Lilu842

“yes, sir, please-”

“please what?” jack mocks, giving you another hard thrust of his hips. your palms smack against the desk he has you bent over, your pants “please flunk me? please fill me? please tamper with my GPA so i can get fucked by you, professor?”

you babble in response, drool collecting by the corner of your mouth, dripping down your chin to your sensitive nipples. the feeling of his hand between your shoulder blades whilst the other grabs your hips, rough, crescent moons from his nails leaving an indent on your flesh.

“can’t even speak, just all dumb on my cock, aren’t you?” he says, punctuating every word with a slam.

he removes the hand between your shoulder blades whilst not relenting on the pace to bring his hand down and smack your ass cheek, jack biting back a smile as he draws out a yelp from you.

“fuck me, sir!” you cry out, hands scrambling for purchase. papers topple on the floor with each sudden movement, joining the heap of clothes that were taken off in a rush, but the feeling of the tip of his cock hitting the spongy area is too good for you to even acknowledge the mess you're making in his office.

“see!” jack breathes out, chuckling underneath his breath. “knew you were good for something. it just happened to be jackie’s cock, didn’t it?”

you moan at his words, matching the thrusts of his cock with your hips. his forehead meets your damp hair as his movements begin to stutter.

“fuck, shit i’m going cum–”

“cum on my cock, baby,” jack rasps, cutting you off softly. his eyes squeeze shut at the feeling of your walls clenching around him, milking every last drop off him. the office fills with the sounds of flesh meeting flesh, and jack continues to fuck you through your orgasm - your vision blinded by bright, white, hot flashes. you collapse against the desk, your sweaty forehead meeting the sudden cool of the wood beneath you.

he continues fucking you before his movements stall, cumming into you with an unrestrained moan.

the room is plunged into silence - the only thing that you can hear is the rhythmic whooshing of blood rushing in your ears and the heave of your lungs as you try to finally catch your breath.

a suddden smack of jack's palm on the desk breaks you out of your train of thought. he withdraws it, revealing a decent amount of cash.

"buy plan b," jack orders, not even sparing you a glance as he puts his trousers back on. your eyes dart from the wad of money just sitting there back to his face.

"or don't. you can drop out and be my kept little thing. your choice."

“-is not available, please leave a message at the tone.” Pope cursed and smashed his thumb against the red call icon. Where the hell were you?? You always answered his calls, no matter what. Hell, one time you were having sex and still answered him, panting into the phone and giggling while answering his questions. Pope pushes his tongue against his cheek in anger at the memory before dialing your number again.

You however, did not have the luxury of your phone. Tied to a chair somewhere in someone’s basement. It’s cold and smells like old water. You’ve banged your head up pretty good so you’re in and out of consciousness until some asshole slams the light on, blinding you momentarily.

“Pope did say you were a pretty little thing.” you can hear a man’s raunchy expression in his tone, and it makes chills shivers up your spine. Finally able to peek your eyes open from the light you find him in-front of you, you don’t recognize him. “Told me allll about his perfect wife” he spits out. You’re confused about whatever he’s talking about, looking around the room trying to make out anything you can. The man grabs your chin in between his fingers making your eyes snap to his with a grunt.

“Think you’re worth $30,000 to him?” he scoffs and walks over to a bag you can see. Pulling out something and walking back over to you. You finally make out that it’s your phone, he shoves it into your face to unlock it and when the screen lights up your heart drops deeper than it already had.

53 missed calls-andrew cody 🐇

“Where the fuck is she, Smurf?!”

Pope’s voice boomed through the big house. He didn't bother knocking, nearly taking the front door off its hinges as he stormed into the living room. His chest heaved, his knuckles white around his phone, the screen still glowing with the red text of another failed call.

Smurf didn’t even look up from the kitchen island where she was slicing up a plate of apples. She picked up a slice, popped it into her mouth, and chewed slowly, her sharp eyes tracking his pacing.

“Calm down, baby. You’re sweating through your shirt,” she said, her tone dripping with that suffocating, motherly calm that usually managed to ground him, or push him right over the edge. “Who are we looking for?”

“You know who, Smurf! She’s not answering!” Pope slammed his fist into the drywall next to the fridge. The plaster cracked under his knuckles, but he didn't even blink. He shoved the phone in her face. “Fifty three times. I’ve called fifty three times. She always answers. You know she does. Even if she's pissed at me she-” his voice breaks as he shakes his head.

Smurf’s eyes narrowed slightly, the nonchalance finally slipping away to reveal the calculating thoughts underneath. “Maybe she’s out, baby. Maybe she’s tired of you smothering her.”

“No,” Pope snarled, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly tone. His tongue pushed against the inside of his cheek, his jaw locking. “Something’s wrong.”

Meanwhile, miles away in the damp, freezing dark, the phone screen finally went black, cutting off the blinding light.

Your chin still throbbed where his fingers had dug into your skin. You swallowed hard, trying to blink away the tears of frustration and fear. Fifty three missed calls from Andrew Cody. Not 'Pope.' You had saved him under his real name, with a stupid little rabbit emoji next to it because of how he used to twitch his nose when he was overthinking things around you.

The man holding your phone stared at the lock screen, a nasty, jagged grin spreading across his face. “Andrew Cody,” the man read aloud, mocking the name. “Sounds like a fucking boy scout. Doesn't sound like the psycho everyone in Oceanside is terrified of. Let’s see if he’s ready to pay up.”

He violently grabbed your hair, yanking your head back so hard your neck popped, shoving the phone right in front of your face again. “Unlock it. Now. Or I start taking teeth home to him instead.”

Your face trembled as he forced it against to the screen. The phone clicked open. Before you could even process the bright grid of your apps, the man was already tapping the top contact. He hit dial and put it on speaker, holding it inches from your mouth.

