posted a little for the first time in a long time, iâve had a really hard year so i hope i make friends to be silly and write with here âËâšá° now m gonna go rewatch s1 to see papa
⤡ homelander would absolutely get off on being needed/praised/obsessed over.á.á his own sweet little toy that lives in his penthouse and waits for him to come home every day that would be his favorite thing ⚠࣪ Ë ŕťęą sitting at homelander's feet with your head on his knee pouting and pawing at him like pls give me attention ૮â ⸠â á .á.á gloved hand wrapped around your jaw and gently grasping your cheeks, his thumb rubbing in a gentle whirl as he gives you a soft smush and forces your lips into a soft pucker, and leaning down to kiss you, he would love having a sweet puppy at his feet that is so endlessly loyal, hello!! thatâs what he wants is loveÖśÖ¸ âËđžË°â.á softforyouonlydaddy!homelander like he comes into his bedroom really late and youâre already cozy in bed he would be so sweet bc you are his precious angel and fragile to him and he knows you need your rest (you donât work anymore your full time job is homelander) and he gets clean from the day and slips into bed with you with a âcâmere puppyâ trying to be as gentle as he can heâs so sweet and messed up in the head you calling him dad/daddy would fix him
cw: yandere, toxic behaviour, power imbalance, brief mentions of violence, slight nsfw, slight dubcon
a/n: inspired to do some more 'light hearted' hcs while i'm in the middle of finishing pt 2 to my homelander fic......lowkey might have to do some yandere!seven and yandere!annie hcs soon...........wait yandere!sage would go crazy woahâŚ
homelanderâs ego is through the roof so once heâs met you it isnât a question of if youâll date him but more so when youâll date
unfortunately homelander is incapable of being a normal human being so while he could theoretically meet someone out in the wild he's probably going to get attached to someone who works for vought in some capacity
i love love love all of the 'homelander falling for a non-supe/ intern/assistant trope'
the power imbalance is very yummy
he isn't the kind of yandere who will bide their time and wait for the right moment
he's The Homelander⢠for god's sake!
doesn't matter which division you work for, he will introduce himself the moment he's interested in you (he will definitely neg you at least 3 times in the first conversation), and then turn you into his personal assistant all within a week
he hates how weak and juvenile having a crush on you feels but don't worry! it gets much deeper than a crush in no time
he's absolutely willing to try and get into a relationship with you the normal way (or at least as normal as dating homelander can be) but the second there's one minor inconvenience or you don't seem as receptive as he likes, it's gonna go south quickly -- even for his standards
homelander flies above you on your journey home without you realising since he can't stand the idea of you getting hurt all because he wasn't giving you adequate attention
so really it's only fair he gets to hover by your bedroom and peek through your windows using his x-ray vision once he's made sure you got home in one piece
he's a perv
homelander is obviously going to break into your house but he doesn't see it as breaking in
he's simply spending time in his future partner's home, you just don't know you belong to him yet
likes to move things around and watch the panicked look on your face from where he stalks hides from outside your window
he thinks everything about your helplessness against him is soooo cute :)
speaking of him being a perv, i like to imagine tha he was bored one day and stole all your bras (if you wear them)
#hesniffingthem
when you got to work he was not so subtly staring at your chest the entire time
yes he got a boner, no youâre not gonna do anything about it because heâs homelander
the image of your shocked face when you looked down to his lower half is burned into his mind
he only does stuff like this when the two of you are alone
heâs got a reputation to uphold after all
he monopolises ALL of your time -- you no longer have a home life because everything centres around homelander now
tells you what to wear at work and might even surprise you with a whole new office wardrobe
says itâs a new incentive for the employees and yet somehow youâre the only one getting stuff hmmm
he will trap you in some random copy room and talk your ear off about the most asinine things ever just to be around you
he hates that he can smell your fear and hear your heart pounding whenever he's near but he will fix that soon
he's definitely gonna ask if you notice anything new about him in these conversations and will visibly deflate if you don't notice he's used a new cologne because he overheard you talking from 10 floors away about how you like guys who use it
spiritually a loser c'mon
he never bothers trying to impress other people as it's usually the other way around, especially for mud people with no powers like you, so your disinterest absolutely kills him inside
he will be taking out his rage on some poor intern later since he really doesn't want to hurt you too much just yet
you probably did notice but felt too scared to just speak normally with him
heâs gonna invite you to his penthouse all the time and if you dare decline heâs going to make your life at work hell
soon you learn never to say no to his invitations
itâs lowkey awkward because heâs incapable of just talking like a regular person
he doesnât see it that way though he thinks every little âdateâ you two have is a success
speaking of rage, he will kill any of your coworkers that seem a little bit too comfortable with you
at first he hides it from you but the deeper his obsession gets the more of his insanity he's going to show
he knows you're a kind person, it's one of the reasons he can't get enough of you, so if you know that you will be responsible for any future deaths then maybe you'll obey his orders more often
if this is what he needs to do to ensure you stay with him he will do it
OH he doesnât even ask you to date him if itâs gone on long enough, he just calls you his girlfriend in a meeting with the seven and thatâs that
all of this is to say you will never have a normal life again once he stakes his claim on you
1.6k homelander x reader. established relationship. pure comfort fic. remaster of this old prompt. very mild spoilers for s4 if you squint. mostly just wanted to self-soothe with some comfort/cuddle fic.
