Andrew 'Pope' Cody x f!reader. Cock-warming with a little breeding kink at the end.
It’s been a long day. Not for you, of course. Ever since you started dating Andrew Cody, you’ve been a well-kept woman. No job to stress over, because he pays for everything, so why work? No fights, because he worships the ground you walk on. No family drama, because he keeps his fucked-up mom far away from you.
All you have to do is relax and love him — which you do.
You lay stretched out on the sofa, the television on and playing through an episode of some far-fetched reality show you know is scripted. But you’ve been binging it, eating up every second. Even as Pope stands in the doorway watching you, soaking up the knowledge that despite his day being rough, yours has been blissful and simple.
“Scoot forward,” he mutters as he walks forward. Your eyes drift from the screen to finally acknowledge him, one eyebrow raised. You don’t hesitate to do as he says, though, angling your body so he can oh-so gently position himself behind you. One arm slips beneath you and between the couch cushions to band around your torso, preventing you from falling to the floor.
“Bad day?” You ask, turning your head to look at him. He grunts once in response, his lips skating along your jaw before he jerks his head back to the TV.
“Watch your show.”
He doesn’t want to bother you. And he does try to leave you be beyond the way he cuddles your back, but it isn’t enough. It never really is, though, is it?
You’re almost too caught up in the painfully obvious ploy for drama happening on your screen that you don’t immediately realize that he’s unzipped his jeans and pushed down the denim enough to free his cock. It isn’t until he tugs at your pajama shorts that you notice.
“Andrew?” You begin, heat already settling in your gut.
“Shh. Just need to be close to ya,” he replies, brows slightly furrowed as he manually shifts your leg, lifting it up to press closer. His other hand, which had been resting on your stomach, reaches down to peel your already pathetically damp panties to the side.
The way he slowly slides his dick into your heat punches the breath from your throat, making your body tense.
“Relax for me, baby,” he croons low in your ear, nuzzling his face to the side of yours. “Just relax.”
It’s damn near impossible to do. Even if he completely stills after pushing flush to your ass, buried as deep as he can be with his angle. Because even if he isn’t moving, you still know he’s there, inside you.
The television is now a distant blur of color and noise, your every sense locked on the feel of his cock inside you. Your nostrils flare with a huff and your hips jerk for some motion. The way your panties and shorts have been forced to contort around his intrusion has pulled them taut around you, and the slight hint of pressure to your clit makes you whimper.
“Andrew,” you try again, his name nearly a whine.
“Just wanna feel you,” he answers, entirely unbothered. His fingers curl around your hip, keeping you still. “Be good for me, baby. Watch your little show.”
“Please,” you breathe out, grabbing his hand and trying to push it lower. His forearm flexes with restraint, the veins running down the length of his arm decidedly not disappearing into your pants.
“Can’t lay here without being fucked?” His question is almost condescending, but you know he truly wants to know; that he doesn’t understand your sudden antsy squirming. To him, this is more of an emotional connection — a way to grow closer to you, to meld yourselves into one. And while you may share in the sentiment of wanting to be as close as possible to him, it’s still your body he’s choosing to use as a form of bonding. Your body, with all its nerve endings and memories of his touch all over your skin.
"Just once," you bargain, leaning your head back and tilting your chin until your lips nearly brush. "Just once and then we can do anything you want." Your velvety walls tighten around his cock and punctuate your offer.
A low hiss slides through gritted teeth before he replies, "Anything I want?"
It's like making a deal with the devil when you nod, "Yes. Anything. Please."
His hot breath fans across your mouth for a beat as he contemplates this offer. Then he's kissing you, his hips sliding back until his cock nearly slips free. Just as quickly he's ramming back inside, nearly sending you both off the sofa and a loud moan tearing from your lips.
"Gonna let me put a baby in ya?" He growls against your mouth, one hand travelling lower to rub a firm circle around your clit. "If I can do anything, then I'm going to fill you up."
So, I started watching Animal Kingdom and I cannot form a solid opinion on anyone (except Smurf and maybe Baz), but there's one thing I know for certain...
I have never seen a fictional character embody the cock-warming kink as much as Andrew 'Pope' Cody. That man yearns for closeness. Let him slip inside you while you cuddle or sleep.
I just want to be Jack Abbot's young bisexual baddie girlfriend who also on occasion gets to invite Dr. Ellis or Dr. Langdon into the bedroom with us. Is that too much to ask?
Imagine Jack Abbot fucking into you. Hard. Your ass is on the edge of the bed while he stands in front of you. One hand has a near-bruising grip on your hip to keep you from scooting away, while the other is busy rolling your clit beneath his thumb.
You're whimpering, this being your third orgasm of the night. Your body is overstimulated in the best of ways.
As you get close, all you can do is make noises and accept your fate of being swept away under waves of pleasure. Your breath catches in your throat, hung between a cry and a moan. Jack notices instantly and slows his pace, your orgasm slipping away from you.
"Breathe for me, sweetheart," he croons low. You suck in panting breaths, sweat glistening on your bare skin and your chest heaving for air. Seeing that you're listening to him, obeying him, he adds in that voice, "That's it. Good girl."
