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lannister-slings-and-arrows · 3 years

Text

Good Girls Go to Heaven (Bad Girls Go Everywhere)

The first in a Rafael Barba/Reader/Frederick Chilton threesome verse written in collaboration with @pascalispretty . Yep. We did this. Was it necessary? No. Did we enjoy it? Sometimes. Are you going to read it? I sure hope you do and that you like it! Cross posted on AO3 if you prefer that format!

Part One of the series So Much Easier than You Realize

Chapter One: Tender Curiosity Chapter Two: No 'I' in Threesome Epilogue

Warnings: flakey friends, getting trapped in an elevator, discussing of a threesome. Oh, and typical Frederick rudeness and Rafael jack-assery. Stay tuned for some smutty smut smut in the next chapter, don't worry, like I would ever deprive you of explicitness lol. Rating: PG? maybe PG-13? idk idk idk i should never be in charge of small children lol Word Count: 6087 Summary: After being stood up by a friend, you find yourself trapped in an elevator. At least the company's good. The beginning of a Frederick Chilton/Reader/Rafael Barba universe.

You almost don’t hear your phone chirp over the sounds of the bar. But you do and you groan quietly. Erin is already fifteen minutes late and you just know what this text is going to say.

hey girl! im so sry but nate wants me to meet him at his place, you dont mind right???

nope, it’s fine, have fun. use a condom, slut 😉

haha we can reschedule for later this weekend?? love youuuuuuu! 😘

You roll your eyes and suppress the urge to order a triple bourbon and smash your phone against the bar. Alcohol and aggravation are not a good combination, you recite in your head, taking a deep breath and setting your phone down gently in front of you. That girl is a flake and she is going to get a disease and you are going to laugh at her.

As long as it isn’t serious.

Probably.

At least Erin had chosen a nice location to stand you up in; the bar she was so eager to try out was on the fortieth floor of some fancy hotel that you had already forgotten the name of and it’s beautiful, you have to give her that. Floor to ceiling windows that give an incredible view of the city and the vintage decor with walnut wood panelling is a stark contrast to the expanse of glass and metal outside.

The subtle accents of gold tinsel around the windows and the bartop along with the lights still hanging from the ceiling give you a general impression of what it looked like a week ago during New Years, and you think you would have appreciated the understated decorations.

No matter how pretty the bar is it feels pathetic to stay after you finish yet another drink alone, so you leave a bill under your empty glass and slip off the barstool as elegantly as you can with the amount of alcohol you have consumed, intent on making your way home. You thankfully do not have to wait long at the coat check outside of the door--your feet hurt and you just want to slip into your pajamas , drink some wine, and watch a shitty movie.

That’s your last bit of luck, however; it seems to take ages for the elevator to arrive. While you jab angrily at the call button a few times, like that will make the numbers descend any faster, you try to figure out a route that will take you past both a liquor store and a good takeout place.

As you think about all the movies in your Netflix queue and weigh them against your now terrible mood, the elevator finally stops at your floor and the doors open slowly. It's all you can do not to stare when you look up and see the men already inside, and those thoughts-- along with every other thought in your brain-- rapidly evaporate.

If Erin is going to stand you up for her latest flash in the pan at least the universe has seen fit to grant you these two to spend your thirty second ride down to street level with. You clear your throat, step onto the elevator and exchange brief, polite smiles before turning around to face the door, surprised to find your bad mood has almost entirely disappeared as the elevator starts to descend.

They’re both dark haired and handsome, and both in suits that look like they cost more than a month’s worth of rent. One of them, the one wearing the purple paisley tie, has his nose buried in his phone, and you can’t help a lingering glance at his profile, appreciating the sharp nose and fine lips. The other one, dressed in navy with a beard that’s barely more than designer stubble, seems more concerned with making sure the collar of the heavy brown winter coat he’s wearing sits just so.

You’re tempted to say something, but your brain only conjures up ridiculous remarks about the hotel and the weather and you would rather stab yourself in the eye than speak them out loud. The one in the navy suit glances at his expensive looking watch and taps his foot impatiently.

