𝐍𝐀𝐗𝐗𝐒

 𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝘀𝗵𝗶𝘁 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗱𝗶𝘀𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗼𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 '02

[katherinadeluca]

"I can't lose you for I fear I might tear the world apart trying to get you back.."

- Upcoming fic

[fru1t4fr0gs]

It's Just Paper

Pairing: Andrew "Pope" Cody x Reader

Summary: You’ve been Lena’s nanny for years. Now, with both of her parents gone, you and Pope Cody have been doing your combined best to take care of her. And yet, as much as you both love her, it’s not enough. Social services has already been sniffing around, and it won’t be long before she’s going to be taken into foster care.

But when Smurf tells you that married couples have a better chance of adoption… well, she’s right. And whatever scheme she may be planning doesn’t matter as long as Lena is safe.

Besides, it’s just paper. Right?

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Swearing, Mentions of drug use, Gun use, Alcohol use, Violence, Smut!!, It's Animal Kingdom so buckle up its kind of got everything, Angst (lots and lots of angst), Married-to-lovers trope, Pope yearns A LOT, Spoilers!! (The timeline follows season 3ish), Craig has his own house and never moved into Baz’s, Mental illness (it's Pope), Smurf is manipulative of course, Brief mention of a traumatic childbirth, Please let me know if I forgot anything!!

Author's Note: We did it! The giant Pope Cody fic is here! Special thanks to our queen and bestie @flowersforbucky for proofreading as always! I honestly loved writing this one so much that I'm gonna miss it now that it's posted but hoo boy am I excited for you guys to read it! Please please let me know what you think!

-

“Are you sure about this?”

“Not really, no.”

Craig Cody runs both hands through his hair. Rests his elbows back on his knees. Stares at the pool, rather than at you.

You stare at the pool, too. You think, if you keep looking hard enough, you might see the stars twinkling on the surface of the water, despite the soothing blue lights shining beneath.

“Then why are you doing it?”

“For Lena.”

-

“What the hell are you talking about, Smurf?” Pope Cody’s voice is a low growl, but there’s shock behind the suspicion in his eyes.

You can’t hear anything through the thick glass wall, but you can see Smurf enunciate the words when she says “hand the phone to her”.

Her eyes are locked on you, something almost chillingly sure in her gaze. You’d wondered, when she’d demanded that Pope bring you with him to visit her, what she could possibly have been planning. Whatever it is, it’s Smurf, so you know it can’t be good. And with the way Pope has gone pale, something like shock cracking through his usually stoic demeanor, your fear seems to have been confirmed.

Pope doesn’t look at you when he passes the phone over. The plastic is cool on your ear.

“Married couples have a better chance at adoption.”

You look at her. She doesn’t even blink. You know what she means, and you do your fucking best to keep your eyes from trailing over to the man beside you.

Still, you find yourself echoing Pope’s words.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about keeping Lena out of the system. Both of her parents are gone. Pope may be taking care of her, but with his record? Social services is going to be coming by any day now, baby.”

You swallow, and grit your teeth as you search for a comeback. For any kind of answer or solution that isn’t…

“One day at the courthouse, one little party to make it look real, and Lena is safe.” Smurf’s words sound tinny through the phone. The rest doesn’t need to be said. Can’t be said, because every phone call is recorded. No foster care. No fighting the courts. Adoption.

Adoption because you’re married.

“Okay.” Your voice doesn’t sound like your own, but it sounds…firm. The decision isn’t hard, though it probably should be.

Just a piece of paper. That’s all. It’s just a piece of paper, and you can protect Lena from the foster system.

Pope does look at you now, but you don’t break your gaze from Smurf’s. Still, you can almost feel the surprise on his face. The intensity of his stare on the side of your head.

Smurf nods, smiling in that pleased, shark-like way she has when she gets her way.

And, quietly, this time to yourself, you repeat the word.

“Okay.”

-

“You’re gonna give up your whole life for the kid you nanny for?”

“Your niece.”

“Your whole life.”

“It’s not my whole life. It’s just…paper.”

Craig stares at you. You stare at the pool.

“You’re gonna be raising her. With Pope.”

“I don’t know if you remember, but I kind of have been raising her.” It’s not like Baz has been there for fucking anything but dropping off a paycheck with an extra couple hundred bucks and an apology for being gone a few more days than promised.

Pope was there. For ice cream at the beach. To help you out on nights you were exhausted and couldn’t get a hold of Baz. To sit with you on the couch. Always so quiet, but…there. A comforting presence amidst the chaos of caring for and worrying about a little girl that isn’t even yours.

Pope was there, and he’ll be there now. You have no doubt about that.

-

The ride back is dead silent.

So silent, in fact, that you nearly jump out of your skin with surprise when Pope speaks.

“You don’t have to do this.”

He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, or his hands off of the wheel.

“I know.” You kind of do have to. Smurf has a pretty uncanny ability to get her way, and it was more than obvious that this is what she wants you to do.

But even despite that, it’s for Lena. Lena who you all-but raised. Who you love. You would adopt her in a heartbeat, and you know Pope would too.

His hands grip the wheel a little tighter. You see a muscle jump in his jaw. “If you don’t want to-“

“I want to.” You interrupt, finally turning to him. “It’s Lena. If you think for one second that I’m going to let her get lost in the fucking foster system, you’re insane.”

“Smurf-“

“I don’t care about that. She’s right. This will work. Because right now, you paying me to help you take care of her isn’t exactly working. And if adoption is the way you wanna go, then that’s what we have to do.”

Pope doesn’t speak. He just nods, and stares at the road.

-

“This is different. This is… this is forever. This is like, building up a college fund-“

“Can’t be too hard, with your lifestyle-“

“Stop joking. I’m not kidding.”

You look at him, now. “I’m not kidding. She gets a cut. Every job, Lena gets a cut.”

“You really want to do this. Legally raise a kid that isn’t yours with fucking Pope.”

“I want her to be safe.” You finally snap, pulling your legs out of the pool so fast that you think it might splash him a little. “Why the fuck don’t you get that? Why doesn’t anyone else seem to care about this fucking kid?”

“Why do you care about her so much that you’re going to throw away your life?!”

“What life? I’m already wrapped up in this shit, and Smurf said-“

“You can’t trust Smurf.”

“She likes me. I’m not a threat to her. She has no reason to lie.”

“She always has a reason to lie.”

“Not about this. She wants Lena to be safe just as much as we do.”

Craig runs his hands through his hair again. Mumbles something about you being insane.

“I’ve watched this kid grow up. I love her.”

“More than yourself?”

“I mean…yeah.” Isn’t that what love is? You don’t think you know any other kind. “It’ll be the same as it always was. I’ll just have a rock on my finger, right?”

“This is legit marriage. And adoption. This is like, piles and piles of paperwork and shit. Plus, it’s gonna be a whole lot of lying.”

“Oh yeah, I’m really not used to lying. Where would I even start?”

Craig snorts into his beer, and you take the laughter as a win.

-

It’s a small ceremony. Just you and the Codys, save for Smuf for…obvious reasons.

There are no wide grins. No giddy family members. No flower girls or teary vows. The minister is monotone when he marries you, and Pope’s intense eyes don’t leave your face for a second.

It isn’t that you don’t like Pope. In fact, you get along with him better than anyone else in the family, save for maybe Craig, and that friendship still shocks the hell out of you sometimes. You aren’t sure when you started actually becoming friends with Craig Cody, but somewhere between him constantly hitting on you when you first started watching Lena and you rejecting his offer of drugs almost every damn night, you started actually getting along. There’s something about him that’s real, and maybe a little (or a lot) lost, and for some reason it seems to make you more patient with him than most.

But Pope. You’ve always gotten along with Pope really fucking well.

Since you started watching Lena, before he went to prison and before her parents died, you and Pope just seemed to…well, harmonize. You wash the sponges in the way he seems to like. You can sit with him in silence, and even get him to talk about things if it feels like the right time. Hell, you’ve fallen asleep on his shoulder when sitting together on Baz’s couch, and woken to him in the exact same position, like he was afraid that any movement might disturb you.

So maybe this won’t be so bad. It’s for Lena. To keep her out of the system. To keep her with the people who love her.

You expect your hand to shake a little when you exchange rings, but it’s surprisingly steady. Pope is still looking at you.

When it’s time to kiss the bride - Christ, the bride. You’re really fucking doing this - his hand comes up to your cheek, thumb brushing absently over your skin as he gives you a questioning look that is so sweet you almost laugh out loud because you’ve seen this man come home with bruised knuckles and bloodstains on his shirt. You nod, and he nods back as he ducks down and presses his lips to yours.

It’s a simple, gentle kiss - he doesn’t slam you against the wall and devour you or anything - and yet you feel a zing shoot down your spine and to your toes at the mere touch of his lips against yours. The sensation is so shocking, so good, that when he pulls away you almost reach up to pull him back to you just to see if you can feel it again.

You don’t, of course. You just meet his eyes, and try to smile.

And then you’re married. Just like that. One kiss. A couple signatures. And you’re just…married.

-

Andrew Cody has a terrible secret.

He is deeply, desperately, overwhelmingly in love with his wife.

Wife. Wife. Wife. You’re his fucking wife now. If it were any other circumstance, he might call this a dream come true. If he could just call you that for real, without the knowledge that you’re only married to protect Lena, he would be the happiest man in the fucking world.

And yet, as you all arrive back at the house and he watches that ring glimmer on your finger, remembers how your lips felt against his own even for just that one too-brief moment, he wonders if it would be fucked up to…pretend. Like he did in prison, when he kept a photo of you on the wall of his bunk and told his cellmates that the beautiful woman in the picture was his wife.

That was fucked up of him. He knows that. He knew that. But how would anyone have been able to check? He had gone to prison to protect his brother. He was serving a sentence that could potentially last much longer than three years. He was alone, and he was in love, and when someone asked him to explain the picture it just…happened. The fantasy he’d kept tucked safely away in the back of his mind had spilled past his lips, and talking about you had helped get him through the horror and monotony of those three years. In prison, you were his wife. The warm and sweet smile he would come home to, one day.

You’d visited him, too. You hadn’t taken Lena, but you’d come. Just a few times, always against Smurf’s wishes, but you’d checked on him. And he had wished with every part of his fucking being that you had come because he wasn’t just your friend, he wasn’t just Lena’s uncle, but because you cared about him. Because you missed him as much as he missed you. And he missed you and your lovely eyes and your gorgeous smile every. Fucking. Day.

This is for Lena. You’re both here for Lena.

And yes, he is almost positive that Smurf has an ulterior motive. That she knows exactly how Pope feels about you and that she’s going to use this to control him or even you, somehow. She’ll see this arrangement as her ‘giving’ you to him, as horrible as it may be. He’ll owe her for it.

But Lena will be safe. You’ll be safe. He can make sure of that.

And you won’t ever know how often he thinks about tilting your head back and sliding his lips over yours. About the noises he daydreams of hearing you make as his hands move over your body. Those hands have caused so much damage and pain for so long, but when they touch you they won’t be weapons. They’ll be as gentle as he can possibly make them as they slide over every perfect inch of soft skin he can reach.

And if he could just fall asleep watching a movie on the couch with you wrapped safely in his arms, with the smell of your perfume in his nose and the feeling of your steady breathing against his chest, he would truly be the happiest man in the world. You came close, once. When he sat with you for a while after Lena went to bed and he watched you fight yawn after yawn as you watched some random TV show together. Your head had finally thunked against his shoulder, and he had been too afraid to breathe lest he wake you and you stop touching him for even a second.

He had allowed himself to turn his nose into the top of your head. Had allowed himself one deep inhale.

He’d chased that memory for weeks, had felt so fucked up as he groaned your name into his pillow and imagined burying his nose into your hair and catching that scent of perfume and shampoo as you writhed beneath him. In those moments, alone in the dark of his empty house, his imagination would replace his own hand with you. His own labored breaths with the sound of your voice, breathing his name and begging for more as he made you feel so fucking good you would never be able to think of anyone else.

And then he would see you again the next day. He’d buy you and Lena ice cream and melt a little at the sight of your smile. He’d feel ashamed of the thoughts he had just the night before as his eyes lingered on the way your mouth wrapped around that little plastic spoon and he would nearly have to excuse himself and leave mid-conversation before he broke and slammed you into a picnic table to lick the mint chocolate chip from your lips himself.

And now you’re his fucking wife. You’re going to be living with him. Raising Lena with him. How the fuck is he supposed to keep himself together? How is he supposed to keep himself in check to be good for you?

And yet, despite how insane and wrong it might be, he’ll take this. He will wear the title of your husband, fake as it may be, like a badge of fucking honor that he will never deserve. He’ll think about kissing you, and touching you, and hold himself back from doing either of those things every single day of his life.

But he will be your husband. You’ll be his wife.

And maybe, secretly, horribly, he’ll pretend.

-

The after party, unlike the ceremony, is not small.

It’s loud. Chaotic. Takes over the entire backyard of the Cody house and makes you feel like you want to cave in on yourself. You don’t mind parties. You know Pope doesn’t like them. Even now, he’s sitting in the corner and nursing a beer, eyes still locked on you as you take a shot with Craig and do your absolute best to follow the plan. This party isn’t about having fun, at least not for you and Pope. It’s about optics. It’s about making it clear that you are now a complete, unarguable member of the Cody family.

For what might be the hundredth time tonight, your eyes drift to Pope’s. His remain locked on yours. You take a deep breath, and take another shot.

You aren’t drunk when he approaches you, but you are buzzed enough to be giggling at one of Deran’s jokes.

And then his voice is by your ear, low and soft. When his arm slides around your waist, tugs you back against him, you almost wonder if this is supposed to be part of the plan.

“You okay?” He asks, lips brushing the shell of your ear and voice so low you know you’re the only one who can hear him.

“And finally,” Craig shouts, raising another shot into the air and immediately drawing the attention of the group of people around you, “here comes the blushing groom!”

The room is suddenly filled with loud, drunken cheers. You tilt your head back, relaxing against Pope and leaning up to brush your lips over his jaw. You don’t imagine the way his arm tightens around you at the movement, but you plaster a wide grin on your face as you murmur back to him, “do you think we did enough? Can we leave?” Leave isn’t a very fitting word - the two of you are staying here tonight, but you’ll take anything that gets you away from the strangers and the chaos.

Pope smiles, and it doesn’t look entirely fake.

In a second, he’s reaching down and hooking his free arm behind your knees, lifting you against him and beginning to make his way into the back room without a word. Your own laugh is genuine, and you’re followed by cheers and whoops and some very suggestive noises as you disappear down the hallway.

-

“Are you…okay?” He keeps asking you that. You still don’t know how to answer.

Your head tilts toward his, one eyebrow raised.

“I’m in a sham marriage to ensure that a little girl I love doesn’t get forgotten by the system. I’ve had less weird days.”

“I mean…with me? Do you want me to sleep on the floor?”

“Would you? If I asked?”

“Yes.”

“Sounds uncomfortable.”

“I’ve slept in worse places.” Right. Prison. Shit.

“I didn’t know you even slept.”

He ignores your joke, your awkward attempt at deflection, and asks again. “Do you want me to move?”

“I…no.” You don’t. It surprises you how much you don’t.

You roll onto your side, tuck an arm beneath your head, and meet his stare. You’re both fully clothed, lying atop the covers of a large bed in a guest room, and you’re pretty sure that everyone at the party thinks you’re going at each other like bunny rabbits.

It’s quiet in here. It’s comfortable. Being around Pope Cody is always so comfortable. You genuinely don’t get why people are always so unnerved by him. He’s quiet, sure. Dangerous, maybe. But he has a presence that, at least to you, is calming and warm in a way you’ve never felt with anyone else before.

“Do you think this was a bad idea?”

He frowns. Furrows his brow. He rolls on his side to face you, too, and you see his hand twitch, just barely, like he might reach up and touch you.

“No. It was for Lena.” He pauses, brow crinkling again. “Do you regret it?”

“No.” For some reason, with the way the moonlight is hitting his face and alighting on the worried expression in his eyes, you can’t help but reach up, your new ring catching in the low light of the bedroom as you brush your fingers over his cheek. The gesture feels too intimate for your current arrangement. More than a little confusing. And yet, Pope blows out a shuddered breath, and leans into your touch.

After a moment, he returns the gesture, his own calloused fingers brushing the hair from your face, even as his eyes remain locked on yours.

You’re not sure how it happens, not sure who moves first, but in what feels like the span of a second and a thousand years all at the same time, his forehead is resting against your own, large hand still cradling your cheek and warm breath whispering over your lips on every barely-there exhale.

“Pope…” you murmur, and he leans helplessly closer.

“Andrew.” He murmurs back, noses bumping, brown eyes fluttering closed. “My name is Andrew.”

“Andrew.” You repeat, and you’ve hardly ever used his real name. Only hours ago, you said it in your ‘vows’, and even then it felt foreign on your tongue.

And then he kisses you.

It’s slow, careful like he’s worried he might break you with any too-sudden movements, and still it makes your heart hammer in your chest and drop to your stomach. He kisses you so slowly, so deeply, that you lose all track of time and thought. His hands are on your face, cradling you against him like you’re a delicate piece of glass that he may shatter at any moment if he holds it too tightly, and yet he kisses you like he’s dying. Like every movement of your lips against his is something he’s never even allowed himself to want, but now that he has it he’s going to cherish every fucking moment.

You stop thinking. You stop regretting. Stop worrying. You just let yourself…feel.

Your fingers curl in his hair as the kiss deepens, as he rolls atop you until you’re pressed between his body and the sheets and it feels so good you think you might pass out.

“Andrew.” You whisper again, the name nearly swallowed by his lips, and he groans so deeply at the sound that you can feel it in your fucking toes.

Your fingers fly up to the buttons of his shirt, desperation for more coursing through your veins like liquid fire. His own skate reverently up your thigh, pulling your simple white dress up with them, and he breaks away from you just long enough to duck his face down into the hollow of your throat.

“Tell me to stop.” He half whispers, and the sound of his voice alone pulls a whimper from your throat that has him groaning again as he rocks his hips against yours, hand slamming up to the headboard behind your head like he’s trying to keep himself still above you. “If we…I don’t think I can hold back.”

“Don’t.” You breathe, and this is stupid. This is a bad idea. “Don’t stop. Don’t hold back.”

He pauses, like he’s trying to collect himself.

If he is, he fails at it.

His mouth crushes against yours, and you give up on undoing his shirt and simply yank it apart, hearing buttons scatter as he reaches up to help you pull it off of him. He grabs the back of your thigh, all-but manhandling you beneath him in one swift movement as he pushes the hem of your dress up over your thighs and presses your body between the mattress and his own.

You reach up, trying to help him unclasp the back of the dress, and he makes a low noise in the back of his throat as he catches your wrists in one hand and slams them back against the pillows above you.

“I’ll do it.”

You meet his eyes, and they’re fucking burning. Dark and starved in a way that should probably make your survival instincts explode with some kind of trepidation. They don’t. Instead, your breath catches in your throat, and you nod.

His hand releases your wrists, sliding around your back until he’s pulling you up with him and you’re straddling his lap, nearly shaking with something between anticipation and restraint as he unbuttons your dress and slides it over your shoulders with a shaky exhale.

And then he’s kissing you again. Kissing your neck, your shoulder, your collarbone, only pulling back far enough to slide the garment up and over your head before his mouth is on yours once more, and your hands are tugging him out of his pants, and his own hand tangles in your hair as he lowers you onto your back.

