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the basement is freezing, but the hum of the hairdryer is the only thing keeping the silence from feeling awkward. mike is sitting on the floor between your knees, his back against the sofa, looking everywhere but at you. he’s fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, his usual annoyed scowl plastered on his face.
"if you keep moving, you're going to look like a poodle," you say, reaching out to tilt his chin up. he huffs, a sharp sound, but he stops moving. he hates that his hair gets all weird and weighed down when it rains, a fact he'd never admit to anyone else, because 'a man doesn't care about his curls.'
but you aren't anyone else.
you run your fingers through the damp, tangled mess, feeling the texture of his hair against your palms. he’s tense at first, but as you start working the dryer, turning the heat to low and aiming it at his roots, his shoulders finally drop.
"you're dramatic, you know that?" you tease, running a comb through a stubborn knot near his temple. he winces, swatting at your hand half heartedly. "stop it. i’m helping you look less like you stuck your finger in an electrical socket."
"i didn't ask for help," he mumbles, though his eyes drift shut, and the sharpness leaves his jaw.
"you didn't have to," you counter, softening your tone. you switch off the dryer, the sudden quiet making the basement feel intimate, like a secret world just for the two of you. you use your fingers to coax the curls into place, careful and delicate. "but you like it."
mike opens one eye, squinting up at you. he looks a little dazed, his hair finally soft and framing his face the way it’s supposed to. he reaches up, catching your wrist and holding your hand against his cheek for a fleeting second, an uncharacteristically soft gesture that makes your heart stutter.
"maybe i do," he mutters, his voice dropping into a quiet, soft register. he ducks his head, hiding his blush behind his messy curls. "but don't make a big deal out of it."
you just smile, brushing a stray hair away from his eye. "wouldn't dream of it, wheeler."
summary — as his favourite waitress at the only diner in town that’ll still serve him, you’re pope’s girl. doesn’t matter if you have a boyfriend, everybody in town knows you belong to andrew cody. especially your poor neighbours on the other side of your apartment’s paper thin wall. you’d usually try and be more considerate of the noise, but with your boyfriend in the trunk of his car, pope needs everybody to hear exactly what he was doing on the night of the third. for alibi purposes.
warnings — implied age gap (you're late 20s, i believe pope is at least late 30s but that's not even really mentioned at all), mentions of armed robbery, aggravated assault, etc all the stuff they do in the show, i switch between calling him pope and andrew, reader exclusively refers to him as andrew, this isn't a slow burn but the first half is build up, reader’s boyfriend is verbally, financially and physically abusive (physical isn’t shown graphically), smurf cody, slut shaming, pope gets stabbed (also not graphic), kidnapping, murder (and like lowkey torture? he’s trying to make him feel the most pain while he dies),
18+ mdni mild exhibitionism (they want the neighbours to hear), dry humping, pope almost cums in his pants lol, mentions of m!masturbation, fingering, spitting, unprotected piv (bad), sliiiight sub!pope i think? breeding kink if u squint
word count — 11.2k
note — okay listen. i've never written for pope, i've also never written smut before. i had this stupid idea and i texted two of my friends about it and they hyped me up and now i'm here. if this sucks, that's on them, alright. i sat down to write this and figured it would be like 2/3k at most, and suddenly it had been a week and this is by far the longest single chapter fic i've ever written. i have never written smut and it is honestly much harder than it looks, the things i do for shawn hatosy </3
Pope had been waiting almost forty-five minutes.
A long wait wasn’t rare at Doc’s—the service wasn’t why he came after leaving Smurf’s. The diner, wedged by the overpass, sat forty minutes from his house without traffic. Pope didn’t care for the service, the sticky tables, the flickering lights, or even the food. The eggs were too wet, the bacon too dry, the coffee bitter. The sandwiches were both soggy and stale.
Sometimes they had pie, and that was something. Not forty-minutes-out-of-your-way something. But something.
No, there was one reason that Pope found himself in the corner booth at least twice a week, and she was currently being yelled at in the kitchen.
You looked radiant, a picture-perfect idea of a pretty girl. You moved fluidly between the coffee pot, the cabinet, and the sink, like you could perform the motions with your eyes closed. You twinkled while you walked, delicate gold rings on your fingers, earrings catching the light as your head turned towards the window. Like you were made of something that came from space. You looked more tired than usual, the dark circles under your eyes more prominent than usual.
The kitchen at Doc’s was always loud, so Andrew didn’t look up from his drink when shouting began. He had come in early, while the sun was still rising, after a sleepless night spent in his mom’s kitchen listening to his brothers plan a heist. Andrew hadn’t really paid attention to them, too focused on re-running the route from Smurf’s to the diner in his mind—a drive he could make in his sleep.
The line cook at Doc’s was an asshole. That was the first thing he’d noticed after pulling off the main road into the nearly empty parking lot. Andrew had stumbled in, bloody under his jacket. A deep gash, halfheartedly bandaged days before, ached beneath his clothes. He almost collapsed into the corner booth.
Johnny had been yelling then, too. But that time, he was behind the bar countertop, following you around as you tried to tidy up. “I don’t need to be babysitting you,” he scowled, getting in your way constantly. “First it’s the fuckin’ tickets, then it’s the drinks, for fuck’s sake. I know you don’t have much in that pretty head of yours, doll, but I didn’t realise you were honest-to-god fucking stupid.” He grabbed you at the scalp, not squeezing hard enough to hurt, and gave your head a shake. “Or were you too busy whoring yourself out tonight to remember you got a fuckin’ job to do?” His hand lingered, like he was unsure of what to do with it.
“Baby-” That word had snapped Andrew right out of it. He’d been dazed for days, since he’d got nicked right near his ribs and had lost so much blood he’d been tanner in prison. The harsh words hadn’t fazed him, he was ashamed to admit, but hearing you turn and address the man so sweetly, like he hadn’t just called you a slut in front of the empty dining room.
“No, no,” He snatched a white coffee cup out of your hands. “I get it. My big girl’s gotta do her big girl job. Right, honey? You think you’re something special ‘cause old Ron said you got a nice smile?” He slammed the mug down so hard that Andrew heard it break. You jumped about half a foot in the air and seemingly went into fight or flight. You’d scampered away, pulling the bar top up where it turned into a gate to come move around the dining room. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going? I’m talking to you.” He’d called out your name, and Andrew had committed it to memory right then and there.
“I’m working, Johnny,” you’d turned around then, in a huff. Chest rising and falling, Andrew tried not to focus on the movement of your breathing. “Doing my job, like you told me.”
Johnny watched you wipe down a table and shove the chairs in haphazardly. “Yeah,” he scoffed. “Now you wanna fucking work. Remember that flashing your tits’ll only get you out of paying rent so many times, did you?”
“Hey!”
Pope hadn’t meant to shout. Hadn’t planned on drawing attention. He hated watching you be diminished by your boss and wanted to intervene. But he felt dizzy, and you looked like the kind of girl who’d rather no one witness her shame, as twisted as that was.
Both of your heads snapped to him. Johnny’s angry, yours petrified, and Andrew felt like maybe he had made things worse for you.
Pope knew he couldn’t go in too aggressively; you were already shaking your head at him, hoping desperately he wouldn’t make a scene.
“Can I order or what?” he said gruffly, pressing his hand to his side as he slumped into the booth.
He watched Johnny grip you by the arm, hiss something in your ear, and then push you toward him. You looked more shaken than hurt, embarrassed that he had seen it than sad it had happened.
With how sweet you had been to Johnny, he’d expected you to be kind of meek. Andrew had seen your type before. Small-town girl moves to her closest approximation of a big city. Too poor for San Diego, but dreams big enough to get as close as possible. Got saddled at a dead-end food service job with an ass for a boss. Didn’t need Pope white knighting for you when he just knew your boss was going to yell at you the second he left.
Instead, you came right up to him, locking your gaze with his. Like it had never even happened. “You know what you want?” You flashed him a smile, pen already poised to write down his order.
“Uh,” Pope hadn’t even glanced at the laminated menu on the table.
You snorted, covering your mouth with your notepad. “All that tough guy stuff, you didn’t even know what you wanted?” Andrew had been suffering blood loss for at least two full days by that point, but your laugh made him feel like he was floating. “How about some coffee, huh?”
He heard the kitchen door slam behind Johnny. You didn’t even look behind to where he’d stormed out. Didn’t even flinch.
“Ignore him,” you said softly, unbothered. “He’s a little bitch. Smiled at a customer too long, made him jealous.” You grinned like it was a joke—like his words were just a harmless flaw.
Andrew looked up at you. There was a red mark on your arm where Johnny had grabbed you. “So what’re you doing now then?”
You laughed again, brushing your fingertips against the arm he had resting on the table. “If you pick coffee, then I can make it right here for you, no kitchen required.”
That had sounded pretty good to him, so Andrew nodded. You beamed down at him, shoving the notepad in the front pocket of your apron. “Now, I don’t know what you heard from him.” You had jabbed your chin towards the pass to the kitchen, heat lamps basking the wall in warm golden glow. It didn’t hold a candle to you. “But I promise not to flash my tits at you.” You nabbed the menu off the table and turned back to step behind the bar countertop. “I won’t stop you from looking up my skirt, though.”
Andrew had laughed so hard he felt like he popped one of his shitty stitches.
It became routine after that. Whenever he had to pull an all-nighter, he’d stop by Doc’s and come get a cup of shitty coffee and a dose of lovely girl.
Johnny hated Pope, but you said that was normal with customers, telling him not to get a big head. Yet Johnny kept taking Pope’s money and letting him sit in the corner booth for hours. Pope always tipped big; the money was bloody, but better in your pocket than his.
He told himself that’s why he kept coming back. He wanted to help you out. You were a sweet girl. That was it.
The dining room was no longer deserted like it had been that morning. There were a few other waitresses and a few other chefs bustling around. You and Johnny seemed to always be there, though. Pope had already waved off two teenage girls who tried to take his order.
"You think you’re better than this place?”
He couldn’t hear your muffled reply, but he heard the way Johnny laughed.
“Nah,” Johnny got louder, voice deeper. “Some fucking clown tells you you’re too pretty to be holed up here and suddenly you’re too good for me?” There was the sound of metal on metal, ringing out through the diner. The other patrons all looked up, some nervously, some annoyed. “You think he likes you? Sweet little girl, always so pretty for him, huh? Letting him ogle you like that? What do you think is gonna happen, sugar? He’ll take you somewhere nice, pull you out of this shithole?”
He still couldn’t hear you, ears straining to make out words over the noise. Baby - being nice - love you.
“You know exactly how this is gonna shake down, don’t you?” Johnny lowered his voice just slightly. “He’ll fuck you, then he’ll run, and you’ll be left here asking me for a ride to work. You know that, right? I know you got nothing but rocks up there, but you can see that, surely?”
Pope couldn’t even make out your voice that time, but he figured you’d replied when Johnny laughed, roaring and cocky. “Oh, no, baby. Don’t you roll your fuckin’ eyes at me. You know exactly why I’m mad. You like me mad. You drop your fucking panties for any guy who walks in the door, and I’m meant to act like I don’t see it? No, baby, I’m not the bad guy. You do this shit on purpose. You push, and you push, and one of these days you’re gonna forget just how good you have it.”
Andrew already fucking hated Johnny, but the afternoon you’d sheepishly admitted Johnny wasn’t just your boss—he was your longtime boyfriend—made Pope’s blood boil so much that he’d almost crushed that fucking coffee cup in his hand.
“Yeah, my girl doesn’t need reminding who’s good to her, does she? Where’s your fucking attitude now, huh?” More murmurs, you sounded upset now, not soothing. “Yeah, not so fucking tough anymore. You think that fucking loser’s gonna save you-?”
Andrew heard your voice - don’t - and then dead silence. He thought for a sickening moment that Johnny had kissed you to shut you up, and that he was going to have to think about that on the drive home instead of how you’d traced the knuckle of one of his hands.
Then, you emerged. Head ducked, straight for his booth. He sat up straighter. Your chest was shaking, and this time, he didn’t have to stop himself from looking; his eyes were glued to your face.
He said your name softly, reaching a hand for you. You stopped short. “Can I get a ride?”
Your eyes were red, tears streaking thick black tracks down your cheeks. There was a mark on your collarbone. Pope was up in an instant. “I’ll fucking kill him-”
“He just grabbed me, I want to go home-”
“Just grabbed you?” He scoffed. You were both talking quietly, voices low to avoid the breakfast rush from feeding on your insides. “I’m going to fucking kill-”
“Andrew,” you snapped, “I want to go. Can I get a ride or not?”
Pope had driven you home a few times in the six months he’d been frequenting the diner. Sometimes you and Johnny would fight, and Johnny would take off without you, leaving you stranded and sheepish as you stood by the corner booth, looking like you wished the earth would swallow you.
But he’d never seen you leave without Johnny. This was new.
He handed you the fifty in his hands - the piece of pie he’d been waiting on plus tip (he wasn’t gonna let that asshole take it), and you didn’t argue, just shoving it in the pocket of your apron. You never accepted his money without a fight, usually, but that time you took it, stalking off towards where Andrew had parked his car.
“You wanna go to your place?” Andrew would never have asked, have given you any inkling you were welcome at his house, if you hadn’t looked so upset. He didn’t want you anywhere the fuck near his family - especially Smurf. She had no idea he’d been coming there three times a week for almost six months. It wasn’t any of her fucking business. Still, he wasn’t going to let his mom sink her claws into you the way she had with Julia. To maim. Not to cage, like with him.
But Andrew also knew that Johnny owned your apartment building. That was how you’d met him, apparently. At first, it had been kind of fun, you’d admitted to him one night the slight Johnny had hurled at you hadn’t been without merit. “Sometimes I couldn’t make rent that month, so I’d just have to… You know.” Pope felt like he was going to be sick. “It made me feel special, like I was in on something the other people weren’t. Then one time we had a fight and he wouldn’t get someone to fix my AC.”
Pope was going to fucking kill him, and there wasn’t anything he could think of that would stop him. He’d fantasise about the ways on the drive home some mornings, imagining the life draining out of Johnny’s eyes the way Pope had watched the life drain out of yours. Maybe he’d take a knife to him, watch his blood soak the concrete. He had a gun; he could use that. Or maybe Pope could just drag him out to the half-alley where Doc’s dumpsters were and beat the shit out of him until he was unrecognisable.
Those were second only to the other fantasies he’d have. The ones where you would find out, devastated by your boyfriend’s death, and turn to him for comfort. The ones where you’d kiss him and tell him he saved you. The ones so vivid he’d have to pull off the road and deal with it, lest he go and meet up for a job with a boner.
All of them involved your fucking boyfriend six feet under, and Pope getting the chance to show you how much better he could treat you.
Sometimes you chatted, airily telling him stories about funny customer interactions you’d had, or about something silly you’d seen on your phone. Sometimes you stayed silent. Most of the time, if Pope was driving you somewhere, it was because you and Johnny had gotten into a fight and he’d left you stranded.
“I’m gonna need to ask for your number,” you’d joked one night, standing in front of the open passenger door, bent at the waist to shove your head back in the car. “That way I can come and bug you whenever.”
Andrew would’ve handed it over without hesitation, but you’d giggled and shut the door, flouncing back up to the staircase leading to your apartment on the second floor. That afternoon, Johnny had taken your elevator pass, so Andrew dropped you off around the back. Your apartment building felt more like a motel: your front door was external, the apartment hallway served as an entryway, and a patio. He watched you bound up the stairs with the energy of someone who hadn’t worked the night shift, hauling yourself up on the railing and flashing him a beaming smile as you reached your door.
Now, you sat in silence. When Andrew pulled into the back lot of your place, you sat there, seatbelt buckled behind your back—which made Andrew nervous, but he was in no position to ask you to obey the laws of the road. “Do you want to come in?”
The closest Andrew had come to being inside your house was when he’d walked you to your door one night when it was raining. “Johnny…?”
You shook your head, still not looking at him. Your gaze was locked on your lap. That summer had been unbearable, so you’d opted for skirts rather than pants. You wore really pretty outfits a lot of the time, even if they were hidden under your apron. Floral sleeveless tops that showed off your collarbones and made him feel like a fucking teenager, practically salivating at the sight. Skirts that ended at mid-thigh, oftentimes shorter than the apron you wore tied around your waist. Your thighs were on display, and Pope had been very tastefully looking at them - you couldn’t ask him not to look, that wasn’t fair.
“He’s pulling a double,” you said, “Can’t flake out on it either, Doc’s is going under.”
That wasn’t necessarily surprising to Pope. Doc’s had a few die-hard patrons, people that he’d see multiple times a week or month. Other than that, it was usually empty. Which is why the line cook seemingly felt no shame in bullying his girlfriend in the middle of the dining room on a weekly basis.
Part of Pope felt bitter. Good. That asshole deserved it. Maybe they’d knock the building down and turn it into a Whole Foods or some shit. But most of him was thinking about you. Doc’s was your only source of income, and most of your money you got from his tips. Would you still see him if the diner closed?
He followed you up the stairs, standing guard beside you as you rifled through your bag for your keys. That was how Andrew felt about himself a lot of the time when it came to you. A guard dog. Someone to protect you, whether it was from Johnny or Smurf or guys who called you ‘darlin’ and got too close to your face at work. Not necessarily someone to keep around, but someone useful.
Your apartment looked exactly like Pope thought it would from the glimpses he caught through the windows (and the listing he’d found online) (your boyfriend had your apartment listed at all times, ready to strike if you pissed him off too bad) (Pope hadn’t mentioned it to you, but he kept it in the back of his mind always).
There were little touches that weren’t included in the estate photos he’d found online. The tack-on wallpaper you had up in the kitchen, the soft blankets you’d tossed over the couch.
“Sorry for the mess,” you sounded upset, but you had been since the diner. Pope didn’t want to think about it being his fault. What really worried him was the palpable sense of tension, as if there were too many words left unsaid hanging in the air. Pope looked back over at you, mouth open to tell you not to worry about it, but was interrupted by the look on your face. Eyebrow raised, eyes still red-rimmed from the incident in the diner, mouth curled downward. “No, stop. You’re gonna say it’s cute, or whatever, but it’s not. It’s gross, sorry. I didn’t think I’d have company today.” You seem to be in waitress mode even at home, straightening things and moving to put dishes in the sink. Pope caught sight of a dirty laundry basket and almost got lightheaded.
“Do you want something to eat or drink?” You asked, kicking the laundry basket into another room and shutting the door with your elbow. Pope couldn't shake off a sense of impending crisis; each of your movements was more hurried than usual, like a tightly wound spring ready to snap.
Pope hovered awkwardly in the living room, scraping his eyes over as much of your stuff as he could. Your chipped mugs, the 90s girl-group poster covering water-damaged walls. Your things were clearly well-loved and well-worn, but seldom maintained. You took good care of your things out of love, but not enough to stop them from breaking. Enough to keep them useful. Pope wondered if his usefulness would run out. “Is the coffee better here?”
You snorted, untying your apron and dumping it on the sofa. “I won’t spit in it?” You offer like it’s some sort of consolation prize.
Pope couldn’t stop the words stumbling out of his mouth, “Why not?”
He wanted to ask him what exactly had gone down in the kitchen, talk to you about it, tell you to dump him, do a billion things to you. There was the small problem of you finding out how much of a fucking loser he felt about you.
“Sit,” you said softly. He sat. He watched you mill around, both cleaning the kitchen and making him a cup of coffee in the same motions. When you handed him the cup, he looked up at you. It was well and truly mid-morning by that point, and the sun was filtering through the kitchen windows and hitting your face.
“You okay?” He finally asked. He didn’t want to overstep; he also felt like it wouldn’t be appreciated. Pope wanted to be something, not just another asshole who took control of your life. You’d been in a rough spot when you’d met Johnny. Pope didn’t want to be another Johnny. So, he kept his mind firmly on the task at hand and not on the fact that your bedroom was on the other side of that wall.
You looked at him, and Pope felt his stomach fall. He’d never seen you look like this before. “I want you to kill him.”
It was a burst of anger, uncharacteristic of his sweet girl. Pope couldn’t take his eyes off you, but he still felt like he’d blinked and missed you already.
“Wha-”
You rolled your eyes, kicking off your sneakers and curling up on the sofa near him. He could smell your perfume. He was going insane —you were too close—far too close for how well-behaved he was trying to be. Too far away to do the things he was trying not to think about doing.
“I’m not stupid, Andrew,” you said, rubbing your eyes. “I know who you are. I know what you do. I know your whole schtick.”
Hearing someone call his family’s incredibly lucrative and prolific crime empire a ‘schtick’ kind of snapped him out of it. “You…?”
“Like, two weeks after the first time you came in, I went to a party and someone asked if I was Pope’s girl.”
Fuck. Fuck. He’d wanted to keep you all from it. From Smurf, from the rest of his family. From Pope.
When he was with you, he didn’t have to be Pope. He didn’t have to be whatever the fuck he was, whatever people called him. Didn’t have to worry about the fucking drugs, or the heists, or all the people he’d murdered at the behest of his mom.
Being asked to take care of someone wasn’t an uncommon thing for him.
You seemed to register the worry on his face, scooching closer on your small sofa. Pope felt dizzy. “I said yes,” you admitted, cheeks warm. “I don’t know why. I just wanted him to leave me alone, and when you were brought up, he seemed to think twice about fucking with me. It was nice.”
Your earlier words played back in his head, about how it had been with Johnny at the beginning. Like being in on something that no one else was.
Andrew said your name, low and mournful, like it might be the last time.
“I’ve heard stuff,” you rushed, needing to get your point across before he cut you off and walked out of your life forever. “Stuff about the Codys- you guys. About you, Andrew. Pope. I had a little trouble picturing you as him. You’re always so nice to me, I couldn’t imagine you doing something like that.”
Good. Andrew hoped to god it stayed that way. You were the one good thing he had ever let himself have, and he barely even fucking had you. Still, it had all managed to catch up to him.
