#andrew Cody x reader

[erwinsvow]

𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮 — 𝐚.𝐜.

summary: against better judgement, you send a letter to a man at folsom with very sad eyes. against even better judgement, you send letters every week for years until he stops replying one day. and against everything you know, when he shows up at your door, you invite him inside.

pairing: prison letters reader x andrew cody

word count: 12.4k

tags: reader is silly and does things i do not recommend. kids do not write letters to prisoners and fall in love with them. unless it's andrew cody obviously. lots of context no one asked for. nurse!reader, descriptions of wound (andrew cuts himself to get into your work because why wouldn't he!), descriptions of wound handling, smut (oral - f receiving and mating press and the tiniest hint of breeding). takes place in season one, but just imagine he's got season two's hair. you have to fully immerse yourself in the fact that it's andrew cody and then ask yourself—wouldn't you take him home too? it's not her fault!

author's note: here she is! thank you for the patience ♡

you honestly had signed up as a joke. the club was known through your campus to be run by a couple of bleeding hearts. no one had thought the school would approve their activities—letters to prisoners. it was a recipe for disaster.

you should have known better.

but a friend of a friend was involved, and you knew it would make your nursing school application look better, and honestly, you didn’t think anything would come of it. a couple of letters here and there. you had thought it’d be all anonymous, messages of motivation and prayers signed with a first name only.

until your friend—bleeding heart and hopeless romantic, trying to appeal to those very same qualities in you—had shown you the website. that’s when you should have realized it wasn’t just a recipe, it was going to be a disaster.

the prisoners recorded videos—thirty seconds, short and sweet. a name, a couple of sentences about them, hometown and hobbies. underneath the video you could see what they had been arrested for. only the ones who were in for petty crimes—drugs and robbery, things where no one else had really gotten hurt, were allowed to partake. that was good at least. didn’t need any murderers sending letters to pretty co-eds.

your friend picked the guy she thought was the cutest. you watched his video—he was handsome, you couldn’t deny it. but the more videos you watched, the less you wanted to write a letter. you could almost see it, the desperation behind their eyes. it seemed like every man had nefarious intent. like your prettily written letter would not be used for motivation and prayers of a better life outside.

you decided not to send one. you’d rather have an empty slot on your application than a bad feeling in your gut for the rest of the semester. it’s not like the prison was across the country—it was just a couple of hours away.

she asked you to give it one more chance, watch a couple more videos. just pick a cute one, she’d told you. when you’d made a noise of disapproval, she had rolled her eyes.

“okay, pick whoever seems the nicest, then.”

so you had.

the video had been labeled andrew cody. first degree robbery.

the man in the video had been incredibly genuine. you don’t remember exactly what he had said—just bits and pieces. you knew he was from oceanside, born and raised from the way he sounded. he said he had a lot of brothers and a sister back at home. that he spent his time working out and reading books to distract himself from how noisy it was inside. the first thing he’d do when he got out was go to the beach and listen to the waves and breathe in the clean salty air.

and deep down inside, you knew you were just as much of a bleeding heart as the rest of your friends. you had folded instantly.

but it wasn’t just that. you spent the next several nights thinking about him. sad eyes, a singular half-smile at his own joke and then a real one when he mentioned going to the beach once he was released. he’d followed it up with—not that it’ll be any time soon. that made you sad, in turn. you thought about what he was like before prison—did he smile more? was he always so sad?

you thought about a lot of things. more than whatever your friends did, telling you how they had sent their letters, flirty yet inherently professional, so as not to get in trouble with the advisor.

you took a while to send yours. first you couldn’t think of what to write—everything felt so stupid compared to what he must be going through. andrew would hardly want to hear about the mundaneness of your daily life, or the struggles of trying to get into the nursing program.

you thought about not sending a letter at all after the first few times you tried to put pen to paper.

and then you thought about how sad he must feel, how lonely and scared, how terrible it would be to see all the other prisoners get letters besides him.

so you drove to the beach. you surprisingly had more in common with andrew cody than you even realized when you selected him. there was nothing you loved more than the beach, which is why you had even picked your college to begin with. and now, four years later about to graduate, you couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

you caught the sunrise. you brought your little notebook with you to the water after setting your bag down on the bench. the seagulls were flying around, a couple of other beach-goers walking along the border where the sand met the ocean. it was a day like any other.

there were two sides of you—a hopeless romantic inside of an inherently logical girl. one side argued how stupid it was to send letters to a stranger. the other wondered if this would be the day that changes your life. you push away the thought and focus on writing the damn thing.

you thought andrew might like if the letter smelled like the salt-water. the stupid idea felt a lot less silly when you were attempting it, bringing your notebook all the way down to the water and hovering it. a slightly bigger wave caught you by surprise, the corners getting wet where it splashed up.

cursing to yourself, you walked back to the bench with sandy feet. and then you started writing.

dear andrew, and then you paused. fuck. you got out some of the introductory stuff—your first name, that you were a nursing student. it took a while to get the rest of the page filled, until you stopped for a moment and thought about what you would tell the man with the sad eyes if he was sitting next to you.

i came to the beach to write this letter. i’m sorry if the corners are wrinkled when you get it, i almost dropped it in the water trying to get it to smell like the beach so you had a little piece of home with you. i’m not near oceanside but it’s still the pacific.

i can’t imagine how hard it must be to grow up near the water and then be so far away for so long. but at least you know it’ll always be waiting for you when you get released. they want us to write motivational things but i’m not sure how motivating it would be for you reading this letter about my silly life. so i thought i’d write about the beach instead.

it’s about seven in the morning. the weather isn’t too cold and sky is pink and orange right now. the waves were calmer an hour ago when i got here but now it’s getting more intense. there’s a couple with their dog, and another man running on the sand. i’m on a bench writing this, but i’ll walk along the water again before i leave. i would try to send you a shell but i’m sure they’d take it away. maybe sand?

i love the sound of the waves too. my school isn’t close enough to hear it, but i have one of those machines that makes the noises. it helps a lot when i’m trying to sleep. maybe you can get one when you get out too.

you fill up a page, and then another page. when you fold up the letter and slip it into the envelope, you take a couple grains of sand and drop it in there. a little piece of home for him.

then you mail the letter, and think that was that.

+

two weeks later, you get a letter in the mail. you’d heard some of the other girls had also gotten responses—some had been mildly wholesome, while others had been more along the lines of what are you wearing?

but you weren’t worried when you opened yours. andrew didn’t seem the creepy type to you, it felt more like… like he would be glad to have someone to talk to.

you read it in bed, holding an old stuffed animal tightly. his handwriting is stiff and neat, the evenness of the letters and dotted i’s and crossed t’s makes you smile. the way he wrote your name, with bleeding ink like he had pressed too hard into the paper while doing so, made you smile wider.

the first line—thanks for the sand—made you laugh.

andrew writes of the book he’s just read, how the beach you described sounds just like the one in his hometown, and a request that you tell him more about your life in the next letter. his letter isn’t as long as yours, which makes sense to you. he couldn’t have that much to write about. but the last line is what really gets you—thank you for the letter. it’s nice to talk to someone.

you blink away tears, unsure when you had started crying. you reread the letter twice over the next day and a half, deciding to head back to the beach early in the morning to write the next one.

and you’ve always been bad at this. your friends have always called you a hopeless romantic—but maybe you’re just in too deep. it was the product of having been alone for your entire life, not having the dreamy, intense love that so many of your friends had already gone through once or twice at this age. the result had manifested in how you treated the world around you. every door someone held open, every nice response, every lingering gaze could mean something more. that this could be the person, that this could be your soulmate.

you knew it was stupid. nothing could be stupider than assuming that a prisoner, for god’s sake, would be anything more than just that—a prisoner you write letters to. but your heart still beats faster each time you reread the letter, and when you think of his pretty, sad eyes and earnest expression, the urge to write another letter haunts over your entire body.

dear andrew, thank you for writing back. thank you again for writing back and not being creepy (like the responses some of my friends got). i could tell you more about my life but i really wasn’t lying—it’s pretty silly and mostly boring, but since you asked so nicely i’ll try for you. right now i’m getting ready for graduation. i bought a white dress last week. i’m waiting to hear if i got into the nursing program here. i majored in nursing so I just need to do one more year and then after that i can go work in the hospital. i’m thinking about labor and delivery since i think it would be so nice to see babies all day, but one of my friends said the emergency room is always hiring. she thinks it would toughen me up. but I’m not so sure i want to be tough. just incase all of this school talk is boring you, i’ll just tell you about my day on the condition that you'll tell me about yours. yesterday i woke up early and went on a walk. i made breakfast and went to class, and then studied in the library. my friend showed me a creepy response from one of the fellow inmates (by the way, thank you again for not being creepy.) i walked to get a chai—i don't really like coffee. and then i studied, watched the bachelor. it was terrible! my favorite contestant got sent home :(. and had dinner, then I went to sleep early because i woke up early to come to the beach today to write this for you. so i went to sleep thinking about this letter and woke up thinking about it too.

you add a little bit more about your routine this time, just so he has something to read about. you try to make yourself sound interesting where you can—but you’re really not. and you don’t want to force it, make your letters sound grand and full of lies.

you don’t know why—it’s not like you’ll ever meet him. but lying to andrew feels wrong, you guess.

stupid. you’re stupid for adding the last part—but something in your heart flutters reading the line again, because you did. andrew’s sad eyes are in your mind all the time, and you know it’s just a silly infatuation, that he’s a prisoner and you’re a random student and more likely than not, he’s not going to respond to this letter. but you still keep it in.

and so you send the letter. and what’s worse—the one you get back makes your heart swell. he says that you describe your routine so well he can almost see it happening in his head like a movie. he says that he could describe his day-to-day but that it might make you sad. you’re sure it will. he seems to know a lot about you from just a handful of letters.

you reply. he sends another. you reply. and before you can even discern what’s happened, this has been going on for the better part of a year and a half.

andrew gets all the life updates—your nursing school acceptance, how the first year goes. early morning clinicals, the mean preceptor who made your life hell for a month, the baby you got to help deliver, the cat you’re thinking about getting. and the not so great stuff—despite the nursing shortage, it seems the only available job at the hospital you like is in the emergency room.

you don’t give him names but he figures it out well enough. the program you sent the letters through was smart enough not to include the university’s name in the return address, but dumb enough to use a p.o. box in the same city. and in that city, there’s only two colleges, and only one of those has a nursing program.

these are the things he uses to figure out where you are after he gets out—not that you need to know any of that just yet.

after you get the job, the letters are stamped with the mark of the local post office. you must not know that they’re doing that, now that you can’t send the letters through the school anymore. that’s the last piece of the puzzle, figuring out which emergency room you had been working in.

he keeps those letters. they’re his sanctuary—pages and pages about your life. the highs and lows of an innocent girl who thought it would be a good idea to send letters to a prisoner. letters where you asked about him, how he was feeling, how he was doing. how much time he had left, how he thinks the next parole meeting will go, how that annoying guard has been recently. how’s your family, andrew?

if he closes his eyes, he can almost see you. you’re a faceless entity, a glowing angel with a halo hovering in his mind when he really needs you. you’re too perfect to be real—and he knows you would be outside too. if you can care this much through letters, go out of your way to send them even after you graduate, he can only imagine how you’d be if you stood in front of him.

the other students who sent letters stopped after one or two. he’s likely the only one who’s still getting them, and when someone questions who they’re from, he tells a story about his girl, waiting for him outside. a nurse—smart and pretty and devoted and who never fails to send him a weekly update. lives too far to drive up here but he’ll be there one day.

and then he gets sent to solitary.

he doesn’t like to think about it, if he can avoid it. sometimes the noises of the world get to him, brings him back to days and hours he wish he could wipe from his memory. the sound machine you recommended in your very first letter helps some. but the day he goes free, there’s only one sound he knows will calm him down—your voice, the first time he’ll get to hear it.

he has to go home first. he needs a car, the internet, a couple of phone calls to make sure he’s going to the right place.

days turn into weeks. unfortunately—very unfortunately. the only thing andrew wants is to finally see you in person, to finally hear what your voice sounds like. what color is your hair? what color are your eyes? he knows you like yellow—what would he find if he saw you? yellow hair clips? painted nails? how about your apartment? would the walls be yellow?

no, probably not. you rent. you wouldn’t do anything that wouldn’t get you your security deposit back. you’re too good for that, too safe.

yellow sheets, maybe. blankets, pillows. if he closes his eyes, he can imagine himself in it.

he tries to leave after the first job but there’s too many watchful eyes, too many moving pieces. he needs to get everything together—his truck, cash and some cards, a plausible excuse. he needs to make sure no one comes following him, needs to make sure that in his quest to come find you, he doesn’t get you tangled into the web of his family instead. he’s stuck somewhere between figuring out how to keep you safe and the realization that the safest you’ll ever be is right now, before he comes for you.

but fuck, if it doesn’t haunt him. the fact that he’s finally so close to you. that you’re a car ride away. that somewhere out there is the girl who, one day, realized another letter wouldn’t be coming.

had you cried then? been upset? wondered what had happened? bothered to find out if he was dead or freed or living without you? he hates that he couldn’t get you another letter to explain himself, but he figures explaining in person would be easier, and better. in all those years, you never once wrote him about a date or a boyfriend or anything in that realm.

the way your last few letters were, it were almost as if he was your boyfriend. (he lets the thought linger inside him for a few seconds, if that. any longer and it would possess him like a demon and he’d be rendered useless. unable to work, unable to think, unable to breathe. just him and the idea that he was that important to someone else.)

+

and then one day, a couple days after a job and after being fed up with the entire world being scared of him, he leaves to find you.

that’s just the thing—no one understands him. all his life, he’s been the unstable one, the one others are worried about, frightened of. but no one understands that there’s nothing to be afraid of.

no one, except maybe you.

so he says he’ll be back in a week, and he drives down to the hospital where you work.

he hasn’t gotten a real look at you yet. he spent the first night in the parking lot of the emergency room. he watches hordes of nurses go in and out, and no one stands out. he spends some time doing research—nurses only work three times a week.

his odds of seeing you for the rest of the time he’s in town are fifty/fifty. it feels like he should be able to pick you out from a crowd, with the way he knows you so intimately, but he can’t. he keeps an eye out for yellow water bottles or shoes or lunch bags, but he doesn’t see any for two days.

so he decides that he needs to get inside.

pope keeps a pocket knife on his person, and another one hidden in the car in case of emergencies. that’s what he uses to slice his palm open so he has an excuse to get inside. not too deep—he’s not stupid. just deep enough to need stitches, shallow enough that he can still feel all his fingers and wiggle them around.

and then he goes inside, and he waits.

each time the doors open, a different nurse steps out. some are too old, others too young. no one has anything yellow on them, or the personality that he knows could only belong to you. cheery, but serious. empathetic to a fault. you would probably cry if you saw a kid crying, just like how you used to write to andrew, telling him you had cried thinking about a patient you lost and their family, cried thinking about him alone in prison.

you’ve shed tears for him. a man you’ve never even met. he has to recognize you when he sees you. he knows he will—the two of you are bonded in more ways than one. through ink and blood and tears.

“david?” a voice calls out. so lost in his thoughts, he’d not realized the doors had opened again or the name he’d given them. he looks up, making eye contact with the nurse, his nurse, and she walks closer. “david?” the voice repeats, and he raises the non-bloody hand.

you are just like he thought you’d be. your hair is pulled back, which is a shame. he wants to see what it looks like when it’s down, what it smells like when you get close enough. pieces in the front fall out from behind your ear. his finger twitches momentarily.

and, he thinks with a pleasant sort of smugness, there is yellow—the plastic band around the stethoscope, the badge reel with a smiling cartoon on it, the pens tucked neatly in your scrub top pocket.

“hi david, i’m going to be your nurse today,” you start, looking at him in the eyes. your eyebrows furrow a little, like you’re trying to remember why this man looks so familiar—it’s not like he had expected it. his hair isn’t the same anymore, longer than the video you had seen of him. if that was your benchmark, he certainly looked somewhat different. he doesn’t fault you for not recognizing him right away. in fact, it’s better this way. “if you’re ready, i can take you back now.”

you smile at him, beautifully. a bright, wide smile, like there’s nothing in this world you’d rather do than take david back, and have a look at whatever’s bothering him. it’s genuine, it’s safe, it’s warm. how do you do it? he thinks briefly to himself, how do you make everyone feel like they’re the most important person in the world? just with a smile and a couple of sentences you must say a thousand times a shift.

andrew’s not one for many words, but his thoughts run rampant—he’s always thinking. he can’t get his brain to turn off, not now, not ever. even putting pen to paper was hard for him, even for you. but you seem to understand him, just like you did back then. without words, without talking, without touching or knowing. you just know him.

you take him to a bed behind a curtain and start rattling off a list of rehearsed questions. first name, age, date of birth. the more he says, the more you seem to get a step closer to recognizing him, but he doesn’t push it.

you come closer to the bed and gesture to his wrapped up, bleeding hand.

