𑣲a

You cried the next morning, too. When that heart-wrenching ASPCA commercial with the Sarah McLachlan song played on the TV while Pope made the two of you pancakes. He still couldn’t blame you for the display of emotion. I mean, c’mon. It’s a bunch of sad, hurt animals. Who wouldn’t cry?

But the more time you and Pope spent together, the more he began to notice that your random bouts of crying weren’t simply spurred on by just sadness. No, you cried over everything. 

Cute babies, old dogs, burnt toast, gospel songs… it didn’t matter. All of it made you emotional. When you were overcome with joy, big fat tears would well up in the corners of your eyes. When you were upset beyond belief, heaving sobs would wrack through your body. You cried when you were hungry, tired, angry, enamored. It didn’t matter. Every emotion warranted crying in your book.

You were so unashamed of it, in a way that Pope couldn’t comprehend. He came from a family that raised him to cage his emotions. Taught him that his feelings were a burden. To be around someone who felt everything so freely was new for him. He was in awe of it. 

At first, he hated seeing you cry. Thought he did something wrong. That he fucked everything up with you, that you cried because he made you scared.

Once, in the early days of your relationship, you began crying for what seemed to him like inexplicably no reason whatsoever. 

The two of you were getting ready for bed, brushing your teeth, the works. It was only when you entered the bedroom together that you remembered the bedsheets were still in the dryer. You had done laundry earlier and had forgotten that the bed needed to be remade. 

Pope, none the wiser to your laundry schedule, glanced from the bare mattress to you and asked with absolute innocence, “What happened to the sheets?”

Immediately, you burst into tears. Sobs. It happened so fast it practically gave him whiplash. Unsure of what to do, he came up behind you, rubbing his palms up and down your arms as your body shook, slotting his chin on one of your shoulders.

“Woah, woah, hey, what’s wrong? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry, I promise,” he spoke softly, trying not to further upset you. He continued rubbing your arms as you tried to calm down, at least enough to explain why you were crying. 

“You didn’t make me cry. I’m just– I’m so tired,” you sniffled. “And now I have to get the sheets from the dryer and make up the bed and I just want to sleep and I–” your whimpering turned into violent sobs, rendering you unable to finish your sentence. 

Pope, unsure of what else to do, turned you around to look at him. “Honey, that’s what has you all worked up? I’ll take care of it. Go lay down on the couch baby, rest your eyes. I’ll make the bed.”

“O-Okay,” you mewled as Pope led you out of the bedroom and got you settled onto the sofa. He draped a blanket over your delicate frame and left a gentle kiss on your forehead. 

It didn’t take him long to unload the dryer, get the fitted sheet onto the mattress, and arrange the bedding and pillows to your liking, but by the time he made it back to you sprawled on the couch, you were fast asleep. Lip still quivering, cheeks stained with drying tears. He gently lifted your tired body and carried you to bed.

As your relationship progressed, Pope learned that your crying fits were perpetual. A part of your chemical makeup. But truthfully, he liked that about you. Liked that you felt things so deeply that your body needed to release them somehow. 

He liked it most when you cried of desperation. When you’d be snuggled in bed together, pressing your body against his. Squirming against the broad plane of his bare chest, nuzzling your face into it. Pressing kisses on his pecs. Anything to get his attention. 

But Pope knew this game. Knew what would happen if he could just resist for a few minutes longer. You’d grow antsy, desperate to be touched by him. Hands roaming over his abs, down to the bulge in his underwear.

“I can feel you, Andrew. C’mon, just touch me. I know you want to,” you’d whisper into his ear, growing impatient. But he wouldn’t give in just yet. Not until your eyes glossed over. “Please, Andrew. Please. I need you,” you’d whine, sniffling and wiping stray tears from your cheeks. 

Once he’d seen enough of your pretty tears to feel himself harden in his boxers, he’d roll you onto your back and slot himself between your legs.

“My poor baby. Don’t cry, I’m gonna make it all better now, ok?” he’d coo, kissing away your salty tears as they ran down your cheeks, darting out his tongue to get a taste of them. “Just let me take care of you.”

