After winning game one vic is tired and battered but he has just enough energy for you. based on game one of the conference finals.
warning: smut, pure filth; first fic plz be nice, unedited! 18+
The sound of the crowd was still ringing in your ears, that buzzing mix of adrenaline and leftover noise that clings to you long after the arena empties. This wasn’t your first basketball game, but the intensity of these games was something else entirely. Every round felt heavier, louder, more personal. And now that you were finally on break from school, you could actually travel with your NBA boyfriend — who just so happened to be in the conference finals of the playoffs. Victor Wembanyama.
Watching him tonight had been its own kind of emotional torture. Every time he hit the floor, your stomach dropped. Every time OKC tried to body him, shove him, scratch him, you felt your whole chest tighten. His lip was busted, his arms were covered in fresh red marks, and you knew his legs were bruised from all the awkward landings. But even through all of that, his skill was unreal. He played like someone who refused to lose. And even though it took two overtimes — two full, exhausting, heart‑stopping overtimes — they won. He won.
You waited while he did press, while he decompressed with his teammates, while the whole team celebrated the way only a Game 1 win after a war like that deserved. By the time you finally got to hold him, he was showered, hoodie on, sweats hanging low on his hips, hair still damp. He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you in like he’d been waiting all night for that moment.
“It’s just game one,” he muttered into your shoulder, voice low and tired, “but fuck, I’m happy.”
“Im so fucking proud of you,” you whispered back, your hands smoothing over his back automatically. “You were amazing out there. My fucking MVP.”
He let out a breath that sounded like relief. “That’s all I want.”
He kissed you — not rushed, not hungry, just full and warm, like he needed you to feel what he couldn’t put into words, like he meant it.
In the private car to the back entrance of the hotel, he leaned into you without hesitation. His head rested against your shoulder, and you ran your fingers through his hair, slow and gentle. You could feel how drained he was, how heavy his body felt after carrying so much of the game. He’d given everything he had out there. And you knew he had practice early tomorrow, film sessions, treatment, all of it. But right now, he was letting himself rest against you, letting himself be held.
All you wanted was to take care of him — to tend to every sore spot, every bruise, every place OKC had gotten too physical. And with the way he melted into your touch, you knew he wanted that too. You just wanted as much time with him as you could get before the world demanded more from him again as much as he gave on the court you wanted to give to him.
The elevator ride up to the hotel room felt quieter than usual, the kind of quiet that settles in after a long night — not awkward, just full. Victor stood beside you, shoulders relaxed for the first time since tip‑off, his hand loosely holding yours like he didn’t want to let go. He positioned you from him, caressing your sides through your outfit you wore for him. Every few seconds he’d glance down at you, that soft, tired suggestive smile tugging at his mouth, the one he only ever gave you.
When the doors opened, he let you step out first, but his fingers stayed laced with yours as you walked down the hallway. You could feel the weight of the night on him — the minutes he played, the hits he took, the pressure he carried, these were the nights you missed the most when you were stuck on campus, watching him through a screen instead of being right here, close enough to feel the warmth of his arm brushing yours.
He unlocked the room and pushed the door open with his shoulder, letting you walk in ahead of him. The lights were low in his penthouse suite, the room quiet except for the soft hum of the AC. He closed the door behind you, and for a second he just stood there, hoodie slightly rumpled, hair still damp, eyes on you like he was memorizing the sight of you in his space.
“Finally,” he breathed out, voice low from exhaustion, but there was something else in it too — something warm, something that made your chest tighten.
You set your bag down and turned toward him, and he stepped closer, slow, like he didn’t want to rush a single second. His hands found your waist, gentle, careful, like he was afraid of how sore he was and how much he still wanted to hold you anyway.
“Are you hungry?” you asked, glancing at the kitchen.
“Yea mon amour, for you to bounce on it for me” you chuckled with him but you instantly got hot as he leaned down to your ear, you regret telling him your slight infatuation with nosferatu. “ Its all I can think about and I'm too tired to destroy you like I really want to,” you gulped “ Will you do that for me?”
You nodded, “I wanted to massage you and tend to that busted lip…” muttering as he lifted you up easily, walking to the bedroom sitting with you already in position as he began to peel your clothes off, kissing every piece of skin as it was exposed.
“i don’t always have you celebrate with like this and i always want you like this”
The large penthouse window dimly lit the bedroom , the city sprawling below you both like a glittering battlefield won. Victor’s long, sculpted body stretched across the crisp white sheets, his skin still flushed from the game, every muscle defined like a statue carved by gods. The busted lip was a dark, swollen mark of his victory, and the scratches on his arms told the story of the war he'd fought on the court. But now, in this room, he was yours—and you were his.
You hovered over him, your thighs straddling his hips, your slick heat already pressing against the base of his cock. He was thick, heavy, and painfully hard, the tip already glistening with a bead of precum. His chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, his dark eyes half-lidded but burning with a desperate, undiluted hunger.
“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that sent a shiver straight to your core. His hands slid up your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh, possessive and urgent. “So fucking wet for me already, and I haven’t even touched you right.”
You leaned down, your hair brushing against his chest, and kissed the corner of his busted lip, tasting the faint metallic tang of blood mixed with the salt of his sweat. He hissed, but his hand shot up to grip the back of your neck, holding you there, forcing you to stay.
“Don’t stop,” he breathed against your mouth, his voice trembling with need. “Fuck, I need you. I need to feel you around me. Now.”
You shifted, your hips rocking against his length, the head of his cock teasing your entrance. A guttural groan tore from his throat, his hips bucking up instinctively, but you pressed down on his chest, pinning him to the bed.
“Easy,” you whispered, a smirk playing on your lips. “You said I do all the work tonight, remember?”
His jaw clenched, his nostrils flaring. “I lied.”
Before you could react, his hands locked around your waist, and in one fluid motion, he flipped you onto your back. The air left your lungs as you hit the mattress, and he was on top of you, his massive frame caging you in, his knees spreading your thighs wide. His cock slid between your slick folds, not entering, just teasing, the tip nudging your clit with agonizing precision.
“I can’t,” he growled, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged. “I can’t control myself when it comes to you. Not tonight. Not after what I did out there. Winning that game, hearing your voice in my head—it makes me want to fucking ruin you.”
He pulled back, his eyes wild, his pupils blown wide. His hand slid down your stomach, slipping between your bodies, and he guided his cock to your entrance. He pushed in just an inch, the head stretching you, and you both moaned in unison.
“You feel that?” he asked, his voice a broken whisper. “That’s what you do to me. That’s all I fucking think about. Your pussy. Your mouth. Your fucking hands on me.”
He thrust forward, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal, desperate motion. A cry escaped your lips as he filled you completely, the stretch almost too much, your walls clenching around him in a tight, hungry grip. He didn’t wait—he couldn’t. He started moving immediately, his hips slamming into yours with a raw, primal urgency that shook the bed frame.
“Fuck—yeah—take it,” he grunted, his rhythm erratic, pounding into you with a desperation that bordered on feral. His hands gripped your hips so hard you knew there would be bruises tomorrow, and you didn’t care. You wanted them. You wanted every mark he left.
He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss, his tongue tangling with yours, tasting you like he was drowning and you were air. His thrusts grew deeper, harder, each one hitting that sweet spot inside you that made your vision blur. You clawed at his back, your nails raking down his sweat-slicked skin, and he growled against your mouth, a sound so primal it made your toes curl.
“I’m not gonna last,” he admitted, his voice cracking. “I’ve been thinking about this since the fourth quarter. Every time I looked at you in the stands, I couldn’t focus. All I could picture was you like this.”
He pulled out suddenly, leaving you empty and aching, and flipped you onto your stomach. Before you could protest, he grabbed your hips, pulling you up onto all fours, and entered you from behind in one fluid motion. The new angle made you gasp, your face pressed into the pillows as he drove into you, his balls slapping against your clit with every furious thrust.
“Look at you,” he hissed, his hand tangling in your hair, pulling your head back. “Taking my cock like a good girl. My fucking MVP.” He slapped your ass hard, the sound echoing in the room, and you moaned, pushing back into him. “Yeah, you like that, don’t you? You like being claimed?”
He reached around, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles that had your legs trembling. His rhythm faltered, his breathing turning into ragged gasps. “I’m gonna come,” he groaned, his voice thick with desperate need. “I’m gonna fill you up, and you’re gonna take every fucking drop. You’re gonna feel me inside you tomorrow when I’m on the court. You’re gonna remember who you belong to.”
His hips slammed into you one last time, his body shuddering as he spilled into you with a guttural cry, his cock twitching and pulsing as he filled you completely. You followed right behind, your orgasm ripping through you, your walls clamping down on him as you cried out his name, your body collapsing onto the bed beneath him.
He stayed buried inside you, his forehead pressed to the back of your neck, his breath hot and uneven. Slowly, he softened, but he didn’t pull out. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest, and kissed your shoulder.
“You’re perfect,” he murmured, his voice a sleepy, sated whisper. “I don’t deserve you.”
"My good girl," grumbled tiredness settling into his voice, pulling you against his chest. "Now, help me get to the shower."
Reader how can’t even take victory’s fingers because of how big he is
i actually love this ask so much because it’s something i’ve thought about a lot.
warning: pure filth ngl, dominant vic, fingering, tease of p in v, size kink
filled up - victory wembanyama
part 2
Victor had been home for an hour, but he hadn't left your side. He was in that specific mood—the one where his towering 7'4" frame seemed to take up every inch of available oxygen in the room. He was being incredibly sweet, his voice a soft, melodic rumble as he peppered your neck with lingering kisses, but the way he was pressing his hardness against your thigh told a different story. He was starving for you.
"I can't stop thinking about you," he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. He guided you toward the oversized velvet sofa, gently pushing you back until you were sprawled out, looking up at him. From this angle, he looked like a giant, his limbs long and powerful, his eyes dark with a hunger that made your stomach flip.
He stripped you slowly, his movements tender and deliberate, treating your body like something precious. But as he moved between your legs, the sweetness shifted into something more urgent. He wanted to prepare you, to make sure you were completely open and ready for him, but as he reached down, the sheer scale of him became the focal point.
Victor’s hands were masterpieces of athleticism—strong, steady, and impossibly large. As he slid his first finger inside you, you let out a sharp, surprised gasp. Even a single finger felt substantial, stretching you in a way that was both shocking and exhilarating. He paused, his expression softening, his thumb rubbing circles over your clit to soothe the sudden tension.
"You're so tight for me," he whispered, a small, needy smile playing on his lips. "So perfect."
He wanted more. He wanted to feel how much of him you could take. Slowly, with a focused intensity, he pushed a second finger in beside the first. You arched your back, your breath hitching. The sensation was overwhelming; his fingers were so thick and long that they seemed to fill you completely, stretching your walls to their absolute limit. It wasn’t like you were virgin but with Vic everything felt like the first time.
"Victor... wait," you whimpered, not out of pain, but because of the sheer volume of him. You felt stretched wide, your body struggling to accommodate the massive width of his hand.
He stopped instantly, leaning down to kiss your forehead, his voice dripping with affection. "I've got you, baby. Just breathe for me. I'll go slow."
But the horniness was winning. He didn't want to stop; he wanted to see you completely undone by him. He began to curl his fingers inside you, the hooks of his large knuckles rubbing against your G-spot with a precision that sent sparks through your nerves. You were whimpering now, your hips instinctively bucking upward, begging for the friction even as you felt like you were being split open.
Driven by a sudden surge of desire, Victor tried to slide a third finger in. The moment he pushed, you let out a choked cry, your internal muscles clamping down hard. It was simply too much. The physical reality of his 7'4" frame meant that three of his fingers were equivalent to most men's entire girth. You were stretched to the breaking point, your breath coming in short, panicked gasps.
"I can't... Victor, it's too big," you gasped, your hands clutching at his muscular forearms.
He froze, his eyes widening. He looked down at where his hand was buried in you, seeing how your delicate flesh was strained around his massive digits. A look of raw, primal heat crossed his face—a mixture of protectiveness and an intense, dominant arousal at how small he made you feel.
"God, you're so small," he groaned, his voice dropping an octave. "I can't believe how much I want to stretch you out."
He didn't pull out. Instead, he kept those two fingers locked deep inside you, using them as an anchor. He began to pump them in and out with a slow, heavy rhythm, the sheer size of them massaging every inch of your interior. He watched your face, mesmerized by the way you looked—overwhelmed, flushed, and completely possessed by him.