“But then I thought about it.” Your voice was quiet. If Pope strained, he could hear voices behind him, on the other side of the wall. “And I thought about it. And I kept thinking about it every time I saw you. I can’t get it out of my head.”
Pope felt his eyes sting. He was not going to cry in front of you. He’d sooner run out the door and ghost you.
“Please say something.” It was clear you had expected him to be much further on board faster than he had been.
He just sat there for a moment. Every second that went by, every tick of the clock on the mantle, every drip of the kitchen sink Johnny refused to look at, every blink of Pope’s eyes, felt like they got longer and longer between them.
Pope had an issue. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to kill Johnny - Pope would’ve done so already if he had known you wouldn’t grieve his death like he had believed you would. But he didn’t want to be the guy you leant too heavily on and grew to resent.
"You want me to kill him?"
He’d expected you to look surprised, to tell him you hadn’t really wanted to take him up on the offer or whatever. Instead, your eyes sparkled as you nodded.
"I want him to die, Andrew." You said it so gravely, so seriously, he had no choice but to believe you. Unless you’d become an informant, which, knowing his luck, was not out of the question. “You’re a good man. You deserve to do it. I can forgive you for it.”
You wanted to do it yourself, had ever since you’d found out about the habits of the sweet, quiet man who came in and stared at you too long. But wanting to kill someone and actually killing them were two different stories. This was giving you an out. You didn’t need to rely on Johnny, on his hot and cold, on his temper.
You wanted to do it yourself, had ever since you’d found out about the habits of the sweet, quiet man who came in and stared at you too long. But wanting to kill someone and actually killing them were two different stories. This was giving you an out. You didn’t need to rely on Johnny, on his hot and cold, on his temper.
Doc’s was going under, and you’d been looking for another job. Looked at maybe going back to school. You’d been in your third year of college when you met Johnny. That was a lifetime ago.
If Johnny died, the building would be bought by Mr Carlton, the older man who owned all of the first floor and almost all of the second floor. Rent would be a little higher, but you wouldn’t have a boyfriend who could decide he wasn’t going to give you shifts while you were on your period, because if you couldn’t give him what he wanted, then why should you get what you want?
A steady source of income, maybe a future, control over your life again. Johnny had to fucking go.
And who deserved to do it more than Andrew? Sweet, sarcastic, charming, respectful, Andrew. He’d never overstepped, never once given you the ‘you deserve better’ spiel. Never once made you feel like he pitied you or judged you. Knew his place. His good behaviour deserved to be rewarded.
And so, you made a plan. He’d suggested planning it out to give you more time to chicken out, as he somewhat believed you would.
Johnny would be going out of town the month following, for a whole ten days. That meant there were ten days which nobody would notice his disappearance. Pope planned it all, how he would do it, where he would dump him, and the excuse he would give his brothers.
Baz had pulled him aside and asked if he’d gotten a girl, but Pope had stayed silent, stewing bitterly. It wasn’t out of any real interest in his life; it was out of selfishness. He’d noticed how long it had been since he’d caught Pope looking at Cath.
You quit Doc’s and started working at a coffee shop closer to your place. The hours were consistent, the pay was regular. You didn’t even care that your coworkers weren’t very nice, and you weren’t making as much in individual tips. You wanted something concrete.
You and Pope started “dating.” You suggested it as a reason you guys had been hanging out so much: if one of your neighbours squealed. All that involved was letting Andrew drive you home, letting him call you ‘baby’ in earshot of your coworkers, and letting him keep his hand on the back of your thigh for just a little too long.
Pope was paying your rent — something that annoyed you, but you couldn’t stop. Johnny had threatened to evict you when you and he split, done in a screaming match at Doc’s, surrounded by as many people as you could swing. It needed to be public and final. You’d almost been rendered homeless, but Pope had offered to reach up and spend more than the heightened rent Johnny had started enforcing. Andrew knew Johnny knew he wasn’t going to get more rent out of anybody than some sucker who wanted to fuck Johnny’s ex-girlfriend.
He spent the entire month leading up to it with his family. Made himself as available to them as he could. Told you not to call him while he was at Smurf’s, told you so softly and so sweetly they’d rip your fucking throat out that you had no choice but to listen. He forced himself into so many situations that, when the day came, they were honestly grateful for a reprieve. Nobody would be calling him that week.
Johnny was smoking a cigarette when Pope got him. Sharp and fast, a quick slash to the side under the ribs, grabbed by the hair. Kicked on the back of the knees and shoved to the ground. Some of it had been overkill. The grip Andrew had kept on Johnny’s greasy hair, almost ripping it out from how forceful he was. Zip ties to the wrists, enough shoved in the mouth that even when Johnny realised it was Pope and started yelling, only muffled groans could be heard. Nobody had been in the parking lot of Johnny’s - Pope had planned as much, but seeing it work out felt vindicating.
Not as vindicating as watching Johnny bleed out all over the tarp Pope had lined his trunk with for the occasion. His hands, the hands that had touched you in all the wrong places, were almost completely severed at the wrists. Johnny’s fingerprints would be burned off, and his teeth would be knocked out, but he wanted to wait until the bastard was dead for that part. Not to spare him the pain, but because he wanted to take his time on it without having to listen to that miserable fuck whine the entire time.
He was still alive when Pope pulled into your apartment. You’d been at work all morning and had just gotten home (Pope still felt guilty about making you take the bus, even though his car had been in use at your request). That way, when the coroners eventually examined him, if they found him too quickly, they’d get a time of death you were both well and truly accounted for.
He’d hoped he’d catch sight of one of your neighbours on the way in, had spent the past month stopping to chat to each and every one of them, so they wouldn’t think it out of the ordinary if he did it on his way up to you. The staircase, the patio, and even the parking lot were all dead.
So, he pulled out his keys and made a big show of dropping his keyring and clattering about with it before unlocking the door. “Baby?”
You were in the kitchen, still in your work clothes, looking radiantly at him. More dream than girl, Pope could’ve sworn you glowed. “Andrew,” you beamed at him, speaking a little louder than necessary. Not unnatural. “How’s Lena?”
He’d offered to take his niece out for the morning, which kept her away from Baz and gave Pope some time with her. Made for a really good alibi if someone asked him where he’d been that morning. He’d felt kind of gross for dragging the poor girl into it, but his desire to see her had won over.
“She was good,” Pope shut the front door, dropping his stuff in. “We went to the beach, got ice cream, had some lunch. She says hi.”
Lena absolutely did not say hi. Pope hadn’t let a single thing about you slip, even to her. But he liked to think that if she did know who you were, she would’ve said hi.
Pope discarded his jacket on the hook by the door. You didn’t keep your space particularly tidy, but since he’d started coming over, you had made more of an effort. Clearing room for him to keep his things, jacket on the hook, shoes on the rack, keys in the bowl. It felt so painfully domestic that Pope could almost pretend this whole thing was real.
After that first time in your place, Pope had been struck by just how much of the apartment felt like you. It wasn’t overly decorated, you didn’t make enough money to have one of those Pinterest board apartments Andrew knew you were secretly obsessed with.
But there was nothing in this apartment, even the first time he’d been inside, that indicated you had a boyfriend. At least... There hadn’t been before.
Now, Pope’s stuff was everywhere. His dishes in your sink, post-its on your fridge reminding you of when he was working or telling him when you were. One of his jackets over the back of your sofa. He was one step away from keeping a damn toothbrush in the cup with yours.
You came close to him, wrapping your arms around his neck and stretching yourself up so your mouth was right beside his ear. “Did you do it?”
Pope’s hands were pressed to your back, one of them lingering where the hem of your shirt sat, inches away from slipping his palm to lay against your bare skin. “Yeah,” he said, voice low. You squeezed him. “He’s in the car. I’ll hang out here for a while, then I’ll go dump him.”
He hadn’t told you where he’d been planning on taking Johnny. You hadn’t asked. You didn’t need to know where he was lying, just that he was rotting. That you’d never have to feel his hands on you again.
“No one saw me,” he said. He felt you frown against his neck. The two of you had been hoping at least one of your neighbours would catch sight of him organically. The building's walls were thin; you could hear people on both sides of you.
“Shit,” he felt you exhale. “We need someone to be able to validate that you’re here.”
He let his hands shift, rubbing the skin of your back gently through your top. His thumb brushed the sliver of bare skin with a featherlight touch. You didn’t move away.
The two of you stood there for a moment under the guise of thinking. There was the faint clatter of a dish being bumped into through the wall, followed by a muttered curse word.
“Maybe they could hear us doing something?” He suggested. “Like, we could talk really loud?”
You pulled back enough to see his face, but not so much that he had to let go. “What would they hear?” you asked quietly, a smile tugging the corner of your lips up.
The silence hung low in the air, filling the space and shoving the two of you closer together. You were wearing a pretty blouse and a denim skirt, straight from a morning at the coffee shop. Pope didn’t want to be the one to suggest it.
“Andy…” Your voice was soft in tone but loud enough in volume that he was pretty sure that your neighbours could hear. You’d never called him that before. Your hands moved from resting behind his neck to caressing his jaw with your thumbs.
“Hi, baby,” the words ghosted your face, barely audible. Your face split out in a grin.
“Wanna see my bedroom?”
Andrew had seen your bedroom before, but he had never been inside. He’d only ever caught glimpses when you came in or out, or through the cracked door, or on the online listing.
Your bedsheets had little daisies on them. They felt soft under his fingertips. Your duvet was bunched up towards the head of your bed. You’d shoved him inside, giggling at the absurdity as his knees hit the back of your bed.
“Okay, wait.” You bent over, desperately trying to at least half-make your bed while he was sitting on it. You weren’t actually going to fuck him, you just needed to make the neighbours think he was giving you a good time. Well, it didn’t have to be good, but it would hurt his ego a little if he couldn’t fake fuck you well.
Then, you sat down on the rumpled duvet beside him, unable to keep the grin off your face. “Okay, wait,” you said again. “Alright…”
The two of you sat there in silence for a moment before finally you let out a noise. A soft, barely-there, contented sigh.
Pope laughed.
You reached over and hit him. “Sorry, asshole, I’ve never tried to make my neighbours think I’m having sex before,” you hissed. He held his hands up in surrender, trying to take you seriously despite the situation. Andrew shifted so his legs weren’t hanging off the side of your bed, shuffling towards the head. “You do it.”
“I…” he tried. This was ridiculous. “I can’t, I’m sorry,” he was laughing so hard his shoulders were shaking, his back pressed to the headboard.
You rolled your eyes. “Oh, Andy,” you let out an exaggerated groan, snickering at him. Your voice stayed monotone, “Please, for me?”
You crawled closer to him, coming to sit right beside him.
Pope thought maybe he had died and gone to hell. He had you right there, so close to him he could smell the rosemary oil you insisted helped your hair grow. So close he could count your eyelashes if he could keep his eyes off your hands, dragging through the duvet to extend towards him.
He let out a groan, and you smiled self-satisfiedly. “Yeah?” you goaded. “You like that, Andy?”
Your voice was thick with wanting. Pope let out another noise, heat rushing to his neck. You were putting on a show, and not even for his benefit. A whine ripped itself from his chest, and the humiliation filled the cavity it left. Here he was, acting like a fucking virgin sitting with a pretty girl on her bed.
You still had that goddamn smile on your face, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. You were still moving closer, and Andrew felt frozen. He was trying so so hard, trying to behave, to not move you closer and grab any part of the expanse of skin you were seemingly haunting him by. He was trying to behave, and there you were, so close to him.
You were still giggling, even as you hauled yourself up and locked your legs on either side of his thighs. Pope’s hands were raised, hovering above your waist, not sure about the whole touching thing now that you were literally situated in his lap.
You opened your mouth, pushing a palm flat against the wall and letting out a slightly louder moan, looking him right in the eye.
Yep, definitely hell. You were settled in his lap, whining his name, gaze boring into his. He had to start thinking about geometry or baseball or something to distract himself from the fact that you were positioned right over his cock while wearing a skirt.
He was able to start on autopilot, matching your volume, throwing in a “baby” or a whine of your name every so often. He just had to keep a clear head for however long you decided sex with him would take and then wait so he could go jerk off and dump your boyfriend’s corpse. In that order.
You had one hand on his shoulder, one hand on the wall, still completely giddy from the venture. You seemed to be having a nice time, not burdened by the same hellish circumstance that he had found himself trapped in. Even more so when you shifted your hips slightly and had his cock twitch at the contact.
He felt you tense up and prepared for the anger. A slap, a spit, insults hurled. Something at least.
He couldn’t look up at your face, but unfortunately, your tits were the other closest things to his eyes. Instead, his head was turned to stare at the floral wallpaper, looking as far from your face as his head would physically turn.
“Andrew?” You whispered. He was shaking under your hands. He felt your hand move from his shoulder up his jaw, fingernails raking up his skin. You grabbed at his chin, pulling his face back up so he had to look at you. “Hey.”
This would be the last time he ever touched you, so he let his hands finally find purchase on your waist. “I’m so, fuck- I’m sorry. You can just ignore it; it’ll go away. I’m so fucking sorry, it’s not because of you.”
You pouted. “It’s not?” You rolled your hips, and Andrew felt his chest constrict. “That’s a shame.” You were moving consistently by that point, and he couldn’t figure out when you’d gotten such a mean streak.
“Fuck-” his head fell forward, forehead resting on your shoulder. “Baby, I-” he was interrupted by a whine yanked from his throat by the feeling of you grinding down on his crotch. “You… you gotta stop.”
“You want me to?” You asked innocently, pausing your movements.
Andrew lifted his head off your shoulder to look up at your face. You had never seen anyone look at you with such reverence.
Pope knew the good, moral thing to do was yes, to get you off his lap and then throw your boyfriend’s body in the ocean. What he chose to do was to lift his hips up to provide some of the friction you’d stopped giving him. “No,” he admitted. “Fuck- no. Please don’t.”
His face was still in your hand, and you gripped his chin, tipping his head back slightly. You ducked your head slowly, moving to press your mouth to his. Pope’s hands were roaming on your back, one of them finally slipping under the soft cotton of your blouse. Pope kissed like he talked, waiting for you to make the first move, but once you had, he cut himself loose. It wasn’t necessarily a good kiss; it was sloppy, mostly open-mouthed, and involved a lot of your mouth swallowing his moans.
But your brain seemed to reset, whether it was the feeling of his tongue slipping between your lips or the feeling of his erection pressing between your legs. The noises he was making, directly from his mouth to yours, were sending a buzzing feeling between your thighs.
You rolled your hips, he thrust up to meet you, and the friction set loose a high whimper that seemed to spur him on.
“Fuck,” he groaned, pulling off where he’d taken your bottom lip between his teeth. “You have no idea how much I’ve thought about this.”
He was embarrassingly close from the feeling of you grinding on him through his clothes. His hand squeezed your side, his entire body tense from the effort he was putting in to keep him from embarrassing himself. You let out a whine at the sudden move, and that had been his final straw.
Without warning, Pope wrapped a strong arm over your back and flipped you over so he was above you. You squealed at the impact, landing on your back, and the sound travelled straight to his cock. “Andrew-”
He kissed you again, his hand coming up to cup your jaw and rub soothing circles into your scalp. “Fuck, baby,” he groaned. Your legs fell apart for him to come move between them and press his chest to yours. Andrew took his free hand and stroked the back of your thigh, holding it up against his hip. “Oh, look at you.” He pulled up to take a good look at your face. Face flushed, pupils blown, and that stupid fucking smirk on your face.
The hand on your thigh loosened its grip and travelled upwards until it found its way underneath your skirt. As his palm made the connection with your damp underwear, you let out an embarrassingly high-pitched whine. “Andrew,” you shuddered against his touch.
“You want me to touch you?” he asked, voice low. You nodded, tilting your head up to try to capture his lips against yours again. “Yeah? Come on then, baby. Use your words.”
Your cheeks burned, more from annoyance than embarrassment. “Please, Andy…” That wasn’t enough for him; the most he did was press the heel of his palm firmer against your panties. “Want you to touch me,” you grumbled. Andrew knew you were miffed at not getting what you wanted without having to do what he wanted you to. You liked that he was so desperate for you, liked how he’d been hard under your touch without him even really touching you.
He pushed your panties to the side to run a finger through your folds. You whined, pushing your hips up at the brush of your clit against the pad of his finger. “Andrew,” you whimpered. He stayed by the nerve, pressing two of his fingers flat and rubbing small circles. He spent a few minutes switching up pace and pressure until he found one that you seemed to really enjoy.
Your moans went straight to his cock, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care about that when you were so warm, so wet; all other rational thought went straight out the window. “Fuck, pretty girl. Hear how fuckin’ wet you are?” He kissed the side of your mouth and moved his hand off your jaw to press it against your hand. The back of your palm pushed up against your pillow, clutched tightly in his, anchoring him there to you. He moved away from your clit and ignored the pained whimper you pressed into his cheek, instead moving his fingers to slip them inside.
You gasped at the intrusion, your free hand clawing at his back. “Fuck, Andy,” your moans were high-pitched and breathy, unlike the deep and fake noises you’d been forcing out for the benefit of the neighbours.
“Oh, pretty girl,” he groaned into your neck. You were so tight, even just around his fingers. He wanted to pay more attention to your clit, but the feeling of your hand in his was too tempting to give up. Instead, he pressed his index and middle fingers inside while brushing the nerve with his thumb. It was uncoordinated, fast, and desperate, but you were whining into his ear, clenching the back of his shirt in your free fist, and squeezing his fingers so tight he could feel precome pooling in his boxers.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned. “How am I meant to fit in here, baby?” He cooed, crooking his fingers up to press against your spongy center with the tips of his fingers and causing you to throw your head back, open-mouthed.
Pope felt you clench around him. “Wanted this so bad,” you admitted, pulling him closer to kiss him. It was so sloppy, half your words were said directly into his open mouth. “For- fuck- months, Andrew. I k-keep thinking about you,” you bucked up into him. “Johnny would always get angry because he said you wanted to fuck me-”
“Did,” Andrew grunted, fucking you with his fingers as far in as they could go, stretching you out. He hadn’t been joking before; there was no way he’d fit. “Do.”
You ignored him, still babbling on. “And I never believed him, but I really, really hoped he was right.”
Andrew pulled his fingers out of you again, but this time you didn’t whimper. He’d been talking a big game while he was on top of you. You wanted your sweetheart back. Stopping only to shove your panties down your legs and kick them off onto the floor, you wrestled yourself back on his lap. At the feeling of your bare core against his erection, Pope groaned again. “Fuck, baby, you felt so good, so wet for me. Was that all for me?” You nodded. “Fucking bastard, has no idea what he’s giving up, does he?”
Pope did not want you back on his lap because he was pretty sure that if you started riding him again, he’d come in his pants.
You seemed pretty gleeful at the concept of that happening, though, leaning down to attach your lips to his neck. There was a wet patch on the front of his pants where your bare core met the swell of his cock. “Andrew,” you rasped, “feels so good.”
His hips stuttered, hands on the backs of your bare thighs, debating whether to move up to your ass or down to your pussy. “Baby,” he groaned. “Say you want me.”
Andrew wasn’t a virgin. He’d had girlfriends, the occasional hookup. He had never been so achingly hard in his life, and you hadn’t even really touched his cock yet.
“You want me to want you?” You cooed. “Yeah, baby? I want you,” you husked, directly into his fear. “Want you so bad, Andrew.”
He tossed his head back, hitting the wall behind your headboard. “Fuck, you feel so good.” his hands squeezed the flesh of your ass, trying to find something to keep him from busting already.
“Yeah?” you encouraged.
Andrew nodded against your mouth, eyes rolled back in his head. “Yeah, fuck, baby. You look so pretty,” he said, looking up at you through his eyelashes. You could feel yourself soaking his pants, his erection catching on your clit, and sending your head fuzzy. “So, so pretty. My pretty girl.”
You reached for his belt buckle at that, desperate to satiate the pulsing between your legs. He made no move to help you, watching through blown pupils as you undid his pants and shoved them down as far as you could with him sitting down. You’d been able to see the wet patch on his dark jeans, and you’d assumed it had been made up of entirely your arousal, evidence of how much you needed him. But seeing the dark stain of precome pooled by his erection, you realised he needed you just as much.
“Andrew,” you breathed, lusting and listless. “Can I touch you, please?”
Andrew groaned like he was in pain, nodding and nudging his face up to kiss your cheeks. “Please, baby. I’d take anything, anything you wanna do.”
You liked how he wasn’t trying to pretend he didn't want this as much as you did. You waned him so badly you ached, you could feel yourself clenching around nothing, desperate for the friction his fingers had provided. “Yeah?” He nodded. “Can you open up for me?”
Andrew opened his mouth, eyeing you as you leaned over his face and let a droplet of your spit land on his tongue. Eyes rolling back, he closed his mouth and savoured it, and that was when you decided to take the opportunity to reach into his underwear.
He was bigger than you’d expected from how unassuming he was. Andrew was a big guy, with arms so huge you wanted him to wrap them around your neck until you saw stars. But he wasn’t super tall, so you’d figured he’d gotten so jacked in prison. He hung heavily over the waistband of his boxers, and his breath hitched when he felt you wrap your impossibly soft hand around him. Now that you had him where you wanted him, everything else seemed to be in the way. His shirt was ripped from his head, the buttons of your blouse undone by shaking fingers. Andrew let his head drop forward to mouth at your covered chest, hand palming the cup of your bra on the other side.
You’d intended to tease him a little, maybe pay back the favour of his fingers, but after less than a full stroke, he was whining at you. “Please,” he gasped out, stopping his task of soaking through your bra with his spit. “I need to be inside you.” Your name slipped from his lips so desperately that you felt your walls flutter.
You reached up to cup his jaw again, keeping the pad of your thumb pressed to his chin and pushing two of your fingers against his lips. He let you in immediately, moaning around your digits and maintaining sweltering eye contact as your other hand brushed his slit with your thumb. An especially loud groan brought you back to where you were, what the goal had been.
