🃏always! open to receiving requests or hearing what’s on ur mind
🍒fav movies • breakfast at tiffany’s, alice in wonderland (1951), bones and all, priscilla, midsommar, bottoms, jennifer’s body, sucker punch, the sweet east, possession
🎞️letterboxd • smartsexylacy
💋fav shows • teen wolf, yellowjackets, the vampire diaries, the oc, the walking dead, euphoria
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no no no put me back in the loop I almost did it perfect please put me back just a few more tries and I think I could really nail it please put me back
content <𝟑 .ᐟ 18+, f!reader, dumbification, brief oral mention (f. receiving), daddy kink, pet names, finger sucking.
you’re not thinking at all—
you haven’t been since andrew buried his face between your thighs and made you cum twice just because he missed you while he was “working.” that was the beginning of the end. you’re barely coherent as he maneuvers you onto your tummy before pulling your hips back to meet his, propping you up on your knees so he can slip his thick cock inside easy. you’re too messy for there to be any true struggle, but the reminder of how well he completes you always snatches the air from your lungs before you can get yourself to breathe through it.
clawing at the bed, you prepare yourself for him to move. the first thrust has you burying your face in his crisp sheets and whimpering, especially when he leans over you with a hand on either side of your dizzy head. the sound of his heated skin meeting yours is lewd, it makes your ears burn. your toes are already curling as he groans over you, feeling your soft cunt trying to milk him dry without even meaning to. one hand comes to grab your jaw, holding your head up to keep you from suffocating yourself in your state. he’s always amazed by how much he can break you down. you’ve always been a sensitive girl but when he has you like this, it’s a whole different level …
you babble, each movement knocking a few dumb hiccupy sounds and syllables out of you, “andrew, andrew— s’good— feels s’good, daddy.”
his heart stops. he’s too greedy to fully halt the rythym of his hips, but it comes to a slow grind that keeps you right where you need to be. blissed out and desperate. that word falling from your glossy lips was the last thing he expected. he didn’t know you had it in you to be so perverted. it forces him wonder how long you’ve wanted to claim him as your daddy. he nuzzles his face against the side of your own, feeling your supple skin and the shared heat between you two, “what did you just call me, baby? where did that come from, hm?”
you only whine in response, too gone to register what you’ve started. you lift your hips up in an effort to get more from him, pressing your ass against his hips and attempting to fuck yourself back on him. a groan claws up his throat, raw and raspy. and suddenly he’s pounding you into the sheets, still keeping your pretty face in his grip. you huff out little breaths against his thumb only to have the digit stuffed in your mouth, effectively muffling your squeals and sweet moans.
“i know, i know. don’t worry about it, should’ve known you were too fucked up to speak— let daddy do all the work, baby girl.”
you scrape your knees by the pool, pope attempts to fix it
pairings: pope cody x bunny reader
warnings: fem!reader, reader wearing a dress, minor injury, scraped knees, blood, wound clearning, hurt/comfort, protective pope cody, possessive thoughts, pope calls read kid, pope calls reader doll, reader has freckles bc i wanted to be self indulgent!!!!, grumpy caretaker pope
wc: 2k
Pope finds you sitting on the low concrete step out back with your legs folded to one side. Delicate and stunned-looking in the harsh afternoon lift. A figurine dropped by accident and left there because nobody wanted to be the first to check for cracks.
You haven’t been drinking, he knows that much. You don’t really drink to begin with. Not in excess, anyway.
He scans you to find the problem. Head. Fine. Chest. More than fine. Stomach. Normal.
Knees.
Your knees are scraped raw.
The marks are not serious, technically. But serious enough that the skin has split open into two wet little blooms, blood bright against the grit, dust clinging where it shouldn’t. It runs down your shins in thin, crooked tributaries, and he hates it.
Hates the sight so sharply it feels like a physical punch. Hates that the world got its hands on you for five seconds and already made a mess of what it shouldn’t have touched. Someone like you who is so pure and untouched.
Pope stops where he is.
His hand closes at his side. Opens again. That is his first correction. The second is his face, which he makes blank, or tries to, because you’re already looking up at him, head snapping back too hard, and his mind supplies the sound of it hitting the door before it happens.
It doesn’t happen. Still, his jaw tightens. Careless with yourself, he thinks.
You swipe at your face with the heel of your hand, and say, “I’m fine.”
No, you’re not, he wants to say. Who the fuck taught you to say that so fast?
Instead he takes a few careful steps toward you, keeping his face still, keeping everything locked down, even as the agitation climbs up the back of his neck.
