pairing: pope cody x bambi!reader ( no use of y/n )
summary: craig tells you things about his family and you gradually realize how much you don't fit in. how much you don't fit in with pope. so you get drunk and pope's left to deal with the mess craig made of you
content warnings: reader's drunk & dizzy, pope's abandoment issues, reader's very insecure, mention of reader braiding her hair, craig slander, shirtless pope bc i love shirtless pope, pope carries reader for a bit
a/n: hai my lovelies! i am back with another bambi!reader and pope fic that is also sort of a pope cody character study!! also my favorite trope ever!! bc i love it when reader gets so drunk she says and does things she really shouldn't. gif credits to @wesandresons !! <3
wc: 5.9k
Pope didn't plan on showing up at Craig's bar.
He wasn't up for it, but he had nothing else to do, and you were nowhere to be found. He tried texting you, just checking on you (or so he told himself; in truth, he really just wanted to talk to you because he felt so inexplicably lonely in Smurfs house), but you didn't respond to any of his messages.
So he decided to pay a visit to his brother and ask him if he had any fresh information on the job they were currently working on. When he stepped in, the bar was packed. Obviously, at 10pm no one would anticipate anything different.
Pope looked around, examining each face. No threat, no threat, no threat.
This is why he disliked going places without you. When you were with him, all he felt the need to was to focus on you, think about you, and hope that you were okay and feeling safe. He didn't have to think about hundreds of people crammed into a tight space, drinking and yelling right in his face.
Pope headed to the bar and waited for Deran to notice him. He drummed his fingers restlessly on the counter, his ears ringing from the loud and drunken sounds around him. It felt like his brain was buzzing from the volume. It almost hurt, and as much as he envied Deran's bright future sometimes, he despised being in here.
He quickly withdrew his hands, noticing how dirty the counter was, a scowl forming between his brows. Disgusted, he looked at his fingertips, briefly considering going to the bathroom to wash them. But the bathroom was much filthier, so Pope just dropped his hands to his sides, fingers twitching with discomfort.
"Pope!" Deran sounded surprised as he finally spotted his older brother. It wasn't too often that Pope showed up around here, especially on busy Friday nights.
"Hey," Pope was still distracted by the filth on the counter and his hands. "You really have to get this cleaned." He grumbled, and Deran just shrugged.
Pope was usually unhappy with the state of his bar when he came in. He was accustomed to it by now.
"Did she call you?" Deran asked, having finally grabbed a small towel to mop off the mess that Pope was pointing at with a frown.
"Did who call me?" now pointing at a different stain, and when Deran said your name, Pope's head shot up, his attention finally on his brother. "She's here?"
Deran's eyebrows furrowed. "Has been. For hours, actually."
Pope's head turned, how did he miss you? He'd practically looked at everyone when he walked in. Deran pointed at a corner, and without missing a beat, Pope was off in that direction.
You were sitting in a booth opposite of Craig, pushing a tiny glass back and forth back and forth across the table, leaving a water stain. Craig had been talking for a while, Pope could already tell from this far. You only acquired that spaced out look, after Craig had spoken to you for more than five minutes. He'd seen it your face several times, as well as on his own.
Pope stepped up to your table, announcing himself simply by standing there, mute. Craig lifted his head from where he'd been staring at you intensely while talking. "What are you doing here?" was the first thing he directed at his brother.
But Pope wasn't even looking at him, eyes locked onto you, worried.
You weren't meeting his eyes. At all. It's like you didn't even hear him. Pope continued to ignore his brother and bent down to your eye line. "Hey."
You turned your head slowly from where you'd been staring at the table. "Andrew!" you sounded surprised, but not unhappy as you finally locked eyes with him.
Craig hit the table with a groan, startling you. "Thanks dude, really." He shot his brother a look that held thousands of insults for ruining his 'game', but Pope didn't even glance at him as he slid in next to you and grabbed your glass, looking into it.
"Beer?" he asked with a frown, setting it back.
You shrugged and lifted your legs, bending them until your kneecaps hit the table. There was sweat at your temple, shining, and your eyes weren't really focusing on him.
"Hey," he said, trying to get your attention back on him. You barely raised your head, vaguely looking into his direction. "Look at me." He felt you startle by the sound of his voice, your eyes lifting to him. "Did Craig do something?"
"No." The way you weren't looking at him, again, exposed your lie.
"I'm taking you home." Pope wanted to storm up to his brother and drag him to a corner, until he finally told him why you were this upset, and why you had seemingly not stopped reaching for more beer since the second you've stepped foot into this bar.
You stared at him for a second, really staring in a way you had never had before. Pope allowed you to, subtly dropping his gaze to check if you had any marks on you, if you were actually okay.
His mind was always believing in the worst case scenarios since they were typically true in his life. In his instance his biggest nightmares always came true, so he learned to anticipate the worst, to give himself time to react rather that to process.
"'S'okay." You turned your head away. "Crag will take me home."
Pope's lips formed a frown, and the rejection settled hard in his heart. This was the first time ever you'd chosen his brother over him. Anytime, Any place, you always chose him. Car ride? You're going with Pope. Couch empty? You were still choosing to sit next to Pope.
His hand twitched against his sides and curled it into a fist, trying to get control of his body back. "Craig won't be out of here for at least a few hours, and you're tired."
"I'm not tired," you mumbled, now drawing a heart in the condensation over and over again.
"Yes, you are," And you wanted to object even though he was right. "Get up."
You stared at him and you seemed taken aback by his insistence. You glanced back down at your glass, considering, and Pope waited, because he'd wait all night. Even if you decided to go with Craig, he'd still wait. You were drunk, too drunk. He'd never seen you like this. You'd never been like this.
Pope was itching to get his hands on Craig, forcing him to spill out the words that had clearly led you to gulp down so many drinks.
You finally stood up, shaky and when Pope reached out his hands, he felt you flinch, and he felt sick. His hands shot back to his sides, straightening by his sides as he stared at you. Craig said something about him.
There was no other explanation for your rapid switch in behavior. You'd never flinched away from his touch. Never.
You supported yourself on the edge of the table, waiting for the dizziness to pass. When you appeared to be okay, you finally glanced at him. He was looking at you patiently and extended his hand, pointing towards the exit. And you stepped ahead of him without another word.
Pope looked back over his shoulder back to where his youngest brother stood, but Craig was already distracted by another girl, and Pope's sole justification for not stomping over there and punching him in the face was you.
He hurriedly opened the door for you and you muttered a brief thank you, still incapable of ignoring etiquette.
Pope led you to his car, which was conveniently parked nearby. He wasn't sure how you'd have walked over there with your unsteady legs.
He opened the passenger door for you, and you climbed in, just barely, still incredibly inebriated. You then sat there with your hands politely in your lap like you usually did. Even your drunken state, you were polite.
Pope was almost irritated by it. You never let your guard down. He wanted you to be comfortable, to just be yourself, let yourself loose, move your hands the way you wanted them to. To just do something…. stupid.
"Buckle up," he mumbled, still holding the car door wide open.
You grabbed the seat belt and attempted to buckle yourself, but you didn't have the strength. Your arms were too weak, so Pope stepped closer, gently removed them from your hand and strapped you in. All while he felt you back away from him as much as you could, your back pressed firmly against the seat, head up right up against the headrest.
He pulled back quickly, not giving you one more look, not wanting to see your facial expression anymore. It hurt him too much. He wasn't sure what he'd done wrong, why you didn't want to look at him or touch him, and he didn't want to know.
The car ride was quiet. It wasn't until five minutes, at least, had passed that Pope couldn't bear the silence anymore. "What did Craig say to you?"
You turned your head slowly towards him. "A lot." At least you'd changed your answer to something truthful this time.
Pope curled his lips into a straight line, almost angry. But he didn't bother saying anything else, he knew he wasn't getting anything out of you now.
When you arrived, you swiftly unbuckled yourself and sought to exist the car, but he locked the door immediately. "Don't get out. You're drunk. I'll help you," he said quietly, waiting for you to take your hand off the handle.
You withdrew your hand to your lap slowly, still not looking at him. He unlocked the doors, hurrying to your side, before you'd try to get out on your own again. When he opened the door, you locked eyes with him for the first time tonight. You stared at him for a while, as he extended his palm waiting for you to take his hand.
"You're nice to me," you whispered.
Pope furrowed his eyebrows. He wasn't sure if he was nice to you, but he knew he treated you differently than he did other people. He was glad to know that you considered it to be nice. But the sentence appeared rather random and anxiety flooded his veins.
"Everyone should be nice to you," he replied quietly, as you gently grabbed his hand, your hands slowly capturing his big one. He helped you out until your feet were on the floor, at which point your other hand came out and held onto his waist. Your finger wrapped tightly around his shirt, nails digging into his waist, and you forced your eyes shut. "Sorry. Dizzy," you whispered.
"You're fine."
It took you a while, but you finally weakened your grip before dropping it altogether, followed by the other. Pope clenched his fist and then opened it again, missing your warmth. He gently grabbed for your waist, moving you away from the door, before swiftly abandoning the contact as he shut the car door.
You were still standing there watching him with your big eyes, when he turned around, pocketing his car keys.
"Do you have your keys?" he asked, trying to stop you from staring at him this intensely. It was scaring him, almost like you were staring right into his soul.
"No," you mumbled, shaking your head with genuine sadness. "I lost them."
Pope glanced down at your bag. "They're in your front pocket."
You looked down, eyebrows furrowing. "How do you know?"
Pope didn't respond, allowing you to search through the bag yourself, until you finally heard the clinking of your keys and lightened up. "Oh! Not lost."
"Not lost," Pope repeated, as he slowly stepped towards you, palm on your back, and led you towards your apartment door. You followed without another word.
Pope wasn't sure if this was your typical drunk self; you'd never been drunk around him, so he didn't know if your lack of words and smile were normal.
It took you a bit to get the keys into your lock, but Pope was patient, spending the wait, just watching you.
You looked pretty; You were more dressed up than normal. Your hair was in two braids on either side, and you were wearing a white dress. You looked beautiful.
He wished he'd arrived earlier, hung out with you, spent time with you and mustered up the courage to tell you how pretty you looked. He knew Craig had gotten the privilege of that first, Deran may have as well. He would've given anything to see your shy smile.
When you managed the door open, you glanced back. "Thank you for driving me."
It sounded like a goodbye, so Pope shoved his foot into the door. "You're drunk," he said, and a guilty expression immediately formed on your face.
"I know," you whispered, ashamed.
"You shouldn't be alone."
You opened the door further without another word. It appeared like you opened the door to avoid arguing with him rather than to actually welcome him into your apartment as you usually did.
Pope hesitated, it felt almost like he was trespassing, despite the fact that your apartment had always seemed more like a home than his own ever had.
He stepped in, locking the door behind him before looking at you. "You should change." He walked past you towards your kitchen. "I'll get you water."
You walked past him without a word, wobbly and slow, heading towards your bedroom, leaving the door open. Pope remained in the kitchen, hands twitching nervously. He could still feel your warmth lingering on his fingers and he felt jittery and uncomfortable in his own flesh. He had never felt this way about you before; you soothed him like no one else. His head only quieted down when you were around. The buzzing in his brain ceased as soon as your vanilla scent struck his nose.
But tonight, something was wrong. He didn't know what it was, but he knew it wasn't you simply being drunk. Something was seriously wrong.
He filled your favorite cup, a small blue one with seashells all over it, with water and carefully headed towards your bedroom. "Are you dressed?" he called out, halting just before he could see inside.
You hummed, and he came in to see you seated on the side of your bed. This time in a tank top and some shorts, your dress from earlier on the floor. He stared down at it, before setting the water on your nightstand. He bent down and retrieved the dress, before placing it in your laundry basket, which was already beginning to pile up. He frowned; perhaps he should do your laundry, but out of the corner of his eye he saw you rub your eyes tiredly, smudging whatever makeup you'd been wearing.
You rubbed again and again, until Pope finally turned to you, bending down lightly, and gently encircled his fingers around your wrist. "Don't do that," he muttered, and you looked down at him. Eyes shining brightly despite the dim nightlight on your nightstand. It was silent as you stared at him, not uttering a single word.
"Why are you here?" you finally whispered after a while.
Pope stared back, lips still curled into a frown. He just wanted to take care of you. "You're drunk."
"I know that," you retorted, almost angrily, but still in a quiet voice. "Why are you here?" Your eyes were filled with desperation, like there was a right answer to the question.
Pope didn't know it. He didn't know what the right answer was, and he felt panic creep up on him.
"I—I'm making sure you're okay." He decided on the safest answer. It sounded like the most reasonable to him. It sounded better than I don't like being away from you. I don't want you with with Craig. I'm scared you'll leave me for him. I'm scared he'll tell you about the things I've done. I'm scared you'll leave.
You stared down at him for a long time, before your eyes fell back into your lap, staring there for a while, fingers twitching nervously. "Craig said stuff."
Popes ears perked up. Finally. "What did he say?" He had to bite down hard on his tongue to not let the angry tone escape him, but you noticed it anyway.
You waited, almost doing it on purpose, like you knew this was what he needed, and you wanted to take it and keep it from him. This was your version of cruelty. This is the worst thing you'd ever do to him, and he hated to tell you that this was nothing. That he considered this to be grace, because at least he was in your home. At least you were letting him touch your knees gently. At least he was allowed to look at you. That whatever you considered to be his punishment was mercy to him.
"He told me about—" you pinched your eyes tight as if recalling something awful, like it hurt you. And Pope couldn't wait to get his hands on Craig. "Just—" you couldn't get the words out and your lips were pressed so tight together that Pope was terrified you were going to start crying.
"Come on," he said, making you finally look up, and he was right, your eyes were wet. "We have to get your make up off," he muttered, and you seemed grateful for the escape, nodding, as you stood up and headed to the bathroom.
You immediately reached for one of your drawers, grabbing the wipes, but Pope gently took them from your hand. "You're shaking."
You lowered your hands to your side, turning to face him, and he motioned towards the counter. You turned your back on it, and Pope placed the wipes on the counter, before placing his hands on your waist, helping you up. You could hardly stand let alone get on your bathroom counter, so you were grateful for his warm hands assisting you. The moment you were seated, he let go as if burned.
Opening the box, he hesitantly grabbed the first wipe. But you were already scooting farther on the counter, opening your legs, and he carefully stepped between them before slowly reaching for your face. One hand rested on your while while the other began cleaning your face. You stared at him and with your bathroom light, his hazel eyes were nearly green, and he looked so pretty, your chest ached.
"I don't know why we're friends," you whispered, and Pope froze, his brain just catching on to the word friends. His hands dropped from your face as he stared at you.
"What's that supposed to mean?" was all he managed, almost breathless with hurt. His voice cracked. He didn't even bother to hide how much that question hurt.
"I just—" you realized, even in your drunken state, that you might've phrased this in the most horrible way possible. "Craig told me so much. "
You leaned forward slightly, causing his hand to travel to your hips and push you back on the counter so you wouldn't fall off. He held it there, desperate to know that you didn't despise him, and you wouldn't push him away.
You didn't. Instead, you reached down, gently grasping it and turning it over in your hand, as if you needed to hold onto him as well.
You stared down at his palm. "He said a lot," you repeated. "And I just—I don't know why you're here."
It sounded like a rejection of him, of who he was, and Pope felt cold and warm all over his body. Nauseous too.
Here it was. Of course, he couldn't have you. Of course, you'd be taken away from him. He didn't expect it to be Craig to take away the most precious thing in his life. He'd thought it would be Smurf, crawling her way into your life, gripping you with her demon like nails, hurting you like she hurt everyone he's ever cared about before damaging you in a way that made you never want to look at him again. He figured in a way it was her fault anyway. She made him like this. He could've been a guy you liked.
Pope stared down at your soft hand that was brushing his with gentle fingertips.
"We're so different," you whispered, and Pope squeezed his eyes shut. Right, like he didn't think about that every day. It hurt him to have you say it out loud.
Pope brushed a thumb over the back of your hand and then closed his hand around yours, almost desperate to hold on. Please don't leave me. Please. Please. Please. He wanted to beg so badly, the panic curling in his chest, making him sick with desperation for you to keep holding on.
"I don't want to get hurt," you whispered, and Pope looked up finally, to see you biting your lip hard. You were close to bleeding.
"I won't hurt you," he whispered back, practically pleading. He really wouldn't. He needed you to know that.
"You can't know that," you said quietly, now watching his big hand engulf yours. "Craig said so many things. You like— you like so much stuff that I'm not." you whispered, hurt making your voice crack.
"You're not what?" he asked, confusion replacing the sadness in his face. "Not what?" he asked again, face tilting until he caught your eyes.
You allowed his eyes to meet yours and you waited. Once again, torturing him with the wait, and this time he did think of it as cruel.
"Craig talked about the girls he liked, told me about every girl he's ever hooked up with," you replied slowly. "And he told me about your parties, the strip clubs, the bars. He wouldn't stop talking, it was like I—I was there." Frustration crept into your voice.
You went quiet again, looking down at your lap. "Talked about you too," and it was as if a bomb went off.
Pope couldn't be sure what his younger brother had said, but based on your reaction, he knew Craig had opted to go with the crudest version imaginable, perhaps even in the hopes that would deter you from liking Pope and instead go for him.
There'd been lots of times in the past, before he met you, where he did what his brothers wanted him to. He followed them around, prayed that they'd stop calling him strange and weird, and hoped that if he acted the way they wanted him to, they would stop paying so much attention to him and his behavior. That perhaps he might convince himself too, that he enjoyed these things. That drinking beer, getting high and picking up a girl at the bar, was what he wanted. Reminding himself that this was what he should want. That he certainly didn't dream about a girl choosing him, liking him, and sticking around.
None of his brothers did that and neither should he. He needed to be like them, so he wouldn't feel like he was going out of his mind half of the time.
Pope stayed silent, and you huffed a weak laugh, now removing your hand from his, making it lay in your lap empty and cold. "I just— I guess I'm too drunk, but i just figured—" you shook your head. "I don't know."
You stared over his shoulder at the wall. "I know I don't exactly fit in. I mean—" you gave him a weak smile. "I don't even know why Craig approached me in the first place." Pope knew why, but he didn't want to tell you, hoping you'd never really ask. "I just— i thought maybe— you'd—" and then you stopped talking.
Like me.
That's what you wanted to say. You hoped one day he'd like you. But you'd said too much, and you weren't ready to expose yourself this much, just yet.
Pope stared at you. "I'd what?" he asked, but you were already shaking your head, regretting having started the sentence.
When you didn't say anything else, he lifted his hand again and started wiping your make up off. He brushed gently across your eyes, whispering for you to close them. He was gentle, too gentle, making the cleaning take longer than it should have.
"I like that you're not like—" he wanted to say me but he wasn't sure if that would be just too much. "Us."
You opened your eyes slowly, face finally bare, and you looked prettier than ever, making Pope just want to stand here forever and look at you. "Craig is friends with you because you're not like us." he said, throwing the wipe he was using away and setting the box away. He went back to standing between your legs, staring at you. "You're—nice. That's why he likes you."
