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When Quinn comes home from college, he finds himself looking up at Luke and thinking when did that happen? Last time he could picture, he was having to tilt his gaze up to meet his eyes, same way he now had to for Jack and the thought is knocked clean from his head when he’s engulfed in Luke’s arms, squeezed for dear life, face smashing into his shoulder, nose crushed into the hollow under his collarbone where it smells like clean sweat and their mom’s laundry detergent and the metallic tang of man. He’s left no time to analyze that scent or thought because Jack’s barreling into them, throwing his arms around them both, entangling his own spice with that of Luke’s and home and comfort and it all goes straight from Quinn’s head to his dick. Which is unfortunate and really not an opportune time.
They hug it out before their mom calls them inside properly, takes Quinn’s backpack from him and pushes them all into the living room and out of her way to finish getting dinner ready.
Jack’s clinging to his side, expected, but Luke’s also not letting go, less expected. But he’ll take it. He’s missed them something fierce and every second he breathes in his brothers the pressure valve inside his head lets the stress leak out of him until he’s buried under them on the couch. It’s nice. It’s so fucking nice.
Jack sneaks into his room that night, the way Quinn knew he would, crawling into his bed, because he belongs there, even when Quinn isn’t home. Neither of them are shy anymore, not about this, not about what they do for each other, to each other. Need had tipped the scale from shy years ago.
Jack’s under his covers and slotting his lips against Quinn’s before Quinn can push himself up to meet him halfway. Ostensibly home tastes like their mother’s cooking but privately Quinn thinks it tastes like Jack, who at that moment tastes like dinner from home on a literal level but he’d taste like home with freshly brushed teeth or shitty beer or even morning breath. Home is a dynamic concept of wherever Jack is and right then it’s in their parents house in Michigan. But it could be Toronto or the airport or any of the thousand tiny towns they played in.
But they’re both still teenagers and Jack is hard and Quinn’s been sporting a semi since he damn near walked through the door and it devolves rapidly. Their hands get in each other's way trying to undress and touch how they couldn’t with Luke or their parents around. Pleas about missing you, needing you, loving you pass through the air; equal and true. They cum too fast for it to be good, good the way they’ve built into each other, but they’ll be ready to go again soon. The first collision always chasing the relief of distance, Jack spilling over Quinn’s hand on the third stroke and Quinn cumming to the high pitched whine Jack lets out. Spunk mixing between them, mixing them back together. Breath passing back and forth in a humid and tumbling rush.
Eventually to calm, turn into intentional and thoughtful touches. Tracing the lines of muscle down Jack’s chest, running a hand over Quinn’s arm; Jack’s tendons moving under Quinn’s fingers, Quinn shivering when Jack tugs his hair.
Equal and true; true and equal.
Quinn’s hard again and Jack never went fully soft but now there’s no rush. Quinn can take his time pushing Jack’s buttons, make him shiver and whimper.
Jack’s eyes have glassed by the time Quinn starts to stretch him, world existing only so far as Quinn is. Reduced to Quinn’s fingers and Quinn’s eyes, intent and harboring the darkness that blooms between them. Not so much electrical but chemical need when Quinn finally, finally gets between Jack’s legs and pushes in.
Quinn’s slow about it, cognizant of the other residents, as he fucks Jack. Little punches of air escaping Jack each time he bottoms out, a slow burning ember coaxed to soon catch and flare quietly as he spills himself into Jack, marking him from the inside.
He has to finish Jack off with his mouth, let Jack mark his insides too. Jack’s hands are buried in his hair until he has to untangle one to silence his own mouth, bite his own hand when Quinn looks up at him and does that thing that always undoes him.
It’s not their finest work, no stars to be found, but Jack sees Quinn and that’s basically the same.
Jack can’t really be assed to clean up and Quinn only cares when Jack cares, so they fall asleep in the mess, Jack curling as small as possible into Quinn. Morning isn’t far off and they’re tired but they are together. Everything else can wait.
