Just Bored

[evancelinewrites]

birthday boy

chapter two of pope's girl 🖤 | series masterlist

summary: Pope’s birthday was never part of the arrangement. But his invitation pulls you further into his life and into the world Smurf controls. For a relationship built on sex and temporary rules, Pope keeps acting like he doesn’t want the night to end whenever you leave and the wrong people are starting to notice.

notes: Thank you to everyone for your sweet comments and support with the first chapter! I have a good idea of where I want this story to go and I hope you all enjoy the journey. I'm still waiting for my AO3 invite but when I get it, I'll cross-post there. Please let me know if you want to be added to my tag list or if I missed you! 🖤

warnings: canon-divergent timeline, swearing, smoking, mild violence, mentions of criminal activity, pope is a yearner, obessive!pope, no use of y/n, mildly uncomfortable Baz encounters, unhealthy family dynamics, mentions of sex work, SMUT (protected piv, oral sex, making out, dirty talk, "good girl", light hair pulling), 18+

word count: 7.6k 🫣

tags: @fox-saturn @sunbonesss @arigoldsblog @defijones @vicky066 @lovergirlellie @salinaiacono6 @loftilyviolentthunder @mxkhxx @sunmoon-01 @morgan-aaa @insidethegardenwall @dendulinka6 @delicatedragonflower @velvetumbranightmare @aoi-warrior

this chapter's song: Fade Into You - Mazzy Star

chapter two | birthday boy

Two weeks. That’s how much time has passed since Pope was released from Folsom and somehow, your life starts revolving around him more than the arrangement you both agreed to.

You see him everywhere now and fuck him everywhere too. In the back seat of his car beneath the glow of streetlights. In his immaculately spotless hotel suite where messy sheets tangle around both of you in the lingering heat of sweat and sex. Pope spent years starving for intimacy and touch, and now he’s finally found something, or someone, capable of quieting the noise in his head for a little while. And somehow, every single time with him only gets better.

He learns your body quickly. Not easily, exactly. Pope doesn’t do anything with ease. He does it with focus. His hands remember what makes your breath catch, what makes your hips lift, what makes your fingers tighten in his hair before you even realize you’re doing it. He learns the sounds he can pull from you with his hands, his mouth or the gentle scrape of his teeth against the space between your neck and shoulder. He learns how your body reacts whenever his voice drops low enough to vibrate against your skin, especially when he praises you. When he calls you his good girl.

And you? You like how badly he wants you.

Sure, the money is nice. You find yourself worrying less about rent and what you’ll eat during the week, but the real addiction is the hunger behind everything he does. Pope kisses like he wants to consume you, his hands gripping harder every time you kiss him back with the same need, as if some part of him still expects the moment to disappear. Even when he gets rougher, there’s care underneath it. A hand at the back of your head. A pause when your breath catches wrong. His eyes checking yours before his mouth finds you again.

Even after all the nights spent together, Pope never once asks you to stay over.

You know he wants to. Part of you quietly hopes he will. You see it every time you get dressed while he sits silently watching you leave, his eyes following you toward the door like there are words trapped somewhere inside him he doesn’t know how to say out loud. He never reaches for you. He never asks. He only watches, jaw tight, one hand resting against his knee like staying still is something he has to force himself to do.

Pope still barely sleeps, and you can tell just by looking at him. Some nights after sex, while your breathing slowly settles, he stands near the hotel window staring down at the parking lot below with restless energy trapped inside him. His body relaxes around you, but his mind never fully does. You can make him quiet for a little while. You can feel the moment his body gives in beneath your hands.

But you still can’t make him rest.

The following night, you lie on your side while his fingers lazily trace circles along your bare thigh beneath the sheets. The room smells faintly of sweat, clean linen and salty ocean air drifting through the cracked hotel window.

You light a cigarette before climbing back on top of Pope, offering him a drag from the one still balanced between your fingers. Pope doesn’t take it from you. He only leans up, eyes staying on yours as his mouth closes around the filter.

You hold it there for him, watching his cheeks hollow slightly as he inhales.

Then your eyes drift down, catching on the healing cut near his ribs, half-hidden beneath the sheet. Your fingertips brush lightly against it.

“That from the other night?”

Pope glances down briefly.

“S’nothing.”

But the bruising around it has already turned dark purple and yellow. You lean down without really thinking about it, pressing a soft kiss against the skin beside the cut.

Pope goes still beneath you.

Only for a second.

Then his hand settles against your waist, slower this time, fingers spreading carefully over your skin like tenderness still catches him off guard when it isn’t followed by anything sharp.

Before you can say anything else, his phone starts vibrating loudly on the nightstand beside the bed. Pope doesn’t even look at it. His hand slides to the back of your neck instead, pulling you into a kiss.

The buzzing stops after a few seconds. Then starts all over again.

You laugh softly against his shoulder.

“Someone’s desperate.”

Pope groans under his breath before grabbing the phone.

“What.”

Craig’s voice explodes through the speaker loudly enough for you to hear.

“Happy birthday, asshole!”

You immediately push yourself up off Pope’s body.

“Birthday?” you mouth silently toward him.

Pope winces and pulls the phone away from his ear while Craig keeps rambling loudly about plans tomorrow and how Pope better not disappear all day with “his girl.”

Heat rushes into your cheeks at the nickname while Pope drags a tired hand down his face like Craig is already exhausting him.

“Yeah,” Pope mutters eventually. “I’ll come.”

Pause.

“No, I’m not jumpin’ outta a plane, dipshit.”

You laugh harder at that as Pope shoots you an irritated look. His hand is still on your waist, though, which ruins some of the effect.

He hangs up eventually and tosses the phone back onto the table before laying back down.

“You didn’t tell me it’s your birthday.”

Pope shrugs.

“Didn’t matter.”

You roll onto your side to face him properly.

“Not a fan of birthdays?”

He doesn’t respond.

The silence stretches for a moment before you speak again. You shift onto your back, taking another drag from the cigarette between your fingers.

“My favourite birthday was probably three years ago.”

Pope glances toward you quietly.

“Chrissy snuck us into Disneyland after my ex broke up with me.”

His eyebrows lift slightly in curious amusement.

“Snuck?”

“She was screwing a guy working security,” you say, smiling softly at the memory. “We spent the entire night going on rides and watching fireworks.”

Pope stays quiet for a second before speaking unexpectedly.

“Julia skipped school with me once.”

Your attention shifts back toward him immediately.

Pope never brings up Julia.

“She took me to the beach,” he says, voice lower now. “We split this vanilla cupcake with strawberry filling from some bakery near the pier.”

There it is again. That grief sitting just beneath the surface inside him. You suddenly wonder what Julia would’ve been like. Wonder what kind of person could still make Pope sound this gentle years later.

Pope looks back toward you then, reaching over to take the cigarette from between your fingers before bringing it to his mouth. Smoke leaves slowly through his nose before he speaks again.

“Smurf wants me at the house tomorrow.”

“Oh,” you say, eyes shifting toward the ceiling.

Then Pope says, “Come tomorrow.”

You blink.

“To your birthday?”

His eyes stay on yours.

“Yeah.”

Something in your chest tightens at the invitation. You study him for a moment, waiting for the casual correction, the shrug, the thing that will make it sound smaller than it is.

It never comes.

“You asking me or telling me?” you ask softly.

Pope’s mouth almost moves.

“Asking.”

The answer is quiet enough to feel more intimate than it should.

You take another drag from the cigarette, mostly to give yourself something to do with your hands.

“Okay,” you say softly. “What time?”

The next morning, you dig through your closet until you find a yellow sundress shoved near the back. Soft fabric. Thin straps. Fitted enough around your waist to make Pope look at you a little too long, if you’re lucky.

Chrissy watches from your bed, sitting cross-legged while you change.

“Where the fuck are you going so early in the morning?”

“It’s Pope’s birthday,” you say, adjusting the dress in the mirror.

That gets Chrissy’s attention immediately. Her expression shifts while you tie your hair into a braid, the teasing look on her face giving way to something more careful.

“Pope Cody’s birthday?”

You meet her eyes in the mirror.

“I know the stories too, Chrissy.”

“Okay, but stories don’t usually come from nowhere.”

You soften slightly because Chrissy is genuinely worried, even if she’s trying not to show it.

“I’m okay,” you say. “Promise.”

Chrissy studies you for another second before sighing dramatically and falling back against your pillows.

“You better be. I’m too lazy to make new friends.”

You laugh quietly before grabbing your purse from the doorknob.

“Love you. Don’t wait up,” you say with a wink.

“First of all, gross,” she mutters immediately. “Second, there’s a bachelor party at the club, so I’ll be at work all night. Third, I love you too.”

The Codys love a party, even if it’s just family.

Craig cannonballs into the pool fully clothed while Deran yells at him from the patio. J sits nearby next to Nikki, looking deeply overwhelmed by the entire family. He clings to Baz constantly now, following him around with this desperate need for guidance that seems to irritate Pope more every time he notices it.

The second Pope looks up and sees you standing near the patio doors in the yellow dress, his entire expression changes. His gaze drags over you slowly, lingering just long enough to make heat rush up your neck before settling back on your face. The longer he looks, the less he seems interested in birthday plans and the more he seems interested in getting you alone.

Deran catches Pope watching you from across the patio and mutters something under his breath to Craig, making him laugh. Pope doesn’t even look over. His attention stays on you.

Baz notices you too. His gaze drags slowly over the yellow dress with the kind of familiarity he has no right to anymore. Slow enough to make sure you feel it. Slow enough to make sure Pope sees.

Pope’s jaw tightens immediately. Baz leans back casually in his chair before looking toward you again.

“You never wore dresses like that around me.”

“Maybe you didn’t deserve them.”

Baz’s grin widens, but his eyes flick past you toward Pope.

“What?” he says, lifting his hands. “I’m just saying. I had her first.”

“Baz,” Cath warns sharply from behind him.

You jump slightly, not realizing she heard the entire exchange. Cath stands near the patio door with Lena, her expression tight in a way that makes the moment feel uglier than it did a second ago.

For half a breath, something almost embarrassed flashes across Baz’s face. The smug grin comes back harder, like he’d rather be cruel than caught.

Pope starts walking toward him slowly.

“You got somethin’ else to say?”

Baz stands from his chair and smirks wider, but his shoulders have gone a little tight.

“Just statin’ facts.”

Pope shoves him hard into the pool. Water splashes everywhere as Baz goes under and for one quick second, the patio goes quiet. Then Baz surfaces a moment later, sputtering while Craig bursts out laughing.

Pope stands at the edge of the pool looking down at him, expression flat except for a faint trace of satisfaction at the corner of his mouth.

“Y’know,” Baz laughs while splashing water back toward him, “you can be a real dick, Pope.”

“You started it, asshole,” Pope says and something almost playful flashes across his face. Quick, rare and gone almost immediately.

“Boys,” Smurf snaps sharply from the patio, though amusement lingers underneath her voice. “Stop play fighting.”

Then she motions toward the house.

“Girls, come help me in the kitchen.”

You follow Smurf, Cath, Lena and Nikki inside while the boys stay outside laughing loudly near the pool. As you pass Pope, his eyes find yours again, moving once over the yellow dress before lifting back to your face.

Inside, the kitchen moves around you while Nikki arranges food near the island and Cath cuts strawberries beside the sink. Lena sits colouring quietly at the counter until she looks up and notices your braid.

“I like your hair.”

The sweetness in her voice catches you off guard.

“Thanks, sweetie.”

Lena immediately looks toward Cath.

“Mommy, can you do mine like that?”

Cath pauses briefly before glancing toward you.

“You know what, babe? My hands are really sticky right now. Why don’t you ask her?”

The offer surprises you, but Lena is already climbing onto the stool beside you, excitedly handing over a brush before you can overthink it. You smile softly and start braiding her hair carefully while she continues colouring, her little feet swinging beneath the counter.

Smurf watches quietly from across the kitchen, a cigarette held loosely between her fingers.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with my Andrew lately.”

The way she says my Andrew feels deliberate.

“He likes having me around.”

Smurf smiles faintly.

“Oh, I know he does.” Her eyes drift briefly toward the backyard. “My boys have always liked pretty things.”

Nikki glances awkwardly between you and Cath. The last sentence hangs long enough to sting and Cath’s jaw tightens slightly beside the sink. You keep your hands steady in Lena’s hair.

“Funny,” you say calmly. “Pope’s the only one around here who hasn’t treated me like one.”

Smurf’s smile doesn’t move.

“Maybe not.” Her voice stays honey-sweet. “Andrew’s always been different from his brothers.”

You tie off the first braid carefully.

“He feels things stronger than most people,” Smurf continues. “Doesn’t always know what to do with it.”

Her gaze drifts toward the backyard again, where Pope stands near the pool with Craig and Deran, still not laughing as much as everyone else.

“Family means everything to him. Always has.” She takes a slow drag from her cigarette. “People come and go in this life, sweetie. Women especially.”

She shrugs lightly, like she hasn’t just slid the knife in.

“But Andrew always comes home.”

Something about the last line stays with you longer than you want it to. Nikki raises her glass slowly to her mouth, eyes darting toward you like she’s afraid to miss what comes next. Even Cath looks uncomfortable now. The implication lands exactly how Smurf intends it to.

No matter how much time Pope spends with you, no matter how badly he wants you, he still knows where to go when his mother calls.

You finish the last twist in Lena’s braid before answering.

“Must get tiring,” you say.

Smurf tilts her head.

“What’s that?”

“Always having to come home.”

The room goes still for half a second. Cath looks down like she’s trying not to react. Nikki nearly chokes on her drink.

Smurf smiles then. Not because she likes you. Because even Smurf can admit when someone has teeth.

She steps closer, lifting a hand toward your braid and letting her fingers brush over it like she’s admiring something delicate. Then she moves a loose strand of hair away from your face, examining you closely enough to make your skin prickle.

“You’re a young, beautiful girl,” Smurf says softly. “You’ve got a whole world of options that don’t involve my boys.”

Before you can answer, Lena twists around on the stool to look at her hair.

“Is it done?”

You force your attention back to her and smile.

“Almost.”

Cath clears her throat, setting the knife down beside the strawberries.

“You still looking for work?”

The question cuts through the tension cleanly enough that Nikki looks visibly relieved.

“I’ve been trying,” you admit, tying off Lena’s second braid.

“You ever worked in a bar before?”

“I was a server at a diner for a few years.”

“The Flying Pig’s hiring,” Cath says. “One of the servers left a few weeks ago and they’re trying to find someone to cover.”

The offer catches you completely off guard.

“You serious?”

Cath shrugs lightly, but her eyes stay on yours.

“You’d make good tips.”

You doubt you and Cath will ever become best friends, but you still smile softly at her, quietly acknowledging that maybe, in some strange way, you both understand each other more than either of you wants to admit.

“I’ll think about it.”

Lena reaches up carefully to touch one of the braids.

“Do I look pretty?”

You glance down at her and soften.

“Very.”

Across the kitchen, Smurf watches the whole thing, cigarette smoke curling lazily around her face.

A few moments later, once Nikki settles with Lena in the living room to watch cartoons and Smurf disappears outside to drag the boys back in, the kitchen finally quiets. Cath folds dish towels carefully beside you while tension still lingers between you both, quiet and awkward now that there’s no one else around to hide behind.

“Cath, I…”

The backyard door suddenly slams open before you can finish, and the boys flood back inside loudly while Craig drips pool water across the tile floor. Baz follows behind him mostly dry now, though his shirt still clings slightly at the collar and his hair is messier than it was before.

Pope immediately looks disgusted.

“Jesus Christ, Craig.”

“What?”

“You’re all wet.”

“It’s called a pool, dumbass.”

“There’s fucking footprints everywhere.”

Craig ignores him completely and opens the fridge, grabbing the cake with soaking wet hands. You’ve never seen Pope look genuinely horrified. Deran bursts out laughing from behind him while Baz steps forward and drops both hands onto Pope’s shoulders mockingly.

“He’s gonna want to disinfect the whole kitchen after this.”

Pope shrugs him off without looking at him.

“Don’t touch me.”

Baz only grins, but there’s still a sharpness to it from earlier.

Smurf lights a candle on a large chocolate cake while everybody crowds loosely around the kitchen island. The brothers sing terribly, mostly yelling over each other while Pope stands there looking uncomfortable through the entire thing. Craig sings the loudest, of course, one hand still dripping onto the tile while Deran laughs too hard to stay on key. Baz leans against the counter with that easy grin back in place, like the pool never happened.

You catch yourself smiling and for half a second, it almost feels normal.

Then Smurf motions for Pope to blow out the candle.

J looks at the cake. His expression barely changes, but his voice cuts through the room anyway.

“It’s my mom’s birthday too.”

The silence is immediate.

Craig stops smiling first. Deran’s eyes flick toward Smurf. Baz looks away, jaw tightening like something old just moved under his skin. Pope goes completely still beside the island, his attention fixed on the candle like he’s stopped seeing the room at all.

Even Smurf’s expression shifts. Only for a second. Then the softness comes back, smooth and practised.

“That’s right, baby,” she says gently. “It is.”

She looks at the cake, then at J.

“Happy birthday, Julia.”

Nobody moves.

The candle flame flickers between all of you, small and ridiculous on top of all that chocolate frosting.

You look toward Pope.

He’s already gone somewhere else.

Not physically. He’s still standing there, still close enough for your shoulder to brush his if you moved half a step. But everything in him has pulled inward. His jaw is tight. His eyes are distant. His hands hang at his sides, too still now, like he doesn’t trust them to do anything else.

And all at once, the sadness sitting underneath him all day finally makes sense.

Julia.

Not just his birthday.

Theirs.

Eventually, everybody drifts back outside again. Cath gathers leftovers quietly while Lena tugs sleepily at her hand, her fresh braid coming loose near the ends.

Before leaving, Cath stops beside you, speaking low enough that only you can hear.

“You should be careful.”

