where robby was always an ass man, jack was absolutely obsessed with your tits. whether they were in his mouth or pinched between his fingers, he couldn’t get enough of your breasts.
you’d been so well behaved lately, the sweetest girl your boyfriends could ask for, and so it was only natural that they should reward you.
you were sat between jack’s legs on your shared bed, your back against his front. robby was laying on the mattress with his face between your own legs, peppering little kisses up your thighs. you’d only just started and were already completely bare for the two of them.
jack had his hands on both your breasts, rubbing your nipples in little circles. the sound of your breath hitching had him rock hard beneath you, and you let out a whimper in response. “relax, sweetheart. feels good, yeah?” jack hummed.
you couldn’t do anything but nod. meanwhile, robby’s beard was scratching against your inner thigh as he ascended even further up your legs, up until his mouth was inches away from your dripping pussy. he licked a teasing stripe up your slit before latching his tongue onto your clit, making you cry out.
“oh, you sound so pretty, baby. look so pretty, too,” jack grunted into your ear. he took you into a heated kiss and pushed his tongue against yours, his hands kneading your tits all the while. you reciprocated instantly while robby dived headfirst into your cunt, sliding his own tongue inside you.
“such a good fucking girl. love this pretty pussy,” robby grunted in between licks, his efforts harsh but pleasant all the while. “look how she’s dripping for us.”
“poor thing just needed to get off. s’okay, we got you, baby,” jack whispered, pressing a kiss to your neck. he pinched your nipples between his fingers and smirked at your little yelp. “yeah, you like that, huh?”
“mhm, i do, j- jackie, fuck,” you moaned through a particularly sharp thrust of robby’s tongue, making your hips jerk.
“easy, brother. this is supposed to be a reward,” jack chided.
“it is. she likes this. don’t you, baby?”
you nodded. “y- yes, sir.”
robby chuckled against your pussy, the sound vibrating between your legs. “see? nothing to worry about.”
“mhm,” jack said with an eye-roll before putting his attention back on you. he continued to press kisses to your neck, this time sucking a few hickeys into your skin. paired with his large hands engulfing your hardened nipples, you felt like you might combust.
“christ, you’re fucking perfect,” robby moaned against you. he replaced his tongue with his fingers and sat up, pressing a kiss of the same nature as jack’s to your lips. you tasted yourself within it, whimpering at the taste.
“you feeling good, baby?” robby asked.
you nodded. “u- uh huh. so, so good.”
“good,” robby hummed. he moved his head downwards and latched onto one of your breasts, his fingers continuing to work inside your sloppy cunt. jack continued his own ministrations against your other tit, your nipple gripped tightly between his fingers.
robby circled his tongue around your nipple the same way he had been your clit, in tantalizingly sensual circles. that familiar pressure was starting to build between your legs with every flick, and you weren’t sure you could last much longer like this.
“fuck, she likes that, huh? clenching around me so tight,” robby grunted against your tit. he delivered a few little slaps to your pussy, knowing how wet it made you.
“y- yeah, robby,” you croaked out, bucking your hips into his hand. “more, p- please?”
“more what?”
“everything, everything,” you moaned. “your fingers, your mouth, want it all.”
“such a good girl, asking so nicely,” jack hummed. “you heard her, brother. give it to her nice.”
“don’t have to tell me twice,” robby chuckled. with that, he started to suck your aching nipple again, driving his fingers even harder into your pussy. he added a third for good measure, completely stretching you out on the digits.
the whole scene had jack evidently worked up from the way his hard cock was pressing into you from behind. you ground back against him subtly and he reciprocated, pressing his clothed dick against your ass.
“fuuuck, sweetheart,” jack groaned. his fingers started to lose coordination against your tit ever so slightly with every rock of your hips, his palm now lazily draped over the entire flesh of your breast.
you let out an attempt at a giggle, though it was interrupted by robby descending downwards once again, eyes set on your pussy. he replaced his fingers with his tongue for the final time, his thumb swirling your clit in tight circles.
“oh, fuck, m’so close,” you whined finally, more than ready to break.
“yeah, honey? gonna cum for us? show us how good you are?” jack cooed.
“y- yes! please, can i?”
“robby?” jack said.
robby pulled away for only seconds, just to mutter a disgruntled, “cum for us, honey.”
that was all the permission you needed.
while jack fondled your breasts with some degree of precision, his hard cock rutting against your ass from behind, you clenched around robby’s tongue, coming with a loud moan. when he started to withdraw it, you realized what that pressure in your low belly had really been as spurts of your release came shooting from your cunt.
“thaaat’s our girl. let it out, honey,” jack cooed as you rode out your high.
robby fingered you through it, alternating between that and slaps to your pussy as you squirted for them. he didn’t stop until his shirt was completely soaked alongside his beard, and you finally caught your breath.
“jesus, baby. made such a fucking mess,” robby said with a chuckle, pressing kisses to your inner thighs to help bring you down from the high.
“no kidding. gonna have to get you a new shirt, brother,” jack smirked. you hid in the crook of his neck embarrassedly, always feeling vulnerable whenever you squirted for them.
“oh, angel, don’t be embarrassed. you did so good, so, so good,” jack whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple.
“in fact, i think we can give her another one, can’t we, brother?” robby said.
at the sight of you perking up with what could only be described as stars in your eyes, jack nodded, his thumb lovingly stroking your cheek. “yeah, robby. i think so.”
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that's my first time making a request , i wanted to ask if you can write a loki x virgin!reader oneshot or Headcanons, but the reader is slightly jealous and insecure because Loki already had many people in bed and they don't?
Absolutely I can, thank you for reading and requesting!
I’ll Take Care of It
Loki Laufeyson x virgin!f!Reader
Warnings: 18+ content; minors DNI, virginity loss, slight praise kink, oral (f receiving), fingering, p in v, creampie
Laughter echoed through the massive penthouse lounge, barely audible over the booming music forcing its way through the locked door. The noise grated on your already frazzled nerves as you stared at your own defeated face in the bathroom mirror.
Huffing a sigh, you gathered the length of your hair in one hand and lifted it from the back of your neck in an attempt to grant yourself an ounce of relief from the stifling evening as you replayed the conversation in your mind once again.
"You don't actually expect me to believe that, right?" Tony scoffed into his whiskey.
"No, no, it is true! My brother was quite popular with the ladies and the gentlemen before his banishment to Midgard!" Thor replied, a wide smile on his face as he clapped Loki firmly on the shoulder.
The dark-haired prince crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back into the rich leather of the sofa and rolling his eyes as your teammates pelted him with questions.
Extremely personal questions.
You couldn't help the color that rose to your cheeks as your lover humored them. While he didn't divulge too much detail, your mind had quickly begun to race, bombarding you with images of him with past flings.
You had never considered yourself a jealous person by any means, but the idea of Loki with other people while you hadn't so much as seen each other naked made your stomach twist in an ugly display of insecurity.
You stared down at the glass of champagne in your hand, the golden bubbles now seeming more mocking than celebratory.
You didn't know why it was bothering you so deeply; should have known.
He was tall and handsome and a prince. Of course he would be more... experienced. Yet you couldn't help the embarrassment you felt so deeply toward your own lack of intimate encounters.
Sure, there had been one or two instances of drunken make out sessions and that one time with the cute bar tender but nothing had really developed beyond that. Between grad school and your work with Stark Industries, there just hadn't but much time for romance in your life. Until you met Loki.
"You're going to eat that poor girl alive, aren't you?" Tony asked flatly before standing to refill his glass at the bar.
Your grip on the glass's stem tightened involuntarily as your heart leapt into your throat.
What the fuck was that supposed to mean?
You knocked back the rest of your drink before you could shatter the crystal and set the glass on the coffee table, quickly making a beeline for the restroom you knew resided just down the hall.
You let your hair fall back down around your shoulders and adjusted the straps of your overly-expensive dress.
You weren't sure why Tony's comment had gotten under skin.
You were a successful woman with a career that any man in a C suite would kill for, for fuck's sake. Who cared if you were still a virgin in your late twenties?
But the truth was that you cared.
You didn't necessarily regret spending your young adult life in lecture halls and internships; it would be stupid to regret the hard work that had allowed you to live the life of your dreams.
But maybe your younger self could have stood to have more fun before beginning your career.
Realizing you had been hiding in the bathroom for far too long, you mustered up your remaining energy to plaster a smile you hoped was convincing enough and reached for the doorknob.
Your hopes of going unnoticed were dashed as your boyfriend's looming figure appeared next to the doorframe, his hands tucked into the pockets of his immaculately tailored black suit. You nearly jumped out of your skin at the sight of him, a sharp gasp escaping your chest.
"Loki! You scared the shit out of me!" you snapped, lightly slapping his bicep.
He smiled softly and gently took your hand, bringing it up to his lips for a soft kiss.
"Forgive me, my love. You were gone for quite some time."
Your heart began to melt in your chest at the soft tone of his voice and the genuine concern in his eyes.
"I'm sorry, I just needed a minute to... to myself."
You gave his hand a slight squeeze, hoping he wouldn't ask too many questions about your sudden departure from the conversation.
But he knows you. So of course he does.
"Is everything alright?" he asked quietly, his eyes silently searching yours for a hint as to what might have bothered you enough to make you disappear.
"Yeah, I'm just tired is all..." you trailed off, too embarrassed to voice what had actually upset you.
He took your hand in his once more and placed it on the crook of his elbow as he began to lead you down the hall. You started to protest, completely opposed to the prospect of rejoining the party, your mood thoroughly ruined.
"Just walk with me," he asked delicately, his voice oddly reassuring. After a moment of silent deliberation, you nodded, straitening your spine in resolve. You followed as he led you through the lounge and onto the terrace, ignoring the group's calls for the two of you to returned to the party.
The cool air and comforting quiet of the night around you was a relief as you stood beside him and looked out at the bustling city sprawled out below. You leaned forward, resting your forearms on the cold metal and closing your eyes as you listened to the faint sounds of cars honking and people shouting.
Loki stood silently beside you, his gaze drifting occasionally from the city lights to the curve of your figure, his thoughts beginning to wander slightly.
When he initially fell for you, he was scared shitless.
There he was, banished from his home, trapped on an unfamiliar planet surrounded by people who hated him, and the most unsure of himself he had ever been in his life.
And you were so kind to him.
You never mentioned his past. No backhanded comments ever left your lips. You didn't find excuses to leave whatever room he was in. You were so smart and beautiful and he quickly found himself looking forward to his next interaction with you. His heart began to race in your presence.
So he paid attention.
To what you were reading, what you liked to eat, where you enjoyed spending your time. He familiarized himself with Midgardian courting practices, often (to his own chagrin) asking his brother about his experiences. From what he had gathered, men who were overly eager to jump into bed were viewed as unfit partners.
So he waited for you.
He didn't mind; he'd wait as long as he needed to.
Loki was pulled from his reverie when he realized you were shivering.
He shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over your shoulders before joining you at the railing. You smiled up at him, pulling his jacket tighter around yourself and he could've sworn his heart stopped then and there.
"Are you going to tell me what's bothering you?" he finally asked before wrapping an arm around your waist. You let a long sigh escape through your nose, debating how embarrassing it would be to admit you were still a virgin.
"You have to promise me you won't laugh."
"I promise."
You looked down at your clasped hands resting on the railing, suddenly finding the paint peeling off the metal extremely interesting.
"I'm still... I've never-" you cut yourself off and dropped your head into your hands, your face flushing anew.
"Are you alright, darling?"
"I'm a virgin."
There. It was out in the open.
The deafening silence that followed was enough to bring tears to your eyes, the shame overwhelming.
"Forget it. I never should have brought it up. I should've known this was-" your self-deprecating words were abruptly cut off by his lips on yours, his arms crushing you against his chest in a warm embrace. His hands slid up the length of your body before coming to cup your face and hold you in place as he broke the kiss.
"Why would that matter to me?" he asked, his voice just above a whisper.
"I don't know I just... I'm too old and I have no idea what I'm doing and you have so much experience-"
"Beloved, did you just call me a whore?" he cut you off again, a mischievous smirk on his lips.
"No! It's just that-"
"I'm just trying to get a rise out of you, darling," he chuckled, pressing another quick kiss to your lips.
"You're not... weirded out?" you asked, the confusion evident on your face.
"Why would I be?"
"Don't you think that I'm bit old to be a virgin or something?"
"What's a couple of decades when you live for five thousand years, give or take?"
Alright, that was a good point.
"Okay, well, how old were you when you lost your virginity?"
"Seventeen."
You hid your face in your hands once more, groaning in frustration as any relief you felt from his previous comments completely evaporated.
He chuckled softly, his arms snaking around your waist once more to pull you back against his chest. You couldn't help but melt into him, letting your head fall back to rest against his shoulder. The pair of you stayed in the embrace for a few minutes, letting the shared heat of your bodies keep you warm as the party continued on inside.
You couldn't help but shiver as he dropped his mouth to the shell of your ear, his slight stubble brushing deliciously against your skin.
"You know, darling, if you're this concerned about it, I could take care of it for you."
You blushed for umpteenth time that night, your heart lurching at the proposition as heat began to pool low in your stomach. You could feel yourself becoming light headed as his hands slowly traced the curve of your waist.
"What do you mean?"
You could practically feel the smirk forming on his lips as your vision was overtaken by a glow of green light. Your grip on his forearms tightened as the image of your bedroom came into view, two figures materializing on the twisted nest of sheets.
Squinting against the light, you could just make out a head of long, dark hair tucked between a pair of legs, a single hand trailing down to thread its fingers through the black tresses. Your cheeks instantly flushed as you realized what he was showing you, shifting your thighs together in an attempt to gain some semblance of relief.
"Have I made my intentions clear enough, darling?" came his raspy reply, his voice low and tempting against the column of your neck. Goosebumps erupted across your exposed skin, the evening air suddenly both too chilly and too stifling.
"I... suppose I could be convinced," you answered coyly.
Loki's hands drifted down to your hips, squeezing slightly.
"I need to hear you say yes, beloved."
Your knees damn near buckled at the silky tone of his voice in your ear, the heat in your lower abdomen quickly becoming unbearable.
"Yes."
You could practically feel the smirk on his lips, your stomach flipping as his grip tightened slightly, his fingers digging into your hips. Another flash of green light and you were standing in your bedroom, the light dimmed and curtains drawn against the city lights.
Candles burned on your nightstands and dresser, giving the space a dreamy atmosphere. Your sheets had been replaced with silky forest green ones, a fluffy white duvet tucked over them. Your heart melted at the thought he had put into it.
You were pulled from your reverie by the sensation of his lips on your shoulder. Letting your head fall back to rest on his chest, you closed your eyes and let yourself relax against him. His fingertips trailed slowly up your arm, sending a shiver down your spine as he reached the strap of your dress.
Butterflies raged in your stomach as pulled away slightly to find the zipper and slowly pulling it down the length of your spine. Gently taking your hand in his, he spun you to face him as the fabric pooled at your feet, revealing the emerald lace beneath.
His raked over your body as his hands settled on your hips, tugging you closer.
"You little minx," he mumbled, his voice low and raspy.
"Lack of experience doesn't mean lack of style," you replied with a confidence you didn't quite feel.
"Lucky for you, darling, I lack neither."
"Show me."
You didn't have to tell him twice.
His lips found yours in an instant, his hands pressing your body firmly against his. You let him take the reins, basking in the sensation of his warmth. His tongue traced the length of your bottom lip, silently asking for entrance. You grant it, nearly sighing as his tongue gently caressed the roof of your mouth.
As his hands slide up the exposed skin of your waist, a stark reminder of the discrepancy between your two states of dress. Intent on remedying that, you slid your hands slowly up his stomach and onto his chest before finding the knot of his tie and working it loose. You could feel him smile into your lips as he realized what you wanted.
Releasing you from his grip, he quickly undid the tie and let it drop to the floor before going to work on the buttons of his shirt without breaking your kiss. You traced your hands over the smooth skin of his chest, sliding them over his shoulders and pushing the fabric down his arms to join his tie on the carpet.
Loki cupped your face in his hands, threading his fingers through your hair as he tugged your bottom lip between his teeth. A soft moan escaped your throat, desperation beginning to settle into your core. You began fumbling with his belt, suddenly anxious to have him stripped down to nothing. He interrupted your efforts, intertwining his fingers with your own and flashing you a devastating smile when you whined out loud.
"Patience, darling," he teased.
"Come on, Loki..."
"We'll get there, my love. But first," he leaned closer, his lips just brushing your ear, "I want to watch you come undone."
Your entire body flushed at his words, the room suddenly significantly warmer than it was even five minutes earlier. He captured your lips once again, wrapping his arms firmly around your waist. Your arms found their way around his neck, tugging his head down for easier access. Pressing your back against the solid wood of your bedroom door, he titled your chin to the side and pressed hot, open mouthed kisses along your jaw and down your neck.
Your back arched involuntarily as he reached your collarbone, your fingers digging into the skin of his back. His hands slid down to your thighs, swiftly tugging your legs up to wrap around his hips before pressing himself against your core, the feeling of his hard length pulling a whimper from your lips.
He slid one hand from your thigh over the curve of your ass and up your back to unclip your bra in one smooth motion. Your cheeks burned as the lace cups began to dip below the swell of your breasts, your nipples stiffening into peaks as they were revealed to the open air. Unaccustomed to being so exposed, you tried to cover yourself from view. He gently took your wrists in his hands, tenderly prying your hands away from your chest.
"Don't hide from me," he pleaded, voice barely above a whisper.
Your heart leapt in your chest as he brought your hand up to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to its back as his green eyes locked onto your own.
"I've just never..." you cut yourself off, suddenly aware of how ridiculous you must have sounded.
"I know, darling. Just let me worship you."
You nodded, deciding to be brave and allowing him to pin your hands against the surface of the door. Your pulse quickened at the sensation of his skin brushing against your nipples, feeling slightly light headed as his lips dropped to your neck once again, sucking the skin harshly before soothing it with his tongue.
Your lips fell open as he trailed kisses down your chest, taking both your wrists into one hand and holding them above your head as the other delicately traced the bottom curve of your left breast. He dragged the tip of his tongue around the outer edge of your right nipple, your cunt soaking the fabric of your lingerie.
He continued to tease you for a few seconds longer before sucking the hardened peak into his mouth, drawing a sharp gasp from you. He rolled the sensitive flesh between his teeth, his tongue flicking over the tip. Your fell back against the door, wrists straining against his firm grip. His other hand cupped your left breast, his fingers gently pinching the nipple. You bucked your hips against him, desperate for a shred of friction on your drenched core.
"So sensitive for me, aren't you?" he chuckled darkly, his mouth releasing your nipple with a lewd pop. "Look at you... so beautiful."
"Loki... I need you," you whined. You attempted to pull your wrists free from his grip to no avail.
"You'll have me, my love."
Finally releasing your hands, he gripped your ass firmly and walked you to the edge of the bed. He settled onto the duvet, laying back with your legs straddling his hips. Your core clenched at the sight of him beneath you, his hair slightly mussed and his lean torso fully bare. His eyes dropped to your tits before flicking back up to meet yours, his arousal obvious through the fabric of his dress pants.
Sliding your hands up his chest, you slowly lowered your body over his, the friction of his skin on yours making your head swim. He slid one hand behind your head, pulling your lips down to his. His other hand came to rest on your ass, toying with the waistband of your panties. His hips bucked up slightly, the motion causing a sinful brush of friction against your cunt.
Loki hooked two fingers into your waistband in an attempt to pull them down your hips before you snatched his hand away, pressing it down against the sheets.
“You’re still overdressed,” you pointed out, your eyes flicking down to the offending pants.
“Are you going to remedy that, my lady?”
You bit back a satisfied smirk before sliding your hands to his belt, making quick work of the buckle before undoing the button. You took the zipper between your teeth, holding his gaze pointedly as you pulled it down. He allowed you to press a few precious kisses to the skin of his hips as he lifted them so you could pull his slack down and let them drop to the floor.
Your mouth watered at the outline of his hardened cock straining against his briefs. You were just about to free him from the oppressive fabric when he stopped you, pulling you back up to press a soft kiss to your pouted lips.
“Another time. Tonight is about you.”
You nodded, too horny to argue with him on this. You pulled you into a deep kiss before shifting his weight to roll you onto your back, your legs parting to accommodate him. His tongue invaded your mouth once again as he dragged his hips against yours, grinding his cock against your throbbing pussy.
You arched up against him, threading your fingers through his dark hair. He slid a hand down your stomach and underneath the waistband of your lace bottoms. His fingers traced the length of your soaked lips before making slow, steady circles around your sensitive clit. You moaned lewdly into his mouth, your legs parting further to give him more room.
“Already so wet for me,” he mumbled against your lips. “Can’t wait to stretch you out.”
You nodded frantically at the prospect, your cunt flooding anew at the low chuckle that rumbled in his chest. He sucked the delicate skin of your neck as his fingers traced your entrance, teasing you.
“Do you want my fingers inside you?” he asked, his teeth grazing your ear.
“Yes,” you whimpered pathetically, bucking your hips up into his hand.
“Yes what, darling?”
“Yes, please.”
“That’s a good girl,” he said smugly.
He slipped two fingers inside, curling them against your walls and circling your clit with his thumb. Your back arched off the mattress, your pussy clenching around his digits. Lifting your hands above your head, you gripped the sheets beneath you, desperate for a way to ground yourself. You were vaguely aware of Loki tugging your panties down your legs, exposing your dripping cunt. You covered your face with your hands, suddenly embarrassed at the prospect of being fully naked in front of him.
Parting your thighs further, he trailed kisses across the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. He pulled this thumb away from your clit, causing you to groan at the loss of contact.
“Look at me,” he demanded quietly.
Dropping your hands from your face, you forced yourself to meet his gaze. His eyes bored into yours as his mouth dropped to your pussy, his tongue licking a fat stripe over your clit. Your mouth fell open at the sight, his long fingers still pumping in and out of your drenched hole. His wicked tongue flicked expertly over your clit, his fingertips brushing that special spot you could never quite reach yourself.
“Oh fuck, Loki!” you gasped, one hand shooting down to grip his hair once more.
He let you grind yourself up against his mouth as his tongue and fingers continued working you with ridiculous precision. The sound of his fingers sliding in and out of your cunt was crass, only adding to your heightened arousal. It didn’t take long for that familiar tension to begin building low in your abdomen, quickly becoming overpowering. His brought his free hand up to your tits, pinching one nipple between his fingers.
“Loki! Fuck, I’m gunna— ah! I’m gunna cum!”
He hummed against your clit, the vibrations of his voice enough to push you over the edge. You twisted one hand into the silk sheets, the other still pulling his hair at the root. High pitched moans fell from your lips, one after another, as you fucked yourself against his tongue, your pussy clenching desperately on his fingers. He gradually slowed his movements, riding you out with care you knew only he could provide.
You stared blankly up at the ceiling, still trying to catch your breath as he gently pulled away before crawling back up the length of your body. He held his still soaked fingers up to your lips.
“Suck.”
You did as you were told, already too fucked out to resist him. You curled your tongue around his digits, the slightly salty taste of your own slick invading your mouth. Pulling his hand away, he bent down to kiss you slowly. Deeply. Intentionally. He pulled your bottom lip between his teeth, pulling on it gently. The heat in your belly was far from quenched. You pulled his body onto yours, desperate to feel him against you again.
“I need you. Now,” you demanded, still breathless.
“Then take me.”
You crushed your lips against his, gasping into his mouth as he rolled onto his back so your legs were straddling his thighs. He lifted his hips, finally granting you the opportunity to slide his briefs off, your core tightening as his erection sprang free. You paused, giving yourself a moment to look at him. Really look at him.
Your clit throbbed at the sight of his happy trail leading from his navel down to his cock. You took his thick shaft in your hand, the tip already glistening with precum. You had figured he was big but looking at him now, you weren’t sure if he would even fit.His hands came to rest on yours hips, rubbing comforting circling on your skin. The concern was evident on his face.
“Is everything alright, darling?”
“You’re just so… big.”
“Were you expecting anything less?” he asked smugly.
Your face flushed with embarrassment. “No! It’s just I—“
“I’m just teasing, my love.”
You bit your lip, eyeing his length nervously.
“Hey,” he said softly, “you are in complete control here. We can stop at any time. Just communicate with me, yeah?”
Your nerves settled at the comforting tone of his voice, your affection for him damn near overwhelming.
“I want this. I want you.”
He smiled at your declaration, pushing himself up slightly to kiss you softly. Lifting your hips, you gripped his erection, lining the swollen tip up with your entrance. Ever so slowly, you let yourself sink onto his length. You felt the stretch immediately, a sharp burn edged with dull pleasure as you took him inch by inch.
“You’re doing so well, darling,” came Loki’s calm reassurance.
Though he put on a facade of measured control, you could tell it was taking all his effort to remain stationary while your body adjusted to him. You nodded, planting your hands firmly on his chest to readjust your angle. He hissed through his teeth at the sudden movement, his grip on your hips tightening slightly. Your eyes shot up to his face, your core tightening at his pleasured expression.
You gave an experimental roll of your hips and your mouth fell open at the unexpected wave of pleasure. You kept going, quickly gaining confidence as the pain faded. Loki’s head fell back against the duvet, his hair a stark contrast as it splayed across the white cotton.
“Are you okay?” you asked, suddenly concerned you were doing something wrong.
“I’m fine, you’re just so… tight.”
You giggled, squeezing your walls around his length.
“Don’t do that,” he groaned.
“Why not?”
“Because I’m trying to last, beloved.”
“Hm. I thought a god would have the stamina to match.”
“Yes, well, between my banishment and exclusively courting you, I haven’t quite had the opportunity to maintain it.”
You laughed as he flipped your positions, his arms caging you beneath him. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you pulled him down and locked your lips with his. He rolled his hips into you, his thick cock dragging deliciously against your walls. You moaned into his mouth, your body melting against his.
Your nails dug into the muscles of his back as he continued to slowly rock into you, pulling out to the tip just to bottom out again. Your eyes rolled back into your head as he lifted your legs to hook them over his shoulders. He pressed one palm firmly against your lower stomach, the other slipping between your bodies to rub tight circles over your clit. Your back arched, stars popping behind your closed eyes.
“Oh, fuck,” you whined, his soft grunts spurring you on.
Your breath began to quicken, an intense wave of spine-tingling pleasure beginning to build deep inside you. It wasn’t long before you were panting, gripping the sheets in an attempt to ground yourself as your hips bucked in rhythm with his. The wet sound of his thrusts only pushed you closer to your climax.
“Deep breaths, darling, deep breaths,” Loki commanded, his usually pale cheeks flushed with color.
You did as he instructed, drawing air deep into your chest before letting it back out. Your body relaxed and the sensation seemed to intensify as you continued sucking deep breaths in through your nose. His fingers quickened their pace, rubbing in punishing circles as his strokes grew deeper and more desperate.
“Don’t stop! Please, Loki, don’t stop!” you moaned, feeling that telltale coil grow tighter and tighter in your stomach.
“Cum for me.”
His husky voice was all it took for your release to hit you, your body undulating with wave after wave of intense pleasure. You keened as your cunt squeezed around his thick cock, his own deep groans mixing with yours as hot ropes of him coated your walls. His thrusts slowed, cum leaking from where your bodies were still joined together.
He dropped your legs from his shoulders, wrapping them around his hips as he leaned down to kiss you. He gently brushed the stray hair from your face before tucking his face into the crook of your neck, the two of you remaining intertwined while your hearts slowed in time.
“How are you feeling?” he asked when he had caught his breath.
“I can’t feel my legs.”
He laughed, pressing one last kiss to your lips before gently pulling out. You nearly sighed at the loss of contact, suddenly feeling empty.
“I have towels in the bathroom if you-“ “I’ll take care of it,” he cut you off, a warm damp hand towel materializing in his hand.
You let him clean you up, twitching occasionally as he brushed over your still sensitive skin. With a snap of his fingers, you were dressed in a clean T-shirt and sweats, oversized just how you liked them. Another snap and he had produced a plate of snacks and a decanter of fresh water on your nightstand. Your lover pulled you back against his chest, pressing soft kisses onto the back of your neck.
“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice soft and warm. You turned to face him.
“What for?”
“Trusting me.” You couldn’t help but smile, grabbing his cheeks and kissing him slowly.
“There’s no one I’d rather be with.”
After picking through your snacks, you began to drift off in his arms, the calm silence and his warm presence lulling you to sleep.
“I love you,” Loki whispered, knowing you couldn’t hear him.
Maybe next time he will have worked up the courage to tell you to your face. But this was enough for him for now.
Summary: You are of royal blood, having chosen to leave home and your sworn responsibilities for a much, simpler life. Hiding for years as one of Asgard’s servants, the second prince of Asgard has taken interest in you being his primary target for his mischief and chaos; However, his behavior seemed to take a drastic turn when he has found out about your true identity. Perhaps this could be his ticket for gaining a throne after all! He just needs to convince you to marry him and forgive his constant years of teasing and torment.
Rating: R (Dark Elements!)
Theme Song: ALWAYS BEEN YOU by Chris Grey
‘’..i accept your proposal my lord..’’ He gave you an indifferent look and you added, ‘’to contain my secret of who i am, in exchange for my.. Body and devotion.’’
There was a soft, gentle sensation that ran slowly up and down your spine, almost complimenting the rest of yourself that seemed to be in deep, utter relaxation.
A hum left your parted lips while your eyes remained closed, arms stretching out amongst the large, soft bed while the warmth continued to caress and memorize your spine before following with a gentle, soft wetness to cover its trail.
Your eyes snapped wide open.
Your body immediately went to get up before a hand could be felt completely pressing flat between your shoulderblades and pushing to keep you pinned down on the very bed that wasn't yours. You knew it was too good to be true- slowly waking to the feeling of utter warmth and softness, followed by the gentle caress of flesh against your own. You were quick to realize that you had been sprawled out amongst Loki’s bed on your stomach- his scent having filled your nostrils and the quiet realization that his hand and tongue had been roaming about your back.
Your whole body went rigid and dared not move about too much by feeling the sheets had just stopped above your hips. ‘’Wha- why am i naked??”
You could hear Loki’s sudden laugh while his hand continued to hold you down. ‘’Not quite what I imagined your first question to be.’’
Oh gods- you had overslept! You never over slept- it had to be the booze you were forced to drink last night.. Although some memories were fuzzy, there was no doubt you had perhaps passed out last night. Which would mean.. Loki must have carried you and out of all things, decided to place you in his bed- having removed the towel that was the only thing covering your modesty. Your cheeks heated up red as you kept still, not wishing to discover anything your body might notify you on if you were to so much as flex a muscle.
‘’Did.. Did we..’’
‘’Did we fuck?” Loki finished your sentence- making it more crude than how you would have put it. You could practically feel the bastard smirking down at you while his hand began to draw lines along your back once more, watching how you dare not move after realizing how bare you were. ‘’Believe me, I lost quite a deal of sleep thinking about it, but i would hope our first time would be having you conscious enough to remember it.’’
Your heart beats fast where you wouldn't be surprised if your whole entire body was rising up and down. You shivered when you felt his fingertips brush a few of your locks to the side, granting him more access to your back while goosebumps ran across your skin.
‘’C-can i get up?”
‘’And bless my eyes to the wonderful sight of your front? I would love that darling, but I quite wish to enjoy you like this for a little while longer.’’ Loki purred and you squeezed your eyes shut to force out that strange fluttering feeling beginning in the pit of your stomach.
‘’I have my chores to do..’’
‘’Which you are already late on, but luckily for your sake, we had someone take over your position for the morning to grant you more time in training.’’ Loki almost sounded like he was scolding- as if this wasn't his entire fault for getting you drunk.
‘’T-then lets train..’’
‘’In a moment darling, though I quite appreciate the eagerness to serve me.’’ He smirked before you felt a dip on either side of your shoulders, followed by the sight of his hands in your side view before suddenly feeling a warm breath fan across your back.
Before you could so much as think about moving away, you suddenly felt the gentle press of lips begin to caress your spine, starting from the stop and making its way lazily down past your shoulder blades. A low hum could be heard and your nails began to curl into the sheets below you.
‘’M-my prince..’’
‘’Mmm?”
‘’W-what are you-’’
‘’Have you forgotten our deal already Y/N? I promise to keep your secret, in exchange for your willing,’’ kiss. ‘’Devoted,’’ kiss. ‘’Utter,’’ kiss. ‘’Obedient,’’ kiss. ‘’Self.’’ his kiss lingered at your lower back and you could have sworn you felt the swipe of his tongue before the tip of his nose began to trace back to where he had started. ‘’As my chambermaid.’’
Even if your identity could be given up, this whole deal also stemmed from Delilah's safety. What were you to do? Even now you trembled as his hands slowly glided off the mattress and were now caressing your hips, his knees on either side of your own while he practically straddled your thighs with something familiar, large and hard brushing up against many parts of you when he would shift and move.
‘’S-sire.. I wish to make sure my duties are studied and prepared before we.. indulge to better make sure nothing goes wrong for tomorrows routine..’’ you said quietly, feeling like a mouse under a cat’s paw, tapped and pinned while you debated on biting into the pillow below you.
After an agonizing pause where you just felt his fingertips caress under to explore your hip bones and his tongue tracing along your spine and towards your neck, he then relented and disappeared from you entirely. It wasn't until you felt the mattress shift, you slowly turned over with a hand quick to pull the covers against your chest and find him standing beside the bed.
Naked still.
‘’Very well darling, come and I shall show you to your new chambers.’’
It took a moment to draw your eyes back up to his and will the redness away from your cheeks before realizing what he just said. ‘’New chambers? But i thought-’’
‘’You are my chambermaid darling and as such, will be at my beck and call, no matter how early or how late. Staying close will make such a task more convenient. You should be grateful.’’
His shapeness had you sit up quickly and nod, pushing your hair away from your face while clutching at the sheets. ‘’I’m grateful, sire- and understand.. Will I.. Receive a new uniform?” you asked and bit your bottom lip with a prayer that this new job didn't require you to wear nothing while serving him- as much as it would sound like it would be.
Loki smirked and looked you over, almost as if debating if he should do just that and rid of the uniform entirely in his presence. However, going out from his chambers would be necessary for when it came to fetching particular things and something told you, he didn't like anyone gazing upon what ‘was his’.
‘’Get up.’’
You hesitated at first, distracted at being grateful that his touch was now off of you but by swinging your legs off the bed and making to leave, you felt a pull at the sheets. Glancing back, you noticed how the sheets were probably tightly tucked on the other end, making it impossible to pull them off with you and even if they weren't. The look on Loki’s face was telling you they wouldn't be included either.
‘’Sire..’’
‘’This deal of ours Y/N will have to have you grow accustomed to being bare around me a lot, whether or not I touch or not.’’ Loki said almost too calmly, as if this whole thing was normal.. I mean, maybe it was.. He seemed to have no problem standing about while sporting his morning wood.
You swallowed thickly, feeling the twists in your stomach and your hatred begin to grow in your chest. This man was disgusting… an utter pig and you hated how he had the upper hand within everything while you secretly held his equal position.. On a different realm at least. Back at home, you wouldn't have to do a damn thing he said.. But you chose this life, and in anything.. Do it for Deililah..
Drawing in a breath, you felt the sheets slide from your fingers as you slowly got off the bed and bared yourself to him, standing naked now with your eyes penetrating the carpet at your feet.
The silence begged you to look at him, to see if the man saw you as disgusting or nothing more than a goddess… but you couldn't bear to look at him. You hated to feel like you wanted to see his reaction.. To see how he saw you since he already made it clear he barely tolerated you as a person.. If he even saw you as that. You stayed still, biting your bottom lip before your vision saw his hand raise from his side and you tensed, thinking he was going to touch you.
However, starting from your feet and traveling up your body, his Seidr began to surround yourself in its greenish- gold light, making you feel staticky and tingly before your eyes had to blink away its remnants as if disappeared as quick as it came. Parts of your body felt clothed now, drawing your attention to take in your form to find exactly what he had done to you.
Wrapping around your body but leaving a generous amount of skin was silk of his own colors. Gold and green wrapped around you while also insinuating your feminine form- showing off your cleavage, legs and stomach. It was hardly a servant's gown.. Your old one has been a simple yet modest dress at least. This.. this looks like one you would wear to Asgard’s fascist brothels as perhaps a dancer or performer!
Your arms immediately went to cover yourself, widening and finally looking up at Loki’s face who seemed to be utterly mesmerized by you- something told you his face hadn't changed since you got off the bed.
‘’Hide not darling, for you are utterly beautiful!” Loki’s hands spread out with a wide growing wider. ‘’My aren't we quite filled with surprises lately!”
‘’Oh please, you’ve been eye fucking me far beyond today.. You’re just taking advantage of this situation..’’ you mumbled, red faced and wanting to cave into yourself while Loki’s expression turned dry.
‘’I could always have you naked again if that is what you prefer,’’ he then smirked and flicked his gaze at you. ‘’Especially if you continue to run your mouth as if you find ourselves equal.’’
The comment immediately had you shut up and look away from him with a hard glare. You needed to remember your place.. Forced to bear it or not.. He already discovered your species, the last thing you needed was for him to find out you are of royalty.
All Hel would break loose!
And besides.. Skimpy or not, at least you had something on..
Drawing in a breath, you straightened up and offered a small bow, hating how you knew gave a good look at your cleavage. ‘’Thank you sire.. I hope to serve you well..’’ asshole.
It was good enough for Loki where he smirked, clearly enjoying your submission while his eyes hardly ventured above your neck before he scooped up your hands in his, holding them close as if the two of you were lovers.
‘’Good girl. I think it’s best time i show you exactly what i expect of you.’’
Note: Outfit is.. close enough from what i was imagining Lol hope the description helped tho :3
synapse: after falling from the shattered bifrost, a wounded loki awakens in the home of an ordinary midgardian whose simple act of kindness begins to challenge everything he believes about trust, honesty, and humanity
a/n: saw my man in the doomsday trailer and had to write for him
. . .
By eleven-thirty, Y/N had wiped down every table in the diner twice.
The chairs were flipped upside down over the booths and tables, the coffee machines had been cleaned, and the neon OPEN sign in the front window had been switched off nearly an hour ago. Outside, the empty highway stretched through the desert in both directions, illuminated only by the occasional passing headlights and the pale glow of the moon.
It was the kind of road people used to get somewhere else.
Few ever stopped unless they needed gas, coffee, or a bathroom.
Y/N had been working at the diner long enough to recognize the different types of travelers who came through: exhausted truck drivers, families with screaming children, couples who had clearly been arguing for the past fifty miles and college students attempting road trips in cars that looked one pothole away from collapsing.
Tonight had been unusually quiet.
Her manager had left shortly after closing, trusting Y/N to finish counting the register and lock up. The cook had disappeared through the back door ten minutes after that, leaving behind a cloud of cigarette smoke and a reminder not to forget the lights over the grill.
Now the diner belonged entirely to her.
She had claimed the booth nearest the counter, one leg tucked beneath her as she stared at the open laptop in front of her. A half-finished cup of coffee sat beside it, cold enough that the thin layer of creamer on top had begun to separate.
Three paragraphs remained between her and freedom.
Technically, five pages remained between her and freedom, but she had decided not to think about that.
Y/N leaned closer to the screen, squinting at the sentence she had rewritten four separate times.
The significance of—
She deleted it.
The historical importance of—
Delete.
“This is stupid,” she muttered.
Her professor had given the class two weeks to complete the assignment. Naturally, Y/N had spent thirteen days thinking about starting it and was now attempting to finish the entire thing during closing shifts at the diner.
The cursor blinked mockingly at her.
Y/N reached for her coffee, took one sip, and immediately grimaced.
“Disgusting.”
She drank it again anyway.
A faint rumble rolled somewhere in the distance.
At first, she assumed it was thunder.
The monsoon clouds had been gathering along the horizon since sunset, though they had yet to offer anything beyond a few flashes of lightning and enough humidity to make her hair cling to the back of her neck.
Y/N returned her attention to the laptop.
The significance of Norse mythology—
A blinding streak of light flashed past the diner windows.
She barely had time to lift her head before something struck the earth outside with a tremendous crash.
The windows rattled in their frames.
Silverware clattered inside its plastic trays. Her coffee tipped over, spreading across the table and soaking the corner of her notebook.
Y/N jumped from the booth with a sharp cry.
“What the hell?”
The lights flickered once.
Twice.
