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erwinsvow · 16 days ago

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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

#why am i so nervous about this #pope cody #pope cody x reader #andrew cody #andrew cody x reader #andrew pope cody x reader #babysitter reader

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abbotjack · 29 days ago

Text

Godless Things

content/warnings: 18+ MDNI explicit sexual content, rough sex with emotional intimacy, size kink, creampie, emotionally repressed male character, canon-typical violence references, possessiveness, praise kink. no one asked for this but yolo

summary : After a violent job leaves Pope simmering in guilt and emotional chaos, you show up uninvited—knowing full well what he is, and wanting him anyway.

word count : 1,429

You shouldn’t be in his house tonight.

Not after what went down.

But that’s the thing about Pope Cody—you never show up when things are good. You come when it’s bad. You come when he’s bleeding.

And tonight, he is.

Not in the literal sense—he’s showered, scrubbed the blood off his hands. But you can feel it radiating off him the moment he opens the door, tension coiled tight behind those tired eyes.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says flatly.

You step inside anyway. Let the door fall shut behind you.

“I know,” you answer. “But I am.”

He stares at you for a long time, unmoving. Then exhales through his nose and walks back toward the kitchen without another word. That’s your invitation.

You follow.

The house is too quiet. The way all Cody houses get when something’s gone wrong and no one wants to talk about it. There’s a bottle on the table—something cheap, half-drunk, and untouched for at least an hour. He isn’t drinking anymore. Not really. He just keeps the bottle there. Like a warning to himself.

You watch him lean back against the counter. He crosses his arms. His eyes drop to your throat, then your hips, then back up. Calculated. Controlled. Like he’s trying not to react.

“Tell me what you want,” he says.

His voice is low. Tired. Hoarse from shouting, maybe. You don’t ask what happened out there tonight. You don’t need to.

You walk to him slowly, unzipping your jacket.

“You.”

His breath stutters—barely. But you catch it.

“I don’t think you understand what you’re saying.”

“I do.”

He laughs, dry and bitter. “You have no idea what kind of man I am.”

“I know exactly what kind of man you are.” You reach for him, fingers brushing the edge of his jaw. “And I want you anyway.”

Something breaks behind his eyes.

He grabs you.

Not gentle. Not cruel. Just urgent. Like he’s been starving for weeks and you’re the first real thing he’s touched in days.

He presses you back against the wall, one hand in your hair, the other gripping your waist tight enough to bruise. His mouth doesn’t ask. It takes—a bruising kiss that tastes like guilt and need and everything he’ll never say out loud.

“You should be afraid of me,” he growls against your mouth.

“I’m not.”

“You should be,” he says again, and there’s something in his voice this time. Not anger. Not even warning. Begging. Like he wants you to run so he won’t have to do this.

But he’s already pulling your shirt over your head.

You tug his hoodie off, feel the heat of his body beneath it—lean, scarred, hard with muscle earned from years of running, fighting, lifting, breaking. This is a man who’s never known softness that didn’t turn on him. Who flinches when you’re gentle and falls apart when you’re not.

You strip for him. Slowly. Deliberately. His jaw tightens the more skin you reveal, like he can’t decide whether to fall to his knees or shove you against the wall and fuck you until the pain makes sense.

He steps closer.

And when he touches you—really touches you—it’s with both hands. One palm across your ribs, the other sliding down your spine, warm and firm and reverent in the most godless way.

“Go to the bedroom,” he murmurs. “Now.”

Your breath catches, but you obey. The bedroom is quiet. Sheets still rumpled from nights he pretended to sleep. He follows you in slowly, watching you with that sharp, analytical look he always wears before a job.

Because this is a job now.

Making you his. Marking you in a way that’ll outlast whatever sins he racks up next.

He strips in the doorway—shirt, jeans, boxers. You look at him and it hits you how ruined he is. Not just his body—though the scars there tell their own story—but the way he stands. Ready for violence. Ready for rejection.

But you don’t flinch. You open your legs.

And fuck, the noise he makes.

He’s on you in seconds. His cock is heavy and hot against your thigh as he shifts over you. You’ve never seen him like this—undone but still trying to hold it in. His whole body is tight with restraint, the kind that aches more than it satisfies.

He lines himself up and drags the thick head of his cock through your slick folds, slow, almost reverent—just once. Testing. Tasting. Marking you with it.

“Fucking soaked,” he mutters. “You want this?”

You nod, breath catching. “Yes.”

He doesn’t push in right away.

Not yet.

Instead, he leans in, voice low against your ear.

“You want me to fuck you, knowing what I did tonight? Knowing I’ll probably do worse tomorrow?”

You turn your face to his, eyes wide open. “I want you.”

And that’s it. That’s the edge.

He grabs the back of your thigh, shoves it up toward your chest, and thrusts in with a single, brutal motion.

You scream—half pleasure, half shock. The stretch is too much, nearly splitting, and you feel the air leave your lungs as he bottoms out inside you. Every inch of him fills you, thick and heavy and real in a way that drowns out everything else.

“Oh my God—”

“Don’t say that,” he growls, teeth gritted. “Say my name.”

You cling to him, barely able to breathe. “Andrew—fuck—Andrew—”

He groans like it hurts. Like hearing his real name in your mouth is worse than anything that happened out on the job. He starts to move—deep, punishing strokes, grinding down with each one like he wants to live in your body, like this is the only time he ever lets himself feel good.

You can’t even think. You’re gasping, grabbing at him, nails raking down his back, legs trembling with every thrust.

“You’re so tight,” he mutters, almost like he’s talking to himself. “Taking me so fucking good—like you were made for it.”

“Harder,” you beg, eyes glazed, hips already chasing his. “Please—don’t hold back—”

He loses it.

He lifts your hips, changes the angle, and fucks into you with a brutal rhythm, hard enough that the headboard thuds the wall. Sweat drips from his temple onto your chest. His hands grip your thighs like he’s bracing himself from falling off the edge entirely.

“Fuck,” he pants, staring down at where he disappears into you. “Look at that. Look at you taking all of me.”

You’re shaking now. Drenched. The sound of skin slapping fills the room, wet and frantic, but all you hear is him. His breathing. His grunts. His voice—low, unsteady, reverent like prayer.

He slides a hand between you, rubs slow circles over your clit with the pad of his thumb, and your back arches.

“Andrew—I’m gonna—fuck—I can’t—”

“Come on,” he growls, teeth at your neck. “Come for me. I want to feel it. I want you to fucking lose it around me.”

And you do.

It slams into you like fire. Your thighs clamp around him, your vision whites out, and you scream his name, loud and raw and real. Your pussy flutters around him, dragging a deep, guttural moan from his chest as he fucks you through it, not stopping, not slowing.

“Good girl,” he whispers. “Just like that. That’s it.”

You’re still coming when he pulls out just far enough to slam back in again, harder, deeper, then stills. His whole body stiffens.

He groans into your neck—something primal, almost broken—and you feel him spill inside you, thick and hot, as his hips jerk with each wave. His hands are on either side of your face now, holding you like he might disappear if he lets go.

Neither of you move. Not for a long time.

He stays inside you. Head on your chest. Hands gripping your hips like he’s anchoring himself to shore.

You run a hand through his sweat-damp hair.

He whispers, barely audible:

“You make me feel clean.”

You press your lips to his temple. “You are.”

“You shouldn’t let me do this to you.”

You hold his face in both hands. “Then why do you treat me like I’m the only thing that’s real?”

He stares down at you like he’s trying to memorize your answer. Then, without a word, he lays back down—still inside you, still holding you—and closes his eyes.

Like this is the only time he ever sleeps.

#shawn hatosy #pope cody #andrew cody #pope cody x reader #andrew cody x reader #animal kingdom #animal kingdom fanfic #smut

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mercvry-glow · 29 days ago

Text

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

#animal kingdom #animal kingdom tnt #animal kingdom x reader #andrew cody #andrew cody x reader #andrew cody x you #pope cody #pope cody x reader #pope cody x you #andrew pope cody #andrew pope cody x reader #andrew pope cody x you #shawn hatosy #❥ - Pope Cody

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imnez-daydreams · 12 days ago

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yeah you wish that i was yours (so do i)

pairing : andrew “pope” cody x reader

warnings : fighting, manhandling, choking, blood, licking of said blood, injury, jealousy, pope makes j watch him and reader, pope calls reader “kid”, “baby” n "my girl".

summary : what happens when you keep pushing pope to play fight with you. (except they are both also yearning idiots in love). read part 2 & part 3.

w/c : 2.6k words (yes i may have gotten carried away)

a/n : im super² sick but i could. not. get my ask and this thought from @erwinsvow out of my head so i decided to try and churn my inspiration from lovely shea into this fic. i just finished s1 and this is my first time writing pope so i hope i got his character okay :”)). apologies if this isn't the best work, i'm literally curled up and still burning up as i'm writing this booo. dividers are credited to @saradika-graphics. hope you enjoy !! do like, comment or reblog (or send hot soup) if you did <33

The first strike is the day when Pope gets out of prison.

You’re standing dumbstruck with your bought meal still in hand when you spot him sitting in the middle of the couch. He’s so … real this time. You must look like an idiot to the rest of the family, still in shock. (Maybe Pope would let you in on this secret later on in your relationship, but when he saw you again, he felt that you were as beautiful as the day he lost you).

Pope’s eyes travel down your frame, soaking in every detail of you, memorising you as if he didn't have every pixel of every picture you mailed him ingrained in the hardwires of his brain. When his eyes flit back up to meet yours, you feel something start to unlock behind those walls.

Your eye twitches when you notice how close Smurf is next to him. You hate how she’s already sunken her venomous claws back into Pope, probably starting to scheme how she can puppeteer him again. You want to save Pope, get him away from the void that sinks its teeth in you and never leaves, not entirely, even when you think you’re free. So you do the thing all Cody’s are good at, starting a fight.

“Move, you’re in my spot.” You try to keep your voice even as possible, as if seeing Pope in person after all these years didn’t sweep the rug out from under your feet.

“Hey lay off, Pope’s only been back a couple hours. And since when is that spot y-” You cut off Baz by squeezing in the free space that separates Pope from the end of the couch.

You make yourself comfortable, well as comfortable as you can being so close to Pope again, and place your feet in his lap (despite having more than enough space). Pope glances down at how you've made yourself at home in his lap, then at you. You raise an eyebrow, trying to seem unbothered and rest your side against the back of the couch.

The family starts talking about their business again, making you begin to lose interest. Just as your eyelids start to drop though, you catch Smurf smoothing her hand over Pope’s curls. Something stirs in you. The part of your brain that makes you do stupid things.

You kick your foot in Pope’s lap, wanting to annoy him. (Wanting him to pay attention to you instead). It works slightly, with him gripping your ankle. But he’s still looking forward. Staring out into space, shielded, guarded, as if the two of you didn't share secrets as kids. As if he wasn't your guard dog the moment he laid eyes on your trembling frame, when Smurf introduced you to the family shortly after she found Catherine. It’s not enough. So you put on a show. Making crude jokes, poking and prodding at him, laying on the snarky attitude.

