⟡ dismisses the other staffs curious glances when you two are together, putting all of his focus on you and only you.
⟡ never yells at you when you do something without talking to him first or after making a mistake. just gives you a 'firm talk', as he calls it.
⟡ always makes sure you got enough sleep before your shift, knowing how hard it can be on your body to do a full shift with minimal sleep.
⟡ comforts you after you lose your first patient, dragging you into the break room and pulling you into a tight hug. whispering "it wasn't your fault" as many times as it takes for you to believe him.
⟡ ignores everyones trailing eyes after you both leave the break room – two of the nurses not-so-subtly whispering to each other, some other residents making bets on whats going on between the two of you.
⟡ overhears you talking to an attending about him. telling them how you "see him as a mentor" and how helpful you've found him throughout your time here, making a small half-smirk-half-smile form on his lips.
⟡ offers to drive you to and from work once he finds out you walk there every night. insists its "just for your safety, sweetheart." when you decline his offer, telling him its only a 20 minute walk.
⟡ finally convinces you to let him give you rides after he gives you a long lecture about walking alone in a big city, especially at night. "you know how many patients that come in at night for getting hurt out on a walk? its not safe, and you know that. i'm driving you from now on, no more arguments."
reblogs appreciated <3
A/N: the first part of this did a lot better than i expected it would!? thank you for all the love!! hopefully you like this one just as much as the first <3 a part 3 may be worked on soon...
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.
a ha ha ha, you think i’m working on my fics?? *incorrect buzzer sound*
i’m actually drafting up a NEW au about pope cody x foster!reader who runs a bakery/cafe shophouse. thinking thoughts of pope coming in with the intention of stealing lena back, just to be hit with the smell of freshly baked bread, honey, and cinnamon.
- - -
pope expected the worst - his own time in the system was one of the worst experiences of his life. but the place looked.. nice.
the soft chiming from the storefront door alerts you, and you greet him so warmly it’s almost disarming. almost. pope is here for lena, and no pretty baker with a flour-dusted apron and crooked smile is going to distract him.
but when he sees lena, he’s stopped in his tracks. she’s sitting behind the counter, immersed in a children’s book with a fat calico cat curled up on her lap. she looks.. at ease. as if she belongs here. ‘and she does,’ andrew thinks. lena deserves to be in a warm, safe, cozy home with a loving family, deserves a soft domestic life, drinking hot cocoa and eating fresh-baked cookies.
he almost has the mind to turn around and flee.
but when lena glances at the door, her face lights up immediately. she’s up, much to the distaste of the cat, and running into pope’s undeserving arms.
- - -
i’m already cooking up ideas - reader thinks pope has visitation rights and so you invite him upstairs for dinner. pope watches the way you are with lena- calm, grounded, patient. he watches the way lena is glued to your side, the way you let lena have a taste of things as you cook. he watches the way lena giggles as she sweeps up ‘Sir Mittens’ into a hug, watches the way she settles into her reading nook while waiting for dinner to be ready as if she’s been living here her entire life.
he’s conflicted. he doesn’t want to take lena from this.. this paradise. god knows she deserves this life. but he needs her with him, and he knows she needs him too. so when reader asks him - not accusingly - how often he’s allowed to visit, he lies and says he’s allowed unsupervised visits. that he’ll come at least three times a week, if that was alright with you. and of course it is! look how happy his being here has made lena!
and obviously it’s not a pope fic without a bit of angst and dramatics, so there’s definitely a scene where reader finds out pope has been lying about the visitation rights, and is rightfully angry. this could have costed you your foster license, this could have costed you lena. and you fucking love lena. pope’s pleading, stumbling over his words as he tries to explain things, desperate because the DCFS won’t give him the time of the day after the stunt he pulled back when lena was first taken from him.
of course the kicked puppy eyes work - they always do (well they do for me! so yes, we, WE!! are forgiving pope). i’m running out of steam but there will definitely be an agency meet scene, with reader appealing for a reevaluation on pope, advocating for him, saying that lena deserves to at least write to him. i want their journey to happily ever after to be slow and steady, one step at a time so that pope can finally be with lena with no guilt, no worry that she’ll be take from him once more.
ahahahahahahahhahaha there’s too many thoughts and ideas in my head rn i’m going to combust
summary: you take care of lena, clean up around the house, and always leave dinner for him when he gets home late. and among constant and never-ending change, you are andrew's northern star.
pairing: andrew cody x babysitter!reader
word count: 13.3k
warnings: read carefully! age-gap dynamics, reader is said to have recently graduated college, i basically ignore anything from the show that wouldn't make sense in my perfect little world. smut—arm humping, oral sex, penetration, the tiniest bit of breeding if you squint real hard.
author's note: and here she is. also known as shea wants to write about doing things to pope's arms.
you used to complain if someone called you their nanny. you’re just a babysitter. this would not—could not—be your full time job. it’s just so demanding. you love the kids you take care of but the idea of saying that you’re a nanny makes it a little more real. like you wouldn’t be able to get out of this, despite how hard you’re trying.
you just don’t want to be a babysitter forever.
but the first time mister cody introduces you as lena’s nanny, you don’t think you mind it all that much.
babysitters are temporary—girls in high school looking for money to pay for coffee and nail appointments, covering date-nights and overtime at the office.
nannies are permanent—it’s a career. you’re responsible for the kid pretty much twenty-four hours a day. kids with nannies are rich, mom and dad too busy at work to be at home. from the little you deduced, nannies buy groceries and make three meals. they go to doctor’s appointments and organize play-dates with other nannies.
you do some of those things for lena. her uncle tries to take her and pick her up from school when he can, and when he calls to tell you that he won’t be able to make it every now and then, he sounds so sorry about it, you don’t know what you can do to reassure him that it’s okay. lena’s young, she doesn’t care about stuff like that so deeply. and she likes you, which helps matters a lot.
you had finished the last few classes you needed to graduate a couple months ago. before that, you’d have to tell mister cody no, i’m sorry occasionally, something that you really didn’t like doing. he seemed like he had enough going on without the babysitter cancelling.
and besides, after you had told him that your classes were done, you were supposed to tell him that you would be looking for a real job, something with your degree, that he should start looking for a real nanny for lena. you were supposed to politely, yet firmly allude to how you’d been scrambling with classes, finishing assignments in the car in between picking up his niece and after she’d fallen asleep at night. how you missed an important lecture because the pediatrician’s office was running behind an hour and lena’s grandmother wasn’t available to take her.
instead, the second you had met his eyes (which were terribly green and incredibly sad), you had folded, and told him you’d be available whenever he needed. and you thought maybe that would garner you a smile—and you’d been wrong. he had looked your way for about five seconds, muttered thank you, and walked away.
and maybe if you could resist those terribly green and incredibly sad eyes, you wouldn’t have wound up as a full-time nanny. life could always be worse—that’s the motto you’ve grown up with. there are so many worse things in oceanside than spending every day in a pretty house by the beach and taking care of a quiet little girl.
if not anything else, you could start making payments on your student loans, if you wanted. mister cody paid you in cash, and he paid you way too much, probably his way of apologizing for how much you had stepped up in the last couple months. but again, you didn’t really mind anymore. maybe if it was another family, you would care more about finding a real job.
but you like lena. you like her uncle, too, you think, as much as you can like a man who is virtually silent and stares at you like he’s boring into your soul when you’re making dinner. you like him because he’s good with her, you can always tell he’s trying his absolute best, his hardest with her. (it doesn’t help that he’s cute—cute in the way that strays are, like you wish you could fix everything wrong with him and reassure him that he’s doing enough, and tell him to stop staring and just come tell you what he’s thinking instead.)
the first couple months were the hardest. lena wasn’t eating, wasn’t sleeping. she hated school, hated all the things she had still cared for when her dad was alive. you’d tried bribing her with trips to the beach, the playground, ice cream with extra fudge and sprinkles. all the things that kids liked. but she wasn’t just a normal kid—and it seemed that you and her uncle were the only ones who understood this.
you didn’t realize you had such a maternal instinct inside of you. maybe it’s because the other kids you’d babysat in your life had been brats, sticky handed toddlers going through the terrible twos and making your life hell while you were trying to pass your classes. lena is the opposite.
she’s the saddest child you’ve ever met, and you know nothing that you or her uncle do is going to fix it overnight.
but progress comes in stages. the first step had been getting her to want to eat again. you’d sat on the couch next to her, watching a nature documentary that her uncle had probably left playing on the tv.
(he is a whole other can of worms—he doesn’t sleep or eat that much either, and one time you had come in really early to get some work done before getting her to school. he’d been awake, watching something just like this, at five-thirty in the morning. and when you’d asked him when he’d gotten up, he had shrugged, and murmured something that sounded suspiciously close to i don’t sleep. that’s your next mission, because you can only focus on one at a time.)
“you hungry, sweetie?” you didn’t want to be pushy. she wouldn’t like that, would only retreat further into herself. you wanted her to come to you when she was ready to eat. lena shook her head and focused back on the television. “okay. well, if you get hungry later, i’ll eat with you.”
lena says okay in her quiet voice, holding onto a stuffed animal and staring ahead. you wait a couple of hours—there’s always something to do in the house. you clean up, wiping counters and sweeping while she stays on the couch. you check in every now and then to make sure she didn’t fall asleep.
and then, thirty minutes before her new bedtime, she comes and sits on the chair by the dining table while you’re wiping it down.
“can we get pizza?” she asks, and you nod right away.
“of course we can. what kind do you want?”
another thirty minutes later, the pizza’s there, and you’re both eating slices of pepperoni and spinach. you’ve formulated your plan for the rest of the night—her uncle’s still not home, which means you can crash on the couch or stay awake. you decide to stay awake, since there’s no follow up text from him. if he wasn’t going to come home tonight, you’d expect the standard, concise message; won’t be back tonight. is lena okay?
and you’re stupid, because you think it’s sweet that he always asks if she’s okay. like you wouldn’t call him the second something went wrong, like he doesn’t believe that you’d trust him with that information before anyone else. but there’s no texts tonight from the contact you’d saved as andrew cody (lena’s uncle).
lena’s finishing her last slice and you’re cleaning up when you hear it—the rumble of his truck pulling up to the house. then a minute later, footsteps and the front door opening.
“what’s all this?” he asks, and you have to remember to find the words.
you don’t know why that happens when he comes around—you’re usually great with dads. maybe it’s because he looks tired, more tired than usual, at least. his copper curls are messed up, like he’s been running a hand through his hair all night. lena’s uncle is always stiff, but it seems worse today, somehow.
(another thought seeps in, an uninvited guest in your mind, about how you’d really like to take care of him. he just needs some sleep, a little peace of mind. that’s it. you’re still trying to figure out the best way to give it to him.)
“we got pizza, uncle pope,” lena fills in, setting down the last piece of crust you knew she wouldn’t finish.
“there should be enough for you,” you add, smiling at him. he doesn’t smile back, but you’re used to that at this point. and you can tell what’s about to come. “lena, can you go brush your teeth and get your pajamas on for me?”
she nods and climbs off the chair, running into her room.
“it’s past her bedtime,” he starts, taking a few steps closer to you. “and pizza for dinner-”
you interrupt him, even though you probably shouldn’t. you close up the box, setting it on the island and you go back to wipe the table.
“she’s not eating, mister cody,” you put the paper towel down, getting your bearings in order to face him, make the dreaded, never-ending eye-contact. “when kids don’t eat you have to meet them halfway. i thought this was better than her going to bed without eating at all.”
he keeps looking at you. you think you should be a little nervous, but you don’t get like that anymore. flustered, sure, but not nervous—lena’s uncle is just kind of a starer, and you’ve gotten used to it by now.
“i’m sorry. i’ll run it by you next time, i promise. i just wanted her to eat something.” he’s silent for a while, like he’s processing what you said.
“yeah. okay. thanks.”
you smile again, a small one. the kitchen’s clean now, or at least as clean as you can get it. you’re sure that when you’re back in the morning, it’ll be spotless, which you can only assume is one of mister cody’s nocturnal activities. you have a routine before leaving—you say goodnight to lena, make sure you didn’t leave anything behind, and tell her uncle you’ll see him in the morning.
he doesn’t normally say anything back, maybe a grunt of acknowledgement. so you’re surprised tonight, when you grab your bag and your keys and hear—
“have a good night.”
“you too, mister cody.”
+
it took time, but you’ve gotten her schedule better. she eats dinner with you now, whatever semi-healthy thing you can think of with the stuff in the pantry and the groceries you picked up while she’s at school. her uncle leaves money for that sort of thing—an envelope filled with hundred dollar bills. it’s labeled lena’s babysitter in stiff, neat handwriting and he told you to use it for copays and ice-cream and anything else that lena needs. but it feels wrong to use his money when he already overpays you, so you just use your own.
you thought he might not have noticed that the envelope isn’t getting any thinner, until one morning when you arrive and see him counting the notes in it with his head down. now you’re the one staring—watching his arm flex and the muscles move as he flips through the bills. he wears the same kind of shirts every day, short sleeve button-ups, and every day, you are subject to watch his forearms while he does whatever he does. it’s a cruel and unusual punishment.
the worst had been when you needed a box down from the cabinet, the one with the muffin tins and cookie cutters. he had appeared behind you and taken it down for you in seconds, carrying it to the kitchen for you. you had been staring then too, uncomfortable and slack-jawed and wondering why his arms had your mouth dry. (you know the answer, it’s just better to live in denial, you think.)
“good morning, mister cody.” you set your bag down on the sofa, heading inside to get started on breakfast. you open the fridge, taking out a carton of eggs and orange juice and avoiding looking right at him. you don’t need to be flustered before seven-thirty am.
“you haven’t been using this money,” he states. you wish you could figure out what his tone means—there’s no inflections, no emotion simmering behind the words. it’s just cut and dry, stating a fact.
“well, i-” you turn back and look up from the stove and your words die on your tongue. he’s standing up, looking right at you, a fist full of cash like he’s going to make you use it one way or another. a single vein running through his arms tenses. your gaze flickers from it to his eyes quickly, looking at you like he wants you to start listening to him.
“i, um, i had enough.”
“you should use it.”
“but you already gave me a lot, so i-”
“i want you to use it.” the way he says it, it’s not a request.
“right. i-i will. is lena awake?”
“she’s getting ready.”
“great. thank you.” you turn back to the eggs with a flushed face. and even though you’re not facing him anymore, you can tell he’s still staring at you.
“i might not be back tonight.” you turn around and meet his eyes again. terribly green, incredibly sad. you’re too far now to see the brown, but you know it’s there. “i…i’ve got some work. it’ll be late, if i do.”
“thank you for the heads up. i, uh, i’ll crash on the couch then.” you think he might say something else, but you’re not sure. it’s silent for a moment, while you get the eggs onto a plate and hurry into the hallway to get lena.
she comes out first, carrying her backpack. you follow with her hairbrush for once she’s done eating, getting her already packed lunch out from the fridge to sort into her bag. there’s a whole routine that you had learned when you first started babysitting her, and now it’s just a way of life. filling up her water bottle, checking the calendar on the fridge to make sure there’s nothing you’re missing, pulling her jacket from the closet if it’s cold outside.
you get the bottle out, glancing back at her uncle. he’s leaning in while lena takes a bite of the eggs, probably telling her that he won’t be home, and to have a good day, and all the other things you’re sure he says to her. then they hug, and you feel like you’re intruding.
he picks up his keys, which rest in the small blue bowl by the door where yours sit too. and without thinking, you call out after him.
“have a good day at work.” he doesn’t say anything back, but he looks at you before he leaves. you don’t even know what he does for work.
“ready for school?” lena shakes her head no like always.
+
the days are long, but the weeks are short. you bring lena to school, but they have a half-day, so there’s no point in going home for the day if you need to be back in a couple of hours. so you head back to mister cody’s place, focusing your attention on cleaning the remnants from breakfast. you check the fridge, making note of how much fruit and milk you have left, scribbling onto a piece of paper for later. and for once, you listen to him, taking a single bill out of the envelope and putting it into your wallet. there’s other hundred dollar bills in there too, ones you need to deposit.
it hasn’t been making sense lately. a lot of nannies live with their families because it avoids the wastefulness of paying rent for an apartment you hardly ever visit. you pay internet and electric for a one-bedroom that’s empty the entire day. and now that you’re done with classes, you don’t even need to work on anything late at night or even at lena’s house. you carry around a book with you, and you think you’ve even left a couple on the coffee table, just for the future.
you don’t know why you still have your apartment. well, you know why—mister cody has never mentioned you moving in. and he probably never will, because he doesn’t want you to. but it just doesn’t make sense the more you think about it. you show up between six and seven and sometimes you don’t go home until ten. sometimes you don’t go home at all.
after making your list, you rack your head of things you can do to occupy lena’s time today. the library has a weekly reading, and there’ll be other kids there. you like to pick things so she can get some company from kids her age, so she’s not only stuck with you and her uncle all the time.
closer to when school gets out, you get in the car, bringing in your emergency bag with a change of clothes and your toothbrush since you’ll be staying the night. it’s not an entirely uncommon occurrence, which is why the bag, and a couple others like it, is always ready to go. you go to the bank first, depositing everything except the single hundred-dollar bill you took today. then you drive by the park, see if they’re having any of those pet-therapy sessions today. and then finally school to pick up lena.
the rest of the day goes how you planned. you forget how exhausting it is keeping a little kid entertained for hours on end, unsure of exactly what her uncle pope and his brothers do with her sometimes, when you struggle to fill up a couple of extra hours. the grocery store—where you splurge and buy ingredients to make stove-top smores because lena asks and you’ll take your wins where you can get them—then the library, where you take out a couple of books for lena to read at home and smile when she’s talking with some of the other girls there, then the playground for an hour, before home for dinner.
you make spaghetti while she finishes her homework, and review her homework while she changes into pajamas. and then it’s time for the routine she loves so much, just like her uncle, a nature documentary about penguins while you toast the marshmallows on a fork.
an hour later, lena’s asleep in bed, and you’re scrubbing hardened chocolate off the counter next to the stove. you don’t want more work for her uncle when he’s back, and you’ve learned lena’s a heavy sleeper, so you get to cleaning. it’s not like, as pathetic as the thought is, you have anything better to do.
and then about two hours after that, it’s eleven-thirty. it’s right around the latest that mister cody has ever come home, so you’re pretty sure he won’t be back tonight.
the only thing you have to look forward to in your apartment is the shower you take after a long day. you’ll have to make do with the shower inside the room where mister cody sleeps, since lena’s is close to her room and filled with products for an eight year old, and at the very least, you need adult shampoo and soap.
the room is bare—you would have guessed it’s a guest room if you didn’t know better. you’re not nosy, but you look around, trying to see if there’s anything there that makes the room her uncle’s. you know there’s still another bedroom, the one her parents used to share, since lena sometimes goes in there when she can’t sleep. so this was a guest room, and now it’s mister cody’s, and now you’re lurking in it.
besides for a closet full of clean-pressed button up shirts and organized shoes, you can’t discern anything that makes this room his. there’s not a single thing out of place, from the garden-variety decor that someone else had picked to the artwork to the sheets. the bathroom is more of the same, the entire place having that lemon-cleaner smell to it.
you turn the water on and strip, trying to avoid thinking about how you’ll be sleeping on the couch after this. and even inside the shower, you stare at the two-in-one shampoo bottle and the old spice body wash—old spice. who would have thought?—like you can’t believe what you’re looking at. you inhale the scent for longer than you need to. wrap yourself in a clean towel that doesn’t belong to you. brush your teeth with his spearmint toothpaste. and then you open your overnight bag, and find nothing but sundresses and bathing suits.
it’s past midnight, and you’ve grabbed the wrong bag. you need to get up in about six and a half hours to get lena ready for school, and you’re not positive you have the correct bag in the back of your car.
hesitantly, you open one of the dresser drawers. there’s black and white t-shirts folded precisely, tucked in evenly. one drawer up there’s folded socks and boxers.
you chew on your cheek. he did say that he won’t be home tonight. there’s no way he would know you took anything if you ran a load of laundry as soon as you woke up and folded it after morning drop-off. he might not even be home until the afternoon or evening, for all you know.
your tiredness makes the decision for you. the couch isn’t that comfortable, and you refuse to sleep in the shirt and jean skirt you spent all day in. you take a white shirt and black boxers, and then sneak back in for a pair of black socks because the living room is cold at night. and then you set your alarm, turn on another documentary—this one about hummingbirds, wrap yourself in the throw blanket on the couch, and close your eyes.
andrew comes home at quarter to three. it would have been a lot sooner—he doesn’t like leaving you alone here at night with lena if he can avoid it—but he doesn’t always have control over it. a bullet had grazed deran and he’d spent two hours cleaning up that mess, and then they had to organize their splits before leaving. he had to make sure to stay for that—he needs the cash to pay you, rent for baz’s place, money to put into lena’s savings account.
but he hates leaving you alone in the apartment with lena. not because he doesn’t trust you, but because he knows now it’s not safe, not without him there. he likes to get you home early but it’s rarely the case, and then he feels like he should pay you extra since he’s making you drive home alone in the dark.
telling you to stay is a better option. you can sleep in his room—it’s not like he’s going to sleep in there anyways. but he doesn’t say that, doesn’t need the nanny thinking there’s something wrong with him too. so he settles for telling you to stay the night, and letting you decide where you’ll sleep.
you always pick the couch. and sometimes, he’s not back early enough, sometimes you’re already up making breakfast or gone out for the day with lena by the time he’s back.
but tonight, you’re asleep on the couch. he sets down the bag with the cash on the couch, hovering over you. the television is still on, stuck on a are you still watching? screen, covering up a photo of some birds. a breath leaves him when he realizes you’re watching what he always watches. you’re knocked out—he can tell since the front door opening didn’t wake you like it sometimes does. you’ve kicked away the blanket you usually use, and he thinks for a second he should just cover you up and let you sleep.
but he doesn’t. he stands over you, staring at your sleeping form. he doesn’t like it—how pretty you are when you sleep. it’s a distraction that he can’t escape, knows that the next time he closes his eyes, he’ll think of you. that the next time he sits on this couch, he’ll be able to smell your skin. you snore softly, chest rising and falling evenly.
and then he notices it—the plain shirt, black socks with a familiar logo. are those his boxers? and now he definitely can’t look away. he puts the pieces together—your hair is wet, meaning you must have showered and then put on his clothes before coming back out here. if you were going to do all of that, why didn’t you just sleep in his room?
yes, pope decides, he needs you to sleep in his bed. he needs the couch anyways, since he won’t be sleeping, so he might as well bring you inside.
he lifts you carefully, not wanting to stir you accidentally. his shirt is a little big on you, hanging off your shoulder. you stay sound asleep the entire short walk to his bedroom, not stirring even when he sets you down. you must have been really tired, but that makes sense, given the fact that you’ve been out all day with lena.
he thought about sticking a tracker on your car, but the first time he was taking care of lena, after baz, you had shared your phone’s location with him so he could keep track. you had offered it, voluntarily, saying something about how that’s common with babysitters now, and that you never go anywhere without your phone so he won’t have to worry about you leaving it at home.
you thought reassuring him that he would always have lena’s location in his phone would make him feel better. and maybe it had, but he’d never mentioned it again after that day, never brought up if he actually checked it or not.