The elevator halts abruptly. You stagger forward at the sudden jolt and Paisley Tie reaches an arm out to steady you. The little blue screen that displays the floor numbers has gone blank. That can’t be a good sign. With an impatient huff, Navy Suit presses the button that should open the doors and then jabs it a few more times in quick succession, just to be sure, once the doors remain stubbornly closed.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Paisley Tie mutters, letting go of your arm in order to check his phone again. Navy Suit stabs buttons at random, as though hoping that pressing the right combination in the right order will be enough to get you moving again. Eventually, he hits the little red alarm button, filling the enclosed space with a subdued trilling sound. The speaker crackles into life after what feels like ages, and you hear a tinny voice, barely audible, over the intercom.

“Can I help you?”

“The elevator is stuck,” Navy Suit replies wearily, as though he’s entirely above answering such mundane questions.

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir,” the voice replies. The three of you stare at the speaker, waiting for it to continue. It doesn’t.

“Can you un-stick it?” Navy Suit spits out incredulously, eyes narrowing, and starting to resemble an offended cat. You all wait again for the voice to respond and Purple Paisley shifts irritably next to you, phone briefly forgotten.

“It doesn’t look like it, sir, apologies. You’re going to have to wait for the fire company.”

Navy Suit looks like someone has slapped him in the face and insulted his mother at the same time, and you can see Purple Paisley start to frown ferociously out of the corner of your eye.

“And how long will that take, exactly?”

Another wait of at least forty-five seconds before the voice answers.

“As long as it takes for the fire company to respond. Sit tight, sir.” There is an audible click and you are pretty sure that the security guard on the other end of the line has just hung up on you.

Navy Suit mutters a string of vicious and creative expletives under his breath before taking a deep breath and brushing his hands down the front of his coat, turning back to stare at the elevator doors like he can somehow open them with the power of his mind. Purple Paisley’s frown slowly shifts into the most attractive smirk you’ve seen in a long time and he clears his throat deliberately, casually looking down at his phone.

“I’ve seen you hold up under tougher cross-examinations than that without losing your temper, Dr. Chilton. Having a rough day?”

Navy Suit—Dr. Chilton apparently— purses his lips and continues to stare at the doors.

“You’ve been responsible for the most irritating cross examinations I’ve ever faced, Mr. Barba, so I suppose you’d know.” You raise your eyebrows, staring determinedly ahead of you and reminding yourself that eavesdropping is wrong. But you still see Mr. Barba smile crookedly, the left side of his mouth quirking up as he shifts to fully face Dr. Chilton.

“Oh, now what’s that supposed to mean? Are you telling me that you don’t enjoy our little tête-à-têtes? You wound me, they’re the highlight of my personal courtroom experiences— I never have as much fun questioning a psychiatrist as I do with you.” The doctor’s eyes, still staring straight ahead of him, narrow to irritated slits and he sighs loudly.

While Dr. Chilton is thinking up some witty riposte, you rest a hand on the door of the elevator and kick off your heels. If you’re going to be trapped while these two bicker, you may as well be marginally more comfortable. As cool and glorious as the elevator’s tile floor feels against your sore feet, you do feel marginally self-conscious as you bend down to pick up your shoes.

“Haven’t seen you in a few weeks,” Barba remarks, apparently done teasing the other man. Dr. Chilton sighs and you see his shoulders relax minutely as he turns his head to reply,

“I’ve been in Baltimore. At my real job.” He turns to face Barba. “Derailing your cases is really only something I do for fun, you know.”

He has an infectious smile, a little mischievous, more than a little impudent, and not only it is apparently impossible for Barba not to return it, you also can’t help the answering grin that spreads across your face as you stare deliberately at the doors in front of you, trying not to be obvious as you blatantly listen to their conversation.

“He likes to think he’s so smart just because he happens to be one of the only psychiatrists we can get to testify as expert witnesses here in the city,” Barba explains, glancing in your direction, back to teasing again.

“Don’t forget that it was my testimony that won you that serial rapist case two months ago. I happen to be one of the most in-demand psychiatrists in Manhattan,” Dr. Chilton counters, brows lowering. Barba grins again and turns to face you.