He gives you another minute to compose yourself, the hand that had been on your clit soothing over the skin of your thigh. There's a certain glint in his eyes: hungry, prideful, adoring.
"You're so pretty like this." As he speaks, he begins to thrust again, taking it slow to ease you back into the rhythm. His gaze never leaves your face, watching your lips part on little mewls of his name. "There we go. You can take it. You're so good for me."
I have a request for Langdon if you’re interested. What do you think about the idea of a med school au, where she is a prodigy student, a few years younger than him, confident in her own quiet way, always trying to be the best, overachiever with a fierce personality and many insecurities she hides. He’s more of a typical popular guy. Present at every major party, quick witted, had many girlfriends and loves to keep things casual. He only paid rarely paid attention to her, she wasn’t a party type. But when he sees her dealing with some mean girls at one of the parties she catches his attention. Even more when she dances, while slightly drunk and struggles to deal with some guys who corner her. It leads to them having a one night stand. Heated one. They both fight for dominance and she tries so hard to make him believe she is more experienced than she really is. Only after he learns it was her first time, leading to a more emotional moment.
✑ Pairings: Frank Langdon x f!reader
✑ Plot: Frank notices you at a party. First your savior, then your lover.
✑ Word Count: 5.4k
✑ Requested: Yes/No
✑ Warnings: MDNI!! Smut with a bit of cuteness and plot. Use of y/n and she/her pronouns.
✑ Authors Note: I loovve this idea, so I hope you like it! I think I may have deviated a bit from your idea, so sorry. Only semi-edited.
✑ Gif isn’t mine!
Your twenties are meant for fun. Exploration. Doing stupid shit and reaping the consequences. At least that’s what your friends have told you. Well, more like they’ve begged you to understand. But what they don’t understand is that you don’t have the same luxury as them, the same freedoms and ease of life.
A med school prodigy, an early high school graduate, a girl with too much on her shoulders. If you get distracted for one second, who’s to say everything won’t come crumbling down? A bad test score; a missed class; a disapproving look from your professor, or God forbid, an attending you intern under. You cannot allow temporary pleasantries to dislodge you from your path.
God, how you should’ve listened to your own nagging thoughts. How you should’ve heard your best friend's pleading tone as she spoke of yet another party, looked in her puppy dog eyes, and remained firm in your decision to stay home and study. Alas, you broke.
One night. One night, a Friday night at that, won’t be the end of the world. An hour won’t disrupt the years of discipline and knowledge you have tucked in your belt.
Or, right now, your dress. One rather too short, cut off at mid-thigh, and borrowed from the very friend who drug you here. Who promptly ditched you to dance with a hot frat boy you know most definitely wouldn’t know the labia majora from the minora.
You bob around like an unsettled bobble-head, the music vibrating the floor beneath your feet. Your mind whirs with the university policies, knowing this sort of thing would never fly on a usual day, at a standard dorm room. But boys, especially boys with money and privilege, never let silly things like policy stop them.
Boys like Frank Langdon, the cocky, hot-shot med student you share a couple classes with. A few years older than you, though he carries himself like a seasoned man with learned experience. He, you think, would know all about the female anatomy. And not just due to his medical knowledge, though that would definitely help. You see the girls he surrounds himself with, the way they trail after him.
Hell, even your own eyes follow his tall form as he weaves through the dance floor with ease, a man who’s born to be at the center of attention and thrives within the noise pounding in at all angles. His eyes flicker in your direction… and right over your head. You deflate like a balloon, nursing your cup of stale beer.
“I don’t know what’s more pathetic,” a voice chimes beside you. “The fact you crashed the party because you weren’t invited, or the fact you did it just to be a wallflower.” The red-lipped sneer directed towards you is reminiscent of a shark locking in on its next victim. Your fingers flex over your cup, and a ball of anxiety unfurls in your stomach.
“I didn’t crash,” you refute, your voice steady despite the shakiness of your nerves. You’ve held exactly three conversations with this girl, Miley, over the course of your college career, and both had been bad. You have no idea why, what you’ve done to piss her off, but she’s made it her lifes mission to make you miserable.
“Please,” she snorts, heavily lined eyes squinting at you. “Who invited you then?”
A muscle works in your jaw. A wallflower you may be, but that doesn’t make you easy prey. “It’s a frat party, not exactly a RSVP list-only type of establishment. Trash could blow in and they’d be none the wiser.” You apply just a bit more inflection on the word ‘trash’ and her eyes blaze with indignation.
“You think you’re so clever,” she jeers, lumbering a step closer to you. Your spine stiffens, body going rigid. Not because of her, though. No, it’s all due to the warm hand skating your lower back and the man coming up next to you.
“Ladies, ladies,” Frank Langdon croons, flashing you both a lopsided grin. Miley immediately relaxes, turning a bright smile in his direction. You, on the other hand, remain frozen. Hadn’t he just been walking across the room? His touch lingers on your back, and his eyes, a beautiful shade of blue, land on yours for just a moment. “Surely you’re not going to ruin the fun with a little cat fight.”
