleeting embrace had been the absolute zenith of his experience with physical intimacy. Dex didn't do hugs, or anything else for that matter… His subsequent, half-hearted attempts at dating in his early twenties had been a disastrous blur, locked away like radioactive material in the darker corridors of his subconscious. The entire experience had felt extremely uncomfortable, unfulfilling, and complicated in ways that insulted his intelligence.
The sheer volume of unwritten variables was maddening. He had to speak enough to demonstrate engagement, but not so much to appear self-absorbed. Connection required vulnerability, but a fraction too much was classified as forward or desperate. He couldn't request another date too quickly or too frequently without crossing into the territory of predatory. Touch was a minefield; it was deemed acceptable only if initiated by the woman, yet society dictated that a man should assert dominance and assume leadership. Hold her hand, the script said, but don't apply too much pressure to suggest control. Open the door for her, but don't infantilize her or imply incompetence.
By his third official date, Dex had quietly withdrawn from the field entirely. The sheer unpredictability of the social ritual was entirely too volatile for his psychology to parse. He vividly recalled sitting across a woman in a dimly lit restaurant, completely incapable of processing a single syllable falling from her lips because his entire focus had been hijacked by a fork. Her elbow had accidentally nudged the cutlery, leaving it misaligned by less than half an inch from the knife. The asymmetry had screamed in his mind like a siren, drowning out her voice, preventing him from formulating the carefully curated, charming responses necessary to foster romantic banter. He had stared at the silver, suffocated by the lack of order, and realized he was entirely unfit for the performance.
So, he surrendered the idea. He locked his focus onto the FBI, dedicating his life to a rigid, bureaucratic institution that allowed him to believe he was doing good for society while keeping his demons safely behind bars. Years had dissolved into the background of that singular pursuit, and the concept of dating became an obsolete idea of a past life.
Even more now that his world had been violently upended; he had broken out of the prisons meant to contain him, shed the skin of a government puppet, and stripped away the illusions of the system. He was older now, his features hardened by violence, but he was entirely free from the invisible snares that had once dictated his value. Standing in his late thirties, Dex felt a strange sense of selfhood that had completely eluded him in his twenties.
His daily routine remained his mandatory sanctuary, waking up exactly the same hour, executing a flawless military tuck on his bedsheets, consuming a balanced breakfast before physical regimen, and then work. But the internal shift was tectonic. He no longer walked through the streets of New York like a fraudulent actor trying to mimic human behavior and integrate himself into civilization. He knew the truth now: there was no grand order to life. There was only the winding, bloody path he had been carved out to walk. He no longer craved the external validation of a badge or a supervisor’s praise to consider himself a whole entity. He was fucking Bullseye.
And the concept of a "North Star", the desperate need for a perfect, external moral anchor to keep him sane, had been forcibly buried deep within a vault next to his most violent, unpacked trauma. Though sometimes, in the quiet hours of the night, a phantom tension would ripple through his chest, an instinctual tug toward the comfort of connection, but he would quickly dismiss it as mere human biology. He didn't need a North Star. His life was already perfectly illuminated by his own design. Or so he continuously told himself.
Until he walked into your boutique.
The shop was situated a short distance down the asphalt stretch of Hell’s Kitchen, a stark, hyper-feminine building in an otherwise gritty neighborhood. The interior was an absolute assault of pastel pinks, a visual sensory overload that normally would have triggered his defense mechanisms, but the hand-painted sign outside promised custom tailoring services. And Dex needed his belongings fixed the moment he noticed imperfections.
He carried two specific items across the threshold that afternoon. His utilitarian jacket that had suffered a tear against a rusty fire escape during the previous night's "hero work," and a pair of heavy tactical gloves that needed the seams to be adjusted for a better grip.
You'd been seated behind the polished wooden counter, a needle held between your hand, your hair slightly disheveled as you worked. When you looked up and saw the tall, broad-shouldered man standing in your doorway, your face had broken into a smile so massive, so genuinely warm, that Dex had felt an involuntary, almost evolutionary impulse to mimic the expression. He stood perfectly rigid as your small, incredibly nimble hands took the damaged fabric from his grip, your fingers tracing the torn nylon of the jacket with a professional, practiced ease.
When you looked up and informed him that the repairs would only take sixty minutes, his sharp brows had risen in mild intrigue at your efficiency.
"I work fast," you had offered, your voice bright and entirely unbothered by his silent, imposing intensity.
Dex returned to the shop precisely the sixty-minute mark, not a second early, not a second late. You were already waiting for him at the counter, the jacket neatly pressed and the jagged tear now entirely imperceptible, executed with a level of craftsmanship that deeply satisfied his need for perfection. Then he slid his large hands into the resized tactical gloves, flexing his fingers to test the tension of the thread.
Whether you had recognized the subtle Bullseye emblem stamped into the leather, you made no verbal indication. Instead, you merely bit your lower lip, your gaze tracking the movement of his hands before you boldly, without an ounce of hesitation, reached out and gripped his gloved hand. Your fingers guide his, pointing down to the specific cross-stitch where you had loosened the seams to accommodate his knuckles.
The ice returned instantly. It danced down the length of his spine, a freezing jolt that made his chest tighten. But as your warm skin remained pressed against the heavy material of his glove, the sensation mutated into something remarkably pleasant. Dex let out an involuntary exhale from your touch as your index finger trailed a slow, deliberate line down the length of his hand. Was this flirting? No, this was her job….
"If you need it bigger I can make that possible," you offered softly, your eyes lifting to lock onto his with a quiet, grounded confidence. And Dex paused, taking in the intimacy of your closeness. Okay…. Yeah, this was flirting. He deduced at its baseline before he found himself engaging.
Dex couldn't understand the sequence of events that followed, birthed from that moment alone. His memory, usually so linear and mathematical, became a blur of transitions. And normally the haze would eat away at him till he lost his mind, if it weren't for the fact that the stages that followed were extremely enjoyable. All he knew was that the rigid wall of his isolation had suddenly breached, and he was taking you on a first date. Then a second. A third. A fourth. The unwritten variables that had paralyzed him in his youth seemed to dissolve in your presence; you didn't demand a script, and your effortless need to keep talking filled the awkward silences he usually created. Dex was thankful for it. He was thankful for all of you.
By the time the fifth date happened, you were both standing inside the threshold of your private home. And Dex was fucking ecstatic. The realizations hit him in waves during his nightly routines: life was simply greater, sharper, and infinitely better with your existence woven into it. Within the calculated grid of his mind, he had rapidly come to view you as an essential, non-negotiable component of his daily structure. A connection he needed desperately to maintain that he was fully prepared to execute any measure necessary to ensure you stayed. You were kind, sweet, and giving in a way that defied his understanding of human nature. How were you so willing to offer the world everything you had without demanding anything in return?
Because he couldn't comprehend it, he studied you. He watched you with a hyper-attentive, microscopic focus that would have terrified a normal civilian, tracking the micro-expressions of your face, the cadence of your breaths, and the specific pitch of your laughter. And you let him. To you, that intense, unblinking gaze didn't feel like surveillance; it made you feel entirely seen and warm.
Dex had learned you. He played every single card in his hand with absolute precision to ensure he kept your favor, but you made the act remarkably easy. He found himself wanting to give the world to you, a new directive that lingered constantly. While on missions, he's doing this to make the city better for you. He had to come home safe because you'd be so devastated if anything happened to him. You needed him in your life so he had to make sure no wounds took over his body. These thoughts progressed over time, though they were already brewing the minute he stepped out of your boutique. Dex brought you a perfectly curated bouquet of flowers on your very first date, quickly logging the fact that you flourished when things were done for you. From that moment on, his chivalry became non-negotiable. He opened doors before your hand could even approach the handle; he pulled out chairs to the exact angle required for your comfort; he even leaned across the console of his vehicle to buckle your seatbelt for you, his large frame momentarily shielding you from the world. A thought that appears constantly in his mind at night.
And now, those correctly executed actions had granted him entry into your sanctuary.
Walking through the door of your brownstone, his analytical eyes immediately deduced that you and your work were a singular entity. The space was less a traditional home and more an active studio. A heavy, vintage treadle sewing machine sat prominently in the center of the room, positioned directly in front of the television, while two antique, velvet-upholstered couches framed it on either side. Dex made a silent, permanent mental note of that specific layout: the tool of your labor received absolute priority over comfort.
As he looked around Dex noticed your affinity for older things immediately, your eyes lingering on aged, well-maintained pieces of history. A part of him wondered if that was why you liked him so much and despite himself, the thought amused him. His gaze drifted to the expansive dining room, noting how every single high-backed chair had been pushed flush against the perimeter of the walls, completely away from the central table to maximize workspace. A deep, quiet part of his psychology deeply admired the dedication. He understood the obsession with craft, the way you spoke about fabrics and patterns with radiant love. He was identical to you in that regard, though he remained hyper-vigilant about never revealing the bloodier details of his own craft to you.
Dex paced silently behind you, his broad shoulders squared as his eyes continuously darted around the rooms, absorbing the atmosphere of your home while you led him toward the kitchen by the hand. His frame was tense, his muscles vibrating with a low-grade current of electricity. He still wasn't accustomed to the physical touching. He liked it, he liked it with a terrifying intensity that scared him, but his brain lacked the programming required to properly receive it.
And bless your heart, you were so unbelievably touchy.
You were a creature of constant physical contact. There was always a soft arm looping around his rigid bicep, a gentle palm resting against his. A constant, natural inclination to latch onto his massive frame and cling to him as if he were the only solid object in a moving world. He reciprocated in the only ways he knew how, squeezing your hand back with a carefully measured amount of pressure, standing perfectly still to accept your weight. But Dex still hadn't learned how to articulate or manifest his own physical desires. He didn't know how to be the one to close the distance. He didn't know how to reach out his large, scarred hands, wrap them around your waist, and pull you against his chest without an explicit invitation. The script hadn't given him those lines yet.
So instead, he simply allowed himself to be a passive monument of muscle and bone, letting you pull him toward the kitchen island for wine and cheese after your date. The night got more enjoyable, but then again, every moment was enjoyable with you. But this is even more so. You trusted him enough to let him into your space, liked him so much that you paid attention whenever his glass was empty.
"I have a secret," you admitted suddenly, your face flushing a deep, radiant pink after you drained the remainder of your second glass.
Dex raised a single, sharp brow, holding his own glass perfectly steady as he waited for the disclosure. He ignored the sudden, rhythmic thumping of his own blood pumping violently in his ears. He couldn't quite determine if the sudden spike in his heart rate was the result of the alcohol or a sudden surge of anxiety. Given his high tolerance, it was likely the latter.
"I hate wine," you hiccuped, a small, breathless sound. You didn't feel that inebriated but Dex had a skill for making you feel drunk.
Dex’s cold blue eyes widened slightly in genuine surprise. Without a word, his large hand reached out and gently but firmly took the crystal glass directly from your fingers, a low, rumbling chuckle vibrating in his chest as the absurdity of the situation caused a bright laugh to break from your lips.
"Why didn't you say anything," he asked, his gravelly voice dropping an octave as he placed the glass down on the exact center of a stone coaster.
"Because it was a nice gift and also because I wanted to be with you longer," you reasoned smoothly.
You stepped away from the counter, your short frame moving into his immediate personal space. Slipping effortlessly between his extended legs as he sat perched on the high barstool, your body completely filling the void between his knees. Before he could process the proximity, your arms looped entirely around his broad shoulders, your hands resting against the nape of his neck.
Dex sat up just a fraction straighter, his entire spine locking into a protective line. A hesitant, unpracticed hand rose from his side, his large palm resting against the fabric of your dress to support your lower back, his fingers trembling slightly against your skin.
"I like having you around..." you admitted softly, your voice heavily laced with an intoxicated, sleepy haze as you looked up at him.
"I like being around," Dex nodded, his gaze boring into yours with an unblinking, absolute intensity.
It was the most fundamental truth his mouth had ever uttered. He liked being around you so much that the mere concept of physical separation had become an agonizing friction in his daily life. There were moments during his long, solitary hours on a rooftop or following a lethal assignment where the craving to see you grew so violent, so overwhelming, that he had seriously contemplated abandoning his operation just to stand outside your window. But the rational, highly defensive side of his mind, the piece of him that vividly remembered the trembling panic in Julie's eyes, always managed to reassert control. He wouldn't risk breaking what you two had.
"Will you be around forever?" you asked, your voice dropping into a soft, vulnerable register that sounded almost like a plea.
Dex felt a sudden, blinding flash behind his eyes, a sensation so sharp and radiant it felt as though stars had detonated within his skull. A terrifying wave of duty and existential purpose crashed through his mind, rewriting his internal directives in an instant. This was his calling. This was his permanent assignment.
"I'll be here forever," he nodded, his voice carrying the heavy, unyielding finality of a death warrant.
He barely had a single microsecond to process the violent rush of devotion flooding his veins before you leaned in, and your soft lips met his.
Dex froze.
He froze in a way he had never experienced in the heat of lethal gunfire. He hesitated with a sudden, paralyzing vulnerability that his mind was completely unequipped to handle. Bullseye did not hesitate; Bullseye was a creature of pure, instantaneous reaction. But Dex, Dex was entirely lost here in the quiet of your kitchen, his lips pressed flat against yours, his breath catching in the back of his throat as the delicate warmth of your mouth completely shattered his being.
His mind scrambled for data, for a past memory or a set of instructions to tell him what to do with his hands, how to move with you, how to breathe. The sheer sensation of your mouth against his was too vast, too unaligned with any grid he had ever mapped. He wanted to deepen the pressure, wanted to sink his fingers into your hips and drag you so close that the space between you ceased to exist, but the terrifying lack of instructions kept his body entirely locked in stone. He was a starving man paralyzed by the sudden appearance of a feast, terrified that a single incorrect movement would cause the illusion to vanish.
It was only a brief, agonizing second of contact. It was over far too quickly for his liking before you were gently pulling back, your eyelashes fluttering against your cheeks.
"You never got much love huh?" you hummed out, your voice dipping into a sad, incredibly tender melody.
Your small hands didn't retreat; instead, they began to preen over his tense shoulders, your fingers sliding upward until your nails began to slowly, methodically comb through the short hairs at the base of his scalp.
An involuntary, deeply guttural groan tore itself from the very bottom of Dex’s throat, the sound surprising even himself. His eyes rolled back, his lids fluttering shut as a wave of intense pleasure rippled through his nervous system. He liked that. He liked that with a feral, addictive desperation. Whatever you were doing with your hands, it was dismantling the static in his brain.
"No," he admitted, his voice a broken, raspy whisper in the quiet room, his head naturally sinking into the guiding pressure of your palms as you continued to adore him.
Your lips moved forward again, finding the hard, unyielding line of his cheekbone. You pressed a soft, lingering kiss directly over the jagged scar near his cheek, the exact spot you always claimed when you were saying goodbye, and Dex felt his entire body shudder under the impact. Then, your kisses migrated downward, tracing the sharp angle of his jaw before your mouth found the sensitive, hot skin of his neck.
Dex’s hands lost their hesitation, his fingers curling tightly into the fabric of your dress as he decided, with absolute certainty, that he liked this even more.
"Don't worry. I'll fix it," you murmured against his skin, your breath hot and reassuring even in your heavily tipsy state.
“Pretty girl like you gonna fix a man like me,” Dex mused out, exhaling in amusement as he welcomed your kisses by granting you more of his neck. You hummed in delight and he noted that was the correct response.
“I'd do everything for you, Dex,” you admitted into his neck and that seemed to do it. Every rigid order he told himself to act like a gentleman broke as he pulled you into his chest, turning his face as if begging for you to grant him another kiss.
And you do.
This time he reciprocated the contact eagerly, fuck it, thoughts can be damned, Dex let his body lead now. His kisses were harsh and demanding, desperate in its undercurrent but you enjoyed it. You tasted faintly like wine and something minty and he finds himself deepening the kiss. His large calloused hand found the thin straps of your bias-cut dress, hastily pushing it down the slope of your shoulder before he froze. He was being too forward, too much, too–
Before he could spiral, you whined into his mouth at the lack of movement. A harmonious plea that he's never had the privilege of hearing before. And Dex's eyes fluttered, that sound went straight to his straining cock evoking a groan against your skin. Emboldened hands pushing the dress down only to pull back momentarily, breaking the kiss despite not wanting to. He'd rather shoot himself than stop kissing you, but he needed to know that what he was doing was okay. And by the blissful state of your eyes, you were more than okay with this, with him. And so he allowed his gaze to wander, darting down to the exposed skin of your soft breast.
His gaze locked onto your hardened nipple before his hand slowly moved, not giving himself time to overthink. His thumb grazed the sensitive peak in experimentation, Blue eyes watching as your chest stuttered, his gaze darting up to meet yours in calculation on how to proceed. You were waiting for him, letting him take the lead and explore, and God did he want to map out every shape of you. He wanted to know what made you arch and squirm, what made you sing his name in praise. But Dex was a man rendered stupid in the unfamiliar vastness of your body, so hands stayed motionless as they had done nothing but take and punish all his life. He'd do it slow, he decided, after all, his hands were not meant for this. For worship and caress.
But his mouth would be.
Not breaking eye contact with you, his lips found home on your skin, latching onto your nipple. Humming as you arched your back, your pliant body gravitating into him. You liked that, he learned, so he did it harder. Teeth grazing the sensitive peak before sucking it into his mouth hard.
His free hand wanders to your other breast, thumb circling the clothed nipple there while he devotes himself to the first with his tongue. It’s messy, uncoordinated, Dex isn’t a gentle lover, he learned as the need progresses. His brave hand slips under your dress, pushing fabric up further to expose more of your body as his kisses migrated down your sternum.
“D-Dex.”
The breathy sound made him freeze and he recoiled immediately as if burned. He waits for the storm only for you to eagerly pat him on his shoulder, signaling you wanted him up.
“Room, please…. I-i don't want it here…” you say almost shy and he obeys immediately, standing up and holding you dear.
“Yeah? Sweet girl,” the term endearment escaping his lips catches him by surprise just as much as him kissing your forehead does. But he doesn't dwell on it long as he grabs hold of your hand and leads you upstairs where he already knows where your room is.
The silence of the space was only intensified once you both entered your bedroom. Dex pauses, taking a moment to appreciate the image of you standing there, waiting with earnest eyes and swollen lips. You looked so vulnerable, your dress wrinkled and breathing heavy as you let him assess. He welcomes your softness and realizes that he owes it to you to be vulnerable as well.
With a firm, certain, grip, he turns your body around, your stomach flutters in expectation as lust filled eyes land on the made bed. Only the inevitable force never came, you weren't shoved face down into the mattress in pure heat, instead Dex is moving your hair aside to fall on one shoulder. And that impacted your core more than any barge ever could. So you remained standing there, ignoring the heat in your stomach as the brooding man you'd come to know gently unzipped the back of your dress. Pushing the fabric down your hips, a hum escapes the claimant as he turns you back around with even kinder hands and you melted.
Sure in your intentions, you begin to unbutton his shirt and he watches you in the moment. Sometimes you often wonder what goes on in Dex's mind, but here you're certain that whatever thoughts that hammered in his head were anything but pure. When the fabric of his shirt meets your dress on the floor, a barely suppressed smile threatens to take over your face and his features silently requested for context, amused in your glow.
“You're so big,” appreciation dripped from your words, reinforced by your hands steady on his chest. Pride and something smug consumes Dex’s internal framework as he reaches for your bare waist, pulling you into him. Fuck. He liked how that felt, loved the feeling of you two skin to skin.
“That why you're always so touchy,” he huffed. It was a poor attempt to regulate himself from these overwhelming emotions. Still riding the dopamine high from your appraisal.
“Yes,” you nodded shamelessly.
At that a raw exhale breaks free from his mouth, falling in ardor before he's guiding you down to the bed. Dex’s gaze is locked on yours, at your body barely covered in cotton underwear as he prowls towards you on the duvet. Your presence was the single grounding planet in the uncharted stars of his nebula, an innate need to keep his focus on you and solely you to avoid getting lost in the orbit of his thoughts. Waiting patiently as exploratory hands trailed over your body, thumbs brushed over your nipples just once, before migrating down to your torso, eventually finding home on your hips.
Lips parted but nothing fell from them as words failed him. Instead blue eyes darted up to meet yours as his fingers deliberately tugged your underwear, not fully, not even an inch down, just enough to get your attention and silently ask for permission.
Your body moved on its own, hastily squirming under his broad stature and pushing the thin fabric down your legs. The man over you had been the only thing plaguing the recesses of your brain for the past few weeks, consuming you with such unbidden thoughts. Anything would be done for him at this point. You barely got to kick the drenched cotton off before Dex's palm landed flat on one thigh, pushing it down hard against the bed and spreading you open for him. With a fluttering stomach so intense, your body fell back as you took in his state. Half dressed and tightly coiled, muscles pulling in restrain as he remained pinning your thigh down. His attention was locked onto you, or more so, your dripping cunt and an involuntary need to shut your legs was met with even more resistance from him.
He didn't appreciate you trying to hide from him, evident in his warning gaze. Without a word, his palm trailed up, the desire and craving to touch you won out in him. And suddenly hands that had only known violence was caressing you so softly and attentively, figuring out the definition of what it meant to be a lover.
God you were so wet and warm and soft and all the good things in the world…
Dex noticed your breathing growing more labored beneath him and instinctively he leaned back to watch you more, away from the disadvantage of being tucked into your neck. Your pupils were blown out, starry eyed as your brows creased and a pout settled on your lips. His fingers moved on their own as he watched, a new desire to pull more of those darling expressions from you forming. And as he sunk two cruel digits into your slopping wet heat, satisfaction invaded his senses as he took in your reaction. Your mouth parts in ecstasy, a sound Dex immediately knew he loved fell from your lips as your body arched up into him. And then that begging pout graced your features again, looking down at where his fingers fucked you.
So perhaps intimacy was everything people made it out to be, and so much more when it's with you. Dex was beginning to understand it now, the insatiable need to constantly be touching your person. Fuck, he doesn’t think he could ever go back to the way he was before. So fucking hesitant, unsure with anxiety that dibilitated him. He refused to be so rigid again, not when the sounds of your desire and need were music to his ears. He loved this, loved it in a way that was beginning to align with his new idea of normal. He could get used to this, to touching you, to fucking you.
Whining in protest as his fingers pulled away, your hands gripped at his chest in agony. Complains at the tip of your tongue before halting completely as you hear him begin to take his jeans off. Humming in delight as he strips. And fucking hell…. You were well aware of Dex’s large frame, it was one of the first things you noticed about him, second to the attractive scar on his cheek. But seeing him like this was something different entirely and you couldn't help yourself as you preened over his naked form again. Palms gliding the expansive plains of his back, brushing down his abs and strong chest as you sucked on his neck. Though judging by the expression on Dex's face, he didn't mind you playing. He let you have your fun until eventually pulling your lips off of him with a gentle hand at the back of your neck. A protest happened beneath him as you tried to chase after his body before stopping, noticing his hand on his member. And that shut you up real good.
Dex gently guides his hardened cock onto your dripping core. Rubbing his swollen head up and down your drenched skin before slowly sinking into you. A gasp falls from your lips followed by a desperate cry of want. His breath comes in rough bursts through his nose, focused entirely on you beneath him. How you take it, how you sound, how tight you feel with every drag out and push back in. The plains of his anatomy strained with tension as he exhaled in contentment. Dex thought he had come to know comfort, in the way you'd lean onto him during walks, how you raked your nails through his hair earlier. But this exceeded that in every capacity, comfort was a juvenile word to express how this felt like home. He's barely halfway through and already has to stop and compose himself. He let out a hiss, halting all movements as you clenched around him.
The sudden, full stretch makes you mewl out a sharp, startled sound And Dex freezes instantly, his entire body locking up. Has he hurt you? Was something wrong? He’s buried to the hilt now. It’s a lot. Too much all at once. A wave of something almost like guilt hits him, he hadn’t meant to scare you, but the sensation is… God.
"Shhh," he soothes automatically, instinctively brushing your cheek with his thumb despite how wrecked he feels right now.
You leaned into his touch, seeking for more and he's relieved. Needy palms finding a place on his biceps as you squirmed, looking down at where you both meet. Dex follows your gaze, watching his hardened cock buried deep in you. Yeah… that’s a lot.
"Tell me what you need," he murmurs, thumb brushing away another stray tear. "We can stop. Or go stupid slow.”