Pope thinks this is unlike you, unlike his childhood sweetheart friend. He puts together that you must want something, not him obviously but maybe just some attention. Pope doesn't mean to be that aggressive, a sentiment he reserves only for you. But this new kid is unnerving him. It unsettles him, how J quietly laughs at your bad attempts of mean jokes, how his eyes occasionally roam over you. It's why he's been staring straight instead of at you. If Pope gets lost in the sight of you, he wouldn't be able to stand guard. Except J’s gaze dips down, making Pope follow his eyeline. Realising the kid has the nerve to travel his eyes down to the small bit of exposed skin, when your kicking of him makes your shirt ride up.

Pope’s jaw clenches and you think you've finally gotten to him. But he pounces on you so fast that you almost get whiplash.

What the fuck?

Pope is hovering over you, your wrists pinned by one hand, his knees spreading your legs apart to accommodate his frame. You feel his free hand sliding down the front of your shirt, but your confusion is quickly brushed off when Baz cuts in,

“Fuckin’ cut it out you two! I don’t need another headache right now.”

That signature heavy stare remains on you for a couple more seconds, almost like Pope is trying to decipher you. Then, he grunts and lets go of your hands, moving off the couch completely.

The second strike is when you both get into a screaming match. Well, more like you’re shouting and Pope is Pope still. The job had gone wrong and he had refused to accept your care until you had finished stitching up Deran’s bullet wound. Even though Pope was very visibly concussed and in pain. The whole time you attended to Deran, you kept stealing glances at Pope, just to make sure he was still alive and kicking (it's what you tell yourself), only to find him already staring straight at you. Keeping your tongue tied, you busied yourself with patching up the boys. Until they all went off, leaving you and Pope alone. Giving you the empty space to berate Pope for his lack of self-importance when it comes to his family.

“Drop it, kid.” Pope grumbles out, passing by you to take a drink from the fridge.

“No, no. You’re not doing to me (to yourself).” You respond, putting all your might into pushing his back that's facing you.

Pope feels the force from your shove, his strong arm slamming against the cool fridge door to brace himself. His shoulders are hunched. His head hung low. You can feel the tension brewing inside of him. That barely contained anger simmering beneath the surface. He straightens up when he swivels around, dark eyes meeting yours.

“I don't think you really want to play this game with me kid.” Pope stalks towards you, his footsteps not making a sound.

You scoff, meeting him halfway and getting in his face.

“Why? Afraid you’ll lose? Think y-” You don't get to finish your sentence because Pope’s hand wraps around your throat.

It’s light, not enough to constrict your airflow too much. He’s holding back again. You hate it. You hate him. That’s a lie you repeat to yourself when Pope slams your back to the wall. You despise him because even now in his anger, he still places his free hand behind your skull. Cushioning your pretty little head leaving your back to feel most of the ache. But you want more. More pain that only Pope can give to you. (Or maybe you want Pope to give his pain to you).

Pope tilts his head down to make sure you’re looking right at him. Closing the gap between you two, he whispers against your lips,

“If you play that game with me kid, the only way it ends is with you face down on my bed. I won't stop giving it to you, even if you're begging so sweetly. You want that huh? You want me?” Pope tightens his hold on your throat, but you can sense the vulnerability spilling out at the last sentence.

“Say, I’m sorry Andrew, c’mon kid.” Pope breaks eye contact to give you this command, whispering in your ear.

“I’m s-sorry … Andrew.” You manage to gasp out.

Satisfied, Pope softens his hold on you, rubbing the sensitive skin on your neck. He plants a soft kiss at the top of your head, so gentle you almost think you imagined it.

“Good. There’s my baby again.”

The last strike is when most of the family is lounging by the pool.

You can feel Pope staring at you.

Sometimes you think he stares harder when he thinks you aren't looking. Smurf’s out somewhere on a task so all the brothers are playing their usual game in the pool, wrestling and fighting over the ball. You’re basking in the sun, leaning sideways on your elbow by the side of the pool. Frowning when you keep noticing Pope playing rough with J. He doesn't deserve that. What better way to lessen that burden on him by putting it on yourself right? (Of course that's the only reason why, not to stop Pope from feeling outshined by a new arrival, totally not). You splash water at Pope, complaining how you're so bored, stating confidently that you could score against him.

“Alright’ kid, c’mon show me what you got then yeah?” Pope relents as he enters the pool again.

You feel giddy with excitement even though you know he's just doing this to get you to shut up.

…

Pope is barely tightening his hold on you from behind, giving you a fair chance to back out and win easily. But you don't want that. You want Pope to get aggressive with you, put his face all up in yours, make you submit to him. Why can't he just give you what you want? Why is he always so gentle with you? You know why deep down, but that doesn’t stop your emotions from getting the better of you.

You swing your arm back, decking Pope with your elbow. The blow makes him release you completely, and you swim up, up, up and finally breathe when your face exits the water. Easily scoring and celebrating when you climb out the pool, meeting J’s small grin and bumping shoulders with him. You nearly make his shot topple over.

“How about that huh?” You boast despite knowing you played dirty, but your cocky smile falls when J’s expression changes before he downs the shot.

You frown, turning back. Oh, shit. Pope’s emerged from the pool too, but his nose is dripping an obscene amount of blood. It trickles down his chin, his chest and stomach.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry Pope. You okay? Here come on, I’ll get you cleaned up”. Running over to Pope, reaching for his arms to lead him back into the house.

But his hand catches you first.

One hand bounding both of your wrists.

“You can clean me up here just fine, kid.” Pope says so calmly, not even a little bothered about the blood gushing out and down.

‘Yeah okay, let me just get the first aid kit alright?”

“Kid.” Pope pulls you closer by your hands and walks you backwards.

“I said you can do it here. You’ve had such a mouth on you lately baby, let’s put it to good use yeah?”

Oh, fuck he can’t just say things like that.

The back of your legs hits a lounge chair. The one beside where J’s sitting on, eyes darting between the two of you.

“I’ll get out of your wa-”

“No. You're staying there.” Pope’s tone leaves no room for arguing, guarded eyes locking onto J.

Though when Pope looks back at you, his gaze softens the tiniest bit. Unnoticeable to anyone else, but not to you.

“Pope I- I’m really sorry oka-”

“Shhh, it’s okay kid. M’not mad.” Pope brushes your back with his free hand as he maneuvers the two of you on the empty seat, you atop his lap.

“Just want you to take care of me.” Pope whispers into your ear, private from J.

You furrow your brows at his words.

Oh.

Now you understand.

Of course Pope would see through you, he’s always seen you. The only one who had.

Pope reels back, just enough to meet your eyes with his intense gaze. An unspoken connection. One asking if you want to stop, keep your bond a sacred secret. The other responding to let them see, see who I belong to, that I belong to you.

The red string that ties the both of you coils protectively around your shared hearts. A beat passes, and you feel the red string relaxing.

Pope lets your hands go as he leans back into the seat, letting you crawl slightly back. You brace your arms, and lean down. The taste of copper fills your senses as you slowly drag your tongue up Pope’s abs. He shudders beneath your contact, not used to a caring touch. You make your way up to his chest, noticing his erratic breathing. Finally, you make it to Pope’s face, where most of the blood is smeared all over from his initial attempt of cleaning it off.

You meet Pope’s eyes. He’s already watching you. He’s always watching you.

Cradling his jaw with your hand, you scoop up the remaining scattered blood on your thumb. You bring your finger past your lips, not breaking eye contact with Pope.

He doesn't blink.

He hasn't taken his eyes off of you, not since he caught the glimpse of you being all close to J.

In a blink, Pope smashes your lips together, hand pushing at the back of your neck, strong arm wrapping possessively around your waist. He shoves his tongue past your lips, swallowing up your sweet moans and tasting his own blood.

It's intoxicating. He’s intoxicating.

All you can sense is his bruising grip on you, the metallic taste of his blood, his heavy breathing.

The big splashes of water as the other brothers fight in the pool, the overlapping shouts and quarreling, the clinking of shot glasses. None of that even registers in your mind.

All you can think and feel is Pope. Him, him, only him.

When you both slowly part for air, Pope rests his forehead against yours. Still breathing heavily, his hungry eyes dart down to the red string of saliva connecting from your lips to his.

“Hey! If you two are done being fuckin’ freaks, we could really use Pope and J back in the game!” Baz’s voice cuts through the intimate moment.

“Dude c’mon they were just getting to the good part.” Craig butts in and you have to resist rolling your eyes as you scoot away from Pope.

“Shows over. You boys have fun, but I’m gonna take my girl inside.” Pope announces much to their disappointment, you can already hear them arguing over how to settle the remaining rounds.

“That goes for you too, you can go now.” He deadpans to J, who if you didn't know any better, was tomato red all over from the hot sun.

“Oh y-yeah, of course.” J stutters out as he gets up and away from the two of you.

You barely contain your amusement as you turn back to Pope.

“You didn't have to do that, you know.” You mutter as you stand up from the edge of the seat, reaching out your hand to him.

“He kept looking and smiling at you, as if you didn't already belong to me.” Pope raises himself, slowly holding your soft hand in his.

You grin, knowing he knows that he's dodging your actual question. No words are needed, not when the shared eye contact speaks for the two of you.

You didn't have to let me take care of you in front of an audience.

I know, but I wanted you to. Wanted them to see, see who I belonged to.

Pope hesitantly interlocks his hand with yours, making you crack a smile. Him being oh so shy as if he didn't just have his tongue down your throat a moment ago.

“Thank you.” You whisper as you lead him back into the house.

Pope doesn't respond, just keeps burning his eyes into your frame. You don’t elaborate either, choosing to walk in silence. But it's not an uncomfortable silence, no. Not when your intrinsic bond is weaved beyond words. A whole chapter said with just his eyes meeting yours.

Thank you for letting me take care of you.

Thank you for letting me love you, in our own messed way.

The understanding flows through the red string connecting your hearts.

a/n : rly scared that i got his characterisation off so im sorry if it is :((. LISTENN ok i'm sorry, when i sent that ask I was in a much more feral mood, but since i got sick (again) I wanted some comfort and softness sprinkled in. hey don't look at me like that. tagging @callsign-fangirl bcs we go feral over shawn hatosy in chat. anyways hope you enjoy !! pretty please like, comment and reblog with your rambles if you did muaks <3 !

#pope cody x reader #andrew pope cody x reader #pope cody #andrew pope cody #animal kingdom

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dollebon · 1 month ago

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riverbends · 16 days ago

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JACK PUSSY INSPECTOR?? say more please!!! 🎤🎤

ohhh this man is thorough. and so, so cruel about it. if you think you're in his bed to make the headboard batter the walls, you are sorely mistaken. jack abbot has other things on his mind...

he's already got you on the bed, of course. leaning back on your elbows with your legs propped up as you playfully open and close your knees. it occurs to you now, as he stands at the edge, that he's still fully clothed while you've been stripped down to nothing but your underwear.

nsfw below

"take 'em off," you smile before lifting a leg to toe his belly, calf flexing with movement. "no clothes allowed, doctor." eyes locked as your pointed foot drifts from his navel down to the semi bulging beneath his pants. cocktease. he snatches your ankle before you get the chance to toy with him. it's too much fun, this game where you kick and squirm with laughter under his iron hold.

and then, softly: "be good for me, hm?"

just a few words have you stilled, legs lowering slowly as he releases your ankle.

