andrew pope cody whoâs worried about you finding his rap sheet vs. reader whoâs printed out his mugshot to include in her journal with little hand-drawn hearts around it <3
jack abbotâs tummy. thatâs it. thatâs the post.
fem!reader, mdni. chokehold, doggy style, dom!jack. porn no plot
youâd insist that he fucked you doggy, forearm and bicep curling around your neck, squeezing just enough to enhance the dizzying sensation his cock ramming into your cervix gave you.
his tummy was warm and heavy, pressing up against the divot of the small of your back, arching perfectly for him to fit against you like a puzzle piece.
whining around his arm, desperately pawing back at his tummy, trying to tug him harder against you.
âstop whininâ.â heâs growling against your ear in between rough pants, cock slowly dragging out to just the tip, pausing momentarily before plunging back inside your greedy cunt with sheer force.
âmngh⊠jusâ need it.â you complain, drooling down against his freckled skin.
âoh, youâre fuckinâ taking it.â grunting as his muscles around your neck contracted. you just nodded along dumbly.
‷ after stalking you, pope makes his intentions known.
cw: smut, stalking, insane behavior from pope
You should have trusted your instincts the first time you met Pope.
It was at your friendâs dance studio, the early-day kind of session where everyone's tired, giggling, sweaty. He was dropping off his daughter or neice. Polite, soft-spoken. When you caught him watching you from the mirror, it shouldâve felt like flattery. But something about his gaze made your skin itch.
He never asked for your number. You didnât give it. And yet, somehow, weeks later, youâd find him near your building, casually leaning on a light post like he just happened to be there. You told yourself it was a coincidence.
Until you started finding little things. An energy drink on your doorstep, the exact flavor you always buy. A phone charger in your favorite color. A photo slipped under your door. One of you.
Dancing alone. You never told anyone. Maybe a part of you didnât want to. Maybe a part of you liked it.
He lets himself in on the night of the blackout.
Youâre in bed, breath fogging in the still air, wrapped in silence when you hear the click of the lock. Then the slow creak of your bedroom door. You donât scream. You should, but you know that silhouette. You know those soft, heavy-lidded eyes, even in the dark.
âPope,â you whisper, breath hitching.
He doesnât speak. Just crosses the room with that too-fluid grace, crawling onto the bed like heâs done it a hundred times in his head. His fingers are cold as they curl around your throat, pressingânot enough to hurt, just enough to still you.
âI missed you,â he says, voice low. âYouâve been dancing with other people. Smiling. Laughing.â
âYou shouldnât be here.â
âIâm always here,â he murmurs. âYou just donât notice me unless I make you.â
You swallow. The pressure on your neck tightens for a second, then loosens. He cups your face like youâre something delicate. Precious.
âYouâre mine,â he breathes. âSay it.â
âNo,â you whisper. But your legs spread when he shifts between them, and your hips arch up when his hand slides beneath your sleep shirt. His fingers trail over your stomach, slow and possessive.
âYouâre scared,â he says softly. âBut youâre wet.â
You bite your lip as he sinks two fingers into you, knuckle-deep. His thumb rests over your clit like heâs claiming it, rubbing in tight, practiced circles.
Heâs watched you enough to know what you like.
Your body betrays you. You clench around him, moaning low into his chest as he kisses you, soft, and sweet. His lips tremble against yours like this means something to him.
When he fucks you, itâs like worship. Like heâs waited years. He keeps whispering things; mine, my good girl, nobody else gets this, and you hate how much it turns you on. His hands roam constantly, gripping your thighs, your waist, your throat, like he needs to feel that youâre real. That youâre his.
You finish twice before he lets go.
He doesnât pull out. He wraps his arms around you after and whispers into your hair, âIâm going to take care of you now. No more parties. No more dancing for anyone but me.â
You wake hours later, if you ever slept at all, to the subtle pressure of fingers brushing your hair behind your ear.
Pope is sitting on the floor beside your bed, back against the mattress, knees bent, head resting near your hip. Heâs been awake. Watching you sleep.
âMorning,â he murmurs, eyes red and soft with exhaustion. He smiles like a lover who waited up for you. âI thought about waking you. But you look so pretty when you donât know Iâm here.â
Your throat tightens. âYou need to leave.â
He tilts his head, the movement slow, curious. âWhy would I? You welcomed me.â
âI didnâtââ
âYou did,â he interrupts, sliding his palm up the inside of your thigh, fingers finding the soreness he left behind. You flinch. âYour body told me everything.â
He stands in one fluid motion, walking around the bed. Thereâs a bag sitting on your dresserâwhen did he put that there?âa neat, organized thing, zippers and compartments. He unpacks it piece by piece:
Clothes, skincare, toothbrush and a pair of dance shoes. Your size, your brand.
He catches your stare and laughs softly, shyly, like heâs embarrassed. âI get anxious when youâre far from me. So I like to know⊠things.â His hand brushes over the satin ribbon of the shoes.Â
âYouâre insane,â you whisper.
He doesnât get angry, just walks back to the bed and kneels on it, caging you between his thighs and his arms, forehead touching yours. His breath is warm.Â
âIf I was insane, youâd be dead,â he whispers, lips ghosting your cheek. âIâm careful with you.â
His hand trails down your chest, slow, grazing under the shirt you never got to change. His fingers slip beneath the fabric, palm flattening against your breast. You gasp, caught between fear and instinct.
He hums, content. âStill sensitive⊠I didnât even fuck you as hard as I wanted.â
His other hand reaches behind him, pulling something from the bedside table.
A small, elegant knife.
Not dramatic, not threatening. Like something heâd use to cut fruit.
He presses the cold metal against the underside of your jaw, guiding your chin up.
âI donât want to hurt you,â he promises, voice maddeningly gentle, âbut I need you to understand me.â
You stay still. Barely breathing. His eyes are wide and soft, pupils blown.
âI donât need your permission,â he says, leaning closer, lips brushing the corner of your mouth. âI just want your cooperation.â
He kisses you, slow, and steady, the knife still at your skin. And you tremble. Not because of the blade, but because he kisses like someone whoâs dreamed of it forever.
The metal moves from your jaw to your collarbone, tracing a line. He doesnât cut you, just presses, testing how hard he can go before you start to shake.
âTell me to stop,â he whispers against your throat.
You donât and he smiles.
âSee?â His tongue flicks against your pulse. âYouâre not afraid of me. Youâre afraid of how much you want me.â
He pushes you back into the mattress, takes your wrists, pins them above your head with one hand. The knife rests on your chest, gliding lower, toward your stomach.
He slides inside you without warning, slow at first, then sharper as your body stretches around him again, unprepared. You bite your lip to keep from crying out; the knife presses harder as you do.
Pope moans, long, and shaky. âYou take me like you were made for it.â
He fucks you with relentless control, hips rolling, chest pressed to yours as the blade traces lazy patterns along your ribs. His breath fans your ear.
âYouâre going to stay here today,â he murmurs. âIâll turn your phone off. Iâll make breakfast. Youâll rest.â
You shake your head, desperate, dizzy.
He laughs softly, almost heartbreakingly sweet.
âBaby⊠I already told your friends youâre sick.â
His thrusts get deeper, purposefully bruising, his voice barely a breath:
Nothing just pissed off because Sammy Bryant is lowkey a dickhead Iâm gonna stop watching Southlandđ«Ș (probably not but how am I more interested in John Coopers storyline atp??? Idk just I think Iâm too acab for this show, it was def total copaganda for its time but i donât think it plays out very well in todayâs worldđŹ)
I will let you know when/if I am ready to apologize.
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