(it’s not like you would know if he was using it, it doesn’t work like that. deran had explained it to him.) he did check it, pretty frequently, actually. he checked it after you’d leave when he got home, after lena was asleep. he’d watch your little circle drive home and pull into the parking lot of your apartment complex. it wasn’t as bad of an area as it could be, but it wasn’t that safe either. he liked to check it every now and then too, middle of the night, saturday evenings when he was home with lena and you got to leave early or had the day off.
he assumed, somehow, that you’d be in bars or parties at your college, maybe. but when he looks at your location late at night, you’re always at home. he checks other times too—but he’s just trying to keep you safe. (that’s what he tells himself—that finding another babysitter than lena liked and that he trusted would be a hassle. he needs to keep you safe.)
but it doesn’t seem like you like any of that stuff. he’s never seen you drink the beer in the fridge, though you offer one to him every now and then. you’ve met smurf and deran and craig before, like when you’d go to drop off lena before one of your classes, back before you had finished school.
you were smart—he knew that much. that was the kind of good example he needed around lena, someone who had gone through school and finished. he didn’t know what your degree was in, but it must’ve been something smart, something important. you were always typing on your computer and reading books. whatever it is that you studied, he wants someone in lena’s life that can help her with that stuff, stuff he doesn’t know much about, when it’s time.
you were smart enough to turn down every joint or bump that craig offered. you never accepted a drink from smurf that didn’t come from a can that you opened yourself. and baz used to tell him that you were just a local college kid, that you didn’t have any family nearby or anyone to occupy your time, really.
it didn’t make sense—pretty girl like you. he would have thought you had a boyfriend, but if you do, you’ve never brought him around. and if he didn’t live with you or live at that coffee shop you liked that was down the street from your apartment, then he didn’t know if you even had one. maybe he shouldn’t spend any time thinking about your hypothetical boyfriend, but that’s just what comes up sometimes when he thinks about you for too long. like right now.
you look peaceful lying in his bed. your eyes flutter quickly like you’re having a dream, and he sits on the bed next to you, watching you sleep. your hair falls across your face, and his finger twitches. he almost moves his hand to brush the hair away, but he decides not to, settling for just watching you for another minute or two.
the bed creaks slightly when he gets up. no one uses it much, so it’s a little weary. he doesn’t think the noise is anything, but your eyes blink open. the door’s open, light from the living room illuminating a sliver of the space.
he thinks he should get out before you can ask any questions, but he doesn’t, hovering over the bed while you look around.
“andrew?” and god if it doesn’t sound different coming from your lips. you’re too tired to remember that you usually stick with mister cody, which is so formal it hurts. it sounds real, sincere, not filled with fear or anger or anything else. you haven’t even said anything and he thinks he’s losing his mind.
it’s just the way you say it. there’s no question attached, no demand, no sacrifice. just you, making sure it’s him.
“that couch is bad for your back,” he says.
he knows it is, the couple times he tried to lay down and stare at the ceiling. he’s always sore, muscles screaming and joints aching but he knows how to ignore it. he doesn’t think you should start feeling like that. feels angry at the very idea that you would be sore after spending a night on the couch, taking care of his niece, looking after baz’s house. doing all the things that he’s too busy to do.
you take care of things. you do a good job too—figuring out how to get lena to eat and sleep again. making sure her routine doesn’t go awry just because he’s gone on a job all day. you remember things that he doesn’t even know about—activities with kids after school and how the school has soccer practice starting soon. you think a couple steps ahead when it comes to lena, and sometimes, he doesn’t think you see it as a job.
like when you make enough breakfast for the three of you. leave dinner on a plate inside the microwave with a note on the counter. when you clean like it’s your house, make sure things stay in the place they’re supposed to, which is so much harder when there’s a kid around. he’s not stupid—it’s why he gives you so much money each week, shoves an envelope into your hand despite your protests. why the first thing he does after he gets his cut is make sure you get yours.
and as hard as the thought is to swallow, he doesn’t think he could do all of this without you.
“mmh-” you agree, making a soft noise. he wishes he could engrain it into his brain and replay it whenever he wants. “i thought you don’t sleep?” you ask, and he sees your lips turn up into a smile. he wishes the lights were on.
“i try,” he replies, realizing that he’s still hovering over you. he wonders why you weren’t scared the moment you woke up. “sometimes. i try.”
“do you wanna try now?” you ask, whispering. and he goes silent—because what is he supposed to say that?
you reach out in the dark for his hand, and he flinches, taking it back. but you don’t retreat, reaching out again until you’re grasping his fingers.
“try for a couple hours. i set an alarm,” you say, and the way you say it, it doesn’t sound like a bad idea. you have a way of convincing him, or maybe it’s just late and you’re tired, and your sleepy voice isn’t helping matters. nor does the fact that you don’t seem even remotely concerned that you’re inviting him to come sleep on the bed next to you.
you sit up a little, and he regrets even staying as long as he did. you need your sleep, unlike him. you’re still holding onto his hand, and your skin is warm on his. it couldn’t really be, but it feels like it’s burning his, where your palm rests against his, where your fingers twist with his.
“hey,” you start, slow and soft. “don’t think about it. just sleep for a little.”
“yeah,” he says. “okay. a little.”
you move over, and when he lays down—back straight against the mattress, staring up at the ceiling—it’s warm where your body was resting. you’re still holding onto his hand, not letting go. your grip is loose enough that he could free his hand easily, and even if it wasn’t, he could overpower you if he wanted.
but he doesn’t want to. and somewhere between your slow breaths and how you rub his knuckles, running your soft skin against dozens of old scars—because that’s his punching hand—andrew falls asleep.
you can hear it, his breaths getting steady, evening out. your hands stay together in the middle of the bed, between you, and you wonder for a split second how you’re going to deal with this in the morning, how you’ll make sense of this in daylight. the semblance of a professional relationship you had maintained this entire time might turn into dust in a couple hours. and then you breathe in andrew’s comforting scent, clean linen and saltwater, and fall back asleep.
the best thing about this house is the light and the waves. golden rays pour in through the half-way open blinds and you can hear the ocean crashing against the rocks in the distance. it’s the perfect way to wake up, even if it is six-thirty and your alarm is going off in the living room, where your phone must be.
you need to get up. you don’t want lena to wake up from the noise, even though you know she won’t—that girl can sleep through anything. it’s a problem for when she’s older, when she goes to college and there’s no one besides a roommate to make sure she doesn’t miss class. even half-asleep, you smile thinking about it.
and somehow, when you look on the other side of the bed, it hits you that it wasn’t a dream. andrew is asleep next to you, still in whatever clothes he was wearing throughout the day. a short sleeved button up and pants. you’re surprised that he didn’t fall asleep with his shoes on.
he looks very calm when he sleeps. the lines of tension on his forehead and around his eyes are soft when he’s like this, his hair a mess and cheek smushed against the pillow, against your hand.
he’s still holding your hand. it makes a certain kind of warmth rain all over you, flooding you from inside out. he’s on top of the covers and you’re under the throw blanket, and you don’t remember doing that, which means that he did.
an exhausted, half-asleep andrew cody covered you up before he fell asleep on top of the covers. he fell asleep holding your hand and your chest hurts because he won’t wake up holding it still, since you need to go turn that stupid alarm off.
he never sleeps, you know this. he’s never been asleep when you show up early, never heading to bed when you leave for the day. this bed is pretty much always made, sheets never rustled and not a pillow out of place because no one sleeps here. you hope you can start changing that.
you don’t want to pull your hand away from him. it’s so simple, so sweet that you can’t bring yourself to do it. that this whole time, andrew just needed someone to sleep beside him. you rest your head back on the pillow, continue staring, creepy as it is. you’ve never been able to study him like this before, have never been close enough.
the hand holding onto yours is softer than you’d imagined. the veins running through his forearm are thick and tense, even when he’s like this. you think it might be from how tightly he’s holding onto your hand, like even in his sleep he’s worried he might lose you somehow.
andrew cody has freckles—all across his arms and on his hands too. there’s a splatter of them across his nose and cheeks, places where he must have gotten burnt as a kid, maybe when he was lena’s age. the tips of his ears flush pink while he sleeps, and he snores. all things that make you smile, things that are so personal you feel your face getting warm, like you shouldn’t have access to that information.
you need to turn that god-damn alarm off, before it wakes him up. you think you’d rather die than disrupt the few hours of peaceful sleep he’s getting right now. so you wriggle your hand, trying to find the best way to get it out of his grip and make sure you don’t wake him in the process. nothing’s working, even in his sleep he’s thrice as strong as you. the generic alarm tone keeps going in the background.
you lean in, pressing a chaste kiss to andrew’s cheek, whispering that you promise to be right back. and for a split second he moves around, and you regain control of your tingling hand.
the bed creaks a little when you get up, but you do it slowly so it’s not too loud. walk to the couch as fast as your bare feet will take you, looking down and realizing you’re still in andrew’s socks.
(his shirt and boxers too, but you’re choosing to ignore that for now. if someone walked in through the front door in this moment, it would look like you and him were something other than a guardian and babysitter. you think you’d actually enjoy trying to see him explain to his brothers why you’re in his clothes head to toe. you might like this more than you think you did.)
you can hear the ocean again once the alarm is turned off. it’s a beautiful thing to wake up too, you think, pulling open the curtains and looking outside on the street. people are on runs, doing yoga on the beach, watching the sunrise with their dogs.
and inside, andrew cody is sound asleep.
the first part of your day is waking up lena. she grumbles and takes five, sometimes ten, minutes to get up after you go in there. in that time, you set out clothes for her and then head back to the kitchen. you have a habit of making sure her backpack has everything—the colorful pens she’s always telling you about and yesterday’s homework. if she forgot something at home, the school would call andrew, and then andrew would call you, and you hate adding more work to his life. so, you make sure it’s all there before she leaves.
then breakfast—eggs and toast if you’re running late, pancakes if you got there early. it’s seeming like a pancake sort of day.
you make the batter and then pull out the bag of chocolate chips and head back to lena’s room. you use the semi-sweet morsels as an incentive to get her up, which works like a charm. while she’s changing and brushing her teeth, you make three pancakes. two for lena, and the first one you peeled that’s never quite as good is for you.
lena comes to the table to eat her pancakes, and you tell her to stay just a little quieter than usual because her uncle pope is still sleeping.
“really?” she asks, and you feel something inside of you twist in discomfort. as if you had imagined before you met him, maybe he was sleeping, that maybe this was something recent. you smile at lena.
“yeah, sweetie, really.”
you bring lena to school, come back home, and check on andrew—who is still sleeping. you cover him up with the blanket you’d slept under and then make three more pancakes and some scrambled eggs. there’s no bacon in the house or you would have made that too.
you scribble it on the grocery list and then head back inside the bedroom, carefully perching yourself on the edge of the bed and maybe a little too comfortable, too quick, run your fingers through his messy hair. he sighs against the pillow and it makes you smile immediately. you keep going, fingers not stopping until you see his eyes fluttering open. you don’t want to make him uncomfortable, though you don’t want to stop either.
“i made breakfast,” you say quietly. andrew looks up at you, and then to your slept-in side of the bed. he moves, sitting up in the bed and you take back your hand tentatively. his hair is soft like you’d imagined.
he wipes his face with his hands, rubbing at his eyes. and when he looks at you, you feel any prudence that once was inside you melt away. well-rested, sleepy andrew cody, waking up in the bed you shared last night, while you tell him about the pancakes you made for him. you couldn’t have imagined this, for some reason, which makes it feel all the more real.
“what time is it?” he asks, in a gruff, sleepy voice.
“almost nine, i think.” he looks up at you quickly.
“lena?”
“i brought her to school already. you-you were sleeping. i didn’t want to wake you.”
“when did you get up?”
“six-thirty. my alarm. remember?” you do remember telling him about it before you fell asleep, one of the last things you had said in a conversation that feels like it was light-years ago.
“yeah.” you know better than to expect anything right now. he’s always been quiet, sentences curt and expressions relatively blank. you’ve had a few hours to simmer in it—think about what’ll happen tomorrow and next week and what it means to sleep in the bed next to the man whose niece you babysit. he just woke up a few minutes ago.
“well, there’s pancakes. and eggs. there’s no bacon but i’ll go get some later-”
“did you eat?” you catch his eye. perched on the bed next to him, you can see more than just green. brown too, around his pupils. not nearly as sad as they had seemed yesterday.
“yeah. i had one.”
“just one?” you don’t have an answer for that, but unusually confident, you stand up.
“i’ll have a bite of yours if you come eat with me.”
and though you couldn’t have imagined it last night, you end up leaning against the counter with andrew, splitting bites of chocolate-chip pancakes (yours drenched in syrup, his comparably dry as a bone), and luke-warm scrambled eggs.
he washes the dishes, and you put them away. it’s incredibly domestic.
“i’m sorry about your clothes,” you say, sliding a plate back into the cupboard. “um, i’ll wash everything today.” you had to bring it up at some point.
and then andrew turns to look at you. head to toe, he stares, gaze flicking up and down for what seems like eons. you don’t have a guess for why, maybe he’s trying to decide if he’ll accept your apology.
(he’s trying to memorize it, capture it like a picture in his brain, seal it up and hold onto it forever. how you look right now—his white shirt, with nothing underneath, which must be why he can see the outline of your breasts when you turn to put another dish away. his boxers, that you bunched up around your waist, his socks, one rolled up around your ankle and the other halfway up your calf. did you go to the school drop-off in his clothes, too?)
“and i can wash your jacket too, i’m sorry. it was kind of cold and i don’t know where my hoodie is. i-i’m sorry.”
he turns to look at you again. you seem worried, chewing on your cheek, waiting for his answer.
“don’t wash the jacket,” he says, and turns back to the sink. he doesn’t want it to stop smelling like you, but you don’t need to know that.
“yeah. sure. i won’t. sorry again, andrew.”
his heart thuds in this chest at the realization that you might never go back to calling him mister cody.
the two of you finish the dishes. he wipes up the counter while you put away lena’s things, and then he grabs his keys and puts on his shoes. you stand there watching, feeling awfully close to something like a wife watching her husband about to leave her for the day. and when you open your mouth, you can’t stop it from coming out.
“do you know when you’ll be back?”
“i’ll be here for dinner. can you pick up lena?” he doesn’t want to leave you, but there’s about ten texts and three missed calls on his phone that he needs to deal with. when he shrugs his jacket on, it does, in fact, smell like you. it might be enough to keep him calm the rest of the day.
“yeah, of course. well.. i’ll go start the laundry.” a vision of you peeling off your—his—clothes plagues his mind momentarily. “i’ll see you later?” you say, smiling hesitantly.
and without thinking too much about it, andrew comes up close to you, leans in a little awkwardly, and kisses your forehead.
“i’ll see you later.” he leaves you there in his shirt and socks, blinking stupidly at the door.
+
andrew does come back for dinner. you make an attempt at chicken parm at lena’s request, which really just turns out to be a sort of chicken parm-casserole situation, but lena likes it and the garlic bread tastes good, so you will call it a win for now.
while you’re simmering sauce and frying the cutlets, your mind flicks through everything you know about lena’s uncle. he’d never once been anything but nice to you—nice is one way to put it. polite is another. courteous, appropriate, reserved.
one night you had been waiting for him so you could leave, and he’d come home with lena’s other uncles. you had introduced yourself and smiled nicely, and when you left and gotten into your car, it hadn’t turned on. you remember debating if you should go back inside or just call triple a and wait, but somehow, andrew had known something was wrong. he had come out a few minutes later, told you that he would drive you home while his brother stayed at home and that he’d be back in a minute.
he’d dropped you off at home and told you he’d come get you in the morning. and you had slept anxiously that night, wondering what was wrong with your car and how much of a disturbance it would be to andrew to come get you.
but after the two of you had dropped lena off at school—again, disturbingly domestic—he brought you back to the house. and without any words at all, he worked on your car while you sat and watched. you held a flashlight when he needed it, and he said it shouldn’t happen again when he was done.
and you guess that’s the kind of man andrew cody is.
true to his word, andrew comes home in time to eat dinner with you and lena. after dinner, since it’s friday, you let her have a brownie and a half, the ones you’d made earlier that day. you have one too and you offer one to andrew, but he shakes his head, and you’re only mildly disappointed.
you haven’t been home, so you’re wearing one of the dresses from the wrong overnight bag you’d brought here. (your disappointment goes away when you notice that he hasn’t stopped staring at your exposed thighs since the minute he walked through the door.)
lena watches a cartoon before bed and you try to clean up the rest of the kitchen, but it’s hard, since andrew’s done most of the leg-work already. he tucks lena in and you gather your belongings—and true to your word, you did laundry and put his clothes back in the exact place you found them.
(you did steal another pair of socks, but you hardly think he minds now. he kissed you goodbye this morning like he was actually your husband, or something, and every minute you spend in this house washing dishes and scrubbing counters next to him is not helping. he stares at the straps of your dress like he could slip them off your shoulder with his mind, like it’s the only thing he’s thinking about. you don’t mind.)
“she’s out,” he says, coming back into the living room. you’re sitting on the couch, knees tucked to your chest while you change the channel to one of those documentaries you’ve been so fond of recently. you turn to smile at andrew and he comes and takes a seat next to you.
“that’s good. i can go soon.” but you make no effort to move, staring at the screen in front of you. this one is about sea-life, shades of blue flooding ahead of you both.
“you can stay,” andrew says, quiet like always. “if you want.” his voice is deep and gravelly, and the words he says scratch an itch somewhere deep inside of you, and the relief is visible on your body. you sink a little further into the sofa, knees falling next to andrew’s, thighs touching.
“if that’s okay with you.” you whisper it, as if saying it too loudly might make the entire idea crack open and fall apart.
you two stay like that for a while. you don’t know when, but andrew swings an arm around your shoulder, and you rest your head against his chest, collapsing into his comfortable grip. you can hear his heart beating, can feel every breath he takes. his hand brushes the top of your shoulder every time you breath, and his other hand is clasped with yours. you watch schools of fish and pods of dolphins, and you think that any other night, you could fall asleep like this.
“andrew?” you ask, still staring straight ahead. you brush your fingers over his knuckles like you had done last night, and you can feel his hand tense under your touch, until it finally relaxes. “do you want to go to bed?”
“yeah, kid,” he says. “let’s go to bed.”
and you’ll be damned if the domesticity doesn’t kick you in the stomach, sucker punch you in the chest and knock all the wind out of you. andrew turns the tv off, puts the remote back in the right place. and then he picks you up, and you make a quiet noise of surprise, underestimating him momentarily. you should know better.
one hand wraps around your legs and the other around your back, bridal-style (fitting, you think), and he sets you down on the creaky bed. you worry, how loud it’ll be and how you’ll have to be quiet but then andrew hovers over you, nothing but a tiny lamp brightening up the room, and you lose your train of thought.
“you sure you wanna do this?” he asks, that rough voice again. like you’ve thought about anything else for the last twenty-four hours. you nod quickly, bringing your hands to his chest, and then his arms, fingers tracing the sinewy veins and thrumming muscles up and down on both sides. his eyes shut while you do it, breaths getting heavy and deep. but you keep going—it’s only fair. you’ve only thought about it a million times.
“does that feel good?” you whisper, and he lets out a quiet, almost painful groan.
“y-yes,” and you smile, fingers moving on their own while you lean in for the kiss you’ve been waiting for.
andrew’s mouth is hot, and his kisses are like fire. as soon as your lips touch, he pins you all the way down, his body weight on top of yours. he kisses you the same way he had held your hand last night, the same way he held you on the couch, like you’ll slip away if he stops for even a second. your lips start to ache, but you moan quietly into his mouth, letting him swallow them while you still stroke his arms. one day, you’ll crawl into his lap and play with his hands until he’s sick of you, but today, you need to feel him.
you can’t do much from your position, but you can wrap your legs around his waist, one hand going towards his chest to pull at his shirt. he takes it off in one motion, yanking the fabric at the back until it comes off, messing up his hair while he pulls it. your free hand goes there, running through his hair again. you use it to steady yourself, gaining leverage while he keeps kissing you like there’s nothing else for him to do. like his life depends on it. he thinks it just might.
“an-andrew,” you get out in gasps, moving your mouth away for a second. “i need to breathe,” you pant, but he doesn’t stop, kisses your cheek and your jaw and buries his face in your neck. you feel the skin there between his lips, then his teeth, and you grip hard on his arm while he keeps going. you want him to keep going, you want to see the marks he leaves tomorrow and every other day. you want everyone to look at you and know that he’s the one who left them. and you think your wish is about to come true.
your fingers let go of his arms and he groans against your skin—there’s no words but you know he didn’t want you to stop. instead you guide them to both sides of his face, staring up at him and then bringing him back in for another kiss. you think you’d be perfectly content to do this forever, that you could spend hours, days, weeks in bed kissing andrew cody. that you’d be stupid to ever leave this bed, leave this house, when there’s a man here who kisses you like each touch of your lips is a prayer, like he’s here to worship.
he’s not hesitant anymore, not wondering if you’re going to pull away and walk out and ask to pretend this never happened. you keep your hands on his face, and then work down to his jaw and neck, clasping your arms around to keep him in place.
and his mind is empty. he thinks he should know what to do with you, with your labile body flush against his, all the things he’s been thinking about for the last months, if not at least what he was thinking since this morning. you’re still in your little dress, one of the thin straps fallen over your shoulder and dangling on the skin of your upper arm. he pulls away and you whine, another noise he wishes he could capture somehow. it’s a melody, one he wants to keep hearing.
you wish he hadn’t stopped the kiss, and you expect him to lean right back in after you both catch your breath, but he doesn’t. andrew’s hovering over you, eyes fixated on your shoulder, staring intently at the strap of your dress.