Then steadied.
Y/N remained frozen beside the booth, staring through the darkened windows.
For several seconds, there was nothing.
No second impact. No explosion. No vehicle skidding across the pavement.
Only silence.
The coffee continued dripping from the edge of the table and onto the floor.
Y/N slowly closed her laptop before the spreading liquid could reach it. Her pulse beat hard against her throat as she stepped away from the booth.
Maybe a transformer had blown.
Except the diner still had power.
Maybe someone had crashed nearby.
That possibility forced her feet into motion.
She hurried behind the counter and crouched, reaching beneath the register until her fingers closed around the wooden baseball bat her manager kept there.
He had claimed it was for protection.
Y/N had always thought it was more likely to get them sued.
Tonight, however, the weight of it in her hands felt reassuring.
She moved toward the front door and stopped with her fingers wrapped around the lock.
Calling the police would be the sensible thing to do.
She pulled her phone from the pocket of her apron.
No Service.
“Of course.”
She raised it over her head as though six additional inches might convince the nearest tower to acknowledge her existence.
Nothing.
The diner sat in one of those inconvenient dead zones where calls only went through if someone stood near the old vending machines outside and held their phone at exactly the right angle.
Y/N considered remaining inside.
Whatever had happened could wait until she found service.
Then she imagined someone trapped inside a wrecked car while she stood ten yards away debating whether it was safe to investigate.
She swore softly and unlocked the door.
Hot desert air rushed inside.
Y/N tightened both hands around the bat as she stepped into the parking lot. Gravel crunched beneath her sneakers. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, attracting moths and small flying insects that threw shifting shadows across the asphalt.
“Hello?”
No answer.
She looked toward the highway.
The road was empty.
There were no headlights, no tire marks and no wreckage scattered across the pavement. Whatever had caused the impact had come from somewhere else.
Y/N’s eyes shifted toward the stretch of desert behind the diner.
A faint haze of dust hung over the ground.
Beyond the last row of parking spaces, something had carved a shallow trench through the sand and scattered rocks in every direction. Sparse bushes had been flattened along its path.
Y/N stared at it.
“Nope.”
She took one step backward.
Then she heard it.
A low, strained sound coming from somewhere beyond the edge of the parking lot.
It might have been a groan.
The bat lowered slightly in her hands.
“Hello?”
Still no response.
Y/N approached the disturbed ground with careful steps. The diner lights grew dimmer behind her as she followed the shallow trench into the darkness.
Her sneakers sank into the loose sand.
At the end of the trail, a dark shape lay crumpled between two desert shrubs.
Y/N stopped.
It was a person.
A man, she realized as she moved closer. He lay facedown in the sand with one arm bent unnaturally beneath him and long black hair obscuring most of his face.
His clothing caught the moonlight in brief flashes of green, black and gold.
Not clothing, exactly.
Armor.
Y/N’s grip tightened around the baseball bat.
For one absurd moment, she wondered whether the nearby Renaissance festival had started early.
Then she saw the blood.
It stained the side of his face and soaked through torn fabric beneath the metal plating around his shoulders. One of his hands was scraped raw, his fingers still curled as though they had been holding something moments before.
The bat slipped lower.
“Oh, shit.”
Y/N hurried the remaining distance and dropped to her knees beside him.
“Hey.”
She placed the bat within reach and cautiously touched two fingers to the side of his neck.
His skin was cold.
Not cool from the night air. Cold enough to make her instinctively pull her hand back.
Panic shot through her.
Then she felt it.
A pulse.
Slow, but present.
Y/N released a breath she had not realized she was holding.
“Okay. You’re alive.”
The stranger did not respond.
She leaned closer, watching for the movement of his back. His breathing was shallow and uneven, but he was breathing.
That was good.
Breathing meant not dead.
She could work with not dead.
Y/N pulled out her phone again and dialed 911 despite the empty bars in the corner of the screen.
The call immediately failed.
She stood and walked several paces away, raising the phone toward the sky.
“Come on. Come on.”
No service.
She tried closer to the diner.
Nothing.
Near the edge of the highway.
Still nothing.
Y/N looked back at the man lying motionless in the dirt.
The nearest hospital was at least forty minutes away. The nearest place she could reliably make a call was probably the gas station fifteen miles down the road.
She could drive there and call for help.
She could also return to find that he had stopped breathing while she was gone.
“Why did you have to land in the one place without a signal?” she demanded.
The unconscious man offered no explanation.
Y/N paced once across the gravel, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes.
She could not lift him.
Even from several feet away, she could tell he was tall. Lean, perhaps, but tall enough that attempting to carry him would end with both of them injured.
Dragging him across the sand would worsen whatever damage he had already suffered.
She stared at him, then at her car parked near the side of the diner.
An idea began to form.
It was not a good idea.
In fact, it was objectively one of the stupidest ideas she had ever entertained.
But it was technically an idea.
Y/N hurried toward her car and yanked open the back door. Fast-food wrappers, textbooks and an emergency sweatshirt occupied the seat. She pushed them aside before opening the trunk.
Her skateboard was buried beneath a reusable grocery bag and a case of bottled water.
She had not used it in months. The scratched deck was covered in faded stickers, and one of the wheels squeaked whenever it turned, but it remained mostly functional.
“Please don’t break,” she whispered, pulling it free.
Y/N carried the skateboard back across the parking lot and into the desert.
The stranger had not moved.
She placed the board beside him and crouched.
“Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen.”
He remained unconscious.
“I’m going to get you into my car, drive until I have service and call an ambulance. You’re not going to wake up and murder me.”
Nothing.
Y/N nodded.
“Great. Glad we agree.”
She rolled him carefully onto his back.
His face turned toward her.
Y/N paused.
Despite the blood streaking his temple and the bruises beginning to darken beneath his pale skin, he was—
Well.
He was unfairly attractive.
His features were sharp and almost elegant, from the high curve of his cheekbones to the severe line of his nose. Dark lashes rested against his skin. His long hair spread across the sand around him.
Y/N stared for one second too long.
Then she caught herself.
“Not relevant.”
His armor was unlike anything she had ever seen up close. The gold pieces were scratched and bent, while the green fabric beneath them had been torn in several places. It did not look like plastic or cheap costume metal.
It looked real.
Heavy, too.
That explained part of the problem.
Y/N slid her hands beneath his shoulders and attempted to lift him.
His upper body rose perhaps two inches before her arms began to shake.
“Oh, come on.”
She lowered him again and repositioned the skateboard closer.
The first attempt ended with one of his arms sliding from the board and dropping limply into the sand.
The second ended when the board rolled away from her.
On the third attempt, Y/N wedged one foot behind a wheel, hooked both hands beneath his arms and pulled with everything she had.
His shoulders landed across the deck.
The rest of him did not.
Y/N dropped onto the sand beside him, breathing heavily.
“Fuck. You could’ve been shorter.”
The stranger remained serenely unhelpful.
She climbed back to her feet, grabbed him beneath the arms again and dragged him another few inches onto the board. His legs extended far beyond the end, boots scraping lines through the sand.
It was not dignified.
It was not medically advisable.
It was, however, progress.
Y/N stepped back and examined her work.
His torso rested across the skateboard while his arms hung over either side and his heels remained on the ground.
She pulled off her apron, threaded it beneath his arms and tied it loosely across his chest to keep him from rolling off.
“There.”
He looked like the world’s most elaborate piece of luggage.
Y/N grabbed the front of the skateboard and began pulling.
The wheels sank immediately into the sand.
She stopped.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
Y/N moved behind the board and pushed instead. It rolled several inches before catching on a rock and nearly throwing the stranger sideways.
She lunged forward and caught his shoulder.
“Absolutely not. I did not do all this just for you to crack your head open again.”
She dragged the board around the rock and continued.
. . .
Y/N unlocked the apartment with one hand while keeping one foot planted against the skateboard to stop it from rolling backward. Then she dragged him inside, kicked the door shut and leaned against it, breathing heavily.
Her living room was small.
A worn couch occupied one wall, facing a television balanced on a low wooden stand. Books and college papers covered the coffee table. A laundry basket sat abandoned near the hallway, half-filled with clean clothes she had not bothered folding.
It was not the setting in which one expected to receive a mysterious armored man.
It would have to do.
Getting him onto the couch took another ten minutes.
Once he was finally stretched across the cushions, Y/N stood over him with both hands braced against her lower back.
“There.”
He looked uncomfortable.
His legs extended beyond the armrest, and one of the metal pieces at his shoulder pressed awkwardly against his neck.
Y/N frowned.
The armor had to come off.
She hesitated.
Removing someone’s clothing without permission felt wrong.
Leaving blood-soaked material pressed against open injuries also felt wrong.
She crouched beside him and examined the clasps.
“I’m only doing this because I don’t want you to die. Not to be a pervert.”
The armor did not appear designed for easy removal.
Each piece overlapped another, secured with unfamiliar fastenings and narrow strips of dark leather. Y/N began with the gold shoulder plates, testing every buckle until one finally released.
The metal was colder than it should have been.
She placed each piece carefully on the floor beside the coffee table. Beneath the outer armor, the fabric was torn and damp with blood. A long cut ran beneath his ribs, while smaller abrasions covered his shoulders and arms.
Y/N swallowed.
“Okay.”
She found scissors in the kitchen and cut through the fabric where it had stuck to the wounds. When she reached the fitted leather around his waist, she paused again.
There was no way to clean everything properly without removing the rest.
Y/N looked at his face.
His breathing remained steady.
“You’re unconscious,” she reasoned quietly. “This is medical.”
She pointed at him.
“And you do not get to be weird about this later.”
She worked as quickly and respectfully as she could, keeping her eyes on the injuries rather than the man beneath the clothing.
That became more difficult when she discovered he wore nothing beneath the final layer.
Y/N immediately grabbed the throw blanket from the back of the couch and covered his lower half.
“Great.”
She stared at the ceiling for a moment.
“Of course.”
Once her face stopped burning, she returned to the task.
She cleaned the blood from his skin with warm water and the softest cloth she owned. His body was marked with bruises that had already darkened to deep shades of purple and blue, especially along his ribs and shoulders. None of his bones appeared obviously broken, though Y/N knew that meant very little.
His skin remained unnaturally cold.
She placed the back of her hand against his forehead.
No fever.
The opposite, if anything.
Y/N wrapped the worst cuts with gauze and secured the bandages with medical tape. She put antibiotic ointment on the shallower scrapes, covered the torn skin across his knuckles and cleaned the blood from his hairline.
At one point, his brow furrowed beneath her touch.
Y/N froze.
His eyes did not open.
“Sorry,” she whispered.
She finished the wound near his temple more gently.
Afterward, she washed his armor in the bathtub.
The water turned pink, then red, then gradually clear. Up close, the pieces looked even less like a costume. The metal was dense and beautifully worked, carved with patterns too intricate to have been manufactured cheaply. Even damaged, it seemed valuable enough to pay her rent for years.
Y/N left the armor to dry on towels across the bathroom floor.
The cloth and leather beneath it required more work.
Several seams had torn apart during his fall, and one sleeve had nearly separated from the shoulder. Y/N retrieved the small sewing kit she used to repair buttons and uniform hems, then sat cross-legged on the floor beside the couch.
The material resisted an ordinary needle.
She broke one attempting to push it through the thicker section.
“You are extremely inconvenient,” she told him.
The stranger did not respond.
She eventually found a heavy needle in the back of the kit and used black thread to close the worst tears. Her stitches were not elegant, but they held. Where the fabric had been too badly damaged, she reinforced it from the inside with pieces cut from an old black shirt.
It took nearly two hours.
By the time she finished, her eyes ached and the sky beyond the windows had begun to lighten at the edges.
Y/N placed the repaired clothing with the rest of the armor in the bathroom. Then she returned to the couch.
The stranger had not moved.
The blanket still covered him from the waist down, though one side had slipped low enough to expose his hip.
Y/N quickly pulled it back into place.
“There. Modesty.”
She added a second blanket over his chest, partly because of how cold he felt and partly because she did not want to walk into the living room later and discover that the first one had fallen away entirely.
She left a glass of water on the coffee table and moved the baseball bat within easy reach of the armchair.
Only then did she allow herself to breathe.
The apartment was quiet.
Too quiet.
Y/N checked the lock on the front door, then checked it again.
She did not think she could sleep.
Instead, she went into the kitchen and filled a kettle.
Tea seemed like something a normal person would make after finding an unconscious man in a crater.
Tea was calming.
Tea was harmless.
Tea did not ask why there was alien-looking armor drying in her bathroom.
Y/N leaned against the counter while the kettle heated, rubbing both hands over her face.
What was she going to do when he woke?
Ask his name.
Ask what happened.
Ask whether there was anyone she could call.
Then, depending on his answer, either drive him to the hospital or lock herself in the bathroom and climb out the window.
The kettle began to whistle.
She turned off the burner, poured the water over two tea bags and tried not to notice how badly her hands shook. One mug was for her. The other was for him, in case he woke and wanted something warm.
She had just added honey to the second cup when she heard movement in the living room.
A rustle of fabric.
Then silence.
Y/N went still.
The baseball bat was in the other room.
Excellent planning.
She reached for the largest kitchen knife instead.
A floorboard creaked.
Then another.
Slow footsteps approached the kitchen.
Y/N tightened her fingers around the handle.
A tall figure appeared in the doorway.
She looked up.
Her breath caught.
The stranger was awake.
He stood with one hand braced against the frame, dark hair falling loose around his shoulders. The bandage at his temple remained in place, though the one wrapped around his ribs had shifted slightly with his movement.
His eyes were sharp and startlingly green.
They swept across the kitchen in a single, assessing glance before settling on her.
He looked disoriented.
Not frightened.
Not confused in the helpless way she had expected.
He looked like an animal waking inside a trap and calculating how many people stood between him and the exit.
Y/N lowered the knife slightly.
“Hi.”
His gaze dropped to the blade.
Then returned to her face.
“Where am I?”
His voice was low and rough from disuse, but the words carried a precise, commanding weight that made her stand straighter without meaning to.
“My apartment.”
His expression hardened. “What realm?”
Y/N blinked. “New Mexico.”
His eyes narrowed.
“That was not my question.”
She stared at him. “Uh…Earth?”
A slight shift passed over his features.
“Midgard.”
He spoke the word as though confirming something unpleasant.
Y/N studied him more carefully.
He was pale and unsteady, but there was something unmistakably regal in the way he held himself. Even injured and wrapped in bandages, he looked as though he expected the room to accommodate his presence.
He took one step forward.
The movement drew her attention downward.
Y/N immediately turned toward the counter.
“Oh my God.”
The stranger stopped. “What?”
“You’re naked.”
Silence.
Y/N kept her eyes fixed on the tea.
Completely fixed.
She could still see him at the edge of her vision, which was far more than she wanted to see while attempting to have a conversation with him.
“You’re just—” She made a vague gesture with one hand. “You left the blanket.”
The stranger looked down at himself.
There was a pause.
Not embarrassment.
Merely acknowledgment. “As it would seem.”
Y/N glanced at him by accident.
Her gaze dropped.
She immediately snapped it back to his face and then away again.
“Could you please cover yourself?”
“Why?”
The question sounded genuine.
Y/N looked toward the ceiling.
“Because you’re standing naked in my kitchen.”
“I am aware.”
“You weren’t until I said something.”
His mouth tightened. “I was otherwise occupied.”
“With what?”
“Determining where I have been taken.”
“No one took you anywhere.”
His eyes sharpened. “You expect me to believe that I arrived here of my own will?”
“I found you outside my job.”
He watched her in silence.
“You were unconscious,” she continued. “In the desert. You were bleeding, and I couldn’t get service to call an ambulance, so I brought you here.”
She gestured toward the hallway without looking directly at him.
“Your clothes are in the bathroom.”
“My clothes?”
“The armor or whatever.”
His gaze moved over her face, searching for some indication of deception.
“You removed them.”
Y/N’s cheeks warmed again. “They were covered in blood.”
“You disrobed me while I was insensible.”
“To clean your injuries.”
His expression became unreadable.
Y/N finally looked at his face.
Only his face.
“I covered you with a blanket.”
“Which appears to have been of greater concern to you than to me.”
“Yes, because I’m the one being traumatized right now.”
One of his eyebrows lifted.
The reaction was subtle, but unmistakably offended. “You speak boldly for one who claims not to be my captor.”
Y/N stared at him.
“You are naked, bleeding in my apartment and threatening me while butt-naked. I think we’re past formal introductions.”
The corner of his mouth shifted.
Not quite a smile.
More the distant memory of one.
It vanished before she could be certain.
“Where is the latrine?”
“Bathroom? Down the hall. First door on the left.”
He turned.
Y/N accidentally caught another glimpse of him from behind.
She spun back toward the counter so quickly that tea sloshed over the rim of her mug.
“And take the blanket with you!”
He paused in the doorway.
“What blanket?”
“The one on the floor in the living room.”
“I have no need of it.”
“I do.”
He looked over his shoulder at her.
For a moment, his eyes traveled across her face, taking in the flush in her cheeks and the determined way she refused to look below his shoulders.
Something knowing entered his expression.
“You are embarrassed.”
“I’m trying to be respectful.”
“An unusual concern, considering you have already seen me.”
Y/N’s mouth fell open. “For medical reasons.”
“So you claim.”
“I saved your life.”
“That remains to be determined.”
She turned fully toward him then, irritation momentarily overpowering embarrassment.
“You know what? Fine. Walk around naked. I don’t care.”
His eyes flicked downward briefly, following the line of her gaze before it shot back to his face.
“No,” he said softly. “I can see that.”
Y/N grabbed a dish towel and threw it at him.
His hand rose.
The towel stopped in midair.
Y/N froze.
It hovered between them for one impossible second before floating neatly into his waiting palm.
The kitchen fell silent.
Her grip tightened around the knife.
The stranger glanced at the towel as though nothing remarkable had occurred.
Then he looked at her.
Fear must have shown on her face, because his expression changed.
The amusement disappeared.
His shoulders drew back, despite the pain the movement caused him, and the regal coldness returned all at once.
“You would be wise to lower the blade.”
Y/N swallowed. “…You just stopped that in the air.”
“A minor feat.”
“That is not minor.”
“To you, perhaps.”
He stepped toward her.
Y/N raised the knife again.
He stopped.
For the first time since entering the kitchen, he appeared to truly see her, not merely as part of the strange room in which he had awakened, but as the woman who had found him, tended his wounds and was now plainly frightened of what stood before her.
His gaze moved to the bandage wrapped around his hand.
Then to the repaired cut along his side.
“You treated these.”
“Yes.”
“Without knowing what I am.”
“I still don’t know what you are.”
His expression hardened faintly at the wording.
Y/N noticed.
“Who,” she corrected. “I don’t know who you are.”
He studied her for a long moment.
Then, with visible reluctance, he wrapped the dish towel around his waist.
It covered almost nothing.
Y/N stared at it.
“That is a hand towel.”
“You demanded I cover myself.”
“Not with something the size of a napkin.”
His patience visibly thinned.
“I have survived the void between worlds. I will not be scolded over your household linens.”
“Then go get the blanket.”
His eyes flashed.
Y/N pointed down the hallway.
“Or your clothes.”
There was a tense pause.
Then he turned away with what remained of his dignity and walked toward the bathroom, one hand holding the towel closed at his hip.
Y/N waited until he disappeared from sight before setting the knife down.
Her knees felt weak.
She pressed both palms against the counter.
He had caught a towel without touching it.
He had called Earth Midgard.
He had asked which realm he was in.
Y/N looked toward the hallway.
The bathroom door opened.
Then silence.
A moment later, his voice carried through the apartment.
“What have you done to my garments?”
Y/N closed her eyes.
“I cleaned them.”
“You stitched them.”
“They were ripped.”
“With Midgardian thread.”
“It was that or dental floss.”
Another silence.
Then, colder, “Where are the remaining pieces?”
“On the floor beside the bathtub. I didn’t know how they attached.”
The bathroom door opened again.
He emerged wearing only the lower half of his clothing, the repaired leather sitting low on his hips while he carried the torn tunic in one hand.
Y/N made a concentrated effort to focus on the stitching.
His fingers traced one of the repaired seams.
The work looked crude beneath his touch, especially compared to the original construction.
“I know it isn’t perfect,” she said defensively. “The material broke two of my needles.”
His gaze lifted to hers.
“You repaired it yourself.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Y/N frowned. “Because it was damaged.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
He continued watching her.
There was suspicion in his face, but something else beneath it. Something less certain.
Y/N gestured toward the second mug on the counter.
“I made tea.”
His eyes shifted toward it.
“You prepared it for me.”
“In case you woke up.”
“You did not know whether I would.”
“No.”
“And yet you prepared it.”
Y/N shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable beneath the weight of his attention. “You looked like you needed something warm.”
His expression became distant.
For a fleeting moment, the arrogance slipped.
He looked tired.
Not merely from his injuries, but from something deeper, something that had begun long before he struck the earth outside the diner.
Then the mask returned.
“What is your name?”
“Y/N.”
He repeated it quietly, testing the sound.
She waited.
“And you are?”
His chin lifted.
The change in him was immediate. Even half-dressed and bandaged in a stranger’s kitchen, he gathered himself as though standing before a royal court.
“I am Loki of Asgard.”
Y/N stared at him.
He continued, each title delivered with wounded, practiced pride.
“Son of Odin. Prince of the realm. God of Mischief.”
The kitchen fell silent.
Y/N looked at his repaired clothing.
Then at the unfamiliar armor visible through the open bathroom door.
Then at the man who had stopped a flying towel in midair.
“Oh.”
His eyes narrowed. “That is all you have to say?”
“What do you want me to say? I’m processing.”
“You doubt me.”
“I watched you do magic, so I’m trying very hard not to.”
“Magic.” His tone suggested the word was inadequate.
Y/N picked up the second mug and held it out to him. “Tea?”
Loki looked at it as though unsure whether it was an offering or a test.
Then he approached.
He took the mug from her hand, his fingers brushing hers.
His skin remained cold.
Y/N tried not to react.
Loki noticed anyway.
His gaze dropped to their hands.
Then rose slowly to her face.
She withdrew first.
“You should sit down,” she said. “Before you fall down.”
“I do not fall.”
Y/N glanced toward the living room. “You literally fell out of the sky.”
His expression went still.
The remark landed harder than she intended.
His fingers tightened around the mug.
Y/N watched the humor vanish from his face and immediately regretted it.
“I didn’t mean—”
“You know nothing of what occurred.”
His voice had lost its rough amusement. What remained was cold and sharp enough to cut.
“No,” she said carefully. “I don’t.”
He looked away.
For several moments, he said nothing.
The silence felt heavier than anger.
Y/N studied him, noticing the tension in his jaw and the way his eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the kitchen walls.
Whatever had brought him to Earth had not been an accident.
Or, if it had, it was not the part that troubled him most.
She did not ask.
Instead, she nudged the honey closer across the counter.
“It might need more of that.”
Loki glanced down.
His grip on the mug gradually loosened.
“You are a peculiar creature.”
“I get that a lot.”
“You should be afraid of me.”
“I am a little.”
His gaze returned to hers.
The honesty appeared to surprise him.
Y/N folded her arms.
“But you’re hurt, and you haven’t done anything except insult my sewing and refuse to wear a blanket.”
A faint breath escaped him.
Almost a laugh.
“Your sewing is appalling.”
“And yet your clothes aren’t falling apart anymore.”
He examined the repaired seam once more.
“No,” he conceded quietly. “They are not.”
Y/N lifted her own mug.
“Drink your tea, Your Highness.”
Loki’s eyes narrowed at the title, uncertain whether she was mocking him.
She was.
But only a little.
He raised the mug to his lips.
The tea was still hot enough that he paused after the first sip, surprise briefly crossing his face.
Y/N hid a smile behind her own cup.
There, half-dressed in her kitchen with his armor drying beside her bathtub and black thread closing the tears in his princely garments, Loki of Asgard took another cautious drink.
For the first time since waking, he did not look toward the door.
. . .
By the time Loki finished eating, the clock above the stove read 4:57 a.m.
Y/N stared at it for several seconds, as though willing the numbers to rearrange themselves into something less offensive.
They did not.
The remains of his meal sat on the plate in front of him: a smear of egg yolk, one corner of toast and nothing else. For someone who had initially regarded the food as beneath him, Loki had eaten with impressive efficiency.
He had also asked seventeen questions.
Y/N had counted.
Most of them had concerned Midgard, her home, the diner, the glowing box mounted above the stove and why humans stored food in cold cupboards only to heat it again moments later.
Several had concerned her.
Those had been harder to answer.
She gathered the empty dishes from the small table and carried them to the sink.
Behind her, Loki remained seated with his repaired tunic draped around his shoulders but not properly fastened. He looked marginally better than he had an hour earlier. There was more color in his face, and the trembling in his hands had stopped.
He still looked exhausted.
Y/N suspected she looked worse.
She turned on the faucet and rinsed the plate.
“I’m going to bed.”
The chair shifted behind her.
“Now?”
Y/N looked over her shoulder.
“Yes, now.”
His brows drew together faintly.
“You intend to sleep.”
“That’s usually what going to bed means.”
“In my presence.”
She shut off the water. “You can stay on the couch.”
“That was not my concern.”
Y/N dried her hands on a dish towel. “What is your concern?”
Loki studied her as though the answer should have been obvious.
“You know nothing of me.”
“I know.”
“You have admitted that you believe me dangerous.”
“Potentially.”
“I possess abilities you do not understand.”
“Definitely.”
“And still you would render yourself unconscious within the same dwelling.”
Y/N leaned back against the counter.
“I have been awake for almost twenty-four hours.”
“That does not explain your lack of caution.”
“It explains most of it.”
Loki’s expression suggested that it did not.
Y/N rubbed both hands over her face, then pointed vaguely toward the hallway.
“My bedroom is through there. The bathroom is the first door on the left. You already found that. There are extra blankets in the basket by the couch, and the tap water is technically safe, even if it tastes weird.”
“You speak as though I am a guest.”
“You’re not exactly paying rent.”
His gaze sharpened. “Yet you leave me unattended.”
“I’m too tired to supervise a god.”
“You should not require supervision to ensure your own survival.”
Y/N considered that.
“Fair.”
She pushed away from the counter.
“If you do decide to kill me, could you try to do it before my next shift?”
Loki went completely still.
Y/N walked past him toward the living room.
“I have to be back at the diner tomorrow afternoon, and I’d rather not make them find coverage at the last minute.”
His chair scraped sharply against the floor as he stood. “You jest.”
“Mostly.”
“You believe I might murder you, yet your concern is your place of employment?”
“I hate inconveniencing my coworkers.”
“This is absurd.”
“I’ve been told.”
She reached the edge of the living room and bent to retrieve the blanket from the floor, tossing it over the back of the couch.
Loki followed more slowly, one hand briefly bracing against the table before he caught himself.
Y/N pretended not to see.
“I have more questions,” he said.
“I figured.”
“And matters I wish to discuss.”
She looked at him.
There was a strange insistence beneath the words. Not command, exactly. Something closer to reluctance, as though he had only just decided he wanted the conversation to continue and resented time for attempting to end it.
Y/N yawned.
“You seem like a talker.”
His expression tightened.
“I do not talk excessively.”
“You’ve interrogated me about my microwave, my job, college, why people put ice in drinks, and whether the mailman is an official agent of the government.”
“He wears a uniform and enters the grounds of every residence.”
“He delivers coupons.”
“A convenient explanation.”
Y/N smiled tiredly.
“My point stands.”
Loki folded his arms carefully, avoiding the bandage around his ribs.
“You dismiss me.”
“I’m postponing you.”
“You assume I will remain until you wake.”
She stopped.
The apartment fell quiet around them.
The first gray traces of morning had begun to appear through the blinds, striping the carpet and the side of Loki’s face with pale light.
Y/N looked at him for a moment.
There it was again.
That expectation hidden beneath the arrogance.
That everyone eventually left.
Or perhaps that he always did first.
She nodded toward the couch. “You said you can’t leave yet.”
“My circumstances may change.”
“Then they change.”
“And if I am gone?”
“I guess I’ll know you felt better.”
His eyes searched her face.
“You would not pursue me.”
“I don’t even know where Asgard is.”
“That would not prevent some.”
“I also have homework.”
Loki’s mouth flattened, but the answer seemed to settle something in him.
Y/N took another step toward the hallway.
He spoke before she could leave. “You have not answered.”
“Answered what?”
“Whether I may continue my questions.”
“When I’m awake.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“You expect me to wait.”
“I believe in you.”
The words came out so casually that Y/N almost missed the way he reacted.
Loki stared at her.
The guarded amusement vanished from his face.
“What did you say?”
“I said I believe in you.”
“You cannot.”
“Why not?”
“You have known me for only hours.”
“True.”
“You know nothing of my character, my history or my intentions.”
“Also true.”
“Then upon what do you base such belief?”
Y/N blinked at him.
“I believe you can wait until I wake up before asking more questions.”
Silence.
Loki’s face changed with the realization.
Y/N pressed her lips together. “Oh.”
He looked deeply offended. “You were not speaking of me.”
“I was speaking of you. Just in a very specific, low-stakes way.”
“You made it sound—”
“More meaningful?”
“I did not say that.”
“You thought I was giving you an emotional affirmation.”
“I thought no such thing.”
His answer came too quickly.
Y/N smiled despite her exhaustion.
“Sure.”
Loki’s jaw tightened.
She pointed at the couch.
“You can do it. A few hours without interrogating me. I believe in you.”
“You are insufferable.”
“You can tell me all about it when I wake up.”
She turned toward the hallway.
“Y/N.”
She glanced back.
Loki stood in the middle of her living room, half-dressed in damaged royal clothing, black thread visible along the seams she had repaired. The dawn light made him look less like a man who had fallen from the sky and more like something the night had reluctantly surrendered.
He seemed poised to ask another question.
Instead, he said, “How long?”
“How long what?”
“Will you sleep?”
Y/N glanced at the clock again.
“Hopefully until noon.”
His expression suggested that six hours was an unreasonable disappearance.
“You’ll survive.”
“That remains to be seen.”
She smiled. “See? You already understand my sense of humor.”
“I do not.”
“You will.”
Y/N continued toward her room.
At the door, she stopped and looked back one final time.
“Oh, and don’t use the stove.”
Loki lifted his chin. “I am not a child.”
“You stared at the toaster like it was going to challenge you to combat.”
“It made a sound without warning.”
“Exactly. No stove. I can’t afford another home.”
She stepped into her room. “And Loki?”
“What?”
“Thanks for not killing me tonight.”
His expression became unreadable.
“You presume restraint on my part—“
“Good night.”
Y/N closed the door before he could answer.
She did not lock it.
Loki remained where she had left him, staring at the thin wooden barrier between them.
A lock would not have stopped him.
They both knew that.
But she had not even tried.
From the other side of the door came the quiet creak of the mattress, the rustle of blankets and, after only a few minutes, silence.
Loki listened.
No hurried breathing.
No attempt to escape through the window.
No weapon being moved beneath a pillow.
She had simply gone to sleep.
He looked toward the front door.
He could not leave.
Not yet.
That was the only reason he remained.
Loki repeated this to himself as he returned to the couch and lowered himself carefully onto it.
The blanket Y/N had offered lay folded over the back. He regarded it with disdain before pulling it across his legs.
On the coffee table sat the glass of water she had prepared earlier, along with two white tablets and a note written on the back of a diner receipt.
For pain. Human dose, so maybe only take one. Please don’t die. I have work.
Loki read it twice.
Then a third time.
A faint, unwilling smile touched his mouth.
“You believe in me,” he murmured.
From the bedroom, Y/N gave a muffled snore.
Loki’s smile disappeared.
He settled deeper into the couch, prepared to wait until she woke.
He lasted eleven minutes before thinking of another question.
Loki lasted thirty minutes.
For the first ten, he sat upright on the couch with the blanket draped across his legs and his attention fixed on the closed bedroom door.
For the next five, he examined the objects scattered across the coffee table.
A stack of textbooks.
Several pens.
A half-empty package of gum.
The note she had left beside the tablets.
He read it once more, though there was nothing within it he had not already understood.
Crude.
Irreverent.
Strangely considerate.
Loki placed the note precisely where he had found it.
Beneath the coffee table, partly hidden by one of her discarded shoes, he found a small red ball. It was rubber, worn smooth in places and small enough to fit comfortably in his palm.
He leaned back against the couch and tossed it toward the ceiling.
The ball rose, slowed, then dropped neatly into his waiting hand.
Again.
Up.
Down.
Catch.
The rhythm occupied him for perhaps another seven minutes.
Then it became insulting.
Loki sent the ball higher, allowing it to nearly touch the ceiling before catching it without looking.
He had endured diplomatic councils that moved faster than this.
He had waited through Thor’s endless speeches, Odin’s silences and entire feasts during which no one said anything of worth. Yet somehow, waiting for one sleeping Midgardian to awaken felt uniquely unreasonable.
She had said noon.
He looked toward the clock.
Barely half an hour had passed.
Absurd.
Loki tossed the ball again.
Perhaps she was not asleep.
The thought arrived quietly.
He caught the ball.
Perhaps the entire display had been a deception.
She had been too calm. Too willing to leave him unattended. Too quick to accept his presence within her home.
No one behaved so carelessly without reason.
She might have retreated to the bedroom to contact someone through another device. She might be recording him. She might be waiting for armed men to arrive.
Midgard possessed organizations devoted to unusual threats. Loki knew enough of the realm to understand that much.
The woman had claimed her device could not reach anyone from the diner.
That did not mean the same was true here.
He glanced toward the narrow hallway.
The apartment remained silent.
Too silent.
Loki threw the ball once more and caught it with sharper force.
She may have been plotting against him from the moment she found him.
The skateboard could have been part of the indignity.
He placed the ball on the table.
Pain pulled beneath his ribs as he stood, but he ignored it. His strength had begun to return, though far more slowly than he would have preferred. The fall through the void had drained him in a way battle never had.
He crossed the living room without sound.
The bedroom door waited at the end of the hallway, closed but not secured.
No lock.
That, too, could have been deliberate.
An invitation designed to convince him she felt safe.
Or a test.
Loki rested his hand against the handle.
He listened.
Nothing.
No whispering.
No movement across the floor.
Only the faint hum of the air conditioner and a quiet, uneven breath from the other side.
He turned the handle slowly.
The door opened without a creak.
The room beyond was dim, lit only by the pale morning light slipping through the blinds. Clothes had been draped over the back of a chair. More books were piled beside the bed, one lying open facedown across the carpet.
A small lamp remained on.
Y/N was asleep.
Truly asleep.
She lay on her side beneath a tangled comforter, one hand tucked beneath her pillow while the other rested loosely against the mattress. Her hair had spread across the pillow in complete disarray, and the exhaustion that had been visible in her face earlier had softened into something peaceful.
There was no phone in her hand.
No weapon nearby.
No concealed accomplice waiting in the shadows.
She had told him she was going to sleep.
Then she had done exactly that.
Loki remained in the doorway.
The simplicity of it unsettled him more than deception might have.
She had been truthful from the moment he woke.
Painfully so.
She did not soften her answers to preserve his pride. She did not flatter him when he offered his titles. She admitted when she feared him and mocked him in the same breath.
She had not pretended that bringing him home was wise.
She had not claimed some noble destiny compelled her.
She had simply found him injured and decided not to leave him there.
Because she did not want bad karma.
Because she did not wish to be an asshole.
Loki nearly scoffed at the memory.
Nearly.
He stepped farther into the room.
Y/N did not stir.
She had no idea he stood there.
No awareness of how vulnerable she had made herself. One movement of his hand and he could silence her before she ever opened her eyes.
The thought brought no satisfaction.
Instead, Loki found himself noticing the faint crease between her brows, as though even in sleep some small concern followed her. The edge of the blanket had slipped from one shoulder, revealing the worn shirt she had changed into before bed.
There was nothing regal about her.
Nothing practiced.
No carefully arranged hair, jeweled gown or painted smile meant to secure favor.
She was simply herself, even when no one was meant to see.
Beautiful.
The word entered his mind without permission.
Loki’s expression tightened.
He looked away from her face.
That was foolish.
She was mortal. Ordinary. Exhausted from a night spent serving strangers and completing scholarly work in a roadside diner.
And yet—
He looked back.
There was something beautiful in the softness of her sleeping face.
More than that, in the honesty of it.
She had no mask.
No performance.
She had seen him injured, confused and stripped of every visible mark of rank, and she had still spoken to him as though he were neither monster nor king.
Only a man who needed help.
Loki disliked how much that pleased him.
Y/N shifted slightly beneath the covers.
He went still.
Her lips parted around a quiet breath. One hand moved across the mattress, searching absently until her fingers caught the edge of the comforter and pulled it closer.
She did not wake.
Loki released a breath through his nose.
He should leave her to rest.
Not because she had asked.
Certainly not because she had said she believed in him.
He simply had no further reason to remain in the doorway.
That was all.
Loki reached for the handle and began to draw the door closed.
Before it shut, Y/N murmured something into the pillow.
He paused.
The words were indistinct.
Then, more clearly—
“No stove.”
Loki stared at her.
She remained asleep.
His eyes narrowed.
Even unconscious, she apparently considered him incapable of navigating her crude cooking apparatus.
A faint smile threatened at the corner of his mouth.
“Insufferable creature,” he whispered.
He closed the door until only a narrow gap remained, leaving enough space for the light from the hallway to reach the room.
Then he returned to the living room.
The red ball still rested on the table.
Loki lowered himself carefully onto the couch and picked it up again.
This time, when he tossed it toward the ceiling, he did so more slowly.
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, rough sex/dubcon elements, heavy dom/sub dynamic, humiliation kink, porn without plot, crying during sex, exhibitionism, size kink, power imbalance, exophilia.
Tags: Skeletor/Reader, AFAB Reader, Skeletor Smut, Skeletor x Reader, Reader-Insert, Dominant Skeletor, Humiliation Kink, Exhibitionism, Size Difference, Rough Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex, Degradation, Crying Kink, Throne Sex, Evil Dom, Masters of the Universe Smut, No Plot Just Smut, Dark Fantasy Smut, exophilia.
Word Count: 3,325
Author’s Notes: If you want to make the world a better place, take a look at yourself and make the change. I scrolled through Tumblr and AO3 and found NOT a single fucking oneshot smut of him. I was thirsting like crazy during the movie.
Those are my main references for his physical appearance: Here and Here
Summary: Skeletor summons you to the throne room just to nitpick your uniform… and then use you in front of anyone who walks in.
The air in the Snake Mountain was thick with the scent of sulfur. Torches flickered along the walls of black stone, casting long, twisted shadows that seemed to writhe like living serpents.
The throne room was a cathedral of bone and obsidian, where the very walls whispered forgotten curses.
Skeletor circled you with slow, deliberate steps, his colossal frame dominating the chamber. He was the very image of raw, tyrannical power: a towering, giant with deep blue skin stretched taut over thick, corded slabs of battle-hardened skin. His head was a grotesque, yellowish skull locked in a permanent, menacing grin beneath the tattered hood.
His dark purple chest armor, adorned with sharp, bone-like spikes, gleamed in the light. A ragged black cape fluttered behind him, while his battle skirt of tattered purple and black leather strips swayed with each heavy stomp.
The red orbs glowing within his eye sockets flared with irritation, narrowing and refracting like malevolent flames as he scrutinized every inch of you.
He tapped the Havoc Staff against the stone floor with an impatient clack, the sound echoing like a death knell. His overwhelming presence made the air feel even heavier. Two clawed fingers hooked roughly into the high black collar of your deep-purple bodysuit. With a sharp yank, he pulled the fabric taut.
“This…” he gestured at your uniform with theatrical disgust, voice dripping with contempt, “This sorry spectacle before me… is not good at all, is it, my sweet servant?”
You kept your gaze lowered, as you had been trained.
“No, my lord.”
“Of course it isn’t!” he hissed, the red glow in his sockets intensifying. “Look at this sorry excuse for attire. Months under my magnificent rule, and you still cannot even present yourself adequately? How embarrassing! Utterly, pathetically embarrassing!”
He stopped directly in front of you, so close that the smell of ash, charred bone, and sweat overwhelmed your senses. Two clawed fingers hooked roughly into what's left of the high black collar of your bodysuit — the same shimmering, metallic-accented garment he had once demanded.
