#shcu

deran flies home three days before christmas. you don’t live in oceanside anymore, but you’re still in california: up north, where the beaches aren’t as crowded and twice as beautiful; deran comes by himself and he makes a joke about not wanting to spend the holidays with adrian’s parents but you’re fairly certain he was just looking for an excuse to be with his own family for the first time in years. 

to say he is surprised when he steps through the airport lounge to find three little kids waiting there with a WELCOME UNCLE DERAN sign is an understatement. The sign is big and messy, much like your home life— there are hand prints in red and green adorned around the words, crudely drawn christmas trees adorned in glitter and the ‘e’ in deran is written backwards because each kid wrote one of the words and julia is still learning her letters. 

you’ve never met deran before. pope kept you away from his family when the two of you first started dating and, while you’d been offended at first, it was easy to see the level of damage that his childhood had done to his psyche, so you stayed away. it’s been almost a decade since then though and, apart from andrew, deran is the only one alive— so you pull him into a hug as if you’ve known each other for decades before introducing each of the kids: the twins, theo and ethan, who are both six and absolute menaces and then julia, at just four years old, that looks so much like your andrew as she shies away from deran’s greetings. 

“andy told us so much about you.” you say, unable to hide your smile when andrew himself pulls deran into a long hug; you know how hard it is for him to initiate contact and, although it has mellowed out with the children, it still takes a lot for him to stiffly wrap his arms around his younger brother’s shoulders.

“three kids, huh?” deran asks that evening, long after the children have gone to bed. the three of you sit on the back porch of your home, pope and deran side by side while you sit perched on pope’s lap. deran is on his second beer while you and pope share a glass of iced tea— andrew stopped drinking years ago, before the twins, after he finally managed to find a psychiatrist he could trust. 

“four.” pope says, big hands sprawling over your stomach. “her due date’s in may.”

“holy shit.” deran shakes his head, but the smile that curls around the bottle is a fond one. “pope cody, family man. who would’ve guessed.”

“i knew from the day we met.” you say, then, turning a little from your spot so you could look down at your husband. andrew’s head tilts back against the beach chair and you bring a hand up, tucking a stray curl — more grey than ginger, now — behind his ear. “knew it from the moment i saw how good he was with lena.” 

andrew’s face blushes hard, bright red as it always does whenever you compliment him. he presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist and whatever he’s about to say is drowned out by a loud, whiny ‘daddyyyyyy’ coming from the living room. pope is out of the chair before you can even register julia’s voice, his hands gently cradling your hips to guide you back into his seat before he disappears into the house. 

“he’s happy.” deran breaks the silence the two of you fall into. you bite your bottom lip, watching through the window as andrew throws julia over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “i don’t think i’ve ever seen pope unclench his asshole before.” 

you giggle, finishing your tea, knees to your chest— as much as your hardening belly allows you to, anyway. the night sky is bright with silver stars above you, the ocean breeze just enough to make it chilly. you know what deran means, you’ve met the uptight, overvigilant version of andrew, but it’s so far in the past you can barely remember what he was like before.

“he’s loved.” you say, eventually. “i think that’s the main difference.” 

“thank you.” deran tells you. you take your eyes from the stars to look at him, blinking in confusion. “for loving him.” 

you don’t know how to answer that. it doesn’t seem like the sort of action that requires a thank you, it’s not the sort of thing you could ever stop and it surely isn’t labor; but you think you understand, deep down, what deran means. pope hasn’t had people love him — truly love him — before. 

“pope didn’t even tell me he has kids.” deran groans when you don’t say anything, rubbing his forehead. “i’m gon’ have to run around the mall on christmas’ eve to get gifts for the damn brady bunch because the motherfucker didn’t warn me.” 

you bark out a laugh. “it’s alright, deran.” 

“no, it isn’t— i can’t have these kids thinking i’m a shit uncle on our first christmas together.”

“i’m sure you’ll find a way to get him back for it.” 

“oh, i will.” deran turns his head to you, a small grin on his lips. “did he ever tell you about the permanent marker incident?”

“he did.” you point a finger at him. “and you will not ruin my christmas pictures, sir. go sow all of his leg pants shut or something like a normal brother.”

“what’re we talking about?” andrew says, coming back through the sliding glass door. 

“julia alright?” you ask, getting up just so you can crawl back onto his lap. 

“blankie went awol, she dropped him in her sleep. ‘s all good now.”

“we were talking about how much of an asshole my big brother is for not telling me there would be kids in the house on christmas. do you have any idea how much cheaper it would’ve been if i bought their presents from home?”

“deran’s going to get revenge on you for making him fist fight all the other deadbeat uncles that are buying kids toys on christmas eve.” 

andrew snorts, a hand running up and down your thigh. “i know where all the permanent markers are in this house.”

“absolutely not.” you waggle a finger at the both of them. “no permanent markers anywhere visible on photos.”

“your woman’s damn bossy, pope.”

andrew grins up at you. “yeah, she is.”

You wouldn’t say that you have favourites, per se. It’s hard to describe a casual situationship as anything but that, but you’d say that Jack Abbot treats you better than every ex boyfriend you’ve ever had.

You’d met him by chance, in the most ridiculous meet cute way. Something you’d write about, in fact.

You had been in your local bookstore, silently celebrating your first traditionally published novella. After three years of self publishing, dealing with Amazon (ew) and indie contracts, you’d scored a deal with a traditional printing house.

It had been kind of surreal, seeing your name on a book in a chain bookstore, something you’d dreamed of since your age had been in single digits. You’d been stealthily signing a couple of copies, hiding them in the stack, too lost in your own world to notice the older man when you’d taken a step back and almost tripped right over him.

Holding a copy of your book to your chest, you’d felt warmth rush to your face, embarrassment almost entirely overwhelming you when you realised he wasn’t not just some older guy, but handsome. Broad shoulders, salt and pepper curls, bright hazel eyes, and, if the black scrubs he was wearing were any indication, a doctor.

“Oh, god, I’m so sorry,” you had said, mortified, but he had just smiled at you, a lopsided little smirk that made the creases at the corners of his eyes more prominent.

“Don’t be. Yours?” He had asked, nodding at the book and pen in your hands.

You had been surprised, nodded, half expecting him to say something derisive about chick lit and porn in written form, but he hadn’t. He’d just smiled at you again, told you he’d noticed you signing a couple of the books.

He had been curious, sweet, bordering on flirty, and when he’d picked up a copy of your book and asked you to sign it for him, you’d taken a risk and added your phone number beneath it. You’d never expected anything to come from it, but he’d sent you a text just a few hours later.

Over the next few months, you’d gotten to know Jack better. He was an emergency medicine physician, a senior attending at a level one trauma centre. He worked the night shift. He was an army veteran, a widower, an amputee.

He was your friend, first and foremost, but you were comfortable enough with each other to let that friendship blur into sex without any sort of expectations.

