đ¤ I spend too much time on video games, music and art, but how can you blame me?
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thinking, thinking about watching pope train in the backyard, your legs lazily swinging back and forth as you sit perched on one of the stools, watching your boyfriend land punch after punch against the bag. he looks insanely attractive; his muscles rippling with each fluid movement, the occasional grunt leaving him as his fists connect with the leather, a light sheen of sweat glistening across his freckled back. needless to say, you were very much enjoying the view.
you hop off and walk towards him.
âcan you teach me?â
pope lands another punch before turning to face you, his chest rising and falling heavily.
âteach you what?â he pants out.
âhow to throw a punch.â
he just looks at you, that quiet intensity he holds in his gaze melting slowly whenever itâs you heâs seeing.
âyou serious?â he asks softly, to which you eagerly nod.
however youâre a little giddy as pope stands behind you, his hands on your forearms as he guides your closed fists because mind you, this is still your very attractive boyfriend teaching you something heâs more than knowledgable in. you canât stop smiling and letting out a few giggles, just happy to be close to him. like you needed a reason to be.
âthought you wanted to learn, huh?â he whispers in your ear in that raspy voice you love so, so much.
â Don't you feel like crying? Well, here I am, baby.
Come on, cry to me. â
You stopped him before he could say it. It took a bleeding heart to shout it for you.
â pairing: Kyle Garrick Ă fem!medic!Reader
â cw: 18+ | friends to lovers; mutual pining; angst; hurt/comfort; graphic depictions of battlefield medicine/injuries; smut; fluff; wc: 6k
author's note: Inspired by "Cry to Me" by Solomon Burke (and that one scene in Dirty DancingâŚ)
You meet Kyle Garrick on one of the worst days of his life.
That's an exaggerationâhe'd tell you so himself later, with that easy grin and a dismissive waveâbut in the moment, lying on a stretcher with a piece of shrapnel the size of a two-pence coin lodged in his left shoulder and a look on his face like he's more annoyed than injured, it certainly seems like a contender.
"Don't move," you tell him, snapping on a fresh pair of gloves as the medivac shudders and banks.
"Wasn't planning on it," he replies through gritted teeth, and then, because apparently, he's incapable of not being charming even while slowly bleeding out.
"You always this bossy, or am I special?"
"Just for the ones who are too stupid to duck."
He laughs a short, startled bark that immediately turns into a groan when the movement jostles his shoulder too much, so you press your palm flat against his chest and push him back down firmly.
"Don't bloody move, Sergeant."
He groans in pain and obeys. "Yes, ma'am."
Then his eyes find yours; warm, hazelnut brown, and sharp with pain but alert, and he holds your gaze for a beat longer than necessary until you look away first.
And you start working on his wound, cleaning it with a gentleness that you usually have no time to spare.
That's how it starts.
The friendship builds the way military friendships do, namely in proximity and repetition, in shared meals and overlapping schedules and the intimacy of being two people who exist in the same small ecosystem of a forward operating base.
You're not 141ânot technically.
You're attached to the medical unit that supports their operations, one of a handful of combat medics who rotate through depending on the mission profile. But somehow, Kyle Garrick's name keeps appearing on the ops you're assigned to, and somehow, he keeps finding his way to your table in the mess until the space next to you becomes his space without anyone deciding it should be.
He brings you tea. Not regularly or performatively, but on the mornings after bad nights, the kind where you've been elbow-deep in someone's chest cavity for hours and the adrenaline crash leaves you hollowed out and shaking at four a.m. And he doesn't say anything about it. Just appears with two mugs, sits down, and talks about something mundane like football scores, a podcast he's been listening to, and the ongoing sad saga of Soap trying to grow a moustache, until the tremor in your hands eases and you can hold the mug without spilling.
You learn Kyle in fragments.
He's from LondonâBattersea, specifically, which he brings up with a particular local pride. That he reads more than anyone else on the team and never talks about it unless you ask, and that he can cook, properly cook, not just the sad bachelor reheating that passes for cuisine among most of the men on base. And that he calls his mum every Sunday without fail, even from a FOB in the middle of nowhere, even if the connection is shit and they spend half the call saying, âYou're breaking up,â at each other.
However, the fact that he looks at you differently than he looks at anyone else, that he keeps to himself.
But you notice it anyway, the way you notice a change in a patient's vitals before any machine can tell youâgradually, then all at once.
How his eyes track you across a room; how his voice shifts when he talks to youâsofter, lower, a register reserved exclusively for your frequency, and the way his hand lands on the small of your back when you're walking through a crowded corridor and stays there a beat too long, warm through your shirt. And neither of you mentions it.
Then again, you don't mention a lot of things.
The rule is established on a Tuesday night in a shipping container that serves as a break room, four months into whatever this is.
You're sitting on the floor with your back against a supply crate, sharing a bag of crisps and a companionable silence. Kyle is beside you; close enough that his shoulder presses against yours and you can feel the warmth radiating off his body while you're watching him read something on his phone.
The blue light catches the profile of his face, and the thought that surfaces in your chest is so sudden and so clear that it knocks the breath out of you momentarily.
I could love you so easily it terrifies me.
Kyle looks up, catches your expression, and whatever you let slip onto your face in that unguarded second makes something in his eyes shift and crack open. He turns towards you, and you can practically see the words forming on his lips, can feel the entire trajectory of what's about to happen.
"Don't."
He stops, closes his mouth. Your heart stutters.
"Don't say it, Kyle."
Silence follows. Not uncomfortable or confused. Kyle knows exactly what you're asking. His jaw works, his eyes search your face, and you watch him weigh the cost of obedience against the cost of defiance.
"Why?" he asks eventually.
Because if you say it, I'll have to fucking feel it and it will distract me and I can't fucking allow that. I can't do my fucking job if I'm worrying about whether you're coming back to me. Because I've watched women lose men in this line of work and I've seen what it fucking does to them and I can't. I fucking can't, Kyle.
Your face stays neutral and then you don't say any of that; you merely look at him, and despite your charade, he reads it on your face the way he is trained to read hidden clues.
"Okay," he breathes and his shoulders slump some, but you have to ignore it.
And that's it. Okay.
He goes back to his phone. His shoulder stays pressed against yours. The bag of crisps sits between you, and after a minute, his hand dips in and retrieves one, and the crunch of it in the silence is so absurdly normal that you almost laugh.
Kyle never says it.
He doesn't need to, because it's in every cup of tea, every quiet walk, every time his eyes find you across a crowded room and stay. It's said in the space he keeps beside him that is always yours; in the way he says your name and makes it sound like the answer to a question he's been carrying for years.
Kyle looks at you like you're the sun, and he never says a word, and you keep pretending youâre not the one burning.
The op goes sideways at 0344 hrs, and you're not even supposed to be this close to the action.
The medical station is set up two hundred metres back from the primary assault position, behind a concrete barrier wall that provides decent cover and a clear line to the extraction point.
You've done this beforeâdozens of times, probably more. All the waiting, the radio chatter, the controlled calm of a medical team standing by while operators do what operators do.
