inoh

‿̩͙⊱༻♡༺⊰‿̩͙ 24 probably thinking about andrew cody rn

[wesandresons]

SHAWN HATOSY as ANDREW ‘POPE’ CODY ANIMAL KINGDOM SEASON 2, EPISODE 6

[aerispilled]

jack abbot, fem, suuuuper short

It's nearly nine when Jack walks behind Trinity and Dennis at the hub, peeking at whatever they're looking at on her phone—a post of some trendy commodity that’s gone viral for the month.

He stops in his tracks and chuckles, “Oh, my wife loves those.”

They practically snap their necks to look at him, confused. “Your wife?” Trinity asks, incredulous.

Jack nods toward a vague direction in front of them, and their eyes lead to you, yawning your way through charting at a desk. In the middle of it, you put your head down to sneak a few seconds of shut-eye.

The two slowly turn their heads back to him, with Trinity squinting her eyes at his affectionate gaze to you.

“I thought you guys had only been seeing each other for, like, a month.”

Jack shrugs. “I’m, uh…what do you kids call it? Manifesting.” He pats Dennis’ shoulder. “Finish your charts and go home. It's late.”

He walks away, leaving them more confused than before. They watch him round your desk, kiss your head, and murmur something to you. You sigh and lift your head, visibly a bit lighter.

Trinity gags. “Jesus Christ.”

“Hey, I think it's nice!” Dennis nudges her with his elbow.

“You seriously did not just say that.”

[richeeduvie]

Your beautiful, chubby toddler asks why Dada sleeps during the day. She doesn’t understand how the night shift works, she just wants Jack awake, and all she knows is that he comes home when the sun is up and rising and disappears into bed.

So…just to really do your and Jack’s heart in, she starts bringing him toys while he’s asleep.

You find the offerings. Her stuffed bunny on his pillow, a toy teacup on his chest, her baby blanket “tucking” him in.

“Tea Dada. It very hot.”

And of course, she makes sure to kiss him and his prosthetic “good morning”.

You cry, and you’re crying laughing when Jack wakes up with his daughter’s toy dinosaur under his arm.

“…The hell is this?”

“Your daughter missed you.”

And because that makes Jack’s chest sink in on his lungs, he just…happens to start leaving her things before he goes to sleep.

They’re usually notes you read out loud to her.

Things to make sure Chubby knows Dada’s still here.

She calls them Dada presents.

[p1ttlings]

SWEET CREATURE!

021. not quite

warnings . . . lewd conversations, curse words, mentions of the previous sexual scene (fingering), foot fetish talk again lmaoooo, making out, boob talk, sleep deprived so this is all i can think of will put more if needed. wc: 1.3k

You’re perched on Pope’s bed, back and posture stiff, unsure of how to act. Should you even been inside of his room without asking? What if he didn’t want to makeout with you tonight? Are you taking advantage of him? Does he even want to makeout with you at all? 

What are you talking about? He fingered you. If he can shove his fingers in you, he can definitely push his lips to yours… right?  

You drop yourself dramatically onto his bed with a loud groan, your mind racing. What if? Why? Why not? Will he? Won’t he? It won’t stop. 

“You look like a fish out of water.” His familiar voice has you sitting up, eyes wide in shock. 

“Geez,” you huff, embarrassed by the way you were flopping around in his perfectly made bed. Which is now unmade. “I need you to get louder shoes. Ones that squeak. Or the light up ones so I know when you’re coming.” 

He shrugs, leaning against the shut door of his bedroom. “How else am I supposed to catch you doing weird shit?”

“Haha.” You deadpan. “Where were you? I’ve been waiting here forever.” 

“Handling something.” 

You grin, leaning back on your arms. “Oooooh, did you beat up your brother for me?” It’s a tease. You don’t truly believe he’d get into a fight with his brother over you.

You may joke like you are, but you’re not stupid. The web of odd familial ties in the Cody family are… borderline incestuos. Weird. Confusing. And you don’t doubt that it’s all Janine Cody’s fault. She has a way of making anyone in a room with her feel powerless. You see it with the gardeners she watches over as they work, the way she speaks to her sons, even her lawyer who isn’t around often, but you’ve seen a few times. 

Conversing with the woman feels like she’s ripping your chest open and grabbing at everything she can, inspecting you. As terrible as it makes you feel, you try to push that back on your schedule for Lena until the very last second, even to the point where Lena can’t see the woman from the constant activities you take the little girl to. 

“No.” Is his lacking response. 

You sigh dramatically, “and here I thought you were my knight in shining armor.” 

“I’m not that.” 

“Clearly.” 

The silence isn’t awkward but the way his hands are rubbing at his jeans, tells you that he does believe it to be so. You stand, tugging at your t-shirt to fall over your body. “So, you—” 

“Do you think we can reschedule?” His voice sounds almost shaky. Almost, not quite nervous, more ashamed. He clears his throat, “I don’t think I'm up for—“ 

You nod, immediately feeling the guilt eat away at you. “Of course, Pope.” You take a step back, sitting back down on the bed, afraid to make him feel afraid. “You don’t even have to makeout with me at all. I was only joking. Well… half-joking.” 

He sighs, bothered by your words. “I didn’t say I didn’t want to makeout with you. Just… another day.” 

“I didn’t say that you didn’t—“ 

“Stop talking.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“I don’t think I want to makeout with you anymore.” He admits. 

“Jesus.” You cackle, “what’s up your ass?” 

“You.” 

“Oh, baby, I wish I was.” You get up off the bed, making a thrusting motion with your hips, hands out like you’re holding onto somebody. “Get all up in there.” 

He grimaces, “that’s disgusting.” 

“Fine.” You stop, “I’ll leave.” 

“You should.” He agrees. He doesn’t move off the door, still pressed up against it. 

It’s impossible to hold back your grin. “You gonna let me out?” 

He doesn’t speak. His eyes are on you in that intense manner he usually carries. The constipated look, Nicky would say. 

“Hello?” You tease, “anyone in there?” 

“Fuck it…” he breathes low, cutting the distance between you in two steps. His hands are on either side of your face, pulling you into him. And his lips are on yours. 

You don’t spare a second, hands falling to his waist, face tilting to deepen the kiss, noses nudging as you do so. And he delivers on your wish. The kiss is hot and heavy, tongue lapping into your mouth as the back of your knees push against his soft bed. Your hands move from his sides to his chest, then back down to the bottom of his shirt, urging him to remove it. 

He pulls his lips from yours with a loud smack, “no,” he shakes his head, removing your itching fingers from his shirt. “Not that.” 

You groan, leaning your forehead to his chest. “Fine. Can I dry hump you at least?” 

His eyebrows furrow, “are we teenagers?”

You scoff, lifting your head to eye him. “Dry humping is a lost art. I’ve made it my duty to bring it back to light. Think about it. The act is—“

“Shut up.” He groans, annoyed as he grabs your chin and presses his lips to yours again. One of his hands lowers to your waist, down to your hip, and ends at your thigh, gripping your leg high up on his leg. 

“Pope!” You squeal when he drops you onto his bed. “What the fuck?!” 

“What?” He shrugs, not caring. “Swear you told me that you like it when a man manhandles you.” 

“Yeah, I like it when they grope my ass or spin me to push me up against a surface, not throw me like a ragdoll!”

“Miscommunication.” His tone is bored as he grabs your hips, pulling you to lay atop of him, lips meeting yours again. 

You pull from him, sitting up. “Can I take my shirt off?” You ask breathily. 

“W-what? Why?” 

You shrug, “want you to admire my boobs.” 

He looks bewildered, eyes wide and shocked as he looks up at you. “Don’t look so surprised.” You scoff, “I love my boobs. All my friends have seen them.” 

“Wha—“ you tug your shirt off, left in your ugly sports bra. 

“Oh my god, wait!” You cover his eyes with your hands. 

He flinches, but doesn’t push your hands away. “What? What’s wrong?” 

“My bra is ugly.” You groan. “Pretend what you saw was sexy lingerie.” 

He doesn’t speak for a moment, lying back with his eyes covered by your hands. “It wasn’t that bad.” 

“I’ve had this bra since I was a freshman.” 

“… in college?” 

“No.” 

“Okay.” He admits, “that’s kinda gross.” 

You scoff, moving your hand from his eyes to pinch his nose. “It is not. I wash it regularly and I’ve only had to stitch one slit since then. And bras are expensive. You can only talk shit if you buy me new ones.” 

“I will.” 

“Shut up.” 

“I will. What’s your size?” 

“Big as fuck.” 

He scoffs, moving your hand from his eyes, sitting up and moving you to straddle his lap as he sits on the edge of the bed. His big hands are gripping your hips, securing you on him. Without skipping a beat, “take it off.” 

You don’t hesitate to tug the piece off, tits spilling out for him. You hear the way his breath hitches, eyes dancing on your chest. He won’t look away, even when you wiggle on his lap. “Hello? My face is up here.” You sing, desperate to get him to look at you. “You know, this is a lot more than a sloppy makeout. If I were a freaky person, I would say you’re trying to sl—“ 

“Oh, god…” he breathes, moving you off of his lap and getting up off the bed himself. 

