ৎ𝓲 𝓭𝓲𝓭 𝓬𝓻𝔂 𝓽𝓸𝓭𝓪𝔂𝜗

now you're both at smurf's place.

the noise of the pool party is a distant static hum buzzing through the sliding glass doors into the dim quiet of the living room. smurf's shrill laugh cutting through the splashing, the sizzle and pop of the grill, craig hollering at someone about something stupid, glass bottles clinking, music too loud. all of it muffled and far away from the little bubble you and your boyfriend, pope, created in the living room.

he's dead weight across your lap.

sprawled flat on his stomach on the big red lounge couch, long legs hanging off the end, one arm tucked under his chest and the other holding his phone above his face while his head is pillowed on your soft thighs. your skirt has ridden up, the soft cotton bunched at your hips, exposing miles of bare skin to the cool air. his cheek is pressed against the warm inside of one thigh, his auburn curls spilling across your lap.

he's scrolling through his phone. aggressively. irritated by a stream of texts — people his brothers ripped off, loose ends he has to tie up because god forbid craig or deran handle anything cleanly. you can see the tension in his jaw even from this angle, brows in a mean furrow, the hard set of his mouth, the way his shoulders are drawn up tight. he's been like this since he walked through the door forty minutes ago. coiled, wound, a spring waiting to snap.

"you're getting worry lines, andrew." you look down at him from the book in your hand and frown.

then you reach down and push at the deep crease between his brows with the pad of your thumb, smoothing it out.

"m'sorry it's just that have to fix this mess these idiots left and—" he doesn't finish his sentence as your fingers card slow through his auburn curls, scratching gently at his scalp, dragging your nails lightly over the warm skin of his nape where his hair is shortest. it pulls a low rumbling sound from deep in his chest, something that vibrates straight through your thighs and settles hot and low in your core. you feel him physically relax at the contact. the tight line of his shoulders drops a fraction. his jaw unclenches.

"we're here to relax. now relax and put the damn phone away."

"hmm. fine." he obeys you easily, always does, almost like he physically can never say the word 'no' to you. he abandons the phone, letting it drop face down onto the cushion with a thud. his arm flops down beside it, limp and defeated, and he exhales — long and slow, the last of the tension leaving his body in that single breath.

you're both quiet for the moment, not the awkward kind. but in a way that feels comfortable, calm. nothing pope is used to but longs for desperately.

his dark eyes flutter open. he watches you from below, chin tucked against your thigh, face tilted up. he looks at you the way he always looks at you, like you're something he doesn't deserve and knows it and is terrified of anyway.

he studies the deliberate, unbothered calm of you. the way you're reading a fucking paperback like his ticking time bomb of a family isn't less than twenty feet away, like the man currently using your thighs as a pillow hasn't got blood under his fingernails that will take hours to wash out, like the world isn't constantly on fire around both of you.

he wonders how he got this. how he got a girl who holds his violence in her lap and tames it with only her fingers in his hair. who accepts him as is, doesn't flinch when he comes home with bruised knuckles and dead eyes. who just wants him safe, whole, and in your arms before the end of the night. who makes him feel like maybe the rot inside him isn't terminal but something you can fix.

his calloused thumb rubs absent circles into your bare thigh — rough pad dragging over your soft skin, back and forth, back and forth.

then he turns his face.

you feel the hot wet exhale of his breath against your inner thigh — closer than before, higher— before his nose drags slow along the soft skin toward your center. your thighs clench. your thumb stills on the page. he inhales, deep and shameless, pressing his face into the crease of your thigh like he's trying to breathe you directly into his lungs and bypass his respiratory system entirely.

"you smell..." he trails off, the words muffled against your flesh, his lips moving against your skin. "different."

"really?" you hum, not looking up from your book. "just my usual body mist though. you know the one you like..."

"yeah, i can smell that." he says, voice low, he rolls his head deeper, nose pressing into the warm crease of your thighs. "but there's somethin' else underneath it. somethin'…" he trails off, searching for the word, and settles on: "sweet."

and then, god help you, his nose twitches. actually twitches, like a dog catching a scent on the wind, and you would laugh if you weren't so busy trying to keep your composure because his nose is dangerously close to your pussy. and you've been hypersensitive all day and–

and something clicks.

the dull ache in your lower belly this morning. the tenderness in your breasts when you pulled your shirt on. the way you've been running hot all day with an aching need for him. you were–

"oh."