Morning comes, as it always and routinely will. They separate and dress. Jack helping himself to what’s left in Quinn’s closet. They find Luke in the living room, empty dishes on the coffee table and waiting for a game lobby to fill. Quinn settles in next to him and Jack falls onto his other side, pushing the three of them into the arm of the couch. No one moves to create space. Luke smells like warm cotton and sleep sweat and it’s all Quinn can focus on, not the shit talked by Jack about Luke’s skills, not the heat of Jack draped over his side, not the finger drawing patterns on his thigh. At some point Luke threw his arm around Quinn’s neck, pulling him in closer before he settled his hand back on his controller. Quinn doesn’t object, says nothing as he slouches lower to give Luke a more comfortable grip.
The morning passes that way and it’s nice. So fucking nice. Quinn wants to weep.
Quinn starts cataloguing the differences between Jack and Luke. Now that he’s actually looking. Being forced to look by his own hormone-addled brain. The height is certainly the biggest one, the way their sweat smells, the pitch of their laughs, where their arms wrap around him when they hug. The way Jack has always felt like danger, electricity, warning crackling through the air that this way lies your ruin. Luke doesn’t. Luke feels like an eternal hot spring, steam rising off the surface, inviting, and comforting and soft from the shielding he and Jack fought so hard to provide for him. That freezes the slow moving train of realization on him. Quinn worked so hard for Luke to not be as fucked up as him and Jack and now he wants him the way he has Jack too.
Jack perceives this, vies for Quinn’s attention with more panache than usual, bolder in his claim than in the past, needing to steal Quinn’s eyes back to himself. Luke, aware-unaware of this war between them, knowing he’s fighting for Quinn, the prize to be won, but not sure why, shows out a little more. Fucking around on the pond turns into legitimate competition, showy tricks and brash language, trying to keep Quinn looking at him and not the other.
Quinn doesn’t know how to reconcile it. Jack’s always been his, loved in all six ways. And he’s guilty enough about eros for Jack, as mutual as it is, but the trepidation of attaching that to Luke eats through him, vining and constricting around his heart and already lax moral code. But it’s there and so much more insidious than Jack’s, having snuck up on him when he literally wasn’t looking. Maybe if they lived together this wouldn't be surprising to him. He’d be able to look back and see this twirling line of red in their memories. But he doesn’t. He’s blindsided by it.
Jack knows, Jack always knows. Tries to redirect Quinn’s eyes to only him and they’re studiously not talking about it, out of protecting Luke from it or Jack’s jealousy, Quinn couldn’t say. Quinn’s grateful for it either way.
Except it’s not really working. Ignoring it isn’t working because how could he ignore his littlest brother?
Quinn’s watching Luke’s rail thin ankles from where his pants are too short, the way he swings his arms not realizing how long they are yet, where there’s no babyfat left across his abs.
Luke notices. He’s not a complete idiot. He’s fifteen and coming to terms with the heat that shouldn’t be coming from Quinn. Sometimes he’ll push. Spread his legs a little wider when they’re gaming, knee knocking and staying against Quinn’s. A tee that probably should get thrown out because it doesn’t fit any of them anymore with the neckline pulled wide exposing his collarbone, holes in the seams. He has to know what he’s doing, Quinn hopes he does, even if he doesn’t understand the freight train of consequences headed their way.
Luke’s the one who breaks the odd stalemate between him and Jack, turns the cold war hot. Corners Jack in the garage shooting area. Cross checks him into the wall, demands to know what’s up between them, between Jack and Quinn. Jack knows better than to really fight back, he’s almost exactly where he wants to be. He puts up a token protest, pushes a glove against Luke’s chest, up under his guard, drops his stick.
They’re of a height these days and Jack is aware of it like he usually isn’t. Used to Luke being a shadow behind him but now he’s here, pushing their boundaries. In his face, hair wild. And it’s a very attractive look on him, Jack concludes. He thought it would be and the confirmation burns low in him. He lets his head fall back against the wall, chin forward, bratty and insouciant.
“Dude, seriously, what’s been up with you and Quinny?”
