w/ pope cody 18+ sexually explicit content ; daddy kink
neither of you remember how it started or when and where he first asked you. maybe it was while he was midday fucking you against the tiled shower wall - his favorite place to do you - or maybe it was in the dead of the night, while he’d sneakily slipped into your bed beside you after mysteriously entering your apartment despite you never having gave him a key. you’re not sure, and most of the times he’s said it have blended together in his head, but there’s no mistaking there’s one question andrew cody loves asking you more than anything else: who’s daddy’s baby?
after you’ve been sitting quietly on his thigh at the patio table in smurf’s backyard, only halfway attentive to whatever meeting is commencing - pope having told his brothers that you’re a good girl, you’d never rat, you wouldn’t even actually be listening because he told you not to - he’d stand you up just as everyone else does, turning you around his arms as the boys head inside to prepare for the job they’ve just discussed. he’d cup your cheeks with his rough, calloused palms, pushing his thumbs in ever so slightly to make your lips pucker, before leaning in with his intense gaze and gravely voice, “who’s daddy’s baby? hm?”
your eyes would be pulled so high to meet his, feeling the surging warmth of his hands, something you search for constantly with him. a murmur from your smushed lips, “me, daddy. i am.”
“that’s right, you are. and daddy’s baby’s gotta be a good girl for him while he’s gone, yeah?” he’d tilt his head forward, still keeping your eyes, his voice softening in the way that’s only possible for you, “you’re gonna go lay down in my room and wait for me ‘til i come back.” your nod indicates your total obedience, his most perverted obsession about you, before he ghosts his lips over your forehead and sends you on your way inside.
or maybe during a particularly cranky day for you, as you seem to carry a permanent pout and whine on your lips; he’d be sat on the couch of his apartment, setting his beer down on the coffee table, finally so sick of your moodiness and his inability all day to cure it. bringing you into his big, burly arms, guiding your head to his shoulder with his fingers spanning your entire skull, beginning to comb your hair down, “shh, ‘s okay… don’t need to be so pouty, baby. c’mere, look at me… who’s daddy’s baby?”
eyebrows knit with a wobbly chin, pope’s greens lingering on that sweet, plump lower lip of yours, you’d shake your head with a sniffle, refusing to answer.
he’d tilt his head to the side, crooked smiling, almost amused, “don’t gimme that. c’mon, say it. who’s daddy’s pretty, cranky baby?”
“me.”
“and who loves her more than anything else in the world?”
“daddy does.”
he can’t help but coo, tucking your head below his chin as he drags his hand down to rub circles on your back, underneath your shirt, “yeah. daddy does. see, knew you knew it. now hush the whining, lemme make it better.”
and definitely while he’s got your ankles crossed right above his asscrack, plowing into you hard enough that the bedframe squeaks and scrapes the wood floor every few seconds. he’s a huffing mess as his thumb lives on your tongue, both your hands wrapped tight around his wrist, your saliva drenching his digit completely. “who’s daddy’s baby, huh? it’s you, isn’t it? using my finger like a fucking pacifier, fuck…”
he’s grunting, grabbing your chin forcefully as you arch and cry out at a particularly magnificent stroke, your jaw pliant under his harsh touch, “say it. say it like i own you, like you’ll never even think about it leaving me. say it!”
“i’m daddy’s baby!”
