warnings . . . lewd conversations, curse words, mentions of the previous sexual scene (fingering), foot fetish talk again lmaoooo, making out, boob talk, sleep deprived so this is all i can think of will put more if needed. wc: 1.3k
You’re perched on Pope’s bed, back and posture stiff, unsure of how to act. Should you even been inside of his room without asking? What if he didn’t want to makeout with you tonight? Are you taking advantage of him? Does he even want to makeout with you at all?
What are you talking about? He fingered you. If he can shove his fingers in you, he can definitely push his lips to yours… right?
You drop yourself dramatically onto his bed with a loud groan, your mind racing. What if? Why? Why not? Will he? Won’t he? It won’t stop.
“You look like a fish out of water.” His familiar voice has you sitting up, eyes wide in shock.
“Geez,” you huff, embarrassed by the way you were flopping around in his perfectly made bed. Which is now unmade. “I need you to get louder shoes. Ones that squeak. Or the light up ones so I know when you’re coming.”
He shrugs, leaning against the shut door of his bedroom. “How else am I supposed to catch you doing weird shit?”
“Haha.” You deadpan. “Where were you? I’ve been waiting here forever.”
“Handling something.”
You grin, leaning back on your arms. “Oooooh, did you beat up your brother for me?” It’s a tease. You don’t truly believe he’d get into a fight with his brother over you.
You may joke like you are, but you’re not stupid. The web of odd familial ties in the Cody family are… borderline incestuos. Weird. Confusing. And you don’t doubt that it’s all Janine Cody’s fault. She has a way of making anyone in a room with her feel powerless. You see it with the gardeners she watches over as they work, the way she speaks to her sons, even her lawyer who isn’t around often, but you’ve seen a few times.
Conversing with the woman feels like she’s ripping your chest open and grabbing at everything she can, inspecting you. As terrible as it makes you feel, you try to push that back on your schedule for Lena until the very last second, even to the point where Lena can’t see the woman from the constant activities you take the little girl to.
“No.” Is his lacking response.
You sigh dramatically, “and here I thought you were my knight in shining armor.”
“I’m not that.”
“Clearly.”
The silence isn’t awkward but the way his hands are rubbing at his jeans, tells you that he does believe it to be so. You stand, tugging at your t-shirt to fall over your body. “So, you—”
“Do you think we can reschedule?” His voice sounds almost shaky. Almost, not quite nervous, more ashamed. He clears his throat, “I don’t think I'm up for—“
You nod, immediately feeling the guilt eat away at you. “Of course, Pope.” You take a step back, sitting back down on the bed, afraid to make him feel afraid. “You don’t even have to makeout with me at all. I was only joking. Well… half-joking.”
He sighs, bothered by your words. “I didn’t say I didn’t want to makeout with you. Just… another day.”
“I didn’t say that you didn’t—“
“Stop talking.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t think I want to makeout with you anymore.” He admits.
“Jesus.” You cackle, “what’s up your ass?”
“You.”
“Oh, baby, I wish I was.” You get up off the bed, making a thrusting motion with your hips, hands out like you’re holding onto somebody. “Get all up in there.”
He grimaces, “that’s disgusting.”
“Fine.” You stop, “I’ll leave.”
“You should.” He agrees. He doesn’t move off the door, still pressed up against it.
It’s impossible to hold back your grin. “You gonna let me out?”
He doesn’t speak. His eyes are on you in that intense manner he usually carries. The constipated look, Nicky would say.
“Hello?” You tease, “anyone in there?”
“Fuck it…” he breathes low, cutting the distance between you in two steps. His hands are on either side of your face, pulling you into him. And his lips are on yours.
You don’t spare a second, hands falling to his waist, face tilting to deepen the kiss, noses nudging as you do so. And he delivers on your wish. The kiss is hot and heavy, tongue lapping into your mouth as the back of your knees push against his soft bed. Your hands move from his sides to his chest, then back down to the bottom of his shirt, urging him to remove it.
He pulls his lips from yours with a loud smack, “no,” he shakes his head, removing your itching fingers from his shirt. “Not that.”
You groan, leaning your forehead to his chest. “Fine. Can I dry hump you at least?”
His eyebrows furrow, “are we teenagers?”
You scoff, lifting your head to eye him. “Dry humping is a lost art. I’ve made it my duty to bring it back to light. Think about it. The act is—“
“Shut up.” He groans, annoyed as he grabs your chin and presses his lips to yours again. One of his hands lowers to your waist, down to your hip, and ends at your thigh, gripping your leg high up on his leg.
“Pope!” You squeal when he drops you onto his bed. “What the fuck?!”
“What?” He shrugs, not caring. “Swear you told me that you like it when a man manhandles you.”
“Yeah, I like it when they grope my ass or spin me to push me up against a surface, not throw me like a ragdoll!”
“Miscommunication.” His tone is bored as he grabs your hips, pulling you to lay atop of him, lips meeting yours again.
You pull from him, sitting up. “Can I take my shirt off?” You ask breathily.
“W-what? Why?”
You shrug, “want you to admire my boobs.”
He looks bewildered, eyes wide and shocked as he looks up at you. “Don’t look so surprised.” You scoff, “I love my boobs. All my friends have seen them.”
“Wha—“ you tug your shirt off, left in your ugly sports bra.
“Oh my god, wait!” You cover his eyes with your hands.
He flinches, but doesn’t push your hands away. “What? What’s wrong?”
“My bra is ugly.” You groan. “Pretend what you saw was sexy lingerie.”
He doesn’t speak for a moment, lying back with his eyes covered by your hands. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“I’ve had this bra since I was a freshman.”
“… in college?”
“No.”
“Okay.” He admits, “that’s kinda gross.”
You scoff, moving your hand from his eyes to pinch his nose. “It is not. I wash it regularly and I’ve only had to stitch one slit since then. And bras are expensive. You can only talk shit if you buy me new ones.”
“I will.”
“Shut up.”
“I will. What’s your size?”
“Big as fuck.”
He scoffs, moving your hand from his eyes, sitting up and moving you to straddle his lap as he sits on the edge of the bed. His big hands are gripping your hips, securing you on him. Without skipping a beat, “take it off.”
You don’t hesitate to tug the piece off, tits spilling out for him. You hear the way his breath hitches, eyes dancing on your chest. He won’t look away, even when you wiggle on his lap. “Hello? My face is up here.” You sing, desperate to get him to look at you. “You know, this is a lot more than a sloppy makeout. If I were a freaky person, I would say you’re trying to sl—“
“Oh, god…” he breathes, moving you off of his lap and getting up off the bed himself.
You’re scared, watching him carefully as you sit on his bed, tits out. “A-are you okay?” You ask, eyes searching his body for any sign of discomfort.
“Y-yeah, I’m fine.” He’s turning his body away from you, facing the bedroom door. “You should— you should go.”
But you’re too concerned to follow his wishes. Instead, you sit up and reach over to him, noticing the way his body is shaking. “Pope…?” You place your hand on his bicep, desperate to help him.
He flinches away, “just go.”
authors note . . . to my big bitches (me) he can and will toss you around. don’t let no twig man stop u
pope keeps showing up to the bar every night. at first, you just assume he's here for his brother, but you do find it a little strange that he barely talks to deran when he's around. he just sits in the same corner, orders a single beer, and nurses it throughout the night while watching you closely.
sometimes, you notice he'll stare not at you, but at the men who try to flirt with you while you're doing your job. this stare is a little scarier. it makes them uncomfortable and leaves you wondering why you're so attracted to it.
"you know he's only here because of you, right?" craig points out one night when he catches the two of you in a staring contest.
"what?"
he barks out a laugh, looking at you like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
then, a few nights later, he doesn't show up.
it isn't your business. you don't know anything about this man. but still, it makes you a little worried. he's practically become part of your routine. would it be so bad to hope he's okay?
deran leaves you to do the closing that night. you hate it, but you can't afford to complain. when you finally lock the back door of the bar on your way out, your soul almost leaves your body at the sight of a shadow waiting for you.
"jesus christ!"
you nearly jump out of your skin when you find pope leaning against the hood of what you assume is his car.
"what the fuck are you doing here?"
"waitin' for you."
you pause for a moment. this is the first time you've heard his voice, you realize.
his eyebrows lift slightly, hazel eyes widening as he waits for you to speak again.
"for how long?"
"since nine."
"that's six hours."
"yeah. i know."
you stare at him for a second.
"why are you here?"
"wanted to make sure you got home."
you have so many questions that you don't know if you want the answers. but you can't help feeling... flattered. wanted, even. you should find this entire situation weird, but you want to get inside his head so badly.
"take me home, then."
you round the car and climb into the passenger seat. this is probably an insane idea, but you figure this man wouldn't kidnap his brother's friend. he gets inside a few seconds later and looks at you the same way he always does at the bar.
you type your address into the gps and let it guide him to your house. the drive is quiet, like him, but quick. the car is exceptionally clean, and you notice a soft scent of cedarwood and tobacco mixing with his sweat.
he parks right outside your house. he turns off the engine and suddenly looks nervous. his hands are glued to the steering wheel. you can see his knuckles turning white, like he's afraid of what he'll do if he lets go.
so you decide to make the first move.
you turn slightly toward him, getting a better look at his face, and rest your right hand on his thigh. he tenses immediately and holds his breath as if you're some wild animal about to devour him whole.
you touch him slowly, taking in every reaction. you squeeze the inside of his leg softly, moving dangerously close to his crotch. you catch yourself smiling at how easily his cheeks turn red, just like they did the night you met, and how little it takes to make him hard.
"take your hands off the wheel," you say.
he obeys, a little hesitant, resting them on his knees.
"unzip your pants."
"what?"
"you heard me."
you give his thigh another squeeze.
and he does. he falls into that same look you saw on him the night you met, ready to follow your lead. his shirt rides up slightly with the movement, and you catch a glimpse of freckles scattered across his belly, just like you'd imagined.
"take your cock out."
his gaze drops for a moment. you can practically see the decision being made inside his head. and for a second, you worry you've pushed too far, that he's backing away, that you've made him uncomfortable. but then his hand disappears beneath the waistband of his underwear, and he looks at you again.
"okay." his voice is barely a thread, the deep tone from earlier has melted into something soft and shaky.
"touch yourself, slowly."
you watch him move his hand up and down, unhurried, trembling beneath your gaze. his breathing grows heavier with every passing second. his grip slides easily along his length, already slick with precum from nothing more than your words. you keep your hand on his thigh, steadying him.
you thank god for the tinted windows of his car.
although he follows your instructions, maintaining the same slow rhythm, you notice the way his hips keep pressing upward into his hand, searching for more friction. his free hand reaches toward you cautiously, you swat it away before he can touch you.
"don't."
he lets out a small whimper. "m'sorry."
your other hand rises to his hair, fingers burying themselves in those soft auburn curls. "you can go faster."
you don't have to tell him twice. his eyes close as he strokes himself harder, faster. the sweetest sounds slip from his parted lips and you feel your own underwear getting wet.
"you've been acting like such a creep, pope," you murmur. "staring at me, waiting for me after my shift... i should've called the police on you."
you're so close to him now that your lips almost brush his ear. your fingers continue combing through his hair, tugging gently at the strands near the back of his neck.
he's almost sobbing now, biting down on his lower lip to keep himself quiet. you pet him so nicely while saying such awful things, and he doesn't seem to know what to do with it.
he comes with a loud whimper. his hips still thrusting into his hand, chasing every last second of this high. eventually, he forces himself to calm down though his breathing remains uneven. he opens his eyes slowly but refuses to look at you, too embarrassed by the entire situation.
"pope, look at m—"
"andrew." his voice is huskier now. "my name's andrew"
of course. his name couldn't actually be pope. you've just never thought to question it.
"look at me." your voice softens again.
you stroke his thigh reassuringly. when he finally obeys, you give him a sincere smile. he looks so handsome like this: flushed, breathless, and completely undone because of you.
"don't call the police on me."
you can't help but laugh at that.
"i won't. you were good for me just now."
you brush his hair back, peeling a few sweaty curls away from his forehead.
"next time, you can just wait for me inside the bar, okay?"
he nods, a small smile appears on his face. the first one you've ever seen of him.
you let your eyes linger on him for a few moments longer, then you climb out of the car and finally head inside, feeling a little crazy at the thought of facing him again after this.
♱ content. pope cody x reader. slightly sub!pope. use of “pup”. handjöb.
pope cody who shows up at your door past midnight, hands shoved in his pockets, jaw set tight, tired around the edges. no text. no warning. just him.
you open the door and look at him soft, the way nobody does anymore, and he doesn’t know what to do with that. steps inside slow, like he’s still deciding if he deserves to be here.
he probably doesn’t think he does.
and somehow it ends up like this. pope on his back, your hand wrapped around his thick cock, stroking him slow and easy while he buries his face into your chest. hiding. fingers curled into your shirt, clinging, whimpering these small broken sounds against your skin that he’d never let anyone else hear. he’s already leaking, wet against your palm, hips twitching up with every lazy drag of your hand like he can’t help himself.
pope cody who whines and noses further into your chest when you slow your hand, chasing the friction, desperate and shameless about it.
pope cody who is completely gone. melting under your hands like he’s been starved for this. for someone to just be gentle with him.
“you gonna cum for me, andy?” you ask it sweet, honeyed, fingers tightening just slightly on the upstroke.
he nods into your chest. “yeah” he breathes, hips stuttering up into your hand. “yeah, s’good, don’t stop—” his hand comes up to paw weakly at your wrist, not stopping you, just holding on.
“good pup,” you murmur into his hair and he licks a slow stripe up your neck without thinking, instinctive, then goes very still like he surprised himself. a whine climbing up his throat anyway, hips rolling desperate and unsteady into your hand.
pope cody who comes apart quietly after that, shivering, face still pressed to you like he can’t stand to be looked at right now. embarrassed by how much he needed it. by how fast those two words took him there.
you card your fingers through his hair and he exhales, slow and shaky.
pope cody falls in love with a girl working at the strip club
a hand slaps your ass, just below the fabric of your little denim skirt. you nearly dog the tray of drinks in your hand. that same hand shoves a wad of cash down your thong, the string snapping against your skin.
"why don't you take him out the back and show him a good time? it's his birthday."
you look at the man that shoved the money into your thong, another one of the girls already in his lap. you look at the other guy, the one who's birthday it is. the one sat, staring at his beer. gosh, he looks how you feel, like he doesn't want to be here.
you place another beer in front of him. it's fine, you'll work out the money later. "i'll be back in a minute, hon," you try to say softly. but softness is hard in a place like this.
there's something in the weight of his stare when he looks at you. like he's waiting for the whole world to watch him fail.
you hand the other beers to the customers that have already paid, get more money shoved into places you don't really want people touching you.
and then, you return to him. the man with the sad eyes, still staring at his beer. not watching the girls on stage, not reaching for any of the girls coming past, like the other three in his party.
you put your tray down and walk towards him, hips swaying from side to side. "c'mon, handsome," you say, laying your hand on his shoulder. he tenses and you almost expect him to flinch away. but he doesn't. he just turns to fix that crushing stare on you. "the birthday boy gets the special treatment."
you hope its sultry, the way you let your fingers dance down his arm, towards his hand. you take it in your own and pull him out of his seat. his party cheers, one of them reaching out to slap your ass as you drag him away.
you're playing the part as you weave through the groups and lead him to the back room. he's following along, looking more like a lost puppy than anything else. and, fuck, you feel so fucking bad for him.
you lead him into the smallest of the dressing rooms, usually reserved for an emptier week night, and lock the door behind you. the music is still loud; you can still feel the bass around you, but it's all just less in here.
a breath leaves your lips and you drop the act. "you didn't look comfortable out there," you tell him, turning to him as you grab a cardigan from the back of the chair.
but he stands there uncomfortably. like he doesn't know how to hold his body in open space. he's not looking at you, he's not looking at your skimpy outfit. he's staring at your shoes in a way that's just vacant and empty.
"it doesn't work," he says finally. "I can't..."
"that's okay," you say quickly. "we don't have to do anything." if he doesn't want to say it, he doesn't have to. "i only brought you out here because i thought you needed to get away from all that out there."
you fish out the wad of cash his party shoved into your thong and sit down. "here," you say, passing it to him. "consider it a birthday present."
he's staring at you again, staring at your outstretched hand. "you don't want it?" he asks, still standing there like he's uncomfortable. like he's scared of what you might do to him and how he might react.
"you don't need it?" he challenges.
you know how it looks, you working here. a lot of your colleagues would take the money, no questions asked. some would sleep with him, tell him it's okay that he can't get it up, they'll make it work for him. some would shove the money down their bra, muss up his hair and send him on his way.
but that feels dirty. you can't look at it as one particularly generous tip, either. you don't even work in the club to strip, but to make a little extra cash between your classes at san diego university.
honestly, you're happy for the break this offers you.
you wave the money at him again. "please," you say. "i don't want to have to go back out to your party and give it to them." you don't mention that they look fucking terrifying and you're gonna do whatever you can to avoid them after this.
he takes the money from your hand and you pull your cardigan closer. you offer him a seat, a glass of water, anything. but there's nothing you can do to make him comfortable. he won't let you make him comfortable.
