Archive of Our Own

George was ready to sleep for twelve hours and possibly forever after that. Lockwood had taken them out west into mountain territory just to clear out a local movie theater. The theater wanted to offer lock-ins again but couldn’t due to a “meager handful of wisps” was the direct quote from the client. 

To be fair to Lockwood, they hadn’t gone in like sheep herded by wolves. Lockwood allowed him a full day in London to find information which readily revealed the building had been used during WWII to house displaced elderly people. Lots of chances for disgruntled old coots to die and linger; lots of possibilities for trinkets secreted away. George didn’t get terribly worried until he read about a string of supposed suicides amongst the residents towards the end of the war. 

They’d taken the train early in the morning and then swapped over to a bus at nearly lunchtime. Spreading out his research on the train had been easier, and the same on the bus meant Lucy and Lockwood became his trusty tables. He didn’t remember eating much except when he’d hold out his hand for a document and Lucy put an apple in it instead. Engrossed in a poorly translated account from a welsh nurse, George automatically took a bite and then passed it off to Lockwood. They managed to get him to eat half the apple before a particularly juicy bite dripped down his hand, and he snapped out of his stupor to save a photocopied obituary. 

Out of habit, he found the offending droplet close to his elbow and traced his tongue along the wet path it had drawn. He made the mistake of making eye contact with Lucy as he circled the bone in his wrist. Her gaze was heavy, though crows had walked next to her eyes. There was mirth, but it was deep underneath a haze that George didn’t quite understand. He had a brief flash of Lucy doing this, Lucy’s tongue curving over the meat of his hand, and he looked away. 

He’d been having a lot of thoughts like that recently. 

It was all business though when they hit the ground running that afternoon. Lucy took all their bags, and okay, watching her muscles strain against her turtleneck as she lugged them off wasn’t strictly business, but that was fleeting. Then Lockwood dragged him along to their client meeting to verify some schematic details. There was a miniscule departure from business when Lockwood decided to dedicate a good five minutes to complimenting George’s research prowess in front of their client. George’s stomach elected to speed run the caterpillar metamorphosis, releasing a dozen new butterflies, wet and wriggling. 

Then though, it was all business. Truly. George shifted into Research Mode, and Lucy came back from stashing their bags at the local inn. She and Lockwood tried to help with the research, but they weren’t more than glorified errand kids. When Lockwood started folding the extra Xerox paper into airplanes, George sent them off to scout the location. 

Two wraiths and a surprising poltergeist later, it was sunrise, and they had gotten two out of three sources. That wasn’t even where their troubles ended. As it turned out, the client they’d talked to was only a half owner. The other owner was his vindictive husband who called DEPRAC on them for conducting an unauthorized investigation. They had to go back to the dinky, single-office DEPRAC station and explain the situation. Their employer was hard to find that early in the morning. 

All told, it was three in the afternoon when they made it back to the hotel. That was nearing thirty six hours without the blissful reminder of sleep, so George couldn’t really muster up the panic when he saw the arrangements. Shoulder to shoulder with his best mates in the whole world, his bag thumped to the ground. 

“I don’t know what you were worried about, Luce,” Lockwood said, his voice low and tired in a way that warmed George’s gut. “The bed is plenty big.”

“The bed,” George repeated dumbly. 

“Yeah, can I take right side?” Lockwood was already headed to the side by the window. He grimaced at the midday light streaming in. The curtains were mostly for privacy, made of sheer lace, but any agent worth their salt could fall asleep with a direct line to the noontime sun. 

“You didn’t think to book at least two beds,” George said. Lockwood glanced up with a smile that could win a blue ribbon at the county fair. 

“What, and leave Lucy all alone in a strange new city?” Lockwood shook his head, and George scoffed at the notion this sleepy little village was anything close to city sized. “Besides, we can’t afford it.”

As always, a cherry sweet coating for the real bitter medicine. 

George shuffled towards the left side because of course he would never come between Lucy and Lockwood, physically or otherwise. They were made for each other, destined by the stars, and all that other shit. Watching them pine around the house was downright excruciating. The only thing that would make this whole adventure tolerable was that George planned on being unconscious for most of it. 

