You’re An Angel, I’m a Dog
“You’re not dirty,” Samira spoke, finally. “You’re just… devoted.”
samira mohan x andrew “pope” cody (popemira)
collab with @gordisbilly / @BillyNoHouse on twitter: click here to see their art!
18+, explicit smut | 3.4k words | animal kingdom x the pitt | tags: no beta we did like mrs. abbot, Body Worship, Unprotected Sex, Characters Whimpering, Dacryphilia, Crying During Sex, Blood and Injury, Bloody Kisses, Blood Kink, Switching, Biting Kink, Pope Worships Samira, Begging, Self-Degradation, Touch-Starved Andrew "Pope" Cody, i don't really write smut be gentle with me please, Porn with Feelings, Some Plot, pope genuinely sees her as a goddess, Murder Kink, Murder, Guard Dog Pope Cody, Title from I'm Your Man (Mitski)
⤹ full fic below. likes, comments, kudos, rbs appreciated! ⤵︎
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Samira knew he’d gotten out before she ever even parked her car.
Slowly, she’d pulled up the gravel drive and onto the cement pad. Today, each and every pebble seemed to crunch extra loudly beneath the tires on the trip up the driveway, and the golden hour sunshine found every possible space between overhead branches and leaves to slip through. When she stepped out of the car (it had gotten dusty since she’d had it cleaned two days ago, she noted) there was nothing to be seen, save for the family of ducklings swimming in a perfect line around their pond. There was nothing to be heard except for their occasional quacks, the breaking of a twig from a group of bunnies that loved to raid the garden, and birds trilling and whistling their song to the gradually setting sun.
Nobody was waiting for Samira. He had gotten out.
There wasn’t a speck of dust to be seen. As usual on these rare occasions, her slippers were right by the door since he wouldn’t be there to tend to her. She shed her scrubs in the basket next to them and began towards the master bedroom clad in a sports bra and panties, pausing at the lip of the hallway and waiting two full minutes with one long glance either way as if he’d materialize out of thin air. When nothing happened she took a deep breath, paused and remembered for herself what the expanding and shrinking of her own lungs was like, and proceeded to the master bath.
Outside the shower on a specially made post hung her favorite tee shirt to sleep in, a folded pair of shorts, and a bath robe she didn’t dare discover the price of. The juxtaposition of the robe to her usual sleep outfit- he would always give her a life of luxury, but never at the cost of changing what she already liked- was laughable.
A wind chime sounded in the breeze and the curtains on every kitchen window billowed in the light wind. Samira enjoyed the silence over a plate of last night’s leftovers and television, then dumped her dish into the dishwasher and retired to her bedroom by 10pm. She left the windows open for the sake of the cross-breeze, but locked the doors. He’d find his way in.
After a long day at the hospital and the forty-five minute drive each way, no sight was as glorious as the perfectly folded and fluffed master bed. She collapsed into it stomach down and savored the marshmallow squish of the comforter, and Samira was on the verge of falling asleep in a mere 10 minutes. She blinked, turning onto her side instead of her stomach in her dreamlike state. A smile spread across her lips at the sight of a large man silhouetted by moonlight, standing as still as stone.
It didn’t matter that she couldn’t see his face: Samira knew exactly who it was staring down at her, and reached out a hand.
“I’m dirty,” He whispered, voice gruff. His shirt was littered with patches of inklike black; she’d learned to love just how beautiful blood looked in darkness.
Samira shushed him and waved her hand, beckoning him in. He stepped forward once, twice, three times until his knees were at the edge of the bed. Neither of them spoke. In the moon’s bright light, she glowed. She always glowed, he thought.
The man sank to his knees; in return, Samira pulled herself up and sat in front of him, covering her mouth as she yawned. She whispered, “Where’d you go today?”, and brought her hand up to run through his hair. He flinched away.
“I’m dirty.”
It was clear that he wasn’t budging. With a sigh, Samira reached over and pulled the chain of the nightstand’s lamp.
The lamp illuminated the room and Andrew retracted from her as if hit. Cowering as if hit and pushing himself away to avoid any contact with her, he fixed his eyes on the floor beneath her feet. “She’s dead.”
“Dead?” Samira’s calm expression fell. “Dead? Andrew, who- are you talking about the fawn?”