"so," you begin, opening your bottle of water. "is it really your birthday or did they just say that to get you back here?"
he shakes his head. "no, it's my birthday," he answers, leaning back with his hips and his head forward. its a strange little posture, the posture of a man waiting for everything around him to break. "it's my sister's, too."
"ah," you say and take another sip of water. "you guys twins?"
there's a very brief flash of happiness across his face. it's a look you've seen a few times in this place, a twenty-one year old kid getting their first dance and falling in love with their dancer.
"yeah," he answers. but he seems to remember himself just a moment later. "she, uh, died a few weeks ago."
your eyes go wide and you stand up from the chair. "shit, i'm sorry," you say, moving closer to him. no wonder he doesn't want to be here. "look, we can speed this whole thing up, if you'd like." you turn back to your vanity and grab your reddest lipstick. "just need to mess up your hair a little and give you some strategically place lipstick marks, maybe a hickey or two, if you're okay with that."
for the first time since you took his hand and dragged him out here, he looks at you. head tilted down, eyes up. it's a stare that makes you shiver, even with your cardigan wrapped around you.
"okay," he says and nods, averting his gaze.
you step closer. close enough that you can reach out and touch him, if you want. but you halt. "can i touch you?" you ask him.
his shoulders raise in a shrug, another smile flickering across his face. a different kind of smile, like he's just made a joke you don't yet get. "yeah, i guess," he says. it's the surest you've seen him all night and, somehow, it's funny.
you wrap your arms around his neck. there's a few moments where he stands there, unsure of what to do with his hands. "it's okay," you tell him, your fingers playing with hair that's desperately trying to curl but is just too short to. "you can touch me."
warm, freckled hands settle on your waist. you push your fingers through his hair, freeing the small, growing curls. for a moment you wonder what he'd look like if he let them grow, why he hasn't let them grow out before.
"what's your name, handsome?" you ask him
his mouth is open, revealing little crooked teeth. p- it's there, on the tip of his tongue. a name he hasn't been in three years because he was more protected that way. a name he rarely was before that, either.
"andrew," he says.
"andrew," you repeat, nails scratching at his scalp. he wants to hear you say it again. "can i kiss you, andrew?"
when he nods, you don't start with his face. you kiss his cheek and pull away, checking the red mark left behind. it's perfect, simply perfect. you press another to the side of his mouth, just to really sell the illusion.
your hands work the buttons of his shirt. popping a few of them open and buttoning them up wrong.
and then, you pull away. his hands are still on you as you turn back towards the mirror and apply another layer of lipstick. you turn back to him, your arms winding around his neck.
you kiss him, press your lips against his in a way that isn't rushed, isn't hurried. you don't put your tongue down his throat and he doesn't do the same to you. you don't expect him to kiss back, but he does. his hands leave your waist, come up to cradle your face. and it's sweet and gentle in a way you don't expect.
you want to moan. you want to let out a low noise that reassures him that you like this.
he lets go of you when you pull away. breathing somewhat heavily, his forehead pressed against yours. god, he looks a mess, lipstick smeared across his lips like it was a frenzy.
"how'd you feel about that hickey?" you whisper.
andrew nods. you pull back as his hands find you again. on your waist like they belong there. you look at the collar of his button up shirt, look for the best place to put a hickey. you want it visible, but not like it's trying too hard to be visible.
you kiss him there. red lipstick marks the spot. andrew stands, holding you steady as you suck at the mark, teeth grazing the skin. he releases a noise from his throat, something close to a moan. his eyes fall shut, his grip on you growing tighter.
you pull away, swipe your thumb over the mark to even out the lipstick. "there," you say and he drops his hands. the warmth disappear with it.
for a moment, he stands there. he looks to the mirror, takes himself in as you wipe off your smeared lipstick and replace it with a subtler colour. he looks at the door. "can we," he clears his throat, wipes his hands on his black jeans. "can we stay in here for a minute?"
you pull your cardigan back onto your shoulders. "yeah," you say and sit back down. "i've only got two hours left of my shift anyway. might as well kill some time." you offer him a sip of water as he leans against your dresser, finally looking somewhat comfortable. "and then it's a lovely long walk back to my shitty apartment," you mutter.
his eyebrows are raised as he turns to you. "you should really get a car if you're working this late," he says. it's quiet, but you're starting to think that's his normal speaking voice. you wonder what he sounds like when he's shouting, when she's getting loud and angry. you wonder, but you don't want.
"not that simple," you answer. "can't afford the car, can't afford to learn."
the way he stares at you, you can't decipher it. but his eyes are soft, begging you not to be afraid. he's not particularly asking for trust, just for you not to be scared. "what time does your shift end?" he asks.
a laugh leaves your lips and you shake your head. "slow down, handsome," you say, combing your hair back from your face. "i'm not in the habit of letting customers pick me up, remember?" you reach forward, tapping the thick wad of cash now in his pocket.
standing up, you shrug your cardigan off. you drape it over the back of your chair and check yourself in the mirror. "c'mon," you whisper ad reach for his hand. he lets you take it. "i gotta get back to work."
andrew laces his fingers through yours. you lead him out of the back room and into the thundering music. immediately, you know it's too much for him. his jaw is clenched as you weave him through the crowds, take him back to his party.
they cheer and clap when you lead him over. you press another kiss to his lips when he sits down, back to playing the part. his party look at him, eyes wide. "your friend was magnificent, by the way," you say and walk away, hips swaying as you pick up a tray of drinks and take it to another table.
there are eyes on you for the rest of the night. you can feel them as you walk between the tables, as men grab you and shove tips into your underwear. hands caressing you where you don't want to be caressed. touching you in the way they do when it gets later into the night and security gets sloppy.
and he's watching it all happen, his jaw clenched. at first, he watched you flinch away from the touches. but not anymore.
you meet his eye and head over to the bar. he tracks you as you speak to the bar tender and pull a note from your bar. you flatten it out as she grabs a bottle, opens the top and puts it on a tray for you. you pick up the tray and carry it over.
his eyes are still following you when you approach his table. you lean over his shoulder to place his beer down and pick up the empty bottles. "thought you'd be out of here by now," you say, just low enough for him to hear.
his eyes aren't so soft now, but that's not about you. "you let them touch you like that?" he manages over the music.
you shrug. because there's nothing you can do about it. not if you want the much needed tips to keep coming in. "is that why you're still here?" you ask him, leaning against his chair.
andrew doesn't answer. but by the way he's looking at you, you know. yes. he doesn't need to say it. "go home," you say and look at the boys in his party. three of them enjoying a lap dance, one watching you.
he breathes deeply. "okay," he says and stands up.
you wrap your arm around his neck and lean in close. his hands find your waist like it's natural. "don't be afraid to come back, handsome," you say and walk away, your hips swaying from side to side.
and andrew? he's hypnotized.
there's the potential for me to do more for these two. a massive potential. i've loved writing this and i've tried it for every fandom i've been in (and this is the first time it's stuck - shawn hatosy has me writing good again wtf)
Pope who breaks into your apartment after your one night stands to hold your dates at gun point. Watches from the window of his apartment across the way as you strip down from the front door to the bedroom, short gaps between the living room and your bed cut off by the brief space between the two windows. The men you bring home are always eager, lips chastely open and closing against yours, tongue delving into the welcoming warmth of your mouth to prod around, slick lips trailing puckered kisses down the column of your arched throat.
He gets good at noticing what you do and don’t like, eyes flitting over your exaggerated expression, lashes fluttering when their lips feebly gasp something they’re sure is charming, but you appear hardly interested as you shove their head down between your tits. He lets them have their fun, more than they deserve. He watches their pathetic ruts and shallow thrusts, stuttered swipes against your clit as their hips roll to a climax. He waits till you’re both asleep. The house is still once he’s in, a broken window in your living room being his frequent entry point. They wake with a gasp when he presses the cool metal to their forehead, a finger pressed to his lips, pointing to your sleeping figure, bare under the thin layer of sheets that cover you. They trip up helplessly, hands held up at either side of their head as they hurry to the door, bundle of clothes balled up in their hands. “Look, man, I had no idea she had a boyfriend—I swear—fuck—I hardly know this chick—” “You ever show up here again, I’m emptying this into your skull. Do you understand?”
They run off quick after that, the horrid skid of their car tires streaking the blacktop filling to early morning air. Pope goes back into your bedroom, fingers brushing the soft curve of your hip and lays himself in the space left unoccupied. You curl into him your sleep, bare chest uncovered as you shift. Pope swipes his thumb over the soft peak of your nipple, callous palms soothing down your side, listening to the way you hum in your sleep. He nudges his nose to your cheek, inhaling the sweet scent of your sweat and perfume before pressing a soft kiss to your unmoving lips.
pope using his collection of recordings of you in your bedroom from the cameras he secretly put up (for your "security" ofc) as his porn videos to jerk off to. . . you could just be sitting at your desk working on your laptop and he'd be tugging at his cock hard and fast. . . shooting his cum all over his phone screen, making sure he'd do it at an angle where he could see your face. he'd already gone through three tissue boxes in one day. . . but it's your fault you make him so fucking horny all the time :(
when he's finally had enough of waiting and mustered up the courage to see you in person, when in fact he'd just break into your room at night while you were sleeping. . he didn't know when he'd started jerking off and shot his load all over your face. coming into the realisation what he'd just done, he guess he'd just wait it out until you wake up. you might scream and get mad at him, you might hate him forever. . . but he would never let that happen. . he loves you so much and he'd do anything to earn your love ♡
gif by ♡
💭 little did he know reader was as much as delulu as him and what she's working on her laptop was writing icky pervy thoughts of what she'd wanna do with the quiet handsome neighbour who lives across from her :0 dun dun dun !
summary: All it takes is one glance at the pretty girl who lives in the apartment across from his for Andrew Cody to become obsessed. But what begins as innocent observation from his window turns into something far more intense.
warnings: +18 MDNI. obsessive behavior, stalking, multiple scenes of male masturbation, themes of shame, reader has type b youngho vibes and andrew is stupidly into it, feminine reader who has hair and wears press on nails, unspecified but implied age gap, reader shares one kiss with a female friend (not super detailed), J pulls your cell phone records as a favor, andrew breaks into your apartment and raids your panty drawer, male masturbation with a vibrator, nipple play, alcohol consumption and mentioned drunkenness, lingerie, exhibitionism on readers part, mutual masturbation, jealousy, bratting/a touch of brat taming, reader tries to make pope jealous with another man, death threats (not to reader or pope), dirty talk, sloppy makeouts, spit swapping, over the clothes nipple sucking, finger sucking, f!use of a vibrator, clit play, rough fingering, unprotected piv, dacryphilia, light angst, insecure pope, reader matches his freak, stalker!reader, forced love confessions, begging, creampie
note: wow ok i think that might be the longest warning i've ever written whoops!! thank u sm to my angel @thykingdoncome for reassuring me through this whole process and taking a lil looksie at this for me love u 4ever
wc: 10.4k
[masterlist] [AO3]
Andrew knows it's weird.
He knows that.
But as long as you don't know he's doing it, what does it hurt?
It's not like he's doing anything weird. He's just…watching you. It almost feels like fate, the way your apartment is positioned directly across from his. There's the courtyard and a pool lying between you, but the windows of his apartment mirror yours so perfectly.
And…you don't have blinds.
No curtains, no shades. There's not even a half-effort of an old sheet hung up over the glass pane. And at night? When he can't sleep, and the moths circle the flickering porch lights, and you've got those blue or red or purple LED lights on…well.
Pope can see right into your apartment.
Can see you, watching TV on the couch or cooking boxed macaroni in nothing but a loose tank top and a pair of lace underwear.
He thinks you might be the only good thing about the apartment that Smurf forced him into only three days after he was released from prison.
It's been a long time since he's looked at a woman, you know. Longer since he's seen one as pretty as you.
He's not lacking self awareness or anything. Pope knows your open windows and ever changing LEDs aren't an invitation to stare, but…sometimes it feels like one.
You fall asleep on the couch most nights. Which is good for him, because Pope can't see into your bedroom.
Some things, he begins to realize, are a sort of chaotic routine.
You tend to fall asleep with your phone in your hand and scramble to find it each morning (it's always under the couch, beneath the hot pink throw pillow you kick off in your sleep).
You don't eat breakfast because you don't wake up early enough to (don't you know it's the most important meal of the day?). Most mornings, you wake up with just enough time to doll yourself up in the bathroom, prioritizing glittery eyeshadow and shimmering lip gloss rather than the sustenance of a bowl of cereal.
He doesn't know what you do for work, but it's something with an inconsistent schedule. You sleep until noon on your days off, which could be any day of the week, Pope learns.
Work doesn't stop you from going out, though. Saturday nights are reserved for those miniskirts and stiletto heels and all your giggling girlfriends who get ready on your living room floor with a hand mirror. You share perfume and makeup and clothes with them before you all climb into a shared uber.
A few times, Andrew finds himself tempted to follow you. He tells himself it's not like he'd be doing it for his own satisfaction. He'd just be doing it to keep an eye on you, that's all. You're a young girl (too young for someone his age). Don't you know there are predators out there?
But he never does. Because that would be weird, right? You don't even know him. But…he certainly starts to feel like he knows you.
You and your friends always stumble back to your apartment, sometimes falling up the concrete steps to the second floor. One of them will make pizza rolls or messy peanut butter sandwiches and you'll pass around cold bottles of water and spill electrolyte drink mixes on the kitchen counter.
You'll share your things with them even after the club, selfless girl. Passing out hair ties and makeup removing wipes and big t-shirts for them to sleep in. On one particular night, when most of them are passed out on the couch, legs and arms tangled together, Pope even watches you you share a kiss with one of them under pink LEDs.
That night, Andrew has to force his attention away. It feels way too close to the beginning of that porno Craig left open on the family computer years ago.
But this doesn't feel erotic. Watching your mouth move against someone else's doesn't elicit any warmth beneath the fabric of his jeans.
No, it makes Andrew...upset. Angry, even.
It makes him jealous.
He tries not to think about it again. Tries even harder (and fails, repeatedly) to give you some privacy on Saturday nights.
But Sundays…Sundays are sacred.
Both for you and for him.
So much so that he pulls out on a job when his brothers plan it for a Sunday. Tells them he has to check in with his parole officer that day. Lies to their faces, because he doesn't want to miss out on you.
Because every Sunday, without fail, Andrew gets to see you naked.
You start by cleaning your apartment. Wiping down the counters and vacuuming the carpet and dusting the top of the cabinets. Then you light the candle on the coffee table (pink champagne, he's pretty sure, after looking endlessly online to match up the glass container. Twenty six dollars. Four day shipping. Currently sitting unlit on his nightstand).
And when you're ready, you strip off all your clothes and discard them in the bathroom.
You put oil in your hair and nineties R&B on your bluetooth speaker. You paint your toes (usually white or black, occasionally an electric blue) and glue artificial nails with sparkling gems onto your fingers.
Sunday showers are the longest, Pope knows. Sometimes thirty minutes. And when you emerge from the bathroom, steam rolls out from the open door and you've got your hair wrapped up in a towel. You balance yourself with a foot on the edge of the couch and massage lotion into your skin first.
From top to bottom, moisturizing your entire body. And then you repeat the motion with an oil, and it's during this particular step that Andrew starts feeling a little lightheaded.
He'd bet you feel all smooth and soft and smell so fucking good. Maybe like vanilla or cherry or coconut. And, god. He wants to touch you. He wants to touch himself.
But he resists.
The first three times, anyway.
By the fourth Sunday, though…well. His cock gets so fucking hard in his jeans that it's leaking. Making a big fucking mess in his boxers. It hurts, you know?
And it's not like you'll know he's doing it. He's had a little over a month to perfect his setup—lights off, chair angled perfectly so if anyone glanced into his apartment they'd have to really look in order to see him.
So, he takes his cock in his hand and imagines it's your delicate fingers wrapped around him instead. Imagines it's his hands rubbing oil into your shoulders, over the swell of your breasts, pressing into your hips, squeezing at the supple flesh of your thighs.
He'd make sure to do it just how you like. And Pope wouldn't need to be told how to, either. Because he's spent so much time watching you now that he would just know.
He wonders if your head would fall back, wet hair clinging to your slick skin. He wonders if he pressed just right into that tender spot at the small of your back that you're always so gentle with if you'd moan or whine or whimper. Maybe even say his name.
Andrew cums at the thought alone, grunting low, lips parted, his release spilling over his hand and down the hard length of his cock.