You huffed a laugh. "I'm pretty sure that's not all," you said quietly, and Pope made a small grimace, lips frowning, eyebrows raising.
"Never is with Craig," he mumbled, and you giggled, and he felt his shoulder fall with relief. He can still make you laugh. That's good.
When your giggles subsided, you glanced back down at your hands, seemingly the most interesting thing today. To be quite honest Pope did think your nail polish was interesting. It was pink today with brown dots.
"What about you?"
Pope furrowed his eyebrows. "What about me?"
You stayed quiet and it's like the question was forced out of you, like you didn't mean to ask it, but your drunken state forced you to. "Do you like me?"
Pope froze. The moment he allowed you to know how much he truly cared about you was the moment you'd be in danger. Whether that was because of him or Smurf.
Despite all of it Pope couldn't help but give in. You were looking at him with such big and trusting eyes, like deep in your heart you knew he'd say yes. So he did.
"'Course i do," he responded, watching your face light up, like you'd still had doubts. Like you hadn't known the answer before.
He hated that. He thought he'd shown you enough how much he adored you.
"Good," you whispered, and before he knew it your arms were around his neck, and you were pulling him in hard, in a way you'd never done before.
You'd never hugged him before and his hand hovered above your waist in fear. He stared at himself in the mirror behind you, but as he felt you pulling him even more, he finally wrapped his arms around your waist. He placed his cheek against your shoulder, refusing to look in the mirror anymore and see how soft you had made him. Your arms were soft. You were soft. And warm. And you smelled really nice and Pope turned his head to the other side to drown himself in your scent. The vanilla in your hair was the only thing he could smell as his nose pressed against your shoulder and his lips touched your collarbone.
Pope worried you'd let go, because he really needed this. So badly it almost hurt. But you didn't.
You just stayed there, and Pope tightened his hold around your waist. Eventually, you gradually shifted closer, until one palm was just barely in his hair, and he hummed the moment your fingers got entangled with one of his curls. Even in your intoxicated state, he could feel your senses come alive, the senses that knew everything about him. You entwined all of your fingers in his curls and scratched once to see how he'd react. When he pressed closer, you repeated the movement again and again, until Pope practically melted like butter in your arms.
Pope wasn't sure how long he stood there holding you and letting you hold him, but eventually he loosened his hold and only then did you let go, your hands removing themselves from his hair. Your hands went to his face and you gently brushed a thumb across his cheekbone.
Whatever beer did to you, he didn't dislike it, and he felt awful for thinking it. He knew there was a reason you didn't enjoy drinking. But you touched his face so lovingly he fought the urge to cry.
He wasn't sure when, or if ever, he'd received such a tender touch from someone. He wanted to be in your arms forever; it made him feel like nothing could reach him there. Not his mother, not his nightmares, not his jobs, nothing. Everything was so far away when he was close to you. There was only ever you and he always wanted there to only be you.
When you pulled back, you looked tired, really tired. You rubbed your eyes again, letting a yawn escape you before looking up at him and asking quietly. "Will you stay?"
Pope didn't hesitate. He just wanted to be close to you.
"I'll take the couch," he mumbled, reaching for your waist and helping you off the counter.
When you were on the floor again, you looked up, frowning. "No," you said. "Can't you sleep in my bed?"
Pope's teeth ached from how hard he gritted them against each other. He guessed drinking also made you want to make decisions. He was certain he didn't dislike that either, just the contrary.
He looked down at himself. "I don't have clean clothes," and he most certainly wasn't getting into your bed with these dirty ones, the ones that have lived and experienced the filth that was Deran's bar.
" 'S'okay." you mumbled. "You sleep in your boxers, don't you?"
You reached for his hand, pulling him back to your bedroom. He followed without another word, watching you slip under the covers and, almost immediately, turn to your side, exhausted, but well aware of how a drunk person should sleep.
Pope watched you, and for a second, just for a second, he thought you might've turned around for him, knowing well the privacy he'd been stripped of by his mother all his life. That you were turning, to let him know that he didn't have to ask you for privacy, that you'd always be here to give it to him. But then he shook his head, getting rid of the thought. He couldn't handle this much kindness in one night.
He slowly lifted the bedcovers and, without a word, you scooted further, not turning around until he was under the covers and only then did you turn around.
You didn't turn around on purpose.
"Hi," you mumbled, eyes barely open.
"Hey," he mumbled back, feeling you entangle your legs with his.
"You're not cold, are you?" you mumbled, glancing down at his collarbone peeking out from under the bed sheets.
He shook his head. "No." You're here to keep me warm. I can't feel any cold when I'm with you.
You nodded, satisfied with his answer. "Hold me?"
Another request you would've never dared to ask had you been sober.
And Pope was terrified of doing it. Even in your drunken state, you saw the hesitation. "'It's okay," you mumbled, but Pope let out a startled "No," making you flinch.
"I just—" he hesitated, looking at you. "Yes. I can hold you," he said in such a detached tone it almost made you smile.
You slid closer, til your head met his bare chest, and you let out a relieved sigh. "You're warm," you whispered, and Pope wanted to tell you how he was never warm, always cold, how everyone complained about it. How he had never felt genuine warmth until you.
His arm slowly went down to your back, pulling you closer, palm resting on your hip.
Your hand lifted to his chest, resting it there. "Okay?" you whispered, and he slowly nodded.
He could feel your eyes watching him, but he didn't dare meet your gaze, afraid you'd see something in his eyes, like too much love, too much emotion that was allowed for a moment like this, and move.
Maybe this was nothing for you, maybe he was making a bigger deal of this than it actually was. He hoped he wasn't.
Pope stared at the ceiling before he spoke, fingers tightening around your hip like announcing that he was going to speak, and you tiredly opened your eyes, waiting.
"I—" he started, before starting over. "Don't listen to Craig's stories," he said quietly, still staring at the white canvas above him, while your fingers curled at his chest, fingernails now grazing his chest. He could feel you getting nervous and he rushed his next words, hoping to get rid of that emotion. "Those things they—they did happen, but not the way he told you."
He stared upward, before carefully letting his eyes drift back down to you. You were watching him with such patient eyes, it almost hurt. He wasn't sure he'd ever had someone wait for him so patiently to get his words out. Never had anyone wait for him to explain himself and his behavior. Everyone just ran with whatever they wanted to believe he'd said, not even bothering for him to start explaining.
"I didn't—" he thought about it. He wasn't sure he should actually tell you, but your fingers softly traced his collarbone, and he thought, why not? He'd already given you everything he had. His soul and his heart.
"I didn't want to do those things," he finally admitted. "I did them because I thought I had to."
It was his way of telling you he liked you a lot, and that whatever you heard and made you insecure was nothing to worry about. That he only ever wanted to be with you, and that you didn't fit in with the Codys, but you fit in with him and he fit in with you.
You looked back down at his chest, staring right where his heart was. "I wished you didn't have to," you mumbled quietly. "Do things you didn't want to," you explained quietly, and Pope's heart ached.
He couldn't believe that the stranger Craig had introduced oh so long ago, was seemingly the only person in the world who had put in the effort to hear him out and understand him. He stared up at the ceiling, trying hard not to just let tears spill.
"It's fine," he managed out in a rough voice, but you shook your head, against his chest.
"'S'really not." you whispered. You stayed quiet for a while and Pope thought he'd lost you to sleep. "I hope you know you never have to do anything you don't want to with me."
Pope looked down at you, watching you tap your fingers nervously on his chest, and he gathered the courage to squeeze your hip lightly, watching you smile to yourself.
Summary: Your husband spends a lazy morning indulging in the finer things, namely: you.
WC: 3.5k
Warnings: 18+/NSFW/MDNI!, smut, fr y'all this is some nasty shit, established relationship, fluff, angst in the final hour, mentions of grief/death/spouse loss, masturbation (f! only), oral sex (f!receiving), fingering (f!receiving AYYYYYYYY), overstimulation, dom/sub dynamics if you squint, finger sucking from both of these freaks, service top!valarr (oh ty lord), also lwk switch!valarr, unprotected p-in-v sex, reader being a pillow princess, the big westerosi 'rona is implied. not beta'd idgaf. lmk if i missed any and i'll update!
Author's Note: baby's first fic, probably a nothing burger but i would genuinely give everything to throw it back on 209 valarr like wow girl i'm so bored let's go get vaccinated and make out. likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated! ty for reading! also s/o to @priestboy for the divider!!!!
A steady drip of drool came out of his mouth, loud, obnoxious snores sounding into the air. Three freckles packed together on the left curve of his nose, a flare of his nostrils as he slept. His fringe was askew across his forehead, the clump of hair shifted only to one side. You could not help yourself from reaching your thumb out and tugging down the center of his bottom lip, plush and pink.
You could see every crease in it, and pulled it down even further to see his gums. You traced the point where his white tooth met pink, wet and pliant. He was even pretty there, too. He stirred slightly at that, but you pulled back, your hand returning to his cheek. He made a harrumping sound, tawny eyebrows pulled together, annoyance and tiredness painted on his features.
“What are you doing?” Valarr murmured through the fog of sleep, burying his face into your neck, willowy arms wrapping around you.
“Nothing,” you spoke into his hair, fingers twirling the ends. You dug your nose into his scalp, wanting to remember the lilac notes in it.
He mumbled some protests, but you couldn’t make any sense of it. Jumbled and out of place vowels as he squeezed you, as if to drain the ache from his bones by pressing you into him. You stretched, moving to sit up, but he only held you tighter with an indignant huff, seeming to hope that the skin would give way to his will.
Your little laugh made the white streak in his hair sprig up with flight.
“Are you trying to merge your skin with mine?”
He scoffed, pressing a peck to your pulse.
“Yes. I would be successful, were my lady wife not to fight me.”
“And yet I lay here limp.”
“Your will is spiritual. And forged of iron,” he sighed. Silence fell between them, and you traced the muscled line of his arm. Eyes cast up to his, a tad bit guilty.
“I’m sorry I woke you.”
“Ah, cease that. I never get to see you like this. Your hair all muffed up. Drool dried on your chin,” he swooned, smoothing his hand up and down the column of your throat, love in his eyes.
“That soaked pillow is your doing, not mine,” you rebuffed, giving a small bite to his earlobe. He feigned annoyance, a sour glare cast your way.
“And who will believe you? Your word against a prince’s….” he tsked, nudging your nose with the tip of his.
“Do I get a trial at the very least?” you whispered, lips grazing the corner of his mouth.
“No,” Valarr affirmed, giving you a soft kiss. He moved to your cheek, then your forehead, taking his time. Your jaw, your eyelid. Right next to your ear. “Trials are not granted for acts of treason.”
You gave him an admittedly weak scowl, flopping back against the pillow, hair strewn around the crown of your head.
His hands slowly slipped from your back to your waist, small, tentative touches down to the back of your thighs. His hands stilled on your hips and he restrained the urge to pinch the fat where your legs met your ass. He would dream of nothing but greedy fingers soothing the sting, rubbing circles into the flesh he had rendered you into nothing but little mewls as he licked into your mouth.
“What do you desire this morning?” he whispered into the shell of your ear. A kiss on it to leave a piece of himself with you before he left the bed.
Your head swam with possibilities, but indignance came first at his assessment of your wanting.
“And when exactly did I say I desired anything?” you protested, and yet, you smiled through the whole statement.
He sat up, beautiful hair in three different directions. The golden light from the open balcony formed a ring of light around him. One eye lit up in a mosaic of cerulean and cyan, the other with brown. You couldn’t decide which one you loved most. He let out a chortle at your expression and started to smile, and at that, you became entirely too preoccupied with the way the creases around his eyes looked.
“You get…” Valarr waved around a hand, trying to summon the right phrase. “This look. As if you wish to eat me alive. That is how I know you want something. To use your poor husband’s body as a tool for thoughtless pleasure,” he added with a touch of mirth.
Your cheeks burned at his comment, half a mind to bury your face in the pillows and die, but he simply tapped your cheek and brought your hand to his lips, kissing each fingertip for every time you would not meet his eyes.
“It is not an awful thing, wife. I imagine our marital bed would not be as well-used as it is were I having to guess if you wanted me,” he shrugged, bowing his head to yours. “Now, tell me what it is and I will do my best to give it to you. It is not as if I suffer in doing so. Rather the opposite.”
You looked into his eyes, earnest and brimming with affection. You swiftly nodded, a shy smile on your lips.
“Your fingers, for now. Then perhaps more as well.”
He took your order, standing tall and naked from the bed. He strode over to the washbasin, taking his time to thoroughly scrub his hands clean, and then what was left of his and your release from the night prior off of his groin.
You could not free your eyes from him, the chestnut curls that grew above one of your favorite parts of him, long and heavy against the inside of his thigh as he moved a wet cloth along himself. Your mouth watered, fingers slowly moving down under the bedsheets to soothe the ache between your legs at the sight of him. You could not bear to wait until he was done. His meticulous routine always took some time, and patience was not an esteemed virtue of yours.
Strong, tanned thighs from the fortnights they had stationed away at Summerhall, more freckles dotting his skin by the day. You traced your eyes up his body, the lean muscles in his back stretching as he applied perfumed soaps and picked at a spot on his leg. Sinew against skin, stronger and bigger than he had ever been.
He had been training in the courtyards of Summerhall before they had returned to Dragonstone, sword clashing and countering every attack the master-at-arms threw his way. You would have every door into the castle locked if it kept him outside, tanned and panting, gleams of sweat on his brow, arms straining, growing. Thighs that strained against his trousers, bracketing yours at night when he held you. Your head grew heavy, slumping against the pillow, open-mouthed as you drank him in.
A few moans threatened to slip past your throat, but you quickly bit down on your bottom lip, trying with all your might to not reveal yourself. He would tease you endlessly, drag you from the covers and down to the end of the bed, drawing out every sound you prayed the guards posted outside their door would not hear. You stopped the pace of your fingers when he wiped his hands on the hand linens the servants had not yet changed from yesterday night. You willed your hands at your side, shifting the bed covers up to your chin.
He turned around, unhurried paces across the large room. He peeked out to the large balcony that supplemented the bed chambers, gilded beams of sunlight coming dancing off his rich skin. He strode over the railing looking over the sea, the smell of salt crisp in the air. A deep sigh broke from his lips, squinting as he gazed out at the horizon.
You cleared your throat.
“You’ve a wife to attend to, Your Grace.”
His chest shook with a small laugh, lips taut to one side of his mouth as he cast a look at you.
“My cruelty is unparalleled,” he remarked, smiling and throwing your covers aside. The morning was warm, but the air chilled you and he quickly soothed your body with the warmth of his. You thought it better to pretend you did not feel him stirring against your leg.
You hummed in assent, peace on your face as he kissed along your jaw, hands quickly smoothing through his hair.
“Truly, you’re awful. Absolutely…” you trailed off as he moved his fingers in a downwards arc, first tracing the line of your stomach and slowly beginning to tend to where you wanted him. You breathed deeply, focusing on the beams of the ceiling as you willed yourself not to make a fool of yourself screaming like a whore.
“It is a beautiful morning,” he breathed against your pulse before adorning it with his mouth. “Perhaps we can go for a walk in the gardens. I know how you love the yellow roses. I should order the gardeners to plant more.”
You couldn’t control the stupid smile that took over your face, and as a consequence, many of the noises built up in your throat came slipping out, your eyebrows pinched. That seemed to spur him on, lowering his head to circle his tongue around one of your nipples before popping it into his mouth. His unoccupied hand came up to abuse the other one, switching sides every time you grew too quiet.
They were swollen and reddened before too long, overstimulation and pleasure blurring into one another as it became too much.
“Valarr,” you panted, gripping his hair to pull him off your chest. A flash of panic took over his face, eyes searching your face for any pain or discomfort. His worries were soon discarded when you redirected his head between your legs, a smile on his lips as he opened his mouth heartily.
He soon began to make a new mess, spit and slick forming a small pool beneath you on the bed. The spot cooling with air was the only thing that grounded you as he ate at your cunt, tongue slopping over your sex again and again. He felt relentless, pinning your hips down with one arm banded over you as you desperately tried to escape the overwhelming knot building in your stomach. You couldn’t bear it but couldn’t stop adorning his tongue, pulling his hair as tight as you could and rolling your hips into his mouth. Your legs closed tighter around his ears when you looked down to see him grinding himself against the mattress.
Prior, you would’ve balked at how loud your moans grew, echoing in the chambers, but you now wailed with reckless abandon, every feeling and moment centered at Valarr’s nose bumping against you as he dipped down to taste the nectar that had been seeping out of your slit. He groaned into you, resuming with a fervor until your mouth dropped in a silent scream. Legs locked up, you shoved his face into your hips desperately chasing the last of the shock that lit up your bones. He worked you through it, only ceasing when you tugged his chin up to your lips, tasting yourself on his tongue.
You laid there panting for many moments, sweat beading at your hairline. He kissed his way back down, reinforcing his focus on your breasts, watching you twitch and whine as he pressed his lips to your oversensitive nipples. You reached down for him, using what liquid had already beaded at the tip to stroke him in full. You took turns stopping and continuing, watching a beautiful pink flush take over his chest. His soft moans, some caught in his chest, meek and quiet.
“Please,” he groaned into your stomach, humping himself back and forth into our hand after you had paused. You withdrew your hands and he chuckled humorously against your skin, brows pinched together in near pain. He looked up at you, the side of his face heated by your flesh. He was just a man at his temple of choice.
You simply smiled, blissful in the glow of the pleasure he had given you, and mirthful all the same. He conceded, sighing as he accepted his fate.
“You still have not used your fingers,” you chirped, nose tilted up. “That was my sole request, lord husband.”
You could feel his teeth etched against your belly in a grin.
“Right you are, my love,” he said, rising into his knees.
He slipped his fingers into your mouth gently, rounding them around your gums before forcing your tongue down with the pad of his ring finger. He was playing dirty; your brain always seemed to fill with fog whenever he suddenly took control back from you, if only for a moment. Your mouth started to pool with saliva, the edge of his gold wedding band caught on the bottom of your front teeth. You whined and keened, hips moving against his to find friction, but he pinned them again with his other hand.
“Shh….,” he spoke into his knuckles, a hair’s breadth from you. Your lashes brushed up against each other, twin silk threading into each other. Your eyes bored into his, pleading and needy, weakly clenching half of his wrist with your hand. He did his best to hold his smile at bay, but he always loved you like this, drunk off your own desire. Drool started to spill from the sides of your mouth, and he simply wiped it away, replacing the streak with his kisses.
When he had decided you’d sufficiently drenched his fingers, he pulled his fingers out of your mouth, suppressing the smirk at the hoarse gasp you let out. Licked lips, swollen and red, biting still as he brought his hand down between your thighs. Your chin was tucked up to the sky, body practically buzzing with anticipation. His fingers brushed through you, clicking his tongue as he watched you clench around nothing.