He’s usually so…awkward, so quiet and still that his movements in this moment shock you to your fucking core. He moves atop you like he was born to, traces over your jaw with his tongue like he’s desperate for the taste of you. He just spent three years in prison, and you’re not sure what kind of human connection he’s had since then, but he still takes the time to slide his hand down your stomach and work you apart until every breath you draw is a sharp and desperate gasp into his mouth. Still crawls down your body and drags his blunt teeth up the inside of your thigh without ever once breaking eye contact like it’s a form of fucking worship.

The distant sound of the party still raging down the hall vanishes, taking every ounce of anxiety with it as he makes you fall apart once. Twice. Drags himself back up you and pulls your hand away from where it’s covering your mouth in a weak attempt to keep you from screaming his name.

“Don’t. Let me hear you.” He growls against your ear, and when he pushes inside of you for the first time you make a noise that has him snapping his hips forward so roughly that your nails might dig into his back hard enough to draw blood.

His groan vibrates through your entire body, but he still reaches up to brush the hair from your face, angling your head back to kiss you again even as he murmurs, “sorry. I’m sorry. I’ve got you.”

You forget everything that isn’t him as Andrew Cody pulls you apart piece by piece with his lips and tongue and words. Words spoken so softly against your skin that you would barely be able to hear them if he hadn’t made himself the center of your fucking universe tonight. If you could even dream of focusing on anything other than his mouth against your skin, his soft praise as you move with him, his growled expletives as your nails drag down over his back, his whisper of your name in your ear as he takes you like you are every vice ever created and he is ready to drown himself in the addiction.

And when it’s over, after you’ve nearly sobbed his name until you forgot your own and he bit down on your collarbone and pressed your joined hands into the pillow beside your head with a groan that ingrained itself into your very bones, you can’t remember how to pull yourself back to earth.

“That…” you try, and fail, “I’m…woah.”

Pope huffs a soft laugh against your neck, and pulls you into his arms until he’s on his back and your head is resting against his chest.

“Your legs are shaking.” He observes, sounding a little too proud of himself in that quiet way he has, as his fingers skate through your messy hair.

“Shut up.” You try, and he laughs again. The sound of it is so reserved, so soft and warm, that it makes you hum as you nuzzle your nose into his chest.

You’re asleep within minutes. Exhausted, sweaty, and more content than you can remember being in a very long time.

-

You wake before him.

You have no idea what time it is, but you know it must be early. Early enough, at least, for you to be the first one up. Everyone still hanging around after the party will likely sleep until the afternoon, but Pope usually wakes at dawn. And yet, now, his chest is rising and falling in a slow and steady rhythm beneath your ear.

You’ve never seen him sleep before.

You’re about to pull back to look at him, to drink in whatever expression may be on his face, when something else catches your attention.

There, on his bare stomach, your hands are joined together. Your wedding ring blinks up at you, and his own simple band rests just above it.

Married. You’re married. For Lena.

What happens if the two of you start something, and it doesn’t work out? All that kid has lost, all of the drama and horror she’s endured in her young life, and she would just be…abandoned again.

Shit.

You shift your head, just barely, and feel Pope stir. Light sleeper, then. Makes sense.

His fingers curl a little more tightly around yours, like he doesn’t even notice that he’s doing it, and you feel a soft breath against the top of your head as he realizes that you’re awake, too.

For a moment, he’s silent. It isn’t uncomfortable, just his usual version of quiet.

“Do you want to…borrow clothes?” He finally asks, lips brushing against the top of your head, and you almost laugh. Because this is how Andrew Cody works. He isn’t exactly one to wax poetic, even after a night like last night. He just takes care of you, like he always tries to take care of everyone, in his silent and sweet way.

His hand skates up over your bare back, the touch warm and reverent, and you allow yourself to lie with him for a moment. To enjoy this.

“I don’t think I can pull off one of those buttoned up shirts.” You joke, resting your chin against his chest and blinking sleepily up at him. Something in his brown eyes goes very, very soft as he looks down at you, and a part of you melts at the sight.

“I have t-shirts.”

You do laugh, now. “I know. Just kidding.”

“Do you…like the shirts?”

“I do, yeah.” You slide your fingers over his stomach, wrap your arms around him like he’s an oversized teddy-bear, and he responds with a hum as he pulls you closer to him.

And, despite your decision, despite the fact that you need to cut this off before it really starts, every muscle in your body relaxes as his lips find yours. As he kisses you so slowly, so languidly, so sweetly that you lose all track of time and space.

He feels so good, and this feels so right that it would scare you even if it weren’t for Lena. If it weren’t for all of the other fucking factors pulling you apart.

“I think…” his lips are on your neck, and his fingers are sliding up the inside of your bare thigh, and you can’t think. “We…shit, we shouldn’t do this.,” you reach down to stop his hand, and he acquiesces immediately, pulling back to look down at you with those lovely brown eyes.

“Are you okay?”

You nod. Swallow. “I don’t… if we start something, and it doesn’t work, Lena will get hurt. She’ll feel abandoned again.”

He pauses, and reaches up to smooth your hair back again, like he’s just trying to…touch you. Somehow. Any way he can. “You think it won’t work?”

“I…no.” You admit, almost instinctively turning your face into his palm. “But we can’t know for sure. I don’t want to risk it. Not right now.”

He frowns, thumb brushing your cheek, and nods. “Okay.”

And God help you, you lean up to kiss him again.

He makes a soft noise, somewhere between desperation and torture, and the feeling of his body pressing helplessly against yours makes any thoughts of responsibility fly out the damn window.

And when you pull back, and feel his fingers tighten in your hair and his breath ghost over your lips, it is very very hard to convince yourself that this is the right decision.

-

Pope Cody isn’t sure if he’s living in heaven or hell.

Heaven. Surely. Most of the time, he’s absolutely convinced it’s heaven. Because you’re with him all the time. He gets to hear your laugh. See your smile. Feel your presence every single day. He gets to sit with you on the couch with Lena, and watch the two of you as you help her color or do a puzzle or something equally…peaceful. It’s peaceful, this life. Sure, there are still the jobs. There’s still the guilt. But he gets to come home to you and Lena and he gets to smell your perfume on his pillow and watch your relaxed expression as you sleep beside him.

And sometimes, it’s hell. Because he wants more so selfishly that it feels like a fucking sickness. Maybe it was better before. Before he knew what you tasted like. What you felt like, moving beneath him and with him and moaning his name into his ear like the most beautiful music he’s ever heard. He knows what it feels like to wake up with you, naked in his arms, soft skin against his own and contentment like nothing he’s ever known swelling in his chest.

And he can’t have that again. Because you’re right. He loves you so, so much, but you’re right. If anything were to happen, Lena would be hurt by it. He’ll never stop loving you - he knows that more than he knows how to breathe - but something could happen. His life is chaos. Dangerous. He never knows what horror might come his way next.

But he can have you now, like this, and sometimes he can pretend. He can keep up appearances with you. Get to slide his fingers between yours and feel the ring on your finger when you meet with Lena’s teachers. Murmur something in your ear at one of the parties at Smurf’s house and feel you smile in response.

And he wants to kiss you. When you’re laughing at dinner, he wants to stand up from the table and stalk over to you and press his mouth to yours. He wants to make his way into the bathroom when you’re showering, and stand beneath the water with you until the sounds of your pleasure echo off of the tile. He wants to nuzzle his nose into your hair and inhale the scent of your shampoo when you sit on the couch with him. He wants to pull you into his arms in the mornings and whisper how much he loves you as you wake up. He wants you more, and it’s selfish and shitty because what he has now is already more than he could ever fucking deserve.

So he suffers, and is simultaneously the happiest he has ever fucking been. And he endures, and he loves you.

-

Your first fight happens on a Tuesday.

“She doesn’t need a therapist.” Pope says, in that low and intense way he always has, as he stands over the sink and meticulously scrubs the dishes.

Your eyes snap up, and you have to stop the incredulous laugh that nearly bursts from you at his statement. “Yes, she fucking does.”

“She’s fine.” He looks at you. Drops his eyes to the ring on your finger. Looks back up at your face. “She’s got us.”

He looks at the ring a lot. Like when the two of you take Lena for ice cream on the beach, and he wordlessly hands you a cup of your favorite flavor. Or when he makes Lena’s lunch for school in the morning, meticulously laying out the cheese on top of the ham on top of the lettuce like he’s performing some kind of surgery while you get so wrapped up in conversation with him that you don’t even notice that he’s made you one too until he’s handing you a little brown paper bag.

You curl your fingers a little, and do your best to keep your eyes from trailing down to your hand. To keep from looking at the gold band on his own.

“She needs more than just us.”

“What does that mean?” He’s still scrubbing the same plate.

“Her parents are gone, Pope. She lost them both in a year. And now she’s being raised by her nanny and a fucking bank robber and-“

Pope freezes, and turns to you, and the look in his eyes shuts you right the hell up.

“A what?”

You should probably take it back. Or at the very least, backtrack a little, but you’ve been married a month and social workers are already showing up to talk to you both and the adoption process is going fucking nowhere and you’re honestly sick and fucking tired of pretending to be more in the dark than you are.

“Come on, of course I know what you do. I’m not stupid. Or blind. Or fucking deaf.” And Craig has always been very stupidly candid with you about being stressed about a job or being pushed around by Baz and Pope and even Jay. “But that’s not the point. The point is that Lena-“

“How much do you know.” He doesn’t say it like a question, he says it like a command, and that pisses you off a little more than you want to admit.

“Enough, but not everything. I don’t want to know everything.”

He moves to the other side of the counter, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them as he repeats the question. “How much do you know?”

You don’t back down. “Not. Everything.” You grit out, pushing back from your chair to plant your hands on the counter and stare him down. “I don’t need to. I know you rob places. I watch the news. I don’t need to know anything else.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to be the reason anyone gets hurt.” You snap, frustrated. “I don’t need to know anything that could endanger any one of you if the wrong people ask. Keep me in the fucking dark. But if you’re gonna be so damn secretive maybe stop mentioning jobs and banks and carrying fucking guns around the fucking nanny.”

“You’re not the nanny anymore.” His eyes drop to the ring again, before they dart back up to your face.

“And what am I then? Because the adoption process isn’t exactly going our way.” You lean closer, and you can feel your own eyes burning into his. “Safe and okay are two very different things, Pope. She’s neither of those right now. And shockingly, the ex-con marrying the former nanny isn’t tossing us to the top of the Good Future Parent list.”

To your surprise, Pope’s eyes drop to your mouth. And yet, his voice is still a furious rasp when he speaks again.

“Andrew.”

You blink. His gaze does not falter.

“My name is Andrew.”

For a moment, you can’t remember why you’re mad. All you can think about is the way he murmured that on your wedding night, the way his fingers tangled in your hair and he pressed his body against yours until you were moaning that name. Until you forgot every name that wasn’t Andrew.

“She needs therapy.” You try again, but the intensity of his gaze on your mouth feels like a kiss all on its own and you can’t remember how to breathe right.

“She doesn’t.”

“She will be taken away from us.” Your palm slaps against the counter. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look away from you.

He just frowns, and his eyebrows do that little twitchy thing, before his gaze flickers back up to your eyes.

“It didn’t work for me.”

“But it might for her.” You try, meeting his eyes. Fuck, he’s beautiful. “Andrew, we can love her, but we can’t help her. Not like that. It’s not enough.”

He stays quiet. He moves back to the sink, and starts scrubbing the dish again.

You move over from behind the counter, and catch his arm.

“Stop that.” Your voice is firm, and he doesn’t look up again. “Please.”

His eyes finally rise to yours, and he goes very still.

“Fight with me.” Your voice is too soft for this argument, but you don’t care. “I need you to fight with me. You have opinions. I do too. Stop scrubbing the paint off of that thing, and argue.”

His eyes drop to your mouth again, before they move back up to your own.

“I don’t want to get angry.”

“You’re already angry.” You don’t break his gaze.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.” You’ve never been more confident of anything in your life.

He sets the plate down, moves forward, and cages you in against the counter so quickly that you gasp. The air shifts, and his eyes are so dark that you wonder if you should be afraid. Better yet, if there’s something wrong with you because you don’t feel afraid.

“I don’t want to lose Lena.” When did the air in here get so thin? Why can’t you draw breath right? His nose ducks down, moving slowly up over your throat until he’s face to face with you again, gaze burning into yours. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t.” You swallow. “You won’t. She just needs-“

His hand is at the small of your back, forehead against yours and an intensity in his eyes that is so heavy it makes your knees wobble.

“She needs help.”

“She’ll think something is wrong with her.” He presses even closer, like he’s not aware that he’s doing it, and you can’t tell if he’s frustrated or seeking comfort. If this is how he gets frustrated with you, you aren’t sure if this or any argument is going to get very far.

“Did you think something was wrong with you?”

His lips are almost brushing your own. His hand slides up beneath your shirt, feeling the skin of your back. He doesn’t answer for a long, tense moment. Your skin burns beneath his touch and it feels way, way too good.

“There’s a lot wrong with me.”

You want him so badly it hurts. “This isn’t what I meant by fighting.”

“I can’t fight with you.” His lips brush yours for the briefest of seconds as his nose skates over your cheek. As his fingers curl against your back. “I want to. I’m trying. I can’t…”

You can’t remember how to breathe right for the life of you. Your hand moves up as if of its own accord, and your fingers slide through his hair. This is the closest you’ve been to each other since your wedding night. Sure, you sleep in the same bed, but he’s usually in bed after you and awake before you. He doesn’t linger. You wonder now if he’s been doing that on purpose. If this is what he’s been trying to avoid. If he was really so close to snapping that all it took was high emotions and you coming into his space for five fucking seconds.

The thought makes you shiver, and hand moves up over your back again, like he senses the silent question and his touch is the answer. His lips find the hollow of your throat. Just one soft, simple kiss, but it makes you feel like you’re on fucking fire.

“I…” you start, seconds away from pulling him back and slamming your mouth to his, when a soft voice makes you jump out of your skin.

“Can I watch TV?”

Pope releases you, stepping back, and you wonder how flushed your face must be as you look down to see Lena standing in the doorway, holding a stuffed bunny.

You blink, and try to focus on anything but the absence of Pope’s hands on your skin.

“Nightmares again?” You ask, and she nods.

And just like that, it’s over, and you spend the next hour sitting with Lena and watching cartoons as Pope returns to the dishes, gaze like a physical touch against your back.

And, not for the first time, you wonder how the fuck you’re going to manage this marriage.

-

Lena is gone.

And you kept it together. You kept it all together. You didn’t cry or scream or even try to fight with Pope after the social workers took her away. When she went into the system and you just had to sit there, helpless, and watch her get into that car.

And you showed up, when Pope went down to the office and made a scene. You all-but dragged him out of there, followed closely by security guards, and let him wrap his arms around you in the parking lot as you both shook with grief and worry and pain. You buried your face in his shoulder, and promised you would get her back. You both would. You’ll figure it out, because you love her, and you’re going to fight tooth and nail to make sure she knows how much you do.

And then Smurf, fucking fresh-out-of-prison Smurf, actually got her back. And it all went to shit.

“Why…” you pause, eyes scanning the room. The movers. The pink. She doesn’t even like pink. Why is there so much pink? “Why is it…here?”

“It’s just for now.” Smurf answers, flippant. “You just got her taken away. Andrew is an ex-convict. The courts will be a lot more lenient if she stays with me for a while.”

You feel cold. You fight the urge to fidget with your ring.

“But we’re…” married. You and Pope got married. That was supposed to help. She told you that.

She doesn’t even look up from where she’s folding yet another small pile of pink clothes. “You know, it would probably be best for you two to stay here, too. To keep her comfortable.”

Oh.

Oh fuck, you’re an idiot.

And then Lena is dropped off, and she’s miserable, and she wants to go home. Not home with you and Pope. Not home to the house. Home to her foster family, and her new sister.

And it all hits you like a fucking brick to the face.

This. This whole life is not safe for her. She has the opportunity to thrive, and grow, and live in a world where she will never be a pawn in someone else’s schemes. As much as you love her, as much as Pope loves her, this world is never going to be safe or healthy for her.

She’s gonna be okay. It’s gonna break your fucking heart, but she’s gonna be okay.

So you find Pope, and you fight your tears back, and you both take her back to her foster house. You take her home.

The car ride back to Smurf’s is silent.

It takes six minutes for you to break.

“Pull over.”

He does.

You lurch out of the truck, wondering if you’re going to be sick, and nearly stumble off of the side of a cliff before he catches you.

And he holds you too tightly. Tries to murmur something too sweet against your hair as the tears try to fight their way free. His arms feel too good around you. His touch is too comforting. You want to melt into him, and you can’t.

“This was all so fucking stupid.” You breathe, ragged and pained, and he holds you closer.

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” You whirl on him, try to shove him back, and he lifts you and spins you back towards the car and away from the cliff before he lets you go. “This whole fucking thing was just…we were just…” breathe. You can’t breathe right. “She tricked us. Don’t you get it? She fucking made me a Cody so she can control you through Lena and she can control me somehow and this is all so fucked up, Pope-“

“Andrew.”

You pause, momentarily distracted despite your horror and anger. “Why do you do that?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Why do you correct me when we’re fighting? Or…” Memories of your wedding night rip through you, threatening to overwhelm you even more. You push them back so quickly it nearly gives you whiplash.

He doesn’t answer again, and you glare so hard you think your eyes might actually be burning.

“It makes me feel better, when you say it. I don’t like it when you’re upset with me.”

“Why the fuck aren’t you upset?”

“I am.” His head ducks, and tilts to the side a little as he looks at you with that familiar intensity. And then, quieter, he repeats, “I am.”

You pause at the pain in his voice. Feel your heart constrict so hard it hurts.

“It didn’t work.” You finally say, agony and grief ripping through you like your soul has been tossed into a fucking wood chipper. “It didn’t work, and I’m… I’m not going to be a fucking pawn in whatever game Smurf is playing.”

“I won’t let you.” Pope says, fingers flexing like he might move towards you. “I won’t let her hurt you.”

“She already has. All of this shit is…it’s too…” you sniffle, to your humiliation, and run a hand through your hair. “It’s over. It didn’t work. This is done. It needs to be done.” Because you’re all that’s left, and she is going to use you to hurt him now, and you can’t let that happen.

It needs to be done.

-

You show up, of all places, at Craig Cody’s place with a duffel under your arm and tears in your eyes.

“Oh shit.” He has a bottle of tequila in his hand. He’s shirtless, and there are people inside.

“I’m…interrupting.” You mumble, suddenly feeling oddly small. Oddly pathetic. But that’s why you’re here, because he has never made you feel that way. Never spoken down to you, never shown you anything but respect despite his ridiculous lifestyle and poor decision making skills. Even when you were just the nanny, and he hit on you so much it was borderline ridiculous, there was something about him that was…good. Lost, of course, but good.

You turn to go.

“Nuh uh. Hey, c’mere.” He spins you, and suddenly crushes you to him so tightly that your noise of surprise is muffled by his chest.

“You smell like sweat.” You mumble, miserable, and he laughs so hard that you shake in his dumb gigantic arms.

“Just got back from the water.” His hand comes up to the back of your head, an odd brotherly touch that makes you actually start to fucking cry. He holds you tighter, smushing you even more against him, and drops his chin against the top of your hair.