"Do you like how big I am?" he asked, his voice a commanding purr. "Do you like knowing that I can fill you up until there's no room for anything else?"
You could only nod, your mind turning to mush. He had no idea how much his size aroused you, no one compared to him. The feeling of being stretched so wide by his fingers was a precursor to the real event, and the anticipation was becoming unbearable.
He finally withdrew his hand with a wet, sliding sound that left you feeling empty and aching. He didn't give you a second to recover. He stripped off his clothes in one fluid motion, revealing the staggering length and thickness of his cock, which looked almost monstrous compared to the space he had just been prepping.
"I'm going to be careful," he whispered, though the look in his eyes was anything but careful. "But I'm going to make sure you feel every single inch of me."
WARNINGS: MATURE CONTENT AHEAD (MDNI) - prone bone position, female!reader, lowkey younger!reader (isn’t mentioned but i always imagine it is), established relationship isn’t mentioned but can be read either way
LYRIC: "but i bet we'd have really good bed chem"
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"jack you're too deep," you cry out. or at least you try to. because your tongue is pushed up against his. any noise you make gets muffled by the sounds of slurping and saliva between your mouth and his.
"i know baby, i know," he coos back. he tips your jaw upwards to keep the kiss going while fucking his cock slowly into your poor hole, hitting deep. his chest presses against your back with one arm hooked around your neck.
he holds your face so he can control the messy kiss, his other hand clutching your own, holding you while his cock sucks deeper into your velvety walls. your pussy devours his cock, milking him with those creamy walls and making each thrust feel like heaven. he keeps his thrusts short so that he doesn't have to pull back for too long. he hates not having his cock not fill you even for a moment and wants to stay deep.
the thick head of his cock presses firmly against your sweet spot, putting pressure on your insides. you claw pathetically at his arm, you're too full. but he doesn't give you space, instead he stays buried inside, keeping you stuffed to the hilt.
"you can take it sweetheart. come on, be good for me,"
he fucks you fast and rough, punishing thrusts as he forces you to take what he gives. he bullies his way into your pussy, thrusting and thrusting into you until you're slick and soaking all over his cock. he keeps you pinned beneath his weight, chest plastered to your back, using his body to keep your legs to keep you spread open. and when you move your hands behind you, trying to claw at his massive arms, he just lets out a chuckle.
“nah, you’re not getting away that easy,”
he moves to lock a forearm around your throat, his thick muscles squeezing as he presses down harder on you, suffocating you with the weight of his chest. your head is all fuzzy as your vision glazes over, eyes rolled back and seeing stars. he grunts rough and exhales hard, fucking you hard. in this position you are all helpless and at his mercy. a mix of pleasure and pain coil low in your stomach, your poor body aching over all attention he’s giving you. it’s too much. you're all overstimulated and sobbing, whining and drooling. jack rewards your compliance with a drag of his tongue over the side of your neck.
your voice cracks when you beg him to cum inside you, "please."
he responds not with words, but by slamming his cock so deep into your cervix as you moan low and pitiful when you feel the warmth of his cum filling you up.
he whispers into your ear, "that's it, taking it like a good girl,”
bday sex w wemby where he just worships u bc it’s my bday 🤗🤗🤗🤗
❝ bon anniversaire, mon amour ❞
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summary: on your birthday victor wants nothing more than to show you your worth
warnings; worship, p in v, birthday sex
an: this is a late request so happy belated!!! i hope u enjoyed ur birthday sososo much, consider this a late present from me
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your birthday falls on a quiet night. the city hums far below, a blur of lights and sound through the windows of the hotel suite. but up here, it feels like the world has stilled, just for you.
victor kneels before you like it’s instinct. like this is how he was always meant to be. at your feet, hands resting on your thighs like they’re sacred ground. the soft stretch of his dress shirt brushes your skin, and he leans in, pressing his mouth just above your knee, slow and reverent.
“bon anniversaire, ma beauté,” victor murmurs, voice low, shaped by that deep, deliberate french cadence you love. “i hope you know how much i’ve been thinking about this. about you.”
his eyes find yours and hold them. that sharp, gentle gaze that never rushes, that sees right through every version of you, down to the quiet ache you never speak aloud. tonight, you don’t have to.
he lifts your hand to his mouth and kisses each fingertip, one by one, like he’s memorizing the shape of your touch. “you deserve to be celebrated like this,” he says, like it’s a fact. not a compliment, not a promise, but something absolute. “not just today. always.”
when his hands slide up your sides, it’s not greedy. it’s worship. fingers mapping you slowly, like he wants to learn every curve by feel. his voice is barely above a whisper, rough around the edges: “tell me what you need. i’ll give you everything.”
he lays you back slow, like you’re something fragile. the sheets are cool beneath you, but his hands are warm, his body towering and sure as he follows you down. he doesn’t rush. not tonight. tonight, he wants time to stretch, to linger in every breath, every glance, every sigh that leaves your lips.
his mouth trails lower, worshipful, like he’s praying with his lips and your skin is the altar. “tu sais pas à quel point je t’aime,” he breathes against your stomach. you don’t have to know french to feel what he means. you feel it in the way his voice falters, like the weight of his love is too much to carry in words.
he kisses your hips, your thighs, his lashes fluttering as he closes his eyes like he’s tasting something holy. his hands hold you open, gentle but firm, thumbs stroking the softest parts of you with quiet reverence. his mouth finds you slow. no teasing, no games. just heat, just hunger, just him.
“you’re so perfect like this,” he murmurs, voice hoarse between kisses. “i want you to feel everything. i want to ruin you for anyone else.”
you gasp, fingers threading through his curls, and he groans softly when you tug.
he takes his time. mouth steady, tongue soft and then sharp, learning your rhythm, matching it, deepening it. you feel yourself unraveling under him, and still he doesn’t stop. not when your thighs shake. not when your voice breaks on his name.
“just like that,” he says, dragging the words out slow. “give it to me. c’est ça, bébé… let go.”
and even when you hold back, when your body trembles and you cry out, he doesn’t pull back. he stays right there, mouth greedy, hands gripping your thighs like he can keep you open forever.
when he finally rises, lips wet, eyes dark, he looks at you like he’s seen a god.
“you don’t know what you do to me,” he says, pulling his shirt over his head, the soft rustle of fabric filling the quiet. “i think about you all the time. when i’m training. when i’m flying. when i’m alone at night, in a cold bed. i think about this.”
he lines his body with yours, slow and careful, so much taller but never overwhelming. he holds your face in both hands and kisses you like he needs it to breathe, like he’s already halfway gone and your mouth is the only thing that can bring him back.
“let me give you everything,” he says, voice breaking. “let me show you what you mean to me.”
he pushes in with aching slowness, and your body opens around him like it’s been waiting for this. for him. he groans low, a guttural sound buried in your throat as he kisses you. there’s no rush in his rhythm. just the weight of every feeling he’s been holding back, poured into each stroke like a prayer.
your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, heels pressing into the curve of his back, pulling him deeper. he hisses through his teeth, eyes fluttering shut. “fuck, you feel- you feel unreal,” he gasps. “you take me so well. you always do.”
his hips roll slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring every inch. your bodies move in sync, sweat-slicked and breathless, the heat between you molten. he grips your jaw, tilts your face to his, and whispers, “look at me, ma chérie. i want to see your eyes when you cum.”
he could stay here forever, inside you, wrapped in this golden tension that keeps building, building, building.
your back arches, your hands scrabble at his shoulders, nails dragging red down his skin, and he groans. “that’s it,” he pants, voice frayed, “that’s my girl. you’re so close, aren’t you?”
his hand slides between you, thumb brushing over your clit in slow, tight circles, just enough to make your vision blur. every nerve is alight. every sound he makes, every word in that low, reverent voice unravels you further.
“let me feel you. come on, bébé... let go for me. show me how good i make you feel.”
you try to hold on, just for a second more, but his hips angle just right, the pressure perfect, his breath shuddering against your neck, and then it hits you. wave after wave, slow at first, then all-consuming. you fall into it, moaning his name like a litany, like it’s the only thing anchoring you to earth.
victor watches you like you’re divine.
he groans your name, presses his forehead to yours, and rides you through it, holding you so tight you forget where you end and he begins. your bodies shake together, mouths meeting in a desperate kiss, wet and open and so full of love it borders on something holy.
“good girl,” he whispers, breath ragged. “you’re perfect. you’re everything.”
you’re still trembling when he finally stills inside you, arms wrapped tight around your waist, his breath stuttering against your throat. for a moment, neither of you move. just heartbeats, racing, tangled, and the soft whine of the city far below. like the world remembers itself, but you’re both still lost in something slower, sweeter.
victor doesn’t pull away. not yet. he kisses your temple, your cheek, your jaw, lazy, lingering kisses, like he’s trying to memorize every piece of you while you’re still soft and pliant in his arms.
“you okay, mon ange?” he asks softly, brushing your hair back from your damp forehead.
you nod, and he smiles. “good,” he whispers, kissing your shoulder. “you’re everything.”
he pulls out with careful slowness, murmuring something in french against your skin you don’t quite catch, but it feels like praise. then he disappears for a moment. warm towel, soft hands, cleaning you up gently, like he’s handling something precious.
when he returns to bed, he draws you into his chest, one impossibly long arm curled around your waist, his nose nuzzling the crown of your head. the air between you is humid and quiet, but he speaks again, voice low and heavy with sincerity.
“you know i think about this even when i’m halfway across the world, right?” his fingers trace your spine in lazy lines. “not just the way you feel, but the way you look at me. the way you let me love you.”
you tilt your head to meet his gaze, and there’s something so raw in it. like he’s still overwhelmed by how deeply he feels this. how real you are in his arms, how close.
“happy birthday,” he says again, softer now, mouth brushing your collarbone. “i hope you know i’d give you the stars if you asked.”
you let out a quiet laugh, barely a breath, and he pulls the covers over you both like a final promise. outside, the city glows. inside, it’s just you and him and the steady rhythm of two hearts learning how to slow down together.
“rest, bébé,” he whispers, lips at your ear. “you’re mine tonight.”
NSFW ALPHABET PT. 1 ⟢ various [wnba, wcbb, nba, football, nfl, F1] .ᐟ
summary ౨ৎ nsfw alphabet, yk what that means! a freaky letter for each one of your favs!
content ⟢ smut smut smut— mentions of aftercare, ass eating (not in depth), body worship, sex positions, dirty talk, s/d dynamics, cum play, breeding kink, masturbation, tribbing/scissoring, public-ish sex, oral, degradation kink, some non-google translated yet poor french (thanks french class!) it’s pure smut man just beware!!
serenity says ໒꒱ i'm so sorry for ghosting y'all... uni has been beating my ass up. TRUST the requests and chapter one of let the light in will be posted eventually, i just need to adjust to my classes bc i'm actually going insane ANYWAYS! thank you sm for 200 followers (like ahhh wtf? i didn't even notice?) i wanted to celebrate but didn't want to do anything too big (bc lord knows i can't stick to a regular posting schedule), so here's a lil nsfw alphabet with almost everyone i write for! enjoy :)
nsfw alphabet template from @/ikiissagirl!!
the next part includes players from the wnba, nba, football, and nfl .ᐟ
AFTERCARE ⟢ what are they like after sex? 𝝑𝝔 ANTHONY EDWARDS
anthony is used to sex being casual, so after it, he cleans himself up and moves on. back then, maybe he’ll check up on his partner, make sure she’s not too worn out, still, he keeps it pushing. but when he meets you, and he starts catching feelings, your relationship becoming more serious than expected, anthony realizes that it’s not enough— you deserve better than that. to the point of one day, he sheepishly asks you what you like to do after sex. he’s definitely not perfect, but he gets the gist of it. he’ll give you some praise once you both catch your breath, force you to get up and pee, by carrying you to the bathroom bridal style— if he’s feeling extra, like on valentine’s day, he’ll run you a bath— whatever else you need, he insists you tell him and he’ll get it. ant might be tired, but he’s not lazy. after that, it ends with some pillow talk, because when does anthony not want to talk to you?