If he gets close enough, he’ll be able to see it clearly. Where the damage starts. Who he’s supposed to blame.
“What happened, kid?”
You sniff once and straighten your back. Brave little thing. Ridiculous little thing. “Nothing.”
Pope doesn’t respond. His eyes stay on you, molten enough to become a thing in the yard, another source of heat in the sun, and he can feel himself doing it only after your fingers move to your mouth. One neat pink nail presses into the swell of your lip, picks at it, worries the softness there.
He wants to tell you to stop. Wants to take your hand away from your mouth. Wants too many things, which is usually the first sign that he should do nothing at all. So he waits for you to fold.
He knows the first answer was bullshit. Flimsy as tissue paper and he lets it tear on its own.
“I tripped,” you admit finally.
“Where?” he asks.
Your lashes are wet when you blink up at him, clumped together in little dark points, and your mouth does that small uncertain thing, twitching at one corner like you’re embarrassed to explain yourself.
“By the pool,” you say. “There was, like, a crack. Or something.”
He knows the crack. He can see it without looking, some warped seam in the concrete by the shallow end, something everyone steps over, steps around, ignores because it’s just part of the house being what it is. Broken things everywhere. Broken people too.
But you didn’t know to look for it. You move through the Cody house like bad things are theoretical, like the ground itself wouldn’t dare rise up and bite you. It did anyway.
Pope lets out a slow breath through his nose and drops into a crouch in front of you.
Bad idea, probably. Everything is worse down here. It’s inflamed, scratches packed with dirt, blood drying in jagged lines.
You don’t like that part. The mess. He can tell by way your hands twitch helplessly in your lap, like you want to wipe it away, clean it up, make yourself presentable again, but the pain is winning.
Your dress, meanwhile, is perfect. Some pink little sundress cut high over your thighs. No wrinkles or stray staining.
From where he is, he could see up it if he tried. He doesn’t. He keeps his eyes where they belong, on the blood, on the damage, on the part of you he can pretend is the only thing he wants to touch. For now.
You try to pull your leg back the second he reaches for your ankle, some quick little prey-animal flinch that might’ve worked on someone less ready for it.
Pope catches you easily. His hand wraps firm before you can get very far. Not hard enough to hurt, not gentle enough to suggest he’s asking.
“Quit that.”
“It stings,” you protest.
“Yeah,” he says flatly. “That tends to happen when you eat shit.”
Your bottom lip wobbles. You gather it back up so quickly it almost disappears, smoothing the expression off your face like a ripple flattening on water, and Christ, you’re pretty when you cry.
It’s a rotten thought. He knows that. He knows that, and still his body reacts before morality can catch up, because his body is old violence and bad wiring and appetite with a pulse.
He drags his thumb down the line of your calf, feather-light, careful to avoid the scrape itself, as if gentleness in one place could cancel out the ugliness in another, as if he could make himself clean by touching you like you’re made of glass.
“You cryin’?” Rhetorical. More of an indictment.
“No.”
“You are.”
“‘M not.” A tear slips free and runs down your cheek as you say it.
Pope watches the trajectory, the thin shine over warm skin. He wants to lean in and taste it. Salt. Flesh. Proof. He kills the urge under the toe of his boot.
You stare past him, surely furious with yourself for the anatomical betrayal.
He lets out a short, humorless breath that almost passes for a laugh and shakes his head. “Tough girl, huh?”
You nod right away, stubborn as hell. “Mhm.”
Another tear comes down. That settles it. Pope looks at it, then at you. Tough girl. Sure. Tough like a rabbit holding still under a hawk shadow.
“C’mere,” he says.
“Why?”
“So I can clean it.”
Your eyes widen immediately, suspicious now, all that fragile toughness collapsing into practical fear. “Is it gonna hurt?”
“It’ll hurt more if I don’t.”
He’s not actually sure that’s true, but he doesn’t know how else to sell this to you. He just knows he doesn’t want you leaving gravel in there and calling it day.
This patio has probably seen every kind of gross substance known to man. Beer, mud, oil, spit, ash, drugs, blood. A dozen things he doesn’t want in your skin. Enough random bacteria to make him think infection before anything else. Enough that he can already picture your knees tomorrow, swollen and pink and you still insisting it’s nothing.
It seems convincing enough for you because you let him pull you up, though you hiss when your knees straighten.
Stiff little steps. Swallowed noises. A terrible attempt at limping in a way he won’t notice, as if Pope has ever missed anything in his life, as if he might tease you for it.
