(She/her) 25yo || Trans rights are human rights 🏳️⚧️|| Masterpost || Ao3 ||
Lover of pathetic fictional men || Snape and Adar obsessed ||
Collector of hobbies
SUMMARY ➩ Before Jack was a widower, he was a husband. (your love story from his eyes.)
WARNINGS ➩ this story takes you through jack losing you as his wife! mentions of death and illness, vague talks of his time in the military and losing his leg, big talks of disability and trauma (ITS SAD!)
AUTHORS NOTE ➩ well.. gave you something spicy last time so here’s this! also taking creative liberties with the military/med school timeline because I don’t know enough about it but it’s a fanfic so who cares! hope you enjoy and sorry in advance
Jack Abbot was known as a lot of things.
He didn’t let most of them bother him, ignored the whispers of him being too strict of a boss that were somehow paired with criticisms of being too lax. The harmless quips about his dangerous hobbies that still burrowed their way deep into his chest or the occasional judgmental look he got from people when his leg caught on a step or stiffened behind him.
There was the care taking side of him, giving a granola bar in passing to a med student so exhausted they could barely stand and making sure to remind Robby everyday in the most casual way possible that he cared about him.
He could be cynical and sarcastic, a little hard to understand and almost impossible to gauge the mood of on those days he needed to end up on the roof to even attempt at grounding himself.
Jack was a veteran, a night shift attending, a friend and an enemy.
But he had absolutely no plans of ever being known as a widower.
There had been a new label for him as he entered his thirties, proudly wearing the badge of husband and announcing it to anybody who was around to listen.
“I’m just dropping off her lunch, I’m her husband.”
“My wife loves this flavor, I’m glad you keep it in stock.”
“Sorry I can’t tonight, it’s me and my wife’s anniversary.”
Jack was well aware that he was the luckiest man on earth to have married you.
It was straight out of a fairy tale and went against every single pessimistic bone in his body, truly love at first sight for the both of you.
He’d fallen ridiculously hard for you the moment you’d walked past him on campus, scarf around your neck and a pretty smile on your face as you waved at your friends across the field. You were warmth personified for him and he’d been so distracted, he took a football straight to the face.
Then you were suddenly a lot closer, kneeling down on the grass despite the fact you were wearing pretty white tights, face full of concern as your gloved hands hovered over his nose that was most certainly bleeding.
You’d gotten upset immediately and asked him over and over again if he was alright while he stared dumbly up at you from his place on the ground, only snapping out of it when you gasped that it must be broken.
He had interrupted and finally gotten the courage to speak, telling you he’s a med student and he didn’t think it was that severe, and nearly falling flat onto his back when your eyes sparked with interest.
You were inseparable from the moment you met each other, abandoning your friends who watched curiously as you helped him up and walked with him to the nearest corner store. You stood a little too close for his sanity after buying a cold drink, encouraging him to press it lightly to his face and giving him a pleased smile when he did so.
Jack decided that for the rest of his life he would do anything in his power to see you smile like that every day.
He was in your dorm room almost nightly with stacks of books between you, ankles tangling under library tables, and soft giggles leaving you as you leaned against his shoulder in the courtyard
There was no point in pretending to be friends for more than a few weeks, unable to keep your hands or eyes off of each other long enough for it to be believable. Everyone around you knew exactly what it was and so did the two of you, blushing softly when your friends teased you for being completely smitten but making no move to deny it.
Jack asked you to be his girlfriend after the first snow fall of the school year.
He had made a plan in his head that was far more romantic, including candles and cheesy rose petals his roommate had told him would definitely do the trick. He ended up just blurting it out outside of your dorm building, unable to resist when he saw how the cold had made the tip of your nose turn pink and the way your eyes shone as you wished him a goodnight.
There was a small disbelieving part of him that kept waiting for the honeymoon phase to end, but it never did.
Not when he felt like he needed a change in his career and started to get addicted to a more dangerous feeling, not even when he enlisted and you had to spend some excruciating time apart.
He had felt like the biggest idiot in the world most nights during that time, alone in his tent as he flipped through letters you’d sent him or when he was out in the field and kissing one of the many photos of you he kept in his uniform.
Jack had wrote you over a thousand times and in most of his writings, he ended up apologizing.
He’d tell you that he didn’t know why he needed to chase this thrill and he couldn’t really explain why his skin would start to crawl when he was safe for too long. He knew he was an adrenaline junkie and it wasn’t just an ironic phrase when he was actually in battle, your face the last thing he knew he would remember if anything happened to him.
Along with the heavy guilt of leaving you alone, waiting for another letter that wouldn’t come.
It kept him going every single day and he always reminded you that he would understand if you left him. There would be no anger if you didn’t want to spend the next few years loving a man you couldn’t see, couldn’t touch or hold on the hard nights.
Once, he had written to you saying that he almost hoped you’d meet somebody else while he was away. He had went on and on for too many pages about how he would be a happy man to know you were out there with somebody who could love you in a less painful way.
You’d gone silent for a week after that and it was the worst week of his entire life, unable to sleep or eat properly as the regret hit him hard.
He knew then, if he hadn’t already before, that he could never lose you. He couldn’t stomach you walking away from him or leaving you on this earth after he’d left it far too early.
Jack finally heard from you on the ninth day but it wasn’t through a letter.
You had somehow reached out to one of his higher ups and arranged a phone call, making up a lie that you had a family emergency just so he could hear your voice for the first time in many painful months. He’d tried his best not to cry in the office, face still dusty from the field training exercise he’d been yanked out of.
He had been terrified when they told him somebody was on the phone for him, fearing the worst.
You’d wiped the fear right out of him when you softly laughed and told him to make sure he kept his best poker face before launching into a full scale scolding for him ever even thinking about you leaving him for somebody else. He sat there and tried to hide a smile as you berated the mere suggestion, ending the brief phone call with a deep reminder of how much you loved him.
Jack knew that when the next rotation of sign ups came along, his name wouldn’t be on the list.
He was happy for the experience, the opportunity to further his degree in such a unique form of medicine, but he wouldn’t spend a minute longer away from you than he had to.
The bliss of knowing he’d come home to you shortly was ended about as quick as it arrived.
Not too long after your impromptu phone call, they were sent back out and things moved so fast from there on out that Jack couldn’t even remember the events that led up the accident.
He remembered lots of noise and then lots of warmth, yelling voices around him and the feeling of his limp body being dragged through trees and dirt. Then came the pain, both from his lower section and from his throat as he screamed it raw all the way back to the medical tent.
The final thing Jack remembered was just as he had thought his last moments would be like.
Your voice and your smile as you looked at him back in the college field, so far removed from the terror and pain of his current situation. You’d never have to experience a trauma like this as long as he could help it but he was scared the pain you’d feel when you got the call he died could almost be worse.
Jack laid there stiffly on the small bed, bleeding out on the dirty white sheets, and still only could think about you and how he hoped you weren’t alone when the phone rang.
It felt like years passed before his eyes opened again and now he was certain he had died because there you were.
Sitting in a chair next to his bedside with your head in your folded arms, tapping your foot anxiously and lightly shaking his bed from the movement. You were sniffing harshly like you’d just finished crying, whispering something under your breath that he thought sounded like a prayer despite knowing you weren’t religious.
He wasn’t surprised that if heaven existed his would start with you at the gates.
He only startled when he went to touch your hair lightly, straining his stiff fingers to try and even feel a strand, and your body shot up in surprise. Your eyes were wide with confusion and then your entire frame sagged in relief before you were standing up abruptly and starting to scream for the doctors.
The understanding that he wasn’t dreaming, wasn’t dead or in some sort of afterlife, only hit him when he saw you start to collapse with sobs.
Because Jack knew that you would never feel any type of sadness in any perfect reality he could imagine.
He didn’t necessarily process anything the doctors were saying to him now that he was awake, words about his amputation and what the healing timeline would look like going right past him as he stared at your face. You were holding his hand then, sending him gentle warning looks that were silently telling him to listen properly.
All Jack could focus on was you, the fact your hair was a little shorter now and your hands were still shaking as you squeezed his even tighter when the doctors started talking about his limitations.
There was still a lack of denial about his new disability until it started to affect your relationship.
Jack didn’t see himself as a traditional man in any sense, he didn’t feel like he needed to do things for you out of necessity but simply because you were the love of his life and he was devoted to you.
He didn’t realize how many little things he had taken for granted until he finally was discharged from the hospital and was forced to adjust to his new normal.
There was no more carrying you through the doorway after a wine filled date, racing with you along the shore of the beach and listening to you giggle when he caught you by the waist and brought you into the water.
It was a painful build of all the small habits he no longer could follow, an inability to take care of you in the ways he felt like he had promised you when you started to build your life together.
Jack felt like he was holding it together fairly well despite the obvious fact he was pulling away from you without meaning to.
He was spending more nights in his study as he prepared to go back to a more routine level of schooling, determined to live life as normal as possible despite the ache in his leg when he sat at his desk for too long and the dizziness his medications would occasionally cause.
There was the times he woke up with nightmares so realistic he’d shoot up in bed, sweat around his shirt collar and his chest heaving so harshly it would cause you to stir too. You’d wake up with him and not sleep again until he was able to, even if it took hours before he could remind himself he was safe in your bedroom.
So he started to sleep on the couch more often than not.
Jack could see the toll it was taking on you but he couldn’t get himself to let you get too close, scared you’d see what your future was going to look like now and decide it wasn’t worth it anymore.
He finally broke down one random weekday in the middle of a chilly fall, similar weather to the first time you’d met all those years ago.
You’d been having car troubles for weeks apparently and keeping it hidden from him, softly whispering that you didn’t want to burden him with any more bills. The hospital was sending letters nonstop, you both had debt from your schooling, and his disability checks were barely enough to cover rent and the groceries.
He didn’t even become aware of the problem until you stormed back in the house only a few minutes after you’d left it, tears running down your cheeks as you gasped and cried to him that your car wouldn’t start.
You had an important meeting at work that would undoubtedly land you a promotion, one that could really help you both live more comfortably. You’d been talking about it for weeks, preparing yourself endlessly and going through your presentation over and over with him each night.
Jack hadn’t hesitated to get up on his crutches and head outside with you, barely throwing on a coat before he was settling himself in the drivers seat of his truck and being hit with the realization that he hadn’t driven since losing his leg.
It was muscle memory to jump at the opportunity to help you, such a simple solution of just getting in his truck and bringing you to work before you were late.
You both sat there in silence, windows still wet from the morning dew and his chest beginning to heave painfully.
Jack drove a manual truck, something he hadn’t even considered since he’d been holing himself up in the house. You had no idea how to drive a stick shift and, not for the first time since his accident, he felt utterly useless in your relationship.
He’d cried for the first time since he had lost his leg in the quiet car, not because of the pain or because his entire life had changed forever, but because of the sole fact he had let you down again.
The therapy started after that, both physical and mental.
You’d climbed into his lap that day and did your best to reassure him that you didn’t love him any less, telling him that you would be with him for eternity in any circumstance, but your words hadn’t been enough and you both knew that.
Things were better after that, not perfect, but Jack was learning to cope with his grief surrounding his own body and you were able to get some pointers on how to be there for him in the littlest ways.
He didn’t think you needed any advice because you were as perfect as always in his eyes, spending extra time out in the yard with him the first fall he tried to rake the leaves again and softly massaging his stump and scars in a warm bath after a bad flare up.
You were still the love of his life and you were the sole reason he was able to continue it after going through something so awful.
There was a light at the end of his tunnel that he would chase forever, even if it was a little slower than he had planned for. You’d never wavered or made him doubt your love for him despite how much he thought he didn’t deserve it.
Jack and you got through the next few years with alot of effort and patience, feeling like you could finally take a deep breath when he graduated and then getting a clean start when he was relocating to Pittsburgh.
By then, his leg was a secondary thought to him despite his disability still being a big part of his story. He didn’t let it define him and he barely felt the need to inform people about it, feeling a surge of confidence as he entered his thirties and got to become more than the guy who had lost his leg.
Becoming your husband only made that so much easier.
Jack had never wanted to be anything more and he would have married you the day he met you if you were willing but he selfishly needed it to be perfect.
He didn’t want you to swear yourself to a broken man or one still doing the work to build a life for the two of you, he wanted you to hear him ask that question and be able to look around and see the stability around you.
And Jack was stable.
The house you two bought was beautiful with enough space to grow your family when you were ready, a topic you were talking about more and more through the years. You loved your job and felt secure and happy in your career and both of you had a perfectly healthy balance of work and life.
There was no extra shifts picked up or late nights that left your feet dragging as you came home because you prioritized each other.
Jack would get a wave of pride over him whenever somebody would ask him the secret to such a happy marriage, especially since he didn’t really have one to offer them.
He could only smile and pull you closer while telling them that marrying your best friend made it that much easier.
You were his soulmate, the only woman he had ever loved and the only one he needed for the rest of his life.
The rest of the world seemed to love you just as much as he did which was no surprise. Showing you off was his favorite thing to do, bringing you to every work function possible and beaming as he watched his coworkers automatically fall for your pretty smile and gentle nature.
He’d get pats on his back from Robby as he told him he was a lucky man and soft nods of approval from Dana who had a knowing gleam in her eye.
You’d sneak off with him to the roof of the hospital on his lunch breaks, the nurses affectionately rolling their eyes when they saw the two of you giggling together like teenagers ditching class.
Sometimes he still felt like the bumbling idiot back in the courtyard, so thrown by your beauty that he let himself get knocked to the ground.
You would lean against him as the wind blew your hair back, looking out at the city you’d made your home together with a fond look.
He could tell you were happy and that made it so much more magical for him.
Jack sometimes felt like he was bragging when he’d talk about your life together, his therapist even occasionally pushed him to really search deep down and find something to complain about.
She’d tell him it was healthy for marriages to have issues, that small disagreements didn’t mean you loved each other less. Jack would earnestly confess to her that he couldn’t think of a single thing he disliked about you.
You didn’t fight over money or snap at each other after a hard shift, there was no chance of infidelity or even wandering eyes, and your date nights were more frequent than not.
Your relationship didn’t grow stale and you didn’t get sick of each other, there was absolutely no settling and you hadn’t made adjustments to yourselves individually to fit better as a pair.
You just did naturally.
He was forty five the first time he noticed anything was changing about you.
There was lot of nights he spent in recent years thinking about how stupid he was, blaming himself for not realizing something was wrong before it was too late to stop it.
He’d sit in an empty exam room for hours and read through your old files, look at bloodwork papers and medication lists and try to figure out why he had missed the signs. He blamed himself more than anything despite the people around him begging him not to go down that dark path.
Jack was a doctor, and a fucking good one.
So how was it possible you’d gotten so sick right under his nose?
It was slow at first and then a suddenly drop off towards the end.
You’d complained about being tired more than usual so Jack pulled back on your date nights out and started to keep them centered around your house, movie marathons on the couch and home made dinners he spent hours perfecting.
Then you would drift off in the middle of conversations, still present and alert but your eyes a little dazed like you weren’t fully there.
He’d stroke your hand softly and say your name in a gentle whisper until your gaze went back to his face, a little confused and sometimes panicked before he quietly repeated himself.
You woke up and threw up once at the end of summer and Jack had been stupid enough to believe you were pregnant. You both were excited at the idea, rushing to the nearest pharmacy to pick up a handful of pregnancy test and standing anxiously in the bathroom as you waited for the results.
Your shoulders had slumped with disappointment when they all came out as negative and he’d been halfway through reassuring you that you could keep trying when you threw up again.
So you changed your diets together.
You started to eat healthier and really stretch out your walks so you could stay active. You’d laugh together about your old age, smiling in the bathroom mirror as you brushed your teeth side by side and counted your ash colored hairs.
You’d told him in bed one night how much you loved growing old with him. He stayed silent as he listened to you whisper about how happy it made you, how you weren’t at all scared of what it might bring if it meant you got to be together through it.
Jack couldn’t stop thinking about that exact conversation at your funeral.
He’d told himself beforehand that he wasn’t going to look at you, lying in that traditional brown casket that made his stomach turn. He wasn’t sure he’d even make it into the building, was certain he’d run out to throw up before the service began.
Robby had been there through it, hand tight on his forearm whenever he shifted like he was planning to leave and a supportive glance when he would start to sob randomly through the kind words people said about you.
Which there was only ever kind words.
His feet had naturally led him up to the front of the room after most people had already filed out of the doors. He knew Robby was still there, somewhere behind him and most likely keeping a watchful eye as Jack stared down at you.
The first thing he thought was that you had significantly less gray hairs than him.
Then he wondered if you would have made fun of him for that, probably kissed his softly on the cheek as you ran your fingers through his curls like you used to do.
You did it all through your doctor’s appointments, naturally comforting him despite the constant bad news you received.
The treatment wasn’t working. Your body wouldn’t respond to medication the way it was supposed to. You had a lot less time than you thought.
He thought the last one was particularly obnoxious to hear and he had wanted to interrupt and scream at the doctor, tell him that of course this was less time than they thought because you had figured you’d be together forever.
Jack had spent a lot of time thinking about leaving you behind. In his tent out in the middle of battle, when he laid there bleeding out and thought for sure he was dead, and almost every night before sleep when he registered the stiffness in his joints and the wrinkles on his skin.
He’d set up some plans for you just in case, money in different places and insurances on his life you’d scold him about if you knew. He’d talked to Robby and your family and just about anybody he could about making sure you were taken care of after he was gone.
There’d never been a time where he considered you would go before him.
Especially not like this.
With your hair only starting to turn colors and your face so youthful even under the powdery makeup and stiffness of your skin. Jack didn’t actually feel much pain looking down in your casket because he refused to even process that as you.
You’d died the second your eyes had fluttered shut in the hospital bed, holding his hand tightly and whispering that you loved him before you fell asleep. You didn’t wake up again, never kissed him good morning, and you certainly didn’t put yourself in this dress and enter this room.
Jack loved you so completely that most of him died when you did.
He was sure it wasn’t too apparent to the newest rotation of med students that came in only a few months after he lost you.
They saw a man who was short with his words and sarcastic, harsh when he was tired and so closed off he almost felt impenetrable. He was suddenly the boss you had to desperately seek approval from and the no nonsense type of doctor he had hated during his first few years of residency.
There was no comparison they could make but he could tell it was hurting the people around him.
Robby especially, who only knew the version of Jack that was loved by you.
The Jack that came to work each day with a lipstick stain on his cheek accompanied by a bright smile, a lunchbox full of love notes and cheesy heart shaped fruit you’d cut up for him. They remembered the Jack that paced himself during his shift to make sure he had energy for your dates and took long breaks when you stopped by to visit just so he could sneak a few deep kisses in before you’d go.
Your shared friends and conjoined families had no choice but to grieve both of you.
Jack buried you in the ground and then buried himself in his work to the point of exhaustion, picking up dangerous hobbies and neglecting his health.
He’d find himself up on that roof top most nights, both trying to relive those days you’d sneak off together and also trying to get as close to you as he possibly could. He wasn’t sure if that meant figuratively or if by putting himself on the other side of the railing and letting himself close his eyes and wait for a sign he should fall away from it.
You’d be furious with him if he did anything to himself so he didn’t but he thought about it almost constantly.
It was almost passive, just the lingering belief that he would be better off.
He’d be with you and that was all he wanted.
There was no room for anything else in his head, a constant rotation of what you would have done or said if you were here and then the pain when he had to remember over and over again that you weren’t.
He sold your house, far below its actual value and that was even tougher considering it was priceless to him. He figured if he didn’t get out of it then he would end up doing something drastic like burning it down just to escape the scent of you and the memories bouncing off the walls.
He could hear your laughter when he passed the living room and feel your eyes on him when he ate dinner alone, the echoes of dishes clanking as you bumped your hip against his teasingly and your shoes still sitting by the door.
Your toothbrush was dried out on the sinks countertop and your soap bottles hadn’t gone down an inch, unfinished laundry still sitting down there dirty in your basket and the last carton of milk you’d bought getting more and more rotten by the day.
Jack gave your car to your nephew next and then cried his entire drive home, pulling over in some random parking lot and then punching the buttons off his radio when a song you used to hum came through the speakers.
He’d gotten out of his truck and left it there, crooked and barely between the lines as he limped the six miles back home. It was dark by the time he made it and his leg hurt so bad he was positive it was bleeding but he couldn’t be bothered to check or take care of himself, throwing his aching body and heart down on the couch.
Robby had eyed him harshly the next day, the cuts on his knuckles and the obvious discomfort in the way he moved despite his shift not even starting yet.
It got a little easier over the years, bad habits sticking and personality shifting in the way someone’s did when they went through something horrible.
Jack Abbot was known as a lot of things.
But before his newfound labels, he was a romantic and half of a perfect relationship. He was a partner, a caring friend and the type of guy you could call whenever you needed a shoulder (or two considering you’d always be a few steps behind him).
Jack was a husband long before he was a widower.
Now he was sat in the emergency room, surrounded by loss and trauma as he twisted the metal band in circles around his finger, thinking that he would simply be a husband for as long as he could breathe.
the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be apart of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
some people really do need to start reminding themselves that the answer to "why didn't the character just do [something entirely different]" is often simply "because then there wouldn't be a story"
summary — as his favourite waitress at the only diner in town that’ll still serve him, you’re pope’s girl. doesn’t matter if you have a boyfriend, everybody in town knows you belong to andrew cody. especially your poor neighbours on the other side of your apartment’s paper thin wall. you’d usually try and be more considerate of the noise, but with your boyfriend in the trunk of his car, pope needs everybody to hear exactly what he was doing on the night of the third. for alibi purposes.
warnings — implied age gap (you're late 20s, i believe pope is at least late 30s but that's not even really mentioned at all), mentions of armed robbery, aggravated assault, etc all the stuff they do in the show, i switch between calling him pope and andrew, reader exclusively refers to him as andrew, this isn't a slow burn but the first half is build up, reader’s boyfriend is verbally, financially and physically abusive (physical isn’t shown graphically), smurf cody, slut shaming, pope gets stabbed (also not graphic), kidnapping, murder (and like lowkey torture? he’s trying to make him feel the most pain while he dies),
18+ mdni mild exhibitionism (they want the neighbours to hear), dry humping, pope almost cums in his pants lol, mentions of m!masturbation, fingering, spitting, unprotected piv (bad), sliiiight sub!pope i think? breeding kink if u squint
word count — 11.2k
note — okay listen. i've never written for pope, i've also never written smut before. i had this stupid idea and i texted two of my friends about it and they hyped me up and now i'm here. if this sucks, that's on them, alright. i sat down to write this and figured it would be like 2/3k at most, and suddenly it had been a week and this is by far the longest single chapter fic i've ever written. i have never written smut and it is honestly much harder than it looks, the things i do for shawn hatosy </3
Pope had been waiting almost forty-five minutes.
A long wait wasn’t rare at Doc’s—the service wasn’t why he came after leaving Smurf’s. The diner, wedged by the overpass, sat forty minutes from his house without traffic. Pope didn’t care for the service, the sticky tables, the flickering lights, or even the food. The eggs were too wet, the bacon too dry, the coffee bitter. The sandwiches were both soggy and stale.
Sometimes they had pie, and that was something. Not forty-minutes-out-of-your-way something. But something.
No, there was one reason that Pope found himself in the corner booth at least twice a week, and she was currently being yelled at in the kitchen.
You looked radiant, a picture-perfect idea of a pretty girl. You moved fluidly between the coffee pot, the cabinet, and the sink, like you could perform the motions with your eyes closed. You twinkled while you walked, delicate gold rings on your fingers, earrings catching the light as your head turned towards the window. Like you were made of something that came from space. You looked more tired than usual, the dark circles under your eyes more prominent than usual.
The kitchen at Doc’s was always loud, so Andrew didn’t look up from his drink when shouting began. He had come in early, while the sun was still rising, after a sleepless night spent in his mom’s kitchen listening to his brothers plan a heist. Andrew hadn’t really paid attention to them, too focused on re-running the route from Smurf’s to the diner in his mind—a drive he could make in his sleep.
The line cook at Doc’s was an asshole. That was the first thing he’d noticed after pulling off the main road into the nearly empty parking lot. Andrew had stumbled in, bloody under his jacket. A deep gash, halfheartedly bandaged days before, ached beneath his clothes. He almost collapsed into the corner booth.
Johnny had been yelling then, too. But that time, he was behind the bar countertop, following you around as you tried to tidy up. “I don’t need to be babysitting you,” he scowled, getting in your way constantly. “First it’s the fuckin’ tickets, then it’s the drinks, for fuck’s sake. I know you don’t have much in that pretty head of yours, doll, but I didn’t realise you were honest-to-god fucking stupid.” He grabbed you at the scalp, not squeezing hard enough to hurt, and gave your head a shake. “Or were you too busy whoring yourself out tonight to remember you got a fuckin’ job to do?” His hand lingered, like he was unsure of what to do with it.
“Baby-” That word had snapped Andrew right out of it. He’d been dazed for days, since he’d got nicked right near his ribs and had lost so much blood he’d been tanner in prison. The harsh words hadn’t fazed him, he was ashamed to admit, but hearing you turn and address the man so sweetly, like he hadn’t just called you a slut in front of the empty dining room.
“No, no,” He snatched a white coffee cup out of your hands. “I get it. My big girl’s gotta do her big girl job. Right, honey? You think you’re something special ‘cause old Ron said you got a nice smile?” He slammed the mug down so hard that Andrew heard it break. You jumped about half a foot in the air and seemingly went into fight or flight. You’d scampered away, pulling the bar top up where it turned into a gate to come move around the dining room. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going? I’m talking to you.” He’d called out your name, and Andrew had committed it to memory right then and there.
“I’m working, Johnny,” you’d turned around then, in a huff. Chest rising and falling, Andrew tried not to focus on the movement of your breathing. “Doing my job, like you told me.”
Johnny watched you wipe down a table and shove the chairs in haphazardly. “Yeah,” he scoffed. “Now you wanna fucking work. Remember that flashing your tits’ll only get you out of paying rent so many times, did you?”
“Hey!”
Pope hadn’t meant to shout. Hadn’t planned on drawing attention. He hated watching you be diminished by your boss and wanted to intervene. But he felt dizzy, and you looked like the kind of girl who’d rather no one witness her shame, as twisted as that was.
Both of your heads snapped to him. Johnny’s angry, yours petrified, and Andrew felt like maybe he had made things worse for you.
Pope knew he couldn’t go in too aggressively; you were already shaking your head at him, hoping desperately he wouldn’t make a scene.
“Can I order or what?” he said gruffly, pressing his hand to his side as he slumped into the booth.
He watched Johnny grip you by the arm, hiss something in your ear, and then push you toward him. You looked more shaken than hurt, embarrassed that he had seen it than sad it had happened.
With how sweet you had been to Johnny, he’d expected you to be kind of meek. Andrew had seen your type before. Small-town girl moves to her closest approximation of a big city. Too poor for San Diego, but dreams big enough to get as close as possible. Got saddled at a dead-end food service job with an ass for a boss. Didn’t need Pope white knighting for you when he just knew your boss was going to yell at you the second he left.
Instead, you came right up to him, locking your gaze with his. Like it had never even happened. “You know what you want?” You flashed him a smile, pen already poised to write down his order.
“Uh,” Pope hadn’t even glanced at the laminated menu on the table.
You snorted, covering your mouth with your notepad. “All that tough guy stuff, you didn’t even know what you wanted?” Andrew had been suffering blood loss for at least two full days by that point, but your laugh made him feel like he was floating. “How about some coffee, huh?”
He heard the kitchen door slam behind Johnny. You didn’t even look behind to where he’d stormed out. Didn’t even flinch.
“Ignore him,” you said softly, unbothered. “He’s a little bitch. Smiled at a customer too long, made him jealous.” You grinned like it was a joke—like his words were just a harmless flaw.
Andrew looked up at you. There was a red mark on your arm where Johnny had grabbed you. “So what’re you doing now then?”
You laughed again, brushing your fingertips against the arm he had resting on the table. “If you pick coffee, then I can make it right here for you, no kitchen required.”
That had sounded pretty good to him, so Andrew nodded. You beamed down at him, shoving the notepad in the front pocket of your apron. “Now, I don’t know what you heard from him.” You had jabbed your chin towards the pass to the kitchen, heat lamps basking the wall in warm golden glow. It didn’t hold a candle to you. “But I promise not to flash my tits at you.” You nabbed the menu off the table and turned back to step behind the bar countertop. “I won’t stop you from looking up my skirt, though.”
Andrew had laughed so hard he felt like he popped one of his shitty stitches.
It became routine after that. Whenever he had to pull an all-nighter, he’d stop by Doc’s and come get a cup of shitty coffee and a dose of lovely girl.
Johnny hated Pope, but you said that was normal with customers, telling him not to get a big head. Yet Johnny kept taking Pope’s money and letting him sit in the corner booth for hours. Pope always tipped big; the money was bloody, but better in your pocket than his.
He told himself that’s why he kept coming back. He wanted to help you out. You were a sweet girl. That was it.
The dining room was no longer deserted like it had been that morning. There were a few other waitresses and a few other chefs bustling around. You and Johnny seemed to always be there, though. Pope had already waved off two teenage girls who tried to take his order.
"You think you’re better than this place?”
He couldn’t hear your muffled reply, but he heard the way Johnny laughed.
“Nah,” Johnny got louder, voice deeper. “Some fucking clown tells you you’re too pretty to be holed up here and suddenly you’re too good for me?” There was the sound of metal on metal, ringing out through the diner. The other patrons all looked up, some nervously, some annoyed. “You think he likes you? Sweet little girl, always so pretty for him, huh? Letting him ogle you like that? What do you think is gonna happen, sugar? He’ll take you somewhere nice, pull you out of this shithole?”
He still couldn’t hear you, ears straining to make out words over the noise. Baby - being nice - love you.
“You know exactly how this is gonna shake down, don’t you?” Johnny lowered his voice just slightly. “He’ll fuck you, then he’ll run, and you’ll be left here asking me for a ride to work. You know that, right? I know you got nothing but rocks up there, but you can see that, surely?”
Pope couldn’t even make out your voice that time, but he figured you’d replied when Johnny laughed, roaring and cocky. “Oh, no, baby. Don’t you roll your fuckin’ eyes at me. You know exactly why I’m mad. You like me mad. You drop your fucking panties for any guy who walks in the door, and I’m meant to act like I don’t see it? No, baby, I’m not the bad guy. You do this shit on purpose. You push, and you push, and one of these days you’re gonna forget just how good you have it.”
Andrew already fucking hated Johnny, but the afternoon you’d sheepishly admitted Johnny wasn’t just your boss—he was your longtime boyfriend—made Pope’s blood boil so much that he’d almost crushed that fucking coffee cup in his hand.
“Yeah, my girl doesn’t need reminding who’s good to her, does she? Where’s your fucking attitude now, huh?” More murmurs, you sounded upset now, not soothing. “Yeah, not so fucking tough anymore. You think that fucking loser’s gonna save you-?”
Andrew heard your voice - don’t - and then dead silence. He thought for a sickening moment that Johnny had kissed you to shut you up, and that he was going to have to think about that on the drive home instead of how you’d traced the knuckle of one of his hands.
Then, you emerged. Head ducked, straight for his booth. He sat up straighter. Your chest was shaking, and this time, he didn’t have to stop himself from looking; his eyes were glued to your face.
He said your name softly, reaching a hand for you. You stopped short. “Can I get a ride?”
Your eyes were red, tears streaking thick black tracks down your cheeks. There was a mark on your collarbone. Pope was up in an instant. “I’ll fucking kill him-”
“He just grabbed me, I want to go home-”
“Just grabbed you?” He scoffed. You were both talking quietly, voices low to avoid the breakfast rush from feeding on your insides. “I’m going to fucking kill-”
“Andrew,” you snapped, “I want to go. Can I get a ride or not?”
Pope had driven you home a few times in the six months he’d been frequenting the diner. Sometimes you and Johnny would fight, and Johnny would take off without you, leaving you stranded and sheepish as you stood by the corner booth, looking like you wished the earth would swallow you.
But he’d never seen you leave without Johnny. This was new.
He handed you the fifty in his hands - the piece of pie he’d been waiting on plus tip (he wasn’t gonna let that asshole take it), and you didn’t argue, just shoving it in the pocket of your apron. You never accepted his money without a fight, usually, but that time you took it, stalking off towards where Andrew had parked his car.
“You wanna go to your place?” Andrew would never have asked, have given you any inkling you were welcome at his house, if you hadn’t looked so upset. He didn’t want you anywhere the fuck near his family - especially Smurf. She had no idea he’d been coming there three times a week for almost six months. It wasn’t any of her fucking business. Still, he wasn’t going to let his mom sink her claws into you the way she had with Julia. To maim. Not to cage, like with him.
But Andrew also knew that Johnny owned your apartment building. That was how you’d met him, apparently. At first, it had been kind of fun, you’d admitted to him one night the slight Johnny had hurled at you hadn’t been without merit. “Sometimes I couldn’t make rent that month, so I’d just have to… You know.” Pope felt like he was going to be sick. “It made me feel special, like I was in on something the other people weren’t. Then one time we had a fight and he wouldn’t get someone to fix my AC.”
Pope was going to fucking kill him, and there wasn’t anything he could think of that would stop him. He’d fantasise about the ways on the drive home some mornings, imagining the life draining out of Johnny’s eyes the way Pope had watched the life drain out of yours. Maybe he’d take a knife to him, watch his blood soak the concrete. He had a gun; he could use that. Or maybe Pope could just drag him out to the half-alley where Doc’s dumpsters were and beat the shit out of him until he was unrecognisable.
Those were second only to the other fantasies he’d have. The ones where you would find out, devastated by your boyfriend’s death, and turn to him for comfort. The ones where you’d kiss him and tell him he saved you. The ones so vivid he’d have to pull off the road and deal with it, lest he go and meet up for a job with a boner.
All of them involved your fucking boyfriend six feet under, and Pope getting the chance to show you how much better he could treat you.
Sometimes you chatted, airily telling him stories about funny customer interactions you’d had, or about something silly you’d seen on your phone. Sometimes you stayed silent. Most of the time, if Pope was driving you somewhere, it was because you and Johnny had gotten into a fight and he’d left you stranded.
“I’m gonna need to ask for your number,” you’d joked one night, standing in front of the open passenger door, bent at the waist to shove your head back in the car. “That way I can come and bug you whenever.”
Andrew would’ve handed it over without hesitation, but you’d giggled and shut the door, flouncing back up to the staircase leading to your apartment on the second floor. That afternoon, Johnny had taken your elevator pass, so Andrew dropped you off around the back. Your apartment building felt more like a motel: your front door was external, the apartment hallway served as an entryway, and a patio. He watched you bound up the stairs with the energy of someone who hadn’t worked the night shift, hauling yourself up on the railing and flashing him a beaming smile as you reached your door.
Now, you sat in silence. When Andrew pulled into the back lot of your place, you sat there, seatbelt buckled behind your back—which made Andrew nervous, but he was in no position to ask you to obey the laws of the road. “Do you want to come in?”
The closest Andrew had come to being inside your house was when he’d walked you to your door one night when it was raining. “Johnny…?”
You shook your head, still not looking at him. Your gaze was locked on your lap. That summer had been unbearable, so you’d opted for skirts rather than pants. You wore really pretty outfits a lot of the time, even if they were hidden under your apron. Floral sleeveless tops that showed off your collarbones and made him feel like a fucking teenager, practically salivating at the sight. Skirts that ended at mid-thigh, oftentimes shorter than the apron you wore tied around your waist. Your thighs were on display, and Pope had been very tastefully looking at them - you couldn’t ask him not to look, that wasn’t fair.
“He’s pulling a double,” you said, “Can’t flake out on it either, Doc’s is going under.”
That wasn’t necessarily surprising to Pope. Doc’s had a few die-hard patrons, people that he’d see multiple times a week or month. Other than that, it was usually empty. Which is why the line cook seemingly felt no shame in bullying his girlfriend in the middle of the dining room on a weekly basis.
Part of Pope felt bitter. Good. That asshole deserved it. Maybe they’d knock the building down and turn it into a Whole Foods or some shit. But most of him was thinking about you. Doc’s was your only source of income, and most of your money you got from his tips. Would you still see him if the diner closed?
He followed you up the stairs, standing guard beside you as you rifled through your bag for your keys. That was how Andrew felt about himself a lot of the time when it came to you. A guard dog. Someone to protect you, whether it was from Johnny or Smurf or guys who called you ‘darlin’ and got too close to your face at work. Not necessarily someone to keep around, but someone useful.
Your apartment looked exactly like Pope thought it would from the glimpses he caught through the windows (and the listing he’d found online) (your boyfriend had your apartment listed at all times, ready to strike if you pissed him off too bad) (Pope hadn’t mentioned it to you, but he kept it in the back of his mind always).