You look toward her immediately.

Cath glances briefly toward the backyard where Pope stands near the pool arguing with Craig and Deran, shoulders stiff while Craig gestures too widely with both hands.

“With him?”

Cath’s mouth tightens slightly.

“With all of them.”

Her eyes move toward Smurf next, sitting outside with a cigarette between her fingers, watching her boys like she owns every breath they take.

“Smurf doesn’t like losing track of what belongs to her.”

The warning lands quietly.

“She’ll always find a way to pull them back,” Cath adds, softer now. “I know from experience.”

The sadness underneath her voice hits harder than the warning itself.

“Thank you for looking out for me,” you say quietly.

Cath nods once, like she’s already decided not to make this more sentimental than it needs to be.

You glance toward Baz, who’s laughing too loudly near the pool like nothing in the kitchen ever happened. Then you look back at Cath.

“And for what it’s worth,” you add, voice lower, “I’m sorry.”

Cath studies you for another second. For a moment, you think she might pretend not to understand.

She doesn’t.

Her expression softens slightly, but only slightly.

“Yeah,” she says. “Me too.”

Then Lena tugs her hand again.

Cath looks down, brushing a loose piece of hair away from Lena’s face before looking back at you.

“Think about my offer. Let me know.”

Then she leaves quietly with Lena.

You’re alone in the kitchen washing dishes while the remaining houseguests stay outside near the pool. A few seconds later, Pope comes up behind you, quiet enough that you barely hear him until his mouth is near your ear.

“That dress is drivin’ me fuckin’ crazy,” he says low, his hands sliding slowly around your waist.

A smile pulls at your mouth.

“Consider it part of your birthday gift,” you say, leaning your head back until your mouth brushes near his ear. “Although part of it might already be unwrapped.”

He goes completely still behind you.

“You’re lyin’.”

You glance over your shoulder, your eyes lifting to meet his.

“Why don’t you feel for yourself?”

That’s apparently all the permission Pope needs. His breathing changes instantly as his hand slides beneath your dress and finds nothing but bare skin waiting for him.

“Fuck,” he groans against your ear, his hand gripping you firmly. “You have no idea what you’re doin’ to me.”

You bite your lip as your hips shift against his hand.

“Pretty sure I’m starting to.”

His hands move around to the front of you, pushing your legs apart while your fingers tighten around the edge of the sink. One hand settles at your hip to keep you steady while the other disappears beneath your dress again.

The second his fingers find you already slick for him, his breath turns ragged.

“Jesus,” he mutters, almost to himself.

Your head tips back against his shoulder as his touch starts slow and deliberate, focused in that way he gets when he’s learning something he wants to remember. The dishes sit forgotten in the sink, soap sliding down your wrists while your body leans back into his like it already knows where it belongs.

He pulls his fingers away suddenly.

You barely have time to miss the touch before he brings them to his mouth. His eyes stay locked on yours as he licks them clean, and the sight nearly makes your knees give out.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice rough. “You taste good.”

The words nearly undo you, mostly because he says them like he wasn’t trying to praise you at all. Like the truth just slipped out before he could stop it.

You turn quickly to face him, kissing him hard while your damp, soapy hands slide into his hair. Pope makes a quiet sound into your mouth, one hand catching your waist before he backs you against the kitchen island.

He lifts you onto the counter with both hands, a little rougher than necessary, like patience has finally started failing him.

Your breath catches as you lean back on your palms, the counter cool beneath your skin while Pope steps between your legs. His eyes drag slowly over you, over the yellow dress bunched high on your thighs, and the look on his face makes heat rush through you all over again.

Then he lowers himself in front of you.

“Pope,” you breathe, but there’s no warning in it.

His hands slide up your thighs, spreading them wider as his mouth presses against the inside of your knee, then higher, disappearing beneath the soft yellow fabric.

A shaky breath leaves you immediately. Your hips move before he even touches you where you need him, already desperate for his mouth, desperate to feel him taste you again after the way he looked at you moments earlier.

Just then, the backyard door slides open.

“Yo!” Baz yells loudly from outside. “Birthday boy! You comin’ or what?”

Pope’s head lifts from beneath your dress, and he shuts his eyes briefly like he’s genuinely considering murder.

“One minute,” he snaps.

Baz laughs from the patio.

“Hurry the fuck up. Guy’s gonna charge me a late fee if we don’t meet him now.”

Pope stays where he is for another second, breathing hard, his hands still gripping your thighs beneath the dress. For a moment, you think he might ignore Baz completely.

Then his jaw tightens.

He stands slowly.

You grin breathlessly as you hop down from the counter, smoothing your dress back into place.

“Take a rain check?”

His hands find your hips again, fingers digging in for half a second before he forces himself to loosen his grip.

“Hotel. Later.”

You look up at him, still smiling.

“Nowhere else I’d rather be tonight.”

His expression shifts slightly, the frustration giving way to something softer before he leans in and kisses you once, hard and brief.

“Good,” he says against your mouth.

Apparently, the Cody brothers’ brilliant birthday plans involve skydiving, despite Pope repeatedly calling it “stupid as shit.”

You’re curled on your couch later that evening when your phone buzzes with updates from him.

deran and craig got into it

craig pushed deran out of the plane

You stare at the screen.

is deran ok?

yeah

why did craig push deran out of the plane?

because deran and i did the job without him and baz

You blink once.

normal family stuff then

yeah

pope

what

that was sarcasm

i know

A minute passes before curiosity wins.

why didn’t you guys do the job with baz and craig?

baz had to take craig to a doctor in mexico

You sit up a little.

why did craig need a doctor in mexico?

bullet wound

“What the fuck?” you say aloud to your empty apartment.

i should stop asking questions

probably for the best

He doesn’t answer for a while after that.

A few hours later, your phone buzzes again.

at a strip club now

Your eyebrows lift.

poor pope surrounded by beautiful naked women

His response comes almost immediately.

don’t start

You grin to yourself, curling deeper into the couch cushions.

better not forget about me if girls are giving you a lap dance

There’s a longer pause this time.

what makes you think im getting a lap dance

You snort softly.

because baz probably paid for one already

No response comes after that.

You stare at the screen for another second before biting your lip. Then, impulsively, you push yourself off the couch and walk toward your bedroom.

The yellow dress is still on.

You let the straps fall low enough to bare your shoulders, the fabric riding higher along your thighs as you stand with your back toward the mirror. You glance over one shoulder, phone lifted just enough to hide most of your face, though the sly curve of your mouth still shows.

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Then nothing.

Your stomach twists.

Maybe his phone died. Maybe Baz dragged him somewhere louder. Maybe Pope looked at the picture in the middle of the club and went completely still, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the screen while some girl tried to get his attention and failed.

That last thought should make you feel smug.

Instead, the silence starts getting under your skin.

Maybe he actually accepted the lap dance.

You hate how much that bothers you.

Almost twenty minutes pass before there’s a knock at your apartment door. You frown slightly before walking over and pulling it open.

Pope stands in the hallway, breathing a little heavier than normal, his dark eyes locking onto you immediately. His gaze drops slowly down your body, taking in the yellow dress. His gaze lingers long enough to make heat rush up your neck before lifting back to your face.

“Chrissy home?”

His eyes flick past you into the apartment, quick and careful, checking corners like he can’t help himself.

You shake your head slowly.

“Working. Won’t be home all night.”

“Good.”

You step aside to let him in and Pope shuts the door behind him immediately.

When he turns back to you, the restraint is almost worse than if he touched you right away. He just stands there for a second, looking at you with the kind of focus that makes it obvious he hasn’t stopped thinking about the picture since the moment he opened it.

“What are you doing here?” you ask softly. “I thought I was supposed to meet you at the hotel later.”

Pope steps closer.

“Couldn’t wait.”

Your stomach tightens.

“No?”

His eyes stay on yours.

“No.”

You take a breath, but he’s already close enough for his hand to find your hip. His other hand slips beneath the edge of your dress, slow enough that you feel every inch of anticipation before his fingers touch skin.

“You can’t send me a picture like that,” he says, voice low, “and expect me to sit there with them like I’m not thinkin’ about this.”

His hand moves higher.

You feel the exact moment he realizes.

Pope goes still and his eyes darken.

“Still no underwear?”

“No.”

The corner of his mouth lifts slightly. Not a full smile. Barely even close.

It still makes heat pull low in your stomach.

“That why you sent it?”

You swallow, trying not to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much the look on his face affects you.

“Maybe.”

His thumb drags once over your thigh.

“Wanted me to leave?”

Your breath catches.

“Answer me.”

“Yes.”

His hand tightens at your hip.

“Good girl.”

The praise slips through you immediately, fast and embarrassing and impossible to hide. Pope sees it too. His gaze drops to your mouth before he leans closer, his lips brushing the corner of yours without kissing you yet.

“It worked.”

Then he kisses you hard enough to make you stumble backward.

Pope catches you immediately, one arm wrapping around your waist while his other hand slides beneath your thigh. He lifts you easily, your legs locking around him as he carries you farther into the apartment without breaking the kiss. There’s nothing graceful about it. Not really. He moves like patience has already failed him and he’s holding himself together by force.

He sets you down on the table carefully, almost too carefully for how hard he’s breathing.

That gets to you more than it should.

The restraint. The hunger. The way he can look at you like that and still make sure the edge of the table doesn’t catch the back of your thigh.

Pope steps between your knees, his hands sliding along your legs, slow and firm, pushing the yellow dress higher until the fabric bunches around your hips.

For a second, he only looks at you.

“What?” you breathe.

His eyes lift to yours, dark and focused.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

Your stomach tightens.

“About what?”

His gaze drops between your thighs before coming back to your face.

“The way you taste.”

The words leave him rough, almost like he didn’t mean to say them out loud. Like the truth slips out before he can stop it.

He steps closer, his hands settling at your knees.

“Can I?”

Your breath catches at the question. Even like this, even with his body pressed close and his mouth swollen from kissing you, he still gives you the choice.

You nod.

His eyes narrow slightly.

“Say it.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “Taste me again, Pope.”

He lowers himself between your thighs, one arm hooking beneath your leg to pull you closer to the edge. Your hands brace behind you, fingers curling against the tabletop as his mouth presses to the inside of your knee, then higher.

He takes his time for someone who said he couldn’t wait.

That’s the part that nearly undoes you.

The way his mouth moves over your skin with deliberate patience. The way his fingers press into your thigh, not rushing, not careless, holding you open for him like he wants to feel every second of you giving in. The way he watches your face until the dress hides him from view.

Then his mouth finds you.

Your back arches immediately, a broken sound slipping past your lips before you can stop it.

“Fuck, Pope.”

His grip tightens.

The sound of your voice does something to him. You feel it in the way his restraint falters, the way his mouth grows hungrier, the way one hand slides up your thigh and keeps you right there when your hips try to move against him.

He doesn’t let you disappear into it alone.

Every time you gasp, he answers. Every time your fingers tighten in his hair, his breath drags rough against your skin. Every time your body trembles, his hand strokes once along your thigh, grounding you before he takes you apart again.

Your head falls back.

“Oh god,” you whisper. “Pope.”

He makes a low sound against you, like hearing his name like that is almost too much.

You feel yourself getting close too quickly, too sharply, the pleasure gathering low and tight until your legs begin to shake around him.

“I’m gonna come,” you breathe.

Pope lifts his head from beneath your dress.

His mouth is wet, his breathing uneven, his eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them.

“Not yet.”

Your chest rises sharply.

“Pope.”

His hand slides up your stomach, pressing lightly there, not holding you down, just keeping you with him.

“Wait for me,” he says, voice rough with restraint. “Can you do that?”

You nod immediately, too far gone to argue.

A slow curve touches the corner of his mouth, almost wrecked by how quickly you listen to him.

“Good girl.”

The praise moves through you so fast your thighs press tighter around him. His expression changes again, hunger bleeding into something almost tender.

He stands and leans over you, mouth finding yours. You taste yourself on him and the kiss turns deeper, messier, his hand sliding beneath your dress to push it higher.

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

For a second, neither of you says anything.

His eyes move over you slowly, taking in the flushed skin, the dress gathered at your waist, the way your chest rises with every shaky breath. Pope looks at you like he’s trying to memorize what wanting can look like when nobody is taking it from him.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says quietly.

The words come out almost uneven and that makes them hit harder.

You reach for him, fingers finding his belt.

“Come here.”

He listens.

His belt comes undone quickly, then his jeans. His boxers get pushed down just enough for you to see how badly the whole day has gotten to him. You lift yourself slightly onto your elbows, watching as he rolls the condom on, his eyes flicking back to yours like he wants to catch every reaction.

Then he steps between your thighs again.

His hands slide beneath your knees, pulling you closer to the edge of the table. The movement drags a soft gasp from you and Pope’s jaw tightens at the sound.

He lines himself up slowly as your fingers grip his shoulders.

“Pope.”

“I know.”

His forehead drops against yours.

The first thrust inside you steals the air from both of you. He pushes in carefully, inch by inch and the sound that leaves him is rough and broken against your mouth. Your eyes close, overwhelmed by the stretch, the heat, the weight of him so close after wanting him all day too.

“Look at me.”

You force your eyes open.

His face is right there, tense with restraint, mouth parted, eyes locked on yours like he needs you to stay with him for this.

“There you go,” he breathes. “That’s my girl.”

Your body tightens around him.

Pope feels it immediately. His eyes shut for half a second.

“Fuck.”

He starts moving slowly at first, one hand firm at your waist while the other braces against the table beside you. Every thrust pulls a breathless sound from you and Pope takes each one like it matters. Like he’s listening for what your body wants before his own can take over.

But his patience doesn’t last long.

Not after the picture. Not after the kitchen. Not after being interrupted once and forced to sit through the rest of the day with the thought of you waiting for him in that dress.

His rhythm turns rougher, more desperate, though his hands stay careful, keeping you close without making you feel trapped.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him against you.

He goes willingly, face burying against your neck, mouth dragging over your skin between uneven breaths.

“I couldn’t think,” he says against your throat.

You make a soft sound, fingers tightening in his hair.

“About me?”

His mouth presses below your ear.

“Yeah.”

A beat.

“Only you.”

Your chest aches at how simple it sounds.

His hand slides beneath your thigh, lifting your leg higher against his hip and the new angle makes your whole body go tight.

“Fuck,” you whisper.

Pope’s breath catches.

“You close?”

You nod, unable to speak.

His head lifts immediately.

“Words.”

Your eyes meet his.

“Yes,” you whisper. “I’m close.”

His mouth brushes yours, softer than the rest of him.

“Wait for me,” he says. “Just a little longer.”

A helpless sound breaks from you and something in his expression shifts like he almost can’t stand asking it of you.

“I know,” he murmurs, kissing you once. “I got you.”

His pace grows rougher, more uneven, every movement pulling you closer to the edge while his own control slips piece by piece. His mouth drags along your jaw, his breathing turning ragged near your ear.

“Wait for me,” he says again, rougher this time, almost pleading. “Come with me.”

That’s what does it.

Not just his body or the pressure building so sharply you can barely breathe around it.

It’s the way he says it. Like he doesn’t want to fall apart unless you’re there with him.

Release moves through you hard and sudden, your body tightening around him as Pope follows you over the edge with a rough sound buried against your mouth. His arms lock around you, holding you through it, holding you after, his face pressed into the curve of your neck while both of you shake through the last of it.

For a while, neither of you says anything.

Pope stays there, breathing hard against your skin, his hand moving slowly over your back like he’s trying to keep both of you in one piece.

Then, after a long moment, his mouth brushes your shoulder.

“You okay?”

You nod, still catching your breath.

“Yeah.”

His hand moves once over your back again.

You smile faintly, turning your face toward his.

“You left the strip club pretty fast.”

Pope lifts his head just enough to look at you. His mouth twitches faintly.

“Didn’t wanna be there.”

Your smile softens.

“No?”

His eyes move over your face, warmer now, still a little dark from everything that just happened between you.

“Wanted to be here.”

The words are simple. Almost plain.

Somehow, that makes them worse.

Later, while fixing your dress again in the kitchen, your eyes drift toward the table behind you and you nearly laugh to yourself. If Chrissy ever finds out what happened on her kitchen table, she may actually kill you.

Pope sits silently in one of the chairs nearby, still catching his breath while he watches you move around the apartment. His hair is messy, his shirt half-buttoned, his eyes quieter now that the hunger has burned down into something softer.

“Stay there,” you say.

His brow furrows slightly, but he listens.

A minute later, you return holding a tiny vanilla cupcake with one crooked candle shoved into the top. You light it carefully before setting it down in front of him.

“I couldn’t find the bakery you mentioned,” you say, leaning against the table. “So I stopped at one earlier before I came home. I made sure to ask for strawberry filling.”

The shift is small, but immediate. Pope’s eyes drop to the cupcake and stay there, fixed on the wax beginning to slip down the side of the candle.

“You told me about it after you told me your favourite birthday,” you say softly. “I figured that meant it was worth remembering.”

Pope doesn’t answer.

For a second, you worry you’ve done too much. Maybe taken something private and put it in front of him before he was ready. Maybe made the room too soft for a man who still looks startled every time tenderness comes without a catch.

A small smile pulls at your mouth anyway.

“Make a wish.”

Pope looks up at you then.

Not long.

Just enough.

Then he leans forward and blows out the candle.

Smoke curls between you, thin and quiet. He doesn’t touch the cupcake right away and you don’t ask why. You only stand there with your hip pressed against the table, watching him watch it.

Eventually, his voice comes out low.

“Should’ve called her more.”

The grief underneath the words catches you off guard. It isn’t dramatic and it doesn’t need to be. It sits there between you, heavier than anything else he could’ve said.

You step closer until you’re standing beside him.

“Julia?”

Pope nods once, eyes still on the cupcake.

“She knew you loved her,” you say.

His jaw tightens.