“It wasn’t, but I do have to admit he is pretty smart. And we’ve both been inexcusably rude. I’m Rafael, and that’s Frederick. I figure we should at least introduce ourselves if we’re going to be stuck here for hours.” He sticks his hand in your direction and you grasp it, with the hand that isn’t currently hanging onto your shoes, smiling. His hand is big and warm and you subtly dig one of your heels into your leg to derail any train of thought about what kinds of things fingers that long could do to you.

“Please, call me Fred,” the doctor offers, shaking your hand in turn. His hands are just as lovely as Rafael’s, and you press your shoe a little harder against your leg. “I take it you weren’t here for the conference?” he asks, taking in your discarded heels and your tight green dress with a raised eyebrow.

“No, I was supposed to be meeting a friend for drinks. She waited until after I’d gotten dressed up and waited at the bar for fifteen minutes to bail on me for some new guy she’s seeing.” You simultaneously wish you were both more sober for this explanation and had a little bit more Wild Turkey courage at your disposal. “What kind of conference was it?” you ask, trying to change the subject, suddenly realizing that that sounds a little pathetic.

“Incredibly boring stuff about mental competency for trial, insanity pleas,” Rafael answers, leaning against one of the elevator walls. “Though sitting through that seems less painful than being stood up. I hope your friend doesn’t make a habit of that.”

“Oh, she’s a notorious flake. I should know better by now,” you try, hoping that you look more composed than you feel. There’s something about the both of them that has thrown you off balance.

“Well, I suppose her loss is our gain. I can’t promise both Rafael and I would have made it out of here alive if we were trapped here alone,” Fred interjects, glancing at his very expensive-looking watch. “How long ago did I call that security person?”

“Not long enough that you’ll achieve anything by calling again,” Rafael notes smoothly, taking his phone out of his pocket. “None of you have a signal, do you?”

All three of you check your phones, and are unsurprised when you can’t get a signal; you’re in an elevator and are probably trapped between floors.

Fred takes a deep breath that somehow manages to convey his frustration and taps his fingers against his watch before dropping both arms back down to his sides. Rafael watches this with the kind of smile you always saw on your older cousins’ faces before they were about to make your life miserable at family parties.

“Bored, Fred?” he asks. Fred ignores him and slides a hand into his pocket. “You wouldn't happen to have somewhere better to be than stuck inside an elevator with me, would you?” he tries again, smile widening as Fred’s lips tighten and he slips his other hand into pocket.

“Having my eyebrows plucked off of my face hair by singular hair would be less tortuous than spending hours trapped in an elevator with you, Rafael.”

Rafael smirks. “Fred, this nice young lady is going to think we hate each other if you keep saying things like that. And how pleasant of an experience is it going to be for her, on top of being stood up, to be stuck here with that kind of awkwardness?”

Fred scoffs, looks over, and is met with his colleague smiling innocently at him, honest to god fluttering his eyelashes. And you can’t help but notice they are very nice, very pretty eyelashes. Fred smiles tightly.

“Rafael. I wouldn’t want to give her the impression that we were best friends either. Remember, I don’t twist the truth for a living.”

Rafael throws back his head and laughs.

“Touché! I suppose we could meet somewhere in the middle and just politely catch up then. How was Baltimore? I hear the weather is lovely down there this time of year.”

Fred arches a disbelieving brow. “Are you really asking me about the weather?”

Rafael shrugs. “Weather seemed like a safe topic. We could talk about the hospital if you really wanted, but I was trying to include our fellow passenger and that seemed likely to end up a little jargon-y.” He flashes you an apologetic smile.

“Wow! That’s quite a commute,” you interject, scrambling for something to say that doesn’t sound inane or desperate and overly flirtatious. “Do you only come back for trials or do you split your time between New York and Baltimore?”

“I’m mostly in Baltimore--I’m the administrator of a hospital there--though it depends on what I’m asked to consult on in New York,” Fred explains, with a very thin veneer of modesty. “Sometimes the cases that Mr. Barba needs me to win for him require a little more work.”

You see Rafael flash his teeth in something more closely resembling a snarl than a smile and ask quickly, “So you’re some kind of lawyer?”