“may i?”

“yes. yes,” andrew says, unsure of how it’ll be to feel your hands on him for the first time. you start slowly, unpeeling the layers of gauze that he had brought with him from home as a just incase. he doesn’t flinch or wince, but you still speak up.

“i’m sorry, i know it’s not very comfortable.” you apologize without needing to, and he’s sure it’s because you want him to feel better about it. “how did this happen again?” you ask, staring at his wound closely. you’re not very far from his face. he can feel your breath even against his skin.

“accident. was cutting something.”

“well, you should be more careful, david.” his middle name has always felt foreign to him, though somehow, it doesn’t seem that way coming from your lips. andrew briefly feels like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than here, no one else he’d rather be than david, getting his hand tended to by you.

“yeah. i should.”

“well i’m going to go ahead and get this cleaned up. just to be sure, any drug allergies?” he shakes his head. “great. we’re gonna clean it and then the doctor will be in here to stitch it up and we’ll get you on your way back home. does that sound okay?”

you look at him earnestly. as if on the off chance he said it didn’t sound okay, you’d have an answer ready to go. nothing to shame him, nothing to make him feel bad. just to comfort him and make him feel better. like there’s nothing more important than getting him back home with aid instructions for the rest of the week.

memories of your letters wash over him like a warm wave over soft sand. you’ve known from the jump that you were meant for this, but it all suddenly makes sense. how kind you are, how gentle you are with him, how you’d be with anyone.

you were meant for this, just like how you were meant for him.

“that sounds okay.”

you sit on a stool at the level of his hand. you dab with the cleaning solution and tell him you’re sorry about the sting. it’s half a dozen apologies in the short time he’s known you, and he sits and wonders, staring at your pretty hair and the undoubtedly smooth skin of your neck, that he’ll have to work you out of that habit.

you shouldn’t be apologizing for anything, much less helping people the way you do.

he stares at you while you think of another question to ask him to distract him from the pain of cleaning his wound.

and your patient is nothing if not a starer. when you got up to add something to the chart and stopped to chat with a fellow nurse and friend of yours about how long it might take the doctor to see him—calling him by his nickname, mister sliced hand in bed four—she interrupted you half way through the conversation.

“the one who’s staring at us right now?” you turned your head too quickly to see what she was talking about, and were faced with sliced-hand david, looking at you and the other nurse.

not in a creepy way, like some other past patients of yours. he’s just…looking. like he’s waiting for you to come back. his gaze doesn’t leave you, you notice. he watches your friend as though he’s watching over you.

the thought is almost… sweet.

and then you shake your head and turn around, breaking the eye contact. you have a bad habit of doing this—turning every interaction, every look into your eyes and held-open door into something more than it was.

your new friends at the hospital also call you a hopeless romantic. you knew that you were just sort of an idiot when it came to these things. it was the long-standing result of still never having been in a real relationship. you’d never felt the fireworks, never known the rom-com sort of true love and happy ending. you had never even gotten to the angst-filled third act breakup.

so maybe you were still a bit of a projector—projecting every single interaction into something more than it was. a patient with a staring problem became a man who was looking out for you, worried for you, love at first sight.

and you shake your head again. snap out of it. you had a problem, seriously.

the closest you’d even come to anything remotely related to love at first sight was the insane amount of letters you’d written to a prisoner a few years ago, and even then—

stop. it. you barely knew what the guy looked like, and yet, you found yourself wondering all the time what had happened to him. if today would finally be the day you’d find out. he could be the stranger next to you in the coffee shop. the person buying fruit next to you in the grocery store.

for all you know, he could be the next guy who walks into your life, and yet—

“you are seriously such a goner,” she says with a laugh, playfully shoving your shoulder.

“what? i-i just got lost in my thoughts.”

“a guy could blink at you and you’d be imagining your embroidered towels and baby names-”

“that is not true-”

“right, i know. you’re right. you’re just gonna hold out for mister prisoner until you’re an old lady with a bunch of cats-”

“hey! i have one cat and he is adorable, okay-”

“yeah, yeah. that’s how it always starts. one cat.”

“i’m going to go take care of my patient now.”

“don’t let him blink at you.”

you roll your eyes and make your way back to bed four, where david stares up at you with pretty, sad eyes. eyes that seem a little familiar, but it’s hour eight of twelve and you’ve taken care of half a hundred people so far. your tiredness seeps through your pores but you still smile and sit on the stool.

“sorry about that, david.”

“are you okay?” he asks, incredibly earnestly. you blink at him dumbly. once, then twice.

“yes?” you reply slowly, unsure of what he means. maybe you’re more tired than you thought. “is everything okay?”

“i saw her push you.” you blink again.

“oh. oh. no, no, she’s my friend. that was just, um-” you blank momentarily. his concern is so palpable you can feel it in the air. “-a joke. she was joking.”

“oh. okay.” david goes silent but his eyes are still on you. you decide the best course of action is to change the subject.

“so! david. this might be hard but no going in the water for at least a couple days. maybe more, depending on what the doctor says.”

“sure. can i.. can i still go sit on the beach?”

“yeah. that should be fine.” you clean out the wound further, but he doesn’t wince. “do you do that often?”

“yes. it calms me down.”

“me too. something about the sand and the waves. the air is just-”

“cleaner.” for the first time that night, david interrupts you. your eyes leave his hand to look up at his face.

“yeah,” you agree, slowly, wondering why his words feel so familiar to you. “cleaner.”

there’s a brief pause, and david doesn’t say anything. you look back down at his hand, continuing your work. but something inside of you stirs, curiosity poking and prodding at your memories. you’ve heard that before, somewhere, and even then you had thought about how no one had ever used that word to describe the ocean air before, when—

“i thought you wanted to deliver babies. do you not want to do that anymore?”

as if it was in slow motion, you retract your hands away from his. you move your head to look up at him and your jaw falls open a little—you had known david looked a little familiar, but when you had seen that thirty second video of him, his hair had been short and his skin had been a little paler, and the man sitting in front of you now—

well he wasn’t cute anymore.

he was handsome now—dark brown curls grown out. he looked like he’d spent some time in the sun, recently. his eyes—sad and pretty as they were—seemed a bit softer now. and your gaze on him made them even softer, like he was trying his best not to frighten you. how someone takes care of a skittish animal, ready to bolt at any second.

you swallow, and then bring your hands back to his, keeping the piece of soaked gauze on top of his wound gently

“i-i do. want to. this was just the only job opening when i-” you pause, sucking in a deep breath. he already knows about this—andrew. it was in one of your letters. “when i finished school.”

you feel his hand move under your touch, and then his other hand, the unwounded one, over yours. his grip isn’t tight, but it’s tense. hard. like he wants to make sure you can’t just disappear like sand between his fingers.

“i thought you might have found another job by now.”

“it-it’s hard. you get used to something and it’s hard to leave.” you pause again. there’s a million and one questions storming through your mind, but you stare into hazel eyes and they all go quiet, one by one. “you said your name is david-”

“i wanted to see if you would recognize me.”

“i’m sorry, i-”

“don’t apologize.” andrew, like his letters, speaks concisely. you should have guessed. you would send him pages just to get a few paragraphs back—and he would always say it’s because he didn’t have much to talk about, that learning about your day to day was much better than whatever he could tell you.

it was the first time your heart fluttered with the knowledge that out there, somewhere, is a man who wants to hear about your day. the closest you had ever gotten to the semblance of a real relationship. a man who cared about you, even if he never said as much. it was always clear to you, through his carefully chosen words and the things he wrote you about and how much he said he liked hearing about you.

he used to ask you questions about things from a dozen letters ago. remember to follow up after some big exam or a really hard week at work. asked you what you did to feel better. tell you what he would do to help you feel better—nothing creepy, never creepy. if you were supposed to be scared of him, you never were. he never gave you any reason to.

“are you okay?” andrew asks, and you blink yourself out of your thoughts.

“yes. yes, sorry. i just-” it’s a little ridiculous.

you’re a smart girl. you’ve always been a smart girl. you don’t do stupid things—you don’t drink yourself silly at bars and go home with random men. you don’t say yes to dates with strangers, despite how much you believe that a stranger can become a soulmate in an instant. you don’t put yourself in situations you can’t get out of.

but when it comes to andrew, you haven’t listened to a single one of your own rules. you sent him letters for ages after the other girls in your class had stopped. you had opened up about your life and wanted to learn about his life in exchange.

and despite every greater instinct, you had fallen asleep for years thinking about the day he might walk back into your life.

“did you ever get my last letter, andrew?”

you’re not even sure where the words came from—that’s the last thing you should be saying right now. how did you find me? when did you get out of prison? why are you here right now? should have all come before.

but something inside you burns, like it has for years, with the knowledge that he never sent you another letter. and you need to know why.

andrew sits up a little straighter, taking heavy breaths and staring at you. it’s the first time he’s heard you say his name, his real name. you two haven’t moved an inch, his hand still on yours. he blinks slowly at you and you don’t realize it, but you’re holding your breath.

“i did. i-i was in solitary. they don’t let you write letters there.”

“oh. i’m so sorry,” you say, and it’s second nature. you hate what andrew went through, and seeing him in front of you brings you back to the first letter you ever got back from him. how polite he was in it, how sweet the whole thing seemed. it was never meant to get this far, but it had, and you—

you are nothing if not a believer of soulmates and fate.

“that’s okay. not your fault.”

“but still. that must have been really hard.”

“i wanted to write back. i-” he stops, pulling out something from the pocket of his button-up shirt. he unfolds a piece of white notebook paper—and the breath you were holding leaves you quickly. that’s the paper you used to write him letters on.

“is that my last letter?” when andrew moves to look at you, he’s expecting it. a nervous lilt to your voice, fear in your eyes. like he’s crazy, like you’re scared.

instead he glances over hesitantly and you’re beaming up at him.

“you carry around.. my last letter?” the words come out as a smile forms on your face—pretty and genuine and sincere. you stare at him expectantly, and he doesn’t know how to respond.

“i…” the words falter. “i just wanted to ask you about it. did you, did you get that cat?”

“i did!” it comes out louder than you meant it, drawing the attention of some other nurses around you. you turn briefly, using your free hand to push the curtain so it’s closed around you two. “sorry. i did, yes. he’s so cute. i don’t have my phone or i’d show you the pictures-”

“that’s okay. you-you can show me later.”

“but i didn’t say i was getting a cat in that one. i just said i was thinking about it,” you feel breathless.

“but there was another one before that. you mentioned it then too. i figured you’d get it since you were thinking about it so much.”

“yeah. yeah, exactly.” your brain can’t seem to compute what’s going on. any fear that had been in you, if there was any of it to begin with, has completely melted away, replaced with a warm, glowing feeling in your chest, slowly spreading out to your limbs.

you had been thinking about getting a cat for ages—a thought you had mentioned to andrew maybe twice. and your justification had been just as andrew said, because you were thinking about it so much.

how did he know that?

and then the curtain opens behind you, and the doctor comes in to stitch up andrew’s hand. you have to pull away from his hand and andrew thinks you’re leaving, eyes following you and his expression shifting, but you don’t leave. you go to the cabinets to pull the supplies and help the doctor and and keep your eyes focused on the wound while his hand gets stitched up. eight stitches and not a single wince of pain or discomfort.

and though the thought makes butterflies emerge and fly around your stomach, when you finally look up at andrew, he’s been staring at you the entire time.

+

you have a tiny apartment in a shitty neighbourhood. it doesn’t feel safe at all, save for the fact that one of the houses down the street is owned by a rookie cop and his wife. there’s not that much crime, but the area inherently feels bad.

maybe it’s just that way to him—since he doesn’t want you living in a place like this.

it’s fine for now though. he’ll get you a better place soon enough. it’s by the water, and when he closes his eyes, he can hear the waves crashing on the sand. the sound alone might be enough to justify why you’d live here.

he keeps his eyes shut, just for a half dozen heartbeats, when he pulls up against your curb. he just wants to hear it before he says goodbye—it’s getting late, almost dark, and you must be exhausted. you’ve been at work all day and though you act like you’re completely fine, he knows how intense it is. there’s other letters, safely stored away, where you told him about how breaks are far and few in between, how you barely get time to drink water and eat a snack because of how busy it gets. he offered to stop and pick you up something to eat but you refused, saying you had food at home that you shouldn’t waste.

you sit in the passenger seat of his truck, staring around it as if you’re looking for some more information about it. anything would help you—half-empty drinks or gum wrappers or extra clothes in the backseat, but there’s nothing. the truck looks like he just got it yesterday, no sign of use or anything branding it as andrew’s car.

“can i walk you to your door?” you snap out of your thoughts.

okay—maybe it wasn’t the smartest idea in the world to let a virtual stranger drive you home. but when his hand was taken care of and you give him the paper instructions with way too many sample packets of antibiotic gel, all he said was that he’ll wait for you.

“wait for what?”

“to make sure you get home safely.”

and, really, what are you supposed to say to that? no, i’m good, thanks. you’d be even stupider than you already are to say that to someone who is just trying to be nice to you.

(he’s more chivalrous than any guy you’ve ever talked to, and probably more than any guy your friends have ever complained to you about. and more than that, it’d be rude to say no, especially once he realized you wait for a shoddy-at-best bus to get you home because you don’t have a car and it’s too dark to walk. he wouldn’t take no for an answer after that.)

and more than that—he waited another two hours for you to get home. every time you’d step out to bring back another patient, you’d see him, sitting there, waiting patiently for you. glancing up when the door would open to get a glimpse of you, of the small smile you shot his way before taking back whoever’s turn it was.

and he’s not a real stranger, a voice in the back of your head keeps reminding you. you’ve known him for longer than some of your coworkers have known their fiancees and husbands. and in all the time you’ve known him (meaning all the letters you’ve sent and received), you’ve never gotten a creepy word or even a fragment of a sentence that frightened you.

so you think the least you can do is let him drive you home and walk you up the two flights of stairs.

“of course. thank you, for-” your sentence gets interrupted. andrew gets out of the car and you turn to do the same, but then you see him—walking around the front of his truck, coming to your side and then opening the door for you.

oh.

your heart thuds dully in your chest at the very idea of andrew opening his car’s door for you to get out. after driving you home and politely asking to walk you up. whatever inhibitions you had melt away and you briefly think that whatever he asked of you, you’d do it in a heartbeat, no questions asked.

if that made you stupid, then so be it. you’d gladly be the stupidest girl on the planet if you get to feel whatever it was that andrew cody has made you feel for the last couple of hours.

his truck is jacked up tall, and he gives you his hand, the one without the cut, to help you get down, and you accept. he closes the door for you and lets you lead the way up the stairs.

silently, you two walk up the creaky steps together. hands brush together for all of seconds and he briefly wishes seconds lasted longer, until you’re standing in front of your door.

you’d once had a cute spring-themed wreath on the door, bought on clearance from the local store after easter, and a matching door mat. your elderly neighbor had told you to get rid of it because it was basically an invitation to criminals that a young girl lived here alone. you’re stupid, but not that stupid.

and now your front door looks barren and empty. there’s a few plants you can see from the window sill but the curtains are drawn and there’s an extra dead bolt a fellow nurse from the hospital’s husband had helped you install.

you look up silently at andrew and he looks back at you. this is it—it’s supposed to be goodbye. any normal girl would know that this is where the night needs to end, that you need to process what all of this means and if you had any friends you trusted with this information, calling them and asking what to do.

but you don’t want to call your friends, because you know what they’d say—to lock your door and get a restraining order and burn andrew’s letters, the ones you kept in a cute box under your bed and reread much too often for anyone’s comfort.

and you’re not a normal girl.

“do you want to stay for dinner?”

there’s not much to study on andrew’s expression—he keeps it stern and serious for the most part. his eyes are soft when they look at you and they soften even further when you say those words.

