This movie opened my eyes to see that Jensen ackles would’ve been so good in an actual good horror film like scream, idc what his role would’ve been he just would’ve been so good I know it💔💔
thinking about how jack abbot's veteran basketball buddies have no idea just how 'active' he is.
! mdni !
you and jack had only been dating for a few months. not long enough for you to have met his group of fellow amputees he's played ball in the park with for the last two decades, but long enough to be smiling widely on his phone lock screen. which jack's oldest friend just happened to see when he checked the time halfway through the first game.
"jesus jack– i think havin' a playboy bunny as your background is considered creepy nowadays." jack shoved at his friends good arm, the other being a prosthesis, "watch it. she's my girlfriend." all the guys that surrounded the bench froze, some mid water sip, some mid re-tie of their shoe.
from that day on, the teasing came flooding in. jack would show up to the park to try and de-stress from a shift at the PTMC only to be met with taunts like, "isn't she a little too young for you old man?" and "didn't know you could still get it up soldier." or "caretaker or girlfriend, abbot?"
his least favorite was literally thrown at him at the picnic tables one morning before they had even started playing. one of the guys tossed jack an orange pill bottle that rattled as it soared threw the air. jack grimaced, knowing what is was before he even heard the jab, "brought these for you my man. just incase y’need some help from 'our little blue friend' when yer with yer young lady."
jack opened his mouth to snap, but a sweet voice that he heard moaning his name and 'oh god im gonna cum!' less than an hour ago, floated into his ears. "jackie?" every vet turned in unison to see your sexy self in a tiny skirt and even tinier tank top walking over to where they stood. jack wasn't expecting to see you till you picked him up later. "sweetheart? what're you doin' here?"
you had a mega watt smile on your face as you reached the table. jack tried to ignore the slack jaws that his buddies were sporting as you smacked a kiss to his lips and rubbed his chest gently. "sorry jackie, but you forgot to put on sunscreen when you left and i can't have you burning up." you pouted as you added, "you know your freckles are extra sensitive in this heat."
jack abbot, military veteran and swat physician, fought a giddy smile as you batted your lashes while worrying over the fact that he could potentially burn up on the public parks basketball black top.
one of the guys coughed a laugh and you turned your attention towards all the weathered veterans that were missing limbs and marred with scars. and just like you had done with jack, you didn't tone your bubbliness down to match whatever hypothetical grief you thought they carried, you just kept that pretty smile on your face. "hi boys! jack has told me sooo much about you all! does anyone else need sunscreen after i apply his?"
you popped off the bottle cap and squirted some onto your hands while brightly introducing yourself, then started to rub the white paste on jacks already pink cheeks to between the creases of his crows feet with a tenderness that made his chest twinge. you had them all say their names one by one and what positions they played on the court.
"back court? that sounds like a tough one, do you play that too jackie?" you asked him innocently while you covered his freckled shoulders that were exposed from his muscle tee, your tongue cutely poking out of the corner of your mouth in concentration.
one of jacks friends opened his mouth with a clearly crude intention at the ready, jack cut him off with a glare. "don't even think about it." jack raised a hand to point at him in warning, not realizing that he still gripped the pills in his hand.
your eyes snagged on the viagra bottle and your brows raised. "what's that?" jack tried to answer but it was too late, the vet with one arm and half a leg cut in swiftly, smuggly. "just a gift from us guys. from a few old timers to another, we thought abbot could benefit from some... alone time assistance." he winked at you.
you frowned in confusion. "but, jack and i have sex all the time."
jack choked on air, eyes widening instantly. "baby! you don't have to—" all the guys started to chuckle, half disbelief half pure amusement. "all the time?" someone chirped. "go on hon, tell us what you mean!"
you cocked your head to the side, truly not understanding that they were goading you. "well, he's never had to use any kind of pills if thats what you're asking. he can do it anywhere, anytime really. which we do"— jacks beet red face was not from sunburn as you started to list out examples on your fingers "—we've done it both of our cars—" his hand clutched at his chest, one guy spat out his water. "—we've done it in a few different elevators—"
the next few guys turned to gawk at jack, he felt faint all of a sudden as you just kept on talking "—oh! one time, i dropped him off thirty minutes early by accident and he was the first one here so we did it up against that tree over—"
"SWEETHEART!" everyone flinched at jack's shout. your pretty eyes simply blinked at him, innocent as a lamb, "w-what jackie?" he started to sputter, brain malfunctioning at the fact that you'd just shared more about his life to these guys than he had in the past twenty years. all the vets started to make their way to the court, patting jack on the back with congratulations and howling with laughter as they went, leaving the two of you alone.
jack exhaled when his heart rate was finally regulated, he didn't want you to know he was slightly mortified, you would've felt terrible. "just... i think they got the picture baby." he chuckled then placed a kiss to your forehead. the timbre of his voice dropped low, raising a suggestive brow as he added "you just had to add the time against the tree, huh?"
you bit your lip as you shrugged sweetly, "what? it's a personal favorite." jack shook his head as he pulled you into a deep kiss, the kind that had led to the tree rendezvous. only when you started to inappropriately paw at him did he pull back. "thanks for the sunscreen and a stroll down memory lane sweetheart." you rubbed in a stray streak of sunscreen on his stubbled chin. " 'course jackie."
jack glanced around to make sure no vets had lingered before he waggled his brows. "how bout you drop me off again tomorrow then? maybe an hour early this time?"
Black ppl deserve to feel safe and welcomed on the internet, on fandoms on whatever community or hobbies they want without having to deal with antiblack racist attacks, microaggressions or enablers of antiblackness . And if u genuinely consider urself to be left leaning or an ally or woke you should do and try to unlearn the colorism, texturism , eurocentrism and antiblackness
kissing on popes neck while dragging your nails through his hair when you're drunk and needy. you often did this when you had a few too many drinks, it didn't matter the place but as it stood now in the backyard of smurfs place as a party raged, pope believed you're were innocently unaware of your own neediness. he was enjoying it too much to stop you, no matter how obscenely whiny you got sucking hickeys into his freckled neck. at some point, you'd managed to straddle your self into his lap. your body was the only thing hiding the rock hard tent in his pants despite being the exact cause of it. pope finally pulled you back by your hair, lips pouty and plump from the intensity in which you had just been kissing his neck, eyes twinkling with need as a coquettish grin tugged at your lips. at first he thought your drunken stupor had slipped you into innocent need but the moan that slipped out when he tugged your hair a little harder, indicated to him that this is exactly what you'd been working towards.
