The Slow Reveal [Andrew "Pope" Cody x reader]
Read on Ao3
Summary: You work as a security guard in a mall, and one day you spot Andrew "Pope" Cody staking out the jewelry store. You remember him from high school, even if he doesn't remember you. When you let him know you're interested in a part of the loot, you get closer to him than you ever thought you would.
Tags/warnings: criminal activity, canon-typical violence, asshole ex boyfriend, mild language, kissing, vaginal fingering, cunnilingus, penis in vagina sex, safe sex, andrew needs a hug, protective!pope, andrew has ocd, i don't know how to write a robbery - so I didn't! Reader is a cishet female.
Words: 6,278
A/N: My first Pope fic! This takes place between seasons 1 and 2. If you like it, I may have a sequel in the plans. Title is from Damien Rice's It Takes A Lot To Know A Man.
You spot him by the food court, staring straight at the jewelry shop. You keep an eye on him until he sees you, and leaves. Later, you see him again, this time further away, but still looking at the comings and goings into the shop.
If that isnât scoping out a target before a robbery, you don't know what is. And if you already didn't find it suspicious, you also know the man.
The third time you see him, he's leaning against a pillar and pretending to type on his phone. You walk up to him from behind, parking yourself next to him.
"Seeing something interesting?" you ask him pleasantly. He turns his head to you. Anyone would shrink under that hard, hazel stare, but you are wearing body armor and the words SECURITY, and they work as double protection: not just for your torso but also for your mind. You're never afraid when you're working.
"If you are planning something..."
"I don't know what you are talking about," he deadpans, but you're not deterred.
"...then let me know. I can be of help."
You slip a piece of paper in his hand and walk on.
Andrew "Pope" Cody stares at the back of your head until you have disappeared around a corner. Looking down at his hand, he sees a note with a phone number.
He calls you after three days and sets up a meeting for that same evening. And that's why you find yourself in a dive after work, ordering club soda as you look around the establishment. You spot him at a corner table, and bring your drink over.
The way he's sitting suggests that he doesn't really know how to, and had to look at a schematic to figure it out: spine impossibly straight, knees at a perfect 90 degree angle, hands on the table in front of him. Yet, he doesn't look uncomfortable.
He looks like a man who has perfect control of the situation. A man who can lash out at any second.
You take a seat on the other side of the table and let him scrutinize you. Without your security guard equipment, you feel exposed, but you really can't chicken out now. In for a penny, in for a pound.
He doesn't speak, so you clear your throat.
"You don't remember me, do you, Pope?"
He tilts his head slightly, and his eyes narrow.
"Can't say I blame you. Nobody looked at me twice in high school. But you once beat up my brother Rob." You sip your club soda. Pope still doesn't say anything, and you shrug.
"Forget about it."
It's not that you were that interested in him all those years ago. Whenever he was in the room, or walked the school hallways, there was a vibration in the air. People knew he meant trouble. Not in the way his brothers were troublesome: loud, obnoxious, challenging teachers. No, Pope was something else entirely. He could be quiet for an entire day before he exploded without warning and flew at someone, seemingly without reason. You were, quite frankly, scared shitless of him when you were a teenager.
But then came that afternoon when your brother Rob tripped you in the hall and made fun of you when you were scrambling to pick up your books. It wasn't unusual: Rob liked to give you a hard time to make himself feel better. Both of you had to endure living with an intermittently drinking mother and no present father, but Rob was constantly reminded by her of the fact that, unlike you, he'd never amount to anything. You had the brains, he wasn't even cut out for becoming good at sports. He took it out on you. Brainiac. Nerd. Miss Thinks She's Too Good For The Rest Of Us.
And that very same afternoon, when school was out, Pope reportedly walked straight up to Rob and beat the shit out of him. Then he walked away, leaving your brother to get home on his own - his friends had split - with a broken nose, cracked rib, a missing tooth, and several bruises. He said nothing about what had happened, but you heard about it in school the next day. Nobody knew why Pope had launched on him, but that's just what Pope did: he beat up people.
"We went to high school together?" Pope now frowns, a hint of curiosity in his voice.
"Same grade. But it doesn't matter. What's the plan?"
He gives you a downright derogatory look.