Jack has to weigh how much explicitness will scare Luke off, how much honesty he can take. He decides if Luke wants to be in it, he has to be all in.
Jack’s never had to put his seduction skills to use outside of Quinn, but they’re all so similar he figures what worked on Quinn will work on Luke too. He slides down the wall a little further, so he can look up at Luke, and isn’t that a thought, having to look up at his little brother. He lets his eyes slide halfway, fluttering his lashes in a way that makes Quinn’s eyes blow wide, pitches his voice soft, lets the reedy high note that still afflicts him in, “Do you think about kissing Quinny? ‘Cause I do. He’s really good at it.”
Luke looks so caught out, the images of Jack and Quinn flashing through his brain too fast to focus on, blush rising, eyes glazed, lips parted.
“Jealous, Lukey?” Jealous that he gets to touch Quinn, kiss Quinn. That he’s good at it.
“Confused, mostly.”
“I think about you sometimes, too.” Jack watches Luke shake his head, curls bouncing and tangling. Jack grabs at Luke’s shirt through his glove, pulls him even closer, noses at the side of his face.
“Is…Is that what’s going on?”Jack can see the gear teeth clicking together in Luke’s head. Trying to decide what to do with confirmation.
Luke keeps thinking and Jack lets him. Waiting for whatever he decides. Jack’s a betting man and Luke hasn’t moved away or stopped touching him yet. Jack can wait him out.
Wait for this: Luke pushing him in further, stick grinding into his ribcage, face getting closer, face in approximation of determined uncertainty. “Teach me.” Teach me how to be what you are for Quinn. Teach me to kiss him, to make him want me too.
“Come here, big dog.”
Luke drops the stick and lets Jack pull them together, bumping their noses together more than their lips. It’s a mess and Jack has to ask, “Lukey, is this your first kiss?” And the way Luke blushes even deeper and avoids Jack’s gaze tells him that yes it is. It lights something vicious in him, possessive and grotesque. Quinn has his first kiss and he gets to have Lukey’s, some passing of the mantle, following in his big brother’s steps, the immense fire swells at the thought. Something for him to teach Luke rather than it be another thing he learns directly from Quinn. “Like this.” Soft brushes until Luke can do it back to him, how to focus on one lip at a time, sucks it into his mouth and Luke obscenely keens which goes to his dick, making it twitch against Luke’s where they’re pressed through their shorts. Luke shakes.
And Jack probably would have done something about that if he didn’t hear a car pull in the driveway, their mom coming home. He pushes Luke away, urging him to flee inside, as the garage starts to open. He spins away, untucking his shirt and tucking his erection up into his waistband before picking his gloves and stick back up, trying to not appear even a third as wrecked as Luke looked.
Ellen’s talking on the phone when she pulls in, hopefully not paying too much attention to Jack beyond her quick wave as she gathers the bags to go in. He turns back towards the net and picks a random stick handling exercise to pretend to have been working on as she goes in. He breathes out in relief when she doesn’t need his help. Close. But oddly thrilling. Huh.
He finds Luke after, when there’s no doubt the coast is clear. Doesn’t bother knocking, opens the door to see Luke staring at the ceiling, “That’s the hardest I’ve ever cum in my life.” Jack takes perverse satisfaction in that, something purring in the back of his brain. He shuts the door behind him.
“Thinking about me? Or were you thinking about Quinn?”
Jack stands over him in his sightline, examining Luke’s sweaty face, the cum caught on his shirt, the way he doesn’t avoid eye contact when he answers, “Quinn.”
Plants a hand beside his head and leans in, “Is this what you want?”
“Yes.”
Jack kisses him.
Quinn’s weak, he knows that. He has two bright red buttons that say ‘hit here’ named Jack and Luke. Press here to move Quinn Hughes. Press them both and he could be inspired to homicide. It’s simple and elegant, all tied together in a neat bow made of caution tape with a tag called family. And Luke has a mitt on the one labelled Jack when he ducks into Quinn’s room the next afternoon looking awfully determined despite the hesitancy lurking in his posture. Quinn’s laying in bed, scrolling, before he pushes himself to sit on the edge. Quinn’s guard is up, suspicious, until he has to shore the defences when Luke says he’s seen him and Jack.