"how many?" you bit down on your lip as he kept a firm grip on your hair.
"n-not that many– ah!" his free hand had come down on ass over the tightly fitted jeans.
"really? so if we go inside and i count 'em, you're gonna let me spank you for just as many? hm?" he tutted.
"n-no... m'sorry, pope–" your hands were bawling at his shirt, brows knitting together in an innocent plea, shaking your head with your lip jutted out almost trembling.
"no, no whining," he's lifting you up by the back of your thighs, you're quick to wrap yourself around him as he walks towards his room. "you can apologize with that pretty little mouth of yours when we're inside and on your knees."
𝒘arnings ﹠ 𝒕ags : pope ripping your panties ﹒ unprotected piv penetration ﹒ female ! reader ﹒ consensual somnophilia ﹒ no use of y/n ﹒ use of pet names ﹒ not proofread ﹒ smut w/o plot ﹒
Pope sat in a chair at the edge of your bed both of his hands on each side of his knees, watching you sleep. Observing the way your chest falls up and down with every breath you take and the way your hair falls onto your face perfectly.
You were in one of his shirts along with your favorite pair of panties. Pope had a raging bulge tenting in his uncomfortable boxers, he wanted to wake you. But he couldn’t. not when you were so peaceful.
He shifts in the uncomfortable hard chair, remembering when you said if you weren’t awake to help him he had your consent to wake you up with his dick. Even then, it still felt wrong to him— it felt dirty on his tongue.
But thinking about it was different. It made popes cock throb to be inside your needy cunt and watch you wake up with a shocked look on your face. He stands up from the chair, leaning down and delicately spreading your legs apart, allowing his body to be carefully placed between your legs.
He grazes his fingers down your clothed pussy, a small wet damp immediately catching his eye. You must’ve been dreaming about him to be this wet. His cock twitches in his boxers just thinking about it— how desperate you must be for him too.
He rubs his fingers on the damp spot, teasing your needy cunt. Andrew can see your panties forming a larger wet spot and he can also see you become more aware —your body squirms beneath him while soft desperate moans fall from your lips.
Andrew’s eyes fall back on your clothed cunt, he sees a small hole—barely noticeable but somehow it doesn’t slip past him. He pokes both of his thumbs in hole and tearing through the delicate fabric with a loud rip echoing through your room.
Now he could see fully see how wet you actually were. Andrew drags his index and middle finger between your folds, barely brushing up against your clit. He stifles a moan, seeing how your arousal coats his thick fingers.
He pulls his fingers back and pops them into his mouth, tasting you. He’d much rather eat you out. But right now—he just wanted to feel you helplessly clamp around his dick.
With an exhale out of his nose he takes his fingers out his mouth with string of saliva connecting with it. He looks down at his bulge that’s been straining inside his boxers for the last hour and hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down just enough to release his cock from the painful straining.
Andrew wraps his calloused hand around his shaft and drags his red, angry tip through your dripping folds, collecting your arousal. A sound— almost like a growl, rumbles from his chest as he nudges the head of his cock into your entrance.
A low, guttural moan rips from Andrew’s throat as he slowly pushes himself deeper and deeper inside of you—stretching you out with every inch. Andrew sucks in a sharp breath, eyes fluttering shut as he bottoms out and feels your walls flutter around his aching cock.
His head drops onto your shoulder, littering your neck with gentle kisses. “I’m gonna take such good care of you, baby.” He whispers into your ear, before nuzzling his face into your neck, taking in the familiar sweet smell of the lotion you always put on before you went to bed.
Andrew began to rock his hips against yours, his cock pulling out a little with each drag. His hands sink into the plush skin of your hips to help steady him with each thrust. Then he can feel you began to become aware—your head swivels around, as a low moan rips from your throat.
And then he feels it—your fingers clawing into his broad shoulders. Andrew perks his head up just to see the expression on your face. Your brows were furrowed with your mouth gaped open, letting out a loud moan as he plunged his cock deeper, tip brushing just against your cervix.
Your legs wrap around his hips for support, as your nails make deep red marks down his back. “m’ sorry baby—I was so desperate to be inside of you.” Andrew admits, shameful of himself. You couldn’t even speak, you were too far gone into the pleasure to even make out your boyfriend’s nonsense words.
You just nodded and placed your free hand behind his head, bringing him into a sloppy kiss. Your teeth and noses clashing together, undeniably needy for each other. You pull away, pressing your damp forehead against his, “fuck me harder, Andrew.” You choke out, with drool dripping from your lip.
Your walls flutter and clench around him as he readjusts his angle, hitting that familiar sensitive spot inside of you. Your head falls back as you let out high pitched moans, clawing your nails deeper into his back—andrew was sure he was bleeding.
Andrew reaches down and presses his index and middle finger against your clit, rubbing tight and fast circles against the sensitive bud which earns a loud gasp out of you. The grip of your walls tighten around him, which just makes him edge you on further. “C’mon baby,” he urged “tell me how good it fuckin’ feels.”
“Feel s’ good andy…” you slur out, eyes rolling to the back of your head as his movements quicken and the sound of his heavy balls slapping against your ass becomes louder, his cock pounding into you fully clouds your mind that you’re so unaware of how close you are to cumming on his cock.
“Y’ gonna cum baby?” A whiny moan falls from your lips in response. Andrew cups his hand on your jaw, forcing you to look right at him, “open your eyes, baby.”
Your hazy fucked out eyes slowly flicker open, boring into his dark ones that are filled with lust. “I wanna see your face when you cum on my cock.” He grits through his teeth, you nod, feeling as andrew’s thrusts become more frantic, “cum f’ me, baby.”
A sharp moan tore from your throat as your thighs clamped tighter around his hips and you came hard around his cock.