Then the radio crackles with a voice you don't recognise, young and tight with panic, calling for a medic, and you're moving before the call sign finishes.
The rookie's name is Leon. Lance Corporal. Twenty-two, maybe twenty-three; you don't ask, because asking how old they are makes it worse when it goes bad. He's lying on his side behind a low wall, and there's bloodâtoo much blood, dark and arterial, soaking through his fatigues and pooling beneath him on the packed dirt.
You drop to your knees beside him, and your hands are already moving; pulling your gloves on and shears out, eyes flickering and assessing while your voice does the thing it always does, shifting into that calm, steady register that has nothing to do with how you feel and everything to do with what he needs.
"Leon, I'm here. You're alright. I've got you."
"Heyâh-hey, Docâ" He's talking. Talking is good. It means conscious, means his airway is free, and that means precious time. His voice is thin and reedy, in shock, but he's trying to grin, and the sight of itâthis young man, someoneâs boy, grinning up at you with blood on his teethâmakes something behind your sternum compress.
"Y're pretty," he slurs. "Has anyoneâhas anyone told y-you that?"
You pull your gloves on, snapping them in place. "Save it, Casanova. I need you to stay still."
"'M just sayingâ" He coughs, winces, keeps going because they always keep going. "If I'd known the medic was this fit,â he tries to lift his hand to gesture, but drops it with a guttural groan, âI would'veâwould've gotten shot sooner."
"Hilarious. Now don't move."
You're cutting his fatigues open, working fast, locating the source of the bleeding. Lower abdomen, right side, bad but not the worst you've seen. And when his hand suddenly does come up, itâs to catch your wrist in a weak grip.
Heâs trembling, but insistent.
"C-careful," he sputters, and his eyes, so wide and glassy, scared beneath the bravado, flicker down to his chest. "Careful withâbe careful with my heart."
You pause to look at him.
His hand releases your wrist and pats clumsily at his breast until it finds his chest pocket, just above the body armour line, and you can see the edge of it poking out. A photograph. A Polaroid, slightly bent and stained, tucked against his chest like a talisman.
"My girl," he mumbles, and his grin softens into something private and unbearably young. "That'sâthat's m-my girl in there. Don't let itâDon't get blood on it, aye? She'llâshe'll kill meâ"
Your hands don't stop. They never truly stop. You reach into his pocket with two fingers, extract the Polaroid, and tuck it safely into your own vest without looking at it, because if you look at it, you'll see a face, and if you see a face, you'll think about someone waiting at home for a phone call, and if you think about that it will stay with you.
"Safe with me," you assure him, and your voice doesn't waver, because it can't.
"Cheers, Doc." His eyes are drifting. "You'reâYou're proper lovely, yâknow that? My mum wouldâmy mumâ"
"Stay with me, Corporal. Eyes open. On me."
You work efficiently; packing the wound, applying pressure, calling for the stretcher team, and relaying vitals in the clipped shorthand of someone who has done this too many times. All while Leon keeps talking about his girlfriend, his mum, and the puppy he's going to get when he's out, and you let him, because the talking means he's alive and the noise means you don't have to think.
You hand him off to the stretcher team eleven minutes after you reached him. He'll live. The wound is ugly but the bleed is controlled and he'll make it to the surgical team and he'll live, and you stand up and your gloves are soaked and there's blood on your knees and the Polaroid is still in your vest pocket, pressed against your chest.
Be careful with my heart.
You walk behind the barrier wall. You make it four steps before your legs give out.
It's not the blood. You can handle the blood. It's not the fear, you manage the fear, that's the job.
It's the fucking Polaroid.
It's this kidâthis stupid, brave, terrified kidâlying in the dirt with his insides trying to escape and his only concern being a photograph of a girl who's probably sitting in a flat somewhere right now, watching telly, not knowing, not feeling it yet, the way she will when the call comes, the way she'll carry it for the rest of her life even though he'll live, because now she'll know how close she came to a world without him in it.
And you think about Kyle.
The looks you share and rules youâve set; the metaphorical photograph you've been carrying in your own chest pocket.
What if it was him on that stretcher? What if it was his blood on your gloves?
What if the last thing he said to you was your name and he never got to say the rest because you told him not to?
Your breath hitches while your vision blurs. And your hands, usually so steady and reliable, are trembling so badly you must press them flat against the concrete wall to keep them still.
"Hey."
You flinch at Kyle's sudden voice behind you. He must have come to find you first after falling back with his comrades. Always seeking you out, even in the middle of a warzone.
You hear his boots on the gravel, the careful approach, and you know without turning around that his face will be open and concerned, and you cannot look at it right now.
"Don't."
The word comes out sharp, like a warning shot fired from a position that's already been overrun.
Your voice breaks on his name, shatters like glass in your mouth, and the silence that follows is awful and filled with everything you've been refusing to say for months.
Kyle doesn't come closer, but he doesn't leave, either. You can hear his long exhale as he waits at a distance of three feet behind you.
And you press your forehead against the concrete wall, not crying but swallowing against the lump in your throat, because if you start you know you won't be able to stop.
Instead, you breathe, counting, pulling yourself together because this is hardly the place. And then you straighten up, strip off your soiled gloves, stuff them in the waste bag at your hip, and walk past him without meeting his eyes.
"I'm fine," you say again.
Kyle doesn't answer, but you feel his gaze on your back all the way to the medical station, infuriatingly warm and steady.
Two days later, theyâre stateside again.
It's half-nine in the evening and Kyle is sitting on his sofa in his flat, wearing grey joggers and a t-shirt, not doing any of the things he normally does to decompress after deployment. He's just sitting, one arm along the back of the sofa, staring at nothing, turning a thought repeatedly in his head like a stone in his palm.
The radio is on. It's always on nowadays. The flat is too quiet without it, the silence too close to the kind of silence you sit in on a rooftop at two a.m. waiting for a target to emerge. Itâs set on some station that plays a mix of old soul and R&B that he doesn't actively listen to but lets wash over him like white noise.
His phone buzzes with a message from Soap.
kid's stable. docs say full recovery. told him you said cheers.
And Kyle types back: Good. Thanks.
Three dots. Soap is typing. Kyle watches them pulse.
you alright mate?
Yeah. Why?
didnt seem alright on the flight back. neither did she.
Kyle stares at the screen while the cursor keeps blinking in the empty reply field.
whats going on between you 2?
He could answer that, type the ugly truth, and tell his best mate that he loves her and she won't let him say it and two days ago she nearly broke in front of him and he had to stand there and watch, but the words look kind of wrong on a screen. Impersonal. They look wrong everywhere Kyle has come to realize lately. They've been sitting inside his chest for so long they've calcified, become part of the architecture, load-bearing walls he can't remove without the whole structure coming down.
Nothing, he replies and sets the phone face-down on the cushion beside him.
And it's so far from nothing that the word feels like a lie in a foreign language, technically incorrect but functionally necessary.
He thinks about the wall, and you pressed against it; your forehead bowed against concrete, your hands shaking for the first time since he's known you. You looked like a woman who was coming apart at the seams, and something is burning behind his chest to know why, because itâs not about that young soldier. Partially, maybe.