“That collar was ridiculous. Far too modest for my tastes.” He tore the fabric downward in one fluid, mocking motion, exposing more of your cleavage. “Less fabric here… and here…”
You stood perfectly still as he nitpicked. The bodysuit is tight enough to accentuate your waist and push up your breasts and ass in a way that already made you look more like a pleasure servant than a proper minion of evil. A wish of Skeletor, yet he was never satisfied.
His massive hands suddenly clamped around your waist, fingers digging in with bruising strength. Your skin prickled at his touch.
“A corset,” he says while squeezing until you gasp. “I want it tiny. No more of this ridiculous bodysuit.” You solemnly nod, even though it was something he previously ordered.
He continued tearing downward with casual cruelty, stopping just above your crotch. A single claw dragged slowly down your now-exposed belly, sending more shivers down your skin, scraping lightly over before hooking into the last remaining scrap of fabric that barely covered your sex.
One of his claws then moved upward, tracing between the torn edges of fabric still clinging to your breasts.
“And I want no fabric here either!” he declared, pointing directly at the center of your chest. “No more of this pointless coverage.”
You swallowed hard. “What?”
Skeletor’s skull tilted, the red orbs flaring with exaggerated outrage.
“‘What?!’” he repeated in exaggerated outrage, red orbs flaring. “Did my own servant just dare utter ‘what’ to me?! Figure it out, woman! Before I lose my patience and rip the rest off myself!”
“Yes, my lord,” you answered quickly.
His attention shifted to your neck. The skull leaned closer, red light burning.
“You would look exquisite with a thick leather collar around that delicate throat,” he purred, voice low and dangerous. “Thick. Heavy. With a ring so I may drag you to your knees whenever the whim strikes me.” One massive hand wrapped fully around your neck, encircling it effortlessly.
He shoved you down without warning. You dropped to your knees before the skeletal throne. Panthor lifted his great purple head for a moment, then returned to his nap, utterly uninterested.
Skeletor’s hand leaves your face and holds your chin up, palm pressing your lips, and fingers pinching your cheeks.
“Make your eye makeup darker.”
Skeletor sat upon the throne of bones with his legs spread wide in arrogant dominance, the picture of a dark lord who believed the universe itself should kneel before him. His colossal thighs took up an enormous amount of space. His tattered cape pooled around him like spilled night.
He gestured lazily with one claw.
“Come to me,” he commanded. When you started to rise, he stopped you with a gesture. “No. Crawl to your master, like a little panther.”
You obeyed, moving on all fours up the steps, back arched, hips raised. The tattered remains of your uniform barely clung to your body.
When you reached his feet, he laughed — that signature, theatrical, bone-chilling cackle.
“Ahhh, yes! Much better.” A claw hooked into the last scrap of fabric between your legs and tore it away. “From now on, you’ll wear something I can simply push aside when I want what’s mine. Understood?”
You nodded, already aching for his touch.
With deliberate arrogance, Skeletor leaned back on the skeletal throne and freed himself from the confines of his undergarments. His thick, veined cock stood proud and heavy against the deep blue muscle of his abdomen, already glistening at the tip with anticipation. You licked your lips.
The sight of it always sent a dark thrill through you — a reminder that you craved his dominance.
Perhaps it was his power to do as he wished that made him hard like this? Your master had horrible mood swings; it was difficult to say what pleased him from time to time.
Sometimes he didn't even want anyone around unless it was to inflict excruciating pain with magic or a touch that resembled acid. And other times, he sought ridiculous reasons to summon you.
Summons could result in countless things: studies, sermons, accompanying punishments, punishments for your mistakes, and especially sex, particularly sex. Among the countless reasons he summoned you, sex was equally common in numerous ways and for countless reasons.
Sometimes he wanted something quick to relieve himself; there were occasions when you would spend the entire night with him.
He might be tempted to do this for countless reasons: to sexually torture you, or even just because he saw you walking through the fortress.
It was still difficult to know what his general intention was, but now, he wants you to suck his cock.
He noticed your hungry gaze and let out a low, theatrical chuckle.
“See something you like, my dear?” The pet name dripped from his skeletal mouth like honey — a rare reward for your eager obedience. Skeletor only used such words when you pleased him, a small mercy that made your stomach tighten with twisted affection.
You didn’t wait for further permission. With reverent hands, you removed his belt and pulled aside the leather strips of his skirt. The heavy musk of sweat and leather rose to meet you. Your mouth watered instantly.
You leaned forward, placing your arms between his spread thighs for support, back arched and ass raised high like an offering. Your lips brushed the head of his cock before you looked up, voice soft and obedient. Showing your complete willingness to serve him.
“May I, my lord?”
The red orbs in his skull flared with wicked satisfaction.
“You may, my sweet, eager little whore.” he purred, the praise laced with degradation. His clawed fingers slid through your hair until they gripped the roots at the nape of your neck. “Show your master how well I’ve trained you.”
He thrust his hips upward, forcing several thick inches straight into your throat. You choked around him, the sudden stretch making your eyes close with a sting. Skeletor groaned in pleasure, the sound deep and guttural, but he didn’t release your hair.
“Look at me while you serve,” he snarled, voice thick with delight.
You start working before he takes control again; once he's in the mood, he could fuck your mouth until you pass out from lack of air. Gazing up into the burning red lights of his eyes as you began.
Your movements were practiced and flawless. No gagging or teeth scraping; your master had trained you well. Too well, you missed the spankings. Maybe if you asked after a successful mission, he would do it?
With slow, deep bobs at first, coating every inch with saliva, then pulling back to swirl your tongue around the swollen head, licking up the salty beads of pre-cum that leaked for you.
You pull back slightly and start licking the glans, trying to stimulate more lubrication on his part. At that moment, he breathes heavily and clenches his fists that were on the armrest.
“Put it all back in your mouth.”
Skeletor’s fingers tightened in your hair again. His chest rose and fell heavily, the purple armor creaking slightly with each breath. You follow the command without hesitation, the second it's said. He grunted in approval.
“That’s it… just like that,” he growled, the theatrical villain momentarily lost in sensation. You try to breathe a little better, but he immediately complained, “Deeper. I know that throat can take far more than this pitiful effort.”
You sank again, taking him to the hilt until your nose pressed against the coarse hair at his base. He held you there for long seconds, enjoying the way your throat convulsed around him, before finally letting you pull back for air.
But mercy was never his strong suit.
“Faster,” he commanded.
You sank his cock in your throat again and started sucking him more quickly, but it still wasn’t enough. With a cruel laugh, Skeletor seized full control. His grip on your hair became iron, and he began fucking your mouth with rough, demanding thrusts — using you like a toy built solely for his pleasure.
The wet, obscene sounds of your throat filled the throne room, mixing with his low grunts.
Your pussy exploded with lust as your jaw grew sore; you arched your back, an action noticed by your master, but he showed no interest in fucking you now, only laughed and continued to use your throat.
Any servant who entered would find his master sprawled on his throne, while you lay with your ass in the air and your pussy glistening as your mouth was used for Skletor’s pleasure.
He didn’t care if anyone entered or if you could breathe. His hips snapped upward relentlessly, burying himself deep over and over. Tears streamed down your face, ruining the dark makeup and leaving black streaks across your cheeks. Your eyes watered uncontrollably, but you kept them locked on Skeletor’s glowing red gaze, just as he demanded.
Finally, he stopped pushing your head and simply held your face in place with both hands, thumbs smearing your tears across your skin as he fucked your throat with shallow, brutal movements of his hips.
You squeezed your eyes shut, forcing more tears to fall; his red eyes shone intensely.
“Such a perfect servant,” his voice dripping with sadistic pleasure. “Crying so beautifully for me.”
He pulled you down as far as possible, burying himself to the hilt. His cock throbbed violently, pulsing against your tongue as thick ropes of hot cum flooded your throat. You sucked greedily, milking every drop, desperate to please him even as your lungs burned.
Skeletor let out a long, satisfied groan mixed with muttered curses. When he finally released your head, he stroked the top of your disheveled hair.
“Good girl,” he rasped.
Your vision was blurred with tears, but the glowing red orbs of his eyes anchored you.
Skeletor grabbed you by the hips with his huge hands and lifted you effortlessly, positioning you on your knees between his spread thighs.
“Open wider,” he ordered. You dragged your knees apart. “More.”
His claws sank into your shoulder blades, forcing you down until your knees pressed against his muscular thighs. The stretch was painful.
Your cunt is dripping and glistening under the light of the torches. A shaky breath escaped your lips. Falling forward or backward was not an option; you remained upright.
“Ahhh… now that’s better,” he murmured, clearly pleased with the view.
His large hand roams through your belly, hips, and waist before going between your legs, just below your sex, and touches it in a feather-like way. When he lifted his hand, his fingers and palm were glistening with your arousal.
“Literally dripping for me,” he let out a loud, theatrical laugh. “Ah, the sweet despair of carnal desires.”
Your walls clenched, forcing another trail of slick to run down your thigh. Skeletor’s red eyes flared with delight.
A claw circled your entrance teasingly, never pushing in. “I could bury my entire cock in this greedy little cunt dripping hole without the slightest scream, how disappointing! Where is the fun in conquering something so pathetically eager?!” he said, voice dripping with mock disappointment. “No screams. No struggle. How boring.”
He threatened to enter or exit with his finger, but not even the first joint of his index finger went in fully.
Your legs wanted to give way, your body wanted relief desperately, but Skeletor was not at all willing to give it at the moment.
You whimpered desperately. “Please… Please, my lord, I beg you…”
The red glow in his sockets flickered.
“Beg more…”
“Please, my master… Put a collar around my neck and choke me until I can’t breathe… Make me crawl in all four again… But please… fuck me.”
“Again,” he ordered.
You repeated the humiliating plea, voice shaking. Only then did he slide two thick fingers inside you.
“Help yourself,” he commanded lazily, leaning back and resting his skull against his fist.
You didn’t hesitate. You began riding his fingers with desperate, rolling movements of your hips. The wet, vulgar sounds of your soaked cunt filled the chamber. Your moans were muffled, but your body moved shamelessly, chasing the pleasure.
“Stop.”
Your body froze instantly, even as your mind screamed in protest.
Skeletor gripped his thick cock and held it upright. “Come here. Ride me, dear.”
His thighs were so massive that spreading your legs wide enough was another struggle. You had to push your knees painfully outward to have each knee at the side of Skletor’s hip.
With one hand tangled in your hair, he forced you upright, letting his glowing eyes rake over your exposed, tear-streaked face.
Then he pulled you down.
He entered you in one smooth, overwhelming thrust. You moaned loudly in pure bliss as he stretched and filled you completely. Skeletor immediately yanked your hair back hard.
“Such delicious cunt.” he hissed, bringing his skeletal face inches from yours.
You clenched tightly around him in response. He let out a low, satisfied groan.
“Begin. Slowly.”
You obeyed, riding him with slow, deep rolls of your hips while he lounged like a dark king on his throne.
The lubrication allowed the movements to be performed without any problem, compensating for the struggle of having to spread your legs so much, and if tilted enough, his tip would hit your cervix just right, making you shiver, resulting in a less precise rhythm.
A sharp slap suddenly landed on your ass.
“Don’t slack,” he growled.
You increased your pace slightly, focusing entirely on pleasuring him. Your walls are aching from the effort of accommodating his size.
“Yes, my lord.”
And so it is done, your movements are precise, your hips and knees working hard to help you find relief while giving pleasure to your master.
He rested back again, the red light absent. Skeletor has his back fully rested in his skull throne, arms dropped over the armrest. The muscles of his arms twitched slightly, and he breathed heavily.
Your master seemed satisfied; perhaps things would be calmer in the lair during the week. Evil-Lyn and Beast owed you a LOT for that.
“Go faster when you—”
“Master! Master!”
A voice echoed from the entrance of the throne room.
You kept looking at your master, waiting for the end of his order.
Skeletor raises a hand to whoever was down there and then places one of his arms on your buttocks, partially concealing where your bodies were joined as he sat upright.
“Go faster when you feel an orgasm coming.”
You nod.
“And keep the cloak in your next uniform, it will be useful in situations like this.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Although his more upright posture made it difficult, it was easier to move up and down with his arm behind you; it gave you more stability. You tried to make as little noise as possible. Partly so as not to disturb Skeletor while he gave orders, and partly out of shame at being exposed like that.
As the servant Skeletor was talking to was about to leave, a group entered; you shuddered with embarrassment.
“What is the meaning of this?!” Skeletor bellowed, his deep voice echoing through the throne room. With him so agitated, gesticulating furiously with his arms, it became more difficult to remain steady. “Keep the damn cloak in the next attire!”
He wrapped one powerful arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest, and threw his own heavy, ash-scented cloak over your back and shoulders, finally obscuring the view of your back and partially obscuring the intimacy between you and him from the group that had arrived.
“Continue,” he whispered hotly in your ear, then raised his voice in fury. “Speak, you miserable pack of incompetent fools! What pathetic excuse brings you crawling before my presence?!”
The humiliation burned through you. Anyone looking attentively could see the way your body moved, the cloak shifting with each thrust.
It was hard to keep going as Skeletor cursed and yelled at the other servants, his body shifting nonstop. You fell forward, but he didn't push you away; he was focused on insulting all the bloodlines of the servants who were begging for mercy at that moment.
Your face was pressed against the feverish blue skin of his chest; his warmth was almost human, hot and cold, almost as if a body succumbing to the cold in an eternal state of fever.
As he berated the group of servants, his hips rolled up into you in shallow, possessive thrusts beneath the cloak. “Look at your master; even while dealing with you, worthless scum, I still find time to enjoy myself!”
A cool breeze kissed your exposed cunt as your master lifted the cloak slightly, pulling you from the comfort of feeling his skin, revealing to the servants below the obscene sight of your dripping pussy stretched wide around your master’s thick cock.
The wave of shame and arousal hit you like lightning. Your orgasm crashed over you without warning. You trembled violently, biting your lip to stay quiet as your walls spasmed and squeezed him.
Skeletor felt it immediately. He glanced down between your bodies, then looked at the servants with a cruel smirk.
“What a filthy, shameless mess you’ve made before my court,” he muttered, clearly amused, and cracked a laugh. He pulled the cloak tighter around you, but not before making sure the group below had a clear view for a few more humiliating seconds before covering it.
Skeletor lifted your face with his hand and pressed his teeth against your lips, before moving his hand to the top of your head as your face rested against his chest again. He continued yelling insults at the trembling servants, calling them worthless, incompetent, and threatening horrible fates upon them — all while keeping you covered under his cloak, impaled on his cock, letting you warm him.
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★ summary: rumors run fast in small towns, & rumor has it you’ve been fucking romeo’s daddy
★ pairing: boyfriends!dad!jack abbot x reader
★ warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, angst, taboo relationship, cheating, age-gap, reader is 22 & jack is late 40s, toxic dynamics, illusions to domestic violence/abuse, manipulation, masturbation, face-fucking, dirty talk, unprotected sex, public sex, cream pie, cum play, overstimulation, rough sex, choking, usage of daddy, crying during sex, spanking, overall this is fucking disgusting <3
★ word count: 11.2k
★ notes: got this idea in the ethel cain pit during crush btw. feeling like a disgusting pervert!
The heat is sweltering, lace undergarments sticking to your skin as you shuffle around the bed of your boyfriend's truck. It was a picturesque southern summer, and you’ve never felt more out of your skin than you did now. Your head was somewhere in the clouds, so far away from your hometown's backroads you knew by heart. The smell of honeysuckles and dirt was heavy in the air as the wind blew through your tangled hair.
You spotted Romeo’s crooked grin in the rearview mirror of his truck, the grin you used to love. High school sweethearts turned something bitter over the past few years. Romeo and Juliet, the yearbook called you, the same picture that was taped to his dashboard.
Yet, years down the line, and most nights you lie awake listening to the old house settle around you and wonder if this was all life was supposed to be. A future so certain it felt like a prison sentence. The same roads. The same faces. The same conversations repeated until they sounded like scripture. Romeo wasn’t a bad guy when he was sober. But Romeo liked liquor, and the liquor made him cruel.
At the end of the day, he was still just a boy trapped in a man’s body.
And somewhere along the way, you had become a woman. A woman carrying a restlessness she couldn’t explain. A hunger that had nothing to do with love and everything to do with becoming. It lived beneath your ribs like a living thing, stretching and clawing for space. You had desires that were burning inside of you, festering like a disease in the pit of your stomach.
Sweat slipped down your skin, from your forehead down your neck, settling in the valley between your breasts. You imagined a tongue licking it off of you, fisting your fingers into curly hair. In your imagination, when you pulled the head up in between your hands, it wasn’t his eyes you were seeing; it was his father's.
Jack Abbot had been the star of all of your late-night fantasies for longer than you’d like to admit. Sometimes you wondered if there had ever been a beginning at all, if the feeling had simply lived somewhere deep inside you for years unnoticed, waiting quietly beneath the surface until you became old enough, restless enough, lonely enough to finally recognize it.
You spent too many nights lying there staring at the ceiling, Romeo’s cum leaking from between your legs while he lay snoring next to you. You’re wide awake and unsatisfied, a feeling you’ve grown accustomed to after nights with him. Which is how these thoughts started.
Jack Abbot was sex on legs, from his sun-damaged skin to his bow-legged gait; every inch of him was to be desired. You’d seen him shirtless with sweat dripping down his muscles, his jeans that fit snug against his ass. All you could think about was his body, and just what he could do with it. Now he was a man.
You’d think of his lips dragging down your neck, his hands against your neck, his cock deep inside of you, turning you apart in his hold.
Your hand would slip into your underwear, fingertips dipping into your neglected heat, and you would come the hardest you ever have before.
They were just harmless thoughts, until they weren’t.
It was another one of Romeo’s get-togethers. His friends filled the backyard like a plague of locusts, loud and careless, sprawled across truck beds and lawn chairs with beer cans crushed beneath their boots. Drugs were hidden in hoodie pockets and carelessly left on whatever flat surface they could find.
You were drunk on cheap beers and stumbling over your boots that were a few sizes too big, but they were only ten dollars at the flea market. The night air had chilled a few degrees, making your exposed skin prickle with each sway of your body. You could see Jack, his shoulder pressed against the porch. The night smelled of woodsmoke, and fireflies buzzed around you, almost guiding your gaze to him.
Jack was watching you; it was hard for him not to. His eyes found yours like the moonlight finds the water in the backyard pond. It was happening more and more often these days.
You‘re not sure whose hand pulled you up on the creaky old wooden table, but you went up there gracefully. Your hips swaying lazily to the 70s love song playing, while cheers echoed from below, beer bottles raised toward the sky at each shake of your ass. Your sundress riding up your thighs, showing a little too much skin. It was playful, a girlfriend pulling you towards her, harmless even. You were lost in the haze of the heat and too many beers. It was all fun until Romeo saw you.
Jack watched his son’s expression darken from across the yard like an accident waiting to happen.
One second, Romeo was laughing with his friends near the cooler. Next, his jaw tightened, and something ugly was flickering behind his eyes. Before the crowd could understand what was happening, Romeo was already pushing through them. He shoved shoulders aside without apology, boots kicking up dust as he crossed the yard. The music continued playing, and people continued laughing, oblivious to the disaster about to unfold. You barely had time to register his presence before his hand closed around your wrist. Hard.
Hard enough that Jack set his beer down on the porch, watching you wince in his hold.
Romeo’s fingers tightened around your wrist until pain shot up your arm, the pressure enough to make your smile disappear as quickly as it had come. Bystanders watched while the music droned on; you already knew no one would step in. No one did once Romeo had a few drinks.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he snapped, jerking you off the table hard enough that your boots nearly slipped beneath you.
You stumbled when you landed, catching yourself before you fell completely. The alcohol swimming through your veins made the world tilt unpleasantly, but it did nothing to dull the anger rising inside your chest.
“Let go of me.” Your voice comes out more slurred than you want it to.
“You think this is cute?” His breath reeked of cheap liquor and stale cigarettes. “Dancing on tables like some damn whore for everybody to stare at.”
”You’re hurting me.” You try to pull your wrist from his hold, to no avail. “Romeo, what is your problem?”
“You’re my fucking problem.” He spat, dragging you further away from prying eyes. Usually, when he did these things got worse, so you dug your heels into the dirt.
“Let me go.”
Romeo laughed, but there wasn’t an ounce of humor in it. “You always gotta make a scene. Am I not giving you attention, huh?”
”No, not really.” His grip tightened when you scoffed. The bruise would be ugly tomorrow.
For a moment, he just stared at you, chest rising and falling heavily, eyes glassy from whatever combination of liquor and resentment had been brewing inside him all evening. Then something shifted. The fight drained from him all at once, leaving only annoyance behind.
He dropped your arm aggressively, nearly pulling your arm from the socket from the force.
“Fine,” He laughed, but there was no amusement in it, “Go, run off and cry until you decide you wanna act right."
”Romeo-“
“I said go, get the fuck out of my sight.”
This time, you didn’t argue. You turned and ran. The music faded behind you with every step. The bonfire became a distant orange glow swallowed by darkness. Soon all that remained was the sound of your own breathing and the steady chorus of crickets hidden among the reeds.
The lake waited beyond the edge of the property, hidden beneath moonlight and cypress shadows. You finally slowed when you reached the shoreline, your lungs burning from the run.
As you tried to catch your breath, the tears came hot and unrelenting. Embarrassment burned in your chest. You wrapped your arms around yourself and stared across the glistening water. The bruises on your wrist were already beginning to darken beneath your skin. Fingerprints. Evidence. Proof of something you had spent far too long pretending wasn’t happening.
You heard a twig snap behind you, making you still. It was then that a timber voice spoke out, soft enough not to spook you even further.
“You alright?” Jack asked, slowly appearing through the trees.
You sniffled, wiping your eyes harshly.
“He do that often?”
Shame crawled through your stomach, your eyes drifting back down to the bruises. They weren’t the first ones he’d left on your skin, and you were afraid they wouldn't be the last. He’d wake up tomorrow hungover, kiss you breathless, and take you to the farmers market in town with a smile on his face. Then, the beers would appear again, an endless cycle you couldn’t seem to escape from.
“Not all the time…” You whispered, “He just gets short-tempered when he’s drinking.”
The silence is deafening in the woods this late, just water lapping against the dirt shore and the occasional croak of a bullfrog.
Jack looked out across the water before speaking again. “My wife used to say that.”
Your neck snapped to look at him, his gaze haunted as he stared into the darkness. There was very little mention of the late Mrs. Abbot; Romeo never once uttered anything about her when she passed a few years back.
“He’s only like that when he drinks.’ His voice was quiet enough that the wind nearly carried it away. “‘He’s only like that when he’s angry.’”
A bitter smile touched his mouth. “‘He doesn’t mean it, not really”
“Man, we used to argue so much about him,” He laughed, “Momma’s boy I called him. He’d never come to me when he got in trouble, she’d always run up to him. They’re just alike, that’s what scares me.”
“I would have thought he’d be more like you,” You admitted.
Jack finally looked over at you.
“What do you mean?”
A small shrug lifted your shoulders. “You don’t exactly seem like the type to hurt a fly.”
”Oh man,” He shook his head, “You don’t get to this age without stepping on a few flies.”
”Okay, I didn’t say that now,” You laughed a little, tears drying up from your cheeks in the night air, “It just seems like you know how to treat a woman, s’all.”
“I’m sure my son doesn’t know how to treat a woman in any way,” He said, and he meant it as a joke. But the words made your stomach burn, and all you could think about was how his plump lips wrapped around the top of his beer bottle.
“No, no, he doesn’t.” You said with a weak laugh. You wanted it to come out playful, a light-hearted joke, but instead it came out meek.
Jack’s eyebrow quirked, but he didn’t say anything.
You were suddenly aware of how your breath sounded, how it didn’t quite match the stillness around you, how everything in you felt slightly off balance.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” you added after a moment, though you weren’t sure what you were correcting anymore, and Jack gave a quiet hum that wasn’t agreement or disagreement, just acknowledgment that he was still listening, still there. His silence was making your heartbeat drum underneath your skin.
Jack stepped nearer without announcing it, closing the distance in a way that felt like he had decided something quietly and was no longer interested in talking himself out of it. Your back met the rough bark of a cypress tree before you realized you had even moved at all, or perhaps he had guided you there with his presence alone.
When you looked up at him properly, you saw the restraint in his face, the careful control of a man who understood exactly how wrong this could be and still hadn’t stepped away.
“You shouldn’t be out here with me,” he said slowly, though it didn’t sound like a warning so much as an admission. “S’trouble waiting to happen.”
Your laugh came out softer this time, breathier, almost disbelieving. “Then why are you still here?”
Jack exhaled once, slow and controlled, and then his hand came up to rest against the tree beside your shoulder, not touching you fully but enclosing you in everything but distance.
His lips met yours softly, warm and a little unsteady. Cautious at first, before the floodgates opened between you. He tasted like Marlboro Reds and smelled like grease from his ’78 Chevy. The kiss turned ferocious and fast, his tongue prodding your mouth open for him. Lips devouring each other’s mouths as hands roamed. Your fingertips prodding at his belt buckle while his fingers were pulling the thin fabric of your dress down to squeeze your tits harshly in his hands.
You were moaning pathetically into his mouth, practically grinding against his body that was slotted in between your legs. Your back scratched harshly against the tree bark, but you didn’t care as long as his lips were on yours and his hand kept going down.
Down and further down until they were prying your thighs apart, pulling frantically at the thin fabric of your underwear on the sides of your hips. The fabric fell to your ankles, his hand slipping right in between your thighs. As soon as his fingers made contact with your sopping heat, you moaned louder than you should have. The sound bouncing off the trees.
His body stilled. Then, he’s stopping you with his hands, pulling back as if your touch had burned him.
“Stop, stop,” He rushed out, lurching himself backward a few feet, “Fuck, I shouldn’t have-“
You cut him off quickly, “It’s fine, it’s fine.”
Your underwear is still around your ankles, your dress pulled down, still exposing your tits as you froze against the tree.
“It’s not-“ He cuts himself off, his fingers anxiously running through his hair, “Fix yourself up, now.”
His orders make the embarrassment from earlier come back tenfold, as you redress yourself in the thick silence. He’s scrubbing his sweaty palms on his jeans frantically as if he could wipe away the touch of your skin.
“But-“
“No,” He cuts you off, his voice low and final, “This never happened. Now go on home and get some sleep.”
“Okay-“
“This never happened.” He snapped, as if he just needed to hear himself say it again. He took one more look at you before turning around the same way he came.
Your eyes fluttered closed, leaning your head against the tree, partially unsure if it really had happened at all. If this was just another late-night dream you couldn’t wake up from.
“Party’s over,” You could hear Jack yelling, whistling between his fingers, “Go the fuck home.”
Truck engines rattled to life one by one. Headlights swept through the trees in brief flashes of gold. You could hear Romeo’s friends complaining from somewhere near the bonfire, their drunken protests dissolving into the darkness as vehicles rolled down the dirt road and disappeared into the countryside.
That night, you went to bed alone. The space beside you remained empty, though it wasn’t Romeo occupying your thoughts. You lay awake staring at the ceiling while your fingertips brushed absentmindedly across your lips, the phantom taste of Jack haunting you. The house creaked around you as it settled. Crickets sang beyond the open window. Sleep refused to come.
Every time you closed your eyes, you saw him standing beside the lake. The feeling of his lips against yours. The rough, frantic touch of his callused hands.
You wondered if he was going to fuck you right there, just a few hundred feet from his son. You wondered if you would have let him, but you knew the answer.
The next morning arrived in a flood of sunlight. Golden light spilled through the sun-bleached curtains, illuminating the dust floating lazily through the room. You rolled onto your back and stared up at the crack in the ceiling.
For years, you had looked up at those cracks in the ceiling and imagined your future already written for you. Marriage. Children. A little house as soon as Romeo made enough money to buy you a home. The same story, every woman in town seemed destined to inherit from the one before her. The life your mother laid out for you, the only one you thought you could have. You had spent so much of your life allowing other people to decide who you were.
Your fingers drifted absently across your stomach while you stared at the ceiling and allowed yourself, for once, to stop pretending. You were tired of apologizing for wanting things. Tired of shrinking yourself into shapes that made other people comfortable. Tired of convincing yourself that desire was something shameful.
You wanted the freedom to act on your desires.
You were in charge of your own destiny, no one else.
A clatter of tools took you out of your thoughts, lifting your head to peer out the window. Jack lay half beneath the old car parked in the carport, one arm stretched above him while a wrench flashed in the morning sunlight. The sleeves of his worn T-shirt clung to his shoulders. Grease marked his hands. The radio nearby crackled with an old country song as he worked.
A smile tugged unexpectedly at your mouth, your legs swinging off the bed with a newfound fire lit beneath your feet.
The sun had already warmed the house by the time you were closing the screen door. For a moment, you just stood there and watched him, hearing him softly grunt as he pried a bolt out from the car with pure strength.
You weren’t sure when he noticed you, but his voice emerged before you could get a word in.
“Where’s Romeo?” He gruffed; you could still only see his lower half as he rolled underneath the car.
You shrugged despite the fact that he couldn’t even see you, “Probably getting high somewhere.”
He lets out a scoff, “That’s not funny.”
“Who said I was trying to be funny?” You deadpanned, “That’s all your son does nowadays.”
The answer sat heavy between you; only the faint sounds of him working filled the silence.
You wandered closer, pretending an interest in the scattered tools around the driveway. The morning sun felt warm against your bare legs while the scent of cut grass lingered in the air. Everything looked painfully ordinary, even though nothing felt ordinary anymore.
“Been thinking about leaving him,” You admitted quietly, but you knew he heard you by the way the sounds ceased.
”And why is that?”
“I just don’t think he can give me what I want.”
The words sat in the heavy air for a moment before he finally rolled out from underneath the car. Grease streaked across one forearm and darkened the front of his shirt. Sweat glistened faintly along his neck from working in the heat all morning. He pushed himself upright and wiped his hands on an old rag, carefully avoiding your eyes.
“He can be a good boy, he’s just lost,” He gruffed out, throwing his tools to the ground, “He’s your age, he’d give you a good life one day. Don’t ruin it because you’re confused.”
His words were going in one ear and out the other as he used the rag to wipe the grease off his fingers. It was almost teasing how he did it, twisting his fingers through the rag while his eyes were locked onto yours.
“That’s just it. I don’t want a boy,” You scoffed, looking back up at his face. Sweat pooled at his forehead, and stray curls clung to his skin. He had a smudge of grease still on his chin; he looked older in the light. The sun damage on his skin, the freckles lining his arms. He’s never looked as sexy as he does right now. “I want a man.”
He mimicked your scoff, “Oh, please. You wouldn’t know what to do with a man. You’re just a child.”
“Patronizing, wow.” You rolled your eyes, crossing your legs. The strings on your cut-off jean shorts were flowing wildly in the sticky summer breeze. “I’m 22. Fully an adult.”
“Baby,” He sighed, fingers thumbing around his faded blue jean pockets to find his pack of Marlboros. “That’s a child to me. I could be your dad, hell, your granddaddy, really.”
You squinted in the bright sun, watching the cigarette filter dangle between his lips as his rough, calloused hands flicked the lighter open. When he took in a deep breath, you shivered, watching the smoke linger around the space still between you two.
“You know,” You hummed, your hands behind your back as you leaned against the car, “I think you’re just scared.”
“Yeah? Of what?”
“Of just how fucking badly you want me.” You shrugged, his hands stilling right before he went back for another drag.
His eyes were darker now, his tone unwavering. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You smacked your lips, shaking your head a little. “You play like you’re looking out for me, that you want what's best for me. You want me to fuck your son? Want me to marry him?”
He stayed still, his eyes squinting at you. A threat in and of itself, but you refuse to back down.
Your voice raised, “Want me to let him get me all barefoot and pregnant? Keep me locked in his house like a good little wife? You wanna see me at every holiday gathering? Your grandbaby on my arm?”
“You’re-“ He cuts himself off, flicking the cigarette to the ground and stomping it out with his boot. A little harder than he should have.
“I’m what?” You preened, thankful to have some reaction out of him.
“A fucking problem,” He grunted, “Look at you, basically throwing yourself at me like a fucking whore.”
”Right now, I see it. Father like fucking son,” You nodded, a cruel laugh slipping out, “Like I’m the one who kissed me last night, who shoved his hands up my skirt-“
He was in front of you before you could register what was happening, his hand gripping your chin so tightly you winced. “ Shut the fuck up.”
He smelled like cigarette smoke and danger. His fingertips were pressing bruises into your jaw, but you still felt weak in the knees. A ridiculous toothy grin on your lips at the feeling of his body against yours.
“Why? Can’t take responsibility for your own actions?” You spat.
He scoffed, spit flying into your face. Spit you’d willingly drink if he so dared to give you the pleasure. With his body pressed against yours, the outline of his cock pressed hard against your bare thigh. You had him exactly where you wanted him. It should have been disgusting, you should have been scared and offended, but you’ve never felt so alive seeing the threat in his eyes.
“Watch your fucking mouth.”
You smirked as much as you could in his bruising grip. “Seems like you want my mouth.” You shifted your legs, rubbing against the denim bulge.
You could feel him twitch, his whole body jolting at the sudden touch.
“Yeah,” You laughed, “That’s what I thought.”
The look in his eyes shifted, his head tilting back. “Right..” He mumbled under his breath, almost in amusement.
Suddenly, his hands were in your hair, yanking the strands harshly, dragging you down to your knees on the hot asphalt.
You yelped out, your hands grabbing his wrists as he forced you down. “What-“
“You want it so fucking bad?” He asked, forcing your neck to snap up to look at him, “Then take it.”
With a little nudge, it didn’t take long to realize his denim-clad bulge was pressing into your face. His hand dropped your head harshly to unbuckle his belt.
Your mouth watered, looking up at him in the late Summer sun, his boxers getting pushed down to his knees for god and everyone to see. His hard cock slapping against your cheek, the tip red and veiny. You knew he’d be huge, but seeing it in front of your face made your eyes widen.
“Open. Up.” He grunted, fisting his length to press his tip in between your waiting lips. You obliged, opening wide to let him use your waiting mouth.
You nearly gagged at the sheer size of him, doing your best to relax your throat to take every inch of him as you bobbed your head quickly.
“Fuck,” His hand went back into your hair, guiding you to take more of him on each bob. “That mouth is good for something, ain’t it?”
The sounds of his cock fucking your mouth echoed through the space, as he takes and takes. Each gag of your throat has his eyes rolling back into his head. His pace is relentless, unwilling to stop until your nails are digging into his thigh, desperate for a breath of fresh air. He groans, gripping your hair hard to pull your mouth off of him. Spit is dripping from your mouth down your neck as you let out pathetic gasps for air.
”I thought this was what you wanted, wasn't it? You wanna kiss my son’s lips with his daddy’s cum on your breath?” He mocks, before violently pushing your head back down.
You’re choking around him once more, his pubes tickling your nose. His balls were slapping against your chin as you let him abuse your throat until his thighs began to tremble. You licked your tongue against the underside of his cock as he came, a guttural groan leaving his mouth that went straight between your thighs.
You had a mouthful of his release when he pulled his softening cock from your lips, cum leaking from the sides.
Your jaw dropped, showing him your cum covered tongue before you swallowed, his eyes lit ablaze.
“Fucking disgusting, you loved that shit,” He spat, but pulled you up for a bruising kiss anyway. Giving himself a taste.
Your knees were bruised and aching by the time you were on your shaky legs. Your hair was in knots, and your throat aching from his abuse. He pulled away from the kiss too quickly, looking down at your disheveled face.
“Go clean yourself up.” He was already shoving his limp cock into his pants, leaving you there with your aching throat and bruised knees.
It felt like trading one cruelty for another when you pressed your fingers into the fading bruises on your knees beneath the table that night.
Dinners went on as normal, as normal as they could with the lingering taste of Jack on your tongue. You stomached down the food, avoiding eye contact with both of the Abbot men as they talked. Sports, weather, work, something about a neighbor’s truck breaking down again, their voices folding into each other as they belonged in the same breath. And there you were, just existing in between them. Waiting until Romeo had you clean his plate, or bring him a beer. It was jarring, receiving abuse from one man while craving it from the other.
That night was just another one of the same routine, Romeo would fuck you with a hard, unsatisfying pace and then cum. He’d make a ridiculous face, pant into your chest, and then roll over. His snores would start soon after, leaving you complete and utterly alone. There was no love, no attention. You stopped faking your enjoyment a long time ago, and you’re not sure if he ever noticed.
So you lay there, cunt throbbing in need as it often did. Your brain conjures up memories of Jack’s head thrown back, his teeth biting down on his lip as he fucked your throat. The way he sounded when he came made goosebumps rise on your skin.
Then, a horrifically delicious idea popped into your head. Jack was just down the hall.
Before you could talk yourself out of it, you slipped out of bed, padding down the hall to his room. You knocked softly, doing your best to keep it quiet. He opened the door, a knowing look on his face.
The only thing he had on was a pair of boxers, the bulge of his cock evident from the sheer weight of it. His chiseled arms flexed as he leaned against the doorframe, a line of curly gray hair going from his chest down his pelvis. The sheer thought of dragging your tongue down it had you squeezing your legs together again, which Jack didn’t miss.
“You need me, don’t you?” He asked, no trace of sleep in his eyes.
You wonder if he couldn’t sleep due to the sound of the headboard hitting the wall, or if he knew you’d all but be begging for him just a few hours later.
You nodded pathetically, his hand gripping yours to pull you into the darkened room. The door shut with a quiet click, making your heart skip a beat in your chest.
His shadow walked back to his bed, leaning back against his headboard without a care in the world. The small bedside lamp vaguely let you make out the pout forming on his lips. His hands patted his thick thighs mockingly. “You just gonna stand there?”
You leaped into action, your knees hitting the plush mattress.
“He can’t make you cum can he?” He pouts, watching you crawl across the bed onto his lap. Already knowing why you were practically shaking with desire. All he had to do was look at you, and you were gone.
You were straddling his lap, your sleep shirt riding up to give him a view of the damp patch just below the pink bow on your underwear. “N-no.”
He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, “What a shame.”
With one hand on your hips, the other one finds itself between your legs. Fingertips twirling at the bow, as if it were a present for him to unwrap. “When was the last time you came?”
“Last night. Made myself,” You panted, “Can only cum thinking of you.”
Jack raised his brow, “What a nasty girl.”
“P-please.”
“Please, what?”
“Touch me.” You cried, trying to force your hips to grind against his teasing fingers, but he held you still.
“I am touching you.” He cooed, still rubbing softly on your clothed mound. Far from where you throbbed for him.
You let out a childish huff, “That’s not what I mean.”
“Tell me how to touch you then.” His lust-filled eyes were on yours, his tone demanding.
Your face burned, “Please, make me cum.”
He huffed in amusement, letting his fingers dip inside your panties. Brushing softly against your warm heat, arousal soaking his digits with each stroke and circle against your clit. The pleasure licked up your spine, foreign and so far away. It had been years since you came from anything other than your own hand, and it had you reeling.
“That feel good, baby girl?” He hummed, drinking in every moan and twitch of your hips.
Your neck hurt from how fast you nodded, “Need you.”
“S’needy.” He huffed playfully, but knew not to tease you any further. He pulled your underwear to the side, slipping his thick fingers into your wet heat easily. Your cunt accepted him greedily, the slight stretch making you wince.
But it still wasn’t enough.
“Jack,” You begged, lips pouting, “Need you to fuck me.”
He met your eyes, “Say please.”
The words left your mouth pathetically, “Please, please, p-please.”
He let you beg while he pulled his boxers down, his cock slapping against his bare chest.
“Hop on, baby.” He ordered, his hands only on your hips to keep you steady as you hovered above him.
“F-fuck.” You hissed, sliding down on him. He slipped inside you with little to no resistance, your wet cunt accepting him greedily. By the time you were seated on his lap, you could feel him in your throat. A bulge pressing against your lower stomach, showing you just how deep he was inside of you.
“You wanted this,” He leaned back, crossing his arms behind his head, “Work for it.”
You huffed, but swiveled your hips anyway. Your palms flat on his chest as you worked yourself up and down on him, slowly at first until you were riding him within an inch of his life, taking and taking every inch of him he would give you. If this were the only chance he gave you, you’d make every second of it count.
“Oh my god,” You gasped, legs shaking as you struggled to keep up with your movements, “S’big.”
“I know, baby,” He cooed, “You’ve never had a real man’s cock have you?”