Back at the house, Smurf was just about to reach out and touch Pope's arm to calm him down when the phone in his hand vibrated, the ringtone cutting through the tense silence of the kitchen. Pope didn’t even look at the caller ID. He flipped the phone open so fast it practically snapped.

“Where the fuck are you?!” he growled into the receiver. There was a heavy, agonizing beat of static on the other end. Then, a wet, shaky breath that made Pope’s entire body freeze. “...Andy?”

Your voice came through the speaker, tiny, cracked, and absolutely terrified. Pope’s vision went red. He didn't scream. He didn't rage. He just stopped breathing.

“Baby,” Pope said, his voice terrifyingly quiet, dropping into a pitch that made even Smurf take a step back. “Where are you?” Before you could answer, a rough hand snatched the phone away from your face, and a man’s coarse, mocking laugh filled the line.

“She’s a little tied up right now, Pope,” the guy sneered into the phone. “But if you ever want to see this pretty little thing breathing again, you’re gonna bring thirty grand to the old docks by midnight. No brothers. No Smurf. Just you and the cash. You got that, psycho?”

Pope didn't look at Smurf. He didn't look at the cracked wall. He just stared straight ahead, his eyes completely dead. "Who is this" popes growling into the line. The man on the other end lets out a loud, mocking whistle, clearly getting off on the control he thinks he has over the situation. He presses the phone even closer to your face, wanting you to hear every single bit of his power trip.

“Who I am doesn’t matter, Cody,” the guy sneers, his voice echoing off the damp concrete walls of the basement. “What matters is what I’ve got. And right now, I’ve got the only thing in Oceanside you actually give a shit about.”

To emphasize his point, he digs his knuckles hard into your fresh head wound. A sharp, pathetic whimper tears from your throat before you can stop it, the pain blinding you all over again.

On the other end of the line, the sound of your pain hits Pope like a physical hit. His chest stops its erratic heaving. His jaw locks so tight the muscles in his neck strain against his skin. Smurf watches him, her hand hovering in the air, her expression shifting from maternal annoyance to genuine calculation.

“You hurt her again,” Pope says, his voice dropping into a tone so low, so entirely devoid of human emotion, that it makes the mans smirk falter for a fraction of a second. “You touch her again, and I’m gonna peel the skin off your face while you’re still breathing.”

The guy swallows hard, his bravado slipping just enough for his tone to turn defensive and angry. “Yeah, yeah, you’re a real tough guy on the phone, psycho. You’ve got till midnight. Thirty grand. The old docks, warehouse four. You show up with a single one of your brothers, or if I see Smurf’s truck, I put a bullet in her pretty head and drop her in the ocean. You hear me?”

“Midnight, Cody. Don’t be late.” The line goes dead. The silence in Smurf’s kitchen is deafening. Pope slowly lowers the phone from his ear. His knuckles are completely split open from where he hit the drywall, blood sluggishly dripping down his hand, but he doesn’t even feel it. Smurf steps forward, her voice low and sharp. “Baby. Look at me. Who was that? Did you recognize the voice?”

Pope doesn't answer her. He doesn’t even look at her. His mind is already racing, mapping out every inch of the old docks, calculating the time, the distance, and exactly how many different ways he can kill a man with his bare hands. He walks right past Smurf, heading straight for the hall closet where the heavy-duty duffel bags are kept.

“Andrew!” Smurf barks, taking a step after him. “We need to call Baz. We need a plan. You can’t just walk into a setup with thirty thousand dollars of our money!” Pope stops dead in his tracks. He turns his head just enough to look at her over his shoulder, his eyes dark and entirely hollow. “It’s not your money,” Pope says, his voice terrifyingly calm. “It’s mine. And I’m going to get her.”

The man shoved the serrated blade under your chin, forcing your head up. The cold steel was a sharp contrast to the stinging heat of your wound. “You hear that, princess? That’s the sound of a man who’s lost his mind. But he’s gonna find it real quick when he sees you bleeding out on this concrete.”

You tried to speak, but your throat was scorched. All you could do was stare at your phone, lying face up on the table. The screen flickered one last time, a notification from a weather app or a random text, showing the bunny emoji next to his name before the display timed out into total darkness.

Smurf didn’t follow him to the closet. She knew that look. It was the look he had right before he did things they had to spend months cleaning up. She stood in the kitchen, the half eaten apple browning on the plate, and listened to the heavy, rhythmic thud of Pope packing.

He didn't grab the cash from the floor safe. Instead, he pulled out a heavy roll of duct tape, a pair of industrial pliers, and a short barreled shotgun he’d kept hidden behind the water heater.

“Baby, listen to me,” Smurf said, her voice dropping to that sharp, manipulative whisper. “If you go in there guns blazing, they’ll kill her before you cross the docks. You need a distraction. You need J to loop the security feeds at the docks.”

Pope stopped. He was standing by the back door, his silhouette framed by the moonlight leaking through the screen. He turned his head, and for a second, Smurf saw it, the grief behind the rage. “He heard her cry,” Pope said, his voice sounding like it was being dragged over broken glass. “He made her make that noise, Smurf. On purpose.” He didn’t wait for her response. He stepped out into the night, the screen door slamming shut with a finality that made Smurf flinch.

At the docks, the man was getting impatient. He picked up your phone again, scrolling through your photos. He let out a low whistle, turning the screen toward you. It was a candid photo you’d taken of Pope a month ago, he was looking at you, a rare, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, his eyes soft and human.

“Look at this,” the man mocked, shoving the screen into your face. “He looks like a normal guy here. Almost fooled me.” He tossed the phone into a dark corner of the dock. “But we both know what he is. And he’s late." The man turned toward the stairs, heading for a crate of beer he’d stashed, when the silence of the night was punctuated by a sound that didn't belong.