And then Kyle ponders about the fact that you walked past him afterwards and said, âI'm fine,â in a voice that was the exact opposite of fine, and he let you go, because that's the deal. That's the bloody rule. You drew the line months ago, he is staying behind it like an obedient little soldier, and he watched you walk away and he didnât follow.
And he's so fucking tired of not following, but it seems to be the only way to even keep you around.
Kyle drops his head back against the sofa and closes his eyes. The radio murmurs something slow and warm into the dim flat, and the candle on the coffee table that you gifted him some time ago flickers in the draft from the cracked window.
He should sleep, eat something, and call his mum, who will hear it in his voice immediately and ask what's wrong and he'll say nothing again, and she won't believe him, but she'll let it go.
Instead, he sits in the semi-dark and the candlelight and the quiet music and he thinks about you, the way he's been thinking about you for too damn long. Since that day he found himself with a bullet hole on a stretcher, looking up at you for the first time like he was seeing an angel.
His phone buzzes again, but he doesnât check it.
A few seconds later, there is a knock at his front door. Soft, almost reserved, like the person isnât sure if they want the door to be opened.
Kyle's eyes open and his heart does something hopeful before he gets up and crosses the flat, floorboards warm under his bare feet. And when he reaches for the door handle, unlocking and opening the door, youâre suddenly standing on his doorstep, looking like you haven't slept.
You're in civvies, hair undone in a way he's rarely seen with shadows under your eyes and a tightness around your mouth that he recognises as the last line of defence before something collapses entirely.
Your head tips back to meet his gaze and his eyes lock on yours while the radio plays softly behind him, and the candlelight throws warm amber across the hallway, and the summer air drifts through the cracked window carrying the smell of cut grass and distant rain.
"I don't know how to do this," you admit suddenly, and your voice is so small that he barely recognizes it from the usual commanding and steady tone you use in the field.
And Kyle doesn't speak, because he doesnât trust himself not to break this fragile moment, so he holds your gaze for one long, careful moment, and steps aside to give you the option.
The door opens wider. The warmth of his flat presses out towards you; cedar candle, the low murmur of the radio, the quiet of a space that belongs to someone who keeps it tidy because chaos fills enough of his life elsewhere, and you look at the open doorway, then back at him, standing beside it, ever the patient friend who says nothing because you told him to.
You walk inside, passing him tentatively.
The flat is warmer than the night outside, dimmer. The overhead light is off; just the candle on the coffee table and another on the kitchen counter, casting everything in a soft, amber glow that smooths the edges of the furniture and catches in Kyle's eyes when he turns to face you.
"Tea?" he asks, already moving towards the kitchen, because this is what he does. This is the language he speaks when words aren't enough. Acts of quiet service, offered without ceremony.
"I don't want tea."
He stops; his back is to you, and you can see the line of his shoulders through his t-shirt, the tension he's holding there carefully the way he holds everything, and he turns around slowly.
"Okay," he says. "What do you want then?"
The question is simple and open, contains no pressure and no presumption, and it nearly undoes you on the spot, because Kyle Garrick has been asking you this question in a hundred different ways for over a year and this is the first time you're going to answer it honestly.
"I don't want to talk about what happened."
"Alright."
"I don't want to," you inhale, make a vague gesture which makes it clear that youâre currently just winging it like he is, "debrief, or process, orâ"
Kyle nods, his brows set in focus. "Alright."
"I wantâ" Your voice catches as you look at him properly, standing in his kitchen in joggers and bare feet, candlelight warm on his skin, watching you with those steady brown eyes that have never, looked at you with anything less than complete, unwavering attention, and the thing inside you that's been holding, holding, holding for months finally gives.
Your shoulders sag as you deflate in surrender. "Kyle⌠I want you."
Those words fall into the space between you, and the radio fills the silence that followsâsome song fading out, a beat of static, and then the opening notes of something slow and aching, a voice you recognise, deep and rich and full of longing.
âŚWhen your baby leaves you all aloneâŚ
Kyle's expression doesn't change; doesn't light up in triumph or crack into relief. He just looks at you, and his eyes are so warm, so full, that you understand, suddenly, what it must have cost himâall those months of silence, of holding the shape of this feeling without being allowed to name it.
âŚAnd nobody calls you on the phoneâŚ
You cross the kitchen towards him, drawn in like a magnet who has finally been let go, until you're standing close enough to feel the heat radiating off his chest and see the way his breathing has changed to something deeper and deliberately controlled.
Your hands come up slowly, like you're approaching an animal that might startle, except the only thing that might startle here is you. Your fingers brush the sides of his neck, trail up to his stubbled jaw, and your arms loop loosely around his neck, your wrists crossing behind his head.
âŚDon't you feel like crying? Well, here I am, babyâŚ
Kyle's hands find your waist; tentative like a question at first, and then settling, his palms warm and solid against the fabric of your jumper, thumbs pressing gently against your ribs.
You sway together. It's not a dance, not reallyâthere's no rhythm to it, no form, just two bodies finding each other in a dim kitchen and moving because standing still feels impossible. Then his forehead tips down to meet yours, and your noses brush, and you breathe the same air, and the song washes over both of you like warm water.
âŚCome on, cry to meâŚ
"Be careful with my heart," you whisper.
His hands tighten on your waist, a fractional compression, like a held breath.
"Always," he replies, and his voice is rough and low, barely more than an exhale, and he means it the way he means everything he was allowed to say to youâcompletely, without reservation and caveat.
You allow yourself to kiss him.
And it's not the desperate, hungry collision you expectedânot the dam breaking and the flood taking you both. It's slow, careful. His lips meet yours softly, like he's memorising the shape of you in case you change your mind again, and then his hand slides up from your waist to the side of your neck, his thumb against your jaw, tilting your head just slightly, and he deepens it; more present and intentional. The kind of kiss that tells you he has been thinking about exactly this for a very long time and he isnât going to rush a single second of it.
You melt into him. Your fingers brush over the short hair at the back of his head and his arm wraps around your lower back, pulling you flush against him, and the sound he makes vibrates against your lips and settles somewhere deep in your chest.
"Kyleâ"
"I know, babygirl." His mouth moves to your jaw, your neck, pressing slow, open kisses against the skin there. "I know."
He doesn't say the thing he wasnât allowed to say before. Even now, even with your body finally pressed against his like this, he doesn't say it yet, because you told him not to, and he's a man who keeps his word, even when keeping it is killing him inside.
"You can say it," you whisper against his temple frantically as if you might be running out of time now. "Kyle. You can say it."
He pulls back, studies you, and the expression on his face, the sheer, unbearable relief of someone who's been holding a breath for over a year, makes your eyes sting.
But Kyle doesn't say it with words.
He says it by lifting you with his hands under your thighs and carrying you down the short hallway to his bedroom, where the window is cracked open and the cream curtains shift in the warm summer breeze and the sheets on his bed are clean, cool, and tucked into the corners with military precision like everything else in his flat.