You let out a laugh that bled dangerously too close to a moan and Dex makes the decision of the latter for you. The first thrust is deliberate, deep and controlled, testing your reaction. The second follows, then a third, each one creating a filthy rhythm that fills the quiet room. He slowly fucks into you in a sedate, gentle manner. But gentleness is short-lived. His movements quickly grow faster till he was fucking you in a steady eager pace. Skin slaps against skin, joining the song of moans that you sing. The bed creaks under the weight, every movement is amplified in the hushed space. Rapture floods through you as any other thoughts that weren't Dex quickly subsides, giving way for your focal. Everything felt right in the world as he molded your body to his.
It was almost too much, his body caging yours in as his hips moved relentlessly. You knew you wouldn't last much longer if he kept going like this. But Dex was a man of intention, he took you like it was the only thing worth doing in his life.
The press of your hand against his pelvis, pushing, cunt trying to get him closer yet you were pulling away at the same time, sends conflicting signals straight to his dick. Your thighs around him squirmed, a telltale sign you're overwhelmed. Dex groans but doesn’t let up; if anything, he presses down harder on you with his hips, pinning yours in place.
"Take it," he rasps no room for argument. His skilled thumb lands on your clit, relentless despite the overstimulation threatening both of your bodies. The sound that left you was obscene and filthy as your head lulls back and Dex is quick to grab hold of your thigh and pull you closer towards him.
The new angle hits perfectly, your entire body jerks, a broken moan escaping as you tense around Dex’s hips. He learned you almost immediately from the very first second his fingers were inside you, he found where to target instantly. And now he abused that information.
He feels it, the way you clenched around him, and his own control wavers. But he holds on, focused solely on your pleasure, chasing every twitch and whimper with relentless precision. His lips find yours again in a messy, open-mouthed kiss as he pounded into you with controlled hits. A sound so similar to bullets in the air echoed at the impact, the wet sound, obscene, unfiltered, hitting him like a lightning bolt. Every thrust is accompanied by that slick, squelching noise: your arousal mixing with his movements. Dex learns that he loved that sound, it satisfied a part of his brain in a notion he couldn't understand but he knew that it fueled him even more. Dex's hips stutter for half a second at the realization of just how drenched you are for him.
A groan rumbles from his chest as he picks up speed, fucking you till you saw stars. A melody of moans and gasps filled the room with a symphony of skin heard with it. The walls welcome the sound with open arms as the atmosphere feels too hot and too heavy. You try to grab at the bed sheets despite Dex's tight grip on one of your wrists, you need something to ground you as you neared. Too much. It was all too much. Seamlessly, he laced his fingers with yours, still holding you down onto the bed but his grip softened.
You reciprocate the touch, tightly squeezing his hand as you feel the pressure capsize and your thighs shake in hot waves. You cry his name out, your back arching off the bed from the pleasure. His cock still sliding in and out of your dripping cunt, desperate to join you in your release, ignoring the coil of his muscles. He loves the way you say his name, so breathy and blinded by ecstasy. Dex breathes into your neck, the sensations becoming too much before a loud groan breaks his focus and he spills ropes of his cum into you. Immediately you primp under him, satiated and spoiled but your accord for touch remains ever present as you gently brush your nails up and down his back. And that sends him collapsing down onto you. Not that you seemed to mind as he heard a loud gleeful laugh beneath his large frame.
Dex exhales, long and slow, moving to stare at you. He’s not used to aftercare. Not with anyone. But here he is gently moving off you and tucking a throw blanket around your shoulders like you're something fragile. A calloused finger brushes a stray hair from your forehead, an absurdly tender gesture for someone who just fucked you into oblivion but you welcomed it.
He learned an entirely new vocabulary that night, and the education continued to expand exponentially in the weeks that followed.
He discovered, through application and obsessive cataloging, that he liked touch. He liked it an immeasurable, terrifying amount. He grew to absolutely love the specific jolt that occurred when you wake him up in the morning by lazily raking your nails across the broad, scarred expanse of his bare back. He loved the domestic weight of you playing with his hair while he sat on the living room floor, or the frantic, heavy way you would cling onto him when the city noise rattled the brownstone windows.
Methodically, his analytical mind began to solve the puzzle of how to return the same favor. He'd mapped your body with the same precision he applied to his targets, but with an entirely different objective.
He learned how to execute a kiss without needing an explicit verbal invitation, his large hands learning the exact amount of pressure required to tilt your chin upward to meet his mouth. He figured out how to use the immense, terrifying strength in his palms to gently massage the deep knots out of your shoulders after you spent a twelve-hour day hunched over the antique sewing machine. He studied the micro-movements of your muscles, tracking the specific shivers that rippled through your frame when his thumbs traced your collarbones, logging every sigh and hitch in your breath as data.
He figured out, with a profound, quiet sense of internal victory, that you loved every single form of physical touch imaginable, so long as it came entirely from him.
And he decided then, he loved intimacy.
AN: He's so fucking hot like i just can't!!! ! I haven't written smut in like 3 years so I didn't know what I was doing lol. Let me know what you guys think! Also you being a seamstress was entirely self indulgence because I go to fashion school lol.
character has no physical description other than having boobs, pic is just for vibes
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader
word count: ~9k
summary: a quiet Saturday, a doctor who marathon, and spencer reid trying to act casual about reader's tits in a sundress
includes: smut (MDNI), no use of y/n, established relationship, first time, heavy making out, boob fixation, reader has boobs, soft dom!reader vibes, awkward/flustered spencer, spencer reid vs boobs (battle of the century), oral fixation, nipple play, breast worship, fingering, p in v, riding/cowgirl, emotional intimacy, light humor, dirty talk, slight overstim themes, reader wears a dress, unprotected sex, he's trying so hard to be professional, he's also a lil clueless
based on this request
Saturday arrives like a soft bell chime you can almost hear before it happens.
You’ve got the apartment half-lit, curtains pulled back just enough to let in honeyed afternoon sun. There’s a faint stack of snacks on the coffee table, a questionable amount of blankets piled like you’re preparing for emotional weather, and the TV already paused on the opening menu of Doctor Who, glowing patiently like it knows it’s about to be emotionally overused.
You hear the knock.
Not loud. Never loud with him. Two beats, careful, like he’s asking permission from the door itself.
You pad over barefoot, smoothing your hands down your dress out of habit more than necessity. The fabric is light purple, soft as early twilight. It fits you neatly at the top before easing outward into something airy and floaty that shifts when you walk, like it can’t decide whether it wants to stay still or drift.
You open the door, and there he is.
Spencer looks like he always does when he’s trying to be normal and failing in the most quiet, devastating way possible. Button-up slightly rumpled from sitting on the train. Messenger bag slung over one shoulder. Hair already doing whatever it wants, curling forward like it has opinions about gravity.
His mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
It’s subtle at first, the way his expression shifts, like a thought trips over itself inside his head and refuses to stand back up. His eyes flick up to your face, hold there for a respectful second too long, then betray him almost immediately by dropping, catching on you in a way he clearly did not intend.
You tilt your head slightly. “Hey.”
That seems to reboot him, but only halfway.
“Hi,” he says, too quickly. Then, like he’s correcting a mistake only he can hear, “Hello. Hi. I mean. Hi.”
There’s a beat where he looks like he’s considering reassembling the sentence in his hands.
You lean lightly against the doorframe, watching him with growing amusement. “You’re doing great.”
“I am,” he agrees immediately, then stops. Swallows. Adjusts his grip on his bag strap like it has suddenly become very interesting. “I’m doing… normal levels of greeting.”
“Normal levels,” you repeat.
“Yes.”
Another pause.
His gaze flickers again, just for a fraction of a second, before he catches himself and snaps it back to your face so fast it almost looks like a reflex. His ears have gone a little pink already, which is never a good sign for his composure.
You step back and open the door wider. “Come in before you short-circuit on my porch.”
“I’m not short-circuiting,” he says, immediately proving the opposite by stepping inside and nearly forgetting how to move his own limbs.
You don’t comment on it right away.
Because the thing about Spencer is that he always thinks he’s being subtle. Like his attention is something he can fold neatly into his lap and hide under polite conversation. But you’re starting to learn the language of him anyway, the small tells that give him away before he realizes he’s been read.
The couch dips when he sits, all careful angles and nervous adjustments, like he’s negotiating peace treaties with cushions. You settle beside him with the easy confidence of someone who has already claimed this space a dozen times before.
The episode starts.
TARDIS glow. Theme music. The familiar whirl of escapism wrapping around the room like a spell.
Spencer exhales softly, tension loosening from his shoulders in a way that makes him look almost younger. Less like an FBI profiler and more like a man allowed, briefly, to exist without solving anything.
You shift closer without thinking.
It starts innocently.
Your legs stretch across the couch, dangling lazily over the cushions. Your back presses against Spencer's chest as you snuggle into him. He adjusts immediately, like it’s instinct, like your body near his is something his nervous system has already been trained to accommodate. One arm settles around your shoulder, careful but certain, pulling you in just enough that your weight rests comfortably against him.
The episode keeps playing, but you feel it before you see it.
That shift in the air behind you. Not movement exactly, more like attention becoming tangible. Like someone has turned a page too slowly and the silence between words has started to mean something.
Spencer’s arm is still around you. Still steady. Still careful in the way he always is when he thinks about touching you too much.
And yet.
There’s a pause in his breathing that doesn’t match the rhythm of the scene on the TV.
You don’t turn right away.
You just tilt your head a fraction, like you’re listening to the room instead of the show. “Spence.”
A beat.
“Yeah?” he answers too quickly.
That’s enough.
You glance up. And there it is.
He’s looking at you.
Not the TV. Not the snack table. Not anywhere defensible.
Just you.
For a second he doesn’t move at all, like he’s been caught mid-thought and forgot how to pretend otherwise. His eyes flicker when they meet yours properly, caught in the act of being unguarded.
Then his brain clearly returns to the scene all at once.
“Oh—” he starts.
It comes out small. Almost soundless. Like the word itself is embarrassed to be involved.
His cheeks bloom pink so fast it’s almost unfair, color rushing up beneath his skin in a way that gives him away completely. He tries to look away immediately, but it’s too late now, the moment already exposed between you like a page turned too far.
“I wasn’t—” he begins again.
Stops.
Swallows.
His hand, still resting around your shoulder, tightens just slightly like it forgot it was supposed to be relaxed. Not enough to pull you closer. Just enough that you notice.
“I’m not doing anything,” he says, which is objectively not an explanation but sounds like he needed to say it anyway.
You shift just enough to angle yourself toward him.
“Oh?” you murmur.
That single syllable does something catastrophic to him.
His gaze flicks away again, immediate and reflexive, like eye contact has become too loud. “I mean, I am doing things. Just… not the things you’re thinking I’m doing.”
“That’s very specific,” you say softly.
His cheeks are fully pink now.
You let the silence stretch just a little, like you’re testing how far it will go before he tries to fill it.
The TV hums on in the background, all blue light and distant alien drama, but it feels secondary now. Like the room has quietly rerouted itself around the two of you without asking permission.
You glance back at him, lips curving. “I thought this was your favorite show.”
Spencer blinks once.
Twice.
Then, a little too fast, “It is.”
There’s immediate conviction in it, but also something strained underneath, like he’s trying to hold the answer in place with both hands.
You hum, tilting your head against his shoulder slightly, settling in even more like you belong there. “Mm. Strange behavior for someone watching his favorite show.”
His throat works as he swallows.
“I’m watching it,” he says.
“You’re watching me.”
His gaze darts to the TV for half a second, as if checking whether it still exists. It does. Unfortunately for him, it is not helping.
“I’m doing both,” he insists, but it comes out softer now, less like an argument and more like a confession he didn’t plan to make.
You shift slightly so you can look up at him properly.
His arm around you tightens again, subtle enough that it could almost pass for unconscious. Almost.
“Both,” you repeat, slow and amused. “So the Doctor is saving the universe, and you’re… what? Multitasking emotionally?”
A faint huff of air leaves him that might be a laugh if it had more confidence behind it.
“I’m not emotionally multitasking,” he says. “That would imply I’m managing it well.”
You don’t answer him right away.
Because the look on his face is doing something quiet and dangerous to you too.
Spencer sits there like he’s holding himself very carefully in place, as if any sudden movement might tip the whole moment over. His arm is still around you, but now it feels less like comfort and more like containment. Like he’s forgotten where he’s supposed to stop and start.
His eyes flick to your mouth for half a second.
He catches himself immediately, of course. But you see it anyway.
That’s enough.
You lift a hand to his cheek first, slow enough that he has time to pull away if he wants to. He doesn’t. His breath catches instead, a small break in the careful rhythm he’s been maintaining all afternoon.
He looks at you like he’s bracing for a math problem that might change his life.
You kiss him.
It’s not rushed. Not theatrical. Just simple and certain, like you’ve finally decided to stop pretending there’s any other logical outcome for the way he’s been looking at you.
For a second, he doesn’t move at all.
Then he makes a sound under his breath that disappears into you before it can become anything fully formed, and suddenly he’s kissing you back like something in him has finally been allowed to exist without permission slips.
It’s Spencer in every detail: careful at first, almost hesitant, like he’s checking if this is still real.
Then it changes.
His hand shifts from your shoulder to the side of your neck, fingers curling gently there as if he’s learning your shape by memory instead of sight. The hesitation doesn’t vanish so much as dissolve into something warmer, something more certain.
The TV continues in the background, forgotten.
Time does not so much pass as it gives up.
When you finally pull back just slightly, it’s only enough to breathe.
Spencer’s eyes are half-lidded, unfocused in a way that makes him look undone. Like someone has quietly rearranged the air inside him and he hasn’t figured out where to put his thoughts yet.
You don’t let the distance last.
You shift.
It starts small, just repositioning your legs, but the intent changes everything. You move fully onto him, straddling his hips in a way that makes the entire world narrow down to the couch beneath you and the warmth of him under your hands.
Spencer goes still.
His hands hover for a fraction of a second at your waist like they’re asking questions without words.
“Is this—” he starts.
His voice is rougher now, threaded with something he hasn’t figured out how to regulate yet.
You lean in before he can finish the sentence and kiss him again.
That seems to answer it better than language ever could.
His hands finally settle.
Carefully. Like he’s choosing you on purpose.
One at your waist, steady. The other sliding up your back in a slow, cautious motion that makes your skin feel suddenly too aware of itself. He exhales into the kiss like he’s been holding it in for too long.
You pull back just enough to breathe again, forehead still hovering close to his.
The room feels warmer now. Not in a dramatic way, just subtly rearranged, like the air itself has decided to sit closer.
Spencer’s eyes open slowly.
And immediately, they drop.
It’s quick. Instinctive. Like gravity briefly forgets its manners.
Then he freezes as if he’s been caught committing a crime he didn’t realize was visible.
His throat bobs. His hands, still resting at your waist, go very still in a way that somehow feels louder than movement.
You don’t move right away. Just watch him for a second longer than strictly necessary.
“Spence,” you say softly.
His eyes snap up immediately.
Too fast. Too guilty.
“I wasn’t—” he starts.
Stops.
Swallows.
His grip at your waist tightens just a fraction, not pulling you in, just anchoring himself like he’s trying not to float away inside his own thoughts.
“I’m sorry,” he adds, quieter now.
You tilt your head, studying him like he’s a puzzle you already know the answer to. “You’ve been doing that all afternoon.”
You can see it. The way his brain tries to compute whether there is any version of reality where he hasn’t been entirely obvious.
“I have not been—” he begins, immediate reflex.
Then his gaze slips again.
Just for a second.
Down.
And that tiny lapse undoes the whole sentence.
You let out a slow breath, almost amused. “You have.”
His ears go pink again, softer this time but spreading quickly.
“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he says, and that’s the thing that always sits under everything with him. Not denial. Not ego. Just concern, threaded through every reaction like a nervous stitch.
You shift slightly closer, fingers sliding up to rest at his jaw.
“I’m not uncomfortable,” you say.
You feel it then.
The smallest shift of his fingers at your waist. A subtle tightening, like he’s grounding himself through touch because looking is getting harder to regulate.
He notices your expression immediately and stills again, as if he’s afraid even that small movement gave too much away.
You don’t let him retreat into politeness.
“Spence,” you murmur again.
His eyes lift again, already softer now, already a little lost.
You wait until he’s actually looking at you.
“Just say it,” you say gently.
His breath catches.
For a second, he looks like he might actually obey. Like the words are right there, lined up behind his teeth, just waiting for permission to exist.
Instead, what comes out is smaller.
“…That dress is just…”
He trails off.
His gaze drops again, slower this time, less like a reflex and more like he forgot how not to look.
His fingers at your waist twitch again, betraying him completely.
He clears his throat, embarrassed at himself, and tries to recover, but it’s already gone. The sentence has dissolved.
You let the silence sit between you, warm and expectant.
When he speaks again, it’s barely above a whisper.
“I’m trying not to be obvious,” he admits.
His eyes finally lift back to yours, fully honest now in a way that makes something in your chest go quietly still.
“And I’m… not doing a very good job.”
“You don't say?”
Spencer looks at you like he’s trying to decide whether he’s misunderstood something fundamental about language.
His hands are still at your waist, warm and careful, like they’ve forgotten they’re allowed to exist anywhere else. His thumbs make a tiny, unconscious movement against your sides, then still again as if he’s caught himself thinking too loudly.
“I’m serious,” he says quietly.
“I know,” you answer, softer now. No teasing in it this time. Just certainty.
That seems to make things worse, in the way truth often does when someone has been bracing for correction.
His gaze drops again. Not greedy. Not reckless. Just helpless in its honesty. Like his eyes keep slipping out of his control.
You shift closer instead of giving him space to retreat into his head.
“You’re allowed to touch me.”
It lands differently than everything before it.
His entire body stills.
Not tense exactly. More like all his nervous movement has been paused mid-thought, hands frozen at your waist as if the concept needs time to render.
“I am,” he repeats, like he’s testing whether the sentence is real.
You nod once. “Yes.”
A beat.
His throat works as he swallows. “I just don’t want to assume anything.”
“I know,” you say again, and there’s something warm in it now, something that softens the edges of his restraint instead of pushing against it. “You don’t have to guess.”
That does it.
You feel the shift before you see it. The smallest exhale breaking out of him, like something inside finally loosens just a fraction.
Still, he doesn’t move.
His hands stay exactly where they are, fingers slightly curled into the fabric at your waist, as if even this is already more than he’s sure he’s been granted.
So you take the decision away from him.
You reach down, sliding your fingers over the backs of his hands where they rest tensely against your ribs. You don’t ask again. You don’t give him the chance to overthink the geometry of the question.
You just pull.
His breath hitches in a way that sounds almost like a stopped note, a sharp intake of air that he doesn’t quite manage to swallow. You guide his hands upward, slow and deliberate, sliding them up your ribcage until his palms settle fully against your breasts.
For a second, Spencer doesn’t seem to breathe at all.
It’s like a system crash in real time. His eyes go wide, dark and unfocused, staring at you like you’ve just performed a magic trick that violates the laws of physics. His hands rest against your chest, heavy and warm through the light fabric of your dress, but he’s holding them so rigidly it’s like he’s terrified they might burn through the material.
“Is this—” His voice cracks, splintering on the word. He clears his throat, tries again, and it comes out thin and high. “Is this okay? I feel like I should be asking for a notarized statement of consent.”
"Jeez, Spencer, you'd think you'd take me having you touch my boobs would be enough consent," you tease.
Spencer lets out a sound that’s halfway between a huff of breath and a genuinely startled laugh, his eyes widening a fraction more.
“That is not—” He stops, his gaze darting from your face to his own hands and back again, color climbing up his neck so fast you can practically feel the heat radiating off him. “That is not the point. The point is statutory interpretation is much clearer than non-verbal cues, and I have a history of misinterpreting data sets that are… significantly less high-stakes than this.”
You smile, feeling the way his fingers are still curled slightly inward, hovering against you without actually applying pressure. He’s touching you, but he’s terrified of holding on.
You let out a quiet laugh, soft and breathless, and lean forward just enough to rest your forehead against his. “Yes, Spencer. This is okay.”
You feel the exhale leave him, shuddering and uneven, like a breath he’s been holding for weeks finally escaping.
“Okay,” he whispers, mostly to himself. “Okay. Good. This is… good.”
The word “good” has barely left his lips before his hands move.
It’s not calculated. It doesn’t feel like a decision his brain made and then communicated to his body. It feels like gravity. Like his hands have been wanting to do this for so long that the moment you gave them permission, they just… stopped fighting it.
He squeezes.
It isn't rough or greedy, though you can feel the potential for it trembling in his fingertips. It’s careful. Reverent, almost. His palms mold to the weight of you, thumbs brushing experimentally over the curve of your chest, and the sensation is so electric that your breath hitches audibly.
That sound seems to break something inside him.
His fingers curl in, just a fraction, testing the give of you against his hands. A low, broken sound escapes him—half a groan, half a sigh—and his eyes flutter shut like he’s trying to memorize the topography by touch alone.
“Oh,” he breathes out, like he’s just solved an equation he didn’t know he was working on.
He doesn’t stop. The squeeze turns into a slow, kneading motion, his palms heavy and warm through the fabric of your dress. He’s exploring, mapping the shape of you with a focus that borders on academic, but the feeling behind it is anything but clinical. His thumbs sweep over the swell of you, hesitating slightly when they graze the edge of your bra, then circling back like he’s found a favorite page in a book.
You rock forward involuntarily, your body chasing the friction before your brain catches up.
Spencer reacts like he’s been burned, but in the best possible way.
His hands stutter to a halt for a fraction of a second, palms pressing flat against you like he’s trying to anchor himself to the earth, and then his head falls back against the couch. His eyes are squeezed shut, his throat exposed, a long, vulnerable line of skin that makes your mouth go dry.
“You moved,” he chokes out. It sounds like an accusation, but his tone is ruined. It’s wrecked.
“I felt you do it,” you point out, amused breathless. You grind down again, slower this time, deliberate. “I’m supposed to move, Spencer.”
He makes a noise that is dangerously close to a whine, high in the back of his throat. His fingers twitch against you, no longer kneading, just pressing in like he’s trying to anchor himself to the only solid thing in the room.
“I know,” he gasps, his head tipping back even further, exposing the long, pale line of his throat. He looks like he’s in pain, but you know better. It’s too much sensation and not enough friction all at once. “I know you’re supposed to. I just— I wasn’t prepared for the kinetic energy transfer.”
You laugh again, but it’s breathless now, caught somewhere between amusement and the sudden, sharp heat that’s taken up residence in your own lungs. “You’re thinking about physics while you’re feeling me up?”
Spencer opens his eyes at that, blinking up at you like he’s surfacing from deep water. They’re dark, pupils blown so wide the iris is just a thin, burning ring of hazel.
“I’m always thinking,” he manages, but his voice is wrecked. It cracks in the middle, betraying him completely. He looks at his hands on you, then back up at your face, and the sheer adoration mixed with hunger on his expression makes your heart trip over itself. “It’s how I process. If I don’t categorize the input, I’m going to—” He cuts himself off, his breath hitching as his thumbs brush the underside of your breast again. “I’m going to lose it.”
You rock your hips down again, harder this time, watching the way his composure fractures like glass under a hammer.
“Then lose it,” you whisper.
You lean down, bracketing his face with your arms so he has nowhere else to look. His hair is a mess against the cushion, his lips red and swollen, and he looks at you like you’re the only gravitational constant in the universe.
It’s not a request. It’s a permission slip for a system failure.
Spencer stares up at you, his eyes wide and wet and unblinking, like he’s seeing the solution to a problem that’s been haunting him for months. His breath shudders out of him, a ragged, uneven exhale that fans against your cheek.
“You’re—” He starts, then stops, his voice cracking on the word. His hands flex against you, no longer careful, no longer testing the weight. They just hold. His fingers dig into the soft fabric of your dress, dragging over the curve of your chest with a desperation that makes your own head spin. “You’re dangerous.”
You smile, but it’s not sweet. It’s slow, knowing, a smile that acknowledges exactly what kind of power you have over him right now.
“You have no idea,” you murmur.
You reach up, hooking your fingers into the thin straps of your dress. You don’t look at him as you slide them down your shoulders—you keep your eyes locked on his, watching the dilation of his pupils until they almost swallow the color.
The fabric sighs as it slides down your arms, pooling at your waist.
Spencer doesn't blink. He physically cannot.
His eyes track the movement like it’s the most critical data stream he’s ever analyzed, dropping from your face to your shoulders, and then lower. The air between you feels suddenly oxygen-thin.
For a moment, the world is absolutely silent.
Spencer just stares.
It’s not a leer. It’s not even particularly sexual in the way you’re used to men looking. It’s captivated. His eyes roam over the lace, the shadow of skin beneath it, the way your chest rises and falls with your shortened breath. He looks like he’s trying to commit the image to memory with the same intensity he usually reserves for crime scene photos or quantum physics equations.
"Spence."