gif credit.
It's been decades since Homelander last stepped foot in The Bad Room, but when he wakes from a nightmare of it in your shared bed, it's as if he never left.
Most of the nights you spend with Homelander are peaceful.Â
Tonight is not most nights.
The scream that wakes you from a dead sleep is guttural, barely human. Homelander is sitting upright, frenzied and wild-eyed, the ocean blue of them obscured by crimson glow. You're not even sure that he sees you through it when he looks at you. He's panting like he just ran a marathon, and the comforter is ripped cleanly in half, the two sides strewn on either side of him.
"John," you call softly, reaching out to touch his arm, but he jerks away from your hand like you've burned him.
"Don't fucking touch me," he hisses, wrapping his arms around himself. Sometimes he is small during these fits, curled in on himself, begging you to make it stop. Not tonight. Tonight he is another self, spitting rage and violence through remembered agony. A cornered animal. "I'll fucking kill you!"
"John," you say again, pleading. You know he isn't talking to you. He's speaking to the ghosts of his past. "You're in our bed. You're with me. I would never hurt you. I love you, John."
His name is a double-edged sword. It cuts clean through to something at the core of him in a way that âHomelanderâ doesnât. Each use of it acts like a shock to his irregulated system.
You keep your hands outstretched, but you don't touch him. You show him that you aren't holding anything. Not a pen, not a notepad, not a needle. You show that you don't mean him any harm.Â
God knows he's suffered enough.
With the sound of your voice, the red glow of his eyes gradually dims, flickers, and then finally it goes out entirely. He's still panting, hands moving slowly down his arms, his torso, checking himself for injury. Though his body bears no scars of the pain heâs endured, his mind knows exactly where each one of them would be.
Bit by bit, you watch him come back to himself. He looks around the room, taking in the evidence of your truth. Framed photos, dĂŠcor, the life youâve built together. It isn't a concrete dungeon. It isnât a lab. It isnât an incinerator. It's home.
"Fuck," he says quietly, hiccupping the word into his palm. He says it again, louder, screwing his glassy eyes shut. The third time he says it, it's nearly a sob. Itâs agony to wait, but you donât touch him before heâs ready. You fist the bedsheets, you donât stop talking. Iâm here. Iâm right here. I love you. Youâre safe.
Youâre not sure if itâs minutes or seconds before he reaches for you. All you know is you act immediately. You move swiftly up on your knees, climbing over the ruined blankets to take him into your arms, pulling his head to rest against your chest, bringing his ear close to the beat of your heart. You hush him while you work to unstick the words from your throat, unable to help the tears that well in your eyes.
The fear and misery in him is so palpable, you nearly feel as if itâs your own.
He wraps his arms around you without hesitation, pulling you to sit sideways in his lap as he weeps against you. It's taken a long time to reach this point. He used to swallow it back like bile, adamant for the longest time that you not see this side of him, this aspect of himself that he thinks ugly, imperfect, broken.
You fought for this. As you hold him through these bone-deep sobs, it shatters you that it's taken him this long for him to find someone who would.
"You're safe," you whisper, battling to keep the tears from your voice. "You're home. You're with me. You're safe. I love you so, so much."
He rocks back and forth, choking on his sobs. âI could feel it,â he tells you, the words barely escaping the clench of his teeth. âIt hurt. Every second of it, and they justâthey all just watched.â
You close your eyes, tears rolling down your cheeks and disappearing into the softness of his hair. You kiss the crown of his head again and again, combing your fingers through his hair where itâs damp with sweat and your own tears. âYouâre safe now,â you whisper, swallowing the lump in your throat. It isnât enough, but these words and touches are all you have to offer him against the torment of his childhood.