He lays you down like you're precious; someone he's been trusted with and intends to deserve.
"Tell me if it's too much," he murmurs, kneeling over you, and his hands are trembling as he reaches for the hem of your jumper.
You blink up at him, heart fluttering with sweet anticipation. "It's not too much."
And his eyes soften at your reaction when he notices your pulse thudding in your neck. "Tell me anyway."
He pulls the jumper over your head slowly, his eyes travel over you, drinking you in, and the weight of his attention is heavier and warmer than any touch.
"You'reâ" he starts, stops and shakes his head like he cannot quite fathom what he is seeing, and a breath that might be a laugh escapes him. "Christ."
"Eloquent."
"Shut up." He's smiling now, that private, soft smile that he only ever gives to you, and he dips his head and presses his mouth to the hollow of your throat while you arch into it, your hands gripping his broad shoulders.
He undresses you slowly, treating every piece of clothing removed with the same care, the same deliberate attention; his mouth following his hands, pressing kisses to your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder, the inside of your wrist. When he pulls his own shirt over his head, you reach for him immediately, clammy palms flat against his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath heated skin.
"Kyle." Your voice is barely there. "Please."
He settles between your thighs, and the solid weight of him makes something deep and yearning in your chest crack open and spill over at last.
His mouth finds yours again, slow and thorough and devastating; his tongue sliding against yours as his hand trails down between your bodies, his fingers brushing against your cotton panties where you're already wet and wanting, and the sound you make into his mouth is small and desperate, and nothing like the woman who holds men together on battlefields.
"I've got you," he murmurs, and his fingers move over the damp fabric; slow circles, gentle pressure, learning you slowly until your back arches and your face is hot.
Then his fingers hook under the edge of your waistband to slide your panties off and leave you bare.
When your legs part wider for him, Kyle nuzzles the crease at the apex of your thigh, inhaling your scent deeply while a shudder ripples through his body.
"You smell incredible," he groans shamelessly, and before you can get flustered, his tongue flicks out to taste your swollen clit and the keen you let out makes him curse again. "Fuck. And you taste even better."
Your eyes roll back when Kyle starts licking you in earnest; sucking your clit between his supple lips, flickering his tongue against the sensitive pearl and slipping one, then two fingers inside until your hips buck and you come beneath his tongue with a moan that dissolves into a drawn-out sigh.
"Kyle," you mewl needily, and he understands immediately.
The aching and yearning, and the knowledge that youâre finally allowed to get and take what you have been craving for so long. Itâs as exhilarating as it is dizzying.
He presses the softest kiss to the tuft of hair on your mound before crawling up your body with a look of purest devotion and hunger in his eyes that causes your breath to stutter.
You sit up to help him slide his joggers off, and when you realize that he was going commando all this time, your lashes flutter at the sight of his cock. Long, uncut, and thick, slightly curved upward, a vein throbbing along the underside of his shaft, with velvety skin and his fat tip flushed mauve.
"Bloody hell, Kyle."
He ducks his head, looking sheepish. "What?"
Reaching out, you grasp his length carefully, keeping one hand on his hip, and give him a few slow strokes that make his defined abs clench and his head tip back with a hiss.
A clear pearl of precum beads at the slit and your mouth waters.
"Youâre so beautiful," you whisper in awe, thumb swiping over his tip reverently.
Now he is the one getting flustered, and the only thing keeping him from coming undone then and there is taking over control again.
"Not nearly as beautiful as you, love," he murmurs, pushing you back onto the mattress.
You make a choked sound and hide your face in one of his pillows, but he pulls it away and the smile he flashes then, boyish and delighted, sears itself into your memory.
Kyle caresses your waist and feels the goosebumps pebbled on your skin, and when he squeezes a pillow under your lower back, you lift your hips for him. His cock twitches, a drop of pre dribbles onto your thigh.
"Can I? Iâm clean." His chest is heaving, his pupils blown as he drinks you in underneath him; all lax, beautiful and trembling while he rubs his thumb over your puffy folds, spreading them to see your pretty, wet hole.
You nod jaggedly, spreading your legs for him, heels digging into the mattress.
"I need words, love," he tells you, rubbing your clit maddeningly slow and watching your pussy clench around nothing. "Fuck, babygirl."
"Yes, Kyle! Fuck, pleaseâ" Your voice pitches and cracks, body wound tight, and when he kneels between your thighs, gripping his cock at the root, he finally pushes inside you, and the world stops spinning.
He does it slow, agonisingly and exquisitely so; working all eight inches into your needy cunt with one hand braced next to your head, the other holding your thigh while his forehead presses against yours; his breath ragged against your mouth, lips brushing yours in a barely there kiss.
The feeling of him is overwhelming at first; the stretch and the fullness, and the rightness of it all. And your hands grip his back, fingers flexing against the muscles, while your legs go slack for him, inviting him deeper, because close isnât close enough now.
"Fuckâ" The word punches out of him, bitten off and breathless, and his hips still for a moment, cock buried deep, his whole body taut with the effort of not moving. "You feelâGodâ"
"Move," you whisper. "Please move."
Always obeying you, he moves. Long, slow strokes that drag the curve of his cock against every nerve ending, his hips rolling into yours with an unhurried rhythm that matches the pace of the song still drifting faintly from the kitchen. His hand cradles the back of your head, fingers curling into your hair, and he watches your face with an expression that is so open and so tender that you have to close your eyes against it.
"No," he says softly. "Look at me."
You open your eyes. His face is still close, and you observe how his lips part with each thrust, and his brow furrows with both concentration and restraint, his eyes bright and dark and full of everything he's never said.
"Yes," he breathes, "just like that."
You come apart again; still not the shattering, violent kind of orgasm, but the kind that builds like a tide, rising and cresting until your body tightens around him in long, rolling waves as his name falls from your lips like a plea or confession, like the answer to a question you've been afraid to ask.
"That's it," he murmurs, his pace never faltering, carrying you through it with the same steadiness he has been carrying everything so far. "That's it, baby. I've got you. 'M, fuck, right here."
Then his eyes flutter shut when his own release follows yours as you squeeze and convulse around his cock mercilessly. A shudder that starts in his spine and rolls through his entire body, his hips pressing deep, breath hitching as he bites his bottom lip and buries his face in the curve of your neck with a groan so raw that you nearly come again.
He stays nestled inside you, shifts his weight to keep from crushing your body into the mattress, even while his own body is quaking with the onslaught of oxytocin; mouth against your shoulder, hand still in your hair, heartbeat pounding against your chest.
The breeze moves through the curtains. The flat smells like cedar candle and summer air and him. The scent you've been breathing in for over a year and pretending it didn't make you feel safe.
"I love you," he says and it sounds like a breath of relief.
Not triumphant but truth. Stated plainly, simply, the way you state a factâthe sky is up, the ground is down. I love you.
A tear slips from the corner of your eye and runs down your temple, disappearing into your hair. Then another and another. Quiet, soundless tears that come from somewhere so deep you didn't know it existed until you were guts deep in a young soldier, saving his life while he spoke about his love waiting back home.
