𑣲⋆｡˚ rabbot love taking you at the same time p link
jack is grasping your hips from below you with an iron rip as your boobs press against his chest, dragging against him with each harsh thrust. he's looking straight up at your face, and you gaze down at him with bleary eyes, already so fucked out :(
he pouts sympathetically at the dumb look on your face and brushes some of the hair that had fallen in front of your eyes when your head lulled forward. you make sensual eye contact while he caresses your face in his big hand, gazing at you adoringly.
it would've been so romantic
if not for the absolute brute robby was, pounding into you from behind, with a harsh grunt from each thurst.
no wonder you were so dumb already, your poor pussy was struggling to fit both of their big cocks at the same time :(
robby readjusts and hikes his leg up to give him more momentum, gripping onto your shoulders to drag you right back down their lengths when you tried to squirm away.
the new angle caused you to let out a shocked squeal and then a defeated whimper when you realised robby wouldn't let up. jack tuts, "aw robby's being mean isn't he baby?"
you let out a dumb nod, making eye contact with jack again while they both plough into you. robby ignores the comment and just keeps going, and jacks hands drag up your body to squeeze the plush planes of your boobs, still holding eye contact while teasing your nipples.
you were a mess, bless your soul, spasming, drooling, your hole leaking. but they loved it. they revel in knowing they ruin you so good your brain can't function anymore and all you can think about is dick.
rabbot love ruining their girl at the same time ᥫ᭡.
thinking of being between baran’s thighs, mouth on her cunt nose framed by the dark curls that surround it and robby is watching from above kneeling on the bed next to you while he tugs at his hard leaking cock, fully mesmerized by the way you melt into her pussy all dumb and brainless eyes glazed over while her hand pets gently at your head
he leans down and lets a dribble of spit drip down past the hair between her pussy lips until you’re lapping at it like it’s heaven sent. he doesn’t miss the way you moan into her cunt with your brows furrowed, thighs rubbing together humping the air like a desperate dog :(
Kyle is a grown man who can behave in public, he's a soldier who has seen the worst humanity has to offer and fights to help.
He also cannot stop fucking laughing.
In Kyle's defence, Nikolai is also laughing and Price might not be making a noise but his shoulders are shaking. Ghost is watching with thinly veiled disapproval, to Kyle it reads as an outright cackle.
They're far from the loudest table in the pub, and quite frankly, the two women at their left side seem entertained with their antics. Kyle thinks they'd have a hard time convincing anyone in the room that they're military men.
There's a greasy onion ring wrapped around the ring finger of his left hand and there's an equally greasy, pale hand stroking his own. Johnny's giving it his best petted lip, big blue eyes wide and pleading.
"C'mon doll, marry me. A'll treat ye nicely, gie ye aw the wains ye want. Just let me put a ring oan it."
Kyle has never been one to run away from a bit, he thrives on improvisation. And Johnny's the best man for it.
"I can't, not after what you did. I know about him, I know everything. You dirty bastard."
Nikolai, a funnier man than most, offers the most dramatic gasp he's capable of and shoots the Scot a trult scathing look across the table. It takes all of Johnny's effort not to laugh.
"Darlin, he didnae mean oanyhin. He could suck a golfball through a hosepipe, bit he didnae mean oanyhin. It's you that's gettin the ring."
Kyle knows he's giggling like a toddler, but in his defence, they're a few drinks in and he hasn't had this much fun in weeks. With as much seriousness as he can muster, he pulls his hand free from Johnny's grip and takes a bite out of the onion ring.
"It's over, we're done."
Even Ghost laughs out right at the thud of Johnny's head hitting the table as the man howls.
Ok idk if you’ll get me on this buttttttt reader goes to Frank and he takes a scan of her or smth (like an x ray) and her scans are like 1:1 perfect and he goes “you’re body is textbook perfect……” hello is this too weird…………..
AHSJSISJSOS no i 10000000% see your vision i am walking with you running even
just the thought of him becoming obsessed with your body on an anatomical level 😵💫😵💫😵💫 jerks off to your scans imagining how your insides shift to accommodate his dick inside you…… is there a way to get an x ray when he’s inside??? if not there should be
I'm picturing Frank (and maybe Jack/Robby tbh bc i think all of them would be fascinated from a horny standpoint) buying a home-ultrasound machine or sneaking one of the hospital ones into an empty room and fucking reader whilst scanning your belly so they can see their dick moving
Summary: After an unfortunate mixup of pain medication and your friend's party substances at Pitt Fest, you're rushed to the Pitt and placed in the care of Jack Abbot. As he oversees your care, you get a little too touchy, and a little too honest.
Word Count: 6.6k
Content: accidental drug use (MDMA), mention of alcohol consumption, age gap (reader is mid 20s), fluff, comfort, a hint of smut (18+ MDNI) - literally like two seconds of thigh riding, mention of ovulation
A/N: listen… I’ve never done MDMA. I did a lot of research, but I had to fudge some stuff for plot. don’t do drugs kids
Pitt Fest was not your idea. When your friend Beth offered you her spare ticket, you waffled at first. You're not really a crowds person, or a partying person. Beth was always the partier in college. But you do like live music, and she pointed out that your top Spotify artist from last year is in the concert lineup.
So you’d caved.
That decision is coming back to bite you in the ass, and bite hard.
It’s hot as balls outside. You’re covered in sweat, which mingles in a sticky and unpleasant mix with the sunscreen you’ve been dutifully applying since the afternoon to avoid frying like an egg. When the sun finally set, you no longer had to worry about the burgeoning threat of skin cancer, but the heat doesn’t break. In fact, it almost seems to get worse, because more and more people arrive to crowd you as night descends and the bigger names with larger fanbases grace the stage.
You’re waiting for Beth outside of the bathroom facilities. She's been ingesting a steady stream of margaritas since sundown, so she leaves you holding the bag, literally. At least it's a nice excuse to separate yourself from the throng of jumping, sweaty bodies gathered by the stage.
It’s nearly two in the morning. You’re hungry. Your feet are killing you. You have a headache from the festival’s sugary cocktails. You’re sweating through the top Beth lent you. And on top of everything else, your ovulation cramps are kicking in like a motherfucker.
Growing desperate, you dig through Beth's bag, searching for the little Altoid tin that she always keeps her pain meds in. At long last, your hands make contact with the metal tin at the bottom of her tote. Nearly crying with relief, you pop an aspirin in your mouth and wash it down with the tepid bottled water you’ve been clutching for the last hour.
Beth's voice rings out from behind you, talking over the din of the nearby DJ set. “What are you doing?”
You turn towards her, and see Beth staring at the tin in your hand. “I have cramps,” you explain, and just as you’re about to shove the tin back in her bag and hand it to her, she grabs your wrist.
“…please tell me you didn’t just take one of those,” she says urgently.
You raise an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Because those are not aspirin, babe.”
Your blood runs cold. Your brain quickly does the math — Beth had told you how much she’s looking forward to meeting up with her rave friends tomorrow for the second night of Pitt Fest. Beth has always been quite the partier. And she often partied with her good friend Molly.
Your eyes widen in horror. “Oh no.”
Pitt Fest, as always, is a huge pain in the ass for the night shift.
Handoff gets messy. There's a shit ton of substance cases, even more of heatstroke. Robby stays longer than he should and snaps at everyone, clearly in his feelings remembering last year’s Pitt Fest. Understandable, yes, but it also makes everyone’s life that much harder when they’re within sniping distance of him.
Needless to say, Jack is already over this shift, and it’s not even halfway done. It doesn't help that his favorite resident happens to have the night off, which deposits his mood firmly in the hospital basement. Which, coincidentally, happens to be the location of the morgue.
Now that Robby has been politely ordered to go the fuck home, Jack feels like he can finally focus on his job instead of doing damage control with the med students. As he walks down the hall, Lena catches his attention from the hub desk.
“We have an ambulance two minutes out with a mid-20s female, collapsed at Pitt Fest,” she informs him. “Probable dehydration, likely drug-related, because, well… Pitt Fest.”
This festival truly is the gift that keeps on giving. Jack cracks his knuckles and eyes the ambulance bay doors. “All right. Let's get ready to receive the party girl.”
A few minutes later, the gurney is wheeled in by two paramedics and received by Lena and Parker. Parker shoots an alarmed and confused look over her shoulder at Jack, who steps forward to supervise.
“Dr. Abbot!"
Of all the things Jack expected to see tonight, this is at the bottom of the list. You're strapped to the gurney, scantily clad and gleaming with sweat, a goofy smile on your face and your pupils blown so wide they nearly swallow your irises.
Jack scrubs a hand through his hair. “You're shitting me.”
This is quite the surprising turn of events.
After Lena sets you up in South 16, Jack discreetly shoos away Parker so he can handle your examination himself. He doubts you would be comfortable with one of your fellow residents seeing you like this, considering your condition and your current state of dress.
Jack closes the door behind him and saunters over to you. His eyes snag on your tight, strappy top, and the strategically placed cutouts baring sections of your midriff and chest. He’s holding onto his professionalism by a thread, especially with the way you’re shifting around on the exam table, causing the hem of your miniskirt to ride up.
He has no choice but to focus up. You need medical attention, not the kind of attention his brain and body really want to give you right now. First, Lena takes your temperature and shows him the number on the display. 100.2 degrees F. It's coming down from what the paramedics recorded in the ambulance, and not so high that he’s still worried about heat stroke. But you’ll need cooling down regardless.
“That’s quite the outfit you got on,” he mutters as he gently raises your chin and shines his penlight into your pupils.
“Do you like it?” you ask, beaming up at him even as you squint. “I borrowed it from my friend. She’s so nice.”
Your pupils are so dilated that your eyes are almost completely black.
“Yup.” Jack clicks off the light and sighs, turning to Lena. “She’s rolling, all right. Let’s get a tox to make sure there’s nothing else to be worried about.”
You don’t seem to even register the pain of the needle prick, but you let out a delighted little hum when Lena smooths a bandage over your arm and adds gentle pressure over top of it.
“That feels good,” you murmur with a lazy smile.
“I bet.” Jack crosses his arms and tries to give you a stern look. “Can I ask what my best resident is doing taking ecstasy at a music festival?”
“I didn’t take it on purpose, I swear,” you protest, your eyes widening in a brief panic. “It was my friend’s. I thought it was aspirin, for my cramps.”
“You’re menstruating?” he asks, picking up his tablet and sitting in the edge of the exam table next to you to amend your chart.
You shake your head and say matter-of-factly, “Ovulation cramps.”
His eyebrows shoot up towards the ceiling in surprise.
You continue babbling, unaware of the grenade you just lobbed at Jack. “She tried to get me to throw it up, but I couldn’t because I don’t really have a gag reflex.”
Jack takes a deep breath to prevent his brain from completely short-circuiting.
Your face breaks into a sheepish smile, and you giggle, “Oops. Sorry, that was probably too much information.” Leaning forward on the exam table, you bring your face inches away from his and observe with a sigh, “Your eyes are really pretty.”
From behind him, Jack hears Lena snickering under her breath. He clears his throat and straightens up to standing.
Avoiding Lena's eyes, he instructs her, “Let’s, uh, get her some fluids and cooling packs, huh? Maybe a Saf-T-Pop, too. Keep her mouth occupied, so she won’t say any more nonsense she’ll regret in the morning.”
Lena just shoots him an amused look and heads off to gather supplies. Nurses, he thinks ruefully to himself. They see everything.
Movement and sound draw his attention back to you. You're laid back on the exam table, eyes fluttering closed. And you’re running your hands through your hair, letting out a pleased little noise like the sensation is better than sex.
Jack breathes carefully through his nose. He needs out of this room with you, before this becomes mortifying for everyone involved. His phone buzzes in his pocket, giving him the perfect excuse for escape.
His voice is thin when he speaks, and for a moment, he’s glad you’re too high to notice. “You sit tight, sunshine.”
As he turns to leave the room, your hand catches the edge of his scrubs.
“You’re leaving?” your mouth turns down into a pout, those huge eyes shining up at him. He very nearly gives in, very nearly reaches out a hand to stroke a thumb across your cheek just to hear the kind of sound it would pull from you. But his phone buzzes insistently, so he briefly pats your knee instead.
“I have other patients to see. But I'll be back before you know it,” he assures you, pulling open the door and diving headfirst back into the glorious chaos.
At least it’ll be a convenient distraction from the thought of you, eagerly waiting in south fifteen for him to return.
He shakes his head in disbelief. Ovulation cramps. You’re gonna be the death of him.
An MVA, a ketamine overdose, and a cardiac event later, the Pitt finally slows down enough for Jack to breathe. Enough to check your tox screen and sigh with relief that the MDMA you mistakenly took wasn’t cut with anything. Alcohol is the only other thing in your system, in levels not high enough to be concerning. Although, combined with the ecstasy, it means you probably won’t remember much of this exciting little escapade.
At long last, he manages to find some time to check on you.
In his absence, Lena had set you up with a gown to preserve a little more of your modesty. You’re laying on the exam table amongst the cooling packs, an IV attached to your arm and a Saf-T-Pop in your mouth that’s turning your tongue red.
A smile breaks like sunrise over your face as soon as you see him.
“Hey there, sunshine,” he greets you, approaching you with a little more warmth now that Lena's sharp eyes aren’t here to observe.
“Hi. I missed you,” you sigh.
Jack smirks. “Did you now?”
You nod happily. “Mm-hmm.”
“How are you feeling?” he asks, his gaze attentive, checking you over.
“Cold,” you answer, wrapping your arms around yourself.
He reaches up a hand to feel your forehead. Still warm, but still steadily coming down over time. He’s satisfied enough with your progress. You'll be out of here in no time.
The prospect disappoints him just a little.
“Yeah, your body is having trouble regulating its temperature,” he explains, his thumb stroking delicately along your hairline. “We’ll need to keep these cool packs on you a little while longer.”
Just as his hand retreats, your hand catches his wrist. You press his palm to your cheek, almost nuzzling into it like an affectionate kitten.
“Your hands are so warm,” you murmur, eyelids slipping shut as you revel in the sensation.
The gesture catches him off guard, but he doesn’t pull away. He couldn’t even if he wanted to, and he certainly doesn’t want to.
“Easy there, gorgeous,” he chuckles softly. “I need that hand for doctoring.”
Your eyelids flutter halfway open, and you look up at him with a lazy grin, clearly pleased as punch. “You think I'm gorgeous?”
Jack freezes for a moment. The word had slipped out without him even registering it, familiar and endeared and entirely too revealing.
“I plead the fifth,” he replies, warmth creeping up his neck.
You giggle again. God, that sound does things to his heart that are medically concerning.
“I think you’re gorgeous,” you mumble dreamily.
Jack blinks in surprise.
He’s been a little too fond of you for a while now, been staring a little too long when you brush past him in the halls. And he’s suspected before that it might not be completely one-sided. He sees how you receive his attention and praise differently than the other attendings, how you look at him with more than just the admiration of a mentor. But suspecting it and having it be confirmed are two different things. Especially since you wouldn’t be saying any of this if you were sober.
He tries to laugh it off before his ego can run away with the compliment. “I think you’re high.”
You shrug. “Maybe. But I always think you’re gorgeous.”
Removing his palm from your cheek, you examine it with fascination, running a finger along the deep set lines. “I think about these,” you say thoughtfully. “All the time.”
Jack is a little ashamed at how quickly that comment goes straight to his cock. His favorite resident, fantasizing about his hands, maybe even touching yourself to the thought of them, wishing your own fingers were his—
He drags his free hand over his face and mutters, "Jesus Christ."
“Can I tell you a secret?” You peer up at him again, that goofy, starstruck smile returning. “I’ve got, like, the biggest crush on you.”
Unfortunately for Jack, there is very little time to process this very interesting information before his phone buzzes again. Just beyond the doors, he can hear the familiar sound of what is likely a high-priority trauma heading into the bay. Voices overlapping in urgent tones, gurney wheels on tile floor, grunts and yelps of pain from a patient.
Jack crosses to the door in two steps, and speaks over his shoulder to you. “Hey, baby, I gotta handle something. Stay out of trouble, okay?”
As the door swings shut behind him, he just manages to catch the sound of you happily mumbling to yourself, “He called me baby.”
Which is how he heads into Trauma 1 with a smile on his face, entirely too cheerful for a man facing down a compound femur fracture.
The shift that would never fucking end is almost fucking over. And all Jack can think about is you. You and your moony, lovey-dovey eyes and your wide, childlike smile. You gazing up at him and crooning I have the biggest crush on you. You giggling and telling him point-blank that you’re ovulating.
As he rolls out of yet another demanding trauma, Lena updates him on your condition. You’re rehydrated and back to a normal temperature, pretty much ready for discharge if you can be released to someone who will take care of you. He returns to your room, finding you unhooked from your IV and cold-pack-free, happily set up with another lollipop.
“Jack, you’re back!” you exclaim, and then laugh at your accidental rhyme.
Still rolling, he thinks. He checks his watch. According to your best guess of when you took the ‘aspirin’ in your friend’s purse, it’s been about four hours. You'll be due to start coming down anytime in the next two hours or so. He's due to head out, but he can’t bring himself to go home until he knows you’re leaving in capable hands.
“Hey, sunshine.” He offers you a tired but warm smile. “Seems like you’re in pretty good shape here, and you should be tapering off pretty soon. You got anybody to take you home, keep an eye on you?”
A little crease forms between your brows as you think hard. “I don’t know where my friend went when the ambulance came. And I think my phone died,” you add pathetically, gesturing to the device in your lap and its terminally black screen.
Jack pinches the bridge of his nose. He can’t in good conscience leave you to your own devices, especially when you’ve never taken ecstasy before. At worst, there’s still a chance you could have some kind of reaction. At best, the comedown is sure to knock you on your ass.
He can only think of one thing to do. It's not the best idea. It might not even be a good idea. But his brain is too addled from the long shift to come up with anything better. And you need someone to take care of you.
