Rae

34 and still a nerd.

[kiraavi]

A snippet from my next oneshot! Pope x virgin!reader. I have plans 😼

[ofstarsandvibranium]

Your Shadow

Fandom: Shawn Hatosy - Animal Kingdom

Pairing: Andrew "Pope" Cody x F!Reader

Summary: He's always behind you. Silently watching and protecting you.

Shawn Hatosy Masterlist

You know he's behind you. The air shifts whenever he's near. That and you get a whiff of his cologne.

So without looking behind you, you continue to push the grocery cart down the aisle. You stick your hand out behind you and his hand immediately slips into yours.

You turn to him and softly smile, "Hi," you lean in and press your lips to his in a quick kiss.

"Hi," he lowly murmurs back. Without saying another word, he grabs your hips and moves you to the side, taking the cart from you. You giggle and walk ahead, going down your grocery lists. Pope silently follows behind you.

__________________

The step stool gives you an extra boost. There's a large bowl on the very top shelf that you need so you can Lena can bake cookies. You grab it, but lean too far back. Your heart drops as you brace for impact, but a pair of arms catch you instead.

"Holy crap," you murmur, looking at your savior.

Pope tsks and shakes your head, "You need to be more careful." He helps you stand up right as you hand Lena the mixing bowl.

You give him a sheepish smile, "I know, but you're also always there to catch me, right?"

He silently rolls his eyes and watches as you and Lena start gathering the rest of the ingredients to bake.

He leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. He says things here and there, answers a question or two when Lena asks.

"Okay, now we need to get a whisk-oh! Thanks, babe!" Pope is already holding out a whisk to you that he grabbed as you were reading the instructions aloud. You kiss his cheek in appreciation and hand the whisk to Lena.

He comes up behind you, hugging you from behind and resting his head against yours as you watch his niece mix the cookie ingredients all together.

_____________________

You'd just dried yourself off after a shower. You're standing at the bathroom sink, drying out your hair when Pope appears in the threshold. He leans against the wall, watching you. You catch his eyes in the reflection and softly smile at him. You go back to getting ready for bed.

After setting the hair dryer down, you go to grab your brush, but you see Pope standing behind you already, brush in hand. You stand there as he brushes through your hair, careful not to hurt you in anyway.

Once he's done, he sets the brush down and kisses your head. He goes back to being a silent observer.

You grab your skincare and start your routine. You feel his eyes completely focused on you the entire time. You don't feel unsettled. You feel seen, appreciated, loved, and protected.

______________________

"Does he do that all the time?" Your friend, Ella, asks, nodding to Pope who's sitting at the bar counter, watching you.

You glance at him over your shoulder and then turn back to Ella, "He's protective of me."

"It's creepy."

You roll your eyes, having explained this to several people beforehand, "It's how he shows he cares. Besides, he's out DD if we get too fucked up."

"That's what Ubers are for."

You scoff, "Why pay for a ride when Andrew can drive us for free?"

"Okay, but he's been staring at you nonstop," her eyes glance back at Pope in a disgusted way, "He's not controlling or anything, is he?" she looks at you seriously, silently asking a question you've gotten before.

You sigh, "I'm fine. I promise. Andrew's not like that. He just shows his love and care differently than others. It took me some time to understand it too, but he treats me so much better than anyone has."

Ella slowly nods, "Alright, but if he hurts you in anyway-"

You chuckle, "I know, girl. I'll let you know."

_____________________

Pope brought you to The Drop so he can discuss some things with his brothers. You're sitting at the counter, drinking a soda, and scrolling through your phone when a man decides to take up residence right next to you.

You sigh and say, "Not interested," without looking up from your phone.

The man scoffs, "Not even gonna let me say 'hi' or nothing?"

"Nope," you don't give the man any satisfaction of looking at him. Instead you continue drinking your soda and scrolling through your phone.

The man fully faces you, "I can treat you real good."

"I'm taken."

"And where's your guy right now, huh?"

"Right here," you hear Pope speak behind you and you smile into your straw. You completely turn to face Pope, "Everything good?"

His eyes soften when he looks at you, "Yeah. Go start the car," he hands his car keys to you.

You close your hands around his, "I'm fine. Let's go." You see him hesitating but immediately nods. You guide him out of the bar and he's following you, but not before sending a deadly glare back to the man who was bothering you.

_______________________

You're sitting in the sand, back pressed against an eroding wall, alone. You just needed some fresh air and sunshine after a rough few days. You listen to the waves crashing against the shore, the sound of children screaming with laughter, seagulls flying above head.

You hear a jingling of keys paired with the sounds of heavy boots approaching. A shadow looms over you, but you know who it is. You look up and see Pope staring down at you. He's giving you a questioning gaze.

"I'm okay. Just needed to think."

He nods and sits on the wall, right behind you. You lean against his legs, his hands resting on your shoulders.

You two sit there in a comfortable silence.

[shadeofpeach]

Patient love

Pairing: Andrew Pope Cody x girlfriend!reader (ft. Deran Cody) Warnings: OCD/TOC (compulsive behavior), brief mention of anxiety. Summary: what you find annoying, Andrew thinks its cute.

Deran was already halfway to the truck, his keys jangling impatiently in his hand. You were already running fifteen minutes behind schedule.

"Yo, move! We don't have all day," Deran called.

Andrew stood on the top step of your porch, hands shoved into his pockets. His eyes were fixed entirely on you.

Andrew knew. He always knew.

He didn’t say anything to rush you. While the rest of the Cody family viewed your compulsions as an inconvenience or something to be brushed past, Andrew understood the weight of a mind that wouldn't let you rest.

"I'm coming," you muttered softly.

You stepped out, pulling the door shut behind you. It clicked into place. You inserted the key, turning it until you heard the clunk of the mechanism.

Then, you pulled the key out.

This was where the trap sprang shut in your mind.

Because this was one of those days.

Is it actually locked?

What if it didn't catch?

What if someone enters while you're out?

Andrew shifted his weight slightly, blocking you from Deran’s annoyed glares.

You reached out, your fingers wrapping around the doorknob.

Twist left. Push. The door held fast.

Twist. Pull. It didn't budge.

You let go, taking a breath. You stepped back one pace.

But the itch in your brain immediately flared up.

Did you pull hard enough?

What if it opens if someone pushes it with more force?

You stepped forward again, wrapping your hand around the knob a second time. You gave it three rapid, firm shakes. Locked. Solid.

"Guys, c'mon, let’s go!" Deran’s voice barked, throwing his arms up.

Andrew turned his head just enough to look at his younger brother.

"Shut up, Deran," Andrew warned.

Deran muttered something under his breath about everyone being crazy, slamming the truck door shut.

You felt a flush of embarrassment creeping up your neck.. You hated feeling like this. You hated that your brain forced you to play out these little rituals just to feel safe leaving your own home.

Andrew stepped closer. He reached down, his hand gently wrapping over yours, lifting it away from the doorknob. His skin was warm.

"Hey," he murmured, his voice softening. "It's locked. I saw it. I heard it."

You looked up into his eyes, finding absolute patience and sincerity there.

"You're sure?" you whispered.

"I'm sure," Andrew nodded once, a firm gesture. He gave your hand a gentle squeeze before letting go. "It's locked."

Sometimes, when Andrew -or someone who wasn't you- said it was safe, your brain actually believed him.

"Okay," you breathed, offering him a smile. "Okay, let's go."

Andrew kept his hand at the small of your back as you walked down together, guiding you toward the truck. Deran was glaring through the windshield, but under Andrew’s eye, he didn't dare say another word.

Before opening the truck door, you paused, your eyes darting back up to the door one last time. Just to be absolutely sure.

A softness broke through Andrew.

A genuine smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

To Andrew, this was just a part of who you were. He found the seriousness of your focus completely captivating.

It was just another piece of you he got to protect.

Feeling his gaze, you looked up.

"What?" you asked, a slight blush creeping onto your cheeks.

"Nothing," Andrew murmured, his smile widening just a fraction as his thumb brushed comfortingly against your waist. "You're just cute."

He opened the truck door for you, making sure you were safely inside before climbing in.

Deran shaked his head with a smirk on his face. He looked at Andrew, then at you, completely amused by the rare display of softness from his older brother.

"Man," Deran chuckled. "You are so whipped for her."

-'🖤⛓ ⁠*⁠.⁠‧₊˚

animal kingdom masterlist

[fhrlclln]

i. express yourself, don’t repress yourself | michael robinavitch

SUMMARY -> he’s miserable and horny on a wednesday night, but when he happens to see you, his kind and innocent resident in the same sex shop as him… he can’t help but wonder whether he feels more miserable or more horny thinking about what the hell you’re doing in a place like this? he doesn’t want to admit to himself it’s both when you catch him on another night.

michael ‘robby’ robinavitch x resident!fem!reader

GENRE -> nsfw/smut

WARNINGS -> not proof-read, heavy sexual themes, medical inaccuracies, pining, age difference (not really specified but implied), mentions of sex shops & that, power imbalance, sexual tension, praise kink, sub!robby, self-degradation, blowjobs & slight d/s

WC -> 6.4k

a/n: how could you not degrade this man when he looks like that? all pathetic and miserable with puppy brown eyes lmao. and part two soon cuz i actually didn’t expect for this to be 6k words already lmao.

robby is like any other single man. 

he gets horny, sure he can hook-up with any of the available women or anyone in the pitt or somewhere, but sometimes he just doesn’t have the energy and time to pursue and woo someone just to get rid of his pent-up sexual needs. he watches porn on his phone… sometimes on the t.v if he’s feeling extra pent-up. but sometimes… sometimes the old fashion way makes it more thrilling. like going to a sex shop, browsing through porn magazines, like what he did when he was in his college years. maybe watch a peep show or something like that. his home is already quiet and suffocating enough, so why not be somewhere open? nobody would judge him, all the people there might just have the same idea and sentiment as him. 

being lonely, horny, and fucking miserable. 

“good work today, chief.” dana tells him as she pats his back, ready to go home for the night now. “slow day but thank fucking god.” 

he snorts. “must be our lucky day, can’t say for the night shift.” 

“ha! you tell abbot that.” dana chuckles as she finally says goodbye to lena and the others as robby stares up to the central board, backpack on his shoulder, ready to leave as well. he’d already done the briefing with jack, so he doesn’t have anything else to do other than say his goodbyes or do an irish goodbye. today was a good but slow day. 

“bye lena, have a nice shift.” your airy voice flows through the room like the cool wind. robby’s gaze shifts to see you leaning against the nurse’s station while lena chats you up for a moment. you smile at her, all wide-eyed and sunshine in them. he doesn’t notice his lips tug up as he watches you wave your hand to whitaker, who awkwardly waves back, who’s still charting and munching on a sandwich. hopefully not leaving crumbs on his desk. 

and then your gaze sets to his, and he feels that pathetic tug on his heart which causes him to swallow it down. 

“dr. robby! you’re still here.” you lighten up even more, and he smiles… almost painfully. 

“yeah, still here.” he says. “just… uh, checking if we missed anything.” 

“i think we got everything right.” you say beside him, and he can smell your citrusy perfume, your signature scent. he slyly takes a good look at you, seeing you dressed up. he can’t help himself but enjoy these few minutes before you leave. 

“you going somewhere?” he asks. 

you turn to him, nodding. “couple of my girlfriends and i are going to the movies.” 

“well, don’t let me keep you here.” he sadly has to say as he smiles at you. “you did good today, by the way.” 

“i don’t know about that. nothing really happened today. which is weird, considering we’re always busy.” you laugh, and it sounded so nice to hear for him, especially after this slow shift. 

“you’re right. but you managed and taught most of our medical students today so you did good, sweetheart.” the nickname slips past his lips naturally. your smile sweetened at that, and he noticed it. all innocent and kind. 

“good enough for your recommendation letter, then?” you joked, and he rolled his eyes playfully. he couldn’t be prouder that you’re almost completing your residency. you’re the best resident he’s had other than langdon… which he doesn' t want to think about him right now. 

“don’t get too excited now, you still got another year stuck with me being your boss.” he smiled, eyes crinkling. 

“whatever you say, chief.” you giggled. “well, goodnight, dr. robby.” 

“yeah, goodnight. have fun.” he painfully has to say as you leave his side. the whiff of your citrus scent slowly leaves as well. he takes a deep breath as he sighs, still looking up to the central board, with no thoughts of checking it again. just quietly staring and brooding as he finally turns to leave the pitt.

・゜゜・．

the city lights of pittsburgh welcome him as he rides through the highway on his bike. helmet on today, which was a relief if anyone saw him. the wind blows through the night as he finally parks at a corner street before hopping off and walking towards where his guilty pleasure is. the sex shop was like a picture back in the 90’s, neon signs glowing: red, green, blue, pink, and that. the familiar provocative signage of a woman’s leg further deepens the shame in him as he adjusts his backpack on his back before heading in. 

it was dim, a few people are in here, most of them were sleazy looking men… just like him. well, maybe he’s the better half of that, but still a miserable and lonely man. he guessed some are married, some single, no wife and kids like him. others are teenage boys who are giggling in the far corner, browsing through the porno magazines. he’s surprised that they still sell that despite the decline because of the wonders of the internet and shit. 

he sets off to look around the endless shelves of magazines. wondering what his poison is for tonight or maybe he’ll head to the booths for some peep shows, jerk off and enjoy. as long as he doesn’t go home yet, and be met with silence he’s known since god knows when he started letting himself go. the women on the magazine are all dolled up in heavy makeup, tits out, poses that let him see everything, but he can’t feel the stir in his cock yet. 

well… he’s still not that old to have an erectile dysfunction, right? no, he’s old enough that maybe that’s the reason why he’s not turned on yet. or maybe it’s because the women on the covers are not- 

he stops himself for a moment with that impending thought. 

he habitually wipes his hand down his mouth and beard, a habit that he does when he’s trying to repress himself or calm down. he does not want to think about what he’s been trying to not imagine since… fuck him, he tells himself. trying to. he manages to joke miserably. he reluctantly grabs a random magazine, flicking through the pages as he tries to immerse himself in the pictures that are supposed to entice him. 

he should have just suckered up and watched porn on his phone. he thinks now. 

“didn’t know women came here. look.” one of the young boys whispers as he hears them from the side. 

“no shit, dude. what are you, 80?” one of the other boys says back sarcastically, and he can’t help but feel amused at that. he looks up… he should not have looked up actually. 

loe and behold were you…  

in the same sex shop. 

as him. 

you. 

his resident… his fucking resident. 

in a sex shop. in this sex shop. 

his eyes almost fell out as he quickly ducked to the other isle, much further from the entrance as he stayed still and hid there like a fucking idiot. fuck, fuck, fuck, she didn’t saw me, right? he panicked. and the most important question popped in his mind. 

what the hell were you doing here? 

i mean it was already self-explanatory… but you out of all people- he’d settle for whitaker or ogilvie, maybe even ellis or mckay…or anyone… but you?

he slyly looked up, peeking over the shelf, he’s tall enough to do that without his whole face showing as he tracks your every move. and there you are, walking in the other aisle, moving to the counter. face all serious and quiet as you ignore the several stares when you pass by those sleazy-looking men. he suddenly wants to kick their asses the way their eyes looked at you like you’re one of the magazines they’re holding in their hands. fucking pigs.

it’s really you. 

same cute outfit on, the one you wore after that slow shift. he’s definitely not hallucinating, it's you talking to the cashier at this instant. 

what happened to the movies with your girlfriends? he had to wonder… did the ‘movies’ entail this? he’s curious where you’re going as the cashier hands you something, and you move away. he follows his gaze where you’re going, and he’s utterly shocked to see you get in one of the booths for the peep shows. 

movies, huh? he lets out a low chuckle to himself as he wipes his face. fuck, he didn’t expect this at all. what was he expecting, really? you, the sunshine that you are. always greeting people with a shy smile, tending to patients so kindly that gloria can fuck-off with those ‘patient satisfaction scores’ when you’re already doing that. he never once heard about your romantic escapades no matter how cunning princess or perla are trying to suck it out of you. you’re a great doctor- one of the best that he’s had the opportunity to guide. 

and now he’s seen this new side of you. 

in a sex shop for fuck sakes. 

oh, god- he wonders… he wonders what you’re watching now behind the booth. behind that closed door. and he feels blood rush all over his body. to his ears, apples of his cheeks, neck, and… 

oh, fucking hell. he looks down, there’s a slight bulge in his pants. out of all instances- god, this was hilarious. a wash of shame envelops him. he can’t be thinking of what you’re watching right now- whatever porn movie you’re indulging in, he doesn’t have the right to know. it’s your privacy. and he doesn’t want to stay here any longer when you come out of the booth and see him here. 

see him being miserable and horny like these sleazy pigs. 

he walks out of the sex shop in a haste. he quickens his steps when he’s outside, being met with the cold air that doesn’t help his shame. 

what a night, huh? 

・゜゜・．

the day after was hard. 

really hard for him. 

he spent all night under the shower, a cold shower to get rid of his… problem. he’s mortified- mortified in a sense that his ‘reaction’ stemmed from the fact that he saw you in a place where he thinks you should not belong. was it the absurdity of it that made him hard as a fucking rock? that you, the kind woman that you are, who he thought of as innocent as a feather be in a place housed in filth and pleasure? 

sexist, much? the little voice in his head berates him. 

it was not like that… he tells himself. just that- it’s you. 

the woman he’s been trying hard not to think of. he’s already got a bad wrap in the dating scene. everyone in the hospital knows about his messy escapades. he’s a walking red flag, he knows that. he’ll get what he wants then leave when things get serious. he even got slapped in the face when this one nurse he was ‘dating’ told him how much of a asshole he was to fuck and run. and to add that, you’re his resident, who is almost completing your residency. 

and he would not do that to you. 

saviour-complex as they say. but isn’t he doing the bare minimum by leaving you alone? he doesn’t fucking know. all he knows is that he can’t, he won’t, and he needs to grow up and move on. 

and no matter how much he wanted to see you smile at him, just the two of you. hear your laughter near his ear as he buries his face in the warmth of neck. your citrusy scent enveloping his nostrils, making him feel all calm and at peace. or your gentle hands that will cup his face, telling him he deserves to be here. that he deserves to be with you. 

a man could only dream, right? 

now these thoughts sparked even more the fact that he’s got a glimpse of you’re hiding. that you have needs, needs that he can satisfy… and he wonders what you were watching. was it soft porn? do you like it soft and gentle? or maybe passionate and raw. or… fuck, maybe even hardcore and that kinky shit. hell, he can do that if you want to. 

no, no, no, no- he has to stop himself right now. 

the grip he has on the ipad he’s holding tightens as he sets it down on the desk. he removes his glasses, leaning back as he sighed. today’s shift was already busy, a complete opposite of yesterday. and he’s glad because that means he won’t be interacting much with you today. he’s got interns to teach, and you as well. with the number of trauma cases coming in, he hopes he won’t have to meet your eyes and feel the shame in him. or stand close near you and get a hard-on. 

