hi you!! this is really weird but i got the idea from a movie i watched. so Brendon and reader have been married for sometime, they both work in the hospital and it’s been a rough few months so they’ve been distant…in bed you know, like they don’t do that at all and reader feels guilty and thinks that if they don’t sleep together again he’ll cheat on her if he doesn’t already (of course he’s not)
Your day goes by in a haze. Work was the same as always but you’re distracted.
You’ve been distracted a lot recently.
The last few months have felt heavy. Not only has work been overwhelming but your husband, Brendon, well, that’s been the heaviest part.
Between both of your jobs becoming busier, you both haven’t had much time together.
You both used to have ample time in a week to meet up for lunch, go explore downtown, go out to dinners, have date nights, and everything in between. But lately these things have become dry, especially in the bedroom.
During your five years of marriage, this has never been a problem. Not to this extent.
You didn’t think much of it until it had stopped completely. Some days you were too tired or other days Brendon was tired too or busy working and not home as much.
The few times you had been eager to be under him, it never made it past a heavy makeout and some groping.
You acknowledged it had been a combination of you both not being up to it but then your mind began to wander.
Recently you had been trying to get things back to how they were only to have your advances turned down. Brendon either acted oblivious, was asleep before anything happened or ended up working late.
You thought it had been a mutual disinterest at the time but now?
You’re not so sure.
Was it you?
Maybe he was bored of you?
He did spend a lot of time at the hospital these last few months. And again you guys hadn't had sex in maybe a month or two?
No, no Brendon wouldn’t do that.
Right?
Maybe you could really initiate it. Buy new lingerie, get your nails and hair done.
That could work.
Hopefully it did.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
The next day is your day off and you decide to put your plan into action.
You get your hair refreshed and styled first. Then you go to the nail salon and pick out his favorite color.
Perfect.
Your last stop was a lavish lingerie store in downtown Pittsburgh. The selection was a bit overwhelming but then you find a winning piece.
It accentuated your breasts and made your ass look fantastic. A bonus was that it matched the color of your nails.
He wouldn’t be able to resist.
Once you’re home you fix your hair a bit and apply a light makeup before changing into the lacy material.
—-
About thirty minutes later you hear the front door unlock from your spot on the bed. You adjust your hair and sit on the edge of the bed, leaning back on your hands.
Heavy footsteps make their way down the hall towards the bedroom.
Brendon steps through the doorway, scrubs in disarray and a slight frown on his face.
“Hey baby” you say gently.
He briefly looks up as he drops his bag by the dresser.
“Hey.”
You’re taken back a bit.
Hey?
Just hey?
You knew things had been a bit rough these last few months but this is the most distant he's ever seemed.
Like he just acknowledged a roommate and not his wife.
You don’t let the dry greeting deter you.
You stand up and walk up to him.
Running your hand up his bicep and the other up on his shoulder.
“Everything okay Bren?”
He huffs a bit sarcastically “Is it ever?”
Ouch.
You bring your hand from his bicep to his face.
“Maybe I could help you relax, hmm?”
You see a ghost of a grin but as soon as it’s there, it’s gone.
“That’s nice but not tonight.”
He gently moves your hands off of him and walks around you to the walk-in closet.
You stand in the same spot for a moment. Your heart drops into your stomach and a chill runs down your spine.
What. Just. Happened.
Is this it?
Does he not find you attractive anymore?
Is he….
Is he gonna leave you?
You hold back the tears and make your way to the ensuite bathroom and lock the door.
Gripping the counter and leaning against it, you look into the mirror.
Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.
One tear falls, and then another.
Then another until you can’t stop them from falling.
You hold both hands over your mouth to quiet the sobs that rack your body.
You back up until you meet the wall and slide down.
Your chest heaves from the sobs and agonizing pain in your heart.
He’s gonna leave me.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
Brendon cracks his neck as he walks back out from the closet, scrubs discarded and now changed into fresh pajamas.
He sees your side of the bed empty but then sees the bathroom door closed and hears the shower running.
He lets out a sigh and gets into bed as he waits for you. All he wants is to get some rest and have you cuddled up against him.
Brendon knew things had been a bit strained lately and he felt a bit guilty for not being as present in your relationship like usual but things were starting to get better at work and he hoped you guys could get back to normal now.
Today has been rough like the last few months but things would change come his next shift.
He just needed to recuperate from today and then he’d have a good talk with you and apologize. Maybe take you out for dinner and a movie.
He smiles at the thought.
——
It’s been over an hour before Brendon still sees you’re not in bed.
He goes up to the bathroom door and presses his ear against it.
The shower is still on.
Weird.
He can’t hear anything else.
“Sweetheart,” he knocks lightly “you good in there?”
No response.
“Baby?” He grabs the door handle to open it but he finds it locked.
Panic starts to seep into his veins.
“Baby please open the door.”
He’s still met with silence.
Brendon’s heart starts to race as he reaches a hand up on the top of the door frame and grabs the spare key sitting there for emergencies.
Once he has the door open he looks around and then towards the shower.
His blood runs cold.
“Sweetheart!”
He runs to the shower where your naked form is sitting, slumped inside against the wall.
He practically rips the glass door off its hinges as he gets into the shower still fully clothed.
On his knees he grabs you by the shoulders and turns your face towards his.
He’s met with puffy, red rimmed eyes staring back at him.
“Hey, hey what’s wrong baby? Are you hurt? Did you fall?”
His fingers press gently but quickly around your head looking for any blood, bumps or injuries.
You slowly shake your head.
“M’fine” you mumble.
He furrows his eyebrows at your quiet words.
“You’re gonna have to do a lot better than that to convince me. C’mon let’s get you out of here. It’s freezing.”
He scoops up your cold body and sits you on the counter by the sink.
He grabs your favorite fluffy towel and wraps it around you, rubbing his hands up and down your arms to help warm you up.
His heart breaks at your sad demeanor.
“Baby,” he lifts your chin up to look at him “What happened? What’s wrong?”
Tears build in your eyes and your chin trembles.
“Please don’t leave me.”
Then the tears fall as you lean your head into his shoulder.
Sobs rack your body and Brendon holds you, tears building in his eyes.
“Leave you?” He asks confused
“Why on earth would I do that?”
“Y-You don’t want m-me anymore.” You manage to say between the tears.
“What?” he leans you back and gently holds your face in his hands.
“Why wouldn’t I want my wife?”
“You’ve b-been distant. I th-thought maybe we could just have s-some fun tonight but then you didn’t want me a-and I’m scared you don’t want m-me at all. That you want someone else..”
The words completely shattered Brendon’s heart.
Had he really withdrawn from you that much that you felt he didn’t love you anymore?
That you thought he’d leave you?
For someone else?
Fuck.
He had to fix this, quick.
“Sweetheart, look at me.”
Your tired eyes meet his.
“First, hear me and hear me clearly. I’m never leaving you. I fucking love you. So damn much.”
He takes a deep breath.
“Second, I’ve not been honest these last few months. Gloria has been making big cuts. Letting go lots of staff, including surgeons and attendings. I heard my name was up on the list of potential ones to go. It got to me and I’ve been hauling ass every fucking day for my job. I didn’t want to admit that I was scared. I’m supposed to support you and give you everything. Give you the world…I couldn’t let you down.”
A tear falls down his cheek and without thinking you reach up and wipe it away.
“Lastly, I’m so fucking sorry. I’m sorry I let all of that affect our marriage and make you think I didn’t love you. That I’d leave you. I swore in my vows I’d love you forever and I meant that. Every word.”
You sniffle and take a shaky breath.
“Then why’d you turn me down tonight?”
“I was so upset earlier over everything. I found out I’m for sure not getting let go but I was angry. Angry my name was even brought up for it to begin with. I didn’t want to take that out on you in any form, especially sex. But I think I already did with the lack of it over these last few months. Which again I’m sorry. I just was so overwhelmed with everything and didn’t want to force things and fake it with you. I never want that for us.”
He closes his eyes, willing himself not to cry in front of you.
Then he feels you wrap yourself around him.
“Brendon. I love you. You could never let me down. Even if you did lose your job, I wouldn’t think less of you, be disappointed in you or love you any less. I know that stuff can be scary but next time please just talk to me. This is a marriage. I’m here for you as much as you’re here for me. I can’t support you and be there for you if you don’t let me in. If you’re not in the mood for a conversation or sex or anything, just tell me. I’ll always understand. But I really thought you were gonna leave.”
He shakes his head rapidly.
“God no, baby. Never happening.”
“Good. Because I don’t think I’d survive it.”
He grabs your face and kisses you slowly.
“Also I know I didn’t say it earlier but you did look hot as hell. I’m sorry I ruined that for you.”
You chuckle a bit.
“You can make it up to me later Bren. Right now I just want to get in bed and cuddle my husband.”
a little small talk, a smile, and baby, i was stuck
pairings: brendon park x f!reader
Park hates you, or so you think. And so what happens if one night you question him as to why?
warnings: smut. creampies. hints of robby x reader (but not really). park being readers biggest and silent supporter but posing like an opp. teasing. bantering. park's in love with her, your honour. park cooking for reader. biting kink (both!) dirty talk. park being narcissistic. a little bit of choking. banter for days. fingering. park being condescending. praise kink! excessive use of parenthesis from yours truly. aftercare from the shark <3 oh he is soooo soft for her.
notes: this is technically part one to the series! but you can definitely read it as a stand alone, as i made all the parts so! i decided to break it up because it was hella long, and i thought it would be more enjoyable this way! as always, let me know what you think!
word count: 6.1k+
based on the blurb that i did here: it started out with a kiss
dont go wasting your emotions masterlist | the pitt masterlist | masterlist | ask
There was no doubt about it, Brendon Park hated you. You had no concrete proof, but it was a feeling. You don’t think he hated you at first sight, but maybe, most definitely, the second or third time he met you.
You could feel his ire towards you whenever the two of you were in the same room. Robby often having to step in so he wouldn’t be too harsh, somehow that action eliciting more snark from the surgeon.
Which was a blow to your ego, you admired him, one of his nicknames was ‘Ortho God’ for a reason. Call it a need for approval or whatever, but you hated the fact that he seemed to hate you with no reason at all.
Not adding to the fact that you thought he was attractive, something that would never leave your mind because who in their right mind would find Park the Shark attractive? He was cocky, rude, blunt and had a God complex.
But still.
There was something about him that just made you gravitate towards him. Maybe it was his seemingly unshakeable confidence, his competency in his job, or the fact that his brain was probably as big as his forearms.
Tired of him pretending you don’t exist when he walks into the same room as you, was what brought you here today.
“Why the fuck do you hate me? You asked, bitterly swallowing the liquor and pointedly ignoring Park’s amused chuckle. “That’s fucking disgusting,” you passed the whisky to the man next to you.
“That’s what you get for not ordering those fruity drinks,” he remarked, gladly taking the drink from you and downing it. If you noticed he moved the drink so his lips could be where yours were, you didn’t say anything.
“How do you know what I drink?” Flagging down the bartender, you asked for your usual go-to and turned to Park. “And you still haven’t answered my question.”
“I don’t hate you,” he eventually answered, in a tone that suggested that you were stupid to think that he hated you. “I hate how you act Robinavitch.”
You pulled back, “Excuse me?”
Park rolled his eyes, “You’re dewy-eyed every time he comes around,” he started. “I’ve seen you in action, you’re tough, you know your stuff, you command the room, you’re willing to get down and dirty, but when you’re with him, or if you think he’s around?” Park made a disgusted face and scoffed.
“You’re clueless, as if being in a trauma bay is a field trip for you, and you’ve never encountered an actual medical case.”
Balking at this criticism at your person, you were quiet, mulling over what he said. You tried to remember all your encounters with Park when Robby was around. Grimacing, you could see where he was coming from.
Were you really like that? When you were with Robby? If someone like Park - who doesn’t come down that often sees it, who else does? Were you the fucking laughing stock of the ED?
Fury and embarrassment ran through you and you steeled yourself, “What’s it to you?”
“I want you to be the best,” he answered, ordering another whisky. Park turned to you and under the light you saw the intensity in his eyes, the blatant expression almost too much for you. “I know that you can be the best.”
You were stunned at his words.
“You can’t be the best when you’re too busy making sure that Robinavitch is noticing you, or whether he’s fucking one of the nurses again,” Park said truthfully.
You want to say that Brendon Park is a liar. That he uses people to gain advantage. But he doesn’t. He’s mean, crass, blunt, impatient but not a liar.
“I’m not trying to be mean,” Park glanced at you, watching as you fiddled with your drink.
You scoffed, “Could have fooled me.”
“I don’t want you to waste your potential. I’ve seen too many people in this field make themselves smaller so they can have the hot shot attending,” Park explained.
“Speaking from experience?” You quipped and you mumbled an apology when he threw you a glare.
“You have promise, you could make a good Chief one day, can’t do that when you’re too busy crying in an on-call room when you found out Robinavitch was fucking Hastings,” at the mention of the two people that have been the cause of your tears for the last few weeks, Park saw you tense, and then you relaxed.
“That was one time!” You cried out.
“You’re too attractive for him anyway,” he threw out, gulping down his shot, while looking at you through his peripheral.
“Is this your way of getting into my pants?” You snipped.
“I wouldn’t mind that,” he smirked. “But no, if I wanted to fuck you I don’t need to use pretty words.”
“Oh really?” You sneered, and deep down inside you hated yourself because you knew he was right. But you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. “Why because you’re such an Ortho God that me having sex with you would give me some of your godly medicinal powers?” You hissed, narrowing your eyes, trying to figure out his plan.
You followed the path of his mouth turning to a smirk, “No, I just know that you find me attractive as much as I find you attractive.”
You feigned a disgusted noise, snorting into your drink, “I never said I found you attractive.”
“Oh, so do your eyes just follow everything attending that walk through the ED?” He remarked. “And do you accidentally like years old posts on their private Instagram as well?”
“That wasn’t me,” you mumbled, downing your drink, embarrassment alive and well, digging itself into every crevice of your body.
Park laughed loudly, “Sure, baby,” the drinks making his lips a little looser. “Pretty sure I have a screenshot somewhere.”
At the nickname, you squirmed in your seat. You weren’t uncomfortable per se, just confused that Park was talking to you like this. You squinted your eyes and poked him, trying to make sure that it was him in front of you.
“What are you doing?” He leaned back, trying to figure out what you were doing.
“Why are you talking to me now?”
He took a moment to say anything to you, a silence that you filled by looking at him.
“You did well today,” he begrudgingly said. Thinking back to your day, you remembered exactly what he was talking about. Park was called down for a consult, you were the resident in charge of the case.
You caught something that the others didn’t see, that Robby didn’t see. They brushed you off at first, and you were frustrated at the lack of trust in your judgement. It wasn’t until Park came into the room and backed you up that people believed your claim.
“A compliment? From Park the Shark?” You heard him huff and you could practically hear him roll his eyes.
You didn’t know if it was the flowing of alcohol through your veins, or the fact that Park was actually talking to you, or the fact that conversing was easier than you anticipated. More comfortable and fun that you could ever imagine that you wanted to continue to talk to him.
“So, back to that screenshot,” you smiled sweetly. “You were lying about that, right?”
Park laughed and you watched, mesmerised at the rare sight. “Not a chance, sweetheart,” turning to you, a gleam in his eyes, “But if you don’t believe me, I can always show you back at my place.”
“Smooth,” you rolled your eyes but downed the rest of your drink.
You both stared at each other, knowing what each of you wanted. As if you were telepathically connected, Park paid for both of your drinks and looked expectantly at you.
“I’ll call an Uber,” Park pulled out his phone, looking at you when you let out a breath through your nose.
“You’re presumptuous,” you said but hopped off your chair, grabbing your things.
“He’s on his way, let’s go,” putting his phone back, he waited for you to go past him, his hand landing on the small of your back.
-
You were tense next to him, Park could feel it. Taking initiative, he placed his hand on your thigh squeezing once. You looked up to him, tracing his jawline with your eyes.
“If you don’t want to do this, say so,” Park said, being uncharacteristically gentle. “I can book an Uber for you when we get to my place and we don’t have to speak about this ever again.”
You rolled your eyes playfully, “Now I really know you want to get in my pants.”
Narrowing his eyes, he pinched your thigh, causing you to yelp and the Uber driver to look at you. Nodding at him reassuringly, he looked back to the road.
“Are you always this mouthy?”
Shrugging you turned to him, “Guess you just have to find a way to make me shut up.”
Park grinned and the sight of his canines made you swallow. There was something so animalistic about him when he smiled at you like that. Feeling your heart begin to race, you felt yourself lean up.
A clearing of a throat broke the two of you apart, you mumbled an apology, but didn’t move away from the warmth of Park.
-
“I hate you,” you glared at the man between your legs.
Park threw his keys by the side table and smirked at you, “I can live with that,” placing his hands on the back of your thighs, he squeezed once. “Up,” he commanded and you obeyed. “Good girl,” seeing your reaction at those words, Park filed the response away in his brain, fully intending to use it within the next thirty minutes.
Lifting you up, you felt your back hit the door, and before you could complain, Park placed his mouth over yours. It was soft, softer than you thought his lips would be (not that you ever thought about his lips before this). Moaning quietly, you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer.
Deepening the kiss, you could feel his tongue slowly trace your bottom lip. Parting your lips, Park slowly slid his tongue, lazily allowing it to map out your mouth, your own tongue docile waiting for his command.
“So needy,” Park smirked against your mouth, his tongue collecting both of your saliva from your chin and licking it back to your mouth. Feeling emboldened you stroked the underside of his tongue with yours, earning a groan from the man. Grasping the hair at the bottom of his neck, you pulled, eliciting another groan.
Park pushed you closer to the door, his cock beginning to grind into your stomach, “Feel that, princess? Hope you can take it.” He swallowed your moan, this time completely taking over control, moving one hand to the back of your neck, he wrapped his hand around your hair and this time, it was him that pulled.
Licking up your exposed neck, he could hear your panting from above, wanting more of your noise, Brendon sank his teeth in gently to the meat of your shoulder.
“Brendon,” you gasped, his teeth leaving an imprint on your soft skin. You rutted against his bulge, earning a hitch of breath from the man in front of you.
“I’m not going to fuck against my door,” he said against your lips. “Come on.”
You briefly looked around his room. It was nice. Clean and precise, just how you thought Park’s room would be (again, not that you ever thought about that, definitely not), a few personal touches here and there.
Feeling laughter bubble out of you, “Is that a picture of yourself on your table?”
“I look good,” you looked back to the picture and he had you there. He did in fact look good, very good.
“You’re narcissistic,” you replied.
“I have good reasons to be,” he pulled his shirt off, tossing it somewhere in the room. You took a moment to look at him. The plains of his chest, the sprinkling of his chest hair, how broad his shoulders are. Just how fucking big he is. Wetting your lips, your eyes dragged down his happy trail, eyes landing on his bulge.
He closed the distance between the two of you, clashing your mouths together again. Park grabbed the hem of your shirt and lifted it up, hands straight going to your ribs. You let your hands wander around his chest, eventually landing on his belt buckle.
Biting his bottom lip, you moved your mouth down his neck, mouthing open kisses down his stomach. You heard him curse above you, spurring you on, you kissed the tent of his pants, your hands working on unbuckling his belt.