Kyle lifts his head and sees the tears. And he doesn't panic, he simply brushes his thumb across your temple, catching the wetness, and presses his lips to the damp trail it leaves behind.
"I know," he whispers. "Itâs been a lot. For both of us."
You close your eyes and let it come. The crying you've been holding in your chest like a clenched fist for monthsâyears, maybe, longer than Kyle, longer than the rule, all the way back to the first time you knelt in the dirt beside a bleeding stranger and realised that this was your life now, and it would cost you, and you would pay the price and pay it and pay it and never let anyone see the bill.
Kyle holds you through it.
âŚHere I am, baby. Come on, cry to meâŚ.
Eventually, the tears slow and your breath evens. His hand moves over your hair in long, rhythmic strokes, and the radio in the kitchen has gone softâa late-night DJ speaking in a low murmur between songsâand the candle has burned down to a warm glow.
"Stay. Here⌠with me."
Itâs an offer, the same way everything he's ever given you has been an offer. Open-handed and without strings; yours if you want it, though you know he would crumble if youâd decline.
You press your face into his neck and breathe him in.
Thinking about ghost and gaz who, due to trauma and personal reasons, are both strictly tops, right?
Usually they make it work. Toys, mutual masturbation, jerking eachother off. Sure, with the random libido spikes it's a challenge, but nothing two SAS soldiers can't handle.
Sometimes, though, that craving for a nice warm hole to fuck just gets to be too much. Which leads to a pair of the hottest men you've seen hanging around the back of your local bar.
This is a practiced song and dance for them. Ghost far more particular about partner but lacking the social finesse, he points to people he wants and let's gaz do the rest.
Really, kyle has you the moment he leaned one shoulder against the wall, semi-caging you in with that warm smile. The heated kiss was just a bonus on top.
You'll only make the connection that they're married when kyle pulls ghost in for a kiss over your body. The fat underside of his cock rubbing over your tongue, ghost's cock buried deep in your hole.
You twist, desperate to see them, to soak in that genuine love you only receive fractions of. It's wet and messy, the scars on ghosts face dripping more spit onto your back than anything. But kyle only presses further, moaning against his husbands skin.
Afterwards, when you feel like your joints may give out and at least ten percent of your weight is cum, they'll pull you in between them with a content sigh. You'll drift off to bed between two lovers without feeling like a brick wall.
In the kitchen, far before you wake, you'll miss the conversation ghost and gaz have about a more permanent third.
It was a normal night for the most part. All except for the fact that you were ovulating. Violently. And Simon was more than willing to help you as much as you could handle it because unfortunately you could only take so much. Your cunt was swollen and your entire body was sore, but fuck you wanted more. Needed more. You were dripping in a way that should be concerning.
"Come look at this," you hear Simon call out from the bed. He's still naked from your last round, scrolling through his phone.
You plop right onto his back, your tits squishing against him and your mouth instantly finds its way to his skin.
"What's up?" You ask softly while planting kisses across the back of his shoulders. You place intermittent nips and you can feel your arousal grow.
It shouldn't. You've had 3 rounds of 2 hour long sessions. Your legs are sore. They can barely open, and you struggled to make it out of the bedroom all day now.
You need to stop. You should stop.
You're not going to though.
"If you're going to bite me, then actually bite down baby girl," Simon purrs and rolls his shoulders so you have better access.
That's all the encouragement you need. You're teeth dig into the muscles along his back and where normally you'd be worried about accidentally breaking his skin and hurting him on accident, you're not worried about anything right now other than your aching cunt. You grind yourself against him and whimper. You teeth dig into him harder now and you can faintly hear him talking you through it, praising you for your efforts.
"That's it. You're doin' so good for me, princess," he coos as your mind gets fuzzy. Your eyes roll to the back of your head and then you feel it. It's sudden and surprising and you really want to pray to any god that's listening that you are not actually cumming right now.
But you are and it's a little dry and weak, but you're still cumming after humping and biting him like some reddit incel right now.
Simon freezes under and goes silent, and you slowly remove yourself from the top of him and stand.
"Sorry," you mumble while trying to catch your breath.
"Did you just cum?"
"Yeah," you reply shakily. You're vibrating. Your legs wobble like you're standing on Jell-O instead of flesh and bone.
You can see his bottom half move off the bed and then his hand is grabbing your throat and throwing you onto the bed.
"I'm gonna give you something to cum about. Open your legs," he growls.
The next hour is a blur, but somehow you get from lying on the bed to being pressed against the shower tile. You can only whine and moan and do your best to weakly meet his pace.
Eventually, though, Simon lets up again.
"I feel like a god right now," Simon hums as you just slump against him. The hot water is still hitting your entire front and to be honest it's overstimulating.
You just might pass out. There's a high possibility, but with the way that Simon's kneading at your plush hips, you almost want to go another round. Almost.
"Why?" You mumble, already half-asleep. He wraps his arms around you and gently pets your wet hair.
You barely comprehend his reply. It's something stupid about making you cum so many times today and you laugh breathlessly. You both stay like that until he eventually guides you back to the bed where you promptly, finally pass out.
I think Jack Abbot would constantly want his fingers in your mouth.
After a bad shift, heâs climbing in next to you in bed, whispering a soft âCâmon sweetheart, open up for me,â before sliding his thick fingers between your lips. Letting out a groan when your hot mouth takes them in.
And heâd looooove when you suck on them, with your hollowed out cheeks and swirling tongue.
âJust like that, doing so good for me,â as he prods around inside your mouth, dipping his head down to place slow, languid kisses against your jawline and down your neck.
âOne more for me baby, can you do that?â while heâs slipping his free hand underneath your itty bitty cotton sleep shorts to rub slow circles against your core.
Of course youâre nodding dumbly at his request, parting your lips around his fingers so he can add another.
âLook so pretty like this, yâknow that?â he coos into your ear, gaze never leaving your face as you come apart underneath him, fingers still pressed down against the flat of your tongue ⌠â¤ď¸â âš
point of view. â¸â¸ since being released from prison, pope has been so needy
popeâs hands tremble as they grip your hips, pulling you down onto the creaky bed in the chateau like heâs afraid youâll vanish if he lets go. since they let him out, heâs been like this; so starved, desperate, every touch like itâs the first real one in years. his breath shakes against your neck, hot and uneven, a soft whimper slipping from his lips as he presses open mouthed kisses down your collarbone.