You’re scared, watching him carefully as you sit on his bed, tits out. “A-are you okay?” You ask, eyes searching his body for any sign of discomfort. 

“Y-yeah, I’m fine.” He’s turning his body away from you, facing the bedroom door. “You should— you should go.” 

But you’re too concerned to follow his wishes. Instead, you sit up and reach over to him, noticing the way his body is shaking. “Pope…?” You place your hand on his bicep, desperate to help him.

He flinches away, “just go.” 

authors note . . . to my big bitches (me) he can and will toss you around. don’t let no twig man stop u

taglist (closed(. . . @theariespov @slytherclaw1978 @manilovewomen1 @harhar0777  @cassierins @hhusbuds  @shitface-t @firstlyferrari @marauvderss @vesperazhier @love-pluto-love @peachyfckingkeen @wylewhims @byfragonard @xreader1989 @inbred-eater @verygentlementrash @sagelovesbooks @callmestgalex @robinavitchabbotslut @momdancingtomcr @pr3ttygirlavenue @cherryybombbthoughts @tatoda @cosmicneptune @buckystwilight @iansunibrow @cosmosnkaz @feminine-ominon @caterppillar @milestellerismybf @scream4mami @niyizh @4ngelest @4rtem4r @miauforme @archxve @ellieslaces @edynmeyer1 @sunbonesss @tojiramisu @xoxabs88xox @stylesonlyangel4 @flirtism @viviannagiorgini @mimiunfiltered @tumbletune @croissant31 @beths-shoelaces @iriths

[nightpitt]

Scary (Pope Cody)

MDNI - 18+

Word Count: 2.4k+

CONTENTS: andrew "pope" cody x shy! f! reader, fluff, angst, sweet sex, unprotected p in v, oral (f! recieving)

Summary: With you becoming friends with the Cody boys, Pope notices how you turn away every time he talks to you and how you act reluctant to be around him

now playing: ptolemaea by ethel cain

You and Deran had become good friends since you started working at his bar. Even though it seemed like you two had nothing in common, you two got along well. Always sharing laughs through the dining room and helping him with what to say to Adrian. He would bring you around the Cody compound. To parties or just to hangout.

You had gotten pretty acquainted with his brothers, always greeting them as you entered the threshold. You always enjoyed how Baz and Craig would be willing to tag along to whatever shenanigans Deran and you had planned.

However, Pope was always reserved, always quiet.

How you’d always reluctantly greet him, always glancing away awkwardly because he was in fact awkward. You always grew shy around his presence, unsure as to why. He would flush pink when you would admire your tight skimpy denim shorts barely covering your thighs.

He thought the reason for your behavior was because of what his brother possibly mentioned to you. How he’d beat up people when he was in high school, how he had a short temper, the fact that he went to prison.

However, he didn’t know that you were completely infatuated with him. You liked how he stared at you regardless of if it was a big t-shirt or a little tube top. He always seemed to be guarding you, always a watchful eye being on you while he was graced with your presence.

You adored his figure as his hands would be tucked into his pockets while he watched you on the sofa, hanging out with his brothers. Or how he would mindlessly hand you a beer at one of the Cody parties, noticing you were running dry as you lounged by the pool.

He’d even stop by the bar sometimes, just to check in.

“Hey, you,” he’d rasp as he placed himself onto the barstool in front of you while you were wiping the counter.

“What are you doing here? We don’t open for another hour.”

“Just checking in on you,” you not knowing he had to be at a job in an hour, always knowing the risk that he might never see you again. “You doing good?”

“Always, Pope,” you said as you turned away from him, not being able to look into his eyes.

His lips would purse then, lost in thought about how you could never make eye contact with him. He would take in his movements, did he look threatening to you?

“Well, I gotta go,” he’d say as he was about to exit. “You’ll be here when I get back, yeah?”

“Of course, Pope,” you sighed as you replaced the empty liquor bottles, not even casting a glance his way. “Gotta work after all.”

It was almost like you were annoyed at him. Like you were completely ignoring his existence. Were you terrified of what you might find seeking below the surface?

Pope would be lost in thought as he sat there while Jay cut the safe out of the floorboards, Craig was posted up next to him. Craig swatted at his bicep. “Dude, where are you?” Craig questioned. “It’s like you’re not even here, man. I need you to help me with his shit.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Pope shook his head free of the tormenting thoughts. “I’m here, lemme help you.”

It wasn’t until you were in the kitchen, slightly tipsy, looking for something to munch on. Pope would walk in from the patio where the party resided. He would take in your bikini that hugged the curves of your body.

“Ugh, is there anything in here to eat?” you asked, not knowing who was behind you.

“There’s some cereal on top of the cabinets,” Pope piped up as he uncapped another beer from the fridge.

You turned around, completely frozen at the sight of Pope being alone with you. The liquor burned through your bloodstream, your mind feeling fuzzy, yet totally focused on the man in front of you.

“Um,” Pope muttered as he made his way over to you, knowing your short stance wouldn’t be able to reach for the boxes. “I’ll help you out.”

He stretched, his shirt pulling up, exposing his harsh v-line and tight abdomen. You just sat there as your eyes bored into his tight and rigid abdomen.

“Here you go,” he said as he handed you the box of cereal. You sat still for a moment before absently taking it.

You slowly made routine movements, pouring cereal into the bowl before grabbing the gallon of milk. Pope nursed his beer as he watched you. His nerves bundled into a taught ball in his chest. He set his beer against the counter as you poured the milk, he grabbed a spoon and rested it next to the bowl.

“Y’know,” he started. “I’m sorry if I scare you.”

“You don’t scare me, Pope,” you said flatly.

He wasn’t fully convinced.

“Listen,” he continued. “I see how you avoid me and how you can’t look me in the face, I get it believe me I–”

“Pope,” your big eyes peered into his. “You don’t scare me.”

“T-Then why do you look away when I’m trying to talk to you?” Pope couldn’t understand, he didn’t get it. 

“Because, Pope,” you sighed as you held the spoon in your tight fist. “I like you.”

A pregnant pause held heavy in the room.

“A lot, actually.”

His chest heaved at the sigh of relief.

You liked him. This was a revelation to him, a totally new thing to explore. He couldn’t believe his sharp features, his harsh tone that spilled from him at times, none of it scared you. In fact, you welcomed all of him, all of the trouble and worry.

“I-I- don’t creep you out?” he stuttered. “I really don’t scare you?”

“Listen, Andrew,” you said, taking a step closer, you reached up and placed your hand on his tense jaw. “You’re a guard dog, you bite when people you love or care about are at risk.”

Tears pricked his eyes, he couldn’t believe someone as special as you could be so sweet.

“Personally, I think that’s a great quality to have, even if it scares some people.”

Pope physically relaxed as his forehead pressed against yours, his breaths slowly steadying. You wrapped your arms around his strong shoulders, pulling him into your grasp, your hands raking through the curls at the nape of your neck. His hands shook as they hovered over your hips, unsure if you’d be okay with his touch. You drew your hand down, your hand encircling Pope’s wrist, pulling his palm to your soft flesh of your hips.

The embrace was sobering as well as a revelation. He couldn’t believe how your softness, your innocence, your radiance, complimented the darkness that always hung heavy in his chest.

You set your hands on either side of his head, you pulled his head back to where his gaze met yours. His eyes scanned your pretty face.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked.

You yanked his mouth to yours, pulling him into a feverish kiss. You drew his hips to yours by the belt loops of his jeans, feeling the firmness against the middle of your tummy. You palmed his junk as you slipped your tongue past his lips, he groaned into your mouth. He was slowly losing control.

His hands reached around to your ass peaking from underneath your bikini, his warm palms resting on your cheeks, giving a firm squeeze. Your soft hands made contact with the harsh ridges of his stomach as you snaked your hands under the hem of his t-shirt.The kisses started to grow sloppy, a mixture of saliva coating your lips and chin.

“Bedroom,” Pope heaved between wet kisses. “Now.”

You didn’t even respond to him as your lips trailed over his jaw and neck. He scooped you up and wrapped your legs around his strong middle, continuing to make out with you as he made his way to his bedroom.

He threw you on the bed, giggles pouring from your pretty little mouth. He realized he needed to slow down then, he wanted to enjoy every moment of this. He wanted to kiss every inch of your skin, hug every curve of your soft body.

Pope slowly crawled between your thighs, his body caging you in as he kissed you slowly. He laced your face with sweet kisses, first your forehead, then your warm cheeks, finally meeting your lips once again.

“Andy,” you teased. “What’s with the sudden change of pace, huh?”

“Need to take you in,” he rasped between pecks along your jaw and collar. “Never thought I could have you like this.”

You grinned at his words as you raked your nails through his auburn curls while he kissed down your barely clothed figure. It wasn’t until he was pressing feather light kisses along the edge of your tummy that you giggled, making him pause.

“Everything okay?” he asked, his hazel eyes peering up at you.

“Tickes.”

“M’sorry, sweetheart,” he smirked, returning to your skin. “Just can’t get enough of you.”

You were growing impatient as your slick pooled in your bikini bottoms. Sure, you were enjoying him worshipping every part of you, but you needed him more.