Tugging his pants down, you noted the wet spot on his underwear, kissing the outline of his cock, you felt Brendon place his hands on your head. Pulling down his briefs, you watched his length appear. Practically salivating, you couldn’t help but lick the precum on the tip of his head. You rolled the liquid in your mouth, allowing it to coat every crevice. He tasted salty, masculine, and you wanted more.
“Fucking hell,” Brendon gritted out, as his fingers gripped your hair.
Sitting back on your heels, you took a moment to look at him. He was huge, to say the least. Big and thick in all the right places, a thatch of hair at the base of his cock. You took a moment to just admire his length, fingertip trailing against a particularly prominent vein.
Licking your lips, you opened your mouth, ready to taste him properly. Before you could, you felt a tug on your upper arm. Brendon looked down at you, “Not tonight. Been thinking too long about this to not be in your pussy right now.”
“You’ve thought about this?” You cocked your head to the side, and Brendon looked down at you and a little light flared up in his chest.
Before you could think about what he meant, Park yanked you, grabbing your face and messily kissed you. Grinding his leaking cock into your stomach, you moved your hand downwards until you were able to grasp it.
He hissed as he felt your hand on him, slowly twisting your hand up and down, spreading his precum around the head of his cock. Briefly pulling away from him, you brought up your hand and locked eyes with him. Sensually licking his cum off, you watched as his nostrils flared, his breath getting heavier, looking down you could see his cock twitching.
With what could only be described as an actual growl, Park wrapped his hand around the nape of your neck, and roughly yanked you back to his mouth.
“Get your fucking pants off,” he commanded against your lips.
Kicking the rest of his pants off, you did the same, almost falling when it got caught on your ankle. “Careful,” he mumbled gently, as he caught you.
Removing your pants for you, he laid you down on the edge of his bed. “Cute,” Park smirked as he stared at your underwear with cherries on there. His eyes focusing on the large wet spot.
“Shut up, I didn’t know I was going to have sex with you,” you whined, closing your legs slightly.
“So you would have worn something different if you did know?” He said arrogantly, and it took everything in you to not kick him in the head. Hot as he might be, he was still the arrogant Park you knew.
Sensing your annoyance and that you were going to say something, he leaned forward and licked you through your underwear. A moan escaped your mouth as you felt him suckle your clit through the fabric.
Tasting you, Park grunted and he felt himself subconsciously move closer to you, arms coming beneath your thighs and yanking them to his body. Kissing across the span of your pelvic area, you yelped when you felt him nip your inner thigh.
Rutting into his bed, Park would have been ashamed of his actions, acting like a teenage boy tasting his first pussy, but you were here. You were under him and he really didn’t fucking care if he came right now just from tasting you.
Having enough of the fabric in his way, he ripped the cotton, apologising by placing a soft kiss on your mound, eventually sliding down to your clit.
“Prettiest fucking pussy,” as he spread your lips, your hole clenching at his actions. “Taste so fucking good,” he said against your hole. Lapping at your slick, your hands hovering near his head before you threaded your fingers through his hair.
“Brendon, fuck,” you cried out, head falling back as you thrusted up to his face. Cupping your ass, he pulled you impossibly closer, allowing you to practically ride his tongue.
You could hear the lewd slurp of his mouth, feel his drool combining with your slick. Brendon thrust his tongue into your hole, trying to get as much essence as he could, swallowing it down like it was his life elixir.
Placing his thumb on your clit, Brendon growled as he felt you tighten even more against his tongue, moving away with an audible pop, he dragged his fingers down until he was at your entrance.
Flicking his eyes back up to you, he watched as you arched your back as he entered your hole with two fingers. He closed his eyes at your warmth, the tightness and smoothness of your channel. He pressed deeper into your heat, eventually landing on your sweet spot.
“Bren,” you sighed out as he began curling his fingers. You clenched your jaw, breath taken away from the sheer size of his fingers.
Needing his tongue on you again, he pulled out his fingers, dipping them into his mouth and moaning at your taste.
“You have the sweetest fucking pussy, baby,” he mumbled against your clit, sucking it into his mouth, Brendon almost rolled his eyes to the back of his head at the noises you were making. “Can’t believe you kept her from me.”
You usually would have hated men referring to your pussy like that but fuck if didn’t turn you even more. Running one hand through his hair, your other hand gripped onto his forearm. Brendon shifted his hand to hold yours, interlocking fingers as he pushed his face closer to your heat.
Feeling your release coming embarrassingly close, you tightened your grip on his hair and hand, your core tightening, you cried out, a long elongated noise as you felt your orgasm wash over you. You rutted your pussy against his face, prolonging the pleasure that you were receiving.
Panting and trying to regain some sort of clarity, you slowly released the grip you had on his hair. The gel completely gone, you almost felt bad at how messy he looked, but all it did was turn you on.
Sitting back up, you saw your release glisten against his face, you reached for him, needing to taste him. Crashing your mouths together, you cupped his cheeks, feeling his stubble against your palms. Dragging him down to you, you unashamedly licked around his mouth, collecting your juices and melted your mouths together again.
Practically on top of you, you felt his shaft weep against your stomach, feeling drops of his precum dropping. Sliding yourself up, you wrapped your legs around him, letting his cock slide between your folds. Grunting into your mouth, Brendon followed your movements, his cock itching to be in you.
Dragging you up his bed, Brendon reached for one of his side tables, opening up, blindly feeling around for something, all the while keeping his lips on yours. Bringing out what he needed, he slammed the drawer shut, and regretfully pulled away from you.
Moving to open the foil packet, you grabbed his hand and looked at him, and against your all medical instincts, you shook your head, “Want to feel you.”
Brendon breathed through his nose and for a second you thought you made a mistake. The next moment you saw, was him throwing the condom across his room, arms caging around your head, his weight slowly being placed on top of you.
Gripping the base of his cock, he tapped the head a couple of times, your hips jolting trying to chase the feeling. He slid against your pussy again, his pre completely dripping down to your hole. Brendon groaned as he squeezed the base of cock and moved his hand up, forcing more of his precum to land on your clit.
Spreading the liquid using the tip, you threw your head back, relishing in the feeling, as the man above you gritted his teeth.
“Brendon, please,” you begged, eyes starting to tear up. You could feel yourself clench against nothing and it was aggravating to know he wasn’t in you yet. “Please, I need you.”
He stared at you, and for a moment you felt like you were prey finally being found by the big bad predator. Park kept eye contact with you as he slowly encompassed everything that you could see, everything that you could feel.
Sliding into you slowly, Park watched as you closed your eyes at his size and the stretch. A blissful sigh leaving your lips as you felt him hit home, eyes closing at the fit. When he was flushed against your hips, he let out a strangled groan of your name.
“I’m good,” you breathed out, nodding your head.
“How do you want it?”
You fluttered your eyes open and looked at the man above you, his gaze intent, “What?” You stuttered.
“How do you want me to fuck you?” He elaborated -- the way he would explain simple medical terms to the medical students, but his tone was different. It was soft.
“Slow, rough,” you gulped, a small sliver of embarrassment making a home in your chest, and you broke eye contact with him. “Hard,” you mumbled.
Squishing your cheeks together with one hand, he turned your head to lock eyes with him. “Don’t,” he breathed as he began to pull out slowly, keeping his eyes on you, watching your reaction as he plunged harder into your pussy. Hands grasping his bedsheets, you arched your back, a loud moan of his name leaving your mouth.
“That’s fucking right,” he purred against your neck, hands going to the back of your thighs, throwing them over his shoulder. Folding your legs, Brendon leaned on his forearms, as he held the rough pace. “Good fucking girl, taking my cock so well.”
He was rewarded with you clenching your pussy tighter and a strangled noise coming from your mouth.
“Feel so good,” you babbled, turning your face to kiss him.
He grinned down at you, “Yeah, is that right, baby?” He pulled out to just his tip and you whined at the loss, “Who’s making you feel this way?”
“You, just you,” you cried out, your hands reaching for the back of his body. Hanging on to him, “Brendon,” you moaned, eyes clenching tight.
Roughly sinking back into your cunt, you let out a scream as you dragged your nails down his back. He kept at that rhythm, leaning on one forearm, other hand reaching towards to engulf the right side of your cheek.
Caressing it softly, he looked down at you; sweat lining your forehead, your lips parted, cupid's bow just waiting to be kissed and Brendon didn’t want to ever forget this. Teeth latching on your jaw, not biting, just holding you there, one of your hands drifted to the hair on the base of his neck.
“Where?” He mumbled against your jaw, lips moving to your lips.
“Inside,” you panted, clenching your pussy. “Birth control.”
You heard him briefly curse under his breath, his lips mouthing against your neck. “You just let anyone cum inside of you?”
“No, just you,” you whined, your nails digging into his shoulder. “Just want your cum.”
At that, Park’s eyes lit up, his face twisting into an animalistic look, brutally thrusting deeper into you, “That’s fucking right,” he growled against your skin. “You’re so fucking perfect, you know that?”
Dragging his lips down from your mouth, he licked your neck, all the way down to your shoulder. “Tell me,” he mumbled and you grew confused until you felt his teeth sink into you.
Clenching around him, you felt another rush of heat through you. “Brendon,” you gasped, breath hitching, fingers digging into his shoulder. “Fuck.”
Softening his bite, he licked the mark, thumb moving down to circle your clit. “You want me to fill you up, huh?” Brendon taunted, as his lips found yours again. “Want me to breed your little pussy?”
You nodded, tears running down your face, “Please, Brendon,” you cried out.
Dragging his cock slowly, he pushed in and gave a little grind of his hips. Crying at the sensation of the tip of his cock grinding into your g-spot, and his hair catching on your little nub, you were in a euphoric state of mind.
Breath hitching, you could feel your pussy pulse around his cock, your stomach tensing. You could feel your orgasm approaching.
“Cum around me baby,” he said against your ear, thumb rubbing tight circles on your clit. “Wanna feel you.”
Shutting your eyes, you jerked your hips upwards, “Fuck!” It was all too much, his words, his touch, his cock, everything. With one last grind against your sweet spot, you let out another scream of his name as you felt your release go through you. You squeezed his shoulders, nails breaking into the skin. Panting his name, all you could do was hold onto him, as you felt your cum coat his cock.
Pulling him to you, Brendon dropped his head to your neck, licking the sweat accumulated there. Feeling the spasms of your pussy, Brendon stuttered in his thrusts.
“Best fucking pussy,” he groaned out, hand on your neck and face nuzzled into the crook of it. “Feel like you’re made for me.”
You nodded at whatever he said, head too fuzzy to register anything with the exception that his hips were snapping faster now, trying to chase his own release. “Fucking best girl, yeah? Gonna fill you up.”
With a final growl of your name, you felt him spill inside of you. Your hips jerking as you felt him continuously fill you up. “That’s my girl,” he panted against your ear, licking the apparent tears coming from your eyes, as he felt his cock twitch a couple more times.
Placing kisses from your ear to your cheek, he travelled until he met your mouth. Grasping your face softly with his hands, he looked down at you, blue eyes blown with lust but the most gentle you’ve ever seen.
“Holy shit,” you panted, blinking rapidly trying to make sure you were still alive. “Fuck, Park.”
At your reaction, he couldn’t help but let out a chuckle. “Good to know it was good for you as well, sweetheart.”
“Good?” You asked in astonishment. “Jesus, Park. That was mind blowing.”
Grinning, he shifted his forearms, he looked down and the sight made him pause. Your slick was all over him, a white ring at the base of his cock, your wetness all over his pubic hair. Mesmerised at the sight, he leaned further back, spreading your folds, he shallowly thrust into you. Whining at the overstimulation, you grabbed his bedsheets, heart starting to race again.
“Look at you,” he said in a soft awe. He paused for a moment, to just memorise you on his bed; dishevelled, tears running down your face, his marks along your body. Fucking beautiful.
He pulled out slowly, both of you hissing at the same time. Slowly lowering your legs, you felt him massage your sore hips as you hissed as they hit the bed.
One hand slowly coming to caress your cheek again, Brendon couldn’t help but lean down again to kiss you. Unlike the previous times your mouths met, this time he met your lips softly. He slowly deepened the kiss, his lips working in a way that you didn’t expect from him. You felt him take his time to guide his tongue into your mouth, massaging your tongue with his.
Reluctantly parting from you, he stared at you, blue eyes locking with yours. Brushing away the strands sticking to your face, you felt your heart jump at how he was looking at you. Gulping, you reached up and traced his cheekbone, admiring how pliant he was at this moment.
“Stay,” he said softly, his tone completely different to a couple of minutes ago. Getting up he went to another room, which you presumed was the bathroom. You really tried not to admire his backside but Park truly was a god in terms of his physique alone. Watching as he walked back, you saw that even when he was soft, it was still a sight.
“Spread your legs, baby,” he asked softly, and you did so, wincing as you opened your legs for him.
You took a good look at him, as best as you could in your post sex haze. Admiring his thick thighs, you wondered what it felt like under your hands; to touch, to squeeze. Coming closer to you, you pondered on how his body would feel to just touch innocently, to have him wrapped around you.
“Thanks,” you said in appreciation, staring at the way he was so gentle around you.
Cleaning himself up, you watched as he threw the towel into his hamper. He stood by his dresser, leaning against it as he just looked at you. Running his eyes through your state.
“What?” You chuckled, and a sense of insecurity ran through you. This was after sex. After the adrenaline and horniness of it all. Wanting to wrap his bedsheets around your body, you forced yourself to just stay.
“You’re pretty,” was all he said and you were taken aback from the sincerity in his voice. Softening at his words, it was your turn to stare at him again. He stood in a way that radiated confidence, something that could never be shaken.
“Go pee,” taking you out of your thoughts, you stared at him.
“Excuse me?”
“I have a spare glass on the counter. Are you happy with tap water?”
“What?”
He rolled his eyes and crossed the room to get to you. Gently picking you up by your pits, he sat you up. “You need to pee. You should know that, being a doctor and all,” and there he was. The annoying man you’ve become accustomed to.
“I know that,” you snapped, slapping his hand away.
Ignoring the wobbliness of your legs, you stood up, and you instantly regretted it as you almost fell face first on his floor.
“Park,” you whined as you felt his hands supporting your body, you tried to wiggle out of his grip, but he wouldn’t give.
“Are you always this annoying?” You moved to slap his thigh. “Jesus, if you’re still this annoying I need to fuck you harder.”
“I’m going to pee now,” and with that you closed his bathroom door on him.
You left his bathroom, and scanned the room, trying to see if you could see your clothes. You knew what came next, and you wanted to limit the amount of awkwardness that you’d inevitably feel. Padding over to where you vaguely saw Brendon throw your shirt, you frowned as you saw nothing.
“What are you doing?” Park watched you with an impatient stare, noticing that he had put on some sweats and a shirt, you took a moment to drag your eyes down his figure.
“Uh, going home?” You scrunched your face, and began trying to find your clothes. “Where are my clothes?”
“I put them in my hamper, I’ll wash them tomorrow for you,” he jerked his head to the basket in the corner of the room.
“Why?” You asked, confused. Isn’t this the part where he kicks you out? Tell you ‘thanks but don’t ever bring this up’. “Don’t you want me to leave?”
“Did I say I want you to leave?” He got you there. But still this was the normal procedure. Rolling his eyes, he walked over to you, and dressed the extra shirt in his hand on your body.
Leading you back to his bed, he laid you down and crawled over your body, “I’m not done with you.”
-
Waking up, you turned over, hands reaching out for a warm body and opening your eyes when you didn’t find him.
You slowly walked down, clad only his shirt, you observed for a minute, just seeing Park in his natural habitat. You saw him being at ease in his kitchen, if someone told you that you would be watching Park the Shark making breakfast with only his sweats on, you would have told them that they were crazy.
Running your eyes down his back, you saw the marks that you left and pride (and a bit of embarrassment) filled you.
“Morning,” you greeted, walking right beside him.
Park ran his eyes up and down your body, “Morning. You look good.”
“Sure, Park,” you knew you looked like a mess. Hair not even brushed, his shirt on you askew, and toothpaste residue you accidentally left on said shirt.
You looked around at what he had, and you thought of what you could help with.
“Just sit,” he jerked his head to his table, as if reading your thoughts. “I’ve got it covered.”
Sitting down, you watched as Park continued to cook, you sat there in silence as you admired him. You wondered if he was like this every morning, or after every hook-up he had. Shaking your thoughts, you didn’t need to know about that.
“I don’t know what you wanted,” Park spoke as he flipped the final pancake. “I don’t do this so I just made what I would usually have,” turning the stove off, he picked up the plates.
“What? You don’t treat all your hook-ups like this?” You teased, heart lurching a bit, but you managed to ignore it.
“No,” he answered bluntly.
“Oh?” You asked, your mouth working faster than your brain.
He looked down at you. “No. If I did sleep with someone, I wouldn't take them here and I certainly wouldn't make them breakfast.”
“So what, am I special?” You teased, your heart lurching in a different way.
Brendon didn’t say anything in response, just looked at you, and an unfamiliar (but welcoming) warmth made its home in your veins.
Placing the food down, your eyes bulged and your mouth started to drool. “And I wasn’t lying,” Park said as he put your plate in front of you.
“Huh?”
“You look good.”
Silence stretched until he sat down, Park really had no reason to lie to you. He already had you last night, several times in fact, and then this morning too before both of you truly woke up.
The compliment sat on your chest and you didn’t know what to do with it. The warmth from before really hammering its presence.
“Coffee?” You asked, not seeing anything on your side.
“What do you usually have?”
“Matcha,” and at that you heard him snort, making you throw a piece of fruit at him.
“Of course, you do, princess,” Brendon rolled his eyes good naturedly. “I don’t have that,” as he made a mental note to place it on his list.
Telling him your alternative preference, he got up and walked to his machine. “I can make it,” you started, getting up from your seat.
“I got it, just eat,” and with that he turned his back to you.
Taking a couple of pancakes and a few extra bits and pieces, you began to dig in.
“Who knew that Park the Shark could cook,” you teased as you placed the pancake in your mouth. Moaning loudly, you looked to the food and to him, “Holy fucking shit, you made this?”
“My mum made sure that I could cook,” he said as he placed down your coffee. “Said that I’m not a man if I don’t know how to cook for my woman.”
Swallowing your food, you hummed, “Let me know her name and I’ll personally thank her.”
“Are you working today?” Was all he said, despite the fond smile on his face.
“No, I’m off for five starting today,” you replied, shoving another piece into your mouth.