His grip on you tightens. It wouldnât take much for him to snap you in half.
That scare you? Heâd asked you once. How easily I could break you?â
No, you admitted. It makes me appreciate how hard you try not to.
It takes time for his breathing to even out. His hold softens, but he doesn't relinquish you. For as terrible as the nightmares are, it's the shame he experiences in the aftermath that often requires the most care.Â
You rub firm circles on his back with one hand while cradling the back of his head with the other, trailing butterfly kisses along his temple, his forehead, down to his cheek. Any part of him you can reach, you kiss, murmuring quiet assurances in between, as if to imbue him with each word.
Eventually, the rocking stops. He's breathing more steadily now, arms encircled firmly around your waist. He gives a shaking sigh. "Sorry," he whispers, voice strained. That's a word in his vocabulary that rarely comes up, but when it does, it is always drenched in shame. He hates himself for this.
"Don't," you whisper, carding your fingers through his hair. You sniff back your tears, letting out a breath. "I asked for this. I begged you for this," you emphasize, earnest. You cup his face, angling him to look up at you. "Let me do this for you. Please. You have nothing to be ashamed of."
He stares at you with large, watery blue eyes. The whites are red, strained by the force of his grief, his durability tested only by his own power. In his gaze you see damage done to him that may never heal, but your words settle over invisible scars like a soothing balm. Itâs that very look of vulnerability that has driven you to this depth of love. You know his violence, his viciousness, but so too do you know the fragile man it protects.
Most of all, the scared boy beneath it all.
His grip on you flexes, his jaw clenched. The nature of your insight into him is both a blessing and a curse to him. He cannot hide from you. You know his shame, and despite how deeply he needs your compassion, your understanding, itâs something he has to bleed for every time. Heâs perpetually torn between his desperation to be your perfect hero, and his soul-deep yearning to be safely vulnerable.Â
If you have to, you'll spend the rest of your life convincing him that he can have both.
Finally, his shoulders sag. "I love you," he says, quietly defeated by your warmth. "I'll never hurt you. Ever."
You recognize the plea in his words. He's terrified that someday it will be too much. Youâll see what everyone else sees, and your love will be taintedâdestroyedâby your inevitable fear of him. You hope one day that heâll understand why that will never happen. Someday the depths of your love will soak in as deep as the misery of his past, and heâll be able to forgive himself for the human way his godâs heart bleeds.
"I know. I know that.â You kiss the top of his head, still rubbing his back, taking your hand away only to swipe the tears from your face. âI love you, too. Every part of you."
Even the parts you hate.
Gingerly, he lifts you just enough to lay you back down on the bed. He wastes no time cuddling back in against you, burrowing his face into the crook of your neck. The bedding is ruined, but he runs warm enough that you hardly notice the absence of cover while heâs holding you.
Your legs tangle with his, bodies slotting together easily. He nuzzles as if he can worm his way closer than skin to skin. If you could, youâd open your ribcage to welcome him inside. He could eat your heart if it kept his beating another day.
"Will you... talk me to sleep?" He asks, threads of shame lingering in the request. The tension has drained away, leaving him vulnerable and exhausted. His blinks are slow, the curve of his lips mournful.
"Of course," you whisper, smoothing your hand up and down his back. This isnât the first time youâve talked him back to sleep, and you doubt itâll be the last. Sometimes you tell him the plot of a book as best you can recall, other times it's random anecdotes from your life. Sometimes it's complete nonsense.
To him, it doesn't matter what you say. All that matters is that when he does finally drift back into sleep, it's your voice that safeguards him there.Â
Gladly, he rests his head back down on your chest, closing his eyes with a rumbling sigh while your nails drag along his scalp. You cradle him there, savoring the warmth of him as it seeps into the marrow of your bones, the weight of him grounding you.