But Quinn knows where Luke’s buttons are. How to get him to fold via the pressure of direct and specific conflict. “Seen what?”
Luke physically wavers, a reflex to move to the door but he persists, shakes some steel into his head and says the quiet part to Quinn’s face. Artificial confidence like staring down a losing match, “On the couch last night, with Jack. He was kissing you.”
They were doing much more than that so Quinn just hums, keeps eye contact, pulling out every trick he’s learned in big brother school to appear to have some handle on the situation that he suspects is about to rapidly spiral.
“Why do you kiss Jack?” and Quinn waits for the second half of the question, accusation, damnation that he knows is coming, “And not me?”
There’s no answer where it doesn’t immediately crumble under hypocrisy. Can’t say Luke’s fifteen because he and Jack started way earlier than that. Can’t say he loves Jack more, patently false. Can’t say it’s a different type of love because the cum rag in his laundry basket is a beacon of shame in his room. Can’t say it’s their age gap because four years isn’t really that much. Can’t say Jack’s prettier because that’s not what it’s fundamentally about.
“Do you want me to?”
Luke steps closer, looks down at Quinn, eyes, nose, lips. “Yes.” Luke leans down like Jack did yesterday afternoon, and Quinn feels dwarfed by him. Surrounded by Luke in a way Jack can’t manage. Caged in and under Luke’s body, his scent surrounding him as he presses his lips to Quinn’s.
He doesn’t taste like Jack, is Quinn’s first thought, which is a disservice to Luke. He’s sweeter and more acidic and a better kisser than Quinn figured he would be in his fantasies. Luke’s slow and careful with it, intentional to a fault and Quinn wants, he wants so much that when Luke puts a little more force into it, probably just a result of gravity, Quinn gives in. Straightens his spine to meet Luke’s challenge fully and engage him properly. Tongues and teeth and spit until Luke can’t breathe and they break apart. Luke’s panting with his whole body, staring at Quinn’s lips still. And he’s tripped over a second brother shaped cliff because no way in hell he’s giving up Luke. The honesty of it smells revolting, dug up from where he’s tried to bury his one criminal defect, because he’s going to have fucked not one but both of his baby brothers.
So he pulls Luke with him up his bed, stays under him because he needs to feel small under Luke, the irony not lost to him. Cedes the mental and physical control to Luke, some level of culpability not his anymore since Luke’s big enough to do whatever he wants.
Quinn tugs Luke’s shirt over his head, releasing his body heat and scent to fill Quinn’s perception and fuck with his head. Kisses the too prominent collar bones, nosing at the ball socket of his shoulder, inhaling Luke, still tinged with the pervasive scent of hockey sweat and metal and ice and whatever fucked up pheremone Luke secretes that drives Quinn crazy. Same evolutionary fuck up that makes Quinn want to fuck Luke as well as Jack, fuck his family.
Luke’s tugging at his shirt and Quinn helps him remove it, needing skin on skin contact or what’s even the point. He lets Luke make the first move toward their sweats, not wanting to pressure Luke into more than what he was ready to offer. Not suggesting anything because Luke’s fifteen and the words only have an abstract meaning to him yet. Sex is different from sex with your brother.
So he does his best to mirror, lets Luke draw the map, puts the power in Luke’s hands. Hands feel out his chest, arms, neck, navel, fingers trace under the elastic of his waistband and Quinn only returns, keeping it above the belt until Luke rustles up the nerves to reach a hand in and finally touch, cautious and exploratory, so different from what Jack and he did that first time. Not desperate and explosive like a bonfire made of all the shit they continually endured. It’s closer to the worship of something forbidden and Quinn hates the implication that Luke on some level sees him as untouchable, like someone he could make a wrong move with. He doesn’t want to be, resolves not to be. Whatever Luke wants, before he knows he wants it, Quinn will provide. And right then it means shoving his sweats down so his littlest brother can feel him properly, see him fully.