“Prosecutor. I’m an ADA in Brooklyn.” The look he gives you can only be classified as a smirk and you smile, desperately praying that you don’t look like an idiot. “You can rest easy, though. I’ve never really relied on his testimony, I have more concern for the safety of citizens such as yourself to do that.” Barba gives you a blink-and-you’d-miss-it wink, ignoring yet another glare from Fred.

You can’t help giggling, and you regret it as soon as it comes out of your mouth. What a way to make yourself sound like a moron. Rafael looks pleased though, and Fred rolls his eyes, picking an invisible piece of lint off of the suede of his coat.

The three of you lapse into a surprisingly comfortable silence for a few minutes before Rafael puts his phone back into his pocket.

“We missed you at Truman’s inaugural summer yacht party last week,” he remarks casually, extending an olive branch. “Not that Frederick particularly enjoys that party,” he tells you conspiratorially. “Truman drives that thing like a drunk frat boy, and Fred can’t stand people who abuse their boats.”

“Ship,” Fred corrects absently, and Rafael smiles. This is clearly a frequent discussion between them. “A dinghy is a boat, which you well know, Rafael. And I’m sorry but if you can’t operate something sober that costs more money than some people see in twenty years of working you should not try to operate it while intoxicated.”

“Fred has opinions on how to drive a boat.”

“Sail a ship, Rafael!” Fred snaps, losing patience again.

“Sorry. Sail a boat.”

You watch this back and forth with a small smile and you’re no longer as upset that you aren’t in the bar drinking with your friend. But, though their banter is entertaining, you’re still slightly distracted by your sore feet, and the floor is no longer as cool or comforting as it was. You put your shoes and your bag down and follow as gracefully as you can, tugging the hem of your dress a little further down your legs and attracting the attention of Fred and Rafael, who stop their bickering to glance over at you.

“Comfortable?” Fred asks, raising an eyebrow. He half shrugs before you can decide if he requires a response. “Not a terrible idea,” he continues, looking down at his watch again. “I should try that guard again, we’ve been stuck in here for at least half an hour.” You lean against the wall of the elevator as Fred pushes the alarm button again.

“We’ve alerted the fire department to the situation, sir. They’ll be on their way shortly,” the security guard says when the intercom crackles to life.

“What do you mean ‘on their way’? They haven’t even left yet? This is absurd! We’ve been here for almost an hour already!” You and Rafael exchange grins behind Fred’s back at the sudden increase in his time estimate but wisely choose not to say anything.

“I’m sorry, sir, I can only tell you what the fire department has told me,” the guard is polite, but firm, and oblivious to the glare that Fred is giving to the speaker.

“Save it for the angry Yelp review, Fred,” Rafael teases, shrugging his coat off his shoulders. You try hard not to stare as he folds and balances it meticulously on top of his standing briefcase before unbuttoning his jacket and loosening the knot of his tie. Without his coat he somehow looks even broader, and you have to force yourself not to continue undressing him in your head, maybe depositing his suit jacket on top of the black wool at his feet.

The next two hours pass by surprisingly fast, no matter how many times Fred buzzes the security guard to complain. By the end of an hour and a half, you can tell the guard has to force himself to answer the pages and you briefly entertain the idea of finding out his name to call and apologize later, especially when Fred starts to threaten the man’s job. Rafael, for the most part, does an excellent job at distracting the two of you. He tells a few funny stories from court, and at one point narrates in detail exactly what he’s going to eat when he finally gets out.

“Rafael, stop,” Fred orders, beyond exasperated when the lawyer starts attempting to describe what his grandmother’s ropa vieja smells like.

“But I’m starving!”

“I saw you eating when we got on the elevator!”

“So? I’m still hungry!”

Fred very deliberately looks Rafael up and down, raises an eyebrow, and is about to retort with something probably cutting when the three of you hear knocking on the polished steel doors.

“Hello? Is anyone in there?”

Fred immediately pounds on the door.

“Yes! Get us out, we’ve been trapped in here for five hours!”

Rafael snorts and extends a hand to help you up. You listen intently for a response and finally the man outside calls back,

“Alright folks, just stand away from the doors we’ll open ‘em up for ya.”

You brush off your dress and reach down to grab your things as Fred does his best to hide how impatiently he is shifting around.

“You look like you’re waiting for a starting bell,” Rafael informs him.