Jack was still grieving his late wife, and you weren't really looking for anything serious; you wanted to primarily focus on your career, on letting your creativity bloom.

It was a good, practical, happy arrangement. Jack was lonely, you were lonely, and he made far more money than a guy who was technically single could ever need, in his words.

So while a lot of your relationship was built on friendship, on keeping each other company, there was also a part of it that was decidedly built on erotica.

Sexts, heated makeouts, long afternoons or, on his days off, nights of multiple rounds of mind blowing sex. You had no idea how a man of fifty had the stamina that Jack does, but you sure as hell had no complaints.

While you weren't together, there was an exclusivity to your arrangement. You both had attachment issues, but the maturity to know it and discuss it.

Said discussion had come about when you'd been discussing the idea of not using condoms anymore; you had had permanent contraception done in your late twenties, so it wasn't like you were going to get pregnant any time soon. Or ever, for that matter, which you preferred.

"Why would I seek out anyone else's company, sweetheart? We get along just fine, don't we?" Jack had said.

Regardless, he'd provided you with a screening to put your mind at ease, even though you hadn't asked.

You'd been pretty upfront; like him, you weren't looking for a label, but you liked the relationship you had. You weren't interested in having this sort of thing with anyone else, not when Jack was so good to you.

He took you out to nice restaurants, occasionally bought you little gifts. Jewellery, books, little trinkets for your bookshelves at home.

For a not boyfriend, he was considerate, too. He'd bought your favourite skincare products and perfume to leave at his place, bought you flowers for each chapter of your next novel you finished.

When your laptop had crapped out on you, he'd replaced it as soon as he'd heard about it. 

You sometimes weren't sure if you felt right about letting him spend so much money on you, but he'd just waved his hands.

"Don't exactly have anyone else to spend it on. Besides, I like spoiling you. You deserve it, and you don't expect it. Just like I don't expect anything in return."

Sometimes you accompany him to events if he wants a plus one. You're beautiful, according to Jack, and he likes showing you off.

"My girl's a writer," he would say proudly each time he introduced you to somebody, so open and confident that nobody judged your choice of career.

Tonight is one such night; Jack tells you he has an old army friend coming down from Boston for work. A chef, he says, owns a Michelin star restaurant up that way.

They're catching up for a couple beers and rounds of pool at a bar Jack likes, and he wonders if you'd like to come along.

You don't see why not. This isn’t totally out of the ordinary; you hang out with Jack often enough, have met his best friend once or twice. Besides, you know – and like – the bar he’s talking about.

By around six thirty, you’re stepping into the bar in a pair of high-waist jeans, a deep wine red tee that shows just a peek of midriff, and a washed out black denim jacket. Cute, put together, but casual enough that you don’t feel like you’re trying too hard.

That’s another thing you like about Jack; you never feel like you have to be someone you’re not. He’d told you once – whilst he was inside you, of all times, your wrists pinned above your head in one big, gentle hand – that he didn’t care if you were wearing a casual grungy look or a pretty dress, he was always one step away from pushing you against the nearest wall. That he thought you were beautiful no matter what you wore.

It was difficult to hear things like that and not feel a little something for him, though you knew that was pretty natural, and not something to be explored. Not right now, or necessarily ever.

You spot Jack by the bar, leaning against it casually, looking far too good in a black t shirt and cargo pants, talking to someone you can’t quite see.

You’re not too sure what to expect; he hadn’t told you much about his friend, only that his name was Grant, he was ex army like Jack, they’d done a couple of deployments together, and he was from Boston.

You were expecting another guy around Jack’s age, like his friend from the trauma centre, sure. What you decidedly were not expecting, was for him to so closely resemble Jack.

Grant stands a little taller, has a bit more ease to his posture, which after spending so much time with Jack, you recognise as a trait the latter doesn’t have due to being an amputee.

His hair is a little longer, more of a tangled mess of salt and pepper curls than Jack, but he’s no less built, has stupidly thick biceps that are on the border of obscene peeking out of a white t shirt. White shirt, black jeans, laced up dark boots.

You’re staring and you know it, cough and blink rapidly, completely missing the almost knowing smirk that the two gorgeous older men share.

The bar is a nice temperature, the music loud enough to be heard but not overbearing, so you can still hear each other talk.

You slot into the conversation nicely, find Grant just as easy to talk to as Jack, even if he seems a little more cautious, a little more careful.

Two pints and a couple of games of pool later, and the three of you seem to be getting along just fine, all comfortable with each other, laughing and joking. You can tell they’ve known each other a long time – over twenty years, Grant tells you when Jack goes off to grab another round of drinks after they finally get you to agree to play a round, rather than just watching.

That explains their easy dynamic, you think as you step around the pool table, try to balance the cue properly in your hands.

It’s not that you don’t know how to play – you most certainly do – it’s just been a while and you’re not so confident around this incredibly handsome near stranger. After a couple of failed attempts at lining up a shot, you huff, consider just giving up.

Grant watches you for a moment, as if trying to decide something, then circles the table and tilts his head slightly, before he steps behind you, your back against his chest.

His firm hands are gentle as he adjusts yours, guiding your body into a different stance. “There you go. Now try.”

His voice is low, raspy, just like Jack, but there’s a little more hoarseness to his. You suppose that’s to do with having to be heard over the sounds of the kitchen, which must be deafening.

Close to your ear, you have to resist the shiver that threatens to run down your spine. He’s so warm and solid against your back, his arms against yours as you line up your shot with his help. You sink the right ball, look up just in time to meet Jack’s eyes as he returns from the bar; you feel your face heating again, feel almost guilty, until you notice the smirk on his face, the glint in his eyes.

For the first time this evening, you start to wonder whether he has an ulterior motive for inviting you out tonight. More importantly, you realise, you want that to be the case.

You get your wish at around nine, when the bar starts to get busier, filling up with college students, and Jack suggests heading back to his place. Not just you and him. The three of you.

The suggestion isn’t entirely surprising; he’s made a comment or two about the idea of bringing a third person into the mix once or twice. Never another woman, though. Jack gets off on getting you off, on having control of the situation, sure, but he’s not interested in making you watch him fuck another woman.

However, what he does like is the way you look when you’re overstimulated, totally fucked out and needy. He likes spoiling you, after all, and this is no different.

You end up sitting between the two older men on Jack’s couch, feeling a little nervous and giddy until Jack kisses you first, clearly the more extroverted of the pair. That or perhaps he’s simply more comfortable with you.

Regardless, when you break apart, it’s entirely clear that the other man is interested, based on the way his hazel eyes are dark with desire as he looks at you.

Somehow, you get the feeling that he won’t be the one to initiate; he seems kind of shy, at least not the same kind of introvert as Jack. That doesn’t bother you, not in the slightest. In fact, you think it’s kind of endearing. Endearing and attractive.

You lean in to kiss him, brush your lips against his at first; it’s not a case of you being nervous, more the idea of making sure that he’s okay with it too.