“That’s it, baby,” you cooed. “Let the whole building hear how much you want me.”
Once your fingers were well and truly lubricated, you reached back down to touch his cock. “Fuck,” he let out. “You fucking tease-” he was being louder as you’d requested, but only just. He wanted people to hear, sure, but this wasn’t some type of performance.
Pope was desperately running through topics in his head - counting sheep, trying to do basic addition - anything to distract himself from the feeling of your hand running along the vein he had on the underside of his cock.
“Are you gonna fit?” You asked him, lifting yourself up to discard your skirt. Pope took the opportunity of you being out of his lap to shove his jeans down his legs, leaving himself completely bare in front of you. All you had left was your bra, and he’d be perfectly content to keep mouthing at the fabric, but you discarded that, too.
“Oh, yeah, baby,” he sighed, moving to lay you down once again against your pillows. “I’ll fit.” He brought his thumb down to brush your clit again. Your wetness was pooling between your folds, about to start leaking down onto your bed. He actually wasn’t sure, despite how turned on you were, if he would fit. He was above average, but not by much. But the way you’d clamped down around his fingers made Pope feel like maybe Johnny hadn’t been giving you very much to work with. The two of you had been together for like six years, he was pretty sure. “You were fuckin’ made for me, weren’t you?”
You nodded.
He ran his fingers down your glistening folds, collecting your juices in his hand. Andrew had half a mind to bring them to his mouth, but he wanted the first time to be straight from the source. Instead, he let you take them in your mouth, mirroring what he’d done to you. You circled one of his thick fingers with your tongue, and he knew immediately he’d made a mistake, cock jumping at the feeling. He wanted to see you with your pretty lips wrapped around him.
Despite the slick mess between your thighs, his wet fingers were able to find purchase on your clit. “See how much I want you, Andy?” you moaned, and he knew the fucking neighbours heard the groan that pushed from his chest.
The head of his cock brushed your clit, and both of you whined into the open air. You pulsed under his touch, wanting and sensitive.
He took his hand away from your clit just long enough to take hold of his cock and guide it to catch on your entrance.
You look up at him, writhing and needy, and he ducks down to kiss you. “Fucking dreamt of this,” he admits. “Every time I’d watch you leave with him, I’d imagine pulling you away, making you feel so fucking good you forget every name that isn’t mine.”
His mind drifted back ever so slightly to the almost-corpse shoved in his trunk. The two of you had been plenty loud; the whole building had probably heard. Andrew wondered if Johnny could.
“Need you so bad,” you whispered. One leg wrapped around his waist, one bent at the knee on your side, looking up at him. “So fucking bad, Andrew,” you arched your back to bring your face closer to his, and he complied, kissing you roughly as he nudged his hips forward.
He felt you tense up, reaching down to rub distractedly at your clit with one hand and your jaw with the other. “Shit,” he hissed. “You okay?”
You nodded emphatically.
Once the tip was in, he stopped, letting himself stretch you out enough that every movement doesn’t catch a vein or ridge against your walls. You were squeezing him like he owed you money, and he had to put a lot of effort into holding himself up to watch your face.
Your bottom lip was caught between your teeth, eyes half closed. Half whimpers were coming out through your mouth, one after the other, cutting off the one before. “Baby,” he cajoled. “You gotta talk to me.”
It took you a second, too overwhelmed with the stretch and the fact that Andrew Cody was in your bed, and the man you thought would be ruining your life forever was probably dead. And maybe you were dead and this was heaven, not that you’d ever be sent there after what you made him do. “So good, Andrew,” you reassured him, bringing a hand up to clench his auburn curls. “You can go more in.”
He took the opportunity to slide in further, revelling in each gasp you let out as part of his head caught on a ridge inside your pussy. “Oh my fucking god,” he grunted against your neck, certain he’d never been sucked in as completely as your cunt was doing, and he was only halfway in.
You were breathing so heavily, and Andrew kept pulling away to check on you, that by the time he bottomed out, the thick tip of his cock brushing your warm center, both of you were almost embarrassingly close.
“Fuck, pretty girl, can I move?”
You nodded. He tried to kiss you but got taken over by a full-body shudder at the feeling of pulling out, missing, and instead burying his forehead in your shoulder. The sound was downright filthy, filling your bedroom with a wet slap of his thighs kissing yours.
“Feels so good, Andrew,” you moaned, breath stuttering as he pushed back in. The thrusts were slow at first, trying to give you both something to stay grounded in. But you were so tight, and you were talking to him so sweetly, and when he pushed forward, you’d clench, and his chest would brush against your nipples, and he felt so pent up he was going to explode.
“Baby…” your name tumbled from his lips, begging and rough, out of breath. “‘M all yours. All yours, my pretty girl. Could do anything you wanted to me. Let you spit on me again.”
You could tell he was borderline asking for it at that point, so you shoved his head back down to connect to your lips, trying to collect as much spit as you could get in there. He swallowed it dutifully, along with a moan of your name.
He was on the brink, as he had been since he’d heard that first sigh from your mouth. He was grabbing at the flesh of your thighs, trying to claw desperately at something that wasn’t your fucking wall. With how hard he was squeezing, he’d probably put a hole in it and come face to face with your neighbours in their kitchen.
“Andrew,” you mewled. “Need… fuck… need you-”
“Right here?” He flicked your clit. “‘M sorry, baby, you feel so fuckin’ good.”
He could feel himself getting there, and with the amount he’d been staving it off, he knew his climax wasn’t going to be soft.
Pope started playing with your clit, trying his best to replicate the rhythm that had gotten you so worked up at the beginning. You groaned, reaching blindly for him. “That’s it, right there.”
Andrew could feel you clenching around him, the walls of your cunt fluttering in time with his thrusts. “Fuck, you feel too good.” He kissed you. “Too fucking good, baby. So fuckin’ pretty for me, hey?” He was slurring his words, completely drunk on the feeling of you taking all of him inside.
“Andy-” the gasp was stilted, your fingernails gripping into his biceps. He was pretty sure you could cut him open with your nails, and he wouldn’t feel it, all of his senses completely attached to how fucking good you felt all spread out for him.
“You close?” He asked, more smug than he had any right to be, given how near he was to finishing. You nodded, and he kissed you. Kissed you. Kissed you. Each time, he got a little more lightheaded, and each time, you let out one of those soft sighs that made his arms shake.
“What do you need?”
You directed him, moving so you were half on your side, your leg anchored at his hip, whining as he hit a new spot inside of you. It was hard to find any part to lock on to with the mess between your legs, but he was still rubbing your clit. “Come on, baby. Show me how much you want me. Need to see it.”
You took his hand back in yours, mouth missing his lips as your orgasm hit you. Pope knew the second you came around him that he didn’t have long, but he tried to draw it out of you as long as possible, fucking you through it. “That’s my girl.” The feeling was white hot and dizzying, and for a second - though you’d never tell him this, smug bastard - all you could think of was Andrew.
You lay there, letting him fuck you, squeezing his hand and his dick. He couldn’t remember ever feeling that good, still rubbing your poor sensitive clit until you brought a hand up to swat him away. “Please, Andy,” you murmured, spare hand threading through his hair. “Please.”
“Where-” his thrusts were sloppy, barely able to string a single sentence together. “Where do you want me?”
He felt an aftershock rip through you as he hit your sweet spot, your voice sounding woozy and hot. “Inside.”
He stuttered. “In-”
“Want you inside,” you assured him. “Please? Want you so bad, Andrew- baby.” You whimpered, and he sucked in a sharp breath. “Want to be yours.”
He leaned heavily into you, putting his body weight on the thigh you had clamped around his hips. He groaned your name, “Want me inside? Fuck, want to be all full of me?” The idea of that alone was enough to have him spilling inside of you, breathing you in from his spot on your neck. The sheer force of his orgasm causing him to spill down your thighs as he pushed forward one last time.
He stayed there for a while before leaving with a soft kiss to go to your bathroom. He ran a washcloth under some warm water and returned to find you right where he’d left you. You and Andrew had never discussed whether you were on the pill or not - he had to assume you were, but as he wiped your sticky thighs down gently, he couldn’t help the way his chest constricted at the sight of him leaking out of you.
You, for all your charms while he’d been fucking you silly, had fallen into a blissed-out state of rest, watching him. “You going?”
His stomach did a flip. “Yeah, baby,” he finished with the washcloth, making a note to dump it in the laundry on his way out. Once he found his clothes. You sat up on your elbows, curling your legs inward so you were less spread out, and Andrew knew without you saying it that you wanted him to kiss you. “I gotta go to work.”
You nodded, beaming at him. “Hurry back.”
He discarded the washcloth and redressed himself, you going to pee and shrugging on a t-shirt and a clean pair of panties, meeting him back by the front door. You reached up to hug him again like you had when he’d arrived, this time placing a firm kiss on the side of his mouth. “You’ll come back?”
Andrew kissed the inside of your elbow, your arm resting on his shoulder, from where it was wrapped around your neck. He kissed a trail right up to your mouth, eyes blazing into yours. “I’ll be a few hours.”
Andrew wasn’t sure if you really wanted him back that quickly. He would usually spend an afternoon here and there sitting on your sofa or at your kitchen table, the two of you talking softly. He had only been coming over to establish a pattern of behaviour.
Though he reasoned it would be odd to break the pattern right along with your ex-boyfriend’s untimely demise.
When he pulled back into the parking space in your lot reserved for your apartment several hours later and smelling like bleach, he still hadn’t been sure if you wanted him there. He’d bought a bouquet of flowers from a roadside stall on a whim, and he felt stupid unlocking your door with them.
Your beaming smile at the sight of him had helped calm his nerves somewhat, though. The soft kiss you planted on him calmed the rest.
manipulative pope cody + ‘just the tip?’ + breeding kink drabble :3
this is for my moots who inspired me to blurb! i luv you~ @valleyanimalz @dirtygir1 @bbuuunnyyy @groovyangelkisses
*nasty smut below the cut teehee* ! mdni !
pope cody hates that you make him wear a condom, that you have been making him wrap it up for the entire two month relationship. he feels it’s an unnecessary barrier keeping him from feeling all of you and filling you up properly. but, he agreed the first time because he was so desperate to be inside you. always has been. always will be.
now, even after you’ve fucked more times than he can count while protected. he’s fed up. he knows that you’ll like it bare. that you’ll need it. that you’ll never make him wear a stupid condom again when you learn how good it feels when he sinks into you raw. you just need his help. need your strong, heroic boyfriend to take that step that you cant take yourself. god, he’s so good to you. that’s what he tells himself when he formulates his plan.
he made sure you came on his face at least three times. until your legs were jelly, brain mush, voice hoarse from begging him to stop. ‘i-i can’t’ you had whined, ‘ ‘s too much andy!’. he did it to get you into that floaty head space where you’re babbling mindlessly and lax for him.
and you’re exactly that as pope crawls up your body and settles where he belongs, above you and inbetween your legs. still, you breathlessly slur the question that he despises. “condom?”
he feigns frustration even though this is exactly what he planned. “shit— i left my wallet in craig’s car… i don’t have one.”
your response is a needy whine that morphs into a gasp when he rests his cock against your drenched folds and slowly slides back and forth. “can i just have you like this sweetheart?” pope rubs his thick length upwards, angry pink tip catching your clit with every pressing glide. you whimper through your desperate nods, nails clawing at his shoulders, fusing your knees to his ribs to stay spread for him. such a good girl, he thinks to himself.
he keeps his ruttings short. almost playfully light in order to not get you anywhere besides out of your mind from teasing. just how he wants it. when you start to wriggle beneath him, whimpering a few mindless “please please please”s, he looks down at your aching pussy to see her clench around nothing. poor baby, she needs me so bad, he tells himself.
his dick is so coated in your slick releases that pope ‘accidentally’ notches at your opening. staying in motion, he pushes in ever so slightly. your eyes shoot open in surprise “ohh- andy!” you squeal. frustration bubbles in his chest, but he doesn’t give up. because your panic simmers to pleasure and your mouth forms an ‘o’ as you moan at just his bare tip breaching your wet heat.
he buries his face into your neck to hide his satisfied grin, licking and suckling the skin how he knows you like. “jus the tip sweetheart? please?” he emphasizes his wimpy whines with an inching forward of his hips. your nails tear at the flesh on his back as you shudder. “p-promise?” you croak out in hazy compliance. his reply is strained. “ ‘course honey.”
popes promise — to him at least— goes up in flames when he slips a tiny bit further inside and is met with warm, silky tightness. fuckkk. he groans, muscles tensing and you cry out, eyes rolling back. his thrusts are shallow and unsatisfactory. after a only a few, he’s twitching in need, pathetically trying to inch deeper.
you notice, starting to whine and pant. “you cant andy! i’m not on the pill!” the words almost make pope start to piston in and out of you. the thought of coming in you until you’re swollen with his baby infiltrating his mind. that you’ll be tied to him forever and— oh yeah. that’s happening, he decides.
pope leans down to kiss you languidly. trying to tongue fuck you into submission. your pussy is rapidly fluttering around the first inch of his cock, telling him that you want this just as bad as he does. he uses his words. “you just feel so good sweetheart. need you so bad. need all of you.” a breathy moan slips from you at his praise as you return his kiss greedily.
you pull back and blink up at him with your glossy eyes and kiss bitten lips. when your legs start to wrap around him, crossing tightly at his back, he knows he’s almost home free. “okay... i- i need you too andy.”
you barely get the words out before he hastily pushes all the way inside of you. guttural noises of pleasure are ripped from you both as you clench around him so prettily and he stretches you out so perfectly. it’s searing, intimate and raw. so fucking raw.
as pope starts to thrust in and out of you eagerly, obscene slapping sounds echo throughout the room. he whimpers loudly at the warm, wet feeling of you and the noises your body makes for him.
when you shakily tell him between moans “you h-have to pull out.. okay?”
it takes all of his dwindling restraint to not laugh in your face.
missing my sweetie big dick fictional man right now and thinking about how pope cody would have no idea he’s good at sex.
like completely clueless.
he would be on his knees, eating you out until you’re clawing at the sheets, eyes brimming with tears, spine arching like it’s about to snap. pope doesn’t even really know what he’s doing. he just makes sure to repeat everything that makes you clench around his fingers and twitch on his tongue. and you’re so close when he curls his two thick digits and sucks you into his mouth. your legs lock up.. your belly feels tight with tingles.. pleasure starts to rise almost alllll the way to your ears and…
he pulls away with a gruff “d’ya like that?”. and it’s not a sexy taunt. his tone is questioning and he’s being completely, utterly serious. you whine in frustration “andrew!!” he looks genuinely confused. “w-what?” your hips buck towards his mouth involuntarily, body aching with the need to come. “i was so close!” popes dark brows furrow in confusion. “you were…” it takes him three slow blinks while staring at your squirming thighs and fluttering pussy to finally understand. his eyes widen “oh shit- m’ sorry sweetheart..” then dives back in. sucking you and scissoring his fingers until you cry out his name and come on his face about twenty seconds later.
or or or. he doesn’t really understand how huge his cock feels inside of you. he’s aware he’s well endowed. but he thinks you’re just being a good girlfriend when you moan so loud at his first push into your tight pussy. pope always forgets that you’re not just stroking his ego. not quite understanding that you’re loud whimpers that accompany his thick length are authentic. he’ll thrust in and out of you harsh at the start. you can barely speak through the painful stretch of his rapid plunges. your gasps are choked “a-andy! andy s-slow down!” and he does get a little lost in the sauce as he watches your tits bounce beneath him. you have to slap at his shoulder to snap him out of it. “fuck- sorry. feels s’good. i’ll- hhnng- i’ll go slow. promise.”
then he’ll roll over until you’re on top of him. hands bracing his chest and thighs nestled firmly at his hips. he lets you set the pace to make sure he won’t hurt you again. it’s sweet.. until he won’t move again at all unless you’re bouncing up and down fervently. begging him to thrust up into you. “p-please! andy it doesn’t hurt.. need you- please!” once he decides you’re in no pain at all, he’ll grip your hips and piston up into you until you can’t move on your own anymore. completely filled with him. drooling at the pleasure coiling in your lower stomach. and pope is more than confident that you’re not exaggerating when you collapse with a raspy moan as you orgasm on his thick cock <3
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Sliding your sticky cunt and folds over Jack’s fat cock without any implication that you’ll let him inside to fuck and stretch you out like he always does.
You do this just to hear his gruff, throaty grunts turn into near-panicked degradations because he can’t handle the idea of bursting anywhere that isn’t inside of you.
“You gonna get off to me just like this? You that fucking pathetic?”
Well, spilling all over your stomach wouldn’t be so bad. He’ll take a few photos, making sure he doesn’t accidentally send it to Robby this time, and the sight of you like that will get him throbbing again in no time, kiddo.
Your hips roll, your ass curving and hitting the sides of his thighs with the quickening pace of treating him like a slip n’ slide.
“You’re not getting inside me, Dr. Abbot. You can’t give me the cold shoulder every time I do something wrong at work.”
Like talk to someone else. Forget Daddy exists while you’re hard at work.
Needy!Sammy who can only fall asleep with his cock buried deep in you but since your promotion you got home later than usual. Normally you came back at 10pm at the latest but it was already 11pm and Sammy couldn’t hold his tears anymore.
He was just so tired, so frustrated, so overstimulated and the only person that could make him feel better wasn’t here. So he shut off the tv and dragged himself to bed where he tugged at his chubby cock until it was red, tears of frustration raining down his face. His hands were too big, too harsh, not at all like yours.
That’s how you found him once you finally got home, tired from the day but even more tired from not spending time with your boyfriend.
You almost cooed as you walked into the room, seeing Sammy's naked figure on top of the covers. He was starting to lose his chub from training and working out, and you were sure you’d miss Chubby!Sammy quicker than you wanted. You stripped down completely, out of your corporate clothing before pulling him flush against you, sighing at the effect of his large body against yours. That was until little sobs erupted from your little spoon.
“You d-don’t l-love me anymore.”
And that broke your heart of course you loved Sammy, your Sammy. So you pressed kisses to his shoulders, murmuring words of praise before you turned to feel him at your back, already hard from trying to take care of himself but failing. His legs circled your thighs, pushing himself closer while your hand dipped down to pump his thick cock.
You would never admit it to Sammy, but seeing him completely at your mercy, needy, crying, whenever you were a little bit late turned you on, your slick already pooling on the sheets.
So it was easy taking him in, hearing his breath stutter as whines replaced his cries, tears of sadness being replaced with tears of relief.
“Are you okay now, baby?” He garbled incomprehensible words, already drifting off, warm walls finally squeezing him to sleep.
A yandere is someone who is lovesick, someone who has been driven to insanity by extreme obsession or love, thus resulting in abnormal behavior if not violence.
TLDR: You leave for your work trip but Andy just can’t let you go without him
NSFW
Yandere!Andrew who kisses you goodbye as you leave for your work trip. The convention is a few hours from Oceanside and you were going to be away for three days. It’s a long period considering that since Pope had laid eyes on you a few months ago you had never been out of his sight for more than a few hours.
Yandere!Andrew who tells you to call him if anything happens, anything at all. You reassure him that everything is going to be fine, that anyways, an expo in your field of work was probably going to be more boring than anything else.
Yandere!Andrew who waves goodbye as the bus your work had rented leaves the parking lot. He was out of your sight but you certainly weren’t out of his, not with the handful of GPS trackers he’s left in the double layer of your suitcase, in the back pocket of your toiletries bag, and even in the software of your phone. You were the love of his life after all, how could you not expect him to make sure that you were safe?
Yandere!Andrew who watches with his binoculars as you enter your solo room, fifth floor of the Marriott. Thankfully there was a multi-level open parking lot just across the street which allowed him to calmly park his truck and spend the next few hours watching over you as you take a nap.
Yandere!Andrew who breaks into your room when you leave for dinner, his eyes taking in the space, seeing your things thrown around. That didn’t bother him, actually he preferred it, it made it easier for him to hide the little cameras in your house. Then his hazel eyes darkened as they settled on your worn clothes.
Yandere!Andrew who can’t help himself as he ruts into your bed, face buried in your panties which thankfully still smell of you. And he knows that it’s only been a few hours since he had you in his arms, but he just loves you so much. Breathing heavily he can almost imagine that he’s humping your bed back home while he eats you out, his tongue peaking out against the fabric of your undergarment as though it was searching for your cunt.
Yandere!Andrew who cums with a strangled cry in mere minutes thinking about how he can get you to go back home soon, sooner than the three days of the convention. Because really, why did you need to be away from him for that long?
Last month I was in the ER, the most vulnerable emotionally that I've ever been while putting myself in the hands of a stranger. That the intake doctor had a lanyard heavy with Pride pins mattered. It's such a tiny gesture, but the amount of safety I felt because of it, during an agonizing moment in my life, was huge.
𓏵 ┊ jack “ i’ve got tattoos older than you, sweetheart.” abbot .
it’s well after midnight, and you were already way past your curfew for making it back home. the sky was washed over with a cosmic touch that glinted tiny, shimmering dots as you stepped out of your friends car. her tank was running on empty, and it’s a blessing that the car could even carry itself all the way to the nearest gas station on the map.
your friend situates herself out of the car moments after you, before heading inside of the convenience store as you follow along.
the cool air condition hits your skin — a complete contrast to the warm, humid air outside that makes your skin feel heavy and sticky. you trail behind your friend, practically glued to her side. just two young woman hip to hip finding whatever necessities you two are craving plus the indispensable gas refill.
you’re looking at the candy, bending eye level to examine the different options: gummy bears, twin snacks and life-savers before bumping into some man as you rose back up.
“woah— gotta watch where you’re going, little miss.” a gruff voice says behind you, as their hand ghosts over your lower back ensuring that you don’t lose your balance making your head tilt to catch his face.