For a second, you think he might argue. Pope looks like the kind of man who trusts guilt more than comfort, like pain makes more sense to him than forgiveness ever could.

But he doesn’t say anything.

When he finally looks up at you, the dim kitchen light makes him look younger somehow. Tired, not just from the day but from years of carrying things no one ever taught him how to put down.

You reach out slowly, giving him time to move away.

He doesn’t.

Your fingers brush once through his hair, careful and soft.

Pope’s eyes lower but he stays still beneath your hand. Maybe that's the part that gets to you most. Not the fact that he lets you touch him, but the way he looks like he has to make himself believe he’s allowed to want it.

After another long moment, he speaks again.

“Can I stay tonight?”

Your eyebrows lift slightly before you can stop yourself.

Pope looks away immediately, something hardening in his expression like he already regrets letting the words out.

“You don’t have to,” he mutters.

The words come fast. Defensive. Almost flat.

Like he’s trying to take the question back before you can make it hurt.

Your expression softens.

“I want you to.”

A little while later, you change into a lace cami while Pope strips down to his boxers near the bed. You try not to stare, but it’s a losing battle. Broad shoulders, thick arms, messy hair from your fingers earlier and sleep-heavy eyes still fixed on you like he can’t stop looking even now.

You climb beneath the blankets slowly and Pope hesitates for half a second before stretching one arm out toward you in a silent invitation.

You pause at the gesture, understanding it for what it is. Pope has never liked being touched unless he decides where the contact begins, so when he reaches for you like this, careful and quiet, something in your chest softens before you can stop it.

You move closer and settle beside him while his arm wraps slowly around your waist. Your hand rests lightly against his chest and beneath your palm, you feel him exhale deeply. Not all at once. Not enough to make the tension disappear completely. Just enough that you feel his body recognize yours beside him.

“Happy birthday, Pope,” you whisper, lifting your head toward his ear before pressing a soft kiss against his cheek.

His arm tightens around you.

Your eyes drift toward the healing cut near his ribs again and your fingertips brush lightly over the bruised skin surrounding it. A quiet anxiety creeps low in your stomach before you can stop it. There are parts of Pope’s life you don’t know how to touch yet. Parts that show up purple and yellow beneath his skin. Parts that make him stand by windows after sex and stare at parking lots like sleep is something he has to earn first.

This is just an agreement, you remind yourself as sleep slowly starts pulling you under.

But sometime later, in the middle of the night, while the apartment stays quiet around you both, Pope’s breathing finally evens beneath your cheek.

No pacing. No hotel window. No restless shadow standing half-dressed in the dark.

Just Pope, asleep with his arm still locked around your waist like he found you there and decided not to let go.

And maybe that was the wish he never said out loud.

[miasvelvetvoid]

i love the sick,

summary: What starts as a simple night watching Lena turns into something far more dangerous when Baz leaves you at Smurf’s overnight. As Smurf slowly tightens her grip, quietly isolating you from the outside world, J is the only one who notices the pattern for what it really is and for the first time, he steps between you and his family. The night cracks open the fragile balance you’ve built with the Codys, exposing a darker, more volatile side of Pope Cody that leaves your relationship hanging by a thread and forces long-buried truths dangerously close to the surface. andrew ‘pope’ cody x f!reader / cw: SMURF WARNING NEOW!!!, we finally learn what reader is in school for, J is big in the plot for this, angstttttt, could be considered fluff, upset pope, angry!pope, possessive!pope, j plotting behind everyone’s back per usual, i don’t wanna say possessive/protective!j but yea…, pope talks about his feelings canon?, might be ooc pope for some of this, they kiss, kinda failed manipulation on reader, reader is starting to realize things, fighting, mentions of past traumatic relationships. word count: 9.9k amalia’s love note: nervous asf to share with you the direction i’m taking this story. i know people hate J, i get it but i think he’s severely underused in pope fics like, for how much pope dislikes him i think we’re missing out on a whole different level of angst. anyway here’s part three, was supposed to be shorter but i had the stomach bug so i lived in my DR which happens to be this story for like way too long and this was the result. Anyways buckle up next part is already written and ready to go which im calling the big pope update, oh y’all aren’t ready. added in a bonus little happy part at the end to make up for the next part.

The back patio at Smurf’s was quiet for once. Not completely quiet. Nothing at that house ever really was. You could still hear the ocean somewhere in the distance, waves crashing softly beyond the neighborhoods lining the coast, the low hum of traffic drifting in from the street out front, Lena talking to herself inside while she colored at the kitchen table. But compared to the usual noise of the Cody house, the constant movement and shouting and slamming doors, it felt strangely still tonight. Warm. Heavy with summer air and chlorine and cigarette smoke lingering faintly over the pool.

You sat curled sideways on one of the lounge chairs wearing one of Deran’s sweatshirts over your shorts, your textbooks spread across your lap while you highlighted notes you already knew you probably wouldn’t remember later anyway. Every few minutes Lena would come barreling outside with another drawing clutched in her tiny hands, talking so fast half her words blurred together while you nodded seriously like each scribbled crayon masterpiece belonged in a museum before sending her back inside again with a dramatic gasp and a promise to hang it on the fridge later.

J sat near the edge of the pool with his feet propped beside the water, cigarette balanced loosely between his fingers as he stared out at nothing in particular. He’d been sitting there almost an hour without speaking much, shoulders hunched slightly forward, face unreadable in that way it always seemed to be. Which honestly wasn’t unusual for him.

J talked when he actually had something to say. Otherwise he mostly just watched people.

You’d gotten used to it.

“You’re doing the thing again,” you said absentmindedly, not looking up from your textbook as you highlighted another sentence.

“The thing?” he asked flatly.

“The depressed teenage staring thing.”

J snorted quietly under his breath.

“It’s unsettling,” you continued, flipping the page.

“You still sat out here with me.”

A smile pulled faintly at your mouth before you finally glanced up long enough to catch the corner of his mouth twitching slightly before he looked away again. A few months ago J barely acknowledged your existence unless he absolutely had to. Half the time you weren’t even sure he liked you. Now there was something quieter between you. Still cautious, but there.

The screen door slid open behind you before Smurf stepped outside carrying two glasses of wine balanced effortlessly in her hands.

“Well aren’t you two domestic,” she teased lightly.

You laughed softly. “Ah, I’m just studying.”

Smurf handed you a glass anyway. “And you need a break.”

The second she stepped outside, J’s expression changed. Barely. Tiny enough most people wouldn’t notice it. But you did now. He got quieter around her. More alert somehow. Like every word mattered more when she was near.

You accepted the wine mostly because refusing Smurf always felt strangely uncomfortable, like disappointing her carried more weight than it should.

Smurf sat gracefully beside you, eyes drifting toward the textbook resting across your thighs. “Still doing all this?”

You laughed quietly. “Unfortunately.”

“Baby, you spend more time studying than living your life.”

“It’s not that bad,” you shrugged lightly. “Almost done anyway. Just one year left.”

Smurf smiled warmly like you’d said something sweet instead of exhausting. “I just worry about you burning yourself out.”

J’s eyes flicked toward you briefly through the smoke curling from his cigarette.

You shrugged again. “I’m okay.”

“You know,” Smurf started casually, voice soft and easy, “there’s no shame in slowing down sometimes. Taking a little break.”

You missed the real meaning beneath the words at first. That was the thing with Smurf. She never pushed hard enough for you to notice it immediately. She nudged. Guided. Made suggestions that sounded caring enough to slip past your defenses before you realized they were changing something.

You looked back down at your notes. “I worked too hard to get into med school to just quit.”

“Oh honey, I didn’t say quit.” Smurf’s voice stayed gentle. “Temporary. One semester maybe. Give yourself time to breathe.”

You laughed lightly. “With what money?”

Smurf waved one manicured hand dismissively. “Family takes care of family.”

J looked down at the cigarette between his fingers.

Your stomach twisted slightly at the words.

Sometimes she sounded genuine. Not manipulative. Not cruel. Just warm. Caring in a way that hit somewhere painfully vulnerable after years of mostly taking care of yourself. You could understand why people let her in so easily.

You tried joking instead. “Pretty sure your sons already financially support me against my will.”

Smurf laughed softly. “And none of them mind doing it.”

J finally spoke. “That’s not the point.”

Smurf’s eyes slid toward him slowly.

You noticed immediately how the atmosphere shifted.

“Well aren’t you chatty tonight,” she said lightly.

J ignored her completely, looking at you instead. “You should finish school.”

You blinked slightly at how direct he sounded. J usually chose his words carefully around everyone in this house. You watched him turn back toward the pool again like the conversation was already over.

Smurf smiled patiently. “No one said she shouldn’t.”

“You keep bringing it up.”

The tension settled strangely across the patio now, heavy enough you could feel it pressing against your ribs.

You tried smoothing things over instinctively. “Guys, seriously, I’m not dropping out. I like school.”

“That’s good,” J said immediately.

Smurf leaned back in her chair slowly, studying him now instead of you. “You know, J, normal families usually encourage each other to slow down once in a while.”

“Normal families don’t need everyone dependent on them.”

Your eyes flicked between them quickly.

Smurf still looked calm. Perfectly calm.

Which somehow felt worse.

“Do you think that’s what I’m doing?” she asked softly.

J finally looked at her directly. “I know you are.”

Your chest tightened immediately.

Because suddenly it felt like you were standing in the middle of a conversation that had started years before you ever got here.

Smurf smiled again, thinner this time. “You always assume the worst about me.”

“No,” J said quietly. “Just know how you work.”

You swallowed awkwardly, suddenly very aware you were still holding the wine glass she handed you.

Smurf turned toward you instantly, warmth sliding back over her expression so seamlessly it almost gave you whiplash. “Don’t listen to him, baby. He thinks everybody’s trying to manipulate him.”

J laughed once under his breath.

You looked down at your textbook again, fingers fidgeting slightly against the corner of the page.

And J noticed. That was the part bothering him most. Not that Smurf was trying. That some of it was actually working.

Because you were lonely in ways you barely admitted out loud. Because you liked taking care of people. Because nobody had really taken care of you before this family. Because the Codys had a way of making dysfunction feel warm while it swallowed you whole.

He’d heard it before.

Not exactly like this. But close enough to make something cold settle in his stomach every time Smurf smiled at you too long.

You weren’t his mother. You weren’t fragile the same way people assumed. But there was something about the way you moved through this family, softening sharp edges without even realizing you were doing it, that made old instincts rise in him before he could stop them.

Smurf stood after another minute. “I’m gonna check on Lena.”

You nodded automatically. “Okay.”

The second she disappeared back inside, the patio fell quiet again.

J crushed his cigarette slowly against the concrete before standing and moving closer to where you sat. You looked up at him immediately, brows furrowing slightly.

“Are you alright?” you asked carefully.

He stayed quiet for a second too long before finally sitting in the chair beside you.

“You should be careful here,” he said.

Your eyebrows pulled together. “With what?”

“With her.”

You stared at him for a second. Not because of what he said.

Because of how serious he looked saying it.

“J-”

“I’m serious.”

“I know,” you said softly. “But I think Smurf likes me.”

“That’s not always a good thing.”

The words settled heavily in your chest.

You looked down at your wine glass before setting it carefully on the table beside you. “do you really think she’s trying to manipulate me?”

J leaned back slowly, jaw tightening slightly like he was deciding how much he should say.

“She makes people feel needed,” he said finally. “Special. Like they belong somewhere.” His eyes lifted briefly toward the house glowing warmly behind you. “Then one day you wake up and realize your whole life revolves around her.”

You tried laughing lightly. “I think you’re giving me too little credit.”

“I think you’re giving her too much.”

That shut you up. Because deep down there already was a small uncomfortable feeling growing inside you these last few weeks.

You hadn’t seen your college friends in days. Hadn’t answered half your texts. And none of it happened forcefully. That was the scary part. It happened naturally. Like water rising slowly around your ankles before you realized you were drowning.

J watched your expression carefully and could practically see the exact moment the realization landed. “You don’t have to stop seeing them,” he said quietly. “Just don’t let this become the only thing you have.”

Your chest tightened unexpectedly at that. Because nobody in this family really warned people about themselves.

They pulled people closer. But J was sitting here trying to hand you an exit before you even realized you might need one.

You looked at him for a long moment before asking softly, “Why do you care?”

J looked caught off guard by the question. Not offended. Just genuinely unsure how to answer it.

Finally he shrugged once. “You’re good to Lena.”

You smiled faintly. “That’s your answer?”

“It’s part of it.”

“And the other part?”

His eyes flicked toward you briefly before away again. “You’re not stupid.”

“That feels a little backhanded.”

“It’s not.” His voice stayed quiet. Honest. “You see people for who they are and stay anyway.”

Your chest hurt a little hearing that.

Because you weren’t entirely sure anymore whether that was a strength or a flaw.

Inside the house Lena suddenly yelled your name excitedly followed by something crashing loudly onto the floor.

You sighed immediately, standing up. “Oh god.”

J smiled slightly for the first time all night as you hurried toward the house.

And watching you disappear inside, hearing you immediately comfort Lena before laughing softly at whatever mess she’d made, something settled heavily in his chest.

Smurf left not long after that. You heard the familiar click of her heels crossing the kitchen tile while you helped Lena scrub crayon marks off the coffee table with baby wipes. A minute later she appeared in the doorway already holding her purse and keys, perfectly put together like she always was, not a single strand of blonde hair out of place.

“Baz called,” she said casually. “Gonna be out a while.”

J barely looked up from where he sat at the counter, lazily spinning a half-empty glass between his fingers.

You nodded. “Okay.”

Smurf’s eyes drifted over the three of you for a second, something thoughtful moving quietly through her expression as she took in Lena curled against your side while you now wiped marker off her sticky fingers with practiced patience. “You’d make a good mother someday,” Smurf said lightly.

The comment caught you off guard enough that you laughed awkwardly. “Oh um, thanks I guess.”

“It’s a compliment, baby.”

You smiled politely.

Across the kitchen J’s jaw tightened slightly, subtle enough most people wouldn’t notice it. You did.

Smurf leaned down to kiss the top of Lena’s head before smoothing one manicured hand over your shoulder as she passed. “Don’t stay up too late.”

Then she was gone.

And somehow the entire house felt lighter the second the front door shut behind her.

Not tense exactly. Just… easier to breathe in.

Lena immediately looked up at you with wide hopeful eyes. “Can we make mac and cheese?”

You laughed softly. “Is that what you want for dinner?”

“And dinosaur nuggets.”

“A true icon,” you said, fixing the mess of hair sticking out around her ponytail.

J snorted quietly into his drink.

You pointed toward him accusingly. “No judgment from the man who ate stale cereal for dinner yesterday.”

J looked mildly offended. “At least there was milk.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

Lena giggled loudly at that before grabbing your hand dramatically and dragging you toward the kitchen like she was rescuing you from starvation instead of asking for processed cheese and chicken shaped like prehistoric animals. You let her.

J stayed at the counter while you cooked, mostly quiet while Lena “helped,” which really just meant handing you ingredients wrong and stealing shredded cheese every time your back was turned.

It felt domestic in a way that should’ve been strange considering the setting.

The Cody house wasn’t built for softness. Everything about it carried too much history, too many loud voices and slammed doors and conversations that stopped the second someone unfamiliar walked into the room.

And yet somehow there you were standing barefoot at the stove stirring pasta while Lena sat cross-legged on the counter braiding pieces of your hair with serious concentration and J watched the two of you quietly from across the kitchen like he still hadn’t fully decided what to make of either of you.

“You’re burning the nuggets,” J said suddenly.

You gasped dramatically. “Why would you let me do that?”

“You seemed pretty confident.”

“You’re supposed to protect me from myself.”

“You’ll survive.”

You narrowed your eyes at him before dramatically flipping the nuggets over. Lena laughed so hard she nearly fell sideways off the counter. And J smiled.

It was getting easier now, talking to him. Reading him. You were starting to realize J wasn’t actually cold the way people assumed he was. But underneath all of that was someone observant and strangely gentle in ways he probably didn’t even realize showed on his face when he relaxed enough.

You plated Lena’s food first before setting a second plate in front of J. He stared down at it briefly. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

“It’s frozen dinosaur nuggets, J, not a marriage proposal.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

You looked at him then.

Really looked at him.

At the way his shoulders stayed tense even sitting down. At how uncomfortable he seemed with simple kindness sometimes, like he still didn’t fully know what to do when somebody offered him something without expecting something back in return.

Your chest ached a little at the sight of it.

“Well,” you said softer now, “I wanted to.”

J looked down at the plate quietly after that.

Lena talked enough for all three of you combined during dinner anyway, mostly rambling about cartoons and unicorns and how one of the girls at school said a bad word during recess and got in trouble for it.

You listened to every bit of it seriously.

J noticed that too. The way you paid attention fully when people spoke to you. Even kids. Even him.

Most people in this family interrupted each other constantly. Talked over each other. Took up space aggressively like conversations were competitions somebody needed to win. You made space instead.

And it was different enough that J still didn’t entirely know what to do with it.

After dinner Lena eventually wandered off toward the living room to watch TV, leaving you and J alone at the kitchen table surrounded by empty plates and half-finished drinks.

You started absentmindedly cleaning while J watched you for a second before speaking.

“I can do that,” he said, already starting to stand.

“No, let me J, just relax,” you said, tapping his shoulder lightly as you passed him.

J sat back down slowly, eyes following you around the kitchen like he was trying to figure something out. You grabbed Lena’s swimsuit from earlier off the back of a chair before turning toward him.

“Do you have clothes you need washed?”

“You don’t have to do that.” J stood up, taking the swimsuit gently from your hands before tossing it down the hallway toward the laundry room. “Do you always try to take care of everyone?”

You shrugged lightly. “Someone’s gotta.”

“Why you?”

The question made you pause for a second.

You turned the sink on, rinsing a plate slowly beneath the warm water before answering. “I dunno.” You smiled faintly to yourself. “Guess when you grow up around unstable people you get good at figuring out what everybody needs before they ask for it.”