“I thought I’d take the side. When the paracetamol wears off, it’ll probably wake me to take a new one,” Lucy said. “Don’t want to disturb the both of you.”

“But I already find Lockwood disturbing,” George pouted. It was perfectly, terribly timed too because Lockwood was in the middle of taking off his stately button up.

He tossed a grin over his shoulder, baring it with dramatic flair, and said, “Your virtue is safe with me. Lucy and I have handled this loads of times, so she can vouch for me.”

George never realized that those quick, two person overnight jobs were just Lockwood’s way of getting into the same bed as Lucy. In true English fashion, he still didn’t do anything about it, but now George couldn’t shake the feeling that he was intruding on their ritual. Did they hold each other in the night? Did they wake up smiling? 

George already felt bad physically, so this new blow to his mood was thoroughly unwelcome. 

“Well, Lucy, you should know several things about me,” George said as he started undressing. “I snore, and I kick, and I sleep walk.”

“Bollocks,” she called from where she’d stepped into their little bathroom. The door was cracked though not enough to get a glimpse. Not that George would even consider being that creepy. In fact as he hopped to get his socks off, he rotated away from the door. This had the unfortunate side effect of now facing Lockwood who was dropping his trousers in favor of his pajama bottoms. 

“We’ve bunked before, don’t you remember that, George?” Lockwood said. 

George remembered that as the beginning of the end. Before Lucy came along and it was just the two of them. He’d woken up with Lockwood’s prick rubbing against his arse, and he’d scrambled out of bed so fast, he hit his head on the nightstand. The blow to the head hadn’t done a thing to tame his own hard cock, so when Lockwood groggily asked if he was okay, George called an affirmative only after he was locked in their bathroom. They hadn’t ever talked about it or brought it up. George did not appreciate being ambushed with that memory now. 

“Nope. I must have blocked it out,” George retorted, pulling on his oversized sleep shirt. He hadn’t brought any trousers because he hadn’t thought about this particular issue. Lockwood wasn’t putting on a shirt which George thought was rude only because now he had an excellent view of the three freckles that made a triangle on Lockwood’s shoulder. Like guiding stars, kiss me here. 

“He’s an excellent bedmate, Luce,” Lockwood said with an eye roll. 

“Let’s be honest,” Lucy said, emerging from the bathroom in her nightclothes. “As long as you don’t set fire to the bed, I couldn’t care less how you sleep just so long as we can get to it.”

Sure, her sweater was long sleeved which protected George’s delicate constitution from her arms, but it was the end of spring. The return of the cursed warmer months, George’s least favorite time to be alive. She was wearing shorts. George took off his glasses, so he didn’t have to deal with it. 

Lockwood climbed into bed on the right. Lucy on the left. George face-planted in the middle. 

“How much extra should I charge our client for this mess?” Lockwood asked. His eyes settled shut. 

“Ten percent,” George said reasonably. 

“Four hundred percent,” Lucy offered. 

“I change my answer. I like Lucy’s idea.”

“Four hundred percent it is. We’ll be rich.” Lockwood’s words distorted with a yawn. He turned on his side, facing away from them. 

“But I bet you’ll still only book us one bed,” Lucy said, echoing the yawn. 

Lockwood answered the charge with a noncommittal hum, and after that, it all went to peach fuzz. 

…

There were hands on him. Unfamiliar hands, sliding into new places. Good places. The touch sparked along his ribs, squeezing his chest. George didn’t remember his nipples being sensitive, but he gasped when they were pinched and rolled. He was aware his cock was thick between his legs. He couldn’t move to grasp himself, but the hands did it for him, sliding down to rub the right places. The sensation was like nothing George had ever felt, wet and more intense, climbing up his spine to burrow in his brain. 