“oh, i’m so sorry!” you apologize instinctively.
he was a handsome man. you honestly couldn’t keep your eyes off of him the moment you caught up to your friend, before telling her about the small interaction between you two. an older, exhausted looking man with the perfect mix of sprinkled grey hairs throughout his brunet curls, and the wrinkles near the corners of his eyes that creased with a smile.
stealing a few glances while trying to be discreet only to fail miserably once you two lock eyes twice, making your veins run warmer as you quickly avert your eyes. though it’s not as if he’s any sneakier, not when his eyes are sizing you up in that stupidly skimpy dress of yours as he slowly approaches your way brushing right next to you.
“can you ring these up as well, sir.” he slides a canned beer and a freshly made cup of coffee on the counter next to you and your friends goodies as he tugs his wallet from out of his front pocket and pays for your items.
you part your lips, your brain scrambling for the right words to say. “thank you s—”
“no worries, kid.” the corners of his lip curl into a charmingly, lopsided smile as he cuts off your words. “you should be more cognizant about how you look at peop— men.” he informs you, while correcting his words in that tantalizing gruff voice of his. “don’t wanna get yourself in trouble.” his head tilts, intaking over your features.
“uh, yes sir…” you nod, a bit confused yet somewhat appreciative since he paid for you and your friends snacks. but brief shift of silence as his gaze lingered a little longer — soft, but still able to thicken the tension between the two of you. “sir?” he chuckles to himself, “do i really look that ancient?” he grins, poking at your slight state of panic.
“no— no, you don’t! i was just trying to be respectful!” you utter, hands throwing up in innocent as your lips curl into a downward smile. “i’m just kidding, sweetheart.” the corner of his mouth quirks, and his eyes crease just a bit.
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𓏵 ┊ jack abbot spanks your clit whenever you cum without permission . 18+
it’s hard to hold your orgasm with jack. he’s too experienced, too knowledgeable when it comes to your own body. he knows exactly where to touch you and how to — and on days like these when he’s feeling a little mean. rough-housing your body around and contorting your limbs into all kinds of positions to fit his cock deeper inside of you.
the head of his length nuzzled sweet against your g-spot — the spot that made you whine to jack, telling him to stop thrusting there because it pushed you closer and closer near the edge. “jack… please, it’s too deep— i can’t hold it!” the pitch in your voice shakes, it almost sounds like you’re trying to latch on anything to keep you from hitting the brink of
your toes curling into the muscle of jack’s traps. he has you in missionary, in the most meanest way possible as your back arches off the bed while he bullies against that spongy barrier inside of you.
“mm, c’mon sweetheart.” jack coaxes in that gruff voice with his crooked smile. he knows that request is too much to ask of you, yet he asked anyway. “you can hold it, i know you can.” he reaches a hand out to cradle the side of your face in the center of his rough palm.
his eyes on you, fixated on that little pout of your lips. “f—fuck, i’m trying— i can’t.” you stammer, hands clutching onto whatever is there for moral support as your soft walls choke around jack’s cock.
“fuck… you gotta at least try, baby.” he groans at the pressure overwhelming his length, his hips never halting as he feeds you thrusts after thrusts. “mmph— i am!” you break into a moan, feeling yourself unravel as a knot of pleasure builds near your pussy.
“yeah?” jack breathes quietly, watching you break underneath him before ducking down to peck at your lips. his damp, short-curly locks sprinkled with silver and brown brushing against your forehead gently as he whispers against your plush lips, “‘m sorry…” he says, rising up, and parting your thighs wider as his eyes flicker down to where you two are one.
your bud is plump and swollen, completely on display as the breeze hits your clit which makes you twitch a bit. jack releases one of your thighs and runs the flat side of his hand down your pelvis to your clit, slightly lingering on it with his thumb to hear the noises you make.
“gotta give this, pretty pussy a few love taps.” he fauxes a disheartened look as if he didn’t want to — though the way he’s swelling inside your pussy, and the absent twitches say otherwise before he’s raising a free hand. causing your pulse to race at the quick anticipation before he’s cracking a palm flush against your swollen clit with a wet whack.
“mmgh— j—jack!” you yelp, hands flying around his forearms when you jolt at the sting spreading in between your legs. “i know, baby ‘m sorry.” he apologizes before going for another blow making your spine arch further from the bed.
“please…” your fingers digging into his skin, and biting your lip with teary eyes. “shh— just one more.” he murmurs softly, but you’re one away from cumming for the second time. “you liar.” you bite, voice all trembly it makes jack’s cock jump.
jack lets out an amused, breathless chuckle at you labeling him as a liar because those hits were everything, but love taps.
“promise you won’t hate me?” he rasps, giving your abused clit a second to recover before showing her some more love.
Um.. jimmy hopkins bf headcanons? If you want to tell them, ofc
of course!! (these are probably a little out of character so i do apologise but i was in the mood to write something fluffy but still with a little angst because idk im indecisive. hopefully my self indulgence isnt too noticeable 🙂↕️)
Jimmy Hopkins as your BF HCs!
- Jimmy Hopkins is the kind of boy people think they understand at a glance — short fuse, quicker fists, sharp mouth. But living beside him, loving him, you realize how wrong that first impression is.
- Jimmy is deeply intelligent, and with you he lets it show more openly because he doesn’t feel like he has to play dumb or tough. You hear the clever remarks, the quiet insights, the observations that make you stop and think, oh — he’s really sharp. He’s good at logic, problem-solving, seeing patterns others miss. Being understood on that level is rare for him, and once he realizes you see both his mind and his heart, he trusts you with them completely.
- Academically, he surprises people. He does better in class than he lets on, especially when something can be broken down practically. When you struggle, he helps without judgment — explaining things in ways that actually make sense, relating concepts to real life. Staying patient, and teasing gently but never cruelly. Studying with him is unexpectedly effective, and sometimes even fun. “Think of it like this,” he says, and suddenly it clicks.
- Despite claiming he’s “not an art guy,” he doodles constantly. His notebooks are full of sarcastic cartoons, teachers exaggerated into caricatures, sketches of Bullworth’s corners — and eventually, you. Drawings he insists aren’t that good, but somehow capture you perfectly anyway.
- People call him a tough guy, but Jimmy is quietly empathetic. He understands fear, humiliation, and powerlessness because he’s lived them. That’s why he defends weaker kids — not because he wants to be a hero, but because he notices unfairness instinctively. Loyalty and fairness matter deeply to him, even if he never dresses those values up in pretty words. Betrayal cuts him hard for that reason. That same empathy extends to you in subtle, constant ways.
- He notices the small things. A change in your mood before you name it. New shoes. A different way you style your hair (unless you’re bald like him idk). He doesn’t always comment, but he adjusts himself around you without thinking — softer voice, closer presence, quieter humor when you need it.
- Jimmy shows love through actions more than words. He fixes problems before you even realize they exist. Walks you to class without making a thing of it. Just “happens” to be nearby when someone’s bothering you. Carries your books. Fixes your bike with the skills he gained from shop class. Brings back your favorite snack when he’s been out, even if it means going out of his way. Somewhere along the line, he learned that being useful is how you earn the right to stay — and that belief runs deep.
- He likes routines when you’re involved. Meeting you at the same place after class. Sitting on the same bench. Walking familiar paths around campus. It gives him something steady, something predictable to anchor himself to.
- Jimmy never says it outright, but part of him is always waiting for the moment you decide he’s too much trouble. Being left at Bullworth by his mother hurt more than he’ll ever fully admit. He jokes about it, shrugs it off, insults his stepdad — but the truth slips out late at night in fragments. Half-sentences. Mutters. Confessions said while staring at the floor instead of your face. That day taught him that love can be temporary, conditional, inconvenient. Because of that, he treats affection like a job he has to keep earning. If he protects you, fixes things, takes hits for you — maybe you won’t leave too.
- Arguments with Jimmy flare fast. His frustration comes out sharp before he can stop it — raised voice, rough words he doesn’t fully mean. The second he sees your reaction, guilt hits him hard. He storms off to cool down, then comes back quieter, shoulders tense, voice low and honest. His apologies aren’t always polished — sometimes just a muttered “I didn’t mean that” — but they’re sincere. He always takes responsibility.
- Emotionally, Jimmy is more mature than most kids at Bullworth — he just lacks the language for it. He feels deeply and intensely, but explaining those feelings makes him defensive. Sarcasm becomes his shield when he doesn’t know how to say “I’m scared of losing you.”
- He’s more affectionate than he pretends. Casually touchy. Sitting close enough that your shoulders brush. An arm around your waist as you walk. A steady hand at your back when you stop. One of his favorite gestures is resting his forehead against yours — grounding himself, making sure you’re really there. Especially after arguments, when emotions are still buzzing but he wants closeness more than distance.
- Kisses start a little awkward, a little rough — like he’s unsure what to do with tenderness. But once he relaxes, they soften. He slows down, checks in without words, keeps a firm hand at your waist like he’s anchoring himself. Sometimes he presses quick, absent-minded kisses to your temple or forehead when he thinks you aren’t paying attention — instinctive flashes of affection that make him blush when you catch him.
- When you’re upset, Jimmy doesn’t always try to fix it with words. He knows sometimes there aren’t words. Instead, he pulls you into his chest, arms firm and warm, chin resting on your head. He stays still and present until you calm down. He’s always warmer than you expect — stocky build, strong arms, solid presence. His hugs feel safe, and he never lets go first.
- Lazy afternoons are his favorite — no fights to pick, no problems to solve. Just sitting together on the grass or tucked away somewhere quiet. He leans into you without thinking, legs tangled, head on your shoulder. In those moments, he looks younger, lighter, like the weight of Bullworth finally slips off him.
- He falls asleep easily around you, which surprises him. He’s used to being alert, half-awake, listening for trouble. But with you nearby — your breathing steady, your hand familiar — his body relaxes on instinct. It’s one of the safest he’s ever felt, even if he never says it out loud.
- When he’s genuinely happy, he gets playful in small, soft ways. Bumping your shoulder. Stealing your things just to give them back. Repeating a joke because he liked the way you laughed the first time. Real laughter — the kind where you can’t stop smiling — is one of his favorite sounds, and he’ll chase it without admitting why.
- He pretends he doesn’t care about birthdays or holidays, but when one comes around, he shows up awkwardly prepared. A candy bar. A dumb little trinket. Something he fixed up himself. He watches your reaction closely, like your smile matters more than the gift.
- Music matters to him more than most things. Sharing earbuds with you. Letting you pick songs even if he complains about your taste. Late nights in dorm rooms or one of his many safehouses, talking about nothing while the world feels far away — those are the moments his guard drops completely.
- Jimmy is used to relationships being transactional. Prove yourself. Earn trust. Lose it. Repeat. So sometimes you have to remind him — gently, patiently — that what you have isn’t like that. That he doesn’t have to keep proving his worth. That he belongs. That he’s chosen not because he’s useful, not because he’s strong, but because he’s him.
- It takes time, but once he understands you’re not leaving — not when he’s angry, not when he’s failing, not when he’s doing nothing at all — his walls start to come down. He laughs more easily. His shoulders stay relaxed longer. He stops scanning every room the second he enters.
- And when those walls fall? Jimmy Hopkins loves hard. Loyal to a fault. Protective. Soft in the moments that matter most. If Bullworth is his last chance, then you are his first real choice — and that means more to Jimmy than he could ever say out loud.
summary: after watching one of pope's fights, you ask him to teach you how to fight - to protect yourself when the time comes. he reluctantly agrees but with each session, your professional relationship with pope soon turns personal.
pairing: andrew "pope" cody x fem!reader
content warning(s): MATURE CONTENT (18+ MDNI), beware of spoilers - s1-s4 events, reader has an abusive parent, implied age gap (pope is canon age, reader is in 30s), mutual pining, reader makes first move, smurf is manipulative (what's new), pope doesn't think he's deserving of you, minimal physical description - reader has long enough hair to braid it, describing clothes but no specifics in features, no use of y/n.
word count: 10.3k (oops)
a/n: being a fan of boxing/mma, you have no idea how excited i was to see shawn hatosy in a scene(s) where he's fighting and hitting the heavy bag (like look at that 1-2-3 combo in that gif thooo). anyway, i wanted to write a story where pope uses his fighting skills not only as an outlet but also as a way to teach someone else (instead of doing it only bc smurf asked him to🫠). hope y'all enjoy <3
masterlist. || read on ao3.
You hated being here. You weren’t ever sure why you joined your father to these amateur, and definitely illegal, fights. Maybe it was a way for you to keep an eye on him, to make sure he didn’t say or do anything that would get him hurt, or maybe because you wanted to make sure he didn’t just waste all his money betting on some “fighter” who probably shouldn’t be fighting in the first place.
“That’s Pope,” he slurred, alcohol on his breath and cigarette between his lips. “He won’t go down without a fight.”
You just nodded, didn’t respond, but kept your eyes on the man who was at one corner of the cage. He was thick—broad and chiseled muscle on every inch of him. As he stood from his knees, you cleared your throat. His gaze was dark, almost like he wasn’t entirely there, but he scanned the audience until they settled on Smurf.
Oh, Smurf. Your father had been over to her place plenty of times in the last year or so and there was just something about her that you didn’t necessarily like. You had an idea of the kind of person she was, the kind of family that the Cody’s were too.
“Is that Smurf’s kid?” You finally asked.
Your father nodded. “The oldest. He’s a fucking psycho,” he laughed. “Just watch the fight.”
You watched Pope’s eyes move from Smurf until they glanced over at you, causing you to shift in your seat. He was handsome—well, all the Cody boys were handsome—but Pope was different. There was something else behind his eyes, behind the stone cold stare he held.
But when the bell rang, you saw him charge at the his opponent.
You were intrigued. Your father was right. He wouldn’t go down. Even as he was all bloodied up and bruised, he kept fighting.
You shot up from your seat, getting ready to shout at the referee to stop the fight, but your father immediately reached out and gripped your arm roughly.
You flinched instantly.
“Sit the fuck down,” he spat. His grip tightened around your arm. The bruise from last time still lingering.
You nodded slowly and sat down.
But his grip just tightened until he tugged you roughly to him. He leaned down and whispered, “don’t fucking embarrass me.”
“Dad, let go—”
“Then, sit fucking still.”
“Okay,” you whispered, trying to pull your arm from his grasp. “Please let go.”
Your father finally released you, shoving you at the same time before he turned his gaze back to the cage just to catch Pope now on the man’s back with his arms around his neck in a chokehold.
You felt tears sting your eyes and you hesitantly looked up.
Smurf was already looking at you.
“We’re going to Smurf’s,” your father said. “You’re driving. I can’t afford to get another DUI—”
“You shouldn’t even be thinking about driving anyway,” you muttered.
He didn’t hear you, but continued walking towards the car. You sighed to yourself. You didn’t want to go anywhere but at the beach—your safe place, but you knew if you didn’t go, you’d have to deal with the consequences.
The drive to Smurf’s house didn’t take that long either. You pulled into the driveway, noticed several cars there already, and your father didn’t even wait for you to put the car in park before he climbed out.
You watched him round the corner so casually almost like he had been here so many times before. You, on the other hand, just remained in your car with both hands on the steering wheel. Tears threatened to spill over, but you blinked them away.
You needed to learn how to defend yourself, needed to start fighting back.
You were about to put the car in reverse to pull out and leave when Pope approached you. His posture was rigid, even with the bruises that scattered along his face and body from the fight earlier that day. His gaze, just as dark and intense, now focused on you.
You shifted in your seat, gripped the steering wheel tighter.
“Who are you?” He asked.
You just stared at him.
“Who are you?” He repeated, voice more tense and threatening now.
“Sorry, um, my dad, I—I just dropped him off. I was just leaving.”
“Your dad?” He asked.
You nodded and heard his booming laugh from the backyard, followed by a splash of water. “I think Smurf invited him over or something.”
You saw his jaw clench, his cheek subtly tick.
“And you’re not staying?” He asked.
He was a man of few words, you gathered, but still curious about who you were and what you were doing on his property. Well, his mother’s property.
“Don’t think I can,” you blurted out. “Sorry to cause trouble. I really was just—”
“Andrew,” a woman called out. You both turned to look at where that came from and noticed Smurf walking towards the two of you, that large and cocky grin on her lips and her eyes shielded by her aviator sunglasses.
You noticed a shift in his posture. He glared at her, not bothering to hide his distaste for her, before he stepped aside.
“Smurf,” he muttered.
“I was just leaving,” you chimed in.
She walked closer to you and rested a hand on your door handle. “No need, come on in.”
“Oh, I don’t—”
“He won’t do anything,” she interrupted. “Your father won’t touch you here.”
You straightened in your seat and your eyes flickered over to Pope whose brow was furrowed. That was a different kind of emotion than you were used to seeing, at least for the brief interaction you just shared with him.
“Come on,” Smurf repeated. “Don’t make me say it again.”
You cleared your throat and nodded, climbing out of your car until you were standing in front of her. She lifted her sunglasses to look at you, head tilting to the side before she glanced over at Pope.
“Andrew, show her around, will you?”
You bit your lower lip. “I’m fine just waiting here…”
“Andrew won’t bite,” she reassured with a grin, sliding her sunglasses back on. “Unless you like that sort of thing. Right, baby?”
Pope didn’t respond. He just kept his eyes on you.
Then, Smurf turned on her heel and left the two of you alone.
“There’s not much to show,” he mumbled.
“It’s okay,” you sighed. “I’d rather not be anywhere near my father right now, if that’s fine.”
“Why?”
You shrugged.
“Does he hurt you?” You noticed the slight annoyance in his tone, causing you to look away.
“It’s complicated,” you whispered under your breath.
He sighed, but turned away from you without a response. You watched him move towards the heavy bag as he reached for the hand wraps and gloves.
“Aren’t you… sore?” You asked quietly, following him carefully.
“No,” he answered. “Need to train.”
“But you just had a fight.”
Pope looked at you and shrugged. “So?”
“So… you should give your body time to rest.”
He didn’t respond, just started wrapping his hands.
“Can you teach me how to fight?” You blurted out.
That caught his attention.
“What?”
“I saw you fight earlier today. Can you teach me?”
“What for?”
“I need to know how to protect myself,” you answered honestly.
“Why me?” Pope asked quietly.
“Why not you?”
The corner of his lips curled upwards.
“What’s your name?” He asked.
You answered, telling him your name quietly, before he stood up to walk towards you. You shifted slightly, his broad frame now inches from you now.
“I’m Andrew,” he said.
“Andrew…” you nodded with a small smile.
“We meet here once a week,” he continued. “That okay with you?”
“Sure,” you answered. “I can pay you and—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Pope shrugged, continuing to wrap his hands. “Get yourself some hand wraps and gloves next time. We’ll start then.”
Later that week, you managed to leave the house after your father was passed out from another binge night of drinking. You were dressed in a pair of sweats and a hoodie, anything to cover the bruises on your arms and legs. When you pulled into the same familiar driveway from last week, you spotted Andrew already there in front of the heavy bag.
He was shirtless, only in a pair of black shorts, black shoes and MMA gloves as he hit the bag repeatedly. You couldn’t help but watch the way his muscles flexed with each hit. You could tell he was sweating too, his skin glistening underneath the sun.
Then, he turned his gaze on you. His head was lowered just enough and he was staring at you the same way he stared at you earlier in the week. You put your car in park and grabbed your bag, climbing out slowly as you walked over to him.
“Got some hand wraps and some gloves,” you muttered, pulling them from your bag to show him.
He just nodded, then his eyes looked over you.
“You’re going to get hot.”
“It’s fine.”
Pope sighed quietly. “Do you have water?”
You shook your head.
“Okay, let me get you some and then we can get started.”
You watched him walk away, back straight and posture perfect, as you let your eyes take in his back. You sighed to yourself and set your bag down, unraveling the wraps and looking down at your hands with a confused look as you attempted to wrap them yourselves.
Pope came back after a few minutes with a bottle of water and a t-shirt in hand. He looked over at you and sighed, setting the water and shirt down on the work table in the garage before he took your hands in his.
Surprisingly, for a man with bruised knuckles and an intense gaze, he was gently and careful with you.
“You have to wrap them correctly,” he said. “Or else you’ll just hurt yourself.”
You looked up at him and nodded, biting your lower lip at the close proximity. He was calculated and focused, wrapping your hands with precision. It only took him about five minutes before he finished, inspecting his work with a simple nod.
“I brought you a shirt,” Pope said. “You should change into it.”
“What?”
“I don’t want you passing out because of you overheated in that sweater.”
“I don’t—”
Pope sighed. “Fine, suit yourself.”
“No, it’s not that. I’m just…” you bit your lower lip and then reached for the shirt. “Where can I change?”
His eyes moved to your hands. You were holding the shirt—his—shirt. He let out a contented huff and then led you into the main house, eyes glancing over at you from his shoulder. “Bathroom’s in here. Just come on back out when you’re done.”
You shut the door and sighed, pulling the hoodie over your head and looking down at the shirt Pope had given you. Your eyes moved to your body, bruises littered on your body—some old, some freshly new. Carefully, you pulled on the shirt and looked at yourself through the mirror. It was big on you, the sleeves covering your upper arms and any of the bruises that you were trying to hide to begin with.
You didn’t know whose shirt this was, but part of you hoped that it was Pope’s.
You walked out of the bathroom, hoodie now wrapped around your waist, as you walked back to where Pope was. On the way out the house and into the main driveway, Smurf stopped you. She was smiling down at you, her eyes looking at the shirt you were wearing before she glanced over at Pope.
“Hello again,” she said.
“Hi,” you smiled nervously. “I’m just… I’m here. Andrew’s teaching me how to fight.”
“Oh, he is, is he?”
You nodded. “Doesn’t hurt to learn how to defend yourself, right?”
Smurf smiled. “That’s right, baby.”
You cleared your throat, feeling slightly uncomfortable at the pet name from a woman you barely knew. “Well, thank you for letting me come by. I should probably—”
She grabbed your arm.
You flinched instantly.
Her hand dropped and she looked at Pope, who had taken a few steps closer.
“You need anything, you let me know, okay?”