“Jesus. Okay,” he mutters to himself, then sits on the edge of the exam table, bringing his face level to yours. “Listen up, sunshine.”
You gaze at him intently, attention vacillating occasionally between his eyes and his mouth. Jack has a feeling that what he’s about to say will go in one ear and right out the other. But there’s a chance you’ll retain it, so he says it anyway.
“You're gonna have a pretty serious crash when you come down. All those happy little chemicals that are making you feel good right now?” He gives you a soft little tap against your temple, and you giggle softly. He continues, “They’re gonna go on vacation for a day or two. I don't want you dealing with that on your own. So I'm gonna take you to my place, just to watch out for you until you’re feeling a little more like yourself.”
You’re quiet for a minute, your brain catching up and computing the meaning of what he just said. When it finishes, the lightbulb goes off behind your eyes, and you ask excitedly, “We’re having a sleepover?”
Of course that would be your takeaway.
He chuckles as he helps you to your feet. “That's right. You got it.”
When Jack drapes his hoodie over your shoulders and guides you out of the Pitt to his car, he’s reminded of all the reasons that this is probably a terrible idea.
He sees the watchful eyes and the knowing smirks of the nurses. He sees Parker and Crus snickering behind their hands. He sees Shen counting up his winnings from the betting pool, because he wrote down molly and tripsitter Abbot.
And he feels your hand clinging to his bicep, sees how you gaze up at him with a dreamy expression as he walks you out to his car. He’s knows he’s really going to need to behave himself for a few hours, because there’s a very good chance that you won’t, and Jack doesn’t want to accidentally take advantage of your… impaired judgement.
You spend most of the ride with your face by the cracked car window, feeling the wind on your face, eyes blissfully closed. Jack thanks his lucky stars that he thought to give the apartment a once-over before shift, so he isn’t bringing you into a total mess.
He walks you into his bedroom and gestures to the en-suite. “Bathroom’s there, if you want to take a shower. I'll find you something a little more… comfortable to wear,” he adds, peeling his eyes away from your tiny little shirt and how you’re already fussing with the straps.
As he turns to his bureau to find you a t-shirt, he feels arms wrapping around his middle, your body molding to his back as you embrace him with a sigh. “Thank you for being so nice to me.”
Jack swallows and delicately removes your hands, stepping out of your embrace and ushering you in the direction of the bathroom.
“Go on, then,” he instructs you. “While you’re still upright.”
You barely even register it as rejection, heading towards the shower and wiggling out of your top before Jack even has the chance to close the door behind you. Which he does, quickly and with his eyes glued to the floor.
His instincts were right. He will very much need to behave himself while you’re here.
He busies himself while you shower by changing out of his scrubs and assembling a meal. It's a humble offering — just a couple of sandwiches and frozen french fries heated up in the oven, but it’s better than nothing.
After about twenty minutes, you emerge from the bedroom with damp hair and your face scrubbed clean, clad in one of his t-shirts and a pair of his boxers, smelling like his soap. You lean on his kitchen island with a contented little sigh.
Jack repeats it to himself like a mantra — behave yourself.
“Time to eat something,” he says, sliding one of the plates toward you.
“I’m not hungry.”
“I know. But I'm trying to set you up for success here, so you don’t feel as awful when this is out of your system. When's the last time you ate?” he asks.
You rest your chin on your hand as you think back. “I had… lunch.”
“Thought so.” He puts the plate into your hands and steers you in the direction of the couch with a hand on your lower back. “You and I are gonna eat these sandwiches, drink some water, and watch Planet Earth.”
You gasp in delight and plop down onto the couch. “I love Planet Earth!”
He knows you do. You'd gushed about it being your favorite docuseries at work, and he’d bragged about owning the box set. It had been the first day you and he had really started to bond.
Once the tv is on, it thankfully keeps you occupied. You chew your food slowly, enraptured with the beautiful imagery on the screen. Managing a decent effort with the meal, you eat half the sandwich and most of the fries before you start to lose a little steam.
You abandon your plate on the coffee table, then take Jack completely by surprise as you lean over to lay your head in his lap.
He goes still for a moment, unsure if he should be allowing this. But he doesn’t have the heart to push you away, so he puts his plate aside and lets a hand come to rest on your shoulder.
You sigh happily and snuggle closer.
It's been so long since Jack has taken care of someone like this that he’d almost forgotten what it feels like. How good it feels to be needed. The easy intimacy of sharing a space, sharing a meal, of letting someone melt against you after a long night.
Affectionately, he brushes a stray lock of hair out of your face, and you practically purr in response, leaning into his hand. So Jack keeps doing it, keeps gently stroking his fingers through your hair, preferring to watch your relaxing form instead of the polar bears on screen.
The two of you spend nearly an hour like that, until your breath starts to take on that even, drowsy quality and Jack’s own brain starts calling for rest. He gently eases you off his lap to sit up, takes you by the hand and leads you to bed, already resigning himself to the aching back that a couch nap is going to earn him.
Jack sets you up with a glass of water and the best blankets in the linen closet. As he turns to head back to the living room, your hand grabs his arm, pulling him back.
“Stay.”
Your voice is low and warm. You're sitting up in his bed, his sheets pooled around your knees. Your eyes are dark, tempting, pleading.
Jack knows dangerous territory when he sees it.
Still, your serotonin is due to start dropping any time now, and hurt feelings are only going to be worsened once it does. Jack sits carefully on the edge of the bed, maintaining a few inches of distance, his other hand gently cradling your cheek.
“Sorry, sunshine. Not a good idea.”
You move closer, your gaze fixed firmly on his mouth. “Why?”
Best behavior, Jack.
“Because you’re still tapering off. Plus, I just worked a long shift and I need to sleep.” He takes in a deep breath as he feels your hand slide across his shoulders. “And I've got a feeling I won't be getting much rest next to you.”
In a move so surprising that Jack is momentarily powerless to stop it, you rise up onto your knees and shift to straddle one of his thighs.
“What if I promise to be really, really good?” you murmur sweetly.
Jack knows he should stop you, and he almost does. But then you rock your hips on his thigh, the tiniest little life-ruining movement, and you let out the softest, neediest little sound. Suddenly, Jack is hanging onto his sanity and self control-by a thread. And that thread is fraying rapidly.
“Baby,” he whispers, half warning and half plea. His hands come to your hips, torn between stopping you and spurring you on.
Your hips rock again, more purposeful this time. “Please,” you beg quietly, so close now that your lips just barely brush against his.
For a few shameful moments, Jack forgets about his fatigue and the ache in his leg and he wonders… how morally reprehensible would it really be to just let you get off on his thigh? You’d said yourself that you’re ovulating, probably making you even needier. Fuck, he can feel how badly you want it, wetness soaking through the boxers you’re wearing and Jack’s sweatpants. Would it really be so awful of him to sit passively as you hump his leg to get the relief you’re clearly so desperate for? To take pity on you and let you use him for your pleasure?
But he knows it would be wrong, because he’d be getting off on it even if you didn’t touch him. You're not in your right mind, and he doesn’t want to make you come for the first time when you’re whacked out on MDMA.
Summoning the will from deep inside himself, he stills your hips and eases you off of his thigh, ignoring your whines as he nudges you back onto the pillows.
“It wouldn’t be right. I'm not touching you until you’re sober,” he says firmly.
Jack gets to his feet and tucks the blankets around you. “I’ll see you in a few hours. Wake me if you need anything.” He laughs softly at the pointed pouting look you shoot his way. “Other than that.”
“You’re no fun,” you call after him as he retreats into the living room.
Once the bedroom door is shut behind him, he collapses on the couch and wrestles off his prosthetic, punching a throw pillow a few times to soften it before going horizontal. Even after what felt like the longest shift he’s had in months, he’s unsure how much sleep he’ll actually manage to get knowing you’re in the next room. Probably snuggling one of his pillows as if it’s him, probably squeezing your thighs together until the last of the drugs leave your system.
He groans and rolls over, willing his body and his still half-hard cock to go to sleep.
You wake feeling like death warmed over.
You’re in a bed that doesn’t belong to you, but smells familiar and comforting. Same with your clothes. A few memories make it through the fog, blurry and out of order. Planet Earth. Jack’s hand, warm and pleasant on your cheek. An ambulance ride. Lena ruffling your hair and handing you a lollipop. A shower with a chair and a grab bar and soap that smells like Jack.
You’re at Jack's apartment, you realize with a start.
Checking the time groggily, you observe that you've slept from the early morning until late afternoon. Thank god you’d asked for tonight off as well, anticipating you’d need recovery time after Pitt Fest.
You can vaguely recall the warm, fuzzy feelings you’d experienced last night. In the abstract, at least. Now, you feel mostly guilt and shame and embarrassment and anxiety. How could you have been so stupid?
Sounds of life echo from the kitchen, which means Jack has woken up ahead of you. Your guilt sharpens. Jack is spending his hard-earned downtime taking care of you, because of your own carelessness.
Fatigue clings to your bones as you shuffle to the bathroom. The reflection in the mirror is less than kind. Dark shadows frame your eyes, worse than the usual bags worn by the night shift crew. Your hair is a mess, and you sigh as you comb your fingers through to tame it.
Time to face the music.
You trudge out into the kitchen, where Jack is wearing an apron over a t-shirt and sweats and cooking an omelette, looking awfully chipper for having slept seven hours on the couch. He looks so good that it briefly makes you angry. Fuck him for looking so good, while you look and feel like utter dogshit.
Of course, that annoyance turns to guilt again when he looks up and smiles.
“Hey, lover girl,” he greets you warmly as you lean on the kitchen island. “How are you feeling?”
You rub your eyes and groan, “Like I got hit by a Mack truck.”
He squeezes your shoulder fondly and grabs a plate from an overhead cabinet. “Let’s get some food and water in you.”
“Thank you,” you mutter sheepishly. “I’m sorry about… all this.”
“Don't even worry about it, sunshine.”
Jack hands you a glass of water and starts making you a plate. You accept it with a grimace. “I'm not feeling very sunshine-y right about now. I can't remember half of what happened after I went down at the concert.”
“I hope we’ve learned not to go digging for meds in that particular friend’s purse.” He smirks and sets a plate in front of you. A vegetable omelette and buttered toast. Your appetite hasn’t yet returned to its normal levels, but your doctor brain knows that you really need to eat, so you reach for the toast first.
“Never again,” you vow as you take a bite.
In the light of day and out from under the influence of Beth's ‘aspirin,’ you get a good look at Jack's apartment for the first time as he assembles his own plate. It's not spotless, but it’s generally tidy, and it’s a very nice place. Good furniture, great windows with better blackout shades, a nice floor plan. Its niceness only makes you feel smaller.
You poke at your omelette, stewing. “Jack?”
“Yes?”
“Don't take this the wrong way, but…why am I here?”
He plates his own omelette and leans a hip against the kitchen island. “You’d never taken MDMA before, and I knew you’d be in for a hell of a drop. I didn't want you to be on your own.”
You resist the urge to frown. This whole saga is doing nothing to remedy your tragic crush on him. Did he have to be so nice and caring on top of everything else? It feels a little unfair at the moment.
“That’s… very considerate,” you mumble.
“What can I say? I'm a considerate guy.” He pops a bite of omelette into his mouth with a wink.
A thought occurs to you that briefly makes your stomach turn. “Does the whole Pitt know?”
Jack's expression tells you everything you need to know before he even speaks. “There… might have been a betting pool on the subject. Shen cleaned up.”
You drop your face into your hands. “Awesome. That's really awesome.”
Every single one of your coworkers knows that you spent the night rolling. Tears prick at your eyes beneath your palms, which only worsens your humiliation. The last thing you need right now is to cry in front of Jack Abbot. Even if it’s just because the chemicals in your brain are out of whack, it doesn't make it any less embarrassing.
“Hey.” Jack's hand finds your shoulder again. “Don’t worry about it. They're good people, no one is judging you.”
Despite your best efforts, a mortifying little sniffle slips out at the kindness in his voice.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Come here.”
You can’t bear to look up, but your breath hitches in surprise when Jack pulls you into his arms. Instantly, your brain begins to quiet, focusing on the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, the reassuring weight of his arms around you, the slow arc of his thumb rhythmically stroking your shoulder blade.
It's medicine. Oxytocin and dopamine, feel-good chemicals produced by physical touch, bolstering your brain against the sapped well of serotonin the ecstasy left in its wake. It also makes your heart flutter pathetically in your chest.
He holds you for a long moment, his grip tightening when you finally loop your arms around his waist and return the embrace.
“Thank you for taking care of me,” you whisper, allowing the comfort to sink into your skin and fill your lungs.
“Of course.”
Jack only pulls away when you do, gently swiping a calloused thumb underneath your eye to banish the straggling tear that managed to escape.
“Let’s get comfortable on the couch,” he says, a hand settling on your back to guide you. “You’re still on the comedown.”
You worry you might be overstaying your welcome. But Jack seems to be in no rush to get you out of his apartment, content to let you rot on his couch as long as you need to. Surely he must have better things to do on his night off than take care of you, but he sits sentry at your side without complaint.
After some consideration, Planet Earth is tabled for the time being — even if you’ve seen it before, animal death is sure to bring back the waterworks in your current state. Flipping through channels, you settle on a cheesy mid-2000s rom-com that you’ve seen before and snuggle back into the couch cushions.
Through it all, you feel the comfort of his steady presence, his hand rubbing idle circles on your back, like an IV drip of Vitamin Jack straight to your brain. You give into the feeling, too worn out to fight it, curling into his side. Eventually, you feel a gentle graze at your scalp as he idly plays with your hair. It surprises you for a moment, but you’re not complaining in the slightest. You melt into it, eyes fluttering closed until you’re slipping in and out of a light doze.
Afternoon fades to evening, to dinnertime, to nighttime, to bedtime. Even after your intermittent sleep, your fatigue is still bone deep, and Jack insists you can stay the night. You really try to convince him to let you take the couch, but he refuses, insisting that your body needs proper rest to return to baseline. At the end of the night, he sends you off to bed with a smirk.
When you wake up in Jack's bed for the second time, it’s much less disorienting. It helps that you’re much clearer than you were seventeen hours ago. The clock reads 9:05 am — you have the whole day ahead of you to shower, change, and steel yourself for the humiliation ritual that is bound to be your shift tonight.
You stumble into the living room, bleary-eyed. Jack is reclined on the couch with a laptop and readers perched on the end of his nose. Ugh, fuck him again for looking so good.
His eyes find yours over the edge of the screen. “Hey there. You sleep good?”
“Mm-hmm,” you reply, stretching. “I'm feeling much better, I think.”
His mouth curves at the corner. “Good.”
Leaning on the edge of the couch, you sigh and glance at the clock on the wall. “I should probably head home soon, get my life together before shift tonight. Would you be able to drive me home?”
“Sure thing, sunshine.”
After you eat breakfast and shower off the cast of bedrotting from the day before, you change back into the clothes you arrived in, which Jack took the liberty of washing for you. As much as you appreciate the gesture, you blanch at the idea of Jack handling your underwear, and try very hard not to think about that mental image.
As the quiet car ride progresses, you ponder your looming fate, mentally preparing yourself for the teasing you’ll get from the nurses and other residents. It's disorienting to not know what you’re walking into, to have been mentally absent for most of it.
You can’t resist the urge to ask anymore. “Was I a total mess?”
He nods, amused. “Yes. But a very cute mess.”
“God, this is so embarrassing,” you groan. “What did I say?”
“Are you sure you wanna know?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.
That makes you pause, glancing at him warily. “…was it bad?”
“You got a little fixated on hands for a while.” Jack pauses, like he isn’t sure how much to reveal, if you’re ready to handle it. “Said you think about mine all the time.”
Suddenly, you feel a bit sick, even though the car is headed in a straight line down the road. If that's just where it starts… if that’s not the worst of it, then what is?
“Oh god,” you whisper in horror.
“You said you think I'm gorgeous,” he continues, voice thick with amusement. “And that you have a big ol’ crush on me. And… you might’ve tried to seduce me a little at bedtime.”
Your cheeks flare hot. This is quite possibly the worst outcome of the situation aside from death. At the moment, death feels preferable.
You stare straight ahead, sinking in your seat and pressing your hands to your forehead to try and keep your brain from exploding. “Excuse me, I'm just gonna open the door and go lay down in traffic.”
He laughs, the sound warm and fond and doing absolutely nothing to temper your embarrassment. “It's okay.”
“It is completely not okay, Jack,” you protest, turning your body away from him and towards the passenger side door, like that will save you from this conversation.
Jack places a hand on your thigh.
All the systems in your brain go down simultaneously.
His palm rests just above your knee, not high enough to be too inappropriate, but it’s intimate. Especially because your choice of garment for Pitt Fest leaves your leg bare and exposed to his touch. Never once does he take his eyes off the road.
“It was flattering,” he says coolly, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over your knee. “And extremely cute.”
He lets the assertion hang in the silence, and he doesn’t move his hand, letting it rest warm and comfortable against the soft skin of your thigh.
After some considerable effort, you remember how to breathe. Once the oxygen makes it to your brain, you manage to peel your hands away from your face and peek sideways at him.
“…really?” you ask, because you need the confirmation. Does Jack Abbot — your mentor, the object of all your desires, and the man who just babysat you through an unwitting MDMA trip — really think you’re cute?
He gives your thigh a gentle squeeze. “Really.”
There isn’t much else to say for the rest of the car ride. Jack keeps his hand on your thigh until he turns down your street and throws the car in park. You try and fail to suppress a smile the whole way, and allow him to walk you up to your building’s front step, palms tingling with anticipation.
“I’d like to do this again sometime,” he says as you unlock the main entrance. “Minus the party drugs.”
You grin up at him, slightly emboldened by the revelations that occurred in the car. “You wanna have another sleepover?”
“Very much.” His eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles back. “See you tonight?”
“See you tonight.”
You turn to head inside, but Jack catches your elbow. “Hey. One last thing.”
Before you have time to register his closeness, a hand slides along your waist, another cupping your jaw, and Jack is kissing you.