He’d be so gentle on nights like this, when you were extra emotional. Make sure you were taken care of, no matter how uncomfortable the strain of his cock against his boxers became. Wouldn’t stop doting on you, leaving open mouth kisses down your neck and collarbone, through the valley of your breasts. 

He’d make you come with his mouth and fingers at least twice before he’d even consider sliding his cock into you, hitting that spot deep inside that made tears spill from your eyes yet again, this time from pleasure.

Sometimes, you’d cry when you came, babbling on and on, “Oh, Andrew, feels so good. I love you so much. I’m so lucky, can’t believe you’re mine...” 

His eyes would be just absolutely glued to the spot where his cock slides in and out. The sight is nearly too much for him to handle. Just the way your body looks squeezing around his length draws loud, whimpery sounds from him.

“Fuckin’ love these thighs, baby. So soft and warm for me. Can I come on them? Please?” he’d whine soooo bad. Just so needy and desperate for you. He’d do literally anything you’d ask so long as he gets to keep fucking you like this.

With your permission he comes, hot stripes shooting out onto your stomach and coating your inner thighs. 

Afterward he’d pull out and let your legs down from his shoulder so you can get into a more comfortable position, but he doesn’t plan on cleaning up the sticky mess he’s made until he can admire how you look, all disheveled and covered in him. 

He’d prop his chin between your bent knees, eyes angled down to take in the way his cum drips down your sides and onto the sheets. Occasionally, he’d twist his lips to the side to place a little kiss on your kneecap.

Once he’s satisfied with his staring, he’d use his palms to spread your knees apart and bring himself face to face with your dripping cunt

“This all for me?” he’d whisper against your skin, bringing his lips exactly where you need them, using his tongue to lap up the wetness that’s built up between your legs.

The contact of his mouth and tongue as they work against you has you fighting the urge to squeeze your thighs together. Pope notices and pulls himself back from sucking on your clit.

“Don’t do that… want you to crush my head between them. Y’hear me?” He’d ask, leaning back in to tease your entrance with his tongue only after you clench your thighs around him.

He wouldn’t come up for air until he’s coaxed multiple orgasms out of you. He’d be content to just lay between your legs for hours indulging in the way you taste. 

Pope Cody could die with his head between your legs and he would die a very happy man.

He likes to watch the beads of sweat collect at your temples, pool in the valley of your breasts, and stick between your thighs that press together when you sit. 

Sometimes, when you reach for the glass of iced tea on the table next to you and take a sip, condensation drips from the bottom of the cup and rolls between your breasts and underneath your bikini top. 

He wishes he could use his tongue to lick the cool liquid off your chest, but he shakes the thought from his head as you use your manicured hands to quickly swipe up the residue.

Sometimes, on days when the UV is exceptionally high, you let him put your sunscreen on for you, and he thinks he might die from how hot it is outside combined with the fact that he’s got himself all worked up from rubbing lotion all over your warm, soft skin.

He works diligently, making sure to get every crevice of your body, focusing longer on the spots prone to sunburn. Unashamed, he takes the longest spreading the cream over the top of your breasts, your cleavage peeking out above the thin, strappy material of your top.

“Just don’t want my girl to burn, that’s all,” he lies when you call him out on it. You’re sure he’s rubbed enough sunscreen across your chest and thighs to keep you protected for the next week.

You’ll spend hours lounging next to the pool working on your tan, and Pope will sit out there with you the entire time, no matter how warm it’s getting.

“You’re dripping sweat, Andrew, why don’t you go inside for a bit?” you offer, worried that he’s going to overheat if he stays out in the sun. His body isn’t able to handle the extreme weather as well as yours is.

“It’s okay, I wanna lay out here with you a bit longer,” he tells you, despite the heat that’s settled deep within him, down to his bones. He’s sure that he’s going to have a nasty sunburn by the end of the day.