“you’re looking rough today.” dana quipped behind him, busy looking at her own ipad. 

“aren’t i everyday?” robby manages to joke, almost mirthfully. 

dana looks at him through her own reading glasses, seeming to eye him up and down. “hmm, you’re right. but you look like you can use a drink with that face of yours, robinavitch.” 

he manages to huff out a laugh. “oh, you have no idea, dana.” he finally stands up, ready to take the day on and forget about last night. “you have no fucking idea…” 

dana casts him one last judging look before shrugging at him. he leaves, already being called to trauma 2 as he sighs. 

・゜゜・．

for the rest of the days that followed, he avoided you like the plague. maybe a quick ‘hello’ or consult here and there, but he didn’t linger longer than he used to do with you- joking and talking about whatever topic was in hand. he avoided you like you were gloria. some people wouldn’t mind about this sudden and actually very minuscule shift in the air. although, of course the one who noticed it happened to be the most known observant man in his life that will point it out to him out of the blue. he’s actually frightened the way jack does these things like this almost accurately.

“you’re very weird today.” is the opening liner jack says as they do their handoffs. 

“…i don’t know what you’re talking about.” is his most obvious reply that seals the deal with jack abbot’s accurate suspicions. 

“do i have to point it out in the open, brother?” jack stares at him, holding the chart in his hand that’s deprived of his attention. robby sighs as he pinches the bridge of his nose. 

so… he tells him in a whisper… in an empty trauma room for privacy. but his nerves are on fire as he looks out in the windows, hoping you’re not near. and all he got from jack was a hum and a very amused look. 

“am i fucked up?” robby asks him, worried. 

“100%.” jack immediately says, and robby glares at him. although point-taken. “i mean, i understand… why were you in a sex shop in the first place?” 

he shoots him a pointed look. 

“okay, okay. self-explanatory, i know.” jack raises his hands up in defense. “so… let me put this straight. you’re acting all weird around her because you saw her in that place. normal reaction, probably the most common. but… the other added reason, i might add, is that you get bricked up thinking about it? well, that’s… fucked up-“

“don’t have to be an asshole about it, i’m fucking dying here just- just thinking about it!” he stops himself from raising his voice. “it’s her… in that shop.”

“sheesh, i know you like the woman, man. didn’t know you liked her so much that you think she’s too innocent to be there.” jack whistles, very much liking hearing him getting tortured. “but hey, soon you’ll forget about it. try not to think about it most of the time.” 

“that’s the problem. are you even listening?” 

“excuse me, what else do you want me to say?” jack has the audacity to be offended. “should i say, ‘oh! yeah, man, of course. she shouldn’t be there in the first place. that’s why you’re like this.’ look, i’m not someone who’d shame anyone for tapping into their… sexual fucking needs.” 

robby lets out an exasperated sigh. jack was right, of course. all the time, in fact. 

“robby, my brother. i admire you for not jumping on her like you usually do with the poor women who’ve crossed your path. means she’s special, right?” jack consoles him, and robby nods. you are special. the most special thing he doesn’t want to fuck up. 

“she is.” robby whispers, and jack smiles at him. 

“well, don’t fuck it up if you ever want to actually be with her. this kind of thing… it’s normal to be weirded out, of course. you saw her in a new perspective. but you gotta get in your head that everyone does this shit. not just you going into a… sex shop.”

“you’re not gonna let this go, are you?” he eyes him, and jack shrugs before patting his shoulder. yeah, he’s not gonna let this go the next time robby teases him, and jack has something to fire on to ridicule him. 

“we all got our needs, man. no judgement here. just that you got pulled into a hilarious situation that you do know you can just forget about, and not be weird around her.” jack finally says before leaving him alone in the room. “you know… try to repress yourself if you can’t take it anymore.”

robby actually feels a little lighter. and by the window, he finally spots you by the nurse’s station. you greet jack with a smile before your gaze lands on him. his heart started to beat uncontrollably, thinking you know he was there that night. but no… you wave at him shyly. he can’t help but wave back, finally letting his shame go. letting the curiosity of what you watched that night go. you’re here, being normal with him. and you didn’t know he was there, and you certainly did not know about his… hard dilemma. 

it was that easy, told you so. jack’s voice echoed in his head as he finally exited the trauma room. with a plan set in motion of how he’ll regulate himself. 

・゜゜・．

he took it to heart what jack suggested. 

he distanced himself from all things sexually. from jerking off, watching porn, going to the sex shop, and thinking about you in that sense. he was doing good for the first few days… felt refreshing, like he’s transformed into a young man again. or maybe he finally accepted that he’s old and his dick’s not gonna work the same way it used to be. that he’s reached the state of pure nirvana and peace. matter fact, maybe he can switch careers, and become a priest or monk for how long he’s been celibate. 

yet… it got hard after talking to you in those days. 

really hard that whenever you look at him, he can’t help but think about what you’re doing behind closed doors… or booths. that he’s suddenly hyperaware of every blink of your lashes, tiny things that suddenly make him want to run to the nearest bathroom. how you wet your lips when you talk to him about this one patient who- who he gives no fucks right now, and just quietly admires your face. the face he wonders what it would look like if he drops down and eats you- okay, stop. 

he’s not ignoring you anymore, that was a good change. but the cost of that was him torturing himself that he thinks he might be into edging if this was the case. 

you’d like that, wouldn’t you? okay, stop, again. 

and now he turns to other mundane and boring things to avoid his hand from reaching down there when he’s home. he’s off on sundays, and he actually doesn’t work harder in the ED like he usually does because you’re there, so he starts jogging. he does wordle, rides around the city in his motorcycle more often, do some yoga (he finally listened to abbot but minus the nakedness), read more books, and maybe smoked a cig here and there just to busy himself. 

and like all hard times, he breaks. he’s just a man, after all. 

on a cold sunday night he drives downtown to the familiar place of sin. he did not want to go here again knowing you come here. but maybe that night was a one time thing, right? maybe you did it out of curiosity and need. a need he can satisfy- fucking hell. and all honesty, he does not know a similar sex shop like this one that houses the nostalgic magic of porn magazines and peep shows. or maybe deep inside, he thinks you’ll be here. but he quickly shuts down that thought, 

so, he goes in, feeling a little out of place after a week of repressing himself. he just needs to watch something, something that will scratch his hard itch, and he can go back to torturing himself. he heads straight to the counter, and inquires about the booths in an awkward manner. the young cashier looks at him with disinterest, and tells him the price and gives him this sort-of coin after he pays, saying that he’ll have to insert it into the machine once he gets in. and now he waits awkwardly outside one of the booths, it seems like a busy night considering all of the others are locked as well. 

so he waits… awkwardly. 

he considers buying a magazine and getting the hell out of here. but the sound of the door opening finally makes him feel relieved. until… 

“dr. r-robby?” he’s met your wide-eyed expression and soft voice of surprise. the smell of your perfume envelops his nose as his cheeks turned bright red. 

oh, fuck. 

he freezes, and stares right back at you with the same wide-eyed expression until moments later you pull him into the booth, and he still can’t process what just happened. the door clicks shut, and he quickly turns around to be with you in this dim space… with the sound of soft moans coming from the little glowing screen which makes his whole entire face get even warmer. he stares at the porn on the screen, the soft moans come from the man being fucked the hell out by the woman riding him. the woman berates the man under her, telling him how much of a filthy fuck he is. oh wow. this is what you like to watch? 

“i-i should go-“ robby turns away from the screen, gaze stuck to you, trying his best not to get affected by what he just watched. the porn you just watched. 

“this is awkward…” you finally say, back pressed against the door, and you eye him up and down. 

“listen, we can forget about this. i never saw you here, you never saw me here, i never saw you last-“ he has to stop himself with the way he just slipped out a crucial secret. but you immediately clock on to it as you raise a brow at him. freudian slip, as they say. 

“you saw me in here before?” 

if jack was here, he’d be laughing at his face right now. or worse… looking disappointed. 

“i-“ robby doesn’t know what to say. he’s too frazzled, knowing blood just rushed down to his cock when he notices a small smirk appear on your lips. “…yeah. i’m sorry. it’s a public space… i didn’t- i didn’t mean to see you here at all.” 

soft moans run in the background, and he feels ashamed as he tries to hide his hard-on from you in a discreet way. 

“…so that’s why you’ve been weird around me.” you hum, and took a step closer to him. robby stays still, looking at you carefully. he doesn’t see you grimace or get disgusted just by looking at him. your expression was hard to decipher. were you mad at him? 

“yeah… sorry.” he lets out an awkward huff of laughter. trying to appear calm and collected. you don’t say anything for a good minute, just quietly staring at him. 

“are you hard right now?” 

huh? 

“w-what?” he stuttered. you look at him with a blank stare before gesturing down his pants. 

“i asked… are you hard right now?” 

another flush of blood rushes down at your tone. he can feel his whole body turn hot. the little booth was suffocating, and if he takes one step closer, your chests could brush against each other. robby lets another awkward laugh as he scratches the back of his head. he looks down, and there’s an evident tent on his crotch which further makes him feel disgusting. here he was, inside a peep show booth with his resident, and he’s fucking hard as a rock. 

“i need to… go.” he finally says, dropping the coin on the ground as moves past you. your passive expression breaks as you reach for him, tugging on his sleeve, and he almost shudders when your fingers touch his skin. 

“robby, wait.” your soft voice further makes him want to leave. it’s gentle, laced with no malice whatsoever. but to him, he thinks the worst. 

“i-i’ll see you tomorrow, okay? and i’m sorry, sweetheart. i…i didn’t mean to-“ he cuts of his words as he exits the booth in a haste again, just like the first time. he can hear you call out for him, but he shakes his head, walking even faster to get on his motorcycle and drive away. 

and he leaves you standing outside of the sex shop, and doesn’t notice the glint in your eyes as you watch him ride away. 

・゜゜・．

he stands very still in a trauma room. watching closely as whitaker and javadi treat a patient who got in for chest pain, and long after had a heart attack as they predicted. he’s just waiting for garcia to come down here, and he can move on to the next patient. he’s been on edge all day after last night. he could not sleep thinking about you and him in that tiny booth. his mind can’t shake that moment… 

are you hard right now? 

if he could fling himself off the roof right now, that would end his suffering because he could not calm his dick down after that. the only thing that could keep his mind from repeating that was to work, and he has been working for the past 6 hours into his shift. and he has been very adamant on not passing by you at any point and time. but the problem? 

you seem to be normal and more present wherever the hell he is. but the ED is a small space, what was he expecting anyway? 

he gets out of the trauma room once he briefed garcia of the patient’s stats and passed on to her. he goes to every available room and ward he’s needed, and when he finally stops by the nurse’s station to check the central board… of course you were there as well. and he almost lets his emotions out of his serious facade when you greet him with a smile that didn’t seem so innocent as before. or maybe he’s just being paranoid. 

“hi, dr. robby.” you say, looking up to the board as well. he doesn’t say anything back, only a hum as he tries his best not to look at you. “you good?” 

he wants to kill himself. 

“never better.” he manages to say sarcastically without sounding pathetic like last night. from the corner of his eye, he can see you looking right at him with a smile. 

“good.” you grin, and pass by him with a touch on his shoulder. he feels the hair on his skin go up at your warm touch as you leave him alone. 

good? 

…good? there’s a million thoughts running through his mind about what you mean by that. he finally looks at your retreating figure, and sighs. he’s not gonna have a nice day, is he? 

half of the hours after that spent him avoiding you, but you manage to find him everywhere he goes. you smile at him, almost like cheshire cat filled with mischief, and stand too close whenever you get the chance to ask for a consultation. there’s one instance when the two of you are treating a trauma patient, and every brush of your shoulder to his, and the feel of your body next to him has his mind going in circles. and when you pull away, you always leave with a soft smile at him, and he knows he’s about to explode. 

he goes straight to the nearest bathroom an hour left before his shift ends. he can’t do this anymore as he tries to repress every thought of you away before the semi-bulge in his pants start to become more noticeable. were you trying to tease him? he thinks, but he doesn’t have a clear indication of that. he closes his eyes for a moment, thinking of anything that will turn him off. he feels so frustrated that he’s considering drowning himself in the toilet. 

the door suddenly opened, and his eyes widened. he forgot to lock it… again. 

“robby? you okay?” your soft voice makes him groan as he turns to you. feeling irritated as he lets out a sharp breath. 

“not the time.” he grits out, and you stand there, assessing him before shutting the bathroom door and locking it. what the fuck are you doing now?

“what are you doing-“ 

“you didn’t answer my question last night.” you cut him off. 

robby shakes his head in disbelief. “sweetheart, this is not the place we should be talking about that.” 

“when will we ever talk about it, then?” you eye him, and the softness of your tone turns serious. he suddenly stiffens. “it’s a yes or no question, robby.” 

he fights back, trying to stay rational and authoritative. “i’m your attending-“ 

“yes or no?” your voice drops with authority. that you're fed up with his nonsense. he blinks, his resolve finally breaking as he runs a hand down his mouth. 

“yes.” he breathes out. and the two of you fall quiet as he looks at your expression, yet your face remains passive just like last night. you stare at him, and he finally gets a semblance of what you’re feeling right now as your gaze falls down to his bulge.

“good.” you praise him at last, and his cock jumps at that. “see? that wasn’t so hard, was it?” 

“…this is completely inappropriate.” 

“shut up.” you glare at him, taking a step closer to where he’s standing. “i think we’re way past appropriate with the way you’ve acted around me since… forever, robby.”  

he genuinely feels ashamed. “i-“ 

“did you like what i was watching last night?” your airy tone comes back, and he has to say no and get the hell out of here. “answer me, robby.” 

but he nods. “yeah.” 

“good. you’ve been good now, aren’t you? answering me truthfully.” you cooed, and he likes the way you praise him. “…you know, i thought you were just being very kind, like the good man that you are. always there for your residents and patients, but you always had a soft spot for me, don’t ‘ya?” 

…fuck, you knew he likes you? since when? his thoughts spiral as you’re getting closer to him. 

“i really liked it, robby. i can say that i really liked you until you started acting weird all of the sudden. that pissed me off.” you pout, and he wants to say sorry, but he stays silent as he watches your every move until you’re so close to him, he can feel your breath. you like him? his heart beats loudly as his cheeks turn red. 

“then i understand now why you suddenly changed… i thought you were disgusted by me-“ 

“i could never be disgusted with you, sweetheart.” he replies almost instantly. he had to assure you because seeing you frown made him weak. “i’m the disgusting one-“ 

“shh, none of that.” you say as your hands cup his cheeks and he lets out a tiny breath. “…i really liked it when you’re like this… so obedient and willing. you needed a little push, huh?” 

“i-i-“ he doesn't know what to say, but the softness of your hands lulls him. 

“yeah, huh? i think you deserve something special from me.” you cooed, your hands dropping down to his chest. he stares at your lips as you grin at him. 

he lunges forward, taking you in a heated kiss as you let out a noise of surprise as you kiss him back with the same energy. he grips the back of your neck to keep you steady while your arms wrapped around his neck to pull him closer. his knees buckled as he held you close, desperate to taste you as his tongue nudged your lower lip to let him in. you moan as your tongues clash with each other. the kiss was so messy and hot that it made him feel like he had a fever. 

you like him. god, you like him. 

robby almost whines when you suddenly pull away. both of your chests are heaving as you look at each other with heavy gazes. you grin as you wipe your mouth, savoring his taste and he licks his lips. 

“i was waiting for so long for you to make a move… but i’ll settle for this.” you suddenly say, and robby almost laughs until you drop to your knees in front of him. 

“sweetheart, w-we still have an hour until- oh, fuck-“ your hands fumble with his belt. he clenches his fist as he lets you do whatever you’re doing that he knows is downright wrong to be doing in a hospital bathroom. 

“shut up or i’ll stop, okay?” you look up at him, and he nods desperately. you unclasp his belt then immediately unzipped him. you don’t waste time to tease him as you pull the band of his boxers down until his cock sprang out. he hears you let out a tiny breath of surprise, seeing his cock jump out red and angry. 

“oh my.” you laugh as you grip him. he stares down, seeing you admire his cock as you spit on his tip all of the sudden. he shudders, biting back a moan as your hand starts to jerk him off. good god, he hasn’t touched himself in a week, and he swears he’ll cum any moment at your ministrations. “it’s so big, robby. you’re so big.” 

he lets out a tiny groan in response as you continue to jerk him off with a smile. 

“aww, how long have you been holding yourself out? it’s so red on the tip and so hard…” you say sweetly as you kiss the head. 

robot stutters. “i-i’m not gonna last long. s-shit-“ 

you suddenly stop your movements, and look up at him disapprovingly. “don’t you dare or i won’t let you cum.” 

he panics. “i’ll be good! i promise… it’s just that i haven’t- uhm-“ he’s too embarrassed to say it. 

you giggle. “aww, then you’ll have to try harder not cum, okay?” 

robby nods sadly. “okay.” 

“good.” you praise him, and he twitched in your hand. you kiss his tip again, peppering kisses all over his cock as the other cups his heavy balls. he almost dies when you finally take his tip into your mouth and suck lightly. he had to bite down on his fist to not moan loudly. or else both of you are fired if anyone caught you two. a resident sucking off their attending, what an image. 

you welcome him into your mouth as his hands flies down to your head. not grabbing it, but only holding you gently to guide you. you bob your head, moaning around him, liking the way he feels on your tongue. all big and stuffed. he lets out tiny sounds of pleasure as you continue to suck him off. 

“i-i’m close, fuck, i’m so close. i’m sorry-“ tears wet his eyes at the immense pleasure you’re giving. 

your mouth pops when you pull back, and he lets out a low whine. “that’s okay, baby. you’ll just have to make it up for me later. you’re so good for saying sorry.” 

“y-yeah?” he asks breathlessly, and your hand moves up and down on his cock. it’s all sticky and messy from your mouth and his precum. your hands feel so good around him. 

“yeah.” you grin and take him in your mouth again. this time you suck him off more harshly making him groan as he holds your head gently. his hips buck as he mutters jumbled words as he feels his balls tighten, almost near. 

