@romantic-insomniac and i were talking about being pope's fake hostage for a job and getting turned on by his rough treatment… this might be the longest fic i've ever written lmao
andrew "pope" cody x fem!reader
18+ MDNI | cw: bank robbery, fearplay, gunplay, chokehold / choking, sub!pope at the end, mention of nipple sucking
pope had been so stressed out about getting the money he needed for lena's trust fund. it's not like he could ask his brothers for help with a job — they'd all ask for their cut, and he needed all the cash he could get. it was making him brood more than usual, so you hadn't even wanted to initiate sex recently, knowing he wouldn't be in the mood.
eventually, pope had narrowed down the bank he wanted to hit, but he was having a little trouble with the logistics. it was a lot trickier to rob a bank solo.
you watch as he pores over meticulously laid out blueprints, his eyes low, waiting a few moments before you speak up.
"why don't i help?"
pope's eyes linger on the table for a while before he turns to you. "you're not getting involved with this," he murmurs.
"why not?" you ask.
"because you've never done this before," he replies plainly with an arched eyebrow. "hitting a bank for your first job? it's too dangerous."
"i didn't mean that i'd be taking the place of one of the guys," you elaborate, voice slow and soothing, "i meant as a civilian. a hostage. y'know? like how smurf used to act like an sweet, clueless lady when you hit diners together? and she'd make you hold her up?"
pope's brows crease at the memory. he remembers how well that had worked: his mother had really sold the "frightened lady caught in the crossfire" act. and he knew you were quite the actor, considering how sweet you could be towards smurf despite your disdain for her, and how easily you could fool any wayward cops into thinking you had no knowledge of the goings on inside the cody compound.
"that could work," he mumbles as he works through it in his mind. "you get there early, wait in line to cash a check or two…"
"right," you agree, a soft smile forming on your face. "you bust in all scary, wave a gun around, put me in a chokehold…"
pope listens as your voice turns a little breathy at the idea. he can picture it going off without a hitch now.
"alright," he grits out eventually. "listen carefully, here's what's gonna happen…"
it's just after half past ten in the morning, and you're at the bank. you lingered at the side for a while, pretending to be very interested in a business checking account pamphlet, before it was time to join the queue. your pulse kicks up just a tad. any second now…
the door busts open with a loud thud and you jump, just like everyone else, before you hear sharp yelps and shrieks.
"EVERYONE DOWN, ON THE GROUND, NOW!"
it's pope's voice, muffled slightly behind his ski mask. you almost obey him out of instinct before he grips you by the arm and pulls you to his chest. he smells so comforting, like his favourite lemon verbena detergent, but you remember to struggle convincingly.
"stop!" you cry out.
"you shut up," he hisses back. with a grunt, pope slings the crook of his elbow around your neck, pushing just hard enough to make you gasp.
it's a gasp that convinces everyone else in the bank that you're currently struggling for air, fearing for your life, but pope knows it means you're incredibly turned on.
"mornin'," he mumbles gruffly against your temple, and you can feel the way he hovers for a milisecond, fighting the inclination to press a kiss there.
to really sell it, pope lifts his gun and presses the cold metal of the barrel to the place where he'd just had his lips. you hear multiple people gasp. your panties are soaked.
"any of you move, and she gets it," he bellows, and it echoes through the unnatural stillness of the bank. you whimper, forcing tears to your eyes as you let your knees buckle slightly.
"you okay?" pope whispers almost imperceptibly against your ear.
"harder," you reply through a sniffle.
at that, pope tugs your body upwards, hauling you upright. "stand up," he commands. "hands behind your back."
you obey, your wrists clasping against your lower back. you take the chance to clutch at the edge of his shirt, tugging pope impossibly closer. he exhales, then walks you over to the nearest teller.
"empty it out— quickly," he orders. the teller's gaze momentarily flicks between pope's masked face and yours. your eyes are scrunched shut, your mascara running, your chest heaving with laboured breaths. she empties the register without an argument.
he goes around the rest of the registers the same way, using your innocent, terrified, whimpering face to get the cash he needs. pope drags you out of the bank with his gun still pressed to your head. you make sure to end your performance with a little kicking and screaming and a performatively loud "what are you going to do to me?" before he hauls you into his car.
he peels out of the parking lot, and the drive home is fast, tense with anticipation. pope pulls off his mask and his auburn curls are gloriously messy and damp with sweat. your thighs press together, both from the sight of him, and from the rush of the job.
pope clenches his jaw as he drives, and then when you're finally safe behind the gates of the cody compound, he rumbles out a "… bravo. you did good."
he tells you to go wait in his room while he brings the duffles of money in, and you don't waste a second before stripping yourself bare, the thrill of the heist still thrumming in your veins. besides, it had been a while since the two of you had had sex, and what better occasion to fuck for than a successful heist?
soon enough, you're riding pope into the mattress in broad daylight. it's barely noon, and you're grinding your hips deep into his as you grip his wide shoulders. you have a lot of adrenaline to use up.
"that— was— fucking amazing," you pant as you bounce on his cock.
pope's breathless too. he has one of your nipples in his mouth, the other cupped is in his thick palm. his free hand is squeezing an ass cheek as you roll on top of him.
he pops his lips free of your breast, still glistening with spit, as he gazes up at you, his hazel eyes wide and pleading. it's a wild contrast to the fearsome expression he had plastered on just hours ago.
"not— ah— wasn't too rough?"
"not nearly rough enough," you breathe out in reply, pressing his cheeks together in a hand.
"you shoulda slapped me when i talked back, like i told you to, that would've sold it so much better."
pope grunts in acknowledgement, and his eyes fall shut at the idea. not of slapping you, but of how much more ravenous for him it would make you for him afterwards. his cock twitches where it's nestled deep inside you.
"next time," he murmurs as he pouts up at you for a kiss.
summary some soulmates meet by chance, and others...in the middle of a heist.
word count 10.1k
c.w threats involving weapons (guns), trauma, mentions of substance abuse (Craig), fluff, comfort
a/n thank you so much for your patience with this work! and again, shoutout to my wife and soulmate for proofreading it. (maybe I'll do Craig's story one day, I don't know, you tell me)
(read it on AO3)
❤︎ Every like, comment and reblog is appreciated!
The plan is simple. Andrew knows it by heart: rise before the others (not that complex when sleep isn’t common behavior), check the exits in his head, count the seconds between the entrance and the vault. No deviation is permitted. Check in, check out.
And yet, none of it is what causes him to drip with sweat and quiver at six in the morning, no, both are due to a persistent heat beneath his collarbone where the words he knows better than his own name lie:
oh my god it’s you.
They have been there as long as he can recall, inked into him before he had vocabulary to understand them, to gather what they meant. He presses two fingers against it, like his denial could erase them from his existence. Rubbing them off, burning the skin, cutting it…he has been contemplating doing it for ages. But there is always that split inside him, this fracture.
On one hand, there is this ancient, willful and unburnable idea that somewhere out there exists a person who will look at him and not perceive what everybody else sees: not a weapon, nor a problem…not even the cursed name of Pope. Just recognition, maybe even affection. But on the other hand, much louder and shaped by Smurf’s thoughts, Andrew knows better. Cause whoever she is…she got him. And that’s not a reward, it’s a sentence.
That’s why he never looked for her, never entertained the idea of following the instinctive pull that others chase without thinking. Searching would mean wanting, and desiring anything in this family perpetually comes with a cost that someone else collects.
And Smurf always collects.
He learned that early as a kid through what she permitted and what she cut off before it could grow.
Deran didn’t get freedom, there is none in this family, but enough space to construct the illusion of it: a business, a life that could pass for conventional, a soulmate to have for the rest of his time on Earth.
Deran was born with his words on his hipbone, want to play with me. Simple and harmless, they were almost laughable in how ordinary they sounded. And when his five-year-old brother came back from his first day in kindergarten, quieter than usual, Andrew knew. Adrian was his name. Smurf noticed but didn’t crush it instantly, she let it breathe, just to see what it would become, to observe its usefulness and threat in equal measure…it lasted for a while before she tightened her grip once again to suffocate any rebellious seeds in the fertile soil of Deran’s mind.
And Craig…Craig never cared. On his ribs, visible whenever he feels like it, Craig wears his mark with no sort of shame or hesitation. He lets people see and laugh. sorry I was checking your ass. “Means she’s got good taste,” he’d joked, grinning, the entire concept amusing him, and that had been it. No wondering, no small moments consumed in tracing the letters. Maybe it truly does mean nothing to him, or perhaps he just refuses to let anything hold weight long enough to matter. Drugs blur his thoughts, so do jokes. And Andrew never questioned which one it was, maybe that’s what saved Craig: you can’t weaponize what someone refuses to take seriously.
Andrew discovered a different lesson from his brothers, learned that Smurf doesn’t regard their marks the same: ruling which ones can be tolerated and which ones must be ignored until they vanish into the void. Which means she will never permit him to hear those words.
oh my god it’s you.
There is conviction in them, an inevitability that sits under each syllable and that’s what unsettles him more than anything else.
It hints that whoever speaks will not question or doubt who stands in front of her. And if she says it with hope, then…does it mean she is waiting for him? That somewhere out there exists a woman who has lived with his words onto her skin since birth, outlining them and wondering what kind of man would be facing her when they were ultimately spoken? Has she envisioned him? Hoped that whoever he is, he will be worth the wait?
Andrew’s jaw tightens as he forces the thought back and attempts to fold it into nothing before it can take shape, the heat under his collarbone pulsing as a counteract reaction.
Because if she is waiting, building a person in her mind around those words, then fate has dealt her cruel cards.
But for a moment longer, the idea of her doesn’t end, slipping past the barriers he has spent years shaping. If she were to look at him with no fear and uttering those words like he is not a bad deed but a destination, then he knows with clarity that he would drop everything: weapon, defense, every piece of himself that has been turned into usefulness and cruelty…he would let it all fall to the ground without looking back.
Being seen like that, chosen, would demand a different version of him, one that doesn’t exist yet but that he would mold for the right hands.
The gravity of the thought makes him nip it in the bud.
Men like him are not remade simply because a person is willing to see beyond it.
“You don’t get to have that,” he chastises himself under his breath, voice low and trying to strip it of all emotions as he slaps the marks with his palm, sending a sharp sting across his skin to silence whatever softness had tried to take root. And that’s what’s good with pain: it’s simple, immediate. “No one wants you.” The words are quieter, practically absorbed by the air but reinforced by his thumbnail digging into the skin beneath the mark until a deep crescent forms. The sting lingers, dulling into a manageable pain before he releases the pressure.
Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, his feet meet the floor with determination as all other thoughts are buried back where they belong for the routine to take over.
He dresses without thought, fabric covering his words so no one peers at them, so that they remain his only, the secret he never intends to act on because kismet rarely favors people like him for pleasant endings, and by the time he steps into the kitchen, there is not a single thing left but the plan.
Entrance, teller, vault. Three cameras, no security.
The plan hasn’t altered, the variables are the same, so…why does it feel off?
The question remains during his coffee, bitterness granting him to focus on his surroundings: Craig is already moving, too rowdy and eager for the hour – probably due to a line of coke, which he was not supposed to take before the bank - rifling through the drawers to find a bar blade for his beer.
“Man, I’m sure that if we do this clean, we’re under five,” Craig smiles, opening the bottle.
“Not if you play reckless,” Deran corrects, gaze flicking outside to the still pool.
Craig takes a big swing before replying, “Fine, you’ve got a deal.”
J, hands holding onto the marbled kitchen island, taps his fingers once against it, thinking. “Depends how fast the teller moves and if Pope was right about her.”
Andrew takes a few seconds before responding, trying to maintain his voice calm and flat as his eyes drops, unbidden, to where the fabric of his shirt rests against his collarbone. “I told you,” he ends up declaring with certainty, “she won’t say anything. She’ll follow the instructions.”
He knows, but not in the manner they think of: not from the usual reading pre-job he has been trained to rely on, not from an assessment made by Pope, the guard dog of the family, no, he had observed you through the eyes of Andrew, the man he keeps concealed deep and who had no business noticing you beyond the scope of a job and yet did, again and again, until it became something he still refuses to label.
He had sat in the car across the street, engine off, tracking movement through the glass without dragging his eyes long enough to be noticed: the faces, the timing, who moved fast, who hesitated…that’s when he saw you.
Behind the counter, you had been nothing but patient with a couple of elderly customers who took too long for the rest of the queue and still, your posture never shifted into irritation, your voice – though unheard – was undoubtedly soft, paired by the gentleness of your hand motions.
At first, you had been just a part of the plan: closest to the vault, predictable in your time…or that’s what he told himself.
Except he came back the next day. And the one after.
He started noticing details that didn’t fit to the job: the way you stepped in the bank at the same time each morning but not without a coffee and a blueberry muffin from a small place two blocks down, the barista already preparing your drink before you spoke. The way you held it close when you strode, cautious not to spill and handing a ten plus the muffin to the man who slept along the path to work.
There was also the grocery store, once a week, same day, same hour, a small basket instead of a cart, contents minimal but consistent: ramen (which made him wonder and still does to this day, if you’re paid enough to live on that or if it’s for some rapid practical reasons) and cat food, an invariable brand, twenty cans for the whole week.
A cat. The detail had lodged within him longer than it should have but still, he had found himself pondering, beside all logic, what kind and whether it waited by the door when you came back, if it slept on your bed or kept its distance. If you talked to it. What was its name.
And twice a week, you went to the theatre: always at the 7pm screening and, Andrew’s favorite part, always alone. Never a second silhouette joining yours in line or a glance over your shoulder as if expecting someone late, no, alone. Which meant that whoever was supposed to say the words that adorned your skin, hadn’t yet met you.
Elated. That had been the best term to define Andrew that day, one that he had never used before. He even rewarded himself by going in the theatre once, just once. Ticket in hand, he had sat one row behind you. Far enough not to be noticed, close enough that he could perceive the smell of your sweet perfume through his nostrils. The screen had lit your profile, a kaleidoscope of colors painting your features. Your attention fixed forward, you had been too absorbed in the film – an old one with songs, full of yellow raincoats and umbrellas – while he had been caught in the fragile, suspended moment of witnessing you.
You and your small box of sour skittles, that he remembers with an irritating accuracy even now. The way you tilted it until two slid into your palm, a gesture you probably had done a thousand times prior to that instant. Oh, and your laugh. The sound had been lost in the room and to his ears, but it had been visible in your shoulders and in your hand, who quickly came up to your mouth.