"Like I'm gonna tell you. I'm the one asking the questions here."
"Fire away."
"If there was a plan for something, anything at all, why do you want in on it?
"I need the money," you answer simply.
"We all need money."
"Not all went to high school with someone who knows how to get money," you dare to point out. Not a muscle moves on Pope's face.
"How do I know you're not setting me up?"
"Because I'm not stupid. I know who you are, Pope."
His nostrils flare and he lowers his gaze. You put your forearms on the table, and lean in.
"I get that you have to make sure I'm not fucking you over. But I'm dead serious: I'm not making enough money for what I need to do, and I've been looking for an opportunity like this. But I don't know what people to turn to. So when I saw you scoping out the jewelry store - "
He raises his gaze.
" - I figured that this was my shot."
You hope you look as firm as you're managing to sound.
"I'm serious. I can help with alarms, surveillance, schedules, all of that."
Pope stares at you with an intensity that almost makes you shrink back â almost. You stand your ground and wait for him to say something.
When he finally does, it's short:
"I'll get back to you."
He rises, and leaves. Your eyes follow him as he walks out, and when the door closes, you exhale and look down at your trembling hands.
The night is blue lights and sirens, and an intensely aching face. You sit at the back of an ambulance, an ice pack on your nose while cops question you.
No, you didn't notice anything out of the ordinary.
Yes, you checked all locks.
Yes, the surveillance cameras have worked fine during your shift.
No, you don't know why they stopped working.
No, you can't tell anything about the robbers. Four males, but they wore masks.
Yes, one of them decked you when you came around a corner during your rounds, and found yourself right in front of them all.
You obviously don't tell them that that wasn't part of the plan: you were never supposed to encounter Pope and his brothers. But they had a delay, and the second you almost ran into them, you hissed:
"Punch me in the face!"
You could tell from body type alone which one of them was Pope, and he hesitated for only a second before his knuckle shot out. It was a real blow, and it sent you right onto the floor, stars dancing before your eyes. You heard the sickening crunch of bones breaking and felt the subsequent hot flood of blood over your mouth. You grunted, fighting your way through the shock and pain, as you heard a "Pope, let's go!" before the sound of boots running away from you left you alone in the hallway.
The officers finally release you to the paramedics, who take you to the hospital for imaging. Waiting in the hallway of the ER, you slowly come down from your adrenaline high. You feel like shit. You want to cry, you want to sleep, you want painkillers, you want to crawl up into someone's arms and be hugged and taken care of. It doesn't matter if it's a mother's arms or a lover's, you just need someone to take the wheel. You sniffle, but your nose hurts too much, so you clear your throat and put on your big girl panties. No one is coming to save you, so you better just deal with it.
Your x-ray reveals an uncomplicated fracture, you finally get naproxen for pain management, and are discharged just as the cops show up again.
"Please, can we do this tomorrow?" you ask despondently. The two officers exchange glances and agree. They even drive you home, with strict instructions to show up at the police station the next morning. You promise to be there before lunch and even remember to set the alarm on your phone before you pass out from exhaustion and nerves.
You get time off from work to heal, and between managing your pain and filling out reports and worker's comp forms, you nervously wait for Pope to reach out. You flinch every time your phone makes a sound, and in the end, you don't even get a heads-up before he's waiting for you by your front door when you come home from the 7-Eleven. You almost drop your keys when you come up the stairs and see him, strong arms crossed, at your door.
Of course he's found out where you live. He'd be stupid not to. He's probably kept an eye on your comings and goings since the robbery.
When he lays eyes on your bruised face and taped nose, he uncrosses his arms. His body weight leans forward, like he's about to take a step towards you, but as you ascend the last two steps, he stays where he is.
"Hi," you say, dumbly. "Is everything okay?"
He takes a moment to answer but then gathers himself and nods.
"The job was clean."
You gesture with your head towards the door and unlock it. Best not to stand on the landing and talk about illegal shit.
Pope follows you in and stops in the entry while you take your grocery bag to the kitchen. You fully expect him to follow you, to take up space, but he surprises you by waiting for you to come back to the entry. When you do, you catch him sweeping your apartment with his gaze. Is that a twitch in the corner of his eye when he sees the pile of clothes on your couch?
