You are bend over, hands on your belly as you get wheeled into the ER. The pain started so suddenly and wasn't going anywhere so your coworkers called you an ambulance.
You protested at first, not wanting to be trouble but now you are more than happy to be inside a hospital.
You don't see any familiar doctors or nurses. No Robby, no Dana. Only that pretty, blonde doctor who's name you can't recall right now.
"Hello, I'm Dr. King. Did you eat something unusual today? Any allergies?" She starts off firing questions while she pokes at your stomach with her hands.
You wince as she does it, pain only growing with the touch. "No, no. No weird food, no allergies."
She asks a few more questions but you can barely remember enough to answer her, the pain becomes just too much.
Thankfully, Dr. King has a diagnosis for you almost right away. "Unfortunately, it seems like you have appendicitis. You'll need to have a surgery or it could burst and cause much bigger problems. Is there anybody who you would like for us to call?"
They are quickly wheeling you out of the room and that hurry sends your worry spiking a little. "Call Jack. My emergency contact."
You see her nod, and she hurries away, probably to make sure that somebody calls him. You just hope he'll be there by the time you wake up.
-
"Hey, Dana. Could you call the emergency contact of my patient please? Thank you." Mel hands your papers to Dana.
"Sure, kid. You got it." Dana reaches for the papers and stops short when she sees your name sprawled on top of it.
She reaches for her own phone, dialing Jack immediately. Jack's pretty, lovely girl is about to have a surgery and he's nowhere to be found? No way, Dana can't have that.
"What's wrong?" Robby clocks in Dana's distressed face almost instantly, too.
She only shake his head at him and pushes the papers towards him. He curses when he reads your name.
"Is she still here?" He asks as Dana starts explaining everything quickly to Jack. It's all quick and precise words, just to get him here as soon as possible.
"She wasn't with Jack?" Robby asks with a frown after Dana hangs up.
"No, she got here from work. Ambulance brought her in. Jack didn't even know and she looked pretty bad, Robby..."
"Jesus." Robby scrubs his beard. "Will she get a bed upstairs after the surgery?"
"Doubt it. But I'll see what I can do." Dana promises, already picking up her phone again. Recovering in the ER is not that ideal with all the noise.
"Thanks, Dana. Send Jack my way if you see him before me, yeah?" Robby gets a nod and gets back to work. A piece of his mind still on you though. You've become his very good friend ever since you met Jack. And he hates seeing the people he loves get hurt.
-
Jack doesn't go to the Pitt, he heads straight to the surgery floor. He almost convinces the nurses there to let him inside but they make him stay in the waiting room.
And by the time you get out, Jack's sick with worry. He immediately runs to your bed as they wheel you out. He only listens to the surgeon say that everything went perfect with one ear.
His sole focus is on assessing you with his own eyes and touch. He brushes some stray hair away from your pale face.
He blows out a breath of relief, finally able to function full, again. Jack hasn't felt this kind of panic in a long, long time. Not since his late wife.
"Is she staying here?" Jack asks the nurses, planting a soft kiss on your forehead.
One of the nurses shakes her head. "No, we don't have any open beds. We are taking her downstairs."
Jack nods, it's nothing unusual. He takes ahold of one side of the bed and helps push you. He's gonna stay with you until you wake up and until he can take you home and take care of you there.
Jack stays quiet the whole way down. Clutching your hand in one hand and the bed in the other. When you finally get inside the halls of the Pitt people Jack's colleagues, gawk at him.
Murmurs go around as they look with wide eyes. He didn't even realise that people didn't know that he had a girlfriend. But he finds that he doesn't particularly care about their interested gaze, not when you are there.
"Jack, room 4 is ready for her." Robby comes up to him, clasping him on his shoulder in comfort.
Jack gives him a curt nod. Words a little bit thick with emotions as he says. "Thank you, brother."
"Don't even mention it. Call for me if you need anything, yeah?" Robby squeezes his shoulder one more time before he leaves you two be, needed in trauma again.
Robby is replaced by Dana almost immediately. She helps Jack wheel you in and hook you up to all the monitors.
"What did the surgeon say?" She asks with soft eyes.
"She said that the surgery went well, and that if all tests are good, she can go home tomorrow." Jack doesn't even know how he managed to remember all of that when he was barely listening.
"That's great, Jack." Dana tucks the blanket higher up your chin. "How are you holding up though?" She gives him a look that says that he shouldn't try to lie.
"Better now that I'm with her. I was so worried, Dana." He shakes his head, it's not easy to talk about his emotions. "Thank you for calling me."
"Of course, Jack. She's a strong girl and she got here just in time. Just stay with her and you'll both be fine. And don't worry about work, Robby already talked to Gloria. You can take as much time off as you need."
Jack mouths 'thank you', afraid that his voice might betray him with all of the emotions he's feeling.
Dana leaves him with a warm smile, waving his gratitude off.
Jack waits for the anesthesia to wear off and to finally see your pretty eyes.
-
You find Jack leaning over you with a relieved smile when you wake up. The second thing you notice is the pain being gone, replaced by the floaty, painless state.
"You are here." You whisper with a hoarse voice. Hand reaching up to wipe away the lonely tear sliding down his rugged cheek.
"Of course, I'm here, angel. More of a surprise is that you are here." Jack tries to crack a light joke, just to see your smile.
"Sorry." You say sheepishly, giving him that damned smile he wanted to see. The last bit of worry slips away as the corners of your mouth go up.
"Don't be sorry, sweetheart. Good thing you came here. The surgery went well, they took it out so there shouldn't be any more pain like that." He gives your hand a gentle squeeze.
"Good, the pain was so sudden. I didn't know it could feel like that. I thought I was gonna pass out from it." You explain. "I didn't even want to come here at first but I'm glad I did."
"Jesus, baby, next time call me if anything like this happens to you, please. And don't even try to say you didn't want to bother me, that's such a nonsense."
You give him a shy smile. "Okay, Jack. I promise to call next time." And then you ask. "Do you know when can I go home?"
"If the tests are good, then I'm taking you home tomorrow. And I'll be fussing around you until you are back to 100 percent." Jack grins at you. "You might even start getting sick of me by then."
"Sick of your handsome face? Never, Jackie."
"Is that all I am to you? Just a pretty face for you to look at?" Jack's heart is practically singing with happiness as he hears you banter back.
"Maybe." You smile teasingly at him, even forgetting that you are in a hospital when Jack is with you.
"Wow, okay, I'm going to call Dr. King, and let her keep you here forever." Your laughter dies down at his words, realisation striking you.
"Wait. Does...Does everyone know about us then?" You ask, a little wide eyed but excited. You've been itching to meet everyone. Especially Dr. J, her videos are so fun.
"Yes. Is that okay?" Jack questions, eyebrows raised up uncertainly.
"Are you kidding? I've been looking forward to meeting everybody."
Jack gives you a big smile at that answer, leaning in to softly brush his lips against yours.
"Okay, sweetheart, I'll let them know that they can come introduce themselves later. But you should try resting some more, okay?" He can't resist planting one more kiss onto your cracked lips. He should find you a lip balm, he pockets that thought for later.
"Okay, will you stay?"
"Of course, angel. I told you, I'm not going anywhere." And with his reassurance, you close your eyes and let the exhaustion pull you asleep once again.
cw: f!reader, pregnant!reader, unspecified age gap, they have a kid
If Jack could go back in time and ask his younger self what his future would look like, he would have never guessed that this is how his life turned out. He was a veteran struggling with his own mind, a widower who missed his wife every day, an amputee, and working one of the most stressful jobs imaginable.
But for all the objective negatives, there were also a ton of positives. He was a home owner, as stressful and awful as his job could be, he did love it and he loved how fulfilling it was. It was where he had met you after all, one of the most surprising yet deeply cherished addition to his life in the last decade. Your night out had unfortunately ended with you joining your friend in the emergency room after a very unlucky catch of her heel in the sidewalk.
You were younger than he was, a lot of people were, but as much as he' tried to dissuade you, and even himself, you were stubborn. You didn't care about his age. You didn't mind his odd working hours and you sure as hell didn't mind how he tried to push you away. You stayed patient, gave him his space when he needed it, and gave him more reassurance than he ever deserved after the useless distance he'd forced between the both of you those first few months of seeing each other.
Five years later and Jack found out there was still plenty of life left to surprise him. You were no longer the woman he was dating with guilt sitting heavy in his stomach, you were his wife. You were the mother of his even bigger unexpected gifts, his kids. A first time dad in the second half of his 40s and soon to be second time dad at 50 years old. Talk about unpredictable life events.
You had waltzed into Jack's life and turned it on its head in the best way possible. For all the bad he'd experienced, you'd shown him that there was still so much good to look forward too — unexpected good, but good nontheless.
Tonight you were waddling across the kitchen, pregnant with your second child, as you worked to assemble dinner for your toddler. He was busy building a castle with his magnet tiles and singing along to Jack's playlist in his seat while Jack walks around the house, gathering his things to head out for his shift.
"Dinner is almost ready, Bub. Ready to set the blocks aside in... five minutes?" You ask the three year old as you slice up his usual serving of berries.
"Five minutes," he nods obediently, eyes focused on carefully placing a triangular tile.
Jack strides into the kitchen, a smile gracing his features at the sight of the toddler at the counter. Jack grabs his lunch bag, one of the many amazing changes you'd made in your time together — making sure he had real food during his shift.
"Alright, I'm off," Jack breathes out, pressing a kiss against his son's temple, "be a good boy for Mama."
"The best boy," the boy nods with a bright smile, leaning in to smack a wet kiss on Jack's scruffy chin.
Jack smiles warmly, ruffling his son's hair before making his way over to you. He presses his lips against your own briefly, "be good, take it easy, get some rest, and do not touch any laundry. I'll handle it tomorrow." He bends at the waist to talk to your bump, hands on either side of your stomach, "be good for your mom."
"Bye, Daddy! I love you!" Your son yells, stacking the magnetic tiles as Jack slings his backpack over his shoulder.
"We love you, babe! Go make—" you're interrupted from your usual farewell by your son.
"Go make that money, honey!"
Jack's eyes widen, his body turning to look at you, but you're looking at him with an identical look of astonishment. "What was that, Bub?" Jack asks with a soft tilt of his head.
"Go make that money, honey!" The boy giggles, eyes alight with pride, "like Mama always says!"
You are hardly doing a good job of holding back your laughter, a hand cupped over your mouth as your shoulders shake while your free hand scoops mac and cheese onto the silicone plate. Jack's face breaks out into an endeared smile of his own, "that's right, Bub. Gotta go make that money for my honeys."
You place the plate in front of your toddler, brushing his unruly curls from his forehead with a gentle hand and a fond smile. You glance up to meet Jack's equally adoring gaze as you lean your cheek against the crown of your son's head, "we love you, Jackie. Be safe."
Jack's heart skips a beat, swallowing down the sudden knot in his throat at the sight in front of him. He nods once, smiling at you lovingly, "thank you. I love you. Both of you."
feedback is appreciated! divider from cursed-carmine <3
Description- What happens when Jack's wife returns from the bar bathroom and finds another woman with her hands on her husband
CW- reader is jealous as all hell, another character attempts infidelity, Jack has a damn good time, casual and not literal mention of violence, takes place in a bar, implied alcohol consumption
AN- This spawned into existence while I was waiting to pick up my gal from the dentist. It's by far the shortest thing I've ever written, but I usually struggle with length anyway (that's what she said)
You’d be an idiot if you thought it would never happen. That no one would ever see Jack Abbot, the handsome, muscular man with beautiful steady eyes and a heart you couldn’t help but trust the first time he smiled, and wish that they had him for themselves.
You knew it happened, that people gave him a second glance when they passed him on the street, subtly looking him over head to toe and admiring the nice shape of him, the way he moved with quiet confidence, not taking up more space than he needed to make a show of himself like some did. He was handsome, he was attractive, he was beautiful and sexy and cute all rolled into one. You knew these things, and you knew others would too. How could they not?
That didn’t make it any easier to see as you returned from the bar bathroom.
The woman was standing between your stool and Jack’s at the bartop, a hand resting lightly on his shoulder as she tossed her head back in a laugh. Her chocolate curls fell down to her shoulders, catching the dim bar lighting and shining like a rich sleek metal as it moved.
Something in your stomach twisted, something dark and ugly that you didn’t care to think about, filling you with an undeserved surge of anger. You wanted to smack her hand away from him, to yell in her face to back off.
The black metal band on his finger was clear as day. You could see it from nearly across the room, glinting in the hanging lights where his weathered hand wrapped around his lowball tumbler. She must have been able to see it with how intently she gazed at him, drinking him in as if she’d never seen a man before.
That made it all the worse. Accidents happened, a stumble turning into brushed shoulders that could be laughed off, but this, this, was purposeful. It was a choice she was making, to cozy up to Jack, to not look at his wedding band as if it would merely poof out of existence.
Fuck that.
You were storming over before you realized it.
Jack’s face lit up as he spotted you, still a few feet away.
“There’s my girl,” he greeted warmly. His arm was outstretched, welcoming you against his side, the spot by your stool still occupied by the pretty brunette woman who’d had her hands all over him.
“Hi, baby,” you said sweetly, stepping into his embrace and leaning even closer, one hand cupping his cheek to steady him as you kissed him deeply. He made a small sound of surprise in the back of his throat, but kissed you back without hesitation, his arm wrapping further around you to hold you close. His eyes were dark when you parted, a faint questioning look passing behind them as you grinned at him coyly, bottom lip caught between your teeth.
“Making friends?” you asked lightly, settling yourself sideways on his lap, making sure to favor his good leg before you pressed one more kiss to his temple, your fingers combing through the thick curls at the back of his head. When you turned to face the woman, smiling overly sweetly at her, you felt a sick twinge of satisfaction to see the way her lips pursed together tightly.
“Sweetheart, this is Jessie,” Jack introduced, gesturing to the woman. His words lilted with faint humor, like he was watching his favorite reality show and the drama had just gotten good. “She was just complimenting my shirt.”
You laughed weakly. Of course she was. Just the thick flannel, surely it had nothing to do with the way he filled it out with his broad shoulders and thick, bulging biceps.
“It looks like really good quality,” Jessie said, desperately trying to sound neutral. “What is it, cotton?”
Jack hummed, looking to you with a faint smirk. “I wouldn’t know,” he admitted. “This one bought it for me.” His arm tightened around you for a moment, giving you a slight squeeze.
You frowned, your hand running up and down his chest to feel the fabric as you thought. She wasn’t wrong, it really was a good shirt. You’d always loved the soft feel of it under your hands when you ran your hands over his shoulders, sometimes bunching the fabric in your fists when he caught you off guard with an especially deep kiss.
“I don’t remember.” You chuckled, giving her an easy smile. “Guess I’ll have to check later when he takes it off.”
Jessie nodded once in silent understanding, swallowing thickly before she picked up her drink from the counter. It was so close to the one you’d left Jack to look over for you that it had left a ring of condensation on the edge of the napkin you used as a coaster.
“Right, well, I guess I’ll leave you to it,” she said, doing her best to paste on a cheerful smile to match her overly chipper tone. Her words sounded hollow, her finger tracing the rim of her glass as her eyes moved between you and Jack.
You only nodded, giving her an almost sympathetic smile to watch her go from your perch on Jack’s lap, fingers still twirling through his curls in a way you knew from countless hours curled up together that he loved. You picked up your own glass to sip, and Jack had to duck his head into the crook of your neck to muffle the sudden laugh he let slip at the way her eyes widened when she saw your wedding ring.
A flicker of pride went through him, glad that even after so long together, he had made the right choice that day. Hours of designing had gone into your set of rings, months spent deliberating every curve of the band and cut of the stone before he finally showed you, wanting to make every detail perfect for you, to give you something as beautiful as you were that you would never want to take off. And you never did.
“Have a good night, Jessie!” you called as she retreated.
Jack gave you a warm look when she was out of earshot, dark hazel eyes trailing over your face like he wanted to catch every detail of it.
“You handled that mildly,” he drawled, amusement curling at the corner of his mouth. His eyes glimmered, the corners creasing the way they always did, bearing the weight of his hidden smile for him.
You laughed, adjusting your position on his lap to wrap both arms behind his neck.
“Careful, Jack,” you teased. “I might think you liked seeing me all possessive.”
He only hummed, the deep vibration carrying through his chest and into your side pressed against it, lifting one shoulder before letting it down into a small shrug.
“You expect me to be upset to have you all over me, playing with my hair?” He gave you a cocky smirk, gaze lowering for just a moment to your lips before flicking back up. Your breath caught, and he noticed, head tilting slightly as he looked up at you through his lashes that had no business being so thick.
“Thought for a moment you might smash a bottle over her head,” he continued, though his voice had dropped. His hand gripped your thigh, pulling you higher up his lap as he adjusted how he sat on the barstool. It couldn’t have been comfortable for him, but he was far from complaining. “That what you want, honey? Me having to stitch her up?”
The thought of his hands on her made you angry enough to bite your tongue.
“That’s exactly why I didn’t,” you pointed out smugly, nestling even closer until the tip of your nose brushed the bridge of his. “I’d much rather keep you as my private doctor, Jack.”
He laughed through his nose, his unblinking gaze meeting yours without dropping. “I’ll be your anything, baby, but I don’t think I should be your doctor.”
You rolled your eyes, giving his scruffy cheek a kiss before fully melting against him, nuzzling into the side of his neck.
“Have it your way then. I’ll just make Robby my emergency contact.”
Tags/warnings: Deran's friend!Reader, touch starved!Andrew (what's new), age gap (reader is mid 20s, Pope is almost 40), slow burn, friends to lovers, touchy reader, physical touch as a love language, injured!pope, a little angst cause it's Andrew, intox reader (she drinks and smokes at one of their parties and gets handsy [cute] with pope, he's a gentleman about it), Pope is just a big ol' simp, cuddling, unprotected piv sex, creampie, [inaccurate show dynamics, mostly cause I didn’t wanna deal with Cath (lover her though)]
Summary: Pope doesn't like to be touched...at least not until he met you.
a/n: my favorite touch starved boy <3
Disclaimer: YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO REPOST MY WRITING ANYWHERE ELSE WITHOUT MY CONSENT. REBLOGS ARE ENCOURAGED THOUGH. YOU MAY NOT FEED MY WORK TO ANY AI DATABASES OF ANY KIND, USE MY WORKS TO TRAIN AI OR USE AI TO TRANSLATE MY WORK. FUCK AI.
The first time it happens it's an accident.
There’s people in his house when there shouldn't be.
The music is too loud, the bodies too hot and sweaty.
He’s standing in the kitchen like a weirdo, even he can acknowledge it.
But he truly doesn’t know what to do. Where to go.
He’s been gone for three years. He doesn’t recognize anyone anymore. Where the fuck is he even supposed to start?
It’s your meek “excuse me” that breaks him out of the spell he’s under, gaze finally sharpening as he comes back down to the present moment.
Everything rushes back to him, overwhelmingly. He’s suddenly too aware of it all, especially your timid grip on his bicep as you try to move him out of the way.
The touch doesn’t linger. It’s fleeting, unlike the reality that Pope finds himself in.
You side step around his imposing frame, a shy smile on your lips, one that makes his head spin.
You shouldn’t be nice to him, hell, you shouldn’t be nice to any asshole you don’t know. Did no one teach you—
And then you turn on the kitchen sink, gently cleaning the glass you’ve been using unlike everyone’s disposable, plastic ones.
An air of familiarity courses through him. You’re…comfortable in his home. You’re taking care of the space that no one, not even his brothers, could give two fucks about.
He can’t help but stare, his thoughts rendering him unable to look the other way, to go back to being stoic and uninterested.
If you feel him glaring you don’t let him know it, your body language remaining relaxed all the way through wiping the glass dry and standing on your tip toes to place it back on the shelf above you.
That’s when he moves.
It’s instinctual. His mother’s voice clear in his ear, urging him to help a lady in need.
He steps up, crowds your personal space yet gives you room to escape if you feel uncomfortable.
You turn to him then, your bright eyes meeting his as your fingers barely touch. He instantly forces himself to look away, afraid that he’s going to let the glass fall if he loses himself in your gaze.
“Thanks,” you mumble, shooting him another smile as you settle back down on your feet, the movement shifting you closer against his chest.
It honestly makes Pope dizzy. Feeling your warmth, smelling the faint softness of your perfume.
You don’t turn to move for the millisecond it takes for him to finish pushing the glass into place, perfectly aligned with the others.
It’s only when he too settles back down that you turn to him expectantly.
“You’re welcome.”
Pope guesses that’s what you’re looking for and he’s proven correct instantly as you bless him with another blinding smile.
His stomach does another flip.
Who the fuck are you?
Before he can ask, what he believes to be your name is called because you instantly turn towards the sound.
He commits your name to memory, such a fitting one for such a—
“Angel! There you are!” Daren breaks through the crowd like a lifeline, one that you instantly take, stepping away from Pope and towards him like a magnet.
You settle against his side like you’re meant to be there, his arm leisurely draping over your shoulders in a familiarity that makes Pope’s blood boil with a flurry of emotions he simply cannot pinpoint.
“See you’ve met Pope,” Deran notes and you turn back to Pope with wide eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” you start, tone remorseful. “I had no idea you were Deran’s brother, I would’ve introduced myself.”
You genuinely mean it and it almost causes Pope to snap at you. You don’t owe him anything.
“’s okay,” Pope mumbles instead, his gaze piercing.
“Well it’s really nice to meet you,” you hold out your hand for him to take.
Pope’s jaw clenches. He makes no effort to move, to reciprocate your kind gesture. He can see the disappointment in your face, how it falls instantly. You’re not used to being denied, to being told no, and for a second Pope almost cracks.
But he can’t. He won’t let himself do it.
No, because he knows that the second you give him even an inch of familiarity he will devour you whole.
“Don’t take it personally, angel,” Deran practically glares daggers at him. “He’s not really into that.”
Your mouth curls into a silent oh and Pope shrugs in response.
It’s all he can do to not come across as a complete weirdo instantly upon meeting you, more than he already has.
You copy him, shrugging like you’re unbothered but he knows for a fact you aren’t as your hand instantly retracts back towards you, seeking Deran’s instead.
His fingers interlace with yours like it’s second nature, overly intimate. Pope’s brows scrunch in confusion, barely. Are the two of you…a couple?
“Anyway, I’ll see you around.”
Pope gives you one last grunt of acknowledgement before Deran is pulling you away, back towards the backyard where all the action is happening.
He obviously keeps his eyes trained on you as you leave, on how your jean shorts hug your ass, how your body is sun-kissed and a little burnt from the summer heat wave, how your hair flows effortlessly.
And then you turn to glance back at him for what feels like minutes, your eyes filled with nothing but curiosity.
His eyes force him to blink then and he loses you to the crowd.
Fuck.
The next time Pope sees you, you’re back at the house for a pool day with his family. It’s a small gathering this time around, just their inner circle which apparently now includes you too.
You’re in a striking blue bikini, the color contrasting beautifully against your skin. You’re sitting on one of the lounge chairs, your legs open so a hyper Lena can settle in between them.
You can barely contain your laughter as the young girl tells you a silly story from school, your fingers working overtime to braid her long hair in one of those fancy styles that Pope could never name so that it won’t get too tangled from the pool.
Your laughter hits him like a disorienting grenade. It’s like he's never heard anyone feel joy the way you do. It's infectious, making him wonder if he’s ever actually felt a real emotion in his life.
“There, all done,” you tie up Lena’s hair and give her back a little pat before the girl practically bolts from your embrace, yelling a swift thank you before cannonballing into the pool as everyone cheers.
Andrew’s about to move forward, to settle down beside you, a pull to be near you clouding his senses.
But then Craig has to go and ruin it.
“Me next,” the oaf practically towers over you, settling down between your legs like Lena had, taking advantage of how you haven't moved.
You roll your eyes playfully but don’t complain.
Pope watches as you take his hair out of the messy bun that he’s got it in, gently scratching his scalp. His younger brother moans, causing you to stop and smack the side of his head.
Pope’s lips quirk up into a smirk. Good, set his brother’s straight.
But Craig is not deterred, simply reaching back and squeezing your thigh cockily.
It takes everything in Pope not to lunge forward. He doesn’t understand it, how protectiveness practically flares up in his chest at the sight of someone else’s grubby hands on your soft flesh.
He honestly doesn’t know how Deran lets it happen. They both know his brother so why is he letting Craig be so chummy with you?
Unless…you’re not actually together, together.
Is it possible that you’re just like this with everyone?
You finish braiding his hair then, meanly tossing it over his shoulder so that the tail end of it smacks him on the face.
“There princess,” you tease. “All done.”
Craig flinches as the band hits him, bursting out into a fit of laughter as he stands up and follows Lena’s example, splashing into the pool so hard that he ends up soaking you completely.
Lena laughs as you gasp dramatically. “You meanie!”
“Payback’s a bitch—” Craig starts, quickly correcting himself as you glare at him. “Payback, angel.”
Deran snorts, taking a swig of his beer from his spot at the other side of the pool. A spark of something is set ablaze in your gaze, a playfulness that borders on mischief.
“Oh yeah?” It takes them a few seconds to process what you’re doing as you sprint towards them, throwing yourself in the pool as close to Deran as possible.
Pope audibly snickers as you drench his youngest brother.
The backyard is set ablaze with teasing soon after, every single member of his family sans him and his mother engaging in a water fight for the ages.
Pope settles on the lounge chair that you’ve vacated, your warmth still lingering on the fabric beneath him.
He’s transfixed by you. By the ease in which you can bring lightness to his family, as though you can lift the weight they all carry on their shoulders, even if it’s just for a little while.
Another thought crosses Pope’s mind then — is it possible that you could be like this with him too?
Laughter only turns even more boisterous as you enter the living room, a baking dish in hand.
“Angel!” Both Deran and Craig greet you, your smile beaming as you round the table to say hi to Smurf first. You know the rules of this house well by now, a genuine comfort to Pope who at least doesn’t have to worry about you with his family.
He watches intently as you chat with the older woman, handing her the dish, humble enough to tell her it’s not something as grandiose as the roast she has prepared but you didn’t want to show up empty handed.
His mother smiles at you, her ego fed enough as she stands up and goes to heat it up in the kitchen.
You don’t let her comments get to you, instead you go around the table, saying hello to everyone, your touch always lingering, always soft and playful.
Deran gives you a hug, Craig kisses your cheek affectionately, Baz only gives you a nod in acknowledgement and Pope can’t help but smirk satisfactorily against his beer. You ruffle J’s hair and give Nicky a kiss to her temple.
You’re comfortable, confident, secure in your place within their family. You don’t back down to his mother, you don’t shrink away to Baz’s hesitancy, you—
Your eyes catch him staring from across the room. He’s subconsciously backed away the second he saw you come in, practically hiding in the threshold.
You give him a shy wave over Nicky’s shoulder, a gesture he reciprocates with a grunt and a barely there head bob.
Fuck, he’s even worse than Baz.
But you don’t look at him with the same disdain as you do his half-brother. Instead, something else ignites in your eyes. A challenge, almost, to chip away at the ice around his heart. But little do you know that it’s already melting away, and neither of you can stop it.
You eagerly help Smurf bring the rest of the food out before the entire family sits down around the overflowing table.
You make it a point to sit next to him, to never once let him think that his presence is unwanted, even if he refuses to give you the type of relationship that you want, that you crave.
You fill up his plate without asking him and if you weren’t so damn adorable he’d be angry about it. But he simply cannot be. He just lets you, watching silently as you tell the room a story from a crazy class you had to experience the week before.
Your hands move in tandem with your voice, making it a point to not draw attention to what you’re doing, as if serving Pope food is somehow normal. And for a second he can let himself believe that it is, that you taking care of him is how things are meant to be.
It’s only when Deran whispers something to Craig that has the two snickering that Pope finally breaks free from your spell, mumbling a quick thank you under his breath before you settle down to eat as Lena tells the table what she got up to in school over the week now.
You hum in acknowledgement, listening to his niece intently, like you actually care about her babbling, because you do.
After lunch, the crowd disperses throughout the house, the kitchen settling into a comfortable silence where Pope can finally breathe again.
He’s always relegated to clean up duty, mostly because he likes it that way, it’s something he can control.
“Where do you want these?” You ask, causing him to turn to face you from his spot in front of the sink.
He stammers for a second, blinking away the brain fog that you always seem to bring with you every time you bless him with your undivided attention.
He crooks his head towards the left side of the sink and you move swiftly, placing the stack of plates you’ve gathered into the space.
You don’t linger this time, no, you make it a point to step away as soon as you can but not before Pope feels his body shifting towards you.
Oh, you definitely know what you’re doing.
He shakes his head as he returns to his task of dishwashing. You return periodically, bringing by glasses, cutlery, baking dishes and everything else his family could’ve thought to leave behind like the animals they are.
Once the entire table is cleared, you settle beside Pope, dish towel in hand and begin drying what he's just washed.
It’s…nice.
Pope’s not used to someone actually wanting to help him but he finds himself quickly falling into the rhythm of your comforting presence.
“I never really asked,” you start conversation after what feels like a small eternity, turning to face Pope curiously. “Do you prefer Pope or Andrew?”
You ask as if it’s not a loaded question. Well, to you it isn’t, there’s no way for you to know about the weight his name carries over him. To you it’s just about making sure you’re calling him by the name he wants to be called, nothing more, nothing less.
But to Pope it’s…euphoric.
He stays silent for a while, thinking, and you let him without an ounce of judgment. You return to your repetitive motions, to working side by side, in tandem, coordinated.
Meanwhile, a storm rages waste in his brain. He’s never allowed himself to want, to put himself first, and for the first time in his life, someone is allowing himself to do just that.
But is it real? Do you actually mean it?
It’s only when he’s finished washing the last plate, handing it over to you that he finally allows himself to look your way.
“Andrew,” he mumbles before he loses the courage to. “Call me Andrew.”
You turn to him, setting down the plate atop the mountain you’ve created, nodding your understanding.
“Andrew,” you repeat back to him. “It suits you more.”
He can’t help the blush that creeps up his neck and to his ears, the heat that blooms in his chest, the way his intense gaze falters like a lovesick teenager as his mouth devolves into a dopey smile.
You don’t make fun of him for it, don’t even acknowledge it. You just stay there with him, following through with your help and leaving the kitchen spotless.
A few hours later he finds himself protectively escorting you out to your car, much to the snickers and teasing of his brothers which, thankfully, you’re not privy to as you say your goodbye to Lena and Cath.
“Bye Andrew,” you call out to him, and like a moth to a flame, he can’t help but step towards you, almost expectantly.
You hugged everyone else in his family, maybe—
Your eyes sparkle with delight as his body leans towards your again, a reaction neither of you was expecting.
You close the distance without hesitation, getting back up on your tip toes to plant a soft kiss to his cheek.
It’s over as quickly as it started, no lingering, no invading his space more than needed.
He’s certain he stops breathing, his brain short circuiting as you settle into the driver’s seat and follow Baz out of the family compound.
You’re not special. He reminds himself. She’s like this with everyone.
And yet reason doesn’t quell the pounding of his heart, the way his breathing hitches as he finally wills himself to take in a deep breath, the need to see you again.
He doesn’t see you for a while, exam season taking over most of your time and planning a new job taking up most of his.
He’s just had a disagreement with his brothers, it’s the only reason why he finds himself out by the pier, supposedly clearing his head with a walk like normal people do, but instead the voices are just getting louder and louder.
“Uncle Pope!”
Lena’s voice cuts through the noise. His gaze sharpens towards it, his frame lowering, arms opening, making space for her.
She doesn’t shy away from him, embracing him lovingly because to her, he’s just her uncle, a little weird but never dangerous.
It’s only when she steps back that Pope notices you.
You walk towards them leisurely, not wanting to break apart the cute display happening before you.
“Hi,” it’s the only thing that flows from his lips.
“Hi yourself,” you reply, placing your hands on Lena’s shoulders to keep her close to the two of you. “What are you doing here? I thought you had a family meeting all afternoon.”
Pope blinks back the shock. How close are you to his family? How much do you know?
“Ended early.”
You nod, Lena squirming in your embrace, gasping as realization dawns on her.
“Can Uncle Pope get ice cream with us?”
You chuckle at her impatience, causing Pope to huff playfully at just how adorable his niece is being.
“That’s up to him, sweetie.”
And how is he supposed to say no when his niece looks up to him with the most adorable eyes ever. “Please Uncle Pope!”
He nods. “Okay.”
Lena practically jumps into him out of joy, her tiny hand wrapping around his as she drags him towards the boardwalk shops.
You laugh behind them, jogging to catch up as she pulls you towards them, wrapping her other hand in yours.
Lena’s a bubblegum flavor fiend, extra sprinkles and gummy bears. You’re classic, rich and decadent, chocolate in a cup. Pope almost feels bad for getting a simple vanilla scoop in a waffle cone.
“Tell them to dip it in chocolate,” you whisper to him. “Trust me.”
He doesn’t know how to answer, blinking at you in surprise.
Trust me. Such a simple concept and yet…there’s still something that doesn’t let him take that leap.
But what does he know about ice cream.
So he does, he tries something new.
You smile brightly as you turn to receive your sweet treats, making sure Lena’s sitting down on one of the benches before you go up to pay.
But Pope’s quicker, pulling out a bill from his pocket and taking care of it before you can even ask the cashier how much it’s gonna be.
You roll your eyes at him when she tells you you’re too late and he can’t help but smirk victoriously.
“Thank you Andrew,” you relent, accepting your cup from his outstretched hand, your fingers gently grazing as you do.
The spark of electricity that snaps down Pope’s body is life inducing.
“You’re welcome.”
You settle next to Lena who’s munching ecstatically at her sugary confection, pink already staining her shirt.
Pope takes a seat on the other side of his niece.
He settles into the simplicity of intimacy with ease again, the gentle waves crashing up ahead, the cool afternoon air filling his senses with the comfort of saltwater.
Existing has never felt as easy as this. As something pleasant and unhurried, not having to pretend to be anything other than who he is.
Pope can’t help watch the two of you in complete awe. How you dote on Lena and how she reciprocates the action, something he’s never seen her do in the months since he’s been back.
She feels free here, not like the little girl who’s quiet and reserved with her now estranged parents. No, she’s alert and alive, playful and aloof. It makes Pope’s heart soar as he watches the two of you so effortlessly blend together, his own ice cream melting and making a mess of him soon enough.
The house is uncharacteristically quiet.
He’s the only one there, he’s sure of it. Smurf left the second she got the call that the job had gone sour and they had to split up, rushing to Baz’s because she knows Pope is too spiteful to die on her. Meanwhile J has gotten really injured and Smurf’s new baby comes first now.
It doesn’t matter to Pope. At least he tells himself he doesn’t hate himself a little more the second he hears his mother’s heels retreat down the hall, her car soon only a phantom noise as she speeds off.
Alone in the house, the quiet gets to him quickly. The typically bright and spacious home constricting in on him as he struggles down the hall to his old room.
He tries not to think about how the rough concrete walls feel against his sensitive fingertips, how the familiar pain in his side hums with the pressure of painful memories, how he’s definitely not back in that tiny jail cell after he had another psychotic break in prison and got himself thrown in solitary for another week.
No, he definitely does not think about how he was left struggling with his sanity, floating aimlessly, stuck inside his own head trying to desperately find some comfort to cling to as he curled in on himself to find a position where it didn’t hurt him to breathe.
He swings the door to his room open without thinking twice about it.
It’s early in the morning, no one’s been home since the night before, and yet, the second he comes inside, he instantly notices the way the air smells different, sweeter.
He stills, his hand not clutched to his side slowly sliding to the back of his jeans to feel the comforting weight of his gun handle. Meanwhile his eyes rake over the room, the unmade bed, the clothes—his clothes—scattered on the floor.
“Andy?” Your sweet, sleepy voice calls to him from his ensuite bathroom and he turns to it like an idiot boy with a childlike crush, eyes wide and heart practically beating out of his chest as if he isn’t currently in such devastating pain but he doesn’t dare make you uncomfortable.
Fuck, why does he feel like such a creep?
A sharp inhale springs you into action, crossing into the unlit room to take him in, suddenly wide awake it seems.
He doesn’t have the heart to stop you as your soft hands come up to inspect the gash on his brow, the purpling under his eye. Timid fingertips trace a path down his chest, landing softly over the hand at his abdomen.
You don’t say anything, don’t lash out at him, don’t flinch back in fear as you slowly lift his palm, assessing the damage. He doesn’t know why he lets you, it doesn’t make any logical sense, and yet he just melts into your hands, lets you maneuver him however you desire as he finally lets the dam crack.
You remain silent as tears stain his cheeks, as you gently pull him into the bathroom and sit him down on the edge of the tub, as you wrap your hands on the hem of his shirt and pull it over his head.
He knows you feel the gun tucked into his pants but you don’t let the shock show on your face. Instead, when you turn to discard his shirt behind you, he simply pulls it out himself, placing it on top of the counter, safety on always.
You turn to assess him then. Luckily the switchblade didn’t do too much damage, just one long enough gash that has since stopped bleeding, deep enough to hurt but not deep enough to kill him.
You settle on your knees in front of him and he’s certain his heart skips a beat. You smile up at him, so unbelievably soft, like you’re trying to comfort him without touching him because you know just how uncomfortable it makes him.
And yet, he can’t help but crave your touch, like a reminder that he’s still alive, that he’s still here, with you.
He knows he can just ask. Knows he can put together a sentence, or not, just muster the courage and say please. But how can he? When not even his mother deigned him worthy of fussing over?
“You don’t have to—” another sob breaks through him and it takes everything in him not to curse and scream and scare you.
His body begins to shake, shame bubbling from his stomach across his body until he’s nothing but a quivering mess before you.
He wants to run, to hide away and never have you see him like this ever again. This was a mistake, staying here, letting you see him this vulnerable. He needs—
He’s turned to stone as you pull yourself up from sitting on your heels and lean up towards him, invading his personal space now, all the voices in his head suddenly quiet. Your hands come up to cup his face, thumbs dutifully wiping away the tears that fall.
He feels pathetic, disgusted with himself at the sight you’re beholden to. But then your sweet voice begins to shush him softly, to tell him that he’s okay, that you’ve got him, that he can let it all out, and for a second he allows himself to believe it.
Andrew Pope Cody allows himself to feel, to not hide behind what he’s been groomed to be all of his life. He breaks down and you patiently wait for him to finish so you can help him pick up all the pieces.
It’s only when you no longer feel the wetness drip against your flesh that you pull back enough to take him all in. He forces himself to make eye contact with you, to show you as much as he can that he’s alright, that he appreciates you.
You swiftly rummage through his bathroom cabinets, searching for the first aid kit you know he has. He watches you intently as you clean him up with a wet rag first, removing all the blood from his abdomen, his hands turning white as he holds onto the side of the tub for dear life.
Your tongue pokes out between your lips as you lose yourself to the task, using that glue Baz got them in Mexico to close his wound. He can’t help but smile softly at the sight, finally allowing himself to rake his gaze over your body.
For one, you’re clad in one of his old shirts, the ones that no longer fit him after prison hardened his body into a bigger size. Maybe he’s not special, but he’ll be damned if possessiveness doesn’t boil over at the mere sight of you in his clothes.
He’s already slowly losing his mind, desire threatening to make him take a leap over that invisible line he’s drawn between the two of you in his mind, and then you shift a little, showing off his boxers underneath, your bare things practically causing him to salivate.
The decision settles with him with ease, dragging him down into the depths comfortably, like a sailor that has accepted his fate because it means he’ll at least get to kiss the siren.
“There,” you hum, tracing the outline of the bandage with your fingertips before you turn to look up at him. “All done.”
“Thank you,” he manages to choke out.
“My pleasure, Andy.”
Letting you go is the hardest thing Pope has ever done. You’d insisted he needed to rest after the trauma that he’d experienced and, not wanting to be an annoying patient, he’d conceded, settling down where you had just been sleeping, the sheets still slightly warm and smelling of you.
For the first time in a long time, Pope actually slept and slept good. But the second he’d woken up, you were no longer in the house.
He thought about calling, about making sure he hadn’t scared you off, but part of him preferred it this way. He was scared of his feelings towards you, so he chose indifference.
His mood soured, however. Every little thing his brother did made him snap, every time they brought you up in conversation, every time your name entered his orbit but your body didn’t made him go crazy.
He’s aware that it’s all his fault for not checking in, for disappearing into radio silence. But in his defense, you’ve never texted before, you’ve never even given him your number for fuck’s sake! It would’ve been weird to contact you out of the blue right?
Summer is coming to an end when you finally deign him worthy of your presence again.
Deran and Craig are throwing a party. Big surprise.
The house is packed, hot and sweaty. Everyone is scantily clad, if covered up at all. Even Smurf has left the premises for the weekend so it’s just a cluster of debauchery and substance abuse.
He should’ve left, he thought about it many times. But he knows you’ll show, even if it’s just to say hello, see how quickly things are devolving, and leaving immediately.
His eyes have been trained on the entrance all night, impatiently waiting for you to walk in. It’s nearing eleven and his palms are starting to get itchy with anxiety. What if you don’t show? He hadn’t even thought about that possibility.
It’s been a few days since Deran’s mentioned you. Even longer since you’ve babysat Lena. Could something be wrong? Are you okay?
His entire body bursts with uncomfortable heat. He needs to find Deran right now, needs him to tell him your address so he can go check on you himself, needs—
A loud squeal catches his attention, swiftly turning towards the backyard to catch you swung over Craig’s shoulder, your tiny jean shorts riding further up your ass as he spins you around.
You giggle brightly, not attention seeking, just pulling everyone’s gaze towards you with the ease in which you feel joyful. He watches, entranced, as his younger brother puts you down.
Pope moves instinctively, stalking towards the living room to get a better line of sight on you. You’re at least wearing a shirt over your bikini, your beautiful skin covered from the hungry gazes of those around you. If you realize just how many men are salivating after you, you don’t let it show, not as Craig lights up a joint and passes it on to you instantly.
Something constricts against Pope’s heart as he watches you inhale deeply, a primal urge to burst through the doors, grab the joint from your hand and toss it away before bringing you into the house and hiding you away.