You reached your fingers down to the strings of your bikini bottoms, untying the knots. Your bare pussy became exposed to Pope as he was peppering kisses to your knees, he stopped in his tracks.

“Stop teasing, Andy,” you begged. “Need more of you, please.”

It was almost like he blacked out then, totally enamored by your unadorned sex. He practically pounced to your center, pulling apart your folds and seeing the glittering sweetness.

Slow down.

Pope drew his strong arms around your thighs, enriching your flesh with red hot marks as he nipped and suckled at your stretchmarks that adorned your skin. It made you hiss and wince yet, drawing sweet breathy moans from you.

“Popey,” you whimpered. “Just get on with it.”

“You heard me,” he huffed, just mere centimeters from your warm center, his nails digging into your legs. “I’m taking my sweet time with you.”

And it was working, the teasing and foreplay making your pussy ache and ache.

He finally pressed a kiss to your clit, his tongue swiping into your folds. He teased your hole with his slick tongue, tasting every bit of your insides that he could reach. You would writhe and squirm as his powerful hands held your thighs open.

His tongue moved from your entrance to your clit, swirling, flicking, and sucking around your pearl. His meaty fingers teased and drew into you, your walls sucking him in at the sensation. He pumped in and out of you as he continued to make out with your begging buds.

Your back arched against his mattress, your nipples swelling against the fabric of your swimsuit top. You continued to cry and mewl as your fingers toyed and tugged at his scalp.

“Mm,” he hummed around you, the vibration sending pleasurable waves through your tense body. “Taste s’good, doll.”

The coil in your belly tightened, your thighs jerking in his grasp. 

“Andrew,” you cried. “I’m gonna cum.”

“Good, baby,” he said, continuing to curl his fingers into you. “That’s good, I want you to, cum for me, sweetheart.”

Your thighs shook, your legs squeezing around his head. He hugged his arms tighter around your legs, his tongue pressing slow licks to your folds as your orgasm thrashed through you.

You sat there gasping as he stood up, swiping at his chin and mouth. He returned to your lips once again, his control fleeing from him. His tongue swirled around yours, making you taste yourself. You hummed against his lips as you tugged at the hem of shirt, he pulled back briefly as he took it off. You admired his strong frame, how his veins rose from his flesh in the dim light. He slithered his hands to your back, undoing the knot that held up your bikini top. You quickly slipped out of the fabric as he unbuttoned his jeans.

He needed you now, the fabric of his boxers growing uncomfortably against his rigid length. Your hands snaked to his hips, yanking down the hem of his boxers and jeans until his cock sprung free.

You reached down, your hand drawing long strokes across his solid member. The precum of his flush head dribbled down your fingertips. You pulled your hand to your lips, tasting his teasing release as your tongue twirled around your salty digits.

Pope growled, taking his cock in his hands, running the inches across your wet center. His mouth hovered above yours, feeling his hot breath fan across your face.

“Say you’re okay with this,” he whispered. “Say you’re okay with me taking you like this.”

“I’m okay with it, Andy.”

He thrusted his shaft into your entrance, you begging him to come in. Make yourself at home.

He growled as he felt the barrier of your insides, squelching and squeezing as he continued the slow drive of his hips, getting accommodated to how your walls hug him.

He gazed down at you, his dark eyes scanning every part of your panting figure. You were bare, innocent, and willing. All for him.

It wasn’t his needy pulsating hips drawing into you, or how your boobs bobbed and jiggled with every movement that drew him closer to the edge. It was his emotions. He adored you, he loved every part of you. Your shy personality, your humor, how you were just a ray of sunshine to his family when you were around. Sure, your looks were also everything to him, but as they always say. It’s what’s on the inside that counts.

Your head ran in countless circles, completely mindless while he fucked the living shit out of you. He couldn’t get enough, the tip of his cock meeting your cervix. The mixture of the gasps, whimpers, and whines contradicted the chaotic sound of the party resting beyond the walls of his bedroom. This was sweet, this was sensual. Out there, it was dissonant and messy.

You were perfect, shit, you were both perfect. Both of you meet each other’s desire and every need.

He pressed his strong torso against your bare middle and chest, his hips continuing to rake into your insides. He needed skin on skin contact while he fucked you. He pressed hot sloppy kisses to your mouth between grunts and growls.

“M’gonna come inside you,” his hoarse voice meeting the shell of your ear. “That okay, doll? Say yes.”

“Y-Yes.”

You felt his release spill into you, filling your insides with its warmth and heat. He drew slow thrusts in and out of you as his cum spilled inside of you.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he whispered against your skin as his cock softened inside of you. “You’re so fuckin’ perfect.”

taglist: | @sagitamds @weemswife @emma8895eb @hoffmanfan13 @mast3rbait3r

[bamb1ed0ll]

Pope cody x fem!reader - clingy

Cw! Nothing, just a cute fluffy drabble cuz I rlly need to be held by this man...

"What are you doing?" Pope asked in a rather flat tone. "'M wanna be closer. Closest." Your reply came from under his hoodie, where you had currently slipped your head under, trying to crawl into the same piece of clothing he was wearing at the moment.

Whining like a child, you needed to come up for air, realizing the shared space did not leave much oxygen. You pulled away again, straightening your back as you settled back into your position of straddling his lap, with him laid back against his bedframe.

"What's that pout for? Why're you lookin' at me like that?" Andrew's voice sounded, again in that flat tone, blank stare, but you could see the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "'Cause its never enough. 'M never get close enough." Lips in a pout, you settled for fidgeting with the strings of his dark brown hoodie.

"You know, you're so pretty, Andy. 'S unfair." Andrew doesn't even try to fight the shy smile slowly gracing his features. A rosy pink flush creeping up the freckled skin of his neck and ears.

"Why unfair?"

"'Cause I don't wanna look away. Your face's so pretty. 'Love the way your bones 're aligned." You gently trace one of your index fingers from his forehead, over his nose, down to his chin as a sound best described as a snort leaves pope, genuine smile now on his face.

"My bone structure...?"

"Mhm. Your nose. Your Jaw. The way your upper lip's slightly more forward than your chin. Those pretty puppy eyes...'m love it sou much."

"O-okay" Andrew's grin softens, the shy, boyish charm leaking through again as he shifts his gaze to your hands that are back to mindlessly playing with the strings of his hoodie.

"You're pretty too. Prettiest. And sweet..." his voice suddenly speaks up, making your lips twitch into a shy, slightly teasing smile. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Thank you, Andy." You say as you lean forward to press a kiss to the tip of his nose, as his hands massage the plush of where your hips meet your thighs.

"So beautiful." Andrew's now looking right at you as he whispers those two small words, more to himself than anyone else really. The look your boyfriend has while his gaze drifts over your features makes it hard to breathe for a second.

Adoration. Like you're the light in his otherwise rather dark world. Like you're something etheral he's scared to touch with his bloodied hands but too selfish not to.

Smile widening, you lean in again, this time to pepper kisses all over his features, his nose, cheeks, forehead and eyelids, all the way down to his chin and jawline. Each press of lips accompanied by an overexaggerated 'mwah' sound.

The obnoxious display has the flush spread to his cheeks, a genuine, wide smile spreading over his face.

Those puppy dog eyes fixed on you like you're all he sees, his whole world, basking in the affection you're willing to give to him and thanking whatever deity out there for letting him have this.

Swearing on everything he has, he'll do whatever it takes to protect it.

[oceansglimmer]

mdni 18+ !!!

pope doesn’t like being called “baby.” 

he doesn’t say it out loud, but the first and only time you ever said it, you felt the shift in him. it was as if a blackhole had opened up in him, and he got this far away look in his eyes. 

it confused you for a moment, until it occurred to you that smurf calls everyone baby.

you should have realized it before, honestly. you could still remember the uncomfortable way your insides twisted up the first time you heard that word coming from smurf’s mouth, the ugly way she drew it out while leaning towards her sons.

after that, you decide to never call pope that again. instead you find yourself thinking up new names for him, ones hopefully untainted by his mother. 

you already know he likes to be called andy. it makes him smile ever so faintly when you say it. he tries to hide his smiles, something you’re trying to make him stop doing, but you can pick up on his subtle tells. a tiny little “good morning, andy” will make his mouth twitch up ever so briefly, his eyes squint just a touch. 

when you call him handsome it is when you’re getting ready for a date. he’s put on a new shirt, it’s lavender, and as you watch him do the buttons up you can’t help but go up to him and finish them for him.

“look at you, my handsome boy” you say in a low teasing voice, and  he actually blushes. his cute cheeks blossom into a pretty shade of pink, his gaze avoiding yours. it makes him mumble some nonsense about that not being true. you just shush him and promise that after dinner, you will show him exactly how handsome he is. 

you call him several variations of “pretty,” as many as you can think of. pretty boy, pretty angel, sometimes just pretty. it has a similar effect as handsome, but amplified. it’s as if the words make him try to crawl out of his own skin. he squirms and tries to hide his face from you. it makes you grin and try to uncover his hands from his face, telling him every pretty thing about him. 