“He hit her! I was walkin’ around the pond and I heard it. He was getting ready to drive off when I got out to the road, just dragged her off like she,” Andrew’s voice cut off as he grew too choked up to speak. Their property had come to host its share of wildlife families, and Samira had no qualms admitting over the last month that her favorite was a fawn. She adored the videos on the security cameras of her toddling behind her parents, legs longer than she knew what to do with, joining the rest of the wildlife and partaking in the garden that was, at this point, more for them than Andrew or Samira.
There was silence again as Samira debated how to respond. Of course, she was upset about the fawn, but that’s just how things worked around here. It saddened her, though not to the point of tears quite like Andrew was at.
“He killed your favorite animal,” Andrew was wrecked, looking up to meet her eyes, his frezkled cheeks growing red and splotchy past the blood in which they were covered. “He didn’t even apologize to you!”
Andrew watched Samira stay quiet, watching her eyes scan up and down his kneeling figure. She was always so thoughtful, so concerned. He often lamented that he’d never know what it was like to be as smart as her because if he did, maybe he could be better for her. Every day he spent with Samira, he figured more and more that it must be a lonely endeavor, being the most intelligent person on Earth. She never said a wrong word, or did a wrong thing, or mean thing, and she spent every day of her life saving other people’s lives even when they were rude to her and then came home to the shell of a man that he’d been born as.
He wished she wasn’t so lonely up there, and was disgusted with himself for being so far on the opposite end of the spectrum that he could never provide her any comfort.
“He didn’t apologize to me?”
“Well, I- I made him, but originally,” Andrew stopped, running a hand over his face. At the sight of the blood further smearing, she licked her lips. “I have the video. I took a video. I made him say sorry to you, obviously, because- because it’s not right, it’s not right that he killed,” His voice broke. He tried again, though she was trying to shush him now, “He killed her, and didn’t even say sorry to you-”
“Andrew,” His jaw snapped shut when her voice raised suddenly, sharply. It was a rare occasion to ever hear her like this. “Would you come here?!”
Andrew set the phone down from where he’d been fishing it out of his pocket. He swallowed the lump in his throat and obeyed her command, shuffling back in front of where she sat and gazing up at her with wide, teary eyes.
“I don’t like seeing you so upset, Andrew. You know that,” he cursed himself for the frown on her face. Upon reflection, he decided he should’ve bled the man to death; should’ve taken a vegetable peeler to his skin and hung him upside down and peeled layer after layer after layer. Slitting his throat had been far too kind. Now he was covered in blood and infecting Samira’s house, and Samira was frowning, and he was upset and Samira hated when he was upset and, damnit, didn’t the man know? Didn’t he know this was Samira Mohan? Didn’t he know she saved lives, and made kids laugh, and always donated at checkouts when they asked about rounding up for charity and actually added an extra dollar or five, and scolded Andrew when he tried putting a fence around his garden because the animals deserved it more?
“Andrew,” He reeled himself back in, and his bottom lip trembled. Humanity had done a disservice in its existence. Each human was rotten to the core and entirely undeserving of Samira’s world.
“C’mere,” Samira finally succeeded in guiding her fingers through his hair. His head threatened to lower in shame as he felt the blood transfer onto her skin, but she tugged enough to keep his eyes on hers. She continued to lead him towards her, then upwards, and back, all very slowly and gently until he finally took her in his arms and took over.
Andrew laid Samira down right in the middle of the bed. She forced his bloodied shirt off and set it by her hip, inches away from his knee. A streak of doglike devotion flared through him when he took in how much blood had transferred onto her from all this: even when she removed her shirt, blood was smeared on her waist from where he’d held her, and her hands and wrist were painted from her handling of their shirts. Even so, it was nothing compared to the man above her.
“You’re not dirty,” Samira spoke, finally. “You’re just… devoted. Besides, it’s been a while. It’s good for you to get out, remember?”
Andrew nodded.
“I told you it was good for you. And I’m a doctor, Andrew- You trust me, right?”
“I trust you,” He echoed without hesitation, the very idea of anything else purely preposterous. Andrew’s voice was more of a whispered croak as he went on. “The bed’s gonna get dirty. Blood’s hard to get out.”