J sat back down quietly after that. Because that answer hit a little too close to home.

“Do you ever get tired of it?” he asked.

“All the time.”

“Then why keep doing it?”

You looked over at him then, water dripping from your fingertips into the sink. “Because I know what it feels like when nobody does.”

The kitchen went quiet after that. J looked away first. Because there it was again. That awful painful familiarity blooming in his chest so hard it almost made him feel sick sometimes. Enough that talking to you occasionally felt like staring at a version of what his mother could’ve been if somebody had protected her before this family swallowed her whole.

You dried your hands on a towel before finally sitting across from him. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“What do you wanna do?”

J frowned slightly. “With what?”

“Your life.”

He looked genuinely caught off guard by the question, like nobody had ever actually asked him before. Or maybe nobody cared about the answer because everyone already assumed he’d spend the rest of his life exactly where he was now.

“I don’t know,” he admitted after a second.

“You’re smart.”

He scoffed softly. “Thanks.”

“I’m serious. Like scary smart.” You pointed at him across the table. “You observe everything. It’s weird.”

“Good weird or Pope weird?”

“Haven’t decided yet.”

The corner of his mouth twitched faintly at that. You leaned back slightly in your chair. “You could literally do anything if you wanted.”

J stared down at the table for a moment before speaking quietly. “I think I just want enough money that nobody can control me anymore.”

The honesty in the answer surprised you. Not because it sounded shallow.

Because it didn’t.

You could hear exactly how deeply he meant it.

Your expression softened immediately. “That’s a pretty fair goal. But I think you’re resilient enough to achieve that without money.”

“Yeah well, most people want careers,” J muttered. “Thought about going to business school.”

“Careers are scams if you don’t love what you do.”

That got an actual laugh out of him. Small, but genuine enough that it made you smile too.

J shook his head slightly. “What about you?”

“I wanna be a doctor.”

“You’ve said that before. What kind?”

“No I know, but like…” You tucked one leg beneath yourself in the chair. “A real one. A good one.”

“You will be.”

You smiled faintly. “You don’t even know if I’m smart.”

“You are.”

“You say that with a lot of confidence.”

J shrugged slightly. “You pay attention to people.”

“What does that have to do with being a doctor?”

“I’m pretty sure everything.”

The answer settled warmly somewhere deep in your chest.

Because somehow J always noticed things nobody else did.

Your eyes drifted toward the living room where Lena had apparently fallen asleep sideways on the couch halfway through the movie still playing quietly on the television.

“Oh my god,” you whispered. “That cannot be comfortable.”

You got up immediately to grab her blanket.

J watched silently while you tucked Lena in carefully, brushing hair away from her face before lowering the TV volume.

The whole thing felt painfully natural. Like you belonged there. And that realization scared J more than he wanted to admit, because the family was already starting to revolve around you in little ways.

Deran trusted you completely. Craig adored you. Pope… J cut the thought off immediately, a sour feeling twisting low in his stomach at the idea of his uncle with you. And now Lena looked for you every time you walked into a room.

You came back into the kitchen quietly after making sure she was asleep. J was still watching you.

“What?” you asked softly.

“Nothing.”

“You’re doing the staring thing again.”

J looked down, hiding the faintest smile into his drink.

You leaned comfortably against the counter beside him. “You know, you’re not as scary as you think you are.”

“I’m not trying to be scary.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

He looked at you for a second before speaking quietly. “I need to tell you-”

The front door suddenly shoved open hard enough to rattle the frame.

Pope came barreling inside.

His eyes landed on J first before immediately moving toward you, and you could’ve sworn something darker flashed across his face the second he saw the two of you alone together in the kitchen.

“Where’s Smurf?” Pope asked, voice low in a way you’d never heard before.

You opened your mouth to answer.

“With Baz,” J answered before you could.

Pope scoffed but didn’t say anything else about it. “What are you two doing?”

You smiled lightly at him. “J was just helping me watch Lena.”

“Why were you watching Lena?” he asked, confused.

“Oh I don’t really know,” you shrugged. “Baz called me.”

Pope came closer.

J watched him like a hawk.

You couldn’t tell, but J could. Pope was in one of his moods. One of those moods that made the entire family instinctively put space between themselves and him because nobody knew what might set him off once he got like this.

“Baz called you…” Pope repeated slowly. “Why the fuck does Baz have your number?”

His voice raised slightly on the last part.

You went stunned silent.

J stood immediately. “Calm down Pope, Deran gave it to him.”

Maybe it was the years of abuse you’d endured from past relationships or maybe it was just something inside you wired wrong, something that made you immediately feel like you needed to smooth things over the second a man got angry.

Like you needed to apologize for things that weren’t your fault.

You got up quickly and walked toward Pope despite the way J subtly tried to stop you. Pope noticed that too, and somehow it only made something darker flicker across his face.

You didn’t know that Pope disliked his nephew as much as he did.

Pope’s entire body looked wound too tight the second you got close enough to touch him. Up close, you could see the tension radiating off him in waves. His chest rose too fast beneath the thin gray shirt stretched across him, jaw clenched hard enough to twitch every few seconds, eyes dark and unfocused in that way they got when too many things were happening inside his head at once. He smelled like sweat, motor oil, and outside air, like he’d been pacing somewhere for hours before finally coming back here.

And suddenly every instinct inside you shifted.

The teasing softness from earlier disappeared beneath something older. Sharper. That awful familiar need to smooth things over before they got worse. The kind you learned growing up around angry men and unpredictable moods. The kind that taught you how to read tension before it exploded.

“Andrew,” you said quietly, reaching for his arm.

The second your hand touched him, Pope’s expression changed.

Not softer. Just… less volatile.

J saw it instantly. Saw the way Pope’s shoulders loosened by barely half an inch. Saw the subtle shift in his breathing. Saw the way your voice dropped automatically when you spoke to him, quieter and gentler without you even realizing it. Too familiar. Too instinctive. Like this wasn’t the first time he’d let you touch him.

And then it clicked.

Pope hated being touched.

J’s eyes narrowed slightly as he looked between the two of you.

Pope looked at you like a starving dog looked at food. Possessive. Desperate. Angry that someone else had touched what was his.

And you moved toward him instead of away like everyone else would.

“Oh, you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” J muttered under his breath.

Your eyes flicked toward him immediately.

Pope’s head snapped around. “What?”

J laughed once, humorless, leaning back against the counter. “Nothing.”

“J,” you warned quietly.

That did it. Pope looked between both of you slowly now, suspicion beginning to crawl across his face like something alive. Like the two of you were hiding something from him. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“Means I’m not blind.”

You stepped back from Pope immediately, panic flashing across your face so fast it made something ugly twist in his chest.

“J-”

“No, seriously,” J cut you off, staring directly at Pope now. “You come in here acting psychotic because Baz called her? She’s not your property, dude.”

Pope took a step forward instantly. “Watch your mouth.”

“And you should probably stop glaring at every man that talks to her if you’re trying to keep it secret.”

Your stomach dropped so fast it made you feel sick. Pope looked at you then. Not J. You.

And somehow that felt worse. Because the anger on his face shifted into hurt so fast it nearly knocked the air out of your lungs.

“You told him?”

“No,” you said immediately. “I didn’t.”

J scoffed quietly. “She didn’t have to.”

Pope stared at you for another long second before looking away sharply, dragging a hand over his mouth like he was trying to physically contain himself. Agitated. Cornered. You could practically see his thoughts spiraling too fast inside his head.

And then he laughed. Low and disbelieving and completely humorless.

“All this hiding shit is fucking stupid anyway.”

Your chest tightened immediately. “Andr-”

“No.” He looked back at you, eyes sharp now. “Why can’t they know?”

J went completely still.

You stared at Pope like he’d just spoken another language. “What?”

“Why can’t they know?” he repeated, louder this time. “What’s the problem?”

Your mouth opened slightly, but nothing came out.

Because how were you even supposed to answer that?

Where did you even start?

With the fact that his family was terrifying?

With the fact that every single thing inside that house came with strings attached?

With the fact that you were already losing pieces of yourself without even realizing it?

Or with the simplest truth of all:

You knew more than they thought you did.

Not specifics.

Not details.

But enough. Enough cash left laying around. Enough late-night conversations cut off the second you walked into rooms. Enough bruised knuckles and bloody shirts and “jobs” nobody explained.

You weren’t stupid. And dating Pope Cody openly felt like stepping into something permanent. Something dangerous.

“You don’t understand,” you said finally, voice quieter now.

Pope’s face hardened instantly. “Then explain it to me.”

You glanced toward Lena asleep in the other room before lowering your voice further. “Not right now.”

“No. Right now.” His voice sharpened immediately. “Cause I’m getting real tired of feeling like some fucking secret you’re ashamed of.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Then what is it?”

J pushed off the counter slowly. “Maybe you two should-”

“Stay out of it,” Pope snapped immediately.

J’s expression darkened. “Yeah? Maybe stop having screaming matches with Lena in the other room then.”

Your stomach twisted painfully.

“Andy,” you said softly again, trying to calm him down before this got worse. “Please.”

But Pope was too far gone now.

He wasn’t your Andy right now.

No, he was Pope.

“You let Deran touch you all over the place,” he said suddenly. “Sit on him, wear his clothes, sleep at his house-”

“Jesus Christ,” J muttered.

“And nobody cares,” Pope continued, eyes locked on yours now with terrifying intensity. “But me? I gotta pretend I don’t touch you at all?”

Your face burned instantly. “Keep your voice down.”

“Why?”

“Because not everybody needs to know my business!”

“Your business?” Pope repeated, genuinely angry now. “That’s what I am?”

“No, that’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

You rubbed both hands over your face hard enough to hurt. “I mean this family is intense!”

The room went silent.

Even Pope looked slightly caught off guard by that.

You laughed nervously after a second, but there wasn’t any humor in it. “You guys are all in each other’s pockets twenty-four seven. Nobody has boundaries. Nobody talks about anything real until they’re screaming at each other.”

Pope stared at you.

J stayed very still.

“And I like you,” you admitted finally, voice cracking slightly around the words. “More than I should probably. But every time I get close to anyone other than Deran in this family, I feel like I’m getting swallowed whole.”

Pope looked almost offended by that. Like the idea had genuinely never occurred to him. “You think I’d let something happen to you?”

“That’s not the point!”

“Then what is the point?”

“The point is you keep secrets from me!” you snapped finally, months of frustration rising all at once now. “Everybody does!”

Pope’s jaw flexed hard.

“You disappear for hours. Days. You come home angry and covered in blood sometimes and expect me not to ask questions because apparently asking questions is dangerous around here.” Your breathing shook now too. “I don’t ask about your jobs. I don’t ask about the money. I don’t ask why everybody acts weird all the time because I know better at this point, Andrew. I’m not fucking naive.”

Pope looked stunned silent.

“And meanwhile you wanna stand here asking why I don’t wanna announce to the entire world that I’m sleeping with you?”

The second the words left your mouth, the kitchen went dead quiet.

J closed his eyes briefly like there it was. Confirmation.

Pope just stared at you. Hurt bleeding into anger all over again so fast it was almost dizzying to watch.

“You make it sound disgusting.”

“Oh my god,” you whispered incredulously. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Sure sounds like it.”

“You know that’s not what I mean!”

“Then what do you mean?” he demanded, stepping closer again. “Cause I’m real fucking confused right now.”

You felt yourself shutting down.

That was the worst part.

Not the yelling.

The feeling underneath it.

That old trapped feeling crawling up your spine. The one that made your chest tight and your hands cold and your brain start scrambling for the fastest way to end the conflict before somebody exploded.

You hated that feeling.

Hated that you still had it.

“I can’t do this right now,” you said quietly.

Pope scoffed. “Yeah, okay.”

“I mean it.”

“No, you just don’t wanna deal with it.”

You stared at him for another long second before finally shaking your head once.

Then you turned around and walked away.

“Where the fuck are you going?” Pope called after you.

“To bed.”

“You’re seriously just walking away?”

You stopped in the hallway, shoulders tightening. “I don’t wanna fight with you anymore.”

“Too late.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

You swallowed thickly before disappearing into Lena’s room without another word.

The door clicked shut softly behind you.

Silence filled the house after that.

J leaned against the counter, staring at the hallway for a long moment before finally looking at Pope. “You really fucked that up.”

Pope looked murderous. “Shut up.”

“No, seriously.” J shook his head slowly. “She’s terrified of this family and you just proved her right.”

Pope moved suddenly, slamming his keys down onto the counter so violently they clattered loudly against the marble.

“You don’t know shit.”

J laughed bitterly. “I know enough.”

Pope looked like he wanted to hit him.

Instead he stormed out the back door.

The house stayed quiet for hours after that.

Not the normal kind of quiet either. Not the comfortable silence that sometimes settled over the Cody house late at night after everybody finally disappeared into separate rooms. This silence felt bruised. Heavy. Like the entire house had absorbed the fight and was still holding onto the echo of it.

You hadn’t meant to fall asleep in Lena’s room. Honestly, you’d only sat down in the armchair tucked into the corner because your legs felt shaky beneath you by the time you got her settled. You’d tucked the blanket tighter around Lena where she slept sprawled across the little twin bed, one arm hanging off the mattress and curls covering half her face, before sinking back into the chair with your head against the wall.

You’d told yourself you were just resting for a minute.

Just until your breathing slowed down.

Just until your chest stopped hurting.

But exhaustion had dragged you under before you even realized your eyes were closing. The room was dark when you stirred again.

Pitch black except for the dim amber glow of the hallway light bleeding through the cracked doorway. For a second you didn’t move at all, your brain still fogged with sleep and disorientation.

Then your stomach dropped.

Someone else was in the room.

You felt it before you fully saw him.

That strange instinct people developed around Pope after enough time spent near him. The awareness of his presence even when he wasn’t speaking. Even when he wasn’t moving. Like your body recognized him before your mind could catch up.

Your eyes adjusted slowly to the dark.

And there he was.

Sitting on the floor beside Lena’s bed.

Watching.

Your heart nearly stopped before settling again almost immediately afterward, relief and irritation crashing together so fast it made your chest ache.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered hoarsely, hand pressing against your sternum.

Pope didn’t answer right away.

He sat with his forearms resting across his knees, broad shoulders hunched slightly forward, face half-hidden in shadow as he looked over at you. Quiet now. Calm in that eerie sort of way he got after burning through all his anger. Like whatever storm had ripped through him earlier had finally exhausted itself.

“How long have you been there?” you asked softly.

“A while.”

Of course he had.

You rubbed tiredly at your face, sleep still clinging to you heavy and disorienting. “That’s so creepy.”

“I know.”

The blunt honesty of it almost made you laugh. Neither of you spoke for a while after that.

Lena shifted slightly in her sleep between you both, mumbling something incoherent into her pillow before settling again. Pope’s eyes tracked the movement automatically, instinctively, his attention softening for half a second before drifting back toward you.

Then finally, quietly: “Do you really think I’d hurt you?”

The question settled heavily into the room.

Not defensive. Not angry. Worse. Honest.

Your chest tightened painfully. “No.”

Pope looked at you for another long second like he was trying to decide whether he believed that answer or not.

“Then why hide this?”

You looked down at your hands folded tightly in your lap. Your fingers were cold.

“Because caring about you feels dangerous sometimes.”

The words came out quieter than you meant them to.

More honest too.

You didn’t elaborate. Didn’t explain the way Smurf looked at you the first few times Pope couldn’t stop touching you when everybody was together. The subtle shifts in her expression whenever his attention lingered too long on you. The smiles that never quite reached her eyes.

Those looks had said enough on their own.

Like she could tolerate you around the family.

But not like this.

Not as something capable of pulling Andrew away from her.

Pope went completely still.

Not angry this time.

Not volatile.

Wounded.

And suddenly guilt twisted painfully through your chest because you knew how hard this was for him. You knew Pope didn’t ask for things lightly. Didn’t want things openly unless they mattered enough to terrify him first.

And you mattered.

That was the problem.

You could see it every time he looked at you.

You could feel it in the way he hovered near you even when he was angry. In the way his moods sharpened whenever somebody else touched you too casually. In the way he said your name like it physically hurt him sometimes.

But you were scared.

Not of him exactly.

Of what loving somebody like him would eventually turn your life into.

Pope stared at the floor for a long moment before speaking again, voice quieter now. “You think I’m dangerous.”

“No,” you said immediately, because that part wasn’t true. “I think your life is.”

Something flickered across his face at that. Small. Barely visible in the dark. But enough.

You swallowed hard before continuing carefully. “I don’t ask questions, Andy.”

“I know.”

“I don’t ask where you go. I don’t ask what happened when you come home bleeding. I don’t ask why everybody in this family acts like there’s constantly a gun pressed against the back of their heads.” Your voice weakened slightly. “I don’t ask because I know there are answers I probably don’t wanna hear.”

Pope looked down again.

And that silence told you enough all by itself.

Your stomach twisted.

Because there it was.

Confirmation without words.

“You should ask,” he said finally.

You blinked at him. “What?”

“You should ask me things.”

The vulnerability in that nearly hurt worse than the yelling from earlier.

Because Pope sounded serious.

Like he genuinely wanted you to know him.

And maybe that should’ve made you feel better.

Instead it terrified you.

“You say that now,” you whispered. “But every time I get close to understanding something around here everybody gets weird.”

Pope frowned slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You laughed once softly, tired more than amused. “It means your family acts like secrets are some form of currency.”

“That’s just how things are.”

“Exactly.”

Silence stretched between you again.

Outside, somewhere far off in the distance, waves crashed faintly against the shoreline. The sound drifted through the cracked bedroom window soft enough that it almost didn’t feel real.

Pope finally stood slowly from the floor.

The movement made you tense instinctively before you could stop yourself.

And he noticed.

Of course he did.

That hurt expression crossed his face again so quickly you almost missed it.

“I’m not gonna do anything,” he muttered.

“I know.”

But your body had already betrayed you.

Pope stared at you another second before moving closer anyway, crouching down beside the chair instead of towering over you this time. The difference felt intentional. Like he was trying not to overwhelm you even now.

His eyes looked exhausted up close.

Bloodshot.

Too intense.

“You know what the worst part is?” he asked quietly.

You shook your head once.

“I don’t even care that J knows.”

Your eyebrows furrowed slightly.

“I care that you think I’m something you need to hide from everybody.”

Your chest ached immediately. “Andy—”

“No.” He shook his head sharply. “That’s what this is.”

“It’s not.”

“Then what is it?”

You looked at him helplessly because you didn’t know how to explain something that complicated without hurting him worse.

How could you possibly tell him that being loved by Pope Cody felt like standing too close to the ocean during a storm?

Beautiful.

Powerful.

And one wrong step away from drowning.

You reached for him before you could overthink it, fingers brushing lightly against his wrist.

Pope went quiet instantly at the contact.

“You’re not something I’m ashamed of,” you whispered.

His jaw flexed hard.

“But I think if this becomes real to everyone else… then everything changes.”

“It already changed.”

The certainty in his voice made your throat tighten.

Because he was right.

It had already changed.

The moment you started waiting for him to come home.

The moment he started sleeping better beside you.

The moment you realized you could tell the difference between Andrew and Pope just by the way he looked at you.

You felt tears sting unexpectedly behind your eyes from pure exhaustion more than anything else.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you admitted quietly.

Pope stared at you for a long moment after that.

Then, carefully, like he thought you might disappear if he moved too fast, he reached up and pushed a strand of hair back away from your face.

The gesture was strangely gentle coming from him.

Almost shy.

“You don’t gotta know,” he said softly.

And somehow that made it worse.

Because for the first time all night, he sounded less like Pope Cody and more like a man standing in the middle of something he didn’t fully understand either.

The next morning came slow and gray, the kind of heavy overcast morning that made the entire Cody house feel underwater. Ocean fog hung low beyond the backyard, thick enough that the pool disappeared into it after only a few feet, and the damp salt air crept through the cracked kitchen windows. Somewhere deeper in the house old pipes groaned softly inside the walls, and the refrigerator hummed loud enough in the silence to become irritating.

Pope sat alone at the kitchen island with a cup of coffee he hadn’t touched once.

He’d been awake for hours.

Not doing anything. Not moving much. Just sitting there replaying the night before over and over until every thought blurred together into one ugly restless feeling crawling beneath his skin.

You and J sitting together at the kitchen table.

Your hand touching J’s shoulder like it was natural.

J looking at him like he knew something.

You pulling away from Pope in front of him.

You refusing to let anybody know about the two of you.

Then Deran.

Always fucking Deran.

The way you fit into Deran’s life had started eating at Pope in ways he hated admitting even to himself. How easily you moved around him. Wearing his sweatshirts. Sleeping at his condo. Sitting in his lap without thinking about it. Laughing with him in that loose effortless way people only laughed when they felt safe.

Pope knew Deran wasn’t sleeping with you.

But somehow that almost made it worse.

Because whatever existed between you and Deran looked easy. Uncomplicated. Real in a way Pope didn’t know how to be. Deran never had to fight himself just to touch people gently. Never looked at you like he was terrified you’d disappear the second he loosened his grip.

And now J knew too.

That alone had been enough to crack something ugly open inside him last night.

The back door slid open.

Smurf walked in carrying a grocery bag in one hand and an iced coffee in the other, sunglasses still perched on her face despite the early hour. Her eyes moved over Pope once and immediately took inventory of everything she needed to know. The untouched coffee. The rigid posture. The dark circles beneath his eyes. The fact he looked like he’d either been awake all night or close to putting his fist through a wall.

“Well,” she said lightly, setting the grocery bag on the counter, “you look awful.”

Pope didn’t answer.

Smurf started unpacking groceries slowly and methodically, movements calm and unhurried. She never rushed with Pope when he got like this. Years of handling him had taught her patience worked better than pressure. Push too hard and he exploded. Let him sit in it long enough and eventually he came to her on his own.

Sure enough, after another minute, Pope finally spoke without looking up.

“You said she was hiding something.”

Smurf glanced over her shoulder calmly. “Maybe she is.”

“She’s not.”

“Pope,” Smurf sighed softly, like she hated even having the conversation, “you barely know her.”

His jaw tightened immediately.

That sentence again.

You barely know her.

Smurf had been feeding him versions of it for weeks now. Never direct enough for him to fully accuse her of anything. Just tiny comments slipped carefully into conversations whenever your name came up.

Sweet girl.

Too sweet maybe.

Girls like that panic when things get ugly. They talk.

She asks a lot of questions for somebody who claims she doesn’t care.

What happens when she gets scared?

Never accusations.

Never outright.

Smurf was smarter than that.

She planted doubt the same way roots cracked concrete, slowly, quietly, until one day the damage was already done.

“I went through her stuff,” Pope admitted flatly.

Smurf’s hands paused only briefly over a carton of eggs before continuing again. “And?”

Pope rubbed a hand over his mouth slowly, exhaustion sitting heavy in every movement now.

He remembered breaking into Deran’s condo sometime after two in the morning, adrenaline making his heart beat too hard beneath his ribs while he tore through your things convincing himself it was necessary.

Protecting the family.

That was always the justification in the end.

Protecting the family.

He remembered opening drawers harder than he meant to. Digging through backpacks. Flipping through notebooks and textbooks and receipts. Standing in Deran’s guest room holding one of your hoodies in his hands while feeling insane for even being there.

Then your laptop.

He’d opened it expecting something.

Emails.

Messages.

Evidence.

Anything that proved Smurf right. Something showing you’d talked to somebody. That you knew more than you should. That you’d been asking questions in the wrong places.

Instead he found old med school applications. Flashcards covered in anatomy notes. Study schedules color-coded so neatly it made his chest ache for reasons he didn’t understand. A playlist titled “crying screaming throwing up.” Grocery lists. Random pictures of Lena asleep on the couch. One blurry photo of Deran flipping off the camera.

Normal.

Painfully fucking normal.

“She’s exactly who she says she is,” he muttered finally.

Smurf leaned one hip against the counter. “That doesn’t mean she won’t be dangerous later on.”

Pope’s eyes lifted toward her immediately.

There it was again.

Dangerous.

Smurf used the word carefully every single time. Never emotionally. Never dramatically. Always calm. Like it was simple fact instead of manipulation.

“She’s not dangerous.”

“No?” Smurf asked softly. “Then why aren’t you and Deran telling her what this family really is?”

Pope looked away.

“Why are you lying to everyone?” Smurf continued gently. “Sneaking around. Getting territorial.” She tilted her head slightly. “You think people haven’t noticed?”

Pope’s jaw flexed hard.

Because that part was true.

Everything with you had started bleeding into everything else whether he wanted it to or not.

Into his moods.

Into the way he reacted to people.

Into the constant tension sitting beneath his skin now.

Last night had proved that better than anything.

Smurf watched him carefully for another second before speaking again, voice softening into something almost maternal.

“You know what your problem is, baby?”

Pope stayed quiet.

“You attach too hard.”

The words settled heavily into the kitchen.

“You decide somebody belongs to you and suddenly you stop thinking clearly.” Smurf unpacked another grocery bag while she spoke, casual enough that somebody listening from another room might’ve mistaken the conversation for ordinary. “That’s always been your weakness.”

Pope stared at the marble countertop in silence.

Because she wasn’t entirely wrong.

That was what made Smurf dangerous.

She rarely lied outright.

She twisted truth until it became something useful to her.

“She doesn’t belong to me,” he muttered.

Smurf smiled faintly at that. “Doesn’t she?”

Pope didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

Smurf could read him better than anyone alive. She saw the obsession settling into him already. The possessiveness. The way his moods shifted depending on whether or not you were near him. The way the entire house felt different now when you walked into it.

And Smurf knew exactly what obsessive love turned into when it stayed inside Pope long enough.

Fear.

Then paranoia.

Then violence.

It had happened before.

It could happen again.

“You know what scares me?” Smurf asked quietly.

Pope finally looked up at her.

“That she’s pulling you away from us.”

Immediate denial rose inside him.

But then, You telling him the family was too intense.

You saying you felt swallowed whole.

You refusing to let anybody know about the two of you.

Tiny things.

Reasonable things.

But stacked together after weeks of Smurf whispering poison into the cracks of his mind, they started sounding different now. Sharper. More dangerous than they probably were.

“She’s not,” he said anyway.

Smurf hummed softly like she didn’t quite believe him.

“She’s got Deran wrapped around her finger already,” Smurf continued casually, turning back toward the counter. “Craig adores her. J’s defending her now too apparently.” A pause. “Funny how fast that happened.”

Pope’s shoulders stiffened almost immediately.

Smurf noticed.

Of course she noticed.

“She’s not doing anything,” Pope said again, but there was less certainty in it this time.

“She may not even realize she’s doing it.” Smurf shrugged lightly. “Some women are just like that.”

Pope rubbed both hands over his face roughly.

He hated this feeling.

Hated that part of him knew exactly what Smurf was doing.

But another part, the older part she built herself, couldn’t fully dismiss it either.

Because he had changed since you.

More reactive.

More distracted.

More unstable.

Last night proved that.

And once an idea got lodged inside Pope’s head, it stayed there. Rotting quietly no matter how hard he tried to kill it.

Smurf walked over slowly then, resting a hand briefly against his shoulder.

“I’m just trying to protect you, baby.”

Pope stayed very still beneath her touch.

The terrifying thing about Smurf was that she genuinely believed that.

In her own warped way, this was love.

Twisting people into whatever kept the family intact.

Even if it destroyed them in the process.

“She cares about me,” Pope said finally, quieter now.

Smurf’s expression softened almost sympathetically.

“I know,” she said gently.

Then after a long enough pause to matter:

“And if she gets scared enough, she could destroy everything.”

Pope’s eyes flicked toward her again.

Smurf sighed softly, like the thought itself upset her. “People panic, Andrew. Especially girls like her. Sweet girls. Normal girls.” Her fingers tapped lightly against the countertop. “One mistake. One bad night. One conversation with the wrong person…”

Pope’s jaw tightened.

“She wouldn’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“She wouldn’t,” he repeated harder.

Smurf nodded slowly like she was humoring him. “Maybe not intentionally.” She looked down at the groceries for another second before adding quietly, “But loose ends become problems eventually. You know that.”

Something cold slid down Pope’s spine.

Loose ends.

Problems.

The words themselves weren’t violent.

Smurf never made them violent.

That was how she worked.

She planted the idea and let Pope’s mind finish building it on its own.

Smurf finally looked back at him, voice quieter now. Softer.

“And the only way somebody can never talk…” she said carefully, “is if they aren’t around to do it.”

Silence swallowed the kitchen.

Pope went completely still.

Not because he’d never heard her imply something like that before.

Because he had.

Too many times.

Cath flashed through his mind so fast it made his stomach twist violently.

Smurf telling him she was dangerous.

That she’d ruin everything.

That there was no other option.

Pope swallowed hard enough to hurt.

And the worst part, the absolute worst fucking part, was that even after knowing Smurf manipulated him before, even after understanding what she’d turned him into that night with Cath, some broken poisoned part of his brain still listened when she spoke.

Still absorbed it.

Still let the fear settle into him anyway.

“She’s not a problem,” Pope said finally, but the words sounded thinner now. Less solid.

Smurf smiled sadly like he’d missed the point entirely.

“I hope not, baby.” She picked up her coffee again. “I really do.”

Then she walked away, leaving the poison sitting there inside him, festering quietly in the dark exactly the way she intended.

BONUS!

“Thank you guys for helping me.” you smiled at Deran, craig and J as they unloaded boxes into your new apartment.

“No sweat off my back beautiful.” craig said rubbing his hands together “Got any beer.”

you smile “For you? of course” you grinned brightly opening the fridge. “J can you drink?” you asked looking over your shoulder.

“He’s underage not senile.” Craig shouted “Give the boy a drink.”

“I’m good.” J smiled lightly at you. His smiles were becoming a common occurrence whenever you were around.

You handed Deran and craig beers and leave one on the table.

“Are you finally joining us in a celebratory drink bambi?” Deran asked, mostly happy that you’d found your own place. Not that he’d hated you living with him. He loved it, but it was hard when adrian was over.

you rolled your eyes “Nooo” you said “it’s for pope.” you said opening a box and holding up a picture. “Does this look good over here.”

“When’s pope going to lock you down bambi? i’ve been holding out.” Craig joked

“You’re not funny.” popes stoic voice came from the entryway. He had a folder in his hands that he’d handed you as he walked into the room.

“jeez buzzkill.” craig joked.

“come look at the view in my room.” you said grabbing popes upper arm, you felt his muscles contract under his shirt as he followed you.

Once you were safely away from the other you kissed him deeply. The kiss surprised him, he held onto your waste tightly as he kissed you back.

You finally pulled away mumbling a thank you before kissing him again.

“Don’t need to thank me.”

“You found me this beautiful apartment, in a safe neighborhood, and i don’t need to thank you.” you said biting your lip, your hands coming to run through his auburn curls.

“You deserve the best.” he said

“Mhm” you said “Well i might be biased but i think you are definitely the best.”

“Oh yea?” pope smiled lightly

you nodded innocently before opening the sliding glass door to your balcony from your room. Grabbing his hand you pulled him out with you before pulling him down slightly so you could whisper into his ear.

“I definitely can think of a few ways to thank you.” you said biting his earlobe teasingly. “In multiple different places”

pope responded with a restrained groan as his hands tightened on your hips.

“But promise me something.” you asked him looking into his eyes you loved so much.

“Anything.”

“One night, after and only after we tell everyone that we’re together, because i want you andy all of you, i want you to take me out to a nice dinner then i want you to take me back here and i want you to fuck me on this balcony so the whole fucking city knows i belong to pope cody.” you said your eyes never leaving his “Promise me?” you said batting your eyelashes

Pope snarled a “I promise.” before his hand came up to wrap in your hair as he kissed you, all tongue and teeth. If it weren’t for Craig’s loud shouting about how you and pope were probably fucking you were certain the neighborhood would have gotten a show way earlier than you planned.

© 2026 all rights reserved - miasvelvetvoid. do not modify, plagiarize, feed my work to AI, repost or claim any of my work as your own without permission.

[bunnibombz]

Alpha! Simon who's scent is strong, like dark cherries and cinnamon, and makes your blood feel thick like syrup. Your own purring a distant hazy sound as you were desperately trying to spread that scent everywhere you could. You knew you would get into the shower later and it would all be gone but for now you would relish every bit of it.

Alpha! Simon who tries to be easy. Wants so badly for his fingers not to grip bruises into your hips as he pulls you back on his thick cock, your squeals and moans sending him closer to the edge as he splits you open, but he just can't help it. Can't help how your feet kicking out and the soft whine of his name leaving your lips sends him into a primal frenzy.

Alpha! Simon who flips you over onto your back with quick movement of his hands, his pretty brown eyes scanning your naked form as if committing it to memory, your plush lips parting on gasping breathes as your third orgasm left you reeling.

"So pretty" he murmured, his thumb moving to graze your bottom lip, a spine tingling groan blooming from his throat when you set your teeth against his flesh lightly. The want in his eyes could burn you alive, his free hand gripping the pillow behind your head. "The things I would do if you were mine".

"What kind of things?" You prompted, barely fighting back the haze of your heat, your cunt clenching around his cock still throbbing and buried deep inside of you.

"Put a pretty mark on your neck, to show everyone just how much I love you" he said, his voice low and rolling through your sensitive body like a wave, his hand at your lips moving down to grasp your throat, turning your head to press a hot and heavy kiss to the junction of your shoulder where the bond mark would go, "and put a pretty pup in your belly to show everyone just how much you're mine, mine only".

The thrust of his hips stole the air from your lungs, his cock twitching against your cervix as you gasped. Your hands coming up to grasp his biceps as he bent your knees up and over his shoulders, pinning you in a rough mating press.

"Want- want you- ahhh" you stammered, barely able to gather words as pleasure shot up your spine over and over.

"You want what, bunny?" He asked, his voice a rough growl as his arms tensed, hips moving a little harsher, "use your words".

"Y-your knot" you begged with a desperate sob, trying in vain to pull him down closer to bury your face into his neck, "I-I need". Words were useless at this point, the hormones from your heat making your brain feel cloudy and the burning pleasure between your legs not helping to clear the fog. With your scents burning together, it was almost intoxicating.

"Gonna cum for you, lovie" Simon groaned, his knot beginning to swell at the base of his cock, "be my good girl and take it all for me".

Spots were popping behind you eyes screwed shut, your toes curling as your cunt tightened around him, slick squirting put against your thighs and his abdomen as he pressed in, knot locking in place as he filled you with a growling moan, his teeth clenched tightly as if fighting not to sink his teeth in and take for his own. Both of you were out of breath and shaking when you collapsed back on the bed, his warm arms wrapping around your body and tugging you on top of him to ease the stretch of his knot.

"Easy now, just rest, we'll be here for a bit" Simon murmured, his calloused hand rubbing against your back, letting you adjust for comfort until you settled, your breathing slowing as you lay against him.

Alpha! Simon who keeps you securely in his arms as he drifts off with you, your hormones calming and your soft purring sending him into a deep sleep.

Price who can't help but smirk in amusement as Simon growled like a demon in his sleep when he opened the door to check on you. If there had been any doubt that Simon would take care of you, it was gone now.

[utsumeow]

hi guys i made a pink ao3 site skin

get it here:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/14ZeGpbET06n1dUmUkG7_M856-KqxjwrwlhLwh0S7OsU/edit?usp=sharing

that's all thank you 🤤

[sky-lemonade]

AO3 Skin based on @reignpage jjk fanfic "Crash Landing On That D!ck!" MDNI

A '(Guest)' pfp! I tried to put an image for account without pfp too but it broke my coding lmao

╰┈➤ thank you nan11 they had been helping me throughout the last touch working on this skin, if not then i don't think the skin would be as polished as this(they spend approximately 2 days patiently guide me).

╰┈➤ Disclaimers : This is my first AO3 skin so the coding are unorganized, first time attempted coding too, kinda nervous. I don't take request. pngs & icons are from Pinterest and Tumblr, no AI used on this skin. All fics mentioned does not belong to me, nor the beautiful dividers that i used on this post, credit to @uzmacchiato and @enchanthings for the dividers. I made this skin on mobile, so if other versions(iPad, laptop, etc.) are messed up, i can't help you with that😔 i'm broke. I followed this css in the beginning of my coding.

・✿ side note : i include all 5 love interests main colors, most are more hidden, except To-Ji his color is green the same as the masterlist aesthetic so he automatically more prominent than others. There's a few easter eggs thrown around in this skin that CLOTD readers might notice.

Tutorial how to activate the skin :

Copy the code provided in this GitHub, there is a copy button at the top right(•••) of the code box. And here if you prefer Google doc.

Sign to your AO3 account, after that go to "Dashboard".

On your "Dashboard", tap on a section called "Skins".

On the "Skins" page, tap on the button labelled "Create Site Skin".

Give your site skin a unique title, i usually use 2-4 word for the skins that i saved, for example i named this CLOTD skin "EdenX Pheromones"(don't ask😹). IF YOUR SKIN NAME IS NOT UNIQUE, YOU CAN'T SAVE THE SKIN.

Paste the codes you copied from my GitHub into the "CSS" box.

When you're done, scroll to the bottom of the page and click a button labelled "Submit". This will save your site skin and take you to a new page where you can see the title of your skin as well as all of the code.

Click "My Site Skin" and you can see the skin are added, press "Use" to activate it.

If you don't want to have the blobfish and dodo bird border(i put them for shits and giggles anyway lol), erase this specific code :

#inner {

background-image: url("https://64.media.tumblr.com/abae9bced18794c4fc5f7fd9ad991cd2/5a7bdcf61953845e-7c/s500x750/0b52af8aaf51f293a970dd3071877e75d51f4a9f.png"),

url("https://64.media.tumblr.com/d5a7914cecd1f25abd0fd61966d47709/c1db2473aaec3ff6-4c/s640x960/a498c3e23e73545c2d8d3adff101f02e4ff02b57.png");

background-position: left top, right top;

background-repeat: repeat-y, repeat-y;

background-size: 4%, 4%;

}

[chusenri]

mcbling [ao3 site skin]

hi... i'm showing off😻

i tried creating my own ao3 skin guys i spend my whole day doing this🙀

nice fanfic btw

link to og ccs

link to ccs (kinda changed)

the shiny borders and buttons (when you click on them) are gifs

code is based on:

hello kitty! [ao3 site skin]

and i used that one for icons

replace the AO3 Icons [site skin]

[ysaona]

[titus-danforth]

m-robinavitch's kinktober 2025

day 19: from eden.

: ̗̀➛ pairing: Priest!Andrew "Pope" Cody x Female!Reader

: ̗̀➛ summary: “Flee from sexual immorality. Every other sin a person commits is outside the body, but the sexually immoral person sins against his own body. Or do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, whom you have from God? You are not your own, for you were bought with a price. So glorify God in your body.” Or something like that.

: ̗̀➛ warnings: 18+ MDNI, body worship, sacrilegious filth, p in v sex, oral sex (f receiving), confession, religious guilt, breaking celibacy vows

: ̗̀➛ author’s note: basically an idea I had months ago about Priest!Andrew but I shortened it to fit kinktober. Inspired but the song From Eden by Hozier (because Andrew and Hozier go hand in hand) and dedicated to @pope-codys because Addie was so excited for this I HOPE I DID IT JUSTICE FOR YOU ENJOY LOVE

──────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .*:☆ﾟ. ────────

“Bless me father, for I have sinned,” your voice shook- hands clasped around each other in the tiny confessional that you sat in. “It’s been a month since my last confession,” you know why it’s been a month. Father Andrew was the one who took confession- the man on the other side of the screen and the object of your confession at this moment. “I’ve been struggling with- with thoughts I shouldn’t have. Feelings that I shouldn’t have and I try to pray them away, but- but they only come back stronger.” Andrew paused, he says nothing yet- hands tightening around the leather of the bible as your perfume wafts around the small wooden booth where the air feels thick. Suffocating even and choking him with desire and just- making the fucking collar around his neck feel tight and strangling him with no way to get his voice out “It isn’t just temptation, it’s something different- and- and that’s what scares me. It doesn’t feel wrong until I remember who I’m supposed to be. What I’m supposed to represent.” You twist her fingers in your lap, voice shaking and tears starting to well up in the corners of your eyes because you just couldn’t fucking take it anymore. It’s been a year since you met Father Andrew- taking a job as a daycare worker at the local church in exchange for a room and immediately he caught your eye. Immediately you saw the gentleness of the soft spoken man who led the evening Sunday sermons. Whose voice calmed your heart- stilled your mind even. It was wrong. All he was doing was his job and you fantasized about him in the worst way possible. 

“It’s someone that I see often. He’s someone I respect and I know how it must sound, but it isn’t lust exactly, it’s- its warmth. It's affection that I can't fight. A pull I can’t explain and sometimes when I hear his voice, it feels like my heart remembers something my mind doesn’t want to.” Your breath catches, the tears flowing down your cheeks and the shuddering of your breath makes it hard to speak but you try. You lay your heart out for him- telling Father Andrew exactly what you’re feeling despite not using his name because he knows. Andrew knows the desire and struggle you feel- because it mirrors his own. “I’ve asked God to take it away. But He hasn’t. And I don’t know if that’s because I haven’t tried hard enough- or because He’s letting me feel it for some reason. I’m not asking for forgiveness for loving someone, Father. I’m asking forgiveness for wanting something I know I can’t have.” Silence stretches between you both- no words but only the soft whimpers of your heart and pathetic sniffles that remind Andrew that you’re here because he can’t form a single word- he opens his mouth to give the usual response- counsel, prayer, distance even but the words won’t form. His throat feels tight- swallowing hard but it makes everything worse because he’s suddenly very aware of his tongue and how stifling the air was and how sweet you sound and-

“Temptation,” he says finally, his voice low, measured, “is part of being human. Even the devout aren’t spared from it.” Andrew pauses, searching for the right tone, one that doesn’t tremble or stutter- one that doesn’t give him away despite saying that even he feels tempted from time to time. He clears his throat, closing his eyes and grips the bible tighter while he continues as if he’s trying to absorb the strength of the Word through osmosis. “What matters is what you choose to do with it. Sometimes- um- sometimes the hardest thing is not confessing it, but letting it go.” He waits, expecting you to nod, to say ‘yes, Father,’ and leave. But you don’t. You don’t leave- you stay fucking rooted to the wooden bench and bite your lip before you ask what he’s been dying to hear from you. 

“What if it feels like something good?” You whisper, more to yourself than to Father Andrew but you need to get this out because you’re sure you’ll combust if you don’t. You haven’t been able to sleep or breathe and you think about him constantly that it makes you sick. “What if it makes you feel alive again?” His hand tightens on the edge of the bench, dropping the bible to the side so he can grip the wood and carefully choose his next words because he can’t do this. He can’t lead you astray- not because he wants to give into the temptation. The softness of your voice kills him- has Andrew sweating in his robes and he has to physically shake the thoughts from his mind to clearly speak and tell you what needs to be said. 

“Not everything that feels like light leads to it,” he manages, his voice faltering near the end and for a long time, neither of you speaks. The only thing heard is your sniffles, wiping your tears with your sleeve and the heavy breath of desire hanging between you both. Finally, he gives you penance, softly- almost mechanically he tells you a prayer to repeat, a suggestion to seek peace in work, in service, in distance- the usual but he knows it’s a deflection. He can’t spend more time contemplating the words you confessed- can’t let himself think about you more than he already does because you consume his fucking mind. When you leave- the booth smells faintly of your perfume, and Andrew doesn’t move, not for a long while. He presses his fingers against the wood where your voice had come through before he bows his head and murmurs something that’s not part of the liturgy. “Lord, forgive me, for I have heard what I wanted to hear.”

For months this temptation has hung over you both. Has kept you awake most nights and made you beg and cry on your knees in prayer. Because it was wrong. It was so wrong but Andrew- no, Father Andrew was such a good, kind, sweet man. You weren’t fucking religious growing up but after the church gave you a job and a new purpose you tried to give yourself back- tried to live right and honestly but here you were lusting after the fucking priest. But- it wasn’t all just lust and desire, because Andrew was so much different than other men. He was calm, disciplined and upright. No matter what he heard from the confessional or what went on in the church he remained silent- remained a strong, steady presence to lean upon and use. So disciplined- righteous and devout, he never wavered from the strict schedule he followed. His sermons were felt in your heart- his voice lulled your soul and calmed your mind. Andrew made you feel seen. He looks at you with a gentleness and warmth that you never felt with anyone else- he smiles at you with something behind his eyes and every day it gets harder to fight with yourself over him. 

And Andrew is no different, no better than you are because he desires you more every day- the prayers no longer work. Physical punishments no longer taking the thoughts from his mind- no made how hard he tries. There’s a lightness around you, there’s a gentleness about you that eases him. You’re open and light where Andrew is dark and closed off, you treat him like he’s more than a fucking priest- like he’s human. You worry about him, the late hours he spends worrying over a church member, asking him how he feels after a funeral- eyes softer with him than you are with anyone else. You have this warmth about you that he aches for- watching you with a longing gaze in the morning when you hold and coo at the babies that come in for daycare. You see him. You only see him. After years of being needed and used and ignored by those who were supposed to love him- you don’t ask him for anything. You don’t want anything from him and you don’t judge him. You didn’t judge him when you learned about his past before he gave his life to God- needing a light and a way to find himself and he thinks he found it. Thought he did anyway until you ruined it and broke his facade- came into his life and he felt like everything was clear, like everything made sense. 

The church was full that Sunday evening, sunlight fading and cutting through the stained glass and you’re in your usual spot- front right, near the aisle. You’ve avoided him all week, but you’re here, because not showing up would confirm that you were avoiding him- that you’d turn the corridor when you heard him or that you would linger back to watch him walk down the hall. Not joining him like you normally would- smiling brightly up at him with a ‘good morning Andrew,’ when it’s only you two. He steps to the lectern, Bible in hand and on the surface, his expression is calm, priestly. But as he starts to speak, his voice carries a quiet intensity that wasn’t there before. His eyes meet yours for a brief moment before speaking into the air- swallowing hard as if to tell himself he needs to get this over with. 

“There are times when the heart desires something it cannot have and in that desire, we meet our most dangerous kind of temptation.” His eyes flicker up, just for a second and find yours with a softness that wasn’t there before. “Sometimes temptation doesn’t look like sin,” he continues softly. “It looks like kindness, it looks like warmth, it looks like something that reminds us what it is to be alive. And that- is why it’s so hard to turn away from.” Your breath catches. It’s nearly word for word what you said to him in the confessional a week ago. His eyes refuse to meet yours now- staring out at the pews and while the congregation hears a sermon on sacrifice, you hear a message that was meant for you. 

“God tests us not with cruelty, but with tenderness, He asks us to lay down the things that feel good- because love is not always meant to be possessed. Sometimes it’s meant to be carried- silently, faithfully, as a cross we don’t want to bear.” He looks up again, just once, mid-verse and you eyes lock- your hands tighten around the bible in your hands and you can’t fucking look away. When the service ends, the church members file out- chatting about how moving the sermon was and how heartfelt it was. No one sees you linger in the pew, trembling with a tear sliding down your cheek- no one sees Father Andrew pause in the doorway, watching you cry to yourself and he wants nothing more than to go to you. To dip down in front of you and kiss your feet and tell you how much he fucking desires you- how he loves everything about you and how he’ll worship you for the rest of his life until he’s pulled to hell for the sins he’s committing by just wanting to love you. 

You toss and turn in bed that night, listening to a storm rage on outside that echoes the storm that brews in your mind and heart. You can’t sleep without confronting Andrew because even if his words told you that your love was something that was to be carried in silence- his actions were anything but. You climb out of bed- barefeet cold on the stone tiles, nightgown brushing along your ankles as you walk back to the main hall where Andrew delivered his sermon that evening. Andrew. You started calling him Andrew out of an accident- hearing his name without the title was like a breath of fresh air coming from your soft lips. Lips that he imagines as he’s knelt in his room- prayers not coming as easily as they once did because all Andrew can think about is you. All Andrew dreams of is you and he no longer feels like a failure- he no longer thinks that his love for you was a test to his faith but a fucking gift from God and with his years of teaching, shouldn’t he accept that gift with a humble spirit? The storm outside that would once calm his mind now distracts him from begging to God for an answer to the question he’s been asking for months now but the connection is gone- there’s no one answering him anymore. No one listens to Andrew’s pleadings anymore because all he wants to hear is the answer come from you. He forces himself out of his rectory- back to the hall where he watches you every Sunday as he gives his sermons and there you were in the pews with the candlelight illuminating your soft silhouette like the answer to all his prayers that he's needed. 

“That sermon,” you hesitate, not even turning because you know who was stepping into the hall already just by how he walked- by how your soul and mind started to feel calm by just his presence alone. “Was that for me?” He exhales slowly, hand opening and closing while he searches for the words before taking a seat in the same pew- directly next to you with only centimeters between your bodies. 

“It was for anyone who needed to hear it.” He says your name. Softly, like that’s the only way it should be spoken, with no harshness in his tone and only gently in the air- like a prayer. “You don’t understand what it costs to want something and walk away- I wasn’t always a priest.” He exhales- slow and shaky but when his past flashes through his mind he can feel the anxiety bubble up. “There was someone once,” a flash of her blonde hair passed through his mind, her soft smile, her anger and fear- “I loved her enough to think her love could save me and when it didn’t, I thought maybe God would- like she said. So I made a promise.” His hands wring in his lap, struggling to think about her and how the pain of not being loved enough broke him for years until he finally decided that the God she spoke about might be his savior after all. And it worked- until it didn’t. Because Andrew realized all he did was force himself to do something that he thought would save him- something he thought would work at the time but his life felt the same. His thoughts felt the same. Until he met you. 

“And now?” Because he said he made a promise but his eyes were filled with desire and devotion every time he looked at you- the same way they used to be when he asked God for a sign that this was what was right for him. 

“Now I try not to break it.” He shakes his head, eyes falling to the floor, but he stops wringing his hands- stops because the space between you hums with everything unsaid and you reach out, fingers barely brushing his arm and begging him to turn to face you. Begging to see those soft hazel eyes that creep into your dreams- that soften every time he looks at you only this time after he locks his hard gaze on you, his eyes dip to your lips, soft and sweet and back to your eyes to beg silently because he doesn’t know how to utter the words ‘please kiss me’.

“You already have,” you whisper- face titled up in hopes of a kiss but you know he won’t be the one to break first. You know Andrew won’t be the one to press his lips against yours no matter how desperate he is to do it. But he does inch a bit closer- licking his lips for a moment in anticipation for what he’s dreamed of for months now. You surge forward- locking your lips together with his own and you both let out a shuddered breath after you pull away, scared and anxious but so much desire already flowing through your bodies. The seal was broken. The dam overflowing with need and after a moment- maybe two, Andrew is the one who surges forward- pressing his lips against yours again in a soft slow kiss that builds in desperation. The temptation was there- no longer a fantasy but a need as you claw and grab at his arms, pulling his hair to force your lips together for as long as possible without breathing. His lips were soft- slightly chapped but gentle with how he kisses, with how he slid his tongue between your lips before moaning from your taste and the soft whines you let out and it was like the string that kept Andrew together for years finally snapped and he forced himself away from you. 

“I- I’m sorry, Andrew I’m-” realization burns throughout your face- heavy panting and trembling with fear but Andrew doesn’t leave you. He slides off the pew, the wood creaking underneath his body and he comes to kneel by your legs- resting his head in your lap. This is was all he’s wanted- your body in his arms, scent wafting along his mind and he fucking sighs when you run your fingers through his hair. Soft hands so gentle with him- thumb gliding along his cheek while he thinks about how you’re exactly the type of love that he’s needed in all his life. With soft hands he presses them against your legs, pushing up your nightgown to bunch up around your knees so he can touch his lips against the skin of your legs. Up and down, all along the expanse of your skin from your knees to your feet, soft mouthing at your skin- sighing and licking even because he needs you to know how desperate and weak he has been for you. Months of desire building up to this fucking moment and as he places one of your legs on his shoulder he nips the inside of your legs- licking and sucking until he bundles and pushes the nightgown up to your waist with shaky hands. Andrew throws your other leg over his shoulder- reaching behind you to grab your ass and pull you impossibly close to his mouth. 

He moans, inhaling the scent of your pussy that was bare before him and he doesn’t even give you a moment to prepare- his tongue drags up your folds with eager anticipation, fanning his hot breath along your cunt and it was too fucking much. His head disappeared underneath your nightgown- handfuls of your ass keeping you against his mouth while he dives his tongue into your creamy awaiting walls. Quiet pleas of his name slip from your lips, throwing your head back with your hands on his head- opening your eyes to see the iron chandelier above head, candles illuminating and flickering with each drafty gust that the storm brought inside the church. You needed to see him- you grab at the hems of your nightgown and tug it back to see Andrew looking up at you with those gentle hazel eyes through heavy lashes. He watches you- watches how your face changes and the way your mouth falls opens as his tongues maps out the exact expanse of your pussy. Your hand shakes- finding purchase in the soft curls atop his head and when you do run your hands through his hair and stroke along his temple he moans, wraps his lips around your clit and closes his eyes when your sweet mouth lets your gasps and whimpers slip past your lips. You cum so easily- after having spent the last year pleasuring yourself at the imagine of Andrew in your mind this was a treat that left you needing more. 