A warm, pleasant feeling floods you from top to toe, a high rivalling the chemical one you’d experienced twenty-eight hours ago. He kisses you like he’s been thinking about it that entire twenty-eight hours. It's tender and hungry at the same time. By the time he pulls away, your lips follow after his and you almost stumble forward into his arms.
You open your eyes and blink up at him, feeling a little dazed and starstruck again.
“Had to wait until you were level,” Jack murmurs. He gives you a lingering peck at the corner of your mouth and descends down the front steps to his car.
MICHAEL ROBINAVITCH // JACK ABBBOT // DENNIS WHITAKER
NO GOOD DEED GOES UNPUNISHED
⤷ //. cw: foursome, daddy kink, sir kink, fauxcest, puppy play . //
a hand was sent flying across your now reddened rear, firm and exact in its delivery.
“can’t leave the two of you alone for one fucking minute.”
abbot cursed under his breath, aggravation instilled in his every word and breath as his hand cracked once more on your ass.
“think it’s fucking cute, don’t you? disobeying my rules?”
he then grabbed a fistful of your hair, cruel in its grasp as he bent your neck upwards, causing your back to arch downward into his lap.
“c’mon then! tell me why you two couldn’t wait for another damn hour.” huffing, he released your hair, glaring back at the other man who was staring at the entire scene on his knees.
dennis was still in his briefs, shirt stripped and discarded somewhere on the kitchen floor. your own clothes must have been strewn somewhere there as well, because you were left to wear a now ruined pair of panties and a lacy brassiere.
glancing over to your brother, you pleaded. lips quivering as you mouthed to him not to tell.
but as your eyes met—finding those pitiful blues now hooded in shame—you knew then that his loyalties lied with your owners instead of his own sister.
“i-it was her idea, sir..” dennis mumbled, hands firm on his knees as he hoped and willed for his cock to soften within his briefs. knowing well enough that abbot could see how the tip was now leaking and soiling the cloth.
“is that right?”
his attention then returned to your ass, cupping the fat as he massaged the reddening swell.
“he-he was hard! i-i just wanted to help..” you squeaked without thinking, soon realizing that you were now in deeper shit than before.
because dogs don’t speak unless spoken to. and abbot wasn’t talking to you. wasn’t even looking to you.
and when his gaze settled on your now worried face, the man smirked.
because prior to this, dennis had been placed in that horrible cage—a punishment for an earlier crime—wearing nothing but that same pair of briefs and a shirt. and the poor boy had been whimpering for hours, his cock weeping through the slit of his underwear, horny like a mutt in heat.
and you were the kind little pup who wanted to help their big brother, wanted to offer your cunt so his cum won’t have to be spilled on the cage floor.
cause that would be such a waste, and it’s never good to put such things to waste.
“really?” abbot chuckled, the sound rumbling from his throat as his roughened palm squeezed your now sensitive ass, “so you thought it was fine to let your brother out from his cage? so what? so his stupid cock won’t be lonely?”
clicking his tongue, his hand then cracked on your ass once more—harder this time—as the pain made your lungs swell and expand. the sound now echoing through the living room walls.
“expected more from you, sweetie. you’re supposed to be the smart one.” he said as he grasped at your jaw, making you meet his gaze.
tears were now streaming down your cheeks, skin as red as your now abused ass,
“t-thought i-i was helping, sir… he-he—“
SMACK!
and you cried out once more, body now shaking from both the pain and the impact—throat becoming more sore,
“i-i’m so-sorry, sir.. pl-please..”
but the older man had no mercy in his gaze, even as he watched those tears trickle from your cheeks. watched as your bottom lip quivered and your breath hiccup.
“dennis.”
abbot called, earning your brother’s immediate attention—back straightening in hopes that he could relieve you from his wrath.
“briefs off. now.”
and without hesitation, the other man stripped himself until he was bare, his hardened cock standing at full mast—your own gaze attached to the swollen tip.
he stood there for a moment, waiting for abbot to tell him to sit. and when he was given the command, he then went back on his knees, sitting on the heels of his feet. obedient as ever.
but before abbot could continue his discipline, the door to the house opened, with robby walking in from his shift.
the man was in his usual mood, somewhat cheerful since he was home, but that immediately shifted when he saw what was happening in front of him.
his cute little girl laying across his husband’s lap, ass beaten red and his boy kneeling on the floor naked.
it seems that abbot didn’t even bother to tell him about their most recent act of disobedience.
“hey…” michael greeted, tone cautious as he set aside his bag on the kitchen counter, noticing the clothes strewn across the floor.
your camisole laying near the counter, your skirt near the refrigerator door, and dennis’s t-shirt atop of your discarded socks.
“ahh..” the older man said, looking back to abbot’s expectant gaze.
“guess someone decided to let their brother out of the cage, huh? got lonely or something, sweetie?”
robby then approached the couch where you and abbot have been this entire time, arms now resting on the back cushions as his gaze traveled across your curved spine and your ruined rear.
“n-no, daddy! j-just wanted to help de-denny… was whimpering so much throughout the afternoon and..”
biting down your bottom lip, your tear stained eyes flickered between your handlers.
but robby was quiet. assessing. and letting you continue.
“—and i, uhm… told him that he could… cum inside so he doesn’t have to be so hard..”
at that admission, jack scoffed and shook his head.
and without warning, he then lifted you off his lap and tossed you to the floor beside dennis—the carpet cushioning your fall as the man stood at his full height.
“if you wanna be a little cum bucket so bad, sweetie.” slowly, he undid the buckle to his belt, “then i’ll fill that fucking needy cunt myself.”
glancing over to his husband, jack then cocked his head to the side.
a silent invitation.
and who was robby to decline?
…might write a second parter to this, still unsure.
Hucklerabbot x Fem!Reader - An Odd Type Of Punishment
This is a long one but I hope you all still enjoy this! 💛 Yes there will be a part 2!!
Requests are currently open!!
Please be kind, reblogs are always welcome and greatly appreciated! Thank you for all the continued support 💛
I do not give permission for any of my works to be copied or translated onto this site or other platforms!
Warnings: SMUT (lots of it - 18+ mdni), female masturbation with a vibrator, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, kissing, sucking, biting, mentions of breaking rules and expecting punishments, threesome, poly relationship, reader calling Jack sir, soft!dom Jack, soft!dom Dennis, overstimulation, slight sub drop at the end, swearing
Hucklerabbot x Reader Masterlist / The Pitt Masterlist / Join My Taglist
You’d had the day from hell; pretty much being shouted at by customers for the whole day.
It just seemed like one of those days where every asshole customer came your way, and no matter how nice you were, how polite, how calm, they still remained angry and would just shout, swear and belittle you.
It wasn’t often days like this happened, and when they did, you knew you wouldn’t have to wait long before either Robby or Jack came home to help you vent your frustration, if one of them wasn’t already home.
But you knew that wasn’t what would happen today; you knew it would be at least a few hours before anyone was home.
Robby had already texted you saying that he and Dennis were going to be late out, and Jack was doing his side job with the swat team.
Leaving you alone.
Alone and frustrated with no way to channel how you were feeling.
Well…that wasn’t exactly true.
There was one way….
You were lying on the bed, wearing one of Robby’s oversized shirts, contemplating if you were really going to go through with the idea that had popped into your head.
You didn’t break the rules.
Not big ones like this anyway.
But it wasn’t long before desperation was clouding your attempts at any logical thinking you were trying to do.
You knew grabbing the vibrator from your nightstand was not something you should’ve been doing.
Knew that if you were caught you’d be punished.
Jack and Robby had made it very clear to both you and Dennis that you were not allowed to play on your own or with each other, unless one of them was present.
It was a simple rule.
One that you’d been very good at sticking to; not wanting to disappoint either of the older men that you loved so dearly.
But desperate times called for desperate and risky measures.
You needed to relieve your pent up frustration, and they weren’t here to help you with that, so you were just going to have to be a big girl and deal with the situation yourself.
With that thought in mind, you placed the vibrator onto your clit, turning it on, onto the lowest setting, already feeling the stress of your day slowly beginning to melt away.
Fuck, it felt so good.
It wasn’t as good as being actually fucked, but it was good enough.
Good enough that all you were craving was for your aching hole to be filled, for a brief moment you pondered on using one of the dildos you had you in your nightstand, but you knew you needed to be careful, discreet.
You needed to leave little to no trace of what you'd been doing.
Of course using the vibrator on your clit made you wet, but you’d already worked out what you were going to say to Robby or Jack (or both) if they questioned you, and that was simply that you’d been thinking about them fucking you all day.
A dildo would stretch you out; and that would be something both men would notice within seconds.
No matter how desperate you were, that was simply too risky.
You skipped the second setting on the vibrator entirely; knowing that it wasn’t really going to help you reach the high that you were craving, all it was going to do was tease you and that’s not what you wanted.
You were too damn desperate.
The third setting, the highest one, had turned you into a moaning mess within seconds; your hips were rolling along with the vibrations as a familiar knot formed in your stomach.
You closed your eyes and imagined the three men you loved being with you now, imagined what they’d be doing to you if they were with you right now.
How Dennis would be lying next to you holding the vibrator in place on your clit whilst kissing your neck.
How Jack would be lying on the other side of you, whispering nothing but praise in your ear as he alternated between groping your tits and sucking on your hardened nipples.
How Robby, through all of it, just fucked your overstimulated puffy pussy relentlessly, holding your hips in place with an almost bruising force.
Fuck that’s what you needed right now.
To be touched.
To be fucked.
To be praised.
You lifted the tshirt you were wearing up enough to reveal your tits, the coolness of the air only adding to the sensitivity of them as your free hand pinched the nipple of one of them.
Your touch wasn’t the same as Jacks.
But it was enough.
The touching.
The vibration from the toy on your clit.
The thoughts running through your head.
All of that was enough to send you spiralling over the edge, white hot pleasure shooting through you as you came.
Hard.
The sounds of your moans echoing through the empty house.
“Fuck,” you panted, coming down from your high, wanting nothing more than to just keep your eyes closed and go to sleep.
But you knew you couldn’t do that, you couldn’t fall asleep, you needed to clean yourself and the toy up.
Needed to hide the evidence of what you’d just done.
Slowly, you pulled the toy away from your sensitive nub a small whimper falling from your lips as you did so.
Then you opened your eyes, shuffling up on the bed slightly so that you were sitting up, resting against the headboard trying to catch your breath, the tshirt you were wearing falling back down over your body.
“Hey baby,” a familiar voice came from the door of the bedroom, making your eyes widen in shock.
Dennis.
Your eyes darted to the door, seeing him standing there, leaning against the doorway, a light pink tinge on his cheeks and a dopey smile on his lips.
You knew he’d probably already seen the vibrator but that didn’t stop you from trying to hide it behind your back.
“Too late for that baby,” Dennis began with a soft chuckle as he took a few steps towards the bed, his eyes fixed on you.
You didn’t need to see yourself to know you looked like a mess.
You took a deep breath, attempting to collect yourself, to force your brain to function.
“You’re…you’re back early,” you stated, the nervousness clear in your voice.
“Yeah,” Dennis agreed, sitting down on the edge of the bed next to you, “Robby told me to come home early to come look after you,”
Shit.
You were fucked.
So fucked.
And not in the way you needed.
You opened your mouth to say something, but Dennis simply put a finger over your lips, a signal that right now wasn’t the time to talk.
“You were just so desperate, you couldn’t wait, could you?” He continued softly, lifting his hand to your face, caressing your cheek delicately.
You shook your head in response, hoping that your honesty would somehow save you from any type of punishment; whilst trying to ignore how Dennis’ simple touch was turning you on. .
“Yknow I’m gonna have to tell Robby and Jack about this, don’t you baby?”
You hated how your bottom lip trembled at his words, knowing damn well that both of them were going to be disappointed with you for breaking one of their rules.
Jack might take pity on you, especially once you’d explained the type of day you’d had.
But Robby….Robby would not be so lenient, he’d spank your arse so much that you wouldn’t be able to sit for a week; and you were sure he was going to ban you from ever cumming again…
“Denny,” you whined, leaning into his hand, “please-”
You knew begging him to not tell them would be useless; he was going to tell them no matter how much you whined or cried, but that didn’t mean you weren’t going to try.
“You know the rules baby,” Dennis mumbled, leaning forward to press a quick kiss on your forehead before pulling his phone from his pocket.
You considered trying to get the phone from him, so that he couldn’t tell Robby or Jack, but there was no point, he’d tell them the minute they got home anyway.
And he was right, you did know the rules and you’d broken them anyway.
Now, you had to suffer the consequences.
~~~~~~
You hated waiting.
You just wanted Robby or Jack to come home and give you the punishment you deserved.
You were slightly confused on why they hadn’t given Dennis the go ahead to start on a punishment whilst you were waiting for them.
You were expecting some intense teasing or something just to get you riled up, to edge you until you were a complete and utter mess.
But he didn’t do that.
He left the room twice; once to get you a glass of water and the other time to clean the vibrator you’d now given up on hiding from him.
“Can’t clean you up yet baby, Robby and Jack wanna see the mess you made when they get home,” Dennis explained softly, lying down on the bed, pulling you down with him.
You nodded understandingly, resting your head on his chest, feeling the stickiness from your orgasm on your thighs.
“‘M sorry Denny,” you mumbled.
“Not me you need to apologise to,” he cooed, rubbing small circles onto your waist, you couldn’t help the small moan that came from your lips at his touch.
Despite everything; despite having already cum once, despite how much trouble you knew you were going to be in, you were still so desperate to be touched.
To be fucked.
Dennis knew that.
Hell, it was taking everything in him to hold himself back; he knew that you’d obviously had a rough day, that was the only reason you’d ever break Robby and Jacks rule.
He wanted to take care of you.
And in all honesty, he’d had a pretty shit day too and all he wanted was to relieve his own frustrations through you.
But all he could do was hold you close and place a small kiss on the top of your hair, “It’s okay baby, I know,”
You and Dennis simply stayed like that, cuddled on the bed, waiting for either Robby or Jack to come home, neither of you entirely sure how long you’d been waiting until the front door to the apartment creaked open.
You tensed slightly under Dennis’ touch, already trying to work out what apologies you were going to say to whomever walked through the door.
A relieved sigh quietly fell from your lips when you saw that it was Jack who was walking into the bedroom, in his swat uniform.
That damn uniform….
You could already feel yourself getting wetter at the mere sight of him.
“Heard our favourite girl broke a rule today,” he stated, sitting down next to you on the opposite side of the bed to where Dennis was, “wanna tell me why?”
You took a deep breathe, trying to focus on the explanation and apology you wanted to give and not the arousal surging through you as you thought about Jack fucking you in his swat uniform.
“I…I just had a really bad day,” you admitted, sitting up so that you were leaning against the headboard again, fiddling with the hem of the tshirt you’d borrowed from Robby, “I spent the whole day basically just being shouted and sworn at by customers, and I tried to ignore it…but it was just constant,”
Dennis sat up next to you, his arm still wrapped around your waist, giving it a light squeeze, both he and Jack listening intently on what you were saying.
“I tried to forget about it but I was just so frustrated, Jackie…” you began, blinking away the tears that were threatening to fall from your eyes, “and you weren’t here and Robby said that he and Dennis were going to be late and I just…I just needed a way to get rid of that feeling…”
You stopped for a brief moment, letting out a shaky breath as your eyes met Jacks, “I’m sorry, I know I broke the rules and I’m sorry…I just…I didn’t know what else to do…”
You hated how pathetic you sounded.
Dennis, Jack, Robby, they all dealt with much more than having people shout and swear at them; and yet here you were near enough crying because of it.
“Oh baby girl,” Jack sighed, shuffling closer to you and Dennis, his hand cupping your cheek to wipe away a stray tear that had fallen from it.
“I understand,” he whispered, leaning in close to you, until his lips were inches away from yours, “it sounds like you had pretty rough day”
You nodded slowly, your breath hitching at how close he was, your eyes flicking from his eyes, to his lips and then back to his eyes.
You wanted to kiss him so bad.
But you didn’t want to get yourself in any more trouble, you needed to behave, to do as you were told, though that was proving hard to do with both Jack and Dennis being so close to you.
“You just needed to let off some steam, huh?”
You nodded again, noticing how Jack's eyes glanced over at Dennis before re-focusing back on you, “Words, baby girl,”
“Yes,” you answered quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.
A whisper that trailed off into a whimper the second you felt Dennis’ lips on the sensitive sweet spot on your neck.
A small smirk tugged at Jack's lips, enjoying how your eyes fluttered shut for a moment, before meeting his once again.
“Yes what?” He asked, his lips now inches away from yours.
“Yes sir,” you swallowed, feeling your heart beating quickly in your chest in anticipation.
Waiting for Jack to just close the distance between you.
It was like he could read your mind; either that or he could just simply tell how desperate you were because just as that thought left your mind, he placed a sweet peck on your lips.
“Good girl,” he mumbled against your lips before capturing them again in a kiss, this one was different to the first kiss though, this one wasn’t a quick peck.
No this time when his mouth found yours again, it was with a silent urgency, as though that brief second apart was already too long.
Instinctively you kissed him back; your desperation taking over as you lifted your hands to his hair, running them through his greying curls, only deepening the kiss.
All the while, Dennis was at your side, his lips still continuing to lick, suck and bite at the sensitive skin of your neck.
The hand that he’d had securely wrapped around your waist, slowly moving down your body, until he got to the top of your thigh.
“Lie down for us baby,” Dennis whispered in your ear once you and Jack had broken apart from your kiss to both catch your breath.
You were so confused with what was going on; shouldn’t you have been in trouble? Shouldn’t you have been being punished with spankings and the like rather than being treated like this?
Regardless of that, you obeyed what Dennis said, shimmying back down on the bed, the two men looking over you, looking down at you with lust filled eyes.
“Want me and Denny to look after you baby girl?” Jack questioned, mirroring Dennis’ hand placement on your thigh.