BODY PART ⟢ their favorite body part of their partner 𝝑𝝔 SHEDEUR SANDERS
ass. no brainer. have you seen him talking about how much he loves “cake”? he eats cake— said with nothing but pure pride in his voice, hell, shedeur worships every kind of cake. dr. miami cake. flat cake. thick cake. ass is ass, sue him. he loves squeezing, kissing, massaging (he’s weirdly good at it), slapping, caressing your ass— no surprise his hand “accidentally” lowers down your waist when you’re out and about with him, or how you catch him looking behind you whenever you’re walking around his place. and when you have sex with him, you can’t find it in you to be shocked that the first position he suggests is…doggystyle. maybe reverse cowgirl, if he wants to switch things up. wow, shedeur, way to be subtle!
CUM ⟢ anything to do with cum, basically 𝝑𝝔 LUKA DONCIC
luka likes his cum on you…a little too much. his favorite is when you let him cum on your chest especially, watching you play with your boobs while his cum paints your skin. he doesn’t understand what is it exactly— maybe it’s because of the whole marking thing? he’s a messy guy? or how you just scoop it up, look at him with a smirk while you put it up to your mouth to swallow? who knows. what luka does know though, is that wherever you tell him to finish, his dick reacts in an instant. that’s why when you tell him to finish inside, please luka! he doesn’t even hesitate, or think about how he’s not protected at all— simply focused on how you’re clenching around him, pussy greedily swallowing his cum up like your mouth does. he watches it drip out of your hole, so tempted by you that his fingers reach out to shove it back in. he’s not obsessed, no, not at all.
DIRTY TALK ⟢ do they like dirty talk? what do they usually say? 𝝑𝝔 KYLIAN MBAPPE
kylian can fluently speak three languages— english, spanish, and french, and regardless which one he switches to in bed, his words come out sinful every time. we’ve seen the video of him talking to his teammates. point blank period, he’s a yapper that loves a good dirty talk session. mostly because you just have the best reactions to what he says— even with the language barrier, you know it’s dirty and your pussy loves the gruffy sound of his voice in your ear while he’s fucking you. he’ll fuck you dumb, to the point where french starts sounding like spanish, spanish sounding like english, just nodding along to whatever he says. kylian laughs, loving how he doesn’t need a translator to get to you.
“c’est tout pour moi, non? dit-moi, ou je arrête.”
“putain, juste comme ça, bebe.”
“tu veux de moi? quoi, tu peux pas me demander plus mieux ce ça?”
FAVORITE POSITON ⟢ very self explanatory, what position in bed do they prefer?
1 𝝑𝝔 JALEN DUREN
jalen duren is 6’10, unless if you’re 6’9, there’s definitely a height difference between the two of you that makes sex a real workout. jalen’s personal favorite are positions where he gets to hold you up. against the wall, or your legs wrapped around his waist, or his arms hooked around your legs— he doesn’t really care. jalen loves how he gets to show his strength, and you never fail to squeal when he picks you up so effortlessly. kiss his muscles and he’ll probably fold right then and there. the full control he gets is intoxicating, being able to choose the pace and how exactly hard he thrusts into you. you on the other hand, love how the position makes you feel every part of jalen. the angle of the position allows him to get reallll deep inside too, you gasping at each brush his dick makes with your cervix. the downsides? a man gets tired eventually, and the soreness you feel afterwards is insane. #ripbutworthit
2 𝝑𝝔 ANGEL REESE
tribbing, hands down. she calls it what it is: bumping coochies, affectionately though. it doesn’t matter if you’re on top or she is, missionary style, scissoring— although she gets a kick out of being on top after a good game, because she feels on top of the world…haha, get it? no? okay :( she enjoys every second of it, the way your bodies are molded, soft lips attached while your pussies rub together, the wetness gathering between you both allowing you to roll your hips up and down in sync. she’s a moaner, so if you decide to speed up, gyrating your clit right on hers, she will not be able to keep quiet. overstimulation really gets to angel, so drag it out by bringing your fingers to her clit too, and then she’ll really tear up. point it out and you’ll be the next one whimpering and crying too, trust. angel always gets her lick back.
3 𝝑𝝔 JARED MCCAIN
he’s one of those guys who loves missionary because of the closeness it gives. whenever he pushes inside of you, jared’s eyes snap right to your face, relishing every expression and gasp you make. he’ll hold your jaw, forcing you to make eye contact the whole time, smiling at how much you’re moaning— because of him. whenever it gets too much, he loves being able to be there for you, putting his hand in yours and talking you through it. “you’re doing so good for me baby,” is his go-to.
GOOFY ⟢ are they more serious in the moment? are they more humorous? 𝝑𝝔 TYRESE HALIBURTON
tyrese is a mix of both serious and goofy, especially seen in my “living room flow” fic. he doesn’t go as far to make a joke out of situation— you needy for him is a very serious problem he’d love to fix with his fingers…or dick. still, he can’t help but let out a joke or two, loving the way you react. you either giggle and slap his shoulder, or roll your eyes, scoffing at him. either way, it does something to him. what can he say? he lives to please you. when tyrese is serious though, is whenever you’re close to orgasm (wanting to make sure you feel good) or he is (trying his absolute best not to cum before you do).
INTIMACY ⟢ how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect. 𝝑𝝔 LEWIS HAMILTON
lewis is maybe the most intimate lover you’ve been with your whole life. i’m serious, he’s painfully romantic. he’s the kind of guy that writes a poem about you and how every inch of your skin is perfect— and recites it while he’s thrusting into you, slowly and sensually. he makes you feel every inch, every vein, and every twitch of his cock. whispering his poem against your ear like it’s a prayer. you have no choice but to believe him, because who can say no to his unwavering adoration for you— how he doesn’t stutter over a single line, inked hands holding your warm skin like it's the most precious thing he'll ever get to feel, and immerses himself into every touch you give, thanking you for blessing him with access to your sacred body. he sets the mood too— candles being the only light source of the room, rose petals scattered across the bed, while a light r&b song plays, muffled by the noises escaping your throat.
JERK OFF ⟢ masturbation headcanons 𝝑𝝔 JUDE BELLINGHAM
unfortunately, jude is not the kind of guy who can wait to see you rather than jerk off. if he’s hard, he’s hard. it won’t go away, no matter how many weird images he thinks up in his head. it’s even worse whenever he’s on away games— mind plagued with the thought about how you aren’t here. you can’t kiss him. play with his hair. cuddle against him. feel his boner poke through his shorts while you start— fuck! he can’t even bother with a facetime call, since it’s 3 am where you are already. it’s more of a means to an end, jude reasons, wanting “jude jr” to be gone already. spitting into his palm, he pulls up a video in his hidden album of you riding him, sighing at the sight of your ass bouncing up and down. he really needs to see you again.
KINK ⟢ one or more of their kinks 𝝑𝝔 JJ REDICK
a serious degradation kink. obviously, there would be a safeword and boundaries established (he’s a meanie, but not evil!), but once it’s decided, it’s like a switch flips. suddenly his voice turns all raspy, rough hand pushing you down to his clothed lap as you look up at his stern face. he doesn’t play at all. he’s calling you his slut, muttering about how pathetic you look on him, begging to get off on his thigh? “you’re that desperate, huh?” he chuckles. “keep movin’. i didn’t say stop.” it’s almost a little cruel how he loves to watch you slip up— waiting for the moment he has a good reason to spank your ass red. if the opportunity is there, he’ll take it. don’t worry, he has some numbing cream somewhere in his drawer.
LOCATION ⟢ favorite places to do the do 𝝑𝝔 JUJU WATKINS
juju likes having sex in more private places— i mean, hello, she’s usc’s superstar and a basketball legend in the making! her putting her arm around your waist causes enough commotion, imagine what pictures or videos of you two fucking would do? seriously, juju would never know peace again. so mainly, you’re either doing it at her place, yours, or a secluded place (with a door and lock preferably). anywhere else would have her unfocused and antsy— constantly looking around to see if anyone’s watching or coming by and rushing to get an orgasm out of you. scared or not, she’ll make sure you cum though!
a headcanon related to my ucla wcbb!reader fic— juju definitely ate you out on the floor of ucla’s locker room once (when the arena was cleared out after the game, no one else there but the poor custodian who couldn’t figure out where the random whimpers were coming from?) after you had bet that ucla would win against usc. she simply said “bet.” and played her heart out that night. trust, it felt good to see you, all hot and bothered laying on the ucla logo plastered on the floor, juices soaking the material beneath you. juju being able to ruin you on your turf. you decided to stop making bets with juju after coach had pointed the stain out the next day, yelling— “ladies, if you spill anything on the floor, clean it up!”
long ass taglist i am so sorry...will add another option to the taglist form that'll make the taglist for fics like these shorter!
⤷ want to be added to the taglist? read this!
so happy youre back! i would love either an ant fic where hes a tease or an ant fic where hes mad aggressive ("this is what you wanted, right?" energy)
this is what you wanted, right?
an anthony edwards fic
summary ~ requested !
includes ~ smut // like really nasty smut // brat reader
word count ~ 2,412
a/n ~ i hope you love this one , i sure do LOL 😝
————————————————————————
The past week had been pure torture for Ant.
You knew exactly what you were doing.
It started the night he got back from a tough road trip. Instead of greeting him at the door like usual, you were wearing one of his old jerseys with nothing underneath, bent over the kitchen island “looking for something” when he walked in.
He’d stared, jaw tight, and said, “Don’t start with me tonight.”
You smiled innocently and said, “Start what?”
That was day one.
By day four, you were sending him videos while he was at practice — slow clips of you riding your fingers in his bed, moaning his name, ending every video with “Hurry home, baby.”
By day six, he was texting you back with threats:
Ant:
Keep fucking playing with me and see what happens.
Ant:
I swear to God when I get home…
But you kept going.
Tonight, the leash finally snapped.
You were in the living room wearing nothing but his black jersey when he came through the door. The second he saw you, he dropped his bag with a heavy thud.
Anthony didn’t speak. He just stared at you with dark, dangerous eyes, chest rising and falling like he was trying to stay in control.
You tilted your head, smiling sweetly. “Rough practice?”
He stalked toward you slowly, all 6’4” of lean muscle and barely-contained rage. When he reached you, he grabbed your jaw firmly, forcing you to look up at him.
“You think this shit is a game?” His voice was low and rough. “You been teasing me for a whole fucking week. Sending videos of my pussy while I’m stuck in hotels. Walking around in my jersey with no panties like I won’t tear your ass up.”
Your pulse raced. Heat flooded between your thighs.
Before you could answer, he spun you around and bent you over the back of the couch. He yanked the jersey up to your waist, exposing you completely.
“Look at this,” he growled, running two thick fingers through your soaked folds. “Already dripping. You been wet all week playing these little games?”
“Ant—”
He slapped your ass hard. The sound cracked through the room.
“Don’t ‘Ant’ me right now.” He pushed two fingers inside you roughly, pumping them fast. “This what you wanted? Huh? You wanted me pissed off so I’d stop being nice?”
You moaned loudly, pushing back against his hand. He added a third finger, stretching you open as he finger-fucked you with zero mercy.
“Answer me,” he demanded, curling his fingers hard against your g-spot.
“Yes,” you gasped. “I wanted this. Wanted you rough.”
He let out a dark, satisfied laugh.
“Good.”
He pulled his fingers out, yanked his sweats down just enough to free his thick, rock-hard dick, and slammed into you in one brutal thrust.
“Fuuuuck,” you cried out at the sudden stretch.
Anthony didn’t give you time to breathe. He started pounding into you immediately — deep, angry strokes that made your body jolt forward with every thrust.
“This what you wanted, right?” he growled, gripping your hips hard. “Wanted me to fuck you like I hate you?”
“Yes— fuck, yes!”
He slapped your ass again, harder this time, and picked up speed. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the living room as he railed you mercilessly.
“You been acting like a fucking brat all week,” he snarled, one hand fisting your hair to arch your back. “Sending me videos of you playing with my pussy like I wouldn’t come home and fuck it up.”
He reached around and rubbed your clit roughly while drilling into you. Your legs were already shaking.
“Ant— I’m gonna cum—”
“No shit,” he laughed darkly. “Cum then. Show me how bad you needed this dick.”
Your first orgasm hit you like a freight train. You screamed, walls clamping down around him as your legs buckled. Ant held you up and kept fucking you through it, not slowing down even for a second.
He pulled out suddenly, spun you around, and lifted you onto the back of the couch. He hooked your legs over his arms and shoved back inside you, even deeper in this position.