His face was painted with your slick, juices covering his chin as he stands with his arm around your thighs to pick you up so he’s able to sit you in his lap after he settles himself back onto the pew. Your hands work in tandem to pull his pants down and allow his cock to slap against your inner thighs with thick need- mouths sliding back together so you can taste the pleasure Andrew gave you in his tongue and it was like seeing you through his own eyes. How desperate he was to have you that his mouth was used to give you pleasure first before he even got to sink his cock inside your pussy. With trembling thighs from your orgasm you raise up on your knees, grabbing his heavy cock in your hand, smearing the drop of precum along the tip before you slide him between your folds- locking eyes with Andrew as you sink down on him, panting into his mouth, lips just brushing together to share heavy breathing of desire. How could something that was supposed to be so wrong fell this fucking good? Andrew toils with the idea- grabbing the fabric of your nightgown to lift above your head and throw to the side so he can see all of the body that you give to him. Each roll of your hips into his own feels like your own personal heaven- fucking yourself on his cock with such conviction and haste because you’re afraid of you stop then the reality of what’s happening right now will change everything between you both. 

Andrew doesn’t say anything- no words are exchanged between you both but hot breaths fanning each other’s faces and desperate moans. The pew creaks under you both- begging for relief like you had been but you don’t relent. You don’t stop grinding your hips into his- you continue to ride his cock and pull at his hair with need, forcing his lips against yours so you can glide your tongues together like your bodies do. His cock was heavy, thick and deliciously dragging between your tight walls and Andrew thinks this is what heaven feels like. It must be- because after this he’ll never get to see it. After this taste of beautiful sin he’ll be damned to walk through hell for eternity but you’ll be the angel that guides him down to the fiery depths- the angel that whimpers his name against his lips while you rise up to bounce yourself in his lap and keep fucking him. The storm rages outside- sky and heavens are angry. Angry that you both have found solace in the sweet love making that takes place in the belly of the church where you first met- where your thighs ache because his own were so fucking wide that you were sore. 

Andrew loves your body, grabs at your waist to keep you writhing in his lap with fast movements and pathetic whines of his own. Andrew loves your eyes, closed in pleasure but they truly see him. Honest and soft, warmth. When you look at him he feels like he’s worth something. He would paint the world the color they get when the light hits them, filled with desire and love. Your hands, soft, smaller than his. One in his hair and the other holding his own now as he helps you fuck yourself onto his cock that was speeding up into your sweet dripping pussy. How you gesture when you talk, how you press them against your chest when you pray, how you softly touch his arm to ask how he’s doing. Your lips, abused by your teeth at the moment but soft. Your smile is light and the air in his lungs, slightly crooked but perfect when you speak and say his name like you do now. Your hair, how it never seems just one color. Shifts with the light and shadows, soft when he tucks it behind your ear. Messy despite you trying to tame it with creams or ties but he loves it all the same. Hand coming up to cradle his face, pressing his forehead against yours as you ask him to finish inside you, begging to be filled with his warm cum so you’ll be bound together for however long- until the earth opens and pulls you both down to hell. 

He’s damned anyway.

You’re his church now- his salvation.

The answer to his prayers.

[the-horrors-in-pink]

James Gunn letting Guy Gardener keep his fuckass bowl cut… Mr. Terrific working as the main other hero in the movie without ever being treated as a sidekick… Hawkgirl getting to fucking kill that guy at the end of the movie… and all in their comic accurate costumes. We’re actually so fucking back y’all 😭

[aemnd-moved]

꒰ 𓉸ྀི ꒱ ── 𝓵𝑒𝑡 𝑚𝑒 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑚 𝑏𝑒𝑡𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑡𝑒𝑒𝑡ℎ. ♡ a.t. ྀི

cw: mdni. cannibalism. afab reader. pet names. fluff + erotica. psychiatrist!aemond. mental illnesses. modern au. obsession + possession. corruption. manipulation. stalking. dark themes. dddne. future pregnancy. rituals. isolation.

𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒. hi ♡ here's a lil preview of my upcoming fanfic, "let me bloom between your teeth" 🩸 it'll be coming soon .. &. until then, please enjoy the beginning of the insanity that will soon be coming .. ꫂৎ

(…) you never expected to find safety in a place like this—a cold, pristine office tucked inside the heart of king's landing's private psychiatric wing. yet, week after week, you return. you sit in the same leather chair across from him, hands folded nervously in your lap, heart thudding a little too fast every time his eye meets yours.

aemond targaryen is beautiful in the way fire is—hypnotic, dangerous, all-consuming. his silver hair is always perfectly braided neatly down his back, his tailored suits dark as sin, a thin silver chain glinting beneath his collar. his voice is velvet—deep, measured, and slow, like he's savoring every syllable.

he always watches you like he's listening, but not just to what you say, like he's peeling you open, layer by layer, and feasting on what's inside.

"you said the nightmares are worse," he says today, head tilted ever so slightly. "tell me about them."

you swallow hard. it's hard to look at him for too long without forgetting what you're saying. "they... it's always the same. a shadow in the doorway, a feeling that someone is watching me sleep."

aemond casually crosses one leg over the other, his eye half-lidded, lips curved just slightly. "and does that frighten you?"

you give him a tiny nod, trembling slightly as you feel a shiver go down your spine. "y-yes."

he hums, a sound low in his throat. "it shouldn't, some things only watch to admire."

you blush. you don't know why. he always says things like that—too close to flirtation to be proper, but cloaked just enough in ambiguity that you can't call him on it. maybe you don't want to.

you don't know that he's been dreaming of you too.

not in the way normal men do. in his dreams, he presses his mouth to the hollow of your throat and bites down. in his fantasies, your softness is laid bare before him—vulnerable, trusting, bleeding. he imagines tasting more than just your secrets.

he shouldn't. he knows the rules, he's broken far worse.

your file is thin—depression, anxiety, and mild dissociation. but aemond doesn't need paper to know you. he's memorized the cadence of your soft-spoken voice, the tremble in your dainty fingers when you're frightened. you're so good, and that's what ruins him.

because he's not.

he's careful, always. the people he feasts on are chosen with perfected precision: criminals, abusers, the city's discarded filth. he tells himself it's justice. balance. but lately, when he closes his eyes, he doesn't see nameless faces. he sees you—offering your throat like a virgin sacrifice, whispering his name so beautifully it makes his poor, aching cock uncomfortably hard.

he watches you now as you talk about your childhood, about loneliness. you let your voice crack, trusting him with your pain.

he wonders if you'd trust him with your body, with your soul. he wonders if he could taste you and leave you whole.

"you're doing so well, sweetheart," he says softly, and you flush under his praise.

your lips part, "i feel safe with you."

those five little words, they strike him like a blade straight through the heart. you don't know what he is, because if you did, you'd run. you should. and yet...

he imagines taking your hand in his, pulling you into his lap, burying his face into the crook of your neck. not to feed, not yet. just to breathe you in, to savor your sweet scent of vanilla and honey and pure innocence.

he's already starving, and you haven't even kissed him. but he'll wait, he'll be patient. you're not quite ready yet—and he wants all of you, not just your flesh. your mind, your tears, your laughter, your love. and maybe, if he earns it, you'll even give him your darkness.

and if not... well.

aemond smiles as he watches you leave his office once your therapy session with him ends for the day, sweet and soft and naïvely unaware that the wolf you sit across from has already decided: if he cannot have you whole, he'll take you piece by piece.

but not yet, never before dessert. (…)

© ┄ 𝗔𝗘𝗠𝗡𝗗, 2025. ྀི

[lottiecentric-deactivated202505]

growing pains (III) | 🦌

synopsis : your father drags you and your brothers along on the trip to nationals, blissfully unaware of the awkward situation between you and one of the team members. the plane goes down, and now, with your father deceased, you must relearn how to navigate your relationships. | ~2.7k words

pairings: lottie matthews / fem!martinez!reader, travis martinez & fem!martinez!reader, javi martinez & fem!martinez! reader

warnings: probably inaccurate descriptions of injury, typical yellowjackets warnings (blood, violence, brooding teenagers trapped in the middle of nowhere, etc.), lottie and reader are cute again :3 also anger anger anger resentment hatred crying

notes: part three of the rewrite of an old fic of mine; hope yoh like :3

previous/next chapters: I , II , IV , V

You groan softly, having woken to the sun assaulting your eyes and cramps wrecking your abdomen. You and the rest of the girls are on your period, having pooled together your stash of pads. Everyone is tired, annoyed, and in pain.

Travis and Nat have been doing a good job of hunting. They’ve been consistently bringing back food, and Shauna has started to get good at butchering what they return with. You help where you can, removing entrails or cleaning the workspace so Shauna can better focus. While it isn’t exactly…the most glamorous of jobs, you’ve started to enjoy Shauna’s company.

The two of you don’t speak much. It’s a mutual respect between you and her, one that doesn’t require talking or fluffy details. You did make her laugh once, teasing about how Nat and Travis were likely together from what you’d seen. The only reason the event sticks out to you is the unreadable look that had been on Lottie’s face when you caught her staring at the two of you.

Right now, Nat and Travis are out hunting. Javi is off somewhere, probably journaling in some of the paper Shauna had given him. He’s been doing enough to avoid the anger of anyone; everyone is also giving him a bit of a break too, considering how young and afraid he must be. Regardless, the daily chores are being divided amongst the rest of the people at the cabin.

“We’ll need some more water to boil for soup,” Tai starts, “Who’s turn is it to go get it?”

All eyes flit over to Jackie and Shauna; it appears that Shauna is trying to teach her best friend the basics of butchering. There’s a few groans and scoffs at the disgusted look on Jackie’s face. You sigh, not wanting to deal with whatever tantrum Jackie will throw, or whatever fight is bound to happen between the girls.

“I’ve got it,” you say, earning a few odd looks. “What? I haven’t done it yet.”

“Gee, I wonder why,” Mari snarks, earning a smack to the side from Van. Your cheeks flush, anger rising. You’ve been doing your best to keep up with everyone and help out around here, and this is what you get? Snide remarks about your lack of an arm? You scowl over at Mari, who looks away in response.

“I’ve got it,” you mutter bitterly, “Give me the bucket.”

Tai hands it over, and you’re about to leave, when Misty rushes out from the cabin. She calls your name loud and enough times to the point where you can’t even pretend you didn’t hear her.

“What are you doing, (Name)? You can’t get the water! It’ll be way too much weight, and over-exertion will totally slow down your healing!”

You frown deeply. You’ve been trying to help out with so much shit, eager to do anything besides mope around, and Misty just won’t leave you be. Anytime you try to put any effort into anything, Misty is there to tell you to knock it off. She’s really starting to get on your nerves.

“I’ll be fine, Misty,” you say tiredly, “I can handle carrying a bucket.”

“Well, sure—for a while! It’s going to take you forever to carry it back; you know you can’t switch which hand is holding it,” she trails off, shrinking slightly when your gaze hardens.

“I’ve got it.”

Misty frowns, thinking. You turn on your heel to leave, and then–

“I can go with you to help,” calls Lottie. You whip around and look at her incredulously. You try your hardest to hide the ever-growing anger presenting itself on your face, but it’s getting harder and harder to pretend you aren’t annoyed. Lottie doesn’t look you in the eye. “I can help when you get tired.”

“That’s a great idea, Lottie!”

Fighting an exasperated groan, your frown deepens. You’re about to defiantly say that you don’t need her help, when Mari chimes in again.

“Why don’t you just go yourself? It’s not like (Name) can do much—”

“I said I can fucking do it!” You raise your voice; all eyes are on you again. There’s a few odd looks, some more anxious than others, and suddenly, Misty is talking again. The urge to scream grows greater and greater.

“(Name), as the only one who’s finished the Red Crosses babysitter’s first-aid course—twice, might I add—I strictly prohibit you from–”

“Jesus Christ, just fucking leave me alone!” you snarl, and Misty flinches. Mari snickers at her wounded look, and it pisses you off so much that you can’t hold your tongue, pointedly saying, “Don’t act like you're any better!”

And with that, you practically sprint off in the direction of the lake. You hardly register the murmuring behind you, the whispers of either anger or pity. You’re sure that your little stunt has earned you zero favor with the team, but you’re too pissed at them to care. When you finally take a minute to calm down, sitting on an overturned log to catch your breath, you realize you aren’t alone. Lottie has followed you.

You groan, falling defeatedly to the ground. You drop the bucket, rubbing your hand over your face. You can feel a headache coming on, whether it be from stress or anger, you’re unsure.

“Uhm–”

“Why are you here, Lottie?” you ask with a sigh. “I know it’s– it’s to help me or…or whatever, but why are you really here?”

“I– I wanted to talk with you,” she says after a bit of a pause. She fiddles nervously with the hem of her sweater. You roll your eyes, grabbing the bucket once more and straightening your back. As it would turn out, Misty is right about the fact that you’ve felt very weak lately, and perhaps she’s right that you going to get water by yourself was a bad idea. You’d rather not return than admit that out loud, though.

“Are you sure? Or do you just want to try and kiss me again?” you spit, scowl prominent on your face. If you were looking at her, you’d have noticed the flinch and the flash of embarrassment on her face, but you’re too annoyed to even look in her direction.

“I wanted to apologize for that,” she says softly, "You're right. I didn’t have any right to do that after– after, uhm…”

“Leaving me? Making me feel like a fucking idiot?”

“Yeah,” she says, embarrassed and ashamed all at once. “After that.”

Your brow unfurrows slightly. You take a deep breath, then stand up. Travis had always told you you were too nice—a statement that is currently having its validity tested. You start walking off, but upon hearing no footsteps trailing after you, you pause.

“Well, are you coming, or what?”

Lottie’s mouth falls into a little o-shape before a grateful smile takes over. You look away to hide the flush of your cheeks.

“Sorry I– uhm, intruded with the whole…water thing,” Lottie stutters, and you shrug in response. The two of you walk, side by side, down to the lake. She occasionally guides you, informing you that there are faster ways to get to your destination. You never even wonder how or why she knows these shortcuts; you chalk it up to her having brought water back more often than you.

By the time you make it to the lake, your arm is killing you. You breathe heavier than usual, muscles protesting against your push for them to continue. Lottie has offered to carry it three times now; she hasn’t offered again since you told her to stop looking at you like that. She knows how stubborn you can get, and she also knows when and when not to push.

You place the bucket on the ground and sit down on the beach, the warm sand and cool breeze calming you. Lottie takes a seat beside you. She stares at you, her expression unreadable, as per usual. You know you should tell her to knock it off, but part of you is enjoying the attention you’re getting from her. It’s…been a while, since the two of you were alone, and on decent terms with one another.

“You okay?” she asks softly, and you turn to look at her with a nod. She smiles over at you, her hand placed beside yours. You glance down at it, before looking her in the eyes.

“Are you?” you question, and she grins, her canines peeking through her lips.

“Could be better,” she jokes, looking out at the water. “You letting me fill the bucket and carry it back would definitely help.”

You raise a brow, snorting.

“Really?”

“I’ll give it back like…a mile before camp. That way, you can prove that you don’t need my help.”

You look at her quizzically, unable to hide the small smirk on your face. You barely notice yourself leaning closer.

“And how is letting you carry it for me going to prove that to you?”

Lottie hums, pretending to think, before she grins.

“Maybe it won’t, but at least it’ll prove that I’m still chivalrous.”

You chuckle, head falling back in laughter. You glance back at your hands, so close together, yet so far apart. You swallow nervously, and touch your pinky to hers lightly. You stare back at the water so you don’t have to watch the rejection you’ll face. Lottie surprises you by linking her pinky with yours, a small, content smile on her face as the two of you watch the waves.

–

Lottie does as promised, carrying the water pail until you two are closer to the camp. Then, she trades off with you, allowing you to prove your point to the girls. The two of you make idle conversation as you walk, occasionally falling into comfortable silence. You’re tired, and in pain, but Lottie’s company is actually making it a little bit bearable—who would’ve thought?

“Hey!” Misty greets with a lopsided smile, and Lottie waves over to her for the both of you. You place the pail on the ground, right beside the fire pit where Mari will be making soup later.

“Hey, Quigley,” you say uncomfortably, rocking back and forth on your heels. “Look I– I just wanted to say sorry. I know you’re just trying to help; I didn’t mean to explode on you like that,” you mumble, red coating your cheeks. You were trying to be better about not being an asshole, a gesture you can tell is much appreciated by the way Misty’s face lights up. She smiles wide, and Lottie looks away to hide the amused smirk on her face.

“I–It’s okay, (Name)! I get it,” Misty starts, “I know that the loss of a limb and a parent can cause grief to manifest in a variety of ways!”

You flinch at the mention of the crash, looking away. It’s good to know that there’s at least one other person who’s as bad (if not worse) at conversation as you are. You fake a smile, trying your hardest to remain polite.

“Uh…yeah,” you say lamely.

“I know the others have been a little bit of skeptics, but I’m glad Travis chose you over Coach,” Misty casually says, fixing her glasses as she punches your shoulder playfully—like it's a joke amongst friends. Lottie’s eyes widen, and your strained smile drops. You blink, turning to look at Misty.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” you slowly say, and Misty frowns. She very clearly misses the meaning behind Lottie’s frantic shake of her head.

“Oh, well…you remember, don’t you? Your dad was trying to hold on to you so you both could get down. The branch was breaking, though, so Travis just…uhm, y’know, clawed his hands off of you.”

You blink back tears scowling over at Misty. She starts saying something, but you’re hardly paying attention. Travis saved you at the expense of your father. It’s your fault that your dad is dead, your fault that none of you have any solid adult guidance. Everything is all your fault.

…no, that’s not right. It’s yours and Travis’ fault.

