i love when you write perv sevika, want more :((( pleaseeeeee
Drabble: More perv Sevika!
She can't stop. Not when it comes to you.
God she's tried, tried to rid you out of her mind, condemn you, forget you. Yet she can't.
You're everywhere. And it's all Sevika's fault, she put you there. It didn't make anything easier, though.
The police had been over countless times, warning her to stay away from you. Couldn't you see that she loved you? That she needed you? Her obesession with you started small, leaving her apartment at the same time as you so that she could 'accidently' brush her hand against yours, feels that smooth skin that always smelled like chocolate and vanilla.
Then came the gifts, anonymous of course. Take out left outside your door on a Friday night after a long week. You work so hard you deserve to be spoiled. With you being so smart, you never ate it- in case it was laced with something. A trap. Sevika would never do that to you, ever. Though she could appreciate your safety measures, her girl was smart.
It was only when she set up the cameras in your apartment that she realised you weren't eating the food, that you were rejecting her love. But that's okay! You'll realise it eventually. For weeks she would watch you, learn your routine when you eat, shower, sleep.
She was ashamed of what she did to her porn mags... printing out pictures of you and cutting out your face to stick them on the bodies of the models... so she got the cameras to appreciate your real beauty! That's all it was. Appreciating you. Maybe, sometimes she touched herself watching you but that was only because she was ALWAYS watching you and everybody needs alone time right?
And at first she would force herself away from her laptop when you had alone time, until one day she couldn't walk away and she caved, watching you writhe and moan, squirming on your bed. Sevika knew she could do way better than that stupid purple dildo you use...
When you found the camera in your bedroom one day while cleaning that was when you called the police, who investigated for weeks before they found out it was Sevika. Your own neighbour. Out of the kindness of your own heart you chose not to press charges, you knew Sevika was a little weird sure and this behaviour was not okay!
So you shouted at her, screaming, reprimanding her for her actions and behaviour.. Sevika went home that night and made a mess of her sheets, remembering the touch of your finger jabbing her chest. The way your chest rose and fell, heaving with anger.
The fanbase: "they're a bunch of sellouts now who just wanna cash in and don't care about the community"
MCR: "Hey here's a special page for updates, archives, and other announcements for diehard fans"
The fanbase: "BOOOO WHEN ARE YOU GONNA SELL A NEW ALBUM TO ME"
summary: andrew cody has never been a man who smiles, not until you started waking him up by littering kisses onto every freckle on his face.
wc: 1.3k words
warnings: brief allusion to sex, just fluff basically
a/n: i was listening to olivia's new album and honeybee is so, so andrew coded. my baby just needed someone to love him. that's the fic. divider credits: @strangergraphics | soundtrack: honeybee by olivia rodrigo
For the first time in a very long time, Andrew Cody is dreaming.
The constant thrum in his head, the constant awareness that follows him even into unconsciousness, that thing that has spent years keeping him alive, all of it sits muted and distant for a few precious hours. Not gone entirely. It never really leaves him; it lives beneath his skin the same way his heartbeat does, a permanent thing, woven into him. But tonight it is quiet enough that he can ignore it.
And so he doesn’t dream often, no, but tonight he did.
Soft flashes of what transpired the night before, your face below him, looking up with reverence. Fingers threaded in hair as he pulsed gently inside you. The feeling of your soft fingers wiping his tears away as he finally stopped fighting the warmth rushing through him.
Comfort. Safety. Things Andrew has spent most of his life circling without ever quite touching.
When his body finally stirs into consciousness, he doesn't open his eyes. Instead, he feels.
Under the soft heat of the morning, something warm pressed against his side. Soft, familiar. It’s your body tucked against him, an arm draped around his waist, a leg over his, your face resting in the crook of his neck.
He can feel your soft breaths on his skin.
In, out. In, out.
He counts each one, eyes still closed.
One, two. One, two.
He isn't entirely sure how much time passes. A minute. Ten. Maybe more.
The rhythm settles somewhere deep beneath him, in that place where, over these last few months, something soft and molten has taken residence in his chest, unfurling beneath his ribs, spreading to heart. Finding solace there.
Andrew does not consider himself to be a man that smiles, that shows happiness through the muscles on face very often, not that he used to feel much of the emotion in the first place. Happiness was something that was something fragile, something transactional, something that could disappear the second he looked directly at it.
But now, he feels it. That flutter of joy he rarely ever felt with Julia, then momentarily with Cath, with Lena. And it’s brought on, by you.
The woman who lies tucked against him, trusting, her body pressed into his.
The course of the past few months has brought about stolen smiles, hidden beneath a soft snort, or pressed into your lips, smiling against your mouth.
He remembers your voice, the first time he'd let the muscles in his face soften, let them hold that gentle upturn.
“You’re so, so pretty Andrew.”
He'd fluttered his lashes, looking down, a pink hue spreading across his cheeks. Blushing.
Now, smiling is that much easier. Natural. The way it always seems to be around you.