He probably will, a little, because sometimes teasing gets you moving better than sympathy does, but not much.
Inside, he sets you on the bathroom counter and starts digging through the cabinet for peroxide and gauze. The bathroom is too small for both of you. It shows in the way he can clearly inhale the flowery perfume you have on. Sprayed at the base of your throat and insides of your wrists, most likely.
When he turns back, you’ve gone very still, hands braced on either side of your hips, shoulders pulled up nearly to your ears, eyes fixed on the brown bottle like it might lunge at you.
“I don’t like that.”
“No one likes it.”
You pull a face, and your foot kicks forward once, restless and nervous. Your heel brushes his side. Barely. An accident. Pope feels it through his shirt like a warning shot. You retract your foot immediately.
“Well, I like it less than most people,” you mutter.
He steps in between your knees before you can fuss any more, the cap twisting loose between his fingers.
“I think you’re being a little bit of a baby,” he says, then, before you can get offended, adds, “which is fine.” The cap clicks against the counter. “You can sit there and look at me like I’m about to torture you if that helps. But I’m still gonna clean it.” His eyes flick to your mouth, to the pout already threatening there. “You can do that too. Still not gettin’ out of it.”
You seem to consider pushing back one more time, then don’t.
“...Kay,” you say, barely above a mumble. Giving in. Like you’ve made up your mind, like you’ve already accepted he knows what’s happening next better than you do and you’re fine with that.
He isn’t sure how to feel about that.
“Hold still.”
The peroxide strikes the raw skin and you jolt under his hand, a soft whimper escaping before you can swallow it back, your eyes pinching shut like that might save you from the burning.
Pope gets a hand around your thigh before you can yank it your leg back, a quick learner when it comes to your habits.
“Easy,” he says, tipping the bottle back. “You’re alright.” Another careful pour, less this time. Another little flinch. “You’re doing good, doll. Almost done with the worst of it.”
Your lips push out further, eyes going a little softer and shinier. You shift toward him, knees parting just a little more around where he stands, one hand coming off the counter to catch at his side, then his shirt, then just staying there.
He wipes away the last of the pink fizz and dirt in slow passes.
“There. See? Survived.” He reaches for the bandaids, peels one open with his teeth, and smooths it over the first scrape with the flare of his thumb. Then the second, just as careful. “Wasn’t so bad.”
“Easy for you to say.” Your hand stays bunched in his shirt, fingers curled into the cotton like you forgot you were holding on or decided not to care.
Pope looks down at it for half a second too long, then back to the bandaid before it can become anything. The corner of his mouth pulls, barely.
“Yeah,” he says. “You’re right. Sorry, kid.” He presses the left bandaid down where it’s already trying to peel at the edge. “Next time watch where you’re going, yeah? Makes my life easier.”
Your nose wrinkles. It’s cute. Freckles dotted across the bridge, fanning outward in a constellation of sorts. “Sounds like victim blaming to me.”
“You can be a victim and careless with your well-being at the same time.”
You cock your head at him, considering this, “So… are you done now?”
“Mhm. Done.” His hands settle at your waist and lifts you back off the counter, steadying you once wobbling feet hit the floor.
You look up at him then, and your mouth softens into a small, toothless smile. It’s already too much for him. Already better than the pinched-up expressions you’ve been wearing since he found you outside.
He almost makes the mistake of pointing it out. Before he can, you rise to your tip toes, light hands still at his sides for balance, and press those pretty lips to his cheek, just off his mouth.
When you pull away, your teeth find your lower lip and you look at him from under your lashes. “Thank you, Andrew.”
He wants, suddenly and stupidly, to tell you not to thank him for things like that, not for basic shit, not for cleaning blood off your knees like it’s some grand gesture. But then again maybe in your life it is. Maybe that’s the part that makes something protective rise in him.
So all he says is, “Yeah,” low and rough, like the word cost him a little. He keeps a hand at your waist a second longer than necessary before he lets you go. Watches you walk away.
Later, when you’re distracted somewhere inside the house, he goes back out and finds the crack by the pool.
He fixes it the next day.