“Good,” he looked over his coffee, eyes trained on your face. “Eat up because I’m going to fuck you all day today.”
andrew cody who pretends he doesn't need anyone until one day he realizes you're the first person he actually looks for when he walks into a room. he never says it outright, but his eyes always find you first. if you're there, his shoulders loosen a little.
andrew cody who struggled with trust because of the way he grew up. it takes him a long time to fully let someone into his life, but once he does, he's fiercely loyal.
andrew cody who isn't naturally affectionate in front of other people, but the second you're alone with him he's always finding excuses to touch you. a hand on your knee. his arm draped over your shoulders. his fingers hooked through yours under a table. he needs constant proof that you're still there.
andrew cody who sleeps better when you're beside him. years of anxiety and bad memories keep him awake most nights, but somehow your presence quiets the noise in his head. he'll pull you against his chest and bury his face in your hair before falling asleep.
andrew cody who becomes almost painfully protective of you. not in a controlling way, but in a way that comes from fear. losing people terrifies him more than he'll ever admit. every time you come home late, he's pacing. every unanswered text sits in his mind until you reply.
andrew cody whose ocd tendencies get worse when he's stressed. he needs certain things organized a specific way, needs routines to stay predictable. at first he tries to hide it from you, embarrassed by how obsessive he can seem. but once he trusts you, he lets you see the parts of himself he usually keeps buried.
andrew cody who sometimes wakes up from nightmares convinced something terrible has happened. on those nights, he reaches for you immediately. your hand in his becomes an anchor. he'll sit there in the dark listening to your sleepy voice until his breathing slows again.
andrew cody who gets jealous easily but tries not to show it. he'll go quiet instead. his jaw tightens whenever someone flirts with you. later he'll casually ask, "you know that guy was hitting on you, right?" pretending he doesn't care nearly as much as he does.
andrew cody who melts whenever you play with his hair. he acts tough about everything else, but the second your fingers slide through his curls he's gone. eyes closed, leaning into your touch without even realizing it.
andrew cody who would never admit how much your praise affects him. growing up in the cody family means hearing criticism far more often than encouragement. so when you tell him you're proud of him, he goes strangely quiet and carries those words around for weeks.
andrew cody who softens around you in ways nobody else gets to see. the family knows him as unpredictable, intense, and dangerous. but with you, he's gentler. calmer. the version of himself he never thought he was allowed to be.
andrew cody who isn't great with grand romantic gestures. his version of love is consistency. showing up when he says he will, remembering important dates, helping when things get difficult, and staying loyal even when life gets messy.
andrew cody who becomes tense whenever his family drama starts affecting your relationship. he'd hate the idea of his partner being caught in the middle of conflicts they never asked to be part of.
andrew cody who stares at you when he thinks you aren't looking. not in a creepy way, just completely captivated. sometimes you'll catch him from across the room and he'll immediately glance away, rubbing the back of his neck like he wasn't just looking at you like you hung the moon.
andrew cody who kisses your forehead more than your lips. every time he walks past you. every time he leaves. every time he comes home. it's become such a habit that he doesn't even think about it anymore, automatically pressing a soft kiss against your skin before moving on with whatever he was doing.
andrew cody who absolutely loves having you in his lap. he'll pull you onto him while he's sitting on the couch, wrapping both arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder. he could sit like that for hours, listening to you talk about absolutely anything.
andrew cody who loves lazy mornings with you more than anything. sunlight filtering through the curtains, your body curled against his, neither of you in any hurry to move. he'll brush your hair away from your face and just watch you wake up, looking softer than you've ever seen him.
andrew cody who loves when you're the one initiating affection. after years of feeling unwanted and misunderstood, every time you reach for him first it does something to his heart. a hug from behind while he's making coffee can improve his mood for the rest of the day.
andrew cody who whispers "come here" whenever you're standing too far away for his liking. then immediately wraps his arms around you the second you step closer, holding you against his chest like he hasn't seen you in weeks.
andrew cody who kisses you like he's trying to memorize you. one hand cupping your face, the other around your waist, holding you close enough to hear your heartbeat. afterward he'll rest his forehead against yours and stay there, eyes closed, completely content just being near you.
andrew cody who apologizes for things that aren't really his fault. years of carrying guilt have convinced him that every bad thing somehow traces back to him. sometimes you'll catch him saying "sorry" after having a nightmare or after a panic attack, and your heart breaks because he genuinely believes he's inconveniencing you.
andrew cody who occasionally wakes up before dawn and just watches you sleep. there's always this lingering fear in the back of his mind that he'll lose everything good in his life. so sometimes he lies there quietly, memorizing your face in the soft morning light.
andrew cody who hates arguing with you. even minor disagreements leave him unsettled for hours. if you go to bed upset, he won't sleep. he'll lie awake staring at the ceiling, replaying every word and convincing himself he's ruined everything.
andrew cody who sometimes asks, "you're not leaving me, right?" during vulnerable moments. never dramatically. never looking directly at you. just a quiet question slipped into the darkness when his fears get the better of him.
andrew cody who accidentally falls asleep holding onto your shirt after a particularly rough day. when you find him, his grip is still tight even in sleep, like some part of him is afraid you'll disappear if he lets go.
summary: the ER knows you're married, pregnant, and hopelessly in love with your husband. so when brendon keeps hovering around you, everyone's convinced you're having an affair.
pairing: brendon park + attending!pregnant!reader
word count: 2.4k
warnings/tags: mentions of pregnancy, workplace misunderstanding
notes: based on this ask from anon, tysm for requesting!
reblogs, likes, and comments are so so appreciated! if you want to read more from me, kindly submit in my inbox !!! xoxo
The first rumor started because of a protein bar.
Not because of anything dramatic. Not because someone saw you sneaking around hospital corridors or caught you pressed against a wall with Brendon Park's hand around your waist.
No.
It started because at two in the afternoon, during a brutally understaffed Friday day shift in the ER, you looked up from charting and said with exhausted fondness:
"My husband is going to kill me if he finds out I skipped lunch again."
And Dana, who had worked enough years in emergency medicine to survive on caffeine and spite alone, snorted.
"Husbands," she said. "They worry too much."
You smiled to yourself while typing. "Mine's worse now that I'm pregnant. Yesterday he tried to meal prep for me."
"Oh?" Santos asked from the next computer. "How'd that go?"
"He labeled every container by protein count."
"Sounds intense," Santos muttered.
"He is intense," you agreed easily. "But he means well."
Nobody thought much about it then. Because everybody in the ER about your husband.
Well, sort of. They knew he existed. They knew he packed your lunches sometimes. That he texted reminders for vitamins. That he apparently folded laundry with terrifying precision. That he hated when you worked overtime but still stayed awake until you got home anyway.
They knew he rubbed your swollen feet after shifts. They knew he was "ridiculously overprotective." They knew he called you "doctor" sarcastically whenever you forgot to take care of yourself.
They knew you adored him, but they didn't know his name.
And somehow, over months of working together, nobody ever asked. Or maybe they had once and gotten distracted by a trauma alert halfway through.
That was the thing about the ER. Conversations happened infragments.
So your husbands became this faceless mythical man everyone pieced together from tiny details.
And because you were basically sunshine in human form (You were the warmest, most patient, endlessly kind person), everyone imagined your husband accordingly.
Probably some sweet elementary school teacher. Or a soft-spoken accountant. Or maybe a stay-at-home husband who baked sourdough and wore cardigans.
Definitely not Brendon Park. Absolutely not him.
The first time most of the ER really met Brendon was during a motorcycle trauma.
The ortho pager had gone off twenty minutes earlier and everyone was already stressed. The patient had multiple fractures, a discolated shoulder, and enough road rash to make the interns pale.
Then he walked in. Tall, broad-shouldered. No greeting, no wasted movement, just immediate assessment,
"X-rays," his voice cut through the chaos.
Someone handed them over. Brendon studied them for maybe three seconds.
"We'll prep OR two. I want vascular on standby."
Ogilvie beside him started talking. "So we were thinking—"
"No," Brendon interrupted without even looking at him. "You were guessing."
Silence. Ogilvie visibly shrank.
"Comminuted tib-fib fracture with displacement. If you'd waited another hour, he'd lose perfusion."
The room went still. Not because he was wrong, but because he was terrifying.
Then his eyes shifted toward you. And the entire atmosphere changed so subtly that nobody noticed it except maybe Santos.
Your shoulders relaxed just slightly. Brendon's expression remained unreadable, but his gaze lingered on you for half a second too long.
"You've been here since morning," he said flatly.
"Hello to you too."
"Did you eat?"
The room paused.
You looked midly defensive. "Yes."
"You're lying."
"I had crackers."
"That's not food."
Ogilvie who'd just been verbally executed stared between you both in confusion. The Shark did not do conversation, yet here he was arguing with you about crackers.
You rolled your eyes. "I'm busy."
"You're pregnant."
"And?"
"And you require actual nutrition."
Santos coughed to hide a laugh. Brendon ignored everybody. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and placed a protein bar beside your keyboard without saying anything else.
Then he turned and walked away. No goodbye or no explaination. He just left.
The ER collectively stared at the protein bar. Then at you. Then back at the protein bar.
Santos finally broke the silence. "...What the hell was that?"
You unwrapped the bar casually. "He gets grumpy when I forget to eat."
"You know Park the Shark?" Santos asked slowly.
You looked confused. "Brendon?"
The entire station froze at the first-name basis.
"What do you mean, Brendon?" Santos asked.
"That's his name."
"No one calls him Brendon."
"Oh," you took a bite of the protein bar. "I do."
After that, people started noticing things. Little things.
Like how Brendon only ever lingered in the ER when you were there. How he answered everyone else with clipped professionalism but always gave you full sentences.
How you somehow never seemed intimidated by him. Everyone else treated Brendon like a shark circling bloody water, you treated him like an annoyed housecat.
One afternoon, during a particularly miserable shift, you were sitting at the station rubbing your lower back.
"God," you muttered. "My husband bought six different pregnancy pillows."
Dana laughed. "Six?"
"He said the first five didn't have the right feeling."
"What does that even mean?"
"I don't even want to know."
Then Santos frowned. "Wait. Wasn't Park carrying a giant package into the parking lot yesterday?"
You didn't look up from your charting. "Probably."
"And didn't he get irritated at at someone who bumped into him because it caused him to drop it all?"
"Oh, that was ours."
Silence.
You blinked up. "What?"
Santos stared at you carefully. "You and Park live in the same building?"
"Oh." You smiled absentmindedly. "Yeah."
Another silence. Santos looked deeply concerned now.
"You're... close with him?"
You laughed. "I mean, I would hope so."
Nobody knew what to say to that. Because there was no way. No way.
You were married, pregnant even. Completely in love with your husband, whoever he was.
And Brendon Park looked at most human interaction like it personally offended him.
Yet somehow he kept appearing around you like a shadow, like it was gravity.
The rumors exploded after an incident at the cafeteria. You had been off your shift for exactly eleven minutes when Brendon walked into the cafeteria still in his scrubs.
And everyone noticed that. Because Brendon never went to the cafeteria (He barely seemed to consume food). He scanned the room once and found you immediately. THen walked over carrying a tray.
Without asking, he switched your coffee with a different one.
"You can't have that much caffeine."
You looked offended. "It was half-caf."
"It was basically battery acid."
"You tasted it?"
"You left it on the counter this morning."
Brendon sat across from you naturally, like this happened every day.
You pointed at his tray. "You got fries?"
"You wanted fries."
"I mentioned fries once."
"You cried about it."
"I was emotional that time."
"You threatened divorce."
The tables surrounding you stared. The conversation sounded disgustingly domestic.
Brendon pushed the fries toward you first before touching his own food. You stole half of them and he didn't complain.
Actually, he watched you eat with this faintly distracted expression that nobody had ever seen on his face before. Like he was making sure you were really eating.
Then your phone buzzed. You checked it and groaned.
"The husband says I forgot my appointment tomorrow."
Brendon immediately said, "Ten-thirty."
You looked at him. "I know."
"You forgot."
"I remembered eventually."
"You remembered because I reminded you."
The silence at the table became defeaning, like somehow everyone was staring at you. Brendon glanced around once, clearly unimpressed by the collective lack of intelligence.
Then his pager went off. And before leaving, he reached down and adjusted you chair closer to the table because you'd been sitting awkwardly with your belly.
The movement was instinctive, like he'd done this a million times. And it was weirdly intimate.
The second he disappeared, Langdon sat on the seat that Brendon just occupied.
"Oh my God."
You frowned. "What?"
He leaned forward carefully. "Are you having an affair with Brendon Park?"
You nearly choked on a fry. "What?"
"That man practically tucked you in!"
"He's just—"
"You literally just talked about threatening him with divorce!"
"My husband!"
"Exactly!"
You stared at him in disbelief before realization dawned.
"Oh my god."
"So, you are!"
"No I'm not, Frank."
"Then why does The Shark know your OB schedule?"
"Because he made it."
Silence. "...Made it?" Langdon repeated weakly."
"He color-coded the whole calendar."
He didn't speak. Then you laughed, actually laughed. Because suddenly the misunderstanding was hysterical. But before you could explain, a trauma alert blared overhead and the conversation died instantly.
Unfortunately for you, the rumor did not.
Within a week, the entire ER thought you were secretly involved with Brendon.
Not openly. Nobody confronted you directly again because you seemed so genuinely confused by the accusation.
But people whispered. The evidence kept piling up. Brendon carrying your bag without asking, appearing whenever you mentioned cravings, glaring at anyone who stressed you out, standing suspiciously close during procedures if you looked tired.
And worst of all? The way he looked at you when you weren't paying attention.
That's what really convinced people. Because Brendon looked at everyone else like they personally wronged him. He looekd at you like you were something precious.
Then one night, the ER was hell. Every bed was full, three ambulanced inbound, a drunk patient screaming in triage.
You were exhausted, hormonal, and dangerously close to crying. Then one of the newer interns snapped at you.
"Can we get another attending to handle this? Dr. L/N clearly isn't keeping up."
The station went silent. Your exhaustion sharpened into humiliation. And before you could answer, a voice cut through the room.
"No."
Everyone turned. Brendon stood near the doors, having apparently arrived seconds earlier. The intern straighted nervously.
"Repeat what you said."
The poor intern paled. "I didn't mean—"
"You questioned an attending physician with ten years of emergency medicine experience while you can barely place an IV."
The room became deathly still. Brendon's voice never rose which somehow made it scarier.
"You will either assist competently or get out of her department."
Her department. The possessiveness in those words hit everybody like a truck.
The intern muttered an apology. Brendon didn't even look at him again. Instead, he turned to you.
"You're shaking."
"I'm fine."
Brendon's hand briefly touched the underside of your belly as he adjusted your position from the station edge.
It was gentle. So different from the cold surgeon everyone knew.
And suddenly Santos understood. Not the affair, but something else. Something much bigger.
"Oh my god," she whispered.
Dennis looked at her. "What?"
But she was staring at Brendon. At the wedding band hidden beneath his gloves as he reached for the chart. At the identical band you wore on a chain around your neck because pregnancy swelling made your fingers ache.
At the way you entire body relaxed when he was near. At the way he knew every tiny thing about you.
Not like a lover, like a husband.
"Oh my god," Santos repeated louder.
You looked up. Brendon looked annoyed already, like he sensed where this was going.
Santos pointed between the two of you. "You're married."
You blinked. "Yeah?"
Brendon closed his eyes briefly like this was exhausting.
You looked genuinely baffled. "Who else would we be married to?"
Chaos. Absolute chaos.
"You let us think she was cheating on her husband?!" Santos yelled at Brendon.
Brendon looked unimpressed. "That sounds like a you problem."
"You never said—"
"Well, nobody asked."
"You literally acted like you hated each other!"
You burst out laughing. "What? No we don't."
Brendon looked down at you. And for the first time ever, in front of the entire ER, his expression softened completely.
Not subtly or barely there, but fully. Warm eyes. Affection. Something that was gentle.
Park the Shark was apparently somebody's husband. Somebody's incredibly devoted husband. And somehow that was more shocking than if he'd announced he killed people.
And somehow, from that day on, things became infinitely worse. Because now everyone noticed everything.
The quiet touches. The instinctive teamwork. The fact that Brendon always knew where you were in the hospital. The way he softened only for you.
The way you could make the scariest surgeon in the building carry your snacks and hold your coffee and rub circles into your back between traumas.
And worst of all?
Now the ER knew that every horrifyingly domestic story you told about your husband had been all about Brendon Park all along.
Which completely destroyed their ability to fear him properly anymore. Especially after they heard him answer your phone one day with:
"Baby, why are you calling me from upstairs?"
thank you for reaching until the end! i'd love to know what you thought about this story anddddd if you'd like to see more ;)
Summary: Andrew being clingy when he's sick
(I KNOW he gets all clingy when hes sick)
You’re standing by the window, looking out at the backyard pool where Baz and Deran are arguing. The Cody brothers were out for two days because of a job. It seems like it didn't went too well.
You hear footsteps behind you. You don’t even have to turn around to know it’s him.
Andrew steps up directly behind you. He doesn't say a word. He just leans forward, resting his forehead against your shoulder.
"Hi. How did it go?" you murmur, reaching back to find his nape.
His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you back until you’re flush against his chest. He buries his face in the crook of your shoulder, taking a deep breath.
"Come to bed," he rasps. "Miss you."
You turn around in the circle of his arms and your heart aches at the sight. His eyes are bloodshot. His hair is pushed back and there’s a tension in his jaw that looks painful.
"Are you okay?" you ask softly, cupping his face. "Hey," you reach up to steady him. "You’re burning up."
"I'm fine," he rasps, though a harsh cough into his sleeve suggested otherwise. He doesn't pull away. He leans into your palm, closing his eyes tightly as if your touch is the only thing keeping the noise in his head at bay. "Too much noise," he mutters. "Too much... Smurf. Just... I'm just... cold."
"You're sick, baby," you say firmly. His skin is flushed and slick with a light sweat. "Maybe you caught a cold. Come."
He let you lead him toward his room, his footsteps heavy and uncoordinated. Usually, Andrew was the one watching over everyone else but right now, he looks like a man who had completely run out of fuel.
When you got him to the bed, he collaps onto the edge of the mattress, his head hanging between his shoulders. You knelt between his knees, unzipping his hoodie and peeling it back.
"Smurf's gonna want a debrief," he mutters.
"Smurf can wait," you counter, pulling a dry shirt over his head. "You can't form a thought in this state."
You stand up to check his temperature again, pressing the back of your hand to his forehead. He winces at the contact, but then he reaches out and grabs your wrist, holding your hand against his skin. He closes his eyes, a long breath escaping his lips.
"Hands... cold," he whispers. "Feels good."
"That's the fever, Andrew."
You manage to get him under the blankets. As you turned to go fetch some water and medicine, his hand catches your shirt.
"Don't go," he whispers.
"I'm just getting you some aspirin. I'll be right back."
"No, stay," he insists.
Your heart squeezes.
"Okay," you whisper, softening. "I'll stay."
You climb into the bed beside him. He immediately rolls over, burying his face against your chest, his hot breath soaking through your t-shirt. He lets out a long sigh, his body relaxing.
"You’re staying here until that fever breaks. No jobs, no Smurf, no debrief." you say, running your fingers through his messy hair.
He humms a tired sound of agreement.
"Strict," he mumbles against your chest.
"I know, mh" you lean down to press a kiss to the top of his head. "Rest, my baby."
He doesn’t respond, his breathing already deepening into a feverish sleep.
Later, as you try to shift to reach for the glass of water on the nightstand, his arms tights around your waist.
He groans, a pathetic sound that vibrates against you and buries his face deeper into the crook of your neck.
"Andrew, let go for a second," you whisper. "You need to drink something."
"No," he mumbles, his voice muffled by your skin. "Don't move."
He was acting very clingy. Every time you move an inch, he follows, dragging his body across the mattress to close the gap.
He was completely submissive to the sickness, letting you handle him.
"You're being very needy," you tease softly.
"Hurts," he admits, a rare confession of pain that made your chest ache. "Just... keep your body here."
He reaches up, his hand trembling slightly as he guides your palm to his cheek. He nuzzled into it. In this state, he was completely yours to take care of.
"Does a tea sounds okay?" you ask.
"Maybe." He whispers, his arms locking around your back again.