It wasn't a car engine. It wasn't a shout. It was the steady, metallic clink of a chain being dragged across the wooden floorboards of the docks. The man froze, his hand flying to the holster at his hip. “Cody? That you?” No answer. Just the sound of the chain, followed by a heavy, wet thud, the sound of the docks night watchman hitting the floor.

The man’s bravado vanished in an instant. He lunged for you, grabbing your chair and spinning you around to use as a shield, burying the barrel of his revolver into your hair. “Come out, you psycho! I’ll do it! I’ll pull the trigger right now!” “Andy?” you whispered, your voice a broken plea into the dark. A match struck.

The tiny flare of light illuminated the top of the stairs to the dock. Pope was sitting there, perched on the top step.. He wasn't holding the shotgun. He was holding a flare. He looked down at the man, his eyes reflecting the flickering red flame, his face a mask of pure unnatural calm.

“You have five seconds to take your hand off her hair,” Pope said, his voice echoing through the hollow docks. “Four.”, “I have the gun, Cody! I have the gun!” the man screamed, his voice breaking into a sob.

"Three." The man’s grip on your hair tightened in sheer panic, his fingers twisting into the strands as he yanked you back against his chest. The barrel of the gun dug so hard into your temple that your vision swam. “I’m not playing, Cody! I’ll blow her fucking head off! Step back up those stairs!”

Pope didn’t step back. He didn’t even blink. The red glare of the flare caught the split, bleeding knuckles of his right hand as he slowly let it drop to his side. "Two.......One."

The word hadn’t even fully left Pope's lips before he tossed the burning flare straight down the stairs. It bounced once, twice, a blinding light of choking red smoke that filled the air. The man’s eyes instinctively tracked the light, his gun hand wavering for a fraction of a second, and in that fraction, Pope was gone from the top step.

He didn't run down the stairs; he dropped, crashing into the wooden boards floor with a heavy momentum. Before the man could re-aim, a hand gripped his wrist. A sickening crack echoed through the air as Pope twisted the man’s arm entirely out of its socket. The gun clattered to the floor, useless.

The man let out a high pitched, gurgling scream, but Pope caught him by the throat mid shriek, slamming him violently against the damp wooden floor right next to your chair. The impact rattled the foundation, knocking the wind out of the guy and turning his scream into a pathetic, wet wheeze.

Pope didn't hit him. He just held him there, pinned by the throat. The red smoke curled around them like fog. "You made her cry," Pope whispered. His face was inches from the man's, completely unbothered by the toxic smoke, his eyes wide and completely blown. "I told you what I’d do."

"P-please," the man choked out, his face turning a deep, bruised purple as his hands clawed uselessly at Pope’s iron forearms. "The money, Smurf," he choked out.

"I don't care about Smurf," Pope growled, his voice dropping into that terrifyingly quiet, gravelly tone. His tongue pushed hard against the inside of his cheek. "And I don't care about thirty grand."

With a sudden, explosive burst of violence, Pope slammed the man’s head into the boards. Once. Twice. The thuds were heavy, wet, and final. The man’s body went completely limp, his legs folding beneath him like paper as Pope finally released his grip, letting the guy slump into a heap on the floor.

The nights air fell dead silent, save for the rhythmic, dripping sound of old water and the frantic, shallow breaths tearing from your lungs.

Pope stood over the body for a long moment, his chest heaving slightly, his knuckles dripping fresh blood onto the man’s jacket. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, the terrifying stiffness in his shoulders collapsed.

He turned to you. "Hey," he breathed, his voice cracking. The monster vanished, replaced instantly by the frantic, desperate boy who twitched his nose when he was overthinking. He dropped to his knees in front of your chair, his hands hovering over you, trembling violently, terrified that touching you might hurt you more. "Hey, hey. Look at me. Baby, look at Andy." His big hands cradling your face.

You blinked through the smoke and the tears, the pounding in your head matching the frantic beat of your heart. "Andy..." you choked out."I'm here. I got you," he muttered frantically. He reached behind the chair, his bloody fingers working the knots with an erratic, desperate speed. The moment the ropes gave way, he didn't pull back. He gathered you into his arms, pulling you against his chest so hard it nearly took your breath away.

He buried his face into your neck, his whole body shaking as he breathed you in, oblivious to the blood, the smoke, and the body rotting three feet away. "Fifty three times," he whispered against your skin, his voice breaking completely. "You always answer."

He pulled back just enough to frame your face in his hands again. His palms were rough, stained with the man’s blood, but his touch was incredibly light, as if you were made of glass he had already broken once. He scanned your face, his eyes darting frantically to the gash on your temple, his jaw clenching so hard it looked like it might snap.

“He hit you,” Pope whispered, and the hollow, dark eyed shadow of the "other" Pope flickered back for a second. “He hit you?” “I’m okay,” you lied, your voice trembling. Your head was throbbing in time with your pulse, and the smell of the red flare was making your stomach churn. “Andy, let’s just go. Please. Let’s just leave.”

He didn’t move. He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, catching a stray tear before it could fall. He looked like he wanted to crawl inside your skin just to make sure you were still breathing.

Suddenly, the silence was shattered by the sound of tires screaming on the sand outside. “Pope!” J’s voice echoed from the top of the stairs, sharp and urgent. “Pope! We gotta go! Smurf called it in, she’s trying to burn the guy before he talks, but the cops are two minutes out!”

Pope didn’t even look toward the stairs. He was staring at you, his thumb still stroking your cheek. He looked like he hadn't heard a word.

“Pope!” J was at the bottom of the stairs now, his eyes wide as he took in the scene, the crumpled body, the smoke, and Pope kneeling in the center of it like a dark saint. “Leave him! We have to get her out of here now!”