“Sure,” you nodded, bringing a hand to rub at your arm before turning on your heel to walk back to Pope. There was something about him that made you feel safe.
He kept his eyes on Smurf until the older woman walked away. Once she did, he turned to face you and looked down at you, suddenly aware of the feeling in the pit of his stomach at the sight of you in his shirt.
“You ready?” He asked.
“Yeah,” you nodded, keeping your eyes down on your feet.
He sighed quietly and gently tapped your shoulder, causing you to look up at him. He noticed something beneath your eyes—something troubled you, he knew that much.
“Always look up,” Pope whispered. “You can’t defend yourself if you keep your eyes to the ground, okay?”
You nodded, keeping your eyes locked with his. “Okay,” you whispered.
“Good,” he said with a nod. “Now, let’s see how you punch.”
You positioned your legs in a stance that you thought would be the best way to throw a punch, but Pope came up behind you. He wasn’t entirely touching you, but you could feel his body heat from behind you.
“Square your posture, keep your hands up to cover your face,” he said. “You’ll want your front leg leading just a bit.”
You looked over at him and nodded, bringing your hands higher to your face. The action caused the loose sleeves of the shirt to ride up just a bit and Pope caught a glimpse of the bruises immediately.
He stepped back for a moment and looked down at his feet, jaw clenching as his hands curled into fists at his sides.
“Andrew?” You called out. “Is this okay?” You looked down at your arm and suddenly moved to drop your arms, the sleeves of the shirt now covering it.
“Who did that?”
“No one.”
“Liar.”
You sighed. “It’s complicated. Can we just—can you just teach me like we talked about? Please?”
Pope just stared at you. His mind was racing. He normally didn’t like to get involved in situations that didn’t apply to him, especially if he didn’t even know the other person, but there was something about you that made him want to protect you.
To keep you safe.
And maybe that was why he agreed to teach you how to fight in the first place.
He took a deep breath and then nodded, moving towards the heavy bag and wrapping his arms around it from behind to keep it steady. He was facing you now, eyes looking at your face before they moved to the rest of your body. Not because he was checking you out, but to make sure that your stance was right.
“Okay, throw a punch,” he encouraged.
You threw your right hand first, furrowing a brow when it connected with the hard bag.
Pope bit his lip. “Try throwing your left hand first. When you’re standing and your left foot is leading, you always throw your left hand first.”
You nodded and did as he said, throwing your left hand first and then your right.
“Good,” he said with a nod. “Again.”
You did as he asked, hitting the bag harder each time. You knew that your hands would be sore, but it felt good to hit something, felt good to release all the pent up frustration you kept in. Sweat dripped down the sides of your temples and as you connected with the bag, flashes of your father’s face appeared.
You didn’t realize you were crying until Pope touched your shoulder gently. You turned to look at him, chest heaving rapidly, breath coming in pants. His eyes had softened now too.
“You need a break.”
You nodded, pulling the gloves off one hand to wipe your eyes. You walked away from him, from the heavy bag, to retrieve the bottle of water he had given you earlier.
But Pope just stood there. Awkwardly, but patiently. He looked at you and felt this sudden urge to hurt the person who ever dared to lay their hands on you. Even when you looked at him, Pope just glanced away. He couldn’t meet your eyes because he knew the thoughts in his mind were dark, were violent, and he didn’t want you anywhere near it.
“I think that’s enough for today,” he finally said.
“We just started,” you sighed. “I’m okay. I just got carried away.”
“That’s enough for today,” he said, more harshly now without intending to. “Go home. I’ll see you again next week.”
“Andrew—”
“Go home, ice your hands if they’re too sore,” Pope repeated.
You bit your lower lip, felt the tears start to threaten to spill over again, but you didn’t have the courage to argue.
You never really did anyway.
“Okay,” you whispered. “Thanks… for today. I’ll give you this shirt back next week.”
Pope just nodded. He turned back to you and looked at the heavy bag, one hand reaching out to touch the leather absently. When he felt you walk past him, he couldn’t help but look in your direction.
You climbed into your car and waved over at him. And still, you smiled just enough for him to see and then pulled out of the driveway.
He didn’t stare too long because Smurf approached him slowly. Poor turned to look at her, eyes slightly wide in surprise.
“Her dad beats her,” she said casually. “It’s a good thing you’re doing, baby. Teaching her how to fight.”
He just huffed quietly.
“You always did have something bad in you… those violent tendencies.” She continued with a grin.
Pope curled his hands into fists.
“I’m doing this for me,” he muttered. “For her.”
Smurf scoffed. “Baby, I put her in your orbit. You should be thanking me.”
His lower lip quivered as he glared at her. “You have given me nothing. Everything you do is for you… and she will not be part of whatever it is you’re planning.”
She smiled. “Okay, baby,” Smurf said, slowly walking away from him.
Pope took a deep, yet shaky, breath and turned to the heavy bag, throwing one hard punch to it.
The following week, you pulled into the familiar driveway of the Cody residence. Except this time, Pope had a duffel bag draped over his shoulder and the heavy bag stowed away.
He walked over to your side of the car and looked at you, eyes scanning for any new bruises but luckily didn’t find any.
“Are we not training today?”
“We’re not training here anymore,” he answered. “We’re training at a gym. And moving forward, I’ll be picking you up.”
“What?”
“Just follow me out, okay?” Then, Pope turned on his heel and walked to his truck, climbing into it and tossing his duffle bag into the passenger seat carefully.
You didn’t have a chance to ask anymore questions because he was waiting on you to pull out first since you were practically blocking a way for him to get out.
Once you pulled onto the main road, Pope reversed his truck and proceeded to drive ahead of you, making sure that you were following closely behind.
The drive to the gym only took about twenty minutes, which meant that it was further away from where you lived. You pulled up to the curb right behind his truck and climbed out, grabbing your bag from the backseat. Pope was already out of his truck, duffle bag in one hand, as he looked at you.
You weren’t sure if he was annoyed with you or with this entire situation, but he just kept his eyes focused on you. He didn’t smile, didn’t give away anything that he wanted to be here, and yet, you still felt the safest with him.
“It’s a small gym. No one will bother us here,” he said once you walked over in his direction. Pope led you to the door and held it open for you, now only lowering his gaze as you walked through. You looked around and furrowed a brow to yourself, glancing over your shoulder at him.
“It’s empty.”
“It’ll be empty when we’re training,” he said. “Do you need help wrapping your hands?”
You shook your head, then shrugged a shoulder. “I think I’ve got it.”
Pope nodded and set his bag down near one of the heavy bags, pulling his hand wraps and gloves from his duffle bag. You sat on the bench and pulled your hand wraps from your bag, focusing on wrapping your hands. You had watched plenty of YouTube videos and still found yourself struggling.
By the time Pope finished wrapping his own hands, he looked over at you. He bit back a smile before walking over to you, sitting on the bench in front of you as he extended a hand out. “Let me do it.”
“Sorry,” you whispered. “I—I tried watching some videos and tried practicing at home.”
He nodded. “It takes a while,” he said quietly. “But I don’t mind this—don’t mind doing it for you.”
You smiled to yourself.
Pope turned his gaze to your hands. “At least until you learn how to do it yourself.”
You let out a quiet laugh and nodded, catching his eyes when he looked up suddenly at the sound of your laughter.
“What?” You asked.
“Nothing,” he answered.
His hands were just as delicate and precise as the first time had did this last week. You watched him carefully, his eyes never deviating from the task at hand. He even rotated your hand in front of him so that he could inspect his work before moving onto your other hand.
“I was thinking,” you said quietly. “We should probably exchange phone numbers.”
Pope didn’t look up. He continued wrapping your hand carefully.
When he didn’t respond, you continued, “just so that you can let me know when you’re picking me up on the days we train.”
He nodded. “Okay.” Pope released your hands and looked at you. “You’re done.” He didn’t wait for you to respond before he stood back up, walking towards his own bag.
You followed him and slid on your gloves, watching him expertly wrap his own hands. You bit your lower lip, watching the muscles at his forearms flex with each movement. Your eyes moved from his forearms to his biceps, the fabric of his shirt tightening around it as he flexed unintentionally. You cleared your throat and forced yourself to look away, despite every inch of you just wanting to continue staring.
“Do you remember what I taught you last week?” Pope asked.
You nodded. “My stance,” you answered, then proceeded to get into position in front of the heavy bag. You placed your left foot forward until you were slightly at an angle in front of the bag.
“Good,” he nodded, looking down at your feet before he looked back at you. “What else?”
“Always look up.”
His lip twitched slightly. It was very subtle, but you caught it. Maybe it was his way of smiling.
“Good. Now, let’s see how you punch again,” he said. “And this time, breathe… and just focus on hitting the bag. Nothing else.”
You knew what he was referring to. Your break down last week. “Okay,” you whispered.
The next half hour was spent with you hitting the bag with a simple 1-2—jab, cross. You weren’t sure if you were doing it right, but Pope hadn’t said anything, hadn’t interrupted you. Instead, he kept the bag steady, clutching it against his chest as you hit it repeatedly. You were also drenched in sweat, but it felt good to hit something… instead of being the person getting hit.
“Good, good,” he said, pulling the bag away from you. “Do you need a break?”
You shook your head, but you were panting heavily.
“You need a break,” he answered for you. “Get some water. Take a few minutes.”
You knew not to argue with him, so you just nodded and walked to your bag. After a few minutes, you heard calculated breaths followed by the bag being hit, causing your attention to turn towards him.
He kept his hands covering his face, moving and bouncing on his feet effortlessly. When he hit the bag, it was with so much force that it swung back and Pope waited until it came back to him to deliver the simple jab and cross like he just taught you.
You took a sip of your water, eyes still staring (and gawking) at Pope. It seemed like he needed to hit something too. The way his eyes focused on the bag in front of him and how each hit was stronger than the last—you could tell he was also breathing heavily at this point.
When he stepped back, arms coming to his sides, he turned to face you. Your eyes widened immediately, looking away quickly as you pretended to look through your bag. Surely, he didn’t notice you ogling him right?
“Are you done?” He asked.
You nodded, took another swig of water and walked over to him. “Yes.”
“Good,” he said. “You’re gonna learn how to throw hooks today.”
“Hooks?”
He nodded and then demonstrated in front of you.
“Okay.”
You took your position in front of the bag again and did exactly as he showed you, surprising even yourself at the strength behind it. When you looked up at Pope, his lips were parted but his eyes were still intense.
“That was… good,” he said. “Better than your jab and cross.”
You felt all warm inside. He held your gaze for a few seconds longer than he normally would and then looked away, almost like he noticed the way his compliment affected you.
“Andrew?” You said quietly.
He didn’t look at you, just nodded his head once for you to continue.
“Do you think… do you think I could be ready if someone were to attack me? I know I just started training, but—”
That caught his attention. Pope looked up at you and remembered what Smurf had told him.
Her dad beats her.
His jaw clenched.
So did his fists.
“Yes,” he answered confidently. “Because I’m going to teach you everything you need to know to defend yourself.”
You didn’t know what that meant, didn’t know if he had an idea of what you had to deal with at him, but hearing the sureness in his voice, you believed him.
A smile lined your lips.
Satisfied, you abruptly leaned in and gave him a hug. He stiffened in your arms, but rested his cheek instead on your shoulder.
“Thank you, Andrew,” you said quietly.
His arms remained at his sides, but he couldn’t help denying the feeling he had in the pit of his stomach at the feel of you being so close.
As time passed, the weekly sessions started to become something more. It started blending into each of your personal lives too.
Lunch after training, a coffee run before hitting the gym, dinner because neither of you wanted to go home.
You were getting stronger—you could see and feel it too. Even Pope started noticing because you started to feel comfortable enough to show more skin. Spandex shorts that revealed your thick thighs and ass, tank tops that revealed your arms and even sometimes a sports bra that showed him that you weren’t just some woman he wanted to protect.
No, you were a woman that he wanted.
That he needed.
A woman that felt like his family and Smurf couldn’t touch.
You were for him, and only him.
And Pope looked forward to seeing you every week. He wouldn’t show it, but the giddiness he felt in his chest at the thought of getting to spend a few hours with you wasn’t something he could just overlook either.
As he was walking towards his truck, Smurf approached him. Always with that stupid fucking grin and walk that made her feel like she owned the world, owned him.
“Andrew, going to the gym again?”
Pope nodded and set his bag down inside his truck. “Yes, Smurf.”
“You’ve been spending a lot of time with this woman,” she pointed out.
He just huffed and clenched his jaw, eyes downward.
“When do you think she’ll realize the kind of person you are, hm? You’re troubled, Andrew.”
He turned his hands into fists.
Smurf just continued. “You should have her over tonight. I’m throwing a party.”
“No.”
“No?” She laughed. “I don’t think I was asking, Andrew.”
He just shook his head and raised his voice louder this time. “I said no.” He took a step closer to her now, noticed the way her smile just dropped just a bit. “You can’t control me, Smurf.”
“Oh, baby,” she said, reaching up to touch his cheek. “You wouldn’t even be alive if it weren’t for me.”
Pope gripped her wrist and looked at her, eyes narrowed and dark with anger. “You would like that, wouldn’t you? Then, I wouldn’t be a problem for you anymore.”
Her smile faltered.
“Just make sure you bring her tonight.”
He shook his head and shoved her hand away. “I said no,” he repeated. Pope turned on his heel and stepped into his truck, not sparing his mother another glance before he pulled out of the driveway to make his way to you.
It took him twenty minutes to get to your place. His hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, as he tried to calm himself down. It was only when his eyes spotted you that he felt himself relax—not completely, but enough for his grip around the steering wheel to loosen just a bit.
Because when you met his eyes, you smiled. It was like you relaxed too at the sight of him.
“Hi,” you said softly, climbing into his truck and setting your bag in the back.
“Hey,” he answered.
“Coffee today?”
The corner of his lips twitched upwards. “If we get coffee, you’re not going to want to train for at least an hour.”
“… but we’ll still train,” you laughed quietly.
Pope looked over at you, eyes scanning your face carefully. It was like he wanted to commit this to memory, so that way when shit got bad (and they would), he’d remind himself this look on your face and he knew he’d relax.
“What if we don’t train today?” He said, surprising even himself at the question.
“What?”
Pope wasn’t sure what he was proposing, but he didn’t want to only spend a few hours with you, didn’t want to spend a good chunk of it training you.
“What if we don’t train today?” He repeated.
“What will we do?”
“Anything,” Pope answered. “Whatever you want.”
Your eyes lit up. “Anything?”
He looked down at his lap for a moment and let out a quiet chuckle. Pope nodded and then glanced at you from his eyelashes.
“Can we go to the beach?”
“Do you have a swimsuit?”
You frowned. “Well, no.”
“Then, we’ll get you a swimsuit and then go to the beach.”
He pulled away from the curb and away from your apartment. Pope knew where he wanted to take you and his conversation with Smurf now became an afterthought.
As he was driving, he heard the window slide down and he turned to you briefly to see you extend your arm out, moving it up and down to feel the wind against you. You looked so carefree like this, so completely unbothered by the trouble that he knew you had to deal with at home.
Pope wondered why you never did tell him what was going on. He would’ve guessed if Smurf hadn’t told him, but you still hadn’t said anything about what you had to deal with at home.
Maybe he was being selfish or maybe he just wanted you to himself, but Pope wanted to just spend the entire day with you.
Without any interruptions from his family or yours.
Because when he was with you, it felt like he was in his own little bubble where no one, not even Smurf, can touch him.
“Let’s get coffee first,” he finally said. Pope stopped at the red light and watched you turn to face him with that same fucking smile on your face.
“You’re spoiling me today,” you smiled, hand reaching out to rest over his forearm.
He flinched out of habit but relaxed when he looked down at your hand. Pope nodded and then pressed the gas once the light turned green, your hand still lingering for a few seconds longer.
Pope lingered behind you as you looked through the many options for bikinis. He wasn’t sure if he should have stayed in his truck, but you had convinced him to come with you when you told him that he’d need some swimming trunks too. He tried to tell you that he wasn’t going to be swimming, but when he saw the look on your face, he caved.
Because you had looked so hopeful. So, he chose the first pair he saw—a simple navy blue.
And now, you were walking throughout the store, unsure of what to get until you held up a baby blue (almost pastel-like colored) two piece bikini.
“Do you think this is nice?” You asked, holding it against your body as he imagined what you’d look like in it.
He cleared his throat, lowering the swimming trunks to his front to cover his lower half as he nodded. “Sure.”
You smiled. “Okay, I think I’m all set then.”
Pope didn’t respond, just started walking towards the register. He knew you’d follow him, but he didn’t know why you were standing so far back once he set his trunks on the counter. He turned to you and furrowed a brow.
“What are you doing?”
“Waiting in line.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s not my turn yet.”
He sighed. “Just—” Pope motioned to your bikini. “I can pay for it.”
“What? Andrew, no, it’s okay—”
“I’ll pay for it,” he interrupted, turning back to the cashier. “I’ll be paying for hers too.”
You bit your lower lip and then walked over to him, setting your bikini on the counter and looking over at him.
“I’ll pay you back,” you whispered.
Pope looked down at you, surprised at how close you were to him. He shook his head and pulled his wallet out, grabbing a hundred dollar bill and handing it to the cashier. “No, you won’t.”
“But—”
“But nothing,” Andrew interjected.
The cashier gave him his change and set the articles of clothing in a bag for him to take. He nodded his thanks and turned to you. “You’re not paying me back.”
You huffed quietly and then nodded, following him out of the store and back to his truck. He surprised you by opening your side of the door first before he rounded the truck to walk towards his side. You climbed in eagerly and shut the door, gently taking the bag from him once he climbed in too.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you said. “I could have gotten it myself.”
“Didn’t want you to,” he answered.
“Why not?”
Pope started his truck, kept his eyes focused on the steering wheel. “Because.”
“Because?”
He sighed. “Because I wanted to get it for you.”
Then, something in the air shifted between the two of you. These last few weeks of spending time with each other not only brought you two closer, but the tension thickened with each session—sometimes a lingering touch on his arm, or a hesitant flicker of his eyes gazing at your lips.
“Well then,” you whispered. “Thank you, Andrew.”
You rested your hand on his forearm again. This time, he didn’t flinch. Instead, Pope leaned in slightly towards you. Yearning—craving—for more of your soft touch.
Because you touched him so gently, so carefully too.
He took a deep breath and then put his car in reverse, pulling out of the parking spot and back onto the main road to go to the beach. He knew he had plenty of missed calls and text messages from Smurf, but he didn’t care.
He never had anything for himself, never had anyone.
Until now.
Because now, he had you.
He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but he wasn’t expecting that. You stepped out of the bathroom in the baby blue two-piece bikini he bought you and immediately, Pope couldn’t concentrate. He never had a wandering eye, not like Baz or Craig, but with you, he couldn’t take his eyes off of you.
Pope hadn’t seen this much skin on you before and he didn’t know whether he should keep looking or turn his gaze away because you were breathtaking. You raised your arms to put your hair into a loose braid, few strands of hair falling in front of your face.
He never was self-conscious about how he looked. Pope knew he was in good shape, but when he found you staring back at him, he couldn’t help but feel just a bit shy under your gaze. He noticed your eyes moving along his bare upper half and he intentionally flexed his chest and arms, watching your bite your lower lip. Despite the busyness of the beach, all he could focus on was you.
“Will you join me in the water?” You finally asked, looking up at him with the same hopeful look in your eyes.
“Do you want me to?”
You nodded eagerly. “Please?”
Pope nodded. “Then, okay.”
You grinned and set the two towels down before you abruptly took his hand in his. Pope looked down at your hand, but before he could make any movement to pull away, you were already dragging him towards the water. He let out a breath and squeezed your hand, watching you look back over his shoulder with a broad grin until you both jumped into the water.
You released his hand, only to swim further into the ocean, with Pope trailing behind you. When the water surrounded both your shoulders, you swam over to him and floated in front of him—hair damp and stroked back away from your face, Pope did the same thing.
“I haven’t been in the water in so long,” you confessed. “I forgot how much I loved it.”
Pope stared at you. He could hear you much clearer now, being away from the crowd of the beach. It was just the two of you now, in the water, and away from everyone else.
Away from your father.
Away from Smurf.
Pope wanted this, wanted you.
He didn’t say anything, but urged you to continue with a single nod of his head.
“Thank you,” you said quietly. “For the last few weeks, for being patient with me, for being a good teacher… and friend.”
Pope moved closer.
You were so close now. All he had to do was reach out and he’d be able to grip your hip and pull you into him.
But he didn’t.
“We still have more training sessions to do,” he finally said.
You let out a quiet laugh. It made Pope’s heart race even faster.
“Yeah?” You asked. “I know the footwork. I know the combinations. What else is there to learn?”
“Grappling,” he answered.
Your brow furrowed.
Then: “wrestling,” Pope clarified. “We’d have to get on the mat.”
“So, I’d be fighting you?”
“Not fighting,” he said. “Wrestling,” he corrected.
“Right, same thing,” you said. “But I don’t want to hurt you… or even think about hurting you.”
Pope inhaled sharply. All his life, he felt like everyone he encountered was there to hurt him… or use him for their own benefit without caring how it’d make him feel or how it would effect him.
But here you were… showing him a sense of kindness that he wasn’t used to.
“You won’t hurt me,” he whispered.
“Why can’t the punches and kicks be enough?”
“Because if someone has you pinned to the ground, what will you do then?”
You sighed. You knew he had a point.
“Okay,” you said quietly. “But I’ll be gentle. I’ll be careful.”
Pope sighed shakily.
Then, you reached out for him to rest a hand on his shoulder. He looked at you and hesitantly moved his hand to your hip from underneath the water. Slowly, he pulled you to him until your other hand moved to his other shoulder.
“You make me feel safe,” you admitted. “I didn’t think I’d ever know what that would feel like, Andrew.”
His hand squeezed your hip as a response.
You continued, “My dad… he—he drinks a lot. Takes it out on me. Ever since I was little, actually. I think he blames me for my mom dying.”
