summary; you’re at a haunted house and have a bad experience with these annoying scare actors 🙄
warnings: blood and gore, smut, p in v, non con, rough sex, no protection, fondling, fingering, creampie, penetration, mean ghostie, size kink, intended dacryphillia
meant so you can imagine any male ghostface :)
nsfw content below !!
this time of the year was always gloomy and dark, the forest air foggy and limiting the man’s view. his mask didn’t allow him much access anyways, but all these branches hitting him in the face as he ran wasn’t the best either.
he could hear the girls loud crying from in front of him, her wheezing and low coughing. he had to hand it to her, she was managing to still run away from him with stab wounds and several scratches. some of his victims gave up immediately the second they saw his shrieked expression, but no, not this girl. he was slightly amused by it, but also annoyed.
this dumb blonde had somehow managed to drag him all the way into this forest, dirtying his robe. he swore, he could feel the splinters pricking at his skin. her screaming for help didn’t help his annoyance either.
in the distance he caught a glance of a large amusement park, the trees slowly moving out of the way and showing the night sky more clearly. the wind blew, the loud music becoming more and more clear. the girl noticed as well and started to run towards the open gate. he tsk’d under his breath, stopping for a moment to catch his breath, before continuing his sprint. he tucks his knife into his robe and looks at where the girl is headed.
straight towards a haunted house. a tall, black house with gothic exterior and cobwebs decorating the windows. he could see the led lights from the front, the large sign with all the information written down on it.
anger washed over him as the girl ran into the house through the back door, leaving her bloody trail behind her. why was his job so hard? this girl should of dropped dead minutes ago. adrenaline was a silly thing.
at the front of the haunted house, you stood gazing at the sign with an unsure expression. you had come here with friends a few hours back, all dressed up in cute little halloween outfits in celebration of the spooky holiday. but not even a hour in everyone split up and left you all alone. what a shitty friend group.
to your left you caught a glimpse of a figure running into the back of the haunted house. you frowned and took a peek, watching as a dark robe followed in after her in a hurried manner. weird.
anyways, the sign said admission fee was seven dollars. wasn’t too bad, you guessed. you hesitantly handed the employee a ten dollar bill and waltzed in.
the inside was dark with a fog machine taking up the hallways, giving it an eerie aura. the lace curtains, the dark furniture, the tall paintings of people you had never seen before— this seemed like an actual house more then a haunted one. it was all part of the gig, right?
you wandered into the kitchen, only to get jumpscared by a scare actor that was almost twice your size. he was dressed as a beast, hiding in the corner. with a scream, he pounced at you and caused you to stumble back and drop your soda all over your top. gasping for air, you looked up at him with a pissed off expression, fingers trembling.
the man stared at you for a few seconds with an unsure look, before shrugging and shuffling into the darkness once again, looking for another unsuspecting victim to scare.
“great, just great.” you mutter bitterly to yourself. you sigh tiredly and throw your empty bottle into the garbage, patting some droplets off your top.
you were dorothy for halloween, matching with the rest of your friend group. you were all fairy tale characters. …a more slutty version of them, that is. you had on a blue plaid dress that stopped at your mid thigh, red flats, with your hair styled with cute bows keeping it in messy pigtails.
your pretty blue dress was now covered in soda though, so that wasn’t the greatest. you took another minute to look around the kitchen, flinching at a spider that you realized was fake after a minute, almost slipping on some cobwebs, before shrieking when another scare actor dressed as a bloody bride came out of nowhere.
today was not your day, not in the slightest.
"AAAAH!" a sudden scream from the hallway catches your attention. you shriek and turn quickly, blinking for a moment before shuffling forward and creeping into the door that leads to the hallway. there's a blood trail on the floor that leads to the staircase. that must mean the haunted house wants you to follow it, right? is this one of those haunted houses that has a specific pathway so you can experience every part? probably.
"mmmm, okay." you say to yourself, shrugging and following it up the stairs. it's slippery. you cringe and reluctantly look around the upstairs. scary music plays obnoxiously loud in the background, the lights flickering to give a mysterious feeling and a creepy edge. it's working. working too well.
a door slams to your left and you flinch, looking in that direction immediately. you see the same black robe flash in the distance, the same robe you've seen already. what a committed scare actor. was he targeting you? or were you just witnessing him scaring his other victims?
"SOMEONE! HELP ME!" a girly shriek resonates from said room. you blink dumbly for a moment, looking at the other doors that have cobwebs and poorly drawn blood platters on them, some doors having signs on them. one sign said “danger ahead!” and another said “beware of ghosts!”.
after a moment of thinking you slowly walked down the hallway into the dark room, looking around in surprise. it was a media room that was completely wrecked. the couch had its fabric ripped with stab marks all over it, blood marks, and some stuffing spilling out of it. the table was thrown onto its side with the glass vase shattered.
at the end of a room was a large door with decor hanging off it. you stepped forward and opened it slowly, blinking in surprise as you were immediately met with a reflection of yourself. your lips parted in awe as you realized it was a mirror maze. what creeped you out was the bloody hand marks on the mirrors. this haunted house was very realistic. you didn’t like it.
you walked forward, only to immediately head butt into a mirror. you blinked rapidly in shock and looked around, patting your surroundings and trying to find the pathway to the exit. another long minute passes as you pat the wall, letting it lead you deeper and deeper into the maze.
someway through your little adventure someone suddenly rams into you, making you shriek and give the mirror in front of you another headbutt. she gasps and curls into you, tugging at your clothing and crying out annoyingly loud.
"okay buddy, i don't think scare actors are supposed to get physical-" you grumble, swatting at her clammy hands. she cries and cries, blood all over her clothing and her face covered in tears.
"please! please! h-he's chasing me a-and i-i"m so s-scared and i don't want to d-die—" her voice cracks a dozen times as she sobs into your chest, pulling you closer and closer until you both are pressed together like lovers. you squirm in discomfort, not liking how personal she was getting. you were pretty sure scare actors weren't supposed to cross boundaries like this.
"okay, please get off me." you hiss sharply, gently pushing her away. she sobs more and shakes her head, silently begging you to listen to her. she can barely utter out any words, limping in pain with several stab wounds under her clothing.
she pales as she looks behind you. you turn hesitantly, not wanting to turn your back to this crazy lady. you see the reflection of a shrieked mask, making you flinch and hug the girl in your arms.
“okay, uhm, you guys are very good at your job—“ you chuckle nervously, hugging the girl tightly. she was shorter then you, her head tucked into your chest. she was trembling so much. you frowned.
“are you.. okay?” you asked hesitantly.
“he STABBED me!” she shrieks, aggressively tugging at your hands and showing you her stomach. right there laid a gigantic bloody wound, blood dripping down onto her skirt. your face paled even more and you stood there like an idiot, face to face with this girl who had a gigantic stab mark.
“o-okay— okay— let’s get, let’s get out of here? okay? you’re safe with me,” you shush her gently, helping her walk as you hurriedly pull her alongside you. you lead her to the entrance of the maze, backtracking your pathway. you mostly just followed the bloody hand marks from earlier, though.
the next few minutes is a blur. you’re helping her down the stairs, she’s crying and hyperventilating, you’re freaking out because the blood is looking too real and the creepy music in the background isn’t helping. your heart is pounding and you don’t know what to do.
as you help her down the stairs, she grasps onto your shirt with a terrified look, tugging you. “h-he’s following us!” she screeches. you blink at her for a moment, frowning in fear and not looking where you’re stepping. you open your mouth to respond to her, only to step on air. you send the both of you stumbling down, a scream leaving her as the hard wood digs into her wounds.
you gasp sharply, squinting your eyes to clear your blurry vision. you turn to your side to check on the terrified blonde, only to gape in shock at the sight of her limp on the floor. her eyes are lazily fluttering open and shut, the blood from her gut spilling out. the impact had made her wound deeper and probably set her on the waiting list for the afterlife. and it was all your fault.
“h-hey— hey- hey—“ you choke out, getting up and hurrying to her, patting her face and trying to get her to respond. your hands are full of blood as you inhale deeply, your heart about to jump out of your chest. she looks up at you with all the strength she has, lips moving weakly.
"b..behind you." she whispers.
your heart stops. you blink down at her pale face and slowly peek over your shoulder. down the hall is a tall man in a robe, a white glowing mask on his head. the fog surrounds him as he tilts his head at you, silently watching. you couldn’t see his eyes but goosebumps immediately spread all over your body, making you squirm in discomfort. he didn’t look like a scare actor. no, he looked like the black blur you’ve been seeing all day.
his hunting knife was covered in blood, and that was all you needed to know before you broke out into a sprint in the opposite direction of him. the hallways were closing in on you as you rushed down towards the back door, the screams of the girl echoing throughout the house. you could hear the knife slashing at her, making your eyes water in fear.
you didn’t want to die. no, you were too young! too pretty, too kind, too— you hadn’t even graduated yet. you still wanted to earn your bachelor's, go out on more dates, and get more friends. but no, you couldn’t anymore, because you were about to get butchered by some psycho in a halloween costume.
your sweaty hands pulled and tugged at the door handle, blinking away the tears. you sniffled, your heart somehow dropping further down into your stomach as the door didn’t budge.
“awww, no no sweetie, you’re stuck in here with me. they already shut down the entire park.” you hear his menacing voice coo from behind you. it was dark and deep, a mockingly soothing tone. maybe it would of lulled you to sleep in any other situation. it sends shivers down your spine and a hiccup leaves your throat.
“who are you? why are you doing this?” you mumble hesitantly, your voice small in the gigantic house. he tsk’s at you, waving his knife in a wagging motion at you.
“no, you don’t get to ask questions, sweetheart. you’re a dumb little bitch who got involved in things that didn’t concern her.” he growls darkly, stepping closer and closer. you back to your left and rush behind the couch, shaking. he laughs at your pathetic attempt at getting something in between you two.
“why would you kill her?! is this some sick prank?!” you snap, some tears streaming down your face as he simply shrugs. shrugs.
“what the fuck.” you whisper at him, the sight of her blood all over him making you sick to your stomach. as if you could drop to your knees and vomit. you might, actually.
before you can react, he jumps over the couch and grabs you. you scream as he shoves you face first into the couch, quickly straddling your body. you thrash underneath him, sobbing and shaking your head, letting out incoherent mess of please don’t kill me and i’ll do anything. he’s slightly annoyed by how loud you are. should be cut your vocal records so you don’t gain attention? but then again, no one is near by. no one to hear your pretty screams except him.
his heavy knife glides alongside your spine, his hand only applying light pressure. you hear the sound of your dress getting ripped and more tears slip, your lips quivering as you squeeze your eyes shut. you shiver as the cold air brushes against your back, the back of your bra being revealed to him. what a day to wear your favorite set, right?
“look at you, dressed like a god damn slut. you wanted this, didn’t you?” he hissed, hooking one of his fingers underneath the clasp and snapping it against your skin. he chuckled lightly at your girly squeak. your hands squirm some more and he huffs in annoyance, grabbing them and shoving them above your head.
“keep them right there, got it? you move them and i’ll cut your wrists open, stupid girl.” he bonks the back of your head hard. you yelp and nod, shaking as you hold your hands together tightly above your head just as he asked. more soft cries leave you as he pulls the back of your dress further apart, goosebumps all over your porcelain skin.
“why are you doing this?” you force the words out of your throat, leaving a bitter taste on your tongue. it might be blood.
“because i can.” he hums simply, running his fingers down your spine. his hands unclasp your bra and slip it off your body, and you squirm as your nipples press against the scratchy fabric of your dress. you quietly mewl into the couch.
“you don’t need to do this. i-i have money— not much, but i have some,” you beg desperately, trembling as his large body presses you more into the cushion. you felt like you were getting suffocated. you were so overwhelmed and scared, covered in blood and getting stripped down by the reason.
“you think i need your money?” he scoffs, shoving his hands uder your chest and groping your breasts. you squeal hard as he meanly fondles and squeezes them, his large hands covering a lot. his fingers pinch your nipples, causing you to whine loudly into the couch. you can’t help that they harden right away, your body becoming more sensitive to his touch. moans start to slip from your throat as you feel his knee lodge itself between your thighs.
he roughly grinds his jeans fabric against your panties, your skirt lifted and showing the lewd sight of the thin fabric sticking to your messy cunt. the denim material of his jeans is rough and hard, applying a good enough amount of friction to lubricate you further.
little moans leave you involuntarily, trying your best to muffle them by biting down on your bottom lip. your thighs squirm and attempt to close, but it only ends up trapping the man’s knee against your pussy. more rubbing has you crying and moaning, subtly grinding your pussy back onto him. he, of course, notices and swats the back of your head again, your moans stuttering.
“look at you, getting off on this shit.” he whispers into your ear, leaning down so his chest is against your back, his mask is pressing against your head. his hands don’t stop their assault on your breasts, marking them up with hard pinches and twisting your nipples until you're begging him to let go. “i didn’t expect you to be such a down bad slut.” he sneers.
“s-shut up..” you sniffle, your voice muffled and your body covered entirely by his robe. if someone walked in they’d see a small girl getting completely smothered by some dude in a halloween costume. this couldn’t be any more embarrassing.
"s-shut up." he mocks in a high-pitched voice, giving an extra harsh twist to your nipple. he gets harder at the sound of your pained cry. he smiles creepily under the mask as he presses his large hand to your panties, rubbing your clit through the thin soaked material. your body squirms at the feeling of having your sensitive core played with, rubbing your wet face against the cushion in a weak attempt to wipe your tears.
"dont touch me— no, not there- stop!" you gasp desperately, whimpering into the cold air as he keeps rubbing your clit and touching you right where it feels so good. the savory sensation had your lips parting subconsciously and your thighs inching away from each other. you're ashamed of the way you're enjoying this, how you're begging in your head for him to slide his fingers nice and deep.
"i can feel how wet you are, damn. you must really want me to ruin this little cunt of yours, huh? gonna beg?" he sniggered, sliding his fingers underneath and letting the small brush of his middle and ring finger against your hole be all you feel. his eyes are burning through the back of your head, inhaling each movement and sound you make, analyzing your reactions and how you take his touch.
"m'not gonna beg. i'll gonna beg for you to get your dirty ass hands off me—" you're interrupted by him sliding his two fingers deep inside you, immediately curling them painfully into your g-spot. the pleasure takes you so off guard you let out a pathetic mewl, bucking your hips in surprise. his free hand comes down on your waist, holding you down into the couch as he fingers your pussy open roughly.
"what was that?" he hums, pushing them impossibly deeper, scraping the rough fabric of his gloves against your walls and making you cry out in a mix of pleasure and pain. "I'm sorry, did you say something?" he said in a sick tone. he was having so much fun, it's not everyday he gets to fuck his victims. most of the time they're too annoying and he finds himself hating their guts personally after hearing the colorful words they call him.
more little moans leave you as he makes scissoring motions, his grip on your waist bruising and making you hiss softly in pain. his fingers are large and taking up all the space inside you, making you feel so full and satisfied. it felt so good, so good that you were sick to your stomach at how much you were enjoying it. you could feel her blood coating your skin, making you gag softly on your moans as he kept going.
soon enough, you bite back your loud moan as your body cums all over his fingers, coating his gloves in your essence. he rubs the sticky fluid between his fingers with a chuckle of amusement, watching as the blood and cum mix together.
“you’re a filthy slut, you know that? ive killed soooo many people,” he starts, humming softly as he pushes the bottom of his robe aside to unbutton his flip, revealing his dark boxers. the large bulge is visible as you peer over your shoulder with a heavy breath.
“separated families,” he continues, talking in an innocent voice as his hands grasp at his cock. his top springs against his lower abdomen, nice and big with a thick base. you gulp nervously. “ruined lives—“ he coo’s sickeningly sweet.
“and now i’m gonna ruin yours.” he grabs your hips, position his tip against your hole. he gives you barely a second to process his words before he slams himself deep inside you, causing you to shriek and press your face down into the couch.
“a-ah~ s-stop.. wrong..” you blabber cluelessly, your brain all soapy and spilling out of your ears. your body felt weak and limp, giving into his touch as he gave a few shallow thrusts, your moans giving him more encouragement.
“wrong?” he mocks, one hand grabbing your hair roughly to pull at it. you shriek at the harsh tug, your head forced back as he starts to rock his hips at a mean pace. “for someone who hates this, you’re awfully wet and compliant.”
you feel his hard denim slap against your butt each time he sends a punishing thrust into your pussy, more moans streaming out of you. your eyes are fluttering shut as he batters your insides, mouth agape with drool forming at the edge. the sight was slutty— a young girl with her dress all ripped up and her skirt lifted getting fucked by halloween enthusiast.
“feels so good,” you hiccup, sniffling your fat tears as your doe eyes tried their best to stay open, squinting through the tears. your breasts bounce and sway, bubble butt jiggling at his thrusting. he wasn’t letting back on you, not at all.
“you want me to make you cum, sweetheart? hmmm? you want these hands that’s stabbed dozens of people to rub that tiny clit of yours?”
“please.” you say in such a pathetic tone that he can’t help but obey, his hand on your hair letting go to reach under you and gently tap your clit, his pace not stopping for a split second.
“this right here?” he pinches. you whimper and nod, shaking. he snickers and rubs figure eights into your bud, the immediate reaction of your body tightening up on him making him hiss sharply.
“jesus fuckin’ christ, girl. tight ass pussy, huh?” he gives your butt a hard smack. you whine at the impact, cock drunk and not processing a single thing anymore. he focuses on making you climax and grabs your hip tightly, holding you still as he starts shoving his cock as deep as it can go.
your noises grow more high pitched, letting him know he was on the right path. he can feel himself grow harder and more stiff, about to be pushed over the edge. incoherent curses and grunts leave him as he tenses up behind you, still rubbing your clit hard as his cock explodes inside you. his cum paints your walls white, groaning as he fucks you harder.
he feels you clamp down and release as well, a loud sigh leaving you as your body goes limp, your ass being held up by him being the only thing not flat against the couch. the second he lets go of your hips, it drops onto the couch. you groan weakly, cum all over your thighs and dripping down onto the couch.
he stares at your ruined form a few seconds, debating on wether he should stab you now and make a run for it. but then he remembers his dna is currently painting your insides and he sighs. he wipes some of the cum off your leg and fingers it back into you, your caught off guard squeal giving him some motivation to keep you alive.
“shut it.” he jabs the last of the cum into you before parting, patting your butt and smoothing your skirt back down. he glances at your purse that was hanging off the side of the couch, thrown off you at some point, and grabs it. he finds your wallet inside and peeks at your id, blinking at your name. he makes sure you’re not looking(you’re too busy being half conscious face down) and takes a quick photo of your address and number as well as your pretty body under him.
pulling away, he makes sure to tell you one last thing. he roughly grabs your hair and yanks it back, awakening you immediately from your daydreams. you shriek and blink terrified at his bloody mask, eyes blinking widely in shock.
“tell anyone about this and i’ll kill your entire family and force you to watch.” he then proceeds to list your entire name and address, making you gape at him like a dumb puppy, clueless on how he had this information.
“y-yes- yes!” you nod, sniffling with your watery eyes. he gives a condescending pat on the cheek before disappearing down the hall as if this never happened. you lay there on the couch confused before hesitantly getting up and shivering as cold air brushes against the back of your ripped dress.
“uhmmmm….. hello..?” you call out awkwardly to the hall. you peek and see him standing over the blondes dead body, about to grab her by her ankles to assumingely drag out the back door. he stops to stare at you wordlessly.
you frown and motion to your ripped dress. his reaction takes a few seconds to happen but he eventually grabs the hoodie off the dead girl and throws it at you aggressively. you jump and catch it, cringing at the blood and stench. you fucked a murderer and now you have to deal with the consequences.
“thanks.” you choke out before running out the back door. he rolls his eyes at you before continuing to drag the dead body out.
it had been a few days since the incident. he had been haunting your thoughts, making you wonder what the hell was wrong with you to let yourself get fucked by a serial killer.
you had decided to search him up and attempt to find out who he was. all you found out was that there were killings in the near by towns that all linked the one name— ghostface.
you sat on your couch with your feet up on your. coffee table, laptop open on your lap with a dozen tabs open. each tab was a different articles about him, some about his killings, other about the mysterious surrounding his identity. no one had a real idea on who he was or what his motive was— only that he was a force to be reckoned with.
your thoughts were interrupted by a familiar name being said on the tv. you look up and your heart drops as you see her blonde hair and bright blue eyes stare at you from across the room. there she was— on the tv, smiling innocently. her full name was below the photo of her sitting with her friends and her age.
rebecca garcia
age 19
found dead behind halloween horror nights amusement park, her body cut up and put in several bags. she was stabbed repeatedly in the stomach before eventually dying by the hands of the local serial killer, ghostface.
your stomach turned inside out as you maintained eye contact with the photo of the happy girl. the news reporter shared how the town would be on high alert the next few weeks, alerting us of keeping our doors locked and keeping your eyes out for any suspicious behavior. the report ended with a god bless apology to families.
the silence that followed after was deafening, your heartbeat being the only thing you could hear. your palms felt too clammy and the couch was too rough, your clothes pricking at your skin and your eyes welling up with tears. everything felt too real and too close.
the sound of your phone ringing broke the silence, making you flinch. you peered over, blinking through the tears as your shaky fingers picked up your phone and brought it to your eyes.
you frowned in confusion at the unknown number, sighing gently before picking it up and bringing it to your ear. before you could open your mouth, the voice of your nightmares spoke.
Summary: When an innocent cuddle session takes a turn, The Void tests your capabilities of being quiet while he explores your body in plain view with only a blanket covering his ministrations.
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Reader and The Void (and company) are in an established relationship, The Void is portrayed to have tendrils in this that are similar to tentacles when he manipulates them to be like that (they can suck…But they’re not slick, they’re silky…If that makes sense)
Smut Warnings: Tendril/Tentacle Sex, Semi-Public Sex (happens on the common room couch, and teammates are coming in and out of the place without any knowledge of things happening), Tummy Bulge is Mentioned and Felt, Void puts his hand over your mouth, Overstimulation (reader tears up from the pleasure), Grinding, Begging, Dirty Talk, Tendril Sucking, Cum Eating, Breast Play (with tendrils and hands), The Tendrils Can Expand, Pet Names, Slight Restraint, Bruising, Biting, Scratches, Sucking/Hickeys/Marking, DVP, Aftercare (hopefully I didn’t miss anything)
Author’s Note: Wow, first time writing something like this and I loved exploring this side of things! I may delve into this even more at some point! But for now I hope this was worth the long wait (I’m sorry by the way)
Word Count: 8,463
“Void, you’re freezing–will you please let me turn on the heated blanket?” You asked, your voice a gentle plea threaded with fondness and a touch of shiver-induced exasperation, as he huddled even closer, his shadowy form molding against yours like ink bleeding into fabric. His face nuzzled deep into the plush warmth of your chest, his cool cheek pressing firmly against the rhythmic pulse of your heart, as if he were attuned to its every secret whisper–eavesdropping on the beats that quickened subtly under his touch, a telltale flutter displaying the way his presence stirred you from the inside out. The ethereal chill of his skin permeated through the thin, loose weave of your t-shirt, wrapping around your torso like a persistent mist, sending involuntary tremors cascading through your muscles that no amount of clenching or shifting could fully dispel. Even the blanket draped haphazardly over your lower halves–soft and insulating–offered only a fleeting barrier, its residual warmth seeping away as his body drew it in greedily.
It was everyone’s rare day off in the Thunderbolts compound, a fleeting oasis amid the relentless grind of missions and debriefs, and you had claimed it wisely, determined to vanquish the towering backlog of mission reports that had loomed over you like a travelling storm cloud. Valentina’s incessant prodding had been a constant itch at the back of your mind for the past month and a half, her sharp reminders echoing in your ears like distant thunder, and you were planning on eradicating it as soon as possible.
You had sought sanctuary on the common room couch, its deep cushions cradling you as you powered through the digital stack on your tablet with a heated blanket draped over your legs that hummed softly, warding off the ambient coolness of the room. Then The Void had materialized, like you had somehow heralded him by being comfortable.
He had been merciful in his timing, and he wordlessly curled up onto the couch with his head resting in your lap as you typed away, his silky, obsidian hair spilling across your thighs like living shadows that shifted with every breath he took. From time to time, you would pause to thread your fingers through those strands, feeling them respond with an almost sentient eagerness–tangling around your digits in a soft, possessive grip, as if reluctant to relinquish the warmth of your touch before finally uncoiling. He could sense the tension building in your nerves, the stress spiking like static electricity through your system, yet he held back, granting you the space to focus.
It was an immense effort on his part, his own essence–a turbulent sea of shadows and urges–warring against him, tempting him toward more intimate distractions. To temper it, he tuned into the mundane chatter drifting from the kitchen, where the rest of the team bantered over coffee and snacks. Their conversations were banal to him–discussions of past ops, and light-hearted jabs–but occasionally a sharp quip would land, drawing a low chuckle from deep within his chest, the vibration rumbling through your lap like a distant echo. It was a fragile anchor, better than surrendering to the silence call of your proximity as he waited with predatory patience.
The instant you set the tablet aside to charge though, his restraint fractured. He allowed you barely a heartbeat before drawing you down into the cushions with him, his form enveloping yours in a tangle of limbs and shadows. By then, he had already deactivated the heated blanket, attuned to the sweat that creamy across your skin, your body overheating from the dual strain of concentration and his nearness. Your scent–sweet, and cloying, and laced with the subtle damp musk of exertion–had been assaulting his senses, driving him to the brink, a heady fog that clouded his thoughts and ignited his cravings. You had yielded without protest, prioritizing his comfort in that selfless way of yours…
But now, entwined in his chill embrace, you rued that generosity.
”You’re warming me up perfectly…I don’t need artificial heat,” He breathed, his voice a low, resonant timbre that thrummed through your bones. His arms constricted around you with deliberate firmness, pulling your flush against the cool expanse of his body, while his soft, sinuous tendrils began to awaken. They threaded around your legs and thighs with languid intent, the silky lengths gliding over your skin, their tiny little suckers–subtle, puckered nodes along their undersides–tugging gently at your flesh, leaving faint, tingling imprints like ephemeral kisses that bloomed into an array of marks.
All he desired was to encompass you, to claim every inch of exposed skin, to bridge the infinitesimal gaps until there was no distinction between you. He yearned to dissolve into you, to inhabit your warmth, to fuse into a singular entity–and soon, he would execute the plan to seize that union.
“I’m sure I am…But now I’m getting cold because you’re leeching off all my body heat,” You pointed out playfully, even as a shiver betrayed you. A deep hum vibrated from his core, resonating through your frame like a tuning fork, before he maneuvered you with effortless grace. His tendrils coaxed your legs apart, widening the space between them as he settled firmly into the cradle of your thighs, his substantial weight bearing down, compressing you into the couch’s yielding cushions until they puffed around your forms. You wriggled instinctively, a light giggle bubbling up as the pressure stole your breath momentarily, before you draped your arms over his broad shoulders, gasping softly to regain your composure. He nuzzled back into your chest, purring–a low, feline-like rumble that sent delicious vibrations skittering across your skin–at the deepened intimacy.
“How about I open the curtains and let the sun in? I’m sure that’ll warm you up instantly,” He suggested, lifting his gaze just enough to meet yours. His wide, luminous white pupils gleamed like twin beacons in the dimness, piercing through the perpetual shadow veiling his features, holding your captive as he awaited your verdict. You reached up, brushing back the soft silky waves of hair from his forehead–feeling the strands curl briefly around your fingers in a tender grasp–revealing the constellation of pinprick freckles that shimmered faintly in the subdued light of the living room. A small smile graced your lips, followed by an affirming nod.
“I guess that’s a good compromise.” A flash of teeth glinted in the obscured depths of his face as one of his tendrils unfurled from his back. It slithered across the floor with fluid elegance, coiling toward the shrouded windows and parting the blackout curtains with a gentle sweep, unveiling the radiant expanse of the afternoon sky.
Sunlight poured in, bathing the room in golden hues, and transformed him in mesmerizing ways: The Void neither absorbed nor reflected the light fully, persisting as an ethereal chasm amid the brilliance, a silhouette of infinite darkness. Yet his freckles ignited, becoming effervescent specks of radiance, as if he harboured captured supernovas within his form, glowing with an inner luminosity that made him seem like a walking galaxy. It was a vulnerable revelation, one he rarely permitted in company, but he was always too captivated by you to care about anyone seeing it.
In mere seconds, his skin began to draw in the sun’s warmth, the chill dissipating in incremental waves that transferred back to you, starting as a gentle bloom in your belly, rising to envelop your chest, then flowing outward to suffuse your limbs. The two of you melted into a shared cauldron of heat, his chin now propped against your chest as he regarded you, his eyes dissecting every nuance of your expression–the subtle parting of your lips, the quickened rise of your breath, and of course the small little flutters of your lashes as you took him in as well.
You lifted a hand to caress his cheek, your fingertips tracing the elegant bridge of his nose, the outline of his eyes, the subtle fullness of his lips, and the edge of his jaw. He leaned into the touch with a contented sigh, his breath a cool zephyr tinged with warmth now, while another tendril venture upward along your side, beseeching attention. You granted it readily, extending your hand to let it interlace through your fingers, its cool, velvety texture squeezing and undulating against your skin like a playful serpent, autonomous yet intrinsically bound to him.
“Have I ever told you how pretty you look in the sun?” You asked curiously, your voice soft with awe. He sighed, his chin shifting against your chest in a subtle nod, his eyes fluttering closed as your unoccupied hand trailed over his once more, before reopening to lock onto your gaze, his lips curving into a smirk that revealed a hint of his sharp teeth.
”A multitude of times…But even when you don’t say it, your eyes always give away,” He joked, his tone warm and teasing. You arched your eyebrows, tilting your head as a light laugh escaped you, your fingers persisting in their gentle strokes along his features.
”How?” You questioned, intrigued. He sighed deeply, the sound laced with affections, and the tendril entwined with your hand guided it aside tenderly, clearing the path as he shifted upward. His body glided against yours with deliberate friction, bringing his face mere inches from yours, his eyes scanning the delicate flutter of your lashes under his intense scrutiny. Meanwhile, the tendril began its ascent along your arm, coiling slowly from wrist to elbow, its length gripping your skin with the subtle pull of its tiny suckers, leaving a trail of tingling warmth and faint semicircle impressions that heightened your awareness of every inch it claimed.
”I wish I could show you, but then I’d be giving away top secret information and you’d find a way to shield your thoughts from me…And I just can’t let that happen,” He teased, his voice a husky murmur that washed over you. He leaned in closer, his breath now heated from the sun’s infusion, mingling with yours in intimate puffs, carrying a faint, metallic tang that was uniquely his, enveloping you in a cloud of closeness that made your pulse race. His gaze roamed your face with unabashed admiration, tracing the curve of your cheeks, the bow of your lips, and the way the sunlight danced in your eyes, committing every detail to memory as if you were a masterpiece unveiled just for him.
”I’m not aware when you’re reading my mind anyways, so I don’t think I would be able to hide what I’m thinking even if I tried,” You whispered, your words breathy under the weight of his proximity, earning a rich laugh from him that hummed the narrow space between you.
”I’m surprised at that…” He started, his hand gliding up and down your torso with short strokes, his cool fingers slipping just beneath the hem of your t-shirt, teasing the sensitive skin above your shorts’ waistband before dragging upward to circle your navel slowly, the touch igniting sparks that radiated outward, “You’re a strong-willed woman; I figured you would’ve been able to lock me out of that brain of yours by this point.” You could hear the grin in his voice, feeling it press against the curve of your neck as he kissed just above your pulse, his lips parting to graze his teeth over the tender flesh until it stung with exquisite sharpness. You hummed in response, squirming beneath him as the tendrils around your legs constricted with gentle insistence, repositioning them higher around his torso, their suckers pulling and releasing in rhythmic pulses that sent shivers racing up your entirety, before they inched up higher, tracing the delicate hem of your shorts with teasing precision, the cool silk contrasting the growing heat pooling between your legs.
“Maybe I don’t want to lock you out…Maybe I like the fact you know exactly what I’m thinking at all times,” You murmured breathlessly, your voice hitching as he tugged at the collar of your t-shirt, exposing the slope of your shoulder to his explorations. His lips descended there, inhaling deeply–drawing your scent into his lungs like a vital elixir, the action sending a fresh wave of goosebumps across your skin.
”What else do you like about me?” He asked, his tone dropping to a gravelly whisper, coaxing one of the tendrils to venture beneath the hem of your shorts. You arched off the cushions at the ticklish, electrifying glide, the appendage settling against the inner curve of your thigh, pulsing warmly, its suckers adhering to the soft flesh in a possessive hold that made your core clench in anticipation.
“Everything…” You exhaled, the word a surrender as the tendril around your arm unraveled slowly, freeing your hand to roam the broad planes of his back, your fingertips tracing the subtle ridges where his shadows formed the plush muscle. Your other hand laced through the hair at the nap of his neck, tugging gently as he shifted above you, his erection grinding against your core through the thin barriers of fabric. His lips peppered your skin with wet, open-mouthed kisses, sucking along your jawline and leaving glistening trails that cooled in the air, heightening the contrast. Your stomach twisted with need, a coil of heat tightening as you squirmed, feeling shivers cascading up your spine until they blared into full-body goosebumps. The tip of the tendril on your thigh traced perilously close along your bikini line, a featherlight tease that made your breath stutter.
When he registered the absence of underwear–a bare, inviting vulnerability that you didn’t even think about until now–his thoughts surged with raw hunger: how effortlessly he could claim you right there, slipping into your warmth without preamble. But he restrained, savouring the build, attuned to the arousal simmering within you, the dampness that had begun to soak through your shorts, its musky sweetness saturating the air around him–you were holy wine to him and he was the sinner waiting to drink you down, patient and confessional in a way. He could sense every quiver of your walls, every anticipatory flutter, as he ground against you again, the friction sending jolts of pleasure through both of you.
”You’re the only person that has said that to me…You know that, right?” He mumbled into your shoulder, nipping tenderly at the flesh, his teeth leaving faint indentations that throbbed with a delicious ache. You nodded, your response a soft affirmation lost in a gasp.
“I do…” You replied, your voice threading through the haze as he rolled his hips once more, the pressure eliciting a hitched breath, your lashes fluttering shut at the exquisite grind. The tendril’s tip danced just beside your aching core, a maddening proximity that amplified the slick heat gathering there, your body displaying its eagerness with every subtle clench. He inhaled deeply again, drawing in your intoxicating scent that now mingled with the saltiness of your skin, before letting a long shuddering sigh escape him. The sound vibrated low in his chest as a shiver rippled up his spine, triggered by the slow drag of your nails along his back.
The sensation was electric, your fingertips tracing the subtle contours where his shadowy form granted you the feeling of muscle and sinew, leaving faint trails of warmth in their wake that contrasted sharply with his inherent coolness that even the sun couldn’t stave off for long. Your body arched toward him instinctively, a graceful bow that pressed you against his frame, your hips bucking with needy insistence to feel the firm ridge of his erection grind against you once more. But he pulled back just enough to deny you, a teasing retreat that left you whimpering softly, the air between you growing with frustrated anticipation.
Just as he parted his lips to murmur something filthy–words that would’ve unraveled you into feral abandon–an eruption of raucous laughter burst from the kitchen, echoing through the halls like an unwelcome intrusion. The sound sliced through the haze of intimacy, pausing the escalation in its tracks, yanking you both from the cocoon of desire. Even the tendril poised devastatingly close to your throbbing core halted its teasing glide, freezing in place as if it attuned to the shift. Your eyes met his in a shared moment of startled awareness, the luminous white of his pupils flickering with a mix of annoyance and calculation.
You slid your hands to his chest, your palms flattening against the uneven, otherworldly rhythm of his heart–a staccato beat that thrummed erratically under your touch, more like the pulse of distant stars than a mortal organ. His breath fanned hot over your face, stirring the fine hairs at your temples as his gaze darted sideways, tuning into the distant chatter like a predator assessing threats. He listened for any telltale footsteps approaching the common room, but the voices remained contained, a distant hum of camaraderie that, for now, posed no immediate risk to intruding.
“We should move to the bedroom…” You suggested quietly, your voice a breathless whisper laced with practicality, even as your body trembled with want, “Before this gets even more heated than it already is.” You added, his eyes trailing back to yours, as he wrapped his cool fingers around one of your wrists, lifting it from his chest to guide it to his face. He held it there until your palm cupped his cheek, the silky tendrils beneath your t-shirt inching higher, coasting along the faint ridges of scars that mapped your skin–souvenirs from past missions–before settling just beneath the swell of your breasts, their suckers pulsing against the plush flesh. He shook his head, a subtle denial that sent his hair brushing against your fingers like velvet.
”We can be quiet…If we move around so I’m behind you, nobody will suspect a thing…Unless it’s too much trouble for you to hold back your noises…” The challenge in his tone sounded like a dare, igniting a clench deep in your stomach, a stirring heat that coiled tighter as the tip of the tendril beneath your shorts finally stirred back to life. It delved between your dripping folds with agonizing slowness, sliding through the slick evidence of your arousal, parting you with a wet glide that spreads your essence upward to circle your swollen clit before retreating to tease your entrance once more.
Around and around it swirled, the cool silk smearing your wetness in glossy trails, each pass heightening the ache until you could feel the fabric of your shorts saturating completely, the dampness clinging to your inner thighs like a second skin. The tiny suckers along its length tugged gently at your clit with every rhythmic pull that sent sparks shooting through your nerves, making your squirm uncontrollably, a small whimper escaping your lips–barely audible, but potent in the charged space between you.
“Wh-What if someone comes in?” You asked, your voice fracturing as you closed your eyes tightly, surrendering to the onslaught. The tendrils coiled around your breasts, squeezing with exquisite pressure, their tips flicking over your overly sensitive nipples in tandem, the suckers latching on with insistent tugs that mimicked a hungry mouth, drawing out peaks of pleasure that made your back arch off the cushions.
Meanwhile, the one between your thighs burrowed deeper into your folds, thickening palpably, pulsing with a promise of expansion that teased the girth it could achieve–the way it could stretch you open with a single, unrelenting push, filling you to the brink where fullness bordered on overwhelm. The air grew thick, your skin flushing hot under the sun’s gaze, every sensation amplified: the cool silk contrasting your fevered heat, the subtle vibrations from his purring rippling through you, the faint copper like tang of his breath mingling with your gasps. The two of you rarely indulged like this, even though you were always open to it–so when the opportunity arose, you never wanted to waste a second, especially if relocating to privacy would shatter the electric urgency.
”We’ll pretend we’re taking a nap.” He replied, his voice dripping with amusement, before he began to shift off you with fluid grace. The tendrils on your breasts and between your thighs extended seamlessly, lengthening to maintain their intimate hold as he maneuvered you onto your side, positioning himself behind you in a spooning embrace that felt both protective and possessive.
You felt the silky glide of another tendril snaking down your leg, wrapping around your ankle slowly–a slight restraint that lifted your limb just enough to grant him unfettered access, parting your thighs wider beneath the blanket’s concealment. The sensation was intoxicating–the cool silk binding your skin, the suckers adhering with faint pops that left little oval like marks that stung and tingled, holding you open in a vulnerable invitation.
”Like they’ll believe that we’re napping with the sun blaring through the windows…They’re not stupid,” You breathed, the words tumbling out in a haze as he wrapped one arm around your torso, while the other slid beneath your neck like an improvised pillow, pulling your back flush against the cool solidity of his chest. His tendrils tightened around your breasts once more, the suckers teasing your hardened nipples with featherlight ticks and pulls, sending jolts straight to your core where the ache built relentlessly.
”Doesn’t hurt to try…” He whispered, his lips brushing the sensitive shell of your ear before descending to kiss along your neck, sucking the skin there until the heat of your blood raised to the surface leaving hickeys that throbbed under his attention. He held you impossibly close, intertwining his legs with yours in a tangle of limbs, the friction of his erection pressing against your ass as you ground down onto the tendril still slipping through your folds. It glided with obscene wetness, the slick sounds muffled by the blanket but vivid in your ears. “And you seem eager to please,” He added, his tongue licking a slow, cooling path of saliva just below your earlobe, the wet trail evaporating in the heated air and sending shivers over your sweat-dampened skin. Your core fluttered wildly, the gentle suction on your clit easing only to build again as he nudged the tip back to your entrance, pressing in just a fraction, making your walls clench around nothing but promise.
“Void…” You gasped, the plea escaping as his nose nuzzled into the crook of your neck, inhaling you like a drug, his free hand roaming to trace scratches down your thigh–drawing light, stinging lines that bloomed into raised welts.
“Do you want it?” He cooed, his voice a deep, rumbling vibration that resonated through your back, sending shivers across your overheated skin, “Tell me, my sweet little star…Beg for it.” His tone deepened to a gravelly command, as his arm tightened around your torso, pinning you against him so you couldn’t squirm away or impale yourself further on the teasing tendril.
You settled your hand on his forearm, your nails digging into the soft, yielding shadows of his flesh, carving crescent moons into his form as a desperate tightness seized your chest, flooding your body with aching despair. You needed him–craved the fullness, the invasion, the utter consumption–and the frustration of his merciless teasing swelled within you like a storm, building until a glassy film of tears blurred your vision. Tilting your head back to rest it against his shoulder, you exposed more of your neck to him, and he seized the opportunity without hesitation, dragging his sharp teeth along the taut column of your throat. His cool tongue followed, gliding over the blooming marks he’d already inflicted–stinging bites and hickeys that throbbed under the soothing laps, a contrast of pain and relief that made your pulse stutter as he waited, patient and predatory, for your surrender.
“Void…I need you, I need them…Please, I need you inside me,” you whispered, your voice a fractured plea that barely cut through the haze, your grip convulsing on his forearm as the tip of the tendril slipped in just a fraction more–but it delivered only torment, and it was nowhere near enough to quench the fire raging in your core.
“I think you can do better than that…” He taunted, his breath hot against your ear as he circled the tip languidly, stirring your slick walls with deliberate slowness, watching with dark satisfaction as you writhed and pushed back against him. He secured you even tighter, his body an unyielding cage, while everything constricted in perfect synchronization–the tendrils coiling around your breasts squeezed with exquisite firmness, their suckers latching onto the sensitive skin surrounding your nipples, pulling with rhythmic insistence that left blooming bruises, deep imprints that ached with every heartbeat. The restraint around your ankle tugged gently, holding you open even more. The sensations collided like a tempest: the cool silk gripping your flesh, the stinging pull of suckers, the relentless tease at your entrance–all coalescing into a heady cocktail of pure, unbridled lust that scorched through your veins, igniting every nerve ending until you felt like a live wire, ready to snap.
“Actually…I’ve heard you beg far better than that with less coaxing…So should I completely pull away? Remind you what you’ll be missing?” He teased, feigning a subtle shift backward, the tendril retreating just enough to make your body flinch in panic, your hand clawing at his arm to anchor him, desperate to maintain the press of his cool form against your fevered back.
“No. No, please…You can’t say shit like that…I’m…I’m doing my best.” You could feel his lips curve into a wicked smile against your shoulder, his tendrils pulsing in response, a subtle thrum that vibrated through you.