You tell him stories until sleep finds him. Even then, you continue to speak until your voice frays and you can no longer keep your eyes open. You speak and speak and speak hoping that somehow, in some small way, you can help make up for the years he spent with only his own voice for comfort.
ditzy!reader getting in the smallest lil fender bender & hysterically crying while you call the cops (praying they donât send sammy). coincidentally, they do. sammy's face drops when he sees you "baby? what happened mama, what's goin on?" as he opens your door, helping you fan your face. your makeup is smudged and you hold up your hand to sammy with a sad "look!" :(
now if most men saw that your nail was broken after losing a bumper on the car they bought you, they'd have a less than caring reaction. but not sammy, he's all pouts and kisses. bringing your hand up to his eyes and inspecting the rigid crack in the sunlight, "oh, sweetheart i'm sorry." it's genuine too, which is what makes ben & cooper howl with laughter behind him. sammy doesn't even notice, too caught up in cooing at you "did'ya hurt anything else? yeah, no, i know, nail's the biggest priority ,my poor baby."
you cling to his chest as you bawl, and sammy knows you need him just as much as he needs to do his job. "okay baby hang on, lemme get a look at the car," but you won't dare let go of his arm; too shaken up and overstimulated. "okay, okay, 's alright, gimme your hand and walk with me" while he walks around the car checking for any other issues. after assessing for any other issues, sammy sits you back in the drivers seat and checks your head and face for any injuries. sammy with his big, strong hand brushing against your forehead and resting his fingers against the sides of your neck to turn your head gently, "i know, i know, i'm sorry honey, just gotta look you over real quick"
after plenty of kisses and comfort, sammy stands and gestures to ben, "wouldya take my girl home, please?" and ben knows better than to question sammy when he sees this look across his face. after you get in the car, you watch as sammy approaches the man you got in the accident with. "You always drive like shit? Huh?" he looks so big, so handsome, so protective... so husband. <3
Need to be the girl the guys use in a heist to scare people. Popes shoving you around, and youâre such a little actress for him, acting scared and screaming all shrill when he raises the gun up to your back, harsh hands shoving you into a counter where you had been playing up your role as a receptionist for a small time firm. You even manage a few tears, begging and pleading for the people to give him what he wanted, acting horrified when Pope pulls you into a room Craig had forced them to open as âinsuranceâ. Shoving his mask up over his mouth when he backs you inside, tongue shoved into his mouth, slick spit lips slipping together, chests heaving from the arousal of the adrenaline thrumming in your ears. Gasping loudly when he wrangles your body around, work dress bunched up over your hips, a hand pressed to the back of your neck to force the angle of your spine to lay tits down agaisnt the metal table at the center of the room, âAfter we finish this jobâIâm buying you another one of these,â he promises, the harsh shred of fabric tearing up from the hem to your spine, âAct scared. Make them believe it.â Youâre crying out as his hands tug you back, hips biting the edge of the metal table, begs and pleas for him to let you go, a flurry of pleads rambling from your mouth as Andrew pulls his cock out. The harsh sound of skin slapping is obscene inside the room, your sharp chants of begging reprieve a meek undertone. Popes cock plunges deep, eager pussy squelching around his cock with each push and pull of his hips. His fist shoves against the base of your skull, yanking you back to force the unnatural arch of your spine while his hips piston in and out of you weeping cunt, pitchy cries still spilling from your swollen lips.
i miss pope too man. thinking ab him fucking u all rough, manhandling u and shoving you around like a fleshlight. and he's so fucking sweaty and its probably the third round but you just let him use u
josie i just KNEW u were gonna pull through with an absolutely feral pope thought. this is also for anon who wanted pope taking it out on you after a job gone bad <3
18+ MDNI | cw: rough sex, choking, overstimulation, one mention of breeding, one mention of blood, pope is a little mean
when pope and his brothers go out on a job, you always wait up for him to text you a simple "Everything went fine. Get the pie ready."
this time, the text never comes. you're sat up in bed, anxiously tapping your feet against the floorboards when you hear the door bust open: there's only one set of footsteps, angry and heavy.
the moment pope storms through your bedroom door, you know something's wrong: he's breathing hard and there's blood streaked all over his thick biceps. you don't even have time to decipher whether it's his or not before he starts frantically murmuring something about not jacking the safe in time, craig getting hit by a stray bullet and deran having to take him to tj...
he's blaming himself, you know it. so you do the first thing you can think of: shut him up with your mouth and hands. is it a little manipulative? sure, maybe, but it worksâ pope's all over you, groping at your tits, your waist, your ass, as he devours you like a wild animal, licking into your open mouth. you manage to murmur a little "take it out on me," against his tongue, and that's exactly what he does.