His tone is laced with teasing intent, and Miley gobbles it up with a giggle. “Of course not, Langdon. We were just… chatting.” She supplies easily with a small shrug. You bristle, wanting nothing more than to correct her, to tell the hot man all about the mean girl. You bite your tongue, nodding along. Though you down the rest of your drink in one swallow, nearly gagging in the process, before jutting your empty cup out and into her chest, all but forcing her to take it.
“Yeah. Nice chat.” You mutter, stepping away from Frank and allowing the crowd to carry you away.
﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏
You’ve lost track of time. You were only planning on being in this over-crowded, noisy hellhole for an hour tops. But two and a half drinks in, you’ve since forgotten to check the time. Your body sways in the throng of people, tingling with the beginnings of inebriation. It’s boosted your morale, it seems.
You don’t know the lyrics to the song, nor can you even begin to make out the words, but you hum along. You don’t know how to dance, but you move your body. You don’t know how the man behind you came to be, but you let him pull you into his chest as you both sway.
“Hello, baby,” he whispers in your ear, breathe wrapping around your head with the overt scent of beer. Maybe a bit of weed, too. Never a good mixture.
“Hm, hey,” you offer, the hand not currently holding your third (unfinished) drink moves to his where it rests on your stomach and begins to pry it off. He holds firm, though.
“Dance with me,” he commands, words slurred towards the end, like he’s in the process of losing them. He sways, forcing you with him. Then he presses his hips against your ass, and you jolt at the telltale sign of a man enjoying himself a bit too much. No amount of alcohol could make you comfortable, the buzz weakening your synapses not strong enough to make you fully relax into his hold.
“I’d rather not,” you decline, keeping your voice soft. The last thing you need is a drunken man child throwing a tantrum at you refusing his advances. Yet even with the gentlest of dispositions, you hear him grunt in disapproval.
“Don’t be like that.” His hand presses you back, meaty fingers ruffling the fabric of your dress. Your heart skips an uncomfortable beat, an unnatural stillness that preludes the chaos.
“No, thank you.” You repeat, gripping his wrist now. You somehow manage to push his arm off you, allowing you just enough space to spin out of his grasp. You make it about five steps before someone jostles you and you stumble back, right into his arms. Fucking fantastic.
“Look ‘ere. Fate puttin’ you right back with me.”
You're facing him now, at least. His eyes are glassy with drunken carelessness, not a thought behind those eyes, just crass intent. It makes your skin crawl. You shake your head, the face framing bangs your friend convinced you to get dancing around your face.
“Not fate. Just a drunk.”
His smile is dirty, curled at the end with a leering look in his eyes. “Makes it more fun that way, baby.”
Your stomach cramps with the need to put distance between you and this man. Your dress feels too short, too low, too much. Your buzz dims, the lightness that had filtered through your body mere minutes ago reduced to a light tingle in the back of your mind. Like an alert that you’re being watched, but you can’t find by who. Only you can. He stands right in front of you, closing the distance with a staggering step.
“Or morally questionable.” You correct. He laughs, forced for the sake of appearing non-threatening. It doesn’t work. In fact, it makes things worse. You stumble back, nearly tripping on a discarded beer cup and soaking the bottom of your shoes in the process.
“She’s got a point, you know.”
Your head snaps to the side, and there he is. Again. Frank Langdon, sporting his panty-dropping smirk. But his eyes are tight, assessing. Staring right at the man bothering you. One brow raises, and he pins him with a stare. “Is there an issue?”
“Fuck,” the man groans, “Didn’t realize she was yours, man.”
You flush, sputtering over a correction. Frank beats you to it, shrugging a shoulder. “What can I say? I like them feisty.” Another sleazy laugh sounds from the man. He stares at you, hard and unsettling, before he accepts the truth: he won’t be getting into your panties tonight. When he turns to locate his next victim, you spin to head for the door.
This is why you don’t party.
You make it five steps before an arm ensnares your waist, a firm chest meeting your back. The breath that fans over your ear now is light, minty, and surprisingly without any trace of alcohol.
“You’re trouble, aren’t you?” Frank purrs in your ear, amusement thick. You swallow, cheeks reddening, and butterflies flap in your stomach. This was different from the man before. For starters, Frank is hot. And he’s holding you like something precious that may be lost in the crowd, not something to be claimed and owed.
“No,” you breathe out, trying to appear more confident than you feel. Never did you think you’d be in this man's arms. Dreamt it, maybe. But dreams are impossible hopes whispered in the dead of night, not something that comes true in the middle of a god awful metal song and next to the start of an orgy. Seriously, how many people can kiss at once?
He chuckles, the sound multiplying the butterflies in your gut. “Don’t lie, babydoll. It’s not a bad thing.”
You stand there for a beat, silent and unable to form words. Your mind spins with all that’s already happened — the mean girl, the touchy guy, Frank coming to your rescue in both situations. How it makes your blood run hotter.
“Come with me,” he murmurs, his arm constricting around your torso as he begins leading you towards the stairs. You dig your heel into the ground, bringing you both to a stop.
“Where?” Nerves override your system. The problem with being a hard-working student with a big brain and no social life is that you’ve never actually disappeared into a bedroom with a man before. Never been touched like that, never been undressed and fucked. A few kisses here and there, sure, but nothing more. Nothing that’s made your body hum like his mere voice does.