Luke’s grip is tentative, but not unsure. Quinn talks him through it, knows how much Luke flourishes under good coaching. Tighter on the up, slower on the down. Use your palm like this over the head. Here’s some lube. Until he’s burying his head against Luke’s chest as he spills over Luke’s hand, panting and adding moisture to the sweat of his chest.
“Did I do good?”
“Yeah. Yeah, Lukey, you did good.” And once he’s gathered himself, pulled himself back together from the fog of ‘my even littler brother just made me cum,’ something he has some experience with from Jack, he urges Luke to sit on the edge of his bed and drops to the floor, playing with the drawstring of Luke’s sweats. Luke’s sweats, with a big wet patch right on the front, stark and impossible to hide. Luke looks down on him, eyes very wide as the pass connects and he’s nodding furiously.
Quinn pulls them down and Luke’s cock bobs free, shorter than one day Quinn figures it will be, precum shiny on the tip, dripping a string from where it was sticking to his boxers.
Quinn stares up at Luke for a final time, checking in, before getting to work. He doesn’t bother with coy, Luke won’t last that long. He cleans the head off with his tongue before taking nearly its entirety into his mouth. Gorges himself with what’s on offer, grabs one of Luke’s hands to place on his head, curling Luke’s fingers into his hair and weaving one of his own into Luke’s to help him set the pace.
He’s right that Luke doesn’t last, he’s barely worked himself to taking Luke all the way that Luke’s trying to stumble out a warning that he’s going to cum before he does. And this is another thing that’s different between him and Jack, more bitter and metallic, less synthetic. He swallows and licks Luke clean before sitting back on his heels to catch his breath and look up at him.
Luke looks thoroughly debauched, hair sticking up at odd angles and face red, mouth open. A sight Quinn should never have seen let alone caused. Yet all he wants to do is do it again, if Luke wants. He’s pretty sure Luke will want.
All Luke can say is, “Holy fuck, dude.” He collapses back on Quinn’s bed and Quinn watches the rise and fall of his chest, the bottom of his jaw, marred with blemishes, his errant curls.
Quinn pushes himself off the floor, dislodging Luke’s hand as he climbs into bed next to him, drags Luke over and curves around him, pets his hair, reassures him as the world reorients around what they have now.
Quinn feels a little guilty eventually making him go back to his own room. But Jack will soon come slinking in, if he hasn’t been listening in already. Quinn hopes not, if only to avoid whatever jealous tantrum it will precipitate.
A cycle develops, Quinn dancing in an infinity loop around Luke then Jack and back again. Trying to keep them separated, trying not to cross the last line. Stealing kisses from each when they pass in the hall, Jack in his bed at night, Quinn in Luke’s bed when Jack’s at the rink, him always in the middle spot on the couch. An accelerating pace that’s unsustainable. The binary system Quinn orbits must collapse in on itself and he’ll be crushed in the middle of his two stars, like always.
It comes to a head sooner, as in at all, than Quinn would have liked because Jack forces it to, days later. They’d been watching a movie until Jack bullied Luke into a snack run and the second Luke was out of the room, Jack had swung a leg over Quinn and straddled him. Kissed him filthy and fast, making Quinn’s head spin. Before he could object, Jack was taking Quinn’s hand and guiding it into his shorts, leading Quinn to discover that Jack was plugged and that went right to his cock, which was suddenly and viscerally interested in disregarding their location and situation.
Jack’s speed and accuracy wasn’t only applicable on the ice as he had stripped his shorts and Quinn’s pjs off before Quinn knew it and was back astride him, pulling his plug out and dropping it to the floor, grabbing hold of the base of Quinn’s dick, lining himself up when Luke returned. Frozen in the doorway, pinned under Jack’s gaze as Quinn could do nothing to stop him from lowering himself onto Quinn, whose head was turned just enough to catch sight of Luke. Luke’s blush rose in time as Jack fell all the way seated across Quinn’s lap.
“Just gonna watch, Lukey?” The breathiness of Jack’s taunt was the only thing diminishing the underlying jeer.