“Let’s go for a dip then, yeah?” you ask, grabbing his hand in your own as you rise from your chair. Pope’s eyes trail up and down your back, noting the sweat glittering on the dimples of your back and in the curves where your ass meets your thighs. 

While he likes watching you sunbathe, he loves watching you swim. When you come up from submerging yourself under the water to cool down, your hair slicked and dripping down your back, he can’t help but admire how the sun reflecting off the droplets of water that coat your body makes you glow. 

You enjoy swimming, and will spend part of the afternoon doing laps back and forth down the length of the pool. Pope watches diligently, mentally timing how long it takes you to swim from one end to the other. Since the start of this Summer you’ve gotten nearly two seconds faster, but he wouldn’t dare let you know he’s been paying that close attention. 

Though he loves watching you sunbathe and swim in his pool, Pope’s favorite part of a Summer day is when it bleeds into a Summer night. When you shower together, washing the sweat and chlorine off each other's skin.

Despite the AC blasting, you always wear the sweetest little cotton sleep sets in the summertime. Frilly shorts with tiny flowers, and matching tank tops that show off your figure. 

While he loves you in a bikini, the way you look while you comb out your wet hair in the mirror before bed, donning one of those cute little pajama sets, is something else. Pope thinks that you must be the most beautiful woman to walk the earth. How he was able to make you his, he’ll never quite understand.

Whenever he gets sunburnt from laying out with you (which he’s prone to doing since he spends too long making sure you have enough sunblock on to reapply his own), you take the bottle of aloe vera gel from the medicine cabinet and lather his shoulders and chest with the cool gel. The relief of the cold aloe on his warm body makes him relax into your touch as you massage it gently onto the raw parts of his skin.

When you’re done, you both head to bed, huddling under the covers together to seek warmth from the frigid air conditioning. He relishes in the way you wrap your arms around his torso, careful not to press too hard on his sunburned skin. It doesn’t take you long to fall asleep against him, exhausted and sun-tired.

Of course, his first evening free in weeks, and you were scheduled at that shitty restaurant that you’re adamant about working for, despite Pope’s pleas for you to just quit your job. He had enough money for the both of you, but you know just how quickly you’d grow bored without having anything to do. Work keeps you grounded, allowing you to focus on something productive for a few hours.

However, it seemed the universe was on Pope’s side today, and you’d be able to spend the evening with him after all. Maybe you’d order takeout, watch that movie you rented weeks ago and never got around to. 

It doesn’t take long before you’re pulling up to your house, tires crunching on the gravel driveway. You slip inside quietly, hoping to catch your boyfriend by surprise, expecting him to be perched on the couch watching one of those documentaries that you could never quite understand why he loved so much.

Much to your surprise, he isn’t in the living room. Or the kitchen, either. You tiptoe toward the bathroom (maybe he’s showering?) but the door is open wide on its hinges, the room dark except for the soft glow illuminating it from the hallway. Has he really gone to bed already?

You pad across the hardwood floor, careful to avoid the spots you know will inevitably creak under your weight. The bedroom door is cracked open just enough for you to peek into the dimly lit room toward your bed. You can barely make out the shape of Pope slumped against the headboard. 

You’re about to make your presence known when you realize he’s talking… to himself? You crane your neck slightly so you can get a better view. Who the hell is he talking to? His voice is breathy and quiet, and you have to strain your ears to make out what he’s saying.

“Oh, fuck,” he whispers, barely audible even in the dead silence that fills the house. Your vision starts to adjust to the dimness of the room, Pope’s bare chest becoming visible in the soft sunset light peeking through the curtains. 

His hand works in slow circles over his briefs, palming at the bulge that sits between his legs. His movements are languid, fingers pulsing over the tight fabric. Breathy, needy moans fall from his lips.

Your eyes move up from his hand to the sunset glow reflecting off the layer of sweat coating his chest and stomach, illuminating the jut of his hip, the hardness of his abdomen as his muscles contract under his own touch. 