Not far behind from your climax—a strangled groan rips from Andrew’s throat. His hips stutter as his release crashes over him—spilling thick white ropes of cum inside of you and painting your walls white.
You whine as you feel andrew slowly pull out and feel your mixed liquids of his cum and yours, spilling out of you and onto the sheets beneath you. “Thank you, baby.” He whispers, pushing back the dampened hair strands from your forehead and pressing a small kiss right in the center.
happy belated birthday to my favorite boy—andrew cody.
summary: andrew sees you talking to j and spirals, letting the poison spill out as words he can't take back.
wc: 6.8k words
warnings: 18+, jealousy (dilemma over an age gap moreso), punching a wall, tending to wounds, switch!andrew and reader (but very much dom!andrew mostly, he just needs assurance), oral (m!recieving), good boy, fingering, coming untouched, one mention of good girl, hurt/comfort
series: you seem pretty sad for a boy so in love
a/n: this is basically my version of an andrew cody character study that i started in s5 once we got more of his backstory. initially it was meant to be short but alas, i got carried away listening to the song on repeat. divider credits: @strangergraphics | soundtrack: the cure by olivia rodrigo
Deran’s bar is busy tonight, loud enough that all the conversations blur together into one. It makes Andrew’s fingers twitch, press against each other to calm the noise scratching at his brain as he enters again. He had only stepped outside to take a phone call from Craig, had only been gone ten minutes at most, but when he comes back through the doors, his eyes find you instantly.
You're sitting at the bar where he left you, but now, next to you, is J.
Not just talking, but laughing. Comfortable.
Your elbow rests against the counter, your body turned towards him, completely absorbed in whatever story he's telling. J says something and you immediately roll your eyes, shoving his shoulder with a grin.
Andrew’s fingers twitch against his side, quicker. He tries to stop the poison from talking, from seeping into his brain.
The sight shouldn't bother him, and it doesn't. Not in the way people assume.
Andrew knows you aren't flirting, knows you aren't interested in J. He knows, with absolute certainty, that if he walked over there right now, your face would light up the second you saw him. The problem isn't that he thinks you'll leave him for J. The problem is that he understands exactly why somebody would.
Because J is normal. Or at least as normal as any Cody gets.
J can hold a conversation without having to force the words out through gritted teeth, the words clogging at the back of his throat. J doesn’t bore his eyes into someone till the point that they leave. J’s hands don’t twitch when the noise around him gets too loud. J doesn’t scare people. Not in the way that Andrew does.
Worse, J isn’t in his forties and still trying to figure out how to let somebody love him.
You laugh again, the soft sound carrying across the room to where he stands by the door. Andrew's jaw tightens.
Suddenly he's aware of every year between the two of you.
Maybe somebody your age would understand you better. Maybe somebody who hadn't spent their entire life emotionally stunted would know what to do with all your softness. Maybe somebody without blood permanently dried beneath their fingernails would be able to give you what you deserve.
Someone like J.
He's closer in age to you. He would understand half the words that come tumbling out of your mouth, all those strange little internet references, the videos you show him on your phone that leave him staring blankly while you laugh so hard tears gather in your eyes.
Sometimes as you're sitting pressed against him on his couch, you'll mention a movie, a song, a memory from your childhood, and Andrew will realise he has absolutely no idea what you're talking about. Because while you were growing up, he was already well into adulthood. While you were discovering who you wanted to become, Andrew was learning how to survive another day.
The poison bubbles in his chest.
Andrew has always felt like in a room full of people, there’s some invisible barrier that separates him from them. Their eyes - if not widening in fear - skip past him, as though he isn’t even there. When he was growing up, the eyes used to follow Baz first. People gravitated towards him without effort, while Andrew simply existed beside him; a shadow, an extension, never quite anything on his own. As he grew older, he accepted it, the fact he'll always be on the other side of the window.
So Andrew became Pope. He let others puppeteer his body.
And he thinks, he knows, that you're the only person who's ever looked directly at him, through the wall, and seen something worth staying for.
Which is why the sight of you with J hits him squarely in his chest.
What happens when you finally see him properly?
Not the version that opens doors for you or holds your hand as you enter his truck or kisses your tears when you cry. The real version. The broken and violent one. The one that's spent decades rotting from the inside out.
His jaw clenches so hard at the thought that a muscle pops out. Suddenly, it's too hard to breathe, every little noise a hammer hitting his brain, and anger rises up his chest.
Before he can force himself to leave, before he can turn away and disappear into Deran’s office where nobody can look at him, you glance up. And see him.
Your entire face lights up, a smile spreading so quickly across your features it almost hurts to look at.
You lift your hand and wave.
For one terrible second he wants to believe it, wants to believe he's worthy of it. Wants to believe somebody like you could really look at somebody like him and feel joy. Then his gaze flicks back to J.
The poison wins.
His lips press together, his shoulders lock.
He needs to leave before his hands do something terrible. Before the poison inside him, clawing desperately for somewhere to go, spills onto J through bloody fists and broken bones. Before he solves another problem the only way he's ever really known how to.
And without a word, without even looking at you again, Andrew walks straight past you and J.
It’s for your own good. You don’t need to see him like this any more than you have, you don’t need to suffer.
Fuck.
Stop.
Andrew drags both hands over his face before clutching at his hair, head bowed.
The alley is quiet and cold, but it does little to soothe the fire in his chest.
Sometimes, he thinks that you’ll never be able to stitch him up, not completely. Not in a way that cleanses him wholly, not in a way that sucks every toxin from his bloodstream.
And worse, sometimes, he thinks you'll keep trying anyway. That you'll dig your hands into him over and over again, trying to pull the poison out.
And eventually you'll get sick too. Rotten from the effort of loving somebody like him.
"Andrew?"
His eyes squeeze shut.
"Andrew, are you okay?"
He hears your footsteps approaching slowly, cautiously, the way somebody might approach a wounded animal. The thought makes the ugly thing in his stomach twist more.
Your hand settles gently against his arm.
Andrew jerks away immediately.
The movement is sharp enough that your hand falls away completely. The poison gets louder, itching, clawing at the back of his throat.
The words leave his mouth before he can stop them.
“You sure J doesn't mind you comin' out here to talk to me?”
“What?”