“andrew?” you whisper, the hand on his neck rubbing the tense skin there, wondering if you could get your kiss back. “is something wrong?”
his lovely eyes flicker up to you, staring while you swallow and wait patiently. maybe you’d been too eager, maybe he was having regrets—after all, you’re the nanny and he’s the dad and maybe you’d been too presumptuous in assuming that he wanted you as badly as you wanted him—
“no. nothing’s wrong.” you sigh a tiny breath of relief, it comes out before you even notice. but andrew is nothing if not perceptive, and he wraps his hand around your back and lays you back on his bed.
“why did you stop?” you question, flustered and embarrassed as the words come out, sounding like a spoiled child. but you suppose you had been spoiled these last few hours, getting everything you wanted—his hot touch, breathless kisses, the ability to finally see what the veins on his arms feel like under your palm.
he doesn’t answer your question, just flicks his eyes back to your shoulder. and then he leans in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the end of your collarbone, tracing more kisses down through the length of your shoulder, stopping when he reaches the skimpy cotton of your dress. you take deep breaths, watching it happen in front of you. he repeats the same with the other side, pulls the strap down like he’s unfolding a gift, kisses your skin like you’re his present. and you think you are.
there’s nothing between you two except your thin dress, and you pull on it eagerly, trying to get it off, when his hands come and stop on top of yours.
“you’ll rip it,” andrew says, fingers going towards the zipper in the back, undoing it slowly.
“i don’t care,” breathless, eager, unable to wait even another minute to get what you want. he pulls the zipper all the down, your dress falling off as your shrug out of it.
and you want another kiss, you want his touch, you want something, anything—but all you get is andrew staring at your naked body. and you think somehow this is worse than anything else, anticipation burning in your belly painfully. your thighs feel sticky and sore and your underwear is soaked through. and all he’s done is kiss you.
“you’re perfect,” he says quietly, and you feel your entire face burn hot. you don’t think you’ve ever felt like this before—and you know how andrew is. he doesn’t lie, he doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean.
you tilt your head up, pressing your lips to his for a moment, a soft kiss in contrast to the ones from earlier.
“so are you,” and you kiss him again, smiling against his mouth. he feels it, though he doesn’t smile back. and when he pulls away, he looks down at you, naked and willing in his bed, smiling up at him and telling him he’s perfect, when you don’t even know half the monster he is. “you are,” you repeat, watching andrew’s eyes as he thinks a million thoughts in his head, carries a million burdens on his shoulders. “even if you don’t believe me. i think you’re perfect.”
you feel cheesy saying it, though you know there isn’t another man in the world who needs to hear it more. you can hear him make a noise of protest, like he doesn’t think you mean it, and incredibly desperate for him to believe you, you sit up.
your hands go to sturdy shoulders while you try to get him to move, until he’s sitting back against the headboard and you can crawl onto his lap. he’s silent, watching you as you do it, exposed body flush against his skin, and yet, you don’t feel scared. you don’t feel embarrassed, or worried. you just want to make him feel good.
you start with a kiss to his jaw. andrew’s body tenses under yours, the slightest bit of contact making him groan and buck up, his hands tight on the soft skin of your waist to keep you both steady. you work your way down to his neck, pressing kisses everywhere in your path.
“do you want to know what i’ve thought about you?” you ask, though you don’t wait for an answer. you kiss down his chest, stopping at the strong muscles of his chest and the old bruises and scars that cover some of them. “i thought that you’re so good at taking care of your family.” you move down to his abs, more kisses, hearing more noises from andrew that you never would have thought he would make for you. he takes shuddering breaths, not replying to you but grunting from pleasure while you keep going. “i thought that you’re so good to me. that i don’t have to worry since i know i can always come to you.” you think of your car and the money he gives you and how you woke up in bed despite falling asleep on the couch.
finally you make your way to the waistband of his jeans, undoing the belt with surprisingly steady hands. he reaches down, his hands covering yours for a moment, but you stare up at him with your glassy eyes, not even pulling the entire belt off, just enough to get you what you need—what you want. and then you undo his zipper, tug down his boxers, and take his girthy length into your hand, stroking up and down while still staring up at him.
“can i take care of you, andrew?” and you don’t realize how it must sound to him, his head thudding back onto the pillow. you press a gentle kiss to his leaking tip, both hands wrapped around his dick and stroking while you wait for your answer.
“y-yes, yes-” and you don’t wait any longer, taking as much of andrew into your mouth as you can fit. you drive your mouth up and down, your hands twisting around the base, everything wet and warm and sticky from your spit. and you think you would do this forever, that you would do this everyday if you could hear the noises he makes and how his body takes the pleasure you give him. you gag around him, feeling his hand snake into your hair, pulling you off gently. you smile up at him, though you’re sure you look like a mess, hot tears running down your cheeks and lips shiny and wet.
but you don’t stop—licking up and down until you bring him back into your mouth. you can feel how embarrassingly wet you are right now, can feel yourself leaking onto your thighs and the sheets, wanting friction as badly as you wanted to make andrew feel good right now. and then you hear it—andrew’s moan, louder than any of the other noises and full and from the chest. he bucks up into your mouth and you take it, ready to hear what he sounds like when he finishes, when he pulls you off of him.
“andrew—” you whine, as though you were the one about to come. he pulls you up, naked bodies pushed against each other, and kisses you until you feel light-headed.
“not until you do,” he murmurs, and you feel dizzy all over again.
“but i’m not done,” still eager to kiss the rest of his body and tell him how good he is, until he starts to believe you. you wrangle out of his loose grip, knowing full well if he wanted to stop, he could have. he could pin you down and do whatever he wanted to you and you wouldn’t be able to fight him, a thought that makes you feel like you’re going to faint. but you resume quickly, starting at his shoulders—stopping to admire all the sunspots spattered there—and starting your journey again, working down his bicep and to his freckled forearm, the ones you stared at whenever the opportunity presented itself, the one you thought about all the time.
andrew doesn’t know about that, and you’re not sure you can bear to tell him. it feels too revealing, despite how you’re naked on top of him, your breasts pressed against him and wet pussy on top of his hard, leaking dick. but sure—that’s what you get nervous about.
you stop and trace all the veins with your fingers, feeling him pulse underneath you, repeating on both sides. he’s got his head tilted back, soft groans filling the empty space between you as you keep going. if they’re this sensitive for him, you can only imagine what it would feel like for you, especially the one leading down to the middle of his wrist—and then the words slip out before you can realize you had said them out loud.
your face goes hot again. he looks up at you a little confused, and you have to stop yourself from collapsing and burying your face into the pillow next to you.
“andrew?” you ask, shy and embarrassed and yet not stopping yourself at all.
“you… you like my arms?” he says, and you feel your face heat up.
but so many things have happened already that you couldn’t have even dreamt about twenty-four hours ago, so you think it’s worth a shot. (that’s a lie. you have dreamt about this, so many times that you’ve woken up in your bed covered in a cold sweat, that you’ve burned through a vibrator and ruined pillows imagining what it would be like to rub yourself against his veiny arms. you guess you’re about to find out).
your fingers trace the length of them again.
“i like everything about you,” you say quietly, understanding just how silly you sound. “but we don’t have to do anything.” you try to cover your tracts, worried you’ve just messed up the incredible time you’ve been having so far littering his body with kisses and feeling butterflies in your cunt from the fact that andrew will be inside of you soon.
“how would you-” andrew starts, and you watch him carefully as he gets out the next few words. “do it? how?” and it’s just cut and dry way he speaks, though it’s really going to your head (and other places) right now.
“well, i-”
“show me.” oh.
you feel yourself pulse and throb in response to his words. even below you, you can still feel how hard andrew is. you try to start positioning yourself, but you must be moving too slowly for him, and you feel his hand on your ass, grabbing you and pushing you up to his chest, face to face. he lays his arm next to you, watching your naked body as you try to balance yourself between it, his free arm on your hip, keeping you steady.
when you lower yourself, just an inch or two, just until you feel the ridge of his forearm and you can decide what to do after realizing that you are, in fact, doing this, andrew curses under his breath.
“fuck, you’re so wet.” he can feel it. feel you, on his arm, leaking, for him. you take a deep breath, pressing your hands against his chest to keep your balance, moving your hips up and down slowly. and your eyes flutter shut because fuck, if it isn’t better than every fantasy you’ve ever had.
you hadn’t known that your pathetic attempts to recreate this at home would have never lived up to the real thing, and now you realize you’ll never be able to go back to anything else but andrew, that no one else could make you feel this way. months of pent-up desire leave your body as you rock yourself against him, finally getting the stimulation you’ve been craving.
when you open your eyes, just for a second, you see andrew, his eyes glued to where your pussy meets his arm, his breaths heavy and deep, like he wouldn’t look away from the sight before him for anything.
and then you feel the veins rub against your clit, and your eyes roll back into your head. you keep going, trying to muffle your moans and sighs, but you can’t get the image out of your head—andrew staring at you, like he wanted this as much as you’ve wanted it, like he needs to see you cum like this. you start going faster, the friction and the slide from your juices making it easier and the veins rubbing at you just the right way—
he leans in, putting one of your peaked nipples into his mouth, flicking his tongue against it, before letting go and repeating the same with the other one. but it’s really when andrew starts talking that you’re pulled over the edge, his hand hot on your back.
“please,” he says, and you feel yourself falling into it, hanging onto every raspy word, so much better than you could have ever dreamed, “-i-i need you to cum for me. i need to feel you, i need to see it, please-”
and you do. you always listen to andrew, all the white-hot tension wound up in your belly releasing, flooding your entire body with the relief you’ve been wanting all night. your body tightens up, stopping, but he moves you with the huge hand on your hip, makes you rub on him all through it, pulling your body like you’re a toy for him.
your mind is empty while your toes curl and uncurl, thighs aching and sore in this position. andrew ushers you towards him, and you collapse on his chest, heaving and sweaty and tired—and the realization hits you that he hasn’t even been inside of you yet.
he kisses you while he has you trapped in his arms, your eyes shut as you breathe him in, moan into his mouth and let him swallow it.
“y-your arm,” you get out, realizing you’re not speaking in coherent sentences. “i’m sorry-”
“why?” he asks, and you shut up instantly. “didn’t know you liked them that much.”
he laughs quietly, a sound you have only heard a few times. you laugh against his chest for a moment, before pulling him in for another kiss. this time, it deepens, and he gets you on your back in front of him before he pulls away. you stare up at him, mind empty and chest heaving, seeing how his eyes stay on your tits, and you reach up, putting your hands on his chest while he hovers over you.
“it might hurt,” he says, and you feel your entire body tighten, your walls clench at his words. there’s nothing but truth behind his statement—it’s not meant to be arrogant or boastful, he’s warning you. it’s going to hurt, you know it is—you could barely fit half of him in your mouth and it took you both hands to be able to comfortably stroke him.
but the way he says it elicits a fire in you, and suddenly you need him now, no matter how much it hurts.
“i don’t care, andrew, please,” you beg, staring up at him. he still hovers, licking his lips and staring at your how tits bounce while you beg him to fuck you—a thought that he cannot process, even with you splayed out in front of him. he brings his arms out, fingers teasing your sensitive nipples until you’re covering your own mouth to avoid being too loud and you think you’re going to black out. (even in the dim light you can see the shine on his forearm from you, and the memory of it takes over your mind like a twister.)
“i have to stretch you out first.” the words possess your body like a demon. andrew takes your knees and spreads them apart, and no matter how hard you try to close them, you can’t compete against him. when he slides in one huge finger, your eyes roll back. he slips in so easily, the noise is obscene. the second finger goes in just as quickly, but there’s more resistance. two of his fingers are at least three of yours (if not more, you think, and then you want to faint again). the stretch is delicious, your pulsing walls realizing that this has been what you’ve been craving all along. that no toys or pillows or fingers of your own could ever compare.
when he slips a third finger in, he doesn’t change the pace. just keeps pushing them in and out of you like you’re a toy he’s testing the limits with, seeing how much you can take before you break. there’s no instructions for you besides to sit back and take it—and your toes curl and your head spins at how good he feels. the stretch hurts, but you want it so badly, you hear yourself crying out and saying incoherent things. you think you see andrew smile from where he is, watching your cunt suck his fingers in, his entire hand coated in your juices.
and when he hovers over you, bringing his tip to your entrance and prodding against you for a moment, you think you’re in heaven. he’s so flushed, tips of ears and his cheeks pink, sweat coating his body, just like yours. you can only imagine how hard he is, how you’ll get to feel how hard he is soon enough. his eyes stay at your pussy, pushing in, just barely, but you need more. you bring your hands to his arms, holding onto him while he slides in, and when you feel him push all the way in—so much bigger than you could have imagined, three of his fingers is nothing compared to this, nothing, nothing, nothing—he’s on top of you and kissing you.
whatever noises you make are tuned out—your ears are ringing and you can’t hear anything besides andrew’s grunts and moans as they come into your mouth. you keep kissing him, pulling on his lower lip and feeling his tongue on yours, but your entire body goes slack when he starts on a brutal pace, pulling all the way out and slamming into you. the bed is creaky, and the only noise besides it is the obscene one—the squelch of your soaking wet cunt taking andrew all the way, the repetitive slap of his skin meeting yours. you feel everything—the pressure of his hands while he holds you incredibly tightly, the fullness in your cunt that makes it feel like you can’t breathe.
and then andrew kisses your lips and makes a noise that makes you leak even more, and you know you’ll be just fine.
“i-i want-” he starts, and you feel him slow down the pace slightly.
“please, andrew,” you beg, and he resumes, fucking into you with an intensity that reminds you how badly he wants you, how long he’s wanted this. it reminds you of every time you caught him staring, every time you smiled at him wondering what he was thinking. and now you think you know—maybe he was thinking about something like this.
“i want another one,” he says into the skin of your neck, feeling him lick the sweat there and kiss the skin. “i want to feel it while i’m inside-” and god if you can’t comply. you want to do every single thing he tells you for the rest of your life, you don’t want to make another decision without andrew cody.
he changes the position, pulling out of you for a second and making you whine again. (spoiled, you think, he’s spoiled me for anyone else forever.) he holds both of your knees up and spreads them wide and wraps your arms around them, keeping them in place. and then he slides back inside of you in one swift movement, making your eyelids flutter shut. he doesn’t get right on top of you, leaving space between you that makes it impossible to lean in for a kiss, and you keep whining, impossibly and irrationally angry that you can’t kiss him, wondering why he wants you like this, when you feel his fingers circle your clit slowly—then quickly.
your head falls back onto the pillow. andrew can feel you pulsing around him, walls clenching every time he rubs your sensitive clit, and that’s what he wants, that’s what he needs, wants to feel you cum around his dick and squeeze him even tighter than you are right now. wants to see how you look completely fucked out, wants to see if you can give him a third. (he’ll get it, he decides, later. he’ll give you a chance to breathe, get you water after this. all the things he would do to take care of you, just like how you deserve, how a husband would take care of his wife.)
because at the end of the day, isn’t that what you two basically already are? you couldn’t be a girlfriend, because you have to get comfortable around a girlfriend.
no, he thinks, watching your fucked-out, flushed body take him like you were made for it. you already know him, know what he likes and doesn’t like, know how to make him feel good like you had been inside of his head already. you have been inside. you’re all he thinks about. that’s a wife, that is something that is forever, what the two of you have.
he doesn’t realize how hard he’s going, how fast, or how you’ve been squealing with your entire body tensing while he was stuck in his thoughts about you. this time when you finish, it explodes through you, the electric current staring from your core and spreading to every finger and toe. you jolt, legs shaking and head heavy, the after effect rolling through you while andrew keeps fucking you, keeps going even though he should probably stop. you’re incoherent, writhing and crying and feeling completely numb and like your entire body is burning all at once.
and when you blink open your watery eyes at andrew, smile sweetly and reach out for a kiss, one that he happily gives you, you say it quietly.
“i love you, andrew.” and you feel his thrusts stutter, his body weight almost collapsing on you. you feel andrew cum, feel it filling you up while you listen to his quiet moans and run your hands over his tense muscles, saying sweet things that he can barely understand in this state.
he rolls over minutes later, not pulling out until you were done kissing him. the room is filled with nothing but your heavy breaths. you need a shower, and you need to sleep.
you curl up on andrew’s chest like you had been on the couch what felt like a lifetime ago. you play with his fingers and he runs his other hand up and down the expanse of your arm. you can hear birds outside—and you know you need to get up soon, but you can’t find any words.
“you think that was enough?” andrew asks, and you look up at him with a confused expression. he looks at you with so much sincerity you feel like crying. your andrew.
“what do you mean?” you ask quietly, still not sure what he’s even talking about. your head is spinning and your eyes are tired—every part of you is tired.
“we can go again after you get some sleep. it might take more than once.”
“andrew?”
“you don’t have to worry about it. i’ll figure it out. i won’t stop until i put a baby in you.”
warning: stalkerish andrew, reader is super sweet and obsessed with andrew, andrew is a freak and obsessed with reader (yayyyy), sort of bubbly reader, pope's pov, smut, p in v sex, dry humping, extensive foreplay, body worship, oral (f and m receiving), masturbation (male), voyeurism, perverted behavior (we all cheered!!!), etc etc etc.
summary: pope hadn't meant to catch a glimpse through your window, but after the first time, he just couldnt stop.
word count: 14.3k
note: this might be a little ooc since ive only watched like three episodes of animal kingdom. it was supposed to be like 7k words but it got away from me..
disclaimer: pictures are NOT indicative of reader's appearance. iirc there are no descriptors other than having hair and being an able bodied afab!!
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andrew didn't know about you until now.
hadn't been made aware of your existence on any letters, any calls, any visits — not that there were many of those.
he'd just come back from prison. it wasn't as if he could keep up with whatever happened in his neighborhood during his absence. he was observant, though. observant enough to know that you were new. that you hadn't been here before he got arrested, much less throughout all the years he had spent growing up in this house.
for years, he'd seen people come and go from the house next door. it wasn't an optimal place to live, not with the extracurriculars he and his brothers got up to, and not with the visits they'd sometimes receive.
no one ever lasted there more than a couple of years, always fleeing the house after a while and leaving an empty space behind.
andrew never cared much for that place. he'd never cared much for any of its temporary inhabitants either. he'd spent most of his childhood too busy being reckless to notice the people next door. he spent it alienated, targeted, chasing after people he shouldn't have, people who either left him too early or simply didn't care for him. he had no time to look next door.
when he left, he couldn't remember who was there last. he hadn't noticed, hadn't cared. but when he came back? that's when his attention was piqued.
things weren't too different when he came back. the usual occupants were still there. j was a new addition, but he couldn't really bring himself to pay too much mind to him. he was still recovering mentally from all those hours of solitary, all that time with julia in mind, with the memory of the last time he'd seen cath.
but even those thoughts left him when he came back home.
his home was empty when he got back. it wasn't surprising to him that no one had been there to receive him. he was a ghost to them, the unpredictable force no one dared come too close to — other than smurf, which andrew began to feel conflicted about after the stint that landed him in prison, after the pathetic lack of visitation during his stay in said prison.
alone in his house, andrew had time to wander, to look and find any differences he missed during his absence. by nature, he cleaned up the things he found out of place, fingers wandering here and there without much thought.
that was how he came to stand before the window in his room that led to next door. a window leading directly into another window, only with two sets of blinds separating the clear view from one to the other. but the blinds next door were drawn at that particular moment, and andrew's just so happened to be peeking through (courtesy of his fingers creating a gap).
it was the unfamiliar movement that had caught his attention. he hadn't originally meant to look in that direction, but the lack of blinds gave him a perfect view of whatever was going on over there, drawing his eyes directly to the window.
that's when he found you for the first time.
a girl, mid twenties, maybe, throwing a tight-fitted top over her head as her body swayed lightly to what andrew could only assume was music playing from your side of the wall. you were distracted, worryingly so. it would've been easy for anyone to sit there, spy on the pretty view, do something dangerous with it — unlike andrew who just sat there, blank look on his face as he studied you. he couldn't help but frown at the thought of you doing this every day, bra-clad and ignorant to whoever could be lurking outside your house.
andrew grew even more worried when he realized he enjoyed the sight. he stood there for far too long, watching you go through your entire morning routine, privileged enough to see you get changed, do your hair, do your bed, clean up any stray clothes off the ground and finally close your curtain (which seemed to be taking place of the customary blinds). andrew was fast enough to remove his fingers from the gap he'd created on his blinds before you could take a look at the peeping tom next door. he wasn't particularly new to this type of behavior, but he didn't know you well enough to have you think he was a weirdo — everyone else thought so already, he didn't need to add another person to the list. much less someone he was already finding himself infatuated with.
he sat back on his bed, hands on his knees and back straightened as he looked in the direction of the window. he thought about you then. wondered who you were, how long you'd been there, whether craig had already gotten his hands on you yet or if maybe andrew stood a chance.
he shook his head after that last thought.
all his neighbors growing up had been families. the usual nuclear unit; mom, dad, son, daughter, maybe a dog. it was never anyone your age. it was rare around these parts to have people past their twenties living at home with their parents. andrew was one of the exceptions, constantly living under smurf's thumb (whether that was his choice or by force was still a debate rumbling in his head). the economy wasn't good enough for someone in their twenties to be able to afford such a house either. he wondered if maybe you were married, but recalled a lack of ring on your finger.
this gave him some sort of hope.
of what, he didn't know. but the weird feeling in his stomach was there. he'd only felt this way about a few people in his life — cath, julia, smurf when he was a child.
he had no reason to believe this would go any differently, but one thing was for certain; he'd go back to that window tomorrow morning.