“oh god, yeah- yesyesyesyes, please-“ he whispers as you feel him shoot out his release. thick white hot ropes of cum keep flowing in your mouth as you swallowed it all. his chest heaved as knees buckled at the intensity of his release. he slowly pulls out of your mouth as you cough a little as he sees some of spend drip at the corners of your lips. he feels all warm and sweaty seeing you on your knees, mouth full of cum as you swallowed it all with a satisfied look on your face. 

he helps you stand up as he tucks his flaccid cock back in his pants. he suddenly feels all shy as you lean up to peck his lips. 

“you were so good, robby.” you tell him sweetly. “but i think you can do so much better than that, right?” 

he should be saying that this was wrong, but to hell with that now. “let me make it up to you, please.” he begs as he kisses you again. you grin against his lips as you smirk at him. it’s as if you planned this from the start. but robby’s too fucked-out and smitten with the way you’re in his arms right now. 

“take me home, then.” 

・゜゜・．

haha, edged y’all.

mini taglist: @thesandbeneathmytoes

[drhobby]

the plan

dr. robby x exwife!reader / entirely based on this request / your kids are playing matchmakers word count: 1.5 k warnings: hear me out ok? if my children (i dont have any lmao) actually did this, those kids would be in therapy faster than his father can go on sabbatical. but since this is fiction, its kinda cute notes: i am possessed!! this is concerning!!!! i can't stop writing these two make sure to check the masterlist for more toxic content

The first few times you didn’t think too much about it. You had just ordered dessert when your phone rang.

You muttered an apology to Tom and picked up.

“Everything alright?” It had become your new hello whenever Robby called and had the children.

“Hey. Sorry to interrupt.” You could hear Robby on the other end of the line, his voice sounding distraught and tired. In the background, your daughter’s crying functioned as his backing vocals.

“Are you?” you joked lightly.

You heard him let out a weak chuckle. “Mila insists on waiting for mommy.”

“So I hear.” You sighed, sympathy tugging at your chest. “Did you try watching Frozen?”

“Yes. We’re thirty minutes in. She stopped wailing, but the tears just keep falling.” He scoffed softly at his own helplessness. “It’s heartbreaking, honestly.”

Your eyes darted to Tom, an apology written all over your face. “I can be there in… fifteen minutes?”

“Yeah, that’ll work.”

“Isaac?”

“Fast asleep since nine.”

“Good, good. Well, see you then.”

You hung up and turned to Tom, who was already signaling the waiter for the check and a to-go box for your dessert.

“I am so sorry.” You bit your lower lip, feeling genuinely guilty.

He gave you a warm, understanding smile. “Don’t be. She needs her mom.”

You squeezed his hand over the table. “Thank you.”

True to form, Tom held the car door open for you and drove you all the way to Robby’s place.

“Do you want to call him so he knows you're here?” Tom asked, shifting the car into park outside the house.

“No, I have a key.” You wiggled your keychain at him with a soft smile.

Tom got out to open your door again, and you took the opportunity to step close and kiss him goodbye. His hands slided up to your jaw, angling your face to kiss you deeper.

“Have a good night,” he whispered against your lips, his thumb brushing your cheekbone.

“You already made it so.” You pecked his lips one last time before untangling yourself from his hold and walking up to the front door.

You opened Robby’s door with the familiarity of your own. Inside, your daughter whimpered on the couch, her gaze fixed on the television where Elsa was singing something you didn’t register. In two strides, you were there, lifting her into your arms. “Oh, baby. I missed you, too.”

Robby emerged from the kitchen, two steaming cups of tea in his hands. He set them on the coffee table.

You sat down with your daughter in arms.

“Nice kiss,” he mumbled, the rim of the cup shielding the smirk that quirked his mouth.

“Oh, thank you,” you said, offering a cynical smile as you twisted the knife. “It really was.”

“Mommy” Mila mumbled against your chest, rubbing her eyes with her fists. 

“I’m here, baby. Mommy’s here.” You swayed her softly against your chest. Taking occasional sips off the cup Michael brought you.

“If your heart’s beating too fast she’ll never calm down.” He whispered in a rusty voice.

You looked down on him, your mouth pressed to the side. “My heart’s not beating too fast.” 

He clicked his tongue. “Then the kiss wasn’t so good.” 

Your eyes rolled and decided to maintain the task at hand. You kept your daughter pressed against your chest, swaying slightly until her hiccups subsided.

Robby swallowed, leaning against the back of the couch. “Have you corrected his hand placement yet?”

“I didn’t need to. I like his hand placement just fine.”

Robby turned his focus to you, his warm gaze stealing the oxygen from your lungs. “Really?”

“Really,” you whispered. You peeked down at your daughter and found her fast asleep. “She’s out.”

His eyes followed yours to the small bundle against your chest. “Magic.”

“No, just Mom.” You pressed a soft kiss to her hair.

Robby’s voice dropped an octave, turning warm and hushed. “Is your VIP Uber waiting outside, or are you going to call him?”

You looked at him for a heartbeat before standing, knowing that if you stared any longer, you’d be hypnotized. “No. I was just going to call a regular one.” You stepped into the bedroom, gently laying her down, before returning and closing the door behind you.

“You’re not getting into an Uber at one in the morning,” Robby announced, already pulling blankets from the closet.

You were too exhausted to object. You plopped onto the couch with a weary sigh. “Want to share dessert? It’s tiramisu.”

“Isn’t that considered cheating?” he teased from the other end of the cushions.

You arched an eyebrow. “I’d be more concerned about sleeping on my ex’s couch.”

“Oh, no. You’re taking the bed. I’m claiming the couch.”

You turned to face him. “Your back will kill you tomorrow.”

Robby just shrugged, sitting down next to you and handing over the takeout container and a spoon. You took the first bite, the moan that escaped you effectively ruining the room’s temperature. Robby’s expression tightened, his smile fighting to stay buried.

You handed him the spoon, and the gesture was mirrored. “It’s too good.”

“Mm-hmm.” You took the spoon back, loading it with cream. “How’s it going with Hastings?”

He grimaced, waiting for you to finish your bite before taking the spoon back. “It’s over.”

“Why?”

He licked the spoon absentmindedly. “Seven weeks.”

“Oh.” Your eyes followed the movement of his tongue.

He tracked your gaze, his smirk widening as he passed the spoon back. You kept your eyes fixed on the remaining dessert to avoid his.

“Go to bed. I’ll drive you in the morning,” he said, gesturing toward his room.

You turned the spoon, licking the last of the cream from the metal before putting it back on the plate. “I really think I should get the couch.”

Robby took a long, heavy moment to answer. “Listen, I might not be your knight in shining armor, but I can manage ‘gentleman.’ You get the bed.”

You stood, a light scoff escaping your nose. “I never doubted you were, Robinavitch.”

He looked up at you from the couch, his eyes searching for something you couldn't name. “Get out of here.”

“Good night, Michael,” you said over your shoulder before closing the door.

***

Next time, it was Isaac. 

The boy cried and trembled in fear, begging you to call his father. Too exhausted to argue with a five-year-old’s logic, you unlocked your phone and dialed.

“Everything alright?” Robby answered.

“Hey. Can you come over?” You figured there was no point in beating around the bush.

“What kind of call is this?” You heard him chuckling on the other end.

You scoffed gently. “Isaac wants his dad to tuck him in.”

“I’ll be there in ten.”

It was always like that. No matter what lay between the two of you, you were both fiercely committed to being there for your kids.

By the time Robby arrived, you were waiting in the living room. Isaac was perched right at your side, having insisted on staying up to wait.

“Jesus, who died?” Robby asked the second he pushed the door open.

Isaac immediately scrambled off the couch and ran to him. You turned to Robby, your eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

“Isn’t that what all the flowers are for?” he teased, lifting Isaac into his arms. He looked down at the boy. “Why don’t you want to sleep, buddy?”

“I miss you.” Isaac rounded his shoulders, burying his face into his dad's jacket.

The look you exchanged with Robby over your son's head was heavy with melancholy. In moments like this, you couldn’t help but blame yourself for the split.

“Hey, you don’t have to miss me. I’m always just one call away, okay?” Robby reassured him, pressing a warm kiss into the boy's dark hair. “Let’s get you to bed, kid.”

With Isaac still cradled in his arms, Robby walked past you toward the stairs. “Say goodnight to Mom,” he instructed.

“Goodnight, Mom.”

“Say I love you, Mom.”

Isaac chuckled, his eyes bright. “Only if you say it too.”

Your hands flew to your face, trying to hide the instant, creeping blush.

“Well, aren’t you a little mastermind, huh?” Robby tickled the kid, making him cackle. Then, Robby's eyes caught yours, holding them for a heartbeat. “I love you.”

Before you could process the hitch in your breath, he returned his attention to the kid. “Your turn.”

“I love you, Mom!” your son offered, flashing a toothy smile that completely melted your heart.

“I love you too, baby. Both of you,” you managed, clearing the sudden lump in your throat. You gestured toward the stairs with a flick of your head. “Now, bedtime.”

“Yes, Captain.” Robby rearranged the boy in his arms and disappeared up the stairs.

By the time he returned to the living room, you had already poured two glasses of wine. Robby sank onto the couch with a heavy exhale, looking thoroughly exhausted.

He extended a hand to take the glass you offered.

You raised your own to him in a weary salute. “They’re outsmarting us.”

He chuckled, the sound low and tired. “We need to step up our game.”

You clicked your glasses together, the soft ring echoing in the quiet house, and drank in peaceful, contemplative silence.

[fanficwritinggirl]

{Dada - Andrew Pope Cody x F!Reader}

You are going to be emotionally destroyed.

By the time Andie was eight months old, Andrew's voice had become one of the ordinary sounds of the house.

It lived in the nursery beside the wooden duck with the crooked beak. It came through the little approved player during bedtime, nap time, teething time, and the terrible half hour before dinner when Andie seemed to remember suddenly and personally that she was a baby and therefore had grievances.

There was the duck book, still the favourite.

The bear book, which Andrew had read so seriously you had cried laughing the first time you played it.

The moon book, which always made Andie go quiet.

And the rabbit book.

The stupid rabbit book.

Andrew still claimed he hated it, even though he had recorded it three times because the first version had "too much page noise" and the second had "bad pacing," whatever that meant when the intended audience regularly tried to eat her own socks.

His voice had talked Andie through colic.

Through teething.

Through nap strikes.

Through one memorable evening where she screamed every time you sat down, then stopped immediately when Andrew's recording said, "Hi, baby girl. It's me," like she had simply been waiting for the correct parent to arrive.

You had told him that on the phone.

He had gone quiet for so long you thought the call had dropped.

Then he said, very softly, "She's got standards."

You had laughed so hard Andie had startled awake.

Now there were photos everywhere.

Andrew holding Andie during the contact visit, your head resting against his shoulder.

Andie smiling at his voice, the photo slightly blurry but perfect anyway.

A newer picture of Andrew from a visit, his hand pressed to the glass while Andie's little palm rested opposite his. She had been too young to understand it then. Now, sometimes, she slapped at the photo like she was trying to get his attention.

The nursery had changed too.

The rocking chair still creaked.

The green walls were still soft and warm.

But now there were baskets of toys, board books with chewed corners, soft blocks, rattles, tiny socks that appeared in places socks had no business being, and one wooden duck that had been moved to a higher shelf after Andie tried to put the entire thing in her mouth.

Andrew had been horrified.

"She can't eat the duck," he had said.

"She didn't eat the duck."

"She tried."

"She tries to eat everything."

"Move it."

"I moved it."

"Higher."

"Andrew."

"Higher."

So the duck lived on the high shelf now, safely above Andie's reach, looking down over the room like a tiny wooden guardian with a questionable beak.

You loved it more than most furniture.

That afternoon, Andrew's bear recording was playing in the living room while Craig tried to install a baby gate between the hall and kitchen.

Tried was the key word.

He had been at it for forty minutes.

The gate was still not attached.

Deran sat on the sofa eating crisps and pretending not to be entertained by the whole thing.

Andie sat on the rug in the middle of the room, surrounded by toys, one soft block in each hand, dark hair curling slightly at the back of her head, cheeks round, eyes bright, mouth shiny from drool.

She had started crawling two weeks ago.

Not properly at first.

More like dragging herself forward with sheer determination and one suspiciously strong leg.

Now she was fast.

Too fast.

Alarmingly fast.

You had turned around yesterday and found her halfway under the coffee table, chewing the edge of an unopened packet of wipes like she had paid rent and could do what she liked.

Hence the baby gate.

Craig muttered something under his breath and glared at the instructions.

You folded laundry at the end of the sofa, half watching him, half watching Andie, because motherhood had given you the ability to see in several directions at once and still somehow miss where the dummy went.

"You're holding it backwards," Deran said.

Craig did not look up. "I am not."

"You are."

"I'm reading the instructions."

"That's worse."

Craig lifted the paper. "How is reading the instructions worse?"

"Because you're still holding it backwards."

You glanced over.

"He's right."

Craig slowly lowered the instructions and looked at you.

You smiled.

"Sorry."

"You are not sorry."

"No, I'm not."

Deran crunched another crisp. "Pope would've had it done by now."

Craig pointed a screwdriver at him. "Pope would've hated the instructions and then pretended he didn't need them."

"Yeah, but it'd be done."

"It would be crooked."

"It would be secure."

"Those are different things."

On the rug, Andie slapped one block against the other.

"Ba," she announced.

All three of you looked at her.

She stared back, delighted with the power of sound.

"Ba-ba-ba."

You smiled automatically.

"That's right," you said. "Tell them."

Craig softened immediately, despite himself. "Yeah? You telling him he's useless?"

Deran leaned forward. "Don't put that on her. She likes me."

"She tolerates you."

"She smiles when I walk in."

"She smiles at ceiling fans too."

"Ceiling fans are funny."

Andie flapped both arms.

Andrew's voice played from the small speaker on the side table.

"And the bear went looking for the moon."

Andie turned her head toward the sound.

You noticed because you always noticed.

Even after months of it, the little turn still pulled at something inside you.

She knew him.

Not in the way she knew you.

Not in the bodily, constant, milk-and-sleep-and-skin way she knew you.

But she knew him.

His voice.

His rhythm.

The low softness he used only for her.

Andie dropped one block.

"Da," she said.

Your hands went still in the laundry.

Craig froze with the screwdriver in midair.

Deran, without missing a beat, said, "No."

You looked at him.

"I didn't say anything."

"You had the face."

"What face?"

"The mother face."

"I do not have a mother face."

"You absolutely have a mother face."

Craig was still staring at Andie. "She did say da."

Deran pointed at him. "Don't encourage it."

Craig blinked. "She did."

"Babies make sounds."

You sat forward slowly, heart suddenly thudding.

Andrew's recording continued.

"The bear was very tired."

Andie bounced slightly where she sat, hands on her knees, gummy little mouth working around another sound.

"Da."

Craig's expression changed.

Deran stopped chewing.

You whispered, "Where's Daddy, baby?"

Deran looked at you. "You're escalating."

"Shh."

Andrew's photo sat on the low shelf beside the stack of board books. Not the wooden duck shelf, because that one was now practically a museum exhibit, but the lower shelf with the soft toys and the approved player. In the photo, Andrew was on the other side of the visiting glass, palm pressed flat, eyes fixed on Andie with that expression that still made your chest hurt if you looked too long.

You pointed gently.

"Where's Daddy?"

Andie followed your hand.

Maybe.

Or maybe she just looked at the bright square on the shelf because babies were mysterious and often unhelpful.

Then Andrew's recorded voice said, "Hi, Andie. It's me."

Andie grinned.

Your breath caught.

She slapped one hand down on the rug.

"Da."

It was not clear enough.

Not yet.

But it was close.

So close that the whole room seemed to hold its breath.

Craig lowered the screwdriver.

Deran set the crisp packet down.

"No," Deran said again, but quieter this time.

You turned to him, eyes wide.

"Deran."

"No. Not yet."

Craig looked at him. "You heard that."

"I heard a sound."

"You heard a dad sound."

"A dad sound?" Deran repeated. "That's not a thing."

"It is now."

You were already reaching for your phone.

"No one move."

Deran looked offended. "I wasn't moving."

"Don't breathe emotionally either."

"I don't breathe emotionally."

"You absolutely do," Craig said.

Deran glared at him. "Install the gate."

"Record the baby," Craig shot back.

You ignored both of them and opened your camera.

The second the phone was pointed at her, Andie stopped making any noise at all.

Of course she did.

She picked up the soft block and put the corner in her mouth.

You lowered the phone slightly.

"Andie," you said gently.

She chewed harder.

"Baby girl."

She stared at you.

Andrew's recording continued in the background, steady and warm.

You pointed again to the photo.

"Where's Daddy?"

Andie drooled on the block.

Deran leaned back. "Strong performance."

You shot him a look.

Craig moved quietly around the side of the rug, crouching so he wasn't in the frame. "Maybe play the start again."

You glanced at him.

He looked deeply serious.

Evidence mode.

You loved him a little for it.

"Good idea."

Deran looked between you. "This is becoming a production."

"This is a milestone," you said.

"This is a baby chewing foam."

"She said da."

"She said a syllable."

Craig gave him a warning look. "Deran."

"What?"

"Don't be an ass."

Deran's jaw worked, but he shut up.

You stopped the recording player and restarted the bear book.

Static.

A small scrape.

Then Andrew's voice.

"Hi, Andie."

Andie went still.

Your phone was already recording.

Craig stopped moving.

Deran's expression shifted despite his best efforts.

Andie's whole face changed when she heard him.

It always did.

Not dramatically. Not like adults recognized people.

But her eyes brightened. Her mouth softened. Her fingers opened against the block.

"Hi, baby girl," Andrew's voice continued. "It's me."

Andie kicked both legs.

You held your breath.

"Where's Daddy?" you whispered.

Andie looked toward the player.

Then toward the photo.

Then she smiled.

A wide, gummy, delighted smile.

Craig's eyes went shiny immediately.

Deran's mouth parted slightly.

Andie slapped the rug.

"Dada."

Clear.

Small.

Imperfect.

Perfect.

For one impossible second, nobody moved.

Then Craig whispered, "Oh, shit."

You clapped one hand over your mouth.

Your phone kept recording.

Andie looked thrilled with herself.

"Dada," she said again, less clear this time, more babble than word, but it did not matter.

It had happened.

It had happened.

It had happened.

Your knees went weak even though you were already sitting.

Craig lowered himself onto the arm of the sofa like he needed support.

Deran stared at Andie.

He did not say it was gas.

He did not say it did not count.

He did not say anything for a long moment.

Then, very quietly, he said, "Okay."

You turned to him through tears.

His eyes were fixed on Andie.

"That one counted."

Your face crumpled.

Craig looked away, dragging a hand over his mouth.

You stopped the recording with shaking fingers, then immediately checked it.