At the mention of getting you out, Pope finally snapped back. He stood up in one fluid motion, scooping you out of the chair as if you weighed nothing. You instinctively wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder. He smelled like gunpowder, salt air, and the expensive laundry detergent Smurf insisted on using.

He marched past J without a word, his stride long and certain. He didn't take the stairs; he headed for the back loading dock, that led straight out to the water. The cool night air hit you like a physical relief, clearing the smoke from your lungs.

He reached his truck, the front end crumpled and steaming from where he’d rammed the building in his panic to find you, and set you gently into the passenger seat. He didn't get in immediately. He leaned into the cab, his hands gripping the headrest on either side of your head, pinning you with a look that was so intense it felt like he was memorizing your soul.

“You’re never going anywhere without me again,” he said. It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t even a possessive growl. It was a statement of fact, as cold and heavy as the ocean behind him. “You hear me? Never.”

You nodded slowly, reaching up to touch the back of his hand. His knuckles were raw and split, but his hand didn't shake anymore. “I lost my phone,” you whispered, the concussion making your thoughts loop. “I lost it.” your whining in front of him on his leather seats.

Pope’s expression softened, a jagged, painful, looking twitch of a smile pulling at his mouth. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours, closing his eyes. “I’ll buy you a phone, bunny,” he muttered, his breath warm against your lips. “Just don't stop answering.”

He slammed the door shut, rounded the front of the truck, and climbed into the driver's seat. As he pulled away from the pier, the sirens grew louder, but Pope didn't look back at the flashing lights. He just reached across the center console, taking your hand in his and squeezing it until it hurt, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

When you arrive back at the Codys house, it's quiet, but you think maybe it's just the ringing In your ears. Popes leading you inside with a hand on the small of your back and you can hear Baz and Smurf talking about the cleanup, about what happened.

Pope takes you into his room, sitting you down on his bed. He's kneeling in front of you, big hands resting on your thighs. "Im sorry, angel. Im sorry fuck- I couldn't protect you and I-"

"Andy." your soft low voice cuts him off. "Don't do that." "You saved me, you saved my life" your hand moves to cradle his cheek and he leans into your palm. His eyes are brimming with tears but he stands and shakes his head, you watch. He opens the door to his connecting bathroom, running warm water on a rag and brining it over to you.

He sits next to you on the bed and tilts your face towards him, starting to wipe the blood and clean you up. After he gets most of it off he offers you a shower, you accept it after the shit show of a day you've had. Pope brings you a fluffy big towel and one of his oversized lived in t shirts and some boxers. Kissing the side of your hair before sending you to the bathroom.

Once you're done, and you've scrubbed your skin almost raw you emerge from the bathroom, in his clothes and smelling like his body wash, and pope is pretty sure his heart stops seeing you there. He's sitting on the bed, scrolling through apples website looking at the newest iPhones.

You settle next to him, the bed dipping slightly under the weight of another person. You grab the lotion off his nightstand and start rubbing it into your legs. "Can I ask you something..?" you pipe up from next to him.

"Anything." he puts his phone down immediately, focusing all his attention solely on you. "That guy," you sigh softly, still rubbing in the lotion. The bedrooms illuminated by one warm toned lamp. "He said something about you telling him about me, being your wife...?"

Pope stills a little next to you, not speaking just yet. "How'd you know him?" you ask quietly, head turned to look at him. "Prison." he talks with his head down, looking at his folded hand that rest on his thighs. "Why'd you...tell him I was your wife?"

He finally lifts his head so his eyes meet yours, "Because, in there nobody knew you as my friend. They knew you as the woman who came to see me every chance she could. Like their wives did, and I thought.....if I can't have you out here, maybe I could have you in there somehow." he looks back down, "Im sorry, I understand if your mad and don't wanna sleep in here, or even talk to me anymore."

Your hand moves to cup his face, turning his face to meet yours. ""Andrew," you whisper softly "I would never be mad at you for that." "You would want me as your wife?" you whisper, a smile on your face.

"Id want you however you'd let me." he says bashfully. The air in the room softens, the heavy tension that had gripped Pope’s shoulders suddenly melting away under the warmth of your hand. For a second, he just stares at you, as if trying to process that you aren’t pulling away, that you’re actually smiling.

"Andrew," you say softly, your thumb tracing the line of his jawline. "Look at me." He brings his gaze back up to yours, his dark eyes vulnerable in the dim, warm light of the bedside lamp. The vulnerability is almost jarring on a man who usually carries himself with so much guarded caution, but with you, the walls are completely down.

"I'm not mad," you reassure him, your voice a gentle anchor. "Not even a little bit. If anything... it makes me happy to know that's how you thought of me. That I was your person, even when things were at their worst."

A small, breathless laugh escapes his lips, a mixture of pure relief and disbelief. He places his hand over yours where it rests on his cheek, his palm warm and grounded. "You're serious? You're not just saying that to make me feel better?"

"I don't say things I don't mean, and you know it," you reply, shifting slightly closer so your knees brush against his thigh. The scent of the lotion wafts between you, clean and familiar. "You really sat in there dreaming up a whole marriage for us?"

A faint flush creeps up his neck, and he looks down for a split second with a bashful, boyish grin before looking back at you. "Maybe. Can you blame me? Every time they called my name for visitors, and I walked out and saw you sitting there... it was the only part of my week that felt real. Everyone else had family or a partner. To me, you were more than just a friend. You were my entire home."

He leans into your touch slightly, his fingers intertwining with yours as he gently pulls your hand down from his face, holding it securely between both of his on his lap.

"If I had known that," you whisper, your heart doing a strange, fluttering flip in your chest, "I would have started wearing a ring to visitation." Pope’s eyes darken with an intense, quiet affection. He squeezes your hand, his voice dropping an octave, completely sincere. "Don't tease me about that. I'd go out and buy you the real thing tomorrow if I thought you'd actually say yes."