Andrew can hear the sheer confusion in your voice.
“You know what I mean,” he grits out. “You seemed pretty busy in there. Laughin’ with him. Talkin’. Probably about shit guys your age talk about.”
The second the words leave his mouth he hates them. Hates himself.
“What? No, he was telling me a story from high school. About smoking a joint behind the football stands.”
“Oh,” his laugh is humourless. “Now you're thinkin' about smokin' weed with him too?”
There’s a pause then, a long one. Andrew hates it.
Say something. Save me. Suck the poison out, please.
“Andrew, look at me. Turn around.”
There's an edge to your voice now. His fingers twitch erratically on his side.
But slowly, he turns around, looks directly into your eyes. They're still looking up at him with a softness he knows he doesn’t deserve.
“Andrew, honey,” you begin carefully, “I wasn't planning on smoking weed with him, okay? We were just talking.”
His throat tightens. Suddenly the softness in your voice, in your face is too much. You can see him.
“Don't talk to me like that.”
Your face falls, brows creasing. Andrew hates himself more.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m some–,” He swallows hard. “Some kid that needs to be managed.”
“Andrew, I'm not doing that. I'm just telling you what happened.”
“You are.”
The poison speaks for him.
There's nothing you can do. He's rotted, wretched, you're better without him.
“I know I’m just some charity case to you or somethin’. Bet you were talkin’ about me with J.”
He knows he sounds like a petulant child, the one he accuses you of considering him to be. He makes the mistake of keeping his eyes on yours, eyes that are brimming with tears.
“What?” Your voice comes out barely above a whisper. “Is that really what you think of me?”
Andrew presses his lips into a hard line, looks down at the ground. Immediately he wants to take it back, wants to hold your face in his palms and tell you no, everything he said was a lie and he’s just terrified this won't last and that you’ll leave him.
But he won’t, he can’t say anything.
Saying it would mean admitting how terrified he actually is. And terror has always been harder for him to feel than anger.
“Andrew,” Your voice breaks slightly. “Tell me what’s wrong, please.”
He refuses to make eye contact with you, refuses to see the hurt he’s caused.
But you are nothing if not insistent.
“I think you're spiralling and pushing me away because you're scared,” you begin again, gently. “And I came out here because I care about you."
That makes his heart clench. Because that's the problem. You care, you care so much it hurts. And one day he's going to ruin that.
One day you're going to wake up and realise caring about Andrew Cody is exhausting. That no matter how hard you try, no matter how many nights you spend curled against his side or mornings tangled in his sheets, there will always be a pane of glass separating him from everybody else. No matter how much of himself he gives you, the same invisible barrier that's followed him his entire life will settle between the two of you too, and eventually you'll realise what everybody else already has.
“You don't know what you're talkin' about,” his voice comes out harsher than he intends. “You think you do, with your degree, and your grades and your-your brain, but you don’t.”
Your breath hitches.
But the poison is louder.
He needs to stop in the voices in his head. Needs to make them shut up.
He stalks up to you, close enough so you have to arch your neck to see him, close enough that he can see the slight tremble in your bottom lip.
“You'll never know me.”
He sees your face crumple. Your eyes widen in surprise before something hard settles over them.
“Fuck you, Andrew.”
The words come out shaking.
And then you turn and leave, the door swinging shut behind you.
He’s done it. He’s spread his poison onto you. The one good fucking thing in his life, he’s ruined it.
That burst of emotion sparks in his chest, and suddenly it's too hard to breathe, to think. Suddenly he’s seventeen again and Baz has taken Julia away from him. Then Catherine. He feels that same awful feeling of something precious slipping through his fingers while he stands there powerless to stop it.
He closes his eyes to calm himself.
Breathe. Just breathe.
Don't do something stupid. Don't do something Pope would do.
But all he sees are flashes of your eyes looking up tearfully at him. Tears that he caused.
Poison, that’s what Andrew was.
He paces along the alleyway, once, twice. Your expression replays over and over inside his skull. The confusion, the hurt, the disappointment.
On a loop. Again. And again.
“Fuck!”
The shout tears out of him.
“Stop.”
He wills his brain to stop. For the feeling in his chest to loosen.
“Stop.”
His hands knot in his hair.
“Stop.”
His voice cracks.
“Please stop.”
The memories don't listen. Your face keeps appearing.
A harsh thud. Pain explodes across his knuckles.
For a second he doesn't even realise what happened.
Then he looks down.
Blood trickles over his fingers. The brick wall beside him is stained red.
The poison in his head softens immediately, the way it always does when he feels physical pain. It quietens to a dull roar, manageable now.
He sucks in a slow breath in, then out. He rests his forehead against the wall, closing his eyes. He envisions your face, your smile on that picnic he took you on a week earlier.
Five months. Five months of being yours, and Andrew still occasionally caught himself looking at you when you weren’t paying attention, trying to understand what exactly happened. Trying to understand how somebody like you ended up choosing somebody like him.
He'd made sandwiches. The ones with the jam you liked.
You'd spent the morning sitting on a lookout above Oceanside, the ocean stretching endlessly below.
You'd been lying on your back with your head resting on his arm while his fingers idly traced shapes against your wrist. He'd been quiet beside you, content to listen to the waves and your voice.
“I had this huge Greek mythology phase when I was like… fifteen.”
Andrew hummed beside you, faintly amused.
“‘Course you did.”
You'd elbowed him lightly.
“Shut up. It was serious. I think I was just, like, coping with how much I felt.”
He glanced down at you, but said nothing. He liked listening to you talk. Liked how animated you got when something mattered to you.
“Orpheus and Eurydice destroyed me. I mean, people hate him. Like, oh, he ruined it, he turned back, he broke the rule, whatever. But–” You'd sighed, eyes fixed on the clouds drifting overhead. “I think it's one of the most human things. That he turned back.”
Andrew remembered watching you then. The way your fingers moved when you spoke. The crease that appeared between your brows when you were thinking.
“The most tragic version is the one where he makes it out. Fully,” you swallowed. “And he's just so excited to tell her about the sun. About what he saw. About life.”
Your voice softened.
“And she hadn't made it yet.”
A pause.