"scoot up," he pats the side of your knee and you obey before resting your head on the pillow and watching him lay on the bed, belly down. chin tucked to your chest, you can tell he's not moving any time soon.

against your playful resistance, he manages to yank your panties off and wrench your thighs apart so that your feet flank his elbows. he's staring. he's staring, and it has you pulsing in front of him. waiting for him.

you feel his palms press against your inner thighs so your legs fall out wider, thumbs stroking your bare outer labia. it takes too much self-control to refrain from lifting your hips up with impatience. even then, his mouth is too far away. you know why. you can feel it now.

he draws his lips into an 'o' shape so he can blow cold air over your naked cunt. laughs when he watches you constrict at the cool, controlled pressure of his breath.

"jack," you grit. he's not listening because the bastard does it again. a harder and more sustained channel of cold breath hits your sex and you can't do anything when this is what entertains him. oh, but it's nowhere near the torture he conducts when his thumbs inch inward to spread your folds wide open.

"look at you, sweetheart," he murmurs as he watches slick gather in your hole, "wetting yourself." he blows again so he can witness the subsequent flutter of your pussy before letting it suck one of his broad thumbs inside. you hiss through your teeth when you feel him sink in and you can't even begin to think about how fascinated he must look right now. removing his thumb, he's completely enthralled by the way your cunt manages to swallow his middle and ring finger now. right to the base. you're dizzied by the sheer fucking width of his two fingers alone. says something to himself about slotting in a third.

(he didn't prepare you for that, by the way. no, he went ahead of himself and eased them in, satisfied by the way you take him anyway. satisfied by the sticky sheen of his skin after pulling out).

this is one of his favourite parts. he gets to observe how his fingers disappear inside your hole and feel your walls clench them tight like you're not ready to let them go. has to work his wrist back and forth just to fuck you with his fingers.

you're slurring his name again with hazy frustration at the way he plays with your pussy like he's never seen it before. like he's got all the time in the world—like you're not even there.

palming you now, he barely lets you grind against his splayed hand and you know how much it amuses him to see you try.

"somebody has to take a look at her every now and then," he says, matter-of-factly. the nerve of him—referring to your pussy like it's completely isolated from the rest of your body. "make sure she's alright, yeah?" he thumbs your swollen clit before blowing a strong but short force of air on it too. you jerk your hips in response.

"jesus christ, jack," your hands fist the sheets. "you're not making this any better."

his eyes flick up and he pretends to pout in feigned sympathy, "no?"

you curse everything in existence when you feel the warm hush of his breath under his low, derisive laugh. a fraction of a warning before his mouth latches onto your wet, aching sex. tongue exploring all the places that his fingers teased.

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stellamarielu · 20 days ago

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mdni! here’s a smutty little pope cody thot bc i cant stop thinking about the way that man eats pussy like his life depends on it

Pope finds salvation in your body. He surrenders to that sweet spot between your thighs, eating pussy like it’s his last meal. Savoring your taste like you’re the only thing tying him to whatever good is left in the world.

He’ll bury his head in your thighs, starting with gentle kisses and kitten licks to your clit. Taking his time because you deserve to be taken care of. He wants to worship you until you’re all fucked-out on his tongue, clawing at the sheets with your back arched.

He always starts out slow and tender, but once he’s gotten the first taste, there’s no holding back.

Soft kisses turn to sloppy sucking, stopping every few seconds to nip at the skin of your inner thighs. Groaning into your core about how good you taste before he lets his mouth venture lower, his warm tongue pushing into you, hungry for more.

You’re a whimpering mess while he fucks you on his tongue, his nose bumping against your clit in perfect rhythm. Involuntary moans from his lips melt into you as his hips buck against the mattress, his entire body losing control at the mere taste of you— his deliverance.

But what he loves most is the little sigh that evades your chest when he pushes two thick fingers into you.

Licking a stripe back up to your clit he secures your bundle of nerves between his lips, sucking gently as he lets two digits slip into you with ease.

The quiet gasps tumbling from your mouth and the messy suckling of his lips between your legs fill the room. His fingers stretch into you, coaxing more sinful sounds from your body, which only drive him further.

Resting his head on your thigh, his mouth parts from your sweet slick for just a few seconds, gazing up at you through hooded eyes.

“So perfect.” The words are a mumble against your flesh as he places a prolonged kiss to your skin, his head still pressed against your leg.

“Don’t know what I did to deserve you.” He’s completely focused, words of devotion spewing from his mouth as his eyes lock on yours, his fingers still slowly stroking you open.

With a satisfied hum, his mouth is back on your clit, working in tandem with the curl of his fingers to bring you one euphoric release after another. Never stopping until you’ve finished at least twice on his fingers. Lapping up the taste of your release— feeding the addiction of his redemption found in your clenching thighs and heaving chest.

#pope cody ooo i want him bad #need to be physically AND emotionally intimate with him immediately #andrew pope cody #animal kingdom #pope cody smut #pope cody x reader #andrew cody smut #andrew cody x reader #animal kingdom fanfiction

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art-by-jas · 24 days ago

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"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

#animal kingdom #andrew pope cody #andrew cody #andrew pope cody x reader #pope cody x reader #pope animal kingdom #Andrew Cody x Reader #reader insert #fanfictioni #animal kingdom fanfiction #smut #andrew cody smut #pope cody smut #animal kingdom smut

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meshla-cyarika · 10 months ago

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abbotjack · 13 days ago

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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.

#animal kingdom fanfic #animal kingdom #shawn hatosy #pope cody x reader #andrew pope cody #pope cody #andrew cody x reader #smut #angst

669 notes · View notes

mercvry-glow · 27 days ago

Text

Want and need (18+)

parings. andrew "pope" cody x reader

summary. you're tired of pope's staring, so this time you give him something to do about it.

warnings. this is an 18+ fic so mdni, unprotected sex, rough sex, p in v, possessive!pope, age gap (pope is late 30s, reader is 25), typical animal kingdom stuff, mentions of drug addiction and drinking (but nothing in depth), pope and reader have wanted each other for a long time and all hell breaks loose, I am not responsible for what you read online, let me know if there's anything else!

notes. I really don't even know what to say, this was really self indulgent but also a shit ton of people asked for this. this is my first time writing smut, so please go easy on me 😭 I love y'all tho and I hope this makes those who asked for this very happy and I'd be more than willing to try for other characters too. as always any and all feedback is appreciated!

wc. 4100+

You were young when you were taken into the Cody household. Barely ten or eleven, chasing the coattails of Baz, Pope, and Julia. They were older, reckless, and way more fun than Deran and Craig in your young mind. You were just a kid back then, all scraped knees and wide eyes, desperate to be seen, to be wanted. And they gave you that—chaotic, dangerous, and messy as it was.

Now, you were older. Maybe not in their eyes, not entirely. To them, you’d always be the kid who used to sneak beers from the cooler and fall asleep on the couch mid-party. But you’d grown. Twenty-five looked good on you. It felt even better.

With the kind of money Smurf funneled your way—whether out of guilt, habit, or because she saw something useful in you—you were living comfortably. Shopping trips in LA with Julia’s old taste still lingering in the back of your mind, a crisp white sports car that purred when you touched the gas, and a room in Smurf’s homethat came with a 12-foot deep pool and too much sunshine. It wasn’t just surviving anymore. You were lounging, tanning, sipping something cold, and living the dream—Cody style.

But even with all of it—the car, the clothes, the pool—you still found yourself looking for him.

Andrew.

He was the one who never really changed. Still guarded. Still intense. Still carrying every unspoken burden like it was strapped to his chest. And even after all these years, you hadn’t outgrown the way he made you feel—safe, seen, even when you didn’t want him to see everything.

Sometimes he’d come by, dropping something off for Smurf, checking on Craig or Deran through you, but his eyes always lingered a little longer when you were around. Not in a creepy way. Just… aware. Like he was always assessing, always measuring how close was too close.

But you weren’t a kid anymore.

And you were starting to wonder if he knew that too.

He was always too worried about Julia or Cath to notice the young girl that gravitated toward him more than his brothers—and that was okay, it had been okay. You weren’t supposed to be seen back then, just allowed to linger. And Pope, for all his walls and rough edges, let you. He never pushed you away, never told you to stop following him like a shadow. But he never really looked at you, either.

Then life changed—fast and hard.

Julia left, tearing a hole right through the Cody family like a storm no one saw coming. She vanished into the haze of addiction, baby in tow, and that was that. Cath and Baz fell into each other in the aftermath, and that burned too—more for Pope than he ever admitted out loud. And when Pope finally cracked under the pressure, when he went to jail after a job went bad, everything fractured. The center couldn’t hold.

Life moved on, and you along with it.

You learned not to wait for anyone. You learned how to handle yourself, how to use what the Codys gave you—protection, money, a name that opened doors and slammed others shut. You carved a place for yourself in the world they ruled. No one questioned why you were there anymore. You weren’t the kid tagging along.

You were a woman now.

And when Pope got out, when he came back into that sun-soaked chaos of a world you both knew too well, he noticed.

Really noticed.

Maybe it was the way you carried yourself now—confident, sharper, always watching like you used to—but from a different angle. Maybe it was the way you didn’t look at him like a lost, broken thing the way everyone else did. Or maybe it was just time. Maybe he finally realized you weren’t following anymore.

You were standing still. And he was the one stopping in his tracks.

"You gonna keep watching me like a creep or are you gonna come sit and talk with me?" you called out, not even turning your head, just lazily lifting your sunglasses as you lounged beside the pool.

Your bikini left little to the imagination—tiny, tied at the hips, glistening slightly from the coconut tanning oil that coated your sun-warmed skin. The scent mixed with the citrusy bite of the cocktail you’d been nursing for the past hour, the condensation from the glass dripping down your fingers as you swirled the straw.

You could feel his eyes on you before you even spoke. He always tried to be subtle, lurking in the doorway or leaning against the fence like he had any real reason to be there. But Pope was never good at hiding his intensity, not from you.

"No one else is here anyway," you added, voice lower this time, laced with something soft—an invitation, not a challenge.

You finally turned to look at him. He hadn’t moved yet, still standing a few feet away like he was weighing his options. Same old Pope. Arms crossed, eyes narrowed, like walking ten feet to a lounge chair might cost him something heavy. But there was something in his expression that wasn’t so guarded now. Something careful. Curious.

“You worried Smurf’s gonna pop out of the bushes or something?” you teased, tilting your head with a little smirk. “She doesn’t care what I do. You know that.”

He shifted his weight but didn’t answer right away, jaw flexing like he was grinding down words before they made it to his mouth. Then finally, he started walking—slow, measured, like he was still deciding if this was a mistake.

But he came anyway and sat right at your feet.

"What's on your mind?" you asked, nudging him with your pedicured foot—painted a glossy shade of white that caught the sunlight just right. It was playful, meant to break through the stiff walls he always had up. You weren’t trying to push too hard. Just enough to remind him he didn’t have to sit there like a stone.