“Yes please, sir,” you nodded eagerly, spreading your thighs as you answered.
A low whistle came from Jack's lips as he took in the mess you’d left from your previous orgasm.
“So beautiful,” he mused, taking a hold of Dennis’ hand, guiding it from your thigh to your bare and already sensitive clit.
Dennis need to be told what to do.
He already knew.
So he started tapping the small sensitive nub, unable to stop the smirk tugging on his lips at the way your body jump slightly at his touch.
“Gonna take such good care of you baby,” Dennis whispered in your ear, going back to kissing your neck.
Had you woken up in an alternate universe somehow?
None of this was making any sense to you.
Jack noticed.
Noticed the slight crease of confusion in your eyebrows.
Noticed how you weren’t fully relaxing into Dennis’ touch like he knew you always did.
“Up,” Jack mumbled, his hands already lifting Robby’s tshirt up your body; you rose slightly, lifting your arms up just enough for him to pull the tshirt over your head, revealing your tits to the two men.
“Stop thinking so much baby girl, just enjoy this,” Jack breathed, forcing you back down slightly, kissing the shell of your ear, his lips lightly trailing down from your neck to your check, his lips latching onto your pebbled nipple.
“Fuck,” you groaned, hips bucking into Dennis touch, who’d lowly been increasing the speed of which he’d been rubbing your clit; whilst Jack rolled his tongue across one of your hardened nipples, his free hand pinching the opposite one.
You were feeling so much pleasure.
And you knew you didn’t deserve it.
But Jack told you to enjoy it, so wouldn’t you be disobeying him further by not doing just that.
“There you go,” Jack praised, hooded eyes glancing up at you, taking in how absolutely perfect you looked as you allowed yourself to revel in the pleasure he and Dennis were giving you.
“You’re soaked baby,” Dennis hummed, slipping two fingers inside your now dripping pussy, knowing how close you were to coming undone for them.
Jacks hand moved from groping your tit to replacing Dennis’ on rubbing your clit, a muffled chuckle coming from him as your back arched on the bed, “You gonna cum for us?”
You tried to find the words to answer him; but it was like your brain could no longer comprehend how to speak.
You hoped that the moan that came from you was enough of an answer; but it wasn’t.
“You gotta ask, or we’re gonna stop right now baby girl,” you could hear how strained his voice was, assuming that he was holding back his own orgasm, focused entirely on making you feel good right now.
“Please,” you begged, feeling tears forming in your eyes but for a completely different reason this time, “plea-please let me cum, please, need to so badly,”
“That’s our good girl,” Jack hummed in approval, continuing to rub your clit in the exact way that he knew would push you over the edge.
You were so close.
“Cum for us baby girl,” he whispered against your ear, before quickly nodding to Dennis who added a third finger inside of you just before you reached the high you’d been so desperately needing.
“Fuckfuckfuck,” you babbled, following Jack's words once again, your orgasm ripping through you, eliciting a sound from your lips that both Dennis and Jack had rarely ever heard.
“Holy shit,” Dennis swore, completely mesmerised by how intensely your orgasm was hitting you, whilst trying not to cum in his pants.
“Atta girl,” Jack praised, kissing your cheek softly as he and Dennis worked you through your high, “so fucking beautiful,”
You were sure beautiful was the opposite of what you looked like right now; you knew you looked a mess.
An absolute mess.
But you didn’t care.
You didn’t really care about anything apart from the fact that you’d probably just experienced one of if not the most intense orgasm you’d ever had.
“Still with us baby girl?” Jack asked, leaning up to look at your eyes, noticing how glassy they were.
“Mhm,” you mumbled, your brain feeling so floaty as your eyes met his, “thank you,”
You weren’t entirely sure what you were thanking him for; for not punishing you, for giving you such an amazing orgasm, for making you forget how shit your day had been, or maybe it was a combination of all of them.
A soft smile came onto Jacks face as he leant up on the bed, removing his thumb from your clit, ignoring how much he wanted to put it back there the moment you whimpered at the loss of his touch.
“I’m gonna go get you some more water, okay, Dennis’ll stay with you,” he explained simply, getting off of the bed, grabbing the empty glass that was on your nightstand and leaving the bedroom before you had any chance to object.
Another pathetic sound came from you when Dennis removed his fingers from you.
“Shh it’s okay baby,” it’s okay, I’ve got you” he consoled you, pulling you closer into his chest; so that you were both in the same position you were both in when Jack arrived.
“Don’t understand,” you muttered to him, wondering how you’d managed to end up getting this type of treatment after breaking a rule.
“We just wanna take care of you, baby,” he cooed, stroking your sides.
Jack re-entered the room, sitting back down on the bed with the glass of water in hand.
He could tell you were still a little floaty, so didn’t dare hand you the drink; he simply held it against your lips, motioning for you to drink.
And that’s exactly what you did, before giving him a puzzled look, still wanting a proper answer for why you weren’t getting punished.
Jack knew what the look was about; he’d heard what you said to Dennis just moments before.
“Wanted to make you feel good baby girl,” was all that he said; still not really answering your question.
“And there’s a lot more where that came from,” a third man’s voice spoke, causing your head to snap up to see Robby standing in the doorway; already removing his jacket and tossing it aside before joining you, Jack and Dennis on the bed.
A/N: Title is a joke, I'm just too tired to think of something else that fits the story and starts with a P, the idea hit me as a joke but I genuinely cannot think of anything else now...
Warnings: poorly written smut, verbal abuse ( from a customer - I love customer service! )
W/C: 2300+
You were in a strange situation, caught somewhere between working and being a sugar baby for four ridiculously handsome men. When they’d initially offered to pay you for essentially just existing you seriously contemplated it. The weight of your university costs, grocery expenses and general living prices ultimately outweighing any realistic chance you had at refusing that kind of money, however after contemplating with your moral conscience you ultimately decided to work in their pub for a hefty wage instead.
“Evening!” You grinned, waving at a very busy looking Johnny who pouted slightly at the lack of a ‘proper’ greeting before he quickly was forced back to his pans. “Evenin’ bonnie.” He called back, catching the attention of Kyle who had just popped into the kitchen to chase Johnny for a meal. “Evening gorgeous.” He smiled, hands planted firmly on your waist as he pressed a kiss to your cheek. “How’s it going Ky?” You asked, gently wrapping your arms around his neck. “Busy as fuck!” You heard Johnny call from the other side of the kitchen, “You in here for a reason Kyle or are you just here to flirt?” He continued, shooting a jealous glare at the other man. “Table 14’s been waiting a while.” He hummed, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before waving a goodbye to a now fuming Scotsman. “See you soon Johnny!” You grinned before getting to work yourself.
“Si, table 1 wants a vodka and soda but he said not to skimp on the vodka like a lot of places do.” You spoke, sliding up to the bar with a small sigh. “Uh huh.” He nodded before glancing at you and pausing, “You alright tonight?” He asked, eyebrows creasing in concern. “Just tired, my professor’s being a bitch about this essay.” You answered before being called back to your work.
It was about five minutes later that your attention was caught by the vodka man who was staring you down, snapping his fingers as a summons. Biting back your frustration at the action, you hurried over an apology on your tongue. “Where the fuck is my drink, if you were doing your job right I wouldn’t have a fucking issue.” He snarled, waving his hand in your face as he finished berating you. Silently, you hurried to the bar and grabbed his drink, praying to all the gods that Simon hadn’t fucked with him for his earlier comment. As you dropped the drink off at the man’s table you made to leave, hoping to escape before he tried his drink for the first time, however this plan was quickly prevented as he grabbed your wrist, preventing you from leaving. “You’re gonna stay here ‘til I’ve tried this drink that you probably fucked up, like everything else.” He muttered, whispering something else under his breath that you didn’t quite catch but made your cheeks flush in embarrassment all the same. Immediately after trying his drink he slammed it down on the table, an awkward silence filling the space around you as nearby tables stopped talking to look at the disruption. “Did I not tell you to make this properly, if you spent half as much time doing your fucking job as you did whoring yourself out in that fucking mini skirt there’d be no problem. Fucking slut.” He berated, the last part whispered louder than before in a clear attempt to make you hear it. You stood there, frozen for a few moments before he continued, “What the fuck are you hanging around for, remake my drink and get me your fucking manager I’m not paying for your services.” He nearly screamed, breaking you out of your trance. “Right away.” You whispered, hands growing sweaty and slightly shaky as you turned to walk away only for your eyes to meet the next two tables all staring at you.
You practically sprinted into the kitchen to get away from all the stares in the main restaurant, more people having witnessed you getting screamed at than you first realised. As soon as the door shut behind you, you felt tears building in your eyes and your bottom lip quiver slightly. “Where’s Price?” You asked softly, staring at the floor in an attempt to prevent yourself from looking Johnny in the eyes. “Upstairs, why?” He responded, clearly not looking in your direction. “Nothing important.” You answered, hurrying up the flight of stairs round the corner, the tears slipping down your cheeks as you did.
You quickly knocked on Price’s office door, tears now streaming down your face at full force. You vaguely heard him call ‘enter’ before you walked inside. “What’s wr-” He began before looking up at you and immediately standing from his chair and hurrying over. “Love, what happened?” He asked, hands moving to cup your cheeks as he spoke. “This guy.” You began before you began to cry harder, remembering all the faces staring at you that you’d have to go back to serving. “It’s alright.” John whispered, pulling you against his chest, his hand rubbing up and down your back as his other held your head against his shoulder. “What’d the fucker do to make you like this, huh?” He murmured a few moments later, the two of you seated on a run down sofa in the far corner of the room. “He yelled at me in front of everyone, saying I made his drink wrong and that if I spent less time whoring myself out, I could actually ‘service’ him properly. Called me a slut in a mini skirt.” You whispered, bringing your knees up to your chin as you spoke, voice wavering slightly. A few seconds of furious silence followed before you heard John’s voice, “You stay here, I’ll have Johnny run some food up and Simon’ll cover your tables for a bit. Be back soon.” He muttered, pressing his lips against your forehead before leaving the room, the silent rage rolling off him in waves.
It was only a few minutes until the door opened again, this time as Johnny walked inside, holding a small bowl of garlic bread in his hands. “Ya doin’ okay?” He asked, placing the bowl down next to you before crouching down in front of you. “It was humiliating.” You muttered, the tears having stopped but the tear tracks down your face being painfully obvious. “I know, ya didn’t deserve tha’ bullshit.” He comforted, moving slightly to sit down beside you, your head resting on his shoulder as you leaned into him. The calm silence that followed was quickly broken by banging coming from downstairs and a muffled yell before Gaz threw open the door yelling about how ‘Simon was going to kill someone again’. Instantly, you and Johnny were running downstairs and into the dining area.
The scene before you was a mixture of heart warming and concerning; Simon had the man who’d insulted you by his collar, John standing slightly in front of him, his arms crossed. “If that whore could do her job properly!” You heard the man yell before Simon’s fist clenched in a way you were all too familiar with. “Simon!” You whispered, grabbing his arm, having run over to the two men the minute you saw his fist clench. “Si, he’s not worth it.” You muttered, your other hand coming to rest over his clenched one. You could visibly see him relax slightly as he glanced at you, his fist loosening slowly as his fingers intertwined with your own. That is until the idiot opened his mouth, “I see she’s doing her rounds of the staff here too”, was all he managed to get out before a loud crunch sounded and the sounds of screams followed. You didn’t see what made the sound as Price pulled you into him the minute the man began to talk, as if he sensed what was about to occur, but you heard it all the same.
You stayed in John’s office for the rest of the evening, Kyle or Johnny occasionally coming in to check up on you. “Sorry for making you run food.” You muttered as John settled back behind his desk, the rush having slowed down enough for him to come back to his office. “Wasn’t you, blame the fucker who thought he’d have a dig at you ‘cause he thought you’re an easy target.” He replied, holding his hand out slightly, indicating for you to come over to his seat, an action you quickly did. “Sorry anyway.” You continued, leaning against John’s chair as you read his computer screen over his shoulder.
As the restaurant cleared, you slowly made your way downstairs into the kitchen to help Johnny with packing up everything. “You okay?” The Scotsman asked after a few moments of silent cleaning. “Better now, how’s Simon?” You replied, glancing up at Johnny who took a few steps towards you before taking the cleaning rag out of your hands and gesturing at the door, an indication you took.
You assumed Kyle was out back as the dining area was empty save from Simon who was cleaning behind the bar, his back turned to from you as he was scrubbing down the far end of the bartop. Silently, you walked behind the bar to join him, carefully wrapping your arm around his waist, allowing him to tense before turning and seeing it was you and relaxing again, before leaning your head against his chest, your arms tightening slightly around him as one of his own moved to rest on your lower back whilst his other reached for your face, tilting it slightly so he could meet your eyes. He carefully flicked his eyes across your face, trying to make sure you were alright before ultimately deciding you were okay and releasing a small sigh of apparent relief. Slowly you moved a hand to the back of Simon’s head, having to lean up in order to do so, your eyes quickly glancing at his lips before returning to meet his gaze. Almost immediately you felt the hand on your lower back dip to your ass before he lifted you up and onto the bartop, a small laugh escaping your lips as he did so causing him to slip into a small smile, stepping in between your thighs the moment you were situated. Your arms quickly looped around his neck, pulling him closer against you then eventually pulling him slightly down to meet your lips with his. You felt one of his hands brace himself against the bar, allowing him to lean fully into you, whilst the other found your lower back again, sliding your hips down the bartop until they were pressed against his. A small whine escaped your lips as you felt his hardening cock rub against you only for the sound to be drowned out in his mouth, his tongue slipping past your lips at the first opportunity to do so. As he continued to suck into your mouth you felt his hand slide around to your front, slowly running up and down your waist before sliding down fully to the top of your thighs and stopping there until your own hand guided his under the fabric of your skirt, your mouth too preoccupied to beg vocally. Quickly you felt him slip under your panties, his fingers masterfully circling your clit making you more breathless than you already were before he gently entered a first finger inside you, your back arching slightly against him at the intrusion. “Si.” You whispered, separating from his lips and pressing your forehead against his shoulder as he began to slowly thrust the finger in and out of your cunt, his second hand moving to continue the ministrations against your clit.
By the time a second finger entered inside you you were practically biting down on his shoulder to muffle the sounds escaping your lips as you grew closer and closer to your finish, Simon having shifted slightly so his lips were able to suck at your neck whilst maintaining his actions with his hands and allowing you to follow his shoulder. “Simon I can’t-” You whispered breathless against his skin as a third finger was inserted and the pressure on your clit increased. “Yes you can love, come on.” He replied, his voice slightly muffled against your neck but containing the unmistakable huskiness he got whenever he was ‘engaging’. “Si…” You whined, head tilting into the curve of his neck as your eyes fluttered shut as your body was pushed over the precipice and your thighs began to shake uncontrollably. “There we go, easy now lovey.” Simon muttered, pressing a lingering kiss to your now sweaty forehead as your breathing began to even out. “Good girl.” He continued, slowly bringing his fingers up from your thighs before calling out, “Johnny!” before waiting for the doors to swing open which they did after a few seconds. “Yeah Si-?” The man in question began before pausing in the doorway and taking in the sight in front of him with a large grin. After a few seconds of happy staring he all but leapt over to the two of you, allowing you to shuffle your head over to his shoulder and off of Simon’s chest, his grin growing impossibly wider as Simon offered up his hand before Johnny quickly took the offer and slowly took a finger into his mouth, sucking on the digit with a small moan before moving to the next. “Christ, beautiful you taste divine.” He murmured in between fingers, bringing his hand up to stroke your hair. “If we were at home gods bonnie.” He continued after cleaning the last of Simon’s fingers with a grin, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before turning his head towards Simon and using his free hand to pull the man towards his lips, an action the blonde completed more than willingly.
A/N #2: Can you tell this is my first time writing smut properly - I am so sorry if its poorly written I genuinely struggle with writing smut in a way that's realistic and fun to read. T.T
Post-TBI!Johnny who turns to art to cope and convinces you to model for him because you’ve got an interesting face, hen. Interesting bones. Something in the slope of your shoulders and the set of your mouth that makes his fingers twitch for charcoal, makes him stare at you, want to see what’s buried beneath your skin.
It should make you uncomfortable
(Maybe it does. Maybe you should’ve listened to that thin little alarm trembling at the back of your skull, but hindsight has always been cruel like that, arriving only after the door has closed, after the lock has turned, after you’ve already mistaken hunger for reverence. And nobody has ever looked at you the way he’s looking now-)
Ach, dinnae look at me like that. It’s only art.
He lays it on thick-
Tells you he’s been stuck for months. That nothing’s moved him. That he’d started thinking there was something dead inside him until he saw you standing beneath the washed out lights of a corner shop, fumbling with your change.
Then there ye were.
So you agree.
Just once, you tell him. A few hours. Fully clothed.
Course, bonnie. Agrees too easily, bobbing his head, boyish grin sliding onto his face to ease your nerves. Whatever makes ye comfortable.
The studio is warmer than you expect. Old brick. Tall windows dripping with rain. Canvases stacked against every wall, most of them turned backward, their painted faces hidden from you. It smells of linseed oil and damp wood and (- the sharp stench of a cave where things lie nestled in the dark with sharp teeth and sharper claws, maw dripping with hunger for every unsuspecting little thing that crosses in front of it’s eyes, too close too see the danger until its dragging them across stone floor- )
(And you’ll think about those canvases later. About how each one had been carefully turned toward the wall before you arrived, how easy it had been to assume this was modesty instead of concealment. Artists are strange, you’d thought. Private about unfinished things. You hadn’t yet considered that there might be things Johnny didn’t want looking back at you.)
Johnny puts you in an oversized white shirt (‘s mine, Bonnie, but ye can borrow it- ), says the fabric catches shadow better. Leaves your own clothes folded on a chair near the door (- farther away than they need to be- ) and settles you on a low platform beneath the windows, your knees drawn loosely beneath you, one hand resting against your throat.
The first few minutes pass in silence.
Charcoal scratching.