soon you're getting fucked stupid by pope, impossibly stretched out by his fat cock. you've never had him fuck you this hard before: not when he'd had that phase of trying to breed you full with his kid, not even when you'd worn his favourite pair of heels for the first time.
pope goes full animal, grunting and groaning as he splits your juicy cunt open on every surface in the room. he's got you bent over bookshelves, pressed up against the windows, on all fours on the floor...
he gets you into doggy down on the ground and wraps his big meaty hands round the sides of your throat, squeezing so deliciously and it makes you clench around his dick. your cunt's making these gross slick noises cause you've got a bunch of his loads in you already, and it's all leaking and stringing out around his cock, but it just makes him fuck you faster.
his hips keep driving into you, his heavy balls tapping at your clit. the air in your room is hot and thick with sweat. you're certain the overstimulation must hurt for him, going round after round, but he doesn't seem to mind. maybe he wants it to hurt
eventually your muscles give out and your arms collapse onto the floor, making you yelp. pope doesn't like this. "shut up," he growls, his sweaty palm coming up to cover your mouth as he drives his cock into you harder. "i don't wanna hear you right now, okay? just let meâ just lemme use you."
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 didnât 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.
Thereâs people in his house when there shouldn't be.
The music is too loud, the bodies too hot and sweaty.
Heâs standing in the kitchen like a weirdo, even he can acknowledge it.
But he truly doesnât know what to do. Where to go.
Heâs been gone for three years. He doesnât recognize anyone anymore. Where the fuck is he even supposed to start?
Itâs your meek âexcuse meâ that breaks him out of the spell heâs under, gaze finally sharpening as he comes back down to the present moment.
Everything rushes back to him, overwhelmingly. Heâs 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 doesnât linger. Itâs 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 shouldnât be nice to him, hell, you shouldnât be nice to any asshole you donât know. Did no one teach youâ
And then you turn on the kitchen sink, gently cleaning the glass youâve been using unlike everyoneâs disposable, plastic ones.
An air of familiarity courses through him. YouâreâŚcomfortable in his home. Youâre taking care of the space that no one, not even his brothers, could give two fucks about.
He canât 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 donât 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.
Thatâs when he moves.
Itâs instinctual. His motherâs 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 heâs going to let the glass fall if he loses himself in your gaze.
âThanks,â 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 donât turn to move for the millisecond it takes for him to finish pushing the glass into place, perfectly aligned with the others.
Itâs only when he too settles back down that you turn to him expectantly.
âYouâre welcome.â
Pope guesses thatâs what youâre looking for and heâs 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 aâ
âAngel! There you are!â 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 youâre meant to be there, his arm leisurely draping over your shoulders in a familiarity that makes Popeâs blood boil with a flurry of emotions he simply cannot pinpoint.
âSee youâve met Pope,â Deran notes and you turn back to Pope with wide eyes.
âIâm so sorry,â you start, tone remorseful. âI had no idea you were Deranâs brother, I wouldâve introduced myself.â
You genuinely mean it and it almost causes Pope to snap at you. You donât owe him anything.
ââs okay,â Pope mumbles instead, his gaze piercing.
âWell itâs really nice to meet you,â you hold out your hand for him to take.
Popeâs 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. Youâre not used to being denied, to being told no, and for a second Pope almost cracks.
But he canât. He wonât let himself do it.
No, because he knows that the second you give him even an inch of familiarity he will devour you whole.
âDonât take it personally, angel,â Deran practically glares daggers at him. âHeâs not really into that.â
Your mouth curls into a silent oh and Pope shrugs in response.
Itâs 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 youâre unbothered but he knows for a fact you arenât as your hand instantly retracts back towards you, seeking Deranâs instead.
His fingers interlace with yours like itâs second nature, overly intimate. Popeâs brows scrunch in confusion, barely. Are the two of youâŚa couple?
âAnyway, Iâll see you around.â
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.Â
His eyes force him to blink then and he loses you to the crowd.
Fuck.
The next time Pope sees you, youâre back at the house for a pool day with his family. Itâs a small gathering this time around, just their inner circle which apparently now includes you too.
Youâre in a striking blue bikini, the color contrasting beautifully against your skin. Youâre 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 wonât get too tangled from the pool.
Your laughter hits him like a disorienting grenade. Itâs like he's never heard anyone feel joy the way you do. It's infectious, making him wonder if heâs ever actually felt a real emotion in his life.
âThere, all done,â you tie up Lenaâs 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.
Andrewâs 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.