“I’ll give you one more chance.” You let out a huff of disbelief, the sound edged with frustration. Sometimes he was absolutely torturous, especially when he held the upper hand, knowing precisely which buttons to press to wring the most desperate pleas from your lips. This was one of those moments–he craved your vulnerability, wanted to hear you teetering on the brink of tears before he yielded to the shared hunger. He needed to feel desired, to revel in the power he wielded over your pleasure, cupped in the palm of his shadowy hand.
“I need you to use me…I need you to fill me until I can’t fucking think. All I want to see is darkness, and all I want to feel is you. I don’t want you to hold back from me, I want it all, and I know you can give that to me…Show me no mercy and take what you want…And give me what I need, please.” Your throat constricted around the words, a single tear slipping from the corner of your eye, tracing a hot path down your cheek as the blanket shifted higher, cocooning your intertwined bodies in a deceptive shroud of innocence. He hummed against your skin, the sound a low, approving vibration that sent shivers racing down your spine.
“That’s a good girl…That’s much better,” He praised, his voice dripping with satisfaction as he caressed your stomach gently, his cool fingers tracing soothing circles over the taut skin. Before you could draw breath to respond, the tendril surged forward, slipping deeper into you with a slick, expanding glide, its ridges of tiny suckers dragging along your inner walls like velvet hooks, tugging and releasing in rhythmic pulls that ignited heat along every inch of your body. A raw gasp tore from your throat as he held you immobile, his own breath hitching shakily against your neck, reveling in the way your walls pulsed and clenched around him. He pushed onward, filling you completely, stretching you with exquisite fullness as the appendage swelled further, its surface slick from your arousal, easing the invasion.
The suckers tingled against your g-spot, a pulsating rhythm that sucked gently at the sensitive bundle, pulling waves of pleasure from deep within. When the thickened tip finally nudged your cervix, it dragged downward along the plush flesh, a deliberate stroke that made you whimper, the sound muffled against his palm as his arm shifted, his hand clamping firmly over your mouth to stifle the inevitable cries.
You were overwhelmingly full, a delicious pressure that bordered on too much, and he held the tendril there for agonizing moments, letting it pulse and suck, dragging insistently along your cervix to stir molten heat through your lower belly. Your arousal dripped around the intrusion, coating your inner thighs in glossy trails that added to the damp cling of your shorts, the slickness facilitating every subtle twitch. Void’s lips mapped your shoulder, biting into the yielding flesh with sharp nips that bloomed into bruises, sucking greedily as if to devour your essence–drowning his senses in the salty tang of your skin, meshing with your consciousness to feel the echoed pleasure racking your body. Your mind raced in fragmented bursts, unable to latch onto a single coherent thought; you were already unraveling, fucked into a hazy stupor without a single thrust.
He ground against your ass with a low growl, seeking friction for his aching erection, and slid his hand to your lower abdomen, guiding you to press back against him even more. In that intimate move, he felt it–the outline of the tendril bulging through your skin, thick and pulsing, warm with your shared heat–and he paused, utterly enamored, his breath escaping in a shaky exhale. He flicked the tendril inside you with a subtle twist, eliciting a muffled moan that vibrated into the meaty warmth of his palm, the bulge shifting visibly under your skin.
“Put your hand here…” He whispered, tapping the spot where he’d traced himself moments ago. Your mind swam in fog, the command registering dimly, but you obeyed, relinquishing your grip on his forearm to press your palm where his had been, feeling the unmistakable swell. Your walls clenched instinctively around him, a vise-like squeeze that drew a hiss from his lips, and you brought your free hand up to tug his covering palm downward slightly, just enough to gasp.
“Is that you?” You asked, voice laced with amazed overwhelm, the depth of him–buried so profoundly–sending fresh tears pricking at your eyes. He nodded, his silky hair tickling the side of your neck.
“Mhm…You’re so wet and stretched out that I can go as deep as I’d like…” His words were a husky murmur as he moved inside you again, the bulge rippling beneath your palm, earning a small, desperate mewl from your lips as it rubbed more insistently against your cervix, grinding deeper into the sensitive barrier. “It’s fucking perfect,” He complimented, his cool breath fanning over your skin despite the inferno ravaging your body, scorching your nerves like molten lava submerging you whole. He laid his hand atop yours and pressed down firmly, amplifying the sensation as the tendril withdrew slowly, pulsing and swelling to invade every crevice, the suckers kissing your walls with gentle tugs that sparked electric jolts through your core.
“Think you can take another one?” He asked, rubbing his nose just below your ear in a tender nuzzle, wiggling the tendril enough to pull at your g-spot, your walls convulsing around it from the overwhelming stimulation as you nodded frantically, squirming against him with a desperate whimper. The hand over your mouth shifted to caress the side of your neck, tilting your head further to grant him more canvas, his lips pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses along your damp skin, licking away the fresh sheen of sweat with a hungry sweep.
“I need you to use your words, or else I’m not going to give you what you need.” Your mind fractured further, words eluding you; attempts to speak dissolved into pathetic whines. The tendrils around your breasts constricted sharply, stealing your breath in a gasp before you inhaled raggedly.
“O-one more,” You forced out, the words splintered, and he rewarded you with a bite–teeth sinking into your shoulder as a second tendril slithered up your leg, tracing the slick path of its predecessor, slipping beneath your shorts’ hem. He shrank the first slightly to accommodate, then thrust the newcomer in alongside, stretching you to your limits in an instant. Your head snapped back, eyes squeezing shut as he clamped his hand over your mouth preemptively, muffling the guttural cry that clawed up your throat.
“Fuck,” the word distorted against his palm, but he understood it perfectly, his voice a soothing growl.
“You feel so good around me…” He complimented, and then the tendrils began to move in earnest–a scorching rhythm of alternation, one plunging deep as the other withdrew, their suckers pulling gently at your walls with each glide, kissing the sensitive flesh in wet, rhythmic tugs that amplified every sensation. The air thickened with steam, your bodies slick with sweat under the sun’s relentless gaze, the faint sounds of teammates drifting in and out of the common room–oblivious footsteps, casual chatter–only heightening the illicit thrill. He ground against you in sync, his erection rubbing insistently against your ass through fabric, seeking relief in the plush give of your curves, his breath hot and ragged against your neck.
With each thrust, you pressed your hand harder against the shifting bulge in your tummy, feeling the dual fullness ripple under your palm, but all you could do was squirm, words stolen by his muffling grip, your body a vessel of pure sensation–the cool silk invading, stretching, sucking; the stinging bites on your shoulder.
“Is it getting hard to think?” He teased, his voice a dirty whisper as you met one of his grinds with a desperate arch, the softness of your ass adding exquisite pressure to his throbbing length. You nodded frantically, tears spilling freely now. The Void’s self-control dwarfed yours, but even he teetered on the edge–the scent of your arousal saturating the air like holy wine, tangy and sweet on his tongue despite the distance, drool pooled in his mouth as he salivated for your essence. Your hand reached up to thread through his hair, tugging the silky strands in desperation, and his tendrils swelled further within you, stretching until resistance met, then held that girth as he accelerated, the thrusts pounding deeper, harder.
His hand slipped from atop yours, trailing down to the waistband of your shorts, hooking fingers beneath to shove them down just enough to expose the bare curve of your ass to him. With a swift motion, he pushed his own pajama bottoms lower, freeing his thick erection to press skin-to-skin against you–the cool, velvety length nestling against you, throbbing with need. He tugged your top up slightly, baring more of your back to his chest, the direct contact sending shivers through you both as you tilted your head back, a grunt escaping despite his palm. Your walls pulsed and clenched wildly around the invading tendrils, your thighs attempting to clamp shut only to be pried apart by the restraining appendage, the exposure heightening every glide.
You were teetering on the precipice, and he knew it–your body’s tells were inscribed in his very essence: the frantic flutter of your core, the tremor in your limbs, the salt of your tears streaming down your cheeks. Your hand slipped from your belly, reaching back to claw at his torso, nails raking the same spot repeatedly before dragging from ribs to hip, leaving stinging scratches that bloomed red against his shadows. He didn’t flinch at the pain; it only fueled him, his grinds intensifying, precum smearing sticky trails along your ass as the tendrils thrust harder, deeper, the ones on your breasts sucking with numb-inducing fervor.
“Cum for me…Soak me. Soak everything. Do it, baby…” He coaxed, his voice a gravelly command, grinding with abandon as your body shattered. You shook violently, pulses of ecstasy ripping through you, squirming in his unyielding hold as your walls squeezed the tendrils in vice-like spasms, arousal gushing in slick waves that smeared down them, the obscene squelching muffled beneath the blanket but echoing in your ears. A primal, animalistic moan vibrated against his palm as he bit into your shoulder to stifle his own release, warm spurts of cum painting your back in sticky ropes, dripping down the plush swell of your ass cheeks.
The haze that followed lingered like a thick, velvety fog that enveloped your senses, as the aftershocks of ecstasy rippled through your body in gentle, fading waves, while he slowed his movements inside you to a tender, pulsating halt. The dual tendrils, once relentless in their thrusting rhythm, now eased their pace to languid undulations, allowing your overwrought walls to clench and release around them one final time before beginning their retreat.
You both drew in ragged breaths, your chest heaving against his unyielding hold, the air between you heavy with the mingled scents of sweat, musk, and the salty tang of release–yours sweet and heady, his cooler and faintly metallic, like distant rain on shadowed earth. Your limbs trembled, muscles aching from the strain of being held open, marked, and utterly claimed, but the exhaustion was sweet, a blissful surrender that left you floating in a post-climactic glow.
He eased his hand from your mouth with deliberate gentleness, his palm–warm now from the friction of your muffled cries–trailing down your jaw in a soothing caress, wiping away the faint sheen of saliva that had gathered at the corners of your lips. The tendrils withdrew from you slowly, almost regretfully, their silky lengths gliding out with a slick, wet slide that smeared your release across your inner thighs in glossy trails, the coolness of them contrasting the burning heat of your core and sending fresh shivers cascading over your skin. As they slipped free, they lingered for a moment, lapping at the mingled cum with tender, sucking kisses from their nodes, cleaning you with an intimate efficiency that felt both possessive and caring–their tips curling to gather every drop, the faint vibrations humming through your oversensitive flesh like a lover’s whisper. The ones coiled around your breasts uncoiled with equal care, their suckers releasing your bruised nipples with soft pops that left the skin tingling and numb, before they stroked downward along your torso in featherlight caresses, tracing the contours of your ribs and hips as if memorizing the map of your body all over again.
Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to the bite marks he’d etched into your shoulder–deep, throbbing indentations that drew up against your skin, each one a badge of his hunger. His kisses were soft, reverent, his cool tongue laving over them to soothe the sting, drawing a sigh from your lips as the pain melted into warmth. He turned your head toward him with a gentle nudge of his nose, his luminous white pupils locking onto yours in the dim light, and kissed away the salty trails of your tears from your cheeks, his mouth lingering on each damp path as if savoring the evidence of your overwhelming pleasure. Your eyes fluttered closed by this point, heavy with satiation, and all you could do was sink into the cocoon of his comfort, your body limp and pliant against his, every nerve ending humming with residual bliss.
“Open your mouth…” He whispered, his voice a low, intimate rumble that vibrated through your chest, carrying a hint of command softened by affection. Slowly, obediently, your jaw parted for him, lips trembling slightly from the aftershocks, and one of the tendrils–that had been buried so deeply within you moments ago–slithered upward with fluid grace, its surface still glistening with your essence. It settled on your tongue like a forbidden fruit, cool and silky, the faint musk of your arousal blooming across your taste buds as you closed your lips around it instinctively.
“Clean yourself off of me,” He instructed, his tone husky and encouraging, watching with rapt attention as you sucked slowly, your tongue swirling along the now-smooth form–he’d retracted the suckers thoughtfully, transforming it into a velvety ribbon that glided effortlessly deeper into your mouth. The act was profoundly sensual, intimate beyond words: the cool slide against your tongue, the subtle pulse of it echoing the rhythm of your earlier union, the way your cheeks hollowed as you drew on it with deliberate pulls, savoring the tangy sweetness of your own release mingled with his ethereal essence. It filled your mouth just enough to tease the back of your throat, a gentle intrusion that made your core clench anew with remembered fullness, your breaths coming in soft, heated puffs through your nose as you cleaned it with perfect precision, every lap and suck drawing a low hum of approval from him.
When it was pristine, he withdrew it completely, the tendril retreating with a final, affectionate curl around your chin before vanishing into his form. He leaned in immediately, capturing your lips in a deep, languid kiss, his tongue delving to taste the lingering essence of your release from yours–salty-sweet and intoxicating, the flavors blending in a shared intimacy that made your head spin. His mouth moved against yours with unhurried passion, teeth grazing your lower lip in a playful nip before he pulled away, leaving you both breathless once more. You slowly opened your eyes, meeting his gaze–the way he was already looking at you, those white pupils gleaming with a mix of satisfaction and tenderness, a small smile curving the shadowed contours of his face, revealing a flash of teeth that sent a warm flutter through your chest.
“You did so fucking good…You’re getting better at handling them,” He praised, his voice rich with genuine admiration, one hand cupping your cheek as his thumb traced the swell of your lip. You leaned in, pressing another kiss to his mouth, soft and lingering, before murmuring against him.
“Still overwhelming…But…It feels amazing, Void.” The compliment hung in the air like a shared secret, your voice steadying as you regained composure, forming sentences amid the lingering haze. You could feel his cum cooling on your back, sticky ropes dripping downward in lazy trails, pooling at the curve of your ass, the sensation both messy and oddly intimate. He reached down with a casual grace, his fingers running through the viscous streaks, gathering the droplets before they could stain the couch further. When he brought them into your line of sight, you watched them glisten under the beaming rays of sunlight filtering through the windows, pearlescent and shimmering like liquid stars. Without hesitation, you leaned forward, running your tongue along his fingers in slow, deliberate laps, savoring the salty, musky bitterness that exploded across your taste buds–a chaser to your own sweetness that sent a fresh shiver up your spine, stirring your stomach with renewed heat, as if your body was already gearing up for another round despite the exhaustion. Void let out a small huff of a laugh, surprised and delighted by your eagerness, his pupils dilating slightly as he watched you with rapt fascination.
“Do you want to catch a shower so we can properly clean each other off?” He asked, his tone shifting to practical care laced with underlying promise, earning a quick nod from you.
“Definitely…I also think it’ll be better than sticking around and getting caught with our pants down…Literally.” He smirked, the expression pulling at the shadows of his face, and pressed one more kiss to your lips–firm and affectionate–before helping you situate yourself. With gentle hands, he pulled up your soaked shorts, the cool, damp fabric settling against the burning heat of your core like a soothing compress, bringing much-needed relief to the tender, throbbing ache between your legs. He fixed your shirt next, smoothing the rumpled fabric over your marked breasts with careful strokes, his touch lingering just enough to send aftershocks through you. Then he attended to himself, tugging up his pajama bottoms with a fluid motion, the waistband snapping softly against his hips.
He sat up slowly, unraveling his limbs from yours with reluctance, his tendrils fully retracted now, leaving only the faint imprints of their presence on your skin. Extending a hand, he helped you rise from the couch, your legs wobbly beneath you like a newborn fawn, muscles protesting with a delicious soreness that made you lean into him for support. He collected the blanket–damp and rumpled from your activities–draping it over his arm, before lacing his fingers with yours, his grip cool and reassuring. Together, you snuck toward the bathroom, navigating the short distance with stealthy steps, slipping past the kitchen unnoticed–the distant clatter of dishes and laughter providing unwitting cover. The thrill of the near-miss sent a fresh adrenaline spike through you, your heart pounding not from fear but from the lingering high of secrecy.
You reached the bathroom in a few hurried strides, and he closed the door behind you with a soft click, the sound echoing in the tiled space like a seal on your private world. He turned on the light, immediately dimming it to a warm, golden glow that bathed the room in intimate ambiance, casting soft shadows that danced across the white tiles and fogged mirrors. Dropping the blanket into the hamper with a muffled thud, he let out a contented sigh, the tension easing from his form as he turned to you.
“I’ll turn on the shower,” He said, his voice low and steady, moving past you with a brush of his body against yours–deliberate, sparking a faint echo of desire. He slid open the glass door to the tub, leaning in to reach the faucet, twisting it until water cascaded from the showerhead in a steady, steaming rush, the sound providing a soothing white noise that filled the room. Steam began to rise almost immediately, curling lazily in the air like tendrils of mist, carrying the faint mineral scent of the water as it heated to perfection.
“Are you alright?” he asked, turning back to you, his white pupils searching your face with genuine concern, the vulnerability in his gaze making your heart swell. You looked up at him, a soft smile curving your lips despite the lingering haze clouding your thoughts.
“Yeah, I’m good–just still in a bit of a haze.” He nodded, understanding flickering in his eyes, and leaned down to press a kiss to your lips–slow and tender, a grounding anchor amid the floaty aftermath. As your mouths moved together, you felt his hands slide down to the hem of your shirt, fingers curling around the fabric with gentle intent. He pulled away just enough to tug it upward, peeling the damp material from your skin in a smooth motion, exposing the array of marks he’d left. He tossed the shirt aside in a careless bundle, his gaze roaming over you with appreciative heat.
You mirrored him, staring at his body as well while pushing down your shorts with a shimmy of your hips, the fabric clinging stubbornly to your slick thighs before pooling at your feet. Kicking them off, you slid them across the cool tile floor to join the growing pile. Your eyes roamed over him as he followed suit, shoving his pajama bottoms down in one fluid motion, the garment whispering against his legs before hitting the floor. There, exposed in the warm light, were the scratch marks you’d left on him–jagged lines of white shimmering against his infinite darkness, like tears in the fabric of night revealing glimpses of starlight beneath. They glowed faintly, ethereal and beautiful, stretching from his ribs down to his hip in erratic paths. You couldn’t help but admire your handiwork, reaching out to touch them, your fingers tracing the velvety edges where shadow met light, the texture smooth yet charged, like stroking cooled silk over embers.
“Sorry about these,” You said softly, your touch lingering as a subtle warmth bloomed under your fingertips, his form responding to the contact with a faint pulse.
“Don’t be…I love them. And it’s only fair that you get to mark me up too… Considering…” He trailed off, motioning to your neck and shoulder, where his bites and hickeys formed a vivid tapestry of possession, then down to the rest of your body. You took a moment to really look at yourself, glancing down at the oval-shaped suction marks scattered across your breasts and thighs–raised and warm, each one a tingling reminder of his tendrils’ embrace, the skin around them puckered and sensitive to the steam-kissed air.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right…Least you don’t have to walk around looking like you got into a fight with a sea monster though.” Your comment drew a genuine laugh from him, the sound rich and resonant, echoing off the tiles like a private melody.
“You like them though…They’re special to you, and you’ve said it yourself…You like to have souvenirs of our time together.” He murmured, leaning down to pepper kisses along your cheek, his lips cool and soft, each press sending tiny sparks across your skin.
“Hmm…They don’t last until the next time I see you though, so I wouldn’t call them souvenirs–they’re just placeholders.” You stated, feeling his lips curve against your cheek in amusement.
“I’ll find something to give you that’s a little more permanent next time,” He replied, his voice a promise wrapped in velvet, and you nodded, the idea sending a warm thrill through you.
“That would be fantastic.” The steam thickened around you, the shower’s heat beckoning as he guided you toward the tub, his hand steady in yours, the intimacy shifting from raw passion to tender care, the water promising to wash away the evidence while etching the memory deeper into your souls.
Pairing: The Void/Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader
Summary: You have a late night encounter with The Void
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts as there is Bob in this and there is The Void in this as well. This fic is kinda dark, this is The Void we are dealing with here, there are dark themes/elements explored in this story (but I will emphasize that everything is consensual in this), The Void talks kinda badly about Bob, Bob and Reader have an established friendship and both of them have feelings for one another that have been left unspoken, there is smut and angst in this as well, and a lot of Emotional Tension, The Void is kind of Obsessed with you too…
Smut Warnings: To be a bit on the safe side I would say this is Dub Con (it could kind of be looked at like that, I didn’t write it with those intentions but just in case I wanted to put it there), Unprotected P in V Sex (please…If you’re going to have sex with entities like this wrap it up lol), The Void is Dominant as shit in this, There is Biting, Scratching, Markings left on the Reader, Dacryphilia (The Void likes tears…), Hair Pulling, Fingering, A little bit of humiliation? A bit of fem! Oral sex too.
Author’s Note: Howdy y’all…Well…This is my first Void Smut lol and jeez lord I really had to sink into it a bit and dig. This is my interpretation of how The Void would do or handle things, I didn’t want to go too extreme, but I liked the request (made by @miss-whiddlesmort ) and hope that it meets expectations! Enjoy :)
Word Count: 7,759
The night you met The Void officially, you thought you were hallucinating or living out a real-life nightmare.
You had woken in your bed at the compound, drenched in sweat and tangled in your dampened sheets. The clock on the wall blinked 3:17 a.m. in red, hazy numbers.
That alone wasn’t new.
You’d had nights like this before–restless, disturbed, aching for something unnamed but constant. But this night was different.
There was a pressure in the room. A wrongness that seeped in through your pores and clamped around your lungs.
The air was too still, too silent. And the temperature–God, the cold–it wasn’t natural. It sank into your bones like frostbite, numbing your limbs before you’d even sat up. You clutched your chest with a trembling hand, your heart fluttering against your ribs like a bird trapped in glass.
Your nightshirt clung to your damp skin, and as you wiped the sweat from your brow, you realized it wasn’t just perspiration. It was fear. Primal. Instinctive. As if your body recognized something your mind hadn’t caught up to yet.
The shadows in your room were darker than usual. Not thicker. Not blacker. Just…Deeper. Like they had weight. Like they were watching.
You blinked, trying to let your eyes adjust to the darkness.
And then the corner moved.
Not a trick of light. Not sleep haze. The shadows moved–separating from the darkness like smoke drawn backward through a vent. Tall. Silent. Fluid.
Something seeped forward.
And when it stepped into the faint light slicing through your blinds, your breath caught.
Bob.
No. Not Bob.
The shape was his. The height, the shoulders, the outline of his jaw. The way his mouth curved slightly at the corners like he was seconds away from smiling. You’d seen that shape slouched on the couch during late-night movie marathons. You’d seen it standing barefoot in the kitchen making tea. You’d memorized it without meaning to.
But this…This wasn’t him.
His form was made of shadow, but it held. It wasn’t formless. It wasn’t drifting. It was shaped with purpose–an echo of the man you knew, but built from smoke and malice. His skin, if you could call it that, moved like a storm behind thin glass. Unstable. Eternal. His hair bled into the void around him, lost to darkness.
And his eyes–those weren’t Bob’s eyes. No blue, no softness. Just two white voids of light. Blank and endless. Not glowing with heat, but glowing like distant stars–cold, ancient, unreachable.
His mouth, though–from what you could see– was pale and sharp and curled ever so slightly, like he knew something you didn’t.
Your body was frozen, but not from fear alone. There was something else. Something creeping beneath your skin, worming into the base of your spine.
Then he spoke.
“So this is who he dreams about,” He murmured, voice low and silken–too smooth. The kind of voice that didn’t need to raise itself to command. A voice that made your blood slow.
It curled around your ears like smoke. Like a whisper just for you.
“I wanted to see for myself.” He took a step forward, and the air folded inward, like the room itself recoiled around his form. He didn’t walk–he glided, impossibly smooth, like the world didn’t apply to him in the same way it did to everything else. He made the shadows stretch with him, bend for him.
You couldn’t breathe, but you could feel yourself cowering slightly, afraid of what his next move might be. Being in a room alone with him was like a ticking time bomb, you had witnessed him only once, and that was with Bob present to defend everyone from him…Now was not the case.
“You think he doesn’t know?” The Void asked, tilting his head just slightly, like he was marveling at a secret. “The way you look at him?”
His voice was nearly a whisper now, soft and deliberate. “The way your breath catches when he smiles at someone else. How you light up when he says your name. How your thighs tense when he accidentally brushes your arm in the hallway.”
He was closer now–too close–and every inch of his presence filled your skin with that same biting chill. It sank into your bones, into your lungs, until your shiver wasn’t just fear, but anticipation you didn’t want to name. The scent of ozone, and burnt concrete itched your nose, and there was something earthy beneath it all, like he had been pulled out of the ground.
“I could smell it on you when I woke,” He murmured, lifting one hand. His fingers hovered just beside your cheek, not quite touching, but you could feel it–like static in the air, cold and prickling. “The heat. The ache. You wanted him to come to your door tonight, didn’t you?”
You swallowed hard. “He’s not–he wouldn’t–”
The Void laughed.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t manic. It was soft, and deep–it vibrated into your chest. And that was worse.
“Of course not. He’s Bob,” The Void said with a sneer beneath the velvet of his voice. “Sweet. Gentle. Terrified of his own hunger. He’s dying to touch you–but he won’t. Because he’s weak.”
His hand touched your jaw. Cold. Unrelenting.
“You would’ve given yourself to him,” He whispered, thumb brushing across your bottom lip. “If he asked. You would’ve spread your thighs like a prayer and begged him to take you. And he’d be too afraid to move.” You whimpered, more from the sting of that truth than from his touch. The Void leaned closer, and you could feel his mouth–just hovering above yours, the barest breath of sensation. Not warmth. Nothing about him was warm. Just the presence of absence itself. He wasn’t breathing–at least not the way humans do–but somehow, you could feel it: cold tendrils of air that weren’t air at all, seeping from his lips to yours like he was pouring frost into your lungs.
His hand slid beneath your chin, fingers long, cold and elegant, as if carved from obsidian smoke. They curved under your jaw with inhuman precision–lifting your face toward him with a gentleness that betrayed none of the power coiled in his touch.
“Look at me,” He said, voice low and silken. It didn’t echo in your ears–it vibrated through you. Beneath your ribs. In your spine. Like something whispered through a cathedral built only for nightmares.
And when you did–when your eyes met those twin, glowing voids of light–you felt your thoughts stutter.
He didn’t just look at you. He reached into you with that stare. Unraveling the parts you kept hidden even from yourself.
“I know everything you want,” He cooed, his lips brushing your cheek now, the chill of him raising goosebumps across your entire body. “Every suppressed breath. Every trembling thought. Every filthy little ache that keeps you awake.”
Your throat tightened. Your lips parted–but not to speak. You couldn’t have spoken if you tried.
He hovered there like a vampire from a storybook dream, all sin and shadows, all impossible temptation wrapped in the shape of the man you secretly loved. But colder. Sharper. And infinitely crueler. Your lips trembled. You tried to speak–tried to summon words, a command, a plea, anything–but all that came out was a faint breath:
“B–Bob…”
The Void stilled. Just for a moment.
And then he smiled.
Not sweetly. Not kindly.
The corners of his mouth curled upward with slow, surgical delight. Like he’d been waiting to hear that name spill out of your mouth and now that it had, he could savor it like blood on his tongue.
“No,” He said, his voice even lower now–darker, closer. His thumb pressed more firmly against your chin. “Don’t say his name like that. Not here. Not while I’m the one who has you.”
You tried to look away, to break eye contact, but his hand shifted, guiding your gaze back to him like a puppeteer tugging on strings.
“He wouldn’t know what to do with you,” The Void continued, his breathless voice curling around your spine, holding onto it. “He’d be so afraid to hurt you, he’d never touch you the way you need.”
His other hand moved–ghosting down your shoulder, across your arm–cold, trailing goosebumps in its wake. You shivered beneath the touch, not just from the chill but from the fact that you didn’t pull away.
You should have.
You should be demanding he leave. But you weren’t.
Because your body, traitorous and trembling, was reacting to his every move and hanging on anticipation.
His fingers slid downward with slow, excruciating purpose, skimming over the curve of your chest–your nightshirt thin and damp against your skin. And when the pad of his index finger ghosted across your nipple–already perked beneath the fabric from the cold, you gasped.
You didn’t mean to. But you did.
You felt it–felt how your back arched the tiniest bit, how your hips shifted, how your thighs pressed closer together beneath the sheets. It was instinctual. Automatic.
Mortifying.
Arousal curled through your stomach like steam, hot and confusing.
His voice dropped into something darker. Amused.
“Oh,” The Void breathed, fingertips circling once, lazily, over your breast. “You feel it too.”
“I–” You choked, the sound sticking in your throat.
“You shouldn’t,” He interrupted, drawing his hand downward, trailing over the soft dip of your belly now. “You know that…But you feel it regardless.”
His palm found your thigh–bare where your nightshirt had ridden up–and he let it rest there, cold and heavy. Possessive. The contrast of his icy skin on your overheated flesh made your whole body twitch.
Your heart was slamming in your chest now. Erratic. Desperate. You could hear it in your ears, feel it in your fingertips, in your pulsing core.
His thumb stroked slow, cold circles against the flesh of your thigh–each one burning in reverse. Your skin prickled with goosebumps even as heat started to pool low in your belly. The contact was barely pressure, but it might as well have been chains. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe without taking more of him in.
His mouth hovered above yours, still not kissing. Still denying. Just close enough to own the air between you, to breathe you and all your sensations in.
Every breath you took was through him. And every breath he gave you, he took something with it.
“You’re wet,” He whispered, voice dark and delighted. “You’re shaking and aching–but you’re wet.”
His lips skimmed your cheek again. His nose nuzzled softly beneath your ear, like a lover might, if a lover was made of cold smoke and unspeakable things.
“That’s what scares you most, isn’t it?” He purred, a smile in his voice. “Not me. You. The part of you that wants this.”
Your breath hitched. You squeezed your eyes shut again. And of course–of course–that was when he said it:
“You’re pretending it’s him right now.”
Your whole body went still.
“You’re closing your eyes and painting his face over mine. Giving his heat to my hands. Imagining him finally breaking. Finally taking what he wants.”
His hand trailed upward, fingers brushing the crease where your thigh met your aching core.
You moaned–quiet and shameful.
“And that’s fine,” He whispered. “That’s exactly why I’m here.”
He exhaled again–his breath sliding straight into your mouth, down your throat, curling around your insides like frost. You trembled beneath it.
“I’m here because you want him so badly,” He teased, “You’ll let anyone who looks like him fuck you.”
His words struck hard, and heat flooded your face–burning your ears, your cheeks. You felt exposed. Humiliated. But your hips still shifted beneath his palm.
“You think it’s wrong,” He continued, as his fingers began drawing slow circles through the thin damp cotton of your underwear. “To be turned on by me.”
His voice dropped to a dangerous purr. “But it’s not...”
You gasped, trying to speak. But his hand lifted again–just enough to make your body whimper in protest at the loss.
His lips turned up against your jaw.
“Now,” He said, his voice velvet and bone. “Let’s make a deal.”
Your eyes fluttered open–blurry, dizzy, dazed.
His glowing ones were waiting for you.
“I’ll let you pretend that I’m him,” He whispered, voice like the crackle of burning ice, as his hand slipped up towards the waistband of your underwear, trailing his thumb along the elastic before disappearing beneath it–your thighs separating slightly, feeling his fingers find your clit instantly with cold perscision.
And you moaned–a soft, broken sound that escaped before you could stop it, muffled against his mouth as your lips hovered just shy of his. You weren’t even kissing yet, but it felt like you were inside it–like you were already swallowed whole by the gravity between you.
His breath hitched.
His thumb circled slowly, then again–each pass was more deliberate, more devastating. The heat building inside you was unbearable now, your thighs trembling, your core pulsing, your breath nothing but fractured gasps drawn from his air.
“You feel that?” He breathed, his voice like crushed silk, smooth and vicious. “That ache you’ve been living with for months–how easily it folds under my hand.”
You didn’t answer.
You couldn’t.
His fingers moved with cruel grace–unrelenting, skilled in a way that made your knees curl up slightly and your hips roll without thought. Like your body was begging him to stay there. To keep going.
“You don’t even need me to finish the offer, do you?” He whispered against your lips. “You already know what I’m giving you. And you want it.”
You trembled. “S-Say it anyway,” The words came out broken from your throat, distracted by the feeling of his fingers, and the thoughts of Bob plaguing your mind already.
His smile was carved ice.
“I’ll let you pretend I’m him. All night. I’ll make you sob for it. Shake. Come until you forget your name,” He purred, fingers still working slow, filthy circles that had your legs twitching. “And when morning comes, he won’t remember a thing. But you will. Every inch. Every sound. Every thrust.”
He leaned in, lips brushing yours, his breath catching on your next inhale. “You get to pretend he was brave enough to take what you gave him.”
The pad of his middle finger pressed down harder, applying the perfect hint pressure, and your head dropped back with a quiet, whimpering cry.
Then–his voice, low and demanding:
“So say…It’s a deal…”
Your answer wasn’t a whisper. It wasn’t broken.
It was plain. Certain. Cut from your throat like a spell:
“Yes.”
The Void groaned–dark and low, like he felt that word slide into him like lightning.
Then he kissed you.
It pulled you apart at the seams, stealing every breath and sound and shred of hesitation you had left. His lips were cold, brutal, claiming your mouth like it was already his. His tongue swept into you with a force that left no room for thinking, only reacting–tasting every gasp, every soft whimper, like he wanted to learn you from the inside out.
And all the while, his fingers never stopped.
Circling. Stroking. Pressing into that aching bundle of nerves with precision that felt unholy.
It wasn’t fair–how good it felt. Your thighs were trembling, your hands fisting in the sheets as your hips rolled helplessly beneath the weight of his palm. You weren’t guiding any of it anymore. Your body was answering him like a prayer–instinctive, desperate, worshipful.
The heat inside you was like a storm cracking through your core. Your belly tightened, breath stuttering, back arching as he kept his rhythm–slow enough to tease, hard enough to devastate. Your moans were muffled by his kiss, swallowed like secrets. But he heard them. He fed on them.
When he pulled back, a strand of spit still connected your lips to his, glistening between you in the dark.
“Look at you,” He murmured, voice low and reverent. “Already falling apart. And I’ve barely touched you.”
Your chest heaved, your skin burning with fevered need, your hands gripping the fabric beneath you like it was the only thing keeping you from floating away.
His fingers withdrew from your underwear–not to stop, but to hook into the waistband and pull them down your legs in a single smooth motion. You flinched, breath catching as the cool air hit your slick heat, now fully exposed.
The Void knelt on the edge of the bed, eyes drinking you in. His glowing stare raked over every inch of you–spread out, trembling, glistening with sweat and arousal, your thighs parted for him like an offering.
“Mine,” He said simply, cold fingers curling around your knees to drag you closer to the edge. “Even if he never dares to take you…You’re already mine.”
You gasped as he leaned in–and licked you.
One, slow stroke of his tongue from your core to your clit. Cold and so precise, you thought you might scream.
You let out soft sob–a broken, high sound that ripped from your throat without your permission.
His tongue pressed harder, licking again, again–unrelenting. Each movement of his mouth was calculated to destroy. To burn. He sucked your clit between his lips, not gently, but with purpose. Claiming. Consuming. You cried out, hands flying to his hair–or where his hair should’ve been. It wasn’t soft. It was smoke. Cold, silk-like shadow that rippled through your fingers, impossibly smooth.
And that was when he looked up.
Eyes like galaxies–white, blinding, ancient–locked onto yours, but all you could picture was Bob’s baby blues instead. You realized your face was wet. You were crying.
From the pleasure. From the ache that was finally being dealt with. From the heat and the way your own body was betraying every moral line you’d ever drawn.
He saw it.
And he moaned.
Low. Dark. A sound of pure, vicious delight.
“Oh…” He whispered, voice cracking like ice underfoot. His shadowed lips glistened with your slick as he rose up again, fingers returning to your clit again to keep the friction, stroking with even more purpose. “That’s what I wanted.”
His free hand cupped your cheek, tilting your face so he could see the tears streaming down your skin. His thumb smudged one under your eye, then dragged it to your mouth, pressing it between your parted lips.
“Open,” He commanded, voice honeyed with sin.
You listened to him, and felt the wet pad of his thumb press onto your tongue. You tasted the salt.
He smiled.
“Beautiful,” He breathed. “Fucking beautiful.”
And then he pushed two fingers inside you–slowly, and deliberately so he could watch every reaction come up on your face. His fingers curled just right, and your whole body arched–an electric jolt of pleasure snatching the breath from your lungs. You were spread wide for him now, every nerve ending lit, pulsing, raw. The tears on your cheeks hadn’t even dried, and he was already dragging another cry from your throat.
“You’re picturing him now, aren’t you?” The Void murmured, voice velvet over a blade. His forehead pressed against yours, his body so close you could feel the cold hum of his power licking against your skin. “Every time I move inside you… You pretend it’s him.”
You whimpered–because you were. You couldn’t help it.
You weren’t just picturing Bob’s face–you were reaching for his warmth, his shy hands, the softness in his voice, the revenant way he might have touched you if he weren’t so afraid. But The Void moved like he already knew everything Bob wouldn’t do.
And somehow, that hurt.
“You want it to be him,” The Void whispered, curling his fingers again, harder this time, making your eyes roll back. “Sweet, trembling Bob. Who’d kiss your thighs before he ever put his fingers in you. Who’d ask you twice if it’s okay. Who’d thank you when you came.”
He laughed softly, but not unkindly. The sound was dark–yes–but laced with something deeper. Possession. Hunger.
“Poor thing,” He crooned. “You’ve been dreaming of him for so long, you don’t even care who makes it real, do you? You just need it. You need to feel.”
His fingers began to thrust now–slow, deep, deliberate. Every motion wrung a moan from your mouth. Your hips moved helplessly with his rhythm, chasing friction, chasing something that felt dangerously close to breaking again.
“But I can do it for him,” The Void purred, his lips grazing your jaw, your ear, your temple. “I can fuck you like he never will. Let you feel what it’s like to be wanted without the fear of ruining your little friendship. Touched without hesitation.”
Your breath hitched. Your legs trembled. His thumb returned to your clit and circled–one cruel, precise motion that made your whole body lock up in place.
“You want to hear him say it?” The Void asked. “You want to hear what he’d never dare whisper in your ear?”
You couldn’t even answer. Your mouth opened–but the sound that came out was just a needy little gasp, half-sob, half-beg.
He smiled–so close you could taste it. Then–
“You feel so fucking perfect,” He whispered, but it was Bob’s voice now.
Or at least, it was close. A mimic. A shadow with just enough truth to break you.
“I think about this every night. Your skin under my hands. The sounds you’d make. The way your thighs would tremble when I finally touched you like this–” His fingers thrust harder–deep and brutal and exact “–God, sweetheart. I’d ruin you.”
You moaned–loud and raw, your whole body jolting at the sound of those words in his voice. You weren’t just picturing him now–you were with him. In some twisted way, he was here, folded into the darkness.
“I’d kiss you everywhere,” The Void murmured, still using Bob’s warmth, that breathless awe, as if he knew exactly how Bob would sound if he let go. “Worship you. Fuck you slow until you cried.”
His fingers drove deeper. Your orgasm clawed at your spine–hot, frantic, building fast.
“You’d let me, wouldn’t you?” He whispered, back in his own voice now. “You’d let him fall apart inside you.”
You nodded–desperate, whimpering, eyes wet again.
“Then do it,” He hissed. “Come for him, and then let me take you...”
That was it.
The wave crashed.
You shattered.
Your mouth dropped open, a silent cry tearing from your chest as you pulsed hard around his fingers–clenching, sobbing, breaking on the pleasure that stole your name and your breath in one brutal, beautiful stroke.
And as you came, The Void held you–his body pressed against yours like a shroud, his cheek to yours, his fingers still pumping slowly and deep to drag every last aftershock from your spent, and shuddering body.
“There you go,” He cooed, voice a low, tender growl. “Cry for me, pretty thing.”
He kissed your temple softly, before trailing his lips along the set of tears that slipped down your cheeks.
Your chest rose and fell in stuttered waves, limbs limp and trembling beneath him. Every inch of you throbbed, overstimulated, but not satiated. Not completely. Because his fingers were still inside you—slow now, gentler, curling with reverence as he coaxed the last pulses of your orgasm from deep within.
Your cheek pressed against his shoulder, slick with sweat and tears. And when your lips parted, your voice came out cracked–rasped from the inside out:
“Fuck…” You breathed, “That was–God, that was good…”
The Void stilled for just a moment.
Then his smile returned–sharp and cold and devastatingly pleased. He leaned back to look at you, eyes glowing with that eerie celestial light, drinking in your wrecked form.
“You liked that,” He said softly. Not a question.
Your hips shifted involuntarily, and your breath hitched. His fingers were still inside you, still nestled where you were slick and twitching around him. He pulled them back slightly–just enough to make you whimper.
“I knew you would,” He murmured. “But that?” His eyes darkened. “That was only the beginning.”
Your eyes fluttered open, still glassy, still wet.
He leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to the side of your throat–then another, lower, near your collarbone.
“I think I can make you come a few more times,” He whispered against your skin. “Or make you beg louder. Or shake so bad you forget what planet you’re on.”
You whimpered, the sound caught halfway between arousal and disbelief. He was still moving–slow, hypnotic thrusts of his fingers, shallow and wet, punctuated by the brush of his palm against your clit.
“I could do it again,” He offered, voice molten silk. “Right now. Just like this.”
You moaned, legs twitching under him, your nails digging into his back–into smoke and shadow that somehow felt like flesh.
“Or,” He continued, pulling back just enough to let you see the tilt of his grin–wolfish, dark, almost giddy with the hunt. “We could go deeper.”
His free hand slipped between your bodies, trailing down.
You followed his gaze down to where his other hand was reaching–toward the shadow that made up his lower half, that strange blend of form and nothingness, unreal and solid all at once. His fingers curled into it like mist–like he was parting smoke–and then, impossibly, flesh formed. Real. Heavy. Hard.
You gasped, eyes widening, your thighs tightening reflexively.
Because he wasn’t just teasing anymore.
He was becoming, and your breath caught. You felt his fingers slipping out of you.
“I told you,” He purred, watching your face intently, hand now slowly stroking himself to full form. “I’ll let you pretend.”
His hips pressed closer–just enough that you could feel the heat of him, the weight of him, thick and cold against the sensitive inside of your thigh.
“But this part?” He whispered, mouth brushing yours. “This is ours…”
He rutted slowly once against you, just to make you feel it–slick from your own release, heavy where it nestled against your folds. Not inside. Not yet.
“I can make you see stars,” He said, and this time there was something almost reverent in his voice. “But only if you want it.”
You looked at him–at those impossible eyes, that cruel mouth now softened by the barest trace of awe. You swallowed hard, still trembling from the last orgasm that hadn’t quite left your body–and yet, your breath was already quickening again.
Your lips brushed his as you whispered, “Let’s try.”
The moment the words left your mouth, the world seemed to shift.
The Void moved faster than thought–one moment he was kneeling over you like a storm, the next he was lifting you effortlessly into the air, your body limp and pliant in his cold hands. He cradled you with ease, his strength vast but controlled, like gravity bent to his will. And then he sat.
Pulling you into his lap.
You landed straddling him, thighs trembling as you folded around him, knees bent on either side of his hips, his chest flush against yours. It was an impossible contrast–intimate, meditative, sacred–and yet soaked in power, in shadow, in lust. Your legs wrapped around him, feet tucked behind his back, body completely enveloped in his. His arms cradled your waist, his hands spanning your lower back and hips like they were made to hold you this way. The cool weight of his cock pulsed against your core–thick and solid now, slick from your arousal and his own precum, perfectly aligned with your entrance. But before he moved–he looked at you.
Really looked.