Rain needling softly against the glass.
Johnny looking at you, baby blue traveling slowly, steadily, returning to the same places over and over- the soft inside of your wrist, the hollow beneath your throat, the place where the shirt slips away from one shoulder whenever you breathe too deeply.
You try to hold still, but your back starts to ache. Your fingers curl against your collarbone. Each time Johnny looks up, you remember you’re being watched and flinch, shoulders rising, knees pressing closer together, chin sinking protectively toward your chest, too stiff.
His charcoal stills.
You apologize.
Ach, dinnae apologize. He smiles when he says it, but something in his expression stays still. His mouth curves. The rest of him doesn’t.
Ye keep foldin’ in on yourself every time I look at ye. Ahm not goin’ tae eat ye.
It’s too perceptive and your laugh comes out smaller than you meant it to. Johnny’s gaze sharpens at the sound, charcoal held motionless between fingers stained black nearly to the knuckle. He sets the charcoal on the easel tray and walks toward you, wiping blackened fingertips against his trousers.
His hands settle on your shoulders and press them down, thumbs sweeping slowly along the tight muscles beside your neck, working circles into the ache until your head tips forward despite yourself.
(That should’ve frightened you too, perhaps, the ease with which he found the softest part of you and pressed his thumb into it. But cruelty rarely introduces itself as cruelty.)
Can feel ye fightin’ me, he murmurs.
You tell him you’re only nervous.
I know, hen.
His mouth brushes close to your ear when he says it- That’s the problem-
You’ve never done anything like this before. Never sat beneath someone’s attention and been expected to let them take whatever they saw.
Johnny hums.
- Got somethin’ that might help-
He leaves you there and crosses to a cabinet near the sink. The bottle he brings back is already open. Red wine, dark enough to look black where it gathers in the bottom of the glass.
He pours while you watch, the glass filling nearly to the widest part before he seems to remember himself and stops.
You tell him that’s more than a little.
Is it?
The dimples appear.
Scottish measure.
You laugh despite yourself, and that seems to please him. He passes you the glass, waits until your fingers close around the stem, then returns to the easel as though the matter is settled.
It’s sweeter than you expect.
Dark fruit and spice, something thick and jammy that clings to your tongue after you swallow. It warms your stomach on the way down and then sits there, a small red coal beneath your ribs, heavy in your stomach, spreading outward in a slow bloom that reaches your fingertips first.
Johnny starts drawing again once you drink, charcoal moving with renewed purpose, and each time you begin to tense beneath his gaze, he tips his chin toward the glass.
You obey because you don’t want to be difficult (- not after he told you that you were the first beautiful thing he’d wanted to draw in months. Pride and vanity always did come before the fall-)
The first glass disappears without you noticing.
Johnny refills it.
You watch the wine climb the crystal, a dark red tide swallowing the clean sides. He pours generously this time, his wrist turning until the glass is almost full.
Johnny-
Ye’re still wound tight.
He presses the glass back into your hand, cups the base and tips it toward your mouth, red wine spilling over your lower lip, a thin ribbon escaping the corner of your mouth to trail down your chin- Swallow, hen, that’s it, good girl- thumb catching the crimson streak on your chin, smearing it gently across your swollen mouth, bringing his thumb to his own lips and dragging his tongue slowly over the wine stained pad, his gaze still fixed on your (- tasting one thing and thinking of another entirely- )
The room softens, hard corners of the platform blurring, rain beyond the glass stretches into silver threads. Johnny’s face becomes something painted in oils- dark lashes, blue eyes, the warm cut of his mouth- each feature bleeding gently into the next whenever you look too quickly.
(You’ll try to remember how many times he filled the glass after that. You’ll count backward later and find nothing solid enough to hold. One glass becomes two only because you remember him pouring. Two becomes three because the bottle was lower when you finally noticed it again. Memory is unreliable even when sober; drunk, it becomes something else entirely)
Your thoughts begin losing their edges.
That’s the strangest part.
Not the warmth or the heaviness gathering behind your eyes, but the way one thought stops connecting cleanly to the next. You think you should check the time, but the idea floats away before you remember where you left your phone. You think you’re thirsty, although there’s still wine in your hand. You think Johnny has been staring too long, but then he smiles and the concern dissolves before it can settle into fear.
Your brain turns liquid. Loose.
Everything inside your skull has melted into something warm and buoyant, thoughts drifting past one another like pale shapes beneath dark water. You can see them. Almost touch them. But each time you reach for one, the motion sends it farther away.
The warmth moves deeper with each glass. Into your thighs. Your cheeks. The soft tissue behind your eyes.
Nothing has edges anymore. Johnny’s charcoal scratches from very far away, scraping down the back of your mind.
You take another sip.
Your tongue feels too large for your mouth.
The wine sits syrup thick in your veins, turning your body slow and porous. You can feel yourself dissolving from the inside, bones losing their hard white calcifications, thoughts melting down into something warm and red and viscous. Your mind becomes a glass overturned on its side, everything inside it pouring lazily toward the lowest point.
Johnny tells you to lift your chin and it takes you a moment to understand him.
Your head feels full of warm red water. Too heavy for your neck, too light to belong to your body. When you turn toward him, the studio follows a moment later, swaying gently around its fixed point. Your stomach seems to remain behind while the rest of you drifts forward.
Johnny smiles. Feelin’ better?
Mmm. Floaty.
The word leaves your mouth thick and childish. You hear yourself say it from somewhere above the platform and start laughing, embarrassed by the way your tongue seems to have grown too large for your teeth.
Floaty, he repeats. Aye, I can see that.
The glass slips sideways in your hand when you try to lift it again, wine cresting the rim, pouring over your fingers in a slow, dark sheet, slipping between your knuckles and tracing along the inside of your wrist. You make a startled little sound at the coldness that breaks apart into a thousand shards against the brick of the walls.
Johnny catches the stem before it can tumble from your loose fingers- careful, hen- and you try to straighten it but some how make it worse. Another red thread spills across your palm, and your laughter returns, thick and breathless, your head bowing beneath the weight of it.
Can’t hold it, you confess.
Johnny looks at your hand.
His smile doesn’t disappear, the warmth staying arranged across his face, but everything behind it grows watchful and still, his gaze following the wine as it crawls toward the soft bend of your elbow.
Aye, he murmurs. I can see that.
He takes the glass from you and places it beyond your reach.
Then he closes his hand around your wrist.
(There are moments when the body understands before the mind does. A pulse quickening beneath someone’s thumb. Fingers curling uselessly toward the palm. Some small animal instinct lifting its head inside you and finding every door already underwater. Yours tries to warn you now, but the wine has made a soft, red grave of your thoughts, and whatever is screaming has sunk too deep to be heard.)
Johnny raises your hand slowly, turns your wrist upward and studies the dark streaks shining there as though you’ve offered him something.
His tongue touches the center of your palm.
Tickles, you mumble, trying weakly to pull your hand back.
Johnny doesn’t let you, fingers tighten around your wrist, dragging his tongue between two of your fingers, gathering the wine with slow, deliberate strokes, his eyes lifted to your face the entire time, stubble scraping your skin, your head tipping drunkenly toward one shoulder while he follows the spill downward. His mouth moves over the heel of your hand, then the tender inside of your wrist, tongue tracing the dark path until it reaches the quick beat of your pulse.
Johnny, you breathe, his name breaking apart around another shy (nervous) giggle.
Shh.
His lips close over the fluttering place beneath your skin, sucking gently at the flesh, and the laughter catches strangely in your throat.
For a second, the floating stops.
Your eyes find his. There’s no boyish embarrassment there now. No artist’s wonder. Only concentration, calm and proprietary, as if he’s discovered the precise place where you’re weakest and is committing it to memory.
Then the room tips again.
The fear slips away before you can name it.
Johnny lifts his mouth from your wrist. A faint red stain shines across his lower lip, though you can’t tell whether it’s wine or the shape of his teeth pressed too hard against your skin.
Couldnae leave ye all messy, he murmurs.
You smile at him, heavy eyed and grateful.
(That smile will return to you later. Not his. Yours. The soft, trusting curve of your own mouth while he held your pulse between his teeth, already learning how much he could take, could take, could take before you’d realize something was missing- )
His hand slides behind your neck when your head lists toward one shoulder, catching you with a palm spanning the base of your skull, fingers sinking into the soft place beneath your hair, and the strength of him feels like a pillar rising from the black water at the exact moment your feet stop finding the bottom.
You lean into him, body pouring toward the nearest solid thing with the blind obedience of water finding a crack.
(That’s the part you’ll hate most afterward. Not the touch itself, but the relief. The soft, grateful sound your throat makes when he holds your head up for you. The way your body, stupid animal that it is, mistakes restraint for shelter because the room has become a dark and gently turning sea, and Johnny- Johnny, who tipped the bottle into your mouth, who stood on the shore and watched the red water climb over your face- feels like the only thing left that won’t move beneath your hands.)
Can barely hold yourself up, can ye?
There’s laughter curled inside his voice. Warmth too. Enough warmth to blunt the edge of it, enough tenderness painted over the words that you don’t see the teeth beneath until much later, when you’re sober enough to pick each moment apart and find where the sweetness spoiled.
You mumble that you’re fine, word coming loose and swollen, a soft little shape that collapses against his chest before it properly leaves your mouth.
Course ye are.
His thumb moves behind your ear, slow enough to feel fond, presses into the tender hollow there and draws a circle, then another, while your thoughts slosh heavily from one side of your skull to the other.
Jus’ need a wee bit of help holdin’ the pose.
He reaches past you.
Something drags from the shelves, whisper of fibres over unfinished wood, dry and soft, the sound stretching strangely inside your head, unspooling through the wine until it becomes the scrape of something moving beneath a bed, the hush of grass parting around a body.
When Johnny settles back into view, there’s a pale coil resting in one charcoal stained hand.
You stare at it.
The meaning is there- somewhere- can feel it beneath the surface, pressing upward through the wine. But your thoughts are no longer thoughts, drifting pieces of them, each one separating when you reach, each one slipping wetly through your fingers before you can force it into words.
What’s that for?
The question sounds very far away.
Johnny looks at the rope, then at you.
You.
He says it so easily that you blink up at him, chin hooked against the hard planes of his abdomen.
Then his grin breaks wide, dimples cutting deep enough to make the answer harmless again.
The pose, hen. It’s for the pose.
He kneels beside you and takes your wrist, winding the rope around your skin once, then twice, explaining tension and composition and the body’s instinct to protect itself when it tires.
Always curls inward, he murmurs, thumb smoothing the inside of your wrist. Always tries tae hide the soft parts.
You watch his fingers move.
Over.
Under.
Through.
Cream colored rope, the shade of old lace or clean bone, pretty where it crosses your skin, fibres blurring at the edges when your eyes lose focus, becoming something delicate, ornamental. A bracelet. A ribbon. (Gift-wrapped and hand delivered-)
Johnny-
Too tight?
You don’t know.
You should know. The answer ought to exist inside your own head, but your body has gone dim and distant, a house seen through fogged glass. There’s pressure around your wrist. Heat beneath it. A pulse knocking weakly against the rope like someone trapped behind a wall.
Johnny slides one finger under the knot, fingertip stroking over your pulse while he looks up at you, eyes bright and attentive.
Wouldnae hurt ye.
You nod because he sounds so certain and rational thought is a stone tied to your ankle asking you to climb through red waters.
He binds the other wrist before you understand that the first one is finished. Lifts both arms above your head, and your body follows with a slow, boneless obedience that makes him smile. The stretch pulls through your shoulders, arches your back, tits pushing at the fabric of his shirt, body bent sharp enough to split the soft haze for half a second, and a whimper escapes before you can swallow it.
Shh. Easy, bonnie.
His hand slides down your arms, your sides, soothing the hurt he created, and the wine rushes back into the space pain briefly cleared. Warm. Heavy. Merciful.
He secures the rope to an iron ring sunk into the studio floor.
You hadn’t noticed the rings before.
There’s one near either side of the platform, black metal half hidden beneath old paint and dust. More beside the mattress in the shadowed corner, arranged at careful distances from one another.
The pattern should mean something.
(It does mean something.)
Your gaze catches on them and then drifts helplessly away.
(Fear needs a body that answers when called, and yours has become warm wax beneath his hands, softening wherever he presses, cooling around whatever shape he leaves behind.)
Your legs are next.
He cups one ankle and draws it outward. Then the other. Your heels drag over the platform with a soft rasp, your knees falling apart beneath the loose white shirt. The fabric slips higher along your thighs, and the first clean spark of alarm pierces the drunken fog when you try to close them again.
Johnny feels the resistance and his hands stop on your thighs, heat from his palms sinking into you until you can feel his fingerprints burning their marks into your bones.
Easy.
The word is quiet. Almost kind.
You shake your head, but the motion tips the ceiling sideways. The windows pour rain upward. Johnny’s face splits into two softened versions of itself, then swims back together as nausea rolls lazily beneath your ribs.
I don’t-
The sentence knots behind your teeth.
Don’t what?
The words are all there, drifting separately through the dark, but you can’t gather them into the same mouthful.
Johnny leans closer- what was that, doe- gives you every appearance of listening, eyebrows drawn with concern, mouth softened at the corners.
You try again.
Your tongue feels soaked through. Heavy as nebula, the sounds smearing against one another until even you can’t tell what you meant to say.
Johnny waits, watches the effort drain out of your face and only then strokes both hands down your thighs.
Thought so.
The ropes tighten around your wrists. Your ankles. A careful loop above your knee when your leg keeps listing inward, another where the position pleases him but your body won’t hold it on its own.
His hands guide the white shirt higher whenever it catches beneath you.
It’ll wrinkle, hen-
A little farther-
Hold still-
The fabric gathers in pale folds until it rests beneath the curve of your breasts, baring the plane of your stomach, the flare of your hips, your soft, silky cunt he has spread open for himself. His thumbs stroke once along the crease where thigh meets hip, pressing into the give of flesh (- as though he is already imagining how it will feel when he is between them- )
He looks at what he has done and the boyish grin is gone. What remains is quieter. Hungrier. His eyes move over you like he is deciding which part to taste first.
There we are, he murmurs. Much better.
You drift.
Fear is still there, but it has risen above you now, trapped on the other side of the wine. You can see its shadow crossing the surface while you float beneath it, black and frantic and distorted by the red water between you. Your shoulders ache. Your wrists burn dully where the rope takes your weight. Your legs are held apart by pale fibres and Johnny’s careful arrangement, but the body enduring it feels impossibly far away.
A figure at the bottom of a lake.
A pale thing laid open in the silt.
You’re near the ceiling. You’re inside the rain crawling down the glass. You’re suspended somewhere behind your own eyes, watching a woman in a white shirt test the ropes with small, weak movements she won’t remember making.
She looks frightened.
You wonder why she doesn’t leave.
(Drunkenness makes a cruelty of distance. It lets you watch yourself suffer without understanding that you’re the one inside the body. Lets the mind climb out through a crack in the skull and hover somewhere clean while the flesh remains below, warm and obedient and available. It feels almost like escape until you realize Johnny can still touch what you’ve left behind.)
Christ.
The reverence in his voice draws your gaze back to him.
He’s looking at you, eyes moving slowly over your arms lifted and secured, your knees drawn apart, the shirt bunched high where his hands kept moving it, pausing at each point of strain as if pain is another line he’s finally managed to place correctly.
Something in his face has gone still, colder than lust. The deep and emptied devotion of a man standing before an altar built for a god that cannot refuse him now.
There ye are, he whispers, as if you’d been hidden from him, as if the rope has finally uncovered something true.
Then he crosses to the studio door and you follow him with your eyes slowly, the room dragging several seconds behind his body.
Johnny turns the lock and the click enters your head like a stone dropped into deep water. He slides the bolt into place and the sound travels down through the wine and settles somewhere beneath your heart, where the part of you that still understands begins, very quietly, to drown.
Then his hip catches the corner of a canvas on the way back.
It happens slowly from where you’re floating. The frame tips away from the wall, knocks against the one beside it, and then the whole uneven stack begins to slide. Wood scraping brick. Canvas whispering against canvas. Johnny swears beneath his breath and reaches for them, but they have already fallen face up across the floor.
And…
There you are.
Your face.
You blink at it, wondering for a syrupy moment whether it’s the sketch he’s just made, though the woman in the painting is wearing your green coat from last autumn. Her hair is damp, cheek tucked into the collar against the rain. She’s standing beneath the yellow shelter at the bus stop near your work, eyes lowered toward the phone cupped between her hands.
Another canvas has you carrying groceries against your chest. The paper bag splitting at the bottom, oranges bright through the tear, your mouth caught open in a laugh you don’t remember giving him.
Another-
you behind the steamed glass of the little cafe on Bell Street, both hands curled around a mug. There are Christmas lights reflected over your face. Red and gold smears threaded through your hair like something festive and burning.
That’s me, you say.
Or think you say.
(There’s a truth arranged across the floor in front of you, patient and chronological. Months of it. Seasons of it. Proof painted in oils and hidden with its face toward the wall, waiting for the moment when you could no longer count backward clearly enough to understand what you were seeing. But your brain has become a red tide inside your skull, and recognition is a small animal trying to swim through it. You watch its paws break the surface once. Then it sinks.)
When did you- ?
The question dissolves halfway out.
Johnny crouches and turns the first canvas over, handles them gently. (More gently than he’s handled you.) Checks the corners for damage, thumb brushing dust from your painted cheek before he hides it against the wall again.
Clumsy bastard, he mutters.
You stare at the remaining portrait. The one at the corner shop. Washed out lights. Coins scattered across your palm. Your face turned slightly to the side as if someone has just called your name.
- The moment he told you about-
- The first time he saw you-
Except the painting of you at the summer festival last year is underneath it.
Your eyebrows pull together and the thought almost forms.
Johnny looks over his shoulder and sees you struggling there and his expression softens.
Dinnae hurt yourself, hen.