âMe next,â 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 donât complain.
Pope watches as you take his hair out of the messy bun that heâs got it in, gently scratching his scalp. His younger brother moans, causing you to stop and smack the side of his head.
Popeâs lips quirk up into a smirk. Good, set his brotherâs straight.
But Craig is not deterred, simply reaching back and squeezing your thigh cockily.
It takes everything in Pope not to lunge forward. He doesnât understand it, how protectiveness practically flares up in his chest at the sight of someone elseâs grubby hands on your soft flesh.
He honestly doesnât know how Deran lets it happen. They both know his brother so why is he letting Craig be so chummy with you?
UnlessâŚyouâre not actually together, together.
Is it possible that youâre 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.
âThere princess,â you tease. âAll done.â
Craig flinches as the band hits him, bursting out into a fit of laughter as he stands up and follows Lenaâs example, splashing into the pool so hard that he ends up soaking you completely.
Lena laughs as you gasp dramatically. âYou meanie!â
âPaybackâs a bitchââ Craig starts, quickly correcting himself as you glare at him. âPayback, angel.â
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.Â
âOh yeah?â It takes them a few seconds to process what youâre 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 youâve vacated, your warmth still lingering on the fabric beneath him.
Heâs 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 itâs just for a little while.
Another thought crosses Popeâs mind then â 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.
âAngel!â 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 doesnât 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 itâs not something as grandiose as the roast she has prepared but you didnât 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 donât 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 canât help but smirk satisfactorily against his beer. You ruffle Jâs hair and give Nicky a kiss to her temple.
Youâre comfortable, confident, secure in your place within their family. You donât back down to his mother, you donât shrink away to Bazâs hesitancy, youâ
Your eyes catch him staring from across the room. Heâs subconsciously backed away the second he saw you come in, practically hiding in the threshold.
You give him a shy wave over Nickyâs shoulder, a gesture he reciprocates with a grunt and a barely there head bob.
Fuck, heâs even worse than Baz.
But you donât 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 itâs 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 werenât so damn adorable heâd 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 youâre 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.
Itâs 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.
Heâs always relegated to clean up duty, mostly because he likes it that way, itâs something he can control.
âWhere do you want these?â 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 youâve gathered into the space.
You donât 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 youâre 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 couldâve 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.
ItâsâŚnice.
Popeâs not used to someone actually wanting to help him but he finds himself quickly falling into the rhythm of your comforting presence.
âI never really asked,â you start conversation after what feels like a small eternity, turning to face Pope curiously. âDo you prefer Pope or Andrew?â
You ask as if itâs not a loaded question. Well, to you it isnât, thereâs no way for you to know about the weight his name carries over him. To you itâs just about making sure youâre calling him by the name he wants to be called, nothing more, nothing less.
But to Pope itâsâŚeuphoric.
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. Heâs 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.Â
But is it real? Do you actually mean it?
Itâs only when heâs finished washing the last plate, handing it over to you that he finally allows himself to look your way.
âAndrew,â he mumbles before he loses the courage to. âCall me Andrew.â
You turn to him, setting down the plate atop the mountain youâve created, nodding your understanding.Â
âAndrew,â you repeat back to him. âIt suits you more.â
He canât 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 donât make fun of him for it, donât 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, youâre not privy to as you say your goodbye to Lena and Cath.Â
âBye Andrew,â you call out to him, and like a moth to a flame, he canât help but step towards you, almost expectantly.
You hugged everyone else in his family, maybeâ
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.
Itâs over as quickly as it started, no lingering, no invading his space more than needed.Â
Heâs certain he stops breathing, his brain short circuiting as you settle into the driverâs seat and follow Baz out of the family compound.
Youâre not special. He reminds himself. Sheâs like this with everyone.
And yet reason doesnât 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 doesnât see you for a while, exam season taking over most of your time and planning a new job taking up most of his.
Heâs just had a disagreement with his brothers, itâs 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.
âUncle Pope!â
Lenaâs voice cuts through the noise. His gaze sharpens towards it, his frame lowering, arms opening, making space for her.
She doesnât shy away from him, embracing him lovingly because to her, heâs just her uncle, a little weird but never dangerous.
Itâs 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.
âHi,â itâs the only thing that flows from his lips.
âHi yourself,â you reply, placing your hands on Lenaâs shoulders to keep her close to the two of you. âWhat are you doing here? I thought you had a family meeting all afternoon.â
Pope blinks back the shock. How close are you to his family? How much do you know?