At first, he doesn’t move, but then perhaps two heartbeats later and he’s pulling you in closer. Two pairs of big, warm hands roam your body as you lean into him, part your lips and let him lick into your mouth.

He kisses differently to Jack, of course. Jack kisses with a sort of self assurance, a quiet confidence. Grant is a little more cautious, not quite hesitant, but with the air of taking his time to figure out what exactly you respond best to.

Idly, you hope that translates over to everything else, too.

You find yourself pressed between them both, alternating between who you kiss while the other kisses your throat, only pausing when the three of you get to your feet, stumble, all three of you almost giggly, to Jack’s bedroom.

“’s easier in here,” he’d said, nodding down at his right leg, or rather, the half of it that’s titanium. Not like you needed an explanation; you’d long since learned to adapt to the physical limitations that came with Jack’s disability.

Grant doesn’t question it either, but that isn’t surprising – they’ve known each other for so long, you suspect since before Jack lost his leg.

You expect there to be a certain amount of awkwardness, or at least to be a bit uncoordinated, considering there’s three of you. Somehow, though, it just works, and you manage to get both of them shirtless.

That in itself is an achievement, considering they work together to get you naked; you’re gently pushed backwards onto the bed while Jack sheds his pants, sits on the edge of the bed to remove his prosthetic, before he’s settling himself behind you, unclasping your pretty lace bra and tossing it aside.

His warm hands cup your tits as you feel his hardened cock pressing against your ass, making you inhale sharply. You love his cock. Are intimately familiar with the thick, heavy length of him, the freckles at the base, the vein along the underside that, when you drag your tongue along it, always makes him groan.

The mystery here is Grant.

The other man removes the rest of his clothing with that same sort of quiet caution, that same caution finally giving way to blatant desire when he sees the way you look him up and down, slowly.

Fuck, he’s handsome. His biceps and pectorals look like they could be carved from marble, there’s a slight softness to his belly, and like Jack, he’s covered in freckles.

“Beautiful,” you breathe before you can help yourself, and only then do you let your gaze wander further south.

With the physical similarities between the two men, you shouldn’t be surprised by the fact that his cock is pretty, too. Just as thick, slightly curved, achingly hard.

You’re about to say something else, but then he’s joining you on the bed, gives Jack a look before the latter is adjusting you so that the other man can settle comfortably on his belly between your thighs, nudging them apart and settling there.

Slowly, agonisingly slowly, he brushes two fingertips along the damp fabric of your panties, has the audacity to smirk as he looks up at you. “Soaked,” he all but murmurs, raspy voice soft as his fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear.

He waits for you to lift your hips so he can pull them down slightly, then tugs them the rest of the way down with his teeth.

You whimper softly as the ruined fabric is tossed aside and he settles himself back between your spread legs, planting open mouthed kisses on your inner thighs.

That he’s a tease doesn’t remotely surprise you. What you like is the way he occasionally glances up at you as he kisses inwards, as if silently checking in with you.

Perhaps it’s because you’re so used to Jack, who knows you and your body so well by now that he touches you with a sort of ease that only really comes after months of intimacy, but this sends a thrill through you.

Speaking of Jack…

He resettles himself behind you, leans in to kiss along your bare shoulder, up your neck, his hands still cupping your tits, thumbs brushing back and forth across your nipples slowly.

“You gonna be good for us?” He breathes into your ear, just as Grant presses an open mouthed kiss to your core, making you whimper and nod.

“No, you use your words,” Jack corrects you almost immediately, settling into that comfortable, confident dominance that you adore.

Just as you open your mouth to answer, Grant chooses that exact moment to circle your clit with the tip of his tongue, moaning as he drags his tongue through your slick folds. You whimper again, go to roll your hips without even thinking about it, but then just as quickly as he started, he’s pulling away from you, just a little, looking up at you with a little smirk on his face. “Jack asked you a question, honey.” His warm breath fans across your sensitive skin. In that moment, you think you might do anything, say anything, so long as it results in getting his mouth back on you.

“Y-yeah, I’ll be good.” You answer shakily, breath catching in your throat as you feel the purr of approval rumbling in Jack’s chest as he resumes kissing your throat.

Based on the way he touches you, featherlight brushes of his fingers across your nipples, smoothing his palms over your curves and back up again, he’s pleased with your answer. He keeps one arm wrapped around you, the other resting at his side.

Meanwhile, Grant resumes the slow, almost languid licks of your folds, intermittently sucking on your clit, moaning into you as you drip slick onto his tongue.

He’s so busy with work, the first to admit he has no life outside of his restaurant. No real hobbies, certainly no time for anything resembling a stable relationship. Hell, he doesn’t even remember the last time he spent a night with someone that wasn’t just a quick hookup.

Grant’s always loved going down on his partners. Loves the way it makes them react, loves the intimacy, and there’s a part of him that just loves the taste. You’re no different, reacting beautifully as he makes out with your pussy, drinking down your slick and teasing your entrance with two fingertips.

He eats you like you’re the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted, making absolutely zero effort to disguise the way he moans into you, the obscene slurping of his tongue and the filthy groan he gives you when he finally pushes his fingers inside you.

“Ohhh, god-” you gasp as he presses one last kiss to your puffy clit before he’s wiping his mouth on your inner thigh, sitting up as he slowly curls his fingers inside you. Jack shifts behind you and you realise he’s stroking his cock with his free hand.

“’s okay, baby, ‘s okay to want him, too-” Jack purrs into your ear, the hand that isn’t wrapped around his thick shaft sliding down to circle your clit in time with the warm fingers pressed knuckle deep inside your pussy.

You kind of assumed that was the case, but it’s still almost relieving to hear him confirm it out loud, so blatantly stated.

“Your pussy’s delicious, honey,” Grant murmurs, rests his head on your thigh for just a moment, looks up at you with pussy drunk eyes.

He kisses his way back up your body, pausing to pay more attention to your nipples, kissing and licking them, making you writhe against Jack, who laughs softly in the vicinity of your ear.

“Gonna tell us what you need, honey?” Grant breathes, brushing his lips against yours, massaging your g-spot before he slowly pulls his fingers out of you, making you whine pathetically as he maintains eye contact, licks his fingers clean with an obscene groan.

“Inside-” you breathe as Jack’s fingers circle your clit. “Want you both-”

The older men exchange a look, silent communication, a smirk, before Jack removes his hand too.

“Up you get, sweetheart. Turn over for us, yeah?”

You do as you’re told, turn onto your front, wait for Jack to move back a bit so he can lean against the headboard. Once he’s settled, you crawl up the bed to get closer to him, feeling the mattress dip a little as Grant moves up behind you, runs his palms over your ass as you settle on your hands and knees, giving him a beautiful view of your slick soaked folds, your soft skin.

Meanwhile, you’re very distracted by Jack’s cock. Fuck, you love his cock. It’s thick and fat and the perfect length, a smattering of freckles dusting the base.

