Archive of Our Own

"I will cover you with love when next I see you, with caresses, with ecstasy. I want to gorge you with all the joys of the flesh, so that you faint and die. I want you to be amazed by me, and to confess to yourself that you had never even dreamed of such transports.... When you are old, I want you to recall those few hours, I want your dry bones to quiver with joy when you think of them." ~ Gustave Flaubert

Millennia ago, Michael Robinavitch's people had wandered in the desert, lost, afraid, searching for fulfillment of what was promised them — and, in the midst of it all, they'd called out to God for deliverance. Throats dry and lips cracked, they'd raised their sun-burnt and peeling arms towards the oppressive expanse of sky and wailed to Adonai to grant their salvation.

In the present day, Robby drags the flat of his tongue across his swollen bottom lip and screams for Jack.

"Jack, baby, please. Please, I need, fu—" the hand that cracks across his cheek is thin-fingered and olive brown. Long, navy-blue nails scratch along his beard over the same spot, drag down across the front of his throat and through the dark brown hair that circles his nipples, pulling on it hard enough that a few strands come loose in her grip.

"Jack can't help you right now," the voice coos in his ear. Another set of pale hands grip his wrists, stretch fingers along his forearms, and press his back more firmly to the bed. He writhes, supple felinity moving along his spine, his limbs, any part of him he can force movement into as he tries to escape the overwhelming feeling of his shoulder blades being pinned into the mattress, hips forced open and aching, thighs spread wide and knees forced towards his chest as a strong set of hips snap against his ass and he chokes on a scream. One voice laughs while the other makes a small, sad sound from behind him. It makes his already hard dick ache.

"Yolanda," McKay chides, "be nice."

"I thought I was," she quips back through gritted teeth, her palms pressing a little more firmly into the back of his thighs, opening him up another fraction of an inch.

The navy blue harness seems to glisten under the low lighting in the room, the brass hardware glinting back at Robby like a wink. He closes his eyes and remembers the angle of Garcia's hips as she'd lined up the thick, purple silicone with his already leaking hole, had grabbed his chin and forced him to meet her eyes as she'd slid smoothly inside him.

He shudders at the memory, the way it overlays the drag of Garcia's dick across his prostate. He moans, and writhes, and behind him, Cassie finally chuckles. "God, you weren't lying Jack. He really is the poster boy for taking it like a champ."

"Told you," the familiar gravelly voice drifts into Robby's consciousness from somewhere beyond the edge of the bed. "Go ahead, take your turn. He's ready."

Robby's eyes are clenched shut, every cell in his body focused on the way his rim is stretched around Yolanda, the skin raw and sore in the best way, and he wants to reach, wants to feel where he's being ripped in half, but when he goes to move his hand, he feels the firm resistance of Cassie's palms, and he wants to cry.

Thinks maybe he starts, tears joining the sweat already coating his face as he keens.

Garcia has stopped moving, and Cassie's hands aren't in his anymore, and he feels like he's going to tear apart at all the joints, going to sublaxate until he's a rag doll limp on the mattress, and even then he won't get to come again, he's going to be this hard and feverish, atavistically delirious even in death, and he's so convinced that maybe he's already dead and no one has told him yet, that he misses the slow circles Garcia has started rubbing into the back of his knee, can barely hear Cassie as she whispers in his ear.

"You're doing so good, Robby, Yoyo and I are so proud of you. You're so close to done sweetie, is that what you want? You want to come again?"

Robby nods like a clockwork prince, his neck cracking as he lets them know without words that there's nothing in the world he wants more.

"Yeah you fucking do," Garcia says and she rolls her hips, doesn't pull out any but somehow manages to press in more, and he's so full he doesn't think it much matters what they do to him. "Now open that smart teacher mouth of yours and let Cassie fuck your face until she squirts, yeah? Do that for mommy and I'll fuck you until you come."

There are so many things to be embarrassed about in his life.

The speed at which his jaw drops isn't one of them.

He's eaten a lot of pussy in his life. After surviving the 80s, it had still taken him far too long to realize that actually following through on his feelings for men was a path in life open to him, and in the meantime, he'd had a small-but-not-nonexistent number of female partners, all of whom had given him relatively positive feedback in the aftermath.

He has, he's been told, a nose for sitting.

Still, it wasn't something he'd had a lot of chance to do recently, so there's a moment of brief panic when he opens his eyes and rolls his head to the left, sees a strong, freckled hand curled in McKay's, helping her step up onto the unsteady mattress. A hand that lingers as she stands over him, until she's managed to straddle his chest and take a tiny step up towards his head. His hands come up and wrap around her ankles to help steady her, and he hears an approving hum from Jack.

She looks down at him, waves with the tips of her fingers. Her pupils are blown, he can see that from where he's lying, and her copper hair has come loose from its ponytail, half of it spilling down her shoulders, clinging to her neck, damp with sweat.

He licks his lips again, and she must take it as her final invitation, because in a move his 55-year-old knees envy, she drops to the mattress in a single move before taking a second to steady herself and lowering down the rest of the way onto his face. Her clit bumps against his nose, and he's flooded with her taste, warm and musky and delicious. He works her open with his tongue as best he can, but she's found a rhythm of her own, and it's all he can do to lick and suck and try to keep up with the steady flow of her that quickly coats his beard, the crest of his cheeks.

She reaches down and threads one hand into his hair, her rhythm stuttering as her hips jerk a little harder. "Ohhh, fuck," she says.

From somewhere above the water, Robby hears Garcia say, "good girl," and then the hand in his hair is pulling, hard, and there's a gush of warm liquid that flows down his throat and sprays out the sides of his mouth where he isn't fully fitted to her cunt. She screams, and Robby's tongue finds her folds, licks her clean even as she continues to drip onto his beard, the crest of his nose, the top of his shut eyelids.

"Jesus Christ," Garcia says, and it's the last thing she says before she lets loose, delivers on her promise and fucks straight into Robby's prostate so hard and so intensely that he wonders if it's possible to literally fuck through it.

He doesn't get the chance to find out, because McKay pulls his hair again, swings herself off of him, and slides behind him instead, uses her hands to lift his head so that he can watch.

And Yolanda is a fucking vision. Her tits bounce with the effort of pounding into him, her coffee-brown nipples visible through the lace making his mouth water as she tosses a strand of hair out of her eyes and leans back a little, braces her hands on her hips and gives him a wicked little smile as she fucks into him.

"Gonna come for me, Dr. Robby?" She winks and pulls out, all the way out, and he sobs, the sudden emptiness so much more painful, and she gives him a teasing little pout.

She leans forward just enough to flick the tip of his dick before she slams back into him in one smooth, hard stroke, and he whites out.

He comes, and it rocks through his body like an explosion. Every muscle goes taut, and tears spill out of the corner of his eyes as his hips buck and his back writhes off the back of the table.

A few thin streams trickle out of the end of his dick as his body tries to force out what it simply does not have. He feels each and every one of his abdominal muscles as they tense, relax, and tense again. He's screaming, but there's no noise because his throat is dry, too, and for a second he wonders if this somehow answers that age-old question about trees and woods and who can hear what.

If a fifty-five year old man comes hard enough to scream, but has no sound left to produce, did he even really come?

And then Garcia fucks into him one final time, a brutal press into the meat of his prostate, and for a split second, he actually passes out.

So he feels it, but he doesn't, when Garcia slips out of him, drops the harness to the floor, and grabs Cassie's hand, helping her scoot off the bed; and he's conscious without being present when they both press a kiss to his cheek, Garcia's with an added little lick to the end of his still-wet nose, and say, "Happy birthday, Dr. Robby."

After being together for almost a decade, and friends for a lot longer than that, there weren't a lot of gifts that Jack Abbot and Michael Robinavitch could still get each other with any amount of assumed surprise. It was one of the many small things they traded for the lived-in comfort of their life together, but long ago gifts had become more of a "pre-agreed upon large-scale purchase" than anything else.

Which is why it was such a surprise to Jack when, one night shortly before Michael's 55th birthday, he'd carded his hand through Jack's hair and said, "well, if you're really asking, I suppose there is this one thing, but. I want this stated with the full caveat that this is for informational purposes only, got it?"

Jack had leaned back just enough to meet Mikey's eyes, give him a little nod, and smile that impish little smile that said, "promise…unless I change my mind."

And that was how Jack Abbot had come to learn that for as long as they had known each other, Michael Robinavitch had wanted, for lack of better terms, a train run on him.

"Of course," he'd rushed to add, "only with people we both trusted, who've been tested and signed some kind of, I don't know, non-disclosure something, gah, could you imagine the HR nightmare?"

"HR? So you're imagining this as mostly work people?"

Robby had shrunk a little, shrugged and blushed in that way that made Jack want to be a painter, a photographer, some kind of artist who could actually do justice to Robby. Instead, he let his eyes feast their fill and put the most energy he could into being the most grateful of observers. "I…I dunno. Yes? I guess in my head, I mean. I don't really know anyone who isn't a 'work person'? So I'm not sure who else it would be."

Jack chuckled, slid up Michael's side, and pulled him close enough to whisper, "I know for a fact that the better half of Pittsburgh's twinks and leather daddies would pay good money for the chance to be inside that elusive Dr. Robinavitch, so. We could find non-work people. Hypothetically."

"H-hypothetically," he stuttered, his voice choked and whisper-thin. He looked like he was considering it, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, and Jack reached out with a steady hand and used his thumb to ease the soft pink skin out from under Robby's sharp incisor. When Robby met his eyes again, he shook his head, the brown deep enough for Jack to drown in. "No strangers," and Jack nodded.

He gets it. He really does.

He pressed a kiss to Robby's temple, and the gears in his mind whirred to life.

He slid his hand under Robby's knee, hitched his thigh back up over Jack's hip as he slipped one finger inside, and the loose outlines of a plan began to form.

He bit down, hard, on the place where Robby's neck and shoulder meet, and Robby spilled over his hand, and Jack had the first three items on his to-do list set.

He's going to give Mikey one hell of a birthday.

It ends up being so much easier than he would've thought, to plan this specific kind of birthday party for Michael. He asks Dennis first, off the cuff over dinner the next night he joins them. Dennis, as he expects, just blushes furiously, asks twice if he's sure, and then grins and says, "fuck yeah" with the obscene confidence of a twenty-seven-year-old with two boyfriends.

He gets the rapid-fire guaranteed yeses he expects from Langdon and Heather, and is surprised to see Mel chime in pretty quickly after Langdon does. He would've thought she might have taken a bit more feeling out. As it is, he also gets the immediate rejections he's anticipating — Trinity is out, with a series of green-faced nauseous emojis, and Dana declines with an "I don't even wanna know, kid" before he gets a real chance to loop her in on what he's thinking.

He's sure Dana's seen wilder parties in her days, but he thinks he gets why this is one she's going to skip out on.

They're two weeks out from the party when he finally hears back in the affirmative from Garcia and McKay, who were his last two hold-outs. Which is good, because he's starting to get a headache from the logistics of it all.

Jack had gone ahead and booked them the Presidential Suite at the Oaklander Hotel, which at least meant he didn't have to worry so much about getting their place ready, but that didn't mean there wasn't still an ever-growing list of tasks he suddenly found himself responsible for.

At the very top of which was making sure that everyone who texted him back an affirmative response also sent him a picture of their negative HIV/STD screen dated within the last week.

He also had to make sure everyone signed a copy of a pretty boilerplate NDA. He'd called in a favor with a lawyer vet friend of his, who had drafted something which guaranteed, essentially, that as long as everyone kept their mouth shut about what they did and what they saw, everything that night was going to go off without a hitch.

Jack didn't really think it was necessary, but he knew Michael would worry without it, and he was pretty sure he wasn't the only one. Mel had practically gone boneless with relief when Jack had slid her the manila folder, explaining that yes, in fact, everyone was getting one and yes, they'd have to sign it.

Really, there was just one hitch in the plan.

There was almost always one hitch in the plan.

"C'mon, man," Shen says, trailing after Abbot as he powers his way down the hall from Central towards the ambulance bay doors. MVC on the way in, and he can feel the synapses in his brain lighting up as his boots squeak on the linoleum and his amputation site tingles faintly in the distance. "You know I hate needles."

Jack snorts. It's the ultimate irony of ironies, and he will never understand how any doctor makes it all the way to practicing with a phobia of needles, let alone to emergency trauma attending, but. Here they are.

"Besides," Shen says, angling his body sideways as the gurney rolls past him. He falls in line at the head of the bed while Jack's hand wraps around the metal frame of the gurney sidebar. "I figured you guys probably had enough actors — I was hoping maybe you'd need another set of eyes just in the audience."

Jack misses a step, he whips his head around so fast to look at Shen, whose attention is focused on the monitor as their patient's heart slips out of sinus rhythm and into V-tach. His eyebrows dip together. "So, you just want to…attend?"

Shen politely ignores the pun.

"I'm saying every good performance deserves an audience. And I love to watch." He meets Jack's eye for a second and Jack nods, a smile creeping onto his face.

"Well I'll be damned, Shen. Alright, just make sure your paperwork is in my hands by end of day tomorrow." And with a small answering nod from Shen, they return to the incidental background task of saving a life.

And from that point on, it's really as easy as organizing any other party. He fields questions about silly things like "dress code" ('whatever you're comfortable in'), provided refreshments ('open bar, but be gentle you heathens, anything else you're going to have to bring yourself, and don't be a dick, bring enough to share') and accommodations ('there's one full-size king, and a couch, and according to the pictures, a table in the dining area that should do just fine as long as no one gets too acrobatic').

It's a low-level buzz of annoyance that remains the entire time, just behind his eyeballs, reminding him why he doesn't plan parties, as a rule.

Then again, he's always broken all of his own rules for Mikey. What better time to keep with that particular tradition than his birthday?

The day dawns as does just about every other for Robby. The only difference is that from the second his eyes drift open, he feels like he's got a live wire running under his skin, freshly stripped of all its insulation and threatening to set him on fire.

Jack slides a short stack of pancakes onto his plate, places the jar of Robby's favorite strawberry syrup next to it and kisses him on the head, rolls his cheek to the side and speaks softly into the dark curls, more silver today than they had been the day before that. "Happy birthday, Robinavitch."

Robby hums and turns his head, tries to crane his neck around far enough, but something in his shoulder screams at him, and he settles for placing a kiss on the inside of Jack's elbow instead. "Thanks," he says, picking up his fork and filling his mouth with pancakes so that he doesn't have to think of anything else to say. He has, in his experience, only ever had middling birthdays, and he didn't want to jinx this one.

In fact, if he hadn't heard all the furtive, half-whispered conversations around the pit, hadn't noticed the sizeable uptick in texts Jack had been fielding, didn't distinctly remember each and every word of the conversation about exactly what kind of birthday party Robby wanted to have — he might be tempted to think it isn't happening at all. The way Jack leans back against the counter, right leg perched on the rollator they kept in the kitchen for when he needs to make a quick trip between the stove and refrigerator, hips digging into the counter as he drinks his coffee and scrolls TikTok on his phone, he certainly doesn't look like his boyfriend is about to spend the rest of his day filled, wrung out, used in every conceivable way by some of their closest friends.