The shame doesn't take hold of him for a while.
Not until later that night, when your hair is blow dried and you're dressed in a pretty silk pajama set. You've got some trashy reality show on the TV, and you're eating the pizza you had delivered right out of the box.
Andrew takes the moment to clean himself up. To change out of his clothes and into something more comfortable. He brushes his teeth and climbs in bed, but lays with his head propped up by an extra pillow so he can still see clearly out of his window.
He knows it's weird. He knows he shouldn't be staring at a naked girl who's probably half his age and doesn't know there's some fucking creep across the courtyard who watches her every fucking day. He knows he shouldn't be fucking his fist watching you put lotion on your skin. He knows he shouldn't be changing his plans with family or friends around your schedule, just so he can watch you a little longer.
He knows he should stop.
The problem, however, lies in the wanting.
Andrew's never had much. Not when it comes to women. But you…god. You're so beautiful, and so pure and so different from anything he's ever seen. You don't belong to anyone but yourself, and once he sees you, he finds it impossible to look away.
Things change late one Friday night.
Andrew gets sloppy. He gets comfortable, here in this routine he's created around you.
There's music coming from your apartment, some electronic pop ballad that's at a volume so loud he can hear it from across the courtyard (there will be complaints to the office manager tomorrow morning, he knows. But you don't have to worry. Pope will take care of it for you, baby. He'll make sure you can keep having your fun).
You're wearing just a lacy bra and a pair of linen sleep shorts. There's a seltzer in your hand, and you're singing and dancing like you've somehow summoned all the energy from the club right there in your apartment.
It's a beautiful sight, truly. You're so happy and carefree. The warmest ray of sunshine that he wants to find himself basking under.
Andrew gets comfortable, posture relaxing in the chair that now lives permanently in front of his window. He watches you dance around your apartment, the easy smile on your face reflected back on his own.
He thinks he could really take care of you. Keep you safe. Protect all that girlish whimsy that lives in your heart. He'd make you real happy, Andrew thinks. Would watch you dance with your friends at the club, leaning against the bar. He'd take you shopping and add more of those short dresses into your closet. He'd make you breakfast in the mornings before work and Christ—he'd buy you a set of fucking curtains.
Pope is so lost in the fantasy of it that he doesn't register in time that your dancing has slowed. And you've put your seltzer down on the coffee table.
And you're staring right back at him.
His heart kicks up, pounding against his chest. He knows he should move out of sight, shut his blinds, pass this off as a mistake, maybe even pretend he hadn't seen you.
But he doesn't do any of that.
He's frozen in time, terrified and exhilarated all at once by simply being perceived by you.
Pope just…stares.
It seems to be the only fucking thing he's capable of these days.
He expects you to flip him off or maybe come barreling out of the door and across the courtyard to confront him. Or maybe you'll scurry away into your room. Maybe you'll order a set of curtains online.
But you don't do any of that.
You just stare right back.
Andrew tilts his head curiously. It's an involuntary movement.
In the end, you're the first to look away. You pick up your seltzer, dump it down the drain in the kitchen, and then disappear into the bathroom to brush your teeth.
Your routine remains the exact same. You find your phone beneath the throw blanket on the couch and turn off the TV. You turn the kitchen light off and turn on the light above the stove instead. You grab a water bottle from the fridge, and then go to bed in your room.
It's not rushed, and you don't seem nervous or fearful that there's someone watching you.
And Andrew thinks to himself, see. This is why you need him. This is why you need someone looking out for you. Don't you know how dangerous he could be?
He would never hurt you, Andrew knows. But you don't know that.
He doesn't sleep that night. He doesn't sleep often as it is, but his mind is running too fast. Cataloguing all the potential scenarios in which you cut off all access he has to you, severing the comfort he finds in his new favorite, voyeuristic hobby.
And Andrew wouldn't—couldn't—blame you for it. He thinks that's what you should do.
You don't.
The following morning, your routine changes.
On the nights you fall asleep in your bed, you're usually dressed in a pair of jeans with gems decorating the pockets and a low-cut top by the time you emerge from your room.
But not this time.
No, this time you're still wearing the same clothes you'd fallen asleep in. A lacy bra and cotton shorts.
Andrew watches, freshly emerged from the quickest shower of his life, hair still wet, as you stand in front of the fridge to find the fizzy energy drink you'd brought home with you last night.
He watches you struggle for a moment to crack the seal open (Those pretty nails of yours. He could help you with that, you know). You take a slow sip, put the aluminum can down on the counter, and turn your head just enough to let Pope know you see him.
You know he's there, in the window. You know he's watching.
And then, painfully slow, you drag your shorts down your thighs. The fabric pools at your feet, and Pope loses all train of thought.
Because this is no accident. You want this. You want him to watch you.
Your bra is next. You reach around to unclasp it and soon after the lace joins the linen fabric on the linoleum floor.
Warmth blooms beneath his skin as he watches you press your hands to your abdomen, feeling your skin, running your hands up your chest and over the swell of your breasts.
You try and play it off like a stretch, lifting your arms above your head and arching your back.
Andrew knows it's not.
You get ready the rest of the morning like normal. And Andrew…God. He doesn't know what to think.
He knows he should stop this before it goes too far. He thinks it already has.
It's…it's weird, right?
Everything about it is wrong.
He doesn't want to stop, but he knows he should.
He tries, though. For what little it's worth.
Tries to busy himself building a fountain at Smurf's. Tries to find small jobs he can do himself to pass the time. He still thinks about you all hours of the day, though. Like a thorn stuck beneath his skin, aching when he moves just the wrong way.
He overhears Nicky explaining to Deran what an 'everything shower' is and thinks about your Sunday ritual. He walks into a hungover Craig making boxed macaroni in his boxers and thinks of you. Smurf lights a candle called pink cashmere and even though it's not pink champagne, it still makes him think of you.
The pretty little girl in the apartment across from his, who he finds himself certifiably, insanely, obsessed with.
One Thursday afternoon, Andrew returns home earlier than he'd planned. He tells himself he just wants to get a little glance.
Just one look. You know, to soothe the ache the thought of you brings. To see if maybe he imagined the weight of your stare.
What he finds, though, is somehow more concerning.
You're pacing your living room, cell phone pressed to your ear, still wearing jeans and your sneakers. There's tension in your shoulders and even though he can't hear the conversation you're having with the person on the other end of the phone, he can see that you're shouting.
It drags on for the better half of an hour. The pacing, the frustrated hand waving, the pinching of the bridge of your nose. Whatever it is, Andrew bets he could help with it.
He hates seeing you stressed. Thinks you should be living your fun, carefree life like normal. You shouldn't be burdened with…whatever it is that's got you so upset.
But it's not like he can go over and just ask.
So, he chooses a different path instead.
Gets the key to the office of the apartment complex from Smurf. Rummages through the paper files until he finds the lease contract linked to your apartment number.
Andrew thinks he should've done this weeks ago. He learns an awful lot about you this way. Like your name, which he begins to recite like a mantra in his head. He learns your birthday and, regretfully, your age.
But, most importantly, he discovers (and memorizes) your phone number.
And that same day, he returns to Smurf's with a torn piece of paper with the digits scribbled on it. He hands it to his nephew and says, "Need you to get a few phone call records. Can you do that for me?"
J furrows his brows in confusion. "Who's number?"
Pope shrugs. "No one," he lies. "Can you get the records or not?"
"Uh, yeah. Yeah, probably. Anything specific you're looking for?"
"I wanna know about a call that happened today. Around two or so. Lasted almost an hour. Just get me the number of whoever was on the other line."
J hesitates for a single moment, and then nods slowly. "Alright. I'll get back to you on it."
In the meantime, Andrew spirals.
The thought of you having a boyfriend never really crossed his mind until now. You don't really have men over. Just your girl friends.
But there are some Saturday nights you don't come home, stumbling in early Sunday morning instead with sunglasses on and your hair a mess. So, Pope thinks you very well could have a boyfriend and he never would've known it.
Pope tells himself if it is a boyfriend, he won't…he won't do anything. It's not his place to make decisions for you, right?
Still. You shouldn't let a man stress you out so much. Whoever it is, they're not worth it. You deserve better. You deserve more.
You deserve someone who knows you.
Less than two hours later, Pope gets a phone call from J, who explains that the person on the other end of that phone call wasn't a person at all.
It was your phone company.
Your stupid fucking service provider who just so happened to put an extra two hundred dollar fee on your bill this month, claiming data overages.
All that stress wasn't over a boyfriend. It was over money.
And money is something Andrew can provide.
He waits until you leave for work, locking up tight behind you. But that doesn't matter, not now. Andrew has a key to the office, which means he has access to the spare key to your apartment.
He is fully aware that he shouldn't be doing this, but ten minutes after you leave he unlocks the door and steps inside anyway.
Your apartment smells sweet. Like sugar and citrus. He wonders if you smell the same way, and the thought alone makes Andrew's mouth water.
He moves slowly into your space, fingers tracing over the TV stand, feeling the wood beneath his calloused fingertips. He straightens the crooked throw pillow on the couch and puts the lighter for your candle back into the tray on the coffee table.
Andrew knows he should just…leave the cash and go. He shouldn't be snooping around, invading your privacy.
But you left a knife point-side up in the strainer in the sink. And you could get hurt doing something like that.
And once he's already in the kitchen, turning the knife over so the sharp edge is down, well…what will it hurt if he opens a couple of drawers?
None of your silverware matches. Andrew finds this little fact sort of endearing. Messy and chaotic in the same way you are, but that's okay. Maybe he can fix that for you one day, too.
Your bathroom is cluttered. There's makeup products littering the porcelain sink and the cabinet mirror is left wide open. Andrew picks up a few different products to read the labels and finds lip liners and leave-in conditioners and powdered blush with pilled pigment on the counter.
He finds that lotion you're always using on Sundays and opens the lid. Andrew brings the container to his nose, inhales deeply, and feels suddenly too hot.
The scent of it is sweet, like you. There's notes of syrupy amber and warm florals and it has the muscles in his abdomen squeezing tight as he thinks about how potent the scent would be if he were between your legs, freshly oiled, calves resting on his shoulders as he licks and sucks at your clit.
His cock has been half hard since the moment he stepped foot in your apartment, but by the time he makes it to your bedroom?
Pope is aching.
Your clothes are strewn all over. There's t-shirts on the floor and jeans inside out near the hamper and a dress you'd worn two weekends ago lying on the edge of your unmade bed.
It smells like you in here, too. Even more so. There's less perfume, but Andrew swears he can smell the scent of your skin. Sweet and intoxicating, sending sparks of arousal straight to his groin.
Your bedside table has a lamp on it and three half-empty bottles of water. There's one drawer, and he pries it open and gives a slow exhale to see all the silk and lace inside.
Going through your underwear drawer is, quite literally, the very last thing someone like Andrew Cody should be doing.
He does it anyway.
Rummages around until he finds that little black pair you like to sleep in. He runs his fingers over the lace band, feeling the softness beneath the rough pad of his thumb. His cock is throbbing, even before he brings the fabric to his nose and inhales the scent of laundry detergent and faint mahogany from the nightstand and—there. The scent of you.
As close as he can get.
As close as he'll probably ever get.
He needs to leave. Andrew is painfully aware that this is crossing a line of a whole new degree. Levels above simply watching.
This is obsession. This is addiction. Sick and twisted and perverted.
Andrew does not leave.
He climbs into your bed instead. Kicks off his boots and discards his hoodie until he's in nothing but his jeans. He slips beneath your sheets—satin, and pink, and filled with the scent of your shampoo and your skin and—fuck.
His cock is leaking by the time he undoes his belt. Andrew reaches beneath your blankets and shoves his jeans down just enough to free himself.
And it's almost enough to blow his load right fucking there, when the underside of his heavy length brushes against the fabric of your sheets. It's almost too much, being in your room, in your bed, breathing in your scent.
But he resists. Grits his teeth and takes his cock in one hand and uses the other to wrap the soft fabric of your underwear around his aching length.
This time, there's nothing slow about the way he strokes himself to the thought of you. He's desperate for it. Release already clouds the edges of his mind and he needs the relief it'll provide.
His brain feels hazy and his vision blurs, just thinking about you, lying here, hand between your legs. He wonders how you touch yourself, if you just play with your clit or if you fuck yourself on your fingers.
The thought crosses his mind that you might be using more than just your hand, and Pope finds himself sitting up. He leans over the edge of your bed and sticks his hand back into your panty drawer, reaching to the very bottom, feeling around until the tips of his fingers brush over silicone.
His heart is beating fast.
It's a small thing. Pink, of course. With only a small, almost hidden power button.
Pope leans back in your pillows and turns the little vibrator on. It buzzes to life in his hand, and when he pushes the button again, the intensity ratchets even higher.
There's only three settings. He turns it to the highest one and imagines holding it against your swollen clit. He imagines you lying under him, thighs around his waist, hips bucking wildly, chasing the vibration that he gives and gives and then takes away.
He turns so he's lying face down in your sheets now, nose pressed into your pillow. Pope puts the vibrator between his cock and the soft expanse of his abdomen, and he feels the sensation everywhere.
He's still got your underwear wrapped around his cock, and he gives a tentative roll of his hips against the mattress.
The groan he lets out is guttural. With his eyes closed, he can imagine its not your panties he's fucking but you. The tight, wet cunt between your legs. He can imagine it's the curve of your throat he's got his nose buried in and not your pillow. He can imagine that sweet, intense vibration is reverberating through your pelvic bone, little toy pressed hard against your clit.
Pope tells himself he'd make it so fucking good for you. He'd bury his cock so deep you'd never forget the weight of it inside you. He'd whisper how beautiful you are in your ear and make you look him in the eyes while he watches you cum over and over and over.
His release is…embarrassingly fast.
A few rolls of his hips against your mattress and he's cumming into the lace fabric of your panties, the vibration of the toy milking him until he's so overstimulated it almost hurts.
Pope rolls over, turns the toy off, and buries it back in the bottom of your drawer. He gives himself a few more moments to gather himself. To catch his breath, to wipe himself clean (never mind the couple of drops that now stain your satin sheets. That could be from anything, right?).
He tucks himself back into his jeans, pulls on his boots and his hoodie, and tosses your underwear in the pile of clothes next to the laundry bin.
There's a pair of your jeans in the middle of the floor, away from the rest. One leg of the denim is inside out. Pope takes the cash from his wallet and tucks it into the pocket, leaving out just enough that he knows you'll notice it.
He leaves.
Locks the door behind him with the spare key.
Makes it halfway across the courtyard before he doubles back, lets himself back into your apartment and into the bathroom where he pockets one of the many different chapsticks on the sink.
It isn't until he's home, tucked safe back in his own apartment, that he realizes it's strawberries and cream flavored.
Andrew puts it on, swiping the transparent petroleum over his lips. He tells himself it's almost like kissing.
Later that day, Craig calls a family meeting. But you've just gotten home, and he knows you'll find the cash within a few minutes when you go to change out of your clothes.
So Andrew waits at the bottom of the stairs on his side of the courtyard. He can't see into your apartment from here, though. And he decides he'll only wait for thirty minutes.
He responds to text messages and opens his blank, photo-less Instagram (that he definitely didn't make only to look at your profile. The one filled with selfies under neon lights and bikini photos on the beach and mirror pictures in the dressing room at that one boutique in the mall).
Twenty nine minutes later, he hears an apartment door slam shut and looks up to see you.
You've got your bag over one shoulder and a grin on your face and the cash in your hand. Enough to cover the additional charges and a little extra, too.
You notice him at the bottom of the cement stairs and freeze, but you don't look…scared, like he expects. Maybe a little startled at first, but the tension bleeds from your face the moment you recognize him.
He should say something. Talk to you. Apologize, maybe, for staring at you.
But Andrew isn't sorry.
And he's never really been good at talking, anyway.
You tilt your head and give him the sweetest fucking smile he's ever seen. It's somehow innocent and knowing at the same time, and Andrew feels the corners of his mouth lifting in response.
Something passes silently between you. An understanding, maybe. You know he watches you, and he knows you know, but…you don't stop him. You just let it happen.
You smile at him from fifteen feet away.
And then you turn to leave, no doubt making your way to pay off that stupid bill that caused you so much unrest.
Pope watches you go, like always.
But this time, you glance back at him over your shoulder with…something lingering in your pretty eyes. Excitement, maybe. He can't be sure.
He needs to get closer.
During the family meeting, he isn't very present. His mind is so far away, stuck on you, that he just blindly agrees to whatever job they're doing next and trusts that it'll all work out.
When he returns to his apartment, there's a note stuck to his door.
A pink sticky note with nothing but a phone number and a heart with an arrow through it scribbled on the paper.
Your phone number, Pope knows.
He knows he shouldn't text you.
It's stupid and dangerous and god, you really shouldn't be giving your number to random men. He could be a creep. He could be a stalker or something.