“You can take care of it while I’m at work tomorrow, can’t you? Get some new bedding, and maybe we can have a bonfire when I get back?” He nodded.
As all this was happening, a fire had been stoking itself inside of Samira. Ever since she’d pulled into the house and he’d been away, it had sparked. Now, with him on top of her, covered in the blood of a man that dared to disrupt any part of Samira’s life, it turned into a roaring blaze; how did this man not know anything besides defending Samira? Loving her? At times, the worship irritated her but here, when she was feeling like this and there were tears mixing with blood and dirt on his cheekbones and she had to remind him how to be human again instead of a guard dog, it served them both quite well.
Samira tugged him down towards her face. His eyes didn’t close, instead widening as he tried to shift away from her entirely and keep her unbloodied. With a significantly firmer yank she put him back on his path and connected their lips right as he whimpered; whether it was from the pain that came with her pulling on his curls, or the fact a good half of her face was now covered in blood, she didn’t care.
“Samira, I,” She huffed over his stammering, irritated, forcing him back into the kiss whenever he tried to pull away out of shame and actually biting his lip out of exasperation, “I don’t wanna get you dirty- shit, would’ya quit bitin?!”
His frustration was feigned (she could stab him with a white-hot poker and he’d beg her to do it again, if that was what she wanted) and disappeared altogether when she giggled against his muffled protest. At the same time he felt her hand fumbling at his waistband.
“Off,” She sighed. He obeyed. Boxers, too, after she snapped the waistband when they were left behind. Samira refused to let him stop kissing her (unless he took a break to nibble her neck, or lap at any skin left unbloodied) and moaned into his sobbing as soon as she could start tasting his tears.
“Down?” Samira said. She knew the answer, because it wasn’t a question; this man existed, in his own words, for her. To defend, protect, provide, die, love, entertain, please, her. All for her. Always for her. He took his time descending her torso, kissing her collarbones and sobbing into her bare chest between kisses. Andrew wanted to linger, could stay there forever, suckling and weeping into the breasts of creation, the breasts of the human for whom the entire universe had been crafted for- but she had ordered him down. Downwards he continued until pubic hair tickled his chin, not wasting a second before burying his nose into her and taking the first deep breath he’d been able to catch amidst his tears.
“God, Andrew!” She cried out. It was a welcome departure from what she’d spent most of the last several minutes telling him: “stop apologizing”, and, “you don’t need to thank me”. Her hands, hips, torso, breasts, face, were all sullied with dirty maroon.
If he wasn’t already in such a state, Andrew would have started bawling right around here. Her eyes screwed shut as she sighed and whined and called his name and “yeah”s and “there” and “Oh my God”s and varying profanities. Her legs clenched so hard around him that, even when he used his brutish strength to separate her thighs from their death grip around his head, neck, and face (not because he disliked it, God, he’d love to suffocate here by any means possible, but because she liked the game) and force her down into the bed with legs much further spread, she would still manage to squirm her way out of his grip and start the process over again. Sometimes, she even kicked her way back to mildly asphyxiating her boyfriend, banging against his chest and shoulders and, on one occasion, even catching his nose with enough force that it started bleeding.
God, she was magnificent.
Andrew wished he could stop crying. Catch a sight of her as he dove into her with tongue, and nose, and lips and breath and fingers, that was unobscured by his tears, by his own shortcomings. He could smell her body wash mixing with the scent of her sweat and cum and a faint hint of laundry detergent from her panties. Whenever she thrust particularly hard, up and against him, his whispered his thanks, to her and whatever had been divine enough to create her, if there was anything higher than her that was even capable of such a task.
“God, please, Andrew, please,” She sighed between moans that grew closer, and closer, and louder. Samira came with a loud call of his name, a mercy to her devotee. He drank her, nearly ate her alive, begging and whining when he thought he’d gotten every last drop and ignoring the twitches of her body and her halfhearted insistence to stop, to give her a break. He was imperfect, a concept he’d tried to explain to her but, in her perfection, she’d never be able to understand- he couldn’t stop when it came to Samira. Not when a man was begging for his life after killing her fawn, or when she said she wanted a garden and he spent three days tirelessly completing a project that should have taken weeks or months, or when she came with his face buried between her legs and she believed him strong enough and stupid enough not to scour for every droplet of her divinity. She’d been relegated to a life with Andrew, a lifetime of stooping unimaginably low; the least he could do was try to prove that he wanted to be worthy of that, even though it simply was not possible.