"Okay. I have to go to make the tea—"
"No," he insists, his grip becoming a permanent fixture. "Stay here. Hold my head."
You laugh quietly, finally giving in and curling up against his burning side. The second you settle, he lets out a long breath of relief. He tuckes his head under your chin, his nose pressing into your collarbone, and finally goes still.
"Tea later," he humms, his voice trailing off into sleep. "Don't... don't leave when I'm asleep. Promise."
"I promise, baby. I'm right here."
He doesn’t answer, his body finally going slack as the fever exhaustion takes over. Even in sleep, his arms stays locked firmly in your body.
Summary: When a job goes off the rails, Craig calls Pope’s wife for help.
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Swearing, Mentions of sex, Mentions of robbery (I mean, it’s Animal Kingdom), Heavy makeout, Pope being obsessed with his wife, Please let me know if I forgot anything!
Author's Note: This came to me in a vision. I don’t know what to tell you. But, as always, please let me know what you think! I wrote this one quick because I’ve been in a bit of a writing funk, so feedback is always the best kind of inspiration!!
Word Count: 1.6k
-
The steering wheel is cool beneath your fingers. The midday sun is burning through your sunglasses. Anxiety is twisting in your stomach.
You don’t fight with your husband. Ever. Sure, you can bicker sometimes, but even then it’s always more one-sided on your end. Pope Cody would burn the world to the ground for you. He would kill a man without question if you merely asked him to. He loves you so much that it borders on obsession, and it might even be a little bit unhealthy if you weren’t as unbelievably in love with him as he is with you.
When you bicker, it’s usually caused by nothing more intense than one of you being tired and grumpy. And those tiffs more often than not end with you both apologizing, him hiding his smile with a kiss to your forehead, and then dragging you to the bedroom so you can take any lingering frustration out on each other in more…creative ways.
And so, despite it all, despite the obsessive way he loves you and the stress of his lifestyle and Smurf constantly trying to bring you into it, you don’t fight.
But this… he is gonna fucking kill you for this.
If you survive it in the first place, that is.
Deep breath. Grip the steering wheel a little tighter. Focus on the parking lot. Bite down the anxiety that feels like it’s ripping your stomach lining apart.
Five.
You shouldn’t be here. You know that. But…
Four.
You promised him you would never get involved. Not in any of this shit.
Three.
You kind of wish you had a coffee or something. Maybe a shot. The amount of adrenaline coursing through your system is nearly unbearable and you haven’t even started moving yet.
Two.
The passenger door is ripped open, and Craig Cody nearly knocks you into the window with how quickly he barrels into the car.
“Drive!”
“Nope.” Your voice is steady. Firm.
“What?!” What, indeed. You don’t care how they usually do this, but no one is jumping into a moving car today.
One.
Pope moves into the backseat like a wraith, sliding in with a duffel bag over his shoulder and Deran and Jay right behind him.
He opens his mouth, the word ‘move’ a sharp crack from his lips before his dark eyes land right. The fuck. Onto you.
“No.”
“Hey, honey.” Your voice is tight. Too bright. “Long day?”
He’s looking at Craig, now. Oh boy, he might kill him before he kills you.
“She’s obviously gonna get a cut.” Craig says, like that helps, and you grip the steering wheel a little more tightly. Check the rearview again.
“Get out of the car.” He’s speaking to you, and you don’t have time to tell him he’s being overprotective.
“Seatbelts.”
“Are you serious right-“
“Shut up, Craig. Seatbelts.”
You hear four clicks. A few grumbles. You feel Pope’s eyes burning into the back of your head.
You slam your foot on the gas.
-
Within about four minutes, the smell of burning rubber is making your eyes water. The flash of blue lights is making them burn. The feeling of your husband’s eyes locked onto the back of your head is making your skin prickle.
“Fucking - stop it!” You finally shout, whipping around another corner and risking two seconds of releasing the wheel in favor of putting your hand over his face. It’s a childish move, sure, but the weight of his gaze is too heavy and you’re moving too fast to deal with it right now. He catches your hand, squeezes it once in an almost painfully instinctive way, and releases it just before you whip around another corner.
“Jesus Christ! Where did you learn to drive like this?!” Deran shouts, hands braced on the backseat to keep himself steady and eyes blown wide as he looks at you like you just grew a second head.
“I don’t know! Grand Theft Auto?” You try, and you sound a little more shrill than you would like to.
Craig is laughing. Jay is silent. You think Pope might have an aneurism.
“Wall! Wall!” He suddenly shouts, and grabs at you like he might shield you from the inevitable crash.
You swerve out of the way with less than a second to spare, feel his arm locked around your chest from behind your seat, and giggle like an absolute lunatic.
This time, when he looks at you in the rearview mirror, you can barely read his expression. His eyes are wide, filled with panic and surprise, and you giggle again, the fear and adrenaline overflowing from you in what might be the worst form possible.
Yeah, he’s definitely gonna kill you.
-
The moment the car stops, Pope launches out of the back, and you know what’s about to happen before he even makes it to your door.
“You think he’s gonna kill me?” Craig asks, still grinning, still riding the same adrenaline high that’s making your blood hum in your veins.
You look at him, and grin right back. “Oh yeah. You’re dead, dude.”
Your car door rips open, and Craig even reaches forward to unbuckle your seatbelt for you before Pope Cody lifts you right out of the fucking car.
He carries you around to the other side of the building like you weigh less than a paperweight, placing you on your feet in the alley and caging you against the brick wall. His eyes are burning into yours, so intense you can feel the weight of his gaze like a fucking anvil on your shoulders.
“I know you’re mad, but-“
To your surprise, he kisses you. He kisses you so hard that, if it weren’t for his hand flying up to protect the back of your head, the force of it might slam you back against the wall hard enough to concuss you.
His body envelops yours. His hands slide over your cheeks to cradle your face in a way that’s almost more possessive than adoring, lips moving against your own with a desperation that has your knees shaking.
“I…” It is painfully difficult to think when his teeth are scraping over your lower lip, when his tongue is tracing the sting of it like it’s second nature. “Mm, I thought you were mad.”
His hands skate down your body, wrapping around the backs of your thighs and lifting you against him so he can press you more tightly against the wall and kiss you even harder.
“Furious.” He growls, pulling back to brush his nose over the hollow of your throat. “I’m fucking furious.”
“You’re sending some very mixed signals about it.”
His hips grind against yours, and he swallows your gasp of pleasure with another kiss. It’s all tongues and teeth, like he’s trying to taste the lingering adrenaline on your tongue while still trying to cling to his anger that you were driving the car in the first place.
“If Craig calls you on a job,” his hand is sliding up beneath your shirt, supporting you with one arm and still kissing you like you’re the only source of oxygen he’s ever tasted, “don’t fucking answer.”
“He said it was an emergency.”
“I don’t care.”
He hikes you up a little higher, hips grinding against yours, and cuts off your gasp with another rough kiss.
You smile against his lips, and his hands grip your thighs a little more tightly.
“I did good, though.”
He growls at that, pressing you tighter against the wall.
“I could have lost you.”
“But I did good.”
He kisses you again, like he’s trying to change the subject, and you catch his chin to keep him in place.
Because you know damn well why you’re up against this wall, and it isn’t just because he was worried about your safety. You can feel it in the quickness of his breath. In the tight grip on your thighs.
He likes to take care of you, but he knows you’re not delicate. Not breakable. And as protective as he can be, he fucking loves it.
“Say it.” You murmur, a smile still tugging on the corners of your lips. “I kicked ass.”
His eyes burn into yours, pushing forward to press his forehead against your own.
“You did…” oh, he doesn’t want to say it. He doesn’t want to encourage this, but he knows you’re right and he doesn’t want to admit how much it’s turning him the fuck on, “…you did good.”
“I kicked ass.” Your lips brush over his. His hands tighten even more on your body.
“Don’t push it.”
You grin, and when you kiss him again he groans so low that you can feel it in your bones.
And he really might take you right there in the alley, if it weren’t for Craig.
“Yo, put your dick away for five minutes. We gotta get this shit packed up.”
You both turn your heads, both breathless, and whatever look Pope gives his brother has the larger man raising his hands in mock surrender.
“Just sayin’, a public indecency charge isn’t gonna make the rest of this shit look good.”
“Cockblock.” You grumble.
“Adrenaline junkie.” He quips back, smile widening.
Your husband makes a frustrated noise, lowering you to your feet and pressing his nose into your temple in that odd affectionate way he has. You smile, turn your head to kiss cheek, and feel him brush his fingers over your waist one last time before he reluctantly pulls back.
As you walk with him back into the alley, Craig throws his arm over your shoulder, squeezing you hard enough to make you nearly stumble. “You kicked ass.”
You laugh, and lean into his side as Pope turns to glare at him. “Do not encourage her.”
Craig ignores him. Squeezes your shoulders again. “Wanna help load up the car?”
“What’s my cut?”
“Atta girl.”
And, though Pope doesn’t turn around again, still emanating pure rage, you can see the corners of his lips twitch in the smallest hint of a smile.
Well, he may not have killed you, but you’re definitely in for it later, and you’re pretty confident you won’t be complaining.
And if Craig calls you on another job…you just might answer.
Smut, Taking care of Andrew <3 because he needs it, bad. Est relationship, domestic longing, not proofread yet sorry!!!
Some brief warnings -def leaning towards sub Andrew! But not 100%!!! anything involving pope needs a little disclaimer, suggestive at times, smut mdni, you jerk him off and give him head <3, you touch yourself while you do this btw, slightly dark themes but they’re not mentioned super heavily, this is pretty much self indulgent fluff (and filth), you clean him off in da bath, descriptions of bodies and genitalia, lots of comfort and mentions of darkness
He comes home when the sun has been asleep for hours already. It’s not a surprise, and though for the past year of your relationship it’s been a somewhat frequent topic of discomfort in your mind, you understand. You’ve gotten through the deep, visceral ache of everything - of understanding that you love him, and you might not know everything about his life right away.
If ever. Though you hope that’s not the case. A conversation for another time
You’ve grown from it, given yourself space when it becomes too much.
And he has too. Even when it’s felt like torture of the worst kind. Not knowing if you’d truly stay if you knew about the horrible, darkest, nastiest parts of him.
You don’t know what Andrew does for work, what he does after work with Baz and what causes the bruises and scrapes and aching tendons that he comes home with. At this point, given the morbidly unfair and painful life he’s had that has shaped his quiet and haughty disposition - you don’t blame him for not being ready to share it with you yet.
How could he? You? Precious, understanding, ready with open arms to kiss him where it hurts the most. Right over his heart.
Creepy. Weird. Disturbed. Fucked up. Some of them, words from his own family. People who were supposed to be his friends. You knew, then, that you would never be the person who made him feel that way. You physically couldn’t.
You’ve tried to put the confusing puzzle pieces together, and it doesn’t matter. Not really. Your love for him is solidified, in your bone marrow, thrumming through your veins and your body and your spirit.
You’re wiping your mouth after brushing your teeth in the bathroom mirror when he comes home.
You hear the jangling of keys before his hand over the door handle, the creak of the door and scruff of his shoes against old wood. He walks with trepidation, knows you’re not asleep yet. You usually never are when he gets home because you like to wait for him - but he’s quiet anyways, doesn’t want his homecoming to ever be rampant or loud or disrupting.
Your room is dark, and he’s a shadow inside of it. He walks to the foot of the bed and the light that’s coming from the bathroom illuminates his broad back, shines iridescent on ginger curls. He reaches around and scratches the nape of his neck, sighs heavily with the exhaustion of the day.
Your presence is already palpable, and he turns to look at you with those sad, troubled, tired hooded eyes. Stares at you in one of his tee shirts, with wet hair dripping on your shoulders and soaking the fabric to a darker grey there.
He thinks his chest might cave in, or burst completely. The feelings make him want to crumble at your feet, worship you till you cry.
“Hi honey.”
You say it gently, like anything louder might cause him to shatter. You give him a soft, sweet smile. He can’t believe he’s gotten to come home to this, to you, for as long as he has. The corners of his downturned mouth twitch slightly, forms a not quite there grin in return. You’re already walking towards him before he has to take the first step.
You reach out, soft hands on hard, tense shoulders. And he melts. He lets you pull him into you completely, wraps his strong arms around your middle while you bring his face into the crook of your neck.
You feel him breathe out against you like he hasn’t exhaled once, feel the tension in his muscles dissipate like a clearing fog. You cradle his head and kiss his ear, raking your fingers through messy hair and using your other hand to scratch gently at his back.
If he could purr like a kitten, he would. Snuggles as close as he can, fingertips pressing into your soft hips.
“Hey baby.” It’s muffled, quiet against your flesh. You feel the warmth of his mouth against your throat, the tickling of his lips moving.
It creates a relief in you that you didn’t quite know before him. Like if he’s talking it means it wasn’t the worst it could’ve been today. Like he’s not beyond repair.
You smell like vanilla body wash and peppermint toothpaste and home. He inhales the scent, buries himself deeper against you. He has to remind himself not to squeeze you too tightly, to not fall to the floor and beg for you to stay forever, through all the ugly and unimaginable horror.
He doesn’t have to beg you, cause you’re a constant. Like the sun, or the pull of the moon.
You don’t say anything else right away, you let him and yourself enjoy this moment like you do almost every other night. Andrew needs physical touch in deeply intimate ways, beyond fucking into you so deep he can’t think straight - and beyond holding his rough hands on the couch while you’re watching Our Planet - once he realized what this was, that you loved him irrevocably, he needed to be held often.
And it’s where you both find safety and comfort.
He’s not bloody today. It makes you feel that much more grateful, that much more unable to free your grasp. He feels the sweat clinging to him though, smells the dirt and the violence of the day and realizes it’s getting all over you and - he has to shower.
You’ve already started letting go of him before he has the chance to, and his eyebrows furrow with worry, mouth opening to say something - and you kiss him. A sweet peck, then another, and another. You cup his face.
“You wanna bathe?”
He makes a soft sound in the back of his throat, the adoration he has for you washing over him like holy water. Of course you already knew what he was thinking, what he was feeling. You’re touching him so tenderly, moving hair that’s stuck to his forehead, tracing the crinkles by his eyes with your thumb.
“Mm, yeah, I stink.” He says back.
You smile at this, amused because truthfully he just smells like outside natural musk and the scent isn’t that obtrusive to you. But you know how he is about being clean, so you nod anyways.
“Go get undressed, I’ll pick out some clothes for you?”
He rubs up and down your back, jaw clenching and unclenching, and he looks so exhausted you can’t control the need you have to take care of him.
“Okay.” Is all he replies. But you see the gratitude swimming in his grey irises.
You lean in, kiss his chapped lips once, twice, softly. The smacking sound is the only noise other than your heartbeats and the overhead fan in the room. When your lips depart for the last time, he chases them slightly - frowns down at you.
It makes you giggle, and the sound lights a match inside of him. Teasing, playful, jubilant even when he knows you’ve missed him all night and worried till you couldn’t anymore. You would indulge him, need to indulge him because it’s not super often that Andrew gets that unbearably needy look in his eyes. Like you’re a savior.
But he’ll feel better once he’s clean, so you turn around and motion towards the bathroom, and he replies with a low, nonverbal hum. When he turns, you pat his bum, and he genuinely chuckles this time, feigning offense.
“Hey.” He warns with no real malice or threat. You get warm in your belly.
“Hey. Go get naked.” It’s a sarcastic reply, but it goes straight to his dick nonetheless. He kisses your face harder than he intends to, obeying your command.
“Yes ma’am.”
He’s sauntering into the bathroom and you make quick work of digging through your drawers, picking his most worn items that are clean and folded currently. You hear shuffling in the distance, a belt buckle being undone snd that warmth starts to become excitement.
You reel it in for the time being.
A black tee shirt, grey boxers, black socks. You take it to the bathroom, and by the time you’re walking in he’s started the shower and steam has begun to fill the room. You grab a clean rag from the drawer.
Truthfully, you still aren’t used to how whiplashed you get at the sight of Andrew naked. It’s so unbelievably juvenile, you thought you’d grow out of it given the length of time you two have been together - but it hasn’t gone away.
He’s so broad, so fit and thick everywhere. You’re setting his clothes on the counter, staring as big biceps hold onto the side of the wall, and as he lifts his leg to climb into the shower. You’re no better than a man - the way you’re scoping every inch.
He’s freckled from head to toe, kissed by the sun, bruised by the nature of his existence. Tense, rippled shoulder blades move underneath his skin, and then you stare at his ass and almost feel a little jealous.
Once he’s in, glass shower door still open, he turns to face you while the water starts to soak his auburn hair and the left side of his body - and you don’t necessarily stop yourself from glancing between his legs. You can’t help it.
The thing about Andrew having a staring problem, is that you feel no shame when you stare back. His abdomen is taut and rigid, dips and valleys of muscle. And further down past the soft blond-ish red fuzz below his navel, his hair is neatly trimmed at the mound, reddish in tone like his hair, and though his cock is half soft it sits heavy between two muscular thighs - pretty and pink at the tip.
“Gonna come in with me? Or y’just gonna stare all night?” He quips. Only because he’s eager to have you close to him again. His skin is still buzzing from it.
“Just gonna stare all night, if that’s alright with you Mr. Cody?”
You have one of those sweet grins that reaches your eyes and makes him want to do really, really nasty things to you. You pretend not to see his dick twitch from the shaft, swelling little by little. But his heavy shoulders are slumping, and he tucks his chin and he’s got this look in his eyes like he really can’t bear the thought of you not being in the shower with him.
You push yourself off of the counter.
“I’m just kidding, big baby.”
He smiles, really smiles and god. You’d give him everything.
It’s his turn to stare.
Your tits sit perfect, truly. Perfect. He knows how they feel in his mouth, how they feel when kneaded in his wide palm. And your soft waist, he knows what it’s like to grab it, how to imprint the shape of his fingertips into the pliable flesh. He knows the weight of your thighs when they’re rested on his shoulders, too.
At one point in your relationship, it made you so fucking nervous you couldn’t think. The way he’d silently watch you when you took your clothes off with rapt attention, laser focus, burning the image into his head. But now you know it’s his way of admiring, soaking the surrealism up.
You don’t have much to take off, and truly, the quickness in which his manhood is achingly hard just at the sight of you undressed alone is what quells any insecurities or worries you ever have when it comes to his lingering gaze.
He keeps his eyes on you like a lion locked in on a gazelle while you walk over. He doesn’t mean to, but that’s just how his face looks.
He reaches his calloused hands out to steady you when you step in the shower, already has two thick, strong arms around you when you slide the shower door closed. He’s warm flesh against you, your chest smooshed against the sturdiness of his, his cock pressed in between your bellies.
You walk him back so that the hot stream of water soaks his hair, not enough to cover his face as to not waterboard him. You tangle fingers in his scalp, over the nape of his neck, while his hands stay impatiently put at your waist. (He doesn’t always like groping you immediately, needs to know it’s the right moment to do so.)
“Let me wash your hair.” You reach to the right of you both, grabbing your shampoo from the shower shelf.
He won’t admit it, but he loves when you use your shampoo on him. He smells sweet for days, the breeze whispers by him and he catches the scent of you in the air. His heart starts thudding faster at the thought of it.
You holds you all the while, still smooshed together as close as humanly possible. You squirt some in your palm and lather it until it’s sudsy.