“Just upstairs,” he answers. “Promise I won’t do anything you don’t like. Just want to get away from this.”
You gnaw on your bottom lip, no doubt ruining the gloss you had applied before stepping foot inside this place. You almost can’t believe it when you nod your agreement. Your feet carry you up the stairs, incredibly aware of how he follows close behind, like he’s not willing to let you out of his sight. For a second you consider how your ass may look in this dress from this angle, then giggle at how utterly ridiculous the idea is. You’ve never been one to flaunt your body, but you’ve also never been one to care. Your insecurities run brain deep — am I smart enough? Will I succeed? What if I fail? What if I’m an imposter, and this isn’t actually in my capabilities?
Sure, you’d like shinier hair, whiter teeth, toned muscles. But what is the physical body but the host of your greater needs, like your brain and your heart? A heart that thuds wildly behind your ribcage as you crest the stairwell to the second floor, allowing him to lead you to an empty bedroom.
“Better?” he asks, shutting the door behind you two. The lamp in the corner offers just enough light to see him, the sharp shadows on his face creating angles that make him look intimidatingly hotter.
“You’re the one who needed the peace,” you remind him. Your nostrils flare around a steadying breath.
He laughs, conceding with a nod. “You got me there.”
He eases forward, his steps slow and steady. He doesn’t want to crowd or spook you. Your body both urges you to flee and to step closer. You could think of worse men to lose your virginity to, after all. It’s like you thought earlier: this is a man who knows how to please a woman. And there is a bed only a few feet over. Who it belongs to, you don’t know, but you’re not sure it really matters.
“But was I wrong to assume you could use it, too?” He asks, coming to a stop in front of you. So close the tips of your shoes brush. So close you can see his eyes flicker down to your lips, blue overtaken with dark pupils dilating.
What are you doing? What should you do?
Your thoughts race, trying to think of a plan. All you come up with is a series of paragraphs and ideas you read about in smutty romance novels. Stories of passion and love; of confidence and multiple orgasms.
Why can’t that be you? What’s stopping you?
Refusing to be cowed, and refusing to let the two negatives from earlier ruin your night, you tilt your chin up. Defiantly. Invitingly. “Maybe.”
His lips curl at the corners, amusement sparking in his eyes. “Maybe?” He repeats, low and gruff. Your stomach flutters, your heart mimicking right after.
You mentally hype yourself up, wetting your lips. He fixates on the movement, his Adam’s apple bobbing. It encourages you to stop closer, your head tilted to make up for the height difference.
“Why do you keep coming to my rescue?”
He meets your gaze again, something flickering in his eyes. “You seem like too nice a girl to deal with people like that.”
Your skin prickles. That’s you, right? Nice. Quiet. Studious. Computed to excellence, even at the detriment of your social life.
“Maybe I don’t want to be nice tonight.” You can hardly believe what you’re saying, what you’re suggesting. Heat blazes in his eyes, a muscle in his jaw working as he contemplates the offer you’ve silently laid out.
You don’t move away when his hand slides up your arm, fingertips tracing a line to your collarbone. Tingles erupt beneath your skin, your breath hitching. His touch drags along your clavicle before trailing up to your jaw, and then to the nape of your neck. With a firm tug, he reels you in, foreheads meeting in the middle.
“Is that so?” he muses, volume dropping to a whisper. You could nod; you could give a verbal affirmation. But you don’t. You gather as much confidence as you can muster… and you kiss him.
His lips are warm and solid against yours. He has no hesitation in returning the kiss, the fingers at your neck tangling into the little hairs there and angling your head just so. His mouth slants over yours easily, erasing every thought you have until it’s just him.
This is familiar territory. This is something you can do. Your hands skirt up his chest, feeling the muscular form beneath the fabric of his shirt. Your fingers curl into the material, anchoring yourself to him. His tongue sweeps over the seam of your lips, and you instinctively part for him. When he licks into your mouth, the taste of him is heady and your brain spins. More importantly, though, heat collects between your thighs, your panties already dampening.
“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs against your mouth before his lips travel down your jawline. At your hesitance to answer, he nips at the sensitive spot in the junction of your neck and shoulder, and a shudder runs through you.
“You.” It’s a simple answer, spoken in an earnest breathiness. It’s all he needs to hear before his hands slide down to your thighs. He lifts you like its nothing, making you wrap your legs around his hips as he carries you the few steps to the bed. The mattress welcomes you both, just as you welcome his body to hover between your legs. His elbows bracket your head, his mouth working a path back up your throat.
He finds your lips again with a fierce need that makes your pussy ache. No man has made you feel like this. And a little voice in the back of your head reminds you that he’s made many women feel this way — that he probably has been with many partners who knew what they were doing. Not a virgin like you. It fills you with a sense of anxiety, but also encourages you to continue. To embrace the moment, to unlock a part of yourself. Plus, you’ve always challenged yourself. This is just another test to ace.
Your hand slips back down his chest and hooks into his jeans. When your fingernail scrapes against his skin, just inches from his already hardening cock, he hisses. Immediately you stop, breaking the kiss and staring up at him with widening eyes.
“Shit. DId I hurt you?” You want to check if you somehow broke the skin — God knows how many germs linger on your hands now from being in this disgusting frat house — but he stops you with a grunt.