He ran them up and down the length of you, wet and sloppy, his spit making your cunt shine in the light of day. He would make seven or so passees, deliberately ignoring your clit and pinning your hips as you tried to wiggle your hips so he would go where you wished. On the eighth pass, he would finally use the full weight of his fingers to press down on your clit, beaming in the way you gripped his hair, pulling him up for a kiss. He snaked his other hand up your body, rolling his thumb around your nipple. You keened, chest rising in quick breaths, distracted enough for him to slip two fingers inside of you.
His pace was brutal from the beginning, short, hard thrusts of his wrist, smiling into your kisses as he felt you drip down the palm of his hand. Any other time, he would take his time with you, gentle touches and a slow temperament. The morning, however, found you rather brave, and was reserved for you being pressed into the cold, smooth mattress and asking, demanding for more. You could not think, hair sticking wildly to your forehead with sweat. Your cheeks burned at his lips against yours, and you were like to scream when he aimed his fingers upward, the loud sound of your desire reverberating in your ears. Your limbs tensed, jaw hung open, and it faded from one moment into another, Valarr suddenly over you, spreading your legs to kneel between them. He smoothed the hair from your head, kissing his way from your chin down to your stomach. Your mouth was dry, your tongue a rough weight bearing it down.
“Was that satisfactory? The fingers only?” he muttered into your stomach, hair ruffled as he looked up at you, head rising with the slope of your torso. You fanned the back of your hand over his cheek, laughing breathlessly as you nodded.
“Do you want more, or shall we make to start our day?” he inquired, sincerity etched into his brow as he chased your fingers with his mouth. He did not expect words from you in these moments, blissed out as you were. You silently pulled his arms up to plant beside your head, your answer plain to him.
He chuckled to himself, and lined himself up with you, the mess you had made together helping him slide into the root. He swallowed your whines, the practiced sawing of his hips digging at the spot he had already abused. He hitched your legs up, holding them to the opposite sides, his pelvis slapping onto yours now. He was everywhere, hot blood thrumming under your skin as saccharine dripped into your legs and made its way up to your stomach.
Your mouth was etched in an O, brows drawn together as he quickened his pace, bearing his body down on you.
“Valarr,” you spat out after several attempts, eyes honed in on him.
He could not respond, his stomach pulling taut. He would not allow himself to, to indulge himself before he had wrung you dry. He bore you into the bed itself, your nails raking down his arms. With a weak, throaty cry, you shook in his arms, and clutched him down to you, hips still chasing his to ride you through it.
His thrusts turned sloppy and uneven, less care now that he had pleased you within all of your whims. His arms bracketed your head, burrowing his own into your neck. What once were reserved groans and careful slips were now uncontrolled whimpers and fervent pants against your flesh. He coated your neck in involuntary drool, cradling the top of your head as he took and took and took. Hips slapping against your, his hair catching against your clit and working your jaw open despite how much he had already given you. Words were not viable for either of you, only grunts that came from your chests and shrill moans.
He tensed, and he shifted to look at you, noses touching as his face clenched up. It was always his tell. Even if he was taking you from behind, one of the mirrors across the room would have to be used or he would need to flip you onto your back. Smoothing his fingers over the face he loved most, static surging through every point in his body, a knot in his stomach that refused to unfurl until he heard you say it.
“Please,” he forced out, so close to you that it seemed there was no more room to breathe. His face was etched in perfect misery, a power only you could grant him, a fire you held the tools to extinguish with three simple words.
You managed to smile through his growingly rough thrusts, open mouth twisting. You gripped his hair and steered him to nearly close the gap between your lips.
“I love you,” you whispered to him, delighting at how such a strong man seemed to shake and tremble at a small testament.
He bit onto the pillow beneath you, ivory of canines and feathers embedded and intertwined. In a more sober moment, he would blush viciously at the noises he was making, but a force was driving through him that could not be contained. His throat felt raw from the whines he filled the chamber with as he finally emptied himself into you. He panted for how many minutes he could not say, red in the face and sweat adorning his hairline. You simply stroked his back, giggling at his exasperation.
He took all of the strength he had left in him to roll himself onto his back and bring you with him, not caring whether or not he stayed inside you. You were the princess; if twenty batches of moon tea was what you desired, you would have it. Your hot skin pressed into his, your weight pushing his back into the soft mattress. He settled his nose into your hair, his breath as real as the warmth from his skin on yours.
“Is this your favorite to remember?” he said, a soft kiss to your scalp, moving the hairs stuck to the sweat on your forehead.
Your stomach emptied at the words.
“This is just a dream, is it not?”
He smiled sadly. The sight of it was so beautiful that it was no wonder it could not be reality.
“Does it matter?” he said, voice so quiet it was barely above a whisper. He tucked pieces of your hair behind your ear, gazing into your eyes with an unreachable somberness. “It happened in this bed.”
“What a blessing,” he whispered against your lips, your eyelashes touching. “You were the last thing I ever got to see.”
You woke alone later that morning, the grey clouds cast over the capital city. The side of the bed that had laid cold and dormant for two years. You rose only to order more sleeping draughts from the maester.
SUMMARY ➩ Pope only feels like himself when he’s alone with you in your apartment
AUTHORS NOTE ➩ just a small soft drabble for you! pope my sweet autistic touch starved angel and the girl he deserved to have NOT PROOFREAD
part two
Pope could only think of you after the horrible comment Baz had made to him.
No one is ever going to have a kid with you. Ever.
He wasn’t sure why it affected him so much, why it dug deep under his chest into a part of him he hadn’t even realized was there.
Pope wasn’t as socially inept as most people might think and he knew exactly why his brother would say something like that to him, the truth behind it undeniable. He was off putting and had the strange ability to creep people out even when he was being as genuine as he possibly could be.
He’d seen it happen time and time again, a slightly crooked smiled that made people take a step back or an overly blunt statement that hurt somebody without the intent.
But never with you.
You’d been around for as long as Pope could remember, the daughter of one of Smurfs greatest connects who was constantly spending the night with Julia or helping Smurf around the house once you got a little older.
They all liked you, the younger boys would follow behind you while you did chores or ask you to help tuck them in long past the age they needed it. Baz wasn’t shy with his affection either even though his methods made Popes stomach tighten with the same type of jealously and anger he felt when it was directed at his sister.
Lucky for him, and to everyone’s confusion, you had a clear favorite when it came to Pope.
You never once treated him any different or acted like you were scared of him for even a moment. You’d keep that gentle and patient smile on your face when he didn’t deserve it and you wrote to him almost every single day when he was in prison, sending him photos that he’d stick under his pillows and doing your best to draw the sea and the shape of Lena’s eyes so he wouldn’t forget.
You never went far even when he tried to push you away and that was exactly why he wanted to see you.
His knocks on the door were familiar, even though you’d given him a key a year ago when you first moved in. He kept it in his wallet but he never dared to use it incase you had ever changed your mind and didn’t tell him.
Your smile was as soft as always when you opened the door, the smell of the dinner you were cooking coming in waves from behind you. You looked as easily beautiful as always and his legs naturally carried him forward through the door way.
“Andrew.” You breathed it out softly and your hands went to his shoulders, pushing his jacket off and sliding it down his arms so you could help free him from it. “I was hoping you’d come.”
“It’s okay?” He asked lowly even though he knew the answer, he still liked to hear it from you directly.
You took his coat and hug it up on the hook near the door that only ever held his clothing, turning back to him with the same smile and taking both of his hands in yours so you could lead him closer to the kitchen.
“It’s always okay, I was actually making your favorite.” You explain softly and he can smell it now, too distracted by the sight of you and your warm touch to place the familiar spices before.
“Thank you.” He mumbled back and it wasn’t too uncharacteristic, in fact he often showed up and didn’t say a single word at all, but your steps slowed and your lips formed a frown.
“What’s wrong?”
It unnerved him the same amount everytime when you so easily were able to read him and his moods, the only person in the world that seemed to know exactly what he was thinking and feeling no matter how stoic his face was. He sometimes wanted to ask you how you could just tell but he thought that might be stupid, maybe evidence of another human trait he was simply missing.
“Nothing.” He dismissed your worries easily and now you dropped his hands, the lack of touch making him feel a surge of nausea. He shifted closer and you sighed in understanding before placing a palm back on him, resting against his bicep now.
“Don’t do that, not here.” You half pleaded with him but it was also scolding, a reminder of what you were to him. “You talk to me.”
It took him a few minutes of silence to recount what Baz had said to him and if hearing it hurt, then seeing the way your face fell was ten times worse. You were always so empathetic towards him, crying for him on nights he couldn’t feel anything other than emptiness and anger, yelling at him to stand up for himself when the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind.
And now you looked downright furious at the insult Pope had repeated in a low and hesitant voice.
“Baz doesn’t know anything.” You say back firmly with a shake of your head, a rare tone of voice from you considering you’re normally so gentle. “He’s a dick. He treats Lena terribly anyways so what does he know about being a father?”
Pope doesn’t say anything as you ramble on, his lips pursing as he resists the familiar frustrating urge to defend his brother. He isn’t sure why he still feels it after all this time but it’s like second nature, the same type of instinct that ended up with him in prison for three years.
“Andy, you know that’s not true right?” Your voice is back to its normal sweetness now as you duck down a little to try and get his eyes to focus on you, smiling faintly when it works.
“Do I?” It’s quiet and not really self deprecating, genuinely curious on what he’s supposed to feel in this situation.
“Any woman would be lucky to have kids with you.” Your eyebrows furrow like you’re confused on how he doesn’t understand that and your determination rattles him a little.
“Any woman?” He repeats it and your face falls a touch, his eyes narrowing as he tries to understand what emotion you’re attempting to cover up.
You give him a reassuring smile and nod but it doesn’t meet your eyes, sad sad eyes that make him want to throw up. He doesn’t understand what about that makes you so sad and he feels too stupid to ask for clarification, knowing he should just be able to read you like you so easily can read him.
He doesn’t get to reflect on it long before your arms go around his neck for a tight embrace and he returns it eagerly, locking his behind your lower back and tugging you close so tight your feet nearly lift off the ground.
“Needed you.” He whispers as he tucks into your neck and he can both feel and hear the small fond laugh you let out.
“I’m here.” You return and it’s so quiet it pains him, wishing he could ask you to scream it out so everyone could understand. Your head twists and your nose brushes his jaw in a way that makes his spine shiver. “Made your favorite, come eat.”
You eat dinner in silence but you don’t seem at all bothered by the quiet, understanding like always that he just needs to sink into his own head sometimes.
He almost can’t stand the feeling of being around you, the constant under the skin itching whenever you’re not touching him and the headache of trying to be someone he’s not to make himself easier to be around. It’s only a headache because it doesn’t work on you, you see through him immediately and encourage him to be himself despite that being the exact thing he’s always ran from.
You’re as relaxed as always while you do the dishes and he stares at the side of your face, like you’re not at all bothered by the intense glare.
Occasionally you glance over and smile softly when you find he’s still watching you closely.
He tenses when your phone rings, one look at the clock on your microwave telling him it’s an odd hour for anybody to be calling. You don’t get many calls in general, your family and upbringing being similar enough to his that you scarcely give out your number.
You’re stiff for the same reasons but your shoulders relax when you retrieve the device from your pocket and see the contact name, placing it to your ear and sending Pope a calming look.
“Hey Deran.” You greet neutrally and his back loses the tension although his eyebrows furrow in question. “No sorry, he’s not here. I’ll tell him to give you a call if I see him.”
Deran continues saying something muffled on the other line and you give Pope a hand gesture that insinuates he’s talking too much which would have made him huff a laugh if he wasn’t so irritated by his brother bothering you.
You hang up after a soft goodnight and dry your hands before approaching his stiff frame, rubbing your palms up his biceps until you reach his shoulders.
“Relax. He’s just wondering where you were staying tonight.” You explain in a whisper and his eyes close at the rubbing gesture. “He gets worried when you disappear. I wish you’d just tell him you’re with me.”
“Don’t want them knowing where you live.” He murmurs back instinctively truthful and you sigh, reading between the lines. You know he’s not actually worried about his brothers knowing where your apartment is or harming you at all.
“If Smurf wanted to know where I am then she’d already know.” You respond and his eyes snap open, although not necessarily surprised that you sourced out the true discomfort he was having.
He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds so you shift even closer, holding his face gently which makes him let out a deep breath.
Pope doesn’t think he’s ever been touched in the way you touch him. He’s felt Smurfs hands all over him even when she’s not in the room, prodding and poking and silently placing her control over his very being with her affection and he’s had a handful of pained sexual encounters that left him throwing up in alleyways afterwards but he’d never had this except for you.
So gentle and never demanding anything from him in return. You don’t want him to touch you back or give you some sort of pleasure, you don’t even want him to let his guard down or weaken for you. There’s just the comfort and reassurance of your presence when it’s easy to forget.
His eyes meet yours and you shake your head before he can start.
“I don’t want another lecture about not understanding your mom because I do.” You whisper it like Smurf could possibly be overhearing your conversation, a precaution that is more for his paranoia than your own. “I’m not downplaying what she can do. But I’m safe and even more so when you’re here with me.”
“I’m not always here.” He nearly growls out in his own frustration and your eyes somehow soften even more.
“But you are right now so please just…” You sigh and his heart clenches. “Be here with me and pretend that doesn’t exist for now.”
It’s easier said than done but Pope would do just about anything to please you so he tries his best, swallowing the urge to triple check the locks and windows even though he knows you wouldn’t judge him for it.
You don’t last long trying to finish up the dishes before you started to yawn and he encourages you to go to bed with a gentle hand on your lower back guiding you to the hallway, one of the rare times he initiates the contact.
He finishes them for you and then stands in the living room for a good twenty minutes, fingers drumming against his leg and jaw clenching until his teeth ache while he contemplates leaving.
He knows you hate when he leaves without saying goodbye first, hates when he leaves in general. You are probably laying in bed still wide awake just so you can hear the sound of the door closing, not shying away from telling him tomorrow how it disappoints you every time.
It takes a lot out of him to turn and head back down the dark hallway even though it’s all worth it when he sees the way your eyes light up when he makes a gruff noise indicating he wants you to scoot over and make room for him in the bed.
Pope can never sleep and he doesn’t expect it anymore, he’s used to the constant exhaustion headaches and the stiffness in his neck when he dozes off sitting up too many times. Like most things in his life, you’re the exception.
Maybe it’s the way your nails drag against his clothed back or the fact he can hear your breathing level out and know you’re safe and alive right beside him, but he’s only able to drift off when sleeping in your bed with you. The nightmares don’t ever let up but they’re much more manageable when he can jolt awake and find himself still in your room, your arms wrapped around him as you instinctively shift closer throughout the night.
Tonight, it’s not the nightmares that wake him up.
It’s the sharpness of your breath as you sit up, your hands rubbing over his chest to shake him lightly as you whisper his name. He’s hit with confusion and panic as he sits up but then he understands when he hears the sharp knocks coming from your front door.
You never have visitors in general that aren’t him but it’s nearing three in the morning now and nothing good can come out of the extensive knocking the continues impatiently.
Pope is up and out of bed, ignoring your whispers of protest as he grabs his gun from the chair in the corner of the room.
“Pope.” You stand up to chase after him but he turns around in the dark hallway and gives you a stern look, pointing silently back to the room and not walking towards the door until you deflate and nod in defeat.
He’s completely tense as he nears the front door where the knocking hasn’t ceased and he halfway considers just firing through the door and dealing with the consequences afterwards but he figures you’d be pissed if he ruined the welcome mat.
“Open the goddamn door already.”
His freezes for a completely different reason once the voice registers and now he can hear you scoffing and stomping down the hallway. You brush past him and throw open the door, glaring at the sight of his three brothers standing in the outdoor corridor.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” You’re practically hissing as they come inside like it’s not the middle of the night. You don’t even bother stopping Pope once he finally unfreezes and roughly shoves the nearest brother backwards, which happens to be Deran.
“We called you a hundred times man.” Baz shouts, wincing when you shush him aggressively and throw a pillow from your couch. “You said he wasn’t here.”
His finger points accusatorially at you for about half a second before Pope is smacking it out of the air and stepping in front of you, blocking you from the others line of vision.
You sigh from behind him and rub a hand up his arm gently, coaxing him to relax and take a few steps back before they end up fighting in the middle of your tiny living room.
Craig shoots a look at Deran when he notices the touch that neither of you miss and Pope glares at them both. He almost feels sick from the intrusion even though it’s completely selfish. His brothers know you’re close to each other and can see the bond you have but this is different.
This is supposed to be the place he can go to escape from it all, his own separate world with you where he doesn’t have to be Pope Cody but instead he can just be Andrew who gets his favorite dinner cooked for him by a beautiful girl before they go to sleep peacefully.
A sleep so brutally interrupted.
“Listen we didn’t want to come.” Baz softens and does that tone of voice he always does when he wants to control Pope easier, speaking slowly like he’s having to use all his energy to pretend they’re equals. “But it’s important. We need you at the house.”
Pope is frozen as he considers, distracted enough to not notice the way Craig is eyeing the untouched couch and your messy sleep hair. You raise your eyebrows at him which makes him finally break and start to laugh at the apparent absurdity of Pope clearly having been sleeping in your bed with you.
“Just go with them.” You say gently with a tired sigh, stepping back closer to him so you can touch his elbow lightly and get him to focus. “Call me when you’re done or use your key.”
You ignore Deran whispering something to Craig about the key comment, rolling your eyes when Pope tenses up again under your touch. Finally his eyes meet yours and he hesitates before nodding in agreement, nostrils flaring a little from his irritation.
You look so tired and understanding and he considers what it means that he’d probably kill his brothers if it meant he got to get back into bed with you for a few more hours.
It’s easy to forget about his own homicidal inner dialogue when you’re leaning up on your tiptoes to place a kiss against the corner of his mouth. You weren’t shy with your affection but that was a stretch, even for you, and for once the others don’t seem to want to laugh about it.
They looked just as thrown as Pope feels when you give him a sheepish smile and head back to your bedroom, trusting him to get them out of there and lock up before he leaves like it’s his apartment too.
—
Pope doesn’t call you that night and you don’t hear the lock turn at any point, no bed dipping under his weight or his arms around you when you wake up.
You try not to think much of it especially knowing how hesitate he can be, almost constantly shy even though you’ve known him for longer than you can remember. He’s not one to make the first move even if you had invited him back, most likely doubting himself on if you truly meant it for the entire night.
But two days passed and you started to feel like something was wrong.
It wasn’t completely unusual but typically he’d atleast let you know before he was going to get busy or he sent out of town on some random Smurf errand. His brothers hadn’t looked too spooked the night they came to get him but your mind was filling with possibilities.
Maybe it was a job gone wrong, either he’d gotten hurt or locked back up. You weren’t really sure how you’d be able to handle Pope being back in prison, knowing how hard it was for him the first time.
This line of thinking led to you heading over to the Cody house, something you tried to avoid now that you were an adult. Especially by yourself, unable to remember the last time you’d gone over there without your father or Pope to accompany or invite you.