You shoulder-check the curly-haired blonde, cutting her off mid-sentence. You storm into the cabin, looking around frantically, until your eyes land on Travis. He’s sitting with Javi and Nat, the three laughing and smiling. He has the audacity to grin over at you, waving and starting to welcome you back. You walk right up to him, crossing your arms with a deep scowl.

“We need to talk. Alone.”

He looks at you quizzically, before standing, and following you into the cabin’s bedroom. The team all look at you, curiosity painting their features, but you’re too annoyed to care about whatever they think. Travis starts asking you what’s bothering you, but you interrupt.

“You— you fucking chose me. You chose me over dad.”

Travis’ eyes widen, his face paling. Clearly, this is not at all where he was expecting this conversation to go.

“Wha–”

“Don’t. Okay? Don’t fucking lie to me. Why the hell did you do that?”

Travis frowns over at you, his brow furrowed. He scratches awkwardly at the back of his head, and you scowl deeper.

“I…I just did what felt right, okay?” he mutters, and your anger surges. You’re vaguely aware of the door opening, and Javi peeking in. You break one of your rules for yourself, which is to never show how fucking angry you are around your younger brother. He’s too innocent for it, but right now? Right now, you couldn’t give less of a shit.

“What felt right? Are you fucking kidding me?” you shout, not at all caring about the fact that the girls can most definitely hear your conversation. “You just— you just fucking let our dad die because it ‘felt right’?”

Travis glares, hurt and anger evident in his eyes. He scoffs, turning away from you.

“Fuck you,” he spits, going to move, “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“No!” you shout, “You don’t– you don’t get to fucking do that! You don't get to act like a hero! It’s– it’s your fault he’s dead! It’s our fault!”

The tears welling in your eyes spill over, as you push him angrily. He stumbles, before gaining his footing; at first, he seems pissed at you, but pity begins to show in his features soon after.

“You let him die, and for what? Me?” you cry, hands balled up and beating at him. He tries to stop you, occasionally letting out a noise of pain whilst he tries to catch your swinging fists.

“Ow! Fuck– (Name)–”

“Maybe we’d know what the fuck to do if he was alive! Maybe– maybe we’d be rescued by now!”

“(Name)–”

“Shut the fuck up!” you shout. “You’re a goddamn liar! You hear me? You’re– you’re a selfish fucking liar!”

You hit him, over and over, anger boiling over. You’re angry, so fucking angry, about your dad, about your arm, about the team…about everything. There’s footsteps approaching; someone's coming, likely to stop you.

“Why couldn’t you just let me fucking die?” you sob, hits decreasing in both speed and force. You keel over, curling into yourself. Your older brother looks at you, horrified. Snot and tears drip from your face as you wail.

Travis thinks about how he’s never known a life without you, his younger sister. He remembers walking you into your first day of kindergarten. He remembers the two of you curiously looking at your baby brother in the hospital. He remembers your smile, the twinkle in your eye that is no longer present. He remembers, and he pulls you close, crushing your body in a bruising hug. You lean into his touch, screaming into his shirt and letting all of your emotions out. He looks away from the door when his eyes tear up. Javi’s already had to see you break down. He can’t know that both of his older siblings are just as scared as he is.

“Why, Travis,” you ask shakily, ignoring the murmurs in the other room, “Why couldn’t you just let me die?”

He doesn’t answer; instead, he simply pulls you closer.

[bitter-post-millennial]

Hello this a long shot call, am a citizen of Palestine. I am here to request for your support to help get my insulin (Humalog), just an injection for today to save my life please I beg.I was diagnosized with type 1 diabetes and due to current situation in Gaza I'm unable to get my insulin injection as a result I'm here begging for little financial support to help me purchase insulin for this week. Am sorry if am sending you again this request, kindly donate any amount please. My donation link is in my pinned post🇵🇸

Back at it again, y’all know what time it is

[st7arlight]

:3 cweeper! aww man

[caffecal-deactivated20240208]

atwow characters as humans compiled together!

tried making the human sully kids resemble themselves more + cleaned up my sketches of the metkayina kids

[cann1bal-kitt3n-x]

iya.isonline ♡

[qeto-deactivated20231118]

amp 🗯️ hobie brown x reader

★CW pretty fluffy actually, suggestive themes, slight nsfw, reader is a singer for hobie’s band & hinted to be virgin, hobie’s in it so deep for u but he’s hobie so he expresses it weird ♡ ★NOTES guys this was supposed to be a cute little drabble. this is 2k. help i love hobie but this is my FIRST time writing him so go easy on me!! do tell me tho if u liked it/the characterization! still tryna navigate but hobie is so beautiful im. ☹️🩵

hobie’s teaching you how to play the guitar.

clutched on his lap as he sits crosslegged, you listen intently as he instructs you where to put your fingers-

“hey, you see that right there?” he says, “called a fret, yeah. odd word for it, innit? you’ll feel none when you actually get to playing.”

the amp’s on the carpet just to the side, plugged into the wall, screeching to life with every tenuous flicker of your fingers.

it doesn’t sound pleasant, whatever you’re doing, but you trust hobie’s judgement. he’s your best friend, really like your whole world at this point- and he’d told you before that good things take time. rome wasn’t built in a day, and the strongest troops aren’t rallied overnight, are they?

it’s a process. beautiful and agonizing.

his left knee makes an odd shift beneath your underside as you crane your neck into the instrument, squinting in an attempt to better see the strings- hobie tells you that that’s not typically what you’re supposed to do, but he says he’ll let it slide this time considering you’re a starter and still getting used to the ropes. and he’s never been inclined to go hard on you anyway- sort of sours his spirit; he’d rather approach it gentle and receptive when it comes to your waters, much like the way you treat this impromptu little lesson now.

hobie’s breathing starts getting a little heavier as you play- and you’re not so good at it, but you’re eager to learn something else after one of the bandmates joked that the microphone you grip every show wasn’t really an instrument, and you’re getting frustrated that your hands can’t sow the same melodious, rock tunes that hobie’s can- because you want to be able to, and badly.

hobie is just way too cool. it’s not fair.

you wanna do what he can, maybe make him proud in the process- show him you’re not as useless as everyone else likes to peg you…

so although the idea is somewhat tempting, and despite thirty minutes of his dutiful ministry paying off very little, you refuse to quit.

and really, that in itself-…

well, that makes hobie’s chest swell behind you, but you wouldn’t know that, and he keeps otherwise quiet.

my girl, a prideful little half grin curls at his lips, the steely rungs there raising under the dim, busted lamplight.

(and you are.)

you refuse to give up, sure— but you are getting undeniably frustrated, so you start wiggling around more, shifting and rocking in his lap, spinning him this sad little pout that steadily loses its determined arch.

“ey, love, you’re not callin’ it quits already, are you? reckon you ought to give it a bit more.” he murmurs, and although it pulls a fragile whine from you that does absolutely nothing beneficial to the foreign, growing ache in his tummy, he means it as an encouragement.

“but hobie- i don’t want them to laugh at me,” you counter almost helplessly, because the crew had a penchant to pick on you relentlessly whenever hobie wasn’t right there at your side to scare them off- and that really managed to piss him off every time he found you curled up in a corner, alone or battling off tears.

the way you lit up, though, after he slipped you the first mildly-vulgar joke and flipped the rude bunch the bird, never failed to reassure him that you- and maybe him in extension, too- would be alright.

“laugh at you?” he scoffs, one of his shoulder blades jumping behind yours. “that sad lot is severely lacking in the comedy department, don’t ya think?”

you giggle, and a good chunk of that festering uneasiness within him fades.

sometimes it’s like all he can think about is abolishing things and slamming the flat underbelly of his guitar over someone’s stupid fuckin’ head- but you’re good at assuaging that niggling ache, somehow.

he likes that, the way you make him feel. and he doesn’t tell you enough, but-

“hey, don’t worry ‘bout any of ‘at, a’right? what they think doesn’t matter- just sit with me, yeah? just me and you.”

it takes a few moments for what he said to kick in. and really, what he said is only a fraction of what he pines to say at the top of his lungs.

maybe another time.

no, maybe- maybe if he could find the proper nerve-

hobie’s never been one to blanche at the call of danger or even the uproar of a crowd, but there’s just something about you that makes him wish he could plug himself into the wall and amplify his courage.

because he can’t do it on his own, and that bugs him. he should be able to, shouldn’t lean on you like he has been, that’s never been his style—

you murmur a soft assent, head tipping to place a brief, thankful kiss to his cheek, and hobie thinks he doesn’t mind.

no, not one bit.

he never believed in consistency anyway. there’s nothing wrong with having you, coveting you like he does…

his cheeks broil.

butterflies dance in his belly, bronze skin burgeoning with tiny little goosebumps that tell him even his material being reacts fondly, vividly, to you.

you’re his girl, he’s convinced, because he couldn’t stand it any other way.

the smell of you, lingering wafts of shea butter and something sweeter, too, like marshmallows, drags him in like waves lapping at a beach.

everything about you attracts him, he honestly thinks, like a moth to a flame- distantly he recalls one of miguel’s speeches (bless his soul, but he’s a bit lost) and the word canon comes to mind- fuck, that’s gotta be the word for you. the two of you were destined, supposed to happen from the very start. he usually would hate something like that, so preassigned and restrictive and claustrophobic.

and yet… labels never sounded so nice.

and everything about him glues itself to you and refuses to let go. you’ve never tried shrugging him off, though. so maybe he’s doing something right.

maybe.

“aight, see then?” (he has this way of jumping into things so suddenly, yet making it sound natural- even though to his own ears he’s blurting and fumbling.) “you got to cradle it, hold it right there, yeah? …just like ‘at.”

you hum thoughtfully, and there’s some inner part of him that finds your attentiveness completely adorable, shoving his nose in the ridge of your shoulder to hide the sheepish little grin that’s starting to form there.

and hickory brown eyes survey you just like that, peering down at your handiwork and- maybe the glorious bit of cleavage he can see from this angle through your tank top, too, but- c’mon, that’s completely besides the point.

(hey, what was the point again?)

you’re gorgeous, he finally admits, yet even then, he realizes with slow disappointment that that word doesn’t do you near enough justice.

that bugs him, too.

most things do, actually. s’why he schemes against them all.

“like this?” you timidly breathe, shifting in his lap once more- and he knows you’re not doing it on purpose, but—

your thighs catch and chafe against the unbidden bulge pitching in his trousers and—

“ffffff- blooody hell, fingers on the fretboard, love, oi- and quit movin, yeah? you want to prove them all wrong, don’t you?” he reminds, to which you resolutely nod, muttering a quick apology.

he hums lowly, willing himself to settle- or at least trying, “yeah. ‘cause i do. we can show ‘em both. here, remember to hold it right- just like-… see? you’re gettin’ the hang of it! my girl!”

…he’s never said it aloud before.

(…should he have kept it that way?)

he observes you carefully, then, his lashes fluttering against the smooth blade of your shoulder as he watches, waits, for something you do to tell him that he’s only on cloud nine- that you aren’t something that can be won or fought for, that can be only his. that no petition he signs could beckon you closer, that no totalitarian district he razes down to the earth could be enough to deserve you.

and hobie stares, at you, harder than he has any real right to.

and that blow never comes.

instead, the softest of smiles graces your lips, and you lean your back into him. melting like wax on candles into one another.

and it’s warm at your neck suddenly, his shallow breaths beating against the juncture of your collar, glittering piercings brushing into the pliant skin there.

unscathed, pure…

and he likes that, too… more than he should, probably. but he doesn’t want to stop.

“…feels nice, innit?” he can’t hide the small smile that carves into his cheeks when you finally play the first set of chords right, head hazy with the bubbly laugh you spout out (and maybe the way your ass digs into him in response, too).

“it looks even better on stage. you’ll rock their worlds, doll. spit in their autocratic faces like ’at. i’d like a front row seat to that show…”

you keen into hobie’s praise, sighing fondly as you briefly lean out of him- startling at the big hands that instinctually enclose around your hips- and gently set his guitar down, timidly pressing back into him.

“i did it, hobie,” you realize with a mild smile, your palms (so much tinier than his, he notes) leveling over his knees that support you.

his voice, unaffected per usual, rings pleasantly at your ear. “that you did, love,” and unexpectedly- you register the warmth of his lips dusting over your collar.

“proud of you,” he murmurs, and you can’t repress the violent shudder that rolls down your spine when his teeth join that sudden dance, mouth peppering appreciative kisses into your neck that convince you that he sincerely means what he says.

that shiver racks through the guitarist, too, brown eyes tipping back into his skull when he tries, persists, and inevitably elicits a whimsy moan from you.

“h-hobie,” you whimper, and it’s an effort for him to not toss his hips up against you, then, or even to shimmy you out of your panties and poke around for your most precious, untouched parts.

“wh- what’re we-?”

“sharing,” he says, and then he’s lunging into you, mashing his lips with yours- his bestest friend in the whole wide world- in a needy, entirely codependent kiss.

it goes by in a blur, after that.

not really because it’s fast, exactly, or even because you’re growingly tired and it’s approaching eleven pm, but because his lips feel so good against your skin, and his pointed words soften so naturally towards you that you can’t help but cave to them.

you sigh into his touch, hobie shifting you off his lap just to seamlessly lie you on your back.

he’s gentle, still, even when his now-unbearable boner nudges at your mid thigh, his eyes glinting a smoky brown. the only unpleasant thing, really, was the scratchy carpet beneath you, digging at your back- but you shortly end up arching it for him anyway, so you suppose it doesn’t really matter.

nothing does, now. just hobie brown, your boy, and the way he looks at you.

fuck, the way he looks at you—

you pant, lolling your head to the side as he tries for your lips- swiftly realizes you’re out of breath- and dejectedly darts for your top.

his hands pinch at the thin, skimpy bands there and tug just hard enough to unravel them from your shoulders, your breasts quickly popping free. it makes him happy, to know you’re comfortable enough to forego a bra whenever you crash at his place (which is more often than anyone would assume from you- as just really good, mildly tactile, very much clingy friends).

his cock, stirring in his trousers, relishes in that simple reality as well.

“oh, look at you, pretty,” he marvels, eyebrows knitting together unevenly when his fingers tentatively, receptively, roam to your cleavage.

“…yeah, i like that look.” he notes the slight flush to your cheeks and your adamance to avoid his eye. “but,” he knuckles away an errant lock of hair from your face, fondly contemplating the heat emanating there, “no need to be embarrassed now- not w’me, no.”

after sending you a weighty, searching look between your eyes, hobie ventures down a bit, wasting no time in taking a pert nipple into his mouth and thoughtfully swirling the nub with his tongue, a large hand massaging your other breast.

you sigh and mewl deliciously, and hobie’s eyes develop a heavy lid as they skim over you, dark lashes tickling supple, smooth, malleable flesh. he breathes a heady groan, screwing his eyes shut.

hobie’s nerves go haywire. his brain rippling with a million incoherent thoughts loosely translated to make love to her, his limbs feeling leaden and lazy- but it’s a pleasant feeling, his gut bubbling with arousal.

he unlatches from you with a quiet pop, hands rucking your top up your tummy so he can roam there, admiring and feeling and experiencing you.

“work of fuckin’ art, aren’t you,” he breathes, slowly dipping down down down, never breaking his eyes from yours as—

“h-hobie, i can’t play the guitar.”

hobie pauses abruptly.

almost like he’s been struck— half of his lower face moves as he sniffs, regarding you carefully. looking… waiting…

internalizing.

a soft, amused scoff looses from his chest. “and why’s ‘at? sounded just fine to me. you get your ears checked?”

watery hues finally muster up enough courage to meet his. and his are so much sharper than yours, dark and prominent and so fucking reverent as they sweep over you that it actually sort of stuns you.

you don’t deserve him, you think, he’s out of your league. and by a long, long shot.

beautiful, unshackled, artfully wild.

and yet… the striking clarity that he’s feeling the exact same for you is revolutionary.

your hand, quivering with the effects he laid upon you, finds his cheek. it’s simmering, too, bronze lit up with his blossoming desire, need branching out in so many layers- hunger on multiple, innate levels.

one level intakes and assimilates the masterpiece of you, wanting to dissect it and worship it, amplify it to the max.

…another, undoubtedly his more materialistic, humanly selfish one, sees the bountiful feast you bare him, and wants to devour until there’s nothing left.

your bottom lip wobbles; gets thwarted by the teeth you harshly take it in.

“they’ll laugh at us.”

hobie stares, stills completely. blinks two or three fast, fluttering blinks more than necessary.

ah, there it is.

his grin softens, or maybe deepens into one of a slightly different, sweeter sentiment. he doesn’t fully know. he’s not thinking about himself, honestly. just you. always you.

the sound of skin sliding over skin permeates the silent, dim room once more.

“oi,” he quips, and if there’s any part of you that wasn’t paying attention, it is now. “but no point worryin’ ‘bout whether you can play the guitar or not, yeah? …and fuck ‘em if they laugh- just twats in the hivemind. repeat after me-“

he punctuates, “fuck, ‘em, all.”

you heave a breathy giggle, hobie cracking a soundless little chuckle when you refuse to parrot his dirty language.

“yeeeeah,” he drawls, more to himself now than to you. “…too sweet for that, aren’t you..”

and when he purposefully settles into you again and places a single lingering kiss over your belly- pupils blown wide and swallowing up the syrupy pool below his lashes- what he’s really been wanting to tell you finally speaks for itself.

“it’s a’right, though,” hobie reassures again, insinuating his lanky body between your thighs. patiently prying them apart before sending you this half-smiling, utterly adoring look that steals the very breath from your lungs.

two of his long, slender fingers hook into your cotton panties,

“i can make you sing just fine.”

[hellooooooooooooooooooo]

PART TWO! PART TWO! PART TWO!🎸

[ripneteyam]

“why are you crying?”

“i’m just happy to see you.”

“i’m happy to see you too.”