“Look at me,” he ordered.
You forced your eyes open. His face was inches from yours — intense, sweaty, beautiful, and pissed off.
“This what you wanted?” He snapped his hips forward hard, making you moan. “Wanted me to fuck you stupid? Wanted me to stop playing nice?”
“Yes, baby,” you whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders. “Fuck me harder.”
He gave you exactly what you asked for.
Anthony fucked you like he was trying to ruin you. Deep, powerful strokes that reached places you didn’t even know existed. He kissed you messily, biting your bottom lip, sucking on your tongue, then moved down to suck harsh marks into your neck and chest.
When he felt you getting close again, he smirked against your mouth.
“Greedy ass. Already about to cum again?”
He rubbed your clit fast and rough while pounding into you. Your second orgasm ripped through you so hard you saw stars, screaming his name as you gushed around him.
Only then did Ant let himself go.
“Fuck— I’m cumming,” he groaned, burying himself as deep as possible. He came with a long, guttural moan, flooding you with hot, thick pulses as his hips jerked against yours.
For a moment, the only sounds were both of you breathing hard.
Then the aggression slowly faded.
Ant carefully pulled out and lifted you into his arms, carrying you to the bedroom like you weighed nothing. He laid you down gently on the bed and disappeared into the bathroom, returning with a warm towel.
He cleaned you up softly, pressing gentle kisses to your thighs, your stomach, and the marks he’d left on your neck.
“You okay, baby?” he asked, voice much softer now as he climbed into bed and pulled you against his chest.
You nodded, cuddling into him. “More than okay. That was… intense.”
He chuckled, rubbing slow circles on your back. “You been asking for that shit all week. Had to give you what you wanted.”
You smiled, tracing patterns on his chest. “I love when you get like that.”
“Yeah?” He kissed the top of your head. “Good. Because next time you tease me for a whole week, I ain't gon' be so nice.”
You laughed softly. “Promise?”
He tilted your chin up and kissed you slow and deep.
summary: the three times you decided to flirt with pope cody and the one time you decided to take it one step further.
content/warnings: in my mind this takes place like during s4 but there's nothing really specific about it, pope calls himself andrew in his mind, canon typical violence/drinking/drugs, all the cody boys are here but mostly craig, reader is drinking alcohol and has hair/wears dresses/heels/perfume, sub!pope, fingering, a good ol handy, a little dirty talk, unprotected piv, creampie, really just an unseen amount of fluff from me tbh NSFW + MDNI! 18+ ONLY!
wc: 10.2k (oops)
notes: omg my popey.... i love him so much. i got carried away with the plot (kinda a first tbh) but i wanna take care of him so bad. i need to bite his arms. only slightly proofread so proceed at your own risk
credit: gif taken from this set by @wesandresons :)
—
The first time Andrew met you, it was in his bedroom.
Throughout Andrew’s life, many people have come and gone through the doors of Smurf’s house. It would take another lifetime just to count them all.
The parties started when he was young and never ended. The faces blurred together for Andrew now, not that he could really bring himself to care all that much in the first place. Just like Craig’s girlfriends or Smurf’s boyfriends, nobody was ever really a permanent fixture in Andrew’s life. Not if they weren’t family.
He knows that everyone thinks that he’s different. That he’s weird. He notices their looks when he lingers around the pool, in the kitchen, when he’s just sitting on the couch. His own brothers even, a lot of the time. Everyone eyes him like a ticking time bomb, just waiting for him to go off.
Andrew doesn’t really mind, though. Or, if he did, he'd become numb to the feeling a long time ago. In fact, he’s probably become numb to a lot of feelings. But Andrew doesn’t know any other way to be. He’s just Pope and he has been for a very long time.
This party in the Cody household wasn’t different from any other. Booze, drugs, and a big mess Andrew would definitely have to clean up later. The music is loud, bass turned up too high, and Craig is attempting to jump off the roof into the pool again. Amidst the cheers, Andrew thinks about the rest of his brothers and wonders for a moment where exactly it went so differently for him, or if he was just simply born that way.
His brothers seem okay with being in the spotlight. Even his nephew seemed to fare better than him, assimilating perfectly into every situation that arose, especially when people were involved. Andrew was never like that.
J must have gotten it from Julia.
Andrew was never a people person. He was always out of place, like the Cody that just didn’t quite belong, all jagged edges. The parties always send him into the corners of his mind that he didn’t really like venturing into.
The pounding of the bass is getting to him.
He pulls open the door to his bedroom hoping for a moment of silence, when he’s greeted with a pair of bare feet hanging off the edge of his bed. The figure doesn’t stir when he enters, so he creeps in further and shuts the door quietly. He turns his head, scanning now that he has a better view of who exactly is in his room.
You’re laid on his bed, eyes shut, hugging your phone to your chest like a stuffed animal. You’ve clearly come to escape the crowds of the party, same as him. Andrew can’t help as his eyes drag up your legs all the way up to where your short dress shows just a little too much of your thighs. He notices your heels as well, placed nice and neat beside the bed.
“Who are you?” It comes out a bit more gruff than Andrew anticipated and your eyes finally flutter open. It takes you a minute to notice him but when you do you’re shooting up to your feet, spine rigid. It’s cute, he thinks, the way you panic. You startle like a small puppy.
“Oh my god,” you squeak, clearly embarrassed. Your hands fall to adjust the hem of your short dress, much to Andrew’s disappointment. He gives you a once over; it’s half assessing what exactly you’re doing in his room and half just taking you and your skimpy outfit. “I’m so sorry. Is this your room?”
Andrew gives a small nod and you wring your hands nervously. You’re taking him in now, a Cody brother here in front of you, live and in the flesh.
“So which one are you?” you ask, head cocked. Now that you know this is his room, he notices you assessing him in a different light. People always do —it didn’t bother Andrew much anymore but with you he feels a twinge of shame in his stomach. “Deran? Or, um…”
Andrew knows that you’re searching for his name. His nickname. It had to be since there was a short list of people who called him by his real name. Pope Cody is known by everyone in Oceanside. Andrew Cody, on the other hand, is not.
“Andrew.” he supplies, voice softer than before. Now you’ve been added to that very exclusive list. You repeat his name back to him, voice a little warm, no doubt from one of the many drinks that the Cody’s provided. Then you introduce yourself and Andrew attempts to burn your name into his memory.
“Okay, Andrew. Are you hiding too?” Now that he hasn’t kicked you out, you take a seat on the edge of his bed. He notices the compression of where your body laid just a few minutes before on his neatly made and pressed sheets but doesn’t say anything. He likes the sound of your voice too much to interrupt you. “Or just making sure nobody is defiling your room.”
“I’m not hiding,” he replies, crossing his arm over his chest. The strap of your dress falls and Andrew tries not to get distracted. “This is my house. I’m free to go where I please.”
“Fair enough. I’m hiding,” you shrug. A beat of silence passes and you pat the spot next to you, inviting him to sit on his own bed. Andrew is curious enough to oblige, sitting on the other end of the bed, putting distance between you. He doesn’t miss how your shoulders drop slightly in disappointment. “My friend is here with Craig and they’ve conveniently disappeared... I don’t even want to know what they’re doing.”
“I have a few guesses.” Another one of Craig’s girlfriends. The giggle of a girl coming from Craig’s room that Andrew had heard when he was walking by suddenly made a lot more sense.
He wills himself not to flinch when you scoot closer to him, closing the distance he deliberately put between the two of you. Andrew was interested, too interested, and that worried him.
Pope Cody wasn’t allowed to want.
“Is it okay if I stay here with you?” you ask, and Andrew’s heart flips. He clears his throat, hoping that you don’t see the blush that’s creeping it’s way up his neck. “I’m just not really sure how long it’s going to take and I would much rather be in here.”
With you, hangs unspoken in the air.
“Sure.” Andrew likes the way you smile when he answers, a small flash of teeth. You scoot even closer and tuck your bare feet under you. You’re so close now that your knee is nudging his thigh. He can smell your perfume from here and it’s heavenly compared to the sweat and chlorine laced air outside. “I don’t really want to be out there either.”
“So, Andrew,” His name sounds like honey when it’s falling from your lips and he wonders how often he can make you say it. The feeling that settles in his chest when you say it is too addicting for him to live without it now. “Not really a party person?”
“No. But my brothers are.” He gestures vaguely to the door, the music pounding on the other side of the wall and then his hands retreat back to his lap. He can feel your eyes on him, but not in the usual way he always tends to notice. You scan him with a kind of curiosity that he hasn’t felt in a long time.
“I’m not really a party person either,” you agree, glancing at the door he had just gestured towards. You look a little sad, even. It makes Andrew’s fingers twitch.“My friend said she needed some moral support coming to meet this guy. So I came, and then she ditched me like an hour ago.”
“Sounds like you’ve got a shitty friend.” Andrew says plainly and he’s caught off guard when you let out a laugh.
“Yeah, I guess,” You shrug, shoulders still shaking with remnants of laughter. Andrew has turned his head fully now to look at you but he doesn’t really understand why you’re laughing. “But maybe it’s like fate, or something.”
“Fate?” Andrew echoes, even more confused than before. You lock eyes with him and he has to resist the urge to break it, enthralled enough by your gaze to ignore the awkward feeling settling in his chest.
“Yeah. Like maybe it’s fate that she left? Because then I wouldn’t have hidden in a cute guy’s room and got to talk to him.” He can tell that your mind is elsewhere, but his eyes are still on you. There’s a dreamy look painted on your face and he’s so distracted he almost misses the fact that you called him cute. Almost.
He opens his mouth to respond but your phone beats him to it, the shrill sound of your ringer filling the empty room. You look at him sheepishly and turn your head to answer as if that would give you the privacy you were looking for. It doesn’t work because as soon as you hit accept, he can hear what he assumes is your friend’s voice on the other side of the line.
You get up and he watches you nod along to the conversation. You’re not doing a lot of talking, but your friend definitely is; he can tell by the murmur of her drunken chatter and the sound of the music pulsing on the other side of the line. You’re kind enough to let her continue on for a bit longer before you let her know that you’re coming, don’t move!
Then you’ve turned back to Andrew, tapping your phone on your palm as you try to find the right words to say. You look genuinely apologetic —for what, Andrew doesn’t know. The silence stretches long, and Andrew is the first one to break it.
“You don’t have to stay,” he says plainly. You don’t really owe him anything, although the look on your face makes him feel otherwise. You take a step closer, poised like you want to take a seat next to him again. Andrew wants you to, but he won’t admit that part out loud.
“I know. I want to-” you start, but your phone starts buzzing like it’s possessed, cutting you off. A quick glance is all it gets; you’re quickly scanning the messages before returning your attention to him. Your phone doesn’t stop vibrating. “It’s hard to leave when you’re looking at me like a lost puppy.”
Andrew chooses to ignore that comment, instead turning to grab your shoes from the side of the bed next to him. He offers your heels to you, arms outstretched, closing the distance between you just like you had before. You give him a small smile as you take them from him, fingers brushing his just a beat too long. The way it sets his nerves alight is also something that he chooses to ignore.
“Thank you,” you say, slipping your strappy heels back on. Andrew looks everywhere but you as you bend down to tie them up, feeling the blush creeping up once again. Once you’re straightened up he gives you a small smile in return, watching as you pull your phone back out again. “Sorry for messing up your bed. I’ll make it up to you next time.”
You say it so definitively, like you somehow know there will be a next time. Before he can reply, you’re giving him a shy wave goodbye, sliding out the door. The music leaks in for a moment when you open it, blending in with the cheers of partygoers outside. When you close it he’s back to the silence of his room, alone. He had come in there looking for a moment to himself but now that you’re gone, he can’t help but want the opposite.
Andrew really hopes that there will be.
—
The next time Andrew met you, it was in Deran’s bar.
He could count on one hand the amount of times he actually sat at Deran’s bar for any other reason besides work. It was rare that he ever got to enjoy a beer, much less have a moment of free time. But between Deran’s insistence and Craig’s staggering frame, Andrew agreed to stay for one drink.
He’s on the dregs of his beer when he notices Craig straighten up in his seat and saunter over to the front door of the bar. Andrew’s head turns and suddenly he’s glad he came, perking up the same way his brother had just moments ago. A girl comes out to greet Craig, looking like his usual type, and he slings an arm over her shoulders, steering her towards the bar with a sly smile.