His message just says,
Hello.
Your response is immediate, with no capitalization which seems quite…fitting for you. He finds it strangely endearing.
hey
are u the guy from apt 212 ???
Pope can feel that this is a bad idea already. But he's already here, and there's no going back now, is there? He doesn't want to hurt your feelings. He doesn't want to leave you on read and make you think he's not interested when the problem is the exact opposite.
Yes.
The typing bubble pops up, disappears, and appears again three different times before you send another message.
im gonna be home in like an hr
will u be watching ???
Always, he wants to say. Fucking always. He can't take his eyes off you, no matter how hard he tries. No matter how shameful it feels.
Andrew's hands shake as he types out a response.
Do you want me to be?
No hesitation this time. Your message comes through a second later.
uhmmm tbh yeah <3
He exhales a long breath. It doesn't feel real. Like he's imagining the entire thing. How could he not be? Why on earth would the sweetest, prettiest little thing want someone to watch her?
But the weight of his cell phone in his hand is real.
And the text message is real.
And this…this is real.
Then yes. I will be.
You don't reply, and Andrew's heart flutters in his chest as he takes his practiced position in the chair in front of his window and waits.
True to your word, you're skipping up the steps fifty three minutes after the last message is sent. You turn on those LEDs and and move about your apartment like normal, kicking off your sneakers and dropping your bag by the door. You change out of your clothes and put on a worn in t-shirt that's two sizes too big for you, but underneath…
Pope can see the sheer thigh highs you wear and the black, lace edge of them. He can see those strappy garters attached to them, but nothing else. The straps disappear beneath your shirt, leaving him wanting for more.
You're teasing him, Pope realizes.
He watches with bated breath as you lay on the couch, getting comfortable with the throw pillow against the arm.
And then, for the first time, Andrew watches you touch yourself.
You start slowly, hands roaming over your body, on top of the fabric, massaging gently at the inside of your thighs.
His cock's always hard watching you, truth be told. But this…
His skin feels hot. His lungs feel tight.
Your fingers curl around the edge of your t-shirt, and you pull it over your head to discard it on the floor.
Andrew hasn't seen you wear this set before, not even on those sacred Sundays.
It's pretty. Matching black lace. The bra is low cut and pushes your breasts up your chest, the soft flesh swelling over the top. The waistband of the matching panties is decorated in shining silver gems, laying so perfectly against your hips that he feels dizzy just looking at it.
The prettiest package, just begging to be unraveled by his big, mean hands.
You dressed up for him.
You dressed up for him.
Your hands start to move again, palming your breasts, pulling the lace down until they spill out of the top. Your nipples are so pretty that his mouth waters. He wants to kiss them, to feel the shape of them under his tongue. He wants to kneel over top of you and jerk himself off until they're covered in his sticky white release.
You squeeze your breasts until your nipples form pretty little peaks, and then your hands slide lower. Over your abdomen, and your hips, and then your thighs. You bring them slowly back up, only to slide them over the lace fabric of your panties, right down the center of your cunt.
Andrew thinks he could die.
He could fucking die, just looking at you.
Carefully, you unbuckle the chrome latch of your garter. The left side first, and then the right quickly follows. You leave the lace belt on, but hook your thumbs around the bedazzled lace of your panties and pull them down your thighs painfully slowly.
Your knees fall apart.
Pope swallows hard.
He can see everything from here. The seam of your thighs that he's dreamt about. The pretty shape of your pussy. The wetness that's gathered between your folds, slick and shiny with arousal. With want.
For him. It's for him.
His cock throbs so hard it hurts.
Pope doesn't touch himself. He can't. Can he? All you asked of him was that he watched.
That's what you wanted.
But wouldn't it be better if he was there? Wouldn't it be better if he could touch you, if he could taste you, if he could fuck you?
All you'd have to do is let him in.
Your fingers stroke gently over your clit in small circles, and he watches in awe as your lips part and your spine bends.
He can't hear your moans but god does he wish he could. Thinks about putting a little microphone in your lampshade the next time he sneaks into your apartment.
Your fingers drift lower, over your center, and slowly press inside.
Pope wants it to be him so fucking bad.
If not his cock inside you then his fingers. They're bigger. Longer. Thicker. They'd please you more. Reach places your fingers can't.
Maybe his tongue. He'd drink you right from the fucking source and cum in his jeans, probably. But he'd make sure to find that sweet, velvety spot inside you first and he'd spell his full fucking name over it with a pointed tongue.
Silly girl. Don't you know what he could do for you? Don't you know what he could do to you?
Pope squeezes the bulge in his jeans to try and alleviate the pain of his lust.
You fuck yourself with your fingers, stuffing in one and then two and then three, stretching yourself on them, slick dripping down the seam of your cunt. Your back arches when your free hand finds your clit, and he knows you're close.
He knows he shouldn't, but he searches frantically for his phone anyway and sends another text message.
I want to hear you.
You pause only long enough to grab your phone off the coffee table, read the text, and lay your phone on the arm of the couch behind you.
Pope's phone buzzes in his hand.
You're calling him.
He answers on the first ring, and the sounds that greet him are so erotic it steals the breath from his lungs.
You sound so pretty. So sweet and feminine, everything he's imagined yet somehow so, so much more. He's sure you can hear his heavy breaths on the other end of the phone, but Pope can't find it in himself to care. Can't think of much else besides the way you whimper and the sight of your fingers stuffed inside you.
"Oh, god—"
His inhale is shaky.
"I'm gonna cum," you choke out, words hazy with your moans. "I'm so close, I'm so fucking—hmm. Yes. What's your name?"
He almost doesn't hear you, so lost in the sight before him. Immersed in the euphoria of it. But then he says, voice a low, uncertain whisper, "Andrew."
Your spine bends and the fingers on your clit slow. "Oh my god. Fuck, Andrew—I'm cumming, I'm—yes, yes—god."
His cock twitches and when he tries to soothe it with another tight squeeze, he sends himself careening off the precipice of release instead. His head falls back and his once heavy breaths get stuck in his lungs. Pope rubs himself over his jeans, making a sticky, hot mess in his boxers, generating what little friction he can.
He watches you come down in real time. Not his dreams, not his imagination. He watches it happen. Watches that fucked-out, hazy look cross your face. Watches the tension in your muscles melt away, wishing he could kiss the junction of your throat.
Pope wishes he could worship you. Wishes he could clean you up and put on that trashy reality show you like and hold you against his chest, comforting you while your brain comes back to earth.
Instead, you lean up. Grab your phone and press it to your ear, staring right at him through his wide open window.
He doesn't know what he expects you to say, but it's certainly not, "Have you been inside my apartment, Andrew?"
For a second, he thinks about lying. Because there's no way you know, right? Not for sure. It's not like you have cameras or anything (he knows, because he checked).
But he doesn't want to lie. Not to you.
"I…might have been. Once, yes."
"Did you steal my chapstick?"
"You have ten of them."
He hears your laugh for the first time, and the sound is like sunlight in his chest. "You took the best flavor."
"I'm…I'm sorry. I'll return it."
"Keep it. I already got a new one," you say. "Cost me five hundred dollars, though."
So, you know it was him who left the cash, too.
Smart, pretty girl.
He doesn't say anything, too afraid he'll say something stupid or awkward the way he usually does. He doesn't want to ruin this moment. This absolutely perfect moment.
You smile at him, kiss your palm, and blow it towards your window. "Goodnight, Andrew."
He feels his face heat. "Goodnight."
Pope rides the high of it for days.
Can't shake the sight of you open and bare for him. Can't stop thinking about the sound of your moans or the way you'd said his name in the peak of euphoria. He fucks his first to the thought of it more times than he can count.
And Andrew's never been a really sexual person. Not unless it's with someone he loves.
But is that what this is? Love?
You've never met. Not really, not properly. How could it be something so intense? You don't know him. You don't know who he is or what he does. You don't know how he's hurt and maimed and killed.
Would you be afraid, finding out? Would you run to the police if you knew? Would you recoil away from him with terror in your eyes?
All things left unsaid. All things that may, very well, never be said.
Pope feels so uncertain with all of this that he finds himself resorting to fucking google, even. Search history littered with questions and Reddit threads that never provide any real clarity.
Define love.
Define obsession.
How to know if you're in love?
How to ask a girl out?
How to get over a girl.
Define voyeur.
Define fetish.
How big of an age gap is too big?
Apartments for sale on the east coast.
Pink champagne candle.
Strawberries and cream chapstick bulk pack.
You text him again a week after your exhibitionistic display.
do u wanna like go out sometime?? been thinking about u a lot
He's at Smurf's when he reads the message.
Pope doesn't even realize he's smiling until Deran slides a beer across the counter at him and asks, "What's got you all happy today?"
And Pope just shakes his head. Schools his features back into neutrality and says, "Nothing. Just won a bet."
He can tell his brother doesn't believe him, not even for a second. But thankfully, Deran doesn't push any further. He lets the subject go, but the question stays stuck in Andrew's head for hours.
It takes him a while to decide on a response. It's honest, and…mostly true.
We shouldn't. I'm a lot older than you.
Your response is a single, painful letter.
k
He doesn't respond to try his hand at damage control, even though he wants to. It's probably better this way, he thinks. Better that there's some distance between you. Better that you hate him and see him as the creepy neighbor he is.
But that Saturday night, when you return home, it's not with your friends.
Pope watches from his window as you guide a man up the stairs and into your apartment.
He's tall. Dark haired, with bright eyes and white teeth and a good smile. Closer to your age. Handsome like a man allowed into your space should be.
You're fumbling a little with your apartment key and Pope watches as the man stands behind you and slides his hands down the back of your thighs.
Thighs he should be touching. Thighs he's watched for months. Thighs that spread for him, long before this fucking loser ever laid his eyes on you.
He tells himself he won't interfere.
You're your own woman. You deserve to feel good, even if it's with…someone else.
And Pope knows he's just going to have to get the fuck over it.
He did it to himself, really.
He should look away.
But he watches instead.
Watches the two of you fall onto the couch. Watches another man kiss down the column of your throat and squeeze the supple curve of your ass over your sequined dress.
Your eyes find his from across the courtyard, and Pope's jaw clenches.
Putting on another show for him. Filthy, filthy girl.
And you're just going to give it to some random man? Someone who doesn't know you like Pope does? Someone who doesn't know how you like to be touched?
He needs to look away. Close his own fucking blinds for once.
But he feels frozen. Knowing this time, you're watching him. Looking for him. Goading for a reaction.
Pope watches the slow ascent of the man's hand. Promises himself he won't interfere. He'll just watch to make sure you're safe, that's all.
But the moment that greedy hand disappears beneath your dress, Andrew's moving. Throwing open his door and slamming it closed behind him. He crosses the courtyard and takes the steps two at a time.
His fist against your apartment door is incessant. He doesn't stop, even when he hears the uttered, male voice ask, "Who is that?"
When the door opens, it's you who stands in front of him, chin tilted up as you stare at him, pupils flared wide.
The man you'd brought home with you hovers over your shoulder.
Pope doesn't even look at him. He stares only at you as he says, a little snarl in his voice, "Tell him to leave."
"Dude, what the fuck? Who is this guy?"
Your lips curl at the corners. A devilish little smile. "Okay," you say, nodding, your voice soft and pliant. You turn your head to look at the man who stands behind you. "Sorry, but you've gotta go."
"You're joking," he responds flatly. "You said I could—!"
Andrew reaches past you and takes him by the collar, pulling him out of your apartment and slamming him up against the paneled siding. "I ever see you in this apartment again, I'll fucking kill you. You understand me?"
"Jesus fucking—yeah, okay. Alright. Sorry."
Pope isn't joking. Doesn't say it to scare him off but rather as a warning.
He lets him go and watches him scramble down the stairs. He doesn't turn back to face you until the little tool you used for attention gets in his car and drives away.
And when he does finally turn back to you…Christ. Your eyes are half lidded and full of lust. Pope's close enough this time that there's no mistaking it.
He should be a gentleman. Should take you out first. Bring you home and kiss you on your doorstep and leave you untouched.
He knows he should.
What he does instead is curl his hand around the back of your neck and pull you to him. He leans down, mouth hovering over yours, breathing in your panicky exhales. "This what you want?"
Your grin is immediate and undeniable. You nod and breathe out the word, "Please."
Andrew kisses you hard, crowding you back into your apartment. He kicks the door closed behind him and slides his tongue into your mouth, tasting you and groaning at the sweetness. There's mint and strawberry and you, his favorite flavor.
He feels drunk on it. On the taste of your tongue, the glide of your wet lips over his, the way your hands scramble and tug desperately at his belt.
"Fuck," he sighs, pulling back just enough to see you. "Open your mouth, baby. Wide. And stick out your tongue."
The way you immediately obey has his cock twitching. Good girl. So fucking good for him when he gives you exactly what you need.
Andrew licks the flat of your tongue once, delighting in the way you whimper in response, before bringing his hand to your mouth. He slides two fingers behind your teeth and orders, "Suck."
You do, lips closing tight around the digits, wet tongue swirling over his thick knuckles. He pushes them further down your throat, your eyes locked on his as he makes you choke on them.
"So fucking pretty," he tells you. "You always look so pretty."
Andrew pulls the straps of your mini dress over your shoulders, roughly tugging the fabric over your chest down to expose your breasts.
You're wearing the same lace bra you'd worn when you dressed up for him, he realizes. He can see the peaks of your nipples through the semi-sheer fabric, and leans down to lock his lips around the left one over the lace.
The fabric is rough beneath his tongue, a stark contrast to the softness of your skin. He sucks hard, spreading the wetness of his saliva over the lace. You push your dress further down your waist and over your hips.
Andrew slides his fingers out of your mouth, sticky and dripping with your spit. He brings them to his own lips instead and sucks them clean, watching your breath hitch and your eyes grow impossibly more hazy.
He lowers himself to his knees before you and his slick fingers work quickly at the straps of your heels, unbuckling them to free your pretty, white-painted toes.
Your hands find his shoulders for balance. "I like that you watch me," you tell him. "I think about it sometimes and it makes me so…god, Andrew. It gets me so wet."
He looks up at you from his knees, big brown eyes glassy and full of adoration. "Good," he says. "'Cause I'm gonna watch you a little closer tonight."
That pretty smile finds its way to your face again.
Andrew presses a sweet, chaste kiss to the apex of your thighs. Over your panties, right where he knows your clit lies beneath. He then stands to his feet, towering over you now without the added height of your heels, and presses you forward.
You take a careful step back, nearly losing your balance.
Andrew grins, taking another step, crowding you back towards your bedroom. He doesn't stop until the back of your knees hit the edge of your mattress.
You stumble backwards, falling into the plush sheets that he's all too familiar with. Lying on your back, propped up by your elbows, you stare up at him with wide eyes and he's reminded of a timid little animal caught in the trap of a predator.
Don't you know how dangerous he could be?
You don't look afraid. You actually look…eager.
Pope stands tall at the edge of your mattress. "Take off your clothes."
You do. Unclasping your bra first, tossing the fabric into the already existing mess on the floor. And then your panties follow, thumbs hooking around the fabric to drag it down your legs.
Andrew reaches around and fists the collar of his shirt, tugging it over his head. He feels warm all over, watching you greedily drink up the sight of him. He thinks he'd feel a little nervous, in any other setting. If it were anyone but you.
His sweet, filthy girl.
Andrew reaches into the half-open drawer of your nightstand, searching until he finds your vibrator again.
Your brows furrow as you watch him find it with practiced ease. "You went through my underwear drawer, too?"
"Did more than that," he admits.
You inhale like you're going to speak again, but the words melt to nothing when he tosses the small toy onto the bed beside you.
"Use it," Pope orders.
"What?"
He crawls onto the mattress between your legs, spreading them wide, laying your calves on either side of his hips. "Let me watch you."
There's a moment of hesitation, but you don't look nervous. Only…curious.
You pick up the vibrator and slide the pink silicone through your folds, spreading your arousal before you press the power button. You circle your clit with the tip of it a few times, teasing yourself.
When you turn the toy on, he can feel the vibration against his hands that grip your thighs. You let out a syrupy moan and turn the intensity higher, drawing tight circles around your pretty clit.
He watches you, eyes locked on the pink silicone between your legs. He watches your entrance flutter, tightening around nothing, begging to be filled. "Your pussy is so pretty," he mutters. "Do you know that?"
Your only response is a breathy whimper. You click the intensity up again, putting it on the highest setting, and Pope sighs when your legs begin to shake around him.
He wants to watch you make yourself cum. Wants another scene to fuck his fist to in the shower or in his bed or in his truck.
But he's here. Finally, finally here, in your bed, with you, and he can't help himself.
Pope grips your hips hard and pulls you closer, tilting your hips up into his lap. The vibrator falls from your hand at the sudden movement, but he's quick to return it to you. "Keep going."