âEnded early.â
You nod, Lena squirming in your embrace, gasping as realization dawns on her.
âCan Uncle Pope get ice cream with us?â
You chuckle at her impatience, causing Pope to huff playfully at just how adorable his niece is being.
âThatâs up to him, sweetie.â
And how is he supposed to say no when his niece looks up to him with the most adorable eyes ever. âPlease Uncle Pope!â
He nods. âOkay.â
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.
Lenaâs a bubblegum flavor fiend, extra sprinkles and gummy bears. Youâre classic, rich and decadent, chocolate in a cup. Pope almost feels bad for getting a simple vanilla scoop in a waffle cone.
âTell them to dip it in chocolate,â you whisper to him. âTrust me.â
He doesnât know how to answer, blinking at you in surprise.
Trust me. Such a simple concept and yetâŚthereâs still something that doesnât 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 Lenaâs sitting down on one of the benches before you go up to pay.
But Popeâs quicker, pulling out a bill from his pocket and taking care of it before you can even ask the cashier how much itâs gonna be.
You roll your eyes at him when she tells you youâre too late and he canât help but smirk victoriously.
âThank you Andrew,â you relent, accepting your cup from his outstretched hand, your fingers gently grazing as you do.
The spark of electricity that snaps down Popeâs body is life inducing.
âYouâre welcome.â
You settle next to Lena whoâs 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.Â
Pope canât help watch the two of you in complete awe. How you dote on Lena and how she reciprocates the action, something heâs never seen her do in the months since heâs been back.
She feels free here, not like the little girl whoâs quiet and reserved with her now estranged parents. No, sheâs alert and alive, playful and aloof. It makes Popeâs 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.Â
The house is uncharacteristically quiet.
Heâs the only one there, heâs 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 Bazâs because she knows Pope is too spiteful to die on her. Meanwhile J has gotten really injured and Smurfâs new baby comes first now.
It doesnât matter to Pope. At least he tells himself he doesnât hate himself a little more the second he hears his motherâs 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 heâs 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 didnât hurt him to breathe.
He swings the door to his room open without thinking twice about it.
Itâs early in the morning, no oneâs 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 clothesâhis clothesâscattered on the floor.
âAndy?â 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 isnât currently in such devastating pain but he doesnât 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 doesnât 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 donât say anything, donât lash out at him, donât flinch back in fear as you slowly lift his palm, assessing the damage. He doesnât know why he lets you, it doesnât 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 donât 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 didnât 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 heâs certain his heart skips a beat. You smile up at him, so unbelievably soft, like youâre trying to comfort him without touching him because you know just how uncomfortable it makes him.
And yet, he canât help but crave your touch, like a reminder that heâs still alive, that heâs 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?Â
âYou donât have toââ 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 heâs 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 needsâ
Heâs 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 youâre beholden to. But then your sweet voice begins to shush him softly, to tell him that heâs okay, that youâve 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 heâs 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.
Itâs 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 heâs 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 canât help but smile softly at the sight, finally allowing himself to rake his gaze over your body.
For one, youâre clad in one of his old shirts, the ones that no longer fit him after prison hardened his body into a bigger size. Maybe heâs not special, but heâll be damned if possessiveness doesnât boil over at the mere sight of you in his clothes.
Heâs already slowly losing his mind, desire threatening to make him take a leap over that invisible line heâs 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 heâll at least get to kiss the siren.
âThere,â you hum, tracing the outline of the bandage with your fingertips before you turn to look up at him. âAll done.â
âThank you,â he manages to choke out.
âMy pleasure, Andy.â
Letting you go is the hardest thing Pope has ever done. Youâd insisted he needed to rest after the trauma that heâd experienced and, not wanting to be an annoying patient, heâd 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 heâd woken up, you were no longer in the house.
He thought about calling, about making sure he hadnât 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 didnât made him go crazy.
Heâs aware that itâs all his fault for not checking in, for disappearing into radio silence. But in his defense, youâve never texted before, youâve never even given him your number for fuckâs sake! It wouldâve 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 itâs just a cluster of debauchery and substance abuse.
He shouldâve left, he thought about it many times. But he knows youâll show, even if itâs 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. Itâs nearing eleven and his palms are starting to get itchy with anxiety. What if you donât show? He hadnât even thought about that possibility.