There were little touches that weren’t included in the estate photos he’d found online. The tack-on wallpaper you had up in the kitchen, the soft blankets you’d tossed over the couch.
“Sorry for the mess,” you sounded upset, but you had been since the diner. Pope didn’t want to think about it being his fault. What really worried him was the palpable sense of tension, as if there were too many words left unsaid hanging in the air. Pope looked back over at you, mouth open to tell you not to worry about it, but was interrupted by the look on your face. Eyebrow raised, eyes still red-rimmed from the incident in the diner, mouth curled downward. “No, stop. You’re gonna say it’s cute, or whatever, but it’s not. It’s gross, sorry. I didn’t think I’d have company today.” You seem to be in waitress mode even at home, straightening things and moving to put dishes in the sink. Pope caught sight of a dirty laundry basket and almost got lightheaded.
“Do you want something to eat or drink?” You asked, kicking the laundry basket into another room and shutting the door with your elbow. Pope couldn't shake off a sense of impending crisis; each of your movements was more hurried than usual, like a tightly wound spring ready to snap.
Pope hovered awkwardly in the living room, scraping his eyes over as much of your stuff as he could. Your chipped mugs, the 90s girl-group poster covering water-damaged walls. Your things were clearly well-loved and well-worn, but seldom maintained. You took good care of your things out of love, but not enough to stop them from breaking. Enough to keep them useful. Pope wondered if his usefulness would run out. “Is the coffee better here?”
You snorted, untying your apron and dumping it on the sofa. “I won’t spit in it?” You offer like it’s some sort of consolation prize.
Pope couldn’t stop the words stumbling out of his mouth, “Why not?”
He wanted to ask him what exactly had gone down in the kitchen, talk to you about it, tell you to dump him, do a billion things to you. There was the small problem of you finding out how much of a fucking loser he felt about you.
“Sit,” you said softly. He sat. He watched you mill around, both cleaning the kitchen and making him a cup of coffee in the same motions. When you handed him the cup, he looked up at you. It was well and truly mid-morning by that point, and the sun was filtering through the kitchen windows and hitting your face.
“You okay?” He finally asked. He didn’t want to overstep; he also felt like it wouldn’t be appreciated. Pope wanted to be something, not just another asshole who took control of your life. You’d been in a rough spot when you’d met Johnny. Pope didn’t want to be another Johnny. So, he kept his mind firmly on the task at hand and not on the fact that your bedroom was on the other side of that wall.
You looked at him, and Pope felt his stomach fall. He’d never seen you look like this before. “I want you to kill him.”
It was a burst of anger, uncharacteristic of his sweet girl. Pope couldn’t take his eyes off you, but he still felt like he’d blinked and missed you already.
“Wha-”
You rolled your eyes, kicking off your sneakers and curling up on the sofa near him. He could smell your perfume. He was going insane —you were too close—far too close for how well-behaved he was trying to be. Too far away to do the things he was trying not to think about doing.
“I’m not stupid, Andrew,” you said, rubbing your eyes. “I know who you are. I know what you do. I know your whole schtick.”
Hearing someone call his family’s incredibly lucrative and prolific crime empire a ‘schtick’ kind of snapped him out of it. “You…?”
“Like, two weeks after the first time you came in, I went to a party and someone asked if I was Pope’s girl.”
Fuck. Fuck. He’d wanted to keep you all from it. From Smurf, from the rest of his family. From Pope.
When he was with you, he didn’t have to be Pope. He didn’t have to be whatever the fuck he was, whatever people called him. Didn’t have to worry about the fucking drugs, or the heists, or all the people he’d murdered at the behest of his mom.
Being asked to take care of someone wasn’t an uncommon thing for him.
You seemed to register the worry on his face, scooching closer on your small sofa. Pope felt dizzy. “I said yes,” you admitted, cheeks warm. “I don’t know why. I just wanted him to leave me alone, and when you were brought up, he seemed to think twice about fucking with me. It was nice.”
Your earlier words played back in his head, about how it had been with Johnny at the beginning. Like being in on something that no one else was.
Andrew said your name, low and mournful, like it might be the last time.
“I’ve heard stuff,” you rushed, needing to get your point across before he cut you off and walked out of your life forever. “Stuff about the Codys- you guys. About you, Andrew. Pope. I had a little trouble picturing you as him. You’re always so nice to me, I couldn’t imagine you doing something like that.”
Good. Andrew hoped to god it stayed that way. You were the one good thing he had ever let himself have, and he barely even fucking had you. Still, it had all managed to catch up to him.
“But then I thought about it.” Your voice was quiet. If Pope strained, he could hear voices behind him, on the other side of the wall. “And I thought about it. And I kept thinking about it every time I saw you. I can’t get it out of my head.”
Pope felt his eyes sting. He was not going to cry in front of you. He’d sooner run out the door and ghost you.
“Please say something.” It was clear you had expected him to be much further on board faster than he had been.
He just sat there for a moment. Every second that went by, every tick of the clock on the mantle, every drip of the kitchen sink Johnny refused to look at, every blink of Pope’s eyes, felt like they got longer and longer between them.
Pope had an issue. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to kill Johnny - Pope would’ve done so already if he had known you wouldn’t grieve his death like he had believed you would. But he didn’t want to be the guy you leant too heavily on and grew to resent.
"You want me to kill him?"
He’d expected you to look surprised, to tell him you hadn’t really wanted to take him up on the offer or whatever. Instead, your eyes sparkled as you nodded.
"I want him to die, Andrew." You said it so gravely, so seriously, he had no choice but to believe you. Unless you’d become an informant, which, knowing his luck, was not out of the question. “You’re a good man. You deserve to do it. I can forgive you for it.”
You wanted to do it yourself, had ever since you’d found out about the habits of the sweet, quiet man who came in and stared at you too long. But wanting to kill someone and actually killing them were two different stories. This was giving you an out. You didn’t need to rely on Johnny, on his hot and cold, on his temper.
You wanted to do it yourself, had ever since you’d found out about the habits of the sweet, quiet man who came in and stared at you too long. But wanting to kill someone and actually killing them were two different stories. This was giving you an out. You didn’t need to rely on Johnny, on his hot and cold, on his temper.
Doc’s was going under, and you’d been looking for another job. Looked at maybe going back to school. You’d been in your third year of college when you met Johnny. That was a lifetime ago.
If Johnny died, the building would be bought by Mr Carlton, the older man who owned all of the first floor and almost all of the second floor. Rent would be a little higher, but you wouldn’t have a boyfriend who could decide he wasn’t going to give you shifts while you were on your period, because if you couldn’t give him what he wanted, then why should you get what you want?
A steady source of income, maybe a future, control over your life again. Johnny had to fucking go.
And who deserved to do it more than Andrew? Sweet, sarcastic, charming, respectful, Andrew. He’d never overstepped, never once given you the ‘you deserve better’ spiel. Never once made you feel like he pitied you or judged you. Knew his place. His good behaviour deserved to be rewarded.
And so, you made a plan. He’d suggested planning it out to give you more time to chicken out, as he somewhat believed you would.
Johnny would be going out of town the month following, for a whole ten days. That meant there were ten days which nobody would notice his disappearance. Pope planned it all, how he would do it, where he would dump him, and the excuse he would give his brothers.
Baz had pulled him aside and asked if he’d gotten a girl, but Pope had stayed silent, stewing bitterly. It wasn’t out of any real interest in his life; it was out of selfishness. He’d noticed how long it had been since he’d caught Pope looking at Cath.
You quit Doc’s and started working at a coffee shop closer to your place. The hours were consistent, the pay was regular. You didn’t even care that your coworkers weren’t very nice, and you weren’t making as much in individual tips. You wanted something concrete.
You and Pope started “dating.” You suggested it as a reason you guys had been hanging out so much: if one of your neighbours squealed. All that involved was letting Andrew drive you home, letting him call you ‘baby’ in earshot of your coworkers, and letting him keep his hand on the back of your thigh for just a little too long.
Pope was paying your rent — something that annoyed you, but you couldn’t stop. Johnny had threatened to evict you when you and he split, done in a screaming match at Doc’s, surrounded by as many people as you could swing. It needed to be public and final. You’d almost been rendered homeless, but Pope had offered to reach up and spend more than the heightened rent Johnny had started enforcing. Andrew knew Johnny knew he wasn’t going to get more rent out of anybody than some sucker who wanted to fuck Johnny’s ex-girlfriend.
He spent the entire month leading up to it with his family. Made himself as available to them as he could. Told you not to call him while he was at Smurf’s, told you so softly and so sweetly they’d rip your fucking throat out that you had no choice but to listen. He forced himself into so many situations that, when the day came, they were honestly grateful for a reprieve. Nobody would be calling him that week.
Johnny was smoking a cigarette when Pope got him. Sharp and fast, a quick slash to the side under the ribs, grabbed by the hair. Kicked on the back of the knees and shoved to the ground. Some of it had been overkill. The grip Andrew had kept on Johnny’s greasy hair, almost ripping it out from how forceful he was. Zip ties to the wrists, enough shoved in the mouth that even when Johnny realised it was Pope and started yelling, only muffled groans could be heard. Nobody had been in the parking lot of Johnny’s - Pope had planned as much, but seeing it work out felt vindicating.
Not as vindicating as watching Johnny bleed out all over the tarp Pope had lined his trunk with for the occasion. His hands, the hands that had touched you in all the wrong places, were almost completely severed at the wrists. Johnny’s fingerprints would be burned off, and his teeth would be knocked out, but he wanted to wait until the bastard was dead for that part. Not to spare him the pain, but because he wanted to take his time on it without having to listen to that miserable fuck whine the entire time.
He was still alive when Pope pulled into your apartment. You’d been at work all morning and had just gotten home (Pope still felt guilty about making you take the bus, even though his car had been in use at your request). That way, when the coroners eventually examined him, if they found him too quickly, they’d get a time of death you were both well and truly accounted for.
He’d hoped he’d catch sight of one of your neighbours on the way in, had spent the past month stopping to chat to each and every one of them, so they wouldn’t think it out of the ordinary if he did it on his way up to you. The staircase, the patio, and even the parking lot were all dead.
So, he pulled out his keys and made a big show of dropping his keyring and clattering about with it before unlocking the door. “Baby?”
You were in the kitchen, still in your work clothes, looking radiantly at him. More dream than girl, Pope could’ve sworn you glowed. “Andrew,” you beamed at him, speaking a little louder than necessary. Not unnatural. “How’s Lena?”
He’d offered to take his niece out for the morning, which kept her away from Baz and gave Pope some time with her. Made for a really good alibi if someone asked him where he’d been that morning. He’d felt kind of gross for dragging the poor girl into it, but his desire to see her had won over.
“She was good,” Pope shut the front door, dropping his stuff in. “We went to the beach, got ice cream, had some lunch. She says hi.”
Lena absolutely did not say hi. Pope hadn’t let a single thing about you slip, even to her. But he liked to think that if she did know who you were, she would’ve said hi.
Pope discarded his jacket on the hook by the door. You didn’t keep your space particularly tidy, but since he’d started coming over, you had made more of an effort. Clearing room for him to keep his things, jacket on the hook, shoes on the rack, keys in the bowl. It felt so painfully domestic that Pope could almost pretend this whole thing was real.
After that first time in your place, Pope had been struck by just how much of the apartment felt like you. It wasn’t overly decorated, you didn’t make enough money to have one of those Pinterest board apartments Andrew knew you were secretly obsessed with.
But there was nothing in this apartment, even the first time he’d been inside, that indicated you had a boyfriend. At least... There hadn’t been before.
Now, Pope’s stuff was everywhere. His dishes in your sink, post-its on your fridge reminding you of when he was working or telling him when you were. One of his jackets over the back of your sofa. He was one step away from keeping a damn toothbrush in the cup with yours.
You came close to him, wrapping your arms around his neck and stretching yourself up so your mouth was right beside his ear. “Did you do it?”
Pope’s hands were pressed to your back, one of them lingering where the hem of your shirt sat, inches away from slipping his palm to lay against your bare skin. “Yeah,” he said, voice low. You squeezed him. “He’s in the car. I’ll hang out here for a while, then I’ll go dump him.”
He hadn’t told you where he’d been planning on taking Johnny. You hadn’t asked. You didn’t need to know where he was lying, just that he was rotting. That you’d never have to feel his hands on you again.
“No one saw me,” he said. He felt you frown against his neck. The two of you had been hoping at least one of your neighbours would catch sight of him organically. The building's walls were thin; you could hear people on both sides of you.
“Shit,” he felt you exhale. “We need someone to be able to validate that you’re here.”
He let his hands shift, rubbing the skin of your back gently through your top. His thumb brushed the sliver of bare skin with a featherlight touch. You didn’t move away.
The two of you stood there for a moment under the guise of thinking. There was the faint clatter of a dish being bumped into through the wall, followed by a muttered curse word.
“Maybe they could hear us doing something?” He suggested. “Like, we could talk really loud?”
You pulled back enough to see his face, but not so much that he had to let go. “What would they hear?” you asked quietly, a smile tugging the corner of your lips up.
The silence hung low in the air, filling the space and shoving the two of you closer together. You were wearing a pretty blouse and a denim skirt, straight from a morning at the coffee shop. Pope didn’t want to be the one to suggest it.
“Andy…” Your voice was soft in tone but loud enough in volume that he was pretty sure that your neighbours could hear. You’d never called him that before. Your hands moved from resting behind his neck to caressing his jaw with your thumbs.
“Hi, baby,” the words ghosted your face, barely audible. Your face split out in a grin.
“Wanna see my bedroom?”
Andrew had seen your bedroom before, but he had never been inside. He’d only ever caught glimpses when you came in or out, or through the cracked door, or on the online listing.
Your bedsheets had little daisies on them. They felt soft under his fingertips. Your duvet was bunched up towards the head of your bed. You’d shoved him inside, giggling at the absurdity as his knees hit the back of your bed.
“Okay, wait.” You bent over, desperately trying to at least half-make your bed while he was sitting on it. You weren’t actually going to fuck him, you just needed to make the neighbours think he was giving you a good time. Well, it didn’t have to be good, but it would hurt his ego a little if he couldn’t fake fuck you well.
Then, you sat down on the rumpled duvet beside him, unable to keep the grin off your face. “Okay, wait,” you said again. “Alright…”
The two of you sat there in silence for a moment before finally you let out a noise. A soft, barely-there, contented sigh.
Pope laughed.
You reached over and hit him. “Sorry, asshole, I’ve never tried to make my neighbours think I’m having sex before,” you hissed. He held his hands up in surrender, trying to take you seriously despite the situation. Andrew shifted so his legs weren’t hanging off the side of your bed, shuffling towards the head. “You do it.”
“I…” he tried. This was ridiculous. “I can’t, I’m sorry,” he was laughing so hard his shoulders were shaking, his back pressed to the headboard.
You rolled your eyes. “Oh, Andy,” you let out an exaggerated groan, snickering at him. Your voice stayed monotone, “Please, for me?”
You crawled closer to him, coming to sit right beside him.
Pope thought maybe he had died and gone to hell. He had you right there, so close to him he could smell the rosemary oil you insisted helped your hair grow. So close he could count your eyelashes if he could keep his eyes off your hands, dragging through the duvet to extend towards him.
He let out a groan, and you smiled self-satisfiedly. “Yeah?” you goaded. “You like that, Andy?”
Your voice was thick with wanting. Pope let out another noise, heat rushing to his neck. You were putting on a show, and not even for his benefit. A whine ripped itself from his chest, and the humiliation filled the cavity it left. Here he was, acting like a fucking virgin sitting with a pretty girl on her bed.
You still had that goddamn smile on your face, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. You were still moving closer, and Andrew felt frozen. He was trying so so hard, trying to behave, to not move you closer and grab any part of the expanse of skin you were seemingly haunting him by. He was trying to behave, and there you were, so close to him.
You were still giggling, even as you hauled yourself up and locked your legs on either side of his thighs. Pope’s hands were raised, hovering above your waist, not sure about the whole touching thing now that you were literally situated in his lap.
You opened your mouth, pushing a palm flat against the wall and letting out a slightly louder moan, looking him right in the eye.
Yep, definitely hell. You were settled in his lap, whining his name, gaze boring into his. He had to start thinking about geometry or baseball or something to distract himself from the fact that you were positioned right over his cock while wearing a skirt.
He was able to start on autopilot, matching your volume, throwing in a “baby” or a whine of your name every so often. He just had to keep a clear head for however long you decided sex with him would take and then wait so he could go jerk off and dump your boyfriend’s corpse. In that order.
You had one hand on his shoulder, one hand on the wall, still completely giddy from the venture. You seemed to be having a nice time, not burdened by the same hellish circumstance that he had found himself trapped in. Even more so when you shifted your hips slightly and had his cock twitch at the contact.
He felt you tense up and prepared for the anger. A slap, a spit, insults hurled. Something at least.
He couldn’t look up at your face, but unfortunately, your tits were the other closest things to his eyes. Instead, his head was turned to stare at the floral wallpaper, looking as far from your face as his head would physically turn.
“Andrew?” You whispered. He was shaking under your hands. He felt your hand move from his shoulder up his jaw, fingernails raking up his skin. You grabbed at his chin, pulling his face back up so he had to look at you. “Hey.”
This would be the last time he ever touched you, so he let his hands finally find purchase on your waist. “I’m so, fuck- I’m sorry. You can just ignore it; it’ll go away. I’m so fucking sorry, it’s not because of you.”
You pouted. “It’s not?” You rolled your hips, and Andrew felt his chest constrict. “That’s a shame.” You were moving consistently by that point, and he couldn’t figure out when you’d gotten such a mean streak.
“Fuck-” his head fell forward, forehead resting on your shoulder. “Baby, I-” he was interrupted by a whine yanked from his throat by the feeling of you grinding down on his crotch. “You… you gotta stop.”
“You want me to?” You asked innocently, pausing your movements.
Andrew lifted his head off your shoulder to look up at your face. You had never seen anyone look at you with such reverence.
Pope knew the good, moral thing to do was yes, to get you off his lap and then throw your boyfriend’s body in the ocean. What he chose to do was to lift his hips up to provide some of the friction you’d stopped giving him. “No,” he admitted. “Fuck- no. Please don’t.”
His face was still in your hand, and you gripped his chin, tipping his head back slightly. You ducked your head slowly, moving to press your mouth to his. Pope’s hands were roaming on your back, one of them finally slipping under the soft cotton of your blouse. Pope kissed like he talked, waiting for you to make the first move, but once you had, he cut himself loose. It wasn’t necessarily a good kiss; it was sloppy, mostly open-mouthed, and involved a lot of your mouth swallowing his moans.
But your brain seemed to reset, whether it was the feeling of his tongue slipping between your lips or the feeling of his erection pressing between your legs. The noises he was making, directly from his mouth to yours, were sending a buzzing feeling between your thighs.
You rolled your hips, he thrust up to meet you, and the friction set loose a high whimper that seemed to spur him on.
“Fuck,” he groaned, pulling off where he’d taken your bottom lip between his teeth. “You have no idea how much I’ve thought about this.”
He was embarrassingly close from the feeling of you grinding on him through his clothes. His hand squeezed your side, his entire body tense from the effort he was putting in to keep him from embarrassing himself. You let out a whine at the sudden move, and that had been his final straw.
Without warning, Pope wrapped a strong arm over your back and flipped you over so he was above you. You squealed at the impact, landing on your back, and the sound travelled straight to his cock. “Andrew-”
He kissed you again, his hand coming up to cup your jaw and rub soothing circles into your scalp. “Fuck, baby,” he groaned. Your legs fell apart for him to come move between them and press his chest to yours. Andrew took his free hand and stroked the back of your thigh, holding it up against his hip. “Oh, look at you.” He pulled up to take a good look at your face. Face flushed, pupils blown, and that stupid fucking smirk on your face.
The hand on your thigh loosened its grip and travelled upwards until it found its way underneath your skirt. As his palm made the connection with your damp underwear, you let out an embarrassingly high-pitched whine. “Andrew,” you shuddered against his touch.
“You want me to touch you?” he asked, voice low. You nodded, tilting your head up to try to capture his lips against yours again. “Yeah? Come on then, baby. Use your words.”
Your cheeks burned, more from annoyance than embarrassment. “Please, Andy…” That wasn’t enough for him; the most he did was press the heel of his palm firmer against your panties. “Want you to touch me,” you grumbled. Andrew knew you were miffed at not getting what you wanted without having to do what he wanted you to. You liked that he was so desperate for you, liked how he’d been hard under your touch without him even really touching you.
He pushed your panties to the side to run a finger through your folds. You whined, pushing your hips up at the brush of your clit against the pad of his finger. “Andrew,” you whimpered. He stayed by the nerve, pressing two of his fingers flat and rubbing small circles. He spent a few minutes switching up pace and pressure until he found one that you seemed to really enjoy.
Your moans went straight to his cock, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care about that when you were so warm, so wet; all other rational thought went straight out the window. “Fuck, pretty girl. Hear how fuckin’ wet you are?” He kissed the side of your mouth and moved his hand off your jaw to press it against your hand. The back of your palm pushed up against your pillow, clutched tightly in his, anchoring him there to you. He moved away from your clit and ignored the pained whimper you pressed into his cheek, instead moving his fingers to slip them inside.
You gasped at the intrusion, your free hand clawing at his back. “Fuck, Andy,” your moans were high-pitched and breathy, unlike the deep and fake noises you’d been forcing out for the benefit of the neighbours.
“Oh, pretty girl,” he groaned into your neck. You were so tight, even just around his fingers. He wanted to pay more attention to your clit, but the feeling of your hand in his was too tempting to give up. Instead, he pressed his index and middle fingers inside while brushing the nerve with his thumb. It was uncoordinated, fast, and desperate, but you were whining into his ear, clenching the back of his shirt in your free fist, and squeezing his fingers so tight he could feel precome pooling in his boxers.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned. “How am I meant to fit in here, baby?” He cooed, crooking his fingers up to press against your spongy center with the tips of his fingers and causing you to throw your head back, open-mouthed.
Pope felt you clench around him. “Wanted this so bad,” you admitted, pulling him closer to kiss him. It was so sloppy, half your words were said directly into his open mouth. “For- fuck- months, Andrew. I k-keep thinking about you,” you bucked up into him. “Johnny would always get angry because he said you wanted to fuck me-”
“Did,” Andrew grunted, fucking you with his fingers as far in as they could go, stretching you out. He hadn’t been joking before; there was no way he’d fit. “Do.”
You ignored him, still babbling on. “And I never believed him, but I really, really hoped he was right.”
Andrew pulled his fingers out of you again, but this time you didn’t whimper. He’d been talking a big game while he was on top of you. You wanted your sweetheart back. Stopping only to shove your panties down your legs and kick them off onto the floor, you wrestled yourself back on his lap. At the feeling of your bare core against his erection, Pope groaned again. “Fuck, baby, you felt so good, so wet for me. Was that all for me?” You nodded. “Fucking bastard, has no idea what he’s giving up, does he?”
Pope did not want you back on his lap because he was pretty sure that if you started riding him again, he’d come in his pants.
You seemed pretty gleeful at the concept of that happening, though, leaning down to attach your lips to his neck. There was a wet patch on the front of his pants where your bare core met the swell of his cock. “Andrew,” you rasped, “feels so good.”
His hips stuttered, hands on the backs of your bare thighs, debating whether to move up to your ass or down to your pussy. “Baby,” he groaned. “Say you want me.”
Andrew wasn’t a virgin. He’d had girlfriends, the occasional hookup. He had never been so achingly hard in his life, and you hadn’t even really touched his cock yet.
“You want me to want you?” You cooed. “Yeah, baby? I want you,” you husked, directly into his fear. “Want you so bad, Andrew.”
He tossed his head back, hitting the wall behind your headboard. “Fuck, you feel so good.” his hands squeezed the flesh of your ass, trying to find something to keep him from busting already.
“Yeah?” you encouraged.
Andrew nodded against your mouth, eyes rolled back in his head. “Yeah, fuck, baby. You look so pretty,” he said, looking up at you through his eyelashes. You could feel yourself soaking his pants, his erection catching on your clit, and sending your head fuzzy. “So, so pretty. My pretty girl.”
You reached for his belt buckle at that, desperate to satiate the pulsing between your legs. He made no move to help you, watching through blown pupils as you undid his pants and shoved them down as far as you could with him sitting down. You’d been able to see the wet patch on his dark jeans, and you’d assumed it had been made up of entirely your arousal, evidence of how much you needed him. But seeing the dark stain of precome pooled by his erection, you realised he needed you just as much.
“Andrew,” you breathed, lusting and listless. “Can I touch you, please?”
Andrew groaned like he was in pain, nodding and nudging his face up to kiss your cheeks. “Please, baby. I’d take anything, anything you wanna do.”
You liked how he wasn’t trying to pretend he didn't want this as much as you did. You waned him so badly you ached, you could feel yourself clenching around nothing, desperate for the friction his fingers had provided. “Yeah?” He nodded. “Can you open up for me?”
Andrew opened his mouth, eyeing you as you leaned over his face and let a droplet of your spit land on his tongue. Eyes rolling back, he closed his mouth and savoured it, and that was when you decided to take the opportunity to reach into his underwear.
He was bigger than you’d expected from how unassuming he was. Andrew was a big guy, with arms so huge you wanted him to wrap them around your neck until you saw stars. But he wasn’t super tall, so you’d figured he’d gotten so jacked in prison. He hung heavily over the waistband of his boxers, and his breath hitched when he felt you wrap your impossibly soft hand around him. Now that you had him where you wanted him, everything else seemed to be in the way. His shirt was ripped from his head, the buttons of your blouse undone by shaking fingers. Andrew let his head drop forward to mouth at your covered chest, hand palming the cup of your bra on the other side.
You’d intended to tease him a little, maybe pay back the favour of his fingers, but after less than a full stroke, he was whining at you. “Please,” he gasped out, stopping his task of soaking through your bra with his spit. “I need to be inside you.” Your name slipped from his lips so desperately that you felt your walls flutter.
You reached up to cup his jaw again, keeping the pad of your thumb pressed to his chin and pushing two of your fingers against his lips. He let you in immediately, moaning around your digits and maintaining sweltering eye contact as your other hand brushed his slit with your thumb. An especially loud groan brought you back to where you were, what the goal had been.
“That’s it, baby,” you cooed. “Let the whole building hear how much you want me.”
Once your fingers were well and truly lubricated, you reached back down to touch his cock. “Fuck,” he let out. “You fucking tease-” he was being louder as you’d requested, but only just. He wanted people to hear, sure, but this wasn’t some type of performance.
Pope was desperately running through topics in his head - counting sheep, trying to do basic addition - anything to distract himself from the feeling of your hand running along the vein he had on the underside of his cock.
“Are you gonna fit?” You asked him, lifting yourself up to discard your skirt. Pope took the opportunity of you being out of his lap to shove his jeans down his legs, leaving himself completely bare in front of you. All you had left was your bra, and he’d be perfectly content to keep mouthing at the fabric, but you discarded that, too.
“Oh, yeah, baby,” he sighed, moving to lay you down once again against your pillows. “I’ll fit.” He brought his thumb down to brush your clit again. Your wetness was pooling between your folds, about to start leaking down onto your bed. He actually wasn’t sure, despite how turned on you were, if he would fit. He was above average, but not by much. But the way you’d clamped down around his fingers made Pope feel like maybe Johnny hadn’t been giving you very much to work with. The two of you had been together for like six years, he was pretty sure. “You were fuckin’ made for me, weren’t you?”
You nodded.
He ran his fingers down your glistening folds, collecting your juices in his hand. Andrew had half a mind to bring them to his mouth, but he wanted the first time to be straight from the source. Instead, he let you take them in your mouth, mirroring what he’d done to you. You circled one of his thick fingers with your tongue, and he knew immediately he’d made a mistake, cock jumping at the feeling. He wanted to see you with your pretty lips wrapped around him.
Despite the slick mess between your thighs, his wet fingers were able to find purchase on your clit. “See how much I want you, Andy?” you moaned, and he knew the fucking neighbours heard the groan that pushed from his chest.
The head of his cock brushed your clit, and both of you whined into the open air. You pulsed under his touch, wanting and sensitive.
He took his hand away from your clit just long enough to take hold of his cock and guide it to catch on your entrance.
You look up at him, writhing and needy, and he ducks down to kiss you. “Fucking dreamt of this,” he admits. “Every time I’d watch you leave with him, I’d imagine pulling you away, making you feel so fucking good you forget every name that isn’t mine.”
His mind drifted back ever so slightly to the almost-corpse shoved in his trunk. The two of you had been plenty loud; the whole building had probably heard. Andrew wondered if Johnny could.
“Need you so bad,” you whispered. One leg wrapped around his waist, one bent at the knee on your side, looking up at him. “So fucking bad, Andrew,” you arched your back to bring your face closer to his, and he complied, kissing you roughly as he nudged his hips forward.
He felt you tense up, reaching down to rub distractedly at your clit with one hand and your jaw with the other. “Shit,” he hissed. “You okay?”
You nodded emphatically.
Once the tip was in, he stopped, letting himself stretch you out enough that every movement doesn’t catch a vein or ridge against your walls. You were squeezing him like he owed you money, and he had to put a lot of effort into holding himself up to watch your face.
Your bottom lip was caught between your teeth, eyes half closed. Half whimpers were coming out through your mouth, one after the other, cutting off the one before. “Baby,” he cajoled. “You gotta talk to me.”
It took you a second, too overwhelmed with the stretch and the fact that Andrew Cody was in your bed, and the man you thought would be ruining your life forever was probably dead. And maybe you were dead and this was heaven, not that you’d ever be sent there after what you made him do. “So good, Andrew,” you reassured him, bringing a hand up to clench his auburn curls. “You can go more in.”
He took the opportunity to slide in further, revelling in each gasp you let out as part of his head caught on a ridge inside your pussy. “Oh my fucking god,” he grunted against your neck, certain he’d never been sucked in as completely as your cunt was doing, and he was only halfway in.
You were breathing so heavily, and Andrew kept pulling away to check on you, that by the time he bottomed out, the thick tip of his cock brushing your warm center, both of you were almost embarrassingly close.
“Fuck, pretty girl, can I move?”
You nodded. He tried to kiss you but got taken over by a full-body shudder at the feeling of pulling out, missing, and instead burying his forehead in your shoulder. The sound was downright filthy, filling your bedroom with a wet slap of his thighs kissing yours.
“Feels so good, Andrew,” you moaned, breath stuttering as he pushed back in. The thrusts were slow at first, trying to give you both something to stay grounded in. But you were so tight, and you were talking to him so sweetly, and when he pushed forward, you’d clench, and his chest would brush against your nipples, and he felt so pent up he was going to explode.
“Baby…” your name tumbled from his lips, begging and rough, out of breath. “‘M all yours. All yours, my pretty girl. Could do anything you wanted to me. Let you spit on me again.”
You could tell he was borderline asking for it at that point, so you shoved his head back down to connect to your lips, trying to collect as much spit as you could get in there. He swallowed it dutifully, along with a moan of your name.
He was on the brink, as he had been since he’d heard that first sigh from your mouth. He was grabbing at the flesh of your thighs, trying to claw desperately at something that wasn’t your fucking wall. With how hard he was squeezing, he’d probably put a hole in it and come face to face with your neighbours in their kitchen.
“Andrew,” you mewled. “Need… fuck… need you-”
“Right here?” He flicked your clit. “‘M sorry, baby, you feel so fuckin’ good.”
He could feel himself getting there, and with the amount he’d been staving it off, he knew his climax wasn’t going to be soft.
Pope started playing with your clit, trying his best to replicate the rhythm that had gotten you so worked up at the beginning. You groaned, reaching blindly for him. “That’s it, right there.”
Andrew could feel you clenching around him, the walls of your cunt fluttering in time with his thrusts. “Fuck, you feel too good.” He kissed you. “Too fucking good, baby. So fuckin’ pretty for me, hey?” He was slurring his words, completely drunk on the feeling of you taking all of him inside.
“Andy-” the gasp was stilted, your fingernails gripping into his biceps. He was pretty sure you could cut him open with your nails, and he wouldn’t feel it, all of his senses completely attached to how fucking good you felt all spread out for him.
“You close?” He asked, more smug than he had any right to be, given how near he was to finishing. You nodded, and he kissed you. Kissed you. Kissed you. Each time, he got a little more lightheaded, and each time, you let out one of those soft sighs that made his arms shake.
“What do you need?”
You directed him, moving so you were half on your side, your leg anchored at his hip, whining as he hit a new spot inside of you. It was hard to find any part to lock on to with the mess between your legs, but he was still rubbing your clit. “Come on, baby. Show me how much you want me. Need to see it.”
You took his hand back in yours, mouth missing his lips as your orgasm hit you. Pope knew the second you came around him that he didn’t have long, but he tried to draw it out of you as long as possible, fucking you through it. “That’s my girl.” The feeling was white hot and dizzying, and for a second - though you’d never tell him this, smug bastard - all you could think of was Andrew.
You lay there, letting him fuck you, squeezing his hand and his dick. He couldn’t remember ever feeling that good, still rubbing your poor sensitive clit until you brought a hand up to swat him away. “Please, Andy,” you murmured, spare hand threading through his hair. “Please.”
“Where-” his thrusts were sloppy, barely able to string a single sentence together. “Where do you want me?”
He felt an aftershock rip through you as he hit your sweet spot, your voice sounding woozy and hot. “Inside.”
He stuttered. “In-”
“Want you inside,” you assured him. “Please? Want you so bad, Andrew- baby.” You whimpered, and he sucked in a sharp breath. “Want to be yours.”
He leaned heavily into you, putting his body weight on the thigh you had clamped around his hips. He groaned your name, “Want me inside? Fuck, want to be all full of me?” The idea of that alone was enough to have him spilling inside of you, breathing you in from his spot on your neck. The sheer force of his orgasm causing him to spill down your thighs as he pushed forward one last time.
He stayed there for a while before leaving with a soft kiss to go to your bathroom. He ran a washcloth under some warm water and returned to find you right where he’d left you. You and Andrew had never discussed whether you were on the pill or not - he had to assume you were, but as he wiped your sticky thighs down gently, he couldn’t help the way his chest constricted at the sight of him leaking out of you.
You, for all your charms while he’d been fucking you silly, had fallen into a blissed-out state of rest, watching him. “You going?”
His stomach did a flip. “Yeah, baby,” he finished with the washcloth, making a note to dump it in the laundry on his way out. Once he found his clothes. You sat up on your elbows, curling your legs inward so you were less spread out, and Andrew knew without you saying it that you wanted him to kiss you. “I gotta go to work.”
You nodded, beaming at him. “Hurry back.”
He discarded the washcloth and redressed himself, you going to pee and shrugging on a t-shirt and a clean pair of panties, meeting him back by the front door. You reached up to hug him again like you had when he’d arrived, this time placing a firm kiss on the side of his mouth. “You’ll come back?”
Andrew kissed the inside of your elbow, your arm resting on his shoulder, from where it was wrapped around your neck. He kissed a trail right up to your mouth, eyes blazing into yours. “I’ll be a few hours.”
Andrew wasn’t sure if you really wanted him back that quickly. He would usually spend an afternoon here and there sitting on your sofa or at your kitchen table, the two of you talking softly. He had only been coming over to establish a pattern of behaviour.
Though he reasoned it would be odd to break the pattern right along with your ex-boyfriend’s untimely demise.
When he pulled back into the parking space in your lot reserved for your apartment several hours later and smelling like bleach, he still hadn’t been sure if you wanted him there. He’d bought a bouquet of flowers from a roadside stall on a whim, and he felt stupid unlocking your door with them.
Your beaming smile at the sight of him had helped calm his nerves somewhat, though. The soft kiss you planted on him calmed the rest.
For three years, you were the only thing keeping Pope from losing his mind in Folsom. A bright-eyed, too-good-for-this-world social worker who still believed even a broken system could sometimes manage to do some good.
For three years, you tried not to want Andrew, your client, a man with emotional scars that cut too deep for you to ever heal and a violent temper that, for some reason, never turned on you.
Now that no guards and no bars remain between you, Pope cannot understand why you insist you can never see him again.
Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Chapter 3 | Ch. 4
Words: 8,4 k
Content: Older Man/Younger Woman, Prison!Social!Worker!Reader, Protective Pope, Forbidden Love, Mututal Pining, Eventual Smut, Breaking and Entering - or 'Pope trying to flirt', Inappropriate Behaviour - Pope is desperate for you and won't take no as an answer, reader's father is a serial killer and a psychopath
No use of y/n!