He settles for sitting down on the loveseat. He can keep you safe from in here, from far away, from a distance.
The house only becomes more crowded as the night goes on and he unfortunately loses track of you two hours in, only noticing the second that annoying couple in front of him moves out of the way, the warm summer air hitting him in contrast to the air conditioned interior.
He panics instantly, his eyes jumping through the hazy bodies outside as he desperately tries to find you again. He’s about to stand up, to finally make a move and search for you when your body plops down on his lap instead.
“Andy!” You shriek, an airy happiness enveloping you as you settle over this lap. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
Pope swallows thickly, feeling everything all at once, his brain having trouble processing your hands over his chest, your core pressed against the bulge in his pants, your hot breath on his face.
He’s certain he’s blushing crimson but maybe you’re too intoxicated to notice.
“Were you hiding from me?”
He doesn’t answer right away, causing your pretty little mouth to get upturned into a pout.
“I knew it,” you whimper. “You do hate me.”
“I don’t hate you, angel,” the words spill out of his mouth instantly, unfiltered since his stupid brain isn’t working anymore.
Wide eyes stare at him adorably. “You don’t?”
He shakes his head.
“Then…” you huff, clearly exhausted from all the mental gymnastics you’ve been doing too. “Why didn’t you call?”
He opens his mouth to answer.
I didn’t have your number.
I didn’t know I had to.
Why didn’t you call?
But he knows it’s all lies. He knows he deliberately didn’t call.
Didn’t text.
Didn’t anything.
Your eyes flicker down to his open mouth, your own hanging open as you stare hungrily at him, your hips grinding down against him involuntarily.
He hisses at the contact, the sound so broken and foreign to him. His brows scrunch in desperation, his head angling without him noticing. And so you take the leap for him.
Your lips settle on his like a sip of water after wandering in the desert for an entire lifetime.
It takes everything in him not to kiss you back, not to run his hands over your back, not thrust his hips up into you.
He knows how high you are, knows your actions, while yours, aren’t sober ones. And he’d much rather kill himself than take advantage of you.
“Andy,” you whine into his mouth again, needy and desperate. “Please.”
He stiffens beneath you, once again gripping the chair handles like his life depends on it. You frown as the wood creaks, a wicked smile curling your lips as you realize just how much he’s holding back right now.
“You can touch me, Andy,” you whisper, your lips starting their descent from his own down to his jaw and neck.
He shakes his head softly, not cruel, not rejecting, simply stating.
If anything, it spurs you on, determined to prove him wrong, to provoke him.
He can tell as your lips lock into the base of his neck, teeth nipping meanly at his skin, desperate to leave a mark on him.
He should stop you, should pick you up and tuck you into bed. But he doesn’t. He can’t.
Instead, his eyes close in pleasure, his fists practically snapping the wood between his fingers.
You’re hungry, having been kept from touching him for so long. He’s given you an inch and you’ll be damned if you don’t steal a mile. And he honestly doesn’t care, can’t care, when the realization that you were looking for him finally catches up.
You want him.
Desperately.
Your hands roam down his arms in tandem with your hip movements, your lips trailing back up to his mouth, but instead of diving in, taking the plunge, you hover above them, your hot breath taunting him.
“You’re so pretty, Andy,” you whisper. “Need you—” you huff, frustrated. “to touch me, please.”
He shakes his head again, this time accidentally brushing his lips with yours, groaning at the fleeting contact.
“‘M not gonna take advantage of you, angel,” he presses his forehead to your cheek, almost reverent.
You let out a sigh, deep and weirdly understanding, stopping your mindless torture as his words sink in. He stares at you, his heart finally pumping blood to the rest of his body normally as it sinks with your own, the raging storm calming into a consistent thundering.
“‘M sorry,” you mumble against his chest, settling down to rest your head against the crook on his neck. “I just…” you sigh, melancholic, the words not coming to you.
“I know,” he finally lets his hands break free from his self-imposed restraints, sliding them up your legs, taking his time feeling the warmth of your exposed thighs, the comforting weight of your clothes against your skin. You hum contently, like a cat finally being given attention, practically purring against him.
He settles his touch around your body, pressing you tightly against him as you slowly doze in and out of consciousness.
“Is this good enough, angel?” He’s never felt this soft with anyone before, his jagged edges usually too sharp, drawing blood instantly. But it’s as though you’ve smoothed him down, made him into someone that’s worthy of you.
You nod against him, fingers curling into his soft shirt, most definitely wrinkling the perfectly ironed fabric and he could not give two shits about it.
He’s acutely aware of how the two of you ended up asleep together.
All he wanted was to tuck you into bed, kiss your temple and then sit across from the bed, watching you sleep all night, like a messed up version of a guardian angel.
But you’d whined oh so loudly when he tried to peel away from you, your arms wrapping around his neck, your legs tightening around his waist. He couldn’t even get his shoes off, being forced down onto the soft mattress as you rolled over on top of him.
You settled down easy after that, your even breath soothing against his neck, the patterns he kept tracing over your back lulling you even further into the depths of rest.
He’s never fallen asleep this easily before, definitely not after the peak of adrenaline you’d just put him through.
But after exactly one thousand and sixty five seconds of watching your calm face, feeling your chest rising and falling steadily, something pulled him under, his eyelids becoming so heavy he could barely register as he stopped blinking altogether.
Your squirming wakes him up the next morning.
You’ve crawled on top of him, a comforting weight over his body. That is until you started to move, seeking something to put you out of your miserable restlessness.
“What’s wrong, angel?” His voice is deep with sleep.
You lift yourself onto a sitting position, straddling his hips once more, rubbing against the growing tent in his pants.
Part of him snaps awake at the mere inkling that you’re horny, now sober and wanting to torture him for denying you yesterday. But as his eyes focus on you, he finds an even deeper feeling he simply cannot name brewing in your pretty little head.
You scratch at your shirt, the fabric constrictive, your neediness for him overwhelming.
“’s too much,” you whine and he, for some divine reason, understands what you need.
He sits up, causing you to gasp as his erection thrusts up against you.
“Meanie,” you tease, pushing him to action.
He smirks as his hands gently trail over your exposed tummy. His hands grab the hem of your shirt and pull it over your head in one swift movement, quickly untying your bathing suit top and tossing the offending fabric to the floor. He doesn’t give himself the time to stare, not when you’re so desperate and time is of the essence, he’ll have time to properly worship you later.
Your nipples do harden as the cold air hits them, and he cannot fight the urge to take one into his mouth, rolling his tongue over the bud before he detaches so he can pull his own shirt off.
Your breathing gets caught in your throat as you watch him, brain already shutting off at the sight of his bare body. So much more real estate for you to touch, he thinks.
And touch you do, eager hands trailing the hardness of his chest and stomach all the way down to his pants. You make quick work of the button and his zipper and he lifts his hips so he can pull them off, hesitating with his boxers—
“All of it.” You answer for him.
“Yeah?”
“Mhmm,” you whine. “Please.”
And who is he to deny you now?
In one quick movement, he’s complete bare beneath you. But you’re still not content, no, you won’t be until you’re right there with him.
He takes care of your remaining clothes then, urging you up with two quick taps to your outer thigh and just as quickly hooking his thumbs underneath your bikini bottoms.
Your heat is so close to his face, so puffy and needy, he simply must lean forward and place a kiss over your hip bone. You hum contently, body buzzing with excitement as you practically tackle him back down on the bed and return to your earlier position.
At first you don’t want anything other than to feel him, your cheek pressed over his beating heart, legs spread over his lower abdomen, practically purring as his own hands wisp over your back.
You lay like that for a while, enjoying the gentle sounds of crashing waves and birds singing outside his window. But then you turn to look at him with those round, puppy eyes that he’ll be damned to cave to for the rest of his life.
“Andy,” you plead. “Need to be closer to you.”
He knows what you mean without you having to explain yourself.
There’s just one more thing to do.
So he does, grabbing a hold of his rock hard cock and slowly sinking himself into your entrance. You wince at the stretch, eyes quickly becoming watery as he settles inside of you. He shushes you gently, shifting you slightly so he can reach your lips, crashing them with his in a sloppy, wet kiss that has you instantly melting into him further.
It’s only when he’s sheathed within you completely that you finally relax. But while you’ve found euphoria with such a simple action, Pope is anything but.
He lasts fifty three seconds before his hips begin shifting involuntarily. Your brow scrunches in confusion, pleasure shooting up your body when all you really wanted to feel was peace.
He coos at you softly. “I need to move, angel.”
You sigh, dramatically so, and he can’t help but smile brightly at your theatrics.
“May I move?”
You bury your face in the side of his neck, going limp over him. “I guess.”
He rolls his eyes playfully, wrapping his arms around you before he lifts his hips off the bed and begins to piston in and out of you.
You’re so wet it’s absurdly easy, the room quickly devolving into a choir of wet, slapping sounds and his moans harmonizing with your little whimpers. You hold onto him for dear life, relishing in the closeness that he’s affording you, and he…he’s certain that you’ve just unlocked something he’d buried deep in his psyche long ago.
A desire to long for someone.
An allowance to feel.
A chance to love again.
“An—dy fuck,” you choke. “‘M so close.”
He turns his head to press his cheek against your temple, tightening his hold on your body, possessive and claiming.
“Come for me angel,” he urges. “Let me make you feel good, please.”
You moan loudly, your body responding diligently to his plea. He can feel your body convulse above him, your walls tightening around him as a jolt of electricity snaps and you’re coming undone.
You cry against his shoulder, panting feverishly as he continues to pound into you, seeking his own release while also extending you own.
“In me please, Andy, need you—”
He doesn’t need to be told twice, burying himself as deep as he can inside of you before he’s spilling, locking you tightly against him and enjoying the feeling of joy that washes over his entire body.
He can’t stop kissing your cheek, his lips lapping up the wetness that has streaked like a devout man worshiping a gift from the heavens.
You stay like this until both your heartbeats return to their normal, synced rhythm, your nails scratching deliciously at his scalp while his own return to their soothing patterns against your back.
“Was that okay?” You ask him, finally returning to your senses it seems.
Pairing: Titus Danforth x personal assistant f!reader
Words: 5k
CW: canon typical violence and gore, explicit sexual content, nsfw, 18+, mdni
Tags/warnings: possessive!Titus, ownership, control, dark themes, abuse of power, power imbalance, age gap (Titus is in his 40s, reader is in her 20s), touch starved, oral (m and f receiving), torture murder, switch!reader x switch!titus, a little foot play, Titus cumming in his pants pathetically
Summary: Titus has an affinity for you, the only woman he cannot have—Ursula's assistant. So what happens when you dare to start dating some guy and distancing yourself from him?
a/n: he's just so weird I love him
Disclaimer: YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO REPOST MY WRITING ANYWHERE ELSE WITHOUT MY CONSENT. REBLOGS ARE ENCOURAGED THOUGH. YOU MAY NOT FEED MY WORK TO ANY AI DATABASES OF ANY KIND, USE MY WORKS TO TRAIN AI OR USE AI TO TRANSLATE MY WORK. FUCK AI.
You don’t bother knocking, it’s always more satisfying this way.
You can hear the strangled moan get caught in his throat, the way his muscles tense as you step into the room, suddenly alert and ready to kill whoever just dared to interrupt him. But instead, his eyes land on you and his facade drops even lower, to one of shame, like a little boy being caught doing he isn’t supposed to.
“Kindly let Miranda get off her knees and go back to her desk, her lunch break is almost over and I would really like to take mine at my agreed upon time.”
Your voice is as unkind as you can possibly make it. Not towards Miranda, never towards her. It’s all venom thrown at him. He knows you don’t like it when he does this, knows it takes her those exact fifteen minutes to make herself presentable and rush all the way to the other side of the floor to where her desk is, knows, deep down, that she’s not the one he craves to have sucking him off at 12:15 pm on a random Tuesday.
You count the seconds in your head as your stare off extends itself. It’s never lasted more than 28 seconds.
It’s exactly fifteen seconds later that he relents.
He always relents.
He doesn’t even break eye contact as he, presumably, pulls her off him finally.
You’d had to learn really early on that he likes to be watched, gets off on it and you would not be surprised if his staring is directly linked to how long it takes him to cum once you’ve entered his office.
You’ve never been able to prove it, however, for he doesn’t show it on his face.
He’s always calm and composed, unbreakable.
You fucking hate it.
You wait, impatiently, as Miranda makes herself presentable enough to do her walk of shame back to your side of the floor, to Ursula’s side.
Titus slowly rolls his chair back, the imposing mahogany desk the perfect size to hide a full bodied person underneath it, the leather chair just adding to the old money aesthetic of it all.
The model looking second assistant finally gets up on shaky legs, gaze cast directly towards the carpeted floors as she scurries out of the room, not daring to even cast a glance in your direction.
You simply step aside, letting her flee, knowing fully well you both know this will be her last day working with you. Such a shame, she wasn’t completely useless, not like the girl you had the misfortune of working with two assistants ago.
You shiver at the memory as Titus fixes up his slacks, his unforgiving hazel eyes still on you.
“So,” he begins. “Lunch?”
You roll your eyes, stepping into the room as he sprays cologne all over him. To mask the scent of sex on him or within the room, you don’t know, but you’re soon enveloped in a smokey, honeyed scent that instantly has you just a little more pliant than you were mere seconds ago.
You sit across from him, as is routine now, and the door to the service elevators swings open to Anthony, his private work chef, walking into the office with your usual chicken Caesar salad and his borderline still alive, rare stake. Diet cokes for you both, a rare indulgence that you share.
You don’t say anything as his desk is set up to resemble a dining table. You don’t spare “the help” any kindness, not since the first time you dared utter a thank you in his direction and he came back with a purpled eye the next day.
No, Titus is absurdly particular when it comes to who you address and how you do it. He’s fully aware you don’t belong to him, that claim is his sister and his sister’s alone, but that doesn’t mean that he can’t hurt those that do work for him to reprimand you.
So you don’t even breathe in the young man’s direction, you simply wait, patient and kind, the clock on the wall ticking quicker than it ever has before.
Titus knows you’re cutting it close, knows he shouldn’t be pushing his luck, but that doesn’t matter. You’ll be on time, he’ll make sure of it even if he has to shut down the elevator when Ursula’s one o’clock shows.
He doesn’t bother you with small talk. He doesn’t have to, you both know he knows exactly what you got up to over the weekend.
You know what kind of man Titus Danforth is, know his quirks and…questionable desires, know just how tight of a leash he likes to keep his playthings on.
And that’s exactly what you are.
Not in the "traditional" sense, Ursula would have your head for it.
But you are…entertainment.
He has your location.
He has cameras in your apartment.
He has vetted every single one of your friends and even…taken care of those he didn’t approve of.
He’s met your parents. Met every single romantic interest you’ve had in the two years you’ve been working for his sister, always disapproving.
Titus Danforth takes up the other half of your life unapologetically.
It’s in your contract, actually, but he doesn’t need to know that.
He’s never once asked why you don’t push back against him, why you let him get away with so much. In his eyes, he’s entitled to it, much like every spoiled child is entitled to their every whim.
He’s gotten into a new habit as of recently, however.
It had started whenever you left the office late. A text message lighting up your phone when you made it home safely and didn’t let him know right away. If it were up to him, he’d be sending a car to pick you up and drop you off every day, but alas even he could not force you to accept the offer.
So instead he settled for you telling him you’d gotten home.
But then…he started messaging you all the time.
If he saw you struggling to find your lipstick because you’d forgotten where you’d put it
It’s on the coffee table.
If he saw you walking out for your morning jog without a proper jacket.
It’s flu season, do not make me send a carrier over.
If you put on a lingerie set he didn’t necessarily love while getting ready for work.
Wear the white one I got you last week.
And the worst part?
You do exactly what he tells you.
Every.
Single.
Time.
Without question. Without fuss.
It makes Titus’s blood buzz with excitement each and every time.
He knows he can’t have you.
But he can have this.
“I won’t be going straight home after work tonight.”
You tell him suddenly, breaking the gentle hum of a spell that has fallen over your meal.
His brow furrows slightly, leaning forward in his chair, as if assessing a request for time off from an employee.
“Where will you be?”
You’ve done this dance with him before. There’s even a pre-approved list of people and places you’re allowed to go and be with, which is why you know he won’t be too happy with what you’re about to say to him.
“I have a date.”
If you didn’t know him as well as you do, the intensity of his stare would’ve definitely made you pee your pants. It almost had the first time he looked at you this way, like a child being scolded for setting fire to the family home.
“No you don’t.” He hisses, looking down at his calendar and finding the day’s square absolutely empty.
You shrug, trying to keep your cool as much as you possibly can.
“Spur of the moment.”
You keep eating as if you’ve done nothing wrong but you know the man before you is seething.
When you finally swallow, “He texted me a few hours ago. I said yes.”
The scowl on Titus’s face is piercing as he holds out his hand expectantly and you swiftly move to hand over your phone.
He doesn’t even have to ask for your password anymore. It’s his birthday, he’d chosen it.
You watch, a little masochistic, as he goes through your recent texts. You don’t save their names, there’s no need to give him more information, he’ll know everything about him from the number alone five minutes after you leave the room.
“No,” he says simply, setting your phone down next to his.
“I wasn’t asking for your permission,” you reply, soft yet firm. “Ursula already gave it.”
The mention of his sister having agreed to this is what pushes him over the edge. He stands up abruptly, causing the desk between you to almost tip over your drinks.
You don’t flinch, you’ve honestly lost the ability to when it comes to Titus. You simply stare up at him, devoid of any care or emotion, almost daring him to go against his sister’s wishes.
He doesn’t give you his consent. You don’t back down.
The clock ticks in the background, ominous, haunting.
There’s a knock at the door.
You both know who it is without having to turn, still stuck in that exhausting staring contest.
“We’re starting in five,” Miranda’s voice is meek now, almost a whisper. You cringe at just how much her confidence has plummeted in the past half hour. “Ursula asked me to get you.”
You set your empty plate back on Titus’s desk, wiping the corners of your mouth demurely before you stand back up, smoothing your pencil skirt against your plump thighs and picking up your phone from where he left it.
“I’ll be home around nine,” you tell him, matter of fact.
“I’ll know if you’re not,” he says through gritted teeth. “And there will be consequences.”
You nod, once, curtly, turning towards a practically tomato red Miranda and walking past her as if nothing has transpired.
“Um…sir?” Miranda tries, she desperately tries to be normal about what transpired earlier but fails miserably.
He casts her a glance, stone cold and intimidating, the one that used to have an effect on you but now doesn’t even chip away at your icy exterior. She practically leaps in fear, closing the door swiftly and running after you.
At least he still has an effect on someone.
You’re back home at exactly 8:59 pm.
Titus watches as your body sways lightly, your legs shaky beneath you. You didn't change after you left, still in that sinful skirt. Your hair is a little rustled, your lipstick just barely smudged, your shirt open just one more button than normal.
That's when he spots it, a tear in your sheer black tights, a gaping hole near the inside of your thigh, intentionally made.
It makes his blood boil.
He picks up his phone, calls you. He leans in, pupils dilating as he watches you search your bag, cursing pathetically as you fail to locate your phone.
You're too drunk for this and he has half a mind to make his way over to your apartment to reprimand you for it. How could you have let yourself go this way? Don't you know what men are dangerous, especially in the presence of a beautiful thing such as yourself?
After a few more seconds of futile searching, you give up, tossing your bag to the floor like a fussy child and letting the phone continue to ring into the night as you clumsily make your way to your room.
Titus switches the camera, following you along until you flop onto your bed and seemingly pass out.
He's seething now, morning cannot come fast enough, your punishment hot and delicious on his tongue.
He find himself waiting, impatiently, by your desk for ten minutes after you're supposed to be in. Last he checked, you were getting on a car and driving towards the office but that was twenty minutes ago. Even accounting for traffic at this hour, you should've been here by now.
He has half a mind to call, to scream, to let you know what's waiting for you, but he doesn't. No, his victory will taste sweeter is he can just wait—
"Mr. Danforth?"
A male voice snaps him back to the present. His thunderous gaze meets that of a lanky man in a suit holding out an iPad. Weird, he's never seen this man before in his life.
"Are you waiting on something?" he asks Titus, checking the device in his hands for something to explain the younger Danforth's lingering near his sister's office. "Your sister just departed for Barcelona but if you're having trouble getting a hold of her I can—"
"What?" he hisses.
To his credit, the man keeps his composure, but that doesn't stop Titus from catching the slight flash of panic that crosses his face.
"For the conference?"
Titus doesn't think, he just leaps, grabbing the pad forcefully as he looks through the shared calendar on it, one that he doesn't have access to, one that you've hidden from him.
Barcelona. Resort conference. Five days.
Five fucking days.
You have got to be kidding.
You don't answer a single one of his messages.
Your work email is in constant do not disturb mode.
Out of office.
Yeah, now he fucking knows.
Instead he's been forced to endure the ungodly display of affection your mystery man—Jackson Cooper Jr, heir to the Cooper Media empire—is determined to show, practically turning his office into a fucking flower shop.
Every morning when you're supposed to be getting into work and every night when you're supposed to be leaving, in comes a courier with the largest floral arrangement that he's ever seen.
He catches them walking in from the elevator, almost always making a bee line for his office, to his assistant, before they're redirected to the other side of the floor.
It's absurd, it's ridiculous, it's—
Why the fuck does he care so much?
It's not like he wishes he were Jackson Cooper. Why would he ever want to spend thousands of dollars in flowers?
What a pathetic sight indeed.
And yet...Titus can't help but linger in the obnoxious display of affection. Can't help the way his blood boils every time he thinks about what your reaction will be when you come back to this.
He selfishly hopes, deep down, that you'll find it weird and borderline psychotic, but he knows in his heart that you will be elated. And Titus hates that you'll have such a visceral reaction to another man's affection that isn't his.
So much so that he plans on not being at the office when you do return.
But because everything is about him and the universe is set on torturing him, you're back a day early.
He can hear your angelic voice echo through the empty floor, your excitement and glee, the little shy giggle that escapes you because you think no one is there to hear it.
"...no, I'm sorry. Work just got the better of me," you sigh into your phone. "I do love them, wish I could take them all back to my apartment—no! No, you don't have to, you've already—fine, thank you."
Titus has never seen you give into an argument so easily. Whatever jealousy he's been harboring triples at the mere thought that someone other than him has made you submit with such ease.
He steps further into the room, a selfish thought crossing through him as he weighs his options.
He should take you now, throw your phone in a ditch, carry you by force back to his apartment and keep you hidden there until you're just as addicted to him as he is you.
"It's really no trouble, beautiful."
Titus's blood runs hot with anger as he hears his voice creeping up from the elevators up towards where he's hiding.
Jackson Cooper, in the flesh.
Titus instantly steps into the shadows, a hunter making sure his prey falls into a false sense of security, yes, definitely that.
"Are you still at the office?"
Titus can't hear you answering, far enough away now that your voice is no longer the main course. He can only imagine what's going on now as you squeal loudly, excited and joyful. Can only imagine the type of kiss you're engaged in as the silence goes on for more than a few seconds.
He can only imagine where you're going as the two of you walk out of the office, hand in hand, sporting similar sheepish expressions on your faces.
Titus watches you go, let's you get away, because now he's got only one thing on his mind—
Jackson Cooper is a dead man.
The muffled screams of agony tickle every nerve in Titus's body.
He's never felt this fulfilled in his life, no drink or drug could ever make him feel as high as he's feeling right now.
The blood has soaked through the carpet, definitely; the rope has chafed through the woof of his antique chair.
The curtains are drawn, the office settled into a sensual warm hue of secrecy and comfort.
Jackson Cooper had come to pick you up for lunch and suddenly, all the planning and stalking and fantasy had gone out the window.
He doesn't even bother explaining, he simply put him in a headlock, incapacitating him as Ursula's new second assistant, as he's come to accept, watches in horror.
A shame, really, he was the first one that he hadn't gotten to have his way with before he got fired. Oh well.
He revels in the fear, the thick and heavy fog that has settled into his office, the pungent smell of iron and definitely other bodily functions. All normal, nothing to be ashamed of when you're being tortured.
And yet Titus soaks it all in, doesn't dare make his prey feel any kind of comfort.
Only the inevitability of death. Slow and painful.
"Titus?" the door to his office opens then, the freshness of your perfume blending into the pungent darkness from within his office. "Have you seen—oh."
Titus stiffens, his hunting knife suddenly feeling heavy in his hand, the leather handle uncomfortable for the first time in his life. He watches as your face falls, dread overtaking him without reason.
But then you don't devolve into hysterics, don't start screaming, instead, your face contorts into one of annoyance?
Your head falls back, a groan escaping your lips as you step into the room, closing the door swiftly behind you.
Titus watches you in awe, mouth barely hanging open as Jackson Cooper begins to scream against his gag and thrash against his restraints.
You turn to him and scowl, such an evil sight directed at such a pathetic man. Titus beams.
"Shhh," you tell him, holding out your hand to stop his squirming as you take out your phone and dial.
On his desk, Jackson's phone begins to ring, loudly.
No one mores, confusion causing the delirious man to settle into silence.
And then, his voice mail message fills the room.
You wait, impatiently now, as it ends.
The beep blares, definitive. You open your mouth—
A sob escapes, fake and pandering, your expression remaining as unbothered as ever.
"Um...okay, I see how it is. It's okay, I just...I didn't think—get it together, fuck. I'm not used to being ghosted sorry. I'm..." you swallow, catching Titus's gaze from across the room, entranced and practically salivating. You shoot him a sly smile. "I guess I'm gonna go have lunch with Titus then—you know, you could've just told me you didn't want to see me again, it's...it doesn't matter now."
With that you end the call.
The room settles back into a heavy silence, the only sound being Titus's obnoxious grin and Jackson's distressed panting as they both realize what you've just done—
An alibi.
"Little dove—" Titus starts but you stop him immediately.
"Don't even start," you've never been this short with him. "I'll deal with you in a second."
To pretend like his pants don't tighten, a thrill of excitement shooting down to settle in his stomach, causing his already painful erection to twitch against the fabric.
You dial again. It rings once before the call connects.
"Mistress," you speak again, completely dry and composed, the voice Titus knows you have reserved for his sister. "There's been a change of plans."
Titus doesn’t hear whatever his sister says in return, the impatience ringing in his ears. Even now, even when he’s got a man strapped to a chair, bleeding to death, you’re still not giving him your undivided attention.
You nod along to whatever is being said. "Yes, he...got ahead of schedule..."
You wince, it’s subtle, minuscule, but Titus catches it.
“Do I have to?” You shiver. “Yes, ma’am.”
You reach out swiftly, like pulling off a bandaid. Barely shaking hand pulls open the table side drawer of the piece of furniture next to his couch.
His eyebrows raise in silent knowledge as he watches you pull out his gun, a sleek, silver 9mm, point it and shoot all within a single breath.
Jackson Cooper never even had a chance to battle with the knowledge of death, not when the bullet had already gone through his skull and dented the bulletproof glass behind him, all before the sound had ene processed through the room.
Blood splatters over whatever whiteness remained of Titus’s button down, the hot speckles of crimson tantalizing against his skin.
It’s only when the body tips the chair backwards and the stain spreads that you end the call, tossing both your phone and the gun onto the couch beside you.
Titus licks his lips then, savoring the taste of your first kill as his gaze glosses over with a carnal need to devour you.
He doesn’t wait for the shock to wear off, for you to start screaming at him for his impulsiveness.
No, he won’t waste another second.
He pounces, crossing the room swiftly and enveloping you in his arms. His lips are on yours, the remnants of iron and a taste so uniquely his invading your taste so easily you can't help but lean into it.
You whine into his mouth, opening your lips in search for more. He obliges instantly, tongues and teeth clashing against each other aggressively.
You bite down hard on his lower lip, drawing enough blood to startle him. Titus whines into your mouth, his eyes shooting open like a kicked puppy.
And then you do...kick him.
He falls to his knees, pathetic and broken, eyes practically fully dark as he watches you pant above him.
"You—you fucking asshole," you practically spit. "You couldn't have waited a few more weeks before you decided to kill him?"
Whatever confusion that lingered burned up into blinding anger.
"Who the fuck do you think you're talking to?"
You scoff, running a hand through your hair, throwing it back over the crown of your head.
"I just needed him alive for a few more days."
Now it's Titus's turn to scowl, deeply offended. "How dare you!?"
He goes to stand, bending his knee to get up but you stop him by stepping forward, your crotch dangerously close to his mouth now.
"Don't."
Oh.
Oh.
A terrifying smirk curves Titus's kiss-swollen lips.
He catches the slight quiver of your mouth, the way your breath catches in your throat, the way your legs shake ever so slightly.
He's dizzy with excitement, his ego growing the size of his bank balance.
"Oh little dove," he coos, condescending and pitying, his large, warm hands grabbing at your ankles and slowly making their way up your legs.
He watches as your body tenses, as you clench around nothing. He hums contently, grabbing at the hem of your skirt and slowly rolling it up your thighs neatly.
Your hands shoot down to settle on his shoulders, steadying yourself as you swallow back a needy sigh.
In response, Titus leans forward, placing a kiss over your clothed mound.
"Ursula must be so...disappointed in you, huh?" he leans back enough to finish rolling your skirt, his hands now sliding to cup your ass. "Don't worry, you'll always have a job with me when she inevitably fires you."
That little entitled piece of shit.
His words light a fire throughout your body.
Defiance.
He's not the only one that can play dirty.
You step forward slightly, kicking his bent knee with your stiletto and sending him off balance back down on his knees. Before he can even process what you're doing, you press the sole of your shoe against his crotch.
He whimpers deliciously at the contact, shifting you closer to him, his fingertips digging into your soft flesh.
"Shut the fuck up, Titus," you sigh. "I'm never gonna work for you," you're heaving, panting, so strung up you just—"Now make yourself useful and make me cum."
And for the first time in his life, Titus doesn't get offended by the command. He simply does.
His hands rip through the sheer fabric of your tights, carving a hole bigger than the one he'd noticed a week ago.
You moan at the sheer roughness, his possessiveness always having been something that never made you uncomfortable but rather—
"I can smell how wet you are, little dove," he leans into your damp underwear, inhaling deeply. "My sweet girl, so turned on by all this carnage."
He chuckles, the vibrations making your head fuzzy already.
"Don't worry, I'll take care of you."
And unlike Jackson Cooper, he doesn't torture you further. One hand pulls your legs apart, shifting himself so that he can settle comfortably between your legs and hump your shoe while he pulls your underwear to the side and bury his face in between your glistening folds.
The sinful noises that explode from you suddenly make everything worth it, your taste a sweet wine against his tongue. He doesn't take his time, no, he goes straight for the kill, mouth latching onto your clit, tongue lapping aggressively.
You buck your hips against his face, not worried that you'll suffocate him, he's got a deal with the devil anyway, he'll be fine.
Titus chuckles against you, reveling in the way your slick drips onto his chin and travels down his neck. Just when you clench around nothing again, he lets you go, a heaving cry leaving your lips then.
Before you can complain, he's trailing his tongue up and down your slit, finally relenting to lazy discovery and appreciation.
"Titus—" you mewl. "Please."
His cock twitches against your stiletto then, his hips bucking into you needfully. Your hands tangle into his hair, scratching at his scalp in response, a treat to show him just how good he's making you feel.
"That's it..." you whisper. "Right there, please, I need—"
He knows exactly what you need. He doesn't even have to ask.
He lets go of your soaked underwear, no longer needing to keep it out of the way himself. He swiftly licks two fingers sloppily before he thrusts them inside of you, your warmth swallowing him whole with no resistance.
He groans against your heat, gasping for air as he looks up at you through his lashes. He's so far gone, so beautiful like this, actually doing something worthy of his time.
You reward him by rubbing his raging erection in tune with the movements of his fingers, slow, steady, sharp.
Your chest heaves, air difficult to process as he speeds up, hooking his fingers against that little spot inside of you that makes you see stars.
You clench around his fingers, the fit now incredibly tight, only spurring him forward.
Your foot stops its movements, mind more concerned with the pleasure building within you to bother to keep up with his.
It doesn't matter though, as Titus takes it upon himself to keep up for the both of you.
"Don't you dare cum before I do."
Your voice isn't your own anymore, it's feral and broken, demanding yet desperate. Titus nods his head, lips returning to your clit to speed up the process.
The room explodes into a symphony of moans and screams, the absolute debauchery of your wetness spraying out between his fingers as you come undone, your legs snapping shut over his head.
He drinks it all up, every shiver, every breath, every sharp tug of his hair.
He's gotten a taste now and it's even better than he could've ever dreamed of.
His fingers slow down, working you though your orgasm as he detaches from your clit, his expression of pure adoration and satisfaction one that will definitely remain etched into your memory forever because...
Titus Danforth does not beg.
And yet...his eyebrows quirk in question, silent and heavy, directed towards you.
You nod feverishly, your entire body still buzzing as you watch him use your leg to get himself off.
To say the sight is unholy would be an understatement, even for a devotee of the devil himself. He doesn't dare break eye contact, doesn't dare pretend like he's not cumming desperately in his pants, doesn't hide his own pleasure from you.
You're so overcome with emotion your vision blurs with tears, your hands soothingly raking over his scalp and down his neck as he holds you so tight against him that you're unsure exactly what just actually happened.
You remain stuck like that for a while, your own fluids reminding you that you're alive, a stark contrast to the death that permeates the other side of the room.
The spell is broken when your phone rings, a shrill that sends a shiver down your spine as Titus begrudgingly allows you to detach yourself from him so you can reach over for the offending device.
You answer, nodding along hazily to whoever is on the other side of the call.
"Yes, I'll be there in twenty," you blink away the fantasy of it all, the coldness of reality weighing heavy. "Please call Pernilla and bring myself and Mr. Danforth a change of clothes. Thank you."
a/n: this will most definitely turn into a series. he's just so damn bad and there's so many more places they can come into contact muejejejeje. if you've got any thoughts or requests hit me up!!
dividers by @/enchanthings
all images taken from Pinterest
OR: four times you and titus match each other’s freak to a dangerous level (titus danforth x f!wife!reader)
AO3 link (broken up into chapters) | masterlist
Warnings: DEAD DOVE CONTENT- READ WARNIGNS THUROUGHLY; ADULT CONTENT (MDNI), filthy nasty freaky. they’re both fucked in the head, porn and plot (ish), established relationship, reader drinks alcohol, unprotected sex, descriptions of murder and violence/torture, theyre both switches, titus has a pain kink! yay!, a hint of a foot fetish, knife play, blood play, dubcon/cnc roleplay (reader gets ‘kidnapped’ and ‘tortured’ with a man who actually gets kidnapped and tortured/killed; this is the 4th blurb if you want to skip it), there is no harm to each other outside of the scopes of things they’ve agreed to (offscreen), use of a safeword but reader's fine to keep going after a change in position, breeding kink, mating press, only a little bit of a scent kink this time!!! everyone clap, desecration of a dead body, getting walked in on, titus might be a bit ooc at points, glove kink (maybe?), spanking; no use of y/n, no descriptors, reader identifies as a woman and titus says ‘yes ma’am’.
A/N: I fear I might have cooked with this. I’ve been thinking about pain kink titus x reader who indulges him a lot and needed to expand on that. Not necessarily a sequel to that fic, but definitely has similar elements. I think this goes without saying but for legal reasons: do not do the unsafe things depicted in this fic.
Word Count: 15.2k (yeaaaa i got a little carried away)
divider credit
Being a Danforth required you to wear many masks. When you married Titus, you knew you would have to juggle the duality of being a cult member and socialite. A perfectly normal, doting trophy wife to broader society. But that’s not what you were, not really. People often whispered about your and Titus’ relationship. How you, the woman who organized charity galas with a genuine smile, ended up with the Danforth heir everyone was afraid of. A cruel man who bristled at anyone who looked at him too long, soothed with a brush of your fingers against his bicep. The most curious part was that Titus was apparently infatuated with you. He wouldn’t allow you to stray from his side during events. He took you with him on his business trips. Most of Titus’ colleagues laughed about how well he had control over you. What a good, obedient little wife you were. And Titus laughed with them. Because they had no idea that it was you who controlled him.
Your outward appearance was extremely curated. Both you and Titus had a role to play, afterall. Both your public and private-ish moments involved prying eyes and positions of power. It wasn’t until you two were truly alone that the masks of the Danforths slipped and you settled into your true personalities. Unfortunately, you were too busy preparing yourself for the night ahead to notice Titus didn’t feel like putting that mask on quite yet.
You sat in front of your vanity in the closet, warm light spilling from behind the mirror. You blinked at yourself as you fiddled with the backs of your favorite jewel earrings, an anniversary gift from your husband. Once they were secured, you gave yourself a once-over. The black dress you wore shimmered with every minute movement. A stunning outfit that would dazzle everyone at the gala. It was to be expected, of course, that you would be the best-dressed couple in attendance. It didn’t matter that the fabric itched at the sensitive skin of your stomach and your makeup was already starting to make your eyes water and you had that weird energy flowing through you- one of a long night that was just beginning. Because you were a Danforth, and you were expected to be above such trivial things as physical discomfort. The gala was for some museum and Titus had made an extremely generous donation. You had required it of him after he lost his temper and snapped the neck of one of the waitstaff. A penance of sorts. Titus had tendencies that you didn’t always care for. He was mostly good, but when he slipped up (accidentally or intentionally), you always made him atone in one way or another. That was the leash you kept him on. The museum had been so honored at the sum of the donation that they had named you the guests of honor at their annual fundraising event. Of course, any event the Danforths attended was worthwhile, and they had been giddy to learn that you accepted the invitation. It didn’t matter that Titus didn’t want to go, and you weren’t particularly enthused, but you would drag the man by the ear if necessary. If Titus didn’t want to be philanthropic, he should learn to keep his hands to himself.
“Are you ready?” The rumbling voice came from the doorway to your closet. Your eyes flicked sideways to catch the sight of Titus leaning against the frame, face relaxed in boredom. He wore a black three-piece suit, tie matching the color of your earrings. He had shaven that morning, much to your chagrin, and you could see the frown lines the stubble usually covered. You could see the curls perfectly arranged along his neck. You cast your gaze down to the vanity table. If you looked at him for any longer, you’d never show up to that event. You forced yourself to swallow the hum of appreciation for his appearance. Instead, you rolled on some of your perfume on your wrists and dabbed them to your neck. You gave him a smile.
“I just need to put on my shoes.” You stood from the vanity stool and crossed the closet. ‘Closet’ was an understatement, honestly, and you stood at the shelves of heels lining the wall with a thoughtful pout. Your thumb brushed against your painted lips as you considered. You turned to Titus. “Which ones should I wear?” He pushed himself off the surface and entered the closet. As he stood beside you, you could smell his cologne and you took a subtle deep breath. Your thumb covered the smile that twitched at your mouth. He only wore that one when he was in a…specific mood. He knew how it settled heavy in your brain and made your mouth water. You watched his profile as his eyes scanned the lines of heels. Titus let out a little grunt when he made his decision. He reached up and looped a single finger through the loops of the shoes, bringing them down to you.
“These ones.” He said simply, letting them dangle from his index finger. You nodded approvingly. They were one of your favorite pairs. The Tom Ford Padlock sandals. They were sleek, a smooth black leather strap to wrap around your ankle and a golden metal stiletto. They were the first pair of shoes you had purchased with Titus’ card. It had been a battle for him to convince you to, please, spend his money on things you wanted. It made him feel needed. You had, a bit spitefully, gone to the most upscale clothing store and looked to buy the most ridiculously priced item. You liked the contrast of the gold and the black, but your favorite part was the little padlock and key charm that dangled from the ankle strap. You thought it was cheeky, considering you had sold your soul to the devil during your wedding and interlinked yourself and Titus for all of eternity. You were truly locked to him. When you saw the price, you deemed the pair perfect for your plan. You had shown Titus that night, assuming he would scoff at them, call them ridiculous or overpriced or gaudy or something. But when you explained the reasoning behind the charm and modeled them for him, he became insatiable. He fucked you five times that night, all while assuring you that, yes, you were his forever and demanding the heels stayed on. Safe to say they were his favorite pair, too, and if he had to be stuck playing socialite for the evening, you could at least indulge him in this.
“Good choice.” You went to reach for the shoes, but he pulled back slightly before you could grab them. Your brow furrowed slightly and your eyes searched his face for an explanation.
“May I?” Titus’ voice was soft and a little vulnerable. His pupils were a little wider than they had been only a few moments ago. Understanding cleared your hazy mind. Right. You knew that look. You smothered a smirk and nodded. You walked back over to your vanity and sat on the stool, hands in your lap and feet dangling slightly. Titus followed dutifully behind you, mouth set in a firm line and fingers clutching the shoes tightly. He held your gaze as he lowered himself to his knees, adjusting his position so that he kneeled directly in front of you. He took one of the heels and brought it to your foot, licking his bottom lip in the way he always did before starting on an extremely important task. You slipped your foot into the heel. You raised your leg and pressed the shoe directly into the center of his chest, leaning back slightly so that you could look down at him. Titus looked up at you with reverence, awaiting your command. You felt his heart hammering beneath the sole. You tilted your head and gave a small nod. Titus’ fingers brushed against the smooth skin of your thighs and ran them down to your ankle before clipping the golden buckle securely closed. He gently set your foot down to the ground and repeated the action with the other shoe. Titus was slow and deliberate in his movements, enjoying every moment he was able to care for you like this. It was a state he only entered when you shared true privacy, a moment of soft devotion allowed only for one person in the entire universe: you.
When he finished with the second shoe, he gripped the meat of your calf and brought your leg up to his face. He gently brushed his lips against the padlock charm before kissing your soft skin that smelled of your body lotion. He looked up at you from under his eyelids, a silent plea.
“Thank you, Titus,” you said sweetly, running the edge of your shoe against his chin. His eyes fluttered at the contact and you saw his hands ball into fists on his thighs. “Very well done.” You tapped your finger to your chin in faux consideration. “Think you deserve a reward?” Titus’ eyes snapped open again, excitement flashing through the hazel circles.