You stop at a safe distance, and he turns those hazel eyes at you. The weight of his gaze feels physical on your face, and you have to fight the urge to put a paper bag over your head. You look like shit, you know you do.
"We have to wait a month or so to move the merchandise," he informs you in that slow, low voice that's more threatening than any yell.
"Okay."
"But I have your cut of the money."
He reaches inside his jacket, fishes out an envelope, and holds it out for you. You step closer and take it.
"Thanks."
You peek inside. It's a thick wad of bills, and exhilaration runs down your spine. You'd have to work for months to get this kind of money. And except for a broken nose this was free: no taxes, no work, no nothing.
"Will that heal up okay?"
You look up at Pope and do a double take. Is that remorse you see in his face?
"...yes. Yeah, I'll be fine."
He nods curtly. Without another word, he leaves.
You don't see or hear from Pope for another week, until one night when you're getting ready for bed. Yawning, you leave the bathroom and go into the kitchen to get a glass of water. Entering the softly lit living room, you stop still and gasp loudly, nearly dropping the glass, when you see someone sit in your armchair. Your heart almost stops from fear, and your fight-or-flight instinct basically just flatlines, and you're stuck in place, just staring.
Your second reaction is even more fear, when you see that it's Pope. The thought flashes through your head:Â He's here to kill me.
He's like a statue, absolutely still, that handsome face completely expressionless. It's a strange juxtaposition: the warm light reflecting in the silvery sprinkles across his chin and upper lip, his freckled complexion warm but his eyes so blank.
You draw in a quivering breath and realize that you have not breathed since you saw him. Adrenaline courses through your veins and you should probably try to throw the glass at him and run - the course to the door is free - but instead you bark out:
"Jesus fucking Christ, Pope, don't you know how to knock?"
Great survival instincts, idiot! Your legs feel weak when he slowly stands up, that dark predatory gaze fixed on you. And you are nothing but prey, a defenseless animal who can never outrun him, not fight back. You take one step back.
His head slightly bent, he turns around and beelines for the front door. Opens it, steps out. Closes the door behind him.
A second later: three discreet knocks.
Your mouth is open as you stare at the door. When the knocks are repeated, you put the glass down with a shaking hand and slowly make your way to the entry. Hand on the doorknob, you take a deep breath.
You open the door.
Pope stands outside, that same blank face, but there is something in his eyes now. You can't quite pinpoint it when he asks you if he can come in. You step to the side, and he walks past you, back to the armchair. You close the door and follow.
He doesn't apologize for his earlier entry, and you don't expect him to. Sitting down on the edge of your couch, you clear your throat.
"Did you move the stuff yet?"
He blinks, like the question surprises him. You cross your arms in front of your chest and hope you look more imposing than how you feel.
"How's your nose?" he eventually asks.
"Fine." It is better, the swelling is down, as is the soreness. Although your bruises have faded, they're still there. As long as you don't apply pressure, you're fine.
Pope is still staring at you, and you raise your chin a little.
"Going back to work next week.
He nods. "Good."
"Was there... anything else?" You don't know what to make of him. He's dangerous, you know that much, and his quietly threatening aura would make anyone uncomfortable. But there is something about him that makes you lower your guard. Mainly because you don't think that this is his MO: if he wanted to hurt you, you'd already be bleeding on the floor.
"Didn't mean to hit you that hard."
Surprised, you shrug half-heartedly, lowering your gaze.
"It was necessary."
"I wish it wasn't." His voice has softened around its rough edges. You look it up. There is a quiet despair in his eyes that feels almost physical. It makes you more uncomfortable than his distant coldness.
"What do you mean?"
"I do remember beating up your brother."
You raise your eyebrows.
"Because I do remember you. You weren't pretty - "
"Wow, thanks."
He purses his lips and you think you see a slight color change in his face. Did you just make Pope Cody blush?
"I mean... you didn't try to be anything you weren't. Even when your brother treated you like shit in front of everyone, you just... took it."
"Not much else for me to do, was there?" There's an edge to your voice: you don't like to remember those years.
"Did he stop after I beat him up?" Pope wants to know. And it dawns on you that yes, Rob did stop, he did ease off on you. Back then you figured that it was just because he grew tired of you never giving him the reaction he wanted.