Andrew had never felt so alive, a deep surge of energy coiling through his veins and screaming for him to speak, speak, speak.
But what was there to say? What could make him less of a creep? Nothing.
So, he had remained where he was. Silent, still. Just a stranger in the row behind you, a stranger who, when the lights came back on, left before you even rose, avoiding the probability for your paths to cross and for you to notice him.
He hadn’t gone back after that. One was more than it should have been.
Andrew exhales slowly, the memory dissolving as quickly as it surfaced, his jaw clenching for a fraction of a second before he forces it to release.
This is not relevant, none of it is, he repeats to himself, the plan is what matters. The job. And everything else should be treated as noise.
He shakes his head once, dislodging a thought that shouldn’t have been there in the first place, then reaches for his coffee, finishing it quickly before walking up to the door with his brothers where Smurf is waiting.
There’s something ceremonial about the way she rests there, the house and the four men holding their breath before proceeding.
Craig goes first, leaning in with no hesitation as she cups his face and kisses him on the mouth, brief, familiar. He grins like it’s nothing, like it’s forever been nothing. Deran follows, more restrained but no less automatic: a similar gesture, a similar contact with the flicker of some unreadable feeling passing through his expression before hastily vanishing. J hesitates, not enough for anyone else but Andrew to note, before he steps forward and accepts it like the rest.
Andrew enters into her space without thinking – he has learned in the past forty-one years of his life that thinking would end up in questioning, and questions had never, never, been a thing that ends well here.
Her hands come up, framing his face with a gentleness that doesn’t match the steel underneath them, eyes holding his for a moment longer before leaning in.
The kiss is short. There are days where he registers it as triviality, just a part of the structure, of what this family is. And then there are days like this one, where it feels like receiving the cold touch of death, an implicit ‘go do what you were made to do baby’.
Instead, she speaks evenly, “Be smart.”
Not ‘be safe’. Smart is all she demands from her favored chess pieces.
The drive goes well and, in the bank, everything continues going to plan: the doors open, a soft chime announcing their arrival like any other customer stepping in. For a few seconds, the illusion holds – even for himself, Andrew, the everyday man walking into a bank, ready to ask the beautiful woman behind the counter out on a date – before it shatters as J clears briefly his throat and drifts to the right of the room with Craig, hands loose, unremarkable, while Deran angles to the left, another presence among many.
Andrew moves forward to where are you are with no spare glance, and during a fleeting moment… everything narrows down to your figure.
You’re wearing an outfit he hasn’t seen before, or maybe he has, and never allowed himself to register it, but it stands out now with a clarity that feels cruel and, pinned near the collar of your outfit, an albatross. He identifies it with all the nights spent watching documentaries and absorbing details, filing away images of wings stretched impossibly wide, of birds that cross entire oceans without ever landing, belonging nowhere and everywhere at once.
It unsettles him more than it should. Not the object itself, but what it signifies. An albatross falls in love only once in its life, the pair only being broken by death itself. (Is it a message in a bottle for the one you’re anticipating for?)
The question is gone as quickly as it formed because nothing about this instant permits to dwell on soulmates, and yet it lingers just beneath the surface of his thoughts as he closes the distance, each step measured. You haven’t noticed Andrew – no, Pope – yet, too focused onto a receipt until your gaze lifts, landing on him with that same polite attentiveness he has observed before and a smile.
It’s a professional one, instinctive, but enough to throw everything off balance in his head. He knows that smile: he has caught sight of it from his car every single day for the past seven weeks, directed at strangers who never realized how fortunate they were for having you near, but right here, right now, this smile is for him and him only.
And he is about to break it.
The realization lands heavy in the pit of his stomach, intertwined with guilt. Guilt for what he is about to do, guilt for never speaking to you before. He could have, no, should have done so. And one word, any word would have been enough for him. Because with a weapon hidden beneath his jacket, he knows now that he is about to become the worst part of your day, maybe of your life.
His hand moves minimally, shifting the jacket just enough for you to see without alerting anyone else, keeping it contained between the two of you in a silent, irreversible exchange.
The gun rests there, cold.
Your breath catches, eyes dropping before snapping back to his, wider now, the recognition settling in fully, the understanding immediate and absolute. You don’t scream, don’t budge. And that…that confirms everything he told them: you will follow, you will endure, more importantly you will survive this moment.
Andrew leans in, lowering the space between you, voice contained and controlled, meant only for you and no one else.
But just before he speaks, his gaze flickers back to the albatross at your collar, wondering if you’re like them. That despite the distance and the motions, you’d return to the same point, the same partner, giving meaning to every mile flown.
He tears his gaze away to meet yours, whispering.
“It’s okay, just do as I say.”
──────────
All in all, it had felt like a regular morning.
You had been pulled from sleep by the persistent weight of Willow, stepping onto your chest with all the grace of an adorable being who believed himself entitled to your entire attention, his paws pressing into you as he sniffed your face before letting out a sharp, indignant cry that made it very clear that your sluggish state was a personal offense.
You had groaned, eyes still shut, one hand coming up blindly to rest on his dark fur as he shifted his weight once more, tail flicking against your belly and whiskers brushing your cheek.
“Okay, fine, fine,” you had grumbled, voice thick with tiredness but already surrendering, lips curving despite yourself as you cracked one eye open to meet his unblinking stare, “Hello to you too, little gremlin.” Another sound, louder this time, answered you, like your acknowledgment alone was not sufficient. “God, you’re so dramatic, you know that?” you had added under your breath, though you were pushing yourself up, Willow hopping down instantly, his task accomplished.
Trotting ahead of you toward the kitchen, he waited with barely contained impatience for you to fill his bowl, circling your legs as you did, weaving in and out while snagging your pajamas with his claws just to remind you of his presence.
“Hey, gentleman! There you go, no need to make new holes in my clothes,” you had laughed, setting the bowl down, before he dived in in a split second, unfocused on you now that his needs had been met. “Right…cause you’re undoubtedly a starving cat.”
You had remained a few more seconds, observing him in that small ritual established seven years ago when you had retrieved him from the trash, just a baby crying for help, all ribs and oversized ears. He had fit in your hands then, a trembling cat covered in dirt, choosing you at first sight, and that you had chosen back.
Now, he ate like he had never known hunger, certain that his whole world would continue to provide. “My little Willow,” you had murmured, petting his head before letting him continue, “we’ve come a long way you and I, haven’t we?” He didn’t answer, but his tail flicked once, content, and that was more than enough.
You rinsed your hands for the tuna liquid running along your palm, drying them absentmindedly against a towel before reaching for the newspaper that you had left on the table the previous night, only to pause when you noticed the pen no longer resting where it should have been, your gaze dropping to the floor where it lay just beneath the other chair. You glanced back at Willow.
“Well, well, well,” you said, bending to pick the pen up and turning it between your fingers, “seems like this family’s small criminal has reoffended.”
You shook your head at his refusal to even turn his head despite his ears pointing to you, a grin blooming on your face as you smoothed the newspaper open with one hand while the other tapped the pen against the margin, looking at the movie screenings on Thursday, the quiet promise of a few hours somewhere else.
Your eyes traced the column, pausing at the familiar title Now, Voyager.
A pleased hum left you, head tilting. “Well…” you had muttered, circling the time as a reminder, “at least I know I can always count on you, Bette.”
There was something comforting about it: knowing precisely what you would find waiting in that darkened room, selecting a film that, in the past, had proven itself capable of uplifting your mood for a while.
You set the paper aside, rising from your chair with an exhale, your movements unhurried as you crossed back into the bedroom, reaching for your clothes. The mirror caught you as you adjusted the fabric, reflecting all you hated and loved about each and every inch of you.
You pondered a few instants before reaching into your grandmother’s jewelry box, fingers closing around the brooch’s cool metal of the albatross mid-flight, wings outstretched.
It had been hers before it became yours, an inheritance you had accepted with devotion after her passing due to the story it had held, one that she told you in pieces when you were a little girl intrigued by the idea of soulmates. She had spoken of the words engraved on her ankle – it’s cold today right – and how, as a child, she had clung to them, convinced that somewhere out there existed a man who would say them and would recognize her as she would recognize him.
She had waited. Years. Decades. Long enough for hope to thin until one day, she no longer dared to, preferring another life instead.
She had married a man who, like her, had never found the person tied to his skin, “A good man,” she always smiled, and together they had built a life that worked, giving them your father.
It hadn’t been a heartbreak. But it hadn’t not been that either.
It was much later, when her hair had turned silver and her hands had begun to show the traces of everything she had lived through, that it happened. This part had been told in a different kind of voice, softer, almost disbelieving. How one day, in her seventies, those words had finally been spoken to her by a woman whose laugh matched the rapid beating of her heart, loving her until the very end.
Oh, and how you had held onto that story. It meant that love, real love, the kind that recognized and chose and settled, didn’t always arrive on time or follow the path people expected. But it arrived.
Your thumb brushed over the edge of the albatross as you pinned it, praying for fate to be a little speedier with you.
Slipping your bag over your shoulder, you cast one last glance toward Willow, who had abandoned his bowl in favor of a sunlit patch on the floor, completely at peace and asleep.
“See you tonight,” you murmured before stepping out in the warm weather of Oceanside.
-
The café greeted you with its familiar scent of coffee and baked croissants, Sofia welcoming you with that half knowing smile and asking, “Coffee, no cream, one sugar?”
“You know me,” you smiled, reaching into your bag.
She paused just long enough for her eyebrow to lift, gaze traveling from you to the sunlit street. “Actually…” you amended with a laugh and stepping closer to the counter, “make it iced. I’ll pass out before nine otherwise.”
“That’s more like it,” Sofia replied with a wink, the drink quickly ending up in your hands, along with the blueberry muffin added without question.
“Thanks a lot Sofia.”
“You’re welcome, querida mia. And be careful, they’re saying we might hit 100° today.”
“Yeah, be careful too,” you replied, lifting the drink as a cheer, “wouldn’t want to tell Shani that her wife melted behind the counter.”
Sofia laughed, waving you off. “Don’t you dare. Now go!”
Outside, the temperature was getting more and more hellish, the kind that clung and made your pits sweaty. Cursing against the sun and summer, you took a sip while walking, the cold welcomed to cut through the heat.
Jerry was there, sat at his usual spot along the way between the café and the bank, blankets folded with care, his presence as constant as your own routine.
“Morning, Jerry,” you greeted, crouching and balancing your drink in one hand as the other extended, the muffin and what remained of your money there.
He looked up, his smile lines visible in the light. “Well, if it’s not my favorite lady,” he greeted you, taking the muffin.
“Hey, Jerry,” you added gently, nudging your head toward the end of the street, “it’s supposed to get really hot today, so if it’s too much, you can come by the bank for a bit, okay? It will be nice and cold inside, and there’s a water dispenser near the back.”
He paused for a second before nodding, softness passing through his expression.
“Yeah…yeah, I might do that,” he replied, voice quieter now, before looking back up at you. “Have a sweet day, sweetheart.”
Your smile lingered. “Have a sweet day too, Jerry.”
-
Stepping into the bank at the exact same time as every day, the cool air wrapped around you, a relief from outside as the doors closed behind with a sound that barely registered in your mind now, too used to it.
Everything was where it should be, to your great joy.
You slipped behind the counter, setting your bag down and tucking your things away with efficiency, movements quick and falling into their daily sequence.
Shani, leaning against her station, was already observing you with that look that indicated she had something to say – which was, quite honestly, a little frightening even when you were used to her schemes.
“So…” she started, dragging the word enough to make it extremely suspicious, “how was Sofia?”
You didn’t even look up at first, finishing what you were doing before glancing at her with a small, amused smile. “I’m sure you’re well aware that your wife is very much okay.”
“Good, good, good,” she nodded before straightening a little, her expression shifting into a more deliberate and calculated expression – which you enjoyed to describe as the ‘Shani-way’.
You narrowed your eyes. “What?”
She waved a hand, playing casual but you definitely knew better. “Nothing. Just- Well, Sofia and I were talking last night, and we thought maybe…” she trailed off long enough to make it worse, “we could…you know. Set you up. Double date. My cousin’s in town.”
You sighed, shaking your head before she could finish. “Shani-”
“Hey, who knows,” she cut in, grin widening, “he could be the one!”
The words landed in the space between her and you. The one. You stilled for a brief instant, a quiet sentiment moving beneath the surface of your soul, a sentiment older than this conversation, older than Shani, the bank and any version of you that had ever tried to make sense of it. Of this word. The one.
Your gaze dropped to your forearm, where the words had lived your entire life, etched into your skin before you grasped anything at all, including what they signified.
it’s okay just do as I say.
Those words…were not romantic, nor light. Not anything like what people expected when they spoke about soulmates with soft voices and hopeful smile. But hey, at least you were not one of those who had just a simple ‘hey’ or ‘sorry’.
You had spent years trying to get them. As a teenager, you had thought maybe it meant danger or urgency, that something would happen and they would be the one to steady you through it, to guide you and keep you safe, that idea rooting itself deeply enough that you had chased it for years: climbing too high without any protective harness, swimming too far from the coast, riding a motorcycle with no helmet…Taking risks that sat just on the edge of recklessness had been your motto, as if you could have forced the meeting into existence, stumbling into it hard enough that fate would have had no choice but to intervene.
You had fractured your wrist. Twice.
Both times alone, without any soulmate to help you up and dry your tears. Both times without those words to comfort you.
You had ceased after that, slowly considering that you had, perhaps, thought about those words from the wrong angle. So, if not danger, then circumstance: maybe your soulmate lived in a world that didn’t intersect with yours easily, a world shaped by less…legality.
You had followed that thread: night shifts in a 24/7 grocery store, late hours as a waitress in a diner where people were awfully silent, coming and going without questions, up until you ended up here, in a bank, working as a teller.
Banks get robbed. And tellers are, more often than not, the first ones involved when it happens.
And this bank – oh, this bank that you applied for without reading it twice – was not just any bank: it was the one with the highest robbery rate in Oceanside. Checkmate, soulmate. Wherever he is, you’ll find him. No, scratch that…he’ll find you. You know it.
You lifted your gaze back to Shani, the faintest smile returning. “I’m okay Ni,” you ended up saying, certain. “Really.”