His name snaps him out of the trance, but his eyes don't lift. They stay glued to you, dark and reverent, like he’s forgotten how to look anywhere else.
"You can touch me," you say, your voice dropping to a whisper that feels like the only sound in the room.
For a second, you think he might actually argue.
His hands hover over your bare skin, trembling slightly, fingers curling into loose fists like he’s physically stopping himself from reaching out. He looks stricken, caught between the overwhelming urge to touch and the terrifying reality that he finally can.
"I don't want to..." He trails off, swallowing hard. He looks up at you finally, and his expression is so open it’s almost painful. "I don't want to ruin this. I don't want to be too much.”
You smile, soft around the edges, stripping away any lingering teasing until all that’s left is the truth. You lean in, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, feeling the way his breath stutters against your lips.
“You’d never be too much for me,” you whisper against his skin. “I want exactly what you’re giving me, Spencer. Not less.”
He breathes. A sharp intake of breath through his nose, followed by a ragged exhale that sounds like a deflation. The tension that has been holding his shoulders rigid evaporates, replaced instantly by a kind of trembling intent.
His hands aren't hovering anymore.
They settle on you with a kind of desperate, aching gravity.
His palms are warm, slightly damp with nervous sweat, and they cup the weight of your lace-covered breasts like he’s handling something volatile. Precious. Unstable.
He doesn’t hesitate this time. The second his skin makes contact with the lace, something inside him just—unspools.
He squeezes, harder than before, no longer treating you like something that might shatter. A rough, broken sound tears out of his throat, halfway between a groan and a sigh, and his eyes flutter shut as his fingers dig into the soft fabric.
“God,” he breathes, the word sounding like it’s been dragged out of him. “You're... You're beautiful."
He says it like a discovery. Like he’s the first person to ever find land.
He dips his head then, not waiting for encouragement, not giving himself time to second-guess the trajectory. He presses his face against your chest, burying himself in the soft curve of you with a desperation that makes your breath catch.
His lips are hot against the lace, dragging over the sensitive skin beneath with an open-mouthed kiss that feels more like worship than foreplay.
You gasp, your fingers tangling automatically into his hair, holding him there as he mouthes at the fabric. He doesn't seem to care that there’s still a layer of lace between his mouth and your skin; if anything, the friction seems to undo him.
His hands are restless now, roaming the shape of you with a focus that makes your head spin. He squeezes the weight of you, thumbs sweeping over the lace just to feel the texture of it against your skin. He’s mapping you. Memorizing the give of you under his palms, the way your breath hitches when his thumb grazes a sensitive spot.
Then he nips.
It’s shocking.
Not enough to hurt, just a sharp, intentional pressure of his teeth against the sensitive curve of your breast, right through the lace. A spark of heat jolts through you, electric and sudden, and your hips jerk against his before you can stop them.
“Spencer,” you gasp, your fingers tightening in his hair, pulling just enough to make him groan.
The sound of his name on your lips seems to snap whatever remaining thread of control he’s been clinging to. He lifts his head just enough to look at you, his expression dazed, mouth wet and eyes completely blown. There is a desperation in his gaze that seeps right into your bones.
"Off," he says.
It comes out wrecked, barely a word at all. Just a harsh, expelled breath shaped by consonants. He sounds almost pained, his voice cracking on the single syllable like it’s costing him something just to say it.
"Please."
The addition is ragged, tacked onto the end like a prayer he forgot he was saying. His hands are still cupping you, thumbs dragging over the lace with a restless, repetitive motion, like he’s trying to soothe an itch he can’t scratch.
You nod immediately.
His hands leave you, leaving a sudden cool space against your skin that makes you shiver. But before you can miss the warmth, his long fingers are skating up your back, searching for the clasp.
He doesn’t fumble. You expected him to—Spencer fumbles with doorknobs and coffee cup sleeves—but his hands are steady on your spine. There is a terrifying precision in the way his index finger finds the hook, the way his thumb slides the metal eye free with a click that sounds loud in the quiet room.
The tension in the band gives way with a second and third soft click, and then the pressure against your back simply... vanishes.
You feel the lace loosen immediately, the support slipping away, but Spencer doesn’t pull it off you right away. He leaves his hands resting against your spine for a moment, his splayed fingers spanning the width of your back, grounding himself against the reality of what he’s about to do. He’s breathing hard, you can feel the expansion of his chest against yours, a rapid, unsteady rhythm that matches your own.
Then, slowly, so slowly it feels like time has stretched thin, he slides his hands forward. He drags his palms around your ribcage, following the line of your bra until he reaches the straps. With a gentle tug, he pulls them down your arms, peeling the fabric away until it joins your dress at your waist.
The air hits your skin, cooler than you expected, and the sensation makes you shiver. But the reaction is purely physical. Emotionally, you are burning.
His eyes are locked on your chest in pure, unadulterated awe, like he’s just walked into a library he’s spent his entire life dreaming about and realized he’s allowed to read the books.
For a moment, he does absolutely nothing but look.
He doesn’t reach out. He doesn’t lean in. He just stares, his eyes cataloging every inch of newly exposed skin like he’s trying to build a photographic memory in real-time. It’s the kind of attention that would usually make you feel self-conscious, the kind that feels like a spotlight, but coming from Spencer it just feels… heavy. Like being known without speaking.
"You're so pretty," he breathes, and it sounds like a confession.
It’s soft, barely audible over the blood rushing in your ears, but the reverence in it knocks the air out of your lungs. He doesn’t say it like he’s commenting on your appearance; he says it like he’s acknowledging a force of nature, something inevitable and beautiful that he is helpless to resist.
Before the echo of the words has even faded, his restraint dissolves completely.
Before you can process the compliment, his head dips.
He doesn’t ease into it. He doesn’t start with the slow, drag of lips you were expecting. He just surges forward, his mouth closing over your nipple with a desperation that borders on clumsy.
The contact is electric—hot and wet and sudden. A sharp gasp tears out of your throat, your back bowing instinctively, pushing you deeper into the heat of his mouth. It feels like he’s trying to consume you, like he’s been starving for this exact moment for months and finally remembered how to eat.
His other hand moves to your neglected breast almost on instinct, his palm molding to the curve with a kind of desperate, grateful pressure. He’s greedy with it, squeezing and releasing in a rhythm that matches the pull of his mouth, the circle of his tongue, like he can’t get enough of the way you fill his hands.
He’s mapping you by touch and taste simultaneously, and you can feel him trembling against you, vibrating with the sheer effort of holding himself back from completely falling apart.
You look down at him, your fingers tangling tight in his hair, and the sight nearly undoes you. His eyes are squeezed shut, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks, his brow furrowed in intense concentration. He looks lost in you, wrecked in the most beautiful way, like the entire world has narrowed down to the feeling of your skin under his hands and the taste of you on his tongue.
He doesn't stay there long. It seems he needs to ensure equity in his research, or perhaps he just needs to know if the other side tastes just as overwhelming. He pulls away with a wet, audible pop that sends a jolt straight down your spine, his breath panting hot against the damp skin he's left behind.
Before you can even miss the heat, he’s shifting, turning his face to capture your other breast. He treats this one with the same desperate reverence, his tongue swirling over the peak before he sucks it deep into the heat of his mouth.
Your body reacts instinctively, your hips grinding down against his, seeking friction to match the wet heat of his mouth. You expect his hand to follow the lead, to switch sides so he can touch and taste in tandem, maintaining the rhythm he’d established.
But his hand doesn't move up.
Instead, his long, clever fingers trace a distracted path down your ribs, his palm skating over the curve of your waist before slipping beneath the bunched fabric of your sundress.
The air feels cool against your skin for a split second before his hand makes contact, sliding over the heated expanse of your stomach. He maps the terrain of your body with single-minded focus, bypassing the tease of your hip to slide directly toward the apex of your thighs.
He pulls his mouth away from your nipple with a wet, ragged gasp, but he doesn't give you—or himself—a moment of stillness. His lips immediately find the soft swell of your breast again, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the sensitive skin, his breath hot and uneven.
"You're so... God, you're perfect," he mumbles, the words muffled against your skin. He sounds delirious.
His hand doesn't hesitate beneath the fabric of your dress. His fingers trace the edge of your underwear, just for a second, a fleeting tactile confirmation of what lies beneath, before he’s hooking his fingers into the lace and pulling it to the side.
The drag of the lace against your hip is sharp and fleeting, but the touch of his fingers following immediately after is searing. He doesn’t wait, doesn’t ask for permission again—he’s already past the point of being able to form coherent sentences. He simply slides his fingers through the slick heat of you, his touch exploratory but devastatingly sure.
"Oh," he breathes, the sound vibrating against your chest. "You're... you're wet."
It’s a statement of fact, delivered with the same wonder he’d use to identify a rare botanical species. He pauses there for a beat, his fingers coated in the evidence of how much you want him, seemingly stunned by the data.
“So that’s—” He swallows hard, his voice cracking on a dry throat. “That’s for me?”
“Yes,” you breathe, your head tipping back as his fingers slide through the wetness again, testing the slickness with a fascination that makes your toes curl. “It’s all for you, Spencer.”
He makes a sound that is purely involuntary—a choked-off groan that vibrates against your ribs. He can’t seem to decide where to put his hands. He wants to touch you everywhere, memorize every reaction, but his focus keeps snapping back to the heat between your legs.
He seems to accept the data, files it away under a header labeled Miraculous, and then his brain clearly short-circuits from the overload of sensory input. Because his hand moves, but his mouth doesn't abandon its post.
He slides two long fingers inside you, slow and deliberate and the sensation makes your vision white out at the edges. It’s a stretch, a burning pressure that feels exactly like relief, and he seems just as overwhelmed by it as you are. His other hand remains on your breast, kneading the soft flesh with a rhythmic, desperate squeeze, his palm dragging over your nipple in a way that makes you gasp.
“You feel—” He chokes on the word, his breath fanning hotly over your damp skin. He presses a messy, open-mouthed kiss to the side of your breast, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just enough to make you shiver. “You feel incredible.”
He doesn’t give you time to adjust to the intrusion. He starts to move, curling his fingers in a slow, devastating arc that drags against your inner walls with terrifying precision. It’s practiced in theory, even if he’s shaking with nerves, his mind clearly cataloging the anatomy of your pleasure even as he loses himself in the reality of it.
"Spencer," you gasp, your hands tightening in his hair, pulling hard enough to make him hiss against your skin.
He takes the sound as encouragement. He shifts his weight, pressing the heel of his hand against your clit in a way that makes your hips buck off the couch, a desperate, involuntary motion that chases more friction.
He catches the rhythm of your hips immediately, his brain fast-tracking the mechanics of your pleasure even as he’s losing the battle for his own composure. The heel of his hand grinds down in slow, deliberate circles, matching the curl of his fingers inside you, and the dual sensation is so sharp, so perfect, that your nails dig involuntarily into his scalp.
“God, yes,” he breathes, the words damp and hot against your skin. He doesn’t lift his head; he’s too consumed. He presses his face into the valley between your breasts, nipping at the sensitive skin there, kissing the marks he leaves like he’s trying to soothe the sting even as he inflicts it. “You’re so tight, I can’t—I can’t believe how you feel.”
His other hand is still busy on your breast, kneading with a desperation that borders on worship. He drags his thumb over your nipple, catching the peak just as his fingers curl inside you again, hitting a spot that makes your whole body jerk.
"Wait," you gasp, the word scraping against your throat.
Spencer stops instantly. It’s not a gradual slowdown; it’s a full cessation of motion, like a puppet whose strings were cut. His fingers still inside you, his hand pauses its ruthless rhythm, and his mouth lifts from your skin, though he stays close enough that his breath fans hot and damp against your sternum.
He looks up at you, eyes wide and wild, blinking rapidly like he’s waking from a deep sleep. There’s a sheen of sweat on his upper lip, his hair is a complete wreck from your fingers, and his mouth is swollen and red. He looks dazed, dangerously undone, but mostly he looks terrified.
“Did I hurt you?” The question tumbles out in a rush, his voice cracking on the syllables. His hand twitches against you, like he wants to pull away but is paralyzed by the fear that moving might make it worse. “Oh god, I hurt you, didn’t I? I was moving too fast, I should have been more careful, I know the anatomy but I didn’t—”
“Spencer,” you cut in softly, trying to catch his frantic gaze. You reach up, smoothing a hand over his messy hair, your thumb brushing his temple. He leans into the touch immediately, his eyes fluttering shut for a split second before snapping back open to search your face for any sign of pain. “Spencer, breathe. You didn’t hurt me.”
"But if it wasn't pain..." He falters, his brow furrowing so deeply it looks like it hurts. He looks confused, genuinely baffled as to why you would call a halt to something that seemed to be going so well. "Did I do it wrong? I know the statistics on female pleasure are often exaggerated in media, and I thought I was hitting the anterior wall but I might have miscalculated the angle, and if the pressure was too much—"
You can't help it; a soft laugh bubbles up in your chest, spilling out before you can stop it.
Spencer blinks, the rambling cutting off mid-syllable. The confusion in his eyes shifts, melting into something softer, though no less intense.
"Sorry," you murmur, your thumb stroking his cheekbone, feeling the frantic pulse of his heart hammering against his ribs where your bodies press together. "I didn't want to come yet."
The silence that follows is absolute.
Spencer stares at you, his mouth slightly open, the frantic apology dying on his tongue. The sheer confusion on his face would be funny if he didn't look so completely floored.
You just smile, shaking your head gently at his disbelief, and drop your hands to his waistband.
It takes him a second to process the shift. His brain is still stuck back on the confession, trying to calculate the variables of why exactly stopping is a good thing when the outcome was so promising, but then your fingers are working at the button of his dress slacks, and his thought process whites out entirely.
His breath hitches—a sharp, jagged intake of air that sounds almost like a sob. His hands, which had been hovering uncertainly over your hips, snap down to grip your thighs, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
"Is this—?" he starts, his voice pitching up high and tight, cracking on the question. He doesn't finish it. He can't. His eyes are glued to your hands, watching your fingers deftly slide the metal button through the loophole.
The sound of his zipper lowering in the quiet room is obscenely loud. It feels like a gunshot in the heavy atmosphere between you.
You tug the fabric of his slacks and boxers down just enough to free him, and the reaction is immediate. Spencer gasps, a full-body shudder racking his frame, his hips jerking up off the couch to help you, desperate to be rid of the barrier.
He’s hard—achingly, undeniably hard.
The sight of him, flushed and straining against his stomach, makes your mouth go dry. He feels heavy in your hand, hot to the touch, and when you wrap your fingers around the base, his entire body jerks like he’s been electrocuted.
"Ah—!" The sound is sharp, startled out of him. His head falls back, exposing the long, vulnerable line of his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing violently as he swallows. "Okay. Okay, that’s—God.”
"Do you want to keep going?" you start to ask, your voice dropping to a whisper that feels too loud in the quiet room. "Or should we—"
"Yes."
The answer cuts you off before you can even finish the sentence. It’s immediate, desperate, breathed out on an exhale that sounds like he’s been holding his breath for a lifetime.
"Please," he tacks on, his eyes snapping open to find yours, wide and desperate and completely unguarded. "I need—please."
You smile, soft and reassured, and shift your hips. You line him up, the head of him nudging against your entrance, hot and insistent. The stretch is slow as you lower yourself down, inch by inch, taking your time to adjust to the sheer size of him.
Spencer makes a sound like he’s dying.
It’s a low, broken noise that starts in his chest and rattles its way up his throat, sounding for all the world like a prayer that’s gone horribly wrong. His head drops back against the couch cushions, his eyes squeezing shut so tightly his lashes tremble, his mouth falling open on a silent gasp that looks almost painful.
You go slow, torturously slow, sinking down until your hips meet his. The feeling is overwhelming—a thick, impossible fullness that makes your breath hitch and your thighs tremble. You can feel him everywhere, the heat of him searing you from the inside out, the way his body strains to stay still under yours.
"Oh god," he chokes out, his voice wrecked. His hands find your waist again, but instead of gripping you, they just hold on, his fingers pressing into your skin like he's trying to anchor himself to the earth. "You're... you're tight. I can't—Jesus, you feel like..."
He doesn't finish the sentence. He can't seem to find the words in the English language—or any of the other ones he knows—that adequately describe the feeling of being inside you. Instead, he just exhales, a long, shuddering breath that ruffles the hair falling near your face.
His grip on your waist tightens, not to steer you, but just to hold on. His thumbs press into your hip bones, his long fingers spanning nearly the entire width of your torso, and he looks at you like you are the only thing keeping him from floating away.
"You can move," he breathes, the permission falling from his lips like he’s granting you access to a restricted section of the library. "Please, you can move.”
You lift your hips experimentally, dragging yourself up his length before sinking back down, and the friction is enough to make you both gasp. Spencer’s fingers flex against your waist, his breath hitching in a rhythm that matches your movements.
And as soon as you start to find a steady pace, his attention snaps right back to where it’s been desperate to go all night.
His hands leave your waist, sliding up your torso with a reverent urgency that makes your skin prickle. He doesn't ask; he just reaches, cupping the weight of your breasts in his palms like he’s checking their density, confirming their reality. He squeezes, his fingers digging into the soft flesh with a pressure that borders on possessive, his thumbs sweeping over your nipples in time with the roll of your hips.
It’s like he’s trying to physically merge with them. He pushes them together, his palms pressing inward to create a deep, soft valley, and then he’s burying his face in it with a groan that sounds absolutely wrecked.
He breathes you in, his nose brushing against your sternum, his exhale hot and damp against your skin. He turns his head, rubbing his cheek against the curve of your breast like a cat claiming territory, his hair tickling your skin in the sweetest, most maddening way.
"Perfect," he mumbles, the word vibrating directly into your chest. "You're so—God, I can't believe I'm touching you. Who gave me the right?"
"I did," you gasp out, the rhythm of your hips making your voice shaky. You bury a hand in his hair, holding him close to you as you move. "You literally asked permission five minutes ago."
He lets out a huff of breath that might be a laugh, but it sounds more like a sob of relief. He presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the inner curve of your left breast, right over the hammering of your heart. "Best decision I ever made."
He seems to lose himself in the slide of skin against skin. He’s not just touching you anymore; he’s interacting with you, experimenting with what makes you gasp and what makes your internal muscles clamp down around him. When you grind down particularly hard, he whines low in his throat, his hands spasming against your ribs, and he ducks his head to capture a nipple in his mouth again.
He sucks hard, the sudden pull of his mouth sending a sharp jolt of pleasure that arcs all the way to your toes. It makes your rhythm stutter, a broken moan tearing from your throat as your walls flutter around him.
He groans at the reaction, the vibration humming against your sensitive skin. He’s completely lost to it now, any remaining semblance of his usual control shattered. He lifts his head just enough to switch sides again, but he doesn’t let go with his hands. Instead, he kneads the heavy weight of them, pushing them up and together, burying his face between them with a desperate, breathless sound.
"Spence," you gasp, your fingers tightening in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him hiss. He doesn't pull away; he just leans into the sting, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt-sweat gathering in the valley of your cleavage. "I'm gonna—fuck, I'm gonna come."
He doesn't stop. If anything, the confession acts like a detonator.
He pulls his face out from the valley of your breasts just enough to look up at you, his eyes dark, blown wide, and utterly frantic. He looks like a man watching a supernova, terrified and awestruck all at once.
“Yes,” he breathes, his voice cracking on a desperate whine. “Please, let me—let me feel it.”
The coil in your belly snaps, heat flooding your veins with a force that makes your vision blur. Your body seizes up, your back arching instinctively, pushing your chest further into his hands as the wave crashes over you.
You cry out his name, your voice breaking, and Spencer takes it like a revelation.
He doesn't stop moving, but he gentles the roll of his hips, guiding you through the aftershocks with a terrifyingly precise intuition. He watches your face with rapt attention, his eyes darting across your features like he’s trying to memorize the exact expression of your pleasure. The feeling of you pulsing around him drags a guttural sound from his throat, raw and unfiltered.
"God," he chokes out, his hands trembling against your ribs. "I can feel you... I can feel everything."
The sensation of you coming around him seems to be the final straw. His control, already hanging by a thread, evaporates. His hips snap up to meet yours, a sharp, involuntary thrust that punches a startled moan out of you, but he’s gone too far to stop it now.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I can't—" The apology is a fractured chant, breathless and desperate. His head falls forward, burying itself back against the soft sanctuary of your chest as his rhythm breaks apart completely. "You feel too good, I can't hold it—”
"It's okay," you breathe out, the words hitching in your throat as his movements turn sharp and erratic. Your hands find his hair again, tangling in the messy curls to hold him against you, grounding him as he starts to unravel. "Spence, let go. It's okay."
The permission seems to break the last dam.
He lets out a sound that is half-groan, half-sob, muffled completely against your skin. His hips snap up one last time, harder than before, and then he’s freezing, his entire body growing taut.
A moment later, he collapses.
The tension in his frame releases all at once, leaving him heavy and pliant against you. He shudders violently, a full-body reaction that feels like it’s rattling his bones, and you feel the pulse of him deep inside as he falls apart. He’s making low, broken sounds against your chest, frantic little noises of relief that taper off into wet, shaky breaths.
For a long time, the only sound in the room is the ragged harmony of your breathing. The air feels thick, charged with the static of what just happened, the smell of sex and warmth hanging between you.
Eventually, his breathing slows, the ragged gasps smoothing out into something deep and rhythmic, but he doesn’t move. If anything, he seems to be actively trying to merge his skeleton with yours.
He keeps his face tucked firmly against your chest, his nose pressing into the soft curve of your breast, his hair a wild halo of sweat-damp curls tickling your skin. Every so often, a small, involuntary shudder ripples through him, an aftershock of the intensity, and he tightens his arms around your waist like he’s afraid you might evaporate.
You can feel the frantic thud of his heart where his chest is pressed to yours—fast, too fast, like a bird trapped in a cage.
You run your fingers through his hair, the damp strands clinging to your fingertips, and scratch gently at his scalp. The simple touch seems to soothe him immediately; you feel the tension drain out of his shoulders, his muscles turning liquid against you. He sighs, a long, contented exhale that ruffles the skin over your heart, and presses a kiss there—lazily, without any of the earlier desperation, just a soft, reverent press of his lips.
"Spence?" you murmur, your voice raspy in the quiet.
"Mhm," he hums, the sound vibrating through your chest. He doesn't lift his head. If anything, he tries to burrow deeper, nuzzling into the softness of your breast like he's found the perfect pillow. "Don't talk yet. I'm rebooting."
You smile, your chest rising and falling with a quiet laugh that he feels instantly. You keep stroking his hair, letting your nails graze lightly against his scalp, feeling the way he leans into the touch like a starved plant leaning toward the sun. He feels heavy in your arms, a solid, warm weight that pins you to the couch in the most grounding way possible.
raw. deep. messy. wet. backwards. against the table. against the wall. against the window, infront of a mirror. on the bed. on the kitchen counter. on the couch. on the floor. in the bath.
Pope accidentaly comes across an audioporn app and becomes obsessed with you, a content creator with a roleplaying series about a young woman and her convict boyfriend. He doesn't believe his luck when he discovers that his favorite audio porn star also happens to be Lena's babysitter.
click here to join the taglist. / click here for my main masterlist.
warnings: age gap (reader is mid 20s, pope is early 40s), reader is afab and goes by she/her, reader is lena's babysitter, forming a creepy parasocial relationship with your favorite porn star, sex work, audioporn, stalker!pope, pwp, mommy issues galore, no use of y/n, takes place before the ending of season 1, no physical description of reader, mentions of pope having a mommy kink (but it doesn't play out on page), obsessive!pope, dubcon (non-consensual voyerism, f &m masturbation, dirty talk, sex toys, unprotected piv, squirting, oral, fingering, size kink, rough sex, improper use of a kitchen counter, hair pulling, eating from the back, cleaning the bowl).
rating: +18.
word count: 4.9k.
fox says: hello friends, thank you so much for reading! y'all have no idea how loud i screamed when i saw that shawn is doing an episode for quinn while having this already drafted. the app mentioned is 100% inspired by quinn, i just don't name it in the fic because quinn itself wasn't created until 2019 and it was going to mess up the timeline. also this is my first time writing for pope so pls go easy on me. as always please let me know what we think!
also available on archiveofourown.
Pope Cody was in prison for 1.114 days. In that time, he read 158.5 books; he finished the last one — The Book Thief, which he started reading on day 1.112 of his sentence — as a free man. He’s already finished with The Book Thief when he learns about audiobooks, after a well placed ad for Audible on a self-help Youtube video he listened to while on a stake out.
It takes him another eight books after that to discover audioporn. He comes across the app by accident, and it takes him about seven minutes into the first audio he chose — puppyplay, though he didn’t know what that meant just yet — to realize he’s listening to a porn story.