“Not at all, babydoll.” His eyes sparkle with amusement at the rhyme, but he cuts your laughter off with another searing kiss that makes your body come to life. The kiss is messy and hungry. Teeth gnashing, tongues swirling against each other, soft sighs slipped between bitten lips.
Everything is going so fast. Your dress, bunched at your hips and pulled down enough to expose your breasts. His mouth, suckling on each of your nipples until you’re squirming. His fingers, tracing a back-and-forth motion on your soaked panties. Every time he gently brushes your clit, you gasp, hips jerking instantly. And each time he chuckles, repeating it again as he visually soaks up the moment.
You try to embody the confidence of the other women you see hanging around him; of the main characters you read about. You slip your hand fully into his pants, wrapping your fingers around his shaft. He groans softly against your pulse, his mouth working on your neck again. You’re sure he can feel how fast it’s fluttering.
It’s a tricky line, focusing on what you’ve learned to do while also trying to enjoy his touch and your first time. How can you recall what you’ve read about making a man feel good while he’s trying to give you the same pleasure? His fingers finally pull your underwear to the side enough for his touch to slip through your wet folds.
“Frank--” you gasp. This feels so much different from when you’ve touched yourself. So much better. His finger rubs a firm circle around your clit, drawing a low moan from you.
“You like that?” He asks, his touch speeding up just enough to make your breath stutter over another noise. You momentarily forget about his dick in your hand, and when he gives a little pinch to your clit, sending a delicious mixture of pleasure and pain through you, you squeak and squeeze his cock.
“Gentle, now,” he groans, face twisting with slight discomfort. Your hand yanks out of his pants, your eyes wide with mortification. His own movements pause, though he doesn’t retract his touch like you had yours.
“I’m sorry!” Shit like this did not happen in the books.
He shakes his head, laughing low and unbothered. “Don’t be. Just… gentle.” He reiterates, leaning down and ghosting another kiss to your kiss-swollen lips.
It takes a few more minutes before you’re willing to try again. A few more whispers of encouragement, a few more circles of your clit. Eventually your hand finds his cock again, gently palming it until pre-cum coats your hand. His hips jerk into your touch, his brows furrowing just slightly.
“There you go, baby. That’s it.” He coos, his finger dipping down from your clit to prod at your entrance. He doesn’t know you’re a virgin, that the only finger that’s ever been inside you has been your own, or your OB. So he doesn’t hesitate to slip one into your hole, the tightness of your walls clutching at his digit and pulling him in. You gasp at the intrusion, the little stretch unexpected.
“Fuck, you’re so tight.” He thrusts his finger in and out, your wetness dripping onto his wrist. You swallow hard, trying to get used to it. Then another finger is inside you and you whine. It feels good, it really does, but it’s so foreign that you forget how to breathe. Something in your expression alerts him to something being amiss, and he stops, his fingers leaving your body with a lewd wet noise.
“Hey,” he begins, earning your attention. “Are you okay?”
You open your mouth for an answer and close it just as quickly. This repeats until you finally stammer out, “I’ve never done this before.”
His face screws up. “You’ve never been fingered before? Jesus, what kind of men have you been with?”
You flush, hot and red and embarrassed. “Well… none.”
He stills. “None? You’re… a virgin?”
You nod, unable to say more. Instantly he’s leaning back on his haunches, putting a bit of distance between you two. Shame burrows into your bones and your eyes prick with needle-like tears.
“Fuck.” he curses, dragging a hand through his hair, not minding one bit about his wet fingers. “Why didn’t you tell me?” There’s something about his tone that gives you pause. That dries up your tears before they even truly begin. Guilt. He feels guilty.
“Because I didn’t want you to look at me differently. Like some inexperienced prude. Virginity is a construct, anyway, so I could technically take it myself, but --”
He cuts you off with a derisive scoff. “You may be able to fuck yourself with your fingers or a toy, but it’s significantly different to take a cock. To take my cock.”
Your clit throbs for his touch now, your inner walls fluttering with the need to envelop him. “That’s why I’m here. Because I want that.”
He wrestles with himself for a moment, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. Dark hair falls over his forehead, his eyes narrowed. Then he stands up from the bed. Expecting him to storm off, to never touch you again, that same bone-deep anxiety returns.
“Frank, wait, I’m--” Your apology is cut short when he grabs your hands and gently pulls you to your feet. You allow it, confusion leaking into your expression with pinched brows and squinted eyes. His hands find your dress, which has been bunched to your torso, and begin sliding it down.
“I’m not going to fuck you with your dress like this. Like we’re too horny and frenzied to wait.” It’s sweet in its own way. His touch is gentle as he helps you to step out of the dress, skating up your legs as he straightens back to his full height. You stand before him, bare and vulnerable. He looks over your body, the same heat from earlier returning to his gaze.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, almost like he’s telling himself to truly stop and appreciate the art before him. With a gentle hand he guides you back to the edge of the bed, but only allowing you to sit right there. When he lowers himself before you, kneeling and staring up beneath his lashes, your gut twists.
“I’m going to taste you before I fuck you. Are you okay with that?”