A/N - popping my pope cody fanfic cherry!!!!!! yipee
thinking about how pope is obsessed with having any excuse to rub you down until you’re messy between your thighs from his touch alone, and not just when you’re already in his arms—
like when you’re done laying in the sun for the day, skin hot to the touch whilst you’re all out of it. he reaches for your after sun cream the one that you always say smells like coconut ice cream and starts rubbing it into your skin before you can say a word, after grabbing your ankles and positioning you properly on the lounge chair. and maybe he’s a little gross about it, pressing his face into your neck and taking in your natural scent as he rubs it into your skin, thick fingers slipping under the flimsy strings of your bikini until you gasp his name against the bulk of his bicep and smack at his own warm chest.
or when you need him for anything. one day something gets stuck in the dryer, probably a stupid sock or the strings on one of j’s hoodies, and you’re the one who had the pleasure of noticing it. andrew can hear all your huffing and puffing from inside. when he comes to the rescue, he’s quick to put his hands on your waist and squeeze you, pressing your back against his front until you can feel his bulge press against your ass. why is he hard 24/7? your breathing picks up. you know he isn’t going to fuck you over the dryer, but it passes through your mind for a second. just as he glides his heavy palms over your hips to remind you of how easy it is for him to grab you up. he grumbles while one hand moves over your tummy, pressing a little the same way he does when he’s buried deep inside you, “move— i got it.”
and of course, similar to the after sun, he knows when you’re fresh out of the shower you hate how your skin feels once you’ve dried off. your nose is scrunched up because you left your lotion in the bedroom, but lucky for you andrew’s already waiting with his most favorite scent on you in hand by the time you pad back in there. he makes you drop your towel, ignoring the way you whine at him for being so handsy and rough with you. you squeak when the cold moisturizer meets your skin and the scent of straight vanilla frosting meets your nose because he loves super sweet smells on you, but it only makes him hornier.
i lovee the way you write toxic jack… thinking about how he’d react to reader trying to fight back a bit more, like shoving him or even smacking at his chest
yeaaah ok toxic!jack i hate you & i want you
“What were you doing there?” His voice is rough, mean.
A frustrated grunt leaves you as you continue shoving your things into your bag.
“I’ve told you a hundred times, Jack!” You shout.
“You expect me to believe you were with two guys studying at 9 p.m.?” He yells back, unpacking your things as you move around the room. “Would you just quit for a second and talk to me?”
You throw your bag onto the ground, hearing your laptop break with a sickening crack. He hears it too, judging on the way his head snaps to where it’s laying. When his eyes meet yours, there’s nothing but more anger in them
“What, you’re breaking things now?” His brows raise meanly. “Such a fucking brat. You think I’m just going to buy you a new laptop? Are you that spoiled?”
Tears begin to run hot down your cheeks. Jack can be so mean.
“If you want to talk, Jack, talk. Don’t yell at me.” You’re swiping furiously at your face, trying to will away the tears.
“Then don’t go out with other guys behind my back,” he replies, heated eyes burning into you.
“It was a study group, Jack!” You cry out. “There were two guys and six other girls. And I did not go behind your back. You dropped me off, for fuck’s sake! I’m so sick of you acting like such an ass about this.”
He moves closer to you, clenching his jaw tightly.
“Say that again,” he challenges.
“I said you’re being an ass!” Impulse shoves your hands into his chest as he tries to reach for the door.
As soon as you touch him, he’s towering over you, using his broad frame to corner you into the door. His foot crunches your computer even further as he steps up to intimidate you.
“Get off, Jack,” you grunt, trying to shove at his shoulders again.
One of his hands snatches both your wrists in its grasp. It’s not too tight, but still. His message is clear-- he’s bigger, he’s stronger.
Trying to pull yourself out of his hold is useless. He only tightens it until there’s no room left to move.
“Calm. Down.” He sounds bored.
You keep trying to wiggle away, hoping he’ll get tired and relent. Instead, he pins your arms above your head and brings his free hand to your waist to push you against the door.
“Hey! Quit it!” He demands. His eyes are wide, angry as he stares you down. “Are you done?”
Reluctantly, you stop trying to resist.
“Let me go,” you say, but there’s no fight left.
Jack does let you go, dropping your arms and releasing his hold on your waist. He knows you won’t try to leave again. Able to move freely, you’re still standing there between his body and the door.
“I’m not happy with you.” His voice is a little softer, still strict but not so condescending.
“I know. I’m sorry.” A sniffle leaves you as you look to your feet.
“Good.” He kisses the top of your head, then places a hand on your back as he guides you to the bed. “What kind of laptop do you want, baby?”
OOOOOOOOOOH MY GOD he’s so evil in this… the part about the message being that he’s bigger and stronger?? him looking fucking bored as he holds you still???? ordering you to calm down and asking if you’re done?? and the fucking ENDINGG him immediately switching up about buying you the laptop… what a manipulative pos… i want him bad
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