“So she disappeared. Because in trying to share something stupid and tender, he lost her.”
Silence hung, soft and breathless. Andrew often didn't know what to say when you talked about things like that, things that he had never heard of. But he liked it, seeing the way your brain worked. Your voice filled spaces that had spent most of his life empty.
You'd turned to look at him, expression suddenly sheepish.
“I don’t know. I just think– it makes sense to me. That kind of love.”
Andrew didn’t speak, just stared, giving the barest tilt of his mouth. And you warmed under the weight of it.
“Sorry,” you mumbled, shifting your head on his arm. “You know I talk a lot when I’m comfortable. I don’t mean to rant–”
“Don’t apologise.”
Your eyes had lifted to his. Andrew had thought about it for a second, searching for words to let you know that he understood you, valued you.
“It sounds like...” He'd paused. “Like he loved her so much she was all he could think about.”
You'd smiled, that soft one he’d secretly hoped was only reserved for him. Like he'd finally understood exactly what you meant, understood you. Something warm had settled beneath his ribs.
“Exactly.”
Then you reached up and brushed a curl behind his ear, your fingers grazing his skin.
Andrew had gone completely still. But he hadn't stopped you.
At the time he'd mostly been focused on you rather than the story itself, watching the way your face animated when you spoke about something you loved, but now the words come back to him with painful clarity.
A week ago, you'd been lying beside him talking about Orpheus, about a man so consumed by the thought of losing the person he loved that he reached for her too soon and lost her anyway.
Standing here in the alley, his knuckles split open and your tears still burned into the back of his eyelids, he realises he'd spent the entire night looking over his shoulder, waiting for proof that the worst thing he believed about himself was true. Waiting for proof that you'd eventually leave, that he wasn't enough.
For the first time all night the poison had quietened enough for him to see the truth.
You hadn't come outside because you were angry. You hadn't come outside to defend yourself. You'd come outside because you cared about him. You'd said his name softly, reached for him, and tried to pull him back from the edge he was standing on.
And he'd looked at that woman standing there with tears gathering in her eyes and somehow chosen to believe the poison in his head over her. Somehow, impossibly, you'd looked at Andrew Cody and decided he was worth loving, and tonight he'd almost thrown that back in your face because he was too terrified to trust it.
“Fuck,” he whispered, clenching and unclenching his fist, letting the pain ground him.
And for the first time that night, Andrew wasn't just scared that you were going to leave him, he was scared that he'd actually given you a reason to as well.
Even after all these months, finding your way into Andrew's mind still feels like standing on the wrong side of a pane of glass, seeing him perfectly while never quite being able to reach him.
You wipe furiously at your face as you push back through the bar, keeping your head down and your eyes fixed on the floor, praying nobody, especially not J, notices the tears gathering faster than you can clear them away. Your chest feels tight, hollow and by the time you reach Deran's office you're already taking deep breaths.
The door clicks shut behind you. You lean onto Deran’s desk and close your eyes, putting your head in your hands as you try to take deep breaths.
One breath. Then another. Then another.
But it doesn't help, because the words are still there.
You'll never know me.
The thing is, you've never wanted to possess Andrew. Never wanted to pry open every locked thing inside him or drag his secrets into the light. You've spent five months being patient, listening when he spoke, sitting beside him when he didn't, learning the shape of his silences as carefully as you'd learned the shape of his smile.
It's the fact that you came outside because you loved him, because you saw him spiralling and wanted to help, and somehow it still wasn't enough.
Somehow he looked at all the care you'd placed in his hands and decided you couldn't possibly mean it.
You'll never know me.
The words replay again. You squeeze your eyes shut.
Maybe that's the cruel part.
You know you'll never know all of him. No one ever fully knows another person.
Like no matter how softly you hold him, no matter how carefully you love him, there will always be some part of him standing on the other side of a locked door, convinced you'll leave eventually.
It’s worse because your mind immediately blames yourself, that the problem lies in you. The voices come back, the ones that whisper that maybe love is something you're always reaching for but never quite able to hold, that maybe you'll never be enough to make somebody stay.
As you inhale shakily, the door opens quietly in front of you.
You don't look up, even as you hear your name mumbled softly, the way Andrew only ever says it when he's scared.
Your chest tightens.
You hear the door click shut behind him, followed by the slow sound of his footsteps crossing the office, hesitant and careful.
You still refuse to look up, refuse to acknowledge him.
“M'sorry.”
His voice cracks. The apology hurts almost as much as the argument.
“I’m so, so sorry.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, pressing your palms into them so hard you see little stars.
“I didn't mean that.”
You can’t help but let out a shaky laugh at that.
“But you did, Andrew. Maybe you didn't mean to hurt me, but you meant what you said.”
When you finally look up, his face is scrunched with distress, eyes glassy and red around the edges. His fists clench and unclench at his sides, fingers twitching restlessly as though he doesn't know what to do with himself.
You know he startles at tenderness sometimes, like somebody handed him something fragile and he's terrified he'll break it.
And you've been gentle.
God, you've been so gentle.
Because beneath all the rough edges and sharp words and anger sits the only man who's ever consistently been gentle with you.
The only man who's ever looked at your strange little tangents and endless thoughts and treated them like they mattered. And so it hurt, it hurt when he thought that you’ll leave him, that you’ll never be enough to understand him.
“I understand you,” you whisper. “I do. I understand this ache inside of you, and how badly Smurf fucked you up, and why you think the things you do sometimes."
He sucks a breath in at that.
“And I care about you.”
Andrew's face crumples. You watch him take a step toward you.
Immediately, you lift a hand.
“No. Stay there.”
His entire body goes rigid.
You know that if he comes any closer right now you'll fold immediately, and there are things sitting inside your chest that need to come out first.
“You think you're the only person with things in their head?" you ask softly. "You think you're the only one who has a voice telling them awful things?”
His brow furrows in confusion.
“I know it isn't the same as what you've been through. I know that.”
A tear slips free, and you wipe it away angrily. Your throat tightens.
“But I have things too. You know I do.”
Andrew's eyes never leave your face, pooling with tears now. Guilt.
“You think that voice telling you people would be better off without you is unique?” Your voice breaks. “Andrew, I’ve spent most of my life feeling like I'll never be enough for anybody.”