Then you walk in and Andrew almost falls off his stool in surprise. You’re dressed differently than when he first met you, softer and more casual. Both of you look like you’ve just come from the beach, donned in shorts and tanks, hair curled from the salt water in the air. It makes his heart skip a beat.
You walk in far more hesitantly than your friend, like you’re not too sure if you belong or where to put yourself. Andrew can empathize with the feeling. He watches as you scan the bar; maybe for your friend, or maybe for another place to hide. You lock eyes with him once you finally notice his presence at the bar and you begin to make your way over. Andrew isn’t sure if he should break eye contact but he can’t help it, eyes darting away before they make their way back to yours.
“Fancy meeting you here,” You take the seat next to him, flashing him a grin. Andrew mumbles something under his breath, but you’re not deterred. In fact, you scoot your stool closer to his. You’re laying it on real thick, but he has to admit that he kind of likes it. “You come here often?”
“You know Pope?” The moment is interrupted by Deran, who sets down a full glass of beer in front of you. He’s got a bemused look on his face, eyes darting between you and his brother. Andrew tries his best not to frown, especially at the use of his nickname when you only know him by Andrew. From the expression on your face, he can tell that he’s failing. Your eyes flicker with some kind of recognition, like you were suddenly recalling the name that you had forgotten the last time you met.
“Yeah, I do,” you nod, not even acknowledging the fact that his own brother had just called him by a completely different name. You gesture to his empty glass, the one that he had set aside to fully focus on you when you approached. “And I think I owe him a drink.”
“You do?” It slips out of both Deran and Andrew’s mouths, disbelief on both their faces. It comes out a bit rougher for Andrew, while Deran inquires like you just told him that unicorns were real. You handle both questions with grace.
“Well, I said I’d make it up to you next time,” You smile, pulling the glass that Deran set down closer to you. His brother leans in closer, clearly interested in what exactly was going on between the two of you. Andrew tries to shoot his brother a glare before you look back at him but he doesn’t have enough time. “So, are you going to have a drink with me, or what?”
“Yeah.” Andrew says, perhaps a bit too eagerly as Deran snickers under his breath. He slides him a beer as well, a knowing look painted all over his features. Andrew takes it with a scowl, but his expression softens when he looks back at you. You bring the beer to your lips with a smile and Andrew can’t help but smile back.
Two and a half beers later, Andrew’s face is a lot warmer and you are a lot closer. You’re so close that he can feel your shoes scuffing the edge of his newly polished boots, but he can’t bring himself to care. He likes when you giggle at his jokes; the way that your eyes shine. Andrew can feel his brothers’ eyes on the two of you; he even catches his nephew looking his way a few times.
But for the first time in a while, Andrew doesn’t really want to shrink away. He’s tuned out the background noise, even your friend’s obnoxious drunk laughter at Craig’s pretty mediocre jokes. Because, in reality, Andrew is not the type of guy that a lot of girls like. And Pope especially, is not. But here with you, he lets himself believe that maybe just this once, he’s allowed to have something just for him.
“I like your smile,” You break the silence the two of you were sharing once the conversation you were having earlier came to an end. Andrew hadn’t even realized that he was smiling. He had really just been using the silence to soak in your presence; you still smell the same as you did when you met the first time. Wearing the same perfume that you left on his sheets and pillows just a few weeks ago. He didn’t want to admit how many times he shoved his face into them, chasing your scent before it faded. “It’s cute. I like your teeth.”
There it was again. That word. Cute. It’s not a word anyone used to describe Andrew, probably not since childhood. Or possibly maybe never. He almost wants to swing his head around to see if the rest of his family had heard.
“You really think I’m cute?” He can’t help but ask. It might be the beers or the way you look at him or the fact that he can feel your body heat, but his brain is a bit fuzzy. You look over at him, eyes a bit glazed over from the alcohol. Now he can feel you examining him again, looking him up and down.
“I guess cute isn’t really the word for a guy like you.” His heart sinks at that, wondering what you really think about him now that you know Pope and not just Andrew. He knows the stories that circle around Oceanside about him and he’s not sure if he’s ready to hear the ones that you’ve heard.
“A guy like me?” Andrew echoes, trying his best not to sound so sad. His mood perks up when he feels the heat of your gaze taking him in, seemingly a bit unguarded, presumably from all the alcohol.
“Yeah. You’re all built and…” You look around, trying to place a word to describe him. Then you lay a hand on his arm and Andrew stiffens for a moment but he softens quickly, leaning into your touch. You look pleased that he allowed you to do that, smiling like you’re ready to take a bite of him right then and there. “I don’t know. Strong. Thick. Handsome.”
Andrew is sure that he’s red all the way up to the tips of his ears. He’s also pretty sure that he saw Craig choke on his drink at your comment a few stools down from you, but he decides that’s a later problem.
“Thanks,” he says gruffly and it’s really the only word that he can get out of his mouth, embarrassingly. You shoot him a smile, and it’s all sweet and a little too enticing. Andrew wouldn’t be surprised if he was leaning into you, ass halfway off his stool.
“Sorry, I’m being a bit forward, aren’t I?” you say, swirling whatever was left of your beer. He tries to shrug nonchalantly but it doesn’t really work. “I just get flirty when I’m tipsy.”
“So you don’t think us meeting again is fate?” He’s teasing, half smile tugging on the edge of lips. You giggle and Andrew basks in the sound. He can’t remember the last time someone made him feel like this. The last time he wanted to be so close to someone.
“I never said that,” You’re hiding a cheeky grin behind your glass and Andrew desperately wishes that he could see it. “You do believe in fate then?”
Andrew has to think about it for a moment. He’s not sure, really. Lots of fucked up shit has happened in his life and it would be cruel world if that was the fate that the universe had in store for him. Then again, he’s done some terrible things as well, so maybe it was what he deserved.
“I don’t know,” he answers truthfully. Andrew stares into his drink and reflects on all of the things he’s done, the crimes he committed. Julia. Cath. They swirl around in his mind, weighing on his conscience. Then he looks at you and they all seem to float away. “Maybe.”
“Well, let me know when you decide.” He thinks that you can probably sense his hesitancy or the spiral that it sends him down when he thinks about it too hard, so you pump the breaks. He almost can’t stand the way you’re looking at him, eyes wide open and curious. Andrew is unsure of which version of him that you’re seeing or what exactly is going through your head. He doesn’t have the courage to ask.
“Okay.” he says, a bit too distracted by the pieces of hair that have fallen in front of your face as you turned to take another sip, shielding his view. His hand flexes as he resists the urge to push them away.
Then, like you could read his mind, you tuck them behind your ear and shoot him another look. You open your mouth to say something, but you’re interrupted by Craig, who is steering your friend in your direction. Andrew’s hand flexes again as this time he suppresses the urge to hit Craig for cutting in.
“She just puked in the plant over there, and I’m pretty fucked up, so…” Craig isn’t subtle in what he’s asking and Andrew notices the worry flicker across your face as you take in your friend, who can barely stand up on her own without his brother gripping her shoulders. You mutter under your breath and he thinks he hears you basically cursing out Craig.
“Okay, just… take her outside. I’ll be out in two minutes.” you say, and Craig stumbles off, your friend in tow. Then you turn to Andrew, an apologetic look on your face that’s becoming all too familiar to him now.
“Is she going to be okay?” His gaze wanders to the door swinging shut behind the pair. You wring your hands nervously, standing up from the stool. Gathering your things a little frantically, you shrug. Andrew deflates a bit as he watches.
“Yeah, I think so. She’ll probably just puke into her purse on the way home or something,” Once you’ve gathered everything in your arms you give a deep sigh, turning your full attention towards him. He notes that you seem a little deflated too, but he’s not sure if it’s because you’re leaving him or because your friend and Craig seem to be deeply irresponsible individuals. “I’m sorry. Again.”
“It’s okay.” Your lips curl with a small smile, still tinged with a bit of anxiety. It’s cute when you lift your free hand up in a small wave, the same way you did last time, and then you’re gone. Your perfume is still lingering in the air when Andrew turns back around and it’s his turn to smile. It melts when he sees Deran standing behind the bar, a smug look on his face.
“You got it bad, man.”
—
After that, Andrew sees you a lot more often.
Your friend and Craig seemed to have made things very exclusive, because now she’s basically living at Smurf’s house. Which means that, since you’re her best friend, she invites you over quite frequently.
You two haven’t been able to have a moment alone since that night at the bar, much to Andrew’s disappointment. The brothers have been busy planning a job, which meant that he was in and out pretty often. His mind was elsewhere though, distracted by the way you brushed arms in the hallway on his way out or when your eye contact lingered longer than usual.
So, maybe that was why the job went a little awry.
They got what they needed to, but not without a fight. The boys trail into the backyard one after the other, everyone bruised and cut up. It always annoyed Andrew when his brothers were impulsive; he was the one that was always suffering the consequences.
He quickly notes that you’re laid out next to the pool in your swimsuit, your body shimmering with sweat under the sweltering sun. Andrew watches a bead of sweat drip from your neck to the valley between your breasts. Time slows as he watches, licking his lips. He barely has time to drag his gaze away before Deran is wheeling on Craig.
“Why are you always pulling this crap?” Deran almost has a finger in his face, gesturing angrily. Craig just rolls his eyes in response, pushing past him and giving him a glare. Andrew can see the tension tight in their shoulders as they both seethe.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, dude.” Craig shoots back, making his way back to the house. Tension has been high between the two lately, just like always, trapped in a toxic cycle.
It seems to snap for Deran, especially after the job, and he jumps on Craig’s back, knocking him over. The commotion is loud, Craig hitting the ground with a loud thud. Deran throws the first punch and Craig’s skull cracks hard against the pavement. Craig is quick to recover though, probably due to his size, and it’s a full blown fist fight in seconds.
The two exchange blows for a minute before Andrew and J rush forward to pull the two of them apart. They don’t put up much of a fight and the two of them stalk off in different directions; Craig into the house and Deran out of the yard. J shakes his head and follows after Craig, hands shoved into his pockets.
A quick glance proves that the pool chair you were on just moments ago is left empty, your drink still sitting on the ground next to it. He assumes that you snuck out once his brother hit the floor, probably wise enough to know how the situation was going to unfold. He can see your figure in the window padding around the kitchen, blurred from the distance.
Andrew closes the sliding door behind him when he enters the kitchen and he finds you there, skimpy bikini and all. You’re rummaging through the fridge and he takes the opportunity to take in the view before you shut the door.
You’re holding the carton of orange juice when you turn, finally taking in Andrew’s state. The cut on his eyebrow, the bruise beginning to bloom on his cheek and his torn up knuckles. You make your way towards him, your brow furrowed in concern.
“Are you okay?” He hides his hand instinctively when you ask, which you definitely notice. You rub the back of your neck with your free hand, a bit sheepish. “I heard, uh, your brothers fighting.”
“Oh.” Andrew frowns as embarrassment clouds his thoughts. Will this deter you from coming back? He really hopes not. He’s silent as his eyes follow you as you grab yourself a glass and begin pouring.
“Yeah, oh.” You shoot a glance in the direction of J and Craig’s rooms, eyebrows raised. “So, back to my question. Is everything okay?”
Andrew contemplates his answer for a second, not sure how much detail to go into. You eye him in the same way that you always do and he is suddenly keenly aware that this is the first moment alone you’ve had together in ages. Pushing that thought aside, he settles on two words: “It’s complicated.”
“Right,” you scoff, making your way around the kitchen island. Andrew can’t help but watch you move, all bare shimmering skin and he shifts a little as all his blood flows downwards. He sucks in a sharp breath as you settle in beside him, resting your arm on the counter. Your sweat and tanning oil smears all over the stone island but he’s too focused on how close you are to be bothered by it. “That’s why you guys all look like shit. Did you guys get in a fight or did you guys do that to each other?”
“Like I said, it’s complicated,” he repeats and you set your glass down, a serious look on your face.
“Andrew, I know who you guys are,” you say and now he’s shifting uncomfortably instead, the sentence shattering any sort of lust filled haze he was just on the precipice of falling into. “I can keep a secret, don’t worry. I just… want you to be careful, okay? That’s all.”
“I’m always careful,” he replies and you huff in disbelief, but it also seems like you can’t help but smile. It’s a nice sight and it even makes him brave enough to take a step closer to you, finally being the first to lessen the gap between you two.