“Put your head back just a little for me.” You instruct, and he does so with not one more bat of an eyelash. You strain just a bit to reach with this angle, willing yourself not to get distracted by the open expanse of his neck, his Adam’s Apple bobbing in the middle.
You get to work on his curls, starting from the crown and moving all over with gentle scratching motions - making sure to really scrub at his scalp as you know he’ll feel contaminated otherwise.
It’s the same reason he doesn’t use conditioner, doesn’t like to feel like there’s any residue left.
He’s groaning softly, eyes closed, face relaxed for the first time all day since he woke up. You can’t resist the overwhelming urge anymore, so you twist your head and kiss his throat - smiling against his hot skin when he makes another low, saccharine sound from the contact. You feel his dick jump between your bodies where it’s sandwiched.
“Catching me while I’m vulnerable.” He says, peeking one eye open while you rinse the shampoo out. You snort at this, cupping all the water as it movies towards his hairline as to avoid it getting into his eyes.
Andrew’s so distracted by so many pleasurable feelings at once. Not only your fingers at his scalp, but your breasts against him that have gotten soapy from stray suds, your belly against his navel and his hardness there. You’re even softer when you’re wet.
He’s so distracted he doesn’t have time to keep you from leaving his grip before you’re moving behind him - you kiss his back, fighting the urge to nibble, and rub his tense sides before he has the chance to complain about it - letting him know you’re still here. Still touching him.
You grab the clean wash rag, get it saturated and then yes, use your body wash because it’s so fun to cover him in vanilla cashmere - and he lets his head loll to the side when he realizes that you’re washing him.
And you take as much care and time as one possibly could.
You start at his big shoulders, scrubbing diligently all the way down his arms- admiring the protruding veins that cascade all the way down like vines of wisteria. He holds them out for you, and you get everywhere there is to touch - even down to his hands and fingertips. You move to the other side to repeat the ministrations - and you’re so moved by the fact that his eyes have remained closed - content. He’s truly at peace, absorbing the care like it’s something he’ll never get again.
You even get behind his ears, careful when rinsing this area off.
You then move mid back, scrubbing in soft circles. You count the freckles, jealous of the fact that the sun got to kiss him before you ever did. You’re at his lower back next, then reaching around to get his taut stomach. You really take your time here, physically feeling the outline of muscle tensing underneath your touch, through the material of the rag.
This part may be for you too. Self gratifying.
His breathing has gotten a little heavier, panting in a way that he only does when heady arousal and desire is starting to drive his conscious- and it makes the area between your legs pulse - makes your chest squeeze and headspace get all foggy. It makes you want to illicit this reaction even more.
“How’s that feel, Andrew?”
It’s hard for him to reply when he’s like this. So instead he grabs your wrists, linking his fingers with the hand that isn’t holding the rag. Your chest is pressed against his midback now, and he doesn’t push or nudge your touch when it starts moving lower, but you feel every muscle in his body start to contract with anticipation.
His lower belly convulses.
You’re gentle with the rag, don’t want it to be too rough when you drag it over his thick shaft, let it cascade over his fat tip - he shudders at the sensation, throws his head back when you cup his balls.
“Fuck, fuck.” His words shake, thighs trembling. You let the wash rag fall because you need to feel him fully, so you do.
He’s hot and heavy in your palm, fingers wrapping around him firmly. You kiss the nape of his neck, give in to your urge to leave little love bites on his shoulders and down his bicep. He lets out the most lovesick, dirty whimper at the feeling.
“Oh baby,” you purr, pulling a long, slow stroke. He’s started to let some of his weight settle against you, stops his knees from buckling in on himself.
“you feel so good in my hand, Drew.”
He trembles again, squeezing your free hand while you start to suckle on the side of his neck - open mouthed, licking until you reach his ear lobes.
He’s so sensitive here, you anticipate the bucking of his hips, chasing that friction, that drag of your hand. You’re properly jerking him off now, and the sounds he’s letting himself make - it’s freeing, for you, for him.
He’s got that steady grip on your hand, tightening it with each stroke you give him. You focus on the tip, keeping a nice firm hold on him while you move up and down and up and down over the sensitive area. He feels so much all at once, makes him feel like he’s not even real in the best way.
“Baby, baby.” He says it over and over again like he’s gotta ground himself with the words, with your name. You twist your wrist, the soap creating a slide that’s agonizingly good for him.
He’s caught in a hot iron of anticipation and pleasure, not wanting anything to cease, and needing everything all at once.
“I wanna feel you in my mouth, want you to let it all go for me like that.”
Fuck. He has to grip your hand, pause your pumping because the words roll of your tongue so casually, like he’s not about to cum from what you’re saying alone. Like you’re not wrecking him from the inside out so easily.
You mouth at his back again, before you’re moving to face him and he’s got his eyes locked on your every move. You move him under the water, rinsing him free of soap everywhere the foam has decided to cling to.
You pull him out of the stream by the hips when you sink to your knees.
He could really and truly cry just from looking at you like this. You’re so beautiful, so intent on pleasuring him, taking all of the grief and the pain and the frustration away - he strokes your cheek, stares down at you like you’re saving him from something awful.
You grip him at the base, fist pressed against his mound. You lift it up and kiss the underside, coating it in spit and kisses before traveling to the tip. You give a careful lick, reeling at the sounds he’s making. He’s grunting, fingers careful as to not be too rough against your scalp when you finally pass him through your lips.
“Fuuuuuck, yeah baby s’good.” He rasps. His expression is pained, a beautiful example of what feeling good can do.
You’re working him with both hands, not teasing him cause you know he needs this. And you need this. Taking care of him is something that comes naturally, instinctually just like it does for him with you.
You swirl your tongue around the mushroom tip, let your slobber coat him all over.
He has to take his hands out of your hair, squeeze them by his sides 5 times each. He needs to focus more, or else he could cum right now. And he needs a sense of grounding, cause you have this unreal habit of being able to take him out of his own body.
“Mmmm.” You hum around him while you slide him past the roof of your mouth and then into your throat, and those knees buckle again.
“Baby don’t stop, please.”
The shutter and wail in his voice pulls something that aches from your stomach into your chest. You’ve got him pleading and begging and saying the sweetest things all because you got him down your throat. It’s riveting.
You stay focused, determined beyond belief. Precum leaks from him and you swallow it with pride, cleaning his mess as it comes. All while he keeps those hazel eyes glued to you, unable to look away.
You have to use two hands with Andrew, mostly because he’s thick - and you want everything touched, his tip, his shaft, his balls. Your mouth has touched every bit, and if you thought his sounds were affecting you, the way your sounds are affecting him are even more devastating.
You act like it’s stimulating you, moaning around him and looking up with teary eyes and pinched eyebrows and you’re so messy with it cause you’re in the shower and know it won’t bother him, slurping and slobbering. He actually does have to use one hand to grip onto the shower door handle - other cradling the back of your head.
“Fuuuuck - shit I- oh baby. Sweetheart.” He’s babbling now, doesn’t have a real sentence for what he feels.
“Mhmmm.” You hum back, closing your eyes for a second while you work.
You know he’s close. You can feel it on your tongue, the tension and the twitching. You remove one hand, not even thinking, and bring it between your legs to quell the throb that starts to overwhelm you.
Your tongue laves his slit, his frenulum. You suck him like this because you know it’ll get him off since he’s already so close, stomach rock hard from the tensing and jaw slack. You’re surprised he isn’t drooling.
But he can hear it - over the sound of the water hitting the tiled shower floor, over the lewd slurping of your mouth on his cock - he’d know the sound of your fingers inside you anywhere.
It’s only a few seconds that you’re doing it, pumping your middle and ring finger in and out of your heat, before he feels his balls tighten and the ecstasy of release washes over him along with the hot water.
“Fuck, ah, ah, ah.” It’s staccato, choppy moans that fall out of him when he cums, in tandem with the convulsing of his body as he releases thick white ropes down your throat.
He sounds helpless, looks like he’s being drained - cause he is. You’re greedy, and he holds your face gently, feels your jaw work and expand as you continue sucking him. The pleasure is still white hot and violent, it has him by the hips and the loins and you’re still touching yourself.
“Baby I can’t, I can’t - fuck, fuck.” He heaves.
But he lets you, cause you’re rubbing your clit now and his sounds and the flavor of him and the moment itself is doing something to you - you’re dangerously, ridiculously close to the edge already.
He’s half hard and rubbing your face with the back of his knuckles gently, like you’re the softest creature he’s ever knows. His hips are jerking from the overstimulation and it’s bordering on painful but god - it’s so filthy, so beautiful how you’re almost there.
“Please cum for me, that’s it baby, yeah, yeah.” He’s breathless and weak when he says it, and that’s exactly what does it for you.
You take him out your mouth but he still holds your face tenderly when your orgasm hits you. You’re writhing, on your knees, gripping the meat of one of his thighs. He watches your face, every micro expression from your release, and with anyone else it would be too embarrassing to allow.
Not with him.
You jerk, twitch and say his name over and over and over till you’re choking on a moan - his dick gets hard all over again, but he doesn’t think about it. All he can think about is how ethereal you look, how he can’t live without you. How you’re all that’s good and all that’s rewarding.
You take a second to try and breathe again, regain composure but it’s one second too long cause you shouldn’t be on your knees still, you shouldn’t have even cum without being pressed against him but he wanted to let you have that for yourself.
He leans down, scoops his hands underneath your armpits to pull you up to your feet case he can’t stand you being so far away anymore. It physically pains him, now.
You feel warmth and brawn and the familiar texture of his skin against you. You’re both shaking, panting, undone. Pruning from the water.
And then he kisses you with your eyes still half lidded, a good and firm and hard kiss that makes you sigh against him.
“Love you Andrew, I love you.” You mumble it against him wet mouth, but it’s felt deep behind his ribs and wraps itself around his heart anyways.
Andrew celebrates another birthday with a party thrown by his family. But over the course of a year that you've known him, you have watched the dynamics of the Cody family and you are not pleased. 13.7k
warnings: fluff, soft!reader, soft!pope, reader is protective of pope, reader has a low tolerance for bs and smurf and baz are at the top of her shit-list, birthday do-overs, pope just needs a hug, implied erectile dysfunction due to stress and anxiety, unprotected sex, piv, sex what happens when you meet someone who is always willing to meet you in the middle, no use of y/n for reader
metamorphosis masterlist
writing masterlist
ao3 (must have registered account)
A svelte finger traces the elegant loops of stenciled lettering that you have been staring at for the past ten minutes.
Those dark orbs of yours melt in the sunlight that filters in from the windows, resembling barrel aged bourbon poured over fresh rocks. The slight gloss on your lips pops as your mouth is slowly pulled at the corners as you continue to admire the invitation in your hand.
Nearly a year of knowing Andrew Cody.
Two of those months were spent getting to know the man who shared sunrises with you on a rock; of shared mornings with only tea and muffins or biscuits between you.
In the third month, you both realized that you found a friend in each other – a confidant that did not judge, did not ask, but simply allowed the other to breathe in a world that is as demanding as it is freeing. No pressure, no constraints, the two of you existing in the same moment, at the same time – in the same place.
It meant everything.
The weight of the world does not feel so heavy when there is a fellow Atlas who kneeled shoulder to shoulder with you.
By the end of the third month, you realized that the glances he once gave you have become stares – weighed with something warmer than quiet interest.
Soon it stopped being just mornings when you saw each other, finding yourselves right back on the rock in the evenings to take in the sunset together.
From sunrise to sunset, your worlds did not cross. You returned home and spent hours in your office, reviewing emails and inquiries from local theatres and orchestra halls. A hiatus from composing allowed you to pursue other ventures that allowed for you to still live comfortably without having to touch your savings or inheritance. You lived a life worth maintaining – of keeping and protecting.
During those hours when Andrew was not in your presence, he lives in a world of fog. Lines blurred with no clear distinction as he functioned in his role as Smurf’s tool. You could never deny seeing the dredges of emptiness in his eyes when you returned to each other in the evenings. But you noticed the way he changed when he came upon you, the tension bled from his spine the same way the skies did with gold and lavender. His shoulders slightly lowered, eyes clearing as though you were his focal point – it is a role that you embraced with ease.
One day in particular, Andrew had arrived with a limp, and he barely made it to the rock before you had approached, arms raised as you met him where he was. Mindful, you wrapped your arms around him, whispering in his ear a question but the only response you got was his weight pressing into yours. You stood with your feet firmly planted in the sand as you held him up, body rigid like the willow tree you were lovingly nicknamed after – you supported his weight like a loadbearing wall, unwilling to see him falter. Your curls blew in the wind like tree branches before a spring thunderstorm hit off the Gulf while your whispers of encouragement hung like ripe fruit.
After that, everything changed.
It felt as though a dam broke, not with maliciousness – but purpose.
Before where Andrew and you navigated one another with a carefulness – of respecting boundaries and not rushing into this – it shifted to intent.
Everything that has transpired has carefully led up to this moment, you tell yourself. You gave another glance at the invitation in your hand, the tip of your tongue licking the roof of your mouth.
Navy blue lettering on matte black cardstock.
You carefully slip the invitation back inside the matching envelope. In your office you move in silence, gaze focused as your hands begin to work; the blue wax slowly melts above the tealight candle you lit. Your eyes glance at the flickering flames before you pick up your stamp.
It is the same stamp your daddy had gifted when you finished undergrad and pushed into graduate school, continuing in your pursuit of the fine arts. You remembered the first time you sent out invitations to your first performance as a composer. Just as you did then, you pour wax on the envelope, watching the blue darken from the absence of heat. Quickly, you grab your stamp and press down, listening to the dull thud as you hold it.
Slowly, you pull it back and stare at the “W” in the center.
“Well…this is it.” Your voice echoes back to you softly, the music you had played earlier has already been cut off, leaving you to fill the silence.
After glancing at the watch on your wrist, you blew out the tealight candle and straightened your office back to order. You left your envelope to continue cooling and harden while you showered and changed.
Almost twelve months since your first encounter with Andrew.
Of those twelve, nine months have been spent dating.
And today would be the first time that your worlds will finally collide – intersect – as you finally have faces to put with the names that Andrew often speaks about.
It will be different, of not just knowing Andrew’s family from his stories but seeing them in person as well. You have spent the better part of a year listening to what is said and what goes unsaid by Andrew.
The dynamics in his family once he told you about his past – the good, the bad and the ugly – are complex. Andrew once admitted when both your heads had been pressed into pillows that there was not a lot of good in his life.
His niece, Lena.
And you.
He has said those two statements so openly that you could only stare at him, a hand creeping up to palm at his face.
There is a hierarchy in the family – though false it is. Because it does not matter the order of birth – or adoption in Baz’s case – it all leads back to Smurf. In the year that you have been dating Andrew, the questions you thought to ask him are answered with contexts provided by him when he comes home to you; sometimes bruised, limping, exhausted with shadows under his eyes – yet somehow still keeping his head on a swivel to reach for you and hold you close.
It made you curious, about a woman who had sons such as this one and kept sending them into the fire, time after time.
Again, and again.
You knew eventually at some point you would have to meet Smurf, along with the rest of his family. Andrew has purposefully gone out of his way to keep his two worlds from crossing, but you know the toll it takes on the mind and body; of trying to separate two forces that are bound to meet at some point.
But you sought to rectify that decision the moment you realized over the course of months that you truly loved him – flaws and all. You didn’t want to sleep another night knowing the cost he was burdened by because Andrew feared that if your two worlds collided, you would walk away.
As if you could at this point.
You were gone the moment your eyes met.
However, there is no one in this world who understands your threshold and tolerance better than you. When Andrew first mentioned the birthday party his family was throwing for him, you noticed the hesitation in his voice, along with the wound that you had patched up just a week ago after he returned from Smurf’s.
Before Andrew had thought of rescinding the offer, you had smiled and pressed a kiss onto his lips. “I want to meet the people in your life; they are important to you – they will become important to me.” There was nothing Andrew could say to refute that, his gaze dark as he blankly nodded his head, still hesitant but assured by your own confidence.
You are southern to your core; you can turn a blind eye to a faux pas or see an opportunity and snatch it like a hawk who has dropped down from the skies because it sighted weak prey.
In this, you chose the latter.
After showering, dressing in your two-piece swimsuit and coverup, you grabbed your envelope and headed out the door.
Thirty minutes later, even without the description of the Cody’s compound, you would have found it with all the vehicles parked on the street and the music that bumped behind the tall fence and gates.
You parked your merlot-colored 1990 Mitsubishi Majero Wagon down the street, making sure it was locked before you began your short trek.
The tote bag on your shoulder is filled with sunscreen, car keys, a beach towel, water, the envelope you had tucked away in between the pages of the current novel you were reading. But hidden in the smaller compartment is a small black box, the item inside had been a nice find in an antique shop you visited a month ago. Your cellphone is in your hand; you hesitated but ultimately decided not to call Andrew and pull him away from the party.
If there is one thing that being a composer has taught you – confidence and demeanor will carry you everywhere.
Act like you belong and people’s eyes will easily gloss over you in a crowd, because nothing about you alarms them to give you a second look.
You fell into step with other partygoers who giggled amongst themselves, bottles of beer already opened before they even got through the gates.
The white coverup dress you wear hid the matching white two-piece bikini underneath. Your sandals completed the ensemble as you glide easily through the pockets of people; some drinking, others eating ribs and hot dogs, a few diving into the pool with shouts of excitement.
Behind the shades perched on your nose, you took a cursory glance around the large backyard and scoped out an open chair partially hidden under an awning and fairy lights. The cowboy hat cast a shadow over your face as you pulled out your towel and laid it down on the lounge chair before getting comfortable.
Music continues to bump while you discard your hat, feeling your curls plop freely against your head in different directions before you lean back, setting yourself up to perfectly view the pool and observe with your book opened in your lap.
Unbeknownst to Andrew, the first to approach you is none other than Craig.
The second youngest Cody cast a tall shadow over your lap, pulling your gaze away from the pages as you stared at him.
Craig towered over all his brothers; his long hair pulled back into a bun with a cocky grin across his face while staring at the new one he has never seen before at one of their parties.
“Hey, you new around here?”
Even without Craig introducing himself, Andrew has always tried to provide you context of his family – descriptions included. Craig’s posture is not rigid – not like Andrew’s – he is relaxed, at ease with the opposite sex, his own appeal is natural. Your eyes do not miss the slight glances in your direction from a few of the other women who sought his attention.
Wrong brother, you sigh to yourself.
“No, I have lived here for three years though.”
Craig laughs, coming closer. “No, I mean new here? Ever been to Smurf’s? Never seen you before.” Craig knew that he would remember your face – or at least he thinks he would.
“Nope,” you pop your lips, flipping to another page. “First time for everything, right?” You asked. Not completely dismissive but a slight acknowledgement that his flirting won’t be reciprocated.
The shifting of your legs causes Craig to glance down, pulling his eyes away from your face to your limbs.
Long and toned.
Stretched out lazily, your legs shimmer under the sunlight. The sunscreen you applied before left your skin bronze and glimmering, the gloss on your lips shined while you pouted easily once Craig sat down in the chair across from you, not attempting to sit on the same chair – smart.
Craig continued to take in your legs, glancing down at your feet, noticing that they were nice, painted with white polish that matched your dress, but his eyes caught on the silver jewelry clasped on your right ankle.
Amethyst butterflies, with an “A” in the middle.