He rises, steps over the paintings and comes back to you. One blackened fingertip presses between your brows, smoothing the crease away as though confusion is another flaw in the pose.
Ye’re thinkin’ too hard.
You try to tell him there are paintings of you. You try to ask how long.
You try to but the words leave your mouth sodden and misshapen, each syllable dragging another behind it until the sentence reaches him as little more than a murmur, the beginning falling away before you reach the end.
Johnny understands anyway. (He always seems to understand you when it suits him.)
He watches your mouth with that same fond concentration he wore while sketching (the patient attention of a man waiting for something soft to finish struggling) then glances toward the canvases he hasn’t managed to turn over.
Did tell ye I’d been stuck for months.
The dimples sink deep.
Never said how long I’ve been working since then.
You look back at the paintings.
The woman beneath the bus shelter has your green coat buttoned neatly with a button that broke last September. The woman at the cafe is holding the chipped blue mug they stopped using sometime around Christmas. Another version of you is walking beneath trees still fat with summer leaves, bare legs flashing beneath a dress buried now at the bottom of your wardrobe.
Your mind touches the sequence and recoils, but there’s nowhere for the thought to go. The wine has flooded every corridor inside your skull, filled every room up to the ceiling. Understanding swims toward you through it- slow, pale, terrible- but each time it comes close enough to recognize, the current rolls you gently away.
Something cold opens inside you, but the wine pours into it before it can become fear. It fills every clean edge, rounds everything off, turns horror into a distant pressure beneath the sternum. Johnny strokes your cheek and waits until your eyes lose focus again.
(He hadn’t found you beneath the lights of the corner shop tonight. Not in the way he’d made it sound, not like lightning or providence or some dead part of him suddenly shocked back into motion. He’d already known which bus carried you home. Which cafe you preferred. What store you used. He’d watched summer soften into autumn around you, watched autumn die into winter, and called it inspiration because obsession sounds beautiful when an artist says it.)
Johnny collects the last canvas and turns it toward the wall and your painted face disappears.
There, he murmurs. Nothin’ tae worry about.
He comes back to you slowly, hands settling on your thighs, hot enough to feel like brands through the wine heavy numbness, heat sinking in around the breadth of his palms and the effortless weight keeping you where he put you.
You shake your head.
Or perhaps it only falls weakly to one side.
Johnny’s mouth brushes your trembling knee, almost gentle, while his thumbs draw slow circles against your skin.
Easy, hen.
You try to tell him you want to go home but all that emerges is a broken little breath.
He lifts his head and watches you struggle to assemble the words, patient until the last of them dissolves behind your teeth. Then he smiles tender enough to make it seem as though he’s forgiving you for being afraid.
(And somewhere above the wine, the small surviving part of you finally understands why the paintings were turned toward the wall.)
Johnny reaches back without looking and the amber lamp beside the platform clicks off.
Darkness folds over the studio, warm and absolute, and his hands tighten around your thighs when the ropes instinctively draw taut.
Now, he murmurs against your skin, hold the pose for me, hen.
caught between robby and abbot - silver fox treatment🦊
minors, do not interact-- please! -- explicit content !
abbot part 1 -- robby part 2 -- this is the last part !
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guys... they take you to paris in this one (visiting that beloved tower we know and love… wink wink.)
beware, this is long, but it's all disgusting smut. 7k words yes, but of straight fucking and sucking.
daddy, sir, choking, spit, slapping, dumbification, degrading, praise, breeding, a lot more... just prepare yourself.
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you were avoiding them. avoided them for an entire week for this exact reason. now here they were, robby and abbot staring you down like you’re their last meal on death row.
not a chance you’re gonna let this happen here.
you bolt from the locker room the second jack's eyes meet yours.
you don't think. you just run.
your scrubs are barely straightened, your hair still a mess from robby's hands, and you can feel the evidence of what just happened drip down between your thighs with every step. your face is burning, your heart racing. you need to get to your car. you need to leave. you need to—
the parking deck is dimly lit and nearly empty at this hour. your footsteps echo against the concrete as you fumble for your keys, hands shaking so badly you almost drop them.
click.
your car unlocks. you reach for the door handle—
"running away from me, sweetheart?"
you freeze.
jack's voice comes from behind you, low and amused. you don't turn around. you can't. if you look at him right now, you might combust from sheer humiliation.
"i'm not—" you start, but your voice cracks. "i'm just leaving."
"mhmm." his footsteps are slow, deliberate. he's getting closer. "that why you're shaking?"
"i'm not shaking."
"liar."
he's right behind you now. you can feel the heat of him, smell his cologne mixed with something sharper. the antiseptic, maybe—the hospital. you grip your car door handle like it's a lifeline.
"jack, please—"
"please what?" his voice is right at your ear now, and you feel his hand settle on your hip with a firm grip. "please don't mention that i just walked in on you getting fucked in the locker room? that you looked so pretty with robby's hands all over you?"
your breath hitches. "stop."
"stop?" he chuckles, low and dark. "sweetheart, i haven't even started."
his other hand comes up to brace against your car, caging you in. you're trapped between the cold metal of the door and the solid warmth of his body. “what happened to little miss ‘i like em older’- can’t take it now? aw, poor thing.” he feigns sympathy.
your knees feel weak, trying to resist the heat of his body pressed against yours. “jack please…”
he just chuckles and shakes his head at your whining. "you know what i was thinking," he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, "when i saw you like that? all flushed and needy, letting robby bend you over like that?"
you can't answer. you can barely breathe.
"i was thinking," he continues, his hand sliding from your hip to your stomach, pulling you back against him, "that you’d look even better when you're being shared."
"jack—"
"and robby?" his laugh is soft, almost affectionate. "poor guy looked like he'd won the lottery. can't say i blame him."
your face is on fire. you try to pull away, but his grip tightens.
"where do you think you're going?" his voice drops lower, rougher. "we're not done talking."
"there's nothing to talk about," you manage, but it comes out breathless and unconvincing.
"no?" his thumb strokes your stomach through your scrubs, slow. "because from where i'm standing, there's plenty to talk about. like how you've been avoiding me all week. like how you clearly needed someone to fuck that attitude out of you. like how—" he pauses, his breath hot against your neck, "you're still dripping from him right now, aren't you?"
you whimper. you can't help it.
"that's what i thought." his hand slides lower, just barely, and you feel yourself arch into the touch before you can stop yourself. "such a good girl. taking what you need"
"i have to go," you whisper, but you don't move.
"do you?" he sounds amused. "because it seems like you're right where you want to be..."
his lips brush your neck. not quite a kiss, just the ghost of one. your eyes flutter closed.
"here's what's going to happen," jack murmurs against your skin. "you're going to go to the bar tonight with everyone else. you're going to sit there and wait, all pretty for me. and when i sit down next to you—" his teeth graze your neck, "—you're going to be a good girl and let your old man take care of you again. understand?"
you nod, unable to form words.
"good." he steps back suddenly. the loss of his warmth makes you gasp. "now get out of here before i decide to take my turn right here in the parking deck."
you fumble with your car door, hands still shaking, and practically fall into the driver's seat. through your rearview mirror, you see him standing there, hands in his pockets, watching you with that infuriating smirk.
you're never going to survive this.
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that night, you arrive at the bar knowing exactly what you're walking into.
jack told you to be here. told you to sit there and pretend like nothing happened. told you to sit pretty and be a good girl.
your stomach is in knots.
the entire ER staff is here. cheap beer, terrible music, santos absolutely butchering "don't stop believin'" on the karaoke stage. you're nursing a vodka soda at the bar, trying to look casual, trying to blend in.
but your heart won't stop racing.
you can still feel jack's breath on your neck from the parking deck. still hear his voice—low, commanding, and downright filthy. "you're still dripping from him right now, aren't you?"
your thighs clench at the memory.
the seat next to you is empty.
you know it won't be for long.
and then, there he is.
jack slides onto the stool beside you like he owns the place, his presence immediately filling the space. he orders a whiskey, neat, and doesn't even look at you. just lets the tension build.
finally, he turns to you with that infuriating smirk.
"you showed up."
"you told me to," you reply quietly, not meeting his eyes.
"mhm." he takes a slow sip of his whiskey. "and you listened. good girl."
your face flushes instantly.
he leans in close, his voice dropping to something low and dangerous. "you've been thinking about it all day, haven't you? what i said in the parking deck."
you don't answer. you can't.
"about how pretty you looked with robby's hands all over you," he continues, his breath warm against your ear. "about how i said you would look even better when you're being shared."
"jack—" your voice comes out breathless.
"what?" he grins, all teeth. "you embarrassed, sweetheart? worried someone's gonna overhear?"
you take a long sip of your drink, trying to steady yourself.
his hand finds your knee under the bar, firm grip tightening. "or maybe you're just thinking about what comes next. about what daddy's gonna do to you."
your breath hitches. you’d never live it down, calling him that.
before you can respond, before you can tell him to stop or beg him to keep going. another presence appears on your left.
robby.
he sits down slowly, his jaw tight and his eyes dark. he looks between you and jack, the hand on your thigh. something flickers across his face. jealousy, insecurity.
"hey," he says softly, his voice strained.
"hi," you manage.
there's a beat of silence. the tension is suffocating.
jack takes another sip of his whiskey, clearly amused. "didn't know you were coming out tonight, robinavitch."
"didn't know i needed your permission," robby replies, but his tone lacks bite. he sounds defensive, almost worried.
jack chuckles. "relax. i'm not trying to steal her."
robby's hand finds your other thigh under the bar. his grip is tighter than jack's. like he's afraid you'll slip away if he lets go.
"you okay?" he murmurs, leaning in close.
you nod, but your heart is racing.
"she's more than okay," jack says smoothly. "aren't you, sweetheart?" his hand starts to trail up, now at the apex of your thigh.
robby's jaw clenches as he catches the movement. his thumb strokes your skin, but there's something frantic in the motion. "she doesn't need you."
"doesn't she?" jack's eyes flick to you, dark and knowing. "because from where i'm sitting, she seems pretty interested in what i have to offer." he rubs slow circles into the plush of your thigh
your face burns.
robby leans forward, his voice dropping low and dangerous. "that's funny coming from you, abbot. considering how she was shaking when i had her."
jack's eyebrow raises, amused. "shaking? that's cute. she was begging when i was done with her."
"begging?" robby's laugh is sharp, "she was barely standing after i got through with her. could barely walk straight."
jack sets his whiskey down slowly. his eyes lock on robby's with dark amusement. "you think you fucked her better than me?"
"i know i did," robby says flatly. his hand slides higher on your thigh, possessive. "she came harder for me. didn't you, baby?"
your breath catches. both of them are staring at you now, waiting.
"i—" you start, but jack cuts in.
"she's just being nice," he says smoothly, his voice dripping with confidence. "we both know who really took care of her. who really made you fall apart, huh honey?” his hand now tightening its hold on your thigh
robby's jaw flexes. "that's bullshit and you know it. she was mine before you even touched her. you just took the opportunity before i did.”
"and yet," jack leans back in his seat, completely unbothered, "she still came back for more of me."
robby huffed exasperated “she only came back because she knew i would be here tonight. not for you. you don’t know how to treat her.”
jack turns to you slowly, that predatory grin spreading across his face. "oh yeah? then why don't i prove it ," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "right here. right now. whatcha think of that, sweetheart?" his fingers now grazing over the zipper of your jeans
your mouth goes dry. you can feel robby tense beside you, his hand gripping your thigh so hard it almost hurts.
"she's not—" robby starts, but jack's already moving closer to you, his silver hair catching the bar light as he leans in. you feel his breath hot on your ear. how he’s now gently cupping you, feeling the warmth through the jeans.
robby's jaw clenches. you can see the war happening behind his eyes—jealousy warring with the dark curiosity of wanting to see it. wanting to see you fall apart again.
"fine," robby says finally, his voice rough and strained. "prove it then.” robby's breathing is heavy now. hungry. "but she's not going anywhere with you alone tonight, abbot. so if you're gonna prove it, you're gonna do it with me there."
jack's laugh is dark and satisfied, “deal.” he pulls away from you, mind now locked on a mission.
you're completely, utterly fucked.
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robby's apartment is quiet when you walk in. too quiet, making your heart race and your skin prickle with anticipation.
you can’t believe you agreed to this.
"make yourself comfortable," robby says, nodding toward the couch. his voice is steady, but there's an edge to it. "i'll grab us some beers."
you sink onto the couch, your thighs pressed together, trying to calm the heat already building between your legs. jack follows you in, closing the door behind him with a soft click that feels far too final.
he doesn't sit right away. he just stands there, watching you with that infuriatingly smug smile, his silver hair catching the dim light from the kitchen.
"nervous?" he asks, his voice low and teasing.
"no," you exhale.
"liar."
robby disappears into the kitchen, and the second he's out of sight, jack moves. he sits down next to you—too close for comfort. his thigh presses against yours, warm and solid, and his hand lands on your knee.
"jack—" you start, but he cuts you off.
"shh." his fingers slide higher, tracing slow circles on your inner thigh. "just relax, honey. let me remind you how good i can make you feel."
your breath catches. "robby's right there—"
"i know." his grin widens. "that's the point."
his other hand comes up to your neck, his thumb brushing along your jaw, tilting your face toward him. his eyes are dark, and when he leans in close, his lips brush your ear.
"you're already so fucking wet for me, aren't you?" he whispers. "bet you've been thinking about it all night. thinking about my cock. how much you need it."
your thighs clench involuntarily, and he laughs slow and satisfied.
"that's what i thought."
his hand slides higher, dangerously close to where you're already aching. then you hear the fridge door close in the kitchen.
robby walks back in holding three beers, and the second he sees jack's hand on your thigh, his entire body goes rigid.
"the fuck are you doing, abbot?"
jack doesn't move, doesn't even look up at him. his hand stays exactly where it is, eyes locked on you. "just getting reacquainted," he says smoothly. "you said i had to prove it, didn't you?"
robby sets the beers down on the coffee table with more force than necessary. "yeah. with me here. not while i'm in the other fucking room."
"relax," jack says, finally looking up at him with that infuriating smirk. "i'm just warming her up for you."
robby's jaw tightens. he moves around the couch and sits on your other side, his hand immediately landing on your other thigh, higher than jack's, possessive.
"she doesn't need you to warm her up," robby says, his voice low and dangerous. "she likes my hands on her. not yours."
jack's laugh is dark. "is that right?" he leans closer to you, his lips brushing your neck. "tell him, honey. tell him how much you loved it when daddy fucked you."
your breath hitches. robby's hand tightens on your thigh.
"what the fuck did he just say?" robby's voice is sharp now, his eyes locked on you. "what did he call himself?"
you swallow hard. "i—"
"she calls me daddy," jack says, his tone dripping with satisfaction. "didn't she tell you? she loves it. loves milking dad’s cock. loves begging for it."
robby's entire body goes tense. his hand slides higher, gripping your inner thigh hard enough to make you gasp. "is that true?" he asks, his voice dangerously quiet.
you nod, barely able to breathe.
"say it," he demands. "say what you call him."
"daddy," you whisper.
robby's eyes darken. "and what do you call me?"
you hesitate, and his grip tightens.
"what. do you call me?"
"sir," you breathe.
"that's right." his hand moves to your jaw, forcing you to look at him. "you call him daddy. but you call me sir. and you're gonna remember that tonight."
jack's laugh is low and amused. "possessive, aren't we?"
"you're damn right i am." robby's other hand slides up your body, his palm hot even through the fabric of your shirt. he cups your breast roughly, his thumb finding your nipple and circling it until it hardens beneath his touch. "she's mine and i'm gonna show you exactly how well i know her body."
jack's grin is slow, predatory. his hand slides between your thighs now, cupping you through your jeans with deliberate pressure. you can feel the heat of his palm even through the denim, your hips jerk involuntarily toward the contact. "prove it," he says, his voice a low rumble. "show me."
you're caught between them—robby's hand kneading your breast, jack's hand cupping against where your aching, both of them staring at you like you're something to be claimed, owned. your breath comes in short gasps.
"strip," robby orders, his voice rough with barely restrained need. "now."
your hands shake as you reach for the hem of your shirt. your fingers fumble with the fabric, clumsy with arousal and nerves. jack doesn't wait, he grabs the shirt and yanks it over your head in one swift motion, tossing it aside like it offends him. the cool air hits your skin and you shiver
robby's hands are already on your jeans before you can even process what's happening. he unbuttons them with practiced efficiency, his knuckles brushing against your lower belly and making you gasp. then he's yanking them down your legs with bruising force, taking your underwear with them. the denim scrapes against your thighs as he strips you bare, and you have to brace yourself against his shoulders to keep from falling.
"fuck," jack breathes, his eyes raking over your body with undisguised hunger. "look at her. already so desperate for it. already dripping."
you can feel it. the wetness between your legs, the way your body has betrayed you- just how much you want this. want them. you press them together instinctively, trying to hide the evidence.
robby's hand slides between your thighs, forcing them apart. his fingers find you wet and ready, sliding through your folds with ease. he teases your entrance, circling it without pushing inside, causing you to whimper. "she's always desperate," he says, his voice thick with satisfaction. his fingers dip just barely inside you, then retreat, making you chase the sensation. "aren't you, baby? always so needy for me, huh."
"yes," you gasp, your hips rolling forward, seeking more. "yes, sir."
"good girl." his fingers slide inside you properly now, two thick digits pushing deep, stretching you, filling you. you arch into his touch, a broken moan spilling from your lips. your walls clench around him immediately. "that's my good fucking girl. so wet for me already."
his fingers curl inside you, finding that spot that makes your vision blur, and you cry out. your hands fly to his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt
jack's hand wraps around your throat suddenly, his fingers pressing against your pulse. he squeezes just enough to make you gasp for air "open your mouth," he commands.
you obey without thinking, your lips parting, tongue resting against your bottom lip.
jack leans forward and spits directly into your mouth. your entire body flushes hot with shame and arousal. you can taste him on your tongue, feel the warmth of his saliva sliding down your throat.