Pleasure like a thick incense, a palpable thing that he gulped down with each ragged breath. George felt emptied of every other emotion, the raw sensation filling him up, and the hands urging it along. Helpless beneath the tide, trapped like a mouse to a snake. George shook with its intensity as it built and built and built. The hands, god the hands. They never stopped. Not when the air was stolen from his lungs, not when the pleasure poured over him like hot lava, not when he came—

George snapped awake like surfacing from a pond. He sucked in a breath, eyes darting to assess the room, leeched of its color. He became aware of things right after the other, the thoughts stumbling in the tall grass. 

They were at the hotel, not at home. 

The silvery shine that made the sheer curtains glow wasn’t an other-light. The moon was full, and it allowed him to see with startling clarity. 

He’d made a mess of his shorts, but the desire was still coursing hot and thick through his veins. There was no way he could get hard again, not this fast, but something was writhing, seething in his gut that made him think his body might just force him over the edge again anyways. 

And then—

“George.” Breathed into the frantic silence, Lucy’s voice sounded alien saying his name like that. 

He turned to squint at her blurry shape in the dark. He couldn’t make out the exact sparkle in her eyes, but he could tell that she was looking at him. That she had her back arched against the antique headboard. That she had a hand in her sleep shorts, moving in urgent, familiar strokes. 

“George,” she repeated, the sound more breath than shape. “George.”

He could see her mouth drop open, the way her shoulders shook, and it reverberated through the space between them. George felt the waves stretch out into infinity, his nervous system short-circuiting. He let out a soft noise as he came again, completely dry. When she reached for him, he fell, lips finding her skin and liking the taste. She was still shaking, and so was he, when he cupped his hand over hers between her legs. Pressing the fabric of her shorts, it quickly became damp from touching her underwear. 

“Take them off, please,” Lucy begged, and George felt compelled as if she’d tugged on his marionette strings. He hooked his fingers on either side and yanked them away, finally, finally free to settle between her thighs like he knew he was always meant to. 

“What’s happening?” His lips said, but he had no memory of thinking such a thing. He found the skin at her neck again, mouthing over where her blood pulsed. 

“I don’t—I don’t.” Lucy’s hands clenched wildly at his shirt and then slid down to his arse, finding his waistband. “Tell me you feel it.”

“I feel it,” he answered automatically. He replaced her hand, dragging his fingers over her cunt, hot and slippery. There was a hum in his head like an old streetlamp, buzzing harder against his skull as he pressed over her clit. 

“Is that you? Did you say—? God, George, I can’t tell,” Lucy whined. 

“What did I say?” George was spellbound, that unavoidable pleasure coming at him again with teeth, with claws. He felt an emptiness in his core, and he chased it away like trying to blow out a wildfire. He pressed a finger into her soft entrance, the gnawing thing in his gut easing, so he pushed in another. 

“You said,” Lucy started, audibly gulping as George sank up to the knuckle. “You said I need you.”

“I need you,” George whispered, making her an oracle. “I need you.”

“Yes.” Lucy shoved at his underwear, nails dragging over his arse. They stuck to his cock, and he shivered as the wet area got exposed to the air. He was still soft when she curled her hand around him. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I can…” He flexed his hand, finding a rough spot inside her. He hooked the pads of his fingers into it and pulsed. He pressed his thumb to her clit and rocked back and forth, pressure inside, then pressure on her clit. He felt it crawl over him like her fingers underneath his shirt. She pinched one of his nipples and gasped. 

“Something’s wrong,” Lucy breathed, and George tucked his face under her jaw. 

“I know I’m not Lockwood,” George said into her skin. 

“I know you’re not Lockwood,” she snapped, and it spiraled bitterly down his throat. “George, oh god. Kiss me. You have to. I need you.”

So he did, and it was like being unearthed. Like being exposed to the sun for the first time. The darkness had been cool and comfortable, but this scorching, energetic thing burned against his lips, his tongue, as they drank of each other. She started to roll her hips against his rough undulations, and he felt it everywhere when she came around his fingers. 

Her cunt jerked, gripping his fingers like she was afraid he’d go somewhere. Her body trembled around him, her thighs squeezing his hips. Her mouth went lax. He noticed these things through a haze as another orgasm swooped through him. With how hard his stomach clenched, he might have actually been falling, and he could feel his cock now, back to full attention. He could do it; he could give her what she needed. His grip was fumbling and slick on himself as he tried to think past the numbness, the buzzing. 