She studied you for a second, like she might push a little more and try again, but she simply sighed, letting it go with a small shake of her head. “One day, huh?”
“One day,” you echoed.
Time, in places like this, was measured in the transactions and exchanges, passed with the sound of shuffling papers, the muted hum of people moving in and out, and just like that, an hour slipped by without you noticing, hands working on their own and your smile appearing and fading in the practiced manner you had perfected over the years, attempting to not let your mind drift too far.
You didn’t look up immediately after hearing the doors opening for what seemed like the hundredth time today. Probably just another client, another small interaction that would dissolve the moment it ended.
No.
Your thoughts cut abruptly, like a thread had been pulled tighter around your neck to force you to lift your head, attention shifting before you could place why and landing on a person who stood out from the others…him.
Your body reacted before your mind, heat coiling low in your belly, unfamiliar in its intensity and enough to steal your breath as he stepped further toward you, gorgeous auburn curls catching the light and freckles scattered across a face set in a stern, immovable expression, frame tense.
You watched him come directly to your counter. There was a brief moment where you knew you should have been afraid, the awareness that a man like this, carrying that kind of presence and approaching with such focus, should trigger your primal instinct or at least set something off inside you that told you to brace or pull back.
No.
Again, that voice inside. You had spent your entire existence leaning into danger, pushing your own limits in search of a moment that had never come, not until now and that stranger.
He halted in front of you, close enough to perceive the stubble on his face.
Your smile came automatically like the one you had given dozens of times that morning, voice ready to follow and ask, as if nothing had happened but his hand shifted a little, just enough for you to take a peek at the gun inside his jacket.
His voice was low, meant for you only. “It’s okay, just do as I say.”
Yes, all in all, it had felt like a regular morning. Up until now.
The words – those precious, bizarre words – are no longer just inked onto your skin, they are alive, burning under your skin, pulsing, rising, demanding, every nerve in your body tightening around them as if every second that came prior to this had only occurred to lead to this exact point and this exact man.
Your breath catches, likely making him think that it’s about the weapon, when in reality, it’s about him and his proximity, about the overwhelming clarity that crashed into you all at once, leaving no room for doubt or hesitation.
You don’t know how long you stay there, silent. A second? A century?
Time seems to dissolve and fold in on itself until it no longer matters, because there is him, only him and the undeniable, irreversible truth standing in front of you.
Your lips part before you can think or stop it, your voice slipping out softer than you expected.
“Oh my god…it’s you.”
──────────
“Oh my god…it’s you.”
The words don’t quite land or settle into meaning the way language is supposed to. They don’t register as sound shaped into sense or even feel like they belong to the scene unfolding in front of him, and for a brief moment that stretches too wide to measure, everything in Andrew goes violently motionless.
There is a merciless ringing in his ears that swallows the room entirely, drowning out people’s voices someplace in the distance, erasing his movements, the job, the plan: everything reduced now to a piercing frequency that leaves him unmoored inside his own body, like he has been pulled out of himself and left suspended in a space where nothing quite connects anymore.
He doesn’t even breathe. Or maybe he does, but it doesn’t reach him.
Fingers still curled against the edge of his jacket, the gun remains half-hidden, the action unfinished and abandoned halfway through for the reason that there is absolutely no part of him that recalls how to carry on.
This…This is not supposed to happen. Not like this. Not there. Not now.
Not in the middle of a job with his brothers spread across the room, J surveying the room and the exit mapped in his head, Smurf’s voice still echoing behind his thoughts, commands carved into his bones. No, not after all she has done to make sure it wouldn’t occur – worse, not after what he has done to make sure it couldn’t.
And yet, you are here. In front of him. Staring with none of the fear that should currently be spreading in your body after sighting the weapon he had just shown you, but with eyes full of recognition. One that is so clear, it strips him of whatever control he thought he still possessed.
And the worst thing about this whole situation, is that it’s you.
The woman he knows without ever having spoken to, the one he has watched through glass and distance until her habits became familiar and her presence lodged in a room of his mind he refused to acknowledge, up until avoiding her became a discipline he couldn’t master. The one person he should never have allowed himself to notice.
Yes, this woman is you, breathing and alive, saying the words that have resided under his skin his entire life, the oath he had refused to have faith in.
His mark burns, not in the dull, persistent heat he has learned to disregard and bury under discipline, but a pulsing fire that spreads beneath his collarbone, radiating outward in aching waves, relief and agony intertwined so tightly he can’t pinpoint which one is which.
It hums in a vibration that moves through him like a melody finding its proper tune, a song that has been anticipating for its first note and has just been unleashed without restraint. And it cries too in the solemn sentiment of home, every nerve in his body squeezing around it, responding and begging for contact. The mark wants to close the distance between you until there is none left, for him to fold himself into your ribcage so that the world stops spinning off its axis.
His hand twitches toward your arm, where he can tell – without even checking, just his soul recognizing yours – that his words have inhabited there and expected him. Expect for him to trace them and press his mouth against your pulse to sense its response.
He attempts to shut his thoughts, his jaw clenching so hard it aches, teeth grinding together as he forces his body back into control despite the animal instinct clawing forward, only to be shoved down, leaving him shaking. Entry, vault, exit, he must think about the job, entry, vault, exit, car, timing.
He clings to it like a lifeline, dragging the steps of his consciousness back one by one, compelling them into place over the chaos unraveling inward, because if he lets goforevena second, if he gives in to what his body is craving, then everything falls apart. And no, he can’t do that. Not when Craig is still in the room, and Deran, and J. This moment is not supposed to be his.
He swallows hard to set himself back into motion, pulling his jacket back into place and hiding the gun fully. He can’t stand the distance it creates between you nor the way it frames him as a threat when all inside him is tearing itself apart trying to be anything but.
“I…” His voice catches. He closes his eyes momentarily, recalibrating and pushing the word back out even as it scrapes against his throat. “I was supposed to ask you to lead me to the vault.”
The sentence feels almost foreign, detached. Like it belongs to someone else.
You blink. “Oh. Sure.”
The ease of your reply hits him, head tilting in confusion, breaking through the overwhelming tide of all other emotions, his gaze locking onto yours. Searching for hesitation, or question. But no, you don’t even seem surprised.
“I was expecting that, you know.”
He frowns, almost imperceptibly. “What?”
Your gaze drops to your forearm. “The mark. I was expecting you to do something like that.”
And that…that breaks Andrew for that it means you didn’t just wait for him in an abstract universe or pictured a voice, no, that indicates you had thought about the circumstances that would shape your meeting.
“I’m sorry.” What else could he express when the first thing he gives you is this version of himself, the one forged by everything he has done and the weight of choices that never really were, shaped by years spent becoming what was required of him. Yes, he is sorry. Sorry that he is this and just this: a man who does jobs to live, who has been to prison, who has taken more than he has ever given, standing in front of you – in front of his own soulmate – with violence tucked neatly beneath his jacket.
You tilt your head, studying him with intensity, as if you could reach past all he has built and read what lies beneath. He hopes you can’t, for your sake as much as his. “It’s okay, uhm-”
“Andrew.” It leaves him quietly, but it lands heavier than anything he has ever said, his own name foreign in his mouth.
Your lips part as you take it in, like you’re repeating it over in your mind or placing it somewhere that matters. “Well, it’s okay…Andrew.”
The way you say it… he knows, with an irreversible certainty, that he will carry the sound of every vowels and consonants in your voice for the rest of his existence.
His gaze flickers over his shoulder, scanning the room to find his brothers pretending to read brochures about insurances while J positioned himself near a water dispenser, and Andrew feels a sudden, irrational need for time and space, just a few more seconds that could be devoted only to this moment prior to reality catching up.
“So…” your voice cut short his pleading, “the vault, right?”
“Yeah,” he despises doing this, and hates himself even more, “Please.”
Nodding once before turning and walking, he follows barely a step behind - of course he does, there is no version of him that wouldn’t pursue you anywhere from heaven to hell now that he has found his soulmate.
You lead him through the bank with precision, one that doesn’t escape him: your path cautious, avoiding angles that would expose him and making turns just out of reach of the cameras. He has mapped and memorized where they are the past weeks, but he still feels relief that you are the one guiding this and holding control in a moment where he threatens to collide under the weight of everything pressing in on him.
He sees it now that he is closer, no longer separated by a glass or distance, the manner that your fingers have of flexing at your side three times before falling, or how your hair carries the faint scent of your shampoo, something clean and sweet like apples, threaded with another note he can’t place that makes your hair sparkly and drawing him further in.
The feeling that he can’t put his finger on is not quite like danger or adrenaline. It’s more insidious, making him want to lean closer just to confirm and commit to memory: what you use, where you buy it, whether you would laugh if he got it wrong, whether he would ever get the chance to share that with you.
It feels a little malicious from fate to do this: to let him locate you, let him recognize without reservation that you are the one person in the world predestined to meet him at this exact intersection of time and existence and still deny him the simplest thing…touch. Like being handed providence only to be told he cannot reach for it, shown a life he has no right to claim.
Yes, fate has dealt him strange cards. Cards he has known all too well.
He was raised in a house where everything was a game long before he grasped the rules, where nothing was ever left to chance no matter how much it pretended to be, hands distributed by design. He and his brothers had always been given the same kind: low numbers, useful only when played in sequence or sacrificed at the right moment to serve a strategy that was never theirs to understand. They were never meant to win.
Because to hold the deck, there was Smurf. King when she required authority, queen when she needed charm, switching between the two without effort and controlling each and every round and outcome.
Andrew had learned to play his part in that, to accept the hand he was given and never question the structure of the game. Nothing but a low reliable card.
But now…now he is in this hallway, close enough to feel your breath and realize that his soulmate is not the kind of card that can be discarded nor replaced. His soulmate is an ace: the card that can turn a losing hand into a winning one, the card that overturns a game.
And for the first time in his life, Andrew realizes that he has been holding it all along, hidden under his skin, forbade and hidden until this morning and finally, the game can change. Because Smurf doesn’t control this hand and never will.
It takes everything in him not to reach for you and close the distance completely until you are pressed against the nearest wall so you can both forget about this stupid plan and this stupid job. And the problem is that the more he walks, the less the urge attempts to flee, slowly transmuting into a pull that tightens with every step and shift of your body, begging for him to kiss you, to leave – oh yes, god, to leave – taking your hand and walking out of the bank as if his family wouldn’t drag him back into the role he has never been allowed to abandon.
He can picture it in flashes: the door opening, the heat outside, your hand in his with the distance growing between you and the only life he has ever known.
For a second…it feels doable.
The muscle of his jaw ticks as he forces the image away to go back to the path you are leading him through, aware that his family is still near, trailing with a plan that has not stopped simply because his whole universe has.
So, Andrew keeps moving, the noise of the main room dulling behind them, replaced and amplified by the ones of your steps, in addition to those of his brothers and J, that he can overhear closely behind.
Deran emerges first by his side, gaze sweeping on the area before settling on Andrew. “Everything good, Pope?”
Andrew doesn’t look at him for long, an automatic “Yeah,” pulled out of his lips, flat because inside, the name of Pope grates – the label that no longer fits him, the version of him that exists in conflict with the one near you and that has your words etched on his skin. He prays, absurdly, that you don’t register it. That Andrew can exist, even for a moment without being dragged back into the shape that the name Pope forces onto him.
Craig joins them with an energy barely contained for the tight space, his grin toned down but still present at the corners of his expression as he reaches under his jacket, fingers hooking into the hidden seam where the duffel is concealed.
“So,” he murmurs, eyes flicking up and down your body before returning to Andrew, “you were right about the girl.” Andrew’s hands curl at his sides as Craig doesn’t stop his lewd eyes. “And she’s quite pretty too.”
Violence rises in Andrew’s chest, a flash of heat shaped by Craig’s looks and words about you, reducing your person to a pretty jewel that he could rob along with the money when Andrew want nothing more than to scream what you are and what you mean to him. He wants to punch his brother, just enough to shut him up and make it clear that his soulmate is not just some-
“Hey, Point Break,” your voice cuts through, “you know I can hear you, right?”
Craig blinks, caught off guard for half a second before having the decency to at least look a bit sheepish. “Sorry, ma’am.”
Andrew exhales, reminding him that you are not fragile like he had feared his soulmate might be, that you are here, capable of holding your own even in this.
The five of you reach the vault door, the air altering as your hand lifts, thumb trembling over the keypad before pushing the first number. It takes this moment for Andrew to realize that the change is not in the air but in you – it’s like a direct transmission of everything stirring through you: the adrenaline, his family so close, the pressure of the moment, all of it carried in the current running between the two of you.
But this emotion isn’t yours alone, it echoes inside him like a mirror. And, for the first time in his life, Andrew is not alone inside himself, grasping that what he has always been when he had assumed he was whole, had only ever been a piece of something larger and waiting.
You. His missing piece. His ace.
Craig shifts beside them, impatience creeping in as you press another number. “Uhm, sorry to say miss,” he mutters, “but we don’t exactly have all the time in the world, ‘kay?”
Andrew’s head snaps toward him, the protective reaction immediate.
“Shut up,” he cuts in, voice and unblinking eyes carrying enough weight to land where it needs to. “She’s trying her best.”
Craig raises his hands in mock surrender, stepping back just enough to signal he’s dropping it, though the amusement still lingers in his expression – that Andrew wants to punch away.
You inhale, your fingers hovering again before pressing the next number. “I’m…I’m really sorry,” you murmur, free hand gesturing toward everything around you, especially the situation that doesn’t need naming. “It’s just the whole…”
Deran speaks before you can finish, his tone even in the manner his younger brother has acquired with the years to cut through the tension. “No worries. Ignore Craig,” he casts a brief glance toward his brother. “That’s what we all do usually.”
J lets out a chuckle at that, earning him a quick nudge to the ribs from Craig, who curses his whole family under his breath but doesn’t push further.
But Andrew…he doesn’t look at any at them, attention locked on you and your hands. On the way your fingers press each number. He feels it once more: the connection, the fragile space calling each of his instincts to fulfill one singular need – reach, touch, help, protect. He shouldn’t, but his voice slips out anyway, stripped down to something that belongs only to the two of you.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs within the narrow space where no one else exists. “I trust you.”
──────────
In the midst of your chaotic thoughts, you can acutely hear him. “It’s okay. I trust you.”