He didn’t flinch at the touch, just looked down at your foot resting lightly against his jean covered thigh, then back up at you with that unreadable expression he always wore. But there was something different in his eyes. Softer. Or maybe tired.

"Nothing," he muttered, eyes drifting to the water. "Just making sure you’re alright."

You rolled your eyes, “Of course I’m fine, you’re watching over me aren’t ya?”

He didn’t answer, but the faintest flicker of something passed through his eyes—something just shy of a smirk. You caught it, even if he tried to bury it again just as fast.

You leaned back against the lounge, arching your back just a little as you stretched out your legs, your toes still resting against his thigh. “You always do that, you know,” you said, your voice low and smooth, laced with something warm. “Watch me like you’re trying to memorize every move, but never saying a damn thing.”

Pope’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away. Didn’t deny it either.

“I used to wonder if it was guilt,” you went on, your eyes locked on him now, studying his face. “Me being around… all the time. If maybe, you thought I was just another thing you had to take care of.”

His gaze finally slid from the pool back to you—slower this time. Steady. That unreadable expression giving way to something heavier.

“It wasn’t guilt,” he said. Voice rough, low enough you almost didn’t hear it over the soft splash of water from the filter nearby.

Your lips curved slightly. “No?”

He shook his head once.

Your foot pressed a little firmer against his thigh, not teasing anymore—more like claiming space, letting him feel the weight of your presence. “Then what was it, Andrew?” you asked, letting his name linger in the air between you like the taste of the rum still on your lips.

“Why do you still look at me like that?”

Silence stretched for a moment too long. He looked like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words, and Pope never needed many. He was more action than speech. Always had been.

So you sat up slowly, cocktail forgotten now, your body turned toward him as you leaned forward just enough to let your fingers brush his wrist. His skin was warm. Tense. Alive under your touch.

“I’m not a kid anymore,” you said, softly now, like it was a secret between the two of you. “You can tell me things...”

His breath hitched—so slight, but you felt it. Saw it in the way his hand twitched under yours, like he was holding himself back with every ounce of control he had.

You leaned in a little closer, close enough that he could smell the sweet coconut clinging to your skin, the soft salt of pool water in your hair. “You can touch me now, Andrew,” you whispered, barely louder than the wind rustling through the palm trees overhead. “If you want to.”

His hand moved then, slow and unsure at first, like he was afraid you might vanish if he did. But you didn’t. You stayed right there, watching him, heart pounding in your chest as his calloused fingers brushed your thigh—just a whisper of contact, but it lit a fire low in your stomach.

And he looked at you like he didn’t know how to breathe anymore.

“You sure?” he asked, voice hoarse, thick with restraint.

You nodded, smile turning sultry, sure. “Go ahead.”

And for the first time since you were a kid chasing his shadow, Pope Cody didn’t run.

The tension between you snapped like a live wire—sharp, charged, inevitable.

You shifted, slow and deliberate, rising just enough to swing one bronzed leg over his lap. His eyes followed the movement, hands clenched at his sides like he was trying to stop himself from grabbing you right then and there. But when you settled on top of him, thighs hugging his hips and your hands bracing against his chest, he didn’t move away. Didn’t even blink.

He just stared up at you, jaw tight, pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling like he was caught between every wrong instinct he’d ever had—and the one that felt right.

You leaned in slowly, your lips just a breath away from his, fingers sliding up the sides of his neck, thumbs tracing his jaw. “Tell me to stop,” you whispered, though your tone dared him to.

He didn’t.

So you kissed him.

It started slow—soft, testing. But the second your mouth met his, the switch flipped. His hands gripped your hips like he’d been dying to touch you for years and finally stopped pretending he didn’t want to. You moved against him instinctively, gasping softly when he deepened the kiss, his mouth hungry and rough, like he was trying to swallow every second of the years he’d lost, every second he hadn’t let himself want this.

Your fingers twisted into his curls as you rocked against him, feeling him grow harder beneath you. His groan rumbled in his chest, low and feral, vibrating against your lips. He kissed like he fought—intensely, without hesitation, like nothing else mattered but this moment. But even now, even like this, his touch wasn’t careless.

One hand slid up your back, fingers splayed over your spine, grounding you. The other stayed planted at your waist, as if anchoring himself to you, needing you close but terrified of losing control. You could feel it in the way he held you—like he didn’t want to break you. Like part of him still saw that girl who followed him around, and the rest of him was warring with the woman now straddling him in the late afternoon sun.

You pulled back just slightly, lips swollen, eyes locked on his. “I’m not scared of you,” you breathed.

His eyes darkened. “Maybe you should be.”

You smiled. Slow. Wicked. “But I’m not.”

And then you kissed him again, deeper this time, letting your body press flush against his, the heat between you scorching, undeniable, and no longer something either of you could ignore.

A hand slipped under your bikini top, rough palm closing over one of your tits, you gasped into his mouth. His thumb brushed against your nipple, and the sharp jolt it sent through you had you rocking harder against him, your hands fisting in his shirt.

“Fuck—just take it off me,” you muttered against his lips, breathless, needy.

Pope didn’t hesitate. He tugged at the knot behind your neck, and the top came undone with a quick flick of his fingers. You didn’t even care where it landed—just felt the warm afternoon air on your bare skin and the heat of his gaze as he pulled back to look.

His eyes swept over you like a storm cloud rolling in—dark, intense, and full of want. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he rasped, voice strained as he leaned in, lips brushing the swell of your chest.

Your fingers threaded into his dark curls, nails gently scraping his scalp as he sucked a mark into your skin, his stubble rough against your soft flesh. You moaned low in your throat, head falling back as he worshiped you with his mouth, biting, licking, claiming.

“You’ve always been mine,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

You looked down at him, your body flushed and burning, heart pounding so loud you swore he could hear it. “Say it again,” you whispered, grinding down against the bulge in his jeans.

And in the next second, he surged up, one arm wrapping around your waist as he stood, lifting you with him like you weighed nothing. You wrapped your legs around him instinctively, breath catching as his mouth returned to yours—urgent and possessive. He didn’t say another word as he carried you inside, but his kiss said everything. Every step was heavy with purpose. Like he’d finally given in to what he’d been fighting for years.

He pushed the sliding door open with his foot, barely breaking stride as he carried you inside, your bare chest pressed to him, his lips never straying far from yours. The house was quiet, golden sunlight spilling across the hardwood floors as you clung to him, your fingers tugging at his shirt, desperate to feel skin against skin.

By the time he made it to your bedroom, the tension had hit a fever pitch. He laid you down on the edge of the bed, standing between your thighs, eyes sweeping over your half-naked body like he couldn’t decide whether to worship you or ruin you.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, heart thudding, watching the way his hands shook slightly as he pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it to the floor. The way his chest rose and fell, same as your own, like he was holding back something dangerous.

"You look like you're about to bust," you said with a teasing smirk, voice low and breathy.

“I am,” he said simply, stepping closer, his hands sliding up your thighs, thumbs brushing the edges of your bikini bottoms. “You’re driving me insane.”

“Then lose the rest,” you whispered, voice nearly a dare.

He hooked his fingers under the ties, and with one smooth tug, the last piece of fabric between you was gone. You leaned back slowly, watching his eyes drag over every inch of you, hunger and restraint warring in his expression.

Then he was back on you, like wet on water.

Mouth on yours again, harder this time, kissing you like he was drowning and you were air. His hands roamed everywhere—your waist, your hips, the inside of your thighs—like he couldn’t touch enough fast enough. And you didn’t want him to stop. You wrapped your legs around his slim waist, pulling him closer, grinding against his buldge pressed between you. He was rock hard.

Every kiss, every touch felt like years in the making—pent-up tension finally snapping in the heat of that bedroom. You moaned into his mouth, nails digging into his back as he pushed you further onto the bed, hovering over you like he wanted to devour you whole.

“Fuck—tell me you want this,” he growled against your neck, voice ragged.

“I’ve always wanted this,” you breathed, eyes locked on his. “I’ve always wanted you.”

He crashed his mouth against yours again, and this time, there was no hesitation—just raw need, years of it unraveling all at once. His weight pressed you into the mattress, solid and grounding, as if he was trying to make sure this was real.

That you were real.

That after all the years of watching, waiting, denying, he could finally touch you the way he’d needed to.

Your hands were everywhere—his back, his chest, tugging at the waistband of his jeans with trembling fingers until he groaned against your skin. “Jesus, kid,” he muttered, breaking the kiss just long enough to yank them off with a rough urgency, kicking them away as he settled between your legs again.

You arched up into him, your body already aching, your thighs spreading to welcome him as he hovered over you. There was a flicker of hesitation—his eyes searching yours, his thumb brushing your cheek in a moment of quiet, reverent pause.

“You sure?” he asked, voice low and gruff, but laced with something almost tender.

You reached up, fingers curling around the back of his neck as you pulled him back down to you. “Fuck me,”

That was all he needed.

He tugged on his cock a few times before sliding into you slowly, carefully, and your head fell back with a soft cry—his name spilling from your lips like a prayer. He filled you completely, a delicious stretch that had your nails digging into his shoulders, your legs tightening around his waist.

He didn’t move right away—just held himself there, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard, like he was memorizing every second. “You feel like… fuck,” he whispered. “You were made for me.”

And then he started to move.

Slow, deep thrusts that left you gasping, your hands clutching at him like he was the only thing tethering you to the earth. He kissed your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your chest, his hands gripping your hips with a bruising intensity, pulling you closer every time he drove into you.

“You’ve always been mine,” he murmured against your skin, lips brushing your ear.

Your heart twisted, heat building, rising between you in waves. You met every thrust, your bodies moving in sync like they were meant to be tangled like this. And as his pace quickened, rougher now, needier, you clung to him—your body trembling, your voice breaking as the edge drew closer.

“Pope—” you gasped, barely able to get his name out before it hit you. A rush of heat, pleasure, everything blurring as your back arched as you came, orgasm tearing through you, raw and electric.

He wasn’t far behind—groaning into your neck, his rhythm faltering, then stilling as he found his own release, his entire body shuddering above you.

The room was quiet except for the sound of your breath and the faint rustle of sheets. Pope didn’t move for a while—just rested there, head buried against your shoulder, arms still wrapped around you like letting go might shatter the moment. When he finally looked at you again, something had shifted. There was no going back.

His grip on your waist tightened as he thrust deeper again, rougher now—no more holding back. His mouth was at your throat, breathing you in like he needed your scent to stay sane, his teeth grazing your skin as he growled, “You don’t know how long I’ve fucking waited for this.”

You moaned, your fingers tangled in his hair as you clung to him, legs locked tight around his hips once again. “Fuck-ddon’t stop,” you whispered. “Show me.”

That snapped something loose in him.

“You want me to show you?” he rasped, voice thick with hunger. “You think I can be gentle with you now? After all these years, watching you walk around in those little shorts, laughing like you didn’t know what you were doing to me?”

His hand slid up your body, wrapping lightly around your throat, thumb resting on your jaw as he looked down at you, eyes blazing. “This body’s mine now. Say it.”