“Please.” The word was barely audible. He swallowed as you dragged your heel slowly from his chin down the center of his chest. The lapels of his suit jacket rose and fell rapidly with each of his panting breaths. You could hear the air entering and leaving his nostrils as his eyes followed the black leather shoe. You ran it down his center slowly, tantalizingly so. Until you rested the flat part of the sole against his crotch. There was already a bulge beginning to form and you felt the soft hardness of his dick beneath his zipper. You pressed your heel into it. Titus’ breath hitched and you felt him get harder beneath the pressure. You stepped on his bulge harder, until you were actively crushing his length beneath your foot. Titus let out a small whimper, knuckles whitening with how hard he was balling his fists. “H…Har-” you didn’t let him finish before jerking your foot down, forcefully kicking him between the legs. Titus sucked in a breath and doubled over. A little pained groan was pulled from his chest and his hands clutched around your ankle. But he didn’t push you away. Instead, he pulled your foot down closer against him. He was leaning so far forward that his forehead was resting against your leg. You twisted your heel against him like one would squish a bug, the metallic stiletto running against his inner thigh. You saw a tear slip from Titus’ eye.
“Aw,” you tutted, condescension dripping from the word. “Too much?” You pressed slightly harder. Titus swallowed thickly and looked up at you with wet eyes.
“N-No.” He said. His voice was strained, but you felt his cock throb under you. “Thank you.” You hummed and checked the watch on your wrist.
“We’ve got to go, baby,” you said, voice soft. You pried his hands from your ankle and gave a kiss to his forehead, running your thumb along his cheek to collect the stray tear. Titus nodded and you brought him to a standing position by his wrists. You stayed sitting, eye level with his now very obvious erection. You ran your nose up the ridge and placed a kiss on his tip. You could smell the intoxicating mixture of his cologne and the warm, heady smell of his precum pooling in his boxers. Titus let out another whimper and went to rest his hand on your head, but you slapped it away, giving him a glare. He pouted. You ignored him and stood up. You were flush against his chest and you smoothed your hands against his chest, straightening his tie. “If you behave tonight, maybe I’ll consider letting you cum later.” You murmured, flashing him a saccharine smile. Titus shivered.
“Yes ma’am.” He promised.
“Good boy.” You entwined your arm with his and gestured for him to lead you out of the room. He blinked hard and clenched his jaw, shaking his head. It was going to be a long night.
The invitation arrived at breakfast one morning. You and Titus sat at the small table in his study. You could use the proper table in the dining room, but you were too far from him when you sat at opposing ends. The 4-seat table in his study was large enough to hold both of your breakfasts while also offering the sweet intimacy of starting your days together. Plus, it was on the second floor of the house and offered a better view. You sipped your coffee and spooned berries into your mouth as you overlooked the forest of the property. It was fall and the trees were converting from a lively green to rich warmer tones. A squirrel ran past your eyeline carrying a mouthful of fallen leaves for its nest.
“What are your plans for the day, my darling?” Titus hummed, flipping the page of his newspaper. The local paper didn’t actually print their dailies anymore; they only emailed it out. But Titus would not have that. It took a lot of convincing and a genuine threat, but sure enough, the only physical copy of the paper in existence was delivered to him every morning. You hummed at his question, thinking it over.
“The resort is having that wine exposition,” You said. For the owner of the Danforth Resort and Country Club, Titus rarely actually knew what was occurring on his family’s estate. “I might check that out. Some of the ladies are supposed to be there.” A faint smirk curled at his lips as he continued reading.
“Thought you didn’t like them.”
“I don’t,” You confirmed, placing another berry in your mouth. “But it’s something to do. Ursula’s still in France.” Usually, your days involved doing random side quests with your sister-in-law, but she had been called to a summit in Paris for the week. You would have to settle with getting dolled up in country club attire and sipping wines that couldn’t compare to the Danforth personal reserves. Not a bad day by any means, but you wish you had Ursula to go with you. You needed her company for sharing judgemental looks while the wives of business partners spewed their nonsense. One of the downsides of being in a satanic cult was that your social circle was severely limited. Most of the interesting cult members lived halfway across the globe and only reunited for special occasions. Your closest friend besides Ursula lived on a private Island off Papua New Guinea. Not an ideal distance to invite her to random events to pass your time. You sighed and sipped your coffee and stared out the window. Titus let the paper dip and his eyes found your face. He took off his reading glasses and leaned back in his chair.
“You could come with me today.” He offered, but you rolled your eyes.
“And listen to old white men argue for ten hours about how best to exploit their foreign factory workers?” You scoffed. “Sounds riveting, but no thank you.” Titus had been invited to an industry conference. You didn’t know what industry. You didn’t really care. Most of the Danforth business ventures were strictly hobbies or fronts for their money. The true wealth came from much darker, much more archaic places. Titus inhaled.
“Don’t appreciate the ‘old’ comment.” He muttered, running his hands through his hair. You gave him a playful glare.
“Sorry. You’ve still got some ginger. I can see it.”
“Thank you.” He put his readers back on and returned to his paper. You stifled a chuckle. There was a small knock at the door to his study. Titus looked confused and checked the grandfather clock on the other wall. “Come in.” He said hesitantly. He should have another hour before his driver came to collect him. The heavy wooden door creaked open and a young man meekly poked his head through the opening. Titus waved him in and held out his hand expectantly. The man, pimple-faced with wide, nervous eyes, placed a cream envelope and silver letter opener into Titus’ palm before scurrying away. Titus scoffed when the door closed.
“You’d think the staff would have more decorum. Running away like a frightened rat.” He rolled his eyes and gripped the blade, positioning it at the seam of the letter.
“You killed his predecessor, Titus,” you reminded him “He’s scared.”
“Good.” He ripped the envelope open and widened the gap, gently pulling the cardstock from its prison. His eyes scanned the page and he let out a curious noise. “David is retiring.” He announced.
“De Malle?” Titus nodded.
“His son’s gonna run that company into the ground.” He sighed, shifting in his seat while continuing to read. You noticed his eyes widen slightly towards the end of the letter. Titus licked his lips and turned his gaze up to you, lowering his voice. “He’s having a party.” Oh. That was interesting. The De Malle parties were well-known for their (borderline outlandish) extravagancy. The last time you had been invited was for David’s 50th birthday a few years prior. The entree for the evening was zebra steaks. Followed by decadent pastries and ritual sacrifice for desert. “An evening like no other.” Titus read from the invitation. Excitement bristled along your spinal column. It had been several months since you hunted, and the itch to sink a knife into a warm body was starting to grow uncomfortable. You knew your husband felt similarly. He always carried a tenseness in his shoulder when he went too long without forcing the life from a human being. Sometimes, when he got too restless, you’d have to place an order for the Room. A small, sound-proofed bunker in the center of the estate woods filled with various weapons and torture devices. When he was wound to the point of snapping, Titus only needed a few hours in there before he would jovially rejoin you in your house, covering your cheeks with kisses as you wiped the blood from his hands and called the clean-up crew. The last poor soul had been so…dispersed…that the cleaners had to call in backup. And even then, Titus’ relaxation had only lasted a few weeks. He carried the tension in him as he gripped the invitation and you felt his aura begin to simmer with anticipation. “Send our RSVP.” He told you, finishing his coffee and standing. He rounded the table and pressed a kiss to your crown. “I’m going to practice my speech again. I’ll see you tonight. I want you waiting…wear the blue one.” He mumbled the last part against your scalp and you nodded with a knowing grin. Ah yes, the blue one, the delectable lingerie piece that Titus only requested you in when you were preparing for a hunt. Anticipation flared in your chest. You couldn't wait.
Two weeks later, you were driving up the brick drive of the De Malle residence. You sat in the back of a limousine. The slit of your dress exposed enough thigh that your bare skin pressed against Titus’ pants. You loved the suit he was wearing. It wasn’t made of silk, but it sure felt like it- soft, dark fabric that clung to his muscles, showing off his powerful legs and broad shoulders. You would stay glued to his side this evening, more so than normal. You couldn’t let such a delectable man out of your sight. Your arousal had been simmering for hours. It initially sparked when you saw Titus emerge from the shower, his wet curls plastered against his neck and towel low on his hips, belly poking over the plush white fabric. Completely unaware of the effect it had on you. You didn’t believe in the heart-eyes phenomenon until that moment, while your eyes were wide and your vision pulsed with desperate need. If it was up to you, you would’ve grabbed him by the hair, fingers gripping the curls with a force only death could release, dragged him across the room, and ridden him until his bones broke. Unfortunately, that would have made you late. And though Titus Danforth had many attributes, late was never one of them. So you settled on watching him with shallow breaths as he disappeared in his closet. You had to genuinely stifle a moan when he emerged wearing a mahogany turtleneck and black pants, carrying the matching jacket over his shoulder with a finger. You could’ve sworn your mouth physically watered at the sight. His shoulders pulled the fabric taught over his chest and you could see the bulging muscles of his arms. His biceps especially. The same biceps that would hold you in a headlock while he plowed you into your mattress. He had to repeat your name several times to pull you from your hazy headspace, a knowing smirk on his stupid face. You muttered out a retort and grabbed your clutch before allowing him to guide you down to the car, broad palm on the small of your back, finger just barely caressing the swell of your ass.
While Titus looked down-right devourable in his suit, you were anxiously awaiting the second outfit of the night. The one that sat in the duffle bag in the trunk of the limo. His hunting outfit. Sitting right on top of yours, folded neatly and waiting for the clock to strike midnight. Your limo pulled into the line of the sleek black cars in front of the villa’s main entrance. It was a gorgeous cream color with brick red roofing and columns framing each door and window of the three stories. You knew that there was a secret fourth floor, a basement adorned with an altar and flickering candles. You wondered if you would see it tonight, or if the De Malles had something else in mind. The car came to a stop and the valet opened the door, stepping to the side so Titus could climb out. He took your hand in his and pulled you up beside him, curling a protective arm around your waist.
“Who do you think it’s going to be?” You asked him, walking up the steps to the villa.
“I don’t know,” Titus admitted as you walked into the house. There was already a loud buzz of conversation and music. You shrugged your shawl from your shoulders and handed it to a footman. “David’s been very tight-lipped about everything. Do you want to put in a guess?” You pursed your lips in consideration.
“Mistress’ boyfriend.” You said confidently, smiling as a complimentary flute of champagne was presented to you by a caterer. You took a sip and turned back to Titus. He looked slightly amused.
“That’s incredibly vague.” He huffed. “Could apply to half of the city, with De Malle’s tendencies.” You were about to respond when Mrs. De Malles appeared in the foyer. She wore a dazzling red dress with golden bangles jingling from her wrist. She smiled widely at you. Or attempted to, anyway. Her teeth were too white and the amount of filler in her cheeks made the grin look more like a snarl. She cooed at the pair of you, saying how she was so glad you were able to make it. You gave a tight smile and allowed her to take your hands in hers.
“Oh darling,” Concern laced her words “You’re frigid! Head over to the bar, get yourself something to drink and get warm! Enjoy the party!” She bid you farewell and disappeared back into the crowd.
“I’ll take her offer,” Titus sighed, scratching at his stubble. “We’ve still got five more hours of socializing.” You hummed in agreement and weaved your way to the bar.
The party was nice. You had been separated from Titus at some point, pulled into conversation with the wives while he made his way into the smoke-filled drawing room across the hall. The soft lighting and conversation made the tension in your body uncoil slightly and you found yourself genuinely having a good time. You had settled in with a group of women and had been so caught up in the conversation that you didn’t notice the room was beginning to empty. It wasn’t until one of the ladies’ husbands came to collect her did you actually realize what time it was. 11:30. You were surprised. Usually you’d be asleep by now, but not a lick of tiredness curled in your body. It wasn’t long before the rest of your social group wished you goodnight, leaving you alone at a cocktail table at the edge of the room. You scanned the room again, noting that the majority of patrons had left for the evening. There were only about ten people left. You felt a hand brush the small of your back and you grinned. Titus came up behind you, smelling of rich cigar smoke. You finished the rest of your drink and set the glass down.
“Are you ready to go home?” You asked him, looking at him with the soft adoring eyes indicative of the tipsyness flowing through your blood. Your hands rested on his chest and smoothed his lapels, an almost nervous habit of yours. You just needed to have your hands on him. Titus gave you an amused, but curious look.
“No.” He said. “It’s time.” He blinked at you, waiting for you to catch up to his meaning. It took you a few moments. Realization dawned on you and you inhaled, eyes widening.
“Oh. Right.” In the pleasant haze of cocktails and gossip, you had completely forgotten the second half of the evening’s activities. Titus rubbed a circle with his thumb against the muscles of your back, pulling you slightly closer to him so that your forearms were against his torso and your thighs brushed against his. Heat seeped into your skin. You doubted it was the result of your buzzed state. Titus was looking at you, sizing you up like he was trying to figure out the best place to take a bite out of you.
“We have to get changed.” He murmured with a smirk. He pressed a kiss to your forehead. One of his hands wrapped around yours and lowered it from his chest. You nodded and followed him into the hallway. He stopped in front of a pair of locker rooms at the back of the house. “I’ll see you out there, alright?” You nodded and watched as his broad frame disappeared into the changing room.
The midnight air had a sharp bite to it, and you cursed the choice of hunting attire. De Malle was a bit of a traditionalist, and while he didn’t expect the women to go full-on Victorian layered dresses, they were expected to hunt in skirts and men in pants. Thankfully, there had been three other women hunting that night and you had shared annoyances in the locker rooms as you changed. The cool autumn breeze wrapped around your bare legs and you suppressed a shiver. At least he had allowed you to wear a thick hunting coat to attempt to keep your body temperature even. You stood in a line with the other hunters for the evening, looking out at the field in front of you. There was a sprawling, bulking shadow that took up most of the horizon, but you couldn’t tell what it was, exactly. De Malle stood in front of you with a self-satisfied smile. His hands were clasped behind his back. Once everyone was settled, he gave a nod to one of his staff members. Suddenly, the shadow was illuminated by flickering sconces. It was a wide collection of stone walls, sprawled out beneath your vantage point.
“The maze,” De Malle began, “Was constructed by my grandfather as a celebration of his work when he retired. I am extremely excited to continue this family tradition among my close friends. The Prey has been released in the center of the maze.” He nodded to a table to his left. “Each of you will be granted a knife. No other weapons. The person who kills the Prey and brings me his heart gets the prize.” You felt excitement bubble in your chest. You didn’t really care about the prize, you didn’t even know what it was. You hadn’t had a kill in a while. You weren’t as blood-thirsty as Titus was, but tonight you wanted to be the one to win.
You followed behind Titus, dragging your finger along the cobbled walls of the maze. You had been wandering for thirty minutes. Titus had seen a half-formed footprint in the dust of the maze. He got that look on his face, clenched jaw, pinched mouth, and narrowed eyes. His knuckles were clenched as he stalked through the maze, ears pricked for any minute noise. You, on the other hand, felt restless. Energy prickled beneath your skin. Usually during partner hunts, Titus stole the show. You were just there, following him around and watching him with barely contained lust as he choked the life from an innocent being. But tonight was not one of those nights. Your fingers were itchy, running over the handle of the blade that swung at your hip. You took a deep breath and looked at your husband in front of you. You knew Titus needed the release of a kill, but he could do that any other night. Tonight, you wanted to take the kill. If you presented it correctly, Titus might actually allow you to take the glory. And you had an idea of how to make that happen in a way you’d both enjoy. Titus paused at an intersection and you ran your hand up his spine. You felt him tense under you.
“Titus.” You murmured, running your nose along his shoulder. Titus didn’t look back, just hummed in acknowledgement. He began to take a step, but your finger hooked through one of the belt loops on the back of his green cargo pants. He was pulled back into you. You nuzzled your face against his arm.
“What?” He said, voice a little gruff. He looked down at you over his shoulder. Not quite a glare, but it was clear he wasn’t fond of your interruption. You held it steadily, matching the intensity of his hazel eyes. But yours wasn’t a glare, it was a look of desperation. Of need. You removed the finger from the loop and let it drift to his front. You played with his belt buckle. Titus furrowed his brow and followed your movements with his eyes. “What are…baby,” he sighed “I’m a bit busy.”
“You’re too busy for your wife?” You frowned, pulling the tongue of his belt through the pronged buckle. Titus chuckled and shook his head. He removed your hands from his waist and turned to face you.
“That fucking needy, huh?” He growled, a condescending smirk on his lips. “Can’t wait ‘til we get home? You’re that fucking desperate for me?” His grip on your wrist tightened and he guided you until your back was pressed against the wall of the maze. You let out a small whimper, licking your lips and nodding enthusiastically. Titus leaned in, lips ghosting over yours. “Too bad.” He whispered, breath tickling the skin of your face. He ran his plush lips over your cheekbone. “You’re gonna have to wait.” He gave a dark chuckle and began to move away from you, but you grabbed a fistfull of his vest.
“Titus.” You bit out harshly. You threw your arms around his shoulders and pulled him close to you. His hands immediately flew to your hips to steady himself. You pressed wet kisses to his jaw line and his neck, squirming against him. Titus let out a shaky breath when you nipped at the sensitive spot near his jugular, grip tightening and dominating aura faltering just slightly. “I need you.” You begged, licking a stripe up his neck. “I want to feel your cum dripping out of me while I kill that man. Have you leaking from my pussy while I carve his heart out.” Titus moaned, eyes squeezing shut and hips bucking involuntarily at your words. One of your hands dragged down his chest. You twisted your wrist and cupped his crotch. “Please.”
“F…Fuck.” Titus huffed, lips twitching and jaw slackening. “You’re so…fucking hell, sweetheart.” He pulled your hips against his and grinded against your palm.
“Take care of me, Titus. Fuck me and watch me win the hunt.” He whimpered.
“Yea, okay.” He swallowed and his eyes fluttered open. His pupils were blown. “But we gotta be quick, and quiet, okay? Don’t know who’s around.” You nodded and captured his mouth in a kiss. Titus bit at your lip, rolling his hips into yours. The kiss was immediately heated and you smiled into it. Titus always got insatiable when you actually showed a sliver of maliciousness. To the world, you were just some woman he decided to marry. To him, you were his perfect match, complimentary to him in every way. He knew you had something sinister in your soul, and when you outwardly expressed it, he went crazy.
Titus only pulled away when both of your lungs screamed for air. He kept his forehead pressed against yours and panted against your lips. His large hands groped your ass and you jumped. He locked your legs around his waist and he pressed you harder into the stone wall. His palms roved your thighs and your fingers tangled in his hair. “You really want to do this?” He asked, low and gravelly. His pupils were blown, almost black, from the combined low light and lust that consumed him. His bottom lip twitched slightly with every panted exhale. “Wanna show off for me? Prove you’re more than just a pretty face?” You nodded and smiled, nostrils flaring in excitement.
“I’ll kill the fucker all by myself.” You promised. “Let you watch, too. I know how much you love it.” You felt his cock pulse against your core and his breathing was heavy.
“Take what you need.” He told you and you wasted no time unbuckling the rest of his belt. You didn’t have time to fully get undressed, so you pushed Titus’ cargo pants halfway down his thighs. Just enough to take out his leaking cock. You shifted slightly and pulled your underwear to the side. Titus’ hands were busy holding you up, so you wrapped your palm around his hot, heavy length and lined it up with yourself. He pushed in slowly, eyes locked on your expression, taking in every subtle twitch of the muscles in your face as he filled you in one smooth thrust. “You’re so tight,” He murmured “And so wet. Been needin’ this all day? Huh, baby, have I been neglecting you?” He tutted at you condescendingly.
“Shut up.” you gasped out, feeling your walls spasm around him. He began to pull out and you whined at the loss of him, clutching at his shoulders.
“Oh, sorry, I thought you changed your mind, since you wanna talk shit.” He tilted his head, faux confusion rounding his eyes.
“‘M sorry.”
“You’re sorry what?”
“I’m sorry, sir-” Your breath was punched out of your lungs by a sharp thrust.
“Atta girl. See how good it is when you play nice?” Titus chuckled, digging his hands into the meat of your ass. “You want it hard?” You nodded frantically. He widened his stance and braced you against the wall. He began jackrabbitting his hips into you, thick cock repeatedly spearing you open in rapid succession. Little mewls left your lips with every thrust. Titus dipped his head into your shoulder and bit down on your shirt to muffle his own grunts. His cheek rubbed against yours and the sensation of his stubble running against your smooth skin made you shiver. It only added to the way you felt completely surrounded by him. Your thighs slapped against his and your arousal dripped down his length.
“Titus!” You gasped when he angled you slightly differently and the head of his cock bruised the spot right in front of your cervix.
“That’s it, feel so good baby, doin’ so well. Takin’ it so well f’me.” His praises were muffled by your shirt, but they still sent flashes of arousal down your spine. “Need you to touch yourself. Don’t want to drop you.” You swallowed and shakily dipped a hand down to where you were joined. You rubbed tight circles around your clit, matching the pace at which Titus fucked you. It wasn’t long until you felt tightness coiling in your abdomen. You bit your lip to prevent your moans from escaping. Titus felt you were close. His back and knees hurt and sweat beaded at his temples, but he wouldn’t stop until he gave you what he needed. As sarcastic as he was, his primary goal in life was to take care of you in every aspect, including turning your brain into mush with his dick. You came together, Titus pushing into you as far as he could as you clenched down on him, trapping him inside you and milking him for all he was worth. Your combined heavy breathing filled the corridor and he stayed inside you until your sweat was cooled by the night air. His softened cock slipped from you and you gently wiped off the remaining beads of cum with your thumb before tucking him back into his pants. You brought your thumb to your mouth and sucked it clean. “Don’t do that,” Titus groaned “Gonna make me fuck you again.”
“What a terrible thought.” You retorted sarcastically. He helped you unhook your legs from his waist and set you on the ground, offering his arm for stability as your shaking legs gained their purchase. You didn’t have long to recover, though.
A shuffling noise on the other side of the wall snapped your attention. You pulled Titus into a shadowed area and waited. Sure enough, a man limped past the opening of the corridor. You didn’t recognize him. The Prey. He had a gash on his leg, and one of his hands clutched at his side. He didn’t see you, just kept hurrying further into the maze. You shared a look with Titus and saw the hunger you felt reflected in his eyes. He gave your ass a tap and nodded.
“Go get him, sweetheart.” He smirked, canines poking out from beneath his lip. The perfectly white teeth glinted in the candlelight. You slunk along the wall of the maze, keeping low to the ground, predatory and animalistic. You allowed yourself to slip into the mindset of a hunter. The front of your brain sharpened into focus as you noticed a smear of blood on one of the corners. Your shoulder blades and hips loosely shifted as you crouched down. A shiver crawled up your spine as you began to feel cum pool in your underwear. Titus walked lazily behind you, watching your every movement with sharp, assessing eyes. You felt a little bit of pressure to perform, but you forced the worries away. You might be a bit rusty, but as long as you got results, you knew he would be pleased. You peaked around the corner and saw the Prey, leaning his shoulder against the wall trying to regain his breath. You forced down the growl of excitement that crawled up your throat. You positioned yourself to get a better angle before pushing yourself off the ground, sprinting towards the man and knocking your entire weight into him. It was more of a sliding tackle and you went for his waist as you pulled him to the ground. A man’s center of gravity was in his sternum. He wasn’t a small guy and if you had tried to jump on him, there was no way you would’ve been able to overpower him. But since you went lower, combined with his injury, he fell to the ground easily. He let out a yelp and you slid across the ground, getting your feet beneath you and pressing yourself up before he could recover. Your knees stung slightly, the gravel scraping your skin, but you ignored it. Titus rounded the corner and leaned his weight against the wall. His hands were in his pockets and he stayed back, monitoring in case you needed his assistance. But he knew you wouldn’t. So he just sat back and enjoyed the show.
To his credit, the Prey got up faster than you were expecting. He had fallen on his stomach and you hurried over to him, grabbing onto the fabric of his shirt and trying to pull him onto his back so you could get to his chest. He swung an arm at you. You should have dodged, but you were a little rusty, and his elbow caught your nose. You cursed and your hand flew to your face. It gave him enough time to get to his feet and you followed suit. Anger and frustration bubbled in your throat and you widened your stance, glaring the man down. He looked at you for a moment and licked his lips. He threw the first punch. But you were ready for it. He had shifted his weight obviously before lunging at you and you swiftly dodged to the side. The momentum of the movement sent him stumbling forward and you were able to land a hit to his ribs- the side that he had been clutching at. An agonized groan fell from his lips. He doubled over, hand slapping against the wall to brace himself. You shifted behind him, awaiting his next move. You planned on using his weight against him. No need to overexert yourself and potentially get hurt. Titus had taught you how.
The man pounded his fist against the stone in anger and pain and whirled to face you. He snarled, gritting his teeth as he lunged again. You allowed yourself to relax your muscles and the man tackled you. He had expected more resistance, and together you tumbled over the ground. He had overjudged the force needed to tackle you and somersaulted with you. You hooked your legs around his weight and worked with the momentum to flip him onto his back. His hands went to your hips to try and get you off, but you kneed him in the crotch before he could. Another strangled sound of pain. It stopped him long enough for you to crawl up higher on his body, straddling his chest. Your thighs caged his shoulders and arms to his body. He struggled against you, but you pressed yourself down harder. There was no way he would be able to move. Your hand grabbed the blade’s handle and you unsheathed it. You held it up by your face before plunging it down in his throat. Quick. Precise. Deadly. Blood gushed immediately and you flinched slightly as it splattered against your jaw. You rubbed your lips together, trying to keep it from dripping into your mouth. You pressed the knife in deeper until the gurgling noises stopped. You took a deep breath and suddenly the adrenaline of the situation washed over you and you felt your hands begin to shake. You removed the blade with a grunt and slid off the man’s chest. You could do the heart extraction yourself. But you figured Titus deserved a treat. You got to your feet and smoothed off your skirt, practically skipping to where Titus stood. He was in the same position, resting against the wall, but his breathing was uneven, eyes locked on your every movement. You could see the prominent erection pushing against his pants. You sauntered over to him, hips swaying and knife dripping blood onto the ground as you walked. You splayed a hand on his chest and felt his heart battering against your palm. He swallowed and looked back at the body. His breath hitched and a strangled moan escaped his throat. You followed his gaze and smirked when you realized what he had seen. Right in the center of the man’s chest was a wet splotch, darkening the fabric of his shirt. It was resting exactly where your pussy had been. You had made good on your promise- Titus’ cum was, in fact, staining the corpse. You let out a little laugh and caught his jaw between your fingers. You forced him to look back at you. You raised the knife to your lips and kept eye contact as you slipped it into your mouth. You licked the blade clean, careful not to cut yourself, before handing it to him. Titus shook his head in disbelief. He captured your mouth in a starving kiss, lapping at your tongue to chase the flavor of the blood. He groaned primally when he found it. He swallowed your spit and moved his kiss along your jaw. His tongue sucked at the sprayed blood until your face was thoroughly cleaned.
“I don’t…I can’t even explain to you how hard I am right now. Shit.” He growled, eyes squeezed shut. You rubbed your palm along his clothed erection and he sighed in relief.
“Finish the job and we can go home. You can show me.” Titus nodded and kissed you again. Softer, similar to the way he kissed you goodbye every morning. He took the blade from your hand and gave your nose a little tap with it. He walked over to the body, kneeling beside it and running the tip of the blade through the wet spot you had left. He chuckled and shook his head. Then, he began to cut into the man’s chest.
“I’ll do the chef’s special tonight, please.” You said into the room phone, popping another strawberry into your mouth. “Thank you, sir. Bye.” You placed the phone back into its receiver and rolled yourself onto your stomach. You were laying on the bed of the hotel, fresh out of a bath and watching TV with a bowl of strawberries. The silk fabric of your bathrobe brushed softly against your skin as you settled back into your position, one of your legs hiked up closer to your body. Your arms snaked beneath the pillow that you rested your chin on. You rolled your eyes at the reality show contestant who was bearing his soul to the camera. “You shouldn't have said that dumb shit if you didn’t want her to leave you.” You muttered, shaking your head as you devoured another strawberry. You were in a hotel in Houston. Titus had a business meeting and, since you didn’t feel like spending the weekend alone and you had never been to the city, you decided to join him. You spent the day roaming around downtown, stopping into shops that lined the main street and taking pictures of the flower features. You had promised yourself that you would be good. It was only a two-day trip and you had packed a small duffle bag of clothes. You didn’t have a lot of space to fill with new things. Even though Titus probably would have told you to just buy another suitcase to take home. You tried to be mindful about your consumption. You didn’t have an overwhelming amount of clothes, but what you did have was the highest quality. You only allowed Titus to buy you material goods for birthdays and anniversaries. You wanted the quiet luxury of true wealth, not of a Real Housewife. You preferred experiences over gifts; would rather go to the brand new 5-star restaurant for dinner than get a different color of a bag you already had. You were better than that. The world was burning, after all. You did allow yourself one luxury today, though. You had walked past a nail salon and had promptly entered. You needed a new set anyway and you thought it would be a fun surprise for your husband. Long acrylics sometimes got in the way of your duties, but you weren’t aware of any planned hunts, so you decided to revitalize the extensions at the tips of your fingers.
The door clicked open. Your brow furrowed but you didn’t take your gaze off the TV screen. There was only one person who it could be, but you weren’t expecting Titus to be done so early. You heard the shuffling of his shoes as he made his way into the suite, keys clicking against the counter of the kitchenette. You were sprawled on the bed and facing away from the door of the suite, so you only realized his presence when you felt the dip of the bed behind you. You turned your head over your shoulder. Sure enough, Titus sat there, taking off his shoes.
“Hi, honey,” You said with a grin, shifting slightly to offer him the bowl. “Strawberry?” He lifted his head to look at you. He looked a little tired. It was only just before dinner time, but the meeting must have drained him. You knew that he was looking to build a new casino resort outside the city and there was a lot still to do. But the dazed exhaustion in his eyes sharpened when he looked at you. His jaw tightened as he paused to take you in. You were completely naked underneath the robe and it was doing a poor job of concealing you. Your robe had come open at the chest, the slope of your breast tantalizingly close to spilling from the fabric. And since one of your legs was tucked close to your chest, the hem of the robe rode up your thigh, giving him an unrestricted view of your pussy. His lips twitched in a smirk.
“Sure.” He took the bowl from you and ate a berry before setting the porcelain on the bedside table. Titus shifted himself closer to you on the bed and settled a heavy hand on your bare thigh. His fingers ran up your leg and eventually grazed your folds. You sucked in a breath and opened your mouth but Titus clicked his tongue and shook his head. “Watch your show.” You turned back around, chin back on the pillow, but you lifted your hips a bit to give his fingers better access. “How was your day, baby?” Titus hummed, dragging a dampened finger down to your clit. He began to rub loose, lazy circles.
“It was good,” You sighed, a little hum of pleasure leaving your lips as the tip of his finger stretched your opening. “I walked around the shopping center.”
“Yea?” You could hear Titus’ voice light up. He loved when you spent his money. It made him feel needed. “You get anything for me?” You smiled and pushed yourself up, ignoring Titus’ frown when his fingers slipped out of you. You sat next to him and held up your hands to him so he could look at your nails.
“Got a fresh set.” You bit your lip with excitement as he took your hands in his. He appraised them with utmost seriousness. They were deep red and filed to a sharp point, perfectly reflecting the shining ceiling light. On your left ring finger, in fine silver paint, was a small T. You didn’t always get Titus’ initial or the pointed style, but an idea had come to you in the salon. “Do you like them?”
“I love them.” He confirmed, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. He brushed his thumb over the nail with his initial. “What’s this for?”
“It’s a T. For Titus.”
“Yea, I gathered that,” He rolled his eyes. “But what’s it for? Did I do something worthy of a reward?”
“It’s so people know who I belong to.” You dropped your voice to a sultry whisper. His eyes flicked up to meet yours.
“I think the carat on your finger does a pretty good job.” He countered, but there was an edge to his voice. His eyes were half-lidded and he licked his lips. He liked it. Good.
“Just in case.” You said quietly. Titus hummed and pulled you closer to him, pressing his lips to yours. The kiss was unhurried and sensual. When you licked against his lips, he parted them for you and his hand squeezed your thigh. You pulled back and gave him the most seductive look you could muster. He got the hint and stood up. You watched with hungry eyes as he unbuckled his belt and pushed down his pants. He pulled his shirt over his head with one hand and crawled over you. But you pushed at his chest. “Sit against the headboard.” Excitement lit up his gaze and he nodded. As he moved the pillows and got settled, you tugged the string of your robe, letting it fall off your shoulders and crumple on the floor. You kept your eyes on Titus the entire time, seeing his eyes widen and his breathing quicken when you bared yourself to him. You straddled him, taking his cheeks in your palms. You let your thumb graze his plump bottom lip, pulling it down slightly so that you could see a sliver of his canines. You leaned back in to kiss him again. Titus’ hands went straight to your hips as you began to grind on him, running your core over his slowly (but surely) hardening cock. A wet spot formed on his boxers. A mixture of his precum and your slick. Whereas the kiss before had been loving, this one was lustful. Wet tongues and nipping teeth and swallowed moans from both of you.
You captured his bottom lip in your teeth and clawed your sharp nails down his freckled chest, pressing just enough to leave instant angry red marks.
“Shit.” Titus hissed, but you felt him twitch against your thigh. You ran your nails down his abdomen a few more times, creating a lattice of scratches. You pulled back and admired your canvas, heaving and quivering beneath you, desperate for attention. The scratches you had given him were in a distinct pattern. Your initial. You hummed with appreciation as you gripped onto his pecs, kneading the flesh between your fingers. Your thumbs swiped over his nipples and he let out a shuddering breath. A light chuckle left your throat as you leaned in against his ear. You kissed his temple.
“Now people know who you belong to.” You murmured, grazing your teeth against his earlobe.
“You.” He nodded, bucking his hips into you. “I’m yours.”
“Prove it.” You challenged, sitting back on his lap and running your thumb over his cheek. He was on you in an instant, practically tackling you back onto the mattress. His mouth went for your throat, sucking and nipping down to your collar bones and eventually locking his mouth around one of your nipples. His hands ran up the side of your torso and flicked your other nipple with his thumb. He spent several minutes like that, just sucking hickeys into your chest and running his tongue along the expanse of your skin. Titus licked and pawed at you until you were squirming and mewling his name.
“You want something?” He mumbled, not lifting his head as he kissed the side of your breast. He sounded annoyed at your interruption. And yet, he otherwise seemed unbothered as he slowly explored your body. He showed incredible restraint, because you felt how painfully hard he was against your hip.
“Want you.” You keened, rolling your hips into his and rambling. “Want you t’fuck me.” And then, out of no where, “I want you to fill me up n’ fuck a baby into me.” Titus stilled above you. His head slowly raised to catch your eyes. Embarrassment cut through the hazy headspace of your pleasure. You weren’t really sure why you had said that. You and Titus never really talked about kids. You knew that, conceptually, you would one day have to continue the Danforth line. But you never actually discussed a timeline, or if that was even something he truly wanted. You knew Titus had issues with fatherhood. But you would be lying if you said you never considered it. And in the moment, it seemed like the right thing to say. Titus blinked at you. “Sor-” your apology was cut off by a fevered kiss.
“Oh, I’ll fill you up,” Titus growled as his tongue plunged into your mouth. “Fill you up so much you’ll be dripping for days. S’that what you want? For me to keep you bred and happy? Oh, I'd love to. All you had to do was ask, sweetheart.” You whined at his rambled words and he shoved his boxers down. He didn’t give you time to say anything else before he pushed himself into you. Your nails dug into his shoulder and you saw blood begin to pearl there. Titus shuddered. He didn’t start gently. Instead, he immediately pulled all the way back out before slamming back into you. The sudden sensation was so overwhelming, you didn’t notice Titus gathering your legs in his hands. He pushed your knees to your chest, ankles around his ears as he put his full weight into you. He braced himself by planting his hands by your head, but not before interlacing his fingers between your left hand and bringing it up with him. The one with your wedding ring and the small brand on your nail. Your eyes widened and your jaw slackened. He was so thick and deep inside your cunt you could feel him in your stomach. You let out a broken noise and Titus laughed breathily through parted lips. “Feel that?” He cooed, giving a small roll of his hips. You groaned at the way his cock kissed your cervix. Your head lolled to the side, forehead resting against his veiny forearm. His thighs were flush against your ass and you could feel his coarse pubic hair brushing against your clit. You felt so utterly full. And when he began thrusting again, you fisted the sheets.
“Ti…Titus…I-” You gasped, shaking your head. Your body jerked along the surface of the bed with each snap of his hits.
“You can take it.” He rumbled, picking up his pace. “I know you can.” You were too blissed out to muffle your moans and your pornographic noises joined the chorus of skin slapping. Between the borderline painful stretch of your walls against his thick cock, the feeling of his pubic bone bumping your swollen clit, and the sound of Titus grunting with exertion, your orgasm was building fast. You made eye contact with him with lidded, fucked-out eyes and he held it. “You’re takin’ me so well, honey,” he assured you, tilting his head to kiss your ankle bone. “Gonna cum with me? Yea? Please?” You gave a small nod and squeezed his hand. Titus’ head dipped back slightly, screwing his eyes shut and biting down on his lip. The pleasure was overwhelming and with one more nudge of his cock against your bladder, you came with a cry. Your free hand flew up to his hair for some tether to this reality. When he felt you tug on his curls, Titus’ eyes flew open and he came immediately, hips stuttering as he emptied himself inside your wet heat. Titus pulled in deep breaths, letting out strained groans as he rode out his release. You pulled him into a kiss. Brief, but necessary, before he collapsed onto you. As you both regained your wits, you ran your nails in soft circles. Soothing instead of scratching. You allowed your eyes to close and enjoyed the sensation of the wetness of your combined arousal dripping out of your pussy. You felt fulfilled.
After a few moments, you felt Titus’ fingers rub your clit. You yelped and tried to shift away from him, but he pinned you down with his weight. “Titus.” You whined, tapping his shoulders.
“Shh,” He soothed, kissing your neck. He lifted his head to look at you. You felt arousal spark again when you saw the lust still in his eyes. “You gotta cum again. Gotta make sure it takes.”
“I think, mmh, that’s a myth.” You squirmed again. Though, this time, you were trying to get closer to the pleasurable sensation building in your abdomen.
“Can’t take any chances.” He whispered. He tilted his head slightly and widened his eyes, tilting his eyebrows slightly upwards in the puppy-dog expression he knew would make you fold. “Please?” You pressed your lips together and rolled your eyes.
“Fine.” You muttered and a self-satisfied grin replaced his little pout. You felt his spent cock twitch back to life inside of you. You quirked an eyebrow. “Hard again already? Getting off on the idea of knockin’ me up? You’re such a perv.”
“Keep going, I'm close.” Titus quipped back. But it was true. The idea of giving you a baby, tying you to him forever (even though you were already married and your souls were condemned together), made his heart, and cock, throb with excitement and determination. Soft moans dropped from your lips as he worked you up to the edge, rolling his hips gently. He knew that like this, he could hit that sweet spot perfectly. “You’re so beautiful.” He said to himself. And you were, gleaming with sweat and huffing with arousal, sweet noises engraving themselves into his brain. He continued his movements as if it was his life’s duty to make you cum. If it was up to him, it would be.
The door to the room clicked open. Titus’ eyes snapped up immediately, pausing his movements and earning a frustrated whine from you. A startled young woman walked in, carrying a dinner tray. She froze in the doorway with a floundering expression, mouth open and closing, unsure what to do. Your eyes opened at the abrupt stop in stimulation. You noticed Titus wasn’t looking at you and followed his gaze. You yelped in surprise when you saw the staff member and moved to cover yourself. Titus’ face turned into a snarl.
“Get the fuck out!” He snapped airily, looking at her like she was the dumbest person to ever exist. She nodded immediately, placing the tray on the ground and practically sprinting back into the hall. The door closed behind her with a loud thud. Titus scoffed and shook his head. He looked back at you with burning fury. “I can’t fucking believe it. I should…” He let out a puff of air.
“You should what?” You asked quickly, licking your lips and eagerly awaiting his response. Titus raised a brow and a mischievous smile played on his face. He rolled his hips again and resumed stroking your clit. Tighter, more precise, rapidly rebuilding your orgasm.
“I should twist her head off for daring to interrupt us. For catching a glimpse of my wife.” He growled, thrusts becoming more erratic. Your legs began to shake underneath him and the familiar fuzzy warmth began to tighten in front of your tailbone. Your walls fluttered around him at his words.
“Yea?” Titus breathed “You like the idea of me killing someone for looking at you?” You didn’t trust your brain to properly form a sentence, so you did the next best thing. You clenched your walls around him as hard as you could. Titus hissed. “Oh, fuck!” The words were guttural, barely human, completely filled with adoration and pleasure. You pulled Titus close to you as you both hurdled closer to the edge. You came together, Titus painting your already sopping cunt and you milking him for all he was worth.
“Can I watch?” You panted out after a few moments. Titus laughed and kissed your forehead.
“Always.”
The soles of your sneakers slapped against the wet pavement. You were walking in the park, enjoying the way the frogs sang to you in the summer night air. You tried to keep your steps evenly paced, tried to walk normally down the empty walkway lined with bushes and trees. But you could not dampen the anxious, almost painful, thrashing of your heart against your lower ribcage. It was a primal, instinctual sort of fear. The lamp lights were on, but sparsely illuminated the walking path. There were large gaps of shadows between each post. You had the urge to sprint between the puddles of light, but it was silly to think someone would just…grab you from the street. You stepped into a shadowed patch. Suddenly, you felt a hand clamp down around your mouth, pressing your lips closed and muffling the scream that purged from you. It jerked you back and you collided with a warm mass. You thrashed beneath the force, but the stranger was too strong. You heard a deep voice hushing you. A prick at your neck. And your eyelids became too heavy to hold up, plunging you into unconsciousness.
The warm morning light cast shadows over your bed. You and Titus spent most mornings like this, half-awake and tangled up in each other. Your leg was thrown haphazardly over his hip and his arms pressed you close to his chest. Your breathing was synced, hearts lazily beating against each other. You nuzzled against his broad torso, taking a deep and soothing breath. You smelled the laundry detergent on his shirt, the left over traces of shampoo, and the underlying scent that was purely Titus.