The proximity and the way you look up at him has the haze settling in once more. Andrew wants to reach out and toy with the strings of your bikini bottoms but he thinks better of it. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and he almost has to physically shake his head to rid himself of the thought.
“I’m sure you are,” You scan him up and down, examining his cuts and bruises. Though, Andrew swears that he can feel your gaze linger on his arms and his chest. It makes a shiver run down his spine. “But if this is you careful, I’d hate to see when it gets messy.”
“I don’t do messy,” he emphasises, his mind wandering back to the oily smudge you’ve left on the counter. You give a familiar giggle and your hand comes to rest on his arm, and he immediately forgets all about it again. This is the first time you’ve broken the touch barrier between the two of you on purpose and Andrew’s stomach flips at the thought. The heat of your hand is searing through his shirt and he’s glad you can’t feel the goosebumps that are rising under your palm.
“I know, Andrew. I’ve watched you clean,” you joke. Andrew loves hearing you say his name, his lips parting as you do so. He tries to pull his mind away from all the different things he would do to you to keep hearing it slip from your lips.
“Where’s your friend?” he asks, desperate to change the topic to anything but him and his family’s line of work. You let out a sigh, making your way back to the fridge. The door swings open and you start rummaging through the freezer like you lived at the house. Really, at this point, you kind of do.
“I’m not sure,” you say, voice a bit muffled from behind the freezer door. “Her and Craig are probably doing lines off each other’s chests or something.”
You pull out a bag of frozen vegetables, shutting the door behind you and approaching Andrew once more. You hold it out to him and he cocks his head in confusion. Rolling your eyes, you grab his bad hand and place the bag on top of his knuckles, still bloody. The cold dulls the stinging that Andrew had learned to ignore too early on in life.
“Why do you hang out with her?” He all but blurts out, but he can't help it. There was plenty of time for Andrew to watch you two interact when you were over, and you seemed more like a tired mother than a best friend. Plus, Andrew figured that if he could keep you distracted with conversation, you wouldn’t let go of his hand just yet.
“She’s been my best friend since, well, forever…” Pressing the bag into his knuckles further, your hand grips his gently and he can’t help but look at you while you fiddle with the frozen bag. “And if I don’t take care of her, who will?”
“I know the feeling.” Andrew says sincerely. He can’t remember a time in his life when he wasn’t a protector, an enforcer, a guard dog. You look up at him now, eyes soft. He feels his gaze soften in return, lips parting.
“I can see that,” you hum like you’re contemplating his words. “Is there someone taking care of you?” The question catches him off guard and he almost jerks his hand back reflexively.
“I don't need anyone to take care of me.” It's a statement that doesn't fully ring true; he thinks about the people who have tried and what he’s lost. It's better off this way, perhaps. But he also thinks you probably wouldn't like that answer.
“Everyone needs someone, Andrew.” Coming from anyone else, he thinks he would refuse. But from you, he feels a bit more inclined to agree. You sound sincere, he feels. Or he just likes you too much to think about disagreeing.
Maybe he does need someone, but no one was ever up for the job. At least no one that knew him —all of him.
A door slams in the distance and you flinch at the loud noise. Not a moment later your friend is rushing past the pair of you, clad in a similar bikini to yours. She’s crying though, mascara streaking as she pushes her way into the backyard. Andrew watches as your head turns to follow her, eyebrows pinching in concern. She sits down on one of the lounge chairs outside, shoulders shaking as she cries silently. You look back at Andrew with a frown and just like always, he knows you have to go.
Maybe his fate is that the universe just wants to cockblock him forever?
“She and Craig probably got into another fight,” you sigh, chewing your lip. You take his uninjured hand and place it on top of the bag, looking up at him. Your face is stern as you speak, like he’s a dog that got caught chewing on the couch legs. “Keep it iced, okay? I’ll talk to you soon.”
You pat his hand gently, soft smile on your lips. You always say that. Soon. Like you know that you're going to cross paths again. That he’s a permanent fixture in your life.
He watches you walk away, eyes on your swaying hips in your cheeky swimsuit bottoms. He’s still staring when you sit down next to your friend, rubbing her back comfortingly.
Andrew stands alone in the kitchen, half hard, frozen bag of vegetables still pressed to his torn knuckles. The worst part is, he’s not even sure what exactly had made him hard; the sight of your body in your tiny swimsuit and the feeling of your hand in his or watching you take care of your friend so tenderly.
Yeah, Deran was right. He is so fucked.
—
If Andrew thought that he couldn't get you off his mind before that afternoon, now you were all he thought about.
When he was making lunch, when he was cleaning his guns, when he was fisting his cock in the shower, trying to keep quiet. All he could think about was you. Your perfume, your smile, your body. Your touch. He wanted to feel it all over his body, soft skin against the raised bumps of all his scars.
So the fact that you weren’t around as often anymore made things more difficult for him. Your friend and Craig seemed to be on the rocks, which means she was around less and less. Which means that you were barely around.
You said you’d talk to him soon and then promptly stopped being invited around, and the thought of how exactly he would get to see you again had him pacing. He didn’t want to scare you off, so he had to pivot towards more conventional methods. Which meant waiting around until Craig had finally got bored enough to start texting your friend back again.
Weeks passed and he rarely saw you, just in flashes; by the pool, walking through the front door, lounging on the couch. He barely had the chance to look in your direction lately, much less have any type of conversation with you. The distance made him hungry, desperate enough to try to flip the odds in his favour.
“What about a party?” He suggests to his family one afternoon, all of the Cody’s crowded in the living room. All three of them turn their heads, looking at him like he’s grown an extra limb. The room is silent as they all try to process the words that came out of his mouth. “What?”
“Pope wants to throw a party.” Deran states, like saying the words out loud may help him truly understand them. “Why?”
“Don’t worry about it,” He crosses his arms over his chest, aware that he’s become a bit too defensive just a beat too late. All pairs of eyes are still on him and he shifts on his feet uncomfortable. “Just do it.”
“You won’t hear me complaining, man.” Craig says on his way out, clapping a hand on Andrew’s shoulder before he goes. The remaining Cody’s watch him go, and then eyes are back on him. He doesn’t want to answer any other questions, so he turns on his heels before they can ask any and follows his brother out.
So that’s how he ended up here.
This party was the same as the rest. Andrew wasn’t around for most of it; he had some loose ends to tie up for his family and he always elected to be out of the house whenever there was something going on, especially now that he had the choice. When he returns, he sees the same damage as always; trash in the pool, people passed out on the lawn, empty solo cups and wet footprints littered across the hardwood floors.
And Andrew does what he always does. Starts cleaning up. He wasn't really sure what his plan was, if he's being honest. He knew you always liked to linger once the parties were done, to make sure your friend was okay. Andrew was hoping that you were a creature of habit with this idea. Seems like right now, it's just delegated him to the role of janitor with no reward.
He starts out by the pool; toeing the stragglers to wake up and get off his property, sifting the garbage out of the pool and throwing the random discarded bikini tops into the trash bag right after it. It’s already the late hours of the morning when he finishes up outside. The neighbourhood is silent besides the sound of the chlorine water softly lapping at the tiles of the pool. Then he makes his way inside and starts tossing out everything in the kitchen, trying not to think about exactly what was occurring when he was gone to make this sort of mess.
“Do you need some help?” A small voice asks and he whirls around on instinct. He turns to face you and he almost wants to drop the black trash bag he’s holding out of shock. Andrew gives you a once over and you look so similar to the first night that he met you that it makes his heart skip a beat in his chest. A short dress and barefoot, except this time your heels are nowhere to be seen. You seem a bit groggy, dark make up smudged around your eyes. He oscillates between dwelling on how beautiful you are and wanting to get on his knees to see exactly what you got on under your dress.
“It’s late.” Is what he says instead, continuing his job of cleaning up. There’s a thousand unsaid things with those two words and it seems like you somehow know him well enough to answer all of them.
“Craig said I could crash on the couch,” you say, beginning to collect some of the empty cans off the kitchen counter. Andrew tries to level a look at you, to let him do it, but you give him a look straight back and continue. “And I want to help you. Doesn't seem like anyone else is.”
He accepts that and you two clean in silence for a few moments, working alongside each other. His eyes can’t help but follow you as you flounce around the kitchen, picking things up and tossing them into the bag into his hand. And then you speak. “So, why am I the only one helping you?”
He furrows his brows, pausing for a second as your words catch him off guard. Andrew glances over at you once more and you’re looking at him expectantly. He can’t help but feel compelled to answer, although your big fluttery eyes may play a small part in that. Trying to ignore the blood rushing downwards, he answers. “What do you mean?”
“Um, I mean there’s like, at least two or three other people who live in this house,” He can basically hear your frown as you speak, unceremoniously throwing another piece of trash into the bag. “Why am I the only one helping you clean up? The mess of a party that they threw?”
Andrew has never really thought about it before. He supposes this has always been his role, cleaning up after his family. Solving their problems. Making the bad things go away. Doing the messy work.
“I don’t need any help,” he says simply, voice gruff. He tries to ignore the heat of your disappointed eyes on him as he turns around, but he can still hear your loud sigh. You notice that he’s trying to avoid your gaze, so you catch his forearm in your hand. His muscles twitch under your touch, warmth seeping through your skin. Andrew slowly drags his gaze up from your hand on his arm to your face and he can’t help but soften. “I got it.”
“I just meant that you’re always taking care of everyone else, Andrew,” you explain, hand still on his arm. Your voice is soft in the way that he likes; a tone that seems to be reserved just for him. “Cleaning up after everyone. Making sure they don’t kill each other. Craig’s told me that you’ve bailed him out plenty of times.”
Andrew frowns. He doesn’t like the idea of his brothers talking about him when he’s not around, especially to you. He scowls at the thought, tying off the full garbage bag and placing it aside. He tries to pull away to grab another bag and continue, but your grip tightens on his arm.
“I’m serious. Just leave it for them to deal with for once,” You pull him back towards you, but he feels conflicted. He doubts anyone would actually do it if he left it for them to do —he’s seen the state the house gets into when he’s gone. Andrew hesitates for a moment, but all thoughts fade from his mind when your hand slips from his forearm into his palm, fingers twining with his. All he can do is stare while his brain tries to catch up to what’s happening. “Come on.”
You pull him along and it doesn’t take much effort to have him following. Continuing to stare, he’s got half a mind to hope that his mouth isn’t hanging open. He realizes where you’ve taken him in Smurf’s just a beat too slow as he enters the room.
His room.
He turns to face you slowly and the expression on your face is unreadable as you shut the door behind you. It reminds me of the first time that he saw you all that time ago. The room is silent for a moment as you two take each other in. Andrew hopes that you can’t hear the shaky breath that he lets out from across the room.
“Sit,” you command, gesturing to the bed. Andrew doesn’t waste any time obeying, sitting on the edge of the bed, feet planted firmly on the floor. His hands rest on his thighs, clenching and unclenching anxiously. You approach him slowly, closing the distance until he’s face level with your torso. The position has him blushing —he’s sure his face must be red. He tilts his head up to look at you and you take one step closer. His legs part naturally to accommodate you, bracketing your figure.
“Will you let me take care of you, Andrew?” you ask, hand sliding into his hair. He struggles to not let out a groan, blood rushing straight to his dick. He’s so distracted by the feeling of your nails scratching along his scalp as he leans into your touch that he barely even registers the question.
“Okay.” It comes out quiet and breathy, but it feels loud in the silent room. He watches the ends of your lips curl up into a smile, his eyes fluttering. You take the hands that were settled on his thighs and place them on your hips. Taking the opportunity to appreciate your body, his hands run over your curves slowly as he sucks in a sharp breath. He doesn’t break eye contact with you as he does so, too enraptured to take his eyes off you. It makes him twitch in his jeans when you lean a little closer, breath fanning over his face.
A few moments pass as you let him feel your body; he’s practically drooling at the feeling. Once you’ve decided he’s had his fill you climb into his lap, straddling him. He’s sure you can feel how much he wants you, the heat of your clothed pussy on his jeans making him all the more hard.
You barely give him a second to breathe before you’re catching your lips in his, your mouth parting instantly. The kiss is slow and sensual and it has him letting out a broken whimper into your mouth. That seems to spur you on, fingers gripping the front of his shirt to kiss him even deeper.