"oh?" he breathes out, like he already knows. of course he does. "you ovulating? aren't you early?"

you want to scream. the man is ridiculous. how could he possibly have known you were ovulating before you did? his nose is pressed against the inside of your thigh and he's casually sniffing out your pheromones, tracking your menstrual cycle like he's got your flo app memorized.

"what the fuck, andrew. how did you even ah—" he buries his face into you again — deeper this time, closer, nose dragging right over the seam of your panties right above your pussy folds — and the question leaves your mind.

you forget to care in that moment.

don't care about the science or the logic or the frankly alarming acuity of his senses. because instinctively, traitorously, your thighs fall open for him. an invitation your body makes before your brain can catch up and stop it, before you can remember that his family is quite literally right outside.

he makes that sound again. that pleased, hungry hum that makes something molten pool down to your core, as he accept the invitation, and sinks his head deeper between your parted thighs until his hot breath is ghosting right over the thin cotton of your underwear.

he groans and his whole body shudders against you.

"yeah. fuck. 's right here." his voice is wrecked already, barely above a whisper, vibrating against your pussy through the fabric. "this is what i— this is what i've been smellin', this is—" he breaks off. can't finish. doesn't need to. he buries his face directly against the slit of your pussy and inhales over the cloth, long and filthy and shameless, over and over, running the hard bridge of his nose between your folds, bumping against your swollen clit through the cotton until you jolt and bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste copper.

"smell really fuckin' good, baby," he mumbles, nose pressed so flat against the damp fabric you can feel the shape of it. "all musky and soooo fucking sweet." each word is muffled, spoken directly into your pussy, his hips jerk against the couch cushion, involuntary, and you feel the hard length of him press against your leg through his jeans. "christ."

"andrew." you hiss, your grip tightening in his hair, tugging which makes things worse because he love love loves when you get rough with him. "your family is right outside."

but he doesn't move an inch. "they're outside." his voice is calm, too calm, like he doesn't have his face buried between your thighs, nose pressed right against your clothed pussy. "they won't bother comin' in."

you should protest, say or do something logical like push his head away and slap him silly. but he keeps inhaling you. shameless and deep, nose pressed flat against the cotton that's growing damper by the second, and god help you, your hand is already pushing his head in deeper, fingers curling tight in his auburn hair.

because maybe you're just as bad as he is, a huge perv, maybe worse.

he loves when you use him like this, when you get greedy and desperate and stop pretending you're too good for the filthy things he wants to do to you. when your fingers twist in his hair and you grind against his face and all that careful composure cracks open and he can see the messy, wanting thing underneath. that's the real you, he thinks. not the paperback-reading calm. this. the girl who'll let him eat her out on his mother's couch knowing anyone could slip in and catch them any moment from now.

and you're dripping already. soaking through the thin cotton just from him sniffing you like a dog, and the fabric is clinging to your folds now, outlining every detail, and you know he can see it, see what he's done to you with nothing but his mouth and his nose and those big dark eyes looking up at you from between your thighs.

so without warning, his broad tongue drags a flat wet stripe right up the damp spot on your panties. slow. deliberate. the full width of his tongue, warm and rough, pressing the cotton between your folds as it drags upward.

you throw your head back, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat, the book slipping from your fingers and hitting the floor with a crack you don't even hear. your spine arches off the couch cushion.

"oh my god—"

he does it again. and again. long, slow, filthy laps over the soaked fabric, tasting you through the cotton, groaning low in his chest with each pass like he's savoring it. the friction of the wet fabric against your swollen clit is maddening —too much, but nowhere near enough — and your thighs are trembling on either side of his head, your breath coming in short shallow gasps.

"andrew — please, ah— slow down—"

you hiss it through your teeth, your grip tightening in his hair, tugging warningly. your voice comes out shakier than you want it to, breathless, the please slipping out before you can stop it, and you hate that it sounds less like a command and more like a whimper.

he doesn't listen. he never does, not when he's like this. not when he's got his mouth on you and whatever part of his brain handles reason and restraint just shuts the fuck off. he repeats the motion, the long, wet, dragging and groaning low at the taste. his hot tongue pressing the cotton flat against your folds until it's clinging to you, practically transparent, doing nothing to hide how drenched you are. his saliva is mixing with your arousal, making the fabric heavier, wetter, and the obscene squelch of it is quiet but loud enough in the stillness of the room that it makes your stomach clench with panic and want all at once.