"swallow," he orders, his grip on your throat tightening, forcing you.
you do, your eyes watering, your breath coming in short pants. he watches you with dark satisfaction, his thumb stroking the column of your throat as you swallow.
"good," he murmurs. "now suck daddy's fingers like the desperate little thing you are."
he slides two fingers past your lips, pressing down on your tongue. his fingers are thick and long, pushing them deep enough to make you gag- pooling drool in your mouth. "show robby how good you are at sucking. show him what that pretty little mouth can do."
you hollow your cheeks, your tongue swirling around his fingers. your eyes fluttering closed as you lose yourself in the sensation.
meanwhile, robby's fingers work inside you, curling and stroking in all the right places, hitting that spot over and over until you're whimpering around jack's fingers, drool starting to slip from the corners of your mouth and down your chin.
"fuck," robby breathes, watching you with dark eyes. his free hand grips your hip, holding you steady as his fingers pump into you with increasing speed. "she's so fucking wet. dripping all over my hand."
you can hear it. the obscene squelching sounds of his fingers moving inside you, the way your body is so slick and ready that there's no resistance at all. it's humiliating and perfect all at once. you can't stop the broken whimpers that escape around jack's fingers.
"told you," jack says, pulling his fingers from your mouth with a wet pop. a string of saliva connects his fingers to your lips. "she loves this. loves being used by both of us. don't you, sweetheart?"
"yes," you sob, your voice wrecked and desperate. your hips are grinding against robby's hand now, "yes, daddy."
"such a good little slut," jack murmurs, his thumb brushing your bottom lip, smearing the wetness there. "wanted an old man, now you got two, huh? so greedy."
robby pulls his fingers out of you suddenly. you whimper at the loss, leaving your body clenching around nothing. he brings his fingers to your mouth, still glistening. "taste yourself," he orders, his voice rough. "taste how good you are for me.”
you open your mouth, and he slides his fingers inside. you suck them clean, tasting yourself on him, and he groans.
"on your knees," robby orders. "between us. now."
you slide off the couch onto your knees, your heart pounding. robby and jack spread their legs, as you're kneeling between them, looking up at both of them.
"who do you want first?" jack asks, his hand already working his belt. "daddy? or sir?" he says it mockingly.
robby's jaw tightens as he leans forward, his voice dropping to something dangerous. "mock me again, abbot, and you'll be watching from the sidelines instead of playing." his hand finds your chin, tilting your face toward him. "she calls me sir because she knows who she belongs to."
jack just rolls his eyes. "come on baby, you know you're daddy's girl. you know you want me stuffing that pretty pussy again." jack chuckles darkly.
you look between them, your mouth dry, your body aching.
"both," you whisper.
robby and jack glance at each other, smiles growing wide.
robby shakes his head. "greedy little thing." he frees his cock, already hard and leaking, then grips your face harder, pulling you towards him. "then you better get to work. show him how good you suck my cock."
you lean forward, taking robby into your mouth. you try to take your time, swirling your tongue around the tip, but you're quickly cut off by his hands. they tangle in your hair, guiding you deeper, forcing you to choke on his length. he groans "that's it, baby. just like that. take it all."
you gag as he pushes even deeper. "fuck yes. choke on it." he thrusts into your mouth, causing you to cry around him.
jack's hand immediately wraps around the back of your neck, pulling you off robby roughly. "my turn," he says, you barely get in a gasp of air before he guides you to his cock.
you take him into your mouth. he's thicker than robby, stretching your jaw. he doesn't give you time to adjust, just pushes deep, making you gag.
"thaaat's it," jack groans. "take daddy's cock. you can do better than that."
tears stream down your face as he fucks into your mouth. when he finally pulls you off, you're gasping, drool dripping down your chin.
"she takes me so good," jack says, looking at robby with a competitive edge. "don't you, baby?"
"she takes me better," robby fires back, gripping you by the hair and pulling you back to him. "watch."
he guides you back onto his cock, this time he's rougher, holding you down until your nose is flat against his belly. you're gagging, tears are streaming freely.
"see?" robby says, his voice strained. "she fucking loves it. loves choking on my cock."
"bullshit," jack says. "she likes me better. she was begging for this cock last week."
"and she was screaming my name in the locker room before you rudely interrupted" robby counters.
they pass you back and forth between them. robby's hand gentle one moment, then rough the next, jack's grip always demanding, always pushing you further. you're dizzy with it, overwhelmed, your jaw aching and your pussy throbbing.
"look at her," jack says, pulling you off robby's cock. your face is a mess- tears, drool, mascara running. "such a pretty little mess. such a good girl for us."
"enough," robby finally says, his voice rough. "get on the couch. on your hands and knees. now."
you scramble up onto the couch, positioning yourself, as robby moves behind you. his hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise. "gonna fuck you till you remember who really treats this pussy good yeah?" then he slides into you in one brutal thrust that makes you cry out.
"fuck," he groans. "so fucking tight. fucking perfect... you feel that? feel how deep i am?"
"yes," you sob. "yes, sir."
"good." he starts fucking you hard and fast, each thrust punishing. "that's it, show him how pretty you moan for me. don't hold back now."
you can't help it. the sounds spill from your lips, desperate and needy, exactly what he wants to hear.
"this is what you wanted, isn't it? wanted both of us to use you like the desperate little girl you are."
jack moves in front of you, his cock still hard and glistening with your spit. "open," he commands. you do, taking him into your mouth while robby fucks you from behind.
you're completely overwhelmed—robby's cock filling and stretching you, jack in your mouth, both of them using you.
"she takes it so well," jack says, his hand fisting in your hair. "don't you honey? such a good little cumslut."
"so fucking well," robby agrees, his thrusts getting harder, deeper. "my sweet girl. taking both of us like she was made for it."
"she was," jack says, his voice rough. "made to be shared. made to be our toy."
you moan around jack's cock, and robby's hand comes down on your ass—sharp and stinging.
"you love this, don't you?" robby asks, his voice breathless. "love being our little fucktoy. love having both our cocks?"
you nod desperately, tears streaming down your face from the intensity of it all.
"say it," robby demands, pulling your hair to arch your back. "say you love it."
jack pulls out of your mouth just enough for you to speak. "i love it," you gasp, drool dripping from your lips. "i love it, sir. i love being your toy."
"and what about daddy?" jack asks, his thumb brushing your bottom lip, smearing your spit. "you love daddy's cock too? love me filling this sweet mouth?"
"yes," you sob. "yes, daddy. i love it. i love both of you."
"good girl," they say in unison, and the praise makes you clench around robby.
"fuck—she's close," robby groans. "i can feel it. she's squeezing me so fucking tight."
"make her come," jack orders. "show me how well you know her body. prove she likes you better." an air of sarcasm in his tone
robby's hand slides around to your clit, rubbing tight circles, and you shatter. crying out around jack's cock, your entire body shaking with the force of your orgasm. you're sobbing, completely wrecked, now floating outside your body.
"that's it," robby breathes. "that's my girl. come alllll over my cock."
jack pulls out of your mouth, the sudden absence of him leaving you cold. you gasp for air, mouth hanging open with drool still connecting you to him as he withdraws completely.
robby pulls out of you next, and you feel the loss of him immediately—the sudden emptiness making you whimper.
jack moves behind you, positioning himself at your entrance. you can feel the head of his cock pressing against you, causing your breath to catch. you know what's coming. you know how brutal he can be, and your body tenses in preparation.
"ready for me, sweetheart?" he asks, his voice dripping with dark amusement.
you don't have time to answer.
his first thrust is absolutely devastating. he pushes deep, and the stretch of him makes you cry out. it's too much, too intense, your body still oversensitive from your orgasm just moments ago. pleasure and pain blurring together into something primal and desperate. his cock hitting places inside you that make your vision blur.
"oh god—" you gasp, your hands furling the fabric of the couch.
"too much?" he asks, his voice mocking as he pulls back slightly before slamming into you again. "aww too bad. i'm not done with you yet. not even close." his hands grip your hips with bruising force, holding you in place as he sets a punishing pace. you're caught between the tenderness robby showed you moments ago and jack's calculated cruelty, the contrast is dizzying.
robby moves in front of you now, his cock still hard and covered in your cum. "clean me off," he orders, and you take him into your mouth, tasting yourself on him. "come on, open that pretty mouth nice and wide baby"
jack fucks you hard and fast, his hands gripping your hips hard. "god look at this pussy taking me in. you take me so good," he groans. another slap lands on your ass, harder this time. "so fucking good. better than you take him."
"she doesn't," robby argues, his hand gentle on your cheek even as you gag on his cock. "she takes me better. she's mine."
"she's ours," jack corrects, punctuating it with a particularly brutal thrust that makes you scream around robby's cock.
"fuck," robby groans. "the way she's moaning on my cock, you love this baby, yeah?"
jack leans forward, gathering saliva in his mouth before spitting directly on your back. you feel it hit your skin, warm and degrading, watching it slide down your spine. "such a dirty girl. such a perfect little slut for us."
you're lost in it. lost in the sensation of being used by both of them, claimed by both of them. your body is theirs, completely.
jack's hand slides up your back to grip the back of your neck, forcing your head down further onto robby's cock, gagging you. "look at that," he says, his voice dripping with cruel amusement. "can't even think straight, can you? my cock's making you stupid."
you try to respond but all that comes out is a muffled whimper around robby's length.
"that's what i thought," jack continues, his thrusts getting harder. "nothing in that pretty little head but cock now, huh? just a dumb little fucktoy for us."
his hand moves up to your face and delivers a light slap to your cheek. not hard enough to truly hurt, but enough to make your eyes water and your pussy clench around him.
"fuck, she liked that," jack groans. "felt her squeeze me. you like being slapped around, baby? like being reminded what you are?"
another slap, this time on the other cheek. you moan desperately and uncontrolled.
"gonna come," jack groans. "gonna fill this pretty pussy up. gonna pump you full of me."
"do it," robby says, his hand gentle on your cheek, soothing the red skin. "give her what she needs."
jack's rhythm falters, his hips stuttering as he buries himself deep, so deep you feel him in your stomach. his fingers dig into your hips hard leaving marks as he groans your name "fuck—fuck—"
the first pulse of his cock inside you makes you gasp around robby's length. you feel every spasm as jack empties himself into you. the warmth spreads through you, filling you completely. you've never felt so full, so utterly used.
"thaaat's it," jack breathes, his voice rough and satisfied. "take it all. every fucking drop." your entire body trembles. jack groans, "bet you can't even remember your own name right now, can you? just my sweet brainless girl."
you feel exposed, completely wrecked. tears prick at your eyes from the intensity of it all, your body still clenching around him as he finishes.
jack pulls out slowly, and the sensation makes you whimper. you feel his cum start to drip immediately, sliding down your inner thighs. the loss of him leaves you feeling empty and aching.
you collapse forward onto the couch, your arms giving out completely. your legs are shaking so hard you can't hold yourself up anymore, gasping for air around robby's cock.
"look at you" jack murmurs, his hand sliding down your spine. "so fucking beautiful like this."
robby pulls out of your mouth with a wet pop, and you gasp, finally able to breathe fully. your jaw aches, your lips swollen, and you can still taste yourself on your tongue.
robby moves behind you, his hands sliding over your hips, positioning you.
"now baby, come on," he says, voice low and commanding. "we're not done just yet, be good."
you feel the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and you tense. you're so sensitive, too sensitive. already so full of jack's cum. the thought of taking robby too, of being filled again, makes you whimper.
"robby—" you gasp. "i can't—i'm too—"
"yes you can," he says firmly. and then he slides into you in one smooth, deep thrust. "my girl's gonna do so good for me. just take it."
you're already so wet from jack's cum, so slick and open, that robby slides in easily, but the fullness is almost too much. you feel jack's cum being pushed deeper inside you, feel it coating robby's cock as he fills you completely. it makes you cry out.
"oh god—" you sob, your hands fisting in the couch cushions.
"fuck," robby groans, his voice breaking. his hips press flush against your ass, and he stays there for a moment, buried to the hilt, "fuck, you're so wet."
his hands grip your hips tighter, and he pulls out slightly before thrusting back in. the wet, obscene sound fills the room, and you feel more of jack's cum drip out of you with every movement.
"you need me in here too, yeah?" robby's voice is rough, possessive. "need me to fill you up? need both of us?"
"yes," you sob, your voice breaking. "yes, sir—please—"
"jack can't fill you like i do," he continues, his thrusts slow and deep. "can he? tell me."
"no," you gasp. "no, sir—you fill me better—"
jack reaches over, his hand pushing your hair back from your face with careful slowness. his fingers trace down your cheek, tilting your chin up so you're forced to look at him even as robby fucks into you from behind.
jack's laugh is low and mocking. "that so?" he murmurs, his thumb brushing across your bottom lip. "funny. she was screaming my name just minutes ago. begging for my cock." his hand comes up sharp and quick, a light slap across your cheek—stinging and reminding you he's in control. "isn't that right, sweetheart?"
he leans closer, stroking the reddened skin of your cheek. his voice dropping to something cruel and amused. "but sure, robby. keep telling yourself that."
"that's right." robby's hand slides up your spine, pressing you down into the couch. your face now smushed against the cushion, making it hard to breathe. "because i'm gonna fill you up even more. gonna make sure you're dripping with both of us. gonna pump you so full this pussy will be leaking for days."
jack's hand comes down to stroke your cheek again, almost tender in contrast to his words. " sweet girl," he says softly yet mocking. "so desperate to believe whatever gets her through this. poor thing can't even decide who fucks her better. too cock drunk, huh?"
jack sits back on the couch, his chest still heaving, his hand lazily stroking his cock back to hardness as he watches. his eyes are dark, locked on where robby's cock disappears into you over and over.
"what a sight" jack says, his voice rough. "completely wrecked. taking cock so good." he leans forward, gathering saliva in his mouth. "open your mouth, sweetheart."
you turn your head slightly, lips parting obediently, and jack spits directly into your open mouth. the degradation of it makes you moan.
"swallow," he commands, and you do. "good girl. bet that empty little head of yours can't process anything but how full your pussy is right now."
"so good," robby breathes, his thrusts getting faster now, harder. "so fucking good for me. for us. you love this, don't you baby? love being used by two old men?"
you can only moan in response, your body trembling with every thrust. you can feel everything. every inch of robby's cock, every drop of jack's cum still inside you, every nerve ending on fire.
"she's perfect," jack says, leaning forward to get a better view. "look at that pussy. look how well she milks you. she's made for this."
"she is," robby agrees, his voice strained. "made to be filled."
you feel used, completely owned by both of them. and god help you, you love it.
"she likes me better," jack says, grinning as he strokes himself.
"no she fucking doesn't," robby fires back, his hand sliding around to your clit.
the first touch makes you gasp. you're so sensitive, that even the gentle pressure of his fingers feels like lightning. he starts slow, deliberate circles, and you feel the pressure building immediately.
"robby—" you gasp, your voice breaking
"watch this," he says, voice dark and possessive. his fingers press harder, rubbing tight, relentless circles over your swollen clit. "come on, baby. show him. show him who makes you come the hardest."
your muscles tense, your entire body going rigid. the sensation is overwhelming, his cock deep inside you, jack's cum still dripping out of you, and now robby's fingers working you with devastating precision.
"oh god—" you moan, your back arching. "oh god, robby—"
"thaaat's it," he breathes, his thrusts getting deeper, harder. "feel that? feel how close you are?"
you feel it building, hot, tight and unbearable. your thighs start to shake, your hands scrambling for purchase on the couch cushions, desperate for something to hold onto.
jack leans forward, his eyes locked on you. "fuck," he breathes, watching the way your body responds to robby's touch. "look at her. she's gonna—"
"yeahhh she is," robby says, his voice rough with pride. his fingers move faster, harder, and you feel yourself on the edge. "come for me, baby. come on my cock. show him."
your entire body trembling, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. you can feel it coiling tight in your belly, spreading through your limbs like fire.
"sir—" you gasp. "robby, i'm—"
"i know," he says, his voice low and commanding. "let go. come for me. now."
your back arching off the couch as you scream his name. "robby. fuck—robby—"
you clench around him, pulsing hard, and he groans at the feeling. "fuck—yes that's it, baby. that's my girl."
but it doesn't stop. the orgasm keeps building, keeps intensifying, and suddenly you feel it. that pressure, that overwhelming rush "oh god—oh god—" you're sobbing, incoherent, as your body releases. you squirt around his cock, the force of it sudden and intense, drenching him, drenching the couch.
"fuck—" robby groans, feeling the rush of wetness around him. "holy shit—she's—"
"she's squirting," jack breathes, his voice awed and hungry. "look at that. making such a mess, baby."
you're shaking violently, your legs trembling so hard you can barely feel them. the orgasm rolls through you in devastating waves. your vision goes white.
"thaaat's it," robby says, his voice rough and awed. "that's my girl. come all over my cock. just ruining the couch baby,"
you're sobbing, tears streaming down your face. the couch soaked beneath you, the evidence of your pleasure impossible to hide. you fall forward, completely spent, unable to hold yourself up.
"holy shit," jack breathes, watching you come apart. his hand moves faster on his cock, his eyes dark and hungry. "fuck, robby. just fucked her brain empty."
"told you," robby says, his voice rough and triumphant. his fingers don't stop. he keeps rubbing, keeps working you through it, drawing it out. "told you she comes harder for me."
"robby— please" you gasp, tears streaming down your face. it's too much. too intense.
"one more," he commands, his fingers pressing harder. "give me one more, baby. i know you can."
"i can't—" you sob. "i can't—"
"yes you can." his voice is firm, commanding. "come on. let that pretty mind go blank. one more for me."
and somehow, impossibly you do.
the second orgasm crashes into you before the first one even finishes. you scream loud and broken. your entire body goes rigid, every muscle locking up as pleasure tears through you. you fall forward, unable to hold yourself up.
"fuck—" robby groans, feeling you clench around him again. "that's it. that's my perfect girl. just taking it all."
your vision blurry with tears, your body still trembling with aftershocks. you can't move. can't speak. can't do anything but shake.