Pope sticks with it. The stories he listens to don’t do much for his dormant dick, but it’s nice. He likes listening to women whispering about how good of a boy he is, the dirty little things they want to do to him and the things they want him to do to them— A fantasy, something for him to get lost into during the nights he couldn’t fall asleep; a habit acquired in prison, the sort of ongoing vigilance that he couldn’t grow out of even though he now lives a somewhat safe life.
And then he finds you. Your account is called Mommy Dearest, which is why he clicked on it at first, but the one audio that sticks with him has nothing to do with mommy kink: It’s a phone call, about fifteen minutes long, that starts with you rambling about your day and ends with you wailing through an orgasm with a loud vibrator between your legs. You edge yourself for a long portion of it, talking about how much you miss his cock and his fingers and his tongue; and then, close to the end of the call, you say you miss him. You talk about how you miss him and how prison isn’t going to keep him from you, and you giggle and say that, on another phone call, you’ll tell him every single perverted thing you’ll do to him when he’s out.
Logically, Pope knows it’s not real. You’re not talking to him, it’s just a character that you recorded, edited and then posted on a porn app for pathetic men like him but it lands so heavy on his chest he doesn’t even notice he’s hard for the first time in over three years.
You have a whole series on your ‘convict boyfriend’ — which you name Folsom Prison Blues after the Johnny Cash song and Lord help him if that doesn’t do something for him. — and the phone calls and letters and conjugal visits. You sigh and you moan and you describe in full detail what toy you’re using to get yourself off and, when Pope scrolls through the comment section, he gets so angry at all the men that get to listen to you too that he loses his erection.
But he doesn’t stop listening. Pope feels some sort of odd loyalty to you and your breathy little sighs, his heart clenching whenever you whine about missing him, and he whispers into the air vows of finding you, of walking through the doors of your home and taking you in his arms and making sure you’re always full of his cock. He comes over and over again at the thought of you, bent over his couch and his kitchen counters and in his shower— He doesn’t really know what your body looks like, your profile photo is a headshot of you with a sultry smile and bright pink hair he’s fairly certain is a wig, but he thinks he can figure it out; it doesn’t really matter how big or small your tits are, because Pope dreams of falling asleep suckling on them anyway, your fingers tugging on his hair and your legs wrapped around his waist as you say you’ve waited for him, that you love him and that he’s the only man that gets to see you like that.
Pope’s not certain at which point he stops thinking of Cath. It happens naturally, either gradually or all at once, and he only notices when he walks into Smurf’s home one evening and Cath is on the couch, her head on Baz’s shoulder, dozing off after what he presumes is a whole day out by the pool. It used to hurt him deeply to see her like that, cuddled up to a man that Pope knows isn’t good enough for her, but this time he… Feels nothing. Not pain, or annoyance, or jealousy. The only thing he can think about is how he wishes he could have that with you; an afternoon together, laying on the couch, watching a nature documentary— You’d interrupt it every five minutes or so to talk about something else, maybe your shift at your day job or the little shiny trinkets you buy with his money. He knows you’d ask about him, too. About his day and his feelings and whether or not he ate; you’d ask and you’d mean it, you’d want to hear everything he has to say unlike Smurf, who asks but never pays attention, never really listens when Pope speaks.
He’s so lost in his daydreaming that, when he finally hears your laughter, he doesn’t think it’s real. Pope’s eyes fly beyond Baz and Cath cuddling on the couch to find you sitting criss-cross applesauce on the floor by the pool, a collection of Barbie dolls spread between you and Lena. You’re in short overalls and a brown and orange striped shirt, your natural hair — not pink, so Pope had been right about the wig — pinned away from your face. A gorgeous, heaven-sent angel that laughs exactly like the girl from the app.
“Who’s that?” He asks, unable to stop himself. His fingers itch to trace the curve of your neck, to spread his fingers over your collarbone.
“Lena’s new sitter.” Baz answers. Pope makes a noise in the back of his throat, trying very hard to pretend that it doesn’t matter but his brother sees right through it. He squints at Pope. “Don’t even fucking think about it.”
“I’m not Craig.” He says, but they both know you’re not Craig’s type— Too innocent-looking, verging on the side of boring and not the sort of girl that Craig would look twice at. But Pope would, and he does; he finds a seat in a position where he can watch you from afar while still pretending to pay attention to the TV. You play with Lena until the girl is ready to pass out from exhaustion, and then you bring her inside and settle her on the couch before you finally introduce yourself to him, a sweet smile on your lips as you extend your hand to him.
If your laughter had been enough to remind him of the girl from the app, the way you say your name cements it to be true. It’s you, the pink-haired girl with the convict boyfriend and an extensive collection of sex toys.
Pope doesn’t like shaking hands — too many germs, the contact always making his skin prickly — but he takes your hand in his anyway, squeezing it once before he lets go. He wants to keep holding it, feeling your soft skin his against his roughened one, to put your fingers in his mouth and suck on them until you’re begging for him; you don’t seem to notice the way he lingers, you just accept the cash from Baz with a small nod and wave your fingers at them as you leave.
“I mean it, Pope. Don’t be a creep with the girl.” Baz growls at him later that night, after Cath has already tucked Lena in the backseat of the car and they’re about to go home. “She keeps Lena so busy I get to actually fuck my wife on the regular again. If you fuck this up for me I’ll kill you.”
Pope doesn’t like the way Baz talks about Cath, never has— Like she’s just something for him to get off to, like he needs to rub it in Pope’s face that he’s the one that gets to sleep by her side every night. This time he doesn’t really care, because all he can think about is you.
He doesn’t mean to follow you. He just wants to make sure you get home safe at first, because Baz and Cath make you leave the house later and later each time. And then, when he finds out you’ve been taking pottery lessons twice at week at eight pm, he follows you there because he also wants to make sure nothing will happen— He thinks it’s quite late for a lesson, but you’re always happy when you leave, your face a little flushed from the red wine he sees you drinking from the window.
Pope learns your schedule quite quickly, and he knows he’ll need to have a conversation with you about that. Keeping such a tight routine is easy for someone to hurt you, even if Pope himself understands the appeal of consistency— It’s all he’s had in prison, after all, and it was quite a comforting change from the violent chaos that is living underneath Smurf’s iron fist. It’s easy for him to come up with excuses to hang around Baz’s house whenever you’re there, and even easier whenever you’re at Smurf’s.
Although he follows you home almost every night, Pope has never gotten too close. He’s afraid you’ll see him so he stands back, sits in his car for a couple of hours until your lights go out but tonight is different. You have a date. He follows the two of you to the twenty-four hours diner the guy takes you to, and he watches through the window as you almost fall asleep at the table; he can’t hear the conversation but it’s clear that you’re bored, barely responding to the man even though Pope knows you talk a lot when you’re happy. You’re also not a girl to take to a diner of all places and Pope wants to beat the guy black and blue for putting so little effort into dating you, even if he’s glad his competitor is tanking the date— It means he can whisk you away, dazzle you by showing what being truly courted is like.
You swerve the guy when he tries to kiss you at your front door. Pope is out of his car by then, hiding in the shadows across the street just to make sure the man will leave you alone; he does, even though he speeds off with screeching tires when you deny his kiss for the third time. Pope tells himself that he is only checking in on you, that you’re taking way too long to shut out the lights and maybe something is wrong, as he climbs through the fire escape to your floor— He knows exactly where your apartment is, has watched you open and close your blinds plenty of times before.
He stares through your window carefully, making sure to stay out of sight, and his mouth goes dry when he sees you sprawled on your bed, fully naked. You have one hand between your thighs, your legs spread apart as far as they can go, but Pope can barely pay attention to it— He’s looking at the dildo you’re holding with the other hand; it’s thick, long, and bright pink. Bigger than Pope’s own cock, the sort of big that he doesn’t think it’ll fit inside of you. And you’re licking it. Long, deliberate strokes of your tongue before you spit on the head, watching as it drips down the silicone shaft; you don’t take it into your mouth, not really, but you lick and spit until the thing is dripping before you collect your own slick to rub on it— You’re using your own juices and spit to lubricate it, and Pope feels like he might come in his pants at the thought of you doing the same to him.
You don’t take the toy all the way. You push it inside of you slowly, carefully, one hand rubbing furiously at your clit while the other pushes the pink silicone inside; you stop for a moment, chest heaving but the large smile on your face tells him everything he needs to know— You’re edging yourself, stopping to come down from your high before you go back to fucking yourself on the monster cock between your legs.
Pope’s not even aware of the moment he pulls his cock from the confines of his jeans, spitting on his hand and tugging furiously, his eyes glued to the way you fuck yourself hard and fast— It’s a little clumsy, the angle not quite right, but you’re wailing, shivering and shaking as you shove the toy inside of you as far you can; Pope pictures himself climbing through your window, taking the toy from your hands and fucking you properly with it. He thinks you might let him fuck your ass while the dildo is still inside of you, filling you with flesh and silicone until you’re crying from how full you are, how ruined your pussy and your asshole are.
He comes first, fisting his cock with one hand and stifling his moans with the other, his eyes still glued to you. You shift positions, desperation all over your face as you bring yourself to your knees, sitting on the dildo instead; you ride it hard, bouncing on the toy and in this position Pope can see the way the entire thing disappears inside of you, the fake balls grinding against your clit when you lean forward, your hips rutting with abandon. You come while meaning loud enough that Pope thinks the neighbors might complain, your tits jiggling hard as you push yourself up and down, riding the toy all the way through your orgasm until you topple sideways, exhausted.
Pope stays until you fall asleep, the toy forgotten by your side, your naked body sprawled over the bed. And then he stays a little longer, watching you sleep, his denim and hands still stained with his cum.
Pope thinks you’re getting used to his hovering presence the evening he corners you in the kitchen. You’re always incredibly kind to him, talking a lot when it’s just the two of you even though he hardly ever engages in the conversation apart from giving you his undivided attention; he thinks you might like him, even, your smile always brightening up when it’s geared towards him.
Lena is in bed by then, Cath and Baz gone on a date— Which means Pope has no excuse to stick around after they leave but you don’t seem to mind, swiping up the counter where Lena spilled half of her spaghetti, humming underneath your breath. He’s not sure how to bring it up, how to tell you that he’s been listening and dreaming about you long before you showed up so instead he simply pulls out his phone, opens your profile and slides his phone across the counter.
You stare at it like it’s something rotten, your hands frozen on the marble counter. “Pope—”
“It’s you, isn’t it?” The question is just a formality, a need for you to admit that he isn’t crazy.
“Please don’t tell Barry.” You beg so prettily, your eyes going wide when Pope rounds the counter. “I really need this job.”
“I listened to the entire series.” He mumbles, his hand coming up to brush your cheekbone. Your skin is soft, glittering with sparkling make up and it looks so, so pretty beneath his blood-stained hands. You shiver at the contact, eyes fluttering close before you take a deep breath. “The Folsom Prison one.”
“D’you…” You lick your lips, and Pope needs to use every ounce of whatever little control he possesses to keep himself from kissing you. “Did you like it?”
“I spent three years at Folsom.” He tells you, ignoring your question— He thinks it’s obvious, with the way his fingers drip down to run over the column of your throat. “Would’ve been a lot easier if I knew I had such a pretty young thing waiting for me at home.”
He can see the moment the idea pops into your head; Pope likes to think he can read people pretty well, and he sees the way your eyes fly from his face down to his crotch, his half-hard cock straining through his jeans. He hasn’t gotten hard this easily since he was a teenager, but your smell alone is enough to drive him crazy, let alone the way you blink owlishly at him, your nimble fingers coming up to brush at his belt buckle.
“Promise me you won’t tell Barry.” You lick your upper lip and Pope doesn’t think you even realize you’re doing it, his mouth going dry at the pink that pokes through your teeth. “I’ll give you what you want, but promise me he won’t find out.”
Pope nods, not trusting himself to speak, and you sink to your knees. He’s terrified that he might lose his erection but his nerves turn into blazing desire when you wrap your hands around his cock, pumping him slowly and brushing your thumb against his slit— It feels so much better than his own hands that his knees nearly buckle, Pope gripping the counter as you look up at him, a soft smile on your lips. You take him slowly into your mouth, tongue circling around the head of his cock before tracing the vein on the underside, your eyes never leaving his face. Your mouth is warm and flooding when you finally take him into it, the flat of your tongue pressing against his shaft, one hand on his thigh for balance while the other grips the base of his cock; your rhythm is slow, teasing, and Pope digs his fingernails into the marble to stop himself from grabbing you by the hair— He likes you, perhaps too much, and he doesn’t want to scare you. Maybe you’d let him fuck your face one day, but this time he wants to do this your way.
You take him as far as you can, your nose pressing against his pubic bone and Pope’s eyes roll to the back of his head when your throat tightens around the sensitive head of his cock, a whimper escaping his lips that he tries to stifle with gritted teeth. He’s going to come just from that, tears pooling at the corner of your eyes as you pick up the pace, the wet sounds of your slurping and gagging whenever you swallow too much of him bringing him that familiar tightening at his navel.
Pope grips your hair at last, pulling you away with perhaps a little too much force.
“Get up.” He says, half an order and half a plea. You stare at him through wet eyelashes, still gripping the base of his cock for a long moment before you comply— Pope is about ready to yank you up himself, but you stand on wobbly knees before he turns you around, pressing your front against the counter.
The positions change, with now Pope kneeling behind you while you bend over the counter; you’re in a yellow dress, modest enough that you could run around after Lena all day without showing too much— Modest enough that it would never have anyone thinking you’re the kind of girl to fuck yourself with a silicone cock while saying the dirtiest, nastiest things on a microphone but Pope knows better. He feels like he’s the only person in the entire world that truly knows you, and his hands shake in anticipation when he shoves your dress up to your hips. You hold it in place, taking a deep breath and pushing your ass out even more.
You’re drenched, the gusset of your cotton underwear a shade darker than the rest, your juices starting to run down your thighs. He cusses under his breath, pushing his nose against your core and taking a deep breath. You gasp, surprised, but you still push your ass against his face. Pope leans back just enough to watch as he pulls your underwear down, mouth salivating as the gusset sticks to your cunt, stringy slick connecting the cloth to your skin before he’s letting it slide down your legs.
“All this just from sucking me off?” Pope doesn’t mean to tease, the words more wondrous than anything else. Your entire body shivers when his breath hits your pussy, making you whine. Pope takes pity on you, using his hands to spread you open before his tongue runs across your cunt.
You taste even better than he thought you would. The two of you moan in unison, your hand flying backwards to grip his hair, pushing him against you until he’s struggling to breathe but he doesn’t care— Pope would let you use his tongue and his fingers and his cock however it pleases you, his cock throbbing at the fact that he’s the one bringing you pleasure. He suckles on your clit, nose bumping against your entrance and you keen before you bring a hand to your mouth, trying to keep quiet. He pulls back just a little, watching entranced as you clench around nothing.
“Talk to me.” He asks. “Like you do in your stories.”
“I need your fingers.” You say, voice a little breathy, the pitch just a little higher. It’s the voice you use in the app, still yours, still recognizable, but still different. “Please, Popey, I need it. Been thinking about them for so long, how thick and capable they are—”
The nickname does something to him and Pope whimpers against your cunt, pushing two of his fingers inside of you at once. It’s a snug fit and he can only think about how your pussy is going to strangle his cock, how he’ll stretch you open and leave you leaking with his cum. He moves his fingers slowly but purposefully, crooking them until you’re almost yelling, a string of yesses and his name falling from your mouth like a prayer.
The noises you make as you come might be the prettiest Pope has ever heard, your already tight cunt clenching hard around his fingers, your slick dripping down his wrists as he suckles on your clit until it’s twitching, your hips spasming against him; you slump against the cold granite, whimpering softly when he pulls his fingers out of you but Pope’s not nearly close to being done— He hasn’t been this hard in years, the tip of his cock painfully red and leaking, and there’s nothing that can make him feel better than the moment he sheaths himself inside of you with one deep thrust. It’s a tight fit, perhaps a little too tight, your pulsing cunt tightening so hard around him that Pope thinks you might push him out.
“Fuck, you’re big.” You whine, more pain than pleasure— Maybe he should’ve prepped you a little better, and Pope makes a note to do so next time.
He starts rutting slowly against you, only pulling out a little bit before he pushes back in, his hands gripping your hips. Pope watches where he disappears inside of you, entranced by the stretch of your pussy around him, his cock coming out shiny with your wetness.
“ ‘M so full” You moan, your voice back to the breathy one you use when putting on a show. “You’re everywhere. Biggest cock I’ve ever had.”
His hand tangles on your hair, pulling you back harshly so your back smacks against his chest and you moan. “Don’t fucking lie to me.” Pope growls against your ear, the hand not on your hair digging into the plush of your ass hard enough to bruise. “I saw that toy of yours. Such a naughty little slut, stretching yourself open with a big plastic cock, creaming all over it.”
Your head whips back at him, eyes wide. “What do you mean you saw it?”
As much as he wants to hear your pretty voice singing for him, Pope doesn’t want to talk about it; he doesn’t think you can understand it just yet, how good he would be for you, how well he can treat you.
“Shut up.” He says, picking up the pace of his thrusts; you squirm a little, mouth open in a way that he knows means another question is coming so he slams his hand over your mouth, holding your jaw tightly closed as he pulls your head back against his shoulder. “Just— Shut up.”
He sets an almost brutal pace, his cock pushing in and out of your cunt with indecent squelching sounds and he can see the exact moment that the hand you wrap around his forearm stops trying to pull it away and holds tightly to him, your moans muffled behind his hand.
“Are you going to be good to me?” Pope mumbles against your ear, lips twisting into a small smile when you immediately nod. He lets go of your mouth, then, pushing you back against the counter— He would love to see your face when you come for him, but the sight of the creamy ring you leave around his cock is too enticing to look away, your pretty little asshole clenching whenever he hits the right spot inside of you.
You’re moaning now, hips pushing back against his, your mouth hanging open as you rest your head against the counter. Pope spits, the glob of saliva hitting just half an inch away from your hole and he rubs his thumb against it, pushing just the first knuckle inside of your ass; you’re even tighter there than your cunt and Pope moans, his cock pushing so hard and fast against you that you jostle, your head hitting the marble counter with a loud thud; there’s a small pool of drool next to your mouth, your lips still parted, your moans being punched out of you with every snap of his hips.
“Cum for me.” He all but begs, his voice shaky. “Please, please, cum for me.”
Your body shakes as you come, your wetness splashing against his cock, dripping down his balls and onto his jeans and Pope can’t stop himself. He comes with a loud whimper, both his finger and his cock pushing deeper inside of you. Pope drapes himself over you, his forehead dripping sweat into the tiny pool of drool you left behind and you raise a hand, fingers raking through his hair as the two of you catch your breath.
“Clean me up.” You say. “I can’t go home dripping your cum.”
Pope nods, even though you can’t see his face, and he needs to wait until he stops shivering before he pulls out; he tucks himself and then looks around, trying to find the paper towels.
“No.” You say, looking at him over your shoulder, still bent. “With your mouth, Pope.”
He’s on his needs before you can ask for it twice, lapping at your cunt, licking his own come from inside of you. Your clit twitches when he tongues at it, making sure every single part of you is clean— It takes longer than he thought it might, his cum leaking and leaking and leaking but he does as you tell him to until you’re shaking, his face smeared with a mixture of your wetness and his, fingers digging into your thighs to keep them spread when you try to close them, overstimulated— You come again like that, so lost in pleasure that you’re completely silent, squirting all over his lower face.
And Pope, because he’s nothing if not great at following orders, swallow every single drop. He keeps licking and sucking until your entire body spasms and you pull him away by his hair. You yank hard enough to hurt, your fingernails digging into his scalp but all Pope feels is pleasure.
“Now,” You say, smoothing down your dress and leaning back onto the counter. He can see you’re trying to hold some composure but you’re sweating, your lips bitten raw and hair plastered all over your forehead. He notices how badly you’re shaking when you try to push the hair away from your face and Pope interjects, pushing the hair out of your eyes for you. “Now you’re going to tell me exactly what and how you saw anything.”
And he does. The two of you sit down on the kitchen floor, facing each other, and Pope tells you word for word of the night he saw you masturbating on your bed, the way he perched himself outside of your window and touched himself to the image of you. You don’t say anything, silent even when he begs you to say something, sitting on the ground until Baz and Cath come home; you bid them goodnight with an innocent smile as if you hadn’t just squirted all over their kitchen and leave without sparing Pope another glance.
Three days later, Pope gets a notification that you’ve posted a new audio; it’s not an update on the Folsom Prison Blues series but an entirely new one:
Late Night Cravings. It’s the tale of a young nanny that fucks her stalker in the kitchen of her workplace and, in the comments, you promise to soon share another episode.
interest check tag: @mytearsricochetm @that-antler-queen @pearlessance @honey-moon-13 @headcaase @crossfandomslut @slugarchives (i'm not tagging my general list since this isn't a ppcu fic so i just tagged the peeps that showed interest in me writing for pope! no pressure in reading it though 🤍)
pairings — rafe cameron x fem!reader, topper thornton x fem!reader
summary — rafe cameron has never wanted something he couldn’t take. it’s not his fault topper’s girlfriend turns out to be one thing he can’t stop thinking about.
warnings — 18.8k words. MINORS DNI! multiple graphic scenes (fingering, f receiving oral, unprotected piv, semi-public intimacy with risk of getting caught, praise/reassurance, light choking, biting, leaving marks) overall super messy morals / morally questionable behavior, cheating/infidelity with best friend’s girlfriend, boyfriend’s best friend (emotional & physical), betrayal of a close friend, rafe’s obsessive, guilt around sex, fixation and possessive thoughts, recreational drug use (weed and coke), discussions of break up, rafe’s ooc and is sometimes a little sweeter than expected, toxic relationship dynamics (between reader & rafe as well as topper & reader)
author’s note — this one’s longgggg and also they’re not the best people in it. like at All. and also honestly excuse the horrible smut i’m really bad at it . as always hearing ur thoughts is the most rewarding part !!
Rafe wasn’t even sure how he and Topper had become friends. He was sure he would have been able to recount the memory had you not tainted all the memories he had of his supposed best friend.
Still, it was the kind of origination that didn’t survive examination, the way most things on Figure Eight didn’t. Their fathers golfed. Rose and his mother sat on the same two committees and disliked each other without friction, a thing they would never admit out loud. Rafe and Topper had been put in the same rooms before either of them could form opinions about it, the way you put two dogs in a yard and assume they’d work it out. And they had, mostly because Topper was incapable of holding a grudge and Rafe was incapable of holding much else. By the time it mattered—by the time friendship became a facet of your life you chose rather than a thing your zip code did for you—the choosing was already done, sunk so far back that pulling it up would’ve taken more honesty than Rafe had ever cared for.
He’d told the story before. There was a version he liked to wheel out when he was coked up, the sandbox-or-whatever version that made people laugh. It had Topper crying over a kite at six, or maybe it was Rafe crying over a kite. And that was the short joke of it, and neither of them could keep it straight and it didn’t matter, because the point was they were the kind of friends whose beginnings had dissolved into pure fact. ‘We’ve just always known each other.’ People liked hearing that. It sounded like belonging. It sounded like the thing Rafe had been failing to convince his own father he was capable of since approximately birth. It sounded like there was a reason for their friendship despite their family’s tax brackets.
The problem was that he couldn’t get to the kite anymore without going through you.
That simple fact made him want to put his fist through a wall. He’d try to land on a clean memory; Topper at twelve, sunburned and furious, reduced to tears, because Rafe had out-fished him at the dock. It was something Rafe thought he’d hold over Topper for the rest of his life and then, characteristically, never used. The memory of it would start fine and then it would bend, routing itself towards you. Topper at twelve became Topper at eighteen describing his future with you in it, because Topper’s hand on your knee in over-furnished basements, became the simple pride in Topper’s voice when he talked about you like you cured cancer. Every road into Topper now had you standing somewhere on it, and Rafe couldn’t reach past you to the kid he’d genuinely considered a friend back when he cared about something like having a best friend. You’d colonized the whole territory without trying.
He resented you for it the way he resented the good food at the Thorntons’ table, the unfairness of being made to want a thing and then made to feel like garbage for the wanting.
Topper was good. Yeah, he was good-family, good-school, good-on paper. But Rafe found that Topper was good in the way that should have made him insufferable. Topper had decided, somewhere back before either of them remembered, that Rafe was worth keeping, and then he had simply never revisited the decision. He didn't keep a tally. He'd watched Rafe show up fucked up to a hundred things, watched him pick fights with golf clubs and bigger men, watched him be cold and mean and impossible, and Topper had kept clapping him on the shoulder like his father did, kept being there that it had taken Rafe to realize this was rare.