âi missed this,â he breathes, voice cracking. his mouth trails lower, frantic and wet, kissing every inch of your chest like heâs memorizing you. his fingers dig into your skin, not hard enough to hurt but enough to show how bad he needs it, how starved he really is. another whimper escapes him when your hands slide into his hair, and he arches into it, hips grinding against your thigh.
he kisses down your stomach, lips brushing your ribs, your belly, then lower, tongue flicking out like he canât get enough of your taste. âplease⌠let me,â he mumbles between kisses, voice wrecked and needy. his breath hitches hard when you spread your legs for him, and he buries his face there instantly, moaning softly against your heat. his tongue works slow at first, savoring, but hunger takes over quick, lapping, sucking, whimpering with every little sound you make.
popeâs whole body shakes as he climbs back up, kissing your thighs, your hips, your breasts again, like he canât stop. he doesnât rush, instead he just keeps touching you slowly, kissing, whimpering your name like a prayer. âbeen so long⌠i need you so bad,â he gasps, breath shaky as he finally sinks into you, slow and deep, eyes fluttering shut with a broken moan.
he moves like heâs drowning in you, hips stuttering, mouth never leaving your skin, kissing your shoulders, your jaw, your lips in messy, desperate presses. every thrust pulls another soft whimper from him, his hands roaming everywhere, touching, gripping, like heâs making up for every empty day behind bars. âdonât stop⌠please.â he begs against your mouth, voice trembling, completely lost in how much he needs this, needs you.
slightly longer version of this imagine ⥠nsfw mdni
pope has been out all day on a job for smurf, and heâs completely exhausted. heâs spent the whole day fighting and getting his hands dirty, and right now all he really wants is to be with his girl.
when he walks into your room, he finds you curled up in bed, already asleep. you look so soft, so pretty for him, he canât help but crawl in next to you and kiss you awake. his lips trail along your neck and up to your ear, so he can whisper, âhey, baby, iâm home.â
it takes a few moments, but eventually you stir, your bleary eyes squinting at him as they focus. âoh⌠hi andyâŚâ you tug him closer and close your eyes, already falling back asleep. âmissed youâŚâ
pope smiles, âyeah, missed you too, sweetheart.â he pulls the blankets away slowly to find you in just his t-shirt and a pair of thin panties. theyâre already wet. âoh, you did miss me, didnât you?â
you hide your face in his neck, âmhmâŚâ while his hand trails up to your inner thighs. you let out a gasp and start to shut them but he murmurs, âno, baby, itâs okay. just wanna play a bit, yeah?â this just makes you more shy, but he pushes gently, âiâll go slow, promise. just wanna feel youâŚâ
you donât stop him, so he plays with you a bit, just like he said he would. just gently rubbing over your panties, getting you ready for him.
by the time heâs undoing his belt and stepping out of his trousers, youâre face down on the bed, hugging his pillow, all sleepy and pliant the way he wanted you. so when he starts fucking into you from behind, you have no complaints, youâre right where you want to be.
18+ MDNI can't get enough of you :: simon riley x fem!reader
simon can't get his hands off you. no matter where you are, at home or in public. and once you're in his grasp, there's no escape. not that you ever want to escape.
whenever you're in his vicinity, his eyes are fixed on you, paying no attention to whatever the hell is happening on the telly or the constant yapping of your friends, no matter how much they yell for him to listen.
his eyes follow your every move, drinking in your otherworldly beauty, with only one thing on his mind; how to get you alone and all to himself.
you're at home, wearing only his shirt and a pair of cute panties, greeting him in the morning with your bed head and puffy face still laced with sleep. you'd think nothing of it but he's done for.
"goddamit, woman. wha' are ya tryin' to do?" he says as a feral need takes over him. he pulls you in his lap, strong arms wrapping tightly around you. no chance to escape. "simon!" you squeak, giggling in your hands.
his lips crash onto yours, stealing your breath in an instant, large hands roaming your body under the shirt, breathing "god, you're so fuckin' hot, love." while squeezing every piece of flesh he can find, guiding you to lay back on the couch, getting in between your legs and humping his growing bulge onto your core. "gotta have you, love. please." simon begs desperately as you try to catch your breath.
and with only a nod, he's taken his hard drooling cock out of his pants and pulled your panties to the side, before impatiently plunging himself inside your tight hole, letting out a sigh of relief into your neck.
he holds you so tight while setting a rapid pace, giving you no time to adjust as you whine and writhe beneath him. he's thrusting with such force and determination you'd think your body is on fire, thick mean cock stretching you so wide and repeatedly punching your cervix you lose your mind entirely.
his hulking body pressing you further into the cushions, hot breath fanning into your neck as he lets out breathy groans beside your ear, using your body to relieve himself.
on nights out with friends at the pub, simon holds you flush against him, hand pressed onto your waist as thoughts of how to ruin you take over his mind.
he can't take it anymore, the bulge in his pants growing by the second, painful and desperate. he needs to have you, feel your body against him. he needs to see your pretty pussy dripping for him as he stretches you out on his fat cock, feel your soft warm walls wrapped around him in a vise.
he breaks the conversation abruptly without a care for the confused looks he's getting.
he pulls you into the bathroom and bends you over the sink, bunching up your dress around your waist before yanking away your skimpy panties, making you gasp and complain about how expensive it was. "shut up. i'll buy you another one."
and with no warning, he shoves his cock into your needy cunt, gripping your hips tightly and slamming into you mercilessly, sending you into a state of feverish ecstasy as you chant his name, loud moans punctuated by each vigorous thrust leaking out the door and reaching the ears of every passerby.
Pope Cody reassures himself that you love him in a way that works for him. wc 800+
You have been dating Pope for a few months, almost half a year now actually. Yet, Pope still struggles to believe the absolute fact that such a gorgeous and amazing girl loves him with all her heart and soul.
He can't really figure out what you see in him, no matter how many times you've told and shown how much you love himâhe is still unconvinced that he's worthy of your heart.
But somehow, Pope has found a way to reassure himself that you do.
It just came up out of the blue when he's sitting up on your shared bed, his hands wrapped on the sides of your waist, guiding your body to swallow every inch of his cock in your pussy.
You're in absolute bliss, bouncing on his hard length, the stress from your workplace and the fact that you're pent-up both fueling your thighs and legs to keep going.
"Fuuuuck, Andrew," you whine, your nails digging on his shoulders, holding onto him for your dear life as you lose yourself on his girthy length that never fails to give you the best orgasms.
No matter how many times Andrew has seen you like this, he can never get enough of it. He fucking loves watching you all dazed and fucked out of your mind as you practically take out your work frustrations on his cock.
You slow down your pace once you start getting tired of bouncing. You start to grind on his lap, rubbing your clit on his pelvis with juuust the right pressure and speed.
"Feel good, baby? You needed this after a hard day at work, didn't you?" Andrew coos, detaching his hand from your waist to cup your cheek, rubbing the pad of his thumb on your soft skin.
You whine and nod, unable to talk coherently from how full you are. You press your tits on his hard chest, desperate to feel his warm skin on yours.
Andrew curses under his breath when your cunt suddenly constricts his dick. He knows your body so well, that only meant that you're getting pretty close.
"You love me right?" he asks gruffly, his eyes now fixed on your fucked out face.
"Mhmm⌠of course I do," you manage to reply out of your hazy state.
This is probably the first time you hear him ask that, so of course you're more than happy to tell him you do so.
"If you love me, then you'll cum for me right baby?"
You focus your eyes on him, catching the glint in his eye. Before you can even reply, he tightens his grip on your waist, and his other hand now on your hips as he starts to pound you from below.
A startled gasp escapes your lips, surprised by the sudden aggression of your boyfriend's hips. But you're not complaining.