“I spend so much time worrying that everybody eventually leaves. That eventually people get tired of me. That one day they're gonna wake up and realise I'm too much work.”
Andrew closes his eyes, squeezing them shut like you've hit him.
“It’s why I've always felt like I was seen by you. And when you said that stuff tonight, when you said I'd be better off with somebody else, I just- I felt–,” your voice breaks.
You cover your face again to muffle your sob.
You hear Andrew moving across the room, ignoring your earlier instruction entirely.
He drops to his knees, hard, the sound reverberating in the quiet of the office.
“Andrew, get up–”
“I’m sorry."
He presses his forehead against your chest, breath uneven.
“M'so fucking sorry.”
You keep your head in your hands, not having the courage to look into his teary eyes.
His arms wrap around your waist, tight.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he whimpers into your chest.
Again. And again. The words become increasingly broken each time they leave him.
“M’sorry, I didn't mean it.”
“But you did.”
“I know, I just–”
His voice cracks completely.
"I know."
You feel him press his face harder against you, like he's trying to disappear.
“Didn't want the poison gettin' on you.”
The words are muffled, barely audible. You still at that, at the thought that even in doing all that he was caring about you.
His shoulders shake harder.
“Seeing you with J–”
He swallows, voice breaking off into a whimper.
“I just kept thinkin' you'd be better off with somebody like him.”
That gets your hands to fall away from your face immediately.
Your heart breaks, because somewhere along the way, Andrew had convinced himself that the way you loved him wasn't enough to drown out the things his own mind spat at him when it got quiet.
Both your hands come up to cradle his face, firm enough that he can't look away, your palms warm against his cheeks as you gently force his eyes back to yours.
“Andrew, honey, no.”
His eyes are red and wet when they meet yours, lashes clumped together with tears he's trying desperately not to let fall.
“Don't you do that," you whisper, your own voice breaking. “Don't you ever decide what I deserve for me.”
Your thumb brushes over his cheek gently.
“I chose you.”
His breath catches.
“I choose you.”
He whimpers, face scrunching up. For a long moment he simply stares up at you like that, like he's trying to fit the words somewhere inside himself, words that he’s felt never belong there.
His lips press together and tremble.
One tear slips free. Then another.
You wipe them away immediately with your thumbs, your heart aching at the way he instinctively turns his face into your touch, nuzzling into your palms. His hands come up to wrap around your wrists, holding them tight.
That’s when you look down and see it. Dark bruises are blooming across his right knuckles, the skin split and raw, fresh blood drying in the creases of his hand.
You gasp his name softly, “Andrew.”
You lift his hand carefully between both of yours, turning it over gently, your thumb barely brushing across the broken skin.
“Baby, what did you do?”
Shame floods his face immediately as he looks away from you, his brows furrowing.
“I’m sorry.”
He tries to pull his hand away, ashamed, but you don't let him.
“Andrew, hey, it’s okay–”
“M'sorry," he repeats, his voice cracking this time. “I always ruin things. I don't... I don't know how not to.”
The end of his words dissolve into a shaky breath as he shakes his head. You feel your chest cave in.
“Hey,” you say softly, urging him to look up at you. “Hey, s'okay, honey. I’m not mad.”
You bring his injured hand up carefully, cradling it against your chest.
“Let me fix it, please. C'mon. Let me clean you up.”
Before you can move, his other hand comes up, clutching your wrist tightly, fingers suddenly tightening around you.
“Wait.”
His eyes search yours frantically. The panic returns to his face so quickly you feel your own heartbeat quicken.
“You're not gonna leave me... right?”
The question comes out as a broken whimper, so quiet that you can barely hear it.
“You're not- you're not gonna leave?” He repeats, voice a bit louder.
Your heart shatters.
Without thinking, you move closer until your foreheads are touching, feeling his shaky breath fan your face, one hand cupping his cheek while the other remains wrapped around his bruised knuckles.
“No, Andrew.”
You brush your nose gently against his.
“Never.”
His eyes flutter shut. Yours do too.
“Never,” you whisper again.
Andrew looks down at you as you kneel between his legs, your positions now switched on Deran's sofa. The first aid kit sits open beside you, strips of gauze and antiseptic scattered across the floor as you gently cradle his hand in both of yours, wiping away the dried blood from his knuckles with tenderness.
The noise inside his head has quietened now. Not disappeared. He isn't sure it ever truly will.
But the poison has retreated to something distant, a dull, hollow murmur instead of the deafening roar it had been only half an hour ago. Quiet enough that he can finally hear your breathing again. Quiet enough that he can watch the concentration etched across your face as you work without the voices twisting every expression into something sinister.
Your face is clear of judgement, or pity, only sheer understanding.
Andrew thinks, maybe for the first time, that the glass between himself and the rest of the world has finally begun to crack. Before, even with you, there had always been pieces he'd kept tucked away, corners of himself he'd convinced himself were too ugly to survive the light. Not because he didn't trust you, but because he didn't know how not to.
Over the past five months he'd told you things he'd never imagined saying aloud. About Smurf. About Julia. About Cath. Words spoken in hushed whispers in the night with your bodies tangled under the sheets, his face buried safely in the crook of your neck or hidden against your chest where he didn't have to look at you while he spoke. You'd never rushed him. Never filled the silences. Just carded your fingers through his curls and listened until the shaking stopped.
But never like today. Never with him kneeling on the floor, arms wrapped around your waist, begging you not to leave him with tears in his eyes, looking like a frightened boy.
The thought alone makes shame curl low in his stomach momentarily, before it dissolves into something warm, before it becomes poison.
He'd let you see him at his smallest, at his most frightened.
And somehow… you'd stayed.
His eyes drift back down to your hands.
You dab carefully at another split across his knuckles before smoothing ointment over it with featherlight touches, treating him with the same gentleness you'd shown from the moment you walked into his life. Like he wasn’t something broken to something to recoil from, but something to hold a little more carefully.
He knows this conversation isn't over, knows that once when his brain isn’t so hazy, or yours so tired, you'll ask him about tonight. About the things he'd said, about the poison. About why seeing you laughing with someone else had unraveled him so completely.