And Rafe was going to take you from him anyway. Had already started. Was, in the part of his head he didn’t visit in daylight, fully planning to. That was the whole obscene buildup of it, that the one person who’d never once made Rafe earn his place was the person Rafe was robbing. He wasn’t even doing it out of hatred, which would have at least been clean. He was doing it because of a hundred small things he'd had no business collecting and had collected anyway. How you laughed half-a-second late at jokes, always, because you were checking the room first to see if it was safe to, and how that half-a-second was the only honest thing when the laugh actually came. The way you ate the crust off of people’s plates, Topper’s, Ruthie’s, like the food tasted better when it wasn't yours and nobody was watching you want it.
None of it was Topper’s fault. Topper’s only crime was being there for two years and never noticing the half second, never wondering what you were checking for, just hearing the laugh and taking it at face value the way he took everything, gratefully, completely, without the suspicion that there was a whole second self standing behind it.
There was a thought Rafe had, late, that if it had been the other way around, if Rafe had gotten to you first, Topper would not have done this. He wouldn’t have wanted to. It was far from the idea that Topper was weak or because Topper didn’t have it in him to want a thing; it was because Topper was built somewhat right. Topper had been loved correctly and consistently and on time, and so Topper had turned out to be someone who could be trusted around the things other people loved. Rafe had been loved the way Ward did everything, which was to say conditionally, expensively, and from a distance, and so Rafe had turned out to be the kind of person who, handed something good that belonged to a friend, could not keep his hands off it.
He’d been on the boat for nineteen minutes and he was being so good it was fucking annoying. This was day eleven. He had a streak going. Day eleven of not texting you, not driving past the library on Tuesdays, not allowing his brain to build a small detailed house for the two of you and then moving you both into it. Eleven days, for Rafe’s standards, was basically monastic. He’d told himself after he’d dropped you off at your house—after you made that sickly-sweet confession then passed the fuck out, sparing you the indignity of remebering you’d said it. That two weeks was the number. If he could do two weeks, the wanting would sand down to a manageable size, the same way a callus made a thing stop hurting by making the skin too thick to feel it.
He didn’t actually believe this. He had never once in his life successfully made himself want something less. But he wanted a number, and two weeks was a number, and he was eleven days into it and the boat smelled like sunscreen and diesel.
He took a hit off the bong because it was there, and clearly Topper’s parents hadn’t been on the boat because it wouldn’t have been there if they had. He found the stash of weed in the same place Topper always kept it, inside the couch. He’d been making good use out of Topper’s things given Topper was late.
Topper was always late. It was one of the few genuinely annoying things about him, and Rafe had a theory that Topper thought the thing wouldn’t start without him at some point in his life, and decided he never had to make himself hurry. Ward did it too. Rafe, who had spent his whole life arriving places early and then sitting in his truck so nobody would see him be early, found it unbearable in a way he never said out loud.
He was being good. He was being so good. And your foot landed on the gangway and the boat took your weight, and Rafe felt the small dip and correct of it through the hull. He knew it was you before he turned to see who it was. He’d gotten like that. It was nothing to have been proud of.
You came down the cockpit and didn’t see him at first, which meant he got a second of you before you did of him. Rafe took the second, because Rafe took every second of you he was handed and a number he wasn't.
You looked like hell. Not actual hell, you’d have to work much harder than you’d ever worked in your life to look actually bad, and Rafe resented this about you in a low background way, the unfairness of it. But you did look like you’d been crying somewhere with the door closed, and had then done the small expert repairs and come out, and Rafe knew that particular finish on a person because it was the finish he saw in his own mirror. The eyes slightly too clean. The mouth set in a straight line. Yo’'d put something pink on the mouth on the way over. He noticed that.
Then you saw him and your face moved slightly, like you were recalibrating and deciding which version of yourself this required.
“Someone looks happy,” Rafe said.
It came out lightly, a little meanly, and exactly how he’d intended for it to. He was good at this. It was, if he was honest, the only thing he was good at; saying a thing that closed a door so quietly the other person wasn’t sure a door had been there. He'd been doing it to you for two years. He'd done it to you because the alternative was doing the other thing, and the other thing could not be undone, and so he had picked, every single time, the small mean sentence over the catastrophe.
You didn’t rise to it. You didn’t do much of anything, in fact.
“He’s not here yet?” you asked, and your voice sounded so even Rafe wanted to tear the edges off of it.
“Nah. Late,” Rafe said, letting it sit. “Shocking. I know.”
“Right.” A small laugh, the half-second one, except there was no room to check and so it came out hollow, on cue. The type of shit you’d give another guy for describing an unfunny encounter.
And that should've been it. The two of you should’ve stayed exactly where you were, not looking at each other, until the rest of the people showed up to act as witnesses. He could do that.
But you stood at the bottom of the cockpit steps with your bag still on your shoulder and looked around the room.
“Did they ever fix the—” You tipped your chin at the cleat. “Topper said his dad was going to have someone look at it.”
Rafe raised a brow. You were talking to him like he’d heard you talked to everyone else, a good fucking voice that asked absolutely nothing and gave absolutely nothing. And you were using it on him, as if asking shit like this to him was normal. Something in his chest did a small ugly turn, and he heard himself before he’d decided to talk.
“You don't have to do that,” Rafe said.
You blinked. "Do what?"
“That.” He tipped the bong toward you, at the bag, the mouth, the cleat. “That voice. The—” He almost got to the end of it, but the end was a cliff, so he took a hit instead and let the smoke buy him the half second you were so good at stealing. “I don’t give a shit about the cleat. Neither do you.”
He sounded more annoyed than he’d meant, and it was real but not about you; mainly about the fact that you’d decided you were going to pretend nothing happened, even though that was exactly what he needed from you. Still, getting it felt like being handed a glass of water and told it was the fucking ocean.
You stayed silent. The water did its small work against the hull. Somewhere across the marina a halyard was tapping against a mast, that thin patient sound that Rafe normally didn't hear and now could hear individually, every strike of it, because the boat had gone that quiet. He looked at the bong. He looked at the cooler nobody had opened. He was aware of you not moving.
You moved then, setting your bag down onto the cushion of the bench seat and you crossed the cockpit. Three steps. Four. Past the table, past Rafe, close enough that he got a wash of you, the floral scent, clean and expensive and so aggressively innocent it had always made him want to break something just to have something to apologize for.
Behind the couch he was sitting on was a door. The head, the boat’s bathroom, a closet of a room, teak and a mirror and not quite the square footage to turn around in. You put your hand flat on it and opened it.
And Rafe didn't understand. He watched you open the door to the head and his brain, his stupid traitor brain that had a whole drawer with your name on it, did not produce the thought it should have produced. It produced something sadder. It thought that he’d made you isolate yourself from him until everyone arrived. And now you were going to go stand in front of Topper's mirror and come back out with the distance reinstalled, and it would be his fault, and he'd earned it.
He even opened his mouth to say something. Sorry, maybe. He wasn't sure. He hadn't gotten there.
You were standing in the doorway of the head with one hand still on the frame, and you weren't going in, and you weren't fixing anything, and you turned your head and you looked back at him across the small bright cabin.
“Rafe,” you said.
He was up off the couch before he'd finished understanding. The bong went onto the table too hard, making the water move in it. Two years of holding still, of the mean sentences, of the moat he'd dug with his own two hands, and it turned out the whole mechanism had been resting on you never once asking him not to hold still, and you hadn't asked him anything, you'd just said his name and left a door open, and the mechanism was already on the floor behind him.
He crossed the cabin in three steps and he did not let himself count them.
You stood in the doorway, the head behind you flooded with the harsh, blue-white of the marine bulb, and you looked at him like you’d always known he’d follow.
He stopped close, and the head was small enough that close was the only thing available, and Rafe found that he had no words ready. That was new. He always had words ready. He'd built a whole personality out of having the word ready. But the apparatus that supplied the words was on the cabin floor with everything else, and so he just stood there in the blue-white light, breathing, looking at you looking at him, and said nothing at all.
Your hands came up. Rafe’s eyes were fixed on them as they reached up, shy and sudden, to the sides of his face, just to hold. You were just holding, palms careful against his jaw like he was someone who deserved to be held carefully at all.
His whole body leaned down to it before his brain had been consulted. His head just went where your hands asked it to go, the way water went downhill, the way Topper was late; some law older than choosing.
“Can I—” you started, then the sentence went out of track.
You just stopped, and the third word wouldn’t come. Because the third one was a want, and you were someone who Rafe knew had spent years not saying those out loud, and Rafe watched the question strand there an inch from his mouth, watched you not be able to finish it, and understood that finishing it was a thing you could not do and were never going to be able to do.
So he did it for you. That was the deal, apparently, the complete contract of whatever this was. You couldn’t say the thing and he’d say it; you couldn’t finish and he’d finish. He'd be doing it for the rest of his life and he already knew that, standing there.
“Yeah,” Rafe said against the space where your sentence had been, throwing eleven days outside the window completely. “You can.”
You reached past him instead, one hand leaving his face, and you pushed the door shut behind him. It made a small sound of a click, and it landed in Rafe like a gunshot, because you'd done it. He hadn't reached back and done it for you. You'd closed the door yourself, with your own hand, taken the last out off the table and folded it up and put it away, and Rafe stood in the new confines of the room understanding that he had just watched you say yes in the only language you had.
And then you kissed him. It was careful at first—both of you were, for about a second and a half, careful—and then your fingers slid back into his hair and you breathed yourself through a small, relieved sound.
It was barely a sound at all, but it was a sound you had not chosen to make, Rafe could tell the difference, he’d spent two years watching you choose every sound and every breath and every tilt of your head, and this one had just slipped out of you. He’d spent the last few times he was in your proximity getting a closer read on you. And this was just involuntary proof, that this was happening to you as much as he was making it happen, that you were in here with him rather than being there for him.
He’d run the tape on this so many times it embarrassed him, and in every version you were careful. Soft, a thing he had to coax and gentle and be slow with.
So when your hand came up and fisted the front of his shirt and pulled—like you’d been the one standing on the wrong side of a door for two years—Rafe's entire model of you went out the porthole, and the loss of it was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
“Okay,” he said to nobody, to the new discovery of you. “Okay.”
Rafe's control didn't snap so much as it discovered it had never really been there. You kissed him, and he’d been expecting to be the one to do it to you, Rafe the corrupting agent, Rafe with the dirty hands. He didn’t know this one. It felt like being handed a part of you that he couldn’t have witnessed from across rooms, and it turned out to be this—appetite, slow, a little mean—and he wanted it so badly it scared him sober.
His fingers went to your hair, fingers closing at the root and pulling your head back just enough to change the angle, and his other arm came around your back to haul you in past there was room to be hauled. The size of the room was nothing and he wanted you closer than nothing.
Your chest pressed flat to his and he could feel you breathing through the cotton of your top, could feel the ridge of your bra and the heat of your skin underneath it. His arm tightened across your back.
Somewhere in it, he heard himself say “fuck—you—” against your mouth and didn't get the rest of it out. The rest of it was two years long anyway and wouldn't have fit in the room.
“Rafe,” you said, voice breath-shaped against his jaw, the vibration of it traveling down his neck and settling somewhere at the base of his spine.
“Mhm.”
“I—” You let his teeth catch onto your bottom lip and gently tug on it. You rose to your toes. “I haven’t been able to—stop—”
“Hm?” He was already gone. His hands found the hem of your denim skirt. His fingers traced the seam where the fabric ended, running along the edge of it, before his palms slid underneath and made contact with bare skin. His palms caught against skin still slick from the humidity, and the give of you under his hands briefly wiped every coherent thought from his head. “Stop what?”
“Being able to think—about you.” Your words came out in two short breaths as Rafe’s fingers palmed the curve of your ass with more greed than finesse, pulling your hips forward into his.
“Shit—yeah?” His voice had gone somewhere low and ruined. A stupid part of him wanted to ask why, hear you say it again, spell it out, tell him exactly what you thought about. “Me too.”
The same broken noise slipped out of you again, urgently, like the next one and all of the ones after that were owed to him.
He walked you backward until the bulkhead caught you. You hit the teak with a dull sound and your spine arched off it, pressing your hips into his. Rafe’s vision briefly went white because the pressure of you against him—specifically where he was already hard and had been since you closed the door—was a feeling his body processed before his brain got anywhere near it.
He kept one hand flat behind your shoulder blade so the boat's roll wouldn't knock your skull into the wood. Some backroom part of him was still telling him to make sure you didn’t get hurt.
His hand found the hem of your skirt again and pushed it up slowly, gathering the denim in his fist, and the scrape of the fabric against your skin was loud in the small room.
You shifted your hips off the teak to help him—lifted without being asked—and Rafe had to stop.
He put his forehead against your shoulder and breathed, because your unconscious cooperation did more to him than everything before it combined. He'd imagined it, and in every version you were hesitant, uncertain, something he had to ease into, and the reality was that you'd just lifted your hips for him like you wanted this as much as he did.
“D’you—” His voice was gone. He couldn’t recognize it. “Tell me to.”
“Rafe.”
“Say it.” He turned his mouth against your neck, found your pulse point, and it felt it hammering against his lips. He tasted the salt on your skin. His hand was on your thigh, fingers spread wide, thumb pressing to the soft inside of it where the skin was the thinnest, and he could feel the muscle twitching under his touch. “Say it?”
You let out a breath into his ear, body loosening up under his hold. “Please.”
“Jesus fuck,” Rafe muttered, and it came out wrecked, halfway to a laugh, because you kept finding things he had no defense for without even trying.
He pushed the lace aside with two fingers, careful at first because the carefulness was a reflex even now, and then he felt you—your warmth and the give and the fact of it—and the careful went the way of everything else. Warmer than he’d imagined, softer, wetter. His fingers slid against you experimentally, testing his touch out, afraid you’d vanish if he made the wrong move.
Your eyes squeezed shut and your thigh clenched against his hip.
Everything was replaced by the single present-tense reality of his hand between your legs, and the reality was so much more than the fantasy that he understood, suddenly and completely, that he wasn’t going to recover from knowing this.
He pressed his forehead to the side of your head and shut his eyes. Looking at you was too much information all at once; he needed to subtract a sense or he was going to embarrass himself.
He bit down the inside of his cheek, hard, on principle, because the sound that wanted to come out at just this—just his fingers against you, nothing more, the most preliminary fact of you—was a sound that would have told you everything.
It would have laid the whole two years out on the floor, and Rafe was ready to give you a great deal tonight but he was not, yet, ready to give you that.
You made a short, desperate sound. Your hand came off his shirt and gripped his wrist to keep him, to make sure his hands stayed, the fingers wrapping around the bones of his wrist and holding on.
“Not going anywhere,” he said against your temple, which was true in the small immediate sense and a lie in every other, and he chose, this once, to mean only the small one.
Your free hand moved between you, down, and found the waist of his jeans. You fumbled at the button. It was clumsy—your fingers weren’t sure, and Rafe wondered if you’d ever done the reaching before, or if you’d only ever done the reaching before—and that clumsiness nearly took his legs out; the fact that you were trying, that you’d decided his wanting was a thing worth tending to. You, who tended to everything, were turning all the careful attention now onto him.
He caught your wrist with his free hand before you got to the button.
“Hey. No.” It came out rougher than expected. He pressed his mouth to your jaw so he wouldn't have to look at you while he said it. He could feel your pulse in your wrist, fast under his thumb, and he held it there. “Not—Just you right now. Okay?”
You went still, uncertain, and he felt the small recalibration in you. He couldn’t have that either.
“S’not—” Rafe huffed, frustrated at his own mouth, at the fact that the truth was right there and he had no clean way to hand it over. The truth being that if you touched him, he was done, and he needed it to last longer than that, he needed more of you before he let it be over. He had no way to say any of it that wouldn't crack him open.
So, he said, against your skin, “Let me have this one. You can deal with me later.”
He felt the curve of your smile against his cheek. “Promise?” you asked, like it genuinely could have been that simple.
He chose to believe it could be.
“Yeah, okay.” His fingers moved inside you again and your breath broke and the smile went with it. “Yeah. Promise.”
You made a noise, broken, your hips chasing his hand like the wanting had gone out ahead of you. He almost said it then. The thing. It got all the way up his throat and he swallowed it down because saying it here, like this, with his fingers inside you on Topper's boat, would've made it the cheapest it could ever be, and the one thing Rafe was sure of was that it wasn't cheap. He curled his fingers instead to find the place that made your whole body forget its manners.
His hips pressed forward against your thigh just once off their own accord, moving in a slow grind.
His body was finding pressure where it could, chasing the friction he’d denied simply because of the fact that he was so hard it had passed uncomfortable a while ago and entered something closer to pain.
The pressure sent a wave of relief through him so acute his breath came out shaky against your temple, and his hand stuttered inside you for half a second before he caught the rhythm again.
He locked his hips and stayed still and put everything he had back into you instead, into the curl of his fingers and the pace you needed, and the dull throb of himself went unanswered and that was fine.
That was fine. He could sit with it. He'd been sitting with wanting you for two years; what was another few minutes?
“Look at me.” It came out slow, almost a plea, far from having an order in it. He’d had his eyes shut a second ago and now he couldn’t survive not being able to see. “C’mon. Lemme see.”
Your eyes dragged open, gone glassy, unfocused, and he held them. He’d wanted to see this for so long and he wasn’t going to spend it blind.
Your hand twisted in his shirt. You were shaking. He could feel it building in you, your peak, close, and he kept his rhythm exactly where you needed it because for once in his life he wanted to give perfectly, get one act completely right.
“Rafe.” Your voice cracked on it, warning, almost.
“I know,” he said. “I got you.”
You broke. He felt it happen—felt you go tight, squeezing his fingers, and then gone, your forehead dropping hard to his shoulder, a sound against his neck that you didn't choose and couldn't have stopped—and he held still inside it and let you have all of it, every second, until you went heavy and loose against him and the only thing holding you up was him.
Rafe kept his hand where it was one second longer than he should have, just to feel the last of it, then drew it back slow and fixed the lace with more care than he’d taken with anything in his life. He settled it back like he was hiding the evidence, which he was. He pressed his forehead to yours. Your hands had found his shirt again. Your eyes were shut.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, shaken, as you tried to recover yourself. He saw your jaw tighten like you wanted to say more and were physically biting the words down.
He already knew what was coming. He'd watched it happen enough with you now, the way the wanting closed over and the apology surfaced. He just didn't know it would land the way it did.
The words landed wrong in him, because ‘sorry’ was a thing people were for Rafe, a thing that arrived in his direction with his name attached.
If you were going to keep reaching for him and you were going to be sorry every time, and he was going to let you, and the wanting was always going to come to him pre-wrapped in your regret.
He couldn't have that. Of all of it—the wrongness, the boat, Topper—that was the one thing Rafe found he could not stand in the room.
He brought his hand up and brushed his knuckles along your cheek, slow, and shook his head, just slightly, just enough.
“Don’t,” he said, and his voice came out rough. “You see me complaining?”
You looked at him, and Rafe got the full, sober weight of your eyes for the first time since the door had clicked. In them was something he had no idea what he could with, the furrow of your brows and the frown on your lips, like you didn’t want to go.
That made something between his ribs sore, because he could deal with you regretting it; he’d dealt with people regretting him. What he had no capability for was you standing so, so fucking close to him looking like leaving him was the hardest part.
“Hey.” He had reached the edge of what his mouth could do. So he kept the knuckles against your cheek, because moving them was beyond him, and the two of you stood there in the bright nothing for a second that Rafe would later try and fail to make last longer in his memory than it had any right to last.
Then your eyes moved past him—to the door, to the world on the other side of it—and he watched the second you started leaving.
He watched your face close over. Then your hands left his shirt—he felt the complete loss of them, a cold where they’d been tugging—and went to work; you smoothed the denim of your skirt where he’d greedily bunched it, the shirt next that had, at some point, lifted up, then your hair, fingers finding the loose pieces and threading them back into the shape they were supposed to hold.
Forty seconds, maybe less, and there was almost nothing left of you that Rafe had put there. That meant you’d walk out into the sun and stand next to Topper, and Topper would look at you and see his girl, intact, unmarked, and returned to him in good condition.
But you’d been sad to go. Rafe held onto that with both hands. He’d take it up the stairs with him; he’d take it home; he’d take it out later and look at it. He knew, even now, that keeping that would be the worst thing to keep, because the fact that you hadn’t wanted to leave didn’t mean you were going to stay. You were still going. Sad to leave and leaving weren’t opposites; you could do both. In fact, you were about to.
“You should head up,” he said. “Before anyone else comes.”
You nodded.
Rafe reached out one more time, the last time he could, and ran his thumb along the corner of your mouth where the pink had smudged, where he’d smudged it. He wiped it clean, almost carefully, and he tucked the one piece of hair you’d missed.
“I don’t know what—I’m sorr—”
Rafe cut your words off by placing a finger under your chin.
He knew while doing it that he was putting Topper’s girlfriend back together. He was reassembling you with his own hands so the seams wouldn't show, gentle as anything, and he hated himself the exact right amount and did it anyway, because the alternative was you walking up there with the truth still on you and Rafe was not—whatever else he was—going to be the reason it showed.
“Go,” he said, stepping back to give you the door. He found something like a smile somewhere and got it up onto his face and held it there with what he had left. “You look perfect.”
It was at the lawn party that happened every year because the Murrays had a lawn and a reason was not, on Figure Eight, something that was required to have a party. Rafe had come anyway, because not coming was its own kind of information, and another week into a thing like this he started doing calculation on what your absence said as carefully as what your presence did.
He’d been there an hour and he watched you the whole hour. He was good at it by now; he’d had years of practice so it didn’t look like anything, the trick of keeping his face pointed at the person talking to him while the rest of you stayed aimed at the far side of the lawn. Nobody saw him do it, and he watched you move around the grass in a green dress with a drink you hadn’t taken a single sip of.
You were bright and frictionless and doing that stupid fucking laugh exactly on time. Your hand found people’s forearms when you said a kind thing, and the whole set-up of it was so smooth and so total that he had a hard time believing you were the same person who’d asked him to come into a tiny bathroom on your boyfriend’s boat.
By seven, the parents had thinned out and left Brad and Charlie Murray in charge of the lawn. It was by eight when Rafe noticed Topper leave. It was with some guy Rafe half-knew, a friend of a friend, who looked like he was going to be a problem, and Topper had peeled him off from the keg to deal with him. Topper was doing the small, good thing and taking a guy home before he woke up the next morning with an earful of everything he’d done.
He got his phone out before his mind even processed it.
where are u, he texted you, making use of that almost-empty chat thread with you that was mainly filled with small logistic details he never cared about that you did. It was deniable, a sentence that would make him look like he was only keeping an eye out for his best friend’s girlfriend.
He told himself that, too. He just wanted to know where you were; he’d also spent his time unable to decide if the boat had been a real thing or a girl having the worst night of her summer in a small room he just happened to be in. He didn't know which, and not knowing was its own kind of hell.
about to catch a ride w ruthie
Rafe immediately read it and his mind snagged on the fact that you’d answered him at all. You could've gotten in Ruthie's car and let the question rot. Rafe felt something ugly and electric go up his spine that he had the decency, at least, to be disgusted by.
come by the pool in the back
The typing bubble didn’t come back up. He picked the label off the beer in wet strips and watched the path up to the pool. And you did come up the path, and Rafe got his answer, that the boat may not have been a fluke.
He should've felt like he'd won something. He'd been telling himself for three weeks that knowing would feel like winning.
You came around the hedge and saw him sitting on the pool ledge with his feet in the water and his beer on the stone beside him.
“Hey,” you said. You looked at the pool, the empty chairs, the dark windows of the Murray house where the party noise was muffled into bass and the occasional shriek. You looked everywhere that wasn't him.
“You been avoiding me?” Rafe asked, trying to make it sound as even as possible.
“No,” you said quickly. Your hand went to the chain around your neck and turned the pendant once.
He huffed out a breath. “Yeah?”
“I’m here, am I not?”
Rafe had no fucking clue how he’d managed to get you in this position, head between your thighs as you laid on the top of his white duvet.
The room was dark except for the dock lights off the marsh throwing slow, liquid patterns across the ceiling. Tannyhill was empty, and Rafe usually hated that, but right now, the silence was his and it had you in it, and that made it the best fucking room he’d ever been in.
Your thighs were shaking with a small tremor, barely there, and his hands were holding them apart. His thumbs pressed into the soft inside of your skin as your whole body tried to close around him. He could feel the tension in the muscle under his palms, the restless shifting of your hips, and the way your hand had gone to his hair and stayed there.