You press the silicone back to your clit, and Andrew spreads you open with gentle thumbs. He gathers the spit in his mouth and lets it drip from his lips and onto the seam of your cunt.
And then he's sliding his middle finger inside of your entrance, curling it upwards, searching for that sweet spot that makes you writhe.
It doesn't take long. He's watched you. He knows just what you like and what angle to hit. And the second the tip of his finger presses hard against it, you fist your free hand in the sheets and curses fall from your sweet mouth.
Pope slides another thick finger inside, watching the way you squirm, feeling the walls of your cunt flutter around the swell of his knuckles.
"I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna—oh, fuck. Feels so good, feels so fucking—"
A long, throaty moan leaves your mouth, and he feels the warmth of your release pool in his palm. You're so slick that each wet thrust of his fingers echoes against the walls of your room.
He doesn't stop until you're twitching. Until you click the vibrator off and shove it away from you. And even then, he still gives a few, slow curls of his fingers inside of you. Not touching with intent, just…feeling. Memorizing.
Once you catch your breath, you lean up enough to find his eyes again. You say timidly, shyly, "I want…I want to feel you, Andrew. I want you inside me. Do you…do you want to fuck me?"
It's the most asinine question he's ever been asked in his fucking life. Does he want to fuck you?
He's thought of nothing else for months. Every night when he fights for sleep, it's the thought of you under him that puts him to bed.
It's such an impractical concern from his point of view that he laughs. Actually laughs, for the first time in years. "Oh, baby."
Pope takes your hands in his. He presses one to his chest, right over his heart, and the other against the hardness in his jeans.
"I have never wanted another woman as bad as I want you," he says truthfully. "But I…you…you deserve better than this. Better than me. You understand that, don't you?"
You shake your head. "You don't know me, Andrew. Not really. You don't know if—"
"No, no. I do. I know you're the kind of friend who would give the shirt off their back. The kind of girl who'd let her phone get cut off before asking for help. The kind of girl who gets up every morning and just…tries. Every day. And you fucking…you smile about it. You're good. You're so fucking good and I…"
He stops.
Remembers the last time he loved someone like this and how he'd made a stupid confession he should've taken to his grave and how it'd fucked him completely.
"You're what, Andrew?"
Pope swallows. "I'm...I'm a bad man. I've hurt people. I will…hurt people, I—" His voice cracks. He lowers his eyes, trying to turn away, unable to find the strength to face you.
But you take his jaw in your gentle hands and force him to look at you. Sweet, angel of a girl that you are. And then you say without a waver to be found in your voice, "I like who you are. Do you think I gave the man who watches me through my window my phone number because I want some guy I could match with on Tinder?"
He tries to slow the rapid pounding of his heart. He wonders if love is supposed to be like this. To feel like this. All consuming and terrifying and devastatingly hopeful above all.
You shake your head and tuck your legs beneath you, sitting up on your knees. He sits stone still as you lean forward and kiss his cheek, whispering against his ear, "I've been watching you, too, Andrew Cody."
Something shifts inside of him as you say it. Uttering his last name that he'd never given you, that isn't even on his lease because this is a fake apartment under a fake name to launder the money they steal.
Oh—sweet, smart girl. Smarter than he thought.
How silly of him to ever doubt you.
There's a newfound wildness in your eyes when they meet his again. An unveiling. Like he's seeing you for who you truly are for the first time.
And you're…god. So fucking beautiful.
And, yeah. Pope thinks he's been right this whole fucking time.
He's weird and wrong and sickly obsessed.
But you are, too.
Andrew takes you by the back of the neck and kisses you hard, desperate to taste you, to close what little physical space remains between your body and his. He pushes you back against the mattress and follows you down.
Your hands find his belt buckle before he does, and he stares down at you as your deft fingers pry the leather open and unbutton his jeans. He helps you push the denim down his legs until his cock springs free, heavy and leaking. Wanting for you, twitching as you take it carefully in your hand.
A groan reverberates at the back of his mouth. Your hands are so soft. Perfect and pliant. One day, he swears he'll show you how he likes to be touched. He'll let you sit in his lap and watch him stroke his cock for you.
But for now, he lets you touch him slowly. Experimental. Feeling the heavy weight of him in your palm. You spit on your fingertips and spread your saliva over his sensitive tip, flushed red and pulsing beneath your touch.
You lean back and guide him between your thighs, sliding the head of his cock through your syrupy folds and over your clit.
The moment you line him up at your entrance, Pope eases inside and you let out the sweetest fucking sigh he's ever heard in his entire life. Sweet and soft and so, so satisfied.
It's so beautiful. You're so beautiful. And you feel warm and heavenly and wet around him. He pulls out slowly, almost all the way, and then drives his cock back into your cunt.
You squeal and those sharp, acrylic nails dig into his spine. But your legs circle his hips, and so Pope does it again.
He fucks you hard. Claiming that spot at the back of your cunt, pressed right up against your cervix. He rolls his hips and presses his mouth to yours, swallowing up those desperate, carnal sounds he pulls out of our chest.
Sweet girl. Sweet fucking girl. He reaches between you and circles your clit. "My girl now," he says, words spoken against your lips. "You'll never need anyone else, baby. No one but me."
You nod, the velvety walls of your pussy squeezing around the hard length of his cock.
Andrew puts his whole weight on top of you, grinding himself between your thighs, giving you everything he has. Everything he is.
"I'm yours," you choke out. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—"
It becomes a mantra. One that feeds his desire, in perfect sync with the rhythm of his thrusts. He watches your arousal begin to crest, nearing the summit, the muscles in your thighs twitching. "Look at me, baby," he says. "Tell me you love me when I make you cum."
You're so lost in it, head all spacey, that your eyes remain closed until he takes your jaw in a firm grip.
There are pretty tears in your eyes when you open them, but that smile on your face is present, too. He feels you pulse around him and your breath gets all shallow and then—
"I love you, Andrew, I fucking—oh my god please, please—I love you."
The words are music to his ears, tingling down his spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He thought the sound of his name in your mouth was beautiful but this…fuck. He could die.
Pope thinks he would. For you, he would.
He fucks you through it. Tastes your moans and says, "Yeah, that's it. Give it to me. Look so pretty when you cum for me."
He doesn't let his pace falter until your muscles loosen, until your nails stroke gently over his spin instead of leaving marks.
You pepper sweet kisses over his jaw, tongue sliding up the shell of his ear. "I want you to cum inside me," you tell him.
He's been fighting it the whole time, trying desperately not to blow his load before he'd at least gotten you there first.
But when you say that?
When you say, "Please, Andrew. Want you to give it to me. Want you to fill me up with your cum. Please. I need it."
He thinks about telling you that you don't have to beg. Not him, not for anything (especially this). But you just sound so pretty, begging for his cum, that he can't bring himself to do it.
So, he gives you what you want instead. Fucks his cum into you, groaning low in your ear, cock pulsing inside you. You feel so good wrapped around him it's euphoric. Otherworldly.
Your pussy grips tight, milking him dry, taking every last drop (he knows you're on birth control. Don't you know the women's clinic downtown keeps a spare key beneath the plant in front of their door?).
Andrew is careful when he slides out of you. And he wastes no time before kicking his jeans the rest of the way off and pulling you against his chest.
He pulls the blanket up around your shoulders and presses a kiss to your hairline. His voice wavers a little as he says, "Sorry if I…if I was a little rough."
You shake your head, pressing your nose to the divot between his pectorals. "It was perfect," you murmur against his skin.
Silence settles between you. Comfortable and easy, the sound of your breathing in perfect synchronization.
After some time you say, "I meant it, you know. Wouldn't have said it if I didn't. I really think I might be in love with you, Andrew. Is that…crazy?"
Yes, he wants to say.
But he feels it, too.
So instead he says, "You know, I don't…I don't have much experience with that sorta thing. Don't really know how to…to navigate it, I guess. But, uhm…yeah. Me, too."
He feels that smile of yours against his chest.
Andrew knows that this dynamic the two of you have created is weird.
Summary: Would it be enough if he could never give you peace?
WC: 7K
Tags: Animal Shelter Volunteer Pope, One Shot, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fear of Being Loved, Romantic Angst with Happy Ending, Inspired by peace by Taylor Swift
Andrew learned the names of the difficult dogs first.
Not the puppies. Not the friendly ones that bounced against kennel doors with wagging tails and hopeful eyes. Not the dogs volunteers fought over during walks.
The difficult ones.
The biters. The barkers. The ones who flattened themselves into corners and growled at anyone who got too close.
You noticed that before you noticed anything else.
Andrew Cody had been volunteering at the shelter for nearly three weeks before either of you exchanged more than ten words. Every Tuesday. Every Thursday. Two o’clock sharp.
He’d sign his name on the volunteer sheet, grab a bucket and cleaning supplies, and disappear into the kennel rows. No small talk. No introductions. No standing around the coffee station discussing weekend plans like the other volunteers.
Just work.
At first, you barely paid attention to him.
The shelter always had volunteers coming and going. College students looking for hours. Retirees looking for purpose. People who stayed a month and disappeared. You assumed Andrew would be the same. Then one afternoon, a German shepherd named Tank proved you wrong.
Tank had been returned three times. The first family said he was too anxious. The second said he was destructive. The third brought him back after he snapped at their teenage son. By the time Tank arrived at your shelter, he had a bright red warning sticker on his kennel file and a reputation that followed him into every room.
Nobody liked walking him. Nobody volunteered for his kennel. Nobody expected much from him. Including Tank.
You were carrying fresh water bowls down the kennel row when barking erupted from the far end. Loud. Aggressive. The kind that made visitors jump. Tank. Again.
A new volunteer, a teenager completing community service hours, stood frozen outside the kennel door.
“He’s gonna bite me,” the kid said.
“You don’t have to take him,” you replied.
The teenager looked relieved.
Tank kept barking. Throwing himself against the chain-link door. You were already reaching for the clipboard to mark him as skipped when another voice spoke.
“I’ll take him.”
You looked up. Andrew stood a few feet away, holding a leash.
The teenager handed it over immediately.
“You sure?” you asked.
Andrew nodded once. That was it. No bravado. No speech. Just a nod.
You expected a struggle. Expected barking. Expected chaos. Instead, Andrew crouched outside the kennel. Not opening the door. Not reaching inside. Just sitting.
Tank barked himself hoarse for nearly five minutes. Andrew waited. The dog barked. Andrew waited. The dog paced. Andrew waited. Finally, Tank stopped. Not because he’d calmed down. Because he got tired. For the first time, silence settled between them.
Andrew looked at him. Tank looked back.
And then Andrew said, “Yeah.”
Nothing else. Just that. Yeah.
Like Tank had told him something. Like he’d understood it. You frowned. The dog blinked. Andrew held out the leash. Another minute passed. Then another. Eventually, Tank stepped forward. Not much. Just enough.
Andrew clipped the leash on. No struggle. No drama. No barking. Then he stood and walked away with eighty pounds of formerly impossible German shepherd trotting quietly beside him.
You stared after them.
“What the hell?” muttered another volunteer.
You didn’t have an answer. Neither did Tank. But after that day, Andrew became harder to ignore.
You started noticing things. The way he always arrived early. The way broken things somehow stopped being broken after he touched them. The way he remembered every dog’s name after hearing it once. The way frightened animals followed him around the yard like he carried some invisible signal only they could hear.
Mostly, though, you noticed the patience.
Everybody talked about patience like it was kindness. With Andrew, it felt different. It felt like recognition. Like he understood fear because he’d lived with it long enough to recognize it in someone else. Or something else.
One Thursday afternoon, that understanding got him bitten. Hard.
You were restocking food bins when shouting erupted near the intake kennels. Not panicked shouting. Surprised shouting. You rounded the corner to find three volunteers standing around Daisy’s kennel. Daisy had arrived that morning. Three-legged pit bull. Recently rescued. Terrified of everyone. Especially men.
Andrew stood outside the kennel holding a leash. Blood ran down the back of his hand. A bite. Not severe. But enough.
“Oh my God,” one volunteer said.
“Jesus—”
“Get the first-aid kit.”
The room filled with voices. Questions. Concern. Noise. Andrew ignored all of it. His eyes remained fixed on Daisy.
The dog had retreated to the far corner of the kennel. Trembling. Ears pinned back. Terrified. Not of what she’d done. Of what might happen next.
Andrew noticed immediately. “Don’t.”
The word cut through the room. Everyone stopped.
“Don’t what?” asked a volunteer.
Andrew nodded toward Daisy. “Don’t yell at her.”
Nobody had been. But somehow the entire room understood what he meant. Don’t be angry. Don’t punish her. Don’t make this worse.
Blood dripped from his hand onto the concrete. Andrew barely looked at it.
“She’s scared.” His voice softened. Directed entirely at the dog. “That’s all.”
The kennel fell quiet.
You looked at Daisy. Then at Andrew. Then back again. For a strange moment, neither of them seemed dangerous. Just frightened. And somehow that realization stayed with you long after the bite healed.
—
The bite should have healed quickly. It probably did. The mark disappeared from the back of Andrew’s hand within a couple of weeks. The impression it left behind lasted much longer.
After that day, you started paying attention. Not intentionally. At least that’s what you told yourself. You weren’t watching for him when you arrived each morning. You weren’t checking the volunteer sheet to see if his name was signed in. You weren’t noticing when the parking space near the maintenance shed was empty.
Except you were. A little. Enough that on Tuesdays and Thursdays, your eyes automatically drifted toward the front desk around two o’clock. Enough that you noticed if he was late. Enough that you knew he was never late.
The shelter ran on routines. Feeding schedules. Medication charts. Walking rotations. People were harder. Volunteers came and went. Staff burned out. Life happened.
Andrew stayed.
Every Tuesday. Every Thursday. Two o’clock sharp. Like clockwork. And somehow, things worked better when he was there.
You’d spend twenty minutes fighting with a jammed kennel latch. Turn around to grab a tool. Turn back. And it would be fixed. A leaking faucet that maintenance hadn’t gotten to yet would suddenly stop dripping. A broken gate would swing smoothly again. A stubborn printer would start working after Andrew wandered past it.
Half the time you never even saw him do it. You’d just notice the problem had disappeared. He never mentioned it. Never waited for thanks. He just noticed things and fixed them, like it was as natural as breathing.
One afternoon, nearly two months after the bite incident, you found him sitting on the floor in the storage room. At first, you thought he was hurt. The sight was strange enough to stop you in the doorway. Andrew sat cross-legged beside a stack of donated blankets, staring at something in his lap.
You stepped closer. Then laughed. A tiny gray kitten glared back at you. The kitten couldn’t have been more than six weeks old. One ear flopped sideways. Its eyes were too big for its face. Its entire body fit comfortably in Andrew’s hands. And it looked furious about it.
“What are you doing?”
Andrew looked up. Then down at the kitten. Then back at you.
“He doesn’t like anybody.”
The kitten immediately hissed.
You snorted. “Clearly.”
Andrew nodded.
The kitten hissed again.
“He’s been doing that for twenty minutes.”
“Why are you sitting here with him?”
Another shrug. Like the answer was obvious.
“Nobody else would.”
The kitten attempted to climb onto his shoulder. Failed spectacularly. Slid into his lap. Andrew steadied him with one careful hand. You felt something strange settle in your chest. Not romance. Just curiosity. Because most people would have laughed. Most people would have walked away. Andrew had apparently devoted half an hour of his afternoon to keeping an angry kitten company.
“You know he hates you, right?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Yeah.”
The kitten hissed again.
Andrew nodded toward him. “See?”
You laughed.
This time Andrew actually smiled. Small. Brief. Gone almost immediately. But real. It was the first genuine smile you’d seen from him. For some reason, it felt like discovering a secret.
—
The first real conversation happened because of rain.
Southern California rarely got enough of it to cause problems. When it did, everything stopped functioning properly. The shelter parking lot flooded. The roof leaked near the laundry room. Half the volunteers called out. By six o’clock, only three people remained. You. Andrew. And Ruth. Ruth left at six-thirty.
The storm got worse. You were balancing paperwork, medication records, and tomorrow’s intake forms when the lights flickered.
“Don’t,” you said.
Andrew stood on a ladder near the electrical panel.
“What?”
“The lights.”
The lights flickered again. You pointed your pen at the ceiling.
“If the power goes out, that’s fate telling me the paperwork can wait until tomorrow.”
Andrew looked down from the ladder. “No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“No chance.”
You narrowed your eyes.
He went back to the electrical panel. “You’d stay.”
“I absolutely would not.”
“You would.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“You always finish the paperwork.”
“I could leave it.”
“You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
Andrew glanced down at the clipboard in your arms. “You brought two pens.”
You looked at the pens clipped to the top of the clipboard. Then back at him. “One could die.”
His mouth twitched. “There’s another one behind your ear.”