Glowing eyes drank in your flushed cheeks, your sweat-slicked skin, your trembling lips. Then, one hand reached up–slowly, reverently–and gripped the hem of your nightshirt.
“Off,” He murmured.
You raised your arms, and he pulled it over your head with one smooth motion dropping it off the side of the bed.
His breath–if it could be called that–hitched. Visibly. Audibly.
He stared like he hadn’t just undressed you–but like he’d uncovered something holy. His palms rose reverently to your chest, cool thumbs brushing softly over your nipples before flattening his hands to feel the curve and weight of you. You gasped, arching slightly, the contrast of his chill against your overheated skin enough to make your breath falter.
Then–he leaned in.
And sank his teeth into the soft underside of your breast.
Not hard. But deliberate. A nip that sent shockwaves down your spine, followed by the cold, wet drag of his tongue as he licked over the mark he left behind. And then he sucked. Deep. Long. Obsessive. His mouth sealed over your skin with a hunger that made your thighs clench tighter around his hips.
Another kiss. Another bite. Another bruise left behind like a brand.
His voice, muffled against your chest, purred, “You’re mine for tonight…But I want you wearing me for days…”
His hands gripped your hips, adjusting the angle of your body until the head of his cock slid against your folds–slow, teasing friction that sent a tremble rolling through you both.
He rutted upward once–just enough to make your breath catch and your slick spread over him in a glossy smear. He groaned softly, dragging the thick head of himself over your clit and down again, never breaching–just letting the sensation throb between you.
“Feel that?” He asked, his lips brushing your nipple before he kissed it again–wet and possessive. “You’re making me this hard… Just by looking like this. Crying like that. And you still haven’t taken me inside.”
You whimpered, shivering against him, your forehead pressed to his shoulder.
He pulled back–his hands trailing along your sides until one gripped your ass, fingers spreading the flesh like he owned it, while the other slid up your spine and settled flat against your back. Cold. Claiming.
Then, his mouth curved into something wicked at your ear.
“I’m gonna fuck you now, sweetheart,” He whispered, voice dark silk, low and promising. “Nice and slow. Let you feel every inch sink in while I hold you like this–while I make you forget who you were before I touched you.”Your body responded before your words could. Your hips rolled forward–seeking. Inviting.
He smiled.
And helped you lower yourself.
You gasped–both of you did–as the head of him breached your entrance. You felt him twitch against your fluttering walls as he pushed in, inch by inch, thick and ice-slick and infinite. The stretch was sharp, hot despite his coldness, and your fingernails bit into his shoulders as you buried your face in the crook of his neck.
“Fuck—” he choked, his voice breaking for the first time. His hand on your back raked downward–fingertips dragging along your spine like he was trying to anchor himself to your heat. “You’re so—tight. So wet. It’s like—fuck, it’s like drowning in fire…”
He sank in deeper, inch by inch, until your thighs trembled and your moan broke open against his skin.
His mouth pressed to your temple, to your jaw, to your shoulder–his lips and teeth grazing every part of you he could reach as he bottomed out, his cock fully sheathed inside you.
One hand held you at the base of your spine, the other gripping your ass tight, grounding you as you both breathed through it.
“I’ve waited eons to feel this,” He whispered, kissing the tear-tracks on your cheeks as your bodies finally stilled–locked together, shaking, throbbing, full. He just held you there–trembling, locked around him like your body had been sculpted for this exact moment. You could feel every inch of him inside you, feel how he throbbed cold and thick against the fluttering pulse of your inner walls. Your forehead was pressed against his shoulder, your breath stuttering in and out of your lungs as your body adjusted to the invasion, to the way he filled every aching space inside you.
Then his hand slid higher–up your spine, over your shoulder, until it gripped the back of your neck.
“Lift your head,” He commanded, voice dark silk wrapped around barbed wire.
You obeyed without thinking, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes.
“More,” He growled. “I want that pretty throat bared for me.”
You arched your neck–slow, trembling, exposing the vulnerable column of your throat to him. The movement made your body shift around him, made your inner muscles clench, and he groaned like it took effort not to slam into you.
“God, look at you,” he whispered, reverent now–hungry. “So obedient. So fucking beautiful like this…”
Then he leaned in–and dragged his teeth down your exposed neck, going to the little space right where your jugular notch is, the soft dip where the mark would be hidden beneath a shirt.
His bite sent lightning down your spine–sharp, claiming, undeniable. You cried out, arching into it, your hips shifting involuntarily around the thick stretch of him still buried inside you. And then his mouth lifted from your skin, and his voice rasped against your throat—ragged now, edged with something more dangerous than control.
“I’m going to leave a mark there,” he growled. “Where only I will know. Where he will never dare to look.”
And then his hand–still braced at the back of your neck–scraped down your spine.
His nails weren’t blunt. Not human. They dragged like talons, cold and precise, raking over your skin in slow, deliberate lines. You gasped–half in pain, half in stunned, coiling pleasure–as red-hot welts bloomed in their wake. Your back arched, offering more, shivering for more, even as your throat formed a soundless whimper.
“You feel that?” The Void purred, voice low and taunting. “That’s not his touch. Bob could never do this to you.”
Your fingers clawed at his shoulders, nails digging into the slick cold of his not-skin.
And then, you said it.
“Bob…”
You felt the growl before you heard it. A deep, guttural noise vibrated from his chest and into yours. His hands snapped to your hips, fingers digging hard into your flesh as he slammed up into you–one hard, vicious thrust that ripped a sob from your lips.
“Say it again,” He hissed. “Say it while I fuck you like he never will.”
“Bob—” You moaned, desperate, wrecked.
He thrust again. Harder. Sharper. The sound of your bodies colliding echoed off the walls.
“Say it like you mean it,” He snarled, thrusting so deep your breath left your lungs.
“Fuck—Bob, yes—”
His rhythm turned brutal–deliberate and punishing, like he wanted to carve himself into your memory one thrust at a time. His grip on your hips tightened until it bordered on bruising, dragging you down to meet every savage snap of his hips.
But you weren’t passive.
You moved with him.
Clawing at his back. Grinding down. Letting your lips ghost over his neck, whispering, “You’d never touch me like this if you were really him.”
He froze. Just for a second.
And you took it.
You rolled your hips, grinding down, deep and slow—until he moaned.
His grip faltered. Just a touch.
And you smiled—broken, breathless, wild.
“You hate it, don’t you?” You gasped into his ear. “That I’m still thinking of him. That even while you’re inside me, I want his hands.”
The Void snapped.
He flipped you again, this time with no gentleness, slamming you down onto your back and dragging your legs wide around his waist. His hands pinned your wrists above your head, and he drove into you with a snarl.
“Say his name again, and I’ll make sure you never stop shaking,” He growled, hips rutting into yours with devastating force.
“Bob—” You cried out, defiant and desperate.
And he fucked you harder.
Flesh and smoke. Fire and ice. The rhythm of him was relentless now–like he wanted to break you open and live inside the pieces.
His hand released your wrists only to grab your throat, tilting your face toward his as he hovered above you, his glowing eyes wild and endless.
“I could make you forget who he even is,” He rasped. “I could fuck you so deep you only remember me.”
You moaned beneath him, arching up, mouth open and shaking.
But your whisper cut sharper than any scream.
“Then why do you still wear his face?”
He froze.
The Void’s eyes flared–bright and blinding, rage and lust and something else fracturing through them.
Then he slammed into you.
And again.
And again.
No words. Just motion. Just force.
You cried out–louder now–legs wrapped around his waist, arms clawing at his back as he fucked you like he wanted to erase you.
And all you could do was sob his name–
“Bob—Bob—Bob—”
Until the only thing left between you was ruin. You couldn’t tell where the line was anymore–between pain and pleasure, between him and Bob, between your own cries and the desperate slap of skin against skin as he drove himself into you, unrelenting, and grinding. The bed rocked beneath you, headboard thudding rhythmically against the wall, and your fingers gripped the sheets like they were your last tether to this world.
His body–cold and massive and utterly inhuman–pinned you to the mattress, his cock grinding against your cervix with merciless precision. You were gasping. Choking. Drowning in the force of him, and still, you begged.
“More—please, more—”
His hand released your throat only to slide up, gripping your jaw and forcing you to meet his eyes. You couldn’t look away–not from those twin galaxies of void-light, those pale endless pits that saw everything.
And still, you moaned, “Bob—”
Something inside him snapped.
His mouth crashed into yours–devouring. Teeth and tongue and cold, silken fury. He kissed you like he wanted to brand you from the inside. Like he wanted to replace every soft memory of the man you loved with something brutal and monstrous.
And you let him.
You felt his hand slide between your bodies, slick with sweat and your own release, and then his thumb was on your clit again–pressing, circling, wrecking. It was too much. Too much.
“Come again,” He growled, breath ragged now. “Come while I’m inside you. Come while you scream his name.”
You tried to fight it. Tried to last.
But your body betrayed you.
Your back arched, a broken sound clawing out of your throat as your walls seized around him–tight, wet, desperate. The world fractured. Your vision went white. Your soul splintered.
And you screamed.
“BOB—!”
The Void shuddered–his whole body jerking above you like he felt that cry inside him. He snarled against your mouth, hips snapping once, twice—and then he came with a sound like a god falling.
He didn’t moan.
He groaned, deep and guttural, his cock twitching violently as he spilled inside you–cold and endless, filling you with something that didn’t feel like seed, but like starlight and sorrow and shadow. You felt it in your bones, like he was pouring the universe into you, and you were too full to hold it all.
You lay there–limp, splayed, twitching beneath him. Your thighs trembling, your chest heaving, your voice cracked to nothing. His body slumped over yours–heavy despite the fact that he wasn’t entirely real. His mouth pressed against your temple, breathless and cold.
For a moment, there was no sound.
Only the echo of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.
Then–
He kissed you.
Soft this time. A brush of lips over sweat-damp skin. Reverent. Almost… mournful.
“I felt it,” He whispered, voice raw, his hand smoothing up your ribs, cradling your side. “When you said his name.”
You swallowed–barely able to lift your head.
“I know you wanted it to be him,” He murmured. “But I made you come like that.”
Your chest rose and fell beneath him, still trying to catch your breath. He shifted–still inside you–grinding just once more, like he wanted to remind you of who had taken you.
“I made you cry. I filled you up. And when you’re lying awake tomorrow, remembering how your body shook around me, how your thighs wouldn’t stop trembling–I want you to remember that it was me. Not him.”
Your eyes fluttered–dazed. But you didn’t fight him.
You didn’t correct him.
His body finally softened, pulling back slightly. His hands cupped your face again–his fingers gentle now, brushing hair from your damp forehead. His glow was dimmer. Quieter. Like a storm that had passed.
“You’ll wake up in a few hours,” He said softly. “And this will feel like a dream.”
You blinked.
He leaned in–kissed the corner of your mouth.
“But your body will remember.”
Then he was gone.
Just like that.
Vanished into the shadow he’d emerged from, the cold lifting from the room like a ghost fleeing dawn.
And you lay there alone–aching, shaking, legs still parted, chest still rising in broken little gasps.
Your bed was wet with sweat. Your throat burned.
Your lips still tingled.
And between your thighs–you could feel him. The stretch. The soreness. The echo of every thrust, every word, every impossible truth.
And worse–
The only name in your mouth…
Was Bob.
——————————
The room stayed cold even after he was gone. The shadows thinned, but they didn’t leave—not entirely. Not the way you needed them to. Not the way your body needed to pretend they hadn’t coiled around you and taken.
You stayed in the bed for a while–numb, ruined, staring at the ceiling while your breath evened out in small, ragged hiccups. The sheets were tangled around your thighs, soaked with sweat and something colder. Your legs ached. Your throat was raw. Your lips still felt the press of his.
Eventually, you sat up. Slow. Careful. Your body protested with every movement. Your thighs trembled when they parted. The ache between your legs was still sharp. Deep. Your skin pulled tight across your spine where the claw marks lay–raised and hot, stinging in the silence.
You didn’t bother covering yourself. There was no one in the room. No one to hide from. No one but yourself.
So you stood.
Naked.
Shaking.
And walked toward the bathroom.
The ensuite light was harsh when it flickered on. Your eyes burned as they adjusted. You blinked a few times, reached out with a trembling hand, and braced yourself against the edge of the sink.
Then you looked up.
The mirror didn’t lie.
Your neck was littered with marks–some small, like whispers of bruises blooming beneath your skin. Others were deeper. More deliberate. A bite just above your collarbone, swollen and red, already darkening. Scratches raked across your shoulder blades. Finger-shaped bruises on your hips.
And lower…
You pressed your thighs together. A slow throb pulsed between them. Not just soreness. Memory.
You stared at yourself for a long time. Chest rising and falling. Eyes wide and hollow. A stranger’s reflection wrapped in the echo of your own desire.
And then you turned the water on.
You didn’t wash like someone scrubbing sin away. You didn’t cry beneath the stream. There were no cinematic gasps or moments of clarity.
You just showered.
Quietly.
Efficiently.
Water warm. Hands gentle. You cleaned yourself like someone who knew there was no washing him out. Not really. His fingerprints were inside you now. Beneath the surface. Carved into your bones like frost.
You stepped out twenty minutes later. Toweled off. Dressed in the softest pair of sweatpants you owned and an oversized sweater that used to belong to Bucky–you wore it on days where you were feeling down. You weren’t sure if today qualified.
Your hair was damp. Your neck stung. Your thighs still trembled when you walked.
But you opened the door anyway.
You stepped out into the hallway.
The early morning compound light was a pale gold, spilling through the windows like it always did. You could hear coffee brewing in the common kitchen. The low murmur of Ava and Walker arguing over cereal. The sound of normal.
You walked forward, bare feet silent against the cool floor, your breath caught in your throat–
And then you saw him.
Bob.
Standing a few feet away. Slouched against the hallway wall in flannel pajama pants and a black hoodie, a mug in one hand, the other rubbing at his tired eyes. His hair was messy, cowlicked from sleep. His expression soft and bleary, like he’d just woken up.
He looked up at you.
And smiled.
Gentle.
Warm.
Untouched.
“Morning,” he said softly, nodding at you.
Like nothing had happened.
Like he hadn’t been inside you just hours ago. Like he hadn’t made you scream his name until your voice gave out. Like he didn’t still live inside the stretch of your aching body.
Your mouth opened.
But you didn’t say anything.
You just nodded back.
“Morning.”
He walked past you with another sleepy smile, mumbling something about getting more coffee, and disappeared around the corner.
And you stood there, alone in the hallway, wrapped in a sweater two sizes too big, your thighs still sticky from the night before–
Wondering how long it would be before you stopped pretending it had been a dream.
Robby puts his hand over your mouth after a particularly loud moan. “You don’t want to wake up Jack now do you, baby? You need to keep quiet. He had a long shift.”
He continues to keep his hand over your mouth as he drags his cock through your wet folds and notches at your entrance. Robby slowly enters and whispers into your ear. “Such a good girl staying quiet. Think you can keep doing that?” You nod your head as you bite your lower lip to keep as quiet as you can. Robby removes his hand from your mouth and wipes at a tear that fallen near your cheek.
At one point, you turn your head and look at Jack asleep on the other side of the king bed. Robby notices that you’re not looking at him and does a particularly deep thrust, making you gasp. He takes your head and turns it back to him. “Eyes on me baby. If I’m making you cum, you’re looking at me.”
Robby starts to pick up the pace and his fingers find your clit moving in just the right tight circles. Your thighs start to shake and you can’t hold back moaning Robby’s name as you grab his biceps.
There’s movement from the other side of the bed. Robby notices that Jack is now awake and sitting up with his back against the headboard watching you two. Robby grabs your hips and makes an adjustment to the angle. “Sorry brother, she can never be quiet.”
Jack brushes some of your hair away from your face. “It’s fine. Just means we’re doing something right, doesn’t it sweetheart. Go on. You don’t have to be quiet anymore. Let us hear those pretty sounds you make.”
Robby takes that comment as challenge to get you to make as many sounds as he can. He repeatedly finds the perfect spot, making you clench so hard around him that you see black spots. “Fuck me. You’re gripping me tight, baby.” You cry out his name as you cum. Robby follows right behind you, spilling inside of you. “Jesus Christ.” He rolls onto his back over on his side of the bed.
Jack pulls you closer to him and kisses your forehead. “You good, sweetheart?” You nod, still trying to catch your breath.
“Alright, let’s get some sleep now.” Jack maneuvers you so that he’s lined up with your entrance, that’s dripping with Robby’s cum. He nudges his tip into you. “Don’t want you making a mess all over these sheets.” He slides in the rest of the way, making you whine because you’re still sensitive from Robby.
Robby rolls closer and brushes some of your hair back. “Be a good girl and give Jack a kiss goodnight. He’s had a hard shift and needs some rest, baby.”
You raise your head up and kiss Jack. “Goodnight Jack.” He puts his hand on the back of your head and kisses you throughly for a moment. Jack breaks the kiss to kiss your forehead. “Such the perfect girl for us.” You fall asleep a few moments later with Jack still inside you and Robby’s chest pressed against your back.
summary: What starts as a simple night watching Lena turns into something far more dangerous when Baz leaves you at Smurf’s overnight. As Smurf slowly tightens her grip, quietly isolating you from the outside world, J is the only one who notices the pattern for what it really is and for the first time, he steps between you and his family. The night cracks open the fragile balance you’ve built with the Codys, exposing a darker, more volatile side of Pope Cody that leaves your relationship hanging by a thread and forces long-buried truths dangerously close to the surface. andrew ‘pope’ cody x f!reader / cw: SMURF WARNING NEOW!!!, we finally learn what reader is in school for, J is big in the plot for this, angstttttt, could be considered fluff, upset pope, angry!pope, possessive!pope, j plotting behind everyone’s back per usual, i don’t wanna say possessive/protective!j but yea…, pope talks about his feelings canon?, might be ooc pope for some of this, they kiss, kinda failed manipulation on reader, reader is starting to realize things, fighting, mentions of past traumatic relationships. word count: 9.9k amalia’s love note: nervous asf to share with you the direction i’m taking this story. i know people hate J, i get it but i think he’s severely underused in pope fics like, for how much pope dislikes him i think we’re missing out on a whole different level of angst. anyway here’s part three, was supposed to be shorter but i had the stomach bug so i lived in my DR which happens to be this story for like way too long and this was the result. Anyways buckle up next part is already written and ready to go which im calling the big pope update, oh y’all aren’t ready. added in a bonus little happy part at the end to make up for the next part. PREVIOUS PART | NEXT PART
The back patio at Smurf’s was quiet for once. Not completely quiet. Nothing at that house ever really was. You could still hear the ocean somewhere in the distance, waves crashing softly beyond the neighborhoods lining the coast, the low hum of traffic drifting in from the street out front, Lena talking to herself inside while she colored at the kitchen table. But compared to the usual noise of the Cody house, the constant movement and shouting and slamming doors, it felt strangely still tonight. Warm. Heavy with summer air and chlorine and cigarette smoke lingering faintly over the pool.
You sat curled sideways on one of the lounge chairs wearing one of Deran’s sweatshirts over your shorts, your textbooks spread across your lap while you highlighted notes you already knew you probably wouldn’t remember later anyway. Every few minutes Lena would come barreling outside with another drawing clutched in her tiny hands, talking so fast half her words blurred together while you nodded seriously like each scribbled crayon masterpiece belonged in a museum before sending her back inside again with a dramatic gasp and a promise to hang it on the fridge later.
J sat near the edge of the pool with his feet propped beside the water, cigarette balanced loosely between his fingers as he stared out at nothing in particular. He’d been sitting there almost an hour without speaking much, shoulders hunched slightly forward, face unreadable in that way it always seemed to be. Which honestly wasn’t unusual for him.
J talked when he actually had something to say. Otherwise he mostly just watched people.
You’d gotten used to it.
“You’re doing the thing again,” you said absentmindedly, not looking up from your textbook as you highlighted another sentence.
“The thing?” he asked flatly.
“The depressed teenage staring thing.”
J snorted quietly under his breath.
“It’s unsettling,” you continued, flipping the page.
“You still sat out here with me.”
A smile pulled faintly at your mouth before you finally glanced up long enough to catch the corner of his mouth twitching slightly before he looked away again. A few months ago J barely acknowledged your existence unless he absolutely had to. Half the time you weren’t even sure he liked you. Now there was something quieter between you. Still cautious, but there.
The screen door slid open behind you before Smurf stepped outside carrying two glasses of wine balanced effortlessly in her hands.
“Well aren’t you two domestic,” she teased lightly.
You laughed softly. “Ah, I’m just studying.”
Smurf handed you a glass anyway. “And you need a break.”
The second she stepped outside, J’s expression changed. Barely. Tiny enough most people wouldn’t notice it. But you did now. He got quieter around her. More alert somehow. Like every word mattered more when she was near.
You accepted the wine mostly because refusing Smurf always felt strangely uncomfortable, like disappointing her carried more weight than it should.
Smurf sat gracefully beside you, eyes drifting toward the textbook resting across your thighs. “Still doing all this?”
You laughed quietly. “Unfortunately.”
“Baby, you spend more time studying than living your life.”
“It’s not that bad,” you shrugged lightly. “Almost done anyway. Just one year left.”
Smurf smiled warmly like you’d said something sweet instead of exhausting. “I just worry about you burning yourself out.”
J’s eyes flicked toward you briefly through the smoke curling from his cigarette.
You shrugged again. “I’m okay.”
“You know,” Smurf started casually, voice soft and easy, “there’s no shame in slowing down sometimes. Taking a little break.”
You missed the real meaning beneath the words at first. That was the thing with Smurf. She never pushed hard enough for you to notice it immediately. She nudged. Guided. Made suggestions that sounded caring enough to slip past your defenses before you realized they were changing something.
You looked back down at your notes. “I worked too hard to get into med school to just quit.”
“Oh honey, I didn’t say quit.” Smurf’s voice stayed gentle. “Temporary. One semester maybe. Give yourself time to breathe.”
You laughed lightly. “With what money?”
Smurf waved one manicured hand dismissively. “Family takes care of family.”
J looked down at the cigarette between his fingers.
Your stomach twisted slightly at the words.
Sometimes she sounded genuine. Not manipulative. Not cruel. Just warm. Caring in a way that hit somewhere painfully vulnerable after years of mostly taking care of yourself. You could understand why people let her in so easily.
You tried joking instead. “Pretty sure your sons already financially support me against my will.”
Smurf laughed softly. “And none of them mind doing it.”
J finally spoke. “That’s not the point.”
Smurf’s eyes slid toward him slowly.
You noticed immediately how the atmosphere shifted.
“Well aren’t you chatty tonight,” she said lightly.
J ignored her completely, looking at you instead. “You should finish school.”
You blinked slightly at how direct he sounded. J usually chose his words carefully around everyone in this house. You watched him turn back toward the pool again like the conversation was already over.
Smurf smiled patiently. “No one said she shouldn’t.”
“You keep bringing it up.”
The tension settled strangely across the patio now, heavy enough you could feel it pressing against your ribs.
You tried smoothing things over instinctively. “Guys, seriously, I’m not dropping out. I like school.”
“That’s good,” J said immediately.
Smurf leaned back in her chair slowly, studying him now instead of you. “You know, J, normal families usually encourage each other to slow down once in a while.”
“Normal families don’t need everyone dependent on them.”
Your eyes flicked between them quickly.
Smurf still looked calm. Perfectly calm.
Which somehow felt worse.
“Do you think that’s what I’m doing?” she asked softly.
J finally looked at her directly. “I know you are.”
Your chest tightened immediately.
Because suddenly it felt like you were standing in the middle of a conversation that had started years before you ever got here.
Smurf smiled again, thinner this time. “You always assume the worst about me.”
“No,” J said quietly. “Just know how you work.”
You swallowed awkwardly, suddenly very aware you were still holding the wine glass she handed you.
Smurf turned toward you instantly, warmth sliding back over her expression so seamlessly it almost gave you whiplash. “Don’t listen to him, baby. He thinks everybody’s trying to manipulate him.”
J laughed once under his breath.
You looked down at your textbook again, fingers fidgeting slightly against the corner of the page.
And J noticed. That was the part bothering him most. Not that Smurf was trying. That some of it was actually working.
Because you were lonely in ways you barely admitted out loud. Because you liked taking care of people. Because nobody had really taken care of you before this family. Because the Codys had a way of making dysfunction feel warm while it swallowed you whole.
He’d heard it before.
Not exactly like this. But close enough to make something cold settle in his stomach every time Smurf smiled at you too long.
You weren’t his mother. You weren’t fragile the same way people assumed. But there was something about the way you moved through this family, softening sharp edges without even realizing you were doing it, that made old instincts rise in him before he could stop them.
Smurf stood after another minute. “I’m gonna check on Lena.”
You nodded automatically. “Okay.”
The second she disappeared back inside, the patio fell quiet again.
J crushed his cigarette slowly against the concrete before standing and moving closer to where you sat. You looked up at him immediately, brows furrowing slightly.
“Are you alright?” you asked carefully.
He stayed quiet for a second too long before finally sitting in the chair beside you.
“You should be careful here,” he said.
Your eyebrows pulled together. “With what?”
“With her.”
You stared at him for a second. Not because of what he said.
Because of how serious he looked saying it.
“J-”
“I’m serious.”
“I know,” you said softly. “But I think Smurf likes me.”
“That’s not always a good thing.”
The words settled heavily in your chest.
You looked down at your wine glass before setting it carefully on the table beside you. “do you really think she’s trying to manipulate me?”
J leaned back slowly, jaw tightening slightly like he was deciding how much he should say.
“She makes people feel needed,” he said finally. “Special. Like they belong somewhere.” His eyes lifted briefly toward the house glowing warmly behind you. “Then one day you wake up and realize your whole life revolves around her.”
You tried laughing lightly. “I think you’re giving me too little credit.”
“I think you’re giving her too much.”
That shut you up. Because deep down there already was a small uncomfortable feeling growing inside you these last few weeks.
You hadn’t seen your college friends in days. Hadn’t answered half your texts. And none of it happened forcefully. That was the scary part. It happened naturally. Like water rising slowly around your ankles before you realized you were drowning.
J watched your expression carefully and could practically see the exact moment the realization landed. “You don’t have to stop seeing them,” he said quietly. “Just don’t let this become the only thing you have.”
Your chest tightened unexpectedly at that. Because nobody in this family really warned people about themselves.
They pulled people closer. But J was sitting here trying to hand you an exit before you even realized you might need one.
You looked at him for a long moment before asking softly, “Why do you care?”
J looked caught off guard by the question. Not offended. Just genuinely unsure how to answer it.
Finally he shrugged once. “You’re good to Lena.”
You smiled faintly. “That’s your answer?”
“It’s part of it.”
“And the other part?”
His eyes flicked toward you briefly before away again. “You’re not stupid.”
“That feels a little backhanded.”
“It’s not.” His voice stayed quiet. Honest. “You see people for who they are and stay anyway.”
Your chest hurt a little hearing that.
Because you weren’t entirely sure anymore whether that was a strength or a flaw.
Inside the house Lena suddenly yelled your name excitedly followed by something crashing loudly onto the floor.
You sighed immediately, standing up. “Oh god.”
J smiled slightly for the first time all night as you hurried toward the house.
And watching you disappear inside, hearing you immediately comfort Lena before laughing softly at whatever mess she’d made, something settled heavily in his chest.
Smurf left not long after that. You heard the familiar click of her heels crossing the kitchen tile while you helped Lena scrub crayon marks off the coffee table with baby wipes. A minute later she appeared in the doorway already holding her purse and keys, perfectly put together like she always was, not a single strand of blonde hair out of place.
“Baz called,” she said casually. “Gonna be out a while.”
J barely looked up from where he sat at the counter, lazily spinning a half-empty glass between his fingers.
You nodded. “Okay.”
Smurf’s eyes drifted over the three of you for a second, something thoughtful moving quietly through her expression as she took in Lena curled against your side while you now wiped marker off her sticky fingers with practiced patience. “You’d make a good mother someday,” Smurf said lightly.
The comment caught you off guard enough that you laughed awkwardly. “Oh um, thanks I guess.”
“It’s a compliment, baby.”
You smiled politely.
Across the kitchen J’s jaw tightened slightly, subtle enough most people wouldn’t notice it. You did.
Smurf leaned down to kiss the top of Lena’s head before smoothing one manicured hand over your shoulder as she passed. “Don’t stay up too late.”
Then she was gone.
And somehow the entire house felt lighter the second the front door shut behind her.
Not tense exactly. Just… easier to breathe in.
Lena immediately looked up at you with wide hopeful eyes. “Can we make mac and cheese?”
You laughed softly. “Is that what you want for dinner?”
“And dinosaur nuggets.”
“A true icon,” you said, fixing the mess of hair sticking out around her ponytail.
J snorted quietly into his drink.
You pointed toward him accusingly. “No judgment from the man who ate stale cereal for dinner yesterday.”
J looked mildly offended. “At least there was milk.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
Lena giggled loudly at that before grabbing your hand dramatically and dragging you toward the kitchen like she was rescuing you from starvation instead of asking for processed cheese and chicken shaped like prehistoric animals. You let her.
J stayed at the counter while you cooked, mostly quiet while Lena “helped,” which really just meant handing you ingredients wrong and stealing shredded cheese every time your back was turned.
It felt domestic in a way that should’ve been strange considering the setting.
The Cody house wasn’t built for softness. Everything about it carried too much history, too many loud voices and slammed doors and conversations that stopped the second someone unfamiliar walked into the room.
And yet somehow there you were standing barefoot at the stove stirring pasta while Lena sat cross-legged on the counter braiding pieces of your hair with serious concentration and J watched the two of you quietly from across the kitchen like he still hadn’t fully decided what to make of either of you.
“You’re burning the nuggets,” J said suddenly.
You gasped dramatically. “Why would you let me do that?”
“You seemed pretty confident.”
“You’re supposed to protect me from myself.”
“You’ll survive.”
You narrowed your eyes at him before dramatically flipping the nuggets over. Lena laughed so hard she nearly fell sideways off the counter. And J smiled.
It was getting easier now, talking to him. Reading him. You were starting to realize J wasn’t actually cold the way people assumed he was. But underneath all of that was someone observant and strangely gentle in ways he probably didn’t even realize showed on his face when he relaxed enough.
You plated Lena’s food first before setting a second plate in front of J. He stared down at it briefly. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
“It’s frozen dinosaur nuggets, J, not a marriage proposal.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
You looked at him then.
Really looked at him.
At the way his shoulders stayed tense even sitting down. At how uncomfortable he seemed with simple kindness sometimes, like he still didn’t fully know what to do when somebody offered him something without expecting something back in return.
Your chest ached a little at the sight of it.
“Well,” you said softer now, “I wanted to.”
J looked down at the plate quietly after that.
Lena talked enough for all three of you combined during dinner anyway, mostly rambling about cartoons and unicorns and how one of the girls at school said a bad word during recess and got in trouble for it.
You listened to every bit of it seriously.
J noticed that too. The way you paid attention fully when people spoke to you. Even kids. Even him.
Most people in this family interrupted each other constantly. Talked over each other. Took up space aggressively like conversations were competitions somebody needed to win. You made space instead.
And it was different enough that J still didn’t entirely know what to do with it.
After dinner Lena eventually wandered off toward the living room to watch TV, leaving you and J alone at the kitchen table surrounded by empty plates and half-finished drinks.
You started absentmindedly cleaning while J watched you for a second before speaking.
“I can do that,” he said, already starting to stand.
“No, let me J, just relax,” you said, tapping his shoulder lightly as you passed him.
J sat back down slowly, eyes following you around the kitchen like he was trying to figure something out. You grabbed Lena’s swimsuit from earlier off the back of a chair before turning toward him.
“Do you have clothes you need washed?”
“You don’t have to do that.” J stood up, taking the swimsuit gently from your hands before tossing it down the hallway toward the laundry room. “Do you always try to take care of everyone?”
You shrugged lightly. “Someone’s gotta.”
“Why you?”
The question made you pause for a second.
You turned the sink on, rinsing a plate slowly beneath the warm water before answering. “I dunno.” You smiled faintly to yourself. “Guess when you grow up around unstable people you get good at figuring out what everybody needs before they ask for it.”
J sat back down quietly after that. Because that answer hit a little too close to home.
“Do you ever get tired of it?” he asked.
“All the time.”
“Then why keep doing it?”
You looked over at him then, water dripping from your fingertips into the sink. “Because I know what it feels like when nobody does.”
The kitchen went quiet after that. J looked away first. Because there it was again. That awful painful familiarity blooming in his chest so hard it almost made him feel sick sometimes. Enough that talking to you occasionally felt like staring at a version of what his mother could’ve been if somebody had protected her before this family swallowed her whole.
You dried your hands on a towel before finally sitting across from him. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“What do you wanna do?”
J frowned slightly. “With what?”
“Your life.”
He looked genuinely caught off guard by the question, like nobody had ever actually asked him before. Or maybe nobody cared about the answer because everyone already assumed he’d spend the rest of his life exactly where he was now.
“I don’t know,” he admitted after a second.
“You’re smart.”
He scoffed softly. “Thanks.”
“I’m serious. Like scary smart.” You pointed at him across the table. “You observe everything. It’s weird.”
“Good weird or Pope weird?”
“Haven’t decided yet.”
The corner of his mouth twitched faintly at that. You leaned back slightly in your chair. “You could literally do anything if you wanted.”
J stared down at the table for a moment before speaking quietly. “I think I just want enough money that nobody can control me anymore.”
The honesty in the answer surprised you. Not because it sounded shallow.
Because it didn’t.
You could hear exactly how deeply he meant it.
Your expression softened immediately. “That’s a pretty fair goal. But I think you’re resilient enough to achieve that without money.”
“Yeah well, most people want careers,” J muttered. “Thought about going to business school.”
“Careers are scams if you don’t love what you do.”
That got an actual laugh out of him. Small, but genuine enough that it made you smile too.
J shook his head slightly. “What about you?”
“I wanna be a doctor.”
“You’ve said that before. What kind?”
“No I know, but like…” You tucked one leg beneath yourself in the chair. “A real one. A good one.”
“You will be.”
You smiled faintly. “You don’t even know if I’m smart.”
“You are.”
“You say that with a lot of confidence.”
J shrugged slightly. “You pay attention to people.”
“What does that have to do with being a doctor?”
“I’m pretty sure everything.”
The answer settled warmly somewhere deep in your chest.
Because somehow J always noticed things nobody else did.
Your eyes drifted toward the living room where Lena had apparently fallen asleep sideways on the couch halfway through the movie still playing quietly on the television.
“Oh my god,” you whispered. “That cannot be comfortable.”
You got up immediately to grab her blanket.
J watched silently while you tucked Lena in carefully, brushing hair away from her face before lowering the TV volume.
The whole thing felt painfully natural. Like you belonged there. And that realization scared J more than he wanted to admit, because the family was already starting to revolve around you in little ways.
Deran trusted you completely. Craig adored you. Pope… J cut the thought off immediately, a sour feeling twisting low in his stomach at the idea of his uncle with you. And now Lena looked for you every time you walked into a room.
You came back into the kitchen quietly after making sure she was asleep. J was still watching you.
“What?” you asked softly.
“Nothing.”
“You’re doing the staring thing again.”
J looked down, hiding the faintest smile into his drink.
You leaned comfortably against the counter beside him. “You know, you’re not as scary as you think you are.”
“I’m not trying to be scary.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
He looked at you for a second before speaking quietly. “I need to tell you-”
The front door suddenly shoved open hard enough to rattle the frame.
Pope came barreling inside.
His eyes landed on J first before immediately moving toward you, and you could’ve sworn something darker flashed across his face the second he saw the two of you alone together in the kitchen.
“Where’s Smurf?” Pope asked, voice low in a way you’d never heard before.
You opened your mouth to answer.
“With Baz,” J answered before you could.
Pope scoffed but didn’t say anything else about it. “What are you two doing?”
You smiled lightly at him. “J was just helping me watch Lena.”
“Why were you watching Lena?” he asked, confused.
“Oh I don’t really know,” you shrugged. “Baz called me.”
Pope came closer.
J watched him like a hawk.
You couldn’t tell, but J could. Pope was in one of his moods. One of those moods that made the entire family instinctively put space between themselves and him because nobody knew what might set him off once he got like this.
“Baz called you…” Pope repeated slowly. “Why the fuck does Baz have your number?”
His voice raised slightly on the last part.
You went stunned silent.
J stood immediately. “Calm down Pope, Deran gave it to him.”
Maybe it was the years of abuse you’d endured from past relationships or maybe it was just something inside you wired wrong, something that made you immediately feel like you needed to smooth things over the second a man got angry.
Like you needed to apologize for things that weren’t your fault.
You got up quickly and walked toward Pope despite the way J subtly tried to stop you. Pope noticed that too, and somehow it only made something darker flicker across his face.
You didn’t know that Pope disliked his nephew as much as he did.
Pope’s entire body looked wound too tight the second you got close enough to touch him. Up close, you could see the tension radiating off him in waves. His chest rose too fast beneath the thin gray shirt stretched across him, jaw clenched hard enough to twitch every few seconds, eyes dark and unfocused in that way they got when too many things were happening inside his head at once. He smelled like sweat, motor oil, and outside air, like he’d been pacing somewhere for hours before finally coming back here.
And suddenly every instinct inside you shifted.
The teasing softness from earlier disappeared beneath something older. Sharper. That awful familiar need to smooth things over before they got worse. The kind you learned growing up around angry men and unpredictable moods. The kind that taught you how to read tension before it exploded.
“Andrew,” you said quietly, reaching for his arm.
The second your hand touched him, Pope’s expression changed.
Not softer. Just… less volatile.
J saw it instantly. Saw the way Pope’s shoulders loosened by barely half an inch. Saw the subtle shift in his breathing. Saw the way your voice dropped automatically when you spoke to him, quieter and gentler without you even realizing it. Too familiar. Too instinctive. Like this wasn’t the first time he’d let you touch him.
And then it clicked.
Pope hated being touched.
J’s eyes narrowed slightly as he looked between the two of you.
Pope looked at you like a starving dog looked at food. Possessive. Desperate. Angry that someone else had touched what was his.
And you moved toward him instead of away like everyone else would.
“Oh, you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” J muttered under his breath.
Your eyes flicked toward him immediately.
Pope’s head snapped around. “What?”
J laughed once, humorless, leaning back against the counter. “Nothing.”
“J,” you warned quietly.
That did it. Pope looked between both of you slowly now, suspicion beginning to crawl across his face like something alive. Like the two of you were hiding something from him. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“Means I’m not blind.”
You stepped back from Pope immediately, panic flashing across your face so fast it made something ugly twist in his chest.
“J-”
“No, seriously,” J cut you off, staring directly at Pope now. “You come in here acting psychotic because Baz called her? She’s not your property, dude.”
Pope took a step forward instantly. “Watch your mouth.”
“And you should probably stop glaring at every man that talks to her if you’re trying to keep it secret.”
Your stomach dropped so fast it made you feel sick. Pope looked at you then. Not J. You.
And somehow that felt worse. Because the anger on his face shifted into hurt so fast it nearly knocked the air out of your lungs.
“You told him?”
“No,” you said immediately. “I didn’t.”
J scoffed quietly. “She didn’t have to.”
Pope stared at you for another long second before looking away sharply, dragging a hand over his mouth like he was trying to physically contain himself. Agitated. Cornered. You could practically see his thoughts spiraling too fast inside his head.
And then he laughed. Low and disbelieving and completely humorless.
“All this hiding shit is fucking stupid anyway.”
Your chest tightened immediately. “Andr-”
“No.” He looked back at you, eyes sharp now. “Why can’t they know?”
J went completely still.
You stared at Pope like he’d just spoken another language. “What?”
“Why can’t they know?” he repeated, louder this time. “What’s the problem?”
Your mouth opened slightly, but nothing came out.
Because how were you even supposed to answer that?
Where did you even start?
With the fact that his family was terrifying?
With the fact that every single thing inside that house came with strings attached?
With the fact that you were already losing pieces of yourself without even realizing it?
Or with the simplest truth of all:
You knew more than they thought you did.
Not specifics.
Not details.
But enough. Enough cash left laying around. Enough late-night conversations cut off the second you walked into rooms. Enough bruised knuckles and bloody shirts and “jobs” nobody explained.
You weren’t stupid. And dating Pope Cody openly felt like stepping into something permanent. Something dangerous.
“You don’t understand,” you said finally, voice quieter now.
Pope’s face hardened instantly. “Then explain it to me.”
You glanced toward Lena asleep in the other room before lowering your voice further. “Not right now.”
“No. Right now.” His voice sharpened immediately. “Cause I’m getting real tired of feeling like some fucking secret you’re ashamed of.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Then what is it?”
J pushed off the counter slowly. “Maybe you two should-”
“Stay out of it,” Pope snapped immediately.
J’s expression darkened. “Yeah? Maybe stop having screaming matches with Lena in the other room then.”
Your stomach twisted painfully.
“Andy,” you said softly again, trying to calm him down before this got worse. “Please.”
But Pope was too far gone now.
He wasn’t your Andy right now.
No, he was Pope.
“You let Deran touch you all over the place,” he said suddenly. “Sit on him, wear his clothes, sleep at his house-”
“Jesus Christ,” J muttered.
“And nobody cares,” Pope continued, eyes locked on yours now with terrifying intensity. “But me? I gotta pretend I don’t touch you at all?”
Your face burned instantly. “Keep your voice down.”
“Why?”
“Because not everybody needs to know my business!”
“Your business?” Pope repeated, genuinely angry now. “That’s what I am?”
“No, that’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
You rubbed both hands over your face hard enough to hurt. “I mean this family is intense!”
The room went silent.
Even Pope looked slightly caught off guard by that.
You laughed nervously after a second, but there wasn’t any humor in it. “You guys are all in each other’s pockets twenty-four seven. Nobody has boundaries. Nobody talks about anything real until they’re screaming at each other.”
Pope stared at you.
J stayed very still.
“And I like you,” you admitted finally, voice cracking slightly around the words. “More than I should probably. But every time I get close to anyone other than Deran in this family, I feel like I’m getting swallowed whole.”
Pope looked almost offended by that. Like the idea had genuinely never occurred to him. “You think I’d let something happen to you?”
“That’s not the point!”
“Then what is the point?”
“The point is you keep secrets from me!” you snapped finally, months of frustration rising all at once now. “Everybody does!”
Pope’s jaw flexed hard.
“You disappear for hours. Days. You come home angry and covered in blood sometimes and expect me not to ask questions because apparently asking questions is dangerous around here.” Your breathing shook now too. “I don’t ask about your jobs. I don’t ask about the money. I don’t ask why everybody acts weird all the time because I know better at this point, Andrew. I’m not fucking naive.”
Pope looked stunned silent.
“And meanwhile you wanna stand here asking why I don’t wanna announce to the entire world that I’m sleeping with you?”
The second the words left your mouth, the kitchen went dead quiet.
J closed his eyes briefly like there it was. Confirmation.
Pope just stared at you. Hurt bleeding into anger all over again so fast it was almost dizzying to watch.
“You make it sound disgusting.”
“Oh my god,” you whispered incredulously. “That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Sure sounds like it.”
“You know that’s not what I mean!”
“Then what do you mean?” he demanded, stepping closer again. “Cause I’m real fucking confused right now.”
You felt yourself shutting down.
That was the worst part.