“yes. yes, thank you.”

you think maybe he wasn’t expecting it. you think that you weren’t expecting it either, not exactly sure where the words had come from. but you still lead andrew inside, showing him the only slightly comfortable couch you had to get delivered since you didn’t have anyone to help you lug a used one up the stairs. the squeaky door that leads to the bathroom, the tiny space you called your kitchen. your bedroom is behind a closed door and andrew stares at it when you go inside to change out of your scrubs and come back out in the kind of clothes that you sleep in.

and then he stares at the shut door even after you leave, before realizing that you’ve already made your way to the space between the living room and kitchen, a narrow expanse with a small round table and some placemats with flowers on them. you set down your backpack and take your hair out of the clip that holds it back for you at work and suddenly, he’s staring again.

it’s just a little too close to everything he’s been dreaming about for years.

“i’m really sorry. i was supposed to go grocery shopping but i hate bringing everything up-”

“don’t apologize.”

“also, i’m-i’m not really a good cook. i’m sorry-”

“i don’t think anything you make can be worse than prison food.”

“i really doubt that. you’ve never had my cooking.”

you glance back him and he meets your eyes at the same time, and you both start laughing. it’s nothing crazy—andrew didn’t seem like the kind who laughs easily anyway, but he cracks a smile and the noise is indelible—all you can think of is how you can get him to laugh again.

“do you like spaghetti?”

+

if someone had told you yesterday that this time tomorrow, andrew from your letters would be sitting across from you at your dining table, eating spaghetti that you made while rushing, looking so in place in your tiny home that your heart hurts, you think you would have passed out.

you watch him while he eats, absentmindedly swirling your own noodles on the plate, unable to focus on eating when he’s really in front of you. after countless dreams and days spent wondering what had happened to him and if he was okay and if he ever thought about you. he’s… bigger than you thought he would be. shoulders broader than you had realized from that tiny video. his mannerisms interest you more than they should—how quiet he is, but how he seems to latch onto every word when you go on and on. just like the letters, it seems he’s still a listener.

(it doesn’t help matters when he tries to clear the table and wash the dishes after—you have to wrestle the plates out of his hand and tell him to go sit down, that he can’t get his bandage wet. jostling against his iron-hard body was not on the list of things you thought you’d get to do today, and the very realization that andrew is twice as strong as you on his worst day does…things to you. things that do not need to be named or explored right now. he’s still a stranger, you try to remind yourself. no he’s not.)

but it seems that he can’t sit still. he wipes down the counter and then comes back to help you dry your yellow dishes and when you both finish up, with you still smiling at him and unsure of what excuse you can conjure to get him to stay, he finds it all by himself. you tell andrew to go sit on the couch while you finish up and he does, and when you follow him out there, he’s standing in front of it. he turns his head to look at you and then back at the couch.

your cat is perched on his usual spot, and you go over to him, scratching the top of his head between his ears and making extremely childish, stupid-sounding noises at him.

“andrew this is wardy,” you say, picking him up and bringing him closer. “he’s really friendly. i promise.”

“hello, wardy.” when he says it, you look up at him with a look he can’t find words to describe. as close to love as you can get it when it’s a technically a stranger. the way he greets your cat and helps you clean and knows more about you than some of your friends and coworkers do.

there’s no words for it. it just is.

so you sit on the couch next to andrew, your cat between the two of you, and you wait for him to tell you that he wants to leave. you flick on the television, settling for whatever silly romance movie is playing on your netflix account, sitting in the almost-silence with andrew and wondering why still, it doesn’t feel necessarily uncomfortable.

eventually andrew reaches out to pet wardy, and he curls up into his touch, settling comfortably against his forearm. (his huge, thick, veiny forearm, you think briefly, before chasing the thought away with a broom. and then another one—no wonder he had bled so much at the hospital. with veins like these.)

“this area’s not the best,” andrew says, speaking as though you need to be reminded of it, to know that he doesn’t approve.

“i know. but it’s cheap and it’s near the beach.”

“but you live alone. it’s dangerous.”

“but-” you glance over at him. he takes up most of your couch, wardy’s head resting against his thigh now, while he continues petting him. he looks over at you and it’s clear—this isn’t an argument. “you’re right. but i mean, how bad can it be? if you’re here now?”

you pause. stupidly, you’ve just revealed whatever thoughts have been rattling around in your head. like the fact that you’re assuming he’s going to be here more often, when the truth is that you have no idea if that’s true.

why would it be true? you tried, in earnest, to make sure your life never seemed anything more than it really was in your letters. but andrew drives a brand new truck and wears an expensive watch and you have absolutely no idea what he was robbing or why he was doing it—and you never asked. the assumption that just because he found you, meant that he was going to keep you was completely insane. a misgiving on your part, because surely, whatever’s waiting for him back home is better than your crappy cooking and a tiny apartment and a cat that you—

“sorry, i’m sorry. that’s such a jump. we just met. i’m so sorry, i can-” you stand up, and so does andrew.

“why are you apologizing?”

“because i just.. i don’t know.” you try to pace around your apartment but you only get a few steps away before you have to come back. “this is crazy. we’re both crazy.”

you feel it in the air before you hear him say it. it gets tenser, quieter, more serious. like what you’ve both been dreading for the last few hours is about to happen.

“do…do you want me to leave?” you turn to face him quickly.

“no! no, i don’t. that’s why this is crazy. people are going to think we’re insane. i don’t want you to go. i want you stay. i want you to tell me everything i missed in the last year and a half. i want to know what you did with my letters. i want to know-”

and when andrew reaches forward to grab your forearm—gently, not meant to hurt you—you freeze in your tracks. staring up at him, all the words in your brain, every stupid thing your friends ever told you about this make-shift relationship you had concocted in your head melting away.

“i want that too.”

“oh. well, i just thought-”

and this time, he doesn’t let you finish, leaning in for a kiss that makes your knees give out. andrew’s mouth—wet and hot and on fire—kisses you like you two were made for each other.

as cheesy as the thought feels, you swallow it and wrap your arms around his neck. it’s every stupid romance movie you’ve ever seen coming to life, your life. all because of him. he doesn’t break the kiss, not even to breathe. you feel his tongue poke into your mouth and you accept it gladly. you fall back on the couch and the movement of it makes wardy scamper off, and you move your head just for a second to see where he runs off too, but andrew doesn’t stop. he lines kisses along your cheek and your jaw until you turn back and he gets your lips again.

you feel his weight on top of you, and briefly, you wonder if you should tell him.

countless nights spent wondering what this would feel like, how he would kiss you, all the things he would do to you. you have to keep reminding yourself, you’re just a stupid girl—it’s not your fault that a few nice letters was enough to make you head over heels for the last few years.

because somewhere deep down inside, you knew. you knew that it would be like this, that it would be perfect, that it would be everything you wanted. that he would take care of you and want you as badly as you want him. your crown title of hopeless romantic had finally paid off.

another thought stirs as he keeps kissing you. it’s feverish and hot and makes you warm all over—how long it’s been since he’s had someone, how he kisses you like he’s out of practice. his mouth is so hard against yours it almost hurts, but you welcome the pain. it’s like he’s proving to you that he’s really there now, that nothing can tear him away from you.

but then he does pull away. you catch your breath, hands traveling to his face and running your fingers through his hair. andrew’s pretty eyes close and you cherish it—that you made him feel like that. he leans into your touch, head resting against your hand while you both take long, heavy breaths.

andrew leans in, pressing your foreheads together.

“i-i’ve wanted to do that,” another breath. you feel butterflies continuously emerge and flutter around your chest and your stomach, all the way down to between your legs. “since your first letter.”

and then you can’t resist—leaning back in for another hard, wet kiss. you feel him shift, strong hands on your hips, but staying firmly there, not traveling despite how much you wish they would. he’s been polite again, you think. waiting for you to give him permission.

“you can-” you start, but andrew keeps pressing kisses against your neck that make it hard to finish your sentence. “you can touch me.” you expect his hands to spread—grope and grab and tease until you’re begging for more. for him to be impatient and hungry and not stop until he’s inside of you.

“i can’t believe you’re real,” he says quietly, one hand moving up to your waist and touching the soft skin there gently. he traces up your arms and then down before intertwining his fingers with yours. you stare up at him, stupid as ever. every time you think you know anything about andrew, he proves you wrong.

“i can’t believe you are, either,” you say, tilting your head up for another kiss. a short, chaste one this time. “you’re just as nice as i knew you’d be.”

“you think i’m nice?” he asks, voice low. you nod in response, words escaping you. you settle to answer with another kiss, hands going to his shoulders to steady yourself, tugging and pulling on his bottom lip with your teeth.

you push up until he understands, and he uses two huge hands to get you into his lap, sitting up with his back against your couch. you straddle him, trying your hardest to not lose your train of thought as you realize how hard he is against you.

“i think you’re too nice,” you tease, unsure where you’re finding the confidence. under you, andrew looks spacey and flushed and all kissed out, but you don’t plan to stop. you lean in to press kisses to his cheeks and work your way to his jaw and neck. when you stop to look at him again, he looks hopelessly up at you, and you think he’s waiting again, waiting for permission to do something. “i think you’re so nice that you’re not telling me everything you’ve wanted to do to me these last few years.”

the way andrew looks up at you after you said that—god. you wish you could engrain it into your memory. you’re not someone who does this often, but you might just be good at figuring out how to get andrew to crack. he looks up with some of the hunger you’d imagined there’d be, and it makes something stir inside of you.

it feels strange to be wanted the way andrew wants you right now. you’re just not used to it, not entirely sure that you’d ever feel this way. that someone would ever make you feel this way.

your thoughts are wiped again when he pulls you into another kiss, and you deepen it, moaning into his mouth. you’re being so loud that your older neighbor might be able to hear you, but you can hardly bring yourself to care right now. andrew is quiet, like you thought he would be, but each soft grunt and heavy sigh is enough to make your entire body tingle.

you think you’re being better at staying quiet yourself when andrew scoops you up into his arms, carrying you like it’s nothing for him. you yelp loudly, forgetting everything for a second, realizing how lovely it feels to be carried by him. he leads you two to your bedroom, setting you down gently on the bed.

you stare at him, hovering above you, wondering how you’ll get to do this. how you’ll get his clothes off and watch out for his hurt hand and that you’ll finally get to feel him inside of you—when he just stops moving.

andrew looks up and around your bedroom, craning his neck to take in all of it. you’re not sure why, stuck in a position under him that forces you to just watch.

“is everything okay, andrew?” when you say his name, he turns back to stare down at you.

“yes. yes, it is. it’s just-” he pauses, looking back up and then down. the room is decorated with lots of pretty frames. there’s yellow curtains on the windows and your sheets are yellow under you too, just like he’d suspected. seeing it in real life almost sends him back to years ago—the first time he’d wondered what your bedroom looks like. the place from where you write your letters, the place you read them. “it looks just like i thought it would.”

and just like every other part of tonight, your reaction continues to surprise him. you smile and then laugh, holding onto his shoulder even tighter.

“spend a lot of time thinking about my bedroom, huh?” you tease, and he remains just as confused as ever.

you are such a conundrum. andrew thinks that he wants you so badly he can’t form a proper thought—and then the thoughts merge and blend and anger at the very idea that you’re so trusting of him. you should be more careful. you shouldn’t trust anyone how much you’re trusting him right now—inviting him inside your home, letting him into your bedroom.

and then you pull him down for another kiss and it all washes away like letters in the sand.

eventually he does pull away—though it takes an enormous amount of self control. the words you said on the couch haven’t completely left him yet and he still needs to answer you. you claw and pull at his shirt so he lets you take it off of him, you trace a hand down his chest, stopping at his heart and pressing your palm flat against him.

you’re staring, he thinks, but you’re really just admiring. taking in every detail, every scar and bruise so you can ask him about it later, moving your fingers down his abs and biting your lip while you stare daggers at his chest.

he moves away from your touch though, as sad as it makes you.

“you wanted to know everything i’ve thought about you?” andrew says, and the words make you tense up—thighs clenching, walls fluttering just from words alone. your fingers tighten around his bicep where you’ve been holding on, and you nod up at him dumbly. “can i show you?”

your head falls back onto your pillow with a thud. you nod again.

you let andrew set the pace—he peels off your clothes and you lift your hips and raise your arms in compliance. he starts with a kiss to your stomach that makes you whine, fingers leaving his skin and grabbing onto your sheets instead just to have something to hold on to.

you’re embarrassingly wet—you already know you are. it’s almost painful how badly you want him, even against better judgement that tells you that you could have, at the very least, taken things slowly.

you guess andrew just brings it out of you.

his kisses move south and you brace yourself, every muscle tensing up in anticipation. andrew is silent except for his deep breaths and somehow, with each one deeper than the last, they make your entire body shudder in anticipation. when he finally gets to your leaking cunt, you hear it. a strangled moan, sounding painful and from the depth of his chest and filled with want and need. just from looking at you. you can’t imagine what he’ll sound like when—

“this is what i thought about. this is always what i thought about.”

and then andrew licks down the length of your cunt with the flat of his tongue, and you can’t think about anything else anymore. he’s relentless, exploring you with his mouth like he’s a man starved. you can hear the noises, obscene and sloppy and wet as they are.

and then you feel it—his mouth around your clit while one finger prods at your tight opening. your back rises off the bed but he holds you down with one huge hand over your stomach. his finger slips inside you more easily than he thought it would. though you’re wetter than he imagined, he doesn’t stop teasing your clit.

your wetness coats everything—his tongue, his lips, his chin. your thighs are wet too, and he’s sure he can get your yellow sheets soaked too if he could tease you long enough. but he’s been incredibly patient all these years, unsure if he can wait any longer to get what he’s wanted.

his hand keeps you pinned down while his mouth stays on your clit and then andrew adds another finger and you thrash up against him. it’s useless against the weight of his hand holding you down, but your body moves anyways, hands wrangling into his brown curls, likely making a complete mess of them. you keep pulling and he moans between your legs and the vibration makes you thrash harder, a completely exhilarating cycle.

when he finally releases you from his grip, you think the other hand will explore up and down your body, but true to form, you’re wrong. andrew finds your hand and holds onto it, lacing your fingers with his while he keeps going.

when adds a third finger, you realize that he’s saying something against you. you can’t quite make it out with your heart thudding in your ears and how loud you’re being, but then it becomes a little clearer—

“you taste even better than i thought you would-” and you can’t stop it, the tension in your stomach winding tighter and tighter before it snaps altogether. a white hot heat washes through your body and makes you shake even harder, but andrew’s hold on you keeps you completely grounded. he works you through it, not stopping even once, not until you’re trying your hardest to pull away from him. you try to catch your breath but it’s useless. your head feels completely empty.

incoherent, you grab at andrew, murmuring something about inside, please, and he really tries to stay level headed. but one glance at your naked, writhing body and your expression while you beg for him is enough to tip him over the edge.

resisting you requires a level of self control that he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to have.

andrew doesn’t think he’s ever had any self control when it comes to you. it’s why he did this, isn’t it? showed up at your hospital with your sweet letter folded up and somehow convinced you, without saying much of anything at all, to trust him and let him back into your life. he doesn’t even know how he did it—he can’t recall most of what he said to you. it plays in his head like a movie, like how your letters used to.

he doesn’t know what he did to deserve your trust, just knows that he’ll do whatever he has to in order to keep it forever.

andrew’s thoughts about keeping you cloud him while he lifts up your legs, manhandling your body while you squeal under him. he pushes your knees to your chest and lets your legs hang in the air while he hovers over you. all he can think about is getting inside of you—-giving you exactly what you’ve been begging for, fulfilling every fantasy he’s had about you in the last three years. the noises you’ll make. how tight and wet and warm you’ll feel around him. how you’ll look with his cum dripping out of-

“andrew, please, please,” you plead, and he’s not sure that you understand exactly what you’re asking for. it’s good that it’s him you picked for those letters, good that he’s the one who tracked you down.

someone else, well, he thinks, lining himself up with your soaking wet entrance, someone else might have had bad intentions with you. not andrew, though.

his intentions for you are only good. intentions to keep you happy and safe and move you away from this tiny apartment and make sure you get the job that you want, no matter who he has to threaten in order to do so. intentions to keep everything taken care of so the only thing you ever have to worry about again is him, just like you’d done for all those years when you wrote to him.

and as he slips inside, he knows those letters are in this bedroom somewhere, that this bed is where you read them, that these were the pretty hands that held his letters and these were the pretty eyes that read them.

you stare at him while he hovers over you, not pushing in just yet. andrew’s dick is just like the rest of him—thick and broad and so wide that you don’t know how you’ll be able to walk tomorrow. there’s veins too, just like his arms, and it’s all you can think about with him enclosed over you.

when he pushes his thick head past your fluttering walls, you make a noise like nothing he’s ever heard before. pure want and heat wrapped up with pleasure and pain. you keep begging for more but he’s not sure you can even handle it—but who is andrew to deny you?

he pushes further inside of you, now half way, and you cry out. andrew leans in to kiss you again, swallowing the noise and letting you moan against his lips.

another thrust and he’s almost all the way in. he pulls out and pushes back in, and then he starts his rhythm. your tits bounce with every thrust and he watches entranced, until his eyes go back to where you and him meet. in this position, on his knees with you folded underneath him, he can see it perfectly.

it’s enough to make him finish instantly. you look completely fucked out under him, crying out with each push of his hips.

your open your wet eyes and glance up at him. through wet lashes and blinking eyes, you get out a few words, stopped by each thrust.