Heat pools deep in your stomach at the sight of him like this; so vulnerable, so needy, unable to fight off what his body so desperately craves. You want to climb onto the bed, onto his lap, and give him the relief he’s seeking. But watching him like this is turning you on in a way you’ve never felt before, so you remain behind the door, watching as he continues to pleasure himself.

“Jesus,” he pants, your name falling off his lips between heavy breaths. He’s getting needier by the minute, you can tell, and your suspicion is confirmed when he starts to push his boxers down and lets himself spring free. Even in the minimal light you can see the way his precum glistens on his tip.

Pope takes his length into his hand, a whimper leaving his mouth at the touch to his bare skin. He uses his thumb to circle the head of his cock, then gently works his hand up and down a few times to spread the slick all the way down to the base. 

It only takes a few steady pumps of his hand for him to start bucking his hips upward, chasing the sensation with uneven, desperate thrusts. His body becomes slicker with sweat as he continues to groan softly at his own touch.

Suddenly, he removes his hand from his length and reaches beside himself on the bed, grabbing a piece of fabric you can’t immediately make out. He starts stroking himself with the thin material, and the noises he makes are unlike anything you’ve ever heard from him. It almost sounds like he’s in pain.

“God, I need you so bad, please,” he whispers your name into the air, so desperate for your touch that he’s nearly brought himself to tears. He continues to pump himself with what you now recognize as your panties, the lacy black pair that’s always been his favorite.

The warm sensation in your stomach and between your legs continues to grow as you gently slide your hand under your waistband and begin rubbing slow circles on your clit. Seeing Pope get so worked up at just the thought of you has you wet enough already that you’re able to slide both your middle and ring finger inside yourself as you continue to circle your clit with your thumb.

The feeling of your hands between your legs combined with the sound of Pope thrusting into his hand makes you whimper, and Pope’s head shoots up in the direction of the doorway. 

“Baby, is that you?” he says, out of breath. “What are you doing out there?”

Embarrassed, you quickly remove your hands from your pants and push the door open enough to step inside. Pope throws the covers over his waist, hiding all evidence of his actions except for the blush creeping up his neck and the sweat reflecting at his temples.

“I got off work early. Thought I would surprise you, but you seem to be busy,” you tease as you make your way toward the bed and gingerly pull back the sheets, revealing your panties wrapped around his hard length.

The flush on his neck travels all the way up to his ears as he groans with embarrassment. “I didn’t know you were here, I’m sorry,” he says, flustered.

“It’s okay, Pope. I kinda liked it, actually,” you breathe the words into his ear as you climb onto the bed next to him. “You were thinking about me, huh?”

“Always.”

“Well, I’m here now,” you say before lifting yourself up to straddle his waist, grinding your body down against him.

“Fuck, don’t do that. I’ve been thinking about you for a while, I won’t last very long,” he confesses.

“I’ve been thinking about you, too,” you admit, grabbing his hand and guiding it into your waistband so he can feel how wet you are.

“Jesus, baby. How long were you watching me?”

“Long enough to ride my fingers, pretending they were yours,” you tease, nipping at his ear.

“God, that’s so fucking hot,” he groans. “You like watching me touch myself? When I stroke myself with your panties?”

You nod your head eagerly as your hands travel up his broad chest to rest on his shoulders, continuing to gently move your hips back and forth against his lower half.

“I do it all the time, y’know. Think about you while I touch myself. I get so hard when I’m thinking about you,” the words spill from his lips as he continues to rub his fingers back and forth against your clit, making you shiver under his touch. His confession makes you moan, nails digging into his shoulders.

His hand leaves your pants only so he can remove them from you, keeping your panties on. He makes quick work of your t-shirt and bra, leaving you both bare except for the thin cotton between your legs. 

“Leave these on, yeah?” Pope asks, flipping you so you’re laying on your back as he hovers above you. He props himself up on one arm and uses the other to push your panties to the side, his fingers teasing your entrance with slow, methodical circles.

Your breath catches in your throat when he pushes two thick fingers inside of you, stretching you out despite how wet you already are. Your fingers felt good, but they were nothing compared to how Pope’s filled you now. 