The thought makes a flash of heat lick up Robby's spine, dance along the collar of his suddenly too-tight undershirt, magnesium sparks that burn bright and leave a haze in their wake.

Jack looks up from his phone and winks, and for a split second Robby is afraid he might pass out.

He reaches for the carafe of coffee in the center of the table and Jack raises both eyebrows. "You sure that's a good idea, champ?"

Robby's hand hesitates. Knowing the reality of what coffee does to his stomach, he knows the answer, but. Jack had made the good coffee, and with Robby's stupid-fancy pour-over system that he hated wrestling with because, as he said, "I shouldn't need a doctorate in mechanical engineering just to brew a god damn pot of coffee."

He lets his hand drop back to the table and Jack nods, a minute jerk of his chin that says so many things. 'Glad you agree. Thank you for listening. Good boy.'

"So," Robby starts, reaching for the container of orange juice instead, "did you decide to be nice to me on my birthday and tell me what the plan is for tonight?"

Jack rolls his eyes fondly. "You know what the plan is, Robinavitch, stop snooping for details you don't need."

"See, it's that whole 'don't need' part that I think is open for debate."

Jack glares at him, scoots forward enough that he can brace both hands on the edge of their dining room table. "You and I are doing dinner at 7, check-in is at 8. Heather should be there by 8:30, and everyone else has been told to arrive by 9:30. Any other questions?"

"Plenty," Robby shoots back. "Why Heather first? Who is everyone, you never told me who confirmed the invite? Did you ever hear from Frank? — Don't make that face, I know it's weird for you that I wanted him there, but I've got to burn that fucking bridge at some point. — Where are we going to dinner? and," Robby has been ticking off on his fingers, and pauses, his eyes dancing when he looks back up at Jack and says, "Can I have a kiss? Please?"

Jack takes a deep breath, raises his own hand in response, and says, "She just said she didn't think you'd want everyone else there; you'll find out who confirmed in about 14 hours, but no Trinity is not coming; don't talk to me about Frank fucking Langdon, but yes I heard from him; we're going to a restaurant that serves food; and of course you absolutely ridiculous bastard."

And Robby may not know anything more about what's in store for him tonight, but as Jack kisses him silly over a stack of strawberry-vanilla pancakes, he doesn't think he cares much anymore.

By the time the bright red numbers on the hotel clock roll over to 8:29, Robby feels about ready to buzz out of his skin. She's not even late yet, but all day Robby has been replaying Jack's exasperated voice saying, "she didn't think you'd want everyone else there," and his mind is spinning, a laundry list of things that could mean, each one making his stomach hurt and his balls ache a little more than the last. He'd been a sub most of his adult life, but he'd never had someone do to him the kinds of things Heather did, only to have him literally crawling across broken glass to beg for more (the first and only time they'd done that, he'd spent two hours flushing out glass shards, decidedly not worth the three orgasms he received for his troubles).

She knocks at 8:31 and Robby jumps so high at the sound Jack laughs at him. He flips him the bird as he answers the door, welcoming Heather in with a kiss on each cheek before she moves on and says hello to Jack.

It's not like Robby is scared of her. Shit, they'd dated for more than a year and, in hindsight, he'd loved her so much more than he ever let on. Clearly, they weren't meant to be each other's Person, but. He regretted how they'd ended, and might always, just a little. They'd talked, during that time, about what it was like to be a black woman and a pain domme at the same time, about how hard it had been for her to find people to share that part of herself with without it being fetishized in a way that made her feel disgusting for loving her art.

And Heather was an artist of pain. Robby still couldn't tell, based on the bag she had, what she had planned for him. His asshole clenched and cold sparks ran along his arm as he tried to imagine what she'd pull out for him: a dozen wooden clothespins meant for his nipples, his cock, the bottom of his balls as they swung heavy between his thighs; thin bamboo canes she grew and dried herself, each no longer than a ruler but some damn near as thick as his thumb; acupuncture needles she'd thread under his skin and lay him down on while she rode him raw, bit collar in his mouth and leather blindfold robbing him of sight.

"Table?" she asks. Jack nods, holds out an arm in the direction of the large, flat ovular surface. She looks up and smiles at Robby as she settles at the table, and he feels his stomach flip.

She looks incredible, long brown legs clad in silk shorts, brightly patterned red and white zebra print on one leg while orange-and-pink circles compete with white chevrons on the other. It's loud, and bright, and chaotic, and between that and the matching blazer, Robby thinks she looks incredible. Almost too incredible for a party in which most people would be stripping down to as few clothes as possible.

"You look amazing, Heather," he says as she pulls a chair out from the table, pushes it behind her, and takes its place. Jack had the foresight to cover the table not long after they'd arrived, a spare comforter from the coat closet warming the glass and blunting the edge where it digs into his hip.

She looks at him and beams, holds her hands out to the side and does a little twirl. "Thanks! Got a date right after, so." Both men's eyebrows fly up. "What?" she shoots back, hands on her hips.

"Nothing!" Jack's hands come up, palms out, the universal gesture of surrender.

"Nothing at all," Robby adds, his smile fond. "Glad to hear it — who with?"

He doesn't miss the splash of color high on her cheeks, the way she's suddenly avoiding eye contact as she sets her messenger bag on the table and begins to go through it. When a few more seconds pass and she still doesn't answer, both men take the hint.

"So, uh. Where do you want me?" Robby's words are halted, the pauses in between them too long, and he can feel tendrils of awkward tension creeping up through his calves, twining up through his lower back towards his shoulders. He feels stupid for asking, knows that they've already decided on the table, and all the reasons why: sturdier, firmer, less likely to cause the kind of minute shifts and bends that might result in injury. It was these kind of moments, the realities of making fantasies come true, that he'd been dreading, the awkward interchanges of half-thought plans and semi-baked desires that lead to silences too long and gazes too fleeting.

She looks from him to the table, seems to hesitate for a second before she nods and says, "On your back on the table, but give me a few minutes to set up?"

"I'm sure we can find some way to stay busy," Jack says, his arms wrapped around Robby from behind. He feels Jack's chin move on his shoulder, and he sees something pass between his eyes and Heathers.

"Yeah, but nothing too crazy, okay? He needs to stay —"

Jack nods, cutting her off with a quick, "Yeah, yeah, I remember. Not my first rodeo either, remember?"

"Giddy-up, cowboys," she says, her tone light and laced with laughter. She turns her attention back to her bag while Jack steers him towards the bedroom, pushing the door halfway closed behind him. He slides around until his arms are around Robby's neck instead, and he presses a kiss to the underside of his jaw. Robby purrs a little, tilts his head to the side to give Jack more room, and at the same time he asks, "You ever gonna tell me what that was about?"

"What," Jack says in between slow, dragging presses of his lips to the column of Robby's throat. "Don't you want any surprises on your birthday?"

"Can you give me a hint, at least?"

"It's smaller than a bread box?" Jack quips, and Robby groans. "Look, she wants it to be a surprise. All she would tell me is that it's nothing you haven't done before." Unfortunately, with Heather, that didn't necessarily take a lot off the table. "And that it's something she needs you not to get hard for." THAT was far more helpful in narrowing down the options, but before Robby can ask his very pressing follow-up, Heather's voice filters through the door, letting them know she's ready.

Heather has covered the lamps in the corner of the room with a couple of scarves, has figured out how to turn off a few of the overhead lights so that the whole room seems to glow with a warm, orange-tinted light that makes everything look like it's gilt in fire.

Jack's hand is in his, pulling him towards the table, manhandling him backwards until he's able to hop up on the edge, his thighs spread around Jack, who kisses him one more time, gently, rubs soft circles into the tops of his thighs, up over his hips.

Robby lets his eyes drift closed as Jack's fingers make their way under the hem of his t-shirt and ease it up and over his head, Jack's fingers against his shoulders all the hint he needs to lie back. He's surprised at how comfortable the table actually is, between the blanket and the pillows Heather had stacked on the opposite end. He scoots back a little, until the creases of his knees are fully situated against the edge of the table, and wiggles his shoulders until his lower back relaxes.

When Robby turns his head to the right, Heather is there, smiling at him. She's got a line of things next to her hand, and it takes Robby a second to figure out what he's looking at from this angle.

They look like chopsticks. Several of them: all long, some smoothly tapered, a few ribbed in what looked to be smooth-edged diamonds or the fanned edge of shells. One looks like nothing but thin metal strips in between large metal ball bearings. Her collection of sounding rods had, apparently, grown since she and Robby were together. His mouth goes dry, and his eyes fly back to Heather's, who smiles at him again, and this time Robby notices that it's not a soft, kind smile.

It's the smile she would give him when he'd been plugged for hours, writhing at her feet as she nudged up the vibrator settings a few more notches. As she sat on his face, fully enclosed in leather, only his mouth left open for her use, and let him lick her clit like the first water ice of the summer.

It's a smile that means the best kind of trouble for Robby.

His stomach clenches, and his tongue is heavy in his mouth as he licks his lips, his eyes glued to Heather's face as he watches her watch him. 'Not something you've never done before' suddenly feels like the understatement of the year.

There were so many things, sex-wise, that Robby could take, or leave, loved because the people he loved wanted to do them, and wanted because the people he wanted had begged him so beautifully to try.

This felt like something that was wholly his, something he'd done with exactly two people, one of whom was getting ready to do it again, the other of whom was standing a few feet away, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes flitting between Heather, the line of sounding rods, and Robby's flushed face.

"Taking notes?" he quips, and Jack just makes a vague sound of assent.

"Don't threaten me with a good time, Mikey," Jack shoots back. "Or I'm going to start to forget why we don't do this nearly as often anymore."

"Because we don't have an hour every time we wanna fu—"

"Boys, boys," Heather scolds, and Jack laughs, hands in the pockets of his sweats and eyes so full of lustful fondness that Robby's dick twitches.

Heather notices the movement and licks her lips. "Easy, Michael. Remember, this works best when you stay nice and soft for me."

Robby nods, a soft, "yes, ma'am" escaping before he can bite it back.

Old habits die hard, and all.

She meets Robby's gaze and keeps it as she snaps a second black latex glove onto her wrist, a particularly dramatic flair that makes Robby's balls ache.

She walks a circle around the table, completes a full lap before she stops back where she started next to his hips. As she walks, she lets her hands fall on him with a caring randomness that only drives him more insane. She draws a single finger up the outside of his thigh, slips it up the loose hem of his shorts, and lets it pull at the fabric, before she drags the same hand across his belly, plays for a split second with the exposed hair of his happy trail. Robby remembers how much she'd loved to do that, early in the morning before he dragged himself out of bed for shift, or late at night, curled into him on the couch, catching up on some cooking show neither of them was really watching. He smiles, a small fond thing just for her, as she lets her fingers run circles around his nipples until they pebble and he shivers. She tugs gently at his hair, shakes his head back and forth on his neck, and then she's back to where she started.

"Alright, Robby. I'm going to take your shorts off, okay?" She's doing it as she's talking — Heather had always loved asking him questions she didn't actually expect an answer to. "Knowing how busy tonight might get, Jack, how many do you want him to start with?"

Robby isn't sure if they're talking millimeters, minutes, or some unknown mystery measurement, but the longer Jack takes to answer, the more deliciously nervous it makes him.

"Three," Jack finally answers. "Better play it at least a little bit safe."

Heather nods, and Robby watches. Her movements seem almost unnaturally sharp, like he's watching her on video and she keeps buffering every few seconds.

He watches as she runs her fingers lightly over each rod, then up and down a few of them, humming softly, melodically, almost to herself. He recognizes a few of them — the oldest ones she'd had before him, the thick, ridged one that they'd picked out together as, ironically enough, a birthday present for her. He feels a pang in his chest, something sentimental and sweet that she'd decided to hang on to that one, even after they'd crashed and burned.

He sees at least one new one, one that looks almost like anal beads, only it's not made out of silicone, it's stainless steel, and each ball along the progression is the same size. He's not sure he's up for that one, so of course that's the one every devil on his shoulder hopes she picks up.

By the time she settles on one, Robby feels like he's got ants crawling through the gaps between his synapses, nerves on overload that won't stop reporting back more sensory input than he can handle.

A single drop of sweat beads at his temple, drags down towards his neck before it disappears into his hairline, and Robby tracks its progress like molten gold. He closes his eyes, tries not to dwell on how long it's been, how badly he suddenly wants this. He feels Heather's hands on him and uses them as a focal point, adds in the breath exercises he'd learned from Jack — keeping himself under enough control has always been a roadblock from him getting what he so desperately wants; so opposite to the rest of his life that he'd laugh for the irony, if he wasn't trying hard not to scream with how badly he's been missing this. He counts, forces his exhale to be longer than his inhale, like Jack had taught him on their Colorado trip, Robby stretched around his fist as Jack had worn him like a puppet.

He continues to count, tries to imagine the slow rising and falling of a tide pool, thinks maybe it's working — until he hears the small 'shhik' of a plastic cap swinging open, and his eyes are back on Heather like homing beacons.

She's dripping what feels to Robby like an obscene amount of lube down a thin stainless steel piece of metal that starts out thin and grows in diameter until it's about the size of his pinky. There's a small hook on the thickest end, and Heather dangles it off the end of her finger while she finishes making sure the entire length is covered in lube.

He feels like he's floating just outside his body as she leans over and takes him gently in hand. He's not completely soft, thinks he'd have to be some kind of eunuch for that to be the case, but he's soft enough still, and he wills himself to stay that way as Heather holds him upright and picks up the bottle, drizzles a thin stream straight onto the tip of his dick. He feels the hole flood, can't fight the little wiggle his hips do at the strange sensation, before one of Heather's hands is planted firmly on his hip.

"Mmm," she hums in caution. "Hold still, pet," and he tries, brings himself as much as he can back into his body so that his muscles will relax.

So he feels it, in every cell and molecule, atom and particle and wave between them all, when the hand-warmed metal slides into the tip of his dick and sinks in a few millimeters before it meets natural resistance.

The sound Robby makes is unlike any he's ever heard from himself. It rumbles in his chest, reminds him of the legends he's heard of lost caves, cracks in the Earth that echo ancient winds and long-dead voices. He breathes, hard, through his nose, the force of wind through mountain crags. Heather's hands are warm and steady on him, one holding his dick gently upright while the other keeps a gentle, precise hold on the sounding rod.

He tries to look. Strains the muscles in his neck and tenses his abs to watch as she applies steady, easy pressure and forces the steel in another centimeter or so. He can feel the skin stretch, can't tear his eyes away from the spot where his skin meets the shiny silver metal. He's trembling, but he doesn't want to stop looking.