Deran was in the kitchen when you walked in and he gave you a heavy look, riddled with such guilt that your stomach turned and you had to slow down to swallow the bile building in your throat.
“He’s here?” You croaked out and he nodded with a sigh, gesturing his arm back towards where Popes room was.
You hadn’t been down the hallway in a few years, unable to stand it when it was empty while he was locked up and recently he’d been solely coming over to your place. He’d told you one night quietly in bed that he didn’t want you around Smurf anymore, a desperate plea that you didn’t fully understand.
You knew what she could do and you knew her influence on Pope but you had your own blood running through Oceanside that left you a little bit more protected than most people. Smurf didn’t scare you but you knew she scared him so you did what he asked and stayed away.
He was standing up when you walked in, pulling a shirt over his head full of wet curls like he’d just gotten out of the shower. Your lips pursed as you stood in the doorway, unmoving as his eyes landed on you and he jumped a little.
You watched as he naturally relaxed at the sight of you before stiffening completely like he remembered the reason you’d be standing outside his room with that pained look on your face.
You’re across the room before he can say anything even though you figured he wasn’t going to speak much anyways, your typically gentle hands shoving roughly at his chest. He winces at the shove but doesn’t resist, barely budging until you push him one more time and he stumbles backwards a few steps.
“You disappear.” You shove again. “You don’t call, you don’t text me.” Each statement is emphasized with a push until he’s had enough, gripping your wrist tightly and huffing a little as he stares down at you.
Your eyes are pained and angry, an expression he hasn’t seen on your face in nearly a decade. You were the one touch of gentleness he had in this world and he felt terrible for pulling a gross emotion like this out of you.
“Do you even care that I worry about you?” You laughed bitterly as you stared up at him and his stoic face, searching for answers in the blank look. “Can you fucking say something?”
It takes him a few seconds, holding your wrist tightly still until you finally relax and let out a defeated breath. He only lets you go once he knows you’re not going to fight him anymore and you step away as soon as you’re freed from his grasp.
“I’m sorry.” He rasps it out and follows you as you try and create some distance, eyes a little pleading. You give him a stern look, wanting him to cut it out before you fold as easily as always when he gets like this.
“You can’t keep doing this to me Pope.” Your voice is as stern as it can be with the knowledge you’d let him do whatever he wanted for the rest of your lives.
He frowns deeply and you know why before he says it, knows how much he hates to hear that nickname from you. It slips sometimes when you’re not thinking, especially when you’re back in this nearly haunted house and so upset with him.
You feel bad despite your anger and stop walking backwards, letting him close the distance until your hands can run over his back. He tucks his head down into your neck and lets out a breath so heavy it makes the hairs on your arms raise.
“Should’ve called.” He whispers against your warm skin and you can fill in the blanks on your own.
You can see the bags under his eyes and the way his sheets are tucked neatly like nobody has touched them in weeks, the fact he was wincing while pulling his shirt on like something on his body was hurting more than usual.
You didn’t even want to hear him say what they’d been up to the last few days even though you knew he’d tell you as soon as you asked, never lying to you even if it hurt him to admit some things. The embarrassment and guilt on his face always made you regret asking, like a good dog who had bit somebody without meaning to.
He picks his head up at your silence and your eyes lock, pressing forward until your foreheads are leaned against each others. You sigh and bunch the fabric of his shirt up in your fist, making his breath stutter a little.
“Just come home okay?” You whisper as your eyes shut for a moment from sheer desperation.
He’s nodding immediately, still going until you open your eyes again and see him clearly, making sure you understand that he knows what you mean by home and he’s willingly to go with you no matter the consequences.
First date with Pope that you plan after getting to know him is to the aquarium. It's a local Californian culture exhibit and he mentioned nature being calm and obviously something precious to him and you two geek out over the fishies and stuff.
Some fluffy stuff I guess. I need ooey gooey mush because he deserves to smile.
I was just thinking, thx for listening,
--xoxo
— ᴀǫᴜᴀʀɪᴜᴍ ᴡ/ ᴀɴᴅʀᴇᴡ 𓆝⋆｡˚
→ warnings: pope cody x f!reader, 1k wc, reader is described as wearing a dress and heels [the only describers], oogy gooey fluff and sweetness because andrew deserves it, nicknames [sweet girl/boy, baby]
→ a/n: i wanna go on an aquarium date with pope so bad ughh!! and ofc ill always listen feel free to send me other thoughts you have!! as always this wasn’t proofread sorry in advance!
Pope was nervous to say the least, for a man who is usually the one planning things out down to the last second so that nothing goes wrong, he was a little weary about you being the one to plan your next date. Not that he doesn't have faith in you, he’s just a tad anxious when he doesn't know the itinerary for the day.
You had been getting to know Andrew for a few months now, some in Oceanside may call you crazy for willing getting closer with “the” Pope Cody. You however could immediately see past the very gruff front he puts on for the world and you act as if him being a Cody is nothing. Which he loves but he thinks Smurf would just about have a stroke if she knew, but so far Pope’s been able to keep you off her radar and he wants it to stay that way.
As you and Andrew have gotten closer, talking for hours and hours on the beach or in your apartment, you learn little facts here and there about the man. Surprising things such as for a quote un-quote tough guy, he loves nature, and he regularly watched wildlife, animal nature related documentaries. He’s even got you to sit with him and watch some nights after your dates to relax as he told you that they calm him down. Andrew says he liked learning about it all, and the animals, practically the predator animals he finds interesting.
You may or may not have started researching for zoos or exhibits or aquariums, anything close by with the cool animals he mentioned the second you get home. It had taken a little convincing to get Pope to agree, not because he didn’t want to go, no never that but because you told him the destination was a secret. That was the part he was worried about. He didn’t like not knowing where he was going, as you drive the two of you there — (which is another thing that feels incredibly odd and wrong to andrew. however you knew the location he didn't so it made sense but he made sure to inform you he was driving you two home after.) he is looking at his surroundings and he recognizes places which is good but they give him no indication of your final destination.
He trusted you don’t get him wrong, probably far more than he should considering who he was and what he did but you had made it so easy for him. You almost act as melatonin for his body, calming his nervous system the second he is looking at you, you don’t even have to be looking back at him for it to work.
He’s a little too lost in his head, staring at the side of yours with his hand absent mindedly playing with the small bows on the side of your pretty sundress. He thinks his heart just about gave out when you opened the door for him and he saw it. You are always beautiful to Andrew but especially in dresses and little heels.
Turning your body towards as the car stops in place after your best parking job you think yet, you run your fingers through the curls at the base of Pope’s neck, looking at him with a small smile and a glimmer in your eyes. “We’re here Andy, what do you think?” you ask with a hint of nervousness as you attempt to gauge his reaction while he reads the big sign outside the building.
SEA LIFE aquarium. You took him to an aquarium. He’s in love.
You only catch a glimpse of what you think is a big dopey smile overtake his face before his lips come crashing down on yours. “Mmpf- I’ll- I’ll take that as a good sign?” you question through soft giggles against his mouth as you kiss back, sliding your hand from the back of his neck to cup his cheek. “We aren’t even inside and this is the best day of my life already” He mumbled in response, a slew of thank you’s are released after and you think your heart both beats faster and breaks a little at how earnest of a statement that was.
Pulling away, a big smile morphs on your lips as a short uncharacteristic whine leaves Andrew's mouth. “Come on sweet boy, let’s head inside” you giggle before you start to grab your things and unbuckle. In the blink of an eye he is unbuckled and already headed around the front of the car to the drivers side, pulling open your door for you. This is probably about your 10th date with Andrew and yet he still makes you giddy, every date makes you feel like a teenage girl on her first, both excited and nervous you love it. As you get out of the car you give him a little peck on the lips before he’s at your side following you into the aquarium.
The two of you walk hand in hand through the isles and exhibits in the aquarium. You swear Pope has stars in his eyes as he watches all the different fish and other aquatic animals swim around. However what you hope and think will be his favorite part has yet to come.
“Let’s go down this tunnel baby” you prompt, turning to go down the ocean tunnel. He follows behind with little dragging willing to go just about anywhere with you. He stops however mid tunnel, staring in disbelief as blacktip reef sharks swim all around the tunnel. He’s 100% in love with you holy shit. “I remembered the first documentary you had put on after one of our dates about them and when i saw they had them here i really wanted to take you” you explain, not completely knowing how to take his silence and frozen state.
Snapping out of it he grabs ahold of your hand again and squeezes a few, looking at you with the most puppy-esque eyes ever, staring at you with so much love you’d think you had handed him the world. Those 3 words are on the tip of his tongue, but it's too early. And Andrew’s never been able to say them without it coming with a price, he doesn’t even know if you’d say them back. He can’t handle that right now and he really doesn’t wanna ruin this perfect day you’ve planned like he ruins everything else, so for now he’ll tuck them far away, beneath his ribs near his heart like everything else. With his grip on your hand he pulls you to his chest, kissing your head and holding you tight.
“This is perfect baby” "You're perfect sweet girl, thank you” he whispers softly as he holds you against him and watches the sharks swim by, his body relaxing.
The two of you walk hand and hand through the rest of the exhibits, you pointing out cool creatures and asking Andrew about them. Him excitedly telling you about them if he knows what they are and spewing out facts he picked up watching so many documentaries.
→ a/n: i wanted to make it semi realistic so i used an aquarium near oceanside and that happens to be the one in/near legoland lmao. also sorry the aquarium bit/geeking out over fish part is short i havent been to one is so long and didn’t know how i wanted to write about it.
you settled into bed with your book propped on your knees. the sheets were cool and soft. pope slid in right behind you, pressing his chest to your back and shifting until his cheek was flush against yours. his face nestled there, eyes scanning the same page you were on, breath tickling your skin. you turned the page slowly and he adjusted without a word, arms looped loosely around your middle, fingers resting still on your stomach.
the room was quiet except for the faint rustle of paper and the shared rhythm of your breathing. you kept reading, focused on the story, while his warmth seeped into you and his lashes brushed your cheek every so often when he blinked.
later at lunch you carried your plate to the table but pope was already seated, patting his thigh once. you slid onto his lap without comment, settling comfortably as his arms wrapped fully around your waist, hands clasped over your belly. he held you close, chin resting on your shoulder while you ate, fork moving steadily from plate to mouth.
his hold stayed firm but gentle, thumbs occasionally stroking small arcs over your shirt, never interrupting. you focused on each bite, chewing thoughtfully, the weight of him grounding and familiar behind you. he said nothing, just breathed evenly, content to keep you anchored there until the plate was empty.
afterward you moved to the living room for laundry. the couch was piled with clean clothes. you stood sorting and folding while pope sat on the edge of the cushion right behind you. his arms circled your body, hugging your hips, and he leaned forward until his head rested on the curve of your ass, cheek pressed softly against the fabric of your pants. you kept working, hands smoothing shirts and pairing socks with the practiced motions from you.
the ironing board was set up nearby and you shifted slightly to reach it, pressing wrinkles out of a blouse with steady sweeps of the iron. pope moved with you, arms never loosening, his head staying nestled there like it belonged, quiet and heavy in the best way. the scent of fresh laundry filled the air and the low hum of the iron was the only sound besides your occasional soft exhale.
he clung without speaking, simply holding on as you finished each piece, his presence warm and constant through every fold and press. and the whole afternoon passed like that, easy and close to you, his silent attachment making every ordinary task feel completely wrapped in him.
Jack Abbot x Ms. Honey type teacher!reader 🥹 Dr. Abbot’s modern, minimalist bachelor pad is now home to lots of glitter, pipe cleaners, and colored construction paper. When Jack proposes to you, he does the same thing Ben Stiller’s character does in Meet the Parents, where he gets her kids to hold up signs with letters that spell out ‘Marry Me?’ On his days off from the hospital, he brings you lunch to your classroom. And when he gives you a quiet ‘Pick you up later honey,’ followed by a sweet kiss on the cheek, all the kids yell ‘Oooooh!’ and the class erupts in fits of giggles.
When he can, he likes to help you when you do fun days or excursions for the kids. He brings the muffins for ‘Muffins with Mommy’ day at school, he drops off those worksheets you forgot at home this morning - he even buys your classroom supplies if the school doesn’t have funding for what you want to do. They won’t give you the money to buy books for the class? Jack’s already placed an Amazon order. They won’t provide the funds for a field trip to that dinosaur museum? Jack’s paying for the day passes for your class and the chaperones. On career day he even comes to talk about what it’s like to be a doctor!!! And he somehow convinces Robby to come too. All the moms in the classroom are just fucking swooning over the both of them the whole time - some in front of their husbands 😭
As aforementioned, he also likes to take you to work and pick you up on his days off. You wave at him after school when you see him patiently leaning against his truck in the parking lot. He smiles watching you say goodbye and interact with the kids as they leave with their parents. One of the kids’ dads is taking his sweet ass time asking you questions about an upcoming field trip, including if you need any chaperones 🙄 Queue Jack strutting across the parking lot, puffing his chest out a little extra.
He walks right up to the two of you, greets you with a not at all quiet ‘Ready to go sweetheart?’ and wraps a warm and possessive hand around your waist. He takes your teaching bag for you and grabs your hand, interlocking your fingers as the two of you walk back to his truck. He opens the door for you and gives you a cheeky pinch on the ass for only the flirty dad to see - then waves smugly, just to make it extra clear you’re taken. You poke fun at him for it in the truck, only for him to respond with, ‘Don’t they know it’s Mrs. Abbot, not Ms. Abbot? Maybe it needs to be bigger on your classroom newsletter for the parents, baby.’
A beloved part 2 to Barbie Doll, but can be read as a standalone.
Pairing: Jack Abbott × nurse!reader
Wc: 9.3k (i was litr aiming for 3k…)
Description: You and boyfriend haven't done much besides making out. Cut to a drunk you trying to get him to fuck you last night (and him fending you off with remarkable constraint). The morning comes with heartfelt conversations and pancakes nobody ends up eating because, well…Jack was craving something else.
Or, your respectable attending ends up between your legs, for the first of many times.
Tags/warnings: Massive age gap (r in 20s, abbot is 50), size diff, Idk what the insides of a man's bedroom must look like, r has enough hair to be tied back, r is referred to as a girl, r has limited experiences with sex, r is insecure, self-esteem issues, r mentioned to have a soft curvy belly, r has breasts, long makeout sesh, r is kinda bratty, v little blood mention, finger sucking, slightly voyeuristic in the sense that jack talks abt putting a picture of her tits in his house, r has a vagina, pussy pronouns, r has a bush (tongue sticking out emoji), this man is pussy drunk, oral (f recieving), mentions of male masturbation, dom!jack, (1) thigh slap, a lil hair tugging, very mild degradation (needy, messy), a lot of praise, a lot of pet names: baby, honey, princess, sweetheart, kid, etc
Note: Im ngl i almost put a daddy kink, but idk my audience that much yet. Also, this is my first time writing smut. Also I'm a virgin who can't drive (but im learning to!!!), so be kind bcos this was purely based on imagination and my studying of smutty fics. Happy gooning, if you do. Also tell me if you do.
You swing your arm over the top half of your face, instinctively smacking your lips together to find them chapped and dry, just like your throat.
What –
Where are you?
A groan escapes your lips when you retract your arm, moving your head to take in your surroundings. The white ceiling greets you, wooden fan spinning at a medium speed, and you avert your gaze before you throw up in —
Jack's bed, you realise. You're in his bed. His room. To your right, deep blue blinds cover the floor-to-ceiling windows you know are there. To your left wall, his laptop sitting closed on his neat oakwood study desk, next to his reading glasses, and…
A clear container, about the size of your hand, filled with 2-3 hair ties, a couple of tic tac hair clips, and a small lip balm.
You didn't put that here. You may spend a lot of your time at this house in the past 6 weeks, but you were always hesitant of taking up his space in ways that matter. A toothbrush next to his in his bathroom, and two of your t-shirts in his closet, that's it, you were content with that.
Seeing that small box, though…you felt a warmth bloom in your chest, making you smile while you lay alone in his bed.
Wait.
Alone.
Where is your boyfriend?
You rise up on your elbows, sucking in a sharp breath at the piercing pain in your back. You look around; The bathroom door is shut with no noises coming from the inside. You rub the empty space next to you on the bed, patting the soft bedsheets, only to find them cold.
You frown. Until you notice the bedside table. His rolex sprawled next to a tall glass of water, mouth covered with a strip pack of medicine. Your phone is plugged into the charger, flashing a “fully charged.”
You sit up sluggishly, popping an Advil out of the pack, and depositing it on your tongue. You wash it back with a sip of water, and then hungrily empty the whole glass.
Your bare feet touch the carpeted floors, determined to find your missing boyfriend. You walk towards the bedroom door — slightly cracked open — and pull it wide open, the well-oiled hinges making no disturbance.
Small memories from last night start flooding in, once your mind gets the memo to wake up. You internally wince. Jeez. You broke your heels you spent your savings on?
But you forget all about that when you see Jack in the open kitchen, spreading a batter evenly on a pan, a bottle of your favorite maple syrup sitting not too far away. A stack of golden, fluffy, pancakes sits pretty on a plate, making your heart swell in affection, and stomach stirring in excitement.
He's still shirtless, only sporting his soft, grey sweatpants. And he's making breakfast. The two best things a man can do: cooking, and giving you a show.
Okay, maybe that's a little objectifiable coming from such a progressive person as you. He's a man, so what, that doesn't mean he wants to be leered at.
That, obviously, doesn't make you feel any shame. Before he notices you, you make the best of it. You drag your eyes down to his hard stomach, and up his chest, moving rhythmically with soft breaths. His muscular arms are methodically working the pancakes, just as you like them.
Your gaze travels to his hips where the sweats hang loosely. You can see where his V-line begins, and goes on to disappear in his pants. Could you trace it with your finger? Would he shiver and throw his head back, or clutch your wrist again to stop you?
Oh, you could take his house tour.
Just when you start getting a little breathless, a voice rings in your brain. Your voice.
“Why haven't we fucked?”
You immediately cringe. Oh, god. You are never drinking again. One of the most serious conversations you've been meaning to have, and you dumbly blurt it all out inebriated.
“Thought I was the one with the staring problem,” you flinch out of your embarrassing spiral, your boyfriend's slow drawl dragging you back to present. You clear your throat, willing some semblance of grace back in you.
You don't speak till you've reached him, standing behind his back, not daring to look him in the eye right now. You wrap your arms around his torso, palms grazing the sculpted plane of his stomach, now tensing under your touch. You bury your nose in his warm skin, inhaling deeply. Your own muscles relax when his scent fills you, something clean and musky, and a hint of his cedarwood soap. The ache in your head dulls, and his heavy presence wraps throughout your mind in a pleasant mist.
You press a soft kiss exactly where your lips rest against his back — a few inches below his neck. A muscle there jumps and you suppress a smile, even though he can't see you.
“Morning. You like leaving your girlfriend alone in your bigass bed?” you ask, pressing another kiss to the same spot.