Slowly, Andrew shifts closer, just enough that he can feel more of your warmth. He inhales the scent of your hair, of your skin. Pockets of intimacy he only allows himself when your eyes are closed.
Andrew closes his eyes and rests, lets your breathing guide him into that soft space between sleeping and being awake, that quiet place where warmth glows steadily beneath his chest.
In, out. In, out.
You feel his chest rising and falling under you, his breathing even, as you open your eyes. Seeing the peace on his face. The permanent tension that usually sits across his shoulders has disappeared, his jaw relaxed, mouth slightly parted.
You feel it bloom in your chest, love, swelling and beating. This man, who's spent every waking moment surrounded by violence and pain, is allowing you to rest against him, an arm wrapped protectively around you even in his sleep.
Carefully, you lift your head, brush a curl from his head.
Then, unable to help yourself, you lean forward and press a soft kiss against his temple.
Then the creases near his eyes.
Across his cheek.
His jaw.
You detangle yourself from his arms, shifting yourself over him, one hand resting on the bed beside him, hovering over his face. The other remains in his curls, thumb brushing gently against his temple.
His nose scrunches slightly, brows furrowing.
You smile, pressing a kiss in that crease.
His eyes finally begin to flicker open, tinged with sleepiness, the sort that's rested, calm.
They find yours immediately, your face hovering over his, close.
The furrow disappears, lips tilting up. Both his broad palms come up to encase your waist.
"What're you doin'?" he asks, voice gravelly and rough with sleep.
You grin wider.
"Counting your freckles.”
His eyes widen, morphing into that puppy-eyed confusion you adore. Your heart aches softly at the fact that he has never been privy to such mundane intimacy.
"Yeah?"
You nod.
"You have so many. They’re so pretty, Andrew."
And there it is again, that word only you seem to use to describe him with. Pretty.
A faint blush creeps across his face, pinkening the apples of his cheeks.
"Why?"
"Because I wanted to."
The simplicity of the answer catches him off guard, loosens something tight in his chest. You say it as though it's obvious. As though spending your morning sprawled over him, counting freckles and pressing kisses into his skin, is the easiest choice in the world.
The hand buried in his curls moves gently, slow circles against his scalp. His eyes flutter. He lets out something resembling a whimper.
"How many?" he asks quietly.
"Hmm." You tilt your head, pretending to think. "Maybe a hundred."
His eyes drop down to your mouth, his palms gripping your waist tighter.
"Think there's more than that.”
The words come out soft, shy. Hesitant. Still unfamiliar with this kind of intimacy even after all these months. But you've learned him. You've learned the language beneath his words, the way he hides meanings behind mundane words and questions, things he wants but struggles to ask for.
And right now what he wants is obvious.
So, you lean down and kiss his forehead again.
Then his cheeks.
His nose.
The corners of his mouth.
Your hand trails down to cup his jaw.
Immediately Andrew leans into it, nuzzling deeper into your palm, eyes staying on yours. He exhales softly, the sound almost a sigh.
Your heart aches, the good kind.
"My Andrew," you murmur, the words slipping out softly.
Andrew goes still. His lips press together tightly the way they do when he feels too much, that burst of something uncontrollable inside his chest. Too much. Usually anger, or jealousy, or grief.
For the first time, he allows himself to recognise it for what it is. Adoration.
He’s never been anyone’s before, not in the way you call him yours.
He's been Pope - the man who's Smurf’s son, his brothers' older brother, Julia's twin. Pieces of himself given away his entire life, bound by blood or circumstance.
But this is different. This is the first time somebody has come along and chosen him. Chosen him to be theirs.
Out of everybody in the world, you looked at Andrew, at his bruised hands, his scars, at everything broken and battered inside him, and said mine.
The realisation settles warmly inside his chest, in that space only you occupy, spreading until he can feel it beneath every rib, in his heart.
He tilts his head up, bringing a hand to the back of your head and guiding you closer, until your mouth is hovering just above his.
“Yeah?” he whispers. "Yours?"
You smile softly.
“Yeah, Andrew. Mine.”
Then he kisses you, a slow press of his lips against yours, lazy and unhurried, but filled with all the tenderness he can't make his mouth utter aloud.
You sigh into his mouth. He smiles into your lips.
And for the first time in his life, Andrew finds that he doesn't mind belonging to someone at all.
i have so many thoughts about little scenarios like this with andrew (i refuse to call him pope #sorry) and while i'm jobless and done with uni i may write a few based off songs from you seem so pretty for a girl in love, a little series of sorts perchance. #watchthisspace and give me ideas thank you
Olivia's new album is sooo good! And this was so, so, so sweet. Andrew deserves this type of tenderness, thank you for writing something so tender and sweet!
hey guys so hold my hand. the r-word is specifically harmful to people with intellectual disabilities. adhd and autism are not intellectual disabilities. people with intellectual disabilities have asked us not to use it. when we type things out on the internet we have the option to post or not post. please try not to use that word okay thank you bye.