Pope’s eyes softened. He already knew your dad was hurting you, but he didn’t know the reason why. He was sure Smurf didn’t either and even if she did, he knew she wouldn’t care.
“I’m sorry,” Pope said softly.
You shrugged. “My mom died during childbirth,” you admitted. “So maybe… maybe I am the reason why she’s not here.”
His head shook immediately. His other hand suddenly moved to your cheek. Pope said your name quietly. He knew what he was going to do now—he wanted to teach your father a lesson the only way he knew how.
You looked at him and he didn’t know if it was because of you both being wet that made your eyes glisten, but he leaned forward.
Hesitantly.
Carefully.
Then, he whispered, “it’s not your fault.”
You inhaled sharply and took him by surprise when you wrapped your arms around his shoulders. You buried your face against the crook of his neck and just held onto him.
Pope froze for a moment before his arms snaked around you too. He held you close to him, eyes shutting as he reveled in the way your body molded to his.
And you both just held each other for the next few minutes, both floating in the ocean, away from the noise, away from the crowd.
Away from everything else.
It was just the two of you.
You had spent the entire day at the beach with him, now sitting on a bench as the sun was just about to set. He was seated next to you and had given you a hoodie from his bag to wear for you to cover up now that it was a bit colder.
But when you leaned against him, head on his shoulder, Pope moved an arm around you. Something had shifted between the both of you today, something that he didn’t want to let go of.
When his arm wrapped around you, you scooted closer. You were already warm and cozy enough as it was with his hoodie, but being so close to him like this made you want to move even closer.
And you also felt a bit more lighter now that you told him the truth, even though if you knew he had some kind of idea of your life at home. Still, he gave you the chance to tell him yourself and he never pushed.
“I don’t want to go home,” you whispered under your breath.
Pope looked down at you. He looked into your eyes and nodded once. He knew that feeling, knew that going back home meant being in a toxic environment.
“Me neither,” he said.
“Do we have to?”
Pope contemplated for a moment.
And almost as if Smurf’s ears were burning, he felt his phone vibrate. He pulled it from his pocket to look at her caller ID and sighed, rejecting the call and turning his phone off. He knew she’d be able to track him if he brought his phone, so he’d have to figure something out if neither of you went home tonight.
“No,” he answered finally. “We don’t.”
Your eyes lit up again.
Pope felt his heart rate pick up.
“Really?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I just have to stop by at the gym first and then we… we can figure something out.”
“Are you sure?”
Pope nodded.
“Okay,” you smiled, moving to rest your head back on his shoulder. “Let’s watch the sunset first and then we can go.”
Pope let out a breath and pulled you even closer to him.
He knew Smurf was going to be angry, but he didn’t care. He didn’t want to bring you anywhere near her… or the rest of his family, and he certainly didn’t want to bring you home to your father either.
Back at the gym, you were waiting in his truck when he stepped inside and turned his phone on. He saw the missed notifications from Smurf but instead, dialed Deran’s number.
It rang just a few times before his younger brother picked up.
“Pope?”
“Can I stay at your place for the night?”
“My place?”
“You’re not using it, right?”
Pope heard him sigh. He’d been having a tough time since Adrian left.
“What for?”
“Don’t want to be at Smurf’s,” he answered. “And I don’t want this girl to go home either.”
“Girl?”
“Woman,” he corrected.
Pope could have sworn that Deran was smiling.
“Oh, the one you’ve been training.”
“Yes,” Pope said. “Her. So, can we stay at your place?”
“Yeah,” Deran answered. “Just make sure to clean my sheets after you’re done,” he teased.
“It’s not… it’s not like that,” Pope muttered. “Her dad… he hurts her and—”
“It’s okay, Pope,” Deran interrupted. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me, okay? Just take the night.”
“And don’t tell Smurf,” Pope said.
“You know I won’t.”
“Thank you, Deran,” he said.
“Key’s under the mat,” Deran replied. “Have a good night.”
He hung up the phone and turned his phone off, setting it into one of the lockers before he left the gym and walked back to his truck.
“Everything okay?”
Pope nodded. “We’re heading to my brother’s place for the night.”
“Is that okay?”
“Yes,” he answered. “It’ll just be us.”
“Me and you?”
He nodded and started his truck, pulling out of the parking lot. “I can sleep on the couch.”
“Is his bed small?”
“What? No… I don’t know.”
“Then,” you said, turning your gaze out the window. “If it’s big enough to fit the both of us, I wouldn’t mind sharing a bed with you, Andrew.”
You said it so casually, like you didn’t know the affect that your words had on him. His hand on the steering wheel tightened at the thought of sleeping in the same bed with you.
“Do you want to grab some food?” He asked, changing the subject abruptly.
You looked over at him. “Can we?”
He nodded.
“Pizza?”
Pope nodded again.
Then, you asked, “are you sure it’ll be okay that we’ll be at your brother’s?”
“Yes,” he answered. “Are you sure it’ll be okay that we share a bed?” Pope asked hesitantly.
You turned to face him and he glanced over at you briefly. You smiled and nodded. “Yes,” you said. “I don’t think you realize how safe I feel with you,” you blurted out.
Pope felt the corner of his lips twitch. He kept his eyes ahead of him to focus on the road now, but he couldn’t help the way your words made him feel so warm inside.
Once at Deran’s, you were still dressed in your bikini with his hoodie over you as you walked around the area with piqued interest. He set the pizza down on the dining table and walked into the bedroom briefly, biting the inside of his cheek.
The bed was big enough to fit the both of you, he already knew that, but now he was just standing at the foot of it, staring intently while his hands fidgeted at his sides.
“Andrew?” Your voice carried through the quiet home, followed by the sounds of your soft bare footsteps against the wooden floor.
You turned into the bedroom and furrowed a brow at the sight of Pope just standing at the bed.
“Hey,” you said quietly, softly. “Are you okay?”
Pope nodded and turned to face you. “Are you sure it’s okay we sleep in here together?”
You let out a breath and nodded. Slowly walking over to him, you hesitantly reached for his hand and brought it to your lips. Lightly, you pressed a kiss on the back of it before placing it against your cheek.
“I’m sure,” you answered.
Pope looked down at you and gently brushed his thumb across your cheek. “Okay.”
“I trust you,” you repeated once more. “More than I’ve trusted anyone in my life.”
He stepped closer to you now. Pope’s eyes moved from your eyes down to your lips and back up. “You shouldn’t,” he whispered.
“But I do.”
You moved a hand to his chest and felt the muscles underneath your fingertips. He flexed unintentionally and inhaled sharply when your body got closer to his.
Then suddenly, Pope pulled away from you and motioned towards the living room. “We should eat.”
“Oh,” you whispered under your breath. “Okay, yeah. I’m starving.”
Pope nodded once and turned on his heel to walk out of the bedroom. He felt so out of control of what he was feeling because he hadn’t felt like this. Maybe ever.
“Do you think it’s okay if I shower after we eat dinner?” You asked, sitting the dining table. “I still have my workout clothes that I can change into.”
Pope looked over at you as he moved to sit across from you. “Sure,” he answered.
“Your brother won’t mind?”
He shook his head. “Deran won’t mind.”
You nodded to yourself and then grabbed a slice of pizza, bringing it to your lips and smiling to yourself once you took a bite. You didn’t notice that Pope was staring at your lips as you ate, but what he didn’t know was that you wanted him to make a move.
You wanted to kiss him.
Wanted to know what it felt like to be with him like that.
“Good?” He asked.
You nodded and set it down on a plate to wipe your lips as you continued chewing. Once you swallowed the contents, you looked up at him and smiled. “Really good, thank you.”
Pope looked away and felt proud of himself. He wanted to see you happy, wanted to see more of this look on your face.
Carefree.
Happy.
Safe.
“Are you close with your brother?”
“Deran?”
You nodded.
Pope shrugged. “I’m closer to him.”
“Do you have more brothers?”
“Yeah,” he answered.
“How many more brothers?”
“Three,” Pope said. “And a twin sister.”
“Wow,” you replied, looking up at him. “Sounds like a big family.”
He shrugged.
“Does your twin sister live with you?”
Pope’s jaw clenched and he shook his head. “She died.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” you whispered, reaching over to rest your hand over his out of instinct.
He looked down at your hand. “Me too,” he muttered.
“Sometimes I wish I had siblings,” you commented, pulling your hand away from his. “It’s lonely.”
Pope looked at you. He couldn’t tell you how complicated his relationship was with his family, how conditional everything felt like. Ever since he had gotten back from prison, his eyes had opened up to the reality of how toxic Smurf was, how manipulative and controlling she was too.
“I never felt strong enough to leave to my dad,” you continued, taking a pepperoni off the pizza on your plate. “Until now. Until you.”
Pope pulled his hand away from yours and stood from his seat suddenly. He didn’t say anything, just walked out of the house and onto the deck. It was dark now, but he could still see the ocean. He knew that it’d be difficult to leave, especially when he had to look after Craig, Deran, and J, but how could he stay when he knew it was only causing more harm than good?
He didn’t mean to leave you abruptly either. His mind was racing in all different directions, so him stepping outside was a way for him to try and quiet his thoughts.
But it didn’t work.
Because now he was thinking about just how stupid it was for him to have left you there, especially since you were opening yourself up to him.
He turned to go back inside, but saw you walk out onto the deck. Your eyes were soft and you were still wearing his hoodie as you stepped closer to him.
“I’m sorry,” you blurted out. “If this is all too much, if it’s not what you want, then I’m okay with you just being my trainer. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t,” he said quietly. “I’m not uncomfortable. You’re not making me uncomfortable.”
“Okay,” you whispered.
“You just—” Pope sighed. “You’re you.”
Your brow furrowed. “I’m not sure I know what that means.”
He leaned back against the railing of the deck as he looked down at his feet. You walked closer, but kept your distance. “I’ve been told my whole life I’m a violent person, that there’s something wrong with me,” he mumbled. “And I’m finding it difficult to understand what you see in me.”
“What?”
His eyes softened.
His brows furrowed together.
“Nothing.”
You stepped closer.
Poor looked up at you.
“I’m not the kind of person you think I am,” he clarified.
“I think you’re exactly the type of person I think you are,” you said softly.
He felt you reach for his hand and he exhaled shakily.
“You don’t know the things I’ve done,” he argued quietly.
“Maybe not,” you replied. “But I know what I see…what I feel.”
Then, you took another step closer. You were so close now. All he had to do was reach out and rest a hand on your hip, but he didn’t.
Because Pope was afraid that if he touched you, you’d pull away.
“I’m not afraid of you,” you continued.
“Why do you put up with your father?” He blurted out. “Why do you deal with it?”
“Because…” you said with a sigh. “Part of me is waiting for the day that he’ll somehow wake up from this stupor and realize that I lost my mom too.”
“And you’d forgive him? For everything he’s done? For how much he’s hurt you?”
You bit your lower lip. “I think so,” you answered honestly. “Forgiveness is… it’s a strange thing, isn’t it?”
His mind drifted to Catherine. It had been something that weighed heavily on his heart. Having to do what he did for Smurf had shown him that he no longer wanted to be part of her life. She had always used him and it wasn’t until she manipulated him into getting rid of Cath that made him realize it.
And now, here you were, talking about forgiveness. It made him hopeful that if you were able to forgive your father for everything he put you through, then maybe there was hope for him after all.
“Forgiving him would be for me,” you explained. “Not for him.”
“And do you think everyone deserves forgiveness?” Pope asked.
You nodded. “I think so.” You moved your hand from his to hesitantly reach out and rest on his chest. “Even you,” you added.
Pope let out a breath and nodded, suddenly wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you to him. He rested his head on your shoulder, eyes falling shut as he held you close to him. He felt himself relax when your arms snaked around his shoulders, one of your hands running along his upper back.
And for once, he finally felt like he could breathe.
You stepped out of the bathroom, dressed in your spandex shorts and his hoodie with a towel wrapped around your wet hair. You spotted Pope seated at the edge of the bed, eyes staring straight ahead. He seemed a bit lighter after your conversation with him, but the tension in the air just thickened at the unspoken mutual attraction.
He had already taken a shower and was waiting for you. He was wearing the same shirt he had been before you both went to the beach and the same pair of shorts. He wanted to be respectful of you, especially since nothing really had happened.
“Right or left?” You asked, pulling the towel from your hair and drying the ends.
“What?” Pope asked.
“Do you sleep on the right or left side of the bed?”
He looked over his shoulder at the bed and shrugged. “I don’t know,” he answered honestly.
“Could I take the left side?” You asked. It was the side of the bed that was furthest away from the door.
Pope nodded. “Okay.”
You smiled to yourself and walked back into the bathroom to set the towel on the rack before you turned the light off and walked into the bedroom again. Pope had moved to the right side of the bed, still seated at the edge.
With a deep breath, you walked over to him and stood in front of him. He looked up at you slowly, eyes soft and gaze intense like always.
You moved your hands to his shoulders, thumbs running along the fabric of his shirt as his legs parted wider for you to step between them, but kept his hands on his lap.
“I think I can get used to this,” you whispered.
“This?”
“You,” you answered.
Then, you moved one hand to the nape of his neck, playing with his dark curls. He leaned back against your touch, eyes staring intently into your own.
“Me?”
You nodded with a small smile. “You.”
Pope cleared his throat and moved one hand to your hip, gripping it tightly. “Me too.”
“You too?”
He nodded. “I think… I think I can get used to a life with you too.”
You felt the heat rise in your cheeks before you slowly straddled his hips, feeling him stiffen just slightly before his other hand moved to your other hip. Your legs settled on either side of him as your other hand moved to rest on his shoulder.
“This day,” you whispered, lowering yourself until you were firmly on his lap. “Has been the best day.”
Pope couldn’t help but feel the warmth between your legs and he felt his manhood stir beneath his shorts. His hands moved from your hips to rest on your thighs, clearing his throat as he kept his gaze focused on you.
“Can we run away together?” You asked teasingly.
He nodded instantly.
Maybe too quickly.
Like he was already thinking about it.
“If that’s what you want,” he finally said.
“Really?”
Pope nodded. “I’d give you everything you want,” he whispered, gripping your hips and slowly rolling you over onto your back on the mattress. You looked up at him in surprise as his hands moved to rest on either side of you now.
“Everything?” You asked.
“Yes.”
“Will you kiss me?”
Pope cleared his throat. He looked down at you and lowered himself just slightly. “Do you want that?”
“More than you know.” You sat up on your forearms and leaned up, brushing your lips lightly against his.
His lips twitched upwards.
Pope moved one hand to your cheek gently.
Then, he leaned in.
Hovering near your lips.
“Are you sure?” He asked.
You smiled and nodded. “If you don’t kiss me—”
Pope cut you off.
He pressed his lips firmly against yours. His lips were soft and he was gentle, almost like he was a bit hesitant to continue the kiss.
So, you took the lead.
Moved a hand to his shirt and tugging him down with you.
His body pressed against yours as you moved your lips slowly with his own. You didn’t want to move too fast, especially when you could sense his hesitation still.
Pope tried to relax, but his focus was pulled in the direction of his lower half. His manhood stirred excitedly and he couldn’t remember the last time he had an erection as genuine as this. Sure, he’s had sex in the last few years, but this felt different. You weren’t just some woman that his brothers paid for or a woman that his mother hired.
You were someone special.
Someone that Pope knew he could love someday.
You gasped when you felt his erection between your legs and he suddenly pulled back to look down at you.
“I—I’m sorry,” he mumbled and was about to pull away when you gripped his shoulders and rolled him onto his back. You straddled his waist again and sat atop his lap, feeling his hardened manhood against your core.
“Don’t be,” you whispered, grabbing his hands and placing them on your hips from underneath the hoodie. Slowly, you rolled your hips against his and let out a quiet whimper at the feel of him against you.
Pope’s eyes fluttered and a moan slipped from his lips.
“Andrew?”
He tilted his head.
“Do you want this too?”
He let out a breath and nodded. “Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
Pope nodded and sat up, arms snaking around you and pulling you down so that he could press his lips more firmly against your own. Mumbling, he answered, “I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want you.”
You smiled against his lips.
“Then, I’m yours,” you said, pulling away to look up at him. “All yours.”
Something territorial overcame him. He moved his hand further up your body from beneath the hoodie until he covered your breast, eyes slightly widening at the absence of your bra. His thumb brushed your nipple lightly and watched your eyes flutter.
He knew right then that he’d do anything to make sure that you were happy, safe, and protected.
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It's nearly nine when Jack walks behind Trinity and Dennis at the hub, peeking at whatever they're looking at on her phone—a post of some trendy commodity that’s gone viral for the month.
He stops in his tracks and chuckles, “Oh, my wife loves those.”
They practically snap their necks to look at him, confused. “Your wife?” Trinity asks, incredulous.
Jack nods toward a vague direction in front of them, and their eyes lead to you, yawning your way through charting at a desk. In the middle of it, you put your head down to sneak a few seconds of shut-eye.
The two slowly turn their heads back to him, with Trinity squinting her eyes at his affectionate gaze to you.
“I thought you guys had only been seeing each other for, like, a month.”
Jack shrugs. “I’m, uh…what do you kids call it? Manifesting.” He pats Dennis’ shoulder. “Finish your charts and go home. It's late.”
He walks away, leaving them more confused than before. They watch him round your desk, kiss your head, and murmur something to you. You sigh and lift your head, visibly a bit lighter.
Trinity gags. “Jesus Christ.”
“Hey, I think it's nice!” Dennis nudges her with his elbow.
summary: All it takes is one glance at the pretty girl who lives in the apartment across from his for Andrew Cody to become obsessed. But what begins as innocent observation from his window turns into something far more intense.
warnings: +18 MDNI. obsessive behavior, stalking, multiple scenes of male masturbation, themes of shame, reader has type b youngho vibes and andrew is stupidly into it, feminine reader who has hair and wears press on nails, unspecified but implied age gap, reader shares one kiss with a female friend (not super detailed), J pulls your cell phone records as a favor, andrew breaks into your apartment and raids your panty drawer, male masturbation with a vibrator, nipple play, alcohol consumption and mentioned drunkenness, lingerie, exhibitionism on readers part, mutual masturbation, jealousy, bratting/a touch of brat taming, reader tries to make pope jealous with another man, death threats (not to reader or pope), dirty talk, sloppy makeouts, spit swapping, over the clothes nipple sucking, finger sucking, f!use of a vibrator, clit play, rough fingering, unprotected piv, dacryphilia, light angst, insecure pope, reader matches his freak, stalker!reader, forced love confessions, begging, creampie
note: wow ok i think that might be the longest warning i've ever written whoops!! thank u sm to my angel @thykingdoncome for reassuring me through this whole process and taking a lil looksie at this for me love u 4ever
wc: 10.4k
[masterlist] [AO3]
Andrew knows it's weird.
He knows that.
But as long as you don't know he's doing it, what does it hurt?
It's not like he's doing anything weird. He's just…watching you. It almost feels like fate, the way your apartment is positioned directly across from his. There's the courtyard and a pool lying between you, but the windows of his apartment mirror yours so perfectly.
And…you don't have blinds.
No curtains, no shades. There's not even a half-effort of an old sheet hung up over the glass pane. And at night? When he can't sleep, and the moths circle the flickering porch lights, and you've got those blue or red or purple LED lights on…well.
Pope can see right into your apartment.
Can see you, watching TV on the couch or cooking boxed macaroni in nothing but a loose tank top and a pair of lace underwear.
He thinks you might be the only good thing about the apartment that Smurf forced him into only three days after he was released from prison.
It's been a long time since he's looked at a woman, you know. Longer since he's seen one as pretty as you.
He's not lacking self awareness or anything. Pope knows your open windows and ever changing LEDs aren't an invitation to stare, but…sometimes it feels like one.
You fall asleep on the couch most nights. Which is good for him, because Pope can't see into your bedroom.
Some things, he begins to realize, are a sort of chaotic routine.
You tend to fall asleep with your phone in your hand and scramble to find it each morning (it's always under the couch, beneath the hot pink throw pillow you kick off in your sleep).
You don't eat breakfast because you don't wake up early enough to (don't you know it's the most important meal of the day?). Most mornings, you wake up with just enough time to doll yourself up in the bathroom, prioritizing glittery eyeshadow and shimmering lip gloss rather than the sustenance of a bowl of cereal.
He doesn't know what you do for work, but it's something with an inconsistent schedule. You sleep until noon on your days off, which could be any day of the week, Pope learns.
Work doesn't stop you from going out, though. Saturday nights are reserved for those miniskirts and stiletto heels and all your giggling girlfriends who get ready on your living room floor with a hand mirror. You share perfume and makeup and clothes with them before you all climb into a shared uber.
A few times, Andrew finds himself tempted to follow you. He tells himself it's not like he'd be doing it for his own satisfaction. He'd just be doing it to keep an eye on you, that's all. You're a young girl (too young for someone his age). Don't you know there are predators out there?
But he never does. Because that would be weird, right? You don't even know him. But…he certainly starts to feel like he knows you.
You and your friends always stumble back to your apartment, sometimes falling up the concrete steps to the second floor. One of them will make pizza rolls or messy peanut butter sandwiches and you'll pass around cold bottles of water and spill electrolyte drink mixes on the kitchen counter.
You'll share your things with them even after the club, selfless girl. Passing out hair ties and makeup removing wipes and big t-shirts for them to sleep in. On one particular night, when most of them are passed out on the couch, legs and arms tangled together, Pope even watches you you share a kiss with one of them under pink LEDs.
That night, Andrew has to force his attention away. It feels way too close to the beginning of that porno Craig left open on the family computer years ago.
But this doesn't feel erotic. Watching your mouth move against someone else's doesn't elicit any warmth beneath the fabric of his jeans.
No, it makes Andrew...upset. Angry, even.
It makes him jealous.
He tries not to think about it again. Tries even harder (and fails, repeatedly) to give you some privacy on Saturday nights.