“Don't think you really mind the way you're all over me.” His large arms keep moving, though your view is obstructed with his back.
You scoff, “well, thanks for the Advil, doctor.”
His hand reaches around his back to pat your hip twice before withdrawing it. “How's the headache? Shouldn't be too bad, I only let you nurse on rookie stuff.”
“Didn't feel very rookie, or maybe I'm just a lightweight,” you mumble, hot breath falling over his freckled skin.
Jack chuckles, and you absorb it as much as you can, saving it for later replays. “You did good, honey. You were a fun drunk, really.”
You huff, “you'd say that, of course, I tried to seduce you.”
You hear the flop sound of a pancake hitting the pan after being flipped. “Didn't think you'd remember.”
“Thought or hoped?”
“Desperately wished you would.”
The morning has made him slower and softer, his usual charm and humor taking a backseat in face of domesticity. Look at you, taming a rugged silver fox. Before you know, you hear the swift flick of a dial, gas being turned off, and he spins in your arms.
You look up at him. The tip of his nose is a little rosy, and his eyes have lost the sharpness in them — the one you've seen in ED, or when you particularly provoke him for attention. His curls are tipping over to his forehead, creating jagged shadows against his face. You don't think he's shaved today, so you send a silent ‘thank you’ to angels who govern DILFs.
He drags his hands up your arms, until they're cupping your face with great care, pads of his thumbs stroking across your cheekbones, before digging into the apple of your cheeks, effectively squishing them. Your lips pucker out without your permission, and you watch a boyish smile take over his face.
“You look adorable when you're not runnin’ your mouth.”
“Would you like me to become quiet and reserved? Because, I assure you, you will miss this mouth,” your speech comes out slightly muffled, and then returning to normal when he softens the pressure of his thumbs.
The corner of his lip quirks, and you watch the playful glint take its familiar place in his eyes. “It's a great mouth, I'll admit. Solid 8 out of 10.”
Your said mouth falls open, eyes widening in disbelief. “Excuse you, sir, don't undersell me. Where am I losing the 2 points?”
Jack pretends to think, letting out an unnecessarily long hum. “The fact that you've been up and about for —” he checks the wall clock behind you, “— 6 minutes and haven't kissed me yet.” He tuts in disappointment, shaking his head disapprovingly at you.
“That's what you get for leaving me alone in bed.”
“Tough crowd. I'm sorry then, I should've been holding you, sending a body double to make breakfast for you. I'll do better next time.”
“It's okay, we all have our learning curves, you'll learn, Dr. Abbot,” you coo, patting his back a little too roughly.
“Now, where were we…8 out of 10…2 left…” he trails off, bumping his nose against yours, and lifting your chin. He tilts his head down, sliding one hand to the back of your neck to keep you steady. He always does this, the smooth motherfucker, being tender while still being in charge.
As soon as his lips caress yours, you dodge, and he ends up kissing your ear instead.
“I have morning breath,” you pull back to look up in his eyes again, fixing him with your best bambi eyes.
“When has that ever stopped us? We once made-out for 30 minutes straight right after waking up. I felt like a teenager.”
“Yeah, because I'd gotten up, like 30 minutes ago, to brush my teeth and apply lip gloss.”
His mouth hangs open in shock, “what?” he asks, eyebrows furrowing together.
“...yeah. Do you really think I look like a pretty princess in the morning, Jack?” You huff a laugh, stating the obvious. Men.
Instead of a joke about your hair, or another wave of mock surprise, his lips downturn in a frown. The palm on your check moves up a couple inches, fingers toying the hair on your temple.
“Baby…did I ever make you feel like you had to do that?” His question comes not defensively, but low, distressed, and so, so delicate. It's like he's genuinely seeking your answer, treading with caution, allowing you to be vulnerable should you choose to.
“What? Jack. No. I've been doing this since, like, when I first slept over at someone's place.” Your fingers tighten on his back, holding him to you.
“Did they make you feel like you had to?” Your chest tightens at his concern, his protectiveness, and over what? Something you just off-handedly joked about? Something you didn't even give a conscious thought to?
Maybe that's the issue, that it's so internalised, you haven't seen anything wrong with it until now. You don’t know whether you should relish in his sweetness, or be embarrassed that a man out-feministed you.
Your eyes soften, the warmth blooming inside your chest has reached the tips of your fingers, your legs, down to your toes.
Oh, he's taken over you.
“Jack…you're so sweet, but I swear it's not that big of a deal. It's never made me upset or anything.” You unwrap your arms from his midriff, skimming your hands up his forearms, to reassuringly squeeze his biceps.
“Kind of a big deal if you feel like getting up 30 minutes early to make yourself look ‘presentable’ or whatever other bullshit your mind is telling you.”
Well, if he puts it like that.
You pause, feeling such deep adoration for this man and not the momentary kind, no. The kind that settles beneath your ribs and slips between joints, places unreachable, even to you. It's such a loss of control, to have such…like for someone that they're rooted deeply enough inside you. So much so that you've lost all jurisdiction of your own heart.
You're in freefall.
He must've seen it in your eyes, because he gently tugs at your hair strand, before tucking it behind your ear. “Hey.”
“Hi.”
“What's going on in your brain? I thought it was mostly barren land up there.”
You smack his bicep. “Mister, I don't know who you are, but I'm a nurse at the PTMC. Treat me with respect, or else.”
“Just felt a shiver run down my spine,” he deadpans.
You smile thankfully and twist your head to kiss his palm.
“I'm serious, honey. I want you to share this stuff with me,” his voice turns sombre again, in a way that always strips you bare of your defenses.
“You don't have to fix something you didn't break.”
“If you have a tiring day because of a shift, am I not allowed to hold you to sleep?”
“Jack…” you softly whine.
“Isn't this exactly the kind of thing why we've been hesitant to take a step forward?”
Your mind recalls some bits of last night — the genuine need to touch him, to be touched, to lose control. Was it liquid courage, or was it because your mind was hazy enough to not conjure your insecurities?
“Can we have a proper talk about this? Right now?”
“Yes.”
“Can I go brush my teeth in case the conversation lasts 2 minutes, and then we straight up just start climbing each other?”
“No.”
“Pretty please?”
A long suffering sigh from him.
“Okay, princess.”
7 minutes and 1 aggressive teeth brushing session (wherein you literally made your gum bleed because of haste), you exit from the bathroom into his bedroom.
You accidentally shut the door too hard behind you, and nervously clap your hands together. “Okay! Let's talk about fucking.”
Jack, who was reading a news article on his phone, blinks at you. Slowly, he takes off his reading glasses — which, sad — and sets them on his bedside table. He has removed his prosthetic, always preferred it off while in bed, and the empty fabric of his pant leg is rolled up to above his knee.
You climb on his bed, crawling over to him.
“How about we first talk about not calling it ‘fucking'? I'm a 50 year-old man, not a 21 year-old boy who wants to get in your pants.”
“Spoilsport,” you mutter before finding your place. Not on the bed. On him. Your knees dig into the soft cushion behind him, thighs bracketing his hips. A soft, pleasing, hum escapes you.
You may not have tried many — or, any — positions with him, but this one is your favorite, and you suspect it always will be. This, straddling his lap, after bad days and good, having him close enough to sink in his presence, without losing your own.
It's like during your days, the scale tipped too much in either direction, and made your anxiety go broom. With him, the scale stabilised. The universe balanced itself as long as Jack was touching you.
His right hand rushed to your waist to anchor you, slipping past your t-shirt to find bare skin, thumb stroking against the side of your belly. His left finds your own hand, interlocking your fingers and resting them against his stomach.
“Okay, if you brought it up yesterday drunkenly, then you must've given it thought before,” he urges you softly.
You shift in his lap, and pretend not to notice the way he suddenly bites his lip. You take a deep breath, a familiar anxiety curdles in your stomach at the thought of talking about something that's so sensitive to you.
“I have, yes. Um…do you remember when we talked about this before as well? I, uh, don't have much experience with, well, fuc — sex. You know, shagging. Boinking. OH, horizontal tango.” Your mouth has a way of spitting out garbage nonsense whenever you’re experiencing nerves.
“Shut up,” your favourite doctor stops your verbal diarrhea, unimpressed.
“Rude. But…do you remember?”
“Of course, I remember.” Your heart leaps at his gentle tone, so good with giving space for your vulnerabilities.
“And you…” you laugh nervously, toying with the drawstring of his pajamas, eyes downcasted.
“Eyes on me, honey.”
You watch his dark irises, the lines of his forehead, stubble you know is prickly from having your fingers trace it many times. It’s him. You clear your throat before continuing and feel his hand squeezing yours.
“You're experienced. And I know that doesn't matter but…” you trail off before finding another thread, “do you know what it feels like to view yourself in third person?”
“Happens sometimes when I'm getting shot at, yeah. What about it?”
“It happens with me even outside the job. It's like I'm looking down at myself, observing the way my face looks, or my hands move, or my gait, or a bunch of other things. When I imagine having sex with you — and I have so much — all I can imagine is how I'd sound, what face I'll make, how my body would look…”
You shake your head, blinking away the tears that threaten to spill over. Your chest aches in the aftermath of your admission, never having admitted this loudly. “And none of it looks pretty in my head.”
You purse your lips, waiting for his response. What you feel first is the tightening of his fingers around yours. The hand under your shirt starts moving, up and down, in a slow rhythm, burning your skin with every stroke.
“Thank you for sharing that with me,” he murmurs, with this almost poignant look in his eyes. He brings your linked hands up to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss on the back of yours.
“Let's see it through. I'll start by telling you, I've imagined it multiple times as well, more than I should. Totally felt like a creep.”
Your cheeks burn.
“But it was never like the way you describe. In my imagination,” his hand tugging you closer, hot breath falling over your chin, “It's never about how you scream, it's about why. Is it because of my mouth, fingers, or what?”
You gulp.
Or, what?
You're pretty sure you feel the “or, what” stirring alive beneath you, hardening against your inner thigh. It's so hard not to move.
Jack tips his head forward, pressing his lips to the side of your jaw, “As for how your face would look; as long as your shiny eyes are on me, and your mouth is falling open, I think you're good.”
His next attack is to the corner of your lips, “and what about your body? How do you think it would look?”
He doesn't get a response, because all functions to your brain have been cut off. His right hand halts, settling an inch below your breasts, the side of your shirt hanging around his wrist.
“Tell me,” he softly commands.
“Awkward and lousy, not knowing what to do. And my skin would have folds and rolls. Also, do you know boobs are never really evenly sized? One is always bigger,” you blurt out.
Jack laughs, always more amused with your neurotic babble than repulsed. Your shoulders drop a fraction. “Yes, I know, that's the beauty of them. Otherwise, what's the difference between you, and say…a barbie doll?”
And so he makes you smile, the one you flash only to him, the one that lets him know you’re okay. Just like that. He looks proud about it too.
Speaking of sizes, his gaze flickers towards your chest, lingering there before dragging their way up your mouth, and then your eyes again.
“Same for the rest of it. Don't worry about giving me more skin to kiss, I'll take care of it. Of you,” he says with sincerity and calmness, a level of assurance that feels like he took a walk with your mind. And then pressing a peck — finally — against your lips.
You don't feel your self-doubts vanishing, or your walls crashing down. But the door cracks open, and the light searing out is enough to take a step forward.
“Okay. I believe you,” you whisper, stealing another quick kiss from him. “But what if I, you know, fail you?” It comes out awkward, reflecting every bit of uncertainty in you, even when you can feel the length of him growing insistent.
“This will be about you first, what'd we talk about worrying? I'm a big boy, I can take care of myself…as I have, many, many times.”
The distance between you feels less, despite no moment. Have the walls started narrowing in? Your throat runs dry.
“What?” you stagger, brain feeling like scrambled eggs.
“What ‘what’? Because I'm 50, I don't have a libido?” he muses, voice raspy. His hand leaves yours, trailing its way up your arm. When it tangles in the hair behind your neck, the hand holding feels childish in comparison. He should’ve been doing this all along.
“I didn't say that. I just didn't think you…”
“What? Touched myself thinking of you? Palmed myself right here, on this very bed?”
Your lips part, eyeballs practically protruding out of your face like a cartoon character. You finally shift your weight. When his bulge connects with your crotch, you feel you’ve gone third base already. Even with layers in between, you feel how hard he is, probably enough to be in pain right now. But his face barely reflects that.
“Don't worry, not the same bedsheets.”
“Not exactly what I'm thinking about, doctor,” you breathe.
“Really? Feels like you should be.”
You smack his stomach, and he doesn't even flinch. Instead, his eyes crinkle and a smile makes its way like the sun rising in the sky.
A pause.
“Enough talking. C'mere.” He pulls you by the back of your neck, capturing your lips in a kiss. He moves like he’s in no hurry. While you hustle your way through every moment, Jack acts like all clocks have personally stopped so he can pass through.
He claims your bottom lip, leisurely enjoying the softness, and gives it a playful nip. Swallowing the gasp right out of your mouth, his palm tightens in your hair, tugging in a pleasant pressure to angle your head exactly like he wants. He hums in satisfaction, the rumble vibrating all the way down your chest, pooling between your thighs. You try to chase the heat, instinctively rolling your hips, getting greeted with a delicious friction that coaxes a helpless whine out of you.
His thumb strokes the underside of your breast, and you shiver, losing control over your own mouth, getting sloppy in your technique.
When Jack pulls back, your entire body disapproves, your lips immediately desperate enough to chase his again, a string of spit connecting yours to his before breaking. He chuckles, and you don't even have enough mind to even feel self-consciousness. You might as well be on another planet right now.
“You look like you haven't been kissed since middle school.” He watches your swollen, ruined, lips with pride blossoming in his abilities, clearly well enough to make you act depraved.
“That's not true. I was just kissed by an old white guy,” you breathlessly retort.
“Why are you kissing guys so different from your boyfriend?”
“Trying new things.”
“Fuck that. Haven't you heard, kid, older is better?” he replies smugly, before diving right back in, on a mission to catch your top lip this time. Unlike his hands, yours keep wandering — grazing his abdomen, tracing lines up his chest, finding home low on his waist, thumb hooking in his sweatpants.
The desperation is making you feel reckless; you sink your hips into his again, seeking that perfect, agonizing friction. A deep groan rips from Jack’s throat. His palms slam flat against your hips, squeezing them and bringing your tortuous grinding to a dead halt. “Stop,” he rasps, “do you want this to last or not?”
“What are you saying?” you ask, a poster child for innocence, with batting eyelashes and glossy eyes. To really drive it home, you roll your hips forward again, enjoying the way his eyes darken. This is safe territory, making out with him like you're still teenagers, and hell, if you're not gonna tease him.
“God, you're such a brat,” he murmurs, the rough whisper lost against your mouth when he sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of your upper lip, a fraction too deep. You moan at the sting, but the sound is cut short. Jack is already pulling back with a jolt, feeling the metallic taste of copper on his tongue.
“Fuck, baby, sorry, I —” the heat in his eyes instantly dissolve to swimming guilt. His hand rushes up to cradle your jaw with a sudden, trembling gentleness. His thumb sweeps across the hurt, wiping the small bead of red before it can run.
“Jack, it's okay, I promi —”
But he's already peppering apologies all over your face; lips meeting the tip of your nose, then the bridge; corner of your eyes; hollow of your cheeks; and a “feel better?” at your temple. Soft oh's leave your mouth, over and over and over.
You never want to hit the ground ever again. May he never run out of kisses.
“Never felt bad to begin with. I like a little mean.”
“Not when it’s our first time, honey.” The sharp edge of panic vanishes, leaving behind a quiet self-doubt, pulling his brows in a tight line. Your chest tightens when you peer into his eyes, and find them unmasked off any walls. You look straight into the deepest, darkest corners of him, the ones that come with tight security and deflecting jokes.
“Not our first time making out, Jack,” you softly reassure.
Jack presses a final, promising kiss into your hair. He exhales the last of his hesitance when he sees you — open, welcoming, entirely warm beneath him. “First time making out as foreplay,” his voice drops an octave, completely grounded now. “I need you to know we can stop anytime. Throw me off for all I care, if you get uncomfortable. Got it?”
You nod.
“Words. Big girl words.”
“Yes, Jack. I will kick you in case that happens.”
“My little footballer,” Jack coos. “Do you wanna get off my lap now?”
“Uh, no,” you dictate.
“Kinda have to, sweetheart, for what I'm planning next.”
You suck in a deep breath, your bravado actively flatlining at the thought of actually doing something more.
Jack reads the subtle tension in your shoulders instantly. “Hey,” he murmurs, hand soothing over your knee. “We can pause. No pressure.”
Your response is entirely physical. You swing your thigh over his lap, sliding off the comforting warmth, to sit beside him. His eyes follow the slow curve of your body, never breaking contact, until you’re settled on the mattress. A quiet approval settles on his features, “that's my good girl.” He tilts his head, studying your face, “still green?”
You nod.
Jack arches a brow.
“Still green. Now what?”
“Let's get you comfortable,” his hand trails over your neck, settling firmly on the back of your head, “like the ‘pretty princess’ you really are.” His other palm gently cups the dip of your waist, guiding you down until you're laying flat on your back on his navy blue sheets. He pauses, lifting your head just enough to slide a pillow beneath your head. His scent on the linen wraps around you, making you feel like you belong in his bed.
“So gorgeous, all pretty in my bed.” His dark gaze slowly drags over your body, “aren't you, honey?” He leans down, dwarfing your body with his large frame, pressing a lingering kiss just atop your nose, “eyes on me, yeah? Don't close them, no matter how good you feel.”
“You're pretty confident,” you murmur, squirming restlessly underneath him.
“You're about to know why.”
He steals your breath with another kiss, steady, deliberate, and unhurried — easing you in for what’s about to come. The tip of his warm tongue outlines your upper lip, tracing the edge until you eagerly part for him, begging for him to deepen the kiss. Instead, he pulls back, eyes snapping to the pulse in your throat.
“Hey, our tongues didn't battle for dominance,” you say excitedly, feeling pride at your hilarious reference.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He shoots you an amused look, shaking his head, before he's burying his nose into the slope of your neck. He breathes in deeply, drinking your scent in, like a man starved. He's teasingly slow in his moments, treating foreplay like it’s the real meal. You wonder how he's still patient — you, on the other hand, have started to helplessly writhe, fucking yourself on empty air, desperate for him to finally take over.
His hand slides up your side, burning your skin on its way to ruck up your shirt. The cool bedroom air hits your exposed midriff, coaxing a sharp, involuntary arch of your spine.
“Jack, please,” you beg, voice shaking, needy for him. Your fingers tangle in his curls, fisting in a painful grip.
His stubble scratches your sensitive skin as he drags the tip of his nose down the curve of your neck, but you couldn't care less even if it left marks. When the fabric of your shirt gets in his way, his thick finger snags the neckline, tugging roughly to uncover a path.
He freezes, staring at the bare slope of your left breast, his breath hitching at the sight.