“No, no.” You babbled out, barely able to grind against him. “Never made me cum.”
This information seemed to light a fire in Jack, his hips thrusting up from underneath you.
“He doesn’t know how to please a woman,” He grunts, planting his feet flat on the bed to help fuck up into you despite his earlier protests. “Don’t know how I raised such an embarrassment.”
His tip was hitting your sweet spot, making your vision go blurry from the sheer force of it.
“Can’t even speak, can you?” He grunted, his joints aching with each thrust into you, his pleasure outweighing the pain to come after, “Fucking the thoughts out of that pretty little head.”
“J-jack,” You cried out, loud enough to make his large hand slap against your mouth.
“Shhhhh, you don’t want my son to know his daddy is fucking his little girlfriend, do ya?”
It was rhetorical, you knew that, but the way your eyes rolled back was enough of an answer for Jack. A devilish glint in his eyes.
“Oh, or do you baby?” He slowed down a little, causing your hips to pathetically grind against him. He could feel your cunt squeezing him at each word he spoke. ”You do, huh?”
You shook your head, still unable to speak as he kept his palm harshly against your mouth.
“You can’t lie to me, I feel you dripping around me,” He laughed, fucking up into you harshly once more, “You want him to hear you cumming on my cock? Want him to hear how a real man should fuck a woman?”
“Oh, my god.” You cried, biting your teeth down on the callused skin of his palms, “Jack, Jack.”
He knew you were close because Jack Abbot paid attention to women and their pleasure. He knew exactly how to angle his hips, when to speed up, and when to stay exactly the same. His other hand pulls your hips onto him, grinding your clit against his graying patch of hair above his cock, while he fucked up into you without a care in the world.
When you came around him, it was like seeing the world in color for the first time. Every single night of dreaming of this, none of it compares to the real thing. When you came back, Jack was still thrusting into you, his sharp moans of praise filling your ears.
“There you go, s’good baby. Yes, just breathe, baby.”
“Jack.” You slurred, your body falling limp into his arms.
“S’good, gonna make me cum.” He panted, “Baby, where d’ya want it?”
“Inside, please, please.”
He cut off your pathetic babbles with a kiss, slotting your lips together as he came inside of you with a grunt. His eyes squeezed shut as he filled you full of his cum. It was so warm and soft, you melted into him.
“You ‘kay, honey?” His sugary sweet voice whispered into your ear, pressing soft kisses to the top of your head.
“Hmm.”
“M’gonna pull out.” He warned, leaving you with a soft hiss.
As soon as he did, you whined at the loss of him, almost too much to bear physically. His cum was dripping out of you, dribbling down onto his chest where you hovered above him. His fingers reached down, scooping through the mess he had made, plunging his fingers deep inside.
“Gotta keep it there f’me.”
You sighed, sitting against his chest, rocking against his fingers greedily, itching for another release with his cum inside of you.
“You’re already dripping in my cum, and you want more?” He’s out of breath, and there’s all but stars in your eyes as you nod greedily at him.
He lay there, looking up at the crucifix crookedly hanging on the wall above him. He’d repent later, he thought, watching you grind your leaking cunt against him. God would forgive him, but let him relish in his sins a little longer when they felt this good.
That night opened the floodgates between you two. It was all stolen glances, ankles locked underneath tablecloths, and nights spent aching for each other within the tiny house, letting yourself be consumed by the Abbot men, while your heart only belonged to one, and it wasn't the one you were sharing a bed with. It was wrong, God, you knew it, but why would something so wrong feel so right?
Romeo dropped the bombshell out of nowhere, while you were in the middle of dinner, listening to the news drone on in the background.
“I’m gonna be out of town for a few weeks, trying to get that job at the oil rig.” He beamed, “I wanna give you a good life, Y/n.”
“Y-yeah,” You stuttered out, your grip on your fork tightening as the seconds passed. You avoid Jack’s eyes; you can’t think about being stuck in this house with him, all alone. “It’s gonna go great.”
“Hey,” Romeo smiles, placing his hand on your thigh, comfortingly taking your discomfort for something else entirely, “It’s only a little bit. Besides, Dad will take good care of you. Won’t he?”
Jack gave you a toothy grin, taking a huge bite out of his steak. “I sure will, son. I sure will.”
“Make sure she doesn't get into any trouble either,” Romeo said, a glint in his eye as he squeezed your thigh tighter in a silent warning.
Romeo’s departure had your nerves on edge, as you kissed him goodbye, all you could think about was climbing into Jack’s worn-out recliner and getting your lips on his again.
Jack could see it on your face, just how bad you wanted, no, needed this.
“Ain’t nothing gonna happen, darlin.” He hummed, his eyes still on the grainy television. You pretended not to notice the tick of his jaw, or the way his fingers gripped his whisky glass even tighter. “S’not right and you know it. You heard him, he’s gonna give you a good life.”
“Yeah, of course not.” You smiled, knowing the two of you were lying through your teeth. Weeks in this house alone, you barely gave it a few days before one of you caved.
The window in your room gave you the perfect view into his workshop, watching Jack with his sleeves rolled up, muscles flexing with each tool he picked up. When the sun got too much, he’d slip off his shirt, his bare skin glistening. You’d rest your head on the window, letting your hand glide down between your legs. Your fingers slipping underneath your skirts to press harshly into your dripping cunt.
You’d finger yourself to the image of him below, sweating and unaware of how you were moaning his name and falling apart to the memory of his cock inside of you. There were bitemarks in the cheap wood of the windowsill from trying to stifle your moans. By the time he’d come back inside, all exhausted from a day’s work, your legs would still be shaking, still unsatisfied. And you felt that you would be until you had him again.
Like two peas in a perverted pod, Jack would end his days with a cold shower and his hand wrapped around his cock until he was shooting blanks down the drain. You’d lounge around in the thinnest white dresses; you might as well have been naked, with how he could see the outline of every curve and dip on your body through them. You watched his knuckles whiten from how hard he squeezed his fists together, but still, he tried to remain a righteous man.
You were walking sin, and Jack had never wanted so badly to betray God.
It took him less than 48 hours to give up. You were lying on your stomach on the floor of your room, flipping through some old magazine before the door swung open, his face flushed and pants still halfway undone.
“Hi-“
You had on another one of those god-forsaken night gowns, the sheer fabric lifted above your ass, giving him a perfect view. This was the last straw, he decided, as he pulled his jeans down.
“What-“
He cut you off, dropping his aching bones to the floor, pressing his entire bodyweight on top of you. His hard cock pressing against your ass, his hand reaching forward to grab you by your neck.
“You and these fucking dresses,” He scoffed, pushing his tip through your still wet folds, “You this wet for me?”
You were mewling against him, jaw dropping when he sank into your cunt without warning. Still wet from your fingers failing at filling you up as much as he did. “Y-yes. Needed you.”
“You got me,” He grunted, his hips meeting your ass with a loud smack. “You gonna take me like a good girl?”
“G-god, yeah. M’your good girl.”
Jack’s bad knees be damned, he was fucking into you heavy and fast against the scratchy carpet. He was so deep at this angle, making your limbs limp in his hold as he kept your neck up, whispering filthy words in your ear with each thrust.
“Can feel you squeezing me s’hard, soaking my cock,” His hand gripped your throat tighter, making your head spin, “S’such a good girl, daddy’s good little girl.”
“Daddy,” You gasped, eyes rolling into the back of your head as he hit your sweet spot, your legs trembling against his body weight.
”This is the last time.” He grunted, his balls slapping harshly against your ass. The wet sounds of your arousal fill the room. “I swear, we can’t keep doing this.”
“I know,” You sobbed, “Just this time, making me feel so good, daddy. L-last time.”
“Cum for me,” He barked, feeling his balls tighten, “Let daddy feel that little cunt cum around him.”
“F-fuck yes, don’t stop, don’t stop.” You cried, feeling his teeth bite down on your neck as you came around him. Tears leaked down your cheeks from the overwhelming sensation, gasping for breath when his hand dropped from your neck.
He came deep inside of you with a shout, filling you so full it leaked out onto the carpet.
“Last time.” He mumbled, his panting body on top of yours. You both knew it was a lie, but it made him feel good to say it out loud.
This became the new pattern of those two weeks. You’d sneak into his bed, grinding your ass on his morning wood until he woke up and fucked you hard and fast over the side of the bed.
Or you’d wake up with his mouth in between your legs, tongue deep inside of your cunt as he mumbled just how he needed one last taste.
“God forgive me.” He panted, his palms spreading your legs open wide before he wrote gospels on your cunt with his tongue.
It was blasphemy in its purest form.
There were late-night calls with Romeo while his daddy was making you cum upwards of 20 times a day. You desecrated every part of the house, even outside. There was no holy land left on the Abbot property. The birds and bugs became accustomed to the sounds of you as he pushed your skirt up, taking you over the hood of his car or down by the creek.
It was filthy, and it felt like it would never be enough. It was living out every dirty fantasy of him you’d ever had before; there were things not even your brain could conjure up. Things that would make the devil blush.
One night, Romeo had called you, no doubt drunk as he slurred tirelessly about how he missed you. He could hear you through the walls, kicking open his son’s room to see you lying on the bed, phone propped up against your ear.
“I don’t think I wanna do that, Romeo.” You whispered into the phone, jumping when the door swung open. Jack's finger went up to his lips as he wordlessly sat at the edge of the bed.
“Why not?” Jack could hear the slurring voice of his son through the phone, faintly, “Don’t be a bitch.”
You bit down on your bottom lip, about to hang up on him, before you saw Jack's eyes, full of jealousy and something else you couldn’t name.
“Hang up.” Jack mouthed alongside a warning look.
You should have hung up. Romeo would hardly remember it in the morning, but all you could think about was how hard Jack would fuck you if you disobeyed. He knew that’s exactly what you were thinking too, when your teeth bit down on your bottom lip.
“O-okay.” You sighed into the phone, pretending like he really convinced you. Your eyes locked onto Jack’s as your hand trailed up to your tits, pulling at your hardened nipples through the fabric of your top. “M’touching my tits.”
The phone was abandoned against your shoulder, his responses falling on deaf ears as you only focused on the brown eyes in front of you, that drank up every movement and every gasp that left your lips.
“You want me to touch my pussy?” You moaned, but you weren’t talking to Romeo. Jack nodded, and you could hear shuffling on the phone.
Your fingers slipped inside your panties, fingertips rubbing soft circles into your aching clit. Rubbing your wetness around until you could slip a finger inside of your wet heat.
“Feels so good.” You sighed, seeing Jack's pants harden with each rise of your chest. “Wish it was your cock.”
“Yeah, baby.” The phone buzzed, “I’d fuck the hell out of you.”
Jack rolled his eyes, pulling his belt off quickly. Crawling up to the top of the bed to meet you.
Your eyes widened, feeling his hands pull at your hands, pulling them out of your underwear and pulling them down your legs. You let him throw them somewhere across the room, but paused when he lined his cock up with your heat.
“What are you doing?” You whispered, trying to lift off the bed to push him off.
Jack just shook his head, an evil look on his face. “Talk.” He mouthed, pointing to the phone where his son was still babbling about something.
Jack's cock prodded at your cunt, his tip squeezing inside of you, making you yelp.
“What are you doing now?” Romeo asked boredly, “What would you do to me?”
“Talk, or I stop,” Jack demanded.
“Uhh,” You stuttered out, Jack’s cock deep inside your guts now. Slowly dragging his hips in and out of you. “I’m just t-touching myself, babe.”
Jack resisted the urge to laugh, watching your eyes roll in the back of your head with each perfectly angled thrust.
“Y-yeah, it’s so good.” You droned on, your legs getting pushed up, only deepening the angle Jack was hitting perfectly.
His fingers tumbled down to your clit, fumbling around with the sensitive bud.
“O-oh my god, right there.” A pornographic moan escaped you as your hips arched into him.
“What?” The phone crackled, making your body go white:
“N-nothing,” You tried, Jack only speeding up his thrusts as soon as you tried to speak, “I’m just-“
“What the fuck is-“
“I g-gotta go,” You squealed, cutting him off, fumbling around to end the call as Jack pulled himself out of you harshly as soon as the phone rumbled down, making you wince. “Why’d you stop?”
He didn’t answer; instead, he pulled your hips in his hands, flipping you over onto your stomach. Drapping you over his lap, while your phone buzzed against the mattress.
“Why didn’t you listen to me?” He asked, his hand coming down in a smooth, harsh strike against your ass.
You cried out in pain and pleasure, the sting making your cunt throb.
”I’m sorry-“
Another slap, followed by his hand gently rubbing the stinging skin.
“I don’t believe you.” He hummed.
Another slap, harder this time. Tears sprang in your eyes, your hips wiggling in his tight hold.
“Daddy, I’m so sorry.” You cried, your hands digging into the sheets, “P-please-“
“You wanted this,” He mused, another hard slap against you, “This was what you wanted? Isn’t it? To be punished? Couldn’t just be daddy’s good little girl. Had to be a little. fucking. whore.”
Each word was punctuated with another slap until your ass was bright red, raw to the touch, and your sobs had been stifled by his hands pushing you further into the mattress each time he heard you. One hand in your hair, and the other assaulting your ass.
“I can feel you leaking against my lap, just desperate.” He shifted, spreading your legs open for him. His fingers are trailing down your ass into your open cunt. “I bet you’re begging to be touched, huh?” He mocked, and you could only answer in muffled sobs and shouts.
He let his fingertips sink into you, feeling just how desperate you were for him.
“Daddy-“
“Shut the fuck up,” He seethed, his fingers sank in deeper, moving so fast you could barely pinpoint where the pleasure started and where the pain ended.
You shook in his hold, moaning desperate pleas as he pried orgasm after orgasm out of you. Each time you’d cum, he’d slap your clit harshly, before continuing to stroke the spot inside of you that had you shaking.
You could feel his cock twitching against your thigh. After the third orgasm, he acted quickly after that. Wasting no time in asking before he was throwing you on your back into the sheets.
“He never made you feel this good, ever. Did he?” He gruffed out, hands wiping away some of your dried tears as his cock found its home back inside of you.
“No.” You croaked, so sensitive you were blubbering in tears with each sloppy thrust. Your fingernails were digging into his back as his hand gripped your throat once again.
“Now every time you're in his bed, you’re gonna think of me wrapping my hands around this pretty little throat.” He growled, gripping you tight.
“Only want you,” You coughed, face turning red with each harsh crush of his hands against your throat.
You didn’t even have to tell him you were close again; suddenly, his hand was off your throat, and you were thrashing against him. You swore you blacked out, the pleasure so overwhelming it was all you could feel. All of your other senses dulled,
When you came to he was cumming deep inside you with a shout, your inner thighs soaked from your multiple releases. Both of your cum mix together and plopping out into Romeo’s sheets.
“I’m sorry,” Jack sighed, pulling your shaking frame into his chest after he pulled out of you with a wince. “Got a little rough with ya.”
You yawned, “S’okay, I liked it.”
Your eyes were glazed over, hazy, and still coming down.
“Let me draw you a bath with them fancy oils that stink.” He gruffed, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, “Then I’ll feed ya.”
The nights that weren’t filled with indulging in carnal desires, the two of you would end up on a picnic blanket, deep into the woods underneath the old bridge. By the creek bed, the world felt farther away than it had any right to, like the town and its names and its judgment had all been left upstream somewhere, tangled in branches and forgotten water. You leaned back against Jack’s lap without thinking too hard about what it meant, letting the rough hum of the afternoon settle over both of you while birds circled lazily overhead.
“I don’t wanna be with him when he comes back,” You sighed, “Wanna leave.”
Jack didn’t answer right away, just shifted slightly beneath you, his hand resting somewhere near your shoulder. “Yeah, where you gonna go?”
You realized you didn’t have an answer that made sense outside of him.
“Why can’t we be together?” you asked, turning your head just enough to look up at him.
A small exhale left him, something almost like a laugh but not quite, “We are together.”
“Jack.” You pressed, unamused by his attempt at a joke. “Think about it, us together. Me hanging off your arm every day.”
“Yeah?” His tone was sharp, almost mocking, but you ignored it, “Want me to marry you too? Get you a white dress and some flowers.”
”Actually, yeah,” You huffed.
“You wanna marry this old man?” His smile was crooked, the crinkles by his eyes deeper the harder he smiled.
“You know I’d let you knock me up too,” You teased, “Make you a daddy again.”
His hands reached forward and grabbed your tits harshly through your top, “Hm. I would love to see these all big and swollen.”
Your mouth went dry, smacking his hands away with a playful giggle before the moment fell solemn again.
“Seriously, you wanna be with me?” You asked, your voice a little quieter than before.
“Honey, I do-“
”No more buts, why not?” You pressed harder, “Who cares what anyone in this podunk town thinks. We can leave. Romeo will find some two-bit hooker to marry, he’ll forget about me within a month.”
His fingers played with the ends of your hair, drinking in the hopeful gaze on your face. “Let’s just focus on the next few days, okay, baby?”
You frowned, but leaned further into his touch. While you lay in his arms, watching the sunset over the town for just a little while, you could still dream of a future that had him in it. There was only the sound of water and insects and the distant hum of a world that didn’t know how close you were to imagining something different.
The rest of the week was spent in bliss, a bubble of just the two of you together. Where weeks felt like years.
And all it took was one person to see the two of you in his truck for that bubble to burst.
It wasn’t even in a compromising position, just you in the passenger seat smiling ear-to-ear with Romeo’s daddy while Romeo was out of town. Your feet on the dashboard, with some song playing too loud in the busted speakers of his truck. But that was enough.
Small towns were built of this; gossip spread as fast as wildfire, and you were not immune. You thought you had enough time to get ahead of it, to feed lies to Romeo about this horrible town, but the day he was meant to come back came sooner rather than later.
You’d learn there was no time when your bedroom door slammed open, Romeo’s eyes were bloodshot, and his knuckles were already bloodied.
“Is it true?” Romeo’s voice was slurred; you didn’t even have to be close to him to know his breath reeked of cheap whiskey, which he probably stole from the corner store.
You froze for a second, your hands stilling in the pockets of his dad’s camo jacket. The same one he lay on the ground to fuck you on top of just days before, overlooking the wheat fields. The picnic where he fed you strawberries and promised to always take care of you. Now the fabric felt stifling against your skin.
“Is what true?” You squeaked, your voice betraying the confidence you were failing to fake.
The words barely came out before he was yelling again, “Don’t play fucking stupid, bitch.”
His voice rattled the windows of the houses, making your heart race.
“Out of everybody in this town, out of every man on earth, you picked him?” The hurt in his voice made your stomach twist, but the violence in his eyes had you frozen.
“Romeo, please-“
He was on top of you in an instant, his hands fisted in your shirt, spit flying. “You’re fucking him, aren’t you?”
“Romeo,” You cried, trying desperately to pull yourself away. “Let’s talk about this when you’re sober.”
“I should fucking kill you-“
The door slamming open cuts him off. Jack is standing there with his eyes wide, chest heaving as he runs from his shop all the way here.
“Son, get your hands off of her now.” His voice vibrated off the walls.
All Romeo could do was laugh, holding his hands up in surrender. You took the chance and fled into the corner of the room, watching the two of them circle each other like prey.
“Course you show up,” Romeo scoffed. “Her night and shining armor, huh?”
“Son, I know you’re upset, but let’s not do anything we might regret-“
Romeo was not in the listening mood, kicking the trunk at the end of your once shared bed as hard as he could. The wood splintered. None of you even flinched, too hardened by violence and chaos over the years.
“Regret?” He screamed, zoning in on his father now. “Do you regret fucking my girlfriend?”
Jack’s face hardened, his body stilling. “Where did you hear that nonsense?”
“The whole fucking town knows!”
“Well, it’s not true.” Jack scoffed, unconvincingly.
You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to make yourself as small as possible.
“Bullshit,” Romeo scoffed, “You can lie to everyone you want, but you can’t lie to me.”
Jack’s silent, his face falling as he realized that the truth was out there. There was no hiding or outrunning it.
As soon as Romeo saw this, it was like throwing gasoline onto a fire. His hands itched for something to throw, settling on the vintage wooden dresser next to him.
The dresser tipped under his hands, not fully thrown so much as shoved with all the force of everything he couldn’t hold inside himself anymore, wood scraping against floorboards before it collapsed into itself with a crack. Drawers burst open on impact, scattering old things across the floor, splintered pieces of something that had once been carefully built and now existed only as damage.
You flinched without thinking, your back thudding against the wall.
Romeo stood over it for a moment, chest heaving, staring down at what he’d done like he wasn’t entirely sure when he had started or how to take it back.
Jack’s voice came again, quieter this time, strained at the edges. “That was your mother’s.”
Romeo didn’t answer right away, just looked at the broken wood splintered around his feet.
”You have no fucking right to bring mom up.” He seethed, making Jack nearly take a startled step backwards.
”That dresser was the last thing she ever built.” Jack said calmly, too calmly for the weight of the situation unfolding around him.
“Yeah, well,” Romeo shrugged, “She’s not here, so.”
Jack was in his son's face within seconds, spit flying. “How dare you-“
“You’re the reason mom is dead, you know that, right? I’d drink myself to fucking death too if I had to deal with you.” He scoffed, their faces nearly touching.
Watching them like this was like watching them in a mirror. It was Romeo’s future lying in front of him, a little older, less angry. It was at this moment that you realized just how much he looked like his father, carrying his anger, you didn’t know he even had.
“Don’t talk about your mother like that,” Jack scowled, “Real fucking mature. She’d be disappointed to see you ended up like this.”
The punch came so fast you barely saw it. Romeo’s fist connected with Jack’s jaw hard enough to send his head snapping sideways. The sound echoed through the house.
You screamed his name, but neither of them seemed to hear you. Romeo swung again, years of resentment finally spilling free. This time, Jack caught the blow with his shoulder, refusing to raise his hands.
“Stop,” he warned. “I’m not fighting you.”
That only made Romeo angrier. Another punch landed. Then another.
“Fight me!” he shouted. “For once in your life, fight me!” Jack’s expression twisted with pain, not from the blows but from the words. When Romeo charged forward again, Jack finally moved. He caught him around the chest and pulled him backward, locking his arms around him just tightly enough to stop the attack. It wasn’t a fight. It looked more like a father trying to hold together something already shattered. Romeo struggled violently, cursing and yelling, but Jack held firm.
“Enough,” he said, his voice breaking for the first time. “Enough.”
Romeo’s movements gradually slowed until all that remained was heavy breathing and quiet rage. When Jack finally released him, neither man looked at the other. Romeo wiped at his face angrily, whether from sweat or tears, you couldn’t tell.
“You’re dead to me,” He huffed, still a little unsteady on his feet, whether that was from the alcohol or the exhaustion, you couldn’t tell. “Both of you.”
When the front screen door slammed, both of you flinched, not at the sound but the finality of it.
For weeks, you had buried every warning beneath desire. You had covered guilt with longing and loneliness with excuses, convincing yourself that love transformed wrongdoing into something beautiful. But here it was, something ugly and too shameful to face.
Jack hadn’t moved. You watched the rise and fall of his chest. You watched him drag a hand across his jaw and wince. Beneath the guilt and the horror and the undeniable ugliness of what had happened, something warm and terrible unfurled inside your chest.
It made you feel monstrous at how relieved you felt.
Your skeletons were out of the closet. Now there was nothing left to hide.
The truth had finally clawed its way into the light, ugly and bleeding and impossible to ignore. Romeo knew. The town would have confirmation soon enough. Every church pew and grocery store aisle and gas station parking lot would eventually carry whispers of what had happened here tonight. Your name would become something people shook their heads over.
The bridge had collapsed behind you both. The life that existed before tonight had vanished the moment Romeo walked through that door and discovered the truth. There would be no returning to it now. No apologies could undo what had happened. No amount of regret could rewind the clock.
And if there was no going back, then the only thing left was forward.
“Come on,” You whispered, reaching out to grab his wrist and gently urging him to follow you out of the house. You lead him down the creaky front porch steps, into the pathway into the woods at the edge of the property line.
You’re thankful that the sounds of the forest overpower your rapid heartbeat. You take the trail you always did, past the old oaks and through the old clearing to get to the small creek underneath the bridge. Wordlessly, he followed, letting you take him all the way to the water’s edge.
Clothes were stripped off, abandoned on a rotted fenceline as your bodies disappeared into the water. He kept his hands in yours until you stopped, waist-deep in the water.
Jack had always belonged to places like this. Not houses or towns or churches. He belonged to rivers and backroads and stretches of land too wild for anybody to claim. Maybe that’s why you loved him, every scar, every wrinkle told a story of how he had lived, truly lived.
You could see the exhaustion in his eyes that had nothing to do with tonight and everything to do with years of holding things in place that were never meant to stay together.
You cupped water in your hands and gently brought it to his face, wiping away traces of blood and dirt with a care that felt almost absurd given everything that had just happened. He didn’t flinch. He just watched you like he was trying to memorize something he already knew he was going to lose.
“You alright?” You asked, though the question felt like it belonged to another version of you, one from a different night entirely, one where things hadn’t already crossed so many invisible lines.
For a moment, he didn’t answer, his gaze drifting past you toward the dark shape of the trees, like he couldn’t quite anchor himself in the present. Then his expression shifted, something breaking quietly in the way he swallowed, and when he spoke, his voice came out rough, stripped of everything except truth.
“I’ve ruined your life.” Was all he said.
“No,” You said, cupping his face in your hands once more, “You are my life now. Doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks.”
He pressed a kiss to your wrist, his stubble scratching against your skin.
The creek moved lazily around your waists, carrying away dirt and blood and pieces of a life neither of you could return to. Above you, the bridge groaned softly as a truck passed overhead, its headlights briefly flashing through the trees before disappearing into the deepening dusk.
“Let’s go home,” you said gently, your fingers lingering against his jaw. The bruises darkening beneath his skin seemed worse every time you looked at them. “We gotta get some ice on these.”
He ignored you, his mind somewhere far away.
“Have you ever seen anything outside of this shithole town?” His timber voice broke the silence.
“Nothing you can’t drive three hours in each direction to see.” You admitted. Your life had never stretched farther than a few county lines. It never felt sad, until you said it outloud.
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It settled around the two of you like the evening air itself. The creek whispered over stones. Crickets sang louder from the tall grass. Somewhere farther down the bank, a frog croaked into the gathering dark. For the first time all day, neither of you seemed in a hurry to fill the quiet.
“Do you wanna go on a little road trip, see the world with me?”
You could see it so clearly right in front of you, hanging out the window of his truck. Your life unfolding behind your eyes like a dream you’d been having your entire life without realizing it. Endless highways cutting through states you’d only seen on maps. Desert sunsets bleed gold across the horizon. Cheap diners with cracked vinyl booths and coffee that tasted burnt, no matter where you ordered it. Dusty motels glowing beneath neon signs and falling asleep beside him with the windows open and waking up somewhere entirely different than where you’d gone to bed.
For the first time in years, the future didn’t feel like a cage.
You looked up at him, your chin digging into his sternum. “Can we see the west?”
“Yeah, baby,” he said quietly, that crooked smile heavy on his lips. “We can go see the West.”
dilf and milf enthusiast. mitski. physical media. unhinged women in cinema. hopeless romantic.
current hyperfixations: titus danforth, andrew cody, brett richards, jack abbot, grant reily, charlie reid, bascolm, baran al-hashimi, samira mohan.
things i've written:
fics
titus danforth: #brat4brat
titus danforth is being a brat. so you kick his dick to make his erectile dysfunction worse. then he chases you through the woods.
samira mohan: daddy
after being a brat all day, sending samira pictures of yourself during work, she calls you into the on-call room to teach you a lesson. whatever daddy wants, daddy gets, right?
jack abbot: fuck it, i love you (professor!abbot)
after a risqué encounter with you at the bar, jack abbot can’t get you out of his head. and then you show up in one of his lectures as his student. and then you two navigate an interesting 'casual' relationship, until your emotionally avoidant asses get, well... attached.
andrew cody: you seem pretty sad for a boy in love (series)
a non-linear series of short fics detailing the trajectory of your relationship wth andrew
sticky sweet, tangerine: andrew cody has never been a man who smiles, not until you started waking him up by littering kisses onto every freckle on his face.
you plus me equals a heart forever: andrew asks about your tattoos, before confessing he'd have you etched onto his skin forever.
my head is full of poison: andrew sees you talking to j and spirals, letting the poison spill out as words he can't take back.
blurbs/imagines
dad!bf jack
cockwarming in your mouth
blowjob
riding dbf!jack abbot
andrew
his birthday
doing your curl routine on him
others
alt!reader and jack hc
grant reily orgasm denial
charlie reid throat fucking
bascolm taking care of you after a night out
wips
titus danforth and reader with oral fixation (req)
samira mohan at the hospital gala
andrew cody 'bonnie and clyde' dynamic based on thoroughfare
andrew cody and drunk babysitter reader (hurt/comfort, sh)
brett richards (dad!bf): jealous at a bbq, throat training
requests are open! perv out with me, there is little im not into in fiction ngl so feel free to send asks and i'll lyk if im uncomfortable
summary: after a risqué encounter with you at the bar, jack abbot can’t get you out of his head. and then you show up in one of his lectures as his student. and then you two navigate an interesting 'casual' relationship, until your emotionally avoidant asses get, well... attached.
wc: 13k words
warnings: 18+, dom!jack & sub!reader, switching pov, lots of fingering, rubbing over underwear, premature ejaculation (coming in pants), mentions of oral (fem!receiving), guiding through a blowjob, loss of virginity, sex on a table, calling him dr abbot, sir + brief daddy kink, light choking, all of the sexy stuff happens in his office. jack is a widow, brief angst in the middle but love confessions later (!!), hurt/comfort, jack is jealous and possessive but has an #ethicaldilemma: the fic
a/n: i tried to be vague with the backstory, but reader craves academic validation, doesn’t have many friends, has implied familial issues and is introverted and avoidant. seeing the pics of him literally sent me into heat i fear i’ll never recover and so naturally i churned out this incredibly self indulgent fic during my finals aha can u tell i'm suffering from academic stress? #anyways have fun pls be nice. not beta read. | divider credits: @strangergraphics | soundtrack: fuck it i love you by lana del ray
Jack Abbot had always been a man of remarkable composure, the sort of composure that had been his armour, carefully built after the death of his wife, reinforced brick by brick through routine, discipline, and relentless work.
While other men sought comfort in distractions, Jack prided himself in the fact that he buried himself in academia. Entire nights disappeared beneath journal articles, lecture plans, and grading sociology essays, until the loneliness that waited for him at home was little more than a dull ache he could almost ignore.
Last week at the bar, well, that had been a mistake. A brief lapse in judgement, that's all. One too many whiskeys after a particularly long week and a pretty young thing asking him for help with some creep who wouldn't leave her alone - what exactly had he been supposed to do? Ignore her? Tell her she was on her own? Any decent man would've stepped in, at least that's what Jack keeps telling himself.
The problem is that a week later, he still can't get you out of his head.
He remembers the dress first. God, that dress. The dark fabric had clung to your figure, hugging every curve, and he'd spent the entire evening irritated with himself for noticing at all.
He remembers the way the dip of your waist had fit beneath his palm when he'd guided you behind him, the startling softness of you, the instinctive way you'd moved closer when the man started getting aggressive. The tiny stutter in your breathing as he'd told the asshole to ‘fuck off and stop bothering his girl’ in a gruff voice, the way you'd looked up at him with those wide eyes, somewhere between embarrassed and grateful, as though he had done something remarkable when all he'd really done was the bare minimum.
Worst of all, he hates that he remembers the warmth of your body as he pinned you against the wall of the men's bathroom, mouths hovering over each other, not kissing, but breathing in wine-tinted lips.
God, the way your warm walls stretched around his fingers, your clit under his thumb, still made him achingly hard. Jerking off in the shower had been futile ever since that night, ever since he felt your soft fingers around his cock, your moans spilling into his mouth. And your soft whines when he called you a good girl, fuck. He’s hard, again, in the middle of reading through the PHD proposals sent his way. He sighs, pulling his cock out his pants.
It was becoming ridiculous. Which is precisely why he is looking forward to the start of semester.
But the universe has a fucked up way of derailing his plans. By the time he arrives at the lecture hall the next morning, coffee balanced in one hand and laptop tucked beneath his arm, he's almost managed to convince himself that the entire thing was behind him.
Then he walks through the door. The lecture hall blurs into meaningless shapes and colours, and in the centre of it sits you.
The girl he couldn’t take out of his brain for the past seven days.
Jack forces his legs forward, somehow making it to the front of the room without visibly embarrassing himself. He places his coffee on the desk. Sets down his laptop. Connects the HDMI cable twice because he misses the port the first time. His fingers feel too clammy, his pulse too fast.
Jack opens his mouth to introduce himself.
"My name is-"
But the words die there. Because he makes the mistake of looking back at you, again.
Those same eyes he'd spent an entire week trying to unsuccessfully forget are fixed directly on his, wide with disbelief.
For a fraction of a second his mind goes entirely blank. Then your eyebrows lift. Just slightly.
And he realises with a jolt of horror that you've noticed the way his words catch. Jesus Christ.
He clears his throat and looks away, pretending to adjust something on his laptop despite the fact that absolutely nothing needs adjusting, acutely aware of the warmth crawling up the back of his neck, and onto his cheeks. It's ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.
He's a respected academic pushing fifty years old, not some nervous graduate tutor fumbling his way through his first class.
"My name is Dr Jack Abbot," he says again, his voice steadier this time, lower too, the words settling more naturally now that he's managed to regain some semblance of control. "I'm the lead lecturer for the sociology department.”
His eyes catch yours.
“It'll be my greatest pleasure to work with all of you this semester."
You’re this close to fucking shitting your pants.
The sexy old man that had fucked the shit out of you with his fingers, while you could barely wrap your hands around his girthy cock in the corner of a dingy bathroom, was your professor. He was in front of you speaking in a voice too gravelly for his own good, and donned in what you’d deem an outfit way too slutty.
Tweed blazer that somehow actually showed how broad he was, how fat and juicy his biceps were. A soft wool polo underneath that stretched around his fat pecs.
And those brown pants, for fucks sake, those pants should be an abobination. You could see the bulge of his dick, the print, as he moved around the room.
What’s worse though? His fat fucking fingers. As he gesticulates while talking about the content, which you don’t give a fuck about, all you can think about is how they felt inside of you, curling up to reach that sweet spot, and making you come faster and harder than your vibrator.
As the flashbacks of him pounding into you fade, and you focus, you see something black and shiny glinting as it catches the overhead lights. You blink. Adorning one of those delicious fingers, is a ring. Fuck. It’s a wedding ring.
You stare at it for a second too long before immediately snapping your gaze back to your laptop. Heat floods your face. You rack your brain trying to remember whether he'd been wearing it that night. You don't think so, you're almost certain he wasn't. Yeah, he definitely didn’t have it on that night in the bar, you would’ve felt it against your pussy, that fucking slut.
You clench your jaw and look away, typing away to start making notes. You’d hooked up with an older married geratric. Yeah, maybe you should just drop out. Hurl yourself off the chair and out the door and withdraw from your course and fade into the abyss and die in a hole.
But what's worse is the way your cunt is clenching around nothing at the thought of this older man fucking you with his fingers while he had a wife at home- no, stop. How deeply unfeminist of you. You cunt.
Yet still, when you look up and accidentally make eye contact with Jack Abbot, it feels like a punch to the vagina.
By the time the lecture ends, Jack has spent nearly two hours forcing himself not to look at you. It has been a miserable failure. Not an obvious one, nobody in the room would have noticed. Years of teaching and having to discreetly catch students on their phones have made him an expert at disguising where his attention is actually resting.
But every time his gaze swept across the theatre, every time a student asked a question, every time laughter rippled through the room, some part of him remained acutely aware of where you were sitting.
Which is precisely why, as students begin packing their bags and filtering towards the exits, he decides to do something incredibly stupid.
He tells himself it isn't stupid. He tells himself it's necessary. Professional, even.
After all, the two of you know each other in some capacity. There was the bar, there was what occurred inside of that bar, that lapse in judgement. There is now the unfortunate reality that you are one of his students. A conversation needs to happen. Boundaries need to be established, expectations clarified.
At least that's the excuse he gives himself. The truth is considerably less flattering. The truth is that he wants an excuse to speak to you.
He calls out your name. The words leave his mouth before he can reconsider them.
You freeze halfway through sliding your laptop into your bag. For a second you look almost startled that he's addressed you directly. Then your eyes meet his, startled.
"Could you stay for a moment?"
Several students glance between the two of you before continuing out the door. Jack immediately regrets saying it publicly. Excellent start, Abbot.
By the time the last student leaves, you're making your way slowly towards the front of the room, one loop of your backpack slung on your shoulder.
As you slow to a stop in front of him, his eyes map your face. Your wide eyes, your slightly messy hair, the shape of your lips- Stop. Jesus Christ.
He forcibly redirects his gaze towards his laptop on the podium. Professional. Remember, professional.
"You wanted to see me?" you ask softly.
Jack clears his throat.
"Right. Yes."
Very articulate.
"I just thought it would be best if we acknowledged..." He gestures vaguely between the two of you. "The situation."
You blink.
"The situation?"
"The fact that we've met before."
"Oh."
You glance down at the strap of your bag, fingers tightening around it.
"Yeah. I noticed."
The dry response catches him completely off guard. A smile threatens at the corner of his mouth.
"Um, sorry, Dr Abbot," you add quickly, stumbling over the words. "I didn't mean to make things weird."
Jack immediately shakes his head.
"No, it's okay. You're good."
Dr Abbot. Dr Abbot. His brain plays your lips wrapping around his name again and again, perhaps in more precarious positions. He rubs his neck, looking away, willing for his cock to stop fucking stiffening.
"I just wanted to clarify," he starts carefully, "I'd appreciate it if what happened stayed private."
Your eyes immediately narrow, apparently offended.
"Dr Abbot, I'm not stupid."
His eyebrows lift at your sudden confidence. He puts his hands out in front of him in defence.
"I wasn't suggesting-"
"No, I know," you interrupt. Then your eyes widen, immediately looking mortified for interrupting him. "Sorry. I just mean... I'm not exactly planning on standing up in tutorials and announcing that I fu- I met my professor in a bar."
Jack closes his mouth. Fair point. And suddenly he becomes aware of how ridiculous he sounds.
You aren't the problem here. You haven't done anything. If anything, you're handling this better than he is. This sort of “casualness” is probably the usual for someone as beautiful as you, as young and brilliant.
"Right," he says finally.
A silence settles between you as he continues staring you down.
You shift your weight awkwardly beneath his gaze, looking everywhere except directly at him now, and suddenly he's struck by how young you seem standing there.
Then, before he can stop himself, in some hope to keep you standing there in front of him, he hears himself say, "If you ever need help with coursework, though, my office hours are listed on the syllabus."
The second the words leave his mouth, he knows they weren't necessary. Your eyes flicker up to his face in shock, before immediately dropping back down again. Interesting.
For someone who'd managed to argue with him thirty seconds ago, you seem remarkably incapable of holding eye contact for more than a few moments.
Then you nod, still staring at the floor.
"Okay."
"Okay. Yeah, good."
Another silence. Neither of you moves, seems entirely unsure on how to end the conversation. Eventually you shift your bag higher up, and take a small step backwards.
"I should go."
"Yes, thank you for staying back."
You hesitate for a second, then whisper as you turn and walk away from him.
“Goodbye, Dr Abbot.”
Jack stares at your ass through your jeans as you depart, he can’t help it. You sick, sick old man, Abbot.
The second you're gone, he drops his head down, groans, rubs a hand over his scruff.
That conversation was supposed to make things better, supposed to reassure him that whatever happened at that bar was firmly in the past.
Instead, all it has accomplished is proving that being around you is a nightmare.
It's been four weeks since that conversation and you cannot get him out of your head. Every time you enter those lectures where he stands in the front of the room with another blazer, another pair of form fitting pants, twice a week, you leave with a pool of slick.
You refuse to acknowledge the way he looked at you when you let your attitude slip, his furrowed brows, hazel eyes narrowing. He looked… mad almost. Like he wanted to tame you. Of course you're being delusional, he has a wife for fucks sake.
And weeks of observing him has made you realise that he has an immense proclivity for eye contact, with everyone. Basically, you’re not special.