"Come on, I need to know if you really love me," he says softly, almost pleading, but his thrusts are menacingly relentless.
"But I do love you," you pout. Your mind is all fuzzy as you cradle his face between your soft hands. He's so adorable with his flushed cheeks and and parted lips, his heavy breathing matching yours.
"I'll only believe you do when you cum," he murmurs.
"Andyâ"
Pope cuts you off with a sharp thrust.
"Cum for me if you love me, sweetheart," he repeats, kissing your cheek as he continues to ram inside you.
Pope really needs to see it, to feel it. He's just as desperate to see if you really love him as much as he wants you to cum on his cock. He needs to feel from your pussy how much of you is his, and how much of you loves the entirety of him.
"Fuck baby, I'm really closeâ" you whimper, your legs now feel like jelly as you feel yourself getting closer and closer.
"I need to know if my girl loves me," he breathes against your cheek.
It didn't take you to long to cum, your gummy walls clenching around his cock as you whimper his name into his neck, biting it to ground yourself.
Pope hisses, but lets you bite into him as it grounds him too, relishing the feeling of your teeth sinking in his skin while also helping him not lose his mind as your pussy pulses around him.
Once you ride out your high, Pope holds the side of your neck to make you look at him, placing his lips on yours and kissing you gently, something he never forgets to do after making you cum.
"You okay?" he asks against your lips.
You nod, "Yeah."
"I love you."
"I love you too, Andrew," you reply so sweetly and naturally.
He grins at your response, as if your words ignited something in him. He holds your waist tightly as he lays you down on the bed, flipping your position with his cock still inside of you.
He is now hovering you, his big arms on the sides of your head, looking down at you with eyes that already tells you he's not done with you yet.
"Oh baby, you have to show me again and again if you really do."
âââââââ
a/n: mhmm yes i miss pope! also i wanna get better at writing smut so expect me publishing blurbs from time to time xd
pope cody and his weird girlfriend (match made in heaven)
⢠no one in the family knows how the two of you met, or when either of you got together, you just kinda showed up one day and didnât leaveâŚ
⢠you hardly ever smiled, unless it was to pope (who you lovingly called andrew) and even then it was tiny smiles.
⢠everytime craig or baz would try and mess around with you, all theyâd get back was a big eyed stare that would creep them out and theyâd back off (pope secretly thinks itâs funny)
⢠one day craig and deran came home to the two of you taking over the living room. pope was sitting on the couch, nature documentary on, and you were sat on the floor between his feet. a gathering of tools sat neatly around you on the coffee table as you held a dead butterfly, carefully pinning its wings to some styrofoam
âwhat the fuck is that?â craig furrowed his brow as he came over, looking down over your shoulder at what you were doing. âentomology.â pope muttered, glancing down to see you hyper focused on pinning the orange insect down. craig looked even more confused, looking for deran but not finding him anywhere.
âbug taxidermy.â you said monotonously, taking pins between your fingers and pressing the sharp edge down into the pieces of parchment you had covered the wings with. âfound her in the flower bed.â
âuh⌠nice.â craig rushed out of the living room and went to hide with deran.
⢠pope and his weird girlfriend that communicate through looks and grunts, no words spoken between them whatsoever some days
⢠the two of you donât really sleep⌠up at odd hours of the night⌠sometimes just wondering around in the dark⌠you often scare the other members of the house if they are up only to see you, or pope, or the both of you just standing there (you think itâs funny)
⢠you also have ocd just like your boyfriend, things have to be a certain way⌠your way. and sometimes that leads to you and pope having little arguments about how things should be placed/ how things should be done, but your little spats never last long
⢠craig and deran had stopped by your house exactly one time looking for pope bc they hadnât seen him in days and wanted to make sure he was still aliveâŚ. letâs just say they never came back after seeing creepy taxidermy animals all over the place (it didnât help that you were brushing your raccoon lamp, its beady little eyes staring right into their souls)
⢠you often like to scare baz bc heâs an absolute dickhead to women and his own daughter,, so sometimes you just randomly show up at his house (he doesnât even know how you got his address), creepily sit in the corner of lenaâs room while she plays and stare at him, or come up behind him when heâs least expecting it, or just saying some odd shit to weird him out
⢠craig and deran like you surprisingly, you remind them so much of their older brother in certain aspects and they think the two of you are a match made in⌠they donât know where, not heaven or hell, perhaps somewhere in between⌠baz doesnât like you too much (and part of itâs bc he canât charm you like he can with other women) plus he thinks your creepy. j knows to keep his distance, but whenever nickyâs around she thinks youâre odd, but cool
⢠pope and his weird girlfriend that like to sleep naked sometimes and not for any sexual reasons (well only sometimes lol) but for skin to skin contact, wanting to be as close together as possible (you want to be so close to him that you nearly constrict around him like a snake and your nails dig into his back but he doesnât mind)
⢠the other family members often find the two of you just staring at one another. like a silent conversation was flowing between the two of you. then youâd smile, laugh softly like he had said something funny (the others are soooo confused by your dynamic)
⢠pope and his weird girlfriend that shockingly go crazy in the bedroom since theyâre so quiet and monotone everywhere else,,, craig had only found out when he went snooping in their room only to find a pair of black fuzzy handcuffs stuffed in a drawer next to their bed and was like â??? what the fuck???â and ran to tell deran who didnât want to hear a thing about it
⢠you have a thing with bugs and other sorts of creepy crawlies. you will catch every single moth that flies into the house, attracted by the light over the island in the kitchen, pope will even lift you so you can grab them and put them back outside. you obviously donât care to pick up dead bugs. you tease pope sometimes with the worms you pick up from the flower beds.
you once came up behind craig, saying âi have something for youâ only for him to nearly jump a hundred feet in the air when he seen the giant wolf spider that took over your whole palm. you gave him a little smirk as he flipped out, finding it hilarious
one time you got a bikini wax, and Andrew noticed it wasnât perfectly symmetrical like most times. He noticed it when he was eating you out, the intense, precise licks at your clit now distracted and delayed.
âwhatâs wrong?â you pant, worried and thinking of anything: did i taste weird? did he not want me anymore? gosh, was i bleeding and didnât know-?
âyourâŚitâs not symmetrical.â Andy sat up, brows furrowed in irritation, gesturing to your mound.
â..it looks symmetrical to me.â you return
he ended up finishing you off, just sadly not looking down at your pussy. he loves looking at it, admiring it, and now he canât because his brain is fucked. He came with you to the next appointment 5 weeks later, and told your beauty therapist what was and what was not symmetrical. sassy Andrew.
this is not super perved out but like imagine reader doing popeâs curls for him :((
like maybe reader has curly/wavy hair and pope sees them doing their hair routine and heâs like âwhat are you doing?â all cute :((
i love this man so much
andrew cody x gn!reader
oh my god thank you so much, you have literally unlocked a whole can of worms here bc I have curly hair myself and have literally daydreamed of somebody holding my diffuser and styling my hair for me bc my back hurts #unc. anyways here's you doing your curl routine on andrew's hair <33
Imagine youâre still early on in the relationship and he hasnât really stayed over at your place much but youâve told him that you need to go shower and itâs gonna take a long time because you need to wash your hair and style it. Heâs a bit confused (the poor baby) but he nods, tells you to âtake your timeâ.