But he stopped after that day when Pope flew on him after school, just out of the blue.
"He did," you acknowledge in a small voice. "Pope, was that why you..."
"Yes."
It is a terrible gift to receive, but you find yourself accepting it.
"Why?" You can't imagine it's because he was into you. Pope followed that Catherine girl around like a dog. You later heard that his brother got together with him. How messy.
"You... always looked so... sad."
You press your lips together as you try to break the silence that descends between the two of you. It's too thick, too heavy with meaning.
"He died in a car crash, you know. Drunk," you finally say, trying to sound light. "He still lived with mom, and when he died, I had to move back home and help support her. I had to drop out of college. I... want to go back. That's why I need money."
You have to lower your eyes when you speak the horrible words.
"I hated him so much for changing my life like that."
You don't expect any reaction from Pope so when you glance up, you're surprised to see sympathy. You swallow.
"Andrew?"
He almost flinches when hearing his given name, and now you lean across the coffee table and carefully place your hand on his knee. Confusing washes over his face, and you try to give him a warm smile, although you're not sure you succeed. Your heart is beating too fast and you feel like you have no control over your facial muscles. In fact, you're trembling all over.
"Thanks for checking on me."
He nods curtly and stands up without warning.
"I have to go."
You almost ask him to stay, when there's a knock on the door - or banging, more like. This time, you know exactly who it is.
"Shit," you sigh, and stand up. Pope watches you intently.
"What?"
"It's this asshole I used to have a thing with," you explain, embarrassed as you hurry to the door. You open it and find, as expected, Kyle on the stairs. He's a little taken back when he sees your bruised face, but snideness quickly replaces surprise on his face.
"The hell happened to you?"
"What are you doing here?" you counter. "I've asked you repeatedly to leave me alone."
"Ah, come on, you know you like it." Kyle takes a step closer and jams his foot in the door.
"Get lost," you try, but then you feel Pope's hand on your arm. Firmly but gently, he moves you to the side and opens the door fully. Kyle blinks but finds himself quickly.
"And who the fuck is this? Your new boyfriend?"
Kyle can't what it means to have Pope just standing there quietly, his face like stone. You realize that a part of you wants him to find out.
"Huh, man? She sucking your cock, too?"
"Go. Now." Pope's voice is so low that you barely hear it. Kyle laughs. The sound almost makes you feel sick.
"I don't mind sharing, but I'm going first."
It happens so fast: Pope grabs Kyle by the front of his shirt and backs him out on the landing outside your door. He slams him, back first, into the roof support post by the stairs. A flowerpot is knocked over, spilling dirt on the landing.
"I will not tell you again," Pope lets Kyle now, still not raising his voice but now you see the impending craziness on his face, the one you saw many times as a teenager. And you do nothing. Your heartbeat slows down and you feel calm as Kyle spits something at Pope's face. He still doesn't see the danger. He still doesn't know that Pope can kill him.
Pope's fist connects with Kyle's face. Your ex's head snaps to the side, but Pope pulls him in again.
"You come near her again, I'll kill you."
He throws Kyle down the stairs, and he tumbles helplessly down and hits the ground hard. Groaning, he rolls over onto his stomach and tries to get up. Your heart misses a beat when Pope descends the stairs, and you realize that this is getting dangerous.
Pope pulls Kyle up. Except for a nosebleed he's also bleeding from a cut on his forehead. You move almost automatically, hurrying down the stairs and stopping Pope by putting your hand on his shoulder just as his elbow draws back for another punch.
"He's not worth it," you say in a low voice, glancing around. You can see curtains moving in a window.
Pope glances at you and lowers his fist. He shoves Kyle brusquely.
"Get out of my sight."
Kyle spits blood but you see the fear in his eyes before he turns around and hobbles away. You pull a little at Pope's sleeve.
"Andrew. Come on."
His shoulders sink and he's suddenly breathing heavily. Slowly, he follows you back in, stopping in the entry when you fetch a bag of frozen peas from your freezer.
"Sit down," you call, and he moves into your apartment. You find him hovering by the armchair, head bent.
"Won't you please sit down?" you ask him gently. He exhales sharply.
"I should go."
"Please stay. Just a little while?"