Your lips parted, breath hitched, your voice shaky, “It’s yours- fuck! All yours,”

“Damn right it is,” he grunted, thrusting into you hard enough to knock the air from your lungs, his other hand gripping your thigh and hitching it higher around his waist. “You’ve always been mine, I knew I’d take you like this.”

You cried out, body burning under his every touch, the filth of his words twisting deliciously in your stomach.

“You like that?” he growled against your ear, biting your lobe before sucking it. “You like me talkin’ to you like this? Fuckin’ you like you were made for it?”

“Y-Yes—God, yes—Pope,” you gasped, head swimming as he hit deeper, angling his hips just right to make your toes curl.

“I don’t want anyone else lookin’ at you like this,” he snarled. “No more showing off at that pool like you’re just some pretty slut.”

“Wh-why? You jealous?” you teased, barely able to keep your voice steady as your back arched into him.

He bit down on your shoulder—not enough to break skin, just to mark you. “I own you.”

With that, he flipped you onto your stomach in one rough motion, dragging your hips back until you were up on your knees, face pressed into the sheets. You gasped, the new angle hitting something brutal, perfect, as he thrust back in with a groan.

“This is mine,” he growled, one hand fisting in your hair, the other gripping your hip so hard you knew it’d bruise. “You’re mine.”

The way he said it—like a promise, like a warning—you believed every word.

“Fuck- I get it—Oh my god!” you gasped as he tugged on your hair, hips barely able to meet his harsh pace.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he groans out, bucking even harder as he fucks you with intent. You pant, eyes fluttering as he continues his brutal rhythm that’s hard enough to shake the bed frame.

You’re not even in your own body anymore, the sound of skin on skin filling the room. The once lavender scent of your room, now replaced with sex and what lingured of Pope’s cologne.

He slides a hand down between the two of you, thick fingers catching on your clit as he rubs in tight circles bringing you closer to your next orgasm.

“I- fuck Andrew… I’m- I can’t!” you moan into the bed, fists wrapped in the sheets like your grip will somehow alleviate the growing feeling in your stomach.

“Cum for me baby, I want to feel you.” he head dips to your shoulder blades, kissing down your back as he eases you to the brink once again.

It’s a white hot feeling as it rips through you, but Pope doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it, pulling back just enough only to slam back into you one last time.

He tenses, body stiff as he gives you a few more sloppy thrusts as he cums inside you—thick, hot, and everything you want as he pulls and lays beside you taking a few deep breaths.

You can feel him dripping out of you, but you don’t care. Too spent, you take your time before turning to look at him. Pope’s curls are a mess, though you’re sure your own hair isn’t much better.

It’s silent for a while.

you’re cuddled up to him, tracing little shapes on his chest with his arm thrown around you. It keeps you close to him, like maybe you’ll disappear if he’s not touching you in some way.

“Why’d you let me do that?” His voice is soft and gravely, but genuine all the same.

“Believe it or not, I’ve wanted you to do that forever…” you give him a small smile, still tracing your little shapes into his freckled skin.

He sighs, something deep and heavy laced in it. “I’m not good for you,” he mutters.

“I think I can decide that for myself,” you shift your head to look up at him, deep hazel eyes meeting your own.

His lips capture yours in a kiss, something softer than earlier but the meaning is still the same.

You're his, and honestly you don’t really mind it.

mercvry-glow 2025

#animal kingdom #animal kingdom tnt #animal kingdom x reader #animal kingdom x you #andrew cody #andrew cody x reader #andrew cody x you #pope cody #pope cody x reader #pope cody x you #andrew pope cody #andrew pope cody x reader #andrew pope cody x you #shawn hatosy #❥ - Pope Cody

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imnez-daydreams · 4 days ago

Text

baptise in your thighs, till it hurts

pairing : andrew “pope” cody x reader

warnings : SMUT ❗❗fingering, messy pussy eating, cumming, squirting, violence, headlock, leglock, choking, slapping, scratching, putting pressure on a bloody bullet wound, biting, blood, pussy drunk pope. pet names : kid, kiddo, whore (once n affectionate), sweet thing, pretty girl, pope calls himself daddy once.

summary : read part 1 & part 2. pope teaches you self defence. he puts you in a headlock, then you put him in a leglock.

wc : 2k

a/n : i blame @ozarkthedog for this because this gifset won't leave my mind. i did very slight research on fighting for this so i'm sorry for any inaccuracies. i also did in fact try to bite my arm as i put myself in a (loose) chokehold to see if it was possible lol. pretty please like, comment and reblog if you enjoyed, i love reading reactions <33. gif credits: @ozarkthedog. divider credits: @cafekitsune.

You’re helping J with school in the kitchen when Pope walks in. Stare heavy as he spots the two of you sitting shoulder to shoulder.

“Don’t. Even start.” You call out without even having to turn around to sense his presence.

“M’ just lending a second pair of eyes for his assignment, not that his grades need any help.” Letting a small smile appear as you bump your elbow to J.

Your softness disappears when you turn a little, giving Pope a mean stink eye. Or as mean as you think you look. He still wants to squish your cheeks and peck your lips.

Pope gets closer to J, planting his hands on the younger man’s shoulders. J’s eyes briefly connect with yours before he gets dragged into a chokehold from behind.

You run a hand over your face as you witness the scene unfolding. To J’s credit, he’s holding his own against Pope, but the man has too much familiarity with bloody knuckles and faded scars. Something else festers in your mind as you watch J struggling in Pope’s flexed arms.

“Andrew! I said, that’s enough.” Your words are final with your hands on your hips.

Pope lets go of J. His eyes lingering on your frame as J coughs and catches his breath.

His mind supplies a fantasy.

You scolding him like this.

Is this how you would scold him if you caught him feeding your baby girl ice cream before dinner?

Would you be helping your baby girl with her homework like you did with J?

Maybe he can let J be close with you if these are the thoughts that fill his mind now instead of jealousy.

Pope shakes J by the shoulders, playfully slapping him on the cheek once, twice.

“Good, that was good. No hard feelings, huh J?”

“... Yeah, s’whatever man.” J shrugs him off, making his way back over to you to collect his work.

“Sheeesh. Knew you were gonna leash our guard dog sooner or later.” Deran announces as he enters the kitchen just as J passes him by.

You slowly turn, hands still on the hips and squint your eyes at him.

“I’m not making you lunch just for that comment.” You deadpan as you push and lead Pope to the bedroom.

“What? No, hey I was just playing around c’monnn you gonna let a poor man starve? Smurf ain’t home and you make the best b-” You slam the door in Deran’s face, stopping him trailing after the two of you like a lost puppy.

You spin, arms crossed over your chest. Pope is sitting on the edge of the bed. Still. And staring. As always.

“You mad?”

Sighing, you cross the distance to him. Standing in between his legs, you run a hand through his soft curls.

“M’not mad … kinda want you to put me in a chokehold though.” You laugh shyly.

Pope’s eyes that were closed from your touch open back up. Confusion swirls in his gaze. A “why” evident with his tilted head as he looks up at you.

“Just … I dunno,” You continue while lowering yourself on his lap, “I liked your arms when you did that. The way they flexed, you know?”

Pope’s face screams “No, I do not know”.

“You like my arms? That it?” It’s a genuine question, because he can't comprehend why you would.

You groan, thinking Pope’s not taking you seriously. Hiding your face in his neck, you mumble out,

“Why don’t you teach me some self defence classes? Show you how much I like em,” You pout, not realising he isn't making fun of you.

Not realising the dangerous idea you just gave Pope permission to carry out.

That’s how you end up here days later when the adrenaline from a mission is running high, Pope’s body littered with injuries.

He wraps his strong arm around your neck, confining you into a chokehold. You claw at the muscle as he twists the both of you around. But you're so focused on his arms and escaping his grasp, that you keep your legs unguarded. Pope manages to bring his legs over yours with ease, trapping them on the outside of his. Eye widening as you realise his play, but you’re just a second too late because Pope is already shoving his free hand down your pants.

“Oh, already dripping wet just from this kiddo? Just gotta throw you around a little, put you in a headlock and you soak right through your panties.” His gravelly voice mocks you.

You tear your claws away from his now scratched up bicep to dig into the wrist that’s disappeared below the waistband of your bottoms. But the pleasure from Pope rubbing circles and pressing down hard through your panties, makes your wires cross.

“Kid, can’t tell if you're tryin’ to pull my hand away, or push it deeper into you.” Pope smirks against the top of your head.

“But since your poor pussy’s clenching around nothing, let’s give her some attention yeah?”

Then Pope is pushing your panties to the side and plunging two fingers deep into you.

You whine, jerking in his hold from the intrusion of pleasure, rising your arms above your head to swat at his face. But when the slaps land, Pope only shudders at the pain and enters a third finger, hitting all the right places.

Bucking your hips at the feeling of being filled up when he cages his bicep around your neck just a little tighter.

“Could cum just from hearing your pretty moans, y’know that kiddo? Makes me so hard when you cry out. And the noises your pretty pussy is making, fuck.” Pope groans above you.

The pressure on your airflow combined with his thick fingers hitting that g-spot on every thrust, makes your body pliable like jelly. Your body weakens in his embrace as the pleasure makes your mind fuzzy. Whimpers and slick gushing fill the room.

Pope tsks.

“C’mon kiddo, we’re still trying to learn something here. Already know you’re a little whore for Daddy, so why don’t you learn how to fight back a little harder? Know you can do better kid, I’ll give you a little treat if you escape my hold c’mon.” Pope nuzzles his nose into your hair, as if he isn't making you see stars with the onslaught of his fingers.

Pope slows down his deep thrusts by just a fraction, as if he knows the pleasure he’s giving you is clouding your ability to think straight.

Your mind clears a little, and you reach up a hand even higher to yank at Pope’s roots. He groans, momentarily distracted by the pain. His pace falters when you rake your other hand across his bicep, nails breaking skin.

Curling your right shoulder inwards, you quickly fill the gap by taking back your hand in his hair and pushing at his arm. But Pope regains his focus even faster. He pulls out of you completely to reinforce the chokehold, his left hand now gripping his right wrist to cage you in again. The delicious pressure makes your eyes roll back.

“Think kid, know I didn’t fuck your pretty brains out yet. Focus on catching me off guard again.” He whispers into your hair.

Think.

What would make him distracted?

An idea forms just as tears well up in the corner of your eyes.

You open your mouth and bite down hard into his bicep, reaching a hand down to Pope’s bandage at the side of his chest. Ripping it open and pressing into the bullet wound.

“O-oh, fuck me,” A gutteral growl in your ear sends a shiver down your body.

He finally releases you from the chokehold as you scramble up to sit up. You kick your legs as you move backwards to the side to land on the floor instead of on his body, freeing yourself.

Pope is up on his elbows, hissing as he puts pressure with the ripped bandage back on his bleeding wound. A prominent bite mark is visible on his bicep. Dark eyes meeting your worried gaze as you take in the blood escaping to the floor.

“Fuck m’sorry it was the only thing I thought of are you-” Your rambling gets cut off as Pope drags your ankle with the hand not at his wound.

Your back hits the floor from the movement, elbows braced backwards to stop your head from following.