The video began slightly sideways because of course it did. Andrew's voice came through clear enough. Your whisper. The pointed finger toward the photo. Andie's smile.

Then the word.

Dada.

Tiny.

Crackly.

World-ending.

You played it once.

Craig leaned closer.

Deran did not move from the sofa, but his eyes flicked to the screen.

You played it again.

Andrew's voice: Hi, baby girl. It's me.

Andie: Dada.

You started crying properly.

Not cute crying.

Not manageable crying.

The kind of crying that made your shoulders shake and your breath break apart.

Andie looked at you, confused by the sudden display, then laughed.

Actually laughed.

One of those little baby laughs that sounded like hiccups had learned joy.

Craig made a sound that might have been a laugh if it had not been so wet around the edges.

Deran looked at the ceiling.

"You're gonna kill him, kid," he muttered.

You wiped your face with the sleeve of Andrew's old T-shirt.

"She said Dada."

Craig nodded.

"She did."

"She said Dada."

"Yeah."

Deran stood abruptly.

You looked at him.

He pointed vaguely toward the kitchen. "I'm getting water."

"For who?"

"Everyone."

He left the room too fast.

Craig watched him go.

Then looked at you.

"He's crying in the kitchen."

"Should we let him?"

"Absolutely."

You laughed through tears and scooped Andie up from the rug.

She came willingly, still grinning, one hand grabbing your collar.

"Oh, baby," you whispered, pressing kisses all over her soft cheek. "You have no idea what you just did."

Andie slapped your face gently.

You laughed harder.

Craig crouched near the baby gate parts, still emotional, still holding the screwdriver.

"You gonna tell him tonight?"

"If he calls."

"He'll call."

"You don't know that."

Craig looked at Andie.

Then at the photo of Andrew.

"Yeah," he said softly. "He will."

The rest of the day moved strangely.

Everything ordinary looked different because Andie had said a word and the world had shifted around it.

The baby gate eventually got installed.

Crooked.

Secure, according to Craig.

Suspicious, according to Deran.

You fed Andie lunch while she banged one hand on the highchair tray and babbled nonsense as if she had not just emotionally destroyed an entire family.

Deran stayed longer than planned.

Craig did too.

Neither of them admitted it.

Craig said he wanted to make sure the gate held.

Deran said traffic was bad.

Traffic was not bad.

You let them lie.

By seven o'clock, Andie was in her pyjamas, hair damp from a bath, face soft and sleepy in the way that made her look younger again. The pyjamas had tiny yellow stars on them. Andrew had not seen them yet. You made a mental note to send a picture.

Your phone sat on the arm of the rocking chair.

The video was saved.

Backed up.

Sent to yourself twice.

Deran had also made you send it to him "in case you do something stupid with technology."

Craig had it too.

Everyone was guarding the word like evidence in a murder trial.

At 8:37, the phone rang.

Your entire body jolted.

Craig looked up from the sofa.

Deran, sitting on the floor with his back against the armchair because he claimed the sofa was "too soft," froze.

You grabbed the phone.

The automated voice began.

You pressed one.

Static.

Then Andrew.

"Hey."

You tried to be normal.

You really did.

"Hi."

A pause.

"What happened?"

Your eyes filled immediately.

"Nothing bad."

"That means something happened."

Craig looked at Deran.

Deran looked at the floor.

You shifted Andie against your chest.

She was drowsy but awake, cheek pressed to your shoulder, one hand clutching your shirt.

"Andrew."

His voice changed. "What?"

"She said Dada."

Silence.

Complete.

Total.

So long that your heart started pounding.

Then he said, very quietly, "What?"

You closed your eyes.

"She said Dada."

Another silence.

And then, almost a whisper, "No."

"Yes."

"She's too little."

"She's eight months."

"That's still little."

"She said it."

"Baby."

"I have video."

The line went dead quiet again.

You could hear him breathing.

Craig looked away.

Deran stood abruptly and walked toward the kitchen.

You watched him go with a sad smile.

Andrew's voice came back rough.

"You have video?"

"Yes."

"You got it?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"Because Craig went into evidence mode and Deran emotionally denied the whole thing until he couldn't."

A sound came through the line.

Barely a laugh.

Barely anything.

"Play it," Andrew said.

You swallowed.

"Okay."

You pulled the phone away and opened the video on your other device, holding it close to the receiver.

Craig came to stand quietly beside you.

Deran appeared again in the doorway, pretending he had not just left the room to have feelings.

You pressed play.

Static from the recording.

Andrew's own voice, tinny through the video, then through the prison phone.

Hi, Andie.

A rustle.

Your whisper.

Where's Daddy?

Then Andie's little voice.

Clear enough.

Tiny enough.

Perfect enough.

Dada.

Andrew made no sound.

You stopped the video.

The silence stretched.

Then he said, "Again."

You played it again.

Hi, baby girl. It's me.

Your whisper.

Where's Daddy?

Andie.

Dada.

Andrew's breathing broke.

Your eyes filled again.

"Again," he whispered.

You played it a third time.

Craig pressed the heel of his hand against his eye.

Deran turned away, jaw tight.

The video ended.

You brought the phone back to your ear.

"Andrew?"

He did not answer immediately.

When he did, his voice sounded wrecked beyond repair.

"She said it."

"She did."

"She said Dada."

"Yes."

"At the recording?"

"At your voice."

"At my photo?"

"I think so. I pointed and asked where Daddy was."

"You asked where Daddy was."

"Yes."

"And she said..."

"Dada."

His breath shook.

You held Andie closer.

"She knows you," you whispered.

Andrew said nothing.

"She knows you well enough to call for you."

That broke him.

Not loudly.

Andrew never broke loudly if he could help it.

But you heard it.

The small sound.

The way his breath stopped being steady.

The way he turned away from the phone and came back a second later, trying to sound like he had not just been split open by a baby's first word.

"She said it first?" he asked.

Your chest tightened.

There it was.

The part you had been waiting for.

Not because you thought he would ruin it.

Because you knew him.

You knew love often came into him wrapped in guilt.

"Yes," you said softly.

He was quiet.

"Before Mama?"

"Yes."

Another silence.

Then, carefully, "Are you okay?"

You smiled through tears.

The question was so Andrew it hurt.

Even now.

Even after hearing his daughter say Dada.

He was worried about you.

"Because she said that first?" you asked.

He did not answer right away.

Then, "Yeah."

You looked down at Andie.

She was half asleep now, little lashes resting low, mouth moving softly against your shirt.

Your daughter.

Your everyday.

Your morning weight.

Your midnight cry.

Your warm, stubborn, impossible little person.

You got her first breath on your chest.

First feed.

First bath.

First night home.

First fever scare.

First time she rolled from her tummy to her back and scared herself so badly she cried.

First smile in real time.

Every tiny ordinary first that Andrew had to receive through stories and recordings and printed photos.

Your throat tightened.

"Andrew," you whispered.

He waited.

"I get to be here every day."

The line went quiet.

"She knows I'm here," you said. "She reaches for me. She cries for me. She falls asleep on me. She pulls my hair like she has a personal vendetta against my scalp."

Craig huffed softly.

You kept going.

"I get so much. I get more than you do right now. And I hate that. I hate it for you."

Your voice trembled.

"But this one..." You looked down at Andie again. "I wanted this one to be yours."

Andrew's breathing broke.

"I wanted it to be you," you said.

No one in the room moved.

Craig stared at the floor.

Deran had one hand over his mouth.

On the phone, Andrew said nothing for a long time.

Then, barely audible, "Baby."

"She said Dada because she knows your voice," you whispered. "Because you read to her. Because you call. Because you talk her down when she's mad. Because your photo is on the shelf and your books are in her room and your duck is watching over her like a weird little wooden bodyguard."

Craig's mouth twitched through the emotion.

"She said it because you're her dad," you said. "Not because you're missing. Because you're here in the ways you can be."

Andrew exhaled.

It sounded painful.

It sounded like relief.

It sounded like grief deciding, for once, not to win.

"She said Dada," he whispered again.

You smiled through tears.

"She said Dada."

Andie lifted her head slightly at the sound of your voice.

You shifted the phone.

"Do you want to talk to her?"

"Yes."

No hesitation.

You moved the phone near Andie's ear.

"She's listening."

Andrew's voice changed immediately.

Soft.

Low.

Hers.

"Hey, Andie."

Andie blinked.

Her eyes drifted toward the phone.

"I heard you."

She made a sleepy little sound.

Craig's face crumpled.

Deran looked at the ceiling.

Andrew continued, voice rough and tender.

"You said my name."

Andie slapped one hand gently against your collarbone.

"Yeah," Andrew whispered. "I know."

You pressed your lips together.

"I'm here," he said.

Andie babbled.

Not Dada.

Not anything clear.

Just a small string of sleepy sounds.

Andrew let out a broken laugh.

"You telling me about it?"

Andie made another noise.

"I know. Big day."

You were crying again.

You couldn't stop.

Not with his voice like that.

Not with Andie listening.

Not with Craig and Deran standing there pretending they were not being permanently altered by a baby and a prison phone.

Andrew's voice softened.

"I love you, baby girl."

Andie's eyes fluttered.

"Dada loves you."

Your hand flew to your mouth.

Craig turned away.

Deran left the room again.

This time, no one commented.

You brought the phone back to your ear.

Andrew was breathing unevenly.

"She talked to you," you whispered.

"Yeah."

"She didn't say it again."

"She doesn't have to."

"No?"

"No." His voice was low. "I heard it."

Your smile trembled.

"You did."

"I heard it."

The timer beeped faintly in the background.

You closed your eyes.

"How long?"

"Ten."

Ten minutes.

A gift.

A cruelty.

A lifetime if you used it right.

Craig quietly gathered the abandoned baby gate instructions and took them to the kitchen, giving you space without making a production of it.

Deran stayed in the hallway this time.

Close enough to hear.

Far enough to pretend.

You sat back down in the rocking chair, Andie curled against your chest, the phone tucked between your ear and shoulder.

For a few minutes, Andrew asked questions.

Not rushed.

Not panicked.

Careful.

Like he was trying to build the moment from every angle.

"What was she doing?"

"Sitting on the rug."

"What was she wearing?"

"The little yellow dungarees with the white shirt."

"The ones with the pocket?"

"Yes."

"She had toys?"

"Blocks."

"Which recording?"

"Bear."

He paused. "Bear?"

"Bear."

"Not duck?"

"Not duck."

"She said Dada to the bear?"

"She said Dada to your voice."

"That bear book is better than I thought."

You laughed softly.

"What did Craig do?"

"Nearly cried."

"Yeah?"

"Don't tell him I said that."

"I'm telling him."

"Andrew."

"He'll deny it."

"He absolutely will."

"And Deran?"

You smiled. "Left the room twice."

A rough little laugh came through the line.

"Yeah."

"He said it counted."

Andrew went quiet.

That seemed to mean something to him.

Of course it did.

Deran saying it counted meant it could not be dismissed as your hope or Andrew's imagination.

It counted.

Your daughter had said Dada.

The timer beeped again.

Five minutes.

You hated it.

Andie was nearly asleep now, her whole body loose and warm against you.

"She's falling asleep," you said.

"Good."

"You did that too."

"I didn't."

"You did."

"She's just tired."

"Let me have this."

A pause.

Then softer, "Okay."

You smiled.

"You should ask me again," you said.

"Ask what?"

"The thing."

Andrew was quiet for a second.

Then, almost shyly, "She said it?"

Your face crumpled all over again.

"She said it."

"At me?"

"At you."

"At my voice?"

"At your voice."

"What did it sound like?"

You closed your eyes, holding the moment carefully.

"Small," you said. "Like she didn't know what she was doing, but some part of her did anyway."

Andrew said nothing.

"Happy," you added.

His breath caught.

"She sounded happy."

The silence that followed was soft.

Not empty.

Full.

Finally, Andrew whispered, "She sounded happy."

"Yeah."

The timer beeped.

One minute.

You moved the phone back near Andie.

"Say goodnight."

Andrew's voice came through, barely steady.

"Goodnight, Andie."

She slept.

"I love you."

Her little fingers flexed against your shirt.

"I heard you today," he said.

Your eyes filled.

"I heard you."

Andie sighed in her sleep.

Andrew stopped for a second.

Then, softer, "Yeah. I know."

You brought the phone back.

"I love you," you said.

"I love you."

"You okay?"

"No."

You smiled sadly.

"Good no or bad no?"

A pause.

Then, "Good no."

Your eyes closed.

"Good."

The final warning beeped.

Andrew's voice came quickly, like he was trying to fit the whole world into the last seconds.

"Play it again for her tomorrow."

"I will."

"And send it."

"I will."

"And tell her—"

The line clicked.

Gone.

You lowered the phone slowly.

The room was quiet except for Andie's soft breathing.

Craig came back in after a moment, eyes carefully dry.

Deran followed, pretending very hard that he had not been lurking.

You looked at both of them.

"He heard it."

Craig nodded.

"Good."

Deran cleared his throat.

"Yeah," he said. "Good."

Andie slept on, entirely unaware that she had just given her father something no prison wall could take from him.

That night, Andrew did not sleep for a long time.

He lay on his back, one arm folded under his head, staring at the ceiling.

The unit settled around him in pieces.

Footsteps.

A cough.

A low voice down the tier.

Metal shifting somewhere.

All of it familiar.

None of it enough to drown out the sound in his head.

Dada.

Small.

Crackly.

Barely formed.

His.

He replayed it without the video.

He did not need the video yet.

He had the sound now.

Your voice first.

Where's Daddy?

Then Andie.

Dada.

Andrew pressed one hand over his chest.

Not because something hurt.

Because something did not.

For once, the ache in him was not only grief.

It was wonder.

His daughter knew him well enough to call for him.

Maybe she did not understand the word yet.

Maybe it was babble.

Maybe tomorrow she would say it to a lamp or the baby gate or Deran's shoe.

It did not matter.

You had asked where Daddy was.

Andie had answered.

Andrew turned his head toward the wall of photos.

In the dark, he could not see them clearly.

But he knew each one.

Scan.

Gender note.

Nursery photo.

Contact visit.

Smile.

The timeline of his daughter finding her way to him.

Now there would be another piece.

A video.

A sound.

A word.

He closed his eyes.

Across the city, you laid Andie carefully in her cot after she finally surrendered to sleep. The nursery was dim. The wooden duck watched from the high shelf. The approved player sat beside the stack of books, waiting for tomorrow.

You looked down at your daughter.

Her mouth was relaxed now, no words, no babbling, no little sounds except breath.

"You made his whole life with one word today," you whispered.

Andie slept on.

You smiled, touched two fingers to your lips, then gently to her forehead.

"Dada," you whispered back to her.

As if returning the word to the room.

As if letting it settle where it belonged.

Behind concrete and locked doors, Andrew Cody fell asleep with his daughter's voice in his head, saying the only word that could have found him through every wall.

Taglist - 

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@Jennataurus, @heyyimmisunderstood,@just-reading22, @karlawithacapitalk, @alexxavicry, @tubby23, @mil88691 

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[enjinsdoll]

𝓔𝓷𝓳𝓲𝓷 — your completely (un)serious boyfriend

every single time you bend down in front of him he smacks your ass like it’s a reflex. like a doctor hitting your knee with that little hammer. he genuinely doesn’t even realize he’s doing it anymore.

when you take off your shirt he hollers, “BOOBIES!” loud enough for half of the cleaner hq to hear. rudo once dropped a wrench because of it.

he got a pic of you in his pocket where you sleep with your mouth wide open, double chin included. he proudly shows it EVERYONE.

calls you baby in increasingly stupid variations. sugarbaby. babycakes. babygirl. babybel cheese. babesaurus rex.

absolutely the type to fake dramatic injuries for attention. “aughhh… my heart…” — “what happened?” — “you looked too pretty.”

if you ignore him for more than ten minutes he starts escalating. first it’s whining. then poking. then laying on top of you like a weighted blanket. “hello? hello? customer service? my girlfriend stopped loving me.”

he cannot flirt normally. ever. he points at you and goes, “that one’s mine btw,” like he found a cool rock.

one time he tried to kiss you smoothly and accidentally headbutted you hard enough to make both of you see stars.

obsessed with making you laugh. if you laugh so hard you snort, he acts like he just won the lottery.

if you’re cooking he WILL appear behind you and steal food straight from the pan while acting offended when you hit his hand away. “wow. abuse. in my own home.”

absolutely the kind of boyfriend who starts fake beef with inanimate objects for hurting you.“this table got one more time to hit my girl before i square up.”

loves putting his cold hands on your skin just to hear you shriek.

kisses you mid-sentence. not romantically either. fully to shut you up because he thinks it’s funny.

every time you wear something slightly revealing he malfunctions, in a “walking into walls because he’s staring” way.

would 100% yell “THAT’S MY WIFE!” over the smallest accomplishments. you parallel parked successfully? THAT’S MY WIFE!!!!

he treats your bra like a deadly ancient artifact whenever you ask him to unclasp it. “okay wait. hold on. i almost got it. why’s this built like a fucking escape room?”

once tried to carry you bridal style to be romantic. immediately dropped you both onto the couch because he tripped over absolutely nothing. another time he knocked you out on the doorframe.

if you’re shorter than him he rests his chin on your head constantly. if you’re taller than him he still tries. the posture is horrendous.

shamelessly fishes for compliments. “babe do i look sexy today?” — “you’re wearing one sock and my shirt?” — “answer the question.”

he sees you naked and suddenly turns into the loudest man alive. “WOOOOOOO!!!!” then rips his shirt off like in the werewolf meme.

genuinely thinks couple arguments can be solved with snacks and cuddles. “okay but what if we held hands and got noodles instead?”

[rh1nestcned]

⤷ ゛try my love again ˎˊ˗

the pope cody x ex-gf!reader cinematic universe

𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞 (/ˈsōlˌmāt/) a soulmate is a person with whom you feel an intense, profound, and often instant connection, characterized by deep understanding, shared values, and mutual growth. while frequently romantic, soulmates can also be friends or companions who challenge, support, and help you grow into a better version of yourself.

one two three four five

headcanons pinboard playlist

[fanficwritinggirl]

{One Whole Year - Andrew Pope Cody x F!Reader}

I can assure you all that he is getting out very soon. Comment to be added to the taglist.

Andie turned one on a Thursday.

You knew because you had checked the date six times before getting out of bed.

Not because you had forgotten.

Because it felt impossible.

A year.

One whole year since the hospital room, since Craig filming with shaking hands, since Deran pretending not to cry, since Andrew's voice through the prison phone telling you to breathe while his daughter fought her way into the world.