Read on Ao3 or below the cut:
You peeled your eyes open under great effort, sleep clinging to your eyelids and body like putty, attempting to drag you back down anytime you made a sliver of progress.
You hadn’t set an alarm.
It was Saturday morning, and you really needed any extra minute of sleep you could get after the week you had. Not that it was worse than usual; you just had to deal with the knowledge your crazy father was on the run again, probably killing innocent people right this moment. You couldn’t help but feel guilty for not doing anything against it, even though the rational side of your brain knew there was nothing for you to do.
His actions were not your responsibility.
He wasn’t even really your dad. Fucking your mom in the kitchen of some diner didn't make him your dad.
You were thirteen when you wanted to know where you came from, and nothing in the world could have ever prepared you for what you found… nor the consequences a single letter sent to an inmate three states away who had your eyes and your smile would have…
You jolted upright at the sight of the bouquet of flowers lying on the pillow next to you.
You definitely didn’t put that there!
“Dad?!” You called out, voice high with hysteria despite knowing your father would never hurt you and also never leave flowers for you.
No reply came.
You reached under your pillow and pulled out the firearm you kept there.
You worked with violent offenders, and not everyone was grateful for your help, and a particularly determined one would have little trouble looking up your license and therefore finding your address.
It hadn’t been an issue yet, but you’d rather have the gun and not need it, than need it and not have it.
You swung your legs out of bed and padded across the bedroom just to hesitate when passing your dresser. The books piling high on it had been rearranged. Some tension eased off your shoulders. What intruder would rearrange your books?
In the kitchen you found your fridge magnets sorted by colour, then size. Your shoes by the door stood in a new order as well - trainers, boots, pumps, high heels.
You only lowered your gun once you had checked the entire apartment and were sure nobody was hiding, lying in wait for you to lower your guard.
“What the fuck?” You picked up your dish sponge from the windowsill in the kitchen, frowning. You had not left it there. You had a little holder for it in the corner of your sink.
“Andrew.” You hissed under your breath and tossed the sponge into the sink.
You slipped into the first sundress your fingers touched when you reached into your wardrobe, and were out of the house quicker than ever before in your life.
The leather of the steering wheel scrunched under your tight grip as you rehearsed what you'd say to the man and navigated your piece of shit car through the streets of Oceanside. You didn’t know where Andrew was staying, but you knew where the Codys lived, and you were too furious to think further than that.
Did you mean that little to him?
Not that you should mean anything to him! Not that you were mad you didn’t- you-
You were confused.
You were so utterly and completely confused and overwhelmed and sleep-deprived, and you just wanted someone to tell you what to do, how to deal with this situation and Andrew’s unwillingness to accept the boundaries you fought so hard for.
You didn’t want to call the cops on him. Ever. You didn’t want him rotting in Folsom. You got him out of there. But what else were you supposed to do at this point if the man was even breaking into your apartment?
Was it not bad enough that he'd been following you last week? Oh, he thought he was being sly, but you saw him.
Andrew couldn’t fool you!
You stopped at the gate and swallowed your fury to introduce yourself in an even tone when the voice crackling through the intercom at the gate demanded to know what you wanted.
“I am looking for Andrew. Is he here?”
“What do you want from him?”
You emitted a bitter laugh you couldn’t stop in its tracks fast enough. “Oh, he knows.”
Miraculously, Smurf - and you assumed it was Smurf - let you in.
It was Smurf.
Short blond hair, crossed arms, pursed lips, radiating all the hatred of a woman who did not allow anything ever to be important to her son but her. She gave you a fake smile that reminded you of your own mother, the one that did not reach her eyes and looked more like a grimace - the one she spotted in front of teachers and acquaintances and the social worker so nobody realised just how little she actually cared about you - and invited you inside.
“Where do you know my Andrew from?” She purred sweetly as she led you into the kitchen. Client confidentiality forbade you from disclosing even just that you were his social worker without his explicit permission, not that you would share any more than you absolutely had to with a woman like Smurf.
She'd find a way to use any shred of information against the people they concerned.
You returned the false, sweet smile.
“Well, that’s between him and me, isn’t it? Where is he?”
Oh, Smurf did not like how standoffish you were. Whatever she planned to say was cut off by one of Andrew’s brothers - tall, tattooed, long dark hair curling against his shoulders, the tips just beginning to dry - pointing towards the large window facade looking out onto the pool and saying around a mouthful of food over there. Or at least you thought that’s what he said. Your training kept you from grimacing in disgust, but it was a close thing.
How could Andrew be related to that hunk of clearly coked-up man?
You didn’t miss the haphazardly treated shoulder wound. Not that it surprised you. You'd be a fool to assume Andrew was now walking the straight and narrow - or that his family ever would.
The other two brothers merely stared on, clearly stunned to have a woman asking for Andrew standing in their kitchen.
“Thank you.” You chirped and stepped outside, making sure to close the sliding door behind yourself.
Your fingers were trembling, adrenaline surging in your blood even just after that short interaction with Smurf. You were no fool. You’d worked with enough violent criminals to know the type. The ones who only acted in moments of great emotional pressure, those who took pleasure in it, those who were willing to do whatever they believed necessary. Smurf was no doubt a woman who’d take extreme measures to not lose the control she held on so tightly.
But you weren’t here for her.
Andrew stood with his back to you. His very bare, very muscular, very sweaty back.
“You got something you want to say to me?” You called over to him as you made your way past the pool. Even that relatively small body of water gave you the heebie-jeebies. You made sure to stand at a distance from it, something Andrew noticed the second he swirled around at the sound of your voice.
And you must have been a truly horrible person in a past life to deserve having this massive distraction shoved into your face when you were already struggling to hold onto your principles.
The pair of snug jeans Andrew wore sat low on his hips. His bare, toned chest was covered in a thin sheen of sweat and a copious peppering of freckles that your eyes started to track immediately. A pair of dark sunglasses concealed his eyes, though a bit of tinted glass would never be enough to stop his intense stare.
It made a shiver rush down your back.
This was his home, you realised belatedly.
This was the garden he grew up in. This was his space, and standing in it, across from him, made the entire confrontation feel that much more intimate than any of your conversations in Folsom ever had. More intimate even than sitting in the aquarium together, a place that came closest to what you might consider a safe space for yourself.
You crossed your arms to shield yourself against the wave of uncertainty crashing into you, washing away some of the rage that had led your rather rushed decision-making process so far.
Andrew stared, and even with the sunglasses, you could feel his gaze roam over your body, your exposed legs and arms and chest he’d never seen.
You were always dressed so modestly at Folsom.
He lowered the sledgehammer in his hands to the ground slowly, almost as if caught in a trance. You watched him curl in on himself, head hanging low, when it began to vanish.
“No.”
“No?” You raised a brow and took a step forward. ”I didn’t wake up to a bouquet of flowers on the pillow next to me then? I didn’t open my eyes this morning just to immediately fear for my safety, to assume a former inmate found my address and broke into my place? Not all of my clients are happy with me, Andrew. Some of them wish me real and serious harm, Andrew.”
His name came out sharper the second time, and he flinched ever so slightly. It was obvious he had not considered that a possibility.
And he didn’t.
You were fantastic. You were so warm and kind and invested in helping him - how could someone want to hurt you? But he’d be lying if he claimed a part of him had not always hoped that you were only that invested with him. That you only cared so much about him. That he was different from your other hundred clients.
“The books and the magnets and the shoes gave it away, though. The fucking dish sponge on the windowsill threw me off for a moment. That made no conceivable sense to me, but I know compulsions don't always do.”
“The sun cleans it better than all that chemical shit.”
You blinked at Andrew. "I have UV filtering foil on my windows. I don't fancy skin cancer."
You wanted to kick yourself for getting snappish with him so soon. He was like a fucking termite, eating away at the professionalism and control you spent years perfecting, until the foundation was riddled with so many holes, the entire thing collapsed.
Andrew had the audacity to smirk. As if he’d achieved something he’d set out to do a long time ago.
You wanted to throw something at him.
Preferably a shirt so his pecs would stop staring at you.
Why did he have to be handsome? Were you not punished enough already with the cards the universe dealt you?
You sighed and dug your fingers into your temples to fight the headache spreading along the inside of your skull.
“I don’t know what to say anymore, Andrew. I- you clearly don’t care about the boundaries I try to set. You clearly don’t care how much trouble I could get into. But breaking into my place? Your former social worker’s place? Your PO would have your ass back in prison so fucking fast if he found out about this! What were you thinking?!”
You hadn’t meant to raise your voice. Andrew obviously had not expected you to raise your voice. He stared at you, lips parted slightly, stunned.
You’d never raised your voice at him or anyone as far as he knew. He was truly baffled to find out you were capable of it.
He liked it.
Perhaps a little too much.
“Did you like the flowers?”
“Jesus!” You hissed between clenched teeth. “It’s like you don’t listen to a single word I say.”
“I do.” He rasped. “To everything. Always.” He cast an apologetic smile at you. “You just happen to be talking bullshit.”
You opened your mouth, but this time you were too stunned to speak.
You took a deep breath and counted to ten in a futile attempt to ground yourself. The pool was making you nervous, an added hurdle to this conversation you really didn’t need on top of a half-naked, sweaty Andrew and his mother’s hateful glare burning into the back of your neck.
You shook your head. You couldn’t believe this. You couldn't believe him.
“Do you want to go back?” You asked quietly. “Do you want me to lose my license and everything I built for myself? Is this some game to you? Does it amuse you to drive me crazy? I-” You swallowed the feeling of dry sand spreading through your mouth. “That’s something I expect from other inmates. Not you. Never you. I- I am so disappointed, Andrew.”
That knocked the wind out of his sails and the self-satisfied smirk off his lips.
“I am used to clients ignoring the help I offer, or going back on everything we worked on as soon as they are out, or trying to get a rise out of me, but… fuck… I thought it would be different with you. This is not- I didn’t put my neck on the line for you, threatening the warden with a fucking lawsuit to get you out, just for you to piss this chance away like it means nothing! Yeah, disappointed doesn’t even begin to fucking cut it.”
“You-” Andrew staggered on the spot. He licked his lips, frowning behind his sunglasses. “Threatened the warden? For me?” His voice broke.
“I’ve been doing my best to protect you in there for years, Andrew.” You sighed. “I am still trying to protect you! Protect you from yourself while you are hellbent on forcing this.” You gestured from him to yourself and back.
“Protect me…” Andrew muttered, repeating the words to himself as if only by hearing them off his own tongue could he start to make sense of him.
Was the thought so outlandish to him?
The possibility that someone would want to do what he has been doing for his whole family all his life so remote he simply couldn’t believe it?
You sighed again, and this time the audible exhale of air seemed to grow thorns that cut right through you on its way out. “I will not be the reason that all your therapeutic progress is set back to zero, Andrew. Please stop pushing me into a corner on this thing. Do you think I am enjoying this? That I get a kick out of rejecting you? What do you think this does to me? How it feels for me? To have my no continuously ignored by someone I care for deeply?”
“You care for me?”
You wanted to scream.
You - honest to god - wanted to scream. Frustration and want and heartache were pushing against your composure and self-control, as though they were trying to break down a door, a door you could never allow to break.
Your phone rang.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, you peeled your eyes away from Andrew to fish it out of your pocket and glance at the called ID. Your breath hitched.
“I have to take this.” You muttered, already turning away from him, already pressing accept call. “Mum? Mum! H-how are you? Is everything okay? I’ve been trying to reach you for a week!”
You were distinctly aware of Andrew hovering behind you, eyes boring into the back of your head. Your mother was very terse on the phone, much like she was in person. At least around you. It was fascinating how a single phone call could make you feel like that ignored, neglected, disregarded little girl again, you thought you had left in your past many years ago…
“Police protection? But- he’s never threatened you before? Did he try- yeah… okay… no- no. I get it. Stay safe.”
She hung up without saying goodbye.
You stared at your phone.
“How are you? How are you taking this? Are you alright? Are you safe? I love you. That’s what a mother would have to say in this situation, you’d think.” You muttered to yourself, suddenly furious with yourself for even trying to reach out to her in the first place. You knew not to expect any motherly affection from her, especially not with your father on the run again.
You knew it was a huge burden on her, never knowing when he’d make a run for it again, but knowing - and being proven right time and again - that the prisons he was sent to couldn’t hold him. It was laughable, really, how he kept managing to find weak spots and exploited them so skillfully.
But it sure would have been nice to have someone concerned for you, someone who cared whether you were safe or not, or dealing with this whole thing.
You slumped down on a deck chair and buried your head in your hands, still holding your phone.
Andrew cleared his throat awkwardly. The sound of it pulled you from the whirlwind of emotions threatening to drown you. He did not miss the tears gleaming in your eyes.
“What did you tell them? Who you were?” He nodded towards the house.
“That it wasn’t their damn business. You have complete confidentiality, aside from things I have to report. I cannot legally tell anyone that I am or was your social worker.” You sounded tired. Just so tired. None of your rage remained.
Andrew hated it.
“So I can tell them whatever I want?”
“Sure.” You muttered, already over the detour this conversation took and over the crooked grin on his lips. Over him.
“I could tell them you’re a hooker?”
You squinted your eyes at him. “Sure. If you fancy picking your teeth up off the ground.”
He laughed, low and suppressed in that way everything about him was suppressed to some degree, and a shiver rushed down your back.
You shoved your phone back into your pocket and wiped at your eyes in what you thought was a nonchalant, discreet motion, but Andrew noticed your fingers coming back wet.
Of course he did.
“Let me drive you home.”
“No.” You said without even thinking. “I drove here.”
“I’ll bring you your car later.”
“Andrew.” You groaned. You gave a jump when you looked up, just to find him standing directly in front of you.
“Why?”
You raised a brow at him.
He lowered himself to his knees in front of you. Your insides flipflopped at the sight.
“Why don’t you let me do anything for you?”
“That’s not the way this works.”
“When you were my social worker. You aren’t anymore.”
You were tired of trying to make him understand that this simply didn’t work that way. You suspected he understood it well enough, he simply didn’t care, and you didn’t know which scenario was more exhausting anyway.
“You aren’t my social worker anymore.” Andrew repeated. He reached out to brush a strand of your hair behind your ear, the fabric of his work glove scraping softly over your cheek, lingering, making you shiver. “So you don’t have to worry about me anymore either. Or try to protect me. But you still do anyway, so you can’t tell me that I don’t get to care about you.” He liked his lips, his eyes flicking nervously across your face as if a part of him could not quite fathom that you were here, in his yard, with no guards around to stop him from touching you.
“And you said nobody ever gets to tell me how to feel. You can’t tell me I can’t have feelings for you.”
“I’m not. I’m saying we can’t act on them.”
“I’ve never been good at following rules.”
You chuckled, a sound so soft it was barely more than a forceful exhale of air, but it made Andrew grin nonetheless.
“We have that in common.”
“Yeah? You holdin’ out on me, sweetheart?”
His fingers slipped down your cheek to cradle your chin. He leaned forward.
You didn’t stop him.
“A very smart woman once told me we all need someone to look out for us sometimes…”
His breath brushed against your lips.
You still didn’t stop him.
“Let me look out for you.” He whispered, his voice so quiet you almost didn’t hear him. His words oozed suppressed yearning that cut right through you and made your stomach clench painfully, the need for him becoming so overwhelming it felt as though it had grown teeth.
You didn’t stop him when he pressed his lips to yours.
You cradled his neck in your hands, fingers sliding against sweaty, bare skin and sinking into short, choppy hair. His tongue traced across the seam of your lips, and you parted them for him, biting back a pathetic little mewling moan when his taste filled your mouth, his tongue sliding against yours in a wet, hot drag.
Andrew’s hands found your hips, fingers digging into your flesh through the thin fabric of your dress.
You had to bend down to him since he was still kneeling in front of you. Your hair fell around him, concealing his peripheral view, encasing him in the scent of your shampoo - shampoo he took an indulgent and shameful sniff of last night when he was in your apartment and could not resist the urge to find out more about you.
“Put on a fucking shirt.” You muttered, breaking the kiss that was so soft it felt dangerous, and looked away from him, ignoring the muffled cheers coming from the kitchen. Andrew dropped his forehead against your chest. His lips brushed your bare skin just above the neckline of your dress, chasing a rush of goosebumps down your arms.
“I don’t need my elderly neighbour keeling over because of you.”
His shoulders rose and fell in silent laughter. His hands moved up your body, grasping at your waist and pushing up your dress in the process. He bent down to press a kiss to your exposed thigh.
“Yes, ma’am.” Andrew muttered against your skin. He took his time peeling away from you. You had to fight the urge to not let go of him.
Andrew had uncovered a gaping, festering wound that cut throughout your entire existence, and it left you feeling raw and vulnerable, a feeling that only worsened when he did get up, forcing you to watch him move away.
You had no one.
An absent, cold mother. A psychotic father on a murder spree. An ex-biker ‘friend’ whose overprotectiveness stemmed more from a misplaced sense of duty and obligation because he helped you reach your father’s prison when you were fourteen rather than genuine affection for you, you were sure of it.
You had no other relatives.
No real friends.
No lasting relationships of any kind.
You never stayed in one place long enough to grow roots.
Not even a pet.
Your father was possessive and jealous, and after your best friend ended up in the hospital the time he broke out when you were in college, you’d started to subconsciously distance yourself from everyone you’d ever been a little close with. You walled yourself off, unwilling to ever be the reason someone got hurt again.
You had your job to keep you busy and exhaust you to the point you didn’t have to lie awake at night at the mercy of your own thoughts.
But Andrew… Andrew could take care of himself.
Though… you had seen what your father was capable of. He enjoyed killing people who were bigger and stronger than him.
Andrew pulled a tight, black shirt over his head as he made his way back to you, and honestly, between the shirt clinging to him like a second skin and the jeans leaving little to the imagination, he might as well not have bothered.
He fixed his sunglasses and turned his head at you every so slightly, discomfort and nerves coming off him in suffocating waves. You sighed and got to your feet. You didn’t argue when he took your hand or when he tugged you past the pool and towards a shiny, brand-new black truck.
You didn’t even roll your eyes when he opened the passenger side door for you.
You stared out of the window and drifted off into your mind as the city rushed by you.
Andrew knew where you lived. Neither of you were pretending he didn’t. He parked the car in front of the apartment complex and took your keys from you the moment he helped you step out of his truck. He took your hand and led you up the stairs and towards your door.
“Someone once told me talking helps.” He whispered after a sheer endless moment of silence in which you just sat next to each other on your sofa.
You snorted. “Was she right?”
Andrew shrugged. “Wasn’t worse than being silent.”
“You never really told me much.”
“I told you more than I told anyone before.” Andrew whispered. “And not because you were my social worker. I wanted to talk to you.”
You sighed and dropped your head into your hands. “My father escaped from prison a week ago.” Your voice came out muffled against your palms. “I don’t know why it’s messing with my head so bad this time. He’s broken out before.”
“Southern-accent guy.”
“Yeah.” You huffed and slumped back into your sofa, staring up blankly at the water-stained ceiling. “I’d actually been awake all night talking to the Marshals when you showed up in the parking lot. It- I guess it brought up a lot of shit I never really dealt with.”
“Am I making it worse?” The question sounded so… small. You didn’t like the pained expression slipping over Andrew’s face. Not at all.
You shook your head. “I’m making it worse.” You murmured. “The fact I fucked all this up so badly.”
“You didn’t fuck it up.”
“Andrew, this is wrong.”
“Why?” Rage welled up in his hazel eyes. “Because- because of prison? I swear if you say transference one more time I'm gonna punch something! I looked it up, you know? In the library, and it’s not- it’s not what I’m feeling! I know that because I’ve never felt this way for anyone.” Andrew slipped off the sofa to kneel in front of you and clutched your hand with his own. He stared up at you with wet puppy eyes, all but pleading with you to believe him.
“It’s still wrong.”
“Because I talked to you?” His voice dipped into a low whine. "Because I opened up to you? Is that the price I pay? Aren’t- aren’t people supposed to talk about that shit with the people they love? I know you won’t use what you know against me.”
You cupped his cheek with your hand softly, letting your thumb brush over sun-kissed, freckled skin. “I don’t want to hurt you. If this turns bad, how will you ever trust a social worker again?”
“And when your profession tears the only woman I’ve ever loved from me, that won’t happen?!” He emitted a bitter laugh. “I’m never talking to a social worker again, sweetheart. I never spoke to a social worker in the first place. I talked to you!”
“You don’t even know me, Andrew.” You sounded so tired, and Andrew didn’t know what to do to change it, just that every molecule of his being burnt to.
“Then let me know you! I will never hurt you.”
“I know.” You brushed your thumb over his cheekbone. You ran your hand along his cheek, watching your fingertips disappear in his choppy, auburn hair. “My father is dangerous.”
“I’m dangerous.” Andrew growled.
“Not like that. Not like him. Andrew, my father is- he is a serial killer. He’s got thirty victims he’s admitted to, but the police suspect there are a lot more. From what he told me, I know there are.”
He pursed his lips, pressing them into a thin line. Rage blazed in his hazel eyes, only soothed by your fingers running through his hair. He hated seeing you so small. Hated seeing the burden of your father’s sins crushing down on your shoulders.
“He’s… sick. His father has done horrible things to him, and it messed him up good. Sometimes he’s stable. He’ll live an almost normal life for a few months, but then something always happens that knocks him right back. He just… snaps. He’s possessive and obsessed, and it’s all my fault.”
“Why? What- did you do?”
“I… I’ve always been very independent, you know? Had to be. I could cook dinner by the time I was four. I took myself to school when I was six. I got groceries when I was eight. By the time I was twelve, I was secretly selling bracelets and snacks at school to earn some money. I made sandwiches and sold them for way too much money to the rich assholes getting high on the beach. Mom sometimes forgot to give me lunch money or get food for me too.”
“Forgot?” A deep crease formed between Andrew’s brows as if he could fathom how a mother could forget to feed her child. Even Smurf made sure they never went hungry.
You shrugged. “When I was thirteen, I wanted to know more about my father. My mom she… she barely even saw me, you know? It was like it made no difference whether I was there or not, and I was just so- I thought when I’d just find my father, he’d take me away, and I’d finally be like all the other kids at school. It’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid.”
“I found out about mom’s postpartum psychosis, about the drowning, and- and why. I found my father’s name and I- I found him. He was in prison. Wrote him a letter anyway. I didn’t expect an answer, but a week later there was a letter addressed to me in the mailbox. I’d- I’d never gotten a letter. He seemed so happy to find out about me. To find out he had a daughter, and he asked a million questions about me, and nobody ever asked about me. He wanted me to call him. Even told me where I’d find the forms I’d need to get added to his phone list. I forged my mom’s signature.”
A car backfired in the distance. The seagulls outside your window, your stupid neighbour kept feeding screeched. Neither of you flinched. Andrew’s eyes remained on you, unwavering, unshrinking.
You wrang your fingers in your lap. Andrew placed his hand above yours. You intertwined your fingers with his, letting his large hand consume yours, heavy, strong, rough from callouses.
“It took some time, but then he called. He was… nice. He asked me about school and just… life. It felt like all the things a parent would ask, would want to know. He gave me advice on how to handle the mean girls at school. I really thought he- he loved me. I think he does, at least in his own way. We talked every other day. I felt like he cared, and fuck, nobody had ever cared. He became strange though. He’d get closed off when I mentioned friends or our social worker or my teachers, anyone I liked who were a part of my life. A few months in, I missed a call with him because I was at the mall with my friends, and he- he said some horrible things. He never talked to me that way, and I started crying and apologising. He just hung up. The next time we talked, he acted as if nothing happened.
“He started pressuring me into visiting him. I forged my mom’s signature again, because I was a minor, I needed her permission to visit him. I left, and she didn’t even realise. I hitchhiked halfway across the country. That’s where I first met Marvin. He gave me a ride for the rest of the way and even brought me back home, probably figured he couldn’t stop me and it was better the fourteen-year-old rode on his bike rather than ending up in the back of some creep’s car.”
“Fourteen?” Andrew whispered, trying to picture it, picture you on the side of a road with only a forged permission slip to see your deranged father in prison, because you were so desperate for any shred of love you’d accept the poisoned honey he offered.
“My father could hand you a banana and convince you it’s an apple, and also that apple is going to cure everything going wrong in your life. Took me years to realise just how fucked up it was of him to pressure me into taking that trip.” You muttered bitterly.
Andrew brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear. You leaned into his touch, nuzzling his hand, accepting the affection you craved so much even though you knew you shouldn’t.
You forced a deep, shuddering breath into your lungs. “I visited him four times. Then he broke out. He showed up at our house when I was fifteen. I was home alone, and there he stood. On our porch. That was the first time I was hugged, I think. I- I went on the run with him. For almost five months. We stayed under the radar. He stole cars along the way, we never used one more than a few days, and robbed a few gas stations. He’d- he’d send me in first and then grab me, holding a gun to my head to get the cashier to hand over the money. And every couple of weeks or so, he’d take me to a truck stop. He’d tell me to go up to the truckers and lead them back to him. I figured… I figured a guy who’d agree to pay twenty bucks to fuck a fifteen-year-old against his truck deserved what they had coming, you know? Better them than someone innocent. My father- he- he gets these compulsions, you know? He’d get antsy and restless and really aggressive when he needed to kill. I don’t know how much of it was real or manipulation, I don’t know, but I- I went along. I started being really scared of him at one point. He just got so weird, but he was my dad, and he was sick, he needed help, and I had no one but him, so I stayed.”
You dropped your forehead against Andrew’s. He curled his free arm around you, automatically, without hesitation or conscious decision-making necessary. His large hand cupped the back of your neck, blunt nails scraping softly along your scalp in an attempt to soothe the grief that made tears gather in your eyes.
“When we got caught eventually, he screamed at the cops to not touch me, even while they had him pinned to the ground. He wouldn’t have done that if he didn’t care, right? I mean- If I’d been nothing to him, why bother? But he’s also just… so possessive. Like I’m- he used to call me ‘his creation’. That I was the best thing he ever did. Those five months he’d lose his shit anytime someone touched me, even if they just shook my hand. The cops, they’d been treating the case as an abduction at first. I was a minor, and he was a violent killer - obviously, I went with him against my will. I had to have. They interrogated me without my guardian’s permission and presence. Showed me pictures of his crimes to try and make me tell them things. They lied and threatened, and… they were just awful. Later I was charged with- uhm- aiding and abetting a fugitive, accessory to murder, armed robbery, fraud and uhm, a few other things. Spent a year in juvie, but a psychological evaluation made them reverse most of the convictions, and they released me into a psychiatrist despite the remaining ones. I could eventually get them expunged.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.” You emitted a bitter laugh and pulled away, wiping your eyes on the back of your hand. “He’s broken out two times since, and both times he’s somehow found me. He finds my number when I change it. And I’m- I don’t want to move again, Andrew. I like it here. I really like it here. I don’t want to have to find another job again, and start all over.”
“Then stay.” Andrew pulled you closer. “With me.”
You wanted to.
You wanted it so badly.
“My father will hurt you.”
“Let him try.”
“Andrew… I’ve watched him kill men bigger, stronger and meaner than you.”
“You’ve never seen me be mean, sweetheart.” He cupped your face in his large hands, forcing you to meet his eyes. “I am a big boy. I can take care of myself. And you are worth the risk.”
“You don’t know me.”
Andrew shook his head. “I know enough.” He murmured, sounding so damn convinced, you almost believed it without questioning it. “I’ve seen your heart. You show your heart in everything you do, what else would I need to know?”
“Andrew-”
Andrew closed the distance between you to press his lips to yours. Your protest died on your tongue and was swiftly wiped away by his tongue delving into your mouth.
It was the fourth time Andrew kissed you. The first time had been sloppy and desperate, the second long and needy, the third so gentle it carved a hole into your chest you were still bleeding from, and this… somehow this one combined them all into one in an irresistible, deliriously delicious, ruinous way.
And you- you could no longer resist.
Andrew’s hands against your body - big, rough, forged for violence and destruction yet so achingly careful with you - forced you to realise just how starved you’d been for affection and touch. Andrew touched you in a way meaningless one-night-stands to stave off daddy issues and loneliness never did. His touch was hard and almost forceful in his own touch-starved wanting, but it never turned brutal or cold. He curled his fingers around your throat but never applied pressure. He grasped at your breasts through your dress, filling his hands with your soft flesh like he’d never held something that felt as good as your tits, but never crushed, pinched or slapped. He cradled your waist as if you were something precious and stroked the flat of his palms up your thighs, slipping under your dress while peering up at you through his lashes in a silent quest for permission.
You watched Andrew reach under you, lifting your hips to let him peel your already damp panties off. You watched him pull them down your legs, watched him lick his lips and pull you closer, hands firm around your knees, spreading you open for him.
Need punched through your body with all the force of a wrecking ball. The moan you held back slipped out when Andrew pulled your legs over his shoulders and dived between your thighs. Your hands shot up to find purchase, to hold onto something - anything - finding Andrew’s short hair. You remembered how it had looked when he was first looked up, those bouncy, soft curls.
It was a fucking crime the prison mandated it be shaved off upon incarceration and kept short as lice prevention, despite the assumption that lice didn’t settle in short hair having been disproven long ago.
Andrew groaned against you, hot breath unfurling across your mound as he lapped greedily at your folds. You dropped your head back against the sofa, eyes fluttering shut. Arousal and pleasure curled around you, filling your lower abdomen and unfurling throughout your body, spreading like prickling tendrils.
What he lacked in patience and consistency, Andrew made up with sheer animalistic enthusiasm. He made you feel every single day of the past three years he spent thinking about this, about you, you and him.
He lapped at your folds, dipped his tongue inside you to taste the rush of arousal slicking up your cunt and assaulted your clit as if he had a timer breathing down his neck. Broad, dizzying strokes alternated with precise, hard flicks.
“Andrew- fuck-” You swallowed the urge to cry out and pushed against him, panting.
Andrew looked up at you like a beaten puppy. “Not good?”
“It’s good.” You reassured him softly, though your voice still sounded breathless. “Just too much, too fast.” You rubbed your middle and ring finger over his shoulder in an even, slow, tight circle pattern, the same way you touched yourself at night when you were definitely not thinking about his eyes, when you were definitely not picturing him standing above you staring at you.
Andrew’s eyes widened ever so slightly as realisation hit him, followed by his eyes darkening. He lowered his head again and copied the pace you showed him.
Nobody could claim Andrew was not a diligent person.
He had you whimpering and moaning his name a few short minutes later, legs crossing behind his back to pull him closer. You rolled your hips into his until he grabbed your hips to pin you down. Your protest was undermined by the sob it chose to vocalise itself with. Andrew chuckled against your heated flesh.
You grasped helplessly at the sofa cushion and Andrew’s shirt, digging your nails into fabric hard enough you feared they might break. The muscles in your thighs twitched and tensed up, further and further, being pulled taut as pleasure seared through your nerves and painted white spots across your field of vision.
You fell apart with a suffocated moan on your lips, shuddering in Andrew’s grip. He didn’t stop. He groaned against your cunt and sucked your swollen clit between his lips. Every touch felt like too much, but the mere thought of him pulling away was unbearable.
You managed to drag your legs off his shoulders. Sad hazel eyes looked up at you, just for the expression to be replaced by one of surprise and wonder when you pushed him backwards, down onto the carpet and straddled his thighs.
He groaned your name, eyelids fluttering shut, when you rolled your hips against him. You felt his cock through his jeans, already so fucking hard for you. Andrew fumbled with his belt and popped the button open, drew his cock out, hissing when his fingers brushed against the sensitive flesh.
You managed to reach your purse without pulling away from you. Blindly you dug through it while Andrew cradled your face in his hands and pressed his lips to yours. You tasted yourself on his lips, and for some strange reason the thought made your head spin and your cunt clench around nothing.
You shoved the condom into his hands.
It was a perk of being a social worker, though before now you’d never thought of it that way. If something you owned had pockets, there was a condom in there. Every jacket, pair of pants, cardigan, purse and backpack had at least one condom.
“I’m clean.” Andrew rasped.
“You fucked a whore last week. Wear the fucking rubber, Andrew.”
Andrew moaned. “Yes, ma’am.” The wrapper crinkled. You chewed on your bottom lip, waiting impatiently, watching Andrew take his cock into hand. “You gonna fuck me on the floor? ‘m not even allowed on the sofa? nghh- you like it filthy, sweetheart?”
“If you want to stop and walk to my bedroom, be my guest.”
Andrew grunted. He threaded his fingers through your hair and pulled you down. “Fuck that.” His lips crashed against yours.
“That’s- what I thought-” You muttered between kisses, just to bury your face against his neck to stifle a needy moan when his tip breached you. It had been a while for you, and Andrew was thick.
“Ah- fuck-”
Andrew noticed the way you tensed up above him and stopped, forcing laboured breaths through his teeth to keep himself from moving. You braced your hands against his chest and sat up, rolling your hips to ease him inside while using gravity to your advantage, slowly lowering yourself on him.
Andrew struggled to not come right then and there. The sight of you, hair mussed from your orgasm and lips swollen from his greedy kisses, sitting on top of him while you struggled to take him after three goddamn years of yearning for you was almost too much for him to take.
Almost.
As it was, Andrew was very determined to make this last.
You cursed under your breath, then without warning, you grabbed the hem of your dress and pulled it over your head. A thin sheen of sweat covered your whole body, making your skin gleam deliciously in the hot afternoon sun.
“Fuckig hell-” Andrew squeezed his eyes shut, but the sight of you, naked, tits out, legs spread around him, had burnt itself into his retinas. He still saw you with his eyes closed.
He doubted he’d ever stop seeing you.
“Feeling good?” You purred, dragging your nails across his chest. His shirt did nothing to stave off the teasing sensation. He shivered.
You ground against him when he didn’t reply, coaxing a tortured groan from him.
“Mh?”
“Y-yeah.”
“Yeah? You feel good? My pussy feel as good as you pictured it would?”
“Better-”
“Mhh, better…” You hummed, clearly amused by his current inability to string two or more words together. Emboldened by the state of mental disintegration the feeling of your cunt wrapped around his cock had put him in, you leaned down, breath brushing across his face. “Your cock sure feels better than I could have ever imagined.”
The most deliciously depraved, unravelling, guttural groan rumbled in Andrew’s throat. You pressed your face against his throat, stifling your own giggling against his skin. You started rocking against him, back and forth in a torturous glide, moaning softly at the way his hard length pressed against your fluttering walls, the weight of him inside you-
“I won’t- won’t last- last long-”
“That’s okay, handsome.” You purred and lifted your hips just to sink down again, slipping into an even, rolling pace - slow enough to drag out the sensation of his rubbing against your inner walls but fast enough to not be teasing. Andrew’s hands clamped down around your waist, both holding onto you to not fall apart beneath you and guiding you, helping you bounce on his cock as good as he could with his quickly waning mental capacity.
“You ate me out so well, Andrew… no need to force yourself to hold on any longer than you can.” You braced your hands against the floor on either side of his head, bending down until your chest was flush with his. His shirt rubbed against your damp, sticky skin, over your hardened, sensitive nipples. “Take what you need, love. Come on, Andrew… fuck me like you need to, like you pictured yourself doing late at night in your bunk.”
Andrew shook his head. His breathing was rapid, gasping, grunting breaths that had his chest rising and falling hard against your chest. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”
You chuckled. Your lips grazed his earlobe when you bent down to whisper in his ear, causing him to squeeze his eyes shut, fingers digging mercilessly into your waist.
“You said it, Andrew… I like it filthy. You can’t hurt me, love…”
Maybe your words were the permission he’d felt he needed, maybe the fragile restraint a man like Andrew Pope Cody was capable of had simply snapped, whatever the reason, his arms wrapped around you tight like a snake trapping its prey. You grinned against his neck and melted into the possessive embrace, eyes falling shut with the last pathetic remnants of your reservations evaporating as Andrew fucked up into you. His thrusts were short and coming in rapid succession, hard enough to bruise.
You moaned his name into his neck, reduced to a puddle of pleasure and lust in his arms, urging him on to fuck you harder, faster, to don’tstopandrewfuckpleasedon’tstop-
His breath was loud in your ear. He alternated between kissing your jaw, sucking on your neck and forgetting how to do either. Your knees ached against the carpet, thighs protesting against the position you forced them to stay in, but you didn’t care. You didn’t care about anything but Andrew, Andrew’s firm, strong body beneath you, his cock inside you, his breath against your ear, the salt of skin on your lips and tongue-
He fell apart with a series of grunts so low, so animalistic, so deliciously filthy they had you tumbling into another orgasm. Your cunt clamped down around him, squeezing him, sucking him in and pushing him out at the same time as though it could not quite decide whether it wanted more or less.
Andrew muttered your name into your hair, a broken prayer of depraved devotion and tormenting desire.
You rode out the last waves of your release against him, rocking your hips back and forth while pressing your lips to his in a hard, uncoordinated, deep kiss, one that had your teeth clicking together and far too much saliva being exchanged between the two of you, but neither of you cared.
You collapsed against Andrew, breathing hard, spent, cunt pulsing faintly still from the assault of pleasure on your nerve endings.
Eventually, Andrew would gather you in his arms and carry you to your bed. Eventually, you’d lie there, limbs tangled together, staring at each other, hands idly wandering, fingers walking along bare arms and running through hair. Eventually you’d tuck your head under his chin and find the first few hours of sleep you’d had since your father broke out of prison, knowing you were safe with Andrew - Pope - in your bed to watch over you.
But for now… for now you just lay on the ground of your living room surrounded by your discarded clothes and listened to the beat of Andrew’s heart slowly evening out beneath you, savouring the way his fingers brushed along your spine in a lazy yet reverent caress.
Next Chapter
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Man-child / Why you always come a-running to me? / Fuck my life / Won't you let an innocent woman be? / (Why so sexy if so dumb?) / And I swear they choose me, I'm not choosing them
Overview: You're the Codys' new neighbor. You seem boring enough, not much of a threat. But Smurf and Baz are interested in that cushy new job at the bank you'd told them about.
So they send in Pope, hoping to get some decent information out of you. And he knows the rules, don't fall for the marks. But you make it impossible to stick to that rule and Smurf sees that as a threat. She sees you as a threat.
wc: 17.0k
Belle’s 3k follower extravaganza!!
It’s hard to stare at the interior of your new home and not think that the past two years of your life have been a complete waste. You’ve dedicated them to one man who couldn’t offer you anything more than broke-boyfriend hugs and a complete absence of emotional availability.
Twenty-four months of your life were spent financially, emotionally, and physically supporting a man who crawled right back to his mother’s basement when you finally dumped him. He had slept with every one of your friends, maxed out all your credit cards, and generally been a blight upon your life in every conceivable way.
Now, with no family or friends, you hauled out what little belongings you had from your U-Haul and dragged them into your new house. It had been an absolute steal, one you were still suspicious of. In a prominent neighborhood with houses that look straight from an architecture digest, you managed to find one you could afford with a bank teller’s salary. Which, admittedly, is not as much as you need right now to get rid of your ex’s debt he’d so generously left you.
The realtor had been more than happy to dump the keys in your palm. The owners themselves had dropped their price to your last-ditch offer in a way that made your stomach turn. But you needed something new. Something that didn’t remind you of the man-child you’d spent two years cleaning up after and re-mothering.
So, despite the red flags and klaxon alarms, you took the keys and ignored the pitying way the people across the street watched you. You’d researched the neighborhood, it didn’t have any higher crime rates than your old one. You hadn’t read any headlines in the news that would make you regret your choice.
It wasn’t until your second night there that you realized why, exactly, everyone had treated you like a kicked stray.
You have your pillow wrapped as tightly as possible around your head without actually suffocating yourself. The house right beside you has its music blaring on obnoxious speakers, girls screaming the lyrics, and guys cheering as they jump off the roof into your neighbor’s pool.
Despite the fact that everyone over there looks, at the very least, thirty, they’re partying like it’s Y2K and the world’s about to end.
So, this is why the house was so fucking cheap. Figures.
You let out a low groan and bury your face into the mattress. You have your TV on, white noise playing, even music blaring from your phone. It doesn't even put a goddamn dent in the howling happening in the next house over.
The universe really just did not feel like giving you a break. Dating Colin wasn’t enough punishment for the sins of your past life. Now you had to live next to the goddamn Playboy Manor.
The number of women who had streamed in there in thongs and barely-there bikinis had been concerning, to say the least. And the fact that half of them received payment on entry was even more disturbing.
Admittedly, you probably shouldn’t have been posted at your window, glaring down at the neighbor’s house. But, really, you didn’t have a choice. At least that’s what you tell your nosy ass.
Tomorrow, you swear to yourself. You will march over there, demand an explanation, and then politely ask them to shut the fuck up. Tonight, though, you were too damn exhausted to do anything but bask in your own misery.
Fix the bitch face, you remind yourself, forcing a half-pleasant smile on your face as your neighbor opens her door. The smile slips into a slightly awed expression as you take in the older woman. Her hair perfectly tousled, boobs right in your face with that bikini, and a silk robe wrapped around her like a second skin. Holy shit. You’d been expecting some finance ass in his thirties, not a hot mom in her fifties.
“Hi,” you draw out uncertainly. Her eyes narrow, flitting up and down your form as she appraises you. Your shoulders straighten, chin jutting out under her judgment.
“Can I help you, baby?” The rasp of her voice should have been expected, but it still takes you off guard.
You hold out your plate of (poorly-baked) cookies and adjust your smile. “Yes, hi,” you give her your name. “I just moved in next door,” you tell her, nodding toward your house. “I thought I would introduce myself to my new neighbors.”
And politely ask you all to shut. The. Fuck. Up. On weeknights. You’re a reasonable woman.
The stern look on her face makes way for something you wouldn’t describe as soft, but at least it didn’t look like she was about to pull a gun on you. “Well, isn’t that sweet?” She opens the door and motions you inside. You almost protest but the sharp look on her face has you stepping forward with your tail tucked.
“You know,” her hand hovers over your lower back as she leads you deeper inside. “Not enough girls are like you, anymore. No manners,” she scoffs, voice airy like she’s already a world away from your conversation.
“Why don’t you change, we’re having a little party by the pool.” Of course you are, the only reason you don’t roll your eyes is because you’re 90% sure she would spank you like a child.
“Oh,” you flounder. “I just wanted to introduce myself, that’s all. Besides, I don’t have a suit.”
She laughs, the noise unkind, and turns you toward a bedroom. “You know the great thing about string bikinis,” she rasps into your ear. “They look good on anyone. Bottom drawer,” with a slight shove, you’re stumbling into the room and the door is closing behind you.
That woman is a witch, you’re so sure of it. Not only did you obey, picking through different sizes of bikinis until you found your own, you found yourself waiting for her next instructions. Standing outside the bedroom in your heels and half naked, you feel ridiculous but that doesn’t stop you from smiling when she lets out a low whistle at the sight of you.
“Smurf,” she offers, holding out her hand. You repeat your name again and follow her through the glass doors of her patio.
“Let me introduce you to the boys.”
Your eyes widen as you trip slightly. “Boys?” You croak. Meeting Smurf was bad enough, especially now that she’s got you half-naked prancing around her pool. You had no interest in meeting any of the rowdy assholes screwing around in her backyard.
She hums and sends you a smug smirk, “My boys.” Great, more of her. You’d hit your quota of mama-boys in your life after your ex. You had no interest in meeting any more, but there wasn’t much of a choice as she shouted, “Boys, get over here!”
Four messy heads of hair whip toward her and suddenly, four grown men are racing toward you. Your nails bite into the palm of your hand as you swallow down the urge to turn tail and run back home.
“Craig,” she motions toward the tallest and the one eyeing up your body like you’re a slab of meat at the butcher’s. You’ve never wanted to crawl out of your skin more. “Baz,” he offers his hand. You take it tentatively. His gaze isn’t any better. Only Deran and J, the other two, seem to be looking at you like you’re a human being.
“She brought us some cookies,” Smurf holds out the plate and you frown at the condescending tone of her voice.
“Who are you?” Craig mutters around a mouthful of chocolate chips.
“New neighbor,” Smurf answers for you. Baz’s gaze darts to her and you don’t like the narrow-eyed look they share.
“Really?” Baz asks. The interest in his stare is entirely different now. So unsettling you almost wish he would go back to objectifying you. It feels like he’s trying to crawl under your skin, pick you apart until he’s got your inner workings memorized.
Smurf hums and places the plate down on a nearby table. “I thought we should keep her around, maybe have her for dinner. Get to know her,” the men’s eyes widen slightly and you know that they’re hearing something you’re not. Your stomach rolls unpleasantly.
“Well,” your voice cracks as you take a shaky step back. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
Baz steps toward you, herding around you until you’re being pushed toward a lounge chair. “No intrusion,” he insists as you pretend not to notice the woman doing a line off her hand beside you. You sit stiff and straight, praying as desperately as you can that you’re not about to be trafficked.
“Stick around,” he instructs. “I want to get to know our new neighbor.” You offer nothing more than a squeaky hum. He walks back toward his family and suddenly you’re a deer caught in a fox's den as they stare at you, whispering amongst themselves.
God, you really stepped in it this time.
You’ve had three drinks shoved in your hand in under an hour. Each of them has gone untouched, passed off to whatever partygoer walked by you. Smurf doesn’t speak to you, just sits in her chair and watches everyone. J and Deran asked you brief questions about yourself, but it’s been Baz who’s truly been hounding you.
Every ten minutes, he’ll stop beside you, ask you some “innocent” questions about yourself. You keep your answers brief, each response feeling like a test that you have no luck in passing. Your limit for strangers and loud music is about ten minutes and by this point, you feel ready to pass out or throw up.
Not only is Smurf’s family disturbing and intimidating. The people all around you have been snorting, sniffing, and smoking illicit substances that you want no part in. You actually don’t care how loud they are at night, now, you just want to get out of this party alive.
So, when Baz gets held up breaking up a fight between Craig and Deran, you take your chance. Your heels click against the stone path as you make your way toward one of the doors. Smurf’s blocking the one she led you through, so you end up finding your way into someone’s bedroom.
Just as you’re sliding the glass door shut, the one behind you clicks open. “Fuck,” you hiss.
“Who are you?” The voice is gruff, sharp in a way that has chills breaking out along your body. With a tight smile, you whip around, back pressed to the cold glass.
Hazel eyes are narrowed in your direction, cold and emotionless. “Hi-”
“Who’s that?” A little girl pops up behind him, head tilted curiously.
“Don’t know,” he replies. The man turns, pushing her out of the room. “Find your dad,” he tells her. He waits until she runs off to close the door and you realize how well and truly fucked you are. Because not only are you in a stranger’s house, you’re now being cornered against a bed by a man who looks like he hasn’t felt remorse in years.
“Who are you?” He asks again. He doesn’t raise his voice, but you still feel a shock of fear regardless.
“Neighbor,” you stutter out. His eyes dip down your body, not admiring, assessing. Still, you find your arms wrapping tightly around your stomach, wishing you were in more than, essentially, a bra and thong.
“We don’t have neighbors,” he takes a step closer, rolling up his sleeves in a way that has your breakfast coming up your throat.
“Now you do,” you offer weakly, hands splayed like you’re some sort of surprise. “I, um, brought cookies and Smurf told me to stay. Gave me a bathing suit and…” you trail off as he comes to a stop. His shoulders roll back and for a moment, you feel a little bit of your anxiety ease.
“I was trying to figure out how to sneak out of here. I didn’t realize this was your room, I’m sorry.” He nods once, eyes still roaming across your body. Finally, he steps back, opening up the door and nodding you forward.
You hesitate just a moment before he lets out a slight huff. “Get out.” He doesn’t say it unkindly, just bluntly. It’s enough to get you hightailing your way through the rest of the house. You feel him following behind you, rather than hear him. His presence is looming despite his size, broad and an imitation of your own shadow.
When you pause at the entrance of the bedroom you’d first walked into, he comes up beside you, arms crossed. “What?”
You startle at his sudden appearance and wrap your arms around yourself once more. His eyes narrow on the movement but he says nothing. “My clothes are gone.”
“Clearly,” you’re so caught off guard by what could, almost, be a joke that you forget to take offense.
“No,” you stutter over his audacity and glare. “Smurf put me in this. I left my dress in here. It’s gone.”
The patio door opens behind you both and he shoots you a sharp look. “Go home.”
You glance down at your half-naked body and then back at him. “Like this?”
His hand, rough and calloused, is already wrapped around your arm and dragging you to the front door. “Either that or stay for dinner.” Even if you did want to stay, he gave you no choice. With a light nudge, you’re stumbling down their front steps and the door is slamming behind you.
Before any other neighbors see you, you book it toward your home and throw yourself inside. Tomorrow, you’ll mourn the loss of that dress. Right now, you’re just thankful for the shark-eyed stranger who hustled you out of there.
“Again, Mr. Murray, I’m not allowed to date our clients.” You offer the eighty-year-old man in front of you a forced smile. He laughs you off and leans against the counter. There’s a distinct pop that you’re sure is his hip slipping out of place.
“Nonsense, sweetheart, it’s just a little lunch.” Normally, the older clients are sweet, a little touchy. But they just want someone to talk to, to have someone listen to them, since their kids gave up on them years ago. Mr. Murray, however, is nothing more than a pushy nuisance who thinks sexual harassment is a PC snowflake term invented by prudes.
You glance around him and groan at the long line forming behind his hunched back. “Mr. Murray, you’re flattering me, really, but I have a lot of people waiting.”
His brows draw in and you brace yourself for a temper tantrum when a frighteningly familiar voice interrupts. “Are you done?” Mr. Murray turns and you find a man with shark-eyes and auburn curls watching you. Jerking back slightly, your hand smooths over your hair, primping, as your neighbor moves beside the old man.
Mr. Murray draws back with a why-I-oughta look but he cowers under the younger man’s intense gaze. It’s not even a glare, just the kind of stare that makes you completely rethink who you are as a person.
“Just a joke,” Mr. Murray grunts as he wanders off.
It’s just you and shark-eyes now, you can’t tell if you’re excited or dreadful. “Hi, again.” He says nothing and you scratch the back of your neck. “Nice to see you while I’m fully clothed.” It takes everything in you not to drop your head to your desk, because what compelled you to say that?
A small noise leaves him, nowhere close to a laugh but you think it’s the best you’ll get. “Need to open an account,” it’s all he says before sliding a large pile of hundreds toward you.
“Oh,” your eyes widen as you gape at the obnoxiously large amount of money. You’re used to working at credit unions. They’re homely, poorly furnished, and not used by the richest people. This new job is cushy, a bank so fancy it’s even got a chandelier dangling from the ceiling.
You haven’t had much time to grow accustomed to people with real money working with you. Still, though, this seems like an obscene amount. “Uh,” you clear your throat and tidy the bills into two piles. “My manager opens accounts, just give me a moment.”
His hands ball into fists and he lets out another sharp huff. “I’d prefer if you did it,” he insists and your brows turn in.
“I don’t think I’m-”
“What’s going on over here?” Your manager comes up behind you, hand trailing across your shoulders as he leans against your desk. Shark-eyes tracks the movement and how you shudder. Your manager’s attention falls to the stacks of cash and his breath stutters.
“He wants me to open his account.”
“Why aren’t you?” He demands sharply, pulling back.
Your eyes dart between the two men and you shrink back. Switching jobs was supposed to help you regain control over your life, not put you under the thumb of another poorly developed man-child.
“I’m not supposed to,” you grit out. “You said that, Mike.”
He rubs his hands together and lets out a nervous laugh, “Good day to start.” He collects the other man’s cash and pulls out your chair. He says your name and places his hand on your lower back. “She’ll take you to one of our offices and help you get set up.”
With a huff, you jerk away from Mike’s hand and motion for your neighbor to follow you. He’s eerily silent as he trails behind you. Opening up an empty office, you motion him inside, letting the door shut quietly behind him.
Situating yourself behind the desk, you pull out the new account paperwork. “Alright,” you hum to yourself, leafing through the papers.
“Is he always like that?”
Your eyes widen as you glance up. “Sorry?”
He leans back in his chair, elbows on the armrests and body stiff with tension. “Your boss. Is he always like that?”
You scoff and log in to the bank’s system. “If you mean domineering and a pain in my ass, then yes.” Somehow, his lips fall even flatter at your blunt admission. “It’s a new job,” you find yourself explaining for some reason. “Once the ‘fresh meat’ interest wears off, I’m sure he’ll back off.”
He hums but doesn’t offer you anything else. “Okay,” you draw the word out and slide him the papers. “First things first, need your name.”
He picks up the pen and scribbles it down, you tilt your head in curiosity. “Andrew,” you muse. His shoulders stiffen but he says nothing. “I thought Smurf only had four sons.” It’s an innocent enough inquiry, but from the glare he sends you, you’d think you’d told him you ran over his dog.
“Sorry,” you back off, sliding the papers back toward yourself. Your nails click against the keyboard, struggling to figure out the alien system as you try and finish this as quickly as possible.
“Three,” he suddenly announces.
You hum absentmindedly. “What was that?”
Andrew clears his throat and shifts slightly, but his stare remains strong. Practically burning into you. “She’s got three sons. Deran, Craig, and me. Baz and J aren’t hers.”
You glance over at him and your brows furrow at just how uncomfortable he looks at such a small admission. Further confirmation that you should probably stay as far away from the Codys as possible.
He clears his throat, shifting around again. “What about you?”
You count his money and cast your eyes briefly toward him. Each question he asks sounds like someone’s pulling teeth to force it out of him. He hasn’t looked away, not once, but you’re wondering if that’s just a different sort of stress tic. As if taking his eyes off you means leaving himself vulnerable.
“Nope,” you click your tongue and pass him more forms to sign. “All on my own.”
He straightens and lazily scribbles out his signature. “No family? Boyfriend? You moved into that big house on your own?”
Your fingers still on the keyboard as your shoulders stiffen. From anyone else it could just be a hopeful ploy to see if you’re single. But this is the same man whose mother practically kidnapped you last night and all of a sudden, he’s popping up at your place of work.
With a sly grin you don’t truly mean, you turn to him, arms crossed on the desk. He doesn’t falter, eyes never wavering. “Are you trying to ask me out, Andrew?”
For the first time, you get a true reaction out of him. He blinks rapidly, lips parting as he pulls back from you. “No,” he sounds incredulous and you can’t help but laugh.
“Relax, I’m messing with you. Because, honestly, you sound like I’m going to find you waiting at my house for me tonight.”
He settles and crosses his arms. “I am your neighbor.” If you could read anything about him at all, you might have recognized it as a joke. But it feels more like a threat to you. Stiffening, you draw back and place his money in a bag.
“I’ll just go deposit this for you.” You rush out of the room before he can say anything else.
Andrew turns and watches as you practically run down the hall. He sinks back into his chair with a heavy sigh. He hadn’t even wanted to do this. It's not like he was exactly eager to be back in banks again.
But Smurf and Baz got on his ass about checking out the new neighbor. Making sure she wasn’t a plant or going to cause any trouble. He’d watched you all morning up until now. From all he could tell you were on your own, working a boring nine-to-five, and there was absolutely nothing interesting about you.
You also seemed pretty smart, already aware of just how far you should be staying away from his family. Even more reason you’re not going to be causing any trouble for them. Hopefully, this meant Smurf would get off his back and his day wouldn’t have to revolve around some harassed bank teller.
The low murmur of conversation catches his attention and he turns back toward the glass door. Your manager has stopped you in the hall, hand cupping your elbow as he stands far too close.
You’re actively shrinking back, face curled with displeasure as Mike only gets closer. Pope’s lips curl slightly as he watches you jerk away. You rush down the hall, bag clutched tightly to your chest. Mike glowers until he turns to find Pope watching him.
With a lazy smile, he approaches your office and takes a seat behind the desk. He steeples his fingers, eyes eager as he watches Pope. “Is she treating you alright?”
“She’s fine,” he grits out.
Mike shrugs and gives him a smile like they’re sharing a secret. “No need to cover. We’ve gotten quite a few complaints about her already. There’s only really one reason we hired her, you know?”
Pope doesn’t feel like entertaining the conversation anymore. He wants Mike gone, he wants you gone. He wants to leave. But Smurf always knows when he’s lying and he doesn’t have the option of bullshitting his way out of this ridiculous errand.
“No, I don’t know,” he’s speaking through clenched teeth and, still, Mike is incapable of taking the hint.
“Well,” Mike clears his throat, trying to find a way around a harassment suit. “It’s always nice to have something pretty to look at, you know? Decor’s just meant to be attractive, doesn’t have to be smart.”
“Neither does the manager, apparently.” It takes a moment for the insult to settle. Mike’s wide eyes only further prove Pope’s point.
He clears his throat uncomfortably and shifts, “Right. Well, I’ll just let her finish up here.” Pope says nothing, just watches the old man as he walks out with his tail tucked. He can hear you bump into him in the hallway, Mike snaps at you, taking his frustration out on the first easy target.
Pope turns again and when Mike catches his eye he shoves past you and storms his way back to the front. You watch him go with an awed expression and shake your head. Pope hears you mutter, “Jackass,” as you make your way inside the office.
You settle into your chair with a loud huff. “Here are your checks. It’s just a few, you’ll receive the book in the mail.” He takes it wordlessly, eyes darting to your phone as it lights up on the desk.
🚫drunk texting shows on your screen for a split second before you offer him a sheepish smile and turn it off. “Sorry about that.”
“Who is it?” He’s being invasive, that’s the whole point, but he almost hopes you don’t tell him. If you’re the type to just spill so easily, it’s going to cause trouble for you in the future.
“A mistake,” you bite out, not meeting his eyes. Pope lets out a small sigh as you shove his papers haphazardly into a file. “There you go, Mr. Cody. Please let us know if there’s anything else you might need.”
Your smile is tight, sharp at the edges, your tone is practiced. The same voice you’d given the old man who wouldn’t take no for an answer. You’re dismissing him and wordlessly making it clear that should he ever need anything you want nothing to do with it. Pope’s lips curl ever so slightly but they drop when he catches the surprise on your face at his expression.
He takes the folder from your hands and leaves the office without another word. Making his way through the lobby, he finds himself sitting in his truck, just watching. You never take a lunch break, not leaving your stall unless it’s to deposit money. Pope finds himself growing more and more irritated the longer he has to watch this.
You’re harmless, worth nothing to Smurf. Yet, every time he tries to get her to let this go, she insists he stays. The entire day is wasted on you. Finally, at 5:30, you make your way from the bank. You don’t wave goodbye to your coworkers, effectively ignored as they brush past you. You don’t even linger in the parking lot, just get started going down the sidewalk.
Pope’s brows furrow as he watches you go. “Fuck’s sake,” he mutters. You walk home. And it’s not like he can just trail beside you in his truck. Getting out, he follows after you, lingering behind just enough for you not to notice him.
He keeps his hands stuffed in his pockets, feeling more like a pervert than ever before. J or Craig should be doing this shit, not him. This is so far below him it's infuriating. After tonight, Baz better get that stick out of his ass about you.
You pause and Pope ducks back. You dig around through your purse, letting out a soft curse as your head drops to hang between your shoulders. “Dammit.” Pope has no warning as you pivot around, eyes widening as they land on him.
“Oh,” you let out a shrill sound that might have been a laugh and take a large step back from him. “You. Again.” Your eyes dart over his form and he can see as fear settles on you. “I really want to think this is a coincidence.”
Pope’s prolonged silence probably isn’t helping anything. But he genuinely has no excuse that could explain this away. And he knows what he looks like, unblinking, odd, something women don’t want to see following them home.
“You shouldn’t walk home alone,” he finally settles on. The disturbed look on your face doesn’t abate, but you’re also not running.
“Clearly,” you snap. “I knew your family was weird,” you settle on the word carefully and Pope almost laughs. Weird doesn’t even come close to explaining the Codys. He’s not sure any one word could. “But this is a lot.”
Pope shrugs and takes a step closer to you. You don’t move, eyeing him warily. “Do you want a ride back?”
“Are you going to kill me?” He gives you a flat look and you deflate. “Fine. I accidentally left my keys in the bank anyway.” This time, when you walk it’s beside him. Though you keep your purse clutched tightly to your chest, shooting him a wary look every so often.
“Do you want to tell me why you were following me?”
Pope watches you and you don’t shrink away like he expects. You face him head-on, lips set in irritation. “Wanted to check out the new neighbor.” He knows you understand what he means. He’s not looking for a good time, he’s checking out that you’re not going to be a problem.
Finally, you break away from his stare. “I’m boring,” you mutter and he couldn’t agree more. When you reach the parking lot, he waits in the truck while you head back into the bank. He’s shocked you don’t try to make a run for it and, instead, beeline straight toward him.
“Thanks,” you tell him, almost sounding like you mean it. It’s concerning, how easy it was to get you in his car.
Pope doesn’t say anything and you keep quiet all the way back to your house. When you get out, you shoot him a wary look. “Am I going to see you tomorrow?”
“No,” he responds. Baz and Smurf should feel better after all this. You give him a curt nod and he watches as you rush into your house before backing into his own driveway. In the house, everyone's waiting at the table, a family meeting that he hadn’t been warned about.
“Hey, baby,” Smurf smiles and puts a plate of food in front of him as he sits. “You hungry?” He just nods, eyes boring across the table into Baz’s.
“Well?” He prods.
Pope shakes his head. “Harmless, like I said. Works a bank job and goes straight home. It’s just her.”
Baz’s brows lift as Smurf hovers behind him. “Bank job?” She asks, the question anything but innocent. Pope’s stomach turns as his grip tightens around his fork. He just fucked himself right into another week of stalking.
“Could be useful,” Baz mutters. Smurf squeezes his shoulder and nods. Pope doesn’t need to hear the order to know what she wants from him.
For the first time in a week, you find yourself actually taking a lunch break. You rarely have the time for it and you know it’s a bad habit. You’re trying to break it, but with Mike always breathing down your neck, it’s difficult to do so.
Today, though, you’re settled in a sticky booth of the diner closest to the bank. Your nails drum against the table as you wait for your food. Your phone lights up once again, your ex calling you for the fifth time in an hour. The sudden influx of communication is making you wonder if his mom cut him off again.
The door’s bell jingles and you glance up, caught off guard as Andrew walks in. Your eyes narrow and you cross your arms. It’s been a week since you’ve seen him. You figured after that night he tried to follow you home, that was it. Maybe this is just a coincidence, he doesn’t seem to be looking for you.
“Andrew!” Your mouth clamps shut as you curse yourself out. You’re not sure what possessed you to actively vie for his attention, but you’ve got it. He turns toward you, eyes narrowed as he glances at you warily. Maybe he really wasn’t looking for you.
Slowly, he strides toward your table, hands in his pockets as he looms over you. “Want to join me?” You offer.
He seems caught off guard by the invitation, but sits nonetheless. “Fancy seeing you here,” you joke, your laughter trailing off as he remains quiet. You clear your throat and go back to tearing up the paper from your straw. “Do you come here a lot?”
“Why?” The suspicion in his voice is jarring, but you really shouldn’t be surprised.
“Just trying to make conversation,” you toss your hands up and lean back in the booth. Silence permeates the air between you and you shift restlessly.
“I… don’t.” He finally answers, voice stilted. “First time.” You suck your teeth and nod, nails once again drumming against the table. Blessedly, the waitress walks over with your food. Her eyes settle on Andrew as she sets down your plate.
“Can I get you something to eat?”
He shakes his head, “Not hungry.” Your eyes narrow on him as the waitress walks away.
“Don't tell me that you’re still following me.”
“Smurf wants you to come over tonight.” He slips out of the booth and briefly turns to you. “I’ll drive you home.” It’s not a question, there’s no room for argument as he leaves the diner. Your head thunks against the booth’s seat, your appetite suddenly diminished.
True to his word, Andrew had driven you home. He didn’t walk you to your door or wait to make sure you got inside, but you could appreciate that you didn’t have to walk all the way home tonight.
Now, you stand in front of Smurf’s door with a bathing suit on and a fishnet cover-up that makes you feel slightly better about being half-naked around her sons. She opens the door, wearing a similar style bikini to the one you’d first met her in.
“Glad you could make it, sweetheart.” As if you had any choice. You only offer her a tense smile, following as she gestures you inside. “I know Baz wanted to talk to you,” she glances over her shoulder and you force yourself not to grimace.
“Really?” She hums and you both step out toward the pool. Sure enough, Baz is right at the door, pretending to just casually bump into you.
“Hey there, neighbor.” It’s disconcerting how quickly his hand makes itself comfortable on the small of your back. You shoot him a sharp look but he ignores you, urging you toward the bar at the other end of the pool.
Any other setting, any other man, you would shove him off and tell him to leave you alone. But you’re not stupid, you know that there’s something off about these people. However Andrew made all the money he deposited, it wasn’t through any honest means. There’s a gut feeling screaming at you to run away and it just makes you all the more terrified of what might happen should you piss them off.
“I’ve been meaning to check in on you,” Baz says, passing you a beer that you hold with no intention of drinking. Getting drunk around these sorts of people seems like an invitation for life long trauma. “How’re you settling in?”
“Fine,” you tell him, pretending to believe he actually gives a shit about your life and isn’t just pressing you for information. “It’s different from my last place, but it’s not bad.”
“No?” He smirks and some distant part of your brain recognizes that its meant to be charming, but it just makes your skin crawl. “We’re not keeping you up with these parties, are we?”
Yes, “No, I sleep like a rock.” His eyes widen, lips parting with interest, and you suddenly wish you hadn’t said anything at all.
“Really?” He muses, the interest in his tone absolutely nauseating. Luckily, someone calls his name from across the pool and he lets out a sharp breath. “One second, sweetheart, don’t move.” You can hear the underlying threat in his voice but you really could not care at this point. Ditching the beer, you grab a water and take a quick look around the pool.
Almost every lounge chair is filled with multiple people, some doing drugs, others grinding in a way that makes acid burn in your stomach. But there is one shadowed corner, a small perimeter around it like people are afraid to toe their way past. Andrew stands in that little bubble, arms crossed as he glares across the pool.
It takes you a moment to realize that it’s you he’s focused on. It doesn’t unsettle you the way Baz’s poor attempts at charm had. Instead, you find yourself gravitating toward him, hoping for some form of peace in this god-awful party. He straightens as you approach, watching you warily. Or maybe watching you normally. You’re still struggling to figure out the nuances of his glares.
“Mind if I join you?” He says nothing and you take it as an invitation.
“Thought you would be stuck by Baz,” he mutters. There’s something in his tone that has your brows peaking with interest, but you can’t quite decipher his meaning.
You shake your head, placing your glass on a nearby table as you move to stand slightly in front of him. “You know, I think I liked your approach a lot better than his.” He raises a brow and you snort. “I mean, I’d prefer you following me home than having to deal with whatever bullshit was coming out of his mouth.”
Andrew shrugs, but you swear you see his lips curl up slightly. “He comes on too strong.”
A man rams into you before you can respond. You let out a sharp gasp and trip forward. Andrew’s arms shoot up instantly, grabbing you before you can crash into him. The other man lets out a drunken apology as Andrew works to right you.
“Sorry,” you mutter, hands lingering on his chest a moment longer than they should. He’s firm, beefier than you had expected. The slight thrill that shoots through you is cause enough for concern. You already knew your taste in men was bad, but this might be a new low if a chest is what’s getting you hot and bothered now.
“You alright?” He asks and you nod, letting your hands slowly slip away from him. You reach over for your water, frowning at the slightly metallic taste it leaves coated on your tongue. “Hate these things,” he mutters and you’re sure he hadn’t meant for you to hear that.
“Yeah,” you scoff. “So do I. I bet it’s worse for you, though, being at your house and all. You don’t really have any choice but to be here.”
The look he gives you now isn’t assessing or the same blank stare. He seems intrigued, if that’s the right word for it. “Used to have my own place,” he tells you. “They sold it while I was away.”
Your brows furrow and he watches as you work to connect the dots. Away? You think, but then you take in the sort of people you’re surrounded by and only one destination comes to mind. But you’re not about to outright ask the man if he’s been to prison.
You’ll just google it later.
“Damn, that’s brutal,” you mutter. Taking another sip of your water, you find the metallic taste has only grown worse. Sticking your tongue out slightly, you shake your head as you drop it back on the table.
“Is something wrong?” Andrew asks, eyes darting between you and the drink.
“Water just tastes off,” you tell him, shrugging.
His eyes narrow and he begins to reach for it when there’s a loud screech. You jump, whipping around to find a pile-up of bodies, each of them throwing punches as the sound of flesh breaking bone echoes through the party. “Hold on,” he tells you, rushing forward.
You’re not as compelled to leave like you were with Baz. No, you think you might even like to sit down. Your eyes droop as your head begins to grow heavy. Sinking onto a lounge chair you fight off the sudden urge for sleep, confusion fogging your brain as the world around you spins.
“Oh, Jesus,” you mutter, rubbing weakly at your brow. This doesn’t feel right. It’s like you’re floating outside of your body, just barely managing enough control to keep you upright.
“Hey,” Andrew’s voice materializes in front of you. He’s back quicker than you thought he would be. Or maybe time’s just passing by while you’re slowing down. The thought makes an odd-sounding giggle slip past your lips.
Andrew’s face appears before yours as he kneels down, rough hands cupping your cheeks and jerking your head up. You whine at the roughness while his eyes dart across your face. “How much have you had to drink?”
You feel like he knows, he’s been watching you this whole time, after all. Still, you manage to slur out your answer in a slightly comprehensible sentence. “Just the water,” your voice sounds like you're underwater.
Andrew’s thumbs tug at the skin below your eyes, trying to gauge the size of your pupils, the sudden bloodshot look about them. “Fuck,” he hisses and you try to move back, worried it’s you he’s mad at. His grip is firm, though, his hands insistent as he throws your arm over his shoulder and drags you to your feet.
“Come on,” he grits out, carrying the majority of your weight as your feet trip over each other.
“Andrew,” his name comes out wrong, garbled and barely comprehensible. But he manages to understand you, humming in answer as he pulls you through the house. “I feel weird,” you whisper, breath becoming harder to find.
“Yeah, I know you do.” A man whistles as Andrew carries you past, slapping him on the back like he’s just won a prize. Andrew stops and you wonder, briefly, if he’s going to drop you so he can fight the guy. But the other man just goes running off, recognizing his mistake in time.
He keeps going, pushing through the bodies until the cold night air is biting at your cheeks and he’s walking up your driveway. He’s gentler than you expected as he props you against your front door.
“Keys,” he demands, hands gripping your waist so you don’t topple straight into the bushes.
You shake your head, the movement making you painfully nauseous. “Didn’t lock it,” you reach for the handle, palm slipping across it uselessly.
His jaw tightens, eyes narrowing further as he clicks his tongue at you. “Always lock it,” he snaps, tugging you back into his side as he pushes the door open. “What if it wasn’t me walking in here?”
Your eyes narrow, vision blurring. Despite whatever you were slipped, you manage just enough cognitive functioning for an attitude. “How,” you slur, “are you any better than someone else?”
Andrew pauses at that, hesitating at the base of your stairs as you wait for an answer. He stares into your drooping eyes and only huffs before practically carrying you to your bedroom. It’s gentle, the way he sets you down, back pushed against the pillows so you don’t just flop back. But it only takes the brief second he steps away for your eyes to close completely and your body to go limp against your mattress. By the time he returns with a change of clothes, you’re already out.
It’s the sun that wakes you up. Normally, you remember to close your curtains before you pass out. But they’re wide open this morning, blinds pulled up, sun beaming down on you like it’s shaming you.
“Damn,” you drag yourself up, head throbbing as you try to remember what exactly happened last night. You know you went over to the pool, Baz had creeped you out. Briefly, you think you might have spoken to Andrew but that’s where it gets fuzzy.
Glancing up, you would scream if your throat didn’t hurt so much. Andrew sits in the chair by your dresser. His eyes are boring right into you, no malice behind the look, just careful consideration.
You clutch your chest, heart racing under your palm. “Whoo,” you breathe out, giving him an awkward smile. “Give a girl some warning next time,” you attempt to tease but your croaking voice impedes you.
Looking down, you find yourself in one of your sleeping shirts and different underwear. Bile rises in your throat as your mind races to remember even one thing that got you in bed.
“I didn’t look,” he tells you, finally getting to his feet. “But you kept complaining about wanting to change.” He walks toward you, brows set in concern as he takes you in.
Any other man and you probably wouldn’t believe him. You’re not even sure how he could have gotten you out of that suit without a little flash of skin. But you don’t really mind, better him than anyone else in that family. He seems to be the only one who understands the concept of morals.
“What happened?” You ask, grimacing as a pain akin to an ice pick digs its way through your temple.
Hesitantly, as if you might shout at him to get away, he perches at the end of your bed. His hands rest near you, he’s probably waiting for you to keel over.
“Think someone slipped you something,” he mutters, head tilting as his eyes trace over your pained expression. No shit. “I don’t know what it was, wanted to make sure you didn’t asphyxiate in your sleep.”
You look at him, frowning, and he nods toward something by your nightstand. You find a bucket by your feet, filled with what seems to be fresh vomit. “Oh god,” you groan, body crumpling under the weight of your mortification.
“I’m so sorry.” The thought of him having to stay up all night taking care of you makes you feel even worse than you do now. But beneath the shame and embarrassment, there is the smallest semblance of appreciation. Most guys would dump you at home and leave, Andrew’s practically a stranger and he took better care of you than your ex ever did.
“Why are you apologizing?” Blunt, like always, he gives you a sharp look. “It’s not your fault.”
“Feels like it,” you grumble. Hesitantly, you get to your feet, weak knees buckling slightly beneath you. Andrew stands, hand outstretched as you pick up the bucket and hobble toward your bathroom. “I should know better than to just leave my drink unattended like that.”
Andrew scoffs as you struggle to dump and clean the bucket. “Maybe people should just know better than to slip you something,” he mutters. He comes up beside you, taking the bucket from your hands and washing it out for you.
“Thank you,” you whisper, leaning against your bathroom counter as another wave of nausea builds up in your stomach. “You know, I’ve been roofied before,” his head whips up and you offer a wry grin. “Don’t remember it feeling like this.”
You think it’s the casualness of your statement that catches him so off guard. But mickied drinks had practically been a rite of passage at your university. Doesn’t make it good, but it softens the sharp edge of disappointment in humanity when you grow so used to it.
You let out a low groan and clamp your hand over your mouth, absolutely refusing to throw up in front of him. Again. Andrew drops the bucket in your tub and takes quick steps toward you. His hands wrap around your waist, head ducking to see the off-colored pallor of your skin.
“I think you should lie back down.”
Shaking your head, you let out another whine of discomfort. “I can’t,” you object. “I’ll be late to work.” Glancing at your nightstand’s clock, your stomach plummets. “Dammit, later than I already am.”
Andrew’s brows furrow and he shakes his head incredulously. “You’re not going in.”
“If only it were that simple,” you let out a low laugh. As reluctant as you are, you push his hands away, already missing the warmth he’d provided. “Mike already wants to fire me, I can’t give him any more ammo.”
His eyes narrow and he backs off. For a second, you think he’s actually going to listen. Then his hands are wrapping around your biceps and you’re letting out a surprised gasp. “Andrew!” You object, absolutely too weak to fight him as he wrestles you back toward your bed.
“I can’t,” you snap, futilely pushing at his arms. He says nothing, just lifts you up and plants you stubbornly on the mattress.
“Stay here,” he tells you, finger in your face like you’re a misbehaving dog.
You slap his hand away with a glare. “I’m going to miss the bus, Andrew. I can’t just stay home.”
He crosses his arms, completely silent as he stares down at you. For some reason, you can feel guilt bubbling in your gut and shrink back into your pillows. There’s also a shameful heat brewing between your legs at how easily he manhandled you back to bed. How firm he is in making sure you’re okay.
After years of nothing but men who wanted to be coddled and taken care of, you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be on the receiving end of someone’s concern.
You like it a little too much.
“Stay,” is all he says as he walks out of your room, door shut firmly behind him. Your eyes narrow and you debate, for a moment, simply ignoring him and going to work.
You think being on the receiving end of his frustration might be even more interesting than this side of him. But some ridiculous part of you wants to listen, to do what he says so you might finally get something wriggled from that cold exterior of his.
With a dramatic huff, you toss yourself on your pillows. Prepared to stew for the rest of the day, you’re completely caught off guard by the sudden wave of exhaustion coming over you. Sighing, you promise to just let your eyes rest for a few minutes.
You’re out like a light in thirty seconds.
When you wake up it’s already four and you know there is no hope of making it to work. It’s not like you’re eager to deal with irritated clients all day while nursing the effects of getting drugged. But you are truly worried Mike is going to hold this over your head.
With nothing better to do, you take a shower and change your sheets to get rid of the smell of mistakes and vomit. As you’re transferring your comforter to the dryer, you hear the distinct click of your front door opening and closing.
Your hands freeze on your wet sheets while your body goes stiff.
Slowly, you creep out of the laundry room and tilt your head down the stairs. Plastic crinkles in your kitchen, cabinets opening and closing as dishes are retrieved. Despite the fact that you should be terrified, at the very least be grabbing some sort of weapon, you find yourself walking down the stairs without a care in the world. Subconsciously, you know who it is, and you should be afraid of him but you can’t find it in you.
“Hi,” you say dumbly, watching as Andrew dumps what looks like wonton soup into a bowl for you.
His head lifts and he lets out a huff. “You need to start locking your door.”
You shrug, taking a seat at your island and watching him move through your kitchen like he’s been here before. “How would you have gotten in?”
Andrew’s shoulders tense as he sets your bowl in front of you, slamming it harder than necessary. “Lock your door,” he warns. Rolling your eyes, you take the spoon he offers you and frown. He balls up the take-out bag, trashing it, and you realize he hasn’t brought anything for himself.
With a sigh, you hop out of your seat and grab another bowl. He watches as you split the soup between the two of you with a displeased look. “I’m not hungry,” he tells you.
“I don’t care,” you reply offhandedly, sliding him a bowl like you didn’t google him and figure out he was in jail for three years for armed robbery. Sentenced to six, apparently, but got out early on good behavior. At the very least, it wasn’t for murder.
Andrew glares down at the bowl, arms crossed and your tentative smile falls. “Please,” you implore, “I don’t like eating alone.”
He takes it, though you know he doesn’t want to. “I got it for you.”
You shrug, taking your seat once more. “Why did you, anyway?” You don’t usually look a gift horse in the mouth, but it’s hard to believe that a reformed felon is just going around fetching his neighbors' soup.
Andrew wraps his hand around the spoon, but doesn’t make any move to eat. Your head tilts as you take in the scars along his knuckles, spots where the skin has split and healed over one too many times. It should just push you further from him but you find yourself more enticed. After all, why would a man like him have any interest in taking care of you?
“You don’t eat,” his voice is low, the words a shameful secret he wasn’t ready to admit.
Your brows furrow as you process what he said. Glancing over at him, a wry smile finds its way to your lips at the little splotch of color you spot on his cheeks. “Are you still watching me?” You laugh off a sentiment that should have you calling his parole officer.
Andrew rubs the back of his neck, gaze pointed down at the soup. “Not really,” he says awkwardly, not even believing himself.
Giving him a break, you go back to eating. “Well, you’re right. I was probably just going to eat some saltines and call it a night.” The huff he lets out shocks a laugh out of you. Slowly, Andrew picks the spoon up and starts to eat. You’ll count it as progress to thawing him out.
At 8:30, you’re already running late to catch the bus. Tugging on your heels, you let out an aggrieved sigh as someone knocks on your door. Frowning, you double-check the time and throw open the door.
Andrew stands there, scowl disapproving as you give him a small smile. “Did you even check who was at the door?”
You consider lying but the way his eyes narrow into slits swats the idea away. “No.” You grab your bag and usher him back as you close the door. “What’s up?”
“I’m giving you a ride,” it’s all he says. Blunt, concise, not even an offer. Heat flushes through you as he takes your keys from your hand and pointedly locks your door. You almost wish he would scold you again.
His hand hovers over the small of your back as he guides you to his truck. You fight back a shudder at the warmth he emanates while he’s not even touching you.
You’re slightly taken aback when Andrew opens up the truck door for you, even offering you a hand up when your heel slips. The brush of his calloused hand against yours is enough to send warmth flooding your body, an ache settling between your legs.
As he rounds the front of his truck, you resist banging your head against the dashboard. You only just got out of a bad relationship a few months ago. You should not be so fucking eager to jump some man’s bones. Especially not when that man is a known felon and his family is probably full of them.
Andrew gets in and you jolt up, forcing your back straight and a strained smile on your face. The last few times you were in his truck, you had been more worried about what he was going to do with you to pay attention to the interior. But as you look around now, you’re taken aback by how clean it is. It’s practically spotless, not a speck of dust on the dashboard or even an abandoned bag of chips on the floorboard. It could be new, but you’re certain that Andrew just knows how to take care of his things.
Is it completely wrong that it only makes you hotter for him?
The drive is quiet, as it has been the last few times you’ve been with him. You’re surprised when you turn the radio on and he doesn’t object. You were starting to wonder if he’s quiet just because he prefers the silence or if it’s because he doesn’t know anything else anymore.
He was in prison, you’re certain he was probably thrown in solitary a few times. You can imagine silence became a habit rather than comfort.
When he parks and gets out of the truck, you’re just surprised enough to allow him time to make it to your side and open the door for you. The sudden surge of gentlemanly conduct is odd, to say the least, but you won’t pretend it doesn’t endear him to you further.
You wonder if this is how men in the 1800s felt when they saw a flash of ankle as you slip your hand into Andrew’s again and practically salivate at the feeling. “Thank you,” you murmur quietly. He only nods, not stepping back, letting your hand rest in his. But you grow worried about your palm being clammy and pull back before he can feel it.
Andrew glances at your hand and you swear you almost see disappointment on his face. “Um,” you clear your throat. “My lunch break is at one. Do you have any plans?”
You’re not the type to make the first move. You learned a while ago that if you’re the one who has to start the relationship, you’re going to be the only one participating in it. But something about Andrew gives you a boost of assurance you’ve never experienced before.
His eyes meet yours, lips in a flat line as you struggle to read the intricacies of his expression. “Can’t. Family meeting,” he explains vaguely. Your eyes widen as mortification draws the color from your skin.
“Right, right,” you clear your throat and back away from him, suddenly desperate to get inside the bank and have Mike yelling at you. “Well, uh, thanks for the ride.” He nods and you’re quick to rush into the bank, your lonely stall calling for you as you try and toss Andrew Cody from your mind.
Pope watches you go, he almost laughs at how quickly you run off. He probably should have clarified that he would like to have lunch with you, he wasn’t outright rejecting you. But, he figures he can just explain that to you when he picks you up after work today.
His phone buzzes and he rolls his eyes as Baz’s name invades his messages.
Get some info about the security switch-off from her
We don’t want to wait much longer but you’re taking a while here Pope
Pope considers responding when another message comes through.
Don’t forget to act like a human, don’t want you scaring her off too early
With a discontent huff, he shoves his phone back in his pocket and climbs back into his truck. He can just barely make you out through the bank's window. That old man from the other day is right back at the front of your line. You’re not great at hiding how you’re feeling and Pope almost laughs at the way your lips are curled up in disgust. He debates going in there and getting rid of him for you, but it would seem suspicious.
You already caught him watching you once. He needs you to think this is something else. Something more intimate. It's the best way to get your guard down, to get the information that Baz and Smurf want so this job can be over and done with.
So that you can be over and done with.
You’re getting used to the sight of Andrew’s car and what should scare you only serves to further excite you. As you wave goodbye to the security guard, John, you see Andrew get out and wait for you on the passenger side.
“If you don’t stop, I’m going to start getting used to this,” you warn him as you walk up.
He only shrugs, holding open the door for you, offering you a hand. “You shouldn’t be walking home alone,” his tone sounds like admonishment.
You almost ask him about his day when he gets in, but he beats you to the punch. “Did you eat today?”
You purse your lips and shake your head, receiving a barely-there scowl in return. “Mike had me work through lunch to make up for my no-show yesterday.” In response, Andrew doesn’t take the left turn back to your neighborhood, he goes right instead.
Narrowing your eyes, you stare at him suspiciously. “Kidnapping me?”
He only shakes his head, shooting you what you desperately want to be a playful glare. “Feeding you,” he clarifies. “Would’ve gone to lunch with you if Baz hadn’t been up my ass.” He mutters it under his breath, quiet in a way you know you’re not meant to hear.
“What did he want?” You find yourself asking, curiosity winning out over survival instincts.
Andrew stiffens, fingers tightening imperceptibly around the wheel as he shrugs. “Nothing important,” he dismisses, tone closed off in a way you know means the conversation is over.
Something tightens in your chest, the first real warning of threat you’ve felt around him. You dismiss it as nerves and shift uncomfortably in your seat. “Where are we heading?” You ask, attempting to gauge what his intention is here.
It’s pretty simple, a quiet, intimate restaurant and you know he means it as a date. Somewhere loud, however, slightly crowded and better for beer with buddies than going out with a woman, you know he’s just being strangely friendly.
“Here,” he nods and your stomach plummets as you watch him pull into Larry’s parking lot. A pub you’d grown acquainted with quite intimately when you were still with Colin. The same place he always liked to ditch you to get drunk with his buddies. The atmosphere inside dashes any hope of Andrew caring about you outside of your general welfare.
With a disappointed sigh, you help yourself out of the truck before Andrew can. He scowls and you ignore him, trying to tamp down any sharp jabs. It’s not his fault that he got your hopes up. That he got you all hot and bothered after showing you that half-decent men still do exist.
Andrew trails slightly behind you as you walk inside. “Oh,” the host’s eyes light up and you offer a brief smile. “I haven't seen you in forever.” Robby rounds the stand to give you a side hug that you barely return.
In a second, Andrew’s at your side, gaze darting between the two of you suspiciously. Robby pulls back with an awkward chuckle and grabs menus for both of you. “Come on,” he nods. You shoot Andrew an odd look but he doesn’t offer any explanation as Robby seats you both.
The second you’re seated, the atmosphere floods over your table. Loud, drunken conversations fill the air, five different sports commentary blasts on the TV. It’s so much that you nearly jump out of your seat and just book it home. Your fingers clench around the menu as you force yourself to stay seated and just remain calm.
Andrew grimaces as he looks around, seemingly regretting his choice. “Have you not been here before?” You ask.
He glances back at you and shakes his head. You’re honestly shocked he actually heard you. “I’m assuming you have.”
You nod and prop your head on your hand. “My ex used to drag me here all the time.” Andrew’s knuckles whiten as his grip goes deathly tight around his menu. With a low breath, he sets the menu down and his features soften into something you can’t place.
“I didn’t know it was going to be like this,” he tells you. Your eyes narrow and a little bit of hope blooms inside of you.
“Can I be honest with you?” He nods, leaning further over the table so he can actually hear you. You don’t have to, but you find yourself inching closer until your noses are nearly touching. You can feel the heat radiating off his cheeks and it only provokes you.
“I thought this was going to be a date.” Andrew pulls away slightly and you bite back a laugh at the first real emotion you’ve wrenched from him. He’s flustered, clearly, but he also seems incredibly caught off guard.
“You did?” You let out a low hum and nod, slowly sinking back into your seat. “Did you want it to be a date?” He asks, hesitant and completely unsure of himself.
There’s a slight crack to his voice, vulnerability shining through in a way that makes your chest ache. “Yeah,” you huff out a laugh. “I wanted it to be a date.” Slipping out of the booth, you hold out your hand to him.
His eyes dart between you and your open palm before he, very slowly, places his calloused hand in yours. “What are you doing?” You roll your eyes and tug him out of the booth. You know that if he wanted to, he could have just planted his feet and stayed where he was. But he lets you drag him out of the restaurant, hand squeezing yours slightly as you head back to the truck.
“I’ll make us dinner,” you tell him. “Then we can have a proper date.” You stop, lingering by the passenger door. His eyes are boring into yours and you swallow, some of your bravado slipping away. “That is, if that’s what you want?”
When his lips curl up, the first real sign of any semblance to a smile you’ve gotten, you know you have your answer.
It becomes a habit. Andrew picks you up, drops you off, sometimes he brings you lunch or you just see him at the end of the day when he drives you back home. Most of the time, he stays. Coming inside and helping you make dinner since your last attempt ended with you somehow managing to burn spaghetti.
It’s been innocent, a kiss on the cheek, or you reaching across the console to hold his hand while he drives. The majority of the time, you initiate the touch and he just reciprocates. You worry sometimes that you’re projecting your own desires onto him, not taking into account what he might want.
But he hasn’t objected, hasn’t ever pulled his hand away or told you to stop. You hope that means he doesn’t mind how affectionate you can be when you really care about someone.
You’re completely unaware of just how much the small kindnesses mean to him. Unaware that when he’s around you, he’s not Pope or a Cody, he’s just Andrew. He almost feels normal around you, like he’s just some regular guy who got lucky when he asked the pretty bank teller out.
Every time you touch him, kiss his cheek, and are just willingly in his presence without being intimidated, he thinks that he might be worth something. The feeling never lasts long, fading every time he goes back to his own house. It’s completely wrenched away by Baz or Smurf demanding updates, seeing if he’s gotten any decent information out of you.
He has, not that he’s told them yet. You let it slip that there was a transport coming through on Thursday, lots of cash that Mike will probably want to take a dive in. And then, when he’d come in to bring you lunch, you complained that the security guard was late. Let it slip that there’s a ten-minute gap every day at one when they switch shifts.
It’s enough for Smurf and Baz. He could tell them all of this and they’d relent, tell him to ditch you. Make sure you’re oblivious as he ghosts you and they take what they want. But he doesn’t want that. He wants to keep standing next to you and making dinner. To pick you up and drop you off like you’re actually something real that he has to look forward to.
Andrew pulls into your driveway, the routine becoming more familiar to him than when he goes into his actual home. As always, he opens the door for you, takes your hand and leads you up the steps of your porch. He likes to linger on nights like tonight when he can’t come in. Baz and Smurf want him home tonight and he knows they’re not going to be giving him any leeway.
But he’s almost tempted to say screw it when you turn toward him, eyes shining under your porch light, expression earnest as you smile up at him. “Do you want to come inside?”
It’s completely innocent, your question, something you’ve asked a hundred times before. That doesn’t abate the ache in his jeans and that tight feeling in his chest every time you look at him like this. Like he’s actually someone you want around and aren’t just using.
Not like he’s using you.
A hot flush of shame shoots through him and he shakes his head. “I can’t tonight.” Your lips turn down in disappointment and he wants to take it back immediately, but he forces his mouth shut.
“Alright,” you take his hands in yours and lean up toward him. He expects the usual kiss on the cheek, even looks forward to it. What he doesn’t expect is your lips brushing against his, arms winding around his neck as you pull back with a smile like you didn’t just stun him into silence.
His eyes narrow and when you let that breathy little laugh of yours slip out, he loses any semblance of self-control. Not that he had much to begin with.
Your shocked gasp against his mouth is enough for him to trace his tongue along the seam of your lips. And when you practically moan, body sinking against his, he can’t help himself. His hand cups the back of your head, pushing you up against your front door and slotting his thigh between yours.
Something warm stabs through him, slightly unpleasant and completely unfamiliar. It’s a feeling he only ever experiences around you and it never stops being overwhelming. Never stops drowning out any thoughts except ones that revolve around you, how you feel, how you make him feel.
You pull back, laughing when he chases your lips. “Andrew,” there’s a low purr in your voice when you say his name, has his hands tightening around your waist. When you ask, “Would you like to come inside?” He doesn’t say no, just opens the door, lifting you into his arms and not stopping until you’re breathless and smiling up at him on your bed.
He doesn’t make it home until after he’s dropped you off the next morning. He’d ignored all the missed calls last night, shutting off his phone so he could enjoy the feeling of your arms around him. It was surreal, waking up beside someone who his mother hadn’t paid off or he’d gotten drunk with and didn’t remember her name.
You’d held him in a way no one ever has before and it only made that piercing pain of guilt thicken in his chest. It’s practically suffocating as he steps inside, finds Smurf waiting for him with crossed arms and an expectant look.
“You didn’t come home last night, baby.” She says, watching as he brushes past her and grabs water from the fridge. He needs something to do with his hands, anything to not look up at her and see that she knows what he’s done. His hands flex, twisting the bottle cap around as the plastic creaks beneath his grip.
“Have fun with the neighbor?” She asks, tone innocent as she begins plating up the breakfast he’d missed. He doesn’t tell her that you already fed him, had taken care of him without expecting anything in return.
Again, Andrew stays silent, he’s already given too much away just by coming home late. “If I didn't know any better, baby, I’d say you actually like her.” She drops the plate in front of him, crossing her arms as she leans against the island. “But I know my baby boy, don’t I?”
It’s an effort not to jerk away as she drags her hand across his shoulders, smiling at him. “You’re taking too long, hun. I had to stop Baz from going over there last night, just getting the information he wanted and getting rid of the girl.”
Andrew’s hands tighten around the bottle, water seeping from the top. White hot rage flashes through him and he imagines the bottle is Baz’s neck for a moment. Smurf laughs, already knowing what he’s thinking.
“I’m not going to be able to control him much longer.” She could, she just doesn’t want to. “I’d hate for anything to happen to that sweet girl.” Her tone is laced with venom and Andrew’s head drops, knuckles white as he grips the counter. “Do you have what I need, baby?”
It’s because he cares about you so much that he tells her what he’s learned. He knows her words are never empty threats. Baz will hurt you, she will hurt you, if he doesn’t give them what he wants. He knows he’s trying to protect you, but that doesn’t lessen the weight of guilt.
It’s almost one, right around the time Andrew usually stops by if he’s decided to bring you lunch that day. You figure, after last night, he probably will visit. The thought sends a thrill up your spine that makes you giddy.
You really hadn’t intended for last night to go in the direction it did, but you weren’t complaining. And he hadn’t been either. Still warmed by the memories of the night, you check your watch.
The second hand ticks and it’s exactly one. John gets up, heading to the back to take his break while Nathan will take his time coming back from his lunch. The paperwork from yesterday’s delivery has finally been completed and you stand up from your stall, getting ready to pass it off to Sheila so she can look it over.
At exactly 1:01, the doors to the bank burst open and three masked men rush in. “Everybody down!” It’s shock, you think, that’s why you’re standing frozen. Why you’re not just doing what the big men with even larger guns say.
Then, he’s pulling the trigger, bullets embedding themself into the ceiling as the chandelier creaks dangerously above you all. Finally, your system shocks itself back to life and you’re dropping to the floor. Your fingers itch to press the emergency button beneath your stall, but one of the men has already found his way behind the divider.
“You!” He points at you and your heart beats an erratic rhythm against your ribs. He stomps over, grabbing your arm and wrenching you to your feet. A strangled noise slips through your lips, your coworkers cower as they watch you with misty eyes.
The tallest of all of them keeps his guns pointed at those on the ground. Then the shortest man comes running over, trailing behind you and the one holding you. He drags you to the vault and shoves you into the metal door.
Your palms sting as you catch yourself and it takes every iota of survival instinct you have not to give him a nasty glare. “You know the drill,” and he chuckles, the noise muffled beneath his hood. As if this is all one big joke.
Your fingers tremble over the lock pad as you shake your head. You try and step back but there’s a firm hand, almost familiar, easing you forward again. Your gaze shoots to the short one and he nods at the vault. “We’re not gonna hurt you if you just let us in. There doesn’t have to be any trouble.”
His voice is off, as if he’s purposely speaking strangely. Maybe it’s a way for them to mask their identity further. All it does now is serve to unsettle you even worse.
Then, there’s a cold plunge in your body, everything going still when you feel something dull and metal pressing into your side.
“Or,” the other one drawls. “I shoot you right here and we just go get one of your friends to open this for us.” The short one’s hand tightens around your shoulder and you grimace. He releases you instantly.
“Come on,” that sleazy voice is almost familiar to you. But maybe it’s just your mind playing tricks. “I’ve seen you take the money in here, sweetheart. I know you know how to get in.”
Your breath stutters, terror wraps tight around your throat and blocks any further air. “You’ve been watching me,” you whisper, already reaching forward to punch in the code. The taller one hums with delight, gun easing as you slip your key from your blazer’s pocket. It doesn’t take long for the vault door to pop open.
The shorter man grabs the handle before you can, letting out a low groan as he tugs the heavy door open further. “Alright, come on,” the other one’s got his hands on you again. Your skin feels like it's going to rip under his tight grip, but you don’t say a word, just follow obediently behind him.
This all feels wrong. Like this is someone else’s life and you’ve just accidentally walked into it. You have poor luck, sure, but not this bad. This can’t be real, you swear to yourself. And it’s all you repeat as they open their bags, forcing you to stuff them full as you empty the safety deposit boxes.
They call the other one in the vault but there’s a dull buzzing in your ears and you barely hear what they say at all. The only thing you can truly focus on is the gun still pointed at your chest. “Alright,” he shoulders his bags and you can almost feel him grinning at you.
“On your knees, sweetheart.” Your stomach twists, bile racing up your throat as cold panic wraps around you.
“Hey!” The short one barks, but the other man just holds up his hand.
“Come on,” he urges, lifting his gun and leveling it with your face. Slowly, you drop to your knees the dull thud of cement is a welcome shock to your body. He kneels in front of you but you refuse to meet his eyes through the holes of his mask. You just bite your lip, stare boring into the ground beneath you and pray you wake up from one long nightmare.
“Let’s go, man!” Sirens begin to sound closer and you would be relieved if this man wasn’t still in front of you.
He doesn’t listen to his partner, just tips your chin up with the end of his gun. “You say a goddamn word about any of this, I will find you and I will hurt you, sweetheart.”
What could you possibly say?
Finally, you lift your head, meeting sharp blue eyes. Something stutters in your chest, mind racing to shove down the sudden familiarity you see in this man’s gaze. Slowly, you nod and he finally backs off, racing through the vault door. The shorter man lingers a second longer but when you don’t move he follows after his partner.
It isn’t until you hear the police rush into the bank that you finally collapse against the ground. Pained sobs wrack your body as you struggle to breathe deeply enough to get your heart rate under control.
Your name flashes on Andrew’s screen and Baz sends him a sharp look. “Don’t want to look suspicious now, do we?”
Andrew rips his mask off and glares at Baz. “If you’d stuck to the fucking plan, we wouldn’t have anything to worry about.” Craig glances between them both, looking at them like he doesn’t feel like breaking up a fight today.
Baz glares and pushes off the wall of the semi-trailer they’d hid themselves in. “Maybe if you hadn’t done that reassuring bullshit, I wouldn’t have had to threaten her.”
Rage surges through Andrew’s body, your ringtone going off over and over again as he and Baz stare at one another. “You wanted to,” Andrew grits out. “I got you the info you wanted, did what you asked, but you still wanted to hurt her.”
Baz sees the way Andrew takes a step forward and knows this is a fight he won’t win. Again, he nods to Andrew’s phone. “Answer the fucking call, Pope.”
If it weren’t you, if it were anyone else calling, Andrew would have just drilled Baz into the fucking ground. But he’s right, this will look suspicious if he just keeps ignoring your calls. Besides, after the shit Baz pulled, you’re probably terrified.
With one last glare at Baz, he picks up the phone, turning his back to the other men. “Hey, what’s going on?”
Your voice is tight and panicked on the other end, tone clogged like you’ve been crying. It just makes that ache in his chest burn worse and he hates himself a little bit more. For letting you get wrapped up in this. For ever pretending like he wasn’t going to get selfishly attached to you.
“Andrew! The bank was just-” you suck in a sharp breath and his anger only intensifies as your voice cracks. “Can you come get me, please? I need you.”
This is what he’s wanted this whole time. For Smurf and Baz to be appeased. For you to need him so badly you don’t have the choice of leaving. So why does he feel so shitty? “I’m pretty far away, it’ll take me a little bit.”
You blubber, another sob drowning out your voice. “Okay,” you finally whisper and Andrew hangs up, knowing he doesn’t deserve you. He doesn’t deserve those small moments of kindness you’d gifted him, where he’d felt like a person again. Not some attack dog or errand boy. You made him feel real and he’d just held you at gunpoint.
By the time he picks up his truck and drives back to the bank, you’re gone. He wanted to ask the people still there if they’d seen you leave. But he doesn’t need the cops seeing his face right after a freshly robbed bank.
His chest is tight with panic as he peels out of the lot. You hadn’t called him that long ago. Thirty minutes, maybe. If he’s lucky, one of your coworkers offered you a ride and you just didn’t feel like waiting anymore. He knows he’s never lucky, though. He thought he had been with you and he’s already tainted this fragile thing you had between each other.
The dread that’s been brewing since you called is only worsened when he pulls into your driveway and sees you waiting on your front steps. He barely manages to get the truck in park before he jumps out.
You don’t twitch, don’t move an inch as he runs toward you. And that aching, festering feeling that burns inside him, it’s telling him a truth he’s not ready to admit. This is it. You’re too smart not to know what happened. And Baz was too much of a dumbass to just keep quiet and stay distant.
This is what he wanted, Andrew is sure, to get you away from him so Smurf has her dog back.
“Hey,” his hands cup your cheeks and a little piece of him finds hope when you don’t push him away. “What happened? You weren’t at the bank.”
Finally, you lift your gaze to meet his. The color of your eyes is dulled, face flat in an infuriating way he can’t read. “I didn’t want to wait. Walked home.” Andrew’s eyes dip to the heels resting beside your feet, the red backs of your ankles.
“Why?” He already knows why, but that doesn’t stop his hands from drifting down your legs, trying to soothe away the ache he knows has settled in your calves.
You let him just kneel before you for a little while. He can’t find the courage to meet your eye, hands just moving over your soft skin because he knows that this is it. Subconsciously, he can recognize that this sudden emptiness in your eyes isn’t because of what happened today. It's because of who was there. You’re keeping yourself hidden from him and he wonders if this is how you always feel around him.
“Andrew,” you whisper and his hands tighten around your leg. “Look at me,” your voice is so disarmingly soft and he knows it's a trap, but he obeys because he doesn’t know what else to do.
“I’m going to ask this once,” you tell him, hand lifting to cup his cheek. He leans into your touch, soaking it up greedily as your thumb smooths over the planes of his face. “Were you there today?”
It’s like everything goes cold. Your hand stops moving, grip tightening around his jaw as your eyes flatten into something sharp. His heart skips a beat once before he’s sucking in a sharp breath. He can’t lie to you, he doesn’t want to, but he can’t hurt his family and outright admit his guilt.
Silence lingers between you before you’re ripping your hand away and he’s trying to chase after your warmth. Your legs kick out, gently getting rid of his hands as you finally stand. Andrew follows, palms outstretched, unsure of what he’s supposed to do with himself when you’re right there and he isn’t allowed to hold you.
“Oh,” you whisper and there’s a grin on your face that’s cold and slightly panicked. “I fucking knew it. I knew it and I still gave you a chance!”
Andrew shakes his head, but you just wave him off, not interested in anything he might have to say to you. “I was nothing but a mark to you, right? An easy way to get access to the vault, to figure out the quickest way in and out. Jesus, I just handed it to you, I actually fell for your bullshit.”
“No,” Andrew objects, following you as you climb up your stairs. “It wasn’t bullshit, none of it was.”
You whip around on him, eyes glassy as you stare at him with something that looks painfully like hatred. “You got what you wanted, Pope,” you hiss the name out and it breaks something inside of him. “Tell Baz he doesn’t have to worry, I won’t be calling the cops. I don’t want anything to do with you people anymore. Got it? Stay the hell away from me.”
Andrew tries to follow you, but you slam the door in his face. He lingers there longer than he should, eyes boring into the wood like you might change your mind and open it. But he heard the lock click a while ago and he knows you meant every word. He can’t blame you, shouldn’t blame you. Honestly, not calling the cops is more than he ever could have asked of you.
But logic doesn’t abate the anger, the sharp, barbed pain inside his chest. You hadn’t given him a chance to explain. You didn’t believe how much you meant to him and he had tried to show you constantly. You just tossed it all aside like it meant nothing. But it wasn’t nothing.
Andrew knows that.
It meant something. It meant everything to him and he can’t just let you pretend it never happened.
The bed dips behind you and you grumble tiredly, flipping over as you try to yank the blankets up to your chin. There’s a weight on them, though, pulling them down and away from you. Ever so slowly, the fogginess of sleep begins to fade and your brain shocks itself awake.
There is someone on the bed behind you.
Trying not to breathe too loudly, you lift your head and peer over your shoulder. You aren’t surprised when you recognize Andrew’s hunched form, the moonlight from your open window giving a good enough view.
With a loud huff, you flip on your lamp and leap out of bed. His shoulders jump but he doesn’t turn to face you. “What the fuck do you not get about staying away from me?” You snap. Your anger only grows when he remains silent.
“Fucker,” you mutter under your breath, rounding your bed so you can see his face. Your feet still, anger abating for a moment as you take in the redness along his cheeks. As if he’s been crying. But you’ve never seen Andrew cry before, you weren’t even sure he was capable of it.
At his prolonged silence, something wedges itself into your chest, apprehension and nervousness. He’s quiet but this isn’t normal. Baz’s threat from earlier rings in your head as you slowly approach him. Andrew doesn’t meet your eye until you drop to your knees in front of him.
Bloodshot and weary, you know he really has been crying. It tugs on something in you. That soft, weak part of yourself that’s so used to caring for other people, you can hardly resist the urge now. Your hands lift and cup his cheeks, brows furrowing as you take in the devastation on his face.
“Andrew…” You trail off, speechless as he nuzzles into your hand, eyes falling shut. “What’s wrong?”
It takes a long while for him to speak, but you just wait, dread building with every second. Passively, you smooth your hands over his cheeks, attempting to keep him calm. The last thing you need is Andrew snapping and you being the nearest target.
“She’s doing it again,” he finally whispers, hands coming up to trap your own.
Swallowing down the lump in your throat, you ask, “Doing what, honey?”
He shudders at the pet name, melting further into you until he’s nearly on the floor with you. “Smurf, what she did with Cath…” He shakes his head and you can feel it, the slight buildup before someone begins to cry. Slowly, you creep forward, arms winding around his neck as you pull him into your embrace.
Andrew clings to you instantly, head buried in your shoulder as you drag your fingers through his curls. You hope he can’t feel how your heart is racing against your ribs, that he can’t sense just how scared you are right now.
You’re not scared of him, not really. But you know what Smurf is capable of. You know how deep mothers like that can embed themselves in their son’s head. It’s her that’s terrifying to you. “Who’s Cath, sweetheart?”
He shudders again, arm winding tight around your waist. “I loved her,” he whispers the admission into your skin and it feels like something no one was ever meant to hear. “Smurf, she told me Cath talked to the cops, I,” he cuts himself off and you feel your breath catch in your chest. “I hurt her,” he finally settles on. But that’s not the whole truth. You can feel it, can hear it in how his voice cracks.
He killed her.
You jerk back, jumping to your feet. Andrew lets out a low noise, eyes cloudy and cheeks ruddy. He stares up at you, hurt by how quickly you pulled away from him. “Andrew,” it’s a Herculean effort to keep your voice steady. “Is that why you’re here? Did Smurf send you to hurt me?”
His eyes drop to the floor, posture slipping under the weight of shame. “Yes,” he finally whispers.
This time you can’t stop the way your voice cracks. “Are you going to?”
Andrew’s head whips up, eyes wide as he stares up at you. “No,” his voice breaks around the word. You step forward as his hands reach out, wrapping around your hips and tugging you closer to him. “No, I’m not,” he insists and you really want to believe him.
He sees it, the fear in your eyes. In the one person he never wants to see looking at him like that. “You don’t believe me,” he mutters, head falling forward as his forehead rests against the softness of your stomach.
Your hands go to his back, scratching through his hair and trying to use your touch to ground him. “I believe you, Andrew. I just,” you hesitate, eyes darting around the room like you might be able to find an escape. “I don’t know why you’re here if you’re not going to listen to her.”
He sucks in a deep breath, face nuzzling into the softness you provide before he pulls back. You startle as he stands, eyes wide as he keeps his grip on your hips and tugs you even closer. His eyes lose the softness of sorrow, narrow into something harsher.
“You can’t stay here. Smurf expects you gone and if you’re not, she’s just gonna send Baz.” You tense under his grip and his thumbs draw circles into your skin, as if that would calm you after threat of death.
Andrew reaches into his back pocket and you watch as he pulls out a large envelope. He passes it off to you, slightly reluctant to release it as you take it from him. You move away from him, dumping the contents on the bed. An ID, a passport, and a thick stack of cash sit in front of you.
“Got you a new license plate, too. I already put it on.” He stands beside you, eyes boring into the side of your head. You can hardly breathe, let alone try and muster up a response. Tentatively, his hand lands on your back, the touch is enough to have you jolting back.
“Andrew, what is this?” You know. You know what it is, no part of you wants to admit, though.
“You have to go,” he whispers your name and you shake your head, body going numb. “Yes,” he insists. “It’s that or Smurf sends someone else to deal with you.”
“And,” you stutter slightly, scrubbing your hands down your face. Not only were you held at gunpoint today by your boyfriend, and then broke up with him. Now, he’s standing here telling you his mother wants you dead.
Death or change your identity.
This is why you had sworn to yourself no more mama’s boys. Now look where you are.
“Are you coming?” You ask, noticing that the only identification there is for you. Andrew pulls back and your heart drops. “Tell me you’re joking,” you snap.
That sad look in his eyes is all the confirmation you need. Swallowing down tears, you try to turn from him. His hands snap up, grabbing your jaw and forcing you to meet his eye. “I can’t just leave,” his tone is desperate, eyes imploring you to understand. “I’m sorry but I can’t.”
“Fine,” you whisper, reality settling like a stone in your gut. “If I’m doing this right, then I guess this is it.” His brows furrow and you let out a shaky exhale. “Goodbye, Andrew,” you tell him, pushing up to press a light kiss on his cheek.
Despite the fact that it’s his mother getting rid of you, his fault you got wrapped up in this, he can’t let you go. You try to back away but his grip is firm as he drags you back and presses his lips to yours.
It’s the sort of desperate, dramatic kiss you thought you would only ever experience through movies. Tears are hot as they race down your cheeks, salty as they drip between your lips and you find yourself melting into him. He’s not kissing you like he’s saying goodbye. He’s kissing you as if he holds you close enough, this might not happen.
It’s you who pulls back, chest too tight to continue without taking a breath. Your forehead rests against his, hands sliding down to cover the ones on your cheeks. He lets out a small noise that rips through your chest as you finally pull him away from you.
“Thank you,” you whisper, incapable of looking at the passport on the bed, the new name you’ll be stuck with while you get away from the Codys. He tries to keep his hand in yours but you force yourself to break away, to put enough space between you so you can breathe again.
Without a word, you go into your closet to grab a suitcase. When you return, Andrew’s already gone. Another sob rips through your chest, but you force yourself through it, swallowing roughly as you start packing your life away.
You wait. It’s stupid, you know. Just a few hours ago, you were shouting at Andrew to stay out of your life, to forget you so you could forget him. But now, you’re sitting in your car, forehead resting on your steering wheel.
He told you he wouldn’t leave. That he couldn’t. And you know why. He feels obligated to his family, feels like their burdens are his to carry, even if they aren’t. He’d taken the fall for Baz once, and now he was doing it all over again.
Sitting up, your head thumps against the headrest as you suck in a sharp breath. You drag your hand down your cheeks, forcing away any remaining tears. You can’t wait for him forever. Smurf probably already thinks you’re dead. You know she’s got connections, like any good leader would, it wouldn't take her long to catch up to you. You have to leave now, while you still have the advantage of night.
“Alright,” you click your garage opener and finally force yourself to turn the ignition in your car. The car that Andrew had fixed for you, even if he still insisted on giving you rides after. The thought sends a stabbing pain in your stomach that you force yourself to ignore.
The headlights flick on, illuminating your driveway, and you bite your tongue to tamp down a scream. It takes a moment for the shock to wear off and for you to realize that the man standing in front of you is Andrew. Brows furrowed, you watch as he walks up to your car and tugs open the passenger door.
You’re left speechless when he just stares straight ahead, not looking at you once. “I need to make sure you get settled safely,” he tells you. You nod dumbly, trying not to let the relief on your face show so plainly. “Just for a few days,” he warns, trying to keep the hope in your eyes dimmed.
You both end up in Nevada. First, Andrew says just a few more days while he tries to help you find a place to stay. He tells you that when Cath happened, he’d gone AWOL for a while. Smurf wouldn’t go looking for him anytime soon. You hadn’t said anything to that, just shown him another listing for an apartment you could barely afford.
Days turn into two weeks as he gets some cash for you so he knows that you’re going to be able to settle in comfortably. You don’t ask where he gets the money from and he doesn’t offer you any sort of explanation.
Conveniently, the very night he swears he’s going to leave, the apartment below you gets broken into. It’s not hard to call up the waterworks, to blubber and cry in his arms about how scared you are. He promises you a few more days, just until you feel better.
By then, you’re getting better at catching his family’s calls before he does. Dismissing the notifications and deleting the messages trying to figure out where he is. With less distractions, he starts to forget just how many days he’s promised to stay.
Then it gets easy. You distract him simply by caring for him. Holding him at night and making him feel human rather than an animal. His days blur into weeks until it’s been two months and he’s got clothes in your new closet.
“How was your day?” You ask as he walks into the apartment. He’s got the shirt of a local HVAC company on. Just something on the side he picked up for some extra cash, he told you. But he’s been asking for more hours and suddenly it’s almost like he’s got a full-time job.
“Hot,” he grumbles, cheeks flushed from the sun. You turn the heat down on the stove and finally turn to face him. You open your arms and he falls into them like he’s been trained to do it. Maybe he has, maybe you’ve both been conditioned to shower each other in as much affection as you can.
“Wanna take a shower?” You ask, running your hands through his curls and smiling at how his body sinks into yours.
He lifts his head and a smile that’s almost become frequent shows in his eyes. “Alone?”
You snort and reach over to turn the stove off completely. “Don’t blame me if your meal gets cold.”
There’s no warning as he hefts you up, you let out a short squeal, hands tightening around his shirt as he carries you up the stairs. “Got my meal right here.”
“Oh my god,” you roll your eyes, but there's a grin so big on your face that your cheeks hurt.
You’d once sworn off man-children, mama’s boys who were too reliant on their mothers to be emotionally stable. But Andrew was never so bad, he just needed Smurf’s leash cut so he could finally breathe. He’s fully reformed, you think, as he shuts the bathroom door and helps you strip out of your clothes.
Andrew deserves something good in his life. He deserves to know what it feels like to be loved without conditions attached to your affection. And you don’t deserve to be alone because of what his family did to you.
So, by god, you’re keeping him.
𝘔𝘢𝘯 𝘊𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥
𝘚𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 ♥︎
⇄ ◁◁ I I ▷▷ ↻
⁰² ⁰⁸ ━━━━━━━━━●━ ⁰⁰ ²⁵
💿 And I swear they choose me, I'm not choosing them 💿
summary: you need help getting one of J's asshole friends to stop hitting on you.
|| pope cody x reader || angst, heavy making out, touchstarved!pope, jealous!pope, fake dating trope, pope is v socially awkward (leave my baby alone!!), age gap, non canon timeline, no specific season but earlyish, mentions of drugs and alcohol consumption, character study ||
a/n: based on diet pepsi by addison rae - potential smutty p2?
wc: 3k
Pope wasn't sure if he hated the summer or loved it.
He hung out awkwardly in a chair by the pool, cold beer sweating in his hand under the glare of the early summer sun. San Diego had a habit of being hot nearly all year round, but there was something about the end of spring that had everyone and their mother calling the Codys for a party. Bikinis, drugs, old friends of his brothers he barely talked to. All in the name of summer. By noon the backyard already smelled like chlorine, sunscreen, cigarette smoke, and grilled meat from the burgers Deran was flipping on the grill. Music blared from the speakers mounted under the patio awning so loud it vibrated the large floor to ceiling windows of the house.
With J taking college classes too, there had been more people around. Pope always figured his nephew was more the loner type, same as him, even if girls seemed to flock to the kid anyway. But college had done something to J—it seemed to draw him out of his shell a little. He had more friends around the house, more nights out, more people filling Smurf’s backyard until Pope barely recognized half of them anymore.
That's how they'd met you, too.
You—just a friend of J's, you'd clarified more than once to Pope—who looked so fucking cute in that little red bikini you had on. He could just see the red ties of the bottoms poking from cutoff shorts with the frays brushing your thighs every time you moved. A can of Diet Pepsi sat in your hand with one of those little pink straws poking out the top so you wouldn’t ruin your lipstick. Pope always made sure they stayed stocked in the garage fridge, even if he didn’t spend as much time at Smurf’s house anymore. But when he knew the guys were throwing something, when he knew J would be here, he somehow always found his way back over. Because if J was here, there was a good chance you’d be trailing in behind him sooner or later.
But he often wondered what you and J truly were, no matter how many times you said he was a friend. Why were the two of you tied at the hip so god damn much? It made Pope's knuckles blanch when he thought of all the time his nephew got to spend with you.
Now you were standing across the yard with your head tipped back laughing at something J said while Nicky stood beside you smoking a shared joint, the end burning bright orange each time she inhaled. Smoke curled through the air around all of you, mixing with the sharp chemical smell of pool chlorine baking under the heat. Pope watched J lean down closer to hear whatever you were saying over the music and felt his jaw tighten hard enough to ache.
"Hey—"
He looked over to see Craig handing him a fresh beer. Pope hadn’t even realized the one in his hand was empty already, his knuckles white around the neck of the bottle.
He merely grunted, taking it from his brother.
"You look like you need something harder than a beer, but I know you better."
Pope's lip twitched, hardly stealing a glance at him.
Craig let out a low whistle. “What’s got your panties in a twist today, huh?”
Pope finally looked over at him then. Craig had his sunglasses shoved up into his hair, dark locks tucked behind his ears, blue eyes narrowed with curiosity and amusement.
"Go away." Pope said simply.
"Oh, now I really wanna know." Craig grinned as he sat down beside him.
Pope clicked his tongue against his teeth and twisted the cap off the beer, taking a long drink of the cold amber liquid while his eyes drifted back toward you again. By then the back gate was opening, and he watched your entire demeanor change.
First, it was your smile that slipped. Then your eyes flicked toward the guys coming through the gate, then over to Nicky beside you, and you murmured something to her, but Pope was too far away and it was so fucking loud out here to hear anything. His attention sharpened immediately anyway, ears pricking up like a mutt waiting for a command.
The guys spilling into the backyard were long and lean in only that college-kid kind of way. Floppy hair, muscle tees loose over wiry arms, sunburnt shoulders, a thirty pack of Bud Light swinging between them. Pope knew the type without ever stepping foot on a campus himself.
"Oh, shit." Craig muttered when he followed Pope's hardened gaze.
One of the guys had walked right up behind you, tossing an arm over your shoulders familiarly, and yet Pope saw your whole body go still under it. He couldn’t see your expression from here, only the way your head turned slightly toward Nicky. Across from you, J stood with his beer hanging loose in his hand, watching quietly, his face flattening out into that cold look he’d gotten better at lately. The Cody look.
"Easy, man. She's fine." he heard his little brother say beside him.
Pope felt like he was vibrating as he watched, ready to jump at any sign of this asshole giving you a hard time. He knew you could handle yourself too, but there was something about this guys confidence, how he thought he could come into his house and prey on his girl.
Pope stopped himself there. Not his girl. Not his house, really, either. He bit down on the inside of his cheek until his mouth filled with the taste of iron.
Then you slipped neatly out from under the guy’s arm, moving away from the group while lifting your drink toward the questioning looks they threw after you. Gotta get a refill. you called over your shoulder, as you walked away quickly.
But the second your back turned to them, your expression dropped. Plain annoyance sat across your face clear as day. Your shoulders folded inward a little while you crossed through the yard, weaving between people with your drink clutched against your stomach, making yourself smaller.
A little bit later, when you came back out into the yard with a new cold drink in hand, Craig was talking about some job he'd found—some mattress warehouse with a safe stacked with cash. Pope was only half listening. His attention snagged the second you stepped through the sliding glass door barefoot, little beads of condensation sliding down the side of your soda can onto your fingers.
You paused halfway across the patio, clearly intending to head back toward J, but the view of all those guys still talking around him seemed to make you pause. Your fingers tapped the side of the aluminum can in your hand, and then—to his surprise and horror—your head swiveled, and you were looking at him.
At Pope.
And now you were walking towards him. His heart lept in his chest.
Craig noticed immediately, straightening up in his lounge chair with that easy grin he wore around pretty girls.
"Hey—" Craig started, but you weren't even looking at him.
“Do me a favor?” you asked Pope quietly. He didn't even register the question—the answer would always be yes for you. He was nodding before he knew what you needed.
Your gaze flicked over your shoulder at the sound of footsteps coming across the concrete.
It all happened very quickly, and yet—he remembered it as if it was slow motion.
You bent toward him, fingers slipping around his wrist first, then into his hand—cold and wet to the touch from your soda—and his callouses scraped against your soft skin. You lifted his hand carefully, guiding his arm out of the way so you could turn yourself between and sit down onto his lap. The soft wash of your shorts brushed against the black denim of his jeans, your weight settling over his left thigh, and Pope stopped breathing for a second.
You—you were touching him. Sitting in his lap. In front of everyone.
His hand stayed where you’d moved it, hovering awkwardly over your hip, fingers flexing in midair, his brain choking on what to do next. He could smell your green apple shampoo when you leaned back into him, could feel the heat of your legs through his jeans.
Was this a joke? Had you planned to make fun of him? To show all your little friends how much of a freak he was?
"Just go with it," you whispered into his ear, your hand coming up behind his neck, manicured fingers delicately cupping his skin. Despite the heat, his flesh rose up in goosebumps. You were balancing your soda awkwardly in the other hand while reaching back for his still-hovering arm, guiding it around your waist yourself. Your fingers pressed gently against the back of his hand until he held you properly, as if soothing him.
Most of his palm landed against the rough denim of your shorts, but his fingertips brushed frayed fabric and warm skin underneath. The bare top of your thigh. He wouldn't let himself look at you properly— the skimpy red bikini top showing more skin than he could handle so close to him, bare shoulders shining with the glow of sunscreen and your chest dabbled with sweat. He swallowed thickly.
Your head turned towards the guys who were walking over, and the one in the middle—Asshole who put his arm around you—had stopped completely. His shoulders were tight, his glare ice cold.
But Pope was meaner. He knew how to do this, at least—how to play the guard dog, the meanest, eldest Cody brother. It was a role he slipped into easily, like second nature. The two of them stared at each other for a long minute.
Then J appeared beside the kid, clapping a hand onto his shoulder and saying something about putting their beer in the fridge. The group drifted away slowly after that, disappearing through the sliding door.
You let out a long sigh, your shoulders lightening as your fingers unlatched from Pope's neck. He missed the touch almost immediately.
"Thanks," you said.
Pope looked up at you. You were smiling gently down at him, casual as anything, but he soon realized that you weren't making any moves to get up. Your arm was still around his back, his still on the top of your thigh, but neither of you seemed eager to move away.
He just nodded stiffly. "Sure."
Your smile widened as the two of you studied each other. He watched you lift your soda, bringing the pink straw to your mouth. Pope did his god damn best not to let his eyes flit over your lips as you took a long sip.
He heard a huff of breath beside him suddenly.
"Well, that guy seemed like a dick."
You startled a little, turning your head like you’d forgotten Craig was still sitting there at all.
"Oh, hey Craig, I'm sorry—" you said, and you moved to finally get up, but Pope held on fast. He wouldn't let his baby brother take this from him.
When you looked back at Pope, your brows pulled together faintly in question. Something curious flickered there for a moment, but then your expression softened, like you understood anyway. You leaned down, lips to his ear, "Let me just switch sides, that okay?"
Pope's lips tightened. He suddenly became painfully aware of every awkward thing about himself. The way his hand probably sat too stiff against your waist. The fact that your breath sent a tingle down his spine, making his jeans suddenly feel too tight. And the fact he hadn’t said anything smooth this entire time. Anybody else would've known how to play this—smile, flirt a little, maybe make you laugh. But no, you were the charming one. The one who knew how to flirt, how to handle him.
So, he let go.
You kept your promise, only switching to his other thigh, letting his brother get an eye full of you now. You did the same thing again—bringing your hand around so you could take his, pulling it against yourself without even a moment of hesitation while you looked at the tallest Cody.
“Sick party,” you told Craig, lifting your drink in distant cheers. “How are you?”
Craig smiled back, all shiny teeth and charm as he held his beer up in salute, "I'm doin' good. What's up with your little friend?"
You rolled your eyes, "The guy has been trying to get me to go out with him for weeks." you sipped your drink again, eyes flickering over into the glass windows of the house, watching Asshole and his cronies from afar, "Except his version of taking me out is fucking me in the back his mom's BMW."
Pope was in the middle of taking a sip of beer when you said it, nearly choking.
"What the fuck did you just say?" he demanded. It was probably the most words he’d strung together to you all day. Hell, maybe all month.
But suddenly his head was making up different scenarios, none of them involving you in the back of Asshole's car, instead, he was wondering what the kid's head would sound like bouncing off the concrete when Pope's fist met it.
Your brows jumped a little at his reaction, but you only shrugged, unbothered. “He’s a dickhead. I’ve been trying to tell him I have a boyfriend, but he doesn’t believe me.”
"Do you?" Craig asked.
Pope thought maybe his little brother wasn’t completely useless after all.
He saw you shake your head in his periphery, and his heart, the traitorous thing, began to pound in his chest a little.
“No,” you admitted softly. “And I don’t think our little performance convinced him much either.”
Your gaze drifted back toward the sliding doors just as the group started filing outside again. Pope felt your body tense slightly on his thigh before you muttered a quiet, Oh, fuck my life under your breath. The asshole slowed when he passed, taking another long look at where you sat in Pope’s lap.
And Pope stared right back at him, lip curling.
Once they had gone towards the other side of the pool, he heard his brother say lightly: “I bet if you made out in front of him, they'd buy it.”
"Shut your mouth." Pope snapped, his hard glare turning on his brother.
But you barely seemed to hear either of them. You kept looking over your shoulder toward the yard, eyes skimming from Asshole to J and Nicky talking nearby, chewing lightly at your lip while you thought about something.
When you turned back to Pope and his brother, you had a funny look on your face.
Pope frowned slightly. “What's wrong?”
You hesitated, studying his face. You had lost that easy confidence from a moment before, fingers playing with your straw as you looked at him.
"Would that… ? No, no nevermind." you said, shaking your head. You cut yourself off by lifting your drink to your mouth again, shifting a little on his thigh in the process. The movement dragged your hip against him, making him painfully aware of just how much he was affected by your closeness.
Beside him, Craig made a strangled noise trying not to laugh. When Pope looked over, his brother was practically vibrating in his chair, eyebrows climbing halfway up his forehead while he grinned like a complete asshole.
"Get outta here, go—" Pope barked.
Craig finally lost the fight against his grin. He held both hands up in mock surrender while getting up from the lounge chair and walked away, shoulders shaking with mirth.
“Sorry,” Pope murmured once his brother was out of earshot.
He took another swallow of beer and leaned down to set the bottle carefully beside the chair, his movements slower now, more aware of you sitting there against him than anything else.
You shrugged, "It was…a good idea."
Pope's brows pulled together when he looked at you. God, you were so fucking close. The feel of your warm, soft skin against him, the smell of your apple shampoo mixing with sunscreen and the syrupy fake-sweet scent of the Diet Pepsi in your hand. He still couldn't believe you were sitting on his lap. Touching him. Pulling his arm around you as if it natural, like there wasn’t anything strange or dangerous about him to hesitate over.
And now you were looking at him with that look, something behind your eyes he couldn’t immediately sort out, and the fact he couldn’t sort it out made his stomach knot. As uncomfortable as he made people feel sometimes, Pope could still catch onto things. Patterns. He was always used to the way people acted, knew if they were lying because they started acting differently around him. But you never did that with him, and you never looked nervous around him like this before.
A thought occurred to him, one that made his stomach hurt even worse. Maybe you saw him for what he was—scary, mean; Smurf's dog made to heel and bark and bite when she commanded it. He became horribly aware of himself under your searching gaze—how tightly his hand was holding your thigh, how he could still just feel the top edge of your skin, your shoulder bumping into his chest when you'd shift.
And maybe you'd just realized whose lap you were in.
"Andrew…" you murmured, "Are you okay?"
He nodded.
You set your drink down in a hurry, cold aluminum knocking lightly against the concrete beside the chair before both your hands came up to his neck, fingers spreading against his skin as you tipped his face upward toward yours. Your touch was cold, wet from the soda.
"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, I'm sorry."
You were touching him again. Both hands on his neck. Your face was so close to his. Noses nearly bumping. He could make out every clump of mascara around your eyes, your smudged lipstick. It made him nearly nauseous with want. Your eyes—they were worried. Why were you so worried to be around him now?
"I shouldn't have asked—or even—I don't know, Craig said it and for some reason I thought maybe—"
The gears in his brain finally started catching up after spinning uselessly for the last few minutes, thoughts grinding slowly into place one after another while he stared at your mouth moving so close to his.
What Craig had said… What had his brother said?
I bet if you made out in front of him, they’d buy it.
“You…” he managed finally, his mouth dry as cotton, heart thudding so hard it hurt. “Want to…?”
You licked your lips nervously, and the movement nearly derailed his thoughts again immediately.
"Not if it makes you uncomfortable. I just…” You sighed and glanced over your shoulder toward the yard. Your hair brushed lightly across his nose before you looked back at him again.
“I’m gonna lie to you and tell you it’s only to make this guy get off my back, okay?”
“What’s the truth?” he asked quietly, somehow finding enough nerve to force the words out.
Your teeth caught your bottom lip. “I just need you to tell me if it’s okay to do this—”
You leaned closer.
Pope’s hand moved before he could think better of it, wrapping carefully around your wrist to stop you there. So soft—the delicate bones of your joint in his rough hand.
"Y-yes but—what's the truth?" he echoed. He had to know. He had to.
You were hardly listening now, your attention splitting somewhere between him and the movement in the yard behind him, and Pope’s brain kept trying to grab onto something solid, some version of this that made sense, because he had to be out of his fucking mind to think maybe you meant what he desperately wanted you to mean. Maybe you actually—
But then your eyes flicked over his shoulder again, and Pope’s gaze followed yours automatically, catching the group of guys heading back across the patio towards you with J in tow, and suddenly your fingers tightened against Pope's face.
And then you turned into him, and kissed him.
You tasted like aspartame.
That syrupy sweet taste from the soda, like the waxy, cherry lipstick that you kept in your pocket. The smell of apple shampoo and sunscreen filled his nose while your lips pressed hard against his with a little gasp that went straight down his belly and into his dick. You didn’t kiss him shyly either. Pope could tell immediately you were trying to make a point, trying to push this far enough that anybody watching would understand exactly what they were seeing.
When he felt your tongue trace the seam of his lips, he didn't care anymore. He didn't care if this was some ruse to get Asshole off your back, he didn't care if you didn't actually like him, because fuck your tongue felt so good against his mouth. He was opening for you, tasting you back, and he could've sworn—under the noise of the music blaring, of the pool water splashing and people talking over one another—he heard a small, little helpless moan from your throat when he finally kissed you back properly.
His hands tightened around you immediately, both arms circling your waist to drag you closer against him until there was hardly any room left between you—your shoulder pressed tightly into his chest, a little awkward with the way you sat sideways across his thigh, but he didn't give a shit.
It felt endless and too short all at once, your tongues sliding together smoothly while you held his face so tenderly it made his throat tighten, and then little by little that tenderness started disappearing into want and hunger. Your fingers pushed into his hair harder now, nails scratching lightly at his scalp, making his breath stutter against your mouth.
“Holy shit.”
The voice cut through the air beside you like a gunshot beside him. The party seemed to rush back in all around at once—the sounds of people shouting scores for dives off the pool house, music blasting, the sliding door opening and closing.
And then you were pulling back, lips unlatching from his. To Pope’s immediate disappointment it was Deran standing there frozen beside the cooler with a beer halfway out of the ice.
He licked his lips automatically even as he glared at his brother, catching the lingering taste of you on his mouth, and when he looked up at you again your lips were swollen and shiny.
You glanced toward the group of guys across the yard, then Deran with a quick, oh-- hi, Deran, before looking back at Pope. Your hands were still around his neck, and you were leaning in again. But this time, your lips went to his ear.
“The truth is, Andy...” you murmured softly.
Pope felt another shiver move through him at the feel of your breath against his neck, and his grip tightened on your little denim shorts as you said, “…I've wanted to do that for a long time.”
And then, as if you'd merely said thanks, pope, bye! you were pulling away from him, brushing your thumb across his top lip, wiping away whatever lipstick you'd left him with, and you were standing from his lap and walking off through the yard like you hadn’t just detonated his entire fucking nervous system in front of half the party.
Deran let out a low laugh beside him before grabbing a pool towel from the chair nearby and tossing it at Pope’s chest.
“You’re gonna wanna sit there for a minute,” he said. “Wait out that, uh… problem.”
Pope glared at his brother over the towel clutched in his lap.
why am I literally so nervous and would you like a part two yes or no
“Like a Moth. Or a Plant. Or Something.” - Andrew “Pope” Cody x Reader
Summary: After noticing you on your daily jog outside of his skatepark, Andrew just has to intervene to save you...maybe more than once. Once your lives have maybe-too-literally crashed together, you both feel the undeniable lightness of a new relationship.
Tags/Notes: fluff, meet cute, getting together, reader has a pomeranian, oral (f), piv (a condom?? in an rr-after-dark fic??), protective andrew
Content: minor sexual harassment, andrew punches a guy, reader is mentioned as having spent time in juvie as a teenager
A/N: happy wip wednesdays loves! this is set after smurf dies and basically the boys have gone straight and pope is in therapy and runs a full skate park he built from the ground up. they’re Good Boys now. this is just soft fluff time. original format was a 5+1 but as usual five is too many <3
Word Count: 12.7k james' 10k one shot disease strikes again
Pope notices you the very first night you move to the area. How could he not? You jog by the skate park when he's doing evening security and the breeze of your passage feels like an angel descending from heaven. Pope’s not like Craig; he doesn’t notice you because of the delicious jiggle of your ass in those bike shorts or the way your sweat-soaked cropped tee clings to your curves, the skate park being at the end of your route, near your apartment, your long run finishing.
No, he notices the way you’re singing along to your music.
Headphones in, chin up, enjoying the setting sun glowing over your skin. Singing. Loud enough for him to hear you across the street about to drop into the ramp for his final few runs before it gets dark. He vaguely recognizes the tune as some pop song that plays sometimes at the grocery, but it sounds so different coming from your mouth. You’re breathless and joyous. Even the tiny ball of fluff attached to you by a leash is caught up in your sun rays, looking so happy as she pants toward the finish line of home by your side.
You do the same thing the next night. And the next. Soon enough, he realizes this is your daily routine. Maybe you just moved to the area. Maybe you made some new summer resolution. Some days you run in ratty sweats and others in sleek legging sets, but you’re always vibrant when you go by.
He likes watching you. It’s his little indulgence between running the skate park and running his brothers. From the moment you turn onto the block a ways up the street until you cross the street into the neighborhood where he assumes you live, the houses obscuring his view, Pope keeps his eyes trained on you. When you’re close enough, his ears perk up to listen to that voice of yours lilting through whatever song you have on that evening. His usual schedule was watching the door as security after dark anyway, but you do your runs at sunset, so he starts just…going out a little early. Nothing wrong with that.
After a while, you notice him, too. The handsome-in-an-intense-way stranger who’s always there during your runs, another statue you run by like the handful of art installations in the park. You figure he’s a security guard, out by nothing but the virtue of his job, so you start waving at him. A tiny moment shared each night from across the street. You don’t pause your music or slow your pace, but you lift your eyes in his direction, give a gentle wave of your hand, wait for him to nod or give a flat smile or (rarely) even wave back, and continue on your way. And those moments are everything for Pope. Just a tiny instance of being seen as another person, uncomplicated, amid the chaos.
That harmless little ritual breaks into something else one muggy night in the heat of summer.
You’re running fast tonight. No singing. The dog is in your arms, not trying to keep up with you in those tiny legs. Pope notices the change right away and finds himself taking a few steps away from the door to get more information.
Then he notices the guy running just a step behind you. At first Pope figures he’s just another jogger out circling the park, but when he gets a bit closer he can hear the threats coming from his mouth. You must’ve rejected him or ignored him or whatever sets off guys like that earlier in your jog, maybe at the corner when you had to wait at the crosswalk. Now the guy’s chasing you, going between negging you and begging you. It’s not like he’s waving around a gun, but Pope feels the threat of his presence. He could corner you, pin you, follow you home.
Even if he doesn’t do any of that, even if he ‘just’ follows you like this, you don’t feel safe. That matters to Andrew.
He’s sprinting across the street before he can even process, the primal part of his brain taking over when he sees danger encroaching. Pope is faster than both of you, his form like Apollo tracking across the sky, and it’s a matter of seconds before he’s plowing into the guy who’s harassing you, knocking him into the sidewalk with so much force it’s a wonder the sound barrier doesn’t break.
You stop in your tracks as Pope wrestles him to the ground, pinning him and giving him one quick, sharp punch to the nose to get him to quit squirming. Pope holds his jaw and snarls, “What the fuck are you doing talking to her like that? Scaring the shit out of her?”
The guy wheezes as his eyes dart around. “Jesus fuck, man, what are you, her bodyguard?”
Pope squeezes his jaw hard enough to bruise as you watch from a distance, sizing up the situation. “Security at the skate park across the street. Don’t need you scaring people on my home turf.” Pope stands up, wrenches the guy to his feet by the center of his shirt, which rips, and shoves him in the opposite direction. He’s fighting to keep his composure because he doesn’t want to scare you, so he just taps his holstered gun and growls, “If I see you in this area again, it’s gonna be more than a punch. Got it?”
The guy touches the back of his hand to his nose, winces at the contact, and nods. He spits blood onto the sidewalk and mutters, “Not worth it anyway.”
Pope doesn’t let go of his shirt. He nods over in your direction and ‘suggests,’ “Now how about you apologize to her and get the fuck out of here?”
Sensing that Pope isn’t the kind of guy he should mess with, he glances briefly in your direction, mumbles “sorry” like a caught toddler, and skulks off in the opposite direction through the park.
Pope gives a sharp nod, a tense not-quite-smile, and turns on his heel to go back to the skate park, back to the regular routine of the night.
Your brows furrow. Before he can get more than a couple steps away, you reach out and grab him by the forearm. The feeling of your fingers jolts him like jumper cables. “Wait! Hold on, you can’t save me all heroically and then just walk off.”
“Oh, sorry.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and turns back to you. Unsure what to say to your expectant expression, he lies,” I would’ve done it for anyone.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” you reply with a cheeky little smirk that he stares at with longing, intense eyes. That look of his might bother another woman – it feels possessive, almost, like he wants to eat you – but you don’t mind. To you, it’s attentive and desirous, something worth stoking. Setting your nervous dog back on the sidewalk, you sheepishly ask him, “Would you mind walking me home? A pomeranian isn’t exactly a protection dog and I’m feeling kinda….”
As your voice drifts into unspoken nerves, Andrew’s world goes quiet for a second. He notices the way the sun lifts the color of your irises as you try to blink back the light. He notices how you worry your thumb with your first finger, picking at a hangnail, hesitant as you wait for his response. He notices your hairline, your earlobes, your peach fuzz. Every single thing there is to notice.
Nodding tightly, he replies in a gravelly voice, “Yeah. Yeah, of course. No problem.” He unhooks his walkie talkie from his belt and clicks it on, “Craig, watch the door for a few minutes.”
Another man’s voice, annoyed but accepting, comes through the grainy speaker. “What the fuck are you doing that you can’t?”
Pope rolls his eyes and cuts back, “Just do it.”
“Fine.”
Gesturing to the walkie before clipping it back in place, he says, “One of my asshole brothers. Helps me out sometimes.”
You start walking toward the end of the block and Pope follows you, slowing his naturally long stride to match yours. To keep away the silence, you ask, “How many brothers do you have?”
His hands slide into his dark jean pockets and he trains his eyes on your dog’s swishing fluffy tail, terrified to get caught staring at your side profile. “Ah, two who are still alive.”
“Oh.” God, your voice sounds too sympathetic for him to be worthy of. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
With a shrug, he murmurs, “It was a long time ago.”
You shrug, too, but there’s an openness to it. “Still.”
“Right.” He remembers that’s a normal thing to be upset about and awkwardly adds, “Thanks.”
You stop walking in front of a cute, tiny townhouse in a row of them, all pastels with flower boxes in the front window. Yours is pale yellow and he decides that suits you. For some reason, you seem reluctant to go inside as you announce, “This is my place.”
Pope gives the spot a long look. All he sees is the total lack of security, but he knows that wouldn’t be an appropriate thing to comment on, so he says simply, “It’s nice.”
You sigh, “It’s affordable.”
“That’s good, too,” he replies a bit too fast. Too eager. He wants to punch himself in the gut. Why doesn’t he know how to talk to you? It’s not like you’re anything…special. Dammit. You are, aren’t you? The way you nibble your lower lip waiting for him to speak. The way your dog looks up at you like you’re the center of the universe. The way you shift your weight from foot to foot to soothe yourself. You’re special. Of course you are. He swallows hard and puts his hand out in front of him, stiff but trying his best. “I’m, ah, I’m Andrew, by the way. Andrew Cody. Everyone calls me Pope around here, at the park and my family and everything, but you can call me Andrew, if you want.”
“Okay, I will.” You introduce yourself with a smile that almost makes him forget your name (and his own) right away, but he commits it to memory by mentally repeating it over and over. You pick up the dog again and tell him, “And this is Billie, my running buddy.”
Andrew tentatively offers the orange fluff his hand the way he’s seen people do on TV. She sniffs his fingers and then gives him one solitary lick that makes him tilt his head to the side. Is that a good thing? He admits quietly, “I don’t have much experience with dogs.”
You’re beaming at him as he carefully interacts with Billie, using the most tender touch you’ve ever seen from a man, especially one so obviously strong and imposing. You give his bicep a completely un-selfish squeeze and affirm, “Well, she definitely likes you. She usually growls at any man who comes near me.”
Andrew smirks and gives her a small, tentative scratch behind the ears that she leans into. “That’s a good girl.”
Your mouth waters a bit when he says it. He’s really, really handsome. More handsome than you expected when he started running toward you like a guardian angel. You swallow hard, playing with your keys as you stall in the doorway, and offer up, “It’s good to finally meet you – for real, I mean. More than a wave. It’s nice knowing a friendly face in my neighborhood.”
A friendly face. Pope’s not sure he’s ever been called that. It makes him smile. Actually smile. He looks down at the sidewalk and shakes his head and, Jesus, even his teeth are painfully cute between those dimples and that cupid’s bow. You really, really debate inviting him in for a drink or something, but you know that’s not a good idea. He has to get back to work and you have to, well, not get yourself entangled with a handsome, gun-carrying stranger so soon after moving to a new town. You’re here to focus on yourself, not throw yourself at the first man who sprints to your defense like a sexy comic book hero with arms you’d love to bite down on and-
“Goodnight, Andrew,” you say abruptly, cutting off the drawn-out silence of you both staring at the other. “Thanks again for stepping in. Most people wouldn’t do that.”
He shrugs modestly. “I’m not most people.”
“Yeah, I can tell.”
Usually that kind of comment would send Pope’s head spinning – what had he done wrong in the conversation to come off as abnormal? – but when it tumbles from your lips he doesn’t mind it. “Well, ah, I’ll see you around, I hope.”
With a warm smile, you assure him, “You will.”
And, starting the next night, you always jog on Andrew’s side of the street instead of across. It makes Pope’s heart clench in his chest and it takes him another few nights to understand why: He made you feel safe. That’s all he’s ever wanted – for someone to trust him to keep them safe instead of thinking he’s too crazy, too intense, too much and not enough at once.
Another couple weeks pass and sometimes you even trade small talk. Even the quick ‘hi, how are you?’ exchanges are enough to send Andrew’s mind into candy-coated daydreams like he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. Cresting past 35, he can barely remember his last hookup, much less his last girlfriend, much less the last girl he actually liked and didn’t just acquiesce to.
Pope’s on his fourth day of getting his confidence up to ask for your number when fate decides to push the two of you together again.
The douchey red sportscar’s windows are tinted way too dark and its music is way too loud as it screeches down the street, racing with a similarly douchey Jeep. Street racing’s a huge issue in Oceanside and it’s particularly annoying to Pope because most of the culture is his brothers’ fault. His sense of danger perks up immediately. When he sees you stop in the crosswalk, tangled up in Billie’s leash with your headphones still blaring music in your ears, completely unaware of any external threats, he curses under his breath. If you don’t hear those cars’ fart cannons, you definitely won’t hear him shouting at you to get out of their way.
He sighs and gets moving. Just how often is he gonna have to sprint into the street for you?
As he does it, though, he realizes he’d be happy to throw himself in front of a car for you every night if it means he’ll get more of those precious moments where you say his name or touch his arm.
He’s fucked.
Pope manages to sweep you fully off your feet and get you to the curb with maybe half a second to spare. The force of his impact knocks you both to the ground, but he knows how to bowl someone over, so you’re on top of him instead of the other way around, saved from the scrapes he’s taken to the elbows to stop you from slamming to the concrete.
You swear, loud and disoriented, as you watch the sportscars whiz down the street without a care in the world.
Andrew gives you a cocky kind of smile and chuckles, “You shouldn’t stop in the middle of the street like that, sweetheart. People are fucking crazy around here. Are you okay?”
“You’re asking that like you didn’t break my fall with your body,” you scoff as you check him over, noticing his scraped-up palms.
“Humor me.”
“I’m fine, but- but my-” At the realization, you scramble up to your feet, unsteady on them, and tears brim at your waterline. You start to walk away from Andrew, hastening into the nearby park, calling out, “Billie! Where are you, baby girl?! Come here!”
“Shit.” Andrew scans in a circle around himself and catches the orange puff running toward the skate park. With a huff, he starts jogging after the dog, calling over his shoulder, “I see her!”