His tongue darts out to taste you, dancing over the swell before his teeth close to nibble on it. “Mm, fuuuuuck, baby. So fuckin’ sweet for me,” he rasps against your chest, drawing a whimper from you. He soothes the sting with slow circles of his thumb, followed by a final sweet kiss to the ache.
His pupils are blown wide with hunger, swallowing the color of his eyes, looking down at you like you’re his last meal on earth. His fingers toy with the hem of your top, playfully tugging the frayed edges.
“Need to see your sweet tits, baby,” he commands, voice dropping low. “Do you trust me?” he asks, low and throaty, studying your face for any shadows of hesitation.
Excitement and nervousness collide in your chest, and words get caught in the throat. He must see it, because he's tipping down, pressing his forehead flat against yours. “Gonna play with my pretty girls, give them so much love. Have thought a lot about them — fucked my fist first time I saw you in your black tank, pulling taut across your chest. They looked so perfect, sitting there and waiting.”
You frantically tug at his hair, “Jack, fuck, I'm gonna pass out,” you whisper, voice strangling with want.
“I asked if you trust me, honey.”
The excitement wins.
“Yes, please, take it off.”
“My good fuckin’ girl. Get up for me.”
Not a second later as soon as you're sitting up, his fingers hooking deep into the hem, “arms up, pretty girl.” The shirt catches at your ear, but Jack gently guides it off, carelessly tossing it behind his shoulder.
Your breaths come in shallow and ragged, as you sit fully naked from the waist up, in front of the man who's watching you like a hawk, tongue darting out to wet his lips. You watch as he tears his gaze away — with considerable effort — to assess your comfort. He cups your cheek, heavier than necessary.
“Green?”
“Green.”
“Of course. Where's that sharp tongue? Mind goes dumb when I touch you? It's okay, sweet girl, I'll do the thinking. Hm?” You sink your teeth into your lower lip, nodding fervently at him. Your blinks are slow and heavy, eyes getting glassier with sheer need. Any remaining logic melts away, turning you into putty under his control.
Oh, this is what it feels like.
“Big girl words,” he pats your cheek affectionately, a soft pat-pat.
“Yes. Just a bit nervous,” you admit.
He hums, eyes darkening in hunger as an idea crosses his mind. The pad of his thumb sinks into your bottom lip, “open up, baby.”
Without thinking, you oblige.
“So obedient,” he remarks, a low purr of proud satisfaction in his chest. “Here, take 1. You'll feel better.” His thumb slides past your lips, into your hot, slick mouth. “Suck it nice and clean, okay?”
You swirl your wet tongue around the tip of his thumb, coating it wet, and he hums in approval, “let me know if my girl needs 1 more.” He fluffs the pillow with his free hand, “now lie back, just like before.”
With you flat on your back again, his rough hands slide down your legs to encircle your ankles. Your feet rustle the sheets as he guides them backward, bending your knees and opening them wide, clearing space for his larger body. He positions his heavy weight between your thighs, hot breath falling on your breasts.
He presses his face into the soft valley of your chest, nuzzling the tip of his nose back and forth against your skin. “Better than I imagined. Fuck, doll,” he murmurs, pressing a trail of hot, wet kisses down your belly. The moment his lips touch the curve of your stomach, the muscles there instinctively tighten.
“Sweetheart," he rasps. "Let go.”
You try. You really do. But every time you try to let your tummy loose, let it sit naturally, it's like your brain panics and sends out an emergency signal, forcing you to flatten the softness there. “I…I'm trying.”
Your boyfriend puts a firm hand on your belly, feeling the rigid tension from sucking in, letting it rise and fall underneath his palm. He slowly lowers his mouth and you shiver when you feel the feather-light kiss.
“This is what you're worried about?” He squeezes the side of your waist, fingers digging in a possessive hold, placing an open-mouthed kiss right below your navel.
He huffs a low, fond sound. “Silly girl.”
“Let go,” he commands again, and this time your body listens to him, loud and clear. His authority cuts right through your defences, and you let the anxiety go with a shuddering exhale. He feels his hand filling up, your stomach softening entirely, and the weight of your skin perfectly molds into the curve of his palm.
“You don't realise how sexy this is, right? How fuckin’ hard I am —” as if to emphasise, he rolls his hips, and you cry his name, feeling his hard length on your thigh, “— more skin to grab, more of you to hold. Fuck, my beautiful girl, drivin’ me crazy. Gonna take such good care of this perfect body.”
Your spine arches off the mattress the moment he closes his hot mouth around your nipple, drawing a slow, satisfied whine from you. Your fingers blindly rush to bury his head even deeper, your cheeks hollowing, suckling his thumb on with a mind of its own.
He swirls his tongue around the pebbled tip, relieving it from the cool air of the room. Your hips buck desperately for friction, but the flat plane of his torso doesn't do much more than leave you aching for more. He withdraws his mouth, and with an almost playful focus, smears his spit across your areola with his thumb. Before you can even catch your breath, his mouth migrates to the peak of your other breast, giving it the same heated, biting attention. He finally frees his hand from your mouth, kneading the soft flesh of your breast that he’s temporarily left lonely.
He pauses to take a deep breath, burying his face between your tits, licking the space with a single-minded feverish dedication. When he pulls back, he just stares, admiring his craft, “fuck, look at the girls, baby. Such a pretty mess, covered in my spit. Makes me wanna take a picture, frame it in the living room. Do you think it'd be a nice replacement to that matisse hanging right at the center?”
His words send an unexpected thrill through your thighs, and you cry out again, not above begging him, “whate– whatever yo– you want, Jack, fuck, please…” your sentence comes out broken enough for Jack to shoot you a look of entirely mocking sympathy.
“Use your words,” he taps your lip. “Form a proper sentence, and we can decide, okay?”
“Please touch me,” your voice cracks at the magic word.
“Where, baby? I don't understand."
“Between my legs, Jack.”
“I still don't think you're using proper vocabulary, honey. What do you want me to touch?”
The frustration leaves your mouth in a whimper, “You're such an asshole.”
Jack laughs in amusement, “c'mon, let me help you, tell the doctor where it hurts.”
“My pussy, Jack. Touch my pussy.”
The crude words leaving your sweet mouth, snaps the last thread of his restraint, ripping a low, gravelly groan from deep in his chest. His hand slides down to palm his raging, thick erection through his pants, giving it a hard, painful squeeze before tearing his hands away.
God, you want to do that for him.
“Yeah? Your sweet pussy, baby?” he rasps, hungry eyes drilling into yours. “Did you get it all wet and messy for me?”
You nod frantically, answering in a breathy, desperate tone you don’t even recognise as your own, “yes, fuck, oh god. Just get down there. Please.”
“Since you asked so pretty. Your hips. Up up up.” You comply, and the moment you shift, his long fingers lock into the waistband, hurriedly dragging your shorts down your legs in a single, inpatient motion. He hurls them recklessly to the floor without even looking — so opposite to his controlled and calculated behavior out at the Pitt.
He glides down your body, large hands greedily palming every inch of bare skin he passes, until he's face-to-face from your damp panties. He taps his shoulder in a silent order, and even with your pleasure-drunk mind, you quickly recognize his demand. You slowly lift your legs, hesitating for a second before you slide your ankles down his back, knees hooking securely over his broad shoulders.
He toys with the edge of the fabric — soft, light pink, and nothing lacy or fancy about it. “Oh, where'd you get this lovely pair, baby?” Jack asks in a light, conversational tone, entirely too humorous for a man with his face a lick away from your crotch. All while you're writhing like an animal in heat. It's an intoxicating feeling, suddenly having lost all your inhibitions, obsessed with only one goal in your mind.
“I don't fucking know!” you exclaim, hot tears of pure, unadulterated desperation pool in your eyes.
“Think, sweetheart. I'm trying to talk to you here, and you're being all uncooperative.”
“I don't know. At the mall, maybe! It was a pack of three.”
“Aw, see, good girl, thank you for letting me know,” he praises. “Let's see how it feels,” he nuzzles his nose into the cheap, stretchy, fabric, sharply inhaling the sweet, rich scent of your arousal. It is an action so completely depraved, so utterly filthy, you can't fathom it's your respected attending.
Well, you never expected to be naked in his bed either. Life, you guess, occasionally handing lemons you don’t deserve.
“You smell so good, my pretty girl,” he thumbs the damp spot, a growing, wet circle of sheer need. “Is it the panties or is it you?”
“You should find out.”
“Oh, the brat returns!” Jack exclaims delightedly, giving your thigh a playful pat.
You pause for a heartbeat to take it all in, to look at the man who stores your hair ties in his room, who carries your purse without a smidge of male-ego (bare minimum, but respect), always seconding his needs to yours. It’s this instant you realize how relaxed you are, how safe, how at ease he's put you — you who not too long ago, was drowning in a sea self-doubts.
“Jack…”
Catching the sudden change in your tone, his brows snap together in concern, heavy hands gentling at your thighs in case you call a red. But you only smile at him. Your sweet, thoughtful, wonderful man.
“I just wanted to say, I care about your comfort, too. In case you need to stop, you can pull yourself back, or tap my thigh.”
For a moment, he freezes in surprise, caught completely off-guard, as if not expecting to have such considerate words offered to him too. His heart swells, growing twice as big, and you see it in the fond way he looks at you, overwhelmed and soft.
You wonder if he's in freefall too.
“Thank you and yes ma'am,” he replies sincerely, voice thick with emotion, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to your thigh.
The command in his cadence slips back just as easily as it left. “Now, I want you to take the other pillow as well, and prop it below you. You know. For easy watching.”
“Watch what?”
“You fucking yourself on my face.”
Oh, he's good.
Without a word, you oblige, adjusting the cushion behind you until your back is elevated. From up here, the sight is fucking obscene — your legs splayed open, throned on your boyfriend's sculpted shoulders, his eyes darting between your underwear and you, like he can’t decide which one looks more appetizing.
You swallow a gasp when he kisses your clit, right through the flimsy material.
“Can I see you, baby? See her?” He looks up, heavy-lidded, eyes boring into yours with unhinged intensity, like the fate of his future lies in your hands — like, if you were to say no, he would be a man destroyed. You're not sure how it's possible for a person so lust-ridden to look at you with such stilling devotion.
For the first time, you don’t lock up.
“Yes, please.”
He carefully peels your panties aside, as if unmasking a priceless gift, wanting to savor the precious moment. His eyelids flutter shut when your sweet, warm scent fills his room and he draws a deep breath to drink it in. When he opens his eyes, a look of pure awe takes over his face, eyes glinting with a feral light. He looks like a kid at Disney World, dizzy and starry-eyed, not a man about to eat you out.
“I knew it. I knew she'd be exquisite like you.”
You feel color rush to your cheeks, never having felt so exposed to someone. Sure, you've been seen naked, but not like this. Not only your body, you feel everything bare — your heart, your soul, your mind.
“I didn't really think of shavin —”
“Shut up. It's exactly how I like my food. Besides, you're a big girl, aren't you, honey?”
It seems he doesn't care for your verbal responses anymore, seeming dull and dry in comparison to the meal in front of him. He is completely spellbounded by your pussy. He swipes a firm, deliberate, thumb across its puffy lip, and you very coherently whine something along the lines of “nnngghh.”
He kisses your swollen bud again, this time with no barrier of cotton. Entranced, he mutters, “so pretty,” under his breath, deaf to your breathless begging. He presses against your glistening slit, teasing your heated, tight, opening and painting your pussy lips with your own stickiness.
“Well, to me, you look perfectly healthy, madam. What brings you here for a checkup?” he asks, voice gravelly and mockingly professional, examining your cunt.
“Jaaaaack, please. Baby…”
“Shhh, honey, I'm not talking to you,” he scolds, resuming his clinical conversation with your pussy. “Did you only need a doctor to fuck yourself stupid?”
“Stop kidding around, oh my —”
Your head falls back helplessly when the flat of his tongue connects with your slit. He expertly licks a long, broad stripe from your opening, all the way up to your swollen peak, eager to taste every inch of the wet skin. Your thighs tightly squeeze around his face, the pressure doing nothing to deter him from the divine purpose he’s been given.
“— God…”
“No god. Just Dr. Abbot.”
His hand is quick to sting your thigh in a reprimanding slap for shaking violently enough to vibrate his shoulders. “Remember, eyes on me. And voice loud, I need to know what's feeling good.”
“Everything feels good. Just don't fucking stop.”
“Bossy,” he mutters, before using his meaty fingers to pry apart your folds, slowly revealing the pink flesh, shining like a diamond for him. Lost in his hunger, his mouth latches itself to your inner lips, sucking each gently, confident he has your time, attention, body for as long as he wants, with the way you’re greedily responding to him. He hums in contentment, doing it for his enjoyment just as much for yours.
Your hips buck, burying his face deep enough to cut off his air-supply. His name falls over your lips, again and again, like a prayer unanswered. Encouraged by your more than enthusiastic response, he doubles down on his efforts at the same slick spot. He is perfect at this dance, a quick study of every hitch of your breath, every gasp, every twitch of your hips — using these mental notes to his advantage.
Your speech has become a mess — “nnghhhhhfuuckkk” or “jackkkkfuckgod” or even “imgonnadie”
His tongue rushes to your entrance again, impatient but not sloppy, to taste you, to not let a single drop go to waste when he’s here, starving for more.
“Fuck, pretty. Such a messy girl, tsk.”
Your nails drag into his scalp in a hurtful scratch which neither one of you seems to care about. With every lap against your warm, inviting hole, the tip of his nose rubs against your clit in a strong friction, sending the bundle of nerves into instant overdrive.
“Fuuckkknngh…” you speak eloquently.
He intently focuses — more than you've ever noticed in the ED — switching masterly between the flat of his tongue to lick broad, wet, stripes and his lips for slow, torturing suctions. His mouth fucks you with precision, knowing where exactly where to ease off, and where to tease an “aaaahhghh” out of you.
Your entire world tilts, brain turning to liquid, when he finally closes in around your bud. You yank the soft strands of his hair, accompanying the mindless action with a guttural moan so unlike you, teared right out of your throat.
“God, yes, like that. Just like that,” you fervently gasp.
Unlike other people you've been with, he doesn't increase or alter the pressure at your enthusiasm. He keeps the same pace, devastating and rhythmic, listening and following your advice.
“That's it. That's my best girl, singing so pretty for me. Let me hear you, baby.”
Your back arches painfully off pillows when the tip of his tongue agonizingly circles your clit, outlining the hyper-sensitive point at a pace that feels like time has slowed down, minutes dragging into hours, world around you turning blurry and sluggish.
Your breath rips out in sharp, short, gasps. Your eyes squeeze tightly shut, toes curling at his back. The floodgates are barely holding themselves close, but you don't want this to end. You want to be stuck in this ride, in this high, for as long as you can, suspended mid-air.
You know that's impossible when you force your eyes open, and watch the light catch the wet sheen on his nose, all slick from your juices.
“Jack, I'm so —”
“Happy?”
“Close,” you sob at the increasing sensitivity.
“Do you wanna come on my face?”
You can only cry out in response.
“Count to 10 in your head and then you can.”
10…9…8…7…6…5…4…3…2…1
The tension coiled tight in your belly snaps. The floodgates spill open, and your eyes roll back into your head. Words catch in the back of your throat, coming out as unintelligible noises. Everything fades to black for a moment, before your boyfriend's voice anchors you to earth again.
“So good for me, used my mouth like the needy girl you are.” He's lapping away slowly at your slit again, hell if he lets any release you've gifted him not put to good use.
You weakly push at his shoulders, willing him to a halt, overwhelmed and oversensitive. He immediately obeys, long fingers pulling back the ruined panties over you — instead delicately sliding his palms over your thighs, peppering them with tender, grounding kisses. When he stops to study you for any hints of discomfort, he looks at you like his eyes have blurred out every subject but you.
His mouth moves. Stops. Moves again.
Wait, is he saying something?
You furrow your brows, not being able to hear anything through the thick layers of fog up there — glittery and rosy, finding every crevice, every hidden part, and dulling the chaos of your brain.
You snap out of it when he tilts your chin towards him. He's sitting next to you now, body tilted closely towards yours, “Jesus, did I break you?” His free hand is kneading your quads, chasing away any pain they feel from having spent a good amount of time being spread open.
You nod, “but in a good way.”
He smiles like somebody just offered to do his charting until retirement. You lean heavily into his parm, cherishing the soft stroke of his finger, even when his skin is always dry from the excessive use of sanitizer.
“Can I kiss you? Or are you overwhelmed?”
You nod too quickly. When he leans in and brushes his lips against yours, it's like this is the first time you're ever doing this. You quiver when you taste yourself on him.
He smells like you.
He presses a chaste kiss on your temple, murmuring, “I'll be right back. Okay, honey?” before moving to the edge of the bed, securing on his prosthetic limb.
He returns with a damp towel and water. He sets the plastic bottle on his nightstand with a soft click. He climbs the bed, slowly crawling towards you, approaching like you're fragile and breakable.
“I'm gonna clean you up, baby.” He settles between your legs again, clinically wiping the dry and sticky patches — a shameless mix of his own spit and your own wetness. “We've made quite a mess on you.”
He tosses the cloth haphazardly to the floor once he’s done — joining the rest of your garments — and drags the thick duvet over your body until you’re trapped in solid comfort, tucking it under your armpits like you're a child. You can't help but track his every move, eyes following him, but can't get a word out of your mouth.
“Jack, get under the covers with me.”
“Do you want me to get a hair tie for you first?”
Your hand flies to your head, smoothing the frazzled strands down, “why, do they look bad?”
“No, you walnut. You don't like laying down with your hair open.”
“Oh. I don't care, right now. Get in or I'll cry.”
“Scarier threat than the cyber attack one,” he sincerely remarks, and shifts under the covers, gently guiding you down with him till you’re both lying on your side, facing each other. Your bare chests kiss, and you slide your thigh between his legs, tucking it securely there. Any thought of empty space between you is intolerable to your body.
Oh.
Shit.
This man dedicatedly made you cum after dismantling your insecurities, and made your head go vroom. And you're just now realizing that he's not made of stone.
Which is ironic since his cock feels like one, angrily touching your thigh, straining against his pants. You feel guilt washing over you, at your selfishness for not paying heed to his needs, lost only in your own.
He rubs the side of your ribs, soft, calming, up & down motions, “hey, where'd you go? I wasn't that good. Like an 8 out of 10, maybe,” he repeats your earlier talk, a smirk playing on his face.
“I'm okay,” you feebly say. And then more confidently, “I promise. I just need a minute to process, and then we're taking care of you.”
“Hold your horses, sunshine. You're the patient and your job is to rest. You may climb the doctor any other time.”
“The doctor deserves a thank you for his treatment.”
“Not when the patient looks like a wild animal.”
You sigh, “I just don't want you doing it alone now.”
“I'll make you watch if it makes you feel better. When was the last time you watched a good show?” He draws you in closer by the waist, warping you in his scent, pressing you even more firmly against him. Even liquid wouldn't be able to seep through the space between you right now. It coaxes an involuntary sigh of relief out of you.