A year since she had been placed on your chest, furious and warm and dark-haired, with Andrew's frown already stamped across her face like a warning.

Now she was standing at the coffee table in the living room, one hand planted flat on the wood, the other clutching a soft block she had no intention of sharing with anyone.

She was wearing one sock.

The other had been missing for forty minutes.

She had a smear of banana on her cheek, a tiny yellow bow in her hair that she had already tried to remove twice, and an expression of deep suspicion aimed at the birthday outfit laid across the back of the sofa.

"No," you told her.

Andie slapped the block against the table.

"Da."

"Yes, Daddy later," you said, because that was what most of her sounds meant now, according to you and absolutely no science.

From the kitchen, Deran said, "That one was definitely block-related."

You looked over your shoulder.

He was leaning against the counter with a paper bag of pastries in one hand and a tiny birthday cupcake box in the other, trying very hard to look like he had not specifically gone to three places to find the right one.

"It was not block-related," you said.

"It was."

"She knows today is special."

"She's one. She thinks the remote is special."

"She does love the remote."

Craig came in from the hallway carrying the diaper bag, which he had packed and repacked twice with the grim seriousness of a man preparing for siege.

"Do we need two backup outfits or three?"

You stared at him.

"For a one-hour visit?"

"She got apple sauce in her ear yesterday."

"That was one time."

"How?"

You looked at Andie.

Andie looked back at you with complete innocence.

"No one knows," you said.

Craig put a third outfit in the bag.

You did not stop him.

The contact visit had been approved four days earlier.

You still did not entirely believe it.

The same family programme. The same good-behaviour notes. The same mountain of paperwork Craig had bullied into existence with phone calls, follow-ups, and a tone that made multiple people decide it was easier to say yes than continue speaking to him.

One hour.

Contact room.

Supervised.

Approved birthday visit.

You had read the message until the words blurred.

Then you had called Andrew.

He had gone silent for so long you had said his name twice.

Finally, he had said, "I get to hold her?"

And your whole chest had folded in.

Now the hour was today.

Andie's birthday.

Andrew's daughter, one year old, walking badly along furniture and saying his name like she had invented the word.

You looked at her again.

She grinned around the corner of the block.

Your eyes filled.

"No," Deran said immediately.

You blinked at him.

"What?"

"You're doing the birthday crying."

"I am not."

"You are."

Craig glanced over from the diaper bag. "She's allowed. It's emotional."

Deran pointed at him. "Don't encourage it."

Craig zipped the diaper bag shut. "You cried at the cake."

"I did not cry at the cake."

"You stood in the bakery staring at it like it owed you money."

"It was too small."

"It's a baby cupcake."

"She deserves bigger."

You pressed your lips together.

Deran saw your face and looked away fast.

"Don't."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were going to."

"You love her."

"Everyone loves her."

"You love her in a very soft uncle way."

"I will leave."

Andie slapped the table again.

"Da."

Deran looked at her. "See? She wants me to leave too."

"She is saying Daddy," you said.

"She says Dada to spoons."

"She says Dada when she sees Andrew's photo."

"She says Dada when she sees the ceiling fan."

Craig looked up. "To be fair, the ceiling fan is impressive."

You laughed despite the lump in your throat.

Andie cruised carefully along the coffee table toward the framed picture on the low shelf.

Andrew through visiting glass.

His hand pressed to the barrier.

Andie's tiny hand, months younger, held opposite it.

She slapped the frame with her palm.

"Dada."

The room went quiet.

Deran stopped pretending not to feel things.

Craig's hand stilled on the strap of the diaper bag.

You swallowed hard.

"Yeah, baby," you whispered. "We're going to see Dada."

Andie looked back at you and grinned.

Like she knew.

Maybe she didn't.

Maybe she only knew that the word Dada made your voice go soft and the house go still.

But you believed she knew enough.

That had always been the rule with Andie.

She knew enough.

The prison looked wrong with birthday clothes.

It had looked wrong with a newborn.

It looked wrong with a six-month-old.

It looked wrong with a baby in a soft yellow romper with tiny white stars, one sock already threatening escape, and a birthday bow in her hair that had somehow survived the car ride.

The building did not deserve her.

That was the thought you had every time.

It did not deserve Andrew either, but that was a different ache.

Andie sat on your hip, alert and busy, one hand fisted in the collar of your shirt. She looked around at the doors, the walls, the guards, the lights, taking everything in with the solemn intensity of a tiny judge.

Craig walked on one side of you with the diaper bag.

Deran walked on the other with the approved cupcake container.

He had complained about carrying it twice.

He had also refused to let Craig carry it because Craig "tilted it weird."

At security, the guard glanced at the paperwork.

Then at Andie.

"Birthday?" he asked.

"One," you said.

Andie stared at him.

The guard's face softened despite himself. "Happy birthday."

Andie blinked.

Then said, very seriously, "Da."

The guard looked briefly confused.

Craig looked down.

Deran coughed.

"She's selective with thank-yous," you said.

The guard waved you through.

The contact room was the same beige box you remembered.

Same table.

Same chairs.

Same too-high window.

Same walls that looked like they had been designed by someone who distrusted joy.

But today there was a small paper banner taped crookedly along one wall.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

Plain block letters.

Approved, apparently.

You had not brought it.

You looked at Craig.

Craig lifted both hands. "Not me."

Deran looked away.

You turned to him slowly.

"Deran."

"What?"

"You did the banner?"

"It came with the cupcake thing."

"It absolutely did not."

"Maybe it did."

Your eyes burned.

He made a face. "Don't."

"You got her a prison birthday banner."

"Worst sentence anyone's ever said."

Craig snorted.

You laughed wetly and leaned over to kiss Andie's head.

"Your uncle Deran is very emotionally fragile today."

Deran pointed at the door. "I'm waiting outside."

"Coward."

"Correct."

Craig set the diaper bag down and squeezed your shoulder once as he passed.

Not long.

Not dramatic.

Just enough.

"You good?"

You nodded.

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

"No."

He smiled faintly. "Fair."

Then he and Deran left.

The door closed.

You were alone with Andie.

For maybe five seconds.

Then the other door opened.

Andrew walked in.

Andie saw him before you said a word.

She turned toward the sound of the door, one hand still clutching your shirt, bow slightly crooked, eyes bright and curious.

Andrew stopped just inside the room.

His gaze went to you first.

It always did.

A quick check.

Your face.

Your body.

Your eyes.

Still making sure you were okay, even after a year of learning that you were allowed to be tired and fine at the same time.

Then he looked at Andie.

Really looked.

And something in him went quiet.

Not empty.

Not blank.

Quiet like a room after a storm.

She was so much bigger than the newborn he had held.

That was the first thing you saw him understand.

Not because he hadn't seen photos.

He had.

So many.

Printed photos. Visit photos. Still frames from videos. Pictures with banana on her face and socks in her hands and books half chewed.

But photos flattened her.

Here, she moved.

She breathed.

She looked at him.

She knew him.

Andrew's hands flexed once at his sides.

Andie stared.

One second.

Two.

Her face lit up.

Not slowly.

All at once.

A gummy, delighted grin opened across her face, bright enough to ruin him on sight.

Then she reached both arms toward him.

"Dada!"

Andrew's face broke.

Completely.

His hand came up over his mouth.

He looked like he had been hit.

You started crying immediately.

There was no point pretending otherwise.

Andie bounced on your hip, reaching harder.

"Da-da-da!"

"Oh," you whispered, half laughing, half sobbing. "Okay. Funeral for your father, apparently."

Andrew made a sound.

It might have been a laugh.

It might have been a sob.

It was probably both.

He crossed the room carefully, like moving too fast might make this less real.

Andie leaned toward him so hard you had to tighten your grip.

"Someone remembers you," you said.

His eyes lifted to yours.

Wet.

Destroyed.

"She does."

Not a question.

A realization.

You nodded.

"She does."

Andrew reached you.

For a second, he only looked at Andie.

Then his eyes came back to you.

"Hi," he said.

Your laugh shook. "Hi."

"You okay?"

"Still your first question."

"Yeah."

"I'm okay."

"You sure?"

"I'm very emotional, but physically intact."

His mouth twitched.

Then you shifted Andie higher.

"Do you want her?"

Andrew looked at his daughter.

Andie had one fist tangled in your shirt and one hand still reaching for him, impatient now.

His face softened into something so open it hurt.

"Yeah," he whispered.

You passed her over carefully.

This was different from the newborn visit.

So different it almost knocked the breath out of you.

Then, she had been small enough to frighten him into stillness.

Now Andie came into his arms like she had places to be.

She grabbed his collar immediately.

Andrew froze.

Andie patted his chest with one hand.

"Dada."

He closed his eyes.

Your hand flew to your mouth.

Andrew held her more securely, one arm under her, one hand spread over her back. His fingers looked huge against her little yellow romper.

"She's heavy," he whispered.

You laughed through tears.

"She is not heavy."

"She is."

"She weighs about as much as a bag of flour."

"She's heavier than last time."

"That was almost a year ago."

His jaw worked.

"I know."

Andie slapped his chest again.

"Da."

Andrew looked down at her.

"I'm here," he said.

His voice was barely there.

Andie grabbed at the front of his prison shirt, then leaned forward and planted her open mouth against his collarbone.

You blinked.

Andrew looked panicked.

"What is she doing?"

"Kissing you. Or trying to eat you. Hard to tell at this age."

Andie lifted her head, drool shining on his shirt.

Andrew stared at the wet mark.

Then looked at her like she had blessed him.

You laughed so hard you cried harder.

"She drooled on you."

"I know."

"You can wipe it."

"No."

Of course not.

You stepped closer and brushed your fingers over Andie's hair.

Andrew's eyes flicked to your hand.

Then to your face.

The room shifted.

For one year, every contact visit had left both of you starved for touch. Every time you were allowed in the same room without glass, you became careful and greedy at once.

Today was no different.

His free hand reached for you.

You took it immediately.

Palm to palm.

His fingers closed around yours with a force that made your breath catch.

Not too tight.

Never too tight.

Just enough to say he had missed this too.

You stepped into his side, your shoulder brushing his arm, Andie between you.

Andrew looked down at your joined hands.

Then at you.

"You made it a year," he whispered.

Your eyes filled.

You shook your head.

"We did."

His expression cracked.

"Baby."

"We did," you said again, firmer this time. "She knows you because you showed up every way you could. Calls. Books. Visits. Photos. All of it."

Andrew looked down at Andie.

She was busy trying to remove the top button of his shirt.

"You did this too," you said.

His hand tightened around yours.

Andie looked up at him again.

"Dada."

His face folded.

"Oh, she knows how to weaponize that now," you said.

Andrew huffed a broken laugh.

"She can say it whenever she wants."

"She does."

"Good."

"She said it to a spoon yesterday."

His eyes lifted.

"What?"

"You heard me."

"She called a spoon Dada?"

"Briefly."

Andrew considered this.

Then looked at Andie.

"That's okay."

You stared at him. "That's okay?"

"She's learning."

"She called cutlery by your title."

"She's one."

"You are so biased."

"Yes."

No hesitation.

No shame.

Just yes.

You laughed and leaned into his shoulder.

His hand released yours only to wrap around your back, careful and warm. You turned your face into him for one second, just one, breathing him in as much as the room allowed.

Andrew pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

Your eyes closed.

Andie slapped his cheek.

He opened his eyes.

You burst out laughing.

"She wants attention."

"She has it."

"She knows."

Andrew shifted Andie slightly and sat down, bringing her onto his lap. She immediately tried to twist around, interested in the table, the banner, your hair, the air, absolutely everything.

Andrew looked overwhelmed.

"She moves a lot."

"Yes."

"All the time?"

"Yes."

"How do you do anything?"

"I mostly don't."

He looked up, concerned.

"I'm kidding."

"Are you?"

"Partly."

He frowned.

You touched his cheek because you could.

Because you would use every second.

"I'm okay."

His eyes softened under your hand.

"You look tired."

"I am tired."

"But okay?"

"But okay."

Andie reached for your hand on his face and grabbed your fingers.

For a second, the three of you were tangled together.

Your hand on Andrew's cheek.

Andie's hand around your fingers.

Andrew's hand on Andie's back.

A ridiculous knot of love in a beige room.

Andrew looked at it.

His throat moved.

You did not say anything.

Some moments did not need help.

The guard outside shifted.

Reality, reminding you it existed.

You ignored it.

"Do you want the cupcake?" you asked.

Andrew looked immediately suspicious.

"For her?"

"For her birthday."

"She can eat cake?"

"She can eat a tiny bit of cupcake."

"Sugar?"

"Oh no. Not sugar on her birthday."

Andrew gave you a look.

You laughed. "Baby, she will survive frosting."

"What if she chokes?"

"She's supervised."

"What if—"

"Andrew."

His mouth shut.

You smiled fondly.

"Would you like to give your daughter her first birthday cupcake or would you like to continue arguing with me about sugar?"

He looked down at Andie.

Andie slapped the table.

"Da!"

He exhaled.

"Cupcake."

"Good choice."

You opened the little container.

The cupcake was tiny.

Yellow frosting.

One small white candle tucked separately because fire was absolutely not allowed in a prison contact room, which you had expected and honestly did not mind.

Deran had somehow found tiny duck sprinkles.

You stared at them.

"Oh, Deran."

Andrew leaned forward. "What?"

"Duck sprinkles."

His mouth softened.

"And he carried it?"

"Like it was evidence."

Andrew looked toward the door.

"Yeah," he said quietly.

You placed the cupcake on the table in front of Andie, who was now sitting on Andrew's lap with both his arms forming a protective barrier around her.

She stared at it.

Suspicious.

Andrew stared too.

Also suspicious.

You looked between them and snorted.

"She has your exact cake suspicion face."

"I don't have a cake suspicion face."

"You do now."

Andie reached one finger toward the frosting.

Stopped.

Looked at you.

You nodded. "Go on."

She poked the frosting.

Then looked at her finger.

Andrew leaned in like he was watching a bomb.

"She okay?"

"She has frosting on one finger."

"She's thinking."

"She is."

Andie put her finger in her mouth.

Her eyes widened.

You grinned.

Andrew stopped breathing.

Andie looked at the cupcake again.

Then slammed her whole hand into it.

You laughed.

"There we go."

Andrew's mouth parted in horror. "Oh."

"She's supposed to make a mess."

"She's destroying it."

"It's a smash cake."

"It's a cupcake."

"Smash cupcake."

"That sounds made up."

"It is made up. It's still happening."

Andie lifted her frosting-covered hand.

Before either of you could stop her, she planted it directly on Andrew's chest.

Yellow frosting smeared across his prison shirt.

The room went still.

You clapped a hand over your mouth.

Andie looked delighted.

Andrew looked down at the mark.

A tiny, messy, yellow handprint.

Right over his heart.

Your eyes filled instantly.

"Oh," you whispered.

Andrew did not move.

He just stared at it.

"Andie," you murmured, laughing and crying at once. "That was very dramatic."

Andrew's hand hovered over the frosting mark.

Not touching.

Not wiping.

Just hovering.

You swallowed hard.

"You can wipe it," you said softly.

His eyes lifted to yours.

"No."

Of course.

Your face crumpled.

He looked down at Andie.

She had frosting on her wrist now. On her mouth. Somehow near one eyebrow.

"Dada," she said happily.

Andrew closed his eyes.

For a second, he looked like he was praying.

When he opened them, they were wet.

"Yeah," he whispered. "I'm here."

You did not survive that.

You cried quietly while Andie continued destroying the cupcake with astonishing focus.

Andrew watched every movement like it mattered.

Because it did.

The way she poked the frosting.

The way she offered him a wet, crushed handful and then changed her mind before he could pretend to eat it.

The way she clapped once, smearing cake between her palms.

The way she babbled, "Da-da-da," like she was narrating the occasion.

Andrew laughed.

Really laughed.

Small and rough and unused, but real.

You stared at him.

He saw.

"What?"

"You laughed."

"She put cake on my shirt."

"Frosting."

"Frosting."

"You're happy."

His face softened.

"Yeah."

The simplicity of it made your throat close.

You reached over and took his hand again.

His fingers folded around yours.

For a few minutes, you let Andie have the cupcake while you and Andrew stayed pressed close enough that your knees touched. His thumb moved over your knuckles. Your shoulder leaned into his. Every small point of contact felt like a stolen thing.

Eventually Andie got tired of the cupcake and more interested in the paper banner.

Andrew held her up so she could see it.

"Happy birthday," he said.

His voice was quiet.

Andie looked at the banner.

Then at him.

"Da."

"Yes," he said. "Dada."

You wiped frosting from Andie's chin with a cloth.

"She had your birthday recording this morning," you said.

Andrew glanced at you. "Yeah?"

"She smiled at the part where you said happy birthday."

He looked down quickly.

You squeezed his hand.

"She did."

"I recorded it three times."

"I know."

"How?"

"You sounded hoarse by the end."

His mouth twitched.

"The first one was bad."

"I doubt that."

"I said happy birthday too fast."

"She is one. She does not have pacing critiques."

"I did."

"You always do."

He looked at Andie.

"I wanted it right."

Your face softened.

"It was."

The guard knocked lightly.

"Fifteen minutes."

The words dropped into the room like a stone.

Andrew's hand tightened around yours.

Andie, oblivious and sticky, reached for his face.

He leaned down automatically.

She patted his cheek with a frosting-smudged hand.

A faint yellow streak appeared along his jaw.

You laughed through tears.

"She got you again."

Andrew did not wipe that either.

"She can."

"She can?"

"She can do whatever she wants."

"You are going to be impossible."

"Yes."

"At least admit it."

"I did."

You smiled at him through wet eyes.

"She's going to run circles around you."

"Good."

"You say that now."

"I'll say it later."

Andie grabbed his nose.

He winced slightly but let her.

"Gentle," you told her.

Andrew's hand covered her back.

"She's okay."

"She needs to learn gentle."

"She's one."

"You are no help."

"She's one," he repeated, softer.

There it was.

The weight under the sweetness.

One.

A whole year.

His daughter had lived a full year outside your body, and Andrew had counted it through visits and recordings and phone calls and photos held carefully by prison light.

You touched his arm.

"She's one."

His eyes stayed on Andie.

"I missed a lot."

You took a breath.

You had known it might come.

Not as a spiral.

Not as self-punishment.

Just truth.

"Yes," you said softly.

His jaw worked.

"And you were there for a lot."

His eyes lifted to yours.

"Not the same."

"No," you said. "Not the same."

You would not lie to him.

You loved him too much for that.

"But it counted."

Andrew looked down at the frosting on his shirt.

At Andie's little handprint over his heart.

At his daughter chewing on the edge of a napkin you immediately removed from her mouth.