And then—

“What are you doing?” Lockwood’s sleep-rough voice passed through them both like a stiff breeze. George glanced over to see Lockwood’s face backlit by the window, cast in an appropriate shadow. He could see what they were doing. Couldn’t he feel it?

“Lockwood,” Lucy moaned, and he perked up at her call. George dug his fingers further into her, unwilling to forfeit just because who she really wanted decided to wake up. 

“What’s happening?” Lockwood said. 

George’s mouth floundered open, but he couldn’t conjure any words. There was only the crushing weight of need, high in his throat, choking him. He lined himself up with her dripping cunt, and he sank in deep. 

“Oh fuck, yes. George, Lockwood,” she panted, and George liked that. Both their names on her tongue. 

“Jesus Christ,” Lockwood said, dragging a hand over his mouth. “I—I guess I’ll…”

He scooted to the edge of the bed and flopped one foot down to find the floor. George started thrusting into her, a slick grind that made a distressingly lewd noise. It felt right being inside her, but maybe not just right. There was still something missing, a need skittering at the base of his spine, unfulfilled. He whined, feeling her bury her hand in his hair, and Lockwood stumbled for the door. 

“Lockwood,” he managed to rasp. He threw a wild glance over his shoulder, finding Anthony Lockwood staring like a wide eyed deer. “Please. Please touch me. I need you.”

“This is mad,” Lockwood said lowly. 

“It is. It is,” Lucy agreed, breath hitching with each of George’s hard thrusts. “Come here.”

Lockwood came when she called. Of course he did. George swallowed back the shame that threatened to spew through his teeth. When Lockwood’s hands landed hesitantly on his hips, he desperately wished he was Lucy. As she moaned and writhed underneath him, George was cast in jealousy, moulded into an ugly, desolate shape. He wanted… he wanted. The wet friction on his cock was secondary to the baffling pressure he felt from everywhere and nowhere. He needed something, desperately, and it wasn’t until Lucy spoke up that he realized what. 

“God, so good,” she said. “So good inside me, George.”

“Lockwood, I—I need,” George stuttered, and he felt Lockwood’s body hovering behind him. 

“What? Anything,” Lockwood promised. 

“Yes, Lockwood. You have to—inside him. He needs you,” Lucy said. 

“Yes, inside me, please.” George ground deep into her, satisfying only half of a twin ache, and he reached back to feel for Lockwood’s prick. 

It was hard and ready for him, Lockwood hissing into his ear when George traced the shape of it through his sweatpants. The angle was terrible, arm quirked behind his back and his whole body still rocking into Lucy, but the promise of Lockwood’s cock was enough to have him groaning. Things were difficult for a moment when Lockwood had to wrestle George’s underwear the rest of the way off. George wasn’t very helpful at all. But then Lockwood was rucking up George’s shirt, pushing his bare cock against the curve of George’s arse, and it was nearly the most incredible thing in the world. 

“I don’t have anything… won’t it hurt?” Lockwood whispered, prodding at the dry clench of George’s hole. 

“Here,” Lucy said, groping wildly for Lockwood’s hand. She curved it around George’s waist until they found the thick, syrupy spend of George’s first orgasm still wet on his stomach. 

“Mary, mother of God.” Lockwood gathered the fluid on his fingers. He said, “Steady, Georgie. Give me a moment.”

George whimpered but complied with the heavy hand at his hip, coming to a stop buried to the hilt. Lucy let out a strangled noise and shifted her hips, fucking herself on his cock while he was suspended. George curled his fists around the headboard on either side of her, a fresh wave of desire curling in his gut like adrenaline. Lockwood rubbed his fingers over George’s hole, coating the outside with the slick fluid. He had to go back for more, calluses scraping against George’s belly. 

“In, in, in,” George demanded, and Lockwood complied, pressing the first finger inside. 

“Fuck, you’re tight. Relax for me, please. I don’t want to hurt you,” Lockwood said lowly. George shook his head, eyes squeezing shut. 