“I know what I want for our anniversary,” You said, voice a little muffled by his chest. Titus didn’t move, just let out an inquiring hum. “I want to go to the Room.” You felt him shift at that, pulling back slightly and looking down at you with confusion-drawn brows.
“What do you mean?”
“As the victim.” Titus’ eyes widened and he took a deep breath.
“I dont think-”
You cut him off. “Don’t worry. You won’t actually hurt me. It’ll be like a roleplay. Something we can enjoy together.”
“O..kay.” Hesitation still filled his words, but you gave him your best begging eyes. “You know what to do. I’ll take a look and see if it’s something we can accomplish.” You nodded and pressed your face back against him, eager to get every quiet moment before your day officially started.
Roleplay wasn’t new in yours and Titus’ relationship. Most often, it was a simple exchange: pretending to be strangers meeting at one of his hotels during his business trips. Sometimes it was a little more detailed. Once, Titus had asked you to play nurse. You thought it would be a mental exercise, so you were taken aback a bit when you actually had to give him stitches on a self-inflicted knife wound. You were a bit hesitant to continue, but when you saw the pleading in his eyes, you recalled your basic first aid training and patched him up as best you could before he could actually see a doctor. He tore through the stitches that night, of course, at some point during the three times he came deep inside you. After that, you allowed yourself to consider the more…dark…roleplay ideas that swirled in your mind. Each time that either of you had an idea, Titus or you would write up an extremely detailed proposal for the scene. And your anniversary idea had been no different. After a few months of discussing and tweaking details for the comfortability of both parties, you and Titus had agreed on a day.
When you blinked awake, the light above your head pierced into your eyesockets. You let out a groan and shifted. Your movements were restrained and you quickly realized your ankles and wrists were bound to a chair.
“Oh, good, the princess is awake.” A voice sneered from the other side of the room. His back was turned to you, but you could identify the slope of those shoulders and the color of those curls anywhere. Titus was hunched over a small tool bench. You blinked away the lingering blurriness and took in your surroundings. You had never actually been in the Room while Titus was using it. You just made sure everything was sufficiently cleaned up after. It acted as a rage room for him. Except instead of breaking dishes, he broke bones. The sawdust floor caused particles to catch the light of the singular overhead lamp. You sat on a wooden chair, wrists roped to the armrests and ankles tied to the legs. You noted that the rope wasn’t just the regular hardware store grade. You recognized it from when Titus wanted to try Shibari a few years prior. It was soft against your skin and if you really needed to, you could break loose. But the view across from you caught you off guard. Another chair mirrored yours. Sitting in it was a man in his underclothes. The rope binding him to the chair was scratchy and circulation-restricting. He had duct tape over his mouth. His eyes were wild and flicked from you to Titus rapidly. You were surprised. In your scene write-up, you had mentioned that you wanted to see Titus in his element. You wanted to watch him torture someone genuinely and without holding back. Titus had been very unsure about it. Even after all this time and all the things you had been through together, he was scared of revealing that side of himself to you. He knew how brutally carried away he could get, and he hesitated to show you just what kind of monster you had vowed to love. But he had promised to think about it at least. And you were elated that he had decided to indulge. Titus turned to face you, leaning his waist back onto the table. He fiddled with a knife in his hand. “You know, pretty girls like you shouldn’t be walking all alone at night.” He gave a faux pout and tilted his head condescendingly. “There’s dangerous men out there.”
“Please…” You begged softly, eyes widening with fear. “Please don’t hurt me. You don’t have to do this.” Titus let out a dark laugh. A rumbling chuckle that you had never heard before. It settled in your bone marrow and made apprehension shiver up your spine.
“Why are you doing this? What do you want? You don’t have to hurt me. I’ll be good.” He mocked “At least come up with something fucking original.” You blinked back tears.
“I…Who is that?” You nodded at the man in the chair across from you.
“Some guy who owes me money.” Titus shrugged. He crossed the room and pressed the tip of the knife into the man’s tear-stained cheek. “Someone who likes the ponies but doesn’t have the assets to back his bets.” The man whimpered at the sensation of the blade pressing into his skin.
“B-But you don’t need his money, you're a Danforth. You don’t have to hurt him.” You pleaded, struggling weakly against your restraints. Titus stiffened and a small smirk twitched at his mouth.
“You know who I am.” It wasn’t a question. More of an amused observation.
“Of course. Everyone knows who you are.” Your voice faltered as Titus walked over to you. He used the tip of the knife to lift your chin. You looked up at him through tear-spiked eyelashes. “You’re the most powerful man in the world.” Your words were whispered but landed with the intended impact. Titus puffed out his chest slightly. He hummed with approval and slid the knife away from your chin. “W-Why am I here? I’m not…I don’t know him.”
“Wrong place, wrong time.” Titus said simply. “I got this idiot and I saw you walking all alone. And I just couldn’t help myself.” He ran two fingers over your cheek before smooshing the other side with his thumb, causing your lips to pucker. He was wearing black nitrile gloves and the smooth coolness of the material against your skin made you shiver. Titus leaned down closer and nudged your nose with his. “M’always lookin’ for a pretty thing to show off for.” You forced yourself to recoil, actively ignoring the wetness that was forming between your thighs.
“Fucking creep.” You spat, jerking away from him. Titus frowned and stood up. He looked down at you and his nose twitched. His pupils were blown and the muscle of his jaw popped. His hands went to your throat, turning your head and squeezing the sides of your neck. You coughed at the harshness of his hold.
“Here’s how this is gonna go,” He hissed in your ear, forcing you to look at him. “You’re going to watch me take care of my buddy here. And then you’re going to reconsider how nice you want to be to me. Okay?” You let out a whimper as he squeezed his fingers harder. Titus dropped his grip and rolled his shoulders, rounding the chair and walking back to the table. He spread his hands on the table and took a deep breath, considering his options. He cracked his gloved fingers and rolled his shoulders, stretching the muscles there.
He settled on a hammer. He gently tapped it against his palm experimentally and turned on his heel, lazily approaching the other chair. The man jerked against his restraint, continuous pleas muffled by the duct tape. Titus didn’t waste any time. The first hit of the hammer was to the man’s kneecaps. Titus put his entire body weight behind the strike, swinging it almost like a tennis racket against the side of the man’s leg. He tilted his head and pursed his lips at the man’s screech of agony and the cracking of the bone. He subtly looked over his shoulder to gauge your reaction. At first, you were too focused on the way Titus’ powerful muscles rippled beneath his shirt with the movement. But then you remembered your role.
“Stop!” You cried, lunging forward against your restraints. You were impressed with how emotional you were able to make your words. You almost sounded like you really cared. “Please! You don’t have to-” Titus cut off your words with another strike of the hammer, this time against the man’s lower thigh. The thump was softer. Meatier.
“The femur is the strongest bone in the body,” Titus huffed, slightly winded from the exertion. He wasn’t as young as he used to be. “You could theoretically hang a 200 pound weight from the middle and it wouldn’t break.” Another hit to the side of the man’s leg. Tears were streaming from his eyes and his head was thrown back. His entire body quivered beneath Titus. “But, if you repeatedly-” another blow “hit” another “the right” another “spot,” Titus raised the hammer higher, putting even more force into the strike. He brought it down like a pickaxe, swinging into the top of the man’s leg. You heard a sickening crack. “It can fracture.” The man’s curdling scream breached the barrier around his mouth. Titus stepped back and rose to his full height, turning to face you with a sickening grin. “Not a clean break, but enough to immobilize.” The shocked expression on your face was genuine. A tear slipped from your eye.
“Y-You made your point,” you said shakily “You can let us go now.” Titus gave a disappointed sigh.
“Thought you were smarter than that, baby,” He shook his head and looked back at his victim, whose eyes were fluttering. He was struggling to stay conscious as his leg rested at a broken angle, blood from his crushed knee dripping down his leg and staining his sock. When Titus noticed the man’s wavering consciousness, he slapped him across the face. Hard. The man jolted up and looked up at Titus with wet eyes. “You like race horses. Surely you know what happens to one when it breaks a leg.” He pouted. The man’s eyebrows pinched together in a pleading expression as he shook his head ‘no’. Titus nodded with a smile. “Yea.” he confirmed. He turned the hammer around to wield the pronged side. The usually dull forks were sharpened to points. “Say ‘hi’ to Secretariat for me.” His mouth pinched together as he swung the prongs into the side of the man’s neck. The forks lodged themselves into the man’s jugular and blood sprayed from the site. It splattered onto Titus’ forearm. He only released his grip on the handle when the man’s head lolled to the side, eyes dulling as the remnants of his life gushed from his neck and pooled in the sawdust below. Titus wiped the blood from his gloved hand onto his jeans, leaving a dark smear on the fabric. A few moments passed where Titus’ heavy breathing was the only sound that filled the empty air. Then, he turned to you and smirked. You startled under his heated, heavy gaze.
“Are you ready for your turn?” His voice was deep, gravelly, and you’d be lying if it didn’t send a flicker of fear through your chest. You trusted Titus completely, and you weren’t a stranger to the menacing look he was wearing. But it was the first time you’d been on the receiving end of it. An all-consuming depraved and unpredictable hunger that overrode any trace of the man who worshiped you. It was so intense that you didn’t have to fake the tears that dripped from your eyes. You shook your head rapidly, biting down on your lip.
“Please,” You choked out. “Please don’t.” Your eyes flicked to the hammer. Titus tossed the weapon to the ground and his lips peeled back. You realized he was smiling.
“Don’t worry,” He cooed, the light of the lamp reflecting off his canine teeth. “I’ve got different toys just for you.” You were confused when he untied you. Your limbs were still a little fuzzy from the sedative so Titus pulled you up from the chair. He grabbed your middle and flung you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing. You out a little yelp at the unexpected motion. He carried you into a small storage room in the barn, kicking in the door and laying you across a table. You felt the cold steel through the thin layer of your clothes. You weren’t unbound for long. Titus flipped you over onto your stomach and manhandled your arms so they were behind you. He tied your wrists back together. He leaned down next to your ear. “You gonna be nice to me, or do I need to tie your ankles, too?” You shook your head.
“I-I’ll be good, I promise.” You felt him smile as he kissed your shoulder. He pushed your legs beneath you so that you were kneeling on the table, ass up, but your cheek still rested on the cold metal. The hem of your skirt tickled the back of your bare thighs. Titus flipped up your skirt so it rested on your waist. Titus groaned when he saw the inside of your thighs were glistening with your slick and the crotch of your underwear was practically transparent. “You’re sick,” He chuckled deeply, running a gloved finger up your inseam. “Soaking yourself while watching me torture someone. Tell me,” His fingers drew closer to your pulsing cunt and you felt your clit twitch. “Was it the blood? The bones cracking? What about it made your pussy wet?”
“N-No,” You denied. “M’not- I don’t-” You meant to say that you hated it, play a bit more into the fantasy, but your words were cut off when you felt his fingers push your underwear to the side and stretch the opening of your cunt. You let out a high-pitched whine. The smoothness of the glove made it easy for two of his fingers to go to the knuckle.
“Mhm, sure.” Titus rolled his eyes. “That’s why you're dripping down my wrist.” He slid his fingers in and out lazily, smiling at the way your breathing hitched with each curl of him against your walls. You cried out when he removed himself from you and he watched you clench around nothing. “Relax,” he scoffed, “we’re gonna have some more fun. Just gotta do some things first.” You heard some clattering behind you. You gasped when you felt the cool sharpness of a blade run down your side. “Don’t move.” Titus mumbled as he cut your clothes away from you. The scraps of fabric fell away and the night air raised goosebumps on your skin. He threw your overclothes to the side and carefully unclipped your bra (you had told him that bras were too expensive to cut away) and tossed that on the pile. You were left just in your underwear. But Titus didn’t cut those. He pulled them down and adjusted you so he could take them off in one piece. He used the fabric to wipe away the blood on his forearm. After running it gently over the length of his arm, he brought it to his face and kissed it. He tucked them into his waistband.
You were fully bare now. Titus pulled you up to a kneeling position and told you to hold it for a few moments. He rounded the table to your front. He was holding a pair of small clamps, connected together by a golden chain. You swallowed and your chest heaved. Titus reached for your breast. You jerked back instinctively, which was a mistake. His eyes snapped to yours and frustration twitched on his face. He landed an open-palmed smack to your ass. The action made you gasp and push your tits out. “I told you not to move.” He scolded. He roughly grabbed one of your breasts and pinched the nipple between two of his fingers. He had taken off his gloves and the warmth of his fingers against your nipple made you bite your lip. Titus bent forward, swirling his tongue and sucking until it was sufficiently pebbled. He kissed across your chest until his mouth found the other nub. He repeated the motion until both of your nipples were pointed and aching. Only then did he pull back and open the clamps. The prongs had little rubber coverings at the end. You only realized what they were for when he clipped them simultaneously to your nipples. You let out a whine at the sensation of them digging into you. You squirmed a little but eventually, the pain turned into pleasure. With each breath, the connecting chain shifted against your sensitive skin, which only heightened the sensations. When you stopped squirming, Titus smirked. He leaned in and gave you a sloppy kiss, leading with his tongue. He licked at your mouth and ran his tongue against yours, exploring every inch. It took everything in you not to reciprocate the passion. But when Titus’ hand settled on the back of your head and pushed you needily further into his face, you broke a bit. You moved your lips against his, moaning into his mouth. His other hand ran down the side of your hip and dipped between your thighs. He groaned when his fingers slipped against your cunt. Titus broke the kiss.
“Fuck, you’re so wet.” He breathed, bottom lip trembling slightly with the exhale. “You ready f’me?” You gave a small nod and he began kissing down your throat and onto your back. He walked back behind you and pressed your torso back down. His hands rested on your hips and helped you scoot back so that your feet dangled over the edge. Titus worked quickly, shucking his shirt over his head and pushing his jeans down to his knees. His cock was painfully hard, had been since he first connected the hammer to the man’s knees and heard your cry of fear. His boxers had been sticky with the amount of precum leaking from his head and he shuddered when the air met the wetness of his cock. Titus pushed into you, filling your sweet cunt with one movement. You gasped and dug your fingers into your restrained palms. You felt his hips flush against yours. He didn’t give you time to adjust to him before he began to move. “Feel s’good, baby,” he panted, thrusting into you at a brutal pace. Obscene wet noises joined the chorus of your moans and Titus’ grunts. He used the grip on your hips to fuck you on his thick cock, almost completely removing himself and then burying himself to the hilt with every thrust. Each brush of his cock against your sweet spot made a breathy moan drop from your lips, a sound Titus wanted on repeat. You were practically dripping onto the steel table and your arousal settled into a creamy ring around the base of Titus’ length. He repositioned himself so that he could free one of his hands and reach around your hip. You jolted against him when you felt the first swipe of his finger along your clit. He knew exactly what pace and what shapes had you mewling beneath him, and he wasn’t gentle about building your release. He went straight for the most mind-numbing stimulation he could think of. “I can feel you squeezin’ me,” He panted, pounding into you harder “I know you’re close. Let go. Cum for me.”
“Mm-I can’t, Titus!” You gasped, shaking your head and feeling drool dribble from the corner of your mouth. It was too much. Every nerve in your body was alight and, though you could feel the band tightening in your belly, your mind was too overstimulated to focus on it. It was only made worse when Titus smacked your ass hard. You felt the flesh tingle where each of his five fingers individually hit.
“You can and you will,” Titus growled, baring his teeth. “Prove to me how much you love me. How much you love taking this dick.” You let out a loud whine. Each punch of his cock forced air from your lungs and the minor oxygen deprivation made your body tingle. It was enough for your orgasm to build and it crashed through you brutally. You cried out, tears streaming from your eyes and legs shaking violently as you clenched around him. You felt your release further coat your thighs and Titus kissed down your spine as he fucked you through the orgasm. Emotion built in your chest and you felt a sob tumble from your throat. You took a big shaky breath and felt another wave of tears break. You needed to hold him close to your chest. Needed to look at him. Needed his praise in the moment. You struggled against your restraints.
“P-Printer.” You gasped out, loud enough for Titus to hear you. He stopped immediately and pulled out.
“Honey?” He asked gently, concern filling his voice at the use of your safe word. He walked to the side of the table where your face was, crouching down to your level and pushing your hair out of your eyes. His gaze searched your face as you cried. “Oh my god, baby, fuck, I’m-I’m so sorry.”
“N-Need to be on my back.” You sniffled. Your hips were screaming and your nipples were numb from the clamps. Titus nodded and undid the knot at your wrists. He gently rolled you over and took off the nipple clamps, throwing them to the side like they had personally offended him. When you were on your back and your legs were in a more comfortable position, you grabbed Titus’ hand. You took a few calming breaths and Titus rubbed circles into your palm.
“What happened?” He asked gently. “Was…Was I too rough? I’m sorry I didn’t-”
“I’m fine,” you assured him, blinking away the remaining tears. “I just want to see you. Wanna have my hands in your hair when you cum in me.” Titus’ mouth twitched and his eyes were wide with uncertainty.
“We don’t have to continue if it was too much for you. We can stop. Take a bath and watch something.”
“Please, Titus,” You urged, running your hand down his chest “Need you to fill me up.” He didn’t seem convinced, worry still rounding his eyes. You pulled him into a gentle kiss. “Please.” He sighed against your lips and nodded.
“I’ll be gentle.” He promised as he climbed back on top of you. He re-entered you slowly, watching your face closely for any discomfort, but found only a look of pleasure as you stretched around him. He rolled his hips slowly, only picking up the pace when you dug your heels into his ass.
“Please,” you keened “I need you so bad.” Titus furrowed his brows.
“W’d’you mean, sweetheart?” He mumbled in confusion “You got me. I’m right here. I’ve got you.” You shook your head with a needy whine.
“N-Need you closer.” You clawed at his back and pulled him close to you so that his full weight was on top of you. His head nestled into the crook of your neck and he continued fucking into you. Your fingers tangled in the silver curls at the nape of his neck. You pulled your knees closer to your chest and the new angle made you feel even more full of him. “I f-fucking love you so much.” You whispered, pressing a kiss to his temple.
“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” He confessed against your skin “I love you more than everything.” His thrusts got sloppier with each passing moment. You knew he was close and you allowed your walls to grip him tighter, drawing another moan right against your ear. You bit down on his shoulder and dug your nails into his back. Titus whimpered at the sensation and pushed himself as far into you as he could, emptying himself deep within you. He gasped as he rode out his own release before settling heavy on top of you. His warmth and the pressure of his body soothed you in a way that only he could provide. You kissed at the imprint your teeth left in the meat of his muscle. Titus lifted his head and kissed your lips romantically, soft pecks and little licks. You let your head rest against his and closed your eyes, feeling exhaustion settle into every corner of your mind and body.
“Mm-mm,” He hummed, shaking his head. He removed his softening cock and the loss of him made you pout. “Don’t fall asleep here. Gotta get you back and cleaned up. You think you can do that for me?” You sighed and nodded. Titus pulled up his pants and helped you pull his shirt over your naked frame. He’d come and clean up tomorrow, but right now, you were his top priority. He curled an arm beneath your knees and picked you up, pressing you against his chest. You wrapped your arms around his neck and settled into the position. You closed your eyes as Titus carried you back to the house. You gave him a sweet smile and mumbled your gratitudes into his chest. You didn’t see it, but Titus smiled, too. A rare, genuinely fond smile only reserved for you.
the world was on fire, and no one could save me but you
(titus danforth x reader)
Titus has always been there to protect you. Your entire life. He'll sleep with you, tell you he loves you, but tells his family he's seeing the hottest new socialite in town. You get sick of it, and hit the apps in a desperate attempt to get over him.
But when the guy you're seeing starts to show red flags that make Titus look like the world's most well-adjusted man, you start to worry that you're about to become a statistic.
OR: the one where you go on a date and don't tell titus, before coming to regret the decision immediately
inspired by a true crime tiktok i saw lmao
warnings: 18+, mdni! evil men (not titus), genuine fears of being murdered, reader makes bad choices in this (don't go on hikes with strange men!), dread, there will be smut and violence in the second part w/c: 3.6k
main masterlist // titus danforth masterlist
Keep your location on at all times.
Tell at least one person where you’re going, and where you’re expected to be.
Don’t ever let them take you to a second location. Risk the injuries to stay where you are.
In the event that you are in a second location, leave as much evidence behind as possible. Hair, nails, jewellery. Take pictures and videos if possible, so your phone becomes an asset.
And most importantly: never trust anyone.
You’ve known Titus Danforth your whole life - you’ve loved him, you’ve loathed him, you’ve done everything in between. As one of the lesser Families, you weren’t subjected to quite the same rituals as him. Your family worked to serve the others. Do the grunt work, and be spared from the hunts and challenges.
Protection and networking with the most powerful people in the world.
Your parents hadn’t planned on you falling in love with the Danforth heir.
As teenagers, the Danforth twins sought you out, as one of the only other people their age at each boring dinner party. Ursula became a confidant, Titus a lover.
He was your first everything.
If it had been up to you, he would have been your only everything.
But the third daughter of a second-tier family was never going to cut it. Not when Titus stands to inherit everything once his father passes.
By your twenties, he’s actively seeing other people. In private, he insists that it’s all for show, to appease his father, but you’re not so sure. You’ve seen the paparazzi pictures - full of the most gorgeous women in the world hanging off of his arm each night.
It eats you alive.
Of course, you still come when he calls.
When he turns up on your door, bloodied and bruised from a tough hunt, you tend to his wounds and kiss it better. When he invites himself into your bed, you let him do it each and every time.
When he tries to teach you self-defence, you laugh in his face.
I don’t do hunts.
You might someday.
Your only shot of that happening would be if Titus marries you. An event which looks less and less likely with each passing day. Sure, Titus has never married - unusual for a Family member well into his thirties - but he’s also made no attempt to solidify whatever it is that he has with you.
Instead, he has rules.
If you won’t learn how to throw a punch, you have to know how to keep yourself safe in a world like this. Even knowing Titus puts you at more risk than most people.
And he’d never forgive himself if something happened to you.
*****
You think you’re making the biggest mistake of your life. Ankles crossed, you glance over at Tony, and try to tell yourself that you know him.
You’ve already been out on three dates, you’ve been in his apartment before, and you’ve seen his Instagram account.
He’s not a catfish.
And yet.
After meeting on Hinge and chatting for a few weeks, he’d taken you out for dinner, and things had looked hopeful. You were out to get over Titus once and for all, while he was ready to get back into dating after his divorce a few years back.
When Titus had asked who you were meeting that night, you’d told him it was a friend from college.
The lie tastes bitter in your mouth, but it’s a necessary evil. Titus always gets strange whenever another man is in your life. You didn’t see him for a whole year while you were dating your college boyfriend. Of course, he was on your doorstep the very night that you broke up.
Quite how he knew, you’ll never know.
You’re never going to build something new if he’s hovering over you at all times. Date two with Tony had been at some upscale bar - exactly the kind of place Titus would usually take you. You hate that it makes you like him more.
Date three felt more domestic: a quiet Italian spot downtown where he split his tiramisu with you and told you the truth about his marriage ending. They were on good terms, but after five years together, there was just no spark anymore.
No red flags.
No psychotic exes.
Just a lonely man, looking for companionship. The exact way you are.
"So," Tony had said, setting his wine glass down on the table. "For next time, I’m thinking hike. More of an activity - to see how we gel outside of the wining and dining.”
You’re a little surprised. Tony doesn’t seem like the hiking type. Maybe he’s just trying to appeal to your interests. “Yeah, that would be nice. Any thoughts on which one?”
“Ah, let me surprise you, okay? I know a great one quite nearby. Incredible sunsets.”
An instant alarm goes off in your head, ringing with Titus’s voice. Never let a guy you barely know take you to a second location, let alone isolated woods, without a pin dropped. Unfortunately, your most recent experience with Titus involved watching him stick his tongue down some model’s throat ‘for the sake of appearances’.
You haven’t spoken to him since, despite the many texts and voicemails left.
Titus doesn't get to dictate your safety metrics anymore - not when he’s the one who left you stranded in this emotional limbo.
Patience wearing ever thinner, you consider Tony’s words. “Not even a hint?”
“Wouldn’t that ruin the surprise?”
Over the next week, you tried in vain to get some more information out of him, to no avail. He wouldn’t even tell you what type of terrain it was likely to be.
Sneakers are fine, don’t overthink it.
He’s picking you up at 4:00 AM, so that by the time you drive out to the trail, the sun will be beginning to rise, and you can catch the views from the top.
In theory? Super romantic.
Titus only hikes if there’s the promise of murder at the end of it.
Tony has a normal-person job, and you’d be able to leave all the LeBail business behind you with him. Which is how you end up in his car when it’s still dark, trying to discern where he’s taking you. You’re pretty familiar with all the trails in the city’s vicinity, and this highway doesn’t lead towards any of them.
You’re trying to ignore the anxious buzzing in your stomach, making polite conversation until Tony asks, “So, did you tell anyone what you were doing today?”
An answer slips out before you can consider your words. “No.”
Shit. Why did you say that?
“Well, I mean-” You stall a little, unsure of what to say, but suddenly desperate to get out of the car. “Think we could stop for coffee on the way? My treat.”
“Nah,” He shrugs. “I’d rather just get there, if that’s okay - we still have a decent drive, and I don’t want to miss the sunrise.”
Your mind races through the geography of the area, desperate to find a logical explanation for this route. None exists. The highway is empty, swallowed by the thick fog of the pre-dawn hours, and his profile in the dim glow of the dashboard looks sharper and colder than it did over tiramisu.
"So," Tony says, his voice abruptly slicing through the quiet. The sudden shift in tone makes you jump. "You never finished telling me about that project at work. The one with the crazy deadlines?”
"Oh. Right," you lie, your throat dry. You force out a brief anecdote of your awful boss, leaving out how you’d rather be having your worst day at work than be here with him right now.
Five minutes tick by. The road narrows. The highway lines fade from bright white to a weathered, neglected yellow. Every instinct is screaming at you to do something. Anything - before it’s too late.
"Hey, Tony?" you say, keeping your voice light, aiming for casual but landing on brittle. "Actually, could we pull over at the next gas station? Or even just a rest stop? I really need to pee. Especially before we start a hike.”
Tony doesn't look at you. His grip on the steering wheel doesn't shift, his knuckles white against the dark leather.
"Nah, we're making great time right now," he says, a small, dismissive shrug of his shoulder accompanying the words. "There’s nothing out here for miles anyway. You can just do it when we get there. It won't be long.”
The dismissal hits you like a physical blow. You can do it when we get there.
You have to let someone know where you are. But who?
You’re not sure that any of your friends are even awake right now. Except…
Titus.
It always comes back to him. You weigh up your options - the smugness when he realises that he has to come and rescue you again. That he can mingle with movie stars and socialites, while the only men that are interested in you turn out to be losers and psychopaths.
When the alternative is death, the decision seems easy.
You slip your phone out of your pocket, and click on Titus’ number. You don’t even tell Tony you’re making a call.
Come on, you think. Please pick up. Please still be awake.
Please please please please please please-
“Hello?”
His voice is groggy and tinged with sleep, and the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.
“Mom!” You say immediately, barely sparing a glance at Tony. You’ve already decided that if Tony is as dangerous as you worry he might be, then phoning another man is not a good idea. “I’m so sorry to call so early, but I saw that you’d called last night.”
“What? It’s Titus, kid. Is everything okay?”
Your heart is thumping against your chest as you will him to catch on. “I know! It’s been too long - but I’m looking forward to seeing you tonight. Just thought I should tell you that Dad’s gift is ready to be picked up. I was thinking maybe you could get it, since I’m hiking today.”
There’s a moment of dead air on the line, and for one agonising second you worry that he’s hung up, or you’ve lost signal. You stare straight out the windshield, watching the headlights cut through the pitch-black void, praying that the sharp, calculating mind that makes Titus so formidable in the LeBail circle is firing through his sleep-deprived haze.
"Hiking," Titus repeats. The grogginess vanishes instantly, replaced by a cold, razor-sharp focus. His tone drops an octave, all business now. "Where exactly are you?"
"Exactly! The weather is supposed to be beautiful," you say, your voice bright, breezy, and entirely unhinged from the terror clawing at your throat. You slide your thumb down the side of the phone, blindly feeling for the volume buttons, desperately trying to click them down so Tony can't catch the low rumble of a man's voice.
"Give me a location," Titus commands. His voice is low, but you can hear the rustle of sheets, the sudden shift of weight as he swings his legs out of bed. "Drop a pin right now if you can. What road are you on?”
“The cell service isn’t great out here, Mom,” You reply, continuing to smile even though your cheeks ache from the effort. “But I’ll try and send some photos! We’re headed east, so I think the views are going to be really great.”
"I can't track your signal," Titus says, his voice cutting through with an urgency that scares you. "The connection is degrading. It's dropping to a single bar. I need landmarks, or you need to get out of-”
“Is everything okay?” Tony interrupts, and you flinch slightly.
“Fine,” You chirp. “Sorry - it’s my dad’s retirement party tonight, and I just needed to tell my mom to go grab his gift.” Turning your attention back to the phone, you swallow. “Gotta go, mom - I’ll call you later? Bye, love you!”
Titus’ voice comes immediately. “Don’t hang up the phone-”
You don’t. Instead, you drop it to your lap, with the screen turned inwards so that Tony can’t see. “Sorry about that.”
Tony’s foot hits the brake, and the sudden deceleration jerks you forward. The car swerves right, leaving the asphalt of the highway behind, replaced by an uneven dirt trail.
"Wow, it’s really dense out here," you say, forcing your voice to stay loud and clear for Titus. "It looks so dark under all these massive oak trees. And that dried-up creek bed back there - is that part of the state park border, or are we on private property now?”
“I own this land with a couple of buddies - that’s why it was such a surprise. Nobody else gets to use these trails, so we’ll have the place to ourselves.”
Great. Your heart sinks a little further.
The car crawls forward another hundred yards before the headlights illuminate a heavy, rusted iron gate blocking the road. A thick chain and a massive padlock hold it shut.
Tony cuts the engine. “Just gotta unlock it.”
He pops the door open, and you consider your chances of making it if you start running now. Probably not great. Through the windshield, you watch his silhouette move into the beam of the headlights, his hands working at the heavy chain.
You whip the phone out of your pocket, bringing up the screen to check the call status, ready to scream a real landmark to Titus.
No signal.
Call failed.
You think you might cry.
All you can do is pray that Titus has enough information to find you. Nails digging into your palms, you force another smile at Tony, as he drives you further into the woods.
After what feels like a lifetime, he pulls into an opening, and you immediately start cataloguing all the information you can.
There’s another truck down at the end - hopefully a vehicle they leave here. Because if it’s not, you potentially have another assailant to deal with. The ground is a pale, hard-packed dirt ringed by towering, skeletal trees that completely shut out the sky. Dead leaves carpet the edges, and directly in the centre of the clearing sits a massive, looming stack of logs. They’re piled easily ten feet high - thick, weathered trunks of pine and oak, rough bark peeling away.
“You bring all the girls up here?” You joke feebly.
“Only the really pretty ones.” He offers a small, boyish grin that, just yesterday, you would have found endearing.
Getting out of the car, you note the direction of the highway. It’s past about fifty metres of woodland, but you hope you could make it in a sprint. Maybe if you catch Tony off-guard. “How long do you think the hike will take?”
“Maybe an hour? Hard to say - but we shouldn’t rush.”
Terrifyingly, the cold Tony of the car ride is gone, and he’s back to date one Anthony. Maybe the LeBail paranoia has finally eroded your sanity, twisting a sweet, outdoor surprise into a psychological thriller. Maybe he really is just a corporate guy who wants to show you a sunrise. Maybe you’ve been mis-reading it all, and actually-
Out of the corner of your eye, peaking out from under the logs, sits a shoe. A New Balance trainer, pale pink, and far too small to be a man’s.
The illusion of Date-One Anthony shatters into a thousand jagged, lethal pieces. The normal job, the Hinge profile, the vulnerable story about his divorce - it was all bait.
"Hey," Tony says, the heavy thud of his car trunk snapping shut behind you. You hear his footsteps crunching on the gravel, moving steadily closer to your back. "I grabbed the backpack. You ready to head down the trail?”
If you were to run now, he would undoubtedly catch you. He’s taller, stronger, and far more familiar with this place than you are. Your only option now is to bide your time. “Shall we take a pre-hike selfie? Compare it to the top?”
Your camera is open already, and you snap a few blurry shots of him. If you don’t make it out of this, at least your evidence might stop it happening to other girls.
“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary,” He laughs. “We can just do one at the top Ladies first.”
He gestures down the trail, and you have to fight back a wave of nausea. This is it. You’re going to die, all because you wanted to get back at Titus for seeing other women.
What a silly thing to lose your life over.
You’re hyper-aware of each and every footstep, checking for service at every possible second. Still nothing. “I’m actually kind of tired,” You try, one last time. “Didn’t sleep too well-”
“We’re here now.” Tony’s tone invites no conversation.
You turn to keep an eye on the trail behind you, pretending to adjust the collar of your jacket, and the air leaves your lungs completely.
A shadow is moving through the trees. It isn't an animal. It’s a man, wearing a dark canvas jacket, stepping silently off the main dirt track and into the brush, mirroring your pace. The driver of the mud-caked truck.
You have to get out of here. Now.
Biding your time is no longer an option. If you walk any deeper into these woods, you will be sandwiched between them, entirely cut off from the fifty meters of woodland that separates you from the highway.
You don't say another word. You don't make an excuse. You think you might die if you do.
Instead, you pivot on your heel and break into a blind, desperate sprint toward the direction of the highway.
"Whoa, hey! Where are you going?" he calls out, his tone mimicking normal, polite confusion for a split second. But as the distance between you grows, the fake concern twists into a venomous, roaring rage. "Hey! Stop! Get back here!”
You don't look back.
"Marcus!" Tony screams, his heavy footsteps crashing through the brush behind you, terrifyingly fast. "Marcus, she's running! Cut her off! Grab the bitch! I fucking told you she knew something!”
Your lungs burn like hot ash as you charge through the final thicket of briars. The trees begin to thin, and through the tangled branches, you finally see it: the steep, gravel embankment leading up to the highway. You know you only have one shot to get up. Tony is hot on your heels, and any mistakes will mean that you’re not making it out of these woods.
You throw your weight forward, scrambling on all fours, your fingers clawing at the gravel to pull yourself up.
"Get back here!" Tony’s voice is a guttural roar directly behind you.
Just as your hands find the flat edge of the highway shoulder, a hand wraps around your ankle, tugging harshly. His nails dig sharply into your skin, pinning you to the dirt. The sheer terror infuses your muscles with a sudden, feral strength. You twist your body, kicking backward with your free right heel as hard as you can. Your shoe connects squarely with something solid - maybe his nose, maybe his jaw, you don't care.
He grunts, his grip slipping just enough. You wrench your ankle free, scrambling the last two feet over the lip of the embankment and onto the cold, hard pavement of the highway.
You stumble to your feet, spinning around. Tony is already rising over the crest of the hill, his eyes wild, sweat slicking his hair, Marcus just a few paces behind him in the shadows of the treeline. You are trapped on an empty road with nowhere left to run.
And then, a light.
From around the corner, a car appears. It blinds you, but you know that if you can’t get this person to stop, there is no doubt in your mind that Tony and his friend are going to drag you back into the foliage and kill you.
You don’t realise that it’s a Danforth sedan until it screeches to a halt a few feet away, door swinging open immediately.
The moment Titus leaps out of the car, the adrenaline that was keeping your legs moving completely evaporates. Your knees buckle, and you burst into heavy, violent tears, the raw sobbing racking your entire body as the pure terror of the last hour finally crashes down on you.
"Titus, oh my god-"
He closes the distance between you in two long strides, his powerful arms wrapping around you, pulling you tightly against his chest. He holds you with a crushing, protective grip, one hand cupping the back of your head, pressing you into his shoulder.
"I've got you," He mutters, his voice a low, vibrating rumble against your ear, thick with what might be worry? You’re not sure you’ve ever seen Titus worried before, even after twenty-five years of friendship. "I've got you, sweetheart. You're safe."
Safe.
You blink through your tears, looking over his shoulder toward the edge of the embankment where Tony had been standing just a second ago.
The shoulder is empty.
They're gone.
It should fill you with relief, but all you can feel is a complete and utter dread. They're still out there.
mhmmmmm part two perhaps with some smut and titus dealing with tony and marcus?
summary: you're J's best friend but you hate his grandma and uncles. you hate going around to their place. but when pope takes you up on the offer to go surfing you realise that maybe he isn't as scary as you thought
content/warnings: NSFW + MDNI! 18+ ONLY! age gap, smurf, unprotected sex, light stalking (it's pope ofc), oral sex (f & m receiving), hidden relationship, light mention of ass play, no use of y/n
wc: 5k
notes: I'm only on season 2 of Animal Kingdom, so apologies for the ooc of it all. pics used just for aesthetic purpose, not a reflection of what the reader looks like.
You hate going over to J's grandmother's house. When he first moved in after his mother died, your parents had banned you from going over there. He was your best friend, so he was more than welcome to hang out at yours after school. But your parents made you promise that you weren't to go over there. And you didn't argue with them. They didn't know you had already been. His uncles creeped you out. They got too close, got too touchy or got too, well, stare-y.
But when you left school and moved out to your own place by the beach, your parents couldn't tell you what to do. And J wanted you to come over - especially to the pool. You argued you could swim in the sea anytime you wanted. But Nicky was always over there as well and you couldn't leave her with those stupid boys. You didn't trust them. And you didn't trust his grandmother.
"How did you get two?" Craig always teases J when both you and Nicky are around.
You always make the same fuckin' face of disgust. You've known J since you two were in kindergarten. You couldn't imagine him as anything more than a brother. He spent a lot of time at yours when his mother was strung out.
You hate spending time at the Codys', but J is your best friend, and you'll do anything for him. Because you worry about him.
One morning you arrive at the house, hoping to catch J early so you two can go surfing. But the place is unusually quiet, and you are greeted not by your friend or his grandmother (thankfully), but by Andrew Cody. They all call him Pope.
Pope has been watching you since you first arrived at the house. He watches how you flinch at the loud noises, how you recoil from his brother's touches. Unlike his nephew's girlfriend, you don't giggle with Smurf. You get in and get out. But he likes watching you. He likes that you sometimes go and sit in J's (his) room when things get too noisy. That you just want to be away from it all.
You're far too sweet to be around him or his family. But he'd like to corrupt you.
"He's not here," he says simply as way of greeting as he stands in the doorway.
"Well do you want the coffee I got for him?" you ask as you hold up the cups you're holding. "I don't know what typa coffee you like but I don't want it t' go t' waste."
Pope's eyes soften immediately, "Do you need money?"
In the last few years, J has started saying shit like that to you. And you don't like it. You're putting yourself through college. You're working in a shitty bar. You don't wanna be like your mother. She never went to college, married your dad right away outta high school. She relied on him for everything. And while you weren't dating and would never date J, you didn't want to rely on him.
"No. I got money. But I don't wanna waste it," you respond before sighing. "Look. If J comes back tell him there's supposed to be a good swell today and I'll be at the beach."
Pope takes the coffee from your hand, his rough fingers brushing over your soft skin, making you shiver involuntarily.
"I can come," he tells you.
You blink in confusion. Pope is a man of few words. You're aware of this from the times you have spent in his presence. Sometimes he'll sit with you and watch TV when J is busy.
"To the beach," he clarifies.
"You surf?" you respond, taking a sip of your iced latte.
He gives you a half smile. A rare sight.
"I'm also from California," he responds simply.
"Okay, well, get your stuff. I don't wanna miss it," you say with a shy smile.
You can't believe that you're willingly spending one-on-one time with one of J's uncles. But all things considered, Pope isn't the worst. Yeah, he's a bit strange. But there's something...calming about him. Maybe it was the time you fell asleep on the couch and woke up to him carrying you to bed. You slightly panicked, but he just placed you down and walked away.
"We'll take my truck," he tells you as he comes back dressed in his wetsuit. He hasn't put it on fully, so he's naked from the waist up. You inhale sharply at the sight of his bulging muscles under his sun-kissed skin. You're not expecting the sight. And you're not expecting your body to react that way. You're not expecting your cheeks to heat up or the heat growing in your stomach.
"Lemme grab my things," you say when you finally catch yourself.
You grab your board and your suit from your car. You're going to change at the beach like you always do. You've never been alone with Pope before. Not like this. He's quiet, stoic, as you make the short trip to the beach. He doesn't play music in his car. He just drives.
"Lemme get changed, and I'll meet you out there," you say to him with a smile.
He shakes his head, "I'll wait."
You bite your lip as you wiggle out of your jean shorts and the crochet shirt you're wearing over your floral bikini top. You don't notice how Pope's eyes wander over your body. He takes you in, hazel eyes examining every inch of you. The way your skin glows under the hot Californian sun. He lets out a soft breath at the way your breasts bounce as you jump to get your wetsuit up.
"Will you zip me up?" you ask him, turning around to offer him access to you.
You both know that you're capable of zipping up your wetsuit alone. But Pope won't argue and gently brushes your hair away from your back, he moves it over your shoulder and then zips you up. He moves closer than necessary so he can inhale your sweet scent.
"Want me to do you?" you ask him nodding to his wetsuit.
Pope gives you that half smile again before shrugging into his wetsuit and turning around to let you zip him up. You brush your fingers up the soft skin of his back and you watch as the muscles ripple under your touch. You shouldn't be doing this. But you zip him up nonetheless and spend the morning in the surf with him. With a man literally old enough to be your father.
Soon it becomes your routine. You and Pope meet on the beach every Friday morning and spend hours surfing and talking. Sometimes Pope will come into the bar during your shift. He nurses a whiskey and tips you far too well. If he comes into the bar, he'll wait for your shift to end to walk you to your car. He's scary. And you don't mind having your little guard dog.