The words reach you in two distinct ways: one, shaped by his voice near your ear and the second, threading directly beneath the skin of your forearm where the mark rests, a tingling fire that spreads outward like a pulse answering another pulse. Alive and communicating like you had only ever heard in rare stories.
Your fingers keep hovering over the keypad, the numbers a little blurry and each digit feeling heavy to push on despite the countless times you have entered them. You know that it’s not really about the situation (how many times have you been robbed in that grocery store only to be disappointed that the person didn’t turn out to be your soulmate?) and it’s not about the presence of his family behind you either (even if their silence is quite stressful). It’s him and this bond that has turned from theory and hopes into the tangible.
You inhale slowly, stunned as you perceive his voice once more.
Only this time, it doesn’t process through your ears, but the I’m with you, is unmistakable, forming in your mind with clarity, your heartbeat syncing with a rhythm that seems shared rather than the usual solitary one.
Your thumb presses the next number, each movement guided by his unwavering presence at your side, each You’ve got it and You’re doing great keeping your hands from slipping into panic and swallowing you whole. So, you focus on that as you push on the final digit - the way the connection tingles and sings, finally discovering the other end of the transmission.
There is a momentary, noiseless pause before you identify the familiar click of the vault unlocking.
Your shoulders drop as the movement behind you resumes, relief mixing with the tension that hasn’t yet fully released, a loud exhale leaving you, incapable of containing it in.
The tall one – Point Break…what was his name again…ah, yes, Craig – steps forward. “Good job, princess.”
His hand lands against your back in a rough pat that jolts you forward a step, breaking the fragile bubble you had been standing in, the connection pulling taut in a surge of rage (that most definitely isn’t yours but Andrew’s) as the others move past you minus him, breaking into the vault.
You stand there for a good thirty seconds, up until your mind catches up and switches from looking to observing the way they are moving and more notably, their selection: bills taken in a pattern that avoids drawing instant attention, skipping sequences and leaving enough behind to maintain the illusion until the next full count – fuck, they were good at that.
The thought lingers only briefly, overridden by a louder sentiment that begins in your forearm, spreading in threads that travel through you like a map being drawn in real time, each line connecting to another until your entire body feels nothing else but him into the smallest places of your body, from the pace of your heartbeat to each capillary and follicle. It’s both overwhelming and steadying – to know his restraint and suppressed intentions.
You slowly breathe in.
One.
Your index finger shifts, drifting to where his hand rests beside yours, the space between you narrowing by increments so slight they would go unnoticed by anyone else.
Two.
He responds, finger moving in tandem and mirroring the motion with a reverent care, like this contact matters more than anything else happening around you, like the entire world has been reduced to this singular, fragile approach.
Three.
Finger hooking around yours, the first touch is barely there. Just a brush along the side of your finger that sends an electrostatic discharge, traveling up your hand and arm.
Four.
Your thumb moves in tentative glide over his pointer, tracing the line of contact and committing the warmth of his skin to memory until the starving pit in your stomach gets replenished.
Five.
A consuming wish for more comes uninvited. For his hand to turn, to open and to slip fully into yours, holding instead of hovering. Your fingers twitch, betraying the impulse while the bond of your marks vibrates in response.
Si-
“Hey, Pope,” the voice of Craig cuts through cleanly, one eyebrow lifting as his gaze flicks between the two of you, thoroughly amused and making Andrew break the contact abruptly, “gonna help us tomorrow or what?”
A sharp sound follows, the hand of the blond man connecting with the back of Craig’s head. “Shut up,” he mutters under his breath, controlled but with a warning laced through that certainly doesn’t need to be emphasized.
Craig huffs, rubbing the back of his head with a half-laugh before his attention swings back to the task at hand and the timing that keeps ticking against all of them.
Three minutes. That’s all it takes.
Just three minutes for them to empty what they came for without excess or error or greed, three minutes without drawing attention to anything that would betray the absence of the money before it’s too late to matter – a pure work of art that should deserve applauds.
They step out one by one: Craig first, duffel slung over his shoulder and expression light as if this had been nothing more than another job checked off, glancing toward you with a wink, then next comes the two other men, a lot quieter, eyes still tracking for a variable that could shift.
“You’re gonna have a cut of this,” the blond man speaks, direct and procedural. “For your help here. It will be at your place in two weeks.”
You blink.
“Oh…thanks,” you start, the response automatic, polite even in a situation that has stripped your emotions down in their rawest form, but the rest of the sentence doesn’t come as easily, your gaze falling on Andrew, searching for what to respond, only to be met by a shrug – a movement that gives nothing and everything all at once: a choice. No, your choice. “I’m good though,” you finish, “No need for that.”
Craig lets out a short, amused breath.
“Fuck yeah! Thank you, pretty girl.”
You tilt your head, a hint of dryness slipping into your expression despite the stress and the absurdity of the moment. “Oh, you’re very welcome…guy who just robbed my place of work.”
It earns you a grin before they depart toward the exit, bags slung into place and steps aligning with the blind spots of the cameras, each minute precisely timed. But you don’t care about that. No, because Andrew is still here for a reason that doesn’t require explanation. One seconds. Two. Then he turns to trail after them and step back into the version of his life that exists beyond this bank and beyond you.
“Wait!”
Your body reacts before your mind does, hand gripping tightly to his arm mid-step to make him stop and turn back toward you.
There is something in his expression – held together tight in a way that suggests too many things happening at once beneath his surface, and you can’t tell if it’s that every second here worsens the risk further, or if the cause is you and the fact that you spoke, asking him to stay. Or…perhaps it’s both.
Your heart picks up yet again. “There’s a camera,” you speak hurriedly, stepping closer as your voice drops. “Right outside. It’s not on any registered map.”
The information transfers between you in a second, a detail that could make the difference between jail and liberty. He recognizes the gravity of what you’ve just said, nodding before stepping toward you and closing the gap in one swift movement, his hand finding your waist as his mouth meets yours.
It crashes into you like a storm breaking, lips parting on instinct as he deepens it, the contact intense and consuming. There’s no grace to it, nor careful exploration. It’s too rapid for that, too charged, the kind of kiss outside of time and reason, where everything confines to the undeniable pull that has been building between you from the moment your words collided.
It lasts seconds. Minutes. Hours. You can’t tell.
He pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, breath uneven and the space between you electric with the unsaid.
“Thank you.”
The words are rough, low, carrying the force of his gratitude to what you provided him before he disappears, his absence jarring.
The door opens, closes, footsteps fading and the world suddenly snaps back into what it had been previously, like he had never happened. And for ten seconds – or what seems like ten – you are alone, the silent pressing in.
Your chest rises and falls, lips still tingling and mind struggling to catch up with what just transpired, what it means and more significantly…what comes next.
Turning your head toward the hallway leading back to the main room, you reflect on the life you had this morning, on the people surrounding you. Shani, Sofia…you think of them first. Of what they would say and how they would look at you, and somehow, you know that they would understand. Your grandmother would have understood too.
That love, when it attains its destination, doesn’t ask for permission or convenience, doesn’t arrange itself neatly into a life already built, no, it simply happens. And you either step toward it or-
The only things you need to go back for are Willow and a few cans of his food, that’s your main thought as you run past the threshold out into the heat where the sunlight hits you hard, bright and abrupt, the air even heavier than before, but you don’t slow until you reach a car being loaded hurriedly with bags.
He doesn’t expect you, murmuring in disbelief. “What are you do-”
You don’t let him finish. Closing the distance in a heartbeat, your hand catches his to pull him toward you as your mouth finds his again, the kiss colliding into him with the same inevitability, breath mixing and bodies aligning in a suspended moment.
You pull back just enough to look at him, your faces still close, close enough that your breaths overlap, that you can witness the change in his eyes as he tries to absorb what you’ve just done and what you’re offering. For a second, neither of you budges, a small smile blooming on his face.
“Hey,” Deran’s voice cuts in, amused but crept with a sense of insistence as he leans out his head from the driver’s side, eyes flicking between the two of you, reading the situation his brother is in, “it’s a five-seat car.” A beat. “You in?”
You don’t look at him. Don’t look at the car.
Your gaze remains on Andrew, certain.
“Yeah…I’m in.”
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synopsis: it's clear that your skating partner has a huge crush on you. it sucks for him that you have a crush on your skating coach.
pairing: jack abbot x figure skater!reader
warnings: 2.8k words, 18+ MDNI, reader is a figure skater, "doll" pet name usage, fem!reader, age gap (20's to 40's), failed flirting from frank langdon, reader down bad for jack, eventual sex, jack gets jealous, p with plot, doggy style, manhandling, kisses and bites, praise, public sex sorta idk, probably some skating inaccuracies but fuck it we ball
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"Turn. Stop. Good job."
You were new to skating with a coach. You'd skated before, obviously; ever since you were a child, you had loved the feeling of spinning on the ice, the feeling of nailing a new move, the feeling of the audience. When your parents realized you were serious about skating at twenty, they'd gotten you set up with a professional coach instead of just them and the rink owner teaching you. That was Jack Abbot.
It was your fourth time at the usually empty local rink with him, the older man standing to the side with his hands behind his back as he observed. The first day, a few weeks ago, he'd just watched and told you to do what you knew. Then he started to order you around, and you always hid the small shiver you convinced yourself was from the cold. His gaze was sharp, calculating, piercing as he watched your movement on the ice.
Today, he was doing the same thing as the first day; standing by the edges and just watching you. He had barely ever actually gotten on the ice, choosing to just judge your turns and moves from the sidelines.
You felt exposed under his gaze, despite being dressed in tights and leg warmers and a soft sweater. It wasn't too chilly, as indoor rinks go, and you always loved the cold anyways.
You stopped on the ice, your blades giving the shhk sound as it scraped to a stop. You looked at Jack, waiting for his critique.
"You're getting sloppy." Jack crossed his arms over his chest, standing right at the entrance of the rink as you stood in the middle of the ice. "We need to find you a partner."
"I already have a partner." You grumbled, skating to where Jack was standing. You didn't exactly like him, per se; more like tolerated him because he was all you had. You'd burned through at least three partners before Frank Langdon, ditching all of them because they couldn't keep up with you or had a temper or thought they could boss you around. Your parents kept trying, though, hoping each one would be the one.
None of them were, but Frank was the one you could stand the best. Which wasn't a very high compliment.
Jack raised a skeptical eyebrow. "And why is this partner not training with you, doll?"
"Because he's annoying." You said blankly, stepping off the ice. Jack barely shifted out of your way, broad frame having completely blocked the exit otherwise. "And he's always flirting with me."
You tacked on that last part almost just to see Jack's reaction. It was true, Frank really did flirt with you all the time; small passive comments about your body, your face, your personality. It would've been almost flattering if he wasn't A) your assigned skating partner and B) absolutely insufferable about it. He would never shut up, even when you had told him to for the hundreth time.
Not to mention that some little part of you wanted to make him just a little bit jealous. Despite only seeing him for just a few sessions, and knowing it was totally unprofessional, you'd been eyeing Jack since the first time you ever saw him; eyeing his thick biceps, eyeing the gray slipping into his stubble, eyeing the way his shirts always pulled over his shoulders. In the back of your head, the same horny voice was chanting for something more.
Not like you would act on it. Yet.
You watched as Jack just scanned you up and down as if seeing for himself who Frank was flirting with. You tried to hide the shiver going up your spine.
"What kinda shit does he say?" Jack finally spoke, expression unreadable. You wished above anything you could read it, could find out every thought in his head. Find out if he looked at you the same way you looked at him.
You shrug, bending down to adjust your leg warmers. "The usual. Pick up lines. Lots of compliments. Blushes easily. Always asking me out on dates. He's sweet, he just never leaves me alone. Like…ever."
Jack licks his lips slowly. "…are you interested? In him?"
The idea was laughable. "No. Of course not. Not my type."
My type is actually the 5'9 hunk standing right in front of me, is what you wanted to say. You didn't, keeping your lips shut. The only reason he looked at you was because he was your fucking coach. He was being paid to look at you, basically.
Jack just nodded, gesturing down to the changing rooms and switching the topic easily. "Session's over. Y'should practice some more on the sit spin for the showcase next week, doll. And you being nice to Langdon."
You nodded, stepping off the ice and sitting down on the nearby bench to untie your skates. Your showcase was next week, alongside fourteen other contestants, all fighting for the prize money. Plus, getting your name in the papers wasn't a bad idea if you wanted to make it any further with your career, even if Frank would be in there with you.
"Wanna get away after this?"
The backroom was pretty empty, with you and Frank being the last pair for the showcase. You were watching the current duo on one of the big screens set up, eyes locked onto the movements of the skaters, assesing and calculating. Frank, on the other hand, didn't seem to be paying as much attention.
Instead of answering his question, you swatted his arm. "Focus. We need to get first."
"We will. You're one of the best skaters here. And one of the best looking." Frank smirked, tacking on the last part as if it would make you swoon.
You just turned back to the screen, hoping Frank would give up. He didn't. Three minutes and 27 seconds later, you heard your names get called over the loudspeaker. You made sure your skates were on tight, smoothed down your sparkly uniform, and stood. Frank trailed behind you as the two of you made it to the large rink, the three judges watching your entrance.
The music started playing. The lights were blinding. You relyed mostly on muscle memory and trust as you and Frank played out your longtime practiced routine, letting your body and your subconscious pave the way on the ice. It was nothing like practicing with Jack, or practicing with Frank, or even practicing on your own. This time, you had judging eyes on your every move, and if you messed up even one millisecond, you knew it was a peg down from first place.
The applause practically echoed off the walls as you and Frank stood side by side in the middle of the rink, the song coming to it's swinging halt, the two of you breathing heavily. Frank was looking at you like he always did, the lust clear in his eyes. You were looking at Jack, who was clapping with his hands above his head in the audience. When you locked eyes with him, he grinned wider and gave you an approving nod of his head before starting to head backstage.
The judges revealed their score over the speakers, making the audience quiet down just for a second to hear the results. First. You and Frank had gotten first place. You felt the excitement bubble up in your stomach, the feeling of pride and accomplishment washing over you. You skated to the edge of the rink, not bothering to see if Frank was following you, and immediately crashed into Jack's open arms.
"We did it!" You said excitedly into his shoulder, feeling his arms come up around your back. "We won!"
"Yes you did, doll. So proud of ya." Jack murmured, and you thought you could feel his lips press against the top of your head, but he wouldn't do that. Right? Maybe it was just a figment of your racing ecstatic mind.