You gulp, nodding. At least you think you do. It’s quite hard to think of anything else other than how this man looks between your thighs, on his knees like a man at the altar begging for forgiveness. For salvation.
The first lick of his tongue is odd. Unexpected and unfamiliar. It makes you gasp, and his hands find your thighs, keeping them held open and not clamped around his head. The second lick ends with a concentrated effort on your clit and draws the first moan from you.
Within moments he gives up the slow kitten-licks and begins making out with your cunt in earnest. Your fingers thread through his hair and your back arches. Moans and mewls fall from your mouth now, uninhibited and unabashed.
“There -- that -- oh, fuck.” You whimper, feeling the way he suckles on your clit. That alone has your toes curling, your body tingling and tightening. You’ve come before by your own hand, but it’s never been so all-encompassing like this. A full-body orgasm shooting through you until you come apart. He laps at your pussy, collecting every dewy drop that spills from your hole.
When he stands up, his chin glistens. He licks at his lips with a predatory grin, wolfish and hungry. He jerks his head, indicating for you to lie further up on the bed. As you position yourself on the pillows, your breathing already heavy, he begins stripping himself of his clothes. They join your dress on the floor, and the sheer sight of him, naked with a hard cock, red and slick with pre-cum, has your body reacting with a jolt of electricity.
“Oh. I don’t… how is that going to fit?” You feel stupid for asking. You’ve taken anatomy classes. You know how the human body works, especially in these cases. But seeing the size of his cock as the tip pokes at his stomach, the curve of it girthy and proud, it makes you hesitate. Can you really take him? For your first time?
He laughs, his head dropping back. Each laugh has his body shaking, which only makes his hard arousal shift. Your eyes follow each bounce until your nerves are wound so tight you may unravel.
“I’ll be gentle,” he eventually consoles after composing himself. “You can take it, baby.”
He sounds so sure, so confident. When he crawls over you once again, your heart thuds. Your brain parts through the haze your orgasm left behind, reminding you of the very real anxiety still lingering.
“You’ll be gentle?” You repeat, eyes wide and assessing. His features soften instantly, his roguish smile replaced with a gentle one, his eyes crinkling.
“I’ll do this at whatever pace you need. You set the rules. You control this.” He balances himself on one hand so he can use the other to drag a knuckle over your cheek. “I promise to make you feel good. If you’ll let me.”
You don’t have to think about it. You nod, trying to swallow back the fear creeping over you. It’s so odd, your mind and your body being at odds. One is yelling to retreat, while the other yearns to be bent over and taken. He bends closer and presses his lips to yours. It’s not like it was before. This is tender, full of patience and promise.
“Can you guide me inside?” He whispers against your mouth. An electrifying tingle shoots through you and you’re pretty certain you feel wetness pool beneath you. Your hand slowly reaches down and takes his dick into your gentle grasp. He bites his lip against the groan building in his throat, taking a second to swallow it down before he nods.
The mushroom tip probes at your entrance as you position him just so. When he pushes in, he does just as he promised: he goes slow and gentle. But the stretch still has you whimpering, hips jerking back.
“I know, baby,” he soothes with a murmur. His lips brush over your temple and your cheek. “Just relax for me. Can you do that?” He coaxes you with more kisses, peppering your face.
When another inch is added, him sinking into you slowly, you feel the sharp sensation of your hymen breaking and whine again, your face scrunching in protest to the pain. The way his own reflects that is a true show of his guilt, at how much he hates to hurt you.
“I promise it’ll get better. Just trust me.” He nuzzles his nose into the side of your head. “You’re so beautiful, you know that?”
The compliment catches you so off-guard you almost don’t realize he’s moved deeper inside. “I am?”
“Stunning.” he corrects, teeth nipping at your earlobe. Another small thrust, this time bringing a small spark of pleasure. “I see you in class, you know. Studying, biting your lip. You’re smart. You’re gorgeous. You… fuck, you feel so good.”
The last part comes out in a low groan as he finally sinks fully inside, his pelvis flush to your ass. You feel so full, like a puzzle that was finally completed after years of missing a piece. He doesn’t move, allowing you to adjust to him. He sucks in a deep breath, instructing you to do the same with a pointed look.
On your fifth inhale, he begins to pull out. Your exhale is forced from your body on a sharp cry when he suddenly plummets back in. Pain soon gives way to pleasure when he repeats it. The whole time he watches your face, taking note of every reaction. When he gets too rough, your face scrunches and your moans turn squeaky, so he softens it. Too slow and your moans are spaced too far apart, so he quickens it. He learns you as well as any medical textbook.
His mouth travels back to your chest and he licks at your nipples, the extra stimulation driving a loud moan from you. Your back arches off the bed, pressing you closer to him. He wants to be rougher, to make you scream, but he holds back.
There will be a next time, he’s certain. For now, though, he needs to pace himself.
“You’re doing so good for me, baby.” He praises, thrusting into your tight heat again. Your walls spasm around him, squeezing in a way that tells him how close you are. “So good. So perfect. Come for me.”
Even if he hadn’t said it, you weren’t sure you could actually resist the urge. Your second orgasm hits you harder than the first, dragging you into another drowning sensation. Your breath stutters and you cry out his name, thigh muscles trembling.
