hey! i'm inky and i write about jumping old mens' bones. here's my masterlist <3
my ao3 | @inkys-archive is my sideblog where I reblog my favorite fics!
NEVER use my writing to train/feed AI models or repost to other sites without my consent.
I do not take requests for long fics unless it really speaks to me. requests for drabbles are CLOSED (lots of catching up to do!). but my inbox is always open for Thoughts (tm). get nasty with it idc. or just send something to say hi! I will write mostly anything, but there’s no guarantee I will get to your request in a timely manner lol. If you have a question about a topic I will/will not write about, just send an ask!! I won’t beat u up I prommie.
All of my writing/smut stories occur between two consenting adults. Things I will not write for: domestic violence, pregnancy loss, sexual assault/rape (I may write certain cnc scenarios), anal (just not my thing!), infantilization/age play, innocence/corruption/oblivious kink, real person fics, really severe/intentionally hurtful domination against reader
INKY'S BLACKOUT BINGO MASTERLIST
CHARACTER LISTS
ᴛɪᴛᴜꜱ ᴅᴀɴꜰᴏʀᴛʜ
WICKED GAMES COLLECTION
all of these fics are within the same universe, but can be read separately
• 𝚠𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚐𝚊𝚖𝚎 ˋ°•*⁀➷ | EXPLICIT, w.c. 7.4k
after sitting out of a post-wedding hunt due to a headache, you're not expecting the game to come to you. even though you're able to take down the threat, titus finds you and is distraught at the fact that it could've ended very differently.
• 𝖆 𝖌𝖆𝖒𝖊 𝖔𝖋 𝖕𝖔𝖑𝖔 ˋ°•*⁀➷ | EXPLICIT, w.c. 11.3k
you get an invitation to a game of polo, hosted by the el caído family. after titus wins, you give him his reward.
• 𝓉𝒶𝑔, 𝓎𝑜𝓊'𝓇𝑒 𝒾𝓉 ˋ°•*⁀➷ | EXPLICIT, w.c. 6.3k
it’s the twins’ birthday. and while ursula has planned a ball for the occasion, titus has different plans involving you, the woods, and a game of chase.
• 𝙒𝙞𝙘𝙠𝙚𝙙𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙚 𝙋𝙡𝙖𝙮𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩
a collection of tracks i think fit the story
ONESHOTS
• ᴛɪᴛᴜꜱ ᴅᴀɴꜰᴏʀᴛʜ ~ ᴇxʜɪʙɪᴛɪᴏɴɪꜱᴍ | EXPLICIT, w.c. 1.5k
Titus doesn’t like exhibitionism in the traditional sense. He enjoys public sex, but not because someone might catch you. He actually has opposite feelings, being a heavy believer in the fact that your body was made for him and him alone. So, no, Titus doesn’t want the world to watch you, but he enjoys the benefits of being able to do whatever he wants wherever he wants, including art galleries.
• 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚝 | EXPLICIT, w.c. 6.6k
titus hasn't been paying enough attention to you recently, so you devise a plan to make him jealous. unfortunately for you, titus can see right through your plan. fortunately for you, he gives you what you want anyway.
• 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘹 | EXPLICIT, w.c. 3.5k
Titus is stressed. You have an idea of how to help him relax.
DRABBLES
• titus and pregnant!wife!reader headcannons | Mature , w.c. 5k
some snippets from your pregnancy (request)
• girldad!titus | General, w.c 1k
some headcannons about girldad titus (request)
• took you long enough | General, w.c. 900
in which grace finds you drinking at the bar during the festivities. not truly a titus x reader but shhh. plot spoilers, but it ends differently.
• titus watches you die rip | Mature, w.c. 1.8k
how titus would react after you die during a hunt (request)
• toxic foreplay | EXPLICIT, w.c. 1.5k
you and titus get off on pushing the other's buttons. literally. (request)
• the itch | EXPLICIT, w.c. 1.8k
Titus enjoys being punished. The issue is you only put your all into his punishment when he’s done something bad.
ᴀɴᴅʀᴇᴡ 'ᴘᴏᴘᴇ' ᴄᴏᴅʏ
LONGER STORIES
• ╰☆╮ 𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑓𝑡 ╰☆╮ | EXPLICIT, w.c. 12.3k
Being the Cody’s on-call emergency nurse isn’t easy. A dislocated shoulder turns into late night gunshot wounds and before you know it, you’re part of the family. After a rough night, Pope needs some TLC. And who else can help him if not his favorite nurse? You’re the only one who can stitch him up, physically and emotionally.
• 𝘧𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘵 | EXPLICIT, w.c. 5.7k
After Andrew has been between your legs for almost an hour, and all you can think about is the stress of work and life, you decide to fake an orgasm to allow him some rest. Unfortunately, Andrew knows you too well to be fooled, and he overthinks it to no end. (request)
DRABBLES
• Piercings | Mature, w.c. 1.8k
you get your nipples pierced without letting pope know. he's a bit skeptical at first, but after baz opens his stupid mouth, he realizes that they're actually Very Cool (request)
• Get In the Car | General, w.c. 1.3k
you decide to walk home after you and pope get into a fight (request)
• at the foot of your bed (guard dog!pope) | EXPLICIT, w.c. 2.4k
pope isn't a bad dog. he doesn't know why he bites. but he knows he does. and because of that, you need to stay away from him
ꜱᴀᴍᴍʏ ʙʀʏᴀɴᴛ
LONGER STORIES
• 𝖼𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗌 | EXPLICIT (eventually) - ongoing series
when you're called to the site of a murder, you realize the two bodies are on opposite sides of the city line. being a new detective, your supervisor sees this as a perfect opportunity for you to get some mentorship from LAPD detectives. unfortunately, the case is not as open-and-shut as you thought, and over the course of the investigation, you find yourself falling for one of the detectives you're supposed to be learning from.
Chapters: One, Two, Three, Four, Five
DRABBLES
• tying him up | EXPLICIT; w.c. 700
you and sammy have a free-use arrangement and he's looking too scrumptious to ignore (request-ish)
summary: All it takes is one glance at the pretty girl who lives in the apartment across from his for Andrew Cody to become obsessed. But what begins as innocent observation from his window turns into something far more intense.
warnings: +18 MDNI. obsessive behavior, stalking, multiple scenes of male masturbation, themes of shame, reader has type b youngho vibes and andrew is stupidly into it, feminine reader who has hair and wears press on nails, unspecified but implied age gap, reader shares one kiss with a female friend (not super detailed), J pulls your cell phone records as a favor, andrew breaks into your apartment and raids your panty drawer, male masturbation with a vibrator, nipple play, alcohol consumption and mentioned drunkenness, lingerie, exhibitionism on readers part, mutual masturbation, jealousy, bratting/a touch of brat taming, reader tries to make pope jealous with another man, death threats (not to reader or pope), dirty talk, sloppy makeouts, spit swapping, over the clothes nipple sucking, finger sucking, f!use of a vibrator, clit play, rough fingering, unprotected piv, dacryphilia, light angst, insecure pope, reader matches his freak, stalker!reader, forced love confessions, begging, creampie
note: wow ok i think that might be the longest warning i've ever written whoops!! thank u sm to my angel @thykingdoncome for reassuring me through this whole process and taking a lil looksie at this for me love u 4ever
wc: 10.4k
[masterlist] [AO3]
Andrew knows it's weird.
He knows that.
But as long as you don't know he's doing it, what does it hurt?
It's not like he's doing anything weird. He's just…watching you. It almost feels like fate, the way your apartment is positioned directly across from his. There's the courtyard and a pool lying between you, but the windows of his apartment mirror yours so perfectly.
And…you don't have blinds.
No curtains, no shades. There's not even a half-effort of an old sheet hung up over the glass pane. And at night? When he can't sleep, and the moths circle the flickering porch lights, and you've got those blue or red or purple LED lights on…well.
Pope can see right into your apartment.
Can see you, watching TV on the couch or cooking boxed macaroni in nothing but a loose tank top and a pair of lace underwear.
He thinks you might be the only good thing about the apartment that Smurf forced him into only three days after he was released from prison.
It's been a long time since he's looked at a woman, you know. Longer since he's seen one as pretty as you.
He's not lacking self awareness or anything. Pope knows your open windows and ever changing LEDs aren't an invitation to stare, but…sometimes it feels like one.
You fall asleep on the couch most nights. Which is good for him, because Pope can't see into your bedroom.
Some things, he begins to realize, are a sort of chaotic routine.
You tend to fall asleep with your phone in your hand and scramble to find it each morning (it's always under the couch, beneath the hot pink throw pillow you kick off in your sleep).
You don't eat breakfast because you don't wake up early enough to (don't you know it's the most important meal of the day?). Most mornings, you wake up with just enough time to doll yourself up in the bathroom, prioritizing glittery eyeshadow and shimmering lip gloss rather than the sustenance of a bowl of cereal.
He doesn't know what you do for work, but it's something with an inconsistent schedule. You sleep until noon on your days off, which could be any day of the week, Pope learns.
Work doesn't stop you from going out, though. Saturday nights are reserved for those miniskirts and stiletto heels and all your giggling girlfriends who get ready on your living room floor with a hand mirror. You share perfume and makeup and clothes with them before you all climb into a shared uber.
A few times, Andrew finds himself tempted to follow you. He tells himself it's not like he'd be doing it for his own satisfaction. He'd just be doing it to keep an eye on you, that's all. You're a young girl (too young for someone his age). Don't you know there are predators out there?
But he never does. Because that would be weird, right? You don't even know him. But…he certainly starts to feel like he knows you.
You and your friends always stumble back to your apartment, sometimes falling up the concrete steps to the second floor. One of them will make pizza rolls or messy peanut butter sandwiches and you'll pass around cold bottles of water and spill electrolyte drink mixes on the kitchen counter.
You'll share your things with them even after the club, selfless girl. Passing out hair ties and makeup removing wipes and big t-shirts for them to sleep in. On one particular night, when most of them are passed out on the couch, legs and arms tangled together, Pope even watches you you share a kiss with one of them under pink LEDs.
That night, Andrew has to force his attention away. It feels way too close to the beginning of that porno Craig left open on the family computer years ago.
But this doesn't feel erotic. Watching your mouth move against someone else's doesn't elicit any warmth beneath the fabric of his jeans.
No, it makes Andrew...upset. Angry, even.
It makes him jealous.
He tries not to think about it again. Tries even harder (and fails, repeatedly) to give you some privacy on Saturday nights.
But Sundays…Sundays are sacred.
Both for you and for him.
So much so that he pulls out on a job when his brothers plan it for a Sunday. Tells them he has to check in with his parole officer that day. Lies to their faces, because he doesn't want to miss out on you.
Because every Sunday, without fail, Andrew gets to see you naked.
You start by cleaning your apartment. Wiping down the counters and vacuuming the carpet and dusting the top of the cabinets. Then you light the candle on the coffee table (pink champagne, he's pretty sure, after looking endlessly online to match up the glass container. Twenty six dollars. Four day shipping. Currently sitting unlit on his nightstand).
And when you're ready, you strip off all your clothes and discard them in the bathroom.
You put oil in your hair and nineties R&B on your bluetooth speaker. You paint your toes (usually white or black, occasionally an electric blue) and glue artificial nails with sparkling gems onto your fingers.
Sunday showers are the longest, Pope knows. Sometimes thirty minutes. And when you emerge from the bathroom, steam rolls out from the open door and you've got your hair wrapped up in a towel. You balance yourself with a foot on the edge of the couch and massage lotion into your skin first.