To his credit, Luke didn’t drop the snack plate as he let out a long uhhhhh as the gears turned in his head. Trying to figure out the play, figure out what he wanted.
His dick ultimately decided for him. Plate set on the sideboard to be forgotten as he went back to the couch where Quinn was trying to stay as still as possible, letting whatever Jack and Luke needed to figure out settle into what it would be as he tried not to cum already.
He wasn’t paying enough attention to catch every piece of younger sibling telepathy but Luke and Jack seemed to come to some agreement as Luke boxed them in from one side, one knee drawn up under him and leg hooking around Quinn’s, throwing an arm over the back of the couch to wrap around Quinn.
When Jack told Luke to kiss Quinn, Quinn realized the situation was entirely (fortuitously) out of his control. That Jack was the puppeteer, pulling him and Luke along for the ride as he started to bounce on Quinn’s cock, mouthing at the exposed side of his neck as he was turned for Luke to kiss.
Jack could be heard and felt worming his hand into Luke’s pants, Quinn could feel it when Jack got a hand on Luke, the way he shuddered into his mouth telling.
Jack worked to take what he wanted, riding Quinn like he was born for it and jerking Luke off in time.
Although Quinn knew Jack could feel when he was getting close to cumming, for the benefit of their external party, Quinn spoke up against Luke’s lips, “Jackie, close.”
“Don’t cum yet,” bit into his neck and Jack stilled in his lap. Quinn burned in frustration, trying to quell the tension in his gut. But this is Jack’s show so he reins it in.
Jack looks to Luke, grabs his hand and wraps it around his cock, guides Luke with his own hand.
“Make me cum, Lukey.”
The command wasn’t for him but it nearly worked on Quinn, hips stuttering as Jack resumed riding him. Luke’s hand sped up on Jack, trying to apply all he’d learned over the past four days with Quinn and finding it effective on Jack too. A remark about hardwired, genetic similarities would occur to Luke later. But right then, he was focused on the sounds Jack was making, the whines, breathy sighs, the whispered demands for more of this or that, orchestrating his own orgasm between his brothers.
Quinn chants Jack’s name, approaching his own limit at a rate he won’t be able to stave off any longer. He takes a hand from Jack’s waist and adds it to Luke and Jack’s rhythm which finally puts Jack over the edge, Quinn squeezing his eyes shut as Jack squeezes around him. It gets all over Quinn’s shirt and the sight of Jack’s cum over their hands nearly ends Quinn despite his enormous efforts to do as Jack said.
Jack is finally still and finally quiet between them. When he pulls away from where he’s collapsed into Quinn’s neck, he’s all sharp toothed grin, barely softened by having all the scheming fucked out of him.
“Your turn, Lukey.”
And Quinn feels like he could die, unsure how much longer he can wait to cum but it’s Jack’s show and he’s here to oblige his baby brothers. Quinn has to drop his head against the back of the couch and stare at the ceiling as Jack pulls off and moves behind Luke to undress him. Quinn focuses on the fact that Jack’s about to leave a cum stain on the couch, rather than the words leaving his mouth. Grabbing the lube and telling Luke it’ll be just like they practiced and that about whites out Quinn’s brain and not even the strength of an electromagnet could stop him from turning his head to watch Jack tease a finger into Luke where he’s gathered chest to chest on Jack’s lap.
Quinn has to dig his fingers into the cushions and work on actively relaxing his body as Luke submits to Jack and Jack watches Quinn struggle. He’s gentle and efficient and Quinn tries not to think about what practice Jack had meant.
Quinn’s counted and lost count of Jack’s eyelashes before Jack declares Luke ready and withdraws his fingers. Jack wipes his hand on some piece of discarded clothing and helps Luke up and over Quinn, gets up on his knees with him, reassures him, “This will make Quinny feel really good, just like I promised.”
Luke nods and Jack passes Quinn the lube so he can ready himself. He’s uncoordinated, squeezing out way more than necessary and spilling more fluid on the couch but he doesn’t care, wouldn’t hurt Luke. He strokes himself and feels under Luke where he’s wet and open.