“i mean it, pope” you say, grabbing his cheeks, feeling how warm they get, “you have pretty eyes. a pretty nose. pretty freckles on those pretty cheeks and shoulders…” you trail kisses down each feature as you go until you have him undressed and whimpering for you, “you have a pretty cock,” you tease before wrapping your lips around the tip, bringing soft whimpers from him.

you think though, he might like the most tender names the most though. on the bad nights, and he has so many of those, you call him things like “my love” or “my andrew.” you kiss away his tears and murmur “it’s okay, my sweet boy.” you feel how he shudders with each name, how he chokes on sobs and presses closer to you for you to press kisses to his hairline, letting him hide in your chest until he finally settles down again.

[fanficwritinggirl]

{She Knows Your Voice - Andrew Pope Cody x F!Reader}

Comment to be added to the taglist

You told yourself the duck onesie was practical.

It was clean.

It was soft.

It had snaps that didn't make you want to throw it across the room at three in the morning.

Those were all practical reasons.

The fact that Andrew loved it was irrelevant.

Mostly.

Probably.

You stood in the nursery with Andie lying on the changing mat, her tiny legs kicking with great seriousness while you tried to get one foot through the correct opening.

"Stop fighting the duck suit," you murmured.

Andie made a small offended sound.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did I insult your dignity?"

She blinked at you.

You smiled despite yourself and fastened the final snap.

There.

Tiny yellow ducks.

Dark hair sticking up slightly near her crown.

Andrew's frown already forming even though she was only a few weeks old and had absolutely no bills to pay.

You looked down at her and felt your chest do the painful, impossible thing it did fifty times a day now.

She was real.

Still.

Every morning, somehow still surprising.

You brushed one finger gently over her cheek.

"Your dad is going to lose his mind."

From the doorway, Deran said, "You're dressing her emotionally."

You turned.

He stood there with two takeaway coffees in one hand and a packet of nappies under his arm, looking deeply unimpressed for a man who had voluntarily shown up at nine in the morning with baby supplies.

"I'm dressing her practically," you said.

"It has ducks."

"Ducks can be practical."

"No, they can't."

"You have no proof of that."

"You put her in the duck onesie because Pope likes it."

"I put her in the duck onesie because it was clean."

Deran looked at the laundry basket overflowing beside the wardrobe.

"There are four clean things on top of that pile."

You narrowed your eyes. "Why are you inspecting my laundry?"

"It's right there."

"Stop perceiving my laundry."

He huffed and stepped into the room, setting one coffee on the dresser. "That one's decaf."

You softened immediately.

"Thank you."

"Yeah, whatever."

Andie kicked both legs.

Deran looked down at her.

His face changed.

It always did, even though he tried to stop it. Something in him went quieter around her, like she made the whole room less easy to joke inside.

"Hey," he said.

Andie stared past him at absolutely nothing.

Deran nodded. "Good talk."

"She's very selective."

"She looks like she's judging me."

"She is."

"She gets that from you."

You laughed and lifted her carefully from the changing mat. Your body still felt strange most days. Better than those first raw days after birth, but not fully yours yet. There were aches you had learned to move around, a tiredness that sat under your skin, and a new constant awareness of Andie's weight in your arms.

Not heavy.

Never heavy.

Just there.

A whole person.

Deran watched you shift her against your chest.

"You okay going today?"

You glanced up.

His voice had gone casual in the way Cody men used when they were being very, very not casual.

"Yes."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"You look tired."

"I have a newborn."

"Yeah. That's why I asked."

You looked down at Andie.

She had started making little rooting motions against your shirt even though she had eaten forty minutes earlier, because apparently babies worked according to laws no one had written down properly.

"I'm okay," you said, softer.

Deran leaned back against the dresser.

"It's glass today?"

Your throat tightened.

"Yeah."

He nodded once.

No contact room.

No special approval.

No one impossible hour of Andrew holding both of you like the world had narrowed down to his arms and your daughter's breathing.

Just the regular visiting room.

Booth five.

Phones.

Glass.

Andrew had held Andie once now.

That was the blessing.

That was also the wound.

Deran looked down at his coffee.

"That's gonna suck."

You laughed once.

Small and honest.

"Yeah."

He nodded again.

Then he looked at Andie in the duck onesie.

"He'll like that, though."

Your smile trembled.

"I know."

Deran cleared his throat.

"Okay," he said, pushing off from the dresser. "Let's get this emotionally practical duck baby on the road."

You laughed properly then.

Andie startled at the sound, eyes widening.

You kissed the top of her head.

"Sorry," you whispered. "Your uncle is ridiculous."

Deran paused in the doorway.

"Uncle?"

You looked up.

He was staring at you.

You blinked. "What?"

"You said uncle."

Your face softened.

"Oh."

He looked away too fast.

"Don't make it a thing."

"I wasn't."

"You were about to."

"I absolutely was."

"Don't."

You smiled down at Andie.

"Your uncle Deran is emotionally fragile."

"I can still leave you here."

"No, you can't."

"No," he admitted. "I can't."

Andrew knew it was going to be glass.

He had known for three days.

That did not help.

He stood in the visiting room line with his hands at his sides and tried not to think about the weight of Andie in his arms.

It was impossible.

His body remembered before his head could stop it.

The warm curve of her.

The way she had fit against his chest.

The tiny sound she made when he said her name.

The frown.

His frown, apparently, though he still thought you were exaggerating.

He could still feel your hand on his wrist too.

Your mouth.

Your cheek against his shoulder.

The way you had leaned into him when he held her, like for one hour all the months of distance had been suspended in the space between your bodies.

Now it was glass again.

Phone again.

Touching nothing.

He told himself seeing them through glass was still seeing them.

It did not help much.

The door opened.

He walked in.

Booth five.

You were already there.

Andie was against your chest, wrapped in a blanket, her little face turned toward your throat.

Andrew stopped.

For a second, the glass disappeared because all he saw was you.

Tired.

Soft.

Beautiful in a way that hurt.

Then Andie shifted.

The blanket moved.

Yellow ducks.

His breath caught before he could stop it.

You picked up the phone.

He sat and grabbed his.

"You put her in the ducks," he said.

No greeting.

No question.

Just that.

Your smile warmed and ruined him at the same time.

"She chose them."

His eyes dropped to Andie. "She can't choose clothes."

"She has strong opinions."

"She's a baby."

"She's a Cody."

Andrew looked up at you.

Your mouth twitched.

His did too.

Barely.

But enough.

"Hi," you said softly.

His throat tightened.

"Hi."

"You okay?"

"That's my question."

"I'm stealing it."

He looked at you through the glass.

You had dark circles under your eyes. Your hair was pulled back, but not well. His old flannel was draped over your shoulders again, sleeves rolled messily at the wrists. Andie's cheek rested against your chest, tiny mouth relaxed, one fist tucked under her chin.

The sight made him ache.

Not only from missing it.

From loving it.

"I'm okay," he said.

Your gaze softened, like you knew all the ways that answer was incomplete and decided to let him have it anyway.

"She sleep?"

"Sometimes."

"That means no."

"That means she sleeps like a newborn."

"That means no."

You sighed. "No."

"Eating?"

"Yes."

"You?"

You gave him a look. "Also yes."

"Enough?"

"Andrew."

"What?"

"You have moved from baby interrogation to wife interrogation very quickly."

"You both need food."

"She gets hers directly from me. It's very hard to forget."

His eyes widened slightly.

You laughed.

"Oh, don't look so alarmed. You know how babies work."

"I know."

"You look scared."

"I'm not scared."

"You are absolutely scared."

"I'm concerned."

"About breastfeeding?"

"About all of it."

Your expression softened.

Andie made a tiny sound against your chest.

Both of you looked down.

She shifted, scrunched her face, then started fussing.

Not crying yet.

Just winding up.

You adjusted her carefully, bouncing her a little against your shoulder.

"Hey," you murmured. "It's okay."

Andrew's hand tightened around the phone.

The sound went through him strangely.

He had heard her fuss on calls.

He had heard her cry.

But seeing it through glass, seeing her tiny face crumple while he could not reach either of you, made something hot and useless move through his chest.

Andie fussed harder.

You shifted again.

"I know," you whispered, kissing her hair. "I know. It's loud in here."

Andrew leaned closer.

"Put me on."

Your eyes lifted.

"What?"

"The phone."

You looked down at Andie.

"She's upset."

"I know."

"She might scream directly into your ear."

"That's okay."

For a second, you just looked at him.

Then you nodded.

You moved the phone from your ear and held it near Andie, careful not to press it too close.

"She's listening," you said.

Andrew's voice changed before he even thought about it.

Low.

Quiet.

The voice that had become hers somehow.

"Hey, Andie."

Andie fussed.

Her little face crumpled.

Andrew swallowed.

"Hey, baby girl. It's me."

Her crying caught.

Not stopped.

Caught.

A tiny interruption in the rhythm.

You went very still.

Andrew saw it.

He kept talking.

"I know. This place is loud. I don't like it either."

Andie made a small distressed sound.

"But you got the ducks on," he said. "That helps."

A wet laugh slipped out of you.

Andie's fussing softened from the edge of a cry into hiccupping little complaints.

Andrew kept his eyes on her.

"You saw me already," he said softly. "Remember? I held you. You slept on me."

His throat tightened.

The words almost got stuck.