Then, you find him at the entrance of the bar every night as your shift ends. Just so he can walk you to your car. It's just across the parking lot but you like it. Sometimes he'll sit in your car with you and hear you rant about your shift.
"This is gonna be our last Friday surf," you tell him as he carries both of your boards to his car.
He looks so hurt, like a kicked puppy.
"I go back to college next week," you tell him as you shake the salt water out of your hair. He watches as the water droplets slide down the valley of your breasts. "We can try Saturdays instead? Or Sundays? Unless you're busy?"
"Never too busy for you," he says quickly.
You don't expect to meet Pope Cody on your doorstep on your first day of your senior year of college. This time he's holding a coffee, although it's clearly one he made at home as it's in a mug. You can't help but smile at him.
"I thought you might want a ride to school," he says as he looks at you over his sunglasses.
"And how am I meant t' get home?" you respond as you take a sip of the coffee he made you. Just how you like it.
"You call me and I'll come get'cha," he responds.
So this is how the first semester goes. Pope Cody is your personal chauffeur, your bodyguard and your surf partner. He's become a closer friend to you than J. And J notices. Finally. It just took the better part of the year.
J has started to notice that you don't mind coming over for parties anymore. But when you're there, you're more often than not with Pope. Pope will bring you over a drink. Pope will watch you as you speak to whatever girls have been stupid enough to come over. Pope will sit by you when you're sick of standing. And Pope will go inside with you when you get chilly or bored with his brothers being obnoxious.
And J doesn't like it. When the fuck did you become best friends with the scariest of his uncles?
You and Pope are whispering together in the kitchen. He's got new wax for his board and offers to do yours too. You nod, telling him to come around later that evening.
"What are you two talkin' about?" J asks with a little huff on his face.
"Surfin'," you respond with a shrug before you walk out to the pool.
"You screwin' her or something?" J hisses at his uncle.
Pope just looks at his nephew down his nose and walks away following you out to the pool with a towel for when you come out of the water. He's not going to rise to that. And he doesn't want J to know he has been fantasising about you since that first day on the beach. He doesn't want J or you to know that he's been watching you sleep for months. You should get better locks on your apartment door. You look so pretty when you sleep.
You also talk in your sleep. One night as he sits in the corner of your room, you start to whimper. He presumes you're having a nightmare until he hears you whimper his name. Not Pope, the monkier his family gave him. No, you whimper Andrew.
Oh, Andrew, yes! Please!
He had no choice but to grab a pair of your panties. Used panties. He inhales your scent before shoving them in his pocket. He breathes them in as soon as he gets to his own bedroom and jerks off into his hand. Thinking of the way you moaned his name in your sleep.
And he needs to figure out a way to hear it from you for real.
Since J has been an asshole, you've gotten more touchy with Pope. Not when Smurf is around though. You're not that stupid. At first, he's worried that you're doing it to make J jealous. But you'll hug Pope as greeting when he arrives at your apartment. No audience, just you and him. You brush your hand up his arm when he's in the kitchen making a drink while his brothers make noise by the pool. But his favourite thing is when you sit on the same lounger as him by the pool. You're not bold enough to climb into his lap. But you'll sit by him, offer to put sun cream on him. You always ask him to do your back and shoulders.
Sometimes after you settle yourself between the V of his thighs...only sometimes when his brothers aren't around you'll lie back on him. Relaxing against the hard muscle of his stomach.
These moments get added to Pope's fantasies when he's alone with his thoughts at night. The way you shudder under his touch, how soft your skin is. He knows each of your bikinis and he has his favourites. He loves how you wear your bright floral ones when you surf with him. But you go for softer colours when you're poolside with his family. His favourite is a white one that becomes almost sheer when you're in the water. But he doesn't like when his brothers are around to ogle you in it.
"Seriously," J asks you one night as you sit in Deran's bar. "What is going on with you and Pope?"
You look down at your glass and shrug, "You're always doing bullshit. We started surfing together. That's it."
"I heard he brings you to college too. And work?" J pushes.
"What? You got people spying on me? Should I call you Smurf?" you snap.
You don't need this third-degree bullshit. Not from J, who dragged you into this family.
"I even heard he stays over at your apartment," J continues.
"Yea, a few times. He's my friend, J. I don't need you to monitor everyone. Would you be this wound up if it were Craig or Derran?" you ask him.
"It's weird! He's my fuckin' uncle. He was in prison! He's dangerous!" J continues. "And he's old."
You throw your hands up and slam your drink down in one swallow.
"I don't need this bullshit, Joshua. You didn't give your girlfriend this sorta cross examination. Even after she started fuckin' your uncle," you hiss before you storm out.
You don't expect to walk into the wall of thick muscle that is Andrew Cody outside the bar. How did he know you were here? How did he know that you needed him?
"Hey, sugar, you okay?" he asks, steadying you by gripping your waist with his huge, rough hands. You can feel the heat radiating through the flimsy little skirt you wore out.
Pope wonders if you wore this for his nephew. Or some other shithead.
"I just needa go home," you finally answer him.
"Get in the truck," he tells you, firmly.
You just nod your head, the tone he uses goes straight to your core. You press your thighs together and get into his truck. He watches as your skirt rides up and he sees the sweet little floral panties you're wearing. They remind him of the bikinis you love. But seeing this is so much more intimate. Especially because he knows that you didn't mean for him to see it.
Pope is in two minds about going into the bar and beating the shit out of whoever has upset you and going straight to you. But when he sees your face, so open and needy in the truck waiting for him, he crumbles. He goes straight to you.
He drives you home, in silence once again. You're used to it. And you relish it. You needed the quiet. When he parks up, you turn to look at Andrew Cody. Really look at him. His eyes drop after a second of meeting your big eyes.
"Come in, Andrew," you whisper.
He doesn't need to be told twice. He follows you up to your apartment. He's been in your apartment before. By invitation as well as by his own volition. But tonight things are different. Maybe it's because everyone already presumes you're sleeping together. Maybe it's because you're sad and frustrated. Or maybe it's the tension, the touching, the longing glances over the past few months. But you lunge yourself at him. You kiss him hard and messy and desperate. And he kisses you back, tentatively at first but then he gets more desperate. The kiss is all teeth and tongue, you even taste blood as you both devour each other's mouths.
You pull away, "Fuck, Andrew. We shouldn't do this."
You're already so entangled in the Cody family. If you do this. If you cross this line, you'll become one. You know that if you let Pope have you, you'll be ruined. No one else will stand a chance.
"Baby," he growls, pulling you back into a kiss. And you just give in.
You pull at his shirt, needing to see him, needing to feel him against you. His hands are already under your skirt, palming at the flesh of your ass. The two of you are as desperate as each other. You're stumbling around your apartment. Clothes being thrown everywhere...even though Pope wants to fold everything in the back of his mind. But you're pulling him into your bedroom. You fall back onto your bed with his mouth over your breasts. You have no idea when you lost your bra. When Andrew had undressed you to just your floral panties.
You squirm under him as he bites over the swell of your breasts. He's leaving marks that he'll see the next time you go surfing. And he can't lie; he's getting off on the thought alone. You gasp as you feel him rip the fabric of your panties from your body. He lifts them to his face and inhales your sweet scent. A scent he's become addicted to. He grips your thighs and drags you up so you're balancing on your shoulders. He dives into your pussy like a man starved. And he is. He hasn't been dreaming about this for months. At his first taste of you, he cries out in pure desperation. You taste like fucking heaven. He doesn't want to muddy the experience with his fingers. He wants to drink you up. And you let him as he palms at the flesh of your thighs keeping you locked close to him.
You start to squirm harder against him as your orgasm starts to build. You've been dreaming about this moment for so long. But this is so much better than you could have imagined. You cum with a strangled cry, saying his name like a mantra.
Andrew. Andrew. Andrew.
He almost cums in his pants just at the way you moan his name like that. It's even sweeter than how he imagined it.
Pope has had issues getting hard in the past but ever since he started surfing with you, he's been hard enough to pound nails almost constantly.
"Wanna see you," you whisper as he lays you back on your bed. Your voice is still shaky from your orgasm; your whole body feels like an exposed nerve. But you're not done with him. Not a chance. Not when you've finally got him.
Andrew shucks his boxers off and your eyes go wide. You have no idea how he's going to fit inside you. He's huge.
"You okay, sugar?" he breathes, stroking your cheeks.
"You're really big," you confess. Sure, you've seen the print of him against his wetsuits, but you guessed there was fabric and water in the mix. But no...he's just...huge.
Andrew ducks his head shyly, "What? Those other boys were lacking?"
You blush bright red.
"Um...there were no other boys," you finally confess.
Pope's eyes go wide. He looks like the cat who's got the cream. He's going to be your first. He's gonna be the only person who has ever had you.
He kisses you now desperately. He grips the base of his cock, guiding the blunt head of his weeping cock to your entrance. He teases your clit first with his tip. You let out the sweetest little moans for him. And he's not even inside you yet. You're already panting and squirming for him. You're intoxicating, and he's already addicted to you.
Finally, he pushes into you. He has to squeeze his eyes shut at how tight you are. Pope has never been a gentle man. But he's being gentle for you. He'll always be gentle for you. When he finally bottoms out in you, your nails dig into his shoulders. They leave little half moons between his freckles.
"You're so tight, sugar," he breathes, his lips kissing over the shell of your ear.
You just nod, not sure you can form words. You're just so full of him. And when he starts rocking his hips you swear you see heaven. You've never felt this good in your life. Your body is on fire. His hands grip your hips and then slowly begin to explore the rest of your body. He grips your breasts, rough, pulling and flicking your nipples without rhythm. He then slides his hands down your arms, gripping your wrists and dragging them over your head. You both groan as he stretches your body out for him.
His thrusts get faster, harder, rougher. Andrew tried to be gentle, but fuck he needs to carve a path through you. He needs to make you his. No one else has had you and no one else will after he's finished with you. You're his. And only his.
"'m close, Andrew," you whine out as the headboard slams against the wall.
He's pumping in and out of you like a man possessed. The sound of skin on skin fills the room. It's animalistic. It's raw. It's fucking messy. And you cum without another warning. You scream out like a banshee as your orgasm rips through you.
Your pussy grips his cock like a vice and he has to stutter to a stop. He can't move you're so fucking tight, your cunt convulsing around his cock. And fuck, it's the prettiest fucking sight. Andrew presses his forehead against yours as you pull an orgasm from him. He fills you with thick, hot ropes of cum. The release feels like heaven. You swear it spurs on a third orgasm...or it could just be aftershocks from your last one. But it feels so good.
You lay tangled in each other's arms for what feels like hours. His cum seeps out of you and down your legs, cooling against your skin.
Finally, Pope gets up and grabs a wet cloth to clean you up.
"We can't tell Smurf," you say, at the same time as he says, "Smurf can't know."
At least you're on the same page. You both know that Smurf doesn't like it when her boys are distracted. She'll allow it for a time. But not for long. Especially if she sees their loyalty wavering. You're not stupid, you know she did something to Cath.
"Stay," you breathe, running your fingers through Andrew's auburn curls. You love the grey that's appeared by his temple, the greys that pepper his stubble.
You can't help but kiss over his chin and jaw. You give him a little nip as you do. This elicits a rare chuckle from Andrew 'Pope' Cody.
Your relationship with Andrew doesn't change much...bar the sex. The sex is incredible. Mind-blowing. You spend days in bed with him. You've started to wonder if you're a sex addict. Andrew soothes you, telling you this is very normal. Especially at the start of a relationship.
"Who are you fuckin'?" Craig finally asks you when he sees the hickies scattered over your body when he spots you on the beach one morning.
You've been smart, not flaunting your body over at the Cody house now that Andrew won't stop leaving marks on your skin. You can wear one-pieces, sporty ones that cover most of your chest if J invites you over to swim. Andrew gives you a knowing smirk when he sees your more modest swimwear. Knows that he's the reason.
But now you're in your bikini on the beach, not expecting to see anyone who might ask questions.
"Can't a girl have a lil privacy?" you ask putting your hands on your waist.
"Well no, because ever since I've known you, you've been like a nun or something," he responds as he shakes the seawater out of his hair.
"Just cos I won't sleep with you?" you respond with a roll of your eyes. "Cody boys aren't my type. Sorry, sweetheart!"
You give him a smile over your shoulder as you head back to your apartment.
Cody boys, no. Cody men, on the other hand? Well!
You were smart around the Cody house. You didn't change the way you had gotten closer to Pope. You didn't change how you would share a sun lounger with him. But Pope still acted like your touch freaked him out. He didn't soften into it like he did when you were alone.
You were careful. You were smart.
When you were alone in the kitchen or his bedroom or even just passing each other in the hallway, you couldn't help but press kisses to his jaw, he couldn't help but grip the soft flesh of your ass. Sometimes when you knew the house was empty, you would drop to your knees and take his heavy cock in your mouth. You loved making him feel good, making him feel powerful. You loved tasting him as he unloaded into your mouth. He always came so quickly when you got your mouth on him.
You just couldn't get caught.
Even if Andrew's brothers knew they'd soon tell Smurf. And then she would use that shit against you.
So you think you're being smart. Until you weren't.
J has invited you to a party. But he's distracted, playing stupid games with his uncles in the pool. Smurf is watching like an emperor in the Colosseum watching gladiators fight. She presides over the parties and everyone loves it. You have to contain your eyerolls behind the designer sunglasses Pope got you. No one notices when you go inside. No one except Pope, who, as always, has been watching you like a hawk. He finishes his beer before following you inside. He can't make it obvious.
You're hunting in the fridge for a soda. His eyes zero in on the curve of your ass. He places his hand on your waist and you jump before you realise who it is.
"Andrew," you breathe softly, turning to look at him.
"No one's watching, sugar," he whispers as he leans down to kiss you.
You smirk against his lips, stepping onto the boots he always wears to kiss him deeper. His hands palm at your ass, slipping under your bikini bottoms to grip the full globe of your ass. His thumb brushes lightly over your puckered hole.
"Andrew," you scold, pushing him away gently.
You giggle as you drop down to your knees, hidden by the kitchen island, and pull his cock from his swim shorts, taking him in your hot mouth. Andrew has to stay still as you work over his dick without being caught.
One thing leads to another and you're in his bedroom trying to stay quiet as he ploughs into you. He's got you on your hands and knees, on the floor because the bed is too noisy. You learn this when you try to ride him but the mattress springs are screeching. So you let the carpet burn into your flesh as Andrew fucks you. He's already made you cum twice on his face. He clamps a hand over your mouth when you cum, muffling your desperate cries of pleasure. He has to bite down on your shoulder to stop his grunts when he fills you with his cum.
Pope knows that you should get dressed and go back out to the party. But he gathers you in his arms and brings you to his bed.
"Just for a minute," you tell him, knowing that he loves post-sex cuddles. He's never been held, not really. And you intend to fix that. You cuddle him whenever you can. You'll always have you arms wrapped around him when you're alone.
What you don't expect is to wake up to the sun filtering in. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
"Andrew! Andrew!" you hiss, trying to wake him up. "Andrew fuckin' Cody!"
Smurf is always awake so fucking early. You have no intention of her finding the two of you. You pull your clothes back on. Swearing when you can't find your bikini top. You were only wearing a beach cover-up when Pope accosted you in the kitchen. So you can't just wander around like this. That's why you decide to grab one of Pope's black t-shirts. It doesn't hide the fact that you're not wearing a bra. But if you can get out of the house before you meet...
"Smurf!" you say as you walk outside. You thought you could sneak out the back. But of course, you can't.
"You stayed the night," she notes, her eyes dropping down to the fact you're clearly not wearing a bra and then to the carpet burn on your knees.
Interesting.
"Sorry I got a bit overwhelmed by the party and I musta passed out in J's room," you lie.
"In Pope's room," she points out. "And you're wearing Pope's shirt."
"Nothing gets by you, Smurf," you say with a smile. "I was wearing a cover-up and it just didn't seem appropriate in the light of day. Look, I should go. I have work."
Smurf immediately turns to the go to the bedroom but frowns when she finds the room empty. The bed has already been stripped. Oh what a smart girl.
"Pope?" she calls. She's aware that he didn't leave last night either.
Pope has put the bedsheets and some of his clothes in the wash. Everyone knows he's a clean freak. No one will bat an eye at him washing bedding that some girl slept in. Obviously without him.
"You didn't go home last night," she says when she finds him.
He just grunts, "I took a walk on the beach. Couldn't sleep. Came back this morning."
Smurf's eyes narrow. She doesn't like it when people lie to her. Especially not her eldest boy.
Pope makes sure for the next fortnight that he stays at Smurf's or his place. He still brings you to and from class, still surfs with you. Doesn't change that part of his routine. But he doesn't sleep over. He doesn't alert Smurf to you any more than he has to of how much you mean to him.
"This is my last semester of college," you tell him one afternoon as you lay on the couch. Your head is on his bare chest and he's playing with your hair.
"After that, there's nothing tying us to Oceanside. We could go anywhere," you remind him.
"What about-"
"Don't say her name," you whisper, kissing over his chest. "Your brothers can handle their own shit. They're grown men. You can start fresh."
"Where has good surfing?" he asks, then as he runs his fingers through your hair.
You smile and stretch up to kiss him.
"I think we can figure it out."
a/n: thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed! any and all feedback appreciated
a/n: it's my first time writing andrew cody! if you feel like this doesn't suit his character, i'm sorry! i really tried to stick but my man is already sad enough, just let him have a moment of comfort 🥹 (also this is kind of self reflecting - i have a specific preference for toothpaste!)
warnings: none really! andrew cody fluff! reader is comforting! mentions of andrew having ocd! toothpaste hate!
andrew ‘pope’ cody who lowkey sheds a tear when you take his ocd in mind, patiently going along with his routines and doing everything in your power to go along with it.
“hey andy, i keep forgetting, which trashcan does these bottles go? i saw them in the garbage and i knew it didn’t belong there.”
“andy, someone put the bell peppers in the cheese box again!” you whine quietly, looking in the fridge. you had picked up his distaste of things being disarranged.
“the freaking pool is not your ashtray!” you hiss at craig, tossing his used cigarette butt, that he had flicked onto the wet pavement moments before, at his chest. “walk over to the garbage can and dispose of it like a normal person!”
you jut your bottom lip out as you stand besides him, hands dropped at sides after andrew rejected your offer to help wash the dishes. “just a ritual for me, babygirl.” he says, poking at your puffed cheeks with a wet finger.
first it was cups and plates, then it was forks, spoons and knifes. every step respectively, every single time.
andrew, who has a routine to go to bed properly at your apartment. he would have a shower, using your cranberry-orange soap set, the smell relaxing his neurons and synapses that was constantly firing in his head. you were his safe space, so why not smell like it?
while having his shower, you would set up an cup of tea for him. herbal with a splash of hazelnut cream and set it out for andrew, so he would have his tea at room temperature instead of scalding hot.
and then after his tea that was drunk in the dark of the living room, gently listening for the running water, for your daily night routine.
after your shower, you would leave the bathroom for him to brush his teeth in. andrew walks in, picking his blue toothbrush, reaching for his white tube of toothpaste, only to be met with a red one.
a knot furls in his stomach. he hated that brand, it burning his gums when the other didn’t. he stared at the god forsaken toothpaste for several minutes, before stiffly turning on his heels and finding you.
you see his stiff frame, lingering outside of your door, his hands fidgeting and his thumb picking at the soft plastic on the handle of his brush.
“whats the matter, andy?” you softly asked, andrew forcing out his response. “colgate. i like sensodyne.”
you furrow your brows, not at him, but at the very idea of you buying the wrong toothpaste.
“it should be sensodyne?”
he shifts his weight between his feet, shaking his head slightly. after a minute, realization dawns upon you.
“oh andy, that was my friend’s. she must’ve left it behind because i had ran out myself when she was here.” you say, nearly face palming yourself. you crouch over to the edge of your bed, picking up an small drugstore grocery bag before fishing your hand around. lo and behold, you handed over an new jumbo tube of toothpaste.
“picked it up this morning. i’m sorry, andy, i forgot to switch it out.”
andrew stares at the tube in your hand, before his eyes move to yours. if he was with one of his brothers, they would’ve laughed at him or told him to brush his teeth with whiskey. but not you.
you, who willingly went out to buy a entire new toothpaste just to make him comfortable.
the knot that had furled in his stomach, moved to his throat as his bottom lip quivered a little. you noticed the tic but didn’t call attention to it right now, not wanting him to feel ashamed.
a calloused but trembling hand reached out, gently receiving it from you. ‘thank you’ he murmured out before walking back to his bathroom. his thumb traced over the logo as he brushed his teeth.
a minty fresh, cranberry-orange scented andrew makes his way underneath the soft laundered sheets of your bed. his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you close to him as he places his head at the crook of your neck.
“you’re the best girl.” andrew murmured out, his breath tickling your ear before kissing your neck gently. “don’t know what i’ll do without you.”
you smiled gently, kissing his head. “ ‘course. i love you, andrew.”
Summary: You visit the Codys while they're on a smoke break and it gets a little heated.
A/N: this was inspired by a tweet i saw that had a gif of pope smoking and the person said "imagine sitting on his lap while he does this" and i thought i liked the tweet but i didn't. but yes. this is based off that.
Shawn Hatosy Masterlist
You arrive to the Cody house early evening. Andrew said he'd be there by the time you get out of work. You walk through the gate and to the backyard when hear three voices.
Hearing your footsteps approach, the chatter stops and all heads turn towards you, "Hey," you greet Deran, Craig, and Andrew nonchalantly, cigarette smoke bellowing around them.
Andrew watches you with an adoring gaze as you walk towards him. You lean down, pecking his lips, and settle on his lap, "Hi," your fingers running through his curls.
He gives you an adorable smile as he leans into your touch, "Hi,"the taste of his cigarette lingers on his breath, but you don't mind it.
Deran and Craig both pretend to gag, which causes you and Andrew to stick a middle finger up at them.
"Pft, fucking made for each other," Deran murmurs into his beer bottle.
"I'd say eat a dick to you, but you'd like that. How's Adrien by the way?" you smirk as you grab Andrew's cigarette from his fingers. You take the bud, taking it into your mouth, and inhaling. You blow out the smoke as you place the bud in-between Andrew's lips.
Deran leans into his chair, "It's complicated."
You snort, "Isn't it always?"
The youngest Cody rolls his eyes, "You act like you and Pope don't have arguments."
You and Andrew look at each other, love filled in your eyes, "We don't," you lean in, kissing his lips again.
"How is it that he's the most fucked up out of all of us and he has the most stable relationship?" Craig asks, his words slightly muffled from the joint hanging from his lips.
You shrug, "Just lucky, I guess?"
Andrew holds the cigarette to your lips and you take another inhale. You hold it for a little bit before blowing it into his face. You hear a low groan come from him, knowing exactly what you're doing to him.
You feel his hand tighten on your waist and you 'adjust your position' on his lap, causing him to groan again.
"Fucking get a room!" Craig throws a used napkin at you and you jump to your feet, "I think we will. Your room available?" You pull Andrew to his feet and he takes one more drag from the cigarette before putting it out.
He lets you pull him into the house and down the hall, your giggles echoing along the walls.
need more shy awkward!pope so here are some headcannons 𑣲
shy, awkward!pope who desperately wants to initiate affection but doesn’t know how so he’ll just keep glancing at you, trying to communicate with his eyes.
shy, awkward!pope who doesn’t know what to do with his hands when he’s overwhelmed.
shy, awkward!pope who would stiffen at the beginning of your relationship whenever you’d touch him, not because he didn’t want you to but because he had never been touched so gently or without an ulterior motive.
shy, awkward!pope who needs you to take the lead more often than not.
shy, awkward!pope who absolutely despises social gatherings but will endure them for you.
shy, awkward!pope who doesn’t quite know where to put his hands whenever you’re kissing him. he doesn’t wanna overstep, doesn’t want to take or ask for more than you’re already giving.
shy, awkward!pope who hates whenever people (other than you) try to engage in conversation with him.
shy, awkward!pope who stumbles over his words whenever he’s trying to compliment you because you genuinely make his brain short-circuit.
shy, awkward!pope who now melts into your embraces but struggles with looking you in the eye whenever he does.
SUMMARY ➩ After all these years, Pope still has a hard time accepting that you are real
AUTHORS NOTE ➩ loved these two and missed them so wanted to write some more! NOT PROOFREAD
part one
Pope sometimes couldn’t tell the difference between his nightmares and reality.
He’d feel like he’d been awake for hours, living out terrors from his childhood or patchy scenes where he acted on his darker impulses without the ability to stop it. Then he’d jolt awake in a panicked sweat right when he started to think it was real.
Other times he knew he wasn’t sleeping, standing in your kitchen as he watched you closely while you cleaned up or hummed as you baked. He’d wait to see anything on your face that would tell him which version of life he was in, a glitch in your expression to remind him this wasn’t real.
You seemed, like most things left unspoken between you, to just understand when he needed something grounding from you.
He didn’t necessarily divulge his failing grasp on reality but you’d see him staring in a slightly heavier way than usual and make your way over, all soft touches and a gentle voice saying things only the real you would know.
You felt like a dream in the best way but Pope never was able to enjoy good things, the inevitable loss and torment to follow the only thing on his mind. He couldn’t even appreciate having you without the constant rotation of ways it would all eventually be destroyed.
Pope hated his apartment mostly because it wasn’t yours.
It lacked the warmth and fairytale like magic that somebody like you could bring to a space, your photos on the fridge and worn out blankets on the couch from your many movie nights. He couldn’t smell your soap lingering in the bathroom or that special combination of spices you used so often after he’d said he liked it.
He didn’t like to be there but he didn’t like to be back with Smurf either and he was prematurely dreading the day you got sick of him.
It was in the back of his mind that he was being ridiculous, you’d known him for all those years and you still got that same abandoned look on your face whenever he awkwardly mumbled he wasn’t going to spend the night.
You wanted him there and you weren’t shy about voicing it but Pope, for lack of better words, was afraid.
Afraid of showing you something that would finally make you recoil the way everyone else did or maybe afraid of waking up one morning and realizing it really had been all a dream.
Your solution was to start spending the night at his place.
He’d been frozen the first night you showed up with dinner already made and packaged neatly in a basket, lightly brushing past him in a pretty dress and a curious look as you glanced around the neat and orderly space. You looked as calm and airy as always and it was making his heart race just seeing you in his living room.
Then weeks passed of him at yours or you at his and it started to feel like reality again. Constant reminders of his sanity when your laundry mixed with his or your lotions took room up on his bathroom counter.
Sometimes your presence made his bones tense, the urge to scrub and organize and disinfect everything still not leaving him but he felt nauseous anytime he wiped any part of you off of the earth. It was a crime to clean your fingerprints off the slider door and even worse to triple wash his pillows that smelt like your hair.
So he settled into his discomfort and found himself actually enjoying the way you unsettled him.
He currently was realizing all of his biggest fears were true.
Pope was positive he had fallen asleep with you wrapped around him, legs intertwined and his head resting on your chest so he could feel your heartbeat throughout the night.
His fingers had instinctively clenched as he started to stir awake, his bed getting the most use it had seen since the day he bought it. He expected to feel your warmth underneath his palms, hear the soft sleepy protest at the sensation of his fingers pressing into your skin but instead he was met with emptiness.
Nothing but the cold pillow he currently had in his grasp and the wave of panic that hit him suffocatingly.
He shot up in his bed, chest already heaving as he scrambled up and headed out to the living room. He didn’t even register he was calling your name until it was echoing off the windows, nearly tripping over the carpet in his haste to find you.
His hands went to his hair, tugging lightly as he felt like he was suddenly spinning. There was clearly something wrong lately, his constant confusion with reality and dissociation from everything around him but he didn’t realize it was possible for it to get this bad.
Right when he was fully convinced you might have never existed at all, his gaze landed on the overly familiar frame outside his window.
He felt his entire body fill with relief as he practically stumbled outside towards the water, eyes locked on where you were sitting and watching the waves crash against the sand in front of you. Pope knew you liked that fact he lived by the water, you talked about the sounds and smells constantly while you laid in bed together.
The two of you laying close, all the windows open despite his anxiety about it, and your fingers playing with his gently as you listed off examples of the five senses. He knew you were doing it for his benefit and not your own, disguising the routine as something you needed so he didn’t feel embarrassed, but he played the part of being unaware.
Your head perked up when you heard footsteps, looking over your shoulder with a smile that immediately fell when you saw the state of him.
His hair was tousled from the tugging on it and he still looked just a panicked as he had felt for the last few minutes, face not yet losing its puffiness from the sleep he had brutally jolted awake from.
“Oh no, what’s wrong Andy?” You say softly as you move to stand but he’s dropping into the sand beside you before you can, kneeling on it as he rests his head in the crook of your shoulder. “What happened?”
“You left.” He breathed out in a strained voice, muffled from the fabric of the sweater you’d stolen from him.
You coax him out of the bent over position, your ever gentle hands smoothing out his messy curls the best you can before you’re cupping his jaw and forcing him to look you in your eyes.
“I’m right here Andrew.” You whisper it firmly, repeating it a few times when his eyes dart all around your face like he’s trying to commit it to memory or maybe find a flaw that would give away the fact it wasn’t real.
Eventually he seems to locate whatever it is he’s searching for because he lets out a deep breath and rests his forehead against yours.
You don’t leave each others side for a while after that and thankfully he comes back to your apartment nearly full time. He won’t stay more than a few days in a row and you can always tell when he’s going to leave by how restless he seems but you’re happy he stays at all.
You know it’s hard for him to accept that you want him around.
One of the days he’s out with his brothers on a job, you use the opportunity to make a decision you know he wouldn’t approve of.
It’s been a few years since you’ve been face to face with Smurf Cody and she looks just as unimpressed as she always does whenever she would look at you. You hadn’t always had a strained relationship, she actually had tried to mentor you in your teenage years and teach you some of her tips and tricks.
Smurf had been more than offended when you turned away from her and her offerings, a direct insult to her in her own narcissistic mind.
She had rambled to your father about you being disrespectful and spoiled, how you were an idiot to think you were better than her or better than the lifestyle they lived. The last time you saw her was the day Pope had gotten arrested and it was a big blowout, completely uncharacteristic on your end but you were devastated.
You’d lost your mind screaming at her, quite literally held back by Deran’s arms around your middle section to stop you from lunging at her a second time as she sipped her drink like you were boring her.
It had felt like your life was destroyed when Pope was locked up because all of your worst fears came true. You had spent years trying to convince him he was more than what his mother molded him into and you worried about him every night as they all got deeper into the crime life, no longer just accessories and props but full on running jobs that just grew in scale.
He’d nod as he listened to your gentle lectures, eyes so attentive even though you knew he was stuck in an endless cycle.
You wrote to him everyday and he never wrote back but you knew he was reading them, knew he was punishing himself by not responding. He didn’t think he deserved to, didn’t want to disrupt your life that continued while he sat in a cage for years on end.
He had told you that for himself when he was first released, your apartment being the first place he went. He was still wearing the blank clothes they send prisoners home with, visibly shaking from the fear and nerves that you would turn him away or hate him.
It took a long time to coax him inside and even longer to get him to talk to you, like trying to bond with a feral animal. He broke down when you finally touched him with a slow and hesitantly gentle hand, landing on his back and then having to slide to hold him when he practically collapsed with his sobs.
Andrew didn’t talk about prison much but that alone was telling.
Smurf was staring at you with the exact amount of disgust you expected after how your last encounter went and you imagined she was playing the memory of it in her mind the same way you were.
“You have some nerve coming here.” She said in a low tone and you barely blinked at the sound of it, laced with venom and hatred.
“We need to talk Smurf.” You replied back flatly and she hesitated for a long second before stepping aside and letting you in.
You figured nobody had told her about you showing up when you came to get Pope considering how furious she would have been if she knew you were in her home when she wasn’t there.
You ended up in the kitchen, on opposite sides of the island for very intentional reasons. It was best the two of you stayed separated especially considering what you were about to say to her.
“Are you giving Andrew medication?” You spit it out, feeling no need to sugar coat it.
“Andrew.” She scoffs it out like your use of it bothers her and you’re not surprised considering her weird possession. It drives her insane that he is so devoted to you and it always had, even when she favored you highly. “Why on earth would you assume that?”
You take a long few seconds to consider how much information you want to give her. You’re well aware that she will take advantage of any weakness he has to offer and you can’t keep him away from her, not yet atleast, but you know how important it is for you to have this information and you won’t get it by lying to her.
“He’s seeing things. Or not seeing things. A little bit of both I guess.” You say it slow and try to keep any emotion out of your voice so she can’t gauge how bad it had gotten.
It took a while for him to even admit it to you but you’d notice him practically becoming non verbal, sleeping less even when you were in bed with him and constantly staring but not in the gentle watchful way he typically would. He seemed paranoid and on edge about something for the entire day and it only got worse at night, going from clinging to your back to furrowing his eyebrows at you like you were an imposter.
Pope would never intentionally hurt you and you didn’t have even half a thought about that but he might hurt you by leaving for alot longer than you could take, especially after already losing him once.
Smurf didn’t reply to you for a bit as she stared blankly like she was processing what you were saying before she was walking off.
You stood at the island, head lowering in dejection just as her footsteps returned accompanied by a light rattle. She wordlessly slide the pill bottle over to you and you blinked at her before grabbing it and rapidly scanning the name and intended effects.
“Aripiprazole?” You spat it out as you chucked it back in her direction, her face only slightly flinching when the bottle roughly hit the fridge behind her and shattered open. The pills hit the floor and spread out across the tile but you both ignored it. “It stops Smurf. I mean it, you throw that shit away today.”
“You think you can control him?” She hissed as she rounds the side of the island and comes closer to you, eyes wild as you both breathe a little heavier from your anger. “You can’t.”
You don’t have a reply for her that would matter because you know she’s too selfish to see any reason, too wrapped up in her own desire to keep him chained and medicated so he will do her dirty work for the rest of his life that’s almost guaranteed to be cut short at this rate.
“It stops today.” You’re whispering now and you hope your face doesn’t convey how heartbroken you feel as you turn to leave.
—
You halfway expect to never see Pope again.
You imagine the entire ride home that she had called him immediately and made up some lie or straight up just ordered him to come home and abandon you. It makes you sick just to consider it so you try not to obsess over the idea but you still feel knee weakening relief when you get back to your apartment and he’s still there.
He’s in the kitchen and slowly cutting up vegetables into perfect squares, halfway smiling at you when you come in and kick your shoes off.
You’re approaching him from behind and wrapping your arms around his stomach in a back hug that he doesn’t even tense at anymore.
“We should leave.” You whisper against his back and his hands falter before setting the knife down and turning around to face you. Your hands rest on his forearms in a light hold and his shift to your sides.
His eyes dart all around your face like he’s trying to figure something out.
“Where?” He gruffs back and you think you see mild interest in his expression.
“I don’t care, anywhere that isn’t here. Somewhere far but not too much so you can still see your brothers.” You start to explain and you can see the second he realizes you’re serious.
His gaze softens but in the way someone does when they are about to disappoint you and you prematurely sigh, stepping away from him and walking over to the table. Your hands grip the edge of it and now it’s his turn to step up behind you in an embrace, his large hands folded over your stomach and his nose brushing against your neck.
“We can go.” He says softly and although you don’t believe him, you really wish you could and you do think he would do anything you wanted.
You don’t want to be that person in his life, another abuser of the control he so easily gives up. You know it’s different between you and your bond is unlike anything else in his world but you can’t bare potentially making him do something he didn’t actually want just because he thought it would make you happy.
His hands resting on your stomach makes your head spin in rotation and you lean back against him.
“Remember our conversation about having a family?” You whisper and you can feel him harden for a second behind you before he’s loosening up again and humming in agreement. “I’d like it a lot actually, if it was you and me.”
You clarify just because you know he’s going to have a hard time accepting what you’re so clearly implying.
You feel his large hand rub over your stomach like he’s actively picturing it and your throat suddenly feels tight like you’re going to cry. You had wanted to say it then, that day Baz hurt him so deeply with that comment and he had came to you for comfort, but you weren’t sure if it made sense at the time.
Now there was nothing that sounded more fitting than the two of you and a baby, in a small kitchen somewhere miles away from Smurf and the rumors and looks whenever you were in public together.
From his reputation and the skeletons in his closet lurking on every street corner to remind him of his sins no matter how hard he tries to forget.
You can audibly hear him swallow and his hands start to shake on your stomach, heart racing against your back.
You loved Andrew so feverishly it made you dizzy and that extended into every part of your life, romantic and everything inbetween was dedicated to that feeling you had for him. That sense of home so strong you didn’t need any singular location to place it with, feeling an ache and sickness whenever he wasn’t around you.
And you knew he felt the same way towards you if not tenfold.
“Then… then we’ll go.” It took him a long time to get it out and it sounded tight and nervous at your confession, maybe not as obvious to Andrew as it was to you and anyone else seeing your dynamic. You clearly had slightly thrown him with the sudden clarification that you saw a future together with him in that way.
SUMMARY ➩ Pope only feels like himself when he’s alone with you in your apartment
AUTHORS NOTE ➩ just a small soft drabble for you! pope my sweet autistic touch starved angel and the girl he deserved to have NOT PROOFREAD
Pope could only think of you after the horrible comment Baz had made to him.
No one is ever going to have a kid with you. Ever.
He wasn’t sure why it affected him so much, why it dug deep under his chest into a part of him he hadn’t even realized was there.
Pope wasn’t as socially inept as most people might think and he knew exactly why his brother would say something like that to him, the truth behind it undeniable. He was off putting and had the strange ability to creep people out even when he was being as genuine as he possibly could be.
He’d seen it happen time and time again, a slightly crooked smiled that made people take a step back or an overly blunt statement that hurt somebody without the intent.
But never with you.
You’d been around for as long as Pope could remember, the daughter of one of Smurfs greatest connects who was constantly spending the night with Julia or helping Smurf around the house once you got a little older.
They all liked you, the younger boys would follow behind you while you did chores or ask you to help tuck them in long past the age they needed it. Baz wasn’t shy with his affection either even though his methods made Popes stomach tighten with the same type of jealously and anger he felt when it was directed at his sister.
Lucky for him, and to everyone’s confusion, you had a clear favorite when it came to Pope.
You never once treated him any different or acted like you were scared of him for even a moment. You’d keep that gentle and patient smile on your face when he didn’t deserve it and you wrote to him almost every single day when he was in prison, sending him photos that he’d stick under his pillows and doing your best to draw the sea and the shape of Lena’s eyes so he wouldn’t forget.
You never went far even when he tried to push you away and that was exactly why he wanted to see you.
His knocks on the door were familiar, even though you’d given him a key a year ago when you first moved in. He kept it in his wallet but he never dared to use it incase you had ever changed your mind and didn’t tell him.
Your smile was as soft as always when you opened the door, the smell of the dinner you were cooking coming in waves from behind you. You looked as easily beautiful as always and his legs naturally carried him forward through the door way.
“Andrew.” You breathed it out softly and your hands went to his shoulders, pushing his jacket off and sliding it down his arms so you could help free him from it. “I was hoping you’d come.”
“It’s okay?” He asked lowly even though he knew the answer, he still liked to hear it from you directly.
You took his coat and hug it up on the hook near the door that only ever held his clothing, turning back to him with the same smile and taking both of his hands in yours so you could lead him closer to the kitchen.
“It’s always okay, I was actually making your favorite.” You explain softly and he can smell it now, too distracted by the sight of you and your warm touch to place the familiar spices before.
“Thank you.” He mumbled back and it wasn’t too uncharacteristic, in fact he often showed up and didn’t say a single word at all, but your steps slowed and your lips formed a frown.
“What’s wrong?”
It unnerved him the same amount everytime when you so easily were able to read him and his moods, the only person in the world that seemed to know exactly what he was thinking and feeling no matter how stoic his face was. He sometimes wanted to ask you how you could just tell but he thought that might be stupid, maybe evidence of another human trait he was simply missing.
“Nothing.” He dismissed your worries easily and now you dropped his hands, the lack of touch making him feel a surge of nausea. He shifted closer and you sighed in understanding before placing a palm back on him, resting against his bicep now.
“Don’t do that, not here.” You half pleaded with him but it was also scolding, a reminder of what you were to him. “You talk to me.”
It took him a few minutes of silence to recount what Baz had said to him and if hearing it hurt, then seeing the way your face fell was ten times worse. You were always so empathetic towards him, crying for him on nights he couldn’t feel anything other than emptiness and anger, yelling at him to stand up for himself when the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind.
And now you looked downright furious at the insult Pope had repeated in a low and hesitant voice.
“Baz doesn’t know anything.” You say back firmly with a shake of your head, a rare tone of voice from you considering you’re normally so gentle. “He’s a dick. He treats Lena terribly anyways so what does he know about being a father?”
Pope doesn’t say anything as you ramble on, his lips pursing as he resists the familiar frustrating urge to defend his brother. He isn’t sure why he still feels it after all this time but it’s like second nature, the same type of instinct that ended up with him in prison for three years.
“Andy, you know that’s not true right?” Your voice is back to its normal sweetness now as you duck down a little to try and get his eyes to focus on you, smiling faintly when it works.
“Do I?” It’s quiet and not really self deprecating, genuinely curious on what he’s supposed to feel in this situation.
“Any woman would be lucky to have kids with you.” Your eyebrows furrow like you’re confused on how he doesn’t understand that and your determination rattles him a little.
“Any woman?” He repeats it and your face falls a touch, his eyes narrowing as he tries to understand what emotion you’re attempting to cover up.
You give him a reassuring smile and nod but it doesn’t meet your eyes, sad sad eyes that make him want to throw up. He doesn’t understand what about that makes you so sad and he feels too stupid to ask for clarification, knowing he should just be able to read you like you so easily can read him.
He doesn’t get to reflect on it long before your arms go around his neck for a tight embrace and he returns it eagerly, locking his behind your lower back and tugging you close so tight your feet nearly lift off the ground.
“Needed you.” He whispers as he tucks into your neck and he can both feel and hear the small fond laugh you let out.
“I’m here.” You return and it’s so quiet it pains him, wishing he could ask you to scream it out so everyone could understand. Your head twists and your nose brushes his jaw in a way that makes his spine shiver. “Made your favorite, come eat.”