You can’t help yourself – you lean in and press little kisses along the underside, from base to tip. Jack looks down at you, brushes his hand over your cheek as you look up at him, keep eye contact as you kiss the fat tip of his cock, already drooling precum.

Behind you, Grant holds your hips in one hand, grinds against you slowly, resting his equally gorgeous cock on your ass for a moment before he shifts again, wraps his hand around his shaft to guide the tip to your dripping entrance.

You’re so fucking wet. He doesn’t remember the last time someone wanted him so badly. In a moment of briefly selfish relief, he’s glad you’re not too preoccupied with blowing Jack just yet, so he can hear the moan you give him as he presses a couple of inches deep inside you.

He lets out an almost whimpering groan at the feeling of your warm, wet walls enveloping him, the way you angle your hips to give him better access.

“Oh, fuck,” he murmurs, his hands on your hips to steady himself as he slowly stuffs you full of his cock. Your attention is back on Jack by now, sucking on the tip of his cock again, before you take him in deeper, flattening your tongue so you can lick him at the same time.

It’s filthy, obscene, the way you moan around him as Grant’s hips finally meet your ass, the soft, breathy groans he rewards you with, the low almost growls Jack gives you from above.

You start to bob your head, trying to silently demonstrate how much you love sucking his cock as the other man starts to move, slowly grinding against you until he’s so deep you think he might kiss your cervix. Your appreciative moan is a little muffled, but it’s enough to encourage him.

They move almost in sync, Jack gently rolling his hips up, just enough that he’s encouraging you, whilst Grant starts to give you slow, shallow thrusts, letting you get used to the stretch of him inside you.

“Fuck,” he groans softly, breathless, “fuck, your pussy is perfect, baby-”

The praise makes you tighten around him, brief and involuntary, which draws a truly obscene groan from him, a rumbling purr that’s almost immediately echoed by Jack as you swallow around his cock.

Jack loves when you blow him, loves how sloppy and passionate you get with it, drooling all over him as you lick and suck, moaning around him as Grant picks up his pace behind you.

He steadily builds up a good rhythm, eventually giving you full, heavy thrusts, shifting to plant one foot on the mattress to give him better leverage. His hands are firm on your hips, but not bruising, guiding you back onto his cock to meet his thrusts.

“Nngh, mmmffff, fuck-”

He’s vocal, raspy voice dropping an octave lower as he grunts and groans, practically purring as he feels you getting tighter around him. The entire time as he works you up to the edge, you keep giving Jack all your attention with your mouth, wrapping one hand around the base of his shaft and stroking him, making him grunt.

“Mmmffff, shit, sweetheart, your fuckin’ mouth-” Jack groans, cups your face in one hand, brushes his thumb back and forth across your cheek.

“Doesn’t she take our cocks so well?” he asks, looks over your shoulder at Grant. Both of the gorgeous older men are a little flushed in the face, hazel eyes dark, pupils blown wide with lust.

“Nnh, such a good girl-” Grant agrees, giving you a particularly deep thrust that has you mewling.

You’re getting so close, hovering right on the edge of your climax, and they know it. Jack can tell by the change in pitch of your moans, Grant can feel you getting tighter around him, the increase in your already copious slick.

“Ohhh, you’re getting close, aren’t you, sweetheart?” Jack coos knowingly, “c’mon, we both wanna hear what you sound like when you cream all over his cock.”

Taking that as permission, you pull back from his cock, albeit a little reluctant; he really does taste delicious, clean and slightly salty, but there’s also a part of you that wants to focus entirely on your own impending orgasm.

Without having to focus on trying to make Jack feel good at the same time, you can give over to your utmost base instincts, letting yourself get lost in the feeling of Grant’s velvet soft cock pressing in and dragging out of your soaked pussy, moaning obscenely when one big hand leaves your hip to circle round, press his fingers to your swollen, aching clit and start to draw tight little circles around it.

That’s all you need, you think, you’re right there, but then he leans down over you, blankets his body with your own, just to be able to purr into your ear.

“There you go, honey, just let go. Let go for me, nnn; I’ve – I’ve got you...”

That’s what finally sends you crashing over the edge, your moans echoing around the bedroom as the tension in your core snaps, your thighs trembling with each wave of the intense, sudden orgasm.

He can feel a little trickle of your cum and slick soaking his cock, dripping out around him and onto the sheets, but all that serves to do is make him throb inside you, just prolonging your orgasm as he holds you against him.

You’re dimly aware of Jack’s familiar grunts; through the haze of your climax, you register him in front of you, one big, freckled hand wrapped firmly around his cock, giving his shaft a few slow, precise strokes as he watches his friend fuck you.

And god, does he.

Grant fucks you through your release, just keeps going, clearly chasing his own orgasm now.

His thrusts become more erratic with each one, grunting on every second impact.

“Mmff – mmm – nnngh -”

He makes no attempt to be quiet, and neither does Jack; their deep, masculine groans mingle with your breathy, high pitched moans as the room echoes with the lewd, wet sound of Grant’s hips colliding with your ass, Jack stroking his cock, matching the rhythm.

You know the tells of when Jack’s close; you lean forward again, wrap your lips around his cock, replace his hand with your ow, stroke him and bob your head, hollowing your cheeks and swallowing around him until he’s groaning, bucking his hips up involuntarily.

“Mmmm, yeah, that’s it sweetheart, suck my fucking cock-”

He runs his mouth when he’s close, so filthy that it makes you shiver, determined to get him there; just as you look up at him, make eye contact, he groans, tips his head back, giving you a beautiful view of the prominent muscle and veins in his neck, before he’s spilling down your throat.

You swallow every drop, lick him clean as Grant works you up to another orgasm; it’s only when Jack’s pulled his softening cock out of your mouth, brushed his thumb over your bottom lip, that his friend pulls out of you, gently maneuvers you onto your back.

He carefully pushes one of your thighs up to your chest, lowers it to wrap around his waist as he presses back inside you, groaning appreciatively at the way your walls almost immediately begin to flutter around him.

“Ohmygod, yes, fuck me-” You beg, your moans almost immediately swallowed in a filthy, greedy kiss, your fingers flying to his broad shoulders, scrabbling for purchase.

Thankfully, he’s merciful, gives you what you ask for, starts to all but pound you into the bed, breaking the kiss to nuzzle into the side of your neck, giving you intimate access to the huffed, breathy, whimpering moans he makes as he chases his release, fucks you through your second orgasm.

It’s only when you’re on the way down that he finally falls over the edge too, groaning a long, drawn out moan as he fucks his spend deep into you in a series of deep, erratic thrusts.

You gasp and whimper, still taking shuddering breaths and mewling softly by the time he eventually starts to go soft inside you. He stays above you, so you wrap your limbs around him, stroke his broad, freckled back as he peppers your shoulder, neck, and face with little kisses.