“Your name starts with an A?” Craig questions, ready to play twenty questions.
You smile easily. “Nope,” you repeat your earlier words and told him your name. “But most people just call me Willow.”
Hell, the only people who called you by your actual name are your mom when she is upset or your uncles and aunts when you encourage your younger cousins in their mischief.
“Ah,” Craig rubs at his beard. “Got a man?” This time his smile is broad, because a boyfriend has never stopped him before.
You put your bookmark between the pages, realizing that Andrew’s younger brother won’t let up. But while he questioned you, you took him in.
Not fully muscular – you understood he had a recreational drug habit that Andrew detested but Craig has long since stop heeding his elder brother. When Andrew spoke of Craig, it was twisted with paternalism and a duty as big brother, even if Craig is a man grown. You knew that when Smurf left the boys alone as children, it had been Andrew who took care of them, changing their diapers, holding them, soothing them as he and Julia tried to take care of each other.
Babies taking care of babies.
Because no matter if Craig disappointed Andrew, you knew that Andrew loves his brother – all his brothers – so much so he caught a charge for him – for them all – and did the time on his head.
At the indirect mention of Andrew from his brother, you smile. Something slow and sweet, white teeth peeking out behind your lips. “A man?” You hummed in consideration. “More than that I think,” you’re honest. Hoping and wanting Craig to realize all the good things about Andrew that you get to see because there is space for him to be so. “I would say he’s more like my boyfriend, love of my life, future husband.” You held your breath and then leaned forward as though you were going to share a secret, pleased when Craig leans in too. “If he was a seahorse, let’s just say I would let him have my babies.”
Craig’s brow pinched before he starts to cackle.
His laughter is sharp, a bark that cracks through the air.
Craig stands up, pointing at you. He has seen Pope watch enough nature documentaries to know what you mean. “That’s fucking crazy,” he laughs. “Yo, what the fuck?” He can’t stop laughing even as he walks away.
You chuckle to yourself, returning to your book.
The second brother to approach is Baz.
He does not linger like Craig did, just stares at you as though trying to place you. “Everything alright over here?”
You answer simply, eyes hidden behind your shades. “Yeah, no issues. Thank you.”
Curt and to the point.
You knew that out of all Andrew’s brothers; Baz is the one that should be treated with the same caution as Smurf. It is not that you are afraid of him or the “matriarch” of the Cody family – you simply don’t respect them.
Too many nights of Andrew apologizing for running late because he stayed behind to take Lena home. The girl’s parents too absorbed in their lives; more of Baz doing what the fuck he wanted and Catherine chasing behind him – not realizing that a dog is gone be a dog regardless of the collar on his neck or ring on his finger.
Andrew’s care of his niece is one of the factors that did not make you pause when he explained the armed robbery charge. If your daddy had been your North Star, you knew that for Drew, his niece was his.
A North Star is a moral compass, you believe. They were the type of person who believed the best in others even when that person couldn’t see it in themselves.
Pope has showed up with drawings from Lena that have found a home on your fridge as Andrew spent more time at your place. Drawers cleared out to make way for his clothes, space in your closet slowly began to become halved as you moved your winter clothes to the other closets in your house.
You knew that he wanted you to meet her, but that he did not want Lena to be in a bad way of keeping you secret if his family inquired and she let slip. Andrew is a protector – he wouldn’t put that burden on a kid’s shoulders. You respect that and love him even more for it.
After a moment, Baz leaves, taking one last glance at you, his eyes flashing towards your anklet before he left, making his way towards Craig who stood by the grill.
Jesus had Three Wise Men visit him while in the manger.
You had Three Codys speak with you.
Whereas Craig is charismatic and easy-going and Baz is tight in the face, Deran has his own way about him.
Deran Cody is the youngest, but you knew of the pride in which Andrew spoke of his baby brother. “Best surfer that’s ever hit the waves. Opened a bar, all on his own.”
A band of brothers that are criminals, but you knew even without Andrew saying that if he did have a favorite, it will probably be Deran.
You think Deran has Andrew’s eyes, not the same color – but there is something soulful and old in them. Your grandmother jokes that your Daddy had “been here before,” which is why he had been the first of her children to leave. “Old souls always have a way of finding young vessels. Just be mindful of them, they can be weary without even knowing it.”
“Hey,” you greet, voice relaxed and open. Opposite to the humorous way you spoke with Craig or the brief and blasé conversation with Baz.
Deran stands for a second longer and sits down where his older brother sat. “Hey.”
The two of you sit in that space for a moment. Your eyes and his take in each other, measuring and weighing.
“Baz and Craig are their own sort of problems, but I guess they haven’t fully connected the dots yet.” Deran starts, nodding at your anklet. His eyes flash towards his two older brothers, both their heads bent towards each other as they kept taking glances at you both. “Dumbasses,” he mutters under his breath which earns him a genuine smile from you.
It was clear to Deran once he saw you wave off Craig and dismiss Baz.
The women who usually attended one of their parties would flirt back with Craig, try to flirt with Baz – if Cath or Lena weren’t around – or try it with Deran himself, even if he barely gave them a second of attention. Even behind your shades, he noticed the way your head would slightly tilt up towards the wide glass windows – Deran knew Pope and Lena are in the kitchen. His niece wanted one of Pope’s sandwiches, and Pope has never refused Baz’s daughter anything. The “A” only solidified what he thought.
“You sound like Drew when you say that,” you laugh to yourself. You have heard Andrew mutter “Dumbasses,” under his breath every time he complains about something Baz or Craig did that pissed him off.
“Drew?” Deran repeats, voice quiet with thought. For as long as he could remember, Pope has always been…Pope. In the same breath that Smurf is Smurf and water is wet. Deran pauses. “Guess that sounds about right.”
The youngest Cody doesn’t get to say anything more because Pope arrives, hands cleaned from the crumbs of the sandwich he set before Lena; leaving her alone with Cath who quietly wished him a happy birthday after she caught him staring through the window at Craig walking away from you, laughing.
Pope had forced himself to breathe as he tended to Lena inside the kitchen, glancing and momentarily freezing when he saw Baz approach you next – secretly pleased at the way you quickly got rid of him. He knows your moods, the placid expression on your face when speaking with Baz is enough for Pope to know you hold a low opinion of his brother.
Deran watches how you move slightly, leaving space for Pope to sit down while you continue laying stretched out. The book that has been in your lap is easily discarded now that Pope has your focus. You reach out to him, fingers brushing against his wrist before your index and middle finger settle on his pulse.
“Okay?” You ask.
It is a question that you two frequently ask one another, as though you are checking each other’s temperature; not wanting to overcrowd one another.
The two of you are learning how to diligently stitch your lives together.
Pope holds that question in his mind for a moment.
You are here.
In Smurf’s backyard.
His breath catches at that statement.
Before he can think more about it, your fingers tap lightly against his wrist.
A reminder.
Both you and Deran can see the way his spine relaxes slightly, the way he leans into your soft touch, towards your body. His eyes are warm as they stare at you in wonder.
You attempt to tuck a curl behind your ear, showcasing the butterfly earrings that hung in from your lobe. The silver jewelry matched your other ear piercings in both ears. Between the stars in your upper lobe are silver sapphire anchors.
Pope exhales.
“Okay,” Andrew finally answers.
You whisper that word back to him before you shift focus. “You’ll get sunburnt being out here without any sunscreen, Sweetheart,” the observation is gentle. “Come on.”
You lean up from your chair, turning away from Andrew to reach into your bag and pull out the sunscreen you brought along. Before, Andrew never seemed to mind getting sunburned, but over the last few months, his curiosity over your own skin-care regime made you research and buy items for him.
Pope has spent much of his life in Oceanside, being sunburned came with the territory. But he likes standing with you in the morning and before bed, both your faces in the mirror as your own movements are paralleled – synced with one another.
“Deran was just telling me how your brothers are dumbasses for not putting two and two together,” you comment, rubbing the sunscreen between your hands before you got to work. You can feel Andrew’s sharpened gaze at the shape of your nose while you carefully apply the sunscreen to his face. Your fingers gently pad in the protection, rubbing down his neck before you step away and move towards his back.
He grunts at your comment, staring at Deran who continues to watch the two of you in silence.
To Deran it made zero sense and yet, it did.
Pope had been in a much better mood as of late, all of them had been surprised when he got released from Folsom and did not appear to slip back in his stoic moods. He stayed less and less at Smurf’s until his clothes were fully removed from his old bedroom.
Smurf has made pointed inquiries to Craig, Baz and Deran but none of them had any answers. J did not know Pope enough to truly speak on his personality, but the boys? They noticed and were unsure of what changed.
But now, it made total sense.
Your hands move across Andrew’s back; sunglasses pushed to the top of your head as you work, listening as he talks to his brother about this and that.
Across by the grill, Baz and Craig watch.
You are attentive, rubbing the sunscreen onto his arms.
Pope fights not to turn away when you squat down in front of him, applying some to his legs, your eyes flashing up towards him with a quick wink before you finish. He can feel Deran staring a hole in the side of his neck, but he ignores his brother while he helps you up.
“Thank you.”
Deran can see the difference in Pope’s appearance. His skin shimmers faintly in the sunlight, his curls are damp from his earlier dive in the pool.
“You’re bold for bringing her here. Smurf is going to shit a brick.” Deran has not told anyone that he is gay, but he would never bring Adrian around Smurf.
Janine Cody has an uncanny ability to fuck things up for her sons, daughter and now grandson.
You cluck your tongue once you’re back to lounging in your seat once more. “I am here of my own volition,” you tell Deran. “It’s no life to keep our worlds separate,” your eyes meet Andrew’s. This is a conversation between the two of you had before when both of you realized your feelings for one another.
In for a penny, in for a pound.
Pope nods his head in agreeance.
In this, the two of you are a united front.
Deran raises his hands and backs away as though in warning – the “I’ll tell you I told you so later,” hangs in the air when Smurf calls out to Pope.
You reach back and pull your book back in your lap, removing the bookmark to continue reading.
Smurf Cody walks with her usual air about her, cocksure about her place and the pieces she has on the board.
“Baby, you didn’t tell me you were inviting friends.”
Not a question, a statement.
Thrown with the same finesse of a dart into a bullseye.
Baz, Craig, Deran and even J stand around in a circle, watching the two of you face Smurf.
Pope saw how you didn’t even blink at Smurf’s approach, or her inquiry of your presence and what you mean in his life – what you mean to him.
Where he and his brothers would deflect, you don’t freeze, over explain yourself or anything. Your eyes blink slowly, nonplussed.
You allow Smurf’s words to hang between the three of you. After a heartbeat too long, you slowly begin to move in response.
Standing to your full height, you meet Smurf’s gaze.
One is a woman who has kept her son occupied for nearly a year, like an owner making their dog fetch whatever bone she has thrown.
While another is a woman who understands the basics of generational trauma and how hurt people can hurt people; unwilling to see the man you love twisted inside out for someone’s purpose other than his own.
Your fingers reach out and tap against Andrew’s wrist, and you offer him a smile – it’s genuine.
“Seems like your brothers could use the help on the grill, Sweetheart.” You’re pretty sure those are sausages that have been burnt to hell and back by Craig. “Let us ladies relax over here while you men take care of that.”
Pope met your eyes and saw your thoughts in them, “Let me take care of this, I’m a big girl.” He trusts you, and in a move that surprises his brothers and Smurf, he bends down to kiss you.
The familiar scent of your perfume is comforting as he pulls back, his eyes going to Smurf’s who stares at him as though he is alien. Maybe he is. Perhaps he always has been, or since Julia died.
You sit back down in your chair and gesture towards the other one in invitation.
It is bold of you to tell a woman whose house you’re sitting in to have a seat on her own furniture. But with all the mind games you knew Smurf plays with Andrew – with the rest of his brothers and nephew – it seems only fair.
Smurf smirks.
“You have to excuse me, not often my boys bring girls around,” the Cody matriarch begins.
You nod. “Good thing they are men and not just boys,” you joke. “As a woman, a boy would never appeal to me.”
You aimed right for the jugular.
Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the moment Smurf pauses, the smile on her face almost glitches before she controls it – but you saw it.
It hurt in the beginning when Andrew told you about the Pandora’s Box that is his mother. Which is a title that you did not think Smurf deserved nor earned. The woman treated her sons as though they are her boyfriends, lashing out when they do not immediately do as she says. You may have taken a few psychology courses in college, but music had been your focus – with foresight you wished you had taken more because even with your limited background you knew the wrongness of it. The emotional incest that Smurf weaponized against her sons, the syrupy voice she uses to call them “baby,” never caring at the slight flinch Andrew has at the pet-name.
There are many sins that Smurf is guilty of, but the way she has twisted her children is by far the worst in your opinion.
Smurf gives you a true full look. From your sandals all the way to the curls atop of your; Janine Cody has set her sights on you, and she analyses everything that she sees.
“Funny, how old are you? Thought my baby boy would be a little too old for you.”
“Not at all,” you dismissed. Unphased about the comment of your age in comparison to Andrew’s. He was only ten years older than you, which you tell Smurf. “He’s perfect for me – the way he is. He’s my best friend.”
This is a language that is spoken between two women who have their wits about them. The two of you walked on two separate paths, the only common denominator you have is one Andrew David Cody. This is a conversation that is perhaps long past due, but you both are not willing to concede in this matter.
Smurf won’t be able to run you off like she has the other weaklings who thought to ride on her own coattails through her sons. Not even that bitch in Mexico that Baz keeps, though he believes Smurf doesn’t know about it. Baz settled for Cath while Lucy keeps her head on a swivel, not willing to clash against Smurf over something as frivolous as love – or lust.
Catherine Blackwell has always been around, far too used to the Codys and their order of operation, the hierarchy of the family with Smurf at the forefront. What Catherine tolerates is not just from Smurf but Baz as well, she turns a blind eye to keep the peace when it costs her something every day.
Renn was in and out, never knowing when Craig wanted to be serious or if he was running game on her again. Her relationship with Smurf was cool and cordial, an acknowledgement of Smurf’s position but that is all.
You.
Smurf studies you.
You are an unknown.
Unknowingly, you have been in her walls for nearly a year with her none the wiser. Never catching Pope unaware – that told her enough as is. Her eldest is protective of you and only now it appears as though he decided to bring you around, but that’s just the thing isn’t it? Smurf doesn’t know that the offer had barely been thrown before Pope thought to rescind it.
In a moment of opportunity, when you saw a wild horse running by – you didn’t hesitate to jump on. Thighs squeezed, your chest pressed close to its back, you took the opportunity for what it was and here you are now.
Smurf knows nothing about you; besides the southern accent she hears and the anklet she sees with Andrew’s “A” hanging proudly on display.
“Yes well, you know how it is. Some boys can appear to be men, but ultimately they play their games. I would know,” Smurf said in faux commiseration.
You eye the woman sitting in the seat next to you. “Really? I’ve been fortunate. Drew’s my first real relationship after college. He’s steady – unwavering.” Despite how you’ve raised him, you think. All of the goodness Andrew possesses, it’s a miracle that he has enough to hold you in the center of his world.
You knew what it felt like to be disappointed in a man, but you prided yourself that the men in your family have always been a pillar you can lean upon. Andrew has never faltered in his support of you; never gave you cause for hesitation of where his focus and heart lay.
This is how the conversation flows between the two of you. Poking and prodding like an enemy searching the walls for a weakness to exploit and penetrate.
Across the yard, as bodies move to the music, rushing past to dive into the pool and splash, the gang of brothers continue to stand amongst each other.
J glances between Smurf and you. No twisted scowls, if anything it appears as if both women are happy to be talking to one another. It’s weird, but he recognizes it as the thing that woman do when they don’t like each other. Sizing each other up like the cats he use to see in the alley when he would score for his mom. He continues to observe them, lifting his can of soda and taking sips throughout.
Even when Smurf speaks to Cath, there was always a tonal distinction. Smurf talks to Cath as though she’s exasperated by her mere presence – or confused how the woman ended up being in her family in the first place – as though she hadn’t been there from the beginning.
Deran sips from his beer, eyes moving back to the grill to observe the new pack of sausages he brought out for Pope who flipped them. There are two of them closer to the front where they’re directly on the fire. “You’re going to burn those, dude.”
“Willow likes hers slightly charred,” Pope readily answers.
Craig snickers to himself. “Seems like she’s okay with eating white meat too.”
Baz laughs at Craig’s double entendre, while J and Deran barely release twin sighs of annoyance.
Pope doesn’t take his eyes off the two sausages in front of him, the flames from the grill dance in his eyes. “Watch your fucking mouth before I punch your teeth in with that bottle in your hand.”
The threat is quick and efficient.
Craig’s laughter dies off.
Baz raises his beer and takes another sip in interest. “So…where did the two of you meet?”
“Somewhere where the sun meets the horizon,” is the only response Pope gives before he takes your sausages off the grill, assembling your food with the same intensity he gives a job.
Sausages slightly burned on all sides between two tortillas – you didn’t like the texture of hotdogs buns, a quirk he noticed when the two of you went to a baseball game and he saw the way you ate a hotdog around the bread – no ketchup, only a slight drizzle of mustard. He went to find a bag of your favorite chips – that he specifically bought and brought to Smurf’s because he knew you’d be coming – to add to your plate before delivering it to you.
All the Codys raise their brows at the plate of food, sharing glances.
Once Pope is out of earshot, Craig cracks. “Makes sense he would find someone who eats a hotdog like that. Hey, did you know that male seahorses can carry kids? That’s what she wants to do to Pope. To Pope. How the fuck is this possible?”
Deran takes over the grill, putting on another pack of links once J took the tray and put it on the table where the rest of the food is housed before coming back. “Craig, what the fuck are you talking about? What does seahorses have to do with any of this?”
“She’s pretty,” J notes.
His uncle claps him on the back, “Hell yeah. See those legs? Bet she puts Pope in a headlock every night dude. Happy place to die, yeah?” Craig jokes.
“How’s Renn by the way?” Pope asks, standing behind Craig with a blank stare and empty hands.
You were happy to receive the food, a brief touch between the two of you was shared. You are not afraid to show affection in public, and Andrew has learned to be less shy in receiving it. Not even Smurf’s presence could dampen the affection between the two of you as Smurf continues to volley questions at you which you returned with your own serves.
The two women pulled their attention away from each other when the pool splashed loudly.
Baz, Deran and J had watched as Pope wrapped his arms around Craig and quite literally carried him over to the pool and dropped him in.
It made you smile, not at seeing Andrew thrash his brother with some sort of discipline, but at the figure he cut while doing so.
“Look at her,” Baz comments. “She’s smiling at his bullshit.”
Pope had walked back, resuming his mantel at the grill. “At least she is amused by my bullshit, the same can’t be said about Cath to yours.”
That lob even made Deran rear his head back in surprise as Baz’s smile faltered. Before you, Pope would meet comments like that with pointed silence or a “shut up.” But now, he has gotten more creative with his insults – if his silence had been pointed then his retorts now were cuts to the jugular. Deran is impressed.
J bites into his hotdog, watching the drama unfold between his uncles – or at least one of them, according to Smurf.
Craig arrives back to them dripping wet, scowling as he dries off. A small, petulant, irritated huff leaves him but even that’s dismissed by the plate of food Pope makes for his little brother.
“Eat,” Pope demands. He knew food staved off the effects of the cocaine his brother snorted when he thought Pope wasn’t looking.