He looms over you as he yanks at your bottoms, dragging your panties down along with it.

“Pope, stop. We need to patch you up you’re-”

“Told you I’d give you a little treat if you got out, didn’t I sweet thing? So let me make good on my words.”

Your brows forrow in confusion but you can’t think any longer when Pope surges down and starts eating you out like a man starved for days. He moans at your taste, like you’re feeding him sweet honey. Your head lolls back, whimpering as his tongue reaches deep into you. He takes it back out to suck on your clit, making you whine out in ecstacy.

You barely register Pope putting your thighs on his shoulder, too high on cloud 9 from him making out with your pussy. Only fussing and looking at him when he stops, meeting his almost completely dilated eyes that are already on you.

“Wrap your legs around me kid. C’mon pretty girl, put me in a leglock till you squirt all over my face.”

Oh, fuck.

You don’t need telling twice as you follow his instructions. Tightening your legs around his head, you cross them at the knees to hold him into place.

The new position allows Pope to ruin you. He’s hungrily licking and sucking. Slowly dragging his tongue from from your entrance all the way up to your clit, angling his head and sucking hard on your clit. Your cries fill the room with the slick sounds of your wetness. Grabbing at his sweaty curls, you grind your hips up into Pope’s face. The both of you rolling your eyes into the back of your skulls as the newfound position makes you two closer. Deeper, harder, faster.

His hands knead the meat of your thighs. Pope grinds down on the floor, trying to alleviate the need from feeling your pussy clench around his tongue, the weight of your thighs squeezing around him and the fucked-out moans echoing to his covered ears. He can tell you’re getting close, attuned to your body.

“W-wait! Andrew somethings weird- I feel weird, I can’t s’too much!”

Pope’s eyes irises are completely black, desire taking over him. He pushes his face into you even more, slipping his tongue impossibly deep before sucking and swallowing around your clit.

Your vision turns white as shockwaves are sent throughout your entire body. You feel it travel from your blank mind to your shaking legs, as you squirt messily all over Pope’s face. It makes your body go lax, weakening the leghold you have on him.

“Fuckkk, yeah that's it kid. Give it all to me, wan’ be drenched in you. Wanna suck it all up, won’t waste a drop I promise.” His words are slurred like he’s pussydrunk on your taste.

You’re too weak to even writhe in pleasure, your high pitched moans and cries music to his ears. The loud slurping of his makes your face turn red, as your vision of the room returns slowly. You're still panting, breathing erratic when you blurrily register Pope planting one last sweet kiss to your messy cunt before making his way up to your face.

His completely darkened eyes finally come into full focus as he strokes your cheek affectionately. Closing the distance, he kisses you deep and slow, the taste of you hitting your own tongue. He pecks your pouty lips when he retreats slightly, knuckles dragging along your cheekbones. You think he looks like the Devil with his dark, crazed eyes drunk on your pleasure.

“One more, kid? You can give me one more can’t you, my sweet girl?” He mutters softly against your lips.

You think Pope really might be, as he lowers himself once more.

a/n : likes, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated as always muaks.

no pressure tags for beloved mooties/fellow pope enjoyers from previous parts : @erwinsvow @callsign-fangirl @mangonom @flofaiiry @superhoeva @flamingdisputes @loveslide @twentytoo22 @likedovesinthewnd / @awkwardpersonsthings @nyheartbreak @paintlavillered @roses-and-grasses @readerimagines666 @ultr4vjolence

#pope cody x reader #andrew pope cody x reader #pope cody #andrew pope cody #animal kingdom

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halfpsychic · 1 month ago

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Perverts (Pope Cody x reader)

Summary: Set around beginning of Season 2– Instead of Nicky at the house with J, you were taken and hurt by Javi. A few days later, Pope checks up on you and accidentally sees you shirtless. That image never leaves his mind, especially not when he comes across a pair of your dirty underwear.

Warnings: sexual themes, voyeurism, Pope jerks off, underwear stealing & sniffing. breaking and entering (sort of). reader has boobs but otherwise written neutral.

WC: 6.5k.

Pope Cody didn’t think of himself as a pervert. He could be obsessive, he could be rough, but he didn’t think it was all that abnormal. People like far worse things than he does. Maybe that was a result of growing up in the Cody house, his view of love and sex skewed since birth.

When he pulled up outside of your apartment building that evening, parked across the street, he didn’t mean to catch a glimpse of your naked body through your bedroom window. On the third floor, it wasn’t very clear and your back was to the window, but that outline of your body made him stop in his tracks. Stood beside his car, head tilted up to that window, he didn’t think of himself as a pervert for watching you slide on your shirt. It wasn’t his fault that you decided to change your shirt in front of your window, with the lamp in your bedroom on. The darkening sky outside only made it easier to see inside your window. He thought about mentioning your lack of curtains to you once he gets inside, but he isn’t sure how you’ll take it. That line hasn’t been crossed yet. He’s still stuck stealing glances at you from across rooms, looking when no one else is.

You leave your spot in front of your window, and as you turn, he sees the way your shirt falls on your body and the lack of support for your breasts. It’s different than how you usually look. For a moment, he thinks about getting back in his car and going home to jerk off to the memory of this. He decides against it, instead praying you won’t notice the bulge in his pants.

Pope didn’t show up at your apartment unannounced often. He had checked on you the day after the incident, but he had texted you about it before. Otherwise, you would’ve worn something different. Opening the door to him made your heart flutter, realizing your shirt shows a lot more than you usually do. Pope’s eyes flicker down to your chest for a second, just a second, as he tries to contain himself. He’s not here for that. It doesn’t matter what he just saw, he can’t.

“Is everything okay?” You ask Pope, still unsure why he’s at your doorstep.

“Yeah,” he answers. “I just wanted to see if you’re okay.”

That surprises you. “Did Smurf send you?”

“No.”

“Well, I’m okay.”

It’s partially true. The ache in your legs has slowly dulled in the last few days, the swelling and the worry that someone is waiting for you in your apartment fading, but that night scared you. Pope had always kept you safe— it was a solid truth in your life you could rely on. He doesn’t show it (other than now, standing in front of you, asking if you’re okay), but he hates himself for not being there. There’s no way he could’ve known Javi would’ve shown up to the house. Still, the guilt weighs on him night after night.

His expression hardly changes, a key feature of Pope’s, his hard gaze that was more like a glare to the untrained eye. He knows you’re not okay, that you’re telling a white lie just so he’ll stop feeling like your pain is his fault. You can see it in his eyes and the way his hands are always curled up into fists, like he can’t stop thinking about revenge.

“You sure?” Pope prompts. He’s always known you better than anyone else. He knows he has to push for the truth.

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” you respond, your voice weakened by the memory of your hands tied behind your back and the ringing in your ears that accompanied the exploding heat in your leg.

He doesn’t entirely believe you. That night was the worst you’ve been hurt since you’ve known him, and there’s no way it wasn’t slowly ruining your life. Pope doesn’t ask, he just steps inside and shuts the door. “I should’ve been there.”

You sigh. “You really think you could’ve handled them all yourself? There were four of them. With you, there would’ve been three of us. Two, if they still got J.”

“I wouldn’t have let them take you,” he tells you. When his eyes meet yours, you know he believes it enough to make it true. It’s startling, especially in this business. No one ever cares about someone else enough to save them. You’ve seen it with Pope’s family, the constant fighting and betrayal that is so close to tearing them apart. But, maybe to a fault, they’re loyal to each other. To family. And Pope’s unwavering loyalty to you never fails to send a shock to your heart.

“You don’t know that,” you say quietly. “Besides, it’s in the past now. It already happened.”

“It won’t happen again.”

He says it enough that you believe him, too. For a moment, you feel lighter. Relieved that maybe for once you can rely on someone, trust someone to be there for you when you need it. Maybe with Pope around, you won’t get hurt again. Wishful thinking, but it makes everything seem less scary. And everything is terrifying with the Cody’s.

Pope’s eyes leave yours and he glances around your apartment. He’s only been here a handful of times and never for long. He sees the dirty dishes in the sink and the pile of laundry overflowing its bin in the hallway. All of the lights are dimmed, warm bulbs in every lamp, and the curtains in the living room are drawn closed. He wonders why you keep your bedroom curtains open.

“Can I use your bathroom?” He asks, breaking the silence.

“Yeah, sure, it’s at the end of the hallway,” you tell him. He turns and walks down the hallway, and you go back to your task before he knocked on the door— starting the dishes you know he saw.

Pope hears the sink turn on and his stride slows as he passes your bedroom. He thinks about the sight of your unclothed body moments before he walked in here. He thinks about how your skin would feel under his hands. If you’re as soft as he’s always imagined. His eyes land on the laundry bin beside your door, and the clothes at the top of the pile. Socks, and a pair of underwear.

He doesn’t think before reaching out to grab the underwear. Shoved in his pockets, he carries this dirty secret to the bathroom. He closes the door and stares at his reflection in the mirror. What the hell is he doing? The used underwear feels like they’re burning a hole in his jacket pocket so he takes them out, holding them bunched up in his hand.

A piece of you, just for him. His mind wanders again. They were at the top of the pile, so they were worn recently, right? Today, maybe? Did you just take them off? How long did you wear them? All day, maybe last night, too?

Pope raises his hand to his face and inhales through his nose. His eyes flutter shut as your scent goes straight to his dick, throbbing again, the sight of your body and now your scent driving him crazy.

He can’t do anything about his aching cock here. He’s not that quick— and he wants to enjoy it, not hold his breath as he fucks his fist in your bathroom. He shoves them back in his pocket, deep inside, and takes one last glance at himself in the mirror before unlocking the door.

When you hear Pope’s footsteps down the hallway you turn off the sink and face him. While he was gone, you couldn’t stop thinking about how that night would’ve gone if he was there. Pope would have made you hide, despite your insistence that he should toss you one of the hidden guns around the house. He taught you how to hold a gun, aim, and reload, but he stressed it was for emergencies only. Maybe you could have convinced him that this was the emergency he prepared you for.

He pauses in the doorway, not quite stepping out of the hallway. Pope hovers. He has a tendency for that, especially with you. Lingering close, but not too close.

“You should be resting.”

He sounds disapproving. You know he told you not to do any strenuous activity while you healed and you didn’t think doing dishes was too much.

“I have things to do,” you tell him. “I can’t just sit on the couch for two weeks.”

Pope sighs. He walks closer to the kitchen sink, closer to you. “Just… don’t overdo it.”

“I won’t.” You mean it. The only thing worse than a bullet hole in your leg would be facing Pope’s disappointment.

Pope sits in silence for a minute when he gets back into his car. He puts his hand in his pocket to confirm his token is still there, that it didn’t fall out on his way down the stairs or across the street. The soft fabric meets his fingertips.

He pulls down his pants just enough to free his cock from his boxers. Achingly hard for the last hour, drooling a sticky mess, he wishes it wasn’t your underwear he was holding but your actual body. His hand curls around his cock and his eyes flutter shut. All he can think about is the sight in your window. Your nude upper body, on display for half of California to see.

Pope grabs the used underwear. He sniffs them again as he fucks up into his fist, the bed squeaking from the movement of his hips. It’s an unfamiliar sound for his place— the few times he’s had sex has always been somewhere else. He can’t remember the last time he brought someone back to his place, not Smurf’s house or a motel room.

Even though he wanted to take this slow and make it last as long as possible, he finds himself closer to his release than he wanted. It builds quickly, a result of his pent up anticipation that started when he opened the door of his car outside of your apartment. He thinks about the rest of your body, the parts he hasn’t seen yet. He thinks about what is hidden above the parts of your thighs he’s seen when he pushed up your pants to reveal the injuries caused by Javi’s men. That was torture. He was so close to you, to the skin he’s fantasized about, and he couldn’t do anything about it. But he took what he could get, which was more than he had before. Hot anger filled his chest at the blood dripping down your skin but something else warm built up inside him. When his hands touched you to dig out the lodged bullet and place a few sutures, it was hard to control himself. To not slide his hands up your legs and feel you over your underwear.

Being that close to you, kneeled in front of you, replays in his mind as he spills cum onto your underwear. The pained whimpers you tried to bite back echo in his ears. His hands shook as he stitched your leg up, the way his hands shake now, panting like a dog. God, you ruin him.

Pope regrets the mess he made. He can’t put this pair of underwear back without washing them first and he can’t use them to get off again because now they smell like him, not you.

He checks on you again the next day. He gets there early, despite wanting to know if you change in front of your window every night (he can always drive by later, he reasons with himself). You haven’t been around the Cody house as much this week due to your injury. It made it hard to walk or drive and you hate relying on other people to drive you around, so you stayed at home. It wasn’t so bad. It was nice to catch up on some TV and sleep in for a few days.

Pope calls your name through the front door as he knocks. You hobble from the couch to the door, ignoring the dull ache that radiates up your leg with every step.

“Back so soon?” You ask, opening the door for Pope to come in.

“Just making sure your leg is healing,” he answers, trying to remain detached.

“It’s fine,” you tell him. “Hurts but it doesn’t look infected.”

“Let me see.”

Pope takes a step closer to you, his eyes not leaving yours. “I- I should change-“

“Just pull down your pants,” he says, voice soft, heart pounding at the thought of taking off your pants for him. “It’ll be quick.”

Against your better judgement, you nod. Maybe the idea of letting Pope slide your sweatpants down your legs sounded as close to heaven as you could get.

“Sit down,” he tells you, and grabs your wrist to lead you to your couch. Before you can sit, he sticks his fingers in the waistband of your pants and gently pulls them down, careful not to snag any of the fabric against your wound.

Then, you sit down, painfully aware of how exposed you are to him. But Pope’s gaze doesn’t feel judgemental or critical, not even when his eyes trail down to the sutures he placed days ago. He notices you’re right. The redness around the sutures remains but it hasn’t increased, and there’s no sign of drainage or additional swelling. “Good,” Pope murmurs. His hands gently rest on your leg, his hands warm and rough.

“Told you.”

He looks up at you. “You don’t know shit about wound care.”

“I know enough to know this isn’t infected,” a smile creeps on your face. “You just wanted to take off my pants, didn’t you?”

He doesn’t say anything. Silence isn’t rare with Pope, but you thought he’d say something. You decide to press harder.

“You wanted to see my underwear, right?” You ask, lowering your voice. You’re not sure if you’re serious or teasing him about something that isn’t plausible. “I’m pretty sure a pair of mine went missing last night. Know anything about it?”

Pope stands up, still not answering. Guilt is written on his blank expression, in the way his fingers curl up against his palms.

“I probably misplaced them,” you tell him. “They must’ve fallen somewhere.”

He looks back at you. Your words are riling him up. He knows they didn’t fall. He knows where they are— in his apartment, his dried cum staining the material. He knows your words aren’t true.

“Must’ve,” he says in a grunt. Despite your teasing, he doesn’t want to admit it. His perversion. Telling you he took them means he’ll end up telling you why he took them. Not as a spur of the moment idea but something that has clawed at him far longer than seeing your shirtless body through your window or touching your bare leg as he threaded the needle through your skin.

“Would be a shame if another pair went missing,” you say, putting on your best innocent voice. “Can you do something for me, Andrew?”

The use of his name, not his nickname, draws his attention. “Do what?”

“Can you grab my water bottle from my bedroom?” You ask. “I forgot it, and it hurts so much to walk…”

Pope nods.

Your bedroom still has the curtains pulled open, letting in the early morning sun. He spots your water bottle on your nightstand and it takes all of his strength to not lean down to smell your pillowcase. When he turns around with the bottle in his hands, he notices a pair of underwear thrown on the floor. It stares right at him, taunting him. An identical pair to the one still at his place but these ones don’t have his mess on it. He seizes the opportunity and grabs them, hands shaking in his pocket as he shoves it inside.

In the living room, you’ve flicked on the TV and settled into the couch. Your legs are propped up and covered with a blanket. The creaking of the floor alerts you to Pope’s presence, and your water bottle in his hand.

“Thank you,” you smile up at him. His hand brushes yours when he hands it to you. He nods in response. The words die in his throat from the excitement of his new token.

Later, the feel of your fingers against his plays in his mind as he wraps your underwear around his cock. He had to wait all day for this, stressing over plans for the latest job with his brothers, with you on the back of his mind. He counted down the hours until he could be alone in the dark of his small apartment, with his pants pulled down and your dirty underwear against his skin.

Pope decides to be careful this time and not ruin the new pair. Instead, he uses the pair he already ruined to cum on, again, because the way the fabric hugged his length made him lose his mind thinking about your body around him instead. He was close. Not just to his orgasm, but to your body. He shudders when he remembers that your underwear aren’t just yours, but a real piece of you, your scent and sweat embedded in the cloth from being pressed against your cunt all day. He imagines it’s you rubbing against him, and it almost is. He wonders if you’d ever leave a real dirty pair of underwear lying around, one stained with your wetness or cum. That would be heaven. As close as he could get, anyway.

He grunts as he spills onto your underwear. The thought of you makes him feel so good, he can’t imagine the pleasure he’ll have when he finally gets your body under his.

He doesn’t sleep that night. It’s not unusual for him and everyone knows it. More often than not, he’ll greet the day already awake. He likes it. The quiet of the night, when everyone else is asleep and the world feels like it’s just him. But it wasn’t any of the usual things that kept him up— it was you. He couldn’t keep checking in on you under the guise of checking on your wound. It’s healing fine, and next week, he’ll have to take out the stitches. He can’t wait another week to see you again.

Instead of knocking on your door, he waits until your bedroom light turns off, and another few hours after that to make sure you’re not still up. He parks down the street this time.

Pope knows you keep a spare key under your mat, something he’s advised you against numerous times. But tonight, he’s glad you never listened. He grabs it from under the mat and slowly twists the key in the lock.

The door clicks open, and he pauses to listen for your movement. Nothing. Inside, his body burns with the possibilities. He considers digging through your laundry for a used pair of underwear to jerk off on your couch with, but like the other day in the bathroom, he knows he can’t keep himself quiet. He’d inevitably wake you up and have to explain himself.

He pauses outside of your bedroom door. You sleep with it closed and he doesn’t want to risk waking you up by opening it. That dampers his mood— he was looking forward to a peek of your sleeping figure. Maybe your shirt would have ridden up, exposing your stomach, or maybe you’d be sleeping in underwear instead of shorts.

The laundry bin outside of your door isn’t full anymore. A few towels sit at the bottom, and like a gift just for him, another pair of underwear.

This pair strikes worry in him. The way you brought up your missing underwear the other day tells him you know he took it, and you probably know about the other pair, too. Did you leave this just for him? A gift, like he hopes?

This pair is a different colour. He reaches down for it and brings it up to his face, knees weak from the familiar scent. His cock strains against his pants again and he knows he has to wait until he gets home to take care of it. Still, he palms himself over his clothes and holds back a groan.

With his gift in hand, Pope steps back into the living room. As much as he would like to stay and poke around, he’d rather go home and jerk off again. It’s become a sort of nightly routine; go home, close the blinds, pull down his pants and think about you.

He does just that. Tonight, third night in a row, he decides to put all three pairs of your underwear to good use. One stays wrapped around his cock, spreading his precum up and down; the newest pair pressed against his nose; and the oldest pair off to the side, ready to catch his release again. That pair is beyond saving, but he figures one of the next times he’s in your apartment he can put these back in your laundry bin. Hopefully you won’t catch any of his cologne on them.

As a treat, Pope lets himself whisper your name into the silence of his apartment when he turns onto his knees. He leans forward, on his elbows and knees, fucking into his underwear-covered fist. He thinks about how the edge of your underwear would drag along his cock when he pulls it aside to fuck you quick. Or rubbing his cock on the newly formed wet spot after he kisses you. He wonders if there’s any way you would change your underwear in front of your window, or if that would be too far for your accidental exhibitionism.

Even though he can barely hear his own whispers, he’s worried someone else will hear. Another result of growing up in the Cody house; the lack of privacy forming (now) irrational fears of being caught. He can hear when his neighbors fight, their voices escalating far louder than his barely there whispers, but that worry doesn’t leave him. He fears his brothers on the other side of his door, waiting to barge in the moment he finishes.

That doesn’t happen. His breath stutters, coming out faster than he can keep up with, the thought of any part of you touching him sending him over the edge. Again. His body slumps forward, unable to hold the full weight of himself up, but he doesn’t want to stop. Not yet. It feels too good thinking about you. With the stained pair of underwear, Pope spreads his cum back onto his cock. He doesn’t usually go for a second round right away and he wonders why he never does. He’s so sensitive from his recent orgasm that it almost hurts but the pleasure outweighs the pain.

It doesn’t take long for him to cum again, not even bothering to lift himself up to his previous position. His arm reaches under his body, almost numb from his weight. He makes a mess on his bed but he doesn’t care, he rarely sleeps there anyway. His vision blurs and he swears he blacks out for a minute— only you on his mind as he rolls over, almost collapsing onto the bed.

Pope sleeps for an hour that night. When he wakes up, he can’t tell if he dreamt of you or if he was awake, imagining you.

Baz whisks him away in the morning. They’re planning another job, a bigger, riskier heist and Baz doesn’t want there to be any holes in the plan. All day, Pope has to listen to his brothers drone on about New Canticle. He tries his best to push the last week out of his mind, but it’s hard. Pope is usually entirely focused on the work. Today, his eyes glaze over when Baz and Craig argue about the job again. He doesn’t need to hear that. He doesn’t want to. There are far better things he could be doing than pacifying another fight.

It’s been two days since Pope last saw you. He figures that’s long enough to check up on you. When he’s finally free later that evening, he drives to your apartment.

You’re not home. He even checks, using the spare key again. All of the lights are off and your regular shoes are gone so he assumes you’re out. He doesn’t let his mind wander to the other, darker option.

Tonight, he has time to stay. And since you’re not home, he decides to poke around a bit. The laundry bin is empty, which is a disappointment. He was hoping for another dirty pair to present itself to him. He pushes open your bedroom door and stops, taking it all in. The room is cleaner than the last time he was there.