You eat dinner in silence but you don’t seem at all bothered by the quiet, understanding like always that he just needs to sink into his own head sometimes.
He almost can’t stand the feeling of being around you, the constant under the skin itching whenever you’re not touching him and the headache of trying to be someone he’s not to make himself easier to be around. It’s only a headache because it doesn’t work on you, you see through him immediately and encourage him to be himself despite that being the exact thing he’s always ran from.
You’re as relaxed as always while you do the dishes and he stares at the side of your face, like you’re not at all bothered by the intense glare.
Occasionally you glance over and smile softly when you find he’s still watching you closely.
He tenses when your phone rings, one look at the clock on your microwave telling him it’s an odd hour for anybody to be calling. You don’t get many calls in general, your family and upbringing being similar enough to his that you scarcely give out your number.
You’re stiff for the same reasons but your shoulders relax when you retrieve the device from your pocket and see the contact name, placing it to your ear and sending Pope a calming look.
“Hey Deran.” You greet neutrally and his back loses the tension although his eyebrows furrow in question. “No sorry, he’s not here. I’ll tell him to give you a call if I see him.”
Deran continues saying something muffled on the other line and you give Pope a hand gesture that insinuates he’s talking too much which would have made him huff a laugh if he wasn’t so irritated by his brother bothering you.
You hang up after a soft goodnight and dry your hands before approaching his stiff frame, rubbing your palms up his biceps until you reach his shoulders.
“Relax. He’s just wondering where you were staying tonight.” You explain in a whisper and his eyes close at the rubbing gesture. “He gets worried when you disappear. I wish you’d just tell him you’re with me.”
“Don’t want them knowing where you live.” He murmurs back instinctively truthful and you sigh, reading between the lines. You know he’s not actually worried about his brothers knowing where your apartment is or harming you at all.
“If Smurf wanted to know where I am then she’d already know.” You respond and his eyes snap open, although not necessarily surprised that you sourced out the true discomfort he was having.
He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds so you shift even closer, holding his face gently which makes him let out a deep breath.
Pope doesn’t think he’s ever been touched in the way you touch him. He’s felt Smurfs hands all over him even when she’s not in the room, prodding and poking and silently placing her control over his very being with her affection and he’s had a handful of pained sexual encounters that left him throwing up in alleyways afterwards but he’d never had this except for you.
So gentle and never demanding anything from him in return. You don’t want him to touch you back or give you some sort of pleasure, you don’t even want him to let his guard down or weaken for you. There’s just the comfort and reassurance of your presence when it’s easy to forget.
His eyes meet yours and you shake your head before he can start.
“I don’t want another lecture about not understanding your mom because I do.” You whisper it like Smurf could possibly be overhearing your conversation, a precaution that is more for his paranoia than your own. “I’m not downplaying what she can do. But I’m safe and even more so when you’re here with me.”
“I’m not always here.” He nearly growls out in his own frustration and your eyes somehow soften even more.
“But you are right now so please just…” You sigh and his heart clenches. “Be here with me and pretend that doesn’t exist for now.”
It’s easier said than done but Pope would do just about anything to please you so he tries his best, swallowing the urge to triple check the locks and windows even though he knows you wouldn’t judge him for it.
You don’t last long trying to finish up the dishes before you started to yawn and he encourages you to go to bed with a gentle hand on your lower back guiding you to the hallway, one of the rare times he initiates the contact.
He finishes them for you and then stands in the living room for a good twenty minutes, fingers drumming against his leg and jaw clenching until his teeth ache while he contemplates leaving.
He knows you hate when he leaves without saying goodbye first, hates when he leaves in general. You are probably laying in bed still wide awake just so you can hear the sound of the door closing, not shying away from telling him tomorrow how it disappoints you every time.
It takes a lot out of him to turn and head back down the dark hallway even though it’s all worth it when he sees the way your eyes light up when he makes a gruff noise indicating he wants you to scoot over and make room for him in the bed.
Pope can never sleep and he doesn’t expect it anymore, he’s used to the constant exhaustion headaches and the stiffness in his neck when he dozes off sitting up too many times. Like most things in his life, you’re the exception.
Maybe it’s the way your nails drag against his clothed back or the fact he can hear your breathing level out and know you’re safe and alive right beside him, but he’s only able to drift off when sleeping in your bed with you. The nightmares don’t ever let up but they’re much more manageable when he can jolt awake and find himself still in your room, your arms wrapped around him as you instinctively shift closer throughout the night.
Tonight, it’s not the nightmares that wake him up.
It’s the sharpness of your breath as you sit up, your hands rubbing over his chest to shake him lightly as you whisper his name. He’s hit with confusion and panic as he sits up but then he understands when he hears the sharp knocks coming from your front door.
You never have visitors in general that aren’t him but it’s nearing three in the morning now and nothing good can come out of the extensive knocking the continues impatiently.
Pope is up and out of bed, ignoring your whispers of protest as he grabs his gun from the chair in the corner of the room.
“Pope.” You stand up to chase after him but he turns around in the dark hallway and gives you a stern look, pointing silently back to the room and not walking towards the door until you deflate and nod in defeat.
He’s completely tense as he nears the front door where the knocking hasn’t ceased and he halfway considers just firing through the door and dealing with the consequences afterwards but he figures you’d be pissed if he ruined the welcome mat.
“Open the goddamn door already.”
His freezes for a completely different reason once the voice registers and now he can hear you scoffing and stomping down the hallway. You brush past him and throw open the door, glaring at the sight of his three brothers standing in the outdoor corridor.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” You’re practically hissing as they come inside like it’s not the middle of the night. You don’t even bother stopping Pope once he finally unfreezes and roughly shoves the nearest brother backwards, which happens to be Deran.
“We called you a hundred times man.” Baz shouts, wincing when you shush him aggressively and throw a pillow from your couch. “You said he wasn’t here.”
His finger points accusatorially at you for about half a second before Pope is smacking it out of the air and stepping in front of you, blocking you from the others line of vision.
You sigh from behind him and rub a hand up his arm gently, coaxing him to relax and take a few steps back before they end up fighting in the middle of your tiny living room.
Craig shoots a look at Deran when he notices the touch that neither of you miss and Pope glares at them both. He almost feels sick from the intrusion even though it’s completely selfish. His brothers know you’re close to each other and can see the bond you have but this is different.
This is supposed to be the place he can go to escape from it all, his own separate world with you where he doesn’t have to be Pope Cody but instead he can just be Andrew who gets his favorite dinner cooked for him by a beautiful girl before they go to sleep peacefully.
A sleep so brutally interrupted.
“Listen we didn’t want to come.” Baz softens and does that tone of voice he always does when he wants to control Pope easier, speaking slowly like he’s having to use all his energy to pretend they’re equals. “But it’s important. We need you at the house.”
Pope is frozen as he considers, distracted enough to not notice the way Craig is eyeing the untouched couch and your messy sleep hair. You raise your eyebrows at him which makes him finally break and start to laugh at the apparent absurdity of Pope clearly having been sleeping in your bed with you.
“Just go with them.” You say gently with a tired sigh, stepping back closer to him so you can touch his elbow lightly and get him to focus. “Call me when you’re done or use your key.”
You ignore Deran whispering something to Craig about the key comment, rolling your eyes when Pope tenses up again under your touch. Finally his eyes meet yours and he hesitates before nodding in agreement, nostrils flaring a little from his irritation.
You look so tired and understanding and he considers what it means that he’d probably kill his brothers if it meant he got to get back into bed with you for a few more hours.
It’s easy to forget about his own homicidal inner dialogue when you’re leaning up on your tiptoes to place a kiss against the corner of his mouth. You weren’t shy with your affection but that was a stretch, even for you, and for once the others don’t seem to want to laugh about it.
They looked just as thrown as Pope feels when you give him a sheepish smile and head back to your bedroom, trusting him to get them out of there and lock up before he leaves like it’s his apartment too.
—
Pope doesn’t call you that night and you don’t hear the lock turn at any point, no bed dipping under his weight or his arms around you when you wake up.
You try not to think much of it especially knowing how hesitate he can be, almost constantly shy even though you’ve known him for longer than you can remember. He’s not one to make the first move even if you had invited him back, most likely doubting himself on if you truly meant it for the entire night.
But two days passed and you started to feel like something was wrong.
It wasn’t completely unusual but typically he’d atleast let you know before he was going to get busy or he sent out of town on some random Smurf errand. His brothers hadn’t looked too spooked the night they came to get him but your mind was filling with possibilities.
Maybe it was a job gone wrong, either he’d gotten hurt or locked back up. You weren’t really sure how you’d be able to handle Pope being back in prison, knowing how hard it was for him the first time.
This line of thinking led to you heading over to the Cody house, something you tried to avoid now that you were an adult. Especially by yourself, unable to remember the last time you’d gone over there without your father or Pope to accompany or invite you.
Deran was in the kitchen when you walked in and he gave you a heavy look, riddled with such guilt that your stomach turned and you had to slow down to swallow the bile building in your throat.
“He’s here?” You croaked out and he nodded with a sigh, gesturing his arm back towards where Popes room was.
You hadn’t been down the hallway in a few years, unable to stand it when it was empty while he was locked up and recently he’d been solely coming over to your place. He’d told you one night quietly in bed that he didn’t want you around Smurf anymore, a desperate plea that you didn’t fully understand.
You knew what she could do and you knew her influence on Pope but you had your own blood running through Oceanside that left you a little bit more protected than most people. Smurf didn’t scare you but you knew she scared him so you did what he asked and stayed away.
He was standing up when you walked in, pulling a shirt over his head full of wet curls like he’d just gotten out of the shower. Your lips pursed as you stood in the doorway, unmoving as his eyes landed on you and he jumped a little.
You watched as he naturally relaxed at the sight of you before stiffening completely like he remembered the reason you’d be standing outside his room with that pained look on your face.
You’re across the room before he can say anything even though you figured he wasn’t going to speak much anyways, your typically gentle hands shoving roughly at his chest. He winces at the shove but doesn’t resist, barely budging until you push him one more time and he stumbles backwards a few steps.
“You disappear.” You shove again. “You don’t call, you don’t text me.” Each statement is emphasized with a push until he’s had enough, gripping your wrist tightly and huffing a little as he stares down at you.
Your eyes are pained and angry, an expression he hasn’t seen on your face in nearly a decade. You were the one touch of gentleness he had in this world and he felt terrible for pulling a gross emotion like this out of you.
“Do you even care that I worry about you?” You laughed bitterly as you stared up at him and his stoic face, searching for answers in the blank look. “Can you fucking say something?”
It takes him a few seconds, holding your wrist tightly still until you finally relax and let out a defeated breath. He only lets you go once he knows you’re not going to fight him anymore and you step away as soon as you’re freed from his grasp.
“I’m sorry.” He rasps it out and follows you as you try and create some distance, eyes a little pleading. You give him a stern look, wanting him to cut it out before you fold as easily as always when he gets like this.
“You can’t keep doing this to me Pope.” Your voice is as stern as it can be with the knowledge you’d let him do whatever he wanted for the rest of your lives.
He frowns deeply and you know why before he says it, knows how much he hates to hear that nickname from you. It slips sometimes when you’re not thinking, especially when you’re back in this nearly haunted house and so upset with him.
You feel bad despite your anger and stop walking backwards, letting him close the distance until your hands can run over his back. He tucks his head down into your neck and lets out a breath so heavy it makes the hairs on your arms raise.
“Should’ve called.” He whispers against your warm skin and you can fill in the blanks on your own.
You can see the bags under his eyes and the way his sheets are tucked neatly like nobody has touched them in weeks, the fact he was wincing while pulling his shirt on like something on his body was hurting more than usual.
You didn’t even want to hear him say what they’d been up to the last few days even though you knew he’d tell you as soon as you asked, never lying to you even if it hurt him to admit some things. The embarrassment and guilt on his face always made you regret asking, like a good dog who had bit somebody without meaning to.
He picks his head up at your silence and your eyes lock, pressing forward until your foreheads are leaned against each others. You sigh and bunch the fabric of his shirt up in your fist, making his breath stutter a little.
“Just come home okay?” You whisper as your eyes shut for a moment from sheer desperation.
He’s nodding immediately, still going until you open your eyes again and see him clearly, making sure you understand that he knows what you mean by home and he’s willingly to go with you no matter the consequences.
Summary: You and Pope have loved each other since you were teenagers. And then he went to prison, and cut you off. No apology, no explanation, nothing. Just a sledgehammer to your heart and utter radio silence.
Three years later, he's out, and he wants you back.
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Swearing, Mentions of drugs, Mentions of violence, Alcohol use, Gun use, It's Animal Kingdom there's a little bit of everything, Character death (not a main/canon character), Vague descriptions of mental illness (it's Pope), Smut!! Unprotected pinv (wrap it up guys!), Loss of virginity in a flashback, Brief Craig/Reader (they're besties though), Age gaps/timelines might be a little wonky but oh well, Mentions of abuse (reader’s dad is a bad man), Please let me know if I forgot anything!
Author's Note: I hope you guys enjoy this one! I wanted to experiment with flashbacks, and then this exploded out of my brain. Special thanks to @flowersforbucky for proofreading and dealing with my indecisiveness on the pictures and layout because she is the best!! Please let me know what you think!!
Word Count: 21k
-
The bar is dimly lit. Sticky. Loud.
The guy sitting across from you has nice eyes. Pretty, even. They’re a light blue, crinkled a little in the corners and looking at you with something like adoration. You try to appreciate it, you really do, but all you can see is naivety. Maybe you’re too cynical. More likely too damaged. Whatever.
You prefer brown eyes, anyway.
Warm brown eyes looking into your own. Large fingers tucking your hair behind your ear. The ghost of warm breath against your lips and a small curve of a shy smile as he leans closer and closes the distance between you-
You blink, and force a smile.
The guy across from you, Ethan or something, clears his throat. “So, do you wanna maybe-“
A beer hits the table, loud enough to make the man - though you should really call him a boy, with that collared shirt and combed hair and those innocent eyes - jump nearly a foot in the air.
“Move it, pal.”
Craig Fucking Cody stands above you, and you bite back a groan.
The boy stammers, pales at the sight of the gigantic, tattooed man beside you, and takes maybe a full twenty seconds to stammer out his next words.
“I-I…are you her…”
“Oh yeah, I’m her husband. Fresh outta the psych ward and everything. Now beat it, before I smash your head against the table.”
The boy bolts like Craig set the booth on fire, and you glare up at him.
“I was on a date.”
Craig laughs, like you were genuinely joking. “Not exactly your type.”
“You don’t know what my type is.”
“Pretty sure I do. I shared a wall with your type for most of my life.”
You clench your jaw. “What do you want, Craig?”
He sits across from you, all friendly familiarity, and smiles. “I need your help.”
“I don’t do jobs anymore.”
He raises his eyebrow, and glances pointedly towards Ethan in the corner of the bar, trying to save face by ordering himself another drink.
“I told you, that was a date.”
“C’mon, don’t lie to me. You think I don’t know when you’re working an angle?”
You narrow your eyes a little. “Okay, fine. I don’t do jobs with the Codys anymore.”
Craig’s smile falls a little.
Burning rubber in your nose. Panic in your throat. The shriek of the tires drowned out by your own voice as you grab frantically at the wheel.
“Baz what the fuck are you doing? What are you doing? Turn around!”
Baz’s hand darts out, and he slams you back against the seat so hard your teeth knock together. “It’s too late.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? We can’t just leave him-“
“We have to. He was too late. You know the rules. It’s him or all of us.”
You’re frantic. Panicked. You even start to yank at your own car door, like you might jump out and run back to the bank on your own two feet, and Baz slams you backwards again.
When he makes it to the house, you punch him in the face before you even get out of the car. He takes it, head whipping to the side like he expected this reaction from you. When you get out, you punch him again. It takes both Craig and Deran to pull you away.
“He’s out of prison, you know.”
You take a sip of your drink. “Good for him.”
“He keeps asking about you.”
Yeah, bullshit. “I’ll bet he does.”
Craig sucks his teeth, and seems to decide to pick a different battle.
“So, it’s a good job. You barely have to do anything. We just need your help with-“
“I don’t do jobs with the Codys anymore, Craig. Also, I don’t know if you realize this, but using my ex as an incentive to help you isn’t really boosting my interest.” Ex. Your ex. It still feels so weird to think of him like that.
Because he’s just…Pope. Andrew Cody. The love of your life since you were a teenager. Even when you were together, ‘boyfriend’ felt like too simple of a word to describe what he was to you. It was too intense for such a lame title. Too full of a love so deep it bordered on obsession.
And then it was all over. Just like that.
Craig is making a face. You frown back at him. “What?”
“It’s my job, okay?” He runs a hand through his hair, flexes his fingers on his beer. “And it’s good. I’ve worked my ass off at planning it, and Baz is out, so I just…I need it to go well. And it will go well if you help.”
You grip your drink a little tighter. Fucking Craig. Fucking asshole with the terrible decision making skills and good heart. Fuck him for being your friend. For making you care about him. For giving you that look that’s making you feel like-
“Fuck. Fine.” God help you. “Fine. Fine. Okay. Fine.” He grins at you, and you glare back at him. “But I don’t want to see Pope.”
Now it’s Craig’s turn to give you a look. “About that…”
-
Your outfit is so fucking uncomfortable you want to die.
Okay, maybe it’s not the outfit. Maybe it’s the anxiety twisting in your stomach so intensely you think you might vomit in the driveway of the Cody house.
You’ve been here since he went to prison. Since you broke up. Not for long - you haven’t exactly been in the habit of hanging out by the pool or anything - but whether you’re here for a minute or an hour this damn driveway always whips the memory of that horrible day back into your mind more violently than a slap.
-
“Put me down. Put me the fuck down I’m gonna-“
“Jesus, relax!” Baz throws his hands up, angry and defensive and so very punchable right now. Deran’s got you locked against him, feet kicking in the air like you might be able to land a blow if you just try hard enough. “I had to go! He got held up or some shit, and if the cops caught us the whole family would have gone down.”
“You just fucking left him there! We could have-“
“We didn’t have a choice. I made a decision. I saved our asses. We knew this was a risk. It always is.”
“Fuck you.”
“Yeah, yeah. Fuck me.” Baz runs a hand through his hair, and you know he’s heartbroken too but you couldn’t give less of a shit right now. His nose is still bleeding from where you clocked him a minute ago. “Fuck me for making the hard decisions for this family.”
Rage rises up in your throat again, threatening to choke you as you kick harder. “Boo fucking hoo. You left him! You fucking left him and-“
“Calm down.” It’s Deran’s voice now. Deran, who sounds choked up and is still holding you locked in a vice grip. The sound of it makes you look up at Craig, whose eyes are shining with tears, and…
Your feet drop back to the pavement, the sound and sight of the boys’ pain deflating you almost alarmingly quickly, and you pat the arm around you in both comfort and reassurance.
“Okay.” You breathe, shaky, and Baz’s shoulders drop.
“Okay.” He repeats, and the sound of his voice makes you grit your teeth. “Now that we’re all calm, we need to figure out what to do.”
-
He’s in the yard.
Three years later, and he’s just… in the yard. Standing there. Staring at you. And what did you expect? That he would drag himself out of a grave? Appear before you in an explosion of fire and blood?
He looks at you. You look at him. He doesn’t move an inch.
He looks good. Just as beautiful as the day you lost him. You hate him for it.
“Hi.” His voice sounds even lower than it used to. He looks bigger. Like he worked out a lot in prison.
You raise your eyebrows. Something curls deep in your core at the sight of him. Three years later, and you still can’t look at this man without feeling a physical reaction. “Hi.”
-
“You’re bleeding.”
You reach up, swiping the back of your hand over your lip and frowning at the smear of red across your skin, illuminated by the moonlight reflecting off the pool.
“You’re not the only one who can get into fights.”
Andrew Cody looks at you, with those dark eyes that always seems to see through whatever lie you try to tell him or even yourself, but you meet his gaze with the defiance of a teenage girl who really doesn’t want to talk about it.
“Are you…staying here again?” He asks, standing still from his spot beside the pool. You’re on a chair. Your face hurts. Your body aches. You nod.
“Smurf says I can crash for a few days.” In exchange for help, of course. Help with jobs. Connections. Money. You don’t mind. It’s better than being home, or hiding out on the beach again.
He still hasn’t moved. “Are you…gonna stay in Craig’s room? With him?”
You almost laugh out loud. Craig, big and rowdy and often immature even for a teenager, is closest to you in age. He might be your best friend. He definitely has a crush on you, and you’re almost positive that Smurf is angling for the two of you to get together.
“Why? Would that bother you?”
“Yes.”
You look up at him. He looks down at you. Slowly, almost unaware that you’re doing it, scoot over on your chair to make room, and he takes the invitation. Your heart hammers in your chest.
His hand comes up. Fingers brushing over a bruise on your cheek and eyebrows twitching with…
“Stop looking at me like that.”
He doesn’t. “Like what?”
“Like you want to kill someone for me.”
“I do.”
“I know.”
He’s close. His thumb is still brushing over your cheek, and his eyes fall to your lips. You think he might kiss you. You don’t think you’ve ever wanted anything more.
But this…this house, as chaotic and dangerous as it may be, is the only somewhat stable thing you have right now. The only safe place to go when things get too fucked up at home. When your petty criminal of a father takes things too far, or debt collectors come banging on the door. Smurf lets you stay here, and Smurf is always working an angle. You’ve told yourself a thousand times that, in exchange for this, you’ll go along with whatever plan she has for you.
This is not that plan.
And yet, as his face ducks closer to yours, fingers curling in your hair, you wonder what it would be like. To feel Pope’s lips against your own. To feel his body against yours as he lies you down right here on this pool chair. You think, despite his violent tendencies and episodes of something your uneducated mind can only call insanity, that he would be gentle with you. Like he always is. You don’t have much experience with boys, but you think he would make sure that you felt comfortable. He’d probably kiss you through any nervousness, whisper reassurances into your skin as he peels off your clothing, make you feel safe the whole time and-
His lips brush over your own, and you pull back.
“I’ve gotta…go inside.”
He searches your face, and you know that his observant eyes see the want there. Still, he nods, and stays where he is as you pull yourself to your feet.
-
“We should talk.”
You laugh, humorless, and push past him into the house. You don’t get far before you feel his hand on your arm, turning you towards him.
“Let go of me.”
He does, but he tilts his head and furrows his brow in that intense way he has. The familiar sight makes you ache. “We should talk.”
“I think the time for talking passed somewhere around three years ago, Andrew.” You grumble, and he fixes you with an expression so filled with helplessness and pain that you almost crumble right then and there.
You ignore him, and push your way into the house. Craig whistles at the sight of your too-tight dress and heels, and Deran greets you with a familiar smile.
As you start to plan, to prepare for the day ahead, you don’t turn around. You don’t look at Pope. His eyes don’t leave you the entire time, and it’s almost physically impossible to keep yourself from leaning back against him like you have a million times, over the course of a million similar meetings.
But you don’t look at him, and when it’s time to leave, you storm out of the house before he has a chance to catch your arm again.
The job. Focus on the job.
You can do this.
-
You lost your virginity to Craig Cody two weeks after you and Pope nearly kissed by the pool.
You don’t know why you did it. Well, you do. It’s what Smurf wants. It’s what Craig wants. It’s what you should want. You and Craig are well matched. You love him in whatever way you do. He’s your best friend. You know how to keep him in check when he acts like an idiot, and he knows how to make you laugh when the weight of everything feels like it’s going to fucking crush you.
So you had a couple of beers at a party. You grabbed his hand before he could get too wasted. Even for a teenager, he’s already fucking huge. Handsome, too. You know the other girls stare at him. You should feel proud that he follows you like a lost puppy the moment you start tugging him towards his room.
It was awkward. And messy. And nothing like the movies say it’s supposed to be like. You know he tried to make it…special, or whatever. He was gentle. He asked if you were okay between kisses as he laid you back on his unmade bed and helped you out of your clothes. When he pushed in, you’d gasped and clawed at his back, and he’d mumbled apologies into your neck and waited until you nodded that you were okay, but he still moved just a little too fast. A little too clumsily. It didn’t hurt too badly, and it wasn’t exactly unpleasant the whole time, but you didn’t feel fireworks or any of the overwhelming pleasure you thought you were supposed to.
When it was over, he’d kissed you, and you’d smiled up at him, and then he’d rolled over and pulled you into his chest and laughed.
“That was awesome.” He breathed, and you nodded. “You’re awesome. Was it…did you?”
“Yeah.” You think you did. There was a minute, somewhere towards the end, when it had felt pretty good. Not the explosion of pleasure you’ve always heard about, but that’s fine.
“Awesome.” He kissed your forehead, and sat up a little. “Wanna beer?”
You’d smiled, heart swelling with affection that should definitely feel more…romantic than it does. But it’s still affection. You still care about him a lot. Maybe this is supposed to be right. “Yeah.”
~
Pope Cody hasn’t looked at you in a week.
Smurf seems more than happy with you sleeping in Craig’s room. With him wrapping an arm around you when you all sit on the couch together. He’s even developed a habit of ducking down and pressing a kiss to your cheek when you’re standing in the kitchen, or before he does a backflip into the pool. It’s fun. You think you can get used to it.
You haven’t had sex again. He’s asked, almost every night, but you’ve always come up with some kind of excuse and he’s always responded with nothing harsher than a disappointed smile. And yet, you both stay up almost all night every night, talking and laughing and playing video games like you always have since the day he first brought you to this house. This family.
But Pope won’t look at you, and you can’t ignore it anymore.
Because he came home from a job with a black eye and bruised knuckles, and now he’s standing in the yard and Smurf’s chastising him for being reckless is still ringing in the air. He didn’t talk. He didn’t argue. He just stared at the pool and refused to look at her. At you.
And now you’re alone with him, and everyone has left to go regroup or party or whatever, and he still. Won’t. Look. At. You.
“Andrew.” You rarely use his real name. He tenses, but he doesn’t turn around.
“Look at me.”
He doesn’t. You snap.
“Why won’t you look at me?” You grab his arm, and turn him toward you, and he pulls it away.
“Stop it.”
“No.” You grab him again, and this time he catches your arm, fingers around your wrist in a vice grip that is firm but nowhere close to painful. His eyes remain on the pavement.
“You haven’t talked to me since I got with Craig.” You say, and his jaw clenches at your words. You can see his cold expression, now, if not his eyes. He’s older than you, but his face still holds the smooth roundness of youth. He’s just as handsome as always. Your heart stutters a little, like it’s supposed to with Craig.
When he still doesn’t answer, you shove at his chest. The sudden movement makes him release your wrist, but he doesn’t budge. “Fucking look at me! Why won’t you at least look at me? Are you seriously this pissed off because I hooked up with him? Stop being an asshole and tell me why you’re acting like this!”
“Because it should have been me!” He finally snaps, finally looks at you, and the sharpness of his voice paired with the intensity behind his dark eyes is enough to nearly make you stumble backwards. “It should have been me. You know it should have.”
He looks almost crazed, now, shoulders hunched and fists clenched and feet moving towards you until you take an instinctive step backwards. The movement doesn’t stop him. He still comes closer.
“You…you let him touch you. And kiss you. And do all of the things I’ve…” he trails off, and your breath freezes in your lungs, “the things I’ve wanted to do since I met you.” His eyes drop to your mouth, back up to your eyes, and he’s close. So close. “It should have been me.”
You don’t move back again. You can feel the warmth of his proximity in the chilly night air. Your voice is too quiet to your own ears. “That’s…not the plan.”
He’s not breathing regularly. His hands are still clenched at his sides. He looks you over, like he’s trying to fight it, before something finally breaks.
“Fuck the plan.” His voice is almost a growl, and you don’t have time to respond before his hand is on the back of your head and his mouth is against yours.
The world explodes.
His lips are warm and rough, demanding and desperate and sending fire through every vein and pore in your body. You choke on a whimper, surprising yourself with the sound, and Pope groans in response as his tongue sweeps its way into your mouth. Your hands fly up, curling in the fabric of his shirt before moving up to his hair like you don’t know how to touch all of him at once. His own hands move down, lips only leaving yours long enough for him to grab the backs of your thighs to lift you against him before he’s kissing you again.
You don’t even register that you’re moving, too caught up in the desperation and the feeling of something hot burning in your core. He presses you against a wall, trails his lips down your throat until you’re gasping for air, before he kisses you again and moves deeper into the empty house.
And then he’s lowering you back onto his bed, crisp sheets smooth against your back, and you barely let him pull away enough to crawl over you before you’re kissing him again with so much need that it’s almost embarrassing.
His rough palms are sliding up beneath your shirt, breath turning shaky at the feeling of your skin against his, and it feels so good you think you might die.
“Is this okay?” He whispers, lips against your cheek, and you nod.
“Please.” You don’t know what you’re begging for, but the sound of it makes him moan as he pulls your t-shirt over your head and trails his mouth down over your collarbone.
His own shirt comes next. You roll on top of him, and kiss and bite down his chest until he’s tangling his fingers in your hair and pulling your mouth back up to his, rolling you both once more until you’re on your back and your hands are fumbling with his belt, unpracticed and clumsy, until he shushes you gently and reaches down to help you with a lingering kiss to your cheek.
“Tell me if it’s too much.” He rasps after a while, and you can barely breathe enough to tell him that you will. You settle for a nod, and his rough palm slides over your stomach, up over your body until he’s cradling your cheek.
“I’ve got you.” He whispers, and the soft words are almost comical with how hard he’s trembling with restraint. With how dark his eyes are, how intense his touch feels. “Breathe. I’ve got you.”
You nod, and when you smile he smiles back, shy and nervous behind that starved expression, and that one look alone makes you feel like you’re floating.
It’s nothing like Craig. It isn’t like Pope is a whole lot more practiced, or some kind of sex god or anything, but every movement feels so much more…right. He slides his hand beneath your thigh, guiding it around his waist and watching your face as your bodies join together for the first time, and the noise that pulls its way out of your throat barely sounds human.
His breath comes on a shaky exhale, eyes never leaving yours as he searches your face for signs of pain or discomfort, and when he finally starts to move you feel something coiling so tightly in your stomach it almost hurts.
Every slow thrust, every reverent touch, tightens that coil. Every kiss. Every whispered word against your skin as his fingers catch your own and he presses your joined hands into the pillow above your head.
You reach the edge so quickly it shocks you, free hand clawing at his back as you bite down on his shoulder and fireworks explode behind your vision.
The feeling is so intense that, for a moment, you forget where you even are. You forget your own name. All you know, all you feel, is Pope moving with you. Whispering praise and promises of adoration against your lips and throat. When he follows you into oblivion, it’s with a breathless moan of your name.
After, he holds you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched. He traces his hands over your skin. He follows the caresses with his lips. And, when you finally remember how to breathe again, you giggle.
He pulls back from your throat with a raised eyebrow, a smile curling on his own lips, and nuzzles his nose into your cheek. “What?”
“I didn’t…” you didn’t know it could feel that good. You didn’t know anything could feel that good. “I…wow.”
He really does smile, now. He tucks you closer to him, barely letting you go as he pulls you beneath the blankets with him and curls his body around yours. Protective. Possessive, even. “Yeah.” He murmurs, pressing his lips to the side of your head. “Wow.”
-
The future Mr. and Mrs. Franklin need to be convincing. Happy. Overwhelmingly in love.
Your heels click against the dock. It takes years of practice and training from Smurf to keep yourself from fidgeting in your expensive dress. Pope’s eyes are on you, burning holes into your head from behind his sunglasses.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“You know like what.”
“You look nice.”
“Shut up.”
The door to the yacht opens, and you don’t have time to keep the argument going. Pope slides his arm around you, you grin wide, and he tugs you almost too-tightly into his side.
“Welcome!” The woman on the other side of the door is smiling in that fake and familiar way that people do when they’re trying to get a whole lotta money from rich people. “Mr. and Mrs. Franklin, right?”
“Soon to be.” Pope says, all confidence and practiced casualness. He catches your hand in his, the expensive ring glittering obnoxiously on your finger, and raises the back of your hand to his lips. You giggle like an airhead, tilt your head onto his shoulder, and grin up at him.
“Adorable.” The woman says, too emphatically, and you don’t miss the way her eyes rake over your ‘fiance’. You shouldn’t care. This isn’t real. He’s not… yours anymore. And yet, it’s hard to shake off the surge of possessiveness that nearly has you yanking him down and pressing your lips to his.
When she turns to lead you both into the yacht, you try to pull your hand out of Pope’s. He doesn’t let you go. You turn to glare, and he offers you a small smile and a squeeze of his fingers through your own.
Fine.
-
“I’m sorry. He refuses to see you.”
“I…” you blink, shake your head, and tell yourself you heard the guard wrong. “What?”
“Believe it or not, even prisoners have a right to refuse visitation. He said he doesn’t want to see you.”
You blink again. “That’s…that’s not true. That can’t be true.”
“You can try again next week, but in my experience you’ll probably have the same reaction.”
-
You try again the next week. And the next. You stop sleeping. You stop eating. You wait for a phone call. An explanation. You go to Smurf. You go back to the prison.
Six weeks later, he finally fucking agrees to see you.
You nearly rip the phone off of the wall. He doesn’t look right in a prison uniform. He doesn’t look like he’s been sleeping. “What the fuck, Andrew?”
At your use of his name, his real name, you swear you can see something like relief flicker in his eyes, like the sound of your voice is a drug he’s been deprived of for over a month. You’re about to keep talking, or even press your hand against the glass like some lame fucking cliche, the sight of his face lifting something heavy off of your soul.
“Stop calling.” He says simply, and your heart drops to your feet.
“What?”
“Stop calling. Stop showing up here. Stop.”
“I…” what? This isn’t happening. He wouldn’t do this. “What? Pope, Andrew, I didn’t leave you.” That’s almost, almost incriminating. You know that. But it could also mean anything. You’re his girlfriend, after all. He’s in prison. You’ve been trying to see him. You haven’t left him. The last thing they’ll probably assume is that you’re talking about leaving him to be arrested after robbing that fucking bank.
“I know.” He says simply, and meets your eyes. “I don’t care. Leave. Stop coming here. I’m not going to come see you again.”
You don’t know what to say. You don’t know how to breathe anymore. This is so fucking wrong and it doesn’t make sense and-
He places the phone on the receiver, stands up, and leaves.
That’s the last time you see Andrew Cody for three years.
-
“And here we have the reception deck. As you can see, the view will be absolutely spectacular, especially when you’re out on the water…”
Four exits. Three cameras. One, two…
“I’m so sorry. Is there a bathroom I can use?” You ask brightly, from where you’re hanging off of Pope’s arm. “Or I’m sorry, the head, right? Like they say on boats.” An airheaded giggle, a practiced bat of your eyes.
The moment you’re around the corner, you whip out your phone and start taking notes and pictures. Exits. Entrance points. Doors to the lower deck where Craig can-
“We need to talk.”
You actually yelp, whirling around and stumbling on your heels before Pope’s arm shoots out to curve around your middle and keep you from falling over.
“What the fuck are you doing?” You hiss, wide eyes shooting back towards the hall. “Now? Let me go.”
“You won’t talk to me. I have to-“
“So you’re gonna fuck up the job? They could be here any second. You’re supposed to be distracting them.” He’s lost his fucking mind. Clearly, prison has warped his brain and made him an irrational asshole who-
The click of heels against the hardwood floor. A familiar, professional voice calling out your fake names with too much curiosity and suspicion.
“Fuck.” You whisper, and start scrambling to pull away and hide your phone. “Fuck.”
In one swift movement, Pope snatches the device out of your hand, slides it into his back pocket, presses you against the wall and slams his mouth to yours.
Like always, even after all of this time, the feeling of his lips against your own sends a jolt of electricity through your entire body.
He kisses you like he hasn’t thought about anything else in the last three years. His lips move hungrily against yours, one large hand coming up to tangle in your perfectly-done hair as his body envelops yours until you can’t think of anything else.
His tongue traces over your lip, and you open for him instinctively until he groans and changes the angle so he can kiss you more deeply and it feels so fucking good you might-
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…interrupt.” A bright, awkward voice breaks you out of your trance, and you gasp as you wrench your mouth away from Pope’s. He doesn’t even turn to the woman, thumb pressing into your cheek as he traces it over your skin like he’s trying to re-memorize the feeling.
It takes a lot more effort than you want to admit to clear your throat and plaster a flustered and embarrassed look on your face. To fall back into the ditzy, wealthy fiance facade. To keep yourself from ignoring her completely and kissing Pope again to chase that euphoric fucking feeling for as long as you can.
“Oh geez. I’m so embarrassed.” You reach up, and pinch Pope’s cheek just a little too hard with one manicured hand, feigning bright affection. “I just can’t keep my hands off of him, you know?”
“It’s so nice to see a couple so…in love.” A tight lipped, professional smile. Another glance at Pope that has irritating possessiveness curling in your chest again. You don’t have a right to feel that way. Not anymore. Not even after…whatever that was. “Would you two like to continue the tour?”
-
When Craig found out, he punched Pope in the face.
Pope punched him back.
When you lurched forward, prepared to jump between them and stop the bullshit macho display, Smurf had stuck her arm out and pushed you back.
“Let them fight. They need it.” She said, voice even, and kept her eyes on her two sons as they wrestled each other near the pool.
“This is bullshit. They-“
“You know,” she interrupts, still not looking at you. “When I took you in off the street, I wasn’t expecting you to stir up so much trouble.”
You freeze, heart stilling in your chest. She could send you back to your family. Your father. Being thrown out on the street would be bad enough on its own, but Smurf doesn’t work that way. If she wanted to really hurt you, she would.
“I didn’t mean to…stir up anything.”
She looks at you now, assessing. “I believe you.” She hums, and pulls her arm back. “Go break them up now, baby. See if you can fix your mess.”
-
“What the fuck was that?”
“A distraction.” Pope’s hands are on the steering wheel. His eyes are on the road.
“And before that? Cornering me in the hallway when I’m trying to gather fucking intel?”
He frowns. His fingers flex on the steering wheel. “It’s been three years.”
“And whose fucking fault is that?”
His brow furrows like he genuinely doesn’t understand why you would ask that. “The…U.S. prison system.”
“You know exactly what I mean. Don’t be a dick.”
“I’m not being a dick.”
“Pull the truck over.”
He does look at you, now, and you can see surprise in his eyes from where they’re visible over his shades. “No. Why?”
“I’m walking. Pull the truck over.”
He turns back to the road. One hand drops off the steering wheel, like it might come to rest on your thigh the same way it has in almost every car ride for years, before he catches himself and returns it to its original spot. “You can barely stand in those shoes.”
“So I’ll take them off. Pull over.”
“Just let me talk to you. Please.”
“No.”
His head drops back against the seat, jaw clenching in frustration, and you feel a surge of pride that you still seem to be the only person who can break through his little bubble of stoicism. Yeah, take that asshole. Be as exasperated as you want.
You don’t speak to him for the rest of the car ride.
-
Craig’s nose is bleeding. His feet are in the pool. He’s holding an ice pack to his eye.
“Do you hate me?” You ask, feeling almost childish for the question.
He laughs. Actually laughs, like you just said something ridiculous.
“Nah. Couldn’t if I tried, I think.”
You frown. “Then why did you…”
He shrugs, takes a sip of his beer, and smiles at you. “I mean, he did fuck my girlfriend. I’d be a little bitch if I just let him get away with that.”
“I’m not your girlfriend.”
“Well, not anymore.”
“I was never-“
“C’mon. I’ve got a shiner and a broken nose. Don’t hit my ego, too.”
You laugh, and shake your head. “You’re an idiot.”
He holds up his beer in a silent cheers, and there’s nothing but affection in his eyes as he takes a swig. No pining. No longing. Not even hurt or betrayal. Just…affection.
You smile at him, and your heart swells in that way you once tried to convince yourself was romantic attraction.
“I thought Smurf was gonna throw me out.”
He frowns now, and shakes his head. “She won’t. And if she does, Pope and I’ll just come with you.”
You smile again. You know it doesn’t reach your eyes. Craig leans over, and bumps your shoulder with his own.
“No matter what, that asshole’s not gonna hurt you again. You’re gonna be okay.”
“And if Pope ever fucks up, I’ll be here. I know I’m the best sex you’ve ever had, anyway.”
You snort. “Craig-“
“Ego, remember? Lemme have this.”
You poke him in the bruised ribs, and he hisses in pain before he laughs again.
You believe him.
-
When you get back to the house, you lurch out of the car before he can even reach for you. You stumble on your heels, kick them off of your feet in the yard, and storm into the house.
“Woah, hey there Hurricane Lady.” Craig’s grin falls the second he sees your face. “Shit. What happened?”
“Nothing. Here’s the phone. It’s got the pictures. Exits. All of that shit.” You want to snap that maybe Craig could have just done this himself, having gotten himself a job there, but you know that he doesn’t get access to the same places you just did. “I’m off the job.”
“What?”
“She’s not off the job.” Pope’s voice, from the door, makes you prickle.
“You don’t get to decide whether I’m on or off the job.” You whirl, and glare. “You don’t get to decide shit about me. Not anymore.”
“Jesus.” Deran blows out a breath, eyes on Pope. “You didn’t tell her, man?”
“Tell me what?”
“She won’t let me tell her.” Pope looks frustrated. Pained, even. Like he has any fucking right to be.
“Tell me what?!”
“Just tell her.”
“I’ve been trying-“
“Tell. Me. What?”
“He cut you off in prison because the cops were coming after you.” Craig says, and the words shut you up. “They were investigating your involvement. He had to cut ties so you didn’t incriminate yourself.”
Oh. Oh.
‘Pope. Andrew. I didn’t leave you.’
“Can I talk to you now?” Pope’s voice is low, and he’s doing the head-tilt thing, and you swear your lips are still tingling from his kiss.
You stare. He stares back. You open your mouth. Close it.
And then you walk into his room.
You don’t even need to turn around to know he’s following you. You hear Craig whistle the wedding march behind you, and you flip him off over your shoulder.
Pope’s old room is empty. The bed is made like it always was before.