After he eventually pulls out of you, he follows Jack’s directions to the en suite, brings warm washcloths and a towel to help you clean up. Jack slips his prosthetic back on, heads out to the kitchen to grab chilled water for the three of you, giving you a lovely view of his ass as he goes.

The three of you work together to strip the bed, change the sheets, thanks to you completely ruining the existing ones, before finally, you’re lying in clean sheets between the two men.

“Mm, that was unexpected,” you hum, trailing your fingertips over Jack’s chest, brushing through the soft greying curls that grow there.

“Good unexpected?” Grant asks, and you turn your head to give him a long, slow kiss, breaking it to repeat the gesture with Jack.

They may look alike, but their kisses, confidence and mannerisms are so different. You kind of love it.

“Very good,” you assert, and both men laugh, exchange knowing smirks.

“Well, man, I guess you know what this means,” Jack says, lightly trailing his fingers up your sides, over your curves.

“Mm?” Grant sounds just like you and Jack, exhausted and satisfied. He genuinely doesn’t remember the last time he felt this way.

“No being a stranger.” Jack clarifies, and you giggle as his friend tuts.

“You know I have the restaurant. And you work a ridiculous schedule, too.” Grant hums, “but, I’m pretty sure I can find time. And hell, if you ever find yourself in Boston...”

You nod eagerly, too blissed out to try and be coy. As a matter of fact, you will be in Boston relatively soon for a book tour, and Jack has promised to come with you.

“We’d love to catch up with you again, but you know, she’s a big girl, she can always come visit on her own,” Jack purrs, curls into your side, nuzzles against your shoulder.

Grant raises an eyebrow at you, a silent question. You turn to kiss Jack’s temple before you lean up to kiss the other man again, liking the plush firmness of his lips. “Mm, it’s a date,” you confirm, and you swear both men give you approving little purrs as you finally settle down to sleep.

Part 2? Let me know!

“It’s Y/N,” Dana says quietly, “She’s on the roof.”

Jack blinks. “…the roof?”

“Robby’s with her.”

The words don’t fully register in his brain at first.

Jack frowns slightly, like he’s trying to sort through static, “…the roof?” he repeats, slower this time.

His expression changes instantly, something cold and alarmed flashes across his face, “The roof? She hates the roof. She hates heights. Why would she be on the ro—”

He cuts himself off because the answer is already forming in the back of his mind, ugly and impossible and hopefully wrong.

Jack is already moving before the thought can finish.

“Jack—” Dana starts but there’s no use, he’s already gone.

—

The stairwell door slams open hard enough to shake the walls of the surrounding rooms.

Jack takes the steps two at a time, breath already coming faster than it should be. His hand skims the railing but doesn’t grab it, momentum carrying him upward with sharp and urgent bursts.

This has to be nothing right? Robby’s with her, Robby’s got her. She wouldn’t- there’s no way she could- Jack’s jaw tightens.

Your voice flickers through his head uninvited, sharp and familiar.

“I hate the roof, Jack. I’m serious. If you ever send me up there again, I’m quitting.” You’d been half joking.

His chest feels too tight.

The stairwell is too loud, footsteps echoing off concrete, his breath harsh in his ears, the building suddenly feeling too big for once.

The door above him bursts open.

Jack halts to a stop.

Robby is coming down the stairs fast, somethings wrong. 

Jack notices it immediately.

Robby looks…off. He looks too pale, his breathing is too hard and his hands are shaking and Jack sees it. He sees it in the way Robby’s chest is rising too fast, the way his eyes look blown wide and unfocused.

A sense of cold dread floods Jack’s system in one violent wave, “Where’s Y/N?” he demands.

Robby stops two steps above him, his throat works hard like he’s trying to force the words out past something lodged there.

Jack’s pulse starts to pound in his throat, “Robby.”

Robby drags a hand down his face, breath shuddering, “She…” His voice catches hard. He swallows, like the word physically hurts. “Fuck…”

Robby’s eyes flick up to his, glassy and horrified, “…she jumped.”

—

The words don’t register for a second, “She…” Jack blinks slowly,“…what?”

Robby’s breathing is uneven now, “I was- I was right there,” he says hoarsely. “I was talking to her and she just-” He cuts himself off hard.

Jack is staring at him, his eyes scanning Robby’s face for any sign of lies, “No,” Jack says automatically.

Robby’s face tightens, “Jack—”

“When?” Jack cuts in, voice suddenly sharp, “How long ago?”

“Less than a minute before I came down,” Robby says quickly,“Trauma’s already been called. They’re getting her now.”

Jack’s hands curl slightly at his sides. “How did it happen?” he presses. “She was talking to you?”

“Yes.”

“What did she say?”

Robby’s mouth opens again but nothing comes out, almost as if he’s trying to protect Jack’s peace. 

Robby drags in a shaky breath. “She said she was tired,” he manages. “I was trying to get closer and she just”

His voice breaks clean off this time.

“She hates heights,” Jack mumbles, almost to himself “Was she scared?”

“Was she alone before you got there?” Jack pushes.

“I don’t know,” Robby admits. “I got the call and went straight up.”

Jack exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s trying very hard to keep himself together.

“Okay,” he murmurs.

Robby watches him for a second, something like concern flickering through the shock on his face.

“Jack…” he says quietly. “Let’s not finish this conversation here.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “Yeah.”

—

Jack never really noticed how small the family room truly is, at least not until this moment.

The door clicks shut behind them with a soft, click that makes something in Jack’s chest tighten.

Robby doesn’t sit, he can’t sit. He just stands near the wall, like he always does when he gets bad news.

Jack stays on his feet too and for a moment, neither of them speaks.

“How long was she up there before you got there?”

Robby rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Dana said maybe a few minutes. Security flagged it.”

Jack nods, “Was she crying?”

Robby swallows. “No.”

That makes all the muscles in Jack’s face tighten sharply.

“She just… sounded tired,” Robby adds quietly. “Really tired.”

Jack looks down at the floor for a second, “When she moved,” he says slowly, carefully, “did she hesitate?”

“…no.” Robby goes very still, “I’m sorry.”

Jack’s head lifts immediately. “This is not on you.”

“But I was right there-”

“And you did exactly what you were supposed to do,” Jack cuts in, more firm now. Steady in that doctor way he slips into when things are threatening to spiral. “You went up, you engaged, you called it the second it happened.”

Jack’s voice softens just a fraction, “That’s not on you,” he repeats quietly.

Robby nods once, but the guilt doesn’t leave his face, it probably won’t and Jack knows that look because he’s worn it before.

—

There’s a knock at the door and one of the nurses stands in the doorway, her expression carefully neutral in that way hospital staff perfect over years.

“Dr. Abbott,” she says gently. “We’ve… finished.”

Jack goes very still and for the first time since this started, something real cracks through the tight control he’s been holding onto, “…finished,” he repeats quietly.

The nurse nods, “They’ve moved her to another family room.”

Jack swallows, “Okay,” he says, his voice barely steady.

—

The walk down the hall feels longer than it should.