With a relieved breath, you follow him, a pace behind, through the parking lot and into his world. The moment you’re inside the propped-open heavy metal door and into the huge main room with a deep sloping bowl and various ramps, pipes, and rails artistically arranged around it, it feels like you’ve stepped into an alternate dimension. The place isn’t at all what you’d expected – maybe too many years of playing Tony Hawk video games – and it makes you wonder more and more about Andrew. First of all, the place is occupied mainly by kids, mostly teens but some as young as eight or nine. It’s dinner time on a school night, but they’re all congregating here, laughing and skating on boards or skates, eating handheld foods from a small built-in snack stand off in one corner. Some of them are even doing homework or reading. The only adults seem to be helping them out with learning tricks or checking in on them.
As Andrew walks through with a purpose, he’s given lots of smiles and greetings that he returns with awkward nods and tight-lipped smiles. He walks straight up to a super tall, long-haired guy and slaps him on the back to get his attention. “You see a dog run through here?”
“Uh, yeah,” he answers, eyes going right past Andrew and toward you in your curve-hugging shorts-length bodysuit. “Ran right through and into your office. Figured that was kind of a you problem. Who’s the chick?”
“She lives in the neighborhood; it’s her dog,” Andrew says simply, looking over his shoulder at you and nodding towards the office, its door propped open by a fan doing its best to circulate the teen-boy-scented air. “C’mon, she’s probably hiding under my desk or something.”
He’s right about that. Billie’s curled up beneath a desk so meticulously organized it could be an office supply store display, her ears back from nerves.
“There you are,” Andrew mutters, reaching under the desk. When Billie doesn’t growl or bark, he scoops the ball of fluff into his arms, which look especially buff as he turns to you with the tiny dog perched safely against his broad chest, calming down at his presence. He eases her into your grateful embrace and chuckles, “She just wanted to skate at my park like all the other cool kids around here.”
You cut him a sideways glance in between giving Billie a million kisses. “Your park?”
“Yeah,” he replies. You think he’s not going to say anything else, that maybe he’s giving you a cue to leave, but then he swallows and furrows his brow and tells you, “I, ah, I work with my family, too, but this is sort of my day job now. Started with just one ramp. Bought the lot after a while. Took my time putting up the walls and everything, but, y’know, it worked out.”
You give him what you hope is a flirtatious smile even though that isn’t your strong suit. “How much does it cost to get in? Maybe you can teach me to skate or something.”
That idea? Having his hands on your waist while you get balanced, seeing your proud smile when you get it, looking at him like he’s teaching you something important? It’s like his brain itches and he needs to scratch it.
So he gives you a bashful almost-smile and replies, “For you? No charge. Come by any time.”
“You saved my life; I should at least pay to get into your business.”
He shakes his head and insists, “You don’t have to pay me back for anything. I wasn’t gonna stand there and watch a pretty girl get flattened.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You would’ve watched an ugly girl get flattened?”
“Shit, that’s not what I-”
You touch his freckled forearm gently. “I’m teasing you, Andrew.”
He takes a deep breath. “I’m not good at that.”
“Then I’ll stop.”
His voice cracks. “Please don’t stop.”
“Then I won’t.”
After one of those soda bubble pauses, not wanting to let you go yet, Pope stammers out, “Would you, ah, would you want a tour or anything? I’ll show you around the place if you want.”
You almost whine under your breath as you tell him, “I have to get Billie home for dinner and-”
“No worries,” he quickly adds, “I wasn’t trying to-”
“But I can come by tomorrow without her, maybe even wear some real clothes,” you interrupt lightly, needing to stop him before he tries to back off of the offer. “What time’ll you be here tomorrow?”
Andrew straightens up and tries not to smile too much. His mind reels imagining what you wear besides all your running clothes. It’s not like he knows anything about that stuff, but it feels like unlocking a new layer of you. Willing himself not to blush as you look at him expectantly, he clears his throat and says, “I have some work with my nephew in the morning, but I’ll be here maybe three or so. Unless that doesn’t work for you; I can move things around so I-”
“I’ll come by at four,” you assure him, all sweet and innocent. Like you aren’t reorienting his entire brain. Then you step onto your toes, kiss him on the cheek, and tell him gently, “Goodnight, Andrew.”
The whole time you and your dog walk out of the place, Andrew watches you, his first few fingers touching the place where your soft lips graced his evening scruff. Even when Craig punches him hard on the arm and cracks some joke about your presence, Andrew doesn’t feel anything but the ghost of your kiss.
Craig’s just lit up his third or fourth joint of the day at the skate park when Pope pushes through the door with a bug up his ass. He’s got that serious, intimidating stance like he’s just noticed he has muscles for the first time. Craig knows that stance – whatever he says, he means business. The first thing Pope does once he’s inside is point right at Craig, snap his fingers, and demand, “Put that shit out. I don’t want it stinking like smoke in here.”
Craig raises his hands innocently, stubs the joint on the concrete floor, and sticks the remainder of it behind his ear. “Since when?”
Pope grunts back, “We’ve got kids in here all day.”
Craig scoffs, “You split joints with me when I was twelve.”
“Okay, whatever, I just-”
“Wait, wait, wait.” Craig stands up, already laughing through a shit-eating grin. “Is this about that girl who was here yesterday? She coming by to suck you off in your office for saving her puppy?”
Pope shakes his head, pretending his cheeks aren’t turning red, and mutters, “Shut the fuck up.”
Craig’s eyes widen. “Oh, fuck, she is coming here, isn’t she?”
“Just for a tour.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.”
Pope just retreats into his office, pretending to be busy while he waits for you to arrive. He can’t actually concentrate on any of the work he should be getting done when he’s thinking about how much he wants to memorize the shape of you in the skate park so that he can keep looking at you even after you’re gone.
The park is buzzing when you show up, like it usually is in the couple of hours after school lets out. The moment you’re inside, all eyes are on you. It’s not that there aren’t girls in the space, but they’re all in ripped jeans and tees and helmets, blending in with the boys. So when you swish into the hard-rock-blasting, graffiti-covered, skinned-knee space wearing a floral babydoll sundress that does nothing to conceal your ample thighs, the ties on the sheer ribbon straps looking like an invitation, you steal attention.
You walk right up to Andrew’s brother, who’s an absolute giant in a white tank top, tap him on his buff shoulder, and ask, “Is your brother around? He should be expecting me.”
Craig’s eyes rake over you, slow and disbelieving. “Yeah, he’s in his office. He’s been acting weird – even for him – so he’s definitely waiting for you.”
Heat crawls into your cheeks. “Yeah?”
“Go easy on him,” Craig says with half a smile, eyes trained forward on the ramps, a mix of serious and joking. “Poor guy hasn’t been with anyone but his right hand in a decade.”
You snort out a laugh and stifle it with the back of your hand. “Thanks, Craig. I’ll see you around.”
“You’d better.”
You walk up to Andrew’s office door, closed today, and knock gently. “Hi, it’s me.”
When the door opens, you can’t help but smile. You’ve only ever seen Andrew in black tees, but today he’s in a cream linen short-sleeve button-down tucked into a pair of jeans. He looks much softer, more approachable, the edges of him smoothed out. Touchable.
For Andrew, seeing you in something so damn cute and feminine and sweet turns his knees to spaghetti. It’s been a long time since a girl caught his attention and the lovely, unfamiliar feeling that twists around his throat when he tries to speak is downright addictive. He gives you a nervous smile, shuffling from foot to foot as he tries not to get hard from seeing a goddamn sundress. “You came.”
“Of course I did.”
Once his desire to squish you in his arms has faded out, Andrew nods back toward the huge main room and says, “C’mon, I’ll show you around.”
“It’s all teenagers in here,” you say under your breath, like it’s some secret. “They come here right after school?”
“Yeah,” Andrew explains, trying and failing to make it sound unimportant, “I set up this youth program thing when we opened for real. They’re mostly system kids or have deadbeat parents. Half of them spent time in juvie. They get in for free and can eat whatever they want, stay whenever they need to, as long as they show me every semester they’re staying in school.”
“Wow, Andrew, that’s…” Your voice trails off as you see the chaos in a new light, seeing it through Andrew’s eyes and Andrew through fresh ones.
Like he needs to fill your reverent quiet, he goes on, “I was a foster kid for a long time. Didn’t do great in the system. If I’d had a place like this where I could’ve stayed out of trouble, I probably would’ve turned out better.”
You give him a warm smile that feels like a blanket in the winter. “Seems like you turned out fine from where I’m standing.”
“Took me a hell of a long time to get here, though.” He gives you a sideways glance and you can tell before he’s even opened his mouth that he’s testing you. “I’ve got a record. Served some time at Folsom. And I wasn’t some dumb kid on a weed charge; I knew what I was doing when I held up the bank. Knew it was wrong.”
As he leads you around the different ramps and rails, you press him, beyond curious, “So why’d you do it?”
He shrugs and tries to sum it up in understandable terms, “Money’s money no matter where it comes from, I guess.” Then he shoves his hands into his pockets and, looking particularly boyish, like he’s expecting you to run off, asks, “Does that freak you out?”
“No, it doesn’t,” you reply as you study his stiffness and his vulnerability alike. “I’m not an angel either, Andrew.”
“Yeah?” He gives you a charming smirk. “You sure look like one to me.”
Despite the heat rising in your cheeks, you don’t take the bait of the compliment, instead pushing back, “Looks can be deceiving.”
He bites. His eyes scan up and down your body, not objectifying but like an X-ray, trying to see beneath the sweet pastel surface. “How deceiving?”
You pause for a long time, debating. You don’t talk much about your life before moving to Oceanside at 21 and that’s for very good reasons. You’ve got one of those histories that tanks job interviews and scares off dates. But Andrew seems different. Like he’s not going to shy away from you just because of the dualities you hold. So you shrug your shoulders and admit it.
“The only reason I don’t have a record is because a judge took pity on me and had my time in juvie expunged.” You meet his eyes seriously. “I knew what I was doing, too. I hurt someone. Bad.” You swallow, shake your head, and tell him pointedly, “I always make sure I know what I’m getting into. So don’t go around underestimating me.”
His next smile comes with a laugh so lovely you could listen to it forever. “Yes, ma’am, understood.”
“Good.” You nudge him with your hip and press, “Now show me around all the backrooms so I can psychoanalyze you.”
He gives a not-entirely-teasing smirk and replies, “As long as you don’t ditch me because of what you find.”
There’s a lot of truth in your joke, though, as much as in his. You’re much less interested in the skate park as in Andrew’s words as he takes you through it. The thing that strikes you most is how pride simmers out of him when he talks about the place, the most animated you’ve seen him with eye contact that seeks reassurance and small laughs that feel sweet and intimate.
As he leads you around, he introduces you to some of the teens who are clearly interested to see Pope walking around with an actual real-life human woman. You’re surprised that they’re all incredibly respectful and polite; Andrew must set a certain standard for them. Once you’re through the main space, he takes you through a swinging door into a sort of kitchenette with one side as a cut-out counter that overlooks the center space.
Andrew gestures around and explains, “We just opened the food thing a couple months ago. One of the kids told me he started stealing extra food at school because his parents were strung out and never got groceries and I just-” He flexes his fingers at his side and lets out a sharp breath. “Yeah. It’s not much, but it’s something. My brother – not Craig; he’s fucking useless, the other one, Deran – he’s got a bar/restaurant with his boyfriend on the shore and they donate food every night that we stock in the fridge for the next day. I wanna bring in appliances, hire a cook or something, maybe even a free pantry, because right now it’s a stupid system that means I’m driving to and from the bar all the time and-” He cuts himself off and gives an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I, ah, I spend all my time thinking about this place. It comes out all at once sometimes.”
“Don’t be sorry,” you’re quick to reply. “I like hearing your thoughts.”
Something glitters in his hazel eyes. “You do?”
You nod, lower your voice, and tell him, “I think you’re kind of amazing, Andrew. Everything you’ve built here just shows how much you care.”
He’s too stunned to come up with a response to your plain and simple honesty, blotchy blush creeping up his neck.
“I’m a pretty good cook,” you add quickly, shy, cute, hesitant. “I don’t know if you take volunteers, but I could come by sometimes if you end up putting in a stove or something.”
If it means you’ll be here, Andrew will go buy one tonight. He doesn’t say that because he doesn’t want to freak you out, but it’s the truth. He just likes having you around, seeing your softness contrasting with his world, hearing your gentle laugh and lilting voice. Swallowing down his desire to be way too fucking eager, he just says, “That would be great. You’ll have to give me your number so I can keep you updated on the stove situation.”
“Very slick, Mr. Cody.” You take your phone from your pocket, unlock it, and hand it to him. “I was having trouble coming up with an excuse to ask for yours, so I’m glad you did first.”
He makes a happy little sound under his breath as he inputs his number and sends himself a text. “You wouldn’t need an excuse; I’d give you my social security number if you asked nicely. Or not nicely.”
Giggling a bit, you nudge him and reply, “I’ll keep that in mind.”
And he wants your laugh tattooed in his ears.
Finally, Andrew shows you his office, where you were briefly last night when Billie ran off. This time, you actually take a minute to observe the details. Unlike the youthful chaos in the main space, the office is a tidy sanctuary with soundproofed walls and blinds that close the space off. You can tell Andrew’s someone who needs a place to escape from the noise. Like you.
On the wall above his desk, there’s a framed full-page newspaper profile with a half-page photo spread of the skate park being built. Andrew and his brothers with shovels and concrete. Andrew shirtless (mouthwatering) as he puts up walls. Then there’s Andrew in the air on his board, the sun silhouetting him before the building was put in around the bowl and ramps. The last picture is a group of middle schoolers all holding up boards toward the camera, Andrew off to the side with a half smile.
A Real 180: Ex-Con’s DIY Skate Park Carves Kids’ Futures
Andrew reminisces as he watches you read the article, “Not the best headline – it’s from some community college paper – but it was the first time I got recognized for something good.”
You wrinkle your brows at the article and observe, “You don’t have a sign out front with the name on it. Why’s it called that – Lena’s?”
Andrew’s expression tightens and he takes a long, deep breath. “I mentioned I had a brother who died, right?”
Beyond curious, you nod.
“Well, he had a daughter. Lena. My niece. I took care of her a while after he died, but she- they-” Shaking his head, he gets choked up for a second. You can tell he doesn’t talk about this often. “I couldn’t take care of her, so she ended up in the system. Like I was. She got adopted by some nice family, though, so that’s good. I guess. Anyway, I, ah, I wanted to- to not forget her. What all happened to her that she couldn’t control. My therapist liked the idea.”
And that’s that. You officially have a big fat crush on him. The tenderness in his voice, the honesty on his tongue, and, yeah, the bulge of his muscles and masculine edges of his features and pretty auburn curls. With an admiring lilt to your tone, you muse, “So this place is, like, you.”
With a laugh, he agrees, “Yeah, I guess it is. Built the ramps, dug out the bowl, poured the concrete and everything myself over one summer. Had to boss my brothers around some, but most of it was me after our mom died.”
Your eyes flicker to him as you try to read his far-away expression. “Were you two close?”
“It’s complicated. Really fucking complicated,” Andrew mumbles back. “Building out the park was kind of my way of grieving, I guess.” He chuckles almost fondly, “Back-breaking labor gives me lots of good time to think.”
Meaning it in so many ways, you tell him, “You must be pretty strong, stud.”
You say it with your eyes positively objectifying his arms, so he preens a little, standing up straighter and maybe flexing a tiny bit. He smirks and stares down at his shoes, mumbling, “If you’re gonna be dumb, you gotta be strong.”
For a second, you purse your lips. You can tell he believes it and you aren’t sure if you know him well enough to argue, but you can’t resist. You hate hearing him talk down about himself, even if it’s part of a backhanded compliment. “You’re definitely not dumb if you can run your own business. You’re observant and handsome and strong and I’m sure there’s more than elevator music behind those hazels.”
“Handsome, huh?”
“Very.”
Then, as his cheeks flare neon pink, you reach out and touch his cheek. His eyes snap upward. For a second, you’re scared you fucked up by breaking the touch barrier, but then he sighs into your hand, practically nuzzling your palm for a second.
After a second, Andrew shakes his head and sighs, “Don’t go stroking my ego; I didn’t even make it to high school.”
After nibbling your lip a second, you decide to say fuck it and tease, “Is that supposed to make me want to ask you out less?” You didn’t think it was possible, but even more blush blooms on his features, down his neck and collarbones now, so you quickly add, “If you wanted to, of course, no, um, no obligation or whatever. I mean, if anything, I owe you for having my back out there on the mean streets and-”
“Do you like the beach?”
You grin and try not to smile too stupidly. “Of course I do.”
“There’s a spot I go to over by my house,” he says, clearly an offering. “It’s nice and private and- Shit, not like I’m trying to get you alone by my house or- I just meant-”
“That sounds nice,” you cut him off, reaching out to squeeze his arm so he’ll stop second guessing himself. “I could put together a picnic. Unless that’s, like, really lame and silly and-”
“Perfect. It’s perfect.” He takes the hand that’s lingering on his arm and winds it with his own fingers. “I’d really like that. A lot. How about Saturday evening? I can get my nephew to watch the place for the night shift; he owes me after some shit he pulled this morning.”
Pope knows he’s done for as soon as you step out of your small car in a sheer coverup over a white swimsuit with a plunging neckline and high-cut sides that show off your hips. He’s leaning against his front porch, holding a picnic blanket, waiting for you to pull up for the last eighty-one minutes because he couldn’t sit still, and he’s just thankful that his dark sunglasses disguise the way his eyes devour every inch of you.
You’re definitely too lovely to be walking toward him. Him in his white tee and five-inch inseam swim shorts that Adrian had made him buy after seeing him wearing too-long ratty trunks he’d had since he was fifteen, feeling exposed by the amount of his thigh showing. Him with his slightly sideways smile and slightly overgrown curls and slightly nervous feet, weight shifting side to side during your approach.
When you give him a huge smile and an enthusiastic wave, he nearly passes out.
Needing something to do with all the energy buzzing around his body, he jogs down the steps and up the driveway to meet you (partially because he wants to make it abundantly clear that he’s not trying to get you inside his house [even if he would really, really like to have you inside his house]). You’ve got one of those soft-sided gingham coolers slung over your shoulder and the very first thing Andrew does is take the weight from you for himself. He’d never let you carry something when his arms are open and available.
“Hi, Andrew.” With your sweet voice curling in his ear drums, you drape your arms around him and kiss his cheek warm and slow. “I’m so happy to see you.”
On the verge of catatonic shock from the tenderness of your Chapstick lips on his skin, Andrew’s stiff arms go to your back, so fucking careful not to grab your waist or land too close to your ass. With his voice earnest and low, he murmurs against your ear, “Me too.”
The way his voice rumbles against your neck makes your toes curl in your sandals. You pull away reluctantly and, with one hand still lingering on his chest, say, “Alright, show me your secret beach spot so I can ask you to put on my sunscreen as an excuse to feel me up.”
Gulp.
Before he can overthink it, Andrew takes your hand in his and leads you down the side of his house and into the sand. Glancing up at the ultra-modern house built effortlessly into the shoreline, you squeeze his hand and say, “You really live this close to the water? You spoiled brat.”
He lets out a low laugh at that. A real one. He’s never been teased by a girl and it settles comfortably over him. You don’t see him as too harsh or too intense; you can be light and joking with him. That’s…nice. Yeah, nice. With a shrug, he half-explains, “I like to go for jogs on the beach in the morning.”
You scoff and cut him a glance. “Which, of course, justifies buying a five-million-dollar house.”
He mumbles, “It was only three and a half.”
You stop in your tracks. “Where the fuck did you get three and a half million dollars?”
“Ah, my mom left me a lot of money when she died.”
You gesture to the floor-to-ceiling windows on the back half of the house that look straight out onto the sea. “This kind of money?”
“This isn’t the half of it. You should see my nephew’s place,” he says like it isn’t insane. “I mostly picked it because I can walk to the skatepark from here. I’d be happy in a shoebox.”
“Like my house.”
He vomits out, “Well, y’know, you can stay at mine whenever you want if you don’t like it there.”
You don’t give him a second to doubt his own words, taking one last look at the house and replying cheekily, “Be careful or I’ll take you up on that.”
“Then I’m gonna have to be reckless as hell,” he says, talking directly to his feet. But there’s a cute smirk toying with his lips, one that turns into a smile as he squeezes your hand and tilts his chin toward a small outcropping peninsula, more like an islet connected by a shoal. It’s half rocky, the algae-covered stones cropping up far enough to cast dappled shade over the white sand on the other side. “There’s my spot.”
You follow him dutifully down the shore, kick off your sandals when the sand gets wet, and walk through about an inch of water up the shoal to the small islet. Andrew walks you up to a cozy spot where the rocks are jutting out so there’s total privacy from the handful of people milling around the shoreline. He spreads out the green plaid picnic blanket, so old-worn and soft it’s like fur beneath your fingers, and weighs it down on the corners with nearby stones before setting your cooler down at its center.
Without drawing any attention to it, you strip off your cover-up and grab the tube of sunscreen from one of the cooler’s outer pockets. Before he’s even turned around from adjusting the blanket just so, you tap him on the shoulder and extend the sunscreen.
And, exactly as you’d hoped, his eyes are all over your body. Frankly, it looks like he’s a computer rebooting, blinking rapidly as blush creeps up his neck. After a minute, with his eyes locked on how the swimsuit’s high cut shows off the indent where your hips and thighs and stomach merge. It’s the most delicious few inches of skin he’s even seen. Realizing that he’s staring and that you’re definitely catching him, he mutters, “I like your bathing suit.”
With a cheeky smile, you take a step forward, close enough that he could so easily touch you if he managed the confidence to. Swaying a bit with your hands behind your back, you ask him, “Sure it’s the suit you like?”
He takes the sunscreen from you, gives you a devious smirk, and says, “I like that it’s protecting your skin from the sun. Arms out.”
You raise your eyebrows and comply. “Yes, sir.”
“Careful.”
Andrew isn’t sexy about applying your sunscreen like you’d expected. Not when he has an important task to do. Instead, with furrowed brows and narrowed eyes, he thoroughly lathers your skin, moving around your bathing suit to get underneath the hems without any agenda or eagerness, even when he’s palming your ass or the sides of your breasts beneath your armpits. It’s serious to him. The fragility of your soft skin compared the brutality of the sun’s afternoon rays.
As he swipes the sunscreen gingerly around your face, Andrew murmurs, “Stop smiling or you’ll get burn wrinkles.”
“Stop being cute and I’ll stop smiling.”
Under his breath, he mutters, struggling to sound offended when he’s so smitten, “I’m not cute.”
“Then I’m not smiling.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re already getting a sunburn,” you reply as he finishes off by doing your ears and the back of your neck, totally thorough with your safety. You know he’s not burning, just blushing, but you don’t want to make fun of him too much for it. You snatch the bottle from his hands, click the cap off, and order, “Your turn. Shirt off.”
His eyebrows fly up. “You don’t need to-”
“I want to, Andrew,” you assure with total confidence in your voice. “I promise I don’t bite.”
As he takes his shirt off and tosses it onto the picnic blanket, he replies, “That’s a shame.”
Openly ogling his chest because it’s a date and you can, you laugh gently, “Maybe if you ask me really, really nicely I could give you a nibble.”
“I can be very nice when I want to.”
“I’ve only seen you be nice.”
“You saw me punch someone’s face in.”
“Yeah, but you were doing that to defend me.” After squirting sunscreen into your palm, you press your hands carefully to the top of his chest and say, “That might not be everyone’s version of nice, but it was really sexy, so there’s probably some overlap there.”
He hums absently, brain now completely occupied with the feeling of your hands on his skin. You notice the immediate effect – the way his shoulders drop in comfort and his eyelashes flutter – and it kindles something in the base of your gut. He’s touch-starved and you can feel it in every muscle tensing and relaxing beneath your fingers. So you slow down. You work the knots in his bulky traps and drag the pressure down his back, which is firm and strong and freckled and so, so nice beneath your thumbs. When you press into the small of his back with your thumbs, slipping just under his shorts to the dimples at the top of his ass and rubbing in slow deep circles, he hangs his head and groans down low, “Jesus Christ.”
You don’t respond, deciding to just enjoy yourself. Moving around to his front, you spread sunscreen over his pecs and down his abs. His abs. You give them some extra attention because, y’know, how terrible would it be for him to get a sunburn on them? The whole time, you find yourself singing under your breath, pretty unabashedly feeling up his obliques and sides because the V of his hips is just so offensively delicious.
When he hears your soft voice complimenting the moment, Andrew smiles and tells you, “That’s what made me notice you in the first place. Your singing.”
You laugh and scoff, “Do I sing that loud?”
He nods and chuckles, but it’s affectionate. He’s definitely not making fun of you or judging you. “I can always hear you across the street. The way it starts all soft at the far end of the block and then gets louder when you pass by and then soft again. I look forward to it all day.”
Your hands still on his sides. He opens his eyes at the sudden stop, tilting his head to the side and examining you with careful hazel eyes. Biting your lower lip, you press, “Really?”
“Are you kidding?” Andrew laughs in disbelief, his confidence growing when he realizes you need to see it firsthand. He tugs you close by the waist, stealing your breath a moment, and says, “Every time you run by, I feel so…I don’t know. I’m not good with words and the feelings stuff. But I feel alive, I think is the right word, and that’s- that’s a new thing for me. Completely new. You have this light, I guess, that I’m drawn to. Like a moth. Or a plant. Or something.”
You lean forward, hug him close, and nuzzle into his neck. “That’s actually really beautiful, Andrew. You’re better with the feelings stuff than you think. It doesn’t matter how you say it; what matters is that you feel it.”
“I usually feel too much.”
“Not too much,” you reply sweetly. “Most men pretend they don’t feel anything at all.” You nod toward the picnic blanket and suggest, “If we’re gonna have lovey-dovey-deep-feelings-talk time, do you wanna sit down and eat?”
“That’s probably a good idea.” Andrew’s palms are clammy as he sits down first to give you the choice of where to sit, so scared to overstep or assume with you. With his legs out in front of him and his back against one of the large stones, he jokes, “Expressing a feeling burns a lot of calories for me.”
“Don’t worry; I’ll make sure you’re well fed so you can bear your soul to me.”
You plop down on his lap, weight back on his thighs, facing him, without a care in the world, and reach over to open the cooler. You pluck out a fat, ripe strawberry and press it to his lips, which part open on instinct. When his lips wrap around the fruit and he bites down, a bead of pink juice trails from the corner of his mouth. You catch it with your thumb and lick it off without thinking; a shiver goes down Andrew’s spine as he watches your tongue.
While you eat a strawberry for yourself, he breathes out slowly, “You’re way too pretty. It’s distracting.”
“You’re not so bad yourself,” you tease as you feed him a handful of grapes next, nabbing a few off the stem to eat. “I’m sure you get that all the time, though, with that handsome face of yours.”
Trying to hide his smile, he mutters, “Flatterer.”
“Truth teller,” you correct. “You’re cute; you should know about it.”
He doesn’t respond, but his cheeks flush a sweet shade of pink that reveals his thoughts. The two of you eat and joke and talk for a while as the sun climbs down toward the horizon over the mountains on the opposite side from the sea. As his walls come down, his soft smile comes out and he’s able to meet your eyes every time you laugh. The waning sun softens Andrew’s features, brightens the auburn in his curls to fiery orange, and turns his hazel eyes golden.
Once the cooler’s been zipped up and the sun’s throwing shades of lavender and pink over the water, you rest your hands at the back of Andrew’s neck and take a slow, serene breath. Being around him has become easy and simple since you met him, a calm but protective presence you can turn to. As you admire him during a content lull in the conversation, you brush your thumb over his cheek and say, barely above a whisper, intimate and for just him, “You really are beautiful, Andrew.”
Beautiful.
The word sings around Pope’s mind. He doesn’t care if other guys would find it emasculating; it’s everything to him. So he doesn’t joke, deflect, or deny. He just says through the blush, “Thank you, sweetheart.”
Then you nibble your lower lip, flick your eyes up to his, and ask tentatively, “Could I kiss you?”
Andrew, very simply, can’t speak at the idea that you want to kiss him. So he nods eagerly, eyes widening and pupils dilating, and stares at you. His focus goes to your lips, a silent invitation, and he tries to will himself to close the gap first. But he can’t. He’s frozen in pure desire.
He manages to nod.
That’s enough for you.
Trying not to be too tentative, you wind your fingers in his curls and lean so your lips press to his. It’s gentle and delicate, like you, and Andrew’s melting into a puddle of adoration under you. He makes a low, almost groaning sound as he carefully places his hands on your waist. It’s greedy. It urges you forward. You break the kiss only long enough to smile and giggle quietly. When you scoot forward so he can feel your breasts pressing against his chest, Andrew takes the back seat and Pope comes out. He surges forward and wraps his arms around you, one on your lower back and the other on the back of your head, clutching you tight.
The small, certain show of dominance causes you to moan into his mouth, embarrassing and desperate. But when you instinctively start to pull back to apologize, Andrew shakes his head and tugs you in closer. Kisses you harder. Needs you more. He takes charge even further, tongue swiping the envelope of your lips, parting them, insisting against yours. You drag your hands down his arms, squeezing his biceps, letting yourself be positively hungry as you grab his muscles. And he matches you. Guides you backwards with so much care until you’re flat on your back against the soft blanket, Andrew pinning you down in a way that doesn’t make you feel trapped but protected. Like nothing could get to you while he’s got you there.
Breathless and squirmy, you search his face to find pupils blown wide and lips trembling with lust. So you feel nothing but confidence as you suggest, “Would you want to, um, show me your place?” When he gets that cute kind-of-confused look, you raise your eyebrows and press, “Your bedroom, maybe?”
“Oh. Oh.” His cock twitches and he backs off of you reluctantly, extending his hand to help you to your feet. You press a soft kiss on his lips and collect your things again, which, again, Andrew insists on carrying for you. As he leads you up the shoal and to the side door of his house, he nervously tells you, “Just so you know, I wasn’t expecting for us to- I didn’t want to assume that- It’s, ah, it’s kind of messy.”
Once he’s invited you through the door, where you leave your sandals in the mud room you walk into from the side door, you gaze around the pristine, modern space in wonder. “This is your version of messy? Good thing we aren’t back at mine.”
“I can be kind of a neat freak,” he admits solemnly. In his tone, you can hear a lifetime of internalized judgment.
So you give his bicep another squeeze and say, “Hopefully you’ll rub off on me, then. I could use some pointers.”
He pulls you toward him and, completely serious, says, “I’ll clean your whole place on my knees with a toothbrush if you kiss me again.”
You’re giggling as you lean in. “Is that a promise?”
Grabbing you by the waist, he presses his lips to your again, just as good as the first, and groans, “Absolutely.”
In between fevered kisses, “Better invest in a cute French maid outfit because I’m not gonna stop kissing you any time soon.”
He smiles and it tastes so good against yours. “Is that a promise?”
“Show me your bedroom and you can find out.”
Andrew’s dizzy from the honesty of your desire, so he takes your hand and leads you through his minimally decorated, neat home and up the stairs into a massive lofted suite. It’s a total bachelor pad, the whole top floor gutted into a huge bedroom with a sprawling bathroom including an in-floor jacuzzi tub and a walk-in shower the size of your bedroom with built-in benches and shelves. It’s definitely the sanctuary of a single man who values his alone time.
Andrew stiffens up a bit in his bedroom, feeling a bit too exposed all of a sudden, and asks bashfully, “Would it be alright if we showered before getting into my bed? I kind of have a thing about-”
“Of course it would be okay; I don’t want you to be uncomfortable,” you tell him simply, not realizing how much it matters to him. Then you bite your lower lip and ask him with a slight sway in your step, “But could I use that insanely gorgeous tub of yours instead?”
Andrew’s tight lips turn to a smile at the thought of you naked and relaxed in his bathroom. “Yeah, absolutely. Let me show you how to use the jets.”
The tub is at the center of the bathroom suite, the shower offset behind a divider on one side and the sinks on the other with the toilet set off in its own large water closet behind a door. Andrew walks ahead of you and draws the bath, his simple domesticity lighting a fire inside of you. As he places a few different bath products on the edge of the tub for you to choose from, you easily strip out of your swimsuit, knowing that Andrew’s eyes will make you feel nothing but secure,
When he straightens up and sees the slopes and curves of your nude form, Andrew lets out a slow, long breath. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous.”
Carefully stepping down into the hot water, you recline and gaze up at him. “And you have an excellent bathtub.”
He bends down and kisses your forehead. “Hopefully that’ll convince you to stick around.”
With the jets punching into your back just right, you hum, “You’re definitely racking up points like crazy here.”
He glitters at that. “Yeah?”
“Mmmhm,” you croon slowly as you melt into relaxation. “You’re sweet and handsome and kind. I have a feeling you like to spoil a girl rotten.”
Giving you a gentle spiderman-style kiss, he grins. “Damn straight.”
You kiss him back and then reluctantly push him upward. “Now go and have you shower so I can get you off.”
With a play shiver, he shakes his head and says, “Yes, ma’am.”
Disappointingly, you don’t get a good look at his naked body as he disappears behind the divider and into the steam of the shower. Damned delayed gratification. Your pussy is definitely aching for him already, keeping your mind activated. With the mild bergamot soap collection Andrew’s left by your side – an incredibly sexy choice for a buff, masculine guy – you wash the sea and sweat from your skin until you feel completely relaxed and smooth.
By the time you hear the shower turning off, you’re totally blissed out from the jets and the aromatherapy (and the way Andrew sometimes grunts as he scrubs himself down. You don’t even notice him stepping out, wrapping his hips in a towel, and standing over you with a content expression, imagining what it would be like to have this sight in front of him on a regular basis.
Sounding amused, Andrew asks in that gravely voice of his, “You wanna dry off and let me eat you out now or should I leave you alone with your new best friend a while?”
With a serene smile, eyes still closed, you reply, “Hmm?”
“Gotcha, I’ll head out, then,” he chuckles. “I’ve got some projects I should get working on, anyway, and-”
You flick some water at him as you slowly stand up, stretching your arms above your head in a way that drives Andrew clinically insane. He offers a hand to help you out and you take it, glowing under the way his eyes trace the droplets that cascade over your breasts and down your soft stomach.
Then he bends down and drags his tongue from your bellybutton, up your sternum, and over your neck, not stopping until his lips meet your softly gasping mouth. Every nerve in your body shocks to life as he kisses you urgently, snapping a towel off the nearby rack to hastily dry you off. The soft towel in his rough hands energizes all of your muscles. You’re still a little unsteady on your feet from the warm bath, so you grip onto him, arms around his neck, and he groans in response.
Unable to resist, Andrew guides you backwards, toward the countertop, and begins to feel you up in earnest, the way he would’ve on the beach if he weren’t scared of being too possessive too fast. The truth is that he’s already obsessed with you. He has been for longer than he’d ever admit to you, his brothers, or even his therapist. He wants to devour every part of you as often as he can, to bring you into his life, to build up all the good in you and let it wash over his darkness.
With you giggling and moaning in tandem, Andrew hoists you up onto the counter and kneels down in front of you. Before you have time to think, much less question, he’s spreading your legs and diving between them. Water drips down your shins and lands on the floor, but Andrew can’t bring himself to care with your tart juices coating his tongue. His name slips out of your mouth in a needy cry and his eyes roll back, closing with ecstasy.
Andrew’s greedy hands travel to your hips to hold you tight against his mouth as you grapple for balance on the counter, one hand gripping its edge and the other fisting in Andrew’s damp curls. He grunts at the sting on his scalp, nodding to encourage you to be even meaner with it. So you do. It’s not your usual style, but you grind down against his tongue, showing him exactly where he needs to use his tongue. When you manage to rasp out a whimpering, “right there,” Andrew nods happily and gets to work, lapping at your clit like it’s an oasis in the desert of his life. Like your body can baptize him.
You can’t rip your eyes from his rapturous expression as pleasure warms your belly. You’ve never seen a man looking so at peace between a woman’s legs. His thoughts turn into a gentle breeze and he focuses on your every little sound and twitch. You’re not loud, but you’re constant, sounds feminine and breathy and music. And the way you squirm under his hands, involuntarily twitching and bucking. He wonders absently how long it’s been since a man made you cum like this because you seem barely in control of yourself, tumbling headfirst into overwhelming pleasure.
With you on the verge of losing yourself down his chin, his cock is agonizingly hard. It truly borders on painful, red and angry and leaking. When your thighs start to tighten around Andrew’s head, your moans going even softer from the intensity, Andrew can’t resist giving himself some relief by pumping his cock with his right hand. The contact makes more groans vibrate against your pussy and, all of a sudden, you can’t take it for another second.