"Lay down, Mikey," Jack says from somewhere at the edge of the room. Robby's head rockets to the other side, his eyes searching him out, finding him sitting in a chair next to the small kitchenette, one of several seating surfaces he'd arranged around the edge of the room when they'd arrived. He's got his ankle propped on his knee, and he's scrolling on his phone, the picture of perfect nonchalance even as he watches like a hawk.

When Robby's eyes meet his, he smiles, reassuring and warm, and nods a little. "Go on. Don't want you to hurt yourself later because you got yourself all tired out now. Just relax."

As soon as he says it, Robby feels an intense, heavy pressure radiating from just behind his solar plexus and he feels like he just got punched in the dick, but like. In a good way. In a really, really good way. He gasps, the oxygen like cooling water rolling past his lips and crashing into the fire in his belly.

He lays down, doesn't have much choice but to try and relax the rest of his body when Heather slowly drags the rod back and then eases it down again, meeting a bit of natural resistance before she presses and there's that just-punched feeling again, and Robby almost wants to laugh, because what do you mean he's half-hard and already his balls are pulling up and his asshole is clenching around nothing like it does when he's getting close.

"Fuck, that feels good," he says, his voice cracking before he can finish the mouthful of vowels and consonants.

Heather just makes a little noise and flicks her wrist quickly, pulsing the rod against his prostate, and he feels spots begin to crowd in at the edge of his vision as his back lifts off the table a little, his hips torn between chasing the feeling and trying to escape the intensity.

"Down. Now." The words are clipped, forceful, but not angry, and his body obeys without his mind's input. God, he's missed her ability to do that. It's not that Jack can't get him to behave, too, but. It's different.

He whines, sound pressed out through his teeth like laundry through a wringer, but forces his body to go still. He closes his eyes, tries to do some of the focus-calm-breathing things that Jack has been attempting to teach him, but the more he focuses, the more he can feel everything happening in his body, and there's so much happening, he's stuck in a riptide and it's about to pull him under.

Heather pulls, slowly, on the rod, takes it all the way out, and there's an absence when she does, a gone-ness that leaves Robby feeling shivery and hollow in all the worst ways — until she's back again, her hands warm even through the gloves as she eases the first ridge of the new rod into the tender flesh, pink and weeping steady drips of come down his shaft and over her hands.

She adds a few more drops of lube, lets it drizzle down the length of the rod and over the head of his cock, and he feels like he might cry, does cry a little, a jagged and borderline manic sound that explodes out of his chest like a popped cork.

"Good boy," she purrs as his hands clench into white-knuckled fists but his hips stay glued to the table. "This ones a little more intense, so don't forget to breathe for me, pet."

Robby nods, tries to find a singular word to reply with, and settles for just making a yes-adjacent noise in the back of his throat. She smiles at him and then her focus returns to the task at hand. She pushes, gently, and Robby can feel the slide of each individual ridge along the inside of his cock, and it feels so weird in such a delicious way, and he wants her to slow down and never wants her to stop, all at the same time.

The warm metal slides a little deeper, the round tip coming to rest on that spot deep inside of him. This time when Heather presses, she does so without stopping, a firm and steady pressure that reaches through Robby to his spine, wraps around his hips and underneath the soft folds of his belly until he feels like he's being bent in half, even as the smooth skin of his lower back stays firmly flush with the table.

Heather rolls her wrist, and the rod shifts, and Robby comes apart at the seams.

It's only the third time he's ever had this feeling, once before at Heather's patient hands and once at Jack's willful dedication, but the minute it hits it's like his cells have been craving it, like he's been living at a higher altitude and how he's being flooded with oxygen, pure and bright and overwhelming to his system.

He cries out, and he cries, and his back bows and his chest clenches, his fists form and his forearms go taut and he feels as if every molecule in his body is being set on fire from the inside, fireworks bursts of warm sparks at all his joints as his muscles roll with magma-like heat, undulating and warm and unceasing and he dry-comes around the sounding wand, his dick still soft in Heather's gentle hands as the orgasm sweeps over him from head to toe.

Tears slip down from the corners of his eyes and he starts a little when he feels Jack's thumb, warm and dry and smelling faintly of sex, as it presses into the skin of his temple and draws the tears away, rubs it gently across Robby's lips.

"There's one," he says, his voice cracked, want and need oozing around his vowels and consonants. "Two more for me, champ."

Heather chuckles, darkly playful when she says, "Really think he can take it, Jack?"

"Don't think he's got a choice," Jack says, and he wipes away another tear, brings his thumb to his own lips this time, laps up the evidence of Robby's relief like the last bites of a favorite meal, and Robby feels his toes go cold and his stomach flip.

When Heather takes the rod out a second later, she does it in one fluid motion, not unlike a ripcord, and Robby can't help the way his abs tense, the way his body wants to curl in on itself, protective and guarded like a small, soft thing. She tuts at him, and he feels flame burn his cheeks. He whines her name, and she just waits, stares at him with warm brown eyes that on any other day he might consider a relative match to his own.

Any other day, but not today.

He pulls his lower lip between his teeth and bites until he feels the fat cells slip apart, feels the tearing of fibrinous membranes as his lip splits and he tastes copper. He beams up at her, blood staining his supplicating smile, and she grins at him, a true and genuine smile that sends a warm wave like sunshine tripping up the ladder of his spine.

He's so busy watching her, he doesn't even see the final rod in her hand until it's too late, catches the glint of metal as it shines off the rod he hadn't recognized, the ones that look closer to anal beads than a sounding rod, a thin piece of metal separating one round, quarter-inch ball bearing from the next, each one about a half-inch fron the last, and and feeling the first ball slip inside him makes his eyes roll back and his inner thigh muscles clench.

Heather sees, stops, waits for his labored breath squeezed out between clenched teeth, before she keeps going. She takes her time, stops after each small ball slips inside the warm sheath of his cock, lets him catch his breath and at the same time draws out his blissful agony until each breath feels like an earned victory, a cry against those who forsake him as a spear is driven into his side, desperate proof of life from a fallen promised savior.

He doesn't think she'll be able to keep going, but she does, and he loses count after the fourth ball slips inside and he feels that same insistent, heavy press against his prostate.

"Ohhh, fuck me," he says, feels a burning across the bottom of his feet and up the insides of his thighs as she begins to thrust, pulls out first one ball, and then two, before sliding them both back in again and nudging against his prostate in tiny pulses only to pull almost all the way out before pushing back again, and Robby's skin feels hot, shivery, like he's sprung a fever and his skin is too sensitive to touch

"Not yet, baby," Jack says, and his voice is doing that weird, far-away-through-water kind of distortion thing, and it makes Robby giggle, a high-pitched sound that borders on manic, before the sound cuts off in his throat and he chokes, almost gags on his own tongue as he comes around the sounding rod. It's not like normal, not the release of thick white ropes that he normally uses to fingerpaint across Jack's freckles. It's a thin trickle, the liquid clear and thin, but the feeling that goes with it is one Robby knows in his soul, the gut-punch feeling of an orgasm well-earned. His eyes go immediately to his cock, still soft, the shaft almost pale against the angry red of the head, and he watches as Heather slides in the final ball bearing, can see the veins pulsing, even as he feels it in his sternum.

She makes a sound, somewhere between a tut and a whistle, and his eyes leave his leaking cock and fly to her face. She smiles, reaches out with one lube-covered hand to rub her thumb lightly across the crest of his cheekbone. She leans down and kisses him, and he's overwhelmed by the smell of her, lilies and sandalwood and something darker, smokier, that he never was able to figure out. Something innately Heather, and when he opens for her and she licks into his mouth, just once, he can taste it. Honey wine in humidity-thick air, bare Edison bulbs in a yard fringed with kudzu.

She tastes like summer, like a life well earned and well lived and, ultimately, not for him.

When they part, the smile on his lips is as genuine and thankful as the answering one on hers.

"Happy birthday, Michael," she says softly into the space between them, and then she pulls.

He feels each ball as it slips out, feels the cold slide of metal in between as the smooth body of the sounding rod drags along the inside of his shaft. He watches, and as each ball passes back out of him, stretches him open across the circumference, another dribble of semen joins it, and Robby sees sparks dance across the back of his eyelids, feels like he's holding live wires between his fingers and the joints of his knees, a hundred little sparks that release with each small spurt.

The last one comes out with a gentle tug, and Robby's chest shakes with relief, the flood of silent tears that crest and crash on top of the exhaustion settling into his body, the heavy anticipation of the first leg of a marathon complete, the rest of the course stretching to infinity in front of him.

When Jack's hand winds into his hair, he opens his eyes and looks up into the cool hazel pools he's so familiar with. Jack is smiling, too, his dick hard enough in his pants that it brushes against Robby's cheek as Jack steps a little closer. He's half tempted to suck him off here and now, mouth at him through the layers of cotton until Jack feels as good as he does. But Jack might as well be a mind reader, because as soon as the thought crosses Robby's sluggish synapses, Jack takes half a step back and uses the grip in Robby's hair to tilt his chin back for a kiss. Robby follows, every muscle in his body rendered down to liquid.

Everything gets a lot fuzzier, once they manage to get Robby off the table and into the bed. Heather helps get him to his feet, which some far-away part of him thinks should be Jack's job, but when he literally trips over the tangle of his own two feet, not even half a step away from the table, and she catches him with an open palm to the chest and a half-whispered, "easy," he's so glad she's there.

He lands on his stomach on the bed, reaches up and pulls one pillow half under his chest on instinct. He burrows his face into the plush fibers, pulls his knees towards his chest, and flops an arm around for the duvet cover. It takes him a second to realize he can't find the edge of it because he's laying on it, and he whines. He's getting cold, and he wants that ridiculously indulgent downy weight of a hotel comforter. From the edge of the bed, he hears laughter.

"God, he really is just the most pathetic, isn't he?"

"Yeah," Jack reaches down and squeezes the arch of his foot. "He really is." A pause, a shuffle. "Thanks for coming, Heather. Really."

"Thanks for having me! Gotta say…I miss him. So many reasons it didn't work, but this was never one of them."

Robby's eyes crack open, the world still fuzzy and slatted through the feathering of his lashes. He sees Jack nod, wrap an arm around Heather's shoulder as they both look at him. "Can't blame you for that. He misses you too, you know."

She makes a sound, and Robby swims up from the warm, thick depths of his brain, and lifts his head enough to whisper, "s'true," before he lets the weight of his head sink him back down into the pillow.

"Rest up, champ," Heather says, her tone teasing as she leans down and presses one more kiss to Robby's temple, one more flash of that summer-heat smell, and then she's gone, and Robby listens to the sound of the real world carrying on around him. A door opens, closes. Furniture slides, and a heater cranks on, the first grumbles of a slumbering beast dragged to consciousness.

Robby snuggles down a little deeper into the mattress, feels like he used to when he was a child, wrapped up in his great-grandmother's quilt watching A Wonderful Life on TV because there weren't any good Hanukkah movies and it was all the local stations played on Christmas eve anyway, while his bubbe made cinnamon rugelach in the kitchen to take the sting off being one of the only boys in his public school class who wouldn't come back with stories about a morning full of presents and singing songs about sad virgin births. Weighted down by decades-past hand-placed stitches, stuck between the rattling steam radiator and the fogged-over frigidity of the outside window, he'd lain on that couch like a boy in a bubble, a world inside a world that was wholly his own, guarded by those who loved him and would keep him safe from the wolves that prowled just outside the door.

He feels that, now, listening to the gentle hums and scrapes of a life being lived just outside his warm little bubble, a forward march in which he's included but not in control, kept safe by those stronger than him, armed with swords and axes and rings of power, who stand protective vigil over his heart, his mind, the soft stretch above his collarbones where all his softest thoughts are kept.

Floating, he thinks he could probably fall asleep here, just like this, fights to remember why sleep right now isn't a good idea, when he hears a knock at the door, another opening, another closing, the rising buzz of voices that mean more people are here now. For a second, he tenses. Doesn't want more people in his bubble, in the world Heather and Jack have worked so hard to create for him, but then there's a knock on the door, and a sliver of light falls across his face, so bright he squints against it.

"Everybody's here, baby," Jack says from the doorway, one arm braced across it as he leans his weight against the doorframe. When his eyes finally adjust, Robby can see faces behind him. Cassie, her red hair piled on top of her head, behind Yolanda, who is looking at him with an eyebrow raised and a smile on her face. John, iced coffee cup in hand, raises the drink in his direction and wiggles his eyebrows. Dennis, who looks at him just long enough to meet his eyes, and then blushes furiously, his gaze frantically flipping back to Jack for a second before he shoves his hands deep into his pockets. Mel gives him a little wave, and Frank dips down under Jack's arm and sinks next to the bed.

He drops down to one knee and smiles at Robby as he says, "Hey, old man, don't tell me they wore you out bef—"

Robby watches as a familiar, freckled hand lands on his shoulder and Jack clears his throat. Langdon's face reddens, and he stands, his shoulders bowed inward and the smile on his face suddenly tentative, and he looks so much smaller than Jack, despite the extra inch or so he's got on him.

"There's drinks on the table for everyone," Jack says, his fingers digging into Frank's shoulder as he pulls him to standing and guides him back towards the open door. "And food delivery should be here in :45 or so — John, you mind signing for that when it gets here? Might be a bit distracted and I don't want anyone going hungry."

Shen gives him a two-fingered wave and looks over his shoulder at the door to the suite. "Not a problem, boss."

Jack smiles as everyone in the doorway turns and files back towards the open common space. Before she goes, he bends down and presses his lips to Mel's temple, whispering something Robby can't hear in her ear. Her eyes jerk towards him, and her eyebrows rise. She says something back, too quiet to make out, and this time Robby catches it when Jack says, "I'm sure. I've got him from here."

And then Mel is up on her toes, pressing a kiss to Frank's cheek as her gaze darts back and forth between him and Robby.

Robby doesn't have enough pieces to put the puzzle together yet, but he thinks he's starting to see the edges, and it's making his stomach flip and his lower belly go tight.

When Jack nudges the door halfway closed, Robby doesn't miss John, lingering in the doorway, phone in one hand and one eye glued on Robby in a way that makes his stomach drop, the top of a mountain and the world falling away.

"Y'know," Jack says, and Robby's attention flies back to Jack. His eyes are locked onto Robby as he talks, one hand still locked onto Frank's shoulder, his fingers moving in slow circles as they dig into the meat. "I wasn't entirely sure you should get an invite to today's shindig, Frank." Langdon swallows, the sound loud in the otherwise quiet room, and Robby can't help the way his eyes track the line of Frank's throat. "Robby says he forgives you," another squeeze, and Robby doesn't miss the way Frank flinches, whether from guilt or pain he can't tell. "But I'm not Robby. And I'm a lot less fucking forgiving when you break what's mine."

The muscles in Jack's hand flex as he pushes, and Frank drops to his knees with surprising rapidity, the crack of bone on cement subfloor painfully audible. Jack's hand winds into Frank's hair, pulls his head back, and sneers down at him. "So I'm going to make you a deal. A compromise, if you will." Frank doesn't say anything, just keeps his eyes focused on Jack, his mouth set in a thin line.