Jack keeps his hands shoved in his pockets and holds a stone cold expression on his face as they make their way down the hall. 

The nurse stops just outside the room, “I’ll be right outside if you need anything.”

Jack nods once before he reaches for the door.

—

There you are lying on the bed, clean, covered, still and for just a second. Jack stands there, like his body forgot how to move, how to breathe.

Slowly he steps forward, the chair beside the bed scrapes softly against the floor as he pulls it closer to himself and sits down.

He stares at you for a long time without speaking and when he finally does, his voice is quiet, “…hey, kid.”

His voice is low, it’s the same tone he’s used on you a hundred times before  when you were overwhelmed, when you were frustrated, when you were pushing too hard and he had to gently reel you back in. Like some part of him still expects you to roll your eyes and tell him you’re fine.

His hand lifts slowly, hesitates in the air for half a second, then settles gently over yours where it rests on the blanket. It’s instinct, he doesn’t even think about it.

“You were just here,” he says quietly. “You were just on shift.”

His thumb moves once against the fabric, it’s a small, absent motion.

A long breath leaves him, shaky at the edges, “…you should’ve come to me, kid.”

“You didn’t have to do that by yourself,” he continues softly. “You didn’t have to stand up there and think there wasn’t another option. Not when I was right downstairs. Not when Robby was right there.”

His voice catches slightly, and this time he doesn’t quite manage to smooth it out, “I would’ve listened,” he says, quieter now. “You know I would’ve.”

His grip tightens just a fraction around your hand through the blanket, like he’s trying to hold onto something that’s already gone.

“I would’ve done anything you needed. Sat with you all night, dragged you into an office, got you help, hell- I would’ve cleared the whole damn board if that’s what it took.” A weak breath huffs out of him, though it’s not quite a laugh. “You know I would’ve moved mountains for you.”

“…I would’ve traded you,” he admits quietly, “If it meant you didn’t have to feel like that up there… if it meant you didn’t have to be that tired, that scared-” His throat tightens, “Kid, I would’ve taken your place in a heartbeat.”

His head dips slightly, shoulders finally starting to fold in on themselves, the control he’s been clinging to all night slipping piece by piece.

“You weren’t supposed to carry it alone,” he whispers. “Not here. Not with me right downstairs.”

Another long silence.

His thumb moves once more against your hand, “…I’m so sorry I didn’t see it,” Jack says finally, voice barely above a breath. “I should’ve seen it.”

Andrew feels like a bit of an idiot since he stalked out of the strip club.

He may not have touched a woman in over three years, but it's humiliating to think that Baz honestly believes that the only way he'd get laid is if he paid for it.

The thing is, Andrew half believes him.

He's ruminating on this as he walks; he should probably get a cab home, but he doesn't feel like going back to the house and dealing with Smurf.

Just as he's thinking this, he hears a car slowing.

"Andrew?"

It's strange to hear his given name, but he vaguely recognises your voice. Turning, he stops, just as you bring your truck to a halt.

Now he's got his eyes on you, he recognises you. He thinks he's seen you at the house before, but you're never in the thick of the party.

You're Deran's friend, he thinks, pretty, and you've always been kind to him.

"You got out early." You say, and he's surprised that you seem happy to see him.

"Yeah. Parole." He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly aware of how short his auburn hair is, the curls that he's always liked about himself shorn away.

"Do you need a ride home?" You ask, because he does look a little like a lost puppy right now.

You remember the last time you saw Andrew Cody, wearing a backwards cap over his pretty auburn curls, handsome as ever.

He looks sadder now, but he's still just as beautiful, even if he's lost a fair bit of his muscle mass.

"Don't want to go home," Andrew admits; he doesn't expect you to understand, but you nod like it makes perfect sense to you.

"You wanna come have coffee?" You ask instead, don't pry about his lack of want to go home, even though you know he's only just gotten out of prison.

Speaking of prison...

Yes, he's missed coffee. And he knows you won't hurt him. So he circles around the truck and gets into the passenger side.

You still live where he remembers, vaguely; he's picked Deran up more than once completely wasted from your little two bedroom. He used to think there was something between you and his youngest brother, but he's since learned that that's the furthest thing from the truth.

He takes his shoes off in the entryway, puts them on the rack next to yours. You don't have many shoes; a pair of scuffed up vans, the high top sneakers you had been wearing, and a pair of heels.

Andrew thinks those in particular would suit you, but he can't imagine you dressed up, not really, when he's so used to seeing you in jeans or ripped cutoff shorts.

He thinks those suit you, too. Likes your casual, effortless look, the braided bracelets and the shell necklaces that you wear.

You're looking at him as you press buttons on the coffee machine, your eyes searching for something that he doesn't quite understand.

"Are you okay, Andrew? Why aren't you with your brothers?"

You don't want to pry, but it's a fair question - he's always with at least one of them. Andrew knows this, doesn't take offense to being asked. He knows it's a harmless question.

"I was, but I... Left, I guess." He frowns as you slide a mug of coffee across the kitchen island to him; it's a cute little stoneware mug, an off white with waves painted around it.

Andrew vaguely remembers hearing you say you weren't born in California. Had moved here chasing a dream. He's never bothered asking what exactly that dream was.

"Is everything okay?" You make your own coffee and look at him over the rim of your mug, eyes slightly wide.

It's only just really occurring to you that Andrew Cody is in your house. In your kitchen, drinking coffee, still looking like a lost puppy.

You've always had a soft spot for strays.

"I don't know. Maybe? No? I don't know." Andrew fidgets, puts the empty coffee mug down, because he doesn't want to drop it.

Doesn't want to throw it, or break it, and scare you, because he knows he can get volatile when he's upset. And he is. He is upset. Upset and embarrassed.

"Baz tried to pay a stripper to... Have sex with me." He flushes red as he says it, accentuating the freckles that dot his face.

You blink, surprised. Not because you're surprised that his adopted brother is an asshole – you know this already – but because of the circumstances themselves, and the way he actually tells you what's wrong.

"Oh." You carefully set your own mug down, tilt your head and watch him. You don't know how to answer him, not really.

"I would have, maybe. But I don't like that my brothers think that the only time a girl likes me is if she's getting paid."

There's a vulnerability to him as he says it, and it breaks your heart.

You've always liked him. Always thought he was handsome, and interesting, always cared about what he's had to say, and hated whenever Baz mocked him.

"I'm sorry," you say, because you don't know what else to say.

"I haven't touched anyone in over three years. Don't even know if my cock still works, don't remember the last time I got hard. But I also doubt anyone's gonna want to have sex with me unless they're paid for it. Baz says I'm too much of a weirdo."

Irritation flares through you. Baz is an asshole. You hear all about it all the time from Deran, and Craig too. Know that Andrew always gets the worst of it, and you hate that.

Anger at his brother and a desire to see him not feel that way about himself has you speaking before you think.

"I will. I mean. If you want to." You shrug, try not to look nervous as he looks at you in surprise.