But for the first time in his life, the thought doesn't fill him with dread.
Because he has faith that you'll listen, that you'll let him stumble over his words, pause for him, let him lose himself halfway through a sentence while your hand rests in his curls. That you'll answer with those soft, placating whispers that somehow never make him feel small.
It makes heat rush through him, down his spine, molten and hot.
He tries not to get hard, but he can’t help it, not when you’d wrapped his bloody hands with such care. Especially not now, when you look up at him from under your lashes, and press a kiss so gentle and full of care against his bandaged knuckles.
You see the tent in the pants as you drop his hand gently, and smile softly, smirk, even. Looking up at him, you rest your palms on his thighs, rubbing gentle circles over the denim.
Somehow, you always know what he wants without him saying it.
“Do you want me to make you feel better Andrew?”
He nods, please.
He hadn't had sex with you, not yet, but you’d done other things, things involving his mouth pressed against you, lapping your slick, or your hand barely wrapping around him as you jerked him off. His relationship with sex and intimacy was always complicated, but you made him feel safe.
You understood when he wanted to bury his fingers into you and exert his frustrations, be rough, but also when he wanted to quietly nuzzle his face into your breasts, licking, as you cooed at him.
It felt nice, surrendering control, making something uncharacteristically warm bubble in his chest.
“Words, Andrew,” you say more sternly. “Do you want me to suck you off?”
His cock twitches under his pants at your words, and he nods.
“Yes please, m’sorry.”
“No need to apologise, honey," you coo as you unzip his pants. He lifts up to help you pull them down along his boxers.
Your breath hits his cock immediately as it slips out, slapping against his stomach.
Fuck.
He lets out a whine when you purse your lips and spit, a thin line of saliva connecting your mouth to his cock. You don’t break eye contact as you wrap a hand around him, spreading your saliva and precum down his length.
The poison becomes a dull thrum barely discernible as you slowly jerk him off.
“Yeah, you like that Andrew?”
“It feels so- so good.”
“Good boy.”
His hips jerk up, cock throbbing.
“Fuck, say it– say that again,” he whines.
“Say what?” you smirk as you bring your tongue down, lapping at his tip. “That you’re my good boy?”
He whimpers, the sound breaking into a loud moan as you slip him into your mouth.
“Fuck- s’warm.”
He has to force himself not to jerk up into your mouth, pleasure spiking, as you take him in, deeper, and deeper.
You bob your head slowly, up and down his cock, fingers wrapped around what your mouth can’t fit.
He clenches his fists on his sides in the gruelling effort to not touch you.
You notice, somehow attuned to him even now, and take your mouth of him.
“It’s okay baby, you can hold me,” you say, panting slightly as you gently bring his hands to your head. “Help me out. Be my good boy, c’mon.”
He groans, buries his hands in your hair, holding tight, as he slowly pushes your head down on him.
“Just like that, fuck,” he moans.
You suck him even harder, letting him control your movements over his cock. Spit dribbles down the corners of your mouth, onto his thighs.
“Fuck– fuck you feel s’good.”
You moan at his praise, the sound vibrating against his cock. He grunts as his hands guide you, his own thighs twitching.
Your eyes stay on his, reddening at the edges. And just as he feels like that bubble of pleasure is about to burst, you pull off suddenly.
He whines.
You shush him gently, gently stroking him in your hands as you pant.
“Don’t worry, keep going honey, okay?”
You press a kiss to his drooling tip, keeping your eyes on his.
“I’m never gonna leave you.”
He moans your name, loud, closing his eyes. Fuck.
You’re never going to leave him.
He feels that familiar burst of heat, fingers flexing against your head, before his hands push you onto his cock again, hard.
You gag slightly, but don't stop bobbing your head, and the sound turns him on more than it should.
As he opens his eyes, he notices your hand has travelled down to between your legs.
Fuck, are you touching yourself?
The fast movement of your hands suggests that yes, you’ve got a hand buried in your cunt. The idea of sucking him off bringing you pleasure makes something hot shoot up his spine.
His hands tighten in your hair, a thumb rubbing your forehead.
“Fuck, m’gonna come, fuck!”
He babbles curses as his hips jerk up once, twice, before he moans loudly and comes, face scrunched, staring at you the entire time.
You twitch under him, moaning as his cum fills your mouth, some of it dribbling down the sides of your mouth.
He leans back, panting. Silence, warmth fills the room.
You slip him out from your mouth, and swallow before lapping at your hand and wiping your mouth. Cleaning yourself up.
His cock twitches between his thighs as he pants, eyes boring into you.
He can’t control it then, the urge to have you close. He wanted it, needed it.
“Take your clothes off and c’mere, please,” he grits out as he pats his thighs.
You nod, stripping and straddling him, thighs pressed on either side of him. He immediately wraps his arms around your waist, feeling your warmth.
He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours as he breathes you in, your musk, him on you.
You giggle against his lips, “You're like a puppy, you know?”
Warmth spreads across his cheeks. Even after rendering him speechless, after sucking him off, you still managed to make warmth bloom in his chest.
He shakes his head, muttering a quiet “shut up” before he presses his lips to yours.
You moan into his mouth, bringing your hands up, one cupping his face while the other buries itself in his curls.
“Take your shirt off, please,” you whimper into his mouth.
Without taking his eyes off yours, he grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head before tossing it aside. The moment it's gone, he's reaching for you again, one arm tugging you closer.
Your lips move against each other sloppily, unhurried.
The poison retreats to a distant murmur, drowned beneath the weight of your presence until all that's left is you. Your hands in his hair. Your soft moans against his lips. Your tongue sliding against his.
His other hand drags down your breasts, your stomach, until he reaches your mound.
He sucks in a deep breath when he feels your slick, immediately rubbing slow circles on your clit.
“You’re so wet, baby. S’all for me?” He asks softly, seeking assurance even as he has you pressed against him.
You nod, eyes hazy.
“Yes Andrew, s'all for you, honey.”
His expression softens almost imperceptibly, the corners of his mouth threatening the smallest smile. The warmth blooming in his chest has nothing to do with his own desire and everything to do with being wanted, with being looked at as though there is nowhere else in the world you'd rather be.