He’d barely started. His mouth was working up from the inside of your thigh, tasting the salt on your skin, and you were already breathing like you’d been running. He could hear the short, caught inhales that you kept trying to smooth out.
He said your name against your skin, and you jolted. “Stop thinking,” he murmured.
“I’m not—”
“I can feel it.” He looked up at you from between your legs. Your face in the dim was already flushed with eyes too wide and your bottom lip caught between your teeth. “Relax.”
“I’m trying.”
“Try less,” he drawled, thumb doing a gentle stroke against your skin. “That’s the whole point.”
His mouth moved higher, and your thighs clenched against the sides of his face before you caught yourself and relaxed it. He let his tongue drag down the slit, savoring the taste as your hips came off the bed. The sound you made was small and shocked; you immediately bit it back, swallowed it behind your teeth.
He wanted to stay like this. He wanted to take his time, learn you like this, take in every sound and shift of your body. But your body was rigid underneath him in a way that wasn't anticipation. You were lying on his bed with your legs apart and his face between them and some part of you couldn't stop being aware of it. He could feel your self-consciousness like a physical thing, the way you kept adjusting, kept shifting your hips.
“Rafe,” you said quietly.
He lifted his head. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s—wrong.” You pressed your lips together. Your hand in his hair loosened, then tightened, then loosened again. “Can you come up here?”
“But I’m good here.”
“I know. I just—I wanna—” You stopped, letting out an almost-frustrated breath he found deeply amusing. Your eyes were fixed on the ceiling, and furrow between your brows had deepened in a way that wasn't just arousal. You were embarrassed. You were lying in his bed asking for something and you were embarrassed about the asking. “I want you like—closer.”
Rafe tugged his lip between his teeth, and he was sure his own pupils were blown as wide as they could be. “Closer how?”
Your eyes found his in the dark, and the shy wanting in your face hit Rafe in a really, really, difficult fucking way because he had no idea how to deal with it. You held his gaze and your hand gently tugged at his hair, pulling him upward and toward you.
“We don’t have to—” He went, because there was no version of this where he could deny you. He was already crawling up your body because his own was making the decision, his brain, his mouth dragging up your stomach, your ribs, the valley between your breasts. “I don’t mind.”
Your hands went down from his hair and cupped the sides of his face with your palms, practically forcing him to look at you. “Do you—you don’t want to?”
The question was so far from reality that his brain physically stalled. He was hovering over you, hands on your shoulders, and you were looking up at him with genuine uncertainty.
“Are you—” He almost laughed. “You’re really asking me that?”
You grumbled something under your breath, causing him to chuckle then.
He moved his thumb to your lip, pulling it down, as he said, “I wanna. Just wanna make sure you’ll be fine.”
Your lips closed around his thumb, as if relieved at his answer, and Rafe’s brain went to place it wasn’t coming back from.
Your eyes stayed on his, still carrying the shy uncertainty from a second ago, and Rafe was supposed to reconcile that with the warm press of your tongue against his thumb.
“Okay,” he said flatly. “Yeah. Thanks for that.”
The corner of your eyes creased. You would’ve laughed if you weren’t currently occupied.
He pressed his thumb down against your bottom lip, dragged it slow across the fullness of it, and watched your eyes go heavy. His cock was pressed against your thigh and he was fairly sure you could feel exactly what this was doing to him, which was fine, whatever, he'd abandoned dignity somewhere around the second week of wanting you.
“So fucking annoying,” he said, almost conversational.
He pulled his thumb free, letting it drag. The wet shine it left on your lip caught the silver light. You looked up at him with your mouth still parted and an expression that was dangerously close to being pleased with yourself.
He leaned down to press his forehead against yours, bracing his arms against your sides as his hips came flush against yours, cock grinding over the wetness of you. He let out a broken gasp at the feeling, eyes closing for a moment.
Your breath hitched underneath him and your hips tilted up—chasing—and the friction made both of you go still for a second. Your hands were on his shoulders, fingers pressing into the muscle, and your eyes were shut and your mouth was open and you looked like someone at the edge of a cliff deciding whether to jump.
He rocked against you again, watching intently the way your brow creased and your lips pressed together. He could feel you—the heat, the slick of it, how easy it would be to just push forward—and the restraint of not doing it yet, of keeping this unbearable almost-contact, was winding something tight behind his ribs.
“Why’re you letting me do this to you?” he asked, unable to stop the words from stumbling out. He rolled his hips again.
“Huh—”
He shifted his hips, unfair. He knew it was far from fair, but whatever deflection you’d been making lost its integrity. “Why?” he asked, voice quieter.
Your hands slid from his shoulders to the sides of his neck. You held him there, thumbs against his jaw, and he watched you try to find the answer while his body was making it very difficult to think. Your hips moved against his again; small, restless, like your body was having its own conversation separate from the one your mouth was attempting.
“Why are you doing this?” you said, turning it back around on him.
“I’ve got my reasons,” he said without missing a beat.
Something flickered across your eyes, curiosity, maybe, then washed out. “And I’ve got mine.”
That was enough for Rafe. That was more than enough, that there was something in you that wanted to do this.
His hands went down to find his cock and align himself against you. He pushed forward in one, slow continuous motion, and any words you had for him dissolved into a sound that started as a gasp and ended nowhere. Your lips parted and your eyes widened just slightly at the newfound intrusion in your body as your nails sunk into the sides of his neck hard enough to leave crescents.
His own breath left him somewhere guttural and graceless, his face dropping to the crook of your neck. He held still, breathing through his nose against your skin, jaw clenched as every muscle tightened.
Your body was adjusting around him in increments he could feel; the tension in your thighs loosening, your hips shifting beneath his to find the angle, your breathing going from held to shaky. Your fingers moved from his neck to his hair, threading through it, holding on.
“Okay?” he managed to say through his teeth.
“Yeah,” you said, voice coming out through a breath. “Just—stay there a second.”
He stayed, and he would’ve done so for the rest of the night if you’d asked him to. Your legs were wrapped around his hips and your fingers were in his hair and he was inside you in his bed and the whole situation was so far from anything he deserved that he was fairly sure the universe was going to correct the error any second now.
Your hips moved first with a small roll, testing, and whatever you found made your head tilt back and eyes close. You let out a small, surprised sound like you’d answered a question.
“Good?” he said against your neck.
“Move,” you said instead of answering.
He pulled back and pushed in again, and your body rose to meet him on the first stroke like it had been waiting. The angle you found together made you gasp and him swear and it something in motion neither of you could stop.
He pulled back to look at you because he needed to see your face. You looked wrecked already—mouth open, eyes half-shut, heat spreading down your neck—and something about the expression was more than just pleasure. It was surprise, like you hadn't known it could feel like this.
Rafe thought about Topper—a brief flash, Topper in this position, Topper on top of you—and felt something ugly and possessive claw up his throat. He wondered if Topper had ever seen this face.
He pushed himself up to the hilt to shove the thought aside. Your body kept meeting his with a push that matched his own, your hips rolling up into every thrust, and the careful dissolved in the face of it.
At some point, through the haze of too-much-pleasure, more than Rafe deserved, your mouth found his shoulder, breathing hard against his skin. On a thrust that went deeper, your teeth came down reflexively, the bite sharp and sudden, sending a jolt down through him. A bright sting that braided into the pleasure and amplified it, and his hips snapped forward hard in response, punching a sound out of you that vibrated against his shoulder.
You pulled back. “Sorry. I’m sorry—”
He let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. “Don’t really care. You do what you want.”
His hand found your thigh, hiked your leg higher around his waist. The angle shifted and your head tipped back and the sound you made was loud enough to fill the room. Your throat was exposed, the pendant resting in the hollow of your collarbone—the initial that belonged to every version of you that existed outside this bed—and it caught the light as your chest heaved.
Rafe's hand moved before his brain had signed off on it. It shifted from your thigh up your body, over your ribs, your collarbone, and settled against the side of your throat, resting. His palm was against your neck, fingers curving around the column of it, his thumb was against your pulse where it was hammering fast enough to count.
You let out a shuddered breath as your back arched off the mattress, and your hips ground up into him. “Rafe,” you said, sounding almost needier.
Rafe sucked in an inhale. “Yeah?”
Your mouth opened and nothing came out for a second—your body processing—and then a sound that was so unguarded your hand flew up to cover your mouth.
He caught it and pinned it to the mattress beside your head, fingers lacing with yours. His other hand stayed on your throat, elbows resting against the mattress, as his fingers rubbed the skin under your jaw. “Don’t do that.”
Your fingers squeezed his where they were pinned. Your eyes were bright and locked on his. He could feel you everywhere.
Your legs tight around his waist, your hand gripping his, your pulse racing against his palm, the way you clenched around him every time his thumb shifted against your throat. He was keeping all of it. He was putting it in the drawer that had started as a nook and had overtaken every other room in his head. The specific rhythm that made your eyes roll back. The way your body curved into him when he hit the right angle. The small, bitten-off sounds you made.
His lips found yours, tugging them with his teeth rather than kissing at all. Your shaky breaths ghosted over his face.
He could feel you getting close, your breath fragmenting into short gasps and you clenching around his own pulsing. Your hands squeezed his against the mattress hard enough that the bones ached.
“I think I’m—” you started saying against his lips.
“I know,” he said, letting himself find a rhythm—the perfect one, if there even was one, to make you fall apart under him—as his finger reached up to trace your jaw. “I know.”
Within three minutes of Rafe’s body rolling off of yours, he noticed your body stiffen like a fucking stone. He stayed where he was, on his back, and he let the quiet sit because it was, for now, holding.
Your shoulder was against his arm and your knee was somewhere near his. The length of you was just there, warm and breathing, close in a way that the boat or the truck or your bathroom hadn’t allowed. Rafe had never had that with you. He found he didn't entirely know what to do with his arm.
He sat up, swinging his legs off the bed and reaching for the jeans on the floor. He got his cigarettes out of the pocket and put his jeans back on. He crossed to the window and pushed it up with the heel of his hand and Rafe sat himself on the sill, half in the room and half out of it. He took the first drag and felt his hands finally have a job. He needed something to do with his hands; lying in bed next to you without reaching out for you again wasn’t, it turned out, a thing his body had been built to do.
He let himself look back at you. You’d propped yourself up on one elbow, the duvet pulled across you, and you were watching him, the way he did you, except he’d had the cowardice to do it across rooms and you were doing it from eight feet away with no apparent shame about it at all.
When you realized he noticed you, your eyes went down.
Rafe huffed, smoke going with it. “Now you’re shy?”
“Shut up.”
“You can stare. I’m right here.”
You shifted under the duvet at his gaze, and your eyes came off him and went to the middle distance. Something in your shoulders drew in, like you were folding half-inch under a thing you had no cover for.
He shifted on the sill, opening the space between his knees so the foot still inside came down flat on the floorboards. He made the room and let it sit there, took another drag, and looked at the dark outside.
You pushed the duvet off and got up to cross the room in his t-shirt, the grey one, the hem of it at the top of your thighs. You sat down between his legs with your back to his chest, and Rafe forgot, for a second, what he’d been doing with his cigarette.
“You cold?” he said, because you’d drawn in against him.
“A little.”
He brought his arm around you and flattened it over your stomach to pull you back the last inch into him, and it sat there like a bar across your front. Your spine fell against his sternum and his chin landed somewhere at the top of your head without fully thinking about it. He smoked over your shoulder, angling it away so it wouldn’t go in your face.
“Can I say something?” you asked after a moment.
“That’s never good.”
“It’s not bad.” you said.
“That’s worse.” He felt you huff, the small laugh going through your back into his chest. He tapped the ash out the window. “Go.”
“I didn’t know I’d—” You stopped, looking out the window. “I don’t usually—” The sentence continued to fall halfway, each version dying before it cleared your teeth. You sighed, longly, then gave up on saying it cleanly at all. “It’s usually never like that for me. That’s all.”
It took Rafe a moment to register you weren’t talking about the sex as much as you were talking about yourself. You’d been in one bed your whole life, and so the basic structure of the thing was a blank you were handing him, with no management on it, trusting him—him, of all people—to draw it in honestly.
“Yeah,” he said carefully.
You nodded against his collarbone, and he felt the small loosening in your body, as though you’d been quietly worried about admitting it and just found out that it was fine.
“Makes sense, though.” He took a drag, the cigarette going into its last embers. “One person your whole life. You don’t even know what you—” The words came out magnanimous, older, knows-better, and he tried to reel it back because he most definitely didn’t know better. “You gotta get out more. Figure out what you like. Who does it for you.” He shrugged, almost stiffly. “You’ve got catching up to do.”
It sat there for half a second, and then the picture loaded behind it—you, like this, and someone else being the one to go looking and find the same pieces he just found—and Rafe discovered the offer he’d made out of generosity was the single most intolerable sentence he’d said all summer.
You tipped your head back against his shoulder to look up at him. There was something small and amused in your face, because you'd caught the seam in his voice a beat before he'd even finished hating himself for it.
“How many more?”
He huffed, low and hot against the side of your head, and shook it once. “Yeah, alright.” His arm drew tighter across your stomach. “Pretty sure I should be enough.”
The cigarette was dead. He’d smoked it past the point of it being anything, down to the place where it was just paper and heat between his fingers, and he reached out and crushed it on the brick of the sill outside. His hand came back in with nothing to do, and he solved it the way he’d started solving most of it recently, which was to find some part of you and settle on it; the flat of his palm went to your hip and stayed, his thumb moving once over the bone of it and then going still.
“I should probably drive you home soon, yeah?” he said into the side of your head. “It’s late.”
He felt your spine taking itself back, the slack going out of you, and the cold rushed back into the warm place at his chest. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right,” you said quickly. “I’ll get dressed really quick.”
Before he could even process it all, you were already up, crossing for your clothes. He watched you put them on.
Stay was right there, but it wouldn’t come up.
“Hey.” You stopped at his voice, one sandal on, the other one in your hand. “The catching up—” His thumb found the brick where the cigarette had been rubbed. “I’m right here. If you—want to—up to you.”
It was the most he could get out.
“You’re bad at this,” you said, almost matter-of-factly.
He huffed, eyes leaving the window to go back to you for a second. “Yeah, I know.” He laughed then, slightly. “Never really been in this situation before.”
“Yeah,” You bent and set the sandal down on the boards. “Me neither.”
Thick syrupy light that came down at six and made people you couldn’t even stand look like they were worth everyone’s time covered your entire vision. You were on a long teak bench against the pergola with Topper’s arm across the back of it, and you had a sweating glass of something pink you’d been holding for thirty minutes. The Devreux twins were in the pool; someone had fallen asleep upright on the Adirondack chair, a tray of those little crab things was going around, and the citronella candles were already lit.
Topper’s hand was on your knee, it had been there a while. It landed the same way as it always had, without his eyes following it. Two years ago, one year ago, a month ago, it had been nothing, only a thing that came with being his.
The problem was that it wasn’t anything anymore. You could feel exactly where his palm was, and your whole body had started to keep a completely different count this summer that had nothing to do with anniversaries. The count was three, and it was something your skin knew all too well, even when your face didn’t. So his hand sat on your knee in the gold light and you had to make yourself not move it, the way you made yourself not do a lot of things now, and you understood with a small flat horror that you'd become a person who had to be aware of your boyfriend’s touch.
“—no, that’s the thing about her,” Topper said, free hand sloshing as he gestured, and you pulled yourself back in as you realized it was you he was speaking about. “Last year for her birthday, I planned the whole thing, booked the place on the water and got everyone out—like forty people—and she just—” he tipped his head toward you, fond, the spotlight swinging, and you felt it land before you'd arranged your face for it. “She had the best time. Didn’t ask for anything. My mom says it all the time, she’s gonna be so nice to be married to.”
The bench made a unanimous warm and approving sound. Somebody said ‘we love her.’ You smiled, head tilting on autopilot, and you let yourself remember—for exactly one second—that you had wanted, very badly, to spend that birthday at home. That you’d told him so, gently, twice, and he’d heard you didn’t want a fuss because that was an easier version of you to plan around.
Forty people on the water; you’d had the best time because you were good at your job. Topper was saying the truth, that was the unbearable part. Topper stood it was a true story about a girl who didn't want anything, and the girl who hadn’t wanted it had simply never made it across to him, had filed the wanting down small and smooth so he'd never have to notice her carrying it.
He loved to talk about that birthday. He’d talk about it for years. He’d talk about it at the wedding.
Across the lawn, Rafe was leaning against the pergola post with a beer, angled half away from it all. You couldn’t see his face, and you didn’t need to. He was the only person who somehow knew you’d wanted to stay home—a fact that slipped out when your lips had been loose while you were in a haze, simply trying to fill silences—and you had to put your glass to your mouth and not drink just to have something to do that wasn't turning your head.
“You’re quiet,” Topper said, leaning in, the scent of sun and beer filling your nose. “Should I get the car? We can dip early.”
“No need,” you said, smiling. “I’m good.”
You got up after a few minutes and said something about grabbing finger sandwiches and Topper asked you to grab a beer, already halfway into a discussion about a jetski. You said you would, which meant now you would be grabbing a beer.
You went the long way, around the deep end, past the abandoned crab tray and the sleeper with his drink balanced on the side of his chair. You walked through all of it with your empty pink drink and the specific loneliness of being the only sober-feeling person at a party that was working perfectly for everyone else.
You stood in the far end of the pergola where the lattice cut the gold light into pieces, and you set the glass down on the ledge. You put both your hands on the wood and looked at the marsh going gold past the property line and let yourself, for one supervised minute, feel it.
It came up fast once you let yourself feel it; it was the low, slick, swelling kind, the kind that had your name on it. Because Topper was good. Topper was sitting forty feet away being genuinely, uncomplicatedly happy, telling a roomful of people he loved how easy you were to love, how little you needed, how lucky he was. Every word coming out of his mouth was true to him, and he had driven you across the island when you were bored, had asked if you’d eaten, had loved the wrong version of you so correctly that you couldn’t even hate him for not finding the real one.
He would continue being good, and you had spent the summer doing the single worst thing a person could do to another, to him, to the boy who’d done nothing but be exactly what everyone said he was.
Your eyes went hot and you blinked hard as you felt the first one go before you could stop it. You wiped the tear fast with the heel of your hand because crying here would be a catastrophe, and you hated yourself with a completeness that almost steadied you, because at least the hating was honest, at least it was the one true feeling you'd had all day that you weren’t forcing for anybody.
You felt the change in the air, the quiet of someone arriving who knew not to announce it, and you didn't turn around because you couldn't, not with your face like this. Rafe had already seen you like this more times than you would have liked.
“Hey,” he said, voice low behind you, to the set of your shoulders. “You—”
“Not now, Rafe,” you said, voice coming out cracked. You kept your back to him and pressed the heel of your hand under your eye, fast, like you could get there before he saw, and you couldn't, and you knew you couldn't. “I can’t—I’m sorry, I can’t give you—” Your words were interrupted by a hiccup. “Not right now. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not trying to…” You heard Rafe suck in a sharp breath and let the words trail off. “That’s not why I—” He tried again, and he couldn’t get there again, sounding genuinely unsure about how to finish the sentence. “Jesus. No.”
You turned then, because he sounded too caught off-guard, and you got your first look at his face which was filled with genuine confusion, brows furrowed.
“Why would you think—I saw you walking off looking like—” He looked almost offended as he stared at you. Then, he gestured vaguely at your face, his motions moving awkwardly. “Like that. So I came over. That’s it.” He shook his head, frustrated at himself now. “I don’t—I’m not trying to fuck you or whatever. I just came over, alright?”
You let yourself sit with his words for a moment, feeling something like warmth cover your chest and then immediately feeling like a monster for feeling it.
“Okay,” you said finally, voice small.
He nodded once, sharply. “He’s being an idiot.”
You let out a sound that was meant to be a laugh but just came out as a hiccup again. “No, he’s not.”
“I’m just saying,” he said, and you could feel how difficult it was for him to talk right now.
“No, he’s not,” you said again, shaking your head. “He’s good, Rafe. He didn’t do anything and I’m—” You took in a deep breath, forcing yourself to look away from him. “I’m just being a horrible person to him.”
“So fucking what,” Rafe said, the words coming out as the complete opposite of a question. “You’ve probably done a hundred good things for strangers in the last six months.” He scratched at his chin for a moment. “It’s annoying to even watch. Maybe you get one bad thing to do.”
You looked up at him with what should’ve been gratitude, but what came was the reflex. “You’re just saying that ‘cause you wanna keep sleeping with me.”
Your words came out smaller than an accusation, like you were just handing him the easy version on purpose. The one where this could stay a thing you understood, because a guy who said nice things to get something was a guy you knew how to be around, and a guy who said them for no reason was not.
Rafe’s face shifted—you’d stung him, you realized, a beat too late—and he chose to not take the out you’d given him.
“Yeah,” he said flatly, voice dry. “That’s it. That’s exactly why. Came all the way here just to lock that one down.” He looked at you with a look you couldn’t recognize. “Don’t be dumb.”
You wanted to let it end there, because it was all going out of left-field, into an area you couldn’t manage. But Rafe continued, like he was the one who hated silences, “I stole a turtle.”
“Today?” you asked, the word coming out of your mouth before you could process his words.
He shifted his neck back as he looked at you. “No, not today. Obviously.” He looked over you for a moment, reassessing. “Eighth grade. It was a class turtle.”
You let out a laugh that was mainly the aftershocks of your wet eyes and stuffy nose. “What’s wrong with you?” you said, and it came out clogged and unsteady and not unkind at all, almost grateful, the question you’d meant as an accusation arriving as something closer to relief.
“Lotta things,” Rafe said, then took a sip of his beer. “Connor’s mom was gonna keep it for the summer. I didn’t like him. Kept the turtle three months in my closet.”
“What’d he do to you?”
“Dunno.” He shrugged. “Something.”
You laughed then, and your hand went up your mouth. The corner of Rafe’s mouth went up.
“Took care of it, though,” he said after. “Probably better than they would’ve.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Mhm. They were going on vacation that summer, anyway.” He picked at the label on his bottle. “Let it go after. It’s fine out there somewhere.”
You wiped under your eye, the crying mostly gone now, just the wreckage of it left. “I’d look for it.”
He looked at you for a long second, like he was deciding whether you were serious and landing on, in this second, maybe. Then he shook his head, slow, the brows still up.
Rafe’s brows went up a little. “Yeah, that’s all you.”
The overhead lights of Kelce’s basement were off and somebody had plugged in the lamp with the scarf over it that Kelce’s mother did not know her son owned, and the room had gone a low amber colour that made everything look a little more like something was wrong. Upstairs, the party was loud. Down here, it was a circle—the deep couch and the floor and the coffee table that had cigarette burns Kelce blamed, every single time, on a cousin—of eight or nine of you, the number loose for people kept arriving then going.
You were between Topper and Rafe, and you hadn’t chosen this. You’d come down the stairs and there’d been one gap on the couch, and it had Topper on one side of it and Rafe on the other. There was no version of the next two seconds where you would stand in the middle of the basement doing visible math to get out of the situation, so you sat on it.
Topper’s arm went along the back of the couch behind you, which meant he’d stopped tracking where you were, which was its own kind of love and also the reason any of this had been possible all summer. He was already pitched forward into a conversation about a boat motor; Topper could run a conversation with no fuel at all, indefinitely, like a hybrid. So you sat in the loose bracket of his arm and did all the things you were good at, the nod and the small affirming sound and the face set to show you were listening, and you did not look to your other side.
Your other side was Rafe leaning over the glass with a card and a folded bill, and you were spending real effort trying to watch him not do it. The effort was the tell.
You’d gotten frighteningly good at it over the summer; the alibis with no holes, the texts timed so the read receipts said the right story, the whole situation of getting away with it. The easy thing, the keeping your eyes where you put them, turned out to be the one you couldn’t do.
It was difficult, and what came with it every time was the low unstable interest in watching him. There was this wanting to look directly at the thing you’d spent your whole life being walked quickly past. Rafe didn’t manage himself. Rafe had a whole room in him with the lid off, and your whole life had been lids—on drinks you didn’t finish, on sentences you didn’t end, on the want you folded up small and put away before anyone could see the shape of it—and watching him just not do that, just reach for the thing and take it in a basement full of people, did something to you that you couldn’t find a clean name for.
The bill went around. Madi did hers with a wince. It traveled—a guy you half-knew, back across the table—and came near you, and you said, “I’m good.”
“Course you are,” Rafe said, a half-laugh in it. “You ever loosen up?”
“I loosen up,” you said, the words coming out before you could get a hand on them.
His head came around a few degrees. “Yeah?” He sat back off the table and looked at you. “Okay, then,” he said, soft, just for you. There was a dare folded in it only you could hear, because the only honest answer was sitting six inches to your left and getting off on this. “Name one thing you do.”