“Did you just compare me to a horse?” Fred asks incredulously.

“Don’t southerners like horse racing? I thought the simile would make you feel more at home.”

Before Fred can fire back the door pops open to reveal a couple firefighters and a new obstacle in the way of you getting out of this thing with your dignity intact. The car is stuck between floors and there is no way in hell that you are climbing out of it in a dress this short with two gorgeous men watching you. Men who you have, thus far, somehow not managed to make too much of a fool of yourself in front of.

The fire crew waves at all of you and one of them extends a hand out. Fred steps up and then checks himself, turning to face you and graciously offering to let you go ahead of him.

“Oh, no, that’s fine, I know how much you’ve been waiting for this moment,” you answer, shaking your head and waving him on. He shrugs and grabs the man’s hand, hoisting himself out with only a little struggle.

“I’m a little surprised he made that,” Rafael whispers quietly in your ear. You can’t help the tiny shiver that goes down your spine and the look that you see out of the corner of your eye tells you that he definitely noticed.

“I heard that!” Fred calls from outside the car.

You again insist that Rafael go ahead of you and you shamelessly ogle his ass as he climbs out. Men shouldn’t be allowed to have asses like that. Asses like that in addition to shoulders like his just are not fair.

Finally it’s your turn. You toss your shoes and your bag out first and grab onto the ledge, scrabbling a little until you feel a very burly firefighter grip you under the arms and lift you out, setting you down onto solid ground again. You haven’t been so happy to see one of those helmets since your college roommate’s bachelorette party last year, and you grin at the memory, bending down to slip your shoes back on while thanking the very tall, very strong man. You can hear Fred and Rafael still bickering good-naturedly with one another as you grab your purse off the floor and turn to face them.

“Well, I don’t know about the two of you, but I think I’ll be taking the stairs the rest of the way down.” The two of them break off from their back and forth to flash you twin smiles, and the three of you find your way to the staircase together.

“I’m starved. All of your waxing lyrical about your grandmother’s cooking reminded me that I haven’t eaten since lunch,” Fred complains as you make your way down the stairs. Mercifully, you seem to have been most of the way down before the elevator stopped, and so you don’t have far to go.

“There’s a pizza place across the street,” Rafael points out, pulling his peacoat back on, and you can practically see the snarky comment fighting to escape Fred’s mouth. But instead he smiles and checks his watch.

“Actually, there’s a nice French place around the corner and it shouldn’t be too busy at this hour.” It doesn’t sound like a question, but he still raises an inquiring eyebrow at Rafael, who smirks back and pushes open the stairwell door.

“I could eat an entire croquembouche. Lead the way, Frederick! Would you like to join us?” Rafael asks as you trail behind them, a little awkwardly, across the lobby. You’re reluctant to leave your handsome companions just yet, but you hadn’t expected dinner.

“It’s not every day you see an Assistant District Attorney offer to demolish a mountain of choux and caramel,” Fred teases, buttoning his coat. “Will you at least have an appetizer, or are you going straight to dessert?”

“Depends on the menu,” Rafael replies.

The three of you are finally at the door, and Rafael holds it open for you. “Are you coming?” he asks. “It feels like the least we can do to make up for being trapped with us for over two hours.” You pray that you aren’t blushing and for a moment you consider saying no. The spell has to break at some point, and you’re not sure you want to prolong that inevitable disappointment. But something about the absurdity of the evening pushes you forwards. How often do you find yourself trapped in an elevator with two handsome, interesting, and charming men? How often do you find even one man who meets all of those criteria, let alone two?

“I’d love to! As long as it really is just around the corner, my feet are killing me.”

To your immense relief, Fred is a man of his word; it’s barely a five minute walk to your destination. You weren’t sure what you would expect a man like Fred, obviously wealthy and discerning, to recommend for dinner, but an intimate little bistro was not quite what you predicted. It is a cozy place; all dark wood and soft leather and candlelight and you make a mental note to send Erin flowers. This is a significant improvement on ordering a fourth cocktail and listening to her complain about Nate.