Your orgasm hits you like a freight train, thighs completely muffling Andrew’s hearing, but he keeps his hand tight on your hip, clutching you close so that you can’t wriggle away. Toes curling, chest heaving, and eyes pinching shut, your pussy begs to be filled as it clenches against itself. Andrew drinks in every bead of your arousal that drips down when you cum.
Andrew places soft, loving kisses on the sensitive insides of your thighs as you come down from the orgasm. When he straightens up, he’s got a self-satisfied grin on his lips. An orgasm is concrete, undeniable proof that he’s done good work. Then you lean forward and kiss him with an unfamiliar fervor, so adoring it steals his breath for a moment, and it’s cemented in his mind.
In between bruising, demanding kisses, you beg, “Want your cock. Want you to fuck me.”
“Wrap your legs around me, angel,” he murmurs, lips only a millimeter from yours. When you obey without question, he smiles, scoops you up below your ass, and carries you back into the bedroom. He spins you around sweetly and you’re able to get a proper look at his bed for the first time. It’s not the pristine linens and carefully arranged pillows that catch your attention.
You gawk, “Jesus, this bed is gigantic.”
Andrew flops you down onto it to make you laugh, shrugs, and replies modestly, “When in California, get a California king.” He opens up his bedside table, removes an unopened box of condoms, and fishes one out. You give him a cheeky look at the new box and he mutters, “Don’t make fun of me; I don’t get a lot of action.”
You give him a warm, affectionate smile. “Good; I want you all to myself.”
Andrew huffs out a chuckle as he rolls on the condom. He joins you on the bed and kisses you hard. before murmuring, “You have me.” Then, poising the head of his cock at your soaked entrance, chest blotchy red and eyes black and breaths heavy and lips shiny and swollen, Andrew asks gently, “Are you sure?”
You bite your lower lip and nod. “Completely and totally.”
But his eyes still search your face for any signs of doubt, any proof that he isn’t good enough for this, any reason to stop and save you from him. So he holds your cheek and whispers, “Swear?”
“Please.” With your hands on his hips to encourage him forward, you assure him, “I’ve never been more certain I want someone to fuck me.” You pull his head down by his curls and kiss him. “Just let go, honey. I want you.”
So, after a shaky nod, he sinks inside of you in one slow, deep thrust. It’s the first time he’s been grateful for a condom slightly dulling the sensation because your cunt is gripping him so perfectly he would’ve cum seconds after slipping inside of you. He still shudders and grips his headboard so tight it nearly splinters when he bottoms out and you give him a breathless moan. At least that thin barrier lets him savor you. It’s not really about getting his dick wet for Pope, anyway. He’s not like Craig or Baz. For him it’s the way your breath catches in your throat, the way your nails dig into his strong ass, the way you lean up to get him to kiss you if he stops looking at you for even a second.
The whole time he’s inside of you, Andrew holds you close. One hand on the back of your head, the other on your waist to steady you against his hard thrusts. Soon enough, it’s not close enough, and he’s got you on his lap, trying to make sure you have as much control as you want, cradling your back with his large hands, pressing your chests together as you whine into his neck. He can only bear to move one of his hands when you plead, “Touch me, Andy.”
Pope shivers. He can’t remember the last time someone called him that. The last time he felt so wretchedly and perfectly seen. His hand slides from between your shoulder blades to your neck, briefly stopping to feel your pulse beneath his thumb, down the soft swell of your stomach, and finally between your legs. He never stops touching you the whole way.
Hovering his thumb right above your clit, the lack of contact driving you crazy, Andrew murmurs, “You called me Andy.”
You bite your lip and start to ask, “Is that not-”
Then his thumb lands on your clit, knowing and thunderous, and your question dies in your throat, replaced by a hard moan. He kisses you hard and admits a little too earnestly, “I liked it.”
With your greedy walls pulsing around him, you swear against his lips, “I’ll call you anything you want if you always fuck me like this.”
The only word he can growl is, “Always.”
That word turns your brain to happy mush. Everything gets more intense at the idea that you’ve got Andrew for as long as you want. This isn’t a one-and-done thing for either of you. Andrew bucks his hips up into you with animalistic force. Your tits bounce in his face and he catches one of your nipples in his mouth. Your toes curl into your mattress and your hips falter, stuttering on either side of him.
Andrew doesn’t even give you a second to collect yourself. He wraps his arms around you and flips you onto your back, sinking his cock deeper as your legs get pushed back, nearly to your head. His thumb goes to your clit, precise and firm, and you start to whimper and gasp more than moan, overwhelmed by how good it feels to be with him. Yes, him, specifically, because of the way his body conforms to yours, every inch of him responding to every inch of you. When he feels your second orgasm tightening up around his cock, he has to bite down to stave off his own. He barely even registers that he’s biting down on your neck, sucking hard and digging in. It makes pleasure spark up your spine as you let out a harsh cry.
When your walls grip down on him like a vise, Andrew’s body hurtles over the edge, vibrant and intense and overwhelming after holding himself back for your pleasure. The whole time, he’s grunting praise in your ear. So beautiful. Fucking perfect. Can’t believe I get to have you.
The two of you stay tangled up together long after he goes soft. He only briefly moves to tie off the condom and lob it into the nearby trash. He’s pretty much laying on top of you and, honestly, it’s really nice. Like a weighted blanket you can time your breaths and heartbeats with. A weighted blanket that litters gentle kisses over your face and chest and shoulders and tells you how lovely you are over and over.
You separate naturally, neither of you really initiating it. Then, as you stretch your arms above your head and prepare to stand the rest of the way up, Andrew asks tentatively, “Would you want to stay over? You can borrow some of my clothes.”
Your grin spreads wide and easy; Andrew doesn’t really strike you as the kind of man who offers to share his living space lightly. So you stand, drape your arms around him once more, and reply, “I’d love that. I gave Billie dinner and her evening run before I left, so you just have to have me home before breakfast.”
Kissing up your neck, he murmurs, “If you want, I could join you. Make you some real breakfast and go on your morning run with the two of you.”
“Yeah?” Your smile lights up into Megawattage territory. “You’d do that?”
Andrew shrugs like it’s not a huge deal to either of you. “If it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition. Wouldn’t wanna cramp your style.”
“Can I still sing?”
“Wouldn’t want it any other way.”
“Would you sing along?”
He kisses you and laughs, “Don’t push your luck, angel.”
You peck the tip of his nose and bat your eyelashes teasingly. “I always do.”
Andrew just shakes his head and goes to his closet to grab pajamas for you both. Once you’re cozy in one of his 800 soft, worn black tees (you forego panties), he finds a brand new toothbrush for you in his bathroom, not that it’s hard since he’s one of those people who actually replaces his toothbrush every three months. While you brush and wash your face, Andrew’s eyes rove along your body, cataloguing the myriad of small marks he’s left on you. Most are small and forgettable, but he’s left a few possessive, intense hickeys over your neck and breasts. But you just keep smiling at him every time you catch his eyes in the mirror. You’re not upset with him. In fact, you love looking like you belong to him already.
While Andrew goes through the house to shut off the lights and lock the doors, you make yourself comfortable in his massive bed and absently scroll on your phone. When he comes back up the stairs, he lingers to watch you for a moment. He definitely likes the look of you in his bed.
After a minute of wrestling with it, debating if he’s just too crazy for his own good, Andrew asks softly, “Would you mind sleeping on the other side?”
You shake your head, scoot across the bed toward the wall, and reply, “Didn’t mean to steal your spot. 50/50 chance.”
“It’s not that,” he replies. He sits next to you and sighs, sounding embarrassed, “Not gonna be able to sleep unless I’m between you and the door. Just in case. I know that’s stupid, but-”
“It’s not stupid,” you’re quick to interrupt. The truth is that it makes you feel so safe you could explode with adoration, but that might be a little much to say on your first night together. So instead you tell him, “I’ll sleep better knowing you’re watching out for me.”
Andrew kisses your temple, unable to quite voice how much your easy acceptance means to him. “That’s what I like to hear.”
You kiss him for another minute, just slow and lazy, until you’re both relaxed and sleepy. He can’t stop himself from shaking his head and smiling in between. Even when he’s turned the lights off and closed his eyes, Andrew’s mind is soft and light. Hell, he might actually sleep more than a few hours.
As you slowly drift toward unconsciousness, you turn onto your side and instinctively rest your head on Andrew’s shoulder. When he moves his arm, you tuck onto his chest, your eyelashes brushing his bare skin and your breath prickling his nerves. Then you sling a leg over his hip, too, and he brings his hand to rest on the curve just above your ass, arm settling like it was made to be there with you.
This is all new for Andrew. He’s never had a woman curl into him like this, nestling into his chest and treating him like a body pillow. Showing him trust at her absolute most vulnerable. He breathes in the scent of his own shampoo on your hair. With slightly trembling hands – the weight of your trust is heavy – he cradles you, one arm around your lower back and his dominant hand on the back of your head. When you coo gently and press a kiss to his bare chest, Andrew’s heart pounds like he’s run a mile.
In all the years Titus had been alive, no woman had ever captured his attention like you did. Titus could not explain it, he just knew, from the second he first met you, he needed you like air.
And he'd move heaven and hell if necessary to get you.
Not his father, not yours, not the Lawyer, Mr Le Bail or his demons he had watching over you could ever stop him.
Chapter 6 - Cracks
Masterlist | previous chapter| next chapter
Words: 5,8k
Content: Older Man/Younger Woman (Titus is 50, Reader in her early twenties but it's only mentioned in passing), Blood and Gore, Brutal Murder, Torture, Possessive Behaviour, Stalking, Slightly Dubious Consent, Eventual Smut, Obsessive Titus Danforth, Sexually Inexperienced Titus Danforth, Virgin!Reader, Agoraphobic Reader, Size Difference, Size Kink, Blood Kink, Dacryphilia
No use of y/n!
Read on Ao3 or below the cut:
You sat in a corner of the third-floor clubhouse, one of the more exclusive dining experiences the Breeders’ Cup had to offer. Titus was smoking a cigar while you nipped on an alcohol-free cocktail - you weren’t sure what it was, just that it tasted good. You let Titus order for you, merely asking him to choose something fresh with a lot of citrus.
Just as he had promised, none of the staff even acknowledged your existence. They spoke to Titus, and Titus only. You didn’t have to pretend you weren’t uncomfortable as you forced yourself to smile, struggling through placing an order while your hands trembled around the menu clutched in your fingers, cold sweat covering your skin, your heart beating so frantically you feared it might just give out.
You watched the horses warming up on the track on the monitors mounted on the wall, though you weren’t really interested.
“That one's mine.” Titus said around his cigar and nodded up to the screen showing a close-up shot of a stunning, dark horse. “Belisarius.”
“He’s cute.”
“I suppose. More importantly, he’s a champion. And prime breeding stock.” Titus hummed. “Do you have horses?”
You shook your head. “Daddy doesn’t let me have pets.”
“And for good reason.” Richard said, coming up behind you. “We all know what happened to the guinea pig.”
You swirled around, eyes ablaze with fiery rage. “I didn’t do a fucking thing to the guinea pig!”
“Sure you didn’t, love.” Your father bent down to press a kiss to the crown of your head before pulling a chair over to sit next to you. “And we didn’t find it suddenly dead in its cage.”
“I didn’t do that!” You insisted. You looked over to Titus, tears gathering in your eyes. “I didn’t.” You whispered, pleading with him to believe you.
Titus remembered well how Ursula once accused him of killing her cat when they were children. The feral thing probably just ran away because she couldn’t be bothered to look after it. She probably got rid of it herself. The damn thing always snuck into Titus’ room to be near him and shed all over his stuff, and little miss perfect could not stand someone preferring the broken twin over her.
“I wouldn’t. I love animals. I won’t even hurt the goats.”
“Biscuit and Rosehip are living their best fucking lives now, and we have to live with goats roaming our garden.” Caspian grunted, dropping into a chair on your other side. Chester took a seat next to Titus.
You shrugged, grinning sheepishly at Titus. “I’m not allowed into the stable anymore either.”
“Yeah, because you keep naming them and getting attached and then throw a fit when it's time to sacrifice them.” Caspian fished a silver cigarette case out of his pocket. “You can’t steal all of Mr Le Bail’s sacrifices.”
“Mr Le Bail said I can have them!” You whined.
“Or so you claim.” He muttered around the butt of his cigarette before lighting it. You glared at him.
“I’m not crazy.” You hissed.
“I once found you outside in the middle of a rainstorm, wandering the grounds without any shoes on, muttering to yourself.”
“Father met him! Father made a deal with him when he was sixteen, but I’m the crazy one for seeing him in his chair?”
Caspian opened his mouth, no doubt to say something that would only further escalate the sibling bickering, but Richard shot him a warning glance.
The conversation stalled when a server came by to offer drinks to the new arrivals. Titus noticed your empty glass and ordered another mocktail for you.
“Behave you two.” Richard said mockingly, his lips curling into a derisive smirk. “We have company after all.” He turned his head ever so slightly to look at you. “And you are still on thin ice after the stunt you pulled, young lady.”
Your eyes froze over. Titus could practically feel the temperature drop around you. “You never told me I couldn’t spend time with Titus. Then you punished me for it. And now you told me to spend time with him. You keep changing the rules, daddy.”
“I am your father. I can set whatever rules for you I deem fit. And you have proven many a time that you require rules and a firm hand.”
“I’m not one of your hunting dogs.” You hissed.
“No.” Whatever warmth amusement had painted onto Richard’s face evaporated when his expression dropped. He lowered his voice further, leaning down to you, crowding you. Titus’ grip tightened around his cigar. “They know how to obey, bunny.”
You gritted your teeth, jaw tensing. Then, suddenly, your shoulders relaxed. A terrifyingly mild smile settled on your lips. “It’s not a good idea to make me want to kill you, don’t you think, daddy?”
Richard merely chuckled, clearly convinced you were bluffing. Titus was inclined to agree, though he’d be careful to make such a bold claim. Even if you didn’t intend to, even if you loved your father, he’d seen the aftermath of you losing control.
“Whatever you say, love, but nobody likes a brat. I advise you to fix your attitude, quickly.”
“I don’t feel like it.”
“That would have some rather unfortunate consequences for you.”
You opened your mouth to retort something, probably something that would make your father very angry judging by the rage distorting your pretty face - and Titus didn’t know what he’d do if your father dared slap you in front of him again - but you were cut off by the arrival of the Lawyer.
“Ms Convington.” He greeted you warmly, ignoring the rest of the table, though neither Richard nor Chester seemed particularly surprised by his presence. You tore your eyes from your father and looked up. Titus’ insides clenched at the sight of the big, warm smile stretching across your lips - a smile not meant for him. You got up and hugged the Lawyer. He peeled his hands out of his pockets idly, taking his time to drape one arm loosely around your waist. His gaze found Titus over your head. The corner of his mouth twitched at the clear, violent jealousy burning in his hazel eyes.
“What are you doing here?”
“Ah, Mr Danforth asked me to join a meeting between him and your father, and of course I could not leave without seeing you, my dear.” He offered you his arm and accepted it without hesitation.
Not like with Titus.
You didn’t think twice, didn’t abuse your bottom lip, didn’t hesitate.
You took his arm and let him guide you away, away from Titus, away from your father and brother, into the crowd that usually frightened you so much.
“She’s known him her whole life.” Caspian muttered, glaring at the Lawyer’s back. “Kept showing up in her room and shit. Creepy fucker.” He took a drag of his cigarette and reached for his drink the second the waiter put it down. Silence fell over the table until the young man hurried away again, fleeing the uncomfortable atmosphere that had settled over the table.
“He is the sole attorney for Mr Le Bail and the Le Bail organisation. It is only natural for him to keep an eye on Mr Le Bail’s personal… investments.”
“Heaven forbid people deduce she is your daughter from the way you talk about her.” Caspian muttered and got up, taking his cigarette and drink out to the exterior walkway overlooking the track.
Richard didn’t take his eyes off Titus to watch him go, seemingly entirely unaffected by his son's petulant reproach.
“So…” He hummed, folding his hands and leaning back in his chair. “You want my daughter’s hand in marriage… Quite the amusing jest.”
He was such an arrogant asshole, Titus thought, biting back the comment before it could slip past his lips.
“I have no reason to give my unstable daughter to an even more unstable man.”
“But it would be a wise move to make.” Titus put out his cigar on the ashtray before him. “She seems quite angry with you, and right now nothing is standing between you and her considerations to kill you.”
“Oh please.” Richard chuckled. “She’s been saying that whenever she throws a tantrum ever since she was a little girl.”
“But she isn’t a little girl anymore.” Titus grinned. “Certainly not with the way she all but jumped me the second we were alone.”
Richard’s carefully crafted mask slipped ever so slightly.
“It is not wise to antagonise the man you want something from.” Chester hissed into Titus’ ear.
“Listen to your father, boy.”
“But I’m only a few years younger than you, Richard.”
Another crack.
Oh, it was so satisfying to see him struggle with his composure.
“And there is nothing I want from him. Your daughter is a grown woman. Besides, I have a feeling that Mr Le Bail’s favourite always ends up getting exactly what she wants - and she wants me.”
“She is a fickle thing. She doesn’t even know what she wants, or what expects her with you. So you pleasured her, maybe she came back for another taste. You really think that means something? You think she’ll return the favour? Even if she may be interested, should you make the foolish choice to propose without my blessing, and even if she says yes out of some delayed teenage rebellion, the second she finds out being Mrs Danforth means public appearances and moving away from home, she’ll run scared.” Richard turned to Chester. “I can only imagine the burden it must be to have your only two children refuse to do their duty to the family by continuing the line - not that I have that problem," Richard chuckled. "But do you really think my daughter is a good choice? You must be truly desperate at this point if you consider a girl you cannot even trust to not disembowel or maim her own children when they start annoying her.”
Chester did not even bat an eye at Richard’s gruesome predictions. “What do nannies exist for? Besides, an unloving mother would only toughen the children up.”
It disgusted Titus how they spoke of you.
You, his sweet little rose. You had a violent side, but how could they claim you’d be anything but a wonderful mother? How dare your own father speak so coldly of you? With such venomous repugnance?
Chester folded his hands on the table and leant forward ever so slightly. The shift was minimal, but the effect it had on the space around him was crushing. The High Seat’s ring gleamed menacingly on his finger. Richard’s eyes flicked down to it, despite it only being a piece of metal, all its power merely symbolic.
But Chester’s power was anything but merely symbolic.
“You do not need to concern yourself with my motives, old friend. And as the head of your family, you certainly have the right to deny any marriage proposition brought to you, as we’ve discussed while going over the bylaws, but do remember that you’d do well to not make an enemy of me.”
“An enemy of you? By refusing to let my precious daughter become the next toy of your manchild of a son?”
Titus was halfway out of his seat before Chester could lift his arm to stop him.
“There are no divorces in Mr Le Bail’s organisation. We unite our families, they will stay united, no matter what. And what happens to my daughter when he inevitably grows bored? Or when you decide she is too much to handle? My daughter is sick. She needs rules and structure and quiet, not living right next to a hotel with a country club and a golf course, with a volatile, thrill-seeking, attention-addicted-”
“Careful.” Titus hissed. His fingers were itching to close around Richard’s throat.
Richard ignored him. “My daughter is well-bred, no doubt about that. Under normal circumstances I’m sure her blood would be a fine addition to the Danforth line, but come on, Chester. You want a girl afraid of her own shadow bearing your heirs? We do not need to indulge our children’s every whim. He wants my daughter because he can’t have her. The moment I allow whatever twisted affair they think they are having - and I find it hard to believe my daughter is even really aware of what she’s doing - they are going to lose interest in each other. And I'm certainly not going to sit back and allow my daughter to run into reputational ruin and further damage to her psyche just to prove that point.”
Richard got up, and with a last arrogant, self-satisfied smirk directed at Titus, he left to join his son on the walkway.
“You need to have better control over yourself.” Chester sniffed and waved a waiter over to order a fresh whiskey. “You’ve set your eyes on a girl who loves her father. It would be beneficial for you to not make your future father-in-law hate your guts.”
“Were we a part of the same conversation? He is not-” Titus cut himself off when the waiter returned and waited for him to disappear before continuing in a lower voice. “He’s not changing his mind.”
Chester nipped at his glass. “You are a Danforth. You say you want to make that girl yours, then that girl will be your bride. But if you make an enemy of her father, that’ll be for you to deal with. I will not involve myself in your quarrels with your father-in-law, or your brothers-in-law. That would be too fucking pathetic.”
Even for you, was the part Chester left unsaid.
Chester tugged at the cuff of his suit jacket and dress shirt below, adjusting the polished, gold cufflinks.
“The race is about to start. Take the girl with you to your box. Make sure you’re seen together.”
“Why?”
The look Chester gave Titus oozed with disenchantment. It made Titus feel like he was ten years old again and stuttering his way through a presentation about Roman war strategies he spent weeks preparing for.
He looked as if he was deeply disappointed Titus could not read his mind and perceive his plans, while at the same time being disappointed in himself for ever expecting more of Titus.
“Right now, Richard holds all the power. He has a sheltered, frightened girl under his thumb whom he’ll never let go willingly, not while she is so valuable to him. We need leverage.”
“I’m sure you’ll be able to dig something up-”
“There are easier ways, son.” Chester brushed him off. “Why get our hands dirty when we can make others apply pressure for us? Make the people fall in love with the idea of you and her as a couple, and the common rabble will do all the work for us. They will turn on the person they perceive as standing in the way of your grand love story. Make him go from caring, protective, dedicated father in the eyes of the public, to a cruel, possessive, controlling, old-fashioned enemy of true love. You’ll be the perfect gentleman to her. A perpetual bachelor suddenly taken with a beautiful, well-bred young thing. A wild stallion finally tamed by the love of a good woman. Two pretty faces to make pretty babies together. They will eat that shit right up.”
Titus licked his lips. His father knew how to get what he wanted, and Titus was not unfamiliar with being ordered to act a certain way in public, or even in front of planted paparazzi for bought headlines to distract from him beating some piece of shit to a pulp in a crowded club - but this was different.
This was about you.
“She doesn’t like crowds.” He said quietly, avoiding his father’s gaze like a little boy who knew he’d done something wrong.
“Do you want her? Then I’m sure you’ll find a way to make her endure some discomfort so that she can be your bride. You expect me to do all the work for you? Do you perhaps want me to fuck your wife on your wedding night for you as well? Be a fucking man, Titus.” Chester scoffed. He got up and left without giving Titus the chance to get one last word in. Not that Titus had much to reply to his words that hit him like a punch to the gut.
Titus found you in a quiet corner behind the bar, engrossed in a conversation with the Lawyer. You looked up when he approached, and the hint of a smile grazed your lips.
The Lawyer excused himself with that same irritating mixture of amusement and an expression as though he knew something about Titus he was yet to learn about, and Titus could never tell whether it was something good or something truly horrendous.
The Lawyer seemed to find both equally amusing.
“Is he a demon as well?” Titus leaned against the wall, facing you. You didn’t quite meet his eyes.
“No.”
“But he’s old.”
“Yeah.” You hummed. Your hand found the ties of your sleeve and wound them around your fingers again. “He said you want to marry me.”
Titus felt his breath wither in his throat.
You tipped your head to the side, eyes skimming just below his face. He wasn’t wearing his ascot anymore. A part of you wondered where it was now, though you could not quite make sense of why your brain would be so interested in a cum-stained piece of silk. Or why you kept thinking about his penis… how it had looked, so swollen and dripping with need… for you.
“Why?” You looked up, finding his hazel eyes trained on you. He always looked at you with such focus… such intensity.
Titus licked his lips. “Why I want to marry you?”
You kept asking him absurd questions.
“How could I not?” He all but whispered before pulling himself back together. He straightened up, his father’s words echoing through his head. Be a fucking man.
How could I not.
You didn’t know what to make of that reply. Never once in your life had you expected that one day a man would want to marry you. You hadn’t spent much time thinking about all that to begin with - it was kind of hard to think about one’s future or something like romance while spending every second of one’s life scared to death.
Was this why you were here?
Because Titus wanted to marry you?
Your father didn’t usually come into your bedroom at six in the morning with the demand to join him during an outing. You didn’t like that he just basically ordered you to get ready and surrender to his decision no matter how sick the thought of being among all these people made you feel.
But today he had.
He changed the rules without any for you conceivable reason. He’d spent the last three weeks berating you for going with Titus after he told you to come back, just for him to let you go with him today?
Your father didn’t like Titus.
He made that very clear in the last weeks, so why would he even consider this? Because of Titus’ father? Because one simply did not tell Chester Danforth no?
Thinking about all this, trying to make sense of it only made you think about the way Richard felt the need to bring your guinea pig up again - especially in front of Titus. It didn’t sit right with you at all.
Especially if Titus wanted to marry you, and Richard knew Titus wanted to marry you.
Especially if the entire reason you’d been forced to come into this sensory hellscape was because Titus wanted to marry you.
Why talk about that? He knew how angry it made you being accused of killing the only pet you’d ever been allowed to have. And what would Titus think of you, hearing that? Who would ever want to marry someone so deranged they kill innocent pets?
You didn’t think you could marry someone who believed you'd ever even harmed a hair on Henry Howard Holmes’ tiny fuzzy head! (Named after the prolific serial killer active in the late 1800s, because they both had bright blue eyes and guinea pig Holmes looked a tiny bit as if he had a moustache too.)
Humiliation burned a hole through your stomach and made your cheeks feel hot at the memory of the conversation. Why did he have to say that?
‘I advise you to fix your attitude.’
Why was it always you who had to adjust and change? Why was, no matter what he did or said, never Richard in the wrong? Your attitude was a result of him!
‘I’m not one of your hunting dogs.’
‘No. They know how to obey, bunny.’
Your hands curled into fists, nails sinking into the soft flesh of your palms.
Caspian treating you as if you were crazy again…
You were still mad he sedated you when you were hunting with Titus. You were fine. That hadn’t been like that time you spent five days meticulously taking a corpse apart, and started lashing out at anyone who tried to make you eat or drink or rest.
You were in control! They just didn’t like what you chose to do.
Anger raged inside you and you had no place for it to go, and nothing you could do about it. Were you at home, were you not surrounded by strangers who you felt kept staring at you and tearing apart every little thing you did wrong or different, were not literally fighting to not start struggling for air, you’d have never rolled over for them like that.
And it infuriated you that you had!
That you let Caspian walk all over you and your father treat you like some silly, stupid little girl, but you were pretty sure the lady with the ugly as fuck hat at the bar knew you’d watch Titus jerk off and she was judging you.
Three men at the back kept glancing at you and every time they did, you wondered whether you had something stuck in your hair, or maybe your underwear was visible through the dress after all?
No matter what you tried to distract yourself, you could not shake the feeling that you were making an utter fool of yourself and everyone here could tell, just not you.
“Would you join me in my box for the race?”
You shifted uncomfortably.
The mere thought of standing in one of the boxes right by the track, surrounded by all those screaming people, made something deep inside you tighten painfully and nausea well up in the back of your throat. You glanced over your shoulder, finding your father and oldest brother outside on the walkway. You didn’t want to be with them either.
Not while you itched to kill them.
Not while you pictured their bloodless bodies beneath you, ribcages split open, eyes gouged out, limbs shattered…
You closed your eyes against the volley of gruesome pictures assaulting your mind.
“I’d very much like to have you, but I respect if it is too much.” Titus’ voice was so soft.
So patient and understanding and kind.
How did this man you barely knew, who barely knew you, show your condition more compassion and consideration than your own blood did?
Had your father or one of your brothers ever asked what they could do to make things easier for you? Had they ever ordered waiters and hostesses to not talk to you, to not even look at you?
“It is.” Your voice came out soft, softer than a whisper. A breeze too gentle to move the lake beneath it. You took a deep breath and forced yourself to meet Titus’ eyes again. You liked their colour… the way it shifted depending on the light. You liked the way he looked at you too. With hunger and greed, but also… soft. Needy, almost.
His brows dipped at your words, disappointment slipping onto his features despite his attempts to hide it.
“Do you think I killed my guinea pig?”
Confusion flashed through Titus’ hazel eyes, just to be reigned in quickly as he made the mental leap necessary to follow your train of thought.
“You said you didn’t.”
“Because I didn’t!”
“So what else is there to say?” He shrugged. “I don’t believe you’d kill your pet. What reason would you have? And I’ve seen how you kill. Had you lost control for whatever reason, your father wouldn’t have found a guinea pig that just suddenly died in its cage. Not that any of that matters. You say you didn't do it, so you didn’t do it.”
“I would have to move if I married you.”
Titus blinked.
“Yes.” He said after a moment, after his brain caught up with you again. Tentatively. As though afraid of your reaction to his affirmation.
You looked up to hesitantly meet his eyes once more. “I don’t know if I can.”
“No need to think about that now.” Titus brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His thumb lingered against your cheek. “I can’t ask you right now anyway. Your father refuses to give his permission.“
“I don’t need it.”
“The bylaws say you do.” He sighed and adjusted the cuff of his shirt. “When two members of a High Council family want to marry, they need the permission of the heads of their families.”
You scrunched up your nose.
“Chester is working on it.” Titus rolled his shoulders, attempting to be rid of some of the discomfort tensing up his muscles. “It’s-” He contemplated whether to tell you the truth. He gravitated towards no, but the mere thought of lying to you felt sacrilegious. “It’s why he told me to ask you to join me. Something about creating public pressure, but I don’t care what he says. We’re not doing this if it’s too much for you.”
“It is.” You licked your lips nervously. “But I want to go.”
You felt your heart pounding in your chest and your rapid pulse fluttering in your wrists.
As if your heart was slamming into your ribcage in an attempt to break the bones and escape its prison, an attempt that reverberated through your entire body.
A heavy weight filled your stomach and made nausea bubble up the back of your throat, the taste of bile spreading across your tongue. Your sweaty grip around Titus’ arm was tense, your muscles locked up to the point you doubted even he could pry your fingers away from him.
The walk down the ranks to Titus’ box just beside the finish line felt endless. People crowded around you, coming and going, everyone locked in a constant rush and inane chattering that stung in your ears.
You weren’t made for this.
Your eyes flicked up to Titus. He looked so utterly unbothered, so completely unfazed by the circus while you felt as if you were dying.
You couldn’t help but wonder how it would be to be… normal.
To walk next to Titus and only think about the warmth of his body beneath your fingertips or the freckles scattered across his skin. The fine auburn strands still standing strong against the grey.
Instead you had to actively force yourself to breathe.
Tears pricked in your eyes, and you bit the inside of your cheek hard in a stubborn attempt to force them back down. You felt humiliated enough already without starting to cry in the middle of a crowd, right next to a man who for some inconceivable reason was actually thinking about marrying you.
You were glad when you finally reached the box and you could cling to the bannister. Feeling the cold metal against your skin and the hot sun slamming down on you helped ground you. You forced yourself to stay present, to not let your mind spiral further.
Titus’ hand settled at the small of your back. He stood behind you, half shielding you from the attention of the people around you, while the bannisters of the box encased you, keeping away anyone who did not belong here.
“Is that your brother?”
A few boxes over, Tobias was talking to his horse’s trainer.
“And your sister.” You murmur, avoiding looking at Ursula Danforth. Titus’ twin was intimidating even from a distance, even without ever having spoken a word with her. You couldn’t help but feel she loathed you, but then again, you got that feeling about most people.
You weren’t even entirely sure your brothers liked you. The wives of those already married sure as fuck didn't.
It made it just all the more difficult to understand how someone like Titus - an attractive, rich, older man who could have anyone he wanted - would choose to waste his time on a broken, useless, crazy little thing like you.
You pulled one of the extra sour suckers you kept on you at all times to stave off anxiety attacks out of your pocket. You struggled with the wrapper because your fingers were trembling so much. Without saying a word, Titus took it from you and unwrapped it before handing it back to you.
“Would you let me get a cat?”
Titus frowned at you. “Let you?” He asked, just that you heard “Let you?” And wasn’t it fascinating how emphasising a different word could change the whole meaning of a sentence?
You shrunk in on yourself. “I’d take care of it. You wouldn’t even have to- I-” You sucked on the lollipop, enduring the sharp bite of citric acid on your tongue to reset your nervous system, and maybe by eating something - something nobody in mortal danger would ever stop to do - you could make your brain finally realise you were not about to die.
“You’re a grown woman.” Titus muttered, jaw tense. “If you want a fucking cat, you get a fucking cat? If you were my wife, hell, you get anything you want! My wife shouldn’t have anything left to want. Now, upwards of five cats I think a conversation would need to be had, because frankly that’s an absurd number of cats.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Titus raised a brow. “It’s not?”
You shook your head, and fuck, you looked so adorable - Titus would steal every single housecat in the world just to dump them on your lap and see you happy.
It was a foreign feeling he was not entirely sure how to express, certainly not how to express without letting slip how consumed he had been by you.
He braced his hand against the bannister and leaned down, caging you in, stealing the sight of your body away from the crowd surrounding you with his broad back. “I want you. Not some houseplant that stands around all day looking pretty but never actually doing anything. Not some unemancipated child that needs my permission to have a fucking sandwich in the middle of the night or a pet who only gets to take a piss when I take it out. You. Carrying razor blades under your tongue-stabbing corpses in the forest until your arms refuse to move-splitting open ribcages on expensive Persian rugs-you.”
You hummed, sucker still firmly between your lips and looked back at the horses and their jockeys warming up for the race to mull over his words.
The horses were led to the starting line soon after, and you felt the shift in Titus behind you. The way he tensed up, leaning forward, grabbing hold of the rail on either side of you. His arms caged you in while his firm chest pressed against the back of your shoulders.
The race only lasted two minutes, two minutes of shouting, screeching, and an overeager crowd’s movement only stopped by the iron bannister casing Titus’ box in.
It felt like at least twenty minutes to you.
Or at least it did, until you felt Titus gearing up behind you as his horse overtook Ursula’s on the track. He didn’t shout like the others, but tension coiled around him, tightening his grip around the bannister until his knuckles went white.
You wanted him to win.
You found yourself, to your great surprise, rooting for Belisarius, and when the stallion chased across the finishing line, you emitted a very uncharacteristic shriek and turned around to throw your arms around Titus’ neck. He caught you with ease, arms coming up around your waist to hold you tight against his chest. He swirled you around, making your dress flutter around your legs, and another shriek slip over your lips. He grabbed your hand before tugging you past the howling masses and down towards the track.
Adrenaline rushed through your body and made you practically vibrate with excitement, to the point you didn’t notice Tobias looking after you or even thought about how uncomfortable you had been a moment ago.
You watched as his horse was shown off in front of the journalists and most dedicated lovers of the sport. Titus tugged you onto the track, only hesitating briefly to glance back at you.
“The picture is for you.” You murmured, getting up on your tiptoes to fix his collar and the lapels of his jacket. You didn’t notice the camera directed at you and Titus, nor did you know how significant it was to see Titus Danforth be so intimate and domestic with a woman.
You didn’t know this picture, you and Titus standing close, your fingers against his collar, would be on the front pages of all tabloids by the morning.
The garland was placed around Belisarius’ neck and trophies handed to Titus and his trainer to hold up for the official photo. Titus pulled you in close, a little closer than what would be considered gentlemanly, one arm draped around your waist while he held the trophy with his other hand. You forced a meek smile somehow. You had to cling to the back of Titus’ jacket with your hand and bite the inside of your cheek until it hurt to make it happen, but you were a Convington still - even if you were a little fucked in the head.
You knew how to keep up appearances.
The day calmed down not too long after. You stayed with Titus another hour while he had countless people come up to him to shake his hand and congratulate him. You offered shy, polite smiles to them and mostly did your best to hide behind Titus.
When he saw your father coming, wearing an expression as sour as curdled milk and followed by Caspian and Tobias, he quickly bent down to whisper in your ear.
“When can I see you again?”
You were powerless against the giddy grin stretching across your lips.
Even when Richard pulled you away, your hand securely trapped in his, you turned around to glance at Titus one last time. He grinned back and waved.
Oh, he would see you again, and soon if it were up to you.
As things were - with the exception of getting a pet - you had so far always found a way to get your will, and even the desired pet seemed to now be waiting for you in the future, a future that could not come fast enough for your taste.
Next Chapter
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Yet another new study debunked the basis for the anti-trans sports bans. It was never about sports but for creating legal avenues for exclusion and abjection. This is one of the largest analyses ever conducted, involving 52 studies and 6,485 trans people. Read the study here.
making her undo my belt, unzip my jeans, pull my boxers down. instructing her. "slower, baby. take your time." comforting her when her hands shake, if she fumbles, stroking her hair and petting her and cooing at her, "there you go, hon. give it a kiss...." all nice and sweet until i'm fucking her face and ignoring her crying