You felt the heat go up your neck and sealed your mouth. You watched a grin build itself across his face slow and unhurried, enormously enjoying the trap he’d set in plain sight.
“Hey.” Topper’s hand came to your knees, squeezing. “She’s gonna stop humoring you if you keep doing that,” he said, laughing with no heat in it.
He wasn’t even facing Rafe—or you—half his attention already drifted back into the room, because to Topper this was nothing, just two people he liked talking beside him.
For a second, something flickered down behind Rafe’s face, ugly and fast, gone before it finished calcifying. You knew the look he’d swallowed a hundred times this summer watching Topper kiss your temple in front of people.
Rafe leaned back against the couch, head against the cushion. He lifted his hand and dragged two fingers slow across his lip and held them there, and you understood now what the gesture was, forcing it down with two fingers because there was nowhere on God's earth he was allowed to let it out, least of all here, least of all at the person whose lap you were sitting across.
You sat with Topper's thumb moving idle on your knee and watched Rafe swallow a thing he had no business owning, and the awful part—the part you'd think about later—was how it answered something. How Rafe somehow made it feel better than being had.
Then Topper’s phone lit on his leg. He looked at it, said “My dad,” with the apology already on his face, and squeezed your shoulder and stood up, going to the stairs with his phone against his ear.
You saw Rafe’s head turn at the edge of your vision, his body staying exactly where it was, so that when he spoke it came angled at the side of your face. “You see Kelce with that girl earlier?”
You turned to meet him there. “Yes,” you said, too fast. “I’ve never seen her before.”
“Visiting for the summer.” He shrugged, short. “Think he’s pretty into her.”
You weren't a gossip. You didn't do this—it was meant to be beneath the girl everyone had agreed you were—but it came up in you anyway, quick and a little mean and good. “Into her or the summer thing?”
Rafe huffed—almost a laugh, low—and you realized both your heads were turned all the way, that you were angled to him now, and that the two of you had built a tiny private room inside a basement full of people and not one person could have pointed at the thing you'd done to build it.
“What’s gonna happen?”
“Dunno.” A corner of his mouth went up. “I’ll tell you later.”
You opened your mouth a little, then closed it again. You looked at the coffee table, at the cigarette burns, at anything that was not Rafe, and you found that your hand had gone up to the side of your neck on its own and you made it come back down.
Rafe watched you do all of it as a smile settled into the side of his mouth.
“Don’t make that face,” you said.
“But it’s the only one I’ve got,” he drawled. The smile got worse, almost bigger and lazier, and he held your eyes for a second longer. Mercifully, he let you go and leaned forward off the couch and back to the glass of the table.
You watched him line it up, the quick work of his hands with his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, and the party was a wall of sound somewhere above you. Down here the tally you ran on every room you'd ever been in—who was where, who could see—had quietly stopped running, and you were watching Rafe with your whole stupid face.
He sat back up a few seconds after doing the line and his eyes met yours once again.
“You’re staring,” he said.
“You’re in my eyeline,” you said.
“Move your eyeline,” he said without missing a beat.
“It’s my eyeline. You move.”
“Guess you’re stuck then.” He didn't look away. Neither did you.
He tilted his head a degree, slow, openly, the way a person looks at a thing when they've stopped pretending they're not looking. There were eight people in the room and one of them was upstairs on the phone with his father, and you let Rafe look, and you looked back, and for a second the not-hiding was so much more dangerous than anything you'd actually done.
“Since when,” Kelce started, apparently not by the stairs anymore, “are you two friends?”
Both of you turned to the sound. Kelce was just standing there, between the two of you, his face mostly amused.
“She’s Top’s girl, she has to—”
“He’s Topper’s friend—” you said at the same time as Rafe, the two of you landing the same beat and the same word and the same lie from two different directions, and you heard it happen, heard your voice and his voice arrive together like that, and so did he, because he stopped, and so did you.
Kelce laughed. “Jesus, I didn’t realize it was a sore subject.”
You should’ve gotten up then, but you remained seated exactly where you were when Topper came back down the stairs.
Topper looked at the couch, at the space between the two of you on the cushion—not a wide space, a space that had been closing all night by degrees each too small to be charged with anything on its own—and he stood on the last stair and looked at it, and something moved across his face that you had no name for, that you had never needed a name for, because in all these years you had never once seen Topper look at you like he was wondering something.
It felt like a snag—probably half-a-second where his face caught on the two of you with something close to confusion—and then it was gone, smoothed over, and he was Topper again, coming down off the stairs, sliding the phone into his pocket, saying something to someone about something.
It was the first time you’d fallen asleep. You would drift off sometimes after, heavy-lidded but you’d still surface if he moved wrong. This time you were actually asleep, all the way under, your breathing dropped into a slow even rhythm. It had happened maybe twenty minutes ago and Rafe had been lying very still since, on his back, one arm dead under you, not moving it. If he moved, he’d risk the chance of waking you, and if you did, it’d mean the end of this. He’d decided, at some point, he wanted to know long you’d stay if he just didn’t fuck with it.
He’d never quite had this part. He’d had the rest of it plenty; the wanting it, the having it, the after where they gathered their clothes because they had somewhere better to be. Nobody slept. Girls didn’t sleep at Rafe’s, that was a thing you did somewhere comfortable, and Rafe had never been once mistaken for comfortable. He had, in fact, spent a great deal of effort making sure he wasn’t, and so the sleeping went to other people’s beds. And now you were here, the one girl on the island who had the most reasons to keep one eye open around him, out cold on his chest.
He had no idea what he’d done to earn it. He suspected he hadn’t earned it at all, that you’d simply gotten tired and this was an accident of exhaustion rather than a verdict of him. But he was choosing, for the length of your nap, to take it as a verdict.
Your hand was open on his sternum, fingers half-curled. You’d kicked the duvet down to your knees at one point. You ran hot, he learned. You started every night wrapped up and ended it shoving the covers off—that you slept like being contained was a thing you couldn’t stand—which struck him as the single funniest fact.
He should’ve woken you. It was getting late, you had a home to return to with people in it. You had a phone lying on his nightstand that would start lighting up with the name he’d forced out of his mind while you were lying on him.
Still, he laid there and let the minutes run on, and somewhere in the running, the minutes stopped feeling like luck and more like debt. A good thing arrived and sat with him long enough to stop being a surprise, and the second it stopped being that, it became something he owed, a thing with a price-tag faced down that he doesn’t get to keep this.
So when you woke—your hands twitching against his chest—he was almost relieved. Awake, you were a problem he knew how to have. You made a small displeased sound and pressed your face harder into him, like you could climb back under.
“You’re out,” he said, voice coming out rough. He hadn’t used it in an hour.
“‘M not,” you said, voice muffled into his sternum.
You pulled the duvet back up over the both of you instead, and hooked your leg over his, and settled your cheek back down with a weight that had staying in it, and Rafe lay very still under the fact of you deciding that, and felt the want come up hard enough to scare him.
“Can I say something?” you said into his chest.
He huffed slightly. “You don’t gotta ask.”
You breathed through your mouth into his chest. “Think I should end things with Topper.”
The first thing in Rafe was wrong. Fast, animal, up before he could get a hand on it—a kick of pure want, yes, do it, be free—and it was gone almost as fast as it arrived. The second thing came down on top of it like a ceiling; ending things with Topper meant this thing stopped being deniable. The cover would be gone, the frame would be gone, the whole careful system that let any of this exist would come apart in your hands.
So he went still. He felt the stillness travel down into you and turn into fear, felt you reach the conclusion you'd clearly already half-built and come braced for, and your hand went flat on his chest and you started speaking fast, into him, before he'd surfaced enough to get a single word out.
“Not for—” You stopped yourself, taking in a sharp inhale. “It’s not about you. I’m not—I wouldn’t be doing it because of that. It’s just me. For me.”
You’d handed him the out and all he had to do was take it.
“Then don’t,” he said.
He felt you shake your head against him. “Don’t what?” you asked, almost tired, like you knew where he was going.
“End it.” He heard how it sounded yet he couldn’t stop the rest of the words from coming. “You’ve been with him two years. You’re not gonna—what? Throw that out over—” He stopped. Started again, flatter, building the case he needed to be true. “It’s not even—don’t let this be a thing, okay? It’s not me. You feel like this ‘cause you’re not supposed to be doing it. It’d feel like this with anyone who made the move. Just happened to be me.”
You went quiet on him for a second. Then you lifted your head off his chest—something you almost never did, for you said the hard things angled away from him—and you brought your face up so he had to look at it.
“Don’t say things like that about me.” Your words came out even. He’d braced for mad, that would’ve let him be an asshole and you the wronged party; everyone would’ve been in the right place. “I mean it. Don’t.”
And he, who had a hundred things he could’ve said, who’d built a personality out of always having something to say back, found that the only thing in him was the need to take it all back immediately.
“Alright,” he said.
“I’m serious.”
“Alright,” he said, lower this time, as if that would let you see he was listening. For some reason, he wanted you to know he listened. “I won’t. I won’t say it.”
You eyed him for a moment, then said, quietly, “Don’t act like you’re better than me.” He was practically forced into staring at you. “Don’t sit here telling me to stay with Topper like you’re doing some favor, when the only reason any of this happened is ‘cause I’m dating him.” You took a breath, then. “You’d never have looked at me twice if I wasn’t with him.”
He let the words move through his body for a moment before he moved, turning to you, getting an arm braced over you as his weight came up onto his side, over you, close.
“That’s what you think?” he said, and it was the furthest thing from a question.
“Rafe—”
“No, s’fine,” he said quickly. His hand found your jaw and tilted it. “Is that what you tell yourself?”
He brought his mouth to the corner of your lips and stopped there, close enough to feel you breathing wrong, and let you sit in it, because he had nothing to say and a great deal to prove and he wanted you to feel the difference before he made it.
His palm flattened over your stomach and drifted lower, and yours followed behind, a little more hesitant but still determined. His body jerked slightly as your fingers curved around his cock, and he pushed himself unbelievably closer to you. His fingers found the waistband of your underwear, tugging them off your hips just the slightest, enough for him to press down against your heat.
He bit back a groan at the remnants of your everything you’d done before your nap sliding against him.
He got your underwear off the rest of the way without ceremony with one hand, you lifting your hips and bending your knees to help, eyes never leaving your face.
His fingers came back to your jaw and it went slack, head tipping back, and he followed it with his mouth to your throat because he couldn’t not.
“Don’t,” you murmured.
He stilled for a moment.
“Mark.”
Something in him went dark about it, fast and ugly, because it meant you had to go back up that bluff road in a few hours looking like nobody had touched you. He wanted to mark you so badly his teeth ached with it. He wanted to put something on your throat you’d have to explain, wanted Topper to see it and wonder.
Rafe wanted to leave a single piece of proof somewhere on you that this happened, that he had happened. He wanted to ruin the clean line of you on purpose. It was the most honest want he had and it was the one you'd just forbidden.
He lifted his mouth off the soft place and dragged it to the hinge of your jaw instead, somewhere safe and he hated it—and he hated it, hated the leash of it, hated that being good to you and being denied you were the exact same motion—and he let the fury of it pour into everything his hands were doing instead, because that, at least, left no marks if he was being careful.
He got his hand under your thigh and pulled it around his hip and felt you—the heat of you right there, nothing between it now—and had to press his forehead to the side of your face and breathe for a second. You turned your face slightly into his and your mouth found his cheek, the corner of his jaw, a want of a kiss rather than a kiss at all.
“Rafe, do it—”
He pushed in slow, slower than he wanted to. It was slower than his whole body screaming at him to. You made a sound against his temple, a small broken thing, and your fingers dug into his back hard enough to leave something.
He kept going until his hips pressed against yours, flush. He pulled back and drove forward and felt you take it, your whole body shifting up the mattress with the force of it, and he got an arm under your lower back, lifting you slightly, and held you where he wanted you and did it again. Your head fell back and his eyes focused on your throat move.
“Look at me,” he said fast, rough.
You did. You always did, when he asked, and every time it nearly took him apart.
He set a pace that was far from gentle and you rose to meet it, hips tilting, finding the angle, adjusting without asking him to, and he felt the precise moment you found what you needed because your whole body changed and you made a sound low in your throat that he felt in his sternum.
He pushed your leg higher and went deeper, pulling you up so you were almost off the bed, and your hand flew up to the headboard, bracing.
“Yeah,” he said, and didn't mean to say anything at all.
Your eyes were half-closed, your mouth open, and you looked like something he had absolutely no right to and was going to have anyway, had already decided, had already been unable to stop from the moment you'd said his name and left a door open.
His mouth found yours, messy, barely a kiss, more breath than anything. Your hips moved against his and he groaned into your mouth and felt you shiver at the sound of it, your whole body registering it, which meant he did it again deliberately and watched what it did to your face.
He moved his hand between you, finger finding the bundle of nerves, pressing down slightly before he found a smooth motion. He extended his other arm around your back, holding you up.
Your reaction was immediate and unguarded and your head went back against the air with a force that was almost funny, almost—he wanted to say something, he felt it come up—but he swallowed it and pressed his mouth to your jaw instead and kept his hand moving because he wanted you there, wanted to feel it, had earned it by two years of not having it.
“Please—” The word came out of you fractured halfway.
“I know. C’mon.”
You went tight around him and he felt it building, felt the shape of it in the way you gripped him and the hitch in your breathing and the small desperate sound you were trying and failing to keep from happening, and he put his mouth to your ear and said nothing, just let you hear what you were doing to his breathing, let that be the thing to let you know you weren't alone in it.
You broke apart quietly. A deep shudder moved through your whole body, your face open and unguarded, your fingers gripping his back hard enough that he'd find it tomorrow and not mind.
You could mark him.
He followed you over the edge with his face pressed into your hair, your name in his mouth, a low rough sound into your hair and his whole body giving up the careful hold it had kept on itself.
He stayed where he was for a moment, both of you breathing. Your hand was flat on his back, not gripping anymore, just resting. He held you for a moment longer before setting you down on the mattress.
At the dock in the last week of July, during the hour everyone else had gone up to the house before the mosquitoes forced them in, Rafe had stayed back because Topper had, and Rafe understood about ninety seconds later it was to get him alone.
Rafe had spent his childhood being gotten alone by Ward, summoned to the study (to this day, Rafe still had no idea what he used it for)—or the boat or the living room, for conversations that always meant his father had decided something for him.
So when Topper stayed behind while the others left, Rafe felt the old thing tick over his chest, the same bracing. So, he stood at the end of the Thorntons’ dock with a warm beer he’d stopped drinking a while ago, waiting to decide what Topper had decided for him.
He was surprised when he realized Topper was nervous, the same guy who had never had to go looking for a sentence. He was doing something useless with the dock line—wrapping it then unwrapping it—and Rafe watched his hands and, for a moment, thought that Topper fucking knows.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Yeah,” Rafe said, the word trailing off awkwardly.
“You think she’s happy?”
Rafe felt his mouth go dry. He kept his face pointed at the water. He had four or maybe fifteen answers and ran through all of them—he didn’t even know his brain could think that fast—and under all of them, traitor-fast, arriving before he could shut the drawer on it, Rafe heard your voice against his truck window, ‘I don’t know if that’s normal or if something’s wrong with me.’
Rafe had the answer to Topper's question. He'd had it cold for almost three months, carrying it around like a stolen thing he kept meaning to give back and didn't.
He shrugged, and he hoped it didn’t look as stiff as it felt. “She’s fine. I don’t really know her.”
“That’s not—” Topper stopped, then looped the line again. “I didn’t ask if she’s fine.”
Rafe felt himself turn to look at Topper, because the correction was so unlike him, the small insistence on the gap between ‘fine’ and ‘happy,’ a gap Rafe had never known Topper could see. For the first time, Rafe felt that Topper was acting differently.
Topper looked wretched. “I think she’s somewhere else. Lately.” He gestured with the line, at the dark water, at nothing. “I don’t know how to say it.”
“I don’t know, man.” The words came out of Rafe slow, as though he was reaching for it. “Girls get like that when you’re—” He made a vague motion with a bottle. “On ‘em too much.”
“I’m not on her.”
“I’m not saying you are.” He shrugged. “I’m saying you’re doing the whole—” He made another lazy motion. “Apartment. Rings. The you’re gonna do this with her, you’re gonna do that. Every time you talk about her.” He kept his eyes on the water. He kept his voice in the register that couldn't be weighed. “If some girl was telling me what to do with my life, I’d get weird about it, too. That’s my hunch.”
It wasn’t a hunch so much as it was him molding the exact words you’d said to him about Topper only a few nights ago. Rafe had taken it and scrubbed every fingerprint off of it, scrubbed you off of it, until it was dull and safe enough to hand to your boyfriend.
He watched Topper receive it exactly as that, as a hunch.
“You think I should back off?”
“I think—” Yes. Back off. Loosen the hold you’ve got so the other guy can—“I have no clue. Girls come back around.”
And Rafe’s words may have meant even a little bit of something if, within two hours of the conversation, he didn’t have you on top of him, the tailgate down and the night doing its loud thing past the trees, and Rafe had his hand flat on your back between your shoulder blades.
Your cheek was on his chest and you weren't talking, and Rafe was finding out for the hundredth time that he didn't know what to do with this part.
The sex he understood. This—the after, your weight settled all the way down onto him like you'd stopped holding any of it up, your breathing gone slow—this he still had no instructions for. So he stayed still and let you be heavy on him and looked at the dark shape of the trees.
“Can I say something bad?” you said against his chest.
“Obviously.”
“Dean, that guy at the party tonight.” You picked at a thread on the moving blanket where it had pilled. “I think he’s annoying. He was hitting on Madi and she wasn’t into it.”
Rafe huffed, the laugh moving up through his chest under your cheek. “What’s annoying about him?”
“He said my name like nine times in two minutes. He did the same thing to her. It makes me trust him less.”
“That’s so mean.” Rafe felt himself blow out an amused breath. “You’re so mean. Nobody knows.”
“Don’t tell.”
That was even more amusing. “Who am I gonna tell? Barry?” His hand moved on your back, down, stayed. “He’d probably forget in two seconds.”
“I can’t believe he’s the person that makes you go to The Cut.”
“And he beats me up sometimes.” He felt his palm slightly push your body down against him, as if you could get any closer. “Barry would love you.”
“Your dealer,” you said flatly. “Thanks.”
"Don’t ever meet him, though.”
His hand flattened against your back, drawing you up the half-inch it took to put your face level with his.
His lips found yours slow, a kiss with no chase behind it. His hand cradled the back of your skull off the cold metal, like there was all the time in the world. He felt you sink into it; that was getting easier, as though you’d stopped being scared of how easy.
When he pulled back, his mouth stayed close. “You going to that dinner with Top’s lacrosse buddies on Friday?”
“I’m supposed to.”
His thumb moved at your jaw. “You’ll want to die.”
“I told him I’d go.”
Rafe shrugged. “Tell him you’re tired. Pretty sure my house is gonna be empty Friday, too.”
You took a shaky breath and dropped your head into the crook of his neck. “That’s such a shitty thing to do.”
“Yeah.” His hand went still at your jaw, and he felt his chin involuntarily dip to rest against the top of your head. “You gonna do it?”
“Maybe,” you said, voice muffled against his body.
He moved his hand up to the back of your head again. “Good.”
That should have been all the night asked from him, the two of you going quiet, him heavy and stupid and content underneath you in a way he’d never tell a living soul he was capable of being. He’d half-decided not to move for an hour; he had the whole thing planned, to stay right there.
The phone went off on the floor of the backseat.
He groaned, low, the whole of it vibrating up his chest and into your cheek. “No.”
“Rafe—”
“No.” He pulled you in tighter, an arm banded across your back, like he could keep both of you out of range by its sheer hold. The phone continued buzzing against the floormat, ugly and insistent. “Not right now.”
You were laughing slightly, you'd tipped your face up off his chest, and he felt the warmth of it more than heard it. “Could be important.”
“Yeah? Could be your boyfriend,” he said, teasing.
You exhaled. “I hate you.”
He laughed then, feeling it move up him easily. “Yeah. Okay.”
“You’re the worst person I know,” you said it into his neck, where you'd tucked your face again, and your breath was warm there and your hand had gone back to the hem of his shirt, the idle pulling thing, no point to it.
He tilted his chin slightly downwards to press his lips against the top of your head. “That’s okay.”
You were smiling, he could feel the shape of it against his throat. The phone was still going on the floormat and neither of you were looking at it, and Rafe thought, for a moment, that he would have signed anything to keep the night exactly here. Not further, not better, only here.
The phone stopped, and he let out a breath slowly. Then, it immediately started again. This time, he felt the change go through his body—the warmth pulled out of him in one motion, the loose gone, everything in him drawing up into the old brace—because nobody rang twice back to back at this hour. Except for the one person who had never, in twenty years, accepted a thing Rafe didn't pick up as anything other than a thing Rafe was going to pay for.
The smile went out of you against his neck, and you got very still, and your hand stopped its idle work and just rested flat over his chest, over the place his heart had started doing the wrong rhythm.
“You should get it,” you said.
“Yeah.” He kept you there through one more buzz, and one more, taking the last of it while it was still his to take. “Yeah. Okay.”
He got the phone off the floor without letting go of you. That took some doing; a long reach down the side of the seat with one arm while the other stayed banded across your back. He came back up with it and you stayed exactly where you were, your cheek over his heart, and he answered with his thumb and put it to his ear and did not move you one inch.
“Yeah,” he said into the phone. He put his free hand into your hair, slowly dragging his fingers against your scalp, the small idle motion his body reached for the way it reached for the truck door, automatic, before the part of him that named things had any say. “...No, I lost track of time.”
Ward’s voice then came clipped down the line, and Rafe shut his eyes against the dome light and let it fill his ears, hardly processing it. His thumb found the shell of your ear and was tracing it, completely out of sync with the thing going up his spine.
“Yeah. The Fischers. I know. I know.” He didn’t know. It was a blank where a plan should have been, one more thing he’d been told and lost. He listened through Ward’s of course you forgot speech, let it go on without interruption. “I’ll be there. Twenty minutes.”
He kept his hand moving on you the whole time, going down your spine now in one long stroke then back up. He half-forgot you could feel it, that you weren’t simply just a warmth but a person who could feel every inch of this. He pressed you down against his chest, firmer, on the hard part of it, and felt his own heart going at the wrong speed under where your cheek was and couldn't make it stop.
“I said I’ll be there.” The edge came up despite him trying to train himself to keep it out when talking to his father. He hated it the second it was out, because the edge was a tell, the edge told Ward he'd gotten in, and he should never let Ward know he'd gotten in. He flattened it back down. “Twenty minutes—yeah. Okay. Okay.”
He hung up.
His hand was still buried in your hair, his heart still wrong under your cheek, and he kept his eyes on the roof of the cab and waited for himself to come back from wherever the phone had sent him.
That was a thing that took a beat, the return, and you knew it took a beat, and he could tell you knew because you didn't move and didn't ask, you just stayed heavy on him and let him do it.
Rafe thought, not for the first time, that you'd somehow learned the one thing about him almost nobody had ever bothered to; that the worst moment to reach for him was the moment right after, and the kindest thing was to just be there and weigh something and wait.
“Sorry,” he said to the roof, voice coming out rough. He tipped his face down then, into your hair, breathing you in. “M’Sorry. I gotta go. I’ll drop you home.”
“Right now?” you asked, voice muffled against him.
“Mm.” His arm tightened around you, body lying to his mouth again. “Not yet.”
He stayed under you for a second he didn’t have. He'd be late. He was always going to be a little late to Ward; might as well earn it.
But he did push himself to sit up, and he got his arm that was around you to bring you up as he came off the seat-back, the blanket sliding. Your legs ended up across his lap and his hand stayed flat against your spine. He held you there a beat, upright now, your face level with his in the dome light, and he could see the leftover softness in you not entirely cleared yet, the you that came out here and nowhere else.
Rafe had no idea when he’d agreed to let you look through his closet, but he had. It was almost four in the morning, and you were standing in the open mouth of his closet in one of his t-shirts and nothing he was going to be able to think about clearly, going through his clothes like this was something you just really wanted to do.
He’d put himself on the bed on purpose; it was a safe distance from whatever that was happening, which was you, sliding hangers down the rail one at a time, considering. Rafe was lying back on his elbows pretending the sight of you in his bedroom like this wasn’t doing anything to him.
He’d let it slip on accident, post-haze, that he had to meet Ward’s friends for dinner tomorrow. He’d wanted it to come off as light, carry no weight, because he, three months in, still didn’t want you to see him as a person who was afraid of a simple, stupid dinner with his dad and his asshole friends flying in from fuck-knows-where.