Fred immediately orders a bottle of red wine for the table while you and Rafael request individual drinks. The two of them look divine looking over their menus in the soft golden candlelight glow, and you sneak several peeks at them from beneath your lashes. Dinner seems to fly by. You and Rafael order a second round of drinks before your appetizers have even been delivered, and you and Fred find yourselves laughing at the appreciative groan Rafael makes when he takes the first bite of his steak.

In order to keep themselves from bickering over which cut of steak is superior they press you for more details about yourself, and you’re so surprised that they actually seem interested in your answers that you find yourself replying without overthinking what you’re saying. When you finally do check your phone you’re equally as shocked to realize just how much time has passed.

And how many drinks I’ve had, you think ruefully, as the numbers on the screen in front of you take a little bit too long to come into focus.

You sigh quietly, mood souring slightly with the realization that while this evening has turned out much better than you thought it was going to, it was drawing quickly to its inevitable conclusion and you had no guarantees that you would ever see the two of them again. Thankfully, Fred and Rafael are too busy squabbling quietly to have noticed or heard your sigh, and you watch them with a small smile on your face as they continue to argue over dessert, eyes flashing, clearly enjoying themselves.

“You’re both unfairly attractive,” you muse quietly, chin resting in your hand as you observe them. It takes a few seconds for your now pretty thoroughly pickled brain to catch up with the fact that not only did you say that out loud, but that they definitely heard you and have both turned to stare. You can feel a blush spread over your face, and you drop your eyes to the table, clearing your throat and sitting up straight, unable to think of anything to fill the silence that has now descended upon the party. At this moment if you could wish into existence one superpower for yourself it would be to be able to melt into the floor.

“I don’t know,” Rafael says eventually, idly spinning a spoon on the table in front of him. “I’ve been enjoying how attractive the both of you are all day. I don’t see what’s so unfair about that.” You dare a glance up at the two of them and find Rafael smirking at you, his eyes bright. Fred hums in agreement, his eyes quickly flicking between you and Rafael, calculating and the tiniest bit wary but undeniably pleased. You watch the two of them watching you and watching each other, and, gathering all of the courage all your too many drinks have given you, you sigh the most obviously fake, despondent sigh you can and reply,

“Well, it’s unfair because I can’t possibly choose which one of you I want to ask back to my place tonight.”

It’s a tease, and it’s a gamble, and you’re expecting a few more quiet laughs before one or both of them backs down and for the subject to be dropped completely. You barely hear the sharp breath Fred sucks in. Rafael doesn’t make a sound as he narrows his eyes briefly, smiling wickedly, and looks you, and then the doctor, over. Silence reigns once more before you see him come to a decision and ask,

“Who says you necessarily have to choose between us?”

Fred doesn't make a sound for you to hear this time, and you’re sure that the ability to breathe has been suddenly and completely erased from your brain. Rafael stares at you steadily before shifting his gaze over to Fred, catching his eyes and holding them for just as long. He can’t possibly be suggesting what you think he’s suggesting, and yet, the longer he lets his offer stand on its own the more you think he really might be.

You finally look away from Rafael to glance at Fred and you don’t find him looking as shocked or horrified as his silence would suggest. He does look a little surprised, but you would more categorize the look he’s giving the lawyer as thoughtful. And that starts your brain down a train of thought that really is unfairly attractive, considering you are in public and should not be fantasizing about these two men like that where you are likely to make a spectacle of yourself. They’ve locked eyes and Rafael is completely still for the first time since you’ve met him--instead it’s Fred whose fingers are drumming erratically on the white tablecloth as they stare at one another before he gives a tiny, almost imperceptible shrug.

Rafael immediately grins and opens his mouth to say more, but your waitress appears with the drinks you had ordered earlier and asks if any decisions have been made about dessert. You see Fred shake the spell off slightly and sit back in his chair, and Rafael smiles up at the woman and puts in an order for the three of you before Fred has a chance to offer up any of his own suggestions, more than willing to press any advantage to win an argument.

“I’m serious,” he assures the two of you as soon as the woman disappears, leaning back in his chair like it was a throne and taking a sip of his scotch. “You clearly like the both of us,” he gestures to you. “I think the both of you are gorgeous. Fred, if you agree, and neither of you have any complaints, I don’t see the problem in eliminating any decision besides whose place to go back to tonight. We’re adults, who says we have to choose?” He lays out his argument and his conclusion in a neat, orderly fashion, just as you imagine he would in one of his cases and you can’t help grinning back at him, your stomach swirling, and your fingertips tingling slightly in anticipation. Rafael grins back at you and raises his eyebrows in Fred’s direction.