He forced them out anyway.

"You were warm."

Your face crumpled behind the glass.

Andie quieted.

Not fully asleep.

Not peaceful.

But listening.

Her eyes opened slightly, dark and unfocused, shifting vaguely toward the phone.

Andrew stopped breathing.

You brought the phone back to your ear slowly.

"She knows your voice," you whispered.

Andrew could not answer.

His eyes stayed on Andie.

She was still looking toward the sound.

Toward him.

Not seeing him, probably. Not really. The books said newborn eyesight was blurry. He had read that twice.

But she knew something.

The voice.

The rhythm.

The shape of him in sound.

Andrew pressed his palm flat to the counter, because if he didn't put his hand somewhere, he was going to break.

"She knows your voice," you said again, softer.

His jaw worked.

"Yeah?"

"Yes."

Andie made another tiny noise.

Not upset now.

Just there.

You smiled down at her. "See? That's Daddy."

Andrew's eyes burned.

Daddy.

He had heard you say it before.

Every time, it landed somewhere new.

You shifted closer to the glass, lifting Andie carefully so she faced him more. Her head wobbled slightly, supported by your hand at the back of her neck.

"She's looking," you said.

"At what?"

"At the blur that is probably you."

A rough laugh left him.

Andie blinked slowly.

Her tiny hand escaped the blanket.

You caught it gently between your fingers.

Andrew watched like his whole world had become that hand.

So small.

Ridiculously small.

Perfectly formed fingers curling and uncurling against your thumb.

You looked up at him through the glass.

"Do you want to..."

You did not finish.

You didn't need to.

Andrew lifted his hand.

Slowly.

Like he was afraid of frightening her even through the barrier.

You brought Andie's hand to the glass.

Her palm pressed flat, tiny and loose, supported by your fingers.

Andrew placed his hand on the other side.

His palm dwarfed hers completely.

Glass between them.

Your fingers around hers.

His hand opposite.

For a second, none of you moved.

The room around you faded.

The other visitors.

The guards.

The phones.

The ugly lights.

All of it blurred around the smallest hand in the world pressed to the barrier between Andrew and his daughter.

Andrew's mouth trembled.

"Hi," he whispered, even though the phone was at your ear and she could not hear him that way.

You heard.

That was enough.

You looked at his hand.

Then at his face.

"She's touching you," you said.

His eyes flicked up.

Then back down.

"Not really."

"Yes," you said. "Really enough."

His face changed.

Really enough.

That was what so much of this had become.

Phone calls were not holding, but they were really enough to calm her.

Recordings were not bedtime in his arms, but they were really enough to fill the room.

Glass was not skin, but right now, his daughter's hand was opposite his and yours was holding her there.

Really enough.

Andrew nodded once.

Barely.

You pressed Andie's hand there a moment longer.

Then she squeaked, unimpressed, and curled her fingers.

You laughed softly.

"She's over it."

His mouth twitched.

"Like you."

"Like you."

Andie yawned then.

A huge, dramatic newborn yawn that took up her whole face.

Andrew stared.

"She does that a lot," you said.

"Yawns?"

"Yes, Andrew. Babies yawn."

"I know."

"You always sound surprised."

"I still am."

You smiled.

His hand stayed on the glass even after you lowered Andie back against your chest.

He did not seem to notice.

Or maybe he did and simply did not want to move it yet.

You didn't tell him to.

For a while, you talked about small things.

Andie's hatred of swaddling.

Andie's conflicting hatred of not being swaddled.

The way she slept with both hands near her face like she was ready to fight someone in a dream.

Deran falling asleep upright on your sofa and denying it while still half asleep.

Andrew listened to all of it.

Every ridiculous detail.

He asked questions that were half practical, half desperate.

How much was she eating?

Did she still make the angry rooting face?

Was the duck on the shelf or had it been moved?

Was the chair still loud?

Were you taking the pain medicine on time?

That last one made you pause.

Mostly because you had not been.

Andrew saw it.

Even through glass.

"Baby."

"I'm mostly taking them."

His gaze narrowed.

"What does mostly mean?"

"It means I am an adult woman who knows how to take medication."

"It means you forgot."

"It means newborns are distracting."

"It means you forgot."

You huffed. "Maybe once."

His eyes stayed fixed on you.

"Twice."

Andrew's expression did not change.

You sighed. "Fine. Deran has set alarms."

"Good."

"He labelled one 'take your damn pills.'"

"Good."

"He labelled another one 'Pope would yell.'"

Andrew nodded. "Accurate."

You laughed.

Andie startled.

Both of you froze.

She settled again.

You lowered your voice. "You're both bullies."

"You need sleep."

"I need a clone."

"No."

"No?"

"One of you is enough."

Your eyes softened.

Andrew seemed to realize what he had said a second later. He looked down, but you caught the warmth before he could hide it.

The visit timer crackled overhead.

Ten minutes.

The sound went through you like a small blade.

Andrew's hand finally dropped from the glass.

Andie shifted against you, her mouth making soft sleeping movements.

You looked down at her.

Then back at him.

"It was harder today," you said quietly.

Andrew's eyes lifted.

He knew exactly what you meant.

No contact room.

No arms.

No kissing.

No Andie warm against his chest.

Just glass again.

He looked at his hand where it rested on the counter.

"Yeah."

Your throat tightened.

"I'm sorry."

His eyes snapped up.

"No."

"I know. But—"

"No."

You stopped.

He leaned closer, voice low.

"Don't be sorry for bringing her."

Your eyes burned.

"I'm not."

"Good."

He looked at Andie.

Then at you.

"It was easier before I knew what she felt like," he admitted.

The honesty hurt.

You had expected it, maybe.

Still, hearing it made your chest ache.

"I know."

His jaw tightened, but he did not spiral.

He did not turn the pain into apology.

He just sat with it.

That, too, was new.

"But I know now," he said.

Your face softened.

"And that's good."

You nodded.

"It's good," he repeated, like he was making himself believe it because it was true and because truth sometimes had to be held steady with both hands.

Andie stirred.

You lowered your mouth to her forehead.

"She still knows you."

Andrew looked at her.

Then at the phone.

"Yeah?"

You smiled through tears.

"Andrew, she practically stopped mid-meltdown because you told her the prison was loud and praised her outfit."

His mouth twitched.

"The ducks help."

"The ducks help," you agreed solemnly.

The loudspeaker called five minutes.

You hated every announcement in this building.

Andrew looked at Andie like he was trying to memorize the exact shape of her sleeping against your chest.

"She bigger?"

"Since the contact visit?"

"Yeah."

"A little."

"I thought so."

"You saw her for one hour."

"I know."

"And you can tell she grew?"

"Yes."

You smiled. "Obsessed."

His eyes stayed on his daughter.

"Yeah."

No denial.

No shame.

Just yes.

You looked at him and felt your heart fold itself in half.

The last minutes went too quickly.

They always did.

You promised to send pictures.

He told you to take your medication.

You told him not to be bossy.

He ignored that and reminded you to drink water.

You asked about the recording programme, and he said the first one had been approved for mailing.

Your expression changed.

"It's coming?"

"Should be."

"You read the duck one?"

"Yeah."

"Was it good?"

His mouth tightened.

"It was a book."

"That is not an answer."

"It had a duck."

"Also not an answer."

"It was fine."

You narrowed your eyes. "Andrew."

"I did the voices."

Your mouth fell open.

"You did not."

His eyes flicked away.

"You did?"

"Don't make it a thing."

"Oh, I am absolutely making this a thing."

"Don't."

"You did duck voices?"

"One voice."

"Andrew Cody."

"Baby."

"You recorded yourself doing a duck voice for your daughter."

His jaw tightened, but there was color high on his cheekbones.

"She might like it."

Your face crumpled.

All teasing disappeared.

"She will love it."

He swallowed.

"You don't know that."

"I do."

"Mother science?"

"Mother science."

The guard stepped closer.

Time.

You stood slowly, careful with Andie against your chest. Your body still ached if you moved too fast, and Andrew noticed because of course he did.

"You okay?"

"Yes."

"Pain medicine."

"I will."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

His face softened.

You lifted Andie's tiny hand from the blanket.

Just a small wave.

Andrew pressed his palm to the glass again.

"Bye, baby girl," he whispered.

You looked at him.

"I love you," you said.

His eyes lifted.

"I love you."

"And she loves you."

This time, he did not ask if you were sure.

He looked at Andie.

Then at your fingers supporting her tiny hand.

"I know," he said.

Your breath caught.

He said it like he meant it.

Like he finally had enough proof to hold.

You smiled through tears.

Then you turned and left.

Behind you, Andrew kept his palm on the glass until the door closed.

The package was waiting when you got home.

Deran saw it first.

He had carried the diaper bag in while you carried Andie, who had fallen asleep in the car and was now making tiny dream noises against your shoulder.

There was a padded envelope on the hallway floor just inside the door, pushed through the letter slot at an odd angle.

Deran picked it up.

His expression changed.

"What?"

He looked at the return label.

"Family services thing."

Your heart jumped.

"The recording?"

"Looks like."

You shifted Andie higher against your chest.

She stayed asleep.

For once.

Deran looked from the envelope to you.

"You want me to open it?"

"No."

You said it too quickly.

He nodded and handed it over without comment.

The envelope was light.

Inside was a children's book.

Bright cover.

Yellow duck.

Of course.

A small plastic sleeve was attached to the inside with a labeled audio file on a simple approved player.

Your fingers trembled when you opened the cover.

On the dedication page, in Andrew's careful handwriting, were four words.

For Andie.

From Dad.

You inhaled sharply.

Deran looked away immediately.

"Jesus," he muttered.

You laughed wetly. "Yeah."

You carried the book upstairs to the nursery.

Deran followed, quieter now.

He did not make a joke about the chair.

He did not make a joke about ducks.

That was how you knew he was already emotionally compromised.

You sat in the green rocking chair with Andie against your chest. The room was dim, warm from the late afternoon sun. Andrew's wooden duck sat on the shelf beside the scan photo. The hospital bracelet lay in a little dish. A clean blanket hung over the arm of the chair.

Deran stood near the doorway, arms crossed.

"You don't have to stay," you said.

"I know."

"You want to?"

"No."

You looked at him.

He sighed. "Fine. Yeah."

You smiled.

Andie stirred, making a small grumbly noise.

"Okay," you whispered. "Let's hear Dad."

Deran shifted against the doorframe.

You pressed play.

For a second, there was static.

A small scrape.

Then Andrew's voice filled the nursery.

"Hi, Andie."

Your face crumpled instantly.

Deran looked at the floor.

On your chest, Andie went still.

Andrew's voice was rougher than usual, like he had been nervous.

"Hi, baby girl. It's me."

Andie's eyes fluttered.

You pressed your lips together to keep from sobbing too loudly.

There was a pause on the recording.

Then Andrew cleared his throat.

"This is a duck book," he said.

Deran made a strangled sound.

You looked at him through tears.

He shook his head. "I'm fine."

"You are not."

"Shut up."

The recording continued.

Andrew read slowly at first.

Too slowly.

Like he was afraid of getting it wrong.

Then he found a rhythm.

His rhythm.

Low and careful, turning the silly little duck story into something softer than it had any right to be.

He did the duck voice.

Barely.

It was more of a slight change in tone than a full voice, but you caught it immediately.

Deran did too.

He covered his mouth with one hand and turned toward the wall.

You started crying harder.

Andie relaxed against your chest.

Completely.

Her tiny fist opened.

Her cheek settled against you.

By the second page, she was asleep.

You looked down at her, then back at the book.

Andrew's voice kept going.

In the room he had helped choose.

Beside the duck he had carved.

Around the daughter who knew him by sound before she knew almost anything else.

Deran was suspiciously silent by the door.

You glanced at him.

His eyes were red.

"Deran."

"No."

"I didn't say anything."

"No."

You smiled through tears and looked back down at Andie.

The story ended after a few minutes.

There was a small pause.

Then Andrew's voice came back softer.

"Goodnight, Andie."

Your breath hitched.

Another pause.

"I'm here."

The recording clicked off.

The room went quiet.

Not empty.

Not anymore.

You sat very still, Andie asleep against your chest, the book open in your lap.

Deran cleared his throat.

"That was..."

He stopped.

You looked up.

His face was turned toward the window.

"Yeah," you said softly.

He nodded once.

"That was good."

Your smile trembled.

"It was."

Andie sighed in her sleep.

You looked down at her.

"She knew."

Deran looked at her too, expression soft and unguarded for once.

"Yeah," he said. "She did."

You leaned back in the chair and pressed your cheek gently to the top of your daughter's head.

On the shelf, the wooden duck watched over the room.

In your lap, the book rested open.

Andrew's voice was gone from the player, but somehow still there.

In the walls.

In the green.

In the quiet.

He was not home.

Not yet.

But his voice had arrived before him.

Andie slept through the rest of the afternoon with one tiny fist curled against your chest, while Andrew's voice filled the green room like he had found another way back to both of you.

Taglist - 

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[fanficwritinggirl]

{Still Warm - Andrew Pope Cody x F!Reader}

Comment to be added to the taglist.

Andrew could still feel her.

That was the worst part.

Or maybe the best.

He could not tell anymore.

He sat on the edge of his bunk with his hands resting open on his knees, palms up, fingers slightly curved like his body had not yet understood that his daughter was no longer there.

Andie.

Andie Hope Cody.

The name still moved through him like something too bright to look at directly.

He had said it six times since they brought him back.

Once in the hallway, too quietly for anyone else to hear.

Once under his breath when the door shut behind him.

Once sitting on the edge of the bunk, staring at nothing.

Three more times after that, each one softer than the last.

Andie.

His daughter.

His girl.

His.

Not in the way the Codys had always meant mine. Not ownership. Not blood as a chain. Not a name used like a hook.

His as in beloved.

His as in held.

His as in somewhere in the world, a three-day-old baby existed who had slept in his arms and made a tiny grumbling sound against his chest like she had opinions about prison-issued fabric.

His daughter had been warm.

That was the thing he could not get past.

She had been warm in a way nothing in here was warm. Not the blankets. Not the food. Not the showers with their bad pressure and worse timing. Not the sun through the window when it hit the concrete floor in pale squares.

Andie had been warm like life.

Like proof.

Like every impossible thing Andrew had stopped expecting from the world had been placed carefully into his hands and told him to support the head.

He looked down at his arms.

Empty now.

Still shaped around her.

His chest hurt in a way that had nothing to do with injury.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.

He could still feel you too.

That was not better.

Your fingers in the front of his shirt.

Your mouth on his after months of glass.

Your cheek against his chest.

Your hand on his wrist while he held Andie.

The way you had leaned into him like your body remembered before your brain could decide whether it was allowed.

He had held you carefully because you were three days postpartum and exhausted and hurting and stubborn enough to drag yourself into a prison contact room because you had decided he needed to meet his daughter.

He had wanted to hold you harder.

That want sat in his ribs now, aching.

He had wanted to put one hand on the back of your head and the other around your waist and keep you there until every bad month between you gave up and left. He had wanted to kiss you until the guard knocked. Until Craig kicked the door in. Until the whole prison complained.

He hadn't.

He had been careful.

Careful with your body.

Careful with Andie.

Careful with the hour because if he touched it wrong, it might break.

Then it ended anyway.

The thing about good moments was that they still ended.

Andrew dragged a hand down his face and looked at the wall near his bunk.

The photo of you in the nursery was there.

The scan photos.

The note that said It's a girl.

The list of names, folded and unfolded so many times the creases had gone soft.

And now, written on the inside of his wrist in faint pen because he had not trusted paper alone, was her name.

Andie.

He looked at it until the letters blurred.

A knock sounded at the open edge of his cell.

Andrew looked up.

One of the programme officers stood there with a folder tucked under her arm. She was older than most of the staff. Less hard around the mouth. Not soft exactly, but not looking for reasons to be cruel either.

"Cody."

He stood automatically.

She looked at him for half a second, then at the wall of photos.

Her expression did not change much.

"Family services approved the next step," she said.

Andrew frowned slightly. "Next step?"

"The reading recordings."

He stared at her.

She opened the folder and pulled out a sheet. "For eligible inmates with young children. You can record yourself reading approved children's books. The recording and book get sent to the child's caregiver after review."

Andrew's mouth went dry.

A book.

His voice.

Sent home.

To Andie.

To you.

"She's three days old," he said.

The officer looked at him over the top of the paper. "Babies can still hear."

His throat tightened.

He looked down.

The officer continued, either not noticing or pretending not to. "You'll pick from the approved list. Nothing personalized beyond the permitted opening and closing statements. No messages to anyone else except the child. No coded language. Recording is reviewed before release."

Andrew barely heard half of it.

His voice.

In the green room.

When he couldn't call.

When Andie cried.

When you were tired.

His hand closed slowly at his side.

"When?" he asked.

"Tomorrow, if you want the slot."

He looked back up.

"Yes."

The answer came too quickly.

He did not care.

The officer nodded, made a note.

"You'll want to practice. Some guys get nervous."

Andrew almost laughed.

Nervous.

He had held guns steadier than he had held his daughter.

He had faced men who wanted to kill him with less fear than he felt at the thought of reading a children's book badly into a prison recorder.

"What books?" he asked.

She handed him the list.

He scanned it.

Most of the titles meant nothing to him.

Animals.

Bedtime.

Moons.

Bears.

Ducks.

His eyes stopped there.

A book about a duck.

Of course.

The officer noticed.

"That one's available."

Andrew folded the list carefully.

"I'll do that one."

"Alright."

She turned to leave.

Then paused.

"Congratulations," she said.

Andrew went still.

He did not know what to do with the word in here.

Congratulations.

Like he was just a man whose wife had had a baby.

Like joy could be acknowledged without turning into a weapon.

He nodded once.

"Thank you."

The officer left.

Andrew sat back down.

For a long moment, he stared at the list in his hand.

Then he looked at the photo of you in the nursery.

At your hands around your stomach.

At the duck onesie on the dresser.

At the green room waiting for his daughter.

"I'll read to you," he said quietly.

The words felt strange in his mouth.

Not bad.

Strange.

He looked down at his wrist.

Andie.

"I'll read to you," he said again.

This time, it sounded almost like a promise.

At home, Andie would not settle.

She had been fed.

Changed.

Burped.

Swaddled.

Unswaddled because she hated the swaddle.

Reswaddled because she also hated having arms.

Held upright.

Held sideways.

Rocked in the green chair.

Walked around the bedroom.

Walked around the nursery.

Walked around the landing until your stitches reminded you that you were a fool with a newborn and no survival instinct.

Nothing worked.

Your daughter was furious.

Not crying in a delicate, newborn way.

Screaming.

Red-faced. Fists clenched. Mouth wide open. Tiny body rigid with outrage.

You stood in the nursery at 1:06 in the morning, wearing Andrew's flannel over a nursing bra and pyjama shorts, your hair coming loose from the bun you had made six hours ago and forgotten about. Your entire body hurt. Your breasts ached. Your back ached. Your heart ached in a way that felt stupidly personal because a three-day-old baby was not crying at you, she was just crying.

Still.

At some point, every new mother had probably looked down at her child and thought, desperately, please like me.

You bounced her gently.

"Baby girl," you whispered. "Please. Please, sweetheart. I don't know what you want."

Andie screamed harder.

You closed your eyes.

"Okay. That's fair. I also don't know what I want."

Downstairs, Craig had fallen asleep on your sofa forty minutes ago after insisting he was not tired. Deran had gone home only because you threatened to lock him out if he kept pacing near the kettle.

You could call Craig.

You should call Craig.

Instead, you pressed your cheek to the top of Andie's soft dark hair and tried not to cry too loudly.

You missed Andrew so badly it made you angry.

Not at him.

Not even at the situation, because anger required too much energy.

Just angry in your body. In your bones. In the empty space beside you where his hands should have been. His voice. His calm, rough, bossy instructions. His way of turning fear into tasks.

Check the nappy.

Water.

Breathe.

Sit down.

Give her to me.

Except you couldn't.

You couldn't give her to him.

You had given her to him that afternoon for one impossible hour, and now your body remembered what it had felt like to have help from the one person you wanted most.

That made the night worse.

Better, maybe.

No.

Worse.

Andie screamed into your shoulder.

You sat carefully in the rocking chair because if you didn't, you were going to fall over.

The chair creaked.

Back.

Forward.

Back.

Forward.

The wooden duck sat on the shelf beside the scan photo and the hospital bracelet you still had not put away.

You stared at it through tears.

"Your dad made that," you told Andie, voice shaking. "He was very stressed about the beak."

Andie did not care.

You laughed once, broken and exhausted.

"He held you today," you whispered. "Do you remember?"

Of course she didn't.

She was three days old.

Still, her crying hitched for half a second.

You froze.

Then she screamed again.

You sagged back in the chair.

"Okay. Not helpful."

The phone rang.

You nearly dropped the baby.

It was such a sharp, sudden sound in the room that your whole body jolted. Andie startled, screamed harder, and you fumbled for the phone on the small table beside the chair with one hand while trying not to let her head wobble.

The number on the screen made your breath catch.

You answered immediately.

The automated voice began.

You have a prepaid call from an inmate at—

Andie screamed over the recording.

You pressed one so fast your thumb slipped.

The line clicked.

Static.

Then Andrew's voice, already alert.

"What's wrong?"

You started crying.

That was apparently your answer.

Andie wailed against your chest.

Andrew went very still on the other end.

"Baby."

"I'm okay."

"You're crying."

"She won't settle."

Your voice broke on the last word.

Andrew's breathing changed.

Not panic exactly.

Focus.

"How long?"

"I don't know. An hour. Maybe two. Time isn't real."

"Did she eat?"

"Yes."

"Nappy?"

"Changed."

"Burped?"

"She burped on me and then screamed like I did it."

A rough breath came through the line.

Almost a laugh, but restrained.

"You sitting?"

"Yes."

"Good."

"I walked too much."

His voice sharpened. "How much?"

"Do not start."

"You had a baby three days ago."

"I noticed."

"Andie okay?"

"She's furious."

Andie screamed, as if confirming.

Andrew went quiet.

Then, softer, "Put me on."

Your face crumpled.

"What?"

"Put the phone near her."

"Andrew, she's screaming."

"I know."

"She probably won't—"

"Put me on."

You shifted Andie carefully in your arms and held the phone close enough for her to hear, not so close it touched her.

"Okay," you whispered.

Andrew took one breath.

Then his voice changed.

It became the voice he used only for her.

Low.

Careful.

A little rough.

"Hey, Andie."

Your daughter screamed.

Andrew did not stop.

"Hey, baby girl. It's me."

Andie cried hard enough that her whole tiny body shook.

Your eyes filled.

"I know," Andrew said softly. "You're mad."

Her crying hitched.

You stared down at her.

Andrew continued, quiet and steady.

"Your mom says you ate. And you got changed. So I don't know what you're yelling about."

A wet laugh slipped out of you.

Andie's cries dropped from furious screams to broken, hiccupping wails.

Your mouth parted.

Andrew kept talking.

"You had a big day. I know. Prison's not nice. I didn't like you there either."

You pressed your lips together.

"But you did good. You slept on me. You made that face."

Andie hiccupped.

"You remember that? The mad one?"

Her crying softened again.

Still upset.

But listening.

You stopped rocking without meaning to.

Andrew's voice filled the nursery.

"You got my frown, your mom says. I think she's lying, but she's usually right about you."

You laughed silently, tears falling down your cheeks.

Andie whimpered.

Then went quiet for two whole seconds.

Andrew went quiet too.

You held your breath.

Andie made a tiny, miserable sound.

Not a scream.

A complaint.

Andrew's voice softened.

"There you are."

Your entire face crumpled.

He had said that to you once.

During labour.

After a contraction had passed.

There you are.

Now he said it to your daughter, and she listened.

"You're okay," he whispered. "Your mom's got you."

Andie's mouth moved.

Her little hand opened against your chest.

"She's stopping," you whispered.

Andrew did not answer you directly.

He stayed with her.

"She's tired. You're tired. So you're gonna sleep, alright?"

Andie made another tiny sound.

"Yeah," he said. "I know. Sleep's stupid. Do it anyway."

You laughed, and it came out as a sob.

Andie blinked slowly.

Her eyes were barely open, dark and unfocused.

She stared somewhere near your collarbone, then toward the sound of the phone.

Andrew kept talking.

Not saying anything important.

That was what made it important.

He told her about the duck he made, and how the beak was still wrong no matter what you said. He told her the chair was loud. He told her Craig was probably sleeping downstairs pretending he wasn't. He told her Deran had looked scared when he held the coffee at the hospital, which was not important but was true.

Andie calmed.

Not all at once.

In pieces.

Screaming became crying.

Crying became whimpering.

Whimpering became tiny, exhausted breaths.

You sat frozen in the rocking chair, phone held near her, barely breathing because you were terrified of breaking whatever spell his voice had cast over the room.

Finally, Andie's eyes closed.

Her mouth relaxed.

Her cheek pressed against your chest.

She was asleep.

You stared down at her.

Then you brought the phone slowly back to your ear.

"She's asleep," you whispered.

Andrew said nothing.

"Andrew?"

His breath shook.

"She is?"

"Yeah."

The line went quiet.

You could hear him breathing through it.

Uneven.

Wrecked.

"She knows me," he said.

Your throat tightened.

"She knows you."

He let out a sound that wasn't quite a laugh and wasn't quite a sob.

You closed your eyes.

"She was so upset," you whispered. "I couldn't get her to stop."

"You did."

"No. You did."

"You held her."

"You calmed her."

He was quiet.

You rocked gently again, slower this time.

The chair creaked beneath you.

Andie stayed asleep.

"I still feel her," Andrew said.

Your breath caught.

"You do?"

"Yeah."

His voice was low.

Raw.

"On my chest. My arm. I keep thinking if I look down, she'll be there."

Your eyes filled again.

"I know."

"You know?"

"She fell asleep earlier with her cheek turned toward the door."

Andrew went silent.

"Like she knew you weren't coming with us," you whispered.

His breathing broke.

"I'm sorry," you said quickly. "That was mean."

"No."

"I didn't mean—"

"No," he said, rougher. "Tell me."

You swallowed.

"She was quiet in the car. The whole ride. Craig kept checking the mirror like she might vanish."

Andrew huffed softly.

"And when we got home, I put her in the bassinet, and she turned her head toward the door. Just stayed like that."

The line crackled.

"She probably doesn't know anything," you said, wiping your cheek. "She's tiny. But it felt like..."

"Like what?"

"Like she was waiting."

Andrew did not answer.

You pictured him sitting on his bunk, one hand over the place where Andie had slept.

Your heart ached.

"I can still feel you too," you admitted.

His breath caught.

"My mouth," you whispered. "My hand. I keep touching my own wrist because you held it."

Andrew's voice was barely there.

"I didn't want to let go."

"I know."

"I wanted to hold you longer."

"I know."

"I wanted..." He stopped.

You waited.

He breathed out.

"I wanted to put both of you under my skin."

Your tears spilled over again.

That was Andrew.

Not poetic on purpose.