You froze. Then slowly reached up. Your fingers brushed the pen tucked there.
Andrew turned back to the panel like knowing you that well meant nothing.
You laughed hard enough to nearly drop your clipboard. The sound surprised both of you. Because Andrew immediately looked away. Not uncomfortable. Just… startled. Like he wasn’t used to being the reason someone laughed.
The realization made your chest ache unexpectedly.
—
The friendship happened so slowly neither of you noticed it.
One day he was a volunteer. Then he was Andrew. Then he was somehow part of your routine.
You started saving him coffee if you stopped before work. He always pretended he didn’t expect it. The lie got less convincing every week.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“You say that every time.”
“I mean it every time.”
“You drank half of it before I sat down.”
He paused. “That’s unrelated.”
You laughed.
Andrew looked pleased with himself. Not enough to smile. But close. Very close.
The more time you spent around him, the more you noticed other things too. Not just what he fixed. What he remembered.
Andrew remembered everything.
Which dogs hated thunder. Which ones needed their bowls lifted higher. Which volunteers forgot to latch the side gate. Which brand of creamer you pretended not to care about.
Andrew collected details quietly. And somehow, without meaning to, you started wanting to be one of them.
—
The first time he walked you to your car, you didn’t think much of it.
The shelter closed late. You grabbed your keys. Andrew happened to be heading outside too. The parking lot was mostly empty.
You chatted about a dog adoption event scheduled for the weekend. Normal conversation. Nothing special.
At your car, you unlocked the door. Andrew stopped behind you, hands in his pockets.
“You don’t have to wait.”
“I know.”
“You’re waiting.”
“Yeah.”
You turned, confused. “For what?”
His gaze moved to the empty parking lot, then back to you. “For you to be okay.”
You blinked.
Andrew nodded. Then turned and walked toward his truck.
You stood there staring after him. Nobody had ever made your safety sound so matter-of-fact.
The next week, it happened again. And the week after that. Eventually you realized he wasn’t walking himself to the parking lot. He was walking you.
Not making a big deal out of it. Not asking permission. Not expecting thanks. Just making sure you got there safely. Like he’d decided you mattered.
And once Andrew Cody decided something mattered, he tended to stick with it.
—
The first time you saw him angry, it wasn’t directed at you.
A woman stormed into the shelter carrying a small terrier mix. She was already yelling before she reached the desk. Complaining about the dog. Complaining about the shelter. Complaining about how nobody wanted to help her.
Every answer you gave seemed to make her louder.
You tried to explain the surrender process. Tried to stay polite. Tried to de-escalate. Nothing worked.
The woman leaned across the counter. Voice rising. Finger pointed directly at your face. For a moment you weren’t sure what to do.
Then the room went quiet.
Not because she stopped. Because Andrew had appeared beside you. You hadn’t even seen him walk over. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t threaten her. Didn’t posture.
He simply looked at her. And said, very calmly, “You’re done yelling at her.”
The woman froze. The entire room froze. Andrew wasn’t loud. That somehow made it worse.
There was something in his expression. Something absolute. The kind of certainty that made people rethink their decisions.
The woman sputtered another complaint.
Andrew didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “Either surrender the dog respectfully or leave.”
Silence. A long silence. Then the woman sat down. Just like that. The fight drained out of her.
You stared.
Andrew turned back toward you. Asked if you were okay. Then immediately started helping with paperwork as though nothing unusual had happened.
No victory lap. No smugness. No acknowledgment that he’d just shut down a situation everyone else had been struggling with for ten minutes.
That was the first time you started understanding the rumors.
Because there were rumors. You’d heard them in pieces. Whispers from longtime volunteers. Comments that stopped when you walked into a room.
You hadn’t grown up here. Hadn’t lived in the area long enough to know the history everyone else seemed to share. All you knew was that Andrew Cody had a past. People talked about his family in lowered voices. There were stories. Some true. Some exaggerated. Most of them impossible to piece together.
But standing beside him that day, watching an angry stranger back down without another word, you understood why those stories survived.
Not because he was cruel. Not because he was violent. Because there was something undeniably dangerous beneath the surface. Something controlled. Something restrained. Something that chose, every single day, not to be what people expected.
Later that same week, a man arrived looking to surrender a dog.
An elderly lab mix. Gray around the muzzle. Arthritis in both hips.
The owner complained about vet bills the entire intake process. Complained about medication costs. Complained about the dog’s accidents. Complained about how much work he was.
The dog sat quietly beside him. Tail wagging. Still trying to be good.
You saw Andrew standing across the room. Silent. Still. Listening.
The owner finally left. The dog watched the door close behind him. Waited. Waited some more. Then slowly sat down. The room fell quiet. Andrew walked over. Knelt beside the dog. Rested one hand against his neck.
The dog leaned immediately into the contact. Trusting. Hopeful. Heartbroken.
Andrew’s jaw tightened. You saw it. Not the sharp, controlled anger from earlier. Something quieter this time. Older. Grief, maybe. Or recognition.
Then the old lab rested his head in Andrew’s lap. And just like that, the anger disappeared. Gone beneath grief. Beneath tenderness. Beneath something so heartbreakingly gentle it made your throat tighten.
That was the day you started wondering if the world had ever bothered to learn the difference. Between what Andrew was capable of and who he chose to be.
—
The first text arrived on a Sunday.
Your phone buzzed while you were grocery shopping. A picture message. No words. Just an image.
Daisy. Covered in mud. Holding a tennis ball twice the size of her head.
You laughed immediately.
A second message appeared.
Andrew: Found contraband.
You stared at the screen. Then at the grocery store aisle. Then back at the screen.
Before you could stop yourself, you smiled.
You typed back before you could think better of it.
You: Armed and dangerous.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Then Andrew replied:
Andrew: Very.
You laughed alone in the grocery aisle.
And somehow, without either of you noticing when it happened, Andrew Cody had become someone you were always willing to answer.
—
The texts did not become constant.
They became familiar. That was different. A photo from Andrew every now and then. Daisy muddy. Tank asleep against the fence. The old lab stealing treats with no remorse.
A reply from you. A dry answer from him. Sometimes nothing for hours. Sometimes nothing until the next day, when he’d walk into the shelter and continue the conversation like time had simply paused between you.
It should have been awkward. It wasn’t. By then, you had learned that Andrew did not move through closeness the way other people did.
He did not rush toward it. He circled it. Tested it. Stepped close enough to feel the warmth, then back again before it could burn him.
So you let him. You didn’t chase. You didn’t push. You only stayed steady enough that, eventually, he started trusting the space beside you.
The first time he touched you on purpose, it was barely anything.
You were both in the yard after closing, trying to convince Daisy to come inside. She had decided the patch of dirt beneath the eucalyptus tree belonged to her now and no amount of calling, bribing, or dignity seemed likely to change her mind.
“She’s ignoring us,” you said.
Andrew stood beside you, leash in hand. “She’s ignoring you.”
You looked at him. “She’s ignoring both of us.”
“No.”
“Andrew.”
“She looked at me.”
“She looked at you because you have turkey in your pocket.”
His eyes flicked to yours. “That counts.”
You laughed.
Daisy, unimpressed by your laughter, rolled onto her side in the dirt.
You sighed and stepped forward. “Fine. I’ll get her.”
“She’ll run.”
“She has three legs.”
“She’s fast.”
“She is not faster than me.”
Andrew looked at you for a long second.
Then, dryly, “She might be.”
You turned to glare at him, and your foot slipped in the damp grass. Not badly. Not enough to fall. But enough that his hand closed around your elbow before you could catch yourself.
Quick.
Firm.
Warm.
You froze.
So did he.
His fingers stayed there for one second longer than necessary. Then two.
Daisy barked once from under the tree, like she had opinions about the tension.
Andrew let go first. “Careful,” he said. His voice had gone low.
You looked at the place his hand had been. Then at him.
“I thought I was slower than the dog.”
His mouth twitched. “You are.”
But he didn’t move away. Neither did you. And for the first time, the silence between you felt less like comfort and more like something waiting to happen.
—
After that, touching became dangerous.
Not because either of you did much of it. Because you didn’t. Because every small contact started to matter more than it should.
His shoulder brushing yours in the storage room. Your fingers grazing when you passed him a leash.
His hand at the small of your back once, guiding you around a puddle near the intake gate before he seemed to realize what he’d done and dropped it immediately.
You never called attention to it. Neither did he. But something changed.
Andrew started standing closer. You started letting him.
On slow evenings, after the dogs were fed and the last volunteers had gone home, the two of you sat outside on the bench near the exercise yard.
Not every night. Never planned. It happened naturally, which somehow made it more intimate.
You’d finish locking up. Andrew would still be there, wiping down tools or checking the back gate. You’d sit for a minute because the night air felt good after hours of kennel noise. He’d sit too.
At first with a careful distance between you. Then less. Then none at all.
One night, your knees touched. Neither of you moved. The yard was quiet except for Tank pacing along the fence, ears perked toward the street.
Andrew sat with his elbows on his thighs, hands loose between his knees.
“You okay?” you asked.
He glanced over. “Yeah.”
“You got quiet.”
“I’m always quiet.”
“Quieter.”
He considered that. Then looked back toward the yard.
“Didn’t know if I should move.”
Your heart gave a soft, painful twist. You looked down. Your knee was still pressed against his.
“Do you want to?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately. Too honest to be casual.
Andrew’s jaw tightened after he said it, like he wished he could drag the word back and inspect it before handing it to you.
You kept your voice gentle. “Then don’t.”
He didn’t.
Andrew looked back toward the yard. Tank had finally settled near the fence. For a long moment neither of you spoke. But the tension didn’t leave.
The two of you sat like that for twenty minutes. Knees touching. Hands separate. Neither of you brave enough to reach further. Neither of you wanting to leave.
—
The first time you went somewhere together that had nothing to do with the shelter, Andrew looked like he expected to be caught doing something wrong.
It was your idea. Technically. The shelter had closed early for fumigation, and you’d both ended up standing beside your cars in broad daylight with nowhere you were required to be.
It felt strange. Seeing him outside the routine. No kennels. No barking. No clipboard. Just Andrew in the parking lot with his keys in his hand and uncertainty written all over him.
You could have said goodnight. He probably expected you to.
Instead you said, “Have you eaten?”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “No.”
“Do you want to?”
“With you?”
The question came out so bluntly that you almost smiled.
You didn’t, because he looked like the answer mattered more than he wanted it to.
“Yes,” you said. “With me.”
Andrew looked toward the road. Then back at you.
“Okay.”
You picked a diner ten minutes away because it was quiet and familiar and unlikely to ask anything from either of you.
Andrew sat across from you in the booth, shoulders tight, hands wrapped around a glass of water he hadn’t touched.
“You don’t have to look so suspicious,” you said.
“I don’t.”
You smiled.
He looked at you then. Really looked. And something in his face shifted. Not a smile. Something softer. Like he was pleased he’d made you do that.
The waitress came by. You ordered first. Andrew ordered second, short and simple.
When she left, he looked relieved.
“You okay?” you asked.
He nodded. Then, after a moment, shook his head.
“I don’t do this much.”
“Eat?”
His mouth twitched. “Go places.”
“With people?”
“Yeah.”
You leaned your arms on the table. “That’s okay.”
He studied you for a long second. “Is it?”
The question had weight under it. Too much weight for pancakes and bad diner coffee.
You answered carefully. “Yes.”
His thumb moved once against the side of the glass.
“I don’t always know what I’m supposed to do.”
“You don’t have to perform dinner correctly, Andrew.”
He looked down. “People notice.”
“People notice a lot of things.”
“I notice when they notice.”
That hurt. Quietly. You imagined him moving through the world collecting every glance, every pause, every shift in tone. Filing them away as proof.
You softened your voice. “I’ll tell you if something matters.”
His eyes lifted. “What?”
“If you say something that hurts me, I’ll tell you. If I need something, I’ll tell you. If I’m uncomfortable, I’ll tell you.”
He stared at you.
You shrugged. “I’m not going to make you guess.”
For a moment, he didn’t speak. Then his shoulders lowered by maybe half an inch. Not much. Enough.
“Okay,” he said.
And this time, okay sounded like relief.
—
Dinner became another thing neither of you named.
Not dating. Not officially. Just sometimes, after late shifts or early closings, you ended up somewhere together. A diner. A taco stand. The beach parking lot with takeout balanced between you on the hood of his truck.
You learned that Andrew ate slowly unless he was nervous. That he hated cilantro but would forget to ask for no cilantro unless you reminded him. That he always sat facing the door. That he noticed exits without seeming to. That he didn’t like crowded places, but tolerated them longer when you sat beside him instead of across from him.
He learned things about you too. How you picked onions off everything but pretended you weren’t picky. How you got quiet when you were tired. How you always said “I’m fine” too quickly when you weren’t. How you hated asking for help but accepted it better if he didn’t make a production out of offering.
The first time his hand found yours, you were sitting in his truck after dinner, watching the ocean move black and silver under the moon.
Neither of you had meant to stay that long. The food was gone. The windows were fogged slightly at the edges. The radio was on low, more static than song. Your hand rested on the seat between you. So did his.
Close enough that you could feel the warmth of him. For a long time, neither of you moved. Then his pinky brushed yours. Accidentally. Maybe.
You turned your hand over. Open. Waiting.
Andrew stared at it.
“You don’t have to,” you said.
“I know.” His voice was rough.
A moment passed. Then his hand slid into yours. Slowly. Carefully. Like there were rules he didn’t know and he was terrified of breaking them.
His palm was warm. Calloused. His grip loose at first. Testing. When your fingers curled around his, he inhaled quietly. Not sharply. Just enough for you to hear.
You looked over.
His eyes stayed fixed on the windshield.
“You okay?”
He nodded.
Then, after a second, “Yeah.”
You believed him.
So you looked back at the ocean and let him hold your hand until his grip finally stopped feeling like a question.
—
The first kiss almost happened three weeks before it actually did.
Rain again. Because apparently the universe had a sense of humor.
You had both gotten caught in it while bringing dogs in from the yard, and by the time the last kennel was latched, your shirt clung damply to your skin and Andrew’s hair was wet enough to drip onto the concrete.
You were laughing. He wasn’t. Not exactly. But he was watching you laugh. That had become its own kind of tenderness.
Andrew watched joy like it was something he did not fully understand but wanted to learn.
“You’re soaked,” he said.
“So are you.”
“You should change.”
“I don’t keep spare clothes here.”
He looked away. Then back.
“I have a hoodie in my truck.”
Something about the offer made the air shift. Maybe it was the way he said it. Quiet. Careful. Like he knew a hoodie was not just a hoodie if it came from him.
“Okay,” you said.
He brought it to you without meeting your eyes. Dark gray. Worn soft. Too big. Still warm from the cab of his truck.
You slipped it on in the staff bathroom, then came back out with the sleeves covering half your hands.
Andrew looked at you. Stopped. The expression on his face made your breath catch. Not hunger. Not exactly. Something more vulnerable. Like seeing you in something of his had touched a place in him he had not expected anyone to reach.
“What?” you asked softly.
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Andrew.”
His eyes moved to the sleeves. Then to your face.
“It looks…” He stopped.
You waited.
He swallowed. “Good.”
That one word landed harder than it should have. You stepped closer. Not much. Just enough.
His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then lifted quickly, almost guilty.
You could have kissed him then. You wanted to. God, you wanted to. Instead, you touched his wrist. A small mercy. A smaller promise.
“Thank you.”
His fingers flexed once under yours.
“Yeah.”
The kiss waited. Neither of you was ready. Not yet.
—
After the hoodie, something shifted.
Not between you. Inside Andrew.
At first, it was subtle. The sort of thing you could explain away if you wanted to. He left a little sooner after closing. Stopped lingering outside your car. Answered questions with less than before.
Not cold. Never cold. Just measured. And somehow that felt worse.
You spent nearly two weeks convincing yourself it meant nothing. Then one Thursday you found him sitting alone behind the shelter. The sun had already gone down. The exercise yard sat empty. Most of the dogs were asleep.
Andrew sat on an overturned bucket near the fence, staring into the darkness beyond the lot. Not occupied with anything. Just sitting. And that, more than anything, felt wrong.
You approached quietly. “Hey.”
His shoulders tightened before he looked up. “Hey.”
You leaned against the fence beside him. For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched between you. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once and fell quiet.
Andrew rubbed a thumb along the rim of the bucket.
You watched the motion repeat. “Did I do something?”
His hand stilled. “No.”
“Then what’s going on?”
A muscle jumped in his cheek. He turned toward the field.
You waited.
He let the silence stand. “You should probably stop.”
You blinked. “What?”
He bent forward, forearms resting on his knees. “This.”
Your fingers tightened around the fence wire. “Andrew—”
“You should.” He exhaled through his nose and shook his head once. “You should stop before it gets worse.”