“Want me to beat Pope’s ass?”

You shake your head.

“Want some coke?”

You puff an irritated breath, and he laughs again.

“Okay, okay.” He pats your back, and pulls back a little. “How ‘bout a shot?”

You take the bottle from his hand, and take a swig.

“There ya go.” You sputter a little, and he pats your back. “C’mon. You stayin’ here for a bit?”

You nod, and take another swig from the bottle.

“You’re lucky I’ve got a guest room.” Craig ruffles your hair, and you frown as he takes the bottle back from you. “My couch is uncomfortable as fuck.”

“Well, better than - wait, what are you - hey!”

He crouches, grabs you, and tosses you over his shoulder, duffel bag and all, and as he walks back into his house with a shouted announcement of his ‘new roommate’, you decide that maybe the Codys aren’t all bad.

-

“Ow. Ow. Ow.” You mumble, curled into a chair in the corner of Craig’s kitchen with your head in your hands.

“Pope’s freakin’ out, by the way.”

“Thank you. You’re really helping.” You cross your arms on the counter, and bury your face in them, muffling your next words. “How’re you not hungover?”

“I’m hungover as shit.” You hear the fridge open, and hear the frown in Craig’s voice as he examines whatever is inside. “We should get something delivered.”

“We should burn this place to the ground. Might be the only way to get it clean.”

“You sound like your husband.”

“Don’t call him that.”

You don’t lift your head, but you feel Craig lean against the other side of the counter. He chuckles, and ruffles your hair until you groan and try to squirm away. “Damn, I knew you didn’t party, but a few shots of tequila took you out.”

“Shut up.” It was more than a few. Actually, you vaguely remember him holding your hair back in the front yard at some point.

He ruffles your hair again, presumably just to mess with you, and you swat him away.

“Gotta go to Smurf’s in a few.” He finally says, popping open a beer as you peek an eye open to glare at him. “Want me to tell Pope that you’re here?”

You frown, and shake your head.

He frowns back. “He’s freaking out.”

“Why? Lena’s gone. Doesn’t matter.”

“You know you’re being a dick, right?”

“Rude.”

“And you know he’s like, obsessed with you.”

Your heart twists, and you narrow your eyes. “He’s not.”

He puffs a laugh, and takes a swig of his beer. “Sure, sure.” He pats your cheek until you look up at him, eyes squinted and head pounding.

“Damn, you still look hot hungover.” He says, grinning, and you glare harder. “Shoulda got to you first. You wouldn’t have gone for me, though. You’re fuckin’ perfect for Pope.”

“M’not-“

“Go back to bed. Sleep all day. Not like you’ve got anything to do if you’re gonna be in hiding.” Craig cuts you off, already moving to the door to pull his boots on.

“You’re a tool.” You grouch, settling your aching head back into your arms.

“You came to me.” He retorts, and you groan again as you hear the door shut behind him.

-

You don’t talk to Pope Cody for two months.

You don’t take the ring off.

Deran gives you a job at the bar, and you’re good at it. You work too hard, too much, just to shut your brain off for as long as humanly possible before you have to go home and think about Lena. About Pope.

Weirdly enough, living with Craig isn’t too bad. Sure, you have to deal with the parties, have to clean up beer bottles in the mornings and kick him awake sometimes as his phone blows up with calls from his brothers.

But even when he’s fucked up, even when he’s acting like an asshole, he’s always there for you. Sometimes he sits and watches TV with you, rather than going out. Sometimes you manage to drag him to the grocery store, or even get him to clean the house as he grumbles about how ridiculous and uptight you are.

One day, he comes home, and doesn’t joke. Doesn’t comment about you being a neat-freak (you’re not, but you’re not about to let him leave dishes in the sink for a fucking month), and sits on the coffee table across from where you lay on the couch.

You raise your eyebrows, having just flopped down onto the cushions, still in your work uniform and aching with exhaustion.

“You gotta go over there.” His voice is serious, and his eyes are doing that crazy intense thing. Kind of like Pope, but different. You’ve always blamed the drugs, but now you wonder if it’s a familial trait.

“To Smurf’s?” You frown. “Why?”

“He’s fuckin’ losing it, that’s why.” Craig doesn’t snap at you, but the tone of his voice is sharp enough to catch your attention. “All he ever does is sit in front of the TV or stand in the yard and break shit. It’s fucking creepy.”

“You always call him creepy.” And yet, your resolve is already cracking. Shit.

“I don’t get this. You married him. You get along great. Like, better than I’ve ever seen him get along with anyone. He’s obsessed with you. You fucked on your wedding night, but you tell me you haven’t done anything since and with all that damn staring I believe you- hey!”

You swat at him, eyes wide with horror. “How the fuck did you know that?”

“Jesus, chill. You hit me a lot, you know that?”

“Craig!”

“Dude, my room was right next door to that guest room. I was trying to hook up too, but the sound of my brother getting off is kind of a boner killer.”

“That and the pounds of coke.” You grouch, still trying and failing to hide your mortification.

“That’s never been a problem. I’m built different.”

“You’re the fucking worst. Seriously, I’m gonna-“

“Smurf’s got him fighting.”

And there it goes. The last bit of hesitation. Your eyes snap upwards, concern curling in your stomach.

“What?”

“Yeah. Boxing matches and shit.” Craig looks genuinely earnest. “He’s fucked up, dude. Something’s not right. He’s got this look in his eyes like…like he doesn’t give a shit what happens to him.”

That’s all it takes.

You’re out the door in five minutes.

-

When you find him, he’s sitting in the yard, staring at the moon.

You don’t think he even notices your approach as you make your way around the pool, but when you get closer, he turns to look up at you so slowly that you wonder if he’s been aware of your presence since you pulled into the driveway.

His eyes are dark. His face is bruised and cut and you can’t hold back a sharp breath at the sight. Fuck. He looks like he got put through a fucking meat grinder.

“Holy shit.” You whisper, crouching down beside him. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t tear his eyes away from you. Doesn’t even blink.

“Are you real?” His voice a whisper of gravel, and he’s looking at you like you’re an angel that fell from heaven and landed in the grass before him. Like he’s living up to his nickname and fucking worshipping you.

You nearly burst into tears. You feel something crack in your chest. Something deeper and more vital than your heart.

You reach out, and brush your fingers over a healing cut below his eye. And then, like a woman possessed, you move until you’re straddling his lap, knees on either side of his hips, and press your forehead against his.

“I’m real.” You whisper back, fingers sliding into his hair. “I’m real, Andrew.”

His breath rattles in his lungs. His hand shakes as it comes up to move over your back, pulling you closer to him when you don’t vanish with a gentle, aching desperation.

His head drops down to your shoulder, and he turns to bury his face in your neck. Your fingers continue to skate through his soft curls, and the sob that rips its way from his throat makes that final piece of your soul shatter like broken glass.

You hold each other like that for some time, silent tears streaming down your cheeks as Pope holds you like you could disappear any moment.

“Don’t leave again.” He finally whispers, and you hold him a little tighter.

“I won’t.” You murmur. “Not tonight.”

“Don’t leave ever. Please. Please, I’ll…I’ll do anything. Stay. Stay with me.” He crushes you to him almost too tightly, now, and your heart breaks.

“Andrew...” You whisper, but whatever you may have said is quickly cut off by his mouth as he kisses you. Hard. Desperate. Rough.

And you kiss him back.

The moment you do, he makes a noise that sounds almost pained, one large hand moving up to tangle in your hair as your breath stops in your throat. He shifts beneath you, lowering you until your back hits the grass as he slides his body atop yours and holds you to him like a mere inch of distance might kill him.

This is a bad idea. He’s clearly out of his mind. You’re both hurting too much.

And yet, it feels so fucking good you can’t think straight. Like this, this is everything you’ve been missing for all these weeks. You want to drown yourself in it. You want him to make it all better. You want to make it all better for him.

But you can’t. Even as you catch his lip between your teeth, arch your back beneath him, and hear him almost whimper as he presses you down against the grass, you can’t do this. Not now. Not like this.

You pull back, and he nearly sobs as he pushes you back down. As he uses his grip on your hair to pull your head back so he can trace his tongue over your jaw.

“P-Pope-“ you try, and he shakes his head, nuzzling closer and rocking his hips against yours.

“Don’t. Don’t make me stop. Please.” His voice is low. Desperate. “Let me touch you. I-I’ll make it better. I’ll fix everything. Everything. Just stay with me.”

Everything in you screams to keep going. To never stop chasing this feeling. He senses your hesitation, and kisses you again like he knows that your brain is short-circuiting and he’s just too desperate to care. Like he can convince you if he just keeps trying.

“Stop…” You whisper, squeezing your eyes shut as his hand moves down your side, up beneath your shirt, trailing sparks behind the touch that make you bite back a whimper.

He hears it, and he doesn’t stop.

“You want me. I know you do. I know you. I can…I can fix this. Please. Please, let me fix this.”

Your body betrays you, back arching a little beneath him again, and he makes a soft noise of approval as his fingers begin to work the button of your jeans.

This isn’t right. He’s out of his fucking mind right now. This isn’t right.

“Pope.” You try again, hand reaching down to catch his wrist as his fingers begin to skate beneath your waistband.

“Call me Andrew. Say my name.” He pleads, breath warm and ragged against your ear, and it takes every ounce of strength in your heart to pull at his wrist as his fingers slide lower. Lower.

“Stop.” You try again, and when he pulls back to kiss you, you turn your head away. “Pope. Stop.”

Finally, he freezes. His hand pauses, and you can feel his entire body shake with restraint and hunger above you. “Don’t make me.” One last, desperate plea.

“Stop.” You say again, and he moves back with a subtle, heartbroken little nod.

You re-button your jeans, and push yourself away as he pulls back a little more. He’s breathless. His eyes are still dark as they look over you, still pained and lacking clarity, and you nearly start to cry at the horrified tone of his voice when he asks his next question.

“Did I hurt you?”

No. God, no. You’re about to fall apart with how badly you want him. With how hard it is to keep from flinging yourself into his embrace again. But he’s asking, because he’s so out of it that he doesn’t know. And you’re fucked up for letting it get this far.

“I have to go.” You whisper, pulling yourself upright on shaky feet. “I’m sorry. I…I have to go.”

He doesn’t reach for you. He doesn’t follow. He just watches you as you walk to the gate, and you feel his gaze linger like the soft prickle of frost until he’s out of sight.

And even then, when you get home, you still feel it. And you cry.

-

You’re shutting down the bar when he comes in.

“We’re closed.” You say, barely bothering to raise your gaze as the stranger pushes himself through the door, and you’re a little surprised to be met with silence. No drunken apologies or insistence that they’ll ‘jus’ be here f’r one.”

You look up.

The man before you is smiling. And it isn’t a good smile.

“Cody.” He says, like a predatory growl, and you freeze as he moves closer. Even with a foot of bar between you, the way his gaze is raking over your body feels like a physical touch. “Right? You’re Pope’s wife.”

You don’t back up. Remind yourself not to show weakness. “…Yeah. I am.”

On paper, yeah. But you’ve been in and around this family long enough to know that the title holds a certain amount of power. Pope Cody’s wife. A member of the Cody family. Maybe the confirmation will make this asshole-

“Good.” He says, and snatches your wrist faster than you can form your next thought. He yanks you half over the bar, grabs the back of your head, and slams you onto it.

You’re out cold the moment your head makes contact with the wooden surface, and you don’t even have a quarter of a second to realize that you are absolutely fucked.

-

Your head is pounding. You taste blood. There’s warmth trickling down from your temple.

You’re on the ground, cold concrete pressed against your swollen cheek. Not good. Not good not good not good.

Somewhat shakily, you try to push yourself up, and a booted foot meets the small of your back to slam you back down hard enough that it pulls a sharp yelp from your throat.

“The fucking Codys…” the man grumbles, and you hear the pop of a beer bottle cap above you. Great. You just did inventory. Though that should probably be the least of your concerns right now. “They fucked me over, ya know? Met Pope in prison, he says when we get out we’ll do jobs, and then nothing. Not a fuckin’ word. He just comes home to his pretty wife and family and leaves me on the streets like a fuckin’ dog.”

You try to sit up again. The boot meets your back again. Your head screams with pain, and you have to fight the urge to curl in on yourself like a wounded animal.

“Gotta leave a message, sweetheart. You know how it is.”

Your focus is still swimming. Think. Think think think.

“Knew you’d be pretty, too. He talked about ya all the time. Gonna feel bad messing up that sweet face, though.”

You start to drag yourself up for a third time, but the man grabs your hair and yanks you quickly to your feet. It hurts. Everything hurts already, and you know that’s not a good sign. That it’s gonna hurt a lot more when the adrenaline wears off.

He slams you back against the bar, and his hand wraps around your throat until you can’t breathe.

He’s still holding your hair, hard enough that your eyes sting with tears of pain, and you can see a thousand horrible plans forming in his eyes as he looks you up and down. Your fingers scramble uselessly at the ones locked around your neck, and you blindly reach out to feel around the bar beside you with your free hand as your vision starts to swim with black spots.

“Thinkin’ I break those fingers first, sugar.” You can smell the whiskey and beer on his breath, a rancid mix that would probably make you choke if you weren’t already suffocating. You grit your teeth. You can feel consciousness slipping away, and you have maybe seconds before you pass out again from lack of oxygen. God knows how you’ll wake up after that. “Then we work down to that pretty little-“

Your fingers close around something metal, and you don’t think before you slam it hard into his neck.

He stumbles backward, hand flying up to where a fork now protrudes from his jugular, and you have never seen a man die before.

You don’t move. You watch every second. The way he falls to the ground. The way he convulses. The way his eyes begin to fog over and he stops trying to tug the fork out of his neck, body going limp before you.

You sink to the floor.

You can’t look away. For too long, you just stare at him. Watch the shaky rise and fall of his chest come to a shuddered halt as blood begins to pool beneath his body. So much blood. Too much blood. There’s no way a human body can have that much blood, is there?

Shock is cold and numbing. You can’t feel your fingertips. You can’t think. You don’t think you’re breathing, either.

He definitely isn’t breathing. He’s dead. You killed him.

Oh, fuck.

-

You should call the police. You should call Deran, the owner of the damn bar. Maybe Craig.

You don’t. You don’t even think to.

You call your husband.

He answers on the first ring. He’s on a job. They all are. You know better than to call any of them when they’re on a job.

The river of blood is spreading, and you kick away before it can reach your sneakers, until your back is pressed against the bottom part of the bar.

“Hey.” He sounds a little breathless. You hear a furious shout, and he mumbles a curse. “I’ll call you back in-“

“A-Andrew I…” Words. Words. You have to remember how to say words. “I’m s-sorry. I didn’t mean to-“

“What happened?” Pope’s voice is low. Gentle. Your ears are ringing.

“I-I don’t…I’m at the bar. I…he…” you shouldn’t say anything over the phone, right? You know that much. You can’t confess to killing someone over the phone. Oh God, you killed someone.

“Are you safe?”

No. Yes. You nod, before you realize that he can’t actually see you. “I think so.” You can’t stop staring at the body. You might be sick.

“I’ll be there.” Silence. A muffled argument. The slamming of a car door. And then, softer. “Don’t move, okay?”

You nod again.

It might take five minutes. It might take an hour. You haven’t moved. You’re not sure if you’ve even blinked. The phone is still pressed to you ear. You don’t remember when he hung up.

But Andrew Cody is suddenly crouching before you, hands painfully gentle as he reaches up to guide your hand and the phone gripped in it down into your lap. His jaw is tight, dark eyes more intense than you’ve ever seen them as he tilts your head to inspect what must be a nasty wound on your forehead. One side of your face hurts. You probably have a black eye, and your cheek feels warm with what is very likely blood.

“The body.” You whisper, eyes still locked on man on the ground, and this time he turns your face towards his own.

“Don’t look at that. Look at me.” Gentle. Soft. His voice can be so, so soft. He’s wearing what looks like a security guard uniform, with a heavy jacket and boots and backwards ballcap. It’s probably not appropriate right now to think that he looks unfairly good like this, and you wonder what they were robbing before you called him. You almost ask, still in too much shock to remember that you told him you don’t want to know.

But when you look at his face, and feel the way his thumb is brushing featherlight over your cheek, you almost reel back at the rage in his expression. It isn’t directed at you, but it’s burning so deeply that you can’t make yourself look away. His hands are gentle on you, yes, but everything else about him is screaming danger.

Oh. That’s why people are so fucking scared of him, huh? You’ve never seen it before. Never really understood it until now. Still, you couldn’t be less afraid of him if you tried.

You feel really cold, and really numb in a way that scares you, and you don’t think you ever want him to stop touching you.

When you inhale, he nods, like he’s acknowledging that you’re doing a good job, and brushes his fingers through your bloody hair as you wince.

“Where else did he hurt you?” He asks, and you feel those fingers curl a little against the back of your head. His eyes fall down to your neck, which aches and burns in a way that tells you that you probably have angry red marks from the man’s fingers around your throat.

Slammed to the floor. Boot on your back. Fork in his neck. So much blood. Fuck fuck fuck fuck-

“Hey, hey. Look at me.” And you do, and you swallow.

Your shaky fingers come up to your throat. Neck. Fork in neck. Dead body and you’re the one that killed him.

“Can you stand?”

You nod again, and he lifts you to your feet, pulling you to him. He smells like gunpowder and bleach, and you press your nose into his shoulder and try to inhale the scent that you know better. The one that is soft and a little spicy and very much him.

He presses gently on the back of your head. “Here?”

You shake your head.

Lower, to your back. This time, you jump a little in his arms.

He nods, gentle and careful, and turns you to lift your shirt and inspect the wound.

You can’t see him, but you hear his breath get a little harsher. A little more shallow.

“Is it bad?” You ask, quiet and hoarse, and you feel him pull your shirt back down before he turns you and pulls you into his chest again. He’s breathing too shallowly. He’s holding you too tightly. He’s trying to keep himself calm, and it isn’t working.

“There’s a boot print. On your back.” He murmurs, and you wince at the memory of that boot kicking you back down.

You reach up, and slide your hands over his back, tucking your face into the crook of his neck, soothing him even as you seek comfort from him.

For a while, he holds you. Careful. Tight. Like if he loosens his grip even the smallest bit, something might rip you away.

Finally, he takes a deep breath, and presses his lips to the side of your head. Still gentle. Still soft.

“I’m gonna call Craig, okay? He’s gonna take you home, and then I’m gonna…take care of this.” The words are murmured into your hair, and you wince. Tense.

“No.” You feel so…weak. You fucking hate it, but you can’t think straight and the idea of Pope leaving you or even letting you go in this moment makes you feel fucking sick. “Don’t. Don’t go. Not right now.”

He goes impossibly more still, before he pulls back to trace his fingers over your bruised cheek, eyes searching yours with an intensity that makes your toes curl despite the situation.

“Okay.” His head tilts a little, in the direction of the back room. “Go in the back. Sit down.”

And you do.

You hear a few noises in the front room, the low sound of Pope’s voice on the phone, something being pulled from a storage closet, and then he’s crouching before you on the couch, fingers reaching up to brush over your neck once again before he pauses, like it just occurred to him that you might not want to be touched.

“Is this…okay?”

You nod. It hurts to speak, so you don’t bother to try. You don’t need to, with him. You never have.