Not soft in any polished way.

Just honest and devastating and slightly terrifying with how much he meant it.

"You kind of did," you whispered.

He was quiet.

"The whole room still feels like you," you said. "I came home and everything felt different. The nursery. The bed. Her. Me."

"Different bad?"

"No."

"Different good?"

"Different real."

He said nothing for a moment.

Then, "Yeah."

You leaned your head back against the chair cushion and watched Andie sleep.

"She needed you tonight."

Andrew's breath shook.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"I needed her."

Your eyes closed.

"I think she knew."

The call timer beeped faintly.

You hated it immediately.

"How long?" you asked.

"Ten."

Ten minutes.

A gift.

A cruelty.

Both.

Andrew cleared his throat quietly.

"There's something."

"What?"

"They approved recordings."

You blinked tiredly. "Recordings?"

"Books."

You sat up a little, careful not to wake Andie.

"What?"

"Family programme. They let me record approved children's books. Send them to you with the book. For her."

Your whole face crumpled again.

"Oh, Andrew."

"I picked one."

"You did?"

"Duck one."

A laugh burst out of you before you could stop it.

Andie stirred.

You froze.

She settled.

Andrew huffed softly. "Don't wake her."

"You picked a duck book?"

"Yeah."

"Of course you did."

"She has the onesie."

"And the wooden duck."

"Exactly."

"And now duck literature."

"It's a theme."

You laughed silently, tears dripping off your chin.

"Andrew, that is so cute."

"Don't say cute."

"It's extremely cute."

"It's a book."

"It's a duck book you are recording for your newborn daughter because she likes your voice."

He went quiet.

You softened immediately.

"She does," you said.

"I don't want to mess it up."

"Reading?"

"Yeah."

"You won't."

"I'm not good at voices."

"You don't need voices."

"Kids like voices."

"She is three days old. She likes milk and being warm and apparently prison-phone story time with her father."

Andrew made a low sound, almost amused.

"I can read normal."

"She loves normal."

"You don't know that."

"Mother science."

He exhaled softly.

"When will you get it?" you asked.

"After review. I don't know."

"I'll play it for her."

His silence was immediate.

You looked down at Andie.

"I'll play it in the nursery. And when she won't sleep. And when she's older, I'll show her the book and tell her you read it first."

Andrew's breath trembled.

"She won't remember."

"No. But I will."

He went quiet again.

"And I'll tell her," you said. "When she's old enough. I'll tell her that her dad read to her before he could tuck her in."

Andrew did not speak.

You heard something on his end. A shift. Maybe him pressing his hand over his face.

"Baby," you whispered.

"I'm here."

"You okay?"

"No."

You smiled through tears.

"Good no or bad no?"

A breath of laughter came through the line.

"I don't know."

"Still?"

"Still."

"That's okay."

Andie sighed against your chest.

Both of you went quiet.

Andrew heard it.

"What was that?"

"She sighed."

"She okay?"

"She's perfect."

"She still asleep?"

"Yes."

"Good."

You smiled softly. "You sound proud."

"I am."

"Because she is sleeping?"

"Because she listened."

"To you."

"To me," he said, like he still couldn't quite believe it.

You looked down at her tiny face.

"She's a daddy's girl already."

Andrew went silent.

Too silent.

Your throat tightened.

"Too much?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"Say it again."

Your eyes filled.

You bent your head and pressed your lips to Andie's hair.

"She's a daddy's girl."

Andrew's breath broke.

You closed your eyes.

There it was.

Another piece of him opening.

Another place where Andie had reached without even trying.

"She barely knows me," he whispered.

"She knows your voice. She knows your arms. She knows you calm her down when I'm losing my mind at one in the morning."

"You weren't losing your mind."

"I absolutely was."

"You're tired."

"And sore. And leaking from several places."

Andrew went very still.

You almost laughed.

"Too much information?"

"No."

"You sound afraid."

"I'm not afraid."

"You are deeply afraid."

"You said several places."

"I gave birth three days ago."

"I know."

"You were there for the aftermath, emotionally."

"I held her, not the aftermath."

You laughed quietly, careful not to wake the baby.

"I love you."

His answer came soft and immediate.

"I love you."

The timer beeped again.

Your stomach sank.

"How long?"

"Five."

The quiet after that felt different.

You were both tired now.

Too tired to pretend that saying goodbye would be fine.

You looked at Andie, then at the wooden duck on the shelf, then at the green walls Andrew had chosen before she ever had a name.

"Read something now," you said.

Andrew paused. "What?"

"For her."

"I don't have the book."

"Anything."

"I don't know anything."

"Then make something up."

"I don't make things up."

"You absolutely do. You told me once you knew how to fix the sink."

"I did fix it."

"It leaked for three days."

"Different issue."

You smiled.

"Please," you said softly. "Just something. Before you go."

Andrew was quiet for a long moment.

You could hear him thinking.

Panicking slightly.

Then he cleared his throat.

"Okay."

You moved the phone back near Andie's ear.

Her face stayed relaxed, sleep-heavy and soft.

Andrew's voice came through low.

"There was a duck."

You pressed your lips together, smiling already.

Andrew paused.

Then, with more confidence, "Small duck."

You had to bite your knuckle.

"Very loud."

A laugh slipped out of you, silent and shaking.

"The duck lived in a green room with a bad chair."

Your eyes filled.

"And the duck had a mom who needed to sleep."

You closed your eyes.

"So the duck slept too."

A pause.

"That's it."

You brought the phone back up, laughing softly through tears.

"That was the whole story?"

"She's asleep."

"It was very short."

"Babies like short."

"You don't know that."

"Father science."

Your face crumpled in the best, worst way.

"Father science?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, I love you so much."

He went quiet.

Then, softly, "I love you too."

The timer beeped.

One minute.

You hated how quickly ten minutes could vanish.

Andie slept on, completely unaware of time limits and prison phones and the fact that her father had just invented the world's worst and best duck story for her.

"Will you sleep?" Andrew asked.

"If she lets me."

"Wake Craig if you need."

"I will."

"Water."

"Yes."

"Food."

"Yes."

"Pain meds?"

"I'm taking them."

"On time?"

"Mostly."

"Baby."

"I will."

He breathed out.

"And play the recording when it comes."

"I will."

"Even if it's bad."

"It won't be."

"It might."

"Then she'll love it because it's bad."

He huffed softly.

The final warning beeped.

Your eyes closed.

"I wish you were here."

"I know."

"I know you know. I'm still saying it."

His voice went rough.

"Say it."

"I wish you were here."

A pause.

"I wish I was there."

You swallowed.

Andie shifted gently, still asleep.

"She's warm," you whispered.

"I know."

"She smells like milk."

Andrew made a small sound.

"And your flannel."

"You're wearing it?"

"Yes."

"Good."

The line crackled.

"I can still feel you," he said.

You pressed your lips together.

"I can still feel you too."

The timer beeped again.

"I love you," he said quickly.

"I love you."

"Andie."

You looked down at her.

"She loves you too."

"I know."

He said it like he almost believed it.

The line clicked.

Gone.

You sat very still in the rocking chair, phone still in your hand, Andie asleep against your chest.

The room was quiet again.

But not the same quiet as before.

Not empty.

Not sharp.

Andrew's voice still seemed to live in the walls.

In the bad chair.

In the wooden duck.

In the tiny sleeping girl tucked beneath your chin.

You looked down at your daughter.

"You heard him," you whispered.

Andie slept on.

You smiled.

"Father science," you murmured.

Then you leaned back in the chair, closed your eyes, and let yourself rest while she rested.

The next morning, Andrew stood in a small recording room with a children's book open in front of him.

A bright duck smiled up from the page.

It looked nothing like the duck he had carved.

Too smooth.

Too cheerful.

No wrong beak.

A microphone sat on the table.

The programme officer adjusted the recorder and looked at him through the glass panel.

"Ready?"

No.

Andrew looked down at the book.

Then at the small sticky note on the inside cover where he was allowed to write a short dedication.

He had spent twenty minutes on it.

Not because it was long.

Because it mattered.

For Andie.

From Dad.

He ran his thumb once along the edge of the page.

Then he thought of her asleep on your chest.

Thought of her screaming until she heard his voice.

Thought of you in the green room, exhausted and laughing through tears.

He leaned closer to the microphone.

His hands were shaking.

He let them.

"Hi, Andie," he said.

His voice came out rough.

He swallowed and tried again.

"Hi, baby girl. It's me."

He paused.

Then, because no rule in the world could stop him from making one promise inside a children's book, he added softly,

"I'm here."

And then Andrew Cody began to read.

Taglist - 

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[butchfaith]

how it feels to become an active participant in your own life

[l3tholog1ca]

bromygosh

(ignore that u can see my phone camera shush)

[honimoon]

oh holy shit

[honeyluvsw]

whisper of the heart pngs ! free to use! likes and reblogs appreciated :)

[wordfather]

cant wait to go home so i can go be horizontal. all this vertical stuff sucks

[eclogues]

i havent done anything or been anyone ever

[buccalfatluvr]

[490hertz]

i identify so much with this

[wesandresons]

[honimoon]

he looks so old and grey here i need him so bad