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andrew found himself at that window every morning that week.
his homecoming was put aside to focus on his new interest — you.
he found that you'd adopted the habit of getting dressed with your curtains fully drawn (you'd seemingly removed the blinds altogether, opting for some frilly curtains that matched the decor of your room). this was a dangerous and irresponsible habit, one that he frowned upon despite the hypocrisy behind his enjoyment of watching you.
although he never did anything with the illicit sight you provided him with, he still felt a slight pang of guilt in his chest at watching you without your permission. no one had been habiting his room for the past three years, it was likely you felt no risk of anyone watching you get dressed. but now he was here, panting at the sight, not knowing what to do with it.
andrew never touched himself to your sight. he didnt use his imagination to think about you while in the shower nor late at night when he found himself alone in bed. days went by where he had to slap the thought out of his head, nails digging into his hand as he balled his fists to prevent himself from staining the thought of you.
a few days passed until he learned a bit more about you. there was no need for him to ask, as you were a popular subject among his brothers. craig had apparently been trying to get you out of the house and into one of their parties, had also even attempted to just get you free for one night, but you always rejected his advances.
this proved conflicting for andrew.
on one side, he was relieved to know craig hadn't gotten his hands on you, hadn't tainted you yet. on another, if his brother didn't have any success at garnering your attention, would he even have a chance?
andrew grew antsy within two weeks of being home. he had enjoyed your presence for the entirety of his return thus far, but he wanted more. he was yet to hear your voice, yet to meet your eyes or interact with you in any way. he wanted you to at least know of his existence. this would feed his need to have you, right? he'd been able to satiate his infatuation with cath and julia by the sheer act of having them in his orbit. he was sure that a single word from you, a smile, a look, would give him enough to survive.
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andrew found his chance one sunny afternoon. it was a thursday after having arrived from some unnecessary outing with his brothers. he was in a mood, but it was alleviated as soon as he spotted you out in your driveway, hands occupied by multiple paper bags, way too many for a girl to carry home on her own.
with his brothers having already rushed inside, andrew talked himself into making his way to your trunk, meeting a fessed up version of yourself as you attempted to carry all four bags all at once, putting them down and picking them back up a few times to reaccommodate them in an arrangement that'd allow you to carry them all in a single trip.
as he walked closer, he heard a few sighs of frustration from you, some curse words under your breath. he took in your voice then, breath lost at the sound of it. it wasn't like he'd imagined. he hadn't been able to come up with a fitting voice for you, but he decided in that moment that its intonation was the perfect fit.
it made him falter, your voice. it made him rethink walking over to you. the likelihood was that he'd be met with some form of rejection or disgust. he was used to causing unnerving feelings in people. something about how intense he was, how quiet and blunt he could be. he didn't want to ruin the nice, sweet image he'd built of you in his head by facing you and finding disappointment once more in his life.
andrew rarely had good days. and although this wasn't a particularly good one, he didn't want to make it worse.
"oh, hi."
he hadn't realized that he had blanked until your voice interrupted his thoughts, now at full volume. standing a few feet away from you, he played with his hands, eyes widening slightly when he realized there was no way back now.
"can i help you?" you asked, tone even. eyes looking him up and down briefly. no sign of dislike just yet.
"can i help you? with your bags?"
your expression showed concern, head tilted in question before smiling lightly at him. it stopped his heart for a few seconds.
"yeah? that'd be really nice of you, actually."
he walked over to you, hands stretched forward to take the bags. when you went to hand him one or two, he went past you to grab all four. it was an easy feat for him. his build was more capable of the task than yours. in return, you let out a surprised 'oh, thank you!' and smiled even wider.
leading him into your house, you gestured at him to come in when he faltered at your door, keys already out and door opening to let him in. you let him in first, closing the door behind him before leading him to the kitchen counter where he could drop the groceries on.
before you could thank him, he spoke up again.
"can i help you put them away?"
again, he was blunt, direct. perhaps he was even a little unnerving to you (he usually was to everyone else), but you didn't react to it. you only faltered slightly before smiling once again (and killing him in the process) and saying that yes, that'd be very nice of him.
andrew was a natural at this. he was the only person in his household who ever took care of such things. organizing, cleaning, keeping things in place; they were all things he did as second nature. he enjoyed order, went a little crazy without it. there was no need for you to tell him where everything went, as he just needed a look through your pantry to know.
"you're andrew, right?"
he was kneeling in front of one of the cabinets in your kitchen as you asked, back facing you. you reclined your body weight against your counter, watching him as he organized your things. you tried to help at first, but he stopped you with an almost muted huff, taking on the task on his own.
"yeah. how'd you know?"
"your room is right across from my window."
you said it as if there were no implication behind it, no hidden meaning.
had you seen him? had you seen him see you?
"i broke my blinds when i first moved, so i can kinda see into your room when you open yours." you explained. "i rarely ever draw my curtains, so i've seen you a few times. also saw a picture of you one time your brothers invited me over."
he got back up when he was done, hands folding the paper bags and setting them on your counter. he looked down at his hands as he did so. as if his secret would be given away if he looked into your eyes.
when he didn't respond, you continued.
"i hadn't seen you until now. did you just move back home?"
"yeah."
"from where?"
"you don't wanna know."
you took a few steps forward, landing yourself on the counter opposing to the one you'd been leaning on. now you were side by side with andrew, but your body remained tilted towards him, attempting some sort of eye contact that he'd been avoiding.
"try me."
he sighed, weighing his options.
he could lie to you. the same way he'd lied in prison, said cath and lena were his, acted as if he had some semblance of a proper life outside of those four walls. he could skip the ugly details about his life, make you believe he was normal.
or he could be honest, try and see if you'd still think he was the nice guy offering a neighborly hand when he saw you struggling.
"i was in prison."
silence. you didn't react. he wasn't facing you, but could still see no reaction from his peripheral.
he felt some light pressure on his arm, a soft grip. it was meant to be comforting, but all it did was draw some goosebumps out of him.
"well, welcome home, andrew."
you walked away after that, putting away the paper bags he'd folded and saving them for future use.
it was casual, with no hidden weight behind it. as if he'd just told you he came back from some business trip, not been forced into confinement due to some dubious crime.
"thank you for the help, by the way. haven't felt exactly welcome since i moved in. you're the first person to help me out."
"how long have you been here?"
"only a few months."
"you, uh, you live alone?"
he was trying his hardest to not be obvious. he was never sure what things were appropriate to ask, or what could possibly give him away. he wanted to be nonchalant and controlled, just like baz, but he couldn't help the thousands of thoughts running through his mind at every waking moment.
you nodded. "yeah. my uncle knows the owner of a few properties around the area. got me a good price."
that eased his mind. you lived alone. which meant you were available. or at least not married. he'd make sure to find out whether you were actually available or not. he had meant to do so before, but he wanted an introduction before he went around following you, inserting himself into your life without your knowledge. at least now he knew you. now he had an opening.
"that's good."
"yeah. if you ever need anything, just stop by." your smile was genuine, he really believed that. he had to look away again, embarrassed to smile back (even if his lips were tugging upward on their own).
"just don't tell the rest of your family." you then said. it made him look back at you, confused.
"why?"
"just ... i'm pretty sure craig propositioned himself to me when he invited me over. then your mom stopped by with some pie my first week here, said to stay away from her sons. not in those words, but, you know."
he knew.
he was surprised you knew too. smurf was pretty amazing at keeping things between the lines. at saying a thousand words with a single sentence. the fact that you caught onto that with one single meeting surprised him. it usually took people a little more to realize smurf was working against them behind the scenes. her threats usually went unnoticed to the average ear.
"what about me?"
you giggled then. giggled. he had pulled a giggle out of you.
usually, he would've assumed the laughter was directed at him, not shared with him, but there was an ease surrounding you that told him you wouldn't laugh at him. that you were nice, soft. that you were exactly what he needed.
"i'll make an exception for you."
and that was the first time andrew heard those words.
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against his best attempts, andrew continued watching you every morning.
sharply at 7:30, you'd get up, open up your curtains for some light, and do your usual routine. it had been three weeks since he had come back, making it twenty-one days in which he'd enjoyed the sight of you getting dressed every morning.
thus far, your eyes hadn't met as he watched you. andrew had a constant fear that you'd turn around, find that small gap between his closed blinds and spot him, peeping at you like some fucking pervert. but you never looked. you acted as if your open window wasn't an invitation for anyone to come and watch the slight sway of your hips as you listened to music, nothing but some small panties covering your form as you undressed and re-dressed yourself.
but the reality was that no one but andrew could see you. your room gave the perfect view to whoever inhabited andrew's room. he knew that you knew this, but he could only assume that you weren't aware that he was hiding behind those closed blinds, the ones that always remained closed, only ever seeing the sun when his two fingers would create a gap small enough for his eyes to take in your form every morning.
although andrew continued to watch you behind your back, he also began stepping out of his comfort zone. watching you from afar would never get him anywhere (he'd learned this the hard way, seeing any possibility with cath slip through his fingers after years and years of just watching). he needed to make himself some sort of presence in your life.
and for once in his life, he was lucky enough that you seemed to be perceptive of it.
after that first time meeting you, he continued to help you with your groceries, practically spending all his free time awaiting to hear your car to park on your driveway, doing his best to act nonchalant when he strolled out of his house and headed over to the driver's door of your car. he even started to go the extra step in opening the door for you and holding your hand as you got out.
that small bit of contact could've kept him going for months. your hand in his, his thumb aching to caress the back of your hand. it was a quiet intimacy he couldn't describe. he wanted more, he was just unsure of how to get it without scaring you away. his mind went crazy thinking of how the rest of your skin would feel against his. images of your nude body flashed through his mind every time he saw you. the incessant need to see you at your most vulnerable, at your freest state, it overrode any sort of guilt he felt. he wanted you in ways he couldn't even understand.
he even found himself distracted by such thoughts any time he was around you, no matter how short-lived his visits to your home were.
it was partially his fault, really. andrew was always too lost in his head to relax enough to stay. he always assumed you wanted him gone, that he probably gave you the same discomfort he had a tendency to give others.
he wanted you to be the one exception.
"are there any fun places around here?" you asked one day, interrupting the war inside his head.
he had somehow let his guard down enough to accept your offer of a drink. after helping you put away some dishes, he accepted a tea from you, taking a seat on your couch right next to you.
there wasn't much proximity, but he still felt alert. he couldn't stop overthinking when he was around you.
"there's, uhm, the skate park. the beach." he responded after shaking his head of all his thoughts.
"is that it? i thought you grew up here."
he shrugged. "i like to skate. i like the beach."
"you skate, andrew?"
"yeah. always have."
you smiled at that, head leaning back against the recline of the couch, tilted towards him. "wanna teach me?"
his eyes widened a bit.
no one had ever really cared about his skating.
granted, he was an off-putting figure at the skate park, always making sure he had the ramp to himself, wanting everyone away from him while he did as he pleased. but a deeply buried part of him had always ached for someone to share that interest.
more importantly, was this an invitation?
"oh, uhm, you wanna learn?"
your shoulder nudged his, completely missed how he stilled at the contact.
"yeah. it'd be fun. you don't wanna?"
if you were teasing, he couldn't really tell. he didn't want to make you think he wasn't interested — he was. way too interested.
"no, no. yeah. i wanna. do you- you wanna go now?"
"now? yeah, sure. let me get changed first?"
you stood up before he could respond, making your way to a part of your house he was yet to see in person. he knew you were likely doing the same routine he'd seen every morning. and as he sat there, he felt himself flush at the thought. knowing you were just a few meters away, being the vision he'd had the privilege of witnessing for the past month, it made him groan internally.
you came back out pretty quickly after that, donning some shorts short enough to require some extra effort to get him to look away from the bare skin. it was hot in california, but god, it had never proved to be as much of an issue to him as it did in this moment.
the smile you gave him was as bright as every other. you were happy to be hanging out with him, happy to extend your hand and uselessly pull at him to get up, both of you knowing he could get up on his own but accepting the contact anyway. he had to look away from you every time you did this. every smile of yours was met with the sad excuse of a lip curled upward and eyes running away from yours.
but you didn't seem to mind, still holding his hand as you walked out of your house and made your way to your car.
as if it were second nature, andrew took the keys from you, silently insisting to drive as he led you to the passenger seat and opened the door for you.
"you're always such a gentleman, andrew." you giggled then, no objections from you any time he did such small favors for you.
andrew took note of every act that got a smile or a giggle out of you. occasionally he'd even get some flushed cheeks, some shy eyes looking away from his. those were his favorites. they made him feel like he had everything a man could wish for.
when you arrived to the park, andrew was a little embarrassed.
people knew him around there, knew he was a little off, a little strange. they were intimidated by him and his ability to keep everyone off his space while he was there.
this was one of the only places where he was happy (your house had been recently added to the list). he hoped it'd remain that way after having you here with him.
you'd waited in your car before leaving so he could pick up a few of his skateboards, giggling once again when he brought over one of his old helmets from high school, even throwing in some extra protection for your elbows and knees.
andrew couldn't help but feel a pang in his heart when you put them on as soon as he walked you over to his favorite ramp. you liked this; being with him. you looked giddy, excited to be there, not once letting go of his hand as he led you there.
"so, you any good at this, andrew?"
for once, he chuckled. a surge of confidence took over him.
"want me to show you?"
you nodded excitedly, not paying any mind to how people walked away as soon as they saw andrew coming, now standing at the sidelines as he climbed on the ramp.
andrew laughed as he made his way up and down the ramp, smiling when he looked to the side and found you cheering for him, small claps formed by your hands and tiny gasps whenever he'd perform a trick. he was on top of the world then, never having had anyone express any sort of genuine pride towards him.
the mixture of adrenaline from the speed, the wind hitting his face combined with the pride he felt from having you there, having everyone witness his girl cheer for him — it did things to him.
he finished after a while, making his way back to you and jumping back slightly when you took both his hands in yours, jumping excitedly as you praised him.
"oh my god? i didn't think you'd be that good! show me how to do it? please?" you were like an excited kid, talking a mile a minute while he let you sway his hands with yours.
fuck, he was losing his mind. he didn't know what to do with someone so sweet, so untainted. you were sheer perfection to him in that moment.
"let's start with something a little safer first."
he set your skateboard down on even ground, standing behind you as he led you on top of it. you lacked confidence in your balance, so he knew he'd have to stay near you. he was more than fine with that.
"shit, don't let go, andrew." you said when you almost slipped as you first settled a single foot on the board. "i'm too scared to put both feet on the board. you're gonna have to hold me."
"it's okay. i'll hold onto you." he promised, hands settled on the backs of your elbows as he held onto you.
from behind you, he could smell your shampoo. it took everything in him to not lean in and nuzzle his nose into it. that floral lavender scent was addictive. your skin was so soft under his fingertips, and your scent was too alluring for any man to resist.
another pang hit his chest at knowing that you were his in this moment. any of the usual spectators at the park could see him with his pretty girl, not knowing you weren't exactly his just yet. but he could pretend.
"wanna try going a little faster?" he walked behind you, aiding the small skips you made by using one foot to slowly push you forward while the other remained stagnant on the board.
"yeah, just — put your hands on my waist. i need more support."
you said it so casually, reaching behind you and placing his hands around your waist as if the feel of skin your crop top gave him wouldn't make him a dead man walking. he breathed deep through his nose, fingers caressing the skin there softly before squeezing, signaling for you to begin moving.
the angle was awkward by nature. you couldn't really teach someone to skate one-on-one without having to hold onto them like this. at least not if you wanted to aid them in the way andrew did.
this was mostly for show. you weren't really skating as much as you were being softly pushed by andrew. but fuck, he couldn't stop smiling. the sound of your laugh practically forced his own laughter to come out. he was on cloud nine.
"i suck at this." you giggled after your third stumble (andrew had no complaints about those; they gave him a chance to grip your waist, prevent an actual slip from happening). "but you're a fun teacher."
"thanks. you're- you're fun to teach."
after a while of this, you were finally confident enough to skate a little on your own. and against his better judgment, andrew let go of your waist, keeping a small distance as he watched you skate short intervals on your own.
as he watched, one of the regulars at the park came up beside him, watching you along with him, some guy he'd exchanged words with once or twice. andrew was so enraptured by you, he didn't notice the added presence until he spoke.
"who's the girl, man? never seen you this happy before. girlfriend?"
andrew didn't remove his eyes from you as he answered.
"yeah." he lied.
the guy patted him on the back. some sort of congratulations for bagging you, he guessed.
"woah, congrats, man. that's a fine thing you got there. how long?"
andrew looked past you being called a 'fine thing.' nothing could ruin his good mood.
"a month." another lie.
"shit, and you've been keeping her to yourself, huh? this your what, third date? fifth?"
"first." the first bit of truth, — or half-truth.
"first date at a skate park?" the man grimaced. "dude you gotta take her to some nice restaurant."
andrew withdrew his eyes from your form for the first time, confused as he looked to the guy next to him.
"y'know. fancy food. some table on the corner. no loud music, so you can hear each other. dark ambience. maybe a walk on the beach right after. she might take you home after that." the guy elaborated, speaking with an ease of expertise that made andrew feel like an idiot.
was that how things were supposed to play out? that's what girls liked, right? this was his first time really doing something like this. and you had asked him to take you to a place he liked. had that been some sort of test? maybe you'd been baiting him into asking you out, tired of his brooding presence in your home unbagging groceries with nothing of interest to provide.
"hey, man. just ask her tonight. she's in a good mood. she'll say yes for sure." the guy kept going after andrew's prolonged silence.
andrew simply nodded, his gaze finding you again.
he stood there watching you as he thought things over.
there was a high chance you only saw him as a friend. you hadn't shown any indication of wanting anything more. today had been the most you'd given to him. the touches of your hands and your insistence he stay close, were those hints towards something more?
andrew swallowed, unsure of what his next move should be.
➽──────────────────❥
"i had a lot of fun tonight, andrew."
you held his hand in yours then. your fingers were smaller than his, dwarfed by the encompassing hold of his hand. everything about you was soft, softer than he'd ever felt. your hands were too delicate for him to hold, yet he dreaded letting go.
after a while at the park, you headed back home. andrew was sure that'd be the end of it, but when he went to walk over in the direction of his house, you stopped him. your hand reached his own, apparently a new favorite pastime of yours, shyly pulling him back in and suggesting you go for a walk by the shore. he couldn't have said no even with a gun to his head.
"me too."
andrew kept overthinking it. he could ask you out right there and then, have a real first date with you, make it so what he said back at the park wasn't a lie. but this had never worked out for him before. no one had ever stayed before — no one he wanted to stay, anyway.
the two of you had known each other only for a little while. the surface hadn't even been scratched yet when it came to knowing you. you seemed to enjoy him as he was. he couldn't understand how or why, but he continued riding that wave.
in his head, he could see everything with you playing out already. he was already thinking of putting money aside for a ring, of what it'd be like to have a lena of his own. one with his eyes and your hair. everything was moving a mile a minute, way too fast for a nice girl with a bright future like you. he could think of keeping you all to himself, having a repeat of today over and over again until you were grey and old, growing wrinkled together in a pretty house by the beach.
"andrew. did you hear me?"
"sorry, what?" he looked back at you when you stopped walking, taking note of how, even then, you didn't let go of his hand.
he'd grown too into his thoughts. this happened often, but it was usually met with some insult, a loud reiteration of his name, — pope, not andrew — never with the sweet concern found behind your eyes.
"i asked if you'd like to have dinner with me sometime."
for the first time, you looked unsure. instead of the steady eye-contact you always held with him, your eyes wandered off. they went from his own, to your intertwined hands, to the white sand beneath your feet.
andrew swallowed, his grip faltering slightly as he tried to process what you'd just said. he felt unseemly as he stared at you. english felt foreign to him at that moment, no word in the language could leave his lips. and the usual glimmer in your eyes dimmed more by each passing second.
"i- it's fine. you don't have to-"
"yes."
"oh? really?" you looked confused for a second before lighting up again. "you're gonna have to choose the place, okay? take me somewhere you like." your usual confidence came back almost immediately. your fingers squeezed his, cheeks puffing up with joy when he squeezed back.
and again, you gave him the choice. his comfort seemed important to you. you never said it, never put it into words, but you looked at him like you had an innate care for him.
"okay. i'll- is sometime this week okay?" he promised.
he'd never seen a smile as intoxicating as the one you gifted him with then.
he provoked excitement in you. it made him lose his breath.
that night, he came home, completely over the moon. his cheeks hurt from forcing a smile back. he had to rush into his room, avoid any sort of interaction with any lurking members of his family. there was no way he could hold back his excitement, no way he'd be able to lie about the reason for his giddiness if he were prodded about it.
rushing into his room, he slammed the door behind him, heading over to his bed and sitting at its edge, hands coming up to cover his face. he was flushed, warm at the cheeks and almost pained with how strong his emotions felt at that moment.
after calming himself down for a few moments, he walked over to his window, blinds closed as per usual. it was nighttime, so looking to your window would've been useless. your curtains were always drawn by then, but he already missed your presence. even if it proved useless, his fingers took the usual trip to the blinds near the top of the window, opening the small gap that allowed him a look outside.
a small gasp left him when he peeked out, finding your curtains still drawn open. and past your window, he found you, beginning the process of undress.
he realized then, he'd been out with you all day. you hadn't been home to close your curtains as you usually did every day at sundown. you'd been at the skate park then, spending far too many hours together and arriving home well into the nighttime. like him, you must've been spent by the time you made it into your room, not caring for your open curtains at such a late hour — who could possibly be watching you, anyway?
who, other than andrew?
he felt dirtier than he ever had as he watched you that night.
those clothes he'd seen you wear earlier in the day, they were no longer hugging your body, instead making their way off as you took them off piece by piece. once you got down to a lone piece of clothing, andrew's breath grew so heavy. he feared you'd be able to hear him past the glass of his own window. he panted at you like an animal in heat, unable to control himself as his free hand reached down to his pants, making its way under the material of his boxers before he could stop himself.
your back was facing him, tiny panties contouring the shape of your ass. your back was bare, offering andrew the life-ruining sight of your freed skin. his hands had graced a clothed version of your back, itching to feel the skin underneath as he held onto you back at the park. as he wrapped his hand around his dick, he could only imagine what it'd feel like if he could touch it now.
he breathed deep and heavy, swallowing back any groans as he watched you make your way around your room in nothing but your panties, readying your room so you could head to sleep. he knew he had to hurry and get himself there as soon as possible, to use the sight to his fullest advantage before you made your way under your covers.
you moisturized your body, making him green with envy at the lithe way in which you touched your own body. it was an innocent touch, he knew this, but the sight still made him suffer with insatiable desire.
his hardness was painful as he worked himself at a punishing pace. he was aggressive with it, hand wrapped tightly around himself, thumb teasing the tip every so often, imagining how softly you'd touch him if you were in his place. the mere thought made him sigh, it made him close his eyes and groan to himself.
any shame left him when his orgasm finally washed over him. his eyes were closed now, his hand away from the blinds and any sight of you fully gone now. his release stained his boxers, but he couldn't find it in him to care. the image of your naked skin was imprinted in his brain. the imagined feel of your touch and of your body were all he could think about.
when guilt finally found him, he washed it away. he spent an hour under the stream of the shower in penance over what he'd done to himself in your name. he could imagine the disgust you'd feel at knowing of the way in which he'd used your body without your permission. as much as he had tried to avoid it, his infatuation turned to lust. he wanted you in mind and spirit, but he also wanted you carnally.
he went to bed with this thought in mind, only falling asleep after endless hours of reliving the day's events. the memory of your laughter calmed him, but the thought of your future date made his heart accelerate with foreign nerves.
➽──────────────────❥
the following two days repeated a similar routine.
you'd been working double shifts those days, meaning that your date had no chance of taking place as of yet. however, andrew had no complaints. he couldn't. not when he still got a front row seat of you taking your time in dressing yourself each morning.
after that first time touching himself to the irresistible view you provided him with, andrew became insatiable.
he kept touching himself the following two days. not only did he touch himself as he watched you, but he couldn't help but let his hand find its way between his legs in the shower, before going to sleep, all with the memory of your body in mind. he knew what you smelled like now, knew what the skin of your midriff felt like under his touch, had become familiar with the curve of your breasts under your shirt. his imagination made up for the rest.
everything in his mind was just a replay of you and every moment in which he'd laid eyes on you.
it wasn't only your body he thought about. his mind circled back to everything else about you. you were the sweetest girl he'd ever met. he felt guilty being on the receiving end of your kindness, felt undeserving of your smiles and of the privilege to keep you company. you were a form of salvation andrew had been unfamiliar with, and with one single look he had become addicted.
he had the misfortune of not being able to see you outside of his imagination for those two days, but he decided to spend the rest of his free time on something productive — he'd find the best place for your date.
it had to be perfect. he had to make sure that it was, that he got another smile out of you, another giggle accompanied by those flushed cheeks that made his fingers flex with frustration at not knowing what to do with all the emotions fluttering within him.
on the third day, andrew was finally able to see you again, now for an extended period of time. it was daytime then, and he knew you had a day off. maybe he'd taken the liberty of finding out where you worked, doing the math and figuring out when you'd be there, when you wouldn't. but he didn't do anything more with that information. he just needed it for peace of mind.
knowing you were off, he decided to go on a limb, to see if maybe you'd be happy to see him unannounced.
last time he'd done something like this, he got called a weirdo by baz, got a few creeped out looks by cath and a sinking feeling in his chest like he'd fucked up somehow.
but that still didn't stop him from doing the same for you. with a fresh bouquet of flowers in his hands, he walked the steps to your front door and stood there expectantly before knocking on your door.
"andrew?" you opened the door halfway, only opening it all the way after realizing it was him on the other side of it.
"hi."
the flowers were up to his chest, unmoving until you acknowledged them. he wasn't sure how to do this in a way that didn't feel standoffish.
"are those for me?" there was some hesitancy in your voice. as if andrew could've gotten them for anyone who wasn't you.
he matched your hesitance in lifting his arm up, offering the flowers out to you with nothing more than a nod and an almost muted 'yeah.'
"oh, andrew. that's so sweet of you." you grasped them immediately, pressing them to your chest before digging your nose in them to smell them. you giggled afterwards, making pope realize any risk had been completely worth it if this had been the result.
"did you wanna come in?" you offered.
he shook his head. "just wanted to give you those. and uhm ..."
he considered chickening out. the two of you hadn't seen much of each other (or at least you of him) in the past few days. he wasn't sure if a date was still what you wanted. you'd never even called it a date. thinking back to it, this could've just been you trying to make friends since you were new in town, not wanting to engage with him in anything further than a friendship. craig had insinuated as such when he caught andrew coming back from the beach after seeing you off a few days ago.
"yeah?"
and you were still smiling, still keeping a tight grip on your flowers as if they'd just become some priced possession.
"can i take you out tonight? for our date?"
bashfully, you looked down at your feet, but andrew could still see a smile on your face. you flushed slightly, which seemed like a good sign to him.
"i was scared you'd forgotten." you said when you looked back up at him. "not nice to keep a girl waiting like this, andrew."
he chuckled dryly. "i'm sorry. that's what the flowers are for. can i pick you up tonight?"
nodding, you reached out to him, flowers in one hand as you opened your arms out to him and gave him a hug. andrew stiffened at this, not having expected it without any warning. from the nonexistent distance, he could smell your shampoo, get a whiff of that perfume he'd smelled on you just a few nights ago. he could've stayed there forever, had it not been for you pulling away.
"and that's for the flowers." you teased. "i'll be waiting for you, andrew."
andrew fell in love with how you said his name. you made a point of saying it often, always with a dulcet intonation intertwined with the syllables. it was never said in anger, not even once in anything remotely monotone. it was an exciting word for you, always slipping out between smiling lips. and now it felt like a promise, something for him to hold onto until he could see you again tonight.
as he made his way back home, he tried to fight the smile off his lips. his hands were balled into fists, attempting to fight back the strong emotions he was feeling at that moment. it was a mixture of excitement and nerves. he still had many things to do. he needed to go confirm that the restaurant was perfect, that there was a perfect table on some dark corner, no loud music, needed to buy some button-up you may like, one that had a collar you'd want to touch and readjust when you saw him. it'd have to be blue, the color of your vintage car and of your nails the day he'd first seen you. you liked that color, so maybe if he wore it you'd like him a little more too.
➽──────────────────❥
the date had been a blur.
andrew had been on high alert the whole time, not knowing how to respond when he picked you up and you'd kissed his cheek with no hesitation, grabbing onto his hand as you called him handsome. he'd been equally as clueless when you stretched your hand across the restaurant table to hold his hand halfway through dinner. much less did he know what to do when it came to be time for dessert and you exchanged your seat across from his to sit next to him at the booth, head leaning on his shoulder and arms wrapped around one of his, suddenly being fed spoonfuls of the tiramisu on the menu you'd squealed over.
he'd never been on a date. not like this, at least. he wasn't sure how he was meant to react when you seemed so happy to be there, as if he was doing you a favor by gracing you with his presence.
he wasn't used to inducing happiness, not to receiving it or to giving it.
taking you home had been a blur too, walking hand by hand as you swayed your interlocked hands and made your way to your house. there, you paused at the door, turning to him with a smile. andrew returned it, smaller, shier, but there. your hands went up to play with the collar of his shirt, complimenting how handsome he looked tonight once more and making him look down at his feet bashfully once again.
"do you wanna come in?" you asked, head tilted and a sly grin on your face.
he nodded, flinching a bit when you gripped his hand once more and dragged him inside.
inside, he stood there, still as he looked around and took in the place. he wanted to become familiar with everything, to have this place feel like home to him as much as it did to you.
his thoughts were halted, though, as you grabbed his attention once again. you had turned back to lock the door, now taking a few steps towards him. you stood close, what would be too close for comfort if you were anyone else. but andrew wanted you close. he wanted you on his skin, wanted to breathe in your oxygen despite how fast his heart began beating at your proximity.
the room was silent, but andrew's heart was beating so loud he was certain you could hear it. he was anxious to see what you'd do next, but even more so to make a move of his own. when your hands lifted to lay on his chest, he sucked a breath in, hoping the hard beating of his heart would go unnoticed.
but it didn't.
"are you nervous, andrew?"
"yeah."
"do i make you nervous?"
"it's not you that makes me nervous."
you leaned in a little more, eyes dropping to his lips for a millisecond before turning back up to his eyes.
"do you want me, andrew?"
the way you said his name made him dizzy. even more so than your question. he couldn't breathe at that moment, fighting every urge to put his hands on you, keeping them stilled at his sides, knuckles white with the strength it took to hold back.
he nodded, breathing out when your hands began trailing up his chest, finding his shoulders and then the back of his neck.
"i've liked you since the moment i saw you." it was said almost as a whisper. your hand went up to his freckled cheek, thumb running atop his cheekbone softly.
"really?" his voice was even more muted than yours. he couldn't believe himself.
you nodded, now one step closer to him. your nose touched his, your breath mixed with his own. his hands hovered on your waist, not brave enough to touch, but silently begging to. his eyes were droopy, landing straight on your open mouth, thirsty for a meeting of lips.
"you're all i think about these days."
he whimpered silently. it was almost mute, but he knew you heard it. the tension in the room was too heavy for him to feel embarrassed over it. his body vibrated with want for you.
andrew didn't know what to say. speechless, he kept breathing against you. you panted against each other, spent despite your love affair barely being at its beginning.
the two of you remained at the entrance of your house. you hadn't made it far before you'd stopped him from walking further into your home, hand holding his and pulling him close without any warning.
slowly, you caged him to the wall, approaching him with slow steps until there was no room for him to run — not that he'd ever consider it anyway. still, he flinched when your hand trailed down to his jaw, thumb on his chin, angling his head so his lips would finally meet your own. you did most of the work, enticing him by lifting up your chin so your lips would touch.
it was soft at first. just a simple peck, separating immediately after, but keeping your lips close enough to touch. again, you pecked his lips. you did this a few times, always slow in pulling away and always keeping your eyes hooded enough to zero in on his lips.
you opened your lips at last, trapping his bottom lip between yours and sucking at it. this began a series of heavy kisses between you, tongues finding each other and sucking messily at one another. your hands pulled at the strands of his hair, pulling him closer as if to prevent the kiss from ever ending. you sighed into his lips any time he'd lick into your mouth, practically forcing him into holding onto you and pulling you just as close. he moaned and whined any time you pulled at his bottom lip, head trailing back so you could drag it with you and make him follow your kiss. he'd flinch sometimes, head moving back at how forward you were with your kiss. but you'd chase him every time, hands pulling his head so your noses would knock together and your lips would trap his tongue, holding it hostage as you sucked on it.
andrew's skin burned, he itched with desire for you, head completely empty as you had your way with him. he whined shamelessly when you trailed down to his jaw, kissing your way to his neck and sucking at the skin there, clearly uncaring of any marks you'd leave behind. he felt bad for how strong his grip on your waist had become, but he needed the support. his eyes were closed, rolled back behind the lids as he received every one of your love bites. he wanted them in visible places, imagined himself walking around shirtless, wearing them with pride knowing that you'd marked him as yours. he'd never been anyone's — not by his own will. but he found himself wanting to strip himself of everything other than you.
"i want you." he breathed. "please."
andrew didn't allow himself to want things frequently.
he was a well-oiled machine. obeyed orders when given, did what he had to do, always. but wanting? that was foreign to him. he hadn't been allowed to want, only to provide — whatever that meant at any given moment.
but with you, he wanted to want. he needed to try, at least. he felt safe with you, like that constant risk of rejection was completely forgotten. part of that fear still slipped through his words, but he couldn't help himself in wanting you, in expressing such desire.
"i'll give you anything you want" you breathed into his lips, barely touching. far but still close enough for your breaths to mingle.
he kissed you again then. his mouth was open, a groan leaving his lips upon the contact. your hands gripped his hair, insistent on pulling him as close as you could bring him. small hums of pleasure were released into his lips, licked and sucked by his tongue, vibrating against him in a way that had him recalibrating, readjusting to the foreign feeling of desire.
"need you closer." you moaned, tongue occupied with his own. "touch me."
his hands had been practically stagnant on your waist, now pulled at and encouraged to travel up and down your body. he went greedy with it really fast, squeezing your every curve, pulling you inhumanly close and grunting when you'd try to mold yourself to him. even chest-to-chest, groin-to-groin wasn't enough, he needed your bare skin on his, to let his tongue run down every inch of your body.
despite his urgency, he was still soft and intimate. he kissed your bottom lip, trailing down to your chin and your neck before lowering himself down to your covered chest. the thin straps of your dress didn't offer much coverage, allowing andrew to see your hardening nipples from underneath the material. his nose trailed after them, lips agape as he breathed against them, hesitant in closing around them until a sigh of desperation left your lips from above.
his tongue came out first, shy in wrapping around your nipple through the material of the fabric. he dampened it, sucking through it and taking in the vibration of your moans. your hand lost itself in his curls, running your fingers through them and softly pushing him closer to your chest.
eventually his hands gripped at your hips, not taking a handful, but letting his fingers take hold of the surface of the plush skin he found there. he wasn't sure how much he could touch you, how far he could take it before the other shoe dropped. even as you sighed so seductively into the air of the room, andrew remained with a seedling at the back of his mind telling him that this could all end at any second.
that's when you read his mind once more, always sensing even the slightest move to falter his actions. pulling at his head, you brought him back to your lips, pecking them softly a handful of times before looking straight into his eyes. yours were heavy with need, troubled in keeping your gaze on his eyes as they kept dropping to his lips.
"do you have a condom?"
he shook his head, remorseful.
"that's okay." you pecked his lips. "will you let me take you to bed?" it was whispered again. it seemed like you shared his fear. like if you acted on a whim, made any sudden movements, that it'd all be over.
he nodded, letting you take his hand and lead him into the master bedroom of the house. there, he couldn't help but stop at the entrance, looking over the room through which he'd been watching you all this time.
you stopped when his stilled hand pulled you back, turning to look at him over your shoulder. his eyes weren't on you, though. they were looking at your room, taking in every painting on the wall, every piece of furniture, the vanity in which you'd get ready every morning. andrew was well acquainted with everything in your room, recognizing every stuffed animal he could see from his window. every memory of you naked in your room came rushing back to him, causing him to swallow and for his fingers to squeeze yours unknowingly.
after a few moments of his silence, you spoke up again, getting his attention. you'd taken a few steps towards him, now standing face-to-face, your hands letting go of his in favor of settling on flat on the muscle of his chest.
"ever thought you'd be on the other side of that window?" you whispered, fingers trailing to the ends of his hair, drawing goosebumps in their wake.
"w-what?" his eyes, alert, landed on yours. you were too close for him to focus his eyes on you, almost going cross-eyed. but your eyes were distracted by his mouth, his ears, his neck, every single one being traced by your fingers.
you nodded at him, pressing one gentle kiss to his chin, then one to the corner of his lips, then to his cheek, pressing a few soft kisses in between words.
"my room? you've seen it before, haven't you? this morning? yesterday? a month ago?"
he felt lightheaded. his fingers flexed again, itching to touch you but feeling as if he did so at this moment, that softness in your voice would leave. you knew what he'd done. you were mocking him, likely playing with him as some form of punishment. but he wanted you so badly he was willing to take it — he needed you so much that he was scared to not even get this much from you.
"w-what? you-"
"shh. it's okay, baby." you whispered against his ear, chest now pressed to his and hands digging into his hair, pulling him in to rest his head on your shoulder. "did you like the view?"
dragging your hands down his body, they traced at the hem of his shirt, fingers teasing as they trailed up the expanse of his abdomen from underneath his shirt. your movements were slow and calculated, making him falter and his breath stutter.
he shook his head. not at your question, but at himself.
"n-no, i-"
"no?" your nails dragged down his chest softly. your tongue traced the shell of his ear. "i was hoping you'd do something about it. come knocking down my door or maybe sneak through my window."
he groaned at the thought (though maybe also at the way you sucked at his neck at that moment). his hands turned a little greedy by then, digging into your hips with a grip strong enough to keep you hostage if you so tried to leave.
"you knew?" he asked uselessly.
"since your first week back."
"i ... i'm sorry."
but you shook your head, your nose shifting against his cheek and nudging him so your lips would meet. kissing him a few times over, you licked into his mouth, swallowing his sigh of pleasure.
"it's okay, baby. i knew you were watching. just wanted your eyes on me" you sighed into his lips, whining when he opened his, licked your tongue bravely. "took way too long to seduce you."
you'd said it as a joke, as a lust-filled jest to relieve some of the heavy desire in the room. but andrew couldn't take it. he couldn't handle knowing that the feeling had been mutual, that you'd orchestrated a plan to get him hooked, get him panting like a dog, chasing after you in silence until he could finally push himself into making a move.
he thought about the self-control he exerted those first weeks, the repentance he'd felt at simply watching you, at the itch within to keep you all to himself. the day he finally touched himself to your body, he'd gotten on his knees and hoped you'd forgive him one day, not knowing that had been exactly what you wanted.
"i liked it. watching you." he admitted, swallowing back any shame.
you responded by cupping his cheeks, holding him far enough so you could look into his eyes. your thumbs held onto his cheekbones, gentle in your touch.
"do you wanna see it up close?" you whispered as you leaned in for a kiss, swallowing his groan in return.
"can i?"
"come here."
you reached down to pull at his hand, walking him over to your bed and gently pushing him onto a sitting position. he sat there, back straight and hands on the top of his thighs. there was a furrow to his brow. he wasn't sure what to do, how to react. inside, he was losing his mind. his eyes kept begging to reach every inch of your body, but the confident smirk on your face convinced him to keep his eyes on you.
reaching the hem of your dress, you pulled it off in a single move, leaving you in just some panties. your shoes came next, thrown off with no finesse. andrew watched every move like a hawk, fingers digging into his clothed legs and pulling at the material harshly. there was a heavy weight on his chest, he felt like he couldn't breath properly, panting at the sight like a rabid dog.
seemingly enjoying his reaction, you giggled, straddling him on the bed, hands on his shoulders before leaning down to stick your tongue in his mouth. static, his hands remained on his sides, not daring to place them on your hips until you dragged them there.
"is it as good as you remember? the view?"
"you're perfect." he groaned, hands now hovering, but still not brave enough to touch the now bare skin.
you turned soft for a moment, staring into his eyes and leaning down. "you are too, andrew."
before he could grunt some sort of disagreement or denial, you kissed him again, pushing him to lay down on the bed. his arms wrapped around your back, pulling you against his chest and groaning into your mouth. when you began to grind against him, he sucked on your tongue, humming at the way you moaned his name into his lips.
greedy, your hands reached south, finding the hem of his shirt before tickling the skin underneath it, itching to remove it. andrew sighed at your touches, pondering as to whether or not to help you undress him, but having the feeling of the skin of your back win that battle. his hands reached down to your ass, grabbing, pulling at the fat there and pushing you up against him as his hips reached up in attempts to grind into yours.
"off."
"what?"
"all of it."
andrew was nothing if not obedient. unwilling to displease you in any capacity, his hands went straight to work, awkwardly working his clothes off while you remained on top of him. there were a few accidental shoves of elbows, some bitten lips, perhaps one or two limbs trapped in fabric, but the reward for his nudity had been immediate.
andrew had never been on the receiving end of such ravenous lust, of such thirsty eyes staring him down and threatening his ruin in the most appetizing of ways.
demanding hands ran up and down his back, trailing to his front and tracing his stomach, his abs, his pecs, fingers running through every ridge and making him shudder through every second of it. his head found its rightful place resting in the crook of your neck, head turned to the side to breathe tiny gasps into your skin. andrew's knuckles remained white with the effort it took him to take in all your touches. it was an unfamiliar feeling, to have his entire being traced and memorized with such amorous touches.
he'd never been on the receiving end of infatuation, nor had he ever been quite good at being the giver of it. yet he was sitting there, his own fingers shyly reaching your hips again just so he could have a tiny taste of your warmth. you were greedier with your touch, shameless in getting your feel of him.
it was when you began trailing down his body that andrew broke himself out of his trance. when he felt the wet kisses go from his neck down to his chest, his abs, reaching his hips, his thighs, and ending at his cock.
his head was already being licked and sucked at before he could react. he was rarely one to be caught off guard, but the deep groan leaving his lips was enough indication to show just how much he'd lost himself in your affections.
you were on your knees as he laid back on the bed, legs settled on the ground from the side of it and back arching slightly when your tongue would sneak out and trace his slit in between sucks. your hands took whatever your mouth couldn't, following the rhythm of the bobs of your head. occasionally you'd pay attention to his balls, causing his hands to itch to hold your head and keep you there. but he couldn't bring himself to even try and take any control of the situation. he was willing to let you call the shots, let you run things however you wished if it meant he would be on the receiving end of it all.
his mind was fuzzy within minutes, fingers flexed as they gripped at the frilly sheets under him, hips doing their best to stay still and endure the torture your mouth provided without forcing himself further inside its wet warmth. his groans and huffs were muffled to the best of his ability, sometimes through sheer willpower, while occasionally by biting the back of his hand. the only other sound in the room was the squelch of your mouth as you played with him.
but then there were your own sounds.
looking down at the very first vibration against him, he found your eyes almost completely rolled back. your lips were pursed and releasing tiny gasps and cries around his dick. he could mostly feel the vibration of your sounds, but if he really tried, he could hear the tiny little whines you let out as you engulfed him. that, coupled by your nails dragging red lines down his thighs, made him groan in defeat.
because you were enjoying this. you were moaning louder by the passing minute, desperation taking over as you sped up your movements, nails digging so hard into him he was sure those marks would prevail for days on end. he could've come like this, could've given in and had the image of his cum being drained by your lips, could've ruined his own life with such an image imprinted in there. but he couldn't bring himself to be selfish when it came to you. he needed to atone for every soft demonstration of selfless affection you'd given him — he needed to make you feel as good as you did him, and then by a tenfold.
when he pulled you away from him, he was met with a petulant whine. pope wasn't one to laugh much, but it did almost pull a chuckle out of him to see how needy you were at that moment. he felt the same way, was just not secure enough to show it.
"nooo." you whined once you were back to straddling him, eyes meeting once more. "wanna make you come."
your eyes were heavy, lips swollen and wet with a mixture of saliva and pre cum. you weren't 100% there, clearly drowning in desire (just as he was, he was just better at hiding in plain sight). he exhaled deeply, mouth opening and closing a few times, wanting your lips on his own more than anything at that moment.