You’re nearly sure that you just agreed to a threesome with two practical strangers in less than three minutes and you can’t find it within yourself to regret that as you also turn to look at Fred, the last hold out to this endeavor. He still looks thoughtful, though now slightly annoyed that Rafael managed to both successfully suggest and argue for a threesome while simultaneously bogarting the dessert order and thus winning their previous argument. However, you don’t see much hesitation in his face when he looks at you and then at Rafael.

“Any objections, Frederick?” Rafael asks, with a confident, barely concealed smirk on his face. You get the feeling that this is something he’s been working his way up towards probably for the whole evening, and is silently congratulating himself on a job well done. Have you come to the conclusion that he’s a bit of an asshole? Yes. But he’s not the gross kind of asshole, just the confident kind of jerk that knows from experience he’s smart enough to get most everything he wants if he applies himself correctly. You have to admit, that is kind of your type.

Eventually Fred smirks back.

“No,” he replies slowly. “I don’t suppose there are.” Rafael smiles crookedly at you both and you barely repress a long sigh. You could fall in love with a smile like that easier than breathing if you aren’t careful, and you are determined not to get that ahead of yourself. This is a fun night, of hopefully amazing sex with two beautful men, and that is all you’re expecting. If Erin can have fun, so can you.

“Well, I suppose that just leaves the decision of whose place we’re going to,” Rafael says, still with the right side of his smile quirked up. The way his sharp green eyes take in every line of your face as they practically dance with mischief tells you he knows exactly how devastating that smile is and that he is deploying it right now for that specific purpose.

Definitely a bit of a jerk. And you definitely like it.

You shrug and are about to offer yours when Fred cuts you off with a sigh and a roll of his eyes.

“I can guarantee mine is closer. And bigger than the both of yours.” You and Rafael share an amused glance at this casual display of arrogance, not Fred’s first of the evening, and you shrug, both of you satisfied with the suggestion.

“Fine by me,” Rafael says magnanimously, “Though I would suggest we all stop drinking. Just to be on the safe side.” There’s that devastating smile again, and you almost find yourself sighing like a moony schoolgirl over it.

The waitress brings dessert over quickly, and you’re quiet as you eat. Every time you make eye contact with one of them, or brush your legs against theirs under the table, you almost choke on your food. The anticipation that settles in your abdomen makes it hard to finish what you’re eating, and you find yourself gripping the cutlery a little tighter than normal, afraid that it will fall out of your grasp.

Fred had already announced at the start of the meal that he would take care of the check, and so he hands his card to the waitress when the three of you finish while Rafael calculates the tip. As he counts the bills you find yourself leaning against him. He’s so warm, and his shoulders are so broad, that you have to fight the urge to slip your hands under his suit jacket to warm your fingers more directly.

You are sandwiched between the two of them as you wait for a cab and you could really get used to this arrangement. Rafael is loosely holding one of your hands in his, and your other is resting in the crook of Fred’s elbow, the suede soft and supple under your fingers. You barely notice the few flakes of snow that start drifting gently through the air.

Even in the cab you’re between the two of them, trying not to make a fool out of yourself as they brush against your knees or squeeze your hands. They afford you the barest touches, yet they’re enough to make you want to get out of the slow-moving vehicle and race down the street, if only it means you can be in bed with them sooner.

It's a quiet ride while the cab crawls through traffic, as though none of you dare risk saying anything that could break through the fragile restraint you're showing. You hardly risk breathing, yet you can't help but notice how long Fred's fingers are as he plays with yours, or how big Rafael's are as his hand cups your knee. Up close, you can see how soft Fred’s hair is, and you desperately want to run your fingers through it. Rafael gets bolder throughout the drive; his fingers shifting ever so slightly until they’re just under the hem of your dress.

The air in the cab feels stifling, and you're about to ask one of them to open a window when your driver suddenly announces your arrival at your destination.

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