He huffed softly.

You smiled.

"It counted," you said again.

His eyes went wet.

"Yeah."

This time, it sounded like belief.

The guard moved outside.

Ten minutes.

You leaned forward and kissed Andrew.

He froze for only half a second before kissing you back.

Still careful.

Always careful.

But less disbelieving than the first contact visit.

His hand came to your cheek, thumb brushing just under your eye.

Andie made an outraged sound between you.

You pulled back, laughing.

"Sorry. Birthday girl objects."

Andrew smiled at her.

Actually smiled.

A tiny, open thing.

"Sorry."

Andie slapped his chest again.

"Da."

"I know," he said. "You're in charge."

"She really is."

He looked at you.

"You okay?"

You laughed softly. "Yes."

"With this?"

Your smile faded into something tender.

"With what?"

"With me having this today."

Your heart cracked.

"Oh, Andrew."

His eyes flicked down.

You touched his jaw, thumb brushing near the frosting streak Andie had left.

"I wanted you to have this."

His throat moved.

"I have her every day," you said. "The mornings. The nights. The messes. The firsts. The tantrums. The way she throws spoons like she's being paid. I get so much."

His face tightened.

"So when there is a way for you to have a piece too," you whispered, "I want you to have it. I want you to have all of it."

Andrew's eyes shone.

"I don't want to take from you."

"You're not."

"I know, but—"

"You're her dad," you said. "Loving her isn't taking from me."

He looked at Andie.

Then at your hand on his jaw.

The words landed slowly.

Carefully.

Like his body was still learning that love could multiply instead of divide.

Andie yawned suddenly.

A huge, dramatic yawn that made both of you stop.

"She's tired," you said.

Andrew's face shifted immediately into concern.

"She needs sleep."

"She can survive five more minutes."

"She's rubbing her eye."

"I know."

"She does that when she's tired?"

"Yes."

He watched closely, memorizing that.

Of course he did.

"Anything else?"

"What?"

"When she's tired."

You smiled despite the ache.

"She gets clingy. She makes this little humming sound. She hates being put down even though she clearly wants to sleep."

"Like you."

"Excuse me?"

"You get mean when you're tired."

"I gave birth to your child and organized a prison birthday cupcake. Choose your words."

His mouth twitched.

"You get quiet when you're tired," he corrected.

"Better."

"And mean."

"Andrew."

He laughed again.

You loved him so much in that moment it made you almost dizzy.

Five minutes.

The guard announced it softly this time.

Maybe because of the baby.

Maybe because even he had a heart somewhere under the uniform.

Andrew looked down at Andie.

His face changed.

The letting go was coming.

It was always coming.

No amount of frosting or laughter or birthday banners could stop it.

Andie rested against his chest now, sleepy, one sticky hand curled against the mark she had left on his shirt.

Andrew's hand covered her back.

You watched him breathe her in.

"Baby," you whispered.

His eyes closed.

"I know."

You moved closer.

"I'll take her."

His arms tightened for one second.

Only one.

Then loosened.

He handed Andie back with the kind of care that made your chest ache.

She fussed immediately.

Reached for him.

"Dada."

Andrew's face crumpled.

You held her close, tears filling your eyes again.

"I know," you whispered to her. "I know."

Andie reached harder.

"Dada!"

Andrew stood.

His hands curled once at his sides, like letting her cry for him was worse than anything he had prepared for.

You stepped close, shifting Andie between you.

"Touch her," you whispered.

He did.

One hand to her back.

One finger to her tiny frosting-sticky hand.

Andie grabbed it.

Hard.

Andrew bent his head.

"She knows you," you said.

His eyes closed.

"She'll know you next time too."

His jaw worked.

"I know."

And he did.

That was the difference.

He knew.

Not perfectly. Not without pain. But enough.

Andie tugged his finger.

"Dada," she said again, softer now.

Andrew swallowed hard.

"I love you," he whispered.

She blinked at him.

"I love you," he said again.

You were crying openly now.

He looked at you.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

He leaned forward and kissed you once more.

Brief.

Warm.

Desperate around the edges.

Then he kissed Andie's forehead.

She grabbed at his chin.

He smiled through tears.

"Happy birthday, baby girl."

The guard opened the door.

Time.

You stepped back.

Andrew's hand slipped from Andie's grip.

She made a noise that nearly broke all three of you.

You bounced her gently, trying to soothe her while your own face fell apart.

At the doorway, you turned back.

Andrew stood in the middle of the beige room with yellow frosting on his shirt, a smear on his jaw, and tears on his face.

The birthday banner hung crooked behind him.

One hour.

One cupcake.

One whole year.

You lifted Andie's hand.

She did not wave.

She was too busy looking at him.

"Da," she said.

Andrew covered his mouth.

Then the door closed.

Deran was waiting in the hall.

Craig too.

Both of them stood when they saw you.

Their eyes went immediately to Andie.

Then to your face.

Then to the closed door behind you.

"How bad?" Craig asked.

You laughed through tears.

"Destroyed."

Deran looked down at Andie. "Him or you?"

"Yes."

Craig stepped closer, reaching out to wipe a bit of frosting from Andie's wrist with a wipe he had somehow already prepared.

"She okay?"

"She's tired."

"She cried?"

"At the end."

Craig's face tightened.

Deran looked away.

"She reached for him," you said.

Neither of them spoke.

Andie sniffled against your shoulder, thumb creeping toward her mouth.

Deran cleared his throat.

"He got to hold her?"

You nodded.

"And she said Dada to his face."

Craig closed his eyes briefly.

Deran rubbed a hand over his mouth.

"Jesus."

"Yeah."

You smiled through wet cheeks.

"She put frosting on him."

Deran blinked.

"On purpose?"

"She's one."

"So yes."

You laughed.

Craig looked toward the door, then back at you.

"He wipe it?"

"No."

Craig's mouth trembled.

Deran turned toward the exit.

"Car," he said roughly.

"You're crying again," you said.

"I am walking."

"Emotionally."

"I am walking emotionally."

You laughed, then kissed Andie's hair.

"Let's go home, birthday girl."

Andrew did not wipe the frosting off until he had to.

Not when they walked him back.

Not when another man looked at the smear on his shirt and raised an eyebrow.

Not when the guard said, "You got something there."

Andrew looked down at the tiny yellow handprint over his heart.

"I know."

The guard did not tell him again.

Later, when he had no choice, he cleaned the shirt carefully.

But before he did, he pressed two fingers to the mark.

Just once.

A handprint.

His daughter's handprint.

Andie had turned one.

She had reached for him.

She had said Dada to his face.

She had laughed at cake and grabbed his nose and smeared frosting on him like she knew exactly where to leave the proof.

Andrew sat on the edge of his bunk that night with the birthday photo you had managed to get printed before the visit tucked between his hands.

In the picture, Andie sat on his lap, frosting on her mouth, one hand pressed to his chest. You were beside him, leaning close, smiling through tears. His own face was turned toward Andie, ruined and soft and unguarded.

He barely recognized himself.

Maybe that was good.

Maybe fathers were supposed to become unrecognizable in certain ways.

He looked at the wall of photos.

Scan.

Gender note.

Nursery.

Contact visit.

Smile.

Glass visit.

And now this.

One year.

One whole year.

A year ago, he had heard his daughter's heartbeat through a prison phone.

Now she had said his name to his face with cake on her hands.

Andrew touched the edge of the birthday photo.

One year had passed without him coming home.

But not one year had passed without him being her father.

He knew that now.

Not all the time.

Not perfectly.

But tonight, he knew.

Behind concrete and locked doors, Andrew Cody lay down with his daughter's voice in his head and the memory of yellow frosting over his heart.

Dada.

Dada.

Dada.

And for once, the word did not feel like something he had to earn.

It felt like something she had already given him.

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[artverso]

Riley Rossmo - Lobo

[theeoracle-written]

Precious. || Michael Robinavitch [EXTRAS]

Extras disjointed scenes for this fic: LINKED HERE THAT story's prompt: Robby caught you staring while working at your workstations. When he asked you what was that all about, he didn't expect the answer that you'd give him was that you found him his behavior "precious."

Fandom: The Pitt Word Count: 1K~ Tags: They/Them!Reader, Goofs and Sillies. (Can be read as Platonic or Romantic. Reader's choice.), Not-Proof Read (If any tags are needed to be added please inform me. <3) Characters in Fic: Jack Abbot, Michael Robinavitch, Trinity Santos, Dennis Whitaker, Frank Langdon. Misc. Tags: - Used speech to text + Not Proof Read: so there is a possibility that some sentences will look wonky. - VERY roughly written out: There is not much in way of scene building. It is just a collection of scenes, so don't expect it to match my other works.

LINKS: Request Rules || Pitt Master List || Writer's Queue

Consider sparing a ☕ if you like my work.

“What Is this about you freaking out about Robby?” Trinity Santos slotted her self beside you as you looked over the patient board.

You paused, blinking. You then slowly turned over your shoulder to look at her. "What happened to hi? Hello? How about 'How have you been?'"

"Is it true?"

"What of it?"

"Robby? Really?"

"Trin, you’re gay. you won’t get it."

She scoffed looking at you as if you were absurd. “And you’re too gay. Maybe you are the problem.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You rounded the corner of the ED with a sigh, already too done with your day.

Trinity Santos has been watching you with a judgmental eye ever since she learned about your behaviour toward the chief attending, and ever since then, you have been avoiding her.

You were so in your head about dodging the young resident that you did not notice you were about to bump into another of the ED’s residents until it happened.

“Oh fuck.” You steadied yourself from falling. “Shit, Dennis, are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dennis held onto the wall to prevent himself from falling. His eyes met yours, light blues that are already swimming with concern. “Are you alright? You seemed out of it.”

Your sighed defeated. “Your roommate has been coming for my ass recently.”

He straightened up. “What for?”

You lightly clinked your teeth, squinting at the young man, debating whether to tell him or not. Then the idea of skirting the issue rattled in your brain, taunting you with the hassle of it, and you caved to admitting your issue. “She has a problem with me finding our chief attending, eh… attractive, shall I say.”

“Robby?”

You drew your lips into a thin line, preparing yourself for his response. “Yeah….”

Dennis looked over your shoulder and across the central hub at the man in question, tilting his head in observation. He watched for a moment, then: “Yeah, I can see it.”

You blinked at the young man, gears turning in your head. Your following response came far too fast to stop: “I know what you are.”

“What?”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“What is it about him that’s getting you going anyway?”

You pulled a face, repulsed at the wording that Frank Langdon picked, which was asked so boldly and out in the open, too. “Dude, don’t say it like that.

“What? Am I wrong?”

Your face was void of any expression. “Why yes, Langdon, the moment I see Robby, I get intensely horn—“

A presence was quickly felt behind you as an arm went over your shoulder, followed by a hand covering your mouth to prevent you from continuing.

You glanced behind you, seeing Jack Abbot staring disappointedly at Langdon. “Don’t play their game. They’ll just up the ante.”

You squinted in question at the comment, before shrugging, acquiescing to the truth of the statement.

Langdon‘s eyes darted between you and the night shift attending, eyes mixed with shock and disbelief. “Were they serious?”

Jack met your eyes, questioning, and though you still held a blank expression, he still recognised the glimmer of mischief in your eyes.

He turned to Langdon. “Do either of us want to know?”

“I suppose not…”

Jack dropped his hand, releasing his hold on you. He looked between you and Langdon, holding your gaze for a moment longer. “Both of you, back to work.”

You scoffed. “Contrary to popular belief, I was working before he interrupted me.”

“I was just asking a question…” Langdon muttered an excuse.

You turned on your heel, facing him and giving him your undivided attention. “'Cause I think the man fucks. Is that what you wanted me to say?“

“(L/N)!” Jack called out to interrupt you once more.

You smirked at Langdon’s shock and flustered expression before retreating back to work while snickering on the way.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

(A/n: I imaged this is an interaction with one of the nurses. But could not for the life of me think of who, so just picture someone (nurses or otherwise) here.)

“Hey, can you help me out with the patient in North one.”

You you dragged your eyes from the tablet in your hand meeting the person with a questioning look. Isn’t that the patient that is moping whining and moaning about pain even though they tripped down a singular step?

“Yes,” They responded blankly, and a matter-of-factly.

You rolled your eyes. “I’m not helping with—“

“What if I said I could get you a picture of Robby in med student?

You scoffed, looking at them aghast. “I do not know what sort of things people have told you about me. But I do have an ounce of self respect.”

“How about an album?”

“Deal.”

(Edit: I now imagine this as Shen... don't know how he'll secure this but...)

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

—After a series of unfortunate events triggered by seeing a picture of Robby.—

You woke up to the blaring over head lights of a patient’s room, blinding yourself to them and shutting your eyes tight.

Pulses of pain radiated from the back of your head. A pained groan escaped to your throat. All different sensations overwhelming your system first thing after consciousness.

You went to sit up, and two firm arms came from no where pushing you by shoulders back into the bed.

You peeled your one eye open and your chief attending came into view.

“Robby?” You managed out, your a bit throat dry. “What happened? How long was I out?”

His lips parted in response, but Robby paused before he could say anything. His brow knitted in the thought and hesitation. “You… got into an accident and bumped your head.” (He was purposely vague.) “As for how long you were out,” he studied you for a moment, considering something than sighed mournfully. “Well, it’s been five years since you were last awake.”

“Five years? Damn, you’re looking sharp as ever.”

He huffed out a laugh shaking his head. “That was not supposed to be your response.”

“Well, you’re a looker and I’m honest.” —Robby rolled his eyes at that.— You paused in thought. “Has it been five years?”

“No, it hasn’t, and the fact that you’re genuinely considering it makes me think you need to stay here a bit longer.”

“Yeah, maybe.” You fixed your eyes on him, a cheeky grin growing on your lips. “Do you know what could make me get better faster tho?”

“What? If I kiss the pain away?” he responded sarcastically.

Your face morphed into a mix of shock and glee.

He looked at you blankly. “That’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it?”

“You know me so well!”

He sighed in regret. “Too well. I’m leaving.” And stood to leave the room.

“But Robby! My ouchie!”

“Rest!” He called behind him dismissively not looking behind him and heard your laughter as he retreated out of the room.

Post Fic Author's Note: My favourite thing abt this Y/n is that either their actions are entirely sincere and they are just feral, or they are committed to the bit and are mischievous. Could be one, could be both, and honestly, i love em it either way.

As always, Like, Comment, Reblog with thoughts if you enjoyed the fic! I am motivated on comments and thoughts on the fics i write, truly the only fuel that keeps me going + if you have any fic ideas feel free to comment them or send them in the request box!

LINKS: Request Rules || Pitt Master List || Writer's Queue

Consider sparing a ☕ if you like my work.

[sleepingbeautiiies]

When Did You Get So Hot? - Animal Kingdom SMAU - PT. 7

+18 MDNI

pt. 6 / pt. 8

summary: deran wants the tea on reader and popes "date" (was it a date?)

content: pope cody x fem!reader, age gap (reader is around deran's age), lewd conversations, reader being an awkward mess, pope being pope, sugar daddy pope vibes lowkey

a/n: its finally time for the beefy chapter ive been talking about! this literally took FOREVER. ENJOY!!!!

୨୧ taglist: @gaypoetsblog @17th-sector @edynmeyer1 @fortjackson @tulipbreeze @cardcaptorrin @jeshomie @10ava01 @sunbonesss @ilikebeingdelulu @missykoaladelulu @caridundermifflin

୨୧ all works taglist: @tiddieshakeshownu @will-run-for-gin @itzpixiebabe

[purrtoru]

you could never get tired of admiring your husband heian era!sukuna ♡

most people couldn’t look at him for long.

the moment they caught sight of him, their eyes dart away. some out of fear, or some out of disgust. they believe a creature like him isn’t meant to be looked at.

you think they are all blind.

the evening is quiet, lantern light casting a warm glow across the room. it has become part of your nightly routine before bed, these quiet moments spent with your husband after the day has settled.

sukuna sits against the bed frame, one pair of arms folded while the other rests loosely across his lap.

his crimson eyes follow you as you crawl toward him. you sit down beside him and gently take one of his hands, then another.

his brows rise as he looks at you expectantly.

you compare them, turning them over in your palms. thick fingers, calloused skin, veins running beneath flesh capable of tearing apart crowds.

yet you trace them carefully, as if they are something precious.

“four arms..“ you murmur.

“you say that as if you’ve only just noticed,” he says, clicking his tongue after.

you move closer, inspecting the markings that wind around his skin. your fingertips follow the dark lines traveling over his wrist and shoulders.

“they’re beautiful.”

he looks at you, and you swear there’s a faint blush adoring his cheeks, even though he’s heard you say so many times before.

beautiful? no one has ever used that word for him before you.

you continue before he can respond.

your hand slides to his chest, tracing the markings there as well, and you can feel his gaze burning into you.

then your attention lowers— to the second mouth resting on his stomach. the feature that causes most people to recoil.

you start to lean forward, but sukuna’s eyes narrow. “what are you doing?”

“hm?”

his stomach mouth opens slightly, revealing sharp teeth, just to close again.

you examine it with genuine curiosity— it is quite the most strange part of him, and therefore something you want to understand even more.

without hesitation, you press a small kiss on top of it.

“…why are you looking at me like that?” you ask after coming back up.

for perhaps the first time in centuries, the king of curses looks genuinely caught off guard.

“what was that for?”

you tilt your head, and one of your hands come up to trace his lower lip.

“i do kiss these as well, no?”

a low, strange sound escapes him, a little similar to a low laugh.

you shift your attention upward again, this time toward the smaller eyes beneath his main pair.

you‘ve always found them quite interesting.

carefully, you brush your thumb beneath one. “so you can see from them as well?”

“obviously.”

you continue to examine him shamelessly.

the shape of his face, then the markings crossing his cheeks. the extra eyes.. the sharp angles of his features.

every detail. every part others fear— you love looking at them, love memorizing them.

when you finally look up, sukuna is already looking at you, a little amusement written over his expression.

“what’s so amusing?” you ask.

two of his hands rise, and two large palms settle against your cheeks. the contrast between his size and yours is almost comical.

“just why are you so different?” his thumb brushes across your cheek.

for a moment, neither of you speaks, then you lean forward and kiss one of the markings on his face.

“wouldn’t be here if i was like everyone else, hm?” you reason.

[polkalots]

• ꒰ ۶ৎ ꒱ ::. waking husband!sukuna up to tend to your pregnancy cravings :: cw mentions of pregnancy.

sukuna woke up to being shaken harshly by his heavily pregnant wife, her strength surprising him.

“babe.” you said softly as you continue shaking your 250-pound husband with all your might.