A few hours later, Smurf rises from her chair, her blonde signature bob shifts slightly in the wind as she stares down at you. The silence holds weight, but there’s just a fraction of a tilt in her head of acknowledgement before the older woman walks away.
Not a win for you.
But not a loss either.
The boys brace themselves when Smurf approaches them, staring at each of them before her eyes turn towards her eldest. Just like with you, she doesn’t say anything to her son for a moment. “We should open your gifts now.”
That’s all she says before she begins to kick people out, Baz is moving to help her.
The music slowly dies down as folks leave. The stones in the backyard are soaked from the pool and wet bodies moving around.
At some point Cath and Lena come out, meeting you as you remained where you are seated – Andrew didn’t have you lift a finger to clean up the mess of others. He moved around the yard with a methodical precision, gloves on as he didn’t want to open his gifts in a filthy environment.
You spoke with Catherine who seemed happy at having another woman around, though you knew that your positions are very different. Lena was quieter, inquisitive – much like Andrew even if they shared no blood. Asking what Texas was like, if it was as hot as others made it out to be.
“It can be, but on a night like this…it’s beautiful,” you whispered to the little girl who had moved closer to you as you spun a tale of rolling country hills and wide skies. “The moon always looks larger, brightening up the countryside in a glow that even the most beautiful woman would envy,” you lightly poke at her cheek, causing her to smile.
This is easy, talking with children. Your younger cousins hung off you when you went home to Texas or Louisiana; wanting to be carried or play up under you as you moved around your family’s land. As a child you just wanted to be heard, and your parents fulfilled that desire. From what Andrew has told you, it appears to be as though he is the only one to truly listen to the little girl before you.
“In spring, the grass grows tall, every breeze makes those hills look like waves in an ocean – grass so green it sparkles like emeralds in the sunlight.” Speaking of Texas like this, it made you think about the plot of land that was deeded to you. You are still undecided about what you wanted to do with it besides intermittently checking on it throughout the year or having your mom do it for you. But it is there for when life gets too loud and you want to remind yourself of what you can build in the future. “You can hear the coyotes howling, branches from trees that dance in the wind.
“Sounds pretty,” Lena comments, eyes bright with the idea of someplace new.
You hum to yourself. “Very beautiful, but California has its own beauty too.” If it didn’t, you wouldn’t have stayed – and you hate to think what would have happened if you left before ever meeting Andrew.
Cath listens while you speak, half her attention on studying you and looking at Pope. Probably asking the same questions as the boys and Smurf – holding up a picture of you and Pope and figuring out how you two align.
You had kept Smurf occupied for hours and the woman didn’t try to circle back and make pointed comments.
This is a first.
But to you it is simply recognition that in a battle of wills, neither of you are willing to roll over and show belly. You know that a woman like Smurf will not simply let the matter lie and at some point she will try to see if there are any weakness that she can exploit, to either drive you away or force Andrew to.
But just like a willow tree with its roots deep, you aren’t moving.
Lena runs once Cath begins talking to you. You watch as the little girl runs past her father and into her favorite uncle’s arms.
Pope catches his niece with ease, his mind soothed now that the mess from the party is cleaned up. Lena whispers in his ear, telling him about what you told her. He nods his head, staring at Cath and Willow talking.
His past versus his present and future.
Smurf watches everything behind the glass windows in the kitchen, observing before she makes her way outside, clapping her hands to get the attention.
Soon the Codys and you are sitting around at the table.
Craig gifts his brother a gift certificate – to a strip club but he appears hesitant when he glances at you. “If I had known…obviously I would have chosen something else.
“No, you wouldn’t.” Baz, Pope and Deran all replied at the same time.
Craig doesn’t refute them, but he states, “but don’t worry, I got a back up too!” The next gift are tickets to a motorcross show in Los Angeles in a month, we can just hang out, you know.” Craig attempts to apologize half-way for the certificate, but you easily dismiss it.
You rolled your shoulders, tilting your head in thought. “I’m not mad about that; I’m just surprised there’s a strip club that gives out gift certificates.”
Before Craig can begin to regale to you about how he found the club, Smurf moves along.
Baz gave Pope a watch, one you recognized as being too gaudy for Andrew’s taste. Nothing about Andrew screamed flamboyant, of attention seeking but he took it in good humor with a quiet, “thank you.”
Deran at least had put thought behind his gift, a book. The youngest Cody shuffled when Pope stares at him. “Book store guy said it’s a good book – written in the 80’s about the conservation effort for beluga whales.”
You give Deran a smile, something soft and sweet for Andrew’s youngest brother. You knew from the documentaries that Andrew watched that he was quietly fascinated by beluga whales.
Pope’s mouth twitches in an attempt of a smile – not a full one that displayed the dimples that he knows you have seen – but Deran takes it for what it is, rolling his shoulders now that the attention is off him.
Lena’s gift had been something smaller, made with the type of grace that only a quiet precocious child could have for her favorite uncle. A small picture drawn, a picture of him and her framed with help from Cath.
Smurf’s gift had been an envelope of money, a portion of the cut that Pope should have earned if he wasn’t in Folsom.
Pope and Smurf say nothing, but he takes the envelope and sets it aside until his attention is caught by Smurf’s question.
“Willow, I don’t suppose you brought a gift, did you?” The question isn’t rude, but it is skeptical.
Pope watches your mouth twitch, as though you find Smurf funny – perhaps the only person here who did.
Quietly, you reach in your bag. Just like earlier, svelte fingers grabbed a hold of the envelope, slowly pulling it from your bag before you turned and handed it to Andrew.
Hands free, he accepts your gift, flipping it over to stare at the wax. He traced the “W” in the middle of the envelope. Pope broke the seal, splitting it in half as he opened it and pulled the invitation out.
“You asked me if I’ve been written anything, I have.” You spoke to Andrew directly, but your words carried under the fairy lights that brightened the yard.
The cerulean surface of the pool sparkles under the lights, empty of the mass of bodies that had occupied it earlier.
Pope reads the invitation.
Date.
Time.
Location.
There are no flares, no dramatics.
It’s an invitation done proper.
For Pope to see into your mind, to not just peek into your world like he does at home but fully walk into it.
You composed a piece for him, Pope Cody. A man that most have written off as too quiet, too odd, too weird.
It feels as though the air has escaped his lungs and Pope stops breathing.
But there you are again, his anchor.
Your two fingers brush against his wrist and you hold it there, not minding the stares from his family because you are focused on him.
“Okay?”
Pope exhales, the invitation in his left hand while he slowly moves to hold yours with his right.
“Okay.”
Craig peers over Pope’s shoulders. “What is it?”
Pope answers while you rub your thumb against his skin. “An invitation, to listen to her music,” his hand tightens around yours momentarily.
The warmth of your skin burns his in the best way. Pope, still processing what your gift means to him, feels as though his skin is feverish.
Craig stares at you, “you sing or something?”
Your peal of laughter is bright and bubbly, your body angled towards Andrew. You pull his hand into your lap, shaking your head. Your curls bounce with movement; the scent of your conditioner is sweet under his nose.
“No, she’s a composer. She writes music, plays a violin,” Andrew corrects with pride.
Even though you have not publicly performed in three years, Pope does not doubt that whatever you have written will not be as beautiful as you are. The fingers that are threaded through his, the curve of your neck, your lips when you smile, he finds everything about you mesmerizing, why shouldn’t he? You, who let your shoulders brush against his while watching sunrises and sunsets. Kisses that are soft and sweet, so much so that he wishes he could fall into you – your warmth is a hearth he keeps for himself.
Perhaps that is the reason why he never brought you around his family; half for safety and the other for selfishness. Of not wanting to share you with others because Pope knew the type of man he is, he can never do anything partially – either he’s committed or he never tries in the first place. But with every step, even when he is afraid of messing up, you meet him in stride.
It is wonderous but also fucking terrifying.
You did not bail on his party even after talking to Smurf for nearly three goddamned hours – doesn’t think any woman ever has held Smurf’s attention that long, not without her making them feel pathetic and small. You brushed off Craig’s attempt at flirting and barely paid Baz a glance. You were undeterred by Deran’s presence and acknowledgement.
Above all else, you talked with Lena not with the typical dismissal that Pope saw Baz or even Cath do when she is too exhausted from Baz’s bullshit, but you spoke to his niece like she matters.
While Smurf sits down and listens to her sons and nephew ask you questions, it is not them she focuses on.
It’s Pope.
It’s you.
The picture that gets painted.
Your shoulders are pressed together, no space in between you. Fingers still entwined while Pope mumbles answers to their questions, providing more context. Your voice carries when you supplement what Pope leaves bare. Smurf notices that when you shift, Pope mirrors your action, readjusting himself around you.
The cigarette Smurfs pulls from burns red at the tip when she inhales, silent as the smoke curls in the air, dissipating like plans washed away along the shore.
*
Pope walks you out of his family’s compound.
The night air is cool, but the large palm on the small of your back is enough to warm you twice over. You could have made it to your car on your own, but Andrew would have none of it. It’s only when your truck gets into view do you both slow down.
Pope presses his palm harder against your back; the pads of his fingers burn against the thin barrier that separates his skin from yours. Hazel eyes darkened by the night, he takes a moment to stare at you.
“Thank you,” his voice is gravelly. Pope cannot begin to explain fully what this means to him – you being here, today.
Last year when he got released, his birthday had passed with little fanfare. Pope had not known what to do with himself. Another year without Julia, and he hates that as time continues to march forward, the childhood memories he had of Julia’s laughter are beginning to fade. When he got out of Folsom and returned to Smurf’s, he hated how there were no traces of Julia, no memory of the girl his sister and twin had been, only a nephew he barely knew who had Julia’s smile.
Last year, everything had been out of place for Pope Cody.
And yet within that year, everything has drastically changed.
Pope doesn’t realize you moved until he hears you whisper to him.
“I know what today means for you, Drew. With the life you lived, it is a blessing that you made it to forty.” You pulled out the small box from your bag, holding it out to him.
The gifts he had received from his brothers were nice – strip club certificate and flashy watch excluded – but he knows he values yours and Lena’s the most.
“You didn’t have to get me another,” Andrew states but you shake your head.
You step closer, eyes bright and fervent as you beckon Andrew to open it. You savor his expression when he stares at what you bought, carefully packaged like the treasure that it is.
Cradled on blue velour is a silver Saint Jude’s pendant. Not unlike the one you wear as a staple jewelry piece, it belonged to your great-mother, and your grandma has since passed it down to you.
While you never called Andrew, “Pope,” he has told you where the nickname came from. His fascination with Catholicism as a child, of Baz dubbing him “Pope Andrew,” and that the name stuck.
“I know, but I wanted to because you deserve it.” You always reinforce to Andrew that he is allowed to want things, to desire them for himself. That he did not have to sacrifice without gaining, no matter what he family – his mother – believed. “I just want you to have something as a reminder that no matter what, you are not lost.”
Carefully, you lift the necklace from its casing, Andrew says nothing but that you expected. You knew he needed a moment to process this, his mind probably churning what all of this meant – how this new piece of information, of freely given affection, will impact him.
Silently, you unclasped the necklace and stand behind Andrew. Your svelte fingers brush against the sternum of his throat. You can hear the sharp inhale of breath, but you pay no mind as you clasped the necklace.
Stepping around, your eyes lazily drink Andrew in.
The cicadas sing in the background, nature’s harmony accompany your movements as you press yourself against him, arms wrapping around his torso while you buried your face into his chest.
Salty, from the chlorine in the pool.
His cologne has long since been stripped away, but his unique scent almost makes you dizzy as you hold him tighter. The palms of your hands spread across his back, feeling the defined muscles underneath your touch.
Pope shoves the empty box into the pockets of his shorts so that his hands are free. His arms curl perfectly around you, and he rests his face atop your head.
There are no cars that pass so you both stand under a streetlight, in a warm embrace that spoke less of urgency and more of a quiet happiness that’s obtained and shared between the two of you like a lone flame.
At some point, your bodies spin and you are walking backwards while Andrew leads you until your back is against your truck. The breeze nips at your ankles but it goes ignored when your head tilts up, mouth slotting easily over Andrew’s.
There is barely a sliver of space between you, no light able to creep through your bodies as you press against one another tightly. Your hands wound up into his hair, fingers carding through the curls that Andrew has grown out – once you commented that you thought them pretty – in the last few months.
Pope hands drop lower, unabashedly grabbing a handful of your ass.
Your tongue slips past the seam of your lips and barely a second pass before your tasting Andrew’s mouth.
This is not a kiss that is shown in romantic comedies when a couple finally meets in the middle of a street, and the perfect song is played in the background.
It’s messy.
Hungry.
Pure greed.
The lack of oxygen begins to make you dizzy, and the moment you pull up from air you suck in a mouthful.
Andrew looks wrecked.
Eyes wild, hair mussed, lips swollen, smeared with the remnants of your lip gloss.
In the year that you’ve known each other, you have not yet crossed the threshold of sleeping with each other.
Boundaries on both parts.
You, wanting to be sure before allowing a man to have unfettered access to you.
Pope, who is only just now coming into himself; he no longer wants sex to be transactional or to be watched by Smurf through a crack in a door.
The two of you need this time to adjustment, of acknowledging the boundaries set and working on removing them yourselves.
Pope breathes deeply, his hands cupping your face, eyes searching. He is about to say something until his name is yelled, breaking the silence between them.
“POPE!”
Baz stood on the curb of the compound. Pope and Willow are far, but Baz can see how closely the two of you are standing, the way your face is tilted up, Pope’s hold along your jawline.
“Family meeting.”
You can hear the irritated sigh that Pope releases, but you shush him, stealing one kiss, and then two before swiping in for a third.
“How many years do I serve if I steal a fourth?” You smartly ask.
In moments like this that get intense between the two of you, just are good like this. Your humor lightens the heaviness of the moment – a reset that feels less like a hard one and more like refreshing a webpage.
But this is not a time where Pope wants you to stop – he doesn’t feel guilt for finding you attractive, of the desire he feels coursing through him while you continue to stare at him, mouth twisted with a smile and eyes that resembled aged bourbon.
Pope does not stare back at Baz; he keeps his attention on you.
“Will you wait up for me at home?” It’s a question that he already knew the answer to but he asks anyway.
You spread your palms against Andrew’s chest; one hand resting lightly above his heart and the other presses against his throat, fingers gently touching his new necklace. “Of course, I’ll leave on the light for you.”
Baz continues to stand on the curb, watching his brother who retreats as you turn your truck around, taillights disappearing down the streets. When Pope gets close, Baz can see the new accessory that adorns his brother’s neck. He knew that Pope didn’t wear jewelry, maybe a watch but that is about as close as he’d get.
“Let’s get this shit over with,” Pope huffs. His body may be here, but his mind is gone, focused on you and waiting for your text to let him know you made it home safely.
“Smurf’s just worried.”
Pope cuts his eyes at Baz. Baz doesn’t say anything about the deadpanned expression on Pope’s face, the two of them walk back into the compound, the gate swinging closed behind them.
The next hour is filled with Pope standing in one corner, listening to Smurf’s “concerns.” Her concerns read more like inquiries as she tries to figure out a hole in your background. Cath and Lena have gone to the back long before voices began to rise and Pope took it all in silence. It comes to head when Pope straightens, rolling his shoulders as he steps towards the table.
Palms face down against the smooth surface; the expression Pope wears is dark.
Deran shakes his head, circling before leaning back against on the couch, glancing once at Craig before he subtly shrugs, the movement is slight, but his older brother catches it.
“Stay away from her,” Pope tells Smurf, but he also makes sure to look at Baz too when he says it. “You don’t know her and you don’t need to know her.” Because as far as Pope is concerned, Smurf had no reason to pry into your life or the life you and him were building together. He wouldn’t let Smurf get her claws into you.
“Oh baby, don’t be that way. Just want to make sure she is who she says she is.”
Perhaps it’s too much time spent on the couch while you indulge in your guilty pleasure reality tv shows, but Pope can’t help but see the irony in her words and he voices that. “The same way you are who you say you are?”
Baz continues to drink a beer that has long since gone warm in his grasp. He has never seen Pope push back this hard – not since Julia. Baz moves the beer back to his lips, wondering how long mother and son will continue to go back and forth. Eventually he gets tired and intervenes. “Smurf is just concerned, I mean, what we do – we don’t know anything about her. Who knows,” Baz shrugs, “she may go and rat or ruin things.”
Your very presence in Pope’s life is already causing issues for Smurf and Baz understood that any issues of Smurf’s eventually became his – unfortunately.
Smurf raises her hand in Baz’s direction, as though his point held weight to it.
J stands off in the corner, watching the stoicism across Pope’s face as he stares at Smurf and Baz, contemplating which one is the bigger threat. J keeps silent just like Deran and Craig, not willing to cross any lines that are being carved into the sand, though he knows that Pope would likely carve his in blood if pushed hard enough.
Pope shifted, his necklace catching the light above the kitchen table. Smurf’s attention is briefly caught on it, something passive crosses her face before it disappears but Pope tenses, waiting for her remark.
“Saint Jude? Girl’s got some big aspirations.”
Pope knows exactly what Smurf is trying to imply. But your words from earlier give him comfort and only harden his resolve.
“This is the first and last conversation we will have about Willow. I meant what I said. Stay away from her. If I get so much of an inkling that either of you are snooping,” he turns slightly where his other brothers and nephew are, “or sending one of them to do it for you, there won’t be another conversation.” Pope keeps his eyes focused on Smurf and Baz before he steps away, moving to the back to say goodnight to Lena before heading out.
It wouldn’t be a birthday in the Cody family without Smurf trying to reassert her position before midnight arrived.
Pope’s drives his truck barely within the legal speed limit before he slows down once he enters your neighborhood. It’s quiet, the sounds of the ocean are far in the distance, but Pope can smell the salt in the air once he steps out of the cab. His truck sits in the driveway, a familiar sight that will greet the neighbors when they wake in the morning.
When you arrived home, you texted Andrew and then called your mom. You didn’t bring up your conversation with Smurf because you knew at the earliest scent of trouble, your mom would be on the next flight out of Texas with her rollers still in her hair and ready to use them to poke Smurf’s eyes out. In the morning, the two of you will talk proper but for now you were just happy to hear her voice before wishing her a good night. After taking a long and hot shower, you continued through your night routine before walking downstairs and turning on the overhead light over the stove. It did not brighten the kitchen fully but is a soft and warm greeting for Andrew to return to.
You lay in bed, cozy under the blankets but missing your living furnace as you kept your drowsy gaze focused on the TV. Phone discarded on the nightstand, you curled up closer to Andrew’s side of the bed, eyelashes fluttering as you tried to stay awake.
It wasn’t that you were totally tired, but with the house nice and cold, blankets warm from your body heat and feeling clean – it is the perfect combination for you to drift to sleep to.
You don’t hear Pope’s entrance into the bedroom, or the shower going before you stir when you feel the dip in the bed. You hum, moving closer until you’re smushed right up against him. The light from the TV is enough for Pope to see your eyes open, a sliver of brown visible as you wear a sleepy grin.
Laying on his side, Pope shifts until your faces are aligned.
The breaths you take are flavored by mint from the toothpaste you share. Body languid, Pope just stares at you, of the few curls that have escaped your silk bonnet, a hand raised to settle on his chest just like hours before.