"You will?"

"Sure. We know each other a little, right?" You step a little closer to him; it's heartbreaking, the way he automatically flinches.

You're careful as you take his hand, loose grip, so he knows he can pull away at any moment if he's not comfortable.

"We can stop any time, okay?"

Andrew blinks rapidly, then nods.

"Okay..."

He feels a bit like a nervous virgin again as you keep your hands linked together, walk him down the short hallway to what must be your bedroom.

It's nice. The bed is neatly made, your closet organised. The dresser has a makeup organiser and a small shelf full of little trinkets on it, giving it a nice, personalised look.

Your hands are soft, careful, as you unbutton his shirt slowly. Like you haven't thought about this before. Haven't touched yourself thinking about him in this very room.

Andrew rests his hands on your hips, just for a moment, leans down to kiss you. He isn’t sure whether he’s allowed to, but you don’t stop him, don’t back away, which gives him that little bit more confidence.

That confidence is the little push he needs to unbuckle his belt, then move his hands to your shorts, pop the button, tug them down. You kiss him back, slide your hands up his bare chest and carefully tug the fabric of his shirt off his broad shoulders.

For a moment, he’s worried he’s done something wrong when you take a step back, finds himself holding his breath until he realises that you’re just moving back so you can step out of your shorts, pull your shirt over your head.

“Sit on the edge of the bed for me?” you ask; it’s not a demand, so he doesn’t feel resistant to the idea. His eyes stay locked onto you as he steps out of his pants, his underwear, sits where you asked him to.

You’re left just in your bra and panties in front of him, slowly take them off and leave yourself bare to his gaze. Andrew doesn’t know where to look first, lets his gaze travel up and down, before he wonders whether he should be staring at all.

Thankfully, you seem to understand that he’s nervous, step closer to him, stand between his legs, reach for his hands that rest on his thighs.

“You can look at me, Andrew,” you tell him, guide his hands up to your breasts, gasping softly when he takes initiative, cups them gently.

“Is this okay?” He breathes, lets out a held sound of relief when you nod; as he brushes his thumbs gently back and forth across your nipples, he realises, miraculously, he’s half hard.

That doesn't necessarily surprise him; he's always been the kind of man who appreciates breasts, loves whenever any of his infrequent partners lets him touch and kiss and suck on them. 

He doesn't get the chance, not now anyway. 

You move, go to sink to your knees, settle yourself on your soft carpeted bedroom floor between his thighs. He flinches slightly again, goes to rest his hands flat on his thighs again. You’ve noticed, over the years, that he does that a lot, think it must be a self-regulation thing. A tell that he’s anxious.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” you tell him softly, “but we don’t have to keep going. Do you want me to stop?”

Andrew doesn’t really remember the last time he was given a choice in what he wants. Appreciates you asking. But no, he thinks, as he looks down at you on your knees, your smaller, softer hands resting on top of his. He doesn’t want you to stop.

Selfishly, he wants, wants whatever you’re willing to give, which, based on your current position, is more than he originally expected.

"No," he breathes, "keep going?" 

You kiss his inner thighs, slow, open mouthed, watch his expression carefully. Even with his verbal consent, you want to make sure he's absolutely okay with whatever you do. 

His cock is half hard; even like this, he's big, thick, has you drooling. You know that you'll need to be wet to take him, but you like your chances. 

He watches you with wide hazel eyes as you kiss inwards. A lot of people, you think, ignore a man's balls when giving head. Not you. 

You mouth gently at them, pull thick groans from his throat; he tries to muffle them and you pull away briefly. 

"It's okay to be loud," you tell him, "I want to hear if I'm making you feel good." 

Then you go right back to mouthing at his balls, pressing little kisses to the underside of his shaft. Whatever you're doing must be working, because Andrew can feel himself slowly growing harder. 

He genuinely doesn't remember the last time he was hard, let alone this hard. He can feel his cock throbbing as the tip of your tongue traces along the thick vein in the underside of his shaft. 

When your drag your tongue slowly across the slit in his thick cock head, he groans, the sound becoming more of a whimper as you lightly suck on him. 

When he dares to look down at you again, you're too focused on what you're doing to notice. You're moaning around him softly as you take him deeper into your mouth, relaxing your throat so you can get him as deep as possible. 

His hands curl into the soft sheets of your bed as he groans, tries not to buck his hips but fails. To your utmost credit, you don't choke, just moan again, wrap one hand around his cock and stroke what you can't fit into your mouth.

Your free hand slips down between your thighs; aside from the obscene sound of you sucking his cock, Andrew can hear another wet sound, realises you're playing with your clit as you blow him. 

"Nngh, fuck - fuck, I'm gonna cum if you - nngh - if you keep going. Need y-your pussy instead... Please..." 

He all but begs you, gives your hair a gentle tug to pull you off of him. You obey immediately, press one last little kiss to the tip of his cock, drenched in your saliva and sticky pre-cum. 

Getting to your feet, you let him pull you into his lap, kiss him greedily as he notches his tip at your drenched entrance. 

"Oh," he breathes, surprised, "oh, fuck, you're so wet..." 

He groans softly as you sink down onto him, envelope the thick, pulsing length of him into your warm, wet cunt. 

"Mm, you feel good," you moan, wriggling your hips to get comfortable in his lap.

Andrew wraps one arm around your waist to keep you still and steady; his free hand wanders up, cups one of your soft, heavy breasts, thumb brushing across your nipple. 

"These are so pretty..." He groans, watches the way your nipple hardens under his touch. 

The dusky bud is practically begging for his mouth; seeing as he's balls deep inside you right now, he goes right ahead and leans in, sucks it into his mouth, gaining just a little confidence. 

You gasp as he drags his teeth over your nipple, gentle but deliberate, then repeats the motion on the other side. 

He doesn't rush it, either. Licks them, sucks on them until they're stiff and sensitive, switches between them every so often, leaving each one coated in saliva. 

"Do you want me to ride you? Or do you want-?" 

Your voice only slightly shakes as you ask him, your walls tightening the tiniest bit around him, because you don't remember a time where you didn't want him, and now he's here, holding you, sucking on your nipples, his fat cock buried to the hilt inside of you. 

He doesn't answer you verbally, just holds onto you and turns you, laying you down in the middle of your bed without pulling out of you. 

"'s been a long time," he reminds you, grunts when you wrap your legs around his waist, "just need to feel it..." 

He gives you a slow, deep thrust, groans obscenely at the filthy, wet sound of his cock stuffing your soaked cunt, closing his eyes and allowing himself to just feel you. 

You mewl and his eyes fly open, look down at you. 

"'s it too much?" He asks, shy again until you shake your head. 

"N-no, 's not too much, use me, Andrew, take what you need from me-" you beg, run your hands across his broad shoulders, up into his soft, short hair. 

He knows that he's intimidating, violent. A product of his upbringing and environment. But he's always gentle with the women that he's intimate with, only gets the slightest bit rough when he's pent up and has consent to do so. 