He tilts your head to the side, fingers tightening imperceptibly on your chin as he sees the bruises once again, and for a moment you both just sit there in silence, staring at each other.

And maybe…maybe it’s because you’re alive. Maybe it’s because you just fucking killed a man. Maybe it’s because you haven’t seen him in over a month. Maybe it’s because you miss Lena and you miss him but…

But you pull him up with a hand fisted in the front of his t-shirt, and you kiss him like you’re fucking drowning.

He makes a soft, surprised noise against your lips, but he kisses you back. He kisses you back like he’s fucking drowning, too. Like he missed you just as much as you missed him.

His hands slide up to your cheeks, so gentle it almost hurts more than your wounds, and you drag him down with you onto the couch. He comes like he’s magnetized to you, lays you back beneath him like you’re made of glass and every millimeter of his skin against yours is heaven on fucking earth.

He braces himself atop you, pulling back to meet your eyes, and you grab his face in your hands and drag his mouth back to yours and it is incredible. He feels incredible and you missed him so much you finally feel like you’re breathing again.

He parts your lips with his own, groans as tongue sweeps into your mouth like the taste of you is a drug, and you arch against him as he presses you down into the couch, the feeling of his own need quickly making itself evident against your thigh. This. This this this. The feeling of his control cracking, of his desperation to touch you making him walk the line between gentle and rough until every touch sends sparks through your body, this is what you need. What you missed. This is making it all better.

You whimper, and he kisses you harder, and you are on fucking fire as his teeth catch your bottom lip, hand sliding up to your cheek as you begin fumbling with his belt and he rocks his hips against yours and-

And then his calloused fingers press a little too hard against your bruised cheek, and you jump as pain shoots down your spine, and he pulls back like you just burned him.

“No. No no no-“ you start, out of your mind with lust and the desperate need to forget. Just for a minute. When he’s kissing you, when he’s against you, you feel so much better when all you’ve felt is emptiness and pain for months.

Let me forget. Let me forget please don’t make me think about what just happened and Lena and how much I missed you please please please just-

“Stop.” He rasps, breath ragged as his hand slides beneath your head, cradling it as his nose brushes over your cheek. He’s shaking with restraint, and you’re sure that if you can just get his damn belt off he’ll cave but his free hand comes down to catch your wrists and you almost fucking cry. “You’re hurt.” And then, softer, closer to your ear and dripping with guilt and regret, “you’re hurt.”

“I don’t care.” And you don’t. And it’s a little scary how much you don’t care. You just want him. You haven’t even seen him in weeks, since that night in the backyard, and you feel like everything might be better if he just keeps touching you.

You reach up to scrape your fingers through his hair, and his forehead drops against yours, his hold tightening on your hip.

“I can’t.” His voice is a low rasp, nose bumping against your own as his eyes fall closed like the mere feeling of you touching him may be all that he needs.

“Please, Andrew.”

He grips you tighter, and leans back down.

And then the door to the bar slams open, loudly enough that the sound echoes into the back room, and he pulls away like he’s just fallen back to earth.

You almost protest, but then Deran and Craig are pushing their way into the back, and Craig is crouching before you.

“Oh, fuck. You look like shit.”

You laugh, and then, to your horror, you start to cry.

“Fuck. Fuck, okay. I’ve gotcha.”  He pulls your face into his shoulder, like he might hide your ridiculous weeping, and turns his head to look at Pope. “You didn’t do any of this, right?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” The level of danger in the other man’s voice nearly sends a chill down your spine.

“Chill, just checking.” Your head is pushed back again, surprisingly gently, and Deran hisses as he takes in the sight of you.

“Christ.” And then he’s beside you, touching the wound on your head. “She might need to go to Tijuana or some shit.”

“That’s for bullet wounds.” Pope snaps, eyes still on yours and body angled towards you like he might shove the two other men away at any moment. “She needs a few stitches. I’ve got her.”

“You’ve gotta take care of the…“

Body. The body. The body you made because you stabbed that guy in the neck and he-

“Take her home. I’ll be there soon.”

Craig nods, beginning to pull you to your feet. “Okay, c’mon. We can watch that dumb reality show you like. Just-“ he starts, and Pope stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Take her home.” He says, and the implication would make you frown if you weren’t still in shock. “Not to your place.”

Craig looks at you. You look at him. You look at Pope.

You turn back to Craig, and nod.

He steps back, and Pope moves forward to press his lips against your forehead, pulling back to tilt your chin up and look you in the eyes.

“I’ll be there soon. Is that okay?”

Always, always asking if you’re okay. Always checking on you. Always putting you first.

“Yeah.”

And when he leaves, and Craig takes you home, you feel his loss like a phantom limb.

-

Pope is gone for hours.

Craig fusses over your head for all three of those fucking hours.

“Fucking-ow!” You hiss, as he pulls the needle through your skin again, instinctively trying to shove him back for maybe the fiftieth time.

“Sorry. Shit, I usually have this done to me. Hang on.”

You sputter as he spills a shot of tequila over the wound again, and shove him some more.

“Knock it off. I’m disinfecting.”

“I don’t think that’s how that works.”

“Will you relax?”

“You’re definitely not doing it right.”

“Well it’s not every fuckin’ day I have to stitch up my best friend’s open forehead wound while she sits on my brother’s couch with a fucking boot print on her back.”

“Don’t act like you haven’t seen weirder shit.”

He stops, and crouches in front of you, one hand still holding the needle while the other rests on your shoulder.

“That’s it. C’mon, look at me for a sec.”

You do, and you’re still trying to glare, but with your puffy, red-rimmed 

 eyes and bruised face, you know it doesn’t hold much weight.

“You saved your own life tonight. You know that?”

“I killed someone.” Your voice sounds too small.

“He was gonna kill you. Probably worse.” Craig doesn’t get…intense, often. The way he’s looking at you now only proves just how dire the situation was tonight, and you have to grit your teeth to keep from shaking. He squeezes your shoulder, and offers you a small smile.

“You make a hell of a Cody, ya know that?”

Ugh. You might start crying again.

You hug him instead, stitches be damned, and he barely has time to maneuver the needle so it doesn’t rip your forehead apart before he’s hugging you right back.

“And,” he adds, one large hand rubbing soothingly over your bruised back, “if Pope doesn’t kill everyone that guy’s ever known, I will. No one’s gonna hurt you again. Promise.”

You laugh, as fucked up as it is, and you feel a whole lot better.

-

You’re leaning against Craig’s shoulder on the couch, aching all over and trying to lose yourself in the conversation, when Pope Cody comes through the door and sits down in front of you faster than you can even register that he’s home.

There’s blood on his face. Dirt on his hands.

“Are you okay?” His voice is quiet, fingers skating through your hair in that wonderfully familiar way as he inspects your wound.

“No.” There’s no need to lie. He’ll see right through it, anyway.

“Okay.” He traces a gentle, calloused touch over your cheek. Down to your neck, where the barely there pressure on the bruises on your throat make you flinch, less from pain than from memory.

Craig leaves with one more gentle ruffle of your hair, and then you’re alone. You let Pope touch you, let him move his eyes and fingertips over every single wound on your face and body. Watch the rage build in his eyes again as he takes in the state of you.

“I should have done your stitches. Craig never ties them right.” He pulls back, earnest like his next words might matter to you. “This is gonna scar.”

“I think I’m in love with you.”

What a truly fucked up thing for you to say right now. You just killed a guy. Pope just hid the body for you. He’s your fake husband and you’ve barely spoken in months.

He pauses, and pulls back to look at you. And then he looks at your head, like he’s inspecting the wound again.

“Stop. I’m not concussed. I mean, I don’t think I am.” You frown, and reach up to catch his hand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said-“

“I love you.” He interrupts, and curls his fingers around yours. “I love you so much I can’t think. I can’t sleep without you. I can’t breathe right. You…” his eyes are intense, locked onto yours, but he’s fighting for the words. “You’re everything to me. You have been since I met you.”

That catches your attention. You blink at him, opening your mouth to try to find something to say, but he keeps going.

“I would die for you. I would kill for you. Sometimes I want you to ask me to kill for you, just so I can show you how much…” your eyes widen, and he frowns. “I won’t, though. But I…I would.”

“I think the way you measure love is a little fucked up.”

His lips quirk, like he’s fighting a smile. “I’m fucked up.”

“Yeah, you are.” You concede, and offer him a smile of your own. “But I love you.”

His smile falls, but his thumb is still doing that sweet thing where it brushes over your cheek. “I’ve killed people before.”

“I know.”

“I wanted to kill that guy tonight. I was hoping he wasn’t dead yet, so that I could kill him.”

“You’re not gonna scare me off, Pope.”

“Andrew.”

“Andrew.” You smile, and he leans forward to rest his forehead against yours. “You’re not gonna scare me off, Andrew.”

This time, when he kisses you, he doesn’t stop.

-

EPILOGUE - SOME TIME LATER

“I’ve literally never seen a baby look so pissed off all the time.” Craig’s hand drops to Pope’s shoulder, giving him a friendly little shake. “Congrats, dude. Definitely yours.”

“I think that’s just his poop face.” You cock your head down at the baby in question. “And his hungry face. And his…happy face.”

Pope makes a quiet noise, and moves forward to lift the dour-faced child into his arms. There’s something about watching him, scarred face and gigantic muscles and all, hold such a small bundle with so much fondness that it still makes you grin every time.

“You’ve gotta bounce him a little.” He says, in his rough and quiet voice, before doing exactly that, and then…

A quiet, cooing giggle. A tiny hand reaching up to grab at his father’s nose. And finally, brightest of all, Pope Cody grinning from ear to fucking ear.

“See, he smiles.” Pope reaches up to catch the baby’s hand, tiny fingers wrapping around his pointer, and you think your heart might explode.

“You look fucking scary like that, dude.”

“Oh, shut up.” You catch Pope’s chin, and pull him down for a quick kiss. He’s still smiling, and you smile back, and Craig groans. “He hasn’t slept in like, three days. He’s out of his mind. It makes him more smiley than usual.”

“I’ve slept.” He mumbles, turning back to the baby.

“You have not. You keep waking me up with your fingers on my pulse. Or standing over his crib.”

“The birth was traumatic.”

“The birth was three months ago.”

He grunts, and the baby coos, and he smiles again.

All jokes aside, he’s been doing that a lot lately.

And, a month or two back, when Lena’s now-parents let the two of you come over to the house to show her her new cousin, she had seen that smile, looked up, and smiled right back.

“What?” Pope had asked, looking down at the little girl the two of you had come together to raise so long ago. The little girl who also smiles more openly, now. Who giggles and comes to life more easily and is so excited to show the two of you her drawings from school and the new swing in the backyard.

“You guys don’t look sad anymore.” She said, simply, and you had burst into fucking tears, hormonal and happy and sleep-deprived as you were, and Pope had laughed out loud as he’d pulled you into his arms, sandwiching your baby between the two of you.

Now, you stand beside him by the pool, heart swelling in your chest again as you watch him smile, and he leans over to press his lips to the side of your head.

“We should renew our vows.” He hums, and you laugh.

“You really wanna throw another party?”

He smiles again, and kisses your cheek. “No. I want to marry you again. The right way.”

He’s said the same thing a few times, now. When you got pregnant, when you were pregnant, complaining about your swollen ankles and aching back, when you were lying in the hospital bed and half awake after the birth, when you were both half awake again holding your crying two week old on the couch…

And now, you finally answer.

“Ask me.”

He smiles again. The baby slaps fitfully at his cheek.

“Will you marry me?”

You grin right back at him, and lean up to press your lips to his.

“Yes, Andrew Cody. I’ll marry you…again.”

[sun-hashira]

Willow

summary: prison was never going to stop Dex from finding you again.

who: Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter/Bullseye x Female!Murdock Reader

word count: 2.9k (i got carried away)

warnings: soulmate au, mentions of blood, injuries, break-in, imprisonment, emotional tension, and obsessive themes. If I have missed any please let me know!

divider by: @uzmacchiato

“Wherever you stray, I follow…” — Willow by Taylor Swift

It was the uncomfortable pain in your shoulder that woke you from your restful sleep.

A pain that was no longer sharp, not like it was that night, but one that still lingers as a pinching, persistent ache that settles deep in your shoulder on cold and wet nights like tonight.

Rolling onto your back, you lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling and breathing through the pain as you gently massage three fingers against the ache, hoping it will pass and you won’t have to leave the coziness of your warm bed.

Feeling the rough scar beneath your fingers, you lie there trying to ignore the memories of how you got it, but when the sirens pass your apartment building, you find yourself slipping back into your memories of that day.

The day your life changed forever.

You, Foggy, and Karen had just left Josie’s Bar to check on Cafaro when the loud crack of a gunshot filled the air and pain hits you from behind. It rips through your right shoulder, taking your breath away before you fully understand what’s happened, as the force of it sends you stumbling forward.

But what made you stiffen was the blood splatter on Karen’s face as you realised that the bullet had exited your shoulder and hit Foggy, who had collapsed onto the ground as people around you screamed in horror, and for a few seconds you froze in pain and panic before adrenaline kicked in and you were moving before your mind caught up.

Yelling for someone to call an ambulance, you press your hands firmly against Foggy’s wound, willing your powers to stop healing you and to heal Foggy.

To keep him breathing, and to keep him stable. To keep him with you.

You were so lost in your panic that you didn’t even notice when Karen put her hands against your shoulder until she pressed down hard enough to make you gasp in pain as she tried to keep as much of your blood where it should be.

“Stay with me.” Her voice broke as each word filled with more panic. “Both of you, please.”

But you don’t answer. You can’t.

Not when you're forcing everything you have into Foggy. Not when you can hear your brother fighting on the roof of Josie’s Bar, knowing that he’s listening to Foggy’s heartbeat, to your blood dripping onto the street.

With your body begging to heal the hole in your shoulder, your vision blurs as you push through the pain, putting everything you have into Foggy. You hadn’t even realised that you'd been repeating the same things over and over.

“Keep breathing. Just keep breathing. Stay with me.”

But the strain keeps building, becoming sharper with each passing moment, when a heavy impact lands behind you three. Your breath catches as your powers flicker for just a moment as you silently pray that you won’t lose them both tonight. Not Foggy and Matt.

Not your brothers.

Breathing deeply, you steady your hands, channel your powers, and check that Foggy is still breathing as the paramedics that have just arrived rush to help before you turn your head and let out a sigh of relief.

Not Matt.

You slouch into Karen's waiting arms, your pain finally catching up with you as you fully turn to look at Benjamin Poindexter on the ground, barely conscious, and as you make eye contact, it happens.

The pleasant burning feeling on your left collarbone. The sign you've been waiting nearly your whole life for.

The sign that you have met your soulmate.

And yours has just shot you.

Breathing deeply, you push the memory out of your mind, reminding yourself that you’re in your apartment tucked away in your warm bed and not bleeding in the arms of your friend.

But the ache is still there, still pinching, and you realise that no amount of gentle rubbing is going to relieve it tonight. Sighing you toss your covers back, slide your feet into your soft slippers to make your way to your kitchen, where you last put the pain relief balm.

Slowly you push yourself to stand, your aching shoulder throbbing in protest as you put on your fluffy robe, fingers brushing against the scar, and take a deep breath.

Checking your clock that reads 1:44 AM, you tighten the robe and step into the hallway.

The apartment is pitch black except as you make your way towards the kitchen, you don’t bother turning on any lights, using the moonlight to help lead you to the balm left on the center island.

Opening it, you gently massage the soothing gel onto your scar, letting out a sigh of relief as you feel it take effect. Placing the lid back on the tin and tucking it into your robe's pocket, you turn back towards the bedroom when the sound of fabrics moving against each other comes from the darkness of the living room.

Slowly you grab a knife from the wooden block and move carefully towards the sound, slippers gently slapping against the wooden floors. Keeping your breathing as quiet as possible, you slowly crept around the corner and quickly flicked the lamp on, flinching at the brightness and nearly dropping the knife when you saw who was sitting on the sofa.

Benjamin Poindexter was supposed to be imprisoned and serving multiple life sentences. Not casually sitting on your new sofa.

Blood darkening the side of his shirt as one of his hands pressed tightly against it, though a slow trickle of blood slips through his fingers. His head lifts the second the light turns on, and for a moment he doesn’t move; he just stares at you with a look in his eyes that you can’t quite place.

For a few seconds, neither of you speak. You just look at him, cataloguing everything that has changed since you last saw him. He’s bigger and bulkier than before, as if he had nothing to do in prison except gain more muscles. You ignore how it makes your heart stutter.

Dex’s eyes flicker briefly towards the knife clutched in your hand, and a smirk appears on his face as he looks you in the eyes. “Are you going to use that?” he asks quietly.

“Why are you here?” Your voice comes out stronger than you expected. “What do you want?”

Soulmate or not, this is still the man who shot you.

Dex’s eyes lower briefly to the blood staining his side. His hand still tightly clutching the wound. “I needed help.”

Then his eyes lift back to yours. “And I wanted to see you.”

Something tightens in your chest because part of you understands exactly what he means.

For a moment you stay where you are, knife still low at your side, eyes flickering once again towards the blood dripping from his hand and staining your sofa.

“You’re staining my sofa,” you say, placing the knife on the shelf, hands more steady than you feel.

Dex tilts his head, eyebrows twitching in confusion. “What?”

“My sofa is brand new, and you’re ruining it.”

“Oh,” he says, finally noticing his blood soaking the cushions. “So I am.”

You exhale slowly, feeling the last bit of adrenaline leave your body. When your brother told you this morning he was going to see Dex in prison, this wasn’t how you expected your night to go.

“Let me see it,” you say.

Dex stills at your words, his hand moving to his ribs, his eyes slightly hopeful.

“Your injury,” you sharply say, face flushing red. “Not that.”

His eyes stay on you for a second before he slowly moves his hands away from his body. Blood immediately gushes through the tear in his shirt, a stab wound from what you could see and probably a few hours old.

You swear softly under your breath. “You should be at a hospital, especially with those face wounds as well.”

“No.” His answer was quick but certain. “Just you, only you.”

You don’t bother arguing as you step closer, removing your robe and setting it below you on the coffee table. He looks worse up close, pale even in the light of your warm lightbulb, and the left side of his face was bruised.

But his eyes never left you, slowly roaming up and down, taking in your light blue PJs, and smirking at your fluffy cow slippers.

“What?” you ask, reaching for the box of medical supplies you kept in the ottoman. Usually you would have used your powers, but tonight you were too tired and drained from helping out at the back-alley clinic your boss ran.

“Fluffy cow slippers?” His amusement was clear in his voice.

“Shut up,” you say, putting all your supplies on the table beside you. “They were a gift from Karen, and they’re very comfortable.”

Dex snorted. “Sure.”

“Are you armed?” you ask, pulling on gloves and sliding to your knees.

“Yes.” He said, spreading his legs to give you more room.

“… Are you planning on using it?” You ask, facing your supplies.

“No.” His answer was quick and certain again. “Not on you, never on you.”

Again. You couldn’t help but think.

“You’re nervous,” Dex says quietly, still watching you, and you begin to wonder if he’s even blinked.

You snort at that. “You broke into my apartment in the middle of the night and are now bleeding all over my sofa.”

“You’re still helping me.” He says like this means something.

You refuse to answer that as you reach for his shirt because deep down it does.