For a moment, the words didn’t land. Then they did. You stared at him. Andrew kept his gaze fixed ahead, jaw locked hard enough to show in the fading light.
“Before what gets worse?”
His tongue pressed briefly against the inside of his cheek. The answer took its time. When it came, it was barely audible.
“Before you start wanting things I can’t give you.”
The fence creaked softly under your grip.
Andrew looked down at the dirt between his boots and dragged the toe of one shoe through it.
Neither of you spoke.
Then he stood. The bucket scraped hard against the ground.
“You don’t know me.”
You looked up at him. “I know you here.”
His mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something worse.
“Yeah.” He nodded toward the shelter. “That’s the problem.”
You frowned. “Why?”
For a moment he didn’t answer. He looked away, toward the kennels, toward the rows of chain-link fencing and concrete runs. Anywhere but at you.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter.
“Because this place is easy.”
You waited.
He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “The dogs make sense.” A moment passed. “They need something. You give it to them.” His gaze dropped to the bucket at his feet. “Food. Water. A clean kennel.”
You watched him carefully. “And people?”
A humorless smile touched his mouth. “People aren’t like that.”
The silence stretched between you. You let it. Andrew shifted his weight. Like he was deciding whether to keep talking. Like every word cost him something.
“You see me here,” he said at last. “You see me doing this.” His hand gestured vaguely toward the shelter. “The work. The routine.” His eyes lifted to yours. “You see the version of me that knows what he’s supposed to do.”
You opened your mouth, but he shook his head. Not angry. Just asking you to let him finish. So you did.
“You know what time I show up. You know I bring coffee.” His jaw tightened. “You know I remember things.” He paused. “You know the parts that fit.”
The words hung there.
You took a slow breath. “And the parts that don’t?”
His expression hardened. “There you go.”
“What?”
“That.” He looked away again. “You hear something bad and immediately start trying to understand it.”
“I am trying to understand it.”
“I know.”
The answer came tired rather than sharp. For the first time, he sounded exhausted. Not angry. Just worn down.
Andrew stared at the ground for a long moment before speaking again.
“You ever meet someone and know exactly what they think you are?”
You blinked. “Sometimes.”
He nodded once. “Most people look at me and decide pretty fast.” His fingers tightened around the bucket handle. “Quiet. Weird. Difficult.”
You didn’t interrupt.
“Sometimes useful.” A bitter edge slipped into his voice. “People like useful.” His gaze dropped. “Useful’s easy.”
You took a step closer. Only one.
“Andrew.”
This time he looked at you. Really looked. And for a second he seemed surprised that you were still standing there listening. A bitter laugh escaped him.
“You know this version. The guy who shows up, does the work, remembers your coffee order.” His eyes met yours. “But you don’t know me.”
“Andrew—”
“No.” His voice sharpened. “You keep acting like if you care enough, you’ll find something worth saving.” He hit a hand against his chest. “What if there isn’t?”
Silence stretched.
“I’ve hurt people.”
Silence.
“Bad.”
His jaw worked.
“Not by accident.”
Another pause.
“Sometimes by accident.”
His eyes squeezed shut.
“I don’t know.”
Your grip tightened on the fence.
“Still looking for the good?” he asked.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Try to make me afraid of you.”
His eyes flashed. “You should be.” He turned away, then back again. Restless. “You think feeding dogs and fixing things makes me safe?”
“No.”
“You think because I haven’t hurt you yet, I won’t?”
The word hung between you. Ugly. Intentional. A flicker of regret crossed his face before he buried it.
“You should go.”
“No.”
His hands curled at his sides. “Why?”
“Because you’re trying to scare me.”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
“You’re telling me part of it.”
His laugh was harsh. “You don’t want the rest.”
“Then don’t give me the rest. But don’t stand here and pretend cruelty is honesty.”
That stopped him. Briefly.
“I’m not cruel?”
“I said you’re choosing it right now.”
His jaw worked.
You stepped closer. “I think you’re choosing it because it’s easier than letting me choose you.”
Andrew stared at you. His breathing changed. A dog barked inside the shelter.
Then, low and rough he spoke again, “I don’t want you to love me.”
Your heart twisted. “Why?”
“Because I’ll ruin it.” The answer came too fast. “I ruin everything I care about.” He dragged both hands over his neck. Frustrated.
“Take your time,” you said.
“I don’t know how.” The words cracked out of him. He looked at you helplessly. “You. Me. All of it.”
“Okay.”
“It’s not okay.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
He shook his head. “You keep making it not bad.”
“What’s bad?”
“All of it.”
You held his gaze. He wanted fear. Disgust. Something simple. You gave him none of it.
“I’m trying to tell you something,” he said.
“You are.”
“No. That’s the problem.”
His hand pressed against his forehead.
“The thing in my head—it doesn’t come out right.”
“I’m listening.”
His eyes dropped. “I’m not good.” The words were quiet. Simple. “I mean it. There’s something wrong.”
“Andrew—”
“Don’t make it soft.” His voice cracked. “You take everything and make it into something I can live with.”
The anger slipped for a moment. Underneath it was fear. Raw and exposed.
“I don’t know what to do with that.”
You swallowed.
He looked away. “I did everything they wanted. I tried.” His hands opened helplessly. “Useful,” he said finally. “That was the good one.”
Your heart ached.
“I wasn’t easy.”
“You don’t have to be.”
His face tightened. “You say that because you don’t know what it means.”
“Then tell me.”
He hesitated.
“I get stuck.”
He looked away.
“I miss things. I watch people, try to figure them out, and sometimes I still get it wrong.” His jaw tightened. “That’s not okay.”
“It is with me.”
“You say that now.”
“I mean it now.”
“You’ll get tired.”
“Maybe.”
He froze.
So you kept your voice steady.
“Maybe some days. People get tired, Andrew. That doesn’t mean they leave.”
His mouth parted slightly. “You don’t know that.”
“I know I’m still here.”
For a second he looked almost young. Lost. Then he stepped back.
“That’s not enough.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know why you’re still here.”
The words escaped him before he could stop them. You didn’t move.
His face twisted. “I don’t know why.”
“Because I want to be.”
He shook his head. “There are people who don’t do this.”
“What?”
He gestured helplessly between you. “All of it.”
You understood. The anger. The confusion. The sharp edges he couldn’t smooth down.
“There are people who can just be,” he said bitterly. “People who can be loved and not turn it into—” The sentence broke apart. “You should’ve picked somebody else.”
“I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want somebody else.”
His eyes snapped to yours. Hope flashed there. Small and terrifying.
“You don’t know.”
“I do.”
His voice cracked. “You like the coffee. The dogs. The hoodie.”
A faint smile touched your mouth. “Yes.”
“That’s not me.”
“It is.”
“It’s not enough.”
“I didn’t say it was everything.”
His eyes were wet now. “You keep finding pieces. Like that makes a whole person.”
“It can.”
He shook his head. “There are other pieces.”
“I know.”
“Bad ones.”
“I know enough to know they’re there.”
For once, he had no answer. You stepped closer. He didn’t move away.
“I’m not asking for every bad thing you’ve ever done. I’m not asking you to explain your whole life so I can decide if you’re worth loving.”
He flinched.
“I already decided.”
Andrew stared at you. His breath shook.
“You can’t.”
“I can.”
“I don’t deserve it.”
“Love isn’t a prize for people who make it through life untouched.”
His brow furrowed.
You swallowed. “You’ve done terrible things.”
Pain crossed his face. You let the truth stand.
“But monsters don’t worry about the damage they leave behind.”
His breathing caught.
“Monsters don’t sit outside kennels because a dog is scared.”
His eyes closed.
“Monsters don’t bring coffee and pretend they didn’t.”
His mouth trembled.
“Monsters don’t stand in front of someone they want and try to protect them from the worst parts of themselves.”
Andrew opened his eyes. They were wet. “I’m not good.”
“I’m not asking you to be perfect.”
“I’m not peaceful.”
“I’m not asking for a life without pain.”
He shook his head, searching for words. Finally, barely above a whisper:
“Would it be enough if I could never give you peace?”
There it was. The real question.
You lifted your hand but stopped short of touching him.
“I think peace is something people build,” you said softly. “Not something one person hands over finished.”
He stared at you.
“I think it’s telling the truth when it’s ugly. Staying when leaving would be easier.”
His throat worked.
“I think it’s this.”
“This isn’t peace.”
“No,” you said. “But it could be the beginning of it.”
For a long moment he didn’t move. Then, slowly, he leaned into your palm. His eyes closed. The breath that left him was unsteady. You stepped closer. His hand caught your wrist. Not to pull you away. To keep you there.
“You’re still scared,” he whispered.
“Yes.”
His eyes opened.
“But I’m not leaving because you’re scared too.”
Something in his face folded. Not dramatically. Just enough to reveal the wound underneath.
“I don’t know what to do.”
“Then don’t do anything yet.”
He swallowed.
“Just stay.”
His fingers tightened around your wrist. Not hard. Enough.
“I can do that.”
The words were rough. Fragile. A promise small enough to carry.
You smiled through the ache in your chest. “Okay.”
The shelter was quiet behind you. Dogs sleeping. The world holding still. Then Andrew glanced at your mouth. Back to your eyes. The question was there. Terrified. Hopeful.
You answered by moving closer. Slowly enough that he could stop you. He didn’t.
The kiss was barely a kiss at first. A brush of mouths. A question. His lips trembled against yours, and your heart broke all over again because even this felt like something he was afraid to want.
You kissed him back. Softly. Clearly. Your hand stayed against his cheek. His hand stayed around your wrist. Then his other hand rose, hesitant, settling at your waist like he was asking permission.
You leaned into him. He made a small, wrecked sound. The sound seemed to surprise him. Like he hadn’t meant to let you hear it. His fingers tightened at your waist. Not possessive. Just desperate. Just real.
The kiss deepened by a fraction. Enough to stop feeling like a question. Enough to feel like an answer.
Andrew’s forehead furrowed as if he was fighting something even now, the instinct to pull away, to apologize, to ruin the moment before it could matter. Instead he stayed. And when your thumb brushed his cheek, he broke. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a soft exhale against your mouth that sounded painfully close to relief.
His hand left your wrist. For one terrifying second you thought he was retreating. Then he cupped the back of your neck. Careful. Reverent. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were there. The gesture stole your breath. Because Andrew never reached for things he wanted.
He held himself back. Made himself smaller. But not now. Not this time. When he kissed you again, it was still gentle, still uncertain, but there was want in it now. Trust. The beginning of belief. And that felt bigger than passion ever could.
When you pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His eyes stayed closed. His breath shook. A faint, disbelieving laugh escaped him. Not happy. Not sad. Just overwhelmed.
“You’re still here,” he whispered.
Like he was testing the fact. Like he needed to hear it out loud.
You brushed your nose against his.
“Yeah.”
His eyes opened. Red-rimmed. Vulnerable. And for the first time since you’d met him, he didn’t look away.
You stayed there with him. Not fixing. Not saving. Just holding the moment steady until he could breathe inside it. Nothing was solved. Nothing was erased.
But Andrew Cody, who had spent his whole life being told he was too much and never enough, stood beneath the dim shelter light with your hand against his face and let himself believe, for one impossible second, that maybe love did not have to be earned by becoming someone else.
inexperienced!reader & pent up!pope </3 you’re trying so hard to make him feel good as you kneel between his strong thighs, but you’re barely able to take the first two inches of him in your mouth without gagging. you’re just drooling on his fat cock and blowing spit bubbles down the side of his shaft as your hand pumps him. he can tell that you’re embarrassed— that you think you aren’t doing a good job. he can sense that you’re seconds away from crying and sniffling even though he hasn’t scolded you once. he would teach you, actually he wants to teach you how to please him properly with your mouth and throat terribly … but he’s too busy trying not to blow his load just from feeling and watching you mouth at him like you’re starving for it.
mdni. mooties who've already seen this, feel free 2 ignore pope being a basement-dwelling nerd that smurf keeps under lock and key because he's a pervert pyromaniac. he's chubby, and he wears square glasses, and he's so, so, so horny. 'mom, why can't I ever go outside?' then when he does sneak out, he sees you at the beach in your itsy-bitsy-teeny-weeny-yellow-polka-dot-bikini and sits in the sand twenty feet away, rubbing his achy cock through his pants, humming, rocking, and vibrating, so excited that he cums.
your friend tells you there's some guy staring, being creepy, but you think he looks nice, kinda cute, with his flushed face and gnarly little teeth, so you invite him to hangout. he follows you around the pier, and he's awkward, but he's funny, and sweet, and he buys you all snacks and drinks at the snack-bar, carries all your purses and shopping bags, all while smelling your hair when you're not looking and peeking through the changing curtain at the boutique for a glimpse at the wild bush suffocating in your bottoms.
you invite him back to your house for a pool party and you realize the depth of his shyness when he won't get in the water, won't take off his shirt. you sit in his lap and stroke his cheeks, tell him kind things he's never heard while you wiggle his top and jeans off, rub on his pudgy, freckled little belly. you see his thick imprint, now in his boxers, his monstrous thighs and it's the cherry on top, you know that you have to have him.
an hour later he's in your bedroom, glasses knocked half-way off while you push back into his big fat dick, and he's whining, scared, he can’t believe it’s happening, that you’re soo sloppy, your pussy is so creamy, it’s all over his thighs and his balls, and he’s cum three times already, and he can’t hold himself up. he puts all his weight on you, biting you, smelling you, savoring you, humping, humping, humping until he can’t anymore.
also him setting your car on fire when you try to kick him out afterwards, he wants to be your bf now, why can’t be have more pussy?
cannot stop thinking about pope cody with his three teenage boys (who, yes, are just a variation of andrew, craig & deran) who back talk their mom (you) one time and if goes a little something like this:
"jesus fucking christ, the laundry isn't going to explode if i don't do it right now, god damn, mom." your middle chirps.
"she's on one, today." your oldest shakes his head.
"did that shit last week anyways, it's fine." your youngest flops on the couch and grabs the controller from his brother, before they start arguing amongst themselves.
you can barely blink before pope is storming in the house and upstairs to their rooms (yes those are bedrooms that pope, craig & deran used to sleep in when they lived with smurf), ripping every electronic device out of the wall, tossing them down the stairs.
stomping back down the stairs he stops in the living room and yanks that console from below the tv.
"let's get something crystal fuckin' clear, you three will not disrespect your mom—my wife—in my house. do you understand me? get your school shit and go to your rooms, now." pope is raising his voice as the boys stare at him stupidly.
those gaming consoles are being tossed in the pool and/or being smashed w his fucking sledge hammer btw, and pope is about to spend the rest of the evening catering to you as an apology because he cannot believe his boys believed for one second they could speak to their mom that way.
premise: some stress within the cody family has now started to affect you and pope's sex life. but of course he's just so sweet and gentle and offers different options to try and get you to where you long to be <3
word count: 1.4k
warnings: gif by @wesandresons !!, smut, pre-established relationship, small spoiler for season 2, piv intercourse, cunnilingus, overstimulation mention, vibrator use, pretty much sweet boyfriend!pope x pillow princess reader
note: this was so fun to write! i hope you enjoy it as much as i did! be sure to check out my masterlist for more pope cody <3
"i c-cant baby.. i cant fi-nish.." you'd cry out softly, shaking your head with frustration. pope's hands would soften on your hips, his own stilling as his worried eyes search your face for any sign of discomfort or pain he somehow missed.
you normally would have had at least one orgasm by now; crying out with pope's dick deep within your belly, his fingers pressed flat, running across your clit to pull you over the edge. but you wouldn't even be anywhere near finishing, you couldn't be when you're all in your head focusing on the sound of pope's grunts filling the room and the feel of the sheets under your knees as you straddled his hips. thinking about anything other than your own pleasure.
with smurf being in jail, everyone had been pretty stressed from dealing with the extra work needed to keep the place running. so it was pretty understandable that the same stress rolled over into you and pope's sex life, affecting you in an area in which you'd never struggled before.
that's why it was so relieving when pope seemed to understand right away.
"t's okay honey.. shh, shh t's alright.." he'd hum, moving to sit upright and bringing his hands to a slow rub on your waist. "we can stop if you wanna, or we can try somethin' else..?" his words murmur softly against the skin of your neck. he presses a few kisses to your skin before pulling back to look up at you, his expression open and careful.
he'd look so pretty gazing up at you like that; his dark curls pushed away from his forehead, his eyes eager to please. just watching him be so caring made you feel even more terrible for having him pause what he's doing all because of your inability to focus. and the idea of having pope stop all together, leaving him wanting and aching for release? that's out of the question.
your lower lip would jut out, a pitiful pout forming on your face that stirs something soft in pope's chest. you shake your head, your hands coming to rest on his shoulders before you reply "no i dont want to stop, i just.. i just cant.."