"see?" robby says, beaming with pride. "she comes harder for me."
"because i already wore her out," jack counters.
robby ignores him as he comes with your name on his lips, his hands gripping your hips, and you feel him pulse inside you, adding to the mess already there. when he pulls out, you collapse onto the couch, completely spent, cum dripping out of you.
"see? look at that pussy- its full of me now." he pants exhausted.
for a long moment, there's nothing but the sound of heavy breathing—all three of you gasping for air, your body still trembling with the aftershocks of pleasure.
jack's hand finds your back, stroking gently, while robby's forehead rests against your shoulder, both of them still close, still touching. the possessiveness that burned so hot between them moments ago has softened into something quieter, almost reverent.
you can feel them both breathing, feel the rise and fall of their chests against you. when you finally lift your head to look at them, there's a vulnerability in their eyes that wasn't there before. a recognition of what just happened, what you all just did together.
robby reaches out and brushes a strand of hair from your face with surprising tenderness, and jack's thumb traces slow circles on your spine. they exchange a look—not as competitive anymore, something more understanding
they clean you up gently. robby with a warm washcloth, jack with soft kisses on your shoulders—
robby's touch is tender, careful, as he wipes the washcloth between your thighs. "easy," he murmurs when you flinch from sensitivity. "i've got you, baby. just cleaning you up."
jack's hand runs through your hair, his fingers gentle despite the roughness he showed you moments ago. "you did so good," he says, his voice low and warm. "took us both so well."
"she really did," robby says, there's something almost proud in his voice. he folds the washcloth and sets it aside, his hand coming to rest on your hip
jack leans down and presses a kiss to your cheek, so soft it makes your chest ache. you catch the way robby's expression shifts. not jealous, fondness. he smiles, small and genuine, watching jack be gentle with you.
"what?" jack asks, catching the look.
"nothing," robby says, his smile doesn't fade. "just... you're not as much of an asshole as you pretend to be."
"don't tell anyone," jack replies, his thumb brushing your jaw. "i've got a reputation to maintain."
you let out a soft, exhausted laugh. both of them look at you like you've done something miraculous.
"there she is," robby says softly, his hand stroking your hair now. "our girl."
"our girl," jack echoes, and there's something respectful in the way he says it.
robby shifts, pulling a blanket from the back of the couch and draping it over you. his hands linger on your shoulders, making sure you're covered and warm. "you okay?" he asks, his voice quiet, edging on concerned. "we didn't... we weren't too rough, were we?"
you shake your head, too exhausted to form words.
"use your words, sweetheart," jack says, his tone gentle, not commanding. "need to hear you say it."
"i'm okay," you manage, your voice hoarse. "i'm good. i'm... really good."
robby's smile is soft, relieved. "good. that's good."
jack sits beside you on the couch, his hand resting on your thigh over the blanket. "you need water? food? anything?"
"just... this," you whisper. "just you both."
there's a beat of silence. robby and jack exchange a look—something unspoken passing between them. an agreement.
"she's perfect," jack says quietly, almost to himself.
"yeah," robby agrees, his hand still stroking your hair. "she really is."
"still likes me better though," jack adds, unable to help himself.
robby rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. "shut up, abbot."
"make me."
"i just spent the last hour making her. i'm too tired to deal with you."
jack laughs low. a genuine smile creeping on his face as he leans back against the couch. his hand finds yours under the blanket, fingers threading through yours. robby's hand stays in your hair, gentle as he massages.
despite the intensity, the competition, and the overwhelming sensation of it all, you realize they both care. deeply. in their own ways.
jack usually giving rough-edged care and teases, now soft. his thumb tracing circles on the back of your hand. robby's care is tender and devoted, his fingers carding through your hair like you're something precious.
"ours," robby murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
"ours," jack agrees, squeezing your hand.
and you can't help but agree.
…
what was that again? the wrapper may be wrinkled but the candy is just as damn sweet.🩵
♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
--
this was so long but not very well written. i made it over several days of.. ovulating LMAO
everything ive ever wanted a man to say to me in bed? its written here. ahhh yes. the life of a fanfic writer.
i hope yall liked it. sorry youre missing my nice, flowery prose here. it wasn't meant to be a deep, well written piece. just something sexy and fun heehehehhe
reader gets all pouty when dad!robby or big bro!frank wipe off her lipstick marks from their cheeks but mr abbot happily walks around with pumpkins kiss prints and it makes her giddy
18+ mdni kaosnxpwnsoqbzpqnzpwkqpNappsos cuuuuttee she kisses jack then giggles at the little mark and a couple mins later when he wipes it off he catches her pouting and that is ALL it takes for him to never do it again…
next time she does it he walks around for the rest of the day with a sparkly pink lipgloss mark on his cheek <3 robby does a lil double take n grins and gestures at his own cheek, “brother, you got a lil somethin”
jack smiles. “I know.” n flashes you a lil wink where you’re sitting across the room, heart soaring when you giggle and genuinely kick your feet a lil
and robby scoffs and shakes his head and mutters “jesus christ” but his lingering smile gives him away <3 “you are such a sucker, man.”
BECAUSE when you kiss robby’s cheek with lipstick or lipgloss he doesn’t take long to wipe it off his nose or scrub it out of his beard w his hand. you always whine n scowl at him
“Mean. Why don’t you wanna wear my kisses?”
“What I don’t want is a sticky pink smudge on my nose.”
n you huff and act all mad even as you tuck yourself into his chest. you mutter mean n robby humors you by soothingly rubbing your back while he dryly says
“I know, baby. I’m a real asshole.”
w frank it’s more playful i think. you do it and he grins and then kisses you on the lips n then when he wipes off your kiss a couple seconds later it’s purely reflexive. when you pout and whine “Frankie. My kiss.” his brows raise in confusion for a moment but then realization crosses his face and he frowns with you
“Oh, baby. Here, gimme another one.” with a tap to his cheek, and you lean up on your tiptoes to deliver another glittery peck. then he taps his nose, leaning down to help you out. “Right here.” You grin at him and kiss his nose. “Aaand right here.” He taps his other cheek, you kiss it. “How ‘bout here.” He taps his forehead and you giggle as you deliver a kiss there too.
but when you pull away that time you pout again. “It didn’t work. My lipgloss is gone.”
n frank grabs your hips and pulls you flush against him and offers “That’s okay, princess. Why don’t you gimme a real mark?” and he taps his neck with a wicked grin while his other hand kneads the flesh of your hip. “Cause that’s what it is, right? You want everyone to know who I belong to?”
Thinking about Ghost as a children's swim instructor- Mr Riley, or just Mr Simon to the littles.
Big, scarred hands gently cradling their little fat bellies, lifting the babies up to splash and wriggle, bouncing them as they squeal. The older ones get the same careful handling, showing them how to float, how to grasp the side wall of the pool- "very good," he tells them in the deep, serious voice children love, as firm as if he was speaking to an adult.
The older children are in a separate class, and crowd Simon at every lesson, bursting all over to tell him about something new they learned, as he sections them out and starts moving down the line, prompting backstrokers and doggy paddlers alike.
The first time he yelled- used his dad voice, one boy whispered delightedly- it was not to the kids but a parent, more occupied with fluttering her lashes at him than keeping an eye on her kid, too far into the deep end and spluttering.
It's why you bring your kids to his classes specifically- he doesn't mess around, doesn't play favorites or let the kids break rules, sets them up for success instead of failure, and if the soaked, long-sleeve black shirt and matching swim pants cling deliciously when he finishes and climbs out, well, what's the harm in looking?
(only once the lesson is done and your kids are safely in your arms, of course. You don't want to get yelled at either- even if that dad voice had haunted a few of your dreams)
cw: 18+ lazy ahh horny ahh smut. heatwave. Ghoap. sweaty nasty horny dog, but honestly normal, sex. smidge of possessiveness but they're so down bad it's disgusting and I hate them. it's a comedy. I can't. Idk wtv. I hate them (affectionate)
The sheets are kicked down, pooled at their feet in an attempt to fight the heat of the room. Two fans blowing towards them.
The heat would make any normal, reasonable man avoid any semblance of contact with another. Lucky for Soap's aching cock, Ghost is far from a normal man.
Soap's hands knead the meat of Ghost's ass, grabbing hold of his hips and pressing himself flush to Ghost.
It's disgusting, Soap thinks. Or he at least should be disgusted by the sweat, pre-come, and saliva coating their bodies. But instead he drags is tongue over the dip between Ghost's shoulder and neck. Leaning forward so his hand can snake up Ghost's body and squeeze his chest.
Ghost arches, little groans and huffs panted out into the room. "Johnnnyyyyy..."
"Ye ever been north?" Soap grunts in his ear, breath as hot as the air around them.
"Fuckin'—no... hnng—why'd you—"
Soap thrusts his hips forward once. Ghost gasps in a breath.
"I should take ye. Far up. Mey—fuck—family went once. Ma loves finding pretty places."
Ghost groans, reaching back to grab Soap's hip. "Later, Johnny. Later."
Soap's thrusts slow—shallow things that don't give Ghost a moment to breathe. "Take ye up." Thrust. "Nice and cool." Thrust. "Get a room somewhere by the ocean. Chilly breeze."
Ghost groans. "Not the best bedroom talk, Johnny."
Soap laughs, then pulls out quick. Ghost whines out, then shouts as he's flipped.
"Fuck! Soap!" Soap impales him again, driving against that sweet spot inside him.
He thrusts between every word. Like he'll imprint his claim on Ghost from the inside out. "Keep you locked up. Where no one can find you."
"Please. Please, Johnny." Ghost doesn't even know what he's responding to. Just the babbles that he knows will be rewarded.
Soap nips and kisses at Ghost's neck, pressed chest to sweaty chest. "Ye'd like that, being kept and fed and yer hole open and ready fer me."
Ghost cries out, mouth open to the air. Soap's mouth finds his. And his tongue presses against Ghost's and Ghost's fights back for only a moment.
Soap's cock throbs at that—the way Ghost makes him earn it. Makes him take it every time.
A few more hard thrusts sends Ghost over the edge. body clenching down around Soap. Sparks in the darkness of his squeezed shut eyes.
"Don't stop—ah fuck mmm—Johnny don't stop."
Soap's thrusts turn animalistic. "Ah've got ye, ah've got ye" on repeat until he finally, finally spills hot into Ghost.
He collapses forward onto Ghost's chest. Pressing kisses into Ghost's neck over a bruise that's already blooming.
"Mmm, hot—" Ghost mumbles, arms splayed to the side.
"Aye. it was." Soap nips Ghost neck.
"No. It's bloody hot. Get off me."
Soap laughs and rolls to the side, splaying starfished next to him. His hand finds Ghost's and brings his hand up between their heads.
Soap stares at the gold band around Ghost's finger, gleaming with sweat in the afternoon sun. His eyes drift up. Find Ghost's face. Cheeks red and flushed. Still panting lightly. Lips parted just so.
"Ah'm serious." Soap says quietly. "Let's go. Fer a while. Take off and just... be."
The smallest upwards tilt of Ghost's lips. "Want a honeymoon, Johnny?"
Soap can't help but smile. He kisses the back of Ghost's hand. "Aye. Ah do."
Ghost turns his head. Maple browns meeting blues like the ocean at dawn. Once there was a time Ghost would have been drowning there, consumed in their rough waves. Now, he finds their never ending depths—the fury and passion and somewhere, for him, ease—wrap him gently. Despite the heat, despite the tears, and sweat, and Soap's cum leaking from him onto the sheets, he feels entirely, completely, at peace.
You grimace the second laswell hands you the assignment, about ready to up and leave.
"No. Absolutely not."
"It's a must, just two months, that's all we need." Laswell states. She doesn't leave room for argument, only allowing you to a moment to look back at the outline. She nods to price sat next to you with an identical folder "You and captain price will be working undercover. You've both led successful undercover missions in the past."
"Yeah, separately!!" You hiss, then remember yourself at the unamused raise of laswells brow. Calmer, to add "I'm young enough to be his kid, no way anyone believes we're married."
Price coughs into his fist, adjusts his seating with a chuckle "quite the contrary, sergeant. Men my age tend to have a certain...preference."
"Sir. That's...whatever." you groan, you didn't need to know that about your captain. Another skim at the file, and tapping your boots against wooden floor and mentally debating the consequences of refusal because "Seriously? A house? One bedroom? This is undercover not play pretend."
"You're expected to invite some figures of interest over," laswell slides over another file, price opening it to pull out fake ids and passports "you need to play the part convincingly."
The thought of sharing a bed with your captain...of pretending to be all domestic with him. You want to hate it, and you want to hate that thrill up your spine even more.
"C'mon love, just for a few weeks," price grins, all teasing in the way the he gets when he's lauding his experience over yours "think you can behave yourself that long?"
"....fine." you relent, knowing damn well refusal is never an option anyways.
For the nonny who wanted some price age gap!! :3 I really like this concept I think itd be a nice longfic heheehehe
Simon came to live with you after he lost Johnny. You were one of the few civilians he was close with, one he could tolerate being around. The only one who knew some of what he'd been through.
"You need someone to keep an eye on you. You keep getting hurt. If you stay here, I'll keep you safe." He didn't believe you. You couldn't keep him safe when he couldn't even look out for himself. With Johnny gone, he didn't know where else to go but to your door.
"If you're going to live here, there's going to be some rules."
"I'm a grown man. I can look after myself."
You gave him a small reassuring smile, setting down his sectioned plate for dinner. "I know you can, sweetheart. But you aren't doing a really good job at it, are you?" He glares at you a little, but he knows you're right. "So, you're on my phone plan, I'm restricting your access to the news. I've noticed it stresses you out."
"I want to keep up to date with everything going on." He protests, almost irritated by your suggestion.
"I do too, but doom scrolling isn't the best way to get that. I have newspaper subscriptions, so you'll always have something to read. You can still watch the news, but it's better to unplug." Simon nods quietly at the explanation as he eats, looking at the sealed cup you'd gotten just for him.
He was already letting you take care of him, and you were doing it pretty well. Maybe he shouldn't protest so much. You gave him a routine. Up at five to work out with you and then help you feed the animals at six thirty before a shower and breakfast. He would sit on his porch for a few hours reading the papers, doing the cross work puzzles, and cutting out the comics he found funniest.
His favorite time was eleven thirty on the dot, when you started setting up afternoon tea. He didn't like the finger sandwiches you made, so you made him his own snack tray with ants on a log, apple slices with caramel, and peanut butter sandwiches without the crusts. Sometimes, you even included pieces of chocolate that he would let melt on his tongue.
You made sure his tea was cold in his vacuum sealed cup so it wouldn't spill. After noticing he didn't like getting things on his fingers, you bought some bug themed food skewers.
"What are these?" He grunts, picking up a small square of peanut butter sandwich by the ant skewer.
"It's your peanut butter sandwich, si." You tease, grinning at the deadpan look he gives you. "Food skewer. Keeps stuff off your fingers."
"They're for kids."
"If you're using them, then they are for you." You shrug as you take a sip of your tea. "Do you like them?" He grunts, eating his sandwich square in one bite. He watches as you grab one of your own, eyes narrowing curiously.
"Yours are heart-shaped." You catch the hint of longing in his tone, nodding in acknowledgment.
"Would you like yours cut like that tomorrow?"
"Yes." He agrees quickly, leaning back in his seat.
"Okay. Do you want to do a puzzle after tea time?" He nods, and the two of you fall into a comfortable silence, just watching the chickens feed.
@rawme-price helped with some of these brain worms every one that it for its help please:]]
Giant of a man, thick muscles underneath the same black compression shirt he always wears off-base. The few times gaz can convince him to grab a drink or two at the bar, he's always being approached.
This time is no different when you spot him and gaz. Christ, they look good. Military, obviously, tall and strong and dangerous.
"Ever taken anyone to Paris, sir?" You grin, bat your lashes in the way you know men like when you glance between him and gaz.
"...killed a few politicians there." Ghost grunts into his drink, completely missing the look gaz shoots him.
"What."
"Screamed like hell." He gets this giddy little smile on his face, twisting the scar tissue. Next to him, gaz wondering what the point of trying to find a third is if this is how ghost acts. "Before I cut the tongues out, of course."
"Uh. Right." You turn to leave, absolutely baffled. Surely the fact that made your stomach flip is....nothing to think about.
18+ mdni robby is so smart… robby is so knowledgeable and skilled at what he does and its so hot…
thinking abt asking him for help on some homework— “Robby, where would you expect the injury site to be for a patient who suffers from prosopagnosia post TBI?”
and it’s a genuine question!! but then.. the way he comes up behind your chair, puts on his readers, n leans over your shoulder to look at your paper… the low, steady tone he uses as he explains it to you, pointing out different things in your diagrams to help you visualize it… “Temporal lobe, sweetheart. Right about here.” he raps his pointer finger against the right spot twice, and you swallow thickly as you nod
“Right. The fusiform gyrus.” You pull your lower lip between your teeth. “Would there have to be damage bilaterally?” You already know the answer.
Robby raises a brow at you. You blink at him, as innocent n earnest as you can muster, and he schools his expression as he shakes his head. “No. Each side is specialized. Only the right fusiform gyrus mediates facial recognition.”
“Right.” You nod. “So damage to the left fusiform gyrus wouldn’t cause prosopagnosia, it’d cause….”
“Reading difficulties.” Robby finishes for you. “Possibly pure alexia.”
“Pure alexia…?”
Robby has to bite back his smirk. He talks nice and slow as he explains, “The inability to read while still being able to speak and understand language.” Then he leans closer to murmur in your ear “Any other questions, sweetheart? You want me to explain papercuts, or would you prefer I just fuck you now?”
n he’s soooo mean about it while he fucks you… when he thrusts into you he patronizes “Gonna cum on my cock like a good girl, honey? Hm? Want me to teach you how?” n when you start to roll your hips to chase his dick he lowly praises “There you go, what a quick learner. Such a smart girl.”