Andrew doesn’t even know how many times he imagined doing this with you. At this point he’s lost count, but this was beyond anything that his mind could ever put together. The smell of your perfume envelopes him and your body is so warm under your thin dress that it sets his nerves alight.
He can’t help just taking a bit more, big hands gripping your hips and grinding you against him. The small moan you let out as he does so has his hips bucking. Hands still roaming, he instinctively slips his tongue into the kiss. The fact that you continue to rock your hips against his once he lets go of your waist makes him dizzy. The kiss is wet and desperate and all Andrew wants is to get closer, greedy hands grabbing.
Then he feels your fingers drift to the hem of his shirt and he lifts his arms, allowing you to pull it off. The sensation of your nails dragging across his chest sends a shiver down his spine. His hands had settled on your thighs, gripping so tight that he’s sure he’s leaving marks. He feels bad, but then he decides that he’ll kiss them as an apology later, if you’ll let him.
You stop grinding and scoot backwards a little, moving further down his lap. He opens his mouth to ask why, but then your hands are at his belt buckle and the words die in his throat. You’re quick to undo his jeans, wasting no time in pulling him out and taking him into your hands. Your hands are much softer than his rough and calloused ones, warm against the hot flesh of his length. His head tips back as you begin to stroke him slowly, eyes to the ceiling as he lets out another shaky breath.
He had always imagined what your touch would feel like wrapped around him like this, letting himself imagine it was you touching him instead of himself when he was alone. The way you twist your wrist languidly, like you know exactly just how to get him going, has his mind going blank.
“Do you like that?” You mutter, tucking your face into his neck now that he’s made the space. The way you kiss slowly up the sensitive skin of his neck makes his mind fuzzy. He can’t seem to get the words out, so he gives a slow nod instead. “Good.”
The praise makes his hips stutter, fucking into your fist. You let out a small laugh, presumably at how desperate he is for you. A low moan escapes his mouth as you swipe your thumb over the head of his cock, swiping away the precome leaking from the tip. Your touch disappears for a moment and he tips his head back forwards to you, looking at you through hooded lids. He watches as you spit into your palm and resume your actions, his jaw dropping open ever so slightly. Andrew feels drunk, the slick shlick of you stroking him filling the room.
He thinks you can tell that he’s getting close. He knows that his hips won’t stop rising to meet your touch: a dead giveaway. It’s almost embarrassing how fast you get him there, cock leaking in desperation as he whines. Your hand slips away and he groans out loud at the loss of sensation. His mind is still fuzzy and he almost misses your fingers wrapping around his wrist, guiding his hand across your body and under your dress. Looking down at where your hands meet, his breathing almost stops when you dip his fingertips past the waistband of your lacy panties.
“Don’t you want to feel how wet I am for you, Andrew?” you breathe into his ear. The words affect him deeply and he lets out a strangled noise, but he can’t bring himself to be embarrassed with you on top of him like this.
“Yes,” he says, voice hoarse. He sounds absolutely wrecked as he swipes a finger along your wetness, sickly slow, brows furrowing as he watches your lips part at his touch. You’re dripping for him; he can feel the wet patch you’ve left on your panties against his knuckles as he slides a finger into you. It’s your turn to moan, and he swears at the sound, “Fuck.”
He pumps his finger in and out slowly, basking in the feeling of you sucking him right in. You surge forward and capture his lips in yours, kissing him breathlessly. You let out a whimper into his mouth as he slips another finger alongside the first. His breath catches in his throat as he feels you flutter around his digits, velvet walls pulling him in even deeper.
Andrew loves having you like this, your dress bunched around your hips, giving him a full view of your pussy covered in lace as you grind your clit into the palm of his hand. It’s all too much for him; he drops his head to your shoulder, breathing in the scent of your perfume. He thinks of all the times he’s touched himself to the scent of you; whether that be from the sheets from the first time he met you or the way that it lingered in his room after a conversation with you, long after you’ve gone.
His pace quickens and he can feel your legs shaking against his while your hips buck, practically riding his hand. You’re mewling now, coming apart on his fingers the same way you do in his dreams. He feels you clamp down around him and he can tell you’re going to cum seconds before you tell him. He can barely hear it, words lost in your soft whimpers. A rush of wetness is slick against his palm as you let out a moan so loud that Andrew remembers there are other people in the house.
Eyes never leaving yours, he pulls his fingers out from your panties and brings them to his mouth. The way you taste has his eyes almost rolling back into his head, licking up the cum that had dripped down his fingers. He wants to get his head between your legs real fucking bad and eat you until the sun comes back up or until you’re begging him to stop. His cock aches with the desperate need to fuck you, eyes trailing down to your chest as you pull off your dress and toss it aside. He decides to save it until later. Maybe round two?
He’s appreciated your body countless times as you tanned by the pool, but the view of you on top of him, being able to touch you the way he wants, has his blood running hot in his veins. He could die under you right now and he’d die a happy man.
You push him down onto the bed with a soft push and his back lands against his freshly pressed sheets. Lifting your hips, you pull his jeans and boxers down, leaving them to pool at his ankles where his feet are still planting firmly on the floor. He kicks them off and moves further up the bed, loving how you giggle as he jostles you.
Your tongue swipes across your lips and you settle yourself into position, the lace of your panties scratching intoxicatingly against his cock. Mesmerized, he watches as you hook your fingers into your panties and pull them aside, not even bothering to remove them before lowering himself down onto his length.
The two of you let out a needy noise as you sink down, taking him to the hilt. You look absolutely beautiful, the sight of you absolutely fucked out for him making his cock impossibly harder. His hands fly to your hips as you begin to grind again, much like you were earlier.
He lets out a sharp inhale through his nose, eyes hungry. You’ve spread your cum across the short hairs at the base of his dick, whining as you chase your high. You get tired of the grinding and lift your hips, bending forward and resting your forehead against his. His eyes are on yours as you slam your hips back down, eyes fluttering shut.
The pace you set is brutal, hips pistoning as you ride him. The force of it has the frame of his bed swaying, headboard making impact with the wall every time you drop your hips. That combined with the volume of both the noises you two make as you ride him is more than enough to hear through the wall or the door.
“So good, baby. Feels so fucking good,” he coos, lost in the way you fuck him. The wet slap of skin on skin is absolutely sinful, echoing in the room and mingling with the heavy breaths you let out. He’s got one hand on your ass and the other on your breast, overwhelmed with the need to memorize every part of your body. “Been fucking dreaming about your pussy.”
“Oh my god, Andrew,” you whine, hips moving fast. He can feel you clenching around him, trapping him in your cunt like a vice. He can barely keep his eyes open, lids low from the pleasure. You’re squeezing him so fucking tight that he swears his vision is going white. You straighten up and place a hand on his broad chest, using it as leverage to hit a whole new angle.
Andrew feels himself brush against your walls and it has his jaw dropping open as his entire body shaking at the feeling. He’s close but you’re closer, nails digging into his flesh and your moans grow more high pitched, picking up the pace. You don’t stop moving your hips when you cum around him, barely able to keep yourself upright. The feeling of you tightening around him and the sight he catches of your cum glistening around the base of his dick has him moments away from falling over the edge.
“M’gonna cum,” he slurs, hands around your waist to hold you in place as he fucks up into you now. Still sensitive from your second orgasm you squeal, falling even farther forward into his chest. Soft grunts are punched from his chest every time his hips meet yours, taking what he needs from you.
“I want it so bad,” you babble mindlessly, voice dripping with pleasure. He’s never heard you like this before, but now he can’t imagine ever living without it. His thrusts are messy now, determined to hear you beg some more. “Please, I need it.”
“Yeah?” He barely even notices himself speak, too busy fucking into your pussy to think of anything else. He’s so close that his arms are shaking, thick muscles twitching in anticipation. He almost wants to cry, overwhelmed by the way he’s buried so deep inside you. “You want me to pump you full of my cum, baby?”
“Please,” you whine, voice cracking with need. The sound of it has Andrew’s hips faltering as he does exactly that, swearing sharply as he does so. His entire body jerks from the feeling, so wracked in pleasure that he can’t control it. You let out a moan alongside his as he fucks him cum back into you, nice and slow. Once the overstimulation gets to him his hips come to a stop, sweat beading on his forehead.
You fall limp on top of him, the deep rise and fall of your chest matching his. He wraps his two big arms around you instinctively, pulling you closer against him. Andrew basks in the quiet, punctuated by nothing other than your quiet breathing, closing his eyes.
“You okay?” Your voice is muffled against his chest, warm breath fanning over his skin. He’s got a hand running absentmindedly up and down the bare skin of your back, still sticky with sweat. “That wasn’t too much?”
“No,” he rumbles, voice soft. His fingers are still skimming as allows himself to take in the moment for just a beat longer. Then he’s got you under him, flat on your back. He loves the way you look up at him, legs still wrapped around his waist. He noses his way into your neck, noticing that his scent is intermingling with yours the more time you spend with him. His hands begin to roam once more and he can feel his blood rush downwards when you look at him with your big curious eyes. “Not enough.”
If Andrew had any say in it, you two were in for a long night.
—
In the morning, Andrew is the first to wake up. He always had trouble getting to sleep, sometimes staring at his ceiling for hours in the night, but the warmth you brought to his bed had pulled him under within minutes.
He turned his head to face you, eyes flicking over your face as the amber light of the sun painted your face. You were clad in one of his shirts, the plain black looking much better on you than it ever did on him. Andrew shifts slowly so as to not wake you and slides out of bed.
The walk to the kitchen is quiet, like it usually is in the morning considering the fact that the rest of his family regularly kept late hours, so he was surprised to find Craig, already seated at the bar, tucking into a bowl of cereal. He looks up and sees who it is, his face twisting into something much more smug as he takes another bite.
Andrew is quick to pull a face back, not interested in hashing out his night with Craig, who clearly wants to hear all the details. Instead, he starts to clear the mess that his brother had left out while he assembled his breakfast. Craig waits a beat, like he expects him to change his mind, but Andrew stays silent.
“Pope, man-” he starts, but a door creaks shut in down the hall that distracts him, leaving the unfinished sentence in the air. Then you turn the corner, still only in his shirt, and Andrew realizes that it wasn’t the noise that caught Craig’s attention. Your hair is still mussed and you’re rubbing the sleep out of your eyes when you approach him. You wrap your arms around his wide torso and his arm settles at your waist. Natural as if you’ve done it a million times before. Andrew allows himself to smile at the feeling, not even caring that his brother is watching with a shit eating grin on his face.
i need jack to do that thing where you lift someone with your arms wrapped around them to crack their back…
the first time he does it to reader it’s at work, & he just…doesn’t expect her to go dead weight in his arms after her back cracks & when she does he just kinda…falls forward with her.
all that’s heard is a loud scuffle & a gruff “SHIT!” as jack goes down.
you’re laughing underneath him when the empty patient bed catches you both, & jack…well, he’s just blinking, completely caught off guard.
“jesus, sweetheart. warn a guy.”
but then he’s laughing softly anyways before the curtain gets ripped open & poor whitaker is standing there, frozen & stuttering up an excuse with wide eyes like; “oh!- i uh needed the…nevermind! sorry-“
dana appears behind him wondering what’s taking so long & immediately smirks at the sight in front of her, cause yeah, the whole situation looks compromising.
“lock the damn door next time you wanna fool around…robby’s looking for ya if you’re done disgracing patient beds.” she waves a hand as he leaves, ushering dennis out, & mumbling something about “too old my ass”, clearly mocking jack.
jack huffs a laugh against your neck, pulling you back up to your feet, your face bright red as he smirks at you.
you shake your head; “we gotta stop scarring poor dennis.”
so yeah, jack learns his lesson and holds you tighter or does it next to a counter now so you don’t both go tumbling down or break his back in the process.
this is me requesting something something holland march i got nothing specific. you can as always ignore my lack of specification love you kisses kisses kisses xoxoxo
-🐟
I WILL give you something Holland March bc I’ve had this brainworm for a while now. Here’s Holland worshiping your body😵💫
NSFW UNDER THE CUT- F!reader, body worship, oral sex (F! Receiving), dirty talk, Holland is so whipped.
Holland’s the type to get stupidly obsessed and excited once he’s got you naked. It doesn’t matter how many times he’s seen you like this, he’s not smooth about it. He’s greedy, a little clumsy and talks way too much but you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t hot.