But Sundays…Sundays are sacred.
Both for you and for him.
So much so that he pulls out on a job when his brothers plan it for a Sunday. Tells them he has to check in with his parole officer that day. Lies to their faces, because he doesn't want to miss out on you.
Because every Sunday, without fail, Andrew gets to see you naked.
You start by cleaning your apartment. Wiping down the counters and vacuuming the carpet and dusting the top of the cabinets. Then you light the candle on the coffee table (pink champagne, he's pretty sure, after looking endlessly online to match up the glass container. Twenty six dollars. Four day shipping. Currently sitting unlit on his nightstand).
And when you're ready, you strip off all your clothes and discard them in the bathroom.
You put oil in your hair and nineties R&B on your bluetooth speaker. You paint your toes (usually white or black, occasionally an electric blue) and glue artificial nails with sparkling gems onto your fingers.
Sunday showers are the longest, Pope knows. Sometimes thirty minutes. And when you emerge from the bathroom, steam rolls out from the open door and you've got your hair wrapped up in a towel. You balance yourself with a foot on the edge of the couch and massage lotion into your skin first.
From top to bottom, moisturizing your entire body. And then you repeat the motion with an oil, and it's during this particular step that Andrew starts feeling a little lightheaded.
He'd bet you feel all smooth and soft and smell so fucking good. Maybe like vanilla or cherry or coconut. And, god. He wants to touch you. He wants to touch himself.
But he resists.
The first three times, anyway.
By the fourth Sunday, though…well. His cock gets so fucking hard in his jeans that it's leaking. Making a big fucking mess in his boxers. It hurts, you know?
And it's not like you'll know he's doing it. He's had a little over a month to perfect his setup—lights off, chair angled perfectly so if anyone glanced into his apartment they'd have to really look in order to see him.
So, he takes his cock in his hand and imagines it's your delicate fingers wrapped around him instead. Imagines it's his hands rubbing oil into your shoulders, over the swell of your breasts, pressing into your hips, squeezing at the supple flesh of your thighs.
He'd make sure to do it just how you like. And Pope wouldn't need to be told how to, either. Because he's spent so much time watching you now that he would just know.
He wonders if your head would fall back, wet hair clinging to your slick skin. He wonders if he pressed just right into that tender spot at the small of your back that you're always so gentle with if you'd moan or whine or whimper. Maybe even say his name.
Andrew cums at the thought alone, grunting low, lips parted, his release spilling over his hand and down the hard length of his cock.
The shame doesn't take hold of him for a while.
Not until later that night, when your hair is blow dried and you're dressed in a pretty silk pajama set. You've got some trashy reality show on the TV, and you're eating the pizza you had delivered right out of the box.
Andrew takes the moment to clean himself up. To change out of his clothes and into something more comfortable. He brushes his teeth and climbs in bed, but lays with his head propped up by an extra pillow so he can still see clearly out of his window.
He knows it's weird. He knows he shouldn't be staring at a naked girl who's probably half his age and doesn't know there's some fucking creep across the courtyard who watches her every fucking day. He knows he shouldn't be fucking his fist watching you put lotion on your skin. He knows he shouldn't be changing his plans with family or friends around your schedule, just so he can watch you a little longer.
He knows he should stop.
The problem, however, lies in the wanting.
Andrew's never had much. Not when it comes to women. But you…god. You're so beautiful, and so pure and so different from anything he's ever seen. You don't belong to anyone but yourself, and once he sees you, he finds it impossible to look away.
Things change late one Friday night.
Andrew gets sloppy. He gets comfortable, here in this routine he's created around you.
There's music coming from your apartment, some electronic pop ballad that's at a volume so loud he can hear it from across the courtyard (there will be complaints to the office manager tomorrow morning, he knows. But you don't have to worry. Pope will take care of it for you, baby. He'll make sure you can keep having your fun).
You're wearing just a lacy bra and a pair of linen sleep shorts. There's a seltzer in your hand, and you're singing and dancing like you've somehow summoned all the energy from the club right there in your apartment.
It's a beautiful sight, truly. You're so happy and carefree. The warmest ray of sunshine that he wants to find himself basking under.
Andrew gets comfortable, posture relaxing in the chair that now lives permanently in front of his window. He watches you dance around your apartment, the easy smile on your face reflected back on his own.
He thinks he could really take care of you. Keep you safe. Protect all that girlish whimsy that lives in your heart. He'd make you real happy, Andrew thinks. Would watch you dance with your friends at the club, leaning against the bar. He'd take you shopping and add more of those short dresses into your closet. He'd make you breakfast in the mornings before work and Christ—he'd buy you a set of fucking curtains.
Pope is so lost in the fantasy of it that he doesn't register in time that your dancing has slowed. And you've put your seltzer down on the coffee table.
And you're staring right back at him.
His heart kicks up, pounding against his chest. He knows he should move out of sight, shut his blinds, pass this off as a mistake, maybe even pretend he hadn't seen you.
But he doesn't do any of that.
He's frozen in time, terrified and exhilarated all at once by simply being perceived by you.
Pope just…stares.
It seems to be the only fucking thing he's capable of these days.
He expects you to flip him off or maybe come barreling out of the door and across the courtyard to confront him. Or maybe you'll scurry away into your room. Maybe you'll order a set of curtains online.
But you don't do any of that.
You just stare right back.
Andrew tilts his head curiously. It's an involuntary movement.
In the end, you're the first to look away. You pick up your seltzer, dump it down the drain in the kitchen, and then disappear into the bathroom to brush your teeth.
Your routine remains the exact same. You find your phone beneath the throw blanket on the couch and turn off the TV. You turn the kitchen light off and turn on the light above the stove instead. You grab a water bottle from the fridge, and then go to bed in your room.
It's not rushed, and you don't seem nervous or fearful that there's someone watching you.
And Andrew thinks to himself, see. This is why you need him. This is why you need someone looking out for you. Don't you know how dangerous he could be?
He would never hurt you, Andrew knows. But you don't know that.
He doesn't sleep that night. He doesn't sleep often as it is, but his mind is running too fast. Cataloguing all the potential scenarios in which you cut off all access he has to you, severing the comfort he finds in his new favorite, voyeuristic hobby.
And Andrew wouldn't—couldn't—blame you for it. He thinks that's what you should do.
You don't.
The following morning, your routine changes.
On the nights you fall asleep in your bed, you're usually dressed in a pair of jeans with gems decorating the pockets and a low-cut top by the time you emerge from your room.
But not this time.
No, this time you're still wearing the same clothes you'd fallen asleep in. A lacy bra and cotton shorts.
Andrew watches, freshly emerged from the quickest shower of his life, hair still wet, as you stand in front of the fridge to find the fizzy energy drink you'd brought home with you last night.
He watches you struggle for a moment to crack the seal open (Those pretty nails of yours. He could help you with that, you know). You take a slow sip, put the aluminum can down on the counter, and turn your head just enough to let Pope know you see him.
You know he's there, in the window. You know he's watching.
And then, painfully slow, you drag your shorts down your thighs. The fabric pools at your feet, and Pope loses all train of thought.
Because this is no accident. You want this. You want him to watch you.
Your bra is next. You reach around to unclasp it and soon after the lace joins the linen fabric on the linoleum floor.
Warmth blooms beneath his skin as he watches you press your hands to your abdomen, feeling your skin, running your hands up your chest and over the swell of your breasts.
You try and play it off like a stretch, lifting your arms above your head and arching your back.
Andrew knows it's not.
You get ready the rest of the morning like normal. And Andrew…God. He doesn't know what to think.
He knows he should stop this before it goes too far. He thinks it already has.
It's…it's weird, right?
Everything about it is wrong.
He doesn't want to stop, but he knows he should.
He tries, though. For what little it's worth.
Tries to busy himself building a fountain at Smurf's. Tries to find small jobs he can do himself to pass the time. He still thinks about you all hours of the day, though. Like a thorn stuck beneath his skin, aching when he moves just the wrong way.
He overhears Nicky explaining to Deran what an 'everything shower' is and thinks about your Sunday ritual. He walks into a hungover Craig making boxed macaroni in his boxers and thinks of you. Smurf lights a candle called pink cashmere and even though it's not pink champagne, it still makes him think of you.
The pretty little girl in the apartment across from his, who he finds himself certifiably, insanely, obsessed with.
One Thursday afternoon, Andrew returns home earlier than he'd planned. He tells himself he just wants to get a little glance.
Just one look. You know, to soothe the ache the thought of you brings. To see if maybe he imagined the weight of your stare.
What he finds, though, is somehow more concerning.
You're pacing your living room, cell phone pressed to your ear, still wearing jeans and your sneakers. There's tension in your shoulders and even though he can't hear the conversation you're having with the person on the other end of the phone, he can see that you're shouting.
It drags on for the better half of an hour. The pacing, the frustrated hand waving, the pinching of the bridge of your nose. Whatever it is, Andrew bets he could help with it.
He hates seeing you stressed. Thinks you should be living your fun, carefree life like normal. You shouldn't be burdened with…whatever it is that's got you so upset.
But it's not like he can go over and just ask.
So, he chooses a different path instead.
Gets the key to the office of the apartment complex from Smurf. Rummages through the paper files until he finds the lease contract linked to your apartment number.
Andrew thinks he should've done this weeks ago. He learns an awful lot about you this way. Like your name, which he begins to recite like a mantra in his head. He learns your birthday and, regretfully, your age.
But, most importantly, he discovers (and memorizes) your phone number.
And that same day, he returns to Smurf's with a torn piece of paper with the digits scribbled on it. He hands it to his nephew and says, "Need you to get a few phone call records. Can you do that for me?"
J furrows his brows in confusion. "Who's number?"
Pope shrugs. "No one," he lies. "Can you get the records or not?"
"Uh, yeah. Yeah, probably. Anything specific you're looking for?"
"I wanna know about a call that happened today. Around two or so. Lasted almost an hour. Just get me the number of whoever was on the other line."
J hesitates for a single moment, and then nods slowly. "Alright. I'll get back to you on it."
In the meantime, Andrew spirals.
The thought of you having a boyfriend never really crossed his mind until now. You don't really have men over. Just your girl friends.
But there are some Saturday nights you don't come home, stumbling in early Sunday morning instead with sunglasses on and your hair a mess. So, Pope thinks you very well could have a boyfriend and he never would've known it.
Pope tells himself if it is a boyfriend, he won't…he won't do anything. It's not his place to make decisions for you, right?
Still. You shouldn't let a man stress you out so much. Whoever it is, they're not worth it. You deserve better. You deserve more.
You deserve someone who knows you.
Less than two hours later, Pope gets a phone call from J, who explains that the person on the other end of that phone call wasn't a person at all.
It was your phone company.
Your stupid fucking service provider who just so happened to put an extra two hundred dollar fee on your bill this month, claiming data overages.
All that stress wasn't over a boyfriend. It was over money.
And money is something Andrew can provide.
He waits until you leave for work, locking up tight behind you. But that doesn't matter, not now. Andrew has a key to the office, which means he has access to the spare key to your apartment.
He is fully aware that he shouldn't be doing this, but ten minutes after you leave he unlocks the door and steps inside anyway.
Your apartment smells sweet. Like sugar and citrus. He wonders if you smell the same way, and the thought alone makes Andrew's mouth water.
He moves slowly into your space, fingers tracing over the TV stand, feeling the wood beneath his calloused fingertips. He straightens the crooked throw pillow on the couch and puts the lighter for your candle back into the tray on the coffee table.
Andrew knows he should just…leave the cash and go. He shouldn't be snooping around, invading your privacy.
But you left a knife point-side up in the strainer in the sink. And you could get hurt doing something like that.
And once he's already in the kitchen, turning the knife over so the sharp edge is down, well…what will it hurt if he opens a couple of drawers?
None of your silverware matches. Andrew finds this little fact sort of endearing. Messy and chaotic in the same way you are, but that's okay. Maybe he can fix that for you one day, too.
Your bathroom is cluttered. There's makeup products littering the porcelain sink and the cabinet mirror is left wide open. Andrew picks up a few different products to read the labels and finds lip liners and leave-in conditioners and powdered blush with pilled pigment on the counter.
He finds that lotion you're always using on Sundays and opens the lid. Andrew brings the container to his nose, inhales deeply, and feels suddenly too hot.
The scent of it is sweet, like you. There's notes of syrupy amber and warm florals and it has the muscles in his abdomen squeezing tight as he thinks about how potent the scent would be if he were between your legs, freshly oiled, calves resting on his shoulders as he licks and sucks at your clit.
His cock has been half hard since the moment he stepped foot in your apartment, but by the time he makes it to your bedroom?
Pope is aching.
Your clothes are strewn all over. There's t-shirts on the floor and jeans inside out near the hamper and a dress you'd worn two weekends ago lying on the edge of your unmade bed.
It smells like you in here, too. Even more so. There's less perfume, but Andrew swears he can smell the scent of your skin. Sweet and intoxicating, sending sparks of arousal straight to his groin.
Your bedside table has a lamp on it and three half-empty bottles of water. There's one drawer, and he pries it open and gives a slow exhale to see all the silk and lace inside.
Going through your underwear drawer is, quite literally, the very last thing someone like Andrew Cody should be doing.
He does it anyway.
Rummages around until he finds that little black pair you like to sleep in. He runs his fingers over the lace band, feeling the softness beneath the rough pad of his thumb. His cock is throbbing, even before he brings the fabric to his nose and inhales the scent of laundry detergent and faint mahogany from the nightstand and—there. The scent of you.
As close as he can get.
As close as he'll probably ever get.
He needs to leave. Andrew is painfully aware that this is crossing a line of a whole new degree. Levels above simply watching.
This is obsession. This is addiction. Sick and twisted and perverted.
Andrew does not leave.
He climbs into your bed instead. Kicks off his boots and discards his hoodie until he's in nothing but his jeans. He slips beneath your sheets—satin, and pink, and filled with the scent of your shampoo and your skin and—fuck.
His cock is leaking by the time he undoes his belt. Andrew reaches beneath your blankets and shoves his jeans down just enough to free himself.
And it's almost enough to blow his load right fucking there, when the underside of his heavy length brushes against the fabric of your sheets. It's almost too much, being in your room, in your bed, breathing in your scent.
But he resists. Grits his teeth and takes his cock in one hand and uses the other to wrap the soft fabric of your underwear around his aching length.
This time, there's nothing slow about the way he strokes himself to the thought of you. He's desperate for it. Release already clouds the edges of his mind and he needs the relief it'll provide.
His brain feels hazy and his vision blurs, just thinking about you, lying here, hand between your legs. He wonders how you touch yourself, if you just play with your clit or if you fuck yourself on your fingers.
The thought crosses his mind that you might be using more than just your hand, and Pope finds himself sitting up. He leans over the edge of your bed and sticks his hand back into your panty drawer, reaching to the very bottom, feeling around until the tips of his fingers brush over silicone.
His heart is beating fast.
It's a small thing. Pink, of course. With only a small, almost hidden power button.
Pope leans back in your pillows and turns the little vibrator on. It buzzes to life in his hand, and when he pushes the button again, the intensity ratchets even higher.
There's only three settings. He turns it to the highest one and imagines holding it against your swollen clit. He imagines you lying under him, thighs around his waist, hips bucking wildly, chasing the vibration that he gives and gives and then takes away.
He turns so he's lying face down in your sheets now, nose pressed into your pillow. Pope puts the vibrator between his cock and the soft expanse of his abdomen, and he feels the sensation everywhere.
He's still got your underwear wrapped around his cock, and he gives a tentative roll of his hips against the mattress.
The groan he lets out is guttural. With his eyes closed, he can imagine its not your panties he's fucking but you. The tight, wet cunt between your legs. He can imagine it's the curve of your throat he's got his nose buried in and not your pillow. He can imagine that sweet, intense vibration is reverberating through your pelvic bone, little toy pressed hard against your clit.
Pope tells himself he'd make it so fucking good for you. He'd bury his cock so deep you'd never forget the weight of it inside you. He'd whisper how beautiful you are in your ear and make you look him in the eyes while he watches you cum over and over and over.
His release is…embarrassingly fast.
A few rolls of his hips against your mattress and he's cumming into the lace fabric of your panties, the vibration of the toy milking him until he's so overstimulated it almost hurts.
Pope rolls over, turns the toy off, and buries it back in the bottom of your drawer. He gives himself a few more moments to gather himself. To catch his breath, to wipe himself clean (never mind the couple of drops that now stain your satin sheets. That could be from anything, right?).
He tucks himself back into his jeans, pulls on his boots and his hoodie, and tosses your underwear in the pile of clothes next to the laundry bin.
There's a pair of your jeans in the middle of the floor, away from the rest. One leg of the denim is inside out. Pope takes the cash from his wallet and tucks it into the pocket, leaving out just enough that he knows you'll notice it.
He leaves.
Locks the door behind him with the spare key.
Makes it halfway across the courtyard before he doubles back, lets himself back into your apartment and into the bathroom where he pockets one of the many different chapsticks on the sink.
It isn't until he's home, tucked safe back in his own apartment, that he realizes it's strawberries and cream flavored.
Andrew puts it on, swiping the transparent petroleum over his lips. He tells himself it's almost like kissing.
Later that day, Craig calls a family meeting. But you've just gotten home, and he knows you'll find the cash within a few minutes when you go to change out of your clothes.
So Andrew waits at the bottom of the stairs on his side of the courtyard. He can't see into your apartment from here, though. And he decides he'll only wait for thirty minutes.
He responds to text messages and opens his blank, photo-less Instagram (that he definitely didn't make only to look at your profile. The one filled with selfies under neon lights and bikini photos on the beach and mirror pictures in the dressing room at that one boutique in the mall).
Twenty nine minutes later, he hears an apartment door slam shut and looks up to see you.
You've got your bag over one shoulder and a grin on your face and the cash in your hand. Enough to cover the additional charges and a little extra, too.
You notice him at the bottom of the cement stairs and freeze, but you don't look…scared, like he expects. Maybe a little startled at first, but the tension bleeds from your face the moment you recognize him.
He should say something. Talk to you. Apologize, maybe, for staring at you.
But Andrew isn't sorry.
And he's never really been good at talking, anyway.
You tilt your head and give him the sweetest fucking smile he's ever seen. It's somehow innocent and knowing at the same time, and Andrew feels the corners of his mouth lifting in response.
Something passes silently between you. An understanding, maybe. You know he watches you, and he knows you know, but…you don't stop him. You just let it happen.
You smile at him from fifteen feet away.
And then you turn to leave, no doubt making your way to pay off that stupid bill that caused you so much unrest.
Pope watches you go, like always.
But this time, you glance back at him over your shoulder with…something lingering in your pretty eyes. Excitement, maybe. He can't be sure.
He needs to get closer.
During the family meeting, he isn't very present. His mind is so far away, stuck on you, that he just blindly agrees to whatever job they're doing next and trusts that it'll all work out.
When he returns to his apartment, there's a note stuck to his door.
A pink sticky note with nothing but a phone number and a heart with an arrow through it scribbled on the paper.
Your phone number, Pope knows.
He knows he shouldn't text you.
It's stupid and dangerous and god, you really shouldn't be giving your number to random men. He could be a creep. He could be a stalker or something.
His message just says,
Hello.
Your response is immediate, with no capitalization which seems quite…fitting for you. He finds it strangely endearing.
hey
are u the guy from apt 212 ???
Pope can feel that this is a bad idea already. But he's already here, and there's no going back now, is there? He doesn't want to hurt your feelings. He doesn't want to leave you on read and make you think he's not interested when the problem is the exact opposite.
Yes.
The typing bubble pops up, disappears, and appears again three different times before you send another message.
im gonna be home in like an hr
will u be watching ???
Always, he wants to say. Fucking always. He can't take his eyes off you, no matter how hard he tries. No matter how shameful it feels.
Andrew's hands shake as he types out a response.
Do you want me to be?
No hesitation this time. Your message comes through a second later.
uhmmm tbh yeah <3
He exhales a long breath. It doesn't feel real. Like he's imagining the entire thing. How could he not be? Why on earth would the sweetest, prettiest little thing want someone to watch her?
But the weight of his cell phone in his hand is real.
And the text message is real.
And this…this is real.
Then yes. I will be.
You don't reply, and Andrew's heart flutters in his chest as he takes his practiced position in the chair in front of his window and waits.
True to your word, you're skipping up the steps fifty three minutes after the last message is sent. You turn on those LEDs and and move about your apartment like normal, kicking off your sneakers and dropping your bag by the door. You change out of your clothes and put on a worn in t-shirt that's two sizes too big for you, but underneath…
Pope can see the sheer thigh highs you wear and the black, lace edge of them. He can see those strappy garters attached to them, but nothing else. The straps disappear beneath your shirt, leaving him wanting for more.
You're teasing him, Pope realizes.
He watches with bated breath as you lay on the couch, getting comfortable with the throw pillow against the arm.
And then, for the first time, Andrew watches you touch yourself.
You start slowly, hands roaming over your body, on top of the fabric, massaging gently at the inside of your thighs.
His cock's always hard watching you, truth be told. But this…
His skin feels hot. His lungs feel tight.
Your fingers curl around the edge of your t-shirt, and you pull it over your head to discard it on the floor.
Andrew hasn't seen you wear this set before, not even on those sacred Sundays.
It's pretty. Matching black lace. The bra is low cut and pushes your breasts up your chest, the soft flesh swelling over the top. The waistband of the matching panties is decorated in shining silver gems, laying so perfectly against your hips that he feels dizzy just looking at it.
The prettiest package, just begging to be unraveled by his big, mean hands.
You dressed up for him.
You dressed up for him.
Your hands start to move again, palming your breasts, pulling the lace down until they spill out of the top. Your nipples are so pretty that his mouth waters. He wants to kiss them, to feel the shape of them under his tongue. He wants to kneel over top of you and jerk himself off until they're covered in his sticky white release.
