𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖗𝖙! - she/her - 20s. multi-fandom writer. certified fangirl. crybaby march pisces. lover of sinister women and men old enough to be my father. horror enthusiast. vampire girl. tlou sun, asoiaf moon, the pitt rising.
this blog contains suggestive and sexual content, minors and ageless blogs dni! you are responsible for your own consumption.
𝖗𝖊𝖈𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖑𝖞 𝖕𝖔𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖉!
￫ The Ache of Obsession - voyeur!stalker!Pope Cody x fem!Reader [6/2/26]
￫ Sweetheart - Andrew Cody x shy!f!Reader [5/20/26]
￫ Tender is the Heart - Jack Abbot x fem!Reader [5/9/26]
#courtcollection — all my writing!
NO KINGS. FREE PALESTINE. ABOLISH ICE. MAKE FANDOMS INHOSPITABLE TO RACISTS. READER INSERT INCLUSION.
a post will have 500 notes and only 48 of them will be reblogs. i promise you that reblogging something will not ruin your aesthetic on this utterly swagless website.
given the current climate this pride especially i feel i must mention that i love my trans friends, i stand with trans people in the fight against transphobic legislation and those who would enforce it, and this blog is not a good place for you to be if you do not vibe with that
Oo thanks for the tag, @bitchymanlet! What a pretty art style.
Tagging (with no pressure): @veratrance, @nightthawkss, @mrsackxrman, @lissamaylee, @sire-levi, @deliriously-donna, @amywritesthings, @thechaoticarchivist, @jlle-marie, @alizha, @arthurmorganist, @levisbrat25 + anyone who sees this and wants to join along :)
thanks for the tag marie 🩷 this is adorable & all of y'all are so cute 🥹 i incorporated both the “dark and spooky” and “very nice and cute” aspects of myself hehe
no pressure tags for the homies: @angelicarlert @millermouth @pearlessance @starryackrmn @bumblebeeonthistle @angelsanarchy @lightning-hawke @amywritesthings @ohmypawsandwhiskers & anyone else who'd like to join in on the fun 🌸
two meads in and i'm asking my knight if i can feel how sharp his blade is 🤦♂️ i'm giggling and kicking my feet too. should i ask him to press it against my neck or is that too forward
Pope gets mauled by the devil in the middle of the night. (Your cat likes Pope's big chest almost as much as you do.)
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warnings: established relationship, pure fluff, cats, awkward!pope, sadboy!pope, he doesn't know how to handle softness but he needs it, no use of y/n or any description of reader other being a loud snorer, domestic bliss, mentions of smurf being the worst mother ever.
rating: 18+. (there's nothing explicit in this but i dont want kiddos on my blog sorry!)
word count: 1.1k.
fox says: hi friends, thank you for reading! this is just a short little thing i wrote bc i need andrew to be happy, i wrote this in like forty minutes and i almost didn't post it because of how short it is but i hope you guys still like it! as always pls let me know how we feel!
also available on archiveofourown.
Pope had to learn how to sleep with one eye open a long time before going to prison. His home had never been safe and, even as a child, he was always a light sleeper simply because it was a survival mechanism he developed to survive growing up under Smurf’s thumb. So he wakes instantly to the weight shifting on his chest, entire body locking in place as he tries to figure out what is happening. It’s not you, he can hear you snoring like a truck to the side — Pope would always be surprised that such a delicate woman could make so much noise while unconscious —, and the weight is too light and too concentrated to be a person.
He opens his eyes slowly, just a little, not wanting to let the intruder know he is awake; the element of surprise always does wonders for him— attacking fast and hard before your opponent can understand what is happening is what has saved Pope’s life time and time again. On top of him there is a small pile of black fur. The thing is moving, little arms stretched over Pope’s pecks, tiny claws opening and closing, tugging at the cotton of his shirt. The animal blinks, slowly, and Pope can only tell that its eyes are open when the moonlight coming through the window hits it just right.
The Tasmanian Devil. You told him the cat’s name had been Tweety at first, because he was tiny and seemed kind— He grew up into what you call a ‘terrorist’ with a sweet voice and fond smile, so you renamed him. Tweety to Tasmanian Devil. Sweet to sour.
You did the opposite with him. He was Pope when he first met you— Angry, violent, unstable. You’d taken one look at him and started calling him Andy. A new name, a new identity, a facet of his personality that has always been there but has never been allowed to shine through. Sour to sweet.