You don't want him to leave in this state. He seems amped up but not like when he was getting ready to beat the shit out of Kyle. No, this time there's something else there. You realize that it's shame that's pulling his shoulders down and making him unable to look at you.
"Andrew," you whisper, placing your hand carefully on his chest. "Are you okay?"
Slowly, he raises his gaze, and now it's him that looks like a hunted animal.
Or perhaps haunted.
His teeth are clenched hard and you can see the jawline moving. With a soft touch, you make him sit down and pull up the pouffe so that you can sit in front of him. You take his right hand and turn the back up. There is a small cut on his knuckles, and you put the cold bag of peas on it. He looks at your face all the time, like he's waiting for something. You venture a small smile.
"This is the second time you've beat up someone for me."
"I'm sorry."
You gape at him. "Andrew... you, you don't have to be sorry."
He raises his left hand, lets his fingertips brush over the bruise under your eye. You don't blink.
"This is what I do," he tells you hoarsely.
You nod.
"I know."
You have never seen a man more riddled with guilt, shame, sadness. It breaks your heart and makes you drop the bag of peas. It falls onto Pope's lap and then to the floor when you pull him into your arms.
"I'm sorry," you whisper. "It's not fair."
A tremble goes through him and very slowly, like he doesn't really know how to do it right, one hand comes to your back. Then the other. He holds you very loosely, like he's afraid you'll break, or perhaps of what you will do if he demands anything of you.
You don't need two years of psychology studies at college, or the high school whispers of yesteryear to know that the Cody boys had a rough go of it at home and that Pope has problems. Not just the illegal shit, but real problems. And yet, despite all the violence and the crimes and the jail time... he seems so sensitive.
You know that the family is dangerous. You know that Pope is like a rabid dog when set loose.
And yet, you kiss him. It's probably the fact that he got rid of Kyle for you, but it's not just gratitude. It's not the money, his good-looking body or handsome face - even if those were incentives enough.
You just want to show him that he can have something good, even if it's just a morsel of it.
Your lips touch his cheek first, just where the raspy stubble ends and smooth skin takes over. Pope becomes very still, arms still loose around you. You let your lips find his, carefully as if not to scare him. Just a little kiss, then another. For the third, you let your lips stay on his, and your hand comes up to cradle his cheek.
He starts to respond, hesitant at first but when his arm tightens around you, bringing you in, you take it as a cue to show him just how hungry you are. You press your lips to his with more demand, separating them and licking at the seam of his mouth. When he opens for you, you let out a tiny hum as you slip your tongue inside his mouth. You don't know what you expect, beer and cigarettes perhaps, but he tastes like spearmint, fresh and nice.
Your other hand comes to the back of his neck to bring him in, and then your nose is pressed up against his, and you flinch, breaking the kiss.
"Ow!"
He looks almost panicked. You smile apologetically as you grimace.
"My nose."
He licks his lips and it's the sexiest thing you've ever seen.
"Maybe we shouldn't..."
"Do you want to?" you ask simply.
"Yes."
"Then we should. I just need to watch my nose."
Now he's the one to place a hand on the back of your neck to bring you back in. He kisses you, unbelievably gently, over and over; tiny little kisses on your lips, your cheeks, then following your jawline to your ear, then down your neck. He doesn't seem to be in any hurry, and it's driving you crazy. Heat pools between your legs and your heart is doing a mile a minute. You grab the hem of your t-shirt and pull it over your head, revealing your plain, comfortable bra that makes Pope's eyes go big and round. With slightly trembling fingers, you start to undo the buttons on his shirt, one by one, until his chest is bare and you can't help but run your hands over it. Pope catches your hands and stands, pulling you up with him, and then he kisses you again, now with more heat but still being mindful of your injury, the one he gave you. He touches you hesitantly, fingers skimming down your sides so lightly it tickles, and you press yourself against him, you can't get enough of his lips, of the feel of his skin against yours. The hair on his chest is lighter than you expected, or perhaps just sparse, but they seem darker the lower they go. You need to see more.
"Bedroom," you manage to say between the kisses, and Pope releases your mouth enough for you to take his hand and lead him to your small bedroom, where your unmade bed waits to accommodate both of you.