And, so your avoidant ass refuses to take him up on that offer to see him at his office. You’re doing well academically, you presume, in all your subjects. Which is not surprising given it's the only thing you’ve got going for you, being an antisocial chud, but these days, rather than studying, a lot of your time is spent replaying that night in the bar. The sense of comfort you felt pinned against the wall by him, the way he’d protected you against that creep. Nobody had done that for you before.
God you sound fucking pathetic.
And specifically, his suggestive line of “my office hours are listed on the syllabus” reverberates around your skull, like the start of those Wattpad stories you used to read as a teen. And so, you and your vibrator have the time of your life at all odd hours of the day, imagining him and you in those situations.
In hindsight, being overtaken by lust to distract from your crippling loneliness was a poor decision to make, that much you clock when you receive one of your midterms back today. With a big fat fucking 60% written on the front. In Dr Abbot’s class at that too.
Humiliation takes over you, cheeks warm as he walks by to return the paper, refusing to look at him but feeling his gaze on your face.
Around you, students are already discussing their marks, complaining about feedback, celebrating distinctions, debating whether certain deductions were fair, while you're busy boring holes into the godforsaken paper with your eyes as though sheer hatred might cause it to burst into flames.
As someone who quite literally had nothing going on for them other than academic success, it's a stab to the heart to realise you’ve fallen off in any capacity. For your wretched brain, one poor mark isn't just a mark, it's indicative of you falling behind, lacking in the one thing that defines you.
Academics have always been your thing, the one area of your life you've been able to control through sheer stubbornness and hard work, the one thing you've quietly built your entire sense of self around. You aren't particularly outgoing. You don't have a huge social circle. You don't possess some secret hidden talent waiting to be discovered.
And now a bright red sixty is staring back at you from the top of the page like a personal attack.
The feedback only makes it worse.
Critical analysis underdeveloped.
Needs greater engagement with course material.
More depth required.
Each comment feels less like academic criticism and more like somebody taking a hammer to your ribcage.
Especially because you've spent the last month thinking about fuckass Jack Abbot far more than you've spent thinking about sociology. You've replayed conversations that lasted less than five minutes. Analysed glances that probably meant absolutely nothing, and constructed entire fictional narratives from harmless comments that any reasonable person would've forgotten weeks ago.
Meanwhile half your readings have been sitting untouched in a browser tab.
You stare down at the paper again, jaw tightening.
Perhaps this is the universe intervening. Perhaps this is your sign to get a grip. Perhaps this is your sign to finally take him up on that offer he'd made four weeks ago.
Not because you're harbouring some pathetic crush. Absolutely not.
Purely for academic reasons. You need to know what went wrong and you need to know how to fix it before your anxiety makes this into something worse and you have another one of your depressive episodes.
And if that means sitting in Dr Jack Abbot's office while he explains why your argument was underdeveloped and your analysis lacked depth, then so be it.
The thought alone makes your stomach perform an alarming little flip, which is deeply unfortunate.
Because that's probably another sign that you're not thinking nearly enough about sociology.
After stalking the stupid university website you’ve discovered that Dr Jack Abbot apparently remains on campus until after five o'clock most evenings, like some sort of psycho freak.
Doesn’t he have a wife to go home to? Surely no sane person voluntarily spends that much time at a university.
Still, at 5:17 PM, you're standing outside his office clutching your assignment paper so tightly it's beginning to crumple around the edges.
You knock on the door and hear his gruff voice let out a “come in”. You walk in.
Fuck your life.
His blazer is off, sleeves of his beige shirt rolled up to show veiny forearms, as he types away on his laptop.
“Oh it's you. Hello sweetheart.” He winces at the slip of the pet name.
“Sorry Miss-” he pauses. “Um, just have a seat, please.”
You hope to God that he can't hear the beating of your heart as you step in, closing the door shut behind you, avoiding eye contact as you sit on the seat opposite him.
You set your paper on his desk and mumble.
“I just wanted to review the feedback I got on this.”
“Yeah of course, what’d you want to ask?”
You hesitate, his soft tone suddenly making you want to spill everything.
"I just..." You stare at the desk. "I thought I'd done better than this. So I wanted more clarity on all the comments you made."
He nods and picks up the paper, starts reading through it, then squints.
He sighs.
“Wait, let me get my readers on.”
You sneak a glance up.
Oh fuck.
He puts his readers on. Some fucking high prescription glasses that enunciate the size of his stupid hazel boba eyes and delicious eye wrinkles.
Yeah, pussy exploded.
You look back down on the table, and inhale to calm your heart.
When Jack finally finishes, he sets the paper on the desk.
"You know," he says carefully, tapping one section of the essay, "the reason this stood out to me wasn't because the writing is bad."
Your eyes lift despite yourself. He slides the paper slightly closer.
"It's actually the opposite."
“What?"
"The writing is strong, and your arguments are quite clear. You've obviously got the ability."
The knot in your chest loosens slightly. Only slightly.
"But?" you whisper.
His mouth twitches.
"But I don't think you pushed yourself."
Jack studies your expression for a moment before leaning back slightly in his chair.
"You understand the material," he continues. "I don't have concerns about that. What I'm seeing is somebody who's engaging with the content at a surface level when they're capable of going much deeper.”
Right, so you’re failing. You ridden with lust, and doing god knows what in hopes to distract yourself from the sheer loneliness and mundanity of your life and now you can’t even understand the content the way you want to understand it and-
“Hey sweetheart, are you feelin’ okay?”
You look up at him in confusion and realise your breaths are heavy, uneven. Your hands are trembling slightly where they're resting on your lap.
Fuck, the beginnings of a panic attack.
“I’m so sorry Dr Abbot, I just- I’ve never done poorly in a test really, and so this is all so…” your voice cracks. “I don't even know what I’m saying I just-”
He gets up and walks over to you as you break off, letting out a shaky laugh that sounds suspiciously close to a sob.
He leans against his desk, in front of you, bending to reach your eyes.
“Hey, it's okay angel, breathe for me.”
He inhales.
“Look, follow my breathing.”
You try to, but it comes out stuttered.
"Fuck, I'm sorry."
"Nothin’ to apologise for, sweetheart, just keep trying. C’mon, take a deep breath in, and out."
He holds your hand and brings it to his chest. You feel his heart beat steadily under your palm. He exaggerates his breathing to help you.
“In, and out, just like that.”
It seems nice to just let go. To have someone else take over your brain, follow their instructions and shut the noise, the anxieties and the worries.
Once your breathing slows, he moves your hand away from his chest.
“You breathin’ better now?”
You nod slowly, still feeling shaky, still mortified by the fact that you've just had what can only be described as a minor psychological collapse in your professor's office.
“I’m so, so sorry you saw me like that Dr Abbot, I didn’t mean to-”
“Hey, it’s okay, sweet girl.”
He pauses, seems occupied gathering his thoughts.
You busy yourself staring at the floor. Then he exhales softly through his nose and settles back against the edge of his desk.
"After my wife passed away, I used to get them all the time."
The words are so unexpected that your head lifts immediately.
Jack's gaze remains fixed somewhere over your shoulder rather than directly on you, his expression thoughtful.
"My therapist taught me a few tricks," he says with a small shrug. "Matching breathing patterns was one of them."
Your heart races again, for different reasons this time. The ring, the fucking black ring. He’s a widower. You don’t know whether to laugh or scream at the fact that he’s not married, and you aren’t a homewrecker. But then you feel real fucking horrible for different reasons, youre brain sabotaging again.
“I’m sorry about your wife. I’m sorry if that reminded you of back then, or whenever it happened I don’t know, I don't want to assume-”
“Shh, take a deep breath for me. You’re good, sweetheart.
He brings a palm to your cheek, engulfing it.
“Yeah? It’s okay. Don’t worry ‘bout it. It was a long time ago.”
You breathe in slowly for the fucking hundredth time that night, calming down.
“You feelin’ better now?” He asks gently.
You nod, biting your tongue to stop from apologising again.
“Yes, thank you.”
It slips out before he can stop it.
“Good girl.”
Your thighs instinctively clench, and you see him stiffen as he notices. You both stare at each other, feeling tension coil in the air between you. A moment passes.
“I could help you, you know.”
You blink, confused.
He rubs your cheek gently, eyes boring into yours. His expression is blank, neutral.
“I could help you relax, get out of your brain for a little.”
He pauses.
“Like that night in the bar. You liked that, didn't you? Somebody taking control.”
Your breath hitches, and you mumble a “yes.”
“Louder, sweetheart. If we’re gonna do this, you need to speak clearly.”
His voice is stern, gravelly. And your brain is calm for the first time in weeks, since that night. The validation you crave so desperately, the sense of comfort that would help with escaping your brain, perhaps it is held in the palm of Jack Abbot’s hands.
Slowly, you nod.
“Yes Dr Abbot, I’d like you to help me.”
He smirks, the edges of lips pulling up.
“Atta girl. C’mon then, get up for me.”
You follow his lead, mind hazy as he holds your hands and guides you to his chair.
“I’m gonna sit, then you're gonna sit right here, on my lap. And then I’ll help you, yeah?”
You nod again.
“Words, sweetheart.”
“Yes, Dr Abbot.”
He smiles, proudly. Your brain turns to mush again, pussy fluttering.
He’s so handsome.
Pulling you onto his lap sideways, your legs draping over his thighs, he caresses your hair. Fuck, it feels so good. You nuzzle your head into his neck, whimpering softly as he coos, "such a good girl, my smart girl, yeah? smartest in the whole damn class.”
Then he brings his fat fingers to your skirt, tracing circles on yout thighs near the hem. Inching close, but never slipping under.
“Please, please Dr Abbot, touch me.”
“Yeah, you want me to touch that little pussy? Want me to make you feel good? So you can rest your pretty brain?”
He taps your head.
You whine ‘yes, yes please sir.’
You feel his cock jerk up under you. He groans.
“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart. Say that again.”
“Please, Sir, please touch me.”
“Whatever you want, pretty girl.”
Then he finally flips your skirt up, and starts rubbing slowly over your panties. On your lips, your folds, through your soaked underwear. You wrap your arms around his neck, begging him, please.
He brings a finger to your clit, mutters lowly, “right here sweetheart?” and you nod, whining.
He rubs gentle circles on your clit, your slick helping his finger move smoothly even over your panties. Buries his face in your hair as he continues rubbing. He breathily exhales, as if simply your pleasure was turning him on .
“That’s it, just let go sweetheart. Let me take care of you, yeah?”
“Fuck- right there.”
You buck up in his hold.
And he stops, a hand splaying over your thighs to stop you from squirming.
“Fuckin’ stop that, or this is going to be over a lot quicker thank you’d like.”
You feel the hardness of his cock under you, prodding below your ass. Your brain is mush, the words slipping by themself.
You nod tucking your head in his neck, “Yeah, yeah sir I’ll stop, please- fuck. Please keep going.”
“That’s my good girl.”
And he starts rubbing over your clit again, kissing down your cheeks, down your neck, murmuring “yeah? yeah” as he inhaled your musk.
You whimper, arching your neck as you get closer to your release, feeling it build up low in your stomach the faster his circles get.
“Fuck I’m going to come! Pl- please let me come sir.”
“Yeah? Is my good girl gonna come? You gonna come for Dr Abbot?” He groans, low and husky.
And fuck, that gets you. You close your eyes as your orgasm hits you, pleasure washing over.
You mutter whimpers of his name as you come, squirming as much as he lets you, clenching your thighs in his palm.
In the haze of your orgasm, you hear him, moaning. He jerks up, moaning in your ear, face pressed against your hair, babbling.
“Fuck- sweetheart, did so good for me, fucking coming all over my fingers, fuck!”
The last word comes out as something resembling a whine. His hips buck up once, twice, before you feel warmth spreading under you.
Did he just… orgasm?
Both of you pant harshly, him into your hair, forehead pressed against your head. And you look down, seeing your soaking panties, his hands splayed over your thighs. A smile overtakes your face, god, you felt alive.
And he came. In his pants. God, you love old men. But as a giggle bubbles up in your throat, he stiffens.
You see his hands leave you, and before you can even process what's happening, he's gently but firmly moving you off his lap, tugging your skirt back into place.
"Fuck."
The curse leaves him under his breath, as he immediately turns away in his chair, one hand dragging through his curls.
You stand there, still dazed as he refuses to look at you.
“Fuck, um. You should leave and I- I think-”
The words die halfway through. You watch him struggle to find them.
“Yeah, you should leave,” he awkwardly mutters as he covers the wet patch on his pants. You're still breathing heavily, and furrow your brows.
What the fuck?
You’re so utterly mortified. Still in the post orgasmic haze, standing there feeling horribly exposed, your brain sluggish and foggy and vulnerable.
And through that stupid fog you pick your bag up from the seat, smooth out your skirt. Avoiding eye contact, you wobble out of the room, tears pooling in your eyes.
Fuck old men. You hate old men.
After hours of sobbing into your pillow, and spiralling about how people will use you for your body, and nobody will be able to save you, and you’re going to die alone, you reached a conclusion. Probably a delusional conclusion, but a conclusion nonetheless.
He was embarrassed, that’s all. The man had simply come in his pants. Which, admittedly, would be humiliating for anyone. You’re so young and sexy that he was embarrassed he came in his pants. He definitely still wants you.
The thought soothed you enough to stop crying, enough to prevent you from throwing yourself dramatically into the nearest body of water.
It's when you’re holed up in your dorm room, buried under the blankets reading a fic, when your spiral begins again.
Because you get a text from an unknown number.
Hi. I wanted to apologise for yesterday.
That was incredibly impolite of me, I got way in over my head.
Then two minutes later.
And I wanted to check in.
Are you feeling better?
Chat, what if you fucking killed yourself?
The perfect grammar and punctuation made your stomach churn in lust. The way you could hear him grumble that out in his husky voice, gravelly warmth beneath every syllable.
Stop.
Objectively speaking, this man had sent you into an emotional crisis less than twenty-four hours ago. He basically kicked you out after giving you another toe curling orgasm.
And yet somehow all it takes is three perfectly punctuated texts and you're smiling into your pillow like an idiot. Whatever, stay nonchalant.
So you ignore his apology and reply to the latter half.
Hey, i’m okay thanks
Wow, look at you go.
His reply is almost immediate.
Good.
Good girl.
You take a deep breath in, pull your blanket over your head. Fuck. Fuck this stupid old man and his ability to make your pussy throb with two words.
You genuinely have no clue what to reply, stupid. Stupid woman who can’t even formulate a reply and be flirtatious.
You type something.
Delete it.
Type something else.
Delete that too.
Your chest develops a familiar buzzing anxiety. This, by the way, is exactly why maintaining relationships has always felt so difficult. Everyone else seems to possess some innate understanding of social interaction that you're missing entirely.
What are you supposed to say?
Thanks for checking on me after kicking me out?
Sorry for crying in your office?
Please stop being unexpectedly kind after making me come so hard because it's making this significantly harder?
After two minutes of spiralling, or five, or ten, you don’t even fucking know at this point, your phone buzzes again.
Can I see you?
Please.
Your breath stutters.
yeah sure
When do your classes finish today?
At 3pm
Okay. I’ll meet you at Sapphos.
Fuck, you hate how he doesn’t ask you. Just makes a statement, tells you what to do. You hate how that turns you on, and even worse, how good it feels to not have to make decisions for yourself, for once.
But also, that cafe was off campus. Realistically, should you be potentially jeopardising your academic career with this emotionally unavailable older man, who will definitely be using you for your body if this continues? No, but are you lonely and so fucking bored with the stangancy of your life? Well, yes.
And so unfortunately, rational thought has never stood much of a chance against loneliness. Against the quiet ache that follows you home every evening, and the possibility of spending a few hours with somebody who sees you.
Sitting and staring out the window of some cafe he randomly picked, Jack doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. He doesn't know how many times a man can call something a lapse in judgement before it stops being a ‘lapse’ and starts becoming a conscious choice.
He got in way over his head after making you come on his lap, spiralling. Yes, it was the sheer humiliation of coming in his pants (which was a nightmare to clean off, by the way) but also, there was the humiliation of losing control of himself after years of carefully maintaining it, the mortifying reality of having to go home and sit alone with the consequences of it all.
What was worse was somewhere along the way you'd managed to reach inside him and pull loose something from his heart he'd thought had calcified years ago, something he'd buried beneath research papers, lecture halls, and the endless routines he'd constructed around himself after his wife died.
And he knows, he knows, you deserve someone better. He was a widow for Christ's sake, probably three decades or somewhere very close to that, older than you. And you’re young. Thoughtful. Young enough that your entire life still seems stretched out in front of you. Even your anxieties, the things that weigh you down, feel temporary in a way his never will.
You still have time to become whoever you're meant to be.
Jack feels as though he's already become whoever he's going to be.
He thinks about the way you looked during your panic attack, how hard you'd been trying to keep it together even as everything was falling apart. He thinks about how quickly you apologised for taking up space, for having feelings, for being overwhelmed.
And he didn't pity you, God, no. It wasn't that. He understood it. The loneliness. The exhaustion. The feeling that if you stopped holding yourself together for even a second, everything might collapse.
But he also saw the way your brain shut down, the way you trusted him. It made something ache inside his chest, a warm ache, the sort that spread through his ribs and settled somewhere dangerously close to hope.
And hope was precisely the problem. Because he couldn't give you anything. Not with the grief and sense of routine buried in him before his teaching, in the chasm of his heart, since his time in the godforsaken military where half his limb was gone.
He can't offer you anything but his fingers, or his mouth, between your legs, and you deserve someone better than that.
But if that was the only way he’d be able to get you out of his head, then so be it.
And so despite all of that, despite every logical argument he could construct, despite every fucking university regulation he was violating right now, his eyes keep drifting towards the café entrance every few seconds.
Jack exhales heavily and rubs a hand across his jaw.
And then you enter. Looking around with an adorably confused look before you spot him, and dare he say, your eyes light up.
Abbot, no.
But the words slip out as you reach him.
“Hey sweetheart.”
“Hi Dr Abbot.”
You sit opposite him, glancing up at him briefly before staring back down at the table. He hates how endearing he finds it, how he wants to reach across the sticky table and pull your jaw, hold it, and force you to look at him. He wants to see your eyes glaze over the way they did the day prior.
He chooses instead to slide the menu across to you, and once you order, he leans back.
“Did you have a nice morning?”
He withholds a wince at the awkwardness.
“Um, yes. Classes were okay. Thank you?”
The end of the sentence rises almost into a question, as though you're unsure whether that's the correct answer, and something about it makes his chest tighten.
“Good, that’s good.”
Then an awkward pause. Jack sits there like a complete fucking idiot.
For Christ's sake he’d called you here. And now that you're sitting in front of him, he can't seem to form a coherent sentence.
Get your shit together, Abbot.
"Look," he begins, rubbing a hand across his jaw. "I wanted to apologise for yesterday."
Your eyes finally lift from the table.
“It was wrong of me to let you go like that. Quite frankly I don’t even have an excuse I just…”
He trails off, looking behind you out the window for a second. What exactly is he supposed to say?
That the sight of you crying made me feel physically sick? That for one terrifying second I’d felt something dangerously close to happiness sitting in that office with you? That after years of carefully maintaining the same dull routine I’d somehow started structuring entire days around whether I’d see you?
None of those seem particularly appropriate, too intense.
"See, no man my age enjoys being reminded that he's still capable of behaving like a teenager."
That makes you smirk a little. His heart warms.
“You mean, you.. coming in your pants?”
Jack groans softly and drags a hand down his face.
“I didn't want to put it so crudely, but well... yes."
"I thought so."
You giggle. And the sound catches him off guard enough that he finds himself smiling despite the mortification currently trying to consume him.
"To be honest," you continue, "I think I understood once I calmed down."
His shoulders loosen slightly.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
You shrug.
"But I'm not going to lie, it didn't feel very good. You kicking me out like that."
The honesty makes him wince.
"And that's exactly why I wanted to apologise, sweetheart." His gaze settles on you properly. Giving you a look that he hoped was earnest. "That was real shitty of me. I’m truly very sorry.”
You look at him for a few moments in silence, mapping his face. Then once seemingly finding what you were looking for, you reply.
“Apology accepted.”
The waitress arrives then, setting down your coffee, some monstrosity involving whipped cream and probably enough sugar to send him into cardiac arrest.
Jack eyes it suspiciously, humorously.
"What?" you question.
"That isn't coffee."
"It literally is."
"Sweetheart, that looks like it barely has any caffeine."
You let out a giggle, again. God, you’ve got to fucking stop that if you want his heart to survive.
"It has espresso."
"Buried beneath, what? Three inches of whipped cream."
"Whatever, you’re just old and grumpy."
You grin. The grin grows wider when he continues staring at the drink with visible disappointment.
For some reason that finally breaks whatever lingering awkwardness remains between the two of you. The conversation begins flowing after that.
He makes a witty remark, you giggle. And you manage to make him laugh as well, coming out of your shell.
Then the conversation shifts to that night at the bar.
“Yeah so if he wasn't that buff and scary, I wouldn't even have called you over. I would've told him to suck my strap and choke.”
Jack nearly chokes on his coffee, coughing violently. You immediately burst into soft laughter. He wipes his lips with a napkin, grinning.
"Sweetheart."
"What?"
"Please give me some warning before you say things like that."
Your grin grows, eyes sparkling.
"Why?"
"Because I'm fifty."
That seems to make your eyes widen imperceptibly, and you look down towards the coffee you ordered, chugging it.
Interesting.
Neither of you acknowledge the elephant in the room, instead you continue talking, skirting around the edges. Circling the obvious without ever touching it.
And eventually your drinks are empty. People around you start leaving.
Yet neither of you seems particularly eager to end the conversation.
Jack glances at his watch. Then back at you. He really, really shouldn't. But he wants to give you a way out. While still offering you a choice.
"I don't have any classes after tomorrow's lecture."
The words leave his mouth casually.
Your eyes flicker up.
"Oh."
A pause.
"I could come see you."
"In my office?"
You immediately look embarrassed.
"Only if that's okay."
God. There it is again, that instinct you have to ask permission for existing.
"Sweetheart."
Your eyes lift.
"It's okay."
The relief that flashes across your face is so immediate it almost hurts to look at.
"Okay."
"Okay."
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
When the bill eventually arrives, he picks it up before you can.
"Dr Abbot-"
"No."
"I can pay for myself."
"I know."
"Then-"
"I know, I know you’re a self sufficient woman. You’re brilliant. But let me. I’ll pay for it."
Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Jack watches the entire internal battle play across your face.
Then you nod softly, muttering an “okay, thank you”.
Jack's heart clenches again. Genuinely fuck his life.
So you think you’ve somehow ended up in a situationship or whatever the fuck with your fifty year old professor.
Over the course of the past five weeks, you show up in his office after the lectures, and even a few times throughout the week, and he sets you on his lap, or on his desk while he laps at your cunt.
Occasionally, he lets you pull out his cock and suck it. Sometimes under his desk, riding his boot as he's grading papers, God, his fucking whimpers when he comes.
Unsurprisingly, he also does help you with understanding the content and doing your assignments. Has his own unique methods of doing so.
Jack had you sitting on his lap, back to his chest, completely clothed while you were naked, bare.
He hooked his face on your shoulder, whispering filth in your ears, telling you to “focus” as he rubbed slow circles over your pussy. Smearing the slick oozing out your cunt over your folds, avoiding your clit.
You whined and tried to clench your thighs, whispering against his stubbled cheek.
“Please, pl- touch me, Dr Abbot.”
But he'd splayed one wide palm, tightly, over your thigh.
“No. Type out the rest of the essay, c’mon. Then you can come, pretty girl,” he’d muttered in a low voice.
And once you did, he'd shoved his fat fingers inside of you, thrusting fast, the other hand alternating between your neck and your nipples, pinching, squeezing.
You’d squirted that day, for the first time, creating a mess of his pants, some landing on his desk.
He’d made you lick it off.
Surprisingly, however, you hadn’t kissed, not even once. Nor had you fucked, in the penetrative sense.
The latter you’re grateful for, because you were a virgin. It was too humiliating of a thought to ever bring up in your twenties now, but thankfully he never brings it up either. You suspect he knows though, from the little details you've unveiled to him over the course of the past few weeks.
Talking about your feelings has always been.. difficult. The words choke up and clog the back of your throat when you go to speak. Entire relationships - well, lack of relationships - have been built around your inability to say what you need.
But it's easy, sometimes, with Jack. When your brain shuts off in a post orgasmic haze, and you sit in other's company, his hand resting in your hair, or his head buried in your chest, the words bubble out of you.
Snippets of memories of your family that you left behind, of the few friends back home, the lack of romance. When you stop speaking halfway through a sentence because you've forgotten how to explain yourself, he simply waits.
Surely he's put two and two together.
And you think he has some avoidant issues of his own, the old fuck.
He'll spend forty minutes analysing a political institution and somehow avoid answering a direct question about his own feelings.
Yet occasionally things slip through the cracks.
A memory about his wife. An offhand comment about the military that lingers in your mind long after he's moved on to another topic.
You'd had a lengthy conversation one day about that, your radical opinions spilling out before you could stop them, about systemic exploitation and imperialism, about how much you despised the military as an institution. You’d accuse institutions of manipulating vulnerable people; He agreed more than you'd expected him to. Told you about his journey of basically being forced into it to help his family, about the machinery of poverty and patriotism that pushed kids toward enlistment before they were old enough to understand what they were signing away.
He takes your ideas seriously, but he also looks genuinely delighted when you disagree with him.
And god, that’s what you were starting to like most about him. The intellect. Yes he has a girthy cock that would probably annihilate you in the best way when (if) the time came, and incredible arms, and his fat pecs. But his brain. Wow.
Intelligence has always been your love language, whether you've admitted it or not. And Jack speaks it fluently. There’s a sense of strange intimacy and letting others hear your thoughts and opinions. And the ability to be able to talk and have someone just listen, or banter with you – it was rare. Especially for someone as reclusive as you.
Unfortunately, you're also smart enough to recognise reality. Whatever this is, it isn't heading anywhere permanent. Because Jack never talks about the future, never makes promises, or gives any indication that he's looking for something lasting.
And honestly? You aren't sure he can. Not after everything he's lost, not with the gap of decades between you. So you tell yourself you're enjoying things exactly as they are. You tell yourself that spending time with him is enough.
And for now, maybe it is.
The problem is that every time he looks at you like you've said something brilliant, every time he remembers some tiny detail about your life, every time his face softens when you walk into a room – this lie gets a little harder to believe.
Five weeks. Jack’s ‘brief’ lapse in judgement has lasted five fucking weeks.
Every time he sees you enter the lecture, you exchange a secret look, your eyes fluttering, him blushing. He feels like he’s twenty again. It's exhilarating.
But the ‘ethical dilemma’ of it all sat permanently in the back of his mind, festering like an untreated wound.
He knows that every time he let himself enjoy your company, every time he answered one of your messages, every time he found himself smiling at something you'd said hours after the conversation had ended, he was stepping further into territory he had absolutely no business occupying.
The way you trusted him, allowing him to lick into your cunt or set you on his lap and caress you, felt nice. It felt real fucking good to be wanted and desired in some capacity, especially after being touch starved for nearly a decade since his wife.
And seeing you under him sucking his cock, fuck.
“Dr Abbot….” you whined in a teasing tone, laced with humour.
He groaned, placing his forehead on your back from where you sat on his lap. You definitely wanted something.
“What?” he huffed out.
Still facing your laptop, you breathed out your next words.
“When are you going to let me suck your cock?”
He jolted, hips thrusting up.
“Jesus Christ sweetheart, warn a guy.”
You said his name again, more firmly.
“Stop dodging the question.”
He paused.
“This whole… us. It's about you, about helping you relax so you can focus on studying. It’s not about me or my pleasure or-”
“Jack.”
He lifted his head from your back, stilling. You’d never said his first name before.
“What if doing it would give me pleasure, hm? What then?”
He stayed silent.
You twisted in his lap, neck twisting to face him.
“I want to taste you, please.”
Widening your eyes, and pouting, you all but begged him. Brought a hand to his stubbled cheek.
“Please, Dr Abbot. Let me do it.”
He sighed. Jack Abbot was a weak, pathetic man when it came to you.
“Fine,” he grumbled.
“Get off, c’mon.”
Yeah, it was worth it for the blinding smile you gave him, kissing his cheek.
He gently lifted you off his lap, and pulled his chair back to give you some room.
Jack nodded, glancing down pointedly.
“If you want it, you gotta do it yourself.”
You kneeled immediately, settling yourself in the gap between his desk, between his open thighs.
Unbuckling his belt, staring at his bulge with those doe eyes the entire time, you slowly pulled his cock out.
It was hard, leaking, tip red and aching. Your soft hands wrapping around his dick made a drop of precum roll down. He moaned, a low sound emanating from deep in his chest.
You slowly twisted your hand up and down his cock, fingers barely stretching around.
Jack couldn’t wait. He gripped your hair, not too hard, but enough to lift your head up to face him.
“You gonna put your mouth on it or do I need to shove it in?”
You smirked, you vixen.
“Shove it in, I dare you.”
He groaned, muttering “you fuckin’ brat” as he pushed your hands off his cock.
“Open up, sweetheart.”
You did, tongue lolling out. A drop of drool dripped onto his thighs, and he moaned under his breath.
He couldn’t wait any longer. Gripping his cock, he fed it into your mouth. Inch by inch.
Until you gagged.
Feeling your soft throat close around him, he couldn't help but groan your name.
“Fuckin’ hell.”
Your hands came up to stroke whatever didn't fit in - which truth be told, was more than half his cock, but it's okay, he'd train you eventually.
“Can I help you, sweetheart? Teach you how to take your professor's cock down your throat?”
You nodded quickly, moaning, his cock still in your mouth.
Then he guided you through it, holding your head as you sucked him. Muttered praises, filth, to guide you.
“Just like that, sweetheart”.
“Yeah, grip it harder”.
“Suck the tip, just like that.”
And right before he came, he ripped you off him and wrapped a hand around himself. He whimpered as jerked off furiously over you, until drops of his pearly cum splattered over your tongue.
He had never come that hard in his life.
Panting harshly, he patted your head.
“Swallow.”
Other than the sex, there were also the days where you'd walk into his office and start talking about some article you'd read, your entire face lighting up with excitement, and everything in him would melt. He’d pull you onto his lap, or set you in front of him, on his desk, and let you talk, feeling the softness of your thighs under his palm as he traced small circles. It was nice to let someone in, fill the void and the silence in his life.
There wasn’t a label on what you two were, if you even were anything.
While at first he’d thought it was common for you to be used to this sort of ‘causalness’ or a friends-with-benefit type situation (or whatever the fuck somebody born two generations after him would call it), he'd come to realise you were actually the opposite. Not that he’d have any issue with either.
But from the scattered stories you'd told him about your past, the way you spoke about relationships, and the cautious vulnerability that appeared whenever the subject drifted too close to ‘feelings’, he'd begun piecing together a picture of someone who felt things deeply and trusted people slowly.
He could calculate you were likely a virgin. And so he never pressurised you, never made the first move to initiate sex, kept his cock to himself, waiting for you. No matter how much he wanted to feel the tightness of your pussy around him.
However, his patience is wearing thin, growing precarious with every instance of you bringing another small thing that wedges itself beneath his ribs and refuses to leave.
Now he's left with the deeply inconvenient problem of wanting things he really shouldn’t want. Not just a warm body near him, but wanting your company, your attention. He wants those afternoons in his office where you do nothing but talk to last a little longer.
All of this wanting, this yearning, is quite frankly, far more than he has any right to want.
Which is exactly why today is proving so unbearable.
He often feels a pit of something bitter bubble in his chest when you interact with someone other than him. Not that it happens frequently - you're quite reserved. But not today. Today, specifically, you seem to be chatting up a boy.
When he enters the lecture this morning, you aren’t sitting alone like usual, but instead, there’s some boy next to you. Some boy your age. Dressed in some sort of hideous baggy outfit that hangs off his lanky frame. Is that fashion now? God that fucking punk.
Why was he sitting next to you? Distracting you?
As he sets up his laptop on the podium, seething under his breath, he hears a giggle. Your breathy giggle, the one he thought only came out with him.
His jaw tightens. The lecture hasn't even started, for Christ's sake.
Jack spends the next five minutes attempting to focus on setting up his stupid slides while simultaneously becoming aware of every interaction occurring in your vicinity.
Looking up, he realises it's a grave mistake. Because now you're touching. Touching that punk’s arm.
Fuck.
Something ugly immediately twists in Jack's stomach, his brows furrowing. Anger bubbles up in his chest.
But he can’t do anything but continue on, beginning his lecture, as if he isn’t seething with jealousy.
Halfway through the lecture, he catches himself directing a question towards your side of the room and immediately wants to launch himself into the sun.
Because you answer, of course, brilliantly as usual. But the boy next to you looks at you with stars in his eyes.
Yeah, Jack wants him expelled.
After a torturous two hours, students begin filing out of the room. Normally, this is the part where he'd catch your eye, maybe exchange some silent look that promised you'd be appearing in his office within the next ten minutes.
Instead, you're still standing beside that boy. And the little prick is making you laugh now. Then you reach out and lightly smack his arm, again.
Jack immediately decides prison might be worth it.
He shoves his laptop into his satchel with considerably more force than necessary, and effectively storms out of the room without giving you a second glance.
If you wanted to fuck about with some kid your age, then fine, Jack was not going to stop you.
By the time he reaches his office he's practically fuming, throwing his bag onto his desk and immediately hating himself for it.
Because what exactly are you guilty of?
Making a friend? Talking to somebody?
The answer is nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
Yet that doesn't stop the ugly feeling sitting beneath his ribs. Yeah, he’s going to commit a fucking crime tonight.
Jack Abbot has managed to elicit yet another strange emotion in you. You're staring at the doorway he'd just disappeared through, confused as fuck.
He'd packed up and left so quickly you'd barely had time to process it, when usually, you walk to his office together.
Once James - the man you were talking to - leaves with your Instagram to “organise a study session”, a strange sinking feeling begins to settle in your stomach.
You gather your things slowly, trying not to overthink it but failing spectacularly.
The thing is, you had actually been excited, embarrassingly excited. Somehow, after weeks of mostly keeping to yourself, after spending the majority of your university experience drifting between classes and then disappearing home, you'd accidentally made a friend today randomly. For the first time somebody actually came and fucking sat next you and talked to you.
And the first person you'd wanted to tell was Jack. Which was probably concerning. You know how ridiculous it is that every interesting thing that happens in your day somehow circles back to him.
You'd actually spent the last ten minutes of class thinking about it, thinking about walking into his office and saying, "I made a friend today." And hearing whatever sarcastic response he'd inevitably come up with as he pulled you into his lap. Maybe teasing you about finally socialising - a topic he often teased you about - or maybe pretending to be shocked.
Instead he'd practically fled the room.
By the time you reach his office, the excitement has mostly dissolved into uncertainty, and a sick, sick feeling. Your brain convinces you he hates you, he’s sick of you. The affair with the pretty young thing is over.
Your hand hovers over the door, then knocks.
A gruff voice immediately answers.
"Come in."
You push the door open, and there he is standing beside his desk.
His jaw is clenched, his shoulders rigid.
And suddenly you're no longer excited to tell him anything. Instead you're left standing there wondering what exactly you did wrong.
He stalks up to you, and shuts the door behind you with enough force to make you jump. For a moment he simply stands there, broad chest rising and falling, staring at you as though he's trying to decide whether to throttle you or kiss you.
“Who the fuck was that boy?”
You’re confused.
“Who?”
“Don't play games with me, sweetheart.”
“James?” you ask, tilting your head. “Oh he’s just a… friend I made. We decided to share notes for the course.”
His jaw visibly tenses.
“The fuck you mean you ‘share notes’?” He exaggerates the last two words, mocking the phrase in a deliberately high-pitched voice. “Don’t I give you enough notes to go off? I'm not teachin’ you well enough, so now you gotta go to some punk to share notes?
“Jack, it’s not like that, I just-”
“Dr Abbot.” He interrupts.
The correction slices straight through you.
“What?”
He walks up closer to you, until your back hits the door and you’re pinned against it. He tilts his head down to peer at you.
“It’s Dr Abbot when you’re in my office, sweetheart,” His voice drops lower. “I’m still your professor.”
You scoff at that, hurt. It’s not hot to you, no. In that moment your brain forces you to think about how every moment you've spent together has happened in this room, only in this room. And maybe that's all there is, and maybe that's all there ever was. You convince you that you guys can’t exist out of this space, this dynamic that exists between the two of you.
Can he just not have a civil conversation? Why is pretending to act jealous? If he wanted to fuck you he could just ask.
You swallow hard.
“Right,” you say lowly. “My professor.”
The words taste bitter.
“The one who only seems to want me when we're in here.”
His brows furrow immediately.
“That's not what-”
“No, it’s okay. Let me finish. The one who shoves his face between my thighs when he feels lonely to cure whatever fucked up grief he keeps bottled up inside of him. The one who refuses to see me outside the four walls of this godforsaken office-”
“Enough.”
You see something that resembles hurt flash across his face, his brows creasing. The lines around his eyes deepen.
“Is that really what you think of me?” He whispers, staring at you.
You twitch uncomfortably under him, looking at the floor, confidence evaporating now that you've actually said out loud what you’ve been spiralling over ever since this began.
“I just...” Your voice cracks slightly. “Look, you don't have to act possessive, okay? Whatever we have this- this thing. I know it doesn’t mean much to you.”
Jack immediately opens his mouth, but you keep rambling.
“Which is fine. Seriously. I'm okay with that.” Your hands shake slightly at your sides. “But just don’t give me false hope. I’m happy with you being my professor, or my dom, or whatever the fuck. And I like that you help me study and talk and get out of my head and feel good, but there’s no need to act like you- like you care. I can't handle feeling like you care one minute and then being reminded none of this is real the next.”
You're panting hard by the end of your rant, still refusing to look at him.
“Sweetheart, look at me.”
You shake your head, tears of frustration welling up at letting yourself be seen like this, vulnerable. You promised yourself you wouldn’t ever tell him. Stupid.
Sex, that’s easy. It’s the meshing of two bodies, it’s clinical - you orgasm, your brain feels hazy and good while he drives you there. But this, talking, about feelings of all things, fuck. You can’t let anyone see you like that. Because then, they get sick of you, and then they leave.
“C’mon, look at me,” he pleads.
You wipe your eyes, about to tell him to move back so you can leave, but then he says your name. Softly. Not sweetheart. Not pretty girl. But your actual name.
“Please.”
You look up then, tears pooling in your eyes. And your breath catches.
Because Jack looks devastated. His eyes are red around the edges, and his mouth is pulled into a frown.
His hand rises slowly, cupping your cheek. He gently swipes a thumb under your eye.
“Hey, I need you to know - this is real. To me.”
His voice cracks.
“I’m not using you as some sort of placeholder or whatever self sabotaging bullshit you’ve created in your head okay?”
Then he inhales deeply.
“You've become the best part of my day. I wake up and mentally map my days around you. Hearing you talk loosens the constant ache I feel.”
Jack closes his eyes briefly.
Then opens them again. His hand tightens against your cheek.
“Sweetheart, I love you.”
You still.
Your lip quivers as you stare at him.
You bring your own hand up to cup his, and look up through your lashes.
The words get stuck in your throat. God. He loves you. Somebody loves you. Somebody saw through rot and the cage around your heart, and said he fucking loves you.
“I do. Too. That thing,” you wince at your awkwardness. “I just, I want to say it but I-"
“Hey pretty girl, it’s okay.”
Jack smiles sadly. He leans his forehead down to yours.
“I do,” you whisper desperately. “I do. I just-”
“Shh.”
His mouth nearly presses against you as he whispers again.
“I love you. And I’ll wait however long you need me to say it back, okay?”
Your breath shudders as he says that, a sob catching in your throat. Because for the first time in a very long time, nobody leaves.
Your eyes squeeze shut. Tears roll down your cheek, overwhelmed.
You barely register them before you feel Jack’s lips against your skin, kissing your tears. He mutters soft, ‘I love you’s as he presses kisses all over your face, cradling it. He presses one last one on your forehead before he tucks you into him.
Your cheek rests on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
You wrap your arms around his waist. And you genuinely think you can control it, for about ten seconds at most, then you sob. Uncontrollably, for the first time in years in front of another human.
Because God. You have spent so much of your life believing that love was something you had to earn, something you had to perform correctly for your family, the people around you, to accept you. Something that disappeared the second you became too much, too emotional, too difficult, too needy.