Andrew ripped himself off of Samira, begging for her forgiveness for his selfishness, for not stopping, for not doing as she’d asked even though he knew she hadn’t meant it. He clambered to the floor, bawling. Despite coming into the bedspread twice, humping like a deranged, disgusting animal in the lap of a Goddess, in the time it had taken her to finish he had now grown so tightly wound that he felt he might explode. He deserved it, crying into the carpet, the bedroom and comforter and Samira and his body covered in blood.
His hips stuttered involuntarily against the floor. Samira watched, exhausted, starving, utterly thrown by the level to which he worshipped her. She knew exactly why he was on the floor: it wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. If he had the strength to leave the room, or even the house, and sleep out there? He would. But he was too weak, which she knew he’d only take as a further moral feeling because, simply put, she knew he felt that he didn’t deserve to sleep in the same space as her.
“Andrew,” Samira said, moving to the edge of the bed with her body still shaking. “Andrew, look at me.”
Samira used her foot to nudge at his back and hip (he thrusted again, poor guy, he couldn’t help it) until he had rolled to face her. He hid his bloody face in shame, nude and curled up at her feet.
It was all the confirmation Samira required: he needed to finish. There was no point wasting time in convincing him to get back on the bed, and that he deserved to touch her and look at her and be around her at all, so Samira took matters into her own hands and stood from the bed, stepped over him, and sunk to her knees until she straddled him.
“Look at me?” Samira repeated, even softer and sweeter than before. Beneath her, at every single point of physical contact, his body jerked and contracted, and not a bit of him calmed until a brief moment of peace when she caressed both sides of his face and whispered, “I love you, Andrew.”
“I love,” He couldn’t even say I love you without being interrupted by a whine. Pathetic. Weak. Undeserving. “I love you, Samira.”
“Yeah?” She asked, taking a featherlike hold of him and watching his face twist while she lined herself up.
“I love you, God, Samira, I’m sorry, please, wait, just- I love you, I’m not,” She didn’t wait for him to make an excuse as to why he didn’t deserve this, and sunk herself slowly down onto him. He yelled her name- primal, guttural, like it came from a place he couldn’t control- and begged her to stop not because he wanted it, God, he didn’t, but because he didn’t deserve this, she was too good for this, he was going to come to quickly and he ruined her and she was bloody and he’d fucked her up to the point she seemed to have been turned on at the sight of him covered in blood and rabid for a woman he could never do justice to.
She didn’t expect to be on him for more than two minutes. Thank God he loved her to the point of rarely lasting a normal amount of time (unless she really, really demanded it, of course) because her body really was aching, a mixture of a long work day and a boyfriend that had just eaten her out to the point of seeing stars. Andrew had no tears left in his body and when he spilled into her, he did so repeating her name as a grunt, a yell, a scold, a whisper, and then a plea. His hands moved swiftly from her hips to her own hands as they raked across his chest and his abs.
Samira quickly slipped her hands out from between his, wrapping his hand in both of hers and lifting them to her mouth, kissing his knuckles as they dripped from reopened wounds.
“You staying down here tonight?” Andrew nodded. Sniffled. Bit back a whine when she bent down, his come still leaking out of her since she had not gotten off of him yet, and kissed his browbone, nose, chin, mouth, and mouth again. Samira then pulled back, moved her hair out of her face, and removed herself from his lap to fall back onto the bed.
Andrew watched, awestruck, the entire time. It was a good thing, too, because that meant he actually caught the pillow she suddenly tossed down to him.
“Use it,” She told him through a tiny, beautiful yaw, as she settled on her side and faced him half asleep. Andrew inched his body closer to the bed, fulfilling her demand and shoving the pillow under his head.
With a tired ‘hmmph’, he noticed her hand twitched, as if her arm was trying to stretch out to him. Andrew wasn’t sure what it meant and racked his brain- was she hurt? Having a nightmare? Should she see someone? Had he injured her?
Andrew’s thoughts paused when his hand reached up on its own volition, and intertwined his fingers with hers. Hand in hand, they slept until morning.