You squeeze your breasts until your nipples form pretty little peaks, and then your hands slide lower. Over your abdomen, and your hips, and then your thighs. You bring them slowly back up, only to slide them over the lace fabric of your panties, right down the center of your cunt.
Andrew thinks he could die.
He could fucking die, just looking at you.
Carefully, you unbuckle the chrome latch of your garter. The left side first, and then the right quickly follows. You leave the lace belt on, but hook your thumbs around the bedazzled lace of your panties and pull them down your thighs painfully slowly.
Your knees fall apart.
Pope swallows hard.
He can see everything from here. The seam of your thighs that he's dreamt about. The pretty shape of your pussy. The wetness that's gathered between your folds, slick and shiny with arousal. With want.
For him. It's for him.
His cock throbs so hard it hurts.
Pope doesn't touch himself. He can't. Can he? All you asked of him was that he watched.
That's what you wanted.
But wouldn't it be better if he was there? Wouldn't it be better if he could touch you, if he could taste you, if he could fuck you?
All you'd have to do is let him in.
Your fingers stroke gently over your clit in small circles, and he watches in awe as your lips part and your spine bends.
He can't hear your moans but god does he wish he could. Thinks about putting a little microphone in your lampshade the next time he sneaks into your apartment.
Your fingers drift lower, over your center, and slowly press inside.
Pope wants it to be him so fucking bad.
If not his cock inside you then his fingers. They're bigger. Longer. Thicker. They'd please you more. Reach places your fingers can't.
Maybe his tongue. He'd drink you right from the fucking source and cum in his jeans, probably. But he'd make sure to find that sweet, velvety spot inside you first and he'd spell his full fucking name over it with a pointed tongue.
Silly girl. Don't you know what he could do for you? Don't you know what he could do to you?
Pope squeezes the bulge in his jeans to try and alleviate the pain of his lust.
You fuck yourself with your fingers, stuffing in one and then two and then three, stretching yourself on them, slick dripping down the seam of your cunt. Your back arches when your free hand finds your clit, and he knows you're close.
He knows he shouldn't, but he searches frantically for his phone anyway and sends another text message.
I want to hear you.
You pause only long enough to grab your phone off the coffee table, read the text, and lay your phone on the arm of the couch behind you.
Pope's phone buzzes in his hand.
You're calling him.
He answers on the first ring, and the sounds that greet him are so erotic it steals the breath from his lungs.
You sound so pretty. So sweet and feminine, everything he's imagined yet somehow so, so much more. He's sure you can hear his heavy breaths on the other end of the phone, but Pope can't find it in himself to care. Can't think of much else besides the way you whimper and the sight of your fingers stuffed inside you.
"Oh, god—"
His inhale is shaky.
"I'm gonna cum," you choke out, words hazy with your moans. "I'm so close, I'm so fucking—hmm. Yes. What's your name?"
He almost doesn't hear you, so lost in the sight before him. Immersed in the euphoria of it. But then he says, voice a low, uncertain whisper, "Andrew."
Your spine bends and the fingers on your clit slow. "Oh my god. Fuck, Andrew—I'm cumming, I'm—yes, yes—god."
His cock twitches and when he tries to soothe it with another tight squeeze, he sends himself careening off the precipice of release instead. His head falls back and his once heavy breaths get stuck in his lungs. Pope rubs himself over his jeans, making a sticky, hot mess in his boxers, generating what little friction he can.
He watches you come down in real time. Not his dreams, not his imagination. He watches it happen. Watches that fucked-out, hazy look cross your face. Watches the tension in your muscles melt away, wishing he could kiss the junction of your throat.
Pope wishes he could worship you. Wishes he could clean you up and put on that trashy reality show you like and hold you against his chest, comforting you while your brain comes back to earth.
Instead, you lean up. Grab your phone and press it to your ear, staring right at him through his wide open window.
He doesn't know what he expects you to say, but it's certainly not, "Have you been inside my apartment, Andrew?"
For a second, he thinks about lying. Because there's no way you know, right? Not for sure. It's not like you have cameras or anything (he knows, because he checked).
But he doesn't want to lie. Not to you.
"I…might have been. Once, yes."
"Did you steal my chapstick?"
"You have ten of them."
He hears your laugh for the first time, and the sound is like sunlight in his chest. "You took the best flavor."
"I'm…I'm sorry. I'll return it."
"Keep it. I already got a new one," you say. "Cost me five hundred dollars, though."
So, you know it was him who left the cash, too.
Smart, pretty girl.
He doesn't say anything, too afraid he'll say something stupid or awkward the way he usually does. He doesn't want to ruin this moment. This absolutely perfect moment.
You smile at him, kiss your palm, and blow it towards your window. "Goodnight, Andrew."
He feels his face heat. "Goodnight."
Pope rides the high of it for days.
Can't shake the sight of you open and bare for him. Can't stop thinking about the sound of your moans or the way you'd said his name in the peak of euphoria. He fucks his first to the thought of it more times than he can count.
And Andrew's never been a really sexual person. Not unless it's with someone he loves.
But is that what this is? Love?
You've never met. Not really, not properly. How could it be something so intense? You don't know him. You don't know who he is or what he does. You don't know how he's hurt and maimed and killed.
Would you be afraid, finding out? Would you run to the police if you knew? Would you recoil away from him with terror in your eyes?
All things left unsaid. All things that may, very well, never be said.
Pope feels so uncertain with all of this that he finds himself resorting to fucking google, even. Search history littered with questions and Reddit threads that never provide any real clarity.
Define love.
Define obsession.
How to know if you're in love?
How to ask a girl out?
How to get over a girl.
Define voyeur.
Define fetish.
How big of an age gap is too big?
Apartments for sale on the east coast.
Pink champagne candle.
Strawberries and cream chapstick bulk pack.
You text him again a week after your exhibitionistic display.
do u wanna like go out sometime?? been thinking about u a lot
He's at Smurf's when he reads the message.
Pope doesn't even realize he's smiling until Deran slides a beer across the counter at him and asks, "What's got you all happy today?"
And Pope just shakes his head. Schools his features back into neutrality and says, "Nothing. Just won a bet."
He can tell his brother doesn't believe him, not even for a second. But thankfully, Deran doesn't push any further. He lets the subject go, but the question stays stuck in Andrew's head for hours.
It takes him a while to decide on a response. It's honest, and…mostly true.
We shouldn't. I'm a lot older than you.
Your response is a single, painful letter.
k
He doesn't respond to try his hand at damage control, even though he wants to. It's probably better this way, he thinks. Better that there's some distance between you. Better that you hate him and see him as the creepy neighbor he is.
But that Saturday night, when you return home, it's not with your friends.
Pope watches from his window as you guide a man up the stairs and into your apartment.
He's tall. Dark haired, with bright eyes and white teeth and a good smile. Closer to your age. Handsome like a man allowed into your space should be.
You're fumbling a little with your apartment key and Pope watches as the man stands behind you and slides his hands down the back of your thighs.
Thighs he should be touching. Thighs he's watched for months. Thighs that spread for him, long before this fucking loser ever laid his eyes on you.
He tells himself he won't interfere.
You're your own woman. You deserve to feel good, even if it's with…someone else.
And Pope knows he's just going to have to get the fuck over it.
He did it to himself, really.
He should look away.
But he watches instead.
Watches the two of you fall onto the couch. Watches another man kiss down the column of your throat and squeeze the supple curve of your ass over your sequined dress.
Your eyes find his from across the courtyard, and Pope's jaw clenches.
Putting on another show for him. Filthy, filthy girl.
And you're just going to give it to some random man? Someone who doesn't know you like Pope does? Someone who doesn't know how you like to be touched?
He needs to look away. Close his own fucking blinds for once.
But he feels frozen. Knowing this time, you're watching him. Looking for him. Goading for a reaction.
Pope watches the slow ascent of the man's hand. Promises himself he won't interfere. He'll just watch to make sure you're safe, that's all.
But the moment that greedy hand disappears beneath your dress, Andrew's moving. Throwing open his door and slamming it closed behind him. He crosses the courtyard and takes the steps two at a time.
His fist against your apartment door is incessant. He doesn't stop, even when he hears the uttered, male voice ask, "Who is that?"
When the door opens, it's you who stands in front of him, chin tilted up as you stare at him, pupils flared wide.
The man you'd brought home with you hovers over your shoulder.
Pope doesn't even look at him. He stares only at you as he says, a little snarl in his voice, "Tell him to leave."
"Dude, what the fuck? Who is this guy?"
Your lips curl at the corners. A devilish little smile. "Okay," you say, nodding, your voice soft and pliant. You turn your head to look at the man who stands behind you. "Sorry, but you've gotta go."
"You're joking," he responds flatly. "You said I could—!"
Andrew reaches past you and takes him by the collar, pulling him out of your apartment and slamming him up against the paneled siding. "I ever see you in this apartment again, I'll fucking kill you. You understand me?"
"Jesus fucking—yeah, okay. Alright. Sorry."
Pope isn't joking. Doesn't say it to scare him off but rather as a warning.
He lets him go and watches him scramble down the stairs. He doesn't turn back to face you until the little tool you used for attention gets in his car and drives away.
And when he does finally turn back to you…Christ. Your eyes are half lidded and full of lust. Pope's close enough this time that there's no mistaking it.
He should be a gentleman. Should take you out first. Bring you home and kiss you on your doorstep and leave you untouched.
He knows he should.
What he does instead is curl his hand around the back of your neck and pull you to him. He leans down, mouth hovering over yours, breathing in your panicky exhales. "This what you want?"
Your grin is immediate and undeniable. You nod and breathe out the word, "Please."
Andrew kisses you hard, crowding you back into your apartment. He kicks the door closed behind him and slides his tongue into your mouth, tasting you and groaning at the sweetness. There's mint and strawberry and you, his favorite flavor.
He feels drunk on it. On the taste of your tongue, the glide of your wet lips over his, the way your hands scramble and tug desperately at his belt.
"Fuck," he sighs, pulling back just enough to see you. "Open your mouth, baby. Wide. And stick out your tongue."
The way you immediately obey has his cock twitching. Good girl. So fucking good for him when he gives you exactly what you need.
Andrew licks the flat of your tongue once, delighting in the way you whimper in response, before bringing his hand to your mouth. He slides two fingers behind your teeth and orders, "Suck."
You do, lips closing tight around the digits, wet tongue swirling over his thick knuckles. He pushes them further down your throat, your eyes locked on his as he makes you choke on them.
"So fucking pretty," he tells you. "You always look so pretty."
Andrew pulls the straps of your mini dress over your shoulders, roughly tugging the fabric over your chest down to expose your breasts.
You're wearing the same lace bra you'd worn when you dressed up for him, he realizes. He can see the peaks of your nipples through the semi-sheer fabric, and leans down to lock his lips around the left one over the lace.
The fabric is rough beneath his tongue, a stark contrast to the softness of your skin. He sucks hard, spreading the wetness of his saliva over the lace. You push your dress further down your waist and over your hips.
Andrew slides his fingers out of your mouth, sticky and dripping with your spit. He brings them to his own lips instead and sucks them clean, watching your breath hitch and your eyes grow impossibly more hazy.
He lowers himself to his knees before you and his slick fingers work quickly at the straps of your heels, unbuckling them to free your pretty, white-painted toes.
Your hands find his shoulders for balance. "I like that you watch me," you tell him. "I think about it sometimes and it makes me so…god, Andrew. It gets me so wet."
He looks up at you from his knees, big brown eyes glassy and full of adoration. "Good," he says. "'Cause I'm gonna watch you a little closer tonight."
That pretty smile finds its way to your face again.
Andrew presses a sweet, chaste kiss to the apex of your thighs. Over your panties, right where he knows your clit lies beneath. He then stands to his feet, towering over you now without the added height of your heels, and presses you forward.
You take a careful step back, nearly losing your balance.
Andrew grins, taking another step, crowding you back towards your bedroom. He doesn't stop until the back of your knees hit the edge of your mattress.
You stumble backwards, falling into the plush sheets that he's all too familiar with. Lying on your back, propped up by your elbows, you stare up at him with wide eyes and he's reminded of a timid little animal caught in the trap of a predator.
Don't you know how dangerous he could be?
You don't look afraid. You actually look…eager.
Pope stands tall at the edge of your mattress. "Take off your clothes."
You do. Unclasping your bra first, tossing the fabric into the already existing mess on the floor. And then your panties follow, thumbs hooking around the fabric to drag it down your legs.
Andrew reaches around and fists the collar of his shirt, tugging it over his head. He feels warm all over, watching you greedily drink up the sight of him. He thinks he'd feel a little nervous, in any other setting. If it were anyone but you.
His sweet, filthy girl.
Andrew reaches into the half-open drawer of your nightstand, searching until he finds your vibrator again.
Your brows furrow as you watch him find it with practiced ease. "You went through my underwear drawer, too?"
"Did more than that," he admits.
You inhale like you're going to speak again, but the words melt to nothing when he tosses the small toy onto the bed beside you.
"Use it," Pope orders.
"What?"
He crawls onto the mattress between your legs, spreading them wide, laying your calves on either side of his hips. "Let me watch you."
There's a moment of hesitation, but you don't look nervous. Only…curious.
You pick up the vibrator and slide the pink silicone through your folds, spreading your arousal before you press the power button. You circle your clit with the tip of it a few times, teasing yourself.
When you turn the toy on, he can feel the vibration against his hands that grip your thighs. You let out a syrupy moan and turn the intensity higher, drawing tight circles around your pretty clit.
He watches you, eyes locked on the pink silicone between your legs. He watches your entrance flutter, tightening around nothing, begging to be filled. "Your pussy is so pretty," he mutters. "Do you know that?"
Your only response is a breathy whimper. You click the intensity up again, putting it on the highest setting, and Pope sighs when your legs begin to shake around him.
He wants to watch you make yourself cum. Wants another scene to fuck his fist to in the shower or in his bed or in his truck.
But he's here. Finally, finally here, in your bed, with you, and he can't help himself.
Pope grips your hips hard and pulls you closer, tilting your hips up into his lap. The vibrator falls from your hand at the sudden movement, but he's quick to return it to you. "Keep going."
You press the silicone back to your clit, and Andrew spreads you open with gentle thumbs. He gathers the spit in his mouth and lets it drip from his lips and onto the seam of your cunt.
And then he's sliding his middle finger inside of your entrance, curling it upwards, searching for that sweet spot that makes you writhe.
It doesn't take long. He's watched you. He knows just what you like and what angle to hit. And the second the tip of his finger presses hard against it, you fist your free hand in the sheets and curses fall from your sweet mouth.
Pope slides another thick finger inside, watching the way you squirm, feeling the walls of your cunt flutter around the swell of his knuckles.
"I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna—oh, fuck. Feels so good, feels so fucking—"
A long, throaty moan leaves your mouth, and he feels the warmth of your release pool in his palm. You're so slick that each wet thrust of his fingers echoes against the walls of your room.
He doesn't stop until you're twitching. Until you click the vibrator off and shove it away from you. And even then, he still gives a few, slow curls of his fingers inside of you. Not touching with intent, just…feeling. Memorizing.
Once you catch your breath, you lean up enough to find his eyes again. You say timidly, shyly, "I want…I want to feel you, Andrew. I want you inside me. Do you…do you want to fuck me?"
It's the most asinine question he's ever been asked in his fucking life. Does he want to fuck you?
He's thought of nothing else for months. Every night when he fights for sleep, it's the thought of you under him that puts him to bed.
It's such an impractical concern from his point of view that he laughs. Actually laughs, for the first time in years. "Oh, baby."
Pope takes your hands in his. He presses one to his chest, right over his heart, and the other against the hardness in his jeans.
"I have never wanted another woman as bad as I want you," he says truthfully. "But I…you…you deserve better than this. Better than me. You understand that, don't you?"
You shake your head. "You don't know me, Andrew. Not really. You don't know if—"
"No, no. I do. I know you're the kind of friend who would give the shirt off their back. The kind of girl who'd let her phone get cut off before asking for help. The kind of girl who gets up every morning and just…tries. Every day. And you fucking…you smile about it. You're good. You're so fucking good and I…"
He stops.
Remembers the last time he loved someone like this and how he'd made a stupid confession he should've taken to his grave and how it'd fucked him completely.
"You're what, Andrew?"
Pope swallows. "I'm...I'm a bad man. I've hurt people. I will…hurt people, I—" His voice cracks. He lowers his eyes, trying to turn away, unable to find the strength to face you.
But you take his jaw in your gentle hands and force him to look at you. Sweet, angel of a girl that you are. And then you say without a waver to be found in your voice, "I like who you are. Do you think I gave the man who watches me through my window my phone number because I want some guy I could match with on Tinder?"
He tries to slow the rapid pounding of his heart. He wonders if love is supposed to be like this. To feel like this. All consuming and terrifying and devastatingly hopeful above all.
You shake your head and tuck your legs beneath you, sitting up on your knees. He sits stone still as you lean forward and kiss his cheek, whispering against his ear, "I've been watching you, too, Andrew Cody."
Something shifts inside of him as you say it. Uttering his last name that he'd never given you, that isn't even on his lease because this is a fake apartment under a fake name to launder the money they steal.
Oh—sweet, smart girl. Smarter than he thought.
How silly of him to ever doubt you.
There's a newfound wildness in your eyes when they meet his again. An unveiling. Like he's seeing you for who you truly are for the first time.
And you're…god. So fucking beautiful.
And, yeah. Pope thinks he's been right this whole fucking time.
He's weird and wrong and sickly obsessed.
But you are, too.
Andrew takes you by the back of the neck and kisses you hard, desperate to taste you, to close what little physical space remains between your body and his. He pushes you back against the mattress and follows you down.
Your hands find his belt buckle before he does, and he stares down at you as your deft fingers pry the leather open and unbutton his jeans. He helps you push the denim down his legs until his cock springs free, heavy and leaking. Wanting for you, twitching as you take it carefully in your hand.
A groan reverberates at the back of his mouth. Your hands are so soft. Perfect and pliant. One day, he swears he'll show you how he likes to be touched. He'll let you sit in his lap and watch him stroke his cock for you.
But for now, he lets you touch him slowly. Experimental. Feeling the heavy weight of him in your palm. You spit on your fingertips and spread your saliva over his sensitive tip, flushed red and pulsing beneath your touch.
You lean back and guide him between your thighs, sliding the head of his cock through your syrupy folds and over your clit.
The moment you line him up at your entrance, Pope eases inside and you let out the sweetest fucking sigh he's ever heard in his entire life. Sweet and soft and so, so satisfied.
It's so beautiful. You're so beautiful. And you feel warm and heavenly and wet around him. He pulls out slowly, almost all the way, and then drives his cock back into your cunt.
You squeal and those sharp, acrylic nails dig into his spine. But your legs circle his hips, and so Pope does it again.
He fucks you hard. Claiming that spot at the back of your cunt, pressed right up against your cervix. He rolls his hips and presses his mouth to yours, swallowing up those desperate, carnal sounds he pulls out of our chest.
Sweet girl. Sweet fucking girl. He reaches between you and circles your clit. "My girl now," he says, words spoken against your lips. "You'll never need anyone else, baby. No one but me."
You nod, the velvety walls of your pussy squeezing around the hard length of his cock.
Andrew puts his whole weight on top of you, grinding himself between your thighs, giving you everything he has. Everything he is.
"I'm yours," you choke out. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—"
It becomes a mantra. One that feeds his desire, in perfect sync with the rhythm of his thrusts. He watches your arousal begin to crest, nearing the summit, the muscles in your thighs twitching. "Look at me, baby," he says. "Tell me you love me when I make you cum."
You're so lost in it, head all spacey, that your eyes remain closed until he takes your jaw in a firm grip.
There are pretty tears in your eyes when you open them, but that smile on your face is present, too. He feels you pulse around him and your breath gets all shallow and then—
"I love you, Andrew, I fucking—oh my god please, please—I love you."
The words are music to his ears, tingling down his spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He thought the sound of his name in your mouth was beautiful but this…fuck. He could die.
Pope thinks he would. For you, he would.
He fucks you through it. Tastes your moans and says, "Yeah, that's it. Give it to me. Look so pretty when you cum for me."
He doesn't let his pace falter until your muscles loosen, until your nails stroke gently over his spin instead of leaving marks.
You pepper sweet kisses over his jaw, tongue sliding up the shell of his ear. "I want you to cum inside me," you tell him.
He's been fighting it the whole time, trying desperately not to blow his load before he'd at least gotten you there first.
But when you say that?
When you say, "Please, Andrew. Want you to give it to me. Want you to fill me up with your cum. Please. I need it."
He thinks about telling you that you don't have to beg. Not him, not for anything (especially this). But you just sound so pretty, begging for his cum, that he can't bring himself to do it.
So, he gives you what you want instead. Fucks his cum into you, groaning low in your ear, cock pulsing inside you. You feel so good wrapped around him it's euphoric. Otherworldly.
Your pussy grips tight, milking him dry, taking every last drop (he knows you're on birth control. Don't you know the women's clinic downtown keeps a spare key beneath the plant in front of their door?).
Andrew is careful when he slides out of you. And he wastes no time before kicking his jeans the rest of the way off and pulling you against his chest.
He pulls the blanket up around your shoulders and presses a kiss to your hairline. His voice wavers a little as he says, "Sorry if I…if I was a little rough."
You shake your head, pressing your nose to the divot between his pectorals. "It was perfect," you murmur against his skin.
Silence settles between you. Comfortable and easy, the sound of your breathing in perfect synchronization.
After some time you say, "I meant it, you know. Wouldn't have said it if I didn't. I really think I might be in love with you, Andrew. Is that…crazy?"
Yes, he wants to say.
But he feels it, too.
So instead he says, "You know, I don't…I don't have much experience with that sorta thing. Don't really know how to…to navigate it, I guess. But, uhm…yeah. Me, too."
He feels that smile of yours against his chest.
Andrew knows that this dynamic the two of you have created is weird.
He knows that.
But at least, now, he's not alone in it.
thank you for reading, i love you!
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