“I’ve been thinking about this all afternoon, thought I was gonna have to wait until tonight. Almost couldn’t take it,” Pope whispers against your skin as he trails wet kisses down your neck and chest, surely leaving marks in his wake. He pumps his fingers gently, rubbing against the sensitive spot inside of you.

“Then don’t wait any longer,” you breathe, pulling him closer to your chest. “I need you now, Pope.”

“Fuck, okay,” he says, slipping his fingers out and using his hand to fist his cock, pumping it a few times before lining himself up, careful to keep your panties pushed aside. He releases a ragged breath and then slowly pushes into you, a burning sensation building the deeper he goes.

He pushes in and out a few times, his lips connecting with yours as he thrusts. Your kisses are hungry and needy, his tongue dipping in and out of your mouth in a way that makes your body shudder. 

You wrap your hands around the back of his neck and pull him down closer, chests pressing together as he continues to pump himself back and forth into you, hitting that spot deep inside that ignites a fire in your belly.

Pleasure rolls over you in waves, heat building as his thrusts become uneven and frantic. Pope chases his high, pushing into you harder, deeper. The sensation makes you clench around him, desperate for release.

You whimper as he continues to pound into you, your hands moving up to grab fistfulls of his curls, pulling on them. Pope groans, hips bucking into you with fervor as he comes inside of you, warming you from the inside out. The feeling of him letting go is enough to send you over the edge, your own release quickly following.

Exhausted, you breathe into Pope’s mouth as he kisses you softly, lips trailing down to your jaw as he comes down from his high. You can still feel him twitching inside of you, length softening as the rest of his body relaxes against you.

“Glad I got off early today?” You tease, stroking back the hair that’s plastered against his forehead.

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

He’d been home for a week and could hardly do anything but stare at you. His body didn’t seek you out like it used to. At night you lay side by side, Pope on his back, staring at the ceiling with his hands clasped and resting on his stomach. 

He didn’t sleep much before prison, but now his insomnia was a whole different beast. Gone were the nights he would toss and turn, trying to get comfortable in hopes sleep would soon take him. Instead, he lay awake taking note of his surroundings. How your breathing shifted as you entered a new stage of sleep. The noises you made when you were having a good dream. 

Tonight, you turn onto your side, taking in his profile. The way his eyes focus on one spot of the ceiling, unwavering, his jaw set firm. He was thinking. He spent most of his time thinking, it seemed. Pope had always lived in his head.

You spoke. Quiet, a whisper so soft you weren’t sure he heard you. “What are you thinking about?”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t answer. 

“Talk to me,” you say, placing a hand on his bare chest. His only response is a shaky breath at the unexpected contact.

He continues to stare at the ceiling. You assume there’ll be no answer. You sigh and shift in bed so you’re laying on your back again, removing your hand from him. You knew things between the two of you would be different when he came home, that he would be different. You had never considered that he may not love you anymore. 

You speak aloud, shakily, unsure if he’s even listening. “It’s like you’re scared of me, Pope. You won’t even touch me. Do you not want this anymore?” 

You feel the pillows shift as he turns his head toward you. You meet his eyes, glassy from the tears he’s fighting back. He finally speaks.

“I am scared, but not of you. Never of you.”

Your breath catches in the back of your throat. “Then what are you scared of?”

Your eyes search his face for clues, tracing the lines by his eyes, the freckles that dust across the bridge of his nose. Freckles that you can only see when you’re laying this close. You watch as his chin quivers, his mouth on the brink of a confession that he wouldn’t be able to take back. 

“I’m different now. I’m broken. I can’t touch you the way you want me to. I want to make you feel good but I– I can’t,” He admits, voice shaking, breath warm against your cheek. “And I’m so scared that once you realize that, you’ll leave. I’m going to lose you and there’s nothing I can do to stop it, I-” a sob escapes him and he buries his face in the pillow, embarrassed you have to see him like this.