"Andrew. If you went out and got a ring... I’d say yes." A sudden, fierce emotion flashes across his face. Before you can even take your next breath, Pope shifts, dropping your hand only to cup both sides of your face. His palms are warm, his touch incredibly gentle despite the sudden intensity radiating off him. He leans in close, his forehead gently resting against yours, his breath mingling with your own.

"Say it again," he commands softly, his voice thick with a raw, desperate kind of hope. "Don't kid with me right now. Please."

"I'm not kidding," you whisper, closing the tiny distance between you to press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. When you pull back just an inch, you look straight into his dark eyes. "I love you. I've loved you through all of it. If you want me as your wife, I'm yours. I'm saying yes."

A sound that's half laugh, half sob breaks from his chest. He closes his eyes tightly, pulling you into his lap. His arms wrap around your waist, lifting you slightly as he buries his face into the crook of your neck. He holds you so tightly it’s almost hard to breathe, but you just wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, holding him right back.

"God, you have no idea," he murmurs against your skin, his voice muffled but pure. "You have no idea how many nights I sat in a cell just praying for a life where I got to keep you. I thought I was losing my mind, making up stories just to get through the day."

He pulls back just enough to look at you again, a bright, breathtaking smile breaking across his face, a look so open and happy you’ve never seen it on him before. He hooks a thumb under your chin, tilting your face up.

"Tomorrow," he says, his eyes blazing with absolute certainty. "First thing in the morning, we're going. I don't care if it's the biggest diamond in the window or a simple band, I'm putting a ring on your finger so everyone knows exactly who you belong to."

You laugh, the pure joy of the moment bubbling up. "Andrew, we don't have to rush-" "Yes, we do," he interrupts, a playful but possessive edge to his tone as he leans down to kiss you again, deeper this time, pouring every ounce of the love and relief he’s kept locked away for years into it. When he pulls away, his thumb strokes your cheekbone. "I've waited long enough. You're not getting away from me now."

Pope’s thumb drags across your lower lip, pulling it down just enough to see the flush of your skin. The air in the room feels like it’s thickened, charged with the sudden, heavy realization that the someday he’d hallucinated in a cell was finally standing right in front of him.

"You have no idea," he growls again, his voice dropping into a low tone that vibrates against your chest. "How many times I’ve looked at you and had to force myself to stay in my lane."

He doesn't wait for a response. His hand moves from your cheek, sliding back into your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands at the nape of your neck to tilt your head back. He kisses you again, but the gentleness from before is gone, replaced by a hungry, demanding heat. It’s the kiss of a man who has been starving, and you’re the only thing that can fix it.

You moan softly into his mouth, your hands sliding up his chest, feeling the frantic, heavy thud of his heart through his shirt. The friction of your legs, still slick with the lotion you’d been applying, rubs against the rough denim of his jeans as you shift closer, trying to eliminate every last inch of space between you.

Pope groans, a sound of pure want, and he maneuvers you until you’re flat on your back against the mattress. He follows you down, pinning you with his weight. The bed dips low, the warm lamp casting long, flickering shadows against the walls as he breaks the kiss to trail his lips down the column of your throat.

"I’m never letting you go," he mutters against your skin, his teeth grazing the sensitive spot just below your ear. "You’re mine. Everywhere. In here, out there... it doesn't matter. You're the only thing that's ever belonged to me, thats ever been just mine."

His shaky hands roam your body with a new sense of ownership, confident and wandering. He finds the hem of your shirt, his calloused palms dragging over your ribs, sending sparks of electricity through your nerves. Every touch is a claim, a silent promise that he’s going to spend the rest of his life making up for the time he spent away from you.

You arch into him, your fingers digging into the muscles of his back. "Andrew," you breath out, your eyes fluttering shut as his lips find the hollow of your collarbone. He lifts his head, his dark hair messy, his eyes dark and blown out with need. "Say my name again," he whispers, his hand sliding lower, his touch firm and intentional. "Tell me exactly what you want, angel"

Andrew doesn’t give you a chance to answer. His mouth crashes back down on yours, deeper this time, his tongue tangling with yours in a slow, possessive rhythm that makes your head spin. There is no hesitation left in him; the careful boundaries he had spent months, years, maintaining have completely disintegrated.

He hooks his fingers into the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and over your head in one fluid motion, tossing it blindly onto the floor. When his bare chest presses down against yours, the heat of his skin is a shock to your system. He’s solid, broad, and slightly rough against you, the friction of his chest hair sending a wave of goosebumps across your skin.

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer. The lotion on your thighs makes the contact slick and warm against his jeans, a deliberate contrast that draws a low, ragged growl from the back of his throat. He shifts, pinning your hips to the mattress with the heavy weight of his thighs, ensuring you can feel every inch of how much he wants you.

"Andy, please," you breathe out against his lips, your hands sliding down his spine, your nails digging into the tense muscles of his lower back.

He arches into the touch, his hands traveling down your sides to grip your hips, his calloused thumbs digging into your hip bones with a bruising intensity. He breaks the kiss, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and frantic against your skin. His lips trace a burning path down to your collarbone, biting down just hard enough to make you gasp before soothing the spot with his tongue.

"I’ve spent fucking years imagining the scent of your skin," he murmurs, his voice a gravelly whisper against your throat as his hands slide down to the waistband of your shorts. "Sitting in the dark, trying to imagine the exact sound you make when I touch you right here."

His fingers slip beneath the fabric, his warm palm cupping your hip, his thumb caressing the soft skin of your inner thigh. You arch your back, a soft, breathless moan escaping your lips, and pope catches the sound in his own mouth, drinking it down like a man dying of thirst.

He pulls back just enough to look down at you, his chest heaving, his dark eyes completely consumed by devotion. With one deliberate movement, he reaches down and rids both of you of the remaining barriers, his gaze never leaving yours for a single second.