However, your cheeks heat at his cocky words, and you pinch his bicep. He breaks out in a hearty laugh, watching you with enough adoration that you just might pass out. But you don't, because nothing bad can happen when he's here.
“Okay, go. What worked and what didn't? What can we do differently next time?” he asks, ready to search your eyes in case you lie. His pinky traces the curve of your spine, the comforting gesture making you drowsy in his arms.
“Everything was perfect.”
“This isn't a fanfiction, darling. Think about it. Anything.”
“How the hell do you know what that is?”
He decidedly ignores your insulting question, continuing with his line of interrogation “slower next time? Faster?”
“More next time.”
He hums, eyes lighting up, “needy girl.” His hand delivers a playful smack to your ass, squeezing affectionately before letting go. By that time, you’ve already dramatically gasped, slapping his chest right back.
“Names? The praise work for you?”
“Mhm,” your voice drops low and hesitant, “so did the insults.”
Jack's brows raise in pleasant surprise, “you like being my messy and needy girl? You like asking me to use your big girl words?”
“Maybe…”
“Another talk for us to have. God, aren't you the dream?” It surprises you the way he says it, not jokingly, but like he means it. Like you could actually be something someone he fantasises about. Your chest tightens.
“Hey.”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Your initials are J.A.”
“Yeah, not sure, but I kind of think it's because my name is Jack Ab —”
“Jackass,” you mumble, nodding your head thoughtfully at your new discovery. “J.A – Jackass,” you repeat, just in case he didn’t make the connection. Forget the fact that he bosses an entire floor of medical staff.
“Think I heard you the first time.”
“You're a Jackass.”
“What a thing to say to someone who just had his tongue in your —”
“My Jackass.”
Once again, you say something completely out of pocket, and frankly enough, stupid, but he still melts. Because despite the choice of your words — again — it's the affection behind them. It's the you behind them that catches him in the ribs, as if somebody knocked the air out of him, making him soft, pliable, and yours to mold.
“Okay, well, I definitely broke your brain. Go to sleep, princess,” he playfully shoves your face into the pillow. “Off to bed, kid.” And his favorite sound fills his room.
Your giggle.
Okay i hope yall had fun! I took a longass time to write, and as always, glaze all over me (kidding) (no im not) if you liked it. Not to mention, ALWAYS MENTION when one of my works either makes u blush or laugh. And also when.
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 him—he 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.
"Andy—"
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 close—" 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."
———————
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
summary: pope comes home from prison and meets craig's new gorgeous friend, you. you're quiet and a little odd, in an adorable way he becomes obsessed with. and he wonders how a sweet girl like you could be friends with an idiot like his little brother. one night, he learns about your little stingray obsession and uses that as a way to try and get closer to you. and it works.
content/warnings: lots of em dashes (only because I've always used them, I swear this isn't AI), a whole ass book before they even kiss (really just me yapping), age gap (reader is like 20-21, pope is late 30s), s1 pope (because I think his haircut is cute), i'm sorry if everyone is ooc (i'm new here), reader isn't described as a specific race or weight but does have a specific style, all the cody boys are here & my girl cath, reader is kinda a stoner, mentions of sm*rf & b*z, switch!pope, pope's a bit of creep (he likes to smell you and touch your hair and watch you and touch your body when you're sleeping or when you're not looking, it's okay you like it), dry humping (yum), cumming in pants (yummier), biting, chasing, finger in mouth, mentions of male masturbation, a bit of fluff, nicknames for reader by Craig include pet/bug/shorty, nicknames for reader by pope include honey & baby, baz catches you and is pissed but craig to the rescue, pansexual tendencies, 18+ ONLY!
note: this is my first fic on tumblr... it's kinda long and not proofread, so please be nice and thank you. muah!!
Your brother sold weed, that's how you met your best friend. Craig Cody, or El Craigo as he's tried to get you to call him. Of course, you don't. He came onto you, thinking you were hot. But every time he tried, womp womp. He eventually gave up yet couldn't stay away from you, you were fun— in a quiet way.
You often prefer books and embroidery to actual human interactions but he prefers surfing to anything else (sometimes even parties), so friendship went smoother than dating would have. And the one thing you had in common was really what kept you guys together, weed. You two would smoke up to three blunts and just laugh about nothing before ordering too much food and/or annoying deran.
His family loved you, even the wicked witch herself. She liked how you just did what she wanted (though you only did because you could tell she was awful and wanted her off your back). Deran thought you were great, he loved having you around. J liked how colorful your vibe was compared to the Codys. And Baz... you hate Baz. asshole. No real reason to, you just do. Cath could do better, you thought every time you saw him.
Then came Andrew.
The day you met was a few days after he returned, a week after his sister died. You walked behind Craig like you were his little tail. Dressed in a little green 60s mini dress, tights with little bugs on them, and ballet flats— an outfit that was considered toned down compared to your usual fashion.
"Yo." Craig called out as he walked into the kitchen, everyone immediately ignored him as soon as you appeared.
"Hey!" Cath practically squealed, happy to see you. You liked Cath, she was kind. Everyone greeted you, having not seen you in almost two weeks.
"Y/N, this is our brother, Pope. Pope, this is my pet bug, Y/N." Craig says, using the same joke he always does when he introduces you to someone. You turned around and there he was. my word... Immediately you could feel how different his presence felt compared to others. And how much you liked it. And how pretty fucking hot he was.
You weren't someone who had a partner or felt much interest in dating. It was easier to be alone, though it was lonely at times. But here he stood, the mysterious older brother. Andrew, who they called Pope for a reason you didn't know. Deran had told you about him but you never saw a picture. God... how you wished you knew how handsome he was. And as you felt his unsettling aura, your mind wandered to places it only would when you were alone— in the darkness of your room.
"Hi." You whispered. You were always so soft-spoken.
"Hi." He spoke back. He voice was nice, raspy. You began to pick at your fingers as the conversation went on with everyone talking about things you didn't care about.
You tried your best not to look at him. Andrew. You tried to look at Craig or your hands but Baz was standing too close for comfort. He always tried to put his arm around your shoulder, even in front of his wife. And you hated that. You weren't big on touch, especially not with Baz. ewwwahhh
You liked physical touch, lots of it. But it had to be with someone you've expected into your soul family. You were a strong believer in that we all have more than one soulmate. And Baz was NOT a part of your soul. So when he tried again, you stepped aside and bumped into someone. Andrew. He was already looking at you when you looked over.
"Sorry..." Even though you were barely audible, he heard you. You looked away again, but he didn't and you felt it. He looked down at your tights. How they hugged you thighs...
"Alright, Smurf. Come on, bug." You ears heard Craig say as he left, you followed close behind but not before taking a peak back to the oldest Cody. Still, he stared at you... and you didn't seem to mind.
"Your brother is very handsome." You tell Craig as you enter his room.
"Ew! Don't tell me Baz finally got to you." He replied, you immediately pretended to gag.
"I'd rather have my skin be peeled off little by little." You joked, he laughed loudly as he plopped down onto his bed. You never went near his bed unless you knew for sure his sheets were clean, thankfully today it was clean— or clean enough.
"Then who? J? Cause he's not my brother, he's my nephew. And Deran is gay, remember?" He asks as he begins to roll a new blunt, you lay back on his headboard.
"Not J or Deran. The other one, Andrew." You say, Craig pauses. He slowly turns to look at you, expecting you to laugh or give him some type of sign you were joking. But you didn't.
"Pope?" He sat up, "Pope!?" Any louder and they would've heard him in the kitchen.
"Yeah." You answered softly.
"Please tell your joking. You can't actually be saying you wanna fuck Pope." He said, you rolled your eyes at your best friend.
"I said he was handsome, not that I wanna fuck him." You told him as you chris crossed your leg.
"I've known you for two years— you wanna fuck my creepy brother, it's all over you face. You want him all over your face." He teased, you laughed. Oddly enough, as stupid as he can be, he was usually the only one who could make you laugh and smile. He knew you quite well.
"Would it bother you if I did?" You ask. The question came out before you could stop it. You were a virgin, you never actually wanted to have sex with anyone. No one ever caught your eye. But Andrew...
"I mean you can if that's what you really want. You body, your stupid choice— or whatever the fuck. Just know I'd throw up tho." Craig replied. He didn't care who you slept with or dated, not as long as you were happy. Even if it was his weird older brother.
The next time you saw Andrew was a random Thursday, the next week.
You were back at Smurfs, sitting on the couch with Craig. It was late. You wore purple patterned shorts and a blue tank top, blue spiders on your white knee-high socks. Your legs were draped over Craig's lap, a bowl of M&Ms on your lap, both of you laying back as if you had worked for hours on end all month. You guys had just smoked two blunts and were laughing at horror movies. Deran and J had joined you somewhere into the marathon, not really taking your attention.
Then you felt it... his presence.
"What are you guys watching?" You heard him ask, your heart almost moonwalked out of your chest. You looked back and again, there he was. His eyes never seem to look at anything else, just you.
"Scream 1." J answered his question. You looked away, pressing your thighs together. Thankfully Craig was so high he probably didn't know he was still alive let alone that you were sexually attracted to his older brother's unsettling aura.
"Come on." Deran calls him over, Andrew sat down on one of the chairs. Specifically the one that was next to you since you were on one of the ends of the couch. You looked again, you can't help yourself. He's so handsome.
He stares at you still, you're getting used to it quickly. You gave him a small smile before turning away. The chair was close. He was close. Andrew got an unbearable urge— he wanted to touch your hair. It was just there, hanging perfectly down your back. He wanted to cut off a piece and keep it in his pocket so he could smell it when you weren't around... of course he wouldn't actually do that he definitely would.
He just liked you. It was weird for him to admit that but he did. His own family was scared of him. They found him strange. But you? You smiled at him. You fucking smiled at him. That's all it took for him to pick you out of everyone. He picked you, he wants you. You will be his. Maybe you'll fix him. He thought about that. Maybe someone like you could be kind enough to fix someone like him, if he can be fixed.
You didn't think there was anything wrong with him. You didn't think like others, like him. He seemed normal to you. So he liked to stare at you, so what? It's so easy to just let him. He's not hurting you. He was just released from a cell, let him stare at whatever he wants. As the movie ended and J put in the next one, Craig groaned.
"I'm so tired." He whined, shoving a handful of M&Ms into his mouth.
"So go to sleep." J told him.
"Don't wanna." Craig whined while picking up M&Ms and gently throwing them at you. You tried to catch them with your mouth and failed a couple times. You chuckled as he tried to got up, defeated by sleep.
"Fine, whatever." He whispers, "'Night, shorty."
"'Night." You replied as you leaned away to take your legs off him.
That's when it happened. Your hair... it touched Andrew's hand. You didn't notice, it was just for a second. But oh... Andrew notice. He almost came grabbed it. He couldn't believe how soft it was. He'd bet his life it smelled nice too, like you. He remembers the day you met, how when you got closer he could smell you. Like vanilla and rose petals. He wanted to lick the scent off you... Who said that? Are you not hearing that? Whatever.
You planned on staying for the rest of the other movies, until Baz arrived. why is he here!!?? go home!! He immediately sat next to you, reaching out to touch your shoulder. You pushed his arm away as you sit up straight and placed the bowl in-between you and him. You could feel the uncomfortable-ness built in you when you realize he was looking at your exposed thighs. dickhead.
"I think I'm gonna go too." You say softly as you stand up.
"Hey, if Craig kicks you again, you can sleep in my bed. I'm gonna head over to Adrian's in a few." Deran informs you, the quietest little 'thanks' escaped your lips as you left.
"'Night." You whispered. And there it was again. His voice.
"Goodnight." Andrew replies, it was small and sweet. You smiled widely but thankfully you were already out of sight when you did. Oh... you've made up your mind. It's him. He will be the one to take your virginity. You don't know when or how, but it will be him.
It was the middle of the night. 3, maybe 4, am.
You laid on Craig's bed, him next to you. Well... actually he was almost on the floor but still. You didn't mind sharing beds with friends, you liked it. It was fun. You would shower with your friends if they wanted, TMI is non-existent to you. But tonight, you couldn't sleep. You couldn't stop thinking about your decision. Andrew Cody will take my virginity, the thought danced in your head like a drunk cowboy.
You stood up off the bed, your white Lolita style nightgown falling down to hang just above your mid thigh. It was almost see-through if you looked hard enough. Enough to see the orange polkadot panties you had on, and maybe your bare chest too. You walked out of Craig's room and out to the living room. You hoped you could just watch something until you felt sleepy. What you didn't expect was for Andrew to be there too...
It almost scared you, to see someone else awake this late. He simply sat in the same chair, watching tv. Little jellyfish swimming on the screen, a man narrating quietly. He looked so peaceful. Andrew. Just doing mundane things. You've only seen him twice, both times he seemed so tense and uncomfortable but he looked relaxed now.
You almost just wanted to leave him alone but your body moved before you could control it. You looked away from him as you approached, head turned to the tv. You took a glance at him, he's looking at you again. Or... he's looking at your nightgown. You didn't mind. It flattered you. Maybe he thought you were pretty.
"What are you watching?" You ask.
"Documentary." He answered. You liked his voice like this. So gentle, it almost cracks when he speaks.
"Can I watch it with you?" You asked him, finally looking at him. He stares up at your eyes for a good second, and you stare back.
"Yeah." He whispers. You smiled slightly as you sat down where you had been, close.
You're not sure how long you were there for, watching the fishes on tv. It wasn't until a big stingray appeared on the screen that you almost jumped up. You straighten yourself and leaned forward, once again chris crossing your leg. You listened to every word the narrator said, looking at the beautiful creatures. Andrew noticed.
"During mating season, the male ray will smell his prey from afar. He'll pick her without even interacting, immediately beginning the chase before she knows what's happening." The man in the tv said.
"He'll follow the female ray, chasing her for up to days— trying to bite her fins. Once the male has a good grip, he works to maneuver the female so they are positioned belly-to-belly. The male then bends his body over her, inserting a pair of tube-like sex organs called claspers into the female's body by rubbing himself on her— to transfer his sperm and reproduce." He explained, you chuckled as you leaned back again.
"Sounds fun." You joked. You turned to Andrew, unsure of what you wanted from him. The corners of his lips very slowly rise up. It was almost a smile. Almost was enough for you.
You scratched yourself out on the couch, a sweet smile on your lips. You've expected that what you feel is a crush, a big one. That tiny smile of his just made you confident in your decision. He's the one. But you had to get to know him better. It can't be just a stranger in your bed, in you. You picked someone, now you have to make sure it was the right choice.
All the thinking and the pretty stingray images made you finally slip into sweet, sweet slumber. zzzz You were fine with sleeping on the couch, but I guess Andrew was not. In the state of halfway asleep, you felt him pick you up bridal style. You were very tired to move and you thought it was kind of him, so you let him. He ever so gently placed you back on Craig's bed, your best friend now laying on the floor with a towel as a blanket.
Andrew hovered for a moment, you felt his heat over you. His hand landed ever so slightly on your cheek. You felt how his rough palm pushed your hair back and caressed your neck down to your chest, just above your breasts. His hand made its way down to your legs. His knuckles lightly brushing up and down on your thigh for a few seconds before pulling your nightgown down.
You should have mined but you didn't. What is wrong with you? You don't know him. You met him twice. But he touches you in your sleep and all you think of was how easy it might be to convince him to take your virginity. If he liked you enough to touch you like this, he'd do it. Maybe. You reach over and grab his hand, he pulls away.
Andrew's heart drops. He thought you were sound asleep. He wasn't going to hurt you or touch you beyond the great 'no-go' line. He just wanted to feel your skin. Your young, soft, clean, perfect, untouched skin. You have to be an angel sent from heaven because you're completely unreal to him.
"Thank you, Andrew." You whispered out. It went straight to his cock, truthfully. You saying his real name and not the nickname that made him hate himself... It turned him on enough for him to practically run away. to spend the whole night in deran's empty room, stroking himself dumb as he thinks of you saying his real name. Who is saying these things?? My god...
Three days later, you were back. He felt so guilty after that night. Embarrassed, having done what he did to himself while thinking of you. Especially now, after seeing you again. Perfect little you. He had woken up late, a rare thing— but he had been jerking off to the image of you in his head again and got tired thinking of you. WOAH!! anyways...
He stood behind you, almost next to you. Just looking... You had on a bright yellow 60s mini patterned dress on, matching ballet flats, and those adorable bug tights. They're your favorite, you wear them with everything. Andrew wants to rip them off you and buy a hundred more. *sigh* this is getting out of hand...
You looked like you came straight out of a movie. He was so taken aback by your style every time he saw you. No one he's ever known has ever been so bold. But here you are, embracing the fact that anything goes in California. And you rocked every piece you wore. You sat so fucking pretty on the couch.
You were embroidering on the hem what he guessed is another one of your little dresses, this one in blue. You're so cute. Watching the nature channel, lions on the tv. Something he would watch. The closer he gets the more he feels like running back to deran's still empty room to continue his inappropriate shenanigans. for fuck sakes I need her on me, he thought. These voices need to relax!!
You hadn't noticed he was there, watching you, until a lion started to eat a baby deer on the screen and you turned your head away. That's when you saw him. You didn't jump or get weird out or tell him off. You smiled, again. that's like three, he's counting. Your shoulders relaxed as if he was everything you were searching for.
"Hi, Andrew." You say quietly, as if he was your little secret or something.
"Hi." He doesn't know why his voice changes for you when he speaks. He only ever does that when he's talking to his Lena. The voice of a man trying to show that he means no harm, that he only wants to interact.
"You wanna watch it with me?" You asked him.
"Sure." He says, nodding. You move your bag to the chair he was on the other night so he can sit right next to you on the couch. You wanted him closer. You wanted to feel the heat you felt when he carried you to bed. Andrew sat down, very aware of your thighs touching.
"Where is everyone?" He questions. The house was quiet, very uncommon.
"Deran is at Adrian's again, J just left with Nikki, who cares where Baz is, and Craig was supposed to be here but one of his girlfriends told him she might be pregnant— third time this year." You explained as you very carefully pinned the needle through the fabric.
"Smurf?" He asked, you shrugged. The wicked witch had apparently found someone who can tolerate her enough to take her on a date and she was barely around anymore, according to Baz. *gags*
"Maybe you have a new dad." You joked. Instantly you regret it. It was a dumb joke and you can tell he didn't like it.
"Sorry..." You whispered as you basically hid in your embroidery.
"It's alright, honey." He replied. Honey... holy fuck. no way. no fucking way. somebody sedate me!! The voices are valid right now.
Because your cunt actually had a reaction. Like a physical fucking reaction. Like a heartbeat, just thumping. You pressed your legs together, wanting her to relax. He noticed. You noticed he noticed. fucking mother of mary-kate and ashley... The corners of his lips turned upward, the tiny smile returned. It returned for your very inappropriate behavior.
"Did you hear about the new stingray at the aquarium in Carlsbad?" He asked you, you looked back up at him.
"There's a new one?" You sounded so small as you asked.