From top to bottom, moisturizing your entire body. And then you repeat the motion with an oil, and it's during this particular step that Andrew starts feeling a little lightheaded.
He'd bet you feel all smooth and soft and smell so fucking good. Maybe like vanilla or cherry or coconut. And, god. He wants to touch you. He wants to touch himself.
But he resists.
The first three times, anyway.
By the fourth Sunday, though…well. His cock gets so fucking hard in his jeans that it's leaking. Making a big fucking mess in his boxers. It hurts, you know?
And it's not like you'll know he's doing it. He's had a little over a month to perfect his setup—lights off, chair angled perfectly so if anyone glanced into his apartment they'd have to really look in order to see him.
So, he takes his cock in his hand and imagines it's your delicate fingers wrapped around him instead. Imagines it's his hands rubbing oil into your shoulders, over the swell of your breasts, pressing into your hips, squeezing at the supple flesh of your thighs.
He'd make sure to do it just how you like. And Pope wouldn't need to be told how to, either. Because he's spent so much time watching you now that he would just know.
He wonders if your head would fall back, wet hair clinging to your slick skin. He wonders if he pressed just right into that tender spot at the small of your back that you're always so gentle with if you'd moan or whine or whimper. Maybe even say his name.
Andrew cums at the thought alone, grunting low, lips parted, his release spilling over his hand and down the hard length of his cock.
The shame doesn't take hold of him for a while.
Not until later that night, when your hair is blow dried and you're dressed in a pretty silk pajama set. You've got some trashy reality show on the TV, and you're eating the pizza you had delivered right out of the box.
Andrew takes the moment to clean himself up. To change out of his clothes and into something more comfortable. He brushes his teeth and climbs in bed, but lays with his head propped up by an extra pillow so he can still see clearly out of his window.
He knows it's weird. He knows he shouldn't be staring at a naked girl who's probably half his age and doesn't know there's some fucking creep across the courtyard who watches her every fucking day. He knows he shouldn't be fucking his fist watching you put lotion on your skin. He knows he shouldn't be changing his plans with family or friends around your schedule, just so he can watch you a little longer.
He knows he should stop.
The problem, however, lies in the wanting.
Andrew's never had much. Not when it comes to women. But you…god. You're so beautiful, and so pure and so different from anything he's ever seen. You don't belong to anyone but yourself, and once he sees you, he finds it impossible to look away.
Things change late one Friday night.
Andrew gets sloppy. He gets comfortable, here in this routine he's created around you.
There's music coming from your apartment, some electronic pop ballad that's at a volume so loud he can hear it from across the courtyard (there will be complaints to the office manager tomorrow morning, he knows. But you don't have to worry. Pope will take care of it for you, baby. He'll make sure you can keep having your fun).
You're wearing just a lacy bra and a pair of linen sleep shorts. There's a seltzer in your hand, and you're singing and dancing like you've somehow summoned all the energy from the club right there in your apartment.
It's a beautiful sight, truly. You're so happy and carefree. The warmest ray of sunshine that he wants to find himself basking under.
Andrew gets comfortable, posture relaxing in the chair that now lives permanently in front of his window. He watches you dance around your apartment, the easy smile on your face reflected back on his own.
He thinks he could really take care of you. Keep you safe. Protect all that girlish whimsy that lives in your heart. He'd make you real happy, Andrew thinks. Would watch you dance with your friends at the club, leaning against the bar. He'd take you shopping and add more of those short dresses into your closet. He'd make you breakfast in the mornings before work and Christ—he'd buy you a set of fucking curtains.
Pope is so lost in the fantasy of it that he doesn't register in time that your dancing has slowed. And you've put your seltzer down on the coffee table.
And you're staring right back at him.
His heart kicks up, pounding against his chest. He knows he should move out of sight, shut his blinds, pass this off as a mistake, maybe even pretend he hadn't seen you.
But he doesn't do any of that.
He's frozen in time, terrified and exhilarated all at once by simply being perceived by you.
Pope just…stares.
It seems to be the only fucking thing he's capable of these days.
He expects you to flip him off or maybe come barreling out of the door and across the courtyard to confront him. Or maybe you'll scurry away into your room. Maybe you'll order a set of curtains online.
But you don't do any of that.
You just stare right back.
Andrew tilts his head curiously. It's an involuntary movement.
In the end, you're the first to look away. You pick up your seltzer, dump it down the drain in the kitchen, and then disappear into the bathroom to brush your teeth.
Your routine remains the exact same. You find your phone beneath the throw blanket on the couch and turn off the TV. You turn the kitchen light off and turn on the light above the stove instead. You grab a water bottle from the fridge, and then go to bed in your room.
It's not rushed, and you don't seem nervous or fearful that there's someone watching you.
And Andrew thinks to himself, see. This is why you need him. This is why you need someone looking out for you. Don't you know how dangerous he could be?
He would never hurt you, Andrew knows. But you don't know that.
He doesn't sleep that night. He doesn't sleep often as it is, but his mind is running too fast. Cataloguing all the potential scenarios in which you cut off all access he has to you, severing the comfort he finds in his new favorite, voyeuristic hobby.
And Andrew wouldn't—couldn't—blame you for it. He thinks that's what you should do.
You don't.
The following morning, your routine changes.
On the nights you fall asleep in your bed, you're usually dressed in a pair of jeans with gems decorating the pockets and a low-cut top by the time you emerge from your room.
But not this time.
No, this time you're still wearing the same clothes you'd fallen asleep in. A lacy bra and cotton shorts.
Andrew watches, freshly emerged from the quickest shower of his life, hair still wet, as you stand in front of the fridge to find the fizzy energy drink you'd brought home with you last night.
He watches you struggle for a moment to crack the seal open (Those pretty nails of yours. He could help you with that, you know). You take a slow sip, put the aluminum can down on the counter, and turn your head just enough to let Pope know you see him.
You know he's there, in the window. You know he's watching.
And then, painfully slow, you drag your shorts down your thighs. The fabric pools at your feet, and Pope loses all train of thought.
Because this is no accident. You want this. You want him to watch you.
Your bra is next. You reach around to unclasp it and soon after the lace joins the linen fabric on the linoleum floor.
Warmth blooms beneath his skin as he watches you press your hands to your abdomen, feeling your skin, running your hands up your chest and over the swell of your breasts.
You try and play it off like a stretch, lifting your arms above your head and arching your back.
Andrew knows it's not.
You get ready the rest of the morning like normal. And Andrew…God. He doesn't know what to think.
He knows he should stop this before it goes too far. He thinks it already has.
It's…it's weird, right?
Everything about it is wrong.
He doesn't want to stop, but he knows he should.
He tries, though. For what little it's worth.
Tries to busy himself building a fountain at Smurf's. Tries to find small jobs he can do himself to pass the time. He still thinks about you all hours of the day, though. Like a thorn stuck beneath his skin, aching when he moves just the wrong way.
He overhears Nicky explaining to Deran what an 'everything shower' is and thinks about your Sunday ritual. He walks into a hungover Craig making boxed macaroni in his boxers and thinks of you. Smurf lights a candle called pink cashmere and even though it's not pink champagne, it still makes him think of you.
The pretty little girl in the apartment across from his, who he finds himself certifiably, insanely, obsessed with.
One Thursday afternoon, Andrew returns home earlier than he'd planned. He tells himself he just wants to get a little glance.
Just one look. You know, to soothe the ache the thought of you brings. To see if maybe he imagined the weight of your stare.
What he finds, though, is somehow more concerning.
You're pacing your living room, cell phone pressed to your ear, still wearing jeans and your sneakers. There's tension in your shoulders and even though he can't hear the conversation you're having with the person on the other end of the phone, he can see that you're shouting.
It drags on for the better half of an hour. The pacing, the frustrated hand waving, the pinching of the bridge of your nose. Whatever it is, Andrew bets he could help with it.
He hates seeing you stressed. Thinks you should be living your fun, carefree life like normal. You shouldn't be burdened with…whatever it is that's got you so upset.
But it's not like he can go over and just ask.
So, he chooses a different path instead.
Gets the key to the office of the apartment complex from Smurf. Rummages through the paper files until he finds the lease contract linked to your apartment number.
Andrew thinks he should've done this weeks ago. He learns an awful lot about you this way. Like your name, which he begins to recite like a mantra in his head. He learns your birthday and, regretfully, your age.
But, most importantly, he discovers (and memorizes) your phone number.
And that same day, he returns to Smurf's with a torn piece of paper with the digits scribbled on it. He hands it to his nephew and says, "Need you to get a few phone call records. Can you do that for me?"
J furrows his brows in confusion. "Who's number?"
Pope shrugs. "No one," he lies. "Can you get the records or not?"
"Uh, yeah. Yeah, probably. Anything specific you're looking for?"
"I wanna know about a call that happened today. Around two or so. Lasted almost an hour. Just get me the number of whoever was on the other line."
J hesitates for a single moment, and then nods slowly. "Alright. I'll get back to you on it."
In the meantime, Andrew spirals.
The thought of you having a boyfriend never really crossed his mind until now. You don't really have men over. Just your girl friends.
But there are some Saturday nights you don't come home, stumbling in early Sunday morning instead with sunglasses on and your hair a mess. So, Pope thinks you very well could have a boyfriend and he never would've known it.
Pope tells himself if it is a boyfriend, he won't…he won't do anything. It's not his place to make decisions for you, right?
Still. You shouldn't let a man stress you out so much. Whoever it is, they're not worth it. You deserve better. You deserve more.
You deserve someone who knows you.
Less than two hours later, Pope gets a phone call from J, who explains that the person on the other end of that phone call wasn't a person at all.
It was your phone company.
Your stupid fucking service provider who just so happened to put an extra two hundred dollar fee on your bill this month, claiming data overages.
All that stress wasn't over a boyfriend. It was over money.
And money is something Andrew can provide.
He waits until you leave for work, locking up tight behind you. But that doesn't matter, not now. Andrew has a key to the office, which means he has access to the spare key to your apartment.
He is fully aware that he shouldn't be doing this, but ten minutes after you leave he unlocks the door and steps inside anyway.
Your apartment smells sweet. Like sugar and citrus. He wonders if you smell the same way, and the thought alone makes Andrew's mouth water.
He moves slowly into your space, fingers tracing over the TV stand, feeling the wood beneath his calloused fingertips. He straightens the crooked throw pillow on the couch and puts the lighter for your candle back into the tray on the coffee table.
Andrew knows he should just…leave the cash and go. He shouldn't be snooping around, invading your privacy.
But you left a knife point-side up in the strainer in the sink. And you could get hurt doing something like that.
And once he's already in the kitchen, turning the knife over so the sharp edge is down, well…what will it hurt if he opens a couple of drawers?
None of your silverware matches. Andrew finds this little fact sort of endearing. Messy and chaotic in the same way you are, but that's okay. Maybe he can fix that for you one day, too.
Your bathroom is cluttered. There's makeup products littering the porcelain sink and the cabinet mirror is left wide open. Andrew picks up a few different products to read the labels and finds lip liners and leave-in conditioners and powdered blush with pilled pigment on the counter.
He finds that lotion you're always using on Sundays and opens the lid. Andrew brings the container to his nose, inhales deeply, and feels suddenly too hot.
The scent of it is sweet, like you. There's notes of syrupy amber and warm florals and it has the muscles in his abdomen squeezing tight as he thinks about how potent the scent would be if he were between your legs, freshly oiled, calves resting on his shoulders as he licks and sucks at your clit.
