~ Summary: Reader is a male photographer who's friends with Darren cody and is openly gay. He was actually the one who helped Darren come to terms with his sexuality and feel more comfortable pursuing his relationship with Adrian. (Sorry for changing the show's timeline a bit, but honestly, at some point Darren deserved to have a gay friend he could relate to and talk to more openly.)
Reader occasionally helps the Codys with their jobs and is aware of the family's criminal activities, but he's never pushed past his boundaries or gotten more involved than necessary. That is, until Pope Cody—Darren's brother—is released from prison, and Reader ends up becoming a little more involved with the Cody family than usual.
Noah understands Benton and Carter’s relationship so well! 😭😭😭
“He was always there in the significant ways that showed the depth of his feeling for Carter but he never articulated it or never showed it in any way that Carter could appreciate. But the audience got to see it.”
This is why they always showed us Benton’s face when they hugged, but Carter never got to see it.
But I'd like to think after Benton stayed by his side in season 15, Carter truly knew.
CW: Mature/Explicit Sexual Content, Casual Sex, Kissing, References to Past Violence, Stabbing Injury & Scarring, Emotional Baggage, Family Issues, Mild Angst, Hurt/Comfort
A/n: I had this for months in my notes and decided to share it with you...hope you enjoy it.
“I don’t mind if you want to hold me.”
Pope murmured softly under his breath. He was lying on the bed with his back turned to the half-naked boy lying beside him.
The boy moved closer on the bed and gently wrapped an arm around him.
The stranger’s breaths brushed against the back of his neck, making the hairs there stand on end.
He turned toward him and fixed his gaze on his face.
He raised his hand hesitantly and touched his face with the tips of his fingers.
“I never asked your name...”
A wide, foolish smile spread across the boy’s face.
Pope was sure he could touch the little stars dancing in his eyes if he only reached out a little farther...
“John.”
Pope nodded when he heard his name. John. He could have asked him that last night. He could have whispered his name into his ear during sex and told him about the beauty in his eyes, but he knew it was too late and that he was far too amateur for things like that.
“You can tell me your own name too, if you want.”
Pope didn’t think it mattered to John. He shrugged and looked away from his eyes to study his flushed cheeks and reddened skin.
“It doesn’t really matter that much.”
After a few seconds of silence, he softly whispered, “Andrew.”
John raised his hand and ran it through Pope’s curly hair without asking permission.
“Andrew...”
He slowly threaded his long fingers through Pope’s hair and tilted his head.
“But last night the bartender called you something else.”
Pope, whose eyes had unconsciously drifted shut, opened them and looked at John’s questioning face for a few moments.
“You mean Pope?”
John nodded and gently stroked his hair.
“Why did he call you Pope?”
Pope didn’t have an answer. He didn’t want to reveal his secrets to this boy. Even though he wanted to keep him close, not that close—not inside his life.
He wanted to keep him physically close. He wanted his pale skin pressed against his body, but without having to explain anything about his life.
“You don’t have to tell me. It’s okay.”
John leaned forward while his hand continued moving through Pope’s hair. He gently stroked the back of his neck and placed a kiss on Pope’s lips.
“Honestly, you don’t have to tell me anything. I think your name is enough.”
Pope gently cupped his face and didn’t let him pull away.
“I don’t want you to be afraid of me.”
John let out a small laugh and shook his head.
“You’re not that scary...”
John softly kissed his lips and pulled back a little so he could look into Pope’s eyes.
“Maybe... before we talked last night, I was scared of you. But I had every right to be...”
Pope shook his head.
“I didn’t mean... I didn’t mean to scare you. I just... didn’t know how to talk to you.”
John smiled again. This time it was hard to stop himself from kissing him harder. Pope pushed him back and cupped his face with both hands before kissing him deeper than ever before.
When he pulled away, both of them were breathing in short, quick breaths.
Pope sat up on the bed and looked around the room. He didn’t want to make eye contact with John after kissing him. He hadn’t been forced to do it, and there wasn’t any alcohol left in his system that he could blame for the kiss.
Last night he hadn’t noticed the size of the room or the large windows.
John rested his head on Pope’s thigh and wrapped his arms around him.
The blanket slipped off John’s body, and Pope’s gaze landed on the scars across his back.
A stitched scar ran along his side and the hollow of his lower back.
He slowly moved his hand from the back of John’s neck, tracing the line of his spine until he reached the scars, where he paused.
He was sure they weren’t ordinary scars, but he didn’t have enough courage to ask about the story behind them.
He felt the tension in John’s body and removed his hand from his back.