Like right now. 

It's like your explicit consent has awoken something dormant in him. That might come back to bite him in the ass later; Andrew has a tendency to get in his head about things, become possessive without meaning to. 

He doesn't think about that right now, in the heat of the moment. Not when every single fibre of his being is so consumed by how you feel wrapped around his cock. 

It's not like he's never noticed you; he has eyes, after all, but he's so used to scaring or intimidating everyone that it never really crossed his mind that you might see him this way. That you might be physically attracted to him enough to want this. 

Whilst he's lost a fair bit of his muscle mass during his three years in prison, he's still broad and strong, braces himself on one forearm as he starts to move. 

Slowly at first, letting you adjust to him, waiting until your eyes roll back into your head slightly to pick up the pace. 

He builds up to it, intends on staying slow and shallow for a while, but you feel so good, and it's been so long. 

"Nnhh, fuck, nnhhh~" 

Each heavy thrust he gives you is punctuated by little grunts, muffled into your neck where he nuzzles against you. 

You doubt he even realises you can hear him, can hear each groan and curse as his hips collide against yours with obscene, wet slapping sounds. 

You're drenched, your cunt dripping slick along his shaft and down his balls as he drives his cock deeper into you; each time he hits your g-spot, you give him a particularly filthy moan, which only serves to encourage him. 

"God, you're s-so wet," he groans into your ear, reaches down between you to feel for himself, as if the sound of your bodies joining isn't proof enough. 

Gathering some of your slick onto his fingers, he brings his hand back up, watches as you lean up and suck the digits into your mouth. 

He groans at the sight of you, the way you suck his fingers the way you did his cock. Gently pulling them out of your mouth, he lets his fingers trail down to your breasts, finding a nipple and rolling it between them. 

You whimper and he nods to himself, as if understanding something. 

"Mm, these are sensitive?" He's speaking softly, almost to himself; you've already gathered that he loves breast play, practically worshipped your tits with his mouth before. 

He doesn't stop moving, still steadily rocking his hips against yours as he slowly, agonisingly, drags his teeth over one of your nipples again. 

They're still hard and sensitive from his previous ministrations, but combined with his cock inside you, the coarse curls at the root of his shaft stimulating your clit, it works you up to the edge surprisingly fast. 

He moans against the soft skin of your breast as he feels you beginning to tighten around him, releases your nipple with a lewd pop and switches to the other side again, sucking greedily as he fucks you. 

His cock is so thick and just the right length that you feel him everywhere, but it's the stimulation to your breasts that has your back arching. 

The ache in your core starts to build, your clit throbbing from the stimulation as he pounds your g-spot, relentless, as though his body has finally caught on to the fact that he can release three years of built up sexual frustration. 

"Ohhh, god, nnn, Andy, I'm gonna-" you realise what you've called him, your entire body freezing, cutting off your impending climax almost at once.

You've never heard anyone call him any nickname other than Pope. Have never even asked whether he likes that nickname. But you don't think you've ever heard anyone call him Andy, and immediately you feel yourself getting warm in the face, and it has nothing to do with how close you are to cumming on his cock. 

"I didn't mean to call you that, I'm sorry..."

You blink up at him, a little afraid as to what you might see in his expression. 

Andrew feels a little confused. He's used to just being called Pope. It's so rare that anyone even uses his given name, let alone some pet name form of it. 

Actually, he doesn't think anyone has ever done the latter in his entire life. 

He's not sure that suits him, or at least, doesn't suit the person he thinks he is. He's a convicted felon. The violent enforcer of his family. He suits a cold, sharp nickname. 

But there's some small dark, selfish little part of him that likes the way you give him a cute nickname, the way you moaned it as you were so close to cumming for him. 

He likes it, he realises. Likes being given a pet name by you, especially in this context. He might be who he is, but you're looking at him right now like you'd happily stay drunk on his cock forever. 

So he answers you honestly, voice a little raspy and low.

"No, don't apologise. I liked it..." 

He sees - and feels - the way you relax, immediately wants to distract you, wants to feel you cum for him, drench his cock, before he even thinks about getting himself off. 

Even after a three year drought, he wants this to be good for you, has the stamina to last simply because he hasn't really had a libido for a long time. 

Almost immediately, he resumes where he left off; deep, slightly erratic thrusts, alternating between nuzzling his face into your neck and kissing your breasts. 

He can't get enough of them, nips at the soft curves, sucks greedily on your nipples; they're getting a little reddened and sensitive from the amount of attention he's given them, which only drives him to continue. 

As his hips snap sharply against yours, he gently bites down, the sudden jolt of pain combining with the pleasure of his cock massaging your g-spot, and then you're falling apart. 

You look so beautiful when you cum, Andrew thinks, writhing beneath him, nails clawing at his shoulders, trying to ground yourself as he roughly fucks you through it. 

The entire time, you moan for him, your slick and cum gushing around his shaft, spasming cunt trying to pull him in deeper. 

He can feel the familiar, if long since felt, ache in his balls that preempts his own release, fucks into you harder, deeper, chasing it. 

You're still writhing beneath him, chest heaving, as he gets up on one knee so he can get deeper, his erratic thrusts punctuated with a filthy, ragged moan on each impact. 

"Fuck, oh fuck, ohh god, nnhh-" 

He moans, senseless, remembers at the very last moment to pull out of you, wraps his hand around his cock and strokes himself half a dozen times in rapid succession before warm, thick cum splatters across your chest, painting your pretty breasts with his spend. 

You whimper at the obscenity of the act, press your tits together as he finishes, so that the last few ropes of cum splash across your nipples. 

Groaning, panting, he sits back on his heels, takes in the sight of you. The sight of your dripping, fucked out pussy, your puffy clit. Your heaving chest and the droplets of his cum dripping off your breasts.

Once he's caught his breath, he sits more comfortably, pulls you into his lap once more. You're a little shaky still, blink at him through hazy eyes. 

"Hm? What're you-?" 

Your question is cut off as he slowly drags his tongue over your bare skin, making eye contact with you as he laps up the mess he's made on you. 

Your breath catches as you watch him, watch the way he doesn't even flinch as he licks you clean, licks his spend from your tits before kissing up your throat. 

You pull him into a kiss, moan into it when you taste his cum on his tongue, breathless when you pull away. 

After a few moments, he gently sets you down, disappears into your bathroom to bring back washcloths so you can both clean up. 

When he goes to dump the washcloths into your laundry basket, you tell him where he can find a pack of spare toothbrushes. You know he's got a thing about germs, honestly surprised he cleaned you up with his tongue. 

Still, when he returns, he smells faintly of your mint toothpaste as he crawls into bed beside you. 

You don't expect this to be anything more than what it was; a one time thing. Perhaps that's why you both were so frantic, so needy, in the way you'd touched each other.

Regardless, it's nice to curl up against him, just this once, and pretend that it means something more.