You stand before him, almost nervous, and pull down your shorts. The black holes of his eyes pull you in and swallow you whole when your panties follow, and then you reach behind your back and undo your bra. He's breathing hard, like he's been running, and you realize that you have to talk to him.
"Take off your shirt."
He obeys, hurrying but still doing it right: unbuttoning the last buttons, taking the shirt off and then even folding it once before putting it down on the chair by the bed. You smile, and he cocks an eyebrow.
"What?"
"You like things neat, huh?"
"Don't you?"
You realize that he's side-eyeing your unmade bed, and you feel like teasing him.
"We're going to mess it up anyway, aren't we?"
Pope presents something that could be a smile, but then he takes a step closer to you, and cups your cheek. His thumb runs over your bruise.
"You really want to?"
You realize that it's not just consent to have sex he's looking for; he's asking if you'd have sex with him. A man who could do you this harm; hell, who did do you this harm.
"I want to so badly," you confirm, and your hands drop to his belt when he kisses you again. You unbuckle his belt but then yelp when he suddenly lifts you and carry you two steps before setting you down on the bed. You scoot up and separate your legs as he unzips his pants, and then he stops and just stares at you when you touch yourself. He gulps audibly when you dip inside yourself and draw out your arousal, bringing your glistening fingers to your mouth.
For a second, he just stands there, but then he pulls down his pants and kicks them off. You smile when you see his sizeable cock, striving up from a bed of pubic hair. Fuck, that looks good.
"Come here," you ask him, and he obeys immediately, laying down over you, supporting himself on his forearms as he hovers above you and seeks your lips for another kiss.
Man really likes kissing, you think dimly and a giggle escapes you. Pope stops and stares at you, and you hurry to caress his cheeks. Calm him down like the nervous animal he is.
"I like this," you try to tell him, "it's good."
He lays down next to you and regards you with curiosity.
"Don't think anyone's ever laughed in bed with me before."
"About time then?" You take his hand and direct it down your stomach, in between your thighs. "I can make other sounds, too."
His eyes are fixed on yours when he circles your clit, a little inexpertly.
"Lighter," you ask him breathlessly, "not so hard, Andrew."
He adjusts accordingly, and your eyes close and bare your neck.
"Ohhh... oh, fuck, that's good."
Pope nips at your neck, licks down your jugular and kisses the hollow between your collarbones, all the while working your clit. Your hips move, one of your hands come up to your tits, the other finds his cock and caresses it. Pope moans and it's such a sexy sound that you open your eyes just to look at him.
"Like this?" you ask, and he nods, eyes half closed and mouth open. You keep your touch light, tease him, treat him, all the while he does the same to you.
"A little faster now," you moan, and he complies. God, he's eager to please!
"Kiss me," you ask, and he crashes his mouth to yours. Your nose stings but you don't care anymore, you need his kisses, his breath battling yours, his tongue -
"You go down?" you gasp. He hesitates for a moment before sliding down from the bed. Grabbing your legs, he pulls you towards the edge, positioning you so that he can kneel by the bed and have you right before him. It seems orderly, the way he lifts your legs and places them on his shoulders. Proper and deliberate. He doesn't take the time to look at you, kiss or touch you, but dives right in with long, slow licks from pussy to clit.
"Oh God, Andrew..." you hum, touching your breasts absent-mindedly as you look down at him. He works meticulously, doesn't look up, seems focused on his task. It's endearing, and holy shit, it's good. Your thighs move on his shoulders, and he secures one of them with his arm around it, fingers digging into the soft flesh. You touch his hair, that curly hair that you realize only now you've been dying to run your fingers through. You do just that, he now he looks up at you, wonder in his eyes, before he once again lowers his gaze and focuses on the task at hand.
"That's good," you encourage him, "a little faster now, please..."
His tongue turns narrow and firm as he flicks it at your clit. When your pelvis starts to move, he grunts and uses his arms to keep it still, like he doesn't like you squirming. He doesn't seem to mind you holding his head, and when your moans grow louder his breathing speeds up, his hold on you grows stronger.
The orgasm washes over you, you pull at the sheets and throw your head back as you shout out, legs shaking.
"Slow!" you mewl, "slow, slow, slow..."
Each slow, gentle lick makes sparks run down your spine, and you have to giggle again.