The cat never seemed to like Pope very much. And it’s fine, Pope doesn’t like the thing either. He has never owned a pet, Smurf never allowed animals inside the house— Julia had made that mistake once, when they were eleven and an old mutt followed them from school. Pope didn’t see what happened, Smurf had dragged both Julia and the dog outside when she finally came home, but he had held his sister in the aftermath, arms around her shoulders as she cried and cried and cried.
Pope never saw the dog again.
Tec. Tec. Tec. The rhythmic sound of the devil ruining his shirt, its attack slow and coordinated as it keeps digging its claws into his shirt and tugging harshly. It doesn’t hurt— The thing can’t even do that properly, it seems. Pope pokes you on the shoulder twice and is only rewarded with the revving engine sound of your snores. You go quiet by the third poke but you don’t say anything, clearly awake enough to understand something is happening but not enough to realize it is him.
“Honey?” Pope calls out. The devil stops moving on top of him for a moment at the rumbling of his chest before it restarts the assault. “Your devil is trying to kill me.”
You slowly turn around then, hair mussed with sleep and eyes squinting. The cat doesn’t seem bothered by the movement, still clawing at Pope’s chest.
“He likes you.” You say, and Pope frowns at how big you’re smiling. “Just wants to make some biscuits on those big titties of yours.”
You’re making fun of him. Pope is getting attacked and you’re making fun of him.
“Wh—”
“Pet him.” You cut him off. Your own hand comes up to scratch behind the cat’s ear. The thing vibrates, then, a soft crooning noise taking over the silence of the bedroom.
“It’s clawing at me.” Pope says, his hands still firmly by his sides.
“He’s making biscuits.” You say again, just a little more forcefully but he can tell you’re having way too much fun. “Cats only do that when they like you and feel safe. When they’re kittens they do that while they’re nursing to help get the milk out.”
“I don’t have any milk.”
You snort. “Don’t I know it.”
Pope’s face flushes, the reminder of how much attention you’d given his nipples earlier that evening crawling to the forefront of his mind. He raises a hand, carefully, patting his index finger on the top of the devil’s forehead. It keeps crooning, still making biscuits on his chest.
The devil feels safe with him. It’s an odd feeling, but not an uncomfortable one— No one ever feels safe with him. People fear him, and he protects his family with his teeth and bare knuckles, but they don’t feel safe around him. You do, he thinks. He never asked, afraid of the answer, but you shield behind him whenever his brothers get too physical with each other, and you climb on his lap and hide your face on his neck whenever you’re watching a scary movie.
He likes that. It makes him feel useful in a different way. When he protects his family he feels dirty, like a crazed guard dog that is going to be put down the second he is no longer useful. With you, he feels like he matters, like he belongs in your bed and in your house and in your heart.
The devil headbuts his finger and you giggle, pressing a kiss to Pope’s bicep.
“He likes scritches.”
So Pope follows through, gently scratching behind the cat’s ear like you’d done before. His nails are shorter than yours, always trimmed down to the point where he’s one wrong angle away from bleeding, but the cat doesn’t seem to mind. The cat crawls a little closer to his neck, a loud mrrrp sound escaping it.
“He hates me.” Pope says, heart thundering at the noise but you just snuggle closer, your leg thrown over his thigh.
“He’s happy, Andy.” Your eyes are drooping, sleep is about to drag you back. “He would’ve bitten your finger clean off if he hated you.”
The cat stands, its little paws digging on his chest and the softness of his stomach. It twists twice before it plops back down on his chest, fluffy tail swiping over Pope’s face. It’s uncomfortable and so unsanitary that any other day Pope might’ve jumped out of bed but he remains as still as he can, the cat’s purring being drowned down by your snoring, his fingers running along the cat’s spine.
He doesn’t say it but, with the Tasmanian Devil’s weight on his chest, your leg over his and your cold hands gripping his bicep like a lifeline, Andy feels safe too.
Ugh I’ve been working 50hr weeks for a month or two now, but I had some time off and re-read Cupid’s Chokehold, Organic Fruit, and Sugar Talking. So I’m paying my dues to remind you that you’re a superstar, Court 🩷 gotta catch up on my media so I can enjoy your new stuff
han!!! hello my sweet angel i hope you get some rest 50hr weeks for months is crazy!! take care of yourself i hope you’re doing okay, i love hearing from you ❤️ i reread organic fruit the other day too and it made me miss writing for tommy i might have to revisit soon!!