“You can’t. Can’t hurt me. Not unless you stop.” George bit into his own arm as Lockwood sunk that much deeper. 

“Don’t stop,” Lucy panted. “Don’t stop.”

“I won’t. I’m here. God, you two look amazing,” Lockwood said into George’s ear. He pressed an open kiss onto the back of George’s shoulder as his finger started to move. Then, feeling bolder, he set his teeth at George’s neck. Not biting, but enough to feel each rigid indent. George keened in the back of his throat, and his nails dug into the chipped varnish of the bed frame. 

“More. More, please,” George said. 

Lucy echoed, “Please.” 

Lockwood complied and pressed another finger past George’s rim. Distantly, George was aware of the burn, of the stretch, but more immediate, he was basking in how right it felt. To have something, to have Lockwood, inside him. Even though he was held at the knife’s edge of that white-hot pleasure, it didn’t, wouldn’t, feel complete without Lockwood. Lucy seemed to sense the same, but she couldn’t stop shifting on George’s cock. She rubbed tight lines over her own clit, and George bent down to kiss her, to commiserate. 

“It’s fine for my fingers,” Lockwood said. “But there’s not enough for my—I won’t fuck you dry like this.”

“Lockwood.” George’s voice came out wobbly, like a spinning top about to fall, and Lockwood mirrored it with an anguished noise. 

“I can’t, George. Just let me… like this,” Lockwood said, and his fingers stirred inside George. Shifting. Searching. 

“Lockwood,” Lucy said, and his attention was diverted. 

George wanted to crawl into his eyes and take it back, but at the same time, Lockwood’s fingers found his prostate. He was helpless except to whine into Lucy’s throat. 

“He needs you,” Lucy breathed, and she scooted back from where she’d slumped against the headboard. George’s cock slipped out of her with a sad, wet noise, and they both went breathless at the loss. Lucy took George in hand and squeezed him tight, base to tip, gathering her own slick fluid off of his cock. She reached around until Lockwood caught her wrist, guiding her to him. 

“Fuck, Luce. This is insane. Completely mad,” Lockwood said, and somewhere, it sounded like begging. 

“You have to,” George said through his teeth. 

“You promised,” Lucy moaned. 

“Okay. Alright.” Lockwood pressed a kiss to the knob of George’s spine, and then the wet head of his cock was prodding George’s entrance. 

As Lockwood pushed in, Lucy maneuvered herself back onto George’s cock. 

George was undone. He was unraveling, being unmade between them. The hunger in his belly was satisfied, and all that was left—a pleasure that burgeoned inside him. A flower opening to the sun, a star exploding into its birth. There were tears at the edges of Lucy’s eyes, and he kissed her. They fell like warm rain against his cheek. 

“I feel it,” Lucy gasped. “It’s so good. You’re so good, George.”

There was only the three of them. The push and pull. Lockwood started a brief, shoving rhythm that left him incoherent. George tried as best he could to roll his hips where he was stuck between them, but Lucy didn’t seem to mind the sloppy, inconsistent pulse. She set her fingers to her clit, and her thighs were cinching tight around them. George could feel that final wave approaching on the horizon, ready to wipe the world clean, and he hurled himself towards it. Ready to drown. 

“What was—What did you say?” Lucy croaked, and then her head made a hollow noise against the headboard. “I love you too, George. I love you.”

“I love you,” George breathed, and it was right. Lockwood’s fingers dug into his hips. 

“He didn’t say anything,” Lockwood said. “Lucy, he didn’t say anything.”

“I love you,” George said again, prying his fingers from the bed frame to bring a hand to one of Lockwood’s. They were slick with sweat and slid off each other, George fumbling to keep a grip. 

“Fuck, oh fuck. Luce, what do you hear?” Lockwood’s voice had gone frantic, not the good kind, and his rhythm slowed. 

George couldn’t take it. An asteroid falling from orbit, he was burning up, and he hitched his hips back, fucking himself on Lockwood’s cock then forward into Lucy. 