“mnh?” sukuna murmured, still asleep.

“im hungry..” you whine, still shaking his moveless body.

“theres food in the kitchen baby.”

“i dont want any of that…” you whispered. “wake up. you have to go to the gas station.. seven eleven. i want a hot dog from there.” you murmur, punching at his chest to wake him up.

“okay! okay! im up, im up baby. where ‘ya want me to go?” he asked, getting up to put a pair of sweatpants on.

“seven eleven.. i need a hot dog. and mayo. and pickles.” you say to him, sitting up to watch as he starts putting his shoes on.

“is that it?” he asked staring at you in disbelief.

“a minion popsicle too..” you said, pulling the covers over your chest and laying a pillow under your swollen belly.

“okay baby ill be back just don’t fall asleep please” he said, kissing your cheek as he left.

he stood shirtless in front of the teenage cashier, holding a hot dog, a jar of pickles, a packet of mayonnaise, and a minion popsicle.

“dont ask” he murmured, shaking his head as he payed for everything.

sukuna arrived home at exactly 3:19 am, drowsy but alert.

“baby, im home.” he said walking throughout the house to find you.

living room? no.

bathroom? no.

bedroom? yes.

he found you laying in the bedroom completely knocked out as if you’d never woken up and sent him outside at 3 in the morning.

he sighed heavily, put everything in the fridge, sat on the bed and ate the popsicle by himself while he scrolled on instagram.

[moons-and-mobility-aids]

A Different Kind of Night

Pairing: Sirius Black x Disabled!Reader Summary: You're supposed to be going out with Sirius to a rooftop bar. But plans change, and sometimes, that's not a bad thing. Tags: disabled!reader, depictions of chronic pain, pain flare, choosing rest over plans, sirius being very sirius about comfort, quiet kind of love, hurt/comfort, soft domestic vibes, reader cancelling plans, established relationship, no use of y/n, takeaway as a love language, you don't have to be fine for someone to love you Word count: 2.8k words

You were supposed to be going out tonight.

Sirius picked the place himself, all swagger and bright-eyed bravado, grinning like he'd found buried treasure as he waved his phone under your nose. "Rooftop bar. East end. The cocktails are on fire, babe—literally. Blue flames and everything. It's practically alchemy."

You'd laughed, because it was so him—dramatic, a little chaotic, and just the right kind of reckless. And maybe you'd even looked forward to it. A warm night. Sirius in his element, flirty and smug and probably trying to charm the bartender out of a second round for free. The kind of evening that tastes like freedom—cool air, sticky drinks, his fingers brushing yours under the table. The kind where you feel like you're part of the world instead of watching it go by. The kind you've been craving without realising how badly until now.

But now your body's beginning its quiet betrayal.

It starts subtle. Not even pain yet, not really. Just a warning flicker behind your knees. A breath of tightness in your spine when you shift on the sofa. A low, humming murmur in your ribs, like static, like a bad radio signal trying to cut through. You try to roll your shoulders and they resist, joints clicking in protest like doors swelling against their frames.

It's quiet in the flat. Too quiet. The telly's off, the windows are closed, and the street outside feels miles away. You can hear the hum of the fridge in the kitchen, the occasional creak of the pipes, the faintest tick of the clock on the wall. You close your eyes for a moment and let yourself listen, as if stillness might offer clarity. It doesn't. It just leaves more space for your body to make itself known.

You glance at the clock. An hour and a half until you need to be out the door. Forty-five minutes, realistically, to start moving. You think about the steps—getting up, changing, doing your hair, standing long enough to line your eyes the way you like. Boots. Stairs. The Uber ride. Holding yourself upright at the bar, pretending to be fine. Laughing when you don't feel like it. Smiling through the weight behind your ribs. Walking that fine line between enjoying yourself and paying the price for it later.

You breathe in, slow. Try to steel yourself.

But the static's already sharpening. A white-noise buzz beneath your skin, coiling deep into the marrow. Your legs feel heavier now, like the bones have soaked up lead. Your hands are slower than they were this morning, your breath a little tighter. There's a stiffness in your neck creeping up toward your skull, like someone winding a screw tighter with each passing minute. You press your palm into your thigh, feel the ache answer back. A steady throb now, echoing through muscle and sinew.

You try shifting again, adjusting the blanket, but the friction of the movement grates against your nerves. Like your skin's grown thinner in the past hour, stretched too tight across aching bones. Your jaw clenches. You stretch your fingers out, watching how sluggish they look moving through the air. Your body feels like a stranger today.

It's not the worst flare you've had. It's not even properly bad, not yet. But you know this shape. You know where it leads. You've ridden this wave before, and you know the crash at the end. And you know what it costs to ignore it. The price your body will make you pay tomorrow if you force it tonight. A whole weekend lost to recovery. Pain that blooms bright and unrelenting. That hollow, drained feeling that follows.

Your phone's on the coffee table. Face down.

You stare at it. Long enough that the screen dims, then locks entirely. Your own reflection stares back from the black glass—tired eyes, hair not done, mouth pressed thin with frustration. You feel caught in a strange limbo, frozen between wanting to reach for it and willing yourself not to need to. If you just wait another few minutes, maybe you'll feel better. Maybe it'll pass.

But it doesn't.

You: Can't make it tonight. Staying in.

You type it plain, no frills. Then, out of guilt—or maybe habit—you add a heart emoji. Red. It feels hollow even as you send it.

You hit send. Then you drop the phone on the cushion beside you and curl your legs up under a throw blanket, every small movement stitched with discomfort. The fabric feels heavy across your lap, the pressure oddly grounding. You nestle into it like it might shield you from the creeping disappointment. You tell yourself it's fine. It's just a night. There'll be others.

You expect the reply to come quickly. A phone call, maybe. Or the usual: don't worry, love, next time. want me to stay? And you'll say no, because you always do. Because you don't want him to miss out, and he doesn't need to stay in with you just because your body's being difficult, and he deserves fire-lit cocktails and rooftop air and all the things you can't always give him.

You keep checking the phone even though you tell yourself not to. You keep glancing, as if sheer willpower might summon the screen to light up. You wonder if he's already out, already walking into the bar, already halfway through a drink, laughing with someone else. Not because you doubt him. Just because it would be easier. Simpler.

But Sirius Black does not text back. Not immediately. Not even after ten minutes. Not even after twenty.

Instead, twenty minutes after your message, there's a knock at the door.

You frown. Pull the blanket tighter. Your phone's still silent. You half think about ignoring it—just letting the knock go. You're not dressed for guests, not even for Sirius. Especially not for Sirius. Your hair's a mess and there's a hot water bottle pressed to your lower back and you haven't even washed your face since this morning. There's a sour taste in your mouth from having done nothing all day.

But curiosity pricks at your ribs.

You push up, slow, cautious. The ache flares—hip, spine, the whole lattice of your back lighting up as if in protest. You breathe through it. One hand braced on the wall as you make your way to the door. Each step is deliberate, measured. You know better than to rush. You drag your fingers lightly along the wall as you go, grounding yourself with every inch of contact.

You open it.

And there he is.

Not in his usual leather jacket. No sharp boots, no effortfully careless hair. No trace of the rooftop bar evening you'd imagined. No sign of fire-lit drinks or rooftop flirtation. Just him, looking very much like he belongs here instead.

Instead—

Sweatpants.

Soft-looking. Charcoal grey. Slung low on his hips like he's just rolled off the sofa himself. The kind he only wears when he's not trying to impress anyone. When it's just you and him and quiet nights.

His hair's pulled back into a low bun, loose bits escaping at the temples. No cologne tonight. Just a clean warmth, the kind of scent that only exists when he's showered recently and skipped anything fancy. He looks a little flushed, like he walked here too fast and didn't bother to cool down. His cheeks are pink, and there's a bead of sweat just beneath his hairline.

And in his hands: takeaway.

Your favourite. You can smell it before you see the logo on the bag—rich, spicy, comforting. Like warmth wrapped in foil and brown paper. The smell hits you square in the chest, stirring something deeper than hunger.

He doesn't speak right away. Just raises his eyebrows like well? and stands there like this is the obvious outcome. Like of course he's here. Like there wasn't even a question. Like it never even occurred to him not to come. Like this was the plan all along.

Then, finally, he says, "I figured if we're skipping flaming cocktails, the least I could do was bring something that burns in a good way."

You blink at him, slow. "You didn't have to."

He shrugs. "Didn't want to sit at some overpriced rooftop by myself when I could be here. With you. In proper clothes, no less."

He gestures to his sweatpants with a smirk, then lifts the takeaway bag slightly. "Got the one with the extra chilli, by the way. Because I love you and also because I'm an idiot."

Your mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Almost.

And you're still standing in the doorway. Still aching. Still barefoot and tired and caught somewhere between gratitude and guilt and something warmer, something sharp in your throat that won't go down. Your mouth opens, but the rest still sticks. You feel the pressure build behind your eyes, and blink it back hard.

He doesn't make a big deal of anything.

Just steps inside like he's done it a thousand times before—which, of course, he has—and nudges the door closed behind him with his hip. His boots thud against the wall as he kicks them off lazily, toes the left one straight when it tilts sideways, then pads toward the living room like it's his own flat. Like this night was always meant to go this way. Like he'd known from the moment you sent that text that tonight wasn't going to end in cocktails and rooftop photos, but in quiet, cluttered comfort.

"You're out of the good crisps," he announces casually, peering into your snack cupboard with mock judgement as he tucks the takeaway under one arm. "A tragedy. Remind me to write you a strongly worded letter."

"Better make it two," you say, voice dry as you lean against the hallway wall for a moment. "Might not survive the scandal."

Sirius glances over his shoulder with a grin, one eyebrow raised. "You joke, but the lack of salt and vinegar in this house is criminal. Might need to call the authorities. Or worse, James."

"That's cruel," you say, pushing off the wall with a hand braced against your thigh. "No one deserves a James lecture."

"You brought this on yourself."

He doesn't move to help you as you shuffle toward the living room. Not because he doesn't want to, but because he knows better. Knows the look in your eye when you're managing, even if barely. Knows that the small victories—getting to the sofa on your own steam—matter more than most people realise. He just waits until you're settled, then drops the takeaway on the coffee table and collapses beside you in a tangle of long limbs and exaggerated sighs.

He finds a rom-com. The worst kind—mid-2000s, grainy filter, far too many ukuleles in the soundtrack.

"Oh, God," you groan, already squinting at the over-acted meet-cute on screen. "Not this one."

"What, you don't believe a struggling florist just happens to run into a millionaire who loves sunflowers and has no idea how trousers work?" he teases, plopping down beside you with the ease of someone who plans to stay exactly where he is.

You let out a snort that almost counts as a laugh. "It's the trousers. Always the trousers."

Sirius tosses a throw pillow onto his lap and pats it. "Come on. No one should have to suffer through this alone. It's a shared trauma situation."

You hesitate. Just a flicker. Then slowly, carefully, you shift sideways, letting him guide you down until your head is resting against his chest and his arm curls loosely around your shoulder. The weighted blanket's already draped over the back of the couch—he pulls it down over the both of you like muscle memory, like instinct. It settles over you with that familiar, grounding pressure. Heavy in all the right ways.

You breathe.

It's not that the pain disappears. It's still there, pressing into every corner of your body. Your muscles are tense, your knees ache, and there's a tremble in your jaw you didn't realise was there until now. But Sirius is warm, and the blanket is heavier than your frustration, and the smell of takeaway is grounding in a way you didn't expect. The quiet between you isn't awkward. It's a balm.

"You alright?" he murmurs after a moment. Not heavy with concern. Just quiet. Casual. Like he's asking if you like the movie, or if he can steal a chip.

"Yeah," you lie, even though it's not entirely a lie. You're not fine. But you're here. With him. Wrapped up in a soft blanket, listening to his heartbeat and the god-awful rom-com dialogue tangled together like white noise.

For a while, you eat.

He hands you the container like it's fragile, like you are. But he doesn't say anything about it. Doesn't watch you too closely. Just makes dramatic sounds of satisfaction as he digs into his own food.

"This is elite," he mumbles around a mouthful. "Like, better than actual rooftop fire drinks. Although I still want one of those, by the way. I want to drink something that could kill me."

"Very healthy mindset," you mutter, leaning back against him.

"Live fast, die in a cocktail accident. Ideally in something that comes with a tiny umbrella and a ridiculous name. Like… Flaming Fwooper."

You let out a surprised bark of laughter. "You've been watching too much telly again."

He gasps. "I'll have you know that the Flaming Fwooper is a modern classic. Served in a teacup. Set on fire. Comes with a free bad decision."

You roll your eyes and let your head drop fully against his shoulder. You can feel the laughter in his chest more than you hear it, and it thuds gently against your ear like the promise of something safe.

"Don't get used to this," you warn. "I'm not always such pleasant company."

"Rubbish," he says immediately. "You're a delight. Especially when you're in pain and threatening me with sarcasm. Makes me feel alive."

You roll your eyes, but he catches the edge of a smile before you can bury it. He doesn't push it. Doesn't reach for anything deeper. Just tugs the blanket up a little higher and flicks a piece of rice off your lap with utmost concentration.

"Also," he adds, mouth quirking, "you didn't hear it from me, but I think that guy just proposed to her in a flower shop using a bouquet made of credit card receipts."

You glance at the screen. "That's not—oh my God, he did."

"True love," Sirius says solemnly. "Nothing says commitment like mildly shredded financial records."

Time passes.

The rom-com gets worse.

Somewhere between the third slow-motion kissing montage and a scene where the heroine breaks into song for no discernible reason, your body gives a little. Not entirely. Not comfortably. But enough.

Enough to lean into him.

Your thigh presses against his. Your head turns, just slightly, into the space where his neck meets his shoulder. You don't say anything about it. Don't explain. He doesn't ask.

He shifts just enough to support you better. His fingers stroke idly along your arm beneath the blanket.

Instead, he lowers his voice and says into your hair, "You don't have to be fine for me to be happy, you know."

You freeze.

Not because you don't believe him. But because a part of you—the part that always apologises, always calculates how much space you're allowed to take up—wants to.

"I mean it," he adds softly. "You could be curled up, covered in toast crumbs, swearing at the television—and I'd still rather be here than anywhere else."

You snort again, but it wavers. "That's a low bar."

He hums. "Maybe. But it's mine."

There's a long pause. Not silence, exactly. Just that gentle kind of quiet that doesn't press down on you. The television burbles on, filling the room with forgettable music and one-liners, and Sirius doesn't move. He just stays there, one arm firm and warm around you, the other hand resting lightly against your side.

Then, he whispers, almost like an afterthought, "You don't have to perform for me, love. I see you."

You swallow hard.

You want to say something. To thank him. To explain that it's not easy, that some days feel like carrying bricks in your blood and others feel like failing at things no one else even notices. But the words don't come.

So instead, you curl in closer, and Sirius doesn't ask for more.

He just pulls the blanket tighter and lets you rest.

[ems-typewriter]

Ruination

pairing: royal guard!jason todd x princess!reader

summary: when reader is being pressured into a marriage, she finds an unlikely candidate she actually likes: jason, the captain of the guard

word count: 4.5k

warning/tags: sfw, fem!reader, readers' mom sucks, mild angst, fluff, no y/n, reader feels trapped in her life

The sharp knock at the door startles you from where you sprawled across your bed in your nightgown whilst half asleep. Without waiting for your response, the three women you've grown accustomed to since childhood walk inside your bedroom. The curtains are drawn back, your covers pulled off you, and the familiar sound of the bath filling breaks the once peaceful silence. 

“I don’t want to go today,” you mumble into your pillow. 

“You must attend the meeting with your family.” Alice, the oldest handmaiden of the three, pulls the covers further away from your reach as you try to cling to the warmth they gave you. 

You sigh dramatically as you relent trying to steal the covers back from Alice, but she’s very persistent when she wants to be. “But why must I wake up at 8:30 when the meeting isn't till 11:00?” You wonder if she must tire from having this conversation so often.

“Because it takes an hour and half to get you ready and you also must eat breakfast before going. Now up.” 

Slowly sitting up from the mattress and resting your feet against the bone chilling floor, you catch the sight of Gwen and Ira, your two other handmaidens, getting the bath ready and choosing the dress you are to wear at the meeting with your mother and father. You try to rub the sleep from your eyes, but you still feel like falling back into the heap of pillows and blankets. 

You thank Gwen for setting the bathroom up as you step inside and make quick work of shedding your clothes and stepping into the hot water. It does little to shake the sleep from your body, but with no time to linger in the water, you wash, then step out to dry and slip on the robe that rests on the counter. 

When you step back into your room, you sit at the vanity so Gwen can braid and pin your hair into a style suitable for the dress chosen and Ira can apply just enough makeup to enhance your features. You stare at a spot on the wall and let your mind go blank while they fuss over you. This was always the part of the day you dread–it made you feel like a doll being dressed to appease everyone else but yourself. 

Once dressed into an exquisite dress that leaves you quite literally breathless due to the corset that's cinched to the tightest it could go, you step into the matching ballet flats as Ira and Gwen take their leave while Alice stays behind, like always. 

“Please remember to mind your attitude with His and Her Majesty.” She brushes a curl that rested awkwardly on your shoulder to flow down the expanse of your back.

“I think I know how to handle my own mother and father,” you whisper back with a smile on your face. Alice had spent a lot of time with you growing up and she's become somewhat of a second mother–always doting over you, reminding you, and most importantly: listening, something your own mother chooses not to do at times.  

“I also know how you can be when Her Majesty makes decisions that you don’t agree with.”

“Because they’re always decisions about my life that I don't get a choice in. It's not fair.”

“I know it's not, but it's the price to pay for the castle you live in and the title you have.” 

“I didn’t ask to pay the price. I didn’t choose this bargain,” You say feeling that heat your chest lighting to life like a hearth. 

Alice, always calm as ever, runs a hand down your arm. “I know,” she whispered, “Just please, keep that fiery personality you have to a minimum.”

You relent with a quiet sigh, “Okay, I’ll try.”

She smiles and rushes you out the door to walk through the familiar castle halls and to the study room where your parents await your arrival. After 10 minutes of navigating, you stop in front of the solid wooden door that remains closed, then rasp your knuckles loud enough to catch the attention of your parents. 

“Come in!” 

The door lets out a loud creak as you open it and you step inside the familiar room. The large desk in the middle takes up the expanse of the room, with bookshelves lined with books on the shelves. Your mother and father sit on the opposite side of the desk as you take the plush seat across. 

“Good morning,” You say with as much confidence as you can muster in this moment. It’s not often they call you into formal settings like this. 

