bf!andrew who loves eye contact during sex vs. partner!reader who hates eye contact in all situations. bf!andrew who has to forcefully grab their face with one hand, demanding them to look at him. bf!andrew who makes them stare into his beautifully haunting hazel eyes whilst he’s pounding into them. his thumbs digging into their cheeks hard enough that they’ll feel the ache hours from now.
and if they close their eyes, a small, but rough, slap to the side of their face should do the trick.
andrew pope cody steals something from you (f!reader).
andrew is obsessed with how many rings adorn your hands.
one day, you find that one of them is missing (maybe it’s a spinner ring—andrew loves to play with it when you wear it on your thumb, granted he loves playing with your fingers or just holding your hand in general).
it’s early in the morning when you find him sitting in the small nook of your kitchen. his curls mussed from sleep, his tired eyes trained out the window looking into the backyard, and the steam of his coffee rising from his favorite mug (an old ceramic snoopy mug you two found while thrifting).
after pulling him into your chest and leaning down to give him a swift kiss on the top of his head, you make way to grab your own mug. of course, he doesn’t let you get far before he’s grabbing your wrist and tugging you down into his space for a real kiss.
when you both pull back, a smile graces both of your lips.
“good morning, sweetheart,” he says before giving you another peck.
“good morning, andy,” you turn to resume your previous task when you spot something silver on his hand as he lifts his coffee to his mouth.
you backtrack and start to reach for his hand. “andy?”
“yes, my love?”
“are you wearing my ring?” the juxtaposition of his large hand in your small palm doesn’t go unnoticed, but it’s in the background of your thoughts as you gently move your thumb over the thin silver band.
when you try to make eye contact, he’s looking down to where your hands hold his, suddenly bashful, but also mesmerized by the sight. thinking about how it would feel in a different context. one with you in white.
“andy?” you question again.
he clears his throat and gives his head a shake, “y—yeah. i’m sorry. not sure what i thinking.” it’s a quiet apology, one you certainly don’t want or need.
he manages to snatch his hand back from you, a little too forcefully, and slides the ring off his finger before you grab his hands to stop him.
“stop,” you softly demand. you grab the ring and slowly guide it back to its rightful place—on his left ring finger.
his breath hitches when you raise his hand to press a small, lingering kiss on his knuckles and meet his eyes.
“promise you’ll never take it off?” you ask, searching his hazel eyes and seeing nothing but adoration.
his voice is rough and his puppy dog eyes go glassy when he responds with, “i promise.”
watching him roll a joint for you (one with lavender because he knows it helps you inhale deeper and relax better, and that’s all he wants—for his girl to release all the tension that’s building up for weeks while he’s been away for “work”). he knows how much you hate it when he’s away, even though he doesn’t fully understand the concept of someone missing him.
he can feel the intensity of your stare, your eyes flickering from the already lit joint dangling from his lips to his hands—your favorite part of him, scarred and freckled.
without looking at you, he takes a temporary last hit and angles his head toward you—wordlessly asking for you to take the joint from his lips, so he can finish yours.
you watch his tongue dart out to lick the paper, slowly exhaling his smoke while his fingers move to seal the joint.
from the corner of his eyes, he sees how you shift, squeezing your thighs together. he slowly moves his eyes to you, starting from your smooth legs and moving up—taking in the view of you sitting in lacy boyshorts and his t-shirt. when he lands his sight on your face, your eyes are completely focused on his hands. his joint still burning in your hands, loosely pinched between your index and middle finger. it almost looks like your going to drop it, just too enamored by the man in front of you.
he shifts his body to get your attention, signaling that he’d like his joint back. your eyes jump back up to his face, almost glossy. dazed.
this isn’t the first time he’s rolled for you, but you’ll never get over how methodical he is. he’s always been sedulous with hands, lord knows he has.
finally understanding what he wants, you lift your hand up his mouth and slowly place the joint back to his lips when he gives you a thank you, honey.
once he’s added the filter, he leans back and pats his lap. you take no time in swinging your leg over him, placing your legs on either side of his.
he positions the joint between your lips, and slowly swipes his thumb from your lips to your cheek. rubbing his thumb back and forth. memorized by how beautiful you are, how much he loves you, and how lucky he is to have you.
a small gasp leaves you when he shifts on his lap to get his lighter out of his pocket. you’d think he’d planned on it—“accidentally” grinding his clothed cock against you.
he cups his hands around the end of your joint, the tips of his fingers brushing against your cheek.
flicking the lighter once, you lean in and take a couple of short puffs like you’re smoking a cigar. then finally, you take a deep inhale.
of course, your perfect man rolled you a perfect joint. you take it from your mouth and press a kiss to the side of his neck, lifting your head a little to graze your lips against his ear, whispering that you’re so grateful for him and love when he takes care of you.
if the night ends in some freak nasty high sex, well, that’s just another way to help his girl relax.
note: it’s almost 4 AM, and i wanna smoke; however, i don’t roll myself, but a lavender joint sounds so nice… so this was a self-indulgent blurb describing how much i need to watch his man use his fingers.