"you first."
you whined again. huffed, even. your lips met his again after that, needy, messy, wet and nasty. you wanted to give him a taste of himself, to show him what had you so obsessed past the point of critical thinking. and god, he adored it. he never imagined enjoying the taste of himself (and to be frank, he didn't), but he was convinced he'd swallow poison if it were delivered by your lips. a mess of teeth, tongues, bitten lips and bumping noses, but it created the most mind-numbing kiss he'd ever exchanged. his mind was so gone that he lost all reservations he'd had before and allowed his hands to be overcome with greed for your body. every inch was squeezed, pulled at and manhandled. he didn't care if he left you with bruises the next day (he would later, but for now he just wanted to melt into your skin, and this seemed like the closest way to do so).
as gently as he could manage, he flipped you over, hands wrapped around your frame, holding you against him and ending up above you. he wanted to copy your earlier actions, to kiss and lick every inch of your body until he had you wrecked under him. it wasn't that he wanted power over you, but he wanted to take every thought aside from him out of your head. just like you'd done from the moment he met you.
his lips trailed your jaw, unsure of where to start his mission. they eventually landed on that crook between your jaw and your neck, latching there and sucking a mark he knew you wouldn't be able to rid yourself of any time soon. he felt bad marking you, but a sick part of himself told him that this way he'd make sure anyone who saw them knew you were his — including you.
his hands held you still under him, legs straddling you and ensuring you wouldn't attempt to grind at him from underneath (which you were actively trying to do). when he landed on your chest, he sighed at the fat plush he found there, dragging his teeth down the skin until they came to contact with your areola and eventually your nipple. he hummed at your sigh of relief, wrapping his lips around it and sucking, nibbling at it and eventually pulling at it with his teeth. the same was done to your other nipple, receiving a handful of his hair being pulled at in a manner he could only describe as painful, but that felt like bliss at that moment.
it didn't take long for him to accomplish his mission, to make you grow desperate beneath him as he kissed every inch he could get his lips on. greedy, your hands dragged down his back, providing yet another space of his body that would be gifted with your marks. he groaned into your skin, returning the favor by filling your body with splotches of red and purple.
when he reached south, he took a detour from the part he'd been craving to taste the most, instead reaching the inside of your thighs and tasting the skin there. he held your legs open against your petulance to close them around his head (which he would've gladly accepted had it not gotten in his way).
andrew never thought himself to be a greedy man until this very moment. never knew he could be allowed to want to this extent, to take and get his fill and then go for some more. being rewarded for his greed was an entirely different concept completely foreign to him, receiving the breathiest moans of his name the closer he got to your middle.
and when he finally reached it, — nosing his way to your cunt, breathing in deep and shameless, your back arched, pressing yourself up against him and pushing his head down simultaneously — that's when he really lost all reservations. he dug in, fingers gripping the skin of your thighs as he pulled them apart to give space for his venture. licking from top to bottom, he landed on your clit, tip of his tongue running circles, figure 8's, his initials over and over again until your wails were so loud he knew that craig would be awoken from his nap next door due to them.
"andrew, i- fuck." you attempted.
multiple times you tried moaning out some sort of sentence, but he'd lose himself even more in you every time, taking a single syllable out of you as a challenge to ruin you far enough so you wouldn't be able to form a single word.
he groaned into you, shaking his head side to side as he licked and sucked at you, tongue going south to prod at your hole and lick away at your juices. feeding off your whines, he dug himself closer, his nose now digging into your clit as he licked into your hole.
"i'm- i'm almost there, shit. please don't stop. please please, shit, please, baby. i need-"
he blanked out the rest of your pleas. they all went straight to a corner of his mind he rarely ever visited. and there they would remain for the rest of his life, accompanying him the next time he felt deserving of your sweet whiny voice begging for him.
as you continued to cry out his name, your orgasm built up, taking over you unexpectedly as your legs clamped around his head, muffling your shrieks of his name. andrew could not have this — no, if his name was leaving your lips, he needed to be able to give it his full attention. he continued to hold you open, straining his arms as you subconsciously fought against him. the pleasure was too much for you. you writhed and cried and shook on the bed, making it hard for andrew's hips to continue to occasionally grind against the side of the mattress as they'd been doing from the moment he got his tongue on you.
he said nothing as he pulled away, instead kissing your ankle before trailing his way back up your body with his lips just as he'd traveled his way down. ignoring the hardness between his legs, he straddled you, lips curling up slightly when you pulled him down to your lips with haste.
nothing was more enjoyable to him than your taste, nothing but your own tongue trying to lick its remnants out of his own. pulling at his hair, you held him against you, greedy in the same way he'd been between your legs.
"you taste so good." he mumbled. "d'you like it?"
"mhm" it was high pitched and distracted, anxious to get back to his lips. "felt so good, andrew."
your legs wrapped around his middle, pulling his center closer to your own and grinding up.
"want more." you licked into his mouth as you said it.
"yeah?"
you nodded, hands antsy. he could feel your desperation for him in various ways. from your hands to the wetness between your legs, he knew you were genuine about your need for him, for his touch. he couldn't understand why you needed him, but he needed you so badly in return that he was unwilling to question it.
"condom?" he remembered from earlier. "i don't have one."
"like this. i'm clean. promise."
he nodded along, offered a similar affirmation before finally sneaking his hand between you. he was so pent up he groaned at his own touch, body shuddering when you whispered encouragement in his ear.
"oh, andrew." you sighed when he dragged himself up and down your slit. it made a squelching sound. it made him groan how you tried to squeeze around him when he passed by your opening. your body was begging for him; so were you.
andrew was no stranger to carnal pleasure. but it was never more than that — carnal. it was always a quick affair. in and out, a simple exchange of temporary pleasure. he'd never had anyone look at him the way you did at that moment. never had anyone's eyes widen and eyebrows furrow as they looked up at him, hands gripping at his shoulders as if they'd die if he dared pull away. that was only you.
he entered you at last, groaning an expletive that barely made its way out of his lips. you gripped him like you dreaded ever letting him leave. he was trapped inside you, and he was happy to be.
"fuck, andrew, you're perfect."
just like him, you were breathless. your mouth was agape, chin tilted up and silently begging for another kiss.
he didn't fuck you fast and hard. this wasn't some exchange; it was a beginning. he'd have time to let his carnal desires take over some day in the future (seeing as you were his now — you hadn't discussed it, but he knew). today he needed to show you how he felt.
never one good with words, andrew let the hammering of his hips speak for him, let the wet kisses pressed against your skin tell you how he already felt like he was in love. he'd had a taste of your kindness, your sweetness, your affection, and suddenly he couldn't imagine getting by another minute without it.
"you're perfect." he corrected.
you grunted lowly, your heels pressing into his ass to push him closer. when he followed your direction, giving you more and more, your cries of his name rewarded him. you gasped and choked around the two syllables that formed his name, sometimes replacing it for an expletive or for a 'baby' or a whiny praise for how good you felt.
andrew felt like he'd explode. praise wasn't his forte, but the whispered words of affirmation couldn't stop leaving his lips as he interrupted your wet kisses with them. he was even worse at receiving it, but his ears still blushed a deep red when you'd cry his name with a specific intonation that had him reeling, or when you'd scream how good he felt inside you.
you were heaven around him, made him forget about every piece of hell he'd been dealt with up until this moment. it all felt worth it now. it all made sense if this was what god had sent down to him for atonement for his suffering. greed kept growing within him as he enjoyed you, gasping when you'd squeeze around him every time he hit that spot that made your eyes cross.
"w-wanna cum. fuck, andrew. please, wanna come. want y-you to come with me."
his head fell on your shoulder. fuck. he could barely hold back when you sounded so broken for him. his hands gripped the back of your legs even tighter, pulling your back off the bed and carrying most of your body weight against him as his hips lost control. his strength had finally proved useful for something other than destruction.
"yes, oh, god, and-andrew! i'm right there."
"do it." he huffed. "do it with me."
your orgasm came first, slightly unexpected as you lost yourself under him. andrew couldn't handle it, couldn't withstand the sight nor the feeling of you melting into him. your orgasm dragged his out of him, making him let out an embarrassingly broken groan he'd tried but failed to muffle with your skin.
in that moment andrew decided that you were his. as you gasped and cried out his name, nails digging crescent moons onto his shoulders, andrew knew that this was a forever thing.
it was too soon, he knew this, but that'd never stopped his feelings from materializing. he'd known from the moment he saw you that he'd be infatuated upon the first touch. and now, having gone beyond his wildest thoughts, he knew he'd be addicted to you forever.
the soaked velvet of your walls spasmed around him, making him never want to leave that space between your legs he'd marked as his own. no part of you would ever belong to anyone else, and andrew would make sure of it. a sick part of him hoped that this first time would be enough to tie you to him forever, recalling the lack of condom as he felt every fiber of yourself wrapped around him.
he knew these were sick fantasies that would likely scare away anyone else. but not you. tilting his head up, he met your eyes, blown out as your orgasm seized.
and with just one look he knew you were just as sick for him as he was for you.
➽──────────────────❥
"you have a lot of scars."
"yeah."
"i'm sorry."
you turned your body closer to his. your hands had been shyly tracing over the many scars on his torso, some on his arms. it felt gentle, your touch. andrew had no hesitation in letting you touch him, knowing you were incapable of causing him any sort of pain.
still, he felt inadequate.
he didn't want to explain his scars. wanted to hide them and prevent you from ever knowing what had brought them on. he was afraid of what you'd think, how you'd look at him if you knew what he truly was.
"for what?"
"i'm not sure." you mumbled. "just hate that you've ever been hurt." you leaned down then, kissing the spots on his chest you'd just been tracing. when you were done, you squirmed your way back to his eyeline, pecking his lips softly, slowly.
"i'm not hurt now."
"yeah."
there was comforting silence between you after that. his arms continued to hold you against him, your hands now wrapped around him rather than exploring his body.
he hesitated for a moment before breaking the silence, swallowing as he did so.
"i'm sorry about watching you through your window."
you didn't respond at first. the two of you just laid next to each other, with him only receiving a hum in response as your nose dug into his chest, breathing him in.
"i'm not."
"did you ... did you do it on purpose?"
"not at first." you responded. "but then i saw you roughhousing with your brothers through the backyard and, i dunno, i just liked you."
"why?"
it was incomprehensible to him. he knew people were scared of him. that one look was enough to get people turning their backs on him, uncomfortable with his mere presence. it used to bother him at some point, but he'd grown so used to it by now that he'd forgotten it was possible to find someone who didn't feel that way about him.
"i just like you."
you said it with a kiss to his chest, a soft scratch of nails to his stomach and what almost sounded like a purr as you cuddled into him. all were signs that you found comfort in his presence, something which andrew was afraid to get used to.
but you made it so easy. you made him want to curl up against you and breathe in the flowery scent of your shampoo. and so he did just that. he laid next to you, tracing nonsensical shapes on the skin of your hip as you fell asleep in his arms.
the next morning he'd wake up nuzzled into your chest, hands already awake and running through his hair, comforting him in a way he'd never been before. he'd lay there and wonder if he could make this a reality.
he wondered if he could pay off your lease and take you away.
➽──────────────────❥
idk what that ending bit was but lets pretend reader is a little dumb and already in love with andrew and they run away together forever yayyy
summary : when jason’s brothers start digging into the quiet, hidden love he kept before his death, they uncover far more than any of them expected. and once they know, jason can’t help but learn the truth too. now he has to face the reality that his death didn’t just take him from you, it took him from the daughter he never knew he had. read part one here.
author’s note : I’m sooo sorry this took so long midterms killed me. not proofread again I’m lowk lazy. 12k words. smut so minors beware!!
You had called him barely a day after that long conversation in the living room. Your voice was gentle when you said Lizzie was ecstatic but a little nervous, that she wanted to meet him, and that your apartment at two on Saturday would be best.
He agreed without hesitation, the word yes leaving him before you even finished speaking. And as soon as the call ended, he was already counting the minutes, then the hours, until he could finally see her.
The night before meeting her was torture. He barely slept, tossing and turning as his mind spun through every possible scenario. Would she be scared of him? Would she cry? Would she stare at him with those big green eyes and somehow see right through him? Every time he closed his eyes, he saw a different version of their first meeting, none of which made sleep any easier.
Jason woke up after barely three hours of shallow, jittery rest, his heart already racing like he was late for something important. His apartment felt too small, too quiet, too heavy with expectation.
He wandered around in circles for a while, then planted himself in front of his closet with the kind of dread usually reserved for rooftop fights. After spending far too long worrying about what he should wear, he muttered beneath his breath in pure frustration.
Why’s this so goddamn difficult?
Choosing a jacket felt like a life-or-death decision. A shirt felt like a statement. Jeans felt too casual. Boots felt too intimidating. He changed three times before throwing himself onto the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, face buried in his hands, groaning at himself like he was some teenager getting ready for prom instead of a 21-year-old vigilante meeting his five-year-old daughter for the first time.
Eventually he pulled himself together. He picked something simple. Soft. Unthreatening. Something that didn’t scream Red Hood or dead boy resurrected in the wrong timeline.
He looked at himself in the mirror and tried to imagine what a little girl would see.
What his little girl would see.
His chest tightened painfully.
God. He wanted this to go well so badly it scared him.
Now, with five minutes until two, he’s standing at the end of your apartment hallway, just out of view of your door. His palms are sweating, his heartbeat is too loud, and his feet refuse to move no matter how many times he tells them to. Every breath feels tight and uneven.
His doubts replay in his head, none of which have been helpful. Is it selfish? Is it stupid? Is he dragging you and Lizzie into something messy and uncertain because he wants something he isn’t sure he deserves?
Is it selfish to hope she’ll like him? Is it selfish to want to know her favorite colour, what books she reads, what makes her laugh? Is it selfish to wish he could be something more than a ghost in her life?
He presses a hand against the wall beside him, grounding himself as a fresh wave of doubt washes through. His vision blurs for a second, not with tears but with the sheer force of fear.
Because what if she looks at him and sees a stranger? What if she hides behind you? What if he ruins this before it even begins?
Still, beneath all that fear, there’s a small, desperate thread of hope pulling him forward. The hope that he can at least try. That maybe he can give her something, anything, that resembles a father, even if he’s late and broken and scared out of his mind.
Jason forces himself to take one more breath, then another, until his hand finally lifts. His knuckles hover above the door for a full second before he knocks, barely louder than a heartbeat. The sound feels too small for something this life-changing, but it’s all he can manage.
He hears movement inside. Soft footsteps. A quiet voice, yours, saying something he can’t make out. Then the door opens. You stand there, gentler than you’ve ever been, like you were expecting him to be shaking like this. You take one look at him and your shoulders soften.
“Hey,” you say quietly. “Come in.”
His body moves before his brain catches up, feet carrying him over the threshold into the warmth of your apartment. It’s the same space he saw yesterday, but it feels different now. Charged. Expectant.
You close the door gently behind him. “She’s in her room,” you say. “She wanted to… get ready.”
He nods, eyes drifting toward the short hallway, imagining her on the other side. Imagining what she’s thinking, what she’s feeling, what she knows of him beyond the stories you told.
You step closer, your voice softening. “She’s excited, Jason.”
He turns to you, almost disbelieving. “Yeah?”
You nod. “A little shy. A lot curious. But excited.”
Warmth flickers through him, fragile and unbelievable. He lets out a small breath, shoulders dropping slightly as if the air in the room allows him to breathe again. You gesture toward the couch. “Sit. I’ll let her know you’re here.”
He sits carefully, hands clasped too tightly in his lap. The room smells like vanilla and something citrusy, the kind of scent that makes a place feel lived-in, loved. You give him a reassuring look before you disappear down the hallway.
Jason is left alone with the sound of his heartbeat, the quiet hum of your apartment, and the knowledge that he is seconds away from meeting the child he never got to hold. The soft shuffle of two sets of footsteps pulls Jason out of the spiral in his head. He straightens instinctively, heart climbing somewhere too high in his chest.
You appear first, walking slowly, giving her space to follow at her own pace. Lizzie peeks out from behind your hip, half-hidden, half-curious. She grips your hand with one small fist, but her bright eyes are already fixed on him, studying him with an intensity that feels achingly familiar.
“Lizzie,” you say gently, giving her hand a little squeeze, “this is Jason.”
You look at him, then back at her. “Jason, this is Lizzie.”
He rises from the couch and crosses the room with deliberate softness, lowering himself into a crouch so he’s not towering over her. Everything in him wants to reach for her, but he keeps his hands to himself, waiting, letting her decide.
“It’s very nice to meet you,” he says, voice warm but tentative.
Lizzie steps out from behind you with a seriousness far too big for her age, expression scrunched in careful thought. She looks him over slowly, head tilted.
“You’re my dad?” she asks, quiet but steady, hope and caution tangled together in her small voice.
Jason’s breath catches. He manages a smile, soft and aching all at once. “I am,” he says quietly. “Yeah. I’m your dad.”
She absorbs that, eyes widening just a little. Her next question is even smaller, like she’s afraid of getting the wrong answer.
“Do I call you Dad?”
Something in him twists, sharp and full and overwhelming. His smile stays, though it wavers at the edges. He shakes his head gently.
“You can call me whatever feels right,” he tells her. “Dad, Jason… anything you want.”
Lizzie considers this with the gravity of a world leader, chewing on her bottom lip. Jason waits, still crouched, still breathing carefully, still trying not to fall apart.
“Do you like books?” She asks suddenly, the question popping out of her like she couldn’t hold it in any longer.
Jason blinks, caught off guard in the best possible way. His smile widens, warmer, more real than anything he has managed so far. “I do,” he says softly. “A lot.”
Lizzie shifts her weight from one foot to the other, pride flickering through her shy posture. “I read lots of books,” she tells him, chin lifting just a little. “I’m at a fourth-grade reading level.”
Jason’s chest tightens, something bright blooming behind his ribs. “That’s really impressive,” he says, meaning every word. “Do you have a favourite book?”
She scrunches her nose, thinking hard, and the small gesture knocks the air out of him because it is so deeply, undeniably you. “I like Pride and Prejudice,” she finally says with a little nod, as if confirming it to herself at the same time. “Mommy reads it for me. She has to explain a lot though, the words are big and weird.”
Jason’s breath stutters. Pride and Prejudice.
Of course.
Of course you would.
He glances at you without meaning to, something gentle and stunned in his expression, before looking back at her. “That’s a really special book,” he says, voice soft, warmed by too many memories at once. “You picked a good one.”
Lizzie seems to glow at his answer, a shy excitement bubbling just under her skin. She shifts her weight again, then suddenly reaches out and takes Jason’s hand with her small one. The touch is light, hesitant, but certain. “Come see,” she says, voice gaining confidence. “I wanna show you.”
Jason startles a little, eyes flicking to you as if silently asking permission. You give him a small, steady nod.
Lizzie tugs gently, and Jason follows her down the short hallway, careful and slow, like he’s approaching something fragile and sacred. Her bedroom door is covered in crayon drawings, uneven star stickers, and polaroids of the two of you. She pushes the door open with her shoulder, letting him step inside first.
The room is warm and soft and so unmistakably her. A string of dim fairy lights. A tiny desk cluttered with pencils. A stuffed animal army guarding the bed. And shelves—three of them—packed with books of all shapes and sizes.
“These are mine,” she announces proudly, letting go of his hand so she can rush over and gesture at every shelf. “This row is fairy tales. And these are chapter books. And this is my special shelf.” She taps the middle shelf, the one arranged most carefully. Jason notices Pride and Prejudice near the center, worn at the edges like it’s been opened again and again.
Jason steps closer, taking everything in. “You read all of these?”
She nods eagerly. “Mommy helps me with the harder ones. But some I can do by myself.”
Jason feels something in him tilt, soften, unspool. He crouches beside her, letting his fingers rest on the edge of the shelf, not touching the books,just grounding himself. “They’re amazing, Lizzie,” he says quietly. “You’ve built yourself a whole world in here.”
She beams at him, bright and earnest. “You can read with me too,” she says, almost whispering, like it’s a secret she’s nervous to offer. “If… if you want.”
Jason swallows, overwhelmed in a way he isn’t used to. He nods, voice rough but sure. “I’d like that,” he says. “I’d really like that.”
Lizzie beams at his answer, rocking on her heels like she’s trying to contain a joy too big for her small body. Jason can’t stop watching her, memorizing every little expression, every shift of emotion. He doesn’t realize you’ve been standing in the doorway until you speak.
“She loves showing off her shelves,” you say softly, leaning against the frame with your arms loosely crossed. “She reorganizes them every few weeks. Says it keeps the stories from getting lonely.”
Lizzie huffs. “They do get lonely, Mommy. Books need friends too.”
You smile, warm and fond. “I know, baby.”
Jason glances back at you, something almost shy flickering in his expression. “It’s a pretty impressive collection,” he says. “She’s smart. Really smart.”
Lizzie perks up at that, preening a little. “Mommy says I get that from her.” She pauses, then adds with deadly seriousness, “But I’m stubborn like you.”
Your hand flies to your mouth to stifle a laugh, and Jason’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh yeah?” he says, turning back to her with a mock-offended look. “And who told you that?”
Lizzie points at you immediately, a traitor without hesitation. “She did.”
You groan. “In my defense, you were very stubborn.”
Jason gives you a look that’s almost a smile, softened by something deeper, sadder, but hopeful. “You weren’t exactly docile either.”
Lizzie looks between the two of you, confused but curious. “Were you friends?”
The question hangs in the air for a beat too long. Jason swallows first. “We were… very important to each other,” he says quietly.
Your eyes meet his. There’s history in the look. Hurt, love, something unfinished, but growing warmer. You clear your throat gently and step into the room. “Hey, sweetheart,” you say to Lizzie, brushing a hand over her hair, “why don’t you pick a book to show Jason? Just one for now.”
Lizzie immediately darts to her shelves with a gasp of excitement. “Only one? That’s impossible.”
You look at him from the doorframe with a soft, knowing smile, your shoulder resting against the wood. Lizzie’s still shuffling through her shelves, muttering to herself about which book is the “best one to show him first.”
“How’re you feeling?” you whisper, your voice barely above the rustle of pages.
Jason lets out a breathy, disbelieving laugh, his hand pushing through his hair like he’s trying to keep himself upright. “Perfect… she’s perfect.” But even as he says it, he shakes his head a little, as if the word isn’t nearly big enough. His eyes flick to Lizzie again, watching her stand on her tiptoes to reach the top shelf, her brows pinched in concentration. He notices the way she sticks her tongue out when she’s thinking hard. The little bounce in her step. The faint freckles on her nose.
You and him made that.
You and him made her.
“I–” he tries, voice catching. He pinches the bridge of his nose and laughs, thick and shaky, like he’s holding back something bigger. “God, I don’t even know what to do with all of this.”
Your expression softens, almost tender. “You don’t have to do anything yet,” you murmur. “Just… be here.”
Lizzie finally settles on a book—one of her fairy-tale collections—and spins around, holding it up proudly. “This one!” she declares, rushing over to Jason with the book nearly half her size.
Jason wipes quickly at the corner of his eye with his thumb before she can look up long enough to notice. Then he sinks to a seat on the small rug in the center of her room. Lizzie plops down beside him without hesitation, leaning against his arm like she’s known him all her life.
You step a little farther into the room, leaning against her dresser now. “She picked that one because it has the longest stories,” you say softly, a small teasing warmth in your voice. “She thinks that makes it more impressive.”
Lizzie gasps dramatically. “Mommy! No I don’t.” Then she looks up at Jason and whispers loudly, “I do a little.”
Jason smiles—really smiles—for the first time since he walked through your door. “Well,” he says, flipping open the book, “I think that’s pretty impressive too.”
And as Lizzie scoots even closer, practically climbing into his side, you watch something settle in him.
For a while, the only sound in Lizzie’s room is the soft shuffling of pages and the tiny hum she makes when she’s focused. Jason sits cross-legged on the floor beside her beanbag chair, careful and gentle and a little overwhelmed, while you watch from the doorway, leaning against the frame with your arms loosely crossed.
Time slips by without any of you noticing. Lizzie insists on showing him every book she owns, even the ones she claims are “too baby-ish now,” and Jason listens to her explanations with a patience and awe that softens his entire face. Eventually, she settles on Pride and Prejudice and climbs onto her bed, patting the spot beside her.
“Read it with me,” she demands quietly, the way children do when they’re trying to be polite but are too excited to hide it.
Jason glances at you. You nod. So he sits. You watch the two of them on her small bed, Lizzie curled against his side with the book open across both their laps. His voice is soft, careful, stumbling only slightly over the older prose, and every time Lizzie giggles at a line she doesn’t understand, he looks at her like it’s his new favorite sound.
Hours pass that way.
You lose count of how many chapters they get through. You lean against the doorframe until your shoulder aches, and then you sit on the floor, listening with a full, aching heart. At some point, Lizzie’s legs end up draped over Jason’s thigh, and he rests his hand lightly over her ankle without even thinking. She doesn’t seem to notice. You do.
The sun dips lower. The light in the room turns honey-gold. You check the time and blink in surprise. It’s almost six. Before you can say anything, Lizzie snaps the book shut and looks up at Jason with an expression he has no defense against.
“Can you stay for dinner?” she asks. The question is casual, but her eyes are wide and hopeful, like she’s bracing herself for a no.
Jason freezes. He looks at you again, almost helplessly, like he’s afraid to want this as badly as he suddenly does. You step further into the room, unable to stop the soft smile that tugs at your lips. “That’s up to him,” you say gently. “We’re just having pasta.”
Lizzie bounces a little. “I can help make it. Mommy lets me stir.”
Jason’s throat works around something he can’t quite swallow. He drags a hand through his hair, the motion shaky, and you can tell he’s trying so hard not to get emotional in front of her. “I… yeah,” he finally says. His voice cracks just slightly. “I’d like that.”
Lizzie beams, instantly scrambling off the bed to run toward the kitchen. Jason watches her go, something tender and bright and terrified blooming across his face, before he turns to you.
You give him that warm, steady smile again.
“Come on,” you murmur. “She’ll be upset if we’re not right behind her.”
Jason ends up staying far longer than just dinner. One hour bleeds into the next without either of you truly noticing. By nine, the living room is dim except for the soft glow of the TV, a half-finished bowl of popcorn on the coffee table, and Lizzie sound asleep against Jason’s shoulder. She had insisted he sit next to her on the couch for the movie, then had slowly, inevitably, melted sideways until her cheek rested right over his heart.
Now the room is quiet in that strange, full way where even the silence feels like it’s holding its breath. Jason doesn’t dare move. He sits there frozen, as if one shift of his arm might undo the entire night. His hand rests lightly on her back, steady and protective, his thumb brushing unconsciously back and forth over the fabric of her little sweater. He keeps his eyes on the screen even though he hasn’t processed a single frame in the last ten minutes.
You stand from your own spot on the couch, smoothing your hands over your thighs. The sudden space between you feels awkward and delicate in a way it hadn’t earlier, when Lizzie’s constant commentary kept the edges soft.
“I should take her to bed…” you murmur, and you hate how unsure your voice sounds. You nod toward Lizzie, who’s now drooling slightly against his shirt. “I’ll be right back.”
Jason looks up at you slowly, almost reluctantly, as if he’s afraid taking her away will break some fragile spell. His eyes are warm and overwhelmed and so soft it makes your chest ache.
You take a small step closer, reaching for your daughter. “It’s okay,” you whisper, gentler this time, inviting him to let go.
He swallows, shifts, and carefully slips his arm out from under her. Lizzie barely stirs, mumbling something incoherent as she curls instinctively into your shoulder. Jason’s hand lingers in the air for a second longer than it needs to.
You give him a small smile before turning toward the hallway with your daughter in your arms. “I’ll be right back,” you say again, and this time it sounds like a promise.
You return a few minutes later, the soft click of Lizzie’s bedroom door settling behind you as you step back into the warmly lit living room. Jason looks up the moment you appear, as if he’d been waiting for you to cross that threshold. His eyes find yours and hold, and there’s something in them that almost knocks the breath from your lungs. Something tender, something overwhelmed, something that feels so achingly familiar you have to blink through it.
You move to sit beside him again, the couch dipping gently under your weight. Before you can say a word, he shifts closer, slow and deliberate, like he’s afraid you’ll flinch or disappear. His hand hesitates in the space between you for a second before finally reaching for yours. His fingers curl around yours with such care, as if your hand is something delicate and valuable, something he’s terrified of losing again.
He stares down at your joined hands for a long moment before lifting his gaze back up to you. There’s no anger now, no confusion, no sharpness. Just awe, raw and unfiltered. The kind that makes your heart thud painfully against your ribs.
“You…” His voice comes out low, almost disbelieving, as if he’s trying to put a feeling into words that don’t exist. “You made this.”
His breath catches. He squeezes your hand just a little tighter.
“Her,” he clarifies, eyes flicking in the direction of the hallway where Lizzie sleeps. “You made her. You raised her. You did everything on your own and you still… God.”
He breaks off for a moment, swallowing hard, as though the emotion is rising too fast for him to keep up with.
“You’re incredible,” he says finally, the words almost trembling with sincerity. “I mean it. I don’t even know how to explain it. I’m sitting here in this little life you built from nothing and I just keep thinking… you did all of this. You kept going. You kept her happy. You kept her safe. You made this whole world for her, and I wasn’t here, and you still…”
He trails off again, eyes shining in a way that makes your throat tight.
Jason scoots even closer, knees brushing yours now, the couch barely giving him room but he doesn’t seem to care. His thumb moves slowly over your knuckles, like he’s memorizing the shape of your hand all over again.
“You’re incredible,” he repeats, quieter this time but somehow even more full. “I don’t think I ever understood the word until now.”
You don’t know how long the silence lasts, only that your heart is pounding loud enough you’re certain he hears it. Jason still has your hand in his, brushing his thumb slowly over your knuckles, almost reverent. He’s looking at you like he’s trying to memorize your face, the room, the moment. Like he’s afraid he’ll blink and lose it all.
You swallow, unable to tear your gaze away. “Jason,” you whisper, barely more than breath. “Don’t… don’t look at me like that.”
He exhales, the sound thick, almost pained. “I can’t help it.”
Your chest tightens. He shifts just a little closer, knees brushing yours, his hand still cradling your own like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. “For years, I thought I lost everything. Literally everything. And now I’m sitting on your couch, after dinner, after a movie, after reading bedtime stories with a little girl who looks like she stole the best pieces of both of us and put them in her pockets.”
You feel heat rush to your cheeks and look down, but he gently lifts your chin with one finger. Not forceful. Just enough to guide you back into his eyes. “And you,” he murmurs, his voice almost unsteady. “You did this. You survived. You built a life for her. You built a home. I don’t know how you did it all alone.”
“I wasn’t going to be alone forever,” you tell him quietly. “I had my mom, and my sister. I had school. I had work. I had Lizzie. I had… memories of you.”
Something in him breaks at that. Not painfully, but softly, like a door quietly unlocking. His grip on your hand tightens. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “For everything. For not being here. For not knowing. For not coming back to you.”
You shake your head, eyes stinging. “You died, Jason. You weren’t supposed to come back.”
“I know. But I did.” His throat bobs as he swallows. “And I want to do this right. I want to be here. I want to know her. I want to…” He trails off, eyes flicking to your lips for the briefest moment before flicking back up, almost panicked at himself. You inhale sharply.
Jason immediately drops his gaze, clearing his throat. “Sorry. Too fast. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” you say gently. “Just… I don’t know.”
He nods, slow, understanding, earnest. And then he surprises you by leaning forward, resting his forehead against yours. Not a kiss. Not quite. Just a grounding, tender press as he breathes you in like he’s been missing oxygen for years. “Thank you,” he whispers. “For giving her life. For giving me a chance.”
Your eyes slip shut. “Jason…”
Your phone vibrates on the coffee table, interrupting the almost—something. You both jolt a little, the intimacy broken in the softest, most natural way. You glance at the caller ID. Your sister. Probably calling to see how today went. When you hang up, you find Jason watching you again, but this time the intensity has softened into something calm. Something steady.
“I should go,” he says quietly, though his tone sounds like he’d stay forever if you asked him to. You nod, even though a part of you wishes he didn’t have to leave. He stands slowly, hesitates for a second, then opens his arms just barely, an invitation, not an assumption.
You step into him without thinking.
His arms wrap around you, strong and warm, pulling you in with a sigh that sounds like relief and heartbreak stitched together. Your cheek rests against his chest, his chin brushing your hair. You can feel his heartbeat. It’s fast. “I’ll come back,” he murmurs into your hair. “Whenever you’ll have me.”
Your fingers curl into his shirt, holding on for one more second. “I’ll text you,” you whisper back.
He pulls away reluctantly, gives you one last look—soft, hopeful, reverent—then slips out into the hallway.
You lock the door behind him, lean your back against it, and let out a shaky breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Across the hall, Lizzie shifts in her sleep, completely unaware that everything in her world has just changed. And downstairs, in the quiet hallway, Jason Todd stands still for a moment, hand braced on the wall, breathing like he’s relearning how.
You didn’t realize that when Jason said whenever you’ll have me, he truly meant it. Every free moment, every gap between patrols or work or sleepless nights, he finds himself at your door. Sometimes with a knock, sometimes with the softest little tap that only Lizzie seems to hear before she goes running.
When Lizzie’s school hosts their annual book fair, he’s there early, coffee in hand, wallet already open, insisting she pick out whatever she wants. She ends up with a stack bigger than her backpack can manage, and he carries every single one with a grin that feels embarrassingly proud.
When she asked him to get her a library card, he immediately folded. She’d been begging for weeks, and you had every intention of taking her, but when your schedule collapses under unexpected overtime, Jason shows up at your door with his helmet under one arm and a determined look on his face.
He walks her through the quiet aisles, lets her wander between the shelves, and holds her coat while the librarian takes her picture for the card. When she signs her name on the back in shaky pencil letters, Jason nearly loses it. He tucks the card into a protective sleeve and tells her very seriously that she is now responsible for her own literary adventures.
It takes barely two months for Lizzie to call him “daddy”.
They’re sitting on the couch together, Jason stretched out with his arm resting along the back while Lizzie sits cross-legged beside him, completely absorbed in the washable markers spread across the coffee table. He’d made the mistake of rolling up his sleeves earlier, which apparently meant every tattoo on his arms had become a colouring page waiting to happen.
She’s quiet as she works, tongue poking out in concentration while she shades in the outline of a rose on his bicep. Jason stays still, even holds his breath sometimes when she gets too close to the edge of the line. You’re watching from the kitchen, trying not to laugh at how seriously both of them are taking it.
Lizzie switches markers, grabs a purple one, and leans forward to add a little star next to the rose. She hums under her breath, content, soft, safe. And then, without looking up, without even a flicker of awareness of what she’s saying, she calls out, “Daddy, can you hold still? You’re messing up the colours.”
Jason freezes.
Every muscle in his body goes still, the world around him narrowing to that one small word hanging in the air. Lizzie doesn’t even notice at first, too focused on filling in a petal. It takes her a few seconds to register the silence, to feel him staring. She looks up, marker cap still clenched between her teeth. Jason’s eyes are wide and wet and disbelieving. He doesn’t breathe.
Lizzie blinks once, twice, her face going pink as realization dawns. But before she can panic, before she can apologize or hide or shrink away, Jason’s voice breaks through in a whisper so soft it hardly seems to belong to him. “It’s okay, baby,” he says, hands trembling just a little. “I told you you could call me whatever you’d like.”
Lizzie’s shoulders relax, and after a small, shy nod, she goes right back to colouring his tattoos, this time leaning just a tiny bit closer to him.
“I’m missing the yellow one…” Lizzie mumbles to herself as she hops off the couch. A second later she’s already scampering down the hallway toward her room, determined to hunt down the runaway marker.
You take the chance to sit beside Jason, the cushion dipping between you. You end up closer than you meant to, close enough that the warmth of his arm grazes yours every time one of you breathes. You don’t pull back. “You’re awfully quiet,” you murmur, amusement threading through your voice.
He huffs out a laugh, low and shaken, dragging a hand through his hair before letting his head fall back against the couch. “She… called me dad.” The words sound like he’s still trying to believe them.
Your chest pulls tight in the softest way. You angle yourself toward him, letting your knee brush his. “Yeah. I heard.” There’s a smile tugging at your lips, gentle but unmistakable. “She’s been tiptoeing toward it for a while, you know. She tells my mom all about you. Draws little pictures of the two of you. Brags about how good you are at reading out loud.”
His brows draw together, but not in confusion. It looks more like wonder. Or disbelief softened into hope.
You slide your hand into his, your thumb tracing slow circles across his palm. “She’s loved you for a long time,” you say quietly. “She just… finally said the word out loud.”
Jason’s breath catches. You watch it happen. That quick flicker in his eyes, that guarded part of him cracking just slightly wider than before. He has fought his way through every insecurity he carries, every doubt that tries to latch onto him like a shadow. But hearing it from you makes something in him settle. He doesn’t say anything right away. He doesn’t need to. His fingers tighten around yours, warm and sure and grateful.
Jason never meant to fall back into this feeling.
He tells himself that a hundred times a day, like it might finally sink in if he repeats it enough. They never officially ended things. There was no argument, no goodbye, no slow drifting apart. Just a coffin. A gravestone. Silence. And then years later a resurrection that didn’t return him to the same life he left, or the same version of himself. Whatever he’d been before — that boy in your polaroids, the one who held your hand on rooftops — he isn’t sure he’s earned the right to be him again.
But being here, in your apartment that hums with warmth and books and the soft chaos of crayons on every surface, it’s like something old and familiar keeps tugging at him. Every time you laugh softly at something your daughter says, every time your hand brushes his by accident, every time you say his name in that voice you used when you loved him… he feels it, sharp and sweet. A bruise touched too gently.
He still loves you. He knows he does. It hits him in quiet ways; when he sees the Pride and Prejudice paperback left open on the arm of the couch, when he watches you adjust Lizzie’s curls with the same tenderness he remembers from late nights in your bedroom, when he hears the faint echo of the way you used to say “Jay” like it was more than a nickname.
But the guilt gets tangled up in it. He died. You mourned him. You built a life from the ashes he left behind, raised a daughter on your own, finished school and worked and grew into someone even stronger than the girl he used to memorize like scripture. He missed all of that. He wasn’t there for the long nights, or the early mornings, or the impossible decisions. You survived without him, and you survived beautifully, and he can’t tell if stepping back into your orbit is selfish or inevitable.
And then there’s Lizzie.
This small, bright miracle with your smile and his eyes, who curls into his side like she’s known him forever and colors yellow stars over the tattoos on his arms. She doesn’t understand the weight he’s carrying. She just sees him. Really sees him. Not the mask, not the past, not the blood on his knuckles, just a man she trusts enough to fall asleep against.
He wants to be exactly what she thinks he is. He wants to be her father without hesitation or fear. And part of him whispers that maybe he could be more than that, that maybe he can have both of you, the life he never knew existed but instantly wanted the second he learned it was real.
But wanting and deserving aren’t the same.
He isn’t sure if you want him in the way he still wants you. He isn’t sure if he’s allowed to think about kissing you again, or tracing the soft curve of your smile, or holding you the way he used to when the world felt too loud. Hell, he isn’t sure if you even see him as anything more than Lizzie’s father now.
Yet every time you look at him, really look at him, he feels that old gravity pull. And he wonders, quietly, painfully, hopefully: Is it possible to fall back in love with someone when you never stopped loving them in the first place?
Bruce always watches. Jason knows it, he feels it like static under the skin every time he steps into the Cave. He keeps patrols efficient, conversations short, never lingering long enough for anyone to corner him. It almost works. Almost.
But tonight, luck runs out.
Patrol ends quietly, Gotham’s humidity sticky and clinging to the inside of the helmet. Jason’s shoulders ache, and he’s already thinking of the fastest route back to his apartment when he lands in the Cave and sees Bruce waiting—not at the computer, not halfway across the room, but ten feet from the landing pad. Arms crossed. Set jaw. Batman, in full form.
Jason’s stomach twists. He tries to walk past him. “Not in the mood, old man.”
Bruce doesn’t move. “Jason.” One word, heavy enough that it halts him mid-stride. “We need to talk.”
Jason huffs a bitter laugh. “Of course we do.” He rips off his helmet, drops it onto the nearest table, refusing to look directly at Bruce. “So what is it? My route? My methods? The fact that I breathe too loudly for your liking?”
There’s a pause. A long one. Too long.
“It’s about Elizabeth.”
Jason freezes.
He doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink. Feels everything in his chest go tight and sharp at once.
For a second, he almost forgets how to speak. “Not your business,” he mutters finally, moving toward the bikes as if he can outrun the conversation.
Bruce follows. “It is. Whether you want it to be or not. We just… we want to know how you’re doing.”
Jason spins, eyes blazing. “Don’t pretend this is concern. You didn’t even—” He cuts himself off, jaw locking. The anger is too big, too complicated. He doesn’t know where to put it.
Bruce’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s something gentler in his eyes now. “Jason. You’ve been different the past few days. Withdrawn. Distracted on patrol. You’re not sleeping. And every time someone mentions her, you shut down.”
“That’s none of your damn business,” Jason growls.
“It is when it affects your safety,” Bruce answers quietly. “And hers.”
Jason opens his mouth, ready to spit something cruel, but footsteps echo from the stairs and Dick appears, sweaty, exhausted, and carrying the look of a man who’s been listening for longer than he’ll admit.
“Jay,” he says softly, stepping between them. “Don’t do the whole lone wolf routine. Not with this.”
Jason tenses. “I’m not doing a routine. I’m just trying to figure things out.”
Dick gives a humorless little smile. “And how’s that going?”
Jason doesn’t respond.
Tim enters next, tablet in hand, eyes flicking between all three like he’s walked into an active crime scene. “Is this about Lizzie?” he asks before anyone can stop him.
Jason shoots him a look sharp enough to cut. Tim winces. “Okay. I’m… assuming yes.”
Then Damian wanders in behind him, towel around his neck, scowl deep and unforgiving. “If you all insist on having loud emotional crises, perhaps choose a location that isn’t echo-optimized.”
Jason groans. “Great. Fuckin’ family reunion in here.”
Dick crosses his arms and leans against the railing. “We care, Jason. Start dealing with it.”
But Jason isn’t ready. His chest feels too tight, throat too raw. He leans back against the metal of the bike rack, head dropping for a moment as he tries to breathe through the sudden heaviness.
Bruce takes a step closer, slower this time, voice lowering. “Jason. I only want to understand what you’re carrying.”
Jason laughs, but it breaks halfway out. “What I’m carrying? Try everything.” He pushes a hand through his hair, frustrated and overwhelmed. “I died. I came back. I tried to pick up the pieces, but they weren’t even the same pieces anymore. And now…” He swallows, eyes unfocusing for a moment. “Now there’s this kid. My kid. And she’s perfect. And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that.”
No one interrupts.
Jason exhales shakily. “Every time she looks at me, something in me just… stops. I didn’t know I could feel that again. But it’s been years. Years, Bruce.” His voice softens, almost cracks. He’s not talking about Lizzie anymore. “I don’t even know who I am to her yet.”
Tim chews the inside of his cheek, hesitant but thoughtful. “You don’t have to have everything mapped out. Kids don’t need you to be perfect. They just need you to show up.”
Damian crosses his arms, chin high. “Todd has been showing up. Quite consistently. The child clearly adores him. His location is always at their home.”
Jason stares at him. “That’s your metric for good parenting?”
“It is a valid data point,” Damian replies flatly.
Dick snorts. “Somehow, that might be the most heartfelt thing you’ve ever said.”
Damian scowls. “Do not interpret my words as sentiment.”
Jason shakes his head and lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh. For a moment, the tension loosens. But Bruce isn’t done.
“There’s something else,” he says quietly. “You’ve been holding back. Something you haven’t said.”
Jason stiffens. “No.”
Dick steps forward. “Jay.”
Jason glares. “Don’t.”
Dick’s voice softens in a way that disarms Jason’s defenses too quickly for comfort. “You’re still in love with her.”
The words echo through the cave. Tim looks down at his tablet, suddenly very invested in pretending it doesn’t exist. Damian’s eyebrows shoot up. Bruce remains still, watching everything.
Jason freezes, every muscle locking tight. Something like panic flickers behind his eyes before he snaps, “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to,” Dick replies, gentle but firm. “We knew.”
Jason looks away sharply. “It’s been years. Things are different.”
“But your feelings aren’t.”
Jason clenches his jaw, the truth sitting too close to the surface. “I don’t know what I feel. I don’t know if it’s love or guilt or nostalgia or some twisted memory of what we used to be.” His voice drops. “I don’t know if she wants me there, or if I’m just forcing my way into a life she already built without me.”
Bruce finally speaks again, patient and steady. “You’re not forcing anything. She invited you in.”
Jason swallows hard.