Not the yelling.
The feeling underneath it.
That old trapped feeling crawling up your spine. The one that made your chest tight and your hands cold and your brain start scrambling for the fastest way to end the conflict before somebody exploded.
You hated that feeling.
Hated that you still had it.
“I can’t do this right now,” you said quietly.
Pope scoffed. “Yeah, okay.”
“I mean it.”
“No, you just don’t wanna deal with it.”
You stared at him for another long second before finally shaking your head once.
Then you turned around and walked away.
“Where the fuck are you going?” Pope called after you.
“To bed.”
“You’re seriously just walking away?”
You stopped in the hallway, shoulders tightening. “I don’t wanna fight with you anymore.”
“Too late.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
You swallowed thickly before disappearing into Lena’s room without another word.
The door clicked shut softly behind you.
Silence filled the house after that.
J leaned against the counter, staring at the hallway for a long moment before finally looking at Pope. “You really fucked that up.”
Pope looked murderous. “Shut up.”
“No, seriously.” J shook his head slowly. “She’s terrified of this family and you just proved her right.”
Pope moved suddenly, slamming his keys down onto the counter so violently they clattered loudly against the marble.
“You don’t know shit.”
J laughed bitterly. “I know enough.”
Pope looked like he wanted to hit him.
Instead he stormed out the back door.
The house stayed quiet for hours after that.
Not the normal kind of quiet either. Not the comfortable silence that sometimes settled over the Cody house late at night after everybody finally disappeared into separate rooms. This silence felt bruised. Heavy. Like the entire house had absorbed the fight and was still holding onto the echo of it.
You hadn’t meant to fall asleep in Lena’s room. Honestly, you’d only sat down in the armchair tucked into the corner because your legs felt shaky beneath you by the time you got her settled. You’d tucked the blanket tighter around Lena where she slept sprawled across the little twin bed, one arm hanging off the mattress and curls covering half her face, before sinking back into the chair with your head against the wall.
You’d told yourself you were just resting for a minute.
Just until your breathing slowed down.
Just until your chest stopped hurting.
But exhaustion had dragged you under before you even realized your eyes were closing. The room was dark when you stirred again.
Pitch black except for the dim amber glow of the hallway light bleeding through the cracked doorway. For a second you didn’t move at all, your brain still fogged with sleep and disorientation.
Then your stomach dropped.
Someone else was in the room.
You felt it before you fully saw him.
That strange instinct people developed around Pope after enough time spent near him. The awareness of his presence even when he wasn’t speaking. Even when he wasn’t moving. Like your body recognized him before your mind could catch up.
Your eyes adjusted slowly to the dark.
And there he was.
Sitting on the floor beside Lena’s bed.
Watching.
Your heart nearly stopped before settling again almost immediately afterward, relief and irritation crashing together so fast it made your chest ache.
“Jesus Christ,” you whispered hoarsely, hand pressing against your sternum.
Pope didn’t answer right away.
He sat with his forearms resting across his knees, broad shoulders hunched slightly forward, face half-hidden in shadow as he looked over at you. Quiet now. Calm in that eerie sort of way he got after burning through all his anger. Like whatever storm had ripped through him earlier had finally exhausted itself.
“How long have you been there?” you asked softly.
“A while.”
Of course he had.
You rubbed tiredly at your face, sleep still clinging to you heavy and disorienting. “That’s so creepy.”
“I know.”
The blunt honesty of it almost made you laugh. Neither of you spoke for a while after that.
Lena shifted slightly in her sleep between you both, mumbling something incoherent into her pillow before settling again. Pope’s eyes tracked the movement automatically, instinctively, his attention softening for half a second before drifting back toward you.
Then finally, quietly: “Do you really think I’d hurt you?”
The question settled heavily into the room.
Not defensive. Not angry. Worse. Honest.
Your chest tightened painfully. “No.”
Pope looked at you for another long second like he was trying to decide whether he believed that answer or not.
“Then why hide this?”
You looked down at your hands folded tightly in your lap. Your fingers were cold.
“Because caring about you feels dangerous sometimes.”
The words came out quieter than you meant them to.
More honest too.
You didn’t elaborate. Didn’t explain the way Smurf looked at you the first few times Pope couldn’t stop touching you when everybody was together. The subtle shifts in her expression whenever his attention lingered too long on you. The smiles that never quite reached her eyes.
Those looks had said enough on their own.
Like she could tolerate you around the family.
But not like this.
Not as something capable of pulling Andrew away from her.
Pope went completely still.
Not angry this time.
Not volatile.
Wounded.
And suddenly guilt twisted painfully through your chest because you knew how hard this was for him. You knew Pope didn’t ask for things lightly. Didn’t want things openly unless they mattered enough to terrify him first.
And you mattered.
That was the problem.
You could see it every time he looked at you.
You could feel it in the way he hovered near you even when he was angry. In the way his moods sharpened whenever somebody else touched you too casually. In the way he said your name like it physically hurt him sometimes.
But you were scared.
Not of him exactly.
Of what loving somebody like him would eventually turn your life into.
Pope stared at the floor for a long moment before speaking again, voice quieter now. “You think I’m dangerous.”
“No,” you said immediately, because that part wasn’t true. “I think your life is.”
Something flickered across his face at that. Small. Barely visible in the dark. But enough.
You swallowed hard before continuing carefully. “I don’t ask questions, Andy.”
“I know.”
“I don’t ask where you go. I don’t ask what happened when you come home bleeding. I don’t ask why everybody in this family acts like there’s constantly a gun pressed against the back of their heads.” Your voice weakened slightly. “I don’t ask because I know there are answers I probably don’t wanna hear.”
Pope looked down again.
And that silence told you enough all by itself.
Your stomach twisted.
Because there it was.
Confirmation without words.
“You should ask,” he said finally.
You blinked at him. “What?”
“You should ask me things.”
The vulnerability in that nearly hurt worse than the yelling from earlier.
Because Pope sounded serious.
Like he genuinely wanted you to know him.
And maybe that should’ve made you feel better.
Instead it terrified you.
“You say that now,” you whispered. “But every time I get close to understanding something around here everybody gets weird.”
Pope frowned slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
You laughed once softly, tired more than amused. “It means your family acts like secrets are some form of currency.”
“That’s just how things are.”
“Exactly.”
Silence stretched between you again.
Outside, somewhere far off in the distance, waves crashed faintly against the shoreline. The sound drifted through the cracked bedroom window soft enough that it almost didn’t feel real.
Pope finally stood slowly from the floor.
The movement made you tense instinctively before you could stop yourself.
And he noticed.
Of course he did.
That hurt expression crossed his face again so quickly you almost missed it.
“I’m not gonna do anything,” he muttered.
“I know.”
But your body had already betrayed you.
Pope stared at you another second before moving closer anyway, crouching down beside the chair instead of towering over you this time. The difference felt intentional. Like he was trying not to overwhelm you even now.
His eyes looked exhausted up close.
Bloodshot.
Too intense.
“You know what the worst part is?” he asked quietly.
You shook your head once.
“I don’t even care that J knows.”
Your eyebrows furrowed slightly.
“I care that you think I’m something you need to hide from everybody.”
Your chest ached immediately. “Andy—”
“No.” He shook his head sharply. “That’s what this is.”
“It’s not.”
“Then what is it?”
You looked at him helplessly because you didn’t know how to explain something that complicated without hurting him worse.
How could you possibly tell him that being loved by Pope Cody felt like standing too close to the ocean during a storm?
Beautiful.
Powerful.
And one wrong step away from drowning.
You reached for him before you could overthink it, fingers brushing lightly against his wrist.
Pope went quiet instantly at the contact.
“You’re not something I’m ashamed of,” you whispered.
His jaw flexed hard.
“But I think if this becomes real to everyone else… then everything changes.”
“It already changed.”
The certainty in his voice made your throat tighten.
Because he was right.
It had already changed.
The moment you started waiting for him to come home.
The moment he started sleeping better beside you.
The moment you realized you could tell the difference between Andrew and Pope just by the way he looked at you.
You felt tears sting unexpectedly behind your eyes from pure exhaustion more than anything else.
“I don’t know how to do this,” you admitted quietly.
Pope stared at you for a long moment after that.
Then, carefully, like he thought you might disappear if he moved too fast, he reached up and pushed a strand of hair back away from your face.
The gesture was strangely gentle coming from him.
Almost shy.
“You don’t gotta know,” he said softly.
And somehow that made it worse.
Because for the first time all night, he sounded less like Pope Cody and more like a man standing in the middle of something he didn’t fully understand either.
The next morning came slow and gray, the kind of heavy overcast morning that made the entire Cody house feel underwater. Ocean fog hung low beyond the backyard, thick enough that the pool disappeared into it after only a few feet, and the damp salt air crept through the cracked kitchen windows. Somewhere deeper in the house old pipes groaned softly inside the walls, and the refrigerator hummed loud enough in the silence to become irritating.
Pope sat alone at the kitchen island with a cup of coffee he hadn’t touched once.
He’d been awake for hours.
Not doing anything. Not moving much. Just sitting there replaying the night before over and over until every thought blurred together into one ugly restless feeling crawling beneath his skin.
You and J sitting together at the kitchen table.
Your hand touching J’s shoulder like it was natural.
J looking at him like he knew something.
You pulling away from Pope in front of him.
You refusing to let anybody know about the two of you.
Then Deran.
Always fucking Deran.
The way you fit into Deran’s life had started eating at Pope in ways he hated admitting even to himself. How easily you moved around him. Wearing his sweatshirts. Sleeping at his condo. Sitting in his lap without thinking about it. Laughing with him in that loose effortless way people only laughed when they felt safe.
Pope knew Deran wasn’t sleeping with you.
But somehow that almost made it worse.
Because whatever existed between you and Deran looked easy. Uncomplicated. Real in a way Pope didn’t know how to be. Deran never had to fight himself just to touch people gently. Never looked at you like he was terrified you’d disappear the second he loosened his grip.
And now J knew too.
That alone had been enough to crack something ugly open inside him last night.
The back door slid open.
Smurf walked in carrying a grocery bag in one hand and an iced coffee in the other, sunglasses still perched on her face despite the early hour. Her eyes moved over Pope once and immediately took inventory of everything she needed to know. The untouched coffee. The rigid posture. The dark circles beneath his eyes. The fact he looked like he’d either been awake all night or close to putting his fist through a wall.
“Well,” she said lightly, setting the grocery bag on the counter, “you look awful.”
Pope didn’t answer.
Smurf started unpacking groceries slowly and methodically, movements calm and unhurried. She never rushed with Pope when he got like this. Years of handling him had taught her patience worked better than pressure. Push too hard and he exploded. Let him sit in it long enough and eventually he came to her on his own.
Sure enough, after another minute, Pope finally spoke without looking up.
“You said she was hiding something.”
Smurf glanced over her shoulder calmly. “Maybe she is.”
“She’s not.”
“Pope,” Smurf sighed softly, like she hated even having the conversation, “you barely know her.”
His jaw tightened immediately.
That sentence again.
You barely know her.
Smurf had been feeding him versions of it for weeks now. Never direct enough for him to fully accuse her of anything. Just tiny comments slipped carefully into conversations whenever your name came up.
Sweet girl.
Too sweet maybe.
Girls like that panic when things get ugly. They talk.
She asks a lot of questions for somebody who claims she doesn’t care.
What happens when she gets scared?
Never accusations.
Never outright.
Smurf was smarter than that.
She planted doubt the same way roots cracked concrete, slowly, quietly, until one day the damage was already done.
“I went through her stuff,” Pope admitted flatly.
Smurf’s hands paused only briefly over a carton of eggs before continuing again. “And?”
Pope rubbed a hand over his mouth slowly, exhaustion sitting heavy in every movement now.
He remembered breaking into Deran’s condo sometime after two in the morning, adrenaline making his heart beat too hard beneath his ribs while he tore through your things convincing himself it was necessary.
Protecting the family.
That was always the justification in the end.
Protecting the family.
He remembered opening drawers harder than he meant to. Digging through backpacks. Flipping through notebooks and textbooks and receipts. Standing in Deran’s guest room holding one of your hoodies in his hands while feeling insane for even being there.
Then your laptop.
He’d opened it expecting something.
Emails.
Messages.
Evidence.
Anything that proved Smurf right. Something showing you’d talked to somebody. That you knew more than you should. That you’d been asking questions in the wrong places.
Instead he found old med school applications. Flashcards covered in anatomy notes. Study schedules color-coded so neatly it made his chest ache for reasons he didn’t understand. A playlist titled “crying screaming throwing up.” Grocery lists. Random pictures of Lena asleep on the couch. One blurry photo of Deran flipping off the camera.
Normal.
Painfully fucking normal.
“She’s exactly who she says she is,” he muttered finally.
Smurf leaned one hip against the counter. “That doesn’t mean she won’t be dangerous later on.”
Pope’s eyes lifted toward her immediately.
There it was again.
Dangerous.
Smurf used the word carefully every single time. Never emotionally. Never dramatically. Always calm. Like it was simple fact instead of manipulation.
“She’s not dangerous.”
“No?” Smurf asked softly. “Then why aren’t you and Deran telling her what this family really is?”
Pope looked away.
“Why are you lying to everyone?” Smurf continued gently. “Sneaking around. Getting territorial.” She tilted her head slightly. “You think people haven’t noticed?”
Pope’s jaw flexed hard.
Because that part was true.
Everything with you had started bleeding into everything else whether he wanted it to or not.
Into his moods.
Into the way he reacted to people.
Into the constant tension sitting beneath his skin now.
Last night had proved that better than anything.
Smurf watched him carefully for another second before speaking again, voice softening into something almost maternal.
“You know what your problem is, baby?”
Pope stayed quiet.
“You attach too hard.”
The words settled heavily into the kitchen.
“You decide somebody belongs to you and suddenly you stop thinking clearly.” Smurf unpacked another grocery bag while she spoke, casual enough that somebody listening from another room might’ve mistaken the conversation for ordinary. “That’s always been your weakness.”
Pope stared at the marble countertop in silence.
Because she wasn’t entirely wrong.
That was what made Smurf dangerous.
She rarely lied outright.
She twisted truth until it became something useful to her.
“She doesn’t belong to me,” he muttered.
Smurf smiled faintly at that. “Doesn’t she?”
Pope didn’t answer.
Didn’t have to.
Smurf could read him better than anyone alive. She saw the obsession settling into him already. The possessiveness. The way his moods shifted depending on whether or not you were near him. The way the entire house felt different now when you walked into it.
And Smurf knew exactly what obsessive love turned into when it stayed inside Pope long enough.
Fear.
Then paranoia.
Then violence.
It had happened before.
It could happen again.
“You know what scares me?” Smurf asked quietly.
Pope finally looked up at her.
“That she’s pulling you away from us.”
Immediate denial rose inside him.
But then, You telling him the family was too intense.
You saying you felt swallowed whole.
You refusing to let anybody know about the two of you.
Tiny things.
Reasonable things.
But stacked together after weeks of Smurf whispering poison into the cracks of his mind, they started sounding different now. Sharper. More dangerous than they probably were.
“She’s not,” he said anyway.
Smurf hummed softly like she didn’t quite believe him.
“She’s got Deran wrapped around her finger already,” Smurf continued casually, turning back toward the counter. “Craig adores her. J’s defending her now too apparently.” A pause. “Funny how fast that happened.”
Pope’s shoulders stiffened almost immediately.
Smurf noticed.
Of course she noticed.
“She’s not doing anything,” Pope said again, but there was less certainty in it this time.
“She may not even realize she’s doing it.” Smurf shrugged lightly. “Some women are just like that.”
Pope rubbed both hands over his face roughly.
He hated this feeling.
Hated that part of him knew exactly what Smurf was doing.
But another part, the older part she built herself, couldn’t fully dismiss it either.
Because he had changed since you.
More reactive.
More distracted.
More unstable.
Last night proved that.
And once an idea got lodged inside Pope’s head, it stayed there. Rotting quietly no matter how hard he tried to kill it.
Smurf walked over slowly then, resting a hand briefly against his shoulder.
“I’m just trying to protect you, baby.”
Pope stayed very still beneath her touch.
The terrifying thing about Smurf was that she genuinely believed that.
In her own warped way, this was love.
Twisting people into whatever kept the family intact.
Even if it destroyed them in the process.
“She cares about me,” Pope said finally, quieter now.
Smurf’s expression softened almost sympathetically.
“I know,” she said gently.
Then after a long enough pause to matter:
“And if she gets scared enough, she could destroy everything.”
Pope’s eyes flicked toward her again.
Smurf sighed softly, like the thought itself upset her. “People panic, Andrew. Especially girls like her. Sweet girls. Normal girls.” Her fingers tapped lightly against the countertop. “One mistake. One bad night. One conversation with the wrong person…”
Pope’s jaw tightened.
“She wouldn’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“She wouldn’t,” he repeated harder.
Smurf nodded slowly like she was humoring him. “Maybe not intentionally.” She looked down at the groceries for another second before adding quietly, “But loose ends become problems eventually. You know that.”
Something cold slid down Pope’s spine.
Loose ends.
Problems.
The words themselves weren’t violent.
Smurf never made them violent.
That was how she worked.
She planted the idea and let Pope’s mind finish building it on its own.
Smurf finally looked back at him, voice quieter now. Softer.
“And the only way somebody can never talk…” she said carefully, “is if they aren’t around to do it.”
Silence swallowed the kitchen.
Pope went completely still.
Not because he’d never heard her imply something like that before.
Because he had.
Too many times.
Cath flashed through his mind so fast it made his stomach twist violently.
Smurf telling him she was dangerous.
That she’d ruin everything.
That there was no other option.
Pope swallowed hard enough to hurt.
And the worst part, the absolute worst fucking part, was that even after knowing Smurf manipulated him before, even after understanding what she’d turned him into that night with Cath, some broken poisoned part of his brain still listened when she spoke.
Still absorbed it.
Still let the fear settle into him anyway.
“She’s not a problem,” Pope said finally, but the words sounded thinner now. Less solid.
Smurf smiled sadly like he’d missed the point entirely.
“I hope not, baby.” She picked up her coffee again. “I really do.”
Then she walked away, leaving the poison sitting there inside him, festering quietly in the dark exactly the way she intended.
BONUS!
“Thank you guys for helping me.” you smiled at Deran, craig and J as they unloaded boxes into your new apartment.
“No sweat off my back beautiful.” craig said rubbing his hands together “Got any beer.”
you smile “For you? of course” you grinned brightly opening the fridge. “J can you drink?” you asked looking over your shoulder.
“He’s underage not senile.” Craig shouted “Give the boy a drink.”
“I’m good.” J smiled lightly at you. His smiles were becoming a common occurrence whenever you were around.
You handed Deran and craig beers and leave one on the table.
“Are you finally joining us in a celebratory drink bambi?” Deran asked, mostly happy that you’d found your own place. Not that he’d hated you living with him. He loved it, but it was hard when adrian was over.
you rolled your eyes “Nooo” you said “it’s for pope.” you said opening a box and holding up a picture. “Does this look good over here.”
“When’s pope going to lock you down bambi? i’ve been holding out.” Craig joked
“You’re not funny.” popes stoic voice came from the entryway. He had a folder in his hands that he’d handed you as he walked into the room.
“jeez buzzkill.” craig joked.
“come look at the view in my room.” you said grabbing popes upper arm, you felt his muscles contract under his shirt as he followed you.
Once you were safely away from the other you kissed him deeply. The kiss surprised him, he held onto your waste tightly as he kissed you back.
You finally pulled away mumbling a thank you before kissing him again.
“Don’t need to thank me.”
“You found me this beautiful apartment, in a safe neighborhood, and i don’t need to thank you.” you said biting your lip, your hands coming to run through his auburn curls.
“You deserve the best.” he said
“Mhm” you said “Well i might be biased but i think you are definitely the best.”
“Oh yea?” pope smiled lightly
you nodded innocently before opening the sliding glass door to your balcony from your room. Grabbing his hand you pulled him out with you before pulling him down slightly so you could whisper into his ear.
“I definitely can think of a few ways to thank you.” you said biting his earlobe teasingly. “In multiple different places”
pope responded with a restrained groan as his hands tightened on your hips.
“But promise me something.” you asked him looking into his eyes you loved so much.
“Anything.”
“One night, after and only after we tell everyone that we’re together, because i want you andy all of you, i want you to take me out to a nice dinner then i want you to take me back here and i want you to fuck me on this balcony so the whole fucking city knows i belong to pope cody.” you said your eyes never leaving his “Promise me?” you said batting your eyelashes
Pope snarled a “I promise.” before his hand came up to wrap in your hair as he kissed you, all tongue and teeth. If it weren’t for Craig’s loud shouting about how you and pope were probably fucking you were certain the neighborhood would have gotten a show way earlier than you planned.
summary: After a job goes wrong, Pope disappears for four days, hiding his injuries and burying himself in silence. But when you finally confront him, you realize his biggest problem isn’t violence, it’s that he doesn’t believe he’s allowed to want or need anything. So you show him exactly how badly you want him to take what’s his. andrew ‘pope’ cody x f!reader / cw: SMUT!!! (subbish!pope, dom!reader for .2 seconds, rough!pope, creampie, unprotected piv, squirting oops, multiple orgasms, pope talks you through cause he loves control argue with the wall, oral f!receiving, biting and marking, kinda dumbification), angst, fluff, bestie deran being an idiot but we love him, gun mention once, pope lies to reader, mentions of the family own real estate, smurf mentions, mention of a bank robbery, canon animal kingdom themes. word count: 5.9k amalia’s love note: this is technically a part two to doe-eyed running to my tranquility but it’s more of a small update before i post the biggggg update!! computa, give them some fluff and light angst before i tear them apart!! jk… unless. no fr this family is so fucked up the possibilities are endless for how this relationship can go. love you all sm. PREVIOUS PART | NEXT PART
Pope had been around a lot more since that night. You’d almost become attached at the hip with him, the only time he wasn’t somewhere nearby was when he was working or disappearing with the boys for things you’d slowly learned not to ask too many questions about. Half the time you didn’t even realize he was there until you looked up and caught him watching you from across the room with that same unreadable expression he always wore. It should have unsettled you. Maybe it would’ve if it were anyone else. But with Pope there was something strangely comforting about the constant weight of his attention, like no matter where you went there would always be a pair of eyes making sure you were okay. Making sure nobody touched you wrong. Making sure you came back.
You felt bad keeping whatever was happening between you and Pope from Deran. It had become second nature over the years telling him everything about your relationships. He knew every horrible detail about Nate, every fight, every apology, every bruise hidden under sweaters and makeup. In return you unfortunately knew way more than you ever wanted to know about Adrian and every other disastrous man Deran insisted on entertaining despite acting emotionally constipated twenty four hours a day.
But this was different.
Because if Deran found out you were sleeping with his brother he wouldn’t react like a normal person. He’d react like a Cody.
Which meant yelling. Punching walls. Threatening Pope. Threatening you. Probably threatening both of you at the same time while Craig laughed in the background and Baz watched the whole thing unfold like it was reality television.
It honestly wasn’t hard to hide. Deran was observant when it came to danger, cops, jobs, things that could actually ruin his life. But emotionally? Absolutely not. The man missed every sign directly in front of his face unless someone physically shoved it at him.
Still, things with Pope had started changing in ways that were becoming impossible for you not to notice.
It started out subtle enough that at first you almost convinced yourself you imagined it. Pope couldn’t take what he wanted even if his life depended on it. You didn’t understand it. Didn’t understand him sometimes. Smurf seemed like an okay mother on the surface. Overbearing maybe, weirdly attached to her sons definitely, but she cooked for them, worried about them, kissed their faces and called them baby every five seconds. You didn’t exactly have a great frame of reference for healthy parenting yourself, but compared to your own childhood she almost looked loving.
You didn’t know that she’d raised Pope in a way that destroyed every healthy boundary he could’ve possibly developed. Affection had strings attached in that house. Attention was currency. Approval was conditional. Punishment came quick and love came quicker after, confusing enough to keep all of them attached to her like lifelines. Pope had grown up learning that wanting things made him vulnerable. That needing people gave them power to hurt him. So instead of asking, instead of taking, instead of reaching for things like normal people did, he watched quietly from the sidelines until his feelings turned into obsessions he didn’t know how to control.
And God, Pope obsessed quietly.
He memorized things about you without realizing how strange it was. What coffee you liked after long shifts. Which hoodie you stole most often from his apartment. What side of the couch you always curled up on. He noticed when you were cold before you did. Noticed when your smile was fake. Noticed when someone stood too close to you at the bar.
But every time things became too much between you, every time you could feel him getting close to finally letting himself have something he wanted, he pulled away.
Every single time.
The first night you slept together had almost felt like an accident, like you’d caught him in a moment of weakness he hadn’t been prepared for. Since then, every heated kiss ended the same way. Pope would touch you like he was starving for it, hold you so tightly it bordered on desperate, then suddenly stop. Pull back. Apologize quietly like he’d done something wrong no matter how many times you tried convincing him otherwise.
It genuinely hurt your heart.
Because you wanted him.
Wanted him so badly sometimes you thought it might actually kill you.
And Pope looked at you like he wanted you too. Like he thought about it constantly. But there was always something holding him back at the last second, something buried so deep inside him you weren’t sure even he understood it.
You didn’t see that hesitation in Deran. Deran took what he wanted recklessly, sometimes selfishly, sometimes cruelly. Craig bulldozed through life chasing whatever felt good in the moment. Baz manipulated his way into getting anything he wanted with a smile.
But Pope?
Pope yearned.
Silently. Intensely. Painfully.
Maybe that was why it affected you so much when he called you his that first night together. Because Pope didn’t seem like the kind of man who lied about things like that. Not casually. Not carelessly. When he spoke it always sounded heavy, like every word cost him something.
You were laying upside down on Deran’s couch now, your legs hanging over the back cushions while your hair nearly brushed the floor. You’d spent the entire afternoon cleaning the ever loving shit out of his house because living there temporarily had apparently made you realize Deran Cody existed like a raccoon with income.
The place had been disgusting.
Clothes everywhere. Empty beer bottles. Sand somehow permanently living on every surface. You refused to stay in the guest room another night knowing there was probably an ecosystem growing under the couch.
Deran was currently under the kitchen sink trying to fix a pipe you’d pointed out leaking three days ago. Since then he’d done nothing except complain about how now that you mentioned it he couldn’t stop hearing the dripping.
“Y’know,” you called lazily toward the kitchen while staring at the upside down television, “for someone soooo into men you live an awfully heterosexual lifestyle.”
You immediately heard the loud clink of metal hitting tile.
“Real nice, Bambi,” Deran yelled back dryly. “Do you charge by the joke or does this level of harassment come free?”
You laughed loudly, the sound bouncing through the house. “Maybe you should do comedy night at the bar. I can finally unleash the years worth of jokes I have about you.”
Deran groaned from under the sink. “I would, but I think customers would get scared off by Pope’s intense serial killer stare.”
“That’s not a real thing,” you argued automatically.
“Fuck it’s not,” Deran scoffed. “He gave Craig that look last week for hugging you after you handed him a beer.”
You sighed before you could stop yourself.
The sound made Deran pause immediately. You heard the wrench stop moving beneath the sink cabinet while silence stretched for a second.
“Well maybe he’s just territorial or whatever,” you muttered, trying and failing to sound casual.
“Listen don’t get me wrong, Bambi,” Deran started carefully, sliding himself out from under the sink to grab another tool before sliding back under the cabinet, “I still think you and Pope are a horrible idea.”
You rolled your eyes instantly.
“No seriously,” he continued. “You’re so… you. And he’s so…” Deran made a vague clawing motion with his hand. “Grrr and mysterious.”
You barked out a laugh despite yourself.
“I’m serious,” he pointed at you blindly. “And selfishly? I can’t lose you, so maybe be careful. Besides I really don’t wanna have to kill my own brother.”
Your smile faded slightly.
Because the thing was, Deran still thought Pope was the dangerous one here.
Not you.
Not the fact that every time Pope looked at another woman you got irrationally irritated. Not the fact that hearing him call you sweetheart made your brain short circuit. Not the fact that sometimes you wanted to grab him by the face and force him to understand you weren’t going anywhere.
“Yeah,” you muttered finally, staring at the ceiling. “Well maybe I wish Pope was a little more selfish.”
Deran sat up too fast, immediately smacking his head off the cabinet with a loud curse.
You snorted.
“What the hell does that mean?” he asked suspiciously, standing fully now while rubbing his forehead.
You stayed upside down on the couch, which for some reason made the conversation feel less humiliating. “Nothing really it’s just…” You sighed heavily. “Why is he the way he is?”
That question carried a lot more weight than Deran initially realized.
His expression shifted slightly. “Gonna need more context than that, Bamb.”
You hesitated.
Because how exactly were you supposed to explain to your best friend, his brother, that you wanted Pope to stop pulling away every time things got intense? That you wanted him to let go for once? That you were starting to realize Pope acted like wanting things too openly would get them ripped away from him?
“I mean…” You chewed the inside of your cheek. “He’s like… incredibly selfless. He’s always taking care of everybody else and never himself. I just…” Your face warmed. “Who takes care of him?”
Deran’s expression changed instantly.
Not teasing anymore.
“This can’t be one of those ‘I can fix him’ things,” he muttered.
“That’s not what I mean,” you said quickly, finally sitting upright. “I don’t wanna fix him. I wanna understand him.”
Deran leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms loosely. “Honestly? I dunno. He was already like that when I was born.” He shrugged slightly. “But if I had to guess, probably our mom.”
You frowned immediately. “Really?”
“Oh yeah.” Deran laughed once without humor. “Pope’s all kinds of fucked up. We all are. Smurf never let him keep anything long enough to call it his before she swooped in and took it away again. Think she liked him needing her more than the rest of us.”
Your chest tightened painfully.
Because suddenly everything made sense.
The hesitation. The insecurity hidden underneath all that intensity. The way Pope looked genuinely shocked every time you chose him willingly.
“Huh,” you said softly.
You sat there thinking about him for another long second before abruptly standing up.
Deran frowned. “Okay…?”
He reached for his keys automatically but you immediately pointed at him.
“Finish the sink, Deran, or so help me God I’ll shave your head in your sleep.”
Deran looked horrified. “You wouldn’t.”
You were already halfway out the door. “Try me.”
The drive to Pope’s apartment took less than fifteen minutes, but by the time you parked outside the building your chest already felt tight with frustration and worry. You spent the entire drive gripping the steering wheel too tightly, your thoughts looping endlessly around the same thing over and over again.
He wants things. He just doesn’t know how to take them.
And for some reason, that realization sat painfully heavy in your chest.
Because now, with what information Deran had given you, you couldn’t stop noticing all the little ways it showed up. The way Pope hovered instead of asking you to stay. The way he stared at you like he was trying to give himself permission before touching you. The way every single moment between you seemed balanced on the edge of him wanting more and physically stopping himself from reaching for it. Like desire itself had become something shameful somewhere along the line. Something dangerous. Something he had to keep trapped under his ribs before it ruined him.
The sunset had started sinking low over Oceanside, washing everything gold and hazy, the air still warm enough that your skin stuck slightly to the steering wheel when you finally let go of it. Your subconscious had finally caught up with what your heart already knew. It had been four entire days without seeing him. You’d seen all the other brothers.
But Pope was suddenly gone.
At first you tried not to think too much about it. But Pope had never disappeared from you before. Showing up at the bar without warning. Sitting too close beside you at Smurf’s. Leaving groceries outside your apartment because you’d casually mentioned being out of coffee.
Pope orbited people he cared about.
Which meant four days of silence felt wrong in a way you couldn’t shake. Now, walking toward his apartment, you honestly weren’t sure which feeling was stronger anymore. Worry. Anger. Hurt. Maybe all three tangled together so tightly you couldn’t separate them anymore.
You knocked once.
Nothing.
You frowned immediately before knocking harder. “Andrew?”
Silence.
You deflated instantly, forehead falling briefly against the door. “Andy c’mon, please.”
Maybe he regretted everything.
Maybe that night meant more to you than it did to him.
Maybe you’d imagined every look, every touch, every strange intense moment between you because you wanted him so badly it made you stupid.
A few more seconds passed before finally you heard movement inside. Slow footsteps crossing the apartment. Then the lock clicked.
The door opened halfway.
And your sadness disappeared so fast it almost made you dizzy.
“Oh my god.”
Pope looked exhausted.
There was a butterfly stitch stretched beneath his eye across the sharp curve of his cheekbone, bruising blooming dark purple around it and disappearing toward his jaw. Another bruise sat high near his temple. His lip looked split too, healing badly enough you could tell he’d done absolutely nothing to take care of it. Even his knuckles looked swollen, skin split and raw like he’d punched something until it stopped moving.
Or someone.
Your chest hurt instantly at the sight of him.
Pope’s eyes flicked away from yours almost immediately. “I’m fine.”
“You look awful.”
The words slipped out before you could soften them and immediately you saw something close up in his expression. Not anger.
Embarrassment.
Like he hated being seen this way. Hated looking weak in front of you. Hated that you could see evidence of whatever violent ugly thing he’d been caught up in.
You pushed gently against the door until he stepped back automatically to let you inside. Everything in the apartment sat in its exact place except for the open first aid kit sitting on the kitchen counter beside bloodied gauze and peroxide. “You did all this yourself?” you asked softly.
Pope shrugged once. “Wasn’t hard.”
You stared at him. “Andrew.”
He leaned against the counter heavily, eyes dropping toward the floor instead of you. “Didn’t wanna bother you.”
The sentence landed hard enough your throat tightened.
Because he meant it. Pope genuinely thought he’d somehow become inconvenient the second he got hurt. Like being damaged automatically made him harder to love.
You moved closer slowly. “You disappearing for four days bothered me way more.”
His jaw flexed slightly.
“You couldn’t answer one text?”
“I didn’t know what to say.”
“You could’ve started with ‘hey sweetheart, I’m alive.’”
The corner of his mouth twitched faintly at the nickname, barely there, but enough to make something warm twist painfully in your chest.
You stepped in front of him carefully, your fingers lifting toward his face before pausing. “Can I?”
Pope nodded once immediately.
Your fingertips brushed lightly beneath the butterfly stitch and he inhaled softly through his nose the second you touched him. The bruising looked worse up close, dark fingerprints of violence spread across skin that always seemed too harsh and too tired all at once. “I wish you would’ve let me help you.”
Pope looked down at you finally. “Don’t like people seein’ me like this.”
“Why?”
He shrugged again, quieter this time. “Feels wrong.”
Your heart genuinely cracked a little at that.
There were moments with Pope where you could suddenly see every broken thing underneath him all at once. Not because he talked about it. God no. Pope barely talked about anything. But it was there in the way he carried himself, in the strange shame that crept over him whenever he needed something soft from another person.
You smoothed your thumb gently beneath the bruise on his cheek. “You know I’m not gonna stop caring about you because you got hurt, right? Or because you hurt someone.”
Pope’s eyes searched yours carefully, almost cautiously. Like he wanted to believe you. Like he didn’t fully know how.
“I just…” He swallowed hard. “Don’t want you lookin’ at me different.”
The honesty of it made your chest ache.
“Oh, Andrew.”
Your hand slid into the hair at the nape of his neck, soft curls brushing between your fingers. Pope immediately leaned into the touch before catching himself halfway through the movement.
You noticed.
Of course you noticed.
“You don’t have to hide from me,” you whispered.
His eyes dropped shut for one brief second. Then quietly, almost too quiet, “Not good at this.”
“I know.”
Your other hand rested lightly against his chest, feeling the slow uneven rhythm beneath your palm. Even now he felt tense under your touch, like his body never really learned how to relax completely.
“I want to be here,” you murmured carefully. “Wanna take care of you, Andy.”
Pope’s hands flexed once at his sides. His breathing had started changing already. Slower. Heavier. Every inch of his attention locked onto you so intensely it almost felt physical.
You stepped a little closer until your thighs brushed his. “Please, Andy. Will you let me take care of you?”
Pope looked overwhelmed by the question alone. His eyes moved over your face slowly, like he was trying to figure out which version of the truth you could handle.
Finally he shook his head once. “I should be the one taking care of you.”
You didn’t think Pope understood himself nearly as well as people assumed he did. Your fingers slid carefully along his jaw before you leaned up and kissed him softly.
“Why can’t we take care of each other?” you asked him against his mouth. “It’s okay to want things. To need things.”
He watched you so intently his pupils had gone huge. His hands opened and closed in fists by his sides like he physically didn’t know where to put them anymore.
“You don’t have to earn my love, Andrew.”
The sound that left him wasn’t even fully a word. More like a rough strained exhale punched out of his chest. Like the sentence hurt him somewhere deep.
You reached out suddenly to grab his hand. He willingly let you take it as you pulled him toward his bedroom. You pushed the door open lightly. He didn’t question you. Just followed behind you silently, obediently, his eyes fixed on you like he couldn’t look anywhere else.
You noticed the duffle bag filled with rolled cash sitting in the chair beside his dresser like he’d been sorting through it earlier.
You ignored it.
And God, the way Pope looked at you after you ignored it nearly made him unravel right there.
You stopped with Pope standing in front of the bed while you stood in front of him. “Sit,” you said softly, your hands settling onto his shoulders.
Wordlessly, eyes never leaving your face, he sat down. His legs spread naturally, broad hands resting against his thighs while he watched you like he was waiting for instructions.
You moved to stand between his knees. “Take your shirt off.”
“Okay,” he whispered immediately.
His fingers hooked into the hem of his shirt before pulling it over his head slowly. Your eyes traced shamelessly over the hard planes of muscle underneath, over the bruises spreading dark across his ribs and abdomen. Your chest ached at the sight of them.
Pope caught you looking.
And the reaction that crossed his face nearly ruined you.
Not arrogance.
Not smugness.
Something softer. Hungrier.
Like he couldn’t believe you were looking at him that way.
You let out a quiet little sigh at the sight of him and his eyes darkened instantly.
Your hand slid into his curls again, fingers tightening gently until his head tilted back for you. His throat bobbed hard beneath your gaze.
“God,” you whispered against his ear, kissing slowly along his jaw. “You’re so beautiful, Andrew.”
Pope shuddered underneath you.
His hands gripped your hips hard enough to ache while you kissed your way down his neck, slow open-mouthed kisses against heated skin. You could feel the way he was trying to stay still for you, trying not to overwhelm you with how badly he wanted this.
Your hands moved across his chest slowly, exploring every inch of him while his breathing turned ragged beneath your mouth.
“Want you to know how much I need you,” you murmured softly against his skin.
Pope’s head dropped forward slightly, forehead brushing your shoulder like he physically couldn’t hold himself upright anymore.
“You can have anything you want, Andy.”
Another kiss.
“Just take what you need.”
You looked up at him through your lashes and the expression on Pope’s face nearly took your breath away. Completely wrecked. His jaw clenched tight enough to twitch, eyes dark and blown wide while he stared down at you like you were slowly undoing every lock inside him one by one.
You kissed lower until you were kneeling between his legs.
Your hands reached for his belt.
But suddenly one of Pope’s hands wrapped around both your wrists, stopping you instantly.
You looked up at him.
His restraint looked seconds from snapping. His chest rising too fast now. His grip trembling slightly around your wrists.
“Please,” you whispered.
“Fuck,” Andrew breathed out roughly.
His other hand tangled hard into your hair before guiding your face forward against him, his head falling back with a strained groan. “C’mon sweetheart,” he muttered, voice wrecked and desperate all at once. “Take it out.”
Your fingers work quickly, trembling just enough to betray your own need. You pop the button on his jeans, drag the zipper down slow, and the sound cuts through the heavy silence like a promise. His cock springs free, thick and already hard, the tip glistening in the dim light. You wrap your hand around him, and Pope lets out a shaky breath, his grip in your hair tightening.
You lean in, tongue darting out to swipe across the head, tasting salt and him. He groans, low, guttural and his hips twitch forward. But before you can take him deeper, his hands are in your hair, pulling you back, forcing you to look up at him.
His eyes are wild now. The leash is gone.
“Changed my mind,” he rasps, voice rough like gravel. “Not yet.”
In one fluid motion, he's on his feet, hauling you up with him. He spins you, pushes you back onto the bed, and crawls over you, caging you with his body. His knees dig into the mattress, his hands pinning your wrists above your head. He leans down, breath hot against your throat, and bites hard enough to leave a mark. He makes quick work in removing your clothes.
“You wanted this, huh?” His mouth trails down, teeth scraping your collarbone. “Wanted me to snap. Wanted me to fuckin' wreck you.”
You whimper, arching into him. He releases your wrists, but you don't move. His hands find your breasts, kneading roughly, pinching your nipples until you gasp. He watches your face, drinking in every reaction.
“Look at you,” he mutters, sliding down your body. “Already so fuckin' needy for me.”
He settles between your thighs, spreading them wide with his shoulders. He doesn't tease. He dives in, mouth covering your cunt like he owns it. His tongue is flat, broad, licking from your entrance up to your clit in long, wet strokes. You cry out, hands fisting in the sheets.
“Yeah, that's it. Let me hear you.”
He sucks your clit into his mouth, and your back bows off the bed. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thighs, spreading you wider, holding you open for him. He eats you like a man starved, messy, hungry, groaning against your skin. The vibrations shoot through you, and you're already climbing, too fast, too good.
“That's right, sweetheart. Cum on my tongue. Let me taste you.”
You shatter, a strangled moan tearing from your throat as your orgasm crashes through. He doesn't stop, licking you through it, lapping up every drop until you're sensitive, twitching, gasping for air. He pulls back, chin slick, eyes dark and satisfied.
“So perfect.”
He flips you onto your stomach, yanks your hips up, and lowers his mouth to your cunt from behind. This angle is different, his tongue pressing deeper, flicking your clit from below while his nose nudges against your asshole. You're sobbing now, tears streaming down your face, and he notices. He reaches up, wipes a tear with his thumb, and brings it to his lips.
“Fuck, you're beautiful when you cry. Keep crying for me.”
He drives two fingers into you, curling, hitting that spongy spot inside while his mouth works your clit. The pressure builds again, hotter, more intense. You're babbling, words lost to moans, and he shushes you.
“Don't think. Don't you fuckin' think. Just feel. Let me take care of everything.”
His fingers pump faster, his tongue relentless, and you feel the coil snap, hard. Your body convulses, and you feel the gush, the wet rush of you soaking his face, the sheets. He groans against you, drinking it down, fucking you through it with his fingers until you collapse, boneless. He flips you over roughly.
He crawls up your body, cock pressing against your soaked entrance. He doesn't push in yet. He drags the head through your folds, teasing, watching your face.
“Look at that messy pussy. All for me. Say it.”
“All for you,” you whimper, hands reaching out to run down his chest.
“Good girl.”
He pushes in slow, letting you feel every inch of him stretching you open. Your eyes roll back, a broken moan escaping your lips. He bottoms out, hips flush against yours, and stays there, letting you adjust. His hand finds your throat, no pressure, just a possessive hold, thumb stroking your pulse point.
“Now I'm gonna fuck you dumb, sweetheart. You're gonna forget your own name. All you're gonna know is my cock inside you. Got it?”
You nod, but he shakes his head.
“Words.”
“Yes, god yes Andy.” You moaned out.
He smiles, a dark, feral smile and then he starts to move.