“Beautiful. So beautiful. All mine…”
He whispers the words into the flushed skin of your neck, reverent and laced with gravel as his body moves against yours like it was made to. You gasp his name, and he groans as he moves faster.
Some party rages down the hall. The sounds of it are distant and inconsequential. All you can hear is his shallow breathing. His whispered promises of love between presses of his lips to any part of your skin he can reach. You love him so much it hurts and you’re going to-
You shake the memory off. Clear your throat. When you turn to him, he’s looking at the bed like he’s remembering something similar. Well, there are a lot of memories like that in this house. In the house the two of you shared later. In his truck. By the pool. In the pool. On the beach. At the-
Fuck.
“Talk. You wanted to talk, so talk.”
He watches you. You watch back, tense.
“They were looking for a reason to arrest you. The cops thought they might have identified you on that job a few months before. The one at the dispensary.”
You just keep staring at him. He shifts on his feet. “I couldn’t tell you. They were listening to everything. I figured…it was the only way to keep you out of prison.”
“Three years.”
Guilt flickers across his expression. Something like desperation follows. His fingers flex by his side. “I didn’t know when they stopped investigating you. Just when they stopped asking me questions.”
“Three. Years.”
“I missed you every day.” He moves closer, hesitant, like he’s trying to make sure you don’t bolt. “Every fucking minute. I thought about you all the time. It…it killed me, to walk away like that. I still think about the look on your face. I…” his jaw clenches, and he reaches towards you.
You should pull back. You should slap him, maybe. You know he would let you.
“You risked the job.” You try. Try to find something to cling to your anger. Your hurt. You missed him so much and all of that pain doesn’t just go away with one explanation.
“Fuck the job.” He whispers, hand sliding up over your cheek. “It’s been three years.”
And then he’s kissing you. Rough. Hungry. Desperate in a way that makes your knees threaten to give out because holy shit nothing has ever felt as good as Pope Cody’s skin against yours.
For a moment, you forget. You forget to be angry and hurt and painfully confused in favor of tangling your fingers in his curls and dragging him closer to you. He groans, the sound rough and borderline desperate, and his hands drop to your waist, lifting you clean off your bare feet to spin you both until he has you pinned against the wall.
His chest is pressed against yours. His hand is moving down to the hem of your dress, and you think you can feel his fingers shaking as they skate up over your skin and a shiver falls down your spine.
But it isn’t enough. This isn’t enough. It feels so good that it kills you to pull away. But his fingers are sliding up the inside of your thigh and if they reach their intended destination there won’t be anything in the world that will be able to stop you. To stop him, either, if how hungrily he’s kissing you now is any indication.
Because his kiss doesn’t make up for the hours you spent alone, in the house you once shared, staring at a phone that wouldn’t ring. How humiliating it felt to cry yourself to sleep with your mind filled to the brim with questions that you would never have answers to.
His mouth is gliding over your jaw, down over your throat, and his grip on your waist is so wonderfully tight and his fingers are so close to where you need him so badly it hurts and-
You shove him away, breathless and flushed and almost shaking with hunger, and his dark eyes have never looked so predatory.
“You…you can’t do that.” You whisper, and he looks like he’s about to do exactly that again at any moment. You hold up a hand, warding him off, and force yourself to steady your breathing. “No, you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to just show up again and kiss me like that.”
“I’m sorry.” He starts, expression filled with a genuine pain.
“You made me think, for three years, that you didn’t love me anymore.”
“I’m sorry.” He moves closer like it’s instinct, and you back up a little more into the wall, and he looks like he’s about to drop to his knees before you. “I’m so fucking sorry. I did it to protect you. I promise. I couldn’t think of any other way.”
You push past him, and walk out the door.
For once, he doesn’t follow.
-
“Where is she?”
You’re not here. You haven’t come since he got out.
“She doesn’t really come around anymore, man.” Craig shrugs, like it’s casual, like your absence isn’t digging a hole into Pope’s soul even as he sits here by the pool and you should be here but you’re not and he fucking hates it. He should have apologized to you ten times over by now. You should be here with him.
“She comes around every now and then. Watches Lena. Grabs a beer with me on Tuesdays and surfs with us if we ask nicely.” Craig leans back, and Pope fights the urge to lean forward and beg for more information. “She doesn’t talk to Baz, though. I think the most I’ve seen them interact is her flipping him off or some shit.”
Yeah, sounds like you.
“So, you gonna talk to her?”
Yes. Of fucking course he is. He’ll be on his knees begging the second you’re in the room.
But you don’t come. You don’t show up at the house anymore. You changed your number, and he can’t call you. Despite what Craig said, it’s almost like you’ve made yourself into some kind of ghost, too far away for him to reach anymore.
When he was in prison, he would fantasize about the day he got out. In most of those fantasies, you were waiting for him at the house. In a good few of them, you weren’t wearing much clothing, but that part can be easily attributed to how long he went without seeing you.
Nevertheless, you were there. And he would take you into his arms, and you would smile and tell him you understood why he had to do what he did, and everything would be perfect.
But now, he has to track down your new house. On the beach, and not too far from his new place, but he doubts you know that.
He watches through your window and doesn’t even register that it might be a little fucked up of him. He makes sure you get home safe. Waits until he sees you climb into bed and flick off your lights, and often spends a good long while imagining all of the times he would be right there with you. How he would tuck you into his chest, and the two of you would have whispered conversations like you were still teenagers living in Smurf’s house and trying not to be overheard.
He doesn’t go to the door. It’s not the right time. Not yet. It isn’t like it has to be perfect, but… but it’s been three years. Three years of torture and an isolation that almost killed him. That may have killed a part of him, somewhere deep down where even he can’t reach. As badly as he wants to stand on your porch and beg and plead for you to understand, to love him again, he isn’t sure he would be able to handle you slamming a door in his face. He’s not sure he would be able to let you, and that thought alone almost frightens him more than anything else.
Not yet. The job. When Craig brings you in on the job, that’s when he’ll see you. Talk to you. Make you forgive him.
Just…not yet.
But that doesn’t mean he can’t keep an eye on you, until then.
-
The effort it took to get Ethan the Finance Bro to talk with you after Craig ruined it the first time is almost making this particular job too much of a pain in the ass.
It’s a little tricky to balance the work you have to put into the boat job with your own plans, but your own jobs are a little less complex than the ones enacted by the Cody boys. Less reward, sure, but it’s safer and easier. Find out a few things about Finance Bro Ethan’s rich dad, get access to an account or two, make a couple of unnoticeable transfers, and bing bang boom. You can afford rent and to fix your car, and maybe even a nice pair of shoes while you’re at it.
He’s jumpy. You have to smile a little more brightly at him, hold his hand across the table and bat your eyelashes as you insist that your friend from before is just terrible at making jokes, and he’s finally relaxing enough to-
His eyes trail up over your shoulder, and stop.
“Leave.” And that’s Pope’s low, furious voice. It is dripping with danger.
Ethan looks at you. Back at Pope. You smile, wide and sweet, and refuse to turn around. “Ignore him.”
“Do that, and I’ll cut your ears off.”
Son of a bitch.
“He’s joking.”
“Three.”
Ethan starts to scoot out of the booth.
“Don’t.” You say, jaw clenching and smile still forcefully bright.
“Two.”
And he’s gone. Just like that. Out the door and ruining your plans completely.
“Fucking Codys. Do you have any idea how hard it was to get him to talk to me again?”
“Who was that?”
“I had to bend over backwards to keep him from being terrified after Craig’s bullshit. This bra is so uncomfortable. You fucking-“
His hand comes down on the back of your chair, and he leans closer to you with a deadly and dark expression. You don’t flinch. You don’t even come close. In all the time you’ve known him, in all of his scariest moments, he’s never come anywhere close to harming you. The possibility simply doesn’t register in your mind. “Who was that?”
You look at him, deadpan. “My boyfriend.” It couldn’t be farther from the truth, but you may as well piss him off a little.
It works. His jaw clenches, and he leans a little closer. “I’m serious.”
Fine. You give up. “He was a mark. I’m on a job.”
“You’re already on a job.” Pope’s frown deepens, angry eyes moving up to the door again. “That guy was staring down the front of your shirt.”
“That’s kind of the point.” You glance down at your low cut top, at the aforementioned uncomfortable bra, and when Pope does the same you can see something twitch in his jaw. Feel his hand tighten imperceptibly on the booth behind you before he looks back up at your face.
“We’re leaving.”
“No, you’re leaving.” You correct, irritated, and move to turn away from him.
He catches you, turning you back towards him with a look so intense it makes your heart drop. “Come home with me.”
You pause, knocked off-kilter by his proximity and the desperation in his gaze. He looks…dangerous. Like a man in a desert who has been deprived of water for too long, and is starting to lose it enough to follow that water to a bar and ruin her weeks of work.
And yet, it’s annoyingly difficult to care. Not when it would be so easy to bring your hand up, curl your fingers in the soft curls on the back of his neck, and pull his lips down to yours. So, so easy, and yet…
You start to move back, and his hand catches your chin, thumb sliding over your jaw in that familiar and devoted way that always makes your toes curl a little. He saw it. He saw the hesitation. The want in your expression matching his own, and he’s too far gone to let it go.
“Come home with me.” He repeats, soft and close enough that his nose nearly brushes your temple. “We can do jobs together. Like we used to. You don’t have to…do this.”
You spent so long being a team. Being with him. Every job, every move, it was all with Pope and the Codys and while you can do these smaller jobs alone perfectly fine, you want…
Him. God, you want him. Not just sex, either. Though after three years and the way he’s standing so close you can feel the warmth radiating from him, you’re having a hard time not jumping his bones in the middle of this bar. You want to wake up with him in the mornings again. You want to watch him wash the dishes in that particular and concentrated way he has. You want to sit on the beach with him at night, and talk about everything and nothing until the sun peeks over the horizon.
His nose skates down your cheek. The noise of the bar fades away. Your eyes flutter closed as if of their own accord, head tilting to the side, and he makes a low noise as his fingers leave your face to move down your arm.
“I’m sorry.” He murmurs, lips pressing against the line of your jaw, and your next breath comes as a shaky exhale. His hand slides around the curve of your waist, and the angle of his body above yours is intoxicatingly overwhelming. He kisses your jaw again, a little higher, a little closer to your ear, and you melt. “I’ll apologize a thousand fuckin’ times, okay? Just come home with me. Let me show you how sorry I am.”
Your body relaxes beneath his, and you feel his mouth trailing over your skin like he couldn’t give less of a shit about the rest of the world around you. It’s so familiar. So nice. So warm and-
Goddammit.
“Stop.” You push on his chest, and he moves back with a genuinely pained expression. “Stop it, Pope. You just fucked up a month of work for me. I’m not going home with you.”
The look on his face would break your heart, if there was anything left of it to break.
You don’t say another word.
You just leave.
-
The girl sleeping on the couch is the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen.
Craig brought you here a few hours ago. Said something about you taking on three guys by the beach who were trying to rough him up over weed money. You hit the biggest one with a baseball bat. They knocked you out before Craig could take them down.
Smurf hadn’t said much when Craig walked in, eyes bright with lingering adrenaline as he’d placed you on the couch, but she’d seemed impressed when Craig had explained what happened. She’d told him to leave you on the couch for now, and to make sure you didn’t get any blood on her furniture. Your face is bruised. Your sneakers are dirty. You’re wearing a flannel that’s way too big and has holes in it.
“I think she’s been sleepin’ on the beach.” Craig says, brow furrowing a little as he looks down at you. You’re so still you could be dead. Pope wonders what color your eyes are, and then wonders why he wondered that.
“Junkie?” He asks, and resists the urge to brush the hair out of your eyes. Like Julia, maybe. Maybe you know her, wherever she might be right now. Maybe you already have that connection to him. Maybe…
Craig shakes his head. “Nah. Not a junkie. I dunno if she’s homeless, either. I just kinda see her around sometimes. She pickpockets tourists. Seems good at figuring out which ones are the L.A. douchebags.”
Pope frowns. Your face twitches a little, but you don’t wake.
“She’s hot.” His younger brother observes, and Pope’s frown deepens. “And badass. You shoulda seen her, dude. She went at them like a fuckin’ demon. She doesn’t even know me.”
You look so angelic, curled in on yourself on the couch with sand in your hair and dirt under your fingernails, that he finds it hard to believe.
Hard, but not impossible. Because there’s something about you, and the bruises on your face that look so much like the ones that often adorn his own, that screams…fighter. Survivor. Protector.
And he hasn’t even spoken to you yet, but there’s something else there. Something deep down and warm and intrinsic that he can’t exactly pinpoint but certainly can’t ignore.
His.
-
When you wake up, he’s watching you. He knows he probably shouldn’t be. He probably looks creepy, or whatever everyone says, but he can’t seem to pull his eyes away from the rise and fall of your breathing. The way your face twitches every now and then in sleep. The way your hair spills over the couch cushion. He wants to brush it away, but he’s afraid to wake you.
Your eyes flutter open. They’re beautiful.
And those beautiful eyes move dazedly around the room before they land on him, and widen. You bolt up, and hiss in pain as whatever injuries you sustained in that fight no doubt scream in protest.
You look at him. Look around. Look back at him.
Carefully, he passes you the baseball bat from his room. Craig said you had one before. You’re in a strange new place. It might make you feel safe.
You close your fingers around the handle, and watch him like a hawk as you pull it over to you.
“Where am I?” He likes the sound of your voice. Even cracked with sleep and shaky with nerves, it sounds as pretty as the rest of you.
“My house.” He says simply, cocking his head to the side. “Craig brought you here.”
Craig is passed out in his room down the hall. You took a while to wake up. You frown, and rub your head a little.
“Why did you do it?” The question leaves him before he can think, curiosity lying heavy in his chest. People in Oceanside don’t just help other people like that. Not when it could put them in the same state you ended up in.
“Three to one didn’t seem like fair odds.”
Pope takes this information, and holds it close to his heart. Keeps it there like a flame he’ll never let go out.
You sit in silence for a minute before he speaks again.
“Do you want a sandwich?”
You look up, surprised, and your lips quirk upwards just the smallest bit.
“Sure.”
-
The knocking is loud. Very loud. Angry, even.
When Pope opens the door, there you are.
Fuck, it’s like you don’t even know how beautiful you are. He’s always been surprised by that. Sure, you use your looks and pretty smiles to work people on jobs, but when that persona is lowered and you’re just…you, the sight of you could make him drop to his fucking knees.
“You fixed my door.”
He’s shirtless. It’s early. Your eyes drop down to his chest before they fly back up to his face, and he is two seconds away from yanking you into the house and taking you right here in the front hall.
Shit. Three years. Three long, long years of nothing but his hand and memories of you. He’s devolved into a fucking animal. All he can think about is ripping that t-shirt off of you. Of lifting you onto the table right here and dropping to his knees, hearing the noises he can pull from you when he buries his face between your-
“You fixed my door.” You repeat, angrier now, and he furrows his brow as he forces himself out of the fantasy.
“Yeah.”
“Pope, you don’t know where I live.”
His brow furrows a little more.
“Fine, I haven’t told you where I live.” Oh, that’s what you mean. Right.
“It was creaking.”
“How many times have you broken into my house?”
Seven. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Andrew.”
You should know better than to say his name. His real name. The sound of it shoots something molten through his veins, and his hand tightens on the doorframe.
“We’re broken up. You can’t break into my house.”
“We’re not broken up.” The fact comes easily. Simply. There’s no plea behind it. No question at all.
“We’re broken up. You broke up with me.”
“No, I didn’t. I said stop coming around. I didn’t break up with you.”
“Whatever you did, it was three years ago.”
“And you’re not in prison.” He wants to ask why you’re not getting it, but he knows that you do. Even if most wouldn’t, you know how he thinks. You’re just being deliberately obtuse because you’re angry. But he’ll spend the rest of his life apologizing to you, if that’s what you need. “I’m out. We still love each other.”
“You don’t know that I still love you.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Tell me you don’t.”
You open your mouth, like you just might try it, before closing it again and trying another tactic. He’s always found it…cute. The way you try to deflect your feelings like this. And he’ll never try to pretend that he doesn’t love how easily he can call you on it. There are two things in this world that Andrew Cody is absolutely confident in: jobs, and you.
“You fucked up my job.”
“You hate those jobs. They bore you.”
Your eyes narrow, and you’re gorgeous when you’re angry. “I don’t have a backup plan anymore. I need the boat job to go well.”
You’re stalling. You don’t want to leave. “It will.” He raises an eyebrow again. Your eyes drop back down to his bare chest, and it sends a thrill through him. “Want some breakfast?”
“No.” You’re still standing here, and he knows you too well to let you leave just yet. The tension crackling through the air, emanating from you and directing itself at him, is so fucking obvious it almost makes him grin.
“Coffee?”
You hesitate. Frown. “Fine.”
And with that word, you cross the threshold, and kiss him.
-
Your first job with the Cody family went well. Really well.
Smurf shocked all of them by inviting you in, building up her tests of your skills and your loyalty to the family until she suddenly just…made you a part of it. Sat you down at the family meeting with them and told you what your part in the job would be.
Baz protested. Deran was quiet. Craig, however, was thrilled. Pope is pretty sure his brother likes you a little too much, and he hates the way it makes jealousy and possessiveness curl black and vile in his throat. He hates the way Smurf seems to assess this. The way she watches you keep Craig in line and encourages the two of you to spend time together.
But you did well. Really well.
And then, after dinner, you disappeared.
Pope found you up the street, sitting on a small curve of beach and watching the moon like you were greeting an old friend. He’d hesitated to join you, like he might be interrupting, but…
“Hi.”
Shit. “Hi.”
“Wanna sit down?”
Yes. So fucking badly. He’d do anything in the world to just be close to you. “Do you want me to?”
“Yeah.”
He hesitates. You look back at him, illuminated by moonlight and so gorgeous it stops the breath in his lungs, and pat the sand beside you.
He sits, and you rest your head against his shoulder. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
“Are you…okay?” Do you expect him to function correctly right now? Do you expect him to be able to string a thought together? You’re so warm. So soft. He doesn’t have experience with this kind of thing.
“Oh yeah.” You hum, fingers curling in the sand beneath you. “I mean, if you’re asking if I’m upset about you holding an unloaded gun to my head while I pretended to freak out, don’t worry. I’m fine.” You mean it. Smurf would be impressed.
He could cover your hand with his own, right now. You might even let him. You might let him curl his fingers around yours, and even flip your palm to rest it against his. Your soft skin against his rough callouses, pillowed by the sand beneath you…
“So what’s wrong?”
You hum, and he feels it vibrate through his shoulder. “I don’t know. Smurf, the job, everything just feels like it’s going too well.”
“Too well?”
“Things change. They hurt when they change. It’s too…good.” He starts to say something, though he isn’t sure what, before you continue. “That’s why I like coming out here, though. I like looking at the water. It’s why I slept on the beach when things got too shitty at home, you know?”
He turns his head, and it brings his face so close to yours that he almost chokes. You don’t even look up, just keep watching the waves crash on the beach as you continue.
“It sounds kinda cheesy, but the ocean is so…big. And no matter what’s going on with me, no matter how bad things seem, it makes it all feel smaller, you know? All that ocean, everything going on beneath the surface, and whatever bullshit’s happening to me just feels…inconsequential. More manageable, I guess.”
Oh God. Fuck. He loves you. He loves you so much.
His hand, knuckles still bruised from some fight he got into earlier this week and already so much bigger than your own, covers yours. You stop picking at the sand, but you don’t pull away.
“I’ll always be here.” He murmurs, some part of him terrified that you’ll jump away from him. He means it. He really does.
And you mean it too, when you turn your palm and slide your fingers through his, and murmur back. “Thank you.”
-
It’s a fucking whirlwind.
You don’t know what possessed you. What you were thinking. Just that you are magnetized to this man, and he’s standing there looking at you like he knows every thought in your head and like he loves you more than anything in the world and you can’t spend another second without his lips against your own.
He meets you just as hard, hand coming up to grip at the hair at the base of your skull as you walk him backwards into his house. You realize, vaguely, between the blur of lips and teeth and desperate hands, that you haven’t even seen the inside of it yet. Even now, it’s weird for there to be any aspect of Pope’s life that you don’t know about.
The tour, however, is going to have to wait. Because Pope has you pressed against the counter and you barely have time to gasp his name before he’s lifting you onto it, tugging your shirt up over your head and tossing it aside before ducking down to trail desperate kisses over your neck. You tangle your fingers in his hair, and pull his mouth back up to yours, biting down on his lip until he groans and reaches down to start tugging your pants over your hips.
“Bedroom.” You manage, somewhere between a choked moan and a drag of your nails down his muscled back that has him sinking his teeth into your throat.
“Three years.” He replies, the words a starved growl, as he rips your pants and underwear down over your legs. All you can do is nod your understanding and drag his mouth back to yours, hands leaving his face to reach down and tug his sweatpants over his hips.
He pulls back, just enough to press his lips to your ear, and you can’t help but whimper when he murmurs his next words.
“Tell me you want this.”
You curl your fingers in his hair, pull him closer to you, and barely manage to gasp out a soft confirmation of “I want this, Andrew” before he’s pushing into you and it is everything you’ve missed for too long and it feels so good you might fucking die.
You gasp, and hold him tighter, and he breathes a shaky exhale into the hollow of your throat as he goes very very still.
You make a soft noise, needing more, and he understands immediately because he knows every inch of you better than he knows himself.
“Three years.” He murmurs again, hoarse and apologetic as his hands grip the counter on either side of you. You realize what he means through the haze of lust, and a bubble of laughter tears its way out of your throat. The sudden movement makes him hiss, cursing softly against your throat as his hands fly up to grip your hips. You clamp your lips together in an attempt to stop your giggling, and when he pulls back to look at you he starts laughing too.
And then, still smiling, he kisses you slow and deep, and begins to move. The moment he does, all humor flies out the window, and you gasp as you lock your legs around his hips and scramble for purchase against his back.
It’s fast and desperate, like he really and truly can’t help it, and it is absolutely perfect. Fuck, it’s everything you have ever needed in your entire life and more. You cling to him, wrapped in his arms and burying your face in his neck to try to muffle cries that might wake the entire Strand. He doesn’t stop, but his grip tightens as he adjusts his movements to grind deeper, fingers tangling in your hair to pull your head back from his shoulder until you can feel his ragged breaths against the shell of you ear.
“Yeah?” He whispers, hoarse and smiling and already wrecked as the force of his movements makes stars explode behind your vision. Then, closer, his nose against your temple and his grip almost bruising on your skin. “Yeah?”
You just nod, and hold on for dear life as you fall over the edge with a cry of his name, and he follows right after you with a choked moan of yours.
For a moment, you both just try to catch your breath, wrapped in each other’s arms with your legs shaking and Pope’s shoulder warm against your forehead. He kisses the side of your head, soft and loving, and huffs a laugh into your hair as he pulls back to press his lips to yours.
“I missed you.” He whispers, and you’re smiling too.
And then, without warning, he hoists you into his arms and starts walking.
“Where are we going?” You ask, still laughing, still smiling, still blissed out beyond words.
He kisses your forehead, your cheek, and kicks a door open. “Bedroom.”
-
Once the initial violent desperation has faded, Pope takes his time with you. He works you apart piece by piece, like he’s relearning every inch of your skin. He kisses every new scar. Every familiar freckle. He makes you forget every word that isn’t his name, tells you he loves you until he’s hoarse with it, and you do the same to him. In the confines of his room, in this new house on the beach, you forget about every morsel of pain you’ve felt in the past. Every tear you’ve shed. Every lonely moment.
At some point, when he’s trailing slow kisses up the inside of your thigh and your fingers are tangled in his curls, you manage to come back to yourself for half a second.
“We’re not back together.” You murmur, and he looks up long enough to raise a dark eyebrow at you.
“We’re not.” You repeat, and he gives you another look, this time with both eyebrows, before nudging your thigh further aside. He doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t need to, because in the next five seconds you completely forget how to form coherent thought.
-
The sun is setting by the time you’re both too exhausted to continue. A few minutes ago, you broke apart long enough to make your way to the shower, where you’d lasted about five minutes before he’d slipped in behind you. You managed to hold back long enough to shampoo each other’s hair before lathering off had turned into kissing beneath the stream, which had turned into…well, into you pressed up against the wall, his chest against your back and his teeth buried in your shoulder as your fingers clawed against the tile and your vision turned white for the umpteenth time today.
Now, his fingers card through your still-damp hair, and you wonder vaguely if you’ll ever walk again.
“Holy shit. We haven’t done that since…” you trail off, brain as mushy as your muscles seem to be, and you feel Pope’s proud smile against your forehead.
“Three years and forty nine days.” He supplies, and you can’t hold back your giggle. “Day after the jewelry store job.”
“Right.” Christ, it really is a miracle that you survived three years apart when you used to go at each other like coked out bunny rabbits. “Forgot about that.”
“I didn’t.”
You swat at his chest, and he tucks you closer to him, tilting your chin up to press his lips to yours.
-
For the first time in three years, you wake up in Andrew Cody’s arms.
And he’s asleep. He’s soundly, completely asleep. He’s always been a light sleeper, but despite that there are certain circumstances that have been known to knock him out like a log.
He’s completely out now, arms wrapped tightly around you and deep breaths tickling the top of your head.
There was always so much chaos in your lives. So many things that could go wrong at any moment, so many risks taken every single day. There was Smurf’s manipulations, Craig’s irresponsibility, Deran’s tendency to disappear and worry everyone, Julia being gone, and Baz…well, Baz being a raging douche most of the time. All of it was always so much, but right here, right like this…this was always where you felt safest. All of the insanity would always be a million miles away, blocked out by the circle of Andrew Cody’s arms.
Which is probably why it feels like a physical stab to your chest when you carefully wiggle out of them.
He grunts, one arm reaching out as if searching for you, but he doesn’t wake.
You allow yourself one moment to stare at him. One long, aching moment. He’s so beautiful in the moonlight that he almost hurts to look at.
And then you slip on one of his tshirts, wiggle into your jeans, and disappear out the door.
You don’t bother pulling your shoes back on, letting the sand cushion your feet as you wander down the beach, and listening to the waves crash against the shore.
He’ll wake up soon, and he’ll find you. And when he does, he’ll pull you back into his arms and the two of you will sit on this beach like you used to. Watch the waves and the stars like you used to. You’ll talk, and he’ll apologize, and he isn’t very good with words but you’ll understand him and you’ll forgive him. Just like that.
You’re not ready for that.
So you pull out your phone, and dial the only other number you have on speed dial. The only number besides Pope Cody’s.
“Where the hell have you been?” Craig shouts into the phone, mirth lacing his voice even through the tinny speaker.
You glance down at Pope’s t-shirt. Plain white. Too big for you. Soft and draped over your body like a flag with his name on it.
Oh well. “You’re gonna give me a whole lotta shit for it.”
He laughs, and you hear a bottle clink somewhere on the other side of the phone. “So why’re you callin’ me?”
“Cause I’m crazy, I guess. Or an idiot.”
“Or both.”
You hum, and bend down to scoop some sand into your palm, letting it trickle between your fingers as it falls back to the earth. You’re confused, and still hurting, and your heart aches heavy in your chest. In moments like this, you’ve always wondered what it would be like to have one of those girl best friends in rom-coms. The kind who would split a bottle of wine with you on the couch and talk for hours about boys with you. That must be nice. You wonder if they really exist, somewhere where life is normal.
Well, you don’t have that. You have Craig Cody.
“I’ve gotta go off grid for a minute.” You say, and trail your eyes back towards Pope’s darkened house. You have minutes before that light flicks on, and you cave. “Wanna get drunk?”
Craig blows out a long breath, and you can almost see him raising his eyebrows and resting his elbows on his knees.
“Sure. Where are you?”
-
Pope hasn’t seen you in three days.
Deran is the one who called him, frustrated and concerned and grouching about you not being able to handle your liquor.
“It’s weird, dude. The balance is gone. She’s not talking him out of shit anymore. They’re just kinda ramping each other up.” He hears the clink of bottles. Shouting in the background. Maybe, somewhere, your laughter. “Whatever you did, come fix it. Because your girlfriend is doing body shots on my bar and I’m not about to get shut down because those two are acting like fucking idiots.”
“I didn’t do anything.” He’s already grabbing his keys. You fell asleep in his arms, for fucks sake. You spent the entire day letting him whisper apologies and promises of love into your skin. He thought you were good. It felt like everything was back to normal, and then you were just…gone.
Sure, there was a moment where you insisted you weren’t back together, but when that sentence is quickly drowned out by “Oh God oh God Andrew please don’t stop” it’s a little hard to let the words sink in.
He’d searched the beach for hours. Called your phone even when it became blatantly obvious that you’d turned it off. He went to Craig’s house, and his brother wasn’t there. You didn’t take your car when you disappeared. He’s been worried sick about you and now you’ve been on some kind of bender?
“You did something.” Deran doesn’t seem to be grasping the gravity of this situation. Everything was fine. Why are you still upset? “They haven’t done this kind of shit since you dumped her in prison.”
“I didn’t fucking dump her.” He needs to focus on not breaking too many traffic laws, but he senses a few irritated comments coming his way. Annoyed as Deran may be right now, he fucking adores you almost as much as Craig does, and Pope can hear genuine worry in his tone.
“You should probably look up the definition of dumping, dude. Telling her to fuck off and not talking to her for three years is pretty-“
“Just tell me if she’s okay.” The words come out harsh. A snap of anger in the quiet car.
“Just get here.” The phone clicks off, and Pope almost throws it out the window.
-
Everything is nice and fuzzy, and you’re having a very fun time.
You don’t have anywhere near Craig’s tolerance, nor his penchant for anything stronger than alcohol and weed, so this ‘bender’ hasn’t exactly consisted of you partying straight through like he has. In fact, it took until tonight for him to pull you off of his couch and tell you to stop wallowing and have fun.
And you had listened. Oh boy, had you listened.
You started at Craig’s house, letting him amp you up and remind you to get angry between shots of tequila.
“Holy shit, just say it. Say it already!” Craig stands, waving the shot in front of your face before shoving it forward. “Are you mad? Sad? C’mon, quit bein’ such a closed book! Who the fuck is that helping?”
“I’m angry!” You take the shot, down it, and sputter.
And then you smash the glass against the wall.
“There she is!” Craig shouts, enveloping you in a drunken hug, and you let the rage build in the safety of your friend’s arms as you start to giggle like a fucking lunatic.
“Gimme another.”
He whoops, lets you go, and grabs the bottle.
And then you went to the Cove, and drank margaritas and let Craig convince you to get angrier. Angry because Pope left you. Because it hurt so bad it felt like a piece of you had broken off, and angry because he showed back up and brought all of that pain with him and just expected it all to be better.
And eventually, you ended up in Deran’s bar, hammered and laughing and trying to remember why you were mad in the first place.
That is, until Pope Cody shows up.
You’ve seen him look scary before, with that furrowed brow and those shark eyes, but now he looks downright murderous.
That’s okay. You can be angry too. You are angry.
“We’re leaving.” He says, simply, wrapping an arm around you before you shove him off.
“Nuh uh.” You step back, and his frown deepens.
“Dude, lay off. She’s just blowin’ off some steam-“
“What the fuck are you doing, man?” Pope stands too close to Craig. Looks way too angry. He doesn’t get to be mad. He broke your heart. He left you alone.
“What’re you doing?” Craig, larger than Pope and already too drunk and coked out to think rationally, matches the furious energy. “You think you’re cool just walkin’ in here and making her go home?”
Something twinges in your drunken mind. Tells you to step in. To stop this.
But you’re too late.
“Maybe I’m sick and tired of pickin’ her up off the floor because you did some shit to make her bawl her fucking eyes out.” Craig shoves Pope. Hard. “Seriously man, what’s the fuckin’ matter with you? You think she deserves this shit?”
Pope punches him in the face.
You just stand there for a moment, drunk and shocked, and it takes a good moment of them brawling and shoving each other into the bar before you realize that you should get in the middle of this.
Someone, some guy who was flirting with you a while back, tries to grab you and pull you away. You slam your elbow into his face, and he releases you long enough for you to leap onto Craig’s back, yanking him away from Pope just in time to feel your back slam into the corner of the bar hard enough to make you lose your grip.
You fall back, feel something smash beneath you, and groan as a bolt of agony shoots through your body. Fuck. Fuck, that’s gonna leave a mark.
The fight stops. The bar goes quiet.
Hands pull you up, slurred apologies spilling past Craig’s lips in a panic as he sets you on your feet and looks down at you with a horrified expression. You’ve had worse, sure, but the bruise isn’t gonna be pretty and you know damn well he’s gonna feel guilty about it tomorrow.
You look up at him, reach up to pat his chest…
And puke on his shoes.
You hear him mumble a quiet “oh, fuck” before he’s shoved aside, and Pope is there. Pope, who is scooping you up into his arms without a word and carrying you out of the bar.
“Sorry.” You mumble, and he doesn’t respond, but he squeezes you a little more tightly to him and that feels like enough.
He places you down in the passenger seat of his truck, and presses his lips to your forehead before he moves to the drivers side.
You’re suddenly very, very exhausted. You thunk your head against the window, and close your eyes as the engine starts.
You feel Pope’s hand on your leg, warm and comforting and familiar.
It feels like home.
-
“Look who finally decided to come home.”
Your father’s voice is nails on a chalkboard. A skin-prickling, hatred inducing rasp that makes your entire body tense.
“This isn’t home.” You drop your keys on the counter. It’s not home. It never has been, but now that you have a real home the difference has never been more obvious to you.
You left your home tonight. Left the warmth of Andrew Cody’s arms. He hadn’t woken, as exhausted after the job as you were, but he’d hummed sleepily into your neck and tried to squeeze you closer as you’d wiggled your way out of his embrace.
Your father scoffs, and doesn’t look up from the TV. “You think that place is home? You whore yourself out to that psycho Cody and now you can’t give half a shit about the guy who raised ya?”
It’s your turn to scoff. You don’t answer. He keeps going.
“You think that crazy kid loves you? You think you’ll get to leave and run off into the sunset with him? The ticking time bomb ain’t gonna love you. None of ‘em are. I know Smurf. She’s keepin’ you around because that shithead prefers to fuck you over going berserk and killin’ everyone in the house. They don’t give a shit about you. They use you. S’all you’re good for, anyway.”
That hits you. Harder than it should.
No. No, he’s wrong. He’s an asshole, and he’s wrong. Andrew Cody loves you more than life itself. There’s no question there.
…Right? It’s not like you even know what love is, being raised by this of shit. And Pope’s love is…obsessive. You don’t mind it. You like it, actually. But-
No. Fucking no. You’re not letting him get in your head. You can’t.
Because there’s Craig. And Deran. And even Baz, sometimes. Smurf likes you, and she most certainly sees you as a pawn, but… but Craig is your best friend. Craig laughs at your jokes. Hugs you so tightly your ribs might crack sometimes. Stays up to talk to you for hours by the pool.
And Pope loves you so much that it consumes him. Even you can’t doubt that. The way he looks at you, the way he touches you, the way he kisses you like he’ll never be able to get enough. His shoulders relax when you enter the room. His smile is the brightest thing you’ve ever seen. You even wake up to him watching you sleep, sometimes, tracing his calloused fingers over your skin with his eyes half-open like he’s fighting sleep just so he can look at you a little longer.
And the last time your father took things too far, the last time you came back with bruises…
You’d spent an hour talking Pope down from coming over here. You’d spent longer convincing Craig and even Deran to stop fucking encouraging him to, to stop insisting that they’ll help him end this asshole.
That’s love.
And that gives you the strength, the courage, to move over to your father and lean one hand on the back of the couch, glaring daggers into his eyes.
“The only reason you’re still alive, is because of me.” It sounds like a fucking growl, so angry and unlike you. “Don’t forget that.”
Your father just smiles, like you’re wrong and he knows it. You want to punch him. You want to prove him wrong, and let Andrew kill him.
You walk out the door, instead.
-
He sits you on the edge of his bed, and it’s just like before. Like every time you’ve been drunk or even sick since you were kids. He kisses your cheek, asks if it’s okay, and when you nod he pulls your t-shirt up over your head, quickly replacing it with one of his own. Your pants go next, and then he tucks you beneath the blankets of his bed and brushes your hair from your face.
He hesitates to pull his own shirt off, wonders if you might be too drunk and upset to want him near you. You never have before, but he’s realizing pretty quickly that before is more removed from the present than he expected it to be. Three years in prison, daydreaming every day about coming home to you and explaining why he did that he did and having you forgive him right away was…well, a daydream. He may have been able to lose himself in the fantasy of your unconditional love and forgiveness for three years, but you were here. Alone. Wondering what you did wrong and missing him on a level completely separate from his. He didn’t experience any of the confusion. The lack of understanding. The pain that comes with that.
You reach out, and push the hem of his shirt up. He pulls it over his head, a slave to your needs and whims, and helps you unbuckle his pants until he’s sliding into bed beside you and pulling you into his arms.
“You’re mad at me.”
You tilt your head into his hand, and nod.
His heart breaks, eyes softening and hand smoothing over your cheek as he leans closer and presses his forehead against yours.
“Why?” He asks, a genuine desperate pain cracking the word as it leaves his throat. “I thought…I thought we were good.”
You make a soft noise, and lean against him a little more.
He whispers your name, presses a kiss to your cheek, and inhales deep, trying to memorize your scent.
“I’m not good at this. You always tell me.” Another kiss. Fingers curling in your hair. “Tell me what to do. Tell me how to make you stop hurting.”
You curl a little closer.
“You left me.” You finally whisper. “You promised you never would, and then you left. I worried about you for three years.”
He pulls you closer. Feels tears prickle in his eyes and guilt churn in his stomach.
“I went to the beach, and it didn’t feel better, because you weren’t there.” Your fingers curl against his chest, right over his breaking heart. “I thought you didn’t love me anymore. For three years.”
Fuck. “I’ll never stop loving you.” If he holds you any more tightly, it might hurt the bruise on your back. He’s gonna fucking kill Craig for that, accident or not. “Never.”
And then, quietly, almost a whisper as you drift off but just loud enough for him to hear it and almost die right there, “…I don’t know if I believe you, anymore…”
-
The boat job goes well. Really fucking well. Save for Marco cutting a woman’s fucking finger off, everything goes off without a hitch.
And you’re proud. Really fucking proud. Craig was always capable of this kind of thing if he just applied himself, and here you all are. Richer than before and still riding that all-too-familiar adrenaline high.
“Geez, Pope really did a number on you.” You reach up now, poking lightly at his black eye. He flinches, and huffs out a sheepish laugh. You saw this coming when you decided someone would have to beat Craig up, and Pope volunteered a little…emphatically. But still.
“Pretty sure he’s got some pent up anger.” He rubs the back of his neck, eyes scanning over you. “How’s your back?”
You cringe, and resist the urge to rub the still-bruised area. “It’s fine. The hangover was worse.”
Craig looks like he’s about to turn you around inspect the injury himself, but one glance over your shoulder to where Pope is no doubt glaring from across the bar is enough to make him cave with one last guilty look. He’s apologized maybe a hundred times for the mistake, and you’ve forgiven him every time. After all, he didn’t mean it, and you’ve definitely had worse. “Damn, how bad?”
Your head is pounding, and you just barely managed to make it into the bathroom before the rest of last night’s tequila expels itself from your stomach.
Not five seconds later, you feel a large hand curl in your hair, pulling it back into a makeshift ponytail while another palm rubs small circles on your back.
“Oh, the humanity.” You whimper, pulling back to lean against the wall. You flinch at the movement, and give Pope a miserable look. “Christ, did I get hit by a truck last night?”
“You broke up a bar fight.”
“Why the fuck would I do that?”
“It was…between me and Craig.”
You frown, and try to piece the fuzzy memories together. “Did you kill him?”
“No. He fell back against the bar with you on his back, so I’m going to.”
Ah, that’s where the pain is coming from. You look him over, shirtless and beautiful and achingly familiar, but…
“Have you slept?”
He frowns, and looks like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you. “No.”
Ugh. This is stupid. Bad idea. You should leave. You are not together anymore. You will not-
“Okay. My head hurts. You need to sleep. Back to bed, big guy.” You reach out, and make grabby hands at him, just like you’ve done a million times before. Every time you were hungover, every time you were sick, or even one time when you just twisted your ankle trying to dive into the pool.
His smile is so full of adoration and relief that it nearly makes you cry. He doesn’t hesitate, moving to scoop you into his arms with a soft grunt of “c’mere…”
He lays you down, and you pull him with you, tugging the covers around you both before tucking yourself into his chest and reaching up to scratch your nails lightly over his back in the way that’s always made him melt.
“I love you.” He murmurs, warm fingers brushing through your hair. “I’m sorry-“
“Shhh. Go to sleep.” You press your lips to his shoulder, and feel him shiver a little at the feeling. “Head hurts, and you need to sleep.”
He takes a moment to speak, but then he nuzzles his nose into your hair and drops his arms down to pull you closer to him. “Okay.”
“I’ve had worse.” You smile, and clink your beer against Craig’s. “Thanks, though. You did fucking amazing today.”
Your friend’s smile, despite the damage to his face, lights up the entire room. “Fuck yeah I did. You did, too.”
“Aw, shucks.” You grin, and it’s just like before. Just like when you were kids, riding the adrenaline high together and laughing your way through the car chases and the gunfights despite Pope and Baz and even Deran’s concern. You nudge him, and smile a little wider as you gesture towards the door. “Renn’s here.”
He turns, and the way his eyes light up makes your heart swell impossibly more. That, right there. That’s how you look at Pope. How he looks at you. That little spark behind his eyes is exactly what he’s always deserved.
“You two back together?”
“Nah. I mean, I dunno. Maybe. We’re…you know.”
You clink your beer against his, and meet his eyes. “Just don’t fuck it up again, okay? You’ll be fine. Don’t overthink.”
His eyes trail behind you, to where Pope is most certainly still watching you, and he raises a pointed eyebrow.
You scoff. “Shut up.”
-
That’s the problem with good things. They always end.
You’re at the bar, sitting beside Pope like you have after a thousand jobs, and despite your conviction to keep your heart safe you can’t help the way it melts when his hand covers yours, large fingers threading through your own.