Robby smiles to himself, a tender thing, and if he had more energy he'd tell Frank to be careful, that no one likes taming brats better than Jack Abbot. But he's out of energy, and honestly? It's been a while since he watched Jack do what he loves in this specific capacity.

Another beat of silence passes before Jack's other hand moves fast, fingers snapping around Frank's chin like a vice, his thumb and forefinger digging into the hinges of his jaw, forcing his mouth open a fraction of an inch. "Let's try this again," he practically growls, his fingers digging in enough to leave pale crescent outlines in Frank's cheeks. "We're not at work, Frank, and I expect you to answer me with some fucking rapidity or I will make my unhappiness known, are we clear?"

Frank can't move his jaw enough to speak, so instead he just nods, his eyes wide, and Jack nods back, falls into sync with him so that they're nodding together. It's mesmerizing, almost, which means it hits Robby like a slap when one second they're nodding, and the next Jack hauls his chin back and spits into Frank's mouth, loud and wet and not entirely contained, so that Frank flinches as drops of spittle settle on his eyelashes, the crest of his cheeks, and the bridge of his nose.

Frank hisses, sucks in air like he's got something to say, before he snaps his jaw shut and nods, as much as he can with Jack's hand still tangled in the short strands of his hair.

"Good," Jack purrs, and when he lets go he half-tosses Frank in the direction of the bed. "So like I was saying. I've got a proposition for you. I didn't necessarily want you here at all, but Robby loves Mel and has always been a more forgiving soul than me."

Robby preens on the mattress, can't help it.

"So. You can be here, but you're going to earn your fucking spot, you hear me?"

Frank nods, and Jack nods, and it's funny enough that Robby giggles, floating on a sea of bubbles while all around him bobble heads talk about forgiveness and propositions.

"Oh, you think that's funny, Mikey?" Jack's tone is light, but his hands are firm as they drag up Michael's back, reach under the warmth of the duvet to press cool palms to the divots under his scapula. "Not gonna think it's so funny when he's fucking you open with his mouth and you're begging to come but you're still so empty." He affects an exaggerated whine with this last part, and Robby flips him off, laughter bitten off into a moan as Jack's mouth wraps around the offered digit and sucks, hard.

"On your knees, please," Jack says when he pulls off Robby's finger with a loud 'pop'.

To his credit, Robby does try. He shifts his chest so that both arms are underneath him, begins to wiggle his hands into place to push up off the mattress, but. He's so warm and everything is so soft, and so cozy, and he's starting to think maybe he'll just stay right where he is in his little bub—

Jack's hands are strong, his fingers just shy of bruising when they dig into the roll of fat sitting on his hips and haul him to his knees, levering him back until his ass is in the air and his head is resting on his forearms. The air is cold, where it puckers across his asshole, and his groin feels heavy where his dick rests against his upper thigh. He feels wrung-out but oddly energized, like when he'd take too many energy drinks after a long night of studying, his head with the angels while his body dragged itself through the mud.

"Get over here, Frank," Jack says from where he's kneeling on the mattress, both hands still clamped firmly to Robby's waist. Robby feels the shift in weight behind him as Frank joins Jack, the dip backwards towards the edge of the bed forcing Robby's ass a little higher into the air. "Okay, now." The bed shifts again — Jack, easing himself off, and Langdon taking his place. Frank's hands are different, slightly narrower with longer fingers, so his grip lands in a different place on Robby's belly, and the contrast makes him shiver. "I want you to open him up for me."

"O-open him up how?" It's the first thing he's said since Jack had cut him off at arrival, and his voice breaks, just once. Robby's mind flashes to the broken way he'd looked at Robby as he'd scampered away from the lockers, tail between his legs and fear rolling off him in waves he found more delicious than he had any right to, even through the haze of his well-earned rage.

"Mmm," Jack hums, considering. Robby knows Jack well enough to know that he appreciates being asked moreso than he appreciates Frank trying to take the initiative.

Frank hasn't earned the right to initiative yet.

"Start with your mouth. Go slow. Keep him wet."

Robby moans a little at Jack's words, can't help the broken sound that escapes his chest, the one that grows and shifts and keens as Frank's tongue draws a tentative circle around the ring of muscle, the touch too light and too soft to do anything other than make Robby frustrated. He wiggles his hips, and there's a sharp crack in the air as Jack's palm lands heavy and broad on the flat of his ass. "Behave, Robinavitch, or he's never gonna learn."

Robby's chest rumbles, and it could be a chuckle, and it could be a protest, but it's bitten off into another wounded animal sound as Frank's tongue traces another circle, this one far firmer than the last, his tongue slipping into Robby just enough that he feels the breech. He looks back underneath his arm and feels his balls clench at the sight of Jack's hand on Frank's head, holding him in place against Robby's slowly swelling hole.

"Just like that, Langdon, nice slow circles, he likes that. Now, the next time you get to twelve o'clock, I want you to switch to the flat of your tongue and pretend he's the drippiest lollipop of the summer."

There's a beat, and Robby feels Frank's cheeks move against the swell of his ass cheek, like he's nodding for Jack, and Robby isn't sure if Jack's hand is still in his hair or not.

He forgets to care when Frank does what Jack says and drags his broad, rough tongue over the sensitive folds of skin, pauses to fuck his tongue in and out a few times, which makes Robby grunt and fills the room with a shallow, wet sound. As soon as he's done, Robby feels the echo of a slap, the reverberations that start with Jack's hand on Langdon's flank and end in Robby's pelvic bone.

"That's not what I told you to do," Jack says through gritted teeth.

"Seems like he liked it to me," Langdon replies, and there's a cockiness to his tone that fills the space like syrupy caramel. There's a choked sound, and the rush of cold air that accompanies a suddenly empty space. When Robby looks back under his arm, Jack has Frank up against the wall by his neck, tendons in his forearm flexing as he presses the taller man up the stretch of fancy wallpaper, knocks into the mirror as he does, and pushes it askew. Robby can't see his face, but knows the set of muscles in his back, and Jack is pissed. And not in a 'scene' kind of way. He's legitimately angry, and barreling quickly towards furious.

"Listen to me, Franklin Patrick Langdon, because I'm only gonna say this one time. This is a party. We are here for a good time. But you will not stay here if you do not follow the rules, which are very simple — you do. What the fuck. I say. Got it?"

"Got it," Frank manages to hiss out, his face and angry shade of red except for where it's bright white, the outline of Jack's fingerprints that won't be easy to cover with a scrubtop. Jack drops his weight back to the floor, and rolls his shoulders, huffing a little like he's annoyed Langdon made him do that. He holds out an arm, hand up and palm flat, as though he's welcoming Frank back into a room. "In that case…" he slips his hand back into the hair at the nape of Frank's neck, and Frank's eyes flutter closed, his mouth parting in a silent gasp Robby wishes he could taste.

And even though Robby knows what's coming, he gasps in surprise when Frank's tongue is on him again, and again, dragging over his asshole like he's counting licks to the center of a Tootsie Pop. He continues, altering pressure and rhythm but never the flat of his tongue, until Jack says. "Good, Frank, that's really good. Go ahead and start to work him open. He likes when you start slow, really press your way in, until you feel him loosen up around you. Once he's relaxed, he opens like a Master lock with the right key, smooth as butter and just as messy."

The more Jack talks, the more Robby's face heats, his chest flushing and his nipples pebbling where they drag across the soft cotton of the comforter. He can feel sweat break out along his hairline, the thick black hair that crests his shoulders, the line of his spine, both of his ass cheeks.

But Jack isn't wrong, and as Frank works his tongue in a slow fraction of an inch at a time, he feels himself loosening, opening, wanting.

"Fuck," he hears Frank say, a warm puff of air making him clench. "C-can I hold him open? I can't — I can't get close enough."

Jack beams down at him like he just watched Frank successfully do his first central line.

"Yeah, man. Yeah I think that sounds like a fucking great idea."

Frank pulls Robby's ass apart like he's a log in need of splitting, and before he has a chance to think, Frank's tongue is back, circling and pressing and sucking and fucking him open as spit drips down his inner thighs and the bottom of his dick, mixing with the drops of precome that are gathering underneath him. Frank makes little snuffling sounds, a wild animal on the hunt for its next meal, and the next time he wraps his lips around Robby's opening and sucks, he presses in with his tongue until Robby can feel the frenulum press against his taint. Robby's belly fills with warmth as he clenches down and feels the thick, strong muscle inside him, feels how even now, Frank tries to move, to press, to fuck him open even more than he already is.

When Jack finally pulls Frank's mouth away, Jack lets out a soft, "Holy fuck," and then, "look at him, baby," and Robby does, feels like maybe he's going to come again un-fucked, because Jack's hand is in Frank's hair and Frank's mouth is bright pink, his lips swollen, covered in the sheen of spit from chin to nose. There's a little bit of burn on his cheeks from the hair on Robby's ass, and his pupils are blown. He's looking at Robby like he's mad that Jack won't let him go, like he's got a mission to finish and even now he's not going to fail his assignment.

"Easy, Frank," Jack says into his ear, clearly feeling it too. "Easy, baby. Just take a deep breath. Look at that hole, look at how good you did for me. Did so good, I think you deserve a reward. I told you to earn your spot, and look at him? Gaping and dripping and so fucking empty you can practically hear the empty cave howl from inside him." The entire time Jack speaks, Frank is nodding, like Jack's a hypnotist and the next time a doorbell rings Frank is going to cluck like a chicken. He licks his lips, and his eyes when he turns them to Jack are practically begging. "You want one more taste?"

Frank's nods are frantic, his voice hoarse when he adds half-broken pleas, a litany of requests that makes Robby's dick leak.

"Okay, Frank, I'm gonna let you have one more bite while I go and get something, and then you're gonna get your treat and let someone else have a turn, okay?" He asks, but it's not a question. "Mikey?" Jack raises his voice, looks over Frank's shoulder and down at where Robby's cheek is still pressed into the mattress. "You with me, baby?"

He nods, or tries to. He's not sure he's got bones in his body anymore.

"Good boy. Go ahead and get on your back for me, okay? You can either do it yourself, or have Frank help you. Your choice."

And Robby spends his entire day making choices. Important, immediate, life-in-the-balance kind of choices.

Can anyone really blame him when instead of deciding anything, he sighs contentedly and fucks back against Frank's hot, eager mouth, mostly because Jack isn't here to stop him?

Until, of course, he is, the door sliding open and then partially shut again, the sounds of the party outside the door swelling and then muffling again. He groans, a mocking little put-upon sound, and then Frank's mouth is gone and there are one, two, three quick swats on alternating ass cheeks. They burn, and Robby knows they're meant as punishment, so he makes sure to hide his lustful little smile in the pillows, far away from where it will earn more retribution from Jack.

"Just when I get one brat to listen, now I've got another one I've got to worry about? And on your birthday, no less?"

When he's done with the spanking, Jack doesn't give Robby a chance to catch his breath before he half-tosses him up the bed, hands around his waist helping to flip him onto his back. Jack stands, arching one eyebrow at Robby with a stern 'don't test me, Robinavitch' written firmly in his expression. "Knees up, or I'll do it for you and you won't like it."

"…wanna bet?" Robby says under his breath, but he knows Jack heard him by the twitch of his cheek. When he's back by Frank's side, he just turns and looks at Robby again, eyebrow arched.

After another breath, Robby sighs and pulls his knees to his chest, wraps one hand around each shin and lets his shoulders relax back into the mattress.

"That's my guy," Jack says from the end of the bed. Robby breathes through his nose and focuses on the ceiling. He closes his eyes and thinks he smells jasmine flowers, but shakes away the thought as he lets his legs fall open a little bit. He wants back in that floaty, bubbly place again, and is doing his best to force his way back there. Which. Has never worked for him before, but who knows. He might get lucky.

"Take this, and be liberal with the lube." That should be all the clue Robby needs, but. He's still focusing too much on the eight-count of his exhale, and Jack's words float to him like a melody on a breeze, somewhere far away and distantly recognizable.

When he feels the press against his entrance, though, his lower belly tenses and his thighs shake and he knows.

"Easy, Mikey. You know what to do." Jack's words are steady, calm, more assured than Robby feels and he clings to them like a raft in a storm.

The stainless steel plug is heavy, solid, thick, and its round-point tip rests on the lip of his asshole with a heady weight. He squirms, doubly so when the cold drizzle of lube hits the flushed skin of his ass and he yelps a little bit. Frank laughs, and Jack cuffs him on the back of the head, and Robby spurts into his bellybutton.

"Go on," Jack says. "Get the plug in and you'll finally get your treat. Both — shit, all three of you, at this point.

At the mention of a third person, Robby's neck strains and he looks around until he sees Mel in the corner, her hair down and her cheeks flushed. She's clenching her legs, rocking from one foot to the other, emerald green lace tube skirt digging into her waist and leaving little red marks along the scalloped edge of the lace. Her breasts are half-spilling out of a matching racerback lace-cup bra with a cute silver bow in the middle, high-cut Brazilian bottoms shifting under the skirt as she moves, showing off smooth skin and strong thighs. She's got her teeth between her lip and her gaze is intense, focused on the spot where one of Frank's hands is digging into the meat of Robby's hip. She looks like a deer, frozen in the headlights, but who desperately wants to be hit by the oncoming car.

She sees Robby watching and her blush deepens, her hair falling in her face in a way that feels intentional.

"Melissa." He doesn't say it like a wonder, like he doesn't know who she is, but like he does know, like he knows her and sees her and needs her to see him, too. Robby's voice is thick, cracked, and it takes a second before her eyes meet his. "Hey."

"Hi," she says, and smiles shyly. "Happy birthday, Dr. Robby."

"I-I th- I think you can go with just Robby right now," he jokes, tripping over the first few words as his body struggles to remember how to make his mouth work. She laughs, and nods, and Robby is struck, not for the first time, at just how beautiful she is, especially like this. All blushing and earnest and just on the edge of bowing out. He thinks he could watch her just like that, flushed and almost tentative, so much more shy here than she ever seems on the floor of the ED. He's ready to suggest they do just that, that he be allowed to look his fill while she spins for him, a peaches and cream ballerina all wrapped in emeralds, when he feels a burning, insistent pressure at the base of his spine, the pain swelling just beneath his lower belly and pushing out every other thought in his brain as the teardrop shaped bulb slips past its widest point and settles fully inside him, the flared base pressed firmly up against Robby's hole.

"Holy fucking shit, Robby," Frank says, and Robby can't tell if he's jealous, or impressed, but he supposes it doesn't matter as long as Frank doesn't stop pressing and releasing, the smallest thrust in pressure that makes Robby feel like he's being split open from the inside out.

For the first time since they started this whole adventure, he finally feels full, and it's so fucking good he lets out the smallest sob, his chest heaving and his shoulders shaking as Frank makes small shushing sounds and runs a hand up and down his shin. "What now," Frank says, his eyes glued to the place where Robby's body is swallowing the shiny, bright steel, tugging it back just enough to watch him pucker around it before he presses it flush again.