Itâs been a few days since Deranâs mentioned you. Even longer since youâve 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, needsâ
A loud squeal catches his attention, swiftly turning towards the backyard to catch you swung over Craigâs shoulder, your tiny jean shorts riding further up your ass as he spins you around.
You giggle brightly, not attention seeking, just pulling everyoneâs 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. Youâre 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 donât let it show, not as Craig lights up a joint and passes it on to you instantly.
Something constricts against Popeâs 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. Heâs about to stand up, to finally make a move and search for you when your body plops down on his lap instead.
âAndy!â You shriek, an airy happiness enveloping you as you settle over this lap. âThere you are. Iâve been looking for you everywhere.â
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.
Heâs certain heâs blushing crimson but maybe youâre too intoxicated to notice.
âWere you hiding from me?â
He doesnât answer right away, causing your pretty little mouth to get upturned into a pout.
âI knew it,â you whimper. âYou do hate me.â
âI donât hate you, angel,â the words spill out of his mouth instantly, unfiltered since his stupid brain isnât working anymore.
Wide eyes stare at him adorably. âYou donât?â
He shakes his head.
âThenâŚâ you huff, clearly exhausted from all the mental gymnastics youâve been doing too. âWhy didnât you call?â
He opens his mouth to answer.
I didnât have your number.
I didnât know I had to.
Why didnât you call?
But he knows itâs all lies. He knows he deliberately didnât call.
Didnât text.
Didnât 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.Â
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, arenât sober ones. And heâd much rather kill himself than take advantage of you.
âAndy,â you whine into his mouth again, needy and desperate. âPlease.â
 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 heâs holding back right now.
âYou can touch me, Andy,â 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 doesnât. He canât.
Instead, his eyes close in pleasure, his fists practically snapping the wood between his fingers.
Youâre hungry, having been kept from touching him for so long. Heâs given you an inch and youâll be damned if you donât steal a mile. And he honestly doesnât care, canât 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.
âYouâre so pretty, Andy,â you whisper. âNeed youââ you huff, frustrated. âto touch me, please.â
He shakes his head again, this time accidentally brushing his lips with yours, groaning at the fleeting contact.
ââM not gonna take advantage of you, angel,â 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.
ââM sorry,â you mumble against his chest, settling down to rest your head against the crook on his neck. âI justâŚâ you sigh, melancholic, the words not coming to you.
âI know,â 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.
âIs this good enough, angel?â Heâs never felt this soft with anyone before, his jagged edges usually too sharp, drawing blood instantly. But itâs as though youâve smoothed him down, made him into someone thatâs 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.
Heâs 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 youâd 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 couldnât 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.
Heâs never fallen asleep this easily before, definitely not after the peak of adrenaline youâd 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.
Youâve 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.
âWhatâs wrong, angel?â 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 youâre 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.
ââs too much,â 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.
âMeanie,â 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 doesnât give himself the time to stare, not when youâre so desperate and time is of the essence, heâll 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 boxersâ
âAll of it.â You answer for him.
âYeah?â
âMhmm,â you whine. âPlease.â
And who is he to deny you now?
In one quick movement, heâs complete bare beneath you. But youâre still not content, no, you wonât be until youâre 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 donât 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 heâll be damned to cave to for the rest of his life.
âAndy,â you plead. âNeed to be closer to you.â
He knows what you mean without you having to explain yourself.Â
Thereâs 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.
Itâs only when heâs sheathed within you completely that you finally relax. But while youâve 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. âI need to move, angel.â
You sigh, dramatically so, and he canât help but smile brightly at your theatrics.
âMay I move?â
You bury your face in the side of his neck, going limp over him. âI guess.â
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.
Youâre so wet itâs 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 heâs affording you, and heâŚheâs certain that youâve just unlocked something heâd buried deep in his psyche long ago.
A desire to long for someone.
An allowance to feel.
A chance to love again.
âAnâdy fuck,â you choke. ââM so close.â
He turns his head to press his cheek against your temple, tightening his hold on your body, possessive and claiming.
âCome for me angel,â he urges. âLet me make you feel good, please.â
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 youâre 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.
âIn me please, Andy, need youââ
He doesnât need to be told twice, burying himself as deep as he can inside of you before heâs spilling, locking you tightly against him and enjoying the feeling of joy that washes over his entire body.
He canât 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.
âWas that okay?â You ask him, finally returning to your senses it seems.
He chuckles lovingly. âItâs perfect, angel.â