"it's gettin' sweeter," he rasps, and when he glances up at you — chin wet, lips glistening, eyes wild, pupils blown so wide there's barely any brown left — he looks unhinged. feral. and you whimper at the sight of it, a small broken sound from the back of your throat that you couldn't suppress if your life depended on it. "i need more. need to taste your pussy, baby. please, please, please."

he's begging. andrew cody – who doesn't beg for anything, who holds everything tight and close and quiet, who would rather swallow glass than let anyone see him want – is begging with his face pressed against your clothed pussy and his eyes locked on yours and that desperate, wrecked please falling out of his mouth like he can't help it.

he's breathing hard already, chest rising and falling visibly beneath his wrinkled button-down. his dark eyes are wide and dark and starving, locked onto the wet mess between your thighs. you bite your lip hard enough to hurt, knowing that look, knowing exactly what kind of trouble it means.

it has been a while.

pope and the boys have been on 'business' for a week. a total blackout period, no calls, no texts, nothing, smurf's rules. and you were so fucking pent up, running on nothing but your own fingers and a dying vibrator that kept losing charge halfway through and leaving you a whimpering frustrated mess in an empty bed at two in the morning, thinking about him, aching for him.

you glance toward the large windows. everyone is focused on the grill and the pool and the obnoxiously loud chaos of it all. the sheer curtains obscure everything beyond them into a hazy glow. no one could possibly catch them unless they were actually looking.

just a little wouldn't be so bad.

so you part your thighs wider for him. skirt bunching at your hips. the wet spot on your panties glaringly obvious in the dim light. and with a low, shy, sultry voice — one that doesn't sound like you at all, sounds like some version of you that only comes out when andrew 'pope' cody is between your legs — you tell him:

"just a taste, popey."

and he groans — low and broken, almost pained — at that, at the nickname, at the permission, at the way you say it like you're doing him a favor when really you're both already drowning. his big hands grip your knees, squeezing hard enough to bruise through the skin, thumbs pressing into the soft hollows on either side.

the corner of his mouth twitches into a smile. almost guilty. completely full of shit.

"that's it. that's my girl." his voice drops, rough and low, barely audible. "my sweet fuckin' girl."

he dives in immediately. no teasing. hooking your panties to the side with one rough finger. you feel the fabric pull taut against your outer thigh, the elastic biting into your skin — and pressing his open mouth right against your bare pussy.

the first thing he does is inhale. long and deep, nose pressed right against your slick, dripping folds, and the sound he makes isn't human, his whole body shuddering between your thighs. then his tongue darts out — just the tip, just a taste — and he pulls back for a half second, lips parted, like he's savoring it, like he's letting it sit on his tongue.

"fuck." it comes out broken. barely a word. more like a breath with weight behind it. "tastes even better than it smells. how's it...taste so good?"

and then he's licking. long strokes from your entrance to your clit, flat and wet and obscene, groaning with every pass like you're killing him softly with just the taste of you. every now and then he buries his face deep and inhales hard, nose bumping your clit, mouth open against your hole, panting, like your pussy is a drug and he's been in withdrawal for a week and this is his first hit back.

"oh— oh, fuck—" your hand flies to your mouth, pressing the back of your knuckles against your lips, and the moan that escapes anyway is thin and reedy and pathetic. your hips roll up against his face without your permission, chasing his tongue, and he makes a low pleased sound against your pussy that just makes it worse.

the sounds are wet, sloppy, filthy — his tongue working through the mess you've made, the slurping wet noise of your pussy against his face, and he's making it worse, so much worse, drooling all over you, mixing his spit with your slick until your inner thighs and his chin are dripping and the couch cushion beneath your ass is probably ruined.

he doesn't care. he'll clean up after his sweet girl like he always does.

his tongue runs flat over your folds again and again. up up up. circling your clit, then back down, dragging through the wetness pooling at your entrance — before he pushes it all inside.