"Now you're going to keep doing that," Jack says, "while I help the best among us get situated on Robby's lap."

Mel squeaks, and Robby doesn't even need to look to know she's blushing a deeper crimson than he's ever seen. He doesn't even bother to correct Jack. He couldn't agree more, actually.

"C'mon, gorgeous, it's okay."

"No, no I know, I…" she trails off, and there's a hesitation there that Robby recognizes, like calling to like, the Voyager plunging through the cold of space, desperate for the interception of a friend. He forces his eyes open and rolls his cheek back to the mattress, finds her just where she was before, only this time, her eyes look worried and she's trying to press her back into the wall.

"Hey Mel?"

"Y-yeah Doct—Robby? Yes?"

He dips his chin, catches her eye and holds her gaze as he forces every ounce of desperate understanding he can into his voice when he says, "Please?"

She takes half a step forward, plays with a piece of hair that falls over her shoulder. "It's not that. Not that I don't want to, I've just never —"

He nods, frantic and desperate, and starts talking, finding a well of words he feels suddenly like he's been saving, just for her. "No, I know, and I don't blame you. Nothing to blame you for, this is a lot. And you're doing such a good job adapting. You're so good at that, though, at adapting to new situations, and you're so needed here. Me — I need you, Mel, so so badly, I can't even tell you. Look at me, I know you see it. All night, all fucking night, and I think what I've needed more than anything is this moment, and you're a pivotal part of this moment, and no one knows what moments come next, but you're here now in this one, so fucking please, Mel, I need you. Need you in my lap, need you to ride me until I can't fucking see straight, I feel like I'm going to fucking explode, sweetheart, please," and he breaks apart on the last please, openly sobs, wet and snotty, tears streaming down his cheeks and getting caught in his beard.

She nods as she crosses to him, her steps short but sure. Her thumbs are cool where they swipe across his cheeks, and she's talking to him, her voice quiet and her words sort of running together, "Yeah, Robby, of course, of course honey one second just give me one second," and for someone who had written 'struggles to handle extremely emotional situations with predictability' on several self-evaluations, she is surprisngly apt at getting him to calm. She regulates her breath, exhales loudly and long enough that he feels his heart slowing a little as he mirrors her.

Of course, Jack holding out a hand, helping her step onto the mattress, and Frank's hands coming up to brace her hips as she straddles him, have the opposite of a calming effect.

"Hold on," Jack says as Mel starts to squat. "Can you do one thing for me, and just," he whips his finger in a circle in the air, like he's spinning a basketball on it, and Mel nods, quickly understanding and adjusting accordingly. She makes a few quick steps and she's squatting again, her ass round and pale and slightly freckled as she sinks low in a single move, pausing just before he slips inside her and looking back over her shoulder, brows pulled down in unanswered question.

Even after the blood test, even after the NDA, she still wants his explicit consent, and it's so absolutely, adorably, perfectly fucking her that it breaks something inside Robby, something small and sharp and diamond-bright.

"Please," he says one more time, and she nods, turns back around, and wraps her arms around Frank's neck as Jack holds Robby's dick steady, one hand on the outside of Mel's knee as he guides Robby into her. Her tight, wet heat wraps around him and Robby chokes on air, his sudden inhale so fast he coughs a little bit. She's almost too tight, needing to bounce a little as she takes him in, half an inch at a time. Her thighs must be aching, but it's all Robby can do to stay still and let her take him at her own pace. With every fraction of an inch, the squeeze on his dick is tighter, and when he presses his eyes shut and opens them again, the first thing he sees is Frank, watching over Mel's shoulder as she sinks onto Robby and his dick disappears inside her.

He looks like a boy meeting Mickey Mouse for the first time, realizing that maybe fantasies can be reality and dreams really do come true, and when he looks up and meets Robby's eyes, his smile is satisfied and grateful and Robby wants to eat it like a Thanksgiving dinner.

Mel shifts forward, takes her weight into her toes so she can fold her legs beneath her, and then she sinks back again, counterbalancing with Frank's help until she's finally fully seated, her thighs draped across Robby's hip bones and her ass nestled into the dark thatch of curls at the base of his cock. "Good fucking girl," Frank growls, his voice pitched low, and Robby is treated to the gorgeous sight of Melissa King, blushing from the base of her neck to her lower back.

Her added weight pushes the plug in his ass impossibly deeper, and Robby lets go of an atavistic sound, something between a growl and a lament, and it mixes with the sounds Mel is making, a human chorus of indulgent depravity.

She sighs, a sweet, almost wistful sound, and her single, hoarse, "fuck," does more than almost all the other filthy words he's heard that evening. He bats Jack's hands away, grips her hips, and drives up into her deep and slow, and she moans, grinds back against him with a confidence that makes his head spin. It's been so long since he's been inside a woman, he forgot how soft it was, how pliable she felt under his hands, even as she continued to take more and more control of the rhythm against him. After a few more seconds, her hands land on top of Robby's wrists and she holds him there, digs her nails into the thin skin just below his pisiform bones and it's enough of a sharp edge of pain that this time, when she thrusts upward, he slams her back against him, punches a series of breathy, "fuck, yes, just like that"s out of her as she goes increasingly boneless, her weight falling more and more into Frank's chest as Robby fucks her open.

"Look at you, taking him like a champ, god he looks big — is he big, baby, is he filling you up, sweetheart, splitting you open while we all get to watch?" Frank's voice is fast, ragged and clipped, and Robby gets the distinct feeling this isn't the first time they're having a conversation very much like this.

Mel whines, doesn't say anything but makes the same muffled sound Robby does when he's got his lower lip clamped firmly between his teeth.

"Going to make him come for me, Melly? Please? Let me watch, yeah? You got us here tonight, baby, you deserve to feel so good. Let Robby fill you up, baby, fill you so fucking full you can't take it, and then I'll take you home and tuck you in like a good girl, yeah?"

"Yeah, yeah, yes please," she practically sobs, her shoulders shaking as Frank's fingers stroke the sides of her face, around the back of her head, through her hair. "God, Michael, please, let me feel you, I'm ready, I need it, please Michael."

The difference between a Mel so shy she didn't want to look at him in bed, to a Mel begging him to come inside her, to fill her cunt with his cum, is so stark it makes him feel almost proud. Reminds him, in some far-off and fuzzy way, of exactly why he'd poached her from the VA to the Pitt.

She was capable of so much more than she gave herself credit for, and he was more than happy to be a part of her un-learning.

"Fuuuck yes, baby, fuck yeah I'll give you what you need, just like that, Mel," he growls as she clenches down hard around him, her pussy wet, the room filled with the sound of her slick cunt. She grinds her hips down against Robby as Frank tugs at the plug buried in Robby's ass, Frank's hand tangled in Mel's hair as he kisses a line down her neck and sucks a hickey over her breast. Robby can't see everything, with Mel's back to him, but he can see the way she shivers, the way she presses up into the heat and force of Langdon's mouth, and he sees the thin string of spit that pulls between Frank's lower lip and Mel's chest, watches Frank hold Mel's gaze while he presses the plug deep, deep and insistent and Robby starts to keen, a strong tenor note.

His bubbe had always said he was such a beautiful singer.

"Fuck, Jesus Christ look at you," Jack says from the side of the bed, one hand carding through Robby's hair as he holds himself through his sweats. He's hard, and there's a wet spot growing steadily on the front of his pants, but Robby can't seem to focus enough on the solution to that problem when he's got a steadily building one of his own.

"God damn it," he hisses as she slows, fights against the pressure of his hands to drag herself along his length. She stops and clenches down around the tip, grinds against him with just the tip inside before she slides back down, seating him fully against her ass again. His dick aches, the phantom stretch from Heather's attention earlier making every shift in pressure around the tip of him feel like ice cloaked in fire, dancing along an edge of pain so delicious he doesn't ever want it to stop. "So fucking close, Jack," he bites out, and there's a sharp tug on his hair, a low voice in his ear as Jack drops to his side.

"Fuuucking Christ," Frank answers, and when Robby's attention shifts to him, he's looking down at Robby with hunger in his eyes, his eyes shifting from Mel's face to Robby's, down to the place where their bodies meet. There's a flush, high on his cheeks, and Robby doesn't have to be a fucking genius to guess how hard he is right now. "Fucking her so god damn good, Robby, holy shit, she's so fucking wet right now, like a fucking Slip 'N Slide, god you're gonna make her come so hard —"

"Shut up, Frank," Jack says, not even bothering to look at the man as he cards a hand through Robby's hair. "Don't remember telling you to use that mouth for anything other than the purpose it's already served." He drops his tone and half-whispers in Robby's ear, "Don't you dare fucking come yet, Robinavitch. You're going to give that girl everything she deserves, you hear me? She was brave enough to come here tonight, for you, because she loves you as your friend and she wants you to have a happy birthday, so you're going to say thank you, properly, aren't you Mikey?"

He glares at Jack but nods, grips Mel's hips a little tighter and takes control of the rhythm, dragging her slowly up and down his length before one hand wraps around and finds her clit, brings his hand up to Jack's mouth for a thick string of spit before he drops it back down and begins to flutter his fingers, lightly at first and then with a firm enough pressure that he can feel the bundle of nerves roll beneath his fingers. Mel screams, a series of short high-pitched gasps, a series of "yes"es punched out of her as Robby drives his hips up, sharp and deep, the slapping sound thick and wet. He can feel her clenching around him, and it's driving him closer and closer to the edge.

But Robby is also a good boy, who does what he's told, and he's not going to go first.

Remembering something Collins had taught him, he presses the flat of his palm to the middle of Mel's back and pushes, bends her forward until she's folding over his legs. He's long enough and thick enough that he doesn't slip out, instead the forward pressure pushes his cock up and into her g-spot and it doesn't take long of shifting his hips before she moans, low and deep and atavistic, and he knows he's found it.

He rolls his hips, fills her up, his eyes glued to the spot where he's splitting her open, and when she comes, he comes with her, ass clenching around the heavy weight inside him, plug shifting up into his prostate making his dick twitch, another wave of cum pushed up and into Mel's cunt. He watches as she slows her rhythm, and he can see it, white and slick and pearlescent in the low lighting. He reaches down and drags a finger through it, lets her fuck back into him with his finger sandwiched between them, and he brings it to his mouth like a heretical eucharist.

She tastes exactly like he would have predicted, sweet and a little salty, pungent and light, sea birds and fresh green grass and a goodness he doesn't think he's quite deserving of. He wants more, feels half out of his mind when he reaches for her again, but Jack stops him, loops their fingers together and rubs Robby's wrist.

"Easy, tiger. Promised Frank his treat, too."

Frank's looking at him, brows drawn in, like he has no idea what Jack's talking about. It's not until Jack lets go of Robby's hand, reaches out and gently holds Mel's shoulder, her elbow, the space beneath her ribs, as he helps her lay back against Robby's chest, one hand resting on her thigh as her legs fall open to either side of Robby's lap as Jack helps slip his dick out of her, that understanding seems to fill Frank's eyes.

He doesn't hesitate, doesn't wait for permission, goes with an eagerness that would rather beg forgiveness a million times over, plunging his face between Mel's legs and slurping loud and lewd and hot enough that Robby thinks for a second he might be getting hard again. Or, staying hard? Honestly, his dick aches and his balls are tingling and he can't focus on any one thing because there's too much everything happening. Mel writhes against him, the top of her head butting up against his chin as she squirms, finds a small, shifting rhythm as she fucks herself against Frank's mouth. The friction against Robby's dick borders on too much, and he drops his hands to her hips, tries to keep her still as much for his sake as for hers. Her hands clench down around his forearms, any sense of tenderness or timidity literally licked out of her as her body is racked with aftershocks and she cries, just a little, her shoulders shaking as she calls not for Frank, or for him, but for "Jesus H Fucking Christ on a Cracker". He waits, counts to ten in his head, and then steals one more treat for himself, his hand drifting down off her hip and through her folds, getting in the way of Frank's mouth as he swipes another fingerful of his load from inside her and slips it between his lips, shivering at the occasional drag of lips or tongue or teeth across the tip of his cock, or the edge of his shaft, as Frank eats the rest of his load out of Mel from around him.

Frank finishes, and when he stands up, Robby can see the mess on his face, shiny and slick from the bottom of his nose to the tip of his chin. He's smiling, a big goofy fucking smile, one that reminds Robby of the guy he once condsidered one of his best friends (if not his best senior resident), and when he wipes his face on his hand, he look at his palm like he's surprised by what he finds there, before he wipes it across the bedspread and holds it out for Mel to take. Robby gets a hand beneath her shoulders to help her sit up. As soon as she's vertical, Frank presses their foreheads together for a beat before he wraps his hands around her waist and lifts, picks her straight up off Robby's cock, and slips his forearm underneath her bent knees.

He looks like he's about ready to carry her over a threshold, and the thought of how right that looks for the two of them is there, and then gone again as he hears another set of voices from the doorway.

"Aww, how come they get to have all the fun?"

Garcia's voice is playful, teasing, but unabashedly disappointed, and when Robby picks his head up, she's standing in the doorway, arms wrapped around McKay's middle, chin resting on her shoulder. McKay is wearing a sheer, leopard-print teddy that seems painted on, her rosy nipples visible through the mottled brown fabric as it stretches up over her breasts and around her neck. She shifts her weight, and Robby notices the thin strip of fabric that disappears between her legs, his mouth watering at the g-string he knows is on the other side.

Garcia, on the other hand, is wearing a matching bikini set that looks like silver armor, jagged diamonds of shiny fabric that shifts with the smallest movement, garter belt sitting high on her hips, straps long where they connect to lace-top stockings. The small triangle of fabric that covers her pussy seems held on by a single thread and the prayers of heathens, and Robby doesn't blame her when she shivers.

McKay's nails drag along her own stomach, her collarbone, the soft outer edge of Garcia's tricep.

"Oh, I don't know, Yoyo, we've been having a pretty good time out here," Cassie says. "If I can't bring my girlfriend to a gang bang, there's no one I'd rather spend the extra time with."

"Aw," Yolanda says, planting a kiss on Cassie's cheek. "Thanks, babes. Gotta admit, wasn't ever planning on having Trinity here, but. She's definitely missing out."

Robby feels like he's watching one of those Housewives shows he somehow finds on the television every now and then, a world he does not understand playing out before him in a way that borders on surreal. Behind them, far in the room, he sees Dennis and Shen talking, John's eyes focused on him even from the other side of the suite. His mouth is moving, and he's swapped out his iced coffee for a little plate of…something, and he stops talking to take a bite, chewing slowly and swallowing thickly, his eyes glued to Robby except for when they occasionally cut to Dennis, so he's not distracted enough to lose the conversation. The way he's watching, Robby feels like there isn't anyone else in the god damn building, let alone the room.

"Come on in, girls," Jack says. "They were just finishing up."