“Do you wanna go home?”
You hum, and lean into his side despite yourself. It was a pretty big day, after all, and nothing sounds better than curling up in bed with him and sleeping until noon tomorrow.
You open your mouth to agree, feeling his thumb trace lightly over your knuckles, and-
Your phone dings. A specific ringtone. One that makes you feel like an anvil has been dropped into your stomach.
“I’ll be right back.” You murmur, and when Pope’s brow furrows you lean forward and press your lips to the corner of his mouth. Not quite a kiss, but close enough that his hand squeezes yours one last time. “Just gotta go to the bathroom, first.”
You leave before he can follow.
-
“You look like shit.” You greet the old man in the alley with a frown, crossing your arms and standing a good few feet back. He does. Your father, piece of shit that he is, has probably pissed off a debt collector or two again, judging by the bruises on his face and arms. You have no sympathy for the man who once left similar marks on you.
“Heard your psycho boyfriend is outta prison.” His retort makes you grit your teeth. “Still sluttin’ yourself out to the Codys?”
“What the fuck do you want this time?”
“Just an exchange. Heard about that boat robbery today.” Fuck. “Wouldn’t be too great for good ol’ Dope’s probation if someone were to put in an anonymous tip, would it?”
“Pope had nothing to do with that.”
Your father smiles, all stained teeth and greedy eyes. “Shouldn’t be a problem, then.”
“Fuck you.”
“How ‘bout we make a trade? I don’t gotta call nobody, and you help cover my debt.”
You want to kill him. You hate him so much it makes you feel sick. “Like I said, fuck you.”
You turn to walk inside, and the move is a mistake. Fingers close too-tightly on your wrist, and before you know it you’re being slammed against the alley wall with your arm twisted agonizingly tightly behind your back. You bite hard on the inside of your cheek to keep from crying out, and remind yourself to breathe through the pain.
“Thought I raised you better than that.” The fingers on your wrist feel like they’re going to snap it in half. You want to bite something back, preferably something poetically sarcastic, but you can’t let your voice betray the pain you’re in. All these years, and you hate that he can still hurt you. “You got three days, kid. Sure you can spend enough time on your knees to get the money out of the crazy one. Maybe the cokehead, too.”
He lets you go with a shove that makes your cheek scratch against the wall, and you turn to glare defiant daggers as he walks away.
-
“Where did you go?” Pope’s dark eyes are curious, almost innocent as he reaches up to pull you closer to him by your hips.
You move back a little, and his brow furrows with concern. “I need my cut.”
“Yeah. You’ll get it when we-“
“I need it now.”
He stands, and you step back when he looks you over, but you’re too late. He knows you too well.
His hands are on your waist, tugging you close to him, and his fingers fly up to the scrape on your cheek. Down to pull up your sleeve, exposing angry red marks in the shape of fingerprints.
“Where is he?” He asks, voice dripping with danger, and you try to pull away but he just grips you more firmly. His grip is gentle, and you know he would let you go in a second if you asked, but he’s not letting you run from this. “Is he here?”
“Not anymore.” His fingers are curling around your arm, pulling it up to inspect your wrist. His eyes are almost black, and his jaw is clenched so tightly you’re worried he might crack a damn tooth. “Hey, Andrew. Look at me.”
His eyes don’t leave the bruises on your arm. “I should have killed him.”
“Beating him half to death caused enough problems.” Piece of shit that he is, your father has one too many connections in Oceanside, and the damage control from when Pope snapped on him years ago nearly got all of you arrested or killed.
It’s been proven safer to just give him what he wants, and try to keep it as secretive as possible, lest Pope or even Craig try to pound him into the pavement again.
Speaking of which, Pope is still holding you too tightly. You reach up, and turn his face towards yours. “I’m fine. We’re fine. Let’s…” God, you’re supposed to keep up with this ‘not together anymore’ thing, but “can we just go home?”
He melts. His eyes soften, and his arms slide around you to pull you closer to him. You feel his cheek against the side of your head, his hand sliding gently up over your back, and you melt too.
“Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.”
-
Split lip. Black eye. Ringing ears.
God, everything hurts. That asshole really did a number on you this time.
Bruised if not cracked ribs. A slight limp from where your leg hit weird when you were tossed across the floor. An aching arm that was grabbed a little too hard.
“Holy shit.” Craig. Craig’s voice, as familiar as your own.
“I got hit.” You worked on this lie. Practiced it the whole limping walk down here. “…by a car.” As bad as it is this time, it might be the only thing that’s believable.
“You’re a shit liar.” Now you know that’s not true, but your friend is already by your side, holding you up and helping you walk into the house. “I’m gonna kill him.”
You’ve definitely got a black eye. Your lip is swollen and bleeding. It’s becoming more exhausting to take stock of your injuries than it would be to note what isn’t hurting.
“Don’t. Just…don’t.” You wince on a step, and when Craig huffs and tries to scoop you up you swat him off.
“Fuck that. You look like you’re about to keel the fuck over.” He frowns, concern lacing every one of his features. “You’re not going back there.”
“I hit him with a fuckin’ frying pan.” You mumble, knocking your head against his shoulder. “So I figure I’m not welcome back any time soon.”
“Smurf is gonna shit.” He mumbles, and leans you back against the kitchen counter to inspect your face. “Fuck, Pope is gonna blow a gasket, dude. How are you gonna explain this to him?”
“I don’t know.” You mumble, reaching up to push the hair out of your face. All you want to do right now is see him. To be held by him and to maybe even just lay down in his twin bed and feel him tuck you into his arms. You’ve been with him for a little over a year, now, and it still feels like you’ve been dating for a week. Like your relationship is just one never ending honeymoon phase. Even these last few days, helping your father out with his bullshit scam, you’ve missed him so much it’s almost concerning.
Fuck.
“Beer, please.” You mumble, and when Craig hands it to you you take a moment to rest the cool glass against your bruised cheek. “I don’t know. I’ll tell him I got in an accident.”
Craig’s answer is immediate, lifting your arm to show the bruises in the shape of fingerprints dented into your skin. “Yeah, real fuckin’ believable.”
You pull you arm back, panic rising in your throat. “Okay. I…give me a sweatshirt.”
“He’ll just take it off.”
“Fuck.” He’s right. You shouldn’t have come here. You should have hidden out on the beach for a few days like you used to, and waited for some of these injuries to fade. Fuck. “I’ve gotta go.”
“Fat fuckin’ chance.” Craig grabs you, more firmly than usual, and keeps you still against the counter. “You think I’m gonna let you walk outta this house while that asshole is still breathing? Look, I ain’t Pope, but I’m not gonna let you into a situation where you could-“
You sense him before you see him. You didn’t even hear the door open.
“Get. Away. From. Her.”
Shit.
“Shit.” Craig releases you, and takes three large steps back like he might be attacked by a mountain lion.
Pope is on you in a second, one large hand cradling your bruised face, and in a moment you can see in his eyes that he’s not entirely there. That line in him has snapped, like it has on those nights you’ve found him in the yard, distant and empty and staring at the moon. When you’ve pulled him from fights, and he took a minute to even remember your name. Took him longer to remember his own.
“Please.” You whisper, reaching up to slide your fingers through his hair and force him to look at you. “Please be okay about this.”
He doesn’t answer you. He just moves his hand over your face, looks at you with those murderous eyes, and presses his forehead against yours.
“Where is he?”
“Pope. Andrew. Please.” Your heart cracks on his name, and he grips you more tightly. “Please, just take me to bed.” You turn his face to yours, squeeze your eyes shut. “I just wanna go to bed.”
And he does.
One hour later, he leaves that bed. You don’t open your eyes. Keep your breathing slow and steady as you feel him kiss your forehead, then your cheek, sliding his fingers through your hair like pulling away from you is physically painful.
But he does, and you feel him stand. You hear him leave.
And you let him.
Two hours later, he walks through the door of Smurf’s house with blood on his knuckles and sweat on his brow.
You’re waiting for him in the hall.
You look down at his hand. Back up to his eyes.
“Is he dead?” Your voice is quiet. He doesn’t look guilty, but he doesn’t look away from you, either.
“No.”
You just nod, and move forward to slide your hand over his cheek. He leans helplessly closer to you.
“Next time you do that,” you murmur, guiding his lips down to your own as his swollen knuckles curl against the back of your borrowed shirt, tugging you closer to him, “take me with you.”
He releases a shuddering breath, and his kiss is so full of love and devotion that it buckles your knees.
-
A warehouse is a cheesy place to meet. The fact that the asshole brought backup makes it worse. Granted, you brought Pope, Craig, and Deran with you, but…well, they’re more here for emotional support. And because they wouldn’t let you come alone.
When you got home, you told Pope everything. The threats, the money you’ve sent him, the amount of time he’s still been able to keep you under his thumb despite how hard you’ve worked to break away…
To your surprise, he hadn’t snapped. He hadn’t stormed out of his house to find the old man. He’d…
He’d kissed you. He’d wrapped his arms around you, tilted your head back, and kissed you.
You make a muffled noise against his mouth, eyes flying open in surprise before fluttering shut as your body melts into the embrace before your mind can even catch up.
When you finally break for air, still confused but certainly unable to complain, you blink your eyes open again.
“What was that for?”
He just kisses you again. Slow. Warm. Wonderful. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.” He whispers, lips moving down to your jaw. Your neck. “I’m sorry you had to be so fuckin’ brave on your own.”
“Andrew, I…” this is a much different reaction than you were expecting. You haven’t mentally prepared for it. Your mind is still on the defensive.
He shushes you. Pushes his hands up under your shirt to trace them over your skin. “I love you. You don’t wanna be together? That’s okay. We can do whatever you want.” He kisses the hollow of your throat, scrapes his teeth against the sensitive skin, and you make a soft noise in the back of your throat that has him tightening his grip on you. “I’m not going anywhere, and you’re not dealing with this alone.”
You’re not alone. He’s not going anywhere. Never again.
You believe him. You really, really believe him.
“Take off your clothes, please.”
He smiles against your collarbone, and trails his nose up your throat until his lips are hovering over your own. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.” You’re already tugging at his shirt, already pulling him down to kiss you, and he meets you with a hunger that feels like a satisfied craving. “I love you. I trust you.” The words are murmured between kisses, “now please take off your clothes.”
“Christ, it’s like you think you’re Tony Soprano or some shit.” You grumble, feeling surprisingly petulant despite the intensity of the situation. Your father has connections, sure, but you grew up with Smurf Cody. The comparison between the way he operates and what you’re used to is absolutely insane.
Your father is a drunk, and an asshole, and he thinks he’s tough shit. You happen to know what it looks like to actually know what you’re doing. Shocker, that you’re the one who makes the actual fucking money. Even less shocking that he makes most of his income leeching off of you.
Well, not anymore.
“I told you to come alone. You brought your fuckin’ guard dog.”
“Yeah, you’re one to talk.” You gesture to the man beside him, the wall of muscle holding the gun and glaring at you like this is a gangster movie and he genuinely believes himself to be the most badass character. “Did you give your Steroid Humunculus his pay already, or is he gonna be banging on your door in a week looking for it?” You’re guessing the latter, if past experience is anything to go by.
“Enough.” Your father snaps, like he has any authority at all. It makes you furious. “Tell the psycho to leave.”
“Call him a psycho one more time, and this time it won’t be him who beats you to a fucking pulp.”
“Are you threatening me, you little shit?”
“Like father, like daughter.”
“I should teach you a fuckin’ lesson-“ he starts toward you, only to back up when Pope steps forward. His jaw ticks, fury flashing in his eyes, and you hear the click of something loading in the cavernous room.
It all happens so fast.
In all the times this kind of thing has happened, all of the times he’s made threats, it’s always been diffused. He’s always held up a gun, maybe loaded it, and said some bullshit until money was tossed his way.
This time, he brought the wrong backup. And that backup panics.
The man raises the gun, and aims it at Pope.
You move before you think, jerking instinctively in front of him and pushing him back, already beginning to move towards the money to end this bullshit. They always point the gun. Always shout a threat. Always shut up when they see the money and-
And then the gun goes off.
-
You wake to an empty bed.
Your first instinct is to reach out to the space Pope usually occupies, hand sliding over the cool sheets like you might be able to pull him out of thin air. It’s not morning, and the house is silent. If there was some kind of emergency, he would have woken you.
Huh.
The mystery doesn’t stay a mystery for long. You shuffle into the yard, and there he is.
Naked. Staring at the moon.
He seemed fine last night. Well, as fine as Pope Cody can be. A little more quiet, maybe. A little clingier than usual, and that would be saying something, but fine.
“Hey, handsome.” You hum, casual and sleepy, and move to stand beside him. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t break his eyes from the night sky. “What are we looking at?”
“Everything.” He murmurs, absent, and you can already tell that he isn’t here. Isn’t entirely inside his own head. That’s alright. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened, and it probably won’t be the last. At least he’s not smashing anything with a hammer.
“Sounds like a lot.” You move to stand in front of him, lifting your hand to brush your fingers through the soft curls on the back of his neck and turn his gaze down to yours. “How ‘bout you just look at me instead?”
When his eyes meet your own, still hazy and distant, his breath catches in his lungs. His hand moves up, guiding yours so he can press his cheek into your palm like the touch is some sort of coveted blessing. You smile, soft and gentle, and bring up your other hand to mirror the first and cradle his other cheek.
“You’re an angel.” The words come out as a reverent whisper. He’s not trying to flatter you, not trying for pretty compliments, but rather stating a fact. Like he often does, when he’s in this state.
“Not quite.” You press your lips to the underside of his jaw, and you feel a shiver travel through his entire body. “But I appreciate the compliment.”
Large hands hover over your waist, and his eyes don’t leave you. “Can I…touch you?”
You nod, and bring his forehead down to rest against yours as his arms slide around you, tugging you against him as calloused fingers trail up beneath your sleep shirt, the touch just as familiar as the rest of him.
“Will you come to bed with me?” You ask softly, moving your own hands down to smooth over the skin of his chest. “I’m not an overly jealous person, but I’d prefer to keep this view for myself. Don’t wanna share with the neighbors.”
“I’ll do anything for you.”
“Tell me that again in the morning when I remind you to take your meds, okay?”
He follows you back inside, and allows you to pull him back into bed with you. Allows you to pull the covers up around you both as he envelops you in his arms, and trails his lips along your hairline as he whispers soft words against your skin. You can’t make them out, but you wonder from his tone if they might be some kind of prayer.
“I love you.” You murmur, and his arms tighten around you. “Every part of you. You know that?”
“I don’t deserve it.” He whispers, and you pull back to look at him.
“You do.” You kiss his nose. His cheek. “You really, really do.”
-
For a moment, you think a car might have backfired somewhere nearby.
It’s not like you don’t know what a gun sounds like. Fuck, with your childhood, you could recognize the sound faster than your own voice. And yet, in this moment, your mind can’t seem to keep up. Can’t seem to process exactly what just happened.
You feel like you got punched in the stomach. There’s an intense, knock-the-wind-out-of-you pressure, and then…
Your hand comes up to the point of that pressure, to the dull burn, and comes away red.
“Fuck.” Your father breathes, and then he starts shouting. “Fuck! You idiot! What the fuck did you do?!”
You’ve heard that voice before. When he’s lost an exceptionally lucrative bet. When a deal has gone wrong. That’s the tone of a man who is losing his meal ticket, not even close to the tone of a concerned father.
You didn’t even get to do your little speech. Your whole ‘fuck you, I owe you less than nothing and this is the last time you’re getting a cent from me’ speech. You were kind of looking forward to it.
Your whole body feels a little numb. When your knees finally give out, warm arms wrap around you before you can collapse.
“No. No no no no no!”
Now that…that isn’t concern either. It’s worse. So much worse. It’s the realest and most raw fear you’ve ever heard.
There’s too much blood. Fuck. So much blood. It’s spilling out between your fingers faster than should be possible. Vaguely, you remember when you were small, and the faucet broke at whatever house you and your dad were squatting in at the time. You were so scared of his ire, of him blaming you for the burst, that you’d tried to hold it together with your small hands until your entire body was soaked.
Andrew Cody is gathering you into his arms, lowering you to the ground, and the pain is starting to slice it’s way through the shock and it is absolutely fucking overwhelming.
“It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay. Look at me. C’mon, y-you’ve gotta look at me.”
Your father is still yelling at the guy who shot you. Screaming about the money. Not about you. The sound is loud, cutting through the ringing in your ears, and Andrew’s arms tighten around you.
“Close your eyes.” The words are murmured by your ear. Soft and warm and gentle despite the chaos. When he speaks again, his voice is shaking. “Close your eyes, sweetheart. It’s gonna be okay.” He rarely calls you that. This must be bad.
When you do, you hear a gun fire, and the shouting stops.
Your eyes fly open, and you try to turn towards the sound of two bodies hitting the floor, but Pope is there before you can move, dropping a gun to the pavement and cradling your face in his hands.
“Don’t look at that. Look at me. Look at me, okay? You’re gonna be okay.”
He shouts for Craig. For Deran. Everything is still in a sharp, dizzy sort of focus.
-
“Holy shit. What happened?”
Craig is hunched over the toilet. There’s a bottle of tequila on the floor.
He turns his face towards you, hair messy and cheek resting against his arm. “Go away.”
“Nah.” You’re already sitting beside him, tugging his hair into a ponytail and tying it off.
“M’a fuckup.” He mumbles. “Jus’ a…drunk idiot. Deran said.”
You hum, and rub a soothing hand over his back. “Definitely acting like one.”
“See?” He tilts his head miserably back into his arm. “Even you say it.”
“Shut up. You know that’s not what I’m saying.” You move over to the bottle, and take a swig before throwing the rest into the trash. “Hey, look at me.”
He does. He looks like he might have been crying.
“You’re one of the smartest people I know, you know that?”
“You’re not funny.”
“I’m not lying.”
He looks at you now. Really, really looks at you. “You gotta stop seein’ the best in me.”
“Too late. You done puking?”
He grunts, and you reach down to help him stand with a significant amount of effort and bitching that he weighs a million pounds.
And you get him into bed, and even tuck him in, and before you leave to go back to Pope’s room he catches your wrist.
“I love you.”
You stop, and furrow your brow.
“Not in like, a weird way. M’not tryna fuck you or anything. I don’t even know how…” he frowns, and releases you to rub a hand over his face. “I dunno how to say it.”
Your heart swells, in that familiar way, and you laugh a little as you move over and sit on the edge of his bed. “I think you’re telling me I’m you’re best friend.”
“Well, obviously. S’more than that, though. You don’t…you don’t think I’m a fuckup. You actually like me.”
You think back to that kid on the beach, surrounded by three angry assholes and fully prepared to stand his fucking ground. The kid who you were knocked out defending. Who didn’t think twice before he brought you back to his home. To the only safe space he knew. Who brought you into his family.
Who loved you like you loved him, and wasn’t sure what it meant. Who assumed, as teenagers do, that it might be romantic. Who didn’t think twice when he realized that it wasn’t romantic, and still pushed his pride aside and kept on loving you. And even now, budding your own ways into adulthood together, he’s drunk and still trying to put into words that he loves you platonically.
“You have the biggest heart.” You say, honest and raw, and his hazy blue eyes fill with tears again. “Even if you can be an idiot sometimes.”
He swipes his hand over his eyes, and tries to hide a sniffle. He looks young like this. He’s only in his early twenties, sure, but he looks younger than that. Vulnerable in a way only you ever really get to see.
“Promise you won’t go anywhere.” He mumbles, like he’s nervous to say it.
He smells like puke, and he’s sweaty, but fuck it. You hug him, making sure to flop down on top of him a little so he groans miserably before he wraps a large arm around you to pat your back.
“Can’t get rid of me if you tried, jackass.”
-
Craig is freaking out. He’s in the back of the car, where Pope is still holding you, and he’s freaking out.
Oh, no. That won’t do, will it? You take care of them. You always do. You keep Craig level-headed, and you keep Andrew from freaking out. Or…or is it the other way around? It’s concerningly difficult to think. You feel like you’re floating.
“Almost there. Almost there. Don’t leave me, okay?” God, Andrew Cody’s voice is the best thing you’ve ever heard. You want to sink into it, but he’s shaking and you can hear tears in his voice and you’re supposed to fix that.
“Drive fucking faster!” Craig is pushing on your stomach too hard. It hurts. You wheeze, and he doesn’t let up. “Deran, the IV isn’t working. It’s not working, she’s too fuckin’ pale.”
He’s covered in blood. You can’t see Pope, but you think he is too. Everything is tainted a horrible shade of red, and it’s getting really hard to think.
“M’here.” You try, scratchy and raw. “M’here. You’re okay. Don’t…be a dumbass.”
“Fuck. Fuck, don’t die. Please don’t die. Look at me, okay? Look at me.” You try, but Pope is whispering near-nonsense into your hair and trembling so hard it’s almost starting to hurt more than the pressure on your stomach. Still, Craig brushes the hair from your face, and you can see tears tracking their way down his cheeks. “They’re all dead, okay? All those assholes are dead. You’re not going with them, you hear me? You’re not going with them.”
There’s shouting. There’s panic. It’s all fading. Pope’s lips are warm against your skin, and the sound of his voice is soothing and…
-
“I love you.”
The words are whispered into your hair, so soft that you almost don’t hear them through the haze of sleep. But you’re awake, now. He doesn’t know it, but you’re awake.
You blink, and feel his fingers trace slow, warm patterns over the bare skin of your back.
“I love you.” He whispers again, just as low and just as quiet.
You shift, and he goes very, very still.
“Hi.” You whisper, pulling back, and he looks fucking terrified.
“…Hi.”
“You just said you loved me.”
“I…thought you were sleeping.”
You reach up, and turn his face to yours. Feel soft curls between your fingers.
“How long have you been telling me you love me when I’m asleep?”
He’s silent. He doesn’t look away.
“Andrew?”
“…a while.”
You smile, and the way his eyes spark at the sight makes your heart melt. “I love you, too.”
His hand flies up almost too fast, cradling your cheek and brushing his thumb over your cheekbone as he stares into your eyes with an intensity that makes your blood tingle in your veins. “You do?”
“Yeah.” How could you not? How could he not know? “Of course I do.”
-
A sharp sting brings you back, this time. You think someone might have hit you.
“Fuck, thank God. You looked like…shit, okay. Pope, let her go. You’ve gotta let her go, man.”
“Where were you?” He’s whispering against your cheek, and he’s out of his mind. Shit, he’s really out of his mind. His arms are still around you, and he’s speaking like he used to when things got really bad. When whatever was in his mind snapped, and it would take you hours to bring him back to you. “Where did you go? Don’t go. Take me with you.”
Every instinct, every cell in your body, tells you to fight. To stay here. To be here with him. To make this better.
But you’re losing time, and he’s not letting you go.
“Don’t touch her.” Lips on your temple. Your cheek. Arms tight around you. “Don’t touch her. Don’t take her away.”
You try to speak, but convulse instead. The sight of it seems to trigger something, and Craig starts to yank you out of Pope’s arms in such a panicked rush that you whimper as another bolt of agony fires through you.
Andrew holds you tighter. Your mouth tastes like copper. You feel blood trickling past your lips.
“Fuck it. Fuck it. Deran, hold him down.” Craig says, and he’s still crying and you should fix that, before he reaches forward and slams Pope’s head against the window. The arms around you go limp as he loses consciousness, and then you’re being lifted out of the car.
“I got you. It’s okay.” You choke out a soft noise, grab at his arm, and he just tucks you closer to him. “Pope’s okay, too. Everything’s gonna be fine, yeah? Just…just don’t die. Please, please don’t die.”
You’re so tired. You want Andrew. If you’re going to drift into oblivion, he should be here. But…
-
When you open your eyes, it’s to a cracked ceiling and a heavy, distant pain in your stomach.
You feel the drugs in your system. Blurred and heavy and warm. Tijuana. They managed to get you to Tijuana. And you’re alive. Bullet wound in the gut and all, and you’re alive.
Andrew Cody is beside you, head resting on his hands like he may have been living up to his nickname and praying. When you stir, he does too, red-rimmed eyes blinking open and looking at you like you’re the only other person in the world. There is so much relief in his gaze that the sight makes you feel dizzy.
“Hi.” You murmur, hoarse, and reach up to tap gently at the side of his head. “Are you here?” You remember his mumbled words against your skin. The way he needed to be knocked out before he would let you go. He can go so far away, sometimes. But he looks like he’s here now. He looks like he’s your Andrew.
He nods, and catches your hand to press his lips to your palm. His breath shudders on a silent sob.
“I thought…I thought you were-“
“I think we should get married on the beach.” You cut him off with a gentle squeeze to his hand. “S’that okay?”
He looks at you, at your stomach, and back at your face like he’s trying to judge how full of painkillers you are. “You wanna get married?”
“Do you?”
“Yes.” There’s no hesitation. Not an ounce of it. “But you’re on-“
“I know. Still want to. I can ask you again when I’m off them, if you want.”
“I think you should.” He murmurs, but he’s smiling. It’s a small, hesitant thing. Like he was pretty sure, not too long ago, that he would never smile again. Like he’s already re-learning the expression.
“Mm.” You squeeze his hand, and lean your head back against the pillows. “You wanna marry me?”
“Since I first met you.”
“Softie.” You turn your head, and furrow your brow a little. “You never asked, though.”
“I planned it.” He admits, tracing his thumb over your knuckles. “Bought a ring.”
“When?”
“Five years ago.”
You raise your eyebrows, and say again, “you never asked.”
“Never found a perfect time.”
“Mm. Sorry for stealing your thunder then.”
He squeezes your hand, and brings it up to his lips so he can trail kisses over your knuckles. He looks back up at you after a moment, and his dark eyes are so beautiful. “I killed your father.”
Those four words should definitely make you feel something. Anything. Instead, you just feel a surge of love for the man before you. “Okay.”
“I’m glad I did it.”
“I know.”
And, like he just can’t help it anymore, he moves forward and presses his lips to yours. You kiss him back, and wrap your arms around his neck even as the movement makes you wince. Worth it.
“Can we get married now?” You ask, the words muffled by his lips, and he smiles down at you.
“When the drugs wear off.”
You frown, and shrug. “Okay. Can we go home?”
“When they say you can.”
Hm. “Can we have sex?”
He laughs. It’s a beautiful sound. “Go to sleep.”
“You’re no fun.”
“Promise I will be.” He kisses your cheek. “For the rest of your life.”
“I like where this is going.”
“I’ll never leave you again.”
“Keep talkin’, Cody.”
“When we get home, I’ll stock the fridge with that ice cream you like.”
“Take me now.”
The love in his eyes is so beautiful, so pure, so raw, that you know without a doubt that those eyes alone were worth living for. “Go to sleep.”
-
You and Pope rent a house in Tijuana for a while. There’s no need to go back to Oceanside. Not yet. Smurf doesn’t love it, but she doesn’t fight it. It wouldn’t be great optics, after all, for her son’s girlfriend to be recovering from a bullet wound while her father, whom Pope has nearly killed before, was recently found dead in a warehouse.
He fusses over you endlessly. He barely lets you stand on your own, even when you’re fully capable of doing so. You wake up to him watching you sleep more often than ever, and he barely spends more than a minute not touching you.
It’s nice. Really nice. Kind of like a honeymoon before the honeymoon. Just with less sex due to an annoying bullet wound, and a little more crankiness from you than usual due to both of the former issues.
But you stay up all night on the beach, talking until the sun rises and making out like teenagers. You try to make breakfast, burn it, and get to ogle him from your spot on the counter as he makes it for the both of you. You plan for the future, count down the days until your wound is healed, and just…enjoy being happy. No jobs, no strings, no stress.
A little over a month later, you wake him up by rolling on top of him, the familiar pain in your stomach reduced to much less than a dull ache.
His eyebrows raise before his eyes even open, a sleepy smile curling on his lips as his hand trails down your back and your lips move to press teasing kisses down his neck.
“Good morning.” You hum, and he seems more than happy to return the sentiment. “I officially think I’m healed enough for…strenuous activities.”
He makes a low noise, and kisses you slowly. Hungrily. You grin, triumphant and happy, and feel his hands come up to shift you on top of him, sitting himself up against the wall and-
And pulling back.
You actually whine, chasing his lips with your own, but he holds you firm with a smile so wide it’s almost silly.
“I have another idea.”
“It’s been over a month, Andrew. I challenge you to name one thing better than sex right now.”
His smile grows impossibly wider. He reaches into the pocket of his sweatpants, mischief sparking in his sleepy eyes like he was hoping you’d say something like that, and…
And pulls out a ring.
“Oh.” You breathe, eyes locked on the little diamond in his palm. It’s simple. Beautiful. Perfect.
“Bought a new one.” He says, hand coming up to brush your hair back from your face.
Description: You and your new boyfriend haven't had sex yet. Though, getting drunk for the first time — and seeing your gorgeous boyfriend take care of you — awakens that dormant part. Or, you being a drunk mess trying to get him to fuck you, and him fighting his self-control.
Tags/warnings: Established rlsp, Drinking, r is drunk, lots of flirting, highly suggesting themes, lots of mentions of sex, huge age-gap (reader in 20's, abbott is 50), size difference, horniness lol, slight allusions to dom!jack, use of pet names: sweetheart, baby, honey (would u guys like "kid" lol?) (sorry, i have issues. i think.)
Note: This is my first fic, and i wrote it in one go. While I tried to make the reader very neutral in terms of characteristics — the fic is highly self-indulgent (i, too, am horny for abbott), and you may see some mentions of reading having hair, reader being in heels.
“I kind of want to get shitfaced.”
Jack did not turn to look at you. He just huffed into his cup of black coffee, held closely to his lips. The kind of black coffee that made you wrinkle your nose. You proudly liked yours with a bit of milk in it. Okay, a lot of milk. To the point, Jack called it a milkshake.
His eyes remained fixated at the screen of his phone, straining even with his reading glasses, to read the daily news on a bulletin app you downloaded on his phone.
“What about your policy against having fun, and letting yourself go for more than two minutes in a row?” Jack asks in his low voice, scratchy from the coffee. His eyes finally find yours, as he takes a slow sip from his cup. His eyebrows raise at you questioningly, holding your gaze.
Damn him and his gaze. Even after 6 weeks of dating — and pining for a lot longer than that — he sure could still make you feel like a puddle.
You're only able to speak once he turns to his phone again. “Uh, excuse you, I'm a very fun person, thank you very much. Yesterday, I put a fake ‘your computer is down’ screen on Shen's laptop,” you tell proudly.
“Dear god. He did not go into a cardiac arrest from your…prank?” Jack's voice caught on the word “prank” as if it deeply amused him.
You narrowed your eyes at your boyfriend (still hard to say that), shifting close enough to him on his couch that your knee knocked against his thigh. Your entire body faced him, while his faced the front — a tiny whine left your lips.
Jack turned his attention back to you as you spoke again. “You know it's the loss of control I hate. Don't you think I also feel like getting all loose-lipped and dancing on top of tables and flirting with strangers?”
His eyes softened a fraction when he saw the small frown on your lips. He sets his phone face-down on the arm of the couch, before shifting so his upper half faced you too. “Okay, what brings this on? You know I just like teasing, I don't think there's anything wrong with being an alcohol virgin.”
You rolled your eyes at his choice of words. “I want to know what it's like. It makes everyone so…” your hands do a weird dance in front of your chest, trying to find a proper word. Your attending swiftly moves his cup a bit to the left, so your hands wouldn't knock it all over yourself.
“Joyful,” you finished.
“Okay, but let's not dance on table tops and flirt with strangers,” he takes off his reading glasses and perches them next to his phone. When his eyes find you again, they're equal parts amused, and that softness that only seems to show up when you're in the room.
“I would never, I'd feel bad for giving you stress at your age.”
He lightly smacks your hip that's not smushed against the couch, “Brat.”
You grin widely, “You'll be there, right?”
“With a camera and a mic. My beautiful, sensible, nurse, looking like an absolute fool,” he tugged at a loose strand of your hair, his eyes shining with endearment.
Your little baby blue sling looks absolutely ridiculous hung over his shoulder. “What did I tell you before leaving?” His voice strains with the effort of all the workout he got in today. He's struggling with unlocking the door, because your purse keeps slipping down his arms.
You were a disaster. While your favourite doctor made sure you only stuck to fruity drinks that gave you a pleasant buzz and not regrets — you still managed to outdo yourself in terms of being a mess.
You challenged a man twice your size in an arm wrestle. You advised 3 different women to break up with their boyfriends, “Mine's handsome and kind. You guys stay safe, though.” And, finally, broke the heel of your left boot making you even more unbalanced than you already were.
“That Dr. Robby is a little shit with no self-preservation inst-”
“The other one, honey.”
You went silent for a moment, searching your hazy brain as the door opened in front of you. Jack gently guided you in, before locking the door with a sharp click. His rough hands sneak up your arms, tugging the jacket at your shoulders, and shrug it off you to safely hang it on his coat rack.
“That I shouldn't carry my bag if I couldn't keep it safe?” you say, looking down at him, as he sets his knee on the floor. His hands that cut and heal skin with such precision, are deftly working the zipper of your boots. He gently helps your feet out of the pair, patting your calf, before rising to his full height again with a groan.
Without your size boosters, your head was once again leveled with his chest. Jack nodded, leaning his head down so you didn't have to crane your neck as much.
“But I had my ID and pepper spray in there,” you justified, your lower lip jutting out in a pout.
Jack's hand pats the right-side pocket of his hands, “ID,” his voice rumbling as if coming straight from his chest. “And you don't need pepper spray. You have me.”
But you're not registering a word he says, not when he looks like this. His salt and pepper curls are all ruffled from your bar visit. His simple black tee is pulled taut across his biceps, making them look just as delicious as they do in his SWAT uniform.
His fingers snap in front of you, “Eyes up here, sweetheart.” You look in his honeyed eyes again. God, why haven't you guys had sex already? You seriously can't remember why.
“Why haven't we fucked?” You blurt out. Oh, the alcohol doesn’t make you Joyful. It makes you blunt.
Your boyfriend freezes for a second, before letting out a deep, throaty laugh. His hands settle on your shoulders. With a slight bend of his knees, he manages to stare completely and directly into your eyes. “Wow, thought we went to the bar, not to a seminar for clear communication.”
You capture both his hands and slide them down, so they're firmly on your hips. After humming in satisfaction, you take a step closer to him, your chest brushing his. “Answer me.”
As if suddenly realizing you both are still standing in the entryway, Jack starts walking you backwards, swiftly maneuvering you so you don't hit the kitchen counter. “I'm your attending, honey, I don't answer to you,”
You furrow your brows, staring up at him with irritation. You press yourself even closer to him, your palms settling on his hard stomach. “Like hell you don't. I want to know why me and my gorgeous boyfriend haven't made good use of every room in this too-big-for-you house.”
Jack sighs deeply, his fingers unconsciously tightening around your hips. He takes a seat on one of the low kitchen counter stools, so he doesn't have to keep looking down at you. His arms completely wrap around your waist, pulling you in until you're standing between the hard muscle of his thighs.
“Because we work at a hospital, we're either busy or tired. And…it's hard to find a footing with sex. You tense up whenever my hand slips under your shirt, you've talked about how insecure you get. And me…well, I'm not what I used to be.”
Your eyes soften, “But do you want me?” Your lips graze his jaw, your hands palming the hard plane of his chest.
Jack shifts in his seat and takes a deep breath, “What do you think, baby?” his right hand moves an inch lower with exaggerated slowness, settling on the top curve of your ass, his thumb stroking the curve.
You let out an entirely pathetic whimper at his breathy voice, his lips brushing your temple. You move back your face, so you can watch him again. His eyes look darker than they actually are.
“I see this as a good opportunity that we should seize, doctor.” His throat catches at the ‘doctor’. Oh, you are not a fair player.
“Well, I don't like my medical staff being inhibited. Perhaps, sometimes when you're horny and sober, we can continue the procedure.” His breaths are coming in shallow, his hard thighs squeezing around you to completely lock you in. His hands have not stopped moving, the one on your waist has moved north to tangle in your hair at the nape of your neck.
A petulant whine leaves your lips as you bury your mouth in the crook of his neck. “But-”
“No buts. I have no intention of being between your legs in a state you won't even remember anything in.” The rasp in his voice so close to your ear directly travels to the your belly, already coiling tight with tension.
The imagery makes you groan: His mouth working between your legs, his jaw shining under the dim lights, stopping for a moment to say, “Louder, baby. Your doctor can't hear you.”
Your lips slip from his neck, replaced by your forehead. His lips brush against your hair, the gentleness so different from what his body is suggesting.
“Kids and their hormones,” he teasingly says. That makes you pull yourself back. Because that's rich coming from a man whose pants are getting visibly tighter.
“Is that so, grandpa?” Your eyes are entirely fixated on his lips. Your own bottom lip has caught between your teeth.
His thumb comes up to free your lip so you don't hurt it, “Careful, brat.” His hand stays on your face, and you lean heavily into his palm, blinking at him. The strap of your top has conveniently fallen off from its place, and Jack is staring like a man who's just discovered shoulders, tracking the soft curve of it, following the slope of your neck, where your pulse thrums rapidly.
Leave it to him to have a gaze that weights at least a 300 pounds.
Your palms drop from his chest to his waist, brushing your fingers against the waistband of his pants. A soft “uh-uh” leaves his mouth as he slowly shakes his head, though he makes no move with his hands to push you away.
“You're palming at me like you're a little girl, and I'm your favorite barbie doll.”
“You are my favorite barbie doll, Dr. Abbott,” it leaves your mouth in a soft, needy, whine.
His shoulder shake slightly from laughter, the comforting rumble filling the room, subsequently reaching every tensed part of your body, and taking its place there too, perfectly fitting every crook and corner.
“I am a 50-year old man with a military background, who spends his nights managing an entire floor of medical staff. My day hobbies include being a buddy to SWAT and getting shot at.”
You look at him, as if to say “so?” and hearing the adoration — despite the choice of words — in your voice completely decentres him. “Glad to be your favourite barbie doll, honey.”
He finally freezes when your wandering palm brushes against the hard ridge in his pants, practically begging to be freed. You let out a little gasp as you feel his size, even with a barrier of rough fabric.
A low groan leaves him, his hand sharply capturing your bold wrist against his own chest, heaving up and down. For someone just talking about being 50, the man's heart is sure beating with a fast thump-thump-thump, like a teenage boy catching his crush in a 2-feet vicinity. Your name leaves his mouth, dirty and like a prayer at the same time.
“Let me help you, doctor. Please” you say sweetly, voice coated in silk and need and whatever poison this man mixed in your drinks.
A pause.
He gets off the stool in a sudden motion, his hands grip your forearms, and starts walking you backwards in the general direction of the bathroom.
“You are a pain in my ass. And, frankly, a horny mess.”
“Speaking of horny and my ass-”
He doesn't let you complete the sentence before turning you around, his broad chest hovering over your form from the back. “Nope. You have lost the privilege of looking at me before you've taken a cold shower.”
You tilt your head back to look at him, excitement glinting in your eyes, “together?”
“No, you pervert.” Your boyfriend opens the door to the bathroom and lets you both in. Before you can even complain, his rough palms are gripping the back of your thighs, swiftly lifting you up on the counter. You let out a little squeal, squeezing your thighs at the display of his strength.
Show-off.
So fucking hot, though. It's like he was made by Lana Del Ray's mind.
Jack doesn’t stop, though. He finds his way behind the glass that separates the shower from the rest of the bathroom. His practiced hands mess with the settings until he's satisfied, and comes back.
He stands in front of you again, crossing his arms over his chest. His muscles strain at the motion, trying to escape their way from the tight shirt. You pout at his slut-ishness. A walking, talking, thirst trap. If he was an actor, he would surely have his fare share of editors.
“How am I supposed to not get wet when you manhandle me?”
“Jesus,” he mumbles, pressing the heel of his palms into his eyes to lull some of his composure back into him. He silently thanks his military discipline, or you would currently be spread on the soft sheets of his bed, waking up his neighbours.
He takes a deep breath, eyes scanning you again. His fingers come up to pinch your chin in a soft embrace, “Shower. Clean. Mind and body both. And then, we will sleep. Got it?”
Heat pools low in your belly at his authoritative voice. God, how did you land this man?
“Sir, yes, sir.” You watch his gaze get heavy at the word. He leaves his hold on your chin, pats your hip, and exits the bathroom.
Guess you know what you'll be calling him, when he finally lets you do what your body is begging you to do.
You find him on his bed, wearing only a pair of low hung worn-out sweatpants. His back is slumped against the pillows, fingers locked behind his head as he stares at the ceiling.
He finally looks at you, crawling on his king-sized bed, trying to make your way over to him. It seems the shower un-possessed you. You look soft, sleepy, tired, and utterly his.
He holds out his arm and you immediately curl up into him, your icy-cold nose finding the hollow of his neck. “Hold me,” you murmur.
“One second, honey.” Before he can properly embrace you, he pulls up the thick duvet and arranges it to cover both of you. His left arm is trapped under your body, fingers pressing against the small of your back to pull you closer. His other hand brushes the hair back from your face, watching your heavy eyelids.
“There you are,” he softly rumbles before pressing the softest, most lingering kiss on your temple. A low sigh of satisfaction leaves you. You're still inhibited, but the tiredness has caught up.
“You didn't like the freaky me?” You ask, your jaw cracking with a yawn right after.
“I like every-you, unfortunately. It's a weakness in the ED.” His fingers are still moving in your hair, scratching your scalp in a way that turns your brain to mush. You push your face even deeper in his neck. Hell, you would live inside his ribcage if he ever allowed it.
You let out a soft giggle, hiking your thigh over his hip so no part of you is separate from him. “Can we have a proper conversation about sex tomorrow?”
Your boyfriend murmurs a “yes, baby,” against your forehead.
“Okay, goodnight. Gonna have some good wet dreams.”
“Shut up, and go to sleep, sweetheart.”
If anybody even reads this, and ends up liking it - pls feel free to glaze me in comments, asks, or dms. likes and reblogs appreciated as well <3 also, do yall think im funny?