You felt Frank press against your back, and while you were internally a bit annoyed that he disrupted your moment with Jack, he was technically Frank's coach too. And you had won together. Technically. When he did, though, you felt Jack squeeze you ever so slightly tighter, almost possessively.
"How about I-" Jack started, but then a few crew workers came rushing over to pry you and Frank away from Jack and back to the rink to receive your medals and for the press to take pictures. Despite not having heard all of Jack's sentence, you let yourself be swept away, Frank at your side.
The clicks and flashes of photos being taken didn't stop until you finally stepped off the rink, gold medals around your necks, the audience dispersing out the main exits. The second and third winning pairs congraulated you, and after talking with all of them for a few minutes, you all went your seperate ways to pack up.
Eventually, it was just you, Frank, and Jack left in the locker room.
Jack was leaning against the wall, arms over his chest. Frank was changing out of his uniform into a comfortable hoodie and sweatpants. You were untying your skates on the long bench, hoodie half zipped to keep you warm.
"Congratulations, you two." Jack spoke up, voice echoing off the metal in the silence of the room. "You deserve it. You worked hard, and it paid off."
"Thanks, coach." Frank grinned easily, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He was ready to head out, while you carefully tucked your skates into their special bag and stood to start getting changed.
"Have you changed my mind? About my previous offer?" Frank leaned in to whisper in your ear, hand going to rest on your waist. You remember his words, while you two were sitting backstage before you went on. Wanna get away after this?
You easily brushed his hand away, far too used to his antics. "It's never changed, Langdon. Not in the year I've known you."
He gave you puppy dog eyes. You shook your head again. He let out a long sigh. "Okay. Fine. Whatever. See you soon."
You just waved him off. As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, leaving just you and your coach in the room, you turned your head over your shoulder. Jack was staring at where Frank had just exited, jaw clenched tightly, arms almost squeezing tighter.
"What's wrong?" You asked, slipping your medal off your neck and admiring it before carefully tucking it in your bag.
"You're right, doll. He is insufferable." Jack finally spoke, turning his head back to you. "Didn't know he'd just touch you, though."
You shrugged, turning back to your locker, hearing Jack's footsteps rounding the bench to you and not quite minding. "Like I said, I'm used to it. He's always been like that. Should've seen him on the first day we met."
"I can imagine."
You practically jolted when you heard how close Jack was, leaning just over your shoulder. When you turned your head, your lips nearly brushed, and you flushed brightly and tilted your head back and away.
Jack gave you a tiny smirk. "Let me know the next time he pulls that shit. Flirts with you."
"You're…you're basically flirting with me right now, aren't you?" You managed to get out, swallowing harshly and forcing your eyes to stay on Jack's. Do not look down at his broad shoulders. Do not look down at his beefy freckled arms. Do not look down at the very clear bulge in his jeans — what?
You knew your eyes lingered way too long down there when Jack chuckled lowly. "You can stare, doll. No need to be shy."
You felt heat pool down at your core. "I…what…"
Jack raised an eyebrow. "I've noticed you looking at me, doll. For weeks now. I'm not blind."
"I'm not saying you are! I'm just…" You licked your lips carefully. "…surprised."
"Surprised. Right." Was all Jack murmured before pressing your lips together.
You felt your head spin as he pushed you back against the lockers, and you came to the realization that while you were head over heels for your coach? He liked you too. If the way he was slipping his tongue into your mouth was any indication.
Your hands went to his shoulders while his rested on your hips, tilting his head just right to make you feel dizzy and breathless. Before you passed out from the lack of air, Jack pulled his head back, tilting to the side to press heated kisses down your neck.
He turned you around from the lockers to lay down on the long bench, back pressing into the cold wood as Jack's warm hands slid to slowly unzip your sweater, the metallic sound loud in the quiet of the room. He slowly pulled down the straps of your sparkly skating costume, kissing down your collarbone, then your breasts, lips latching onto one hardened nipple — both from the cold and the moment — causing you to throw your head back, hitting the bench with a dull thud.
"You did so good out there, doll. Did everything I told you to." Jack murmured against your breast, switching to the other and sucking softly before speaking again, looking up at your face and forcing eye contact with his hand on your chin. "Practiced so hard and it payed off."
With one hand on your chin, forcing you to look down at him, his other slipped to push your costume down even further, and he kissed the newly exposed skin as he went until the costume was pooling at your ankles on the bench. His warms hands glided down to push apart your thighs, and you thought he was about to press his lips to your already soaked cunt, give you some relief. He didn't.
After inspecting your pussy for a few seconds, to the point where your hands tangled in his hair in desperation, he let out a low chuckle and pulled himself back up to blanket your body with his own.
"So needy, doll." He murmured against your mouth before kissing you again. You were so distracted by him kissing you so deeply, so intensely, that you failed to notice him undoing his jeans until you felt a heated thick head press against your folds, making you gasp and pull your head back just enough to blink up at Jack.
He grinned at you. The same grin you'd only ever seen the few times you'd impressed him while practicing. "Surprised we're getting to the main act so soon?"
You nodded, feeling both timid and excited. This was possibly better than all your fantasies you'd had about your coach. Fuck, possibly? It was better. It was actively happening. He was actively pushing his cock through your folds, deeper, going agonizingly slow, inch by inch until you felt so full with him that you could barely breathe.
It seemed he felt the same desperation you did, or was at least getting close to it, judging by the ways his eyes clouded over just slightly and, with no hesitation, he pulled out of you completely, manhandled you to be on your stomach, face and chest against the cold bench, lifting your ass into the air and curving you into a near perfect arch and shoving his cock back into you with much more speed and force than the first time.
You almost cried out if not for Jack's hand going to cover your mouth as he started to thrust in and out and in and out until all you could feel was his thick veiny cock pushing deeper and deeper inside your body. Your eyes rolled back, teeth biting down on the closest finger to your lips, but Jack didn't seem to mind. In fact, it only seemed to spur him on to go faster.
He leaned his head down to whisper more filthy things in your ear. You could barely process the words, too fucked out to comprehend his murmurs, but you could tell it was dirty praise by his tone and by the way he enunciated certain words with harder thrusts.
It didn't take long for you to feel the familiar coil deep in your cut, letting out a muffled scream against Jack's hand as you came harder than you could ever make yourself, and Jack just rode you through it. He didn't stop his thrusts, hardly even slowed down as he kept fucking into you. He waited until you finished, limbs almost going limp against the bench, before he came deep inside you, hot seed filling you up and sending shivers up your spine.
Jack sat up, keeping his cock nestled deep inside of you, as he lifted you up so your chest pressed against his back. "You enjoy that, doll? Better than your imagination?"
You nodded, tongue not working well enough to reply with words.
You felt Jack chuckle against your back. "Consider this your reward. For winning."
a/n: this ended up being so much longer than i thought it would be holy shit....was planning for this just to be like maybe 800-900 but i reached flow state and genuinely couldn't stop...doesn't matter bc i'm so happy with how it turned out!!!!! + also i'm sorry i did frank so dirtyyy hope that's not an issue................
written by @heavenorely on tumblr 2026. do not copy, reupload or feed my work to ai.
sitting in jack’s lap, back to chest, the fingers on his left hand filling up your mouth, fingers on his right hand filling up your cunt. his lips to your ear as he checks in.
‘happy girl?’ he confirms, humming when you nod. ‘yeah, ‘course you are. all full of daddy like this.’
he lets out quiet laugh when your pussy clenches down around him, a vibration you can feel more than you can hear. he presses a kiss to your temple—once, twice.
‘what do you think, princess?’ jack asks, curling his fingers behind your pubic bone and making your toes curl in response, a moan slip out from behind your makeshift gag. ‘any room left in here for daddy’s cock?’
linking some of my favorite (mainly) shawn hatosy characters' fics & their creators ! ^_^ (there is many many more talented writers out there too, i may do another part!! much love <3)
how you tell them you're pregnant! - j.a & a.p.c - @voidsagent (2k+)
the cure. - j.a - @pencil-n-pen (11.7k)
the townhouse on the corner. - j.a - @moodyabbott
he who hovers. - j.a - @of-apollo
your shadow. - a.p.c - @ofstarsandvibranium
maggots for brains. - j.a - @p1stach-io (2.4k)
sunshine of the dark. - j.a - @mysoulbelongstobuckybarnes
No one likes getting a pap smear. It was a universally hated experience, and you would have to agree that the test itself was unpleasant. But you guessed you were probably one of the only women in the world who didn’t dread going in for your yearly screening.
Actually, you looked forward to it. Maybe you shouldn’t, but how could you not when your doctor was Jack Abbot?
Dr. Abbot liked to embrace more… unusual techniques.
“Ah, if it isn’t my favorite patient,” Dr. Abbot shut and locked the door behind him. You smiled up at him from where you sat on the bed, completely naked and waiting for him.
“Hi Dr. Abbot,” your shoulders rolled back, making sure he got a good eyeful of your tits.
“And you’re ready for me,” he stepped between your spread legs. He set his clipboard to the side and brought his hands up to cradle your breasts. “What a good girl.”
You preened under his praise, biting your lip as he began to squeeze the flesh in his hands.
“Have you been giving yourself exams?” His eyes were locked on your breasts. Beneath his excessive fondling there was some level of actual medical procedures, but the official examination of your tits was over quickly.
“N-no,” you bit back a moan as he pinched your nipples. He shook his head, tutting at you.
“You know better,” he tugged on them as a punishment, making you squeak and lean forward into him to alleviate the little bit of pain.
“I’m sorry Dr. Abbot.”
He continued to squeeze and caress your chest, humming to himself as he did so and ignoring the tiny moans and whimpers you fought to bite back.
When had satisfied himself, he let go.
“Alright, no lumps,” he stepped away, pulling the stirrups out from under the bed. “But you’ve got to give yourself examinations.”
“But I can’t check as well as you can,” you obeyed the silent order to slide down until your feet were firmly settled into the foothold. You were completely bare, letting him see every inch of you with your legs spread wide and held up and out of the way.
“Ok,” Dr. Abbot chuckled as he grabbed the rolling stool and settled between your legs. “We’ll set you up for monthly check ups with me before you leave. That way I don’t have to worry about my best girl.”
“Thank you Dr. Abbot,” you were practically shaking with anticipation as you heard the snap of his blue rubber gloves.
“Let’s get started on the rest of the exam. Just gotta check your vaginal health and then we’ll get to the unpleasant part, ok?”
“Ok,” you squeaked out.
His thick fingers spread your lips wide so that his warm breath could brush over every inch of you. Dr. Abbot cooed at how your little hole clenched around nothing.
“Are you sexually active?”
“N-no.”
How could you be when you had your beloved Doctor to take care of your needs?
“Good girl,” two of his fingers sank into your drooling cunt. They filled you up so much more than your own ever could. “Boys are so dirty. Only your doctor should ever put anything in here, got it?”
“Yes Doctor!”
You moaned when his tongue licked over your clit. His fingers spread and scissored within you, stretching your walls wide and reaching far deeper than you ever could. His breast exam had worked you up enough that you were trembling almost immediately.
His lips closed over your clit, sucking the little bud into his mouth and laving his tongue over it.
“Dr-Dr. Abbot!”
The hand that wasn’t buried two fingers deep in you came around to press down on your lower stomach to keep you still. You couldn’t help but twitch and writhe in his hold, though, as the pleasure grew. A third finger slid in alongside the first two to stretch your little hold wider than he had before.
“T-too much!” You tried to protest, but Dr. Abbot didn’t let up.
“I’m testing your elasticity,” he mumbled between circling the tip of his tongue around your clit. “Don’t you care about your health?”
All you could do was try and stay still on the table as he pushed you right to the edge and over it. Your eyes rolled back and your mouth dropped open in a long, drawn out moan. Your hips twitched and jerked against his face as he worked you through the orgasm that rolled through your body.
He didn’t stop until you were crying and struggling to get away from the overstimulation.
“Very good,” he backed away, unbuckling his belt as he did so. “Now let’s test your pelvic floor. I want to see just how hard you can squeeze my cock.”
synopsis you and Robby had been going casual for a while now, but when Jack comes into the picture and wants your attention Robby has to share, but with how much the two of them talk about each other while with you, you suspect they might be more than happy with the situation... (7.3K words)
warnings smut MDNI. Three ways kinda. fingering, breast play, handjobs, making out, p in v sex, pussy eating, getting frisky at work, three way kissing? langauage, age gap but no specified
author note consider this my sorry for no part two to golden girl.... there probably won't be a part two to this though either....
the pitt masterlist! other rabbot x reader work!
You had never known two men to be as competitive as Jack and Robby.
Two men who admitted to themselves they were both good doctors- great even, though they had different styles. They could look past each other's ways of doing things in order to support each other. One could lead with authority and drive, the other moving round his leadership with kind steps and guidance.
Except when it came to you.
When it was you, they were two teenage boys on the pitch trying to impress a field of girls.
When Jack had asked you for drinks you'd been overjoyed that your lingering glances and petty touches had been enough to convey your interest. However, you then had to explain yours and Robby's arrangement.
You'd been fucking quietly (as in on the down low, nothing about the way you fucked was quiet) and needed to make sure Jack was okay knowing that wouldn't be stopping just because he was taking you on one date. As much as you'd been looking at Jack, hoping for his attention, you couldn't stop the attraction you had to Robby. It had come first, afterall.
You'd said as much to Robby with his cock deep inside of you. Your hands on his shoulders as you bounced, the plap plap plap of skin bouncing off his bedroom walls. “Jack- Jack asked me for drinks,” you gasped.
Robby's skin glowed in sweat. His hands dug into your hips, helping you move up and down at a brutal pace. “My Jack?”
Something about the way he insisted Jack was his had you moaning out, your walls tightening around him.
“Fuck, don't do that,” Robby grunted, head thrown back on his headboard with a whack.
“Your-your Jack. Yes!” Your hands reached back to his thighs, fingernails digging into his skin.
It thrust your chest in Robby's face and he didn't miss a beat to trail his tongue messily across your chest, tasting your sweat and groping at your breast to take your nipple and swirl his tongue around the bud. He moaned around it, sucking like a baby and sending stimulation through your body.
“Fuck-fuck, Robby,” you moaned, dragging your core over him in delicious circles.
He hummed and watched you with encouraging nods. He pulled away from your breast and took your neck, bringing you in to him sharply. He nodded along with the movements of your body. “Come on my cock, scream my name, then we can talk about your date with Jack.”