But he stayed. And he saw you.
You stand there, wrapped in each other's embrace until the tears slow. Jack gently wipes your cheeks with both hands.
“Sorry for making you cry, princess,” he pouts, lip jutting out exaggerately.
A watery laugh leaves you at that, and you cup his cheek. Jack immediately leans into your palm.
Jack watches you with an expression so openly adoring it nearly steals the breath from your lungs. As though he's still struggling to believe you're real.
Your thumb traces the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, mapped with years lived longer than you.
Then your hand drifts lower, brushing against the silver-grey scruff along his jaw, littered with specks of auburn, and you rub it gently, feeling the coarseness between your fingertips.
That was it, was it not? The stark difference between you, the thing that made all this so exhilarating.
Jack had lived a life that existed before you. And somehow, impossibly, it had still found its way to yours. As though he's spent years wandering through darkness and has suddenly found something worth staying for.
And perhaps, you realise, so have you.
That’s when you know.
“I’m ready,” you breathe out.
Jack's eyes widen, his hand coming to hold yours where it rests on his jaw.
“Are you sure? I don’t want you to feel pressured into it.”
“Jack. I’m sure. I want this, I want you.”
He shudders, exhaling hard, bringing his face down to yours.
“Yeah?” He whispers against your lips, brushing them.
“Yeah.”
Then his lips slam down onto yours, for the first time.
And God, its everything you fucking imagined.
His mouth presses against yours and soft whimpers escape the both of you. There’s a certain desperation in the way his mouth moves against yours, in the way your tongues immediately find each other.
After a few brutal minutes of grinding against each other, moaning, Jack succumbs. He lifts you into his hands, your thighs wrapping around his waist, as he carries you to his desk and sets you on it.
Mouth still pressed against yours, he rips your shirt off, pulls your jeans and panties off, shoving them to the floor.
He whines as you detach your lips from his to pull his blazer off. Looking up at him, naked on his desk, you unbutton his shirt. Trail your fingers down the dusting of salt and pepper chest hair, down, over his pecs, slightly raking your nails over his nipples.
“Fuck yeah, use your nails on my chest,” he grunts out as he unzips his pants.
You moan, pressing against him harder.
“I can’t wait any longer, fuck. Please, sweetheart, let me fuck you.”
You nod.
“I’m ready, Dr Abbot.”
He groans mutters ‘you fucking minx’ as he pulls his pants and boxers down, standing bare in front of you.
His cock hits his soft stomach, curving to the left, precum coating the tip, the way you love.
You glance down at his prosthetic.
“You sure you want to do this here, Jack? We can go on the sofa if you want.”
He looks at you with so much adoration, a soft smile gracing his face.
“No sweetheart, I'll keep it on for now. Wanna fuck you on my desk. ”
Then he pinches your nipples as he leans in.
“And I still need to fuck the brat out of you.”
You whine.
“What are you waiting for then?”
He brings a hand down your stomach, fingers pressing up against you.
“Gonna finger you a little bit, yeah? Get you ready for your professor's cock, s’not gonna fit in this tight pussy otherwise.”
A whimper escapes you at his crude words, god can this old man dirty talk.
He slowly slips two fingers inside of you, thrusting, then three once you’re ready. Circles your clit softly, the way he’s learnt after many nights on this same desk.
Whispers filth against your lips, kissing you, desperate now that he knows what your lips taste like after many weeks.
Once you come, he finally presses his cock against you. Rubs the tip over your folds, coating it in your slick.
“Yeah? You ready sweetheart?”
You nod, whisper a soft ‘please’ against his lips.
Then he pushes his tip into you. And oh fuck. He’s just so fucking thick.
He immediately brings a hand up to hold his base to stave off his orgasm, puts his head on your shoulder. Breathing harshly.
It hurts a little but you want more, you crave the feeling of him pressed up against you. So you buck your hips.
“Please, Jack, fuck. Put it in,” you whine.
“Oh- oh shit. Fucking stop that.”
He lays a hand flat on your thigh. Breathes deeply.
“I’m trying not to blow my load here, sweetheart, gimme a sec.”
You giggle softly, pleased. Having this old man at your mercy, your dreams come true.
“Take your time, old man.”
He stills at that, grips your waist harshly.
Looks up at you, his eyes darkening.
“Fuck you,” he snarls.
Then he presses into you, inch by inch, until all of him is buried inside. His thighs shake with the effort of not coming, and you breathe deeply through the pinch of pain.
“Fuck princess, so tight for me, my good fucking girl,” he babbles in your ear.
You whimper against him, waiting for the pain to subside.
Then you nod. And he begins thrusting, slowly. And it's so fucking euphoric, the feeling of sex. It makes sense why they call orgasms ‘a little death’ in French, because god, you know your body will leave your soul once he starts properly fucking you.
With every deep thrust of his cock into you, his grey pubes brush against your clit. You both moan softly. He grips your waist, shoving faster, harder.
“Only man that’s ever gonna be in this pussy yeah? Yeah?”
You’re half gone drooling against his neck, letting out high pitched whines.
“Nod for me, c’mon. I haven’t fucked the brains outta you yet.”
Jack grips your hair tight, pulling your head away from where it was buried against his neck.
You nod, slurring your words.
“Yeah Dr Abbot, s’only your pussy.”
“That’s it, good fucking girl.”
Then he starts thrusting, faster. Your hands rest on his shoulders, his face buried in your neck. His body slamming into yours is so hard it makes the table squeak under you.
When he brings a hand to your clit, you whimper loudly. He covers your mouth with his palm, and stops immediately.
“Quiet, you don’t want anyone to hear right?”
He roughly pants, trailing a line of kisses up your neck.
“Don’t want them to know your professor’s fucking you, right?”
You shake your head, words muffled under his palm.
“I’ll be quiet please, fuck please!”
He starts thrusting against faster, the table shaking. You toss your head back in pleasure, his cock reaching a spot deep inside you. He stares at you, at your face twisted in pleasure, the way your tits bounce as he thrusts into you.
“Yeah that is it, baby, good fucking girl.”
God it feels so good, and you’re there, you're nearly there, egged on by his rough groans and whimpers in your ear. You bring a hand down to your clit, starting to rub it to reach your orgasm but he shoves it off. Pushes you onto the table, your back hitting the desk.
“That’s my job sweetheart. This pussy is mine.”
Then he hovers over you, eyes boring into yours as he fucks you harder, rubbing circles on your clit. The pleasure is so, so overwhelming and you close your eyes.
He pulls your head towards him, gripping your jaw.
“C’mon, look at me sweetheart.”
You open your eyes, moaning.
“Say it,” he grunts. “Say you’re mine. Say it.”
“Fuck- Dr Abbot, I’m yours.”
He moans gutturally then pushes his lips onto yours again. You both moan into each other's mouths, sloppily kissing as you build towards your peak.
“Fuck yeah sweetheart, just like that- good girl, so fucking tight.”
He continues to mutter filth against you while all you can do is softly moan. Your brain is mush, filled with thoughts of him, jackjackjack.
You clench tightly around him when he bites your bottom lip.
“C’mon tell me how good you feel,” he pants, nearing his own orgasm.
“Fuck, Daddy, feels so good.”
His hips buck once, harshly, then he stills.
“What’d you just call me?”
Your eyes come into focus. The fog clearing a bit.
You stammer, “Um nothing, sir, I was just-”
“No. Repeat it.”
He trails a hand to your neck, squeezing gently once, then more harshly
“What did you call me?”
“Daddy,” you whisper out.
He pouts mockingly.
“Yeah? Daddy makin’ you feel good, baby? That’s why you're grippin’ this cock so tight, right?”
And then he starts thrusting, harder than before.
“Just. Let. Daddy. Take Care. Of. You,” He harshly thrusts between each word, one hand covering your mouth as your moans get louder.
Then you feel your orgasm approaching, the flutter building up again, clenching around him.
He looks into your eyes, only a thin ring of hazel left, his pupils so dilated.
“You gonna come for your Daddy? Yeah?”
You nod, whining, then you bite his palm. Hard.
His hips stutter and you feel the warmth of his spend pooling in your cunt. He whimpers and babbles your name as he comes, “fuck, fuck I love you. I love you so fucking much.”
You moan at his words. But you still have to come.
“Jack please, please keep going.”
He groans gutterly as his cock begins to soften, overstimulated but he continues thrusting jerkily.
He grips your chin in his palm.
“Fuckin’ come for me. Now,” he grunts out, pinching your clit roughly.
And then it happens. You write, moaning under his hands as the coil of pleasure snaps, closing your eyes.
He whimpers soft praises and coos of “I love you, did so good for me” as his cock spurts out more cum, twitching.
You pant against each other's mouths for a few long moments, his scruff tickling your chin, his forehead resting against yours, both of you trying and failing to steady your breathing.
“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart,” he murmurs, a breathless laugh escaping him. “That live up to your expectations?”
You laugh softly nodding.
“Mhm.”
He leans his head back to look at you properly once he’s cooled down, and holds your face in his palms.
After a few long seconds of just staring, something grave passed over his face.
“Don’t think I got a lot of years left, sweetheart.”
Your brows immediately furrow.
“Jack-”
He presses a finger to your lips when you go to interrupt, shushing you.
“Let me speak.”
You sigh, but nod.
“I've spent most of my life thinkin' there'd only ever be one great love for me,” he says quietly, his thumb brushing beneath your eye. “And after I lost her, I figured that was it. Figured whatever part of me knew how to belong to somebody had gone with her.”
Your breath stutters.
“Then you came along. In that fucking bar, wearing that tiny dress, asking me to help you. ”
A watery laugh escapes you.
“And whatever years I have left, I wanna spend them with you. I wanna hear every thought that gets trapped in that head of yours. I wanna know what articles you're reading, what you're writing, what you're dreamin’ about at three in the morning.”
He pauses.
“I wanna be the person you come home to.”
Your breath catches.
“As your other. If you’d want.”
You breathe out, seeing his face dimly lit by the lamp in his office. Mapping out his wrinkles near his eyes, the silver threaded in his slight beard and his soft smile. And suddenly it comes spilling out of you before anxiety can stop it.
“I love you.”
Jack stills completely. His eyes pool with tears.
“Yeah?” He whispers, half surprised, half in awe.
You nod, leaning up and brushing your nose against his.
“And I’d love to be yours.”
Relief washes over his face so intensely it almost hurts to witness. His eyes glisten as he kisses you softly, a slow, reverent press of his lips against yours for a few quiet moments.
Then he moves back to start cleaning up, cock still inside you.
As he leans up, his back cracks, loudly.
You both still. Before you burst out laughing.
“You’re so fucking old… yeah you’re not making it very long, I can’t lie.”
He groans dramatically, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.
“Fuck you, shut up.”
You bite your lip. His gaze travels there.
“Make me, Dr Abbot,” you say, exaggerating a whimper, only half serious.
His eyes darken, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumps beneath the skin. Yet despite the stern look he's trying to give you, a pink flush begins creeping across his cheeks, spreading over the tops of them and disappearing beneath the scruff along his jaw.
“Yeah sweetheart, about that… I’m not gonna be able to get it up for a while.”
You break, laughing harder as he laments. He’s so fucking old.
Once you calm down, he slowly pulls his cock out of you, both of you moaning, you at the loss of the fullness, him at your shared cum oozing out.
“But my mouth still works,” he smirks.
Your breath hitches as he plugs you with his fingers to stop more of your cum from spilling out. Leans in close, and whispers.
“My leg’s killing me, sweetheart,” he begins, breath fanning over your face. “But I'm going to lie on that sofa right there. And you're gonna ride my face till you come. Again. And again.”
You whimper softly against his mouth.
“Okay.”
“Okay, who, pretty girl?”
“Okay, Daddy.”
He grins.
“Good girl.”
omg hi u made it ! guys when i tell you this is so personal to me, from the dialgoue to the experimental (?) writing style. i need this man to be my father figure SO FUCKING BAD i have had such a week.
anyways per usual thank you to @tempestfawn for perving out with me and tolerating me, and salima for being horny over this man among other things #fullhomo
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James stumbled through the front door, his eyes wild and desperate. He had been clean for a year, but the craving was still there, gnawing at him like a hungry beast. He needed something to fill the void, and he knew exactly what it was.
He found you in the living room, curled up on the couch with a book. You looked up as he entered, surprise etched on your face."James? You're back early, what the fuck happened??"
He didn't say a word. Instead, he crossed the room in three long strides and pulled you into his arms, crushing his lips against yours in a bruising kiss. His hands roamed your body possessively, as if trying to reclaim something that had been taken from him."James,"you gasped when he finally let you come up for air."What are you doing?"
"I need you," he growled, his voice low and husky with desire."I've been thinking about this moment for months.
James' hands gripped your hips, lifting you effortlessly off the couch. He carried you towards the wall, his lips never leaving yours in a passionate, desperate kiss. You could taste the hunger on his tongue, the raw need that consumed him.
He pressed you against the wall, his body pinning you in place. His hands slid under your shirt, pushing it up and over your head in one swift motion. He took a moment to admire your bare breasts, his dark eyes filled with lust and something more - an intensity that both thrilled and frightened you.
"Fuck," he breathed, leaning down to take one pert nipple into his mouth. He sucked hard, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh and sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. His other hand found your breast, kneading and tugging at your nipple until you were writhing against him.
"Please," you gasped, needing more than just his mouth on you. James seemed to understand, trailing a hand down your stomach to dip beneath the waistband of your pants. His fingers slid through your folds, groaning at the wetness he found there.
"Always so ready for me," he growled, circling your clit with his thumb. "My sweetheart."
He pushed two fingers inside you, pumping them in and out at a ruthless pace. His thumb continued its assault on your clit, rubbing firm circles that had your hips bucking against his hand desperately.
"More," you begged, knowing that you could never get enough of him. James complied readily, adding a third finger and stretching you open. He scissored his fingers, preparing you for what was to come.
"I'm going to fuck you so hard," he promised darkly, his voice rough with desire.
"I'm going to pound this pussy until you're screaming my name to make up for all the times you couldn’t ."
He pulled his fingers out, sucking them clean before dropping to his knees. He yanked your pants down, leaving you bare before him. Then his mouth was on you, licking and sucking at your folds like a man starved.
"Fuck, you taste so good," he groaned, burying his face between your thighs. His tongue thrust into your entrance, fucking you deep while his nose rubbed against your clit. He ate you out like he was trying to devour you whole, his hands gripping your ass and pulling you harder against his face.
You fisted your hands in his hair, holding him in place as he brought you closer and closer to the edge. Your moans filled the room, mingling with the obscene sounds of James' mouth on your pussy.
"Come for me," he demanded, looking up at you with dark, hungry eyes. "Come on my tongue honey. I need to taste you-please" james being desperate was unusual, but god did you feel good.
His command sent you hurtling over the edge, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave. You cried out, your hips grinding against his face as pleasure consumed you. James lapped at your juices, not stopping until he had wrung every last drop of pleasure from your body.
He stood up, his lips glistening with your arousal. He kissed you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
Then he lifted you, wrapping your legs around his waist as he pinned you against the wall again.
"I need to be inside you," he said desperately, fumbling with his belt with one hand. "I need to feel you around my cock."
He finally freed himself, his hard length pressing against your entrance. He looked at you with something like awe, as if he couldn't believe you were really here with him.
"You're mine," he said softly, almost reverently. "All mine. Forever and ever"
Then he was pushing into you, sheathing himself inch by delicious inch until he was buried to the hilt. You both moaned at the feeling, James' forehead dropping to yours as he struggled to maintain control.
"I love you," he whispered, his hips starting to move. "I love you so fucking much. I cant stand not feeling you around me"
His thrusts were slow and deep, each one dragging his cock along your sensitive walls. The angle had him hitting that spot inside you that made stars explode behind your eyelids. You clung to him, your nails digging into his shoulders as he fucked you harder, faster.
"I'm going to fill this pussy up," he promised darkly, his rhythm becoming erratic. "I'm going to pump you full of my cum until it's dripping down your thighs."
You could only moan in response, lost to the sensations overwhelming your body. James drove into you harder, his balls slapping against your ass with each thrust. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mixing with your wanton moans and James' grunts of pleasure.
"I'm gonna cum," he gasped, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. "Cum with me, baby. Let me feel you."
Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, your walls clamping down on James' cock like a vice. He let out a guttural moan, burying himself deep as he followed you over the edge. He filled you with spurt after spurt of his hot seed, marking you as his in the most primal way possible.
They collapsed together, James' head resting on your shoulder as he tried to catch his breath. He pressed soft kisses along your neck, murmuring words of love and devotion.
"I don't know what I'd do without you," he confessed, his voice thick with emotion. "You're my everything."
You held him close, your heart swelling with love and fear all at once. Because while you knew James loved you with every fiber of his being, you also knew that he needed you like he needed air to breathe. And while that was thrilling in its own way, it was also terrifying.
Because what happened when the day came that you couldn't give him what he needed? What happened when the novelty wore off and he craved something stronger, something more intense? What if you were just his new addiction.
You pushed those thoughts away, focusing instead on the man in your arms. On the love and passion he gave you so freely. Whatever happened in the future, you knew one thing for certain - you would always be there for him. Through thick and thin, through addiction and recovery, through whatever trials life threw at you.
Because that's what love was. Standing by each other through the good and the bad, through the easy and the hard. It was trusting that no matter what, they would always have each other.
oh to be sleepily riding jack abbot, tummy to tummy, chest to chest. your soft arms thrown over his strong shoulders, chin hooked over the freckled skin. your head tilts against his, your rich hair rubbing against his silver strands as your ears kiss.
he’s got you in a bear hug— actually stops your movements just to hug you. to feel you in his arms and cuddle for a second because, at the end of the day, jack loves you. tells you every single day… he even tells you now.
left arm wrapped around your torso while his right crosses over to press a hand to the back of your sweaty hair. holding you to his shoulder, you mouth at jack’s skin, sucking and kissing and rubbing your cheek against him as he pulses inside of you. a slow grind, your favorite, causes you to whine out against him.
“i love you, honey. love you so much, my comfy girl. can’ya keep takin me? hm? keep takin’ jackie’s cock? love you so much.”
his eyes are screwed shut as he lifts his hips into you, still holding your head to rest against him. “‘m always gonna take care a’you. never have to worry about anything. know why? daddy loves you, sweet, pretty girl. gimme kiss”
you whine against his mouth, a pathetic, weeping sound, and he loses it more. moving both arms back to your torso, he’s got you in the tightest bear hug, arms squeezing for a second in affection. he rests his cheek on your back, mirroring you, surrendering to all of his intrinsic need.
“say it.” “d-” “say it baby, c’mon. tell daddy.” “love you!” “yeah? you love me?” “yes daddy,” you cry out, slobbering down his back without a care as he fucks up into you. your nails scratch down his back as you hiccup, your tummy sticking together from the heat of the room, you can feel his happy trail rubbing against your lower belly. “i love you so much jack” “i love you- oh my god- i love you more. come on baby, cum for daddy, that’s it… fuck, that’s it.”
afterwards you stay seated in his lap, falling asleep as he lightly rocks you both back and forth. gently, he whispers into the moonlit room, “hey.. lemme see you.. lemme see that pretty face.” and when you pull back to look at him, swaying a bit in exhaustion, his green eyes glitter. a fondness etched into the very fabric of what it means to be a man like jack who loves a woman crosses over his face.
warm eyes, a little smirk as he holds your cheeks with both hands. “you feel how much i love you?” “yeah” you agree, blushing and keening under his attention. he smiles, laughing in the enchanting way only an older man can. “good. can i hold you a little longer? love you so much, kid, can’t get enough of you.”
despite the definite headache and backache waiting to come, you both doze off just like that. with jack’s love leaking out of you as you cuddle into his chest, his arms wrapped securely around you <3
Summary As the seasons change, and the restaurant keeps itself at the forefront of your mind, Jack finally gets around to calling you.
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6
Tags No use of Y/N for reader insert, mentioned injuries with a knife, fluff, flirting, eventual smut, slow burn (not that slow just not yet lol), kissing, horny thoughts, reader is tough but also a lover yk, irritating kitchen dynamics
A/N Thank you guys for liking the first part :3
xoxo
“And you still haven’t called her?” Robby stops, facing Jack head-on.
“Relax, okay, I know what I’m doing.” Jack presses the chart against Robby’s chest forcefully. “Besides, I’m not taking dating advice from you, brother. No offence.”
“What are you two on about?” Dana passes the two men on the way to the nurse’s station. “Who’s giving dating advice?”
“Nothing-”
“Jack’s met someone-” The two men speak at the same time, which earns Robby a death glare.
“Okay,” Dana looks between them, taking the bait and looking for more information. “Where’d you meet this girl?”
“It’s not, I mean-”
“She’s a chef,” Robby cuts in, completely incapable of keeping things to himself and loving how embarrassed Jack is getting. “She came in a few weeks back with a pretty gnarly cut that Jack stitched up.”
Dana pushes, hands on her hips, “And did you hit on her while she was a patient? Or wait until after?”
“Alright, alright,” Jack crosses his arms. “It’s not like that. We were talking about how she cut herself, she mentioned the restaurant, and invited me to drop by. There was no hitting on. At least, not until dessert.”
“And now,” Robby continues on his behalf, “he hasn’t called her in, what, four days? Five days?”
“She’s a very busy woman, okay? I’m not going to bother her just yet.” Jack looks around and then snaps back to Robby. “Don’t you have somewhere to be? Didn’t I just pass an entire emergency room off to you?” Jack taps at the chart in Robby’s hands.
“Go on, they could use you in four,” Dana looks at Robby and tilts her head back. They share a knowing look.
Robby drops a hand on Jack’s shoulder and squeezes. “Good luck with that plan, my friend. Let me know how not calling her goes for you.”
When he walks off, Jack drops his head back, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I am going home, taking the hottest shower possible, and sleeping until my next shift,” he groans.
“Come on, Jack,” Dana leans back against the nurse’s station. “What is this about?”
“Robby cannot keep his mouth shut, is all.”
“You like this girl?” Dana asks.
It takes a moment for Jack to answer. He sighs, and settles next to Dana, their shoulders brushing. He thinks about how you looked walking through the dining room in your whites, how you scrunched your nose, or the way you looked at him as he told a story, like there wasn’t anyone else in the room. He thought about how you felt pressed against him, and how your lips tasted like chocolate and honey.
“Yeah,” he says, finally.
“Then whatareya waiting for?”
“I told you, she’s busy. She has a lot going for her. I’m not- I haven’t figured out how I fit into it yet, is all.” Jack says, realizing it in the same moment the words come out.
“Listen,” Dana’s voice is soft, not pushy, “I assume this woman has a strong sense of self, otherwise you wouldn’tave liked her so much. Let her decide how you slot in. She’s not going to wait around forever. Don’t make that choice for her.”
“Well, when you say it, it sounds so obvious,” Jack smirks.
“I have that effect,” Dana says flatly, tilting her head. “I’m serious. I don't think I've seen you so... hesitant before."
When Jack finally clocks off, he sits in his car for a moment, trying to figure out how to break the silence. Multiple texts are typed out, and promptly deleted. Eventually, he decides it's actually too early, and you're probably asleep. Best to go home, take a shower, and get some rest. Have a clear mind. The last thing he'd want to do is finally text you, then pass out for 12 hours. Yes, solid plan.
When your phone buzzes in your pocket, you ignore it, deep in conversation with the Executive and Sous chef. You're planning the upcoming menu change from summer to fall. You have your notes sprawled out in front of you on the stainless steel table, while the two men watch your pencil wave in the air, animated as you explain.
"I just don’t think, as we move into these heavier dishes, people are going to want a massive slice of cake at the end of the meal,” you look at the listed entrees and appetizers and shake your head.
“Come on, you know the customers have been wanting something like this.” The Executive Chef, Wes Reyes pushes. “They want something impressive that they can take a picture of and post.”
“My desserts are photo worthy,” you shoot back, bordering on defensive.
“No one is saying they aren’t.” Scottie chimes in.
“Please don’t fight me on this, alright?” Wes pushes, his tone calm and commanding. “We need a cake option on the menu. People like cake. They want an impressive cake. We will give them a cake.”
“Okay, fine,” you bristle. You consider for a moment, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “I can do a full sheet cake and cut it into rounds. I’ll make sure the recipe fills the pan, that way I can still cut the layers in half horizontally. The cake won’t be huge, but it’ll have a bunch of small, impressive layers.”
“How many layers are we talking?” Wes asks, watching you with interest as you draw out your plan on the pad in front of you.
“For an 8-inch cake, I can probably get 6 rounds cut out of a full sheet pan, but I would only use 4 layers in one cake. Cut those in half, fill them with like pastry cream or something. 8 cake layers, plus filling, makes for like 15 layers?” you look back at the men, deep in thought.
“A 15-layer cake,” Scottie grins. “Sounds like an easy upsell to me.”
“I like it,” Wes nods.
“We can assemble the cakes in the rounds easy, and slice and plate them for service to order. I’ll use the scraps for something else, like a parfait special on the brunch menu,” your mind is already working a mile a minute, trying to figure out how to execute a recipe that doesn’t exist yet. “And if we do this,” you push, carefully, “Can I please put my pumpkin ganache tart on the menu?”
Wes considers for a moment, looking back at the savory lineup. “Yeah, if you can get this cake for me, you can put whatever tart you want on the menu.”
“Yes, thank you, Wes,” you beam.
“What flavor are you thinking for the cake?” Wes pushes through your small moment of victory.
“I, uh,” you think for a moment. Flavor combinations from all of your previous jobs fly through your head. “We can do an olive oil cake, work in a salty dulce de leche filling or something bright like persimmon.”
Wes considers, shaking his head. “Think on that some more and come back to me. I like an olive oil cake, but that doesn’t read well at the end of the year.”
“Heard,” you nod, keeping your face straight.
Wes nudges Scottie, and tilts his head back to the walk in, likely for ingredient inventory. He pushes away from the table and starts to back off before adding, “And get those recipes ready for me next week, okay? We’re going to put the menu together for staff tasting.”
You freeze, making a mental note of how little time that is. “Right, yes, I can do that.”
“That’s my girl,” Wes nods and heads back into the walk in with a clipboard in hand.
Scottie lingers for a moment, kicking his shoes against the floor and meandering closer to you.
“What do you want, Miller,” you don’t look up from your notes.
“What, I can’t stay to hang out with my favorite pastry chef?” Scottie asks in mock offense.
“I don’t know, has hell frozen over?” you deadpan.
After a beat, Scottie finally leans in, keeping his voice down. “I need a favor.”
“Of course you do,” you groan, slamming your pencil down.
“Look, Wes has us sighed up for this festival thing next month. It’s an autumn chef series,” he turns to make sure Wes is still safely inside the walk in. “I can’t go, and I need you to step in for me.”
“Why me?” you shoot back.
“You’re great with the people,” Scottie tries to schmooze. “And it’s nothing you can’t handle. Take care of the prep, pass out some free samples, talk to the crowd. Easy.”
“And if it’s so easy,” you narrow your eyes, “why can’t you do it? You’re his sous, not me.”
“I don’t want to get into it right now, okay?”
“Fuck you- don’t want to get into it,” your voice rises.
“Damn it,” Scottie runs a hand through his hair, “Okay fine. I’ve got tickets to this show that I don’t want to miss.”
“A show,” you narrows your eyes.
“Yes.”
You smack him on the shoulder. “It’s a date, isn’t it? You’re bailing on this for a date?”
“Hey, back off, woman,” Scottie swats your hands away. “If you’ll recall, I handled the floors the other night so you could go off with mystery man.”
“Boo-hoo, you had to mop an extra ten square feet of space,” you scoff.
“Please. I’m serious. I got these tickets as a surprise, and I didn’t get around to asking for the time off.” Scottie presses his hands together. “I’ll owe you.”
“Ugh,” you groan, resting your forehead on the stainless steel table. “Fine. But you will owe me and I will decide what that is.”
Scottie claps his hands together. “Yes! Thank you. Seriously.”
“Get out of my face before I change my mind,” you gather your notes.
Scottie sends air kisses your way, backing towards the walk in to meet Wes. You pull your phone out to add the festival to your calendar, only to be reminded of the notification you already forgot that you ignored.
Hey chef.
Your brows furrow. It’s a Pittsburgh area code. It could be someone on the front of house team, you don’t have most of their numbers. Could it be someone else asking a favor of you? You've already decided that you're annoyed.
Who is this.
Direct and to the point.
Jack Abbot. You forgot about me already?
Your face gets warm, and you smiles to yourself. But that smile fades just as fast as it comes when you remember the context of this text. How long it’s been since you've seen him last.
No, but it seems like you forgot about me.
You sigh and stuff your phone in your pocket. It’s a busy day, and you have a grocery run to make. You need more cherries to finish out the summer menu, along with a can of pumpkin and a scrap of inspiration for the fall menu. When you get into your car, your phone vibrates again.
I know, and I’m sorry. I have a couple of nights off coming up. Let me make it up to you.
The last thing you want to do is reward Jack with an immediate response. You waited around for days, jumping at every notification, hoping it was Jack. Eventually, you had to stop getting your hopes up. The man is an idiot, and you kicked yourself for not getting his phone number instead of handing yours out. At least then, you would have reached out sooner, and the rejection could happen quicker. But you're curious, and admittedly horny, and accept his invitation.
It takes a few tries to find a day where you are both free, and when you do, you're already regretting everything. Jack refused to tell you where you were going, and only told you to dress for outside, and wear shoes you can walk in. Were they going on an evening hike? You are only 70% sure that Jack wouldn’t take you out to the middle of nowhere to kill you. And the other 30% almost won out.
You shut the building door behind you and walk the steps down to Jack’s car, where he idles on the side of the street, waiting for you. The sun is just starting to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink. It’s a little late for the start of a date, but you are choosing to trust.
“Hi,” you smile through the open window.
“Hi,” Jack’s shoulders drop when he sees her, calm, settling. It happens often, you realize. Jack always seems to be in his own head about something, visibly relaxing when he gets pulled out.
“You gave me absolutely nothing to work with. Is this outfit okay?” you step away from the car and give a spin. Lace up combat boots, a mid-length skirt that hugs your curves before flowing down to your calves, and a t-shirt that you know makes your chest look amazing. You're hair is down for a change, the tight bandanas forgotten on top of your dresser. It's a welcome reprieve for your scalp.
Jack’s eyes wander down your body, lingering where the skirt hugs you tightly. He swallows, “You look perfect.”
You beam and slide into the passenger seat. “So,” you buckle your seatbelt, “are you going to tell me where we're going?”
“It’s not a long drive,” Jack shrugs as he peels away from the curb. “Let’s keep the mystery alive for a little longer.”
It is a short drive, and when Jack’s car slows to a stop, you look out the window, confused. “I thought the botanical gardens would be closed by now? It’s late, no?”
Jack puts the car in park. “They are putting on a light sculpture festival for the next few weeks, an end of summer celebration, and tonight is opening night.”
You look back again at entrance. The sun was almost completely set by now, so you can see the distant glow of lights coming from inside.
“I know it’s not much,” Jack says next to you, “but my date ideas are usually restaurants or bars, and I wasn’t sure if you’d want to spend your night off in either.”
“It’s perfect,” you smile reassuringly. Your heart swells at the consideration. “For the record, I’m not opposed to other people cooking for me.”
“Noted,” Jack nods.
Jack pays the entrance fee for the both of you, and you follow the line inside. The normal path of the botanical garden was illuminated with gently twinkling lights, highlighting the well taken care of garden displays. Trees were uplit with lights, incredible attention to detail paid to each display. You stop at a booth and treat yourselves to beers served in small plastic cups. Jack winces at the price, complaining that beverage costs have turned into highway robbery, which just makes you giggle.
You walk under a canopy of twinkling lights, your arms bumping each other. You study Jack’s face for a moment before finally asking what’s been on your mind. “So, what gives?”
“What do you mean?” Jack asks, treading carefully.
“Why did you wait so long to reach out?” you ask, shrugging. “I thought maybe you’d changed your mind or something.”
“No, fuck,” Jack nearly chokes on his drink. “That is not the case. At all.”
“Ah, I see,” you nod, teasing. “Playing it cool?”
“It’s a little embarrassing,” Jack starts. When you motion for him to continue, he sighs. “I think I typed a message out to you a dozen or more times, and deleted it every time. I couldn’t figure out what to say to you.”
You let out a loud laugh, receiving startled reactions from the clusters of people nearby. “I’m so sorry, no,” you grab Jack’s arm when he rolls his eyes, “no, that’s so sweet.”
“Really? Because you’re making me feel like it’s not. And I’m baring my soul to you right now,” he tries to fight the grin, but you can see through it.
“It’s just, I understand what you mean, and that is so sweet. But the thought of you laboring over what to say and landing on ‘Hey Chef’ is killing me,” you nearly double over, holding your chest as you catch your breath.
“Okay, okay,” Jack chuckles, “not my best move. Go easy on me, okay? It’s been a while since I’ve asked a pretty girl out.”
You pull Jack under a tree that has been completely illuminated with warm, comforting lights. They catch the angles in Jack’s face, and you can only hope you look half as good as he does.
“Well, I’m glad you did. Eventually. Finally,” you can’t help yourself. Jack starts to look away, smiling, when you pull his face back to yours. You lean in and press your lips to his. It’s a chaste kiss. But given the setting and the number of families present, you don’t want to push too far.
You spend the rest of the walk with your fingers laced together, marveling at the light displays and searching up strange plants you’ve never heard of. It’s been a while since you felt so comfortable with someone, especially someone you barely know. Jack has a strangely calming presence. Or maybe it’s the overpriced beer that has you feeling this way.
Whatever it is, you doesn’t want it to end. So when Jack pulls up to your apartment to drop you off, you cup his face and give him a sweet kiss on the cheek. You slide out of the passenger side and nod back to your building.
“Come up for a second,” your lips curve in a small smile.
“Are you sure?” Jack raises an eyebrow.
“I mean, if you don’t want to, that’s fine.” You back away from his car and sigh dramatically. “I’ll just make a drink, for myself. Lay out on the couch, by myself. Change into my nightgown, alone.”
It takes Jack approximately three seconds to exit his vehicle, not caring how fucked up the park job is. You throw your head back as you grab his hand, leading him up to your apartment.
I try not to think about
What happened last night outside his house
Too far to go back now
Just wanna feel his hands go down
Summary You have been in Pope's orbit for months, but the last few weeks have had you weak at the knees thinking about him. After a party, you finally decide to indulge your desires.
Tags Pining and yearning, horny thoughts, making out, oral (M receiving), Fingering, unprotected piv, very corny sunscreen scene, wet dreams, fixation on hands, cuddling in sleep
Author's Note Just fully inspired by the song Sudden Desire by Hayley Williams!!! I'm a Hayley girl first and foremost and this song is like fuel to the maladaptive daydream fire. Peace and love Taylor York, but these lyrics literally scream Pope Cody.
xoxo
It has been a long two weeks. It started when you were over for dinner one night at the Cody house. Craig and Deran went outside to shoot the shit, or talk about something they didn't want you to hear. Pope was sitting on the couch, watching a movie at a low volume. You had too many glasses of wine, and knew you couldn't drive home just yet. So, you sat down next to Pope on the couch.
"Hope you don't mind the company," you said.
"I don't," was all he said, not looking away from the tv.
It didn't matter. You weren't feeling particularly chatty. Frankly, you needed to decompress. You curled your feet up under you, and zoned out, the wine thrumming in your veins. It was a comfortable silence, neither of you feeling pressured to fill it with small talk.
When you woke up, it was completely dark out. Craig and Deran were still in the backyard, smoking. You didn't even realize you had fallen asleep, let alone know how long you were out, but it couldn't have been long. The movie wasn't over yet.
More alarming was how you found yourself. You and Pope had somehow drifted together. You were curled against him, head on his shoulder, while he leaned against you. And more surprising, he was asleep, too.
You didn't know what to do. Knowing that Pope didn't get much sleep, the last thing you wanted to do was wake him up. Besides, you were...pretty comfortable. Pope was solid and warm, and made for a good pillow. You watched his chest rise and fall, the rhythm of deep sleep holding onto him. This was the closest the two of you had ever been physically, and you let yourself sit in it for a moment longer.
Craig let out a loud, boisterous laugh that reached the living room and jolted Pope awake. You froze and shut your eyes, not wanting him to know that you were awake and watching him.
"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, obviously noticing the sleeping arrangement.
Pope moved his arm slowly, trying to gauge just how asleep you were. You pretended you were completely out. "Come on, pretty girl," Pope whispered, easing you down to lay on the couch, no longer on top of him.
You heard his heavy footsteps fade towards the sliding door, matching the way your heart thudded in your chest. Pretty girl? Did he- Pope thought you were pretty?
The man hardly ever spoke to you. You weren't even sure he liked that Deran kept bringing you around. There was no way that he was remotely interested in you. Right?
"Your girl's passed out on the couch," you heard Pope mutter out the Deran. Conveniently leaving out the fact that you passed out on him.
"Oh shit, really? She told me she had too much to drink."
Soon, Deran was crouched in front of you, his hand on your shoulder. "Hey buddy," he said gently. You pretended to come to, and looked around the living room, narrow eyes, disoriented, really selling the sleepiness.
"Fuck, I fell asleep," you rubbed the sleep from your eyes.
"Yeah, no shit," Deran chuckled. "You need a ride? You want to crash here? It's no problem."
"No, no," you shook your head, standing up. "I'm good. Thanks, Deran."
Deran walked you out to your car. But not before you looked back and saw Pope in the kitchen, watching you leave. When you made eye contact, he looked away. You heart was still pounding.
Then, there was the dream a few days later. The dream where Pope picked you up by the waist and set you on the bar. He didn't say much, only to whisper in your ear that you were a "good girl" and "so pretty" and "so wet, just for me."
His voice was low and gravelly, and thick with need. His hands were everywhere, and ended between your legs.
"Andrew, I need you," you whimpered. Your fingers tangled in his curls, pulling him closer.
You woke up in a cold sweat, your thighs slick. After that, you could barely look at him, let alone listen to him talk without hearing him say "good girl" in the back of your mind.
It was brutal. You didn't want to distrupt the routine you had built for yourself, or start pulling away from your friendship with Deran, lest he ask you about your standoffishness. And he would ask. What the hell would you say?
You first met Deran after stopping at the bar for a drink after work. Or three drinks. He noticed you were having a rough day, and kept coming back to check in in you. And when you kept coming back, after work or just because, he kept checking in on you.
Conversations became longer, about whatever you wanted to talk about, and soon you became good friends. He listened to you, and actually cared about what you thought. And you found yourself caring about what he thought, too. You knew he would always tell you the truth.
His brothers would often swing by. Just one, or all at once. Whenever it was all of them at once, the conversations were hushed and hurried. You weren't a part of it, and didn't ask.
And sometimes when you came in, Pope would already be there, fixing something that Deran was too cheap to replace. He would look at you, stare at you, like he was trying to figure you out. The stare wasn't unnerving, it was not knowing what he was thinking that got you.
"You and Deran sleeping together or what?" Craig slid onto the stool next to you only the second time meeting him.
"Are you capable of having girl friends you don't want to fuck?" You rolled your eyes.
"No." Craig smiled, "Sounds like she's available to me." Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Pope at the other end of the bar still suddenly.
"Fuck off, Craig, she doesn't want any of what you've got to offer," Deran set a drink in front of Craig.
Once the brothers decided they liked you, and Craig was finally put off from hitting on you (for now, at least), Deran started inviting you around the house for parties, and sometimes just to hang out.
Which is why you're sitting out on the patio in your swim suit, trying to get some sun in peace.
"You enjoying yourself over there?" Deran calls from the other side of the pool.
"Very much," you call back without looking at him.
"Are you gonna come inside at all? Or are you just gonna stay out here?"
"Sweet Deran," you finally look at him over your sunglasses, "I'm literally only friends with you for access to your pool."
"And here I thought it was my loyalty and shoulder to cry on," he counters. He makes his way around the pool and stops at your lounge chair. "I'm going to head out and see if I can get some surf time in," Deran scratches behind his neck. "You going to be okay here?"
"Are you saying I have to leave?" you ask.
"No," Deran shakes his head. "I don't care what you do. Stay as long as you want."
"Then I will stay until I'm tired, or I fry, whichever comes first," you lean back on the lounge chair. "Have fun," you smile.