"oh, popey, there." you sigh, falling back completely into the couch, eyes rolling back. the angle is awkward, his face mashed between your thighs on a narrow couch, but he's tongue-fucking into you as deep as he can reach, swirling against your gummy walls, mapping the inside of you with nothing but the wet muscle of his tongue. his thumb comes up to circle your clit — the calloused pad dragging over the swollen bundle of nerves with just enough pressure to make your vision blur.

"mmnh— ah— andrew, that's— oh my god—" you're whimpering now, openly, shamelessly, any pretense of composure dissolved the second his tongue pushed inside you. small, hiccuping little sounds that spill out between gasped breaths, your free hand fisting tight in his hair, pulling, guiding, your hips grinding up against his mouth in stuttery rolls you can't control.

he moans into you when you pull his hair. a high, breathy, pathetic sound — mmhh — vibrating against your walls, and you feel it in your spine, in your toes, in the tight coil of heat building in your lower belly. his hips are grinding against the couch cushion now, shamelessly humping the fabric while he eats you out, and knowing that he's so turned on that he can't keep still makes you clench around his tongue.

"taste so good, baby," he mumbles against your pussy, pulling back just enough to speak, his mouth still on you, lips brushing your folds with every word. "so fuckin' sweet. been thinkin' about this — ah — been thinkin' about this the whole trip. couldn't stop thinkin' about it." he dives back in, tongue pushing deeper, and the words are lost in the wet obscene sounds of his mouth working. then he pulls back again, gasping, chin dripping. "every night. in that shitty motel bed. thinkin' about your pussy. made myself fuckin' crazy."

"popey i—i—" your voice cracks on his name, high and thin, and you're so wet you can hear it, can hear the slick sounds every time his tongue moves, and you should be embarrassed but you're too far gone, too deep in the heat and the filth and the risk.

"i know, i know," he breathes, and his voice is so tender it almost breaks you more than the filthy things he's doing with his mouth. "i know, sweet girl. i got you. been so long for you too, huh? gonna make you feel so good."

he seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, tongue working in tight fast circles, and a moan tears out of you — loud, too loud — and you slap your hand back over your mouth, eyes going wide with panic toward the window. the party noise continues outside. nobody heard.

he pulls back just enough to spit a thick, warm glob landing right on your clit, and then dives back in to lick it up with a broad, flat stroke that makes your whole body seize. a high, thin whine escapes your throat, muffled by your palm, and your hips buck up off the couch.

"quiet, baby," he murmurs against your clit, and he has the audacity to sound amused, lips curving into a smile you can feel against your flesh. "gotta be quiet. don't want craig comin' in here, do you?" he sucks again, gentler this time, and you whimper behind your hand, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the effort of staying quiet. "though i dunno... maybe i don't care. maybe i want 'em to hear. want 'em to know you're mine."

"asshole—" you hiss behind your hand, but it comes out broken and breathless and more like please than an insult, and he laughs — actually laughs, low and warm, right against your pussy, and the vibration makes your thighs snap shut around his head.

he seals his mouth back over your pussy and sucks, hard, tongue working your clit in tight fast circles.

"oh fuck, popey—" the little nickname slips out of you, wrecked and desperate, barely recognizable, and something about it makes him growl against your pussy, a low rumbling sound that makes your thighs shake. "popey, i'm— i'm about to—"

"i know." he mumbles against your pussy between filthy wet slurps, his voice completely destroyed, barely recognizable, thick with you. "'can feel it. feel you gettin' tighter. squeezin' my tongue—" he's whining now, actually whining, these high desperate sounds that are almost pitiful, vibrating against your pussy. "please. need it. need you to cum for me. wanna taste it. wanna taste all of it. every drop. give it to me, please, please—"

the please is what does it. andrew cody saying please, andrew cody whining into your cunt like he's the one falling apart, andrew cody begging for it like he needs it more than air — it unravels you completely.

you cum with a muffled cry, teeth sinking into your own hand hard enough to draw blood. your thighs clamping shut around his head, suffocating him, your back arching off the couch, your pussy pulsing against his mouth in thick rolling waves.

"ah — ah — fuck, fuck, fuck—"

the words spill out in a whispered frantic chant behind your bloodied palm, your body shaking, your vision going white and then blurry and then nothing but static and heat.

but that doesn't stop him. doesn't even slow. fucks you through it with his tongue buried deep, pushing against that spongy spot inside you that makes your legs spasm and your stomach clench, swallowing every pulse of it, drinking your slick down with these greedy gulping sounds, and you can feel his throat working against your thigh, feel him swallowing you, and the obscene intimacy of it makes you cum harder, a second smaller wave crashing through you that pulls a broken sob from your chest.