Pope doesn’t know how long you’ve been gone and when you’ll be back, and he doesn’t want to be caught going through your dresser drawers. He moves quickly, opening each drawer and scanning the contents, only pausing for something worthy. When he gets to your underwear drawer, he can’t decide if it’s worth stopping for. They’re clean pairs, unused, smelling of laundry detergent instead of you. He closes the drawer. He’ll just have to get another pair next time.

He sits on your couch and waits for you in the dark. It’s another hour until you come home, and when you open the door, you shriek at the shadow.

Your eyes adjust and you recognize the silhouette— it’s just Pope, no reason for alarm. Real alarm, anyway.

“How did you get in here?” You ask him, stepping inside and locking the door behind you. Grocery bags drop to to the floor.

“Your spare key,” he answers. “I told you not to keep it there.”

“So you broke in to prove a point?”

Pope watches you favor your uninjured leg as you bring the grocery bags to the kitchen counter. He stands up.

“Is it breaking in if I had the key?”

You glare back at him. Not seriously. You always knew he had a point about the key but you never thought he’d use it.

“Why’d you stop by? Checking on me again?” You ask.

“You’re limping,” he points out, walking closer to you. He notices dark bags under your eyes and starts to worry. “Let me see it.”

“It’s not infected,” you tell him. Your hands reach into the bags to put away the items, but Pope’s hands stop you.

“Let me,” he says quietly. “Go sit down.”

You’re stubborn but you know better than to argue with him, especially when it’s about your health. He unpacks the groceries for you while you sit down. It doesn’t feel natural. You should be doing your own chores, not letting him do it for you. Your leg wasn’t that bad, it just wasn’t easy carrying all of that home.

“Why did you go out?” Pope asks from the fridge. As if it wasn’t clear why.

“Needed groceries,” you answer.

“I could’ve done that for you.”

“I don’t need you to baby me,” you tell him. Pope closes the fridge doors, leaving the rest of the food on the counter.

“I’m not babying you. You’re hurt. If you keep overexerting yourself, you could make it worse.”

Pope’s tone is careful, unwavering, but you can tell he hides a semblance of care under his unmoving expression.

“I’m fine,” you stress, and your insistence just makes his frustration worse.

“Take off your pants,” he commands, standing over you. “Let me see it.”

You don’t make him tell you a third time. Your pants slide down, revealing the aching wound. Pope kneels down for a better look and last night’s fantasies pop back into his head. If you weren’t just limping, he would’ve pulled down your underwear, too, for a taste.

“It’s not infected,” he confirms. “But it’s irritated. No more grocery runs, or leaving this apartment at all until it heals more.”

That earns a groan from you. “So you’re putting me under house arrest? That’s no fun.”

“Do you want it to get infected?” He asks. “You could lose your leg, you know. If it gets bad enough.”

“It won’t,” you roll your eyes at his catastrophizing. “I can handle getting groceries, Pope.”

He looks up at you with determination. “No,” he tells you firmly. “I will.”

The last two days being void of Pope’s presence led to deeper thinking about the situation. His stubbornness about your leg, making sure it’s healing properly and now his insistence that you have minimal movement, makes you wonder if that’s his guilt manifesting. Guilt that he hadn’t been there to prevent it. It showed the night it happened, too. Pope sat outside the house with a shotgun in his lap all night as you tried to sleep inside. It was nice then, and the first few days, but now you can’t help thinking he’s overcompensating. You’d never tell him that, though. Not in those words.

“I appreciate you taking care of me but I really don’t need you to do anything for me.”

“Just until I take the stitches out,” he tries to reason.

“And when will that be?”

“Next week,” Pope answers. “The skin around your knee moves too much. It needs longer to heal.”

“So you’re keeping me locked up for another week?”

“Yes,” he answers. He likes the sound of that. And he doesn’t mind visiting you more than once a day. He could never spend enough time with you, and maybe he’d find another pair of underwear for his collection.

You notice the vacant look in his eye after he answers you. He’s thinking about something, likely the arrangement he just proposed. Constant presence in your apartment, where in the last week, multiple pairs of your underwear have gone missing. The first really made you wonder, and your jab at Pope was mostly teasing, but the next time a pair went missing, it was after he left. Twice was still enough to be just a coincidence, so you went for a third time.

Three times isn’t a coincidence.

All day you wondered what he did with the pairs he stole from you. Did he just touch them? Keep them close because they’re yours? Did he smell them, or stuff a pair in his mouth? Did he fuck them?

Still kneeled in front of you, Pope picks up on your own silence and that knowing look in your eye. Like you see right through him and his excuse to come over every day. He knew you put that third pair out for him to find. It was too convenient, sitting right on top of the towels in the bin. He took your bait, like he still does.

“When did you take them?” You ask, and his heart stops. You knowingly leaving a pair for him is one thing. Asking him about it is breaching the little bubble he’s been living in.

“Take what?” Pope responds. He doesn’t want to admit to it so easily.

“My underwear. From the laundry. They were there two days ago, and then they weren’t. But you weren’t over.”

Pope slightly overlooked that part. You hadn’t been aware of his presence in the dark of your apartment that night. You wouldn’t have known where they disappeared to if you didn’t already have a hunch it was him.

“I always warned you about that key.”

While you suspected it, only momentarily, unsure if Pope was crazy enough to sneak into your apartment at night to steal a pair of dirty underwear, his confirmation is startling. Not in the grand scheme of Pope Cody as a person. You always knew exactly what he was capable of, but you never thought his obsessive protection would bleed into his relationship with you. This is more obsession than protection, though.

“What did you do with them?” Your voice is quiet, weakened by the heat pooling between your thighs.

Pope sits on the couch next to you, his eyes never leaving yours. “I think you already know.”

He puts his hand on your uninjured leg, touching the skin of your exposed thigh.

“Tell me anyway.”

He leans closer, his hands trailing up your thigh, leaving a trail of goosebumps. “I jerked off with them. Fucked them. Came on them,” he tells you.

You’ve never seen this side of him before. You’ve seen him during jobs, careful and calculated; you’ve seen him with women, only a handful of times; you’ve seen his loyalty to his family turn into violent threats. But you’ve never seen him so earnest about a secret.

His face is dangerously close to yours, and his fingers brush over your clothed hip. He’s wanted this for months. Even more since you were shot and he was rewarded with the opportunity to touch your bare legs.

“Do it again,” you breathe out. “Grab a pair of my underwear and touch yourself.”

Pope never thought he’d hear something so dirty come out of your mouth. His eyes flicker down to the pair you’re wearing but you catch on. “From the laundry bin,” you tell him.

He doesn’t want to leave you but he obeys, wanting to finally experience this with you. While he’s grabbing the pair you wore all day from the top of the laundry pile, you pull your pants the rest of the way off. It’s an uncomfortable amount of exposure but Pope has seen you like this before. It eases your worries.

He wants to touch you. That want strains against the zipper of his pants but he knows he shouldn’t, not when he just told you to stop unnecessary movement. He’d argue that it was necessary, but he knows he shouldn’t risk making your leg worse than it already is. Having you in front of him while he jerks off is more than enough for today.

Pope leans his face closer to yours, the underwear balled up in his fist. His other hand tentatively reaches for your face. He’s never touched you so tenderly before.

Your eyes catch every freckle across his face. You’ve always seen them from a distance, but never so close. He’s beautiful. And you don’t think he’d ever let you tell him.

So, you show him. You bridge the distance and capture his lips with yours. They’re rough against you and his kisses are no softer, but it’s better than you imagined. And you imagined it often. He tastes like spearmint gum and tequila. He tastes smooth. He tastes like he wants you.

Pope’s other hand, the one gripping your underwear, moves to the button of his pants. He fumbles while undoing it, too focused on making sure his teeth don’t sink into your lip too hard. He doesn’t want to draw more blood. He pulls his zipper down and his lips disconnect from yours as he tugs his pants down to his knees. Your breathing is heavy, matching his, and he almost cums from the way you look at him.

“You drive me crazy,” he mumbles, and kisses you again. His words bring a smile to your lips and he feels it against his, proud of your reaction. He rubs himself over his boxers but it’s not enough.

“Take them off,” you tell him without moving your face away from his. His free hand quickly shoves his boxers down enough to expose his cock. You feel his arms move and you break the kiss to look down at him.

“Jesus, Pope,” you mutter. It’s painful to not touch him or beg him to ruin you. But you both know it has to wait, at least until he takes out your stitches. Watching his hand curl around his length is enough for tonight.

“You need to buy more underwear,” he says as the fabric in his hand makes contact with the head of his cock. He wraps the underwear around himself again, like he’s done the last few nights. It’s a relief to finally show you how good you make him feel. You deserve to know.

“Yeah?” You smile. “Going to steal all of mine?”

Pope nods, his hand moving faster. “Keep leaving the key outside and they’ll keep disappearing.”

You squeeze your thighs together, unable to pretend he’s not making you insanely turned on right now. Maybe he can be gentle, you think. He can rub you over your underwear with his other hand. Pope can tell you’re getting antsy by the way you squirm in front of him. It’s cute seeing you so worked up for him.

“You’re such a pervert, you know that?” You whisper.

He smiles. You have no idea.

“Once your leg heals, I won’t need your underwear anymore,” he tells you. “Because I’ll have the real thing.”

Pope can’t keep his voice straight anymore. He’s too close now. He wants to grab your hand and put it over his but he’d rather show you what you do to him. Just the thought of you makes his cock hard. The sight of you makes him leak into his boxers. The feel of your underwear, the ghost of your pussy hugging him, makes him lose consciousness as he cums.

It happens again. His orgasm hits him so hard he can’t see anything, and his heart beats so fast he thinks it’s going to give out. But it keeps on pumping in his chest and his fist keeps pumping over his cock until the last drop of cum drips onto your legs.

Your face is the first thing he sees, flushed from the sight of him unraveling in front of you. Finally, you have an accurate image of what Pope Cody looks like when he’s at his most vulnerable. His forehead is damp with sweat and his whole chest heaves with every breath. He’s so beautiful.

“Maybe you should just take the spare key,” you whisper. It’s not like anyone else has ever used it, not even yourself.

He nods. “You saying I can come over whenever I want?”

“You do anyway.”

Pope cleans up the mess he made on your thighs with the underwear in his hand. He kisses you again before he puts his dick back in his boxers.

“Seriously, no more getting groceries,” he reminds you. “Let me take care of you.”

Despite how soft Pope’s words feel, you know it extends to things far more vicious than bringing you home groceries and taking your stitches out. You know he would’ve killed anyone who hurt you without a second thought. You know he would do anything for you, something that scared you when you first understood it. It doesn’t scare you anymore, even when he breaks into your apartment in the middle of the night and when you’re not home, just to help get himself off.

A/N: didn’t mean for this to be so long but i wrote it quicker than everything else i’m working on. probably slightly ooc and i apologize but i couldn’t resist pope doing some freak stuff i’m into. might write a part 2 about pope removing the stitches…

#andrew pope cody x reader #pope cody x reader #animal kingdom #pope cody #andrew pope cody #andrew cody #shawn hatosy

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