Come on his cock you did, body shaking, mouth hung open soundlessly as Robby held you close into his chest and rutted up into you till he finished, painting your walls and biting down on your shoulder.
Moments later you were tucked into his side, Robby twirling bits of your hair with his head rested against yours.
“So Jack, huh?” he'd asked. “You want to go.” He wasn't looking at you but at the empty space at the bottom of his bed. There was a chest at the bottom with the essentials for such activities: towels, wipes, condoms, lube, maybe even some toys you'd slipped in as a joke all well within reach for him.
“Yeah I do,” you said. “We're only casual right, I'm within my rights to see who I want, aren't I?”
It was all teasing. You knew Robby didn't really want to share you but couldn't commit either so until then you'd be exercising your freedom.
Till he broke, because you knew he would.
That's how you ended up at a bar with Jack, crowded together in a small booth in the corner just days later. A few empty glasses sat around you, as well as an empty basket of chicken wings you'd shared earlier in the night.
Jack's arm was thrown around the booth, finger so close to touching, thigh almost pressed to yours but he kept just beyond touch. Either out of respect for yours and Robby's arrangement, or to drive you crazy.
“How long's this thing with you and Robby been going on?” he asked.
“Few months. We both needed a release with no strings attached kind of thing and it just happened that way.” You weren't ashamed of it. Not embarrassed that you'd given in to Robby the way you'd always wanted to. You didn't care that he was your boss or older than you by some decades. If stuff like that bothered you, you wouldn't have been sitting in the bar with Jack.
“You ever thought of asking me?” he asked with a smirk.
“If you were there that day, I just might have.”
It wasn't like you could ever ignore how attractive Jack was. Just as you couldn't ignore how attractive Robby was.
“And if I wanted to take you on more dates,” said Jack. “How would that work with you and Robby?”
You took your time in running your fingers over the rim of your glass.
The fact of the matter was you thought it wouldn't get better than Robby. Same hours and the same needs bled into sex that had your body shivering and never left you without pleasure. You liked it. You hadn't thought about changing it. You didn't know if you could find as deep a knowing as you had with Robby.
“I-I don't know,” you said, frowning to yourself at your own admission.
“Hey-hey,” said Jack, hand brushing back your hair and cradling your cheek. “I'm not asking you and Robby to stop.” Jack shuffled closer, finally touching you. “I'm just asking if you had room for one more.”
That's how you ended up in the back of Jack's truck pulled around to the dark corners of the bar, sprawled naked along the backs of his seat, legs spread and his mouth hot and heavy on you.
He'd got an orgasm from you pressed up against the wall, fingers curling and circling in the ways you liked like he'd been studying for this.
“Yeah... yeah...” Jack talked down to your pussy, your arousal coating his lips and almost dripping down before he dove back in, fingers spreading you wide and tongue slotting in.
“Jack! It's-it's too much!” you cried, desperate to close your thighs but his hands darted out and kept one high up on the back seats and the other limp on the floor. “Jack!”
His tongue fucked into you. “Just come. Come for me baby and I promise I'll stop, I promise-”
Condensation rolled down the windows of his truck, your body moving against the seats as you withered in pleasure. You had come on his tongue, not that it stopped Jack as he promised it would.
You had to explain to Robby the next time you saw him why there were bruises he definitely didn't leave at your thighs and why the pussy he'd memorised the taste of had something different to it.
That's how the challenge started.
Your time was split three ways: Work, Robby and Jack. Downtime was spent in Robby's apartment or Jack's place. You had a perfectly divided sets of your favourite clothes in each wardrobe, had given enough hints for each of them to get in your favourite snacks and a toothbrush in each bathroom.
You had, you would say, perfectly trained them.
They knew it. They knew they'd somehow become your toys. They knew if you weren't with one of them you'd be with the other and they used your body like a telegram to read each others messages, but as far as you knew they'd never brought it up with each other in person.
“What are you doing tonight?” asked Robby, hovering next to you, looking down at the tablet in hand.
Around the two of you the Pitt carried on moving. The doctors and nurses conversed and walked, the patients complained and crashed and nobody looked twice at the boss talking to a resident. If they'd looked too close they might have realised how often the two of you did speak in work.
You stood, staring at the board, trying to find a blank spot to slide into. “Uh, dinner with Jack.”
From the corners of your eyes you spotted Robby shifting his weight, head lowering as he huffs.
“Dinner with Jack, second time this week, huh,” he said. “Wonder how this place can manage without him.”
A smirk graced your lips as you turned to consider him.
“Someone feeling neglected?”
“Noooo,” he said, dragging it out and finding something on the tablet cover that was much more important than staring at you. He quipped his head to the side. “Just... you and Jack been going on dinners a lot, this week.”
“Our second one?”
“I could take you for dinner too.”
“But you never do.”
“Do you want me to?” he tried to sound casual but his brows rose at once.
You shrugged. “Ask me.”
“Got to book in time to see you now?” Robby asked. His head bent lower to your ear until you could smell the mint on his lips and feel the heat of his breath ghost the shell of your ear. He blew on it lightly, knowing how it sent shivers down your spine and made your body curl closer into his. “I was here first.”
You tried to hold back a smirk as you stepped back, turning to him. “Is someone jealous?” you teased.
Robby pulled his lips into a frown and shook his head, but he couldn't meet your eyes.
Casual was what Robby wanted, what he thrived on and the only thing he thought he was consistent at. So consistent it was his only relationship. Really, he had no right to be jealous and yet you saw the way his eyes narrowed when patients flirted with you. You knew he felt it when he fucked you hard after doctors on higher floors came down and stared too long at the way you leant over a computer. Casual was what Robby was good at, so he'd never admit he was getting it wrong.
“I'm a single girl,” you reminded him.
“That you are,” he trailed every word longer than it needed to be, saying it as if he didn't quite believe himself.
“And I'm allowed to have dinner with whoever I want?”
“It's not about the dinner,” he said, eyes following a nurse that walked a little too close to the two of you. “It's the fact that I want you in my bed tonight and you tell me you have plans.”
“If you wanted me in your bed more you could just make me your girlfriend?” you said, biting down on your lip to stop your smile.
You watched a glimmer of panic flash in front of his face before it gave way to relief. He knew you weren't really asking because casual worked for you too. Not having to remember dates, or buy anniversary presents or text constantly. It was what you needed. And yet, you loved to tease him with the G and B words.
“I don't have to. You'll come around,” Robby shrugged. “You always do. Tell Jack I said hi.” He walked past you then, hands grazing your elbows as he shuffled by like there wasn't plenty of space.
The small touches he teased you with through out the day was never enough to sustain you. That's why he did it: to keep you coming back for more.
Your dinner with Jack ended how it did almost every night, you in his lap in his apartment, lips moulding against yours, hands running up your back.
Jack always took it slow like the pleasure of you was something to savour, like he didn't believe he'd ever get the chance again. But it had been three months of going back and forth between the two, three months of your body bathed in their kisses and walking around with your head in the clouds.
As much as you loved being with Robby, Jack was new and you were still learning.
“Grinding down on my lap?” he teased slightly breathless, pulling back enough to speak.
You hadn't even realised you were until you felt your panties dampening, till you felt the tension in your hips and the smirk on his lips.
Jack seethed in a breath and went back into you, hand catching the back of your head to draw you in as he encouraged your movements. “Does Robby not satisfy you?”
You smiled against his lips, nipping. “You boys,” you muttered, shuffling closer into his hardening cock, hidden behind his jeans. “Really want to out-do one another, huh?”
“Just want to make sure you're not wasting your time,” he said. Jack pecked your lips over and over again as his hands found the buttons to your jeans, deftly popping them. “With either of us.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
It didn't take long for Jack's fingers to wriggle themselves into your jeans, running lines against your clothed pussy that cried for him. He loved to watch how you moved against his smallest of touches, how you reacted slowly, needy.
“Jack,” you gasped, tilting your head back as his thumb pushed down on your clit, circling slowly. “Robby-Robby says hi.”
Jack hummed. “Does he?” his middle finger slid past the elastic of your panties, finding a home in the warmth of your walls. “He can come say it to me, no good using our girl for messages.”
His lips kissed sweetly at your temple, his endearing move that would catch you off guard in the dirtiest of moments. When he was coaching orgasms out of you through curling fingers or driving into you with your cock, his lips would find your forehead and stay there, mumbling encouragements and compliments that had your body grow fuzzy in a different way.
It was the same way Robby pulled you into his side, fingers twirling around your hair or knuckles grazing your forearms.
They had ways of surprising you, still.
“I got you something,” said Jack, pulling back to get a look at you.
“Oh?”
Jack nodded and tilted his head to nudge against your hose like some horse begging for attention before he withdrew his finger from you. He patted your thighs and you climbed off, falling back into his sofa and letting the cushions swallow you.
You watched as he put his finger in his mouth, licking off the taste of you as if it was a taste of his favourite dish.
Your eyes trailed down his body as he disappeared. The swing of his hips, the pull of his pants over his crotch and the veins that pulled in his arms that had you drooling.
When Jack returned there was a small box in hand and he settled down next to you, throwing an arm around the back of the sofa and offering you the box.
“What is it?” you asked without taking the box. The instinct to sit on your hands to not reach out was a hard one to fight against.
You didn't do gifts, at least not with Robby. His gifts came in litters of kisses and drawn out pleasure throughout long nights. The only present he'd ever got you was a set of lingerie that had only ended up in strips and tears of fabric sprawled along his bedroom floor.
Jack shrugged. “A puppy. You want him to suffocate?” he teased.
With a roll of your eyes you pulled the lid open as Jack tugged your legs into his lap, running his hands up and down.
A thin chain lay on a small velvet, black cushion, a delicate J hanging on the end.
You could feel Jack's eyes on you, watching and waiting for a creation. You were scared to reach out and touch it. Terrified that you'd reach out and the lid would snap shut, that the chain would strangle you. It was as if you'd never been given a gift so beautiful. You hadn't. “Jack, I... I don't know what to say.”
Was it too much? If you and Jack were as casual as you and Robby how could you wear his initial on a necklace?
But you didn't want it to disappear.
You thought about the J hanging over your heart, the chain dangling when you slowly sank onto Jack's cock. You imagined Robby finding it, the way his fingers would push down on the letter till J was etched in there. Or when you rode him, lingering over him to watch his pleasure, would he take the metal letter into his mouth and keep it warm?
“I think you should say-” said Jack, taking up the chain and slowly moving, resting it around your neck. “I love it.”
You moved your hair aside, allowing him to clasp it and relishing in the cooling metal against the flush of your skin. “I do. I love it.”
Jack kissed over the clasp against your skin. “Yeah?”
When your head turned his lips were there, waiting and kissed yours sweetly, hand crawling up to your neck to lay you flat against him. He tested the taste of you with his tongue. His hand ran down your front, pulling at your shirt and exposing the skin only just healing from your last night with him.
“This way,” he said, lips moving against yours with enough time to find words. “When you're with Robby, I'm there too.”
Robby caught sight of the necklace a week later.
“Hey,” he said, eyeing Samira who stood over your shoulder. “Can I borrow you? Ten minutes? Fifteen, tops?”
Sometimes with how well you and Robby played co-workers you couldn’t tell the difference between needing to see a patient and him needing you.
“Course.” Your chair scraped back as you bid a see you later to Mohan and followed after Robby.
He was making a hard line through the department, wearing out his trainers as he didn’t once look back to see if you were hot on his heels. You were.
“Everything okay?”
He led you out the doors and past the stairwell where the on call room was tucked in a corner. It was a room you’d grown familiar with. You knew the desk was rickety and wasn’t best for the kind of activities you and Robby got up to in the room. You knew it was best to cushion the headboard with a cushion, not because there were neighbours to worry about, but to stop anyone else passing by from hearing the thud.
Robby pressed his key into the door and held it open for you, checking the coast was clear before nudging you in and slamming it closed behind the two of you.
His hands were on you, fisting your scrub top, lips claiming yours like he wanted to share his very breath with you.
In spite of the patient you had waiting on discharge, the chairs that you never seemed to quite catch up on and the monitors still ringing in your mind, you held onto Robby with just as much fever. Your hands gripped his shoulders, finding his scruffy hair and pushed your tongue against his.
“You know better than to tease me at work,” he said.
You bit down on his bottom lip, tugging it out.
Robby guided you back to the bed with steady hands on your hips. “Or at least I thought you did.”
When the back of your knees met the bed frame you fell back, dragging Robby with you.
“I have no idea what you're talking about,” you mumbled, hands winding under his top, scraping at the roundness of his belly and feeling the bristle of his hairs.
He hummed, pressing his weight into you. “No?”
“Nuh-uh,” you said.
Robby pulled back enough for you to catch the darkness in his eyes, your slightly tinted lip balm smudging his lips. “I thought you were clever, huh?”
Teasing. You'd only been leaning over charting, maybe jutting out your hips a little more. Maybe grazing against Robby more than you needed to.
There was little time to reply before Robby was licking into your lips again, groaning at the taste and the push of himself into you. He opened your mouth and sort your tongue, hands pushing and pulling up your scrub top until skin gave way to skin and he could feel the plains of you, the warmth you were giving off. He tugged and moved at the skin and pulled off your scrub top.
You knew how it would go. In ten minutes Robby would work you up, have you teetering on the edge of insanity and want then send you back out to the ward. He'd demand you to double up on patients and get them all discharged before you left. He'd get you begging by the end of the night.
Your scrub top was thrown to the corner and Robby's hands grabbed your breasts, groping and moving, licking over what spilled from your bra and nipping.
Your legs wrapped around his waist, tugging him in closer-
Then- he grew cold and still, his lips moving away from his chest.
“Huh? Robby, what?” You shook yourself out of your haze and looked at him.
“What's this?” his voice was low in his throat as he pulled back.
There was cooling metal rested on your chest. Your spine tingled as a finger traced the letter there.
Robby was staring down at the necklace with a frown, eyebrows pinched together and mouth twisting.
You'd imagined Robby finding out about the chain a dozen times, but you didn't expect the look of hurt or anger there. “It's nothing. It's just- Jack, a gift.”
“Gift?” he questioned.
You nodded and gulped, suddenly worried. What if Robby said he couldn't do it anymore? He couldn't share you? Would he insist upon you ending it with Jack to have you all to himself, or would he ditch you and leave you to Jack's capable hands.
The both of you shuffled. Robby swung his legs over the bed, running a hand through his hair as he hunched over and you sat up.
“It's nothing, just a gift, I promise, Robby. I promise,” you said, holding onto his shoulders and pressing a kiss into his shoulder.
Robby stared down at his hands. “It's pretty,” he grumbled.
“You're prettier,” you said, resting your chin on his shoulder.
Robby turned and pulled a face at you.
You smiled and kissed his shoulder again. “Don't think anything of it.”
He inhaled, body moving against yours as he did. “Hard not to. His fucking letter of his name is sitting in between my favourite place.” His eyes flickered down to where your chest was lying in temptation.
You stilled as his hand darted out, picking up the J and fiddling with it.
There was an odd look to him. There was a clench in his jaw and you could feel his body tense but that familiar darkness was still in his eyes. He still licked his lips like he wanted to take a bite from every bit of your flesh and he wasn't letting go of the initial at your chest.
You'd seen the ways your boys acted. When you mentioned the dinner with Jack and watched Robby try to act like he didn't care. When Jack stripped you bare and eyed the bites Robby had left the nights before. Jack would give time to making those marks worse, deeper in colour and mixing Robby's dried spit with his own. How even with his cock deep inside of you Robby would go the lengths of asking for excruciating details on your dates with Jack.
“Well, I have a theory,” you said, swinging yourself into his lap. His hands fell upon you, working like velcro. “You quite like it, the challenge.”
His brows rose, hands casting up and down you. “Challenge?”
“You and Jack. Sharing me.” To test the waters, you rolled your hips against him and felt his cock answer. “The back and worth. Wanting to do better than the other.”
“Don't I?” he asked, kissing over the chain between your shoulder and neck. He picked it up between his teeth and dropped it back down.
“You both have your talents,” you whispered, tilting your neck back and grinding down on him.
“Yeah?”
“Your favourite things... your favourite parts...”
“Parts?” Robby's eyes were wide and pleasing, looking up to you.
You nodded and closed your eyes, chasing the feeling of him. “Jack... he likes to be down there more,” you said with a particular roll down on your hips. “You like to be up here.” You brought your hands up and squeezed at your breasts to bring them together.
Robby's eyes practically bulge out his head and he latches himself between them, groaning into your skin like this was the only rest bite he craved. The only place he needed to be.
“Jack's staking his claim,” you moaned. “Making sure... you see him.”
His tongue left a trail of his saliva over your chest. “Then I guess I better stake mine.”
Three days later, Robby's head was between your thighs, nudging his tongue in deep, rubbing his nose into your wetness.
You were calling his name, moaning his name when a new smaller cold chain wrapped around your ankle. You pushed yourself up on your elbows, looking through the haze of pleasure to see a band around your ankle, a delicate R hanging there.
Robby's eyes flicked up to you, smirking and your arousal wetting his lips.
“An anklet, huh?”
“You started it,” said Robby. “A necklace?”
Jack shrugged. “It was something nice.”
“It was a dig.”
Jack shook his head innocently. “No.”
The two of them were leant casually over the counter, stealing a few minutes of relative peace before Robby had to lead him room to room and tell him who was going home and who was not. Who had good chances of living a normal life and those that did not.
Their idea of peace was staring at you from across the floor, where you lingered with Dana. You were talking, just talking with the occasional smile but it was enough for the two of them.
They kept their conversations timid regarding you. They could say everything they needed to say by leaving little bits of each other on your skin.
It seemed the new gifts suddenly sprang on you was encouragement enough.
“So what do we do about it?” asked Jack.
Robby was reluctant to tear is gaze away from you as he slowly dragged his gaze to check on Jack. “On what?”
Jack nodded toward you. “We gonna do this forever?”
“Seems to be working,” said Robby.
“Forever?”
Robby nerves grew on him. He turned his body to Jack, considering him as he considered you. “Has she... said something?” Robby knew he wasn't what made boyfriends or husbands, but were you not happy with what you had?
“No,” said Jack, moving to look down at his hands. “We just gonna keep sharing her? I don't like the idea that I'm stealing your guys time from you.”
“We make it work,” said Robby.
The both of them returned to observing you.
“I like her,” said Jack.
Robby agreed. “Yeah. More than me?”
Jack's eyes ran up and down from you. “Only time will tell.”
“If you're worried about her time we can work something out,” said Robby.
He had the feeling you'd like something like that too. Your time together exhausted him in the best way possible before work so he wasn't sure how you managed splitting your time between him, Jack and work and supposedly getting some rest all between it.
“Work something out?” asked Jack, frowning at the words. It seemed the both of them were stubborn about you. “What? Like a schedule?”
Robby's head fell side to side. “Something like that.”
It took two more weeks of shared dates and beds before you, Robby and Jack could finally be in the same room that wasn't the hospital.
You'd noticed the two of them were talking about each other more. It wasn't unusual for one to bring up the other with arms firm around you, lips etched to your neck.
“Has Jack found that little spot that gets you whining yet?” Robby would ask, sucking on said mark with thick fingers curling into you.
Jack had but you didn't need to answer that for him to know.
“Mmh, mmh, I love this pussy,” Jack said one night when he'd already spent fifteen minutes in lucking and sucking up your pussy. “Can fucking taste Robby in here.”
It was becoming apparent to you, even if it wasn't them, that they really, really liked seeing each other in you. Liked kissing over the same marks and tracing the same path.
Robby had invited you over under the pretence of just casual drinks. You'd said you had plans with Jack (his nights off getting increasingly more likely) and saw the tick in Robby's jaw that you had plans again. Plans that meant his time with you was limited to what he could steal in the staff lounge and on-call room.
Which was why Robby had invited you and Jack around to his. For drinks. Casual.
It didn't stay casual for long.
“Oh, come on,” said Jack taking a swig of his beer, all sweaty from how he'd held it most of the night. “If both of us approached you at a bar, who you picking?”
“I'm not answering that,” you laughed.
You were sandwiched between the two of them on Robby's sofa, curled up between the meat of their thighs that were spread to touch you. Around the back of the sofa, Robby rested his arm while Jack watched you with his head rested on his arm propped on the back of the sofa.
“What? You have to,” said Robby.
“No, I don't,” you said again with a laugh, taking a sip of beer.
“We're big guys, we can handle it,” said Jack with a shrug of indifference.
You doubted they could, whoever you picked. The other would take you to bed and fuck you into the mattress and lick their name against your spine.
Robby's finger prodded into your shoulder for an answer.
“Okay,” you said. You leant forward and ditched your can on the coffee table before settling back with their bodies closer to you. “How does it work?”
“How does what work?” asked Robby, very intrigued by the prospect of who you'd go for.
You rolled your eyes and flattened your feet on the floor. “Dress it up for me. What's the bar like? Who am I with? What are the two of you doing?”
Robby made some sort of pfft sound and laid back.
Jack rubbed a finger over the bottom of his lip and dedicated time to think about it. “The bars dark, low, that kind of thing you'd find downtown,” he recited like he'd thought about this a hundred times. His hand comes to your knee, circling it till you jerked at the tickle. “You'd come with a bunch of your girlfriends and Robby and I-”
“- at the bar,” interjected Robby. His eyes drifted from Jack to you. “We met for a couple drinks, tired from work.”
“Oh, this is very realistic,” you smirked.
Robby gave his own back. “And then you walk in. Little dress, like that black thing you wear sometimes.”
“Practically begging to be noticed,” said Jack. “How could we not? Two old men, down on their luck and a pretty, young thing like you walks in.”
The tingle down your body ran deeper, fuzzier than ever with Jack's hand on you and Robby's eyes lingering. Their breaths and heat co-existing drove you slowly mad.
“Then you start throwing down favours? Is that it?” you asked quietly.
“Rest of the night carries on a bit,” said Robby, drawing your attention to him. He shifts his head side to side as if weighing up the different ways this hypothetical night could go. “Jack and I are having drinks, keeping an eye on you all night.”
“Some of your friends decide to call it early but you want to keep having fun,” said Jack, his hand travelling further up your leg. “Wild girl.”
You had no time to retort before Robby was reaching for you, talking again.
“Jack and I had been waiting for you all night, watching, thinking about buying you drinks every time you got out your card out.” His voice was low, body leaning into you.
“I approach you at the bar, some cheesy line I know you'd secretly like-” added Jack.
“You come sit with us,” said Robby, “Stuck between the two of us just like you are now.”
Robby's breath fanned your pulse thumping in your neck and Jack's hand travelled to the height of your thigh, rubbing his hand up and down. You could imagine it. The bar with the lights down low, catching the eye of the two men who leaned in to talk to each other. Maybe Robby would spot you first as he was saying something to Jack and un-able to take his eyes from you Jack would just have to take a look also.
From there you'd dance with your friends, swing out your hips more than needed, brush back your hair with every sway. You'd check they were watching, enamoured by you every once and in a while and of course they were. How could they not?
“I'm sitting with you now?” you ask, voice breathless as you struggled with knowing who to look at.
Jack's head nodded as his hand came up, popping the button of your jeans. You didn't rise to meet him, nor did you try and stop him.
Neither did Robby.
“Just like now. A good girl, sat between two men who are just slowly, slowly trying to get a taste.” Robby's voice dropped lower and lower, head ducking until he brushed hair from your neck and pressed light kisses along there.
You could feel your own chest heaving, see the the quick moves of it under your hooded gaze.
Jack's hand had slid down your pants and was making a slow observation of your clothed pussy, wet like he'd never known it to be.
You leant your head back for Robby as another warmth spread along the other side of your neck. “Do I let them?” you asked. “Get a taste?”
“Oh yeah,” said Jack, on the account of Robby finding a home in your neck and kissing and licking over his favourite spot. The spot that had your panties growing wetter. “Yeah you let them try, you're so sweet like that.” He pressed a kiss onto your clothed shoulder.
“Whose do we go back to?” you asked, your hands coming up to cradle each of their heads.
“Mine.”
Both of their voices were muffled from lips pressed to different parts of you, but both were just as possessive.
Your fingers curled delightfully around the backs of their heads.
The two of them retreated, looking to each other.
“No cat fights now, boys.”
You leant into Jack first just to grate against Robby's nerves. You pressed your lips into his, holding his face to yours as your lips parted his and you swallowed the sound of surprise he gave you. He groaned and moaned into your lips as he fingers prodded at the gate to heaven under your panties. You were sure he was making more of a noise and more of a show of it because Robby was at your other side.
You didn't know if you'd expected Robby to groan and complain about the show the two of you were putting on. Whether or not he'd get up from his sofa and demand you both leave, ending what you'd been teetering on for months.
Instead, you felt him remain steady and close behind you, his eyes burning into your skull.
You pulled back from Jack slowly, the wet smack of lips leaving the room.
Robby eagerly took you in his arms when you leant back into him.
He sighed at the taste of your lips but as soon as your mouth opened up he moaned at the taste of you mixed with Jack, some forbidden fruit he'd taken the first bite of and become addicted to.
“Oh my god,” Jack groaned from behind you, finally slipping two fingers past your panties and into you folds.
You gasped against Robby's mouth, teeth clashing with his. He held your neck, holding you in to draw out the kiss as his tongue flicked against yours.
You felt Robby's arm stretch out and you expect the feel of his warm embrace, of his hands cupping your chest or pulling back your hair. Instead, he moved past you and wrapped his fingers around Jack's wrist, urging him to move his fingers inside of you in a steady pace.
“Oh-” you moaned, back arching up into Robby was he dropped his head to your neck.
“You're squeezin' me like that, honey,” Jack mumbled against your ear. “Feel like you're already gonna come, huh?”
Robby made a noise into your neck. “We got her excited.”
With your eyes closed in bliss and focusing on not rocking into Jack's hand you blindly reached out. A hand gripped onto Jack's thigh that tensed under your claws digging in and the other to Robby's cock that strained against his jeans.
“Please,” you said, breathless.
Any other time maybe Robby would have put up a fight, make you work for just a glimpse of himself but he smiled and clicked his tongue before he shifted in his seat and started to pop the buttons slowly.
Jack bit down on his lip, his finger working you open and curling but eyes on where Robby's hands fumbled for the belt. “Yeah, that's what you wanted? Wanted Robby's cock?”
“Yes,” you said with a lick of your lips.
Jack brought out his fingers and spread you arousal all around you before circling that small bundle of nerves.
Your head was thrown back, stretching out the skin of your neck. “J-Jack!”
His teeth scraped your neck.
“Gonna come already?” asked Robby, amused at the state of you. He'd never had a front row seat to the effect Jack had on you and by what you'd felt through his boxers and jeans, he was enjoying it.
You shut him up when you bypassed his layers of clothing and wrapped your hand around his cock.
Robby seethed and laid back as you reached around for him, taking what arousal was leaking for the head and dragging it down him.
“You're so good at that, aren't you, baby?” asked Jack as set a steady rhythm upon you. “So good.”
“Jack,” you panted. “Please, I wanna- I wanna-”
He nodded against you.
“You wanna come?” asked Robby from behind you, a hand running up and down your back. “So soon?”
“Let her finish,” said Jack pulling back and staring at you. He worked his fingers over your clit faster, dipping into your heat to drag up your want and repeat it until you were starting to tremble. “Not her fault she's excited by the both of us against her.”
Robby grumbled but couldn't find the words to say much else as your thumb swept the tip of him repeatedly.
“J-Jack!” you came onto his hand with a breath of a moan, your hand squeezing Robby.
“Fuck!” he groaned as he watched you come down from your high.
Jack sent a smirk over your shoulder. “What? Gonna come so soon?” he teased, licking a finger into his mouth and cleaning you from himself.
You caught your breath, slowly taking away your hand from Robby's cock and sitting up straighter. Your heart hammers, your ears were left ringing like you'd just gone through something life changing. You think you had.
Both of the men at your sides shuffled to sit up on either side of you.
“What's up?” asked Jack. “No regrets?”
You looked between the two of them and shook your head.
Before you knew it Robby took to one side of your neck, Jack the other. You were left sitting there as they held you up for them to do their diligent work.
Your eyes closed as you focused on the rub of Robby's beard as he sucked a deep mark onto you. On the other side Jack's slight stubble grazed as he scraped his teeth against different spots of you, unable to settle.