“Lean forwards.” You say quietly.

Dex obeys immediately and you lift his shirt. The movement exposing his defined muscles, and a few inches above the wound in black letters was your name. Unblemished, like he had done everything to protect it.

You freeze slightly at the sight of it, feeling the rush of emotions that happened every time you thought about him. Shaking the feelings away, you grabbed the disinfectant and soaked a gauze.

Silence settled between you as you dabbed at the wound, soaking up as much blood as you could before grabbing a fresh gauze.

“You didn’t come to see me,” he whispered breaking the silence, his eyes leaving you and going towards his blood-soaked hand.

“Don’t,” you say quietly, pressing the alcohol-soaked gauze harder against the wound than intended.

Dex barely reacts as his eyes move back to you. “Don’t what?”

“Talk like this changes anything.” You whisper, grabbing a new gauze to wipe away the remaining blood.

And for the first time since you walked into the living room, something shifts in his expression. Not anger, not hatred, but something you didn’t expect to see on him.

Hurt.

“I was in prison,” Dex continues quietly. “You knew, but you never came.”

You still at his words because what was there to say? For months you’ve refused to talk about what happened that night, focusing on your family and pushing every thought or feeling about him away.

For months you’ve kept your bond with him to yourself despite how much you wanted to cry and rant to someone about it without being judged or scorned.

You force yourself to keep working, fingers steady despite the sudden tightness in your chest. “Yes,” you say evenly. “I knew.”

The quiet is heavy as it fills the room before you clear your throat, reaching for the needle and thread in the kit. “You need stitches.”

“Sit up properly if you can,” you instruct, pulling all the necessary items closer to you.

Dex watches you for a second longer before pushing himself upright from the cushions, his jaw as he straightens himself up.

“Take the shirt off.” You say, preparing everything that you needed to stitch him up.

Dex drops the blood-soaked fabric onto the table behind you, exposing the full extent of the wound. The weapon grazed more than it pierced, but it still tore enough flesh to make a mess of his side.

Wiping the surrounding area with a fresh gauze, you gently rubbed some numbing cream around the wound and threaded the needle while waiting for it to dry.

“This is going to hurt.” You say, leaning closer towards him.

Dex goes still at your words, his attention once again focused fully on you.

You try to ignore his eyes on you, focusing completely on stitching the wound perfectly and not on how close he was now that you’re kneeling between his legs and leaning against him to get better access to the wound.

“You should’ve had this cleaned hours ago,” you mutter nearly halfway done.

“I was busy.” He answers as his hand gently brushes against your shoulder.

“With?” You ask, eyes still not leaving the wound but not shrugging his hand away.

His eyes scan your face. “Finding you.”

Your hand slips slightly. Not enough to hurt him, but enough for him to notice.

“You already knew where I lived.”

“I wanted to see you.”

There’s that sentence again. So honest, like there was nothing else more important.

Silence settles between you again, broken only by the quiet rattle of paper as you open fresh gauzes and the sound of rain against the windows. Focusing once again on your task, you quickly lose yourself in what is familiar.

Then Dex quietly says, “I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

You tie off the last stitch before grabbing more gauze and soaking it in antiseptic alcohol. “Most prisoners send a letter.”

“I didn't think you’d like letters from me.”

You couldn’t stop your quiet snort.

“Did you think about me?” he says quietly after a while. Hand tightening on your shoulder like the answer to this question could hurt him more than his wound.

You press the gauze against the stitches, cleaning them and the surrounding area. “You were all over the news, quite hard to miss.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He says cupping your face and forcing you to look at him.

His face is blank, but his eyes are looking at you like he’s already decided you belong in his life.

And maybe you did. But it causes that familiar complicated feeling to twist in your chest.

“You shot me,” you say softly before you can stop yourself. “I waited years for you, and you shot me.”

Your confession settles heavily between you, and for the second time that night, Dex looks away.

“I know.” He says his face filled with something you couldn’t place—guilt, maybe.

The apartment smells faintly of antiseptic, rain, and blood. Outside the storm gets stronger.

Inside the living room, neither of you move.

“You’ll live,” you say, taking off your gloves.

Dex looks down at the neat line of stitches crossing his side before his gaze drifts back to you. “I know.”

Standing up, you move all the soiled items aside so that you can toss them in the kitchen bin. “You should go before the numbing wears off.”

Moving back to the table, you pack up the remaining medical items, making a mental note to restock and place them back in the ottoman.

Leaning down to grab your robe, your breath catches as Dex reaches out his hand, gently grabbing your wrist, his thumb gently pressing against your pulse.

“You’re shaking,” he says quietly.

“I’m tired.” You say, making no move to pull away.

“You’re drained.” He states.

You almost deny it. But what would be the point? He noticed everything else about you tonight.

“I’ve had a long night,” you remind him.

“And you still helped me.” He states like this means something.

Before you could reply, Dex’s gaze drops to your shoulder. To the scar barely hidden by your shirt. His expression shifts into the same look as earlier.

“I didn’t mean to hit you,” he says honestly. “You moved in front of him so quickly I didn’t have time to stop.”

You look away at his admission, part of you wanting to believe him while the other part wants to shoot him to make it even.

Rain hits the windows harder as you begin to feel it again, that persistent and wanting pull between you becoming tighter the longer he stays.

“You need to leave,” you say quietly.

Dex looks at you for a long second. “Why didn’t you come to see me?”

The question hit you like a punch to the gut. Months of knowing exactly who he was to you, and you’d done nothing.

No visits. No letters. Nothing except pretend the name on your skin didn’t exist.

“I was in prison,” Dex continues quietly. “You knew where I was.”

You couldn’t force yourself to hold his gaze. Not when you knew what he was really asking. Why didn’t you come? Why didn’t you choose me?

But you can’t answer that. Not honestly. Not when the truth was that every day you wanted to see him, to betray your friends and your family just to get a day with him.

“You need to leave.” You say, instead of spilling the truth, pulling your wrist out of his grip.

For a second, you think he might argue. His stare fixed so intensely on you that you almost cave and spill the truth.

Then he stands, pulling his shirt back over his head, and makes his way towards the window. Pushing it open wider, as storm blows cold air and rain into the living room as he tosses one leg out before he pauses and turns to look back at you again.

“I’m going to see you again.” He states.

Then he disappears into the night, and you’re left standing alone in your living room.

Your fingers slowly brush his name on your skin, and you can’t stop the feeling of wanting to see him again.

A/N: This is my first one-shot written so feedback is welcome!

@benspoindexter @noisyinfluencerstrawberry @genya1617

[kairosrhys]

Which one is your favourite? 😊

[cyber333angel]

POINTDEXTER TWITTER P***LINKS <3

a/n : i absolutely had to make this, remember u have to be logged into twitter and have censor off!! enjoy loves

dex baby trapping you so you can’t leave him

dex fingering you till you shake

backshots on the couch

overstim

getting a spanking from not listening to dex :(

very rare sub!dex sitting pretty for you

dex trying to help when you have a bad day

getting woke up by him♡

getting choked

dex breaking your back

dex fingering you

getting manhandled by dexy

pet play

riding him after waking him up in the middle of the night

dex forcing your legs open

dex being too rough in bed (he always is)

spreading you legs for him

68 + 1

jerking him off in bed

stalker dex

[thatweirddeadgirl]

is it fucked up that i want a reader who ends up just killing themselves when i read those darkfics about characters kidnapping reader whether it’s out of love, obsession or control?? (or sometimes just to torture them but same thing just in different fonts loll)

maybe it’s because i go a lil too far in putting myself in readers position and all i can think every time is a plan on how i would kill myself.

oh my god bonus points if reader finds the gun just as character finds them again and they have a sort of stand off. reader is pointing the gun at them, not verbally threatening them but it’s obvious they’re thinking about shooting character and character knows that.

but character doesn’t seem too worried about it and even goes as far to say “you won’t do it” and reader thinks for a moment and is like “you’re right. i won’t shoot you” before quickly turning the gun on themselves and blowing their brains out and character is stunned, horrified because they didn’t think reader would genuinely do it.

too put it short, i want more fucked up reader who’s spirit breaks so their only solution is killing themselves cause they would rather die than submit.

thank you for coming to my ted talk.

[vunblr]

Wanted Masterlist

Pairing: Frontiersman!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Tags: Western AU. Shotgun Wedding. Strangers to Lovers. Slight Angst. Comfort. Domestic Fluff. Slow Burn. Smut.

Warnings: Reader has Heterochromia. Loss of Virginity. Period-Typical Gender Roles and Expectations.

Summary: She came to White Creek for a teaching position that didn't exist. He needed a wife but never expected to find one like this.

Note: After seeing this picture, I just had to write something related to it.

Status: Ongoing

Chapter 01

Chapter 02

Chapter 03

Chapter 04

Chapter 05

Chapter 06

Chapter 07

Chapter 08

....

[lizziemack]

[22even]

pillowpet gifs i made ✿

free to use, don't claim as yours

i used to have the ladybug .. i don't know where it went

[emwheezie]

oh THIS is the gunch

[pandoraslxna]

Shiny little lie

Miles Quaritch x female human reader

Words: 11k

Summary: Pretending to be married wasn’t exactly the dream solution, but it was better than the constant parade of wandering hands and flirting that made concentrating on work seem impossible. Oh, and it would also hopefully protect you from loosing your job when a certain Colonel once again decided that you were his favorite past time activity in the base.

Warnings: explicit smut, doggy style, age difference (not exactly daddy issues but reader is thinking about the possibility), p in v, oral (f receiving), size difference, authority kink, minimal misogyny / catcalling / non consensual flirting from coworkers, basically everyone wants y/n, lots of lying, lots of teasing, lots of sexual tension, semi-public sex, fake marriage, fake engagement ring

Notes: Huge thanks to my beloved @eywaite for allowing me to make this prompt become reality!! I love you for always feeding me the most juiciest ideas 🤭🩵

Sometimes you hated this job.

Recombinant Support Officer, or RSO for short. Lots of fancy-sounding words for what’s basically the professional babysitter of the recombinant team Deja Blue.

Your days are a blur of running around playing manager, nurse, personal assistant and part-time waitress. You fetch whatever they demand, no matter if it’s protein sludge, ammo or a snack they suddenly need in the middle of a briefing. You check their vitals, patch up minor wounds, monitor their workouts and make sure they don’t forget to hydrate. You keep them healthy, combat ready and basically presentable enough to show off to command.

And when one of them snaps their fingers? You’re there, med kit in one hand and coffee in the other, trying not to roll your eyes too hard. They’re supposed to be the pinnacle of military engineering. Most days however, it feels like you’re wrangling giant, moody housecats with assault rifles.

The military calls this "critical operational support." You however just call it the longest, never-ending shift of your life…

Okay, you may be exaggerating a bit. Usually it’s not that bad.

You get to order around people, which is kinda fun when they’re these genetically enhanced badasses who’d rather glare than listen to anyone but you. You’re the one calling the shots on the small stuff, like when to eat, when to rest, who needs patched up first, so you get a little taste of power.

And yeah, you do get to see some insane action every now and then, when the squad actually gets sent out instead of just flexing in the lab. Makes the whole circus feel kinda worth it.

Sometimes they actually surprise you, too. Like when one of them cracks a joke or thanks you for keeping their sorry asses alive. That’s a win.

It's nice to know they need you. But that isn't the part that bothers you. No, what bothers you is that even though they’re blue and inhumanly tall, they’re still men.

And the thing about men is that they are all the same. No matter how big, how strong or how blue their skin was, they were still just men. Selfish, arrogant assholes who think the world owes them something. Even underneath all that superhuman bullshit that should make them look like earths hero’s, they’re just men with zero self-awareness and a serious touch of entitlement.

In their spare time, when they’re not roughhousing with each other, the soldiers tease and flirt like you’re some prize they’re trying to snag, tossing around dumb jokes and smirks like it’s all just harmless fun. You’ve had to shut down more than one awkward friendly shoulder squeeze or accidental hand linger. And they don’t even realize they’re being gross half the time!

So yeah, it’s nice to know they need you, that you’re as much part of the team that they feel comfortable around you. But the constant parade of unwanted attention? That’s the part that wears you down.

This was one of those weeks, the kind that seemed to stretch on endlessly, where every shift bled into the next and sleep became more of a vague memory than an actual necessity. Between running interference on squad drama and making sure none of your overgrown blue idiots forgot how to eat properly (no, a cigarette and beer doesn’t count as breakfast), you were running on fumes.

So that morning, the cafeteria was your sanctuary. Early, quiet, blissfully free of soldiers. Just you in a corner booth, hands wrapped around a mug of coffee that was finally, mercifully hot. A very rare occurrence.

You were halfway lost in thought, mentally counting how many hours of sleep you’d missed this week, when the artificial light above your head suddenly vanished and a shadow fell over your table.

"Well, ain’t this my lucky mornin’."

You didn’t even have to look up to know who it was: "Colonel."

"Boss." With a sharp grin, Quaritch slid into the seat across from you without waiting for an invite, his long blue frame making the table look like it belonged in a dollhouse. "Up early I see."

You took a sip of your coffee. "I’m trying to have breakfast without an audience for once."

Quaritch’s grin widened, before he tipped his own coffee mug up in cheers. "Hell, I’m the whole damn show, sugar. Front row seats, backstage pass. Comes free with my company."

A dry laugh escaped you. "Generous offer. But I’m still not interested."

"That’s cold," he said, feigning injury with a hand pressed dramatically to his chest. "Here I am, brightenin’ your day and you’re gonna shut me down like that?"

This was nothing new. Quaritch had a way of circling conversations like a predator that already knew it had the upper hand. Among all the recombinants, he was easily the most persistent, needling with a mix of sarcasm, shameless flirting and just enough sincerity to make it difficult to tell where his game ended. Or where it was even headed.

"Quitting isn’t in your vocabulary, is it?" You joked lightheartedly, yet your chuckle came out more nervous than you intended.

"Not when I see somethin’ worth the effort." His tone was smooth, confident, as if the words were a statement of fact rather than an attempt at charm.

You couldn’t help but squirm in your seat at that.

Quaritch was still grinning, all teeth and arrogance. Sometimes you thought he must’ve been paid by the number of flustered looks he could wring out of you, because when it wasn’t teasing, it was this thick, shameless flirting that made you want to either laugh awkwardly and flee the scene or pour cold water over your head to regain some sense of control over your own body.

Because truth be told, it was betraying you. Every. Single. Time.

Unfortunately you knew just where unprofessional work affairs would get you. And Pandora was not one of those places.

The stakes were too damn high for that kind of stupidity. Getting caught flirting (or worse) with the Colonel wouldn’t just earn you a slap on the wrist. It’d get you a one-way ticket off Pandora, and not the cushy kind with severance pay and a nice shuttle ride home. No, it’d be the kind where you’re tossed out with a 'don’t come back' stamped on your record, reputation shot to hell before you even made it through the debriefing.

But this right here, this was exactly where your newest plan finally came into play.

Born out of equal parts desperation and self-preservation, you had went out and bought the cheapest fake diamond you could find in a rundown supply store tucked away in one of Bridgehead’s less glamorous corners.

Pretending to be married, or at least engaged, wasn’t exactly the dream solution, but it was certainly better than the constant parade of wandering hands and flirting that made concentrating on work seem impossible. Oh, and it would also hopefully protect you from loosing your job (and dignity) when a certain Colonel once again decided that you were his favorite past time activity in the base. Because, let’s be honest, a simple 'no' would not work on this man. Not that you were able to ever tell him that, once it really came down to business.

So, with a subtle clearing of your throat, you let your hand rest casually on the table, the ring catching the light just enough to draw attention.

And just as you thought, his eyes immediately dropped to it. Quaritchs smirk faltered for the briefest fraction of a second before he recovered. "Well, I’ll be damned. Didn’t know ya‘ had a boyfriend."

"Fiancé," you correct, hiding your nervous smile behind your coffee mug.

He let out a low chuckle at that, shaking his head. "Huh. Bet he’s a lucky son of a bitch."

"Yeah," you said, quickly taking another slow sip. "He is."

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

It’s amazing how fast a simple band of metal changes the mood of team Deja Blue.

Only a couple of days later and the not-so-professional comments at work had dropped by half, the 'accidental' touches happened less and the teasing had shifted to dumb jokes about your 'lucky husband' instead of your ass. It was as though the squad had collectively decided that maybe there were better uses for their energy than testing boundaries.

Today’s task list, however, hadn’t gotten any shorter. Down in supply, a fresh shipment had arrived. Crates stacked high with whatever specialized gear Command had decided the recoms couldn’t live without this week.

Unfortunate for you, none of them moved itself.

Three bulky boxes were stacked in precarious balance against your chest, your arms straining to keep them steady. Every step down the hallway became an exercise in blind navigation, the top box blocking nearly all of your vision. The muffled thud of boots and distant chatter echoed off the metal walls as you shifted the boxes from one hip to the other, inching closer to the squad’s staging area.

Somewhere ahead, a shadow shifted into view, though the stack made it impossible to identify what or who was standing in your way. There was no warning, no greeting for that matter, just a sudden shift in weight as the boxes were lifted away in one smooth, unasked-for motion.

"Jesus, kid. C‘mere." Quaritch huffed, the boxes now cradled easily in his arms, his expression equal parts irritation and amusement, as though watching someone single handedly drag themselves into exhaustion was both maddening and weirdly impressive. His gaze flicked over to your now empty hands, then back to the face that had been hidden behind the boxes.

"Thanks, Colonel," you muttered, hiding the relief in your voice.

"Where do these go?" he asked, already walking ahead, like this little rescue operation was just a minor detour in his day.

"Oh, uh, these are for the squad," came your reply, already a little breathless from keeping pace with his big steps. "They’re headed to your floor."

A curt nod was all you received as an indication that he’s even heard you.

As you walked, Quaritch’s tail swished lazily behind him, a subtle, rhythmic motion that was impossible not to notice once your eyes had drifted in that direction. And that was certainly not because you were staring anywhere else in that region. There was just something about the way it moved, those sharp little flicks when he was irritated, that made it clear he wasn’t entirely thrilled to be here right now. Maybe it was the fact that someone had been hauling three boxes solo, maybe it was something else entirely. Either way, he carried these boxes as if they weighed nothing to him, which was definitely impressive.

From behind, it was hard not to let your gaze linger. The broad line of his back, the easy flex of his biceps, the muscles under his camo tank, even the casual confidence in every movement. It was an irritating kind of perfect. And sure, it was easy to dismiss that flicker of interest as something purely biological. Quaritch was tall, strong, yeah even a little bit handsome, but that didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t mean anything. Yes, that also may have made him look dangerous in all the best ways and infuriatingly capable, but it also made him off-limits.

So no, there was no real crush here. Just… an aesthetic appreciation. That was all.

Not to mention, he was so much older than you!

Old enough that if life had gone a little differently, he could’ve been the dad glaring at your prom date on the front porch.

The worst part about this was that you found it a teeny tiny bit attractive. Not the potential dad part— God, no, but the way it showed how much older he was.

Every time he called you 'kid' (and he did that a lot) it was like being smacked in the face with the reminder that you were barely halfway to his age and miles beneath him in experience, rank, and, well… every other way that counted. It was both a turn-off and a turn-on in the most deeply inconvenient, self-loathing and confusing sort of way.

Never, ever in a million years would you admit that to anyone. This piece of information about yourself was something you’d take to the grave.