"Thank you, I will. Good luck with," he gestures vaguely to your bikini-clad body, "that."
You shake your head as he walks off, back into the house. Thirty minutes later, a shadow comes over you. You don't even have to open your eyes to know who would just walk up to you that quietly.
"Hi, Pope," you open your eyes to see him standing over you, blocking your sun. You try to act calm, like the first thing you're thinking of isn't sleeping on his chest.
"Hey," he mutters. "You seen Deran?"
"He's at the beach," you shrug. And it's right about now that you wish you had left when he did. Because now, you're alone with Pope and his gruff voice and his hazel eyes. Idiot.
"Right." Pope replies. You watch from behind your sunglasses as his eyes quickly rake over your body, then snap up to your face. It's a two-piece, so most of your body is out. Every stretch mark, the fold of your tummy, and the tops of your breasts are exposed. You weren't conscious of it until now. How else are you supposed to get an even tan?
Pope's hands flex at his sides, and you have to clear your throat to get your heart to stop racing. Pope looks down at you.
"Uh- you wanna sit down or something?" you gesture to the lounge chair next to you. Cool, collected, not weird at all.
"No, I'm good," he shakes his head quickly. Right. Why would he want to hang out with you? But he doesn't walk away. And fuck, you wish he would.
The only reason you haven't gone completely mad at this point is because you're hardly ever alone with Pope. When it's you and Deran, or a house full of drunk people, it's easy to focus on something else. Anything else.
But Pope doesn't leave. You look at him out of the corner of your eye, and see that he's just looking out at the pool. At least his hands are in his pockets, so you don't have to see them, and then think about where on your body you'd like them and-
"Gotta get someone out to clean the pool," Pope mutters passively. Like he's not talking to you, but he kind of wants you to hear it.
It makes you smirk. "Probably a good idea," you reply.
Pope turns to you. "You want water or something?"
"Uh-" With his eyes on you again, your brain forgets how to form sentences. "Yeah, sure, that would be great."
He returns moments later with a cold water bottle in hand. "You gotta stay hydrated," he says, handing it to you. "You'll get heat exhaustion."
You bite back a smile as you take the water bottle and crack it open immediately. "Thank you," you say, earnestly.
Pope shoves his hands back in his pockets, "If you see Deran, let him know I'm looking for him. Idiot's not picking up his phone."
"I will," you nod. He turns to talk away without another word.
Before you can think better of it, you call his name. He tilts his head back to you.
"Can you, uhm, can you get my back?"
"Your back?" He repeats, slowly. You almost regret asking. No, you absolutely regret it. But now you have, and you're not going to backtrack now.
"The sunscreen," you wave the bottle at him. "I was going to flip over, but I wasn't able to reach, so..."
"Yeah, right," Pope walks back to you. He kneels on the ground next to your lounge chair. "Wouldn't want you to burn," he mutters.
You hand him the sunscreen, dying inside at using the oldest trick in the book just to get a few moments more with him. A part of you just wants to know if his hands are as strong and capable as they were in your dream. If this is awkward and stupid, at least it can replace the imaginary version of him. Ladyboner gone.
Your plan backfires with he actually starts applying it to your back. His hands are firm, and his thumbs work into your neck and pressure points as he rubs the sunscreen in. You have to but your lip to hold a moan back. Thank fuck he can't see your face right now.
"This okay?" he asks softly.
"Yeah," you breathe.
His hands slip under the straps of your bikini top and around the folds of your belly, making sure not to miss a single spot.
"There," he whispers. "All done. Protected."
You blink several times, trying everything in your power to come back to yourself and ignore the wet spot that has surely formed between your legs.
"Thank you, Pope," you tilt your head back to him.
"'Course," he mutters.
And then he's gone. Couldn't get out of there fast enough. You scrunch your nose and chastise yourself internally. What the fuck is wrong with you? He doesn't really like talking to you, and you ask him to apply sun screen? Are you that desperate? Besides, what would Deran say if you started pining after his brother? Then he would actually start to think you're just using him.
You make a silent vow to stop embarrassing yourself. No more being with him alone, no more saying stupid shit, not until this-whatever this is simmering inside you- has passed. This desire in you has to be temporary.
Deran invites you over for a party a few days later. Perfect, you think, the house will be full of people. You can hang out with Deran, drain your social battery, and be on your way.
It's a bigger party than normal, if that's even possible. There are people literally everywhere, the music seems louder, and the alcohol is flowing very freely. You find yourself in the kitchen, emboldened by the two beers you've downed in the last twenty minutes. You've got the munchies.
When you turn towards the living room, you see him. Pope is sitting on the couch, nursing a drink of his own. He's quiet, like usual, just surveying the crowd, counting heads, making sure no one goes where they aren't supposed to be.
The alcohol is making your mind fuzzy. You lean back on the counter, zoning out, focused on his hands wrapped around the beer bottle.
His hands that applied the sunscreen so carefully. How his hands would grip your thighs, prying them apart. How your hands would tangle in his curls, tugging on them gently. How his mouth would feel, hovering over your covered cunt. The sounds he would make as you writhe under him. How he would coo and call you "pretty girl" again. You're so in your own head that you don't realize he's...standing right next to you now.
"You okay?" he drops his head next you your ear.
It makes you jump out of your skin. "Fuck, Pope," you hold onto your chest.
"Sorry," he holds a hand out. "Didn't mean to scare ya."
"You didn't," you shake your head and grab his wrist, clearly forgetting yourself. "I was just- thinking."
Pope's eyes drop down to where you're holding onto him, and snap back up at you. You drop him immediately, sobering up.
"What were you thinking about?" he asks.
Instead of responding, you look around the room, "I honestly didn't think you'd be here tonight."
"Me neither," Pope deadpans.
"It's good to see you," you turn to look him in the eyes, and find him already staring at you. The two of you hold eye contact for a moment, and a lump forms in your throat. This is pathetic.
"You too," he drops his mouth down to your ear again, to make sure you hear him.
It’s the closeness that’s make you ache. That he insists on dropping his mouth to the shell of your ear, making sure that you can hear the words meant for only you.
You bring your hand up to his cheek and quickly press a light kiss to the opposite side. It could be the dim lighting playing a trick on you, but is he...blushing? No, probably not. You were just being totally inappropriate with your good friend's brother and you need to leave the conversation. You smile gently and wander off, looking for Deran. Or literally anything else to occupy your mind.
You end up crashing on Deran's bed that night, after quickly downing three more beers to try to forget how much of an idiot you made out of yourself. You sleep on top of the covers, there's no telling when the last time he washed the sheets.
When you wake up, it's not so early that the sun is barely up, but early enough that the house is still quiet. Quiet and disgusting.
You yawn and pad out to the living room, confronted with the aftermath. There is shit everywhere, and it makes you shudder. You're not exactly a neat freak, but unnecessary clutter makes your skin itchy. It's probably clinical, you don't think too much about it.
After going to the bathroom to wipe off the excess mascara under your eyes and splash water in your face, you go to the cabinet under the sink in the kitchen and fish around for a trash bag. You're collecting beer bottles and empty chip bags when you here the front door open and close softly.
"Deran, that you?" You call behind you, thinking he's coming back from an early surf. "Dude, I think you need a new mattress."
"I'll let him know," Pope responds, standing awkardly in the hall.
Of course it's Pope. Because as much as you say you don't want to be alone with him, your subconscious loves putting you in situations where you are, in fact, alone with him.
"Oh, sorry, I thought you were Deran. For some reason," you shake your head. Wishful thinking, probably. You bend down to pick up some crushed beer cans.
"You stay here last night?" Pope asks, making his way to the kitchen. He visibly recoils at the mess.
"Yeah," you shrug. "I'll be out of your hair soon, don't worry."
"I'm not." Pope replies. You two don't say anything for a moment. You tie up the trash bag, and he makes peace with whatever God left him a sink of disgusting dishes.
"Hey," he nods at you, "once I get this cleaned up, I can make you something to eat. If you want."
"You wanna make me breakfast?" you ask. You pass through to the kitchen. Standing just a few feet away now.
"I assume you eat," he says. "Unless you're not hungry."
It takes everything in you to shake your head. You can’t let yourself linger with him. "I'm good, Pope. Thank you, though," you say with a soft smile.
He opens his mouth to say something, clearly thinks better of it, then closes it again. You look around at the empty house. "Something on your mind?" You edge forward.
"Deran's lucky to have someone like you around," he says. "I don't know what you see in him but. You're good. For him."
Heat blooms in your chest. "I'm actually just using him for your pool," you scrunch your nose, echoing the joke you made to Deran just a few days prior.
"Right, that makes sense," Pope nods. After a beat, he adds, “You can call me Andrew, by the way.”
It catches you off guard. “I thought- I thought you hated being called Andrew.”
"You can." He crosses his arms and leans against the counter, just looking at you.
This permission, this closeness, weirdly changes things for you. A lot. You start to replay every interaction in your mind over the last two weeks. Hell, the last few months of knowing Pope. Did you get him wrong? Was he being weirdly standoffish not because he didn’t like you around, but-
Pope drops his hands to his side and inches closer to you. “You alright?” He asks, his voice low. You’re lost in your thoughts, mind reeling.
Your gaze drops down to his mouth, and back up to his eyes. His beautiful eyes. That are looking right at you.
You're standing too close to him now, you know it. But you can't step back, and apparently neither can Pope. He drops his head down, his mouth hovering over yours. Your noses graze gently, but he’s holding back. He's waiting for you. Waiting for you to give him permission.
This is something you can’t run from anymore. You have to get in front of this, whatever it is. Deep down, you know you can’t go on like this, just wondering and panicking every time he so much as looks at you. You need to know. Confront the elephant in the room.
“Tell me you don’t want me,” you say without looking at him. Your voice is barely a whisper, the words fighting their way out. “Tell me to stop.” You don’t dare breathe too deeply. There’s a tightness in your chest.
Pope brings one hand to your cheek, his thumb gently rubbing across your flushed skin. “I would never lie to you.”
In an instant, Pope's mouth is on yours. You drop the trash bag and bring your hands up to his shirt, clutching the fabric. His hands are strong, his grip firm, but his kiss is soft. Like he has to hold onto you tightly, or you'll fade away.
You kiss him back, urgently, feverishly, like he holds the air you need to breathe. Kissing him feels good, it feels almost freeing.
Your tongue traces his bottom lip, and it's enough to make him push you against the kitchen counter. Your hands find the nape of his neck, as his drop down to your hips, gripping you so firmly, you feel like it'll bruise. You don't care. You want the mark. It makes you whimper softly, a sound swallowed immediately by Pope.
A door opens somewhere in the distance, and closes. You and Pope spring apart, the sound acting like a proverbial splash of cold water and reminding you that you were not, in fact, alone, and people would be waking up now. You're panting, and you look at Pope, whose gaze is burning into yours.
"I'll, uhm," you start, wiping your mouth. "I'm gonna go. I need to get cleaned up."
"Yeah, of course," Pope nods. He looks around at the state of the house, "I should take care of this."
You pick up the trash bag and look around desperately for your belongings, which you had stashed in one of the kitchen cabinets.
"Smart," Pope nods, twisting his mouth to fight a smile.
You press a kiss to his cheek, like you did last night, only this one lingers. You need Pope to know that you're not running away from him, just this fucking crowded house. It's like a hostel. Any minute some hungover girl will stumble out of Craig's room, or worse- Deran will walk in on you two. And you are not ready for that conversation.
"I'll text Deran," you nod. "Let him know I made it home."
"Okay," is all Pope says before you leave. To be fair, your brain is also short circuiting.
You have no idea how you make it home. There were probably traffic lights involved, maybe a rolling stop, and suddenly you were outside your apartment. All you could think about the entire drive was Pope. How his hands actually felt. On you. And how he put them there himself. How he wanted you. You.
You have to take an extremely cold shower just to get your head on right. After stuffing last night's outfit in the hamper to be dealt with later- they smell like chlorine and Pope's cologne- you pull on sleep shorts and a tshirt, ready to crash for a few hours and sleep off your confused emotions.
But there's a heavy knock at your door. Thinking that it may be a mistake, you almost don't open it, but when you look out the window of your bedroom, you see Pope standing there.
You nearly wipe out on the hard wood, skittering faster than your feet can take you. After taking a moment to regain your composure, and even out your breathing, you open the front door.
"Andrew," you say, mildly shocked. He almost looks surprised, too. You can't tell if he's shocked you actually live here, or shocked you answered the door. Or by the fact that you just called him Andrew for the first time.
"Hi," he says, taking a deep breath. After a beat, he shakes his head, coming back to himself. "You forgot your sweater," he holds out a grey zip up hoodie that you have never seen before in your life.
"I don't think that's mine," you smirk, unable to hide how unfortunately charming you're finding this. You lean against the door frame, and his eyes follow you.
"Oh, right," he looks down at it, like it personally offended him. "Sorry, I probably shouldn't have just shown up-"
You pull him in by his face and kiss him deeply. He walks you back into your apartment, kicking the door shut behind him. The sweater falls away from his grasp, forgotten already.
"I'm glad you're here," you say in between kisses.
"Yeah?" he asks, dropping his mouth to your jaw. You shudder.
Pope pushes you against the nearby wall and holds his arms out on either side of you. His mouth nips at the crook of your neck, and you let out a low moan.
"Andrew," your voice is low.
"Again," he mutters against your skin.
"Hm?"
Pope comes up for air, his chest rising in falling in deep breaths. He presses his forehead to yours. "Say my name again."
"Andrew," you say, biting your lip. "Andrew, Andrew, Andrew," his name comes out low and sweet, in between gentle kisses from the corner of his mouth to his jaw, and his ear. "Andrew."
Pope shudders. "Fuck, what are you doing to me," he mutters.
You take his hand and lace his fingers with yours, pressing light kisses along the back. Something has snapped inside you. After weeks of holding back, repressing your emotions, trying to cover up how you're feeling, you're tired. You don't want to pretend anymore. Not when Pope is standing in your apartment, practically begging for you.
"I want you," he breathes. "I know I don't deserve you but I-"
"Stop it," you cup his face with your free hand. "You have me. You've had me for longer than you think."
He tilts his head inquisitively, narrowing his eyes slightly. You lean your head back against the wall and sigh, unable to avoid your embarrassment anymore. "You didn't think anything about me literally asking you to rub sunscreen on my back? Or the way that I somehow always find myself alone with you? Subconsciously moving closer?"
"If you're trying to tell me I'm an idiot, I already know that," Pope bites his bottom lip. "But you are an evil woman. I haven't been able to stop thinking about you in that fucking swimsuit."
"I know, that was mean," you scrunch your nose.
His hand presses against your waist, pulling you close to him, your bodies pressed together. It moves slowly down the curve of your ass, right above your thigh. "Evil, evil woman," he mutters, leaning in again. "Evil woman with the most beautiful smile, perfect body, perfect laugh."
"Andrew," you whimper as his hand grips the fat of your thigh, fingers digging in. You take his hand and move it between your legs, right where you feel the most heat. "Please touch me. I need you to touch me."
Pope lets out a low groan and shoves his hand down the front of your sleep shorts, finding no panties, just your wet heat. "Fuck, all this for me?"
"Mhmm," you whine. When a teasing finger makes its way over your clit, you open your mouth in a silent gasp. The way you squirm is enough for Pope to press fully inside you, one finger, then two. You grip his shoulders as he moves slowly, drawing out hushed whines and lustful whimpers.
"Fuck this," Pope pulls his hands out suddenly. With his hands firmly around your ass, he lifts you with ease, wrapping your legs around his waist. You lean down and kiss him, tongues sliding together.
When you lead him back to your bedroom, he sits on the edge of the mattress. Your knees settle on either side of him, straddling his hips and holding you over the growing bulge in his jeans. You move against him, chasing any kind of relief from the pressure building in your belly.
Pope's hands hold your waist, slipping under the hem of your shirt to make contact with your bare skin. You slip the fabric over your head, discarding it on the floor. You pull at the fabric of Pope's shirt and slide his off, too.
You run your hands over his shoulders, down his chest, marveling at his sun-kissed, freckled skin. You want to gnaw on his biceps. Your eyes fall down to a fading bruise on his side, right at the top of his ribcage. Curious, and admittedly a little heartbroken, your fingers gently graze his skin there.
"Hey," he whispers, taking your hand and bringing it to his mouth, gently kissing the pads of your fingers. "Old news, don't worry about it."
"I'm always worried about you," you sigh.
"Not right now." Pope buries his face in the crook of your neck, sucking at the skin hard enough to leave a mark. "This is about you."
His mouth travels down to your collarbone and below, leaving small nips and kisses in his wake. You want to press, to ask what's really going on, and what he doesn't want to talk about, but your brain clouds over. Later, defintely later.
"You're perfect," he mutters, mouth pressed against the lace over your nipple.
You rock against his hand, the one slipping under your shorts and teasing your clit. The feeling sends shocks up your spine. You whimper, looking for release.
"Tell me what you want," Pope holds your low back with a firm grip, holding you close.
"Inside," you whine, "I need you inside me. Please."
The second that please slips out, Pope presses his fingers inside you, his thumb circling your clit. He watches your face, eyes closed in bliss, as you rock your hips against his hand.
"So pretty while you ride my fingers," he kisses your collarbone.
"'s good," your head falls back, giving him more room. His fingers curl inside you, hitting the exact right spot. You inhale sharply, "There, right there. Andrew please."
It's obscene and desperate, the way your body bucks against him. His fingers move faster and deeper, hitting the same sensitive nerves over and over again. Pope nudges the straps of your bra down, lowering them just enough to free your tits for him to devour.
Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling gently to bring his face back to you. His pupils are blown, eyes wild with desire. It’s making you borderline feral.
Thighs quivering, sweat beading on your brow, he brings you right over the edge, jaw slack as you come on his fingers.
Pope removes his fingers slowly, and you can hear how wet you are. He brings his fingers to his mouth, tasting you, savoring you.
"Shit," you look down at the wet spot on the front of his jeans, right on top of how growing bulge. “I made kind of a mess on you..."
"S'fine," Pope says, “should probably take them off now anyway.” He helps you remove your bra completely before lowering you onto the bed.
You slip your shorts off, trying to will your heart to stop beating so fast. Watching from the bed, your hands resting on your low belly, as Pope undresses fully for you.
His eyes don’t leave yours as his jeans and boxers come off all at once. Your breath catches in your throat. His dick is hard and thick, veins throbbing. Of course, figures.
"You are so beautiful," he marvels at your body, hands caressing your curves as he settles on top of you.
“Andrew,” you purr, running you hands over his toned back, letting your nails just barely graze him. It lights you up inside, how sensitive he is to your touch.
“Fuck,” he groans. He rubs his dick over your soaking pussy.
"You like this?" you ask, dragging your hands down his shoulders.
"Yes. Very much, yes," he moans. "I'm going to fuck you so good, I promise."
You pull his face to look at you, "I know."
Pope backs away from you just long enough to line himself up and sink this thick cock inside of you. The moan that slips out of you is borderline lewd. Your jaw goes slack, vision spotty.
“You okay pretty girl?” Pope huffs above you, clearly taking this just as well as you are. “Fuck, you feel so good.”
You nod wordlessly, your legs moving to wrap around his waist, bringing him closer.
“Talk to me,” he says, firm but desperate.
“It’s-,” you whine, “so good. Feels so good.”
Pope bends down to kiss you, his tongue messy and desperate in your mouth. When he moves, he starts slow, but it’s like he can’t help himself. He holds back until he physically can't any more, his thrusts become fast and deep. Hitting a place inside of you that you didn’t know could feel so right.
“God, you’re squeezing me so good,” Pope huffs.
“I think- ah- I think you’re just stretching me out,” you smile.
If you weren’t smiling like a dope, Pope would have thought he was hurting you. But your little moans and whimpers just egg him on further.
Pope takes your hands and pins them above your head, trapping you below him. His entire body is pressed against you, his hips grinding against you as he hits that pressure point again and again. You're at his mercy, and it makes your body light up.
“So perfect,” he mutters. “You look so perfect under me like this.”
“Andrew please,” you moan, “you’re right against my clit. Fuck, I’m going to come again.”
“Go ahead, baby,” he says right into your ear, nipping at your earlobe. “Let me feel you come on my dick. You can do it.”
With both of your wrists trapped under one of his strong hands, he uses the other to reach down and knead your tit, twisting the nipple.
“Ohmygod,” your words are jumbled, pleasure clouding your mind.
Your orgasm is stronger than the first, lasts longer, and Pope fucks you through it. Your pussy pulses around him and his breathing grows ragged.
"That's it, pretty girl. You feel so good around me. Shit, I’m going to come,” Pope huffs.
“My mouth,” you whimper, your overly sensitive clit making you writhe. “Let me take you in my mouth."
He doesn't hesitate, just pulls out of you quickly, his dick wet with evidence of your orgasm. You move to your knees in front of Pope as he sits back at the head of the bed. You squeeze his cock gently, swirling the tip around with your tongue to collect the precum gathered there.
“Good girl,” Pope’s head drops back. “So good to me. Fuck.”
You drag your tongue up the length of him before taking him all the way to the back of your throat. Pope gathers your hair in his hand, pulling it out of your face. You bob up and down relentlessly, chasing the release he gave you.
“This good?” You look up at him through your eyelashes. Sliding your tongue up the side of his dick again.
“I’m so close baby.” His grip in your hair tightens, and it encourages you.
Suddenly, he lets out a low groan, and you feel him release in the back of your throat. You hold yourself at his base until his dick stops pulsing. When you let off with a pop, you don’t lose a single drop.
“Holy shit,” Pope’s breath still hasn’t come back to him.
Your mouth curves into a soft smile and you press your body against his, kissing him deeply.
Pope after sex is shockingly concerned for your well being. It’s not that you thought he’d roll over and go to sleep. There’s no way Pope would do that. But you didn’t think he’d make you go to the bathroom and get water. The domesticity of Pope after sex is almost as hot as the fervor before.
Pope quietly gets up to reach for his boxers, but you grab his hand and yank him back to the bed. He is a brick wall, and could easily overpower you. Instead, Pope lets you drag him back down.
“Where do you think you’re going?” you mutter.
“Uhm, nowhere now.” Pope settles next to you. You’re face to face, close under the covers.
"This was better than my dream," you say offhandedly, not thinking about the words until you've already said them. And you can't take them back. You have got to start watching your mouth.
"Dream?" he props his head up with his hand to get a better look at you.
You squeeze your eyes shut. "Forget I said anything."
"No no," he teases, a rare, toothy smile lighting up his face. His hand rests on your bare hip, thumb moving back and forth, trapping you in the conversation. "What kind of dream are we talking here?"
"Please don't look at me right now, I think I'm going to die of embarrassment." You blush deeply, moving to cover your face with your hands.
"Hey," he takes one of your hands away, lacing your fingers with his. "It's okay, there's nothing to be embarrassed about." And then, after a long pause, he keeps going. "So you had a wet dream about me, there's nothing to be ashamed of."
His voice is flat and sincere, but you know he's still teasing you. You should be more irritated, and you would be, but this is the most relaxed you have ever seen him. And you want to memorize the way he's looking at you right now.
"Alright," you concede. "I did. I had a wet dream about you a couple of weeks ago."
"You gonna tell me what happened? Was I good, at least?"
You bite your lip and slide over his hips, pushing him to his back and straddling him. "I couldn't look at you without thinking about your hands on me. You were very good. Almost as good as the real thing." You lean down and give him a single, lingering kiss.
"Almost," he repeats the word with emphasis. "I think I know about when that was," he says. "I thought you were mad at me. You wouldn't talk to me at all."
"Because I was afraid that if I started talking to you, I would only hear you moaning profanities in my ear," you push your hair over your shoulder. “I couldn’t even look at you without getting wet.”
Pope gets quiet, contemplative. Eyes dropping, his hands rest on your thighs.
“Hey,” you nudge him gently, “what’s going on? Where’d you go?”
“I hate that you felt like you couldn’t talk to me,” he says quietly.
“Uh-uh,” you lean down, nudging your nose with his. “None of that.”
“I’m not good at- the guys are usually-“
“Am I naked on top of Craig right now?” You shoot out.
“Over my dead body,” Pope snorts.
“Exactly,” you grin and kiss him.
You’re painfully aware that the damn has burst, and none of these feelings can be bottled back up. You’re going to have to tell Deran eventually. But none of that matters right now. All you can focus on is Pope’s hands on your thighs, and all the places he’ll put them.
Later, when you're dressed again and Pope is making you lunch, you bend down and pick up the discarded sweater.
"Andrew, who's is this, anyway?" You bring it over to the kitchen.
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Summary: Honestly, Andrew Cody still didn't understand why you stayed by his side even knowing his worst side. But it also wasn't like he was going to give up the only person who made him feel truly human. He would remain by your side, he would endure the looks, the advances, and the idiots who insisted on approaching you. After all, by the end of the night, there would be no doubt about where your heart truly belonged.
Pairings: Andrew 'pope' cody x reader
wc: +/- 7k
Notes: I've never watched Animal Kingdom, but I am OBSESSED with Pope, god, someone bring me some water! I wrote this in a wave of HEAT from my period and thinking naughty little things about this lamb in wolf's skin. Sorry if it turned out terrible, ovulation makes us a little crazy in the head. Ugh, Andy is a fucking hottie by the way.
Warnings: reader's super sweet, Pope's halfway/totally obsessed with you, he's a pervert, reader calls Pope "Andy"(a love!), use of affectionate nicknames (darling and my love), Pope's dependent (god, he loves you so much), possessive Pope, creampie, oral (female receiving), jealousy, multiple orgasms, Pope's in love, Pope is a talker, Pope definitely worships you. fema reader, bad writing (sorry), no use of y/n (I used "you" a lot), adult content (did I forget something?)
Andrew needed you. It was a visceral, latent, and constant need that made his body throb in various ways. You were perfect in every way, loved by everyone, and desired for many reasons. Cody still wondered during the mornings why you had chosen him among all the men you could have had, after all, you had the world in the palm of your hand.
Your sweet smile and kind eyes, soft voice and mannerisms that put anyone at ease. Andrew admired you, your calmness, patience, and benevolence. God, you were fucking perfect and that made him increasingly protective and somewhat possessive of you.
Now you were talking animatedly with another man, gesturing excitedly about whatever crap that guy was saying to you. You didn't even realize the predatory look of the person you were talking to and that made your boyfriend so irritated. Damn, you were so good that you couldn't even see the malice in the eyes of the disgusting men who surrounded you. Andrew knew he couldn't act impulsively, go up to you and grab your waist or simply punch that idiot's jaw and stop him from talking to his girl.
No, he changed for you. Andrew took a deep breath and counted to ten, a breathing exercise he was accustomed to in those moments or situations that made him tense. You were the lifeline that pulled him out of the darkness, the sun that illuminated his days of darkness, and Pope Cody would not let his only happiness slip through his hands like slippery sand.
Since you met, about a year and a half ago, you had always been sweet to the older man. Treating him well, respectfully and cautiously, respecting his time and space, letting the rigid and distrustful man blossom like a flower under the sunlight. You knew about his past, you knew the family he had and the darkness his surname carried, but you learned to love him, to respect him, to embrace him and realize that he could be understood and, above all, truly loved, without pressure or blackmail.
Andrew thought it was because of this exacerbated understanding of yours towards him that made him so obsessed with you, with your well-being and safety. Cody was always surveying you, you knew it even if you didn't see it, after all he was almost a protective little dog and despite everything you adored his peculiar way of providing security.
It was for this reason that out of the corner of your eyes you saw your boyfriend's movement towards you, the straight posture highlighting the muscles compressed by the tight black shirt he wore, the closed expression that made you drool in indecent places and damn, he didn't take his eyes off you, you felt the heat rising under your nape with his gaze on you.
When the older man was close enough, he wrapped his large, rough palm around your waist, squeezing lightly as he pulled you backwards, crashing your back against his broad, firm chest. You sighed when he bent down enough for his breath to make the little hairs behind your ear stand on end. He looked firmly at the man who was talking to you, while whispering just for you to hear.
"Everything okay over here, darling?" He asked hoarsely, his body pressing more against yours and making you want to tremble. You just nodded positively, afraid to open your mouth and moan softly at the possessive and territorial way he held you.
The man in front of you, whose name you had already forgotten, if you had even really heard it amidst your animated chatter about trips or cars, saw what was happening in front of him. His eyes, previously shining with an interest that you naively mistook for mere friendliness, now faltered. The predatory confidence he emanated moments before evaporated like smoke upon encountering the silent and implacable wall that was Pope Cody.
"Ah, yes, of course" the man stammered, taking an involuntary step back. The hand he had raised, about to touch your arm to emphasize some foolish point of the conversation, fell inert at his side. "We were just... I mean, she's your...?"
He let the question die in the air, without the courage to complete the sentence. He didn't dare use a term like "friend" or "acquaintance." The way Andrew held you, with the silent possession of someone holding something precious, left no doubt, you were not just an acquaintance or a friend.
You were an extension of him, a territory marked not by words, but by the unequivocal body language he displayed over you.
Andrew didn't answer, didn't blink, nor did he look away. He just sustained the eye contact with the stranger, his expression sculpted in granite, his jaw clenched and thin lips compressed into a straight line. His silence was more eloquent and terrifying than any verbal threat, after all, it was a silence that spoke of a past you had helped to bury, an echo of a man who didn't negotiate, only took. The stranger, finally, got the message and with a brusque nod and an unintelligible murmur of apology, turned on his heels and disappeared into the crowd of the event, a rat fleeing the shadow of a bird of prey.
Only then, when the threat had dissipated, did Andrew's hand on your waist relax minimally and the pressure that had previously kept you anchored against his chest transformed into a slow and deliberate caress. His fingers traced a path of fire over the thin fabric of your dress, rising along the curve of your waist and then descending to your hip bone, where he let them rest, warm and heavy, like a mark. You couldn't avoid the slight arching of your back, an almost imperceptible movement that pressed you even more against him. A shiver of pure anticipation snaked down your spine, a mixture of relief and excitement.
"You attract moths to the flame, don't you, my love?" His voice vibrated against the shell of your ear, a rough whisper that was meant to be felt, not just heard. The words were a soft growl, laden with a dark adoration. He didn't blame you. The fault, in his distorted mind, lay with the insects that felt drawn to your brightness. He just saw himself in the eternal role of guardian, ready to ward off those who dared to get too close. "So good... so generous with that smile. And they, idiots, mistake your kindness for an invitation."
You turned your face slowly, the tip of your nose brushing the strong line of his jaw. The unique citrusy scent of his skin enveloped you, a perfume you had forever associated with safety and desire. Your lips almost touched the corner of his mouth as you murmured, your voice a trembling thread of contained pleasure. "You know it's with you I want to be, Andy. Only with you."
Andy. Never Pope or Andrew, to you he was your Andy.
The admission, simple and sincere, seemed to untie something inside him as a deep sigh, which sounded more like a grunt of satisfaction, escaped his lips.
"I know, darling" he replied, his voice still hoarse, but now tinged with a vulnerability that only you had the privilege of witnessing. "That's why I... I just need to be sure. Need to remind myself. And remind them."
The "remind them" was not an empty promise, but a fact consummated with every withering look, every possessive touch. It was the primitive and absolute way with which he loved, a love that terrified him and completed him in equal measures. He pulled away enough so you could turn around, standing face to face with him, but still confined within the protective circle of his arms. His eyes, of that deep and stormy blue, roamed your face as if reading the pages of a sacred book, memorizing every detail, the brightness in your eyes, the slight blush on your cheeks, the way your lips were parted.
"You have no idea what you do to me" he confessed, his voice so low it seemed more like a thought that had escaped from the cages of his self-control. He raised one hand and, with a delicacy that contrasted brutally with the hardness of his body and his reputation, touched your face. The backs of his fingers, calloused and rough, slid along the soft skin of your cheek in a breathtaking caress. "I lived so long in the dark... And then you appeared, my love. Like the dawn, so gradual, patient and inevitable. You didn't try to fix me, you simply... stayed. You saw me entirely and didn't run away."
His voice broke on the last word. The raw emotion in his confession made your heart clench and, at the same time, expand. You covered his hand with yours, keeping it pressed against your face, turning your face to kiss the rough palm. The gesture, so pure and full of affection, made Andrew's pupils dilate, the brownish-green mixture almost completely swallowed by a black of desire and devotion.
"You are my proof that there is something good in the world, and by some miracle, that goodness chose me" he continued, his forehead inclining to touch yours. Your noses touched and the air you shared became rarefied, charged with electricity. "So, yes, I'm going to stay here. I'm going to be the shadow that follows you, the guard dog that growls at anyone who dares to look at you. Because you gave me a second chance and I'm going to spend every second of it ensuring that you feel so safe, so loved, that the idea of belonging to any other world that isn't ours, together, never even crosses your mind."
He paused, his thumb caressing your cupid's bow with hypnotic slowness. A small, dangerous smile, the smile of the predator who found his prey, curved his lips.
"Let's get out of here." It wasn't a request, but a soft command, a command that promised a world of sensations. "I want to feel you close to me, just for me. Today, tomorrow, and always."
The secluded corner where you were was left behind, the people at that party becoming mere blurs the moment Andrew guided you out. All your senses were monopolized by him. Your Andy.
He spun you with an unexpected fluidity for a man of his size, and when he brought you back very close, it was to hold you against himself in a way that left no space for air, much less for any remnant of social decorum. One of his large hands spread on the lower part of your back, the pressure firm and possessive, his fingers insinuating themselves dangerously on the curve where your spine ended, both of you walking away from everyone.
"I don't like sharing your attention" he murmured against your side, his voice a low thunder that reverberated directly in your stomach. "It drives me crazy. Makes me want things I promised myself I wouldn't do anymore." The hand on your back slid and the daring thumb pressed your covered dermis with a firmness that was almost a reprimand. "Primitive things. Things civilized men don't do."
He guided you in a slow movement, his body moving against yours in a way that simulated an intimacy much deeper than the walk to the other end of the room allowed. His muscular thigh insinuated itself between yours, a tangled embrace but so certain that it was questionable the way you moved as if you were one and the friction of the dress fabric against your skin made you hold your breath.
Andrew noticed. Of course he noticed. He noticed every tremor, every sigh, every drop of sweat that sprouted on your nape and the older man fed on your reactions.
"You like it when I talk like that, don't you, darling?" he asked, his voice tinged with a malice that made your face burn. His mouth descended to your temple, depositing a kiss there, warm and lingering. "You like it when I forget the rules and show you the man that still exists inside here. The dirty man."
Cody's lips brushed the curve of your ear and the following words were a profane whisper, a stark contrast to the refined environment around you. "I constantly think about how your skin gets marked under my fingers and everyone sees that you are mine. I think about the sounds you make when you forget to be polite. I think about these beautiful breasts that make me absolutely dumb with desire."
The hand that was on your back rose slowly up your side, his fingers spread, palpating each rib through the fabric until the edge of his thumb brushed, with devastating precision, the lower curve of your breast. It was not an accidental touch, perhaps it was a promise. His breathing became irregular, while an almost inaudible grunt vibrated in his throat and Cody felt the soft weight against his hand, even through the barrier of the dress.
"I would want to spend hours here" he confessed, his voice heavy with an obscene adoration. "Just looking. Just touching. The way they fit in my hand, as if they had been made for me. So soft. So perfect." His thumb moved in a slow and deliberate arc, brushing the exact point where the lace of the bra created a rise under the satin.
You bit your lower lip hard, a futile attempt to contain the moan that threatened to escape. The sensation was exacerbated by the certainty that you were in public, even if more secluded, surrounded by strangers who had no idea of the fire he was lighting in you.
Andrew smiled against your skin, a smile of pure predatory satisfaction. "That's it. Hold the sound for me. Because later, when we're alone, I want to hear all of them. I want you to scream, if necessary. But now, in this moment, your pleasure is mine. Only mine."
He spun you one more time, and when he brought you back to him, you were in a darker corner of the hall, partially hidden by a column and a cascade of floral arrangements. His hand moved from your hip to your nape, his fingers tangling in the hair there, pulling your head back with a firm gentleness that made you expose your throat to him. Andrew's eyes, stormy and hungry, devoured the line of your neck.
"I'm so afraid of losing you" he whispered, and the sudden vulnerability in his voice, mixed with the rawness of desire, was heartbreaking. He kissed you at the base of your throat, a light suction that he soon soothed with his tongue, as if apologizing for the mark he might leave. "This fear consumes me. I need you like I need air. It's desperate and... And it's the only truth I have."
He pulled away only enough to look into your eyes, his hand still on your nape, the other now resting on your racing heart, feeling the erratic beats. "Tell me you're mine. Say it now. I need to hear your voice saying the words."
The raw plea, uttered by that man so powerful and restrained, undid any defense you might still have had. You raised your hands to frame his face, your thumbs caressing the visage marked by life. "I am yours, Andrew. Body and soul. Every piece of me belongs to you."
What happened in his eyes was a controlled implosion. The stormy greenish-brown was flooded by a black wave of possession and relief. He took your mouth in a kiss that was everything but civilized. There was no hesitation, only a voracious and insatiable hunger where his tongue invaded your mouth with urgency. Pope kissed you as if he were trying to find salvation in the depths of your soul, a drowning man who finally found the surface, and in the silence of that corner, cradled by each other's presence, the world outside could wait.
The kiss was broken only by the pressing need for air, but Andrew didn't pull away from you. On the contrary. He remained with his forehead glued to yours, the panting and hot breath mixing with yours, his eyes half-closed as he tried to recover some remnant of control. Control that crumbled with every little tremor that ran through his body, with every accelerated beat of your heart that he still felt.
"I won't be able to wait until we get home" he admitted, his voice so hoarse and deep that it seemed to scrape your skin like fine sandpaper.
He took your hand with urgency, his long fingers intertwining with yours with an almost desperate firmness. Without saying anything else, Andrew led you outside, he didn't look to the sides, didn't care about the curious looks or the raised eyebrows. The world could be on fire and he wouldn't have noticed, because all his attention was focused solely on you.
Andrew took you to a wide staircase that led to the upper floors, your steps echoed on the polished marble, a sound muffled by the music that was getting more and more distant. With each step, the expectation grew, dense and electric, like the air before a summer storm.
You felt the heat of his hand on yours, the pressure of his fingers that was at the same time possessive and comforting, as if he feared you might evaporate if he let you go for even a second.
Despite the neediness, insecurities, and problems, Andrew Cody was a calculating man, a born strategist, and planning an escape route to have you all to himself was as natural to him as breathing. The hallway on the top floor was lined with a thick carpet that completely muffled the steps, the walls adorned with golden light fixtures that projected soft and intimate shadows. Everything was silence and penumbra, a stark contrast to the brightness and bustle of the floor below. Andrew stopped in front of a door at the end of the hallway and took the keycard from the inside pocket of his suit jacket with an agility that betrayed his anxiety.
He unlocked the door and opened it, but instead of simply letting you pass, he pulled you inside with him, his arms enveloping you even before the door closed completely. The sound of the latch clicking into place was muffled by the sound of your panting breath when he pressed you against the solid wood surface.
"Finally" he whispered against your lips, his voice laden with a relief so profound it was almost painful. "No interruptions. Just you and me and everything I want to do to you."
Andrew didn't wait for an answer. His mouth captured yours in a kiss that was everything but delicate. It was a dirty kiss, messy, desperate. His tongue invaded your mouth without asking permission, tangling with yours in a primitive and wet dance. There was too much saliva, teeth, and a hunger so absolute that you felt your knees buckle.
Andrew noticed and used his own body to keep you standing, his hip fitting perfectly against yours, the unmistakable evidence of his desire pressing against your belly in a way that tore a muffled moan from your throat.
His hands didn't stay still. While he kissed you with that devastating intensity, his agile fingers began to work on the buttons of your dress. But the patience, which he had been cultivating with so much effort throughout the entire night, finally ran out. With a grunt of frustration against your lips, he simply pulled the fabric hard, and the sound of the buttons coming loose and bouncing on the wooden floor was muffled by your exclamation of surprise.
"Sorry" he murmured, but there was no regret in his voice, only a raw and animalistic satisfaction. "I'll buy another one. I'll buy a hundred more. But now I need to see you. I need to touch you. Please, let me touch you."
The plea in his voice, mixed with the confession of his almost painful need, made something inside you melt. You let him push the dress off your shoulders, the fabric sliding down your arms and pooling at your feet in a puddle of satin. Andrew took a step back, just enough so his eyes could roam your body now exposed only to the soft light entering through the window.