"Oh, we know."

"We saw," Cassie says, and giggles, a girlish little sound, like they'd just finished watching the Macy's Day Parade.

"We all saw," John echoes, stepping up behind the girls and leaning on the doorframe again. He waggles his eyebrows in Robby's direction, and Robby chuckles but feels his skin flush warm. There's watching, and there's being watched, and there's the ever-present reminder that one is being watched, and Robby's skin feels tight, and hot, and he takes a deep breath and tries to pull his attention away from John and back to Jack's words.

"Well in that case, you know he's good and prepped," Jack says, and Robby breathes through his nose, long slow drags as he forces himself to catch his breath. He's up on one elbow, careful of how he moves, every clench and twitch pressing on the plug inside him. He watches as Frank puts Mel down, just so she can give Cassie a quick hug and an awkward, endearing high-five to Yolanda before she turns and grabs Frank's hand, pushing past them and into the room beyond as the girls slip inside the doorway and it swings partly shut behind them.

Always only partly.

Robby leans back onto his back and smiles at the ceiling, doesn't try to hide his enjoyment at feeling stalked, trapped, damn near hunted by the two women walking slowly towards the bed.

"Gimme the bullet?" Garcia says, and Jack chuckles.

"Heather was here earlier, warmed him up with a little sounding," McKay whistles, stepping close enough to the bed to drag her fingertips up the side of his left ribcage. He fights the instinct to guard, to pull in, and she makes a little humming sound that feels very much like praise. "After that, Frank opened him up, got him plugged, and, well. As you saw, he's already come once, scrotally?"

Garcia snorts. "Scrotally?"

Jack nods, expression serious. "Heather got three out of him before she left, prostate only."

Robby watches Garcia's eyebrows fly up and she nods, sucks her teeth, and makes an impressed little noise. "Damn, Robinavitch. Okay!" She says it like one athlete approving the throwing technique of another.

"So," Cassie says, coming to stand next to Jack, her arms crossed over her chest. "I brought a couple things, but Yoyo brought her strap, so we figured…"

"I'll dick down, she'll ride his face," Garcia says, like she's laying out a fasciotomy plan, and Cassie just beams, her gaze flitting expectantly back and forth between Jack and Robby.

Robby opens his mouth to answer, but Jack beats him to it, clapping his hands together as he says, "brilliant," before he points at Garcia with the dual finger guns. "Did you bring strap options?"

"Please," she shoots back with a roll of the eyes. "Like you're the only one who can respond to an emergency with a prepped field bag," and she's making quick strides back towards the main room, Jack half a step behind, and Cassie slips onto the bed next to him, one leg tucked up, her hands playing absentmindedly with the soft hairs on his stomach.

Her hands never stop moving, and the air in the room is warm and smells like Jack, and Mel, and sex, and he feels himself slipping again, that warm blanket of weight settling in between his cells as Cassie's hands never stop moving and his thoughts slow, moving like honey through the empty space of his mind.

He hears the door drag on the carpet, looks up to see something thick, purple, and sparkly in Garcia's hand, and his mouth goes dry.

He looks for Jack, but strong fingers grip his chin as Cassie forces his attention to her, and then to the steady hands of Yolanda Garcia as she steps up between his legs and drags her nails along his inner thighs.

"She's going to take such good care of you," Cassie purrs in his ear. "We both are."

When he comes back into his body, he's tucked back under the blanket, and the door is fully open. He can see a good chunk of the front room, a table stacked with a sandwich platter and a few bottles of liquor, a set of stupid-fancy chairs facing the room. One is empty, one filled with both Frank and Mel as she cuddles into his lap and he rubs small, absent-minded circles on her lower back.

Inside the bedroom, Cassie is helping Yolanda pull her hair back while John and Jack are talking about something too faintly for Robby to hear. He's content, for a few minutes anyway, to lay there just like this, his limbs brick-heavy and his head feather light. He shifts his hips a little, feeling a small, dull bloom of ache that he can't quite escape, and when he does he gasps. With one careful hand, he reaches down and feels the familiar sensation of body-warmed metal nestled firmly between his ass cheeks.

Jack had plugged him again when Yolanda had finished, and he hadn't even noticed.

The thought is enough to make him whine, and he twists a little in the sheets, the soft rustling finally pulling Jack's attention away from his conversation with John.

"Morning, sunshine," Jack says, lowering himself next to the bed. Robby sees him wince, the slightest pinching around his mouth, and his stomach drops. He tries to sit up, but when he does his head swims and he drops back to the pillow before the room starts going with it.

"You need to get off your feet," Robby manages to croak out, but Jack just waves his hand through the air.

"You need some water. And probably some food, if I had to guess." At the mention of the word, Robby's stomach rumbles, loud and thunderous, and he and Jack both stare at the offending anatomy before they laugh, and Jack looks over Robby's shoulder and raises his eyebrows, jerks his chin a little and then looks back at Robby with a smile. "Sit up for me?"

Robby nods and, with Jack's help, manages to pull himself into something that resembles a seated angle. As soon as he's comfortable, Jack stands up and John takes his place, sinking onto the mattress next to Robby, plate in hand and smile beaming.

"What's up, dude?"

Robby smiles. "Not much, John. You having a good time?"

Shen nods enthusiastically, holds out a glass of water in his left hand. "Without a doubt. Your man knows how to throw one hell of a party." Robby reaches up to take the glass, but Shen's fingers clench and the glass moves a fraction of an inch in his direction. "Nah, I got you, man," he says, and his voice is kind but his tone is firm. Robby is taken aback for a beat, his eyebrows raised as he nods and leans forward, wraps his lips around the rim, and as John tips the glass, he takes a long, slow drink. John watches his throat, his eyes wide and his pupils blown, tilting his wrist the more Robby drinks, careful not to let water slip down the front of his throat.

When Robby's done, he sits back with a satisfied little gulp and Shen nods, his throat working as he holds out the small plate in his other hand, covered in a few bites of sandwich, a couple chocolate chip cookies, and a half a lemon bar. The sandwich and the cookies he recognizes from his favorite deli, so he knows Jack must have catered, but the lemon bar is unfamiliar to him.

"Mel brought treats," John explains when he sees Robby's gaze lingering.

"Of course she did," he says with a soft smile. "I"ll take that one, then."

And Robby isn't an idiot, in fact he's gotten pretty fucking far in his life being the exact opposite, so he's picked up on the pattern. He keeps his hands in his lap, and waits, and when John picks up the square of bright yellow custard speckled with powdered sugar so white it's almost glowing, he drops opens his mouth like the good boy he is.

He's rewarded with a bright splash of lemon on his tongue, the flavor intense and tart, cut by the smooth spread of sweetness from the sugar, and at the back of it all, the salty, musky taste of John's fingers as they slip between his lips and Robby wraps his tongue around them, cleans them off so that he doesn't miss a single bite. As he does, he watches John's eyes, watches the way they widen, and then relax at the edges, going soft and a little far away, the way Robby's do when he goes to that floaty, fuzzy place of his own.

Robby swallows, takes his time, asks for more water, and doesn't break eye contact with John the entire time he drinks, his swallows audible. When he finishes, there's water droplets in his beard, and a few rolling down his neck, and John reaches out with his bare hand to catch them, scoop them up and rub them back across Robby's cracked lips like he's giving last rites to a dying man.

"Please tell me it's your turn next," Robby says, his voice low as he leans in to John's space. He doesn't know why he doesn't want anyone to hear him, other than that something about this, this feeding and watering and caring for, feels different than all the rest of it.

For all his efforts to be quiet, though, he sees the way Jack's back tenses, the way the tendons in his neck flex and his head turns their way a fraction of an inch. Jack, and his PTSD-fueled superhuman hearing always specifically tuned in to Robby's voice.

Usually, it's a blessing.

Usually.

"Sorry, brother," Jack says, scooting over until he's standing behind John, one hand on his shoulder and the other nursing the rest of a Tree House IPA. "John here couldn't quite move past his fear of needles to get on board with tonight's festivities."

"What, and all of a sudden the hospital was out of condoms?" Robby snaps, and isn't sure why he's feeling so irritated about the idea of John not getting to play, of being in a room that stinks of sex and lube and human bodies without anything to get out of it but —

"— whoa, Cap, it's okay. Promise." John's hand comes to rest on his chest, and it's only when it does that Robby realizes how fast he's breathing, how hot his skin feels. He takes a deep breath, forces himself to meet Jack's gaze with a look of apology on his face. He's wound up, and it's been a long night, and he's ready to apologize when Jack just shakes his head and drops his chin. 'It's okay. We're fine. Listen to John.'

"I told Jack I, uh. I'm more of an audience member than an actor, anyway." His voice drops and he leans in conspiratorially. "If we're being honest, I get a little bit of stage fright in front of a crowd. I'm more of a, uh. Limited release kind of guy?" He raises his eyebrows like he's not sure the metaphor works, and honestly Robby isn't either, but. He thinks he knows what John is trying to say.

"Maybe we can — another time?" His brain feels fuzzy, and he probably needs to eat more, but the words are running faster than his mouth can catch them, so instead he just opens his mouth and makes the biggest puppy-dog eyes at John, who takes a second and then laughs, a low, rumbly thing, before he holds out a cookie, lets Robby take two bites to finish it before he runs his hand through Robby's beard to shake out the crumbs.

"Yeah, I'm sure we can figure something out," he says reassuringly, holding up the water glass one more time, standing up and bracing one knee on the bed so he can get a steep enough angle to empty the rest of it down Robby's throat.

When he's done, when the glass is empty, John takes a step back and smiles. "Great party," he says, and looks first to Jack, and then towards the end of the bed. "Looks like my turn's up." He leans down and gives Robby a big, smacking kiss, right on the lips, before he stands up and drags his thumb across the seam of Robby's mouth. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do, kid."

And then he's gone, retreating back to the edge of the room, sinking into a chair next to where Yolanda is leaning against the wall. She looks up from her nailbeds and grins at Robby, reaches over and pinches Cassie's hip. She's deep in conversation with Mel about something, but her eyes fly to Robby's and she says something that puts a pause in what she's saying. Mel just turns and wraps Frank's arms around her shoulders, leaning into his chest, and they're all looking in Robby's direction, but it's not him they're watching. Robby turns his attention to the end of the bed and he whines.

Dennis, standing with his hands clasped in front of him, stripped down to only Robby's favorite harness. The black leather scoops under his shoulders, clasping just below his hairline in the back, forming an X with the two straps that cut down low around his hips and down to his groin. The lower straps are studded, flat round metal that feels absolutely delicious pressed against feverish skin. The black leather jock on the bottom is stretched, worn along the side and the front ridge, and still it barely holds Dennis in, the small, cherry-pink tip peeking out over the edge. Two D-rings attach the straps to the front of the briefs, and the metal studding continues down the front seams of the cup, the light catching them as they shift to follow the line of Dennis's length. If he were to turn around, Robby knows he'd see peaches and cream ass cheeks covered in layers of aging bruises, cupped firmly by the back straps of the jock as they dig in just below Dennis's ass cheeks.

Robby's mouth immediately goes dry, and his vision tunnels, and suddenly he and Dennis are alone, a solitary spotlight on a pitch-black stage. Robby doesn't notice Jack, fading back into the rest of the group and looping his arm around John's shoulders. He doesn't see the look that Frank and Yolanda exchange, both of their eyebrows raised. They'd had the most objections, when news of Dennis's involvement with the two attendings had spread through the back channels of the PTMC, but between the gentle chidings of their partners and full-on ass-chewings of their coworkers, they'd both come around. Or learned to keep their mouths shut.

Dennis takes a deep breath, the sound accompanied by the gentle clink of metal hardware against grommets and buckles as Dennis shifts his weight from foot to foot. "Hey," he says, so much more timid than Robby would have ever predicted.

This, the same Dennis who had held either side of his mouth with hooked fingers as he'd fucked him raw and wild. The same Dennis who'd put Robby on his knees, half-choking on a ball gag, and forced him to come on his freshly polished combat boots.

The same Dennis who had made him cry, twisting his nipples until they were purple, tugging viciously at his chest hair until big, fat tears rolled down his cheeks, all because he was parched and Robby was his favorite thirst-quencher.

"Hey, pup," Robby says, and Dennis grins, his smile big and earnest and so sweet Robby feels his molars ache. "Been having fun tonight?" Dennis nods, but it's a hesitant movement, and Robby doesn't miss it. "Den?"

The smile slips a little, just at the corners, and he shrugs. "I don't know. Just. Not used to sharing, I guess."

"You share him with me," Jack says, his voice distant as he leans against the arm of John's chair.

"'S different," Dennis says, and he walks around to the long end of the bed, sinks down onto the mattress next to Robby. "Technically you shared him with me."

"Semantics," Robby says, and Dennis looks down at him fondly, cups his cheek softly, before he slips his thumb forcefully between Robby's lips and presses down firmly on his tongue.

"I don't remember telling you to speak," he says, and his voice is still a little unsure, a little petulant and shy, and the dichotomy between the two sends a lick of fire up Robby's spine, makes his balls clench and blood start to fill the base of his cock again. Dennis wraps the rest of his fingers under Robby's jaw, uses his grip to shake Robby's head, first up and down, and then left to right, keeping his skull loose on his spine. "First, I have to watch Frank eat you out, and then I have to watch you dripping out of Mel, and then Cassie and McKay get their turn, and the entire time — not once did you look for me."

Robby shakes his head, tries to speak, forces out a muffled, garbled, "no," as many times as he can even as Dennis shakes his head in disappointment. He takes the thumb out of Robby's mouth and Robby thinks he'll get the chance to speak, but even as his mouth opens, Dennis's palm lands heavy and full on his cheek, and his head cracks to the right, pain blooming bright and white in its wake. As soon as his head snaps back to center, though, Dennis's hand is there again, soft and gentle as he drags the pads of his fingers down over the ghost of the handprint already taking shape on his cheek. "No, no, shhh, it's okay. I knew, your puppy knew, daddy Jack told me all about how it would be, I just. You know how hard it is for a pup to share sometimes."

There's real contrition in his voice, and Robby's dick is so hard he's throbbing, come leaking and leaving cooling tracks down the side of his cock and into the thick spring of salt-and-pepper curls at the base.

Dennis's other hand comes to his cheek, and he's cupping Robby's face, tilting his chin up and peppering his face with little kisses, soft and almost ticklish where they land on the bridge of his nose, his eyelashes, the very corners of his lips.

"Please," he rasps, "please let me make it up to you, pet, daddy's been doing such a terrible job, he's been so distracted today, ple—"

"—shhh," Dennis says, covering Robby's mouth with the flat of his palm. Just for fun, he pinches Robby's nose closed, and Robby feels the slow, steady burn of being without oxygen building in his chest. He presses his face more firmly into Dennis's hand, meets his eyes, and doesn't blink. His chest burns, from the center outward, and a muscle in his cheek twitches. His face feels hot, radiating heat like a banked coal, and the spots swimming in the corners of his vision are growing bigger as his eyes flutter and Dennis is forced to let go first, his eyes hungry and his breath rapid, Robby's face purple and his chest heaving as cool, life-giving oxygen rushes back into his lungs.

He'd been a high school swimmer who'd fallen well out of practice, until Dennis made his way into his life, and he'd found reason to re-up on his skills.

"God, I fucking love it when you do that," Dennis growls, and Robby smiles, and the next thing he feels is Dennis's fingers in his hair, his force steady and sharp, as he pulls Robby out of his soft little nest of pillows and puts him on his knees on the floor.

A floor with a small layer of pillows all his own, because Dennis is mean, but he's never cruel, and he doesn't want Robby limping for the next several days, either.

Years of being a sub meant that at a certain point, his body was naturally inclined to doing certain things. Holding his tongue. Keeping his spine straight.

Spreading his thighs to keep his balance when someone wants to fuck his face.

He can already feel the muscles starting to shake, a quiver deep inside that was more an electrical pulse looking to ground than it was a full-out tremor — yet.

He rocks forward as Dennis leans over him, rests his forehead on the smooth expanse of his thigh as a soft, thin band of terrycloth slips around his wrists. The belt from the generously provided hotel robe, twisted and woven through Dennis's nimble, formerly-an-Eagle-Scout-thank-you-very-much fingers, until a series of square knots and reverse loops had his palms pressed together and his arms bound behind him halfway up his forearms. He gives the stretchy fabric a little tug, and even with the added give, can't help the little whine that escapes when he finds the bindings hold tight.

"That's right, daddy, it's my turn now, and you're going to stay just where I put you. Everyone else has been so fucking nice because it's your birthday, but a good dog always knows what his owner really wants, isn't that right baby?"

He stands back up and the look he gives down at Robby is adoring, tender and appreciative and full of awe. He doesn't look away, doesn't break eye contact as he reaches forward with one hand to steady himself on Robby's broad shoulder, while his other hand reaches out and pinches Robby's jaw, forces his thumb and middle finger in until his mandible literally clicks open. He leans in and sucks Robby's lower lip gently into his mouth, worries it with his teeth, makes a playful little growling sound like a puppy with a new squeaker toy to kill, and Robby's dick aches, a spurt of precome landing between Dennis's feet and quickly disappearing into the plush cotton of the pillow.

Dennis licks into his mouth, literally drags the tip of his tongue along Robby's soft palate before he pulls back to let a long, thick line of spit drop into his open mouth. "Don't you dare fucking swallow that," someone says from a spot along the edge, and Robby watches Dennis glare, his face twisted in an adorable little pout. He hears one of the girls giggle, and someone shush them, and Dennis rolls his eyes.

"I don't need any help from the peanut gallery, either," and Jack just holds up two hands, palms out, indulgent smile plastered on his face. "But, they're right," Dennis says, his attention returning to Robby. "Don't you dare fucking swallow. Not yet."

He takes half a step back and pulls the leather harness straps off his shoulders, slips the briefs down enough that he's able to take himself in hand, and Robby's dick hangs achingly hard between his legs, his fingers curling and flexing into his palms with his need to touch himself as he watches Dennis spit into his own hand and then hold out his palm for Robby to do the same.

Robby leans forward and makes a deep, wet spatting sound as he lets his own saliva mix with what Dennis had given him. He smiles up at Dennis when he does, a few thin strings of spit caught in the hairs of his beard, and he feels a thrill when Dennis's eyes go wide and he nods, a little unconscious tip of his chin that does more for Robby than a dozen 'good boy's.

Dennis's hand glides up the length of his cock, circles a few times around the head, pulls his foreskin back a little bit more each time, and Robby watches, transfixed. His shoulders are starting to scream at him for the position he's holding, and pillows or not, his knees are going to be more than sore tomorrow, but the only thought in his brain is the same one that frequently flew through his head at moments like this — 'fuck, he's huge'. Robby hears a gasp, and he can't help but preen a little. It may not be his cock, but it's the cock he's about to take, and there's something to be proud of there, too.

Robby has seen a lot of cocks in his life. Not as many as some, but enough that between his own escapades and his storied medical career, he has a pretty good feel for what most men are packing.

Dennis is not most men.

He'd been almost painfully shy about it, at first. He was anomaly, and for better or worse, anomalies tended to stand out. He'd been the subject of locker room talk, most of it negative, for long enough that when he and Jack had welcomed the scared little mouse into their home, he'd been damn near apologetic, dropping his sweats and covering his face as his half-hard dick fell practically to his knees, thick and pale with a vein running up the underside that, on his kinkier nights, Robby rolled beneath his thumb and thought about slipping an IV needle into.

Jack and Robby had been taking turns doing their damnedest to replace some of the more negative thoughts Dennis had seemed to absorb about his body, not limited to but primarily focused on the fact that he had abso-fucking-lutely nothing to be ashamed about.

The way Dennis is staring down at him now, stroking himself slowly, fully, taking time to coat his dick in the spit he'd gathered in his palm, Robby thinks they've finally made some progress to be proud of.

"Holy shit," he hears Yolanda say, "His is even bigger than mine!"

"Shh," Cassie says, her voice soothing, and Robby can't take his eyes off Dennis but he imagines her rubbing Yolanda's back, patting her consolingly on the head. "I'll make sure Trin gets you a bigger one for your birthday."

Yolanda grumbles something back, something that sounds an awful lot like, "can't find one that big" before John mutters about the right time for audience participation and Frank adds an obnoxious, unhelpful "yeah" before Jack snaps his fingers and shuts them all up.

Robby licks his lips and looks up at Dennis through barely parted eyelashes, and Dennis groans, stops mid-stroke to squeeze his shaft once, twice, a third time while he sucks in his cheeks and his pupils grow so impossibly large Robby wonders how it's even medically possible.

"Open your fucking mouth," Dennis growls, and Robby's jaw audibly pops, he complies so fast.

Dennis rolls back his foreskin and holds it as the head of his cock slips past Robby's waiting lips, an explosion of salt and precome spreading across the front of his tongue as Robby starts to suck, to pull with his lips as he relaxes his throat, his head bobbing up and down by a fraction of degrees as he cheeks stretch and his jaw aches.

Robby gets a quarter of the way down before he meets the natural resistance of his throat and swallows, Dennis's cock thick in his throat as spit drips out the side of his mouth and down the column of his neck.

"Fuuuuck, yes, Robby, just like that daddy, do it again," and Robby does what he's told, swallows around Dennis and feels the muscles of his throat take him a little deeper.

He breathes through his nose, closes his eyes and feels tears slip out of the corners and down the edges of his face, joining the rivulets of spit that continue to flow from the corners of his open mouth. He pauses, feels something inside himself relax when Dennis's hands come up to rest on either side of his head, thumbs on his temples and fingers wound into the short strands.

He squeezes, just enough pressure to let Robby know he's in control, and then he moves, begins to press forward slowly, pulling back just a little bit before he presses forward again.

He gets halfway down before Robby gags, chokes on the violation in his throat, and Dennis doesn't pull back, doesn't move, just lets Robby sputter and choke on his cock. Robby breathes, concentrates on the muscles below his diaphragm, in the back of his throat, wills them to still as he adjusts to the stretch of Dennis in his throat.

Dennis is patient, staying completely still until Robby snaps twice, a long established sign between them when his hands are out of commission, and then his hands are back, one hand cupping the base of Robby's neck while the other strokes his cheek, runs a thumb along the seam where Robby's lips stretch taut around Dennis's girth, and he shudders, pushes a little too hard a little too fast and Robby gags again, the sound hollow and primal, and Dennis pulls back a fraction of an inch. Robby makes a frustrated sound, leaning forward on his knees to chase Dennis's cock.

For a split second it looks like they're all going to go toppling over, until Robby widdens his knees and sinks half-an-inch lower and Dennis plants a hand firmly on the back of Robby's skull. In a push-and-pull stretch that leaves Robby gagging and retching, Dennis's buries his cock to the hilt in Robby's throat, the pale, soft hairs at the base of his dick tickling under Robby's nose in a way his own beard never does.

There is no light, there is no gravity, there is no oxygen. There is only Dennis, so full in the tight column of his windpipe that Robby can feel him in his chest, the pit of his stomach, the hollow behind his diaphragm.

He hears someone hiss, and the distinct sound of applause.

"Holy fuck, Jack," John says, and Jack's answering, "I know," is so full of possessive pride that Robby stretches his jaw an impossible fraction of an inch wider, tries to shove his nose a little more fully into the soft skin at the base of Dennis.

A hand snakes down and comes to rest lightly on Robby's throat, palm pressed fully to the expanse of skin just below his Adam's apple, and Dennis's voice is broken when he says, "Swallow."

Robby does as he's told, and when he does, Dennis presses, feeling the outline of his hard cock through the thin skin covering Robby's trachea, and Robby can taste the drops of precome that hit the back of his throat. He swallows them down without being told, the hot press of muscle around Dennis enough to earn Robby a few more drops, and he can feel Dennis trying to pull out, can feel the push-and-pull forces in his windpipe as he tries to keep him in.

Dennis's fingers find Robby's pulse points and press, and Robby's face feels warm, fuzzy, black spots starting to pop along the edges.

"If you don't stop, I'm going to come down your throat, and I do not think that's what you actually want, Michael. So let me go, so I can give you what you fucking deserve."

Not for the first time, Robby wishes the men in his life didn't know him quite so well.

Dennis shifts as Robby relaxes, and the bind on his arms drops off as Dennis pulls out, a choked-off sound echoing up out of Robby's throat as the muscles of his neck clench and relax, suddenly empty where once they'd been so full, and Dennis laughs as he sputters, a big brash guffaw that would make Robby laugh, too, if he weren't so busy choking on air.

"God, look at you. You're fucking pathetic, isn't he daddy Jack?"

"That he is, pup, but only because he loves you so much."

Dennis snorts, but his gaze is fond and his touch is soft as he reaches down and scoops Robby up under the armpits, lifts him until his hips crest the lip of the mattress, and then eases him into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. The way his hips are positioned, the plug is pressing right against his prostate, and he whines Dennis's name, draws out the 'i' until it's long and cloying as his hips shift restlessly, desperate to find a position that feels even a little less full.

"Can't even use your big-boy words, daddy?" Dennis teases, and his skin prickles, flushes cool and then hot as a wave of embarrassment swells through his chest and he fights to find the words that escape him.

Being split open, he can take. Being torn apart, stripped down, put on his knees and forced to tears of pleasure is his literal idea of a good time. But a Michael Robinavitch who isn't in control of his words, isn't in control of his mind enough to be clear about what he wants — what he needs — makes him feel like digging a hole through the planet, like he wants to unzip his skin and hide his bones in the closet.

"Too much," he forces out, and it only makes Dennis laugh a little more, Jack joining in this time, and Robby drops his chin, wishes he had a curtain of hair he could hide behind. He feels too raw, every part of his sensitive underbelly carved out and put on display to be picked apart. He can feel their eyes on him, can only imagine the way Mel and Cassie would want to fix him, dry his years and scoop him up, and it makes it worse, their anticipated pity. Tears prick along his lower lash line, hot and thin and already running, the harder he fights them the more they pour. A flash of Frank's face crosses his mind, feeling somehow vindicated to see Robby like this again, and it forces quicksilver through his veins, overwhelms any shame with self-protective rage, and he forces himself to meet Dennis's gaze, his look defiant and his face red.

"Aw, look at him, being all indignant," Jack says, and Dennis nods.

"I know, he's so cute, doesn't even know." Dennis shifts, moves his body so that he's in between Robby's line of sight on Jack. "It's too much, baby? You too full, hole too raw?" Robby nods, knew Dennis would understand, feels his shoulders sag forward in something akin to relief. His hips are still pressing into the edge of the mattress and he doesn't think he can take much more.

Until Dennis clucks his tongue. "Too. Fucking. Bad."

Robby had been so focused on his face, on Jack's words, he hadn't been tracking Dennis's hands, and the boy is fast. So fast that he's got one finger hooked behind the flared end of the plug before Robby even knows that his hands have moved, and if Robby weren't as lubed and open as he already was, there's a non-zero chance his skin would have split as Dennis pulls, strong and smooth in one fluid movement, and the stainless steel plug is ripped out of him.

His asshole clenches and he screams, feels himself leaking, leftover lube plugged into him when Yolanda had finished dripping slowly out of his ass, a steady stream that even the strong muscle of his pulsing hole can't hold back.

Not that he gets the chance to really try.

As soon as the plug is gone, tossed across the room and hitting the floor with a dull, heavy thud, Dennis is there, one hand flat on Robby's chest as the other grips Robby's hip to keep him steady as he lines himself up with Robby's hole and presses.

He's half-way buried before Robby starts to feel the stretch, the familiar burning around his rim that means his body isn't ready, won't be able to handle it, that it's too much, too fast, and he cries, beats his fists uselessly against Dennis's chest, whispers something that could be 'stop' and could be 'stay' but isn't the one word Dennis knows means Robby is done, so he keeps going, keeps pressing, his hips moving in short little punches as he works Robby open on his cock.

He fucks Robby up the mattress, reaches down to Robby's calves to ease them both over his shoulders as he anchors first one knee, and then the other, to the bed on either side of Robby's hips, leaning forward and using the added leverage to fold Robby in-half as he pushes the rest of the way in, bottoms out as Robby moans his name and claws at his shoulders, pale white scratches like tiger stripes livid against the flushed pink of Dennis's skin. "Fuuuuck, puppy, just like that."

"That's right, daddy, let 'em hear it, let them all know who fucks you until you're a sloppy mess, can't even think straight, can't find a single word that's not my name, huh? Such a dick-drunk little come slut the only thought in your head is to call your puppy, isn't that right?"

Robby doesn't answer, can't answer, just nods and keens, his head loose on his neck as Dennis rails into him. He rolls his head to the left and finds Jack, standing just behind John, and the look in John's eyes makes his asshole clench, makes his hips roll in a way that could be showing off, could be desperation, but is definitely inescapable, John's eyes tracing every move of his body, every small shift as Whitaker fucks him harder, deeper, reaches down and slips three fingers between Robby's lips.

John licks his lips and pulls the bottom one between his teeth, brings the edge of his thumb to his mouth and rubs it along his lower lip. He smiles, tucks one corner of his mouth up into a playful expression, and leans back, reaches around to where Jack's hand is resting on the back of the chair and puts it on his shoulder with a playful eyebrow raise.

It unlocks something in Robby, something primal and possessive, and it's not his first time being watched, not even his first time being watched with Jack in the room, but it's the first time he's ever been watched and not touched, ever been watched and made to watch someone else touch Jack.

Even as innocently as John's hand around Jack's wrist.

He must make a sound, a rumble in his chest that's the sound before a growl, because Dennis's gaze leaves his face and follows Robby's line of sight to John and Jack, and he reaches down to grip Robby's jaw, to turn his head and force his gaze back to Dennis. "Stay with me," he says, going up on his toes so he's fucking into Robby, bouncing his cock in and out so fucking forcefully that Robby thinks he hears something snap in the frame beneath them.