“I missed you.”
And you had, you knew that you would have preferred him coming straight home with you, but Andrew would not want to leave his truck at Smurf’s.
“M’sorry,” he mumbles, pressing closer.
Pope pauses for a moment before he poses a question. “Can I kiss you?”
This draws another grin out of you, your eyes opening only a fraction wider before you nod your head. You move to drag your head across the pillow, but it is pointless with the way Andrew reaches for you.
Pope is there, a hand settling on the back of your neck to hold you in place as he kisses you. This time it is not you who leads, it is him.
Even though Pope can still feel the earlier residual indignation at Smurf and Baz for questioning your character, he doesn’t let that taint the soft press of his lips to yours.
It is not greedy like the kiss you shared on the street.
In the last few hours of the day, warm in bed with your body against his, Pope has no reason to be demanding. Lying in sheets that carry the scent of your soap and oils, in a house where he has learned the sounds of your laughter – unfettered and cackles alike – Pope let’s himself soak this in.
There are moments where you pause, a sliver of light between your lips as you both breathe, sharing the same breath before your lips are meeting once more.
The hand on your neck soon disappears down your back before grabbing ahold of your ass. You are not surprised; Andrew loves the shape of your ass, the stretch marks that cover them and how high it sits.
Nothing of tonight is different.
Your legs slot open for Andrew once he has you on your back, his mouth kissing down your neck, the lace trim of your top is ignored when he kisses the top of your breasts. His mouth is wet and wanting as he continues down.
His fingers hold apart your thighs once he gets your shorts off. His drops his face until he is eye-level with your cunt.
You turn your head in embarrassment when you hear Andrew breathe deeply, inhaling your scent. There is no time to feel further shyness before his face is buried between your legs, mouth open, tongue flat as he licks your pussy before sucking on your clit.
Leg tensing, you immediately try to shut them, but Andrew’s hands are hard to fight against as your legs are forced to stay open.
“Ah!” A moan catches in your throat before your hands move to grab ahold of his hair, pressing yourself closer.
If Pope loves the smell of your perfume and soaps then he loves the natural scent of you even more. It is light, sweet almost when you become aroused like this. Your taste saturates his tongue which only makes him dive his tongue in deeper. Pope doesn’t mind the way you pull his hair as you hump his face. Loves that you do not try to muffle your moans like the first time he got his mouth on you. It made him prideful to know that he could get you to be like this; writhing under his grasp, soft moans that are choked off when the pleasure builds too quickly.
Your back arches when he adds a finger into you, your left leg collapses against his head now that you have mobility in it. You feel your stomach tighten when one finger becomes two that thrusts inside you.
If Pope pulled his fingers out, he would see the clear sticky fluid webbing between his middle and ring fingers. The veins on his arm and wrist pop as he continues to fuck you with his fingers. The soppiness of your cunt deepens his breathing as he licks your clit once more.
“Drew.”
One hand leaves his head, reaching down for the hand against your thigh, you laced your fingers together. Feeling the pressure build and build until it snaps.
A burst of liquid gushes from you, coating Pope’s face who continues to eat you out. His tongue remains flat against your cunt while you cum. He can feel the shakes in your body, the fluttering in your pussy as you moan, long and drawn out.
His dick rubs against the sheets, neglected as he keeps his face buried between your thighs.
Your twist in his hold, toes bunching up as pleasure wrecks through you.
Cunt drunk, Pope pulls away, staring down at the mess you made before he glances at you. Your bonnet has fallen off, left on your pillow while your head rests on his. You stare up at the ceiling fan, muscles still spasming in your thighs, barely cognizant of Pope who began to rub circles into your flesh.
Pope stares down at his cock, painfully hard and weeping at the head. He doesn’t know what do, but like always you are there.
The hand that was entwined with his are loosened and two familiar fingers settle at his pulse. “Okay?”
By this time, Pope would usually get off the bed and go into the bathroom, walking out with a warm cloth to clean you up before tucking you back into bed, him curled up behind you.
But tonight, he sits and stares.
Pope stares at his cock. Usually when you came, he would cum from humping the bed as he ate you out. But tonight, he remained fully hardened. It surprised him, but he thinks after today, after your gifts, and that kiss…he grunts to himself.
“Okay,” though he doubts his own words.
You tap against his pulse twice. “Don’t over think it, Drew.” You move your legs, parting them.
Another invitation.
Pope moves above your body, settling between your thighs as he presses his chest to yours. You smile at him easily, welcoming him with a kiss, your arms wrapping around him.
Feels so good here, Pope thought. In your arms like this with no barriers between the you, skin-to-skin. He bent his head and sucked on a breast, tongue laving against the brown nipple before he bit down gently.
Your pelvis grinds against his, breath hitching when you feel his dick slip into your cunt before poping out to brush against your clit.
Pope alternated, moving to the other breast when your nipples grew stiff from his attention. He sighs around your breast every time his dick slides through your wetness, the brief contact of heat are shocks of pleasure before his dick pops out.
The muscles in Pope’s back flex while he moves, the light from the TV is blocked by his body over yours.
It is easy to fall back into kissing. You taste yourself on his tongue and it only serves to turn you on more, body thrumming with a fire that has been stoked all night.
“Please,” you breathe, voice soft and pleading. “Please.”
There is no one standing outside of his door, watching him. It is just you and him. Pope and Willow. He grabs ahold of himself and slots his dick to your cunt, checking your face, you eagerly nod and he begins to push in.
It is one thing to purposelessly slip inside; it is another to do so with intent. That first inch has Pope biting down on his lip, a shiver ripples through him when he pushes further into you, sinking into your heat.
It burns. You are so hot that it feels as though he is melting.
“God,” he mutters, pushing further, ignoring the way your legs begin to tighten against his sides.
You held a breath, hissing quietly at his girth before relaxing once he got the next two inches in. Wet and slick, Andrew falls into you easily, dick reaching where his fingers could not.
As much as Andrew has always tried not to take up space in your life – or be apologetic when he does – he fills you up until your pelvises meet. Your lower lips are stretched wide across him, flared even as you both get used to the sensation of what it feels like to be joined together.
“Feel so good,” he moans, voice muffled as he kisses your neck.
You can feel the trembling in his arms as he holds himself up, but you shake your head, pulling him down. His weight falls on top of you, pressing you into the mattress as your pussy is stretched to the brim around him.
It starts slow.
Pope pulls out and then pushes back in.
Every time he does so, there is an audible pop that fills the room.
All those mornings spent watching the waves crash upon the shore, Pope begins to mimic the tides.
Push and pull.
In and out.
Beads of sweat are licked away by searching mouths.
Half-moons welts left behind from hands that are eager and desperate.
Feverish flesh bruised from control slipping, rationality burning at the frays of the mind.
Less talking and more moans, some soft and others harsh.
Groans when a particular angle proves fruitful, mouth open, breath labored.
Once started it became difficult to stop.
Puffy and swollen, your pussy continues to drip with your arousal, making a mess between the two of you but Andrew pays it no mind. His eyes move from your face to the white that froths around his dick, egging himself on even as he pulls your legs up and pins them towards your shoulder – leaving your body exposed fully to his eyes.
More pressure is added onto you, but you accept it with all the grace one can when getting put into a mattress. Andrew leverages his weight on top of you, keeping you right where he wants as he pushes back into you, groaning when he hits bottom.
“Drew,” you try to warn him but his name from your lips pushes him further as he uses a hand to play with your clit.
Your chest heaves as you sigh, stomach jerking and then your body sinks further into the bed as you cum again.
Oversensitive, Pope pulls out, watching the way your pussy flutters around nothing.
Your eyes barely close before they flash open in surprise, feeling his tongue swiping through the mess between your thighs. There’s so much, you can’t help but feel warm in the face, dumbfounded by your body’s reaction as you continue to cum, eyes burning before you cry out. His mouth is hot and open, teeth dragging over your clit that cause you to jump but be unable to run as he keeps his mouth on you.
Pope keeps his face buried there before rising, grabbing ahold of his wet dick and pushing back in. He doesn’t know where he gets this pace from, this energy to keep going even when he feels how boneless you become; watching how helpless you are as your cries taper off into mewls, breathless gasps as you grab at his arms, holding onto him.
His curls have long since began to stick to his head, darker at the ends that are soaked in sweat. Pope licks at the sweat between your breasts and under them, savoring the taste of you on his tongue.
You feel as though you are being devoured – and it’s because you are.
The thoughts that have been with Pope from nearly the moment he has met you have taken over, and even with the limited sexual activities you’ve both done with each other, it pales in comparison to this.
Pope thinks about how different you sound when he has his fingers in you to when it’s his dick. The slow drag of his fingers in comparison to cock that slides against your ribbed walls; the way your pussy stubbornly clings to the head of cock before he pushes back in, snapping his hips and grinding against you.
The sheets begin to pull from the mattress with how much the two of you are moving, one slipping free and showing the mattress cover underneath.
You are not cognizant of the time, Andrew doesn’t expect you to be. Just like your pussy, all of your sense are filled with Andrew. Hyperaware of everything he’s doing, of what he’s saying, nothing but filth that pushes you closer to closer to the edge.
“So good to me,” Pope pants into your ears.
“M’sorry, I can’t stop.”
It almost funny because it sounds as though he is remorseful that his hips keep slamming into yours, that his dick keeps pushing against that spongy spot inside of you, trapping air in your throat.
Words begin to slur as Pope feels the way you tighten around him, squeezing like a vice as you cum, mouth agape as you throw your head back, back arching. He feels liquid soaking the hairs at the base of his cock and it’s enough for him to cum.
Pope bends over you, back bowed as though wounded.
Cum spurts out of him, ropes of white that sear your insides in a flood of warmth. You moan at the sensation of being doubly filled, pussy spasming as your body trembles in ecstasy.
“Fuck,” you mumble, hands twisting in the sheets before Pope lowers your legs and entwines your fingers back together.
Pope continues to cum, face twisted as he gives a few lazy pumps of the hips. It feels so good that he falls on top of you, balls jerking underneath him as they empty. “S’ good,” he whispers into your ears. “Taking me s’ good,” he slurs at the end. He kisses your neck, keeping his dick inside of you even as he feels his cum leak out. Pope rolls his hips, pushing cum back inside, smiling into your neck when he hears you mewl, fingers tightening around his.
The stillness in movement allows for the ceiling to begin cooling the sweat on Pope’s back. He can feel the welts on his back from your nails, but he doesn’t care, mind too filled with bliss to register the minor pain. He will wear your bruises and scars with honor – he pulls out slightly before sliding back in, moaning at how wet and messy you are. Pope Cody has never had sex without a condom before, but he doesn’t think he has cum this hard – ever.
Too weak to fully withdraw but eager enough to continue rolling his hips to hear the airy moans you make under him. Pope rears his head back, only to kiss you.
Compared to the mess between the two of you, this is neater but no less passionate. You tug at his hair, fingers carding through damp curls as he cups the base of your neck, grinding into you as his dick begins to soften inside of you – finally.
The two of you remain like that; joined with cum spilling past swollen lips onto the sheets beneath you, trading kisses for moans as dopamine courses through your bodies.
Pope moves once he fully soft, taking his lips from yours as he rears back to watch as he pulls himself out of you.
White spills out onto your brown sheets, and Pope watches how your pussy glistens. He admires how it looks all fucked out, swollen and puffy. Watches the way it jumps when his fingers lightly brush against your clit, the mewl you give him when he swipes that nub twice between retreating, eyes focused as more cum drips from you.
The necklace you gave him sits on his chest, something cool against his feverish skin. Pope falls on his back, the mattress and pillow meeting him in greeting.
You move gingerly, already knowing that by morning your thighs will be aching, your back sore but you cannot bring it in you to complain. Andrew already has his hand on your back when you move to lay closer on your side, his fingers are pressing into, massaging your lower back and making you hum drowsily.
Your nose wrinkles at the stickiness between your thighs and the wet sheets beneath you but you ignore it as you sit in this moment with Andrew.
You play with his free hand, holding up your hand to his for comparison as you often did in bed. You observe once more how much larger his hand is, his blunt nails that he keeps trimmed and manicured, compared to your long almond-shaped nails. Your sunkissed brown skin compared to his pale, the freckles scattered on his arms that are like ones that dance across the bridge of his nose – there’s fifteen of them, you counted once when he fell asleep while you watched “Double Indemnity” a few weeks ago.
Unwilling to sleep on damp sheets, you let yourself be pulled from the bed by Andrew. He sets you on your feet, watching how you stand with your feet slightly apart, body already aching.
Pope leans down and brushes a kiss onto your head, whispering under his breath. “Go clean up, I’ll take care of the bed.”
You don’t protest, you swing your legs around and walk the show distance, hissing to yourself at how sore you felt, opting to take a quick shower in the hopes the heat will help alleviate the onset of muscle fatigue.
Nearly forty minutes later the two of you are back in bed, the sheets beneath you still smell like Tide detergent Andrew used on a load of laundry on Tuesday. Back to being warm and cozy; your body is slotted next to Andrew’s who has returned to massaging your back as you laid your head on his chest and hooked a leg over his.
You place a finger under his chin and tilt your head up, pressing a gentle kiss against his lips, smiling as you settled back against him, your nose slightly brushing his. He mumbles something, tired now that he’s back in bed and has you curled up next to him.
You tilt your head up and see the alarm clock on his nightstand and you cannot help but smile.
A minute left of the day.
Before Pope truly falls asleep the only thing he hears is you whisper, “Happy Birthday, Sweetheart.”
with p!links (twitter)
Disclaimer: it gets quite kinky (cnc = consensual non-consent, a hint of somnophilia), explicit description of sexual actions! minors dni!
A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)
He’s either taking care of you or in total need of being cared of. The moment he finishes, and made sure you finished too, he’d look at you as if he was worried.
“You’re okay?” he asks.
You nod and smile slightly.
He’d be looking into your eyes intently, then he’d look down to your swollen pussy, thinking it’s the most beautiful thing he ever saw. After a moment his hand would cup your cheek, and he’d look at your face, at your body again as if he was making sure, you’re not hurt. He’d kiss your forehead and get up to clean himself and comes back to you with a wet cloth, cleaning you up gently.
He’d rest his head on your thigh, mumbling “I love you.” while your hand goes through his hair.
But at other times he is in a space where he can’t immediately function again, where he needs to lie on top of you in complete silence, his head resting on your chest, your hands on his hair and his neck.
“I love you, Andrew.”
He doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word, but you know he loves you too.
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
He doesn’t really like to think about his body, let alone liking something about it. But that changes when you stepped into his life. You’d tell him all the time how big and strong his arms are and how much you love it that he can carry you around with ease. You’d also tell him how much you love his hands, especially when they’re around your neck. Sometimes he’d randomly remember how much you loved certain parts of his body and it would made him grin like a little boy.
When it comes to you, oh he loves your waist. He’s always staring at it, no matter if you’re facing him or not, he’s watching you like you’re his prey. He loves digging his fingers into it, claiming you. And he loves your eyes, they’re so pretty, so sweet and willing when he’s looking at you. He loves watching your eyes watching how his dick goes in an out of your pussy. He can’t get enough of it.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
He wants his cum inside you. No exceptions. He always finishes when he’s inside your pussy or when you’re giving him a blowjob. The first time he was about to cum in your mouth, he stilled his movements, moaning and panting.
“You’re- you’re gonna swallow?”
You nod and fuck- he spills into you, groaning, holding your face in place.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
He loves watching you sleep. He feels either very protective or very dirty when he does. There’s something about this vulnerable state you’re in when you’re sleeping, half-unconscious. He loves to let his eyes roam over the curves of your torso to your perfect ass, in-between your legs. He even jerked himself off a few times while you were asleep. He’d feel an extreme guilt rushing over him each time he finished.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
He hasn’t had that many experiences in his past but he still knows enough to satisfy you.
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)
Just simple missionary, him holding your legs in place, fucking you is what you two are meant for.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
Definitely serious. Pope can get quite insecure sometimes, and he feels easily ashamed when something doesn’t go the way he planned. You would love to giggle and take things not as serious in-between. And you would assure him that everything is alright, but he just doesn’t want to let go that way. Whenever these kinds of moments come up, he’d immediately dive in between your legs and makes sure you have nothing to laugh about but instead moan his name.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
He’s completely shaved.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
Even when the sex between you can get rough, there is no doubt that this man doesn’t love you with every inch of his body and mind. He doesn’t just need to fuck you, he needs to be with you. So close, you’re both breathing each other’s air. His eyes never leave yours, his hands never stop touching you. There is nothing else for him to get out of his mind and to get into a state where nothing else matters. He kisses the ground you walk on and that doesn’t stop when you’re having sex.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
He doesn’t jack off much when you two are in a committed relationship. But when you both had a huge fight, he fucking will. Out of anger, out of his lust for you. Sometimes he’d get so mad and horny, he’ll send you a video of him jerking off, trying to piss you off and turn you on the same time.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
HOLD ME BACK. He definitely develops a cnc kink along with a huge interest for bondage once you start telling him about your fantasies. He loves tying you up, you being completely at his mercy. He’d be so intrigued by whatever you want to try. He’d do so much research on what bondage positions and methods there are, each time getting hard thinking about you in this position, fucking you. He’d also love the cnc stuff you suggested, doing a roleplay where he wears a ski mask and chases after you. He’d love pretending to be someone else and to be in complete control. It’s very important to him to talk about all the things you try before actually doing them. He’d never do anything without your full consent. He’d always had to make sure you feel safe and comfortable. And seeing you getting turned on by whatever crossed your twisted mind turned him on even more.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
His bed. Simple. You tried embracing shower sex but each time you snuck into the shower with him, he just wants to hug you be hugged by you.
Sometimes your sex would start – in the heat of the moment – somewhere else but it would end up in his bed whatsoever.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
He could fuck you anytime. You just had to say the word. He’d get turned on by your lust so quickly and as said before, your fantasies, your desires, they are what gets him really going.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
Threesome. He’d never share you with anyone. Ever.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
Ugh. He loves both man. He loves burying his face in your core, sucking, licking and kissing all the right spots. Sometimes it’s not even wholly sexual for him, but just a way to dissociate and to feel close to you. He’d love the sounds you make, your little moans and whimpers, he’d want to hear them on repeat, so he can literally stay for hours between your legs.
But receiving is equally good. He loves fucking your throat, you’re so perfect for him.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
Fast and rough.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
When there’s an opportunity for it, he definitely loves doing it. He also likes the idea of cumming inside you and you having to walk around for the rest of the day with his cum spilling out of you.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
He considers the cnc stuff risky enough.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
Mostly just one round and after an hour or so maybe a second but that’s it. That doesn’t stop him from giving you multiple orgasms though.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
He bought a vibrator for you. He loves using it on you and destroying you.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
Depends on his mood but when he has the patience he will tease the shit out of you, for hours. Rubbing the tip of his dick on your clit and seeing you squirm makes him so happy.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
When he’s getting close, he’s getting quite loud. And sometimes he whimpers and cries pathetically which you love.
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
Pope turns into an animal when’s having sex with you. Switching from being the predator to being your prey. He has a secret wish that he didn’t tell you about yet, but he wants you to overstimulate him. He wants you to tease and edge him till’ he can’t take it anymore.
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
Well.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
Before you his drive was extremely low. But when he met you and the way you’d drive him mad… His sex drive gets higher than it ever was.