"nuh uh, enough of that," pope says sternly as he looks up at your eyes. he'd pause for a second before running his tongue over his lip and patting your hips with his fingers. "lay down on your back for me pretty girl.."
with you now laying flat along the bed, pope'd hover over your body with gentle attention, his breath warm and his hands slow as he plants soft kisses along your collarbones and neck in between his words. "just.. relax baby.. hmm?.. all worked up.."
you try and listen, trying to work your way into the lovely headspace his words typically put you in. you always felt so safe in pope's arms, his callused hands running over you and turning you into putty wherever he touched you. he knew you and your body so well; knew when to be gentle, when you wanted things a little rougher, where to touch when you needed just that little extra push to get over the edge. he was so attentive and generous, you couldn't remember what sex was like before you met pope.
your mind would come rushing back to focusing on pope as his kisses have now started settling over your mound. his hands working their way from running down your waist to the creases of your thighs, he'd leave a string of kisses there as he presses your legs further apart.
you couldn't help but let out a low moan once he'd press his open mouth to your clit, lapping and nudging the sensitive bud with his tongue. pope'd soon slip his tongue between your folds, moaning into them himself at the sweet taste of you. you can sense that feeling of stress starting to slip away as your hand finds his curls, your hips rocking into his mouth with your eyes closed and mind blank, trying to focus on his touch and how good it was making you feel. while you could feel yourself getting closer and closer, becoming acutely aware of how pope would rut against the bed with his own need, after a few minutes you felt like you were right back at square one.
pope would sense your dissatisfaction, your moans becoming whinier followed by the occasional huff in frustration. he'd finally come up for air soon after, the wet sound of his mouth pulling away from your swollen clit audible within the room. his eyes would search yours again as he moves to sit back on his knees, like he's deciding if you're still mentally up for trying one more time.
"wanna try the vibrator baby?.." his voice would be rough with want, his cock pressed flush against his stomach as he's settled in between your opened legs. god, he was just so damn sweet. you could easily see his cock, angry and wanting nothing more to slip back into your spit-soaked pussy, and yet he'd still push to try and get you to finish before himself. how could you say no when he's working so hard to make his girl happy?
you'd respond with a soft "mhm.." before thinking about it and continuing a moment later "can you fuck me too?..", your eyes bright and innocent as you chew on the side of your cheek, you stay down on your back as pope leans across the mattress to the bedside drawer. returning with the large white wand in hand, he'd take the chance to crawl back up over you, his throbbing and leaky dick pressing up against your tummy as he leans forward and presses a kiss to your lips "'course i can baby.."
you rarely brought out the vibrator when you were with pope, only really getting use during solo sessions or when you and pope were really having fun and he wanted to overstimulate and push your pleasure to the max. you could tell it was getting harder for him to hold back, so asking him to use the vibrator while fucking you could definitely help both of you out. and seeing pope enjoying himself, thrusting deep in and out of you always did seem to help get you there faster too.
pope'd grunt as he lines up at your entrance, his knees placed on the mattress and bracketing your open legs. he'd nudge his tip against your soaked folds, the wand whirring to life in his hand as he adjusts the settings to your usual. "this good baby?.. not too much?.." you jolt slightly as he presses the head of the wand to your clit, the sensation pulling at the familiar knot low in your belly. you nod in response, humming as you readjust your hips causing the wand to press a little firmer against you.
when pope finally does slip back into your pussy, you know you're in for it. he'd let out a low groan as his dick is enveloped by your warmth, wasting no time to slide deeper, in and out. you could see his gaze fall down to your tits, watching the the soft skin bouncing up towards your chin as his thrusts pick up speed. "y'feel so good baby.. nghh, you gunna.. gunna come for me pretty girl? gunna come on my dick, hmm?"
his words nearly send you over then and there, that combined with the endless vibrations and his dick slamming into you, the continued pleasure inches you closer and closer. you'd nod quickly with a moan, crying out with every thrust into you. you're totally filled, the tip of pope's dick pressing up against your cervix after adjusting his position, along with the vibrations tugging at the growing heat deep in your belly.
"i'm- 'm gunna come.. pope, i'm gunna come-nghh!" your hand finds his outer thigh just as you orgasm, pulling him deeper as waves of pleasure tear across you, spanning outwards from your core to your fingers and toes. pope's own orgasm would come soon after your own, the sight of you coming undone from his dick allowed his own pleasure to reach it's peak.
and god what a sight that would be, his chest flushed, face screwed up as his hips stuttered his load into you, his groans deep, almost pained as he does so. how lucky you were to get to experience the sight of him like that at the end of all of your sexcapades.
as the waves of your orgasm slowly transition into the occasional pulses at your core, you feel all of the worries from before begin to dissipate as well. pope now laying alongside you and ever the hyper aware man himself, notices your relaxed demeanor. he'd let out an easy sigh, smiling to himself as he turns to look at you, glowing beside him. he'd clear his throat after a moment, leaning up on his elbow and looking down at you "what was that earlier baby? something 'bout "cant finish"?.." he'd tease, blowing air out his nose as he shoots a smirk your way.
pope cody wasnt ever one for making jokes, but when he did? man, was he ruthless.
Lena’s legs are kicking back and forth on the counter that she’s sitting on. The sleek marbled countertop is a mess, thanks to you. For as long as you’ve known Lena, she’s made it abundantly clear just how much she loves pancakes. All sorts of them, blueberry, chocolate chip, and brown sugar— all of the possible combinations. Sprinkles, maraschino cherries, and a crap ton of whipped cream.
“No sprinkles today, Lena Beana.” You hum as you mix the batter in the bowl. You can’t get it right. It’s either too watery or too thick. You can’t put the correct amount of ingredients and Lena’s amused as she watches you.
“Cherries?” She asks, holding onto her stuffed bunny.
You think about it. It’s ten pm, she can’t have much sugar or she’ll be too rowdy. Even now, she tells you she can’t sleep, you can’t worsen it. “Only natural, not maraschino.”
She pouts, bottom lip jutting out. “Those aren’t as yummy.” But she’s distracted when a glob of your batter spills out of your bowl.
“Fuck.” You curse, hands sticky.
“Curse word.” Her soft voice tries to scold you.
“Sorry, mama.” You apologize as you grab far too many napkins to clean yourself up.
The laugh that leaves the little girl has you turning to look up at her after minutes of concentration. “What are you laughing at?” You poke her belly, making her giggle some more.
“You’re really, really bad at this.” She glances at the mess of ingredients you’ve created. There’s flour on counter, spilled milk and water, butter and oil smeared all around.
You sigh, admitting defeat. “Yeah, I am.” You grab the cereal Nicky had picked up specifically for moments like these. “Froot Loops instead?”
She nods, her leg hair bouncing around her. “Yummy.”
You grab a bowl from the cabinets, along with a spoon, clattering across from where she’s now sitting, having moved to a stool.
“You should ask my uncle Pope for help.” She speaks with a mouthful of cereal. “He likes to clean.”
The grin falls to your lips easily at the mention of Pope. “You, Lena Blackwell, are a genius.” You press a kiss to her temple, whipping your phone out. You send him a text that reads, ‘NEED HELP ASAP.’
He doesn’t rush downstairs, not like you thought he would. His eyes are immediately on Lena, even with his calmed demeanor, making sure she’s not injured. And then, to you. You’re grinning as you lean against the counter, “funny story, handsome,” you hum. “There was a robbery! Wasn’t there, Lena?”
The little girl nods with a mouth full of cereal, scooping some more in her spoon.
“That right?” He asks roughly, unamused.
You nod, “yes. And you know what’s so horrible? They tried to take the expensive stuff but then they changed their path to the kitchen. And then, they tried to make pancakes.”
“Tried?” He asks as he makes his way to the countertop, lifting a spoon that’s in a puddle of the white sludge.
“No. They succeeded because they were really smart and knew how to cook.” You watch as he takes the mess in, carefully moving around the countertop, circling you and Lena. “And then, they took the cooked pancakes and told Lena she could only have Froot Loops. It was sick.”
Lena nods, speaking with a mouthful of food. “It’s true, uncle pope!”
Pope shakes his head, grabbing a towel from the sink, ready to get to cleaning. “Lena, don’t follow in her footsteps. Lying is bad.”
You grin, turning to Lena who’s already watching you, waiting to hear what your argument is. You shake your head at her, silently telling her to forget his words. She’s content with that response, going back to her cereal.
“It’s not lying. It’s story-telling.” You defend playfully, letting him clean the mess you’ve made. “I’m building up her imagination. She’s going to write best-selling novels.”
He scoffs, “says the liar.”
“Not a liar.” Both you and Lena speak at the same time. You two fall into fits of giggles.
“You’re copying me.” You tease her.
She grins, “no, you’re copying me.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Yuh-huh.”
“Children.” Pope chastises, both of you turning to look at him as he’s moving the used plates and utensils into the sink. “Lena, go get ready for bed. You,” his glare isn’t tense as usual but it’s directed to you. “Wash the dishes.”
You groan as Lena runs off with a giggle to her temporary bedroom. “Come on, it’s not my fault. It’s the robbers.”
“Yes.” He repeats, “it was the robbers fault but they left and you’re here. Wash.”
Despite the attitude that you have, you do decide to do it as he does the rest. You two clean in silence. It’s not horrifically awkward but silence means you overthink. And overthinking is bad. You have to keep going or it’ll be too much to handle.
“Pope?”
He doesn’t speak, a simple hum tells you to keep going.
You don’t respond immediately, and you can feel the way he turns to face your back, “what?” His voice seems to be naturally harsh so you don’t flinch or stress over the tone.
You put the plate down, turning to face him, wiping your wet hands with the dry rag beside the sink.
You’re not nervous around men often. Most don’t hold a candle to you. To how great you know you can be. To how great you know you are. But Pope isn’t just any man. From the second you saw him three years ago at the grocery store, you know this was it. You knew even then, that Andrew Cody is the guy you’re going to end up with. And yet, you still don’t speak.
The air is charged with tension. No, not tension. Softer. You can’t quite put your finger on it as you two stand there, barely a few scuffles apart, staring at each other.
Your breath hitches, itching to say these words out loud. “I really like you.” You admit, a little too easily, because of how intensely you mean them. Wholeheartedly. Irrevocably. In any way to describe how truthful you're being.
He doesn’t hesitate, “you’re lying.”
Your eyebrows furrow, a scoff bubbling out of you. “Excuse me?”
He shrugs, swinging a clean rag over his shoulder, arms crossed as he leans against the countertop. “That’s your hobby, right?”
Now you’re offended, crossing your arms over your chest as well, “is that why you never take me seriously? You think that, because I like to lie, that my feelings for you are a lie, too?”
“Would I be wrong to think so?”
It’s your turn to not hesitate, “yes.” Breathily, “I wanted you the second you walked into the store.”
“What?” His face scrunches in confusion, in that same cute way that makes you smile.
“Nothing.”
“No,” he takes a single step forward. “What store?”
You wanted to hang this over him longer but you can’t. The excitement is burning through you. You need to tell him just how long he’s been invading your thoughts without even knowing his name. You need to tell him how much worse this need for him has intensified since getting to know him.
“You really don’t remember me?”
“Of course I remember you.” He sounds offended by whatever accusation you’re throwing at him. “I think about you all the time.”
You take a step towards him as well. “You do?”
He rolls his eyes, “don’t let it get to your head.”
You laugh, “you’re letting it get to yours.”
“What? It’s not.”
“Not that one.” You hum.
He grabs the towel on his shoulder and covers his crotch as you cackle. “Shut up.”
You shrug, still grinning. “Helen’s.” You speak the name of the grocery store. It’s a small, family owned grocery store, one where the owners are always over and chitchatting with the customers. A staple in the tight-knit community.
“That your mother or something?”
You shake your head, “the grocery store.”
“Okay… you want me to go to Helen’s? What do you need?”
You groan, eyes shutting momentarily, trying to keep your emotions intact. You open them to his body much closer to yours, closing the distance. His hand is ghosting over your cheek, scared to touch you. “Do it…” your voice is small and desperate.
It happens so fast. His hands fall to your cheeks, forcing your face up as he pushes you to lean against the sink, knee slotting between your thighs. His nose is nudging against yours, breath heavy against your lips.
You’ve had his thumb in your mouth and his fingers in you. And not a single kiss. A forehead kiss but you’re not counting that. You need to kiss him. Have to. You’re desperate for it. You try to push your face to his but he holds your face back. “No.” His voice is whiney as he speaks, forehead against yours. “No.” Neither of you pull away.
The camera linked to the doorway chimes, reading the license plate out loud in its robotic and monotonous voice. A button beeps and a familiar voice is heard as the machine asks to state his name. “Barry Blackwell.”
He doesn’t fully pull away, not until the front door opens and in comes Baz.
You clear your throat, fixing your shirt as Pope goes back to cleaning. You smile politely at Baz, “Mr. Blackwell.” You greet. “Welcome.”
His smile toward you is seen as charming by most. And you don’t hate it, but you don’t care for it. “You can call me Baz.”
You grimace softly with a laugh, shaking your head. “No… my step-dad tells me to never put my boss at my level.”
Baz ignores this, turning to his brother, watching him carefully. “You good, bro?”
Pope nods stiffly, “good.”
It’s awkward. Pope clearly isn’t good and his brother knows this. You know this. And Baz is about to push, about to ask again, when you jump in. “I’ll show you to your room.” You push off the sink. “It’s right across Lena’s. Come on.”
Baz nods, grabbing his bags again and following behind you as you lead him out of the kitchen. You don’t turn to look at Pope, scared to see how upset he is. Not for fear, but because the disappointment in his features will make you want to rush back to him in front of their company.
“This is a really nice place.” Baz chimes as he inspects the walls and furniture around.
You hum, nodding. “Yeah. Sammy’s parents are really well off.” You tell him. “He’s a stockbroker or something like that, I don’t know, some boring stuff. Mother’s a lawyer.”
He whistles softly, “fuck. Should’ve picked a different career.”
You huff a small laugh, opening the door to his bedroom for the next few days. “Property manager isn’t cutting it?” You joke.
“Not even close.” He drops his bag as she leads him into the sleek and clean room. “They happily married?”
You smile softly, “very happily.” You answer, unsure of what to say next. “Uhm… it’s late. I’m gonna go put Lena to bed and—“
“How is she?” He cuts you off. “Lena? Was she… upset?”
It almost warms you to know that he does care, which gets harder and harder to believe the longer you take care of the little girl. “At first, yeah. But she got over it. She’s having fun here. She picked some fruit with the gardener and Nicky when we got in. We’re thinking of making a pie tomorrow.”
He lets out a breathy little laugh, nodding as he slumps onto the edge of the bed, taking a much needed seat. You’re slowly sliding back to the door, needing a quick escape. “So, you—“
He interrupts you again, “thank you, by the way.” He hums. “Allison’s boyfriend doesn’t want her to watch kids anymore while pregnant. And her mother…” he trails off for a moment. “She doesn’t care for being a mother any longer, clearly. Know you weren’t fond of kids at first, heard J mention it to Nicky. But youre good with her.”
You take the compliment, “thank you. She’s… she’s a really great girl.” You add, “so, can—“
Again. “You are too.” You tense at his words. “You’re a great girl.”
“Oh… uhm…” you wipe your sweaty palms against your bottoms, drying them as best as you can. “Tha-thank y—“
You almost want to yell when you’re interrupted again. But you feel relief wash over you when Lena rushes into the room, “daddy!” She jumps into her fathers arms, cheering happily and rambling away about what she did today.
This gives you the chance to slip out of the room, a heavy breath leaving you once you’re in the clear. “Fuck…” you mutter softly, anxious from the too long moment.
You push off the wall you were leaning against, eyes falling onto Pope’s as he stands at the stairway, watching you with a cup of warm milk at hand. For Lena, of course. He’s watching you carefully, worried. You send him a small smile and walk to your bedroom, embarrassed.
authors note . . . hiiii sorry for the lag!! hope you guys like it <3
taglist (purged it a little, sorry if i took you off and you DO interact, just message me and I’ll add you. other than that, taglist is open, only a few spots open) . . . @theariespov @slytherclaw1978 @manilovewomen1 @harhar0777 @cassierins @hhusbuds @shitface-t @firstlyferrari @marauvderss @vesperazhier @love-pluto-love @peachyfckingkeen @wylewhims @byfragonard @xreader1989 @inbred-eater @verygentlementrash @sagelovesbooks @callmestgalex @robinavitchabbotslut @momdancingtomcr @pr3ttygirlavenue @cherryybombbthoughts @tatoda @cosmicneptune @buckystwilight @iansunibrow @cosmosnkaz @feminine-ominon @caterppillar @milestellerismybf @scream4mami @niyizh @4ngelest @4rtem4r
you don’t realize how important lunch is until you’re wandering around thinking about how unloveable and untalented and uniquely cursed you are and then it’s 4pm and you finally eat lunch and you go Oh. oh right.
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