"Oh, man... Oh, Jesus Christ, Andrew..."
He stops, and you open your eyes and look at him. There's a shadow of a smile haunting the corners of his mouth, and he wipes his chin. Only then do you feel the beard burn on your sensitive skin.
"That was really hot," he says, and you grin.
"You're telling me."
Lazily, you slide your legs down from his shoulders, and roll over to the side to reach for the drawer of your bedside table. You take out a condom, lay back down and smile at Pope, who's still on his knees by the bed.
"You gonna stay there or come up here?"
He's by you in a flash, kissing you. The taste of you is strong on his tongue and you almost want to delay the penetration just so that you can suck him off, let him taste himself in the kisses that follow. But his cock is already staining your thigh, and you need him, it's almost physical how you need him.
You help him roll on the condom and lead him into you. He's kneeling between your legs but comes to hover above you as he pushes in, inch by inch, until he's bottoming out and his hot breaths thunder against your cheek.
"Fuck," is all he says, and you nibble at his ear before kissing it, your arms going around him.
"Yeah," you agree, and he turns his face and kisses you. Slowly, he pulls out, then pushes back in, this time with more insistence. Your breath stutters at the intrusion, pleasure soaks your brain, and Pope huffs out air as he does it again, settling into a slow but thorough pace. It's perfect, your legs go around his thighs, your hands run down to his ass and push him down, deeper, you need him deeper, he hits the right spot inside you and you cry out.
"Keep that up - and I'll - cum again!"
He grunts, and steals your breath with another kiss before dropping his face back to your neck. You feel the rasp of his facial hair, then the scrape of teeth when he sucks your skin between his lips. The pace never slows down, the angle never changes, he keeps hitting that spot and making you mewl. Your second orgasm lifts your back from the bed as your spine arches, and shortly after, Pope juts his hips against yours and shivers. The sound he produces is somewhere between a strangled cry and a sob, and you run your fingers through his hair, again and again. His panting breaths are hot against your skin and when he finally catches his breath, he rolls over onto his back. You lie still, staring at the roof, enjoying the lingering tingles in your body, and feeling that special kind of sadness that it's over.
You want to do it again. Not now exactly, but you want to taste this man again.
You roll onto your side and reach for his face, placing your palm on his cheek and turning him towards you. Kissing him softly, you smile and stroke his cheek.
"I gotta go pee. Gimme the rubber."
Lower lip caught between his teeth, he takes off the condom and hands it to you. You dispose of it in the bathroom before peeing, and washing your hands. When you return, Pope is sitting on the edge of the bed, his back against you. Only now do you notice how his strong back is stained with tan stars. You want to kiss each and every one.
"I should go," Pope says curtly. You try not to show how disappointed you are. Of course he has to.
"You don't want to sleep here tonight?"
The look he gives you is heavy with one single question: Why would you want me to do that?
You have no answer to give him.
"I don't sleep much," he admits.
"Then don't sleep," you try, hearing how stupid it sounds. "Just rest here with me?"
A quick, almost sad smile haunts his lips before he reaches for his underpants.
"I have shit to do.
He pulls on the underpants, then seeks your eyes. You try not to stare at his muscled body.
"I can... call you, maybe? Tomorrow?" he suggests carefully, and you nod, embarrassingly eager.
"I'd like that. Maybe we could grab a bite?"
He nods, and now there's another shy smile that even reaches his eyes. He looks younger, less damaged. You smile back, and he walks over to you.
"I'll call."
"Sure you will." You venture an eyeroll as you pat his chest, but he catches your hand and presses a kiss to your palm.
"I'll call," he tells you again, and now you just nod. He releases your hand and gets dressed. You find your T-shirt and panties as well and eventually follow him to the door when he leaves.
Hand on the doorknob, Pope turns to you one last time.
"You have my number. Let me know if that asshole comes back, okay?"
"Yeah, okay." You seem to sound nonchalant because Pope looks displeased. You hurry to assure him that you will call if Kyle shows up again.
"Okay. Good night."
With that, Pope leaves. You lock the door behind him before practically floating to your bedroom, fall down on your messed-up bed, and smile widely into the night.
i need him so baddddddddd




