It was strange that he hadn’t noticed them last night. He was sure he had pressed his hands against John’s back countless times or pulled him closer by the waist, yet he hadn’t felt anything unusual beneath his fingers.
Or maybe he simply hadn’t paid enough attention to become familiar with John’s body. Maybe all he had cared about was pleasure.
John took a deep breath and absentmindedly traced meaningless patterns across Pope’s back with his fingertips.
“Do you want to leave?”
Unsure what to do with his hands, Pope gently rested one behind John’s head.
“I’ve stayed longer than I needed to.”
“You don’t have to leave early in the morning. Nobody’s home, don’t worry...”
Pope frowned slightly.
“I don’t think that’s what I’m worried about.”
He gently stroked the back of John’s neck and continued.
“If I stay longer, I might not be able to control myself.”
“If I tell you I’ve had a terrible shift, will that convince you to stay?”
Pope leaned back slightly so he could look into John’s eyes.
“Would it make a difference?”
John nod his head. After a brief silence, he lifted his head from Pope’s thigh and sat up on the bed.
“I want to distract myself.”
Pope nodded and looked at him after a few seconds of silence.
“But you said your back hurts...”
John laughed quietly and rubbed a hand over his face.
“For sex... not for talking.”
Pope nodded again and gestured toward him.
“Your back...”
John shook his head.
“No. Anything except my back.”
Pope lay back down and rested his head on the pillow.
“Anything except your back... but I want to know about your back.”
John shrugged.
“There’s nothing special about it. I got stabbed at work.”
Pope frowned slightly.
“At the hospital?”
John nodded.
“How do they let people carry knives into a hospital?”
John looked into Pope’s eyes and took a deep breath. Getting stabbed was really not something he wanted to talk about tonight.
“It’s a long story. It was an accident. Nobody... nobody brought a knife. The knife was already there.”
Pope slowly opened his arms, inviting John closer.
John nodded and quietly moved across the bed until he was beside him, resting his head on Pope’s chest.
When Pope’s hand settled over the scar and gently traced it with his fingertips, John had no idea how to react.
His entire body tensed, and his hand clenched into a fist without even realizing it.
Years had passed, but being touched there still bothered him.
“You know... I got myself into more trouble than you ever did... but I never got stabbed.”
John said nothing and tried arching his back to move away from Pope’s hand, but there was nowhere to escape. Pope’s hand covered his lower back completely.
“Don’t run away. You’re the one who asked me to stay.”
“Why did you get yourself into trouble?”
John asked softly, trying to distract himself from the feeling of Pope’s hand on his scars.
Pope shrugged and looked at John’s messy hair.
“It wasn’t always because I wanted trouble. Because of my family, I had to. There were things...”
Pope took a deep breath. He didn’t know why he was telling John any of this.
“There were things they didn’t want to dirty their own hands with, and I had to do them for them.”
John shifted slightly and rested his chin on Pope’s chest so he could look at him.
“Even that brother we saw at the bar last night?”
Pope nodded and shrugged, trying to make it seem like it wasn’t a big deal.
It wasn’t a big deal. Not in his family. Everyone knew all they had to do was say the word and Pope would take care of the dirty work.
“He didn’t seem like that kind of person.”
Pope laughed softly and moved his hand away from John’s back, threading it into his hair.
“You don’t look like someone who’s been stabbed twice either.”
John rolled his eyes and lifted a hand to brush it across Pope’s face.
“You don’t have to remind me about my scars every three seconds.”
Pope closed his eyes and chuckled.
“Don’t worry. Reminding you won’t make it hurt again.”
With visible irritation, John pulled away from him and sat up on the bed.
“You’re such an asshole!”
Pope could clearly see that he had genuinely upset John this time, but he didn’t know what to do if he wanted to make up for it.
He slowly reached out and brushed his fingers across John’s bare thigh, tilting his head.
“Hey... did I upset you?”
John rubbed his hands over his face and nodded.
“We agreed we wouldn’t talk about my back. We agreed you wouldn’t touch my scars—”
Pope frowned and propped himself up on one elbow.
“I never agreed to that!”
John picked up a pillow, intending to throw it at him, but changed his mind and simply clenched his hands around it.
“I know you never agreed. We weren’t supposed to make any promises. You weren’t even supposed to still be here talking to me!”
Pope nodded and shifted his gaze from John’s thigh to his face.
“Yeah, but when you begged me not to leave you alone, I changed my mind and decided to stay.”
Pope rolled onto his side and silently watched as John’s face grew redder.
“How long can I stay?”
Ignoring him, John lay back down on the bed. This time he really seemed upset.
Pope quietly called his name and poked his side with a finger.
“Do you want me to do what I did last night again?”
John turned his head and frowned slightly. At first he didn’t understand what Pope meant, but when Pope’s hand moved toward his stomach and lower, he gradually realized.
He didn’t try to stop him.
John closed his eyes and let out a shaky breath.
It didn’t take long. With John’s silence as permission, Pope moved lower.
John’s eyes were shut, so he couldn’t see him, but he felt the mattress shift near his legs and then felt Pope’s lips around him.
A few minutes later, everything passed so quickly that John didn’t realize how loud his breathing had become or how tightly he had tangled his fingers in Pope’s curly hair.
When it was over, he felt Pope’s hand slide upward across his stomach until it rested over the left side of his chest.
He had noticed him doing that the night before too, but he hadn’t cared enough to wonder why.
“When your heart beats this fast beneath my hand, I like you even more.”
John only breathed heavily and tried to ignore him.
Pope pulled himself back up and began kissing the reddened skin of John’s chest.
Summary: Smurf and Baz don't like the idea of Pope lurking around the house just after coming back from prison. Her only option is to call the one man she can count on.
CW: Implied prior relationship - Reader works with Smurf - Older male reader (late 30s) - Nonsexual nudity - Slightly suggestive - Pope being awkward
Words: 2.5k
A/N: I'm only on episode five at the time of writing this, but um definitely adding it to the list because it is such a great show already. This is also based on mainly episodes 1-4 where they talk about Pope not sleeping/wondering around the house and as my insomnia grows, I figured this was perfect. Anyway still working on requests I'm just trying to figure out how to go about them.
FEMALES DNI
The salt air of Oceanside usually felt like home, but tonight it felt heavy, sticking to your skin like a layer of grease. You’d spent twenty years acclimating to the way Janine "Smurf" Cody operated. You were a fixture in the house, a shadow in the background of their heists, and more specifically, the only person who could look Andrew in the eye without flinching.
You knew him—not just the him the world saw, but the Andrew who had been your shadow since you were both kids stealing bikes. You knew the twitch in his jaw when he was off his meds, the eerie, statue-like stillness when he was on them, and the way the family used him as a scapegoat for every job gone south. He was a man built of jagged edges and "wrong ways," but you’d long since stopped trying to smooth him out. You just lived among the ruins.
The vibration of your phone on the nightstand cracked the silence at 1:14 AM.
Smurf: Come over. I need you.
You didn’t text back. You didn't ask "what" or "why." That wasn't the protocol. You rolled out of bed, pulling on a pair of gray sweatpants and a worn hoodie, skipping the shirt. The drive to the Cody house was a blur of empty streets and yellow-blinking traffic lights.
When you let yourself in, the house was too quiet. The pool lights outside cast shimmering, watery blue shadows across the living room walls. You didn't hesitate; you walked straight into the den.
Andrew was there. He was sitting in the armchair, back ramrod straight, feet planted flat on the floor. He wasn't watching the TV—he was staring through it, his eyes fixed on some point in the middle distance that didn't exist.
A soft weight pressed against your back. Smurf. She didn't say a word at first, just slid her hand across your bare skin, her fingers cool and possessive. She rested her chin on your shoulder, the scent of her expensive floral perfume cutting through the smell of stale air.
“Hope I didn't wake you, honey,” she hummed, her voice a low, melodic purr. “I just want him to be safe. He’s...agitated.”
Safe. The word felt like a joke. Was anyone ever safe under this roof? Especially him. You looked at the back of Andrew’s head, at the tension in his shoulders that looked like it might snap the bone.
“I’ve got him, Smurf,” you whispered, your voice raspy from sleep. “Go to bed.”
You felt her lips brush your cheek—a maternal gesture that always felt a little too intimate, a little too loaded. “You’re a good boy,” she murmured before retreating into the shadows of the hallway.
You stood there for a long moment, the silence stretching between you and the man in the chair. You hadn't even known he was out of prison. No one had called. No one had warned you. And Andrew...Andrew would never have reached out. He didn't know how to ask for things.
You rounded the corner and stood directly in his line of sight. He didn't blink. Up close, he looked frayed. His hair was buzzed short, his skin sallow under the dim light.
“Pope,” you said, your voice steady but soft.
His eyes tracked up slowly, focusing on you. It wasn't a normal look; it was that intense, hyper-analytical stare he used when he was trying to decide if someone was a threat or a ghost. He didn't smile. He didn't say hello. He just looked at you like you were the only solid thing in a room full of smoke.
“You’re late,” he finally rasped. His voice sounded like it had been dragged over gravel.
“I didn’t know you were home,” you replied, holding his gaze. You reached out, not touching him yet—you knew better than to surprise him—but leaving your hand open in the space between you. “Come on. Let’s go. You need to sleep, and I’m not dragging you down the hall.”
A flicker of something—recognition, maybe, or just old habit—crossed his face. You never used "please" with the others, but with him, it was implied in the way you stayed.
Andrew stood up, his movements stiff and deliberate. He didn't say where he’d been or why he was sitting in the dark. He just followed you, his shadow falling over yours, as silent and loyal as a stray dog.
The cool night air hit you as you pushed through the heavy front door, but the tension didn't dissipate; it just shifted. You stopped by your car, the keys jingling softly in your hand. Behind you, the gravel crunched under Andrew’s boots before he came to a dead halt. He stood a few feet away, silhouetted against the glow of the pool lights, looking like a ghost haunting his own life.
He didn't move. He just watched you with that unblinking, predatory focus.
“Is she pawning me off on you?” he asked. His voice was thin, stripped of any inflection, but there was a jagged edge of resentment underneath—resentment for Smurf, or maybe for his own need to be looked after.
You didn't flinch. You just stepped closer, the space between you shrinking until you could feel the radiated heat from his body. You leaned back against the hood of the car, the cold metal biting through your sweatpants.
“No,” you said softly. A smile tugged at your mouth—the rare, genuine kind that was reserved strictly for him, never for Smurf or the boys. “I missed you, Andrew. Truth is, I’d rather have you with me than be alone tonight.”
You didn’t wait for him to process the honesty. You knew he didn't always know what to do with someone being real with him. You just climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. A moment later, the passenger door opened, and the car dipped under his weight.
The drive back to your apartment was a study in silence. It wasn't the awkward silence of strangers, but the heavy, comfortable weight of two people who had run out of things to say ten years ago. You kept one hand on the wheel and the other on the center console, inches from his. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched the streetlights rhythmically strobe across his face. He was staring out the side window, his reflection ghostly in the glass, his fingers twitching rhythmically against his thigh—a nervous tic you recognized from a thousand nights just like this one.
In this car, the world felt smaller. Safer. You thought about the nights before he went away—the nights where silence turned into something physical. The way you’d explored every inch of his body, the way he would cling to you like a drowning man in the dark, desperate for a touch that didn't come with strings attached.
You pulled into your spot at the apartment complex and cut the lights. The engine ticked as it cooled, the only sound in the cramped cabin. You didn't get out. You just sat there in the dark, letting the quiet settle around you for a long few minutes, giving him time to ground himself in this new reality.
When you finally moved, he followed. He trailed behind you up the stairs like a shadow, his presence heavy and constant. Inside, the apartment was dim, smelling of woodsmoke and your laundry detergent.
You didn't put on a show; you just moved with the practiced ease of being home. You reached for the hem of your hoodie and pulled it over your head, tossing it onto the armchair. The sweatpants followed, then your briefs, leaving you standing there in the pale moonlight filtering through the blinds.
Andrew was standing by the door, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He was looking at you—really looking—his eyes tracing the lines of your back and the familiar curve of your shoulders.
“You still sleep naked?” he asked. It wasn't a judgment; it was an observation, his voice sounding low and rough in the small room.
You turned slightly, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips as you headed toward the bed. “You used to like it,” you responded quietly.
The air in the room seemed to thicken. You saw his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed, his gaze lingering on you with a hunger he’d spent a lifetime trying to starve out.
You lay in the dark, the mattress feeling vast and cold, staring at the rectangle of light the hallway cast across your bedroom floor. You knew he wouldn't leave—he had nowhere else to go that wasn't under Janine’s thumb—but that didn't mean he would come to bed.
Every time you two crossed this line as adults, the shadow of Smurf lingered in the corner of the room. You wondered if he was still paralyzed by the guilt she’d spent decades sewing into his skin. Was he scared to be this close to someone who actually saw him? Or was he just waiting for her permission, even when she wasn't there?
You let out a long, weary sigh and reached over, clicking the bedside lamp off. The room plunged into a hazy, blue-toned darkness. You rolled onto your side, turning your back to the door, trying to let sleep take you.
But sleep was impossible with him pacing.
For hours, you tracked his movements by the floorboards' groans. He was a shark in a small tank. You heard the kitchen window slide open—the sharp click of the lock, the rush of the night air, then the heavy thud as he closed it again, checking it twice, maybe three times. You heard him sink into the couch, the springs complaining under his weight, only for him to stand up thirty seconds later. Then came the pacing. Back and forth, back and forth, his footsteps stopping just short of your door before retreating.
Finally, the floor creaked right at the threshold. He was there, hovering like a specter.
You pushed yourself up, the sheets pooling at your waist as you leaned back against the headboard. The moonlight caught the sharp line of your shoulders, but you didn't look at him directly. You didn't want to spook him.
“Come to bed, Andrew,” you whispered. Your voice was soft, an invitation rather than a command.
He didn't move. He stood in the center of the doorway, his silhouette rigid, his hands slightly curled as if he were waiting for an attack. Even in the dark, you could feel the intensity of his stare—that wide-eyed, unblinking look that made other men run.
“I can’t sleep,” he rasped. It wasn't just a statement; it sounded like a confession of a crime.
“I know,” you said.
“I’m fine right here,” he added quickly, his head giving a small, jerky nod. “I’m good. I’ll stay out there.”
You looked at him then, really looked at him. He looked like he was vibrating with a nervous energy he couldn't discharge. You didn't argue. You knew that pushing Andrew only made him retreat further into his own head.
“Fine,” you murmured. You laid back down, pulling the duvet up and scooting to the very edge of the mattress, leaving a wide, empty expanse of bed behind you. You turned your back to him, showing him you weren't a threat—that you weren't going to watch him or judge him.
The silence stretched for another five minutes. You listened to his ragged breathing, the sound of a man who had forgotten how to just be.
Then, finally, the floor groaned.
He didn't make a sound as he approached. The bed dipped—slowly, cautiously—under his weight. He didn't get under the covers at first; he just sat on the edge of the mattress, his back to yours. You could feel the heat radiating off him in waves. Slowly, he moved, laying down on top of the blankets, still fully dressed, his body as stiff as a board.
He was close enough that you could hear the frantic rhythm of his heart slowing down, syncing with yours. He didn't touch you, but the fact that he was there, in the dark, within arm's reach, was something.
You didn’t move, didn't even adjust the pillow, knowing that any sudden gesture might send him bolting back to the living room.
Behind you, the rustle of fabric began. It was slow, hesitant. You heard the heavy thud of his boots hitting the carpet, followed by the soft metallic clink of his belt buckle. He was stripping away the armor he wore for the rest of the world, piece by piece. Finally, the bed shifted again. This time, he didn't stay on top of the blankets. He slid beneath them, the sudden warmth of his body cutting through the chill of the sheets.
He stayed on his side of the mattress for a long time, as still as a statue. Then, slowly, you felt it—the lightest, most tentative ghost of a touch. His fingertips brushed against the skin of your shoulder, barely a whisper of contact, as if he were checking to see if you’d burn him or push him away. He was asking permission in the only way he knew how.
You didn't say a word. You simply turned over, the movement fluid and welcoming. In the pale shadows, his eyes were wide, darting across your face, looking for any sign of rejection. When he found none, the tension seemed to drain out of him all at once.
He moved in, curling his large frame into your side. He tucked his head into the crook of your neck, his forehead resting against your chest. He was heavy, solid, and shaking just a little. You reached up, your fingers tracing the jagged line of his jaw before moving to the nape of his neck. You followed the shape of his ear, your thumb disappearing into the short, coarse hair at the back of his head.
For a long time, the only sound was the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the distant roll of the Pacific.
“You’re the only one,” he whispered. The words were so low you almost missed them, muffled against your skin. “Everyone else...they look at me and they’re looking for the monster. They’re waiting for me to break something. But you aren’t scared.”
It wasn't a boast; it was a realization that clearly terrified him. To be known was, to Andrew, the most dangerous thing in the world.
You shifted just enough to press a firm, lingering kiss to the top of his head. The scent of him—soap, cigarettes, and the lingering metallic tang of the Cody house—filled your senses.
“There’s nothing to be scared of, Andrew,” you murmured into his hair. “Not here.”
He let out a breath—a long, shuddering exhale that sounded like a man finally dropping a weight he’d been carrying for years. His hand, previously hovering near your waist, finally settled, gripping your side with a desperate, grounding force. In the safety of the dark, away from Smurf’s watchful eyes and the brothers' expectations, he finally let himself drift.
~ CW: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Oral Sex, Bathroom Sex, Anonymous Hookup, Alcohol Consumption, Voyeurism, Sexual Fantasy About Someone Else
You were sitting at the bar, watching Adrian and Daren talk to each other, watching the way their eyes lit up whenever they looked at one another.
You could feel the weight of someone's gaze resting on you from across the room.
You swirled the liquid in your glass before bringing it to your lips and taking a sip of the scotch you'd ordered.
When you looked up, your eyes landed on a blond man sitting at the other end of the bar. His gaze was fixed on you, and even from this distance, you could easily read exactly what he wanted.
He tilted his head and offered a faint smile. The sight of his soft, pink lips sent a dirty thought through your mind.
Your grip tightened around your glass, and you ran your tongue over your lips.
You finished your drink and rose from your seat, heading toward the restrooms.
Only a few minutes passed before the restroom door opened quietly and the slender blond man stepped inside.
You caught his reflection in the mirror and gave him a faint smile.
He smiled back, but his eyes never left your lips. His own lips were slightly parted.
The warm yellow light above cast a golden glow over his hair, making it appear even brighter than usual.
For a few moments, he did nothing. He didn't speak. He didn't move.
He simply stood there, staring at you as though he were fighting some lingering hesitation inside himself.
Slowly, a smirk spread across his lips.
Something darker flickered in his gaze.
Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it wasn't.
All you knew was that those golden eyes were fixed on you.
Without warning, he took a step forward and pressed his lips firmly against yours.
You kissed him back immediately, fisting the front of his shirt and backing him toward one of the stalls.
He tasted like mint, cigarettes, and maybe a little alcohol.
But you didn't care.
You just wanted to get rid of the feeling burning inside you. A feeling someone else had awakened, and now you wanted to drown it with something reckless and filthy in an even filthier restroom.
The stall door slammed shut behind the two of you with a muted thud.
The blond man didn't hesitate.
His hands settled on your shoulders before sliding down to your chest, pushing your jacket aside as though he wanted to feel more of you than your clothes allowed.
Your lips remained locked together, a battle unfolding between your tongues as neither of you seemed willing to surrender control.
You heard the restroom door open somewhere behind you, but your attention was completely consumed by the cool scent of his cologne.
It filled your senses. It was intoxicating.
Almost more intoxicating than the alcohol itself.
He pressed you harder against the wall behind you. One hand slipped into your hair while the other rested against your side.
In sharp contrast to the rough intensity of your kisses, his touch remained surprisingly gentle, his fingers moving through your hair and along your waist with almost tender care.
Your own hands were far less restrained.
They roamed over every part of him.
His shoulders. His chest. His waist. His ass.
And then your hands stopped on his bulge.
A sharp, breathless gasp escaped his lips as your hand lingered there, rubbing against him slowly. He was hard. Hungry.
He seemed to feel all of you at once—your hand, your body, your mouth, which had left his lips and moved to his neck, kissing and biting softly while leaving damp trails across his skin.
His hips jerked forward instinctively, chasing the pressure like someone starved for touch.
You heard footsteps.
Then the neighboring stall door opened.
A moment later, it closed again. You didn't care.
You kissed his neck as your fingers worked open the button of his jeans, slipping your hand inside.
You rubbed him slowly, wrapping your hand around him and feeling the warmth of his cock against your palm as your hips pressed against his.
His hand tangled in your hair and tugged gently, tilting your head back while he pressed wet kisses along your neck.
Broken breaths spilled against your skin as he squeezed his eyes shut.
You rested a hand on his shoulder and guided him down onto his knees.
Then you unbuckled your belt and unbuttoned your pants.
His breath caught at the sight.
His lips parted as you pulled out your cock and stroked it a few times.
His soft, pink lips brushed against it gently.
You rubbed it across his lips once.
Then again. A third time. Only then did you allow him to wrap those pink lips around the head. A slight nip.
Then you pulled away again, dragging your cock across his lips as you teased him, testing the limits of his patience.
A quiet whimper escaped him when he finally couldn't take it anymore.
He leaned forward instinctively, trying to chase the touch.
He licked away the bead of precum at the tip before wrapping his lips around you again and looking up. He was bolder now. Taking more.
He glanced up once more, searching your face for permission.
And when he realized you weren't stopping him, he took more. He took it eagerly.
Those golden eyes never left yours as he sank lower.
His lips were warm around your cock.
His tongue moved beneath it in slow, gentle motions, almost caressing the sensitive vein underneath.
You buried a hand in his hair and pulled him closer, wanting to feel more of that warmth around you.
Your eyes closed and your head tipped back.
God. It felt good.
You closed your eyes and let your imagination take over.
What if it had been him instead?
Hazel eyes looking up at you. Your hand tangled in his hair.
A groan slipped from your lips when his nose brushed against your pelvis.
You guided him deeper. Moving with him.
And he took it until you came.
You didn't have to do anything else.
He came too, untouched.
When it was over, he rose to his feet and leaned in.
He kissed you deeply. Hot. Lingering. Then he left.
Leaving you standing there feeling completely unraveled.
You buttoned your pants and buckled your belt.
When you stepped out of the stall, you froze.
He was there.
Standing at the sink. Washing his hands. Looking down.
Then he looked up and caught your gaze in the mirror. That hazel eyes...
Something was different. You couldn't quite put your finger on it.
Your eyes drifted over his curls, his toned back, the curve of his ass.
You cleared your throat.
You had just come, but if you kept looking at him much longer, you weren't entirely sure you wouldn't get hard again.
The restroom was empty. Just the two of you.
Which meant something wasn't adding up.
If he was standing here ...
You hadn't heard anyone leave.
And he had supposedly been in the next stall the whole time.
A smirk tugged at his lips when he caught the confused look on your face.
But he didn't say a word.
He simply nod his head and walked out, leaving you standing there in stunned silence.
Had he really been listening to you fucking another man's mouth and whimpering the entire time?
What a pervert.
Then again, maybe you weren't in much of a position to judge.
After all, you were the one who had spent the entire encounter imagining someone else's mouth instead of that man's mouth.
By the time you reached Smurf’s house, dawn was beginning to creep over the horizon. You adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder and followed behind Darren in silence.
The moment you saw Craig and the blood soaking his arm, you froze for a second and shot Darren a look.
You hadn't expected that much blood.
But there wasn't much you could do about it now—you were already here.
Your eyes drifted to Pope, standing off to the side. His hands were visibly stained with blood, and the irritated expression on his face made it painfully obvious that he hadn't wanted you involved in any of this.
He crossed his arms over his chest and greeted you with nothing more than a brief nod.
You returned it before making your way over to Craig and dropping your bag beside him.
"Don't worry. I brought lidocaine."
Craig ran a hand through his hair and nodded silently.
Judging by the exhausted look on his face, he'd probably spent the last hour arguing with Pope and no longer had the energy for unnecessary conversations.
Without wasting time, you got to work.
You pulled on a pair of gloves and prepared everything before removing the bullet.
Once the lidocaine had taken effect and the area was numb, the procedure became significantly easier.
Carefully, you extracted the bullet and dropped it onto the table with a metallic clink.
Then you flushed the wound with saline and began stitching it closed.
As you worked, you could feel Pope leaning slightly closer, watching every movement of your hands.
Darren had disappeared somewhere in the meantime, probably cleaning up whatever mess their job had left behind.
Several minutes later, you tied off the final stitch and pulled off your gloves.
You looked at Craig to make sure he was doing alright.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead and gave you a grateful nod.
The anesthetic had helped for now, but you knew the pain would come roaring back in a few hours.
After packing away your supplies, your gaze shifted toward Pope.
You pointed at his hands.
"You should wash those."
Pope looked down at them and immediately glanced away.
"We didn't have gloves."
His jaw tightened.
"I know."
You nodded awkwardly and cleared your throat.
"I'm gonna find something to eat. I'm basically starving."
Without waiting for a response, you headed toward the kitchen.
Together with Darren, you threw together a few sandwiches. Darren was halfway through telling you about what had happened during the job when Pope walked into the room.
The conversation died instantly. Darren decided not to continue.
Pope sat down across from you at the counter and stared at the sandwich on your plate.
"That looks good."
You glanced down at it.
You'd put way too much effort into making that sandwich—mostly to stop yourself from thinking about Craig's arm.
"Yeah."
You took a bite.
"I'm not sharing."
Pope raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
A few seconds later, without even looking at you, he muttered,
"But you shared the weed."
You rolled your eyes.
"Seriously?"
He remained silent.
You took another bite, only to notice he was still staring at the sandwich.
With an exaggerated sigh, you shoved the plate toward him.
"Fuck you."
For a second, Pope looked genuinely surprised.
The tension in his shoulders was obvious as he slowly reached forward and took it.
A deep cut stretched across his wrist, ugly and red beneath the dried blood.
"Thanks."
You nodded toward the wound.
"Are you gonna clean that properly?"
He took a bite before answering.
"I already washed it."
Your eyes lingered on the injury for a moment before shifting toward Darren.
"You okay?"
Darren barely looked up from his phone.
"Yeah."
He was busy texting Adrian.
After finishing your food, you washed your plate and glanced toward him.
"I'm gonna crash on the couch. Don't wake me up."
Pope was on his feet almost instantly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.
"Don't."
The response came too quickly.
Too sharply.
Darren finally looked up from his phone.
"J's using his room."
Then he pointed down the hallway.
"Pope sleeps on the couch. You can take my room. I've gotta go check on Adrian anyway."
You nodded.
Picking up your phone, you headed down the hall without another word, ignoring the pair of Codys behind you.
