𝒓𝒖𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒔

⌖. ݁₊ ⊹ ℧

[ruerecs]

𝐑𝐔𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐒 𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐑𝐄𝐂 𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍.

20, bi, scorpio .

MASTERLIST:

▸ daredevil

▸ outer banks

▸ the walking dead

▸ bts

▸ red dead redemption

other baes

LATEST .ᐟ

⤷ jack abbot fic recs ii.

writing blog navigation | ask | my favourite writers | my edits

[ruerecs]

𝒋𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒂𝒃𝒃𝒐𝒕 𝒇𝒊𝒄 𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒔 𝒊𝒊.

NAVIGATION | JACK ABBOT MASTERLIST

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sleepyhead (4.6k) [fluff]

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[ruerecs]

𝒋𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒂𝒃𝒃𝒐𝒕 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕.

one

two

three

four

five

[midnightbandito]

Pope Cody subtly getting clicker trained

» mdni, nsfw, afab!reader

The first time it happens, it’s unintentional. 

Pope’s sitting at the table in the kitchen and you’re standing near the counter, trying to open up a jar by yourself. If he’d noticed, he would’ve helped immediately, but your back’s turned to him and his gaze’s fixated on the floor.

Getting frustrated, you click your tongue before speaking. “Andrew, love, come here a sec?”

He’s right behind you in a flash. 

“I got it, sweetheart.” it’s all he says, effortlessly opening the jar you’d been struggling with for at least five minutes. You smile mindlessly, shoulder resting against his chest.  Looking up to him, your palms find his cheeks, pulling him in for a kiss. “Thank you, love.”

The second time you do it, it’s a completely different situation yet still unintentional. 

It’s late at night and in a sleepy haze, you hear the front door open and light footsteps heading towards the bathroom. Reluctantly, you get up to follow them. You find your boyfriend sitting on the edge of the tub, trying to self medicate a wound. Pope doesn’t acknowledge your presence, too focused on how bad the cuts sting. Or at least not until you’re clicking your tongue, head shaking in disapproval.

“Here, let me do it” you offer, taking the bandages and alcohol from his bloody hands. 

Andrew’s static, gaze sorrowful. I’m sorry, he wants to say. Kneeling between his parted legs, you deal with the injury. Once you’re done, you plant a kiss on his cracked lips, “it’s okay love”. 

It happens accidentally another couple of times, at least, before you slowly start to notice that whenever you click your tongue, Pope draws closer to you, lingering around like he’s excepting something.

So that’s when you start doing it on purpose, kind of playing into seeing how far you can take it before he notices; clicking your tongue every time you need something from Pope and then kissing him after as a thank you. 

You try bringing it inside the bedroom as well, once for now: Andrew’s been eating you out for what felt like hours, lapping at your cunt like man starved. You truly are grateful how much he values your pleasure but christ you need him inside you yesterday. Thus, you grab a fist full of curls and force his mug up, causing a whine to escape his throat. 

Pope looks completely out of it, blindsided by how puffy your pussy has become due to all his sucking and biting. He’s not even trying to look you in the eyes. That’s when you click your tongue and his gaze snaps up immediately. There’s your Andrew. 

“Come up here, ‘need you..” You moan into the open-mouth kiss as soon as he finally sinks into you. 

So you keep doing it on purpose. And everything goes great, you’ve successfully pavloved Andrew Cody.

A small click of your tongue and your boyfriend’s hanging around you, waiting to be helpful to you and hopefully getting a kiss in return.  You can’t be sure whether he’s figured it out and is simply indulging you or he genuinely has no clue about what you’ve done to him. 

However, an answer comes unexpectedly when one day, you’re all at Smurfs. Setting up the table for dinner, you stand outside with Craig talking bullshit as usual, courtesy of being coked out half the time. Deran and Pope are inside, cooking. 

Absentmindedly, you click your tongue at something unbelievably idiotic Craig says.

You don’t even realise what you did until Andrew comes up behind you, strong arm wrapping around your hips, placing a sweet kiss on your temple.

“Need something, sweetheart?” His voice is so raspy in your ear that your head feels dizzy for a second. You might’ve clicker trained the man, but the way he’s always so willing to give you anything is a hazard to your self control.

Craig’s gaze flickers between you and Andrew, eyes so wide they might pop out. You’re so lost in your own bubble, that you barely register him laughing at the two of you. 

“God damn it brother, she’s got you trained like a fuckin’ dog!” He jokes. And for being on drugs all the time, he’s perceptive, you’ll give him that.

Andrew’s expression goes from soft to confused fast. His back straightens. He hates being the unaware one, being laughed at and you know it. 

“What?” He barks, his grip around you getting firmer. As if he’s looking for some grounding within you.

“Don’t worry about it” you don’t mean to sound dismissive, it’s just not the time nor place. Not with his brother teasing. After all, what you two do inside the walls of your own home is no one else’s business. 

But Pope’s relentless. Looking at you in search of answers, eyes downright almost begging. 

“What’s he talkin about?”

You hate not giving into him, but you truly don’t feel like dealing with his brothers teasing. So you turn to him, palming the back of his neck, “I’ll explain it later, ‘kay love?”

His muscles relax at your touch. Eventually, Andrew nods, slightly hesitant.

“Good boy.” It’s merely a whisper in his ear, barely audible. Only for him.

But you swear under the hand you’re sliding up his forearm, you feel goosebumps spreading over his skin. 

[midnightbandito]

Pope Cody subtly getting clicker trained

» mdni, nsfw, afab!reader

The first time it happens, it’s unintentional. 

Pope’s sitting at the table in the kitchen and you’re standing near the counter, trying to open up a jar by yourself. If he’d noticed, he would’ve helped immediately, but your back’s turned to him and his gaze’s fixated on the floor.

Getting frustrated, you click your tongue before speaking. “Andrew, love, come here a sec?”

He’s right behind you in a flash. 

“I got it, sweetheart.” it’s all he says, effortlessly opening the jar you’d been struggling with for at least five minutes. You smile mindlessly, shoulder resting against his chest.  Looking up to him, your palms find his cheeks, pulling him in for a kiss. “Thank you, love.”

The second time you do it, it’s a completely different situation yet still unintentional. 

It’s late at night and in a sleepy haze, you hear the front door open and light footsteps heading towards the bathroom. Reluctantly, you get up to follow them. You find your boyfriend sitting on the edge of the tub, trying to self medicate a wound. Pope doesn’t acknowledge your presence, too focused on how bad the cuts sting. Or at least not until you’re clicking your tongue, head shaking in disapproval.

“Here, let me do it” you offer, taking the bandages and alcohol from his bloody hands. 

Andrew’s static, gaze sorrowful. I’m sorry, he wants to say. Kneeling between his parted legs, you deal with the injury. Once you’re done, you plant a kiss on his cracked lips, “it’s okay love”. 

It happens accidentally another couple of times, at least, before you slowly start to notice that whenever you click your tongue, Pope draws closer to you, lingering around like he’s excepting something.

So that’s when you start doing it on purpose, kind of playing into seeing how far you can take it before he notices; clicking your tongue every time you need something from Pope and then kissing him after as a thank you. 

You try bringing it inside the bedroom as well, once for now: Andrew’s been eating you out for what felt like hours, lapping at your cunt like man starved. You truly are grateful how much he values your pleasure but christ you need him inside you yesterday. Thus, you grab a fist full of curls and force his mug up, causing a whine to escape his throat. 

Pope looks completely out of it, blindsided by how puffy your pussy has become due to all his sucking and biting. He’s not even trying to look you in the eyes. That’s when you click your tongue and his gaze snaps up immediately. There’s your Andrew. 

“Come up here, ‘need you..” You moan into the open-mouth kiss as soon as he finally sinks into you. 

So you keep doing it on purpose. And everything goes great, you’ve successfully pavloved Andrew Cody.

A small click of your tongue and your boyfriend’s hanging around you, waiting to be helpful to you and hopefully getting a kiss in return.  You can’t be sure whether he’s figured it out and is simply indulging you or he genuinely has no clue about what you’ve done to him. 

However, an answer comes unexpectedly when one day, you’re all at Smurfs. Setting up the table for dinner, you stand outside with Craig talking bullshit as usual, courtesy of being coked out half the time. Deran and Pope are inside, cooking. 

Absentmindedly, you click your tongue at something unbelievably idiotic Craig says.

You don’t even realise what you did until Andrew comes up behind you, strong arm wrapping around your hips, placing a sweet kiss on your temple.

“Need something, sweetheart?” His voice is so raspy in your ear that your head feels dizzy for a second. You might’ve clicker trained the man, but the way he’s always so willing to give you anything is a hazard to your self control.

Craig’s gaze flickers between you and Andrew, eyes so wide they might pop out. You’re so lost in your own bubble, that you barely register him laughing at the two of you. 

“God damn it brother, she’s got you trained like a fuckin’ dog!” He jokes. And for being on drugs all the time, he’s perceptive, you’ll give him that.

Andrew’s expression goes from soft to confused fast. His back straightens. He hates being the unaware one, being laughed at and you know it. 

“What?” He barks, his grip around you getting firmer. As if he’s looking for some grounding within you.

“Don’t worry about it” you don’t mean to sound dismissive, it’s just not the time nor place. Not with his brother teasing. After all, what you two do inside the walls of your own home is no one else’s business. 

But Pope’s relentless. Looking at you in search of answers, eyes downright almost begging. 

“What’s he talkin about?”

You hate not giving into him, but you truly don’t feel like dealing with his brothers teasing. So you turn to him, palming the back of his neck, “I’ll explain it later, ‘kay love?”

His muscles relax at your touch. Eventually, Andrew nods, slightly hesitant.

“Good boy.” It’s merely a whisper in his ear, barely audible. Only for him.

But you swear under the hand you’re sliding up his forearm, you feel goosebumps spreading over his skin. 

[p1ttlings]

hey girl ily. IF reqs are still open… i am requesting pope who always buys shit for his gf, but finds out she bought something pricey with her own money. he’s pissed and she’s trying to figure out why, jokingly goes “it’s almost like u get off on me spending ur money lol” and he immediately gets super quiet and blushy cuz he DOES

hi hi baby i love you more and sorry if this is not as long as you hoped but i thought it was a good blurb/thought!! thank you for requesting, my love <3. wc: 1.8k

this is soooooo good. i will DIE on the hill that pope has felt so used all of his life that all he wants to do is feel useful in a more positive way!!!!! so when he gets a girl?? yeah that’s HIS girl. his everything. his responsibility. he’ll do anything to take care of her. that means his money isn’t even HIS money, it’s yours. 

you find it so silly how he asks you if he can buy himself something. it’s never for anything minor, mostly the bigger things. “i think our family room needs a new TV. that okay?” 

your eyebrows furrow at this, looking up at him from your textbook. “what?”

“the family room. the television is outdated. can i get a new one?” 

“uhm… yeah?” you’re confused but you don’t voice it. you shrug it off like it’s no big deal. 

until he asks something else a few days later. “been looking at new trucks, think i can get one?” 

you’re in the middle of watching a movie, his rough fingers are massaging your calves after you complained about running back and forth on campus. your eyebrows furrow, looking up at him from your spot. “why are you asking me that?” 

he shrugs. “cause i want to know what you want.” 

you snort, lying your head back down on your pillow. “and if i said you can’t get one?” 

“then i won’t get one.” 

your eyes are wide, sitting up fully, pulling your legs from him. “what? you grabbing from my financial aid for the truck or something? cause i only get my year covered and that seems like a lot, sure, but i can’t just waste that all—“ 

“why would i grab your money? that’s yours.” 

“okay… so…” you’re so fucking confused. you shake your head, waving your arms between the two of you. “okay. am i being slow or something? did i miss an entire part of our conversation? was i focused too much on the movie?” 

and he has the audacity to look confused as he speaks, “my money is yours too.” 

“and… my money is yours?” you ask. 

he scoffs, offended. “why would your money be mine?” 

“i mean… wouldn’t your words mean the—“ 

“no.” he interrupts. 

“but—“ 

“no. my money is yours, your money is yours. not mine.” 

“your money is mine… and it’s not yours?”

“yes.” 

“you’re an idiot.” but you don’t argue. 

you have lots of nice things. nice bags and shoes and makeup, all thanks to the money from pope’s wallet. it’s not like you can’t buy yourself anything. you very much can. you’re good at saving, especially with the job you have, the one he hates. so, when you graduate? oh, he’s spoiling you like crazy. he gets you everything you’ve so much as glanced at. 

but… you decide to get yourself your own big gift! you’ve never bought yourself something truly pricey. you’ve got your big girl job AND a degree. yeah, that bag you’ve wanted for ages? it’s officially yours. 

the funny thing is, he doesn’t even notice it for a while. you opened it while he was off doing his work with his family. you took pictures with the bag, posted it all over your story. had everyone sliding up and congratulating you. but he doesn’t have any form of social media so there’s no way he could’ve seen it. 

it’s maybe about a week later when you two are getting ready for a date night, that he notices it. 

“when did i get you that?” 

“huh?” you’re too busy focused on putting your earrings on at your mirror. 

he nods to the bag on the bed with charms hanging off the strap. “that one. i don’t remember buying you that.” 

you finally turn, still struggling with your earring. “ah, you didn’t get that one for me.” 

his eyebrows furrow. “what do you mean?”

“girl, what do you mean?” you’re frustrated now, finger still fidgeting on your earlobe. 

“you bought it?”

you nod, turning back to your mirror. “yeah.” 

“okay… so you used my card?” 

you huff, “no, i bought it.” 

“with my card.” 

“no, not with your card.” you groan, tossing your annoying earring onto your vanity in his room. because of course he set up a vanity for you in his bedroom. 

“okay… with my cash?” 

“no, baby, im overstimulated enough as it is. my card. my money. i bought myself that bag with my money.” 

he’s quiet. you’re grabbing another pair of earrings, tugging those on easily. you finally turn back to see pope sitting on the edge of his bed, slumped over, face in his hands. 

this completely stuns you. “pope?” you rush to him. “oh my god. i didn’t mean to snap at you. you know how i get when im overstimulated. it’s not fair of me, i know that, but you—“ 

he pulls his hands from his face, looking at you as you’re on your knees for him. “did my card decline?” 

“Uhm… what?” you’re confused, eyes flickering across his hurt expression. 

“my card. when you tried to pay for the bag, did it decline?” 

“what—“ 

“i should have the money. maybe the price flagged the cars and shut it down for a bit—“

“pope—“ 

“did you make any big purchases prior to that?” 

you sigh, “pope. i did not use your card. i didn’t try using your card. i bought it with my own money.” 

his eyebrows furrow, “your own money being my money.” 

you forget for a second that he truly believes the money he makes is yours. you take his hands and hold them in yours. “pope. my card. my bank. my money.” 

silence for a few moments. he gets up off the bed, helping you up as well. “okay. let’s go to dinner.” 

he’s quiet and distant the entire time. he keeps his manners, of course. he pulls your chair out for you, he listens to you as you speak, holds your bag for you when you get too overwhelmed with it. but he’s clearly upset. 

the car ride back to his place is silent, only a soft tune being played on the radio. 

you’re the first to break the silence. “did I hurt your feelings?” 

“no.” nothing else. 

“okay… did i disrespect you in some sort of way?” 

“no.” 

you shake your head, feeling that frustration bubbling up in your chest. “okay do you want to tell me what’s wrong or are you going to keep pouting about it?” 

the drive is completely silent until he parks in front of his home. he decides to tell the truth then, “you didn’t use my card.” 

you still for a second before turning to look at him. “wait… you’re upset because i bought this bag with my own money?” 

“i wish you would stop saying that. your own money? my money is yours.” 

“that’s a really nice sentiment but it’s not—“ 

“it is true.” he insists. 

you roll your eyes. you truly didn’t think that was the reason he was being so pissy. you thought your sometimes bad attitude got to him. “geez, pope. do you have a kink for me spending your money?” you fully expect him retort back with a snarky little comment, which is usually how your petty little arguments go. 

silence. 

you turn to him again. he’s looking away. his eyes are stuck on a bush outside the window. you move forward, trying to get a better look of his face. and when you catch the way his cheeks are a tinge of pink, you let out a laugh. 

“oh my god! you do have a kink for it!” you can’t stop laughing. 

he huffs, his blush deepening. “shut up. you’re kink-shaming right now.” 

“dude, this is too good.” you’re cackling. doubling over in laughter. 

he mumbles, embarrassed. “not your dude…” he gets out of the car, opening your car door for you and helping you out, despite being pouty. 

once inside, he sits at the table, arms crossed over his chest and still pouting. you get ready for bed and come out to him in the same spot. you feel the guilt gnawing at you. 

you easily slide on over to him, plopping down on his lap, arms around his neck and pressing kisses to his cheek. “give me your credit card.” 

“what?” his hands instantly move to your waist, securing you. 

“watch me online shop.” you hum, now pressing kisses to the corner of his lips. “that’ll turn you on, right?” he’s quiet. and then, he’s lifting you, “pope!” you laugh as he walks you to his bedroom, smacking your ass. 

he gently puts you down, “say you’re sorry.” 

you try to contain your laughter because he’s turned on. the tent in his jeans is tight, straining to pop out. “im sorry, my baby. should’ve used your money to buy the bag. gonna use all your money up from now on.” 

he groans, shoving his face in the crook of his neck as he slides his jeans down, letting himself spring free. he strokes himself a few times before slipping your nightgown up. “fuck, keep going.” 

your legs instantly latch around him, “didn’t spoil me enough for graduating.” a lie, he spoiled you plenty. “gonna need more from you. more bags. more shoes. a new laptop for work…” 

the moan he releases as he slides into you is filthy and whiney. “anything!” he ruts into you, desperate for his release. “anything for you, fuck, baby, anything for my smart girl…” 

and he meant it, because he does take you shopping the next day, and you do give him head when you’re back in the filled up car. 

[p1ttlings]

TODAY IS (NOT) THE DAY

summary . . . craig is the only cody you pay any mind to at the club. that is, until he’s paying you eight grand to sleep with his brother who’s been out of prison for less than a week.

pairing . . . andrew ‘pope’ cody x stripper!fem!reader

warnings . . . low-self esteem from reader, reading saying they want to die at some point (kys), ig it can be seen as sex work, stripper, half-naked reader at almost all times, weird roleplay, reader sometimes being judgmental but can you blame her, smut 18+only, oral sex, he’s bad for a moment but he gets better, p in v, no condom please wrap it before you tap it, uhm angstyyyyyyyyyyy

word count . . . 10.9k (it was longer too but i had to cut some parts >_<)

an . . . i haven’t written full-fledged work like this in literally YEARS and i definitely forgot how to so grammarly was my best friend 😫 regardless, im very proud of this! smut isn’t my forte but i had so much fun getting out of my comfort zone! please don’t hesitate to comment or voice your thoughts in reblogs! while i do it for the love of the game and not just attention, it still feels nice to be appreciated haha! thank you bbs

part 2, IT’S (NEVER) OVER

You get used to living in sadness. After years of torment and abuse, it’s hard not to live in it. You want self-respect. You want to look at yourself in the mirror and decide that today is the day you finally respect yourself. 

But it’s hard when the person looking at you is full of glitter, wearing nothing but a thin string on your chest and a thong so far up your ass you can’t help but want to pick it. But you can’t, not when Geronimo told you it looked unattractive to the customers of his lovely establishment. 

After an incident on the pole, you can’t dance. So, with a small limp in the huge pumps, you have to serve. It’s not as much as shaking your ass on stage. But it’ll do, at least, until your bills can no longer be covered. 

It’s not like you miss being on stage, either. You always have a nervous sinking pit in your stomach at the idea of exposing parts of yourself that your mother told you were meant to be shared with the man you love. She was also a conservative drunk, though, so the stacks of bills at the end of the night made you forget about it. Until it was time for bed, and tears fell, and you prayed to a god you’re not sure you believe in. 

The music is pounding all around the club. Tabitha is dancing now, her turn for the next twenty minutes. Usually, you’d be next; instead, you’re walking back and forth from the bar to the customers who are dropping far too much money for a few ass shakes. But, hey, you’re the one shaking ass, so you can’t exactly judge, can you? 

“Another Bloody Mary!” You order from Fatima, the gothic woman, her eyebrows furrowing.

She snorts out a laugh, “Who the fuck orders Blood Marys at a strip club?”

You laugh loudly, nose scrunching in disgust at the drink. “The same type of men who get a chub from watching our feet as we pass on by.”

The cackle she lets out makes you grin, proud to have amused her. You place the drinks onto your platter and turn. You look out at the scene ahead of you. Men. Men. Men. Only men. All watching your coworkers with those dark eyes they always carry. It's scary, genuinely scary. They know they have the upper hand here. They know that they can reach out and touch without any repercussions. Mostly because Geronimo would take their side, but also because they’re men. They always take what they want. It will never be any other way so you’ve decided to give in.  

You don't get much longer to take it in, because Geronimo is walking over to you. Staying to talk with him will ruin your mood, and you're still on the clock for five more hours; it's best not to poke the bear. You hear him call your name as you walk past him and call over your shoulder, “Can't talk. Too busy hustling. Making you those big bucks you love!” 

You only get to see a second of his disgusting mug before deciding to forget. Forgetting, it's all you can do. Plastering that disgustingly sweet smile on you for this place, you turn back to the couple of weirdos who ordered said Bloody Marys to begin with. “Here you go,” and just like that, your confidence has to shine through again. Your posture is straighter, boobs out, strutting in those too-big pumps. “Now, if y’all need anything,” your finger runs across the man’s chest. “Anything at all, you ask for me. No other pretty girl.” 

The man and his friends laugh haughtily. His hand lands on your hip, pulling you into him. You laugh prettily at the way he shoves a few bills into your panties. “Got it, sexy.” You want to throw up. You finger-wave them and turn your back to them, your face immediately falling. But it doesn’t last very long, because soon enough, strong arms wrap around your waist. A squeal leaves you, not from fear, but shock. 

You immediately know who it is. Geronimo lets the men at the club get away with a lot, but nothing so blatant. Only one man would do this. You laugh when a pair of lips meet your neck, “Craig! Off!” You smack at his buff arms with one arm, the other carrying the empty tray. 

It’s almost sad how well you know this man. He’s here every single Friday, Saturday, and on occasion, Sunday. Not sad for you. For him. He’s such a depraved freak; he has nothing better to do with his time than snort coke and motorboat the women here for fifty bucks. Not you, though. Not since the first and only time you allowed him a little over a year ago. It was too weird. Now, he never even offers to throw money at you in such ways. Only tips you when you serve him, and at times, his brothers. Today is one of those times, apparently. 

You look over Craig’s shoulders, immediately spotting two more familiar faces. “Baz. Deran.” You greet politely as the two nod their heads at you, eyes scouring the club for their favorite girls. But the faces behind Craig don’t end there. There’s a smaller guy. Smaller in height, definitely not body mass. You glance at Craig and back at the little guy. Little guy. That’s what you've decided on. 

You give everyone names for your mind and your mind only. Craig was originally ‘Hippie’ because of his long hair and beard. Baz was ‘Cheater’ because of the wife he had waiting for him at home. Deran was ‘Wanderer’ because he always looked like he was dissociating when he was with his girl. And now, Little Guy.

“And who’s this?” Immediately, you’re on the prowl for tips, circling Little Guy, looking him up and down, checking him out. He’s not as big as Craig is, but most men here aren’t. He’s got muscles, that much is clear— only when you look at him from certain angles—a sleeper build, you take notice. 

“This right here,” Craig’s arm is grabbing you, pulling you into him as if staking some claim on you, as Little Guy looks you up and down now. But his eyes immediately leave you, continuing to scope the place out. How odd, most men can’t take their eyes away from your body. The bob in Little Guy’s throat tells you it’s not because he doesn’t want to look at you, he’s nervous. And this amuses you. No man who walks in here is ever nervous. Not even the first-timers. “Is my big brother. Pope.” 

You hum, surprised by this. “Big brother?” You voice aloud, Deran snorting a laugh beside Baz, who seems to have not found his girl yet, distracted by the task. What surprises you is the way Little Guy actually looks upset by your words. Not defensive, like most men are about their height, but upset. “I mean no offense, Pope,” your tone is saccharine, as is the smile on your face. “Craig is just really old in my opinion, and you don’t look older than him.” You make a jab at Craig that has him laughing loudly, in a way that screams he’s coked up. 

“Alright, alright, Hipster.” You try for a giggle that isn't awkward, but you fail. You lightly smack his arms, and he does as you told him, releasing you. “Want me to walk you to your table, or do you need my help with that too?” You joke with Craig. 

Craig, graceful as ever on coke, clumsily bows to you. “May we have the honor of you leading us?”

A scoff of a laugh leaves you, eyes trailing back over to Little Guy. He’s still scoping out the place, as if something or someone were to come out and pounce on him. Not that they wouldn’t, the girls here can be ruthless and cutthroat about their money, and new men means more money. 

He’s got freckles all over his face—no doubt from countless days under the sun in Oceanside. Most men in Oceanside have sun-touched skin like so, but paired with his buzzcut and a stoic, bordering on psychopathic, look, it’s different. You can’t put your finger on it, but it’s there, and it’s glaringly obvious to you. 

A nudge from your side pulls you out of your analysis of Little Guy. You look up at Craig with furrowed eyebrows, confused by this sudden need for attention. It’s not that odd, seeing as he always needs female attention, but he doesn’t grab it with a nudge, only with his huge hands. His eyes trail to Pope, nodding at him for you. He seems to be overestimating your connection because you can’t read what he’s saying at all. He huffs, annoyed by your lack of understanding. He leans over to whisper to you, “Sleep with him.” 

His words catch you completely off guard. You sputter out a laugh, taking a step back from him. But you wince when you step wrong, ankle throbbing. “Fuck, fuck…” You hiss, and you grab onto the nearest thing. Or, person. It’s Little Guy.

He acts as if your touch burns him, pulling away with wide eyes. His sudden pull away makes you stumble some more. Craig catches you quickly, glaring at his brother. “The fuck is your issue?” 

You shake your head, balancing yourself on Craig. “It’s fine, Craig, I jumped him.” Once you’re on your feet, you look over at Little Guy. And the guilty expression on his face makes your breath catch. “I’m sorry, Pope.” You apologize. Usually, your apologies to the men in this place are insincere, or they don’t get any at all. “I hurt my ankle while dancing last week, and I stepped on it wrong. Panicked and grabbed the closest person. I didn’t mean to bombard you.” 

He’s looking at the floor, hands nervously rubbing at his blue jeans. He shakes his head, refusing to look at you. “It’s fine.” His voice is rough. An intense drawl that makes your skin bump and fingers clench and unclench, needing something , but you can’t figure out what.

You lead the brothers to their usual table. Your pumps are too tall for you to grab the heavy chairs, so Baz does it for you, filling up the table. “Alright, your usuals?” You ask as they all sit. Even as you ask your typical question, you can’t completely look away from Pope, glancing at him repeatedly, desperate to keep your eyes on him. To analyze him, of course, nothing else. You barely met the guy, so you can’t say it’s anything more than that. He's just so damn odd. His back won't touch the chair, and he’s sitting so stiff because of it, hands fidgeting on his knees. Weird. So fucking weird. 

But Craig shakes his head, grabbing your arm and pulling you onto his lap. You laugh, not disgusted by this for once. If it were any other man, you’d curse and hit. But it’s Craig. And he’s handsy, but he’s innocent. He whistles over to Iggy, ushering the blonde to take their orders. Baz and Deran, now with their women, order their usual with your coworker. But your attention is on Craig, arm around him as he whispers into your ear. “He just got out.”

Your eyebrows furrow, glancing at Pope again. He still won’t let his back touch the seat. You don’t blame him. Some fucked up crap has happened there. Some form of OCD, you deduce. You people watch so much that you’ve given yourselves a degree in psychiatry. You can tell when a man is depressed, or anxious, when their confidence is low, when they’re manic, even when they’re doubting their sexuality. It’s hard not to. They’re so easy. “Like,” you whisper to Craig, turning back. “From his house?” 

He laughs, shaking his head, “No,” the way you two are seated seems intimate. His hands are on your thighs, feeling you up. Oddly, it’s not sexual; he needs something to do with his hands when he’s this high. “Prison.” 

Your eyes widen, eyes searching Craig’s face, looking for the joke. You don't find it. You glance back over at Pope, and he's still being weird. It’s all making more and more sense as Craig tells you more, “was in three years. Was supposed to be six but got off on good behavior. Honey, he needs to get laid.” 

You huff, unamused. “And what’s that got to do with me?” 

He gives you a bored expression, “you’re hot. Got ass for days. Good tits. Not the biggest I’ve seen—“ he winces when you pinch his nipple through his shirt. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding.” 

But you’re glaring at him, upset by what he’s asking of you. “I’m a stripper, not a hooker.” 

“A thousand.” 

“What?” You pull your face from his. “I just said—“

“Three.” It certainly grabs your attention, but not enough to bite. 

“Craig, I'm not sleeping with your brother for money!” You hiss into his ear. 

He pauses and sighs, “You’re gonna milk me dry here. And not the good kind. Fine, eight.” 

As pathetic as it is, that certainly catches your attention. Eight grand. Eight thousand dollars. Eyebrows furrowed, “Why? Why are you…” you trail off momentarily before coming back to earth, “can’t you find an actual hooker on some corner? Probably worth a hundred bucks.” 

He scoffs as if your words are utterly ridiculous. “He’s my brother. I’m not letting him get crabs. You’re clean. Nice. You’d treat him well.”

You snort, “I’m nice? Have you met me?” You’re many, many things. Outside of work, sure, you’re nice. You don’t donate money, but when you’re not debating killing yourself, you’re at the local church, helping with the food bank. But that’s barely a drop in the countless bad things you do, so you don’t count it. At work? Definitely not nice. Fake nice, sure, you can fake it. But at some point, that facade starts to fade. Luckily, most of the men drawn to you are into being degraded. And it’s easy to degrade a man. 

“Oh, no, you’re a straight-up bitch.” He hums, not minding when you smack his chest. “But you’d be good for him. C’mon. Do it for the community, or he’ll be out on the prowl.” You look back over at Pope, his back still not touching the seat. 

You turn back to Craig with an amused smile, “he looks harmless.” 

He raises an eyebrow at you, “Yeah, right, harmless. As harmless as a fucking landmine. Step on him wrong and he’ll explode. You doin’ it?” 

You should say no. Just earlier, you were upset about the lack of respect you have for yourself working this type of job. But you also need the money. Eight thousand is a lot of goddamn money. Enough that you won’t have to worry about coming in for at least a week and a half. You would finally be able to rest your ankle enough to get back up on stage. 

“You got it on you?” You ask, a nervous undercurrent to your voice. You’re not a virgin by any means, but up until this point in your depressing career, you took pride in the fact that you never took anyone’s money for sex. It’s offered to you countless times. And Geronimo tells you all not to take it, but that look in his eye tells you he’s not serious, only do it on your own time. He doesn’t want to get busted for a brothel and lose the building; it’s clear that’s always been his only concern.  

He shakes his head, “nah. Not right now. I do have it, though.” And there go your plans. You scoff, making a move to climb off of him, but his hands tighten around you, pulling you back down. “I have it. I promise I do.” You huff, fingers unconsciously curling into his head of hair, yanking. 

“I’ll kill you if you don’t.” Granted, you don’t mean it. You don’t have any means to do such a thing, nor have the stomach for it. You would find a way to get payback, though. You glance at Pope, who’s still uncomfortable in his chair. You turn back to Craig, “Is he bad at sex?”

He laughs, “How the fuck am I supposed to know?”

You huff at his laugh, glaring at him. You grab his chin, making him look at you. “You promise you’ll pay me?”

As seriously as he can manage, incredibly coked up, he nods. “Yes. Promise. Have I ever let you down?” 

“A few times.” You confirm. 

He rolls his eyes at you, “whatever. I mean about money. I always got you.” And he’s right. He always pays his tabs, always tips you and the other girls hefty sums. There are lots of stingy men around here, but Craig isn’t one of them. 

“I suppose you don’t want him to know I was paid?” 

He shrugs, “don’t care. Or…” he mulls it over for a few seconds, “nah, don’t tell him. Up his confidence.” 

Still tall on his lap, you turn to look over at Pope again. Your eyes widen slightly to find that his eyes are already on you. He either doesn't seem to realize you’ve caught him or he doesn’t care because his eyes don’t leave yours. You wonder if he was confident before prison, if his years of being untouched by a woman just caught up to him, or if he was always so stoic.  

He’s a handsome man, you can’t deny that. But he’s handsome in a way that most women who overlook him are into pretty boys. He’s a grown man. The few lines on his face tell you he’s got years on him, but not too many. He’s just the right age. He’s tan, not as much as a lot of the surfers you see in Oceanside, but it’s there, and it’s clear that Little Guy’s first few days out of prison were spent in the sun. Or maybe he’s naturally tan, but you can’t tell quite yet. 

Regardless of that, you don’t believe you’d hate sex with him. He’s not hideous. Not your cup of tea by any means, but definitely not hideous. And you’re certain he won’t last long, but you’re getting eight thousand for it, so you really don’t care if he cums while sliding inside of you. 

You pat Craig’s thigh a few times before sliding off and strutting over to sit beside Pope. The seat beneath your thighs is freezing, despite the heat of the bodies around you. You cross your leg over the other, his eyes looking down at your bare legs before looking away and back up at you. “So,” you lean your elbow on the table, chin in your hand, as you grin easily at him. “Why haven’t I seen you before?” You act as if you don't know about his prison time. 

His eyes dart over to his brothers and back to you. He doesn't respond. Not for a few seconds. He’s thinking, as if he needs to go over what he wants to say before muttering it out.  And then— “you work here.” It’s awkward, out of place. 

And for the first time all night, your smile is genuine. Your lips tilt, amused. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.” Now it's your turn to mull over what to say next. You can't just pounce on him. Or maybe you can, you haven’t decided yet. “Going on two years now.” You explain. 

He doesn’t nod. Doesn’t show that he’s actively listening to you, as most would with a single shake. You almost think he’s ignoring you until he speaks, “been away. ‘S why you haven’t seen me. And I don't…” he clears his throat awkwardly. “Don’t like these places.” 

You raise a single eyebrow at this. A Cody man doesn’t like strip clubs? It’s a shock to you. All of the Cody sons are regulars here. Except for Deran, who only tags along with Craig on random occasions. Even Baz, who’s supposed to be a family man is here too often. 

“Why’s that?” You question. He doesn’t answer, instead, his eyes keep flickering around the club. When you realize you won’t get a response, you decide to change tactics. A few days of relaxation sounded nice, but you couldn’t dance around him. Not when you just wanted this over with, even if he’s the first man to ever make you softer around the edges, in fear of scaring him away. 

You’re standing up from the chair, hand pushed out to him, waiting for him to take hold of it. He eyes your hands, the long acrylic nails with intricate designs on them, slowly back up to your face. His back is pressed against the chair for the first time that night, looking up at you with confused and darting eyes. “Come on,” you snake your hand slightly, bracelets jingling. “Let’s go.” 

It takes him a few more seconds, but eventually, he puts his hand in yours, and he’s up on his feet. You’re taller than him in your pumps, but he doesn’t seem to mind. You can feel his brother's eyes on both of you as you lead him through the crowd. 

There's not really a spot where you can have sex with the man without cameras, but you figured he wouldn’t mind Geronimo’s beat-up couch in his office. To get there, though, you need to walk through the dressing room. It’s big, with lockers on the walls and typical wooden, glossed-over benches. There are vanities everywhere, big mirrors with lightbulbs around for better views of your makeup and checking how you look between sets. 

You look over your shoulder and at him, and you have to look away to hide your smile at the way he sniffed the air and grimaced at the smell of pure aerosol and different perfumes mixing. 

You’re surprised to hear him speak first, “This is where you change into…” You turn to face him, catching his eyes as his eyes flicker over your half-nude body. “That.”

For the first time since starting this job, you feel naked. Which, you very much are. Always are when you step foot into the stuffy club. But the way Little Guy was looking at you? It makes your stomach churn. It makes you feel judged. You know you always are. Most of the men here always look disgusted by the end of the night. As if they can’t believe who they spent time with over the past few hours. But you don’t let it get to you—you got what you needed: money. That’s all that matters. 

But Pope isn’t giving you money. Craig is. And he’s not here watching you with an intensely awkward look. If Craig ever looked at you the way Pope is, you’d smack the guy, shove past him. But it looks cute on Pope. Chin slightly tilted down, eyebrows furrowed. He looks like he's struggling to push something out, and you realize it’s his words. He can’t push his words out, at least not in a way that he wants. 

“You read people well.” He speaks when you don’t. 

The truth of his words makes you nod, pushed out of your trance. “I do.” You two are standing in the middle of the changing room now, not making a move. “Perk from the job.” You add. 

A pause. 

You speak again, and at the same time, he does. “I don’t—“

“He’s paying you, right?” His words make you still, unsure how to handle the situation. You don’t exactly care for his feelings, or you tell yourself you don’t. And yet, you’re hesitant to confirm. 

When you don’t see anger in his eyes, you decide you’re safe to speak again. “That a bad thing?”

A slow blink and then, “depends. Do you do this a lot? Sleep with the patrons?” 

The snort of a laugh you release is completely unattractive, and you regret it, but only for a split second. You don’t need to care if he thinks you’re attractive. Men will fuck anything, right? “No. I don’t. Do you?” 

For the first time, you see amusement in his dark and serious eyes. “Do I sleep with the patrons? Can’t say that I have.”

The roll of your eyes can’t hide your smile, “no, silly. Do you sleep with strangers often?”

His answer is instant, a shake of his head and— “no. I haven't…” he swallows. “Haven’t been with anyone in three years.” 

You hum, letting his words sit. Three years is a long time. You figure it was his prison stint. But he doesn’t know that you know, so you refrain from asking if anything happened there. “Are you trying to warn me that you won’t last long?” You tease. 

He huffs out a small laugh, “Yes. Not sure I know what an erection feels like anymore.”

You’re pleasantly surprised by his honesty. Seeing as he was awkward and stoic not even five minutes ago. “Well, then tell me about your last erection.” 

He looks at you like you’ve grown another head, eyes wide before he relaxes them. “What?” 

You shrug, “What was it like? Your last erection. I’m assuming it was during sex, right?” 

His nod is a bit jerky as he replies. “Yes.” 

“Okay…” You watch him. You can not watch him. “Tell me about it. With who? How hard did you come? In bed? Against a counter? Was it raw? Did you—“ 

“Are you always this vulgar?” He interrupts.

You laugh—a real laugh. “Pope, we’re in the middle of a changing room in a strip club with nothing but floss covering my nipples. And this isn’t even my worst outfit.” 

His smile is tight-lipped, looking to the side. “Yeah… guess so.” He peeks back up at you. “He payin’ you a lot?”

“Enough.” You confirm. 

He’s wearing that look again, the one that yells he can’t spit out the correct words. But you know why he’s shy about this. 

“You want to roleplay the last time you had sex.” It’s almost comical how wide his eyes get. You shrug again, “told you, I read people well, a perk of the job.” 

He releases the nervous breath he had been holding in. “You seem close to Craig.” 

You scrunch your nose softly, shaking your head. “Not really. We only see each other here.”

“But he’s around often?”

“Pathetically.” 

He agrees with a nod. “Last time I had sex was with Catherine.” He speaks her name like you’re supposed to know who she is. 

“Heigl?” You joke. 

It flies over his head. “No, Belen.” 

“Right…” your eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Anway… tell me about it.” 

He seems ashamed as he thinks back on it, and this only piques your curiosity. “Let’s sit.” You open Geronimo’s office door and let him inside. It’s a typical office. A desk, a computer, stacks of paper in thick manila folders. There's art on the walls of dogs playing card games, corny Godfather quotes, and a bear head hanging from your boss's hunting. You ignore it as you lock the door behind you and take a seat on the battered couch beside Pope. “Tell me about it.” You urge.  

He clears his throat, legs spread open on the couch. Not by choice, you notice. “We were drunk.” He begins. “It was… stupid. To her. Meant nothing.”

You’re leaning your arm on the couch, eyes stuck on him as he speaks. It almost breaks your heart to see that hurt expression on him. “You wanted it to mean something.” You add. 

“It did.” His words sound defensive as he spews them. He's not your first upset customer, though, so it doesn’t faze you. “It meant something.” 

To you, you want to tell him. But you bite your tongue. “Okay, it meant something.” You validate him. “What else?” 

“That’s all.” 

But you’re eyeing him. He’s not telling the whole truth. It’s easy to see. To you, at least. “You ever been told you’re a bad liar?” 

“No.” His tone is sincere. 

“Well, you are.” You huff. “There’s more. Tell me. Who is Catherine?” 

He’s quiet again. That same tense look. He can’t find his words. Not for a few more moments. “Baz’s wife.” 

Your head tilts, gathering your thoughts. Baz’s wife. Baz is his brother. Catherine is Baz’s wife. It clicks. “Damn.” You sigh, shaking your head. “Geez, Pope.” 

He glares at you, but you don’t find any real heat in it. “Thought strippers weren’t supposed to judge.” 

You give him a bored expression, “That’s a fake rule.” 

“You think I’m gross.” He almost sounds hurt. 

You scoff, “I don’t care what you do, Pope.” A pause. “Only a little. Not from the sex… that’s really the woman you want?” 

He doesn’t hesitate. “More than anything.” 

You almost gasp in shock, but you rein it in. “Geez, Pope.” You repeat. “You’re fucked.” 

The hum of the overhead light fills the quiet room. You’re letting him sit in his truth for a few minutes, playing with a loose thread on the couch. 

“You want me to pretend to be Catherine?” Your voice cuts the silence. 

With a shaky breath, he nods, “Yes.” 

You feel disgusting. You really try not to judge, but it feels wrong. His brother is just outside, having his own fun with one of your coworkers. You have your own moral compass about cheating. The bartenders laughed when you told them as such. You’re a stripper, and half of your clients are married. It’s the one hope you let yourself cling to, that you happen to get the unmarried ones. There are never rings. Never ties to the outside world. Not even a tan. You’re a good person. You’re not a cheater. You’re a good person. 

You’re a good person.

And yet— 

You take his hand and lead him over to the only space on Geronimo’s office wall. You press your back into it. He’s standing a few steps away from you, so you grab his hand again and pull him into you. His breathing is labored, not against your cheek. His hands are fidgeting, unsure where to place them. You grab them again and press them to your cheeks. “We can’t, Pope.” Your voice cracks. “Baz, he… he’ll… I can’t hurt him.” 

His breath hitches. His eyes are darting across your face, like he can’t believe this is really happening. “He won’t…” he licks his lips, mouth dry from his nerves. “He won’t know.” His hands on your face tighten, ghosting his lips over yours. 

“He will,” you furrow your eyebrows, and your face twists up in fake guilt. “Pope, he will.” 

“Won’t.” His teeth nip at your bottom lip. “Can I kiss you?” You wonder if he truly asked Catherine’s permission. 

You jerk out a small nod, and his lips immediately press to yours. Despite the ferocity of the placement, the kiss is soft. Deep. You don't sleep with patrons, but you have shared a few kisses with them. Nothing extravagantly deep or emotional. Mostly sloppy and open-mouthed ones that always end up with their tongue down your throat. 

Pope Cody is a damn good kisser. His hands are still on your cheeks, pulling you into him. While he does so, your hands fidget with the buttons to his shirt, needing to undo them. But you can’t grip them, not with the way his tongue is lapping at yours. 

Your brain is mush. The kiss is wet but not in a sloppy way, warm and desperate but full of a type of yearning you’ve never felt. It feels as if he’s trying to fuse you two into one. Or really, he’s trying to fuse himself and your Catherine act into one. It’s almost romantic. 

He didn't tell you he got to his knees for her, so you’re shocked when he pulls his lips from yours and kisses down your jaw, to your neck, the dip between your breasts, and to your mound. 

The thong you’re wearing is tugged off with his shaky hands, falling to your ankles. It’s helping that you’re wearing pumps so tall, he sits at your cunt perfectly. But the position you’re in is uncomfortable. And so is the pace. His face is smushed into your cunt, lapping and sucking at it wildly, not actually hitting anything.

He notices. The small whimpers you’re releasing are practiced and completely fake. And he notices. He pulls away from you, confused. “Are you not enjoying this?”

You’re caught off-guard, and you figure you’re not playing the role correctly. Catherine must have loved this. “I am! Just as good as—“

He cuts you off, “not Catherine… you.” 

Now you’re really confused. “Uhm…” you think it’s a trick, as if testing whether you’d break out of his fantasy, so he can find a way to revoke that money from you. “I enjoy what you do.” 

Granted, you met him for the first time just forty minutes ago, so saying you've never seen him this angry before seems redundant. He's angry. Really angry. He's getting up off his knees, taking a step back from you. “You hate this.” He utters it like a cold, hard fact. 

“N-no!” You need to salvage this quickly. You’re telling yourself it’s for your money. The eight grand that will sit so prettily in your bank account. But the embarrassment and anger in him are what’s pushing you to make this right. And you hate that it is. “Pope, listen to me, I really, really liked the kiss—“ 

He interrupts again. “But not the pussy eating?” He’s watching you, waiting for your answer. 

With an awkward voice, you decide to speak the truth. “No…” and you hate that his shoulder slumps even slightly. “It’s not a bad thing! You have the potential! You have the passion for it, the one most men don’t have. You can’t just slobber away at it and hope for the best.” 

That surprisingly calms him down. He pauses, lets your words sink in, and he nods. “Okay… okay…” a pause. “Show me.” 

He’s full of surprises, and you’re not sure what to do with them. You were certain this would go one way. He’d search for his release and his only. It wouldn’t be the first time a guy you chose to be with was selfish, and it wouldn’t be the last. But he wants to learn. 

“O-okay.” You hate the way your words falter. You clear your throat, trying to gather yourself. “First things first, I need to be comfortable. Back to the wall isn’t my favorite.” 

“Okay.” He’s on it. It’s his first time in this office, and he’s ushering you onto the couch. You can’t think straight. This was supposed to be his freaky roleplay about his sister-in-law, not a pussy eating lesson. 

Now, you’re sitting back on the couch, legs spread open for him. You’ve been laid bare like this plenty of times. You’re not a prude by any means. You can’t be with a job like this. But his eyes on your bare cunt make you anxiously bite your bottom lip. He’s not looking up at you, eyes fixated on your legs. “I know this feels good,” his finger ghosts your sensitive bundle of nerves. 

You shiver, “Jesus, Pope.” You scold the guy with a glare. “Just… fuck, I don’t know how to teach anyone this.” 

He huffs, finally looking at you from his spot on the floor, “You’re the one who said I’m terrible at this.” 

You defend yourself, “I did not.” You huff, trying to sit up, but he grabs your thighs, pulling you back down and into him. 

“Sit still,” he presses soft kisses to your inner thighs, making you tense up. “I’ll just do what I usually do. I’ll… I’ll slow it down.” 

You try to sit up again, but he pulls you back, “fuck, Pope. This is supposed to be for you, not—“ your breath stutters when he presses a sloppy kiss to your clit, hands gripping onto the cushions beneath you. 

And he's true to his word. He isn’t devouring as he had been before. He’s savoring you. He’s licking up every slick drop off of you, desperately searching for more.

“Wait… fuck…” You’re not sure what it is you're asking for, but you don’t want this to stop. And he knows it. Before you can think, he’s dragging you further into him, pushing your legs to his shoulders, one of his arms hooking to your waist, locking you in place. And not once does he stop his ministrations. 

Your thighs are shaking. Your mind is racing. You swear you can feel your heartbeat in your clit as he’s ravishing you. He doesn’t go all in like before. It’s clear he forgets himself at times, though, and slows down, pulling at your clit, lips puckered and sucking you into his mouth, releasing to press soft kisses to your wet folds. You gasp when he slips a single finger inside of you. Your spasming hole now has something to grip onto, and it only adds to your mewls. 

He’s lapping from your sopping hole up to your clit in fat stripes. “Pope… I… I can’t… wait… fuck.” He slips a second finger in, slowly pumping in and out of you. You’re about to warn him, tell him you’re teetering to the edge, but you don’t get the chance to. He curls his fingers once, and your orgasm crashes over you. 

Stuttered moans leave your lips, head thrown back in the throes of pure pleasure. He lets you ride out your orgasm, softer with his tongue. When he deduces that you’re overstimulated, he pulls his face away, arm slipping out from under you, placing his hands on your bare thighs. He doesn’t make a move to get up. 

Breathing labored, your chest rising and falling, you sit up enough to get a better look at him. Your eyebrows furrow as you catch him looking down at the floor. “Are… are you okay?” You ask, concerned about whatever this reaction is. 

His hands squeeze down on your thighs, flesh stinging slightly. “Yeah…” is his only response. 

You sit up straighter, legs closing as you do so. “Are you, like, overwhelmed or something?” 

“No, just stop talking.” He doesn’t let you go, hands still on you. He’s shaking, his hands tightening and untightening repeatedly. 

“Okay, now I'm really worried—“ 

“I just need to calm down.” He sneers at you. He’s not angry, he’s embarrassed. And he turns sheepish as he mumbles the next part, “got too excited. Don’t want to… release yet.” 

It takes a second for your brain to catch up to his words. And then, you’re laughing. “Crap. Crap. Sorry. I’m not laughing at you, I promise!” You’re a giggling mess, trying to get yourself together. “Fuck, I just… I’ve never heard that.” 

He huffs, annoyed by your laughter. “You’re laughing because I liked eating you out.” He glares at you. “Most women would like that, right?” 

You manage to catch your breath, the grin unable to leave your face, “didn’t say I don't like it.” But he's pouty and you like it. “Fine, fine, sorry. It was good.” You reach over to grab a tissue to clean his fingers. “We can keep roleplaying your sister-in-law.” 

He snarls, but you still don’t take it seriously. “Don’t call her that. Makes it weird.” 

You have to hold yourself back from telling him that it is weird already. To be fantasizing about your brother's wife is an odd thing. To have had sex with your brother's wife is an odd thing. They have a child together, from what you’ve gathered through being around Craig. But that’s your own moral compass. Which you know you should lighten as you’re about to have more sex with this unknown man for eight thousand. You’re not exactly the spokesperson for morality. 

You scoot closer to him, letting him kneel between your legs. And the switch is back on. 

“Should’ve been you, Pope.” You can hear his breath hitch. Your fingers run through his very short head of hair at the back of his head. You’re pressing soft kisses to his jaw. “Should’ve picked you.” 

And he’s jumping right into it too, eyes shut tight. To hide the fact that the woman he’s with right now isn’t the one he wants. It makes you wonder if love is that great. You’ve never felt it. Not romantically, at least. Barely even familial or with friends. To be so hung up on a person who will never love you back sounds draining. And embarrassing. You find yourself wishing you could cure him of this ailment. 

Your lips meet his once more. And this time, you’re in control. Your lips push against his, his hands sliding up your bare thighs to your waist, gripping onto you. “Pope…” you pull your lips from his for a moment, but he chases after you, meeting once more. Your hands reach down to his jeans, the cold metal of his button twisting between your fingers as you undo them. 

The groan that leaves him vibrates against you as you pull his jeans and boxers down simultaneously. Without breaking the heavy kiss, he slowly gets up onto the couch, lying you on your back against the battered and scratchy couch. It’s small, the two of you barely able to fit, but you’re making it work. 

He’s hovering over you now. You pull your lips from his, placing your hand over his mouth to stop him from chasing after you again. His hands are on the sides of your head, eyes wide with lust before he closes them again. To keep the fantasy going. 

Your hand is shaking slightly as you reach down between you two. The moan he draws out when gripping his hard and warm cock is filthy. You’ve never been with a vocal man before. His hips are twitching desperately already, and you know for certain now that he won’t last long at all. 

You easily guide his cock to your entrance, letting just the tip of him notch inside of you. Your eyebrows twist, a small gasp leaving you with the sense of the slight intrusion. You haven’t even so much as glanced down to see what he looks like. You can’t care for that right now. Not when his eyes are shut tight over you, eyebrows pinched, and small noises are leaving him. You’re too focused on his face. Deducing by the twitch of his nose, what he’s feeling, and how you can keep making it good for him. It's all about him. 

“Push in, Pope…” your arms are wrapped around his neck, whispering seductively into his ear. 

You didn’t have to tell him twice. His moan is loud, hitching at the end as he bottoms out inside of you. “Fuck.” 

Fuck is right. He fills you perfectly. He’s not huge, you’ve had some abnormally big dick, but you didn’t enjoy it as it was more painful than anything else. You don’t believe size matters either; it’s what you do with it that's important. But ninety percent of the small dick losers you’ve been with don’t know what to do with it, or the big ones. You almost snort out a laugh at the thought of this being a Goldilocks story, only your filthy version. 

Your soft hands trail down his back and to his ass, pushing him into you, as if your small touch could help him grind deeper into you. “Shit… Pope…” your breathing is labored as he fucks into you. The couch is shaking with every thrust, and his face is burrowing into you. 

You almost forget you’re roleplaying for a moment, and in the haze of your pleasure, you speak again, “knew you’d…” he punches a moan out of you as he thrusts harder. “Knew you’d fit me perfectly. Meant for me, Pope. Never wanted him. Only you.” 

And this spurs him on. His thrusts are becoming erratic, his moans are louder and vibrating at your neck. Shakily, his voice warns, “I’m gon— I’m gonna—“ 

You don’t let him finish. Instead, you whisper, “I love you, Pope.” 

And he shatters. His moan is loud, hips locking yours down as he pushes and pushes deep inside of you. The warmth of his cum fills you. Your pulse is racing, blocking out the way his moaning turned into full whimpers, sounding distant. 

He’s out of breath as he lays his limp body against yours, hot against your neck. He’s sweating, small dribbles of it collecting at his temple. He moves his head from your neck, your eyes widening as he leans his forehead against yours, his nose nudging against yours. His eyes are still shut, and the flutter in your stomach from his move is gone. This is still roleplaying, but you’re embarrassed. 

Embarrassed that you forgot about the role-playing for even a flicker of a second. Embarrassed that you focused so much on him. Embarrassed that you’ve accepted this deal with his brother. Embarrassed that you let yourself fall to the level your coworkers are at, always taking money for sex. And still you continue to embarrass yourself. 

“I pick you, Pope.” You’re pressing chaste yet sweet pecks to his lips. He’s not fighting you, falling into your lips when the kisses get longer and heavier. 

His breath hitches, just like you knew it would. He pulls his lips from yours, “Say it again.” 

You oblige, “I pick you, Pope.” For a second, it sounds like he's crying, and you sit up, sliding out from under him. You eye him carefully, worried, “Are you okay?”

He clambers back as well, the two of you sitting naked on the couch. The office smells of old cigarette buds and now a tinge of sweat from their rump in the stuffy office. 

The energy is tense. Like it’s dawning on you both what you just did, he’s back to what seems his normal way of acting, awkward, but that undercurrent of toughness. 

“Was it…” You clear your throat, nervous. “Was it accurate to… to her?” You ask like a project waiting to be graded. And you’re worried. Worried that the response will be bad. 

“No.” It’s blunt. And you don’t know him well, or at all, actually, but you know it’s just who he is. He’s blunt. Unsure of how to speak, maybe it’s just with women, you’ll never know. After this, you don’t plan on interacting with him again. You’ll even go as far as to ignore Craig if you need to. 

“Sorry.” You’re scolding yourself. Sorry? What do you have to apologize for? You did nothing wrong. You don’t know his sister-in-law. You don’t know what she looks like, how she talks, how she acts, how she treats him. And yet, his answer is eating you up alive. What could you have done better? How could you be more like the woman he’s in love with? 

More silence. 

“She wouldn’t say what you did.” 

His words pique your interest. You want to be careful with your words, but there’s no way around it: “If she’s not into you, then why’d she sleep with you?” 

He shrugs, “We were drunk. I was nervous for my… job. She and Baz got into an argument. It just happened.” 

“Sex doesn’t just happen, Pope.” You reach over for your thin top and put it back on, which doesn’t do much but hide the pecks of your nipples. “She must feel something for you.” 

He huffs, “Yeah, disgust.” 

You slip your matching thin panties on as well. He’s still sitting naked on the couch. You don't point it out. Instead, you plop back down onto your seat. You reach over to Geronimo’s desk, grabbing one of the joints that he confiscated from your coworker a few days ago. It’s a bit stale, but you light it anyway using his cheap lighter on the desk. You cough when you inhale, and there are bouts of smoke puffing out with every breath. You hold it out to Pope, and he shakes his head. 

You shrug and say, “suit yourself.” You turn your body fully to him. “Let me guess. Catherine was your childhood best friend, who you always loved, but she picked your brother.” 

He doesn’t try denying it. He nods, “Yeah.”

Another hit, “fuck. Sounds terrible.” 

He doesn’t respond. So you keep going. “Have you tried moving on?” 

“No.” His response may come off as blunt, but the look he’s giving you tells you he’s being sarcastic. 

“Geez,” you lightly smack his chest, eyebrows furrowing further as he looks from your hand and back to your face. “Just saying, a way to get over someone is to get under another, right?”

He laughs. It’s small, but it’s a laugh. And you smile at the sight, “I just did that.” 

You laugh as well, nodding. “Yeah… guess so.” Playfully, you ask, “So, after sleeping with me, how much closer to getting over her are you?” 

He’s quiet for a moment, as if actually mulling it over. “I was five percent over her. I’m now seven.” 

You cackle, feeling a tad smug. “I bumped you up two whole numbers? That’s amazing. Maybe we should sleep together more. Get you to at least a solid seventy.”

A scoff, “You wish.” 

And a part of you does. 

—

A week and a half of pure relaxation comes. Craig scrounged up the money a day later, said his brothers were pissed they had to chip in, but they ended up understanding. It ticks you off that they believe their older brother can’t pull women. 

Geronimo was pissed for a minute, but he got past it. Still, it doesn’t stop him from texting you every hour of the day to pick up a shift; he even adds “please,” which is completely unlike him. You don’t bother responding, you leave his messages on read every time. 

And despite needing to rest, you decide now is the right time to go to the grocery store. Out of all the chores you have to do to function like a normal adult, this is the worst one. It drags on, and there are far too many people. 

You’re pushing the rickety cart around, with nothing but a bag of carrots and a bottle of ranch so far. The choices are overwhelming you. Why are there so many types of breads?

“Almost didn’t recognize you with all those clothes on.” The familiar voice of Craig fills your ears. You turn slowly, scared to make contact with him. But it’s too late. 

“Haha.” You voice dryly, fully turning to him. He’s right. This is the most clothing he’s ever seen on you. Usually, you’re in slutty skirts or thongs, matching bras that show too much. But that’s part of the gig, and you’re not going against what pays for your lifestyle. “What are you doing here? Let me guess, the sketchy guy at the deli is your plug?”

He snorts out a laugh, running his hand through his long, brown hair. It’s greasy, as usual when he’s been on binges. “No, my plug is a hot babe.”

You grimace, feeling gross at his words. “Ew. Also, this is really weird. Maybe we should stick to only seeing each other at the club.” You voice, hoping he understands. But he’s Craig. 

He blows a raspberry, waving his hand at you. “Nah. You’re like my sister.”

“Oh, god, ew no!” You laugh, nose scrunched up in disgust. “I’ve given you countless lap dances, Craig. That’s not fucking sisterly!”

He scoffs, placing his big hand on your hip and pulling you into him. “Fine, you’re like my sexy step-sister.”

“Ew, Craig!” You’re laughing, pushing at his chest when he leans down to press kisses to your neck. “That’s just as bad!”

“It ain’t.” He’s still trying as you giggle and try to push him away. 

“Why are there so many goddamn flavors of Oreos? Did the obesity rate in children go up while I was gone?” That voice gets you. It completely stops you in your step, letting Craig fall into you. You can’t see his face with Craig over you like this, and you’re glad for it. Only for a moment because you’re shoving him off of you, desperate to look at Pope. 

He’s holding four packs of Oreos when you turn to him, watching you with that same intense look. “P-Pope. Hi.” You greet, trying your best to act nonchalant. You feel like you’re failing, and the weird glance Craig gives you solidifies it. 

Instead of greeting you, he holds the packets of cookies out to you. “Which one do you think tastes best?” 

You’re taken aback by the question, glancing at the options. “Uhm… the original?” Your look turns from confusion to a grin at the soft, ghost of a pout that falls to his lips as he glances back to the cookies. 

He hums, “I thought so too. But she’s six. She must like these, right?” He holds out the rainbow cookies. “It’s Rainbow Sherbert.” 

You shrug softly, “don’t even know what sherbert is. Or why it’s a rainbow.” 

Craig places cash against Pope’s chest. “Just buy ‘em all. Gotta talk to her.” He tries to shoo his brother away from the two of you. 

You can tell by the look in Pope’s eyes that he doesn’t like the command. And the delusional part of you wants to believe it’s because he wants to talk to you and he doesn’t want to leave you alone with Craig. But it’s too wishful thinking for you. “Fine.” He mutters, pocketing the cash. 

But before he can leave, you jump up, pushing your cart. “I’m done too. I’ll go with you.” 

“But we need to t—“ 

“No time!” You interrupt Craig, content when Pope slows down enough for you to catch up to him. The taller guy is left behind as the two of you head to the registers. “So…” you clear your throat, unsure of what to say. You know you want to say something. You feel like a lost puppy following along after him. You know you look pathetic, or you at least feel it, yet you can’t let this go. 

“What else do six-year-olds like?” He asks. 

You’re not sure how to answer. You’re not around kids often. You’re not even sure if you like them, your opinion is yet to be formed. “Barbies?” 

His nose scrunches slightly as if the idea of buying a doll pains him. “She’s not white.” 

You let out a loud cackle, completely taken aback by his words. “What the fuck are you on about?”

He eyes you as if you're the out-of-pocket one here. “Barbies are notoriously white. Lena isn't white.” He adds. 

“Okay, woke king.” You joke. You nod at your cart, “Put the cookies in. I'm taking you to a world of diversity.”

He does as told and puts down the four packets of cookies. The cart is loud as you take him down to the toy aisle. There are far too many as you take him to the dolls specifically, rows upon rows of them, all in different shapes, colors, and sizes. You grab a specific doctor doll with brown skin and hand it over to him. 

“Heard Craig say something about Catherine being a ‘crazy Latina’.” You hum. “Pretty good influence to have a Latina doctor as a doll, right? Get Lena to reach for the stars.” You grab another with the same skin tone. “Or she’s an Olympic gold medalist. Is she sporty?”

You're still going through the dolls as he answers, “Don't know.” You glance at him at the somber tone of his voice. “Catherine doesn't like leaving her alone with me.”

You pause. “Okay… is there a reason for that?”

He scoffs. Offended. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Geez. Chill out. I'm not accusing you of anything. It's just a question.” you defend. 

“It sounded accusatory.” 

“Or maybe I’m just trying to get to know you.” You huff, irritated by the interaction. 

“Well, don’t.” 

“Well, I want to.” You argue. 

“Why? Because we had sex once?” His words make your blood run cold. 

The easy smile is easily replaced with a sneer. You’re hurt. You don’t have a right to be hurt, or that’s what you’re telling yourself. You don’t know him. You met him once, and you were paid to have sex with him that same day. And you feel foolish for thinking it could be otherwise. “Right. Bye. Have fun with the kid that’ll never be yours.” You don’t even bother taking the cart, grabbing your bag, and walking away from him. Limping away, actually, and it only makes you feel more pathetic. 

—

Work is still the same when you show up two weeks later—the same desperate men, the same skimpy outfits, and the same annoying boss. 

“I know, Gero—” but he keeps interrupting you, still going on his spiel about treating his patrons with respect. “Gero, stop. C’mon, let me talk!” But he won’t stop. 

“You have enraptured one of my customers!” His Russian accent is thick, and he is always trying to use words that he has no inkling of what they mean. 

“I’ve done what?” 

“A customer is mad at you!” He snarls. “Old man comes here and asks of you day to day!” 

You huff, shaking your head at the man. “Old man? Gero, you’re not making any sense!” 

“He old! He mad! He looks like—“ and he tries to mock what you assume is how the old and angry man looks. But he looks constipated. “He angry!” 

“I didn’t anger anyone! Gero, stop overreacting!” 

“You are fired!” 

You roll your eyes, finishing up your lipstick when you turn back to the mirror. “Yeah, yeah, whatever, fat man.”

“You fired!” You get up from your chair, ignoring him as he walks after you. Your ankle is feeling much better after the two-week break, so you’re no longer serving but back on the stage. And today is the most embarrassing day of all. You and the girls here begged and begged him not to do this. He didn’t listen, and now you’re all dressed up. It’s costume night. There are white mouse ears on your head, a white two-piece that leaves very little to the imagination, and giant white pumps. Definitely the worst you’ve ever worn. “Are you listen to me?” 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” You huff as you leave the employees’ section and enter the main venue. Before going on stage, you have to walk around and speak to the men, find one to fixate on and get them to toss all their savings your way. It’s just the way the club runs. 

Suddenly, his big and sweaty hand is stopping you in your step. “Angry man.” He nods to the entrance of the club. 

Your eyebrows are furrowed in both confusion and annoyance as he pushes you behind him as if we were to protect you from said angry man. “Gero, your hands are so fucking swe—“ you freeze at the sight of Pope with his hands in his pocket and searching the club. “That’s the angry man?” 

Geronimo nods, “yes, I tell you! You do not listen to me, stupid girl!” 

You pull your arm from Geronimo’s, eyes on Pope still. You can’t tear your eyes from him. Even in his stiff button-up and jeans that are too tight, he looks good, too damn good. “It’s fine. He’s not angry. He just looks like he is. I’ll talk to him. Make sure you don’t have any angry customers.” 

You don’t get to hear what it is that Geronimo says because you’re walking away from him and towards Pope. You’re a few feet away from him when his eyes finally find you. And you see the amusement flashing in him as he eyes your clothing. “Shut up.” You huff, crossing your arms. “Why have you been asking for me?” 

But he doesn’t answer, “what the fuck are you wearing?” 

You hope your glare is lethal as you direct it to him, “I’m a mouse.” 

“I can see that.” He snorts an awkward laugh. “Why?” 

You motion to the room, where all your coworkers are dressed in different costumes. Slutty versions, of course. “It’s costume night.” 

“And you decided on a mouse.” 

“Was gonna be a button because I’m cute as a button but I couldn’t find a costume. Cute as a mouse is just as g— no, what are you doing here?” 

His lips pursed, hands still in his front pockets. “I’m here so you can apologize to me.” 

Your scoff is loud and completely bewildered, a few eyes flickering to you both. “Excuse me? I have nothing to apologize for, you short excuse of a man.” 

He laughs, loud, shoulders shaking. “Short? That’s the best you can come up with?” But he doesn’t hear your rebuttal. “You have rooms here, right?” 

You scoff, “they’re booked up.” 

And just your luck, Geronimo is walking over to the two of you. It’s clear he’s the boss, with the hideous suit he’s wearing paired with the most obnoxious gold jewelry. “How much is a room?” 

Geronimo glances at you, sees your stiff stance and you’re not sure if he’s trying to make more money or he’s genuinely worried for you but he speaks, “a grand an hour.” You almost hum in content at the high price. Usually, a room is a few hundred for the night, and the renter must include a tip to the girls. Never a grand. 

He’s handing a card over to Geronimo. And the older and fat man betrays your trust as he mutters, “room five. Is all yours, lovely couple.” 

You’re sitting stiff at the edge of the couch in the small room. He’s sitting on the other edge, watching you. But you’re not looking in his direction. You can’t. Not when you can see the hard-on at the crotch of his jeans. It’s been quiet and awkward for the past ten minutes, neither of you saying a single word. 

Your foot is impatiently bouncing and before you know it, he’s scooting up to you, placing his hand on your knee. “Relax.” 

You pull away from him with humph, “no. You relax.” You hiss back like a petulant child.

“I am relaxed.” He hums for a moment. “I spoke to my brother.” 

A glance at him and quickly away because you’ll give in if you keep your eyes on him. “I don’t care.”

“Maybe,” he shrugs. “I told him about you. And how I can’t get you out of my head.” And now, your head is spinning. But you still refuse to speak or look at him. “He said it’s because you were my first after three years. That I was too pent up.” 

You can’t say anything. You can’t look at him. 

So he keeps going, “I tried. With another woman. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t. You were all I was thinking about.” 

You scoff, his words infuriating you. You don’t think it’s romantic. You can’t even believe he’s telling you he’s been with another woman in just those two weeks. “You were thinking about me pretending to be Catherine, so, really, you were thinking about Catherine.” 

His hand shakily takes a hold of your chin. “Yeah… maybe. I asked her to roleplay too. It wasn’t the same.” And this makes you pause. Really, really pause. 

He does only want you so you can keep pretending to be Catherine, the woman he truly wants and loves. Not because it’s you. Not because you’ve made him laugh, not because you’ve listened to him, not because it was his first time in a long while, and not because you helped him. None of that matters to him. 

“So… you want me to keep pretending to be Catherine and have sex with you?” You ask shakily as his lips ghost yours. 

He nods, nose nudging against yours. “Yes.” His breath is warm as it dances against you. “That’s what I want.” 

You want to yell. You want to cry. You want to bash his fucking head in. 

You don’t want to let this go. Because for the first time in your long, pathetic, and miserable goddamn life, you feel something. Even if it’s fleeting. Even if it’s only in your head, it’s yours.

You press your lips to his, letting his hand run into your head of hair. After a moment, you pull from him and nod. “Okay...” 

You get used to living in sadness. After years of torment and abuse, it’s hard not to live in it. You want self-respect. You want to look at yourself in the mirror and decide that today is the day you finally respect yourself. 

But it’s hard when you’re letting Pope moan Catherine in your ear as he fucks you in the rented room. 

[yournamesnob]

touch | andrew pope cody

Pairing: Andrew Pope Cody x f!reader

Word count: 7.4k

CW: nsfw, mdni, 18+

Tags/warnings: Deran's friend!Reader, touch starved!Andrew (what's new), age gap (reader is mid 20s, Pope is almost 40), slow burn, friends to lovers, touchy reader, physical touch as a love language, injured!pope, a little angst cause it's Andrew, intox reader (she drinks and smokes at one of their parties and gets handsy [cute] with pope, he's a gentleman about it), Pope is just a big ol' simp, cuddling, unprotected piv sex, creampie, [inaccurate show dynamics, mostly cause I didn’t wanna deal with Cath (lover her though)]

Summary: Pope doesn't like to be touched...at least not until he met you.

a/n: my favorite touch starved boy <3

Disclaimer: YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO REPOST MY WRITING ANYWHERE ELSE WITHOUT MY CONSENT. REBLOGS ARE ENCOURAGED THOUGH. YOU MAY NOT FEED MY WORK TO ANY AI DATABASES OF ANY KIND, USE MY WORKS TO TRAIN AI OR USE AI TO TRANSLATE MY WORK. FUCK AI.

The first time it happens it's an accident.

There’s people in his house when there shouldn't be.

The music is too loud, the bodies too hot and sweaty.

He’s standing in the kitchen like a weirdo, even he can acknowledge it.

But he truly doesn’t know what to do. Where to go.

He’s been gone for three years. He doesn’t recognize anyone anymore. Where the fuck is he even supposed to start?

It’s your meek “excuse me” that breaks him out of the spell he’s under, gaze finally sharpening as he comes back down to the present moment.

Everything rushes back to him, overwhelmingly. He’s suddenly too aware of it all, especially your timid grip on his bicep as you try to move him out of the way.

The touch doesn’t linger. It’s fleeting, unlike the reality that Pope finds himself in.

You side step around his imposing frame, a shy smile on your lips, one that makes his head spin.

You shouldn’t be nice to him, hell, you shouldn’t be nice to any asshole you don’t know. Did no one teach you—

And then you turn on the kitchen sink, gently cleaning the glass you’ve been using unlike everyone’s disposable, plastic ones.

An air of familiarity courses through him. You’re…comfortable in his home. You’re taking care of the space that no one, not even his brothers, could give two fucks about.

He can’t help but stare, his thoughts rendering him unable to look the other way, to go back to being stoic and uninterested.

If you feel him glaring you don’t let him know it, your body language remaining relaxed all the way through wiping the glass dry and standing on your tip toes to place it back on the shelf above you.

That’s when he moves.

It’s instinctual. His mother’s voice clear in his ear, urging him to help a lady in need.

He steps up, crowds your personal space yet gives you room to escape if you feel uncomfortable.

You turn to him then, your bright eyes meeting his as your fingers barely touch. He instantly forces himself to look away, afraid that he’s going to let the glass fall if he loses himself in your gaze.

“Thanks,” you mumble, shooting him another smile as you settle back down on your feet, the movement shifting you closer against his chest.

It honestly makes Pope dizzy. Feeling your warmth, smelling the faint softness of your perfume.

You don’t turn to move for the millisecond it takes for him to finish pushing the glass into place, perfectly aligned with the others.

It’s only when he too settles back down that you turn to him expectantly.

“You’re welcome.”

Pope guesses that’s what you’re looking for and he’s proven correct instantly as you bless him with another blinding smile.

His stomach does another flip.

Who the fuck are you?

Before he can ask, what he believes to be your name is called because you instantly turn towards the sound.

He commits your name to memory, such a fitting one for such a—

“Angel! There you are!” Daren breaks through the crowd like a lifeline, one that you instantly take, stepping away from Pope and towards him like a magnet.

You settle against his side like you’re meant to be there, his arm leisurely draping over your shoulders in a familiarity that makes Pope’s blood boil with a flurry of emotions he simply cannot pinpoint.

“See you’ve met Pope,” Deran notes and you turn back to Pope with wide eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” you start, tone remorseful. “I had no idea you were Deran’s brother, I would’ve introduced myself.”

You genuinely mean it and it almost causes Pope to snap at you. You don’t owe him anything.

“’s okay,” Pope mumbles instead, his gaze piercing.

“Well it’s really nice to meet you,” you hold out your hand for him to take.

Pope’s jaw clenches. He makes no effort to move, to reciprocate your kind gesture. He can see the disappointment in your face, how it falls instantly. You’re not used to being denied, to being told no, and for a second Pope almost cracks.

But he can’t. He won’t let himself do it.

No, because he knows that the second you give him even an inch of familiarity he will devour you whole.

“Don’t take it personally, angel,” Deran practically glares daggers at him. “He’s not really into that.”

Your mouth curls into a silent oh and Pope shrugs in response.

It’s all he can do to not come across as a complete weirdo instantly upon meeting you, more than he already has.

You copy him, shrugging like you’re unbothered but he knows for a fact you aren’t as your hand instantly retracts back towards you, seeking Deran’s instead.

His fingers interlace with yours like it’s second nature, overly intimate. Pope’s brows scrunch in confusion, barely. Are the two of you…a couple?

“Anyway, I’ll see you around.”

Pope gives you one last grunt of acknowledgement before Deran is pulling you away, back towards the backyard where all the action is happening.

He obviously keeps his eyes trained on you as you leave, on how your jean shorts hug your ass, how your body is sun-kissed and a little burnt from the summer heat wave, how your hair flows effortlessly.

And then you turn to glance back at him for what feels like minutes, your eyes filled with nothing but curiosity. 

His eyes force him to blink then and he loses you to the crowd.

Fuck.

The next time Pope sees you, you’re back at the house for a pool day with his family. It’s a small gathering this time around, just their inner circle which apparently now includes you too.

You’re in a striking blue bikini, the color contrasting beautifully against your skin. You’re sitting on one of the lounge chairs, your legs open so a hyper Lena can settle in between them.

You can barely contain your laughter as the young girl tells you a silly story from school, your fingers working overtime to braid her long hair in one of those fancy styles that Pope could never name so that it won’t get too tangled from the pool.

Your laughter hits him like a disorienting grenade. It’s like he's never heard anyone feel joy the way you do. It's infectious, making him wonder if he’s ever actually felt a real emotion in his life.

“There, all done,” you tie up Lena’s hair and give her back a little pat before the girl practically bolts from your embrace, yelling a swift thank you before cannonballing into the pool as everyone cheers.

Andrew’s about to move forward, to settle down beside you, a pull to be near you clouding his senses.

But then Craig has to go and ruin it.

“Me next,” the oaf practically towers over you, settling down between your legs like Lena had, taking advantage of how you haven't moved.

You roll your eyes playfully but don’t complain.

Pope watches as you take his hair out of the messy bun that he’s got it in, gently scratching his scalp. His younger brother moans, causing you to stop and smack the side of his head.

Pope’s lips quirk up into a smirk. Good, set his brother’s straight.

But Craig is not deterred, simply reaching back and squeezing your thigh cockily.

It takes everything in Pope not to lunge forward. He doesn’t understand it, how protectiveness practically flares up in his chest at the sight of someone else’s grubby hands on your soft flesh.

He honestly doesn’t know how Deran lets it happen. They both know his brother so why is he letting Craig be so chummy with you?

Unless…you’re not actually together, together.

Is it possible that you’re just like this with everyone?

You finish braiding his hair then, meanly tossing it over his shoulder so that the tail end of it smacks him on the face.

“There princess,” you tease. “All done.”

Craig flinches as the band hits him, bursting out into a fit of laughter as he stands up and follows Lena’s example, splashing into the pool so hard that he ends up soaking you completely.

Lena laughs as you gasp dramatically. “You meanie!”

“Payback’s a bitch—” Craig starts, quickly correcting himself as you glare at him. “Payback, angel.”

Deran snorts, taking a swig of his beer from his spot at the other side of the pool. A spark of something is set ablaze in your gaze, a playfulness that borders on mischief. 

“Oh yeah?” It takes them a few seconds to process what you’re doing as you sprint towards them, throwing yourself in the pool as close to Deran as possible.

Pope audibly snickers as you drench his youngest brother.

The backyard is set ablaze with teasing soon after, every single member of his family sans him and his mother engaging in a water fight for the ages.

Pope settles on the lounge chair that you’ve vacated, your warmth still lingering on the fabric beneath him.

He’s transfixed by you. By the ease in which you can bring lightness to his family, as though you can lift the weight they all carry on their shoulders, even if it’s just for a little while.

Another thought crosses Pope’s mind then — is it possible that you could be like this with him too?

Laughter only turns even more boisterous as you enter the living room, a baking dish in hand.

“Angel!” Both Deran and Craig greet you, your smile beaming as you round the table to say hi to Smurf first. You know the rules of this house well by now, a genuine comfort to Pope who at least doesn’t have to worry about you with his family.

He watches intently as you chat with the older woman, handing her the dish, humble enough to tell her it’s not something as grandiose as the roast she has prepared but you didn’t want to show up empty handed.

His mother smiles at you, her ego fed enough as she stands up and goes to heat it up in the kitchen.

You don’t let her comments get to you, instead you go around the table, saying hello to everyone, your touch always lingering, always soft and playful.

Deran gives you a hug, Craig kisses your cheek affectionately, Baz only gives you a nod in acknowledgement and Pope can’t help but smirk satisfactorily against his beer. You ruffle J’s hair and give Nicky a kiss to her temple.

You’re comfortable, confident, secure in your place within their family. You don’t back down to his mother, you don’t shrink away to Baz’s hesitancy, you—

Your eyes catch him staring from across the room. He’s subconsciously backed away the second he saw you come in, practically hiding in the threshold.

You give him a shy wave over Nicky’s shoulder, a gesture he reciprocates with a grunt and a barely there head bob.

Fuck, he’s even worse than Baz.

But you don’t look at him with the same disdain as you do his half-brother. Instead, something else ignites in your eyes. A challenge, almost, to chip away at the ice around his heart. But little do you know that it’s already melting away, and neither of you can stop it.

You eagerly help Smurf bring the rest of the food out before the entire family sits down around the overflowing table.

You make it a point to sit next to him, to never once let him think that his presence is unwanted, even if he refuses to give you the type of relationship that you want, that you crave.

You fill up his plate without asking him and if you weren’t so damn adorable he’d be angry about it. But he simply cannot be. He just lets you, watching silently as you tell the room a story from a crazy class you had to experience the week before.

Your hands move in tandem with your voice, making it a point to not draw attention to what you’re doing, as if serving Pope food is somehow normal. And for a second he can let himself believe that it is, that you taking care of him is how things are meant to be.

It’s only when Deran whispers something to Craig that has the two snickering that Pope finally breaks free from your spell, mumbling a quick thank you under his breath before you settle down to eat as Lena tells the table what she got up to in school over the week now.

You hum in acknowledgement, listening to his niece intently, like you actually care about her babbling, because you do.

After lunch, the crowd disperses throughout the house, the kitchen settling into a comfortable silence where Pope can finally breathe again.

He’s always relegated to clean up duty, mostly because he likes it that way, it’s something he can control.

“Where do you want these?” You ask, causing him to turn to face you from his spot in front of the sink.

He stammers for a second, blinking away the brain fog that you always seem to bring with you every time you bless him with your undivided attention.

He crooks his head towards the left side of the sink and you move swiftly, placing the stack of plates you’ve gathered into the space.

You don’t linger this time, no, you make it a point to step away as soon as you can but not before Pope feels his body shifting towards you.

Oh, you definitely know what you’re doing.

He shakes his head as he returns to his task of dishwashing. You return periodically, bringing by glasses, cutlery, baking dishes and everything else his family could’ve thought to leave behind like the animals they are.

Once the entire table is cleared, you settle beside Pope, dish towel in hand and begin drying what he's just washed.

It’s…nice.

Pope’s not used to someone actually wanting to help him but he finds himself quickly falling into the rhythm of your comforting presence.

“I never really asked,” you start conversation after what feels like a small eternity, turning to face Pope curiously. “Do you prefer Pope or Andrew?”

You ask as if it’s not a loaded question. Well, to you it isn’t, there’s no way for you to know about the weight his name carries over him. To you it’s just about making sure you’re calling him by the name he wants to be called, nothing more, nothing less.

But to Pope it’s…euphoric.

He stays silent for a while, thinking, and you let him without an ounce of judgment. You return to your repetitive motions, to working side by side, in tandem, coordinated.

Meanwhile, a storm rages waste in his brain. He’s never allowed himself to want, to put himself first, and for the first time in his life, someone is allowing himself to do just that. 

But is it real? Do you actually mean it?

It’s only when he’s finished washing the last plate, handing it over to you that he finally allows himself to look your way.

“Andrew,” he mumbles before he loses the courage to. “Call me Andrew.”

You turn to him, setting down the plate atop the mountain you’ve created, nodding your understanding. 

“Andrew,” you repeat back to him. “It suits you more.”

He can’t help the blush that creeps up his neck and to his ears, the heat that blooms in his chest, the way his intense gaze falters like a lovesick teenager as his mouth devolves into a dopey smile.

You don’t make fun of him for it, don’t even acknowledge it. You just stay there with him, following through with your help and leaving the kitchen spotless.

A few hours later he finds himself protectively escorting you out to your car, much to the snickers and teasing of his brothers which, thankfully, you’re not privy to as you say your goodbye to Lena and Cath. 

“Bye Andrew,” you call out to him, and like a moth to a flame, he can’t help but step towards you, almost expectantly.

You hugged everyone else in his family, maybe—

Your eyes sparkle with delight as his body leans towards your again, a reaction neither of you was expecting.

You close the distance without hesitation, getting back up on your tip toes to plant a soft kiss to his cheek.

It’s over as quickly as it started, no lingering, no invading his space more than needed. 

He’s certain he stops breathing, his brain short circuiting as you settle into the driver’s seat and follow Baz out of the family compound.

You’re not special. He reminds himself. She’s like this with everyone.

And yet reason doesn’t quell the pounding of his heart, the way his breathing hitches as he finally wills himself to take in a deep breath, the need to see you again.

He doesn’t see you for a while, exam season taking over most of your time and planning a new job taking up most of his.

He’s just had a disagreement with his brothers, it’s the only reason why he finds himself out by the pier, supposedly clearing his head with a walk like normal people do, but instead the voices are just getting louder and louder.

“Uncle Pope!”

Lena’s voice cuts through the noise. His gaze sharpens towards it, his frame lowering, arms opening, making space for her.

She doesn’t shy away from him, embracing him lovingly because to her, he’s just her uncle, a little weird but never dangerous.

It’s only when she steps back that Pope notices you.

You walk towards them leisurely, not wanting to break apart the cute display happening before you.

“Hi,” it’s the only thing that flows from his lips.

“Hi yourself,” you reply, placing your hands on Lena’s shoulders to keep her close to the two of you. “What are you doing here? I thought you had a family meeting all afternoon.”

Pope blinks back the shock. How close are you to his family? How much do you know?

“Ended early.”

You nod, Lena squirming in your embrace, gasping as realization dawns on her.

“Can Uncle Pope get ice cream with us?”

You chuckle at her impatience, causing Pope to huff playfully at just how adorable his niece is being.

“That’s up to him, sweetie.”

And how is he supposed to say no when his niece looks up to him with the most adorable eyes ever. “Please Uncle Pope!”

He nods. “Okay.”

Lena practically jumps into him out of joy, her tiny hand wrapping around his as she drags him towards the boardwalk shops.

You laugh behind them, jogging to catch up as she pulls you towards them, wrapping her other hand in yours.

Lena’s a bubblegum flavor fiend, extra sprinkles and gummy bears. You’re classic, rich and decadent, chocolate in a cup. Pope almost feels bad for getting a simple vanilla scoop in a waffle cone.

“Tell them to dip it in chocolate,” you whisper to him. “Trust me.”

He doesn’t know how to answer, blinking at you in surprise.

Trust me. Such a simple concept and yet…there’s still something that doesn’t let him take that leap.

But what does he know about ice cream.

So he does, he tries something new.

You smile brightly as you turn to receive your sweet treats, making sure Lena’s sitting down on one of the benches before you go up to pay.

But Pope’s quicker, pulling out a bill from his pocket and taking care of it before you can even ask the cashier how much it’s gonna be.

You roll your eyes at him when she tells you you’re too late and he can’t help but smirk victoriously.

“Thank you Andrew,” you relent, accepting your cup from his outstretched hand, your fingers gently grazing as you do.

The spark of electricity that snaps down Pope’s body is life inducing.

“You’re welcome.”

You settle next to Lena who’s munching ecstatically at her sugary confection, pink already staining her shirt.

Pope takes a seat on the other side of his niece.

He settles into the simplicity of intimacy with ease again, the gentle waves crashing up ahead, the cool afternoon air filling his senses with the comfort of saltwater.

Existing has never felt as easy as this. As something pleasant and unhurried, not having to pretend to be anything other than who he is. 

Pope can’t help watch the two of you in complete awe. How you dote on Lena and how she reciprocates the action, something he’s never seen her do in the months since he’s been back.

She feels free here, not like the little girl who’s quiet and reserved with her now estranged parents. No, she’s alert and alive, playful and aloof. It makes Pope’s heart soar as he watches the two of you so effortlessly blend together, his own ice cream melting and making a mess of him soon enough. 

The house is uncharacteristically quiet.

He’s the only one there, he’s sure of it. Smurf left the second she got the call that the job had gone sour and they had to split up, rushing to Baz’s because she knows Pope is too spiteful to die on her. Meanwhile J has gotten really injured and Smurf’s new baby comes first now.

It doesn’t matter to Pope. At least he tells himself he doesn’t hate himself a little more the second he hears his mother’s heels retreat down the hall, her car soon only a phantom noise as she speeds off.

Alone in the house, the quiet gets to him quickly. The typically bright and spacious home constricting in on him as he struggles down the hall to his old room.

He tries not to think about how the rough concrete walls feel against his sensitive fingertips, how the familiar pain in his side hums with the pressure of painful memories, how he’s definitely not back in that tiny jail cell after he had another psychotic break in prison and got himself thrown in solitary for another week.

No, he definitely does not think about how he was left struggling with his sanity, floating aimlessly, stuck inside his own head trying to desperately find some comfort to cling to as he curled in on himself to find a position where it didn’t hurt him to breathe.

He swings the door to his room open without thinking twice about it.

It’s early in the morning, no one’s been home since the night before, and yet, the second he comes inside, he instantly notices the way the air smells different, sweeter.

He stills, his hand not clutched to his side slowly sliding to the back of his jeans to feel the comforting weight of his gun handle. Meanwhile his eyes rake over the room, the unmade bed, the clothes—his clothes—scattered on the floor.

“Andy?” Your sweet, sleepy voice calls to him from his ensuite bathroom and he turns to it like an idiot boy with a childlike crush, eyes wide and heart practically beating out of his chest as if he isn’t currently in such devastating pain but he doesn’t dare make you uncomfortable.

Fuck, why does he feel like such a creep?

A sharp inhale springs you into action, crossing into the unlit room to take him in, suddenly wide awake it seems.

He doesn’t have the heart to stop you as your soft hands come up to inspect the gash on his brow, the purpling under his eye. Timid fingertips trace a path down his chest, landing softly over the hand at his abdomen.

You don’t say anything, don’t lash out at him, don’t flinch back in fear as you slowly lift his palm, assessing the damage. He doesn’t know why he lets you, it doesn’t make any logical sense, and yet he just melts into your hands, lets you maneuver him however you desire as he finally lets the dam crack.

You remain silent as tears stain his cheeks, as you gently pull him into the bathroom and sit him down on the edge of the tub, as you wrap your hands on the hem of his shirt and pull it over his head.

He knows you feel the gun tucked into his pants but you don’t let the shock show on your face. Instead, when you turn to discard his shirt behind you, he simply pulls it out himself, placing it on top of the counter, safety on always.

You turn to assess him then. Luckily the switchblade didn’t do too much damage, just one long enough gash that has since stopped bleeding, deep enough to hurt but not deep enough to kill him.

You settle on your knees in front of him and he’s certain his heart skips a beat. You smile up at him, so unbelievably soft, like you’re trying to comfort him without touching him because you know just how uncomfortable it makes him.

And yet, he can’t help but crave your touch, like a reminder that he’s still alive, that he’s still here, with you.

He knows he can just ask. Knows he can put together a sentence, or not, just muster the courage and say please. But how can he? When not even his mother deigned him worthy of fussing over? 

“You don’t have to—” another sob breaks through him and it takes everything in him not to curse and scream and scare you.

His body begins to shake, shame bubbling from his stomach across his body until he’s nothing but a quivering mess before you.

He wants to run, to hide away and never have you see him like this ever again. This was a mistake, staying here, letting you see him this vulnerable. He needs—

He’s turned to stone as you pull yourself up from sitting on your heels and lean up towards him, invading his personal space now, all the voices in his head suddenly quiet. Your hands come up to cup his face, thumbs dutifully wiping away the tears that fall.

He feels pathetic, disgusted with himself at the sight you’re beholden to. But then your sweet voice begins to shush him softly, to tell him that he’s okay, that you’ve got him, that he can let it all out, and for a second he allows himself to believe it.

Andrew Pope Cody allows himself to feel, to not hide behind what he’s been groomed to be all of his life. He breaks down and you patiently wait for him to finish so you can help him pick up all the pieces.

It’s only when you no longer feel the wetness drip against your flesh that you pull back enough to take him all in. He forces himself to make eye contact with you, to show you as much as he can that he’s alright, that he appreciates you.

You swiftly rummage through his bathroom cabinets, searching for the first aid kit you know he has. He watches you intently as you clean him up with a wet rag first, removing all the blood from his abdomen, his hands turning white as he holds onto the side of the tub for dear life.

Your tongue pokes out between your lips as you lose yourself to the task, using that glue Baz got them in Mexico to close his wound. He can’t help but smile softly at the sight, finally allowing himself to rake his gaze over your body.

For one, you’re clad in one of his old shirts, the ones that no longer fit him after prison hardened his body into a bigger size. Maybe he’s not special, but he’ll be damned if possessiveness doesn’t boil over at the mere sight of you in his clothes.

He’s already slowly losing his mind, desire threatening to make him take a leap over that invisible line he’s drawn between the two of you in his mind, and then you shift a little, showing off his boxers underneath, your bare things practically causing him to salivate.

The decision settles with him with ease, dragging him down into the depths comfortably, like a sailor that has accepted his fate because it means he’ll at least get to kiss the siren.

“There,” you hum, tracing the outline of the bandage with your fingertips before you turn to look up at him. “All done.”

“Thank you,” he manages to choke out.

“My pleasure, Andy.”

Letting you go is the hardest thing Pope has ever done. You’d insisted he needed to rest after the trauma that he’d experienced and, not wanting to be an annoying patient, he’d conceded, settling down where you had just been sleeping, the sheets still slightly warm and smelling of you.

For the first time in a long time, Pope actually slept and slept good. But the second he’d woken up, you were no longer in the house.

He thought about calling, about making sure he hadn’t scared you off, but part of him preferred it this way. He was scared of his feelings towards you, so he chose indifference.

His mood soured, however. Every little thing his brother did made him snap, every time they brought you up in conversation, every time your name entered his orbit but your body didn’t made him go crazy.

He’s aware that it’s all his fault for not checking in, for disappearing into radio silence. But in his defense, you’ve never texted before, you’ve never even given him your number for fuck’s sake! It would’ve been weird to contact you out of the blue right?

Summer is coming to an end when you finally deign him worthy of your presence again.

Deran and Craig are throwing a party. Big surprise.

The house is packed, hot and sweaty. Everyone is scantily clad, if covered up at all. Even Smurf has left the premises for the weekend so it’s just a cluster of debauchery and substance abuse.

He should’ve left, he thought about it many times. But he knows you’ll show, even if it’s just to say hello, see how quickly things are devolving, and leaving immediately.

His eyes have been trained on the entrance all night, impatiently waiting for you to walk in. It’s nearing eleven and his palms are starting to get itchy with anxiety. What if you don’t show? He hadn’t even thought about that possibility.

It’s been a few days since Deran’s mentioned you. Even longer since you’ve babysat Lena. Could something be wrong? Are you okay?

His entire body bursts with uncomfortable heat. He needs to find Deran right now, needs him to tell him your address so he can go check on you himself, needs—

A loud squeal catches his attention, swiftly turning towards the backyard to catch you swung over Craig’s shoulder, your tiny jean shorts riding further up your ass as he spins you around.

You giggle brightly, not attention seeking, just pulling everyone’s gaze towards you with the ease in which you feel joyful. He watches, entranced, as his younger brother puts you down.

Pope moves instinctively, stalking towards the living room to get a better line of sight on you. You’re at least wearing a shirt over your bikini, your beautiful skin covered from the hungry gazes of those around you. If you realize just how many men are salivating after you, you don’t let it show, not as Craig lights up a joint and passes it on to you instantly.

Something constricts against Pope’s heart as he watches you inhale deeply, a primal urge to burst through the doors, grab the joint from your hand and toss it away before bringing you into the house and hiding you away.

He settles for sitting down on the loveseat. He can keep you safe from in here, from far away, from a distance.

The house only becomes more crowded as the night goes on and he unfortunately loses track of you two hours in, only noticing the second that annoying couple in front of him moves out of the way, the warm summer air hitting him in contrast to the air conditioned interior.

He panics instantly, his eyes jumping through the hazy bodies outside as he desperately tries to find you again. He’s about to stand up, to finally make a move and search for you when your body plops down on his lap instead.

“Andy!” You shriek, an airy happiness enveloping you as you settle over this lap. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

Pope swallows thickly, feeling everything all at once, his brain having trouble processing your hands over his chest, your core pressed against the bulge in his pants, your hot breath on his face.

He’s certain he’s blushing crimson but maybe you’re too intoxicated to notice.

“Were you hiding from me?”

He doesn’t answer right away, causing your pretty little mouth to get upturned into a pout.

“I knew it,” you whimper. “You do hate me.”

“I don’t hate you, angel,” the words spill out of his mouth instantly, unfiltered since his stupid brain isn’t working anymore.

Wide eyes stare at him adorably. “You don’t?”

He shakes his head.

“Then…” you huff, clearly exhausted from all the mental gymnastics you’ve been doing too. “Why didn’t you call?”

He opens his mouth to answer.

I didn’t have your number.

I didn’t know I had to.

Why didn’t you call?

But he knows it’s all lies. He knows he deliberately didn’t call.

Didn’t text.

Didn’t anything.

Your eyes flicker down to his open mouth, your own hanging open as you stare hungrily at him, your hips grinding down against him involuntarily. 

He hisses at the contact, the sound so broken and foreign to him. His brows scrunch in desperation, his head angling without him noticing. And so you take the leap for him.

Your lips settle on his like a sip of water after wandering in the desert for an entire lifetime.

It takes everything in him not to kiss you back, not to run his hands over your back, not thrust his hips up into you.

He knows how high you are, knows your actions, while yours, aren’t sober ones. And he’d much rather kill himself than take advantage of you.

“Andy,” you whine into his mouth again, needy and desperate. “Please.”

 He stiffens beneath you, once again gripping the chair handles like his life depends on it. You frown as the wood creaks, a wicked smile curling your lips as you realize just how much he’s holding back right now.

“You can touch me, Andy,” you whisper, your lips starting their descent from his own down to his jaw and neck.

He shakes his head softly, not cruel, not rejecting, simply stating.

If anything, it spurs you on, determined to prove him wrong, to provoke him.

He can tell as your lips lock into the base of his neck, teeth nipping meanly at his skin, desperate to leave a mark on him.

He should stop you, should pick you up and tuck you into bed. But he doesn’t. He can’t.

Instead, his eyes close in pleasure, his fists practically snapping the wood between his fingers.

You’re hungry, having been kept from touching him for so long. He’s given you an inch and you’ll be damned if you don’t steal a mile. And he honestly doesn’t care, can’t care, when the realization that you were looking for him finally catches up.

You want him.

Desperately.

Your hands roam down his arms in tandem with your hip movements, your lips trailing back up to his mouth, but instead of diving in, taking the plunge, you hover above them, your hot breath taunting him.

“You’re so pretty, Andy,” you whisper. “Need you—” you huff, frustrated. “to touch me, please.”

He shakes his head again, this time accidentally brushing his lips with yours, groaning at the fleeting contact.

“‘M not gonna take advantage of you, angel,” he presses his forehead to your cheek, almost reverent.

You let out a sigh, deep and weirdly understanding, stopping your mindless torture as his words sink in. He stares at you, his heart finally pumping blood to the rest of his body normally as it sinks with your own, the raging storm calming into a consistent thundering.

“‘M sorry,” you mumble against his chest, settling down to rest your head against the crook on his neck. “I just…” you sigh, melancholic, the words not coming to you.

“I know,” he finally lets his hands break free from his self-imposed restraints, sliding them up your legs, taking his time feeling the warmth of your exposed thighs, the comforting weight of your clothes against your skin. You hum contently, like a cat finally being given attention, practically purring against him.

He settles his touch around your body, pressing you tightly against him as you slowly doze in and out of consciousness.

“Is this good enough, angel?” He’s never felt this soft with anyone before, his jagged edges usually too sharp, drawing blood instantly. But it’s as though you’ve smoothed him down, made him into someone that’s worthy of you.

You nod against him, fingers curling into his soft shirt, most definitely wrinkling the perfectly ironed fabric and he could not give two shits about it.

He’s acutely aware of how the two of you ended up asleep together.

All he wanted was to tuck you into bed, kiss your temple and then sit across from the bed, watching you sleep all night, like a messed up version of a guardian angel.

But you’d whined oh so loudly when he tried to peel away from you, your arms wrapping around his neck, your legs tightening around his waist. He couldn’t even get his shoes off, being forced down onto the soft mattress as you rolled over on top of him.

You settled down easy after that, your even breath soothing against his neck, the patterns he kept tracing over your back lulling you even further into the depths of rest.

He’s never fallen asleep this easily before, definitely not after the peak of adrenaline you’d just put him through.

But after exactly one thousand and sixty five seconds of watching your calm face, feeling your chest rising and falling steadily, something pulled him under, his eyelids becoming so heavy he could barely register as he stopped blinking altogether.

Your squirming wakes him up the next morning.

You’ve crawled on top of him, a comforting weight over his body. That is until you started to move, seeking something to put you out of your miserable restlessness.

“What’s wrong, angel?” His voice is deep with sleep.

You lift yourself onto a sitting position, straddling his hips once more, rubbing against the growing tent in his pants.

Part of him snaps awake at the mere inkling that you’re horny, now sober and wanting to torture him for denying you yesterday. But as his eyes focus on you, he finds an even deeper feeling he simply cannot name brewing in your pretty little head.

You scratch at your shirt, the fabric constrictive, your neediness for him overwhelming.

“’s too much,” you whine and he, for some divine reason, understands what you need.

He sits up, causing you to gasp as his erection thrusts up against you.

“Meanie,” you tease, pushing him to action.

He smirks as his hands gently trail over your exposed tummy. His hands grab the hem of your shirt and pull it over your head in one swift movement, quickly untying your bathing suit top and tossing the offending fabric to the floor. He doesn’t give himself the time to stare, not when you’re so desperate and time is of the essence, he’ll have time to properly worship you later.

Your nipples do harden as the cold air hits them, and he cannot fight the urge to take one into his mouth, rolling his tongue over the bud before he detaches so he can pull his own shirt off.

Your breathing gets caught in your throat as you watch him, brain already shutting off at the sight of his bare body. So much more real estate for you to touch, he thinks.

And touch you do, eager hands trailing the hardness of his chest and stomach all the way down to his pants. You make quick work of the button and his zipper and he lifts his hips so he can pull them off, hesitating with his boxers—

“All of it.” You answer for him.

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm,” you whine. “Please.”

And who is he to deny you now?

In one quick movement, he’s complete bare beneath you. But you’re still not content, no, you won’t be until you’re right there with him.

He takes care of your remaining clothes then, urging you up with two quick taps to your outer thigh and just as quickly hooking his thumbs underneath your bikini bottoms.

Your heat is so close to his face, so puffy and needy, he simply must lean forward and place a kiss over your hip bone. You hum contently, body buzzing with excitement as you practically tackle him back down on the bed and return to your earlier position.

At first you don’t want anything other than to feel him, your cheek pressed over his beating heart, legs spread over his lower abdomen, practically purring as his own hands wisp over your back.

You lay like that for a while, enjoying the gentle sounds of crashing waves and birds singing outside his window. But then you turn to look at him with those round, puppy eyes that he’ll be damned to cave to for the rest of his life.

“Andy,” you plead. “Need to be closer to you.”

He knows what you mean without you having to explain yourself. 

There’s just one more thing to do.

So he does, grabbing a hold of his rock hard cock and slowly sinking himself into your entrance. You wince at the stretch, eyes quickly becoming watery as he settles inside of you. He shushes you gently, shifting you slightly so he can reach your lips, crashing them with his in a sloppy, wet kiss that has you instantly melting into him further.

It’s only when he’s sheathed within you completely that you finally relax. But while you’ve found euphoria with such a simple action, Pope is anything but.

He lasts fifty three seconds before his hips begin shifting involuntarily. Your brow scrunches in confusion, pleasure shooting up your body when all you really wanted to feel was peace.

He coos at you softly. “I need to move, angel.”

You sigh, dramatically so, and he can’t help but smile brightly at your theatrics.

“May I move?”

You bury your face in the side of his neck, going limp over him. “I guess.”

He rolls his eyes playfully, wrapping his arms around you before he lifts his hips off the bed and begins to piston in and out of you.

You’re so wet it’s absurdly easy, the room quickly devolving into a choir of wet, slapping sounds and his moans harmonizing with your little whimpers. You hold onto him for dear life, relishing in the closeness that he’s affording you, and he…he’s certain that you’ve just unlocked something he’d buried deep in his psyche long ago.

A desire to long for someone.

An allowance to feel.

A chance to love again.

“An—dy fuck,” you choke. “‘M so close.”

He turns his head to press his cheek against your temple, tightening his hold on your body, possessive and claiming.

“Come for me angel,” he urges. “Let me make you feel good, please.”

You moan loudly, your body responding diligently to his plea. He can feel your body convulse above him, your walls tightening around him as a jolt of electricity snaps and you’re coming undone.

You cry against his shoulder, panting feverishly as he continues to pound into you, seeking his own release while also extending you own.

“In me please, Andy, need you—”

He doesn’t need to be told twice, burying himself as deep as he can inside of you before he’s spilling, locking you tightly against him and enjoying the feeling of joy that washes over his entire body.

He can’t stop kissing your cheek, his lips lapping up the wetness that has streaked like a devout man worshiping a gift from the heavens.

You stay like this until both your heartbeats return to their normal, synced rhythm, your nails scratching deliciously at his scalp while his own return to their soothing patterns against your back.

“Was that okay?” You ask him, finally returning to your senses it seems.

He chuckles lovingly. “It’s perfect, angel.”

“Good,” you hum.

“Good.”

a/n: yeah 🚬 dividers by @/enchanthings

[softundermoonlight]

His pain fits in the palm of my hand - A.C

☆ Andrew "Pope" Cody x f!Reader ☆ (next part)

summary: Andrew has survived his whole life by wanting nothing. Until Craig introduces one of his friends, and suddenly, Andrew wants everything and more. word count: 20.7k (yeah kinda lost my mind there) c.w: age gap implied but not explicit; short suicidal ideation; crying; mentions of blood; light physical injuries; angst to fluff; smut - piv sex, oral sex; praising kink; breeding kink if you squint a/n: sooooo...took me two weeks. had a breakdown. bon appetit! (and thank you to my wife for proofreading it) I really hope you'll like reading it like i enjoyed writing it.

‪‪❤︎‬ Thank you so much for reading!

Andrew Cody has never been able to sleep properly.

Nights spent pacing the garden of Smurf’s house, bare feet on the cold ground, counting his steps to keep his mind occupied. It never did. He tried to outrun the memories of his actions, to drown his pain at the bottom of the pool. But on those nights, his torment wore the faces of his ghosts.

First there was Julia, then Cath, quickly followed by Baz. And Smurf. Always Smurf. A cycle of misery that makes his ribcage feel as though it might collapse under the violent pounding of his heart.

Some days, seated at a table with his family, Andrew had felt he could scream until his throat gave out, and no one would have heard. He imagined falling into the pool, slipping under the surface, water closing over his head and staying there, lungs burning just long enough for the noise to finally fucking stop, no one coming to pull him out because nobody would have noticed he disappeared.

There were moments when the thought settled heavy in his bones: he would not survive another day in his family, he didn’t want to. He kept straining toward a bond that no longer reached his end…if it ever did.

Over the years, Andrew had grown accustomed to his role. Weird Pope, Creepy Pope, the family’s guard dog: asking for nothing, obeying to the beatings, the killings and never, never, mentioning the ghosts hunting the corner of his eyes each night.

He remembered Smurf’s voice, years ago. “Pop him a few pills and he’ll follow your commands, baby.” She said it to Baz like it was nothing, like he was nothing. This was before prison, before Andrew felt deep in his bones that the other half of his soul left this merciless Earth without him.

Sometimes he let himself think about Julia, since no one else did. He hoped that at least one of them had finally found peace.

Then, you happened.

And Andrew can’t make sense of it, no matter how much he turns it over in his head, how a girl like you ends up being friends with Craig and therefore, near the Cody brothers: you are sweet, kind, nothing but soft edges, and innocent. Almost like the world has spared you the knowledge of what men like him are capable of.

Whenever you are in the house, his gaze follows you from room to room. He tells himself that it’s vigilance and habit that pushes him to act like that. Except he doesn’t need to memorize the way you tuck your hair behind your ear, or how he can recognize the distinct sound of your footsteps in a heartbeat.

He learns and catalogues each of your reactions: the faint frown of your nose at the smell of a particular brand of coffee (gone from the house and replaced before sunset), the soft curl of your lips whenever you are kindly refusing his offer to make you a sandwich.

(He wouldn’t be bothered if you took a bite of his.)

To see you is a special kind of hell and an indescribable heaven, like pressing on a bruise just to make sure it still hurts.

Lately, you shift the air of the house by simply existing in it. Your laugh, in the rooms where Smurf had once lived, seems to almost cleanse the walls of her memory.  And Andrew knows. He knows that’s why Craig is friends with you. Because each day, the sun seems to finally be able to reach the house, even his own room.

It frightens him.

His body instinctively adjusts around your presence, his mind reassessing new rules (the glasses on the bottom shelf so you can have access to them, checking how many drinks you have at Deran’s bar). He memorizes your schedule, notes which books you are bringing with you in your bag, times how long it takes you to get home, parks far enough that you can’t notice his truck but close enough that he can reach you if something goes wrong.

All his life, Andrew had survived by wanting nothing. By hollowing himself out until the obedience Smurf wanted from him fitted neatly inside his ribs, because wanting had always been a liability, a weakness someone could press a knife into.

But now…now that life seems finally good and breathable, that he has the skatepark and his siblings and an almost regular life (if one exists for men like him) without Smurf’s claws on his throat, Andrew finds himself cornered by a simple, terrifying truth: he wants you.

He swallows it. Buries it deep inside, trying to drown it with numbness and even more repetitive actions when you are near: chopping, tidying the house, scrubbing counters that are already clean, fixing hinges that doesn’t squeak… Anything to keep his hands busy so they don’t reach for you.

No, Andrew Cody has never been able to sleep properly.

──────────

You remember telling yourself that the house felt wrong before you ever understood why.

Craig had asked you to come meet his brothers and from his tone alone, you knew it was a big deal. That something was at stake.

You showed up at four sharp, even if he hadn’t given you a specific time (something you would soon realize was typical of Craig), a paper bag pressed to your chest, palms already sweaty. You stood outside for a full minute before knocking, taking a few deep breaths, and stepping over the threshold with a smile as he wrapped you in a hug with his tall frame before dragging you straight into the kitchen.

That’s when you saw him.

Broad shoulders, dark curls on a face held tight, back straight and hands braced on his thighs, his posture so still you almost thought he was a mannequin.

“My brother Pope,” Craig said. “Don’t mind him, he almost doesn’t bite.”

His gaze was already on you, unblinking, steady in a quiet unnerving way, like he was committing every detail to memory, a look so intense it coaxed words out of you before you could stop them.

“H-Hi,” you stuttered, giving your name as you tried to stay composed. You extended your hand toward him, and he stared at it for a moment. The pause stretched long enough for doubt to creep up your spine (maybe he didn’t shake hands? maybe you had already broken some invisible rule?).

You swallowed, blood rising to your cheeks, drawing your hand back to clutch the paper bag as you tried not to stammer on your words. “I brought pastries. I didn’t know what you all would like so…I kind of…guessed,” you hated how small your voice sounded.

He stayed silent, brows faintly furrowed, as if he was processing what you had just said. Then he nodded. “Thank you.”

His tone was quiet, almost a hum, pulled from the depth of his chest, the sound settling low in your stomach, warm and heavy, and your first thought (unwelcome and strange) was how that vibration would feel beneath your palm.

Craig sighed with desperation at the conversation with a quiet “Stop being weird, bro!” while his other younger brother, unbothered, simply ignored the awkwardness, nodded as an introduction and handed beers around.

It was a welcome distraction, the cold liquid sliding down your throat, and buying you time to think on what to say next, but the youngest, Deran, beat you to it, asking you about your job and how good a surfer you were.

“You fuckin’ with me? You live in Oceanside and can’t stand on a board?” he laughed and couldn’t stop the slight condescending tone from his voice. “No worry, me or mister El Craigo here will introduce you to it. You’ll only swallow, like…a gallon of water before you get it.”

“Oh, um…I don’t think…”  you tried to say, though it was mostly ignored.

Pope hadn’t looked away once, hand gripping tightly enough on the beer that you could see his knuckles whitening. There was something careful about the way he held himself: still, contained.

Your eyes met his again and you smiled tentatively.

“Um…Pope,” you started, uncertain, the name tasting strange on your tongue. “Can I ask you…”

“Andrew.” He interrupted, the tone firm enough to stop you mid-breath.

You suddenly became aware of your heartbeat, your chest lifting as it rattled against your ribs. Your gaze dropped at the intensity. Had you done something wrong? You suddenly felt foolish for the pastries, for the outstretched hand, for trying so hard, and an absurd urge to apologize rose in your throat, even if you didn’t know what for.

When you looked up, he was already halfway out of the kitchen.

You never finished your question.

Later that night, when you slipped into your bed, the sheets cold but familiar in their welcoming loneliness, you turned from one side to the other, eyes pinched shut without any release to exhaustion, realizing that you couldn’t remember what you had meant to ask.

Only that you wanted to hear his voice, just one more time.

──────────

The house is too loud. It always is when there are people over.

It reminds him of being a kid, hiding with Julia, hands intertwined, avoiding the drunk and high grown-ups. Whispering that everything would be alright. That no one would find them. Not even Smu-

(Bad thought. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the dents on the kitchen counter.)

The volume of the music is pushed too high for his comfort, a constant buzz under the conversations in the house and near the pool while Andrew stands in the kitchen, hands deep in soapy water, scrubbing a glass that is already clean.

He finished the dishes ten minutes ago, but he is still washing, still drying, rearranging things that don’t need rearranging because it gives him somewhere to put his hands, to put his eyes. Because the alternative is the living room. And you.

(You, in that white dress. He has the stupid thought that you look like an angel and immediately hates himself for it. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the droplets dripping from his fingertips.)

He tells himself that he is staying in the kitchen because it lets him see everything in the house, because parties mean unlocked doors, strangers who could wander into rooms they shouldn’t be in. And there are the habits he can’t shake off: watching the exits, the unfamiliar faces, counting heads (Deran, Craig, you), noting who is drinking too much, who is getting loud, who might break something.

He dries the same plate twice in a row before setting it down on the kitchen counter and looking up without meaning to.

You are by the couch, perched on the armrest while Craig, bare chest and shameless about it, tells you the story about the time he smuggled a burrito full of drugs across the Mexico border, story he knew you heard a dozen times these past three months. But still, you are laughing, head tipped back, hair falling down your spine (he wonders what they would feel like underneath his fingertips), one hand wrapped around a bottle you haven’t drunk from in a while, like it has more to do with keeping your hands busy while you are listening.

Andrew noticed it the first week he met you.

But the moment your lips wrap around the drink, he looks away and goes back to washing clean and dried plates, hands in the ice water, soap stinging the small cut on his knuckle.

(Good. Something sharp. Something real. Better than counting for now.)

“I bought you a new pair of gloves.”

Your voice is closer than he expected and his head snaps towards you before he can stop it. You are standing at the edge of the counter, smiling, so close that he can smell your shampoo despite the soap and the lingering smell of weed (it’s so clean, so soft, he wants to drown himself in it).

 “Why?” He asks, his nostrils flaring at his own bluntness.

You shrug, small. “I know Craig threw your pair away yesterday. And, um… I know you like wearing them when you clean.”

“Why?” his voice repeats, breaking at the word.

Of course, you ignore his question, and he can’t help but spiral (why did you do that? do you realize how much the gesture is affecting him? no one ever cared about his gloves. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the freckles on your nose.).

“I got the good ones,” you add, beaming. “So the soap doesn’t mess up your hands.”

While your eyes drop to his hands, his are still enraptured on your face, studying every single feature (you really do look like an angel. and you act like one too. maybe you are his salvation. stop, he needs to fucking stop but he no longer knows what to count.).

Andrew swallows what feels like an anchor in his throat because you look like you worry about him (you have done that for a while now, which still baffles him). Nobody worries about him: they worry about what he might do, not whether he is hurt.

“’m fine.” He mutters, not convincingly enough, judging by the look on your face.

You are still looking at his bruised hands and your fingers twitch on the counter like you had the sudden urge to reach for him, like you might take his hand to look at it.

(He has the overwhelming need to know what you would do with his hands in yours. Hold them? Kiss them better? One. Two. Three- would you let his hands run along your hair? He knows what it’s like to touch you when you need help, but he feels that this would be very different.)

“They are under the sink,” you say above the music and Andrew can’t do anything else but stare, not trusting his own voice.

You linger for a moment at the counter and Andrew wants to ask you to stay (in the kitchen, in his life, doesn’t matter), but Craig shouts your name from the living room and suddenly he has some homicidal thoughts. You glance over your shoulder, then back at Andrew, and you look…reluctant.

“I’ll…”

“Yeah.”

You don’t move. Neither does he.

“Thanks.” He finally says, his gaze still tracking every shift of your expressions, trying to burn your smile in his retina, hoping one blink would not be enough to erase it.

“Of course, Andrew.”

Andrew. For you, he is Andrew and that’s all that matters because you are the only one calling him by this name and you make it sound like it belongs to you ever since you first said it by the pool.

With one last little smile, you walk away and his eyes follow you until he knows you have reached Craig but even then, he doesn’t look away, afraid you might disappear, just like every good thing always did.

And Andrew learned, a long time ago, that if you wanted something to stay alive and safe, you watched it. Guarded it. Didn’t blink.

Andrew didn’t blink.

──────────

You stepped outside because the house had started to feel too small, suffocating all at once, Craig and Deran’s voices stacking over each other in the open kitchen, arguing about a job - a part of the Cody brothers’ lives you knew existed but mostly chose not to look at too closely.

You told yourself you only needed a second of quiet, just enough space to breathe properly again after a long day at work full of aggravating customers, meager tips and a coffee spilt by a coworker on your bare legs.

The noise softened once the door closed, letting you draw in a deep breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

“Fucking hell.” You muttered, exhausted by the shouting.

You hadn’t noticed him at first, too busy staring at the pool and ignoring your inner voice telling you to jump straight in the pool fully clothed, a thought that you were soon pulled out of when you heard a sound that didn’t belong to the wind or the trees.

That’s when you saw him, seated at the edge of a lounge chair, head bowed, a skateboard turned upside down across his thighs, one hand spinning a wheel while the other oiled it with slow, precise movements.

“Not a fan of the shouting matches?” you asked, trying not to startle him.

He glanced up, shook his head before going back to the board. “No.”

“So…not keen on loud noises either?”

“No.”

For a moment, you simply watched him, struck by how different he looked when he was doing something he seemed to…enjoy. Less folded into himself, the usual tightness of his posture easing (was it because of the board? the sound of the pool? the absence of his brothers? whatever it is, the view looked precious enough for you to want to capture it).

You lowered yourself onto the warm concrete next to him, your back resting against the lounge chair, knees pulled to your chest, neither of you speaking for a while.

That’s when you noticed his hands: knuckles swollen and red, the skin split near the thumb, a faint line of blood reopening every time the skin stretched.

“They look like they hurt. Y-Your hands, I mean.”

He shrugged without looking at you. “They’re fine.”

Your eyes drifted from them to his profile: from his hazel eyes fully focused on the board to the tight set of his mouth and you caught yourself distracted by his lips for a second too long before forcing your eyes back to the floor, warmth creeping up your neck (don’t think about that, don’t think about that).

“Andrew?”

The wheel immediately stopped spinning. Not gradually, just…stopped.

The entire yard suddenly became too quiet as his face snapped towards you, something unreadable flickering across his face and vanishing just as quickly, and you felt the realization settle in slowly that you had finally said his name after almost a month of avoiding it.

“Do you think I could learn how to skateboard? I…” the words got stuck between your throat and your lips while you searched for the courage to finish your sentence without tripping over yourself. “I mean…I wanted to know if you could help me. Learn it, I mean. If you wanted to. You don’t have to, I just…” (fuck. why? why were you so weird?)

Your fingers picked at the hem of your skirt and pulled on a thread to busy your hands, and from the corner of your vision you caught his brief smile, and the warmth that spread was so shamefully immediate that you bit your tongue until you tasted metal just to keep from blurting out something along the lines of ‘i really, really, fucking love your smile, please do it again so my day goes from moderately shitty to embarrassingly close to perfection.’

“Give me your phone.” he said, and you didn’t hesitate, fishing it out from your pocket, and placing it in his palm.

“There’s no password on your phone.”

“Yeah…I know.”

“It’s dangerous.” His thumb hovered over the screen, nose flaring. “Anyone could get into it. Your photos. Your messages. Your address. Everything is in there.”

You barely heard the end of it, too focused on the pull in your chest as his words kept coming, just for you.

“I haven’t thought about that.” You murmured, feeling foolish while he muttered to himself something that definitely sounded like ‘I did.’

He tapped his number in before going through the settings while you were still struck by his intensity and that he was doing this for you without being asked.

“Six digits. Not birthdates and not something simple like six zeros.” He handed your phone back, his fingers lingering for a second too long before pulling away. “Put one.”

This time you knew it was an order and you didn’t hesitate a second as you followed it, typing something in, suddenly hyperaware of how close he was standing, your shoulder almost brushing his calf, your pulse loud in your ears and a slow, humiliating heat pooling low in your stomach that you refused to think about at the moment.

“Good.” He said after you saved the password. “Text me your work hours.”

“So, it’s a yes? Really?”

He grunted and whether the dusting of crimson over his freckles was real or something you imagined, you couldn’t tell, you were too busy feeling as light as a leaf.

“Yes. And…”

His words were cut off by the screen door banging open, leaning back abruptly just as Craig made his way toward you both with a grin that meant whatever the fight with Deran had been about, he had won.

“Deran agrees for Friday night. And you,” he tapped your forehead. “didn’t hear shit.”

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“That’s my girl. Now get your ass in the pool.”

Craig was already running to the pool before you could respond, clothes coming off mid-step.

“I can’t believe this man has a kid. Has you brother always been a shameless nudist?”

 “Unfortunately…yes.”

You snorted before murmuring. “Thanks, by the way. For the password thing. And for agreeing to teach me. I promise I’ll only be like…average terrible.”

“You’ll be fine,” he shrugged. Then, quieter, “I’ll make sure.”

His gaze dipped briefly to your mouth when he said it, before snapping back up, and something in your stomach turned warm and gooey, a reckless part of you hoping he might add something else. Or step closer again. But he didn’t, just nodded once, before muttering. “Go.”

“Okay, I’ll leave you to your board, Andrew.”

You made it halfway to the pool before you glanced back. He was still watching, not even pretending not to, looking like a leopard ready to jump. Like if you slipped, he would already be moving.

And lying awake that night, window cracked open and the ocean humming somewhere in the dark, you muffled his name into your pillow, trying to quiet yourself, imagining his hands instead of yours. Andrew, Andrew, Andrew.

──────────

Andrew is used to ending his nights alone because wanting people to stay never goes well for him.

So, when the party finally ends at four in the morning, he does what he knows best: throwing the bottles into the trash, making sure no one is passed out in the backyard or asleep in one of the bedrooms and…cleaning.

First the diving board, even if Craig is still making out on one of the lounge chairs with a girl whose name Andrew can’t remember and doesn’t try to (he knows best). Next, the counter, twice in a row for good measure. Then the sink, while Deran claps a hand on his shoulder with a “Don’t stay up too late, okay?” before heading out.

(One. Two. Three. Four. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. He counts the second you spend in the bathroom.)

He stands in the kitchen for a moment before realizing it might look strange and make you uncomfortable. That’s the last thing he wants.

He rushes back to his room (he wouldn’t exactly call it ‘sprinting’. sprinting would mean he is trying to avoid you. which he is not. not at all.).

He doesn’t bother turning on the light when he decides to lie on top of the covers, fully dressed, staring at the ceiling because he knows that sleep won’t come. It never does.

(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the cracks.)

Every time he closes his eyes, something crawls up from beneath his ribs and he is once again plagued by his ghost: Julia’s voice, Cath’s smile, Baz’s forgiveness. Smurf’s words cutting straight through him.

He thinks about the pool and how easy it would be to let the water close over his head. How all the voices would finally be silent forever, his own included.

(Bad thoughts. One. Two. Three. Four. He recites the number of cameras in the bank for the incoming job.)

He forces himself to think of something else.

Of you, earlier, laughing at Craig’s story (and the immediate, unwelcome ache in his chest as he wonders if there’s something between the two of you, if this will end the way things always seem to, if you’ll be another Cath: close to him before preferring his brother).

Then he thinks about the way he made you laugh on your first skateboard lesson, all because he wanted to make you feel safe and seen, how the simple feel of your waist had nearly made him press his forehead to your shoulder and beg for you to stay and keep looking at him like that.

He thinks about that night when you called him for help, and how he didn’t hesitate for even a second when reaching for his keys, truck already running before you even finished explaining because the simple thought of you alone somewhere in the dark, waiting and frightened, had felt like acid running through his veins, the kind of fear that made him beg to the sky “Not here, not her, not again. I won’t fail her”.  

He presses his palms against his eyes until he sees bursts of purple light.

(Breathe. One. Tw-)

A faint knock against the door makes him freeze.

Nobody knocks in this house, his brothers just…barge in.

He is already on his feet before he realizes it, his hand finding the handle before he opens to find you there.

Barefoot, hair loose and messy, the mascara smudged at the corners of your eyes and the dress wrinkled. Earlier, Andrew thought you looked like an ethereal angel, something untouchable and holy.

But now…now you just look human, real and warm, which is worse because real things like you can stay as well as leave.

“Hey.” You murmur, leaning against the doorframe.

He grips the handle tightly to steady himself.

“Something wrong?”

“I was supposed to sleep on the couch,” you begin, talking with your hands the way you always do when you try to explain a situation, “but signor El Craigo has decided that it’s now his new make out spot with Sam and I really don’t need that image burned into my brain. And of course, I thought about taking his room in retaliation, but I don’t trust his conception of hygiene,”

That makes him huff.

“So…” you add, rubbing your arm, almost shy which doesn’t make sense in his mind because you haven’t been shy with him in a long time with the skatepark lessons or with the ‘hallway accident’ you both had together, “Can I stay here tonight?”

You don’t say ‘with you’ nor ‘in your bed’, but Andrew understands and he is pretty sure his brain short circuits for a second or two.

You didn’t text Deran or try to Uber home. You just came to him. Because you trusted him.

“Yes.” He replies too fast, stepping back from the door.

“You sure?”

He nods to avoid confessing that he would give you the bed. The room. The house. The air in his lungs.

You slip past him into the room, sitting on the edge of the bed before looking back at him and asking gently, “You’re not sleeping, right?”.

“No. Not…not really.”

“Yeah, figured.”

You lie down beneath the covers first, curling onto the side of the bed closest to the wall, leaving him space.

“Don’t think about staying on top of the covers, Andrew.”

The warning in your tone almost makes him laugh so he complies, lying down beside you, fully clothed and aware of every inch separating the two of you.

He stares at the ceiling again.

(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts your breathing.)

The mattress shifts while you slowly roll onto your back before turning fully toward him, your shoulder brushing his arm.

“Sorry,” you mumble sleepily. “’m cold.”

“It’s fine.” He says it like the ghost of your breathing over his collarbone didn’t just set every of his nerves on fire, like he was not terrified to shift even an inch.

After a few minutes, you drift closer in your sleep, chasing warmth without thinking, your knee pressing against his thigh, your hand sliding across the sheets until your fingers come to rest on the fabric of his shirt, right over his heartbeat and for a moment he genuinely forgets how to breathe.

Your palm is so warm, and he is painfully aware that you can probably feel how hard his heart is pounding.

Nobody has ever touched him like this, like he is something safe and out of everything that has happened to him: the underground fights, the prison, the jobs…none of that ever made him feel this defenseless.

His eyes suddenly burn because he wants to turn so much to see your peaceful face, tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, pull you closer to know just once in his life what it’s like to hold something good without destroying it, to press his face into your hair and breathe until the ghosts quiet down, but he doesn’t.

He stays exactly as he is, lying in the dark, eyes wide open, staring at nothing.

(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts your breaths again. Then the seconds between them. He thinks about the fact that you’re here and the miracle of it.)

Sleep doesn’t come, but for the first time in years, the night doesn’t feel empty. Because you’re here. Warm. Alive. Trusting him.

So, Andrew stays awake until morning, guarding the only good thing that ever chose him.

──────────

You were so, so late.

You had told Andrew on the phone that you would be at his skatepark at 5:15 sharp after work, and it was now 5:42 and you were sprinting the half mile that separated the coffee shop from there, bag smacking against your hip, your lungs burning, already sweaty before you even reached the entrance, trying to slow your breathing with a few useless deep inhales, hands braced on your knees, pretending that you were not seconds away from passing out.

(First lesson and you were already late and a disaster. Great. Very impressive.)

You straightened, wiped your forehead, and stepped inside, scanning the park before finding Andrew, board tucked under one arm, sleeves riding up his biceps, curls messy from the wind and sweat and you were now positively sure that you had some drool at the corner of your mouth (the universe had decided to sabotage you and that was fucking unfair.)

You watched the tiny smile he had as a girl showed him her board, proud and beaming at him like he had personally hung the sun in the sky (no, you didn’t need to think about him being good with kids. you didn’t need to picture him with kids, him gentle, him…stop. shut up.).

The second his head lifted and locked eyes with you, you were pretty much done for. It was ridiculous, really, how one look from him could short-circuit every coherent thought in your brain, how your feet just…moved, carrying you toward him instinctively, dropping your bag by the fence without breaking your stride as he met you halfway.

His gaze dragged over you once: your face, your hair, your chest.

“You ran here?”

“Yes. And I’m sweating…a lot. Please don’t judge me.”

He took a few seconds, a storm passing through his eyes before he added.

“You’re late.”

“I know,” you rushed, your hands quickly moving and your words tumbling over each other like they always did when you got flustered around him. “but a guy ordered for his whole ‘cheaper by the dozen’ family like three minutes before we closed. I’m probably sure he sensed my despair and fed on it.”

A small huff escaped him. “You didn’t have to run.”

You shrugged, eyes to the ground. “Didn’t want you to think I bailed on you.”

You felt it, his head tilting down just enough to catch your gaze again, stubborn about it.

“I wouldn’t. Now you ready?”

“Born ready.” You lied through your teeth.

“You look terrified.”

“I can do both, you know,” you shot back quickly. “I am large, I contain multitudes.”

There was the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Okay, Whitman.”

“Y-You know Whitman?”

A pause.

“I mean…not that I don’t believe you or think you can’t read poetry or anything…that’s actually super hot, so good job!” you gave him a thumbs-up, aware you had just lost every ounce of dignity you had ever possessed. “It’s just that last week Craig asked me if ‘Pride and Peace’ was a good book to impress a girl, so…my bar was very low.”

Andrew stared at you for a moment. “Pride and Peace.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s not…”

“I know, I know. But don’t worry, I did a good deed for society and told him not to mention any book ever. You and Deran are safe from now on. You’re welcome.”

And there it was again: that quiet amusement on his lips, the roll of his eyes like he couldn’t help himself, making you feel the stupid and dangerous need to continue to jest (keep talking, say anything, make him do it again).

He shook his head once. “C’mon Whitman. Let’s see what you got.”

You trailed after him without thinking and the first few attempts were…humiliating to say the least: your balance was nonexistent, your feet refused to cooperate, your arms stood uselessly at your sides, and you had absolutely no idea where you were supposed to look while Andrew hovered nearby like he was ready to intervene at any moment.

“I look stupid!” you complained.

“You’re fine.”

“I’m not fine! This is deeply humiliating. I can barely stay upright and there are twelve-year-olds doing tricks behind me! Tricks, Andrew!”

“You’re doing good.”

“I almost died.”

“You didn’t.”

“Socially, I assure you I did.”

Your heart did a stupid little skip when a tiny, amused sound escaped him.

(You could bottle that sound and live off it. You were now pretty sure you would commit crimes for it.)

“Makes sense you’re friends with Craig,” he muttered. “Dramatic.”

You gasped, unable to contain your grin. “Excuse you mister Cody, but I am layered! I am complex!”

He looked unimpressed and repeated “Dramatic.”

You opened your mouth to argue before your foot slipped, the board shooting forward, and for one horrible second you thought that worse than falling off in front of children was falling off in front of the guy you had a crush on.

But you never got to know the feeling before his hands were suddenly there, at your waist, catching you fast and steadying you while you became acutely aware of every nerve under his palms, of his thumbs grazing your hipbones, of his breath brushing your cheek as heat pooled between your legs.

He moved behind your back, still holding your waist before murmuring “Don’t lean and bend your knees.”

(You were starting to suspect he was fucking with you on purpose.)

But still, he adjusted you gently, palms rotating your hips and guiding your stance before kneeling to help place your legs on the board and you couldn’t stop yourself from blurting:

“I haven’t shaved my legs. Sorry.”

“Me neither.” He huffed, his breath warm on your calf and the faintest hint of amusement threading through his voice.

(Was that…a joke? Was he joking? Since when was he doing that? You liked that. You wanted that.)

Andrew pushed himself back on his feet, stepping away just enough for you to feel the sudden absence of his body, leaving you oddly cold, like you had stepped out of the sunlight.

“Try again.”

You nodded, realizing that his joke had somehow shaken the worst of your nerves away, before pushing off, your knees bent like he had shown you, your weight centered and the board rolled.

“Oh my God, I’m doing it! Andrew, I’m really doing it!” you exclaimed happily.

“You are.”

You risked a glance over your shoulder, and he was watching you with his usual careful intensity, hands half-raised and prepared to catch you, like protecting you was the only thing on his list right now.

So (naturally), you did the dumbest thing possible and tested him. Just a little bit. Just to know.

You leaned and let your weight tip forward just enough to know if…

His hands immediately caught you, his hands on your ribs, scanning up and down if you had been hurt, “You okay?”

You swallowed, realizing that you had never doubted a second he would be there. And that settled something warm and terrifying in your chest.

It was not a silly crush, not your friend’s brother that you thought was hot and interesting, no. It was falling. Headfirst, no parachute.

And judging by the way his hands hadn’t moved from your waist yet, you weren’t entirely sure he wasn’t falling a little too.

──────────

You are screaming and he is too late.

He is always too late.

Your voice breaks into something small and terrified, the kind of sound that doesn’t even feel human anymore, and he is running but his legs don’t cooperate, move in slow-motion, the floor stretching longer and longer beneath him and the house smells like chlorine, metal and something sour he recognizes too fast.

You’re in the pool, face down and the water is red. And you are so, so still. He tries to move, to drag you out, but he can’t.

You turn toward him, eyes open and your mouth spilling blood.

“You were supposed to be there, Andrew. Why weren’t you there?”

He jerks awake, his whole body snapping upright while air refuses to enter his lungs, a pain in his ribcage so intense he thinks it might split him open from the inside out.

He doesn’t understand why at first: why his pillow feels cold and damp to the touch, why his throat burns, until he drags a shaky hand across his face and touches something wet, the realization feeling nauseating.

He has been crying in his sleep for God knows how long.

He presses his palms hard into his eyes like maybe the pain will help him, like maybe if he suffers enough the images will disappear. That you won’t be floating face down in the pool, covered in blood, your blood, your voice joining all the others, the same disappointed tone he’s memorized over the years with his ghosts.

(One. Two. Three. Four. He tries to count but it doesn’t work.)

The house is quiet for once, too quiet, and Andrew has this awful, crawling sensation lodged under his sternum, something cold and irrational that he can’t help but spiral into.

(What if…No.)

He is already moving, because lying back down would mean closing his eyes again and he can’t, he fucking can’t risk seeing you like that again, can’t hear the sound of your voice pleading and begging for him to save you when you are already gone, can’t add you to the long list of ghosts that wait for him every night.

Halfway down the hall, he gets as quiet as he can manage, moving through the house like he is on a job, because it feels the same: this sick, urgent need to verify something, to be sure that you are here, that you are safe.

The living room is glowing faintly blue before he even steps in, the light spilling on the floor and he hears it: a narrator speaking about sharks and the distant sound of recorded waves.

You always pick sea life documentaries when you stay over.

He doesn’t know when you figured out he liked them.

He stops at the threshold and sees you: curled on the couch, hidden beneath a blanket and alive.

(Your chest rises. Then falls. Rises. Falls. You’re not floating. You’re not gone.)

His lungs finally unlock and he breathes sharply, the sound loud enough that you look up immediately, like you sensed him there, like you are now tuned to him in a way he doesn’t understand, and your expression softens the second you see his face.

“Hey,” you say, voice thick with sleep. “Everything okay?”

He nods automatically but knows that he can’t bullshit you.

“You don’t look okay.”

“I’m fine,” he manages, but the words come out wrecked and dragged through his throat.

Your eyes examine him slowly and it clicks behind them. “Nightmare?”

(Oh, he hates this word. Hates how small it makes him feel. Hates how childish it sounds. Hates how accurate it is.)

His jaw locks so hard it aches and he can’t force out anything more than a stiff, miserable nod, his nails digging crescent moons in his palms as he braces himself for questions, for having to justify why he is standing there at three in the morning, shaking over a bad dream. But you don’t push.

You just scrub a hand over your tired face before moving your legs and lifting the blanket, creating space beside you.

“Come here.” You mumble, looking at him, patient.

He crosses the room slowly, the couch dipping under his weight as he lowers himself beside you, hyperaware of every inch of distance, of your arm brushing his, of the warmth bleeding through the thin fabric of your shirt, of how close your knee is to his thigh and how easy it would be to accidentally touch.

Your hand bumps his and even if he should pull away, he doesn’t. The contact is small, just skin against skin but for Andrew, it’s the closest to heaven he’s ever been.

Your fingers linger, uncertain, like you’re giving him time to decide, like he is allowed to decide. His thumb moves before he can stop it, brushing lightly over your knuckles, slowly, reverently, like he needs to make sure you are solid and not a trick of his mind. You feel warmer than him.

(Alive warm. Not water cold. Not bloody and floating. Not like in the pool.)

The memory hits so hard it hurts.

He jerks his hand back abruptly, his breathing going wrong again, shame creeping hot and fast because for a moment he wanted something and asked for it, letting the walls go down.

But you don’t comment, don’t tease and don’t pull away in response to his neediness and instead, you shift closer and you help settling the blanket over both of you, your arm following, tugging him in gently, like there has never been a version of this world where he wasn’t permitted to be here.

He stiffens when your hand finds the back of his neck and he wants to reassure you that it’s not because he wants it to stop but because he wants it too much, and he doesn’t deserve it. But your fingers brush his scalp, and suddenly he is nothing but starving for it, leaning toward it instinctively.

You guide him down gently, so gently and he can’t win this fight tonight, his ear pressing against your chest.

(Your heartbeat. Steady. There. One. Two. Three. Four. It’s there. You’re alive.)

The documentary keeps whispering about tides and sharks, but he barely hears it now because all he can focus on is the rhythm under his cheek and the way your fingers keep caressing his curls in slow strokes like you were calming a frightened wild animal.

He wants to move. To slide his arm around your waist. To press his face into your shirt and breathe you. To hold you tight enough so nothing could ever take you away.

But he stays still, terrified of ruining it and breaking something with the weight of his want.

Your fingers drift lower to cradle the back of his head while your other arm tightens around him and pull him fully into you, closing the remaining space between your two bodies. His relief is immediate and overwhelming, pulling a whimper out of him, emptying him of his thoughts.

His chest caves inward on a shaky exhale, his hand finally moving hesitantly until it rests lightly on your waist, barely touching and giving you room to pull away if you want to, but you don’t. You tuck him closer, your chin brushing his hair.

 “I’ve got you. You’re okay, Andrew, I promise. I’m here.”

The words land deep and it takes him a moment to realize he is sobbing in your arms, the tears soaking your shirt while he presses his forehead closer to your chest, just to confirm that the heartbeat under him is real.

(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts your heart now.)

“Shh…It’s going to be okay, Andrew.”

The storm in his head – the ghosts, the pool, your voice – slowly quiets for the first time all night, dissolving under the simple, undeniable fact that you are here and breathing under his cheek, speaking to him, comforting him.

And somewhere, between one beat and the next, his body finally gives up the fight, his sobs stop, exhaustion dragging him under gently this time, no drowning, no screaming, just the steady rhythm of you and your quiet voice drifting above him.

“I’m not leaving Andrew.”

He knows that for tonight at least, no nightmare will come at him.

You promised.

──────────

“Fuck, Fuck, Fuck.”

Craig was the worst and you were absolutely going to kill him. Not even metaphorically, but in the sense where you would pick up the nearest heavy object and aim for his head the next time you saw him, if only you were able to find him right now instead of wandering through a house you didn’t know that smelled aggressively of weed and alcohol.

Deran and Andrew would forgive you, you were sure of it, if you murdered their brother under these circumstances. Hell, they might even help you bury the body. Because you could have had a regular evening at home, watching for the hundredth time Shawshank Redemption but no, you had to be alone in a stranger’s kitchen, trying not to panic.

The party had shifted, you felt it about twenty minutes ago.

It had stopped being loud fun and started being loud wrong when little bags started to be passed around, people disappearing in rooms and coming back with pupils blown wide and white powder on their nostrils.

You had looked for Craig. Texted him. Called. Nothing.

You had found someone who vaguely resembled one of the friends he introduced you to earlier, and when you asked if they had seen him, they laughed and replied something about “upstairs with Renn so it might take a while, Sweetheart,” and you stood there for a second, scared. Really scared.

Because you didn’t know anyone there, not really. And you were now surrounded by idiots who were snorting cocaine.

(Okay. Calm down. Breathe. Don’t cry. It doesn’t help your situation at all.)

A guy you didn’t recognize slid a drink toward you with a grin that lingered too long, and the fact that your very first thought was ‘I wonder if he put something in that’ made your decision for you: you were leaving. Immediately. Whatever Craig was doing upstairs with Renn was officially no longer your problem.

The night air hit your face, making you regret for the lack of jacket.

You stood on a sidewalk for a moment, trying to calculate the distance back to your apartment. You were too far, with no car and a phone at nine percent.

“Craig is dead. He is fucking dead. I will kill him myself,” you muttered under your breath as you started walking anyway, heels dangling in your hand, bare feet against the cold concrete, just to put some distance between you and the house.

But the further you got, the louder your heartbeat became, pounding in your ears, the fear crawling up your spine.

Still, you kept walking, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, repeating ‘You’ll be fine,’ over and over to your brain.

(You were not fine. You were alone. In the middle of the night. Walking barefoot down a street you didn’t know. Why were you like this? Why didn’t you just stay? Why didn’t you drag Craig out by his stupid hair to drive you back home?)

You didn’t want to try to call Craig again and waste your last percentage of battery on someone who would not answer.

And before you could talk yourself out of it, before you could rationalize or be embarrassed…your thumb was already pressing Andrew’s name.

(If you called him, he would come. He wouldn’t hesitate. You knew it.)

The phone only rang once before he picked up.

“Yes?”

That was all it took for you: the sound of his steady and low voice to make something inside your chest collapse, the fragile composure you had been clinging to dissolving instantly as you let out a shaky exhale, thanking all the Gods above for Andrew Cody’s existence.

“Andrew,” you said, your voice betraying you immediately with a crack right through the middle of his name. “I-I’m sorry. It’s late, I know. I just…”

“What happened.”

You swallowed, trying to force the tears to back down. “I’m at this party and…and Craig left. I mean…he is upstairs with Renn doing I don’t know what and he won’t answer me. I left the house because it got weird there and I’m trying to walk home but I think that was a stupid idea and I just…”

(You hated how your voice wobbled. How small it sounded. You should have bought pepper spray.)

“I’m so scared.”

In the background, you could hear keys jangling, a door closing and his truck starting.

“Where are you?”

No ‘why’, no ‘what were you thinking’. Just that.

You gave him the street name and the closest intersection you could see, wiping your face with the back of your hand and trying to steady your breathing so you didn’t sound like you were seconds away from a breakdown.

“I’ll be there in five.”

You let out a weak, disbelieving laugh. “It’s at least ten.”

“Five.”

The line went dead before you could argue, the call cutting off abruptly as your screen went black. Dead battery.

You stared at your reflection for half a second on the dark screen, heart hammering while you counted the seconds in your head, hoping that somehow it would summon him faster.

It took less than three hundred for you to see headlights cut around the corner of the street faster than the required speed limit, relief crashing into you. He didn’t even fully stop before the driver’s door was already swinging open, crossing the distance to you in three long strides, eyes sweeping over you from head to toe then past you to the houses.

“You okay?”

You nodded too quickly and he stared at you, jaw locked so hard you could see the muscles twitching. He looked furious.

“Get in,” he said, opening the passenger door, one hand braced on the roof as he helped you climb up into the seat, taking your shoes to put them in the back seat.

You stayed silent, not wanting to know to whom his anger was directed at. It was only once you were down the street that he finally spoke again, eyes flicking between the road and you.

“Did anyone hurt you?”

You blinked at him. “No.”

“Touch you?”

“No.”

“Follow you?”

You shook your head, watching his knuckles tightening around the steering wheel.

“Say anything to you?”

“Just…offered me stuff,” you admitted quietly, wrapping your arms around yourself again. “But I said no. I would never do that. You know I would not.”

You weren’t sure why you felt the need to add that, why you wanted him to understand that you hadn’t been reckless. That hanging out with Craig didn’t mean being like him. That you wouldn’t caught yourself in drugs. You knew better.

The streetlight caught the side of his face and for a split second you saw something raw there before it slipped behind his mask of control. The silence continued to stretch, heavy.

“Are you angry at me?”

The truck slowed to a stop at a red light, allowing him to turn his head toward you fully, eyes dark and intense in a way that made your whole body pulse in response, not from fear but from the weight of being seen.

“I’m not angry at you,” he said, holding your gaze. “I’m angry you were there alone. Angry that my stupid brother left you. Angry that I wasn’t there sooner. But not at you.”

The light shifted to green, but he didn’t move right away. His eyes remained locked on yours, unblinking, making sure you understood the distinction.

“You call me,” he added quietly. “The second you have a problem, you always call me. Okay?”

You nodded, fingers twisting in the fabric of your dress. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

“You don’t.”

And there was something in the way he said it, like he was wounded at the idea you thought you might ever be an inconvenience to him, that made you blush.

The truck finally rolled forward, but the air between you felt different, heavier in a way that you’ll only be to shake off with a cold shower.

You watched the way his shoulders remained tense all the way to your home and understood then that he had come because he had been frightened, that the thought of you alone in the dark had unsettled something in him, and that he had needed to fix it.

And the scariest part was that something warm and traitorous inside your chest responded to that.

You liked that he had been scared.

You liked that he came in less than three hundred seconds.

That he didn’t even hesitate when you admitted you were frightened, he simply moved.

And you liked the way he refused to let you walk barefoot to your apartment, carrying you, as if the idea of your skin touching the cold pavement was something he would not allow.

He didn’t put you down immediately. No, he held you all the way from his truck to your doorway, one arm firm beneath your legs and the other steady at your back, your shoes dangling loosely from his fingers, your body tucked close enough to feel his breathing through his shirt, making you aware of how easily you fit there.

When he finally set you down at your threshold, his hands lingered at your waist a second longer than necessary.

“You’ll be good?” he asked quietly, handing you your shoes, your fingers brushing his in the exchange.

You nodded, incapable of trusting your own voice, because if you opened your mouth, you were fairly certain that something reckless would fall out, something dangerously close to ‘stay’ and you were overwhelmed enough by the urge to step over, to reach for him and press your forehead against his chest just to see if his heart was still beating as fast as yours.

He was still staring at you, something unspoken passing like electricity.

“Good night,” he whispered, the softness of it almost undoing you.

“Good night, Andrew.”

You closed your door slowly, pressing your back against it, listening to his boots on the pavement, realizing that he hadn’t moved until he heard the lock click.

Only then did he walk back to his truck.

You would maybe not murder Craig after all.

──────────

Andrew spends the entire day watching for the moment you are going to change your mind and run from him.

And you don’t act differently when you wake up: you drink coffee while humming along to the songs on the radio, trying to coax a laugh out of him, but he keeps waiting for it anyway: the flicker in your eyes that says you’ve seen too much of him now, that holding him while he sobbed was enough to scare you off for good.

He replays the night while you are in the shower. How he cried in your arms. How your fingers combed through his curls. How you held him pressed against your chest. How he let himself need you.

He wonders if he should apologize, or explain, or at least even just…acknowledge that you saw him at his weakest and that he was thankful it was you.

Instead, he washes the dishes twice in a row to calm his brain, avoiding looking directly at your body when you step back into the kitchen in your coffee shop uniform, hair damp.

(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the dents on his mug.)

You ask him if he is still taking you to the skatepark after your shift, and he wants to say no. The word sits right there on his tongue, ready to spill, because the park means proximity and proximity means touch and desire which always ends with something being taken away from him.

But you smile at him in such an open and easy way, and if it was something you really wanted to do, far be it from him to deny you after last night when you held him like he was something that could be saved, that was worth saving.

So, he nods and the way your whole face lights up makes him think, not for the first time, that he would probably give you anything you asked for.

That is the part of himself that scares him.

And now that he is finally at the skatepark with you on this late afternoon, he knows that he should be tracking your stance and foot placement the way he always does, but today he notices different things about you instead: how you are not pulling away from him, not avoiding him, how you stand close when you talk, lean into his space without hesitation.

And somehow that unsettles him more than distance would have. Because, if you are not afraid of him, if you are not stepping back after seeing what he is like during his worst nights, then what does that mean?

You sway on the board.

He sees it, but his brain is still half-caught in the memory of your heartbeat under his ear, still waiting for the recoil that doesn’t come and by the time his body reacts, you’re already too far from his reach.

You hit the concrete hands first, palms slamming down on instinct before your knees follow, the skin scraping on the ground with a sound that makes his stomach drop. The impact steals the air from your lungs and for a fraction of a second you manage to hold yourself up before your face strikes the ground with a sickening thud.

Andrew is already moving before you even understand what happened, the board rolling behind you while he drops to his knees so fast, he doesn’t register the sting tearing through his own skin, doesn’t feel the way his jeans split at the knee or how his knuckles scratch raw when he catches himself, because none of it matters to him. He is scanning, assessing and cataloguing the damage, forcing his mind to clear before he dares to touch you.

Your palms and knees are damaged through the torn denim, but it’s the blood beginning to run from your eyebrow that makes him feel abruptly cold. It gathers at the edge of your lashes and runs along the curve of your nose, bright red against your skin, and for a second, the world tilts.

(Blood. So much blood. He knows blood. Knows how to stop it. How to clean it. How to stitch it close. Pope is good with blood.)

The thought lands with cold precision, and even if he hates the name, even if it sounds wrong in his own head, he can’t afford to hate the part of himself that steps forward first right now - efficient Pope, steady Pope, the one who does not panic.

“I’ve got you,” he says, and his voice is low, measured, trying to reassure you the way you reassured him last night while he broke apart against your chest, even though his heart is hammering through his ribs.

Your eyes flutter, dazed, before you try to sit up, but he is already there, placing one hand at the back of your neck and the other on your shoulder to help you.

“It’s okay sweetheart, I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay,” he murmurs, and there is something almost pleading behind his words that has less to do with your eyebrow and more to do with the memory of the pool and your voice accusing him of being too late.

He swipes his thumb gently beneath the cut to assess its depth, his other hand moving to brace your jaw so you don’t move, and when fresh blood coats the pad of his finger, he feels the familiar switch inside him flips into place.

(His breathing slows. His hands stop shaking. This he understands. This he can control.)

“It’s not deep,” he says after his inspection, even though he knows you’ll need stitches. “You still with me?”

Your hand lifts and finds his wrist, fingers curling around it, and the contact sends something through him that is not adrenaline and not fear but softer that frightens him more because it makes him aware of how much he needs you to be okay.

“I’m fine,” you whisper, though your voice is small.

He shakes his head once, tearing a strip from the hem of his shirt. “Let’s get you home so I can clean this properly, okay? Keep pressure there,” he instructs, guiding your hand back to your eyebrow and pressing it into place.

You nod, and that’s enough for him.

He slides one arm behind your back, his broad palm spanning the length of your shoulder blades, the other slipping beneath your knees to lift you, ignoring the sting of his knees and the sticky blood drying across his knuckles because none of it is important compared to the steady rhythm of your breath brushing his collarbone.

He carries you toward the truck, opening the door and lowering you carefully into the passenger seat, one hand coming up to your jaw, his thumb resting lightly on your cheekbone to make sure your eyes focus on him.

“Stay with me,” he says softly.

Your lips twitch despite the pain. “Bossy.”

He goes to buckle your seatbelt, adjusting the strap and closing the door gently before circling the truck, wiping his bloody hand against his jeans.

While driving back to your apartment, his eyes keep darting to you every few seconds.

“Talk to me,” he says after a moment.

“About what?”

“Anything.”

You take a moment before starting to talk about your day at the coffee shop, just mindless little moments. He doesn’t interrupt, he listens and nods at the right moments. You are grounding him on purpose, he realizes, dragging his thoughts back to something ordinary, something alive.

(You are not in the pool. You are breathing. You are not telling him he failed you. He counts your breaths.)

Inside your place, he works methodically, like he always does when someone comes back from a job hurt and bleeding – controlled, shutting everything else out. He lays out all your medical supplies on your desk with a precise spacing: first gauze then antiseptic, needle, sewing thread…The order is important. Order means control.

 You sit on the edge of your bed, looking at him and continuing the pressure of the piece of his shirt against your eyebrow.

“Alright,” he says quietly, stepping between your knees so he can reach your face properly. “Hold still.”

He cleans your palms first, his concentration absolute because his entire world has narrowed down to the square inch of skin beneath his fingers.

“I should have caught you.”

“It’s not your fault, Andrew. Don’t punish yourself for it, okay? I’m fine, I promise I’m fine.”

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t trust himself to.

Instead, he goes silent and returns to the work in front of him, bandaging thoroughly your hands before taking off your pants and doing the same with your knees, making sure everything stays in place.

Finally, he allows himself to look fully at your face again, examining the cut on your eyebrow and tilting your chin upward with two fingers, feeling your breath ghosting on his lips in the small space between you.

“You’re going to need stitches,” he murmurs.

You study him for a second. “You’re very serious about this.”

“Yes.”

“I’m not dying, Andrew.”

“I know.”

“You look at me like I am.”

His jaw tightens and for a moment, he almost says it. Almost tells you that in his head, he’s already seen that version of you, floating and gone, but he swallows it back.

“Hold still,” he says instead.

He cleans the wound carefully by dabbing away the dried blood, and when you flinch, his free hand comes up automatically to steady the side of your head, thumb resting near your temple, not commenting on the way you lean into that touch.

The first puncture makes you inhale sharply.

“Breathe,” he says low, “Just breathe slow for me.”

You obey, focusing on him rather than the pull of the thread, your eyes locking on his face. He works carefully, tying each stitch with precision, trying not to falter at your gaze and even less at the reckless, intrusive thought about pressing his mouth to your brow to undo the wound.

When he finishes, he doesn’t move right away. He studies the line of the sutures, checks for tension, checks for bleeding or anything he might have missed before studying you.

“You’re okay,” he says, trying to convince himself.

You give him a small, tired smile. “I told you. I’m tougher than I look,” you say before your gaze drops, narrowing as you notice what he has been deliberately ignoring. “Andrew.”

“What?”

“You’re bleeding.”

He shrugs, dismissive, trying to pull his hand back so you can’t look too closely. “It’s nothing.”

“No, it’s not nothing,” you murmur, reaching for him before he can retreat, your fingers tracing carefully over his knuckles, making him go still. “You can’t patch me up and ignore yourself.”

He swallows, and before he can argue, you’re already reaching for the antiseptic with your bandaged hand, fumbling slightly. He catches the bottle before you drop it, his other hand covering your instinctively.

“You shouldn’t…”

“None of that,” you interrupt, and there is a flicker of stubbornness there that makes his mouth twitch despite himself.

You tug his hand toward you, and this time he lets you clean the scrape on his hands. He doesn’t look at the wound. He looks at you.

At the crease between your brows as you concentrate. At the way your lips press together. At the way you treat his injuries as if they matter. No one ever does.

Your fingers tie the bandage clumsily but securely, and when you finish, you don’t let go right away. Your thumb lingers, stroking slowly over the back of his hand. He is not sure how to breathe. The room feels so much smaller now. Quieter?

You lift your eyes up to him and whisper. “Can you stay? Just for a bit. So…we can check on each other.”

He could tell you it’s starting to get late and he was supposed to meet Deran and Craig for their next job. He could tell you he’ll call you tonight to see how you feel.

But there is nothing in him that wants to leave this room.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I can stay.”

He helps you shift properly onto the bed, careful of your knees. When you lie back against the pillows, you reach for him, fingers curling into the front of his shirt.

It takes him a second of hesitation before lying down beside you, stiff at first, but you roll toward him, your bandaged hands pressing against his chest as you settle close, your head finding the space beneath his chin.

He exhales through his nose before lifting his arms and resting them around you.

After a few minutes of silence, when he thinks you might already be drifting, you murmur. “I like it when you called me sweetheart.”

He presses his mouth lightly into your hair.

“Go to sleep now.”

You nod, your body going slack after a few minutes while he stays wide awake, his hands moving slowly along your spine.

“You scared me,” he whispers into the quiet, once he is sure you’re gone.

His fingers move to brush lightly just above the stitches of your brow.

“I can’t lose you,” he breathes, pressing his forehead gently against yours.

(He counts your breathing. One. Two. Three. Four. Not because he is afraid. But because he simply likes knowing the rhythm.)

When sleep finally comes at him, he knows there won’t be any nightmare.

Because you’re there.

──────────

You did not mean to end up alone with Deran.

In fact, if you were being completely honest with yourself, you had carefully avoided being alone with him since you met, not because he had been hostile to you, but because he seemed to have this unnerving habit of seeing through people and you were not a fan of subjecting yourself to that.

Craig had dragged you to the bar “just for a bit,” (which in Craig language meant ‘indefinitely’) before promptly disappearing with a girl, leaving you at the counter, nursing a soda because you had work in the morning.

Deran was wiping down the bar in front of you.

“El Craigo has already left?” he asked without looking up.

“’Flee’ would be a better word to describe what happened.”

“And so now you’re just…” he gestured vaguely toward you with the cloth, “…miserably contemplating on drowning yourself in your drink?”

“It’s a soda.”

“You know what? That’s so much sadder.”

You exhaled, dragging a hand over your face before saying, “Can I ask you something without you telling Craig?”

That caught his attention immediately, making him glance up.

“Depends how embarrassing it is.”

“It’s not embarrassing,” you protested automatically, then faltered. “Fine. It’s…a little embarrassing.”

“A little?”

“A lot,” you admitted.

He huffed once, almost amused, tossing the cloth over his shoulder. “Fine. What?”

You took a breath, suddenly aware of how absurd this was and how you were feeling like you were sixteen instead of twenty-nine. “It’s…” you cleared your throat. “It’s about Andrew.”

(Fuck. This was so deeply humiliating. But Craig was not an option. He would weaponize the information and never let you live it down.)

Deran blinked once before leaning his forearms on the counter, a smirk spreading on his lips. “Oh, I see.”

You groaned immediately. “Oh, please, can you not react like that? You’re making this worse.”

“I haven’t reacted! I’m just…not quite surprised about this discussion. Come on.” he waved a hand. “What’s your question?”

“It’s just…” you stopped. “I don’t know how to tell if he…”

(Oh my God. You had faced worst things than this. You could finish a sentence.)

Deran tilted his face slightly, with a shit-eating grin that you absolutely hated. “If he…what?”

“If he likes me,” you blurted out in one breath.

The silence fell for exactly two seconds before he let out a short, incredulous laugh.

“You’re fucking with me. Right?”

Your face burned instantly. “Okay, great. Never mind, I’m just gonna dig my gra-”

“Easy tiger. Don’t get your panties in a twist. He’s obsessed with you.”

You stopped, your stomach flipping violently.

“That’s not true.”

“It is deeply true,” Deran replied flatly. “He reorganized the shelves in the kitchen.”

You blinked. “Well…I thought he just liked order.”

“Oh yeah, he does. Trust me, he fucking does. But…not that much.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“Surely that doesn’t mean…”

“He drove across town at three in the morning to get you out of a party,” Deran continued, counting off on his fingers now. “He cancels family meetings to go to the skatepark with you. He did his ‘scary stare’ to me the last time I drank in your mug.”

Heat crept up your cheeks as you stammered, throat dry. “B-But he doesn’t…He doesn’t say anything.”

Deran snorted. “Yeah, that’s Andrew.”

“It’s just...sometimes I don’t even know what he’s thinking.”

“Neither do we,” he deadpanned. “Welcome to the family.”

You exhaled, frustration spilling over. “So, what am I supposed to do now?”

Deran considered you for a moment. “Just…let him try to go at his own pace here. He is not good at the whole…relationship thing.” he said, his voice stripped of its usual sarcasm before adding. “And for the record, the way you look at him? Not subtle. Like, at all.”

You nearly choked on your own spit. “I am subtle!”

“I mean, yes,” he conceded dryly. “You are subtle…for Andrew and Craig. So don’t be proud about it. That’s the lowest level of subtility possible.”

“I hate you, Deran.”

“Yeah?” he replied with an amused smile. “Well, get in line.”

There was a pause before he said quietly. “You’re good for him. Just…don’t screw it up. You’re in the tribe now. Which means I have to tell you this…”

You straightened slightly.

“…if you’re not sure about this, about yourself, you go now. Not in a few months. Not after he lets himself think this might be real. You don’t get to backpedal if it gets complicated. He wouldn’t recover from it.”

You shook your head immediately. “I swear, I won’t hurt him. He’s…he’s-”

You stopped, because the word felt too large to say aloud. But Deran looked at you intensely enough for you to finish.

“He’s important. To me. I don’t want to fix him, because I don’t think he’s broken. I like him the way he is. I...I think I wouldn’t recover from losing him too.”

Deran held your gaze for a long moment. “Alright.”

You tilted your head. “Alright?”

“Alright,” he repeated. “You pass.”

“Was-Was it an interview? Are you serious?”

“Yep. And congrats, you got the job.”

You rolled your eyes, but your chest felt lighter than it had in quite some time while Deran smiled, a real full grin, almost boyish, making it easier to see the younger brother under his usual cryptic attitude.

“I forgot what it was like,” he said after a beat.

“What?” you asked.

“Having a sister you can annoy.”

“That’s…extremely sweet of you.”

“Don’t ruin it,” he warned, pointing the towel at you. “I will absolutely deny this conversation ever happened if you mention it to my brothers.”

You laughed despite yourself, shaking your head.

Then, he leaned forward and whispered to you. “And if you hurt him, I’m stealing your car and slashing your tires.”

“O-Okay.”

He had a little smile before straightening up. “Welcome into the family.”

──────────

He has not told you.

No one has told you about the job.

Craig said it wasn’t necessary, that you would make a big deal out of it. Deran said it was cleaner that way, the less people know, the less risk and Andrew didn’t argue, telling himself it was better if you didn’t know the details, better if you didn’t have to sit there, waiting for them to come back and spiraling about what could be happening to them.

He told himself that ignorance would keep you safe.

The screen door slams and your voice, sharper than he has ever heard it is rising against Craig, who’s following you in the backyard like a kicked puppy.

Andrew doesn’t turn immediately from his spot, staring at the water of the pool. He closes his eyes, preparing himself for the loud noises.

(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the tiles of the pool.)

“You asked me to babysit Nick,” you’re saying, your voice shaking like you are about to start crying, “and you made it sound like it was for a date or something stupid! You didn’t say it was because you were going to fucking rob a jewelry store!”

“Jesus, lower your voice.”

“Lower my voice? How about you shut your mouth you liar!”

It isn’t only outrage in your voice, Andrew feels it. It’s fear. A raw, unfiltered fear for them. For him. And he doesn’t know what to do with that because no one has ever been afraid of losing him. When he went to prison years ago, his family moved on, sold his place and went on with their lives. For them, it was an inconvenience, for him, it was three years in Folsom.

Andrew turns then.

You’re standing a few feet from Craig, hands still bandaged, the thin line of stitches above your eyebrow visible, pointing a finger at Craig angrily while he tries to stay calm, running a hand through his hair.

“It’s not a big deal.”

“You’re breaking into a jewelry store, Craig. That’s not exactly Disneyland.”

“We’ve done jobs for years,” he snaps. “We’re good at it.”

Andrew watches the way your shoulders rise and fall too fast with your breath, the way your fingers flex like you’re resisting the urge to grab something and throw it at Craig.

“You know what happens if you get caught, right? You know what that would do to Nick?”

Craig’s jaw tightens. “We don’t get caught.”

You let out a bitter sound that is half a laugh, half a sob.

“Repeat this in the eyes of your brother, I fucking dare you. That’s not how life works, and you know it. You can get caught.”

Andrew feels the words hit him in the chest and rip something out of him. He doesn’t know when you learn about it. Doesn’t know who told you or the extent of your knowledge about those three years of fights and isolation.

If you know – truly know - why aren’t you running away? Why are you still here?

(He doesn’t understand. He can’t understand. It’s too much. It’s too little. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the cracks on the floor.)

“We’re not idiots, just trust us, okay?” Craig argues, rolling his eyes.

“You left me alone at a party in a house full of people doing coke,” you fire back, your finger jabbing hard against his chest. “You are the exact definition of an idiot, Craig.”

Craig winces. “We don’t have to do this right now, okay? I already told you I was sorry about it. Pope, back me up.”

Both of you turn toward him at once, the weight of the fight landing on his shoulders. He doesn’t move immediately. Doesn’t speak either. Andrew has never been good at splitting himself in two, at giving his opinion. He was raised to follow orders.

Craig gestures toward you. “She’s acting like we’re amateurs.”

You slap his arm, wincing, forgetting for a moment about your bandage. “Fuck.”

Andrew walks up to you, checking your hand while you keep repeating him. “I’m okay, Andrew. I promise.”

He lifts his eyes to yours, angling his head to catch them, and when your gaze finally locks with his, he holds it, stubborn and unblinking. Your eyes shine brighter tonight than they usually do, so he doesn’t give himself permission to look away.

(You’re about to cry. It’s his fault. It must be his fault. He should have been better. But the voices are too loud. He doesn’t like when it’s too loud. One. Two. Three. Four. He remembers your breaths when you sleep.)

“I just…I thought you all trusted me,” you say, your voice breaking halfway through, fighting back tears of frustration.

Craig’s shoulders drop while Andrew’s thumb strokes over the back of your hand, grounding himself.

“We do,” Craig says, less combative now. “That’s why I asked you to watch Nick.”

“That’s not making me feel like you trust me. It’s making me feel like I’m a convenience.”

The word hangs there, making Andrew feel like he failed something. He has never wanted you to feel like this. He wanted you to be protected.

His gaze doesn’t waver as he keeps your hand in his, stroking over the bandage.

Craig looks between the two of you, seeing the hand, the closeness and mutters, “Jesus, bro, this is the worst time,” under his breath.

“Okay,” he exhales finally, turning fully toward you. “I fucked up. Massively. About the party. About not telling you. About…probably a million other things. I didn’t mean for you to feel unsafe.”

You don’t look convinced.

“Trust me,” Craig adds quickly, throwing Andrew a sideways glance, “I got my ass kicked enough by Pope to regret this party for the rest of my life.”

Your lips twitch a little, trying to keep it contain.

“Now, if you could hand me back my brother, I would be very grateful because we have a job to do, and you have a kid to entertain,” Craig says, rolling his eyes and retreating inside the house.

Andrew doesn’t let go of your hand, refusing to blink and terrified of losing a moment of you. He has the irrational feeling that if he does, something will waver on your face, the moment when you realize what this life looks like and he won’t be able to see his failure in time.

 “We’ve planned it,” he murmurs finally.

You hold his gaze. “And if something goes wrong?”

He doesn’t answer right away because he knows the answer to this, and he is certain you don’t want to hear it.

(If something goes wrong, he goes down first. He makes sure Deran and Craig are safe. He doesn’t come home because he won’t ever go back to prison. He prefers to die trying to escape than go back in a cell. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts your eyelashes.)

You are still waiting, searching his face.

“Then I handle it,” he says quietly.

You shake your head, your jaw working as if you’re trying to physically hold yourself together. “Promise me to come back safe.”

His hand lifts before he can stop himself to settle against the side of your face, his thumb resting just beneath your eye, making you go very still, waiting for what he will do next.

His thumb caresses your cheekbone once, just enough to fill his mind with the memory of your skin.

“I won’t let anything happen to me,” he whispers, and he doesn’t know if it’s meant as a vow or a lie he’s trying to force into becoming true. “I promise,” and before he allows himself to overthink it, he presses a careful kiss to your forehead, his lips brushing just above the line of stitches.

He can hear you catch your breath and it makes him pull back, his lips tingling at the contact. He knows it now: if he stays longer, if he lets himself feel the warmth of you, he might not leave at all.

He memorizes the sight of you like this: looking like losing him would break you and it does something unfamiliar to his chest. No one has ever been scared at the thought of him disappearing. No one has ever demanded that he come back.

He turns quickly, putting distance between the two of you before he changes his mind, the promise he made echoing in his head.

He hears it when Deran cuts the alarms. Promise me to come back safe. When he cuts through the back entrance. Promise me. And when Craig tries to improvise. Promise. He is not one to do reckless things but tonight, he is particularly unyielding each time the job almost goes sideways.

He knows you are in the house with Nick, probably pacing the kitchen and waiting to see the outcome of his word. So, when he finally reaches the main display room, he is quick to reach for the highest value pieces that will be cut down and reshaped. No traces or evidence will be left, they have done this long enough to know how to make everything disappear completely.

Andrew’s hand hovers for half a second over a particular velvet cushion before picking up the thin gold chain, a small heart-shaped pendant set in the center. It’s delicate and quiet, reminding him how it feels to bask in your light. He turns it between his fingers once, twice, imagining it resting just below the hollow of your throat, his thumb brushing over it absentmindedly while you are both sitting on the couch and watching a documentary.

He slips it securely into the inner pocket of his jacket, pressing it flat against his chest for a brief second before stepping back into motion and leaving with his brothers without any alarms or police sirens cutting through the night.

And when they get at the warehouse to stash the duffel bags, Andrew doesn’t stay like he usually would to make sure about getting his fair cut of the job. He nods once, quiet, ignoring their snickers and comments about him being ‘down bad’ all the way to his truck.

The house is dim when he enters, a soft glow coming from Craig’s bedroom and before he sees you, he hears your voice. It’s so soft.

“And baby whale swam all the way across the ocean to find mama whale,” you murmur.

He quietly walks up to the threshold to see you sitting on the bed with Nick lying, his eyes dropping with sleep, his thumb in his mouth and clutching to his monkey plushie. You slowly close the illustrated book before pressing a kiss onto the his hair and something expands in Andrew’s.

(You would be good at this. At building something steady. He can picture you pregnant, swelling with a child. His curls and your smile on a being that would never know the kind of hurt he had to go through.)

You stand up from the bed and see him, the relief crossing your face so achingly tender it nearly knocks the breath from his lungs.

“Andrew.”

He nods once, trying to convey his feelings, “I came back.”

You smile, closing the bedroom door behind you and stepping close to him, scanning for injuries the way he did for you at the skatepark. He lifts his hands, showing you his palms.

“I’m fine. I promised you I would.”

Your shoulders drop in a way that tells him you’ve been holding yourself rigid for hours, managing a barely audible, “Thank God.”

His lips tilt upward before reaching into his jacket’s pocket, “Turn around,” before adding a quiet, “Please.”

“Bossy,” you reply, amused, before turning your back to him.

He closes the one last step between you, pulling out the necklace from his pocket, careful not to let his hands shake as he lifts your hair to expose the back on your neck. He fastens the chain, the clasp clicking softly into place and for a second he doesn’t step away, the pad of his thumb grazing at the nape of your neck.

“Andrew,” you whisper, turning back toward him, your fingers lifting to trace it. “It’s…It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

He keeps staring at the pendant who rests exactly where he imagined it would be, then at your mouth before quickly going back to your eyes. You are close enough that he can feel your breath on his face, the world narrowing to the space between you.

He wants to close the distance, to press his mouth to yours.

Instead, he rests his forehead gently against yours, grounding himself with your scent, refusing to close his eyes.

“You should sleep,” he murmurs.

You smile softly and suddenly, Andrew wonders how he can extract a memory and preserve it forever in resin.

Because this moment feels like the dawn of his existence.

──────────

When Andrew was seven years old, the house was already too loud.

Somewhere down the hall a door slammed hard enough to be heard from the bedroom he shared with Julia, who was sitting on the floor with a deck of cards spread between them while he lined them into exact rows instead of playing War.

He liked the rows and the symmetry of it. It calmed him each time the edges were precisely following the pattern of the carpet. With this, he didn’t need to count.

In the backyard, someone shouted about money, making the twins flinch in fear. Julia reached for his hand, and they sat like that for a long time: her fingers curled tightly around his, his eyes fixed on the the cards. (Hearts. Diamonds. Clubs. Spades. Everything will be all right.)

Smurf emerged in the doorway with her bright smile, eight months pregnant with their little brother, tilting her head, “My baby is a strange one,” she whispers to his new stepfather, “But useful.”

Andrew heard it. He didn’t know what strange meant exactly, but he knew it was something you said when you didn’t want to say wrong.

At school, boys kept snatching his skateboard, tossing it across the asphalt because he rode the same loop over and over during recess, memorizing how many pushes it took to reach the fence.

(Fourteen. Fourteen every time. An even number. He liked them. That’s why he always counted till four.)

The first time a boy shoved him and called him a freak, Andrew didn’t respond. Just took back the board and kept doing his loops. The second time, when the board got kicked away and Julia was not there to held his hand, Andrew swung without warning. He couldn’t remember deciding to, just the sound of the impact and how the noise inside him went blissfully silent.

After that, teachers called him difficult, the kids stopped approaching him and Smurf congratulated him with a kiss on his mouth.

At night, when Julia was asleep beside him, Andrew kept staring at the ceiling, wondering something he couldn’t say out loud to his mother or his sister: would anyone ever see that he was trying? Trying to keep himself together so he didn’t explode? Trying to be good? Trying to stop the noises in his head?

-

When you were seven years old, the house smelled like warm cookies.

You were sitting on the couch, your small arms cradling your cousin, afraid to drop her. You didn’t know how to act with a baby. Your parents had sat you down a few months ago at the kitchen table and told you that you were their little miracle, that Santa sometimes forgot things and that maybe it would always just be the three of you – which sounded a little sad until your father had squeezed your hand and told you that three was already perfect.

But it was alright, because now, you had your cousin’s fingers clutching onto your hair, “She’s holding me!” you squealed, delighted and in awe because here, in this house, you were allowed to be amazed and to grow at your own pace.

The day you scraped your knee on the sidewalk, trying to teach yourself how to roller skate, you cried for less than a minute before your mother knelt in front of you, cleaning the wound and kissing the sting away. “You’re gonna be okay,” she said, and you believed her.

At school, you had a best friend who whispered to you how babies were made, and that made you giggle all day, the teacher shaking his head and calling you incorrigible, even though you had no idea what that meant and decided it must be something wonderful if it made you laugh that hard.

And the day you asked what you could be when you grew up, no one laughed. “You can be anything my little monkey,” your father had told you, and you thought about it for the whole day. Because anything was a lot for your brain: a teacher, a vet, a marine biologist. You always circled back to the same answer: something to help people.

And at night, as you looked at your glow-in-the-dark stars on your ceiling, you wondered about other things: would someone look at you the way your father looked at your mother when she was singing in the kitchen, with that love that said I am home?

──────────

Deran’s bar is louder than usual tonight, crowded by sports fans watching a game between Los Angeles and Atlanta. Craig has tried to tell him why it was so important to win at least five times since their arrival, but Andrew’s attention remains elsewhere entirely, watching you from across the room the way he has been watching you for four months now: trying to read something in your posture or in the tilt of your head that could give him an answer.

Because the truth is…he doesn’t know what you are after last night and if what happened in the hallway, or every night you’ve spent wrapped together, mean the same thing to you that they mean to him. He wants to ask, to spill the question out before it eats him alive: what are we?

Andrew hates not knowing. On a job, he knows every camera, every blind spot, every possible way things can go wrong but with you, there’s no map. And he hates that he can’t predict your next move.

You are standing at the bar, ordering a drink, your back half-turned to him and wearing a dress that shouldn’t be allowed to exist in public. It makes his pants grow tighter and has him readjusting on the stool, trying to pretend he isn’t affected while his brother sits three feet away and would never let him live it down if he knew.

And he knows he shouldn’t be staring, but you keep touching absentmindedly the necklace, your fingers tracing the pendant as it moves with your breathing, and before he can stop himself, he’s counting it.

(One. Two. Three. Four.)

You had said thank you last night in a way that felt like you meant something more, had let him secure the necklace around your neck and had met his eyes when you called it beautiful as if you were promising you would always wear it.

Always.

(Oh, how he doesn’t trust that word. Doesn’t trust anything that implies staying. He knows better. He should know better.)

And yet, there you are, wearing it for everyone to see, which does nothing to steady his accelerated pulse, and leaning across the counter to collect your cocktail from Deran. The movement doesn’t reveal much more of your skin, but it still sets ablaze Andrew’s brain, his lips going dry as he tries to resist the urge to walk up to you and beg for you to tell him that he isn’t the only one picturing rings, and a cradle in a quiet house and your head on his chest until he is old and grey.

“You’re not being subtle, you know that?” Craig says, cutting through the haze of his thoughts.

“Don’t start.”

Craig raises his hands innocently. “Jesus, relax.” He immediately reaches for the bowl of peanuts on the table, and Andrew feels his jaw tighten at the thought of how many unwashed hands have touched that bowl already. “Seriously, what’s wrong with you tonight?”

What’s wrong is that he just stole diamonds worth more than all of the jobs he did last year and it doesn’t compete to the way you look with the chain resting against your collarbone.

What’s wrong is that he would give back every dollar from last night if it meant waking up beside you for the next fifty years.

What’s wrong is that he is one second away from walking across that bar and lowering himself at your feet for your hands to baptize him clean, as if loving you were the only absolution worth asking for because whatever heaven exists for a man like him begins and ends with you.

And what’s wrong right now is that a man slides into the empty space beside you, leaning too close and touching your arm to get your attention. You turn toward him politely, your lips curving into the small smile you once called your ‘customer smile’.  You had explained it to his brothers and him: that you always kept the worst-case scenario in the back of your mind and that a smile felt safer than a hard no since it could mean the difference between walking away or not.

(Andrew doesn’t know the names or the faces of those who made you feel like that but he wants to find them. He wants to press them on the ground and feel their pulse panic under his thumbs. He wants them to understand what fear tastes like when it turns metallic into the mouth. He wants the air stolen from their lungs the way it must have been stolen from yours when you felt scared. He no longer wants to count. He wants to hurt. To see this man’s blood on the bar.)

Andrew starts walking towards you before he even formulates the thought, shoulders squared, already calculating how much force it would require to grab the stranger by the collar and steer him outside of the bar.

His vision narrows as he sees the stranger laughing, his hand lifting to linger near your elbow as if he was testing whether he can push for more and that makes Andrew’s vision blur at the edges. He is three steps away. Two.

Your eyes find his instantly, and something shifts in your expression. Your hand leaves the cocktail and you smile at him. It’s not the customer smile. No, it’s the real one that unravels him each time.

“Hey, honey,” you say brightly as your arm wraps around his neck and you press a kiss to his cheek, your hand traveling down his side before sliding into the back pocket of his pants, settling against him.

Andrew is almost sure he died at some point on the way there because he is pressed against you and now, he is no longer Andrew or Pope. For a brief moment, he gets to just be honey, and the word makes him happier than any name ever has.

The stranger glances between you. “Oh. I didn’t realize…”

“My boyfriend,” you cut him off with a smile, looking up at Andrew’s face.

His eyes were already on yours, searching for the smallest flicker of fear. Because if the man has dared put some in them, Andrew would dig an unmarked grave without blinking. When he finds none, his hand comes to your waist, his thumb strolling along your hip as he dips his head and presses his mouth above the faint line of stitches on your forehead.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmurs, low enough that the word belongs only to you.

He feels your breath hitch against his skin before turning to the man and saying lightly. “No worries, he always gets a little intense about men crowding me,” you tilt your head, thoughtful. “Not sure if it’s the boxing or the prison time. But don’t mind him…he almost doesn’t bite.”

The stranger’s smile falters just enough to satisfy something dark in Andrew’s chest. “Oh, um…yeah. Sorry man, I didn’t know she was taken.”

Andrew doesn’t raise his voice or move, he just stands there with your hand in his pocket, letting the silence stretch until it feels suffocating. “She is.”

“Right. I’ll go back to…the match.”

Andrew doesn’t blink and keeps track of the man’s back until he is laughing again at his friends’ table like nothing happened and only then does he let his focus shift back to you. You, who’s still close and warm, holding onto him like you have no intention of letting go.

His hand remains at your waist as he turns toward you, the movement bringing your faces close enough that your noses almost brush and your breaths mix between you. He lowers his head slightly, almost enough to kiss you.

“You okay?” he murmurs while his thumb keeps its slow movement on your hip.

You nod, your mouth curving up in that smile he loves. The real one. The one that you have at the skatepark each time you manage to stay upright a little longer than the day before: proud, bright and stubbornly pleased of yourself. And he can’t help but think about those lips and the way they said ‘honey’.

(He wants to hear it again. Wants to hear it softly. Wants to hear it moaned in the dark and against his mouth. He wants to kiss them every day for the rest of his life. To learn them. To know how they would part as he pounds into you. Stop. He has to stop.)

He blinks twice, grounding himself in the feel of your waist.

“Andrew. I’m good, I promise,” you murmur, sliding your hand out of his pocket and lace your fingers with his instead, interlocking them. “Let’s get out of here, please. It’s too loud.”

He doesn’t say it out loud, but relief settles at your suggestion. The bar feels too loud, too crowded and the idea of how many unwashed hands like Craig’s have been over the counters keeps coming back at him. So, when you tug gently at his hand and turn toward the door, he follows without hesitation, grateful that you were the one saying it.

The door swings shut behind you and the noise from the bar dulls instantly, reduced to a muted thud. The air is cooler than inside, smelling like the salt of the ocean mixed with your shampoo and he doesn’t understand how he gets to still have your hand in his and your thumb moving across his knuckles.

It’s only when you stop beside the truck and turn toward him that his eyes drop to the thin gold chain resting around your neck. His free hand lifts carefully to brush the chain first, following it down until the pad of his thumb rests over the pendant itself, flattening it against your skin.

“Still got it on,” he murmurs, tracing the outline of the pendant.

(He imagines doing this, years from now. In the kitchen. In bed. In the shower. Adjusting it before you leave the house. Brushing it aside before he kisses the curve of your throat. Seeing it against your skin when you are carrying his child.)

“Looks better on you than it did in the store,” he adds.

Your fingers slide slowly between his, guiding his hand so it settles flat over your heartbeat. He can feel it beating loud and fast under his palm, matching his own.

You tilt your face enough to find his eyes back. “Thank you for what happened in there, Andrew. You were good.”

His eyes slip shut for half a second because he doesn’t trust himself to survive the way you are looking at him, smiling at him with such warmth he shivers of pleasure.

(Good. You think he is good. If that’s what you want, he can be good. He can kneel. He can find how to rebuild himself from the bones if it means you keep calling him good.)

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” he says under his breath.

“Why?”

“Because I’d do anything if you asked.”

Your fingers start to caress the back of his hand. “Anything?”

He nods, his gaze unwaveringly focused on your eyes. “If you told me to walk away from the jobs, I would.”

Your hand pauses against his.

“Andrew…” you murmur, but there’s no panic in it, no immediate rejection. “You know why I wanted to reject him, right?”

He doesn’t answer, too scared of startling the moment with another word.

“You know why I’d reject any other guy in that bar and why I wanted him to know?”

“Know what?”

“That I’m not available.”

“You’re not?” he asks, as his mind races.

“I don’t know,” you say softly. “Are you?”

The question hangs there, in the small space between your bodies, his mind fumbling with a thousand overlapping questions.

(Are you with him? Calling him yours? Defining what this was? Finally answering the question that has been rattling his brain for weeks?)

“Are you available Andrew?” you repeat gently, your hand lifting up to cup his face.

He exhales slowly, trying not to whimper at the contact, shaking his head.

You lean closer, your nose brushing his and your voice dropping lower. “No?”

“No.”

Your thumb traces patterns along his cheekbone and it takes him a few moments to realize that you were mapping his freckles. “How long?” you whisper.

He feels too weak to reply, overwhelmed by the tenderness of your touch. If his heart had not been already yours, he would lay it at your feet right there, so long as you promise to treat him with this gentleness and care for the rest of his life.

“Before the party? When I called you to help me?” he nods. “Before our night on the couch?” another nod. “Before our first skateboard le-?”

 “When we met. And you brought pastries,” he replies, on the verge of a sob, shameful to confess that he keeps thinking about you on top of him, under him, any way you want it as long as he could disappear into your light and be drown whole by your grace to wipe out every horror he has ever seen or done for the sake of others.

“Andrew. Honey. Please, look at me.”

He keeps his gaze darted to the ground, like looking anywhere but you might prevent him from saying anything more revealing about the depth of his feelings, before his eyes close on their own instinctively, only realizing a heartbeat later that it’s because your lips found his.

And for the first time in Andrew’s life, that deep pit of misery in his heart goes completely silent, frozen for a flash before kissing you back.

Your lips are warm and a little reckless, tasting like mint and something entirely yours that he knows he will crave for the rest of his life. Your fingers thread into his curls, pulling a groan he can’t control out of him. He moves closer without thinking, his hand sliding along your waist until your back meets the metal of the truck door.

The second he registers the force of it, he pulls back just enough to search your face, to scan for any sign that he has gone too far, but the pause barely lasts a breath before your fingers tighten in his hair, guiding him back down as your body arched into his, slipping his tongue past your parted lips.

You are an oasis and he is nothing but a thirsty man wandering in the dark who gets to finally know what it’s like to drink every drop of it. You taste dizzy and intoxicating and he knows that he has been feeding on scraps of affection all his life and now…now he understands what it means to be full.

He is about to tell you how much sweeter you taste than in his fantasies before you bite down on his lower lip, drawing another sound of his throat.

You tilt your head, your arms wrapping fully around his neck as his drop to your hips, steady and sure, to raise you higher against the door, a gasp spilling out of you that he swallows eagerly and your dress hiking up as your legs wrap around him, denying any space between your bodies.

He feels you pull away for air by an inch or two, making him whine at the loss of contact, but he quickly recovers as he sees the flushed smile on your kiss-swollen lips. “Show off.”

“Yeah?” he asks while one of his arms tightens under you, anchoring your body to the door while the other frees itself to trail up your body and adding a smug, “Yeah,” skimming your inner thigh and marveling at how many sounds he can coax out of you, wondering how much more he’d pull if he could trace his thumb along your heat. But instead, he cups again your cheek, tracing slowly the bow of your lips.

“Dimples,” you murmur.

“What?”

“Dimples, Andrew,” you repeat, delighted, like you’ve just discovered something rare. “I didn’t know you had them.”

(Oh. Of course. You can see them because he is smiling. For real. A real one. Not the tight, guarded version. Not the twitchy one. A full unguarded smile. When was the last time he did that?)

“I do,” he says, trying and failing to smooth it away. “So do you.”

Your eyebrows lift. “I do not.”

“You do,” he insists quietly, shifting his hold slightly to keep his arm secure around you, his thumb pressing gently at the corner of your mouth. “Right there…”

Inside the bar, the crowd erupts in a wave of shouting, making you glance at the door before erupting in laughter, eyes wide.

“Oh, fuck,” you whisper, incapable of stopping your giggles. “I forgot.”

Andrew exhales through his nose, trying to calm the blood pumping hard all the way down his length. He knows that you’ve been feeling him against you the whole time, your hips still rubbing together, and for once in his life, he doesn’t want to excuse himself or feel ashamed of his desires, of how much he wants. He has spent too many nights thinking about how you’d taste, how you’d moan. Too many cold showers to try get rid of his hard-on whenever he was picturing you.

“Maybe…” you murmur against his mouth, pecking soft kisses along his jaw. “Maybe we should relocate.”

He looks at you, at the way your lips are still swollen and glistening from kissing, at your panting and the tremors of your legs.

He nods, lowering you carefully back onto your feet, his hands still trailing along your sides to still have some ways of being connected to you before reaching for the door handle of the passenger seat and helping you in.

He feels, walking around to the driver’s side, that he is still smiling. Dimples and all.

──────────

“Maybe…” you sigh, struggling to keep your composure and pressing kisses along the freckles dusting his jaw. “Maybe we should relocate.”

The intensity of his eyes on you, trailing along your body and taking in your rampant arousal, feels like he is on the verge of taking you against the door. You are pretty sure that if he’d ask you for permission, you’d grant it promptly. You want him. You want to know how long it would take for his unwavering hazel eyes to become pleading wet just by your lips telling how good he is to you.

But he just nods, jaw tight before lowering you carefully back onto your feet, making you bite down a protest at the loss of contact, like even the air feels like too much distance, until you feel his fingertips dragging over your waist.

He opens the door for you and not so long ago, you would have described his current behavior as controlled and cold, but now that you know him…you recognize a man who’s trying to contain himself, like a wild animal finally freed.

(Devour. You want him to devour you. To ruin you. Four months of trying – miserably – to have a date with him and it took only a gross man and a ‘honey’ to get him to kiss you like that and tell you he would quit everything?  Fuck. Focus.)

He starts the engine, snapping you out of your thoughts, before pulling out of the parking lot, still smiling. You stare at his profile: the line of his jaw that has now faint traces of your lipstick, the way his tongue briefly drags across his lower lips like he can still taste you and his hand on the gear shift that slowly drifts to your thigh.

Your breath stutters the moment his palm settles just above your knee, the pads of his fingers tracing patterns over it while he keeps his eyes on the road. That definitely doesn’t help your craving for more.

(How much can be a fine for having sex in a car anyway? Andrew has money. Plenty from what you understand so…that would just be a drop in a bucket, right?)

You slide your fingers over his, intertwining them on your lap and stilling his slow, absent movements. He glances at you immediately, probably to understand why you stopped him. But the look you give him is enough to answer his question.

His eyes trail your face a fraction too long before looking back to the road, purposefully, the streetlights passing by a little faster.

“We’ll be there in five,” he declares without looking at you.

“Andrew, it’s at least ten minutes away,” you say, with a barely contained smile.

“Five.”

“I’m timing you, you know,” you smirked, pointing at the car clock.

The truck moves through an intersection just as the light turns yellow - once, then again at the next block – while Andrew doesn’t do so much as blink.

“See?” he says, the hint of a smug smile on his face when the car finally parks home.

You check the dashboard clock. Four minutes.

You shake your head, laughing as you both unbuckle your seatbelts. “Show off.”

Of course, you should know better now, he is not a man to stop there. So, when he opens the door for you before you even reach for the handle, and offers his hand, you should see it coming.

He helps you down carefully and for half a breath you think that maybe this time he’s not going to do it. No, you definitely should know better cause the moment your feet hit the ground, his arm slides behind your knees, sweeping you off while the other moves behind your back.

A breathless gasp escapes your mouth. “Andrew!”

(God you are so fucking gone for him. Is this what it would feel like? Crossing a threshold with him as a young bride? Completely besotted in a white dress? No. Not would. Will.)

He shuts the door with his hip, adjusting you against his chest as your arms loop around his neck automatically, your body relishing his touch as the thought slips out before you can stop it: “I feel like your bride right now.”

His steps slow on his way to the door, just enough for you to notice and wonder if you should just tell him to brush off your stupid words. That you are just drunk (you barely had the time to drink a sip of your cocktail earlier) and tired (you just spent two nights in a row sleeping like a baby in his arms).

The garage light flickers as he reaches the front door. “You are.”

He carries you inside like he’s done it in a million other lifetimes while you are still gaping, mouth wide open at his words. You shake your head a bit wobbly before moving your hand from the nape of his neck to the place on his cheek where you know a dimple is hiding.

“Careful,” you murmur, smiling softly. “Keep talking like that and I might start looking for a dress rea-”

Your words are being cut off by his mouth, kissing you like he is trying to drown in the sensation, tilting his head to fit you better, to take more of you, and you can’t stop the moan passing your lips. It feels like stepping into the fire and realizing you don’t ever want to be pulled out.

Your feet carefully find back the ground as his hands slide along your backbone, fingers spreading between your shoulder blades. His lips part yours with the same confidence he has when he catches you at the skatepark. You feel him everywhere and you still want more.

(Is it ever going to stop? This feeling? This whole tremor that dances under your skin every time he touches you? Every time he kisses you like he means forever?)

He pulls away just enough, heavy breath mingling with yours, hazel eyes half-lidded in pleasure and his nose brushing yours softly with your foreheads pressed together, “We can just kiss. If that’s what you want. I don’t need more. Just you,” he murmured in a broken voice.

The words settle deep in your chest, heavy and large as if they have roots. It makes you want to answer him with your mouth, to kiss him until his doubts leave his bones entirely. You bring your fingers to the bow of his lips and he kisses them gently, one after the other, the softness of it making you tremble.

“Andrew,” you say quietly, smiling despite your racing pulse. “Take me to bed.”

He regards you for a long moment, his eyes moving slowly over your face as though he is searching for hesitation and when he finds none, a smile begins at the corner of his mouth, enough to carve that rare, gorgeous dimple into his cheek. “Bossy,” he smirks before lifting you back by the waist so your legs can wrap up around his waist, walking around the house guided only by his memory since his lips are too busy coaxing moans out of you.

You are almost blacking out from the lack of oxygen when the kiss suddenly breaks. In the soft lighting of his bedroom, you distinguish most of his expression: lustful and bewildered that this is finally happening.

“I want to taste you. Please,” he breaths and you nod, not trusting yourself to reply.

The look that passes through his hazel eyes is hazy, fingers finding the hem of your dress and carefully pulling it up.

“Don’t want to mess it,” he says, folding it neatly on his chair. “You look pretty in that.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, trying not to feel too self-conscious about being only in your underwear, braless as he kneels down to the floor, still fully clothed and face a few inches lower than yours, prying your legs apart.

“Andrew,”

He doesn’t respond, pressing his lips to the inner corner of your thigh and moving further up between your legs.

“You don’t have to Andrew.”

He only lifts his gaze up to yours, unwavering as he continues his kisses, “You don’t want it?”

“I…I’m not saying that. I just…I don’t want you to feel obligated to it. I know it’s not…what men like the most,” you gasp, your hand finding his curls and twisting them around your fingers, making him grunt.

“It’s what I want to do the most, right now,” he says with a sinful gaze. “Can I?”

“Yes. Okay. Sure,” you choke, closing your eyes and lying down as he continues his torturous path, his hands slowly tugging the last piece between him and your pussy.

You don’t think you have ever been this wet with a man. Or a woman. Or anyone at all. Normally, you feel a bit uncomfortable with men going down on you cause they never seem to know what they are doing or are too impatient of having ‘real sex’ to let you finish. But here with Andrew, you are nothing but pleasure, his lips fiddling with you like you are an instrument that he is tuning to his own harmony.

You gasp as his tongue finally probes your folds stopping just underneath your clit, earning from him a low whimper.

“You taste delicious,” he goes, coming up for air by an inch. “Just like how I dreamt,” he adds, making you feel close to delirious.

He lowers his face again, tongue working its way up your pussy again, finally reaching for your clit and rolling over it, making you shudder and writhe on the bed, incapable of keeping your moans down and your hands running through his scalp.

“Andrew, please. Just like that. It’s perfect,” you praise him, feeling how it makes him pick up the pace.

Your last straw is the sight of his face between your legs, eyes burning with nothing but want, his hands used to stealing and hurting now holding onto your legs to keep them open and making you come with a hoarse cry. If there’s a heaven on Earth, you know now that it must only exist in this man. In his hands, his chest, his mouth, his eyes. He is nothing but your sanctuary, your promised land and your altar.

When your orgasm subsides, you feel Andrew crawling over you and pressing his lips against you, making you taste yourself on his mouth as you slip your tongue in it. The small noise of pleasure from the back of his throat is the most delicious sound you’ve ever heard.

“You,” you breathe against him, your lips brushing his, pupils probably wide. “I want you. Like right now. So please…take off those clothes. I love them. Really. But take them off.”

His lips twitches again to the side, “Anything.” as he starts to undress, folding them before going above you, his hard cock pressing against your heat.

His eyes keep searching your face, looking for an ounce of backtrack in your eyes before slowly entering you. That’s when you realize how grateful you are for the previous climax because in any other situation, you would have probably wince at his thickness. Thankfully, he seems to catch on with it - probably due to his gaze not leaving your face and refusing to blink – and takes his time to be fully inside you.

For a couple of minutes, the two of you don’t move, give you the time to marvel at how good he feels inside of you. You know now that you’ll have other days and nights to ask him to stay like this for hours, just to be one.

Andrew presses his forehead against yours, lips brushing yours as he whispers. “I love you.”

The word hums through your body. Love. Love. Love. Andrew loves someone and it’s you. From your scalp to your toes, you can feel it resonating through you. Love. Love. Love.

“I love you, Andrew. My Andrew,” you murmur happily, moving a drenched curl from his forehead. “So good to me.”

His face ends up in your neck, trying to cover his reaction to your words. “You really think I’m good?”

“Of course you are. Look at me, honey,” you say, holding onto his chin to bring back his face close to yours as your legs wrap around his waist. “You are good. You are kind. You keep making me feel safe. And…I’m so lucky to have you,” you add, rolling your hips and making him shiver.

You drink in the sight of him: his sweaty hair sticking to his head, curls messy from where your fingers had run through, the freckles dusting his chest and the traces of old wounds that you’ll ask about one day. But the most important of all is the way he is looking at you – as if he loves you. Because he does. He said it. I love you. I love you. I love you.

You keep whispering sweet nothings into his ear, just to see the flush spreading on his cheeks, his ears, his chest and encouraging his thrusts to go harder, deeper. Soon enough, you are quivering around him, your nails digging in his skin as you bite on his lower lip in retaliation for making you wait so long for this moment.

He lets out a desperate moan. “I won’t…last long. ‘m sorry. You feel so…”

“It’s okay,” you encourage him. “I want you to come.”

He slams his cock one more time and goes. “Wh-Where?”

“In me,” you beg, and you know you have hit the right nerve from the way his whole body trembles.

“Really?” he breathes.

“Please.”

The sight of his body, eyes fighting to not shut tight from the pleasure, mouth pursuing yours, mixed with how good he is making you feel, is too much. Your back arches as you reach your second climax tonight, quickly followed by Andrew, clinging to you as his warm load fills you up. Both of you are gasping for one another, time almost freezing as your eyes are sharing the same thought. I love you. I love you. I love you.

After a couple of minutes, Andrew slips out of you and lays most of his body against your side, putting his head above your breasts, on your heartbeat, intertwining your hands together.

“Tomorrow,” he says.

You brush a kiss on top of his head. “What?”

“Tomorrow, we’re picking out your dress.”

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[love-quinn]

— FOUND OUT.

summary — as his favourite waitress at the only diner in town that’ll still serve him, you’re pope’s girl. doesn’t matter if you have a boyfriend, everybody in town knows you belong to andrew cody. especially your poor neighbours on the other side of your apartment’s paper thin wall. you’d usually try and be more considerate of the noise, but with your boyfriend in the trunk of his car, pope needs everybody to hear exactly what he was doing on the night of the third. for alibi purposes.

warnings — implied age gap (you're late 20s, i believe pope is at least late 30s but that's not even really mentioned at all), mentions of armed robbery, aggravated assault, etc all the stuff they do in the show, i switch between calling him pope and andrew, reader exclusively refers to him as andrew, this isn't a slow burn but the first half is build up, reader’s boyfriend is verbally, financially and physically abusive (physical isn’t shown graphically), smurf cody, slut shaming, pope gets stabbed (also not graphic), kidnapping, murder (and like lowkey torture? he’s trying to make him feel the most pain while he dies),

18+ mdni mild exhibitionism (they want the neighbours to hear), dry humping, pope almost cums in his pants lol, mentions of m!masturbation, fingering, spitting, unprotected piv (bad), sliiiight sub!pope i think? breeding kink if u squint

word count — 11.2k

note — okay listen. i've never written for pope, i've also never written smut before. i had this stupid idea and i texted two of my friends about it and they hyped me up and now i'm here. if this sucks, that's on them, alright. i sat down to write this and figured it would be like 2/3k at most, and suddenly it had been a week and this is by far the longest single chapter fic i've ever written. i have never written smut and it is honestly much harder than it looks, the things i do for shawn hatosy </3

Pope had been waiting almost forty-five minutes.

A long wait wasn’t rare at Doc’s—the service wasn’t why he came after leaving Smurf’s. The diner, wedged by the overpass, sat forty minutes from his house without traffic. Pope didn’t care for the service, the sticky tables, the flickering lights, or even the food. The eggs were too wet, the bacon too dry, the coffee bitter. The sandwiches were both soggy and stale.

Sometimes they had pie, and that was something. Not forty-minutes-out-of-your-way something. But something.

No, there was one reason that Pope found himself in the corner booth at least twice a week, and she was currently being yelled at in the kitchen.

You looked radiant, a picture-perfect idea of a pretty girl. You moved fluidly between the coffee pot, the cabinet, and the sink, like you could perform the motions with your eyes closed. You twinkled while you walked, delicate gold rings on your fingers, earrings catching the light as your head turned towards the window. Like you were made of something that came from space. You looked more tired than usual, the dark circles under your eyes more prominent than usual.

The kitchen at Doc’s was always loud, so Andrew didn’t look up from his drink when shouting began. He had come in early, while the sun was still rising, after a sleepless night spent in his mom’s kitchen listening to his brothers plan a heist. Andrew hadn’t really paid attention to them, too focused on re-running the route from Smurf’s to the diner in his mind—a drive he could make in his sleep.

The line cook at Doc’s was an asshole. That was the first thing he’d noticed after pulling off the main road into the nearly empty parking lot. Andrew had stumbled in, bloody under his jacket. A deep gash, halfheartedly bandaged days before, ached beneath his clothes. He almost collapsed into the corner booth.

Johnny had been yelling then, too. But that time, he was behind the bar countertop, following you around as you tried to tidy up. “I don’t need to be babysitting you,” he scowled, getting in your way constantly. “First it’s the fuckin’ tickets, then it’s the drinks, for fuck’s sake. I know you don’t have much in that pretty head of yours, doll, but I didn’t realise you were honest-to-god fucking stupid.” He grabbed you at the scalp, not squeezing hard enough to hurt, and gave your head a shake. “Or were you too busy whoring yourself out tonight to remember you got a fuckin’ job to do?” His hand lingered, like he was unsure of what to do with it.

“Baby-” That word had snapped Andrew right out of it. He’d been dazed for days, since he’d got nicked right near his ribs and had lost so much blood he’d been tanner in prison. The harsh words hadn’t fazed him, he was ashamed to admit, but hearing you turn and address the man so sweetly, like he hadn’t just called you a slut in front of the empty dining room.

“No, no,” He snatched a white coffee cup out of your hands. “I get it. My big girl’s gotta do her big girl job. Right, honey? You think you’re something special ‘cause old Ron said you got a nice smile?” He slammed the mug down so hard that Andrew heard it break. You jumped about half a foot in the air and seemingly went into fight or flight. You’d scampered away, pulling the bar top up where it turned into a gate to come move around the dining room. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going? I’m talking to you.” He’d called out your name, and Andrew had committed it to memory right then and there.

“I’m working, Johnny,” you’d turned around then, in a huff. Chest rising and falling, Andrew tried not to focus on the movement of your breathing. “Doing my job, like you told me.”

Johnny watched you wipe down a table and shove the chairs in haphazardly. “Yeah,” he scoffed. “Now you wanna fucking work. Remember that flashing your tits’ll only get you out of paying rent so many times, did you?”

“Hey!”

Pope hadn’t meant to shout. Hadn’t planned on drawing attention. He hated watching you be diminished by your boss and wanted to intervene. But he felt dizzy, and you looked like the kind of girl who’d rather no one witness her shame, as twisted as that was.

Both of your heads snapped to him. Johnny’s angry, yours petrified, and Andrew felt like maybe he had made things worse for you.

Pope knew he couldn’t go in too aggressively; you were already shaking your head at him, hoping desperately he wouldn’t make a scene.

“Can I order or what?” he said gruffly, pressing his hand to his side as he slumped into the booth.

He watched Johnny grip you by the arm, hiss something in your ear, and then push you toward him. You looked more shaken than hurt, embarrassed that he had seen it than sad it had happened.

With how sweet you had been to Johnny, he’d expected you to be kind of meek. Andrew had seen your type before. Small-town girl moves to her closest approximation of a big city. Too poor for San Diego, but dreams big enough to get as close as possible. Got saddled at a dead-end food service job with an ass for a boss. Didn’t need Pope white knighting for you when he just knew your boss was going to yell at you the second he left.

Instead, you came right up to him, locking your gaze with his. Like it had never even happened. “You know what you want?” You flashed him a smile, pen already poised to write down his order.

“Uh,” Pope hadn’t even glanced at the laminated menu on the table.

You snorted, covering your mouth with your notepad. “All that tough guy stuff, you didn’t even know what you wanted?” Andrew had been suffering blood loss for at least two full days by that point, but your laugh made him feel like he was floating. “How about some coffee, huh?”

He heard the kitchen door slam behind Johnny. You didn’t even look behind to where he’d stormed out. Didn’t even flinch.

“Ignore him,” you said softly, unbothered. “He’s a little bitch. Smiled at a customer too long, made him jealous.” You grinned like it was a joke—like his words were just a harmless flaw.

Andrew looked up at you. There was a red mark on your arm where Johnny had grabbed you. “So what’re you doing now then?”

You laughed again, brushing your fingertips against the arm he had resting on the table. “If you pick coffee, then I can make it right here for you, no kitchen required.”

That had sounded pretty good to him, so Andrew nodded. You beamed down at him, shoving the notepad in the front pocket of your apron. “Now, I don’t know what you heard from him.” You had jabbed your chin towards the pass to the kitchen, heat lamps basking the wall in warm golden glow. It didn’t hold a candle to you. “But I promise not to flash my tits at you.” You nabbed the menu off the table and turned back to step behind the bar countertop. “I won’t stop you from looking up my skirt, though.”

Andrew had laughed so hard he felt like he popped one of his shitty stitches.

It became routine after that. Whenever he had to pull an all-nighter, he’d stop by Doc’s and come get a cup of shitty coffee and a dose of lovely girl.

Johnny hated Pope, but you said that was normal with customers, telling him not to get a big head. Yet Johnny kept taking Pope’s money and letting him sit in the corner booth for hours. Pope always tipped big; the money was bloody, but better in your pocket than his.

He told himself that’s why he kept coming back. He wanted to help you out. You were a sweet girl. That was it.

The dining room was no longer deserted like it had been that morning. There were a few other waitresses and a few other chefs bustling around. You and Johnny seemed to always be there, though. Pope had already waved off two teenage girls who tried to take his order.

"You think you’re better than this place?”

He couldn’t hear your muffled reply, but he heard the way Johnny laughed.

“Nah,” Johnny got louder, voice deeper. “Some fucking clown tells you you’re too pretty to be holed up here and suddenly you’re too good for me?” There was the sound of metal on metal, ringing out through the diner. The other patrons all looked up, some nervously, some annoyed. “You think he likes you? Sweet little girl, always so pretty for him, huh? Letting him ogle you like that? What do you think is gonna happen, sugar? He’ll take you somewhere nice, pull you out of this shithole?”

He still couldn’t hear you, ears straining to make out words over the noise. Baby - being nice - love you.

“You know exactly how this is gonna shake down, don’t you?” Johnny lowered his voice just slightly. “He’ll fuck you, then he’ll run, and you’ll be left here asking me for a ride to work. You know that, right? I know you got nothing but rocks up there, but you can see that, surely?”

Pope couldn’t even make out your voice that time, but he figured you’d replied when Johnny laughed, roaring and cocky. “Oh, no, baby. Don’t you roll your fuckin’ eyes at me. You know exactly why I’m mad. You like me mad. You drop your fucking panties for any guy who walks in the door, and I’m meant to act like I don’t see it? No, baby, I’m not the bad guy. You do this shit on purpose. You push, and you push, and one of these days you’re gonna forget just how good you have it.”

Andrew already fucking hated Johnny, but the afternoon you’d sheepishly admitted Johnny wasn’t just your boss—he was your longtime boyfriend—made Pope’s blood boil so much that he’d almost crushed that fucking coffee cup in his hand.

“Yeah, my girl doesn’t need reminding who’s good to her, does she? Where’s your fucking attitude now, huh?” More murmurs, you sounded upset now, not soothing. “Yeah, not so fucking tough anymore. You think that fucking loser’s gonna save you-?”

Andrew heard your voice - don’t - and then dead silence. He thought for a sickening moment that Johnny had kissed you to shut you up, and that he was going to have to think about that on the drive home instead of how you’d traced the knuckle of one of his hands.

Then, you emerged. Head ducked, straight for his booth. He sat up straighter. Your chest was shaking, and this time, he didn’t have to stop himself from looking; his eyes were glued to your face.

He said your name softly, reaching a hand for you. You stopped short. “Can I get a ride?”

Your eyes were red, tears streaking thick black tracks down your cheeks. There was a mark on your collarbone. Pope was up in an instant. “I’ll fucking kill him-”

“He just grabbed me, I want to go home-”

“Just grabbed you?” He scoffed. You were both talking quietly, voices low to avoid the breakfast rush from feeding on your insides. “I’m going to fucking kill-”

“Andrew,” you snapped, “I want to go. Can I get a ride or not?”

Pope had driven you home a few times in the six months he’d been frequenting the diner. Sometimes you and Johnny would fight, and Johnny would take off without you, leaving you stranded and sheepish as you stood by the corner booth, looking like you wished the earth would swallow you.

But he’d never seen you leave without Johnny. This was new.

He handed you the fifty in his hands - the piece of pie he’d been waiting on plus tip (he wasn’t gonna let that asshole take it), and you didn’t argue, just shoving it in the pocket of your apron. You never accepted his money without a fight, usually, but that time you took it, stalking off towards where Andrew had parked his car.

“You wanna go to your place?” Andrew would never have asked, have given you any inkling you were welcome at his house, if you hadn’t looked so upset. He didn’t want you anywhere the fuck near his family - especially Smurf. She had no idea he’d been coming there three times a week for almost six months. It wasn’t any of her fucking business. Still, he wasn’t going to let his mom sink her claws into you the way she had with Julia. To maim. Not to cage, like with him.

But Andrew also knew that Johnny owned your apartment building. That was how you’d met him, apparently. At first, it had been kind of fun, you’d admitted to him one night the slight Johnny had hurled at you hadn’t been without merit. “Sometimes I couldn’t make rent that month, so I’d just have to… You know.” Pope felt like he was going to be sick. “It made me feel special, like I was in on something the other people weren’t. Then one time we had a fight and he wouldn’t get someone to fix my AC.”

Pope was going to fucking kill him, and there wasn’t anything he could think of that would stop him. He’d fantasise about the ways on the drive home some mornings, imagining the life draining out of Johnny’s eyes the way Pope had watched the life drain out of yours. Maybe he’d take a knife to him, watch his blood soak the concrete. He had a gun; he could use that. Or maybe Pope could just drag him out to the half-alley where Doc’s dumpsters were and beat the shit out of him until he was unrecognisable.

Those were second only to the other fantasies he’d have. The ones where you would find out, devastated by your boyfriend’s death, and turn to him for comfort. The ones where you’d kiss him and tell him he saved you. The ones so vivid he’d have to pull off the road and deal with it, lest he go and meet up for a job with a boner.

All of them involved your fucking boyfriend six feet under, and Pope getting the chance to show you how much better he could treat you.

Sometimes you chatted, airily telling him stories about funny customer interactions you’d had, or about something silly you’d seen on your phone. Sometimes you stayed silent. Most of the time, if Pope was driving you somewhere, it was because you and Johnny had gotten into a fight and he’d left you stranded.

“I’m gonna need to ask for your number,” you’d joked one night, standing in front of the open passenger door, bent at the waist to shove your head back in the car. “That way I can come and bug you whenever.”

Andrew would’ve handed it over without hesitation, but you’d giggled and shut the door, flouncing back up to the staircase leading to your apartment on the second floor. That afternoon, Johnny had taken your elevator pass, so Andrew dropped you off around the back. Your apartment building felt more like a motel: your front door was external, the apartment hallway served as an entryway, and a patio. He watched you bound up the stairs with the energy of someone who hadn’t worked the night shift, hauling yourself up on the railing and flashing him a beaming smile as you reached your door.

Now, you sat in silence. When Andrew pulled into the back lot of your place, you sat there, seatbelt buckled behind your back—which made Andrew nervous, but he was in no position to ask you to obey the laws of the road. “Do you want to come in?”

The closest Andrew had come to being inside your house was when he’d walked you to your door one night when it was raining. “Johnny…?”

You shook your head, still not looking at him. Your gaze was locked on your lap. That summer had been unbearable, so you’d opted for skirts rather than pants. You wore really pretty outfits a lot of the time, even if they were hidden under your apron. Floral sleeveless tops that showed off your collarbones and made him feel like a fucking teenager, practically salivating at the sight. Skirts that ended at mid-thigh, oftentimes shorter than the apron you wore tied around your waist. Your thighs were on display, and Pope had been very tastefully looking at them - you couldn’t ask him not to look, that wasn’t fair.

“He’s pulling a double,” you said, “Can’t flake out on it either, Doc’s is going under.”

That wasn’t necessarily surprising to Pope. Doc’s had a few die-hard patrons, people that he’d see multiple times a week or month. Other than that, it was usually empty. Which is why the line cook seemingly felt no shame in bullying his girlfriend in the middle of the dining room on a weekly basis.

Part of Pope felt bitter. Good. That asshole deserved it. Maybe they’d knock the building down and turn it into a Whole Foods or some shit. But most of him was thinking about you. Doc’s was your only source of income, and most of your money you got from his tips. Would you still see him if the diner closed?

He followed you up the stairs, standing guard beside you as you rifled through your bag for your keys. That was how Andrew felt about himself a lot of the time when it came to you. A guard dog. Someone to protect you, whether it was from Johnny or Smurf or guys who called you ‘darlin’ and got too close to your face at work. Not necessarily someone to keep around, but someone useful.

Your apartment looked exactly like Pope thought it would from the glimpses he caught through the windows (and the listing he’d found online) (your boyfriend had your apartment listed at all times, ready to strike if you pissed him off too bad) (Pope hadn’t mentioned it to you, but he kept it in the back of his mind always).

There were little touches that weren’t included in the estate photos he’d found online. The tack-on wallpaper you had up in the kitchen, the soft blankets you’d tossed over the couch.

“Sorry for the mess,” you sounded upset, but you had been since the diner. Pope didn’t want to think about it being his fault. What really worried him was the palpable sense of tension, as if there were too many words left unsaid hanging in the air. Pope looked back over at you, mouth open to tell you not to worry about it, but was interrupted by the look on your face. Eyebrow raised, eyes still red-rimmed from the incident in the diner, mouth curled downward. “No, stop. You’re gonna say it’s cute, or whatever, but it’s not. It’s gross, sorry. I didn’t think I’d have company today.” You seem to be in waitress mode even at home, straightening things and moving to put dishes in the sink. Pope caught sight of a dirty laundry basket and almost got lightheaded.

“Do you want something to eat or drink?” You asked, kicking the laundry basket into another room and shutting the door with your elbow. Pope couldn't shake off a sense of impending crisis; each of your movements was more hurried than usual, like a tightly wound spring ready to snap.

Pope hovered awkwardly in the living room, scraping his eyes over as much of your stuff as he could. Your chipped mugs, the 90s girl-group poster covering water-damaged walls. Your things were clearly well-loved and well-worn, but seldom maintained. You took good care of your things out of love, but not enough to stop them from breaking. Enough to keep them useful. Pope wondered if his usefulness would run out. “Is the coffee better here?”

You snorted, untying your apron and dumping it on the sofa. “I won’t spit in it?” You offer like it’s some sort of consolation prize.

Pope couldn’t stop the words stumbling out of his mouth, “Why not?”

He wanted to ask him what exactly had gone down in the kitchen, talk to you about it, tell you to dump him, do a billion things to you. There was the small problem of you finding out how much of a fucking loser he felt about you.

“Sit,” you said softly. He sat. He watched you mill around, both cleaning the kitchen and making him a cup of coffee in the same motions. When you handed him the cup, he looked up at you. It was well and truly mid-morning by that point, and the sun was filtering through the kitchen windows and hitting your face.

“You okay?” He finally asked. He didn’t want to overstep; he also felt like it wouldn’t be appreciated. Pope wanted to be something, not just another asshole who took control of your life. You’d been in a rough spot when you’d met Johnny. Pope didn’t want to be another Johnny. So, he kept his mind firmly on the task at hand and not on the fact that your bedroom was on the other side of that wall.

You looked at him, and Pope felt his stomach fall. He’d never seen you look like this before. “I want you to kill him.”

It was a burst of anger, uncharacteristic of his sweet girl. Pope couldn’t take his eyes off you, but he still felt like he’d blinked and missed you already.

“Wha-”

You rolled your eyes, kicking off your sneakers and curling up on the sofa near him. He could smell your perfume. He was going insane —you were too close—far too close for how well-behaved he was trying to be. Too far away to do the things he was trying not to think about doing.

“I’m not stupid, Andrew,” you said, rubbing your eyes. “I know who you are. I know what you do. I know your whole schtick.”

Hearing someone call his family’s incredibly lucrative and prolific crime empire a ‘schtick’ kind of snapped him out of it. “You…?”

“Like, two weeks after the first time you came in, I went to a party and someone asked if I was Pope’s girl.”

Fuck. Fuck. He’d wanted to keep you all from it. From Smurf, from the rest of his family. From Pope.

When he was with you, he didn’t have to be Pope. He didn’t have to be whatever the fuck he was, whatever people called him. Didn’t have to worry about the fucking drugs, or the heists, or all the people he’d murdered at the behest of his mom.

Being asked to take care of someone wasn’t an uncommon thing for him.

You seemed to register the worry on his face, scooching closer on your small sofa. Pope felt dizzy. “I said yes,” you admitted, cheeks warm. “I don’t know why. I just wanted him to leave me alone, and when you were brought up, he seemed to think twice about fucking with me. It was nice.”

Your earlier words played back in his head, about how it had been with Johnny at the beginning. Like being in on something that no one else was.

Andrew said your name, low and mournful, like it might be the last time.

“I’ve heard stuff,” you rushed, needing to get your point across before he cut you off and walked out of your life forever. “Stuff about the Codys- you guys. About you, Andrew. Pope. I had a little trouble picturing you as him. You’re always so nice to me, I couldn’t imagine you doing something like that.”

Good. Andrew hoped to god it stayed that way. You were the one good thing he had ever let himself have, and he barely even fucking had you. Still, it had all managed to catch up to him.

“But then I thought about it.” Your voice was quiet. If Pope strained, he could hear voices behind him, on the other side of the wall. “And I thought about it. And I kept thinking about it every time I saw you. I can’t get it out of my head.”

Pope felt his eyes sting. He was not going to cry in front of you. He’d sooner run out the door and ghost you.

“Please say something.” It was clear you had expected him to be much further on board faster than he had been.

He just sat there for a moment. Every second that went by, every tick of the clock on the mantle, every drip of the kitchen sink Johnny refused to look at, every blink of Pope’s eyes, felt like they got longer and longer between them.

Pope had an issue. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to kill Johnny - Pope would’ve done so already if he had known you wouldn’t grieve his death like he had believed you would. But he didn’t want to be the guy you leant too heavily on and grew to resent.

"You want me to kill him?"

He’d expected you to look surprised, to tell him you hadn’t really wanted to take him up on the offer or whatever. Instead, your eyes sparkled as you nodded.

"I want him to die, Andrew."  You said it so gravely, so seriously, he had no choice but to believe you. Unless you’d become an informant, which, knowing his luck, was not out of the question. “You’re a good man. You deserve to do it. I can forgive you for it.”

You wanted to do it yourself, had ever since you’d found out about the habits of the sweet, quiet man who came in and stared at you too long. But wanting to kill someone and actually killing them were two different stories. This was giving you an out. You didn’t need to rely on Johnny, on his hot and cold, on his temper.

You wanted to do it yourself, had ever since you’d found out about the habits of the sweet, quiet man who came in and stared at you too long. But wanting to kill someone and actually killing them were two different stories. This was giving you an out. You didn’t need to rely on Johnny, on his hot and cold, on his temper.

Doc’s was going under, and you’d been looking for another job. Looked at maybe going back to school. You’d been in your third year of college when you met Johnny. That was a lifetime ago.

If Johnny died, the building would be bought by Mr Carlton, the older man who owned all of the first floor and almost all of the second floor. Rent would be a little higher, but you wouldn’t have a boyfriend who could decide he wasn’t going to give you shifts while you were on your period, because if you couldn’t give him what he wanted, then why should you get what you want?

A steady source of income, maybe a future, control over your life again. Johnny had to fucking go.

And who deserved to do it more than Andrew? Sweet, sarcastic, charming, respectful, Andrew. He’d never overstepped, never once given you the ‘you deserve better’ spiel. Never once made you feel like he pitied you or judged you. Knew his place. His good behaviour deserved to be rewarded.

And so, you made a plan. He’d suggested planning it out to give you more time to chicken out, as he somewhat believed you would.

Johnny would be going out of town the month following, for a whole ten days. That meant there were ten days which nobody would notice his disappearance. Pope planned it all, how he would do it, where he would dump him, and the excuse he would give his brothers.

Baz had pulled him aside and asked if he’d gotten a girl, but Pope had stayed silent, stewing bitterly. It wasn’t out of any real interest in his life; it was out of selfishness. He’d noticed how long it had been since he’d caught Pope looking at Cath.

You quit Doc’s and started working at a coffee shop closer to your place. The hours were consistent, the pay was regular. You didn’t even care that your coworkers weren’t very nice, and you weren’t making as much in individual tips. You wanted something concrete.

You and Pope started “dating.” You suggested it as a reason you guys had been hanging out so much: if one of your neighbours squealed. All that involved was letting Andrew drive you home, letting him call you ‘baby’ in earshot of your coworkers, and letting him keep his hand on the back of your thigh for just a little too long.

Pope was paying your rent — something that annoyed you, but you couldn’t stop. Johnny had threatened to evict you when you and he split, done in a screaming match at Doc’s, surrounded by as many people as you could swing. It needed to be public and final. You’d almost been rendered homeless, but Pope had offered to reach up and spend more than the heightened rent Johnny had started enforcing. Andrew knew Johnny knew he wasn’t going to get more rent out of anybody than some sucker who wanted to fuck Johnny’s ex-girlfriend.

He spent the entire month leading up to it with his family. Made himself as available to them as he could. Told you not to call him while he was at Smurf’s, told you so softly and so sweetly they’d rip your fucking throat out that you had no choice but to listen. He forced himself into so many situations that, when the day came, they were honestly grateful for a reprieve. Nobody would be calling him that week.

Johnny was smoking a cigarette when Pope got him. Sharp and fast, a quick slash to the side under the ribs, grabbed by the hair. Kicked on the back of the knees and shoved to the ground. Some of it had been overkill. The grip Andrew had kept on Johnny’s greasy hair, almost ripping it out from how forceful he was. Zip ties to the wrists, enough shoved in the mouth that even when Johnny realised it was Pope and started yelling, only muffled groans could be heard. Nobody had been in the parking lot of Johnny’s - Pope had planned as much, but seeing it work out felt vindicating.

Not as vindicating as watching Johnny bleed out all over the tarp Pope had lined his trunk with for the occasion. His hands, the hands that had touched you in all the wrong places, were almost completely severed at the wrists. Johnny’s fingerprints would be burned off, and his teeth would be knocked out, but he wanted to wait until the bastard was dead for that part. Not to spare him the pain, but because he wanted to take his time on it without having to listen to that miserable fuck whine the entire time.

He was still alive when Pope pulled into your apartment. You’d been at work all morning and had just gotten home (Pope still felt guilty about making you take the bus, even though his car had been in use at your request). That way, when the coroners eventually examined him, if they found him too quickly, they’d get a time of death you were both well and truly accounted for.

He’d hoped he’d catch sight of one of your neighbours on the way in, had spent the past month stopping to chat to each and every one of them, so they wouldn’t think it out of the ordinary if he did it on his way up to you. The staircase, the patio, and even the parking lot were all dead.

So, he pulled out his keys and made a big show of dropping his keyring and clattering about with it before unlocking the door. “Baby?”

You were in the kitchen, still in your work clothes, looking radiantly at him. More dream than girl, Pope could’ve sworn you glowed. “Andrew,” you beamed at him, speaking a little louder than necessary. Not unnatural. “How’s Lena?”

He’d offered to take his niece out for the morning, which kept her away from Baz and gave Pope some time with her. Made for a really good alibi if someone asked him where he’d been that morning. He’d felt kind of gross for dragging the poor girl into it, but his desire to see her had won over.

“She was good,” Pope shut the front door, dropping his stuff in. “We went to the beach, got ice cream, had some lunch. She says hi.”

Lena absolutely did not say hi. Pope hadn’t let a single thing about you slip, even to her. But he liked to think that if she did know who you were, she would’ve said hi.

Pope discarded his jacket on the hook by the door. You didn’t keep your space particularly tidy, but since he’d started coming over, you had made more of an effort. Clearing room for him to keep his things, jacket on the hook, shoes on the rack, keys in the bowl. It felt so painfully domestic that Pope could almost pretend this whole thing was real.

After that first time in your place, Pope had been struck by just how much of the apartment felt like you. It wasn’t overly decorated, you didn’t make enough money to have one of those Pinterest board apartments Andrew knew you were secretly obsessed with.

But there was nothing in this apartment, even the first time he’d been inside, that indicated you had a boyfriend. At least... There hadn’t been before.

Now, Pope’s stuff was everywhere. His dishes in your sink, post-its on your fridge reminding you of when he was working or telling him when you were. One of his jackets over the back of your sofa. He was one step away from keeping a damn toothbrush in the cup with yours.

You came close to him, wrapping your arms around his neck and stretching yourself up so your mouth was right beside his ear. “Did you do it?”

Pope’s hands were pressed to your back, one of them lingering where the hem of your shirt sat, inches away from slipping his palm to lay against your bare skin. “Yeah,” he said, voice low. You squeezed him. “He’s in the car. I’ll hang out here for a while, then I’ll go dump him.”

He hadn’t told you where he’d been planning on taking Johnny. You hadn’t asked. You didn’t need to know where he was lying, just that he was rotting. That you’d never have to feel his hands on you again.

“No one saw me,” he said. He felt you frown against his neck. The two of you had been hoping at least one of your neighbours would catch sight of him organically. The building's walls were thin; you could hear people on both sides of you.

“Shit,” he felt you exhale. “We need someone to be able to validate that you’re here.”

He let his hands shift, rubbing the skin of your back gently through your top. His thumb brushed the sliver of bare skin with a featherlight touch. You didn’t move away.

The two of you stood there for a moment under the guise of thinking. There was the faint clatter of a dish being bumped into through the wall, followed by a muttered curse word.

“Maybe they could hear us doing something?” He suggested. “Like, we could talk really loud?”

You pulled back enough to see his face, but not so much that he had to let go. “What would they hear?” you asked quietly, a smile tugging the corner of your lips up.

The silence hung low in the air, filling the space and shoving the two of you closer together. You were wearing a pretty blouse and a denim skirt, straight from a morning at the coffee shop. Pope didn’t want to be the one to suggest it.

“Andy…” Your voice was soft in tone but loud enough in volume that he was pretty sure that your neighbours could hear. You’d never called him that before. Your hands moved from resting behind his neck to caressing his jaw with your thumbs.

“Hi, baby,” the words ghosted your face, barely audible. Your face split out in a grin.

“Wanna see my bedroom?”

Andrew had seen your bedroom before, but he had never been inside. He’d only ever caught glimpses when you came in or out, or through the cracked door, or on the online listing.

Your bedsheets had little daisies on them. They felt soft under his fingertips. Your duvet was bunched up towards the head of your bed. You’d shoved him inside, giggling at the absurdity as his knees hit the back of your bed.

“Okay, wait.” You bent over, desperately trying to at least half-make your bed while he was sitting on it. You weren’t actually going to fuck him, you just needed to make the neighbours think he was giving you a good time. Well, it didn’t have to be good, but it would hurt his ego a little if he couldn’t fake fuck you well.

Then, you sat down on the rumpled duvet beside him, unable to keep the grin off your face. “Okay, wait,” you said again. “Alright…”

The two of you sat there in silence for a moment before finally you let out a noise. A soft, barely-there, contented sigh.

Pope laughed.

You reached over and hit him. “Sorry, asshole, I’ve never tried to make my neighbours think I’m having sex before,” you hissed. He held his hands up in surrender, trying to take you seriously despite the situation. Andrew shifted so his legs weren’t hanging off the side of your bed, shuffling towards the head. “You do it.”

“I…” he tried. This was ridiculous. “I can’t, I’m sorry,” he was laughing so hard his shoulders were shaking, his back pressed to the headboard.

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, Andy,” you let out an exaggerated groan, snickering at him. Your voice stayed monotone, “Please, for me?”

You crawled closer to him, coming to sit right beside him.

Pope thought maybe he had died and gone to hell. He had you right there, so close to him he could smell the rosemary oil you insisted helped your hair grow. So close he could count your eyelashes if he could keep his eyes off your hands, dragging through the duvet to extend towards him.

He let out a groan, and you smiled self-satisfiedly. “Yeah?” you goaded. “You like that, Andy?”

Your voice was thick with wanting. Pope let out another noise, heat rushing to his neck. You were putting on a show, and not even for his benefit. A whine ripped itself from his chest, and the humiliation filled the cavity it left. Here he was, acting like a fucking virgin sitting with a pretty girl on her bed.

You still had that goddamn smile on your face, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. You were still moving closer, and Andrew felt frozen. He was trying so so hard, trying to behave, to not move you closer and grab any part of the expanse of skin you were seemingly haunting him by. He was trying to behave, and there you were, so close to him.

You were still giggling, even as you hauled yourself up and locked your legs on either side of his thighs. Pope’s hands were raised, hovering above your waist, not sure about the whole touching thing now that you were literally situated in his lap.

You opened your mouth, pushing a palm flat against the wall and letting out a slightly louder moan, looking him right in the eye.

Yep, definitely hell. You were settled in his lap, whining his name, gaze boring into his. He had to start thinking about geometry or baseball or something to distract himself from the fact that you were positioned right over his cock while wearing a skirt.

He was able to start on autopilot, matching your volume, throwing in a “baby” or a whine of your name every so often. He just had to keep a clear head for however long you decided sex with him would take and then wait so he could go jerk off and dump your boyfriend’s corpse. In that order.

You had one hand on his shoulder, one hand on the wall, still completely giddy from the venture. You seemed to be having a nice time, not burdened by the same hellish circumstance that he had found himself trapped in. Even more so when you shifted your hips slightly and had his cock twitch at the contact.

He felt you tense up and prepared for the anger. A slap, a spit, insults hurled. Something at least.

He couldn’t look up at your face, but unfortunately, your tits were the other closest things to his eyes. Instead, his head was turned to stare at the floral wallpaper, looking as far from your face as his head would physically turn.

“Andrew?” You whispered. He was shaking under your hands. He felt your hand move from his shoulder up his jaw, fingernails raking up his skin. You grabbed at his chin, pulling his face back up so he had to look at you. “Hey.”

This would be the last time he ever touched you, so he let his hands finally find purchase on your waist. “I’m so, fuck- I’m sorry. You can just ignore it; it’ll go away. I’m so fucking sorry, it’s not because of you.”

You pouted. “It’s not?” You rolled your hips, and Andrew felt his chest constrict. “That’s a shame.” You were moving consistently by that point, and he couldn’t figure out when you’d gotten such a mean streak.

“Fuck-” his head fell forward, forehead resting on your shoulder. “Baby, I-” he was interrupted by a whine yanked from his throat by the feeling of you grinding down on his crotch. “You… you gotta stop.”

“You want me to?” You asked innocently, pausing your movements.

Andrew lifted his head off your shoulder to look up at your face. You had never seen anyone look at you with such reverence.

Pope knew the good, moral thing to do was yes, to get you off his lap and then throw your boyfriend’s body in the ocean. What he chose to do was to lift his hips up to provide some of the friction you’d stopped giving him. “No,” he admitted. “Fuck- no. Please don’t.”

His face was still in your hand, and you gripped his chin, tipping his head back slightly. You ducked your head slowly, moving to press your mouth to his. Pope’s hands were roaming on your back, one of them finally slipping under the soft cotton of your blouse. Pope kissed like he talked, waiting for you to make the first move, but once you had, he cut himself loose. It wasn’t necessarily a good kiss; it was sloppy, mostly open-mouthed, and involved a lot of your mouth swallowing his moans.

But your brain seemed to reset, whether it was the feeling of his tongue slipping between your lips or the feeling of his erection pressing between your legs. The noises he was making, directly from his mouth to yours, were sending a buzzing feeling between your thighs.

You rolled your hips, he thrust up to meet you, and the friction set loose a high whimper that seemed to spur him on.

“Fuck,” he groaned, pulling off where he’d taken your bottom lip between his teeth. “You have no idea how much I’ve thought about this.”

He was embarrassingly close from the feeling of you grinding on him through his clothes. His hand squeezed your side, his entire body tense from the effort he was putting in to keep him from embarrassing himself. You let out a whine at the sudden move, and that had been his final straw.

Without warning, Pope wrapped a strong arm over your back and flipped you over so he was above you. You squealed at the impact, landing on your back, and the sound travelled straight to his cock. “Andrew-”

He kissed you again, his hand coming up to cup your jaw and rub soothing circles into your scalp. “Fuck, baby,” he groaned. Your legs fell apart for him to come move between them and press his chest to yours. Andrew took his free hand and stroked the back of your thigh, holding it up against his hip. “Oh, look at you.” He pulled up to take a good look at your face. Face flushed, pupils blown, and that stupid fucking smirk on your face.

The hand on your thigh loosened its grip and travelled upwards until it found its way underneath your skirt. As his palm made the connection with your damp underwear, you let out an embarrassingly high-pitched whine. “Andrew,” you shuddered against his touch.

“You want me to touch you?” he asked, voice low. You nodded, tilting your head up to try to capture his lips against yours again. “Yeah? Come on then, baby. Use your words.”

Your cheeks burned, more from annoyance than embarrassment. “Please, Andy…” That wasn’t enough for him; the most he did was press the heel of his palm firmer against your panties. “Want you to touch me,” you grumbled. Andrew knew you were miffed at not getting what you wanted without having to do what he wanted you to. You liked that he was so desperate for you, liked how he’d been hard under your touch without him even really touching you.

He pushed your panties to the side to run a finger through your folds. You whined, pushing your hips up at the brush of your clit against the pad of his finger. “Andrew,” you whimpered. He stayed by the nerve, pressing two of his fingers flat and rubbing small circles. He spent a few minutes switching up pace and pressure until he found one that you seemed to really enjoy.

Your moans went straight to his cock, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care about that when you were so warm, so wet; all other rational thought went straight out the window. “Fuck, pretty girl. Hear how fuckin’ wet you are?” He kissed the side of your mouth and moved his hand off your jaw to press it against your hand. The back of your palm pushed up against your pillow, clutched tightly in his, anchoring him there to you. He moved away from your clit and ignored the pained whimper you pressed into his cheek, instead moving his fingers to slip them inside.

You gasped at the intrusion, your free hand clawing at his back. “Fuck, Andy,” your moans were high-pitched and breathy, unlike the deep and fake noises you’d been forcing out for the benefit of the neighbours.

“Oh, pretty girl,” he groaned into your neck. You were so tight, even just around his fingers. He wanted to pay more attention to your clit, but the feeling of your hand in his was too tempting to give up. Instead, he pressed his index and middle fingers inside while brushing the nerve with his thumb. It was uncoordinated, fast, and desperate, but you were whining into his ear, clenching the back of his shirt in your free fist, and squeezing his fingers so tight he could feel precome pooling in his boxers.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned. “How am I meant to fit in here, baby?” He cooed, crooking his fingers up to press against your spongy center with the tips of his fingers and causing you to throw your head back, open-mouthed.

Pope felt you clench around him. “Wanted this so bad,” you admitted, pulling him closer to kiss him. It was so sloppy, half your words were said directly into his open mouth. “For- fuck- months, Andrew. I k-keep thinking about you,” you bucked up into him. “Johnny would always get angry because he said you wanted to fuck me-”

“Did,” Andrew grunted, fucking you with his fingers as far in as they could go, stretching you out. He hadn’t been joking before; there was no way he’d fit. “Do.”

You ignored him, still babbling on. “And I never believed him, but I really, really hoped he was right.”

Andrew pulled his fingers out of you again, but this time you didn’t whimper. He’d been talking a big game while he was on top of you. You wanted your sweetheart back. Stopping only to shove your panties down your legs and kick them off onto the floor, you wrestled yourself back on his lap. At the feeling of your bare core against his erection, Pope groaned again. “Fuck, baby, you felt so good, so wet for me. Was that all for me?” You nodded. “Fucking bastard, has no idea what he’s giving up, does he?”

Pope did not want you back on his lap because he was pretty sure that if you started riding him again, he’d come in his pants.

You seemed pretty gleeful at the concept of that happening, though, leaning down to attach your lips to his neck. There was a wet patch on the front of his pants where your bare core met the swell of his cock. “Andrew,” you rasped, “feels so good.”

His hips stuttered, hands on the backs of your bare thighs, debating whether to move up to your ass or down to your pussy. “Baby,” he groaned. “Say you want me.”

Andrew wasn’t a virgin. He’d had girlfriends, the occasional hookup. He had never been so achingly hard in his life, and you hadn’t even really touched his cock yet.

“You want me to want you?” You cooed. “Yeah, baby? I want you,” you husked, directly into his fear. “Want you so bad, Andrew.”

He tossed his head back, hitting the wall behind your headboard. “Fuck, you feel so good.” his hands squeezed the flesh of your ass, trying to find something to keep him from busting already.

“Yeah?” you encouraged.

Andrew nodded against your mouth, eyes rolled back in his head. “Yeah, fuck, baby. You look so pretty,” he said, looking up at you through his eyelashes. You could feel yourself soaking his pants, his erection catching on your clit, and sending your head fuzzy. “So, so pretty. My pretty girl.”

You reached for his belt buckle at that, desperate to satiate the pulsing between your legs. He made no move to help you, watching through blown pupils as you undid his pants and shoved them down as far as you could with him sitting down. You’d been able to see the wet patch on his dark jeans, and you’d assumed it had been made up of entirely your arousal, evidence of how much you needed him. But seeing the dark stain of precome pooled by his erection, you realised he needed you just as much.

“Andrew,” you breathed, lusting and listless. “Can I touch you, please?”

Andrew groaned like he was in pain, nodding and nudging his face up to kiss your cheeks. “Please, baby. I’d take anything, anything you wanna do.”

You liked how he wasn’t trying to pretend he didn't want this as much as you did. You waned him so badly you ached, you could feel yourself clenching around nothing, desperate for the friction his fingers had provided. “Yeah?” He nodded. “Can you open up for me?”

Andrew opened his mouth, eyeing you as you leaned over his face and let a droplet of your spit land on his tongue. Eyes rolling back, he closed his mouth and savoured it, and that was when you decided to take the opportunity to reach into his underwear.

He was bigger than you’d expected from how unassuming he was. Andrew was a big guy, with arms so huge you wanted him to wrap them around your neck until you saw stars. But he wasn’t super tall, so you’d figured he’d gotten so jacked in prison. He hung heavily over the waistband of his boxers, and his breath hitched when he felt you wrap your impossibly soft hand around him. Now that you had him where you wanted him, everything else seemed to be in the way. His shirt was ripped from his head, the buttons of your blouse undone by shaking fingers. Andrew let his head drop forward to mouth at your covered chest, hand palming the cup of your bra on the other side.

You’d intended to tease him a little, maybe pay back the favour of his fingers, but after less than a full stroke, he was whining at you. “Please,” he gasped out, stopping his task of soaking through your bra with his spit. “I need to be inside you.” Your name slipped from his lips so desperately that you felt your walls flutter.

You reached up to cup his jaw again, keeping the pad of your thumb pressed to his chin and pushing two of your fingers against his lips. He let you in immediately, moaning around your digits and maintaining sweltering eye contact as your other hand brushed his slit with your thumb. An especially loud groan brought you back to where you were, what the goal had been.

“That’s it, baby,” you cooed. “Let the whole building hear how much you want me.”

Once your fingers were well and truly lubricated, you reached back down to touch his cock. “Fuck,” he let out. “You fucking tease-” he was being louder as you’d requested, but only just. He wanted people to hear, sure, but this wasn’t some type of performance.

Pope was desperately running through topics in his head - counting sheep, trying to do basic addition - anything to distract himself from the feeling of your hand running along the vein he had on the underside of his cock.

“Are you gonna fit?” You asked him, lifting yourself up to discard your skirt. Pope took the opportunity of you being out of his lap to shove his jeans down his legs, leaving himself completely bare in front of you. All you had left was your bra, and he’d be perfectly content to keep mouthing at the fabric, but you discarded that, too.

“Oh, yeah, baby,” he sighed, moving to lay you down once again against your pillows. “I’ll fit.” He brought his thumb down to brush your clit again. Your wetness was pooling between your folds, about to start leaking down onto your bed. He actually wasn’t sure, despite how turned on you were, if he would fit. He was above average, but not by much. But the way you’d clamped down around his fingers made Pope feel like maybe Johnny hadn’t been giving you very much to work with. The two of you had been together for like six years, he was pretty sure. “You were fuckin’ made for me, weren’t you?”

You nodded.

He ran his fingers down your glistening folds, collecting your juices in his hand. Andrew had half a mind to bring them to his mouth, but he wanted the first time to be straight from the source. Instead, he let you take them in your mouth, mirroring what he’d done to you. You circled one of his thick fingers with your tongue, and he knew immediately he’d made a mistake, cock jumping at the feeling. He wanted to see you with your pretty lips wrapped around him.

Despite the slick mess between your thighs, his wet fingers were able to find purchase on your clit. “See how much I want you, Andy?” you moaned, and he knew the fucking neighbours heard the groan that pushed from his chest.

The head of his cock brushed your clit, and both of you whined into the open air. You pulsed under his touch, wanting and sensitive.

He took his hand away from your clit just long enough to take hold of his cock and guide it to catch on your entrance.

You look up at him, writhing and needy, and he ducks down to kiss you. “Fucking dreamt of this,” he admits. “Every time I’d watch you leave with him, I’d imagine pulling you away, making you feel so fucking good you forget every name that isn’t mine.”

His mind drifted back ever so slightly to the almost-corpse shoved in his trunk. The two of you had been plenty loud; the whole building had probably heard. Andrew wondered if Johnny could.

“Need you so bad,” you whispered. One leg wrapped around his waist, one bent at the knee on your side, looking up at him. “So fucking bad, Andrew,” you arched your back to bring your face closer to his, and he complied, kissing you roughly as he nudged his hips forward.

He felt you tense up, reaching down to rub distractedly at your clit with one hand and your jaw with the other. “Shit,” he hissed. “You okay?”

You nodded emphatically.

Once the tip was in, he stopped, letting himself stretch you out enough that every movement doesn’t catch a vein or ridge against your walls. You were squeezing him like he owed you money, and he had to put a lot of effort into holding himself up to watch your face.

Your bottom lip was caught between your teeth, eyes half closed. Half whimpers were coming out through your mouth, one after the other, cutting off the one before. “Baby,” he cajoled. “You gotta talk to me.”

It took you a second, too overwhelmed with the stretch and the fact that Andrew Cody was in your bed, and the man you thought would be ruining your life forever was probably dead. And maybe you were dead and this was heaven, not that you’d ever be sent there after what you made him do. “So good, Andrew,” you reassured him, bringing a hand up to clench his auburn curls. “You can go more in.”

He took the opportunity to slide in further, revelling in each gasp you let out as part of his head caught on a ridge inside your pussy. “Oh my fucking god,” he grunted against your neck, certain he’d never been sucked in as completely as your cunt was doing, and he was only halfway in.

You were breathing so heavily, and Andrew kept pulling away to check on you, that by the time he bottomed out, the thick tip of his cock brushing your warm center, both of you were almost embarrassingly close.

“Fuck, pretty girl, can I move?”

You nodded. He tried to kiss you but got taken over by a full-body shudder at the feeling of pulling out, missing, and instead burying his forehead in your shoulder. The sound was downright filthy, filling your bedroom with a wet slap of his thighs kissing yours.

“Feels so good, Andrew,” you moaned, breath stuttering as he pushed  back in. The thrusts were slow at first, trying to give you both something to stay grounded in. But you were so tight, and you were talking to him so sweetly, and when he pushed forward, you’d clench, and his chest would brush against your nipples, and he felt so pent up he was going to explode.

“Baby…” your name tumbled from his lips, begging and rough, out of breath. “‘M all yours. All yours, my pretty girl. Could do anything you wanted to me. Let you spit on me again.”

You could tell he was borderline asking for it at that point, so you shoved his head back down to connect to your lips, trying to collect as much spit as you could get in there. He swallowed it dutifully, along with a moan of your name.

He was on the brink, as he had been since he’d heard that first sigh from your mouth. He was grabbing at the flesh of your thighs, trying to claw desperately at something that wasn’t your fucking wall. With how hard he was squeezing, he’d probably put a hole in it and come face to face with your neighbours in their kitchen.

“Andrew,” you mewled.  “Need… fuck… need you-”

“Right here?” He flicked your clit. “‘M sorry, baby, you feel so fuckin’ good.”

He could feel himself getting there, and with the amount he’d been staving it off, he knew his climax wasn’t going to be soft.

Pope started playing with your clit, trying his best to replicate the rhythm that had gotten you so worked up at the beginning. You groaned, reaching blindly for him. “That’s it, right there.”

Andrew could feel you clenching around him, the walls of your cunt fluttering in time with his thrusts. “Fuck, you feel too good.” He kissed you. “Too fucking good, baby. So fuckin’ pretty for me, hey?” He was slurring his words, completely drunk on the feeling of you taking all of him inside.

“Andy-” the gasp was stilted, your fingernails gripping into his biceps. He was pretty sure you could cut him open with your nails, and he wouldn’t feel it, all of his senses completely attached to how fucking good you felt all spread out for him.

“You close?” He asked, more smug than he had any right to be, given how near he was to finishing. You nodded, and he kissed you. Kissed you. Kissed you. Each time, he got a little more lightheaded, and each time, you let out one of those soft sighs that made his arms shake.

“What do you need?”

You directed him, moving so you were half on your side, your leg anchored at his hip, whining as he hit a new spot inside of you. It was hard to find any part to lock on to with the mess between your legs, but he was still rubbing your clit. “Come on, baby. Show me how much you want me. Need to see it.”

You took his hand back in yours, mouth missing his lips as your orgasm hit you. Pope knew the second you came around him that he didn’t have long, but he tried to draw it out of you as long as possible, fucking you through it. “That’s my girl.” The feeling was white hot and dizzying, and for a second - though you’d never tell him this, smug bastard - all you could think of was Andrew.

You lay there, letting him fuck you, squeezing his hand and his dick. He couldn’t remember ever feeling that good, still rubbing your poor sensitive clit until you brought a hand up to swat him away. “Please, Andy,” you murmured, spare hand threading through his hair. “Please.”

“Where-” his thrusts were sloppy, barely able to string a single sentence together. “Where do you want me?”

He felt an aftershock rip through you as he hit your sweet spot, your voice sounding woozy and hot. “Inside.”

He stuttered. “In-”

“Want you inside,” you assured him. “Please? Want you so bad, Andrew- baby.” You whimpered, and he sucked in a sharp breath. “Want to be yours.”

He leaned heavily into you, putting his body weight on the thigh you had clamped around his hips. He groaned your name, “Want me inside? Fuck, want to be all full of me?” The idea of that alone was enough to have him spilling inside of you, breathing you in from his spot on your neck. The sheer force of his orgasm causing him to spill down your thighs as he pushed forward one last time.

He stayed there for a while before leaving with a soft kiss to go to your bathroom. He ran a washcloth under some warm water and returned to find you right where he’d left you. You and Andrew had never discussed whether you were on the pill or not - he had to assume you were, but as he wiped your sticky thighs down gently, he couldn’t help the way his chest constricted at the sight of him leaking out of you.

You, for all your charms while he’d been fucking you silly, had fallen into a blissed-out state of rest, watching him. “You going?”

His stomach did a flip. “Yeah, baby,” he finished with the washcloth, making a note to dump it in the laundry on his way out. Once he found his clothes. You sat up on your elbows, curling your legs inward so you were less spread out, and Andrew knew without you saying it that you wanted him to kiss you. “I gotta go to work.”

You nodded, beaming at him. “Hurry back.”

He discarded the washcloth and redressed himself, you going to pee and shrugging on a t-shirt and a clean pair of panties, meeting him back by the front door. You reached up to hug him again like you had when he’d arrived, this time placing a firm kiss on the side of his mouth. “You’ll come back?”

Andrew kissed the inside of your elbow, your arm resting on his shoulder, from where it was wrapped around your neck. He kissed a trail right up to your mouth, eyes blazing into yours. “I’ll be a few hours.”

Andrew wasn’t sure if you really wanted him back that quickly. He would usually spend an afternoon here and there sitting on your sofa or at your kitchen table, the two of you talking softly. He had only been coming over to establish a pattern of behaviour.

Though he reasoned it would be odd to break the pattern right along with your ex-boyfriend’s untimely demise.

When he pulled back into the parking space in your lot reserved for your apartment several hours later and smelling like bleach, he still hadn’t been sure if you wanted him there. He’d bought a bouquet of flowers from a roadside stall on a whim, and he felt stupid unlocking your door with them.

Your beaming smile at the sight of him had helped calm his nerves somewhat, though. The soft kiss you planted on him calmed the rest.

[flowersforbucky]

break me down and i’ll call you mine

pope cody x reader ~ word count: 18.7k+

other than the men he brings home on occasion, you’re the only person who knows that deran cody is gay. when your best friend becomes anxious that people are growing suspicious of his sexuality, you suggest telling people that the two of you are dating. everything is going perfectly…until his brother is released from prison and you start feeling things that you haven’t felt in years.

warnings/tags: 18+ mdni, smut, oral (f receiving), reader is afab, no use of y/n, cheating but not really bc it’s a fake relationship, male masturbation, mentions of an abusive ex, mentions of alcohol, deran struggling with his sexuality, deran buys the bar a little earlier than he does in the show in this fic, description of canon level injuries, fluff, baz and smurf erasure, hurt/comfort, pov switches but mostly reader’s pov, happily ever afters for everyone!

memories are in italics!!

{ 3 months before Pope’s release from prison }

“I think Craig is onto me.”

Blue eyes meet yours in the reflection of the bathroom mirror. Deran stands in the doorway behind you, leaning against the frame with his hands shoved in his pockets.

“Onto you?” You repeat, voice garbled around the head of your toothbrush.

“Yeah,” he huffs, looking down at the floor. “You know…onto me.”

You freeze for a moment before you resume brushing, your eyes still glued to him. He doesn’t need to elaborate. There’s only one thing he could be talking about - only one thing that Deran doesn’t want his brother to know. Something that only you know about him.

Well, you and the men he brings home on occasion.

You spit a mouthful of foamy toothpaste into the sink and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “What makes you think that?”

Deran shrugs and shakes his head. “I don’t know. I was just talking to Adrian on the beach this afternoon and I noticed Craig looking at us like…I don’t even know. Just feel like he suspects something.”

You sigh, turning around to lean against the bathroom counter and crossing your arms over your chest. “Were you giving Adrian a handjob on the beach?”

“What the fuck?” He exclaims, face distorting in indignant horror. “No. Of course not. We were just talking.”

“Then Craig doesn’t know shit.” You shrug, bumping him with your shoulder as you move past him out of the small bathroom. “You’re being paranoid. Again.”

This is the third time he’s claimed that Craig is growing suspicious of his sexuality in the last month. Normally, you would have realized what he meant by Craig is onto me right away, but you’re practically brain dead after working back to back double shifts at the bar.

That’s the only logical explanation for why the following words leave your mouth.

“You should just tell Craig that we’re dating.”

You hear footsteps and laughter follow you down the hallway. “Us? Dating?” Deran snorts. “Yeah, right. Like he’d believe that.”

“Why not?” You shrug, plopping down on the couch in the living room of your shared house to turn on the television. “We live together. Spend the vast majority of our free time together. We even work together, since you bought the bar. You’re single. I’m single. A lot of people already assume we’re together. It makes sense.”

“Well, yeah, but—” He comes to an abrupt pause, like he’s racking his brain for a reason why your idea might not work. He sits down on the ottoman in front of you, forearms braced on his thighs. “Huh,” he hums, clarity blooming across his face. “Maybe it isn’t the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

“Thanks.”

You definitely had not given it any real thought before making the suggestion, but he’s right - maybe it isn’t the worst idea. At least now you’ll have a somewhat kinda true excuse when rejecting the advances of all of your bar regulars that just can’t get the hint that you aren’t interested in them.

Deran clasps his hands together in front of him. “Okay, but seriously. How would this even work? What are the rules or whatever?”

You stare at him and try not to laugh. “You’re overthinking it. There doesn’t need to be rules. We just keep doing what we’re already doing. We go out to eat sometimes, yeah? Go to the beach and the movies? Run errands together? Friends do those things, but so do couples.” You shrug. “So we just keep doing those things, and when anyone asks, we call it dating.”

“Boyfriend and girlfriend,” he clarifies.

You nod. “Boyfriend and girlfriend.”

He squints, shaking his head. “We don’t really act like boyfriend and girlfriend, though. We would need to make it believable. At least around Craig and our other friends. You know, hold hands, cuddle, maybe kiss—”

You cut him off with an exaggerated gagging nose.

“That’s a little harsh.”

You toss a throw pillow at his head that he catches just in time. “I’m fucking with you,” you laugh. “You’re right. There does need to be a little physical affection to make it believable. There’s no reason to stick our tongues down each other’s throats in front of your brothers and our friends, though.” It’s his turn to grimace dramatically at the mental image of that. “Just keep it casual. Holding hands is good, an arm around my shoulder every now and then won’t hurt, and the occasional kiss on the cheek should suffice.”

He tilts his head in consideration. Your words seem to appease some of his uncertainty, though you still get the feeling that he isn’t completely sold on the idea.

“Look, if you aren’t on board, just say so. It was just a suggestion. You won’t hurt my feelings at all if—”

“No, no,” he interjects. “It isn’t that. It’s just…” He trails off, pursing his lips in contemplation. You wait for him to continue with raised brows. “What happens when you meet someone? Someone you want to be with for real?”

You don’t have a quick-witted response for that.

That hasn’t crossed your mind in ages. You’ve been single for so long that you don’t even remember how it feels to truly want to date someone. Your last boyfriend left you with quite the sour taste in your mouth for relationships that still lingers more than two years later.

You’ve gone on the occasional first date here and there, and had a few mostly unsatisfactory hook-ups over the last couple of years, but nothing has ever come from any of them. The thought of a real relationship is at the very bottom of your list of priorities, and you can’t see that changing anytime soon.

“In the rather unlikely event that happens, then we simply end our romantic endeavor. We’re still best friends. No harm done. Sound good?”

Deran considers that for a moment, then shrugs. “Alright. If you’re good with it, I’m good with it.” His words try to play off how much it means that you’d be willing to do something like this, but you know him. His smile and his eyes say what his mouth won’t.

You nudge his thigh with your foot. “Then congratulations, dude. You officially have a girlfriend.”

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

Pope doesn’t know all that much about romantic relationships.

Not healthy ones, anyway.

He can’t say that he’s ever even been in one. At least not anything serious - nothing that didn’t fizzle out after a couple months or end in some argument that he can’t remember now.

Everything he really knows about romantic relationships comes from movies and books and the toxicity that he’s witnessed in his personal life. His mother and her goddamn three baby daddies. Baz and Cath. Craig and his ever changing girls of the month.

He can admit that these aren’t the best examples of romantic love, and maybe that’s why he’s having a hard time understanding the dynamic between Deran and his girlfriend.

There’s no screaming. No cursing each other out on a regular basis. As far as Pope can tell, the two of you never even get into minor disagreements.

And there’s no cheating.

One morning, just a few days after Pope gets out of prison, he’s making himself breakfast when he overhears Craig trying to convince Deran to go with him to a party later that night.

“Come on, man,” Craig whines. “Just swing by for a couple hours. Renn’s cousin is going to be there. You know she has a thing for you.”

Pope looks up in time to catch the disgusted grimace on Deran’s face.

“I have a fucking girlfriend, dude. You know that.”

“I keep forgetting you two are serious now,” Craig sighs. “Bring her too, then.”

When Pope meets you the very next day, he understands why Deran had seemed so repulsed at the mere suggestion of going to a party to hang out with some girl who isn’t you.

He stops dead in his tracks when he walks into the backyard and finds you laying by the pool. Strappy bikini a size too small, perfectly polished toenails, and skin glistening in the sun - he can’t help but stare at you until you realize he is standing still as a statue just feet away, watching wordlessly. You didn’t even hear him come out, your eyes closed and music pouring softly from a Bluetooth speaker.

“Shit,” you hiss as soon as you notice his presence, taken off guard. “Uhm - hey,” you laugh awkwardly, sitting up from your position on the foldable lounge chair and pausing whatever upbeat song you’re listening to. “I take it that you’re Pope? Deran told me you might be around today.”

Pope is silent for a moment as he pieces together who you are. His gaze trails over your bare shoulders and down to your thighs before looking you in the eye again.

“You’re Deran’s girlfriend?” He tries to keep his tone neutral, but he can’t hide the incredulity that slips through.

“That’s me.” Another awkward laugh, though you don’t seem offended by the question. You offer a soft smile, but he thinks something about it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Deran should be here pretty soon, but I was about to make myself some lunch. Do you…want a sandwich or something?”

He isn’t hungry. He already ate. But for some reason, he says yes anyway.

You yank on a pair of blue jean shorts over your bikini bottoms and he follows you into the house where you insist on making him a sandwich while he tries not to ogle you too hard.

(At the time, he told himself that he would have taken the opportunity to hang around any pretty girl because he had just spent three fucking years in prison. But that wasn’t it. It was you. He wanted to be around you, even after just meeting you).

“So,” you start, spreading mustard across a piece of bread with a butter knife, “Would you prefer if I called you Andrew or Pope? Deran always calls you Pope, but I guess that’s kind of a family nickname, right?”

The question takes him by surprise. He hasn’t heard anyone call him Pope much in years. It still sounds weird to hear the nickname again. It feels like it’s been forever since anyone has even called him Andrew, too - it’s mostly been “Cody” or “Inmate 87286-923” for the last three years.

He’d forgotten how his name - government name or otherwise - sounds when it isn’t being barked at him. Coming from you, both names sound like music.

You glance up when he doesn’t answer right away, your expression hesitant as if worried you said something wrong.

“Either is fine,” he answers when he remembers how to string two words together. “Call me whatever you want.”

And he meant that. He doesn’t really have a preference. He would be fine with you calling him anything, as long as you call him something - but he got the best of both worlds when you decided that you would call him Pope in the presence of his family but Andrew anytime the two of you find yourselves alone.

It isn’t the lack of fighting or infidelity that perplexes him the most, though. It’s the fact that in the now six months since he’s been back home, he’s never once seen Deran kiss you.

Only ever a peck on the cheek here and there. He’s seen his arm slung around your shoulder, and your feet propped up in his lap when the two of you lounge on the couch at Smurf’s. He’s seen you rub sunscreen on Deran’s shoulders and watched him swim around the pool with you on his back plenty of times.

But in the last half year, he’s never seen either of you kiss the other on the lips.

Not that Pope is complaining. The last thing he wants is to watch you kiss his brother. He experiences more than enough unwelcome thoughts anytime he sees the two of you so much as hold hands.

He just doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand how Deran doesn’t kiss you every chance he gets. You’re over at Smurf’s often enough that he should have witnessed it at least once by now.

He hates that he even pays attention to such a thing. It’s really not any of his business how you two choose to show your affection, but he can’t help the way he feels the slightest jolt of jealousy when you kiss Deran on the forehead anytime you’re leaving Smurf’s - and then relief that’s all it is. A kiss on the forehead and nothing more.

Because if you were his - and he’s painfully aware of the fact that you’re very much not - he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off you as easily as Deran does.

It takes everything in him to stop himself as is.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

“You look like you’re having a blast.”

The familiar voice pulls you out of your trance over the roar of rap music. You glance up from where you sit on the edge of the pool, your legs dangling over and into the lukewarm water. Pope stares down at you, his expression as neutral as ever and beer bottle in hand.

“And you look like you’re going to church instead of a pool party,” you snort. You aren’t surprised in the slightest that he’s wearing one of his typical short sleeve button-ups instead of swim trunks, but you are a little surprised that he’s here right now. Parties with dozens of half-naked shit-faced drunks aren’t really Pope’s thing.

Then again, they aren’t really your thing either, yet here you are - nursing the same piss flavored beer Deran had handed you over an hour ago as you watch him and Craig shotgun beers across the yard.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, patting the concrete beside you in invitation for him to sit down. “Where’s Lena? I thought she was with you tonight.”

“She’s at home. With the sitter.” He crouches down, albeit a little awkwardly due to the fact he’s wearing pants and shoes and can’t dip his feet into the pool like you. Even with his legs bent at the knees and his arms resting across them, he seems stiff. Uncomfortable. Like he’d rather be anywhere else than here. “I had a few things I needed to take care of before the job tomorrow.”

Ah, yes. The job. The job that you definitely don’t know anything about - as far as Smurf and the others are concerned, anyway.

You may not get involved, but you aren’t oblivious to what Pope and his family do to make money. Piecing it together hadn’t exactly been rocket science. Every time a major robbery, heist, or hit-and-run occurs within a fifty mile radius of Oceanside, Deran suddenly seems to have an abundance of cash.

What really made the pieces click into place was the time he asked you to cover his half of the rent and then mysteriously had the funds to completely pay your car off for you less than forty-eight hours later.

“Do I even wanna know where you got this money?” You ask when he hands you a thick envelope with over six thousand dollars in it. The exact amount you need to pay your car loan off.

Deran sighs. “No. You really don’t.”

The following morning, you turned on the news at work and watched coverage of a casino that got hit for over a half million just two towns over.

You aren’t a fucking idiot. His flesh and blood brother was in prison for a bank robbery at the time. Two plus two is four.

Pope’s not an idiot, either. He knows that you know. But you don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to, and he doesn’t volunteer any information that could potentially put you in danger.

“And?” You ask, leaning back on the palms of your hands. You turn your head to look at him and find that he seems particularly interested in the beer bottle in his hand. “Did you get everything taken care of?”

A curt nod. “Everything should be good to go.”

And that’s that. You don’t pry any further.

“I would’ve watched Lena tonight if I had known,” you say lightly.

That gets him to look at you. “It’s your first night off in five days,” he says lowly, bringing the rim of the bottle to his lips. “Didn’t wanna ask that of you.”

“I wouldn't mind,” you murmur, looking away to play off the heat rising on the back of your neck at the realization that he knew it was your first night off this week. “I like spending time with Lena.”

Pope hums, the corners of his lips quirking. “Yeah. She likes spending time with you, too.”

“And I’d much rather be hanging out with her than be…here right now,” you grumble as Deran and Craig emerge from the house with another keg.

“What?” Pope chirps. “You don’t think holding your boyfriend’s hair back as he pukes into Smurf’s three hundred dollar orchid is fun?”

You snort a laugh, but you can’t help the way your fingers clench around the neck of your beer bottle at the word boyfriend. “You saw that, huh?”

“At least a dozen people saw that.”

“Good,” you huff. “That’s what he gets for thinking he can drink all of that on an empty stomach.”

At that exact moment, one of Deran and Craig’s surfer buddies yells “CANNONBALL!” from the roof of the house a second before you and Pope both get drenched in pool water. You’re in a bathing suit, so no big deal - annoying, but not a big deal. Pope, on the other hand, looks like he’s seconds away from jumping in the pool and drowning the guy for soaking his jeans and button-up.

“Jesus,” you grunt. “I’m over this. Wanna get out of here?”

Pope’s expression morphs from annoyance to surprise. He glances around like he isn’t one hundred percent sure you’re talking to him. Then, you stand and offer him a hand up. He hesitates a second longer, staring in Deran’s direction before accepting your hand and getting up.

“Where’re we going?” He asks, a step behind you.

“It’s a surprise.”

It’s not a surprise. You just didn’t think that far ahead before making the proposition - you just know that you want to be somewhere else. Somewhere that you aren’t surrounded by drunk, obnoxious assholes. Somewhere that you don’t look up and see a girl practically humping some douchebag’s leg. Somewhere that you can actually relax on your first Friday off in two months.

And, for reasons that you won’t let yourself dwell on right now, somewhere that you and Pope can be alone.

Somewhere you don’t have to worry that people are looking at you and wondering why is she spending so much time with her boyfriend’s brother while her boyfriend gets plastered twenty feet away?

The answer to that is quite simple, actually. Deran isn’t really your boyfriend. But no one knows that except for you and him. Not even Pope.

As far as he and everyone else knows, you and Deran have been in a committed relationship for well over half a year now.

“Don’t you want to let Deran know that you’re leaving?” He murmurs low enough that only you hear as the two of you make your way through a throng of people near the back door to the house. Deran stands several yards away with his back to you, talking animatedly with Craig and a few of their friends. “I’m sure he’ll worry if you dip without saying anything.”

You have to refrain from laughing at that. You stop to grab your tank top and shorts off the table by the back entrance, quickly cramming your feet into your sandals. “He looks a little occupied at the moment. I’ll send him a text and let him know I decided to head out early.”

You have no real intention of doing so, but Pope doesn’t need to worry about that.

He follows you to your car, gets in the passenger seat, and doesn’t question you any further until you park your car at the first somewhat calm, quiet place that comes to mind.

A quaint cliffside pull-off overlooking the ocean on the outskirts of town. It’s no more than a ten minute drive from the Cody house, but it’s so serene that it feels hundreds of miles away. You roll down both the driver and passenger side windows before turning your car off, and for a moment the only thing you can hear is the crashing of waves against the rocks below.

“Do you come up here often?” Pope murmurs, voice filling the silence.

You shake your head, not taking your eyes off of the moonlight that dances across the water. “I used to. A long time ago. Before Deran.”

From your peripheral vision, you can tell that he’s turned his head to look at you. “How did you two meet, anyway?” He asks after an extended silence.

You huff a humorless laugh. “It’s not exactly a cute story.”

He unbuckles his seatbelt, turning to face you more fully. “Well, now I’m really curious.”

You finally look at him. He’s staring at you with that same look that you’ve been trying and failing to get a read on since the first time you met him six months ago. He looks at you now exactly how he looked at you then, that day by Smurf’s pool.

You exhale, looking back to the black horizon so you might stand a chance of regaining the ability to think clearly. “We met about three years ago. I was still dating my ex boyfriend at the time. I was working the bar one evening when my ex stumbled in drunk and decided to pick a fight with some poor guy he thought was hitting on me. I tried to intervene, and my ex shoved me so hard I fell backwards and hit my head on the counter…” You trail off, shaking your head at the memory. Pope waits silently for you to continue.

“And Deran,” you continue with a soft laugh, “was sitting just two stools down. He didn’t even hesitate. Just grabbed my ex and started beating the ever-loving fuck out of him right in the middle of the bar until he was unconscious. That wasn’t the first time my ex put hands on me but it was the last.”

You look back to Pope to find he’s still staring at you, his jaw clenched and hazel eyes sharp even in the dimly lit car. For once, you’re able to tell exactly what he’s thinking and it sends a shiver up your spine. Without even saying a word, you know that if Deran hadn’t already pulverized your ex, you’d have to stop Pope from going and doing the same.

“Anyway,” you shrug, trying to break the tension brewing in your passenger seat. “That’s how we met. Deran stayed even after the cops showed up to make sure I was okay, walked me to my car when I was leaving…and just kinda stuck around after that, I guess. Been best friends ever since.”

The last words slip out before you can stop them. Best friends. It isn’t a lie. You are best friends - have been ever since that night. But sitting here now, alone with his brother, it’s too easy for you to forget that you’re supposed to be more than just best friends.

If Pope thinks anything of your choice of words, he doesn’t point it out. “Sounds like it was a good thing he was there that night,” he says lowly, his voice clipped. “I’m glad you got away from that.”

You give a small nod. “Yeah. Me too.”

“And Deran…” He starts, trailing off until you glance at him. “He’s good to you?”

You blink, taken off guard by the question. “Deran?” You snort. “Yeah, he’s…I mean, he’s Deran.” You shrug. “He doesn’t show up shit-faced at my job and pick fights with random men, if that’s what you’re asking.”

You laugh, but Pope doesn’t. “No,” he says slowly. “I’m asking if he makes you happy.”

You swallow. The space inside your car suddenly seems infinitely smaller. Even with the windows rolled down, it feels suffocating.

It’s a simple question. It should have a simple answer.

“Yeah,” you breathe. You force a tightlipped smile that feels completely unnatural. “Of course. Like I said, he’s my best friend.”

Those fucking words again. It’s as if you physically can’t stop yourself from saying them. Best friend, best friend, best friend. Not partner, not boyfriend, not lover. Just best friend.

The most fucked up part is that if it were anyone else sitting here beside you, you know you could force yourself to spew some fabricated bullshit about how in love you are. About how Deran makes you the happiest girl in the world and you’re going to spend the rest of your lives together.

But not Pope. Pope, who you most wish you could blurt out the truth to. Pope, who looks at you so intensely that you have to wonder if he can read your mind and already knows.

“Best friend,” he repeats. It doesn’t sound like a question. “That’s sweet.”

The silence that follows is brief but heavy. Then, your phone chimes with a text message, and you’ve never felt more grateful for an interruption in your life.

“It’s Deran,” you mumble, typing back a quick reply. “Just making sure I’m alright.” You press send, then place your phone back in an empty cup holder. “I should probably get home,” you sigh before Pope has the chance to press the subject of you and Deran any further. “I’ve gotta open the bar in the morning.”

He nods, but there’s something about the look on his face that makes you hesitate. You squint at him. “What?”

Pope shakes his head, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Nothing.”

It doesn’t hit you until later - when you’re lying in bed and failing miserably to keep your thoughts from wandering to Pope Cody - that Deran wouldn’t have texted to ask if you were alright if you had messaged him to let him know that you were leaving the party like you had told Pope you were going to.

That peculiar look on Pope’s face that you hadn’t understood at the time suddenly makes sense to you. He had realized, in that moment, that you never bothered to text Deran and tell him you were leaving.

And what kind of girlfriend doesn’t even take two seconds to let her boyfriend know she’s leaving a party they’re both at?

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

Pope barely slept a wink last night.

He spent half the night going over the details for today’s heist, and the other half replaying and overanalyzing everything you had said during the short time spent together in your car.

One question. Pope had asked you one fucking question. How did you two meet, anyway?

And you had answered him - somehow leaving him with even more questions than before you whisked him away from the party and took him to some remote cliffside pull-off on the outskirts of town.

Questions he can’t ask quite so casually.

Why didn’t you say goodbye to Deran when we were leaving the party? Why do you seem so reluctant to call him your boyfriend? Why didn’t you text him like you said you were going to?

Add those to the list of questions he already had - the biggest of which being why doesn’t he ever kiss you like I fucking want to kiss you?

He may not have the answers to those questions, but he knows one thing: he’s not crazy.

Well, he supposes that’s debatable. A lot of people would argue otherwise. But he’s not imagining things. Not this time. It’s not just wishful thinking on his part. There’s more than meets the eye to your and Deran’s relationship.

Maybe you don’t feel for Pope what he feels for you. But he doesn’t think you feel it for Deran, either.

But he can’t dwell on that anymore right now. Not when Lena’s babysitter is texting him one hour before he’s supposed to leave for a huge job to tell him that she had something unexpected come up and can’t watch Lena tonight.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he grumbles under his breath. He’s got less than an hour to figure out somewhere safe for Lena to stay tonight.

The last thing he wants is to leave her with Smurf and give her the satisfaction of being needed for anything, and he wouldn’t trust Nicky or Renn either one to watch a fucking dog - so he packs Lena an overnight bag and heads to find one of the only people on the planet that he truly trusts with her.

He breathes a small sigh of relief when he pulls into the parking lot of the bar and sees your car.

“What are we doing here?” Lena asks from the backseat.

“I have to go to work,” he explains gently. “Allison is busy tonight so we’re here to see if you can hang out with uncle Deran’s girlfriend for a while.” He turns around to look at Lena - she’s staring at him with those wide doe eyes that Pope has gotten used to seeing filled with disappointment. “Is that okay with you?”

Lena nods, her face perking up a bit.

Pope had figured she wouldn’t mind. He hadn’t been lying when he told you that Lena enjoys spending time with you. Really, he’d far rather Lena spend time with you than her regular babysitter, but he knows that for whatever reason, you enjoy your job.

(He would be more than willing to pay you significantly more than what you make as a bartender, but that’s besides the point).

Lena practically runs towards you the second that she sees you wiping down a corner booth in the nearly empty bar. Pope trails a few feet behind, carrying her overnight bag on his shoulder. He watches as you glance up when Lena calls your name. You instantly open your arms to her, letting her jump into your embrace. The smile on your face when you realize it’s her lights up the whole damn dingy room, Pope thinks.

You and Pope lock eyes with Lena still in your arms. Your gaze lands on the bright pink bag hanging off of his shoulder, and he looks at you apologetically. Without him even saying a word, he can tell that you already know exactly why he and Lena are here.

“Hey, are you hungry?” You ask Lena, placing her back down on the floor. “You want some cheesy fries?” She nods, a somewhat shy but excited smile growing on her face. “I’ll get you cheesy fries and a lemonade. Just go sit in that little booth while I talk to your uncle Pope for a minute, okay?”

Pope waits until Lena is out of earshot before speaking lowly. “I’m sorry,” he starts, but you’re already shaking your head. “Her sitter canceled at the very last second. I’ve gotta meet Deran and Craig in less than an hour. I just don’t wanna leave her with Smurf—”

“Andrew,” you interrupt him, effectively ending his rambling by simply saying his first name. “It’s okay. Really. I’m only working opening shift today, so I get off soon. It isn’t a big deal.”

Pope glances to where Lena sits in the corner booth, watching something on her iPad, and then back to you. “You’re sure?”

“Of course,” you say, soft but sure. You hold out a hand to take Lena’s bag. “Do what you need to do. Me and Lena will find something fun to do this evening.”

He hesitates a second longer, then hands you the bag. “There’s some money in the side pocket for you two to get dinner.” Then, lowly so the few people sitting at the bar can’t hear, “I should be back no later than eleven o’clock, max. Her bedtime is usually eight but it’s Saturday, so she can stay up a little bit later, if she wants. It’s up to you.”

You smirk. “I’ll try not to keep her up too late.”

He can’t help but think that you look so fucking pretty right now. Even in a simple black t-shirt with the bar’s logo and a server’s apron on. He wonders if Deran has told you how pretty you look today.

Or if Deran has even seen you today. Knowing him, he likely crashed at Smurf’s after the party or stayed out until the sun came up and was too hungover to wake up when you left for work.

“She’ll be fine,” you assure him delicately, seemingly taking his silence for hesitation. “Take your time and just…be safe, okay?” You look like you want to say more, but you bite your bottom lip, crossing your arms over your chest.

Pope gives a brief nod. “I will.”

He starts to walk past you to say goodbye to Lena when you grab him by the forearm. His gaze drops to where your hand grips him and then back up to your worried eyes.

“Promise me,” you whisper. “You won’t take any unnecessary risks. You won’t do anything to get yourself locked back up. Or worse.”

There’s a small, petty part of him that wants to ask if you made Deran make you a similar promise. But he knows how mean that would sound, and he knows he would regret it as soon as the words left his lips.

He settles for a simple I promise instead.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

Spending time with Lena doesn’t feel like spending time with a child. It’s more like spending time with an adult trapped in a child’s body.

She’s more reserved and guarded than any seven year old should ever have to be. Hesitant to get close to anyone for fear that they’ll be the next person that she loses.

It never takes you too long to bring her out of her shell, though. All you had to do was ask if she wanted to go get her nails done, and glimpses of the bright little girl beneath the trauma began to peek through.

Any color she wants, you had told her. Multiple colors. A different color for each finger and toenail. She had said that would look silly - ultimately choosing a bright yellow for her toes and a baby pink for her fingernails.

When you asked if she wanted to come back for another manicure in a few weeks, she looked like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to be excited. She hesitated, asking “really?” in a tiny voice that broke your heart.

You had assured her you were confident that her uncle Pope wouldn’t mind.

Afterwards, it started to rain, so your original plan to take her to the beach got scrapped. You had been driving down the road, trying to brainstorm something else to do to pass the time for a couple hours, when you drove past an arcade that you hadn’t been to in years.

Lena hadn’t, either.

Air hockey, skee ball, Whac-A-Mole, pinball, and every claw machine in the building. With all of her tickets (and yours), she picked out a small stuffed bunny that she is now cuddling in your bed - fast asleep, with a belly full of the pizza that you picked up on your way home.

You tucked her into your bed hours ago and she fell asleep within minutes. You wish you could say the same for yourself.

Right now, it’s a quarter til midnight and you’re trying your hardest not to spiral - and the fact that Pope had said he would be back no later than eleven o'clock and you’ve yet to hear a word from him, Deran, or anyone else is only the second half of the reason why.

The first half is an innocent observation made by a seven year old.

“Why are you uncle Deran’s girlfriend and not uncle Pope’s girlfriend?”

You nearly spit out your drink at the question. It’s so random that at first, you think you must have heard her wrong. The two of you are sitting on your living room couch, eating dinner and watching some cute animated movie on Netflix that Lena chose.

“What - why do you ask that?” You laugh.

She isn’t even looking at you, her attention on the screen in front of her. She gives a small shrug and glances at you. “I don’t know,” she says in a small voice. “Sometimes I just wish you were uncle Pope’s girlfriend instead. Is that bad?”

What the hell are you supposed to say to that? Yeah kid, I wish that, too. All the time, actually. But your uncle Deran is actually gay and if I break up with him to get with his fucking brother then people are going to assume that Pope stole his girl and that I cheated on him. But I can’t say that I didn’t actually cheat on him, because then we’d have to admit to the fact that our relationship has been fake this entire time, and Deran would have to come out before he’s ready, and and and—-

Lena is staring at you.

“No,” you say softly. “I don’t think that’s bad. Sometimes we can’t help what we want. But…you don’t have to wish for your uncle Pope and I to be boyfriend and girlfriend. If you want the three of us to spend more time together, or if you want you and I to spend more time together, we can try to make that happen.”

“It’s not that,” she says meekly, looking down at her hands in her lap.

You tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Then what is it, kiddo?”

She hesitates for a moment. You’re going to drop the subject, because ultimately, it doesn’t really matter - what she wants or what you want - but then she opens her mouth.

“Uncle Deran doesn’t look at you the way uncle Pope does.” She looks up at you with those wide, earnest eyes. It’s at this moment that you have to remind yourself that she has no true blood relation to Pope - because just like him, you think she can see right through you. “And you don’t look at uncle Deran the way you look at uncle Pope.”

“Wow,” you laugh, a little too quickly. “Remind me to never play poker with you.” She scrunches her brows together in confusion. Then, you scoot a bit closer to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “Grown-ups are complicated sometimes. But I promise you don’t need to worry about me, or Uncle Pope, or uncle Deran. That’s between us. All that matters is that we all love you. Okay?”

She nods, accepting that answer far more easily than you expect. She doesn’t press, doesn’t question, just leans into your embrace and goes back to watching her movie.

But her words continue to echo in your mind hours after she has fallen asleep and the small house has gone quiet.

Are you really so transparent that a fucking seven year old can read you like that? And if she’s right about the way you look at Pope…could she be right about the way he looks at you, too?

You’ve never let yourself think about it long enough for it to matter. Pope has never been a possibility.

Even if you wish he was.

And then there’s the more obvious and pressing matter at hand - it’s nearly midnight and you have no idea if the boys are okay.

None of them are answering their phones. After Pope and Deran, you even try to call Craig. All go straight to voicemail. You even send Nicky a short, inconspicuous text - simply asking if she’s heard from J. She has not.

You force yourself to put your phone down after that. If their phones are turned off, there’s nothing else you can do for the time being except wait.

You don’t even realize you’ve dozed off until the sound of a car door slamming shut jolts you awake.

You practically sprint to the door, unlocking and opening it before they have a chance to wake Lena up. Your knees almost give out in relief when you see both Deran and Pope standing upright, walking up the front porch steps.

Then you see a cut across Deran’s cheekbone.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, stepping outside. You reach out on instinct, your fingers hovering over the dried blood smeared across his skin. It’s not deep, but it’s ugly. “Are you okay?”

“It’s nothing,” he mutters, brushing it off but letting you inspect the wound. “It’s already stopped bleeding—”

You can’t help but glance past him to where Pope still stands at the top of the porch steps a few feet away. Your eyes are instantly drawn to a large stain on the side of his shirt, just under his ribcage. Dark red and wet looking. Undeniably blood.

“Holy shit,” you whisper, already stepping past Deran without thinking. “Jesus, what happened to you?”

Before you can think twice, your hands are on him, tugging his shirt up. Your stomach drops when you see the bloody gash across his ribs.

“You got shot,” you hiss.

“I got grazed,” he corrects gently, watching you with an unreadable expression. “I promised you I wouldn’t do anything to get locked up or worse, right? I didn’t break that promise. This is just a flesh wound.”

Behind you, Deran clears his throat. “Don’t worry about me, babe. I’m totally fine. In case you were concerned.”

“I know you’re fine, Deran. You’re not the one bleeding onto our porch.”

Deran is silent for a moment as you crouch down to get a better look at the still-oozing wound on Pope’s side. Then, he sighs, muttering something about going to take a shower.

“Don’t wake Lena up,” you call over your shoulder in a whisper-shout as he disappears into the house without another word.

And then it’s just you and Pope. Pope, with his abdomen still halfway exposed and blood dripping down his side.

“Come on,” you tell him. “Let’s get you patched up.”

He follows you into the house without any protest.

“Shirt off,” you command without looking at him as you gather whatever you can find from around the kitchen and small hallway bathroom.

You’re a bartender - not a doctor. Not a nurse. Not even a CNA. But you have been best friends with Deran Cody for a couple years now, so this isn’t your first time having to patch up a gaping, bloody wound.

It is, however, your first time patching up Pope.

Urgent care or the ER is out of the question, so you have to make do with what you have. A clean washcloth, hydrogen peroxide, Neosporin, gauze pads and tape.

Pope takes a silent seat on the couch and lets you examine the wound up close when you sit down beside him. You hear Deran turn on the shower from the master bathroom down the hallway as you begin wiping the mostly dried blood off of his skin with a damp washcloth.

“So,” you start, your face warming under his stare, “other than the obvious, did everything go okay? Are Craig and J alright?”

“Yeah,” Pope grunts. “They’re fine. Me and Deran got the worst of it.”

“Clearly,” you grumble. “Should’ve made you promise specifically to not get shot.” You glance up at him. “I’ll remember that next time.”

He looks down to where you carefully clean the skin of his abdomen. “How was Lena?” He murmurs. “Did she behave for you?”

“Of course,” you snort. “She always does. We had fun. Got our nails done, went to the arcade, got pizza for dinner, watched a movie about a fox and a bunny who are cops…”

“Wow. Sounds like your evening was far more relaxing than mine.” He pauses. “Did you use the money I put in Lena’s bag?”

You roll your eyes but don’t look away from the task at hand. “Yeah. Five hundred dollars was more than enough for dinner, you know.”

He lets out a low, rough laugh at that. You feel it more than you hear it. It rumbles through his chest beneath your hands, the muscles there jumping with the motion of it. Your eyes drift without meaning to, suddenly very aware of how close you’re sitting to him and the steady rise and fall of his bare, bulky chest only inches away. You force your attention away from the thick muscles, grabbing the hydrogen peroxide.

“This will probably sting,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. He nods, just visible enough to confirm he heard you before you carefully squirt the clear liquid over the gash.

“So, where’s she sleeping?” He asks, barely even wincing.

Your brows scrunch together. “In my bedroom?”

A pause. “And where were you sleeping?” You’re too distracted, and too tired, to pick up on the subtle, curious shift in his tone. With one hand, he pats one of your pillows that you had brought from your room along with a large throw blanket to assemble a makeshift bed on the couch. “Here?”

“Yeah?” You snort. “I let Lena sleep in my bedroom and I took the couch…”

“I thought this place had two bedrooms.”

You shake your head, still not entirely sure what he’s getting at. “It does. My room and Der…”

The words die in your throat. You completely freeze as you blot the clean wound dry with a paper towel.

Shit.

Your room…and Deran’s room.

“I mean—” You clear your throat, tossing the paper towel aside and grabbing the tube of Neosporin and a gauze pad to avoid looking him in the eye while your brain is scrambling to think of some excuse as to why a happy couple would be sleeping in separate bedrooms. You say the very first thing that comes to mind. “Deran snores. Like, really loud. And I’m a light sleeper, so…sometimes I crash in the guest room. It was my bedroom before we started dating.”

It’s a shit excuse. It doesn’t at all address why you didn’t just sleep in your and Deran’s shared bedroom tonight, but it’s the best you can come up with on the spot - with him staring at you like he can read your mind.

Pope doesn’t respond right away. You can practically feel his eyes on you, daring you to look up.

“I didn’t know that Deran snores,” he muses lowly.

Does Deran actually snore? Maybe? Sometimes?

You tear off a piece of cheap medical tape you found in the first aid kit. “Yeah, well, you’re not the one who shares a bed with him.”

The room feels impossibly small and suffocating. You hold the gauze pad up to the wound, your hands trembling more than you’d like as you try to make quick work of securing the bandage to his side.

You start to pull away, to tell him that should be good enough for now, to leave the room and attempt to regain your composure after all but blatantly admitting that your relationship is a sham, when Pope grabs your wrist.

At first, he says nothing. Just stares at you, as intense and unyielding as ever. His hand dwarfs your own, his skin like wildfire against yours.

You know you should pull away - should try your hardest to convince him that yes, of course your brother and I sleep in the same bed. Why wouldn’t we? We’re boyfriend and girlfriend. That’s what boyfriends and girlfriends do when they live together—

But all the words catch and pile up in your throat, making you feel like you’re going into anaphylactic shock.

“No, I don’t share a bed with him,” Pope drawls. “But you don’t share a bed with him, either. Do you?”

Your mouth goes dry. There’s no point in even trying to deny it. The truth may as well be written across your forehead.

Pope releases your wrist. You almost think he’s going to let it go - that he isn’t going to press this subject right here, right now, where Deran could so easily overhear. Instead, his hand settles on the exposed skin of your thigh, just above your knee. His calloused thumb applies just enough pressure to the flesh of your inner thigh to make your stomach knot.

“Not only do I think you don’t share a bed,” he murmurs, voice rough, “but I also think you don’t like calling him your boyfriend very much either, for some reason.”

Your heart is beating so hard you’re sure he can feel it through your skin. His hand slides the slightest bit higher.

“And I don’t think he kisses you,” he continues, leaning closer. “At least not the way I think about kissing you.”

Air leaves your lungs in a shaky breath. Your eyes drop to his lips before you can stop yourself.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath.

Your hand moves before your brain can catch up, coming up to cup his jaw. The rough scrape of stubble against your palm sends a shiver down your spine as your lips hover no more than an inch away from his.

He’s shirtless and wounded. Lena’s sleeping in the next room and Deran is showering just down the hall. You’re supposed to be in a relationship with his brother, but right now you can’t remember why you ever thought that was a good idea.

Right now, you don’t really give a shit about any of that because Pope is right. He’s right about it all. You and Deran don’t share a bed. You do struggle calling him your boyfriend. He doesn’t kiss you, and you don’t kiss him.

Never have. Not in the way that every fiber of your being screams to kiss Pope right now.

“No.”

You aren’t quite sure whether he kisses you or you kiss him. You just know within seconds of your lips touching his, the restraint that you’ve been fighting to maintain for months crumbles. His mouth moves against yours with the kind of urgency that both shows and tells just how much he’s been holding himself back all this time, too.

He exhales against your lips, one hand coming up instinctively to grip your waist while the other tightens on your thigh. The pull of it drags you closer to him on the couch and before you know it, you’re straddling his lap, your hands braced on his broad, freckled shoulders for balance. He fists the hem of your t-shirt, bunching the fabric at your waist just enough for his knuckles to graze the exposed skin of your sides.

The unmistakable flavor of menthol on his tongue from a cigarette he undoubtedly smoked on the drive home with Deran tells you that he couldn’t have predicted this happening right now anymore than you could have.

Your fingers glide over the planes of his shoulders and up the sides of his neck until they weave through his short brunet curls that you’ve longed to run your hands through for longer than you care to admit. You give a gentle tug to the hair at the base of his skull and the sound that vibrates from deep within his chest shoots straight to your core.

It’s nothing short of a miracle that your brain is somehow able to register that Deran has turned the shower off.

As much as it equally physically and emotionally pains you to do so, you scramble off of Pope’s lap, adjusting your t-shirt back into a proper position and wiping any evidence of his kiss from your mouth with the back of your hand. As you scoot to the opposite end of the couch from him, you can’t help but take in the current state of him - lips kiss swollen, chest and neck flushed pink, and clad only in the pair of jeans that he attempts to adjust to conceal the bulge you were able to feel through your sleep pants.

If it weren’t for the fact that you can hear Deran exiting the bathroom at this precise moment, you don’t think you’d be able to stop yourself from taking him right here on this couch.

And that’s a very dangerous thought.

Deran enters the living room wearing only a pair of basketball shorts, sandy blond hair still dripping and his own skin flushed pink for reasons entirely different from Pope. Luckily, he barely spares a glance in your direction, walking past you and Pope to get to the kitchen.

“Bleed out on my couch yet? Or are you gonna make it?” Deran calls from where he rummages through an open fridge. You look to Pope, mentally urging him to play off what had just transpired not even ten seconds before Deran walked in the room.

He doesn’t. He stares at the back of Deran’s head, his jaw clenched so tight that you’re surprised he doesn’t break a tooth.

You answer before the silence can turn (more) weird.

“He’s patched up well enough for now,” you say, voice unnaturally high. Then, as casually as you can manage, “there’s leftover pizza from dinner in there, if you’re hungry.”

“Sick,” Deran grunts. “What about you, man? You hungry?”

You raise your brows at him, shooting him a look that clearly says fucking answer him, act normal, I swear to God if you don’t eat that leftover pizza—

He doesn’t take his eyes off of you when he answers with a singular, emotionless word. “Starving.”

Deran has no reaction, but something about the way he says it while looking at you makes it feel like the back of your neck is on fire.

You clear your throat. “Well, I have to open in the morning, so I should probably get some sleep…” You turn to Pope, trying not to completely melt under his stare. “Um - Lena can just sleep here tonight, if you don’t wanna wake her up this late. You can come back and get her in the morning, or you sleep here on the couch if you want—”

It won’t kill you to actually share a bed with Deran for one night. He is your best friend, after all.

“No, that’s okay.” He shakes his head and reaches for the blood soaked shirt on the coffee table. “It’s probably best if I come back in the morning.” He doesn’t elaborate as he starts to put the stained button-up back on.

“At least let me give you one of Deran’s t-shirts to wear for the time being. That thing is covered in blood.” You don’t wait for a response before you’re rising from the couch and walking down the hallway to Deran’s bedroom.

The second the door shuts behind you, you lean against it - fingertips touching your bottom lip that still tingles from where his mouth had moved so desperately with yours. You take a few deep, steadying breaths before you’re able to force yourself to look for a clean t-shirt in the absolute shit show that is Deran’s bedroom.

Part of you feels relieved that Pope is insisting on coming back to get Lena in the morning so that you won’t have to actually sleep in this mess. As much as you love Deran, you can’t say with confidence that he’s changed his bedsheets anytime in the last six months.

Another part of you is glad that Pope won’t be occupying your couch tonight because you know you wouldn’t stand a chance of getting a decent night’s sleep if he were a mere short walk down the hallway.

At least when Pope leaves you can take the couch and try to process the fact that you straddled his lap, stuck your tongue in his mouth and felt the very obvious evidence of his arousal with only walls separating the two of you from Deran and Lena.

You rummage through Deran’s closet until you find the first t-shirt that passes a sniff test while trying not to spiral until you’re fully alone.

“Here’s a t-shirt. If you want to leave your shirt I can try to get the blood out of it—”

You look around the small living room and kitchen to find that Pope is nowhere to be found. Deran leans against the counter, taking a bite of a slice of leftover pizza.

“Where’s Pope?”

Deran shrugs. “I heated a piece of pizza up for him but he muttered something about going home and dipped.”

“He’s the one wearing a bloody shirt, not me,” you sigh, tossing the t-shirt onto the couch and trying to play off the disappointment you feel at his sudden departure.

“Do you think he was acting kinda strange?”

Your stomach flip flops at the question. You can’t bring yourself to look Deran in the eye, so you take your place on the couch once more, your back turned to him. “I mean, he did technically get shot. I guess anyone would be a little on edge after that.”

The excuse feels sour on your tongue, but it’s all you’ve got.

“I guess,” he agrees with a mouthful of pizza. An awkward pause. “Seemed fine enough on the drive here, though.”

You shrug, grateful that Deran can’t see your face at the moment. “Probably just a combination of blood loss and an adrenaline crash after the job. How did that go, by the way?”

Much to your relief, Deran doesn’t press the subject of Pope any further before telling you he’s going to bed after he’s finished eating.

Unfortunately, that does very little to quiet the chaos in your mind.

When you finally turn off the lights and curl up under your blanket on the couch, you know that sleep won’t come easily. Not with the ghost of Pope’s hands still burning against the skin of your waist, not with the taste of a menthol cigarette still lingering on your tongue, and definitely not with the impossible to ignore realization that you have no earthly idea what the fuck you’re supposed to do now.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

Pope has no issue being celibate. He got used to it during his three years in prison.

Then, almost immediately upon being released, his brothers all but forced him to go to a strip club for his birthday, where he ended up having the most unsatisfactory hook-up of his life. He’s sure the woman - whose name he doesn’t even remember - would say the same of the experience.

All it took was that one brief and underwhelming sexual encounter for him to decide that he would rather remain celibate than have sex that feels so…meaningless and unfulfilling.

Coincidentally or not, he had just met you when he came to that decision.

You, his baby brother’s girlfriend, who patched up his wound as if he’s made of glass one moment and then climbed onto his lap and kissed him breathless the next. You, whose lips taste so honey sweet that you got him hard with just one kiss. You, who whimpered as you broke away from him just seconds before Deran entered the room, leaving him desperate to do whatever necessary to keep drawing sounds like that from you.

It all replayed on a loop the entire drive back to his place.

The way you tasted, the feeling of your skin, and how it took every bit of his self restraint to resist laying you down just so he could feel you squirm beneath him.

He wishes he could say this is the first time that he’s thought of you as he gets himself off in the shower, but that would be a lie. It’s far from it, but it is the first time doing so knowing how it feels to have your hands in his hair and the weight of you grinding down right where he most wants you.

Tonight, it takes him no time at all - all he has to do is think of the sweet smell of your perfume and how good it felt to have your fingers in his hair while your lips moved in synchronicity with his own, and he’s finishing with a groan of your name as warm, white liquid follows the water down the drain.

When he lays down in his bed, he finds it difficult to feel guilty about any of it.

He knows that he should. He doesn’t want to hurt his brother. But he felt every ounce of how you had kissed him. There’s no doubt in his mind that you want him as bad as he wants you. That’s not something a person can fake.

Not you, anyway. Pope knows you. You aren’t a good liar.

If he believed that he was intruding on a happy, healthy relationship, he may feel a shred of remorse. But there’s no part of him that believes that to be the case.

You may care about Deran, but no part of Pope believes that you’ve ever kissed Deran the way you kissed him. You may spend most of your time with him, but Pope knows who’s really on your mind the whole time. And you may have love for his brother, but Pope is more sure than ever you aren’t in love with him.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

That morning, you wake far earlier than you need to.

Lena likes to sleep in on days she doesn’t have school, and you don’t have to be at the bar until eleven, but you still find yourself awake at the crack of dawn.

Busying yourself does little to keep your brain from wandering to Pope. You bake blueberry muffins for when Lena wakes up, start a load of laundry, and clean the kitchen and living room all while thinking about what the hell you’re going to say and do whenever he comes to get Lena.

Should you tell him that last night was a mistake and that it can’t happen again? Probably. That would make everything a lot fucking simpler. Nip it in the bud, before either of you get too invested, someone finds out, and people get hurt.

But you’re already invested. Your heart has been invested in Pope Cody since the day you met him by Smurf’s pool. Kissing him last night was just the dam finally breaking.

So what do you tell him, then? The truth? And completely betray Deran’s trust?

Other than Adrian, and a couple nameless men before him, you’re the only person he’s ever told the truth to. You are the only person he’s ever told who he hasn’t also slept with.

You’re the only person he’s ever told simply out of trust, and you won’t blatantly betray that.

You’re drinking coffee on the front porch when Pope parks in front of your house. Equal parts excitement and anticipation bloom in your gut the second that he gets out of his truck and begins walking in your direction.

He pauses when he reaches the top step. He looks at you like he isn’t sure if he’s allowed to do anything other than look at you.

“Good morning,” you hum, coffee mug pressed against your lips. “How’s your side?”

“Sore. Fine,” he murmurs, hesitantly taking the seat on the opposite side of the small patio table. “I changed the bandage this morning. Lena sleep okay?”

“She’s still snoring,” you say fondly.

“She does that,” he sighs, looking around like he’s expecting to see someone else. “Where’s your boyfriend at?”

You roll your eyes. “Your brother,” you correct, placing your mug on the table but not taking your hands off the sides just so you have something to occupy them, “is out surfing. About that, though…” You trail off, going silent. Pope waits, patient but as expressionless as ever.

Not even ten minutes ago, you swore to yourself that you’d only kiss him again if you also give him some kind of explanation that assures him you’re not actually committing infidelity by doing so.

And fuck, you really want to kiss him again, so it’s now or never.

You nod your head in the direction of the front door. “Let’s go inside.”

He quirks a brow, but doesn’t question or object as he stands to follow you into the house. When he enters, you close the door quietly so as to not wake Lena - she’s a deep sleeper, but you really need her to stay asleep for a little bit longer. Just long enough for you to get this off your chest before you chicken out.

You hesitate in the kitchen. You consider sitting down on the couch, but one vivid flashback of what happened last time the two of you sat on that couch together makes you think twice about that, and you settle for leaning against the counter with your arms crossed over your chest instead.

You’re both silent for a moment, but Pope is the first to break.

“Look, I don’t regret last night,” he says, low. He takes a tentative step towards you. “Not at all. But if you do, it’s okay. We can pretend it never happened, if that’s what you—”

“You were right.”

He freezes. Then, takes another small step, leaving only a few inches of space between you. “About which part?”

You lift your shoulders in a half shrug. “All of it. Me and Deran. We don’t share a bed. We don’t kiss. Never have. Not like you and I did. Not even close.”

He doesn’t look surprised. You didn’t expect him to. He had already said it all himself. You’re only confirming what he already believes to be true.

“I’m not in love with Dean. And he isn’t in love with me, either.”

No, he doesn’t look surprised, but you can’t help but think he does look a little bit relieved - even just to hear you say it out loud. But that tiny smidge of relief written in his features is quickly replaced with confusion.

“Then why the hell are you guys together? What am I missing?”

You look down at the floor, your stare locking onto a blueberry you had dropped while making muffins. This is the part that you know you can’t answer honestly. At least not in a way that will make sense to him. He’s going to have questions…ones that you can’t answer in complete honesty without outing Deran.

“Hey,” Pope says, voice uncharacteristically soft. He closes the remaining bit of distance between you and places a tentative hand on your waist, causing you to look up at him. He braces his other hand against the ledge of the counter that you lean against, caging you between it and his body. His hazel eyes bore into yours, searching for whatever it is that you aren’t saying. “You can talk to me. I’m just…trying to understand.”

“I know,” you whisper. You uncross your arms, placing your palms against his chest. Your gaze drops to the chipped polish on one of your fingernails.

“I do love Deran. A lot. And he loves me, too. But we aren’t in love.” You take a breath. “Our relationship is fake.”

His eyes narrow ever so slightly. “Fake.” He repeats the word, his voice unreadable.

“Mm-hm.” You nod, even though you can tell it wasn’t really a question. “Fake.”

“Why?”

You can’t help but snort a laugh at the bewilderment in his tone. You sigh, rubbing your thumb absentmindedly against the front of his shirt where your hand rests on his chest.

“I know it sounds crazy,” you admit. “But it made sense at the time.” Pope waits, silently giving you the opportunity to keep going. “It was my idea. As you know, I work at a busy bar. Men hit on me…pretty much constantly. Some don’t take no for an answer the first time. Or the second time.”

His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“So being able to say that I have a boyfriend helps,” you continue with a shrug. “Most guys back off quicker if they believe there’s another man involved. And at the time…I wasn’t interested in being with anyone for real anyway. A lot of people already assumed me and Deran were together. I mean, we hang out all the time, we live together…it didn’t really come as a shock to most people.”

You pause, then add more firmly, “As for Deran…he has his own reasons for agreeing to the arrangement. But that’s for him to share, when and if he ever feels ready.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and then a slow look of realization settles over his face. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Oh.”

He doesn’t ask for clarification. Doesn’t push the boundary. But Pope’s smarter than most people give him credit for. You can see the gears turning behind those hazel eyes and you have no doubt he can read between the lines of what you are saying, and what you aren’t.

His grip on your waist tightens and his gaze intensifies. The air in the kitchen seems to grow heavier. “And what about now?”

Your words come out as a breathy whisper. “What do you mean?”

“You said you weren’t interested in being with anyone. What about now?”

You swallow. “Now…”

Now, you see the pretty hazel eyes that are staring at you in your dreams every night. Now, when the boys go out on jobs, you’re a mess until you know that not only Deran is okay, but Pope, too. Now, you struggle to call Deran your boyfriend when people ask, because you’re secretly wishing it was Pope you were calling your boyfriend instead. Now, you know how Pope tastes and you aren’t really sure how you managed to go so long not knowing how he tastes. Now, you’re staring at his lips and can’t remember how to form a coherent thought, much less a coherent sentence.

So instead of answering him with words, you grab his face in your hands and pull his face to yours.

For a fraction of a second, he freezes. Then, when your tongue sweeps his bottom lip, a sound releases from deep in his chest and he’s kissing you back. He’s kissing you back like Deran won’t be home any given moment and Lena won’t be waking up any minute now.

His hands rub up and down your sides and yours go to his hair, subconsciously remembering how much he seemed to like your fingers tugging on his curls last night. His lips part for you, his tongue quick to dance with yours. He brings one hand to cup your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the kiss.

Everything that follows happens fast. One second, you’re leaning against the counter kissing, and the next, he’s easing your sleep shorts and panties down your thighs and lifting you onto the edge of the counter before kneeling in front of you.

“Andrew,” you breathe. He takes a calf in each calloused hand, parting your legs just far enough to plant kisses on your inner thighs, the light stubble on his jaw tickling the sensitive skin. “We can’t—Lena’s right down the hallway—”

“It’s gonna be fine,” He murmurs the words against your skin in between trailing kisses up your thighs. He stops when his face is only a few inches from your exposed cunt, looking up at you in a way that makes you fight against the urge to clench your thighs around his head.

“Just stay quiet. Can you do that for me?”

You nod. You nod because you know if you speak, you’ll sound every bit as eager and desperate as you are. Three damn years that you’ve been single, and the last time you even had so much as a disappointing one night stand was months before you and Deran began your fake relationship, so it goes without saying that…touch-starved is a bit of an understatement.

You could have fucked someone at any point if you had wanted to. God knows Deran has. But the truth is, you haven’t wanted to. The last few hook-ups you had prior to you and Deran getting “together” had been so underwhelming that you’ve been repulsed at the thought of sex for the longest time.

Then you met Pope. And now here you are, with his head between your legs in the middle of your kitchen.

He all but moans into you when his lips settle over the bundle of nerves at the apex of your folds. You fight the urge to surge forward, bracing yourself on the countertop with one hand as the other shoots to his hair. You have to purse your lips tightly to keep from releasing the noises that threaten to pour from your throat as he tentatively explores you with his mouth.

Strong arms wrap around your thighs, supporting you from below. His fingers dig into the flesh with just enough pressure that you know you’ll later be able to feel tiny, tender bruises in the exact spots where his fingertips press into your skin.

You glance down at him. It’s the kind of sight that would bring you to your knees if you weren’t already perched on the edge of the countertop - the kind of sight that makes you grateful that he’s helping support your weight right now because it turns your legs to jelly.

His eyes are closed and he’s lost in you - alternating between soft strokes of his tongue up your center and sucking your clit between his pretty lips that are wet with you.

Heat rapidly pools low in your belly and your thighs flex around the sides of his head as you inch closer and closer to release. You croon his name, instantly slapping your own hand over your mouth as soon as the word slips out. He chuckles low against you, the vibration of it shooting through you.

The familiar feeling of a hot coil dangerously close to snapping begins to overtake your senses. Your eyes snap shut and your head rolls back, bracing for the climax that is seconds away from washing over you—

Deran’s voice. Craig’s obnoxious fucking laugh. Both coming from directly outside the house.

“Fuck,” you hiss, ignoring the screaming ache between your legs and practically pushing Pope off you. “Fuck, where’s my—”

Pope reacts even quicker than you. He’s grabbing your sleep shorts and panties from where they lay on the floor, shoving your feet into the holes of both at the same time. He stands, face flushed pink and glistening with your slick, and then darts down the hallway without a word, leaving you to pull your clothing into place just moments before Deran and Craig enter the house in their wetsuits.

You turn in the opposite direction of them, unable to look either one in the eye. You grab the hand towel in front of you and pretend to busy yourself with an imaginary spill on the counter.

“Morning,” Deran calls as he makes a beeline for the fridge. “Smells good in here.”

You clear your throat. “Oh, yeah. I made blueberry muffins. They’re on the dining table. Help yourselves.” Your voice comes out too high-pitched and you mentally recoil.

“Where’s Pope?” Craig asks. “I saw his truck out front.”

“Yeah, he’s here,” you say, forcefully casual. You turn to face them, leaning against the counter and hoping your face looks neutral. “He’s in the bathroom. Or…waking Lena up, maybe. Not sure.”

Really smooth, idiot.

Craig nods in response, seemingly oblivious as he grabs a muffin from the tin on the dining room table.

“What are you guys doing back so early?” Then, fearing the questions sounds more accusatory than curious, you add, “I figured you’d be in the water until lunch time.”

A…curious? Suspicious? Look comes over Deran’s face as he takes a step toward you, leaning in to place a hand on your waist and a kiss on your cheek. “We’re gonna go back out. Just wanted to grab a quick bite to eat.” He retreats, joining Craig at the table. “That okay with you?”

Your cheeks warm and you force a laugh. “Yeah, of course.”

For the next few minutes, you attempt to keep yourself busy by unloading clean dishes from the dishwasher. And by attempt to keep yourself busy, you actually mean try to ignore how uncomfortably sticky wet your underwear are.

After what feels like forever but in actuality was likely no more than ten minutes, Pope and Lena appear from the hallway.

“Hey Lena,” Craig greets her with a smile. Then, eyes trailing over Pope he adds, “How you feeling, man? Heard that bullet grazed you pretty damn good last night.”

Pope shrugs, face giving nothing away. “Never been better.”

The three of them converse while eating, but you can’t help but notice the way that Pope barely says a word to Deran. Hardly even looks at him, really. You try to tell yourself that he’s just being…well, Pope, but deep down you know it’s the fact that he had his fucking tongue buried inside you seconds before Deran got home.

And even though Pope knows that Deran isn’t actually your boyfriend, they’re still brothers. He’s still lying to his brother, and that can’t come easily.

It doesn’t come easily to you, either. Even just being here in this room with all of them right now, you feel like if you open your mouth, you’re surely going to blurt out the truth.

“Everything okay with you?” Deran asks, pulling you out of a trancelike state.

You had been staring at Pope’s side profile.

“Me? I’m fine,” you answer a bit too quickly. “I didn’t get much sleep last night. Not looking forward to this shift today.”

There’s a beat of awkward silence, which Pope is the first to break. “Lena? Isn’t there something you wanted to ask?”

You glance from Pope to Lena. She’s staring at Pope with a shy smile on her face, like she isn’t totally sure if she wants to speak or not.

“Go on,” Pope encourages. “You can ask her.”

She looks at you…and then briefly at Deran before back to you once more. “Do you and uncle Deran want to come to my house for dinner tonight?”

You can’t stop your eyes from going wide at the question. You aren’t sure what you were expecting, but Pope encouraging Lena to ask you and Deran over for dinner wasn’t anywhere on the list of possibilities.

Your foot twitches with the urge to kick Pope from beneath the table.

“Oh—”

“Ah, I’m sorry, Lena,” Deran interrupts you. “I’d love to come over but I have to cover a shift at the bar tonight because we’re short staffed.” Deran looks at you, brows slightly raised. “But you’re more than welcome to go, if you want.”

Lena’s looking at you hopefully. “Uncle Pope’s going to make spaghetti.”

“Oh, is he?” You quip, glancing at Pope, who has been staring at you the whole time with an impassive expression. “Well, I do love spaghetti. Of course I’ll come.”

That earns a toothy grin from Lena, and something like a smirk from Pope.

Dinner. It’s just dinner. Lena will be there. And Deran knows about it, too. Even gave you his blessing to go, so it’s not like you’re being secretive.

Dinner is good. Dinner is fine. So why is your heart racing at the thought of it?

When Pope and Lena say their goodbyes and head out to his truck, you spot the small purple bunny that Lena had won at the arcade last night on the kitchen counter. You could just bring it with you to dinner tonight and give it back to her then, but you’re going to take this as an opportunity to interrogate Pope.

By the time you slip on your flip flops and run outside, Lena is already buckled into the backseat and Pope is opening the driver’s door.

“Wait a sec!” You call. He freezes, looking back over his shoulder. “She forgot this.” You toss him the bunny and he catches it. You wait for him to shut the door before you speak again. “What the hell was that?”

“What was what?” He starts to take a step closer to you, but stops himself after a quick glance in the direction of the house.

“That,” you whisper-hiss. “Inviting me and Deran to dinner after eating me ou—” Now it’s your turn to stop yourself. You shake your head. “You’re lucky he’s busy at the bar tonight.”

Pope smirks, the apples of his cheeks turning pink as he appears to be fighting off laughter. “I already knew that Deran is busy tonight. He was complaining last night about being understaffed and having to work tonight.”

“Oh. That’s…oh. That makes sense.”

He shrugs. “Just figured it would be less weird if Lena invited both of you.”

You cock a brow. “So you put her up to that, then?”

“I needed an excuse to see you tonight,” he says simply, opening the door to his truck again. “Do you…actually like spaghetti?”

You laugh, your face warming at the hopefulness in his voice. “Yeah. Spaghetti’s good.”

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

“What happens when you meet someone? Someone you want to be with for real?”

The question Deran asked in response to you proposing a fake relationship nine months ago has echoed in your mind all day long. From the moment that Pope and Lena pulled out of your driveway this morning, throughout your shift at the bar, the entire time you’re getting ready to go over to their place for dinner, and with every bite of spaghetti, the question rings louder and louder.

“In the rather unlikely event that happens, then we simply end our romantic endeavor. We’re still best friends. No harm done. Sound good?”

At the time, it did sound good. It sounded so simple. But you never could have predicted that the person you would meet, the person you would want to be with for real, would be his damn brother.

What kind of luck is that? To genuinely fall for someone for the first time in years and it happens to be your best friend’s brother?

No harm done. You can only fucking hope - hope that Deran doesn’t feel betrayed, hope that he still wants to be your friend, and hope that he isn’t angry with Pope whenever you tell him.

Because you are going to tell him. Soon. You’re just still trying to figure out exactly what it is you’re going to tell him.

Pope’s mouth is on your throat.

Dinner was over a while ago, followed by several games of Connect 4 at Lena’s request. Then, you insisted on cleaning the kitchen while Pope helped her get ready for bed. Now, the house is quiet. The curtains are drawn, the doors are locked, the lights are low, and his mouth is on your throat.

An Animal Planet documentary playing on the TV illuminates the otherwise dark living room. You’re flat on your back on the couch with Pope above you, one arm braced next to your head and his other hand resting just under the hem of your shirt, fingers splayed across the skin of your stomach. Your legs are wrapped around his waist, keeping him pressed as closed as possible while still wearing clothes.

He alternates between peppering wet kisses and sucking tiny love bites along the column of your throat. You feel the hard press of him between your legs, unable to resist arching upwards in an attempt to relieve the rapidly growing ache in your core. He lets out a low, throaty groan at the movement, grinding down with enough pressure to make you gasp out in longing.

“Andrew,” you whisper, voice strained with arousal. Your hands shoot to the sides of his head, delicately urging him back. He pulls away instantly, just enough for his face to hover inches above yours.

“What is it?” He murmurs, worry on his face. He removes his hand from beneath your shirt, smoothing the fabric back into place. The simple gesture makes your stomach flutter. “What’s wrong?”

You shake your head quickly. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong, really. I love this. Being here with you. Spending time with you and Lena. This…” You trail off, breathless, glancing down at the very limited amount of space between his chest and yours. “I just can’t help but feel bad about keeping it from Deran. I know I’m not actually cheating on him…but he’s still my best friend. And your brother. I want to be honest with him before this…goes any further.”

His expression is soft as he nods. He maneuvers off of you, sitting up and helping you into a sitting position beside him, one arm wrapped around your shoulder as he pulls you into his side. “What are you gonna tell him, exactly?” He places a tentative hand on your thigh. “What is…this?”

A shaky laugh slips out. “I was hoping we could figure that out together,” you say, eyes dropping to where his hand rests on your leg. “All I know is I don’t want it to end. I just want to tell him first.”

“There’s nothing for me to figure out. You’re it for me.”

Your eyes shoot back up to his. His thumb brushes over your skin in slow circles. He tilts his head, a faint smirk appearing on his lips. “But I’m not going anywhere. So you do whatever you need to do.”

You start to lean in, to kiss him once more, when the front door rattles sharply from a few feet away. The handle twists back and forth, like whoever is on the other side is fully expecting it to open. Pope goes rigid beside you. There’s a brief pause, then the handle jiggles again, followed by a light knock.

“Hey, it’s just me,” Deran’s voice calls from beyond the door. “You guys in there?”

You’re pulling out of Pope’s embrace in an instant, standing to open the door. “Just act casual,” you murmur low, too quiet for Deran to hear.

You unlock the knob and deadbolt with shaky hands, trying your hardest to erase any signs of unease from your face. You’re going to talk to Deran about all of this, and soon - but not in front of Pope.

Tonight. Once the two of you are back at your place, alone.

“Hey,” you greet him cheerfully when you open the door. “How’d you get off work so early? Thought we were short staffed tonight.” It’s only 8:30 - the bar doesn’t normally close until ten o’clock on Sunday nights.

“We were,” Deran huffs, walking past you to enter the house as you hold the door open for him. “But we were also dead tonight, so I decided to close. Let everyone go home a little early. I was driving home and saw that your car’s still here so I thought I’d stop by.”

Deran pauses next to the recliner, hesitating before sitting down - he glances around the room, seemingly noticing how it’s dark except for the muted under the cabinet lights in the kitchen and the TV playing in the small living room. His gaze lingers on the two half empty beer bottles on the coffee table, one directly in front of Pope and the other in front of where you had been sitting moments prior.

Deran gives an awkward clear of his throat when Pope only stares at him wordlessly. “So, where’s Lena?” He asks, looking around for any sign of the girl.

“Asleep,” Pope answers shortly. “She has school in the morning.”

“Right,” Deran says with a click of his tongue, though there’s something in his voice that makes your stomach twist.

You hover awkwardly by the recliner, not eager to reclaim your original seat next to Pope. “She just laid down a few minutes ago,” you add. “We had been playing Connect 4 and watching a show on Animal Planet.” You gesture vaguely to the television and the red and yellow checkers scattered across the coffee table, evidence of your post-dinner activities. “I was uh - I was just getting ready to leave, actually.”

Deran’s eyes dart back and forth between you and Pope before he responds. “Ah. I see.” He pushes himself off the arms of the recliner with his palms, standing back up. “Well, I guess I’ll see you at home then.”

And whether due it’s the look on his face or the tone of his voice, you have no doubt that he knows something is off.

You nod quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

Deran mumbles an emotionless see ya later to Pope, not waiting for a response before he’s opening the front door and stepping back outside. When the door closes behind him, it echoes in the otherwise quiet room.

“Shit,” you grumble under your breath, looking around for where you had put your shoes. “Well, if he wasn’t already suspicious, he definitely fucking is now. I’ve gotta get home and try to explain—”

You don’t even notice that Pope stands up and walks over to you until he’s taking your face in his hands, tilting your head to look at him.

“He may be upset at first,” he says with a half-shrug and sympathetic look. “Probably will be. I know I don’t know all of the details, but I know you love him. He loves you, too. Everything will be okay.”

You nod meekly, trying to believe his words, but your brain is spiraling with worst-case scenarios. You won’t actually believe that things will be okay until they are okay.

And you know there’s only one way to make that happen.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

Deran’s not an idiot, and he sure as hell isn’t blind.

Pope may be a near decade older than him, and he may have spent a good portion of Deran’s twenties in prison, but Deran still knows his brother well.

And he knows you very well.

Well enough to know that in the three years that the two of you have been friends, he’s never seen you look at someone the way that you do Pope.

He doesn’t really understand why you look at Pope the way that you do, but then again, he doesn’t really understand why you’re best friends with him, either. He supposes you see the best in people, even if you could do better.

Whatever the hell is going on between you and his older brother, isn’t a new and shocking revelation to him. He’s noticed Pope staring at you on too many different occasions to count at this point, and he knows you’ve always had a soft spot for Pope.

But he’s noticed a shift over the last few days. Normally, he can ignore Pope’s staring, but it’s more than that now. It’s more than just stolen, longing looks when he thinks you aren’t watching.

Because now, you’re staring back. Maybe not in the exact same creepy, intense way that Pope does, but that’s besides the point.

He accepted that he can no longer play it off as a soft spot when he and Pope got home from their most recent job and you looked like you had seen a ghost when you realized that Pope was bleeding. The second that you noticed the red stain on Pope’s shirt, Deran was suddenly chopped liver.

Maybe he should feel relieved. If you’re going to fall for one of his brothers, at least it isn’t Craig. He loves the guy to death, but he doesn’t exactly have the best track record with women. He’d just cheat on you, or give you some unheard of and incurable STD, or pull a move like he did with Renn and leave you for dead the first chance he gets.

Still. He never expected it to be Pope.

But Deran knows better than most that the heart wants it wants. He can’t fault you for that. He just doesn’t understand why you didn’t tell him.

He’s told you everything. Everything. Things he’s never told anyone else. You know about the family business - well, more or less. He doesn’t exactly try to hide it. You know the truth of what a monster Smurf is. You were the first person he told about his plans to buy the bar you’d been working at for years - the exact place the two of you met. You know he’s gay. He trusts you implicitly, but you’ve kept the fact that you’re seeing his brother from him?

He isn’t angry (he’s trying not to be, anyway) but more than anything else, he’s hurt.

His best friend. His brother. And neither told him.

When you get home less than five minutes after him, he’s nursing a beer on the couch, waiting for you. He doesn’t say anything at first. You enter the house, slowly, leaning against the door and not meeting his eye for a long moment before taking a deep breath in.

“There’s something we need to talk about.”

“Yeah,” Deran snorts a sarcastic laugh. “I’d say so.”

You look up. If you’re surprised by his response, you don’t let it show. You purse your lips, making your way to the living room the two of you have shared for the last few years now, taking a seat on the loveseat directly across from him.

“Listen,” you start, staring down at your hands in your lap. “I should’ve told you. I know that. I’m not gonna sit here and pretend I had some perfect reason, because I didn’t. I was just scared. I didn’t know what this was, or where it was going, and I didn’t want you caught in the middle if it didn’t work out.” You pause, your voice softening. “But still. I’m sorry for not telling you from the start.”

Deran’s silent for a moment, letting your words sink in. The tension in his shoulders eases the slightest bit at the sincerity in your voice.

The two of you never fight. Bicker like children sometimes, sure. Like when he doesn’t rinse his dishes off before putting them in the sink or waits too long to switch the laundry over so it starts to smell musty and you have to restart the load, or when you eat his last protein bar or forget to put the trash on the curb on garbage day.

But you never fight. You’re the one person he never has to fight with. Even now, he doesn’t want to fight with you.

He nods, staring down at the amber colored glass in his hands instead of you. “How long has this been going on?”

You let out a quiet snort of a laugh. “Depends. If you’re asking when the first time we kissed was…not even twenty-four hours ago. If you’re asking how long I’ve had feelings for him, then…I don’t know, really. A while.”

“Not even twenty-four — last night? As in after we got back from the job last night? You mean you guys were sucking face while I was in the shower?”

“Yes,” you moan, hiding your face in your hands. “Oh my god, don’t call it that—”

“I knew it.” Deran shakes his head with a humorless laugh. “I fucking knew he was acting even more off putting than usual last night.”

You spread your fingers apart, peeking out from the cracks. “He is not off putting—”

“Holy shit. You are in love with him.”

You groan dramatically, throwing your head back and staring up at the ceiling. Deran tries not to laugh, but he can’t help it.

You sit up a little, expression completely serious now. “Just so you know, I didn’t…tell Pope. About you. He knows that our relationship is fake, but I only told him my reasons for agreeing to it. Not yours.”

He should feel relieved to hear that, but he doesn’t. He just feels guilt - guilt that you felt you couldn’t confide in him. Guilt that you’ve been in this fake relationship for him all this time while harboring feelings for his brother for “a while.” Guilt that you were willing to prioritize him over your own happiness. Guilt that you and Pope wouldn’t have had to sneak around at all if it weren’t for him.

“Well.” He lifts the beer bottle to his lips, taking one last sip before setting it down. “Guess there’s only one thing left to do.”

Your brows pinch together. “What do you mean?”

“I’m breaking up with you.”

You blink, and then your eyes go wide in surprise. “What? You’re…breaking up with me?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Consider yourself dumped.”

Your jaw drops. “You can’t dump me. We weren’t really even together.”

He waves a hand at you in dismissal. “I think what you’re actually trying to say is thank you, Deran.”

“But—”

“Jesus Christ,” he groans. “Will you just let me give you my blessing? You’re off the hook. We’re good. Go suck face with Pope or whatever nasty shit you two were probably doing before I showed up.”

You roll your eyes, but your expression softens. Then, you stand, walking over to where Deran sits on the couch to take the empty space beside him.

“You’re really not mad?” You ask in a small voice.

He exhales through his nose, grabbing your hand in his and giving it a firm squeeze. “No,” he says simply. “How could I be? I mean, I’m not thrilled that it’s Pope, but…” He shrugs. “You committed to a fake relationship for nearly a fucking year for me. You deserve to be happy. Even if it is with my brother,” he adds, a tad more dryly.

You nod slowly, your gaze locked on where his hand still holds yours. “People are gonna talk, you know.” You turn your head slightly to look at him. “About why we broke up. About how I’m with Pope now. They’ll think that I left you for him, or that he stole your girl, or that—”

“So?” He cuts you off. “If I hear anyone say anything about you, I’ll knock their teeth out. Pope would do worse than that.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about,” you say gently. “I don’t care what people say about me. I know the truth. I just don’t want you to feel pressured to…explain. You know, admit that it was a fake relationship or come out before you’re ready to…”

He shakes his head, shushing you. He wraps his free arm around your shoulder. “I appreciate the concern, but I’m a big boy. You don’t need to worry about protecting me from rumors anymore. Let people think and say whatever they want. I’ll come out when I’m ready. Not because people are being nosey assholes.”

You seem to relax a bit at his reassurance. You lean into his embrace, resting your head against his shoulder.

“And not because you’re doing my brother, either.”

That gets a laugh from you. The kind of laugh that lets him know that nothing has really changed between the two of you.

Deran gives your hand another squeeze before letting go. “Go on,” he mutters, nodding towards the front door. “He’s probably pacing holes in the floor right now.”

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

Pope has typed and erased an embarrassing number of text messages in your chat thread since the moment that you pulled out of his driveway.

Let me know how it goes.

You can come back here for the night, if you need to. You can sleep in the bedroom and I’ll take the couch.

How pissed is he?

He doesn’t send any of them. Instead, he sits on the couch, stares at his phone, and hopes that you’ll text or call or magically reappear beside him.

It’s a good thing that he’s accustomed to running off of very little sleep, because he doubts he’ll be getting much at all tonight. He already knows that his mind will race with thoughts of you until he eventually collapses from exhaustion, and that it’ll probably finally happen just hours before he has to take Lena to school.

Pope tries to pay attention to the documentary about killer whales playing on the screen in front of him, but he can’t control how his thoughts keep drifting to you. He thinks of how badly he wishes to sleep with you curled into his chest.

Sleep. That’s all. You said you wanted to talk to Deran before things went any further between the two of you, and Pope doesn’t mind. He’d be content to hold you all night and nothing more. To be close to you, in any capacity, puts him at ease like nothing else. That’s been true since he first met you by Smurf’s pool the day after he got out of prison.

When you pull back into the driveway no more than an hour after leaving, he’s so zoned out that he doesn’t even hear you until you’re knocking softly on the door.

“Hey,” he greets you lowly, instantly relieved and a little taken aback by the cheeky smile on your face when he opens the door. “Is everything oh—”

But you’re stepping across the threshold and cutting him off by pressing your lips to his before he can get the question out.

He freezes for a split-second and then he’s kissing you back.

It feels familiar and new all at once. Familiar because Pope has already committed the taste and feel of you to memory in less than a full day’s time, and new because the way you’re moving your lips with his is unrestrained in a way that all of the previous kisses have not been. The truth of you and him is out there, now. There’s no second-guessing, no weight on your shoulders, no reason to hesitate, and he can feel the difference.

You urge him backwards with your hands planted on his waist. Without ever breaking the kiss, he pushes the door closed behind you and takes your face in his hands. You guide him backwards until his legs make contact with the couch and gently push him down. He pulls you onto his lap, his hands ghosting down your back as you settle over his thighs.

“Yeah,” you whisper against his lips, breathless as you caress his face in your hands. “Everything’s more than okay.”

“You sure?” He murmurs, looking up at you in the dim blue light of the television. You nod, your nose brushing against his and corners of your lips perking into a soft smile. “What did Deran say?”

“He’s thoroughly repulsed by the thought of us kissing,” you snort. A laugh rumbles deep in Pope’s chest. Your hands drop to his chest, where you smooth the fabric of his button-up before your fingers find the top button. “So we should probably do a lot of that in front of him. Just maybe not right away,” you hum, smirking.

You pop the button, and then move onto the next, and then the next, until each one is undone and you’re pushing the fabric off his shoulders and down his arms.

“He didn’t love the way that he found out,” you answer, more serious now. “But he understands. Just wants me to be happy. And you make me happy.”

His entire body goes warm at the sentiment. He pulls you flush against his chest, his hands slipping beneath your shirt to tease the skin of your back. He holds you, gazes up at you, like you’re worth more than gold to him.

And you are. You, and the little girl asleep in the other room, who will be tickled to wake up and learn that you’re still here. That you aren’t going anywhere, if Pope has any say in it.

He smiles at the thought before capturing your lips in his once more.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

{ Epilogue ~ 2 years later }

“This tie is too tight. It’s cutting off the blood flow to my brain.”

“Oh, come here,” you groan playfully. Pope leans in, letting you adjust the green tie that matches your dress (and complements his eyes) perfectly.

“You didn’t have to wear this, you know.” You give the length of the tie a gentle tug after loosening it. “The dress code is semi-formal. You could have gotten away with just a button-up.”

“I know,” he grumbles. “But I wanted to match you and Lena at least a little bit. And I figured I should probably get used to wearing one before our wedding.”

The response warms you as much as the Southern California summer sun.

A beachfront wedding. Small and intimate, with a total guest count of less than thirty people…you can’t think of anything more perfectly Deran and Adrian.

“You don’t have to wear one at our wedding either,” you snort, raising an arm to play with the curls at the base of his skull in the way that he likes. “If you don’t want to.”

He grabs your other hand in his, glancing down at the ring that glimmers in the midday sun. He’d put it on your finger only a few months ago, and in the general chaos of life - Lena’s spring soccer season and ballet recital, helping Deran plan his wedding, you and Pope closing on your new house and getting settled in - the two of you haven’t had much time to begin planning your own special day yet.

“Thought you said it looks good on me,” he hums low, unserious.

“Oh, it does,” you laugh. “Very much so. But I care that you’re comfortable at our wedding. You’d look good in anything.”

Soft instrumental music begins to pour from speakers at the edges of the makeshift ceremony setup and everyone goes quiet, turning to look down the aisle. Lena appears moments later, wearing a frilly flower girl dress that matches yours in color. She smiles nervously the entire time she walks down the aisle, small wicker basket in hand. Every few steps, she grabs a handful of pink and white petals, scattering them across the sandy path. As soon as she reaches the end of the aisle, she runs to where you and Pope sit in the front row and climbs onto his lap.

And then Deran and Adrian appear. Hand in hand, they walk down the aisle together until they come to where Craig - who became legally ordained in the state of California solely for this occasion - stands beneath the driftwood arch you helped decorate with flowers earlier.

They take turns exchanging handwritten vows. They cry, you cry, even Craig gets misty-eyed. And then they’re pronounced husbands in what you can only think to describe as the most endearingly Craig way possible, and everyone on the beach cheers.

Afterwards, everyone helps themselves to unlimited beer and the taco bar set up back at the bar, which Deran has closed to the public for the day. You’d done what you could to spruce the place up - miniature floral arrangements and tea lights candles on the tables - but it’s still a bar. Deran’s bar, broken surfboards and all.

Low music fills the room as guests mingle and drink into the evening. Pope surprises you when he offers you his hand and guides you to the very small, cramped space carved out in the middle of the room for a makeshift dance floor.

It’s more swaying than slow dancing, but you enjoy it all the same.

“I know you said that I don’t have to wear a tie to our wedding,” Pope murmurs low, “but what about dancing? Do we have to dance in front of everyone at our wedding?”

“We’re dancing in front of everyone right now,” you snort. “What’s the difference?”

He glances around the room. “Yeah, but no one is paying any attention to us right now. Everyone is too drunk and paying attention to Deran and Adrian. At our wedding, all eyes will be on us.”

“As they should be,” you hum. You bring a hand to the side of his face, steering his gaze back to you. “Yes, we’re going to dance at our wedding. But I’ll let you pick the song.”

He smirks, his grip on your waist tightening. “I guess I should take some lessons, then.”

The clinking of silverware against glass draws everyone’s attention to where Deran and Adrian stand side by side. You and Pope pause your swaying as he wraps an arm around you and pulls you into his side.

“Alright,” Deran says, clearing his throat. “I’m supposed to say some heartfelt shit now, so bear with me.” Adrian laughs beside him, bumping their shoulders together.

“Two years ago, if someone had told me that I would be standing here today, I wouldn’t have believed them. I probably would have tried to fight them.” That earns a few laughs, but you know better than anyone that he isn’t joking.

“I’m sure most of you know that I haven’t always been the easiest person to deal with,” he continues. “But Adrian—” Deran glances at his now husband with a kind of softness that he reserves only for him, “—Adrian never gave up on me. He stuck around when a lot of people would’ve dipped. And I can’t tell you all how glad I am for that.”

Then, his eyes find you. “And speaking of people who stick around…this one right here.” He points to you with his beer bottle. You suddenly feel every eye in the building on you. Pope gives your arm a comforting squeeze. “Best girlfriend I ever had.”

The small crowd laughs, and you cover your face with your hands, but he presses on. “I’m serious. She was the first person to ever tell me that it’s okay to be who I am. That there’s nothing wrong with me. And there’s no way that I would have gotten to this point without her. And now…I get a front row seat to watch her marry my brother.”

By the time he finishes, you’ve dropped your hands from your face. Now, you’re actively blinking back happy tears. You can’t find the words, so you hold up your hands to form a small heart and hope the simple gesture is worth a thousand words.

Later, after the crowd has thinned and the sun is setting, you and Pope head back down to the beach with a handful of others to gather the remaining chairs and decorations. Lena is supposed to be helping, but she has wandered to the shoreline, happily dipping her toes in the water.

You both pause at the same moment to watch her - her feet bare, her hair and flower girl dress both blowing in the slight breeze. You can only hope that feels as at peace as she looks right now.

“Seeing Deran and Adrian today…” Pope starts, then trails off like he’s searching for the right words.

You turn towards him. “What about it?” You ask gently.

He’s still staring out towards Lena. “Makes me excited for ours.”

“Yeah?” You hum. “Even if I make you slow dance in front of everyone?”

“Yeah.” He meets your eye, his normal intensity fully present. “Whenever you’re ready. Doesn’t matter when or where. I just want that with you.”

Deran’s toast echoes in your mind. Two years ago, if someone had told me that I would be standing here today, I wouldn’t have believed them.

The words could have been taken from your own mouth. After everything the two of you have been through as individuals, and everything you’ve been through together, you’re marrying the love of your life and raising a beautiful little girl together. You’ve made the most of a tragic situation; turned it into something safe and secure for her - a forever home for the three of you. Maybe more, someday. You can’t help but picture Pope with a tiny baby all his own, soft curls and hazel eyes.

Only time will tell. And you have all the time in the world, now.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

and that’s how the show ended….right?? RIGHT???

thank you so much if you read all 18.7k+ words of this. this fic is my baby. i worked on it for well over a month, and i hope you enjoyed reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it.

if you reblog/comment i love you forever <3

[ccandlehead]

── ⟡ MASTERLIST ̟

THE LAST OF US a. anderson mutual yearning abby being a tease lawyer!abby hcs loser!abby with glasses tending to bulking!bsf!abbys wounds bsf!abby thoughts

e. williams influencer au have your cake, eat it too. loser!ellies first time

lev abby and lev reading hcs salt lake crew lev hcs more slc lev abby and lev general hcs

THE PITT d. whitaker IM SO CRAZY 4 U <3 (smau masterlist) dennis getting jealous of a puppy desperate rambley dennis x sweetheart!reader

b. al hashimi “cuddling” to sleep part 2 being her dress up dolly dbf!baran hcs

v. javadi crashtos wedding hcs crashtos general hcs lindavadis first time together

ANIMAL KINGDOM a. cody pope cody with a crybaby gf

[chainedupdyke]

what went thru dennis’ mind

[briarpilled]

pairing: dean di laurentis x reader

summary: you and dean have been best friends since forever, there was hardly anything you could ever keep from each other, so it's not surprising all it takes for you to confess your feelings is a very short-tempered dean and his excessive urge to defend your honor.

content/warnings: fluff, childhood friends to lovers, cursing, brief description of fighting, also brief mention of blood, the good old tend-to-his-wounds trope, love confession because it's cheesy like that, making out.

word count: 1.7k

a/n: inspired by this ask. i'm so excited to post my first off campus fic on this blog, hope you guys enjoy it!

Dean Di Laurentis wasn't one to throw punches—not without a good reason, at least. You know this with the conviction only someone who knows him since childhood could have. Being his best friend since before you could learn how to walk meant you became awfully familiar with all of his flaws and never once looked at him wrong for any of it.

Yes, he was annoyingly vain and could act like a total prick when he really wanted to. Yes, he was thick headed enough to chose one of the most intense—and agressive—sports to play and still manage to be ridiculously good at it. And yes, he was intense and aggressive about it most times, as you eventually grew accostumed to throughout the years.

Still, you've never seen Dean act the way he did on tonight's game.

You've learned to expect the worst when it came to hockey. By now, you'd just sit on the edge of your seat every time you came to watch one of Dean's games—as you naturally did, every single one of them since he started playing—and pray that it didn't end up like that one time he got his head banged so hard against the glass that he got a concussion, your legs bouncing restlessly beneath you and your heart leaping in your throat.

Maybe that kind of acceptance had been the reason why you were so caught off guard when, seemingly upon hearing something a player from the opposite team said during the game, Dean abandoned his stick entirely and launched himself at the guy like an animal out of a cage. You watched completely frozen in place as he grabbed the player by his collar and shook him with such intensity they fell onto the ice, not wasting a second before he was lifting his arm in the air and then lowering his closed fist to collide against the guy's face, still protected by his helmet.

Dean punched him again. Then again. Then one more time before Garrett finally got to him and managed to lift him by the back of his jersey. By then, the crowd was audibly gasping behind the glass and you were suddenly on your feet, clutching your chest and willing your lungs to work, to breathe in some air before you passed out from sheer shock and worry.

Your hands are still shaking an hour later, your fingers trembling slightly as you lift a piece of gauze and press it directly against Dean's bloody knuckles. The disinfectant liquid drenching the material makes him hiss audibly under his breath.

"Shit, that thing stings." He complains, reflexively trying to pull away his arm upon the harsh contact against split skin. You grip him tighter, pulling him back by his wirst with more force than probably necessary.

"Yeah, that's what you get for scaring me like that," You retort, and the pointed look you send him makes Dean's scowling expression morph into something that might as well just be remorse. "And it's only getting worse. I've got a lot of frustration to take out on your pretty hands right now, so you better start talking. What the hell happened?"

Your pulse has a rapid rhythm to it now, irritation rising as a response to the feeling of being scared half to death by the last person you want to see put himself in danger. When Dean doesn't immediately respond, the anger only grows hotter inside you, your eyebrows lifting in a silent command for him to talk.

"He talked about you." He mumbles, so quietly you almost miss it. His eyes won't find yours while he speaks, but you can still sense the tension radiating from him at each word Dean manages to spit out. "That fucker said he would pick a prize after winning the game, then looked right at you through the glass. I saw it."

You stay silent for a long moment then, your fingers stilling where they had been wiping the blood off the back of his hand because there's something in the way he says it that makes you stop and look at him—really look at him.

His shoulders are so stiff with tension they're practically reaching his ears, his free hand closed around one of your ankles with a sort of defensiveness that suggests you might as well be pulled away from him if he doesn't hold you hard enough. You can't put together how something so small has managead to leave him like this.

"That's hardly a good excuse for what you did in there." You manage to say after a few seconds, your voice sounding smaller than you intended when it cuts through the silence that fills your dorm room. "I can take care of myself, you know that better than anyone else."

Dean releases a short chuckle that has anything but humor in it. A muscle in his jaw jumps like he's holding back something that presses just behind his teeth, threatening to come out. "Yeah, I do."

"Then why, Dean? Why would you take a risk like that?"

"Because I wanted to."

It's your turn to scoff now. "You're gonna have to do better than that."

"Because I couldn't help it." He finally shatters, and it's probably the most genuine, unguarded tone you've ever heard coming out of his mouth. Your jaw slackens, mouth falling open in surprise. "Because he fucking talked about you and it made me want to do something about it. Because he had the audacity to think he had some kind of right over you and I just couldn't stand there—couldn't stand there and hear him talk like that about someone I love and do nothing."

Your heart drops to your stomach so suddenly a choked out sound escapes past your lips, the words hanging impossibly heavy in the air between you. Sure, he has said I love you before. You've been best friends since you were children, you've been saying it for years like it's basically second nature.

But it's different now. Even before the words can finish leaving his mouth, you know it's different.

"Dean." Is the only thing you can manage to say. Just the four letters, something familiar to keep you grounded while the whole world seems to bend around you.

Dean looks anywhere but at you, blue eyes darting between his fingers securing your calf and the gauze you're still holding against his knuckles, the white fabric now turned pink with his blood—he searches for any other thing that isn't the look on your face after he has finally released the words he's been trying to hold back for way too much time now.

"Dean Di Laurentis, if you don't look at me right now—" You start arguing, but the words stop right there, because Dean does look, and his eyes are doing this unfamiliar thing that makes it seem like he's handing you something precious and begging you not to break it.

Your heart gives a sudden squeeze in your chest, the words punched out of you before you can help it. "I love you too."

Dean startles like he didn't expect you to say it—like he didn't expect you to say anything at all. You watch his expression change from surprise to expectation and then back to that face he makes when he thinks you're only doing something to make him happy, even when you can still see a hint of hope flickering behind his eyes.

"You don't have to—"

"Don't," You cut in sharply. "Don't say anything. Just kiss me."

The moment of hesitation is barely more than a split second. Dean blinks once, maybe twice as his brain works to register the words, and then he's already surging towards you. His hand flies to the back of your head, a gentle but firm grip settling on your nape. He uses it to guide your lips to his with such confidence you nearly yelp under his touch, your hands lifting to close around the fabric of his shirt before you melt into the kiss.

You feel the change in him when Dean finally feels your mouth on his. His whole body turns toward you, his free hand lifting to your waist like something has finally clicked into place inside him and he knows exactly where to touch you and exactly how much closer to pull you so your body fits perfectly against his.

It's unbelievable and utterly insane—how natural it feels when his tongue darts out to slip inside your mouth and how you barely think before tilting your head back to grant him better access, the way Dean makes a sound deep in his chest when your tongue meets him halfway, a satisfacted rumble that also seems to demand more.

Not enough. Your body seems to chant it under the thrum of your heart, some dormant instinct willing you to pull him impossibly closer, to adjust your position against him so you're lifting yourself just enough to straddle his hips.

Dean catches you immediately, both hands shifting to secure your waist and pull you onto his lap effortlessly. His arms circle tightly around you, bringing you flush against his chest as his tongue continues to explore your mouth like he's trying to reach parts no one has ever reached before.

It isn't until your lungs start gasping for air that you finally register the need to pull away. Dean allows you to pull back just enough to catch a glimpse of your now flushed face, his eyes lowering to your lips and staying there as he studies the way your mouth parts to catch some air.

His voice is hoarse when finally speaks, low and slightly frail at the edges from how wide he's smiling against the words. "There's no going back in this, you know that? You're mine now."

Your lips curl against Dean's mouth, your breath shallow against his equally weak one. You take in the slight flutter to his eyelids, the way his pupils are fully blown behind them as he looks up at you like you're the only thing to ever exist for him, your gaze then shifting to where his heart beats rapidly under your palm. That's how you realize you're exactly where you belong.

"I think I can live with that."

[goldsainz]

# DEAN DI LAURENTIS — RESPECT THE KISSES !

MASTERLIST !

001. SUMMARY !

✶ you attempt a prank on dean—wiping off his kisses—until his pouting is too much for you to bear.

002. WARNINGS !

✶ really old tiktok trend & a lot of kissing.

word count : 1,4k

gif by @alliecathayes

You had been sprawled across Dean’s bed, lazily scrolling through TikTok while he was downstairs preparing breakfast, courtesy of Tucker’s cooking and Dean’s determination to steal half of it before anyone else could.

You barely paid attention to most of the videos until one caught your eye. It was of a girl wiping off her boyfriend’s kisses. The poor guy got more offended with every attempt, eventually following her around the room demanding affection like a neglected golden retriever.

Which, honestly, reminded you a little too much of Dean.

Especially the pout he got whenever he thought you were ignoring him.

So, much to your unsuspecting boyfriend’s future dismay, you decided you would be wiping off every kiss he tried to give you. It would be fun to see just how long you could keep the prank going.

A few minutes later, Dean came back upstairs, opening the door before quickly closing it behind him again. A habit your previously exhibitionist boyfriend had been forced to learn after his roommates walked in on the two of you in compromising positions one too many times, and you finally refused to endure the embarrassment anymore.

He walked in carrying two cups of coffee carefully balanced on a tray alongside eggs, fruit, and toast.

“Breakfast is served, m’lady,” he announced, setting the tray down on the bed before giving an exaggerated bow afterward.

You let out a snort, grabbing your coffee.

Dean sat down beside you, leaning over to grab a piece of toast and pressing a soft kiss to your cheek in the process. Casually, you scratched at the spot and wiped the kiss away.

For a brief moment, you thought Dean hadn’t noticed. Then he frowned and pressed another kiss to the same spot.

Just like before, you rubbed it off.

He let out an offended gasp, staring at you like you had personally betrayed him, but begrudgingly let it slide. Still, he sighed dramatically while chewing on his toast and eggs, already beginning to pout.

“Are you going to the gym with Garrett later?” You asked after a moment of silence, chewing on a strawberry.

Your boyfriend only hummed in response, quietly eating his breakfast.

“Okay…” you dragged out, an amused smile tugging at your lips at the sight of his puppy eyes, like you’d just insulted his entire bloodline. “Is there something on my face?”

You already knew there was. You could feel the strawberry juice dripping from the corner of your mouth.

It was practically catnip for Dean. He immediately leaned forward, pressing a tentative kiss to the spot, his lips brushing yours for a second before ultimately settling at the corner of your mouth instead.

The moment he leaned away, you rubbed at the spot and simply said, “Oh, thank you.”

You caught the way his lips parted in pure disbelief, and had to fight to keep your laughter from spilling out.

This time, Dean’s response to what he clearly considered a personal betrayal was far more aggressive.

He kissed you properly, lips parting against yours, warm and insistent enough that for a brief moment you considered throwing the prank out the window altogether and spending the rest of the day hidden away in his bedroom.

But instead, you leaned back and aggressively smudged at your lips, watching his entire face twist in horror.

“Did I get all the juice?” You asked innocently, still rubbing at your mouth and the skin around it.

“Why are you doing that?” Dean asked, sounding genuinely baffled.

“Doing what?” You finally stopped rubbing.

“You’re wiping off my kisses,” he whined. “Did I do something?”

“Dean, I’m not doing anything,” you said sweetly, smiling at him. “Just don’t want strawberry all over my face, you know?”

He held your gaze for a few long seconds before standing from the bed and disappearing into the bathroom.

For a moment, guilt crept in. If Dean had pulled this prank on you, it would’ve earned him at least a few hours of the silent treatment.

But you were too far in now. You had to see it through.

Or maybe just until he left for the gym.

While your boyfriend sulked in the bathroom, you pulled on a pair, and then headed downstairs, deciding to wash the plates and mugs. Tucker had cooked breakfast, after all. It was the least you could do.

A few minutes later, Dean came downstairs with damp hair and a pair of low-hanging sleep pants slung dangerously low on his hips.

This was undoubtedly payback for your antics.

You kept washing dishes when he walked up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“Done messing around?” He murmured against your ear, the deep timbre of his voice making a shiver run through you.

“I didn’t do anything.”

You turned your head to look at him, and his eyes immediately dropped from yours to your mouth. A second later, he leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to your lips.

You didn’t react right away.

Only once you turned back toward the sink did you bring up your driest hand and wipe the kiss away.

“There!” Dean grabbed your waist, spinning you around to glare at you. “You did it again!”

“What did she do again?” Logan asked as he strolled into the kitchen, eyes darting between the two of you.

“She’s wiping off my kisses!” Dean accused.

As if to prove his point, he grabbed your face with both hands and planted a firm kiss right on your mouth.

A second later, you leaned forward and rubbed your lips against his bare chest.

“Okay, didn’t need to see all that…” Logan muttered before setting his dirty mug on the counter and immediately leaving the kitchen again.

“Seriously, do I have some disease I don’t know about, or do you just not want me kissing you anymore?” He asked, his voice sounding more genuinely hurt this time.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You continued drying off the now clean plates.

“If you say so,” he mumbled with a sigh.

You watched as he leaned forward like he was about to kiss your cheek, only to stop himself at the last second.

That was your final straw. There was no way you were making it all the way until he left for the gym.

“Dean, wait.” You quickly set the towel and plate down on the counter.

“Hm?” He turned around, leaning against the wall separating the kitchen from the living room.

“Come here.”

“Why?” He huffed. “So you can disrespect my kisses again?”

“I’m sorry,” you said, walking over and grabbing his hands to pull him away from the wall.

“Go on,” Dean replied, though there was already a hint of smugness creeping into his tone.

“I saw a prank on TikTok,” you admitted. “I thought it’d be funny to try it on you.”

“I guess I forgive you.” He rolled his eyes, though you could already see the smile tugging at his lips. “But never do it again. I’ll have you know my kisses are a very hot commodity.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Yeah, I think half of Briar knows that.”

“Just half?” He joked, though the grin quickly faltered at the murderous look you sent him.

“I’m about to do worse than wipe off your kisses,” you grumbled.

Dean let out a soft laugh before pulling you closer, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your lips. It was so featherlight it almost tickled.

Then you slid a hand into the hair at the nape of his neck and tugged him back in, kissing him hard enough to make him groan against your mouth.

His hand settled against your lower back before slowly trailing down until he gave your ass a firm squeeze.

You smirked against his lips, slowly lifting a hand toward your mouth again, but Dean immediately caught your wrist before you could do anything.

“Don’t you dare,” he growled, pinning both of your hands in one of his before kissing you again.

Then he lifted you into his arms, your legs instinctively locking around his waist as he carried you upstairs. After kicking his bedroom door shut behind him, he tossed you onto the bed before crawling over you, pressing hot kisses along your neck until his lips finally brushed against yours again.

And as he tugged your—technically his—shirt over your head, you couldn’t help but think smugly that if all pranks ended like this, you’d definitely be pulling a lot more of them in the future.

NOTE : hope you guys are enjoying the dean content because i sure am enjoying writing it! also, i need hannah’s version of ‘cherry pie’ and ‘the bitch is back’ on spotify ASAP.

[sapiensecrets]

staring contest - dennis whitaker x f!reader

gnawing at the bars of my enclosure

summary: dennis steps in when a drunken patient gets handsy with you.

pairings: dennis whitaker x RT!reader word count: 3.5k cw/tags: dennis being hot and buff, protective!dennis, typical pitt warnings (blood, intubation, sedation drugs), discussion and depiction of a child who has swallowed a foreign body (he makes it don't worry), some people call you 'hot shot', mentions and depictions of harassment, dennis physically restrains someone, mentions of prior assaults against you (very minor discussion of bruising, occurred in the workplace), mentions of alcohol and depictions of a drunk person, established relationship, robby thinks both of you are hot if you squint so hard your eyes start to hurt, swearing

OTHER PARTS HERE :)

The ambulance bay doors open before Robby can even get a word out to Dana. 

Trinity and Dennis are on the paramedics in half a second, and Robby hears a snippet of the handover as they fly past him into an open trauma room. 

“Swallowed a screw about twenty minutes ago, parents were gonna’ drive him here but then he started-”

Robby sighs, hanging his head. “Who’s here for RT?”

Dana hums, putting her glasses on and switching tabs on her computer, scanning the screen before saying your last name. Robby relaxes, just a touch. 

“Page her, please.”

“You got it, boss.”

He slides past the paramedics as they leave the room, grabbing a gown and gloves. The kid, maybe about four or five, sits upright on the bed, eyes wide and panicked as he grips his mom’s sweater. She’s explaining what happened, trying to keep herself together for her son, but Robby can tell that she’s absolutely terrified. 

“He was playing on the floor while my husband was building a shelf a few feet away,” She says. Dennis occasionally looks up at her, nodding while he listens to the kid’s lungs. “He started coughing, then he was gagging and crying and we’re pretty sure one of the screws was missing, but we don’t know for sure.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Dennis assures her, pulling his stethoscope out of his ears and looping it around his neck. “Mild stridor, lungs are clear, some drooling. Did you swallow something, buddy?” 

The kid just looks at him, horrified. 

“If he did it’s probably just lodged in the top part of his throat,” Trinity explains, giving the mom a reassuring look. “We’ll try to visualize it and see if we can get it out without surgery.”

“Sats and vitals holding,” Perlah says. “Ninety-six, heart rate one-fifty.”

“Your girlfriend working today?” Trinity asks, the question directed at Dennis. 

“Yep,” He says, annoyance evident in his tone. “She has a name.”

Robby can’t help but chuckle at that. 

“Right, I totally forgot,” She says. “Is hot shot working today?”

“Okay, enough,” Robby chimes in. “She’s already been paged.”

His eyes flit towards Dennis, who does an excellent job at hiding his brief moment of giddiness at the thought of seeing you. 

“Keep him upright, we don’t want anything to move,” Robby adds. “Dr. Santos, what are we worried about?”

“Aspiration, perforation,” She rattles off. 

Robby nods. “Next steps?”

“Uhm, he’s stable enough for X-ray,” Dennis says, glancing over to the monitor, seeing that his sats have come down a few points. “Some supplemental wouldn’t hurt, the screw might be pressing against his trachea.”

The patient starts to cough, making all eyes fall back on him. It starts off okay, likely just from irritation, but he’s bent over from the force. The room goes silent, hoping that this isn’t about to get a lot worse. He inhales after a particularly brutal cough, and it sounds like someone blowing a whistle. A small amount of blood splatters onto the bed in front of him, and red-tinged saliva drips down the side of his mouth when he rights himself. 

“Suction,” Trinity says. Dennis grabs a piece of gauze, wiping the kid’s face. “Can you open your mouth for me?”

He listens, opening his mouth, but he’s struggling to breathe. Everyone can see the way his shoulders lift with each inhale, and Dennis can’t remember the last time he heard stridor this intense from someone under the age of fifty. Robby moves towards his mother, explaining what’s happening and trying to keep her calm. 

“Let’s page surgery,” Trinity says. “And get an ETA from resp-”

The door swings open, and there you are. You can feel the tension in the room from the second you step inside, but if you’re remotely phased by the sight of a child coughing up blood you definitely don’t show it. Instead, you come to the side of the bed, a comforting smile already on your face. 

“Hey, buddy,” You say, eyes trailing over his face and chest quickly. “What happened here?”

“Uh, this is Andrew, four year old male who swallowed a screw,” Trinity says, still suctioning his mouth. “Came in with mild stridor, coughing likely lead to a perforation in the esophagus or trachea, significant stridor now, obviously.”

“Let’s hang a unit and a litre of LR, please,” Dennis says, pulling the gauze away now that Trinity has the bleeding under control with the suction. 

“Hey, that’s okay, we’re gonna’ get it sorted,” You say, patting Andrew on the shin and slipping your stethoscope into place. “I just need to lift up your shirt for a second.”

You listen closely for a few moments, face once again not giving anything away. You nod as you listen against his chest, then you put your stethoscope back around your neck. 

“You’ve paged surgery, I assume?” You ask. 

“Yeah, should be here soon,” Trinity says. 

The monitor starts going insane, making you look over, watching as his sats drop from low nineties to seventy-six. His eyes are starting to droop, his lips turning purple as cyanosis kicks in. Garcia steps inside just as the chaos starts, her eyes widening until they land on you—then they relax. The last thing she wants to do today is get a surgical airway on a little kid, and you’re her best bet at preventing that from happening. 

“Okay, intubation tray, ketamine and roc,” Trinity says. “You got this, hot shot?”

“Absolutely, Dr. Santos,” You say, already positioning yourself at the head of the bed as the medications are administered, lowering the patient down until he’s laying flat. You take hold of either side of his jaw, thrusting it forwards without moving his neck. “Mask.”

Kim comes up beside you, placing the mask over his face. Dennis frowns. 

“Minimal chest rise,” He says

“More suction,” You say, moving methodically, not letting yourself get wrapped up in the anxious energy that buzzes around you. “Laryngoscope, please.”

Trinity keeps the suction going as Donnie passes you the tool, everyone watching as you slide it into his mouth, turning the light on and glancing towards the monitor. Despite the constant suction the field is filled with blood, and you shift around, trying to see what the hell you’re doing. 

“Another unit of blood,” Dennis orders, his eyes not leaving you. “And a gram of TXA, please.”

Trinity moves the suction, revealing the anatomy for half a second, giving you all that you need. You slide the tube in, partially, then you shake your head, pulling it back out. It’s covered in blood, but you don’t let that phase you. 

“Give me a three-point-five,” You say, hand accepting it from Donnie, eyes still on the patient. The bleeding continues, but it doesn’t matter, since you know where you’re going now, pushing it into the trachael opening. You get a touch of resistance from the screw, but the smaller tube manages to make it past. “Inline suction, please.”

Trinity shifts, suctioning inside the tube, ensuring that it’s clear. Kim attaches the bag to it, nodding. 

“Yellow on end-tidal,” She confirms, and you immediately step back, raising your hands up. The barriers on his bed are shifted into place, and Garcia follows the porters as they wheel him out of the room, his mother following closely behind. 

“Good work everyone,” Robby says, then he looks at you. “Thank you for your help, as always.”

“Happy to,” You say, exhaling, pulling your gloves off and tossing them in the trash. Your fingers curl around Dennis’ wrist as you walk by him, giving it a gentle squeeze. He can’t help but smile, and Trinity shakes her head as you leave, her eyes immediately finding Dennis. She waits until they’re out of the room before pulling him aside, making him raise an eyebrow. 

“I need to ask you something,” She says. He shifts, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Okay,” He says, wearily. 

“How the hell did you ask her out?” She asks. 

Dennis narrows his eyes, humming. “Need some help with Garcia?”

Trinity glares at him, and he chuckles nervously, his hand coming up to the back of his neck. He can’t see that you’re still in the department, eyes watching as his bicep bulges with the action. You close your eyes, looking away from the pair and focusing on the chart in front of you. 

“She, uh, she actually asked me out,” He says. Trinity’s eyes go so wide Dennis wonders if the action hurts, her jaw dropping. 

“What the fuck do you mean?” She hisses. “She asked you out?”

Her eyes flick between you and him, and he turns around for a second, nodding. “Yeah, she did.”

Trinity frowns, because that is not a very helpful answer. 

“Okay, but were you flirting? What were you doing?” She asks. 

Dennis shrugs. “Uh, I don’t think so? If anything I tried to avoid her at times because she was very…”

“Distracting?” Trinity offers. Dennis nods. 

“Yeah.”

“So then why would she ask you out?” Trinity asks, the question slipping past her lips before she has the chance to stop it. Sure, Dennis is a relatively attractive guy, but you? You could have anyone you wanted, even she’d jump at the opportunity to take you out if you let her. 

“I…I have no idea,” He answers, completely honest. “You’d have to ask her.”

The sound of your last name makes you turn around, seeing Dana standing there, holding a tablet against her chest. 

“Could you do me a favour?” She asks. You nod. 

“Always,” You say, already standing up. “What’s going on?”

“I’ve got a patient in twelve who needs to be seen, but we’ve got another trauma a few minutes out,” She explains. “Could you take a look for me? Triage noted some shallow breathing and his sats keep dipping.”

“Absolutely,” You agree. “I’ll be back.”

You open his chart on a tablet as you pull the curtain back, introducing yourself to the man. He’s absolutely hammered, obvious by how his eyes are half-closed and the surrounding area smells like whiskey. 

“How much have you had to drink today, sir?” You ask, setting the tablet down, taking in his face and chest as you move to the side of his bed. He gives you a sloppy smile. 

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” He asks. You groan internally, repeating your last name for him, putting the eartips of your stethoscope into place. 

“Can I take a listen to your lungs?” You question, trying to move on, hoping that the inappropriate nickname is as far as he’s willing to go. 

“Please,” He says, still smiling. 

You lean in, setting the diaphragm against his back, moving it around until you get a clear listen. “Deep breath for me.”

He inhales. You move the piece lower. 

“One more,” You say. 

He tries to look over his shoulder at you. “You’ve got a nice voice.”

You hum in response. “Breathe normally.”

“I haven’t seen you here before,” He continues, making your job very difficult. “You a nurse?”

You pull away from his back, moving so you can listen against his chest. 

“I’m a respiratory therapist,” You repeat. “Another deep breath.”

“You married?” He asks. You don’t answer, keeping your focus on his lungs, still shifting the diaphragm every few seconds. Your lack of response makes him more determined to get a rise out of you, and his hand comes up to your wrist, moments away from grabbing it as you pull away. 

“Do not touch me,” You say, taking a step back, putting some distance between you and the patient. 

“Oh, come on, I’m just trying to have some fun-”

“Is there a problem here?” 

You don’t need to turn around to know who it is, but you do anyway, eyes landing on Dennis. His arms are folded over his chest, muscles tight and face completely stoic. 

“Nah, we’re all good, man,” The patient says, trying to wave him off with a hand, but Dennis doesn’t leave. He steps closer, grabbing a pair of gloves and putting them on. Then he looks at you again, saying your last name, not wanting to overstep.

“Everything sound okay?” He asks. You nod, opening the patient’s chart again. 

“Lungs are clear, he’s a bit tachypneic,” You answer. “Should resolve once his blood alcohol comes down.”

Dennis nods, taking the tablet out of your hands as you pass by him. His fingers brush against your lower back, just to remind you that he’s there, grounding you for a second. 

“You okay?” He asks, voice low, lips only a few inches away from your ear. 

“Yeah,” You murmur, pulling your gloves off and pushing the curtain out of your way without a single glance back towards the patient. Dennis takes over, reading the chart. 

“I’m Dr. Whitaker,” He introduces. “Your lungs sound fine, but we’ll need to monitor you for a few hours to make sure you can breathe on your own. Sound good?”

The patient shrugs. “Whatever, is she coming back at all? I was getting somewhere before you interrupted.”

“No, she’s not,” He answers, quick and flat, tucking the tablet under his arm. “I’ll be taking care of you from here on out.”

You’re sitting at one of the computers when he gets discharged, charting on another trauma that you just finished intubating. The patient rounds the corner, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt instead of the hospital gown, discharge papers in hand. His eyes lock onto you instantly, and you find yourself glancing over as he walks your way, annoyance simmering in your chest. 

“There she is,” He says, gaining the attention of a few people nearby, who watch the interaction carefully. “Sorry if I was a little too friendly back there, I was out of line.”

You’re pleasantly surprised, but you keep your face neutral, still wary. “All ready to go?”

“Yeah, all good,” He says. “I was hoping you’d let me make it up to you, once you’re off, of course. Drinks, maybe?”

His expression is almost innocent, his tone nowhere near suggestive, just hopeful. Something is off, though, and your heart starts to race. 

“I don’t go out with patients,” You say, the excuse coming with ease. 

He shrugs. “Not a patient anymore.”

“Still, it’s an ethics concern,” You push, giving him a well-rehearsed smile, one you’ve given to hundreds of pushy men. “I could lose my job, I’m sorry.”

“But I’m asking you,” He counters. “What’s the problem if I consent?”

“It’s just not appropriate,” You say, shaking your head, standing up. He takes a step closer to you, his eyes darker now. 

“Come on, just one drink?”

“She said no,” Dana says, coming up beside you. “Time to head out.”

He doesn’t even look at her when he speaks, his eyes still boring into yours. You don’t dare look away, worried that he’ll move the second you’re not watching. 

“I don’t think I was talking to you,” He says, all friendliness gone from his tone. 

“You need to lower your voice,” She adds. “People are trying to rest.”

“I’m just asking her a question,” He insists, cocking his head to the side. You keep a brave face, not letting him see that he’s getting to you. 

“Yeah, and I’m sorry, but like I said, I don’t date patients,” You repeat, hating the way your voice quivers, ever so slightly. 

He scoffs, lessening the space between you again, now only a foot away from you. “You don’t even know me, you’re writing me off after meeting me one time?”

His voice is loud enough now to draw more attention. People start poking their heads out of rooms, trying to figure out what’s going on. Dennis looks up, making eye contact with Frank, who’s already stepping away from their patient and opening the door. 

“Sir, you need to leave, right now,” Dana says, putting a hand on the guy’s chest, her voice commanding, but he doesn’t even flinch. 

“Woah, what the fuck?” Frank asks, disappearing from Dennis’ view as he leaves the room. Dennis gives the patient a quick apologetic look before following, not seeing what’s going on until he’s a bit closer. The patient’s aggressive posture, your terrified eyes, Dana already calling for Ahmad from beside you. Several other people are close by, hovering somewhere between not knowing what to do and being ready to jump in if necessary. 

He tries to keep his cool as he approaches. Frank steps between you and the guy, placing a hand against his chest. 

“Back up, man,” He says. 

“Fuck you,” The patient spits, shoving his hand off of him, then pushing his shoulder. His hand reaches towards you, and Dennis doesn’t hesitate. 

He grabs the guy’s forearm, twisting it behind his back. He brings his other hand up to the back of his neck, pressing his face against the desk in a swift motion, taking care to not actually injure the guy, no matter how badly he wants to. 

“What the fuck!” The patient yells, squirming against Dennis’ hold. “Get the fuck off of me!”

Your self-preservation instincts kick in, forcing you to take a step back. A hand comes out from beside you, pushing you behind them, blocking you with their tall frame. It barely registers that it’s Robby, having just come back in from a quick break outside. 

“What the fuck is going on here?” He asks, looking between Dennis and Frank, having no doubt that this guy absolutely deserves to be in a headlock right now—he just needs to know why. 

“He was getting up in her face,” Frank says, gesturing to you. “Wouldn’t fucking take no for an answer.” 

Robby turns around for a second, confirming who he’s pointing to, not missing how fast you’re breathing as Princess asks if you’re alright. “Where’s Ahmad?” 

“There was a fight in chairs,” Dana explains from behind the desk, phone to her ear. “They’re sending someone else right now.”

“Are you gonna’ get this guy off of me?” The patient asks, cheek still crushed against the desk. 

Dennis releases him, jaw ticking with anger, swallowing a few choice words that he’d really like to say. 

“Go, we’ve got it,” Robby says. Dennis is by your side in a second, taking your hand in his as he looks you over, making sure he didn’t hurt you. 

“Yeah, hide behind your bitch boyfriend,” The patient calls. “Fucking-”

Robby shoves him, cutting him off. “You do not want to go there.”

Dennis barely hears the comment. “Let’s go outside for a minute, yeah?”

You nod, letting him guide you through the back door, his hand on the small of your back, pressing into you. Your hands are shaking when you make it out, tears threatening to fall. Dennis watches you, carefully, not wanting to make any assumptions as to what you need from him in this moment. 

“Sorry, I’m fine,” You say, pushing some hair out of your face. “I should be used to this by now.”

Dennis shakes his head “Absolutely not, his behaviour was unacceptable. You didn’t do anything wrong, baby.”

“It wasn’t that bad, all things considered.”

He hates that you’re right.  

He’s seen the bruising that you’ve come home with a few times over the years, often chalking it up to an ‘uphappy patient’ or a ‘misunderstanding’ when he asks about them. Most of the time the attention you receive is harmless, but sometimes is isn’t, and you never know when that time will come. 

“Thank you,” You whisper. “I don’t know what would’ve happened if-”

You don’t finish the sentence. 

“I don’t need to be thanked,” He says. “I’ve got you, always.”

You nod. “I know. Still, thank you.”

“You want a hug?” He asks. You don’t respond, you just curl into him, wrapping your arms around his waist. He pulls you close, kissing your temple and squeezing you tight. 

Inside, the chaos is far from over, even after security hauls the patient out. Frank gives Robby a look, eyebrows raised as he looks towards the door you and Dennis left through. 

“Didn’t know he had it in ‘im,” He says. 

Robby scoffs, shrugging. “For her? I think he’d do just about anything.”

“Where’d he learn how to do that?” Victoria asks. 

“He spent the majority of his childhood hauling dirt,” Trinity says. “Kid’s got some muscle.”

Princess leans in. “Youngest of four brothers, too. He’s scrappy.”

“Okay, shoo, get back to work,” Dana says, waving everyone away from the desk. Robby sticks around, giving her a pointed look. She sighs. “What, Robinavitch?”

“You okay?” 

“I’m fine,” She says, looking towards where you had been standing, the image of you on the verge of tears in her mind. “I’ve never seen her rattled like that.”

Robby nods. “Me either.”

“They won’t write him up for that, will they?” She asks. 

“Not if I have anything to do with it,” He promises, checking the time on his watch, the hands ticking close to six-thirty. “Send them home when they get back, I’ve got his handover.”

Dana smirks, giving him a tiny salute. “Yes, sir.”

A/N - if anyone told me that wet t-shirt contest was going to become my most liked piece i would not have believed you LMAO but i understand...i want dennis badly too

i initially wrote this like way less intense but then i started having visions and had to write Dennis Whitaker physically restraining someone in Your Honour so

i know the poll was close so i'm going to write jack abbot x prosecutor!reader soon!! i promise!!!!

thank you for reading love you mwah x

[sapiensecrets]

i've got you - dennis whitaker x f!reader

summary: you get a concussion while at work, courtesy of a med student panicking over a bit of blood.

pairings: dennis whitaker x RT!reader (respiratory therapist) cw/tags: head injuries (obviously) including a concussion and a scalp laceration. established relationship, no use of y/n. emetophobes BEWARE! includes nausea and vomiting (twice), dizziness, headaches, etc etc. ct scans, staples, medications (zofran, compazine, lorazepam aka ativan), ivs/needles. typical pitt warnings (blood and medical procedures). fluff, hurt/comfort, swearing, yes evil whitaker is responsible for your injury but it's accidental okay! everyone being extremely worried about you including dennis obviously. garcia calls you 'hot shot' like once i think! one tiny mention that you and dennis have a cat but can be ignored if you...don't want that lol word count: 4.7k dennis x RT!reader masterlist general masterlist taglist sort of requested here (I did not write exactly that sorry!) and there's a lot of messages in my inbox regarding hot shot and dennis angst so shout out to all of u as well!!

“Hey, can you get a VBG for fifteen?” Samira asks. “I wanna’ see if it’s come up since he’s been intubated.”

“Definitely,” You say, already pulling up the chart on your tablet, nodding. “I’ll go right now.”

“Could I observe?” Ogilvie questions, perking up from where he’s standing, having heard the brief exchange. 

You look at Samira, who shrugs. “Your call.”

“Sure, come on,” You say, already walking towards the patient’s room. “You ever done one?”

“A VBG?” He clarifies. “A couple.”

“Great, you can get more practice,” You say, pushing the door open. 

He smiles. “Seriously?”

“Yep,” You confirm, already grabbing the syringe he needs from one of the drawers, setting up a tray. “The less work for me the better.”

You ask him a few questions as he sets himself up, leaning over his shoulder to watch what he’s doing—how deep he needs to go, what angle, which vein. He answers without hesitation, unsurprisingly, and you nod for him to go ahead. The blood fills quickly, and he pulls the needle out once he’s done, capping it and setting it on the tray beside him. 

His eyes widen when he turns back to the patient, seeing blood dripping off his arm and onto the floor. 

“Oh, shit,” He says, not realizing that you’re right behind him, already holding a wad of gauze. He pushes back on the stool, reaching for the drawers, knocking you off balance when it collides with your knee. 

You step back to try and catch yourself, not realizing that the suction canister is sitting farther from the bed than usual, making you fully trip. You try to grab something, but it’s futile, and you feel something sharp thack against the back of your head before you’re on the ground. White spots flash across your vision. 

“Oh my god, are you okay?” Ogilvie asks, eyes leaving the patient, who’s still bleeding. 

You blink, embarrassment washing over you. “Yeah, I’m good—hold pressure.”

“Right, right,” He says, finally grabbing gauze and pressing it to the wound. “Did you hit your head on the monitor?”

Ah. That’s what it was.

“Possibly,” You say, carefully pushing yourself to your feet and setting a hand against the back of your head. It’s warm, and you already know that there’s going to be blood on your fingers when you pull away. You grab more gauze for yourself, moving your hair out of the way to get it as close to your scalp as possible.

“Are you bleeding?” Ogilvie asks, a small amount of horror in his voice. 

“I’m fine, you know scalp lacs bleed like crazy,” You insist. “Keep holding pressure, it’s just because he’s on anti-coags.”

You continue to watch him for a few minutes, until the bleeding slows enough to put a dressing over the wound, all while trying to keep your own under control. By the time Ogilvie’s finished you’re starting to feel a bit nauseous, dizzy, and your head throbs with your movements. 

“You need a CT,” Ogilvie says, holding the door open for you. “Again, I am so sorry-”

“Hey, it was an accident, you’re alright,” You promise. “You can make it up to me by finding some dermabond.”

“What happened to you?” Dana calls, speedwalking towards you, setting a hand on your shoulder as she looks you over. 

“I tripped on the suction canister,” You explain. “I’m okay, seriously, Ogilvie’s already grabbing dermabond.”

Dana ignores you, spinning you around to look at the injury. She pulls the gauze away, despite your protests, shaking her head. 

“This is not a dermabond situation, sweetheart,” She says. “Let me see what’s open.”

“There’s no need for that,” You counter, but it’s no use, because she’s already looking up at the board. 

She steers you towards an open room, holding the door for you, keeping her hand up to guide you inside. You sigh, stepping in, sitting on the bed when she gestures for you to. She lifts the head up so you can stay upright, then passes you a new piece of gauze, throwing the old one in the biohazard bin. 

“I’ll be right back,” She says. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Frank opens the door thirty seconds later, Dana hot on his heels. He smiles a bit, raising his eyebrows. 

“You better not be out for the day,” He jokes. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my shift without an RT.”

You roll your eyes, the action sending a shot of pain through your head. “Just put some staples back there, or whatever, then I’ll be fine.”

He leans over, already pulling his penlight out. “Can you tell me your name and where you are?”

“Seriously?” You ask, but he doesn’t let up. You say your name, first and last. “I’m at PTMC.”

“Great,” He says, flicking the light away and taking your hands in his. “Squeeze my fingers.”

You do, satisfactorily. Frank steps back as the door opens again, revealing Robby. 

“What happened here?” He asks. 

“She fell and hit her head on a monitor,” Dana explains, clearly having gotten the full story from Ogilvie while she was gone. “Occipital laceration, bleeding pretty badly, about three centimetres long.”

“Neuro exam okay,” Frank adds. “Do you have any pain, nausea, or dizziness?”

“My head hurts a little,” You admit. “But other than that it’s fine.”

Robby watches as Frank leans you forward, examining the cut himself. You stop yourself from grimacing when he palpates the surrounding area. 

“Yeah, sorry, that’s gonna’ need a couple staples,” He decides, letting you sit back again as he stands up. “You want a CT to be safe?”

Robby thinks for a second. “Let’s hold off for now, but you’re staying down here for the time being.”

“As long as I don’t have to be the one to break that news,” You say. Everyone chuckles, and Dana volunteers to let the ICU know what’s going on. Robby steps closer, arms over his chest, face comforting. 

“You want me to give Whitaker a call?” He asks. You shake your head, immediately regretting the action. 

“He’s probably still sleeping,” You say, seeing that it’s only nine on the clock hanging on the wall. “I’ll talk to him later.”

He nods. “Okay, come find me if anything changes.”

“Will do,” Frank says, already logging on to the computer, making a chart for you and filling it in. He asks you about allergies, prior injuries, and a handful of other things before Dana comes back. She sets up a tray for the staples, then draws up lidocaine. Frank puts on a new pair of gloves, taking his place beside you. 

“Lean forward, hon,” Dana says, and you listen, giving them access to the wound. Frank picks up the syringe, adjusting his grip on it and placing the other hand on the back of your head. 

“Small pinch,” He says, inserting it. You clench your teeth for a second, but then the worst of it is over. He pulls back, passing the empty syringe to Dana, who disposes of it. “Some pressure as the staples go in, doing okay?”

“Yep, all good,” You say, feeling the tool press against your head. A resounding ‘snap’ echoes in the room when he puts the first one in, making you flinch. 

“Still okay?” He asks, moving higher up the laceration. 

“Mhm,” You hum. The next few are easier, and he’s finished in a few minutes. Dana disinfects the area as he updates your chart. 

“Alright, just hangout for a bit, yeah?” He says. “Let us know if anything changes.”

“Okay, I will,” You say. “Thank you.”

You’re only alone for about twenty minutes before Dana comes back. 

“How’s it going?” She asks, and you give her a smile. 

“Good, no changes,” You say. “My head still hurts, but nothing crazy.”

She does another neuro check, making sure everything’s functioning the way it should be. Your vision starts to swim a little as she’s finishing up, making you blink a few times, trying to clear it. She frowns at the action, ducking so she’s in your line of sight. 

“You alright?” 

You swallow, still blinking, trying to quell the nausea that’s building in your chest. 

“Uh, I’m a little nauseous,” You admit. “Dizzy, too.”

“Okay, that’s alright,” She promises, setting a hand on your knee, squeezing it. “Lean back, close your eyes if you need to.”

You listen, screwing them shut, taking a few deep breaths. 

“I’m gonna’ go grab Langdon,” She says.

You start to get anxious when the feelings don’t subside after a couple minutes. Your head is still throbbing, you feel like the room is spinning, and the nausea is unlike any you’ve experienced before. 

“Litre of LR, four of zofran?” Frank suggests, and Robby nods. Princess has taken Dana’s spot, setting up your IV. Robby watches as your heart and respiratory rate tick upwards on the monitor, and he can see the nerves creeping in on your face. He sits beside your bed, wheeling the stool close, resting his arms on the guardrail. 

You don’t look at him. You’re avoiding moving your head as much as possible, and you don’t think you can take his casually disapproving gaze right now. 

“We’ve got you,” He promises. 

“I know,” You insist, trying to keep your breathing even. Princess hangs the requested fluids and medication on the IV pole, adjusting the pump settings. 

“I think we should get a CT,” Frank says. 

“Agreed,” Robby confirms, and your heart rate jumps as you close your eyes again. The three of them exchange a look, but no one gets the chance to say anything before you speak. 

“Can you call Dennis, please?” 

“Absolutely,” Robby says. “I’ll do it right now.”

“You might have to call twice to get it to go through,” You say, eyes still closed.

“Okay,” Robby says. “I’ll get a hold of him, don’t worry.”

He steps out, already unlocking his phone and clicking on Dennis’ contact. He heads towards the central hub as the line rings, leaning against the desk. 

“Calling Whitaker?” Dana asks. Robby nods, hearing the intern’s voicemail. He calls again, just like you said he might have to, putting the phone to his ear.

“Hello?” Dennis’ voice comes through, slower than usual, a byproduct of the phonecall pulling him out of a deep sleep. 

“Hey, it’s Robby,” He says. “Sorry to wake you.”

“All good,” Dennis says. “You need some extra hands?”

“Actually, no,” Robby clarifies, then he says your name. “She hit her head earlier, gave herself a pretty decent head lac. She’s probably got a concussion, and we’re sending her to CT to be safe.”

There’s rustling on the other end. 

“What’s going on?” He asks, the phone clearly now on speaker as he gets himself together. 

“Neuro exam is normal, but she’s not feeling great,” Robby explains. “Dizziness, nausea, headache. She’s getting some fluids and Zofran right now.”

“Okay, uh, I’ll be right there,” He says. “Thanks for calling, Robby.”

“Yep, ‘course,” Robby says. “See you soon.”

Frank watches as Princess takes your hand in her’s, patting it a few times, trying to reassure you. You haven’t opened your eyes since Robby left, and you keep shifting as your anxiety continues to rise. You feel as though you're on a boat, even with your eyes closed, and the Zofran has barely touched the nausea. 

Robby comes back in. 

“You talked to him?” You ask. 

“He’s on his way,” He says, looking at your monitor. “Do you want some lorazepam?”

You think for a moment, wondering if you can make it until Dennis gets here, but the tachycardia is starting to get uncomfortable. 

“Yeah, please,” You say. 

“Dr. Langdon?” 

“One milligram,” Frank says, and Princess goes to grab the medication. “Any estimate on when CT will be ready?”

“Hopefully soon,” Robby says. 

Keeping your eyes closed is starting to not be enough to keep the nausea manageable, but you do not want to throw up right now. You focus on your breathing, fingers curling into the sheets. 

“How’s the Zofran feel?” Frank asks. You don’t dare open your mouth, simply giving him a thumbs down in response. “Alright, you think you could swallow a pill?”

You shake your head. 

“Okay, we’ll get you some more through your IV,” He says, trying to reassure you as best he can. “I’ll go find Princess.”

Robby silently grabs a bin, placing it beside you on the bed before reaching over and dimming the lights. You place the bin on your lap, relishing in the sensation of the cold metal against your fingertips. 

“You’re doing great,” He says. 

Princess and Frank come back a few minutes later, and she administers the medications. He does a repeat neuro check, which makes you feel even worse, but at least there’s still nothing suggesting it’s anything more than a concussion. 

Trinity sees Dennis first, making her brows furrow. He’s wearing jeans and a sweater, his curls more chaotic than usual as he walks through the doors, looking around as though he’s trying to find something. 

“Hey, what are you doing here?” She asks, stepping away from the trauma room that she just finished up in. “Missed me too much?”

He barely reacts, he just says your name. “She hit her head earlier, Robby called me.”

“Oh, shit,” Trinity says. “She okay?”

“Sounds like she’s got a concussion,” He says, walking further into the department, Trinity beside him. Dana sees him coming closer, and she calls his name. 

“She’s in fifteen,” She says. He nods, pivoting towards the room. Trinity follows, at least wanting to lay eyes on you before she gets back to work. Dennis pushes the door open, slowly, seeing that the lights are dimmed. Trinity steps in after him, closing it behind her to keep as much noise out as possible. 

Robby’s been pulled away, but Frank’s still in there with you, his hands on the railing as he watches your vitals. You’re clammy and visibly shaking now that the adrenaline has fully worn off, leaving you with nothing to work with. Your hands are clutching the emesis bin like your life depends on it, breathing slow and uneven as you try to keep it together. You don’t open your eyes when he walks in, assuming that it’s Princess or Robby coming back to check on you. 

“Hey, he’s here,” Frank says, softly, and you squint. Relief crashes over you at the sight of your boyfriend, and tears start to pool along your lower lash line. He’s by your side in a second, setting a comforting hand on your thigh, squeezing it softly. 

“Hey, sweet girl,” He says, keeping his voice down, not wanting to make your headache worse. “How’s-”

You lean forward, throwing up, cutting him off. He jumps into action, steadying the bin with one hand and putting the other on your upper back, rubbing softly. 

“Okay, it’s okay, I’ve got you,” Dennis murmurs, taking the tissues that Trinity’s holding out once you’re seemingly finished. Frank takes the bin wordlessly, passing you a bag instead. Dennis keeps his hand on you, but he looks towards your monitor, then to Frank. 

“First episode,” He says. Dennis nods, helping you lean back, letting you take the tissues from him and wipe your mouth. 

You slump against the bed, curling into yourself slightly, tears starting to drip down your cheeks. 

“Den,” You whisper, reaching for his hand. He takes it, coming closer, kissing your hairline before taking a seat on the stool. 

“I’m here,” He says. “Do you feel any better?”

“No,” You say, voice trembling. Your heart rate has come down with the lorazepam on board, and the nausea has eased a touch, but your head hurts worse now. “Not really.”

“I’m gonna’ call CT, see how much longer,” Frank says, leaving the room. Trinity leaves too, not wanting to hover. 

He doesn’t talk for a minute, instead lifting his hand, pushing some hair off your forehead. He rubs his thumb over your cheek a few times, closely listening to your shaky inhales, making sure you’re okay. 

“What’s the prognosis?” You mumble, leaning into him. He smiles. 

“Probably a concussion,” He says. “You’re alert and oriented, tracking well—some vomiting’s expected.”

You nod, fingers curling into the sleeve of his sweater, moving to play with the ring that he wears whenever he isn’t at work, spinning it. He flattens his hand out, letting you focus on the movement, not saying anything. 

“Knock knock,” Princess says. “Antoine’s gonna’ get you up to CT.”

Antoine waves as he steps into your room. “How’s it going, kid?”

“Okay,” You say, begrudgingly letting go of Dennis’ ring, letting him put his hand in his lap. Antoine makes sure your bed is ready to move, then he sets his hands on the guardrail as Princess takes the other side. 

“I’ll be here when you get back,” Dennis says. “You’re gonna’ be fine, promise.”

You nod, keeping your eyes on him for as long as you can, then shutting them the second the bright overhead lights hit. You cover your face with your arm, making Dennis frown as he steps out behind you, trailing off once you’re past the nurses station. He can’t go with you, despite how badly he wants to. Robby comes out of a room as you’re wheeled by. 

“CT?” He asks. Princess nods, pushing you towards the elevators. 

Frank catches Robby before he can make it to Dennis, gesturing in your direction. “She had a single episode of vomiting, but seemed a bit better after that.”

Robby nods, humming. “Probably had more to do with him showing up than anything else.”

Dana smiles when she overhears that, glancing over at Dennis, who has both hands in his pockets as he watches you go.

“How you doing, Whitaker?” She asks, coming over to him, setting her tablet down on the counter. 

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” He insists, then pauses, hesitating. “She looked…worse than I expected, I guess.”

Dana hums. “The nausea came on pretty fast, before that she was insisting that she just needed a little dermabond.”

He laughs a little, shifting his weight between his feet. “Sounds about right.”

“She stubborn?” Dana asks, smiling. 

“No, well, a little,” He admits. “Doesn’t really like to be ‘babied.’”

The quotes around the last word make Dana chuckle.

“She must’ve been feeling pretty crappy then, hey?” She says, and Dennis nods. 

“Yeah,” He says, frowning.

Dana rests her hand on his arm for a second. “Why don’t we go get you some water?”

He watches the clock tick while he waits, allowing himself to feel anxious when it hits thirty minutes since you left. It should’ve only taken ten to get the image, maybe twenty total. Everyone else in the vicinity keeps glancing over too, awaiting your return. Frank’s moments away from calling to figure out where you are when the elevator dings, and Princess and Antoine wheel your bed back into the department. 

Dennis stands, wiping his hands on his jeans. You look worse, somehow, and Princess taps Frank on the shoulder as she walks by. She leans in, saying something to him before pushing you back into your room. Dennis waits for a second, letting them get you back in place. 

Frank slips past Antoine as he’s leaving, standing beside your bed. “Status?”

“Neuro’s still good,” Princess says. “Another vomiting episode before we got upstairs, but the nausea’s better now, right?”

“Yeah, mostly,” You say, already closing your eyes, fatigue starting to take over. 

“How’s the pain?” He asks. 

“Not…great.”

“Yeah, I bet,” He says. “As soon as your CT comes back we’ll talk about pain meds, okay?”

“Okay,” You say. “Where’s Den?”

“Right here,” Dennis says, stepping fully into the room, letting the door close behind him. “How you doing?”

You smile when he sits on the stool, putting his hand back where it was, letting you fiddle with his ring again. “A bit better.”

“Good,” He breathes. 

“Let’s do two more of Zofran,” Frank says, quietly, and Princess nods. “I’ll be back once we get results.”

You’re falling asleep when you’re left alone again, Dennis watching your chest rise and fall, holding your hand. You grimace when the dizziness returning with a vengeance. He notices immediately. 

“What’s going on?” He asks, shifting closer. 

“Dizzy,” You answer. 

“Okay, just keep your eyes closed,” He says, checking your vitals quickly. “I’ve got you, angel.”

He lowers the guardrail, his knees touching the edge of the mattress, letting you hold both his hands tightly until it passes. Your grip relaxes, and you slowly open your eyes, exhaling with relief when you confirm that it’s over. 

“Better?” He asks, and you nod. 

He eventually puts his arms on your bed, resting his head on them, keeping his eyes on you while you sleep. 

Robby knocks half an hour later, and Dennis stands up, moving quietly. He blinks, trying to adjust to the chaos of the rest of the department once he’s out of your room. 

“How’s she doing?” Robby asks, and he nods. 

“Okay, yeah,” He says. “CT back yet?”

Robby hands him the tablet, showing your scan. He lets go of a breath when he realizes that it looks completely normal, scrolling to read the radiologist’s comments, which confirm exactly that. 

“All clear,” Robby says. “We’ll monitor her for a few hours, make sure she can keep things down, then you can take her home.”

Dennis passes the tablet back. “Thanks, Robby.”

“Of course,” He says. “Get back in there.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. 

A few people come and go over the next few hours, but they mostly leave the two of you alone, trusting Dennis to come find someone if anything changes while you rest. Dana brings another blanket by at one point, draping it over his shoulders without a word. One of the ICU nurses comes down with your belongings, quickly asking him how you’re doing before leaving too. He notices the way people keep poking their heads over the frosted glass, which makes his chest warm with how much everyone cares about you. 

You wake up around one, eyes fluttering open, and Dennis immediately lifts his head up. 

“Hi,” He says. 

“Hi,” You repeat, quiet, squinting a little despite the lights being off. “My CT come back?”

“Yeah, yeah,” He says. “Everything looks great, but you’ve got a pretty bad concussion.”

You nod. “Could be worse, I guess.”

“Definitely,” He agrees, moving closer, picking your hand up and intertwining your fingers. “I’m really glad you’re okay.”

“I’m sorry if I scared you, Denny,” You whisper. “I didn’t think it was that bad.”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” He insists. “But you did scare me a little.”

The door opens slowly, making both of you look over. Frank steps inside, smiling when he sees that you’re up.

“You’re awake,” He says. “How’s it going?”

You shrug. “Bad. But better.”

“I’ll take it,” He says. “How’s the pain?”

“Not the worst,” You answer. 

“Nausea? Dizziness?”

“Yes and yes,” You say. “Not as bad as before, though.”

“Okay, I'll get you some Compazine, and then maybe you can try to eat something?” He suggests. “If that helps then I’ll send you home. Usually, I’d keep you overnight, but I think Whitaker’s got you covered.”

You laugh a little. “Sounds good, Langdon, thank you.”

He gives the okay for you to go home a few hours later, once you’ve perked up a bit and your headache and nausea is under control. Dennis helps you off the bed, holding your discharge papers, letting you lean against him once you’re on your feet. He takes your hand in his own, holding the door open. 

“Hey, heading home?” Robby asks, stopping in front of the two of you. 

“Yeah, good to go,” Dennis says, holding the discharge papers up. 

“Good, I’m glad you’re okay,” He says, looking at you, giving you a soft smile and setting his hand on your shoulder for a second. “Would hate to lose my favourite respiratory therapist.”

You smile. “You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried, Robby.”

He points at Dennis. “I better not see you in this hospital for at least a week.”

“Yes sir,” Dennis says, definitely not wanting to argue that. He’d stay home with you for months if he had to to make sure you were okay. “See you next week, boss.”

Other people tell you to feel better as you go, letting you know that they’re happy it wasn’t anything serious, then you finally make it through the front doors. The bright, summer sun beams down on you, making your head spin. Your grip on Dennis’ hand tightens, and he stops, turning to look at you. 

“What’s wrong?” He asks. 

You exhale. “Dizzy. Again. One second.”

He adjusts his grip, holding your lower back, keeping you upright. You try to breathe through it, but that doesn’t work—the dizziness just gets worse.

“Let’s sit down for a minute,” He says, guiding you over to a bench. “Deep breaths.”

He positions himself so the sun isn’t hitting your face, keeping a hand on your shoulder until you open your eyes again. 

“I’m gonna’ go grab the car,” He says. “I’ll be right back.”

You’ve never been happier to be home in your entire life. 

Dennis sets you up on the couch, propping your head up with a few pillows and tucking a blanket around you once you’ve changed out of your scrubs. You sit in silence as he moves, closing blinds and turning on a few lamps that won’t be too hard on your eyes. 

“What am I supposed to do?” You ask, dramatically. “I can’t read, I can’t go on my phone, I can’t watch TV.”

He laughs a little, poking his head over the back of the couch. “I’ll keep you entertained.”

“Really?” You ask, grinning. 

“Absolutely,” He says, going over to the bookshelf, scanning the several options that you’ve collected over the years. He pulls your favourite off, then sits in one of the chairs. You whine, extending your hands towards him, making him smile. 

You lift your head up, pushing the pillows onto the ground and letting him take their place. He smoothes your hair back once your head is on his lap, before opening the book and reading aloud. You fall asleep within minutes, and he just watches, scratching your scalp gently, making sure to avoid your staples. 

He moves you into the bedroom at one point, putting your cat in there with you, smiling when he curls up on the bed beside you. He opens the fridge just after six, frowning at the lack of food, already thinking about what he could order you for dinner. Then, there’s a knock on the door, making him raise an eyebrow. 

Garcia’s standing on the other side, holding a bag of takeout, along with a few plastic bags. 

“Dr. Garcia,” Dennis says. “What’re you doing here?”

“Santos texted me, said Hot Shot lost a fight with a monitor today,” She says. “I brought dinner and some groceries for the next few days so you don’t have to leave the house.”

She thrusts them towards him, and he’s stuck for a moment, but then he takes them in his arms. 

“Oh, uhm, thank you,” He says, setting everything on the bench by the door. “That’s…really nice.”

She nods, moving on from his gratitude quickly. “How’s she doing?” 

“Her head hurts, and she’s still pretty nauseous,” He explains. “I can give her some more Zofran in a bit.”

“CT was fine?”

“Yeah, totally clean,” He says. “She should be back to normal in a couple weeks.”

Garcia exhales, and Dennis thinks it’s the most emotion he’s ever seen her show. “Good, I’m glad she’s alright.”

“Me too.”

“Take care of her,” She continues. “Let me know if you need anything else, okay? I can come babysit if you’ve got anywhere to be tomorrow, and people are already fighting over who gets to bring dinner for the next few days.”

“Okay, yeah, will do,” He says, slightly shocked by the amount of support. “Thanks again.”

“Have a good night, Huckleberry.”

A/N - love u currently working on a little part two to self explanatory and also poly!garsantos x reader 🤩🤩🤩

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