Their hands were hot as Robby's ran over the length of your back, coming around to squeeze at your breasts and earn noises of relief as reward while Jack focused on pulling down your jeans, on pulling open your thighs, desperate to be slotted in between them.
You guided Robby up by his chin, kissing him with a heavy tongue and eager lips writing everything you wanted him to do to you. His cock was still out, protruding and begging for attention with every messy swipe of your lips.
Jack was still on you, making a work at your neck.
You pulled away from Robby, his eyes still almost black from need when you moved to Jack, to kiss him and give him a taste of Robby.
You didn't know if it was just the adrenaline of the two of them kissing you, working you open and apart but you swear you'd never felt the two of them kiss you like they did then. With the other watching, with the other just within reach and with their lips still on the soft skin of yours.
You kept like that for a while, in between them, kissing each one moment, the other breathing hard on you. At some point Jack had gotten his own hardening cock out, rubbing it up and down leisurely as if you had all night to enjoy everything.
Delicately, you dragged your nails down their necks, cupping their chins and kept them steady and like putty in your hands.
Enamoured and under you spell neither realised when there wasn't just one tongue but another. When your smooth skin gave way to stubble neither blinked and when the hands became gruff and coarse, they relished in it.
All until you could guide Robby and Jack's mouths in together, settling back on the sofa like you were about to watch your favourite show.
You watched as Jack's grey and Robby's brown brows furrowed in as they focused in on the new taste, the rougher lips and hotter tongue. Their hands were searching these new bodies with grips and grasps.
Their cocks bobbed with their movements and you watched, mouth salivating.
Noises you'd never heard them make before left them but you weren't even jealous. You were wet and trying to remember what they looked like caving into each other to keep in the back of your mind for months to come.
Only when their faces were reddening and you feared they might fait from suffocation and you'd have to call PTMC and explain why their cocks were out, you clapped your hands once.
Their eyes opened, mouths still against each other as they caught their breaths before looking to you slowly, eyes hazy and faces red, lips swollen.
“Well, this has been fun,” you said, patting their thighs and wedging yourself out from between them. “But I should call it, work tomorrow, early night and all.”
The two were frozen, dumb-founded like teen boys realising they might like their guy friend a little too much.
You were already at the door, throwing your hair over your shoulder and showing the beautiful litters of marks they'd left on you. “See you in work!”
You left gratified. You'd got to come by Jack's hands once and had watched them make out. And even though you were accustom to a drawn out night of pleasure, you were more than set up for the rest of the night with the image of the two of them safely stored away.
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jack abbot 𝔁 𝒇 ! muse ⠀﹒⠀ ꒰ 𝒉𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧 ꒱
⎯⎯ O.938k · hyper feminine ! reader ༝ fem ! reader ༝ reader is black ! ༝ strangers -> friends ? -> lovers ?? ༝ suggestive ( mention of m ! masturbation ) ༝ slight angst ༝ no use of y/n ⠀﹒⠀ 𝒎𝐝𝐧𝐢 ﹗
⁽ 𝓐𝙲𝚃 𝙾𝙽𝙴 ⁾ ᩍ JACK ’ S FIRST MEETING WITH YOU :
the first time he met you was in the most normal way possible . . he wanted to try a new café that opened a few days ago near his appartment . finally arriving before the pastry display case , the er doctor seemed to hesitate between a slice of fig cake and a pistachio filled baklava .
being used to coming here after a few days , you immediately come up next to him and point out the baklava pastry , claiming it’s one of your favorite from this café and that it goes pretty well with a latte .
he takes your advice into consideration because once you’ve left to go sit back at your table he interjects the cashier and ask them for a slice of baklava and a latte . ofc you notice it and smile to yourself , finding it cute that that sweet man actually listened to you .
as he leaves with the take out bag and latte in his other hand he offers a smile you’re not ready to forget yet because you feel like it’s not just a random encounter .
the second meeting isn’t an accident … you think you might’ve manifested to see that stranger again and you did a few days later . this time it’s in the neighborhood bodega . he was looking for some strong glue and found you in the same aisle as him .
“ hey , fancy seeing you here oldie . ” he frowns just a bit but straightens in his position and loose the shelves to hold eye contact with you . that’s how you notice his hazel eyes . you can’t stop yourself from thinking they’re really beautiful but before you can compliment them , jack speaks .
“ fancy seeing you here too , pretty . ” the he ask you what you’re doing here that early and you just shrugs , saying you were looking for some tape .
⁽ 𝓐𝙲𝚃 𝚃𝚆𝙾 ⁾ ᩍ FEELS FEELS FEELS … !
oh.
yeah that’s the first thing he thought when he started craving more of … whatever is happening between the two of you . man was genuinely chasing your attention everytime he would come across you ; café , market … cinema once .
then days became weeks of acknowledging each other until it all began to morph into a peculiar friendship . eventually , he also obtained your number and you would organize hang outs that defo weren’t dates because both parts shared a common platonic feeling regarding those . jack had doubts about those platonic feelings sometimes …
he realized he actually loved you when you showed up at the ptmc during his shift . he thought you were the one hurt but when he saw you carry an unconscious child in your arms asking for ‘ doctor jack abbot ’ , his heart found relief [ doesn’t mean he wasn’t worried about the child , just glad you weren’t the one hurt .. was it egotistical ? ]
he would have never admitted it if shen didn’t point out the way he insisted on the fact that hugging you for that long and maintain eye contact for as long as he could with you was not the platonic shit jack thought was going on between the two of you .
singe that day night , jack changed in a way that delighted you . ofc he remained his usual smooth talking self . yet , his precious hazel eyes offered you longing glances , he’d press a gentle hand on your back as he let you enter first in your favorite café or when he passed by you in his kitchen to grab something in the fridge .
the cherry on top was when you received a miu miu bag you didn’t remember ordering and realized it couldn’t be anyone else but jack . that had to be him . it just … felt that he was the type of person to gift you things without a second thought and have it right every time . the shocking pat ? you only mentioned once on an early morning months ago . and he sent it to you nonchalantly .
it got worse when he started thinking about you in ways he shouldn’t .
he’d fist his cock thinking about the short skirt he saw you wearing this morning , your thighs were exposed and he wished they could have been wrapped about his waist as you rode him . he’d hold your hips guiding you up and down his meat , slick coating his skin and a pretty white ring gathering at the base of his length …
⁽ 𝓐𝙲𝚃 𝚃𝙷𝚁𝙴𝙴 ⁾ ᩍ CONFESSIONS … !
it took jack weeks before he could finally confess his feelings for you ; torn between ruining your friendship and cherish it . but the ache in his heart when he saw you flirt with someone else at a bar in front of him last week convinced him to do it .
and so, he invited you to your favorite restaurant downtown on his day off . that guy was nervous af ! it was the first time he was gonna confess his feelings since his wife happened in his life .
jack literally took the wine glass away from you before he confessed , making sure you were in your right mind for you to give him a clear answer was important for him .
“ you’re the most important person in my life right now , and i would hate to loose you without even trying to earn your heart . ” let’s say you had it coming . you knew it wasn’t just a simple diner from the moment he texted you to get ready out of nowhere four hours ago .
you said yes . and you swore you saw almost tears in his eyes .
after the date , he drove you home . you thought he was going to kiss you but at the last moment his kiss landed on your cheek .
𝒗𝐢𝐞𝐰 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 :
• hyper feminine ! reader : introduction + tag navigation .
• jack abbot other works : 𓇼 .
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there’s something about jack abbot’s face being the first you’ve ever ridden that really gets him going.
jeez, you were so reluctant in the beginning—kept trying to hold your weight up on your own, despite him rasping from between your thighs for you to “ease on down,” with his palms at your thighs and squeezing because it really is okay.
you’re worried about suffocating him and pressing on this head too tight and and and–
huh. funny enough, all those concerns seem to melt away the second jack nudges you close enough to finally taste.
he can feel you relax and sag with each wide lap and wet suckle, little gasps hiccuping out of you like you’re trying not to cry. based on the way you have to grip the headboard when he drags his jaw a certain direction, you're more than enjoying the stubble he's been growing out.
broad strokes and tiny flicks. flat circles and sloppy kisses. dips inside your hole and loud slurps.
jack pulls out all the stops to keep you grinding across his face, not that you end up needing much help. your hips willed away whatever concerns you held to get you riding him how he'd wanted. how you deserved, with no shame, while he makes out with the places he's been thinking about since he last tasted it.
"see? i told you," the doctor pants between pointed traces around your nub with mixed globs of spit and slick. "not so bad, huh?"
you respond with a focused roll of your hips and reach to drag a couple fingers through his curls. jack doesn't see you peek down or furrow your brows at the pace you're managing to keep.
jack could cry when he feels you pull away fully for the first time since you sat down, all wet-faced and frowny as he looks to where you're leaning to the side.
"what's wrong? you good?"
bobbing your head with a nod, you huff. "yeah. it's just-my legs."
"what, baby? they sore?"
another nod, pouted, from you has him licking his lips. trying not to smile.
"s'okay. come back up here for me. don’t worry about movin’, i got it."
just like the sweet thing you are, you come right back to him. nice and warm within the knead he presses into your ass, you sink onto the heat of his mouth, promptly having to gasp.
these licks are slower. precise. somehow sloppier than before, when you compress your thighs so tight that it changes jack perception of sound, he grunts in victory.
found ya.
jack holds you steady, happy to do the work himself. dare he even call it that?
‘work.’
it’s more like a gift, you and your taste. plus those glorious noises you’ve been better about letting free ever since you and he had that talk about letting loose. not to mention how you’re really gushing, now, and you even haven’t come yet.
soon.
real soon, then again, if you’ll allow. gotta make this first time special.
jack’s got one hand on your knee, the other on your cunt, latex glove covered fingers spreading your lips just enough to draw your clit out. he uses his middle finger to start to coax her to attention, petting and rubbing the little button as you keen and gurgle. “there she is,” he announces, as if he’s confirmed a hypothesis to a complicated experiment, clit standing to attention under his latex covered finger, rubbing slow, mean circles. “there’s my favorite girl.”
sammy looooooves a slow makeout. sitting in his lap with your arms over his shoulders, deep breaths and happy sighs from both of you.
sammy, ever the ass-man, has his big palms spread across your comfy sweatpants, squeezing and feeling you through them. his tongue glides through yours, a soft, wet comfort and balm to the little nips on your bottom lip.
he’s leaving for work in 6 minutes, but he just needs “his daily lovin’” as he affectionately calls it. leaning his head back as a silent request for you to suck on his neck, closing his eyes and rasping “don’t wanna go. wanna be with you.”
it’s routine and you love it. “gotta go baby, i’ll be here when you’re home, kay?” running your fingers through his auburn hair and massaging the nape of his neck with squeezes of your palm.
relcutantly, like always, sammy nods and pulls you in for a tight bear hug– tucking his head into your neck with puffy cheeks. a muffled “love you” from him as you sync your breathing and relax before he goes <3
he hugs you to his chest like a kid with a teddy bear💔💔💔
brat running her mouth and getting cock shoved in her mouth… she instantly shuts up and forgets what she was even talking about.. just self soothing by sucking on robbys cock <33333
18+ mdni cw light cnc? UUUGGGHHH need. neeeeed. im such a sucker for cockwarming and head-in-lap blowjobs so this really does it for me
you've been crabby all day and running your mouth and earning low reprimands n threats n sharp little warning smacks on your ass....
once evening rolls around robby thinks he finally has you settled-- you're snuggled up beside him on the couch while he scrolls on his phone with your favorite show on the TV-- but there is a strong emphasis on thinks. he is quickly proven wrong when some random background character gets a speaking line and you say, "she's so pretty."
it's clear in the way you say it that it's not just an observation. you're not just speaking aloud, it's very much directed to robby. expecting a response. robby glances up from his phone and offers a simple "mhm," hoping to placate you, but you're quickly lifting your head from the crook of his shoulder and shooting him a look
"what does that mean?"
robby takes a breath through his nose and his eyes flit over to you. it's written plainly on his face that he doesn't like where this is going. "It means "sure, honey, whatever you say""
Despite his carefully crafted response you don't miss a beat-- "so you think she's pretty?"
"Not as pretty as you," he lilts, reaching out to pinch your cheek with an appeasing smile before it falls away and his voice flattens, "so drop it."
"But she is pretty--"
"Stop." He says, shaking his head. "Don't do--"
"I mean, you just agreed." You speak over his warning, face still stubbornly set in a scowl. "You just said she's pretty."
"Hon, you brought it up." He reminds you, his calm voice starting to strain with wavering patience. "And you talk plenty about how hot you think actors are."
"That's different," you snipe back. You know just as well as robby that you're being unreasonable, but you're itching to pick a fight. "You said you don't care when I say that, kind of stuff, but I care, and she doesn't look anything like me." Robby unzips his fly and pulls down his boxers as you go on your bratty tirade "So, what, do you wish I looked more like her--?"
"Shhh," Robby urges. His big hand finds the back of your head and guides you down towards where his other hand is stroking himself to hardness. "C'mere." He guides his tip towards your lips. "Don't--" he grits out when you stiffen your neck in resistance and stubbornly seal your lips tight. "Open, baby. C'mon."
Your eyes flit up to shoot him a mean glare. He raises a brow. You open your mouth to speak-- "You said sh--"
Robby seizes the opportunity to push his cock past your parted lips, shushing you again. He groans softly at the wet heat of your mouth, then nods when you seal your lips around his head, suckling gently. "Attagirl. That's right, you know what to do."
Robby pets your hair while what is, at this point, almost pure instinct kicks in. Your lashes flutter subtly, the familiar weight of his cock on your tongue making your heartrate slow and your irritation fade into the background. Your brain practically starts pooling out of your ears.
"That better now, sweetheart?" Robby coos when you hum contentedly, using his thumb to swipe away some drool that has gathered at the corner of your mouth. "Yeah. Just need a cock in your mouth and you settle right down.'
HAITI HAII I decided to add a request heheeehee Titus Danforth x Yakuza! Chubby! Fem reader where she's the heiress to her family Yakuza out of all her brothers and readers family has been in the number 1 spot since the Edo period and reader is very geisha like having being taught what geishas do to use as disguise for her actual deadly self and she lives like it's still the edo period ofc theirs inspo:
OH MY GOD HELLO?? THIS IS SUCH A GOOD IDEA?? WHAT THE FUCK OH MY GOD I NEED TO LOCK IN HOLAWNNNNNN!!!!
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