"oh god — popey, 's too much — ah — too much—" you're whimpering through the aftershocks, small sounds. your hips twitching away from his mouth, your thighs are shaking.

he moans at that, low and pleased, like you telling him that is like music to his ears. and with that he finally, finally slows. his tongue gentles from frantic to lazy, drawing long slow passes through your folds, licking up the mess all nice and clean, unhurried like he has all the time in the world. like his jaw isn't probably aching. like there isn't a full blown pool party twenty feet away.

when he's done, he leans forward and kisses your inner thigh. soft, a strange tenderness after all that filth. and then bites down gently, teeth sinking into the soft flesh just hard enough to make you flinch, hard enough that you know there'll be a bruise there tomorrow, a pretty purple, shaped like his mouth.

then he lifts his head.

your slick shines on his chin, his jaw, his cheeks. his lips are swollen and glistening and utterly wrecked, bitten red. his breathing is ragged, chest heaving, his auburn curls disheveled and matted from where you've been pulling at them, strands sticking to his damp forehead.

he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand but it doesn't do anything. there's too much of you on him. his face is a mess but he doesn't seem remotely bothered by it. if anything, he looks satisfied. like a big puppy that finally got his doggie treat.

but there's something deeper, a primal want that still burns behind his eyes, the throb of his cock still evidently hard pressing into the side of your leg.

"need more." he murmurs watching the mess between your thighs, and his thumb drags through your soaked folds, possessive.

"andrew, i just–"

"know you got more for me, sweet girl. always got more for me." he cuts you off, his thumb circling over your clit carefully and your breath catches. your thighs tremble.

you should say no.

you should pull your skirt down and find your book and go back to 'relaxing'. but his thumb is still inside you, still moving, still there. his face is still wet with you, and he's looking at you with a hunger, like the only thing that can feed it is you.

so you ask him before he even says another word:

"is your bedroom free?"

"yeah." he swallows hard. "yeah, okay." his voice comes out rough, unsteady. his warm brown eyes are fixed on you, wide, intense. focused entirely on your mouth like he's trying to memorize whatever you're about to show him.

you lean in to give him a small peck first, soft, barely there then look at him. he looks back at you before he copies you, leaning back in, and this time his lips aren't so stiff.

progress.

then you part your lips carefully, slanting your mouth over his until they're molding together, until his warm breath seeps into yours.

you swipe your tongue slow along his bottom lip and he sighs, low, shaky, his fingers dig harder into your thighs.

"you like that?" you pull back just enough to ask, breathless.

he stares at you. eyes heavy-lidded, mouth slightly parted, breathing ragged. "yeah."

so you do it again. and again. slow and patient, until he catches the rhythm, until his jaw unclenches and he stops thinking so damn hard about it, until his mouth finally moves with yours instead of against it. his hands skate over your thighs higher, trembling, squeezing the soft of them harder.

"andrew, stick out your tongue for me." he does it. listens to you without a second thought, without an ounce of shame, just pure, raw trust. "yeah, just like that, such a good boy."

you watch his pupils blow wide at the praise, his cheeks flush all the way to the tips of his ears. cute.

you lean in again and lave your tongue over his, slow and hot. tasting him, him tasting you, and he lets out this broken, pleased groan that vibrates deep in his chest and against your body. his hands spasm on your thighs, trying to tug you closer.

you push him back immediately and he actually chases your mouth for a second before yoy press a finger over his lips. "uh-uh. slower, baby. follow my lead."

"sorry." he mumbles, a little shy.

then, when you give him the go ahead, he leans back in, kisses you exactly as you showed him, setting the pace real slow. he breathes through his nose while he does it, groaning all ragged and needy, as your tongues swirl together, like you've been edging him for hours instead of kissing him for minutes.

and then pulls back just a fraction, his eyes desperately searching your face for approval. "am i doing good?" his face is trying so hard to stay flat, face blank, but the dark flush blotching down his neck like a fever and wrecked voice gives him away completely.

"mhm," your pussy pulses at the sight of him so desperate, so utterly helpless beneath you.

your fingers scratch fondly at his scalp, nails dragging through the auburn strands and he whimpers. "doing really good, popey."

he gets all twitchy when you call him that and his hips jerk up as he starts rutting against you like a dog in heat. and, oh, you can feel him. the growing bulge through the rough denim, pressing right against the damp seam of your thin panties.

he's so huge that the thick, heavy outline of him drags deliciously between your folds through the clothes, catching right on your puffy clit, and a embaressingly loud moan slips out of you before you can stop it.

the sound flips a switch in him and he moves before you can blink.

his hands clamp down on your waist, and suddenly you're the one being flipped down into his mattress, the breath knocked clean out of your lungs. the sheer strength of him makes something warm and desperate pool low in your belly.

his heavy body settles on top of yours, all solid muscle and desperate heat. the new angle has him pressing right against your pussy, the rough seam of his jeans dragging over your soaked panties, and you both groan at the friction.

"ah—popey, wait—" but he just kisses you again, muffling your protests, arms wrapping tight around your torso.

the air gets thicker, heavier and you realize not only is your boyfriend a fast learner but he's terrifyingly observant too—those sharp, dark eyes of his catching every micro-expression, filing away exactly what makes you whimper, what makes your spine arch, what makes you grind up harder into him. you can feel him learning your body in real-time, using your own reactions against you.

you’re whimpering against his tongue now, making pathetic, wet sounds you didn’t know you could make, melting into the mattress and rolling your hips up, chasing the friction against your aching clit, completely at his mercy.

and the sounds only spur him on.

"'taste too good." he whines as he sinks his tongue deeper into your mouth. turning the kiss sloppy and wet as he laps at you, licking into the roof of your mouth like he's starving, swallowing every needy moan he pulls from your chest.

he sucks at your bottom lip until it throbs, biting down just hard enough to sting. you let out a high, reedy whine before he licks over the hurt, obsessive and soothing.

"mmnh—'s too much, popey—"

he can't hear you or either he does and just doesn't care. his hands just slide down, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties, rolling them down slowly, too slowly, all the way to your ankles. and you hear the rustle of him unzipping his pants, the metal teeth parting loud in the quiet room before he presses his still clothed bulge against your bare pussy.

"oh."

so much for him being a bad kisser. huh?

but it's overwhelming, all too much, and you can hardly breathe. so you pull at his curls, hard, weakly pushing at his shoulders but he only groans low pleased at the feeling and presses you deeper into the mattress instead, one hand fisting in your hair to hold you exactly where he wants you.

he continues to tongue-fuck you stupid, devouring you until your eyes are rolling back and your lungs are burning, swallowing all your protests.

and his hips won't stay still either.

he's basically rutting against the slick folds of your pussy now, grinding down in these desperate, clumsy thrusts that bump against your clit every few seconds, making you jolt and whine each time. you can feel how wet you're making him, the fabric of his briefs damp where you're leaking through, and the filthy thought of it—of him wearing your slick, of marking him that way—makes you clench so hard your thighs shake.

only after what seems like hours, just when you're dizzy, about to black out from lack of oxygen, he finally pulls back. a thick string of spit connects your swollen, ruined mouths. he immediately leans in to lick it from the corner of your lips, greedy and hungry, panting heavily against your cheek.

"did– did i do good?" he asks all needy for praise, chin slick, those pretty brown eyes wide and utterly wrecked above you, his curls stuck to his sweaty forehead.

"mhm." is all you manage. a breathless sigh. your brain is mush, entirely fucked out from just the kiss.

he grins, a little too proud of himself. then he grinds into you. once.

"so can we fuck now?"

and when any of his brothers talk to you, especially baz okay, mostly just baz, something ugly snaps in him. if baz even just says hi to you once, pope gets quiet in a way that’s terrifying. he’ll grip his bottle until the glass shatters in his palm, not even flinching as the shards pierce his skin, blood welling up and dripping between his fingers. it’s like he’s too focused on the idea of someone else taking up space in your head, that his own body becomes an afterthought.

he'll never acutally tell you he doesn't like when you smile at other guys. he isn't built for conversations like that, never has.

but later, when you're asleep in his bed, breathing slow and warm against his shoulder, he reaches for your phone on the nightstand. he memorized your passcode weeks ago, just watched your thumb move over the keypad enough times until he knew the pattern better than he knew his own. he scrolls through the texts to your mom, your friends. then he checks the logs. the endless strings of messages and missed calls between you and him while he was at work. just how it should be.

after he puts the phone back exactly where he found it, down to the millimeter, he doesn't close his eyes. instead, he lies there in the pitch black and watches you for an hour straight, chest tight with a quiet, irrational fear that if he looks away, you might just slip out of bed and disappear into another man's arms. and, when he's definitely sure you won't, he pulls you flush against his chest, wrapping his toned arms around you so tight it’s almost hard to breathe, tangling his legs with yours, and finally lets himself drift off, anchoring you to him.

girls nights out make him sick. like borderline physically ill. the nausea sits heavy in his stomach when you mention them. he won't say a word, just nods his head, murmurs "have fun" in a voice so flat it sounds hollow. but he’s already planning the route in his head. he parks three blocks away from whatever bar you're at, sitting in the dark with the engine off, just waiting. he watches you through the foggy glass of the bar window.

it’s not about trust or the lack of. he knows his sweet girl could never ever lie to him. he knows you could never do him wrong.

it’s the men.

he knows exactly what runs through their heads when they see you walk in the room. watching you like a pack of wolves to a lamb. and he can't stand not being there to put his body between you and their eyes.

and, god, it drives him fucking feral knowing you had a love life before him. he hates the thought of other mouths kissing you, other hands that had touched you before his ever did. it lives under his skin like a deep, festering splinter he can't dig out.

and he tries to fuck it out of you every single time.

it’s like he thinks if he just goes deep enough, hard enough, slow enough, he can physically overwrite every memory of anyone who ever tried to claim you before him. that's when the quiet, simmering possession cracks wide open and turns into something desperate and hungry.

he leaves kiss bitten bruises in places you can't hide. the hollow of your throat, the dip of your collarbone. the soft inside of your thigh where your skin is sensitive, where the blood pools into a pretty, dark purple. little flowers blooming where everyone can see them, visible above the neckline of your blouse, impossible to miss. marks that scream "stay away" without him ever having to open his mouth.

and he can go the whole night just pounding into you, fueled by that inhumane stamina of his. his large hands grip your hips hard enough to leave fingerprints, dragging you back onto his cock with every painfully sweet stroke, until you're sobbing, a drooling, whimpering, beautiful mess. only then, only when you're completely undone, would he slow down, burying himself to the hilt and just holding himself there.

his lips brush over your ear, low and wrecked, "tell me." you always know exactly what he needs to hear before he even says it. "tell me you're mine. tell me this pussy's mine, sweet girl. please, please, please." he chants it into the damp skin of your neck, over and over, until the words lose their shape and just sound like a desperate prayer. and you moan it back, delirious and broken, "yours, yours, 'm all yours, popey."

"good girl."

his large hands come up to wrap loosely around your throat. not squeezing. just holding. his thumb pressed against your pulse point where he can feel your heartbeat hammering frantically against his skin—proof that you're alive, and here, and entirely his. he can feel the vibration of every moan and whimper right there under his fingertips and it makes his cock twitch inside you. he grinds his hips forward just once, slow and filthy, watching your mouth fall open and your eyes roll back.

and when he finishes, he finishes inside you. every single time. he thinks about it more than he should, obsesses over it when he's alone. getting you pregnant. watching your belly swell with something that is purely, undeniably his. a living, breathing proof that he's the one who gets to have you. that you belong to him and him alone.

a dark, twisted part of him hates that you're on birth control. to the point that he even has your cycle memorized down to the day. and when you’re ovulating, he fucks you with a savage, desperate intensity, filling you up over and over again till you're practically dripping, silently praying the pills fail. just waiting for that one slip-up that will tie you to him forever.

but he'd never say any of this out loud to you, of course. never let you know about the obssessively possessive thoughts that fester his mind, because he's terrified you'll leave him if he ever does, if you ever find out.

little does he know the more terrifying truth is, you already know.

and it doesn’t scare you in even the slightest, if anything, it only makes you love him more. because maybe you're just as unhinged as he is, because maybe you two are broken things feeding off a mutual madness, and you're more than perfectly willing to let him ruin you for anyone else, to let him consume you completely. whole.

just as long as he lets you ruin him for anyone else too.