Which was exactly why you had to actively force your eyes away now, because if he ever caught you staring you’d never hear the end of it.

"So," the Colonel drawled, slowing his steps just enough to glance over his shoulder with that stupidly hot half-smile, "your boyfriend know they let you do manual labor, sweet cheeks?"

"Fiancé." You correct him again. "And yes, he does."

"And he’s fine with it?" Quaritch pressed. The corner of his mouth twitched with a flicker of curiosity, though there was a certain weight in his stare that you guessed meant he probably wouldn’t like whatever answer was coming.

You arched an eyebrow in return. "Why wouldn’t he be?"

"M’just sayin’," he shrugged, shifting the boxes in his arms with ease. "You’re such a tiny thing, I wouldn’t want my girl carryin’ boxes twice her weight."

A short, nervous laugh escaped you. "Well, lucky I’m not your girl then, huh?"

Quaritch didn’t bother replying to that. He just let out a low, amused scoff, as if the very idea of you being his was so far-fetched it was laughable. Oh, well. There goes another blow straight to your self esteem. Not that there was much left to chip away at when it came to Quaritch anyways. He was so out of your league, the both of you (and basically the rest of the world) already knew that. No need to sulk about that in self-pity.

The rest of the walk stretched in silence, his boots echoing dully against the corridor floor until you stepped through the wide double doors into Team Deja Blue’s common area.

This part of their floor looked exactly like a bunch of oversized soldiers had claimed it as theirs.

There was an absurdly large couch sprawled across one wall like it had been built for titans, all rumpled cushions and a suspicious stain you weren’t willing to identify. In the center sat a pool table so big it looked like it had been stolen from a luxury cruise liner, with pool cues that could double as spears. A mini fridge, that was about as tall as you, hummed quietly in the corner, plastered with dented RDA stickers, pictures of na’vi pinup girls and the faint smear of what looked like dried hot sauce across the handle. Ew.

This room smelled like the unmistakable cocktail of protein powder, sweat and whatever half-eaten ration pack someone had abandoned in the sink. Your nose wrinkled and you took a mental note to get someone to come in here this afternoon with industrial-strength disinfectant.

In the open gym section, the heavy clank of weights rang out as one of the men grunted through a bench press. Meanwhile, Lyle was flexing in front of the mirrored wall. Behind him, Z-Dog sat cross-legged on Mansk back while he cranked out push-ups, barking encouragement like some sadistic personal trainer. A few others lounged across the couch, trading jabs over a card game.

"These go into the storage room next door," you told Quaritch, moving to take one of the boxes from his arms.

He didn’t argue, just shifted his grip so you could grab hold.

In the storage room, narrow industrial shelves lined the walls, stacked with neatly labeled crates of gear, recom supplements and spare uniforms.

Balancing the weight in your arms, you stepped past Quaritch and made for the nearest empty shelf, stacking one box on top of another with a grunt. The second you did, there was an unpleasant little snag. Your hand caught somewhere between the cardboard and the metal of the shelf. You hissed under your breath, tugged, and before you knew it, the fake engagement ring went spinning off your finger and clinked against the floor.

Quaritch’s gaze tracked it instantly.

He set his own box down with a solid thunk and, without a word, strode over in one step. One large hand swept it up from the floor, his long fingers turning it once between them as though examining it.

When he straightened, the ring sat gleaming in the center of his palm, dwarfed by the sheer size of his hand. His eyes flicked from the cheap little diamond back to you.

"I know I said you’re tiny," Quaritch murmured with a dry chuckle, “but that thing is ridiculous, even for you. It’s so small."

"Excuse me?" The words came out sharper than intended as you stepped forward and quickly snatched it from his fingers.

His smirk didn’t budge, if anything, it deepened. "I’m just sayin’. Your fiancé must not love you if that’s the best rock he could put on your finger."

You could feel the heat crawling up your neck, not entirely from embarrassment but also because his words hurt. Fake marriage or not, you felt offended by his comment.

"It’s not always about the size!" You grumbled angrily.

"Sure it ain’t," he chuckled. "Man lets his girl bust her back carryin’ shit at work and sticks her with a pebble from the bottom of a fish tank. Sounds like a real winner."

That was the last thing you’ve heard him call after you, after you squeezed yourself between him and the door, and marched off.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

The water tastes sweet.

It takes you by surprise and for a split second you think of spitting it out. If this was the same water you got in the canteen yesterday then it should still taste like the bottom of a boot or licking a stop sign. But it doesn’t. Now it’s citrus and sugar, things you hadn’t tasted since before the world went to shit and your minimal pay on this exo-moon was spent on more important things and not… Lemonade.

You glance down at the translucent cup in your hand, brows furrowing in confusion. It’s lunch hour and the usual grumble of tired bodies and clinking trays slowly fill the cafeteria.

You swallow as slowly as you can, savoring a flavor that may end up killing you if that turns out to be poison or something. But there’s nothing. It really is just lemonade.

Interesting.

Usually, the only liquid that ever crossed your lips since you’ve landed here was water and the occasional black coffee so bitter it could strip paint. Lemonade wasn’t part of the deal. Not for someone at your rank, not unless you were dreaming or someone had screwed up the dispensers. Or… paid for your ration.

Here, everyone carried those thin, plastic cards that could be scanned at the drink machine or the food line. The machine would then spit out whatever ration or meal plan had been assigned for you, a hardcoded limit on what you could order. Usually, that meant choosing between two options neither of which was worth getting excited about.

You take a sip again, eyes scanning the room, wondering if someone upstairs finally decided to cut you some slack. Like that’d ever happen.

The higher-ups and the recombinants, those were the only ones who could afford things like lemonade, beer, or even an occasional steak. And speaking of the devil…

"Trouble in paradise?" Quaritch’s voice cuts through the background noise like a knife.

Before you can blink, he’s already settled himself to sit opposite of you, that damn grin stretched wide, looking almost hopeful as he’s waiting for a response. Hopeful for what… exactly?

"Huh?" You stare at him, dumbfounded. His gaze flickers down and you follow his direct line of sight. The ring! You must’ve forgotten to put it on this morning.

"Oh! Oh, that. Uhm, no I, I’m just getting it cleaned." It’s a lame excuse and you know chances are high he’s not buying it, but Quaritch just raises a brow, clearly disappointed. That must have not been the answer he was looking for.

Before another beat can pass, the weight of his stare makes your skin prickle. That flicker of disappointment in his eyes is almost worse than the grin. On top of that, he’s a lot more intimidating when he’s quiet like this.

You scramble for an escape hatch. "So… the lemonade." You lift the cup with an awkward smile, waiting for him to put two and two together.

The Colonel’s laugh was low and quick, the kind that rumbled in his chest and made your shoulders hitch. He leaned back in his chair, big arms folding over his chest. "What? Can’t spoil my favorite girl?"

"It’s Recombinant Support Officer," came your prim correction.

He snorted, one brow hitching up. "Yeah, whatever, kid."

There was a long, drawn-out sip from the lemonade, partly to hide the flush creeping up, partly to avoid giving him the satisfaction of a reaction. Of course, that only earned you a slow head tilt from across the table, like he was evaluating whether the drink or your fluster was sweeter.

Now that you were thinking about it, today was the second time this week the Colonel lingered in the cafeteria without the rest of his merry band of chaos following in his wake. That alone was unusual. Quaritch was a pack animal, the squad usually orbited him like stubborn moons. Seeing him here alone, sitting across the table with no distraction but the occasional sip from his coffee, sent an odd ripple of unease crawling up your spine.

Not fear exactly, he wasn’t about to flip the table and throw punches, but a different kind of nervousness. The kind that came from being the sole focus of someone who didn’t often give their attention in such a concentrated dose. And the lemonade? Clearly his way to apologize for the rude comment about your ring size the other day.

You idly stabbed your fork at the pile of mashed potatoes on your tray, more a performance of eating than an actual attempt at it. Every so often, an obligatory bite was taken just to keep yourself from looking too obvious, though chewing felt mechanical under the weight of Quaritchs unblinking gaze.

There was a feeling of hyper awareness of every movement, how long it took to lift the fork, whether your posture looked too stiff, if avoiding his eyes made it seem suspicious or just obvious. But still, he stayed put, leaning back and watching you like his favorite show was on.

"The squads been wondering when we‘ll get to meet the lucky guy," Quaritch said eventually.

The cup in your hand met the table harder than you had planned, a muted thunk that drew his eyes briefly downward before they came back up, pinning the focus squarely in place. Great. Now you were sweating for real.

Once more, the tray in front of you became very interesting. Stabbing at the limp cafeteria greens felt safer than holding his stare, though the fork kept scraping against the plastic in a way that was far too loud to be considered subtle.

"Oh uh, never I guess." You forced it out as casual as possible. "I keep my private and work life strictly separated."

Opposite of you, Quaritchs gaze didn’t waver. There was no smirk and no easy grin this time, just a low grumbled, "Aha."

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

"Pick it up, ladies! I’ve seen retirees with hip replacements run faster than this!"

That damn whistle of yours split through the morning air again, sharp enough to make Quaritch’s ears ring.

There was something about the smug little way you stood on the inside of the track, clipboard in one arm, whistle dangling from the other hand. Your shorts, fitted top, hair tied back just enough to keep it out of your face… Christ, you looked like a high school PE teacher who’d swapped dodgeball for military-grade training.

Behind him, a few groans rose from the pack. Z-Dog threw a glance over her shoulder, her signature smirk in place, before she broke into a bark of laughter.

"Pretty sure this counts as harassment, boss!" She called out.

"Pretty sure you still have another three laps," you countered without missing a beat. The laugh that followed was completely unbothered.

The sun caught on the sheen of sunscreen across your shoulders, highlighting the faint smirk you wore every time someone groaned or cursed under their breath. That, of course, only egged you on. You could be a real sadist if you wanted to, he had to give you that.

"Straighten up, Wainfleet! You’re leaning like you’re dodging sniper fire— fix it!" Another blast of the whistle, followed by some spiel about daily training goals like you were the damn drill sergeant here.

Quaritch smirked despite himself. There was a part of him that almost respected the nerve. Most people simply kept their mouths shut around the recoms unless they wanted a bad day. Not you, though.

Little spitfire. Barely came up to his shoulder and yet somehow had the balls to bark at a squad of recombinant marines.

"She’s enjoying this way too much," Fike muttered from somewhere next to him, just loud enough for the others to hear. A few chuckles followed at that.

"Yeah, she’s only here to watch us suffer." Wainfleet, never one to keep his damn mouth shut, didn’t even bother lowering his voice as he poked Fikes side with his elbow. "Waste of a good view if you ask me."

That earned him another round of snickers from the rest of the squad.

"I wonder if she’s that bossy with her husband," Prager then chimed in, words laced with a grin Quaritch didn’t need to see to picture. "Poor dude probably doesn’t get a say in bed either."

"Yeah, bet she’s got a damn spreadsheet for it," someone else added. Most likely Wainfleet, by the sound of his smug laughter.

Again, Z-Dogs shrill voice piped up, "Hell, if she gives him performance reviews like she gives us, I feel bad for the guy."

Enough of that. Quaritch gave a sharp whistle of his own, the kind that cut clean through their gutter talk. That got them moving again, boots thudding against the packed dirt in uneven rhythm. A few of them still muttered under their breath, but it was drowned out by the slap of sneakers and the shrill blast of your whistle. If their banter had hit, there wasn’t a flicker of it showing. Maybe their little comments didn’t register to you anymore, just another layer of morning noise, like the hum of the electric fence or the smell of wet earth.

Still, the mental picture stuck in his head like a tick. Some poor sap, thinking he’s king shit in his own little castle, while getting steamrolled daily by a five-foot-nothing hurricane. A guy like that probably asks permission before touching so much as a shoulder. Probably schedules his own sex life around your damn Google calendar.

Quaritch bit back a laugh. That’s not what a woman like you needed. Not some limp handshake motherfucker who folds like a lawn chair every time you bark an order. No, you were the type of woman who needed to get yanked right out of that command tower, shoved up against the wall, and reminded you didn’t have to hold the reins every second of every day. Let you lean back, breathe for once, and watch somebody else put in the work. You needed someone to fuck that tension right out of your little body, turn you into a real mess, until you were satisfied and fed. Not this pencil-pusher you were supposedly shackled to now. You needed a real man.

But that tiny ring belonged to a man who probably thought taking charge meant picking between the two options of a dinner date that you had planned. Poor bastard didn’t even know the fire he was sitting on.

After a quick medical checkup once you’ve had decided their morning cardio was done, a shower and choking down whatever the cafeteria was pretending was chicken, the squad drifted off to kill their free time.

Quaritch however, had a briefing to sit through. One of those that dragged on well past its usefulness while some corporate type clicked through slides of information he’d already heard twice this month. Unable to keep his focus on the slide show about na’vi migration patterns and some half-baked plan to foster cultural understanding, his gaze kept drifting to the datapad balanced on his knee. His thumb dragged over the brightness slider that refused to land anywhere between blinding and nearly black.

After the third flare of white across the screen, the Colonel exhaled slowly through his nose. Not that this was urgent, but irritating enough to decide it needed fixing once this was over.

When the meeting finally wrapped, he headed straight for the IT department.

The echo of his boots on the tile carried down the corridor, drawing a few sidelong glances from passing people. Some stiffened automatically, stepping aside to give him a clear path. Others held his gaze for half a second too long, that mix of wariness and grudging respect written plain on their faces. A pair of soldiers straightened from their slouch against the wall and snapped quick salutes as he passed, earning nothing more than a curt nod in return.

The second floor’s hallways were quieter, lined with the less glamorous offices and departments. IT sat at the far end, the door unmarked except for a faded placard with a serial number no one bothered to replace.

Quaritch didn’t knock when he reached it, just swung the door open and ducked under it.

The shift in atmosphere was immediate.

The low murmur of conversations and the clack of keys faltered, replaced by the same silence that often followed when his big shadow fell across a room.

Rows of desks were cluttered with cables, monitors and the occasional half-drunk cup of coffee. Most of the occupants were men, heads bent over their work, but a few women also sat among them, their posture stiffening as his gaze swept over the room.

The first to actually move towards and approach him was, surprisingly, a woman. A woman with more balls than the rest of these nerds in here. She was tall, soft around the middle and with a mess of red curls tied back in a loose knot. With thick glasses perched low on her nose, she certainly looked like she belonged here.

Now that he looked at her up close, there was something familiar about her face, though he couldn’t place from where exactly. She might be one of those people he‘d seen in passing often enough to know they belonged, but not enough to remember their name.

"Colonel," she greeted with a polite nod, "What can I do for you, sir?"

"This needs fixing." Quaritch shifted the datapad in his grip, holding it out for her. "Thing‘s been acting up all day and I can’t figure it out."

The woman in front of him nodded briskly. "Alright, just give me a moment, sir."

But when she turned toward her desk, he didn’t move to the entirely too small chair she’d no doubt intended for him without second thought. Instead, he fell in step right behind her, the soft squeak of her flats barely covering the heavier sound of his boots. She glanced back once, then decided not to argue with the man twice her size.

The desk she led him to was a battlefield of stacked folders and open manuals. There were a few familiar devices to the datapad in her hand as well, all of them connected to her computer by a chaos of several different colored cables.

The redhead slid into her chair and began tapping at the screen, narrating in a quick, clipped tone about recalibrating the sensor and adjusting some internal settings. But Quaritch didn’t bother to take in any of her words. His attention had already shifted, eyes skimming over the chaotic sprawl in front of him. Two handwritten notes about codes he couldn’t make sense of hung on the edge of her monitor, right next to a small framed picture that stood on the desk.

The photo showed her and a few other women, smiles wide and carefree, arms draped around each other as they were holding their boarding passes to Pandora. Friends, maybe. Nothing unusual at first glance.

But then his gaze hit the far right of the frame, and his chest hitched ever so slightly at this one particular face. There you were, all smiles and grin wide enough to make the sun jealous. Made him wonder how anyone could look that damn confident and still get through life without flattening half the idiots around them.

A slow grin began to form on his face, part disbelief, part amusement. That explained where he had seen this woman before: You had the exact same framed picture sitting on your tidy desk.

Leaning back slightly, pretending to stretch, Quaritch then settled his gaze on the woman that seemingly grew nervous under the sudden, unwanted attention.

Licking his lips, he then asked, "Busy day?" Although his mind was anything but, he kept his voice light, letting it sound casual.

"Always," the redhead replied without looking up, hands still dancing over the keys. "This place doesn’t run itself. But who am I talking to?"

Quaritch let the corner of his mouth hitch up. "Fair point." His eyes drifted toward the little frame perched on the edge of her desk once more. This time, the woman did notice. "That your crew?"

"Oh, uh. Yeah, kinda," She said a little awkwardly. "Some of us came to Pandora together. Training, orientation, that kind of thing."

"The one on the far right…" He hummed, tilting his head as if studying the picture for the first time. Then his finger tapped the desk beside the frame. "She the one who keeps barking orders at my squad, right?"

"Sounds like her." The redhead briefly looked up, then laughed softly. "Yes, that’s y/n. We shared quarters for a while before assignments got shuffled. She’s… She is a handful, huh?"

"She is." Quaritch’s mouth curved into that slow, knowing smirk. "Bet her husband’s got his hands full keepin’ all that fire under control."

The redhead snorted. "Oh, no. Y/N’s not married."

Now that made him pause for a moment.

"No?"

"Nope," she said, popping the p a little, her nose too far up that datapad to pay any attention to the way Quaritch ears twitched at that. "Far as I know, she’s not even seeing anyone."

The woman was already back to clicking through menus, like she hadn’t just dropped a grenade in the middle of his thoughts, when Quaritch leaned an elbow on her desk, licking his lips,

"Interesting."

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

It’s not like you’re busy or anything.

The digital clock in the corner of your monitor had already slipped well past quitting time and the only thing on your mind was the blessed quiet of your quarters. The keycard to your room was already in your hand and the only thoughts you had left in you revolved around a shower, maybe a snack and definitely not about work for at least ten glorious hours.

That was, until your phone buzzed.

»Need your input on reworking the squad’s training schedule to accommodate new operational priorities. Come by my office to sync calendars. Now. — MQ«

"Wha— right now?" You groaned.

There wasn’t even a 'please,' no 'if you’ve got time' or anything of that sort, just the assumption that your evening plans were infinitely less important than the Colonels little calendar crisis. You let your head fall forward against the door to your quarters with another long groan. God, sometimes you really hated this job.

Guess the universe had decided your night off needed a body count.

"I’m gonna kill him," you muttered as you shoved your keycard back into your pocket and turned on your heels.

The halls were quieter at this hour, most offices you passed already had their lights off and blinds drawn, but a few scientists still lingered in the corridors.

By the time the Colonels office came into view, it was immediately obvious something was… different. Pushing the door open you found him already expecting your entry. But instead of sitting in his chair behind the desk like usual, Quaritch leaned against the edge of the table, arms crossed over his chest in a way that somehow managed to make him look both casual and intimidating at once. The muscles in his arms flexed a bit once you stepped into his office.

"Evening, Colonel," you said, trying to keep your tone casual, though a subtle edge of impatience crept in. The day had already stretched longer than it should have and all that was standing between you and your bed was him.