Dennis must hear it too, because he slows, a fraction of a second where he seems to hesitate, his gaze flying to Jack, and Robby hears a calm, "We'll take care of it later," from Jack before Dennis resumes pace and Robby whimpers each time Dennis punches into his prostate. "Jesus Christ," he hears from Yolanda, and Dennis smiles.

He feels sore, used from the inside out, and his breath leaves his chest in short, ragged gasps, and with every snap of his hips, Dennis has more to say.

"That's right, fucking take it, look at you daddy, gonna come for me? Gonna come with my dick buried so far up your ass you can taste me? Going to let me see that gorgeous face when you do, all scrunched up and bright red as I pump your ass so fucking full you're dripping for me?"

"Yeah," Robby forces out, his breaths thin and his voice gravelly as he chokes out an answer. He tries to buck his hips, tries to help meet Dennis's punishing rhythm, but he's being pressed, sandwiched into the mattress, and he can't get enough leverage to do anything but be fucked open.

"Where're you gonna do it, pup? How're you gonna mark up daddy Robby?" Jack's voice is closer now, and Robby can see him just on the periphery of his vision, standing at the edge of the bed, one hand slowly stroking himself from outside his sweats.

It's the first time Robby's seen him touch himself all night, and there's something about the delayed gratification, combined with the frustrating inadequacy of doing what Jack's doing with layers of fabric in between, that has Robby's eyes rolling back, his ass clenching painfully tight around Dennis's girth.

"Not gonna," Dennis clenches out through gritted teeth, beads of sweat falling off the tip of his curls where his hair has grown down over his ears, his skin slick with a thin sheen as he continues to pound, unrelenting, into Robby. "Gonna fill him up so full, he fucking bursts, so full he's gonna have my fucking babies," he leans down and crashes his mouth to Robby's, tangles their tongues together in a mess of spit and teeth and blood, and the change in angle is just enough.

Dennis's fingers dig so tight into Robby's hips he feels them pierce the skin, can't focus on the feeling long enough as Dennis comes, still bottomed out inside him.

"Oh, fuck me, Jesus fucking Christ, Den," he moans, can feel Dennis filling him up, thick and warm in his lower belly, so fucked open that even clenched down, it leaks out of him in a steady stream when Dennis finally pulls out, sound-tracked by Robby's dirty sobs as tears pour down his cheeks and he wonders if he'll be able to survive feeling so fucking empty.

"Here," says a voice that could be Jack's and could be Dennis's but ultimately it doesn't matter because the next thing Robby knows for a fact is that there's a warm, heavy weight pressing slowly into his asshole and he doesn't have to look to know. To feel the weight of the plug as it settles, thick and heavy and so much smaller than Dennis, back into his ass.

He wiggles, tries to squirm away, but he can't move without any bones in his body, and he's not sure what happened to them, but they seem to have all been removed at once, simultaneously. He's the man with no bones, and no brain, only tear-stained cheeks and an ass almost as full of love as his heart.

He floats, in and out of awareness. Not consciousness, he never manages to slip all the way under — he's still too full for that, too sore, too stretched, every part of him screaming reminders of the birthday he's had — but his awareness seems to fade in and out like the old black-and-white in his zayde's garage, one minute a clear picture, the next a fuzzy-edged half-formed image more moving colors than distinct nouns.

He stretches out on his stomach, soft hands moving him gently, prodding him along the outside of his thighs, along his ribs, fingers at his ankles and along the seam of his legs, and there's a growing awareness of pressure around his lower half, but he still isn't all the way present when Jack lets his palm fall, heavy and full, across Robby's cheek, a few quick half-slaps that serve, not to cause pain, but to bring him fully back to awareness.

"How you doing, Mikey?" Jack coos, his words soft and his tone indulgent, warning bells popping up along Robby's lower belly.

"Sleepy," he admits, and it's true. Beyond just the warm, floaty weightlessness, there's an exhaustion creeping in at the corners, seeping into the gaps between his cells, the spaces between breaths, like an oil, clinging to everything it touches.

Jack pets his head, pulls softly on the ends of his hair, leans over and peppers the side of his profile with sweet kisses, light and bright and full of a youthful, playful energy that Robby distinctly does not feel. It warms him, sparks catching like a magnesium-tipped match, and he smiles, then he giggles, turning away from the nuzzling little kisses Jack is trying to place on the stretch of skin where his neck meets his shoulder.

"There he is," Jack says, fondness coating his words in liquid gold. "We're almost done, yeah baby?"

Robby nods, or tries to. He's not actually sure his head moves against the mattress. "Yeah."

"Been pretty fucked out, huh?" Another nod, this time with a little whimper. "Hole so sore, still so fucking full — it's been a lot, hasn't it?" Too many easy questions in a row and there are those alarm bells, pinging deep in his belly. "And I know you feel so good, don't you baby, got stuffed and filled and fucked until you couldn't see straight, didn't you, sport? Took the whole thing like a champ." The more he talks, the more vaguely condescending Jack gets, the heavier Robby's dick feels between his legs. And it hurts, fucking aches, growing hard against the mattress beneath him, but when he tries to turn over, he can't.

"Nu-uh-uh, Mikey, not this time. You got to do all of that, while I got to stand back and watch. And it was a brilliant fucking show, but I'm not Shen, and I don't just wanna watch. I think you've had your fun, and now it's time for me to have mine. But first." The weight of him, the warm press of his body at Robby's feet, the shadow he cast over Robby's shoulder, gone as he crosses back to the door of the bedroom and flings it wide. "Anyone else want one more go-round? Consider it a party favor, because it's been real y'all but I'm going to ahead and say goodnight so I can put Michael here to bed properly."

The buzz of voices, muffled by the door and the wall between them, grows louder as the gathered party make their way into the room. Cassie tugs his hair, while Garcia runs the tip of her now-clean dildo around his mouth, eases the tip inside just past the head and tells him what a pretty girl he'd make, sucking someone off with his lips all swollen like that. Mel tells Yolanda to be nice again before she dips down and presses a kiss to Robby's shoulder, gives him a soft, almost playful pat on the ass before she whispers, "thank you" into his ear. Frank is there, right behind her, and even from where he's laying, on cheek pressed firmly into the mattress, Robby can see that he's hard. Frank reaches down and cups himself, his eyes flying from the open stretch of Robby's back to Jack, and whatever expression he finds there, it's not the one he wants, because he drops his hand and droops his shoulders and Robby doesn't miss when Mel pats his arm comfortingly and tells him, "Maybe next time, hon."

The only one who doesn't touch him again is Shen, who instead of joining the group, sinks back into one of the chairs along the wall, a short glass of amber liquid in his hand.

When Jack makes his rounds, giving out hugs and handshakes and thanking everyone for coming, he pointedly skips over John, who takes a long pull of whatever he's drinking, his eyes focused on Robby and the smile on his face soft.

"Well then," Jack says as Mel files out, the last one of the assembled group to leave besides John and Dennis. He turns and claps his hands together, kicks the door shut behind him with his good foot as he crosses to the bed and throws one arm over his head, pulling off his shirt and dropping it to the floor as he undoes the tie on his sweatpants. "Finally my fucking turn."

He drops his pants and steps out of them, his erection springing from the elastic waistband hard enough that it bounces against Jack's belly, leaves a smear of precome, one thin strand stretching taut between Jack's happy trail and the tip of his dick. He ignores it as he straddles Robby's thighs, settles in between the wrappings around his legs that keep him immobile.

Dennis must have helped — much like Robby's lung capacity, Jack's knotwork had only improved once Dennis had shown up and challenged the army vet's competency. The thin white cord that had held his hands behind his back now starts just below his knees and snakes over, around, through his thighs and down the top of his calves. It doesn't seem like the sexiest position for Dennis to have left him in — until Robby feels the cool drizzle of lube down the seam of his thighs, and the hot press of Jack's cock against him.

"Do you have any idea how hard it's been?" Jack says, his breaths shorter, his vowels punched out as he slides in and out of the hot press of Robby's thighs, the ropes squeezing together what his muscles no longer have the strength to. "Having to wait until that sweet little hole of yours has nothing left to give, just to get to fuck your thighs? Having to watch everyone get to make you feel so fucking good, and having to wait my turn?"

His hand comes to rest on the side of Robby's face, his pinky finger hooking around and into Robby's mouth while he ruts, his hips slapping hard and fast, his cock catching on the rougher fibers of the terrycloth as he hisses and shifts his hips higher, grinds down a little against the cleft of Robby's ass. The plug shifts inside him, and dull and heavy ache against his prostate. "Listening to all those breathy little sounds you make, the whines they punched out of you — hearing you moan fucking Frank Langdon's name before mine? God, Robinavitch, never again," and Robby knows he doesn't mean it, knows because even as he's complaining, he's thrusting faster, his rhythm stuttering as he fucks himself obliviously towards the edge of his orgasm. "Never again, Mikey, only ever mine, only one who fucks you like this, only one who feels like that filling you up, fuck, God I love you, love you so fucking much Mikey, gonna," Jack grunts, the sound in the back of his throat rumbly and short and Robby can feel it coming half a second before Jack's load lands thick and hot between his thighs.

"Jesus H everloving Christ, Mikey, god I fucking love you, love you so fucking much, hope you had the happiest fucking birthday," he babbles as his hips continue to move, his thrusting even easier now that Robby's thighs are a mess of his sweat and Jack's cum.He tries to move, clenches and relaxes his thighs to feel how easily they slip against one another. He's too full, and too empty, can't come again but feels the plug inside him, pressing on his prostate and demanding he try. "Dennis, baby, come here," and that's all the cajoling Dennis needs.

He sinks one knee onto the mattress next to Robby's hip, and his voice is low, calming, ever the farmer approaching a half-wild beast. "Right here, daddy, what do you need?"

"Hand," Jack says, holding out his own for Dennis's, and Dennis offers it without hesitation, doesn't even blink when Jack folds all but his first two fingers back into his palm and then shoves Dennis's hand between Robby's thighs, uses the grip on his wrist to drag his hand up and through the mess he just made. When he pulls back, Dennis's fingers and the side of his wrist are coated in Jack's cum, and he stares at it for a second, seems mesmerized by the way it drips slowly down Dennis's fingers, before the hand not wrapped around Dennis's winds into Robby's hair and pulls, yanks it back far enough that the edge of Robby's scalp goes white with the tension.

Robby hisses, tries to get his hands under his shoulders to push up more, relieve some of the pressure, but he can't move fast enough, and it doesn't matter anyway. Jack stops as soon as he gets him up enough off the bed that Dennis is able to shove his fingers into Robby's mouth and deep into his throat.

He gags, chokes a little, before his eyes flutter closed and he swallows, licks Dennis clean and savors Jack's taste.

He's been one of Robby's favorite flavors for a long, long time.

"Look at you, baby," Jack says, swinging one leg over so he's not straddling Robby anymore, sinking to the mattress and letting his hand fall, claiming, over Robby's hip. "You look like a fucking vision."

"I'll say," John says, his voice quiet from where he sits along the wall. All three men look at him, his dick visibly tenting his pants as he rattles the ice around the bottom of his empty cup.

"You stayed," Robby says, and Jack reaches over to run a hand up Robby's back.

"Yeah. I stayed," John says, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on his knees. "Thanks for having me."

Robby blushes, feels suddenly shy. "Can — would it be okay — help?"

Robby looks down at his still-tied legs, and then back at John, who looks from Robby to Jack to Dennis, and Robby can't see what the other two men do, but it must not be anything prohibitive, because the next thing Robby knows, John is on his knees, crawling towards the edge of the bed, highball glass forgotten at the foot of the chair behind him.

He undoes the first knot with precision that behooves a surgeon, pulls the rope with equal parts tender curiosity and confident skill, working his way up Robby's legs until the last knot is undone and the tie falls loose against the mattress. There's a flat palm across the top of one thigh, right where the muscle meets the bottom of his ass cheek, and John makes a gentling sound as he tugs, first gently and then with a steady, easy pressure as he eases the plug out of Robby's ass, leans forward and blows a cool stream of air across his stretched, ruined hole.

"Mind if I get him cleaned up, boss?" John is looking at Jack, but there's a look that Jack and Dennis both exchange before Dennis shrugs and Jack nods.

"Be my guest, John. The kid and I will get things taken care of out here."

John nods, and pushes Robby's legs until they swing off the side of the bed and hit the floor, before he throws one of Robby's arms around his shoulders and picks him up, thrown over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

The blood rushes to Robby's head, but it's only a matter of half a dozen feet before John is setting him down on the edge of the sink, steadying him before turning on the tap and putting the plug in the drain. He feels the water, adjusts a few times, and then is back in front of Robby, squatting down to make sure the tie didn't leave any abrasions or raw spots along the length of his legs.

"Looks good, Mike," he says, holding his hand out flat so that Robby can set his on top, John's grip unfailingly strong as he guides wobbly steps across the bathroom floor, helps provide a counterbalance as Robby sinks into the tub.

The water is hot, borderline too hot, and he hisses, feels his muscles screaming at him as the wrecked skin around his hole burns and tingles. It hurts to sit, but he eases back until most of the pressure is on his lower back, and he can already feel the soft rhythm of the water as it laps against his chest, the warm heat seeping into his body as his mind threatens to float away, the world going bubbly again as his hands literally bob along the surface of the bath.

There's a small shnick, and the smell of green apples and coconut fills the space, his favorite shampoo of Jack's from home.

"God, that was an impressive show tonight," John says as his hands work shampoo into Robby's hair, trail the soap down over his shoulders. His fingers press enough that Robby sits up, and then gentle fingernails rake down his back, scrub through the hair there before looping around to Robby's chest, his belly, the tops of his thighs. He feels sparks, thinks he would absolutely be hard again under any other circumstance. He can see how hard John is, still, but when he shifts in the water, attempts to move one arm over the side, John just puts a hand on his wrist and shakes his head, smiling. "Not what it's about. It's okay."

And it is okay.

John rinses him off, pulls him gently to his feet, and wraps him in a towel first, and then the thick, fuzzy, tie-less robe from the hotel. John guides him back to bed, makes sure he's laid down with his feet tucked under the blanket, before he flips off one of the two bedside lamps. He squeezes Robby's foot as he leaves, a half-whispered, "happy birthday, dude," before he makes his way back to the common space, leaving the door open behind him.

Sleep pulls at Robby with the devil's claws the second his head hits the pillow, and he slips into unconsciousness to the soft sounds of friendly goodbyes, hugs between Jack and John and Dennis, the final closing of the outermost door, and then, an indefinable amount of time later, the innermost one too.

The clock rolls over, and Michael Robinavitch spends the first night of being fifty-five snuggled in between the two men who know him best, warm, cozy, and well and truly fucked by all those who love him most.

No birthday candles in the world could have made a better wish come true.