“Ready , bud?”
Luke nods, sure of himself. Sure of Jack. Sure of Quinn.
Jack helps position him over Quinn and Quinn holds his cock steady as Jack sets Luke over him, setting his pace, achingly slow as Quinn feels his head nudge and then slip in. The evidence suggests Jack did an excellent job opening Luke, no pain in his face, just a face very similar to Jack made their first time, before commenting it felt ‘odd but not bad.’ Luke figures it out and nods to Jack that he’s ready to sink down more.
Quinn’s hips jerk up, too close to the edge, with it being Luke and hot and tight all being words he can now say together. He’s studiously ignoring Jack being there, guiding events or he’d be done for. He can’t ignore Jack when he admonishes him, demands he hold still and behave for Lukey.
He goes back to staring at the ceiling, unable to watch any more as Jack settles Luke on him. Luke’s cock bouncing off his stomach, the sighs escaping his lips before Jack catches his face and kisses them away.
Quinn feels Luke’s weight as he sits fully on him, feels where his balls are pressing into his pelvis, where his dick is rubbing against his tee. When he finally looks, Jack’s petting Luke’s shoulders, dropping butterfly kisses on the side of his face he can reach and that nearly does him in again.
Luke starts moving of his own volition, Jack’s hand on his hip a suggestion as Luke experiments with it, figuring out what feels good. Once Luke starts moving with confidence, Jack starts helping, tilting Luke around until he finds the angle that makes Luke shudder, then does it again on purpose. Twice is all it takes for Luke to cum.
Quinn cums the second he feels Luke’s cum hit his shirt, his body locking around Quinn and spasming like a live wire. He’s pretty sure he shouts but he can’t be sure. Jack will chirp him about it later if he did.
Luke’s still in his lap when he has enough mind to be able to move. Luke’s eyes are very wide, face flushed and sweat matting his hair down. Jack looks like the cat that got the canary next to them. He trails a hand down Luke’s arm, “You made Quinn cum, Lukey. Good job.”
The way Luke ducks his head, bashful and grateful at the praise, makes something dark,cold, and uncertain crash down Quinn’s spine. A second of fear that they pressured Luke into this before Luke smiles down at Quinn, face bright behind the blush. Quinn slants his face up for a kiss, which Luke freely gives and Luke whistles from the background before Quinn flips him off and Jack laughs. The relief that he hasn’t just entirely fucked this up wells up and spills out as his own laugh against Luke’s mouth, which makes him laugh too.
Quinn breaks the kiss first, urging Luke up and off, passing him to Jack. Yanks off his tee shirt and cleans his dick off before tapping Luke’s thighs to clean him off a little. They’ll all need to shower but Quinn doesn’t think he can stand yet and chucks the shirt to the floor before melting back against the couch. He absently notes the credits rolling as he pulls Luke to his chest, Jack following.
It’s Luke who speaks, “When can we… when can we do that again?”
Jack laughs loudly. “In about an hour, if Quinn’s still awake.”
And then winter break is over. Quinn has to go back to school, back to work. Back to his fucking dorm where Jack and Luke are not. He’s alone but they have each other so they’re less incomplete than him and it hurts. Causes him to spiral at inopportune times like anytime there’s silence.
They chat constantly, jokes and filth and hockey chatter. But it’s not enough. Not when he knows Luke crawls into Jack’s bed in the dark. Sometimes he’ll wake to twenty second clips mostly of Jack’s curls in Luke’s long fingers as he pushes him down on his cock. Or an image of Luke’s cum dribbling out of Jack. One memorable morning he woke to an image, chest down, of them jerking each other off, legs and arms twined together.
He sends back what he can. Thirst traps between class, clips of him making himself cum over his hand, breathing out their names when he’s sure he won’t be overheard. What are probably some of the worst dick pics on the earth. But they egg him on, demand more and with more frequency. Quinn’s world reduced to their group chat with hockey in between. It’s not enough. It has to be.