Surprisingly, Quaritch didn’t reply to your greetings. Not a word, not even a grunt. You raised a brow, half expecting some sarcastic jab, but nothing.

"Alright then," You murmured. Shrugging subtly, it was easy to chalk it up as nothing. Moods like this weren’t unusual for the Colonel after all, even if they so very rarely were directed at you.

Sitting felt almost absurd, given he was practically looming over you. But since he made no move to sit as well, you just continued with your routine. Bag set down beside you, your hands immediately fished out your datapad, flipping it awake with a swipe of your thumb.

"Looks like we’ve got a clash with the training simulations on Thursday," you said, keeping your voice measured, trying not to betray how aware you were of his close proximity. "We might need to shift some sessions or—"

Fingers hovered over the first entry, but before another word left, a large hand slid into view. The datapad was then taken from you. It left your hands ever so slowly and was gently laid down on the desk, just out of your reach.

Your spine straightened instinctively and a look of confusion crossed your features. Had something been entered wrong? Some misstep in the schedule? Maybe he’d dragged you up here just to chew you out over a typo or something.

"So," the Colonel said, licking his lips before they spread into a grin. "How’s your little boyfriend, fiancé, whatever?"

"Uhm… what?" The word slipped out sharply, surprise tugging your brows together. For a moment the thought struck that maybe you’d misheard him, maybe fatigue had twisted his words into something else. But the look on his face told a different story.

Quaritch didn’t so much as blink.

"You heard me, sweetheart." That grin of his only widened, teeth flashing like he was savoring your reaction.

The silence stretched long enough for your pulse to trip over itself. You shifted in your chair and a flicker of defensiveness running up your spine made your posture straighten instinctively.

"…Good, I suppose," you finally managed, though it came out clipped and uneven. Fingers tapped against your knee in restless rhythm, desperate to steer things back into safer waters. "Can we now go back to—"

"You know what’s funny?" He cut you off.

Your jaw tightened. "No, sir."

"I had a nice little chat with one of your girlfriends earlier." Quaritch drawled, shifting just enough to push himself off the desk and step closer. "The redhead from IT, what was her name again? Ah, hell, doesn’t matter." A low chuckle rumbled out of him. Then, he leaned over your frame, his hands gripping the armrest of your chair on either side, basically caging you in.

You swallowed drily. Every nerve in your body seemed to stand at the attention, muscles coiling before you even knew why.

"But she told me something very interesting."

A cold shudder licked its way down your body, pooling heavy in your stomach. The room suddenly felt too small, too quiet. You could hear the faint hum of the overhead light, the sound of your own pulse thudding in your ears.

"She said you don’t have a fiancé." His voice was low and steady. "That you don’t even have a boyfriend."

The bottom dropped out of your stomach immediately after Quaritch had uttered these words.

Heat flared in your cheeks and your mouth parted— whether to deny it, explain or tell him off, you weren’t sure, but he was already leaning a fraction closer. You decided on the second and perhaps the safest option.

"L-Listen I can explain—"

"I‘m all ears."

Your mouth went dry, words tumbling out in a rush before you could stop them. "I just— I don’t want to get in trouble!"

One of his brows arched. "For what, sweetheart?"

"For this." Hands made a vague, helpless gesture between the two of you before dropping back to your lap. "Flirting with the squad, being unprofessional. For getting caught doing something I’m not supposed to, doing inappropriate stuff—"

The ramble spilled faster, "I mean, I’m supposed to keep things organized, on track, not get tangled up in rumors or, jesus, even just laughing too much at one of their dumb jokes could look bad, and now you’re sitting here looking at me like that, and what if—"

You stopped only because your chest seized and your lungs were clawing for air. Quaritch took his sweet time to take all of your words in, his eyes mustering you for a moment.

"So you’ve been thinkin’ about doin’ things that aren’t appropriate?"

Your head snapped up, eyes wide. "Wha— No!"

He let the corner of his mouth twitch upward, almost amused. The weight of his gaze pinned you in place, making it impossible to look away and sweat broke out over your forehead at that.

"Relax," he drawled, voice rumbling with that calm authority that made your pulse trip faster instead of slower. "Ain’t no one gettin’ you in trouble, kid."

The words should’ve soothed you, but the way he said them only made the knot in your stomach twist tighter.

"But you could’ve just said no, you know?" Quaritchs tone was lighter now, almost taunting. "S‘not like they were gonna bite you or anything."

"Yeah, sure," you scoffed, frustration edging your voice. "Your men behave like animals. Even Z-Dog gives me the creeps sometimes..."

That earned you a laugh.

"Can you blame ’em?" Quaritch said, leaning in just enough that the air around you grew significantly warmer. "A young thing, cute little doll, bossin’ us around. ’Course they’re gonna act like dogs around you."

Heat rushed to your cheeks before the meaning even finished sinking in. His eyes stayed locked on you, even as your breath caught when his shadow shifted closer and you glanced away in shame.

A single calloused finger then tipped under your chin, the touch deceptively light for a hand that size. Instinct had you jerking a fraction, but his grip didn’t tighten, just held you there, guiding your gaze back up to his.

"There wasn’t any need for that little story about bein’ engaged. Not with me, kid." He said lowly. "I ain’t in the business of makin’ trouble for you. Hell, I’d make damn sure no one else does either."

Again, your lips parted, but nothing came out. That little pause seemed to amuse him. He angled his head slightly, studying your face like he could peel you open and read everything you hadn’t said out loud. That alone made you shiver.

"You know that, don’t you?" His thumb brushed along the edge of your jaw, slowly, enough to make your pulse hammer. "I know you do, but you were tryin’ not to let it show. The way you go stiff when I’m close. The way you talk back like you’re tryin’ real hard not to trip over your own tongue. S‘cute."

"That’s not—"

"Sweetheart," he rumbled, leaning closer until his breath ghosted warm across your cheek, "you don’t lie half as well as you think you do. That little ring ain’t foolin’ nobody. Truth is, you want that cookie. You just don’t wanna get caught with your pretty little hand in the jar, right?"

The faint scrape of his lips ghosted along the sharp line of your jaw, slow enough to make your pulse stutter. And when he pressed his mouth to the side of your throat, heat flared beneath your skin.

This shouldn’t be happening.

God, this couldn’t happen. One wrong sound and if anyone opened that door, just one of the night staff or a soldier passing through, it’d all come crashing down. The thought should’ve snapped you into motion, should’ve made you push him off, should’ve sparked a protest sharper than the shallow breaths slipping through your lips. But instead you sat rooted in place.

Each exhale from him feathered warm across you, raising goosebumps that contradicted the heat pooling in your core. Involuntarily, your thighs squeezed. Then his mouth was there again, but not in the polite brush from before. No, this time he parted his lips, pressed them open against your skin, leaving kisses that burned and claimed all at once.

His tongue skimmed the column of your throat, dragging a hot line over tender skin as if he were committing the shape of you to his memory.

"W-We really shouldn’t," it finally burst out of you, and if it hadn’t been words you were sure it had been a moan instead.

Your body betrayed you. Shoulders twitched as you squirmed in the chair, thighs pressing tight together in some futile effort to ground yourself. Heat coiled in every inch of you, flooding your face, your neck, down your chest. Each open mouthed kiss dragged another surge of warmth up your spine, until it felt unbearable to sit still, unbearable to do nothing.

"Then don’t. Tell me to stop," he hushed against your neck. "Tell me like you mean it."

Your lips parted, breath spilling uneven and shaky, but the words he had asked for never came. Of course not. Because you didn’t mean it. You didn’t actually want him to stop.

His hand then found your thigh with the same unhurried certainty as his mouth, palm broad and warm even through the fabric of your uniform. The weight of it settled heavy, reminding you of the difference in size between you and him. His fingers tightened, squeezing until your breath hitched sharp in your chest. That small show of strength sent a pulse of heat straight through you, robbing you of any last scraps of willpower you’d been clinging to.

Your eyes fluttered closed, lashes trembling, as if shutting out the sight of him might dull the sensation. It didn’t. If anything, it sharpened everything else, the rough scrape of his jaw against your skin, the wet drag of his tongue marking you, the pressure of his hand as it squeezes your thigh.

"If Ardmore finds out about this…" The words came out as a whisper, half plea, half warning, but barely steady enough to count as protest.

The Colonels hands didn’t falter. They shifted higher, inch by inch, broad palms sliding until they nearly encircled your hips.

"No one will find out about this," was muttered against your neck.

And then the world tilted. Strong arms lifted you in one swift motion, the grip around your waist like iron. With a squeak, your body was set down atop his desk. The solid edge was cool beneath yours thighs. A sharp contrast to the burning press of him crowding in close. Under you, papers shifted and a pen clattered to the floor.

A minute later, Quaritch has you pinned to the desk with a giant hand on your chest.

The weight of his palm flattened against the center of your chest, not harsh, but firm enough to keep you pressed back into the wood. Every shallow breath only made your chest rise against his hand, every movement reminding you how easily he held you there.

Soon, Quaritch‘s hands find the waistband of your skirt. He tugs on it with minimal effort and against all logic, your hips rose to help.

He peeled fabric down inch by inch, humming under his breath in a sound that might as well have been approval. A hum. The Colonel humming at your half-naked body like he’d just stumbled onto a damn fine bottle of bourbon.

For all his size and brute strength, his hands moved with startling precision. Your shoes thudded against the floor as your legs shifted, freeing yourself from the last stubborn stretch of fabric.

You could feel every pass of his eyes like a physical touch, hotter than his palms on your thighs as he dragged your lace panties down. Quaritch hummed again, deep in his chest, and something traitorous in you fluttered at the sound.

Then your eyes caught his.

The reality check slammed into you with the grace of a shuttle crash: this was Quaritch. Colonel Miles Quaritch. Not some faceless soldier, not some harmless flirt you could shrug off at breakfast tomorrow. This was the man with enough authority to ruin you six different ways before the end of the week.

Quaritch’s mouth curved into something smug, as if he knew about the thoughts behind your eyes just from looking at them for too long and too intense. Then he sank lower between your thighs, shoulders wide enough to nudge them apart with barely a shift. The cool air of the room skimmed your exposed skin, but all you felt was heat.

Soon, Quaritch started kissing down your stomach, savoring every inch of skin. You felt the faint graze of teeth as he dipped lower and lower, his tongue drawing a path from your navel down to—

"But what if we… what if we’re—"

Quaritch’s low growl cut you off once more. "Jesus, kid. Relax and let me take care of you, will you?"

And then his mouth was on you in the blink of an eye.

You spine arches at the sudden, but not at all unpleasant sensation. Your gasp of surprise peeks into a whine and you quickly bite your lip to quiet yourself, when his long, board tongue swipes through your folds.

It becomes clear almost immediately after that first lick, that this moment right here. This would be so worth getting in trouble for.

Who would’ve thought that the Colonel Quaritch was so damn good at pussy eating?

It only takes mere seconds for him to find where you are most vulnerable, the most delicate. Tracing the outline of your cunt with his thumbs on either side of you, he spreads your slickness up and then down, then gently spreads your folds apart. It gives him access to lick and suck on your clit in all the best ways.

His lips and tongue are big, so much bigger than yours. But that made it so much easier for him to cover your pussy whole, to reach all these wonderful places. The top of his tongue moves with practiced ease as it flicks over your clit and god, it feels phenomenal. Your toes curl and you sob out a moan, lungs burning with the need for air. You don’t know whether to suck in a breath or hold it there.

Despite all you know of him, in this, Quaritch is messy, you realize. He doesn’t care about the mixture of spit and slick running down his chin, that it covers half his face or the fact that you hear him gulp it down with groan like it’s the fountain of youth and you’re the most delicious thing he’s ever had the pleasure of tasting on his tongue.

"Oh!" Your spine arches even more, subconsciously pushing yourself against his face. It’s embarrassing, really. But you’re already too far gone to care. No one has ever made this feel so good before.

Then his middle finger breaches your entrance, sliding in deep, and you moan, something high and pitched, hips canting upwards as Quaritch fucks you with a single digit, smooth and slow.

One finger becomes two, and you sigh, arching like a wave with every thrust. Your hands grasp at nothing before they settle on the back of his head and Quaritch circles your swollen clit with his tongue, playing with it in a steady rhythm. Occasionally you even feel him kiss it and it’s enough to make your thighs shake.

Your slickness increases until his lips and chin are sopping, his ministrations ringing sighs and cries in an ever increasing volume from you. Your hips stutter, you pull at his hair and that makes him suck on your clit harder.

Distantly, you remember the fact that you’re not in any of the soundproof rooms meant for training, but in an office with very thin walls and an even thinner door. Immediately, you clasp a hand over your mouth, muffling the strings of curses and moans that fell freely from your lips.

"Such a shame." Between your thighs, the Colonel glanced up at you, his grin wide and sharp canine wet with slick. "Those sweet little moans suit you better than that bossy tone."

His hand slid up your thigh, prying it wider as if to emphasize his point. His eyes never leave your face, not even as he sinks down again.

"Don’t go hiding ’em now, sweetheart. Let me hear ‘em." The words were hushed against your wet skin and his lips were immediately drawn to your clit once more.

"I- I‘m gonna.. oh, fuck," you let out a shaky breath. "M‘gonna cum— stop! Stop, stop, I— can’t!"

"Can’t, what?" Came a low chuckle from between your thighs, pointed tongue teasing your entrance where it stretched around his thick digit.

"Quiet," you choke out, fisting your hands in the short stubbles of his hair to try and pull him off, "I can’t keep quiet! S-Stop, oh god!"

But the bastard doesn’t stop. If anything, his lips sealed firmer against your slick heat while two thick fingers curled deep inside, grinding into that exact spot that made your vision strobe with white-hot sparks. The low groan that came from the man feasting on your sweet arousal sent vibrations up to your core. It rattled your bones, stole what little composure you had left. And if it weren’t for his wide shoulders to be in your way, you would’ve clamped your thighs shut around his head. It doesn’t hold you back from trying though.

The sound that escaped you was strangled, almost feral, muffled only by the trembling hand still clamped against your mouth. Every twist of his fingers, every stroke of his tongue, dragged you closer to the edge of something that felt inevitable, unstoppable, terrifyingly good.

"Mm, there she is," Quaritch rasped against you, his voice low and wicked, lips dragging slick down your folds before latching back onto your clit. "Knew you had more in ya than that stiff little attitude."

You shook your head, tried to twist away, but the desk under your hips and his hand splayed heavy across your stomach kept you pinned. Each flick of his tongue ripped another ragged noise out of you, each thrust of his fingers pushed you closer to shattering.

"Don’t fight it, sweetheart. Give it to me." His words vibrated into you, sharp enough to make your toes curl, thighs quivering against the iron lock of his shoulders. And then— release hit like a flood. Your hand fell useless from your mouth, the sound that tore free far too loud for thin walls, a cracked cry strangled into his name.

"Atta girl," Quaritch growled in approval, holding you down as your body arched off the desk, every muscle seizing under the quake of your climax. He didn’t let up, not until the tremors had left your thighs trembling and your chest heaving, not until you sagged back against the wood, utterly spent.

Slowly, he pulled his fingers from you, dragging them slick over his own tongue to clean them, before rising to his full height. That grin was back, sharp and devastating, mouth glistening with proof of what he’d just done to you. Proof of how much you enjoyed it.

The air hadn’t even returned to your lungs before the world spun again. Now Quaritch’s hands were on your hips and in one effortless motion he flipped you onto your stomach. The desk rattled beneath the shift, papers scattering again, the cold edge biting into your ribs as your cheek pressed against the polished surface.

Quaritch’s palms slid up your sides, pinning you down just enough to remind you who was in control here. He leaned over, chest hovering heavy against your back, breath hot at your ear.

"I ain’t done with you yet," he murmured, his voice a low gravel that made your core clench all over again.

Rolling his hips forward just enough for you to feel the promise of him pressing against you, thick and hard even through his gear, you gasped softly.

"Please… stop teasing me," you whispered, and even though your legs were shaking, toes barely touching the ground, you tried to push back against him.

The rasp of a zipper made goosebumps race across your arms, your back, your neck, everywhere, as anticipation began to flood your veins like fire.

"Y’know," Quaritch drawled, "I’ve been thinkin’ about this for a while now. Wonderin’ how that sweet little pussy might feel wrapped around me."

Your breath hitched, body tightening at the words alone. His laugh rumbled against your spine, dark and satisfied, as though he could feel the way you clenched around nothing just from the thought.

"Bet it’s even better than I imagined."

Through the tangle of hair that fell into your face, you risked a glance over your shoulder.

Quaritch’s pants rode low on his hips now, his broad hands tugging them just far enough to free himself. And what he revealed had your breath catching in your throat.

Huge. That was the first word your scrambled brain managed to cling to. Too big, too thick, alien in ways that made your pulse trip and stumble. His length was ridged in subtle lines and dots that caught the low office light, the flesh a darker shade that gleamed faintly as he stroked himself once, leisurely, as if he had all the time in the world. The sheer scale of him made your thighs quiver against the edge of the desk, heat pooling low in your belly.

"Eyes up here, sweetheart," Quaritch rumbled with a smirk, catching you staring. The tip of him brushed against the inside of your thigh, leaving a slick trail of pre-cum behind.

"Don’t worry about that," his voice dropped into something dangerously close to a growl, "I’ll make it fit."

The blunt head of him then pressed against you, nudging insistently at your entrance. Your whole body clenched in defiance and desperate need all at once. The stretch came slow at first, a sharp, biting fullness that made your breath break apart in short, choppy gasps. Nails raked the desk, useless against the hard surface as the first thick inch split you open.

"Jesus— fuck!" The words dissolved into a moan, muffled by the crook of your arm as you bit down to silence yourself. Every nerve lit with fire as he eased deeper, inch by agonizing inch, the ridges along his shaft dragging over hypersensitive flesh in a way that felt so alien and yet unbearably good.

"Relax," his breath was hot against your ear. "Breathe. Let me in, sweetheart."

His palm spread over your lower back, pressing you down just enough to make your hips tilt for him. "That’s it," he rasped, voice thick with triumph. "Takin‘ me so good, so fuckin‘ good."

The desk creaked under the strain of your body fighting to adjust, trembling thighs trying to hold steady. Every inch he fed into you sent another shockwave, another surge of heat through you.

"Miles," His name broke out of you like a prayer, shaky and drenched in need.

The fullness of his cock sinking into you was overwhelming, almost suffocating. Each inch settled heavy inside you until there was no room left, no space unclaimed, just the ache and heat of him stuffed to the hilt. Your walls clenched instinctively, fluttering around the thick length buried deep inside you.

Quaritch stayed pressed flush against you, chest to your back, holding still as though savoring the way your body struggled around him. His cock throbbed inside you, thick veins and ridges pulsing against your inner walls like he was marking his presence there with every heartbeat. The sensation sent another shudder down your spine, your breath catching on the sharp edge of another moan.

"Feel that?" His voice rumbled low against your ear, almost smug. "That’s me. Right where I belong."

Slow at first, letting the full weight of himself sink in deeper, he started moving. Each thrust made your body melt over the desk, every inch dragging fire through nerves you didn’t even know could burn so hot. Quaritch’s hands gripped your hips like anchors, guiding each powerful thrust. The sound of him moving inside you, the wet slap of skin against skin as his movements grew faster, made a new wave of pleasure crash down over you.

"O-Oh my goood," you let out a long, drawn out whine. Your thoughts spiraled— this was reckless, insane, probably career-ending, but fucking hell did it feel good.