Dick steps closer, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Jay… she let you into her home. She trusted you with Lizzie. She looks at you like she’s been holding her breath for six years.”
Jason presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, overwhelmed. “I don’t want to ruin anything. Not her life. Not Lizzie’s. I don’t want to be one more unstable thing they have to adjust to.”
Tim finally looks up. “You being in her life isn’t instability. It’s healing.”
Damian nods, though begrudgingly. “The child thrives with you around. She is happier. That is an objective fact.”
Jason breathes in slowly, then out. Something shifts in his face—fear, longing, hope, all tangled together.
Bruce places a gloved hand on his shoulder, grounding and firm. “Whatever you choose, you won’t face it alone.”
Jason looks around at them, his family, broken and messy and loud and intrusive, but still family. The people who found out he had a daughter and didn’t hesitate for a moment before standing beside him. The people who, despite everything, never let him collapse without catching him first.
His voice is quiet when he finally speaks. “I… care about her. Both of them. More than I know what to do with.”
Dick smiles softly. “Then start there.”
Jason breathes out, tension slowly unknotting from his shoulders. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah. Maybe I can.”
Lizzie falls asleep early. She curls up on the couch beside Jason with a book still half open on her lap, her cheek pressed against his arm, her breathing soft and even. You scoop her up gently and take her to bed, pausing at the doorway to look back at him with an expression he cannot name. Then you disappear down the hall.
Now the apartment is quiet. The record player hums somewhere in the background, something low and warm, a song that does not demand attention. Jason sits on the couch alone for a long moment, his hands open and useless on his knees, his mind louder than the room.
You return with two mugs of tea, setting one on the table near him and keeping your own cupped between your palms. You sit at the far end of the couch first, as if giving him space, but his silence draws you closer, inch by inch, until you are only a breath away.
Jason can feel your presence like heat along his skin. He stares ahead for a while, jaw tight, trying to pick the right words out of the mess inside him. None arrive. Only the pounding in his chest. Only the knowledge that something has to be said or it will tear him open.
You shift slightly. Your voice is soft when you speak, as though afraid of breaking whatever delicate thing hangs between you. “You’re quiet tonight.”
He lets out a faint laugh. It sounds nothing like a laugh. “Yeah. I know.”
“Is it about Lizzie?”
His head drops. “Partly.”
You wait, patient the way you always are with him.
Jason runs a hand over his face, grounding himself. “She is everything I ever wanted and everything I am terrified of at the same time. I look at her and I feel like there is nothing in the world I wouldn’t do for her. Nothing I wouldn’t give. And that scares the hell out of me. Because I missed so much. Because I didn’t get to protect either of you when I should have.” His throat tightens. “And because I want to make up for all of it, but I don’t know how.”
You set your mug down slowly. “Jason… you’re doing more than you think. She loves you. She feels safe with you. That’s not something you can fake.”
“I know. I know.” His eyes squeeze shut, followed by a slow exhale that trembles at the end. “But that’s not everything on my mind.”
Your hand comes to rest on his. “Then tell me.”
He turns toward you, finally meeting your eyes. The exhaustion is there, but so is something fierce and frightened and hopeful.
“I never stopped loving you.” The words fall out quietly but heavily, like something that has been waiting years to finally escape. “Not once.”
Your breath catches. He sees it. He feels your fingers tense just a little against his.
Jason looks away, unable to withstand the weight of your gaze. “I know it’s complicated. I know life didn’t pause when I died. I know you had to keep going. I know you had to survive and raise our daughter and make a life without me. I would never blame you for any of that. I just… I come back and I still feel the same. And it confuses the shit out of me because I’m not supposed to. Because I keep thinking maybe it’s nostalgia or grief or the pit messing with my head. But then I see you again and it all comes back exactly the same as it was before and stronger than I know what to do with.”
You say nothing, your expression unreadable.
He drags a shaky hand through his hair. “Sometimes I think it’s wrong for me to feel like this. Like I’m asking too much. Like I shouldn’t want anything more than being a dad. And I would never push for anything you don’t want. I swear. You and Lizzie, you’re both the most important people in my life now. I don’t want to ruin anything. I don’t want to make things harder for you. I just… I need you to know. Because I feel like I’m bursting at the seams with it.”
Silence fills the room again, not uncomfortable but heavy with meaning.
You shift, folding one leg under yourself, turning your whole body toward him. “Jason.” His name comes out softer than he’s ever heard it from you. “Look at me.”
He does. Slowly. Carefully.
Your eyes glisten faintly, though you’re not crying. “You didn’t ask too much. You didn’t cross a line. You didn’t ruin anything. I think…” You swallow. “I think I’ve been afraid to admit how much of me is still tangled up in you. And losing you broke something I didn’t think would ever come back. Then I found out I was pregnant and it felt like the world flipped upside down again. I had to grow up overnight. I had to make choices I never thought I’d make at sixteen. And I tried so hard to bury the feelings I still had for you because loving someone who was gone hurt too much. But seeing you again brings all of it back. Every moment. Every memory.”
Jason’s breath goes shallow.
You reach up, brushing your fingers against his cheek with painful gentleness. “I never stopped loving you either. But I didn’t think I was allowed to anymore. And now you’re here and we’re older and life has changed in a thousand ways. And I’m scared too.”
He freezes at your touch, unsure if he’s imagining the warmth of your hand.
“Scared of what?” he whispers.
“Scared that loving you again means losing you again.”
Jason’s heart splits in two at the quiet truth in your voice. He covers your hand with his own, holding it to his cheek. “I’m not going anywhere this time.” His voice trembles. “If you let me stay.”
You lean forward enough that your foreheads nearly touch. “I’m not ready to jump into something blindly. Not with everything that’s happened. Not with Lizzie in the picture. She comes first.”
“I know,” he says. “And she should. Everything I want now revolves around her anyway.”
“But…” You pause, searching his eyes. “I’m not shutting the door.”
Jason feels something inside him crumble and rebuild itself all at once. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you whisper. “But we take this slow. For her. For us.”
He nods, relief flooding through him so intensely he has to close his eyes for a moment. “Slow is fine. Slow is good.”
When he opens them again, you’re still there, still close, still holding his face in your hands.
You don’t know who moves first.
One second you’re both sitting there, the quiet of the living room wrapped around you like a held breath, and the next Jason’s cupping your face gently but firmly, as if he’s finally stopped running from the gravity pulling him in your direction. His lips meet yours in a kiss that’s soft at first. Careful. Testing. Like he’s afraid you might disappear if he presses too hard.
But you kiss him back.
That’s all it takes.
His breath catches like he’s been punched, his hand sliding along your jaw, the other finding the small of your back and pulling you closer without hesitation. The second kiss is deeper, warmer, as if years of wanting and wondering finally crack open inside him. Your fingers curl into the collar of his shirt before you even think about it. Jason makes a low sound in his throat at the contact, something almost relieved, and the world tilts when he tugs you gently onto his lap.
You settle there, legs bracketing his hips, your chest pressed to his, his hands holding you like he’s memorizing every inch he lost. His heartbeat is fast against your own, matching, rising, syncing. His mouth trails from your lips to your cheek, then back again, messier this time, hungrier. You kiss him like it’s breathing, like falling back into a dream you used to live in.
When he pulls back for air, barely an inch, his forehead rests against yours. His voice is low, rough in a way that shoots warmth down your spine. “Been wanting this for so goddamn long,” he murmurs, hands squeezing at your waist before slipping up your back. “Didn’t know if I’d ever…”
His words fade because you’re kissing him again, slow and certain. He answers immediately, mouth molding to yours like he remembers every piece of you and has been waiting to relearn the rest. Your fingers slide into his hair, tugging lightly. He inhales sharply, his grip tightening around your hips as he pulls you closer still. The warmth between you builds, the room suddenly feeling too small to hold everything he’s giving you, everything that’s been pressed down for years.
You break away just long enough to breathe, and he leans in again like he can’t help himself, kissing along your jaw and down your neck, lips brushing your skin in soft, lingering presses that make your breath stutter. “Jason,” you whisper, and the way he reacts — like the sound of his name in your voice is something holy — makes your whole body go warm.
He holds you tighter, almost lifting you instinctively with the motion. When you meet his eyes again, they’re darker now, but still so heartbreakingly soft. “Come here,” he murmurs.
He stands easily, hands keeping you close, one arm beneath your thighs and the other around your back as he lifts you off his lap in one smooth, practiced motion. You gasp softly, arms circling his shoulders. Your nose brushes his cheek as he carries you, and you feel the quiet laugh he lets out against your temple, warm and breathless.
The lights in the hallway are dim as he walks, his fingers spreading against your hip like he’s anchoring himself. You press a kiss to the corner of his jaw and Jason stops walking for half a second, eyes closing, breath shuddering through him.
“Keep doing that,” he murmurs, and you swear his voice alone could pull you under.
You kiss him again, just beneath his ear, and he exhales sharply, adjusting you in his arms before nudging open your bedroom door with his foot.
He steps inside slowly, carefully, as though this moment deserves reverence, as though crossing into this room changes something permanent between you.
Maybe it does.
He sets you onto the bed with a tenderness that steals your breath, his hands lingering at your waist as he leans down to kiss you again, deeper this time, the kind of kiss that makes you grip at the front of his shirt just to keep yourself steady. Jason smiles against your lips, just barely, a soft curve you can feel more than see. Then he kisses you again and again, like he’s making up for every year you both lost, every moment he never thought he would get back.
His kisses trail from your lips, soft and unhurried, mapping the line of your jaw, the curve of your neck. Each press of his mouth feels like a promise, warm and insistent, drawing a quiet sigh from deep in your chest. Jason's hands slide up your sides, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt, pausing there as if asking permission. You nod against him, your own hands tugging at his shirt in response, needing to feel his warm skin under your palms.
He pulls back just enough to lift your shirt over your head, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your heart stutter. The fabric whispers away, and then his shirt follows, discarded to the floor. His chest is broader now, marked by scars you haven't fully explored yet, but tonight isn't about questions. It's about reconnection, about the heat building between you like a fire long tamed but never extinguished.
Jason's gaze drops to your bra, and he reaches behind you with careful fingers, unhooking it. The straps slip down your shoulders, and he helps ease it off, his breath catching as your breasts are bared to him. “Fuck, you're beautiful,” he whispers, voice rough with emotion. His hands cup you gently, thumbs circling your nipples until they harden under his touch. You arch into him, a soft moan escaping as he leans down to take one peak into his mouth.
His tongue flicks over the sensitive bud, warm and wet, sucking lightly before switching to the other side. The sensation sends sparks through your body, pooling low in your belly. You thread your fingers through his hair, holding him close, reveling in the way he worships you, like you're something sacred he's been denied for too long. He murmurs against your skin, words lost in the haze, but the vibration hums through you, making your thighs press together instinctively.
Slowly, he kisses his way down your sternum, over the soft plane of your stomach, his hands working at the button of your jeans. You lift your hips to help him slide them off, along with your panties, leaving you exposed on the bed. Jason pauses, kneeling between your legs, his eyes drinking you in. The reverence in his stare makes you flush, but there's no shyness here, only trust built over years and now renewed.
He parts your thighs with gentle hands, settling between them. His breath ghosts over your folds, warm and teasing, before he leans in. The first touch of his tongue is feather-light, tracing the length of your slit from bottom to top. You gasp, hips twitching upward, and he steadies you with a palm on your abdomen. “I've got you, sweetheart,” he says softly, voice muffled against you as he licks again, slower this time, savoring.
Jason's mouth moves with deliberate care, his tongue circling your clit in careful spirals that build pressure steadily. He sucks gently, drawing the nub between his lips, and your fingers tighten in his hair. Pleasure coils tight inside you, waves of it radiating from where his mouth works you over. He slides one finger along your entrance, pressing in just enough to feel your wetness coat him, then deeper, curling to stroke that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids.
You quietly moan his name, the sound soft and needy, and he responds by adding a second finger, thrusting them in a rhythm that matches the flicks of his tongue. His free hand grips your thigh, holding you open as he devours you, lapping at your pussy like he's starving for the taste. The tenderness in his actions — the way he watches your reactions, adjusting his pace to what makes you tremble — makes it all the more intense. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, not from pain but from the overwhelming flood of pleasure mixed with emotion, the joy of having him here, alive and loving you this way.
Your body tenses, the edge approaching fast under his skilled attention. Jason senses it, humming against your clit, the vibration pushing you closer. “Let go for me,” he breathes, words hot against your skin. “Please.” His fingers pump steadily, tongue pressing flat and firm, and you shatter. The orgasm crashes over you, your walls clenching around his fingers as you try your best not to cry out, hips bucking against his mouth. He doesn't stop, licking you through it softly, prolonging the bliss until you're boneless, panting on the sheets.
He rises then, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes dark with desire but softened by affection. You reach for him, pulling him down for a kiss, tasting yourself on his lips. It's salty and intimate, and you deepen it, hands roaming over his back, feeling the muscles shift under your touch. Jason groans into your mouth, his erection pressing hard against your thigh through his pants.
“Too much clothes,” you murmur against him, fumbling with his belt. He chuckles, low and warm, helping you undo it. His jeans and boxers slide down, freeing his cock, thick and heavy, tip already glistening with pre-cum. You wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly, feeling him throb in your grip. Jason hisses, head dropping to your shoulder, but he stills your hand gently. “Not now… wanna be inside you.”
He positions himself between your legs again, but this time it's different. His demeanour’s much more nervous, yet still laced with that careful reverence. The head of his cock nudges at your entrance, slick from your release, and he pushes in slowly, inch by inch. You both gasp at the stretch, the fullness of him filling you after so long apart. He's hot and hard, pulsing inside you, and you wrap your legs around his waist, urging him deeper.
Jason bottoms out with a shuddering breath, stilling to let you adjust. His forehead rests against yours, eyes squeezed shut as if committing this to memory. “I love you,” he whispers, voice breaking slightly. “So much.” You cup his face, kissing him softly. “I love you too. Move, Jay. Please.”
He does, pulling back almost all the way before sliding in again, deep and measured. Each thrust is tender, his hips rolling to hit just the right angle, grinding against your clit with every push. You meet him halfway, bodies syncing in a rhythm that's both familiar and new, like coming home after a long journey. His hands brace on either side of you, but one slips down to lace fingers with yours, squeezing as he moves.
The pace builds gradually, his breaths coming faster, mingling with faint moans. Sweat beads on his skin, and you trace the lines of his scars with your free hand, grounding yourself in his reality. He's here, solid and warm, fucking you with a sweetness that borders on worship. Pleasure rebuilds inside you, coiling tighter with each slide of his cock along your walls, the friction sparking heat everywhere he touches.
Jason shifts, angling his hips to go deeper, and you cry out, nails digging into his back. He kisses your neck, your collarbone, murmuring praises between thrusts, how good you feel, how perfect, how he's never letting go again. The words weave through the haze of sensation, pushing you toward the brink once more. Your pussy flutters around him, and he groans, pace faltering just a bit as he fights to hold on.
“Come with me,” you whisper, clinging to him. He nods, burying his face in your hair, thrusts turning erratic but still gentle, chasing that peak together. The tension snaps, your orgasm ripping through you, walls clamping down on his cock. Jason follows seconds later, a soft whimper escaping as he spills inside you, hot pulses filling you up. He rocks through it, drawing out your pleasure until you're both spent, trembling in each other's arms.
He doesn't pull out right away, staying buried deep as your heartbeats slow. His weight is a comforting press, and you stroke his back, feeling the rise and fall of his breaths. Eventually, he eases out, a soft wet sound accompanying the loss, and rolls to the side, pulling you against his chest. You nestle there, leg draped over his, the stickiness between your thighs a reminder of what you've shared.
Jason presses a kiss to your forehead, then your temple, his hand tracing lazy patterns on your hip. “Fuck, that— that was... everything,” he says quietly, voice thick with unshed tears. You tilt your head up, meeting his gaze, eyes shiny, but smiling.
He lingers inside you for a moment longer, his body a warm, solid weight that grounds you both in the afterglow. When he finally eases out, the slow drag of his softening cock leaves you feeling empty, a trickle of his cum seeping from your pussy onto the sheets. He notices immediately, his eyes flicking down with a mix of concern and affection. “Let me take care of you,” he says softly, voice husky from exertion. Before you can protest, he's shifting off the bed, his naked form moving without the invisible weight he usually holds.
He disappears into the adjoining bathroom, the sound of running water filtering through the door. You lie there, catching your breath, your body humming with satisfaction. The room smells of sex, thick and intimate, your thighs are sticky, a reminder of how thoroughly he claimed you. Jason returns with a warm, damp cloth in hand, kneeling beside the bed. His touch is feather-light as he parts your legs again, wiping away the evidence of your joining with careful strokes. The cloth glides over your sensitive folds, soothing the slight ache, and you sigh at the gentleness, your hand reaching out to trace his arm.
“You’re too good to me,” you murmur, watching as he cleans every trace, his focus unwavering. He looks up, a small smile tugging at his lips, but there's a vulnerability in his eyes, like he's still convincing himself this is real. “I want to be. After everything... I need to.” He discards the cloth and leans in to press a kiss to your inner thigh, then higher, just above where he tended you. The gesture is chaste now, but it sends a shiver through you anyway.
Satisfied, he stands and offers his hand. “Clean up with me?” His tone is tentative, as if he's half-expecting you to say no, but you take his hand without hesitation, letting him pull you up. Your legs wobble slightly, muscles lax from pleasure, and he steadies you with an arm around your waist, chuckling softly. “Easy, sweetheart. I've got you.”
The bathroom light is soft, casting a golden hue over the tiles as he leads you inside. Steam already fogs the mirror from the running water, and he adjusts the temperature with practiced ease before guiding you under the spray. The hot water cascades over your skin, rinsing away the sweat and remnants of your lovemaking. Jason steps in behind you, his chest pressing to your back, arms encircling your waist. You lean into him, tilting your head back against his shoulder as the water soothes your flushed body.
He reaches for the body wash, squirting some into his palm before lathering it between his hands. His fingers start at your shoulders, massaging the suds into your skin with firm but gentle pressure, working out the tension you didn't even realize was there. You close your eyes, humming in contentment as his hands glide down your arms, then back up to your neck, thumbs circling the base of your skull. It's intimate, this care, more than just washing; it's him relearning every curve, every inch he's missed.
“Turn around,” he whispers, and you do, facing him under the stream. Water beads on his lashes, darkening his hair as it plasters to his forehead. His scars glisten, faint lines across his torso that tell stories you ache to hear, but not now. Not when his hands are on you, soaping your breasts, palms cupping them with reverence. He doesn't linger erotically this time; instead, he washes you like a cherished possession, fingers tracing the undersides before moving to your stomach.
You take the bottle from him, returning the favor. Your hands spread the foam over his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath your palm. He inhales sharply as you skim over his nipples, but it's not arousal — it's the simple joy of touch, of being seen and tended to. You move lower, washing his abdomen, the V of his hips, careful around his cock, which hangs soft and spent between his legs. He watches you, breath steady, one hand on your hip to keep you close.
The water rinses you both clean, and for a while, you just stand there, foreheads touching, letting the spray envelop you. Jason's fingers comb through your wet hair, untangling it gently, and you rise on your toes to kiss him, a slow, lazy press of lips that speaks of comfort more than passion. “Could stay like this forever,” he says against your mouth, voice barely audible over the water.
Eventually, he shuts off the faucet, the sudden quiet amplifying the drip of water from your bodies. He grabs a towel, wrapping it around you first, rubbing your arms and back until you're dry enough. Then he dries himself quickly, ever the protector, before leading you back to the bedroom. The sheets are cool now, and he pulls back the covers, urging you into bed. You slide under, the fabric soft against your clean skin, and he follows, molding his body to yours from behind.
The room’s silent in the way that only comes after everything is said and everything is felt. The soft glow of the bedside lamp paints your skin in warm gold, and Jason lies half-beneath you, one arm tucked around your waist, the other sprawled above his head as his breathing finally slows again. His heartbeat is still a little fast under your cheek, steadying slowly, like he’s relearning what calm feels like.
Neither of you speak at first. It’s the comfortable kind of silence, thick and full but not heavy.Then Jason turns his head, lips brushing your hair as he murmurs, “I… have to ask you something.”
You lift your head a little, resting your chin on his chest. He looks almost shy. Jason Todd. Shy. It still makes something warm bloom inside you. “What’s up?” you whisper.
He swallows, eyes flicking away for a second before finding yours again. “Do you… do you think we could ever be, like, a real family?”
Your breath catches, the question sinking straight through you. Not because it surprises you, but because it feels like something you’ve secretly wanted him to ask. Something you’ve been holding under your tongue for weeks, maybe longer. Jason’s thumb brushes your hip, slow and worried, as if he’s bracing himself for disappointment.
“I mean,” he continues, voice low, “I know everything’s messy. And I know I came back with… a lot of shit. I know it’s been years and I missed everything and I’m still trying to figure out who the hell I’m supposed to be. But when I look at you and Lizzie…” His voice cracks just barely. “It feels like something I don’t want to lose. Not again. Not ever.”
Your chest tightens, emotion rising so fast it almost steals your breath. You lift a hand, cupping his face gently, brushing your thumb across the faint stubble on his jaw. “I can see it,” you say softly. “I think so, eventually.”
His eyes widen, something bright and relieved flickering in them. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you whisper. “You’re already a part of her life. And mine. You fit here. With us. I think you always have.”
He pulls in a shaky breath, like the words are physically settling inside him. Like he’s letting himself believe it for the first time.
“And if you want that,” you add quietly, “then yes. I see a future with you. I want it.”
Jason closes his eyes for a moment, jaw tightening with the kind of emotion he never lets anyone see. When he opens them, he pulls you closer, tucking you against his chest with a tenderness that borders on reverent.
“Thank you,” he murmurs into your hair. “God, thank you.”
You smile against his skin, your arm curling over his stomach as your legs tangle with his under the blankets. His hand finds yours, fingers intertwining without hesitation.
He presses a slow kiss to the top of your head, then another to your temple, softer this time. You shift slightly, settling fully onto him, your weight warm and grounding.
“Get some sleep,” he whispers. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Your eyes drift shut, your breathing syncing with his. Jason rubs slow circles into your back, and his voice is the last thing you hear before sleep pulls you under.
“I love you. Both of you.”
You don’t need to answer out loud. Your fingers tighten around his, and he understands.
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