“I hear you,” Lucy said, and then she corrected, “I hear you. Please, I need you inside me. I love you. You have to. More, more.” 

“More!” George demanded. “Lockwood, it hurts.”

“Oh, no. Oh fuck. Lucy, I’m sorry. George, I’m so sorry.” 

Lockwood hooked his arm underneath George, and in one clumsy movement, he threw himself to the side. They rolled, bouncing, and then crashed off the bed. George landed on his hands and knees, Lockwood still inexplicably shoved inside him, and Lockwood reached up to catch Lucy’s ankle. He yanked with all his wiry muscle, and she came careening off the edge.  She bumped her hip against the nightstand, sending a glass of water flying, and then she was sprawled on her back next to them. 

Like dunking himself in an ice bath, the fever receded. 

“Are you okay?” Lockwood asked, the words trembling from his thin lips. He carefully extracted himself from George and then fell on his arse on the cold floor. 

George slumped over, a riot of gooseflesh parading over his skin. Everything ached. Not in the good way. 

“Oh my god.” Lucy gulped, the sound loud in the silvery dark. 

“The mattress or the frame?” Lockwood asked. Lucy reached out and touched the wooden runner along the side. Her throat choked around a moan, and she snatched her hand away. 

“The frame,” Lucy confirmed. 

“Well, that’s… George, I—I’m sorry I didn’t—” Lockwood began, but it moved like sand against George’s eardrums, gritty and dry. When George peeked, Lockwood’s cock was still beautifully hard, shining with Lucy’s slick. He almost offered himself up to finish the job, but it sat wrongly on his tongue. Ghost influence sure explained why they let him get away with this. Why they touched him like that. Why she would ever say she loved him. 

“I’m cold,” George said, and he hoisted himself to his feet. They could see how his thighs shook; he knew they could. With a foal’s gait, George threw himself into the bathroom and shut the door. 

His lone heartbeat was loud in the darkness. 

Muffled but still clear, still anguished, “Lucy, you have to believe me. I would have stopped it sooner if I had realized.”

“I know,” Lucy answered, and then George heard the movement of skin on hardwood. “Do you want to finish?”

“Luce, no. I mean—you don’t have to,” Lockwood said. George could almost feel it when Lockwood let out a groan. She’d probably wrapped her hand around him. Her fist would look so pretty on Lockwood’s prick. 

George was still hard, and his hole was wet. He hated it. He wanted it. 

“I know,” Lucy said again. 

George fumbled for the light, and it blinded him. He felt raw and exposed to the harsh reality of it. The darkness was soft; the darkness could hide him, but as he stared at his own blurry, disgruntled reflection, he had to listen to Lockwood’s breath thinning. To the sloppy sound of Lucy’s hand speeding up. George twisted the knobs to start the shower, drowning out the rest of the noises. 

He got himself off under the hot spray. He couldn’t help it. All the tension had gathered in his gut, and it wasn’t unraveling. He thought about Lucy’s cunt and Lockwood’s cock and Lucy’s agonizing I love you. 

After he was done and the shower was just an excuse, he heard the door click open and shut. He sighed, turning off the warm embrace of the water, and prepared himself to face them again. He pulled on his sleep shirt after drying off because it was his only one after all, and he found a new pair of underwear had been left on the inside knob. 

The scene was very different when he reemerged. 

Somebody had found a warm yellow lamp, bathing everything in a cozy glow. The room had been rearranged to shove the bed frame against the far wall, and the mattress had been dragged onto the floor. Two of their silver nets had been draped over the side of the frame that faced the room. An overabundance of iron chains caged it into its corner. Lucy and Lockwood, redressed in comfy clothing, were sitting on the floor mattress. 

“Lucy assures me she can’t hear it anymore like this,” Lockwood said, awkwardly quirking his lip out. “It’s not yet two AM, so I couldn’t find the proprietor to ask for another room. If you want to keep sleeping, I can go…”

George bristled at the thought of snuggling up between them again. Even just next to Lucy.  

“No, I should. The church is always open, and I could use another look at those death records,” George said, heading for his bag. He had to skirt the mattress since it took up nearly all the available floor space. As he shuffled towards his stuff, Lucy sighed loudly on purpose. 