Each thrust is deep, deliberate, grinding against your cervix. He sets a punishing rhythm, his hips slapping against yours, the sound obscene and wet. He leans down, bites your shoulder, soothes it with his tongue. He marks your neck, your collarbone, your breasts, leaving bruises that will bloom tomorrow.
“You're takin' me so good. This pussy was made for me. Tell me.”
“Made for you,” you gasp.
“Louder.”
“Fu-u.. made for you!” You all but screamed not caring if his neighbors could hear how good he was fucking you.
He grunts, driving deeper. His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles. The stimulation is too much, you're still sensitive from before, and you feel that pressure building again, your walls clenching around him.
“That's it. Come again. Come all over my cock.”
You do a screaming, shuddering release that has tears streaming down your face, your body convulsing around him. He keeps fucking you through it, groaning as you gush around him, that wet sound of you squirting coating his thighs.
“Fuck, yes. Look at you. So fuckin' dumb and pretty, covered in your own mess.”
He's close now. His thrusts lose rhythm, become desperate. He buries himself deep, grinding, and you feel the hot pulse of his cum filling you, painting your insides, marking you from the inside out. He stays there, pulsing, breathing hard, his forehead pressed to yours.
For a long moment, there's only the sound of ragged breaths. Then he pulls out slowly, watching his cum seep from you, and he runs a hand through his hair, the wildness in his eyes softening into something quieter. He eases you onto your side, lies down behind you, and pulls you against his chest. His hand splays across your stomach, possessive still.
“You did so good,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “So good for me. Now rest. I got you.”
His fingers trace lazy circles on your skin, and you feel the marks on your hips, the ache between your thighs, the warm mess he left inside you. He pulls the blanket over your bodies, holds you tighter, and his breathing slows against your neck.
You don't need to think. He takes care of everything.
You weren’t sure how long you slept for, only that it was still dark outside when you finally woke up and Pope was still holding you like his life depended on it while some nature documentary played quietly on the television across the room. At some point in your sleep you’d shifted until you were tucked between his legs, your face pressed into the warm solid plane of his chest while his large hand moved in slow absent patterns over your bare skin. The steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath your cheek nearly lulled you back to sleep immediately.
You rubbed your thighs together sleepily, the absence of any sticky warmth making a soft smile pull at your mouth when you realized he must’ve cleaned you up after you fell asleep. Of course he did. The thought made something warm and painfully affectionate bloom in your chest.
Pope felt your breathing shift almost immediately. You swore the man noticed every little change in you now. He looked down at you silently before leaning forward enough to press a soft kiss against your forehead. “You okay?” he asked quietly, voice rough from exhaustion and sleep.
“Mhm,” you murmured lazily, your fingers dragging lightly against his stomach. “Are you?” you asked sleepily.
A small pause.
“Never been better,” Pope said honestly.
You tilted your head slightly, your eyes drifting across the dim bedroom before landing on the duffle bag sitting in the chair again. You’d ignored it earlier because honestly you’d been a little distracted by Pope spread out beneath you and half naked, but now curiosity finally got the better of you.
“Andy?” you asked quietly.
He hummed behind you, the sound vibrating deep through his chest beneath your cheek.
“Where’s that from?” you asked, nodding lightly toward the bag.
Pope followed your line of sight immediately. “Guy paid cash for one of my properties,” he answered without really thinking about it.
“Oh,” you said softly, sitting up slightly to look at him better. “I didn’t know you owned the properties. Deran said they belonged to Smurf.”
The corner of Pope’s mouth twitched faintly. “I’ve got a better credit score.”
You laughed quietly at that, finally looking up at him fully. God, he loved making you laugh. Even little sounds like that seemed to settle something restless inside him. “Easier for me to manage the properties,” he added after a second.
It wasn’t a total lie. The family did own properties. It was one of the few legitimate income streams they actually had. But the money sitting in that bag hadn’t come from rent checks or tenants. It had come from a bank downtown three days ago and definitely wasn’t meant to be sitting out in plain sight where you could see it.
Still smiling faintly to yourself, you climbed off him completely and walked toward the chair. Pope’s eyes tracked your every movement automatically, heavy and attentive in a way that always made your stomach tighten. You bent down to grab the duffle bag and something about the sight of you casually holding what was technically his share of stolen money made something dark and possessive twist hard in his chest.
You carried the bag back to the bed before dumping it upside down between your legs curiously. Bundles of cash spilled everywhere across the comforter and with them came the heavy matte black glock that slid free from the bottom of the bag.
You raised an eyebrow slowly, lips curling into a teasing little smile as Pope reached over to grab the gun immediately. “Do you take this to all your deals?” you asked lightly.
Pope checked the safety automatically before ejecting the bullet from the chamber with practiced ease and setting the gun carefully into the bedside table drawer.
Fuck.
That was hot.
You hated how hot that was.
“When I get three hundred grand in cash?” he asked, glancing over at you again. “Yeah.”
“Is that how much is here?” you asked, now sitting cross-legged with stacks of money spread between your bare thighs.
Pope tried very hard not to stare at you.
He failed completely.
Your hair was messy from sleep and sex, your skin still flushed warm and soft beneath the low bedroom light while you sat naked in his bed surrounded by cash like something out of one of those dumb action movies. The sight hit Pope somewhere deep and primal enough he physically had to clench his jaw.
“Yes,” he grunted out roughly.
You looked back down at the money, fingers absentmindedly tracing over the paper bands holding it together. “What’re you gonna do with it?”
Pope stared at you for another long second before answering.
“What do you want to do with it?”
You blinked up at him immediately. “Huh?”
“You can have it if you want.”
Your eyebrows shot up because he sounded completely serious.
“I can’t take this,” you laughed softly, almost nervous now.
Pope leaned back against the headboard slightly, eyes never leaving your face. “Why not?”
“Because it’s three hundred thousand dollars, Andrew.”
“So?”
You stared at him in disbelief. “So normal people don’t just hand over three hundred grand to girls they’re sleeping with.”
Something shifted across Pope’s face at the sentence. Not anger exactly. More like quiet disagreement.
“You’re not just some girl,” he said simply.
The words landed so heavily in your chest you almost forgot how to breathe for a second.
Pope looked away first, uncomfortable now that he’d said something too honest. “Let me take care of you,” he muttered quietly, repeating your own words back to you. “Take what you want.”
Your expression softened instantly.
Because he meant that too.
Not in a controlling way. Not transactional. Pope genuinely liked giving you things. Taking care of people was the closest thing he had to asking them to stay.
You crawled slowly back toward him across the bed, money crinkling underneath your knees until you were close enough to settle against his lap again. Pope’s hands immediately found your waist like instinct.
summary: One secret changes everything. As the Cody family’s carefully buried truths come to light, you find yourself caught between running from the people you love and fighting for them. In the end, loving Pope Cody doesn’t just change your life, it changes the entire family. andrew ‘pope’ cody x f!reader / cw: sexual content/smut, abusive relationship (not andrew), bestie!deran trope, not timeline specific, fix it fic, some parts are dark, mentions of SA/grooming, parental abuse, smurf and baz, manipulation, j redemption arc, murder, violence, canon show themes, substance use, drinking, gun use, possessive!pope, jealous!pope, soft boy!pope, discussions of mental health, warnings are chapter dependent. total word count: 49.3k amalia’s love note: finally started a masterlist for this series lol, love yall
doe-eyed running to my tranquility (smut, angst)
After escaping your abusive boyfriend, you get pulled into the dangerous world of the Cody family and unexpectedly become the center of Pope Cody’s obsessive attention. As dark secrets unravel around you, Pope grows fiercely protective, pulling you deeper into his chaotic life until the line between safety and danger disappears completely.
take what you want (smut, fluff, angst)
After a job goes wrong, Pope disappears for four days, hiding his injuries and burying himself in silence. But when you finally confront him, you realize his biggest problem isn’t violence, it’s that he doesn’t believe he’s allowed to want or need anything. So you show him exactly how badly you want him to take what’s his.
i love the sick (angst, dark)
What starts as a simple night watching Lena turns into something far more dangerous when Baz leaves you at Smurf’s overnight. As Smurf slowly tightens her grip, quietly isolating you from the outside world, J is the only one who notices the pattern for what it really is and for the first time, he steps between you and his family. The night cracks open the fragile balance you’ve built with the Codys, exposing a darker, more volatile side of Pope Cody that leaves your relationship hanging by a thread and forces long-buried truths dangerously close to the surface.
all my morals shot (smut, dark, angst)
One secret sends you running from the Cody family, but escaping Pope Cody proves impossible. As buried truths come to light and old wounds turn into reckless choices, you’re forced to confront the feelings you’ve been trying to outrun. Meanwhile, Smurf realizes too late that you’ve become a threat, not because you’re using Pope, but because you’re the first person who truly chooses him. And no matter how hard you run, Pope always finds his way back to you.
mirror (fluff, angst)
Vignettes from your years-long friendship with Deran Cody, and the long-overdue conversation that finally puts the pieces back together.
nothing at all (dark, smut, angst)
A phone call from your father cracks open wounds you thought had long since healed. As you struggle to keep yourself together, Pope shows you the terrifying truth about loving a man who would do absolutely anything for you.
queen of nothing (angst, dark, smut)
As the Cody boys begin seeking comfort and guidance from you instead of Smurf, her resentment grows into something far more dangerous. Meanwhile, Pope’s fear of abandonment threatens the future of your relationship just as things are finally starting to feel real. Oh, and where the hell is Baz? Because whatever he’s up to, it can’t be good.
summary: After escaping your abusive boyfriend, you get pulled into the dangerous world of the Cody family and unexpectedly become the center of Pope Cody’s obsessive attention. As dark secrets unravel around you, Pope grows fiercely protective, pulling you deeper into his chaotic life until the line between safety and danger disappears completely. andrew ‘pope’ cody x f!reader / cw: DD:DNE, hard warning for smurf, naiveish!reader, she’s naive until she isn’t, not timeline specific, could be season one related but idfk tbh, pope says two words and reader is on her knees (who wouldn’t be), I imagine pope has his curly hair, possessive!pope, obsessive!pope, bestie!deran, deran goes crazy, the brothers really like reader except baz is sneaky with smurf, abusive relationship, damsel trope, reader has doe eyes and is called bambi, maybe ooc characters, drinking, reader is super taken by pope the second she meets him, murder!!!, blood, gore, canon violence, SMUT!! (they shower together it’s steamy, soft!dom pope, voyeurism,pervish!pope (my favorite), mentions of choking, dacryphilia, unprotected piv, creampie), mentioned sexual assault (not on reader), mention of sexual predators. word count: 14.8k amalia’s love note: 1000 followers special!!!! love you all thank you so much for supporting me always. If you hate this don’t say anything i’m extremely sensitive rn. Also i rewatched euphoria last week and totally based her bf off nate lol. credit to: The Deer’s Cry by Isabella Albuquerque NEXT PART!!
The music hit you before the house even came into view. Heavy bass rolled through the humid Oceanside air hard enough to rattle the windows of the massive beachside property perched at the edge of the cliff. The Cody house glowed gold against the dark, crowded wall to wall with people drinking, smoking, laughing too loud. Surfboards leaned crooked against the fence. Expensive cars packed the driveway bumper to bumper. Jetskis and dirt bikes sat scattered across the lawn like abandoned toys. Somewhere in the backyard a girl shrieked with drunken laughter loud enough to cut through the music.
You stumbled through the open gate barefoot, your pink heels dangling from two fingers. Your chest burned from running. Tears blurred your vision, hot and humiliating.
Your knees were scraped raw from slamming against the pavement after Nate shoved you down outside the bar. One side of your face still throbbed where he’d slapped you hard enough to split the inside of your lip maybe fifteen minutes earlier.
You hadn’t thought about where you were going. You’d just run.
And somehow your body dragged you here.
To the one place you’d been specifically told not to come.
Deran had mentioned the party offhandedly two days ago while fixing the walk-in freezer at the bar, half buried in tools and swearing at the wiring. Your shifts there had been sparse lately while finals swallowed your life whole, but somehow the routine of seeing him had become one of the few stable things you had left.
You weren’t even sure why your feet brought you to him.
Maybe because Nate hated him.
Maybe because Deran was one of the only people who ever looked at Nate like he saw exactly what lived underneath his skin.
Or maybe because somewhere along the way Deran Cody had turned into the closest thing you had to family. The older brother neither of you would ever admit out loud you needed. You knew things about him nobody else did. Dark things. Ugly things. And he knew yours too.
Which was exactly why he’d warned you more than once that Smurf’s house was not somewhere he wanted you.
You pushed through the side yard, adrenaline making you dizzy.
Nobody stopped you. Nobody really noticed you at first. You probably looked like every other fucked up girl stumbling through Oceanside at two in the morning. Mascara smeared under your eyes, dress strap hanging broken from one shoulder, blood drying on your knees.
The kind of girl people learned not to look at too hard.
Bodies crowded around the pool. Drunk girls danced in bikinis beside giant speakers while shirtless guys launched beer cans into the water. The whole place smelled like chlorine, weed, sweat, tequila, salt air.
Then Deran saw you.
His face changed instantly.
Not confusion. Not surprise.
Fear.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, already crossing the yard toward you. Fast. “What happened?”
Your throat tightened before the words could even come out. “I know you said not to come here, but-”
Deran grabbed your arm carefully, fingers surprisingly gentle as he turned your face toward the pool lights.
The second he saw the bruise blooming across your cheek, something in his expression went cold. “That fucking asshole hit you?”
You looked away automatically.
That was answer enough.
“Craig,” Deran barked sharply.
A guy with long hair sitting on top of a cooler looked over immediately. Beside him, another man with dark hair and calmer eyes straightened from his chair too.
“What happened?” the dark-haired one asked.
Deran didn’t take his eyes off you. “Her boyfriend hit her.”
Craig stood so fast the cooler tipped sideways behind him. “Are you fucking serious?”
“It wasn’t-”
“Don’t,” Deran snapped instantly. The sharpness of it made you flinch. His jaw clenched hard enough you could see the muscle ticking beneath the skin. “Don’t do that shit.”
You’d seen Deran angry before. At customers. At his family. At himself.
This was different. This looked dangerous.
“Where is he?” the dark-haired man asked calmly, already getting to his feet.
Baz, you remembered suddenly. That was his name.
You swallowed hard. “I don’t know. I ran.”
Deran looked like he wanted to tear somebody apart with his bare hands.
Then another voice cut through the tension behind him.
“Well,” she said smoothly. “Who’s this?”
You turned slowly, still clutching the broken strap of your dress against your chest.
Smurf Cody stood near the patio doors with a cigarette balanced elegantly between perfectly manicured fingers.
Beautiful in a way that didn’t feel warm. Sharp blonde hair untouched by the humidity. Gold jewelry glittering beneath the lights. She looked at you the way people looked at horses before buying them. Assessing. Calculating.
Like she could find every weak spot you had in under thirty seconds.
Deran exhaled through his nose. “Smurf.”
She ignored him completely.
Her eyes stayed fixed on you.
“You’re pretty,” she said casually. “Too pretty to be crying over a man.”
Heat crawled into your face immediately.
“This is Bambi,” Deran said tightly. “My best friend.”
“Friend,” Smurf repeated, amused.
And suddenly you understood an alarming amount about Deran’s issues.
Smurf stepped closer, gaze drifting over the ripped strap hanging off your shoulder, the bruise on your cheek, the blood on your knees.
“A boy do this to you?”
You nodded once.
Her expression barely changed.
“Hm.”
Something about the sound chilled you more than if she’d yelled.
Deran snatched his keys off a folding table. “We’re gonna go find him.”
Baz stood slower, calmer. “Deran.”
“I’m not gonna fucking kill him,” Deran snapped.
Craig gave a sharp laugh. “I might.”
Smurf waved her cigarette lazily through the air. “Just don’t bring cops back to my house.”
Then her eyes flicked back toward you.
“You can stay here tonight, sweetheart.”
“Oh, I couldn’t-”
“Yes, you could,” Smurf interrupted smoothly. “You look half dead.”
Deran turned toward you again, still vibrating with restrained anger.
“You good here?”
You nodded slowly, though you weren’t entirely sure that was true.
His jaw flexed as he looked around the party.
“Stay inside.”
Then the three of them disappeared through the side gate.
And just like that, they were gone.
You stood awkwardly near the pool while the party swallowed the moment whole. Nobody cared. Nobody even really looked twice. Music still blasted. Somebody cannonballed into the pool. A girl stumbled past you laughing with glitter smeared across her chest.
The world kept moving like nothing happened.
Smurf tilted her head toward the house. “Come inside.”
The kitchen felt strangely quiet compared to the chaos outside.
The bass still pulsed faintly through the walls, but softer now. Distant. Smurf moved around the massive kitchen like she owned every atom inside it. Which, honestly, she probably did.
“You hungry?” she asked.
“A little,” you admitted nervously.
She opened the fridge, pulling containers out without ever really stopping watching you.
The house was beautiful in an intimidating sort of way. Expensive without looking staged. Polished wood floors. Massive windows overlooking the black ocean. Family photos lining the walls.
Every room felt lived in.
Claimed.
Smurf moved through it like royalty.
Which, in a deeply fucked up way, she was.
“You and Deran sleeping together?” she asked casually.
You nearly inhaled your own spit. “Oh my God, no. No.”
Not that the idea itself was horrifying. Deran was objectively attractive and you had functioning eyes. But it was also probably one of the least likely scenarios imaginable considering Deran had spent the better half of your friendship pointing out hot men to you with alarming enthusiasm.
“Hm.” Smurf pulled leftover pasta from the fridge. “That’s disappointing. He needs prettier girlfriends.”
You laughed nervously.
“I’m serious.”
The smile fell from your face.
You genuinely couldn’t tell if she was joking.
Smurf handed you a plate before leaning against the counter, cigarette balanced between two fingers as she studied you openly.
“You’re too soft for my boys anyway.”
The statement landed strangely hard. It irritated you more than it should have. She didn’t know you. Not really. The first thing she’d ever seen from you was this version. Crying. Bruised. Shaking.
Weak.
“I’m just his friend,” you said quietly.
“Mm.” She lit another cigarette. “Girls always think they’re just friends with Cody men.”
She pointed at you lightly with the cigarette.
“Especially the pretty ones.”
You looked down at the plate in your hands.
“Does the boy do this often?”
You hesitated. “Sometimes. He was angry tonight.”
Smurf’s expression stayed unreadable.
Cold almost.
“You should learn now,” she said quietly. “Men don’t hit women they love.” She took a slow drag from the cigarette. “They hit women they own.”
The bluntness stunned you into silence.
Before you could answer, movement outside the kitchen windows caught your attention.
Someone sat near the fountain in the backyard, half hidden in the shadows.
You hadn’t noticed him before.
Large frame. Broad shoulders curled slightly forward, elbows resting on his knees. Dark curls falling over his forehead. Freckles dusted across skin that disappeared beneath the sleeves of a faded gray t-shirt. Around him the party carried on at full volume, people screaming over music, splashing into the pool, stumbling through clouds of smoke.
But he sat completely still.
Just watching.
His eyes moved slowly across the yard, detached from all of it like he existed outside the noise.
Then his gaze landed on you.
And stayed there.
Something twisted low in your stomach.
Not fear exactly.
Awareness.
Like some instinct deep in your body already knew who he was before anybody said it.
Smurf noticed immediately.
“Oh,” she murmured softly, almost amused. “There’s Pope.”
Pope.
The name alone tightened something in your spine.
Deran had warned you about him enough times.
If you ever meet Pope, avoid him.
Why?
Because he’s fucking weird.
You glanced back toward the window.
Pope was still staring directly at you.
Not smiling. Not moving. Just staring with an intensity that made your skin feel too tight.
“He just got out,” Smurf said casually, like she was discussing the weather. “Prison makes socializing difficult.”
You didn’t know how to respond to that.
“He’s harmless,” she added after a second.
The way she said it somehow made you feel the exact opposite.
“You should say hi.”
“No, I’m okay-”
“Pope!” Smurf called loudly through the open sliding door.
Your stomach dropped so fast it almost hurt. You shot her a horrified look while she smiled lazily around her cigarette. For a second you genuinely wondered if she was fucking with you. Testing you maybe. You still couldn’t tell when Smurf was being genuine and when she was setting somebody up for entertainment.
Outside, Pope lifted his head immediately.
“Come meet Deran’s friend,” Smurf called.
Your palms started sweating.
A minute later the sliding door opened.
Up close, he was even bigger than you expected.
Not polished like Baz. Not clean-cut like Deran.
Pope looked rough in a way that felt accidental instead of curated. Sharp eyes. Scarred hands. Thick shoulders that made the kitchen suddenly feel smaller. There was something restless underneath his skin even while he stood perfectly still.
And he looked at you like he was trying to figure something out.
“This is Bambi,” Smurf said smoothly.
Pope kept staring.
You shifted awkwardly under the weight of it, suddenly hyperaware of your ripped dress and smeared mascara.
“Hi,” you said quietly.
“Hi,” he echoed.
His voice caught you off guard.
Soft. Almost gentle.
Smurf looked between the two of you with obvious amusement sparkling in her eyes.
“Well,” she said, pushing off the counter. “Try not to scare her, baby.”
Then she disappeared down the hallway, leaving you alone with him.
Silence settled heavily into the kitchen.
You looked literally anywhere except directly at him.
“I like your dress,” Pope said suddenly.
You blinked. “Oh. Thanks.” You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear awkwardly.
“It’s ripped.”
Your eyes dropped to the broken strap hanging off your shoulder.
“I guess, yeah.”
Pope leaned back against the counter, arms folding loosely across his chest, but his eyes never left you.
You tried focusing on the food instead.
“You’re bleeding,” he said after another moment.
You looked down at your scraped knee. Blood had dried in messy streaks down your shin. “Oh.”
Without another word Pope opened the freezer and grabbed an ice pack.
When he handed it to you, your fingers brushed accidentally.
He pulled his hand back immediately.
Too fast. Like the contact surprised him.
And maybe you imagined it, but for half a second his entire expression changed when you looked at him directly. Something almost startled flickered across his face before he looked away.
You didn’t know it, but Pope spent most of his life disconnected from people. Numb to them. Detached. But there was something about you standing in his mother’s kitchen bruised and trembling with those wide, wet doe eyes fixed on him that hooked somewhere deep beneath his ribs before he could stop it.
Maybe it was how vulnerable you looked while still trying to pretend you were fine.
Maybe it was the softness in your voice.
Maybe it was the fact that you looked at him without immediately looking afraid.
He didn’t know.
He just knew he liked it.
“Thanks,” you said quietly.
He nodded once.
Now he was the one avoiding your eyes.
God.
Deran was right.
He was weird.
Not creepy exactly.
Just… off.
Like his brain worked differently from everybody else’s.
You glanced toward the backyard where music still pounded through the walls.
“You don’t like parties?”
“No.”
“Then why are you here?”
Pope’s eyes shifted toward the window again. “Don’t like all these people in my space.”
You made a small oh with your mouth before he continued.
“They always break stuff.”
That felt oddly reasonable coming from him.
“You ran here?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
You shrugged awkwardly. “I knew Deran was close.”
Pope considered that for an uncomfortably long amount of time.
“You trust him.”
“I do.”
Another silence stretched between you.
“He said Nate hurts you sometimes.”
Your head snapped up. “Deran told you that?”
The question slipped out sharper than you intended.
Why would Deran tell them about you? About your relationship? About the ugly parts of it?
Had he told all of them?
Or just Pope?
Pope frowned slightly, like he could tell your mood shifted but wasn’t fully sure why.
“He said he doesn’t like him.”
That sounded far more believable.
You relaxed a little, pressing the ice pack carefully against your cheek.
Pope watched the movement intently.
Not flirtatiously.
Not even curiously.
Just intensely.
Like he noticed every little thing your body did.
It made you hyperaware of yourself. Of the way you sat. The way your fingers trembled slightly. The way your dress slipped against your skin.
You cleared your throat quietly.
“So…” you started. “What exactly do you think your brothers are doing right now?”
Pope didn’t answer immediately. You could practically see him debating how honest to be.
“Probably beating the shit out of him.”
Your stomach twisted hard.
“You think?”
Pope looked genuinely confused by the question.
“Yes.”
And somehow the certainty in his voice scared you more than the answer itself.
Nate hit the pavement hard enough to split the skin across his cheekbone.
The crack echoed through the empty marina parking lot like a gunshot.
Before he could even suck in a breath, Craig grabbed him by the collar and hauled him upright again like he weighed nothing.
“You like to hit women?” Craig snarled.
His fist slammed into Nate’s ribs hard enough to fold him sideways with a broken wheeze.
Nate choked violently, gasping for air that wouldn’t come.
The marina stretched empty around them. Black water crashed against the docks below while Baz’s truck headlights cut harsh white beams across the pavement. Boats rocked slowly in the distance, chains clinking against metal poles in the wind.
Deran paced nearby like something feral trapped in human skin.
He couldn’t stop moving.
Every few seconds his eyes snapped back to Nate, rage crawling visibly beneath his skin like he was seconds away from tearing him apart with his bare hands.
“You touch her again,” Deran snapped, voice low and shaking, “I’ll fucking drown you myself.”
Nate spit blood onto the concrete.
“She’s a lying-”
Craig kicked him hard in the stomach before he could finish.
Nate crumpled with a strangled noise.
“Wrong answer,” Craig muttered.
Baz stayed leaned against the truck, cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers while he watched the scene unravel with the exhaustion of someone who already knew this was spiraling too far.
“Enough,” he said finally.
“Enough?” Deran barked. He turned so fast the movement itself looked violent. “He beat the shit out of her.”
Nate groaned weakly on the pavement, curling onto his side.
Deran looked down at him with something far worse than anger.
Hatred. Pure, ugly hatred.
The kind that sharpened every edge of his face until he barely looked human anymore.
“We should tie a fucking cinderblock to him and dump him in the ocean.”
Craig immediately pointed at him. “That’s what I said.”
Baz rubbed a hand down his face slowly. “And then what? We explain a dead body to Smurf?”
Deran ignored him completely. “He put his hands on her.”
His voice cracked slightly on the last word. Almost disbelieving. Like his brain still couldn’t process the image of you standing in Smurf’s backyard bruised and crying.
Nate coughed wetly, trying to push himself up onto one elbow.
Huge mistake. Deran crossed the distance so fast Baz barely had time to move.
He grabbed Nate by the front of his shirt and slammed him against the side of the truck hard enough to rock it violently on its suspension.
“You think you get to touch her like that?” Deran hissed.
Nate cried out as the back of his head cracked against metal.
Craig’s expression shifted instantly.
The amusement disappeared. “Hey,” he said carefully now. “Deran.”
But Deran either didn’t hear him or didn’t care.
“You think because she stays with your sorry ass that means you can keep doing it?” he snapped. “You think she belongs to you?”
Nate’s face had gone pale beneath the blood smeared across it. “I didn’t mean-”
Deran slammed him against the truck again.
“Bullshit.”
Baz straightened immediately, cigarette dropping to the pavement.
He pushed off the passenger door and started toward them fast.
“Deran.”
Warning this time. But Deran didn’t back off.
He sidestepped Baz entirely, grabbed Nate by the throat with one hand and yanked him upright again. His other hand caught the open passenger door.
“You feel like a big-”
Deran slammed the truck door into the side of Nate’s head. The sound cracked through the marina.
“-tough-”
Another slam. Nate screamed this time.
“-man?”
The final hit sent Nate collapsing onto the pavement in a limp heap, blood streaking down the side of the truck.
Silence hit for half a second except for the waves crashing below the docks. Even Craig froze.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered under his breath.
Nate lay sprawled on the concrete unmoving for a second too long.
Baz moved immediately, shoving past Deran to crouch beside him.
“You trying to fucking kill him?” Baz snapped.
Deran stood there breathing hard, chest rising and falling violently. But he kept staring at Nate like he still wasn’t done.
Like every instinct in his body was screaming at him to finish it. Craig glanced toward Baz briefly. That look alone said enough. Even Craig was getting nervous now.
Nate finally groaned weakly, curling into himself as blood dripped from his nose onto the pavement.
“She always made me fucking crazy,” he slurred through swollen lips.
The second the words left his mouth, Deran snapped again. He lunged so violently Craig barely caught him in time, grabbing him around the waist before he could get to Nate.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Craig barked, struggling to hold him back now.
Deran fought against his grip anyway. Actually fought him.
“She was crying!” Deran shouted. “Did you see her fucking face?”
“Yes,” Craig snapped back. “I saw it.”
Deran shoved hard against him, chest heaving violently.
“I should kill him.” And the terrifying part was nobody thought he was bluffing anymore.
Baz stepped between them now, calmer than both of them but visibly tense for the first time all night. “We scare him,” Baz said firmly. “That’s it.”
Deran laughed once. “You think this shit scares him?”
Nate stayed curled on the pavement bleeding and shaking, but Deran still looked unsatisfied. Like nothing short of irreversible damage was going to quiet the rage clawing through him.
Three days later the bruise on your cheek had finally started turning yellow around the edges. It still hurt when you touched it.
You stood behind the bar beside Deran, wiping down glasses while music hummed low through the speakers overhead. The lunch rush had died an hour ago, leaving the place quieter than usual. Sunlight spilled through the open windows facing the street, warm salt air drifting inside with the sound of traffic and distant waves.
Craig sat at the far end of the bar half drunk already, arguing with Baz about whether or not a guy outside had stolen his parking spot.
“You can’t just threaten people with a wrench every time you get annoyed,” Baz said flatly.
Craig looked genuinely confused. “Why not?”
Deran snorted softly beside you while restocking bottles.
For the first time in days things almost felt normal. Almost. Nate was in a coma.
Nobody said it out loud, but everybody knew Deran had gone way too far at the marina.
You tried not to think about it.
Tried not to think about how part of you felt relieved.
The bell above the front door chimed. Then the entire room changed. You felt it before you even looked up.
Deran froze beside you instantly. A man stood in the doorway.
Older than Nate by maybe twenty years. Thick build. Weathered face. The kind of man who looked mean even standing still. His eyes swept across the bar once before landing directly on you.
Your stomach dropped so hard it made you dizzy.
Because Nate had his father’s eyes.
“Oh,” Craig muttered quietly. “Fuck.”
The man walked inside slowly. Every instinct in your body screamed. You backed up automatically.
Deran moved immediately, stepping in front of you slightly. “What do you want?” he asked coldly.
Nate’s father ignored him completely. His eyes stayed fixed on you. “So,” he said slowly. “This is where the little bitch that ruined my son’s life works.” Your breath caught.
The room suddenly felt too small.
Deran’s expression darkened instantly. “Watch your fucking mouth.”
The older man finally looked at him.
“You’re Deran Cody.” Not a question. “You put my son in the hospital.”
Deran didn’t answer. Didn’t deny it either.
The man laughed once under his breath, but there was nothing amused about it. “You know what Nate told me?” he asked, eyes flicking back toward you. “Said she cries real pretty.”
Your face went cold. You took another step backward unconsciously. And then you felt someone beside you. Solid. Quiet.
Pope.
You hadn’t even seen him come out from the back office. Your fingers wrapped around his arm before you could stop yourself “Andrew,” you said quietly. Nervously.
The name felt strange in your mouth after hearing everybody call him Pope for days.
But his real name fit him more somehow.
Pope looked down at your hand gripping his forearm. Normally he hated being touched. Most people knew better than to try. Craig once joked Pope reacted to physical affection like a feral dog. But he didn’t pull away from you. Didn’t tense. Instead he shifted slightly closer. Enough that your shoulder brushed against his chest.
And instantly, unbelievably, the panic inside you eased. You couldn’t explain it, Pope made you feel calm. Safe. Like if you stayed close enough to him nothing terrible could reach you. The feeling settled through your chest warm and strange and deeply confusing.
Nate’s father noticed immediately. His eyes narrowed. “That your new boyfriend?” he asked cruelly. “You spread your legs for the whole family now?”
Deran lunged forward instantly.
Baz caught him hard across the chest before he could reach him.
“Deran.”
“No,” Deran snapped violently.
But Pope moved first. He stepped fully in front of you now, blocking you from view entirely. The shift was subtle. Terrifyingly subtle. His face stayed calm, but something in his eyes changed.
“You should leave,” Pope said quietly.
Nate’s father laughed. “And what?” he sneered. “You gonna stop me?”
Pope tilted his head slightly. “Yes.”
Silence dropped heavily across the bar.
Nate’s father took another step toward you anyway.
You grabbed the back of Pope’s shirt tighter instinctively. The movement made Pope go completely still.
Then Nate’s father pointed directly at you.
“You think you’re safe now?” he snapped. “Girls like you always go back. You’ll crawl right back to him if he wakes up.”
Something cracked across Deran’s face.
“You need to get him out of here,” Baz said carefully.
But nobody moved. Nate’s father laughed again, uglier this time. “You Codys think you’re untouchable?” He looked around the bar. “Whole family’s fucking rotten.”
Then his eyes landed on you again. “And you.” Your body stiffened instantly. “You should’ve kept your mouth shut.” Pope stepped forward once.
Nate’s father finally seemed to realize something dangerous stood in front of him. Because for the first time since walking in, he hesitated. Then he scoffed and backed toward the door. “This ain’t over.”
The bell chimed again when he left. Silence swallowed the room immediately after.
You were still clutching Pope’s arm. Still half hidden behind him. Nobody pointed it out.
Deran stared at the door long after the man disappeared outside. That same frightening stillness settling over him again.
Baz saw it immediately. “No,” he said firmly.
Deran didn’t look at him.
Craig leaned back slowly against the counter. “He threatened her.”
“No,” Baz repeated harder.
But Deran was already somewhere else mentally. You could see it happen. That cold detached look settling into his face.
Pope glanced back toward you then. His eyes softened slightly when he saw how shaken you still were. “You should go upstairs,” he said quietly.
Deran owned the apartment above the bar. You’d slept there the last two nights because the idea of going home alone suddenly made your skin crawl. You nodded slowly. Your fingers slipped from Pope’s arm reluctantly. The loss of contact felt immediate. Strange, Pope noticed it too.
Something unreadable flickered across his face before he stepped back.
“I’ll lock up,” Deran said flatly.
Baz looked between both brothers and swore under his breath.
Later, long after you finally drifted asleep curled against the arm of Deran’s couch upstairs, the brothers left through the alley behind the bar. The city had gone quiet by then.
Streetlights reflected off damp pavement. The ocean air felt colder at night, heavier somehow, carrying the distant sound of waves crashing somewhere beyond the buildings.
Deran locked the back door without a word.
Pope stood beside the truck waiting calmly, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie. His face looked unreadable in the dark.
Deran slid behind the wheel while Pope watched the apartment windows upstairs for one last second. The living room light was off.
Satisfied, he climbed into the passenger seat. The truck rolled silently out of the alley.
They found Nate’s father exactly where they expected. At the same liquor-stained dive bar off the harbor road where guys like him spent every night slowly rotting themselves from the inside out.
Deran parked across the street beneath a dead streetlamp.
The windows of the bar glowed dim yellow against the dark while old motorcycles lined the curb outside. Inside, Nate’s father sat hunched over the counter already half drunk, laughing too loudly at something the bartender said. Pope watched him quietly through the windshield. “You think he hits women too?” he asked.
Deran’s jaw tightened. Neither of them asked how the other knew that he did. Some things were obvious.
An hour passed. Then another. Neither brother spoke much.
Every once in a while Deran drummed his fingers once against the steering wheel before stopping himself again. Too much energy sitting beneath his skin. Too much anger still trying to claw its way out.
But Pope stayed perfectly still.
Around two in the morning Nate’s father finally stumbled out of the bar alone.
The brothers followed. His truck drifted lazily between lanes as he drove through the sleeping streets of Oceanside toward the edge of town. Small houses gave way to emptier roads. Fewer streetlights. Fewer witnesses.
Finally he pulled into a narrow gravel driveway beside a run-down one story house near the marshes. No nearby neighbors. No barking dogs. Perfect.
The porch light flicked on as he staggered toward the front door fumbling with his keys.
Pope watched carefully from the passenger seat.
Deran killed the engine two houses down. The darkness swallowed the truck instantly.
Ten minutes later the kitchen light inside the house flicked on briefly before disappearing again. Then nothing.
Pope checked his watch. “Give him twenty.”
Deran nodded once. The wait almost killed him. He sat leaning forward slightly, jaw clenched hard enough to ache while rage simmered quietly beneath his skin. Every time he closed his eyes he still saw you standing in the bar clutching Pope’s arm with fear written all over your face.
Girls like you always go back.
The memory alone made his hands tighten.
Twenty-three minutes later Pope opened the passenger door. The brothers moved silently through the yard.
Pope picked the back lock in under thirty seconds.
The house smelled stale inside. Beer. Cigarettes. Old grease. A television played quietly somewhere in the living room.
Nate’s father had passed out half reclined on the couch with an empty bottle hanging loose from one hand. Pope closed the back door carefully behind them.
The man woke slightly at the sound. “Huh?”
Deran moved first. He crossed the room in three steps and drove his forearm across the man’s throat hard enough to pin him against the couch before he could fully react.
Confusion flashed across the older man’s face. Then recognition. Then fear.
“What the fu-”
Pope grabbed the bottle before it hit the floor. Quiet. Always quiet.
Nate’s father struggled violently beneath Deran’s grip now, but alcohol slowed him down. Age slowed him down more.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t see this coming.” Deran said quietly.
The man wheezed against his arm. Pope stepped closer calmly, expression empty. Pope looked at him the same way somebody looked at a broken appliance they needed to get rid of. “You scared her,” Pope added softly.
Nate’s father started fighting harder then. Panic setting in.
Deran slammed him backward against the couch again hard enough to daze him.
“Left her scared in my fucking bar,” Deran hissed.
The older man reached desperately for the side table. Phone. Weapon. Anything.
Pope caught his wrist instantly. Then twisted. A wet crack echoed through the room.
The scream barely had time to leave his mouth before Pope clamped a hand over it.
“You should’ve stayed away from her,” he said.
Afterward, they cleaned everything carefully. Pope wiped surfaces while Deran staged the kitchen. A shattered beer bottle near the counter. Water spilled across the tile.
The body positioned wrong enough to look accidental but believable.
A drunk man falls hard enough onto the corner of a counter and sometimes he doesn’t get back up. Sad. Common. Forgettable.
By the time they left, the house looked untouched.
The brothers washed their hands at a gas station fifteen minutes later. Deran scrubbed blood from beneath his fingernails in silence while Pope leaned against the sink watching the empty parking lot through the window.“You think she’s asleep?” Pope asked quietly.
Deran nodded once. Pope looked back down at the water running pink briefly before turning the faucet off. Then they drove to the hospital.
The city was beginning to pale blue with early morning by the time they parked in the visitor garage.
Nate’s room sat on the fourth floor.
Critical condition. Machines breathing for him. Deran stared through the small window in the door for a long moment before entering. Nate looked smaller like this.
Bruised face swollen beyond recognition.
A machine beeped steadily beside him in the darkened room.
Pope closed the door quietly behind them. Nate’s eyes fluttered weakly at the sound. For one horrifying second he almost looked aware. Then his gaze landed on Deran. Fear flooded his face instantly.
Good, Deran thought.
He should be scared.
“You should’ve left her alone,” Deran said softly.
Nate tried to speak. Nothing came out around the breathing tube.
Pope walked calmly to the door, peeking once through the narrow window toward the empty hallway before looking back at his brother. Deran stepped toward the bed.
And by the time the sun finally rose over Oceanside, Nate’s room had become just another tragedy inside a hospital full of them.
It had been a few weeks. A few strange, chaotic, strangely comfortable weeks where the Cody family somehow became woven into your life before you fully realized what was happening.
You’d officially met everyone now.
J had shown up at the bar one afternoon quiet and observant, watching everybody with the same careful expression Pope wore sometimes. Nicky was sweet in an exhausting sort of way and latched onto you immediately after discovering you owned actual skincare products. Lena adored you after exactly ten minutes because you sat on the floor with her and helped untangle one of her necklaces without getting annoyed.
And Smurf… Smurf had become dangerously fond of you. Not in a normal way either. It felt more like she’d picked you out. Like she was studying you the same way she studied her sons. Watching your reactions. Learning your weak spots. Encouraging certain behaviors while quietly steering you away from others.
You noticed it more lately.
“You apologize too much,” Smurf had told you three nights ago while helping you clean up after dinner.
You blinked. “What?”
“You say sorry before you even speak sometimes.” She handed you a wine glass. “Men smell weakness, sweetheart.”
You laughed awkwardly. “I think that’s a little dramatic.”
“No,” Smurf said calmly. “It isn’t.”
Then she’d taught you how to hold eye contact during confrontation like it was a lesson worth learning.
And weirdly enough Pope started hovering more whenever Smurf was around. At first you thought you imagined it. But then you noticed how he lingered nearby anytime Smurf cornered you into conversations. How his eyes tracked the two of you constantly. How he interrupted more. Redirected you away from her. Like he knew something you didn’t.
Which honestly happened a lot with the Codys.
You were beginning to realize there were entire conversations happening beneath the surface around you. Things you weren’t understanding.
Like the fact that none of them ever talked directly about what they actually did.
You heard rumors, obviously. Everybody in Oceanside heard rumors about the Codys. Crime. Robberies. Violence.
But then Deran would make you coffee exactly how you liked it without asking, or Baz would walk you to your car after work, or Craig would spend twenty minutes teaching Lena how to cannonball properly into the pool while Pope sat nearby staring at you like you hung the fucking moon.
They didn’t feel dangerous around you. Not really. Just damaged.
And Pope… Pope was becoming something else entirely. Possessive wasn’t even the right word anymore. It was quieter than that. More constant. Like gravity. He always knew where you were in a room. Always noticed immediately when another man looked too long at you. Always positioned himself close enough to touch you somehow without making it obvious.
His hand brushing the small of your back. His knee pressed against yours under tables. His fingers curling around your wrist absentmindedly while you talked.
And the eye contact.
Jesus Christ.
Pope looked at you like he physically could not stop.
Sometimes it genuinely made you nervous how intensely he listened whenever you spoke. Like every word mattered. Like every facial expression was something worth memorizing. But you liked it more than you should’ve. Way more.
Which was probably why you found yourself currently squeezed tightly beneath Deran’s arm at one of Smurf’s massive pool parties wearing a bikini that barely qualified as fabric. A bikini Smurf picked out herself.
You should’ve known that alone was dangerous.
“Oh my god,” you muttered earlier that afternoon holding the tiny black swimsuit up between two fingers. “This is insane.”
Smurf looked unimpressed from her closet doorway. “No, sweetheart. It’s expensive.”
“It’s basically underwear.”
“Exactly.”
You laughed nervously. “Nate would’ve had an aneurysm.”
Smurf’s eyes sharpened instantly. “Good.”
And somehow you ended up wearing it anyway.
Now music pounded through the backyard while bodies crowded around the pool beneath strings of warm patio lights. Somebody was doing shots off a surfboard table. Craig had already thrown two people into the water fully clothed.
Deran sat beside you on one of the lounge chairs, arm hooked around your shoulders mostly because he was still paranoid about men approaching you at parties now.
You leaned comfortably against him sipping from a drink while laughing at something Nicky screamed near the pool.
Then you felt it. That familiar feeling. Being watched. Your eyes lifted automatically across the crowded backyard. Pope sat near the outdoor kitchen talking to Baz.
Well. Baz was talking. Pope was staring directly at you. Even from across the yard you could feel the intensity of it.
His eyes moved slowly over you once before locking back onto your face. Heat crept into your chest immediately.
Deran noticed your distraction and followed your gaze. “Oh my fucking god,” he muttered.
“What?”
“He’s doing it again.”
You looked innocent. “Doing what?”
“Looking at you like a psychopath.”
You snorted into your drink. “He’s not that weird.”
Deran turned toward you slowly. “Yes,” he said flatly. “He is.”
“I think you exaggerate.”
“Yeah?” Deran barked out a laugh. “Because you don’t work with him.”
You frowned immediately. “What work?”
The second the question left your mouth, Deran’s expression shifted.
“Nothing,” he said.
“That sounds weird.”
“It’s not.”
“You literally just made it more suspicious.”
Deran rubbed his forehead already irritated.
“You ask too many questions.”
“And yet you avoid all of them.”
“Smartest thing I’ve ever done.”
You narrowed your eyes slightly.
Again. That weird feeling.
Like everybody around you knew something you didn’t. Before you could push further, Craig suddenly cannonballed into the pool hard enough to soak half the patio.
You yelped as cold water splashed across your legs. “CRAIG.”
He surfaced laughing wildly. “That was for saying i’m six foot something with shampoo-commercial hair and I only have exactly three surviving brain cells fighting for fourth place earlier.”
“Was I wrong? You do have shampoo-commercial hair.”
Craig pointed dramatically. “See?”
While everybody argued around the pool, your eyes drifted back toward Pope automatically. Still watching you. Except now his expression looked darker somehow.
You followed his line of sight downward and immediately realized why. Deran’s hand rested against your bare thigh.
Oh. You bit back a smile.
“Your brother looks homicidal,” you murmured.
Deran glanced over again. Then groaned loudly. “For fuck’s sake.”
“What?”
“He’s jealous.”
You nearly choked on your drink laughing “Pope? No.”
Deran stared at you like you were stupid “Bambi. He follows you around like a stray dog.”
“That is so mean. Don’t be mean to him.”
“It’s accurate.” He rolled his eyes.
Your smile widened despite yourself. Because maybe Deran wasn’t entirely wrong. Pope looked at you differently now. Not subtle either. Everybody noticed. Especially Smurf.
You caught her watching the interaction from near the grill with an amused little smile pulling at her mouth.
“You should go sit with him,” Deran muttered.
“What?”
“Before he burns holes through my skull.”
You laughed harder. “You’re being dramatic.”
Deran looked back toward Pope. Then immediately removed his arm from around your shoulders. “Nope. Absolutely not. Go.”
“Deran-”
“I’m serious. He’s freaking me out.”
You looked back across the yard again. Pope hadn’t looked away once. God. It should not have affected you this much. But it did.
Because unlike every other guy who looked at you, Pope never seemed distracted. Never checked his phone mid conversation. Never split his attention elsewhere.
When he looked at you, he looked only at you. Like the entire room disappeared.
You stood slowly from the lounge chair.
Almost immediately Pope straightened slightly where he sat.
Deran watched the reaction happen and muttered, “Jesus Christ,” under his breath.
You crossed the backyard toward him through the crowd.
Pope tracked every step.
By the time you reached the outdoor kitchen, Baz was already smirking into his beer.
“Well,” Baz drawled. “There’s the reason he hasn’t heard a word I said in ten minutes.”
Pope ignored him completely. His eyes flicked slowly over your bikini again before settling on your face. “You cold?” he asked immediately.
You blinked. “What?”
“You’re shivering.”
“Oh.” You laughed softly. “The pool water.”
Pope grabbed the towel beside him without hesitation and held it out. Your chest tightened a little. Always paying attention. Always noticing.
“Thanks, Andrew.”
The second you said his real name, something changed in his expression. Softened. It happened every single time. Pope loved when you called him Andrew. Loved it in that deep quiet way he loved most things concerning you.
Baz noticed too because of course he did “Oh my god,” Baz muttered. “You’re whipped.”
Pope didn’t even deny it.
You smiled trying to hide your embarrassment while taking the towel from him. Pope’s hand settled automatically against your thigh once you sat beside him.
Possessive. Casual. Like it belonged there.
And weirdly enough you let it stay there without thinking twice.
Across the yard, Deran watched the interaction happen before looking deeply exhausted. Smurf appeared beside him sipping wine. “Told you,” she said smugly.
Deran sighed. “This is gonna end in a body. Hopefully not hers.”
Smurf smiled wider. “Probably will be.”
The party got louder the later it got.
Music pounded through the backyard hard enough to shake the deck beneath your feet while bodies crowded shoulder to shoulder around the pool. The entire property glowed gold against the dark ocean behind it, strings of lights hanging from the balcony while drunk strangers danced barefoot across wet concrete.
Craig had somehow started an argument about sharks. “No, listen to me,” he insisted loudly, pointing with a beer bottle while half sprawled across a lounge chair. “If sharks can smell blood from like five miles away then obviously they can smell cocaine.”
“That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Deran said flatly.
“It’s literally dissolved in your bloodstream.”
“That’s not how drugs work.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I absolutely know that.”
J sat nearby trying unsuccessfully not to laugh while Nicky filmed the entire thing on her phone solely for future blackmail purposes.
“You’re embarrassing yourself,” she informed Craig cheerfully.
Craig pointed at her dramatically. “History’s gonna vindicate me.”
Beside you, Pope stayed stretched back against the outdoor couch with one arm hooked lazily along the cushions behind you. Well. Not really behind you anymore.
At some point during the conversation you’d shifted closer without thinking until your shoulder rested fully against his chest, your legs tucked partly beneath his along the couch. And Pope loved it. You could tell.
Not because he said anything. Because every time you touched him he got quieter. More focused. Like his entire body locked onto the feeling immediately.
His hand rested against your thigh now, large fingers spread lazily over sun-warmed skin while everybody argued around you. Every so often his thumb brushed absentminded little circles there.
Every single time it happened, his eyes flicked down toward your face. Checking. Watching your reaction carefully like he still hadn’t fully processed the fact that you let him touch you this much.
You leaned your head back slightly to look up at him. “You’re awfully quiet tonight.”
Pope’s eyes dropped to yours instantly. The height difference forced you to tilt your chin up slightly from where you rested against him. “I’m listening.”
“To Craig talking about drug-sniffing sharks?”
“Yes.”
You laughed softly.
Pope’s eyes lingered on your mouth a second too long afterward.
Across from you, Baz noticed immediately and smirked into his drink. The man was obsessed with you. Not even subtly anymore.
Smurf sat nearby with a glass of wine watching the entire interaction unfold with careful amusement. Like she was observing a particularly entertaining science experiment in real time.
You were halfway through making fun of Craig’s shark theory when a girl suddenly approached the couch hesitantly.
You recognized her vaguely from high school. Not close friends. Just familiar enough to know her name if somebody said it out loud. She looked relieved when she spotted you.
“Oh my god,” she said softly. “There you are.”
You frowned slightly. “What?”
“I’ve been trying to find you.”
Beside you, Pope’s hand engulfed your thigh more firmly instantly. Protective. Alert. His eyes lifted toward the girl carefully now.
Confusion twisted through you. “Why?”
The girl glanced awkwardly around the group before looking back at you. “You didn’t hear?”
Something in her tone made your stomach tighten immediately. You laughed nervously shaking your head. “Hear what?”
“Nate’s dad died.”
Everything around you seemed to go strangely muffled. Like somebody dropped water over your ears. “What?” you whispered.
The girl nodded quickly. “Yeah. Cops are saying he got drunk and slipped in his kitchen or something. Everybody’s freaking out because he was like… such a good guy..”
A good guy. Yeah fucking right.
You felt Pope’s entire body go still behind you.
The girl kept talking nervously. “And Nate…” Your chest tightened instantly. “He died Wednesday morning at the hospital.”
The words hit like ice water. Your body instinctively pressed backward into Pope’s chest before you even realized you were moving. And immediately Pope’s arm wrapped fully around your waist. His fingers slid beneath the tie of your bikini bottoms absentmindedly, anchoring you against him.
The touch made heat crawl up your spine despite the panic suddenly flooding your chest. Around you, every Cody had gone silent.
Especially Smurf. All of them watching your face carefully now. Measuring your reaction. Because you knew what happened at the marina. You looked between them slowly, heartbeat suddenly roaring in your ears “How?” you asked quietly.
The girl shrugged uneasily. “They said his ventilator malfunctioned or something. Like some weird glitch.” You suddenly became hyperaware of Pope’s hand tightening slightly against your waist. The girl laughed awkwardly into the silence. “Crazy, right? Anyway, his mom’s doing a service for both of them next week.”
Nobody answered her. Because now the atmosphere felt wrong. Heavy. You swallowed hard.
Your brain started racing violently. Nate dead. His father dead. The ventilator made no sense. The kitchen accident made too much sense.
And suddenly every rumor you’d ever heard about the Codys stopped sounding like rumors at all.
You looked toward Deran slowly. His expression stayed unreadable. Too unreadable. Like none of this was actually news to him.
Baz somehow looked calmer than everybody else which honestly made him scarier. Craig wouldn’t meet your eyes anymore. Even J looked tense now.
But Pope was only watching you. Like your reaction mattered more than the deaths themselves.
The girl shifted awkwardly under the silence. “I just thought you should know.”
“Yeah,” you said faintly. “Thanks.”
She disappeared back into the crowd quickly after that. But the weirdness stayed.
The party still raged around you. Music blasted through the backyard. Somebody screamed after getting shoved into the pool fully clothed again. Bottles clinked. People laughed too loudly. But around the couch, tension settled heavy and suffocating.
You sat stiffly against Pope’s chest now, barely realizing how tightly you’d pressed yourself into him. His hand stayed firm against your waist, thumb moving slowly against your side like he was trying to soothe you. Or maybe soothe himself. You honestly couldn’t tell anymore.
“Nate died?” you said finally, voice sounding distant even to yourself.
The words felt unreal. Deran exchanged a quick glance with Baz. Craig stared down into his beer bottle. J watched everyone carefully from the edge of the chair, quiet like always.
Smurf leaned back calmly, wine balanced elegantly between her fingers while sharp interest glittered behind her eyes.
The whole thing suddenly felt deeply wrong.
You looked around slowly. “Why is everybody acting weird?”
“No one’s acting weird,” Deran answered way too fast.
Your eyes narrowed slightly. “Yeah, you are.”
Pope’s grip tightened almost imperceptibly when your voice rose.
You looked up at him instinctively. His eyes were already on your face. Always.
“You okay?” he asked quietly. And somehow that almost made it worse.
Because he sounded genuinely concerned while everybody else looked tense as hell.
You swallowed hard. “I don’t know.” The girl’s words replayed violently in your head.
You suddenly stood up. “I need to leave.”
Pope immediately straightened beside you. “Hey-“
“I just…” You rubbed your forehead shakily. “I need a second.” Your fingers grabbed the nearest sweatshirt off the couch blindly before pulling it over your bikini top. You barely noticed the sleeves swallowed your hands completely.
Pope did. His eyes locked instantly onto the oversized hoodie hanging off your body. His hoodie. Something sharp and possessive flashed across his face so quickly only Smurf caught it.
Interesting.
You pushed through the side gate quickly. The metal slammed behind you. The second you disappeared down the street, Craig exhaled loudly.
“Good job not acting suspicious as fuck, guys,” Baz said sarcastically.
“Shut up,” Deran muttered.
Smurf swirled the wine slowly in her glass. “She knows something.”
J frowned slightly. “About what?”
Smurf’s eyes stayed fixed thoughtfully on the closed gate. “That girl didn’t react like someone upset her ex-boyfriend died.” Her expression sharpened slightly. “She reacted like she’s scared.”
Baz leaned forward now. “You think Nate told her something?”
“I think,” Smurf said carefully, “our sweet little Bambi is smarter than you boys thought.”
Pope stood immediately. “She’s not gonna say anything.”
Smurf’s gaze flicked toward him knowingly. “You sound very sure. You willing to bet your freedom on it?”
“I am.” The certainty in his voice shut everybody up briefly.
Because Pope trusted you completely. And honestly? That made him the most dangerous person in the family right now.
Smurf looked between her sons slowly before nodding once toward the street “Follow her.”
Deran groaned immediately. “Come on. She ran out of here looking terrified. She just found out her ex died.”
“And?” Smurf snapped lightly. “You think that girl’s stupid? She’s putting things together.”
Baz stood first. “Let’s go.”
But Pope was already moving toward the driveway before anybody else.
Because he knew the look on your face when you got overwhelmed. And more importantly, He wasn’t about to let anybody else get to you first.
Your hands shook so badly on the steering wheel you nearly blew through a stop sign.
The tires screeched slightly when you corrected too hard. Everything felt wrong.
Your thoughts kept colliding into each other faster than you could process them. Nate yelling. Nate crying the first time he begged you not to “ruin his family.”
Nate’s father smiling at barbecues while flipping burgers like some suburban dad straight out of a Home Depot commercial. Pretending he wasn’t a lousy drunk behind closed doors.
The hidden files on the computer. Your best friend sobbing in that video. God. Your stomach twisted so violently you thought you might throw up. The apartment complex came into view too fast.
You parked crooked and barely remembered shutting the car off before climbing out. The apartment you once shared with Nate was dark when you stepped inside. And it still smelled like him. Stale beer. Laundry detergent. Old cigarettes soaked into fabric and walls. You hated it instantly.
It hit you all over again why you hadn’t come back since the night he hit you. Why staying with Deran had somehow felt safer than being alone here. Your chest tightened hard.
The silence inside the apartment felt wrong now. Haunted.
You moved quickly toward the entertainment center near the living room wall, panic making your movements jerky. Books hit the floor one after another while you ripped them off the shelves searching.
“Come on,” you whispered shakily under your breath. “Come on, please…”
Your fingers slipped against the wood paneling behind the shelf before finally catching the loose edge. Relief hit so hard it almost made your knees weak. You pulled the hidden disk case free from inside the wall.
“Oh my god,” you laughed breathlessly to yourself. Not happy. Just relieved.
Your grip tightened around the case as you turned and nearly screamed. A solid wall of muscle stood directly in front of you. You stumbled backward violently before realizing it was Pope. A startled sound escaped your throat. His hand shot out immediately, grabbing your forearm gently before you could trip over the books scattered across the floor.
Your eyes snapped upward.
All four brothers stood inside the apartment doorway. The sight of them there made your pulse spike instantly.
“What the fuck?”
Pope stepped closer first. “Hey,” he murmured softly, saying your name like he was trying not to scare you. Too late. You took another step backward anyway.
“How did you even know I was here? Nobody answered immediately.
And for the first time since meeting them, the Cody brothers looked exactly like the stories people whispered about. Craig leaned against the doorway with his arms crossed, expression unusually serious. Baz’s eyes moved carefully around the apartment, taking everything in automatically. Deran looked tense enough to snap.
But Pope only looked at you. Or more specifically At the disk case clutched tightly in your hands.
Your heartbeat sped up immediately. “You followed me here?” you asked carefully.
Baz spoke first. “What’s that?”
Your fingers tightened around the disk instinctively. “Nothing.”
You shoved it behind your back too quickly.
The second Deran stepped forward with that cold unreadable look on his face, you regretted it. “Bambi,” he said carefully. “Why’d you come here?”
You looked between all of them uneasily. The atmosphere had shifted. Not violent exactly. But serious. Focused. Like they were trying to solve a problem.
Pope took another slow step closer. “You scared us.”
A nervous laugh escaped you. “So your solution was following me to my apartment?”
“Yeah,” Craig muttered. “Because you looked like you were about to have a fucking breakdown.”
Your eyes lifted back toward Pope automatically.
His gaze dropped briefly toward the disk behind your back. Then back to your face.“What’s on it?” he asked softly. And somehow him asking gently broke you more than if he’d demanded it.
Your throat tightened. “It belonged to Nate’s dad.” You swallowed hard. “It’s why he said I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”
Every single one of them went still. The memory of that night at the bar flashed visibly across their faces. Deran’s expression darkened immediately.
You stared down at the disk case in your hands. “A few months ago Nate’s dad let me borrow his computer,” you said quietly. “I found videos on it.”
Baz’s face flattened instantly. “What kind of videos?”
You looked sick even trying to say it. “Girls.” Nobody spoke. “High school girls.”
Craig swore quietly under his breath.
“One of them was my best friend.” Your voice cracked instantly. “She was crying and he was hurting her.” Pope’s face changed. You sniffed shakily and kept talking too fast now, words tumbling over themselves. “She went missing our senior year. They found her body all the way out in Point Loma.”
Silence slammed into the apartment. Pope looked genuinely frightening now. Not toward you. Toward the thought of somebody making you cry like this.
Craig sat down hard on the couch suddenly, elbows braced on his knees while he dragged both hands down his face. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered.
You rushed your words out quicker now through tears. “I wanted to go to the police but Nate kept begging me not to ruin his dad’s life and then we started fighting more and more and…” Your throat closed painfully. “The night he hit me was because I told him I was done protecting them.” Your breathing shook. “It had been seven years since she died and-” You stopped hard, trying to steady yourself. “Her parents invited Nate and me to breakfast every year after they found her body.” Your voice cracked again. “And I had to sit across from them pretending the person I was sharing my life with didn’t know his father murdered their daughter.”
Deran looked disgusted. Actually disgusted.
Pope stepped toward you immediately. His hand lifted carefully, fingers brushing against the side of your face almost hesitantly. “What…” he said softly, eyes searching yours. “What do you mean he knew?”
You swallowed hard. “Nate helped him.”
Even the air in the apartment felt different afterward. “That asshole helped his father?” Deran asked flatly. Not remorseful. Just colder somehow.
You nodded shakily. “He knew the whole time.” Tears slid down your cheeks faster now. “He wasn’t shocked when I told him what I found. He was angry I wouldn’t look the other way anymore.”
Baz rubbed a hand slowly over his mouth processing everything. Then finally he held his hand out toward the disk carefully. “Can I see it?”
You hesitated. And for one awful second, fear curled low in your stomach. Not because you thought they’d hurt you. Because suddenly you realized you didn’t actually know what these men were capable of. Now here they stood in a dead man’s apartment after silently following you across town.
You looked toward Pope carefully. He noticed the hesitation instantly. And it visibly hurt him. Something shifted in his expression almost imperceptibly. “Hey,” he said quietly.
Your eyes lifted toward him. “We’re not gonna hurt you.” The sincerity in his voice made your chest ache.
You nodded slowly before handing Baz the disk case.
Baz opened it carefully while Craig leaned over trying to see too. Deran cursed quietly under his breath almost immediately. Inside sat a plain burned CD labeled in black marker.
S. DAVIS — 3/18/2009.
“Her name was Sarah,” you whispered.
“Jesus Christ,” Craig muttered again.
You looked away immediately, humiliation mixing violently with grief in your chest. “I know I should’ve gone to the cops sooner.”
You completely misunderstood the look passing between them. You thought they were judging you. Wondering why you stayed quiet so long. You didn’t notice the other realization settling in instead.
That Nate and his father being dead suddenly looked a whole lot less suspicious if this ever surfaced.
“No,” Pope said immediately. Your eyes lifted toward him again. His expression softened instantly the second he saw your face. “You tried.”
The words hit harder than they should have. Because nobody else had ever said that to you. Not Nate. Not yourself. Pope stepped closer carefully now. Close enough that you could smell him mixed with the smoke and beer still clinging faintly to the oversized sweatshirt hanging off your body. His sweatshirt. You suddenly became aware you were still wearing it.
Pope noticed you realizing. His eyes dropped briefly toward the sleeves swallowing your hands. Something possessive flickered low across his face again. Then he looked back at you. “You were trying to protect people,” he said quietly. Your throat tightened painfully “Sarah deserves justice.”
Baz looked up from the disk then. “We can help with that.”
You blinked at him. “What?”
Deran nodded slowly now. “You take this to the cops, they’ll actually listen.”
“Especially now,” Craig muttered darkly. “Perfect dead suburban family man bullshit kinda falls apart once this gets out.”
You stared at all of them. “You’d help me?”
Baz feigned confusion by the question. “Why wouldn’t we?”
You almost laughed at that. Because ten minutes ago these men silently appeared in your apartment like something out of a nightmare and scared the hell out of you without even trying. And now they were calmly offering to help expose a predator.
Nothing about the Codys made sense.
Pope stepped even closer. Close enough that your pulse stumbled slightly. “You don’t gotta do this alone anymore,” he said softly. “I’ll take you to the cops myself.”
And the terrifying thing was you believed him immediately.
The police station took almost two hours.
Two exhausting, emotionally draining hours of sitting beneath fluorescent lights while detectives asked careful questions and copied files from the disk. You felt nauseous the entire time.
Pope never left your side once. Not once.
He sat beside you in stiff silence through every interview, large body angled slightly toward yours the whole time like some unconscious shield. Every time your voice shook answering a question, his eyes lifted immediately to your face.
One detective finally asked if he was your boyfriend.
Pope answered before you could. “Yes.” The word came out flat and immediate. You turned toward him in surprise. Pope didn’t even look at you. Just kept staring at the detective like daring him to question it.
The detective only nodded slowly and moved on. But your stomach had flipped violently anyway. Because Pope didn’t say things casually. Everything with him felt carved in stone.
By the time you finally walked back outside, the sky had gone dark. You stood near the parking lot rubbing your arms tiredly while Pope watched you carefully beside his truck.
“You okay?”
“No,” you admitted honestly.
Pope nodded once like he expected that answer. “You wanna stay alone tonight?”
The thought made your stomach twist immediately. Nate’s apartment suddenly felt unbearable now, and you knew Deran had Adrian over. You looked at him quietly. “Can I stay with you?”
Pope’s entire body went still. You noticed. Because you’d started learning him now. And Pope looked at you like you’d just handed him something precious.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, okay.”
The drive to his apartment was quiet.
Pope drove one-handed, occasionally glancing toward you like he was checking to make sure you were still there. The apartment complex itself surprised you.
Small. Quiet. Nothing flashy.
Inside surprised you even more. Everything was spotless. Painfully spotless. You stepped inside slowly while Pope locked the door behind you. The apartment looked almost untouched. Counters completely clear. Shoes lined up perfectly near the wall. Blankets folded sharply across the couch. Not a single dish in the sink.
“You actually live like this?” you asked softly. Pope shrugged. “It’s cleaner than a hospital in here.”
“I don’t like mess.” You looked around again. The apartment felt exactly like him somehow. Every object carefully placed where it belonged. Even the air smelled clean.
Pope watched your eyes move around the room intently. Like he cared whether or not you approved.
You smiled faintly. “I like it.”
The tension visibly left his shoulders.
God. That should not have affected you as much as it did. You turned toward him fully then. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For helping me today.”
Pope frowned slightly like the answer was obvious. “You needed help.”
“I know but…” Your throat tightened unexpectedly. “Nobody’s ever really done something like that for me before.”
Pope stared at you so intensely your chest warmed. “You don’t gotta thank me for taking care of you.” There it was again. That dangerous kind of devotion sitting quietly beneath everything he said.
You swallowed hard. Pope’s eyes immediately dropped to your throat moving. Jesus Christ. The man stared like it physically hurt him not to touch you. “You can shower if you want,” he said suddenly. “I’ll find you clothes.” You nodded quickly mostly because you needed a second to breathe.
The bathroom was just as obsessively clean as the rest of the apartment. White towels folded perfectly. Everything organized. You caught yourself smiling slightly while turning on the shower. Of course Pope folded towels properly.
You stripped slowly, exhaustion finally crashing into your body as steam filled the room. The hot water felt almost painful against your skin at first. You closed your eyes beneath the spray immediately. For the first time all day, your brain quieted.
A soft knock sounded faintly through the bathroom. You barely heard it over the water. “Bambi?” Pope’s voice.
You called back weakly, “Yeah?”
“I got clothes for you.”
You hummed something unintelligible, eyes still closed beneath the water. A second later the bathroom door opened quietly. Pope stepped inside carefully holding a folded shirt and sweatpants. Then he froze. The glass shower door was partially translucent from the steam. Enough to see your silhouette beneath the water. Your head tilted back slightly. Wet hair slicked against your shoulders. Water tracing down your body slowly. Pope stopped breathing for a second.
You didn’t notice him immediately. Eyes still closed while water poured over your face. Pope should’ve left. Instead he stood there completely motionless staring through the steam like a man starving to death. His jaw flexed once hard enough to hurt.
Then you opened your eyes. And saw him.
For one suspended second neither of you moved. Pope looked almost caught.
Your heart started pounding instantly. But you weren’t scared. Not even a little. Because it was Andrew. Obsessive, strange, intense Andrew who looked at you like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing.
Slowly, you reached forward and pulled the shower door open wider. Steam curled out into the bathroom. Pope stared at you silently. Water dripped down your skin while his eyes moved over you openly now. No pretending otherwise.
Your voice came out soft. “You gonna just stand there?”
Pope swallowed hard. “You want me to come in there?”
You stepped closer instead of answering. Close enough now that steam dampened the front of his shirt. Then your fingers curled around the front of it gently and pulled. Pope came willingly. The second he stepped beneath the hot water, your mouths crashed together hard.
It wasn’t soft. Weeks of tension snapped all at once.
Pope kissed like he thought about it constantly. Hands immediately gripping your waist hard enough to bruise while yours tangled into his damp hair. A low sound left his throat when you kissed him back harder.
“You sure?” he murmured roughly against your mouth.
You answered by dragging his shirt upward impatiently. That nearly killed him. Pope pulled back just enough to yank the shirt over his head before grabbing your face again immediately. His hands were everywhere now. Like he couldn’t decide where he wanted to touch you most.
Your chest. Your waist. Your thighs. Always pulling you closer. Always needing more.
You kissed down his jaw while your fingers worked open his belt beneath the spray of water. Pope’s breathing turned uneven instantly. “Bambi,” he muttered warningly. But his hands tightened against you anyway.
You looked up at him through wet lashes. The eye contact alone almost destroyed him. Because Pope loved your eye contact. Loved seeing exactly what you felt while touching him.
You pushed his jeans down just enough to make him curse softly under his breath before his mouth found yours again harder this time. The steam thickened around both of you while water poured over his shoulders. Everything about him felt overwhelming up close. Big hands. Heavy breathing. The intensity. Even kissing you, Pope watched your face constantly like he needed every reaction. “You’re so pretty,” he whispered suddenly against your mouth.
The sincerity in it made heat rush through you instantly. Pure Andrew.
Your fingers slid across his chest slowly and Pope actually shivered beneath your touch. That realization alone nearly made you dizzy. Because this terrifying man, this obsessive, dangerous Cody, looked completely undone by you touching him back. His hands stayed locked around your waist beneath the spray of hot water while your mouths moved together desperately, steam thickening the air around both of you until breathing felt difficult. Not because of the heat. Because of him. Because every time you touched him, Pope reacted like it meant something.
Your fingers slid through his wet hair and his entire body tensed instantly. A rough sound left his throat before he kissed you harder, backing you slowly against the cool shower wall. “Andrew,” you breathed against his mouth. His forehead dropped briefly against yours while he stared at your face through wet lashes, breathing uneven.
“You keep doing that,” he murmured.
“What?”
“Calling me that.”
You smiled softly. “Well do you like it.”
“Yes.” Always honest. You laughed quietly and Pope’s eyes locked onto your mouth again instantly. Like he couldn’t help himself. The intensity of it made your stomach twist pleasantly. Water ran down his chest while your hands moved lower, tracing slowly across muscle and scar tissue. Pope shivered again beneath your touch and the realization almost drove you insane. This terrifying man who scared half of Oceanside looked completely undone just from you touching him gently. Pope suddenly grabbed your thighs without warning. You gasped softly as he lifted you effortlessly against him. His mouth found yours again immediately. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively while his hands held you securely like he never wanted to put you down again. Which honestly,
he probably didn’t.
Pope kissed down your jaw slowly before pressing his face briefly against your neck. Not even kissing for a second. Just breathing you in. The intimacy of it made your chest ache. Then suddenly he pulled back just enough to look at you again. Really look at you. Water dripped from his dark hair into his eyes but he barely blinked.“You wanna stop?” he asked quietly.
The question caught you off guard. Because despite all the intensity, all the possessiveness simmering beneath his skin Pope had been careful with you from the beginning.
You shook your head immediately. “No.”
Pope stared one second longer like he needed to make absolutely sure. Then he kissed you again and carried you straight out of the shower. You laughed breathlessly against his mouth as water dripped onto the bathroom floor.
“Andrew…”
He barely let you finish speaking before pushing open the bedroom door. The room matched the rest of the apartment perfectly. You didn’t even fully process it before Pope lowered you onto the mattress and climbed over you immediately. The second your back hit the sheets, something in him snapped. Like having you in his bed meant more than it should. His large hands slid beneath your thighs while he kissed you deeper, slower now, finally able to touch you without interruption.
You tugged him closer instantly. Pope practically groaned into your mouth. “You want me close,” he muttered against your lips almost like he was amazed by it.
“Yes.” His eyes flashed dark immediately. Pope loved hearing that. Loved anything that sounded like you choosing him. He kissed you again rougher this time while his hands moved over your body constantly. Your waist. Your hips. Your stomach. Like he couldn’t stop touching you long enough to think straight. Pope kept pulling back just enough to look at you. Watching your face every time you touched him. Every little sound you made. Every reaction. It was almost overwhelming how focused he was on you.
You reached up brushing damp hair back from his forehead gently. Pope froze for half a second. “What?” you whispered.
“You’re…” He swallowed hard. “You’re nice to me.”
The quiet sincerity behind the words hurt your chest unexpectedly. Like he genuinely wasn’t used to tenderness. You touched his face softer this time. “Andrew.”
His eyes shut briefly. You realized suddenly that Pope Cody would probably let you ruin him completely if you asked. The thought hit hard. Because underneath all the danger and obsession and intensity Pope was touch-starved in a way that felt almost painful. Every gentle touch visibly affected him. Every kiss. Every time your fingers dragged through his hair or across his shoulders. He reacted like he’d remember it forever.
Your hands slid down his chest slowly while he kissed along your throat, breathing rough and uneven against your skin.
“You smell good,” he murmured distractedly.
You laughed softly. “That’s a weird thing to say during a makeout.”
“I know.” Again with the honesty.
You smiled into another kiss while Pope’s hand tightened slightly against your waist. Like he physically needed to keep part of you underneath his hand at all times. His mouth moved slower now, deeper, tension simmering heavy between you both while the room stayed quiet except for uneven breathing and the occasional creak of the mattress beneath his weight. His mouth broke from yours only long enough to drag his lips down the line of your jaw, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear. The sound you made, breathless, broken, pulled a low hum of approval from his chest. Pope's hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, pressing you harder against him until there was nothing between you and the heat radiating off his body. “You have no idea,” he murmured against your neck, voice rougher than it had been moments ago, "how long I've been thinking about this."
You tilted your head back, giving him more space, and he took it without hesitation, tongue tracing down your throat, teeth sinking just enough to make you gasp. His other hand came up to cup your jaw, tilting your face so he could look at you. Those dark eyes, half-lidded and burning, swept over your expression like he was memorizing every detail. “I need you to understand something first.” His thumb traced over your lower lip, tugging it down just slightly. “If we do this-“ He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “You belong to me. Not for tonight. Not for the weekend. You’re mine. You understand?”
The possessiveness in his voice sent a shiver straight through you, pooling heat low in your belly. You nodded, breath catching, and he shook his head slowly.
“Words, sweetheart. I need to hear you say it.”
“Yes,” you whispered, voice steadier than you expected. “I understand. I'm yours.”Something flickered in his gaze, satisfaction, hunger, and a tenderness that made your chest ache. His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, pulling you into another kiss that wasn't gentle. It was claiming. His tongue swept into your mouth, and you moaned against him, fingers curling into muscle. He pulled back just enough to look at you again, breath mingling. “Such a good girl.” The words hit you like a live wire.
Pope’s hands cupped your breasts letting his knuckles drag across your skin as he went. His eyes dropped to your chest, and he let out a slow exhale. “Fuck,” he breathed. “You're so gorgeous.”
He didn't rush. His mouth followed the path his hands had taken, kissing down your collarbone, over the swell of your breasts, tongue circling your nipple and your back arched off the mattress. He sucked hard, then softer, then hard again, switching between the two until you were writhing beneath him, fingers tangled in his curly hair. His hand moved to your other breast, thumb rolling over the peak while his tongue worked the first.
“Please,” you gasped.
“Please what?” He lifted his head, dark eyes finding yours. His lips were wet, his jaw tight with restraint.
“Please-I need-“ You didn’t know what you needed.
“I know what you need.” His hand slid down your stomach, fingers circling your hip bone. “But I want to hear you say it.”
You swallowed, heat flooding your cheeks even as your hips bucked into his touch. “I need you inside me, Andy.”
The name, Andy, did something to him. His pupils dilated, his breath caught, and for a second he just stared at you like you'd given him something precious. “Say it again,”he commanded, voice rough.
“Andy.”
His mouth crashed into yours, hungry and desperate, and his hand finally, finally, slipped further fingers sliding through slick heat. He groaned into your mouth when he felt how wet you were. “That's for me,” he muttered against your lips. “All this, just for me.”
You nodded frantically, and he rewarded you by pressing two fingers inside you without warning. A cry tore from your throat, not pain, but pleasure sharp enough to make your vision blur. He curled them, found that spot immediately, and your hips jerked.
“Yeah,” he breathed, watching your face. “Right there. I know.” He worked you slowly at first, dragging his fingers in and out while his thumb pressed against your clit in tight circles. Your hands gripped the sheets, your moans growing louder, more broken, until you felt that familiar tension coiling in your gut.
“m’close,”you whimpered.
Pope shook his head, pulling his fingers out. “Not yet. I want to feel you come on my cock.” Your whine of protest died in your throat when he sat back on his knees, eyes fixed on you as he stroked his hard cock, and you watched, transfixed, as his head fell back and he let out such a deep groan. He was hard, thick, the tip already glistening. Your mouth went dry. Pope tightened his hand around his shaft, stroking once, twice, moving his head so. he never broke eye contact with you. “You want this?”
“Yes, fuck-yes, Andy.”
He leaned over you, bracing one hand beside your head while the other guided his cock to your entrance. He didn't push in, not yet. He just let the head rest against you, teasing, letting you feel the heat and the pressure. “Tell me you're mine.”
“I'm yours.” Your voice cracked, desperate. “I'm yours, Andy. Please-“
He pushed in. Slow. Impossibly slow. Every inch of him stretching you open, filling you until you couldn't breathe. Your eyes rolled back, a strangled moan escaping your lips. He paused when he was fully sheathed, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed to yours. “Fuck,” he whispered, voice shaking. “You feel-fuck.” He started moving. Long, deep strokes that hit exactly where you needed him. His pace was steady, controlled, each thrust a deliberate claim. Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groaned at the angle. “Yeah, just like that.”
One of his hands found yours, fingers interlacing, pinning it to the mattress beside your head. His other hand, you saw it twitch toward your throat, saw the want flash in his eyes, and you tilted your chin up in silent invitation. But he pulled his hand back, gripping your hip instead.
“I can't,” he said, voice strained. “I can't, God, I want to, but I can't stand the idea of hurting you.”
“It wouldn't hurt me,” you breathed. “I want it.”
“I know you do.” His thrusts grew harder, faster, chasing his own edge. “But I won't. I'll give you everything else, every fucking thing, but not that.”
You wanted to argue, but the way he was fucking you made any thoughts impossible. He angled his hips, and suddenly he was hitting a spot that sent electricity through your entire body. Your nails dug into his back, and he hissed in pleasure.
“That's it. Let me feel you.” The pressure built again, faster this time, and your mouth fell open in a cry. Pope watched your face, drinking in every expression, and when your eyes welled with tears, from the intensity, from the sheer overwhelming pleasure, his breath stuttered. “Fuck,” he groaned, his rhythm faltering. “Look at you. Crying on my cock.”
The tears spilled over, tracking down your temples into your hair. He lowered his head and licked one off your cheekbone, the gesture strangely tender in the midst of the brutality of his thrusts.
“You're so beautiful like this,” he murmured. “So perfect. I want you to come. I want to feel you squeeze me.” His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing in tight, fast circles. That was all it took. The orgasm crashed through you, violent and consuming, your body arching off the bed as a broken scream tore from your throat. Pope kept moving through it, fucking you through the aftershocks, groaning as your walls clenched around him. “That's it,” he panted. “Fuck, that's it.”
He didn't stop, couldn't stop. He flipped you onto your stomach in one smooth motion, pulling your hips up and entering you from behind. The new angle was deeper, harder, and you buried your face in the pillow to muffle your cries as he took you apart. His hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back just enough so he could lean down and speak against your ear.
“You're taking me so well. You feel that? That's me inside you. No one else. Ever.”
Words failed you. All you could do was moan and push back against him. His pace grew erratic, his grip on your hip bruising. “I'm gonna come inside you. Fill you up. You want that?”
“Yes-yes, Andy, please-“
His hand slid around to your front, fingers pressing against your clit again, and you felt a second orgasm building, impossibly fast.
“Come with me,” he commanded. “Now.”
Your body obeyed. The second wave hit as he drove into you one last time, burying himself deep, his groan long and guttural as he spilled inside you. Hot pulses of release filling you, and you felt every one.
He collapsed forward, chest heaving against your back, his lips pressing lazy kisses to your shoulder. Neither of you moved for a long moment, just breathing, just existing in the aftermath.
Finally, he pulled out slowly, and you felt the warmth of his cum trickling down your thigh. He turned you over gently, gathering you into his arms, his hand stroking your hair with a tenderness that made your eyes well up again. “You okay?” he asked softly.
You nodded, voice gone. Pope stayed wrapped around you for a long moment afterward, both of you breathing hard in the dark quiet of his apartment. The room smelled faintly like steam and laundry detergent and him. His forehead rested against the back of your shoulder while one large hand spread slowly across your stomach, almost absentmindedly keeping you pulled tightly against his chest. Like he physically couldn’t let go yet.
Finally, he shifted carefully, easing you up the sheets. His movements slowed immediately the second he saw your face twist slightly from sensitivity. Instant concern. “You hurt?” he asked softly.
“No,” you whispered quickly. “No, I’m okay.”
Pope searched your expression another few seconds anyway. Making sure. Then he leaned down pressing a slow kiss against your forehead before reaching toward the nightstand for a towel. The tenderness of it nearly undid you. He cleaned you up carefully, almost shy despite everything that had happened minutes earlier. Every time you flinched slightly from sensitivity, his hand smoothed automatically over your thigh or stomach in silent apology.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked again.
You nodded, throat tight. Pope noticed immediately. “You’re crying.”
You touched beneath your eye in surprise.
God. You were.
“I don’t know why,” you admitted quietly.
Pope’s expression softened instantly. He climbed back beside you without hesitation and pulled you into his chest again, one arm wrapping tightly around your waist while the other hand moved slowly through your damp hair. The repetitive motion felt calming immediately. Safe. “Do you regret it?” he asked after a moment.
Your head lifted quickly. “No.” The answer came so fast it visibly affected him. Relief crossed his face so openly it hurt your chest “No,” you repeated softer this time. “Not even a little.”
Pope stared down at you in silence. Then his hand moved gently across your cheek. “You sure?”
You nodded. And maybe it was emotional exhaustion or the intimacy of being held like this, but suddenly your chest ached with it. Nobody had ever touched you like Pope did. Like your comfort mattered more than his own. Like he was constantly paying attention. You curled closer instinctively beneath the blankets. Pope immediately tightened his arm around you. His eyes dropped toward the top of your head where it rested against his chest. “You fit good there,” he murmured quietly.
You laughed softly against his skin. “That’s such an Andrew thing to say.” The second the name left your mouth, his fingers tightened slightly in your hair. He loved that name from you. Loved it in that deep quiet way he loved everything involving you “Y’know you’re the only one who calls me that,” he said.
“Is that okay?”
“Yes.”
You tilted your head up enough to look at him. Pope was already staring back down at you. Of course he was. You smiled sleepily. “You stare a lot after sex too, huh?”
“I stare at you all the time.”
You laughed quietly and his expression softened watching it happen.
For a while neither of you spoke. Pope kept tracing slow patterns against your back beneath the blankets while you listened to his heartbeat under your ear.
Titus has humanity at his fingertips, and yet, he finds himself appealing to worship you and your slick, swollen cunt. He bows his head to confess it as his gospel truth: He is yours, and you are his. The unparalleled abstinence that he has rehearsed his whole life is spurned and scorched away each time he immerses himself between your thighs — both before and after he spills himself. His orgasm is onslaught, hot, and now nestled deep inside your pussy. Titus is nothing less than potent, consumed by (and consuming) his own power – it is only just that he is infatuated by his own taste as well.
He pivots himself down between the plush of your thighs, pressing them up against your tummy in a fitted position for access. The absence of patience and placidity allows him to pry his tongue inside of you immediately. Titus relishes and reveres in the amalgamated flavors of your sweetness and his own salted, slick load. It’s already seeping out of your puffy pussy in thick rivulets when he takes the first slurp. His tongue presses in harsh, sharp laps against your swelled-up clit as if he’s gauging the give of your flesh. Each hot suckle on your bud leads to your soft, overwrought cunt to clench on nothing, gushing out more of his hot semen from your hole. His wet tongue slips through folds to gather more of your sticky, creamy mess, before his nose nudges into your throbbing clit. Titus begins to cram his tongue into you, groaning as he fucks it up and against your walls just to taste more of the heated arousal and semen that coats you on the inside.
His big, thick hands keep you speared open to his mouth, spreading your ass cheeks to fit more of his wet muscle deeper into your sticky, clenching cunt. It never takes long for you to writhe and whine, cumming once again from his precision, sucking up the palate that your pussy offers to him. Titus is relentless in every shudder-inducing stroke of his tongue, his fingers biting into thighs when you kick, cry out, and nearly end up sobbing from overstimulation. The silk sheets below you are utterly soiled with the sloppy, shared mess of the two of you. He moans into your pussy when he is temporarily sated of the flavor of himself and his sweet girl. His sweat-damp chest presses flush on yours when he lays his weight upon you once again, smirking with sin at his ability to make his little girl pant and sob with pleasure. He roughly palms your chin, spitting into your parted mouth, before fucking his tongue inside of there, too. You can feel his silver scruff, scratching and slick now against your face with each sordid, harsh press of his lips. Titus licks at the roof of your mouth, gnashing his teeth, as if he’s attempting to make you swallow him whole – and in essence, you are, with each exchange leaving your saliva to taste tart with your cum and his semen alike.
When he detaches, he remains only a breath away to intone to your lips. “Taste that? Hm? Can you taste your father on your tongue?”
Titus breathes harshly, licking at the drool that seeps down your chin. “Every time I fuck you, you should. Should remember it. How we taste together afterwards.”
When you tearily nod in assurance, his grip on your jaw only grows taut, tightening in his silent demand for your voice. And you do, surrendering so sweetly.
resident!reader x mean!jack i’m having fun on here! pls lmk what you think! feedback is sooo welcome since this is new to me (just be nice okay?😣this honestly could be shit) i couldn’t put the pen down after being sooo freaked out💔so if it sounds like i was just horny as hell writing this it’s because i was!
description: trying to cut ties with jack abbot isn’t easy. if it wasn’t because of how handsome he was, or how well he treated you when he wanted to, it was because he was stubborn. and being ex-military only reinforced that because well, he wasn’t a quitter either. whatever jack wanted, he didn't let go of.
cw: cnc (?), manipulation, overstim, pussy slapping, toxic situationship, honestly jack just being a bit of an asshole
you and jack had been "seeing each other" or sleeping around for the better part of 8 months. it first started with little touches. you were a new resident at the pitt, on night shift your first rotation. his hand would find the small of your back as he rounded you in the halls. fingers grazing yours as he’d pass you papers... you thought he was just like that, being an old flirt. it always made your chest flare because you thought you weren’t special. you’d seen how he looked at samira, or any of the pretty night shift nurses you also worked with. but you came to realize that the touching- only seemed to be with you. at first, you didn’t like how much it affected you. how desire soaked through your panties every shift. how your pussy clenched over nothing at his voice, and how cliche to... what? have a crush on a superior, double your age? you knew better than that. you told yourself that it's just downright inappropriate. but privately, you wanted to see how far he’d go. memorizing the feel of his worn hands, the occasional warm press of his front against your back, the euphoric sear of his watchful eyes. you only wondered "does dr. jack abbot follow through?"
he continued this way for a while. it was cruel. your heart doing flips seeing the excuses he’d make just to feel you. like coincidentally kneeling down to tie his shoe next to you charting at the hub. lifting his magnificent hazels to say “may i?” before using your thigh as a propping up point. your breathing had stopped mid-type as jack gave you a domineering squeeze through your bottoms. dizzied by the way he got up and walked away without so much as a glance. he took moments when he wanted and you let him.
after weeks, jack had staked a claim you didn’t know was up for discussion. he got to hold you at the precipice, always probing, testing, getting a rile out of you all while he what? left things just at that? you went from enjoying the little things to going insane wondering when he would just fuck you already. did he just want to play? you, the new toy that came in? you grew impatient, too wet and needy for it to all just be foreplay with no action. he knew what he was doing. you mentally iced him out for neglecting the boundaries of teasing and deliberate want. but that was his job wasn't it? always to tell, never to ask? so when jack finally told you to follow him into the on-call room one day, you did. and when he clicked the door shut, you bent to every order he had to give.
so until now, for months of fucked out bliss, it’s been fun. you're young, he's hot, and he makes you orgasm like no guys your age. but you’re realizing that being young doesn’t mean that your love life has to just stop at fun. you deserve dates, being out in public, being in a relationship. but being that in almost a year of it not going anywhere in that direction… you decided it was time to cut ties.
today, you came over to retrieve a favorite bra that jack had bought of course that was forgotten after haphazardly throwing it across the room during one of your… regular activities. so if you were going to come by collecting things, you thought this maybe would be the best time to lay out how you feel.
jack wasn’t taking it well.
“sooo you what? want to stop having sex?” he muses mindlessly, continuing to fold laundry laid out on his couch. you hated how casual he was being.
“no jack, i just, i- i want to be wined and dined. taken out on a date. i want to be someone’s girlfriend, jack. not just someone you fuck.” talking down at him as you stand in his living room, wishing he would address you fully.
a smile creeps up onto his face, but he keeps his head down as he scoffs, “i thought we were just keeping it light sweetheart” you’re starting to get pissed off now. he thinks this is funny.
"yeah well- it's not cutting it anymore" you spit.
he finally turns up at this.
"so you're not satisfied?" scarily just tilting his head to the side.
does he not listen?
"no jack. i'm not- i want- i need more. and if you can't give it, i'm out."
you make for his dinner table, ready to gather your things and get the hell out of his apartment. jack rises from the couch, pushing the remainder of his laundry to the side as he does. traipsing over to you, he stops with his arms crossed. watching you throw all your things into your bag.
“you wanna go so bad? fine” he sighs, then presses up behind you hovering above your ear.
“but if i were to put my hand down your panties, would I feel how badly you’d want to stay?”
fuck.
your breath evades you. he’s now gripped your waist to keep you standing there in a bruising hold. you're too scared to utter a word because you know he’s right. you feel the dampening between your thighs, wishing your body wouldn’t betray you as you’re trying to prove a point.
he dips his hand below the waistband of your bottoms. slowly drawing his fingers past your clit. a knowing snicker reverberates behind you. you can feel him start grin into your hair. his hand painfully pushing through your slick folds before teasing at your entrance. only to cruelly pull out in an instant.
“tsk. tsk.” he tuts, bringing now coated fingers to his mouth behind you. only hearing the wet sounds of him sucking off every drop of you.
“hm, doesn’t taste like you're not satisfied anymore.”
his hand on your waist leaves to pet your head now, he’s toying with you again.
“you wanna taste too so you can tell me?” he taunts.
you suck in a breath, tired of playing around.
“alright jack, quit it” you huff, trying to sound more convincing than you feel. shifting to free yourself from his grip, you reach for your things again but jack's too quick. he yanks you into his arms and picks you up by your hips.
"put me down i swear to god!" you yelp.
he then shoves you into his lap as he falls back onto the couch, using his strong hands to force your thighs on top of his. moving one of his hands to wrap around your throat, pinning you there against him.
“fuck you, let me go!” you squeak, it's a weak attempt, you've already learned in the past how much stronger he is than you.
he just laughs. using his free hand, he tugs down your leggings and underwear in one go, tossing them across the floor. jack then cups his hands below your mouth.
"spit."
"fuck you!" you hiss, continuing to struggle against his grip on your neck. straining your legs to try and stand up.
SMACK! jack delivers a cracking blow to your glossy cunt. you cry out at the sensation and clench at the stinging of your clit.
"cmon sweetie," he hums "you know this can only go one way, now spit." bringing his hand back under your mouth.
you whimper in discontent and resentfully spit into his palm. letting the strings of saliva dribble from your lip.
"there you go, wasn't so hard was it" he probes, massaging his fingers and palm together to lather before hovering them over your clit. you suck in a breath as he begins to work. you groan at the contact. goddamnit. rolling his thumb over the swelling nub as his other digits play with your folds. a familiar warmth quickly builds below your stomach. he starts to pick up the pace and you whine.
“you aren’t through with me until i say so. you understand?” he murmurs into your ear.
you just nod as he berates your bud. trying to focus on the buzz of pleasure growing on your skin until he delivers another sharp slap to your cunt.
"ungh! jack! god!"
“i said do you understand baby" he grunts, continuing his assault on your sopping pussy.
“y-yes!”
he slaps again and you cry out.
“yes who?”
“yes jack, please!" you feel him smile again when he takes his index and middle finger, plunging them inside you without warning. curling at the angle he knows too well, you feel an orgasm already nearing. your previous anger washes away with hunger. you could care less now about a dinner or a date, you want to cum and jack will always give you that.
"awe baby what's a matter? getting close? i know, i know, i've got you." he coos, adding a third finger and pushing even deeper into your core. at that, you fall apart. pussy grasping around him as he continues to pump tip to knuckle all the way in. the sloppy sounds of him working you fill his living room. and he won't stop. as you ride out the mountain of pleasure, jack seems focused on getting you to climb again. scissoring and curling this thick fingers not giving you any reprieve as your pussy reels with sensitivity.
you’re convulsing against him now like some animal caught in a trap. ecstasy climbing all the way through your system. garbled noises flowing out of you as jack keeps his hand to your throat, squeezing enough to cut your air supply and keep you upright as you lose control.
you come again, eyes rolling back unsure if you're even thinking right now, just feeling. it’s like you’re outside of your body just witnessing the constant attack on your pussy. and how much you keep crashing over and over on his hand.
“now, you have anything to say to me hm?” you think you know where he's going with this but you're so fucked out you just shake your head. jack's hand pulls out of you, drawing a mangled gasp from your lips. fingers glistening, he begins to tap now flat handed onto your poor abused clit.
"tell me you didn't mean what you said sweetheart." he's being almost saccharine while dragging you through torment.
“i’m-" you’re grasping at straws to speak under the strain of trying to breathe with exertion “i'm sorry I didn’t- mm” you’re mewling too much to even string together a sentence.
“awe cmon you can try harder than that.” he coos, tapping lighter, feeling your arousal become tacky on your vulnerable bud.
you’re starting to cry now, it’s all too much. it feels so good and you can’t get enough but your body is giving out. growing into sobs because, he’s antagonizing you. you start to feel the next peak coming and you don’t even know if you’ll be able to stay conscious for it.
suddenly, jack lets go of your throat and leans forward deeply. your weak body tilting forward towards the ground, your ass now up in jacks lap, your arms bracing you below by his feet.
"please! jack no! i can't!" you wail, you're too tender now. you can't take any more.
“hun, didn’t you just learn that you can’t say no to me?”
jack snaps your hips up with his strong arms, pulling your ass to him and buries his face into your puffy cunt. sobs stream out of you. fat tears pour from your eyes. everything is fuzzy. vision blurring by the long laps of his tongue over your swollen nub and down your slit. another wave beginning to blossom inside. he's making primal sounds. devouring and gnashing at your whole being. stubble scratching at your folds. tongue dipping in like you're a pot of honey.
“i just need one more from you baby, you can do it for me.” he muffles against your rawness.
then and there you fall into another orgasm, shaking limbs folding as jack's form keeps you from falling to the floor. tactfully raising you up by your bent waist and onto the couch as you twitch in pleasure. the first kind thing he’s done tonight. smoothing your hair, he dips down to place a kiss on your head. jack then stands up from the couch, and whispers “now get yourself cleaned up we’re going to dinner.”
random thought but… stepdad!König fucking reader after finding out they wanna be in a relationship with him and saying “I’m going to marry you” or “I’ll make you mine one day” or smth like that. 🤭 and dbf!Horangi just kinda agreeing with him while sandwiching reader from the back, already having an idea of being the husband’s best friend that fucks his wifey 💝💝💝
—🎀—
Gah- that pink bow has my heart😵💫
cw: smut, STEPCEST, DUB-CON, creampie, sex marathon?, phone sex? Double penetration, p in v, breeding kink, pregnancy kink, cheating, marriage, tell me if I missed any.
For a second, he forgot how to breathe, his knees weak and fingers twitching, his cheeks flushed with the joy he felt. Your little confession riled him up, your sweet tears and pout gave him the hardest erection he’d ever lived. Sweet, innocent words that would’ve seemed blasphemous to any other, sounded erotic, making his blood boil and arousal simmer under his skin. It worked through his body with tight and rushing pleasure, pumping blood down to his engorged cock and heavy balls.
“I want you,” sealed the deal, commanding his body to pound you into your bed, make you forget you ever had a life without him - he promised it.
And promised he did, he fucked you all day, pressing you down on your bed, folding you in half as keened loudly. The bed creaked and the wooden headboard slamming into the wall behind it with every rock of his hips, fingers gripping your soft bedsheets and toes curling over his shoulder. You were stuck beneath him until the time he knew your mother would be back, taking every moment he had to watch his cock push in you and back out with a ring of cum and slick around his thick cock.
At first, he took you alone, slamming into your while you mewled out, your sweet sounds reaching the hungry ears of your neighbour on the phone. König had called Horangi in a blur, his mirth infectious, making Horangi happy, chuckling out praises to you and giving his word that he’d come by after his exercise at the gym. Your stepdad kept his friend on the phone, the Korean wearing EarPods during his whole course, working out with his cock throbbing and pushing against his shorts.
An hour in, waking up after you passed out in pleasure, eyes rolled to the back of your head in white pleasure, Horangi made himself home, naked and kneeling between your thighs. You let out a surprised moan, back arching when he drove his tongue inside your twitching hole, his thumb rolling your sensitive clit. He took his take taking you apart, watching you flay and cream all over him, covering is face with slick.
Near delirious and body oversensitive, you felt them push into you, softly alternating between both cocks stuffing your stretched cunt. You were trapped between them, body pushed back and fourth, feeling them fill you up, bottoming out, balls slapping the other man, pulling out to the tip and slamming back in. You bucked your hips, chasing their cocks, nails digging into Horangi’s shoulder, gasping and moaning with your legs spread open by König’s hands.
“I’ll marry you, ja, Schatz?” König growled, pumping you full of cum, womb stuffed full with his and Horangi’s charged load. “Breed you and make you mine.”
“Fuck, I can’t wait to suck your tits,” Horangi couldn’t stop himself from agreeing, mind conjuring every image of your swollen stomach and wobbling walk. “Drink your sweet milk.”
“Do you want that, Schnucki?”
All you could do was nod, throat sore from screaming and body limp in your stepfather’s arms, your eyes were heavy chest puffing with loud, exhausted breaths. You liked their idea, marrying, breeding, becoming theirs, perhaps their delusions finally got to you.
im thinking of jack waking reader up with sex?? or like taking care of reader when they start getting subby during rough sex?? 🗣️
also your writing is actually insane thank you for your service 🫡🫡
omg yes to both. idk how this got so filthy im sorry
perv!bf!jack abbot x fem!reader.
18+ MDNI! | content warnings: daddy kink, use of little one and eventually dada, DUBCON, somno (? he wakes reader up by groping them), a little name calling and a little praise, jack gets mean and rough for a second, a singular spank
but jack would wake you up with sex that pervy old man :( gets home from his night shift at like 8am and you're still tucked in his sheets all warm and cozy. the perfect prize at the end of a hard shift.
before he can stop himself, one of his hands is sliding under the hem of your shirt to grip at bare skin.
"little one," he murmurs gruffly into your ear. "wake up for me."
"mmmn— jack?" you stir with a whine.
"yeah, 's just me, baby. daddy's home." he kisses and gropes you for a while, stealing your heat while you whine and gasp under him: "wanna take care a'you. 'm all cold, warm me up, pretty one."
you're immediately fussy and grumpy at being woken up just to be pawed at. "nooo," you grumble.
he hums with amusement at that whining, the way you sound all groggy and bitchy and adorable. he knows you can get cranky when he wakes you up so early, but he can't resist the urge to rile you up right now. he squeezes the bare skin of your side, the one that he knows is a little ticklish. "come on, princess, wake up for daddy."
"whyyy?" you whine, burying your face in his neck as your legs kick in frustration.
"'cause daddy said so," he rumbles against your ear before nipping gently at the shell of it with his teeth. "he wants your sweet pussy right now."
"why now?" you whine again, petulant and overtired as you writhe in his arms.
"because i've been waiting for this all night," he seethes, his patience with your protests growing thin. his hand drags up to pinch at the soft curve of your ass through the fabric of your panties before adding gruffly: "... and 'cause i know my little one likes it when her daddy tells her what to do."
and it's true. you can't really deny that at all, that you're loving this as much as he is. "... okay," you acquiesce limply.
"good girl," jack practically growls, triumphant and impatient, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties and yanking them down your thighs. "that wasn't so hard now, was it? bein' all bitchy for no reason, lemme show you what i want." his palm smacks against your bare ass once, making you yelp, before sliding between your thighs with a deep groan.
"goddamn," he mutters as his thumb drags between your dripping folds, the wet squelch louder somehow in the dim room. "why the fuck were you bein' such a brat n puttin' up a fight? you're beggin' for me."
"daddy," you whine, overstimulated already.
"yeah?" jack rasps, watching your face closely as he finds your clit with his thumb, rubbing slow circles over that sweet little spot. "you like it when daddy touches you like this? when i tease my angel 'til she's all messy and needy?"
you huff, kicking against the mattress in indignation. "i'm tired!"
your little kicks just make his grip on you tighten. "yeah, you're tired," he agrees as the edge in his voice darkens into a hypnotic command. "but you're gonna be a good girl and make daddy feel good right now. okay, baby?"
you huff again irritably, feeling a protest form in your throat. jack knows that sound, the way your shoulders tense as you get frustrated, the way your pretty little mouth starts to pout out into a sulk. his hand tightens on your hip.
"hey," he snaps, his tone suddenly rougher, more authoritative. "i asked you a question, little one. you gonna be a good girl for daddy and let him have that sweet pussy?"
"...yeah," you mumble back reluctantly, and that's enough for him. his thumb immediately drags down your slit and nudges at your fluttering cunt, just teasing, before sliding back up to your throbbing clit.
"there's my girl," he mutters as he feels just how wet and sensitive you are for him. his other hand grips your chin to tilt your face up toward his. his gaze is dark, prideful. "now keep them pretty eyes on daddy while i make 'em leak."
jack loves the way you look at him with those wide eyes, all needy and submissive and obedient. he's obsessed with you. your hips begin to rock into his touch, and when you let out those soft, sleepy, shy moans of not daddy, but dada, he grins.
"you gonna make a mess for dada?" he coos, his thumb still circling your achy clit as his eyes burn into yours. he is so madly in love. he leans in close, his lips so close to yours that his breath brushes against your mouth as he speaks. "you gonna make dada proud, little one?"
your whole body shivers. he's making you feel so good that all you're capable of replying is a whimpered "mmmn..."
he lets out a huff of a breath that's almost a laugh as his thumb speeds up, mercifully bringing you closer to your orgasm.
"use your words, baby," he murmurs, the roughness gone from his voice, replaced by something more tender as your body start to shake. "tell dada if you're gonna make him proud."
"... m make you proud," you manage out through a soft gasp as he pushes you over that sweet edge and pleasure makes your vision white out.
⌗ ┆𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐍 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 . ᐟ . . . garrett graham & dean di laurentis
SUMMARY, you and garrett had planned a steamy evening together, only to find out he invited Dean.
A/N, dean and garrett. how can it get any better than that? if you see any writing errors pls message me!
WARNINGS, threesome, p in v, 18+ smut.
The weight room smelled like sweat, rubber mats, and the faint sting of pre-workout powder hanging in the air.
Music blasted through the speakers while hockey players crowded every machine, yelling over each other between sets. Plates clanged against bars, sneakers squeaked against the floor, and somewhere near the treadmills somebody was aggressively failing a bench press.
Garrett Graham sat at the bench press station with his elbows resting on his knees, breathing hard after finishing a set. Sweat darkened the collar of his black compression shirt, curls damp and pushed messily off his forehead.
Dean stood beside the rack spotting him, one hand gripping his water bottle while the other rested lazily against the bar.
“One more rep,” Dean said with a grin. “Unless your muscles finally gave up.”
Garrett shot him an exhausted glare before sitting up straighter. “You talk too much.”
Dean smirked. “And yet you’re still here.”
Garrett ignored that completely, grabbing his towel and wiping the sweat from the back of his neck. But Dean noticed the distracted look on his face immediately.
Garrett kept staring off toward the mirrors like he was thinking too hard about something.
Dean narrowed his eyes slightly. “Alright, what’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s a lie,” Dean replied instantly, taking a sip of water while watching him carefully. “You look like you’re about to ask me for emotional advice.”
Garrett let out a dry laugh under his breath before standing up from the bench. “Look Dean, you’ve been with a good amount of women”
Dean nearly dropped his bottle.
“Oh my God,” he said dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. “I always knew this day would come”
Garrett rolled his eyes and walked toward the dumbbell rack. “This doesn’t leave the weight room. We’re not having this conversation”
Dean followed closely behind him, grin growing wider. “Your secret is safe with me.”
Garrett grabbed two dumbbells harder than necessary. “It’s just that, I really want it to be good for her”
Dean shakes his head “If it’s her first time, she might not cum”
“Not an option. She has to cum” Dean’s eyebrows lifted instantly.
“Respect”
Dean leaned against the rack beside him, still grinning like this was the funniest thing he’d heard all week. “Who is she?”
“No one.” Garrett shook his head in annoyance, but there was the faintest hint of embarrassment written across his face.
Dean noticed that too. Which only made this better.
“Alright,” Dean said finally, calming down slightly. “First of all, don’t be weird.”
Garrett looked offended immediately. “I’m not weird.”
“Well.. there’s one thing that helps a girl cum. The single, most effected, highly recommended, enjoyed by all tools at your disposal” he points at Garrett.
“Trust” he finally lets out.
Garrett opened his mouth to argue before stopping himself.
Dean shrugged casually, spinning his water bottle in his hand. “She’s got to feel completely safe. Relaxed.”
Garrett stayed quiet for a second before finally saying, “She’s your childhood best friend.”
Dean blinked. Then his entire expression changed.
“Oh,” he said slowly. “Her.”
Garrett instantly looked annoyed. “Don’t start.”
Dean laughed softly under his breath, shaking his head. “This makes so much sense now.”
Garrett crossed his arms tightly. “I’m serious.”
Dean studied him for a moment before a knowing grin slowly appeared again.
“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I should probably come with you.”
Garrett frowned slightly. “Why?”
Dean looked at him like the answer was obvious. “Because she’s my childhood best friend.” Garrett stayed silent.
“She’ll be more comfortable if I’m there,” Dean continued casually, leaning one shoulder against the dumbbell rack. “And honestly? You clearly need guidance.”
Garrett scoffed. “I do not.”
Dean laughed immediately. “You absolutely do.” Garrett shook his head while trying not to smile.
Dean pointed at him confidently. “I’ll help you out. I’m doing you a favor.”
-
The knock at your dorm room door made you jump slightly.
You have had been sitting cross-legged on your bed surrounded by color-coded notes and open textbooks, quietly highlighting lines in your philosophy ethics reading when the sound interrupted the silence.
Your roommate was gone for the night, which meant you’d hadn’t been expecting anyone.
Especially not the both of them.
You pushed herself off the bed carefully and opened the door just enough to peek outside.
Garrett Graham was standing right in front of the door.
Your eyebrows lifted immediately.
Not because Garrett was there— but because Dean Di Laurentis stood beside him looking way too comfortable.
Your eyes widened instantly.
“Hey” Dean smiled brightly. “Missed us?”
You blinked at both of them, fingers tightening around the edge of the door. “Um…”
Your gaze flickered between them nervously before landing back on Garrett.
“You brought Dean?”
Garrett opened his mouth, but Dean answered first. “Okay, before you judge him,” Dean said while stepping inside casually, “he asked for my help.”
You moved aside automatically to let them in, though you still looked completely confused as she shut the door behind them.
The second both hockey players stood inside your tiny dorm room, the space suddenly felt painfully smaller.
Garrett’s broad shoulders nearly blocked part of your desk lamp light while Dean immediately made himself at home, tossing an energy drink onto her desk with an easy grin.
You stayed standing near the door awkwardly.
“What kind of help?” you asked quietly.
Garrett looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole already.
Dean, unfortunately, looked thrilled.
“Well,” Dean started proudly, dropping into your desk chair backward, “considering I’ve been with many women—”
Garrett groaned loudly. “Dean.”
“—I know a thing or two on how to pleasure a girl”Dean finished anyway, shrugging casually.
Your cheeks immediately warmed.
“Oh.”
You looked down at the floor for a second, clearly unsure how to respond to that.
Dean noticed instantly and laughed softly. “Relax, sweetheart. We’re gonna take good care of you.”
You watched nervously as both boys moved toward the bed.
Garrett sat first, leaving space between them intentionally. Dean sat on the other side a second later, stretching out comfortably like he’d been there a hundred times before.
You stayed frozen near the desk for a second.
Garrett looked up at you. “Don’t be shy. This is why you asked for my help, remember?”
Your stomach flipped a little at the way he said it so gently.
You climbed onto the bed carefully, sitting stiffly between them.
Garrett’s arm brushing lightly against yours. Dean leaning close enough for you to smell his cologne.
The warmth radiating from both sides of you. It made you nervous in a way you didn’t know how to handle.
“You’re nervous,” he said gently this time. Placing his hands between your thighs.
Your eyes widened instantly. “No—I’m not.”
Garrett glanced sideways at you. clearly unconvinced.
“You don’t have to do this if you’re uncomfortable,” he said quietly. “Seriously.” You shook her head instantly. You wanted this.
Garrett’s eyes dart back to you, a flash of anxious anticipation darting beneath his composed facade. He appears somewhat taken aback for a moment, as if he's questioning whether this is actually happening.
He immediately recognizes the change, and as you lean in and put your lips to his, he smiles confidently and sweetly once more.
Garrett’s eyebrows flare up in shock, and then he's all in, his hand finding the small of your back and drawing you a little closer as the spark between you crackles.
Dean clears his throat, but a grudging smile appears at the corners of his mouth.
As soon as you bite your lip, Garrettt kisses your shoulder and Dean kisses your neck simultaneously. You catch your breath as you feel Garrett’s lips, which are light and warm like a teather. Your breath catches, shallow and irregular. Dean, on the other hand, silently and steadily plants soft kisses along your neck as if he's trying to commit the moment to memory.
With your eyes virtually rolling back, you appreciate the intimacy as you lean into the sensation. Warm fingertips gently rest on Dean’s arm as your other hand strands Garrett’s hair, tense around it, and holds his head against your skin.
A shudder runs down your spine when Garrett’s breath lightly touches your collarbone.
As if to reassure you that you are still here with him, his hand lightly touches your thigh.
You move just enough to slide your top off, causing a gentle rustle of fabric as it falls next to the bed. "Oh my" Garrett pants, his voice low and raspy, heavy with surprise and something desperate, as the breeze brushes over your bare shoulders, cooler than expected and giving you goosebumps.
Dean leans in slowly, his lips meeting yours with a tenderness that quickens your heartbeat.
Garrett’s hands gently touch your breasts as his mouth follows, planting brief, gentle kisses along the sensitive skin that are light enough to send a chill down your spine. His breath caught, and the heat from his palms and the breeze from the ceiling fan caused your nipples to tighten to the point of agony as they strained against your bra's lace.
With his eyes meeting yours, Dean pulls back, breathing in long, deliberate gasps. He maintains eye contact with you for a little while, perhaps requesting permission in silence. The air between you is electric, full of desire and expectation.
You give him the go-ahead with a little nod.
After observing Dean for a while, Garrett chuckles quietly to himself as if he's not going to be outdone. In one fluid action, he pulls his own shirt over his head and tosses it carelessly next to the bed.
Your fingers slowly find the zipper at your hip as you reach lower. The skirt pools at your feet as it slips down with a whisper of cloth against skin.
Unable to resist, Dean moved closer and ran his hand up your thigh, giving you chills. He grabs the lace panties that are on your knees, jerks them off entirely, and puts them in his pocket as you groan softly at his warm fingertips.
As Garrett fully removes your bra, exposing your breasts, you shudder. His mouth clamps onto a nipple. He is hot and eager. One of her hands was flowing through Garrett’s curls, drawing him further to your breasts, while the other was on Dean’s head, whose face was buried between your hips, tending to the aching desire deep within you.
Dean’s tongue licked the stripes between your pussy lips while his warm fingertips caressed your swollen clit with slow, careful circles. "Oh fuck" your hips twitch against his mouth, your back arching off the bed and into Garrett’s heated flesh as you moan as if he were the one getting all the pleasure. Dean raises his head, his chin glistening with your fluids and his own saliva.
They swiftly rise their hips and take off their boxers and pants all at once as your fingers find their waistbands and tug at the cloth.
They were swinging their cocks freely. Hard and pulsating with desire. You take Dean’s in your mouth and down your throat. Meanwhile, your hand goes out to caress Garrett’s cock, using your thin fingers to explore it and your thumb to tease its slippery, sensitive tip.
You alternate between them several times, taking Garrett’s whole length in your mouth, all the way down your throat. Your lips separate around him, hollowing your cheeks so that his hips buck. Dean, meantime, pants and groans while he watches you with Garrett.
Dean eventually positions himself over you, his thighs on either side of your hips, his intense eyes fixed on yours.
He moves, using your heat as lube mixed with his pre-cum, pressing the head of his cock against your folds as your thighs tighten into his sides. He also maintains eye contact.
Fuck.
The feelings were nearly overpowering. You are unable to concentrate on either Garrett’s gentle lips and tongue trailing kisses over your skin or the fire of his hazel eyes blazing through yours.
With a long, steady thrust, Dean’s cock vanishes within your body, causing your head to collapse onto the bed.
"Don't stop" as your hips rise uncontrollably in an attempt to draw Dean closer to you. Your head rolls back as Garrett reaches between your bodies to stroke your swollen clit while kissing your mouth while you groan.
"You're perfect" Dean pants in your ear, causing your face to heat up as he pushes his cock in and out of your sliding pussy.
“Good girl”
Dean’s moaning noises are nearly your downfall as you lick your lip and swallow. You attempt to cling to anything—a strong arm, anything. Dean, engrossed in his own orgasm, pulls you in closer by tightening your legs around his waist.
He hits the sweet spot dip between your hips and you arch off the bed. A broken moan escapes your mouth as you reach your climax. Dean is already spilling deep inside of you, painting your walls white with his cum. "My turn, man. Get off" Garrett spoke.
You were left feeling empty as Dean pulled out, but it didn't take long for you to be stretched out once more, this time with Garrett’s cock and Dean’s come making it easier to reach and move, causing your already delicate body to tremble.
"Harder" you gasp squeezing your thighs around. Garrett’s , eyes rolling back.
"Harder?"
"Yeah" you moaned urging him.
"Shit you like that huh?" He asks, his balls hitting your ass cheeks as he thrusts deeper inside of you in a mocking manner.
You groan, "I love it," as Dean’s tongue marks his territory once more on your neck and his hot, tingly breath touches your skin.
Garrett’s thrusts are slow and deliberate. They had their hands all over the place. Garrett is on your breasts, cupping and squeezing your skin as his breath tickles your ear, while Dean is nibbling on your neck. 
Garrett reaches his climax rapidly.
His raspy "Jesus" is enough to send a chill down your spine and push you over the brink.
After a few minutes, “She’s out,” he said quietly.
Dean stopped immediately, glancing over.
You we’re curled slightly onto your side now, one arm tucked beneath your cheek, and your breathing had slowed enough that it was obvious you’d been asleep for at least a few minutes.
Garrett looked down at you for a second before brushing a few strands of hair carefully away from her face.
“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he said softly, pressing a light kiss against your forehead.
Then Dean leaned down beside him, quieter and more hesitant, like he was still figuring out how to be gentle with someone like you.
“Sleep well,” he murmured before pressing a soft kiss to your forehead too.
a/n: My heart's doing something weird and scary in my chest so I couldn't finish writing pt.2 to "Something to take the edge off", it'll be my next Dean fic but while I get checked up and cleared, here's a little something to read!
Classification: Smut +18 | Oral sex/fingering on the stairs after a win!
Word count: 1,3k
The house was empty and silent, the air thick with the lingering adrenaline of the game and the electric tension that had been building between you and Dean all night. The entryway was bathed in shadows, the only light filtered in from the streetlamps outside, casting long, jagged silhouettes across the walls. You didn't even make it past the foyer before he had you pinned against the wall, his mouth crashing onto yours in a kiss that tasted of victory and desperation.
As he began to guide you both down the stairs, the kiss deepened, tongues dancing in a slow, sensual battle for dominance. Dean’s hands were everywhere, mapping your curves with a possessive urgency as he lowered you onto the carpeted steps, body heavy and warm against yours, trapping you between his muscular frame and the hard edge of the stairs.
You let out a soft moan, hands clutching at his shoulders.
His bedroom was just a few more steps away, a sanctuary of privacy but Dean seemed to have lost all patience. He pulled back just an inch, darkened eyes boring into yours with pupils blown wide with lust.
"If I wait any longer, I'll implode," he rasped, voice a low, gravelly vibration that sent shivers racing down your spine.
His hand slid down, gripping the hem of your dress and scrunching the fabric upward in one fluid motion. The cool air hit your thighs but you were burning up from the inside. Dean couldn’t look away, he kept his gaze locked on yours with an intense, predatory focus that made you feel completely exposed and utterly desired.
As he stared you down, he brought his hand to his mouth and you watched breathless, as he slid two fingers between his lips, coating them in warm saliva. The sight alone made your stomach flip with anticipation. Without breaking eye contact, he reached down and slid those wet fingers beneath the elastic edge of your underwear, driving them deep into your pussy, making your eyelids flutter shut at the intrusion.
"Look at me," he commanded, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Look at me or I'll stop."
You gasped, lips parting as the sudden pressure of his slick fingers made your hips jerk upward.
You obeyed instantly, staring into his eyes, vision already blurring slightly as the pleasure hit you like a wave. Your knees fell open wide, giving him total access as your heels dug into the stairs behind you.
Dean began to move his fingers in a slow, rhythmic curl, hooking them against your G-spot with agonizing precision. He watched your expression, savoring every flicker of pleasure, your dilated pupils and shaky breaths. He wasn't just fucking you with his fingers, he was claiming you and using the eye contact to anchor you to that sensation.
As he increased the pace, his fingers began to slide in and out with a wet, rhythmic slushing sound that was only slightly muffled by the soaked fabric covering the area. The friction was intense, the lubrication of his saliva and your own mounting arousal creating a slippery, visceral heat. You felt the tension building in your lower belly, in a tight coil of need that threatened to snap.
While his hand worked relentlessly between your legs, Dean shifted his weight from where he knelt on the stairs, his other hand coming up to brush against your chest. Through the thin fabric of your dress, he could see your nipples peaking, hard and calling for his attention. He let out a low growl of approval at the sight as he leaned forward, tongue darting out to lick the fabric directly over your nipple, the dampness of his tongue seeping through the cloth.
The combination of the rough fingering and the teasing stimulation of your breasts pushed you toward the edge.
"You're so fucking wet for me," he murmured, fingers driving deeper and faster, stretching you open and preparing you for his cock.
Your breath began to hitch, coming in short, jagged gasps. You were hovering on the precipice of an orgasm, your internal muscles clamping tightly around his fingers in preparation. The slushing sound grew louder and more frantic, as you neared the peak but just as the first wave of the climax began to crash over you, Dean suddenly cursed under his breath and ripped his fingers out of you.
The sudden loss of stimulation left you reeling, a whimpering sound escaping your throat. You looked at him, desperate and aching, as he reached down and hooked his thumbs into your panties, sliding them down your legs and tossing them carelessly onto the stairs.
Dean stared at your exposed pussy, glistening and dripping with juices that smeared against your inner thighs. He looked back up at you and his expression was one of pure, unadulterated hunger.
"I'm so fucking thirsty," he groaned.
Without another word, he dove down, burying his face between your legs and licking you with a ferocity that made you moan openly into the empty house.
Dean didn't just lick you, he devoured you. The moment his face hit your heat, he buried his nose deep into your folds, inhaling your scent with a primal hunger that made your toes curl. His tongue was a weapon, broad and powerful, as he delivered one long, sweeping stroke from your perineum all the way up to your clit, coating you in his saliva.
You let out a loud, shattered whine that echoed through the foyer, fingers digging into his hair and pulling him closer as he began to lap at you with a rhythmic, slurping intensity, tongue swirling around your clit in tight, dizzying circles before suctioning the small nub into his mouth.
The sensation was a concentrated bolt of pleasure that shot straight to your core.
"You taste like fucking heaven," he mumbled against your skin, voice muffled by your pussy.
He shifted his angle, using his chin to press firmly against your pelvic bone while his tongue flicked rapidly against your clit, mimicking the motion of a cock. The speed was relentless. He was slurping your juices with an audible, wet greed, making no effort to be respectful about it.
You were shaking, hips bucking uncontrollably against his face, dress bunched up around your waist as you offered yourself to him completely.
The first orgasm hit you like a freight train. It wasn't a slow build, it was a violent explosion that ripped through your body, making your internal muscles clamp down on nothing as your back arched off the stairs and you wailed his name, still, Dean didn't stop. As your body began to shudder in the afterglow, he doubled down, tongue driving deeper into your pussy, swirling and probing, refusing to let the pleasure fade so fast.
He pushed you right back over the edge before you could even catch your breath. The second orgasm was even more intense, a rolling wave of ecstasy that left you sobbing, legs trembling so hard you could barely keep them open around him. He continued to eat you out with a focused, predatory hunger, tongue working your clit into a frenzy, slurping every drop of cum and juice that leaked from you.
By the third time you peaked, your vision was swimming and your voice was hoarse from so much moaning. You were a shaking, dripping mess on the stairs, completely spent and utterly ruined by his mouth.
As the final tremors subsided and you slumped back against the carpeted steps, gasping for air, Dean finally pulled away. He looked down at you, lips glistening and wet with your cum, a smug, dark satisfaction in his eyes.
Without a word, he reached down and gripped your waist, hoisting you up with effortless strength. In one fluid motion, he flipped you over his shoulder like a piece of luggage. The sudden shift in position made you gasp, your breasts hanging down and your bare ass exposed to the cool air of the stairway.
SMACK!
The sound of his palm connecting with your cheek echoed loudly. He hit your ass hard, leaving a stinging heat that sent a fresh jolt of arousal through your exhausted body. You let out a small, surprised whimper, clutching onto his back as he began to march up the stairs toward his bedroom...intent on fucking you the rest of the way to heaven.
a/n: Comments, likes and reblogs really do mean the world and help more than you know! More stories will be added to the archive soon, so stay tuned for new content. Thank you so much for reading! 🤍
synopsis: Robby starts his apology. Jack learns to keep his mouth shut. your family sucks.
notes/warnings: our girl's going through it still. sorry about that. the groveling begins but Robby's still a little stupid.
wc: 3.1k
Series Masterlist
Chapter Sixteen - Feelin' Myself
wish you luck, won't slow down
i'm coming for my piece of the crown
that man's tough, here's my sound
if you don't like it, then i'm telling you now
You were half-asleep on the couch, the glow from the TV the only light in the room. Your phone buzzed on the table, pulling you fully awake. Jack’s name flashed on the screen and you answered with a smile, your heart doing that traitorous little leap it always seemed to do when he called. “Hey,” you answered, trying not to sound like you’d been dozing. He always felt bad when he woke you up. You shifted on the couch so you were upright and pulled the blanket across your lap after you pulled your legs onto the cushion with you.
“Hey, sweet girl.” His voice was gentle as always, soft. “How are you doing?”
You stared unseeing at the TV. “I’m okay.”
It was the same answer you always gave him. The same lie you told him and yourself every day. Your pain had dulled into something more manageable, but your life was still disrupted, too damaged for you to feel happy with it.
“I was calling because I wanted to see you. Maybe have you over for dinner tomorrow night? I can make your favorite.”
Your grip tightened on the phone as you considered the invitation. “At the house?” you finally asked.
“Yeah.”
“And will Robby be there?”
The silence stretched for a beat, then he said, “That’s the idea.”
“No.” The word came out sharp, irritated.
“No?” He managed to sound almost offended.
“Did I stutter?” You immediately regretted snapping and took a deep breath. “I’m not mad at you. I’m not upset with you. You did nothing wrong. I’m glad you went home and you and Robby made up. But if he wants to fix this, he has to fix it. Not you.”
You could picture him running a hand through his curls, the crease between his eyebrows deepening as he considered his response. “I’m just trying to—”
“Make things easier for him?” you finished for him, though you were positive that wasn’t what he was about to say. “That’s what you do when you love someone. You try to fix things. It’s one of the many things I love about you. But this actually has nothing to do with you. Something you made very clear when you went home. I accepted that and you need to as well. I’m sorry you’re stuck in the middle. If it’s too much, don’t feel like you owe me anything.” The words caught in your throat. “I need to go.”
“Wait—”
You ended the call before he could say anything else and dropped the phone into your lap. You turned off the TV, plunging the room into near-darkness, the only light in the room filtering in from the kitchen. The phone buzzed in your lap. You glanced down to see a text from Jack. I love you. We both do. You didn’t bother responding.
You tried to force your mind to think about anything but Jack telling you he was going home. But Robby’s angry face the last time you’d seen him. But your thoughts kept circling back. What else could you do when your whole world had collapsed but remember the end?
You’d gotten your revenge on Chelsea and her minions, publicly calling them out, making sure everyone knew what they had done. The boys had insisted on celebrating, so you’d sat at Sam’s bar and smiled and laughed at the appropriate moments. But it had all felt hollow. Because at the end of the day, you still went home to an empty apartment. Still woke up in the middle of the night reaching for someone that wasn’t there.
You weren’t angry at Jack for going home. For choosing his partner that he’d been with for years, that knew him more intimately than you could ever hope to. Not really. But sometimes, just sometimes, you wish he’d chosen to stay here with you. That you had been worth even a second’s hesitation on his part. Maybe it was time to just move on from it all.
Robby sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, head bowed as Jack paced the length of the living room. The call had gone as badly as Robby had feared it might. The silence that followed was thick with tension.
“This is all my fault,” he said finally, dragging a hand down his face. “Sit down, Jack. You’re going to hurt your leg.”
Jack stopped pacing and dropped into one of the chairs. “I shouldn’t have pushed her. We should have known she’d react like this.”
“It’s not your fault. She’s mad at me,” Robby insisted. “I’m the one who fucked up.”
“I knew she wasn’t ready. I just…” Jack sighed. “I miss her, man. I miss the three of us together. I thought if we could just get you two in the same room maybe you could start working things out.”
Robby leaned back. “I know. I was hoping for the same thing. What if I’ve lost her, Jack? What if she never forgives me?”
Jack was quiet for a long moment. “She loves you. I know she does. But what you did…” He trailed off, shaking his head.
“I know. I know how bad it is.” Robby closed his eyes, shame washing over him. “I hurt her so badly. I hurt both of you because I was too terrified she would hurt me first.”
“Yeah, you did. But you want to fix it. You’re trying to fix it. That counts for something.”
Robby turned his head to face him. “Not enough, apparently. So, what do I do now if she won’t come over for dinner?”
“You need to show her you’re serious. That you’re willing to put in the work. Hell, we both do at this point. I’m pretty sure she’s no happier with me at the moment,” Jack said.
“So what? Flowers? Candy? Hell, I’ll buy her fucking pony at this point if you think it would help.” The words came out more bitter than Robby had intended.
Jack rolled his eyes. “No ponies. No animals period while we’re on the topic. Gestures. Things that show you’re thinking about her, that you listen to her. The kind of things she always does for us without being asked.” He leaned forward to make sure his partner was really listening. “She loves making people feel seen. That’s why what you did hurt so much. You made her feel invisible. Like everything she thought you knew about her was wrong.”
Robby swallowed hard. He had reduced you to the worst possible version of yourself based on nothing but his own insecurities. “Where do I start?” His voice was little more than a whisper.
“You start with little things. Show her you’re paying attention. That you’re thinking about her. That you’re trying to be better.”
“And then what?” Robby was desperate for a map, instructions that might get him back to where he’d been before he threw it all away.
Jack shrugged. “Then you hope it’s enough to get her to give you the chance to do the big things.”
“And if it’s not?”
“Then you keep trying.”
The knock came just after eight in the morning. You were already up and drinking your second cup of coffee. Sleep had been restless as of late, and you’d rolled out of bed just after five when it became clear you weren’t getting anymore rest. You grabbed Jack’s hoodie draped over the back of a chair and slid it on as you headed for the door. Through the peephole, you saw a delivery person holding a large bouquet of flowers. Your heart did that traitorous leap again as you opened the door.
The woman said your name and once you’d confirmed, handed over a massive arrangement of spring flowers. The scent of lilacs invaded your senses. “For you.”
“Thanks,” you managed, taking the flowers from her. “Just a second, let me get you a tip.”
She waved you off with a smile. “Already taken care of. Have a nice day.”
You stood in the doorway for a moment, arms full of flowers. You set the bouquet on the counter and searched for a card amongst the blooms. The only thing you found listed only your name and address, no greeting, no message. No apology. You snapped a picture and sent it to Jack. You or Robby?
Mike. Mine will be there later.
You rolled your eyes and set your phone on the counter beside the vase. The flowers were gorgeous, no question, but they meant nothing. Not really. A generic arrangement he could have ordered by calling almost any flower shop in town. A phone call where he’d evidently provided your name, address and his credit card number but couldn’t be bothered with a message.
You received another smaller arrangement of tea roses from Jack that afternoon. Peach and pink along with a lovely message apologizing for the dinner invitation. All of it signed off with an I love you, Jack. You sent a simple thank you text as your gaze turned once more to the arrangement from Robby. You sighed and wandered into the living room to get some work done.
The next morning started the same way, with a knock on the door and a delivery. Breakfast this time. You texted on and off with Jack and had a brief call with him before he started his shift.
Another morning and another knock. This time, when you opened the door, you were surprised to find your landlord. He handed you a piece of paper. “Here.”
You glanced at the paper and frowned. “What is this?”
“Rent’s paid. Three months.”
You blinked, certain you’d misheard. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Your rent. It’s been paid in full for the next three months.” He tapped his fingers on his thigh obviously already done with the conversation.
“By who?” you asked, though you were certain you already knew the answer.
He leaned forward and tapped the paper in your hand. “Says right there. M. Robinavitch.” You tried not to cringe as he horribly butchered the pronunciation of Robby’s name. “The boyfriend, right?”
“Not the boyfriend,” you corrected automatically. “Thanks for letting me know.”
He nodded but was already on his way down the hall. You closed your door and leaned against it, mind racing. “Michael Robinavitch, you’re a fucking idiot.” You grabbed your keys and headed out, pushing the thought from your mind. An apology delivered via money order wasn’t an apology at all.
In the days that followed, you continued to talk with Jack both by call and text. He didn’t mention Robby again, instead simply checking in, asking how you were, filling each other in on your days. Robby, by contrast, remained silent. No calls, no texts. Just more flowers and gifts that never seemed to quit coming. A first edition of your favorite book. A bottle of an expensive whiskey you’d mentioned loving the taste of. A scarf in your favorite color. You accepted them all, used them even. But you didn’t call. Didn’t text. Didn’t acknowledge the gifts in any way. It wasn’t out of spite or anger, not anymore. It was simpler than that. You were waiting. Waiting for the one thing you hadn’t received yet. A sincere apology.
A week after the flowers had arrived, a small package was delivered to your door. It was wrapped in plain brown paper with no shipping label, just your name written across the front in Robby’s distinctive handwriting. You took it inside, staring at it before curiosity won out. You tore open the paper to find a small box. Inside, nestled on a bed of black velvet was a silver chain with a small caduceus symbol.
You lifted it carefully, the metal cool against your fingers. It was beautiful, delicate. Simple but elegant and exactly the kind of thing you liked to wear every day. He certainly knew your taste. It was the kind of gift that showed thought, that acknowledged who you were and what mattered to you. You closed the lid and set the box on the shelf beside your tattoo fund jar that you kept for some reason despite no longer having a need for it. You left the gift there without another glance.
A knock sounded late afternoon of the next day. You’d gotten used to the pattern by now. A knock followed by a delivery with no note. You opened the door without checking the peephole first. Instead of a delivery person, you found a man in a suit holding a manilla envelope. He read your name off the front.
“That’s me,” you confirmed.
He handed you the envelope. No sooner had your fingers closed around it then he snapped a picture with his phone. “Consider yourself served. Have a nice day.”
He didn’t even give you a chance to respond before he turned and walked away. You closed the door and tore into the envelope, having a suspicion of what was inside and you were correct. Your family was suing you for what they felt was their due from your grandfather’s estate. They were alleging undue influence and diminished capacity claiming pops hadn’t been in his right mind when he changed his will to leave everything to you.
Your eyebrow ticked ever higher as you read through the papers. They were claiming you had isolated your grandfather from the rest of the family. That you’d manipulated him into changing the will. That you’d taken advantage of an elderly man’s confusion for your own gain.
Fucking assholes. You headed to the corner where you kept your printer/scanner and fed the papers into it. You called Max as you watched the document feed through the machine. He answered on the third ring.
“As anticipated, I’ve been served. They’re contesting the will.”
There was a moment of silence before he sighed. “I see. They’re stupider than I thought. Was there anything surprising in the filing?”
“Not that I could see. I’m scanning it to send to you as we speak.”
“Good. I’ll read over it and get back to you. Like I said, this is nothing to be concerned about. There were provisions in place for all of this. Your grandfather was thorough.” After a beat, he added, “I am sorry for this, though. You deserve better.”
You hummed in acknowledgement. “The universe seems to disagree with you at the moment. I’ll get this sent to you in just a bit. Thanks, Max.”
Your phone rang just after ten that night, Jack’s name lighting up the screen. You didn’t hesitate to answer, knowing he was at work and likely wouldn’t have long to talk. “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself, sweetheart. How are you doing?” His voice was warm, though he sounded tired.
“I’m okay. Just a lot going on.” You had no intention of sharing any details about your grandfather’s estate. Not when they were still unaware you’d even inherited it.
Someone called his name in the background. “Just a minute,” he said before returning his attention to you. “Listen, I just have a second but I was wondering if you wanted to meet for breakfast tomorrow after my shift.”
“Just us?” you asked.
“Yeah. Just me and my girl.”
“Seven thirty at the usual place?” you asked, not even thinking of declining. You’d missed him.
“Sounds great. See you then.”
The diner looked the same as always, not that you’d expected anything different. You’d arrived a little early, content to get in an extra cup of coffee. You just taken the first sip of your second cup when Jack walked in. He’d stripped his scrub top leaving him in cargos and his t-shirt. He looked tired but his face broke into a wide smile when his gaze landed on you.
He pressed a quick kiss to your lips before sliding into the booth across from you, reaching for the menu. How he didn’t have it memorized by now, you had no idea. “Sorry I’m late. Got held up.”
“You’re like five minutes late. I got here early,” you told him.
He nodded, gaze flicking over you, taking you in. “You look tired.”
You huffed a humorless laugh. “Well, I’ve been sleeping like shit so…”
The waitress appeared and took your orders before disappearing once more.
Jack leaned forward slightly. “I miss you.”
Your fingers tightened around your mug. “I miss you too. Both of you, if I’m being honest.”
Something flashed in Jack’s eyes. Hope maybe, or relief. “Mike’s trying. The gifts, the rent, he’s doing everything he can think of to show you he’s sorry.”
You sighed and pushed your mug away from you. This is what you’d been afraid of when you accepted his invitation. It’s why you hadn’t pushed to see him sooner. “No, Jack. He’s trying to buy me. He called me a whore because I took things from you and then slept with you. He’s not going to get me back by spending his money.”
You stood, grabbing your bag from the seat beside you. You stopped at his side of the table and leaned in, pressing your lips to his in a slow, deliberate embrace. When you pulled back, his eyes were wide, a flush creeping across his cheeks.
“I love you, Jack.” Your voice was steady despite the tears threatening at the corners of your eyes. “But this isn’t fair to you. Maybe we should just put all of this on hold for a while.”
You turned to leave but his hand shot out, catching your wrist. His thumb moved in a slow circle against the inside of it, his touch gentle but insistent.
“Don’t do that,” he said, voice low and urgent. “Please don’t do that. I’ll shut up about Mike.”
You looked at his hand on your wrist then back to his face. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
His grip didn’t loosen. “Then stay.”
You hesitated before nodding once. “Scoot.”
He hastily slid over, still holding onto your wrist, not letting go until you settled in the seat beside him. “I didn’t ask you here to talk about him. I asked because I wanted to see you. Because I’ve missed you. Every day without you feels wrong.”
The honesty in his voice had you swallowing a lump in your throat. “I’ve missed you, too. So much.”
His hand moved up to the side of your face as he turned your head to look at him. His thumb traced your cheek. “I don’t care what’s going on with you and Mike. I don’t care if you never speak to him again. You’re stuck with me, sweet girl. Whether you like it or not.”
Tags/warnings: Deran's friend!Reader, touch starved!Andrew (what's new), age gap (reader is mid 20s, Pope is almost 40), slow burn, friends to lovers, touchy reader, physical touch as a love language, injured!pope, a little angst cause it's Andrew, intox reader (she drinks and smokes at one of their parties and gets handsy [cute] with pope, he's a gentleman about it), Pope is just a big ol' simp, cuddling, unprotected piv sex, creampie, [inaccurate show dynamics, mostly cause I didn’t wanna deal with Cath (lover her though)]
Summary: Pope doesn't like to be touched...at least not until he met you.
a/n: my favorite touch starved boy <3
Disclaimer: YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO REPOST MY WRITING ANYWHERE ELSE WITHOUT MY CONSENT. REBLOGS ARE ENCOURAGED THOUGH. YOU MAY NOT FEED MY WORK TO ANY AI DATABASES OF ANY KIND, USE MY WORKS TO TRAIN AI OR USE AI TO TRANSLATE MY WORK. FUCK AI.
The first time it happens it's an accident.
There’s people in his house when there shouldn't be.
The music is too loud, the bodies too hot and sweaty.
He’s standing in the kitchen like a weirdo, even he can acknowledge it.
But he truly doesn’t know what to do. Where to go.
He’s been gone for three years. He doesn’t recognize anyone anymore. Where the fuck is he even supposed to start?
It’s your meek “excuse me” that breaks him out of the spell he’s under, gaze finally sharpening as he comes back down to the present moment.
Everything rushes back to him, overwhelmingly. He’s suddenly too aware of it all, especially your timid grip on his bicep as you try to move him out of the way.
The touch doesn’t linger. It’s fleeting, unlike the reality that Pope finds himself in.
You side step around his imposing frame, a shy smile on your lips, one that makes his head spin.
You shouldn’t be nice to him, hell, you shouldn’t be nice to any asshole you don’t know. Did no one teach you—
And then you turn on the kitchen sink, gently cleaning the glass you’ve been using unlike everyone’s disposable, plastic ones.
An air of familiarity courses through him. You’re…comfortable in his home. You’re taking care of the space that no one, not even his brothers, could give two fucks about.
He can’t help but stare, his thoughts rendering him unable to look the other way, to go back to being stoic and uninterested.
If you feel him glaring you don’t let him know it, your body language remaining relaxed all the way through wiping the glass dry and standing on your tip toes to place it back on the shelf above you.
That’s when he moves.
It’s instinctual. His mother’s voice clear in his ear, urging him to help a lady in need.
He steps up, crowds your personal space yet gives you room to escape if you feel uncomfortable.
You turn to him then, your bright eyes meeting his as your fingers barely touch. He instantly forces himself to look away, afraid that he’s going to let the glass fall if he loses himself in your gaze.
“Thanks,” you mumble, shooting him another smile as you settle back down on your feet, the movement shifting you closer against his chest.
It honestly makes Pope dizzy. Feeling your warmth, smelling the faint softness of your perfume.
You don’t turn to move for the millisecond it takes for him to finish pushing the glass into place, perfectly aligned with the others.
It’s only when he too settles back down that you turn to him expectantly.
“You’re welcome.”
Pope guesses that’s what you’re looking for and he’s proven correct instantly as you bless him with another blinding smile.
His stomach does another flip.
Who the fuck are you?
Before he can ask, what he believes to be your name is called because you instantly turn towards the sound.
He commits your name to memory, such a fitting one for such a—
“Angel! There you are!” Daren breaks through the crowd like a lifeline, one that you instantly take, stepping away from Pope and towards him like a magnet.
You settle against his side like you’re meant to be there, his arm leisurely draping over your shoulders in a familiarity that makes Pope’s blood boil with a flurry of emotions he simply cannot pinpoint.
“See you’ve met Pope,” Deran notes and you turn back to Pope with wide eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” you start, tone remorseful. “I had no idea you were Deran’s brother, I would’ve introduced myself.”
You genuinely mean it and it almost causes Pope to snap at you. You don’t owe him anything.
“’s okay,” Pope mumbles instead, his gaze piercing.
“Well it’s really nice to meet you,” you hold out your hand for him to take.
Pope’s jaw clenches. He makes no effort to move, to reciprocate your kind gesture. He can see the disappointment in your face, how it falls instantly. You’re not used to being denied, to being told no, and for a second Pope almost cracks.
But he can’t. He won’t let himself do it.
No, because he knows that the second you give him even an inch of familiarity he will devour you whole.
“Don’t take it personally, angel,” Deran practically glares daggers at him. “He’s not really into that.”
Your mouth curls into a silent oh and Pope shrugs in response.
It’s all he can do to not come across as a complete weirdo instantly upon meeting you, more than he already has.
You copy him, shrugging like you’re unbothered but he knows for a fact you aren’t as your hand instantly retracts back towards you, seeking Deran’s instead.
His fingers interlace with yours like it’s second nature, overly intimate. Pope’s brows scrunch in confusion, barely. Are the two of you…a couple?
“Anyway, I’ll see you around.”
Pope gives you one last grunt of acknowledgement before Deran is pulling you away, back towards the backyard where all the action is happening.
He obviously keeps his eyes trained on you as you leave, on how your jean shorts hug your ass, how your body is sun-kissed and a little burnt from the summer heat wave, how your hair flows effortlessly.
And then you turn to glance back at him for what feels like minutes, your eyes filled with nothing but curiosity.
His eyes force him to blink then and he loses you to the crowd.
Fuck.
The next time Pope sees you, you’re back at the house for a pool day with his family. It’s a small gathering this time around, just their inner circle which apparently now includes you too.
You’re in a striking blue bikini, the color contrasting beautifully against your skin. You’re sitting on one of the lounge chairs, your legs open so a hyper Lena can settle in between them.
You can barely contain your laughter as the young girl tells you a silly story from school, your fingers working overtime to braid her long hair in one of those fancy styles that Pope could never name so that it won’t get too tangled from the pool.
Your laughter hits him like a disorienting grenade. It’s like he's never heard anyone feel joy the way you do. It's infectious, making him wonder if he’s ever actually felt a real emotion in his life.
“There, all done,” you tie up Lena’s hair and give her back a little pat before the girl practically bolts from your embrace, yelling a swift thank you before cannonballing into the pool as everyone cheers.
Andrew’s about to move forward, to settle down beside you, a pull to be near you clouding his senses.
But then Craig has to go and ruin it.
“Me next,” the oaf practically towers over you, settling down between your legs like Lena had, taking advantage of how you haven't moved.
You roll your eyes playfully but don’t complain.
Pope watches as you take his hair out of the messy bun that he’s got it in, gently scratching his scalp. His younger brother moans, causing you to stop and smack the side of his head.
Pope’s lips quirk up into a smirk. Good, set his brother’s straight.
But Craig is not deterred, simply reaching back and squeezing your thigh cockily.
It takes everything in Pope not to lunge forward. He doesn’t understand it, how protectiveness practically flares up in his chest at the sight of someone else’s grubby hands on your soft flesh.
He honestly doesn’t know how Deran lets it happen. They both know his brother so why is he letting Craig be so chummy with you?
Unless…you’re not actually together, together.
Is it possible that you’re just like this with everyone?
You finish braiding his hair then, meanly tossing it over his shoulder so that the tail end of it smacks him on the face.
“There princess,” you tease. “All done.”
Craig flinches as the band hits him, bursting out into a fit of laughter as he stands up and follows Lena’s example, splashing into the pool so hard that he ends up soaking you completely.
Lena laughs as you gasp dramatically. “You meanie!”
“Payback’s a bitch—” Craig starts, quickly correcting himself as you glare at him. “Payback, angel.”
Deran snorts, taking a swig of his beer from his spot at the other side of the pool. A spark of something is set ablaze in your gaze, a playfulness that borders on mischief.
“Oh yeah?” It takes them a few seconds to process what you’re doing as you sprint towards them, throwing yourself in the pool as close to Deran as possible.
Pope audibly snickers as you drench his youngest brother.
The backyard is set ablaze with teasing soon after, every single member of his family sans him and his mother engaging in a water fight for the ages.
Pope settles on the lounge chair that you’ve vacated, your warmth still lingering on the fabric beneath him.
He’s transfixed by you. By the ease in which you can bring lightness to his family, as though you can lift the weight they all carry on their shoulders, even if it’s just for a little while.
Another thought crosses Pope’s mind then — is it possible that you could be like this with him too?
Laughter only turns even more boisterous as you enter the living room, a baking dish in hand.
“Angel!” Both Deran and Craig greet you, your smile beaming as you round the table to say hi to Smurf first. You know the rules of this house well by now, a genuine comfort to Pope who at least doesn’t have to worry about you with his family.
He watches intently as you chat with the older woman, handing her the dish, humble enough to tell her it’s not something as grandiose as the roast she has prepared but you didn’t want to show up empty handed.
His mother smiles at you, her ego fed enough as she stands up and goes to heat it up in the kitchen.
You don’t let her comments get to you, instead you go around the table, saying hello to everyone, your touch always lingering, always soft and playful.
Deran gives you a hug, Craig kisses your cheek affectionately, Baz only gives you a nod in acknowledgement and Pope can’t help but smirk satisfactorily against his beer. You ruffle J’s hair and give Nicky a kiss to her temple.
You’re comfortable, confident, secure in your place within their family. You don’t back down to his mother, you don’t shrink away to Baz’s hesitancy, you—
Your eyes catch him staring from across the room. He’s subconsciously backed away the second he saw you come in, practically hiding in the threshold.
You give him a shy wave over Nicky’s shoulder, a gesture he reciprocates with a grunt and a barely there head bob.
Fuck, he’s even worse than Baz.
But you don’t look at him with the same disdain as you do his half-brother. Instead, something else ignites in your eyes. A challenge, almost, to chip away at the ice around his heart. But little do you know that it’s already melting away, and neither of you can stop it.
You eagerly help Smurf bring the rest of the food out before the entire family sits down around the overflowing table.
You make it a point to sit next to him, to never once let him think that his presence is unwanted, even if he refuses to give you the type of relationship that you want, that you crave.
You fill up his plate without asking him and if you weren’t so damn adorable he’d be angry about it. But he simply cannot be. He just lets you, watching silently as you tell the room a story from a crazy class you had to experience the week before.
Your hands move in tandem with your voice, making it a point to not draw attention to what you’re doing, as if serving Pope food is somehow normal. And for a second he can let himself believe that it is, that you taking care of him is how things are meant to be.
It’s only when Deran whispers something to Craig that has the two snickering that Pope finally breaks free from your spell, mumbling a quick thank you under his breath before you settle down to eat as Lena tells the table what she got up to in school over the week now.
You hum in acknowledgement, listening to his niece intently, like you actually care about her babbling, because you do.
After lunch, the crowd disperses throughout the house, the kitchen settling into a comfortable silence where Pope can finally breathe again.
He’s always relegated to clean up duty, mostly because he likes it that way, it’s something he can control.
“Where do you want these?” You ask, causing him to turn to face you from his spot in front of the sink.
He stammers for a second, blinking away the brain fog that you always seem to bring with you every time you bless him with your undivided attention.
He crooks his head towards the left side of the sink and you move swiftly, placing the stack of plates you’ve gathered into the space.
You don’t linger this time, no, you make it a point to step away as soon as you can but not before Pope feels his body shifting towards you.
Oh, you definitely know what you’re doing.
He shakes his head as he returns to his task of dishwashing. You return periodically, bringing by glasses, cutlery, baking dishes and everything else his family could’ve thought to leave behind like the animals they are.
Once the entire table is cleared, you settle beside Pope, dish towel in hand and begin drying what he's just washed.
It’s…nice.
Pope’s not used to someone actually wanting to help him but he finds himself quickly falling into the rhythm of your comforting presence.
“I never really asked,” you start conversation after what feels like a small eternity, turning to face Pope curiously. “Do you prefer Pope or Andrew?”
You ask as if it’s not a loaded question. Well, to you it isn’t, there’s no way for you to know about the weight his name carries over him. To you it’s just about making sure you’re calling him by the name he wants to be called, nothing more, nothing less.
But to Pope it’s…euphoric.
He stays silent for a while, thinking, and you let him without an ounce of judgment. You return to your repetitive motions, to working side by side, in tandem, coordinated.
Meanwhile, a storm rages waste in his brain. He’s never allowed himself to want, to put himself first, and for the first time in his life, someone is allowing himself to do just that.
But is it real? Do you actually mean it?
It’s only when he’s finished washing the last plate, handing it over to you that he finally allows himself to look your way.
“Andrew,” he mumbles before he loses the courage to. “Call me Andrew.”
You turn to him, setting down the plate atop the mountain you’ve created, nodding your understanding.
“Andrew,” you repeat back to him. “It suits you more.”
He can’t help the blush that creeps up his neck and to his ears, the heat that blooms in his chest, the way his intense gaze falters like a lovesick teenager as his mouth devolves into a dopey smile.
You don’t make fun of him for it, don’t even acknowledge it. You just stay there with him, following through with your help and leaving the kitchen spotless.
A few hours later he finds himself protectively escorting you out to your car, much to the snickers and teasing of his brothers which, thankfully, you’re not privy to as you say your goodbye to Lena and Cath.
“Bye Andrew,” you call out to him, and like a moth to a flame, he can’t help but step towards you, almost expectantly.
You hugged everyone else in his family, maybe—
Your eyes sparkle with delight as his body leans towards your again, a reaction neither of you was expecting.
You close the distance without hesitation, getting back up on your tip toes to plant a soft kiss to his cheek.
It’s over as quickly as it started, no lingering, no invading his space more than needed.
He’s certain he stops breathing, his brain short circuiting as you settle into the driver’s seat and follow Baz out of the family compound.
You’re not special. He reminds himself. She’s like this with everyone.
And yet reason doesn’t quell the pounding of his heart, the way his breathing hitches as he finally wills himself to take in a deep breath, the need to see you again.
He doesn’t see you for a while, exam season taking over most of your time and planning a new job taking up most of his.
He’s just had a disagreement with his brothers, it’s the only reason why he finds himself out by the pier, supposedly clearing his head with a walk like normal people do, but instead the voices are just getting louder and louder.
“Uncle Pope!”
Lena’s voice cuts through the noise. His gaze sharpens towards it, his frame lowering, arms opening, making space for her.
She doesn’t shy away from him, embracing him lovingly because to her, he’s just her uncle, a little weird but never dangerous.
It’s only when she steps back that Pope notices you.
You walk towards them leisurely, not wanting to break apart the cute display happening before you.
“Hi,” it’s the only thing that flows from his lips.
“Hi yourself,” you reply, placing your hands on Lena’s shoulders to keep her close to the two of you. “What are you doing here? I thought you had a family meeting all afternoon.”
Pope blinks back the shock. How close are you to his family? How much do you know?
“Ended early.”
You nod, Lena squirming in your embrace, gasping as realization dawns on her.
“Can Uncle Pope get ice cream with us?”
You chuckle at her impatience, causing Pope to huff playfully at just how adorable his niece is being.
“That’s up to him, sweetie.”
And how is he supposed to say no when his niece looks up to him with the most adorable eyes ever. “Please Uncle Pope!”
He nods. “Okay.”
Lena practically jumps into him out of joy, her tiny hand wrapping around his as she drags him towards the boardwalk shops.
You laugh behind them, jogging to catch up as she pulls you towards them, wrapping her other hand in yours.
Lena’s a bubblegum flavor fiend, extra sprinkles and gummy bears. You’re classic, rich and decadent, chocolate in a cup. Pope almost feels bad for getting a simple vanilla scoop in a waffle cone.
“Tell them to dip it in chocolate,” you whisper to him. “Trust me.”
He doesn’t know how to answer, blinking at you in surprise.
Trust me. Such a simple concept and yet…there’s still something that doesn’t let him take that leap.
But what does he know about ice cream.
So he does, he tries something new.
You smile brightly as you turn to receive your sweet treats, making sure Lena’s sitting down on one of the benches before you go up to pay.
But Pope’s quicker, pulling out a bill from his pocket and taking care of it before you can even ask the cashier how much it’s gonna be.
You roll your eyes at him when she tells you you’re too late and he can’t help but smirk victoriously.
“Thank you Andrew,” you relent, accepting your cup from his outstretched hand, your fingers gently grazing as you do.
The spark of electricity that snaps down Pope’s body is life inducing.
“You’re welcome.”
You settle next to Lena who’s munching ecstatically at her sugary confection, pink already staining her shirt.
Pope takes a seat on the other side of his niece.
He settles into the simplicity of intimacy with ease again, the gentle waves crashing up ahead, the cool afternoon air filling his senses with the comfort of saltwater.
Existing has never felt as easy as this. As something pleasant and unhurried, not having to pretend to be anything other than who he is.
Pope can’t help watch the two of you in complete awe. How you dote on Lena and how she reciprocates the action, something he’s never seen her do in the months since he’s been back.
She feels free here, not like the little girl who’s quiet and reserved with her now estranged parents. No, she’s alert and alive, playful and aloof. It makes Pope’s heart soar as he watches the two of you so effortlessly blend together, his own ice cream melting and making a mess of him soon enough.
The house is uncharacteristically quiet.
He’s the only one there, he’s sure of it. Smurf left the second she got the call that the job had gone sour and they had to split up, rushing to Baz’s because she knows Pope is too spiteful to die on her. Meanwhile J has gotten really injured and Smurf’s new baby comes first now.
It doesn’t matter to Pope. At least he tells himself he doesn’t hate himself a little more the second he hears his mother’s heels retreat down the hall, her car soon only a phantom noise as she speeds off.
Alone in the house, the quiet gets to him quickly. The typically bright and spacious home constricting in on him as he struggles down the hall to his old room.
He tries not to think about how the rough concrete walls feel against his sensitive fingertips, how the familiar pain in his side hums with the pressure of painful memories, how he’s definitely not back in that tiny jail cell after he had another psychotic break in prison and got himself thrown in solitary for another week.
No, he definitely does not think about how he was left struggling with his sanity, floating aimlessly, stuck inside his own head trying to desperately find some comfort to cling to as he curled in on himself to find a position where it didn’t hurt him to breathe.
He swings the door to his room open without thinking twice about it.
It’s early in the morning, no one’s been home since the night before, and yet, the second he comes inside, he instantly notices the way the air smells different, sweeter.
He stills, his hand not clutched to his side slowly sliding to the back of his jeans to feel the comforting weight of his gun handle. Meanwhile his eyes rake over the room, the unmade bed, the clothes—his clothes—scattered on the floor.
“Andy?” Your sweet, sleepy voice calls to him from his ensuite bathroom and he turns to it like an idiot boy with a childlike crush, eyes wide and heart practically beating out of his chest as if he isn’t currently in such devastating pain but he doesn’t dare make you uncomfortable.
Fuck, why does he feel like such a creep?
A sharp inhale springs you into action, crossing into the unlit room to take him in, suddenly wide awake it seems.
He doesn’t have the heart to stop you as your soft hands come up to inspect the gash on his brow, the purpling under his eye. Timid fingertips trace a path down his chest, landing softly over the hand at his abdomen.
You don’t say anything, don’t lash out at him, don’t flinch back in fear as you slowly lift his palm, assessing the damage. He doesn’t know why he lets you, it doesn’t make any logical sense, and yet he just melts into your hands, lets you maneuver him however you desire as he finally lets the dam crack.
You remain silent as tears stain his cheeks, as you gently pull him into the bathroom and sit him down on the edge of the tub, as you wrap your hands on the hem of his shirt and pull it over his head.
He knows you feel the gun tucked into his pants but you don’t let the shock show on your face. Instead, when you turn to discard his shirt behind you, he simply pulls it out himself, placing it on top of the counter, safety on always.
You turn to assess him then. Luckily the switchblade didn’t do too much damage, just one long enough gash that has since stopped bleeding, deep enough to hurt but not deep enough to kill him.
You settle on your knees in front of him and he’s certain his heart skips a beat. You smile up at him, so unbelievably soft, like you’re trying to comfort him without touching him because you know just how uncomfortable it makes him.
And yet, he can’t help but crave your touch, like a reminder that he’s still alive, that he’s still here, with you.
He knows he can just ask. Knows he can put together a sentence, or not, just muster the courage and say please. But how can he? When not even his mother deigned him worthy of fussing over?
“You don’t have to—” another sob breaks through him and it takes everything in him not to curse and scream and scare you.
His body begins to shake, shame bubbling from his stomach across his body until he’s nothing but a quivering mess before you.
He wants to run, to hide away and never have you see him like this ever again. This was a mistake, staying here, letting you see him this vulnerable. He needs—
He’s turned to stone as you pull yourself up from sitting on your heels and lean up towards him, invading his personal space now, all the voices in his head suddenly quiet. Your hands come up to cup his face, thumbs dutifully wiping away the tears that fall.
He feels pathetic, disgusted with himself at the sight you’re beholden to. But then your sweet voice begins to shush him softly, to tell him that he’s okay, that you’ve got him, that he can let it all out, and for a second he allows himself to believe it.
Andrew Pope Cody allows himself to feel, to not hide behind what he’s been groomed to be all of his life. He breaks down and you patiently wait for him to finish so you can help him pick up all the pieces.
It’s only when you no longer feel the wetness drip against your flesh that you pull back enough to take him all in. He forces himself to make eye contact with you, to show you as much as he can that he’s alright, that he appreciates you.
You swiftly rummage through his bathroom cabinets, searching for the first aid kit you know he has. He watches you intently as you clean him up with a wet rag first, removing all the blood from his abdomen, his hands turning white as he holds onto the side of the tub for dear life.
Your tongue pokes out between your lips as you lose yourself to the task, using that glue Baz got them in Mexico to close his wound. He can’t help but smile softly at the sight, finally allowing himself to rake his gaze over your body.
For one, you’re clad in one of his old shirts, the ones that no longer fit him after prison hardened his body into a bigger size. Maybe he’s not special, but he’ll be damned if possessiveness doesn’t boil over at the mere sight of you in his clothes.
He’s already slowly losing his mind, desire threatening to make him take a leap over that invisible line he’s drawn between the two of you in his mind, and then you shift a little, showing off his boxers underneath, your bare things practically causing him to salivate.
The decision settles with him with ease, dragging him down into the depths comfortably, like a sailor that has accepted his fate because it means he’ll at least get to kiss the siren.
“There,” you hum, tracing the outline of the bandage with your fingertips before you turn to look up at him. “All done.”
“Thank you,” he manages to choke out.
“My pleasure, Andy.”
Letting you go is the hardest thing Pope has ever done. You’d insisted he needed to rest after the trauma that he’d experienced and, not wanting to be an annoying patient, he’d conceded, settling down where you had just been sleeping, the sheets still slightly warm and smelling of you.
For the first time in a long time, Pope actually slept and slept good. But the second he’d woken up, you were no longer in the house.
He thought about calling, about making sure he hadn’t scared you off, but part of him preferred it this way. He was scared of his feelings towards you, so he chose indifference.
His mood soured, however. Every little thing his brother did made him snap, every time they brought you up in conversation, every time your name entered his orbit but your body didn’t made him go crazy.
He’s aware that it’s all his fault for not checking in, for disappearing into radio silence. But in his defense, you’ve never texted before, you’ve never even given him your number for fuck’s sake! It would’ve been weird to contact you out of the blue right?
Summer is coming to an end when you finally deign him worthy of your presence again.
Deran and Craig are throwing a party. Big surprise.
The house is packed, hot and sweaty. Everyone is scantily clad, if covered up at all. Even Smurf has left the premises for the weekend so it’s just a cluster of debauchery and substance abuse.
He should’ve left, he thought about it many times. But he knows you’ll show, even if it’s just to say hello, see how quickly things are devolving, and leaving immediately.
His eyes have been trained on the entrance all night, impatiently waiting for you to walk in. It’s nearing eleven and his palms are starting to get itchy with anxiety. What if you don’t show? He hadn’t even thought about that possibility.
It’s been a few days since Deran’s mentioned you. Even longer since you’ve babysat Lena. Could something be wrong? Are you okay?
His entire body bursts with uncomfortable heat. He needs to find Deran right now, needs him to tell him your address so he can go check on you himself, needs—
A loud squeal catches his attention, swiftly turning towards the backyard to catch you swung over Craig’s shoulder, your tiny jean shorts riding further up your ass as he spins you around.
You giggle brightly, not attention seeking, just pulling everyone’s gaze towards you with the ease in which you feel joyful. He watches, entranced, as his younger brother puts you down.
Pope moves instinctively, stalking towards the living room to get a better line of sight on you. You’re at least wearing a shirt over your bikini, your beautiful skin covered from the hungry gazes of those around you. If you realize just how many men are salivating after you, you don’t let it show, not as Craig lights up a joint and passes it on to you instantly.
Something constricts against Pope’s heart as he watches you inhale deeply, a primal urge to burst through the doors, grab the joint from your hand and toss it away before bringing you into the house and hiding you away.
He settles for sitting down on the loveseat. He can keep you safe from in here, from far away, from a distance.
The house only becomes more crowded as the night goes on and he unfortunately loses track of you two hours in, only noticing the second that annoying couple in front of him moves out of the way, the warm summer air hitting him in contrast to the air conditioned interior.
He panics instantly, his eyes jumping through the hazy bodies outside as he desperately tries to find you again. He’s about to stand up, to finally make a move and search for you when your body plops down on his lap instead.
“Andy!” You shriek, an airy happiness enveloping you as you settle over this lap. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
Pope swallows thickly, feeling everything all at once, his brain having trouble processing your hands over his chest, your core pressed against the bulge in his pants, your hot breath on his face.
He’s certain he’s blushing crimson but maybe you’re too intoxicated to notice.
“Were you hiding from me?”
He doesn’t answer right away, causing your pretty little mouth to get upturned into a pout.
“I knew it,” you whimper. “You do hate me.”
“I don’t hate you, angel,” the words spill out of his mouth instantly, unfiltered since his stupid brain isn’t working anymore.
Wide eyes stare at him adorably. “You don’t?”
He shakes his head.
“Then…” you huff, clearly exhausted from all the mental gymnastics you’ve been doing too. “Why didn’t you call?”
He opens his mouth to answer.
I didn’t have your number.
I didn’t know I had to.
Why didn’t you call?
But he knows it’s all lies. He knows he deliberately didn’t call.
Didn’t text.
Didn’t anything.
Your eyes flicker down to his open mouth, your own hanging open as you stare hungrily at him, your hips grinding down against him involuntarily.
He hisses at the contact, the sound so broken and foreign to him. His brows scrunch in desperation, his head angling without him noticing. And so you take the leap for him.
Your lips settle on his like a sip of water after wandering in the desert for an entire lifetime.
It takes everything in him not to kiss you back, not to run his hands over your back, not thrust his hips up into you.
He knows how high you are, knows your actions, while yours, aren’t sober ones. And he’d much rather kill himself than take advantage of you.
“Andy,” you whine into his mouth again, needy and desperate. “Please.”
He stiffens beneath you, once again gripping the chair handles like his life depends on it. You frown as the wood creaks, a wicked smile curling your lips as you realize just how much he’s holding back right now.
“You can touch me, Andy,” you whisper, your lips starting their descent from his own down to his jaw and neck.
He shakes his head softly, not cruel, not rejecting, simply stating.
If anything, it spurs you on, determined to prove him wrong, to provoke him.
He can tell as your lips lock into the base of his neck, teeth nipping meanly at his skin, desperate to leave a mark on him.
He should stop you, should pick you up and tuck you into bed. But he doesn’t. He can’t.
Instead, his eyes close in pleasure, his fists practically snapping the wood between his fingers.
You’re hungry, having been kept from touching him for so long. He’s given you an inch and you’ll be damned if you don’t steal a mile. And he honestly doesn’t care, can’t care, when the realization that you were looking for him finally catches up.
You want him.
Desperately.
Your hands roam down his arms in tandem with your hip movements, your lips trailing back up to his mouth, but instead of diving in, taking the plunge, you hover above them, your hot breath taunting him.
“You’re so pretty, Andy,” you whisper. “Need you—” you huff, frustrated. “to touch me, please.”
He shakes his head again, this time accidentally brushing his lips with yours, groaning at the fleeting contact.
“‘M not gonna take advantage of you, angel,” he presses his forehead to your cheek, almost reverent.
You let out a sigh, deep and weirdly understanding, stopping your mindless torture as his words sink in. He stares at you, his heart finally pumping blood to the rest of his body normally as it sinks with your own, the raging storm calming into a consistent thundering.
“‘M sorry,” you mumble against his chest, settling down to rest your head against the crook on his neck. “I just…” you sigh, melancholic, the words not coming to you.
“I know,” he finally lets his hands break free from his self-imposed restraints, sliding them up your legs, taking his time feeling the warmth of your exposed thighs, the comforting weight of your clothes against your skin. You hum contently, like a cat finally being given attention, practically purring against him.
He settles his touch around your body, pressing you tightly against him as you slowly doze in and out of consciousness.
“Is this good enough, angel?” He’s never felt this soft with anyone before, his jagged edges usually too sharp, drawing blood instantly. But it’s as though you’ve smoothed him down, made him into someone that’s worthy of you.
You nod against him, fingers curling into his soft shirt, most definitely wrinkling the perfectly ironed fabric and he could not give two shits about it.
He’s acutely aware of how the two of you ended up asleep together.
All he wanted was to tuck you into bed, kiss your temple and then sit across from the bed, watching you sleep all night, like a messed up version of a guardian angel.
But you’d whined oh so loudly when he tried to peel away from you, your arms wrapping around his neck, your legs tightening around his waist. He couldn’t even get his shoes off, being forced down onto the soft mattress as you rolled over on top of him.
You settled down easy after that, your even breath soothing against his neck, the patterns he kept tracing over your back lulling you even further into the depths of rest.
He’s never fallen asleep this easily before, definitely not after the peak of adrenaline you’d just put him through.
But after exactly one thousand and sixty five seconds of watching your calm face, feeling your chest rising and falling steadily, something pulled him under, his eyelids becoming so heavy he could barely register as he stopped blinking altogether.
Your squirming wakes him up the next morning.
You’ve crawled on top of him, a comforting weight over his body. That is until you started to move, seeking something to put you out of your miserable restlessness.
“What’s wrong, angel?” His voice is deep with sleep.
You lift yourself onto a sitting position, straddling his hips once more, rubbing against the growing tent in his pants.
Part of him snaps awake at the mere inkling that you’re horny, now sober and wanting to torture him for denying you yesterday. But as his eyes focus on you, he finds an even deeper feeling he simply cannot name brewing in your pretty little head.
You scratch at your shirt, the fabric constrictive, your neediness for him overwhelming.
“’s too much,” you whine and he, for some divine reason, understands what you need.
He sits up, causing you to gasp as his erection thrusts up against you.
“Meanie,” you tease, pushing him to action.
He smirks as his hands gently trail over your exposed tummy. His hands grab the hem of your shirt and pull it over your head in one swift movement, quickly untying your bathing suit top and tossing the offending fabric to the floor. He doesn’t give himself the time to stare, not when you’re so desperate and time is of the essence, he’ll have time to properly worship you later.
Your nipples do harden as the cold air hits them, and he cannot fight the urge to take one into his mouth, rolling his tongue over the bud before he detaches so he can pull his own shirt off.
Your breathing gets caught in your throat as you watch him, brain already shutting off at the sight of his bare body. So much more real estate for you to touch, he thinks.
And touch you do, eager hands trailing the hardness of his chest and stomach all the way down to his pants. You make quick work of the button and his zipper and he lifts his hips so he can pull them off, hesitating with his boxers—
“All of it.” You answer for him.
“Yeah?”
“Mhmm,” you whine. “Please.”
And who is he to deny you now?
In one quick movement, he’s complete bare beneath you. But you’re still not content, no, you won’t be until you’re right there with him.
He takes care of your remaining clothes then, urging you up with two quick taps to your outer thigh and just as quickly hooking his thumbs underneath your bikini bottoms.
Your heat is so close to his face, so puffy and needy, he simply must lean forward and place a kiss over your hip bone. You hum contently, body buzzing with excitement as you practically tackle him back down on the bed and return to your earlier position.
At first you don’t want anything other than to feel him, your cheek pressed over his beating heart, legs spread over his lower abdomen, practically purring as his own hands wisp over your back.
You lay like that for a while, enjoying the gentle sounds of crashing waves and birds singing outside his window. But then you turn to look at him with those round, puppy eyes that he’ll be damned to cave to for the rest of his life.
“Andy,” you plead. “Need to be closer to you.”
He knows what you mean without you having to explain yourself.
There’s just one more thing to do.
So he does, grabbing a hold of his rock hard cock and slowly sinking himself into your entrance. You wince at the stretch, eyes quickly becoming watery as he settles inside of you. He shushes you gently, shifting you slightly so he can reach your lips, crashing them with his in a sloppy, wet kiss that has you instantly melting into him further.
It’s only when he’s sheathed within you completely that you finally relax. But while you’ve found euphoria with such a simple action, Pope is anything but.
He lasts fifty three seconds before his hips begin shifting involuntarily. Your brow scrunches in confusion, pleasure shooting up your body when all you really wanted to feel was peace.
He coos at you softly. “I need to move, angel.”
You sigh, dramatically so, and he can’t help but smile brightly at your theatrics.
“May I move?”
You bury your face in the side of his neck, going limp over him. “I guess.”
He rolls his eyes playfully, wrapping his arms around you before he lifts his hips off the bed and begins to piston in and out of you.
You’re so wet it’s absurdly easy, the room quickly devolving into a choir of wet, slapping sounds and his moans harmonizing with your little whimpers. You hold onto him for dear life, relishing in the closeness that he’s affording you, and he…he’s certain that you’ve just unlocked something he’d buried deep in his psyche long ago.
A desire to long for someone.
An allowance to feel.
A chance to love again.
“An—dy fuck,” you choke. “‘M so close.”
He turns his head to press his cheek against your temple, tightening his hold on your body, possessive and claiming.
“Come for me angel,” he urges. “Let me make you feel good, please.”
You moan loudly, your body responding diligently to his plea. He can feel your body convulse above him, your walls tightening around him as a jolt of electricity snaps and you’re coming undone.
You cry against his shoulder, panting feverishly as he continues to pound into you, seeking his own release while also extending you own.
“In me please, Andy, need you—”
He doesn’t need to be told twice, burying himself as deep as he can inside of you before he’s spilling, locking you tightly against him and enjoying the feeling of joy that washes over his entire body.
He can’t stop kissing your cheek, his lips lapping up the wetness that has streaked like a devout man worshiping a gift from the heavens.
You stay like this until both your heartbeats return to their normal, synced rhythm, your nails scratching deliciously at his scalp while his own return to their soothing patterns against your back.
“Was that okay?” You ask him, finally returning to your senses it seems.
this is lowkey crazy but do you think jack or pope would have a belly bulge kink? maybe the fics are getting to me
18+ cw: bulge kink!
i think they both do, sets them both off, but pope more so than jack. the way i picture pope looking down as he’s got your legs wrapped around his head, seeing the print of his cock bulging in your tummy, i think he’d slow his hips—splaying his hand on your stomach, murmuring, “you feel that?”
n you’re a mess under him—he’s so fucking big, so thick, it has you moaning, practically sobbing. he’s running his hand up and down your belly, reaching forward to grab your face, forcing you to look down. you’re all fucked out, eyes trying to focus, widening as you see the way his cock bulges inside of you. keeping his grip on your face, he focuses on how his cock slides in your pussy so perfectly, bulging out of your stomach—“look at the way i fuck you. how small you are—how big i am, fuck.”