He starts slow, but gets filthy fast. The second he’s got you undressed, he’s between your thighs. His favourite position is on his knees beside the bed, with you pulled halfway off the edge so he can bury his face between your legs. He slides his hands up them, squeezing the soft flesh, and groans when you clench your thighs around his head.
“Jesus Christ, look at these thighs… are you tryin’ to kill me, sweetheart? Keep squeezin’ my head like that and I’ll die happy.”
He’s also a SUCKER for your tits. He’ll bury his face between them, kissing and licking, pinching your nipples, sucking marks into the flesh while his moustache tickles your skin.
“Fuckin’ love your tits. Been thinking about them all day. Please, baby, let me fuck them…”
He loves your stomach. It doesn’t matter if it’s soft or toned or anywhere inbetween, he kisses every inch, nipping at your hips and waist.
“You’re so goddamn beautiful, doll. Love this body”
The dirty talk NEVER stops. When he gets into the zone, he’s got this lazy, cocky drawl even when he’s desperate for you. While he’s kissing down your body with one hand between your thighs, he’s muttering “look at this perfect pussy… so fuckin’ wet for me already, huh? That’s my girl.”
When he finally reaches your cunt, he’s downright reverent. He’ll spread you open with both thumbs, staring like he’s won the lottery. “Holy shit, baby. You’re dripping. All this for me?” Then he leans in and drags his tongue up your slit slowly, groaning at your taste.
He eats pussy like it’s his full time job. It’s messy, enthusiastic, and loud. He sucks on your clit, flicks it with the tip of his tongue then pushes it inside you as deep as he can, fucking you with it while his nose grinds on your clit. He’ll groan and hum the whole time, half because he gets off on it and half because he knows it drives you crazy.
He talks between licks, voice rough and muffled. “Taste so damn good… sweetest pussy I’ve ever had” and “you gonna cum on my tongue, princess? C’mon, grind on me- use my mouth.”
He gets off on making you squirm. If you try to close your legs from overstimulation, he’ll push them back open with his big hands. “Nuh-uh. Keep ‘em spread, baby. ‘M not done yet. You can take one more.”
He’ll hook your legs over his shoulders, keeping one hand on your hip and the other on your stomach to hold you still while he devours you.
Ohhh he’ll edge you just to hear you beg, pulling back at the last second to kiss your thighs and breathe against your cunt.
You hate him for it in the moment, but he makes up for it by giving you the most mind-shattering orgasms oh god.
He’s all lazy smiles afterwards, kissing back up your body until his lips are on yours and you can taste yourself on his tongue. Then he’s the one begging because he can’t take another second of not being inside you 😵💫😵💫😵💫😵💫
He’s obsessed with the way your body moves when he fucks you. Every thrust makes your tits bounce and he’s mesmerised by them. He’ll lean down to suck on your nipples as he drives into you.
The dirty talk doesn’t stop!! If anything, it gets filthier. “Fuck, sweetheart. You feel that? Feel how deep I am? Your pussy was made for me, beautiful.”
He loves missionary because he gets to watch your face and your tits bouncing. He’ll kiss all over your jawline and neck, chuckling when you squirm beneath him.
Doggy is another favourite. He loves your ass and the way your back arches. Getting to watch the way he disappears inside you is an added bonus.
Cowgirl is definitely his ALL TIME fav though. The view he gets is exquisite, from your tits to your face. He’ll squeeze all over your body, groping at your hips and chest as you use him to get off.
Watching you cum is enough to make him cum, too. He’ll spill deep inside you and insist on staying like that for a while. “Don’t move yet… let me stay right here. Best place in the world, I’m tellin’ you.”
Sooo soft afterwards. All cuddles and tiny kisses and telling you how beautiful you are, how much he adores you. Honestly the most whipped man alive.
Of all things Clark Kent enjoyed about home, the sanctuary of his barn was the most prized. When summer came and sunlight blossomed through the inch wide cracks that shifted between old worn wood, orange curling the edges in the evening as the sun fell to a low, far across the tall green stalks of the field beyond the barn, cornering the edge of the house off in the distance. Heavy sunflowers stuck out through wily reeds, stuck beyond either side of a rickety fence, facing away from the barn to directly hold the fading sun's light. And you. The beautiful girl who split shadows across the dimming walls taking off your blouse.
“Just can’t be too loud, sweetheart,” Clark sighs, feeling your fingers twine into the wrung fabric of his t-shirt, lips pressed and closed around the delicate skin of his pulse point, “Not as far from the house as you might think—mmh—think you can do that? Be quiet for me?”
Your lips turn at the suggestion, eyes glinting in the soft orange sunlight that was struggling to completely dim the room, shadowing the swell of your rising and falling chest, the underwire of your bra pressing against the restriction of your ribs. Your hair splayed across the bed shifts when you nod, lashes batting across your cheeks, teeth pulling the plush of your bottom lip between your teeth, a soft hum rumbling in your throat. His teeth bare in a toothy grin, turning his head to slot his lips back with yours, large palm cradling the upturn of your jaw to angle your chin. He pries your mouth open with his own, tongue sliding along yours, licking against the back of your teeth in an eager maneuver, fingers hooking under your knees to shift your clothed hips over his, bunching the silky fabric of your skirt up in his large hands.
“Oh god—Clark,” you writhe helplessly, wriggling against the strong hold on your hips, Clark's fingers pressing divots into the plush skin, wrangling you to keep himself sheathed in your spasming pussy. Sweat sheens your skin, thighs stuttering atop Clark's muscular legs, pitchy whines and cries leaving your kiss swollen lips while Clark presses his hips snug to yours buried to the hilt. He hunches a bit to plunge deeper, only pulling out an inch before pushing back in with a twitching cock.
“I know—I know, just a little more. Gosh—look at you. Doin’ so good f’me, baby,” he murmurs, picking up your ankles to rest them on his shoulders, barely leaning over you, the last remaining sunlight streaking across his smooth unblemished skin. He presses a hand against your abdomen where his cock pushes up against the pads of his fingers and your knees bend inward and tremble at the nudge of his cock pressing against that spongy spot inside of you, his lips pulling wide with pride, “Yeah? You feel that? Feel me right here?”
Your skin flushes with heat as you nod, hands pawing at his outstretched arm, his lips dipping to kiss your ankle, fingers soothing the soft skin of your calf as you lock up and your nails claw into his arm as you cum. Unrestrained cries begin to pour from your plush lips, back arching off the soft mattress and shifting the ruined sheets. A sharp shriek breaks past your lips as Clark pushes completely over you, fingers flattened against your parted mouth, pressing your knees down against your chest completely. The dull pain of the stretch is accompanied by the shift of his cock inside of you, the sensation making your cunt jolt from the pure sensation of it, “That’s it, just a little more—that’s right, sweetheart.”
Dearest Lovergirls,
It is with the greatest honor and pleasure that I announce the official wedding of our lovely couple, YN YLN and Jack Abbot. The happy couple has asked our team to present you all with official wedding invitations, which will be hosted in Oak Bluffs.
As you are all aware, we've watched this couple grow from their first accidental meeting at the ER to their first intimate moments with each other. You've all been there for every step of the way on this spectacular journey. I can't thank you all enough for being here and supporting them through it all. We've laughed, we've cried, we've made freaked-out comments about Jack Abbot, and some of us have even been placed in timeout. Nonetheless, we have made it to our big moment. Before our wedding chapter, we will have the wedding weekend, which will include all of the activities that our happy couple does before the big day.
To reserve your seat for this special ceremony, I do ask that you RSVP either in the comments or by reblog! Thank you all so much. I look forward to seeing you all at the ceremony!
Inspired by the scene where pope tells that girl to get in his car or he’ll tie her up 💅🏻pipe and his partner doing some kidnapping roleplay
Who said we were roleplaying….
Hands bound behind your back, zip tied to the pillars of a wooden chair, hips tilted at an uncomfortable angle. Your tailbone is halfway off the chair, thighs wrangled over Pope's broad shoulders, panties dangling helpless off your ankle bobbing against his ridged back, dress pooled around your hips while his mouth worked your overstimulated cunt. Your attempts at freeing yourself were meek and useless, wriggling against his mouth which only prolonged his relentless abuse on your puffy clit, hands strictly binded with little wiggle room. The sharp sting of his palm striking your thigh made a sharp gasp break from your parted lips, “Stop moving,” he mumbled, yanking your evading hips back onto his open mouth, rumbling groans vibrating though your pussy, slick sounds of his tongue sliding against your aching cunt making your knees attempt to pinch together behind his head. The unforgiving shove of his palm against your inner thigh made you gasp, an unfamiliar ache settling in your hips at the stretch of his palms forcing you open for him, “Keep them open or I’m tying your legs down too. We’re not done until I say so.” “S’too—too much,” you whined, moaning helplessly when his fingers curled into your sensitive pussy, clenching down on his thick digits pistoning up into you. Thighs fidgeting against his hold, eyes fluttering open and closed while your head lulled back, body overwhelmed by the continuous abuse on your weeping cunt. “You can handle it. Or not. Don’t need you awake for this part. Now stay still.”
Thinking about Pope Cody and how obsessed he would be with you and sex. There’s an overwhelming desire that sneaks its way through Pope's body when he sets his sights on you, unlike anything he has ever experienced before. Drags through his limbs, pulling him across the room to hover over you, trailing his fingers over the smooth expanse of your skin, petting for your attention which you give to him so easily. He abuses it, your willingness to relinquish all your prior tasks to focus entirely on him, setting aside your work so that he can delve down to kiss you, tug you against his body and strip off your clothes, doesn’t matter where, as long as he can get his hands on you. He’s spoiled. Waiting for sex becomes so foreign, not even bothering to wait for you to get off your work phone calls to get his hands on you. He merely kneels down at the edge of the couch where you sat, large hands running up your smooth thighs laying plush against the cushions and tugs your hips down the edge, ignoring the badgering of your hands hitting his shoulders to halt his movements, startled by the sudden appearance of his face hovering your crotch.
Your conversation dwindles as Pope gives an inquisitive look, brows pinched together like he can’t understand why you’re legs are pulling up and away from him, grasping at your ankles with his large hands to pull them down over his shoulders, yanking your thighs further down the cushions—a startled yelp leaving your lips into the phone. “No—no—I’m sorry, I thought I saw a bug, what were y—mm—what were you saying?” the feeling of his lips pressing against your clit over the thin veil of your panties makes your hips jolt, fingers furling into the wiry mess of curls atop his head in an attempt to yank him away, only resulting in him indignantly smushing his face further into your pussy. You mumble meek responses as your hips subconsciously roll into the sloppy open mouth kisses Pope places on your clothed cunt, spit coating the crotch of your panties, darting tongue desperate to taste the arousal that gathers on the other side, groaning once the taste lingers against the fabric. “Take these off,” he murmurs, fingers tugging the band of your panties, pulling the fabric taut against your hip, indentations pressing into your soft skin, “Let them to hear how good I fuck you,” he grumbles, nose nuzzling the junction of your hip, tongue darting to taste the skin, “Want them to hear how much I love this pretty pussy.”
ryland grace who loves missionary because he wants to watch you fall apart beneath him!
he loves being able to press sweet kisses onto your lips as he’s rolling his hips against you, swallowing down your little moans and cries when he hits that certain spot just right. encouraging you to wrap your legs around his waist and hook your feet together behind his back so he can fuck into you deeper because he knows that’s how you like it. he’s sooo focused on you and making sure he’s pleasuring you and being good for you! “wanna make you feel good, sweetheart. you want that too, right? let me make you feel good, please, baby.” he whines, and when he sees you nodding your head in agreement he gets that big, eager smile plastered on his face. brushing your sweaty hair gently from your face with his fingers so he can caress your cheeks so tenderly with his palms—a sharp contrast to the way he’s completely fucking you silly with his cock. he knows when you’re getting ready to cum because he can see the way your expression changes, how your eyebrows knit together and you look so fucked out you want to cry, but he just works you through it with his gentle encouragement. “c’mon, honey, let me have it.” he whispers, pressing kisses against your chin and petting at your hair until he feels the way you start to twitch underneath him, your walls clenching around him as you cum. “there we go.” he praises, pulling back so he can see the way the tension between your brows slowly fades and is replaced by a look of pure bliss that’s reserved only for him in these moments. “you look so pretty like this. thank you, baby.”