“Or we could talk. You know, at all,” she said. 

“It’s like you don’t even know me,” George quipped, and he reflexively tried to push up his glasses for emphasis. Lucy hummed an unimpressed noise, and she held out his glasses for him. 

He wasn’t quite sure if he was ready to give up his last blurry defense, but it would be suspicious if he didn’t slide them over his nose. They looked… good. They always managed to look good—covered in bruises, grave dirt, or Thames water—but this was special. Lucy’s hair was tousled, her lips kiss-bitten. Lockwood had on this wounded puppy look that always managed to make George so mad with how well it worked on him. 

“Okay,” George said after a moment. He dropped to his knees, not on the mattress but next to it. “Talk.”

“I’m sorry I let it go that far,” Lockwood said like it was bursting out of him. 

“I’ve already told him it wasn't his fault,” Lucy huffed. As if George was going to agree. 

“But it is,” he said, and Lockwood’s mouth twisted down. “If you’d been thinking with half your brain instead of your whole prick, you would have realized it didn’t make any sense! C’mon, like Lucy would ever—with me.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Lucy snapped, baring her teeth at George. He narrowed his eyes at her, and he hated her for making him say it out loud. 

“Everyone knows I’m not the company man that’s caught your eye,” he said, gesturing sharply between them. Lucy turned a red that meant she was angry but also that he was right. Lockwood glanced at her with a guilty sort of hope. 

“Well everybody is an idiot, and you are too,” she hissed. “If I thought you wanted it, I’d haul this mattress back onto that frame and take you for the ride of your bloody life.”

George was tired, and it shouldn’t have shot to his cock the way that it did. He’d come twice already tonight. 

“I didn’t realize,” Lockwood began, stilted and oddly gruff. “It was just something I wanted so much. I wanted you two so fucking bad that I didn’t realize.”

“That’s not true,” George breathed. He watched Lucy slide her hand over the sheets, tangling their fingers together. Lucy and Lockwood, Lockwood and Lucy. They shared a soft, so soft, look. And then they turned it onto George. 

“I was channeling the psychic energy, but I didn’t say anything I didn’t mean.” Lucy nodded her head when that revelation made George’s eyes go watery. 

“I love you,” Lockwood blurted out, the only one who hadn’t said it earlier. “Whatever you want that to mean.”

“You should bloody well know what I want it to mean, you prick!” George launched himself onto the mattress, and as soon as he was in range, Lockwood gripped his shoulders to haul him closer. Their foreheads bumped, limbs tangling, and George found out what it was like to kiss Anthony Lockwood. 

“Oh,” Lucy squeaked, and they both pulled away to look at her. “Don’t stop, I just… that’s very nice.”

Lockwood dragged her towards them until they were all crushed together in one gangly conglomerate. He dipped his chin and took a kiss from her. Closed mouthed like a gentleman until she licked and bit at him. 

The jealousy that had so filled him before was a distant memory to George. Like it was never there at all. Lucy laughed as Lockwood tilted towards her, threatening the delicate balance of all three of them, and when he let her go, she turned to George. They shared a kiss, and it was the simplest thing in the world. 

“I got Lockwood off while you were in the loo,” Lucy confessed, mischievous lilt to her mouth impossible not to taste. 

“I heard you. I got off in the shower thinking about it,” George replied, and Lockwood groaned close to his ear. 

“I guess that leaves Lucy,” Lockwood said, and George grinned. 

“I guess it does, doesn’t it?”

Lucy opened her mouth to say something clever, but her boys both agreed to push her down in the same instant. She let out a huff as she landed on her back. George held one shoulder down, pulling apart her legs, and Lockwood curled his hand around her head, fiddling with her shorts. 

“I never did get a taste,” George mused, moving himself down her body. 

“Go right ahead, my good man,” Lockwood said congenially, and George decided to kiss him about it. 

“You’re such dorks. I can’t fucking believe—oh.” 

George found his way inside her knickers for the second time that night, and he proved he knew what she needed.