When he settles back between your thighs, the sheer heat of him is overwhelming. He leans down, his forearms framing your head, his fingers tangling deep into your hair as he presses his forehead against yours.

"You're it for me," he whispers, his voice thick with an intensity that shakes you to your core. "Forever. Tell me you’re ready please baby, need to feel you." "I'm ready," you whisper back, pulling his face down to yours. "Andy, I'm yours."

He slides into you in one smooth, deep push, a low groan tearing from his chest as your body tightens around him. You gasp, your hands flying to his shoulders, gripping him tightly as he freezes, letting you adjust to the sudden, stretching fullness of his fat cock. The sensation is blinding, a rush of pure pleasure radiates from the center of your core.

He waits until your breath hitches in invite, and then he begins to move. His pace is slow at first, agonizingly deep, the head of his cock hitting your cervix each time. The bed creaks softly beneath his steady, rhythmic thrusts, the warm light of the lamp casting long, shifting shadows of your tangled forms against the wall.

With every movement, the friction builds, a tight, coil of tension gathering low in your stomach. Andrew shifts his grip, sliding his hands under your thighs to lift you higher, altering the angle so he hits you even deeper. A sharp, loud cry escapes your lips, and he catches it with a fierce, bruising kiss, his movements turning faster, harder, driven by a raw desperation that has been locked away for far too long.

You lose yourself in the steady, relentless heat of him, your head tossing against the pillow, your fingers scratching against his back as the pleasure spirals out of control. Popes breath is ragged in your ear, his name a constant, breathless prayer on your lips until the tension finally snaps, sending a wave of blinding ripples through your entire body. He follows you a second later with a heavy, shuddering groan, burying his face in your hair as he pours himself into you, holding you so tightly against him that it feels like you'll never come apart.

The heavy, frantic rhythm of his heart slowly begins to steady against your chest, but Andrew doesn't pull away. He stays buried deep inside you, his heavy frame anchoring you to the mattress, his face still hidden in the soft crook of your neck. He’s breathing in short, ragged bursts, his chest expanding against yours as if he’s trying to swallow the very air you breathe.

"Andrew," you whisper, your voice thick and breathless, your fingers gently tracing the damp line of his spine.

A low, possessive rumble vibrates in his chest. Instead of moving, he shifts his weight just enough to slide his arms under your back, pulling you flush against him as he rolls onto his side, taking you with him. The sudden movement keeps you tightly joined, a sharp intake of breath escaping your lips at the shifting friction. He locks his leg over your thighs, tangling your limbs together so completely that it’s impossible to tell where you end and he begins.

He finally pulls his face back, his dark hair damp and clinging to his forehead. In the warm, dim glow of the lamp, his eyes are still heavy, dark, and utterly consumed. He looks down at you with a quiet, reverent awe, his thumb reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair away from your flushed cheek.

"I used to think I'd wake up," he murmurs, his voice a rough, gravelly scratch. "In that cell. I’d dream about this, about the smell of your skin, the way you feel under me, and I’d wake up to the sound of the guards doing the morning count. I’d just sit there on the edge of the cot, hating the daylight because it took you away from me."

He leans down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth, then to your jawline, down to the sensitive pulse point on your neck.

"But you're real," he whispers against your skin, his grip tightening on your hip, his calloused fingers digging in just enough to anchor you. "You're really here. And you said yes."

"I said yes," you breathe out, arching your neck slightly to give him better access, a soft sigh leaving your lips as his tongue traces a burning path down to your collarbone.

The small, involuntary sound you make acts like a spark to dry wood. You feel him harden inside you again, a sudden, thick throb that makes your hips twitch instinctively against his. Andrew groans, a dark, needy sound, and his eyes snap back up to yours. The tenderness from a moment ago instantly sharpens into something hungry, a fierce second wind overtaking him.

"Andy..." you gasp, your hands gripping his biceps as he shifts, pinning you onto your back once more.

"I'm not done," he whispers, his breath hot against your lips. "I'm never going to be done with you. I have years to make up for baby. Every single night I lost."

He doesn't give you a chance to answer. He lifts your legs, draping them over his broad shoulders to open you up completely to him. The angle is incredibly deep, and when he drives back into you with a sudden, powerful thrust, a loud, ragged cry tears from your throat.

Andrew catches the sound with his mouth, devouring it as he begins a relentless, heavy pace. The bed creaks sharply against the wall, the rhythmic sound filling the quiet room as he moves inside you with a fierce, unchecked desperation. His calloused hands grip your waist, steering your hips to meet every deep stroke.

The heat in the room spikes instantly, sweat slicking your skin where your bodies collide. You’re entirely at his mercy, your fingers digging into the mattress as the tension coils tighter and hotter than before. Andrew watches you through hooded eyes, his chest heaving, his jaw clenched in absolute concentration as he drives you both right back over the edge.

“i’m sorry—what are we doing again?” grant leaned over the table, careful of the plate ahead of his folded arms. he was looking down at you, jutting his neck forward and tilting his head to hear you better over the crowded chatter of the texas roadhouse the two of you were currently sat in.

“that cinnamon butter trend, babe,” you had said it like it was the most casual thing in the world—and like it was something he was supposed to know about. you exited out of the recording screen to search up the tiktok trend, clicking on a video you had liked the other day, flipping your phone screen to show him.

it was of a guy holding two small containers of texas roadhouse butter, the text over the clip saying: “can i lick texas roadhouse butter off of them?”, then cutting to a woman nodding yes, and ending with the guy excitedly purchasing some to-go.

grant stared as the tiktok replayed, trying to grasp the concept of how this was going viral, how people made this a... trend at all. maybe he really was getting old. he shifted his gaze back towards you as you tapped away on your phone to go back to the recording screen.