“Hello, my dear.” You’ve always been closer with your father even since a young age–your mother always expected so much from you and felt more like a tutor than a mom. “How are you this morning?”

“I’m okay, just mildly tired.”

“Stayed up late reading again?” 

You smile sheepishly, “Yes, maybe a little bit.”

Your father smiles at you from his seat, but when you glance at your mother, she wears an almost bored expression on her face, like she can’t imagine staying up through the night to read words off a page. “We needed to speak to you about what you’ve chosen to put off for years.” 

Her words immediately make the smile drop from your face and every bone in your body want to retreat from this room immediately. “No.”

“You need to marry,” her voice holds the authority as it would if she were making a public announcement to our people, “and you need to do it soon.”

“I don’t want to be forced into a marriage against my will. I am not some pawn to use so you can make your allegiances with neighboring kingdoms!” Desperation is not a powerful enough word to explain how you feel about avoiding this future. You loathe the idea of being forced into a marriage with a suitor you do not know and do not wish to marry. “I’m not even the heir, so why must I marry at your convenience?”

“While you may be last in line for the throne, we need alliances and we need heirs–both of which you can provide.” You look toward your father to silently plead to fight for you, but his face is full of pity. You shake your head and look back at your mother as she continues. “We have given you three years past legal marriage age to come to terms with this. You will not argue with this.” 

“I am sorry sweetie.” Your fathers tone tells you he fought for you while he could, but it's time to accept the reality. 

“We are holding a ball here in a month's time on solstice. We have eligible suitors coming in from different kingdoms to meet you.”

You’re at a loss of words as you stare at the woman who's supposed to care and support you as she betrays you with the sharpest knife she owns. You keep your head down as you stand from the chair, refusing to say a word to either of them and thankfully they don't stop you as you march out of the study and into the hallway. 

You don’t even think, just walk on autopilot through the hallways and out the back doors till you reach the gardens. The flowers are barely in bloom, only few colors outshine the green, but the environment relaxes you as you sit on the grass, looking like a desolate portrait.

“Princess.”

You turn your head at the familiar voice that cuts through the gusts of wind. “Captain Todd.” 

“Is there any particular reason you’re sulking in the gardens?”

“Just a few.” You turn back toward the flora and pat the spot on the grass next to you. “Sit with me.”

You hear the shuffle of his boots walking across and toward where you rest. As he sits down, you can't help but notice how much he sticks out against the soft nature that surrounds him. Captain Jason Todd, our father's best, and tasked with the mission of being your personal guard. He’s quiet, but rose up the ranks quickly due to the multiple skill sets he has. You’ve never asked about his past in the conversations you have forced from him, but you catch glimpses of the scars that linger across his body.

You sigh quietly and pick at the blade of the grass, “I am to marry.”

“This was already expected, no?”

“It was, but it doesn’t mean I was prepared for it. I thought maybe I would meet the love of my life before it would be declared upon me, but it seems that was a foolish dream after all.”

He doesn't say anything for a long moment and neither do you. The wind presses softly against your cheeks and reminds you of the gentle life you wished to have. As the sun starts to make its leave, casting the sky in shades of oranges and pinks, you feel less like a princess and more like a prisoner surrounded in finery.  

You stand and brush the dirt and grass from the skirt of your dress with a new determination to get out if only for a second. “I must retire to my rooms, but I will see you tomorrow?” 

He glances at you with narrowed eyes for a second too long before responding, “Yes, till tomorrow, Princess.” 

You walk off and back into the castle before he can question you further. Making it to your room in record time, you're pulling the pins from your hair then straining your arms to untie the corset by yourself. Finally, once done, you slip out of the recognizable dress and into a mundane dress that sits in the back of your closet–one that won’t draw attention to yourself. 

You pull your hair back into a singular braid to keep it out of your face, and nod in approval as you glance at the mirror. Perfectly simple. You throw your windows open and glance at the now midnight sky, then down at the drop below. You’ve taken this path enough times to know where to step as a makeshift ladder and where to avoid getting spotted by the guards. 

With careful movements, you climb out the window and onto the ledge below you before following the path to keep getting closer and closer to the grass, and when you finally step on the ground, the freedom hits you immediately. You’re not often allowed to go into town, which is why you’re familiar with the path to sneak out. 

However, that victory is short-lived as you hear someone clear their throat from your left. You slowly turn and come face to face with the permanent frown on the Captain's face. “Going somewhere?”

“Uh– just checking the weather, making sure it’s clear skies throughout the night.”

“Mhm.”

“Please don’t say anything about this.”

“I never have before.”

“Okay, goo– wait what?”

“You think I didn't know when you sneak out of the castle?” His arms are crossed and instead of wearing his royal gear, he's wearing casual tunic and trousers. 

“You’ve… known about that?” 

“Every time.”

“And you never said anything?”

“No, I would follow from afar to make sure you didn’t do anything stupid or attract the wrong attention.” He says it so bluntly that you’re not sure if you should be upset or touched. 

“But not tonight?”

He stares at you for a long second. “Not tonight. I don’t want you to be alone tonight.”

You smile up at your guard and loop your arm through his to pull him along with you. “Then come on, we have places to be.” 

The walk into town was quiet, neither of you saying anything significant, but you noticed all the small things he did while walking down the pathway. He’d pull you away strangers who stepped too close, kept his pace slightly in front of yours so he could react quickly to an attacker, and even moved the hood of your cloak on top of your head so you’d be less recognizable.  

Not many shops are open at this hour, but the occasional shop would have their lights on for the people who walk the streets at dawn. You walk past a small bakery with nobody sitting inside, and guide Captain Todd to the entrance. The mouth watering smell hit you immediately, pulling you to the counter to order one of the many sweets. 

As you chat with the lady running the shop, you're thankful she doesn't recognize you as you order two sticky buns and hot chocolates. The cup is warm in your hand as you take it and hand the second one to Jason. He takes the cup and the offered sweet as you make your way out of the shop to sit at the Courtyard.

Finding an empty seat is easy when nobody is in the open expanse, so you sit down and watch the few people walk by completely unaware that their princess is gazing upon them. 

“Why do you sneak out here? There’s nothing special about a late night snack you could get at the castle.”

“It’s not about the snack, it's the fact I’m out of the castle.” You pull your knees to your chest and rest your chin upon them. “I don’t get to choose my life there. It reminds me of dreaming at night and knowing you’re dreaming, but being unable to stop it–it feels magical at first, but when you realize there's no escape, it becomes a nightmare.”

You glance at the night sky and wonder if the moon feels trapped in its own cycles as well. Jason doesn’t say anything so you speak again, “I don’t get to choose my dress or my hair for the day. When I asked to be taught swordplay like my brothers, mother denied and assigned me a tutor for ballroom dance. When I wished to learn gardening I was told it was too messy and instead got sat before a piano.” You look back over at Jason and his eyes have softened as he gazes at you while you speak of your feelings. “Coming here is my choice. I get to roam freely and pick what I want, not what is decided for me.”

“Like the marriage,” he offers quietly.

You nod with a sigh, “Like my awaiting marriage.” Turning back to the street, you watch a couple holding hands while laughing freely with each other. Love. Something you may never experience at this point. 

“I will teach you.”

“Marriage?” You ask, confused as to what he is talking about. 

“No. Swordplay.”

You whip your head around to face him again, “You’d do that?”

He nods.

“What if you get caught? You’ll get in trouble for this if my mother finds out.”

“She won’t.”

“How can you be so sure?” 

“Trust me?” 

“Okay,” you breathe out as the reality of what he’s offering hits you. The smile on your face grows to a full grin before you tackle him in a hug while nodding. “Thank you, thank you!” 

His laugh–something you’ve never heard before–is rough and deep as he lays on the grass where you brought him down. “You're welcome.” 

The following night, dressed in a tunic and pants you found in the bottom of a drawer, you make your way to the now abandoned music room in the castle that Jason requested you meet him at. When you get there you see him resting against the wall with a wooden sword in his hand. You’d seen your brothers use those when they first started training at a young age, but never since then. 

“Captain.” You announce yourself to him in the dark room lit only by the soft glow of the moonlight. “This is your secret spot for us to train?”

“Mhm.”

“And you’re sure we won’t get caught? I cannot risk your title for the sake of an activity I want to learn.”

“They made this room soundproof when it was built and now that it’s not being used, it's a good place to make a lot of noise.”

Your cheeks heat slightly, but thankfully in the dark, he won’t be able to see. “Right,” you whisper, “I assume that's for me?” You walk further into the room whilst looking at the wooden sword. 

He nods, handing it to you. “It’s how every soldier was trained to use a sword in the beginning. We will start with this and work on how to handle and hold it.”

You run your finger along the smooth wood as you analyze it. There's a few blemishes indicating its own use, but it seems fairly new. You hold it up like how you imagine a guard would, but the Captain immediately corrects your form. 

“You want to keep your elbows up and have your feet apart to hold a good base. You don’t want to be knocked over on the first hit.” He goes through the proper stances and techniques with you on his own sword, correcting and making adjustments to your stance as needed. You do your best to mimic each move he shows you, but it’s not as easy as you’d once assumed. 

“No, no like this.” He holsters his sword and walks behind you to adjust your arms. “If you keep them far away from you, you’ll have less control. You always want to keep your arms close.” He pressed your elbow closer to your ribs. 

You turn your head to glance back at him not expecting him to be so close to you. One of his arms rests on your waist and the other on your elbow, and you become hyper aware of the heat radiating from his skin and through your clothes. You can’t help yourself when you glance down at his lips then back at his eyes that you realize shine a muted green under the moonlight. He watches you carefully, before blinking and dropping his hands and stepping back. 

Neither of you speak of the moment that passed as he urges you into the next position to stand. You can help but notice how your waist still tingles from where his hand lingered. 

You’d met Jason every night in the old music room to practice your swordsplay, which you’d even upgraded from the wooden sword to a real one, for the past month. It had been freeing to learn something of your own volition inside the castle walls. Tonight, however, there's no lesson to attend with the Captain because you’re to be paraded around in an overly exquisite gown to find your suitor. 

At your request, Alice is the only handmaiden in the room tonight. The thought of having more than one person in your space right now makes you feel even more sick to your stomach. She finishes the pins to keep your hair in the meticulously designed style while you force to keep the dinner in your stomach. 

“You look beautiful my dear, there's no reason to look horrified.” 

“I’m just… nervous. I don’t want to do this.”

“I’m sure there will be plenty of wine you could sneak.” She smiles at you through the mirror, and while that would normally make you laugh, it does little to ease your nerves.

She sighs and brings another chair to sit in while facing you. “Is this about the Captain?”

That snaps you from your jittery daze. “What? What does the Captain have to do with anything?”

She gives you a knowing look, “I’m not blind, I see the way that boy looks at you and how you look at him. I also know you’ve been sneaking off a night to go somewhere, which I’m assuming he’s been doing the same.”

“I haven’t– How did you know?”

“It’s my job to take care of you and know your whereabouts. Don’t worry, nobody else knows.”

You bring your hand to a bead on your dress to fidget with. “It’s nothing like that okay. He’s just been teaching me to use a sword.”

“And you can say you feel nothing for him?”

“I… I don’t know.” You admit to yourself for the first time that you might have become closer with your guard and you might have developed feelings for him.

“You might want to figure that out before you go out there to all the suitors who came here for you.”

“It doesn’t matter how I feel anyways, Mother would never allow him and I together.” 

“Let me deal with Her Majesty. Aspire for whomever you want.”

She stands back up and finishes with your hair, leaving you to think on her words and your own feelings. There were always little moments with Jason during the late nights and even times during the day where he would escort you to different places. You couldn’t explain it, but when you caught his gaze, you felt a magnetic pull toward him.

With everything finished, Alice helps you up and walks you outside of the ballroom. The doors are shut, and the guards standing by are waiting for your approval to open them and send your arrival announcement to the guests. 

You turn to Alice as she whispers, “You know what you want, do not be afraid to reach for the farthest star.” 

You pull her into a hug as a thank you, and when you step back, you nod at the guards to let you inside. The large double doors swing open and you hear the announcement: “And now please welcome the Princess of Gotham.”

You step into the ballroom and feel everyone's eyes turn to you. You plaster the polite smile onto your face as you walk down the few steps toward the floor where many men of ages similar to yours bow to you as you pass. The walk to get to your throne next to your brothers feels never ending, but when you glance up and see Jason standing by your throne as many of the other guards do, the panic eases slightly. 

Finally making it to your seat and sitting down as your father stands to make the announcement reminding everyone tonight is a night of merriment, but you know that's simply a deception. Everyone in this room knows it’s the night you choose your husband. 

The night drags on as you're pulled from person to person to dance with them. Your feet ache from following the music, you tire of the same conversation with each partner, and you feel nothing for any of these men. 

You take advantage of the small gap between suitors coming and asking for your hand in dance to escape and grab a glass of wine. When you walk to the refreshments and take a sip from your glass, you see a familiar brooding man with that white curl that rests upon his forehead standing by the corner scoping out the room as if waiting for someone to attack. With a smile you walk over to him.

“Captain Todd.” 

“Princess.” 

“What are you doing over here?”

“I’m watching over the room to make sure no harm will come out of tonight.”

You smile up at him. “Always on guard.”

“That is my job.” His tone is clipped as he speaks to you, which usually isn't the case. You were beginning to notice his voice softening each night you would meet with him, becoming so unlike the guard you once knew, but tonight it feels all progress has been reverted. You will not allow that.

“Dance with me.”

He finally meets your gaze. “What?”

“One dance.”

“No. I’m not the one you should be dancing with.”

“I get to decide who I dance with.” You grab his hand and try to pull him along, but he holds firm in his position.

“I will not risk you getting in trouble for something you do not truly wish for.”

You stare at him for a long moment, the self-deprecation in his eyes gleaming enough for you to see. “Please,” you whisper.

You see the hesitation in his eyes followed by the slight dip of his chin before you tug him along, this time with him following after you. Once you come to a stop in the middle of the ballroom floor, he carefully places a hand on your waist like he’s afraid his touch will burn you. “I’m not the best dancer.”

“That's alright, just follow my lead.”

Each step you take he follows along with, and for the first time this night, there is no over the top courting, talks of your partners lists of accomplishments, or even awkward compliments. It’s quiet with the small space between you both filled by the thrums of music. He doesn’t try to impress you or make you feel like an object being auctioned, instead its simply two souls dancing around each other. 

The song ends and he bows while you curtsy, but instead of taking a step away from him to be passed to the next suitor, you loop your arm through his and pull him along with you as you run out of the ballroom. He doesn’t question or try to stop you as you wind through the halls and open the doors to the gardens in the back. 

You stand before the garden that is now bloomed in a full array of colors that are nearly impossible to see with only the light of the moon hitting them. You look up at the stars that litter the night sky. Reach for the furthest star.

“The gardens?”

You just nod.

“Why did we just leave?”

“I don’t want any of those men. I cannot be with any of those men,” you whisper.

“I don’t think you have much of a choice, Princess.”

You turn toward him, your dress is practically glowing in the moonlight, as you stand only inches away from him. “I’m choosing now.”

His eyes drag across every feature on your face and you see the realization dawn on his own. “No. No, we cannot do that. It’s practically forbidden." His hands clench at his sides.

“There is no rule against it,” you counter.

He reaches for the loose strand of hair that had fallen during your dances with suitors you don't remember the name of and tucks it behind your ear. “I cannot put you through that.”

Your hand encircles his wrist to keep it at your cheek. You don’t say anything, you just watch him and hope he understands just how much you feel for him. 

“Your father would never forgive me. I could lose my title,” he says, but he leans down closer to you and his nose brushes yours. 

“I wouldn’t let him do that.”

He inhales sharply, “We can’t.” His voice is barely a rough whisper now. He shakes his head as if trying to pull himself out of it and step away but he stays firmly rooted in his spot. His other hand moves to your waist and pulls you flush against him. 

“Jason,” you whisper, and that's all it takes for his lips to crash against yours. His lips are soft against your own, but his kiss is rough, like he's scared someone will rip you away from his grasp. You move in synchrony, trading breath for breath till your heartbeats align, before he finally pulls away, resting his forehead against yours while smiling.

“You might just be my ruin, Princess.”

A/N: i didnt even realize how much i wrote till i pasted it from my google doc... anyways! olivias new song is SOOOO insanely amazing and canada race weekend is finally hereee

[infinictus]

heatwaves

synopsis: sweaty!bf!Jason teases reader

cw: very short, silly, Jason is a bit too happy…, established(?)relationship but reader is still a bit shy, a little ooc if you squint i suppose, lots of petnames, 400 words

a/n: writing might not make sense im posting thsi with a headache but i proofread so. i have a headache again may influence my writing ;( maybe this is ooc

Jason sat on the couch, legs spread and book open in his hand while the other fanned his face slowly. It was hard to focus. For him, it was because of the heat, but for you? It was because of him. Sitting there, with shorts riding up his thighs, a white wifebeater that was nearly soaking, a face with a soft reddish tint, lips which seemed more plump than ever that twitched every now and then.

“Baby?” He started, finding you staring straight at him like a piece of meat. His voice shakes you awake from your thoughts.

“Yeah?” You asked a little more breathy than usual. His eyebrow raises slightly before he spoke again.

“Nothin’. Nevermind.” His eyes track back to the paper. You hummed in response, trying to keep your focus on anything other than his muscles, bedazzled with beads of sweat.

The way his adam’s apple bobbed with each sip of the lemonade made you go even more feral.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” Jason yet again shook you awake with a sly smile on his face. Heat crept up from your stomach to your cheeks now, as you tried to regain yourself.

“You just…look good. Today. Not that you don’t look good every other day— Y’know what I mean.” He hummed at your answer, amused and as if he still wasn’t quite buying what you’re saying.

“Ah, that’s it? Really?” He pressed on. And then it clicked. The way he looked over at you after almost every action.

“You did that shit on purpose?!” You gasped and his smile widened. He shrugged his shoulders slightly.

“I have no idea what you mean, sweetheart.” Your sly fox of a boyfriend couldn’t hold back the pride in his voice.

You shoved his shoulder, your brows knitted together, trying to seem mad. To be quite honest, there was no way you could be mad when the 6’4”, black haired giant was smiling like a kid who just won a lifetime supply of candy. If he were a dog, his tail would be wagging right now.

“What-the-fuck-ever Jason.” You rolled your eyes. He leaned in quickly landing a peck on your cheek before returning to his position.

“Love youuu” He giggled once again before setting down his book.

“I’m gonna have to get back at you now.” You crossed your arms and puffed out your chest.

“Wouldn’t mind that.”

tags: @batwngs, @kumasakka, @sillygayfreak, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger