#andrew ‘pope’ cody

[girthgrudgefear]

i know i write about pope having a partner who isn’t afraid of him, was never afraid of him, but imagine pope being aware that he’s making the person he likes uneasy and making a conscious effort to appear less… threatening.

how pope is instantly intrigued by this newcomer, a friend of deran’s or craig’s or j’s, who is lounging somewhere in the cody residence with good company. how he enters the room, quietly, at first, going unnoticed by nobody except them. how pope’s soon-to-be partner in question keeps talking, laughing, while everyone else is tense.

and then finally, when they notice that everyone has stopped talking, eyes locked behind where they're sitting, silently acknowledging someone they’ve obviously yet to meet.

when they turn around and see pope standing there, they audibly flinch, maybe mutter a quick, ‘jeez!’ and clutch their hand to their chest. then this earns some chuckles from deran or craig or j, who introduces them to pope.

and despite jumping about five feet in the air from fright, their smile is soft, genuine as they introduce themselves, hold their hand out for pope to shake.

which pope does not do.

and just like that their visit is cut short, and pope is lightly admonished about how he’s scared away yet another friend.

then it’s back to business as usual and they begin to discuss a job. except it’s not, because pope has this feeling that he’s been well-acquainted with since he learned of julia’s death.

it’s guilt.

pope feels guilty for scaring them away.

so the next time that the cody’s throw a party and this person shows up, pope catches them as they’re taking a beer out of the cooler. and when they turn, they immediately yelp.

and drop the beer bottle.

pope doesn’t get hurt because he’s still got his boots and jeans on, but the trajectory of the glass leaves several prominent gashes on the other person’s feet and legs.

they don’t react to the pain because they are too busy, caught between looking around for a paper towel to pick up the glass and apologizing profusely for making a mess.

“leave it. we need to take a look at your legs.” pope says with such finality that the other person’s movement slows.

“um, okay.” they hesitate, and pope hates that they hesitate, because between the broken bottle and the cuts that feeling is back, and now with this — he just wants the party to be over.

but they let pope fix them, try to pass the time by making small talk with pope, none of which pope is receptive to. only one cut needs stitches but all of them need to be cleaned, and he finds it endearing how they hiss at the first touch of peroxide to the wound before relaxing back into the bathroom counter.

“stop shaking your leg.” pope says as he’s threading the needle.

“i don’t mean to.”

“then why are you doing it?” he asks, looking up at them as he does so. and when their eyes meet, he feels it again when they immediately look away.

“because you make me nervous.”

“i don’t mean to.” he says, almost indignantly, which makes them giggle. the leg stops shaking and pope is able to finish with ease.

and it’s only when pope is walking them to their car that pope says, “i’m sorry.”

and when they ask, “for what?”

he says, “for scaring you. i know i scare people, but…” his gaze, fixed on the black pavement, meets their eyes and he’s pleased to find them staring at him. the warmth spreads all over, from the apples of their upturned cheeks to pope’s belly as if he just caught himself staring at the sun. “i didn’t mean to do it to you.”

he ends his sentence, deflates because it sounds lame. he sounds lame.

“it’s okay. just try not to do it again, okay? i’d hate to break any more beer bottles.” there’s a smile and a giggle that they don’t share, because pope just stares at them. watches them climb into their car, wave at him, and pull off.

and pope takes that shit about not scaring them to heart.

~

i got off topic.

but, no, seriously. imagine pope purposely making his footsteps loud when he’s entering a part of the house that his partner is hanging out in.

and how he knows his efforts have not gone unappreciated when they turn around and smile at him, give him their undivided attention as if he’s the only thing in the world that matters.

how pope is more receptive to the little things that they do, the little things that he would usually ignore. like a greeting, or small talk (which he does not, nor will he ever engage in fully). how he actually waves back when they do it first.

texting. pope actually had to find a way to keep up conversations with the person he’s interested in through text, beyond one-worded replies and leaving them on read.

or the way he spends hours in front of the mirror trying his best to appear “casual", no fists balled up at his sides, no hunching his shoulders as if he's ready for a fight at a moment's notice. until he realizes it just makes him seem more constipated and gives up altogether.

and most importantly, physical touch.

pope can tell you the shape that a fist can morph a jawbone into but he's out of his depth when it comes to handling a person in a non-threatening way. it doesn't mean that he doesn't crave it, though, crave them.

he just... doesn't know what it looks like.

and again this is where he's rewarded for the fruits of his labor. that there is some merit in learning how to be softer. it feels familiar, a dead-leaf echo to the way he became lena's safe space in the wake of her parents' passing.

the way in which his partner no longer leaves or avoids him when he shows up at the cody house, at deran's bar, or even on their own doorstep. how they almost always seem to want him around.

the way that they melt into him when they're alone together. how they'll sink beside him where he's sitting stiffly on the couch, curl into him like a cat after pressing a kiss to his cheek. do the little things like ask him about his day, if he's ate, and telling him about their day or anything that's on their mind. how something as simple as that helps him to relax after a long day of being at smurf's beck and call or hours and hours of sinking into his own head.

how they make him feel normal. and seen. and wanted and, even though they aren't there yet, may be leagues away from it, loved.

and this is where i mention that pope is still pope in a lot of the ways that make pope, pope. that sometimes his partner will look up and see andrew standing in the doorway, watching them do whatever it is that they are doing.

or how they'll turn over in bed and see that pope is laying beside them or sitting at the edge of the bed, watching over them as they rest. and how they have to get used to the fact that pope behaves like this, stands guard over the people that he loves, checks up on them in the same way a family dog walks through each room of the house before settling in for the night. how it comes from a place of safety, protection.

the way they learn not to act surprised when pope is waiting for them after work, ready to escort them back to their house where they can lavish pope with all of the affection that he's been learning to crave under their careful attention. and, yes, they are also acutely aware of the way pope is observing the way they interact with their co-workers or any other associates when they're out and about. looking for anyone who needs their ass kicked because no, pope does not play about them in any capacity and they know it.

but, no, yeah. pope is pope but sometimes pope can be persuaded into being less pope but also still pope. i think it's a nice thought.

[simply-lovley44]

Also wanna give a big thank you to the people who are starting to write for Pope Cody from Animal Kingdom as a result of people finding out who Shawn Hatosy is.

I just wanna say thank you to the people who continuously write for The PITT.

Thank you for feeding my obsession! I love you all 🥰

[erwinsvow]

𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐞 — 𝐚.𝐜.

summary: you take care of lena, clean up around the house, and always leave dinner for him when he gets home late. and among constant and never-ending change, you are andrew's northern star.

pairing: andrew cody x babysitter!reader

word count: 13.3k

warnings: read carefully! age-gap dynamics, reader is said to have recently graduated college, i basically ignore anything from the show that wouldn't make sense in my perfect little world. smut—arm humping, oral sex, penetration, the tiniest bit of breeding if you squint real hard.

author's note: and here she is. also known as shea wants to write about doing things to pope's arms.

you used to complain if someone called you their nanny. you’re just a babysitter. this would not—could not—be your full time job. it’s just so demanding. you love the kids you take care of but the idea of saying that you’re a nanny makes it a little more real. like you wouldn’t be able to get out of this, despite how hard you’re trying.

you just don’t want to be a babysitter forever. 

but the first time mister cody introduces you as lena’s nanny, you don’t think you mind it all that much. 

babysitters are temporary—girls in high school looking for money to pay for coffee and nail appointments, covering date-nights and overtime at the office.

nannies are permanent—it’s a career. you’re responsible for the kid pretty much twenty-four hours a day. kids with nannies are rich, mom and dad too busy at work to be at home. from the little you deduced, nannies buy groceries and make three meals. they go to doctor’s appointments and organize play-dates with other nannies. 

you do some of those things for lena. her uncle tries to take her and pick her up from school when he can, and when he calls to tell you that he won’t be able to make it every now and then, he sounds so sorry about it, you don’t know what you can do to reassure him that it’s okay. lena’s young, she doesn’t care about stuff like that so deeply. and she likes you, which helps matters a lot.

you had finished the last few classes you needed to graduate a couple months ago. before that, you’d have to tell mister cody no, i’m sorry occasionally, something that you really didn’t like doing. he seemed like he had enough going on without the babysitter cancelling.

and besides, after you had told him that your classes were done, you were supposed to tell him that you would be looking for a real job, something with your degree, that he should start looking for a real nanny for lena. you were supposed to politely, yet firmly allude to how you’d been scrambling with classes, finishing assignments in the car in between picking up his niece and after she’d fallen asleep at night. how you missed an important lecture because the pediatrician’s office was running behind an hour and lena’s grandmother wasn’t available to take her.

instead, the second you had met his eyes (which were terribly green and incredibly sad), you had folded, and told him you’d be available whenever he needed. and you thought maybe that would garner you a smile—and you’d been wrong. he had looked your way for about five seconds, muttered thank you, and walked away. 

and maybe if you could resist those terribly green and incredibly sad eyes, you wouldn’t have wound up as a full-time nanny. life could always be worse—that’s the motto you’ve grown up with. there are so many worse things in oceanside than spending every day in a pretty house by the beach and taking care of a quiet little girl. 

if not anything else, you could start making payments on your student loans, if you wanted. mister cody paid you in cash, and he paid you way too much, probably his way of apologizing for how much you had stepped up in the last couple months. but again, you didn’t really mind anymore. maybe if it was another family, you would care more about finding a real job.

but you like lena. you like her uncle, too, you think, as much as you can like a man who is virtually silent and stares at you like he’s boring into your soul when you’re making dinner. you like him because he’s good with her, you can always tell he’s trying his absolute best, his hardest with her. (it doesn’t help that he’s cute—cute in the way that strays are, like you wish you could fix everything wrong with him and reassure him that he’s doing enough, and tell him to stop staring and just come tell you what he’s thinking instead.) 

the first couple months were the hardest. lena wasn’t eating, wasn’t sleeping. she hated school, hated all the things she had still cared for when her dad was alive. you’d tried bribing her with trips to the beach, the playground, ice cream with extra fudge and sprinkles. all the things that kids liked. but she wasn’t just a normal kid—and it seemed that you and her uncle were the only ones who understood this. 

you didn’t realize you had such a maternal instinct inside of you. maybe it’s because the other kids you’d babysat in your life had been brats, sticky handed toddlers going through the terrible twos and making your life hell while you were trying to pass your classes. lena is the opposite. 

she’s the saddest child you’ve ever met, and you know nothing that you or her uncle do is going to fix it overnight.

but progress comes in stages. the first step had been getting her to want to eat again. you’d sat on the couch next to her, watching a nature documentary that her uncle had probably left playing on the tv.

(he is a whole other can of worms—he doesn’t sleep or eat that much either, and one time you had come in really early to get some work done before getting her to school. he’d been awake, watching something just like this, at five-thirty in the morning. and when you’d asked him when he’d gotten up, he had shrugged, and murmured something that sounded suspiciously close to i don’t sleep. that’s your next mission, because you can only focus on one at a time.)

“you hungry, sweetie?” you didn’t want to be pushy. she wouldn’t like that, would only retreat further into herself. you wanted her to come to you when she was ready to eat. lena shook her head and focused back on the television. “okay. well, if you get hungry later, i’ll eat with you.”

lena says okay in her quiet voice, holding onto a stuffed animal and staring ahead. you wait a couple of hours—there’s always something to do in the house. you clean up, wiping counters and sweeping while she stays on the couch. you check in every now and then to make sure she didn’t fall asleep. 

and then, thirty minutes before her new bedtime, she comes and sits on the chair by the dining table while you’re wiping it down.

“can we get pizza?” she asks, and you nod right away.

“of course we can. what kind do you want?”

another thirty minutes later, the pizza’s there, and you’re both eating slices of pepperoni and spinach. you’ve formulated your plan for the rest of the night—her uncle’s still not home, which means you can crash on the couch or stay awake. you decide to stay awake, since there’s no follow up text from him. if he wasn’t going to come home tonight, you’d expect the standard, concise message; won’t be back tonight. is lena okay? 

and you’re stupid, because you think it’s sweet that he always asks if she’s okay. like you wouldn’t call him the second something went wrong, like he doesn’t believe that you’d trust him with that information before anyone else. but there’s no texts tonight from the contact you’d saved as andrew cody (lena’s uncle). 

lena’s finishing her last slice and you’re cleaning up when you hear it—the rumble of his truck pulling up to the house. then a minute later, footsteps and the front door opening.

“what’s all this?” he asks, and you have to remember to find the words. 

you don’t know why that happens when he comes around—you’re usually great with dads. maybe it’s because he looks tired, more tired than usual, at least. his copper curls are messed up, like he’s been running a hand through his hair all night. lena’s uncle is always stiff, but it seems worse today, somehow.

(another thought seeps in, an uninvited guest in your mind, about how you’d really like to take care of him. he just needs some sleep, a little peace of mind. that’s it. you’re still trying to figure out the best way to give it to him.)

“we got pizza, uncle pope,” lena fills in, setting down the last piece of crust you knew she wouldn’t finish. 

“there should be enough for you,” you add, smiling at him. he doesn’t smile back, but you’re used to that at this point. and you can tell what’s about to come. “lena, can you go brush your teeth and get your pajamas on for me?” 

she nods and climbs off the chair, running into her room. 

“it’s past her bedtime,” he starts, taking a few steps closer to you. “and pizza for dinner-”

you interrupt him, even though you probably shouldn’t. you close up the box, setting it on the island and you go back to wipe the table.

“she’s not eating, mister cody,” you put the paper towel down, getting your bearings in order to face him, make the dreaded, never-ending eye-contact. “when kids don’t eat you have to meet them halfway. i thought this was better than her going to bed without eating at all.” 

he keeps looking at you. you think you should be a little nervous, but you don’t get like that anymore. flustered, sure, but not nervous—lena’s uncle is just kind of a starer, and you’ve gotten used to it by now. 

“i’m sorry. i’ll run it by you next time, i promise. i just wanted her to eat something.” he’s silent for a while, like he’s processing what you said. 

“yeah. okay. thanks.” 

you smile again, a small one. the kitchen’s clean now, or at least as clean as you can get it. you’re sure that when you’re back in the morning, it’ll be spotless, which you can only assume is one of mister cody’s nocturnal activities. you have a routine before leaving—you say goodnight to lena, make sure you didn’t leave anything behind, and tell her uncle you’ll see him in the morning.

he doesn’t normally say anything back, maybe a grunt of acknowledgement. so you’re surprised tonight, when you grab your bag and your keys and hear—

“have a good night.” 

“you too, mister cody.” 

+

it took time, but you’ve gotten her schedule better. she eats dinner with you now, whatever semi-healthy thing you can think of with the stuff in the pantry and the groceries you picked up while she’s at school. her uncle leaves money for that sort of thing—an envelope filled with hundred dollar bills. it’s labeled lena’s babysitter in stiff, neat handwriting and he told you to use it for copays and ice-cream and anything else that lena needs. but it feels wrong to use his money when he already overpays you, so you just use your own. 

you thought he might not have noticed that the envelope isn’t getting any thinner, until one morning when you arrive and see him counting the notes in it with his head down. now you’re the one staring—watching his arm flex and the muscles move as he flips through the bills. he wears the same kind of shirts every day, short sleeve button-ups, and every day, you are subject to watch his forearms while he does whatever he does. it’s a cruel and unusual punishment.

the worst had been when you needed a box down from the cabinet, the one with the muffin tins and cookie cutters. he had appeared behind you and taken it down for you in seconds, carrying it to the kitchen for you. you had been staring then too, uncomfortable and slack-jawed and wondering why his arms had your mouth dry. (you know the answer, it’s just better to live in denial, you think.)

“good morning, mister cody.” you set your bag down on the sofa, heading inside to get started on breakfast. you open the fridge, taking out a carton of eggs and orange juice and avoiding looking right at him. you don’t need to be flustered before seven-thirty am.

“you haven’t been using this money,” he states. you wish you could figure out what his tone means—there’s no inflections, no emotion simmering behind the words. it’s just cut and dry, stating a fact.

“well, i-” you turn back and look up from the stove and your words die on your tongue. he’s standing up, looking right at you, a fist full of cash like he’s going to make you use it one way or another. a single vein running through his arms tenses. your gaze flickers from it to his eyes quickly, looking at you like he wants you to start listening to him.

“i, um, i had enough.”

“you should use it.”

“but you already gave me a lot, so i-”

“i want you to use it.” the way he says it, it’s not a request. 

“right. i-i will. is lena awake?”

“she’s getting ready.”

“great. thank you.” you turn back to the eggs with a flushed face. and even though you’re not facing him anymore, you can tell he’s still staring at you. 

“i might not be back tonight.” you turn around and meet his eyes again. terribly green, incredibly sad. you’re too far now to see the brown, but you know it’s there. “i…i’ve got some work. it’ll be late, if i do.”

“thank you for the heads up. i, uh, i’ll crash on the couch then.” you think he might say something else, but you’re not sure. it’s silent for a moment, while you get the eggs onto a plate and hurry into the hallway to get lena.

she comes out first, carrying her backpack. you follow with her hairbrush for once she’s done eating, getting her already packed lunch out from the fridge to sort into her bag. there’s a whole routine that you had learned when you first started babysitting her, and now it’s just a way of life. filling up her water bottle, checking the calendar on the fridge to make sure there’s nothing you’re missing, pulling her jacket from the closet if it’s cold outside.

you get the bottle out, glancing back at her uncle. he’s leaning in while lena takes a bite of the eggs, probably telling her that he won’t be home, and to have a good day, and all the other things you’re sure he says to her. then they hug, and you feel like you’re intruding.

he picks up his keys, which rest in the small blue bowl by the door where yours sit too. and without thinking, you call out after him.

“have a good day at work.” he doesn’t say anything back, but he looks at you before he leaves. you don’t even know what he does for work.

“ready for school?” lena shakes her head no like always.

+

the days are long, but the weeks are short. you bring lena to school, but they have a half-day, so there’s no point in going home for the day if you need to be back in a couple of hours. so you head back to mister cody’s place, focusing your attention on cleaning the remnants from breakfast. you check the fridge, making note of how much fruit and milk you have left, scribbling onto a piece of paper for later. and for once, you listen to him, taking a single bill out of the envelope and putting it into your wallet. there’s other hundred dollar bills in there too, ones you need to deposit.

it hasn’t been making sense lately. a lot of nannies live with their families because it avoids the wastefulness of paying rent for an apartment you hardly ever visit. you pay internet and electric for a one-bedroom that’s empty the entire day. and now that you’re done with classes, you don’t even need to work on anything late at night or even at lena’s house. you carry around a book with you, and you think you’ve even left a couple on the coffee table, just for the future. 

you don’t know why you still have your apartment. well, you know why—mister cody has never mentioned you moving in. and he probably never will, because he doesn’t want you to. but it just doesn’t make sense the more you think about it. you show up between six and seven and sometimes you don’t go home until ten. sometimes you don’t go home at all.

after making your list, you rack your head of things you can do to occupy lena’s time today. the library has a weekly reading, and there’ll be other kids there. you like to pick things so she can get some company from kids her age, so she’s not only stuck with you and her uncle all the time. 

closer to when school gets out, you get in the car, bringing in your emergency bag with a change of clothes and your toothbrush since you’ll be staying the night. it’s not an entirely uncommon occurrence, which is why the bag, and a couple others like it, is always ready to go. you go to the bank first, depositing everything except the single hundred-dollar bill you took today. then you drive by the park, see if they’re having any of those pet-therapy sessions today. and then finally school to pick up lena.

the rest of the day goes how you planned. you forget how exhausting it is keeping a little kid entertained for hours on end, unsure of exactly what her uncle pope and his brothers do with her sometimes, when you struggle to fill up a couple of extra hours. the grocery store—where you splurge and buy ingredients to make stove-top smores because lena asks and you’ll take your wins where you can get them—then the library, where you take out a couple of books for lena to read at home and smile when she’s talking with some of the other girls there, then the playground for an hour, before home for dinner.

you make spaghetti while she finishes her homework, and review her homework while she changes into pajamas. and then it’s time for the routine she loves so much, just like her uncle, a nature documentary about penguins while you toast the marshmallows on a fork. 

an hour later, lena’s asleep in bed, and you’re scrubbing hardened chocolate off the counter next to the stove. you don’t want more work for her uncle when he’s back, and you’ve learned lena’s a heavy sleeper, so you get to cleaning. it’s not like, as pathetic as the thought is, you have anything better to do. 

and then about two hours after that, it’s eleven-thirty. it’s right around the latest that mister cody has ever come home, so you’re pretty sure he won’t be back tonight. 

the only thing you have to look forward to in your apartment is the shower you take after a long day. you’ll have to make do with the shower inside the room where mister cody sleeps, since lena’s is close to her room and filled with products for an eight year old, and at the very least, you need adult shampoo and soap. 

the room is bare—you would have guessed it’s a guest room if you didn’t know better. you’re not nosy, but you look around, trying to see if there’s anything there that makes the room her uncle’s. you know there’s still another bedroom, the one her parents used to share, since lena sometimes goes in there when she can’t sleep. so this was a guest room, and now it’s mister cody’s, and now you’re lurking in it.

besides for a closet full of clean-pressed button up shirts and organized shoes, you can’t discern anything that makes this room his. there’s not a single thing out of place, from the garden-variety decor that someone else had picked to the artwork to the sheets. the bathroom is more of the same, the entire place having that lemon-cleaner smell to it. 

you turn the water on and strip, trying to avoid thinking about how you’ll be sleeping on the couch after this. and even inside the shower, you stare at the two-in-one shampoo bottle and the old spice body wash—old spice. who would have thought?—like you can’t believe what you’re looking at. you inhale the scent for longer than you need to. wrap yourself in a clean towel that doesn’t belong to you. brush your teeth with his spearmint toothpaste. and then you open your overnight bag, and find nothing but sundresses and bathing suits.

it’s past midnight, and you’ve grabbed the wrong bag. you need to get up in about six and a half hours to get lena ready for school, and you’re not positive you have the correct bag in the back of your car. 

hesitantly, you open one of the dresser drawers. there’s black and white t-shirts folded precisely, tucked in evenly. one drawer up there’s folded socks and boxers. 

you chew on your cheek. he did say that he won’t be home tonight. there’s no way he would know you took anything if you ran a load of laundry as soon as you woke up and folded it after morning drop-off. he might not even be home until the afternoon or evening, for all you know.

your tiredness makes the decision for you. the couch isn’t that comfortable, and you refuse to sleep in the shirt and jean skirt you spent all day in. you take a white shirt and black boxers, and then sneak back in for a pair of black socks because the living room is cold at night. and then you set your alarm, turn on another documentary—this one about hummingbirds, wrap yourself in the throw blanket on the couch, and close your eyes. 

andrew comes home at quarter to three. it would have been a lot sooner—he doesn’t like leaving you alone here at night with lena if he can avoid it—but he doesn’t always have control over it. a bullet had grazed deran and he’d spent two hours cleaning up that mess, and then they had to organize their splits before leaving. he had to make sure to stay for that—he needs the cash to pay you, rent for baz’s place, money to put into lena’s savings account. 

but he hates leaving you alone in the apartment with lena. not because he doesn’t trust you, but because he knows now it’s not safe, not without him there. he likes to get you home early but it’s rarely the case, and then he feels like he should pay you extra since he’s making you drive home alone in the dark.

telling you to stay is a better option. you can sleep in his room—it’s not like he’s going to sleep in there anyways. but he doesn’t say that, doesn’t need the nanny thinking there’s something wrong with him too. so he settles for telling you to stay the night, and letting you decide where you’ll sleep. 

you always pick the couch. and sometimes, he’s not back early enough, sometimes you’re already up making breakfast or gone out for the day with lena by the time he’s back.

 but tonight, you’re asleep on the couch. he sets down the bag with the cash on the couch, hovering over you. the television is still on, stuck on a are you still watching? screen, covering up a photo of some birds. a breath leaves him when he realizes you’re watching what he always watches. you’re knocked out—he can tell since the front door opening didn’t wake you like it sometimes does. you’ve kicked away the blanket you usually use, and he thinks for a second he should just cover you up and let you sleep.

but he doesn’t. he stands over you, staring at your sleeping form. he doesn’t like it—how pretty you are when you sleep. it’s a distraction that he can’t escape, knows that the next time he closes his eyes, he’ll think of you. that the next time he sits on this couch, he’ll be able to smell your skin. you snore softly, chest rising and falling evenly. 

and then he notices it—the plain shirt, black socks with a familiar logo. are those his boxers? and now he definitely can’t look away. he puts the pieces together—your hair is wet, meaning you must have showered and then put on his clothes before coming back out here. if you were going to do all of that, why didn’t you just sleep in his room?

yes, pope decides, he needs you to sleep in his bed. he needs the couch anyways, since he won’t be sleeping, so he might as well bring you inside. 

he lifts you carefully, not wanting to stir you accidentally. his shirt is a little big on you, hanging off your shoulder. you stay sound asleep the entire short walk to his bedroom, not stirring even when he sets you down. you must have been really tired, but that makes sense, given the fact that you’ve been out all day with lena.

he thought about sticking a tracker on your car, but the first time he was taking care of lena, after baz, you had shared your phone’s location with him so he could keep track. you had offered it, voluntarily, saying something about how that’s common with babysitters now, and that you never go anywhere without your phone so he won’t have to worry about you leaving it at home.

you thought reassuring him that he would always have lena’s location in his phone would make him feel better. and maybe it had, but he’d never mentioned it again after that day, never brought up if he actually checked it or not.

(it’s not like you would know if he was using it, it doesn’t work like that. deran had explained it to him.) he did check it, pretty frequently, actually. he checked it after you’d leave when he got home, after lena was asleep. he’d watch your little circle drive home and pull into the parking lot of your apartment complex. it wasn’t as bad of an area as it could be, but it wasn’t that safe either. he liked to check it every now and then too, middle of the night, saturday evenings when he was home with lena and you got to leave early or had the day off.

he assumed, somehow, that you’d be in bars or parties at your college, maybe. but when he looks at your location late at night, you’re always at home. he checks other times too—but he’s just trying to keep you safe. (that’s what he tells himself—that finding another babysitter than lena liked and that he trusted would be a hassle. he needs to keep you safe.)

but it doesn’t seem like you like any of that stuff. he’s never seen you drink the beer in the fridge, though you offer one to him every now and then. you’ve met smurf and deran and craig before, like when you’d go to drop off lena before one of your classes, back before you had finished school.

you were smart—he knew that much. that was the kind of good example he needed around lena, someone who had gone through school and finished. he didn’t know what your degree was in, but it must’ve been something smart, something important. you were always typing on your computer and reading books. whatever it is that you studied, he wants someone in lena’s life that can help her with that stuff, stuff he doesn’t know much about, when it’s time.

you were smart enough to turn down every joint or bump that craig offered. you never accepted a drink from smurf that didn’t come from a can that you opened yourself. and baz used to tell him that you were just a local college kid, that you didn’t have any family nearby or anyone to occupy your time, really. 

it didn’t make sense—pretty girl like you. he would have thought you had a boyfriend, but if you do, you’ve never brought him around. and if he didn’t live with you or live at that coffee shop you liked that was down the street from your apartment, then he didn’t know if you even had one. maybe he shouldn’t spend any time thinking about your hypothetical boyfriend, but that’s just what comes up sometimes when he thinks about you for too long. like right now.

you look peaceful lying in his bed. your eyes flutter quickly like you’re having a dream, and he sits on the bed next to you, watching you sleep. your hair falls across your face, and his finger twitches. he almost moves his hand to brush the hair away, but he decides not to, settling for just watching you for another minute or two. 

the bed creaks slightly when he gets up. no one uses it much, so it’s a little weary. he doesn’t think the noise is anything, but your eyes blink open. the door’s open, light from the living room illuminating a sliver of the space.

he thinks he should get out before you can ask any questions, but he doesn’t, hovering over the bed while you look around. 

“andrew?” and god if it doesn’t sound different coming from your lips. you’re too tired to remember that you usually stick with mister cody, which is so formal it hurts. it sounds real, sincere, not filled with fear or anger or anything else. you haven’t even said anything and he thinks he’s losing his mind. 

it’s just the way you say it. there’s no question attached, no demand, no sacrifice. just you, making sure it’s him. 

“that couch is bad for your back,” he says. 

he knows it is, the couple times he tried to lay down and stare at the ceiling. he’s always sore, muscles screaming and joints aching but he knows how to ignore it. he doesn’t think you should start feeling like that. feels angry at the very idea that you would be sore after spending a night on the couch, taking care of his niece, looking after baz’s house. doing all the things that he’s too busy to do.

you take care of things. you do a good job too—figuring out how to get lena to eat and sleep again. making sure her routine doesn’t go awry just because he’s gone on a job all day. you remember things that he doesn’t even know about—activities with kids after school and how the school has soccer practice starting soon. you think a couple steps ahead when it comes to lena, and sometimes, he doesn’t think you see it as a job. 

like when you make enough breakfast for the three of you. leave dinner on a plate inside the microwave with a note on the counter. when you clean like it’s your house, make sure things stay in the place they’re supposed to, which is so much harder when there’s a kid around. he’s not stupid—it’s why he gives you so much money each week, shoves an envelope into your hand despite your protests. why the first thing he does after he gets his cut is make sure you get yours. 

and as hard as the thought is to swallow, he doesn’t think he could do all of this without you. 

“mmh-” you agree, making a soft noise. he wishes he could engrain it into his brain and replay it whenever he wants. “i thought you don’t sleep?” you ask, and he sees your lips turn up into a smile. he wishes the lights were on.

“i try,” he replies, realizing that he’s still hovering over you. he wonders why you weren’t scared the moment you woke up. “sometimes. i try.” 

“do you wanna try now?” you ask, whispering. and he goes silent—because what is he supposed to say that? 

you reach out in the dark for his hand, and he flinches, taking it back. but you don’t retreat, reaching out again until you’re grasping his fingers. 

“try for a couple hours. i set an alarm,” you say, and the way you say it, it doesn’t sound like a bad idea. you have a way of convincing him, or maybe it’s just late and you’re tired, and your sleepy voice isn’t helping matters. nor does the fact that you don’t seem even remotely concerned that you’re inviting him to come sleep on the bed next to you.

you sit up a little, and he regrets even staying as long as he did. you need your sleep, unlike him. you’re still holding onto his hand, and your skin is warm on his. it couldn’t really be, but it feels like it’s burning his, where your palm rests against his, where your fingers twist with his. 

“hey,” you start, slow and soft. “don’t think about it. just sleep for a little.” 

“yeah,” he says. “okay. a little.”

you move over, and when he lays down—back straight against the mattress, staring up at the ceiling—it’s warm where your body was resting. you’re still holding onto his hand, not letting go. your grip is loose enough that he could free his hand easily, and even if it wasn’t, he could overpower you if he wanted.

but he doesn’t want to. and somewhere between your slow breaths and how you rub his knuckles, running your soft skin against dozens of old scars—because that’s his punching hand—andrew falls asleep.

you can hear it, his breaths getting steady, evening out. your hands stay together in the middle of the bed, between you, and you wonder for a split second how you’re going to deal with this in the morning, how you’ll make sense of this in daylight. the semblance of a professional relationship you had maintained this entire time might turn into dust in a couple hours. and then you breathe in andrew’s comforting scent, clean linen and saltwater, and fall back asleep.

the best thing about this house is the light and the waves. golden rays pour in through the half-way open blinds and you can hear the ocean crashing against the rocks in the distance. it’s the perfect way to wake up, even if it is six-thirty and your alarm is going off in the living room, where your phone must be.

you need to get up. you don’t want lena to wake up from the noise, even though you know she won’t—that girl can sleep through anything. it’s a problem for when she’s older, when she goes to college and there’s no one besides a roommate to make sure she doesn’t miss class. even half-asleep, you smile thinking about it.

and somehow, when you look on the other side of the bed, it hits you that it wasn’t a dream. andrew is asleep next to you, still in whatever clothes he was wearing throughout the day. a short sleeved button up and pants. you’re surprised that he didn’t fall asleep with his shoes on. 

he looks very calm when he sleeps. the lines of tension on his forehead and around his eyes are soft when he’s like this, his hair a mess and cheek smushed against the pillow, against your hand.

he’s still holding your hand. it makes a certain kind of warmth rain all over you, flooding you from inside out. he’s on top of the covers and you’re under the throw blanket, and you don’t remember doing that, which means that he did.

an exhausted, half-asleep andrew cody covered you up before he fell asleep on top of the covers. he fell asleep holding your hand and your chest hurts because he won’t wake up holding it still, since you need to go turn that stupid alarm off. 

he never sleeps, you know this. he’s never been asleep when you show up early, never heading to bed when you leave for the day. this bed is pretty much always made, sheets never rustled and not a pillow out of place because no one sleeps here. you hope you can start changing that.

you don’t want to pull your hand away from him. it’s so simple, so sweet that you can’t bring yourself to do it. that this whole time, andrew just needed someone to sleep beside him. you rest your head back on the pillow, continue staring, creepy as it is. you’ve never been able to study him like this before, have never been close enough. 

the hand holding onto yours is softer than you’d imagined. the veins running through his forearm are thick and tense, even when he’s like this. you think it might be from how tightly he’s holding onto your hand, like even in his sleep he’s worried he might lose you somehow. 

andrew cody has freckles—all across his arms and on his hands too. there’s a splatter of them across his nose and cheeks, places where he must have gotten burnt as a kid, maybe when he was lena’s age. the tips of his ears flush pink while he sleeps, and he snores. all things that make you smile, things that are so personal you feel your face getting warm, like you shouldn’t have access to that information. 

you need to turn that god-damn alarm off, before it wakes him up. you think you’d rather die than disrupt the few hours of peaceful sleep he’s getting right now. so you wriggle your hand, trying to find the best way to get it out of his grip and make sure you don’t wake him in the process. nothing’s working, even in his sleep he’s thrice as strong as you. the generic alarm tone keeps going in the background.

you lean in, pressing a chaste kiss to andrew’s cheek, whispering that you promise to be right back. and for a split second he moves around, and you regain control of your tingling hand.

the bed creaks a little when you get up, but you do it slowly so it’s not too loud. walk to the couch as fast as your bare feet will take you, looking down and realizing you’re still in andrew’s socks.

(his shirt and boxers too, but you’re choosing to ignore that for now. if someone walked in through the front door in this moment, it would look like you and him were something other than a guardian and babysitter. you think you’d actually enjoy trying to see him explain to his brothers why you’re in his clothes head to toe. you might like this more than you think you did.)

you can hear the ocean again once the alarm is turned off. it’s a beautiful thing to wake up too, you think, pulling open the curtains and looking outside on the street. people are on runs, doing yoga on the beach, watching the sunrise with their dogs.

and inside, andrew cody is sound asleep.

the first part of your day is waking up lena. she grumbles and takes five, sometimes ten, minutes to get up after you go in there. in that time, you set out clothes for her and then head back to the kitchen. you have a habit of making sure her backpack has everything—the colorful pens she’s always telling you about and yesterday’s homework. if she forgot something at home, the school would call andrew, and then andrew would call you, and you hate adding more work to his life. so, you make sure it’s all there before she leaves.

then breakfast—eggs and toast if you’re running late, pancakes if you got there early. it’s seeming like a pancake sort of day.

you make the batter and then pull out the bag of chocolate chips and head back to lena’s room. you use the semi-sweet morsels as an incentive to get her up, which works like a charm. while she’s changing and brushing her teeth, you make three pancakes. two for lena, and the first one you peeled that’s never quite as good is for you. 

lena comes to the table to eat her pancakes, and you tell her to stay just a little quieter than usual because her uncle pope is still sleeping.

“really?” she asks, and you feel something inside of you twist in discomfort. as if you had imagined before you met him, maybe he was sleeping, that maybe this was something recent. you smile at lena.

“yeah, sweetie, really.” 

you bring lena to school, come back home, and check on andrew—who is still sleeping. you cover him up with the blanket you’d slept under and then make three more pancakes and some scrambled eggs. there’s no bacon in the house or you would have made that too.

you scribble it on the grocery list and then head back inside the bedroom, carefully perching yourself on the edge of the bed and maybe a little too comfortable, too quick, run your fingers through his messy hair. he sighs against the pillow and it makes you smile immediately. you keep going, fingers not stopping until you see his eyes fluttering open. you don’t want to make him uncomfortable, though you don’t want to stop either. 

“i made breakfast,” you say quietly. andrew looks up at you, and then to your slept-in side of the bed. he moves, sitting up in the bed and you take back your hand tentatively. his hair is soft like you’d imagined.

 he wipes his face with his hands, rubbing at his eyes. and when he looks at you, you feel any prudence that once was inside you melt away. well-rested, sleepy andrew cody, waking up in the bed you shared last night, while you tell him about the pancakes you made for him. you couldn’t have imagined this, for some reason, which makes it feel all the more real. 

“what time is it?” he asks, in a gruff, sleepy voice.

“almost nine, i think.” he looks up at you quickly.

“lena?”

“i brought her to school already. you-you were sleeping. i didn’t want to wake you.” 

“when did you get up?” 

“six-thirty. my alarm. remember?” you do remember telling him about it before you fell asleep, one of the last things you had said in a conversation that feels like it was light-years ago. 

“yeah.” you know better than to expect anything right now. he’s always been quiet, sentences curt and expressions relatively blank. you’ve had a few hours to simmer in it—think about what’ll happen tomorrow and next week and what it means to sleep in the bed next to the man whose niece you babysit. he just woke up a few minutes ago.

“well, there’s pancakes. and eggs. there’s no bacon but i’ll go get some later-”

“did you eat?” you catch his eye. perched on the bed next to him, you can see more than just green. brown too, around his pupils. not nearly as sad as they had seemed yesterday. 

“yeah. i had one.” 

“just one?” you don’t have an answer for that, but unusually confident, you stand up. 

“i’ll have a bite of yours if you come eat with me.”

and though you couldn’t have imagined it last night, you end up leaning against the counter with andrew, splitting bites of chocolate-chip pancakes (yours drenched in syrup, his comparably dry as a bone), and luke-warm scrambled eggs. 

he washes the dishes, and you put them away. it’s incredibly domestic. 

“i’m sorry about your clothes,” you say, sliding a plate back into the cupboard. “um, i’ll wash everything today.” you had to bring it up at some point.

and then andrew turns to look at you. head to toe, he stares, gaze flicking up and down for what seems like eons. you don’t have a guess for why, maybe he’s trying to decide if he’ll accept your apology.

(he’s trying to memorize it, capture it like a picture in his brain, seal it up and hold onto it forever. how you look right now—his white shirt, with nothing underneath, which must be why he can see the outline of your breasts when you turn to put another dish away. his boxers, that you bunched up around your waist, his socks, one rolled up around your ankle and the other halfway up your calf. did you go to the school drop-off in his clothes, too?)

“and i can wash your jacket too, i’m sorry. it was kind of cold and i don’t know where my hoodie is. i-i’m sorry.”

he turns to look at you again. you seem worried, chewing on your cheek, waiting for his answer.

“don’t wash the jacket,” he says, and turns back to the sink. he doesn’t want it to stop smelling like you, but you don’t need to know that.

“yeah. sure. i won’t. sorry again, andrew.” 

his heart thuds in this chest at the realization that you might never go back to calling him mister cody. 

the two of you finish the dishes. he wipes up the counter while you put away lena’s things, and then he grabs his keys and puts on his shoes. you stand there watching, feeling awfully close to something like a wife watching her husband about to leave her for the day. and when you open your mouth, you can’t stop it from coming out.

“do you know when you’ll be back?”

“i’ll be here for dinner. can you pick up lena?” he doesn’t want to leave you, but there’s about ten texts and three missed calls on his phone that he needs to deal with. when he shrugs his jacket on, it does, in fact, smell like you. it might be enough to keep him calm the rest of the day.

“yeah, of course. well.. i’ll go start the laundry.” a vision of you peeling off your—his—clothes plagues his mind momentarily. “i’ll see you later?” you say, smiling hesitantly. 

and without thinking too much about it, andrew comes up close to you, leans in a little awkwardly, and kisses your forehead.

“i’ll see you later.” he leaves you there in his shirt and socks, blinking stupidly at the door. 

+

andrew does come back for dinner. you make an attempt at chicken parm at lena’s request, which really just turns out to be a sort of chicken parm-casserole situation, but lena likes it and the garlic bread tastes good, so you will call it a win for now.

while you’re simmering sauce and frying the cutlets, your mind flicks through everything you know about lena’s uncle. he’d never once been anything but nice to you—nice is one way to put it. polite is another. courteous, appropriate, reserved. 

one night you had been waiting for him so you could leave, and he’d come home with lena’s other uncles. you had introduced yourself and smiled nicely, and when you left and gotten into your car, it hadn’t turned on. you remember debating if you should go back inside or just call triple a and wait, but somehow, andrew had known something was wrong. he had come out a few minutes later, told you that he would drive you home while his brother stayed at home and that he’d be back in a minute. 

he’d dropped you off at home and told you he’d come get you in the morning. and you had slept anxiously that night, wondering what was wrong with your car and how much of a disturbance it would be to andrew to come get you. 

but after the two of you had dropped lena off at school—again, disturbingly domestic—he brought you back to the house. and without any words at all, he worked on your car while you sat and watched. you held a flashlight when he needed it, and he said it shouldn’t happen again when he was done. 

and you guess that’s the kind of man andrew cody is.

true to his word, andrew comes home in time to eat dinner with you and lena. after dinner, since it’s friday, you let her have a brownie and a half, the ones you’d made earlier that day. you have one too and you offer one to andrew, but he shakes his head, and you’re only mildly disappointed.

you haven’t been home, so you’re wearing one of the dresses from the wrong overnight bag you’d brought here. (your disappointment goes away when you notice that he hasn’t stopped staring at your exposed thighs since the minute he walked through the door.)

lena watches a cartoon before bed and you try to clean up the rest of the kitchen, but it’s hard, since andrew’s done most of the leg-work already. he tucks lena in and you gather your belongings—and true to your word, you did laundry and put his clothes back in the exact place you found them. 

(you did steal another pair of socks, but you hardly think he minds now. he kissed you goodbye this morning like he was actually your husband, or something, and every minute you spend in this house washing dishes and scrubbing counters next to him is not helping. he stares at the straps of your dress like he could slip them off your shoulder with his mind, like it’s the only thing he’s thinking about. you don’t mind.) 

“she’s out,” he says, coming back into the living room. you’re sitting on the couch, knees tucked to your chest while you change the channel to one of those documentaries you’ve been so fond of recently. you turn to smile at andrew and he comes and takes a seat next to you. 

“that’s good. i can go soon.” but you make no effort to move, staring at the screen in front of you. this one is about sea-life, shades of blue flooding ahead of you both. 

“you can stay,” andrew says, quiet like always. “if you want.” his voice is deep and gravelly, and the words he says scratch an itch somewhere deep inside of you, and the relief is visible on your body. you sink a little further into the sofa, knees falling next to andrew’s, thighs touching. 

“if that’s okay with you.” you whisper it, as if saying it too loudly might make the entire idea crack open and fall apart.

you two stay like that for a while. you don’t know when, but andrew swings an arm around your shoulder, and you rest your head against his chest, collapsing into his comfortable grip. you can hear his heart beating, can feel every breath he takes. his hand brushes the top of your shoulder every time you breath, and his other hand is clasped with yours. you watch schools of fish and pods of dolphins, and you think that any other night, you could fall asleep like this. 

“andrew?” you ask, still staring straight ahead. you brush your fingers over his knuckles like you had done last night, and you can feel his hand tense under your touch, until it finally relaxes. “do you want to go to bed?” 

“yeah, kid,” he says. “let’s go to bed.” 

and you’ll be damned if the domesticity doesn’t kick you in the stomach, sucker punch you in the chest and knock all the wind out of you. andrew turns the tv off, puts the remote back in the right place. and then he picks you up, and you make a quiet noise of surprise, underestimating him momentarily. you should know better.

one hand wraps around your legs and the other around your back, bridal-style (fitting, you think), and he sets you down on the creaky bed. you worry, how loud it’ll be and how you’ll have to be quiet but then andrew hovers over you, nothing but a tiny lamp brightening up the room, and you lose your train of thought.

“you sure you wanna do this?” he asks, that rough voice again. like you’ve thought about anything else for the last twenty-four hours. you nod quickly, bringing your hands to his chest, and then his arms, fingers tracing the sinewy veins and thrumming muscles up and down on both sides. his eyes shut while you do it, breaths getting heavy and deep. but you keep going—it’s only fair. you’ve only thought about it a million times. 

“does that feel good?” you whisper, and he lets out a quiet, almost painful groan.

“y-yes,” and you smile, fingers moving on their own while you lean in for the kiss you’ve been waiting for. 

andrew’s mouth is hot, and his kisses are like fire. as soon as your lips touch, he pins you all the way down, his body weight on top of yours. he kisses you the same way he had held your hand last night, the same way he held you on the couch, like you’ll slip away if he stops for even a second. your lips start to ache, but you moan quietly into his mouth, letting him swallow them while you still stroke his arms. one day, you’ll crawl into his lap and play with his hands until he’s sick of you, but today, you need to feel him. 

you can’t do much from your position, but you can wrap your legs around his waist, one hand going towards his chest to pull at his shirt. he takes it off in one motion, yanking the fabric at the back until it comes off, messing up his hair while he pulls it. your free hand goes there, running through his hair again. you use it to steady yourself, gaining leverage while he keeps kissing you like there’s nothing else for him to do. like his life depends on it. he thinks it just might.

“an-andrew,” you get out in gasps, moving your mouth away for a second. “i need to breathe,” you pant, but he doesn’t stop, kisses your cheek and your jaw and buries his face in your neck. you feel the skin there between his lips, then his teeth, and you grip hard on his arm while he keeps going. you want him to keep going, you want to see the marks he leaves tomorrow and every other day. you want everyone to look at you and know that he’s the one who left them. and you think your wish is about to come true.

your fingers let go of his arms and he groans against your skin—there’s no words but you know he didn’t want you to stop. instead you guide them to both sides of his face, staring up at him and then bringing him back in for another kiss. you think you’d be perfectly content to do this forever, that you could spend hours, days, weeks in bed kissing andrew cody. that you’d be stupid to ever leave this bed, leave this house, when there’s a man here who kisses you like each touch of your lips is a prayer, like he’s here to worship. 

he’s not hesitant anymore, not wondering if you’re going to pull away and walk out and ask to pretend this never happened. you keep your hands on his face, and then work down to his jaw and neck, clasping your arms around to keep him in place. 

and his mind is empty. he thinks he should know what to do with you, with your labile body flush against his, all the things he’s been thinking about for the last months, if not at least what he was thinking since this morning. you’re still in your little dress, one of the thin straps fallen over your shoulder and dangling on the skin of your upper arm. he pulls away and you whine, another noise he wishes he could capture somehow. it’s a melody, one he wants to keep hearing. 

you wish he hadn’t stopped the kiss, and you expect him to lean right back in after you both catch your breath, but he doesn’t. andrew’s hovering over you, eyes fixated on your shoulder, staring intently at the strap of your dress. 

“andrew?” you whisper, the hand on his neck rubbing the tense skin there, wondering if you could get your kiss back. “is something wrong?”

his lovely eyes flicker up to you, staring while you swallow and wait patiently. maybe you’d been too eager, maybe he was having regrets—after all, you’re the nanny and he’s the dad and maybe you’d been too presumptuous in assuming that he wanted you as badly as you wanted him—

“no. nothing’s wrong.” you sigh a tiny breath of relief, it comes out before you even notice. but andrew is nothing if not perceptive, and he wraps his hand around your back and lays you back on his bed. 

“why did you stop?” you question, flustered and embarrassed as the words come out, sounding like a spoiled child. but you suppose you had been spoiled these last few hours, getting everything you wanted—his hot touch, breathless kisses, the ability to finally see what the veins on his arms feel like under your palm. 

he doesn’t answer your question, just flicks his eyes back to your shoulder. and then he leans in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the end of your collarbone, tracing more kisses down through the length of your shoulder, stopping when he reaches the skimpy cotton of your dress. you take deep breaths, watching it happen in front of you. he repeats the same with the other side, pulls the strap down like he’s unfolding a gift, kisses your skin like you’re his present. and you think you are.

there’s nothing between you two except your thin dress, and you pull on it eagerly, trying to get it off, when his hands come and stop on top of yours.

“you’ll rip it,” andrew says, fingers going towards the zipper in the back, undoing it slowly.

“i don’t care,” breathless, eager, unable to wait even another minute to get what you want. he pulls the zipper all the down, your dress falling off as your shrug out of it. 

and you want another kiss, you want his touch, you want something, anything—but all you get is andrew staring at your naked body. and you think somehow this is worse than anything else, anticipation burning in your belly painfully. your thighs feel sticky and sore and your underwear is soaked through. and all he’s done is kiss you. 

“you’re perfect,” he says quietly, and you feel your entire face burn hot. you don’t think you’ve ever felt like this before—and you know how andrew is. he doesn’t lie, he doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean. 

you tilt your head up, pressing your lips to his for a moment, a soft kiss in contrast to the ones from earlier.

“so are you,” and you kiss him again, smiling against his mouth. he feels it, though he doesn’t smile back. and when he pulls away, he looks down at you, naked and willing in his bed, smiling up at him and telling him he’s perfect, when you don’t even know half the monster he is. “you are,” you repeat, watching andrew’s eyes as he thinks a million thoughts in his head, carries a million burdens on his shoulders. “even if you don’t believe me. i think you’re perfect.” 

you feel cheesy saying it, though you know there isn’t another man in the world who needs to hear it more. you can hear him make a noise of protest, like he doesn’t think you mean it, and incredibly desperate for him to believe you, you sit up.

your hands go to sturdy shoulders while you try to get him to move, until he’s sitting back against the headboard and you can crawl onto his lap. he’s silent, watching you as you do it, exposed body flush against his skin, and yet, you don’t feel scared. you don’t feel embarrassed, or worried. you just want to make him feel good.

you start with a kiss to his jaw. andrew’s body tenses under yours, the slightest bit of contact making him groan and buck up, his hands tight on the soft skin of your waist to keep you both steady. you work your way down to his neck, pressing kisses everywhere in your path. 

“do you want to know what i’ve thought about you?” you ask, though you don’t wait for an answer. you kiss down his chest, stopping at the strong muscles of his chest and the old bruises and scars that cover some of them. “i thought that you’re so good at taking care of your family.” you move down to his abs, more kisses, hearing more noises from andrew that you never would have thought he would make for you. he takes shuddering breaths, not replying to you but grunting from pleasure while you keep going. “i thought that you’re so good to me. that i don’t have to worry since i know i can always come to you.” you think of your car and the money he gives you and how you woke up in bed despite falling asleep on the couch. 

finally you make your way to the waistband of his jeans, undoing the belt with surprisingly steady hands. he reaches down, his hands covering yours for a moment, but you stare up at him with your glassy eyes, not even pulling the entire belt off, just enough to get you what you need—what you want. and then you undo his zipper, tug down his boxers, and take his girthy length into your hand, stroking up and down while still staring up at him. 

“can i take care of you, andrew?” and you don’t realize how it must sound to him, his head thudding back onto the pillow. you press a gentle kiss to his leaking tip, both hands wrapped around his dick and stroking while you wait for your answer. 

“y-yes, yes-” and you don’t wait any longer, taking as much of andrew into your mouth as you can fit. you drive your mouth up and down, your hands twisting around the base, everything wet and warm and sticky from your spit. and you think you would do this forever, that you would do this everyday if you could hear the noises he makes and how his body takes the pleasure you give him. you gag around him, feeling his hand snake into your hair, pulling you off gently. you smile up at him, though you’re sure you look like a mess, hot tears running down your cheeks and lips shiny and wet. 

but you don’t stop—licking up and down until you bring him back into your mouth. you can feel how embarrassingly wet you are right now, can feel yourself leaking onto your thighs and the sheets, wanting friction as badly as you wanted to make andrew feel good right now. and then you hear it—andrew’s moan, louder than any of the other noises and full and from the chest. he bucks up into your mouth and you take it, ready to hear what he sounds like when he finishes, when he pulls you off of him. 

“andrew—” you whine, as though you were the one about to come. he pulls you up, naked bodies pushed against each other, and kisses you until you feel light-headed.

“not until you do,” he murmurs, and you feel dizzy all over again.

“but i’m not done,” still eager to kiss the rest of his body and tell him how good he is, until he starts to believe you. you wrangle out of his loose grip, knowing full well if he wanted to stop, he could have. he could pin you down and do whatever he wanted to you and you wouldn’t be able to fight him, a thought that makes you feel like you’re going to faint. but you resume quickly, starting at his shoulders—stopping to admire all the sunspots spattered there—and starting your journey again, working down his bicep and to his freckled forearm, the ones you stared at whenever the opportunity presented itself, the one you thought about all the time.

andrew doesn’t know about that, and you’re not sure you can bear to tell him. it feels too revealing, despite how you’re naked on top of him, your breasts pressed against him and wet pussy on top of his hard, leaking dick. but sure—that’s what you get nervous about. 

you stop and trace all the veins with your fingers, feeling him pulse underneath you, repeating on both sides. he’s got his head tilted back, soft groans filling the empty space between you as you keep going. if they’re this sensitive for him, you can only imagine what it would feel like for you, especially the one leading down to the middle of his wrist—and then the words slip out before you can realize you had said them out loud.

your face goes hot again. he looks up at you a little confused, and you have to stop yourself from collapsing and burying your face into the pillow next to you.

“andrew?” you ask, shy and embarrassed and yet not stopping yourself at all. 

“you… you like my arms?” he says, and you feel your face heat up.

but so many things have happened already that you couldn’t have even dreamt about twenty-four hours ago, so you think it’s worth a shot. (that’s a lie. you have dreamt about this, so many times that you’ve woken up in your bed covered in a cold sweat, that you’ve burned through a vibrator and ruined pillows imagining what it would be like to rub yourself against his veiny arms. you guess you’re about to find out). 

your fingers trace the length of them again.

“i like everything about you,” you say quietly, understanding just how silly you sound. “but we don’t have to do anything.” you try to cover your tracts, worried you’ve just messed up the incredible time you’ve been having so far littering his body with kisses and feeling butterflies in your cunt from the fact that andrew will be inside of you soon. 

“how would you-” andrew starts, and you watch him carefully as he gets out the next few words. “do it? how?” and it’s just cut and dry way he speaks, though it’s really going to your head (and other places) right now. 

“well, i-”

“show me.” oh. 

you feel yourself pulse and throb in response to his words. even below you, you can still feel how hard andrew is. you try to start positioning yourself, but you must be moving too slowly for him, and you feel his hand on your ass, grabbing you and pushing you up to his chest, face to face. he lays his arm next to you, watching your naked body as you try to balance yourself between it, his free arm on your hip, keeping you steady. 

when you lower yourself, just an inch or two, just until you feel the ridge of his forearm and you can decide what to do after realizing that you are, in fact, doing this, andrew curses under his breath.

“fuck, you’re so wet.” he can feel it. feel you, on his arm, leaking, for him. you take a deep breath, pressing your hands against his chest to keep your balance, moving your hips up and down slowly. and your eyes flutter shut because fuck, if it isn’t better than every fantasy you’ve ever had.

you hadn’t known that your pathetic attempts to recreate this at home would have never lived up to the real thing, and now you realize you’ll never be able to go back to anything else but andrew, that no one else could make you feel this way. months of pent-up desire leave your body as you rock yourself against him, finally getting the stimulation you’ve been craving.

when you open your eyes, just for a second, you see andrew, his eyes glued to where your pussy meets his arm, his breaths heavy and deep, like he wouldn’t look away from the sight before him for anything.

and then you feel the veins rub against your clit, and your eyes roll back into your head. you keep going, trying to muffle your moans and sighs, but you can’t get the image out of your head—andrew staring at you, like he wanted this as much as you’ve wanted it, like he needs to see you cum like this. you start going faster, the friction and the slide from your juices making it easier and the veins rubbing at you just the right way—

he leans in, putting one of your peaked nipples into his mouth, flicking his tongue against it, before letting go and repeating the same with the other one. but it’s really when andrew starts talking that you’re pulled over the edge, his hand hot on your back.

“please,” he says, and you feel yourself falling into it, hanging onto every raspy word, so much better than you could have ever dreamed, “-i-i need you to cum for me. i need to feel you, i need to see it, please-”

and you do. you always listen to andrew, all the white-hot tension wound up in your belly releasing, flooding your entire body with the relief you’ve been wanting all night. your body tightens up, stopping, but he moves you with the huge hand on your hip, makes you rub on him all through it, pulling your body like you’re a toy for him.

your mind is empty while your toes curl and uncurl, thighs aching and sore in this position. andrew ushers you towards him, and you collapse on his chest, heaving and sweaty and tired—and the realization hits you that he hasn’t even been inside of you yet.

he kisses you while he has you trapped in his arms, your eyes shut as you breathe him in, moan into his mouth and let him swallow it. 

“y-your arm,” you get out, realizing you’re not speaking in coherent sentences. “i’m sorry-”

“why?” he asks, and you shut up instantly. “didn’t know you liked them that much.” 

he laughs quietly, a sound you have only heard a few times. you laugh against his chest for a moment, before pulling him in for another kiss. this time, it deepens, and he gets you on your back in front of him before he pulls away. you stare up at him, mind empty and chest heaving, seeing how his eyes stay on your tits, and you reach up, putting your hands on his chest while he hovers over you.

“it might hurt,” he says, and you feel your entire body tighten, your walls clench at his words. there’s nothing but truth behind his statement—it’s not meant to be arrogant or boastful, he’s warning you. it’s going to hurt, you know it is—you could barely fit half of him in your mouth and it took you both hands to be able to comfortably stroke him.

but the way he says it elicits a fire in you, and suddenly you need him now, no matter how much it hurts. 

“i don’t care, andrew, please,” you beg, staring up at him. he still hovers, licking his lips and staring at your how tits bounce while you beg him to fuck you—a thought that he cannot process, even with you splayed out in front of him. he brings his arms out, fingers teasing your sensitive nipples until you’re covering your own mouth to avoid being too loud and you think you’re going to black out. (even in the dim light you can see the shine on his forearm from you, and the memory of it takes over your mind like a twister.) 

“i have to stretch you out first.” the words possess your body like a demon. andrew takes your knees and spreads them apart, and no matter how hard you try to close them, you can’t compete against him. when he slides in one huge finger, your eyes roll back. he slips in so easily, the noise is obscene. the second finger goes in just as quickly, but there’s more resistance. two of his fingers are at least three of yours (if not more, you think, and then you want to faint again). the stretch is delicious, your pulsing walls realizing that this has been what you’ve been craving all along. that no toys or pillows or fingers of your own could ever compare.

when he slips a third finger in, he doesn’t change the pace. just keeps pushing them in and out of you like you’re a toy he’s testing the limits with, seeing how much you can take before you break. there’s no instructions for you besides to sit back and take it—and your toes curl and your head spins at how good he feels. the stretch hurts, but you want it so badly, you hear yourself crying out and saying incoherent things. you think you see andrew smile from where he is, watching your cunt suck his fingers in, his entire hand coated in your juices.

and when he hovers over you, bringing his tip to your entrance and prodding against you for a moment, you think you’re in heaven. he’s so flushed, tips of ears and his cheeks pink, sweat coating his body, just like yours. you can only imagine how hard he is, how you’ll get to feel how hard he is soon enough. his eyes stay at your pussy, pushing in, just barely, but you need more. you bring your hands to his arms, holding onto him while he slides in, and when you feel him push all the way in—so much bigger than you could have imagined, three of his fingers is nothing compared to this, nothing, nothing, nothing—he’s on top of you and kissing you. 

whatever noises you make are tuned out—your ears are ringing and you can’t hear anything besides andrew’s grunts and moans as they come into your mouth. you keep kissing him, pulling on his lower lip and feeling his tongue on yours, but your entire body goes slack when he starts on a brutal pace, pulling all the way out and slamming into you. the bed is creaky, and the only noise besides it is the obscene one—the squelch of your soaking wet cunt taking andrew all the way, the repetitive slap of his skin meeting yours. you feel everything—the pressure of his hands while he holds you incredibly tightly, the fullness in your cunt that makes it feel like you can’t breathe.

and then andrew kisses your lips and makes a noise that makes you leak even more, and you know you’ll be just fine.

“i-i want-” he starts, and you feel him slow down the pace slightly.

“please, andrew,” you beg, and he resumes, fucking into you with an intensity that reminds you how badly he wants you, how long he’s wanted this. it reminds you of every time you caught him staring, every time you smiled at him wondering what he was thinking. and now you think you know—maybe he was thinking about something like this.

“i want another one,” he says into the skin of your neck, feeling him lick the sweat there and kiss the skin. “i want to feel it while i’m inside-” and god if you can’t comply. you want to do every single thing he tells you for the rest of your life, you don’t want to make another decision without andrew cody. 

he changes the position, pulling out of you for a second and making you whine again. (spoiled, you think, he’s spoiled me for anyone else forever.) he holds both of your knees up and spreads them wide and wraps your arms around them, keeping them in place. and then he slides back inside of you in one swift movement, making your eyelids flutter shut. he doesn’t get right on top of you, leaving space between you that makes it impossible to lean in for a kiss, and you keep whining, impossibly and irrationally angry that you can’t kiss him, wondering why he wants you like this, when you feel his fingers circle your clit slowly—then quickly.

your head falls back onto the pillow. andrew can feel you pulsing around him, walls clenching every time he rubs your sensitive clit, and that’s what he wants, that’s what he needs, wants to feel you cum around his dick and squeeze him even tighter than you are right now. wants to see how you look completely fucked out, wants to see if you can give him a third. (he’ll get it, he decides, later. he’ll give you a chance to breathe, get you water after this. all the things he would do to take care of you, just like how you deserve, how a husband would take care of his wife.) 

because at the end of the day, isn’t that what you two basically already are? you couldn’t be a girlfriend, because you have to get comfortable around a girlfriend. 

no, he thinks, watching your fucked-out, flushed body take him like you were made for it. you already know him, know what he likes and doesn’t like, know how to make him feel good like you had been inside of his head already. you have been inside. you’re all he thinks about. that’s a wife, that is something that is forever, what the two of you have. 

he doesn’t realize how hard he’s going, how fast, or how you’ve been squealing with your entire body tensing while he was stuck in his thoughts about you. this time when you finish, it explodes through you, the electric current staring from your core and spreading to every finger and toe. you jolt, legs shaking and head heavy, the after effect rolling through you while andrew keeps fucking you, keeps going even though he should probably stop. you’re incoherent, writhing and crying and feeling completely numb and like your entire body is burning all at once. 

and when you blink open your watery eyes at andrew, smile sweetly and reach out for a kiss, one that he happily gives you, you say it quietly.

“i love you, andrew.” and you feel his thrusts stutter, his body weight almost collapsing on you. you feel andrew cum, feel it filling you up while you listen to his quiet moans and run your hands over his tense muscles, saying sweet things that he can barely understand in this state. 

he rolls over minutes later, not pulling out until you were done kissing him. the room is filled with nothing but your heavy breaths. you need a shower, and you need to sleep.

you curl up on andrew’s chest like you had been on the couch what felt like a lifetime ago. you play with his fingers and he runs his other hand up and down the expanse of your arm. you can hear birds outside—and you know you need to get up soon, but you can’t find any words. 

“you think that was enough?” andrew asks, and you look up at him with a confused expression. he looks at you with so much sincerity you feel like crying. your andrew.

“what do you mean?” you ask quietly, still not sure what he’s even talking about. your head is spinning and your eyes are tired—every part of you is tired.

“we can go again after you get some sleep. it might take more than once.”

“andrew?”

“you don’t have to worry about it. i’ll figure it out. i won’t stop until i put a baby in you.”

♡ thank you for reading

[ozarkthedog]

SHAWN HATOSY as ANDREW "POPE" CODY Animal Kingdom 04.08 Ambo

[sammy-bryant]

When I was your age, I'd get angry all the time… you know?  Kids thought it was funny, so they'd steal my things and push me around.  I was kind of small.  So I'd get angry and… and hit somebody.  Teachers would get mad.  You know, they never saw what the other kids did.  Everybody thought I was… terrible, even Smurf.  I guess maybe I was pretty awful.  The only person that was nice to me was my sister.  Your dad was the second.  And then your mom.  I promised them I was gonna take care of you and I'm gonna do that, okay?

POPE & LENA Animal Kingdom (2016-2022)

[abbotjack]

The House She Left You

Content Warnings : 18+ MDNI explicit sex, grief, family trauma, complicated sibling dynamics, references to addiction and overdose, emotionally repressed Pope Cody behavior, morally gray choices, sexual content in emotionally charged contexts, kitchen sex, emotionally manipulative undertones, references to Pope’s canon instability, emotionally explicit dialogue, light dubcon tension (consensual but fraught), emotionally unhealthy power imbalance, unresolved trauma, unprotected sex,

word count : 6,637

a/n : Here’s the Pope fic that’s been sitting in my drafts for weeks. Not my favorite, but I figured I’d share it anyway since I probably won’t be posting much until after finals.

Summary : She’s dead. You have her kid. Her house. Her ghosts. And now—Pope. The man you were never supposed to want, who never once looked at you when he was hers… but who saw everything. He shows up when the fridge hums and the silence grows thick, and what starts as confrontation splinters into confession, then into violence you asked for.

Time: One week after the funeral Location: Oceanside, California — your sister’s house

You don’t turn on the lights when you come in.

The house doesn’t deserve it.

It’s not yours. Not really. Not yet.

Not even after the state handed you a stack of papers, stamped and signed, with your name on the last page and hers on the death certificate. Not even after the little girl sleeping down the hall said “mommy” in her sleep two nights ago and you had to step outside so she wouldn’t hear you lose it.

You shut the door behind you and breathe in the dark. Not a big breath—your chest won’t take it. Something’s been living there the past week, curling in your ribs like an animal, biting at your lungs whenever you try to hold too much air. You let your back hit the wood, keys still in your hand, eyes adjusting to the same stale shadows.

The kitchen light is off. You left it that way.

But the fridge is open.

At first you think it’s just the door not sealed right, some crack letting the compressor hum like a breath. But then it moves. A shape. A shoulder shifting. A figure standing there like he never left.

Pope.

Just his face in the cold light, slack and unreadable. Forearms braced on the counter. Staring into the fridge like there’s something in it worth seeing. He doesn’t look up when you walk in. Doesn’t greet you. Doesn’t apologize.

And why would he?

You flick the switch by the door. Harsh, overhead light floods the kitchen. It hits him like a slap. He barely blinks.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you ask.

Your voice isn’t loud, but it slices. Dry. Defensive. You’re not ready to see him. You weren’t ever going to be.

He shuts the fridge slowly. Leans his hip against the counter.

“You left the back door unlocked.”

You stare. “That’s not an answer.”

He shrugs. “Thought I’d check on the kid.”

“You already did that. Three days ago. She doesn’t even remember.”

“She’s seven.” He finally looks at you. “Of course she does.”

Something in you tightens. You cross your arms to keep it from showing. “You can’t just let yourself in.”

“I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?” you snap, voice sharp, teeth bared. “Because it’s her house? Because you used to live here? Fuck her on that couch? Eat breakfast with her daughter like you weren’t already halfway out the door before the coffee was done brewing?”

He doesn’t flinch. Not even a blink. And that’s what infuriates you most—that nothing you say ever seems to get under his skin.

You want him to react. You’ve always wanted him to see you.

“She’s gone,” he says flatly. “You’re here now.”

You let the silence settle. He always had that talent—the kind that made people fill the quiet just to get rid of it. You don’t give in.

He pushes off the counter, stepping around the table. Slowly. Like he’s giving you time to adjust to his shape in the room. Like he knows how he fills it.

“You get the paperwork?”

Your eyes narrow. “You don’t get to ask that.”

“She wanted—”

“She wanted a lot of things.” You throw your keys in the bowl by the door harder than necessary, like the sound might drown out the ache in your throat. “She wanted to be clean. She wanted to live. She wanted to be a mom.”

“I know.” His voice is still maddeningly calm, like nothing ever rattles him. “I was there, too. You think I didn’t care?”

“I think you cared like it was a job,” you say, eyes flicking to the spot on the floor where he used to drop his boots. “I think she used that. I think you liked being needed until it made you hate her.”

A long pause. Then—

“You blame me,” he says. Not a question.

“I blame her,” you bite out. “I blame me. I blame everyone. What does it matter?”

He nods once, slow. Walks toward the sink. Opens the cabinet, finds the glasses like it’s still muscle memory. Like this place remembers him even if you wish it didn’t. Even if you still catch yourself standing in doorways, waiting for him to look back.

“Water?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Don’t pretend this is normal.”

He drinks anyway—slow, deliberate.

“I’ve been watching,” he says—low, rough, worn down at the edges. “Not just her kid. You.”

You don’t know whether to be angry or scared. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe it’s just that old pulse again—buried too long under everything she took before you ever had the chance to want it.

“Why?”

He sets the glass down carefully. Like he doesn’t want to startle you. Like he’s still trying to be the man your sister needed.

“Because I know what this house does.”

Your throat catches. Tight. Dry.

“She let it rot,” you whisper, voice small and shaking and too full. “She let herself rot in it.”

He nods. Once. Quiet. He doesn’t say it out loud—he doesn’t have to. He saw it too. He stayed, and you ran. That’s always been the difference.

You shift your weight, heart pounding like a truth trying to claw its way out. “You don’t get to show up and act like this is yours. Like you’re the only one left who gets to carry her.”

“I’m not,” he says. Looks at you like he means it. “You are.”

And it shouldn’t feel like a punishment. But it does.

Because he’s right.

She left the mess—but she left it to you. The wreckage. The weight. The child. The smell of smoke in the walls. The goddamn silence. Pope? He gets to haunt the corners, slip in and out like a ghost with no leash. But you—you—have to stay and live in it. Scrub the stains out of the floorboards. Pretend the pain doesn’t sound like his footsteps in the hall.

You turn away, jaw clenched so tight it hurts. You won’t let him see your eyes. Not now. Not after all these years of swallowing the part of you that wanted him first.

And that’s when he says it. Quiet. Gentle. Like it matters now.

“She said you were the only one who never lied to her.”

You go still. Stiller than still.

“She said it like a confession,” he continues. “Last time I saw her. Said she couldn’t look you in the eye anymore. Not since the baby. Said you were the only one who meant what you said. Even when it hurt.”

Your hands grip the edge of the sink. White-knuckled. Nails biting down into laminate. Not to ground yourself—no, you know where you are. You’re trying not to shatter. Not to let him see that part of you that still wants to believe him.

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because she never said it to you.”

Silence. Heavy. Sacred. Dangerous. It drips down the walls, clings to the space between your shoulder blades. It makes the house feel like it’s listening.

You stare at the wall above the sink—the same place your sister used to hang grocery lists she never followed. Where her handwriting used to live. You used to read them just to imagine what normal might’ve felt like. You used to watch him read them, too—pretending he didn’t already know how it would all fall apart.

“She wasn’t always cruel,” you say softly. Too softly.

“I know.” His voice is closer now. Closer than you’re ready for.

“But she knew how to gut you.”

“She had a gift.”

You turn. Slow. Like the weight of it might crack you.

And there he is.

Watching you like he’s seeing the ghost and not the girl. Like he knows what it costs to keep surviving her. But more than that—more than any of it—he’s looking at you the way he never used to. Not when she was here. Not when you were just the sister on the couch. Not when you burned for him and bit your tongue raw.

“Are you staying?” you ask, barely above a whisper. “Or just passing through again?”

He doesn’t blink. “Do you want me to?”

And that question—God, that question—lands in your chest like a knife you’d still let him twist. Because you don’t know. Because part of you wants to fold into him and forget the rest. Part of you wants to scream in his face. Part of you has wanted this for years, and none of it came the way it should’ve.

But the worst part?

Is that you don’t want to be alone in this house tonight. And he’s the only one who’s ever made it feel like it could be home.

Time: That night, 2:37 a.m. Location: Your sister’s house — hallway outside her old bedroom

You don’t sleep. You just lie there and sweat in the dark.

You’ve been doing that a lot lately—sweating through sheets, through your shirt, through your teeth clenched so tight you wake up with a headache. It’s not the heat. It’s not even the grief.

It’s the house.

It holds things. It holds her. You swear to God, it holds him too.

You roll over, check your phone. 2:37 a.m.

The silence feels off. Stretched too thin, like it’s holding its breath. You sit up slowly, pulse already pounding. You’ve lived in enough shitty apartments to know the difference—between a house settling and a house remembering.

You don’t turn on the light.

It’s easier not to see.

You press your feet to the floor and step into the hallway barefoot.

The wood is cold beneath your toes. The air feels heavier than it did an hour ago—like the house knows something you don’t.

You pause outside your niece’s door. Still shut. Still quiet. She sleeps the way she used to when she was small—after long days, after heartbreak. But now it feels different. Now it feels like retreat, not rest. Like she’s learned the same trick you did: vanish first, before anyone can ask why.

You move toward your sister’s door.

You should go back to bed.

It’s been almost a week since you stepped inside her room.

That had been your one boundary.

You cleaned the bathroom, scrubbed the grout with shaking hands. Rearranged the kitchen so it wouldn’t feel like a mausoleum. But the bedroom? You left it untouched. Shut the door like sealing off a limb you couldn’t afford to feel.

Because walking into that room was like crawling back into a wound.

And you’ve bled enough.

But tonight the door is open.

And the light is on.

You don’t call out. Don’t make your presence known. Because part of you already knows who’s in there. You can feel it in your chest—the static. The heat. The wrongness. The himness.

Pope.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed with his head bowed, elbows on his knees like he’s praying to something he’s already lost.

He doesn’t look up when you stop in the doorway.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” you say—quieter than you mean to.

His voice doesn’t move. “Neither should you.”

That makes your breath catch. Not because he’s wrong, but because he knows. He always fucking knows. Even when you never said a word.

You cross your arms, lean a shoulder against the doorframe.

“Thought we had a rule.”

“We didn’t.”

“I made one.”

He finally glances over. No surprise in his face. Just that same quiet—dead sea eyes, nothing on the surface but too much beneath it.

“She used to leave the door open when she wanted me to crawl back,” he says. “You remember that?”

You nod once. You were eighteen. Maybe nineteen. You remember everything. The way the door would crack just wide enough for his shadow to slip through. The way you’d sit awake across the hall, listening for the sound of his boots.

“She’d scream at me for two days. Throw my shit out in the yard. Block my number. And then the door would be open.” He gestures around the room like it’s a stage. “Light on. Bed made. Like nothing ever happened.”

“She knew how to make you beg,” you mutter.

He looks at you, sharp. Not angry. Just clear. Like he sees straight through you, down to the part that still aches when he walks into a room.

“I didn’t beg.”

“No,” you agree. “You didn’t. But you always came back.”

He leans back, palms flat on the comforter. Hands spread wide like he needs to feel the fabric beneath him to remember where he is. Who he is. Who he isn’t.

“So did you.”

And it’s true. God, it’s true.

Because you were always there—behind the door. On the stairs. In the silence between fights. You never left. Not really.

You just weren’t the one she asked for.

You push off the doorframe, walk two slow steps into the room.

“She was my sister,” you say. Like it explains everything and nothing at once.

He watches you. “You were kids together.”

You sit in the armchair near the dresser—her dresser, still covered in tarnished rings, tangled necklaces, the half-burnt stick of incense she lit the night before her last relapse. Everything left exactly how she abandoned it.

“She hated when people felt sorry for her,” you say. “That’s why she lied so much. Said she was clean when she wasn’t. Said she was sober on Christmas Eve and then passed out on the stairs an hour later.”

“She didn’t want to be seen like that.”

“No,” you murmur. “She wanted to be loved like that.”

Pope doesn’t respond. Just stares at the floor like it’s safer than looking at you. Like he’s afraid of what your face might give away.

You lean back in the chair, exhale slow. “We were so close, people couldn’t tell where I ended and she began. Thought we were twins. Then she started sleeping with my boyfriends, and suddenly the resemblance didn’t feel so flattering.”

That earns the faintest flicker of a smile. The kind that barely crests his mouth before it dies. But you see it. You always see him.

“She was always louder. Always got the attention. I’d do everything right—get good grades, make curfew—and she’d show up high at dinner and still get the last word.”

“She was fire,” Pope says. “And fire burns.”

You look at him for a long time. Too long. Like the ache in your chest has a shape now, and it’s him.

“She told me you were her last chance.”

He shifts. Slight. But you notice.

“She said that a lot.”

“But she meant it with you. You were the only one she ever… stayed clean for. Even if it never lasted.”

His voice drops. Quiet. Flat. “It was never real. The clean part. Not with me.”

You blink. Your breath catches. “What?”

“She’d lie. Say she was sober when she wasn’t. Tell me she wanted to go to meetings, but only if I went with her. She’d drag me to church on Sundays just to play house.” His hands curl on the edge of the bed. “I knew she was using again before you did.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because she’d already started using me, too.”

The room holds its breath.

Then you whisper, “She loved you.”

He shakes his head.

“She did. In her own way.”

“That’s not love,” he says. “That was ownership.”

You don’t argue. You don’t need to. You both know the kind of damage she did.

“I used to watch you,” you say, before you can stop yourself.

Pope lifts his gaze slowly.

“I’d sit in that hallway when she was yelling. Just out of sight. I’d wait for the part where you’d yell back. Where you’d leave.”

He doesn’t speak.

“But you never did.”

“She needed someone who wouldn’t.”

Your throat goes tight. Your whole body stills.

“So did I.”

The words fall like glass. Sharp. Irretrievable.

And the silence after is deafening.

Not empty.

Just full of everything you never said.

Pope’s jaw tightens, like he’s grinding something down before it slips out. His fingers twitch against the bedspread—like they want something to hold, something to do. His gaze drops—traces the curve of your knees, your bare feet curled into the carpet like you’re bracing for impact. He doesn’t look away fast enough.

You feel it like a flare in your chest. Hot. Gnawing. Old.

He exhales, long and low. “She was scared you’d love me the way she couldn’t.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you don’t.

You just sit there in the dim light, your sister’s walls pressing in like old ribs, her scent still soaked into the sheets, the air, the skin at your throat. Pope sits three feet away, looking like something half-ruined and still dangerous. Like grief only hollowed out the parts that could’ve stayed soft.

And for the first time since she died, you feel like you’re finally mourning her.

Not just because she’s gone.

But because this—this—this fragile moment between you, this silence filled with things she always took before they could be yours… this is everything she never let you have.

“I was always cleaning her up,” you say. “Not just the mess. Her. I’d hold her hair back. Cover her arms. Wipe blood off her teeth and pretend it was from brushing too hard. I lied to Dad. I lied to the kid.”

Pope leans forward. Not fast—like something’s pulling him. “You didn’t clean up,” he says, voice low. “You parented.”

The word hits somewhere deep. Somewhere sore.

You shake your head. “I loved her. That doesn’t mean I didn’t hate her too.”

He says nothing. He doesn’t have to. He knows—fourteen months apart, same house, same hell.

“She got everything first,” you murmur. “Boobs. Boyfriends. Bad decisions. I got the leftovers. The fallout. Hand-me-downs and scars she never even noticed she left. And every time she lit a fire, I was the one putting it out.”

He leans back, eyes steady on yours. “That’s why you never liked me.”

You hold his gaze. “That’s not why.”

He doesn’t flinch. He just waits. He’s always been like this—danger wrapped in quiet. And you’ve spent years avoiding this exact moment.

You hesitate. One breath. Two.

“I didn’t like you,” you say, “because you made her worse. You let her get away with shit no one else did. And every time she got clean, it was just to keep you.”

You pause. Let it simmer.

“But I couldn’t stop… wanting you anyway.”

There it is.

Hung in the air like smoke. Like confession. Like sin.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t blink.

He just sits there, wrecked and unreadable, and you think maybe that is what undoes you—that he’s finally hearing it, and not turning away.

“Say that again,” he says.

You rise to your feet.

And the ache follows you up like it’s part of your spine.

The room holds its breath as you cross the carpet, slow and deliberate—each step measured like you’re approaching something wild and damaged, something that might bite if startled.

You stop in front of him. Close enough to feel the tension radiating off his skin. Close enough to touch, but you don’t. Not yet.

“I wanted you,” you say again. “Even when I shouldn’t. Even when you were fucking her. Even when she made sure I saw it.”

His breath stutters, caught somewhere in his throat.

You lower yourself between his thighs, fingers grazing the inside of his leg—slow, certain, like a fuse being lit. Careful. Knowing. The kind of beginning that doesn’t end clean. The kind that ruins.

“She used to tell me I was boring,” you whisper. “Too clean. Too smart. Not the kind of girl men ruin.”

Pope looks down at you like you’ve just become a threat—like you’re something holy and reckless, the kind of woman men do ruin, and never recover from.

“I wanted to be ruined,” you say. “By you.”

And that’s what breaks him.

His hand twists in your hair, rough and unrelenting, dragging you up with the kind of desperation that doesn’t ask—it takes. Like he’s been holding back a storm and finally lets it swallow him whole.

The kiss is unholy. Starved. His mouth crashes to yours like a blasphemy he’s longed to speak aloud, all spit and heat and something darker—like he’s tasting damnation and begging for more. Like your ruin is sacred and he’s ready to bleed for it.

It’s violent with need—ten years of silence burning on his breath. He pulls you into his lap with a force that borders on frantic, devouring your mouth like he’s been fasting on guilt and grief and this is the first thing he’s allowed himself to want since she died.

His hands are on your back, your hips, your ass. Gripping. Claiming. Consuming. Like he’s trying to memorize you by force. Like he doesn’t trust this moment to last.

“Tell me you hate me,” he pants against your mouth, lips brushing yours, voice torn and desperate.

You shake your head. “Can’t.”

“Tell me this is a mistake.”

“It is.”

You kiss him again—harder this time—so violent it nearly topples you both. It’s not tenderness. It’s a confession in blood.

He groans—full-throated, ragged. Like it’s been trapped inside him for years. His hips jolt up, grinding into you with a heat that burns through the cotton between you.

You grind down, shameless. Raw. He’s already hard—thick, aching, leaking beneath the fabric of his sweats—and you feel the exact shape of everything you’ve ever wanted.

His hands fly to your face, rough with urgency, and he pulls you back to him like he needs to look at you. Like he can’t breathe unless your eyes are open.

“You want it slow?” he asks, voice cracked and wrecked. “Or just the part that hurts?”

"Both."

He lifts you off him in one swift, breathless movement—your body dragged from his like it wounds him to let go.

“On your knees.”

You obey.

Not because you’re submitting. Not with him.

With Pope, it’s not power—it’s surrender. It's history. It's wanting so badly it’s become a kind of religion. You crawl to the center of the bed, fingers sinking into her old comforter, and arch for him with instinct and ache, every breath shaking loose something you’ve buried.

He kneels behind you. Doesn’t touch you at first. Just breathes.

Then his hands are on your hips, tugging at your waistband—not rough, not rushed. Like every inch he bares is something he’s never thought he deserved. He slides everything down your legs in one slow motion.

You exhale like it hurts.

He stays there for a moment, hands resting on your skin—like if he moves too fast, he'll ruin you. Or himself.

You hear his breath catch. Feel his heat press up against your back.

“Look at you,” he mutters, voice low and stunned. Wrecked. “So fucking pretty like this. Can’t believe she ever called you weak.”

“She said a lot of things,” you whisper, voice trembling. You’re already unraveling.

His hand traces your spine, palm flat. “She said you were off-limits.”

You look back over your shoulder. Voice like a dare. “And are you good at following rules?”

His eyes meet yours. Burning. “No.”

He drags his fingers through the wet heat of you. Slow. Possessive. Like he’s confirming something he already knew.

“Wet already,” he says, voice guttural. “You were waiting for this.”

You nod, breath shallow. “My whole life.”

He doesn’t pause.

He fists his cock—thick, veined, flushed dark—and brings it to your entrance, dragging the blunt head through your slick with deliberate weight. Like he’s about to take something he’s been denied for years.

And then—he freezes.

“You sure?”

You glance back again, hair falling into your eyes. “You don’t get to be gentle now.”

That’s all it takes.

He drives into you in one slow, brutal, soul-tearing thrust.

You gasp—lurch forward—and arch. Nails digging into the mattress. Breath punched out of you.

And he doesn’t move.

Just stays buried, impossibly deep. One hand locked on your hip, the other pressing down at the base of your neck—holding you there, grounding you, steadying himself like this is the only way he won’t fall apart.

Like you’re the first thing that’s ever made him believe he’s real.

“You feel that?” he rasps, voice raw and shaking. “That’s me. Inside what she said I could never have.”

He pulls back.

Then slams forward.

You cry out, high and sharp, and he fucks you like he’s punishing himself for every year he pretended he didn’t want this. Like he’s finally taking what he buried alive.

The rhythm is merciless—hips snapping into you again and again, the sound obscene, wet, relentless. His hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding up your ribs, pressing you down like he wants to keep you there forever. He’s panting against your back, mouth open, breath ragged, murmuring broken things:

“Mine.”

“Should’ve been you.”

“Fuck—take me, just like that.”

You’re moaning, gasping, shaking, eyes blurred from how deep he is, how wrecked you feel. You brace your hands harder into the mattress as your body tightens around him—clenching, spiraling, gone.

When you clench, he growls, a low sound that vibrates into your bones.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Just like that. Let me wreck it.”

You nod, barely breathing, tears slipping hot down your cheeks—silent and unstoppable.

He leans over you, chest heavy on your back, and one hand slides under your stomach—ruthless, focused—fingers finding your clit with practiced cruelty. He rubs tight, filthy circles, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. It's too much. It’s perfect.

“You gonna come for me?” he mutters against your ear, voice thick, ruined. “Gonna let me feel it?”

You nod frantically, whimpering. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he snarls. “Come on. Give it to me.”

“Please—” you gasp, high and cracked.

“Let me ruin it,” he whispers. "Let me be the one who breaks it."

And you do.

You come with a sob—full-body, wrenching, your orgasm ripping through you like a scream you’ve been holding back for years. You clench around him, trembling, crying, coming apart with his name in your mouth.

He follows seconds later—slamming in deep, one final thrust that splits you open—and groans, long and guttural, like it’s killing him to let go. He spills inside you with a curse and your name dragged raw from his throat.

Then he collapses over you.

You’re both shaking. Breathing like you’ve survived something. Still joined. Still trembling.

He doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move.

Just stays there—chest flush to your back, mouth pressed to the curve of your shoulder, fingers tangled in your hair like he’s drowning and you’re the only thing that’ll keep him from going under.

“Was it worth it?” you ask, voice broken, raw.

His answer barely makes it past his lips.

“Ask me when I lose you too.”

Time: 8:19 a.m. Location: Kitchen. The morning after.

You wake up to sunlight, and the first thing you feel is him.

Not his body—he’s gone. Just the dent he left behind in the mattress. The scent of him on your skin. The ache between your legs that’s part soreness, part memory. You feel raw. Wrung out. Touched in ways you’d spent years trying not to imagine. You feel like her.

You close your eyes, but it doesn’t help. The images are branded behind your eyelids: Pope’s hand tangled in your hair. His voice in your ear. His body holding you still like he needed to memorize your shape before he could live with himself.

Let me be the one who breaks it.

You roll onto your back, and it hits you all over again—he fucked you in her bed. Not just sex. Not a mistake. A collision. A choice. A lifetime of looking and aching and staying silent that finally snapped loose. And now?

Now he’s gone.

You sit up slowly. Your thighs stick to the sheets. You wipe at the sweat on your chest. You look like a girl who got wrecked and abandoned.

You look like someone your sister would have mocked.

You dress in yesterday’s clothes and follow the scent of coffee.

You hear them before you reach the kitchen.

Her voice—small, familiar, sharp enough to gut you.

“You made them wrong,” your niece says.

Pope grunts. “There’s no wrong way to make pancakes.”

“Mom used to put bananas in.”

He doesn’t answer.

You stop at the edge of the doorway.

He’s there. At the stove. Same hoodie from last night. Hood up. Shoulders hunched like he’s trying to make himself smaller, vanish into the steam. He doesn’t look at you, but his whole body goes taut the second you enter—shoulders pulled tight, jaw locked.

He knows you’re there.

He always knows.

You used to think it was a sixth sense for violence. Now you think it’s guilt. Or longing. Or both.

“Morning,” you say, voice low.

Your niece lifts her fork and waves. “He’s making breakfast. But it’s not the way she did it.”

You look at him.

He still won’t look back.

The silence is brutal. Ticking. Loaded.

You take a step in. Measured. “Can I talk to you?”

His hand flexes on the spatula. Tight enough to crack it.

“Not now.”

“You don’t get to do that,” you snap.

That gets him.

His gaze cuts over his shoulder—sharp. Brief. A warning behind his eyes like the ones he used to give her before everything went to hell.

“Do what?” he says.

“Pretend like last night didn’t happen.”

He turns now. Fully. Slowly. Like he’s squaring up, not facing you.

“It didn’t mean anything,” he says.

But it’s too fast.

And it doesn’t sound like him. Doesn’t sound like a lie he’s practiced. Sounds like it burned his mouth to say it.

You stare. Your voice softens, but it’s no less dangerous. “That how you’re gonna handle this? Just another Pope Cody vanishing act?”

His jaw ticks. That old, silent rage moving beneath the surface.

“There’s a kid in the room,” he says, dead flat.

“Don’t use her as a shield.”

His mouth tightens. No comeback. Just a low simmer. That silence that always came before the damage.

You step closer. Cross the kitchen tile like it’s a line he’s dared you to walk.

“Look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t feel it.”

He doesn’t.

He won’t.

Because he can’t.

Because for the first time in years, you touched something real—and so did he.

And now he's too much of a coward to hold it in daylight.

You wait while she eats—sloppy bites of pancake drowning in syrup, her small hands sticky and careless, bare feet kicking at the air beneath the table like she’s still too light to be touched by everything that’s broken.

Pope doesn’t speak. Doesn’t sit. Doesn’t blink. His jaw is clenched. Shoulders coiled. He watches over her like it’s all he knows how to do. Like standing still might hold the world in place a few seconds longer.

He doesn’t eat. Doesn’t drink. Doesn’t look at you.

When the bus honks outside, she shoves her plate away, grabs her backpack off the hook, and bolts out the door without looking back.

“Bye!” she calls.

The screen door slams.

And then—nothing.

No syrup chatter. No footsteps. No excuse left to not look at each other.

That’s when the silence gets dangerous.

He’s already halfway to the door when you stop him.

“Say something real,” you breathe.

He stops. Doesn’t turn. Just stills like an animal in a snare, waiting for the next shot.

“Last night… that wasn’t some mistake. That wasn’t about her.”

He shakes his head once. A sharp cut of movement. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me.”

He turns. Slowly. Like it hurts. His face is unreadable—not empty. Buried. Like everything he’s ever felt for you got pushed somewhere too deep to dig out without bleeding.

“You think I wanted it?” he asks, voice low and cracked. “You think I planned that? I touched you in her bed.”

You fold your arms, fingers digging into your sides. “You wanted me before she died.”

He twitches like it’s a bruise you just pressed too hard.

“I saw it,” you say, breath tight. “The way you’d leave the room when I laughed too loud. The way your eyes caught on my hips when I wore her clothes. You were scared of it.”

“Of course I was scared,” he bites out. His voice splinters. “You were the only good thing left in this house.”

You blink.

The words hit harder than they should. Like a wound breaking open from the inside.

“I’m not good, Pope.”

“You are,” he says instantly, eyes locked on yours, voice ragged. “That’s why I came back.”

You blink. Again. Slower.

“I didn’t come back for her,” he says. “I came back for the kid. And for you.”

You step forward. Slow. Breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your spine.

“You kissed me like you hated yourself.”

“I did.”

Another step. “You fucked me like you were trying to forget her.”

His jaw clenches. “I was.”

And another. “But you held me like you didn’t want to let go.”

His breath catches.

And now—you’re in front of him.

Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his chest. Close enough to see the blood pulsing in his throat. Close enough to see what he won’t say in the tremble behind his eyes.

And that’s when he shatters.

Not loud.

Not explosive.

Just shatters—like a man who’s been grieving too long, loving too hard, and finally let himself want something he was never supposed to touch.

Like you’re the only thing he ever wanted that didn’t ask him to disappear.

He grabs your face. Not sweetly. Desperately. His palms are rough, trembling against your skin like he’s holding a live wire. Like this—you—is the thing that’s going to burn him alive, and he’s asking for it anyway. His forehead drops to yours, and he exhales like it hurts to be this close.

His hands are shaking.

“I don’t know how to want things without destroying them,” he breathes. Voice low. Fractured. Like it’s been stuck in his throat for years.

“I’m already broken,” you whisper.

“I know.”

And then he kisses you.

It’s not clean. It’s not even careful.

It’s devouring.

Too wet. Too fast. His mouth misses yours and lands on your jaw, your throat, your collarbone like he’s trying to bury himself in you. Like he wants to wear your skin, hide inside your ribs, press himself so deep he can forget what loving her did to him. What not touching you did to him.

His hands shove under your shirt—urgent, reckless—palming your ribs like they hold answers. He fists the back of your waistband, yanks you toward him, and lifts you up onto the counter with a grunt, breath ragged in your ear.

You gasp, sharp and startled.

He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t ask. He drags your pants down to your thighs like he’s furious they were ever on you in the first place.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he rasps, every word a confession he doesn’t want to survive. “I keep seeing you—bent over her bed. Your hands in the sheets. Your voice in my mouth.”

He pushes your legs open, staring down like it kills him. Like the sight of you is both prayer and punishment.

“I woke up hard this morning,” he chokes. “Had to jerk off in her shower. Couldn’t stop hearing you.”

You moan. Soft. Shaken. “Pope—”

He grabs your face again, rougher now, like your voice just undid something he was barely holding together.

“You wanna be mine?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

“I don’t do gentle.”

“I don’t want gentle.”

His thumb brushes your lower lip. A tremble beneath the violence.

“You say stop, I stop.”

You nod. Breathless. “I won’t.”

And that’s it.

He shoves his sweats down, rough and clumsy, teeth clenched. His hands lock around your thighs—hard, claiming—and he lines up, flushed and thick and aching.

No teasing. No question. Just one long, brutal thrust.

You cry out—your whole body arching, splintering, as he drives deep into you.

Your sound echoes off the cabinets. The floor. The silence she left behind.

He doesn’t apologize.

Doesn’t slow down.

He fucks you like it’s survival. Like he means to stay. Like this is the only way he knows how to say I’m here—not with promises, but with ruin.

Like he thinks he can erase her memory by burying himself in yours.

Your hands claw at his hoodie. He doesn’t take it off. Doesn’t even kiss you again. He just fucks you harder, like he’s chasing something down inside himself—guilt, grief, hunger. Maybe all three.

You moan his name and his grip tightens until your skin burns.

“I can’t stop wanting you,” he growls, teeth bared.

“Then don’t.”

He thrusts harder. Rougher. You fall apart with a sob—full-body, breathless, undone—your orgasm ripping through you.

And he doesn’t stop.

He keeps going until he’s gone too—slamming into you deep, groaning like it’s killing him, his release pulsing inside you, your name dragged raw from his throat like it’s the only thing he still believes in.

The kitchen is silent again.

Except for your breathing—shallow, broken. Except for his—louder, rougher, like he’s still trying to catch it. Like he’s still somewhere inside you.

Pope doesn’t move.

His forehead rests against your shoulder, breath hot where it hits your skin. One hand grips the counter beside your thigh, the other still buried in your hair. He’s trembling. Not from the cold. Not from shame.

From the fact that he’s still here.

That you’re still here.

When he finally pulls out, it’s slow. Careful. Like it hurts him to leave.

You wince, but don’t pull away. You don’t move at all.

He tucks himself back into his sweats with one hand, the other never leaving your skin.

You expect him to speak. To backtrack. To run.

He doesn’t.

He stands between your legs, eyes closed, hands now resting on your hips—thumbs rubbing slow circles like he’s grounding himself. Like he’s trying to learn what staying feels like.

You whisper, “What now?”

He opens his eyes. Bloodshot. Devastated.

“I don’t know,” he says. “But I don’t want to leave.”

Your throat tightens. You nod.

“I won’t make you promise anything,” you say.

“Good,” he mutters. “I break those.”

A pause.

Then—his hand lifts. Brushes your hair behind your ear. Fingers trembling.

“I don’t know how to be what you need,” he says quietly.

“You already are,” you answer. “You’re still here.”

His jaw clenches.

And for the first time in years, you see it on his face—not guilt, not rage.

Hope.

Tiny. Fragile. Flickering.

But alive.

He kisses you again. Slow this time. Like thanks. Like maybe, if he’s careful enough, this won’t burn too.

And when he rests his forehead to yours again, he doesn’t shake.

He breathes.

And so do you.

[mercvry-glow]

Back again

parings. andrew "pope" cody x reader

summary. an unexpected visitor breaks into your house after having spent years locked away. unexpected, but not necessarily unwelcome.

warnings. age gap (pope 39, reader late 20s), breaking and entering, gun mentioned but not used, reader and pope have a son together, cody family mention, pope is awkward af but literally when is he not, reader does not stand on business and misses pope, pope in general, let me know if there's anything else.

notes. I genuinely struggled so hard with this, but it's finally out. I love the show though and am so glad shawn is getting his flowers with how popular the pitt became. if this flops, idk how much i'll regularly write for pope but if something pops into my head or if i get more requests i'll see what i can do! as always thank you so much and any and all feedback is appreciated!

wc. 2800+

It was past midnight.

The waves outside crashed gently against the cliffs, the ocean reflecting slivers of moonlight. Your bathroom—marble floors, soft golden lighting, wide windows overlooking the water—was quiet except for the hum of your favorite playlist and the low hiss of the shower shutting off.

You wrapped the towel around yourself, tucking it at your chest as you padded across the warm floors. Steam clung to the mirrors, fogged your reflection. You barely glanced at it. Just another night, just another routine. Lip balm, face serum, silk robe. Everything in its place. Controlled. Safe.

Until the lights flickered.

You froze. Turned slowly. Then the hallway sensor triggered—that soft click you weren’t supposed to hear from this side of the house.

Your stomach dropped.

This was a gated home. Security on every window and door. Patrols after dark. You lived here because no one was supposed to get in.

But someone had.

You grabbed the drawer under the sink. Your fingers skimmed the handle of the pistol you never thought you’d need to use again. Heart racing, you crept to the open door of the bathroom, back pressed to the wall, breath locked in your chest.

Then you heard it. Slow, steady footsteps on the hardwood. Not rushing. Not clumsy.

Deliberate.

And then he appeared.

You nearly dropped the gun.

“Jesus—”

“Hey,” Pope said quietly, stepping into the golden glow of the bathroom like he belonged there. Like this was his house. His ocean view. His night.

You stared at him—dripping water, towel barely hanging on, heart pounding so loud you couldn’t think. He looked the same and not the same. Bigger. Leaner. That same raw, unreadable face. Eyes locked on you like they hadn’t looked at anything else in three damn years.

“How—how the fuck did you get in?” you finally breathed, voice shaky but sharp.

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked around. The bathroom. The house behind you. You.

“Security’s good,” he murmured. “But I’m better.”

Your fingers tightened on the handle of the pistol.

“Put it down,” he said softly. “If I wanted to hurt you… I wouldn’t be standing here talking.”

You hesitated. Then set it on the counter with a hard clack.

“You broke into my house.”

“I needed to see you.”

“You could’ve called.”

“You wouldn’t have answered.”

He took a step closer. You didn’t move, but your breath caught. Everything about him still made your skin burn—fear, fury, and something dangerously close to longing.

“I got out,” he said. “And you weren’t at our old house. Smurf told me you moved. Gave me pictures. Told me you were doing good.”

“Pictures?” Your voice broke. “She gave you pictures?”

“Of him too.”

Your heart clenched.

“I didn’t come to fight,” he said quietly. “Didn’t come to take anything. I just… I couldn’t sleep knowing you were out here, and I didn’t know if you were okay.”

You stared at him, the towel still wrapped tight around you, pulse thrumming through every inch of your body. The man who once held you like the world might end. The father of your child. The ghost that haunted every night you told yourself you were over him.

“I should call the cops.”

He nodded. “You should.”

But you didn’t move.

Neither did he.

And the silence between you burned.

You still didn’t move.

Pope stood just inside your bathroom, jaw tight, chest rising slow like every breath burned. His eyes swept over the space—over you—like he couldn’t believe it was real. Like maybe he’d dreamed this place a hundred times in a concrete cell and wasn’t sure yet if this was another one.

“Where is he?”

Your chest tightened. “He’s here, in his room.”

His brow twitched. “Here?”

You nodded, heart pounding. “Down the hall. Asleep.”

He blinked like you’d hit him.

You crossed your arms. “Didn’t see the point in running. Not when I already knew you would find us.” That landed. He looked away, jaw flexing, like he hated how easily he could’ve shown up if he’d tried.

“I figured you’d leave,” he said after a moment. “Take Danny. Disappear.”

You held his stare. “I thought about it. But… he’s got your last name. And I wasn’t gonna lie about that.”

Pope’s eyes flicked toward the hallway—like he could see through the walls. Like the kid he hadn’t seen in three years was just around the corner, breathing softly in his bed.

“Is he okay?” His voice cracked just a little. “I mean… is he good?”

You nodded slowly. “He’s wild. Sweet. Always asking questions. He’s obsessed with dinosaurs. He thinks mac and cheese is gourmet.”

A ghost of a smile touched Pope’s mouth, then faded fast.

“He’s four now?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit.”

You didn’t say anything.

“Does he… does he know about me?”

You swallowed hard. “Only what I told him. That his dad had to go away for a while. But that he loves him.”

Pope stared at the ground for a long moment, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“I never got to say goodbye,” he said.

“I know.”

“I thought about him every damn day.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t trust yourself to.

“Can I see him?” he asked, voice rough. “Just for a second. I won’t wake him, I swear.”

You should’ve said no. Should’ve thrown him out right then and there.

But you couldn’t.

“Be quiet,” you whispered.

He followed you out of the bathroom. Every step down the hall felt heavy, soaked in everything unsaid. You stopped at the second door on the right—blue paint chipped from tiny hands slamming it too hard, a crooked dinosaur sticker stuck near the bottom.

You eased it open.

There he was—Danny. Small and soft and curled up in a tangle of blankets, one hand clutching a stuffed T-Rex, the other flopped above his head like he’d passed out mid-adventure. A dim night light lit up the corner, casting shadows over his round cheeks and dark lashes.

You felt Pope stop behind you.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. You didn’t even need to look at him to feel what was radiating off him like heat.

Grief. Wonder. Love. Guilt.

He stepped just close enough to see better—just close enough that his hand brushed the doorframe.

“I missed all of it,” he whispered.

You nodded. “Yeah. You did.”

He stared a little longer, eyes full of something thick and breaking. Then he backed away, slowly.

“Thank you,” he said, voice shaking.

You didn’t reply. Just quietly shut the door behind you.

And for a long, fragile moment, neither of you said anything.

Eventually you had taken him downstairs, after getting dressed. You moved around your kitchen slowly, barefoot on cold tile, the silence stretching between you as the fridge door hummed and the rain ticked against the windows. You grabbed two glasses just… needing something to do with your hands.

Andrew stood near the counter, watching you with that unreadable look he always had—like he was half in the room, half stuck in his own head. 

Staring. Always Staring. 

“I drove by our old place the other day,” you said, trying to sound casual. “It was gone. Sold, actually.”

He didn’t look surprised. “Yeah. Smurf sold it while I was inside, probably after you moved.”

You blinked. “She really sold it? That was your house.”

He shrugged, something bitter flashing in his eyes. “Technically it was Smurf’s. Always was. She held the deed. Didn’t want to ‘waste’ it on me rotting in prison after you left too.”

Your stomach twisted. “Jesus…”

“It’s fine,” he muttered, like it didn’t matter. “Wasn’t much to come back to anyway.”

You leaned against the island, glass in hand. “I thought you’d still be staying there. Honestly, I figured I’d see you lurking in the backyard one day.”

A corner of his mouth twitched. “Didn’t think you wanted me anywhere near you.”

You gave a small, tired smirk. “Depends on the day.”

He didn’t laugh, but you saw the tension in his shoulders ease just a little. Still, he wouldn’t sit. Wouldn’t touch the water. Like he didn’t trust himself to get comfortable.

You let the silence hang a beat longer, then asked gently, “You been staying with your family?”

“Yes and no, mainly staying at a motel,” he said. 

You raised an eyebrow. “They don’t want you in the house?

“Pretty much.”

“And Smurf?”

He paused, eyes flicking toward the window. “She called it. Gave me some cash, some kid’s been staying in my room. You remember J?”

You swallowed. “Barely, but that sounds like your mom.”

He glanced at you. “You still see her?”

You hesitated. “Sometimes. Holidays, mostly. She sends gifts. Makes a show of being ‘Grandma Smurf.’” You exhaled, slow and careful. “It’s… complicated.”

“I bet,” he murmured.

You met his eyes. “I don’t hate her. For his sake, or yours, I let her in. But I don’t trust her.”

He nodded. “Good.”

Another pause. Then softly, “I didn’t think you’d still be here.”

“In Oceanside?”

He nodded once.

You let your fingers trail the edge of the counter. “Thought about leaving. But this is where he was born. Where we held him for the first time. I didn’t want to erase that just because it hurt.”

Pope looked at you like you’d cracked something in him wide open.

“I thought maybe you’d changed your name,” he said.

“I didn’t,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “I wanted him to remember where he came from. Even if he didn’t know all the details.”

Pope swallowed hard, his voice a low rasp. “I don’t deserve that.”

You shrugged. “It wasn’t about you.”

He looked down at the floor, then back at you, and for a second, it felt like time folded in on itself. Like you were young again, still stupid in love with the broken, furious man no one else could understand.

But you weren’t that girl anymore.

And he wasn’t that guy.

Still… your voice came soft, like it always did with him.

“You should stay. I’ll set out some blankets for the guest room.”

Pope didn’t move. “I don’t want to mess this up.”

You gave a tired smile. “Then don’t, Andrew.”

It didn’t take long for you to set him up, and go back to your own room. Sleep didn’t come easy after that conversation, and knowing that Andrew was in the house at your own volition didn’t do anything to ease the worry building in your chest. You didn’t know what time it was when you woke up—just that the light leaking through your curtains was soft and gray-blue, the kind that came before sunrise on cloudy mornings. Your pillow was warm. Your body was tired. But something pulled you from sleep. Some shift in the air.

Something was different.

You blinked your eyes open and sat up slowly, the ache in your chest blooming before your thoughts caught up. You glanced at the empty space in your bed. The hallway was quiet. Too quiet.

Then—faintly—voices.

You slipped out of bed barefoot once again, heart ticking fast for reasons you didn’t want to name. The air in the hallway was cool against your skin. You padded toward the stairs, one hand on the railing, every step measured like your body remembered how to be careful in moments like this.

The TV was on.

You crept down, slow and quiet, and paused just before the last step.

And there they were.

Danny curled up on the couch, wrapped in his blue fluffy blanket, head resting against a pillow like he’d done it a hundred times before. And next to him, hunched with his elbows on his knees, was Pope. Quiet, still, eyes trained on the screen—but not really watching.

He looked like he’d been sitting there for hours.

The TV played some old cartoon—one of those early-morning classics with soft colors and slower dialogue. Danny was focused, small smile tugging at his lips. Pope looked like he couldn’t breathe without permission.

He didn’t notice you at first.

Not until Danny mumbled something—“That guy’s mean,”—and Pope gave a little grunt of agreement.

Then his eyes lifted, soft hazel meeting yours.

His whole body tensed like he was about to explain himself, apologize, vanish into the walls. But you didn’t say anything. You just stood there, hand on the railing, heart breaking in slow motion.

“He couldn’t sleep,” Pope said softly. “Said he had a bad dream.”

You nodded, trying to find your voice. “He gets those sometimes.”

“I was coming down to make coffee. He was already up.”

“And you turned on cartoons?” you asked, almost smiling.

Pope looked down, a little sheepish. “Figured it was better than silence.”

You stepped off the last stair, legs slow, body unsure.

Danny caught sight of you and beamed. “He knows all of my shows!.”

“Oh yeah?” You swallowed the lump in your throat. “That’s impressive.”

“He doesn’t know the guy with the stick though.”

Pope gave a small, amused grunt. “I got nothing.”

Danny nodded. “It’s okay.”

You stood behind the couch for a second, arms crossed gently over your chest, watching the two of them. The way Danny had unconsciously scooted closer. The way Pope hadn’t moved a muscle, like shifting might shatter the moment.

You circled around and sat on the arm of the couch, your eyes on your son.

“You okay, baby?”

Danny nodded, rubbing his eye. “I’m not tired.”

“You want breakfast?”

“Not yet,” He leaned against the pillow. “I wanna finish this!”

“Okay bossy pants,” You glanced over at Pope. He was looking at Danny like he was still trying to believe he was real. That this whole thing wasn’t some dream he’d conjured behind a motel curtain.

You lowered your voice.

“How long’ve you been sitting here?”

“A while,” Pope admitted. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

You watched him a second, heart twisting in your chest. He looked more human now. Less like a ghost from your past, but still haunted.

He flicked his eyes toward you, voice quieter. “He’s good. You did good.”

You didn’t say anything for a beat. Then you nodded. “Thanks.”

The cartoon kept playing. The sky outside turned a little lighter, and things almost felt normal—Like the past three years had never happened. 

The cartoon kept playing in the background. The sky outside turned a little lighter, and things almost felt normal—like the past three years had never happened.

You sat in the quiet for a while, watching Danny’s eyelids droop again, little body finally giving in to sleep. His fingers still clutched the edge of his blanket, leaning into Pope, knowing nothing about personal space. 

Andrew hadn’t moved, barely even breathed, like one wrong shift might wake him or make you change your mind.

You turned your eyes to him, quiet. “So… are you planning on coming back?”

He looked at you then, really looked, his eyes tired and soft and full of something that made your chest ache.

“Only if you want me to.”

Your fingers tightened where they rested on the couch cushion. You wanted to say yes. God, part of you wanted to say it too quickly. But the rest—the part that remembered the weight of his family, the danger they lived in, the years you spent trying to keep Danny far away from it all—held you back.

“I don’t know if I can let you back into his life like nothing happened,” you said quietly. “Not after everything. Not if there’s even a chance they’ll pull you under again.”

“I wouldn’t let them,” Pope said. No hesitation. Just that low, steady conviction that used to scare you when it was aimed at other people, one you didn’t know if you could believe. “They don’t get to have that power anymore. Not over me, not over you, and not over him.”

You looked at him for a long moment. And whatever was in his face—grit, sorrow, a promise he hadn’t figured out how to say out loud—felt real.

“I want to believe you,” you whispered. “But I need more than words this time.”

He nodded slowly. “Then I’ll give you more.”

Your eyes fell to Danny, his lashes long against his cheeks, chest rising and falling in soft little breaths.

“You scared me last night,” you said. “But not because I thought you’d hurt us, just… well—I’m sure you get it”

“I do,” Pope murmured. “I get it.”

Another long, aching silence stretched between you. Then he shifted slightly, brushing Danny’s blanket up over his shoulder with a gentleness that shattered something inside you.

“I don’t want to blow this,” he said, eyes still on his son. “I’ll take whatever you’ll give me.”

You breathed in slow. Let it out slower.

“Okay,” you said. “Then stay for breakfast.”

Pope looked at you, the faintest flicker of relief in his eyes. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Just… don’t make a habit of breaking into my house.”

That earned the tiniest smile. “No promises.”

But the tension had cracked. The ice was melting, slowly. And somewhere in the quiet, cautious hope started to grow. The cartoon shifted to the next episode. The sun crept higher, lighting up the kitchen in soft gold.

And this time, it felt like maybe you wouldn’t be facing the morning alone.

mercvry-glow 2025

[stellamarielu]

worthy

andrew “pope” cody x female reader

summary: you tell andrew you want to start a new life with him— away from the chaos of his family, and he agrees with another future promise on his mind

content: nsfw, 18+ mdni, a sprinkle of angst & a dash of fluff but almost entirely smut, pope with a nasty breeding kink, lots of pregnancy talk, reader has hair but no explicit description of it’s appearance, gut wrenching intimacy, fingering, cum play, we’re doing cowgirl AND mating press buckle up baby!

word count: 3.4k

author’s note: hi hello, i am HEAVY on my pope cody shit rn, and i know we’re all longing to give that man a baby, so i thought i'd take one for the team and write this little fic. let’s just imagine this is some kind of alternate universe where pope gets a happy ending, and a family of his own.

Wet curls gather at your fingertips, as Andrew’s head burrows deeper into your chest. Your hand passes through his hair, absentmindedly following the pattern of his curls, as he concentrates on the sequence of your steady breath underneath his cheek. 

“Long night?” A soft whisper leaves your lips as you continue threading your fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. 

He doesn’t respond, just subtly nudges further into your touch. 

You let a blanket of silence fall over the room. 

He’d been gone most of the day, out on a job. When he finally got home he walked straight past your frame laying in bed, heading directly for the bathroom, barely acknowledging you before turning on the shower and filling the room with steam. 

You gave him space, letting the water wash the remnants of his remorse down the drain. 

Solitude played a pivotal role in Pope’s ability to process his actions after a particularly long day. You’d learned to give him time alone when he came home from a job, knowing he’d seek out your comfort when he was ready— when he felt worthy of your silent forgiveness. 

He’ll always remember the first time his feet carried him up the stairs of your front porch in search of your nurturing exoneration. Him and his brothers had just pulled off an incredibly intricate heist, one that he should’ve been proud of— relieved by the success of their endeavors. Instead, he strayed from his family’s celebration, finding himself on the doorstep of the girl he’d been seeing for the past few weeks. A girl he had no business keeping in his life. In fact, every moment he spent with you up until that point had been laced with worry and hesitation, scared that he’d taint you with his unruly lifestyle. But you were unlike anyone he’d ever known, never running out of compassion and holding yourself steady with a soft disposition, it drew him to you. The magnetic field of your aura calling to him, as his heavy hand knocked on your door, still shaky from the adrenaline and regret coursing through his veins.  

You didn’t ask any questions, just helped him get cleaned up and pulled him into bed next to you. His body fit perfectly beside yours under the thick fluffy linen of your duvet. All he could think about the entire night was that white comforter, and how it was far too pure to envelop someone like him.

Neither of you said a word, he just laid with his head on your chest while you ran your fingers through his hair until he fell asleep. Limbs intertwined in the same way they would be every single night after that. 

Now your house was just as much his. His clothes in your drawers, his toothbrush next to yours by the bathroom sink, his shoes by the front door; it was his home too now- you were his home. 

Pope never knew anything other than the life handed to him by smurf. His perception of the world was dark, hopeless, primitive. He’d been raised that way. Never thinking he could be anything other than a bomb on a detonator just waiting to self-destruct. He was destined for a life full of pain and deception— destined to be Pope Cody. 

But then he became your Andrew. 

Despite everything you learned about him— you stuck around. Never using the nickname assigned to him as a kid, instead exclusively calling him by the name given to him at birth, the name graced upon him when he was still undiluted, clean of the mess waiting ahead of him. 

He’d never loved someone the way he loved you. He never even thought it was possible. But when he came home to you at the end of a long night, with his head on your chest, listening to the smooth beating of your heart as you graced him with your gentle touch, he found redemption. There was vindication in your forgiveness— an unspoken, yet absolute commitment to him.  

“Maybe it’s finally time for us to get out of here.” Your voice was still quiet and your hands continued their movement at Andrew’s scalp as he laid on your chest.

“We could go up north, get a house somewhere…” You begin devising a plan as he relaxes further into your touch, his face hidden from your view, making it impossible to see his reaction to your words. 

“maybe the mountains…” Your voice is mild, matching the soft rhythm of your strokes through his hair.

“Nothing extravagant, just two or three bedrooms. We could start over, on our own.”

The words trail out of your mouth, thoughts spewing as you look down at the man laying on your lap. You knew he thought about it— leaving. The two of you had talked about it before, yet here you were.

“We could be free from all of this. You deserve a normal life Andrew.”

He doesn’t.

That’s all he can think as you continue petting his hair, your touch keeping him in a trance, acting as a mirage of warmth and protection washing over him. Showing him a vision of a man deserving of love. 

“I don’t know about the mountains.” His tone was gruff, words fighting against his throat as they slipped into the air. 

“You don’t do well with the cold.” You couldn’t see his face but you knew there was a slight smirk on his lips by the sound of his voice. 

“When should we go?”

His question was simply spoken— genuine.

For the first time that night, your fingers paused, intertwined in the deep auburn of his curls as you sat in silence.

The lull in your movements was rectified by his own fingers toying with the hem of your panties. It wasn't inherently sexual, but rather tender, as his fingertips traced the skin at your waist, dipping under the material just enough to coax a shallow breath from your chest. 

“Andrew…” You whispered his name, spoken like a quiet warning underneath the gasp at feeling his touch trailing lower inside your underwear. 

“Tomorrow? Next week?” The questions mumble from his lips as he keeps his face smushed into the material of your shirt.

With a hand inside your underwear, his middle finger comes to a resting position on your clit. You instinctively curl your fingers into his scalp at the feeling of him rubbing small, delicate circles in between your thighs.  

“I’m ovulating.” Another warning from your lips as you sigh from the relief of his touch on your body. 

You tracked your cycle religiously. It had become your primary form of birth control, definitely not the most foolproof, but it hadn’t failed you yet. 

He didn’t stop at your warning, just kept pressing soft circles into your clit.

“We should stop.” You tug on his hair a little as the words leave your mouth, trying to confirm the seriousness of the situation.

“Yeah?”

He rustles in his spot until his face is peering up at you, wearing an expression of pride. 

“So, just you and me in that two bedroom house then?” 

His big soft eyes bore into yours with your hands still holding onto his hair, frozen at the implication on his lips. 

The feeling stirring in his chest was foreign. 

A sudden longing for something he’d never had.

A family. A baby. Your baby. His baby. Not given to him, not found, but born. A piece of him brought into the world in the most pure form, built from a place of unconditional love. A promise of what could be. It was so daunting- the idea of it, but he couldn’t shake the anticipation coursing through his veins as he stared intently, watching your eyes widen upon hearing his words. 

“Are you serious?” Your lips curl into a smile at the implication— him wanting to get you pregnant. He’d never once mentioned having kids. Never once came in you with the intent of knocking you up, so the topic catches you off guard.

He takes your wonder-struck grin of infatuation as disbelief— possible amusement that he’d ever think you’d want to have a baby with him.

His eyes lose their hopeful glimmer, gaze suddenly growing rigid and darting away from you at the potential doubt lacing your words. Of course you didn’t want to have a baby with him. He was a mess— his life was a mess. 

“Andrew…” You draw out his name in a soft, sweet breath as you attempt to get him to look at you, but he’s already lost, wandering the maze of remorse and self-doubt paved in his mind. 

His hand slips from your panties, and his body pulls into a seated position against the headboard. He refuses to look at you. The disgust on his face is evident, and you know he’s angry— not at you, not at the situation, but at himself.

Throwing the comforter off your body, you sit up, crawling onto his lap, straddling his hips and sitting back on his thighs. 

“Andrew?” The one word question lingers in the air as you cock your head to the side, your hands wandering up his bare chest, until they’re at his jaw pulling his gaze up to meet yours.

His stare is cautious as he peers up, leaning in to your thumbs rubbing back and forth at his cheeks. 

“Do you want to have a baby?” You stare deeply into his eyes, your tone low and serious.

You search his expression, trying to gauge what’s going through his mind. His eyes hold a picture of bewildered hope before he’s crashing his lips onto yours. Kissing you like he’s starving. His hands shoot to your hips, gripping hard as his lips interlock with yours. 

He’s nodding pathetically with his mouth against yours. Not capable of forming words through the adrenaline fueling his actions, he just kisses you harder, shaking his head to communicate the answer to your question. Yes, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that he wanted to give you a baby.

He reaches for the hem of your shirt, pushing the material up until one of his hands splays out over your stomach, caressing the skin of your lower abdomen. His pupils are shot as he pulls back from the kiss to look between your eyes, and his hand resting on your skin. 

“Is that what you want?” His stare is focused on his hand caressing your belly.

You nod.

“Say it.” 

His demand is stern as his stare moves to your face- intense and rough.

“I want you to fuck me full Andrew…” 

A soft groan leaves his lips. 

“Want you to put a baby in me.”

His hands immediately find the waistband of your panties, fighting the urge to rip the thin material straight from your body. 

He yanks at them until you’re hovering over his lap, aiding him in getting them down your legs. He pulls his own underwear off, and you're back on his lap. The only piece of clothing left between you is the shirt on your back, which he immediately peels off your torso.

Both of you are completely bare, and he pulls you back to him with his hands threaded through your hair, kissing you with the same hunger as before. Fueled by the thought of finishing in you, filling you with every last drop, and fucking you until it seeps back out around his cock through every thrust. 

His hand comes down between your bodies, two thick fingers at your entrance, circling, but not daring to push in. He lets out a weak grunt, as he plays in the pool of slick threatening to drip down your legs. Amazed by how wet you are, his mind buzzes at the idea of you already being such a mess from the mere mention of him getting you pregnant. He has half a mind to push his dick into you right then and there— to thrust into you to the hilt and pull your hips down onto him over and over again until he’s cumming once, twice, maybe even three times, until you're full and leaking, practically crying from how good it feels, but he wont, not yet. 

Andrew always makes you cum first. Always ensuring that you're shaking on his fingers, or seeping onto his tongue before he gets his dick wet between your folds. Not because it’s the chivalrous thing to do, but because he’s obsessed with it; watching how your body reacts to him, knowing exactly what angle of his fingers makes you twitch. The exact speed to circle your clit with his tongue to have you clenching your legs around his head. It’s the routine of it, the satisfaction in hearing you cry out his name, and knowing he can do it again and again. Treating your pleasure like a game he’ll always win. 

But tonight, you grip his wrist, stopping him before you can feel the ease of his fingers sinking into you. 

“Not tonight.” You move his hand from between your legs, bringing it up to your mouth and placing a gentle kiss to his palm.

“Just wanna feel you.” You mumble into the palm of his hand before guiding it to rest on your cheek. He’s holding your face carefully as you shift your weight until you feel his length nudging at your entrance. 

Sinking down, your cheek pushes further into his palm, and he holds you steady, his chest heaving as he fills you inch by inch. 

You wait for a second before you move, focusing on how deep he feels as you sit there with him pushed completely into you. 

He always fucked you with reverance. Fucked you like he meant it— long deep strokes in purposeful positions where he could see your face, watching your eyes roll back in your head with pleasure. But, in this moment, he was frozen. His hands holding your face, eyes locked on yours, mind echoing with your voice asking him to give you a baby. He lets you take your time, grinding down onto him with little whimpers escaping your throat as you rock your hips. 

Your hands find his chest, bracing against his body as you move over him, keeping a steady pace. In a complete daze, you angle your hips a little differently to bury his dick even further into you, and he watches your face as it contorts in pleasure. Your hips have a mind of their own as they move in a perfectly calculated rhythm. Your eyes are on him, but glazed over with a distant fog while you mindlessly chase your release, riding him with a desperation he’d never seen before. 

He knows you're close. He can see it in the familiar twitch of your jaw, and the focused furrow of your brows. 

He brings a hand down between your bodies, flat at the base of his cock until your clit is gliding across his knuckles. Using the position of his hand to double your pleasure, he watches as you feverishly rub against him, using him for your own pleasure. 

Your fingertips at his chest mount harder, and your head falls back, strangled moans slipping past your lips as your hips move faster. Snapping back and forth until they’re stuttering. 

Andrew’s hands are still on your face, adjusting your head to make your eyes level with his. Making sure he gets to watch you cum. 

Your mouth falls open, eyes zoned in on his as you cum around his cock. Your pulsing and shuttering, the only thing keeping your body from slumping forward into his are his hands still holding your head steady. 

A current of pleasure washes through you, lingering in the spasms of your thighs, as Andrew watches. Giving you a moment to breathe, he lets his hands move from your face, pushing through your hair and trailing down to your waist. 

With his dick still buried deep into you, he maneuvers your body until your back is on the mattress. He brings your legs up until your knees are practically against your chest, trapped under his weight as he hovers over you. 

“What was that you said earlier?” His soft growl is just inches from your ear as he presses further into you. 

“About fucking you full?”

You don’t answer, you can’t. Not with the way his dick is buried so far into you, grinding deliberately against the plush of your walls, tip threatening to kiss your cervix. 

Something must’ve snapped in him while he watched you finish, because Andrew isn’t normally this vocal in bed. He’ll groan and whine, speak a brief praise, or quick command, but he’s not one for extensive dirty talk. Hearing him speak like this, looking you in the eyes while he pulls out slowly just to plunge back into you, is unlike him. 

He’s completely entranced by your body under his control. Unable to think about anything other than giving you all of him. The need takes over his entire body, and he can’t help but vocalize it.  

“Want me to fill you up?”

His head comes down to rest against yours, foreheads meeting as he bucks his hips into you hard.

“Want me to give you a baby?”

You nod with your head pressed against his, a pitiful, whining mess at his words. 

Then he drives into you. Serving you deep, deliberate strokes as he keeps your legs folded against your body. Thrusting with a melody of raspy, breathless groans at his lips, his hot breath fans over your face as he fucks you. He loses all control, taken over by a primal need to fill you with his release— to see you carrying his child. 

He’s relentless. Letting the way your nails drag down his back, spur on the sinful slapping of skin on skin that fills the room. It’s not fast, but intentional— purposeful. Each thrust a promise of your future as he keeps his eyes on you, Telling you he loves you in the intimacy of his body colliding with yours. 

“Please Andrew.” The two words are whispered from your lips, begging to feel him soak into you, asking for him to give you everything. And It’s all you have to say for him to completely come undone.

He cums with a string of strangled moans, the weight of his body completely crumbling into you, his forehead still resting against yours.

His body is heaving, dick still buried inside of you- nearly quivering. You bring your hands to his hair, playing with his curls as he comes down from his high.

He pulls back after a few seconds, sliding out of you, and sitting up, freeing you from the weight of his torso on yours. You raise up onto your elbows, watching as he kneels between your legs.

He puts a hand on one of your thighs, prying your legs further apart while he watches your pussy, messy and swollen underneath him. 

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look up at you, just stares down between your legs, parted for him. Waiting. Standing by in anticipation to see himself dripping from your core. 

You feel it, thick and warm as it seeps at your opening. 

Before it can pool on the sheets beneath you, Andrew brings his thumb to your entrance, thick and sturdy, and pushing into you. His finger sinks in to the knuckle, a low moan leaving your mouth as you both watch between your legs as he fucks his spend back into you. Stroking a few times before making his way back up your body, hovering over you until you feel his dick, still hard and throbbing, gliding through your folds.

“Andrew…” You feel light headed as you pant out his name, and it almost sounds like a cry. 

“Thought you wanted me to keep going till I knocked you up?” His voice approaches a playful tone as he raises his brows along with his words. 

He doesn’t say anything else, just pushes all the way back into you, thrusting nice and slow, determined to fuck you through the night if that’s what it takes. All he knows, is that this time next month, you’ll be pregnant with his baby.

[girthgrudgefear]

craig's "friend" | craig cody x reader x andrew 'pope' cody

plot summary?: pope walks in on craig and craig's "friend" (you) going at it. what is supposed to be a one-off thing turns into a regular occurrence; and much to craig's chagrin, you couldn't be less bothered by it.

contains?: pope cody, craig cody, reader-insert, shameless smut, creeper pope, mentions of deran, smurf, j, baz, and lena.

warnings?: 18+/minors dni; accidental voyeurism turned not so accidental; healthy amount of cuss words; p in v sex; no protection mentioned; nudity; squirting.

notes?: takes place between s2-3. no beta we die like [airhorn]. no clue how long this is but i think it’s like 2k words

“friends” wasn’t the word that you and craig should use for what you are to each other. but if either of you had to describe it, both parties would concede to the term with no contest.

and it drives pope crazy.

because if pope even had half of what you had with him, if pope even had the chance to touch you the way craig did, you would be his. instantly and infinitely.

but, no, you were craig’s "friend." and he didn’t care, because you were too young for him anyway. and you were too bright. and too soft.

he decided this one night when he turned up at the house.

smurf was out, as were deran and j. but you were on the couch, watching craig play call of duty. for once there were no white lines cut on the coffee table's glass tray, no joint, half-lit, hanging haphazardly from one of smurf's decorative bowls.

no, it was just you and him.

craig, bigger than most, took up an entire cushion in the center of the sofa. he leant forward, both legs spread wide, elbows on the tops of his knees as he essentially button-mashed his way through a campaign. you were curled up next to him, taking up less than a quarter of the cushion beside his. you hugged your knees as you quietly watched him play.

pope, having let himself in through the garage door, walked over from the kitchen when he heard craig seemingly curse to himself.

“shit.” craig sank back into the couch just as captain reyes succumbed to his wounds. the screen doesn’t even have time to reset at his last checkpoint before he pauses the game and tosses his controller to the side.

the tall brunet turns to you in an instant, one of his big hands settled on your left thigh and the other toying with the strap of your bikini top.

“welp.” he says to you, popping the ‘p’. he wastes no time, closing the space between you both to press a chaste kiss to your chest and then another to your neck. when he begins to lightly suckle the skin there, you pull away. making a face, he chases after you until he’s able to lay claim to a patch of skin on your collarbone. this time, with a knowing sigh, you settle.

“i’m not having sex on your mother’s couch, craig. i told you that you need to find a new apartment.”

craig hummed, not paying you any mind. “c’mon, babe.” he sighs wistfully, smoothing his palm down your inner thigh as a means of forcing your knees apart.

“it’s gonna take me forever to find a new one. i can't wait that long.” he said.

you had no time to reply. by the time you turned your head, smart quip on your tongue, craig slipped his into your mouth.

your feigned disinterest is wicked away under his ministrations. secretly, you were waiting for him to touch you, to give you attention, and he knew it. a glutton for pleasure, you would never turn down craig - whatever he gave, you received happily.

craig’s hand crept lower and lower until his fingers hooked on a belt loop on your shorts. reaching down, your knuckles brushed his for a moment as you undid the button and zipper. you barely have time to shuck your bottoms down your thighs when you feel him force his hand past the waistband of your bikini thong.

“fuck. you’re so fucking wet.” he pants against your mouth, a thin trail of spit connecting his bottom lip to yours.

“i’ve been waiting for you to get off of that game for hours.” craig seals his mouth over yours again and any other complaints you have are inconsequential.

you feel two of his fingers nudging against you and you’re damn near vibrating with excitement. you begin to lean away from him once you feel that stretch, finally breaking the kiss once he gives up on being gentle and pushes in to the first knuckle. you reward him with a moan, once breathy, all but punched out of you as he begins to piston his middle and ring finger in and out of you.

and you don’t last long. it’s impossible with the way craig touches you and how ridiculously easy it is for him to get you worked up in the first place. somewhere in the way that he jostled you the thin strap of your bikini, once tied at the nape of your neck, comes loose. you don’t care even when you feel the dainty cups slipping down your chest until one of your breasts is exposed to the air completely. craig, enraptured now by the way you look coming undone, doesn’t miss a beat. you whimper when you feel him latch on to your pebbled nipple.

“m'gonna come.” you ignore the feel of craig’s beard moving against your skin, no doubt in your mind that he’s smirking up at you from where his head is pressed against your chest. you feel hot all over, from the top of your head to the tip of your toes. you push yourself up off of the cushion just slightly, leaning into him, opening your legs wider as he keeps his strokes at the same steady pace. and then it washes over you at once, body taut, knees wobbling, your hand wrapped around his wrist as he helps you through your high like an obedient soldier.

"fuck me."

would have been the next thing to come out of your mouth, naturally. but when you opened your eyes as best as you could past the haze threatening to put you under, you noticed something beyond craig staring at you, taking you in in your blissed-out state. standing between the couch and the far wall right at the entrance of the living room was none other than pope cody.

you've heard of him the same way you've heard of ghost stories. the boogeyman of oceanside. but to see him like this, staring at you with his brows set and his hands laying stiffly at his sides, does something to you.

because he isn't just handsome, he's cody handsome, definitely craig's brother in the sharp angle of his cheekbones and jaw. and you've never seen eyes so dark yet so clear. he's not missing anything that craig is doing to you and somewhere through the fog you wonder how long he's been standing there, anyway.

the thought excites you enough that when craig keeps going, you do little to deter him, deter either one of them in fact. grip still tight on his wrist, you hold craig there even though the stimulation is bordering on torture. his fingers keep the same pace that got you off the first time and that steadiness, mixed with the sound of your wetness as he fucks you a second time, is a feedback loop for your arousal.

pope didn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't this. most girls would have yelled. covered themselves up, maybe thrown something at him half-heartedly in their shock or terror. but there was something so intriguing in the way you watched him watch you. how you widen your legs, as if to present yourself to him. how you reach down to keep craig where he is. your pupils are nearly blown and your eyelids half-mast from the pleasure, your hair in disarray where it falls down your sides of your neck and down your back. the part of your chest that's exposed is flushed and it heaves with every breath you take.

pope is about as aware of how close you are as craig is. he watches as you lift yourself up off the couch just slightly, how craig sits up with you. your legs are shaking now and craig has the hand that isn't toying with your pussy trained at your waist, trying in vain to keep you from squirming under his stimulation. slowly, you begin to roll your hips against his fingers.

and andrew isn't sure for a moment if you're looking at him or through him the moment you come, heavy eyelids going wide for a second before closing to slits. "craig- ah! ah~!" is the only thing you can let out as craig begins to press kisses to your slack jaw.

and if you weren't looking at pope before, you sure were now. holding his gaze, you card your hands through craig's curls then grip him by the base of his neck and pull him in. you all but shove your tongue down his throat and he moans into your mouth, still blissfully unaware of your spectator.

then you pull away, yanking craig's hands out of your pants all the while. you shove your shorts back up your thighs, paying no mind to the way the fabric of your swimsuit bottoms bunch up underneath the denim. with the fly of your zipper still down and your shorts still unbuttoned, you work on fixing your bikini top, pulling the triangle over your exposed breast and securing the spaghetti straps around your neck.

"wait! where are you going?" craig asks.

"um. i forgot i have some errands i need to run." you offer lamely. your legs are still shaking when you stand.

craig sits back, still turned toward you, and watches as you gather your bag and hoist it over your shoulder. and it is only when he watches you walk toward the shelves leading to the hallway that he notices pope there.

"dude, what the hell?" he regards his brother with his hands thrown up in the air.

pope, however, pays him no mind, watching you as you approach. he's still standing stock-still in the same position though his head turns stiffly to watch as you squeeze past him.

"nice meeting you." you offer as your shoulder brushes his bicep. other than his intense gaze he offers no form of acknowledgement. though as you make your way down the hall, you feel his eyes burning holes into your back. it adds to your humiliation in a way; you can't help but wonder as you turn the key in your ignition and drive away what kind of pervert he must think you are.

"pope."

andrew turns to his brother, who is still staring at him with that stupid look of confusion, and maybe a little fear. "dude, that is not cool."

a beat of silence and then pope says,

"she's right. you do need your own place."

and walks away.

~~

craig gets his own place, eventually, and that place is baz's place. technically.

still sore from the loss of his best friend and subsequently his niece, pope despises the way his little brother quickly turned the homey two-bedroom into a total pigsty. clothes are everywhere. there are crumbs on the counter. someone has only just begun to make a dent in the dishes and there is a pot set on the stove with soap and water to soak.

so, that's the first clue he gets that craig isn't alone, because craig doesn't cook. doesn't know how and even in his mid-thirties that fact doesn't bother him one bit.

the shower is on. it's a good place to start. the only thing that draws him out is the sound of an unfamiliar voice; he can just barely make out a hum over the falling water.

the bathroom door is ajar and pope is never one to deny himself easy access. he had half an idea of who may be in there and he prays it isn't actually his brother, because he doesn't want to see craig's nads or find out that he likes to sing the little mermaid when he's alone.

but he is pleasantly rewarded when he sees you through the crack in the shower curtain. back towards him, you had your head buried under the stream, letting the soap run down your back.

he was obsessed with the way your skin looked. soft, from the stretch marks on your round butt to the large scar on your shoulder blade. his hindbrain took over for a moment and he felt overwhelmed with the urge to touch you, to feel the way the muscles of your thigh would ripple and give if he were to grab you there, pull you close to him.

it wasn't often that pope dwelled like this, let his depravity take over him. so he has the sense to at least look a little surprised, a little embarrassed when you turned around and reared back when you noticed you were no longer alone.

again, you were one of the strangest people pope had ever met. rather than admonish him for walking in on you like this, you simply continued your motions. both hands in your hair, you worked at the tangles you got from running on the beach and playing in the waves earlier.

the only indication that you were aware of pope's presence was the way you held his gaze. you took a step back until half of your body was underneath the water, closed your eyes and tilted your head back.

it was only when you broke eye contact that pope allowed his eyes to wander. from the strawberry skin on your arms to your tits. he took his time admiring most of all, however, how your soft tummy gave way to the tuft of hair covering your pussy.

fuck you were perfect.

this continued until you turned back towards the downpour, stood under it for a moment longer before turning the dial and shutting it off.

you turned back and pope was still standing there, hands hooked in either of his pants pockets, still taking in your frame. you lingered for a moment as you wrung your hair out.

"knock much?" is all you said to him once you were done.

he blinked at that.

funny. craig didn't mention that you were funny.

there was no reply, and you honestly weren't expecting one. craig told you that pope doesn't talk much to people he doesn't know. and it's a funny thought - he saw you cum, twice, but, no, he didn't know you. not one bit.

but if you didn't know it before, you definitely knew now that he wanted to know you.

reaching up, you pulled your towel down from where it hung haphazardly over the shower rod. pulling it over your body, you stepped out of the shower and down onto the bath mat you purchased for craig not too long ago.

"if you're looking for craig, he's at deran's bar. he said he'd be back soon, so. i'm sure he wouldn't mind if you waited."

wordlessly, he turned away from you and went to lena's old room.

~

pope hated it. hated the way he could see craig's shit strewn about what was once lena's room. he hated that baz was gone, hated that nobody else showed interest in lena but him and smurf. between the both of them, the kid was a lost cause.

he wondered absently if you liked kids.

speak of the devil, you walked past the open bedroom door in pursuit of the kitchen. when he heard you approach, he turned to watch you pass by and ambled after you.

you moved quickly, flitting about the main space in little other than one of craig's t-shirts and a pair of boyshorts. if the curve of your ass wasn't enough of a sight, he could make out the outline of your pussy lips through the thin material.

he felt like a teenage boy again, praying that you couldn't see that he was half-hard in his own pants.

you turned around and it was like god had no mercy on him, the way your nipples were hard through the loose-fitting shirt.

"i made pasta if you're hungry." you said.

though he didn't verbalize his assent, you took pope taking up one of the barstools by the counter as acceptance enough. with one of the clean plates you loaded into the dishwasher last night, you got him a healthy serving, heated it up, and then served it to him. you then turned to finish the dishes you began washing before your trip to the beach.

"thanks." says pope, almost as an afterthought, as he begins to eat. it was delicious. he was in distress.

"he does talk!" you say aloud in feigned awe, though your back remained turn to him. a single corner of his lips curled upward for a moment as he scowled at your back.

smart-ass.

silence lulled between you both; you cleaned, he ate. but soon enough the front door unlocked and in came the bumbling oaf he came to see.

neither of you noticed but he quickly deflated at the thought of no longer being alone with you.

"hey, man." though he's talking to pope craig is shameless in the way he checks you out on his approach. you're oblivious to both men, drying each dish one by one and reaching up on your tippy toes to put them in the cabinet.

"you looking for me?"

craig knows that his question is a dud, because who else would he be looking for?

though seeing how easily you and pope exist around each other, he sure has his suspicions. pope doesn't take easily to being around strangers, and, to pope, you were a stranger. or at the very least, in craig's mind, you'd better be.

jealousy is a new emotion for craig and he hates it. not even renn has had such an effect on him but fuck if you weren't like his own personal form of catnip.

"we need to talk." is all pope says once craig closes in on the space between them. as both men wander out to the patio, pope turns around long enough to see you lean over the counter, grab his empty plate, and wash it at the sink.

~~

he has to stop seeing you like this.

no, seriously, for his own health, he has to stop.

the next time pope saw you was at a party thrown at smurf's house in her absence. every other cody attended but the matriarch was nowhere to be found, not that pope could find it in him to mind.

there were people everywhere. j sat poolside with his feet in the water, watching deran and adrian play chicken with some of their other surf buddies in the deep end of the water.

the only one missing from their brood was craig. and it was important that the party ended relatively soon and the four found a way to meet; after casing the joint all afternoon their newest prospective job may not be as easy as they once thought.

pope made his way inside, pushing past drunk partygoers as he did so.

aside from alcohol, the kitchen and living room looked surprisingly kosher. no white powder, no glass pipes. no rolled up dollar-bills or straws, which was great, because craig turned into a whiney bitch when he got high.

between deran and craig's old rooms was a jack-and-jill bathroom. entering from deran's side was easy enough after he kicked out two drunk losers petting each other down on the bed.

he locked the bathroom door from deran's side and made his way over to the toilet bowl to relieve himself. but before he could so much as let down the fly to his zipper, he heard it. he heard you.

slowly, he made his way across the narrow path, past the double-sink embedded in the counter, and to the door on the other side of the room.

same as last time, the door is ajar. slowly, he steps up and peers into the crack. sees you sitting on the edge of the bed with your legs open, wide, and a brown head of hair occupying the space between your thighs.

craig is virtually always in some stage of undress so pope pays no mind to his butt cheeks but the sight you is enough to almost make him pop off in his pants. you're naked, your face flushed. your nipples are hard. craig slaps your bare clit once, twice, and you flinch at the sensation both times, breasts bouncing as you jerk your hips.

then his mouth is over the tender flesh, as if to soothe the sting of his harsh actions, and you throw your head back at the contact. as quickly as he's over you, he's inside of you, two fingers deep down to the knuckle.

"fuck, baby." your voice is husky and pope isn't sure if it's from the liquor that’s undoubtedly in your system or your arousal. he can see how wet you are even from where he's standing; you're glistening from your inner thighs, to your lips, and all the way around craig's fingers.

squelching and the occasional whimper is the only noise that fills the room. craig is precise as always, already nudging against that spot inside of you that makes your jaw go slack. he notices immediately and keeps the same pace, watching through his long eyelashes as he plucks you apart.

simultaneously, his mouth can't stop moving against you, devouring you much like a man starved. you taste so fucking good, you remember him moaning against your pussy one night, all but rubbing his erection against the bed as he licked you from your hole to your clit.

"i'm so close." you whine. and he believed it, because not long after craig set his steady, bruising pace, you were there. legs shaking from where they sought purchase on craig's shoulders, you let out a cry that sounded almost pained. pope watched as your spend trickled out of you and down craig’s beard in short, quick spurts. your hips shook with the effort it took to grind down on craig’s fingers, one of your hands coming down on his wrist to hold him in place as you work yourself through your orgasm.

“you’re so fucking pretty.” craig all but coos up at you when you finally stop. he kisses your clit once and you jump away before settling down on the mattress again.

chest heaving, you card your hand through his hair, stopping when you reach the base of his neck and grab at the tendrils caught between your fingers. when you tug at them he rises to his feet, licks into your open mouth so that you can taste your arousal on him.

“a-ah!”

your voice rises another octave when craig’s hand is replaced by his dick, the swap so quick you barely have time to register what’s happening until his hips press against yours.

“so. fucking. tight.” he accentuates every word with a thrust, relishing in the way your head falls back. when you’re upright again, head midline, he presses a hot kiss to your mouth.

somewhere in between you squirting and craig breaching you, pope found himself undoing his belt buckle, shoving his hand down the waistband of his boxers.

and, no, pope can’t find it in him to be ashamed, to read into the deeper meaning of him only coveting things that belong to his brothers. craig is the last thing on his mind, far from it, when he grabs his dick and smears the pre-cum pebbling from the head all over his tip. it’s easy to forget that craig is there when he’s so busy imagining himself between your legs, imagining himself tasting you, imagining himself fucking you until you soak his boxers.

no, craig is inconsequential.

dry masturbation is always shitty but it isn’t about that. it’s about thinking about how you’d feel squeezing him like that, how you’d open your legs wider to accommodate him when he’s moving inside of you.

his hand passes over his dick in time with the way your body jumps with every thrust, his chest heaving to the same tempo as your shallow breaths. and when your moans morph into short gasps, he’s there with you too.

pope has to reach out and grip the edge of the counter next to him, knuckles white, when he finally cums. breathing heavy through his nose, he’s thankful that you aren’t shy about using your voice, your cries easily drowning out the sound of his pants.

“f-u-uck.” craig pulls out of you as he cums, watching as your orgasm leaks out of you and dribbles to the floor in a weak spurt. you’re too busy sitting there, hands gripping the sheets, mouth agape and eyes clouded with the haze of your afterglow.

pope is zipping his pants now, watching in disgust as he notices craig’s spend painting the patch of hair dusted over your pussy lips. his button is done, belt nearly secured around his hips when he catches sight of your face and does a double-take.

somehow, through the fog, you managed to catch his eye in the crack of the doorway.

and like the little minx you were, you waited a beat so that he knew that you knew that he was there.

then your tongue darted out to lave over your swollen bottom lip.

and you smiled at him, a full-on, shit-eating grin.

you recover by the time craig finishes admiring his work (he once told you that you looked hottest with his cum on you), drawing him closer to you by hooking one leg around his hip. he closes the space between you both, pressing his forehead to yours. your noses rub against each other for a moment as he brings you in for a kiss; short, sweet. it’s almost too intimate for a delicate situation such as this but then again you’re also washing his dishes and buying bath mats for his place, so. maybe that boundary has long been diminished.

craig opens his eyes to look at you mid-way into the kiss and notices that your eyes have wandered towards the door. pulling back, he turns to follow your gaze. he notices a gap in the doorway and immediately pulls away from your grabbing hands, more than a little pissed.

“yo, who’s there?” he asks. the usual neutrality in his tone is long gone now, replaced by something sharper. something aggressive.

“did you see someone there?” he asks when he turns back to you. the remaining post-coital bliss is washed away as if someone snatched a wool blanket from over your head.

you blink owlishly at him once, twice. shake your head hesitantly at first and then firmly after. but craig won’t be deterred. he feels the heat on his neck now.

his mind immediately goes to pope; how you told him that night that pope came visiting you both that the older man had caught you in the shower. how his confusion and then annoyance had been kissed away when you straddled him, assuring him that it was only for a moment before pope went to the living room to wait for him to arrive.

“who the fuck,” craig backs away from you and turns. his fist comes down on the dresser pushed up against the wall in the room, hard. you jump, your hands flying up to cover your mouth. “is in here, huh?”

craig is in front of the door in two long, quick strides, grabbing it by the edge of the wood and yanking it open. “pope, i swear to god—”

but he opens the door to find the bathroom empty despite the light being on.

he is thorough when he checks the room; even opens the shower door and peers into it twice. he takes a spare rag from the linen closet, runs it under the faucet, and returns to you. you’re still at the end of the bed, stock-still after watching his little rampage.

yeah, somewhere along the way the carefully-laid bricks of your “friendship” began to crumble. this is a simple fix, you thought to yourself half-heartedly, jumping as he runs the cool cloth over your sore clit.

~

pope made it all the way back to his car without stopping that night. then he proceeded to drive himself home in funeral silence, gripping the steering wheel like a vice the entire way home.

when he got to his house, he immediately locked the door, walked to the bed.

shoved his pants halfway down his thigh and let the image of you play behind his closed eyelids again and again. came twice, one after the other, at the thought of you beneath him, on top of him, on your knees in front of him.

he slept four hours that night.

fin

[halfpsychic]

Perverts (Pope Cody x reader)

Summary: Set around beginning of Season 2– Instead of Nicky at the house with J, you were taken and hurt by Javi. A few days later, Pope checks up on you and accidentally sees you shirtless. That image never leaves his mind, especially not when he comes across a pair of your dirty underwear.

Warnings: sexual themes, voyeurism, Pope jerks off, underwear stealing & sniffing. breaking and entering (sort of). reader has boobs but otherwise written neutral.

WC: 6.5k.

Pope Cody didn’t think of himself as a pervert. He could be obsessive, he could be rough, but he didn’t think it was all that abnormal. People like far worse things than he does. Maybe that was a result of growing up in the Cody house, his view of love and sex skewed since birth.

When he pulled up outside of your apartment building that evening, parked across the street, he didn’t mean to catch a glimpse of your naked body through your bedroom window. On the third floor, it wasn’t very clear and your back was to the window, but that outline of your body made him stop in his tracks. Stood beside his car, head tilted up to that window, he didn’t think of himself as a pervert for watching you slide on your shirt. It wasn’t his fault that you decided to change your shirt in front of your window, with the lamp in your bedroom on. The darkening sky outside only made it easier to see inside your window. He thought about mentioning your lack of curtains to you once he gets inside, but he isn’t sure how you’ll take it. That line hasn’t been crossed yet. He’s still stuck stealing glances at you from across rooms, looking when no one else is.

You leave your spot in front of your window, and as you turn, he sees the way your shirt falls on your body and the lack of support for your breasts. It’s different than how you usually look. For a moment, he thinks about getting back in his car and going home to jerk off to the memory of this. He decides against it, instead praying you won’t notice the bulge in his pants.

Pope didn’t show up at your apartment unannounced often. He had checked on you the day after the incident, but he had texted you about it before. Otherwise, you would’ve worn something different. Opening the door to him made your heart flutter, realizing your shirt shows a lot more than you usually do. Pope’s eyes flicker down to your chest for a second, just a second, as he tries to contain himself. He’s not here for that. It doesn’t matter what he just saw, he can’t.

“Is everything okay?” You ask Pope, still unsure why he’s at your doorstep.

“Yeah,” he answers. “I just wanted to see if you’re okay.”

That surprises you. “Did Smurf send you?”

“No.”

“Well, I’m okay.”

It’s partially true. The ache in your legs has slowly dulled in the last few days, the swelling and the worry that someone is waiting for you in your apartment fading, but that night scared you. Pope had always kept you safe— it was a solid truth in your life you could rely on. He doesn’t show it (other than now, standing in front of you, asking if you’re okay), but he hates himself for not being there. There’s no way he could’ve known Javi would’ve shown up to the house. Still, the guilt weighs on him night after night.

His expression hardly changes, a key feature of Pope’s, his hard gaze that was more like a glare to the untrained eye. He knows you’re not okay, that you’re telling a white lie just so he’ll stop feeling like your pain is his fault. You can see it in his eyes and the way his hands are always curled up into fists, like he can’t stop thinking about revenge.

“You sure?” Pope prompts. He’s always known you better than anyone else. He knows he has to push for the truth.

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” you respond, your voice weakened by the memory of your hands tied behind your back and the ringing in your ears that accompanied the exploding heat in your leg.

He doesn’t entirely believe you. That night was the worst you’ve been hurt since you’ve known him, and there’s no way it wasn’t slowly ruining your life. Pope doesn’t ask, he just steps inside and shuts the door. “I should’ve been there.”

You sigh. “You really think you could’ve handled them all yourself? There were four of them. With you, there would’ve been three of us. Two, if they still got J.”

“I wouldn’t have let them take you,” he tells you. When his eyes meet yours, you know he believes it enough to make it true. It’s startling, especially in this business. No one ever cares about someone else enough to save them. You’ve seen it with Pope’s family, the constant fighting and betrayal that is so close to tearing them apart. But, maybe to a fault, they’re loyal to each other. To family. And Pope’s unwavering loyalty to you never fails to send a shock to your heart.

“You don’t know that,” you say quietly. “Besides, it’s in the past now. It already happened.”

“It won’t happen again.”

He says it enough that you believe him, too. For a moment, you feel lighter. Relieved that maybe for once you can rely on someone, trust someone to be there for you when you need it. Maybe with Pope around, you won’t get hurt again. Wishful thinking, but it makes everything seem less scary. And everything is terrifying with the Cody’s.

Pope’s eyes leave yours and he glances around your apartment. He’s only been here a handful of times and never for long. He sees the dirty dishes in the sink and the pile of laundry overflowing its bin in the hallway. All of the lights are dimmed, warm bulbs in every lamp, and the curtains in the living room are drawn closed. He wonders why you keep your bedroom curtains open.

“Can I use your bathroom?” He asks, breaking the silence.

“Yeah, sure, it’s at the end of the hallway,” you tell him. He turns and walks down the hallway, and you go back to your task before he knocked on the door— starting the dishes you know he saw.

Pope hears the sink turn on and his stride slows as he passes your bedroom. He thinks about the sight of your unclothed body moments before he walked in here. He thinks about how your skin would feel under his hands. If you’re as soft as he’s always imagined. His eyes land on the laundry bin beside your door, and the clothes at the top of the pile. Socks, and a pair of underwear.

He doesn’t think before reaching out to grab the underwear. Shoved in his pockets, he carries this dirty secret to the bathroom. He closes the door and stares at his reflection in the mirror. What the hell is he doing? The used underwear feels like they’re burning a hole in his jacket pocket so he takes them out, holding them bunched up in his hand.

A piece of you, just for him. His mind wanders again. They were at the top of the pile, so they were worn recently, right? Today, maybe? Did you just take them off? How long did you wear them? All day, maybe last night, too?

Pope raises his hand to his face and inhales through his nose. His eyes flutter shut as your scent goes straight to his dick, throbbing again, the sight of your body and now your scent driving him crazy.

He can’t do anything about his aching cock here. He’s not that quick— and he wants to enjoy it, not hold his breath as he fucks his fist in your bathroom. He shoves them back in his pocket, deep inside, and takes one last glance at himself in the mirror before unlocking the door.

When you hear Pope’s footsteps down the hallway you turn off the sink and face him. While he was gone, you couldn’t stop thinking about how that night would’ve gone if he was there. Pope would have made you hide, despite your insistence that he should toss you one of the hidden guns around the house. He taught you how to hold a gun, aim, and reload, but he stressed it was for emergencies only. Maybe you could have convinced him that this was the emergency he prepared you for.

He pauses in the doorway, not quite stepping out of the hallway. Pope hovers. He has a tendency for that, especially with you. Lingering close, but not too close.

“You should be resting.”

He sounds disapproving. You know he told you not to do any strenuous activity while you healed and you didn’t think doing dishes was too much.

“I have things to do,” you tell him. “I can’t just sit on the couch for two weeks.”

Pope sighs. He walks closer to the kitchen sink, closer to you. “Just… don’t overdo it.”

“I won’t.” You mean it. The only thing worse than a bullet hole in your leg would be facing Pope’s disappointment.

Pope sits in silence for a minute when he gets back into his car. He puts his hand in his pocket to confirm his token is still there, that it didn’t fall out on his way down the stairs or across the street. The soft fabric meets his fingertips.

He pulls down his pants just enough to free his cock from his boxers. Achingly hard for the last hour, drooling a sticky mess, he wishes it wasn’t your underwear he was holding but your actual body. His hand curls around his cock and his eyes flutter shut. All he can think about is the sight in your window. Your nude upper body, on display for half of California to see.

Pope grabs the used underwear. He sniffs them again as he fucks up into his fist, the bed squeaking from the movement of his hips. It’s an unfamiliar sound for his place— the few times he’s had sex has always been somewhere else. He can’t remember the last time he brought someone back to his place, not Smurf’s house or a motel room.

Even though he wanted to take this slow and make it last as long as possible, he finds himself closer to his release than he wanted. It builds quickly, a result of his pent up anticipation that started when he opened the door of his car outside of your apartment. He thinks about the rest of your body, the parts he hasn’t seen yet. He thinks about what is hidden above the parts of your thighs he’s seen when he pushed up your pants to reveal the injuries caused by Javi’s men. That was torture. He was so close to you, to the skin he’s fantasized about, and he couldn’t do anything about it. But he took what he could get, which was more than he had before. Hot anger filled his chest at the blood dripping down your skin but something else warm built up inside him. When his hands touched you to dig out the lodged bullet and place a few sutures, it was hard to control himself. To not slide his hands up your legs and feel you over your underwear.

Being that close to you, kneeled in front of you, replays in his mind as he spills cum onto your underwear. The pained whimpers you tried to bite back echo in his ears. His hands shook as he stitched your leg up, the way his hands shake now, panting like a dog. God, you ruin him.

Pope regrets the mess he made. He can’t put this pair of underwear back without washing them first and he can’t use them to get off again because now they smell like him, not you.

He checks on you again the next day. He gets there early, despite wanting to know if you change in front of your window every night (he can always drive by later, he reasons with himself). You haven’t been around the Cody house as much this week due to your injury. It made it hard to walk or drive and you hate relying on other people to drive you around, so you stayed at home. It wasn’t so bad. It was nice to catch up on some TV and sleep in for a few days.

Pope calls your name through the front door as he knocks. You hobble from the couch to the door, ignoring the dull ache that radiates up your leg with every step.

“Back so soon?” You ask, opening the door for Pope to come in.

“Just making sure your leg is healing,” he answers, trying to remain detached.

“It’s fine,” you tell him. “Hurts but it doesn’t look infected.”

“Let me see.”

Pope takes a step closer to you, his eyes not leaving yours. “I- I should change-“

“Just pull down your pants,” he says, voice soft, heart pounding at the thought of taking off your pants for him. “It’ll be quick.”

Against your better judgement, you nod. Maybe the idea of letting Pope slide your sweatpants down your legs sounded as close to heaven as you could get.

“Sit down,” he tells you, and grabs your wrist to lead you to your couch. Before you can sit, he sticks his fingers in the waistband of your pants and gently pulls them down, careful not to snag any of the fabric against your wound.

Then, you sit down, painfully aware of how exposed you are to him. But Pope’s gaze doesn’t feel judgemental or critical, not even when his eyes trail down to the sutures he placed days ago. He notices you’re right. The redness around the sutures remains but it hasn’t increased, and there’s no sign of drainage or additional swelling. “Good,” Pope murmurs. His hands gently rest on your leg, his hands warm and rough.

“Told you.”

He looks up at you. “You don’t know shit about wound care.”

“I know enough to know this isn’t infected,” a smile creeps on your face. “You just wanted to take off my pants, didn’t you?”

He doesn’t say anything. Silence isn’t rare with Pope, but you thought he’d say something. You decide to press harder.

“You wanted to see my underwear, right?” You ask, lowering your voice. You’re not sure if you’re serious or teasing him about something that isn’t plausible. “I’m pretty sure a pair of mine went missing last night. Know anything about it?”

Pope stands up, still not answering. Guilt is written on his blank expression, in the way his fingers curl up against his palms.

“I probably misplaced them,” you tell him. “They must’ve fallen somewhere.”

He looks back at you. Your words are riling him up. He knows they didn’t fall. He knows where they are— in his apartment, his dried cum staining the material. He knows your words aren’t true.

“Must’ve,” he says in a grunt. Despite your teasing, he doesn’t want to admit it. His perversion. Telling you he took them means he’ll end up telling you why he took them. Not as a spur of the moment idea but something that has clawed at him far longer than seeing your shirtless body through your window or touching your bare leg as he threaded the needle through your skin.

“Would be a shame if another pair went missing,” you say, putting on your best innocent voice. “Can you do something for me, Andrew?”

The use of his name, not his nickname, draws his attention. “Do what?”

“Can you grab my water bottle from my bedroom?” You ask. “I forgot it, and it hurts so much to walk…”

Pope nods.

Your bedroom still has the curtains pulled open, letting in the early morning sun. He spots your water bottle on your nightstand and it takes all of his strength to not lean down to smell your pillowcase. When he turns around with the bottle in his hands, he notices a pair of underwear thrown on the floor. It stares right at him, taunting him. An identical pair to the one still at his place but these ones don’t have his mess on it. He seizes the opportunity and grabs them, hands shaking in his pocket as he shoves it inside.

In the living room, you’ve flicked on the TV and settled into the couch. Your legs are propped up and covered with a blanket. The creaking of the floor alerts you to Pope’s presence, and your water bottle in his hand.

“Thank you,” you smile up at him. His hand brushes yours when he hands it to you. He nods in response. The words die in his throat from the excitement of his new token.

Later, the feel of your fingers against his plays in his mind as he wraps your underwear around his cock. He had to wait all day for this, stressing over plans for the latest job with his brothers, with you on the back of his mind. He counted down the hours until he could be alone in the dark of his small apartment, with his pants pulled down and your dirty underwear against his skin.

Pope decides to be careful this time and not ruin the new pair. Instead, he uses the pair he already ruined to cum on, again, because the way the fabric hugged his length made him lose his mind thinking about your body around him instead. He was close. Not just to his orgasm, but to your body. He shudders when he remembers that your underwear aren’t just yours, but a real piece of you, your scent and sweat embedded in the cloth from being pressed against your cunt all day. He imagines it’s you rubbing against him, and it almost is. He wonders if you’d ever leave a real dirty pair of underwear lying around, one stained with your wetness or cum. That would be heaven. As close as he could get, anyway.

He grunts as he spills onto your underwear. The thought of you makes him feel so good, he can’t imagine the pleasure he’ll have when he finally gets your body under his.

He doesn’t sleep that night. It’s not unusual for him and everyone knows it. More often than not, he’ll greet the day already awake. He likes it. The quiet of the night, when everyone else is asleep and the world feels like it’s just him. But it wasn’t any of the usual things that kept him up— it was you. He couldn’t keep checking in on you under the guise of checking on your wound. It’s healing fine, and next week, he’ll have to take out the stitches. He can’t wait another week to see you again.

Instead of knocking on your door, he waits until your bedroom light turns off, and another few hours after that to make sure you’re not still up. He parks down the street this time.

Pope knows you keep a spare key under your mat, something he’s advised you against numerous times. But tonight, he’s glad you never listened. He grabs it from under the mat and slowly twists the key in the lock.

The door clicks open, and he pauses to listen for your movement. Nothing. Inside, his body burns with the possibilities. He considers digging through your laundry for a used pair of underwear to jerk off on your couch with, but like the other day in the bathroom, he knows he can’t keep himself quiet. He’d inevitably wake you up and have to explain himself.

He pauses outside of your bedroom door. You sleep with it closed and he doesn’t want to risk waking you up by opening it. That dampers his mood— he was looking forward to a peek of your sleeping figure. Maybe your shirt would have ridden up, exposing your stomach, or maybe you’d be sleeping in underwear instead of shorts.

The laundry bin outside of your door isn’t full anymore. A few towels sit at the bottom, and like a gift just for him, another pair of underwear.

This pair strikes worry in him. The way you brought up your missing underwear the other day tells him you know he took it, and you probably know about the other pair, too. Did you leave this just for him? A gift, like he hopes?

This pair is a different colour. He reaches down for it and brings it up to his face, knees weak from the familiar scent. His cock strains against his pants again and he knows he has to wait until he gets home to take care of it. Still, he palms himself over his clothes and holds back a groan.

With his gift in hand, Pope steps back into the living room. As much as he would like to stay and poke around, he’d rather go home and jerk off again. It’s become a sort of nightly routine; go home, close the blinds, pull down his pants and think about you.

He does just that. Tonight, third night in a row, he decides to put all three pairs of your underwear to good use. One stays wrapped around his cock, spreading his precum up and down; the newest pair pressed against his nose; and the oldest pair off to the side, ready to catch his release again. That pair is beyond saving, but he figures one of the next times he’s in your apartment he can put these back in your laundry bin. Hopefully you won’t catch any of his cologne on them.

As a treat, Pope lets himself whisper your name into the silence of his apartment when he turns onto his knees. He leans forward, on his elbows and knees, fucking into his underwear-covered fist. He thinks about how the edge of your underwear would drag along his cock when he pulls it aside to fuck you quick. Or rubbing his cock on the newly formed wet spot after he kisses you. He wonders if there’s any way you would change your underwear in front of your window, or if that would be too far for your accidental exhibitionism.

Even though he can barely hear his own whispers, he’s worried someone else will hear. Another result of growing up in the Cody house; the lack of privacy forming (now) irrational fears of being caught. He can hear when his neighbors fight, their voices escalating far louder than his barely there whispers, but that worry doesn’t leave him. He fears his brothers on the other side of his door, waiting to barge in the moment he finishes.

That doesn’t happen. His breath stutters, coming out faster than he can keep up with, the thought of any part of you touching him sending him over the edge. Again. His body slumps forward, unable to hold the full weight of himself up, but he doesn’t want to stop. Not yet. It feels too good thinking about you. With the stained pair of underwear, Pope spreads his cum back onto his cock. He doesn’t usually go for a second round right away and he wonders why he never does. He’s so sensitive from his recent orgasm that it almost hurts but the pleasure outweighs the pain.

It doesn’t take long for him to cum again, not even bothering to lift himself up to his previous position. His arm reaches under his body, almost numb from his weight. He makes a mess on his bed but he doesn’t care, he rarely sleeps there anyway. His vision blurs and he swears he blacks out for a minute— only you on his mind as he rolls over, almost collapsing onto the bed.

Pope sleeps for an hour that night. When he wakes up, he can’t tell if he dreamt of you or if he was awake, imagining you.

Baz whisks him away in the morning. They’re planning another job, a bigger, riskier heist and Baz doesn’t want there to be any holes in the plan. All day, Pope has to listen to his brothers drone on about New Canticle. He tries his best to push the last week out of his mind, but it’s hard. Pope is usually entirely focused on the work. Today, his eyes glaze over when Baz and Craig argue about the job again. He doesn’t need to hear that. He doesn’t want to. There are far better things he could be doing than pacifying another fight.

It’s been two days since Pope last saw you. He figures that’s long enough to check up on you. When he’s finally free later that evening, he drives to your apartment.

You’re not home. He even checks, using the spare key again. All of the lights are off and your regular shoes are gone so he assumes you’re out. He doesn’t let his mind wander to the other, darker option.

Tonight, he has time to stay. And since you’re not home, he decides to poke around a bit. The laundry bin is empty, which is a disappointment. He was hoping for another dirty pair to present itself to him. He pushes open your bedroom door and stops, taking it all in. The room is cleaner than the last time he was there.

Pope doesn’t know how long you’ve been gone and when you’ll be back, and he doesn’t want to be caught going through your dresser drawers. He moves quickly, opening each drawer and scanning the contents, only pausing for something worthy. When he gets to your underwear drawer, he can’t decide if it’s worth stopping for. They’re clean pairs, unused, smelling of laundry detergent instead of you. He closes the drawer. He’ll just have to get another pair next time.

He sits on your couch and waits for you in the dark. It’s another hour until you come home, and when you open the door, you shriek at the shadow.

Your eyes adjust and you recognize the silhouette— it’s just Pope, no reason for alarm. Real alarm, anyway.

“How did you get in here?” You ask him, stepping inside and locking the door behind you. Grocery bags drop to to the floor.

“Your spare key,” he answers. “I told you not to keep it there.”

“So you broke in to prove a point?”

Pope watches you favor your uninjured leg as you bring the grocery bags to the kitchen counter. He stands up.

“Is it breaking in if I had the key?”

You glare back at him. Not seriously. You always knew he had a point about the key but you never thought he’d use it.

“Why’d you stop by? Checking on me again?” You ask.

“You’re limping,” he points out, walking closer to you. He notices dark bags under your eyes and starts to worry. “Let me see it.”

“It’s not infected,” you tell him. Your hands reach into the bags to put away the items, but Pope’s hands stop you.

“Let me,” he says quietly. “Go sit down.”

You’re stubborn but you know better than to argue with him, especially when it’s about your health. He unpacks the groceries for you while you sit down. It doesn’t feel natural. You should be doing your own chores, not letting him do it for you. Your leg wasn’t that bad, it just wasn’t easy carrying all of that home.

“Why did you go out?” Pope asks from the fridge. As if it wasn’t clear why.

“Needed groceries,” you answer.

“I could’ve done that for you.”

“I don’t need you to baby me,” you tell him. Pope closes the fridge doors, leaving the rest of the food on the counter.

“I’m not babying you. You’re hurt. If you keep overexerting yourself, you could make it worse.”

Pope’s tone is careful, unwavering, but you can tell he hides a semblance of care under his unmoving expression.

“I’m fine,” you stress, and your insistence just makes his frustration worse.

“Take off your pants,” he commands, standing over you. “Let me see it.”

You don’t make him tell you a third time. Your pants slide down, revealing the aching wound. Pope kneels down for a better look and last night’s fantasies pop back into his head. If you weren’t just limping, he would’ve pulled down your underwear, too, for a taste.

“It’s not infected,” he confirms. “But it’s irritated. No more grocery runs, or leaving this apartment at all until it heals more.”

That earns a groan from you. “So you’re putting me under house arrest? That’s no fun.”

“Do you want it to get infected?” He asks. “You could lose your leg, you know. If it gets bad enough.”

“It won’t,” you roll your eyes at his catastrophizing. “I can handle getting groceries, Pope.”

He looks up at you with determination. “No,” he tells you firmly. “I will.”

The last two days being void of Pope’s presence led to deeper thinking about the situation. His stubbornness about your leg, making sure it’s healing properly and now his insistence that you have minimal movement, makes you wonder if that’s his guilt manifesting. Guilt that he hadn’t been there to prevent it. It showed the night it happened, too. Pope sat outside the house with a shotgun in his lap all night as you tried to sleep inside. It was nice then, and the first few days, but now you can’t help thinking he’s overcompensating. You’d never tell him that, though. Not in those words.

“I appreciate you taking care of me but I really don’t need you to do anything for me.”

“Just until I take the stitches out,” he tries to reason.

“And when will that be?”

“Next week,” Pope answers. “The skin around your knee moves too much. It needs longer to heal.”

“So you’re keeping me locked up for another week?”

“Yes,” he answers. He likes the sound of that. And he doesn’t mind visiting you more than once a day. He could never spend enough time with you, and maybe he’d find another pair of underwear for his collection.

You notice the vacant look in his eye after he answers you. He’s thinking about something, likely the arrangement he just proposed. Constant presence in your apartment, where in the last week, multiple pairs of your underwear have gone missing. The first really made you wonder, and your jab at Pope was mostly teasing, but the next time a pair went missing, it was after he left. Twice was still enough to be just a coincidence, so you went for a third time.

Three times isn’t a coincidence.

All day you wondered what he did with the pairs he stole from you. Did he just touch them? Keep them close because they’re yours? Did he smell them, or stuff a pair in his mouth? Did he fuck them?

Still kneeled in front of you, Pope picks up on your own silence and that knowing look in your eye. Like you see right through him and his excuse to come over every day. He knew you put that third pair out for him to find. It was too convenient, sitting right on top of the towels in the bin. He took your bait, like he still does.

“When did you take them?” You ask, and his heart stops. You knowingly leaving a pair for him is one thing. Asking him about it is breaching the little bubble he’s been living in.

“Take what?” Pope responds. He doesn’t want to admit to it so easily.

“My underwear. From the laundry. They were there two days ago, and then they weren’t. But you weren’t over.”

Pope slightly overlooked that part. You hadn’t been aware of his presence in the dark of your apartment that night. You wouldn’t have known where they disappeared to if you didn’t already have a hunch it was him.

“I always warned you about that key.”

While you suspected it, only momentarily, unsure if Pope was crazy enough to sneak into your apartment at night to steal a pair of dirty underwear, his confirmation is startling. Not in the grand scheme of Pope Cody as a person. You always knew exactly what he was capable of, but you never thought his obsessive protection would bleed into his relationship with you. This is more obsession than protection, though.

“What did you do with them?” Your voice is quiet, weakened by the heat pooling between your thighs.

Pope sits on the couch next to you, his eyes never leaving yours. “I think you already know.”

He puts his hand on your uninjured leg, touching the skin of your exposed thigh.

“Tell me anyway.”

He leans closer, his hands trailing up your thigh, leaving a trail of goosebumps. “I jerked off with them. Fucked them. Came on them,” he tells you.

You’ve never seen this side of him before. You’ve seen him during jobs, careful and calculated; you’ve seen him with women, only a handful of times; you’ve seen his loyalty to his family turn into violent threats. But you’ve never seen him so earnest about a secret.

His face is dangerously close to yours, and his fingers brush over your clothed hip. He’s wanted this for months. Even more since you were shot and he was rewarded with the opportunity to touch your bare legs.

“Do it again,” you breathe out. “Grab a pair of my underwear and touch yourself.”

Pope never thought he’d hear something so dirty come out of your mouth. His eyes flicker down to the pair you’re wearing but you catch on. “From the laundry bin,” you tell him.

He doesn’t want to leave you but he obeys, wanting to finally experience this with you. While he’s grabbing the pair you wore all day from the top of the laundry pile, you pull your pants the rest of the way off. It’s an uncomfortable amount of exposure but Pope has seen you like this before. It eases your worries.

He wants to touch you. That want strains against the zipper of his pants but he knows he shouldn’t, not when he just told you to stop unnecessary movement. He’d argue that it was necessary, but he knows he shouldn’t risk making your leg worse than it already is. Having you in front of him while he jerks off is more than enough for today.

Pope leans his face closer to yours, the underwear balled up in his fist. His other hand tentatively reaches for your face. He’s never touched you so tenderly before.

Your eyes catch every freckle across his face. You’ve always seen them from a distance, but never so close. He’s beautiful. And you don’t think he’d ever let you tell him.

So, you show him. You bridge the distance and capture his lips with yours. They’re rough against you and his kisses are no softer, but it’s better than you imagined. And you imagined it often. He tastes like spearmint gum and tequila. He tastes smooth. He tastes like he wants you.

Pope’s other hand, the one gripping your underwear, moves to the button of his pants. He fumbles while undoing it, too focused on making sure his teeth don’t sink into your lip too hard. He doesn’t want to draw more blood. He pulls his zipper down and his lips disconnect from yours as he tugs his pants down to his knees. Your breathing is heavy, matching his, and he almost cums from the way you look at him.

“You drive me crazy,” he mumbles, and kisses you again. His words bring a smile to your lips and he feels it against his, proud of your reaction. He rubs himself over his boxers but it’s not enough.

“Take them off,” you tell him without moving your face away from his. His free hand quickly shoves his boxers down enough to expose his cock. You feel his arms move and you break the kiss to look down at him.

“Jesus, Pope,” you mutter. It’s painful to not touch him or beg him to ruin you. But you both know it has to wait, at least until he takes out your stitches. Watching his hand curl around his length is enough for tonight.

“You need to buy more underwear,” he says as the fabric in his hand makes contact with the head of his cock. He wraps the underwear around himself again, like he’s done the last few nights. It’s a relief to finally show you how good you make him feel. You deserve to know.

“Yeah?” You smile. “Going to steal all of mine?”

Pope nods, his hand moving faster. “Keep leaving the key outside and they’ll keep disappearing.”

You squeeze your thighs together, unable to pretend he’s not making you insanely turned on right now. Maybe he can be gentle, you think. He can rub you over your underwear with his other hand. Pope can tell you’re getting antsy by the way you squirm in front of him. It’s cute seeing you so worked up for him.

“You’re such a pervert, you know that?” You whisper.

He smiles. You have no idea.

“Once your leg heals, I won’t need your underwear anymore,” he tells you. “Because I’ll have the real thing.”

Pope can’t keep his voice straight anymore. He’s too close now. He wants to grab your hand and put it over his but he’d rather show you what you do to him. Just the thought of you makes his cock hard. The sight of you makes him leak into his boxers. The feel of your underwear, the ghost of your pussy hugging him, makes him lose consciousness as he cums.

It happens again. His orgasm hits him so hard he can’t see anything, and his heart beats so fast he thinks it’s going to give out. But it keeps on pumping in his chest and his fist keeps pumping over his cock until the last drop of cum drips onto your legs.

Your face is the first thing he sees, flushed from the sight of him unraveling in front of you. Finally, you have an accurate image of what Pope Cody looks like when he’s at his most vulnerable. His forehead is damp with sweat and his whole chest heaves with every breath. He’s so beautiful.

“Maybe you should just take the spare key,” you whisper. It’s not like anyone else has ever used it, not even yourself.

He nods. “You saying I can come over whenever I want?”

“You do anyway.”

Pope cleans up the mess he made on your thighs with the underwear in his hand. He kisses you again before he puts his dick back in his boxers.

“Seriously, no more getting groceries,” he reminds you. “Let me take care of you.”

Despite how soft Pope’s words feel, you know it extends to things far more vicious than bringing you home groceries and taking your stitches out. You know he would’ve killed anyone who hurt you without a second thought. You know he would do anything for you, something that scared you when you first understood it. It doesn’t scare you anymore, even when he breaks into your apartment in the middle of the night and when you’re not home, just to help get himself off.

A/N: didn’t mean for this to be so long but i wrote it quicker than everything else i’m working on. probably slightly ooc and i apologize but i couldn’t resist pope doing some freak stuff i’m into. might write a part 2 about pope removing the stitches…

[plorek]

He’s such a pretty crier 🥹

[jack-rabbit-abbot]

i genuinely think one of the most interesting things about shawn hatosy is people realizing that he has chemistry with everyone because he holds eye contact like a mother fucker. he’s so intense as Pope because of his unnerving ability to stare people down and into submission but in the pitt he uses the eye contact for reassurance with his coworkers…. he doesn’t need the words to get what his character is feeling across he simply needs his eyes and that’s TALENT

[ozarkthedog]

ʜᴏᴛᴛᴇꜱᴛ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴇꜱ — ᴀɴᴅʀᴇᴡ "ᴘᴏᴘᴇ'' ᴄᴏᴅʏ 5/♾️

[polaris-daydreams]

baptise in your thighs, till it hurts

pairing : andrew “pope” cody x reader

warnings : SMUT ❗❗fingering, messy pussy eating, cumming, squirting, violence, headlock, leglock, choking, slapping, scratching, putting pressure on a bloody bullet wound, biting, blood, pussy drunk pope. pet names : kid, kiddo, whore (once n affectionate), sweet thing, pretty girl, pope calls himself daddy once.

summary : read part 1 & part 2. pope teaches you self defence. he puts you in a headlock, then you put him in a leglock. 

wc : 2k

a/n : i blame @ozarkthedog for this because this gifset won't leave my mind. i did very slight research on fighting for this so i'm sorry for any inaccuracies. i also did in fact try to bite my arm as i put myself in a (loose) chokehold to see if it was possible lol. pretty please like, comment and reblog if you enjoyed, i love reading reactions <33. gif credits: @ozarkthedog. divider credits: @cafekitsune.

You’re helping J with school in the kitchen when Pope walks in. Stare heavy as he spots the two of you sitting shoulder to shoulder. 

“Don’t. Even start.” You call out without even having to turn around to sense his presence.

“M’ just lending a second pair of eyes for his assignment, not that his grades need any help.” Letting a small smile appear as you bump your elbow to J.

Your softness disappears when you turn a little, giving Pope a mean stink eye. Or as mean as you think you look. He still wants to squish your cheeks and peck your lips.

Pope gets closer to J, planting his hands on the younger man’s shoulders. J’s eyes briefly connect with yours before he gets dragged into a chokehold from behind.

You run a hand over your face as you witness the scene unfolding. To J’s credit, he’s holding his own against Pope, but the man has too much familiarity with bloody knuckles and faded scars. Something else festers in your mind as you watch J struggling in Pope’s flexed arms.

“Andrew! I said, that’s enough.” Your words are final with your hands on your hips.

Pope lets go of J. His eyes lingering on your frame as J coughs and catches his breath. 

His mind supplies a fantasy.

You scolding him like this.

Is this how you would scold him if you caught him feeding your baby girl ice cream before dinner?

Would you be helping your baby girl with her homework like you did with J?

Maybe he can let J be close with you if these are the thoughts that fill his mind now instead of jealousy.

Pope shakes J by the shoulders, playfully slapping him on the cheek once, twice.

“Good, that was good. No hard feelings, huh J?”

“... Yeah, s’whatever man.” J shrugs him off, making his way back over to you to collect his work.

“Sheeesh. Knew you were gonna leash our guard dog sooner or later.” Deran announces as he enters the kitchen just as J passes him by.

You slowly turn, hands still on the hips and squint your eyes at him. 

“I’m not making you lunch just for that comment.” You deadpan as you push and lead Pope to the bedroom.

“What? No, hey I was just playing around c’monnn you gonna let a poor man starve? Smurf ain’t home and you make the best b-” You slam the door in Deran’s face, stopping him trailing after the two of you like a lost puppy.

You spin, arms crossed over your chest. Pope is sitting on the edge of the bed. Still. And staring. As always.

“You mad?” 

Sighing, you cross the distance to him. Standing in between his legs, you run a hand through his soft curls.

“M’not mad … kinda want you to put me in a chokehold though.” You laugh shyly.

Pope’s eyes that were closed from your touch open back up. Confusion swirls in his gaze. A “why” evident with his tilted head as he looks up at you.

“Just … I dunno,” You continue while lowering yourself on his lap, “I liked your arms when you did that. The way they flexed, you know?” 

Pope’s face screams “No, I do not know”.

“You like my arms? That it?” It’s a genuine question, because he can't comprehend why you would.

You groan, thinking Pope’s not taking you seriously. Hiding your face in his neck, you mumble out,

“Why don’t you teach me some self defence classes? Show you how much I like em,” You pout, not realising he isn't making fun of you.

Not realising the dangerous idea you just gave Pope permission to carry out.

That’s how you end up here days later when the adrenaline from a mission is running high, Pope’s body littered with injuries.

He wraps his strong arm around your neck, confining you into a chokehold. You claw at the muscle as he twists the both of you around. But you're so focused on his arms and escaping his grasp, that you keep your legs unguarded. Pope manages to bring his legs over yours with ease, trapping them on the outside of his. Eye widening as you realise his play, but you’re just a second too late because Pope is already shoving his free hand down your pants.

“Oh, already dripping wet just from this kiddo? Just gotta throw you around a little, put you in a headlock and you soak right through your panties.” His gravelly voice mocks you.

You tear your claws away from his now scratched up bicep to dig into the wrist that’s disappeared below the waistband of your bottoms. But the pleasure from Pope rubbing circles and pressing down hard through your panties, makes your wires cross.

“Kid, can’t tell if you're tryin’ to pull my hand away, or push it deeper into you.” Pope smirks against the top of your head.

“But since your poor pussy’s clenching around nothing, let’s give her some attention yeah?”

Then Pope is pushing your panties to the side and plunging two fingers deep into you.

You whine, jerking in his hold from the intrusion of pleasure, rising your arms above your head to swat at his face. But when the slaps land, Pope only shudders at the pain and enters a third finger, hitting all the right places.

Bucking your hips at the feeling of being filled up when he cages his bicep around your neck just a little tighter. 

“Could cum just from hearing your pretty moans, y’know that kiddo? Makes me so hard when you cry out. And the noises your pretty pussy is making, fuck.” Pope groans above you.

The pressure on your airflow combined with his thick fingers hitting that g-spot on every thrust, makes your body pliable like jelly. Your body weakens in his embrace as the pleasure makes your mind fuzzy. Whimpers and slick gushing fill the room.

Pope tsks.

“C’mon kiddo, we’re still trying to learn something here. Already know you’re a little whore for Daddy, so why don’t you learn how to fight back a little harder? Know you can do better kid, I’ll give you a little treat if you escape my hold c’mon.” Pope nuzzles his nose into your hair, as if he isn't making you see stars with the onslaught of his fingers.

Pope slows down his deep thrusts by just a fraction, as if he knows the pleasure he’s giving you is clouding your ability to think straight. 

Your mind clears a little, and you reach up a hand even higher to yank at Pope’s roots. He groans, momentarily distracted by the pain. His pace falters when you rake your other hand across his bicep, nails breaking skin.

Curling your right shoulder inwards, you quickly fill the gap by taking back your hand in his hair and pushing at his arm. But Pope regains his focus even faster. He pulls out of you completely to reinforce the chokehold, his left hand now gripping his right wrist to cage you in again. The delicious pressure makes your eyes roll back.

“Think kid, know I didn’t fuck your pretty brains out yet. Focus on catching me off guard again.” He whispers into your hair.

Think.

What would make him distracted?

An idea forms just as tears well up in the corner of your eyes.

You open your mouth and bite down hard into his bicep, reaching a hand down to Pope’s bandage at the side of his chest. Ripping it open and pressing into the bullet wound. 

“O-oh, fuck me,” A gutteral growl in your ear sends a shiver down your body.

He finally releases you from the chokehold as you scramble up to sit up. You kick your legs as you move backwards to the side to land on the floor instead of on his body, freeing yourself.

Pope is up on his elbows, hissing as he puts pressure with the ripped bandage back on his bleeding wound. A prominent bite mark is visible on his bicep. Dark eyes meeting your worried gaze as you take in the blood escaping to the floor.

“Fuck m’sorry it was the only thing I thought of are you-” Your rambling gets cut off as Pope drags your ankle with the hand not at his wound.

Your back hits the floor from the movement, elbows braced backwards to stop your head from following.

He looms over you as he yanks at your bottoms, dragging your panties down along with it. 

“Pope, stop. We need to patch you up you’re-”

“Told you I’d give you a little treat if you got out, didn’t I sweet thing? So let me make good on my words.”

Your brows forrow in confusion but you can’t think any longer when Pope surges down and starts eating you out like a man starved for days. He moans at your taste, like you’re feeding him sweet honey. Your head lolls back, whimpering as his tongue reaches deep into you. He takes it back out to suck on your clit, making you whine out in ecstacy. 

You barely register Pope putting your thighs on his shoulder, too high on cloud 9 from him making out with your pussy. Only fussing and looking at him when he stops, meeting his almost completely dilated eyes that are already on you.

“Wrap your legs around me kid. C’mon pretty girl, put me in a leglock till you squirt all over my face.”

Oh, fuck.

You don’t need telling twice as you follow his instructions. Tightening your legs around his head, you cross them at the knees to hold him into place.

The new position allows Pope to ruin you. He’s hungrily licking and sucking. Slowly dragging his tongue from from your entrance all the way up to your clit, angling his head and sucking hard on your clit. Your cries fill the room with the slick sounds of your wetness. Grabbing at his sweaty curls, you grind your hips up into Pope’s face. The both of you rolling your eyes into the back of your skulls as the newfound position makes you two closer. Deeper, harder, faster.

His hands knead the meat of your thighs. Pope grinds down on the floor, trying to alleviate the need from feeling your pussy clench around his tongue, the weight of your thighs squeezing around him and the fucked-out moans echoing to his covered ears. He can tell you’re getting close, attuned to your body.

“W-wait! Andrew somethings weird- I feel weird, I can’t s’too much!”

Pope’s eyes irises are completely black, desire taking over him. He pushes his face into you even more, slipping his tongue impossibly deep before sucking and swallowing around your clit.

Your vision turns white as shockwaves are sent throughout your entire body. You feel it travel from your blank mind to your shaking legs, as you squirt messily all over Pope’s face. It makes your body go lax, weakening the leghold you have on him.

“Fuckkk, yeah that's it kid. Give it all to me, wan’ be drenched in you. Wanna suck it all up, won’t waste a drop I promise.” His words are slurred like he’s pussydrunk on your taste.

You’re too weak to even writhe in pleasure, your high pitched moans and cries music to his ears. The loud slurping of his makes your face turn red, as your vision of the room returns slowly. You're still panting, breathing erratic when you blurrily register Pope planting one last sweet kiss to your messy cunt before making his way up to your face.

His completely darkened eyes finally come into full focus as he strokes your cheek affectionately. Closing the distance, he kisses you deep and slow, the taste of you hitting your own tongue. He pecks your pouty lips when he retreats slightly, knuckles dragging along your cheekbones. You think he looks like the Devil with his dark, crazed eyes drunk on your pleasure.

“One more, kid? You can give me one more can’t you, my sweet girl?” He mutters softly against your lips.

You think Pope really might be, as he lowers himself once more.

a/n : likes, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated as always muaks.

no pressure tags for beloved mooties/fellow pope enjoyers from previous parts : @erwinsvow @callsign-fangirl @mangonom @flofaiiry @superhoeva @flamingdisputes @loveslide @twentytoo22 @likedovesinthewnd / @awkwardpersonsthings @nyheartbreak @paintlavillered @roses-and-grasses @readerimagines666 @ultr4vjolence

[superhoeva]

if you fall asleep on andrew cody, that man is not moving until you wake up. he will stay completely frozen. count your breaths for the entire night, and stare at you when you shift, unable to look away until you're settled again. he's got you... he might not know how to show it sometimes, but he's got you.

[sammy-bryant]

SHAWN HATOSY as ANDREW 'POPE' CODY Animal Kingdom (2016-2022)