“so,” he cleared his throat, “just, trying to get this straight; you want to ask that, or do that, or whatever—to me?” he asked, face full of confusion and pure desperation to understand, all while pointing a finger back at himself. you refrained from telling him that he looked like the meme of that one guy in a white t-shirt pointing at himself, considering the last time you told him he looked like a meme, he didn’t understand why it was funny, even when you showed him.

you clicked at the top of the screen to adjust the audio and volume of the sound coming from your phone as you spoke to him. “yeah! it’ll be funny and cute! y’know, flipping the script of the original idea, or something like that.” you explained, rather vaguely for his taste. you glanced up at him, seeing him still and staring. you could practically hear the gears in his head slowly try to turn, trying to make sense of it all. it was oddly adorable.

“look, baby,” you started, placing your phone down on the table next to your half-finished drink. “my fans love you. they think you’re crazy hot—and you are—so they’re really gonna love this. especially because it teeters the line of something suggestive about us. and its reversing the original, like, i don’t know—idea? of the trend! not a lot of people are doing it that way, so we can hop on that! plus, its just funny. because... y’know...” you gestured to his puffed out chest that was straining against the size-too-small t-shirt he wore, and bulging out from behind his crossed arms.

grant let out a sigh, his arms falling as he saw that excited smile paint your face. you were really sold on this. there was no backing out now.

“fine. let’s do it.”

and now you were home an hour or so later, roles reversed as you laid naked and sprawled out on the bed. he held up one of the small cups of butter, scooping it out with the fat tip of his pointer finger, curling it inside the plastic to get all of its contents out. your chest was rising and falling dramatically, nipples halfway soft, halfway hardened, the tips a perfect mix in the middle, while your areolas hadn’t scrunched up just yet.

he lathered the peak of one of your breasts with the butter, chubby finger brushing over the softly pebbled nipple. he listened to you moan under his touch, before watching him through lust-lidded eyes as he sucked the butter off of his finger, latching his tongue to your coated skin soon after, toying with you in his mouth.

your phone screen lit up on the nightstand with notifications from your video, having started its gradual ascent in virality. all while grant massaged your other breast with his free hand, continuing to devour you as your own scrunched through his short, greying curls.

from the couch came the sound of your boyfriend’s boots to your bedroom where he leered at your sprawled legs struggling to stay open. you thumbed at your clit needily and stretched yourself with two fingers, babbling pope’s name pathetically.

you didn’t know when he’d be home, but the fix to the wet mess between your thighs couldn’t wait. you started before he entered and when he caught you, pope had more than enough to say about it.

he held your neck from the back tightly and forced you eyes straight forward, “you could’ve texted me, pretty girl, and asked for my permission. stop acting like you didn’t ask for this.”

the small smile on your lips grew as pope unzipped his jeans and nudged his bulge against your bare ass. he sprung his cock free with no hint of amusement and huffed as he loosened his grip on your airway. pope spit in his hand and ran his touch along your slit, murmuring like he was pissed off and you were his only option of release.

he swirled his tip up and down your pussy, “you wanna feel me in there, hm?”

you nodded with a weak ‘yes’ and pressed your ass back onto him. he pulled back and moved both of his hands low and on your hips, holding them steady as a glob of spit left his pursed lips. pope eased his tip against your ass, slipping into your tight hole with resistance.

“how about there? don’t like that, do you?”

a sharp whine came from you, making it clear that this was an effective punishment of his. pope spit again, landing on his tip as he guided his cock in and out of you. he was always careful and gentle, but the sight of you pleasuring yourself riled him up.

“please, pope, you don’t have to—” you cried and reached back for his thigh.

he smacked your hand away and forcefully tucked them closer to your chest. you whimpered as he sped up; his cock grew wet, harder, and easier to take.

pope pulled out to see the damage, pleased with the sight of you instinctively reaching to rub and soothe your asshole. he grabbed your hand and hummed, kissing your fingertips. “i shouldn’t need to tape you closed to keep you from touching yourself without me in the room, sweetheart, okay?”

he leaned forward, cock stretching you again, and held himself there as he kissed your cheek and the outside of your ear. his hips rocked back and forth into you, hitting deeper and making your thighs clench uncomfortably.

“i won’t do it again, andy, i love you.. please.”

your boyfriend huffed. his big thighs smacked your ass and he felt your hole tense when he mocked you. “you love me? yeah?”

you nodded and teared up, “yes, baby.”

the ceiling fan hums in the background – the odour of the weed sticking in the air.

“yeah well,” jack starts, flopping his arm on the sheets beneath him before sitting up with a low groan. he turns his face to see yours, his hair unruly as the light catches the silver at his temples. he glances down at your lips as you take another puff of the joint. 

“you make me feel years younger, kiddo.” 

he leans over, his calloused hand falling onto your knee where your shirt meets your thigh. rubbing small, lazy circles onto your kneecap as jack looks up to you through half-lidded eyes. 

“come sit on daddy’s lap,” he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep and heat. 

you raise an eyebrow, the joint hanging out of your lips. jack settles back on the bed, patting his thigh with a relaxed smile. 

“don’t complain when your back hurts, old man," you giggle, swinging your legs over his lap, straddling his thighs with a slow, practised movement.  

once you're settled, jack reaches up and plucks the blunt off your lip, the pad of his thumb pulling down your lower lip. he takes a puff; the cherry end burns orange when he exhales. a plume of smoke escaping his parted lips.

he looks up, taking you in.   

the shirt has ridden up – the white of his stolen boxer briefs peeking out. your chest falls and rises in short bursts, nipples hard under the thin fabric. your hips grind instinctively against his clothed bulge as he pinches them through the shirt, his index finger and thumb tugging your nipples as you watch jack swallow around a moan. 

his head hits the headboard. “oh, you’re trouble,” jack says, his hand sneaking up the hem of your shirt. his eyes search your bloodshot ones; in a silent agreement, he takes it off in one swoop, fingers deftly unclasping the bra.  

he doesn’t take his eyes off the sight. not even to throw the clothes somewhere on the floor.   

you, half-naked on his lap, wearing his boxers.   

his pretty girl.   