Confusion settles over you. This is what has him so worked up? “Honey, you always make me feel good. There’s nothing you need to worry about.” You console him, rubbing your hand up and down his bicep.

“I can’t anymore, baby. I can’t. I’m sorry.” He turns his head into your shoulder and lets out a strained cry. “I tried, I promise. When you sent me letters, pictures. I tried.” His tears wet your neck as he fists the fabric of your t-shirt. 

“I even– I tried last night.” He hiccups against your neck, embarrassed. “When you were asleep. I tried touching myself while I watched you but I just couldn’t do it.” The admission is enough to humiliate him. “I thought maybe I just needed you, so I rubbed myself against your thigh for a while. I couldn’t even get it up, baby. You were naked in my bed and you looked so fucking good and I couldn’t even get– fuck. I’m sorry.”

Pope is inconsolable, fat tears spilling from the corners of his eyes onto the fabric of your shirt as he presses his face further into the crook of your neck. You card your hand through his auburn hair, still uneven from being cut in prison.

“Hey, hey. Don’t cry, honey. It’s okay. I understand,” you whisper into the top of his head, placing soft kisses upon his hair. Your hand continues to comb through the slight curls forming at the nape of his neck.

Pope catches his breath, sobs quieting down to sniffles. “I just want to be good for you.”

“There’s plenty of ways you can make me feel good, Pope. We’ll figure it out together. I want to make you feel good, too. You’re going to have to teach me how.” You pull back from him just enough to meet his eyes. You remove your fingers from his hair and use your thumb to brush the stray tears from his cheeks.

“I don’t know what makes me feel good anymore,” he confesses, softly.

“Well, it’s been a long time since we’ve been together. What used to make you feel good?” you ask. “We can start there.”

He thinks for a moment. “I like it when you play with my hair,” he admits shyly. “Feels nice.”

“Okay, I can do that for you. What else?” you ask as your hands find their way back into the hair on the back of his head, lightly pulling at the curls that rest there.

“When you kiss my neck. And my chest. I like that,” he whispers, shoulders sinking as he lets you play with his hair.

You dip your head into his neck, lips connecting with the freckled skin below his ear. You whisper into his ear, breathy. “What else do you want?”

You begin kissing your way down his neck, nipping at his skin whenever you reach a sensitive spot. He takes a while to answer, barely able to concentrate on anything other than you sucking on his skin like that. “I want to taste you, fuck,” he whimpers. “That makes me feel really good. The sounds you make when I go down on you. I need it.”

Heat pools between your legs at his confession. The simple idea of him getting off to you getting off has you bucking your hips forward against his thigh. 

You kiss your way back up his chest and neck until your lips connect with his. His tongue prods against your bottom lip, asking for permission. You part your lips to let his tongue into your mouth, and the sound that it draws from his throat is enough to make you pull your hands out of his hair and drag your nails down his back. “Fuck, that feels good, too,” he breathes into your mouth between kisses. “Can I taste you now? Please,” he begs, and you don’t miss the slight whine behind his words. You untangle yourself from him and prop yourself up against the headboard. Pope follows, settling himself on his stomach between your legs.

He presses wet, open-mouthed kisses up your thighs. You groan, hands fisting the sheets you’re laying on. “You like that?” he asks as he drags his head up toward where you need him. His fingers play with the edge of your panties, and the anticipation of his mouth on you is enough to send a moan escaping from your lips. “Fuck, Pope. I do. Please don’t stop,” you breathe out. He hooks his fingers firmly into the waistband of your panties and pulls them down slowly, past your ankles. He tosses them to the side, turning his attention to you splayed out before him. “God, baby. I missed you,” he says, his warm breath fanning against your exposed body. He leans in fully, connecting his lips with your dripping core, just once, before pulling back again. “You missed me too, huh? So wet for me.” You gasp as he presses hot, sticky kisses onto your cunt. His tongue darts out a few times, teasing your entrance. “That feel good?” he asks. 

“Oh God, yes. So good, Pope,” you moan, the sound only making him pick up the pace as he fucks you with his tongue.