You come out of the shower, wearing one of his shirts, and then you open the door because itâs just so humid inside. Youâre standing in front of the mirror as you start styling your curls. Wrapping them around a brush, coiling them and scrunching your curls cream in.
Andrew comes and leans against the doorway, staring at you with his mouth pressed together like it often is and his brows furrowed in confusion.
âWhat are you doinâ? What are you puttinâ in your hair?â He asks all cutely.
You smile.
âOh thatâs my curl cream to help my curls not get frizzy, and then this is my mousse that helps the curls stay and give them volume.â
Andrew nods, a bit overwhelmed, but still trying to understand. He comes into the bathroom then, seeing all your products stacked on the counter. He picks one up, examining it, reading the ingredients.
âSo you do all this every time you wash your hair?â
You nod, âYeah.â
âOh.â
You look up at him then.
âAndrew, you have curly hair, donât you put anything in it?â
He shakes his head.
âNo, I just let it dry after washing it and then it ends up like this.â
He points to his head.
You giggle.
âNext time I come over to yours,â you begin, scrunching more mousse into your hair, âIâm gonna bring some things with me.â
That makes the sides of his mouth tilt up a little as he stares at you.
âOkay.â
Then a week later when youâre staying over at his you keep your promise, bringing all your products and your diffuser even, in a bag.
You make him sit the bathtub, head tilted back as you gently massage his scalp while washing it.
He lets out soft whimpers every time your nails press against his scalp, muttering out a soft âfeels goodâ every now and then.
Then you condition his curls, using the same one you use on your hair.
âSmells like you,â he whispers as he breathes the fruity scent in.
You just let out a soft laugh and continue rubbing it in.
After washing it all off, you softly squeeze the mousse onto his head, the foam piling up. He leans back into you hands as you scrunch it all in gently, cooing at him, telling him how pretty and soft his curls are.
Once thatâs done you plug the diffuser and gently hold his head while you run it all over his head, drying it. He closes his eyes when the heat hits him, face scrunching up a little.
âNearly there honey, is that okay?â
He nods, âSâokay. Feels good.â
Your sweet, sweet boy.
Once itâs all done, you press a kiss on his beautiful fresh curls.
Tilting his face towards you, you cup his cheek.
âDid you like that? Your curls look so pretty, Andrew.â
âYeah, I- that felt nice,â he says, blushing.
Thereâs a pause then, as his eyes bore into yours, mouth pursing, searching for the words.
âCan you do that for me again next week?â
Your heart clenches at how softly, how hesitantly he says the words.
âYes of course, honey.â
You press a kiss to his cheek, then pause.
âTell you what, youâre not allowed to wash your hair without me anymore.â
He smiles a little at that, eyes fluttering as he leans in to capture your lips with his.
so i wrote this instead of doing laundry but that's just the power he has over me i need this cookie bad
okay guys itâs very important cause I was reading a fic pope x reader where smurf pays her and I left my phone off for two minutes AND ITâS GONE. I HAVENâT FINISH IT BUT NOW ITS GONE AND I CANT FIND IT
pls im dying I need to finish it, if you know what Iâm talking about please provide me with a username of the author đĽšđ
andrew cody who genuinely canât leave you alone once he realizes youâre ovulating (this is self-indulgent im so sorry.) nsfw
it felt like the world was collapsing, all you could feel was andrewâs tongue lapping at you like he was deprived of water for days. Youâre not thinking at allâ heâs pulling orgasm after orgasm out of you and god, every time you feel like youâre ascending.
his nose prodding against your clit, tongue sliding in ân out and then licking a fat stripe up your cunt. Itâs a never ending cycle. youâre holding onto the bed frame for dear life while he holds you against his face. Heâs rutting up into the air, chasing relief so desperately. His tip is an angry red, cock throbbing but heâs not nearly as focused on that as he is on the scent of you.
your thighs wrapped tightly around his head, suffocating him almost but he doesnât mind it, infact he seems to fuckinâ love it.
heâs so obsessed with your scent⌠especially how your panties smell after a particularly hot day outside. but nothing compares to when youâre ovulating, when youâre at his favorite time of the month. Fuck, he could die a happy man between your legs.
⤡ ââ bf!pope cody headcanonsâËËË (sorta nsfw under the cut...)
a/n: first time writing for pope!!! eek i haven't written in months... hope this isn't too bad! (dividers by @/uzmacchiato !! <3)
bf!pope cody who... stays within a 6 foot radius of his girl at all times. you go to the grocery store? he's right behind you with every step. at a party? his hands haven't left your body. even when you get up in the middle of the night for water. you fill up the cup and turn to grab a straw when youre met by the great wall of pope.
"jesus, andrew. scared the shit out of me."
"why'd you get out of bed?" when it's glaringly obvious that you were getting water.
"i was thirsty. any other questions, Sherlock?"
he mumbles under his breath before taking your hand and holding it while you drink your water.
bf!pope cody who... is overly clingy. this kinda goes with the first one, but i mean!!!!!! he has no concept of personal space god love him :( he is always always always touching you, and when he can't, hes blowing up your phone.
âśWhere are you?
im in the kitchen
âśCome back to bed.
pope im in my kitchen... like at my house
âśOh.
âśCome back
and of course you do go over because who are you to deprive him of what he needs?!
bf!pope cody who... knows exactly how to get what he wants. he knows all he has to do is use his pathetic little puppy eyes to get anything. it worked on smurf growing up, so he learned to naturally employ it in his regular life as well. this leads to many days spent bickering about stupid stuff in the grocery store, at which point he gets quiet and he looks at you with those shiny eyes and... how did that end up in the cart? oh pathetic puppy eyed man you are so special to me
bf!pope cody who... is a biter. he love the sensation and the way you react. he bites anything and everything. its gotten to the point where you've banned certain positions because he cant stop biting you. he doesn't even do it on purpose!! he just needed somewhere to rest his head... not his fault your shoulders were perfect for sinking his teeth into.
"pope!" you squeal, pushing him back lightly. his eyes rove over you, his blank expression unmoving on his face. "i thought we agreed no more biting."
he grumbles lowly before tucking his face back into the crook of your neck where he had it before you'd so rudely evicted him. "yeah. 'm sorry baby," he mumbles softly. his teeth graze against your skin as he continues, "cant help it." you huffed softly as you felt his teeth connect back with your skin.
"pope. quit it." he whines softly at the demand. cant let him get away with everything but you'd be lying to say you didnt like it
bf!pope cody who... is a giver. you had a bad day? hes between your legs. you had a good day? hes kissing you to celebrate. he had a bad day? his hand is down your pants. he had a good day? youre bent over the couch. make no mistake, you will always finish first! doesn't matter whose birthday it is, who fucked up the job, who slept until noon and did nothing all day. if there's a chance for pope to please his girl hes jumping on it!
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