“you going to take those boxers off? or are you going to let jackie do everything?”   

you hum in faux thought, dragging his free hand down to the waistband, leaning back on the heels of your feet. his fingers skim over the logo before slipping in and tugging them down halfway.   

your hands make quick work of his belt, discarding it on the floor whilst he sets the joint on the glass ashtray beside him on the nightstand, hands stumbling when you palm him through his pants again. 

with a moan, jack makes quick work of the rest of his clothes. he pushes the rest of the pants with his boxers off his legs in one frantic motion until his cock springs free and his stomach.   

“look at what you did to me, kiddo,” he says, his voice hoarse and rough. 

he spits in his hand before stroking the length of his cock in long, slow strokes. you bite your lip, beads of blood breaking skin at the intrusion. 

“need you so badly, jackie,” you crawl up to his chest, hovering your cunt above him making work of his cock. you whine, your nails digging crescent shapes into his freckled shoulders. “god, jackie, please, fuck me.”

jack stops the pumps of his hand to dip two fingers in your folds, groaning at your wetness – you don’t even know whether it’s from the pot you’ve been smoking for the past ten minutes or sitting on jack’s lap, bare, laid out for him, but that doesn't matter. 

not when he's fucking you with reckless abandon. not w

the only thing that crossed your mind was him, tunnel vision and the haze of smoke fogging any rational thinking – the world minimising to jack, your jackie, relieving the coil in your stomach. 

“this all for me, kiddo?” he breathes out, bringing his fingers to his mouth. his tongue swirls over the ridges on his fingers, humming lowly under his breath. he smacks his lips, darting his tongue out to catch a stray drop. “god, she’s soaked for me. you want my cock that badly?” 

you nod frantically, pawing at his dick helplessly. jack chuckles, his voice dropping with a hint of condescension. “oh, my girl is needy. but that’s okay. that’s what she has me for, doesn’t she?” 

he rubs his cock slowly through your folds, his hand catching your body as you collapse further into him. 

“jackie, its-” 

“i know, jackie’s here,” jack hushes you, rubbing his thumb in circles against your hip bone. 

he finally pushes into your entrance with a groan; his eyes squeezing shut as he nudges into you inch by inch. you let out a cry as he bottoms out – jack's lips smash against yours, swallowing your moans as he thrusts his hip up languidly. 

you gasp as he moves beneath you, jack using this opportunity to slip his tongue past your mouth; the sticky heat and the faint tangy taste of your pussy on his mouth making your head spin. 

you pull back from his lips for a breath of fresh air, leaning your forehead on his.

“god, you feel so fucking good for me, baby,” jack says, his voice husky from desire. with another roll of your hips, he lets out a low, strangled moan as his fingers leave small indents in the flesh of your hip. 

“jackie, it feels so good,” you mewl, looking at him through glassy eyes; your jaw is slack as drool collects at the corner of your mouth, dripping down your chin. 

“i know, baby, i know.” his calloused hands grab your waist, his grip sure and firm as he stalls your hips, movement coming all down to a halt. 

reaching out blindly, jack’s hands feel out for the discarded blunt. once he’s got it, he sits up properly, his cock shifting inside you, causing you to whimper again. 

“jackie,” you plead, sniffling. “please don’t stop.” 

“shhh,” jack coos, biting your earlobe with a sharp tug; his other hand rubs your back up and down in a soothing motion. “i got you. you trust me don’t you?” 

jack takes a massive toke, his chest heaving in as he stubs out the remaining embers into the glass tray. roughly carding through the hair from the nape of your neck, jack pulls you in to meet your lips, blowing the smoke into your lips as he keeps pressing into you. 

the room quickly fills up again with moans and grunts, sounds of flesh hitting flesh as jack continues his half-hearted thrusts, chasing the pleasure as if it continues to slip out of his grasp repeatedly. 

he lets out another groan at the feeling of your cunt clenching up on him. through the thin veil of smoke, he looks up at your fucked-up gaze, bouncing up and down on your knees as you take pleasure from him.

“baby, i’m going to cum-fuck—" he manages to choke out as you fuck yourself onto him harder. “shit, i’m going to fucking cum in you.” 

you moan at his words, nothing he’s saying even registering in your brain. the only thing, at this moment, worth remembering is the feeling of his cock twitching inside you as he hits your g-spot. 

“jackie, please i fucking want it!” you babble, the unrelenting heat in your lower back pooling. 

“kiddo wants my cum?” 

so unfortunate he didn’t record this one, he could listen to that on loop for hours.

“kiddo wants jackie to cum in her?” jack groans, continuing the bucking up of his hips. “jackie will make her all nice and round with his cum, yeah? and then she’ll have to explain to her father why his best friend got her all barefoot and pregnant?”

“you want that, kiddo?”

“god, jesus, fuck my father. shut up and just fucking cum in me.”

at those words, jack hips stutter as he fucks his load into you, feeling the walls of your pussy tightening on his cock – both of you cumming at the same time. once you ride out your wave, you lean fully into him, his softening dick still inside you as he flutters his eyes shut. 

a moment passes, the room plunging into silence – the only noise coming from the faint zooming of the cars outside and the heavy inhales and exhales coming from both of you, a tangled mess of limbs, on your bed.

“jesus,” you groan, burrowing your face into his neck as jack puts his face into your hair. “you going to move?” 

“well,” he starts, his voice lilted as he takes a large exhale, “you wanted my cum in you so...now we just have to wait until your daddy comes home.”