Pope brings one hand around your thigh, holding you in place, and uses the other to rub at your clit with his thumb and forefinger. The stimulation makes you shudder underneath him.

It doesn’t take much for you to unravel beneath him, white-hot pleasure flooding all of your senses. Pope’s name escaping your lips like a prayer, like you’re pleading with God. 

He doesn’t pull back right away, instead placing soft, small kisses along your center. Licking up your release like there’s nothing else he’d rather be doing.

“Taste just as good as I remember,” he admits as he pulls himself up to stare at you, his mouth glistening with your spend in the dim light of your bedroom.

“I feel like that was more for my pleasure than it was your own, Pope. This was supposed to be about making you feel good.”

“I feel good when you feel good.” He gestures down at his crotch, half hard beneath the thin fabric of his boxers. “I can’t fuck you like this but– I’m close,” he whispers.

“You’ll be able to fuck me tonight, Pope. I promise,” you say as you pull yourself up to cup his face, placing a kiss on his mouth.

Your hand finds his bulge and begins to softly palm at it as your tongue explores his mouth. “Need these off,” you breathe out between kisses, pulling his boxers down and letting his semi free. You usher him to lay back and get comfortable on the bed, finding your place between his legs.

“Just relax, let me take care of you,” you croon, working your hand back and forth between his legs. His breathing picks up as you take his lengthening cock into your fist, and he bucks his hips up into your touch. 

You lower your head until your lips gently graze his tip, and he whimpers at the contact. Your tongue darts out once, twice, teasing the head as he continues to grow in your palm.

“Oh, God. I’m not gonna last long once I’m inside of you if you keep doing that,” he groans as your mouth takes in his length, barely closing your lips around it, teasing him. Your tongue circles him a few times before you release him from your mouth, and he lets out a wince at the loss of your touch.

“I told you I’d make you feel good,” you boast as you take in the sight of just how hard he is, cock sprung up so high it practically slaps against his abdomen, pink tip glistening with precum. “Would you like to fuck me now?”

“Please, please, please,” Pope mumbles, so frantic and incoherent you can barely make out the words. “Need to be inside you now. Please,” he begs.

You roll onto your back and Pope throws himself on top of you, connecting his lips with your neck. His hands reach up to pull your t-shirt over your head, lips traveling down to place sloppy kisses on your breasts. He takes turns sucking and biting your nipples, using one hand to play with whichever one he hasn’t preoccupied with his mouth. His other hand rests firm on the mattress beside you, holding his weight above your trembling body.

He lines himself up and pushes in slowly, so slowly you think you’ll die if he doesn’t hurry up and fill you. You’re both panting as he bottoms out inside of you, his head dipping down to rest on your shoulder. He whimpers your name in your ear, cock still buried to the hilt, unmoving. 

Slowly, he drags himself out of you, a groan escaping his lips. He picks up the pace, pushing in and out of you like some kind of animal. Three years without this, and he can’t believe he waited an entire week to get inside of you again.

“Oh, God. It’s been a long time since I’ve come, baby. I won’t last much longer. Need you to come first, though, can you do that?” Pope groans out, barely able to control himself. 

“I’m close too, Pope. You feel so good,” you breathe as your body clenches around him, desperate for release. He’s hitting all the spots where you need him, making you feel so good that you can’t hold back any longer. You twitch underneath him as you release around his length, crying out his name. 

He follows closely behind, his cum filling you up, warm and thick. The noises he makes as he finishes inside you are enough to carry you through the rest of your release.

Pope flops on top of you, breathing heavily into your neck, pressing soft kisses there. You feel him soften inside of you, but he doesn’t pull out. He lifts his head and meets your eyes, his still slightly wet from crying. 

“Thank you, thank you,” he praises, grateful for the relief he so desperately needed. He wraps his arms around your body, pulling you into his chest and whispering more praises into your hair as he removes himself from inside you.

Exhausted, it doesn’t take long for Pope to fall asleep with you curled against his chest.