“That’s it. God, you’re so pretty like this.” His lips skim your jawline. “Perfect. Fucking perfect.”
He fucks you through your orgasm before pulling out. His hand pumps at his cock for one… two… three jerks before his hot cum splatters over the skin of your stomach. You suck in gasping breaths, sweat glistening on your skin.
“You okay?” He asks, his voice ragged but filled with care. For a moment you can’t do anything but nod, the words not processing. His fingers find your chin and tilt your head in his direction. Blue eyes lock on yours and he asks again, more pointedly. “Are you okay?”
You release a low laugh, euphoria and bliss battling in your sternum. “I’m great. That was… fuck.”
His smile could outshine the sun. Beaming, bright. Beautiful.
“Great. I was thinking I could treat you to some food before round two?”
You blink. “Round two?”
He nods solemnly, finally removing himself from the bed. He disappears into the ensuite bathroom and returns with a wet cloth. He’s gentle as he cleans your skin, taking extra care not to brush too hard against your sensitive core as he cleans it.
“Well, yeah. Surely you didn’t think I was letting you escape me that easily,” he smirks in your direction, though there’s an underlying tension in his eyes. Waiting for your answer.
“Pancake and round two sound incredible.”
His body collapses down beside yours again, jostling you. Mid-bounce, his arm wraps around your torso and pulls you into his bare chest. He’s warm with exertion, and utterly comfortable as you relax against him.
“First, I just want to hold you,” he amends, his chin resting on the top of your head. With a little shift, he presses a kiss to your crown before settling again. Something lightens in your chest, and you hum your agreement.
✑ Plot: Jack Abbot has a bad day at work and comes home to his girlfriend, who can help make it better.
✑ Word Count: 1.7k
✑ Requested: Yes/No
✑ Warnings: Just pure smut, so MDNI!! Mentions of his rooftop visits. Oral -- f receiving. Use of y/n and she/her pronouns.
✑ Authors Note: I just needed to get this out so I wrote this really quick. Not edited.
✑ Gif isn’t mine!
Jack Abbot is a man of few words, most all of them sarcastic and tinged with a self-deprecation only few can pick apart. Not that he gives many a chance to try, though. He’s sure that he had more friends at some point, enough loved ones to fill a room. But that was before the army. Before he lost a leg. Before he succumbed to the dark — both mentally and physically.
Now he can count on one hand the people he holds close, whom he allows to peer behind the carefully placed wall he built around himself. His therapist, someone he likes to joke about having but is quite serious about working with. Michael, or Dr. Robby, the man he affectionately refers to as ‘brother,’ a man who reflects the same innate knowledge of the darkness that he has in himself. And then you, his girlfriend of two years, who, at the risk of becoming too metaphorical, is the light that surrounds him.
You, who knows him better than anyone else, who sees all the things he doesn’t, or can’t, say and loves him anyway. You, who has given him a reason not to jump off the roof — although he’s never told you that, because he knows you’d lose your shit if you found out that he even lingers near the edge.
But even you sometimes can’t draw words from him. Because, honestly, sometimes he doesn’t have the words to say what he’s feeling, for as vast as his mind is. And sometimes he doesn’t want to have the words or to have a conversation. Sometimes he just wants you, and he wants to forget.
The sun has already begun coloring the sky in shades of pink and orange when he trudges into the home you share with bent shoulders and a solemn look on his face. With one look, you can tell that he’s had a bad night, and you’re quick to sit up from where you’d been laying on the sofa, Netflix auto-cycling to the next episode of the silly reality show you’d been watching.
“Baby?” You hedge, a silent question lingering in the one word — are you okay? It lingers between you two as he drops his bag to the floor with a thump, which only furthers your worry.
Jack Abbot is not a messy man. Years in the army have rounded him out and instilled a need and appreciation for cleanliness and order. To drop his bag so haphazardly, to kick off his boots with the same gusto as a teen coming home from school, is a sure sign that something isn’t right. Alarm bells ring in your head and you move to stand up completely, only for him to hold a hand out.
He says no words, but you still stop, one foot on the ground and one knee digging into the cushion. His eyes, dim with exhaustion but still softened with love, rake over your form. You can practically see the idea emerging in his brain, though you don’t know exactly what it is yet.
Reaching behind his head, he grips the back of his shirt and tugs it off, leaving his silver curls mussed and his upper body on full display. He drops it to the floor, too, but this time you can’t be bothered to analyze the hidden meaning. You can’t do anything but admire the muscular form of your boyfriend, the bulging pecks and biceps.
“Jack,” you start, wetting your lips. He tracks the motion with keen eyes before shaking his head.
“No.” It’s simple, bewildering, and utterly final. No.
He lumbers a step towards you, his prosthetic leg clearly bothering him as he favors his other one, but he doesn’t let it stop him. You expect him to take a seat beside you, the spot clear for his body, but he doesn’t. Instead, he plants his hands behind him on the cushions, lowering himself to the ground. The veins in his arms ripple with the movement, and your mouth runs dry.
“Jack,” you try again, voice breathy.
Again, he shakes his head. “No.”