“is it-” you gasp, words getting caught in your throat because andrew is so deep inside of you that you can feel him in your stomach and your chest. “is it what you imagined, andrew?”

“god, yes,” he says, and the sound is so perfect to you. it comes out broken, in the form of a gasp and a moan combined, and you want to hear it again and again. he says your name like it’s a prayer grounding him to you and you keep your arms wrapped around his neck, holding him close to you and bringing him in for another kiss. you can feel andrew’s pace start to stutter, his moans getting louder and his grip on you getting tighter. you hold his face in your hands, locking eyes again.

“inside, andrew, please, i want it inside, please, please,” and again, andrew thinks to himself, like some besotted fool, who is he to deny you? he releases whatever inhibitions he had left and fills you up with his cum—rivulets almost never ending. it leaks out around his dick, messing up your sheets and staining your thighs and making a mess of everything. he hears your heavy breaths and looks to see you smiling sweetly up at him.

and then he collapses next to you.

“hi andrew,” you say quietly next to him. your hands go to his, playing with his fingers and running the pad of your thumb over the veins on his hand. “was it how you thought it’d be?”

“it was better,” he says, breathless. you giggle and lean in to press a kiss to his cheek—and for a moment, he forgets everything. the circumstances of your introduction and the way he’d discovered you long forgotten for a few heartbeats. just you and the sound of your laugh and the promise of the future he wants with you before him.

“there’s still some things i thought about that we didn’t get to yet,” you tease, and he wonders, briefly, what he’s going to do with you.

and then you two hear it—scratching at your closed bedroom door.

“oh god,” you say, sitting up in bed.

you groan a little since your thighs are sore and it’s a wet, sticky mess between them. andrew keeps his hand on your arm and helps you sit up, and joins you in the position, like he’s preparing to help if you need something.

“warden, stop,” you say, but he doesn’t listen. you turn to andrew. “i’m gonna get him.” you try to move your legs and put weight on them, but you feel your knees buckle immediately, with andrew rushing to your side to help you back into bed.

“oh my god. you broke me.”

“i’ll get him. just-just sit down.”

andrew opens the door and picks up your cat like it’s second nature, bringing him to you on the bed before getting in right beside you. your cat is sweet but there’s not many people over at your apartment, and you worry for a moment that he won’t be nice to andrew when he wants your attention. but wardy doesn’t move from his position, staying curled up again andrew’s chest and arm, completely at ease.

“he likes you. that makes sense,” you say, smiling up at him, leaning in to pet wardy’s head.

but andrew doesn’t understand.

“warden. i thought you said his name was wardy?”

“that’s just a nickname.”

“why warden?”

“oh well. it’s silly, um-”

“tell me.”

“well, uh. well, warden is just the letters in andrew. uh, rearranged.”

“oh.”

“i’m sorry. i’m so sorry, is that creepy? i was really projecting, i guess, when i got him. i just loved your letters so much and i’ve never had a boyfriend or anything like that-”

“do you think we should get married?”

thanks for reading! ♡

[pxpecxdy]

Can’t stop thinking about Pope fingering you and then a little while later, in public, you catch him sniffing his fingers because even though he’s almost always very clean, he wanted to smell you all day.

Absnejsjhdjejsbdwjsjsn your brain is so big and wrinkley and beautiful!!!

It starts with a heated kiss goodbye. He's dropping you off at work. It's just a small part time gig, something to make you feel normal. His truck pulled around the back of the place, no cameras, no other cars around. Next thing you know his hand is shoved down your pants and your hand is doing the same.

A few hours go by at work and it's time to clock out. Andrew is waiting for you like he always does. You're supposed to be headed over to Smurf's house for dinner but she asked if you could pick a few things up from the grocery store. Andrew's beside you as you stare at the shelf of bread, trying to pick out the right one. It's a comfortable silence between you, something you got used to long ago.

Finally picking up a package of bread, you turn to toss it in the cart when you catch eyes with your boyfriend. He's got his hand up to his face. It's odd but you don't question it, he's odd. It's Pope. He takes a long blink before following you.

You arrive at the house and everyone is just chilling in back by the pool. Smurf's finishing up dinner and you and the boys are sitting around outside. You're sitting next to Pope, leaning on him, listening to whatever nonsense they were talking about.

"Dude what are you doing, Pope?" Craig interrupts, voice loud as he turns everyone's attention onto Pope. This is probably the fourth time he's seen him smell his fingers in the past hour. If he didn't know any better he'd think he was trying to subtly do a bump.

Andrew wordlessly shrugs. Choosing to ignore his brother's questioning. Craig shakes it off and goes back to talking about the chick he banged recently. You look up at Andrew, head tilted to the side, trying to read him and make sure he's actually okay.

He leans towards you, his lips brush against your ear before he whispers. "They smell like you." You pull back and look at him. What? Your brows knit together. Oh. Oh.

[flofaiiry]

inspo from pinterest as always.

pope's seen you in a sundress more times than he can count. you use them as a coverup for your swimsuit at smurf's parties, or just on extra warm days where you need as little fabric as possible against your skin. but the first time he sees you in one when you're his? oh he goes absolutely insane. he'd always thought you looked beautiful in them, but now that you're together he lets himself think those thoughts unashamedly - and it makes him crazy.

he doesn't wait long, moments after you're through the door & have greeted everyone, he's ushering you off to an empty bedroom or bathroom to bend you over the nearest available surface. he hikes the dress up around your hips, you gasp when you feel his fingers drawing harsh circles around your clit. "what's gotten into you?" you ask him through choppy breathes, he scoffs and brings his hands to the waistband of his pants, undoing them quickly and shoving them down just enough to free his cock. "this fuckin' dress."

lets just say you walk out with wobbly legs and andrew's cum dripping out of you.

[bullet-prooflove]

The Gruffalo: Andrew 'Pope' Cody x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @fadeinsol @akotafi @yousigned-upforthis @cowardlycandy

Summary: Pope finally lays eyes on you for the first time in months.

Companion piece to:

The Professional - Pope meets the love of his life when Smurf hires her to crack a safe.

Ethical Thieving - You introduce Pope to a new skill set.

The Skatepark - Pope reacts badly when you try to share your feelings.

Crazy (NSFW) - Pope's always been crazy but now he's also a man in love.

Tomorrow - Pope's family always fuck up the good in his life.

Do Over Day (NSFW) - Pope tries to make up for the day before.

Everything - Pope's family life clashes with your time together.

Positive - Pope didn't expect for it to happen sooner rather than later.

Four Bullets - Smurf finds out about you and Pope, leading to dire consquences.

Misery (feat: Baz Cody) - Baz starts to notice there’s something wrong with Pope.

It’s been two months since Pope last laid eyes on you.

Two months since you told him you were pregnant with his baby.

Two months since he broke your heart to save your life.

He’s been depressed since then, suicidal. He knows Baz sees that it’s getting worse, especially after the last job. He still has bruised ribs from where two bullets struck him in the chest, fracturing the plates in his Kevlar vest.

It’s why they’re sitting outside your house right now in Baz’s truck, watching you potter about through the open blinds.

You still look as beautiful as the day he left. Your hair shines in the sun that filters through the window, your palm resting on the baby bump that’s started to show through your clothing. Pope clutches the stuffed grey elephant he bought for the baby even harder, his fingers digging into the fabric as you tuck an errant strand of hair back behind your ear. He’s missed so much already. By now she’ll be starting to move, to respond to your voice. He wonders if she’d respond to his, if she'll understand what you've told her about him.

“What if she doesn’t want me?” He asks quietly, staring down at the elephant.

“She does want you Pope.” Baz reassures him, his arm coming to rest on the open window as he studies the street. “When I told Dylan about Smurf, about what she threatened to do… She understood that you were just trying to protect your family.”

“And Smurf… She doesn’t know we’re here?” Pope says, his voice hitching. “Because if she finds out…”

“She won’t.” Baz reinforces. “Our phones are at Deran’s bar, she’ll just think we’re having a drink with our brothers, that I’m trying to drown your sorrows, talk a little sense into you.”

“Alright.” Pope says shakily, nodding his head as he grips the door handle. “Thanks for doing this… You have no idea what it means-”

“I do.” Baz cuts him off. “She shouldn’t be able to use our children to control us, she shouldn’t be able to reach out and hurt them if we don’t do what she wants.”

There’s finality in his tone, one that Pope doesn’t pick up on as he opens the car door and climbs out of it.

“I’ll see you in a couple of hours.” Baz tells him before he closes it. “I’ll call Dylan’s phone from the bar to let you know I’m coming.”

He drives away then, leaving Pope standing at the steps leading up to your porch. He takes them one at a time, his palm gliding over the rickety railing that he’s going to fix for you the next time he’s here.

When he reaches the door, his chest constricts because this is the moment of truth, the moment you tell him what he did was unredeemable and that you don’t want him in your child’s life.

He raises his hand to knock but the door it’s already opening and there you are standing in front of him with your pretty sun kissed features and hair that flows like a waterfall over your shoulders. He squeezes the elephant tighter before thrusting it at you.

“I got this for her-”

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence because your arms wrap around him, drawing him close. The scent of the ocean floods his senses, the swell of the baby nestling between the both of you. He buries his face into the curve of your throat, his eyes stinging as he clings to you like a lifeline, like you are the only thing on this God forsaken earth worth living for.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, his chest heaving as he tries to hold back the sheer force of  emotion raising up in him. “She was going to hurt you, she was going to hurt Freya. I didn’t see a way...”

“I know.” You sooth him, your fingers running through his unruly curls. They’re wilder now, no longer cropped to his scalp the way he normally keeps them. “You were just protecting us.”

“I don’t know how to do that anymore. I don’t-”

It’s then the baby kicks, a swift hard punt that lands right in his navel.

“Oh.” He says looking down between the two of you, his hands coming to rest on the baby bump, cradling her beneath his palms.

“I think she wants to say hi.” You tell him, taking his hand and guiding it just a little lower towards where the next kick is. “She must like the sound of your voice.”

“Really?” He asks you, his chestnut brown eyes glistening as he looks up at you.

“You have a relaxing cadence.” You tell him as the baby kicks again. “It’s why I always  fall asleep to the sound of you reading.”

Always, not used to.

Those words aren’t lost on him, they’re a sign that he still has a presence in your life, a future with you, with Freya.

“Do you think that I could read to her?” His voice cracks as he asks the question. “So she can learn who I am.”

“I have a few baby books on the coffee table I’m sure she’d love to hear.” You tell him, your fingers threading through his as you lead him inside. “She loses her shit when I read The Gruffalo.”

“What’s a Gruffalo?” He asks, taking a seat on the couch.

You sort through the picture books on the coffee table, before pulling one out and handing it to him. “Read the book and find out.”

It turns into a literary discourse, one that has you laughing as he lays with his head in your lap, reading out loud to your daughter. When he’s done with that one, he picks up another and then another. It goes on until he drifts off, his body relaxing into you as his words falter.

He’s not been sleeping, you can tell from the dark circles staining his skin. The crows feet at the edge of his eyes are more pronounced, his features more weather worn. Your fingertips trail over his freckles as you listen to the steady sound of him breathing.

Your phone vibrates on the cushions next to you, Baz’s name flashing up on the screen. Your heart thuds faster in your chest as you pick it up, tucking it underneath your chin.

“You get it done?” You ask, your tone low.

“Yeah, it’ll look like she slipped in the shower, broke her neck. The same way Craig almost did the other day.” Baz tells you as he closes the door to the bathroom behind him. “I’m going to ‘find’ her along with Deran in a couple of minutes.”

“He’ll know.” You say gently as Pope stirs in your lap, his cheek coming to rest upon the place where his baby resides. “As soon as we tell him…”

“Then we’ll tell him the rest.” Baz reminds you with a voice like steel. “About how she was going to wait for the baby to be born to kill you, how she was going to adopt her because the state wouldn’t hand her over to someone with his record, how she would have used her like she did Julia-” He cuts himself and you can taste the bitterness in your mouth at the life your daughter almost had, the one that was almost identical to yours. If Baz hadn’t overheard that phone call between Smurf and her lawyer, asking her to draw up papers and date them for four months’ time… “-Pope will understand why it had to be me. He hates her but he doesn’t have it in him to hurt her. She made sure of that.”

And that’s the God’s honest truth, she spent years cultivating him into the perfect attack dog, training him not to turn around and bite his handler no matter how much horrible shit she put him through.

“Just promise me you’ll take care of him.” Baz says, his voice softening. “That you’ll love him the way that he deserves.”

“We will.” You promise Baz, your fingertips lightly combing through Pope's curls. “There is no one on this earth that could love him more than us.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[yourlipstogodsears]

What Pope Says, Goes (Andrew Pope Cody Smut!)

Summary: Pope finds your vibrator after coming home from jail after 3 years.. and it’s an interesting reaction. (rough play, brief moment of choking, overstimulation, eating out, taunting, etc.)

It was supposed to be a surprise, him coming home. He swung by the Cody house and hashed out what he needed to with Smurf and the brothers. Tonight was going to be about reconnecting.. well til his little discovery.

While rummaging through the drawers trying to find a change of clothes after showering and he finds your vibrator… and his eyes turn stone cold.

He doesn’t like being replaced. He doesn’t like the idea of toys being used in the bedroom. It’s his hands and his cock or it’s nothing for her. He thought she was waiting for him to get out and please her. All alone she was getting herself off… thinking of him.. which lightens the punishment but never less warrants a punishment in his mind.

So when you get home from the store and are stocking the toilet paper and paper towel in the hallway closet. Pope is standing in the bedroom door way waiting for a good moment. He grabs you around the waist with the other over your mouth and drags her to the bedroom.

He slams the bedroom door shut with his foot and pushes her onto the bed. His voice is low and dangerous as he leans over her, pinning her down with his body weight. He removes his hand from her mouth slowly but keeps her firmly under control.

“you think you can get yourself off huh?” he asks her coldly grabbing her wrists and pinning them above her head. “You think you don’t need my hands or my fucking mouth or my fucking dick huh?”

you pant, “you’re home?”

His face is stoic, his voice cold as he speaks. He reaches into the drawer and finds the vibrator, holding it up between his fingers. Explain this to me. He demands, his eyes piercing through her. He’s jealous. He’s angry. He’s frustrated.

“You know what that is.. why do I have to explain it” he’s a grown man, he shouldn’t be jealous of toys. cut to the point, pope.. please.

His grip on her tightens slightly, his voice dropping even lower. “Because I found it in our drawer. And I don’t like the idea of you using something else when I’m gone. When I’m not here to fuck you like you need to be fucked.”

she nods, “I know but I-”

He cuts her off, his hand moving from her mouth to wrap around her throat gently but firmly. “You what? You missed me? You got yourself off thinking about me?” His other hand moves to squeeze her breast roughly.

His eyes narrow as he looks down at her, his thumb pressing slightly against her windpipe. “From now on, it’s my hands or my cock or nothing at all. Got it?” He leans down to whisper in her ear, his voice menacing.

she nods, and taps his wrist to get him to lift his thumb.

He lifts his thumb, watching her throat work as she swallows. A smirk tugs at his lips, but it's cold. “Good. Now open your legs and show me how you used this thing when you should have been waiting for me.”

she grabs the vibrator and opens her legs clicking it on to the second speed and teasing herself through the panties.

His eyes darken with lust as he watches her, his own pants growing tight. He unbuckles his belt. He wants to see more. He wants to be the one making her wet, not some plastic toy. “Fuck... turn it up. Now.”

He takes the vibrator from her, pushing her panties aside and pressing it directly against her clit. He turns it up to the highest setting, watching hungrily as she throws her head back and moans. He presses harder, circling her sensitive bud, making her writhe. “Like that?”

she writhes and shakes and gasps as an orgasm rips through her.

He keeps the vibrator pressed against her clit, not letting up even as she tries to pull away from the intense sensation. “Not done yet baby.” He watches her face contort with pleasure, enjoying her helplessness under his control.

she whines and he pushes her hips down til they stop moving. When they stop, he moves his free hand that’s not holding the vibrator in place to her hair, “feels so-”

He cuts her off, his voice low and commanding. “I know what it feels like. You're gonna cum again for me.” He increases the pressure and speed slightly, knowing she's sensitive and overstimulated. “You gonna be a good girl until I tell you to stop or you can’t anymore okay?”

she nods and does. she cums over and over and over. Her pussy floaded with cream. laying in a big wet spot on the bed. Her thighs trembling.

He watches her pussy gush with each orgasm, the bed becoming soaked with her release. He presses the vibrator harder against her clit, knowing she's on the edge of being too sensitive. He wants to push her over. “Once more baby. Give me one more.”

she whines, “I don’t think I can-”

He cuts her off again, his voice menacing. “You can.” He presses the vibrator harder against her clit, not letting up even as she tries to pull away from the intense sensation. “You gonna come one more time for me until I tell you to stop or you can’t anymore okay?”

she nods and an orgasm rips through her again by surprise.

He watches her face contort with pleasure as the last orgasm hits her. She’s completely out of it. Her pussy is so sensitive she’s almost crying. Her legs are trembling uncontrollably. He finally pulls the vibrator away and tosses it aside. “Fuck... you’re soaked.”

He looks down at her body. Her breasts rise and fall rapidly with each breath she takes. Her inner thighs are coated with her juices. He spreads her legs wider and sees the bedsheets soaked beneath her. He realizes she came at least five times in a row without stopping. “Jesus... baby?”

she hums her eyes closed as her head spins with pleasure.

He can't resist anymore. He spreads her legs wider and buries his face between them, licking up her juices. He's never tasted anything so sweet. He eats her out like a starving man, knowing she's too sensitive to move or protest.“Fuck, I love you so much... baby...”

she whines softly but her body is too weak to move, he praises her for handling the punishment.

He smirks, impressed with her endurance. His voice is soft but dominant. “Good girl... fucking handled all that punishment, didn't you?” He continues licking her gently now, knowing she's been pushed to her limits. “Such a perfect little cunt... look at how swollen you are..."

He kisses her inner thighs gently, then up to her belly, her breasts and neck before taking her mouth in his. She can taste herself on his lips and tongue. He holds her close and runs a hand through her hair. “I'm so proud of you, baby... you took that so well.”

he slides into her weeping, cum soaked cunt with his semi hard cock just to warm it. As a reward for her for the night.

He pushes into her slowly, feeling her wet heat surround him. He doesn't fully thrust, just enough to reward her. “Look at you taking my cock so good...” He kisses her neck gently. “You've been such a good girl, handling all that for me.”

she hums and her eyes close.

He starts to move slowly inside her, enjoying the sensation of her wet, swollen pussy gripping his cock. He keeps his thrusts gentle and steady, knowing she's been thoroughly fucked and pleasured already. “You did so well tonight, baby. You took everything I gave you.”

She falls asleep with pope filling all of her senses. His body around her, his scent in her nose, his breath hot on her skin, his cock buried deep and his arms caging her in. Pope thrusts soft and steady til he falls asleep with his head in the crook of her neck. never pulling out.

[householdcryptid]

Imagine someone like Craig makes a sexual comment about reader and pope FLIPS OUT. I feel like pope is super protective. Also I feel like pope is really body positive rather someone is super skinny or curvy he could care less. Body hair doesn't scare pope

you are totally correct, pope would not care at all what size or shape your body is. i genuinely think he doesn't even factor that into his like...attraction I guess? like obviously he thinks you're sexy/beautiful/handsome but that is NOT the first thing he notices about you. idk if this was supposed to be a nurse!reader or a shy!reader, but I did sunshine cause I felt like it fit them :) cw: uhh, pope being pope, gunshot wound mention (not in any crazy detail though), craig being craig, slightly sexual comment made by Craig. 1K Words :) she's short and sweet

It all starts with a comment from Craig. Just one, tiny little comment, harmless by your standards. Some of the whacked-out patients at the clinic spew much more vile shit at you on a day-to-day basis. “If Pope’s not up to the task, I’d be happy to fix that attitude, Sunshine.” You’d been in a mood, considering Pope had been caught in the line of a shotgun’s buckshot two days ago. He was fine, thank God (or whatever deity watches over him and his fucked up family), but you’d been on edge. Snappy and waspish in a way you’re normally able to control. The comment hardly makes you look up. Tossing Craig a middle finger is easy by now, but Pope isn’t so forgiving. He’s up as fast as he can manage, gunning straight for his brother with a slight limp in his normally steady step. “Fuck did you say-?” He’s almost growling, voice gone sharp, gravelly. It shouldn’t make heat stir in your belly, but it does. His hands, open palm, collide with Craig’s shoulders, gripping the fabric of the taller man’s tank top, knuckles white. “Keep your fuckin’ mouth shut-” You’ve never seen him in action, not like this. Not that this is as bad he gets, either, you’re sure. It’s jarring nonetheless. “Andrew,” You call out, surprised, voice raising an octave, a frown working its way across your face. You’re crossing the room after him on instinct, hand settling on the back of his shoulder. He goes stiff beneath it, breathing hard, nostrils flared and eyes wide. That wild look he gets— like a hurricane barely contained— turns to you, just a bit. The slightest tip of his head in your direction. Craig is smirking, hands held up plaintively at his sides. You barely bite back a curse in his direction, choosing instead to focus on Pope. 

“Drew, let ‘im go.” You murmur, shaking your head slowly. “He’s just bein’ a dick,” Your gaze cuts to Craig then, who at least has the decency to look the tiniest bit apologetic. “It’s alright, c’mon.” You mumble, hand sliding from Pope’s shoulder to his back, rubbing gently between his shoulder blades. “You’re gonna rip your stitches. Sit down for me, lemme check.” It takes a minute, two, but then his fingers are unfurling from Craig’s shirt, and he’s shoving him away like the touch burns. “Fuck outta here.” He barks, gruff and a little mean, sniffing once and turning to face you finally. You nod, lead him back over to the couch where he’d been stationed for the better part of the day. You know it’s been killing him. This sitting around, doing nothing, staring a TV, feigning interest in whatever bullshit Craig and Deran are talking about, or, God forbid, Smurf coming over to ‘comfort’ him. He hates to be in one spot for too long, despises being useless. When Craig is out of ear shot, you squat down in front of him, fingers curling in the bottom hem of his shirt and lifting it. “You don’t have to do that, y’know?” You murmur, peeling back his bandages tenderly, looking over the handful of stitches you’d had sewn into his skin. He tilts his head, frowning like he doesn’t understand what you mean. “Defend me like that.” You clarify, sparing a glance up at him, eyebrow arched. “I can handle it. People have said a lot worse, believe me.” His frown only deepens the more you speak, eyes gone dark with a thinly veiled rage, thick fingers clenching at the edge of the couch cushion he sits on. “M’not gonna let him talk to you like that.” He grumbles low, pointed. “No one gets to talk to you like that.” His gaze doesn’t let up, and something in his tone lets you know there’s a threat hidden there. Something dark, primal, biding its time. Affection blooms in your heart despite it, something that never ceases to unnerve you. The violence and anger that reside in him should not be as endearing as you seem to find it. Or maybe it isn’t that, that draws you into him. Maybe it’s the devotion, the allegiance he has to you. You know, deep down, that he’d burn the world to keep you safe and happy. You smile in spite of the heavy tone he’s just set, shake your head in that gentle, fond way that makes his stomach tighten. He relaxes minutely when your hands find the sides of his neck, leaning into your touch. “You’re sweet.” You state quietly, tipping your head forward just enough to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, nose brushing against his own gently. He sighs heavily through his nose, resting his forehead against yours, eyes sliding shut. The tension bleeds from him all at once, his hand sliding up your forearm to cup your elbow. He’s never known a feeling like the one you give him. Something tight in his chest unravels when you touch him, leaving him to feel… bare, vulnerable, and he hates it as much as he craves it. “Let’s go home.” He mumbles, nose pressing to the apple of your cheek, fingers dimpling the skin of your upper arm. Your home, he means. Not his little condo that resembles a prison cell more than an actual home, but your apartment. Where it smells of coconut and his shampoo sits next to yours in the shower. And you can’t deny him anything when his voice drops to that soft, breathy tone. Especially not when he’s actually asking for something, a rare act at best. You reward him with another kiss, humming quietly in confirmation. “Yeah, big guy,” You whisper. “Let’s go home.”

[justalittleoasisficrecs]

This was so beautiful, you write so wonderfully 💜

the in between

(pairing: andrew 'pope' cody x fem!reader)

summary: pope cody doesn't allow himself much, but after a harrowing job, all he wants is the gentleness that is you...

warnings: hurt/comfort, nakedness, slight horniness but that ain't the point of this, 18+ just in case, smurf mention, canon-general violence/injury, pope's aura, etc

word count: 1.6k

a/n: been watching animal kingdom with my sister and shawn hatosy has bewitched me mind, body, and soul. let me know how you enjoy me trying to write for this freak ass mama's boy who just needs some tenderness and normalcy in his life

It didn’t take much to surprise you these days, but the last thing you expected after an impromptu girls’ night out was to find a slew of medical supplies strewn around your en-suite bathroom.

Amid the mess, stood one Andrew Cody, hardly conscious behind the steam-fogged glass of your walk-in shower. Your heart jolted as your gaze settled on an unsettling amount of blood-soaked gauze left haphazardly on the vanity’s counter. 

You remember somewhere back in the muddled mess of your sobering mind something about a job that was supposed to go down tonight. He didn’t make it a habit to let you in on much when it came to his family’s work, but you didn’t think it was supposed to be that much of a complicated take this time around, despite his current stature clearly depicting otherwise. 

There must have been some sort of colossal fuck up along the way if he came back like this. To get away and be with you, of all people, instead of with his brothers or even by himself.

If he’d noticed you by now, he made no move to acknowledge your presence. 

With a small sigh, you bend over and grab the small waste basket nestled next to your bathroom cabinet in order to gather the soiled supplies to make room for any patching up that’s sure to take place post-shower. 

When the space is made to your satisfaction, you waste no time wriggling out of your itchily glittered cocktail dress, thanks to Shauna’s insistence on wearing, along with the rest of your dainty undergarments, before grabbing some towels to set aside. 

Making it into the shower cubicle, the mottling of bruises and severe scraping that decorated the expanse of his back like a morbid modern art display has you at a momentary standstill. The delicate freckling of his shoulders could hardly be made out, and it was a challenge to swallow the growing lump in your throat at the sight. 

Your eyes drifted to one of his hands resting on the seaglass mosaic that made up your accent wall. His knuckles were marred with the discoloration of an altercation, serving as a stark contrast to the soft colors of condensating tiles. 

Pope always seemed to appear slightly out of place whenever he turned up here. The complete opposite of your graceful disposition. The lived-in warmth of your home.

A makeshift weapon. A guard dog. A Criminal.

Despite all the titles he shouldered, he looked so small. As if he could break down every particle, every atom of himself, and disappear down the drain that rested at his feet.

Just wash away. Dissolve. Be nothing. 

A subtle shudder rippled along his shoulders as he took a breath. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Your voice was small, afraid to shatter the quiet that lay heavy in this little corner of the world. 

He shook his head no. 

Things had certainly gone wrong in some way, shape, or form tonight, and as usual, it looked like he took the brunt of it all. 

It was times like these when you really, really hated Smurf. 

You didn’t need to voice that, though. You’d end up standing here all night until your face ran blue. He knew how you felt. 

For he felt the same. 

Except he’d never been confident enough to have the strength to break away. To be free. 

At this point, he’s not even sure if he deserves it. A life without his wretched mother in it. One without pain being inflicted upon himself or others. It’s all he’s ever known. 

It was as if his inescapable tie to that woman seemed to serve as a form of some tragic, indefinite penance.

With you, though, there’s an uncharacteristic selfishness that takes over whenever it comes to stealing a slice of unguarded peace at your mercy.

At first, he made it his mission to just stay away. Be alone. Let the weight of his existence, his sins, build up and let him drown without anyone there to bear witness. 

But you were so good. So lovely. So real. 

You’ve never been scared of him. Always just scared for him. 

You weren’t naive about his past or present, but he kept his family life and whatever this was as separate as humanly possible. He was sure the poison of the Cody's corrupted Midas’ touch would eventually reach you some way, somehow. That it would take you without any warning, just like everything else, when it came to anything he allowed himself to want. All he could do was continue to slip away and revel in the warmth you offered in between the small gaps of time and space the universe felt generous enough to provide. 

Sometimes knowing this type of fragile affection, this love, made him sick to his very core. 

He still struggled with accepting that you didn’t hang around to use him. That every gesture, every touch, wasn’t some twisted way to gain control. 

You existed in his orbit not for leverage, but because you cared. You had no ill will in picking up his many broken pieces. You did it because it felt right. You were selfless by nature.

“Where did you go?” The meek rasp of Pope’s voice finally filled the stretch of silence between you two. 

“Shauna dumped her asshole boyfriend this morning, so Cassie demanded we go out and celebrate her new chapter of freedom.” You inched forward to loosely wrap your arms around his torso, taking extra care in trying not to disturb the darkening marks settling on his ribs.

 The hand resting on the shower wall came down to gently drape over yours, squeezing lightly to ground himself in the fact that it was you resting your soft, damp skin against his, fitting like a puzzle piece against the curve of his worn spine. His chest was starting to redden from the heat of the water so he took it upon himself to switch places with you to give himself a break, making sure to twist the knob as he did so your skin wouldn’t scald under the spray. 

Facing him, you were now able to get a good look at his face. There was a small split in his cheekbone with a blooming stain accompanying it, but nothing else nearly as bad as the rest of his frame. 

“Tough night?” You gently cupped his jaw, running a thumb over the pale pink of his bottom lip as reddened hazel took you in. Being out for hours crammed in hot spaces didn't make it surprising to see that some of your makeup was starting to run and flake a bit, but there was nothing else more beautiful.

You, in all your glory, trusting him to take up space at your most vulnerable.

His heart ached, trying to jump out of his battered ribcage at the look in your eyes. The intensity of your love, tainted by worry, as you tried and failed to tamp it down because you knew how much he disliked being fussed over. 

“Just needed a moment away.” His hand lifted to encompass the back of your head to bring you forward, kissing your forehead so sweetly you felt a sting of tears press behind your eyes. The path of his delicate affections made way down the slope of your nose, the corner of your eye, then finally, like a stalled breath let free, the awaiting line of your lips. 

It was a kiss driven by sheer want. The addicting rush of relief bleeding through. 

He’s still here. You’re promised another day as few and far in between as they come. 

You feel the hard line of him pressing between the wet slick of your bodies, growing warm and heavy at the base of your navel as palms blindly wander over skin. Sighing into his mouth, you adjust yourself to reach down, mind thick with the heady idea of putting all of your focus into taking care of him, but his gentle grip on your wrist stops you from traveling further.

He softly shakes his head, mumbling something incoherent, something about just needing you, before guiding your hand back up on the nape of his neck and diving into your embrace with renewed desperation. He wanted to be present for more, but the day’s misfortunes could only allow for this, and you’d never fault him for it. You’d never push. 

His lips drew themselves down the length of your neck, barely teasing with the soft scrape of his teeth, granting a moment for you to both retain some much needed air. The water was starting to grow lukewarm, nudging you out of your joint daze. 

“Want me to help you wash?” Your fingers carded through damp curls, letting your fingernails scrape gingerly at his scalp. He let out a soft hum of approval, so you made the move to grab one of the loofahs hanging on a shelf, his own personal one that you bought for him of course, and carefully started scrubbing away any remnants of frustration or fatigue. 

Once you were done, he insisted on returning the favor, though you playfully rushed him as the water’s decreasing temperature was the annoying causation of rising gooseflesh spreading rampant all over your body, and you couldn’t stomach it for much longer, as much as you appreciated his silent doting.

Drying off, you settle in the best set of pajamas you could find for both of you and sit him back down to make sure that the rest of his wounds are clean. The tenderness in which you did so almost made him melt into a pathetic puddle.

Settling a butterfly bandage on his split cheek, you lean forward to stamp a warm peck along the tender bone. His strong arms were quick to hold you there, relishing in the small action as if it could make him somewhat whole again. 

“C’mon. Take these, then we need to get you snug and asleep.” You press another kiss to his lips, then pull him up to give him a couple of painkillers in hopes he wouldn’t feel like he got hit by a bus as bad in the morning. 

Following you like a lost stray into the oasis that was your bed, you intertwine your limbs with his from behind, pressing close as if you could mend together and be one. 

Nothing can touch you here, he decided in that moment. 

He’d ensure it. 

[pittrabbit]

warnings: smut, kind of pwp, sexual harassment (from some guy, not pope), afab reader, age gap implied (everyone act shocked), p in v sex, soft dom reader and sub andrew, reader and andrew want each other bad, physical altercation, dry humping, prolonged foreplay, etc etc etc.

summary: you weren't sure how you ended up at this random party by the beach, but you started to regret it when some idiot wouldn't leave you alone. thank god the guy you'd been making eyes at all night decides to come to the rescue.

word count: 5.9k

note: not really happy with this one but here it is i guess!!

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attending a party at some unknown's house by the beach hadn't really been part of tonight's plans. but when your best friend had shown up after work with a pout on her face and an annoying insistence you tag along, you sighed in compliance, slipping on a tiny dress and some kitten heels before trailing behind her.

there was some guy that had invited her, she'd said. you weren't really sure about it, never having heard of the guy or of the people hosting it. she'd stay with you all night, she'd claimed, and apparently parties went down there quite often without any trouble.

you were mostly past your partying days, but being a good friend, you still agreed, knowing it was better to go as a group rather than let her go to a strange place alone.

too bad she hadn't been as good a friend to you at said party.

almost within minutes of your arrival, you'd lost her in the crowd of bodies. as soon as she'd locked eyes with whatever guy she attended the party for, she decided to leave you on your own in favor of going with him. she promised she'd be back, that she'd just hang with him for a while before coming back to you.

and for some stupid reason, you stayed. instead of calling up an uber and drafting some angry text to her, you decided to stay and make the most of it. you wanted to be a good friend, wait around for her so she wouldn't have to go home alone — if she even went back home tonight.

it was a nice house, they had enough drinks to go around, and hell, you looked amazing. it would've been stupid to make the trek back home and waste the twenty minutes it'd taken you to get here (and the hour to get ready) just to turn right back around.

unlike your friend, you weren't really planning to hook up with anyone tonight. you were past your partying era, as you'd told your friend before being dragged here. however, enjoying the atmosphere and maybe dancing a little wouldn't hurt you. you'd keep things casual, just enjoy yourself for an hour or two before searching around for your friend in order to check in (and hopefully leave).

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you grew bored of the party within an hour.

it had quickly turned into rowdy men fucking around in the pool and far too many people spilling their drinks carelessly into the water. after dancing and mingling for a while, you decided to stick to a wall, take the role of a loner and just watch the idiots wrestling one another in the pool.

there was still no sign of your friend (other than a lone text letting you know she'd get back to you soon, she promised!!), and you were in a low social battery mode, so you were really just killing time by holding up the wall.

and you would've been okay with that for another hour or two if it wasn't for the guy that had started harassing you one hour into the party.

it started with a look from across the pool. a very suggestive look, might you add. you were used to those, usually being able to shrug them off and keep it moving. this guy, however, was one of the unlucky insistent ones.

immediately looking away after making eye contact had not been enough of a hint, apparently. no, this man had actually taken that as a sign for him to make his way across the room and join you in holding up the wall.

finding his way to your side, he left about a foot of distance between you as he leaned against that same wall, drink in hand to occupy his hands as he did a terrible job at shooting you subtle looks from the side.

not wanting to be straight up rude, you didn't walk away — a mistake, in retrospect. instead, you became interested in your shoes, the guys fucking around in the pool, the couple making out to your left, just anything but him.

it didnt take long for him to get bored, though. within five minutes or so, that foot of distance became just a few inches, the man now standing shoulder to shoulder with you, leaning down a bit to share his first words with you over the music.

"hey. never seen you around here before. you a friend of the cody's? what's your name?"

god. way too much all at once. not to mention that his breath was too heavy against your ear.

whatever happened to personal space.

"uhm, nope. i'm just here with a friend. actually, i should go look for-"

he stepped closer then, taking your response — however non-receptive as it was — as a welcome to keep talking.

"yeah? i don't see any friend. i've been watching you, actually." he chuckled. "you looked kinda bored. thought id keep you some company."

he smelled like tequila. reeked of it, actually. that was never a good sign. he was clearly drunk, or at least well on his way there.

you took a step back, wanting to revive the space between you. your eyes didnt meet his, knowing he'd also take eye contact as a welcoming sign.

instead, you looked past him. you looked past him in hopes of finding someone else to latch on to, some excuse to walk away.

and past this man's shoulder, you found another pair of eyes watching you, a face you hadn't taken notice of until now.

you kept looking at him, now meeting his eyes. the effect was immediate. the intensity in his gaze had you captivated within mere seconds of focusing your eyes on his own.

he didn't seem to be too tall, but his build made up for it. his arms remained crossed over his chest, a serious look in his eyes. some fresh cuts and bruises adorned his arms, you could tell as much from the small distance between you. there was one on his eyebrow that called your attention. you instinctively wanted to reach out and run your thumb through it, ask if it hurt, how he got it.

usually when meeting someone's eyes in the middle of a crowd like this, someone will look away (usually you), but the two of you stayed focused on one another. you pushed aside any of your surroundings and kept staring, eyebrows furrowing at the sudden feeling his gaze gave you.

he was a little further from the two of you, though still close enough to be able to observe your interaction with precision if he so wished. and it seemed like he was very focused on it. his eyes only left you to stare a hole into the back of the man that had been cornering you. with his eyebrows twisted together, his face showed a expression of slight annoyance at what he was seeing.

you were about to signal him with your eyes, having somehow forgotten the other man in your vicinity, but you were once again rudely interrupted.

"don't be rude, i'm talking to you." he huffed, face tilting to meet your eye line so he could force some eye contact with you.

your eyes finally left the stranger's, refocusing on the unknown man in front of you. you couldn't help but feel even more annoyed now, wanting to continue the silent conversation you were having with the mysterious man, but now being unable to even see him due to your view being blocked by some idiot.

you decided to try again, clearing your throat before responding to him.

"i told you. i'm here with a friend. i should really go look for her-" you made move to walk away, but were interrupted once more, though this time physically.

one of his hands found your arm, grasping it loosely enough to not raise any alarms to anyone nearby, but hard enough to send you a silent message.

"stop lying to me, you cunt. if you're not interested, just fucking say so. have some respect." he practically barked, not caring for the remnants of saliva that slipped out of his mouth.

your fight or flight mode activated as soon as he raised his voice — as soon as he put his hand on you, really. as unfortunate as missing out on more intense eye contact from the cute guy you'd missed sight of felt, you needed to get out of there as soon as possible. before this guy escalated things.

without thinking, you put your unoccupied hand on his chest in order to create some distance between you. that's when you lost your balance and spilled some of the overflow of your drink on him, simultaneously pushing him away with more force than you'd intended.

your eyes were focused on his white shirt, now covered in a burgundy mixture of drinks you'd found in some punch by the kitchen.

before you could react, the man practically growled at you, shaking his head with an angry scoff and throwing his own drink on the floor, making sure it splashed all over your legs before crowding you even more against the wall.

"you fucking bitch. i swear to god, i'm going to-"

you ducked, scared he might hit you or retaliate in some worse way, eyes closed shut and hands covering your face.

but nothing ever came after that.

just a voice. a very neutral one.

"step away." said the voice.

when you opened your eyes, you found the scary man with his hands behind his back, behind him the man with the intense eyes clearly holding him against his will, mouth almost attached to his ear as he directed the threat towards him. his eyes landed on yours when you opened them.

the man tried to get away, failing as he was not as strong as the man who'd stepped in to defend you. "this doesnt concern-"

"either you get the fuck out of my house, or i'll take care of you myself." he tightened his grip, twisting the man's arms and getting a yelp out of him.

he didnt wait for a response, pushing him towards the wall next to you, causing you to jump back at the sudden commotion. a few other partygoers were now watching the scene, but with one threatening look from the man, most of them drew their attention away.

"fucking freak. not worth the trouble anyway." were the last words from that other man, muttered under his breath as he got up and walked away.

the nameless man looked back to you, still looking a little threatening but with a newfound understanding look in his eyes. stretching his hand, he spoke to you.

"come with me."

and you followed, a little shocked and a little shaken up by the other man's actions, but numb enough to not question this guy.

the two of you walked away from the scene, with him leading you without another word.

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within moments, you made it to what you could only assume to be his room. you hadn't asked. you hadn't really said anything in the past five minutes you'd been behind closed doors with your savior.

he'd just led you in here without much information, only telling you "it's empty in here." before taking a seat next to you at the edge of his bed.

he was quiet, serious, a brooding presence. but you still felt safe around him. he'd stepped in and helped you without you so much as asking. any other partygoer near you just ignored what was clearly a threatening presence looming over you while he stepped in and took care of matters within seconds, not a single sign of cockiness or need for praise at his actions.

you'd been attracted to him from the moment you met his eyes. even as you had some other guy showing clear interest in you (far too much, to be honest), your eyes had been glued to his, captivated by the way he looked back at you. you didn't believe in the love at first sight bullshit, but you could at least admit that this was infatuation at first sight. hopefully a mutual one.

"are you okay?"

he finally broke the silence, eyes still ahead of him rather than on you. his posture was relaxed, his avoidance of facing you clearly a result of social awkwardness rather than nerves.

you turned your body to face him, inadvertently causing your knees to touch the side of his thigh.

"yeah, i- thank you for helping me back there, that guy was-"

"yeah. it's no problem." he interrupted, rough, cutting without really meaning to.

silence washed over you again, slightly awkward, slightly comfortable, a weird mixture that left you not knowing what to do.

"uhm, is this your room?" you asked, getting up with some hesitation as you attempted to make some conversation.

"yeah." was all he responded with, though you could now feel his eyes on you, following you as you took slow steps and looked around his room.

you were about to brave a look at some of the stuff around his room before his voice broke out again, making you fully turn your body towards him in question.

"your legs." he began, hand pointing at them as if you needed confirmation as to where they were. "they- his drink spilled all over you. let me help you clean up" he spoke, getting up before even letting you respond.

he exited the room after that, closing it behind him and leaving you there confused.

it only took him a few moments to come back, opening the door and closing it back up as he held rags and a water bottle with him. with the objects in his hands, he gestured at you to sit back down on the bed, to which you obeyed without objection.

now sitting, you gaped at him when he knelt in front of you, nearing your legs far too much for someone you had only exchanged a handful of words with.

"is this okay?" he asked though he'd already uncapped the water bottle, pouring some of its contents on the rag.

"oh, uh, yeah. thanks."

you weren't usually this socially inept, but his blunt yet awkward behavior made you unsure of how to act. you feared that you'd be off-putting to him if you were too forward, but maybe if you kept to yourself too much he'd think you were scared of him. so you opted to just sit there, facing your body towards him and letting him press the damp rag to your calves, which had already gone sticky from letting the punch dry on your skin.

"what's your name?" you asked after a few moments of silence.

he appeared so innocent as he looked up to you. even with the threatening aura he'd displayed outside, he was completely calm in here with you. his wide eyes gave you the opposite effect the man outside had caused in you. you didn't know this man, yet you felt comfortable with him. he was taking care of you. it made you want to return the favor.

him on his knees also caused an entirely different effect on you, but you shoved it aside. it was clear this poor guy had no interest in anything like that. he had you all alone in his room, tiny dress riding up while he had you heavy-breathing at his through a damp rag, yet he remained entirely disinterested.

"andrew."

"andrew." you repeated. "i like it. thank you for all your help, andrew. i'm sorry i caused a scene at your party, i didn't-"

"don't apologize." he interrupted, letting silence invade the room once again.

you couldn't really think of anything else to say, but you didn't want your time with him to end so quickly. maybe he just wasn't interested at all. he kept his answers short, kept all his focus on helping you, getting you cleaned up, didn't engage in any sort of back and forth, nothing that expressed any sort of emotion toward you. those looks earlier at the party must've just been coincidental. he was probably lost in thought and you just so happened to be in his line of sight. there was clearly nothing going on between you.

then he mumbled something. under his breath, not loud or intelligible enough for you to make out.

"sorry?"

you leaned your body down a bit, causing him to look up at you. he stiffened a little when he noticed the closed proximity between you, hand stilling on your calf.

"your name."

you gave it to him, smiling at yourself for getting a few more words out of him.

"i, uh, i like it." he looked back down as he said it, rag now tending to your strappy heels — he was being quite thorough, slow in his movements and gentle as he removed the sticky remnants of alcohol from your skin.

"thank you."

without thinking, your hand went to his hair, fingers running lightly through the curls at the top. they were soft under your touch, long enough for you to pull at if you so wished — and you did wish, only holding back for the sake of decorum.

"i- uh."

you drew your hand away at his discomfort, nose scrunching awkwardly at having crossed a line without meaning to.

"shit, sorry, i-"

"no. it's okay. keep- you can do it again." he looked up at you again, using one hand to draw yours back to his hair, immediately going back to pouring fresh water onto the almost-dry rag and continuing his work.

but you interrupted him, hand leaving his hair in favor of removing the rag from his hand, putting it on the floor next to him.

you had to take advantage of the first time of the night in which he'd been receptive to you. he liked it when you touched him? you could do way better than that.

"why don't you sit up here with me, andrew? i think you've cleaned me up enough."

it was true. by now you were sure he'd even cleaned you off the moisturizer you'd applied on your legs before leaving your apartment. he seemed very adamant in getting you free of any remnant of the party outside, but who were you to complain?

with some hesitation, he let your hand go to his bicep, leading him to sit far too close to you despite his half-hearted attempt to sit a little further. and even as he sat, you didn't let go of his arm, now using your thumb to caress its skin softly, far too softly for someone you'd just met.

"i'm all clean now. see?" your other hand went to his chin, tilting it so he would look down at your legs, but strategically so that his eyes would land on your thighs rather than your calves which he'd been wiping at.

he continued to say nothing, eyes staring straight at your legs before turning back to your eyes, hands firm and resting on his own thighs. you decided to remedy that by taking his hand in yours, resting it atop your legs, fingers intertwined.

"thank you for taking care of me tonight, andrew." you thanked him again, voice sweet, sickly so.

"yeah." he mumbled. he looked down at your interlocked hands before looking back at you, eyes unreadable. but the rising of his chest told you enough.

scooting even closer, legs now completely pressed to his own, you let go of his hand, softly thumbing at the fresh cut on his eyebrow, the same one you wanted to take care of earlier in the day. now you could see it up close, pout at the thought of him hurting even if you didn't know the injury's origin.

"can i return the favor?"

he took a breath, air releasing from his nose, recalibrating almost.

"how?"

"just trust me." you smiled at him. "the same way i trust you."

he seemed to like those words, mouth opening and closing before his hands went down to your waist, aiding you in taking the final step so you could straddle him.

under you, he was sturdy, full of reliable muscle. you could feel the hardness hiding under his skin as your hands gripped at his shoulders. but you didn't need to hold on to him, not when his arms wrapped around your waist, keeping you safely pressed against him.

slowly, as if you couldn't risk any sudden movements, you leaned down, eyes resting heavily on his lips. andrew leaned into you, nose bumping softly into yours, lips gracing over your own. it was tense, breaths mixing together before you finally lost your patience and closed the distance, diving in for an open-mouthed kiss.

maybe it was too needy a kiss to give a guy who seemed to keep to himself, but you were surprised to find that he matched your energy with no complaint. his hands gripped at your hips, his mouth open just like yours, tongue being chased and trapped by yours. your hands traveled from his shoulders to his hair, running your hands through it and pulling lightly at the dark amber strands. this drew a muffled groan from him, wordlessly urging you to do it more.

"andrew." you sighed against him, hips beginning to ground into his own, slowly at first, creating an intimate rhythm between you.

a pained groan left him when you began your movements, fingers digging into the fabric of your dress bunching at your hips. his legs opened further, causing yours to do so too, which made it so you could grind even deeper into him. it took him a few moments to match your movements, but when he did, he had you dizzy, moaning into his mouth and enticing him to lick into it.

"are you sure about this?" he asked, though he didn't falter, unlike his eyes that began fluttering in pleasure.

"so sure."

you said it in between pants. you were already affected by him, enough to have your head dropping on his shoulder. taking advantage of the angle, your lips trailed the sharp line of his jaw, finding a sensitive point at the end of it and latching your teeth lightly on the skin.

"fuck."

that was enough encouragement for you to keep going. if you left marks, that was andrew's problem for tomorrow. his skin was already decorated in scars of all kinds, what was a few love bites among them?

"that feels- that feels good."

"i can make you feel even better." you offered with a teasing smile against his skin.

"yeah?"

you nodded with a giggle. you were already lightheaded at the situation — in a good way. in an amazing way. biting your lip as you looked down at him, you lifted your hand, tracing the side of his face lightly, thumb landing on his chin and lifting his face towards yours. below you, you found the prettiest pairs of eyes staring directly into yours. and he seemed just as affected as you. he appeared pained, the sound of his panting filling the room as you delayed the pleasure you'd promised him. your hips had stilled by now, which seemed to be much to his dismay.

"yeah." was all your whispered back before closing the distance once more, pulling his bottom lip between your teeth and sucking at it before kissing him again.

this time your hands went down to his shirt, beginning to unbutton it before his hands took over, rushing the process and practically throwing his shirt off. when his hands finally became disoccupied, you dragged yours up and down his chest, appreciating every ridge created by the strong muscle adorning his abdomen. you moaned in satisfaction at the feeling of his warm, muscled skin, making him hum in appreciation.

"god, andrew, look at you."

he had you dizzy with desire. he was so docile, so sweet for you despite his hardened exterior. his skin was so perfect under yours. and his every reaction to your touches had you losing your mind. he was yours in this moment. it was an unspoken agreement. his body sought your touch, a service you were more than willing to provide.

reaching behind you, you guided his hands from your back to the hem of your dress, silently guiding him into lifting it up and throwing it off.

his eyes widened slightly at the sight of bare skin, only covered by a bra and panties. gaze finding you, he opened his mouth as if to ask for something but giving up before the words left him. you answered anyways, pulling his head towards your chest and sighing when his mouth immediately went to kiss and suck at the nude skin.

the barrier your bra caused drove you mad within seconds, so you remedied it by practically ripping it off and letting it fall aside. this earned you another gratuitous groan from the man whose lips were attached to your chest.

softly, his kisses made their way to your breasts, face nuzzling into your skin as he dampened your skin with his saliva. his lips wrapped around your nipple, licking at it with a sigh of relief, reserving his more depraved sounds for when your fingers would dig a little harder into his hair.

"a-andrew ... that feels so nice." you sighed in an almost-whisper. "love your mouth, angel. shit."

and, god, did he like your words.

the groan he let out at that was grueling. it only intensified his kisses, which now morphed into suckles and bites of your nipples. his hands were now digging into your skin, holding you against him as if it were urgent. your hips began moving away, making your eyes roll back at the friction and the feeling of his mouth combined.

"let me make you feel good, handsome." you bit your lip, looking down at him as you pulled his head away from your tits, using herculean effort to not lose your mind at the needy look on his eyes.

the poor guy was so starved of touch, so pliant and willing to do anything you wanted. it was a fucking dream come true. he was barely doing anything, yet he was doing an excellent job at breaking your resolve.

you softly pushed at his chest to lay him down on the bed, his honeyed eyes never leaving yours. before sitting on him again, you dragged off your panties and threw off your heels. that's when you found his hands gripping at the sheets as he looked up at you. he reeked of silent desperation. there was no way this man would take what he wanted from you on his own. you'd have to give it to him, and just imagining how much effort his self-control must've taken him made you lose your own.

you sat back on him, wet cunt likely ruining his pants. your hands undid his belt, haphazardly pulling his pants down while you remained on top. after the fact, you were now straddling him, with his boxers remaining the final layer between you.

biting your lip, your hands dragged up and down his body, appreciating how perfectly laid it was for your taking. he practically whimpered at your teasing touches, swallowing back groans when your fingers trailed up to his nipples and circled around them, not touching but coming near enough for the desired effect of your touch.

"you want this, baby?"

"please."

he was so polite, such a pent-up pretty little thing under you.

you leaned down, body splayed over his own as your lips wrapped around the shell of his ear, nibbling at it lightly.

"tell me how much you want me."

he inhaled, a shaky breath leaving him in return.

"i want you. please-"

"yeah?" you smiled, hands trailing their way down to his middle, fingers teasingly trailing the outline of his cock trapped within his boxers.

it practically wept under you. twitching at your initial touch, you reached under the fabric and wrapped your hand around it, lowering the fabric with your other hand for better access. his breath was heavy when you began working him, head lowering to your shoulder and mouthing at the skin there. his noises were quiet and mostly controlled, but every so often you'd get a broken moan out of him that had you tightening around nothing.

not too long after, you lifted yourself up by your knees, dick on one hand while you balanced yourself with the other by gripping his shoulder. grabbing onto him, you ran the tip up and down the length of your cunt, circling it on your swollen clit for a few moments. this drew moans out of the two of you, which you silenced by pulling him into a deep kiss.

"got a condom, baby?" you interrupted between kisses.

this made him grip you tighter in realization, slowly halting his kisses.

"maybe on my nightstand?"

you reached behind him, removing most of your weight from him. his hands gripped your hips even tighter. he didn't want to let go, risk ending this before it even started. you instinctively pouted at the act, stopping for a second to give him a reassuring kiss on his lips before you attempted to retrieve the condom once more.

once it was in your hand, you did the usual song and dance of ripping it open, pinching the tip and lowering it on his hardness. he hissed at this, mumbling a curse as he looked down at the space between you. when you finally lined him up, lowering yourself on him, you released a sigh of relief.

andrew filled you up to completion. he was so warm and perfect inside you, curving deliciously. it hadn't been in your plans to end the night like this, but the feeling of andrew inside you was all you needed to turn your mind around.

"is that good, baby?" you whispered into his ear.

with the muffled music outside, it felt like the two of you were in a world of your own. you felt as if andrew was your secret, like you could keep him all to yourself as long as no one invaded your bubble.

"feels good. yeah, you feel ... fuck."

"i'm gonna move now, okay? wanna make you cum, andrew."

he gave you yet another pained look, but nodded lightly before settling his hands on your waist. his fingers found purchase on your skin, helping guide your bounces on his lap. it started slow and mellow, passionate almost.

andrew was a quiet man, unnervingly so, but the small sounds of pleasure he released had you in incomparable state of ecstasy. knowing that your swollen walls had him losing his composure, trying but failing to keep down his groans of pleasure, it made your eyes roll back, it made your nails dig into his back, leaving marks you hoped would keep a memory of you instilled in his brain for days to come.

he nosed at your neck, burying his head in the hollow and breathing you in deep. one muscled hand went up to your head, digging his fingers in your hair to ensure you couldn't go anywhere. he seemed to have some unspoken fear that you'd abandon him, not realizing just how good he'd made you feel from the moment your eyes found his.

there was nothing you wanted more than to make him feel good, to break him, ruin him, keep yourself buried in his mind and make him think of you every night he laid on this bed.

"you feel so amazing, andrew. so perfect for me." your hips sped up, creating that erotic sound of slapping skin.

you pressed your hands flat on his chest, softly pushing him to fully lay down on the bed. his eyes, though silent, told you that he did not want any space between you, so you remedied his fear before he could voice it by pressing yourself flat against him, dragging your hips up and down.

your clit dragged perfectly against his pelvis. his hands perched themselves on your ass, aiding your movements. he groaned at the sensation, legs settling flat on the bed to begin driving his hips up into yours. that's when it all became a filthy exchange between you. up until then, it'd all been soft, intimate, but now it was a passionate mess.

"i need you to come." andrew huffed, head throwing back when you tightened at his voice. "need to get you there for me."

"i'm almost there, baby, just- fuck, keep fucking me."

every whine, every scratch of skin, he was receptive to it all. you could feel the physical effect you had on him. without much words, he made you feel wanted, as if he couldn't breathe if he didn't make you feel good. his hands could not get their fill of you, being dragged up and down every inch, fingers tracing every ridge they could hang on to.

"you're so good, andrew- so fucking good." you praised when he brought his hand down to your clit. he knew just how to touch you to get you melting for him, not needing even a nudge in the right direction.

"come for me." he practically pleaded. "i want it. need it." he groaned in a whisper.

and then you came, nails dragging down his chest, surely leaving your mark on his skin, just as you'd wanted. if it hurt, he expressed no pain, only faltering the hammering of his hips when his orgasm finally caught onto him. he buried himself in you as deep as he could, face deep in the crook of you neck as he kissed and sucked a last few love bites into your skin.

when he finished, he didn't let go, instead flipping you off him so you'd lay side by side. he only pulled out when it became uncomfortable, throwing the condom to the side and reaching out to you immediately after. he wanted you close, which you appreciated.

his hands ran up and down your body, latching onto your leg and pulling it to wrap around his waist, removing any possible separation between you. it was like he wanted to melt into your skin, as his hands refused to stop rubbing at every curve they could get to. with his head buried in your neck, he nosed at your skin, breathing it in deep and pressing the occasional chaste kiss there.

"don't leave yet." he broke the silence. "you can leave if you want, just ... just stay like this for a while."

the defeated tone of his voice made you frown. it made you want him closer, want to become his comfort. you wanted him inside you again, but not in a sexual way. in that moment, you'd do anything to make him feel as safe as he'd made you.

you wrapped your hands around him, hands running through his curls as you held him against your chest, cradling him like a baby in your arms.

"i'll stay as long as you'll let me." you pressed a kiss to the top of his head. "just wanna be here with you."

he shuddered, kissing your chest again and again.

"thank you."

➽──────────────────❥

note: wouldnt be me if it didnt turn domestic at the end

[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.

[gazstations]

In honor of all 6 seasons of Animal Kingdom going on Netflix, I started watching it. So now I might descend into the void. Maybe with fic ideas, we shall see.

[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

[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

[pxpecxdy]

pope is the type of loverboy to cum from eating his girl out! humping the bed? jerking himself off? untouched? doesn’t matter, he’s gonna cum from making her feel good

He takes eating you out seriously! It is a full time job and he is a volunteer unpaid intern! Pope is the kind of man who knows what he's doing. He wants to make you feel good! That's what gets him off more than anything.

It's still early in the relationship. It's been a few days since you last saw him. The second you're alone you're dragging him to the bedroom. Everything is a blur until he's slotted between your thighs, tongue delving deeper than ever. Your fingers tugging at his curls. The sound of our own moans drowns out any thoughts or any noise.

Pope is on a mission to make you cum. Its dizzying. He finally stops his assault on your dripping cunt. He lost count of how many times you came on his face. You reach for him, energy entirely wiped from your body. There's nothing left to give. You want to pay him back. You need to pay him back.

Pope holds your hands and brings them back to your sides. You're naked on the bed, he's fully clothed still. You try to protest. It's unfair. He needs to feel good too. Everything you say or try to do is cut off by Pope interrupting you. "I'm fine." He says. He starts to strip off his jeans. His fingers twist to undo the button and zipper. He shoved the denim down just a bit, enough to give him some room.

He's reaching above you, your breath stops for second, your mind spinning with the possibilities of what he's going to do. You don't have it in you to go for another right now, despite you wanting to take care of him. But then he reaches over to the night stand.

He grabs a few tissues from the box next to the lamp. A fistful of tissues. Your brows knit together as you watch him. He's not focused on you for the first time in hours. Pope's hand slips under the waistband of his boxers and into his jeans. "I'm fine, really" he says with a smirk as he pulls the tissues he used to clean himself with out. You were so lost in the feeling of his mouth against your cunt you failed to notice him cumming in his jeans.

[flofaiiry]

★ ‣ smut | ♡︎ ‣ fluff | 𖦹 ‣ angst | ❀ ‣ suggestive ✎ ‣ personal favs

⋆·˚ ༘ * the pitt

dr. jack abbot slim pickins ★ | ✎ how he shows love ♡︎

[blurbs, thoughts, asks, etc.] morning sex ★ ♡︎ first time ★ breeding kink ★ | ✎ domestic!jack ♡︎ size kink ★ jack & younger gf!reader ♡︎ ❀ house hunting ♡︎ jack & taller gf!reader ♡︎ ❀ jack & shy!reader ♡︎ eye contact ♡︎ taking care of him after a long day ★ body worship & breeding ★ shy!reader & praise ♡︎ sub!jack abbot ★

dr. michael robinavitch sick day ♡︎

dr. frank langdon haunted 𖦹 ❀

dr. samira mohan sue me ★

⋆·˚ ༘ * animal kingdom

andrew pope cody why him? ♡︎ show me ★

[blurbs, thoughts, asks, etc] munch!pope ★ breeding kink ★ | ✎ pope & nurse gf!reader ♡︎ ★ fake boyfriend ♡︎ stalker!pope [moodboard] scars ★ | ✎ first night back from prison ★ conjugal visit ❀ sundress ★

⋆·˚ ༘ * chicago pd

deputy chief charlie reid ultraviolence ★ wanna be yours [ultraviolence pt2] ♡︎ ★ | ✎

[blurbs, thoughts, asks, etc] uni student!reader ❀ your house gets broken into ♡︎ pre law!reader ★

⋆·˚ ༘ * southland

detective sammy bryant morning sex ★

[ divider creds ; @uzmacchiato & @cafekitsune ]

[bullet-prooflove]

Two Weeks: Andrew 'Pope' Cody x Reader (NSFW)

Tagging: @kmc1989 @fadeinsol @akotafi @yousigned-upforthis @cowardlycandy

Summary: Two weeks is too long for Pope to go without you.

Companion piece to:

The Professional - Pope meets the love of his life when Smurf hires her to crack a safe.

Ethical Thieving - You introduce Pope to a new skill set.

The Skatepark - Pope reacts badly when you try to share your feelings.

Prequel to:

Crazy (NSFW) - Pope's always been crazy but now he's also a man in love.

Tomorrow - Pope's family always fuck up the good in his life.

Do Over Day (NSFW) - Pope tries to make up for the day before.

Everything - Pope's family life clashes with your time together.

Positive - Pope didn't expect for it to happen sooner rather than later.

Four Bullets - Smurf finds out about you and Pope, leading to dire consquences.

Misery - Baz starts to notice there's something wrong with Pope.

It’s been two weeks since Pope last laid eyes on you. Two weeks, since he’s been able to touch you, taste you, feel you. The job Smurf’s had him working hasn’t allowed him any time to sneak away. It’s by design he thinks, a way of reining him back in before he gets too independent.

When he does finally get in your proximity, he’s like a man starved of oxygen. His mouth chasing all over your body, licking, sucking, nipping all those deviant little areas that make you moan, that get you wet.

“You on top.” He mutters as he lies down on the bed. You begin to straddle his hips, but his calloused palms come to rest on your waist, guiding you higher. “Not there. I want your hands on the headboard while you fuck my face.”

“Oh.” You say, your cheeks colouring, but he’s already shifting you into just the place he wants you. Pope needs to be immersed by you, drowning in you and this is the only way to do it. Your hands come to rest on the headboard, his own grasp your thighs yanking you down onto his mouth.

“I’ve never…” You whisper, before his tongue flicks over your clit in that filthy little way of his. “Fuckkk…”

He devours you like a final meal, his tongue thrusting up into your pussy making you see god. The climax, it rises up like a tidal wave inside you, crashing through your nerve endings, dragging you under the surface until the only thing you can focus on is the ecstasy coursing through your body like a waterfall as you come against his mouth.

He tongue fucks you through it, licking up that sweet honey until your breath evens out and you sit back on his chest. He looks up at you, the lower half of his face covered in your spent, his dark eyes filled with sincerity and want.

“I missed you.” he whispers, nuzzling your thigh. “I hate being away that long, I never want you to think-”

That he doesn’t want you, that he doesn’t love you the way that he does.

“I don’t.” You reassure him, your fingertips brushing the curls from his forehead. “You mean the world to me Andy, I don’t you to ever doubt that.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[art-by-jas]

"You Deserve to Be Happy."

Andrew 'Pope' Cody x Reader

WC: 3.5k

Tags: Established Relationship, Cunnilingus, PinV Sex, Vaginal Sex, Sub!Pope Cody, Dom-ish!You, Praise Kink, Riding, Sad Baby Boy!Pope

A/N: I want it to be known I have not seen a full episode of this show; I have been just skimming episodes for his scenes, so I hope this is sorta on point with his character. Also, this is different than my usual smut; this is more descriptive and less dialogue, and I don't know how I feel about it cause I usually don't like reading that, but I'm happy with it and hope you enjoy it.

Pope stands at your front door, a silent figure cast in the dim porch light. His hands are trembling slightly as he waits for you to greet him. His shoulders are tense, and his face is flushed with anxiety. Once the door opens, he refuses to meet your gaze, instead fixating on a spot on the floor.

"Pope, you okay?" you ask, eyebrows creasing with worry. Pope's eyes meet yours, wide and full of an odd mixture of emotions. It's like he's staring straight into your soul, trying to communicate something without words. He shakes his head "no," his gaze unblinking. You notice that Pope's whole body is trembling, his hands vibrating. Whatever has brought him here at this late hour has gotten under his skin. 

He gives a slight nod, his grip on you relaxing somewhat. "Yeah," he mumbles, his voice unsteady. You lead him through the door and over to your couch, encouraging him to sit down. He does so, his eyes unfocused, as if his mind were somewhere else entirely. Taking a seat beside him, you observe him. His hands are balled into tight fists, and you notice the visible tension in his jaw and the dirt on his clothes.

Taking a step closer, you try to calm him with a steady voice. "Just breathe," you say. You cautiously envelop Pope in a tight hug, and he appears to freeze at first. As he feels your touch, he melts into your embrace, hugging you back tightly. He rests his head on your shoulder, his grip on you becoming almost desperate, as if he is clinging to you for dear life.

With Pope still hanging on to you, you gently ask, "Do you want to come inside?"

"Are you okay?" you ask softly, trying to meet his eyes. He's silent, and you don't know if it's because he didn't hear you or because he doesn't want to answer. You lean in and ask, "Do you want to talk about what's wrong?" Pope shakes his head, but his silence isn't the nonchalant, dismissive sort.

Eventually, he takes a deep breath and blurts out, voice barely above a whisper, "I hurt someone tonight." His words hang in the air. The guilt on his face is unmistakable, a mixture of shame and regret that seems permanently etched across his features. Whatever happened, it has carved a deep mark on him.

He looks up suddenly, desperation swimming in his gaze. "I just want to forget about it—about hurting someone," he says, and his voice cracks, filled with a raw, aching honesty. "I want to do good. I need to make you feel good." His words tumble out in a rush, a jumble of emotions barely held together. “That's why I came here," he continues, almost imploring now. "Because I know I can be better. I just need—" He pauses, searching for the right words, or maybe just the courage to say them. His pleading gaze in his eyes silently asks for your understanding and support.

There are so many questions swimming through your mind, but you push them aside. Right now, what Pope needs is reassurance, a lifeline. 

The vulnerability in his eyes is almost painful. 

You hold his gaze, speaking softly, "It's okay."

Your words are more than just a gentle whisper of understanding and acceptance. You want him to know that you don't judge him, that whatever he's done doesn't define him.

"I—" he starts, but the words fade into a heavy sigh. "I don't know what to do," he finally mutters.

You move in nearer, and your closeness is a calming comfort. "That's alright," you reassure him. "You don't have to figure it all out right now."

Pope's jaw clenches. "I messed up," he whispers, more to himself than to you. A part of you wants to ask what happened—what he did—but you restrain yourself. Now is not the time for questions. Now, he needs comfort.

You reach out tentatively, your hand hovering above his arm, undecided. "Can I touch you?" you ask, your voice soft. There's a moment of hesitation, then he nods. As you place your hand tenderly on his arm, you feel him tense, his muscles rigid under your touch. But he doesn't pull away.

"It's going to be okay," you murmur, "I'm here for you."

The tension in Pope's body relaxes ever so slightly, as if your words, your presence, are slowly unraveling the knots of anxiety within him. 

"I don't deserve your kindness," he finally mutters, the words barely audible, almost choked out. Your heart breaks for him. You don't reply immediately, simply allowing your hand to remain on his arm, silently showing your support. You reach out tentatively, gently cupping his face in your hands. His skin is warm, the rough stubble on his cheeks prickly against your palms. For a moment, Pope freezes, surprised by the intimacy of your touch. But as your fingers gently graze his jawline, he seems to melt into your touch and closes his eyes, the tension in his face softening just a fraction.

Your fingers trace the contours of his face, feeling the heat of his skin. With gentle certainty, you lean forward and press a soft, almost chaste kiss to his lips. Pope's eyes fly open, surprise mixing with a raw vulnerability. For a moment, he seems frozen in place, as if your kiss has caught him off guard. But then, slowly, unexpectedly, he responds, returning the kiss, tentative yet yearning. You can feel the tension in his body melting away as he relaxes into your touch, his lips moving against yours in a silent plea for more.

"It's okay," you whisper, your fingers still cradling his face, anchoring him to the moment. "It's okay to want this. It's okay to need comfort." His hands, which had previously hung limply by his sides, slowly rise to rest on your waist, his touch hesitant, as if he's afraid of breaking something. 

With a determined yet tender grip, you take his hand in yours and guide him off the couch, leading him towards the bedroom. Your touch is gentle but firm, providing a steady anchor for him.

As you lead him into the bedroom, the room seems to shrink around you, becoming a bubble of intimacy. The outside world, with all its pain and guilt, feels far away, momentarily forgotten.

The room is softly lit, the ambiance intimate and soothing. You guide him towards the bed, your actions slow and measured, giving him plenty of time to back out if he wants to. 

"Sit down," you instruct softly, your voice a comforting command. Pope obeys, sinking onto the mattress. His gaze remains fixed on you, waiting for your next move. You sit down next to him. There's a moment of tension, a hesitation in the air. But then, before you can say anything, Pope leans in.

His lips find yours, his hand reaching up to cup your cheek, holding you in place as he kisses you, fiercely and tenderly all at once. You return the kiss, your mouth moving against his with a tender fervor. Your fingers find their way to the nape of his neck, pulling him closer still. 

"I'm here. I'm not going anywhere." He responds with a soft moan, his grip on you tightening, his body pressing against yours. The kiss grows more desperate, his tongue sliding into your mouth.

As the kiss continues, a hint of confidence returns to Pope. His hand, which had been trembling, now moves more assuredly, gently trailing down the side of your body. His fingers find the waistband of your shorts, and without hesitation, he undoes the button. There's a sense of urgency in his movements, as if he's desperate to please you, to distract himself from the pain that's eating at him. He ignores your shirt, focusing solely on the task at hand—getting closer to you, losing himself in the physical connection.

Pope pulls away from the kiss; with a rough, throaty voice, he gasps, "Can I—can I taste you? Please," he breathes, the words exhaling against your skin. He leans in, pressing a kiss to your collarbone, his lips burning a trail towards your throat. "Let me worship you."

A shiver runs down your spine at his words, his hot breath against your skin. "Yes," you murmur, your voice rough with desire. "Yes, please."

As his fingers slip beneath the waistband of your underwear, Pope lets out a low, guttural moan. He feels your wetness, his fingers gliding over your sensitive folds. His eyes darken, a new hunger sparking within him.

"Jesus," he breathes, his voice thick with desire. "You're soaked." Pope withdraws his hand from your underwear, his fingers glistening with your arousal. His eyes lock onto yours as he brings his wet fingers to his mouth, licking them clean, a low groan escaping his throat at the taste. His gaze never leaves yours as he sucks his fingers. "You taste so damn good," he growls, his voice rough with need.

With a slow, deliberate movement, he withdraws his fingers from his mouth, a thin string of saliva still connecting them to his lips. "I need more," he breathes, his voice dropping an octave. 

His hands move to your waist, gripping tightly as he positions himself between your thighs. The need in his eyes is almost feral, a hunger that threatens to consume him. His hands glide down your thighs, his fingertips following the same path, sending shivers up your spine. He pushes your shirt up but does not remove it as he moves lower, his mouth trailing behind, leaving a path of warm, gentle kisses on your stomach and your hips. He hesitates, his lips lingering near the edge of your underwear, his breath warm against your skin.

Without breaking eye contact, he dips his head lower, his mouth finding the damp fabric of your underwear. He presses a kiss to the thin barrier, his tongue flicking out to taste you through the cotton. The touch is light and teasing, and yet it sends a jolt of desire through you. 

A moan escapes your lips, your body arching towards him, seeking more contact. "God, Pope," you breathe, your voice ragged with arousal. "That feels so good." His eyes darken at the sound of your voice, your pleasure fueling his need.

He pushes your underwear aside, and his mouth is on you, hot and demanding. His tongue slides against your folds, flicking over your clit briefly before moving down to taste you fully. He groans against you, the vibrations sending bolts of pleasure. He alternates between quick, intense strokes and unhurried, gentle circles, each movement drawing a new sound from your lips. Your fingers naturally weave into his curls. 

"You taste amazing," he whispers, his eyes meeting yours. His hands find your hips, his fingers pressing firmly as he draws you back toward him.

"You're doing so good," you gasp, your fingers pulling at his curls. His tongue flickers over your clit, sending jolts of pleasure through you. "So good," you repeat, your voice breaking. "No one has ever made me feel like this," you whisper, your eyes locked on his. He responds to your praise with a moan, the sound muffled against your skin. He flattens his tongue against your clit, applying steady, firm pressure. You can feel him getting lost in the act, his focus entirely on your pleasure, his movements growing more intense. "Don't stop," you breathe, your fingers tightening in his hair. "Please, don’t stop." 

Pope feels you trembling, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He knows you're close, right on the edge, and he wants to push you further. He picks up the pace, his tongue working faster.

He pulls away just long enough to lock eyes with you, his gaze intense and needy. "Come for me," he growls, his voice low but commanding. "Come on my tongue."

Your body tenses at his words, the rough demand in his voice sending a shiver down your spine. You're so close, right on the edge, and the combined assault of his mouth and those words is all it takes to push you over. You cry out, your body arching off the bed, your fingers digging into the sheets as you come undone. 

As you come down from your climax, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath, you look down at Pope, still between your legs. It's clear from the look on his face that he would gladly keep going all day, his need for you unquenchable. But you know that you both need a moment, and so you gently tug at his hair, signaling for him to stop. He obeys, his mouth leaving your sensitive flesh, but not before he gives one final, tender lick. He raises his head, his gaze roaming your face as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

With a determined push, you roll him onto his back, straddling his hips. His hands grip your thighs, fingers digging into the flesh as he looks up at you, his gaze filled with an almost animalistic desire. His chest heaves with each ragged breath.

You run your fingers through his hair, your touch gentle and praising. "You look so pretty," you whisper. You lean down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, then trailing down his cheek. Your words make him squirm slightly beneath you, a soft flush staining his cheeks. He reaches up to help you remove his shirt, the fabric skimming up his torso before being discarded, forgotten in a moment.

You pause, eyes roaming over his exposed chest, taking in the expanse of freckles that dot his skin like a spattering of paint. They're everywhere, and you find yourself entranced, the urge to trace each one of them nearly overwhelming. You reach to gently touch his chest, your fingers tracing over the freckles, a soft smile playing on your lips. "You have so many freckles," you murmur, your touch tender as you map out the constellations on his skin.

Your touch is gentle as you lean down to kiss him, your lips meeting in a soft, but heated, kiss. As you do so, you grind down, your body pressing against his hardness, the friction eliciting a soft gasp from his lips. Your fingers trail along his skin, tracing the line of his shoulders, the curve of his biceps, and the planes of his chest, leaving a trail of wildfire in your wake.

You pull away from the kiss, your breath fanning across his face as you look down at him, your gaze filled with a burning desire. "I want to ride you, is that okay?" your voice a low, breathy purr against his lips.

He groans at your words, the sound a mix of pleasure and need. "God, yes," he breathes, his grip on your hips tightening. His eyes lock on to yours, his gaze searing, almost feral in its intensity.

You lean down, your breath hot against his ear, sending a shiver down his spine. "Is that what you want, sweetheart? Do you want me to ride you?"

A rough gasp escapes his lips as he nods. His breaths are ragged, his body trembling with pent-up need. "Yes," he whispers, the word a desperate plea. "Yes. I want it."

"Good boy," you murmur, your lips brushing against his earlobe as you lean in even closer. "I'm going to make you feel so good." Your hands slide down his chest, nails raking lightly against his skin.

His reaction is immediate, his breath catching in his throat, a soft moan escaping his lips. As if those simple words carried a magnetic force, drawing out a response in him that was both raw and visceral.

"You like it when I call you that, don't you?" you ask, your voice a low purr.

He nods weakly, his words coming out in ragged gasps. "Yes," he manages to say, his voice thick with desire. "I love it."

You grin at his response, your gaze filled with a mix of lust and affection. You reach back, pushing his shorts down, revealing his leaking cock. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, you guide it up and down your drenched pussy. With a moan of pleasure, he can hardly believe what's happening. He looks you in the eye, as if to make sure this is real, before his eyes roll back as you slowly sink down his length.

His body trembles beneath you, his hands clenching and unclenching. "Oh God," he mutters, his voice ragged. "You're so... perfect."

You moan, feeling the stretch of him until he is at the hilt. Your head vibrates as you get used to him. The feeling of you gripping him tight almost drives him crazy, and he has to fight from coming right then and there. He grips your hips tightly, his fingers digging into your skin, as he tries to keep himself in check. 

He looks up at you with a mix of adoration and desperation, his head tossed back into the pillow. "You feel so good," he croaks. "So goddamn good.”

You start to move, lifting your hips up and down slowly, your pace unhurried.

You lean down, your face close to his, your breath fanning across his skin. "You're doing so good," you whisper, your voice soft. "Just relax. I've got you."

He nods, struggling to keep himself together, the sensations overwhelming him. "I'm trying," he mutters, his voice gravelly. "It's just... You feel so good. I don't know how long I can last like this."

Your hand reaches down, tracing the line of his jaw, the gesture one of comfort. "You don't have to hold back," you murmur. "I want you to feel good. Just let go."

His grip on you tightens again, this time as if to keep himself grounded, to prolong the moment for as long as possible. He manages a shaky nod, his breathing ragged as he forces himself to hold on just a bit longer. "I want to make you feel good too," he whispers, his voice a mix of need and desperation. "Please."

Your desire builds, fueled by his words and by the way he's holding you, as if his life depends on it. "You are," you rasp, "you are making me feel so damn good."

He groans, his eyes fluttering shut again, unable to keep them open as pleasure washes over him. "I won't last much longer," he manages to gasp out.

You lean down, your lips finding his neck, kissing and nibbling the sensitive skin. "Just let go," you whisper. "Let go and come in me. Need to feel you, Andrew." Your lips trail along his neck, teeth scraping against his skin, as you mark him as yours.

He lets out a desperate moan, the sound of pure need. "Say my name again," he whispers, his eyes still squeezed shut. "Say it again, please." The words are ragged, almost desperate, as if he needs to hear you say it to make it real.

"Andrew," you breathe against his skin, the word barely a whisper, but it echoes loudly in the room. "Andrew, let go. Come for me, baby."

That's all it takes, your words and the sound of his name on your tongue, for him to finally tip over the edge. He comes with a guttural moan, filling you with hot white stripes of his come. He gasps your name, the broken syllables falling from his lips like a prayer.

You rest your forehead against his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart against your skin, the sweat on his skin mingling with yours. His grip on you tightens briefly before softening, his body starting to relax even as you lean against him. There are no words, not yet, just the quiet aftermath of pleasure, the sound of ragged breathing filling the room.

After a moment, his hand comes up to run through your hair, his touch tender and lingering. "You are so goddamn good to me," he mutters, his voice still hoarse. "I don't know what I did to deserve you."

You lift your head, looking at him with a soft smile, your touch gentle as you tuck a lock of hair behind his ear. "You deserve to be happy," you say firmly.

"You think so?" he asks, his voice quieter than usual.

"I know so," you respond.

 You look him in the eye, your gaze steady and sincere, wanting him to understand that you mean every word. "Now, are you going to tell me what happened tonight?"

He leans up, capturing your lips in a soft, tender kiss. It's a silent reassurance, a gesture of trust, before he pulls away just enough to look into your eyes. "Tomorrow," he says softly. "I'll tell you everything tomorrow."

You nod, accepting his word, your trust in him overriding your curiosity. "Tomorrow," you repeat, leaning into his touch. 

He pulls you close, tucking you against him, your head resting on his chest. You can hear the steady beat of his heart, the sound soothing, a lullaby that soothes your racing thoughts. He's silent for a while, his fingers tracing soft, lazy circles on your skin, the simple contact a quiet comfort. You start to doze off.  

Just as you're hovering on the edge of sleep, you hear him speak, his words soft and murmured against your hair. "Thank you," he whispers, his voice carrying a weight of gratitude. "For staying."

MASTERLIST