"They say it's the biggest one to ever exist, 14 feet." He tells you, he could have drowned in the excited look on your face. He did his research and it was paying off.
"Ugh... and Craig's not here to take me." You complained softly as you looked down again.
"I'll take you." He says.
"Really?" You ask as you try not to look at his beautiful eyes.
"You wanna go now?" He questions.
"Yeah." You said, looking up a little. He stood up so you placed your things aside and stood up too. He stayed there, in front of you, for a few before he moved aside to let you walk ahead. He was fighting the urge to touch you.
The drive there was about 20 to 30 minutes of silence. Andrew didn't play music or talk, not that you minded. You felt comfortable around him, knowing you didn't have to talk as much as when his brothers are around. When you arrived, he opened the door for you. Very gentlemanly of him. When inside, you practically ran towards the big sign that told you where the new arrivals would be.
"They're outside." You said. He gladly followed you around, enjoying how you stop and look at every fish you pass on your way out.
Once out there, you followed the crowd. Next to a big pool, everyone stood on little steps. They looked in as a man with an english accent talked into a microphone. You grabbed Andrew's hand and stepped on, there it was. It was insanely huge like andrew and it swam around gracefully. Did you hear that? No? Okay...
"This beauty came straight from Southeast Asia. 14 feet long, 730 pounds. Record breaking." The English man told everyone. "We've named him BB, for Big Boy."
You laughed. If Andrew could bottle the sound, he would. He'd keep it on his bedside table and hug it when he sleeps. Not that he really does. But if he was holding you, he might sleep forever. Though you probably hadn't even noticed, he did— you were still holding his hand. Yours small compared to his. Skin so soft...
"Now that doesn't mean he's nice. BB here is quite a rude boy. So please be careful not to touch him or the water." The man explained, you leaned back a little. Your left shoulder lightly pressed on Andrew's chest. He wasn't even looking at the stingray, just at you. He leans in a little and smells his hair, he was right. It smells just like he dreamed it would. Sweet and clean.
"We're thinking of getting him a girlfriend, maybe see the mating ritual done in person." The man said. Andrew couldn't get enough of your face and how lovingly you looked at BB.
You spent the rest of the day together. You explored the rest of the aquarium, touching sea stars and watching seahorses grip seagrass. Andrew even bought you a stuffed stingray from the gift shop, even though you told him he didn't have to. He wanted to. He saw how you lit up when you saw it.
You two ate pizza before he took you to get ice cream, vanilla with chocolate sprinkles— your favorite. He got plain vanilla, which said a lot about him. But it was cute. He was almost confused when he saw all the flavors, and the tops were too much. You barely even talked the whole time, you just enjoyed each other's company.
He drove you back to the house. Surprisingly, it was still quiet. The sun was setting and no one had come back yet. Just a text from Craig an hour ago, 'false alarm, no baby'. That's it. Usually Andrew would maybe worry a little but he wanted to be alone with you. He needed to be, for what he was planning next. He felt like a creep. He was about to take a bold step and he was actually praying you wouldn't react in a negative way.
"You wanna play the stingray game?" He asked you as he watched you gather your things on the couch.
"The what?" You question as you look up at him. His heart was about to combust.
"The stingray game." He repeated, his voice cracking.
"What's that?" You ask with a smile, genuine curiosity in your eyes. Oh god, it was working. He caught you on his hook. Now he has to reel you in carefully.
"Someone chases you around and if they catch you, they bite you. Like the mating thing." He explains. You were silent for a moment... please don't leave please don't leave please don't leave, he thought.
"Okay." You said. victory!!!! You stood up and waited for instructions, he couldn't believe this was working.
"I'm gonna chase you, okay? If I catch you, I get to bite you." He told you. you're wet, thinking about his teeth on you ENOUGH!!
"Okay..." You whispered as you took a step back. He smiled. Not a tiny one, a regular closed lip smile.
He could tell you were already playing so he took a step forward. You chuckled as you took off running around the house, he was faster than you thought. You made it all the way out to the backyard and to J's his room. He caught you at the door, his big arms wrapped around your ribs. He lifted you a little as you laughed.
"I got you." He breathes on your ear.
"How are you so fast?" You ask as you try to catch your breath. Your back was pressed against his chest, his racing heart on your shoulder blade.
"Where can I bite you?" His voice was quiet, maybe giving you the chance to ignore him. But you didn't. You held out your right arm, he swallowed deeply. You were actually going to let him bite you. Twilight style.
He gently grabs your wrist and bites down on your forearm. And the unthinkable happened. You moaned... out loud. He stopped, looking at you as he licked his bottom lip. Your eyes were wide and you had no other choice but to laugh, as if it was a joke. It wasn't. You knew that, he knew that. You turned your head away, embarrassment crawling on your face.
"You like that?" Andrew whispers. ahhhhhhhhhh!! fuckmefuckmefuckmefuckme I'm getting there, chill!!!
You looked back, stunned. You couldn't talk, you tired. You just slowly nodded your head yes and he leaned down again. This time digging his teeth into your upper arm, again you moaned. You slapped your other hand over your mouth and closed your eyes, you could feel his smile on your skin.
"Yeah?" He asks as he grabs your other hand, taking it away from your lips. "Can I bite you here?"
His fingers softly glazed the crock of your neck. You sighed, knowing it was happening. His mouth was gonna be on you, it was happening. finally! You laid your head back on his shoulder and nodded. He leaned in as close as he could to your neck, his breath sending chills through your entire body— cunt included.
"Words, baby." He whispers. Baby... fuuuuckuhhh!
"Please bite me, Andrew." You say oh so nicely. He wasted absolutely no time, sinking his teeth into your neck. Like a vampire who hadn't eaten in decades.
You stopped fighting yourself and let the moan that was in your core slip out loudly. The sound made his cock twitch and with how hard he was holding onto you, you felt it. You reached back and grabbed a handful of his short hair, pulling as you slightly rubbed your ass on his crotch. He pulled away and turned you around, roughly bringing your lips to his.
He lifted you again, just a little. Enough so the tippy tips of your feet brushed against the ground as he walked into J's his room. You had your arms completely wrapped around his shoulders/neck. You could feel his tongue against your teeth. He tasted like the vanilla ice cream he had and it mixed with the taste of the chocolate sprinkles you ate.
"Andy." You moaned into his mouth, the back of your legs hitting the bed. His head ached at the sound. Andy. Not Andrew, not Pope. An-dy. God, he needed you.
He pushed his knee in-between your leg as he laid you down, your head hitting the plush of the pillow. He laid his entire bodyweight on top of you, pushing your dress up. Now belly to belly, you wrapped your tights covered legs around him as he kissed down your neck. You reached your hands under him and undid his jeans, just pulling them down a little— he let you. You didn't want to have sex, not now— not yet. But you wanted to feel him. You grab onto his ass and push him forward, he groans into your skin.
"Like that, Andy." You told him, feeling just how hard he is. Andrew was more than happy to just let you use him. He would lick the ground you walked on if you asked.
"Yeah..." He breathes out as he grinds against you. He can feel how warm you are through your panties and tights.
He places his hands on either side of your head, smelling your hair without shame this time. You moaned loudly again when he bit your jaw, not hard enough to mark but enough to make you leak through your tights and into his underwear. You move his shirt to try and kiss his neck. He stops for a second, sitting up and ripping open his button up. You smile at the sight of his freckled body.
He lays back on top of you, crashing you but you're not complaining. You kiss and lick and bite all over his neck and shoulder. His hands are all over you, from your ankles to your face. Kissing him felt like seeing the holy ghost in person. He was such a great kisser. His grinding, his touching, his kissing— it made your stomach turn. You had barely kissed others before let alone this. You felt like throwing up, but in a good way.
"You're so perfect." He groaned into your ear, going harder now. The headboard rocked against the wall, he was pushing himself so hard on you... you swear this might just count as losing your virginity.
"Faster." You whined, he happily obeyed.
You've never had an orgasm before. You tried to give yourself one but failed more than once, simply because you didn't have anything to think of. Porn wasn't really your thing, erotic books were great but not enough. But now here's Andrew, just what you needed. And it was the same for him. The only women he slept with were the ones his family paid for. And Cath, but he'd rather not talk or think about that.
"yeahyeahyeah!" He moans softly on your lips. He was close. But he wasn't even gonna think about cumming until you did.
And you were. You felt it. Or at least you felt what you think is an orgasm. Like a rush of pure heat making its way up from your cunt to your chest, your stomach tightening. You placed your hands on his face, looking into his eyes as the heat became worse. You ran your thumb across his mouth. Unexpectedly he took it into his lips and sucked.
That's what drove you over the edge. You threw your head back and ached your back, your vision whitening. You moaned louder than before. Clinging onto Andrew as your legs shake, feeling it pool in your underwear. His arm around your waist, keeping you close. He made sure to ride you out before he let go. Moaning your name as he came, resting his head on your chest.
Neither of you moved. Why would you? This was heaven. Him on top of you. You under him. You had gotten used to his weight, you didn't need oxygen. You stroked his hair, he rubbed your outer thigh. Your cunt and his cock still closer than ever, just letting each other's cum wet the other's underwear. You felt so sleepy. Until he slapped the side of your ass, making you laugh. He kissed your chest, up to your neck. Gentle and sweet.
"Andy." You whispered. The nickname stuck. You couldn't call him anything else and he didn't want you to.
"Yeah, honey?" He replied. You might just have to change your name to honey so he can call you that every hour of every day.
"If this is a one time thing for you, that's fine. But I don't want it to be. I want you. I wanna get to know you. See the good, see the bad. I want you to take my virginity." You told him, he lifted his head and looked you into your pretty eyes. For a moment, he wondered... how did he manage to get a girl so perfect and beautiful and kind, and untouched?
"It's not a one time thing. You're mine now. And I'll take your virginity if you want me to. I promise I'll keep it safe." He says back. You felt your heart flutter like a butterfly.
"I'm yours? Does that mean you're mine?" You ask.
"Yeah." He whispers, another real smile on his face.
"Yeah?" You teased as you ran your thumb across his mouth again. And again, he took it into his lips with a little 'mhm'. He rested his forehead on yours, sucking your thumb slowly.
"Are you fucking joking!?" You both jumped up when you heard someone else talk. Baz. ewwwww!!! fuck off!!!
He stood at the doorway, shocked at the scene. You quickly pushed Andrew off you, just to pull your dress down. You didn't want him seeing something that now belongs to his older brother. Andrew pulled his pants up but left his shirt open.
"Out of everyone, you choose him? I've been trying to get you to let me just touch you for the last two years and the moment our psychotic brother comes home from prison, you open your fucking legs." Baz spat out, Andrew stood up off the bed.
"Go away, Baz. I don't wanna hurt you." He tells him as nicely as he can. Not because he actually didn't wanna hurt his brother but because he didn't wanna scare you.
"Fuck you, Pope!" Baz shouted in his face.
"Yo! What the fuck is all the yelling about?" You all heard Craig from outside, coming over. He saw you on the bed with your hair all frizzy and your lips red, and Andrew's shirt and pants open. He was an idiot but not that dumb.
"Back off, man." He immediately said to Baz.
"You're okay with this?" He asked, Craig shrugged his shoulders.
"Don't be pissy 'cause it wasn't you. Go home to your wife." He answered, Baz scoffed.
"Un-fucking-believable." He cursed under his breath as he left but not before kicking a chair into the pool. Craig turned back to you and Andrew.
"You sure 'bout this?" He questions you, you nod your head with a smile.
"Alright..." He whispers before taking a step closer to his brother. "You hurt her, I'll fucking kill you. I don't care how big and scary you can be."
You chuckled quietly. That's very adorable. He was your best friend and he wanted nothing less than to protect you. You're very grateful for Craig, despite wanting to choke him out most days.
"I won't." Andrew whispers back, Craig nods. He turned to leave then stopped.
"Is that a bite mark on your neck?" He asked then held up his hand, "Forget I asked."
He was quick to run away.
"I don't think you're big and scary." You tell Andrew, he turns to you.
"No?" He asks as he comes back to you, you shake your head. He kisses you sweetly, pushing you back to lay back in the position you were caught in.
point of view. ⸝⸝ since being released from prison, pope has been so needy
pope’s hands tremble as they grip your hips, pulling you down onto the creaky bed in the chateau like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. since they let him out, he’s been like this; so starved, desperate, every touch like it’s 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.
“i missed this,” he breathes, voice cracking. his mouth trails lower, frantic and wet, kissing every inch of your chest like he’s 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 can’t get enough of your taste. “please… let me,” 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.
pope’s whole body shakes as he climbs back up, kissing your thighs, your hips, your breasts again, like he can’t stop. he doesn’t rush, instead he just keeps touching you slowly, kissing, whimpering your name like a prayer. “been so long… i need you so bad,” he gasps, breath shaky as he finally sinks into you, slow and deep, eyes fluttering shut with a broken moan.
he moves like he’s 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 he’s making up for every empty day behind bars. “don’t stop… please.” he begs against your mouth, voice trembling, completely lost in how much he needs this, needs you.
Watching a movie with Gentle!Pope and he's spooning you on the couch while you use his bicep as a firm pillow, his hand fidgeting with the hem of your shirt when he can't quite focus on the movie.
But then towards the end of the movie when the unexpected sad ending comes- he feels your breath slow, small pauses in between as your eyes lock on the screen and he's rubbing up and down your sternum as he pulls you in closer and lets you wipe the subtle tear on his sleeve. Kissing the top of your head as his other hand grabs the remote to turn off the credits.
"s' okay sweet girl, just a movie yeah? C'mere what's wrong, hm?"
And he's rubbing your skin up and down softly trying to soothe you but you keep tearing up and talking about how sad the ending was— he can't fully understand why a movie is making you so emotional but he still wants to make sure his pretty girl is okay :(
( In my head he talks to reader the same way he talks to Lena— like all sweet n shit to make sure she knows shes safe<3)
andrew pope cody who’s worried about you finding his rap sheet vs. reader who’s printed out his mugshot to include in her journal with little hand-drawn hearts around it <3
Being Andrew Pope Cody’s best friend and you get all drunk and touchy at a party…<3
MDNI 18+
He’s sitting on the red couch watching a nature documentary while the party grows louder and more crowded. He’s got a little mirror propped up on the side table that’s angled out back, just to keep an eye on you.
You’re stumbling in, giggling at something. Standing in the doorway your red eyes scan the house, until they land on him and you hiccup and smile. Making your way to him all sultry, walking like a model and giving him a spin, to which you stumble again at. You’re standing in front of him now, turning back to the TV, “what ya watching?” You slur out softly, moving to climb into his lap.
He murmurs the name of the documentary and lifts you by the waist to help settle you in his lap. You squeak a little at it and bury your face in his neck. Breath hot against his skin as you breathe him in, smiling. “Looked every where for you” you whine, placing a soft kiss there which makes his Adam’s apple bobble in his throat.
“Yeah?” He croaks out, praying you don’t feel his cock hardening in his jeans. You hum and nod against his shoulder, kissing at his neck a little more. “Just wanted my Andy” you whisper into his ear, kissing it and nibbling his earlobe. Pope lets out a shaky breath and lets his eyes fall shut for a second, big hands squeezing at your sides.
“Love you s’ much Andy” you whisper, pulling back and running your fingers through his hair. You fall just a little too far back making him move and catch your back, which in return makes you giggle, leaning your head back. He’s pulling you into him, running his nose alone the vein in your neck and sniffing hard. “Love you to angel.” He whispers against your skin.
“M’ sleepy” you mumble, grabbing at his curls while his face stays on your neck. “Yeah?” He whispers and even in your drunken state you feel yourself squirm a little at his low voice. You swallow and nod.
“Let’s get you to bed then” he says lowly, picking you up effortlessly, moving to his room and opening the door to some randoms making out on the bed. He gives a firm nod to the door and they scramble out, cheeks pink in embarrassment. He lays you down softly and covers you up, kissing your forehead and turning.
You whine, “don’t go” head falling back against the pillows, he smiles softly and takes a seat that’s facing the bed, “I’m right here, get some sleep sweetheart.”
a/n: okay i cannot believe my last one did as well as it did! please feel free to send asks and comment! hearing what the people want is super helpful to me for coming up with what to write... otherwise it is completely self indulgent like this one (dividers by @/uzmacchiato !) (btw i used an em dash.) (it was not chatgpt) (i just didnt want anyone to get jumpscared by it ) (ai could neva write this poorly...) (take THAT)
⊹ ࣪ .✦ ݁˖ pope love love loves his girl... one thing he doesn't love is the glitter. everywhere. he sits by the pool so he can keep an eye on you, as always. you swim for a bit and when you return, he's staring at his hands like they personally wronged him.
"what's wrong?" he looks up to meet your worried gaze as he shows you his sparkling palm with a huff and a furrowed brow.
"shit gets everywhere," he grumbles as he walks towards the house. only reason hes not super irritated is because you showed him that tape takes off glitter. needless to say, he spends the next five minutes putting tape on his hands over and over again while wondering what could've possibly required that much glitter.
⊹ ࣪ .✦ ݁˖ he lets you do whatever you want. if you thought you were spoiled rotten before, trust it gets 10x worse around pope. if you want something, don't even mention it! he already bought it for you! and its pink, because of course it is. he lets you bedazzle, paint, and color on anything you want. smurf (being the bitch she is) hates it. she hates that you run wild and pope makes no attempt to stop you. if anything he encourages it.
buying things and customizing things isn't all. he does every silly trend with you, even if he catches shit from his brothers about it. baz usually comes down on him worst about it, though. always "why did you let her do that," or "that looks terrible for you," but pope has never cared. if his girl is happy, he's happy too.
he loves to watch you put sparkles on everything, buy things on his card, and make everything your own. he is perfectly content watching you shape the world so it revolves around you — and even happier to help you.
⊹ ࣪ .✦ ݁˖ he partakes in EVERYTHING you do. i mean, he is a willing participant who takes his role very seriously. specifically, shopping. he loves to watch you try on half the things in the store, with his stoic expression and the occasional mumble. of course, you think hes disinterested, so you stop trying things on.
he stops you as you start to leave the dressing room, four tops you haven't tried on in hand. "where ya going?"
"you dont look like you're having fun."
he rolls his eyes, like whatever hes about to say is glaringly obvious. "i am. who do you think put half the shit in your basket? santa claus? i wouldn't take you here if i didnt want a fashion show," he says, a small smile growing on his face. he quickly levels his expression, as though he was told not to smile. "go. back in the room. and i hung a skirt i wanted to see."
you squeal and head back into the room, leaving a very amused pope eagerly awaiting a fashion show from his girl (which ends in him buy all the clothes and asking for a second fashion show back at the house <3)
⤷ ✭⋆ bf!pope cody headcanons⋆ˎˊ˗ (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.
⟶Where are you?
im in the kitchen
⟶Come back to bed.
pope im in my kitchen... like at my house
⟶Oh.
⟶Come 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!
amandla
snowghoul
jacobvanloon
turnnoffyourmind
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