“Gonna make you feel even better,” he mumbles as he brings his fingers to his mouth, sucking them to taste your slick. His cheeks hollow, and you whine, “please, please inside me Andrew.”
He smirks slowly at that, at how desperate you sound for him, as he brings his hand down. His thumb continues rubbing slow circles as he presses two fingers at your entrance.
“Whatever you want, sweetheart.”
He pushes them in, and you let out a loud groan against him. Thrusting his fingers in and out against your warm walls, watching your face scrunching up in pleasure. His own cock twitches up, hardening under your ass.
Both of you pant against each other as he brings you closer and closer to your release, fingers speeding, jerks his own thighs up to rub his own cock against your soft skin.
“Yeah, you like that?”
“Fuck– yes! Please don’t stop,” you moan as you grind your hips against his hand, riding his fingers. His hand tightens around your waist, guiding you.
AS he circles your clit faster, he presses his fingers against the spot inside you that always makes your back arch, makes you moan harder.
Andrew isn’t one to dirty talk too much, but he thinks of how gentle you were with him, how good you were to him, and the words just slip out.
“Such a good girl for me. My good girl.”
You moan, the loudest you have all night, eyes drooping as your hips move faster against him, hands tightening in his curls.
He feels your cunt clench around him so tight he halts his movements. And then you come, pulsing around his fingers, brows furrowed and eyes closed.
Fuck, his cock pulses, twitches.
Seeing you reach your peak is always Andrew’s greatest pleasure, watching the way your face scrunches, the way your moans change their cadence.
And he can’t help but lean forward, pressing his face against your neck, tears pooling in his eyes as his pleasure snaps, and he comes untouched. He thrusts up abruptly against your ass, groaning loudly as he covers it in his cum.
The room falls quiet again as he slips his fingers out of gently, save for the sound of both of your pants.
You twitch against him, still catching your breath, and murmur a quiet, "come here."
He lifts his head immediately at the sound of your voice, letting you guide him upward with gentle hands. You cup his face and press a slow, lingering kiss against his lips, your foreheads touching when you part.
Then your thumb brushes beneath his eye. He hadn't even realised tears had slipped as he came again. You wipe them away with impossible care, smiling at him as though they aren't something to be embarrassed by.
“M'not gonna leave you, yeah?" you whisper. His lashes flutter.
“Especially not for J.”
The corner of his mouth twitches despite himself.
“...Still don't like him,” he mutters.
You let out a little giggle, the sound small and tired and impossibly beautiful, before shaking your head and tucking your face into the crook of his neck.
One arm circles your waist, the other cradles the back of your head.
He buries his face in your hair and closes his eyes.
With the way he feels the poison quieten with you, with the way you understand him, maybe you could stitch him up, piece by piece. He’d still have scars, Smurf made sure of that, years of violence made sure of that. But maybe they didn't have to keep bleeding forever.
And maybe, a scarred thing can still be tended to, can still turn out to be how Andrew feels in moments like these, something dangerously close to whole.
i think i lowkey really cooked with the metaphors and all in this (thank you ms olivia - your brain is amazing). i also still think i'm still trying to get his voice right during smut, and i have no clue if the positions were right bc im chud and have no experience, apologies. anyways this is for andrew, who made it out, and is living with the love of his life halfway across the world, down undah (with me).
Convincing Jack to dig out his old army uniform just so you can see it for… research purposes!
The two of you are in Jack’s attic, you’re standing near the doorway because he doesn’t want you to get sick from all the dusk up here. You’re watching him as he pulls out old totes then brings them over to the doorway as he rummages through them.
Pulling out old picture frames with a large group of military personnel and he’s holding it over to you
“that’s from… when was it ‘96? Yeah ‘96 I think.”
You’re just giggling to yourself as you look over the faces trying to find your Jackie. You’ve only seen about two photos when he was around about your age
You’re pointing to one of the guys that you already know is him because it’s the only one who’s got curly hair and a ‘medic’ patch on. He’s nodding and letting out a sigh
“Yep, that’s me…”
Then his digging around some more, pulling out another frame, this time it’s just him. Dressed all nice and proper. You’re smiling brightly, you feel so honored that he’s able to even show you this stuff. It has to be very emotional for him. Some of these things he hasn’t seen since he was this age.
He’s looking over and handing you the photo you’re practicing dumbfounded that this is your same Jack Abbot. You run a finger over where his shoulder is in the photo as you look at it, his heart melts and he quickly musters up whatever he can.
“That was ‘95 I believe… you weren’t even born yet.”
You flash him a glare.
One he finally finds his box of old tactical gear it’s game over. You’ve got on one of his jackets that he put on your shoulders and a pair of sunglasses that aren’t even silver anymore on your forehead that you pushed up after he placed them on your face.
He’s got old boots he’s showing you. You’ve only seen just know you’ve struck a gold mine. Because little does he know… what you’re conjuring up in that head of yours.
The both of you head back downstairs once you’ve had your fill of nostalgia for the night. You excuse yourself to go get your pajamas on for bed while he starts pulling the covers back.
That’s when you pop up behind him, cute frilly lingerie that looks like it belongs to a museum, and you’ve got his jacket on. You feel like one of those sailor’s girlfriends from the 40’s.
He’s immediately hardily chucking and throwing you onto the bed
“Oh so was this the whole reason why you made me dig out those boxes?”
He sounds so giddy as his hands trial all over your breast and slide under the hem of your bra, he’s leaning down while he hovers over top of you and kissing you so harshly you fear he might be trying to bite your face off. He isn’t. He pulls pack and roams his hands over your body some more.
Sliding down to your panties and he smiles against your lips as he tugs the off in one swift motion
“you sure do know how to make a soldier proud of his country.”
You’re laughing out loud but it’s so quickly cut short by a very large gasp as he’s placing his cock in you. You hadn’t even noticed what he was doing until it was too late and you were now being absolutely stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey.
Each time he bucked his hips up into you a sound left your mouth. He wasn’t being polite tonight. He was being a ruthless animal, taking what he wanted without a second thought. He’s got you all messy. Covered in his cum, trembling as your nails dig into his back.