He remained still for a moment, his breath suspended as his pupils dilated in a way that almost swallowed the iris. Andrew looked at you like a starving man before a banquet, like a devotee before an altar, like a castaway who had finally sighted land.
"My God" he whispered, his voice choked with an almost religious reverence. "You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my entire life. And I don't deserve you. I know I don't deserve you. But I'm going to spend every second of this night trying to get close to being worthy."
He knelt before you. Andrew Cody, the man who made grown men tremble with a single look, who had spent years in prison, built on orders and fear, knelt at your feet like a subject before his queen. His large, calloused hands slid up your legs, from your ankles to your thighs, his fingers tangling in the thin straps of your panties.
"Everything about you is perfect" he murmured, his lips depositing open kisses on every inch of skin he revealed as he pushed the intimate piece aside. "Every curve. Every detail. Every little piece of this body."
He kissed the inside of your thighs, your hip bone, and raised his eyes to you. There was an intensity in that look that was almost unbearable, a mixture of adoration, desire, and something deeper, something that bordered on obsession. He didn't look away while he kissed the inside of your thigh again. He didn't look away while his tongue traced a wet and warm path over your skin, he didn't look away when his mouth finally found your center, his lips closing a little below the mons veneris, with a precision that tore a muffled moan from your throat.
"It's..." he murmured against your skin, the vibration of his voice reverberating on your most sensitive spot. "It's this sound that I want to hear. It's like this that I want you for me, my love."
What followed was a slow and meticulous torture. Andrew was in no hurry and savored you as if it were the first and the last meal of his life, his tongue tracing elaborate patterns that brought you to the edge of the abyss and then pulled you back, only to start all over again. His fingers joined the dance, first one, then two, filling you with a rhythmic pressure that matched perfectly with the movements of his mouth.
The hand that held the panties aside, pulled the delicate cloth down and removed it completely from your body. His hungry mouth returning to your dripping center as his rough palms moved up your body, finding your breast and pulling the fabric down with an impatience that contrasted with the meticulousness of what he was doing between your legs, groping the breast so his fingers could massage it, pinch it, venerate it.
"They are so beautiful" he murmured, pulling away only enough to speak, his chin shining with the evidence of the pleasure he was giving you.
With each caress, each touch, Andrew undid the barriers of your body with a patience that bordered on the sacred. Kneeling before you like a devotee he kept his eyes fixed on yours, observing every reaction, every tremor, every little muscle that contracted under the implacable attention of his mouth and his fingers. The sounds that escaped your lips were music to his ears. Every muffled moan, every choppy sigh, every time you held your breath and then released it in a trembling lament, Andrew absorbed it all as if they were the notes of a symphony composed just for him. He felt your taste on his tongue, a flavor he had been addicted to since the first time and that was now as essential as the air he breathed.
Your soft texture against his lips, the moist heat that received him, the way your body responded to his every movement was a sensory experience so overwhelming that it made him forget his own name. Feeling himself getting harder and harder knowing he was giving you pleasure.
"So beautiful," Cody murmured against your skin, his voice vibrating in waves of pleasure that ran through your entire body. His fingers descended once more and now pressed inside you, curved in a movement he already knew by heart, a precise gesture that made you arch your back and dig your nails into his shoulders. "So perfect. So mine."
His free hand went up your side, spreading over your ribcage, feeling each of your breaths as if it were the beating of a frightened bird's wings. His thumb caressed the lower curve of your breast, a light touch that contrasted with the intensity of what his mouth was doing further down. He wanted to feel everything. Every texture, every reaction, every drop of pleasure that came out of you.
With a few more thrusts of his fingers and licks on your slippery folds, you finally came apart against his mouth, a muffled scream escaping through the lips you were biting hard, but of course Andrew didn't stop.
He accompanied you through the waves of pleasure, prolonging each second, sucking your clit and drinking every drop of you like a man who had crossed the desert and finally found an oasis, thrusting his thick fingers, coated with your pleasure, with increasing intensity. Only when your knees gave way and he had to support you with his strong arms did he pull away, his lips shining and his eyes dark with a proud satisfaction.
"I'm here, darling" he whispered, getting up and taking you in his arms as if you weighed nothing.
Pope carried you to the bed and laid you down on the mattress with a reverence that contrasted with the urgency that still pulsed between his legs and vibrated throughout his body. For a moment, he remained there, hovering over you, his eyes roaming your naked body with an adoration so intense it was almost palpable. The soft light drew shadows on the curves of your body, highlighting every detail he loved almost sickly.
"I could spend hours just looking at you" he confessed, his voice hoarse and low, his fingers went to his own shirt with precise movements, but without haste. "I could spend the whole night worshiping every inch of you and it still wouldn't be enough."
The shirt fell to the floor, revealing the muscular torso marked by old scars and freckles that told stories of a past you had helped bury. The muscles contracted when he got rid of his pants and the last piece of clothing, completely revealing the extent of the desire he felt for you. So virile, with that hardness and heat, an impressive contrast with the vulnerability that shone in his eyes whenever they met yours.
Andrew climbed onto the bed, the mattress sinking under his weight as he positioned himself over you, his forearms resting beside your head and his body covering yours like a protective shield. Always so protective. His warm skin against yours was a balm and a torment at the same time, each point of contact a small explosion of pleasure that made your body shudder.
"I love you" the older man said, the words coming out with a disarming simplicity. There was no calculation in them, there were no ulterior motives. It was just the truth, naked and raw, offered to you as an offering. "I love you in a way that sometimes scares me. In a way that makes me want to be a better man, even knowing I will never be good enough for you."
Andrew lowered himself and kissed your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose. He kissed your lips with a tenderness that contrasted with the position you were in, with his body pressing yours against the mattress, with the unmistakable evidence of his desire rubbing against your damp thigh from the previous orgasm.
"You saved me" he continued, his lips moving to your neck, depositing open kisses along the warm column of your throat. "You saw me at my worst and decided to stay. You gave me a reason to believe that I could be more than my past, more than my surname, more than my mistakes."
As he spoke, his hand descended your body, his calloused fingers finding your center once more, but now with a different purpose. He wanted to feel if you were ready for him, wanted to make sure he wouldn't hurt you. The touch was gentle, almost hesitant, as if he still couldn't believe he had permission to touch you like this.
"Are you ready for me, my love?" he asked, his voice laden with a controlled expectation. His eyes found yours, seeking confirmation, seeking permission, seeking the certainty that you wanted him as much as he wanted you. "Can I...?"
When you nodded, unable to form coherent words in the face of the intensity of that moment, something transformed in his eyes. The careful restraint gave way to a devastating hunger, a need so profound it was almost painful to witness. He positioned himself at your entrance, the tip of his throbbing member brushing your wetness, and then began to enter you slowly, inch by inch, as if he were memorizing every contraction, every texture, every little sound that escaped your lips.
The world around you dissolved. There was nothing else, there were no more people, there was nothing else but the two of you and the connection that united you in such a deep and visceral way. Andrew filled you completely, a hoarse moan escaping his throat when he finally settled fully inside your body. He remained still for a moment, his forehead resting on yours, his panting breath mixing with yours. His eyes closed, as if he were trying to engrave that sensation in his memory forever.
He began to move. The movements were slow and deep, each thrust a silent declaration of love, claim, and belonging. He was in no hurry and wanted to prolong that moment for as long as possible, wanted to feel every contraction of you around him, every tremor that ran through your body, every fingernail that dug into his back.
His hands roamed your body with an almost religious reverence. His fingers traced the curves of your breasts, descended along your waist, grabbed your hips with a controlled strength that left marks he would kiss later, apologizing for each one. His mouth found yours in kisses that alternated between the purest tenderness and the most absolute hunger, between love and obsession, between devotion and possession. Sometimes your breaths collided hindered by your needy moans, your head turning to the side while your body was propelled deliciously upwards, in a precise rite inside you that felt every vein and pulse of Andrew's cock.
"Do you feel that?" he asked, his voice trembling with contained pleasure. "Do you feel how we fit together perfectly? As if you were made for me?"
The rhythm increased even more. The sound of skin meeting filled the room, mixing with the muffled moans and the words of love he whispered against your skin. Each thrust was deeper than the last, each movement more urgent, each breath more panting. Andrew loved you with all his body, with all his soul, with all the intensity of a man who had spent too long in the darkness and now refused to let go of the light he had found.
"I want to fill you" he confessed, his voice a rough whisper against the shell of your ear, his eyebrows furrowed in a painful need. The movements became more erratic, less controlled, as the tension accumulated at the base of his spine. "I want to feel you from the inside. I want to leave a part of me in you. I want you to know, to feel, to never forget that you are mine."
Your fingers found his, intertwining over the sheet and extending upwards, your thighs wrapped around Cody's waist and squeezing him closer to you, the hairs at the base of Andy's hard cock, wet with pre-cum, rasping against your sensitive clit. Your faces close and panting, you saw your boyfriend's neck and ears in a reddish tone of pleasure.
"Look at me" he pleaded, his voice breaking into a supplication. "Please, my love. I want to see your eyes when you cum for me. I want to see you come undone."
The tension inside you built, grew, expanded until it became unbearable. Every movement of him inside you, every word of love whispered against your skin, every touch of his calloused fingers on the most sensitive points of your body pushed you closer and closer to the abyss. Your body, acting on its own, pressed against his and the wet slaps of your skins meeting became louder and more obscene. When you finally came, when the pleasure exploded in waves that ran through every nerve of your body, Andrew was there to support you.
"That's it, my love," he whispered, his voice choked with an emotion that went far beyond physical pleasure. "Just like that. Let go. I'm here. I'll always be here."
He watched you with an adoration that bordered on fanaticism. You tightening around him while your fingers loosened from Andrew's hands to scratch the older man's muscular back, squeezing and pulling him to you, red welts forming on his tanned and freckled skin.
Every sound that escaped your lips were treasures he kept in his memory. His eyes roamed your face with an almost painful reverence, as if he were witnessing something sacred, something he didn't deserve, but that was given to him anyway.
"So beautiful" he murmured, his voice broken. "So perfect. So mine."
And then, when he could no longer contain himself, when the pleasure became unbearable and the need to surrender completely to you overcame any remnant of control, Andrew allowed himself to fall too. He sank into you with one last deep movement, a hoarse moan escaping his throat as he spilled everything he had inside you. The warmth of the liquid filled you completely, an intimate and primitive sensation that united you in a way that transcended the physical.
"I love you," he whispered against your lips, the words choppy from the spasms of pleasure that still ran through his body. "I love you. I love you. I love you."
He repeated those words like a mantra, like a prayer, like a promise. Each declaration was accompanied by a kiss, a touch, a caress. He remained inside you for long minutes, reluctant to separate, to break that connection that united you in such a deep and complete way.
When he finally lay down beside you, he pulled you close, his arms enveloping your body as if it were the most precious thing in the world. His head found shelter in the curve of your neck, his warm breath caressing your skin as he slowly returned to reality. His fingers traced distracted patterns on your back, an automatic gesture that soothed him as much as it soothed you.
"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice still hoarse, but now tinged with genuine concern. His eyes found yours, searching for any sign of discomfort. "Wasn't I... too rough?"
The question was so incongruent with the man he was to the rest of the world that it almost made you smile. Andrew Cody, the man who made grown men tremble with a single look, worried about being too rough in bed. But this was the version of him that only you knew and it was this version that you loved with every fiber of your being.
"You were perfect" you replied, your voice still a little shaky. "You always are perfect, Andy."
Something shone in his eyes. It wasn't just satisfaction or male pride. It was something deeper, more vulnerable. It was the gratitude of a man who had spent his entire life believing he didn't deserve to be loved and who now found himself faced with irrefutable proof that he was wrong.
"I don't know what I did to deserve you" he murmured, his fingers still tracing patterns on your back. "But I'm going to spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy. Trying to make you happy. Trying to be the man you deserve."
Ele beijou sua testa, suas pálpebras, a ponta do seu nariz. Beijou seus lábios com uma ternura que contrastava com a intensidade do que vocês acabavam de compartilhar. E quando finalmente se acomodou ao seu lado, seus braços ainda envolvendo seu corpo como um escudo protetor, ele sussurrou contra sua pele as mesmas palavras que repetiria até o fim de seus dias.
Summary: Bikinis leave Andrew Cody completely mesmerized, even more so if the one wearing them is you.
notes: man, I'm TERRIBLE at writing spicy things, but I got so excited writing this that I had to post it! if you want a part 2, comment and liked, plsss 🤍👋🏽
warnings: 18 M D N I. observant andrew, dirty talk, fingering, breast fixation, sexual tension, teasing game, female masturbation, unspecified age difference, female reader with hair long, Andrew a bit awkward and a hell of a talker, nipple play, wet kisses, penetration with fingers.
REMEMBER: English is NOT my first language, sorry for any confusion or mistakes :p Support real authors, don't use AI.
The sun, merciless in its Californian glory, turned skin into a clear, liquid mirror; at any opportunity, the Codys would be throwing a pool party or just gathering to drink and smoke at the water's edge. You, freshly out of the pool water, felt the coolness of the chlorine evaporating in waves of heat, as you sat on the lounger and spread the tanning lotion with slow, circular movements over your forearms.
The bikini you wore was daring. A floral print with a light background like the waters of a lake, where vibrantly colored flowers seemed to have sprouted directly onto the minimal fabric. The bottom piece, damn, was an invitation to the imagination, with little flowers that tied at the sides with small knots, there formed the valley of your hips as if God had been so inspired that He drew every detail. Creating an angle that elongated your legs and accentuated the generous curve of your hips, the top was a triangle that barely contained the volume of your breasts, held up by thin straps that got lost on your back, offering a tantalizing glimpse of the bare skin of your spine. Every movement and breath made the fabric adjust and mold itself, as if the clothing itself were alive and eager to explore every inch of your geography.
Your presence there was already commonplace; being a good old friend of Joshua's, you started frequenting the house ever since he felt comfortable enough to bring you there. Of course, you didn't know everything about the Codys and Josh thought it was better that way and you also didn't care about the mysteries that family held, because just being able to have a little bit of Andrew Cody made it all worth it.
You found it cute the way he totally lost focus when you showed up at the house and especially on hot days when his nephew invited you for a dip in the pool, your eyes noticed how the man some years older than you almost drooled with delight at the sight of you there.
It was in this setting of sun-drenched languor that Andrew completely lost any remaining shred of decency. He was reclining on one of the more distant wooden loungers, under the partial shade of a canvas umbrella with a beer bottle sweating in his hands. Until that moment, his honey-colored eyes, covered by dark sunglasses, wandered distractedly over your body in the landscape, the reflection of light on the water, the cigarette burning slowly between his long fingers.
Then, you leaned forward to reach the bottle of tanning lotion on the table again and Andrew felt as if he were in the worst heist in the world, his heart racing and throat dry in pure adrenaline. The sight of your bare back, the perfect curve of your spine that his lascivious eyes followed until they reached the two dimples at the end of your hip, the subtle movement of your shoulders... That was the first blow.
The second came when you turned around, still with the tanning lotion in hand, and he could contemplate the complete spectacle, an almost private little show where your breasts, firm and full, rested on the triangle of fabric like ripe fruits and the soft skin of your chest shining with the moisture of your sweat mixed with the pool water. The line of your neck, the prominent collarbone, the small space between your breasts where a drop of water stubbornly insisted on running down, tracing a slow path until disappearing into the fabric.
Pope's mouth was dry and he bet that even with the dark glasses it was noticeable that he was devouring you with his gaze, the beer bottle almost slipped when you daringly pulled the bikini straps to apply more of the product, but Andrew caught himself at the last instant.
He knew he should stop staring at you, stop observing and desiring you, but it was impossible; his eyes traveled over you like an explorer in unknown land, devouring every detail with a hunger that bordered on cannibalism. He followed the trail of water that still ran down from your body, the way the drops gathered on the inner curve of your thigh before running down your calf and getting lost on the ceramic floor. He observed how the light, almost non-existent breeze made the ends of your wet hair curl against your nape, how the small strands of hair stuck to your temple.
His jaw relaxed, his lips parted slightly, and for a moment, Andrew's expression completely fell apart. There was something animalistic in his gaze now; he looked like a man who had just discovered thirst after years in the desert and you were the only source of water in sight
You felt the weight of that gaze on your skin and there was something magnetic in that sensation, an electricity that ran down your spine every time you noticed Andrew Cody's eyes fixed on you, even if hidden behind the dark lenses of the sunglasses. It was a secret knowledge that you kept to yourself like a precious treasure, the certainty that you were capable of dismantling that man with a simple movement.
The warm breeze danced around your body and you let your fingers slide slowly over your thigh, spreading more of the tanning lotion than was necessary, with deliberate calm. You felt the damp fabric of the bikini against your skin, the way it adjusted, and you knew exactly the effect that sight provoked in Andrew.
Your eyes turned to him for an instant, just long enough to confirm what you already suspected. Andrew's body was rigid on the lounger, his jaw clenched, the muscles of his neck tense and you could swear you saw a light layer of sweat on his forehead that had nothing to do with the heat of the day.
With a mischievous smile on your lips, you decided it was time to intensify that little game you had dominated since the moment you arrived at the house. Leaning back, you placed your hands on the lounger and stretched your legs, elongating your body like a lazy cat. Your bust lifted with the movement, the bikini fabric stretching dangerously over the generous curve of your chest. You saw Andrew's fingers contract around the bottle, his knuckles turning white.
The noise of the pool water, the distant laughter of the other residents, all of it seemed to have dissolved into an irrelevant mist. The world had reduced itself to that small stage where you performed with Andrew as your one and most dedicated audience. You ran your fingers through your still-damp hair, throwing your head back in a movement that exposed the long line of your neck, a silent invitation you knew he couldn't refuse.
"It's hot today, don't you think?" your voice came out lower than necessary, a purr filled with ill-intentioned intimacy.
Andrew didn't answer immediately and you knew why. The words seemed to have gotten lost somewhere between the sight of your wet legs and the curve of your waist. When he finally had a reaction, it wasn't exactly a verbal answer, but something like an uncomfortable grumble due to the palpable tension forming around both of you.
"Hm..." he emitted, the echo sounding distant, as if he wasn't sure how to react.
You smiled broadly, your plump lips stretching over your pretty face, then your body rose from the lounger with calculated grace, every movement designed to maximize the impact it would have on the older man. The sun behind you created a silhouette that accentuated every curve of your body and you felt Andrew's gaze run over it almost like a physical caress. As you passed by him toward the leisure area table to grab a soda, you made a point of staying close, near enough that he could smell the tanning lotion mixed with your perfume and the chlorine from the pool.
The minibar was a few steps from Andrew's lounger, a distance that you covered with slowness and you knew that the small flower knots that held the sides of the bikini were on display, a detail you bet Andrew hadn't let go unnoticed. When you leaned over to grab a can, you felt the bikini fabric adjust to the curves of your bottom and knew he was watching.
It was then that you made the boldest decision of the day and with the can in hand, you turned to face him, your eyes meeting directly through the dark lenses of his glasses. You didn't look away and neither did he. That moment of eye contact was a silent confession, an admission that both were aware of the game unfolding between you.
"Are you watching me, Andy?" your question was a whisper, the use of the affectionate nickname that only you used carried the weight of a declaration. At first the older man didn't answer. His lips curved into a smile that was at once guilty and defiant.
"It would be impossible not to watch" he confessed at last.
"You are... a sight hard to ignore."
You felt your blood heat under your skin, an excitement that ran through your body like an electric current. Andrew had finally admitted it and that only encouraged you to continue. You approached him, your steps silent against the ceramic floor and carrying the cold can between your fingers. Each step was a question and Andrew remained motionless.
When you finally stood in front of him in fact, with the shadow of the umbrella covering you both, you felt powerful. He was sitting and you standing, a position that gave you a momentary advantage. You tilted your body slightly forward, your breasts getting closer to his face, you noticed Andrew's breathing becoming shorter, his lips parting while his ears turned reddish.
"And what exactly are you seeing?" you asked, your voice still low, almost a little secret between the two of you.
Andrew's eyes, even hidden, seemed to burn through the dark lenses. His hand contracted and for a moment you thought he was going to touch you, but he just adjusted the dark glasses on his face, as if he needed a physical barrier against the intensity of the moment.
"I'm seeing a girl who knows exactly what she's doing," he replied with that low, dangerous tone, there was a note of admiration in his voice. "A little girl who is testing the limits to see how far she can go."
You smiled, a slow and satisfied smile. He had understood the game and that made everything more exciting. With a graceful movement, you sat on the edge of the lounger so close as to touch him, but close enough for the energy between you to become almost palpable. Andrew could feel your warmth. You crossed your legs, the gesture making the skin of your thigh stretch softly under the sunlight.
"And are you liking what you're seeing?" you asked, the final question, the one that would decide the course of the rest of the afternoon.
Andrew took off his dark glasses slowly, revealing those honey-colored eyes you so appreciated. Without the barrier of the lenses, the intensity of his gaze was almost overwhelming and you held back a sigh. He studied you as if memorizing every detail of your face, the path the light made on your skin, the way your lips curved into a provocative smile.
"Hm, yeah" he admitted with honesty. "And I think you know that very well."
The confirmation was all you needed. You placed the coke can on the floor, the game had reached a new level and you definitely had no intention of backing down. With a slow, deliberate movement, you leaned toward him, your faces now separated by only a few centimeters.
You glimpsed Andrew's intense eyes, the molasses color at the edges being gradually dominated by the black dilation of his pupils. His curly hair in that brownish tone that reminded you of a hot ember. His bare chest full of freckles that made your fingers itch to touch, but not yet. Not yet.
"Well" you whispered, leaning in even more and feeling your bust press against his forearm, your lips almost brushing the older man's ear. "What are you going to do about it, Andy?"
The question hung in the air like an incandescent ember, burning the reduced space between you. You felt Andrew's body contract under the pressure of your bust against his forearm, his breathing becoming irregular, where each exhale came followed by a small tremor that you could feel vibrating through your skin. The honey-colored eyes darkened even more, the dilated pupils consuming the iris like a fire spreading through a dry forest.
Andrew remained motionless for a long moment, where it gave you the sensation of almost hearing the gears of his self-control wearing down under the weight of your proximity. The hand that was resting on the lounger closed slowly, the knuckles turning white under the tension. You saw the movement of his throat when Andrew swallowed dry, the Adam's apple rising and falling in a gesture that was almost a prayer.
"What am I going to do about it?" he repeated, his voice so low it was almost a growl, a sound that came from the depths of his chest. "Are you sure you want to know the answer to that question?"
There was a warning in his words, a fine line between desire and caution, because despite everything you knew the 'danger' that Pope Cody could mean, however you hadn't come this far to back down. Your fingers found their way to his arm, sliding over the hot, salty skin, tracing random patterns that seemed to make Andrew's muscles contract under your touch.
"I never ask questions I don't want answers to" you whispered, your lips still close to his ear, your warm breath caressing the sensitive skin and making the curls at his temple move slightly. "So, Andy... what are you going to do?"
The last word had barely left your lips when Andrew moved. It was fast, a fluid and determined movement that surprised you with its intensity. He rose from the lounger in a single movement and you found yourself being pulled up with him, his hands finding your hips in a firm grip that made it clear there was no hesitation in his gestures.
"You want to know?" his voice was hoarse, his dark eyes fixed on yours with an intensity that made you feel as if you were being undressed not only of the bikini you wore, but of all your defenses. "Come with me."
It wasn't an invitation. It was an order, delivered with an authority that made your heart race in a way no previous provocation had managed. Andrew didn't wait for a verbal answer, his hand slid from your hips to your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours with a familiarity that seemed to suggest he had done this a thousand times before, even though it was the first time.
Andrew pulled you away from the pool area, his steps long and determined as he guided you through the sunny garden toward the house. You felt the warmth of his hand against yours, the way his fingers tightened with a force that was at once possessive and careful. Everything became a distant buzz, irrelevant in the face of what was about to happen.
The sliding glass door that led to the older Cody's immaculate bedroom opened, yielding under the pressure of Andrew's free hand, you entered the cool dimness of the room. The contrast between the scorching heat of the sun and the freezing air conditioning made your skin shiver, the small hairs on your arms standing up in an involuntary response. Andrew noticed, his eyes traveling over your arms before settling again on your face.
"Cold now?" he asked, his voice still hoarse, but now with a tone of concern that contrasted with the intensity of seconds before. This duality of his was so natural, always oscillating between seriousness, protection, and neediness. So different from the violent Pope the rest of California knew.
You shook your head, a smile playing on your lips. "It's not cold that's making me tremble."
Andrew's eyes darkened again, the concern giving way to something deeper, more urgent. He pulled you closer, your body finding his in a perfect fit that made you hold your breath. The hand that still held yours released, and both hands found your waist, his thumbs tracing slow circles over the tanned, bare skin exposed above the waistband of the bikini.
"You have no idea what you're doing to me," he murmured, his forehead leaning to touch yours, his eyes closed for a moment as if he were trying to collect himself. "Every day you show up here, wearing those tiny clothes, those bikinis... Fuck, you know how those damn bikinis drive me crazy. Do you think I don't notice? Do you think I don't see what you're doing?"
His hands slid from your waist to your back, his fingers finding the dimples at the end of your spine, tracing the path of the water that earlier ran down your skin. You felt his touch like a burning brand, each point of contact a small burn of desire that spread.
"And what am I doing?" you asked, your voice coming out weaker than you intended, the provocation giving way to a vulnerability you hadn't planned to reveal.
Andrew opened his eyes, and what you saw in them made you forget how to breathe. It wasn't just desire, although there was plenty of that. It was admiration, it was reverence, it was a kind of devotion that seemed out of place in a man like him. The man who always seemed so controlled, so distant, so impossible to reach.
"You're taking me apart piece by piece" he replied, his voice a hoarse whisper that seemed to come from somewhere very deep inside him. "And you don't even have to do anything other than exist. You drive me completely crazy and I hate how much I like it."
One of his hands found your face, squeezing his fingers and then sliding along the curve of your jaw, his thumb tracing the outline of your lower lip with a lightness that contrasted with the intensity of his gaze and touch. You felt your heart beat so hard you were sure he could hear it, each pulsation echoing in the silence of the room.
"Andrew..." you began, but the words died on your lips when he tilted his face, his lips hovering a minimal distance from yours.
"You want to know what I'm going to do about it?" he asked, his warm breath mixing with yours. "I'm going to spend the next few hours showing exactly what you do to me. And when I'm done, you won't remember what life was like before knowing what it is to be desired by me."
The promise in his words was like an electric shock, running through your body from head to toe. You opened your mouth in a totally mute moan, your eyebrows furrowed in pure ecstasy of desire as you felt your knees weaken, Andrew's hand that wasn't on your face squeezed your waist, holding you steady.
"Show me... If you're capable."
A slow and dangerous smile spread across Andrew's lips, a smile that was, definitively, a threat. "Then you'll have to bear the consequences of your words" he replied, and before you could process what that meant, he pulled you closer, his lips finally finding yours.
The kiss was everything you imagined and more. It wasn't gentle nor hesitant, it was hunger, it was too much time of repressed desire breaking free all at once. Andrew's lips moved against yours with a breathless urgency, one hand sliding to the nape of your neck to hold you in place, the other squeezing your waist with a force that made you feel anchored, surely the next day there would be marks of his digits on your skin.
You responded to the kiss with equal intensity, your hands finding their way to the dark curls of his hair, your fingers tangling in the strands as you pulled him closer, moaning against the other's mouth. He made a low sound against your lips, a muffled groan that vibrated through your body and spread like fire through your veins. There was so much tongue and saliva, it was messy and desperate, pure reflection of the burning desire that was unleashed by both.
The hand that was on your nape slid to your back, his fingers finding the tiny knots that held the sides of your bikini. You felt his fingers playing with the strings, a slow and deliberate movement that promised what was to come.
Andrew pulled you, each step was a dance, bodies touching, adjusting, anticipating what was to come. His large palm found yours again, his fingers intertwined as he led you to the bed and you could only notice his robust, masculine build, the veins constrasting against the freckles on his shoulders and along his big arms.
Andrew laid you on his neatly made bed, covering your outlined and delicious body over yours, a wall of heat against you, his lips finding yours again with an urgency that seemed to have increased in the few seconds you had been apart. His thick fingers found your thighs, his fingers sliding over the fragrant skin of the tanning lotion and the slight coolness of the pool, removing from there the last remnants of the water drops that still insisted on running down.
"You're so beautiful" Cody murmured, his lips leaving yours to trace a path along your jaw, descending to your neck and biting the skin. "So beautiful... Fuck."
You tilted your head back, giving him more access to your neck, a sigh escaping your lips when his teeth found the sensitive skin below your ear.
"Andrew..." your whisper was a prayer, a request, an invitation. You wanted to give everything to him, body and soul.
He responded with a movement of his hips against yours, a gesture that made clear exactly what he wanted, exactly what he was willing to give. His hands found the thin straps of your bikini again, his fingers sliding under the fabric, skin finding skin in a contact that was at once intimate and insufficient.
With his fingertips, he found the knots of your bikini, his fingers playing with the strings, to finally pull one of the knots, watching mesmerized the fabric coming loose with a quick movement. The breeze of the air conditioning touched the now exposed skin and you felt a shiver run through your body. Andrew's eyes followed the movement of the falling fabric, and there was something almost devotional in his gaze.
"Look at you" he murmured, his voice full of admiration, hoarse and drawn out. "Perfect. Simply perfect."
You felt the blood rise to your cheeks under the weight of that gaze, but there was no shame in you, only an excitement that grew with every second and in response your fingers slid over the hot, defined skin of his belly. Andrew held his breath when your fingers touched there, you felt the abdominal muscles contract under your touch.
"You're not the only one who can tease" you whispered, a mischievous smile touching your lips.
Andrew let out a low laugh and shook his head, his curls bouncing and the expression lines beside his eyes becoming more visible. "You're a little temptation," he said, leaning in to kiss you again. "And I'm about to taste every piece of you."
The kiss was slower this time, more exploratory, as if he had decided he had all the time in the world and maybe, at that moment, you both did. Time seemed to have stopped, the world reduced to that room, to that bed, to that man who looked at you as if you were the only thing that mattered. His hands found your body with a familiarity that seemed ancient, as if he had already mapped every curve, every corner, every secret of your skin and you let yourself be carried away, surrendering to that moment with a trust that came from knowing you were exactly where you should be.
"I want to taste you" the older man said, pulling away, a thread of saliva still connecting your mouths and for you it was impossible not to move your hips forward in search of contact.
The confession was a shock of electricity, running through your body and concentrating on a hot spot at the center of your being. You opened your mouth to respond, but the words died on your lips when he would finally give attention to your breasts.
Andrew stopped for a moment, his eyes traveling over the sight that presented itself before him as if he were contemplating a rare work of art. Your breasts were firm and full, your nipples already hardened by the cold air and excitement, the golden-toned shine that seemed more vibrant under the light that came through the windows.
"God in heaven" he whispered, his voice hoarse and full of admiration. "Look at you. I knew they were beautiful, but this... this is almost too much for a man to bear."
His hand found one of your breasts, his calloused palm sliding over the soft skin with a pressure that was at once firm and reverent. His thumb found your nipple, tracing circles around the sensitive tip until you felt a shiver run down your spine.
The older man's fingertips were rough, marks of a job he didn't need to do, but that he chose to do for the family and each point of contact was a shock of sensations. You tilted your head back, your eyes closing as you surrendered to the sensation of his hands exploring your body.
"Look at me" he ordered, his voice low, but firm. "I want to see your eyes when I touch you."
You obeyed, your eyes finding his while Andrew's hand squeezed your breast with more force, his fingers finding your nipple and grazing it with a precision that made your knees tremble. The smile that spread across Andrew's lips was at once satisfied and dangerous.
"Good girl" he murmured with approval sounding in his voice, making your body respond in a way you didn't expect. "You like that, don't you? Being watched. Being desired. Knowing that you're the only thing I can see when you're around."
The hand that was still on your hip slid back, finding the curve of your bottom, his fingers squeezing the flesh with a force over the only piece that still covered you, making you gasp. Andrew leaned forward, his lips finding your neck in a kiss that was more bite than caress.
"That ass... Fuck" Andrew murmured against your skin, his voice a muffled growl. "You have no idea what that hot ass does to me when you walk by the pool. When you lean over to pick something up. When you wear those tiny bikinis that barely cover..."
He squeezed again, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh and you felt a moan escape your lips, a sound that seemed to encourage him even more. The hand that was on your breast slid down, his fingers tracing the path of your belly, stopping at the curve of your hip before continuing downward.
"Do you know how many times I've imagined this, baby?" he asked, his voice even lower, hoarser, as if he were sharing a secret he had never said out loud. "How many nights I stayed awake thinking about how you would be beneath me. About how your legs would feel wrapped around my waist. About how you would moan when I fucked that tight little pussy..."
The words left you breathless and you realized you were as lost as he was. Your hands found their way to his well-defined trapezius and scratching, pulling him closer as he watched you with an amused smile.
Despite being a good few years older, Andrew Cody was a sight that took your breath away. His broad chest, the defined muscles that contracted under the soft skin, the brownish chest hair in a reddish tone, fine strands that started at the center of his chest and descended in a line that disappeared at the waistband of his pants. The freckles scattered under his skin like constellations you wanted to orbit. His skin was warm to the touch, and when your fingers finally found their way to his chest, you felt Andrew hold his breath.
"You're so handsome" you murmured, the words escaping before you could hold them back.
He laughed softly, in that restrained way but that vibrated through his chest under your fingers. "Handsome?" he repeated, the incredulity in his voice making you smile.
"You're calling me handsome while you're almost naked in front of me? I think you're confusing things, sweetheart."
But there was a sparkle in his eyes, a satisfaction he couldn't hide, and you knew he had liked what you said. Your hands found the waistband of his shorts, your fingers sliding under the waistband, the warm skin under your fingers making your heart race.
"I think you're wearing too many clothes" you said, your voice a whisper that was at once a request and a provocation.
Andrew tilted his head, his dark eyes fixed on yours while your fingers worked on the fastening of his pants. "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice a low growl. "Because when these clothes come off, there's no going back. You'll have to deal with the consequences."
"Those are the consequences I want" you replied, your voice firm despite the tremor that ran through your body.
The shorts yielded under your fingers and in a fluid movement fell, leaving him only in swim trunks. Andrew's eyes never left yours as he leaned in to kiss you again and the kiss was everything you remembered and more.
The sensation of his skin against yours was a revelation, every inch of contact a discovery. You felt his hands find your bottom again, squeezing with a force that pulled you closer, his body pressing against yours in a way that made clear exactly what he wanted.
"You're addictive" he murmured against your lips, his voice a hoarse whisper. "You're the most dangerous drug I've ever tried."
His hand slid between your bodies, finding the center of your desire. His fingers found their way through the wetness that already gathered, tracing patterns that made your body arch against his.
"You're already so wet" he said, the admiration and desire palpable in his voice. "Were you like this since the pool? Or was it only when I brought you here?"
"Andrew, please..." you gasped, the words escaping before you could control them.
"Please, what?" he asked, his fingers continuing their slow and deliberate movement. "You're going to have to be more specific, honey. What do you want? What do you need?"
His fingers found the most sensitive spot, pressing the nerves with the exact precision needed to make you arch. His thumb circling against your swollen clit, while you squeezed at nothing, wanting something to fill you. He held your thigh firmly, held tight, his eyes fixed on yours while he now penetrated you with two of his thick fingers.
"I want you" you said with need, your nails scratching the older man's bare torso, your eyes overflowing with desire just like your pussy. "I want you inside me."
Andrew smiled, revealing his slightly misaligned teeth, which you would find cute and boyish if that same man weren't with his fingers buried in your pussy.
"I know you want it" he replied, his voice low and full of promises. "But it's not going to be that easy. You spent the whole day teasing me, driving me crazy, and now you're going to have to take it."
His fingers withdrew, leaving you feeling a sudden emptiness, he arranged you on the mattress and your skin shivered with the soft comforter against your bare skin and in a second, Andrew was over you, his body covering yours, his weight an anchor that kept you in the present moment.
"You're so beautiful like this" he said, his eyes traveling over your body with an intensity that made your skin warm under his gaze. "You have no idea what you do to me. How I get when you're around. How I get hard just thinking about you."
His words were direct, raw and each one was a shock of excitement that ran through your core. His hand found your breast again, his fingers squeezing with a force that made your body arch against him.
"Do you like that?" he asked, his voice a low growl. "When I touch you like this?"
"Yes" you replied, your voice a sigh. "Yes, I like it."
He continued, his hand squeezing harder. "Do you like when I kiss them? When I suck them until you can't think of anything else?" The question was a provocation, an invitation to a game you were eager to play.
"Yes" you repeated, your voice hoarser now. "I want you to do all that to me."
Andrew didn't need to hear anything else. He tilted his head, his mouth finding your breast with a hunger that took your breath away. The sensation of his hot mouth around your nipple was almost unbearable, a wave of pleasure that ran through your body like an electric current. His tongue traced circles around the sensitive tip before sucking with a pressure that made your hips rise against his.
"You're so sweet" he murmured, his voice muffled against your wet breast. "I could spend hours devouring you, tasting you..."
His mouth moved to the other breast, giving it the same attention, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin with a precision that made your body tremble under him. His hands found your hips, his fingers squeezing the flesh while he moved, his body pressing against yours, the evidence of his desire palpable against your thigh.
"Do you feel that?" he asked, his voice a growl as he pressed his hips against yours. "Do you feel what you do to me?"
"Uhum" you moaned, the sound a mix of desire and surrender. "Oh, fuck, Andrew, yes..."
He moved over you, his lips tracing a path of kisses and bites from your chest to your belly, each touch a promise of what was to come. When he reached the curve of your hip, he stopped, his eyes finding yours while his fingers played with the elastic of the bikini bottom, which you still wore.
His hand found its way through the floral fabric, his fingers pressing against the spot where your body was already wet and eager from the previous caresses. You gasped, your hips rising against the pressure of his fingers, a moan escaping your lips.
"You think you can come here, wearing those tiny bikinis that drive everyone crazy" he whispered against your skin, his voice a muffled growl. "You think you can tease me all day and then ask politely for me to fuck you?"
His free hand delivered a slap to your bottom, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh with a force that made you feel completely dominated. You felt the weight of his body against yours, the way he kept you motionless under him.
"You're going to have to beg" he continued, his voice a hoarse whisper. "You're going to have to show me how much you want it. How much you need it. And when you finally beg nicely, maybe, just maybe, I'll give you everything you want."
His hand found the waistband of the bikini bottom, his fingers sliding under the fabric, finding the warm, wet skin again. You felt his fingers trace a slow path through your wetness, pressing against the most sensitive spot with a precision that made your body tremble.
"You're so wet" he murmured, his voice full of admiration. "So wet, so hot, so ready for me. And I haven't even started yet."
His fingers found your entrance, pressing with a lightness that was at once an invitation and a torture. You felt your body open for him, your muscles contracting around his fingers as he inserted them slowly, one at a time.
"This's so good" you gasped, your eyes closing as he moved his fingers inside you, the rhythm slow and deliberate, each movement a promise of what was to come. "Please... don't stop."
His fingers moved faster, his thumb pressing against your clit as he led you toward the edge, and you felt pleasure building like a wave about to break. His mouth found your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin while he whispered obscene words against your skin.
"Do you like this?" he asked, his voice a muffled growl. "Do you like feeling my fingers inside you?"
"Yes, yes, please..." you moaned, your hips moving against his hand, seeking more, always more.
"You're already so close" he murmured, his fingers moving faster. "I want to see you come. I want to feel your body tremble around my fingers. I want to hear you scream my name while I make you lose control."
The words were the final push you needed. Your body arched against him, your mouth opening. Pleasure flooding you in waves that seemed to have no end, your fingers clung to his shoulders, moans escaping your lips like a prayer.
"Andrew!" your scream echoed through the room and he kissed you, swallowing the sounds of your pleasure with a kiss that was at once possessive and passionate.
When the waves of pleasure finally subsided, you lay breathless under him, your body still trembling with the aftermath of what had just happened. He pulled away to look at you, his dark eyes full of a satisfaction that was at once dangerous and seductive.
"That was just the beginning" he said, his voice a hoarse growl. "Now it's my turn."
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