Each powerful thrust drove deeper, stretching and filling you in a way that made your mind spin. The pace of his hips was calculated, cruel and intoxicating, forcing you to feel every inch of his cock. Another stroke, harder this time, and your body jolted in response, the pure intensity of it making your brain melt.

The force of Quaritch’s thrusts made the desk squeak and groan beneath you. His own grunts were low and guttural, vibrating against your back as he drove into you again and again.

"Fuck, yes… Look at you fuckin’ takin’ it. So perfect and tight," he groaned, hips snapping forward with precise, merciless intensity. Fingers dug into the curve of your hips, holding you steady even as every pulse of his length stretched and filled you further.

"Please," you begged in that whiny little voice that was still so unfamiliar to you. "Please don’t stop, don’t s-stop! I‘m so close! Pleasepleaseplease!"

Quaritch grunted against your shoulder in response, teeth grazing the tender skin as his hips pistoning without mercy, each stroke pushing you closer. One of his hands then found your jaw, lifting your face until you were bent enough for his lips to reach yours.

His tongue still tasted of you, salty and warm, as he shoved it inside your mouth, deep enough you nearly choked on it. It’s enough to make you clamp down hard on his cock, and you moan into each others mouths at that.

And then finally, warmth pooled and spilled, every nerve ending inside your core alive with fire, your body shaking uncontrollably beneath his relentless rhythm. More moans tore free, high and broken, echoing across the walls of his office as you arched hard, pressing yourself impossibly close to him.

Quaritchs hips still snapped forward, holding you in the peak of your pleasure, matching the rhythm of your shuddering climax until he‘d reached his own. The grip he had on your hip was almost bruising and your teeth found the softness of his bottom lip in return. The Colonel hissed sharply at that, but the sound quickly morphed into a sigh of relief as you felt his hot cum paint your insides.

His hips pressed forward a few more times, languid thrusts that drove every drop home, making sure none of it went to waste. Your walls clenched reflexively around him, a trembling, overstimulated cocoon of heat and satisfaction.

Finally, he pulled back, letting his cock slip free with a slick, wet sound that left your core aching and your body shivering from how empty it suddenly felt.

The Colonel straightened, his gaze still locked on you with this possessive intensity and also a hint of triumph as he helped turning you over and sat you onto his desk when your legs were to weak to stand on their own. Truth be told, it did flatter you that he was so obviously uncaring about the way you made a mess on his things when you sat there, bare and filthy wet. If anything, the sight of you shifting uncomfortably to prevent his cum from staining his desk made a flicker of hunger return to his eyes.

"Okay," you finally panted between heavy breaths, fingers brushing through your hair in a desperate attempt to appear collected, but there was a significant amount of spit, cum and slick smearing between your thighs that made you physically cringe. "We… we can’t— nobody can ever know about this!"

"Jesus, kid." Quaritch just rolled his eyes as he slumped down onto the seat behind him. With his thighs spread and his sweat soaked tank highlighting his abs, it was hard not to ogle the man in front of you. His hand rested casually around your ankle, mindlessly rubbing circles onto your skin with his thumb.

"For the record," he adds, his lips curling into that signature grin. "I don’t care what anyone thinks about rings or promises, so you can keep wearing that shiny little lie. But you’re mine when you’re around me, got it? Anyone else even looks at you wrong, and I’ll make sure they regret it."

Your brows lifted at that. "You… you would do that for me?"

"Course I would." The Colonel scoffs. "Nobody is gonna get you in trouble because you’ve decided to have a little fun. Not tonight, not ever. I’ve got that covered."

Your cheeks heated even more now, and a smile tugged at your lips despite the rapid thump of your heartbeat. It covered the feeling of guilt that wanted to gnaw on your insides for tasting this forbidden fruit, and that alone was a win.

Quaritch mirrors your little smirk. "But," he leans forward, letting his thumb continue its lazy circles over your ankle, "if you feel like trying that again… I’m more than willing to help make sure ya‘ don’t forget how good it can be to break a few rules sometimes."

"Alright," You bite your lip, laughter and heat blending together, and nod. "I think I can agree to that."

And sometimes you think, you don’t hate your job that much.

[dvg-tvgs]

The Perfect Wife

Chapter Three

your crime family needs help. to get that help, your brother sells you to john price in exchange for a loan of money and man power. but you're not for john price. you're for his ruthless, right hand man: simon "ghost" riley

slow burn, mafia au

prev

no more words were exchanged between you on the drive. a mix of tiredness and terror was playing on your mind, keeping you quiet in the passenger seat.

you didn't expect the stately home. you didnt expect gates that towered over you, the iron twisted into all manner of creature. you didn't expect the fountain just beyond them, the cherub spitting water into the bowl. you didn't expect the shrubbery and neatly arranged flowers surrounding the house, didn’t expect the well maintained stone steps.

in your mind, the ghost was a creature. chained up in the basement, kept docile with mind numbing television and fed slop.

but he wasn't. he was a man with a real home. a home that looked like a manor.

he glanced at you as he parked the car. you made no move to get out, to explore. no, you just sat staring, as if you could do nothing else. fine, stare. he had better things to do.

simon pulled your bags from the boot as two of his staff ran over. "when she's done, take 'er to 'er room," he mumbled and tossed them the keys.

they nodded rapidly and continued pulling your things from the boot. as one began taking it to your new bedroom, you continued to stare. five minutes turned into ten, ten nearly turning to fifteen.

there was no telling how long it would have stretched out for if the remaining staff member hadn't pulled open the door. "ma'am," he said, offering you his hand.

you looked at him, took in his polished uniform, his white gloves. he looked like he came with the house, like an immovable painting, glued to the wall.

you placed your hand in his white gloves and let him help you to your feet.

"sorry," you mumbled, taking one look back at the car as he led you to the stone steps. any cracks had been filled but they were still visible, as if intentional.

the entire house was beautiful. the time taken, the careful restoration, had woven its way into every detail. the paintings on the foyer wall were carefully picked out, all fitting the house but no two the same.

"mr riley has picked out a room for you," he said as he led you up the stairs.

picked out a room for you. it came as no surprise that you weren't going to be sharing his room. actually, it was more of a relief. at least you had your own space in this loveless marriage.

you didn't need to ask for a tour; the member of staff was happy to give it. he led you around, pointing out every little detail and giving you a history of the house. you wondered if simon riley had hired him, or if you were right and he really did come with the house.

clearly, this house was his love.

most of the house was covered in sheets. furniture protected from dust in unused rooms. the member of staff cleared his throat and rocked on the balls of his feet. "i hope having a lady of the house means that these rooms are fully utilised," he said and turned to quickly walk away.

you followed him out of the unused rooms, unsure of how you would use them. your future husband didn't look like he'd let you throw parties, fill the rooms with music and laughter. you weren't sure you wanted that, either.

maybe you could find a small room to make your own. a little nook full of books and things to keep you entertained when you weren't playing the part of the perfect wife. you didn't need a lot of space, just somewhere to sit and be alone. maybe with a nice window that overlooked the gardens.

the member of staff took you up the stairs. he pointed out all of the rooms for you, the multitude of unused bedrooms. what could one man need with so many bedrooms?

his office was in the centre of the hallway. two doors kept firmly shut. you could imagine a drop bolt keeping it shut, keeping you out. keeping him in solitude.

the member of staff took you further through the house. several doors separated you from him, from his office. "your bedroom, ma'am," he said and pushed open the door.

you stepped into your bedroom. so far away from home, but this was your home now. a tastefully decorated room, but it felt so lifeless. "thank you," you mumbled to the member of staff as you stepped inside. a whole tour of the house and you hadn't bothered to get his name.

his low bow wasn't really a bow at all. just a way for him to pull the door shut without really entering your bedroom.

your bags were in front of your bed. sitting on the end, you reached for your bag and pulled it open. mostly clothes, a couple of books, and a teddy bear. one of his ears was becoming unstitched and falling away from his face.

laying him on your bed, you searched through your bags for your little sewing kit. it sat in the bottom of your suitcase, in a little tin. a tiny pair of scissors, black and white thread, and a couple of needles. just what you needed to fix mr bear up.

the repetitive motion was soothing. pushing the needle through the ear and through the head in a looping motion until the ear was fully attached to the head again. tying the threat, you cut it, put your sewing kit away and held your bear close.

a tiny piece of home held in your arms. a piece of your life from before. before you came here, before your father became so paranoid. you laid on your new bed, on a mattress too hard for you, on sheets too thin for you to be able to sleep in, and cried.

***

the first thing simon riley did when he bought the house was put cameras in almost every room. even the bedrooms were full of cameras. your bedroom was full of cameras.

he didn't mean to watch you move from room to room. your lips didn't move as you were taken around his house. nothing until you got to your bedroom, until the door was shut. even then, you didn't speak. you just cried after you fixed up that old bear.

body shaking with sobs as you laid in that bed, laid with your bear.

simon changed the camera, watched his staff talk in the kitchen. there was only one interesting topic of conversation in the house; you.

he couldn't read lips, couldn't tell what they were saying, but it had to be about you. nothing else interesting had happened since he bought the house, a year ago. moved out of the shitty apartment he'd grown out of.

you wouldn't have been able to live there with him, not separately. not in your own bedroom. he would've taken the sofa, given you the more comfortable space.

you hadn't asked for this. he just didn't want it to be him.

he checked his texts from price. all of them were about you. the poor little lamb he'd been forced to take as a wife.

you wouldn't be happy here. you'd never be happy here. the crying would stop eventually, but you'd never feel settled, never feel happy.

if he was a better man, he would have left his office. he would have gone to you, asked you what your favourite dinner was, what would make you feel less home sick.

for him, it was chicken soup with a little bit of bread and salty butter. nothing special, just what his mother used to make him when he was sick. half the time it ended up splattered up the kitchen wall when he dad came home in a blind rage. but the nights he got to finish it, got tucked up in bed with a sweet forehead kiss, those were the best.

that sounded like what you needed right now. you just had nobody that could give it to you.

simon switched the camera feed back to you. you hadn't moved, weren't moving. your body was no longer shaking as you slept on top of the blanket with your bear in your arms.

he called one of his staff to throw a blanket over you. you weren't used to the cold in england yet, weren't used to how low the temperatures could drop at night.

his phone vibrated twice on the table. the screen lit up for only a few seconds as a message flashed across the top.

price: get her a new phone

simon responded with a thumbs up. he locked his phone and turned back to his cameras. back to you.

you were going to be so damn lonely in this house. simon didn't know what to do with you. what were you going to do while he worked? what did you do while your brother worked?

at his message request, one of the maids walked into your room. she walked carefully, making sure you stayed asleep. going into one of the cupboards in your room, she pulled out a blanket and laid it over your body.

you stopped shivering, but simon didn't stop watching you. he should have been working, but he was looking at you. you. his future wife.

next

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[shamelessramblings]

lieutenant!simon can’t stop thinking about his child growing inside sergeant!reader PT. 1 HERE

Simon doesn’t mean to start keeping tabs on you. It just… happens.

He finds himself clocking roll call faster than usual, eyes scanning instinctively for your name, your shape, the way you carry yourself. He's relieved when he sees your still squared steady shoulders. Good. Still standing. Still here.

He tells himself that’s enough. It isn’t.

By the third day, he knows your schedule better than his own. Knows when you disappear between drills. Notices when you’re slower leaving briefings. Wonders, absently and obsessively, if you’ve been to the medbay yet. If you’ve told anyone. If you’re sick. If you’re scared.

If you’re alright.

He asks around carefully. Too carefully. “How’s the Sergeant doing?” he says once, like it’s a throwaway, like he hasn’t rehearsed the question in his head.

“She’s fine,” comes the answer. “Same as always.”

Same as always. Right. Price clocks him immediately.

“You’ve spoken to her lately?” Price asks later, casual but watching.

Simon shrugs, too stiff. “No.” Price’s eyebrow lifts the smallest fraction.

“She mention anything?” Simon adds, then curses himself internally.

“About you?” Price asks.

Simon doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to. Price just hums quietly and changes the subject, which somehow makes it worse.

At night, Simon lies awake staring at the ceiling, mind replaying the same impossible image on a loop. You in the doorway. The test on his desk. The door slamming. And then, unbidden, something else.

Small. Fragile. Real. His. Yours.

He wonders if you’ve felt it yet - not movement, of course - just the weight of knowing something’s there. Wonders if you look in the mirror differently. If your hand ever drifts to your stomach when no one’s watching.

Christ.

He wants to check on you properly. Wants to ask questions he has no right to ask. Wants to make sure you’re safe, that you're being careful.

Instead, he watches. He waits.

He loses his fucking mind quietly, professionally, from a distance: counting footsteps, memorizing patterns, carrying the constant, unbearable thought of a small life growing somewhere just beyond his reach.

[decompositie]

sourdough rye bread and spiced banana bread 🍞🍌

[spaceyaemonds]

pairing: andrew “pope” cody x reader

sum.: you see andrew for the first time in six years.

warnings: age gap (andrew is canon age, reader is in her late twenties), secret child trope, their son is 5ish, slight angst, mention of cath, brief mentions of sex, mentions of a dead mother, brief domestic violence (andrew grabs reader by the throat and slams her up against a door frame, i think that’s it??

notes: ahhhh this is jus a very brief introduction to this next lil story i’m writing!!! i am super super excited!!! please let me know your thoughts!!! unedited. and as always, any feedback is extremely appreciated, it helps keep me motivated. especially reblogs/comments/asks!

wc: roughly 900

next

There's a sinking feeling in your stomach when someone knocking on your door catches your attention.

Three knocks. Firm. They echo loudly in your head.

You know exactly who it is without even having to go check.

Glancing lightly to your left, the curly haired boy is still slumped against your arm, sleeping soundly and drooling against your skin.

He knocks again, louder this time.

Sighing, you lightly shift around and lay him flat on the couch as you make your way to the door.

Your heart is pounding in your ears as you look at the door, and you can feel your blood rushing to your face. For a split second, you consider ignoring him. But you know better, you know Andrew. He'll break-in through the bedroom and just wait you out.

He looks different. Rougher around the edges. Older. Not that he wasn't already plenty older than you to begin with.

There's a look in his eyes that you were maybe all too familiar with once upon a time, but now, it makes a slight unease crawl up your spine.

"Hello." You aren't sure what else to say to him, and he doesn't respond. Just continues staring a hole through your head.

You shift uncomfortably on your feet, fighting the urge to glance back and make sure he's still sleeping.

He continues staring with a look in his eyes that you can't quite name before raising his eyebrows slightly, "Are you going to invite me in?"

You tense, and he notices, because of course he does, and you catch a certain look cross his face that you do know.

Fuck.

"I'm not sure that's a great idea right now,"

His head tilts slightly to the side, he's mocking you, "Oh? Why? Your little boyfriend here?"

You almost laugh at that, genuinely, "Excuse me?"

He just sighs and glances off to the side as he shrugs, "Don't know. You spouted a lota bullshit about waiting for me. Lots of crying and shit during your first visit. Then what? You never visit again? No phone call. Not even a fucking letter? Better yet, returning every single one I wrote you? Then I get out and you’re just fucking gone?"

He's pissed. And you guess justifiably so. But honestly, you aren't sure if you care.

"I meant it, at the time." And you did. Genuinely.

He scoffs, "At the fucking time?"

You nod, gnawing your bottom lip between your teeth.

"Then tell me, what changed between you visiting me, and what was supposed to be your next visit a month later?"

A positive pregnancy test.

"The letter you sent me. I think you got the envelopes mixed up."

His brows are furrowed, and you can see a slight confusion in his eyes.

You sigh, rolling your eyes in irritation, "The letter you sent me was addressed to Catherine."

The confusion leaves, and shock replaces it, and before he can give you some bullshit explanation, you speak, "After that, waiting for you felt like a waste of my time. So I moved in with my dad for a little bit."

He flinches at the harshness of your words, and part of you feels bad, but then you remember how hurt you felt when you read the words he wrote to Catherine. The intimacy in his words, the way he talked about how you were just a distraction, the next best thing he could have if he couldn't have her.

"Then why did you move back?" He's guarded now, and you don't know if you'd rather him tell you how he really feels or this.

"My mom died," You glance away, a sharpness in your throat as you say it out loud, "I'm handling her estate stuff and then I'm going back to Connecticut."

Andrew doesn't say anything, just stares.

You break first, looking away, "If you aren't gonna say anything, can you just leave?"

He scoffs, loudly, "You have no idea what you think you read in that letter to Cath,"

You're glaring now, "Is that a sick joke?"

He opens his mouth to respond, but you hold your hand up to silence him, "I don't want to fucking hear it. Are you just here because you think I'm fucking someone else? You're getting all possessive and shit now?"

You step closer to him, glaring up at him, "You think I haven't fucked other guys in the past six years? Huh?"

He reacts before you can blink, grabbing you by the neck and slamming you into the side of the door, causing you to flinch.

He breathing heavy right next to your face, gritting his teeth, "Don't you fucking dare talk to me about that kind of shit."

Tears well up in your eyes as you look into his, his nostrils flaring in anger at the thought of someone else having their hands on you.

Your hands are shaky as you reach up to grip his bicep, "Andrew," it's barely a whisper, "let me go."

His eyes close, hand around your throat flexing as he takes a deep breath before you lets you go.

When he opens his eyes, the two of you stare at each other for a few minutes, though it feels like hours. You don't speak, not even sure what you would say at this point, and he doesn't speak, because words have never been Andrew's strongest suit.

Finally, you open your mouth, unsure of what you'll say, willing yourself to gather the courage to tell him to get the fuck away from you, but nothing comes out.

Instead, your interrupted by a small voice that had your stomach filling with lead.

"Mommy?"

An anxious breath leaves you as you watch Andrew tense at the word as he moves slightly so he can glance over and see who exactly interrupted the two of you, already knowing he's looking at a smaller version of himself dressed in spider-man pajamas.

[tammuz]

The Babylonian striding lion, dating back to the era of king Nebuchadnezzar II of Babylon (605-562 BCE). These famous bas-relief lions, housed in many museums around the world, were made from polychrome glazed bricks, and used to decorate the walls of the Processional Street and the royal palaces of Babylon. Pergamon Museum, Berlin, GERMANY.

Photo by Babylon Chronicle

[naxxsstuff]

May i say casterly rock?

[butyoudidthis4what]

Want to be tagged in all Kink/Angstober 2025 fics? Interact with the post linked here!

Links to fics under the cut!

Oct. 19th - Mutual Masturbation || Michael "Robby" Robinavitch

Oct. 20th - Broken Bone || Jack Abbot

Oct. 21st - Car Sex || Andrew "Pope" Cody

Oct. 22nd -  Kidnapping || Michael "Robby" Robinavitch

Oct. 23rd - Nudes || Jack Abbot

Oct. 24th - Jealousy || Andrew "Pope" Cody

Oct. 25th - Oral Sex || Michael "Robby" Robinavitch

Oct. 26th - Suicide Attempt || Jack Abbot

Oct. 27th - Tits || Andrew "Pope" Cody

Oct. 28th - Hidden Illness || Michael "Robby" Robinavitch

Oct. 29th - Breeding Kink || Jack Abbot

Oct. 30th - Blackmail || Andrew "Pope" Cody

Oct. 31st - Halloween || Surprise!!