“Stop saying ‘no,’ and tell me what you’re doing,” you grumble. Your heart thuds behind your ribcage, a mixture of worry and want intermingling in the pit of your stomach. You don’t know which to focus on, how to react. His head drops back on the cushion and lolls to the side so your eyes can connect. “Does your leg hurt?”
He offers you a lazy smirk, “Yes.”
Your eyes narrow, seeing the hint of humor dancing in the crinkle of his. “Oh, come on.”
“Yes. My face.” He speaks with that same gruff nonchalance, making your thoughts whir to a stop. Your mouth pops open, cheeks turning pink. The worry you’d been feeling gives way to the heat coiling in your stomach.
“Excuse me?” You splutter, looking down at him, your body still caught between standing and kneeling. And now…
“You heard me, sweetheart,” his voice drops low, the same tone he takes in the bedroom. “Come sit on my face.”
He leaves no room for misinterpretation; no beating around the bush. He’s a man who knows what he wants, and right now, that’s you. You swallow hard, gaze drifting along his body to the bulge already growing in his pants, constricted by the rough material. Most men would request the opposite: you suck them off to remedy their bad day. Not Jack, though. Control and pleasure are a fine line that he walks with expertise, and in this instance, he needs both.
“Are you sure?” You still ask, finally standing on your own two feet. He hasn’t even touched you yet, but your knees still wobble, urging you to open your legs already. He pins you with a look, brows lowered and mouth set. That’s all the answer you get, and you bob your head in a nod.
Slowly you ease your shorts and underwear down your legs. Your blush deepens when his appreciative gaze sweeps your body and lingers on the junction of your thighs, the tufts of hair just beginning to grow back after your last waxing session. A low rumble sounds from his chest, and he drops his head back down, angling his neck comfortably.
You try to ease your way on, one leg thrown over his body before you lower into a kneel on the couch. He’s having absolutely none of that, though. Firm, strong hands grip the backs of your thighs, lifting you with ease until you're positioned right over his face. You squeak, hands finding the back of the couch for stability.
“Impatient -- oh.” Any sassy retorts are lost when you feel the first swipe of his tongue through your folds. He’s wasting no time in taking what he wants, his fingers flexing into the meaty skin of your thighs, both holding you down and pulling you closer. He gives a little kitten-lick to your clit before placing a kiss on each of your lips.
“Jack,” you huff, already breathy, already squirming. He hums against you, sucking on one lip before moving to the next, taking his time. Your hands grip the couch harder and your head drops between your biceps, looking down at him. His eyes are closed — a man savoring a meal.
Finally, his tongue slips back into the mix, prodding gently at your entrance, coaxing more slick to leak from you and a small whimper to leave your mouth. He moves his demonstrations back to your clit, rolling the tip of his tongue over the sensitive bud repeatedly.
“Jack,” you repeat, this time more of a mewl. His responding chuckle is low, sultry, and deep.
“I know, sweetheart,” he mumbles before sucking your clit into his mouth. Your mewl turns into a moan, and then into a sharp gasp when you feel his teeth nip oh-so gently. The pain and pleasure mix deliciously in your system, and your hips buck into his face with a mind of their own. His hands slid up to them and grip tight, holding you steady. He’s in control; he’s calling the shots. You’re to take it, to let him have this. And God, do you readily accept your fate.
As his tongue slips back down and inside you, licking as deep as he can, he allows one hand to curve up over your thigh and stomach. Not only does this force you firmly against his mouth, your entire weight on his face, but he can also press his thumb against your clit. It rolls in deliberate circles, exactly as he knows you like it, while he continues to make out with your cunt like a man starved.
“You taste so fucking good,” he praises between each lick. “You were made for me. This pussy was made for me.” He follows the words up with another deep flick of his tongue, and you moan louder, wanting desperately to grind into his mouth and his hand. His thumb continues to rub against you, firm and precise.
“I’m… m’gonna--” you whine, your eyes screwing shut as tingles pass over your skin, culminating in your lower abdomen. Every nerve is wired and tight, ready to snap. He doesn’t speak, but he does double his efforts. Your inner walls flutter and your nails dig so hard into the cushions you wouldn’t be surprised if you had to buy new upholstery after he’s finished.
“Jack… baby…I--” Words escape you in a nonsensical mumble after that, your brain focused on one thing only: your impending orgasm. It sweeps over you fast, pulling you under with a low cry. You feel it all over, the warmth flushing through your body, the pulsing sensation between your legs as you leak down into his mouth.
He licks at every drop, swallowing it like a greedy man. He doesn’t stop until your thighs shake and your moans turn back into whimpers. You know he’s done when he releases your thighs with a little pat, and you all but flop over to the other side of the couch, chest heaving with panting breaths. You stare down at him with half-hooded eyes, trying to calm your racing heart to no avail. His chin glistens, a small line of your cum running down his throat, where you watch his Adam’s apple bob.
His tongue darts over his lips, picking up what he can, before he grins. “Oh, it's been a good day.”
Hey are your requests open? I loved rumors and I was hoping I could request something Eddie related! Thank you💕
They are!! I have other requests to work on but I kind of jump around so I can’t tell you when it’ll be done, but please let me know what it is. And thank you so much 🥺 I’m so glad you loved it. 
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