“What’s the dinner for?” you’d asked him.
“Don’t know. Ward wants me there to—” Rafe rolled a shoulder, his lips involuntarily curving into a grimace. “Impress them or something. No idea. Don’t even know what I’m gonna wear.”
Rafe was mildly surprised when you asked him, voice so stupidly lighthearted, if you could help him. And now you were humming, low, as you pulled a jacket halfway out, looked at it, and put it back.
Somewhere along the way, he’d understood that you’d started being able to read him, too. Maybe not in the way he had been reading you for years, but you’d started to understand his tells. He had a lot of those.
You were standing in his closet frowning at his clothes because you’d worked out, from a sentence he'd stripped all the weight off of, that he was scared, and you were trying to help. The way a person helps another person they don't want to watch walk into something alone.
And Rafe felt his whole body go wrong about it.
He was finding out the hard way that being looked after did the opposite of soothe him; he watched you take him seriously, and every reasonable part of him understood this was a good thing happening to him.
And the rest of him, the older and more reliable part, the part that had been doing Rafe's load-bearing since he was a kid, stood up and started checking the exits.
He couldn’t lose a thing he never had. And you, trying to help him be a son his father could stand to look at, you were a thing he was, very obviously, in the disastrous process of having. Maybe not completely, but it was the most he had ever had.
And the better it felt—and it felt like a hand on the back of his neck and being the right size—the more it was going to cost him later. And Rafe’s nervous system ignored the later was later, for it had started accounting now.
So he reached for the other thing. “C’mere,” he said.
You glanced over at him—a short look, unbothered, God, when had you started being able to be so fucking mean?—and then went back to the rail. “In a second,” you said.
“Now’s good,” he said flatly.
You pulled another shirt out and held it up against the dark of the closet. “I’m finding a shirt.”
“Yeah.” He pushed himself up off his elbows and sat up, feet against the floor. He heard his own voice drop a register. “Come find it here.”
“Doesn’t even make sense,” you murmured.
You slid another hanger down, completely unbothered by him, and that was the part of it all that had been killing him lately, you’d stopped being nervous around him. He wasn’t sure when it had happened, and he knew he’d never be able to undo it.
“Are you cold?” he tried again.
“Not really.” You pulled out a navy button-down, considered it, turned. “Why are you being weird?”
“I’m not being weird.”
“You’re being so weird.” You looked at him, and Rafe had a feeling you were realizing that he was reaching for you because you were being so kind to him and it had gotten too big for Rafe to be in a room with, and sex was the only thing Rafe knew how to do with his hands that wasn't standing still inside something good. “You’re gonna distract me,” you said instead.
“Not trying to.”
“You’re completely trying to,” you said lightly, and then you went back to his clothes.
“This one,” you said after a moment. You'd pulled a shirt. You turned around with it, held it up against him from a few feet off, your head tipped, your eyes doing the careful work. “Navy. You look good in navy.”
“You think?” He wanted to hit himself for how fast he asked. “That the one?”
“Mhm,” you hummed breezily. “And it’ll make your dad shut up.”
Rafe sat there and let you look at him, and felt the fight go out of him the way air goes out of a thing, slow, and without much ceremony. He’d spent twenty years not being allowed things, mostly by himself, mostly on purpose, and he was sitting on his own bed with a girl holding a shirt up against his chest and trying to help him not get hurt tomorrow, and he found he did not, tonight, have it in him to keep the door shut. So he didn’t hold it.
He swallowed, then forced out a laugh. “Probably not, but that’s a good one.”
You crossed the room when you were done with the shirt—laid it over the back of his desk and everything—and came to stand between his knees. Rafe got his hands to your waist because they’d been idling the whole time just waiting for you.
You were warm through his shirt. You smelled like his room now.
“You’re gonna be fine tomorrow,” you said, voice completely sure.
“Mhm.” His palms tightened around your waist then, slightly tugging you forward. “You gonna come back to bed now?”
“You’re so impatient,” you said, but you let him pull you, your knees bracketing his as you settled into his lap like you’d done it a hundred times, which—Rafe did the calculation—you basically had.
His hands found the small of your back and stayed there. “Because you didn’t come to bed.”
“I was busy.” You looped your arms loose around his neck, looking down at him. “Someone’s gotta dress you.”
“I can dress myself.”
“Clearly.” You glanced at the floor, at the four shirts he'd left in a heap before you got here, and back at him, brow up.
He snorted, and you went quiet, your fingers playing idle with the hair at the back of his neck.
“Oh. Saturday,” you said after a minute, “Ruthie finally got Topper to do that lunch at the yacht club.” You shrugged. “Till like five.”
It took him a second to process the words. “The whole day?”
“Yeah, I think so. Whole day.” you said quietly. There was something almost shy folded into it, like you'd handed him something and weren't sure he'd want it.
pov. it’s been a while since you’d last seen rafe, you changed. you’re not nerdy anymore, you have a boyfriend that- wait. what?
notes. this is the heavily requested part two of my fanfic of nerd x frat boy rafe!
content warnings. ⸝⸝ fem reader, cheating, flirting, teasing, sex, degrading, no proof read, action/mention of alcohol, sex,
a whole summer had past since you lost your virginity and seen rafe last. the frat parties came easier, men came to you more and alcohol didn’t burn your throat as much. you gained friends, still deep in study but not as much.
“shots, shots, shots!” your friends chant as you tossed the alcohol that was in the shot glass to the back of your throat, heating gaining in his throat as the bitter alcohol burned your throat.
“woo!” your friend squealed out, laughing softly. you exhale out, blowing out as if your mouth was on fire. “oh my god that is the worst.” you complained before laughing once again.
your friends go quiet before one whistled under her breath. “don’t look but there’s this hot guy staring at you.” your friend said, pretending as if she wasn’t talking about the guy but instead making more for the group to drink.
even though they told you not to look, you obviously turned to look over your shoulder and there was rafe.
“i told you not to look!” your friend snickered before you laugh softly, looking back at your group. “i’ll be back, okay?” you ask, they nod and smile at each other, assuming you were gonna go get the guy’s number.
you walk up to rafe. the bass from the speakers vibrates through the sticky floor under your heels as you weave through the crowded room, your once oversized sweaters and glasses long replaced by a tight little dress that hugs every curve you had finally started embracing.
rafe stands there against the wall like he owns the place, that same cocky smirk playing on his lips as his eyes drag up and down your body, taking in the transformation that a single summer had carved into you.
his eyebrows lift slightly in genuine surprise, the last memory he had of you being the shy, book obsessed girl who blushed at every touch and fumbled through her first time with him in a haze of nervous whispers and tangled sheets.
he pushes off the wall as you get closer, his tall frame cutting through the dim lights and swirling bodies like nothing else in the room matters. “well fuck me,” he drawls, voice low and rough over the music, “look at you. didn’t think you’d be the type to show up at these things.” you stop just a step away from him, close enough to catch the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with whatever expensive drink he’s been nursing, and you tilt your head with a small, confident smile that feels new on your lips.
the old version of you would have stammered or hidden behind her hair, but tonight you hold his gaze, letting the heat of the party and the lingering buzz from that shot loosen your tongue.
“yeah, things changed over the summer,” you say, your voice carrying just enough edge to match the thump of the bass. “i’m letting go a little, you know? less buried in textbooks every night, more of this… living.” you gesture vaguely around the chaotic frat house, the laughter, the spilled drinks, the way people move without caring about tomorrow’s exams.
rafe’s eyes narrow a bit, that smirk deepening as he steps even closer, his hand brushing lightly against your waist like he’s testing if this new you is real or just some illusion from the lights.
the touch sends a familiar spark through you, reminding you of that night months ago when he had been the one to unravel all your careful control.
he chuckles softly, the sound vibrating between you as he leans in, lips close to your ear so you can hear him clearly over the noise. “yeah? you’re a bad girl now?” the words roll off his tongue with that mix of teasing and something darker, hungrier, his fingers pressing a little firmer into your side as if he’s already imagining peeling this dress off you later.
you feel the flush creep up your neck but you don’t pull away, instead letting your own hand rest against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under the thin fabric of his shirt.
the party swirls on around you both, but in this little bubble it feels like the summer apart had built up to exactly this moment, the nerdy girl he once knew now standing here transformed and ready to match whatever energy he throws your way.
rafe’s fingers stay firm on your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer so the heat of his body cuts through the hazy party air, his breath warm against your ear as that low chuckle fades. “yeah? you’re a bad girl now?” he repeats, the words laced with amusement and something sharper, like he’s already peeling back the layers of this new version of you.
you bite your lip, feeling the rush of the alcohol and the thrill of his attention mixing together, and you nod slowly, your hand still pressed to his chest where his heart thuds steady and strong.
the music pulses around you, bodies grinding on the dance floor just a few feet away, but all you can focus on is the way his eyes lock onto yours, low and assessing, like he’s deciding exactly how far this changed girl is willing to go.
“so what’s the deal,” he murmurs after a beat, his thumb tracing a slow circle against the fabric of your tight dress, right over your hip. “you got a boyfriend now? girl like you, looking like this at a party… probably got some guy thinking he’s locking it down.” his tone is casual but there’s an edge to it, testing the waters as he watches your face closely, that signature rafe smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
you hesitate for just a second, the old nerdy instincts flickering somewhere deep down, but the summer of parties and freedom wins out. you let out a soft laugh and nod, meeting his gaze without flinching. “yeah, i do,” you admit, voice steady even as your pulse quickens under his touch. “he’s nice. treats me good. we’ve been together a couple months now.” you say, smiling.
rafe doesn’t pull back. instead he leans in even more, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as the crowd seems to fade into background noise. “nice, huh?” he echoes, the word dripping with disbelief and a hint of mockery.
his hand slides lower, possessive, fingers splaying across the small of your back as he keeps you close.
“bet he’s real sweet. probably fucks you soft and slow, tells you how pretty you are after. but tell me this… you really happy with that? or you standing here letting me touch you like this because deep down you remember how it felt when i had you that night?” his voice drops lower, rough and intimate, sending heat straight through your core as he tests you, pushing to see if this party girl facade hides the same girl who secretly craves more than nice.
you feel your breath catch, the memory of that summer night flashing hot behind your eyes. his hands, his mouth, the way he’d taken control so completely.
rafe notices the way your body reacts, the subtle shift in your stance, and he presses on with that dangerous smirk, eyes flicking down to your lips before meeting your gaze again.
rafe didn’t waste much time after that charged conversation on the edge of the party.
one thing led to another, his hand sliding down to grip your ass right there in the crowd, your lips crashing into his in a messy kiss that tasted like cheap shots and bad decisions, and before you knew it the two of you were slipping out the back door and into his truck.
the drive to his place was a blur of heated touches and half formed excuses you told yourself about how this was just one night, just catching up, but the second his door clicked shut behind you both the restraint snapped.
clothes came off in a frantic trail from the living room to his bedroom, your tight little dress hitting the floor last as he shoved you back onto his bed with that same cocky hunger in his eyes.
now he’s got you pinned beneath him, your legs wrapped tight around his waist as he thrusts deep into you, slow and deliberate at first, stretching you open just like he did that first night but with none of the gentle care this time.
the room is dark except for the city lights bleeding through the blinds, and the only sounds are your ragged breaths and the wet slap of skin on skin.
rafe’s hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, pulling you back onto his cock with every roll of his hips, burying himself to the hilt while he leans down close, lips brushing your ear.
“fuck, still so tight for me,” he groans, voice low and rough, “bet your nice little boyfriend doesn’t fuck you like this, does he? probably too scared to ruin his good girl.” he mocked.
you moan beneath him, nails digging into his shoulders as he picks up the pace, slamming into you harder, the headboard starting to knock against the wall in rhythm. rafe chuckles darkly against your neck, biting down just enough to make you gasp before he pulls back to look at your face, eyes gleaming with wicked satisfaction.
“yeah? you’re a bad girl now, huh? letting me raw you while he’s probably texting you goodnight right now, thinking you’re out with your friends being all innocent.” he grinds deep on the next thrust, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur, one hand sliding up to wrap loosely around your throat, not squeezing, just holding you there, possessively. as if he was jealous your little boyfriend had you and he didn’t.
“tell me, does he make you come like this? or do you have to fake it while you think about how i ruined this pussy first?” he asked. you couldn’t answer him.
his hips snap forward again and again, relentless, the slick sound of him fucking into you filling the room as sweat starts to slick your bodies.
you can barely form words, just broken whimpers and gasps, but rafe doesn’t let up, leaning in to suck a mark onto your collarbone where your boyfriend might see it later if you’re not careful.
“that’s it, take it,” he taunts between thrusts, voice dripping with smug amusement, “squeezing my cock so fucking good while you cheat on him. bet he has no idea his sweet little study girl is getting dicked down by the guy who popped her cherry. you gonna go home tomorrow and kiss him with the same mouth that was choking on me earlier?” he teased relentlessly.
rafe shifts, hooking one of your legs higher over his shoulder so he can drive even deeper, pounding into you with that brutal rhythm that has you trembling and clenching around him.
his free hand slips between your bodies, thumb circling your clit in tight, mean strokes, pushing you closer to the edge while he keeps whispering those filthy taunts right against your lips.
“c’mon, tell me how much better this feels than his boring shit. you’re not walking away from this easy, baby. not when you’re creaming all over my dick like the secret slut you really are.” the pleasure builds sharp and overwhelming, his words cutting through the haze, reminding you with every thrust exactly who you’re betraying and how much you’re enjoying it.
rafe’s hips snap forward with another deep, punishing thrust, burying his thick cock all the way inside you until his hips are flush against your ass, stretching your pussy so wide it burns in the best way.
you feel every inch of him, heavy and rock hard, pulsing against your walls as he fills you completely, the fat head of his dick pressing right up against that spot deep inside that makes your toes curl and your breath hitch.
“fuck, rafe,” you gasp out, voice breaking into a needy moan as your nails rake down his back, legs trembling around him. the sensation is overwhelming, his dick so much bigger than your boyfriend’s, thicker, longer, curving just right to drag against every sensitive ridge inside you with every single movement, making your cunt flutter and squeeze around him like it never wants to let go.
“you’re so much better than my boyfriend,” you whimper, the confession spilling out between broken moans as he grinds into you slow and filthy, letting you feel just how full you are.
“he’s not… he’s not like this. you’re so big, rafe—god, i can feel you everywhere, stretching me so fucking deep.” your words only make him groan, a dark, satisfied sound that vibrates against your skin as he pulls back almost all the way, the thick vein along his shaft dragging deliciously against your slick walls, before slamming back in hard enough to make your tits bounce and the bed creaks louder.
“yeah? that’s what i thought,” rafe taunts, voice low and rough right against your ear, his breath hot as he keeps that brutal rhythm, pounding into your dripping pussy like he owns it.
“your nice little boyfriend probably has a tiny dick, doesn’t he? can’t even fill you up properly, and here you are creaming all over mine like a desperate little slut.” he hooks your leg higher, spreading you wider so he can watch his cock disappear inside you, shiny with your juices, stretching your tight hole obscenely around his girth.
every thrust makes you feel so impossibly full, the pressure building in your belly as his heavy balls slap against your ass, the wet squelching sounds echoing filthy in the room.
“bet he fucks you for two minutes and calls it a night while you lay there disappointed. but me? i’m ruining this pussy again, baby. you feel that? how deep i am? how your cunt’s gripping me like it missed this fat cock all summer.” he taunted.
he leans down, sucking a fresh mark onto your neck as he rails you harder, thumb still working tight circles over your swollen clit, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through you.
your walls clamp down around him with every thrust, the fullness so intense it borders on too much, his dick hitting spots your boyfriend could never reach, making your eyes roll back and your moans turn into shameless cries.
“tell him i said thanks for keeping my pussy warm,” rafe growls, smirking against your skin while he fucks you senseless, hips snapping relentlessly. “you’re gonna go home sore tomorrow, walking funny because i stretched you out so good. does he even know his girlfriend’s a cheating whore now? taking dick better than he ever could while moaning my name?”
rafe’s pace turns punishing, driving into you faster, deeper, the head of his cock bullying that sweet spot over and over until your whole body shakes, the overwhelming stretch and drag of his thick length pushing you right to the edge.
“that’s it, say it again,” he demands, hand tightening on your throat just enough to make everything feel sharper, hotter. “tell me how much bigger i am, how much better i fuck you. your boyfriend could never make you feel like this—full, ruined, and dripping like the bad girl you really are.” he taunted once more.
rafe keeps pounding into you with that relentless rhythm, his thick cock stretching your soaked pussy wide open with every brutal thrust, the heavy drag of his veiny shaft rubbing perfectly against your fluttering walls and making your eyes water from the overwhelming fullness.
he’s so deep it feels like he’s rearranging your insides, the fat head of his dick kissing your cervix on every stroke while your cunt clenches greedily around his girth, milking him for everything he’s worth.
sweat slicks your bodies, your tits bouncing with the force of his hips slamming into yours, and the wet, obscene sounds of him fucking your dripping hole fill the room like the filthiest soundtrack.
“fuck, listen to you,” he growls, that smug smirk never leaving his face as he hooks both your legs over his shoulders, folding you in half so he can drive even deeper.
“you really want my baby instead of your boyfriend’s, don’t you? imagine that. your nice guy waiting at home while i knock you up with my kid. you’d walk around with my cum leaking out of you for days, belly swelling up, tits getting all full… bet he’d never suspect his sweet little girlfriend got bred by the guy who ruined her first.” his words are pure taunt, dripping with cruel amusement as he grinds his cock against that spot inside you that makes your vision spark white, thumb still torturing your swollen clit in tight, mean circles.
you’re a mess beneath him, moaning and shaking, the pressure building so intensely you can barely think.
“please, rafe,” you beg, voice cracking into a desperate whine as your nails dig into his biceps, legs trembling from the stretch.
“cum inside me—please, i need it. fill me up, i want your cum so bad.” the words tumble out shamelessly, your pussy spasming hard around his thick length at the confession, sucking him even deeper as if your body is already begging for it.
rafe laughs low and dark, hips snapping forward harder as he chases his release. “yeah? you want me to pump you full while your boyfriend sits clueless? pathetic little slut.” he buries himself to the hilt one last time and groans, thick ropes of hot cum flooding your pussy in heavy spurts, painting your walls and filling you so full you can feel your belly swell slightly from the sheer amount.
even as he’s cumming, he doesn’t stop taunting, voice rough and breathless against your ear. “that’s it, take every drop. your boyfriend could never give you a load like this—bet his weak ass pulls out or some shit. now you’re gonna go home with my cum dripping down your thighs, wondering if i just got you pregnant while he kisses you goodnight.”
he keeps fucking into you even after he finishes, slow and filthy thrusts pushing his load deeper, the wet squelch of his cum mixing with your juices making it even messier as he rides out the sensitivity.
his cock stays hard inside your overstuffed cunt, still stretching you obscenely, dragging through the creamy mess he just made. the overstimulation has you whimpering, clenching around him as another wave builds fast, and rafe just smirks, grinding deep and relentless.
“feel that? my cum sloshing around in there while i keep using this cheating pussy.” he picks up speed again, slamming into you with fresh hunger until his second orgasm hits, groaning as he pumps even more cum into you, flooding your already full hole until it starts leaking out around his thick shaft with every thrust.
It wasn’t like you’d meant to distract Rafe while he was on the phone; you knew better than that. But when you heard who he was talking to, you couldn’t help but feel a sharp thread of envy bubble in your stomach, and before you knew it, you slid your hands beneath the waistband of his jeans, easing the zipper down and tugging the fabric just enough to free him.
“Yeah, I’ll- fuck - sorry, stubbed my toe. I’ll see if I can take the boat out for jus’ the two of us.” Rafe breathed out, trying not to moan as you licked a stripe up from the base of his cock to his tip, feeling the ridges of his veins on the flat of your tongue. A pattern you’d almost memorized on every part of your body that could have ever touched it, your mouth, your hands, the plush walls of your insides. The phone’s speaker was tilted away as Rafe whispered your name in a scolding tone, “Cut that shit out.”
The way his face looked at you with both desperation and domination only made the butterflies in your stomach flutter even more, like they fed off of the realization that even with some other girl demanding his attention, it was still you he reacted to first, like it was his instinct, his loyalty to you written into his bones.
You softly smiled up at him, eyes wide and doe-eyed, as you kitten-licked the precum that leaked from his tip, his cock glistening red and hardened as it twitched from the sensation. You wrapped your lips around the head, sucking gently and hollowing your cheeks as you took him deeper, revelling in the way his hand immediately flew to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair to ground himself.
“Y-yeah, Stacey, that sounds perfect,” Rafe choked out, his voice was tight and strained as he fought to keep his composure. He watched you through half-lidded eyes, jaw tight as you bobbed your head, taking him further into your mouth until he hit the back of your throat. You relaxed your jaw and hollowed your mouth, allowing Rafe to buck his hips and fuck your mouth slowly, the wet heat of your tongue dragging against the sensitive underside of his shaft.
The heat in your core started to pulse, your thighs suddenly slick, and the need for Rafe to solely focus on you became more urgent as you ground yourself against your hand to try and relieve some tension. Was it so wrong that he only had eyes for you, or that the boat was your thing only? As Rafe continued to thrust into your mouth, he couldn’t help but take in the sight of you, taking him whole and almost completely at his mercy, solely because you were jealous of who he’d been talking to. It wasn’t like he was blind to it; he knew it’d spark the possessive side in you, the side he wished you’d show more often.
Rafe could do whatever he wanted, have whatever he pleased, and genuinely could not give a flying fuck as to what others thought. However, the one thing he’d always wished for was for you to stop pretending you didn’t care. To stop softening the edges of your jealousy, to stop playing it off when he knew damn well how deeply you felt things. He wanted you to be selfish, wanting him loudly, claiming him without apology.
“Dinner sounds good, what time were you thinking?”
You immediately hummed around him in amusement, the vibrations travelling straight through his cock and making him buck his hips involuntarily. You choked a little louder than you would’ve liked, leading Rafe to glare at you as a silent warning to behave. But his pupils widening and now darkened blue eyes gave away how much he was enjoying this. You doubled down, swirling your tongue around the tip before sinking back down, taking him to the hilt and swallowing around him.
“Seven works,” Rafe gritted out, his hand in your hair tugging at your roots as he tried to take control again. “I’ll uh- I’ll pick you up, yeah?” Jus’ you and me, no one else.” He paused, listening to her response. Feeling a surge of possessiveness in you, you hollowed your cheeks and swallowed hard, pulling back with a loud pop which led Rafe to hiss through his teeth into the phone. “Nah I’m just… handling some business right now. But I’m looking forward to Thursday.”
You smirked up at him, drool gathering at the corner of your mouth as you stroked him with your hand, slick with your spit. You leaned down to lap at his balls, taking one gently into your mouth and sucking, knowing it would wreck him.
“Ye-yeah fire away, what did you wanna ask?” Rafe managed to get out as he felt you take him in your mouth again, your fist twisting at the base of his cock as you bobbed your head, tasting him in the process. You heard your name being mentioned as you felt him swell in your mouth, the frantic throbbing pressed against your tongue.
“What does she have to do with this?” Rafe grunted, his hips bucking up involuntarily. His hand shot to the back of your head, not to push you away, but to hold you in place, to anchor himself as you took him to the hilt over and over again. The head of his cock was hitting the back of your throat with every downward plunge, and you just took it, swallowing around him, the constricting muscles milking him for all he was worth. “Listen you got a problem with her, then I-”
The dam that was built in Rafe for so long finally broke when he looked at the sight of you rubbing your clit while sucking him off with no mercy. He moaned out, thick and heavy, the first spurt of his release hitting the back of your throat. Rafe arched off the couch and buried his face in the crook of his arm, muffling the guttural sounds of his climax as you continued to work him through it, swallowing everything he gave you. His hips jerked with each pulse, a helpless, violent rhythm that spoke of his complete and total surrender to the pleasure you were forcing on him.
Rafe finally came back to himself, his chest heaving. He pulled you off him gently, his cock slipping from your lips with a wet sound. He looked at you: your swollen lips, the smug yet innocent satisfaction in your eyes, and a dark, possessive fire ignited in his gut.
“Then I’m sorry, but this isn’t gonna work out. My best friend’s not a fucking threat.”
Rafe hung up the phone and tossed it to the side, his full attention snapping on you. “You think you’re fucking funny?” he growled, grabbing your hair and pulling you up to crash his lips against yours in a bruising kiss.
stormborns
titsay
areudirty
2087
theartofmadeline
amandla
gracieabrams
kianamaiart
tangentwithtanner
ellievsbear
discoholicmusic
andulkaphoto
blakekathryn