His cock has been half hard since the moment he stepped foot in your apartment, but by the time he makes it to your bedroom?
Pope is aching.
Your clothes are strewn all over. There's t-shirts on the floor and jeans inside out near the hamper and a dress you'd worn two weekends ago lying on the edge of your unmade bed.
It smells like you in here, too. Even more so. There's less perfume, but Andrew swears he can smell the scent of your skin. Sweet and intoxicating, sending sparks of arousal straight to his groin.
Your bedside table has a lamp on it and three half-empty bottles of water. There's one drawer, and he pries it open and gives a slow exhale to see all the silk and lace inside.
Going through your underwear drawer is, quite literally, the very last thing someone like Andrew Cody should be doing.
He does it anyway.
Rummages around until he finds that little black pair you like to sleep in. He runs his fingers over the lace band, feeling the softness beneath the rough pad of his thumb. His cock is throbbing, even before he brings the fabric to his nose and inhales the scent of laundry detergent and faint mahogany from the nightstand and—there. The scent of you.
As close as he can get.
As close as he'll probably ever get.
He needs to leave. Andrew is painfully aware that this is crossing a line of a whole new degree. Levels above simply watching.
This is obsession. This is addiction. Sick and twisted and perverted.
Andrew does not leave.
He climbs into your bed instead. Kicks off his boots and discards his hoodie until he's in nothing but his jeans. He slips beneath your sheets—satin, and pink, and filled with the scent of your shampoo and your skin and—fuck.
His cock is leaking by the time he undoes his belt. Andrew reaches beneath your blankets and shoves his jeans down just enough to free himself.
And it's almost enough to blow his load right fucking there, when the underside of his heavy length brushes against the fabric of your sheets. It's almost too much, being in your room, in your bed, breathing in your scent.
But he resists. Grits his teeth and takes his cock in one hand and uses the other to wrap the soft fabric of your underwear around his aching length.
This time, there's nothing slow about the way he strokes himself to the thought of you. He's desperate for it. Release already clouds the edges of his mind and he needs the relief it'll provide.
His brain feels hazy and his vision blurs, just thinking about you, lying here, hand between your legs. He wonders how you touch yourself, if you just play with your clit or if you fuck yourself on your fingers.
The thought crosses his mind that you might be using more than just your hand, and Pope finds himself sitting up. He leans over the edge of your bed and sticks his hand back into your panty drawer, reaching to the very bottom, feeling around until the tips of his fingers brush over silicone.
His heart is beating fast.
It's a small thing. Pink, of course. With only a small, almost hidden power button.
Pope leans back in your pillows and turns the little vibrator on. It buzzes to life in his hand, and when he pushes the button again, the intensity ratchets even higher.
There's only three settings. He turns it to the highest one and imagines holding it against your swollen clit. He imagines you lying under him, thighs around his waist, hips bucking wildly, chasing the vibration that he gives and gives and then takes away.
He turns so he's lying face down in your sheets now, nose pressed into your pillow. Pope puts the vibrator between his cock and the soft expanse of his abdomen, and he feels the sensation everywhere.
He's still got your underwear wrapped around his cock, and he gives a tentative roll of his hips against the mattress.
The groan he lets out is guttural. With his eyes closed, he can imagine its not your panties he's fucking but you. The tight, wet cunt between your legs. He can imagine it's the curve of your throat he's got his nose buried in and not your pillow. He can imagine that sweet, intense vibration is reverberating through your pelvic bone, little toy pressed hard against your clit.
Pope tells himself he'd make it so fucking good for you. He'd bury his cock so deep you'd never forget the weight of it inside you. He'd whisper how beautiful you are in your ear and make you look him in the eyes while he watches you cum over and over and over.
His release is…embarrassingly fast.
A few rolls of his hips against your mattress and he's cumming into the lace fabric of your panties, the vibration of the toy milking him until he's so overstimulated it almost hurts.
Pope rolls over, turns the toy off, and buries it back in the bottom of your drawer. He gives himself a few more moments to gather himself. To catch his breath, to wipe himself clean (never mind the couple of drops that now stain your satin sheets. That could be from anything, right?).
He tucks himself back into his jeans, pulls on his boots and his hoodie, and tosses your underwear in the pile of clothes next to the laundry bin.
There's a pair of your jeans in the middle of the floor, away from the rest. One leg of the denim is inside out. Pope takes the cash from his wallet and tucks it into the pocket, leaving out just enough that he knows you'll notice it.
He leaves.
Locks the door behind him with the spare key.
Makes it halfway across the courtyard before he doubles back, lets himself back into your apartment and into the bathroom where he pockets one of the many different chapsticks on the sink.
It isn't until he's home, tucked safe back in his own apartment, that he realizes it's strawberries and cream flavored.
Andrew puts it on, swiping the transparent petroleum over his lips. He tells himself it's almost like kissing.
Later that day, Craig calls a family meeting. But you've just gotten home, and he knows you'll find the cash within a few minutes when you go to change out of your clothes.
So Andrew waits at the bottom of the stairs on his side of the courtyard. He can't see into your apartment from here, though. And he decides he'll only wait for thirty minutes.
He responds to text messages and opens his blank, photo-less Instagram (that he definitely didn't make only to look at your profile. The one filled with selfies under neon lights and bikini photos on the beach and mirror pictures in the dressing room at that one boutique in the mall).
Twenty nine minutes later, he hears an apartment door slam shut and looks up to see you.
You've got your bag over one shoulder and a grin on your face and the cash in your hand. Enough to cover the additional charges and a little extra, too.
You notice him at the bottom of the cement stairs and freeze, but you don't look…scared, like he expects. Maybe a little startled at first, but the tension bleeds from your face the moment you recognize him.
He should say something. Talk to you. Apologize, maybe, for staring at you.
But Andrew isn't sorry.
And he's never really been good at talking, anyway.
You tilt your head and give him the sweetest fucking smile he's ever seen. It's somehow innocent and knowing at the same time, and Andrew feels the corners of his mouth lifting in response.
Something passes silently between you. An understanding, maybe. You know he watches you, and he knows you know, but…you don't stop him. You just let it happen.
You smile at him from fifteen feet away.
And then you turn to leave, no doubt making your way to pay off that stupid bill that caused you so much unrest.
Pope watches you go, like always.
But this time, you glance back at him over your shoulder with…something lingering in your pretty eyes. Excitement, maybe. He can't be sure.
He needs to get closer.
During the family meeting, he isn't very present. His mind is so far away, stuck on you, that he just blindly agrees to whatever job they're doing next and trusts that it'll all work out.
When he returns to his apartment, there's a note stuck to his door.
A pink sticky note with nothing but a phone number and a heart with an arrow through it scribbled on the paper.
Your phone number, Pope knows.
He knows he shouldn't text you.
It's stupid and dangerous and god, you really shouldn't be giving your number to random men. He could be a creep. He could be a stalker or something.
His message just says,
Hello.
Your response is immediate, with no capitalization which seems quite…fitting for you. He finds it strangely endearing.
hey
are u the guy from apt 212 ???
Pope can feel that this is a bad idea already. But he's already here, and there's no going back now, is there? He doesn't want to hurt your feelings. He doesn't want to leave you on read and make you think he's not interested when the problem is the exact opposite.
Yes.
The typing bubble pops up, disappears, and appears again three different times before you send another message.
im gonna be home in like an hr
will u be watching ???
Always, he wants to say. Fucking always. He can't take his eyes off you, no matter how hard he tries. No matter how shameful it feels.
Andrew's hands shake as he types out a response.
Do you want me to be?
No hesitation this time. Your message comes through a second later.
uhmmm tbh yeah <3
He exhales a long breath. It doesn't feel real. Like he's imagining the entire thing. How could he not be? Why on earth would the sweetest, prettiest little thing want someone to watch her?
But the weight of his cell phone in his hand is real.
And the text message is real.
And this…this is real.
Then yes. I will be.
You don't reply, and Andrew's heart flutters in his chest as he takes his practiced position in the chair in front of his window and waits.
True to your word, you're skipping up the steps fifty three minutes after the last message is sent. You turn on those LEDs and and move about your apartment like normal, kicking off your sneakers and dropping your bag by the door. You change out of your clothes and put on a worn in t-shirt that's two sizes too big for you, but underneath…
Pope can see the sheer thigh highs you wear and the black, lace edge of them. He can see those strappy garters attached to them, but nothing else. The straps disappear beneath your shirt, leaving him wanting for more.
You're teasing him, Pope realizes.
He watches with bated breath as you lay on the couch, getting comfortable with the throw pillow against the arm.
And then, for the first time, Andrew watches you touch yourself.
You start slowly, hands roaming over your body, on top of the fabric, massaging gently at the inside of your thighs.
His cock's always hard watching you, truth be told. But this…
His skin feels hot. His lungs feel tight.
Your fingers curl around the edge of your t-shirt, and you pull it over your head to discard it on the floor.
Andrew hasn't seen you wear this set before, not even on those sacred Sundays.
It's pretty. Matching black lace. The bra is low cut and pushes your breasts up your chest, the soft flesh swelling over the top. The waistband of the matching panties is decorated in shining silver gems, laying so perfectly against your hips that he feels dizzy just looking at it.
The prettiest package, just begging to be unraveled by his big, mean hands.
You dressed up for him.
You dressed up for him.
Your hands start to move again, palming your breasts, pulling the lace down until they spill out of the top. Your nipples are so pretty that his mouth waters. He wants to kiss them, to feel the shape of them under his tongue. He wants to kneel over top of you and jerk himself off until they're covered in his sticky white release.
You squeeze your breasts until your nipples form pretty little peaks, and then your hands slide lower. Over your abdomen, and your hips, and then your thighs. You bring them slowly back up, only to slide them over the lace fabric of your panties, right down the center of your cunt.
Andrew thinks he could die.
He could fucking die, just looking at you.
Carefully, you unbuckle the chrome latch of your garter. The left side first, and then the right quickly follows. You leave the lace belt on, but hook your thumbs around the bedazzled lace of your panties and pull them down your thighs painfully slowly.
Your knees fall apart.
Pope swallows hard.
He can see everything from here. The seam of your thighs that he's dreamt about. The pretty shape of your pussy. The wetness that's gathered between your folds, slick and shiny with arousal. With want.
For him. It's for him.
His cock throbs so hard it hurts.
Pope doesn't touch himself. He can't. Can he? All you asked of him was that he watched.
That's what you wanted.
But wouldn't it be better if he was there? Wouldn't it be better if he could touch you, if he could taste you, if he could fuck you?
All you'd have to do is let him in.
Your fingers stroke gently over your clit in small circles, and he watches in awe as your lips part and your spine bends.
He can't hear your moans but god does he wish he could. Thinks about putting a little microphone in your lampshade the next time he sneaks into your apartment.
Your fingers drift lower, over your center, and slowly press inside.
Pope wants it to be him so fucking bad.
If not his cock inside you then his fingers. They're bigger. Longer. Thicker. They'd please you more. Reach places your fingers can't.
Maybe his tongue. He'd drink you right from the fucking source and cum in his jeans, probably. But he'd make sure to find that sweet, velvety spot inside you first and he'd spell his full fucking name over it with a pointed tongue.
Silly girl. Don't you know what he could do for you? Don't you know what he could do to you?
Pope squeezes the bulge in his jeans to try and alleviate the pain of his lust.
You fuck yourself with your fingers, stuffing in one and then two and then three, stretching yourself on them, slick dripping down the seam of your cunt. Your back arches when your free hand finds your clit, and he knows you're close.
He knows he shouldn't, but he searches frantically for his phone anyway and sends another text message.
I want to hear you.
You pause only long enough to grab your phone off the coffee table, read the text, and lay your phone on the arm of the couch behind you.
Pope's phone buzzes in his hand.
You're calling him.
He answers on the first ring, and the sounds that greet him are so erotic it steals the breath from his lungs.
You sound so pretty. So sweet and feminine, everything he's imagined yet somehow so, so much more. He's sure you can hear his heavy breaths on the other end of the phone, but Pope can't find it in himself to care. Can't think of much else besides the way you whimper and the sight of your fingers stuffed inside you.
"Oh, god—"
His inhale is shaky.
"I'm gonna cum," you choke out, words hazy with your moans. "I'm so close, I'm so fucking—hmm. Yes. What's your name?"
He almost doesn't hear you, so lost in the sight before him. Immersed in the euphoria of it. But then he says, voice a low, uncertain whisper, "Andrew."
Your spine bends and the fingers on your clit slow. "Oh my god. Fuck, Andrew—I'm cumming, I'm—yes, yes—god."
His cock twitches and when he tries to soothe it with another tight squeeze, he sends himself careening off the precipice of release instead. His head falls back and his once heavy breaths get stuck in his lungs. Pope rubs himself over his jeans, making a sticky, hot mess in his boxers, generating what little friction he can.
He watches you come down in real time. Not his dreams, not his imagination. He watches it happen. Watches that fucked-out, hazy look cross your face. Watches the tension in your muscles melt away, wishing he could kiss the junction of your throat.
Pope wishes he could worship you. Wishes he could clean you up and put on that trashy reality show you like and hold you against his chest, comforting you while your brain comes back to earth.
Instead, you lean up. Grab your phone and press it to your ear, staring right at him through his wide open window.
He doesn't know what he expects you to say, but it's certainly not, "Have you been inside my apartment, Andrew?"
For a second, he thinks about lying. Because there's no way you know, right? Not for sure. It's not like you have cameras or anything (he knows, because he checked).
But he doesn't want to lie. Not to you.
"I…might have been. Once, yes."
"Did you steal my chapstick?"
"You have ten of them."
He hears your laugh for the first time, and the sound is like sunlight in his chest. "You took the best flavor."
"I'm…I'm sorry. I'll return it."
"Keep it. I already got a new one," you say. "Cost me five hundred dollars, though."
So, you know it was him who left the cash, too.
Smart, pretty girl.
He doesn't say anything, too afraid he'll say something stupid or awkward the way he usually does. He doesn't want to ruin this moment. This absolutely perfect moment.
You smile at him, kiss your palm, and blow it towards your window. "Goodnight, Andrew."
He feels his face heat. "Goodnight."
Pope rides the high of it for days.
Can't shake the sight of you open and bare for him. Can't stop thinking about the sound of your moans or the way you'd said his name in the peak of euphoria. He fucks his first to the thought of it more times than he can count.
And Andrew's never been a really sexual person. Not unless it's with someone he loves.
But is that what this is? Love?
You've never met. Not really, not properly. How could it be something so intense? You don't know him. You don't know who he is or what he does. You don't know how he's hurt and maimed and killed.
Would you be afraid, finding out? Would you run to the police if you knew? Would you recoil away from him with terror in your eyes?
All things left unsaid. All things that may, very well, never be said.
Pope feels so uncertain with all of this that he finds himself resorting to fucking google, even. Search history littered with questions and Reddit threads that never provide any real clarity.
Define love.
Define obsession.
How to know if you're in love?
How to ask a girl out?
How to get over a girl.
Define voyeur.
Define fetish.
How big of an age gap is too big?
Apartments for sale on the east coast.
Pink champagne candle.
Strawberries and cream chapstick bulk pack.
You text him a week again after your exhibitionistic display.
do u wanna like go out sometime?? been thinking about u a lot
He's at Smurf's when he reads the message.
Pope doesn't even realize he's smiling until Deran slides a beer across the counter at him and asks, "What's got you all happy today?"
And Pope just shakes his head. Schools his features back into neutrality and says, "Nothing. Just won a bet."
He can tell his brother doesn't believe him, not even for a second. But thankfully, Deran doesn't push any further. He lets the subject go, but the question stays stuck in Andrew's head for hours.
It takes him a while to decide on a response. It's honest, and…mostly true.
We shouldn't. I'm a lot older than you.
Your response is a single, painful letter.
k
He doesn't respond to try his hand at damage control, even though he wants to. It's probably better this way, he thinks. Better that there's some distance between you. Better than you hate him and see him as the creepy neighbor he is.
But that Saturday night, when you return home, it's not with your friends.
Pope watches from his window as you guide a man up the stairs and into your apartment.
He's tall. Dark haired, with bright eyes and white teeth and a good smile. Closer to your age. Handsome like a man allowed into your space should be.
You're fumbling a little with your apartment key and Pope watches as the man stands behind you and slides his hands down the back of your thighs.
Thighs he should be touching. Thighs he's watched for months. Thighs that spread for him, long before this fucking loser ever laid his eyes on you.
He tells himself he won't interfere.
You're your own woman. You deserve to feel good, even if it's with…someone else.
And Pope knows he's just going to have to get the fuck over it.
He did it to himself, really.
He should look away.
But he watches instead.
Watches the two of you fall onto the couch. Watches another man kiss down the column of your throat and squeeze the supple curve of your ass over your sequined dress.
Your eyes find his from across the courtyard, and Pope's jaw clenches.
Putting on another show for him. Filthy, filthy girl.
And you're just going to give it to some random man? Someone who doesn't know you like Pope does? Someone who doesn't know how you like to be touched?
He needs to look away. Close his own fucking blinds for once.
But he feels frozen. Knowing this time, you're watching him. Looking for him. Goading for a reaction.
Pope watches the slow ascent of the man's hand. Promises himself he won't interfere. He'll just watch to make sure you're safe, that's all.
But the moment that greedy hand disappears beneath your dress, Andrew's moving. Throwing open his door and slamming it closed behind him. He crosses the courtyard and takes the steps two at a time.
His fist against your apartment door is incessant. He doesn't stop, even when he hears the uttered, male voice ask, "Who is that?"
When the door opens, it's you who stands in front of him, chin tilted up as you stare at him, pupils flared wide.
The man you'd brought home with you hovers over your shoulder.
Pope doesn't even look at him. He stares only at you as he says, a little snarl in his voice, "Tell him to leave."
"Dude, what the fuck? Who is this guy?"
Your lips curl at the corners. A devilish little smile. "Okay," you say, nodding, your voice soft and pliant. You turn your head to look at the man who stands behind you. "Sorry, but you've gotta go."
"You're joking," he responds flatly. "You said I could—!"
Andrew reaches past you and takes him by the collar, pulling him out of your apartment and slamming him up against the paneled siding. "I ever see you in this apartment again, I'll fucking kill you. You understand me?"
"Jesus fucking—yeah, okay. Alright. Sorry."
Pope isn't joking. Doesn't say it to scare him off but rather as a warning.
He lets him go and watches him scramble down the stairs. He doesn't turn back to face you until the little tool you used for attention gets in his car and drives away.
And when he does finally turn back to you…Christ. Your eyes are half lidded and full of lust. Pope's close enough this time that there's no mistaking it.
He should be a gentleman. Should take you out first. Bring you home and kiss you on your doorstep and leave you untouched.
He knows he should.
What he does instead is curl his hand around the back of your neck and pull you to him. He leans down, mouth hovering over yours, breathing in your panicky exhales. "This what you want?"
Your grin is immediate and undeniable. You nod and breathe out the word, "Please."
Andrew kisses you hard, crowding you back into your apartment. He kicks the door closed behind him and slides his tongue into your mouth, tasting you and groaning at the sweetness. There's mint and strawberry and you, his favorite flavor.
He feels drunk on it. On the taste of your tongue, the glide of your wet lips over his, the way your hands scramble and tug desperately at his belt.
"Fuck," he sighs, pulling back just enough to see you. "Open your mouth, baby. Wide. And stick out your tongue."
The way you immediately obey has his cock twitching. Good girl. So fucking good for him when he gives you exactly what you need.
Andrew licks the flat of your tongue once, delighting in the way you whimper in response, before bringing his hand to your mouth. He slides two fingers behind your teeth and orders, "Suck."
You do, lips closing tight around the digits, wet tongue swirling over his thick knuckles. He pushes them further down your throat, your eyes locked on his as he makes you choke on them.
"So fucking pretty," he tells you. "You always look so pretty."
Andrew pulls the straps of your mini dress over your shoulders, roughly tugging the fabric over your chest down to expose your breasts.
You're wearing the same lace bra you'd worn when you dressed up for him, he realizes. He can see the peaks of your nipples through the semi-sheer fabric, and leans down to lock his lips around the left one over the lace.
The fabric is rough beneath his tongue, a stark contrast to the softness of your skin. He sucks hard, spreading the wetness of his saliva over the lace. You push your dress further down your waist and over your hips.
Andrew slides his fingers out of your mouth, sticky and dripping with your spit. He brings them to his own lips instead and sucks them clean, watching your breath hitch and your eyes grow impossibly more hazy.
He lowers himself to his knees before you and his slick fingers work quickly at the straps of your heels, unbuckling them to free your pretty, white-painted toes.
Your hands find his shoulders for balance. "I like that you watch me," you tell him. "I think about it sometimes and it makes me so…god, Andrew. It gets me so wet."
He looks up at you from his knees, big brown eyes glassy and full of adoration. "Good," he says. "'Cause I'm gonna watch you a little closer tonight."
That pretty smile finds its way to your face again.
Andrew presses a sweet, chaste kiss to the apex of your thighs. Over your panties, right where he knows your clit lies beneath. He then stands to his feet, towering over you now without the added height of your heels, and presses you forward.
You take a careful step back, nearly losing your balance.
Andrew grins, taking another step, crowding you back towards your bedroom. He doesn't stop until the back of your knees hit the edge of your mattress.
You stumble backwards, falling into the plush sheets that he's all too familiar with. Lying on your back, propped up by your elbows, you stare up at him with wide eyes and he's reminded of a timid little animal caught in the trap of a predator.
Don't you know how dangerous he could be?
You don't look afraid. You actually look…eager.
Pope stands tall at the edge of your mattress. "Take off your clothes."
You do. Unclasping your bra first, tossing the fabric into the already existing mess on the floor. And then your panties follow, thumbs hooking around the fabric to drag it down your legs.
Andrew reaches around and fists the collar of his shirt, tugging it over his head. He feels warm all over, watching you greedily drink up the sight of him. He thinks he'd feel a little nervous, in any other setting. If it were anyone but you.
His sweet, filthy girl.
Andrew reaches into the half-open drawer of your nightstand, searching until he finds your vibrator again.
Your brows furrow as you watch him find it with practiced ease. "You went through my underwear drawer, too?"
"Did more than that," he admits.
You inhale like you're going to speak again, but the words melt to nothing when he tosses the small toy onto the bed beside you.
"Use it," Pope orders.
"What?"
He crawls onto the mattress between your legs, spreading them wide, laying your calves on either side of his hips. "Let me watch you."
There's a moment of hesitation, but you don't look nervous. Only…curious.
You pick up the vibrator and slide the pink silicone through your folds, spreading your arousal before you press the power button. You circle your clit with the tip of it a few times, teasing yourself.
When you turn the toy on, he can feel the vibration against his hands that grip your thighs. You let out a syrupy moan and turn the intensity higher, drawing tight circles around your pretty clit.
He watches you, eyes locked on the pink silicone between your legs. He watches your entrance flutter, tightening around nothing, begging to be filled. "Your pussy is so pretty," he mutters. "Do you know that?"
Your only response is a breathy whimper. You click the intensity up again, putting it on the highest setting, and Pope sighs when your legs begin to shake around him.
He wants to watch you make yourself cum. Wants another scene to fuck his fist to in the shower or in his bed or in his truck.
But he's here. Finally, finally here, in your bed, with you, and he can't help himself.
Pope grips your hips hard and pulls you closer, tilting your hips up into his lap. The vibrator falls from your hand at the sudden movement, but he's quick to return it to you. "Keep going."
You press the silicone back to your clit, and Andrew spreads you open with gentle thumbs. He gathers the spit in his mouth and lets it drip from his lips and onto the seam of your cunt.
And then he's sliding his middle finger inside of your entrance, curling it upwards, searching for that sweet spot that makes you writhe.
It doesn't take long. He's watched you. He knows just what you like and what angle to hit. And the second the tip of his finger presses hard against it, you fist your free hand in the sheets and curses fall from your sweet mouth.
Pope slides another thick finger inside, watching the way you squirm, feeling the walls of your cunt flutter around the swell of his knuckles.
"I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna—oh, fuck. Feels so good, feels so fucking—"
A long, throaty moan leaves your mouth, and he feels the warmth of your release pool in his palm. You're so slick that each wet thrust of his fingers echoes against the walls of your room.
He doesn't stop until you're twitching. Until you click the vibrator off and shove it away from you. And even then, he still gives a few, slow curls of his fingers inside of you. Not touching with intent, just…feeling. Memorizing.
Once you catch your breath, you lean up enough to find his eyes again. You say timidly, shyly, "I want…I want to feel you, Andrew. I want you inside me. Do you…do you want to fuck me?"
It's the most asinine question he's ever been asked in his fucking life. Does he want to fuck you?
He's thought of nothing else for months. Every night when he fights for sleep, it's the thought of you under him that puts him to bed.
It's such an impractical concern from his point of view that he laughs. Actually laughs, for the first time in years. "Oh, baby."
Pope takes your hands in his. He presses one to his chest, right over his heart, and the other against the hardness in his jeans.
"I have never wanted another woman as bad as I want you," he says truthfully. "But I…you…you deserve better than this. Better than me. You understand that, don't you?"
You shake your head. "You don't know me, Andrew. Not really. You don't know if—"
"No, no. I do. I know you're the kind of friend who would give the shirt off their back. The kind of girl who'd let her phone get cut off before asking for help. The kind of girl who gets up every morning and just…tries. Every day. And you fucking…you smile about it. You're good. You're so fucking good and I…"
He stops.
Remembers the last time he'd loved someone like this and how he'd made a stupid confession he should've taken to his grave and how it'd fucked him completely.
"You're what, Andrew?"
Pope swallows. "I'm...I'm a bad man. I've hurt people. I will…hurt people, I—" His voice cracks. He lowers his eyes, trying to turn away, unable to find the strength to face you.
But you take his jaw in your gentle hands and force him to look at you. Sweet, angel of a girl that you are. And then you say without a waver to be found in your voice, "I like who you are. Do you think I gave the man who watches me through my window my phone number because I want some guy I could match with on Tinder?"
He tries to slow the rapid pounding of his heart. He wonders if love is supposed to be like this. To feel like this. All consuming and terrifying and devastatingly hopeful above all.
You shake your head and tuck your legs beneath you, sitting up on your knees. He sits stone still as you lean forward and kiss his cheek, whispering against his ear, "I've been watching you, too, Andrew Cody."
Something shifts inside of him as you say it. Uttering his last name that he'd never given you, that isn't even on his lease because this is a fake apartment under a fake name to launder the money they steal.
Oh—sweet, smart girl. Smarter than he thought.
How silly of him to ever doubt you.
There's a newfound wildness in your eyes when they meet his again. An unveiling. Like he's seeing you for who you truly are for the first time.
And you're…god. So fucking beautiful.
And, yeah. Pope thinks he's been right this whole fucking time.
He's weird and wrong and sickly obsessed.
But you are, too.
Andrew takes you by the back of the neck and kisses you hard, desperate to taste you, to close what little physical space remains between your body and his. He pushes you back against the mattress and follows you down.
Your hands find his belt buckle before he does, and he stares down at you as your deft fingers pry the leather open and unbutton his jeans. He helps you push the denim down his legs until his cock springs free, heavy and leaking. Wanting for you, twitching as you take it carefully in your hand.
A groan reverberates at the back of his mouth. Your hands are so soft. Perfect and pliant. One day, he swears he'll show you how he likes to be touched. He'll let you sit in his lap and watch him stroke his cock for you.
But for now, he lets you touch him slowly. Experimental. Feeling the heavy weight of him in your palm. You spit on your fingertips and spread your saliva over his sensitive tip, flushed red and pulsing beneath your touch.
You lean back and guide him between your thighs, sliding the head of his cock through your syrupy folds and over your clit.
The moment you line him up at your entrance, Pope eases inside and you let out the sweetest fucking sigh he's ever heard in his entire life. Sweet and soft and so, so satisfied.
It's so beautiful. You're so beautiful. And you feel warm and heavenly and wet around him. He pulls out slowly, almost all the way, and then drives his cock back into your cunt.
You squeal and those sharp, acrylic nails dig into his spine. But your legs circle his hips, and so Pope does it again.
He fucks you hard. Claiming that spot at the back of your cunt, pressed right up against your cervix. He rolls his hips and presses his mouth to yours, swallowing up those desperate, carnal sounds he pulls out of our chest.
Sweet girl. Sweet fucking girl. He reaches between you and circles your clit. "My girl now," he says, words spoken against your lips. "You'll never need anyone else, baby. No one but me."
You nod, the velvety walls of your pussy squeezing around the hard length of his cock.
Andrew puts his whole weight on top of you, grinding himself between your thighs, giving you everything he has. Everything he is.
"I'm yours," you choke out. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—"
It becomes a mantra. One that feeds his desire, in perfect sync with the rhythm of his thrusts. He watches your arousal begin to crest, nearing the summit, the muscles in your thighs twitching. "Look at me, baby," he says. "Tell me you love me when I make you cum."
You're so lost in it, head all spacey, that your eyes remain closed until he takes your jaw in a firm grip.
There are pretty tears in your eyes when you open them, but that smile on your face is present, too. He feels you pulse around him and your breath gets all shallow and then—
"I love you, Andrew, I fucking—oh my god please, please—I love you."
The words are music to his ears, tingling down his spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He thought the sound of his name in your mouth was beautiful but this…fuck. He could die.
Pope thinks he would. For you, he would.
He fucks you through it. Tastes your moans and says, "Yeah, that's it. Give it to me. Look so pretty when you cum for me."
He doesn't let his pace falter until your muscles loosen, until your nails stroke gently over his spin instead of leaving marks.
You pepper sweet kisses over his jaw, tongue sliding up the shell of his ear. "I want you to cum inside me," you tell him.
He's been fighting it the whole time, trying desperately not to blow his load before he'd at least gotten you there first.
But when you say that?
When you say, "Please, Andrew. Want you to give it to me. Want you to fill me up with your cum. Please. I need it."
He thinks about telling you that you don't have to beg. Not him, not for anything (especially this). But you just sound so pretty, begging for his cum, that he can't bring himself to do it.
So, he gives you what you want instead. Fucks his cum into you, groaning low in your ear, cock pulsing inside you. You feel so good wrapped around him it's euphoric. Otherworldly.
Your pussy grips tight, milking him dry, taking every last drop (he knows you're on birth control. Don't you know the women's clinic downtown keeps a spare key beneath the plant in front of their door?).
Andrew is careful when he slides out of you. And he wastes no time before kicking his jeans the rest of the way off and pulling you against his chest.
He pulls the blanket up around your shoulders and presses a kiss to your hairline. His voice wavers a little as he says, "Sorry if I…if I was a little rough."
You shake your head, pressing your nose to the divot between his pectorals. "It was perfect," you murmur against his skin.
Silence settles between you. Comfortable and easy, the sound of your breathing in perfect synchronization.
After some time you say, "I meant it, you know. Wouldn't have said it if I didn't. I really think I might be in love with you, Andrew. Is that…crazy?"
Yes, he wants to say.
But he feels it, too.
So instead he says, "You know, I don't…I don't have much experience with that sorta thing. Don't really know how to…to navigate it, I guess. But, uhm…yeah. Me, too."
He feels that smile of yours against his chest.
Andrew knows that this dynamic the two of you have created is weird.
oo! got this tag from @mast3rbait3r while writing my pope omegaverse fic and had to drop everything to do this. this is so cool.
rules: go to pinterest and type in the prompts below. whatever image pops up first is your image!
prompts: colour, quote, character, hobby, accessory, song lyric, flower
okay damn not pintrest outing me like that (thank u quinn promo btw) and i loooove scrapbooking/collaging!! i havent done it in so long. can you tell ive been going through an existential crisis. i think these are pretty fitting!
no pressure tags (sorry if you've already been tagged before!): @valleyanimalz, @dirtygir1, @j4ck4bbot, @svndwn, @hirukochan, @thatcorporategirlie, @yournamesnob, @theariespov, @hotdocsandcowboys, anyone who wants to join!!
summary: titus danforth is being a brat. so you kick his dick to make his erectile dysfunction worse. then he chases you through the woods. #brat4brat
wc: 2.3k words
warnings: 18+, pwp basically (intro is so trash), brat x brat taming, switch!reader, switch!titus, erectile dysfunction, face slapping, kneeing his dick (?), primal play, oral!m (soft! cock!), boot riding, one instance of him calling you 'slut', brief aftercare.
a/n: yes this is inspired by that tweet, yes i tweeted that tweet. if you know me on there, no you don't. gif credits: @lauraneedstochill | divider credits: @strangergraphics
Titus had been pissing you off the entire day. He’d sat beside you at breakfast and never once reached for your knee beneath the table the way he usually did. Every now and then he’d glance up from whatever document was spread before him, catch your eye for half a second, and then look away again.
At lunch, you’d tried sitting on the arm of his chair.
Normally, his hand would’ve found your waist automatically, like muscle memory. Today he simply continued reading. You left the room, humiliated, angry.
By dinner, you’re contemplating murder.
The long dining table feels absurd when there are only two people sitting at it. Usually you’d be sitting right next to him, and he’d feed you bites of whatever the chef had cooked. Today, you sit across from him. The candlelight flickers, encasing his face with shadows that deepen the sharp lines of his jaw, and the grey stubble covering it.
You hate how pretty he looks, how even the simple act of him licking his spoon makes your pussy throb. Especially when he’d been a brat all day.
And not once did he look at you. Not once.
You spent the entire meal staring at him, fuming.
“You know,” you say.
“Hm?”
“I think you’re the most irritating person I’ve ever met.”
He hums thoughtfully.
“Interesting.”
“Interesting? That’s all you’re going to say? No smart retort? No shutting me up with your fingers?”
He simply shrugs.
You want to throw the half eaten bread roll at his stupidly beautiful face. Instead, you cross your arms and lean back in your chair. He needs to be taught a lesson, you think.
“How about we play?”
For the first time in hours, Titus looks at you properly. His eyes darken, lips twitching.
“Oh?” he said softly.
You shrugged, trying to look casual.
“It’s been weeks.”
A slow smile spread across his face, as though he’d finally been handed exactly what he’d been waiting for.
“Sure. I’ll tell the guards to leave the grounds.”
And with that, he gets out of his chair, and leaves the room.
Hours later, beneath the canopy of trees behind the estate, you and Titus walk side by side. The forest is dark except for strips of moonlight breaking through the branches overhead.
Titus walks beside you with that same smug expression, that same look that said he’d won. You can’t wait to slap the brat out of him.
Your black lace slip sways slightly, goosebumps raising as you walk ahead of him. You can feel his eyes trailing down your back, landing on the plush of your thighs, barely covered by the silk.
“You’ve been insufferable the whole day, Titus.”
“I know.”
The immediate agreement caught you off guard.
“I know,” he repeated, and somehow the admission sounded even more self-satisfied. “That was rather the point.”
You let out a disbelieving laugh.
“God, listen to yourself.”
You turn around, and catch the front of his black shirt before he can take another step.
“Titus.”
Your voice is sharp enough that it finally wipes some of the amusement from his face. His gaze drops briefly to where your fist is twisted in the fabric at his chest before returning to your face.
“What?”
The question is infuriatingly innocent after all his fuckery. You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. His mouth twitches. That stupid, infuriating twitch. And you’ve had enough.
You shove him hard, with enough force that he stumbles back into the trunk of a broad tree. The bark scrapes against his shoulders.
Titus blinks. Then he smiles, like he’s delighted by the development, like the pain of it turns him on. It only makes you more angry.
You squeeze his stubbled cheeks, forcing his lips together into a small unwilling pout. His eyes darken and glaze over. It comes out rough, teeth gritted.
He tries to shove you half heartedly; You know with his strength you’d be on the ground by now. But it seems he’s in the mood for taming tonight.
“Is this what you wanted? Me shoving you against a tree? Reminding you of what happens when you be a fucking brat?”
He struggles to reply, your fingers still pressing into his cheeks, letting out a garbled 'took you long enough'.
You retreat your hand from his cheeks, your eyes darkening at his insolence. Your palm comes back with a sharp slap. The sound echoes in the silence of the forest, his face turning to the side with the force of it.
You giggle, flashing your teeth. Pulling on his grey curls, you turn his head back to face you. Seeing his reddening cheek fills you with a deep satisfaction. He lets out a deep groan.
You bring your face closer to him, until your noses touch.
“Yeah you like that? Like when I slap you like that?”
“Pl-please, sweetheart, kiss me please,” he babbles.
You shake your head, seeing his desperation grow. Trail one manicured finger down his chest, his stomach, until you reach the waistband of pants. You cup his bulge, smirk at the softness.
“Aw baby still can’t get it up?”
He whimpers, almost a pathetic whine. You making fun of his erectile dysfunction wasn’t anything new, but it made the old man blush every time, a reminder of the years between you.
You brush your tongue across his red cheek, soothing it. Then whisper in his ear, “It’s okay, I’ll still take care of my baby.”
Placing your hands on his shoulders, you move back. His face lights up, eyes glistening with want, probably thinking you’ll kneel and suck him off.
But the slap wasn’t enough for how he ignored you, how he made your pussy throb and ache the whole day.
You smirk. Then you bring your knee up, hard, straight into his crotch.
He doubles over in pain. A loud, guttural groan leaves his mouth as pain radiates across his body.
“That helping your soft cock, baby? Think you’ll finally be able to get it up now?”
As he lifts his head slightly, he looks at you through his brows, his eyes nearly pitch black, murderous. His jaw flexes.
For the briefest moment, something that feels suspiciously like fear curls around your ribs. Then you think of what he’ll do to you now that he’s mad.
A laugh bursts from your chest before you can stop it. His mouth curls up in something that resembles a snarl as he says your name.
Then you turn and run.
Manic sounds tear out of you as you sprint between the trees, half laughter and half exhilaration, your bare feet flying over the familiar forest floor as cold air rushes against your skin and the hem of your slip catches around your legs.
You know these woods. The paths that wind behind the estate have been maintained ever since you became Mrs Danforth, the grounds crew keeping this section meticulously clean, ensuring every dangerous stone was removed, every hidden hazard cleared away until running through them feels almost effortless.
And for a few wonderful seconds you are nothing but movement and adrenaline and filled with the overwhelming satisfaction of knowing you've finally gotten a reaction out of him.
Then come his footsteps, heavy boots thudding against the dirt. Still too far for how impatient you are to feel his hands over you, shoving and slapping you into the ground.
"Oh, come on," you call into the night, breathless with laughter. "That's all you've got?"
You continue running through the forest. The darkness blurs around you. Tree trunks flash past and branches arch over head. Your heartbeat pounds so loudly in your ears that it drowns out everything else.
A mistake.
A startled sound rips from your throat as you feel a harsh shove from behind you, the world violently shifting. You bring your hand out in front of you to stop your head from cracking into the ground, the friction scraping your palms. Specks of blood pool as you groan softly, panting, your cheek resting on the dirt.
Then a hand reaches into your hair and pulls, hard, until your back is half arched. You feel Titus lower his head to the side of your face. He brings his nose up your neck, inhaling, before he breathes into your ear.
“Had fun, sweetheart?”
You nod, smiling, eyes half-lidded.
“Good. Gonna wipe that smug fuckin’ grin off your face by the time I’m done with you.”
He lets go of your hair, only to roughly turn you onto your back.
He towers over you, a leg on either side of you. You become aware of exactly how much larger he is than you, how broad his shoulders are beneath the fitted black shirt, how easy it would be for him to annihilate you in between these trees without anyone knowing. A sharp rush of arousal through your cunt at the thought.
“Take your panties off and give ‘em to me.”
You do as he says, sitting up slightly, lifting your hips and sliding your underwear down. The blood from your palms stains the small strip of cloth before you pass it to him.
He brings it to his nose, inhaling, and lets out a moan. Then, he uses it to wipe the sheen of sweat off his face before tucking it into his pants. Your thighs press together at the act.
He nods, his chin pointing down. “The fuck you waiting for?”
You bring yourself to your knees, maintaining eye contact with him. You bring the straps of your slip down, pulling the fabric down until your tits are bare, nipples hard and aching.
Titus lets out a low moan at the sight of them, refraining from touching them. You don’t get pleasure after the stunt you pulled.
You bring your hands to rest on his thighs, the muscles clenching when your mouth makes contact with his bulge. Large, even soft.
Your tongue comes out, swiping a lick across his zipper. You moan.
His hand clutches your hair.
“Tighter,” you whimper.
He pulls. Your scalp aches.
“Brat.”
“I’m not the one who can’t get hard.”
Titus groans and pulls you back. His other hand hooks into your jaw, fingers slipping in. Drool drips down his fingers and onto the dirt.
“You goin’ to suck me or should I stuff these down your throat?”
You garble out a ‘sorry’.
Titus smiles, a wretched, arrogant smile.
His fingers slip out and rub the excess drool on your cheek, a patch of slick left in its wake.
“Get to it then, sweetheart.”
You unzip his pants, and pull them down to just under his ass. Keeping his boxers on, you grip the backs of his thighs as you suck on his bulge, moaning. The fabric darkens with your spit, the plain taste of cloth mingled with his heady precum filling your mouth.
His eyes are closed and his hand tightens in your scalp. He lets out little whimpers as you continue suckling on his soft cock. It pulses softly, precum dribbling. You suckle on the tip, before dragging your tongue down the length.
Then you push his boxers down, a familiar thatch of grey with auburn specks greets you, and nestled into it, his soft cock. You nuzzle your nose into his pubes, as a hand slowly strokes his cock. Soft moans leave both his mouth and yours.
“Just like that baby, fu-fuck. Doin’ so good for me.”
Before you can put your mouth on him. He bends from the waist, and tells you to open your mouth. You acquiesce, tongue coming out. He spits, a glob of saliva dropping into your mouth.
Patting your head, he grumbles lowly.
“Spit it back onto me baby.”
Your pussy clenches at his depravity. Spitting the mix of his spit and yours back onto his cock, you slowly stroke it until it's covered.
Staring up at him, you take the tip into your mouth. Suckle on it, twirl your tongue over it before slowly putting the entirety of his cock into your mouth. You noses touches his rough hair.
He moans hands gripping your hair harder.
“Fuck, that’s it, good fuckin’ girl.”
Seeing you squirm under him, he takes mercy on you, bringing his boot forward.
“Rub your pussy on it,” he growls out.
You don’t need to be told twice. Your bare clit rubs against the smooth surface of his boots, moaning through your cock stuffed mouth. You ride his boot while suckling on his cock, a hand holding it by the base while the other plays with his balls.
The forest is filled with the sound of your high pitched moans and his groans as he thrusts into your mouth.
“Fuck, I’m gonna come, fu-fuck, you’re doing so good for me baby,” he moans, breathier and loader as he reaches his peak.
You ride his boot harder, pulling back just enough to see beads of his cum dribble out and onto your hands as his thighs quiver and a loud groan escapes him. Your cunt aches, and you feel your own orgasm approaching.
“Pl-please Titus, fuck let me come, please!”
He brings a hand down to pinch your nipples.
“Just like that, baby. Come on my shoe, you fuckin’ slut.”
You moan, his words driving you over the edge. You grip his thighs, fingers pressing tiny half crescents into them. The world around you blurs as you cum, long and hard.
You breathe deeply, pressing your cheek on his thigh, resting. He pets your hair as he tilts his head to the sky, panting, grinning.
“You fuckin’ brat.”
You giggle.
He gently lifts your head off his thighs so he can pull his boxers and pants up. Then he gently wipes your face with your underwear, cooing at you, little praises, ‘you did so good baby, my little sweetheart, did so good for me’.
“C’mon, I’ll run you a bath once we get back home,” he says as he lifts you into his arms, bridal style. You wrap your arms around his neck and nuzzle your face in his wrinkly neck.
You smile.
“Love you, Titus.”
He looks down at you fondly.
“I love you more, sweetheart.”
‘brat4brat for you freaks, hope you liked it! when i say titus danforth is my husband i fucking mean it, he would match my freak like no other. this ones for molz and lilian and @tempestfawn, my day one erectile dysfunction warriors - thank you for spreading the agenda.
not beta read like titus dih when it’s not near me. hammered this out in two sittings pls excuse any typos ill reread in the morning anyways #virginsloveflaccidcock
playlist if anybody gaf: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7BxAu1ESDV2ijzjFg3ASLI?si=be480d6a4eaa41a6
was wondering if you'd be willing to write a little something something about pope taking his s/o lingerie/bra & panties shopping?
i feel like he'd be glued to your side the whole time and keeping his eyes glued to you, afraid of looking anywhere else. but i want to know your thoughts too 😛
I’m your naughty girl, aren’t I?
Andrew ‘Pope’ Cody x fem!reader
authors note: MY BELOVED MOOT!!! I had way too much fun with this one <3 sorry I def got carried away but I hope you like it teehee
cw: MDNI!! afab!reader, boyfriend Pope, sub!Pope as fuck (he gets tied up🤭), r wears lingerie, dirty talk, good boy and naughty girl mention oops, semi public dry humping :D, and you both come in your pants yay!
*also takes place during Christmas time because I said so*
wc: 2.9 k
The crowd in the mall in the mall three days before Christmas is madness. One wrong move and you'll be swept away by the herd.
Thats why one of your boyfriends large hands has stayed on you at all times today.
That touch being either Pope's thick fingers intertwining with yours, or a calloused palm on the small of your back to help guide you.
You procrastinated buying Christmas gifts up until now, but your boyfriend didn’t complain about your shopping trip because he’s happy to be near you always.
The two of you are currently walking down the long stretch of walkway on the second floor, you’re ranting about work gossip as Andrew intently listens quietly, like always.
“…and then Karen told me that Liliana is pregnant with Jonathan’s baby?! Isn’t that insane??” You swing your head to get the reaction from Pope that should be a gasp or a ‘no way!’, but he is nowhere to be seen.
You were so caught up in your rant you didn’t even realize his pace had slowed to a stop.
You turn to see his frame is almost completely still a few feet behind you, breathing a bit uneven underneath his dark maroon hoodie. His auburn curls that are slightly grown out, look uncharacteristically light due to the malls white walls and floor.
His eyes aren’t on you, which is unusual, they’re staring across the promenade. He’s in dark blue jeans that sit atop his black boots that have also completely pivoted direction, matching his stare.
As you walk back towards him, you follow his intense gaze and land on…. a lingerie store?
Interesting.
“Andrew?” Your voice cuts through whatever daze he’s in and he finally looks to you again.
There is a slight blush that stains his freckle dusted cheeks, as his eyes rove over your outfit that consists of a sweater and jeans.
You put two and two together pretty quickly, or so you think. Your boyfriend saw the sexy display mannequins dressed in lace and sheer sets and is currently comparing them to you in your 'December in California' winter attire.
Pushing down the flitting feeling of insecurity, you decide to keep it playful instead. Pope doesn’t need to hide his attraction for something that is outwardly sexual. It’s normal.
“Do you… like the mannequins, honey?” You ask lightly, chewing your cheek and tilting your chin up at him
His hazel eyes basically bulge out of his head as he shakes it rapidly. It should be sincere, but it comes off guilty as hell.
“It’s okay if you do” you run a hand down his arm as you reassure him sweetly. You know that he’s been shamed for a lot of things throughout his life, you’d never want to be apart of that demographic. “That one does have the perfect body.” You gesture to the mannequin with the super model esque shape with a free hand.
Both your hands are free actually, since Pope is carrying all the bags filled with gifts and the few clothing items you bought for yourself. Well, the items he bought for yourself.
His gaze grow impossibly wider with alarm, the red that splotches his pale skin creeps all the way to the tips of ears, “What? No. No— I —”
Popes fingers twitch at his sides as he sputters, clearly having a hard time getting his intended message across.
He manages to regain his composure with a heavy sigh, voice dropping to a whisper, “I was thinking about you in… in those outfits.”
Your brows shoot upwards in shock before your surge of confidence hits you. Andrew’s face morphs into a wince, as if he said something wrong, but before he can backtrack, you cut him off.
“Oh yeah?” You practically purr at him, eye lids drooping slightly with your suggestive tone.
His shoulders sag when you don’t judge him, and he swallows audibly, nodding once.
You chew at your lip, eyes ping ponging between the store and Pope. An idea pops into your mind that sends a rush of anticipation through your bloodstream.
“Want to go in?” You bat your eyelashes at him and coat your words in sultry sweetness.
His pink lips part, showing off his crooked teeth that you love so much, and his dark brows raise half an inch, to say ‘really?’
You grab his hand that has three bags looped onto the muscular wrist and start to pull him towards the store.
“Cmon,” you giggle. “It’ll be fun.”
Like he always does, Andrew follows you with no hesitation.
Over the course of your relationship, you’ve worn lacey underwear on a date night or when you want to feel extra sexy, but never anything as intense as the corset and sheer sets hanging on racks and decorating the walls inside the store.
You’ve always wanted to get one to see how your boyfriend would react, but he never really spends much time looking at your undergarments, because he’s always so desperate to get them off of you.
In all honesty, you didn’t think this would be something he was into. But now, as his eyes bounce from rack to rack with excitement swirling in them, you realize you were wrong.
You and Pope walk around the store side by side in silence. He stays so close to you that he’s practically embedded in your skin. You don’t mind at all though.
He’s only within reach at all times because he’s been glaring at all the surrounding men who are alone, until he realizes they’re here with their own girlfriend or wife, then he moves to scowl at his next victim.
It helps that he’s this close actually, because every time you deliberately run your hands over a black lace nightgown or a pink and white corset, you look at his face to see which one affects him the most.
You watch for a hitch of breath, a deep blush on his cheeks, or a clench of his strong jaw.
Every time you grab one and ask, ‘What about this one?’, he gives you the same nod accompanied by the heated gaze he always gives you— you've gotten used to him not being very good with words, especially when it's about trying something new.
A nod is not enough. You want to find one that makes him have a heart attack. Not literally, obviously, because you’d die without him.
You’ve been taking the mission very seriously up until you spot an isle labeled ‘festive goodies’. Not being able to help yourself, you go down to laugh at what you know will be a hilarious selection of outfits.
Pope stays close behind you as you pass through the Halloween, Valentine’s Day and St Patrick’s Day skimpy sets.
At the end of the isle is the Christmas section, filled with reds and greens. Your eyes catch onto a ridiculous outfit that has you laugh to yourself.
Sitting on a hanger that has a ribbon on the hook, is a completely sheer red nightie, lined with white fuzz on every hem, adorned with two tiny santa hats sticking out from where your nipples would go. A matching pair of sheer panties sit beneath it with words in the same fuzz on the back that you can’t read yet.
Taking it off the rack, you hold the set up against your body as you giggle at its ridiculousness.
“Oh my god! Look at this, Andrew!”
You expect to hear your boyfriend scoff or laugh with you, but all that sounds is a hitch of breath instead.
Glancing back to his handsome face, you see that Popes breathing has stopped altogether as he stares at the sheer fabric laid atop your frame.
His jaw flexes, his blush reaches his ears and his pupils blow wide.
Bingo.
You don’t know if he has a Christmas kink or if he just likes it because it’s entirely see through— which is most likely— but you don’t even care at this point because his reaction has arousal course through your veins.
“Want me to try it on?”
His eyes flick to yours with surprise, “You can do that? Here?”
You bite your lip to hold back your giggle at his naiveness. Grabbing his hand after you find your size, you pull him towards the signs you see that point to the dressing room.
He simply nods, breathing a bit uneven, when you tell him to ‘wait here’ as you slip into a changing room and slide the curtain shut behind you— leaving him cutely awkwardly fiddling with the bags in his hands, eyes darting away from other women that walk in and out.
Once you change into the set, you can't help but feel very sexy.
Sure, there are literal santa hats sticking out of your nipples, but you somehow still find the nightie very tasteful because the see through fabric allows your pretty silhouette to be shown off. The swell of your breasts and the curve of your waist are highlighted perfectly.
You spin around in the mirror and see how the red fabric of the top falls just above where your ass meets your thighs, leaving the bottom half of your cheeks exposed.
You finally read the white fuzzy words on the sheer matching thong and giggle out loud.
"Wanna see it Andrew?" You call through the curtain, body buzzing with excitement.
When he doesn't answer, you assume he's out there nodding, like how he always does when he’s turned on and has a hard time speaking.
"Come on in, honey," you coo.
You hear shuffling— must be him putting down your bags— and you bite your bottom lip in barely restrained thrill.
The fabric opens the tiniest bit and Pope slides inside, molding himself to the curtain so there is no space between him and outside, leaving no room for someone to see you.
When he's fully in and facing you, he inhales sharply. His hazel eyes go molten with lust as they trace every inch of your body, slowwwwly over the skin that's exposed and the parts that are barely covered, as if he's memorizing the sight.
"Cute right?," you say sweetly.
His auburn curls shake as he nods so rapidly, and it makes your smile go megawatt and your thighs clench together at the fact that he likes it this much. In fact, his chest is so still with refrained breath that you think he might pass out.
You move to him and press your hands to his chest over his hoodie, you guide him backwards until he’s in the stool in corner of the fitting room. He plops down onto it, sitting straight backed with his hands balled into fists at his side, eyes wide and transfixed on your figure.
You stand between his spread knees and rub your hands over on his shoulders as he looks up at you. "Do you like it?"
His chin moves to nod and you catch it with your hand, making your voice slightly stern, "Use your words, Andy."
A small groan sounds from him at the nickname you only use when you're in bed together.
"Yes," he says gruffly. "You're so pretty."
You hum happily, then you leisurely turn around and bend over, lifting up the white fuzzy hemmed bottom of your nightie, to expose the words that read 'naughty girl' on the tiny triangle of your thong.
You hear him pathetically whimper from behind you. God, you don't think you've ever heard or seen him this turned on before.
You twist back to face him and you think you see a bit of drool on his parted lips.
A filthy idea flits through you and your panties— which you've already decided to buy— dampen.
Taking the red ribbon off the hanger, you look to your boyfriend with a suggestive expression, "Can I try something, honey?"
"Yes please," his words are so desperate that your core throbs.
You plant a kiss to the tip of his arrow shaped nose in thanks, before moving behind him, dragging his strong hands with you in order to tie them together at his back.
His breathing quickens once they're secured and you're back in front of him. You gingerly climb onto his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck and seating yourself onto the bulge in his jeans, causing you both to make a breathy sound.
"So pretty," He mumbles through a twitching jaw, eyes locked onto your outfit.
"You're so sweet to me, Andy," you say as you rock your hips against him, your faces inches apart.
His eyes close for a split second like he's gaining composure, and then they instantly pry back open to not miss a second of this, darting to your tits behind the red fabric, licking his lips.
As you plant a soft kiss to his wet lips, the ridge of his zipper catches on your clit, your mouth parts into a soft moan and Pope takes the opportunity to stick his tongue in your mouth.
You pull back before he can fully kiss you, wanting to talk to him. Your core throbs at the feeling of his massive erection, but you definitely can't fuck in this public dressing room, so you settle for some dry humping.
"You feel so good," you whisper as you keep your lips inches apart and grind your hips in a downward circle onto him.
You start to plant soft kisses to his neck while keeping your movements relentless and precise overtop of him. You're so wet from simply rutting on him that you are positive you have effectively ruined this establishments thong.
Andrew groans loudly and you clamp a palm over his mouth. His dark eyes grow wide at the movement he's only ever done to you.
"Need you to be quiet, Andy. Don't want anyone to hear how much you like me like this." your voice sounds so sultry you barely recognize it. "Can you do that for me?"
As expected, he nods. Heat tingles at the base of your spine, sending a surge of fuzzy arousal through your body.
"Such a good boy for me," you say absentmindedly into his skin, feeling the fabric beneath you rub your sensitive clit in a way that makes your hips stutter.
He tenses, then whimpers beneath your palm, when you pull back to look at him, his eyes have glazed over at the nickname you used without thinking.
"You like that hmm? Being my good boy?"
A loud whine sounds beneath your hand and he starts bucking his hips upwards. You bite your lip to stifle your moan at the sudden rough contact, feeling hot and dizzy all over.
Both of you glance down at your body grinding against him. You clench around nothing when you see the wet spot you've made on his jeans.
Your very public fitting room quickly starts to be filled with a flurry of stifled moans and frantic movements.
“You like being a good boy and letting me ride you in a dressing room, Andy?” you whisper into his ear and you feel his sharp exhale of breath through his nose on your fingers, his shoulders shake from trying to free his hands and touch you.
You lean back to look at him and you can tell he's close from the way his eyes squeeze shut, muscles of his freckled face strain tightly and his arms pull at the ribbon behind him.
"Look at me."— he does, gaze half lidded and eyes barely focused — "I'm so bad for this. I'm your naughty girl, aren't I?," it comes out breathlessly due to the chasing of your own release.
A muffled, 'yes yes yes' vibrates onto your palm, his thighs twitch under yours. Your forehead falls against his as you pick up your movements, desperately grinding your weepy core onto him as pleasure starts to spark behind your eyes.
"You're my good boy and I'm your naughty girl, Andy," you try to keep your words quiet but you cant quite manage as you whimper loudly through them.
Pope's eyes roll into the back of his head and he wildly jackrabbits upwards, bouncing you harder onto his lap, causing you to tighten your grip on his face. You choke back your scream as your thighs start to shake, and the molten sensation in you is pulled taught.
You hear him whine into your skin, 'Pleasepleasepleaseplease'.
You start to pant and throw your head back, "Oh god— i'm gonna—"
Pope bites your palm and the white hot feeling explodes inside you, you bury your face into his neck as you cry out. He grunts harshly and licks repeatedly against your skin as he comes in his jeans beneath you, moving his hips as much as he can to milk every last drop of pleasure.
When you're both done riding out your orgasms, you collapse against him, hand falling off his face and dropping to his chest.
His heavy breaths fan your ear, and you feel the dampness of both of you releases seeping between your legs, causing a satisfied hum to sound from you.
You pull back and see his fucked out expression, auburn curls sticking to his forehead with sweat, cheeks red from the grip your hand had on his face. The sight is so cute that you lean forward and plant a soft kiss to his lips.
Okay so I was dicking around on the AskLE subreddit and apparently a lot of badge bunnies are daughters of cops… guyssssss imagining hanging around your dads station home on break from school and flirting with sammy- but only when ur dad and his wife aren’t looking
i’m still thinking about city limits… may have read chapter one multiple times.. what a time to be alive
im so so pleasantly surprised to see the love city limits has gotten!!! i appreciate you all so much <3 chapter 2 is half-way written but work has been actually so overwhelming *sobs*
part 2 soon i promise lovelies this story will be told!!
Titus enjoys being punished. The issue is you only put your all into his punishment when he’s done something bad.
Word Count: 1.8k
Warnings: literally just smut (18+), titus has a pain kink, murder as foreplay, like titus gets hard as he kills someone, im serious dd:dne, reader is mean and then nice, sex next to a dead body AGAIN, premature ejaculation (shocking), blood kink (shocking), dryhumping (shocking), guys this is really just self-indulgent filth, i need to touch this man
A/N: inspired by the scene where faith kicks him in the balls and he smiles because what the fuck was that.
Titus was itchy. Not physically, of course, but mentally. A pseudo-itch that lived in the bottom right part of his brain. One that could only be scratched by a very very specific set of circumstances. As a child, the itch was scratched by wrestling with his cousins out in the yard, pinning them down just enough where they had to genuinely struggle to get him off them. He wouldn’t move until they bit him, kicked him, scratched him. Anything that was actually painful and not just play. The shot of adrenaline made him feel woozy in the best way. As a teen, it was scratched by hunting. Animals, people, it didn’t really matter. Watching the light drain out of something’s eyes, feeling the fight leave their body, soothed the restlessness. He was satiated even more when they put up a fight. It got to the point that he never used weapons while hunting, except on the rare occasions it was necessary due to the bylaws. Titus enjoyed the primal feeling of grappling with an opponent. And in the morning when he stepped out of the shower to see the purple and yellow watercolors of his bruised body, he was soothed again. His family made fun of him for it. Kip, especially. He’d always ball-tap him as a greeting, knowing that deep-down, in some sick way, Titus enjoyed the pain of it. Ursula said he was a glutton for punishment. And when he reached adulthood, it morphed into something else entirely. Titus still enjoyed killing and exerting himself. But he soon found that the itch was no longer scratched by it. He tried everything, every possible combination of things that used to work for him until one day he gave up. Titus had simply assumed that he would always feel this way, a little on edge, a little uncomfortable.
When Titus first met you, he knew you were different. Usually people shied away from him. But you looked at him differently. With desire and with hunger. It had taken him aback at first, no one had looked at him like that before. But as you grew to know each other, he learned to accept it. The first time you had sex was so different to anything he had experienced. You had pushed him down on the bed, clawing at him like a rabid animal. Like if you didn’t use him to get off, you would combust. So he let you. Titus could still feel the itch when you rode him, but it was lessened. When you slapped him across the face, hard, telling him to focus up and fuck you like he meant it, he came on the spot. And as his mind refocused after his orgasm, he realised the itch was gone. After that, he went to you whenever he felt the itch. And you were always happy to oblige.
The itch had returned in full force. He needed you. Unfortunately for Titus, you had grown fond of him. And he of you. Being together for several years did that to people, apparently. But that meant that you were less keen on actually hurting him. Sure, you’d slap him whenever he asked, and you always marked him up no matter who was in charge that time, but you didn’t hurt him like you used to. Unless, of course, he did something bad. Something wicked. Ursula was right. Titus was a glutton for punishment. And he wanted to be punished.
Titus found one of the waitstaff. Some guy who wouldn’t be missed. As the guy rounded a corner, Titus put him in a headlock and dragged him into one of the Danforth mansion’s many uninhabited bedrooms. To the guy’s credit, he put up a good fight, clawing at Titus’ face and elbowing him in his ribs. But he didn’t do any damage. And soon Titus’ hands were around his throat, gently easing him to the ground as he suffocated. Titus made eye contact with him, unblinking, until the man’s eyes fluttered closed. He shuttered when the light dulled in his eyes and his cock swelled against the fabric of his boxers. Titus stood up and the man slumped over onto the expensive carpet. He shook himself off and practically skipped down the hallway to show you the very bad thing he had done.
You were putting your socks away when the door opened. You threw a curious look over your shoulder and saw Titus standing there, a stupidly large grin on his face and hands folded behind his back. You sighed and rolled your eyes, returning your focus to the task.
“What did you do now?” You asked, not with cruelty, but with faint annoyance. Just the way he liked. Titus let out a small giggle. A giggle. The fuck was wrong with him?
“Follow me.” He grinned, voice dropping to the gravely one he used when he was coaxing your third orgasm. You inhaled deeply and closed your eyes. You closed the dresser drawer and followed Titus out of the room and down the hall. He had a bounce in his step and his chest was puffed out, chin held high. You tried to mentally prepare yourself for what you were about to see. Titus had done many things in the years you had been together. Nothing would really shock you. But you really didn’t feel like cleaning up one of his messes. Too bad.
You gasped a little when Titus led you into one of the vacant bedrooms. He walked into the room and stood over the corpse of one of the staff, grinning and eyes sparkling like a cat who had brought you a dead bird.
“Titus!” You hissed, glaring at him and slamming the door to the room shut, clicking the lock. “What is the matter with you?” He shrugged, taking your scolding with pride. You hurried over to where he was standing and gave a grumble.
“I killed him.” Titus said simply.
“I can see that.” You seethed. “Any particular reason why?” Titus opened his mouth, but didn’t say anything. A flicker of hesitation crossed his eyes.
“I did something bad.” He elaborated, looking at you like you should know what that meant. You did. You sighed, running your hand over your face.
“You could’ve just asked.” You told him softly, bringing a thumb up to settle on his lower lip.
“It’s not as good when you don’t mean it.” He sighed, eyes already closing at your touch.
“What?” You bit out sharply. Titus’ eyes flashed open and panic widened them. Shit. Did he say that out loud?
“I-I didn’t mean-” You cut him off by roughly grabbing his crotch. You squeezed and felt his semi pressing back into your palm. Titus doubled over with a gasp and a little pained noise. At first, you thought you had misplayed it. Hurt him when he wasn’t ready. But he looked up with you with a slackened jaw and an open smile. His eyes were half-lidded and you felt his cock harden fully. That settled your worries.
“On the bed.” You ordered, practically dragging him by the balls to the edge of the made, unused bed. He took off his shoes but left the rest of his clothes on and climbed onto the mattress, settling against the headboard. You straddled him, running your hands up and down his chest as you kissed him. Your teeth sunk into his lip and he moaned in your mouth. Your fingers caught the fabric of his shirt and you ripped it open, buttons clattering to the floor and exposing his bare chest. A pink flush was already starting to splotch his freckled skin.
You pulled away from the kiss and dug your fingernails into his chest, dragging them down his pecs and leaving red angry marks in their wake. Titus jerked his hips up into you and you gave him a stern look. A few of your scratches had blood beading along them, little pearls of red. You leaned down and licked at them with your tongue. The metallic taste bit at your taste buds, but Titus’ whines of pleasure overrode any distaste you might have had. After the wounds were cleaned, you wrapped your lips around his nipple, licking and nipping at the bud until it was pebbled. Then you did the same to the other. You sucked hickeys into his skin, not being gentle. They wouldn’t show up as little cute pink love bites, but as full-bruised welts. Titus had made it clear he wouldn’t have it any other way. Titus threw his head back and panted into the room, dropping moans as your core dragged across his clothed erection. You raised your head and roughly gripped his chin, pulling him to look at you. You brought your palm across his face in an open-handed slap. The force from it made his curled hair shake. “Shut the fuck up.” You hissed. “I don’t want anyone to hear what a pathetic man I’m fucking. God, can’t even control yourself.” You ground down onto him and his hips helped guide you.
“F-fuck, m’sorry.” He whined softly, leaning in to kiss you. You let his tongue explore your mouth and your fingers tugged on his hair, just hard enough to send shivers of arousal down his spine.
“No you’re not.” You whispered into the kiss. He hummed in agreement. He was humping up into you, desperate from friction and you pinched one of his nipples. Titus panted against your mouth, letting out a deep groan. And then he stilled beneath you. His entire body went rigid and you felt his cheeks heat against yours. Not from the slap, but from embarrassment. You gently pulled back and looked at him with confusion. His jaw was tense and his eyes were wide, hoping, begging even, for you to not connect the dots of what just happened. Your eyes traveled downward to where you were nestled against his cock. The front of his pants had a dark splotch that was slowly spreading. Small white globs began to seep through the fabric.
“D-did you just?” You said it softly and without malice. Titus swallowed hard. He looked at you with deep shame. He had cum in his pants.
“I’m so sorry. I don’t…I don’t know why…” His voice was cracking.
“It’s okay, Titus, hey.” You cupped his face gently, a stark juxtaposition to the red palm mark on his cheek. “It’s alright.” You pressed kisses to his forehead, his eyelids, and his nose. “Do you feel better?” Titus took a deep breath and nodded. “Good.” You cooed. After a few more reassurances, you dropped your hands from his face. “Now return the favor.” Your voice was back to that commanding tone. He nodded reverently, mouth parted, and wrapped his arm around your waist. Titus flipped you over onto your lap and kissed down your body. He nipped at your thighs before taking a moment to rub his nose against your core, taking a soothing breath. “Today, please.” You scolded. He nodded and tugged down your underwear, ready to spend the next several hours drowning in your pussy.