The moment you stepped into Darren's room, exhaustion crashed over you like a wave.
You barely bothered taking off your shoes before collapsing onto the bed.
Every muscle in your body ached.
The mattress felt impossibly soft.
And within minutes, with the first light of morning spilling through the curtains, sleep finally dragged you under.
You were sitting on one of the kitchen stools when you noticed Pope walking toward you.
It was one of the strangest things that had happened all night, especially since neither Darren nor Craig was anywhere around.
Pope stared at you for a few seconds, looking as though he wanted to communicate what he needed without using words. Unfortunately for him, that wasn't going to work so easily.
Several silent seconds passed before he finally looked away from your eyes and down at the phone in your hands.
"Got any of those rolls left?"
Your eyebrows shot up. You definitely hadn't expected that question. In fact, you had no idea how or where he'd even found out about the weed joints, but you shrugged anyway.
"Yeah. I think I've got one left."
"Okay."
That was all that left his lips, followed by an expectant look directed at your hands.
The conversation was painfully awkward. Every passing second made you feel as though beads of sweat were forming along your spine and slipping beneath the oversized shirt you were wearing.
You got to your feet and dug through your bag until you found the last joint you had left. Pulling out a lighter as well, you held both out toward him.
His eyes flicked from your hand to the joint. After a brief pause, and with a slight tension still lingering in his posture, he reached out and carefully took both the joint and the lighter from you.
He sat down across from you, placed the joint between his lips, and lit it without saying a word or making eye contact.
A few minutes later, you noticed the scent of weed drifting much closer than before. When you turned your head, you realized he was holding the joint out toward you.
Without a word, you took it from his fingers, inhaled deeply, and let the smoke drift back out after a few seconds.
Turning back toward him, your gaze settled on Pope's profile. He sat beside you, staring down at his hands resting on the table.
He wasn't glaring.
He was simply looking at his hands with an oddly thoughtful expression, and somehow that made a smile tug at your lips.
Maybe he wasn't quite as grumpy as Craig always claimed.
Or maybe, in this comfortable silence between the two of you, he was actually pretty easy to tolerate.
By the time you arrived, the party had already been in full swing for nearly an hour. Music drifted through the warm evening air, mixing with the sound of splashing water and scattered laughter. Most of the guests had already shown up, settling into their own little groups around the backyard.
The girls were gathered in the pool, their voices carrying across the yard, while Craig and Darren stood near the outdoor bar. Each of them had a beer bottle in hand, looking perfectly at home among the chaos.
Your gaze swept over the crowd, searching for one person in particular.
The brother.
The one Craig never seemed to shut up about.
The one you'd accidentally admitted was ridiculously attractive after seeing a photo.
But apart from Baz and Jake, who had only recently moved into the house, nobody stood out.
Maybe he was inside.
Maybe he hadn't shown up yet.
Or maybe fate simply enjoyed making you wait.
You adjusted the strap of your backpack on your shoulder and made your way toward Craig.
"Hey."
A few greetings were exchanged before you dropped your bag onto the ground and crouched beside it. Unzipping it, you pulled out four carefully rolled joints you'd brought with you.
Craig's face lit up immediately.
"Now that's what I call arriving with gifts."
You handed him two.
Then held another out toward Darren.
Darren looked at it for a second before shaking his head.
"Nah."
Instead, he lifted his beer and took a casual sip.
"Suit yourself."
You shrugged, bringing the last one to your lips. The lighter clicked. A small flame flickered to life.
The first drag settled pleasantly in your lungs.
After exhaling a thin stream of smoke, you glanced between them.
"So..."
You tried to sound casual.
"Where's your brother? Haven't seen him."
Darren immediately looked at Craig.
Craig immediately looked at Darren.
That alone was enough to make you suspicious.
Darren's mouth twitched.
Craig looked far too pleased with himself.
"Oh, you'll see him," Darren said, barely containing a grin.
"Eventually."
The way he said it made your eyes narrow.
Something was wrong.
You turned toward Craig.
"...Craig."
His grin widened.
"Craig."
"What?"
"You told him."
"Told him what?"
"You know exactly what."
Craig burst out laughing before you could finish.
Darren wasn't far behind.
The realization hit instantly.
The idiots.
Craig had absolutely told Darren about your little comment. About seeing a picture of his brother and saying he was hot. About your entirely reasonable observation that someone shouldn't be allowed to look that good.
You groaned and dragged a hand down your face.
"Oh my God."
Craig was practically wheezing now.
Darren pointed his beer bottle at you.
"In your defense," he said between laughs, "your description was very flattering."
