Hiii! Can I request a cryptic pregnancy with brendon. It's up to you if they're already married or not. Thanks xoxo
Cryptic | Brendon Park | The Pitt
Doctors liked to be in control. Pretty much every nurse can testify to that fact. For some doctors, that control was only needed in the workplace, and their personal lives were a mess (think Michael Rabinovitch), and others needed control in all aspects of their life, personal and professional. Surgeons tended to fall into the second category.
Brendon park definitively belonged in the second category.
His apartment was immaculate. His medical journals were organised alphabetically by author, and then chronologically if he had multiple editions. His wardrobe was organised by season, style, cut then colour. And his kitchen could make a chef cry. Everything had a place, and everything was how it should be.
At least until you moved in.
You were the second kind of doctor. Your work as a cardiothoracic surgeon was unmatched, and both your operating room and office were immaculately organised. Outside of the hospital was another story.
Your car had at least four jumpers, and three pairs of shoes in it. Your wardrobe was a series of clothes shoved onto hangers and into drawers, and your cupboard in the kitchen would also make a chef cry, although these would be tears of frustration.
But that didn't matter, because Brendon could live with that if it meant having you. Besides, the biggest thing Brendon, and most doctors, hated were surprises. Surprises meant not knowing what was around the corner, and if you had a surprise in surgery it never meant anything good.
Brendon didn't think there was anything that could be a good surprise.
Until today.
You had stayed home sick. Brendon had pretty much demanded it.
"No, baby. You are not going in today." he had said, feeling your forehead to see if you were running a fever. Thankfully you weren't. But your stomach pain, and the fact your dinner last night didn't look great, led him to his diagnosis of gastroenteritis. "You'll be feeling better tonight, I promise."
He kissed your forehead and then went to work. The first surprise came an hour later when you called him, begging him to come home because something was definitely wrong.
Brendon was usually a big believer in speed limits, but he made that twenty minute drive in only twelve. You never called him at work, and you had never sounded so distressed. Not when you broke you leg, or even the day when you lost three patients on your table. Never.
The house was sickeningly quiet when he came barrelling through the front door. When you were home, you were never quiet. Even when you were sick you always had the radio going, or the tv playing those awful sitcoms Brendon hated. Oh how he wished he heard one of those stupid shows right now.
"Baby?" He called, making his way quickly through the apartment. "Where are you?"
He heard a muffled cry from the bathroom and before he could even think, he was sprinting towards the sound. He swung the door open with much more force than needed, and probably splintered the wood, but that would be a problem for later.
Immediately, he was scanning you over. You looked hot, sweaty and dishevelled, as if you had ran a marathon. You were violently shaking, and he could see the blood dripping down your legs and onto the tile.
"Bren," You say, voice tired with something that Brendon can't place. He watches as you clutch the towel you were holding even tighter, "Baby."
He moves towards you, trying to take the towel away so he can get a proper look at you, but you only clutched it towards you tighter.
"Bren," you try again, forcing your voice to be a little clearer. "I had a baby."
"What?"
Instead of responding, you shift the towel slightly, so Brendon could have a better look inside, only to be met with a copy of his eyes looking back up at him.
He sets his weight down softly next to you, wrapping one arm around you and another around his new-born.
"A baby? I didn't- I didn't know you were- Did you know?" He asks, fighting to form a full sentence. Despite all his fancy degrees, and his years of helping patients, he couldn't comprehend how this could have happened.
Yes he knew about cryptic pregnancies, but to have his own child born that way, it was hard to grasp. You both had missed out on so much, no ob/gyn appointments, no finding out the gender, no baby shopping, no decorating the nursery. You had missed all of it.
Although, looking at the little eyes and tiny nose of his baby, he couldn't bring himself to mind it at all. Many of his colleagues told him about how the world changes when you become a parent, and Brendon didn't believe it. He didn't so change, and he didn't do surprises. Up until now, his life had been entirely in his control.
He had known he was a father for less than two minutes, and yet he couldn't imagine it any other way.
"Come on, baby," he said, pulling away slightly so he could fish his phone out of his scrubs pocket. "I'm going to call an ambulance, and get you both up the hospital. Get you checked out."
You just nod, thankful that you did not need to think for yourself right now. After all the events from today, you were more than happy to relinquish control to Brendon. And Brendon was happy to take it.
pretty pleaseeee can you write more brendon park x pedatrician wife reader just anything!
little do you know how happy you’re making your fellow followers lol there wasn’t much inspiration for this so it fell short and I don’t like the ending lmao but enjoy ig
TWICE THE TEETH
“got a positive in the CT scan,” garcia announced as she walked in, eyes on her pager. “I’d get them admitted to orthopedics.” looking up to those in trauma, “and get peds in too.”
“I-uh, what?” an uneasy laugh escaped whitaker, who stood off to the side of the senior. his finger held up. an interruption. the need for reassurance right now, desperate. ogilvie stared through his lashes. mouth agape like a fish out of water. before his head swiveled. “did she just say—”
“yes. I did.” garcia’s head tilted in question. “is that an issue?”
whitaker about to answer when the resident held her hand up. “whether it is or not, I'm off the case so take it with your attending.” tipping to robby before walking out.
a tibial eminence fracture that needed consultation.
from peds. and ortho.
not one shark, but two.
both of the young men looked to robby— who did nothing to ease the growing nerves— as he nodded in confirmation.
“she’s right.”
“b-but the patient is a teen. and—” “teens still need physicians. especially ones who specialize in their age group of medical care.” it was said matter of factly to ogilvies excuse. a poor one. because even a med student should know that. everyone knows that. “and seeing the extent of the injury, and the type it is, ortho needs to get in on this. it’s standard procedure.” robby explains lightly. still obvious in his tone of voice. but not demeaning.
ogilvie stays quiet. a crease between his eyebrows. almost as if he's slowly dissecting what was just said. whitaker paled next to him. “oh boy.”
—
"let's just let them assess the patient and uh— unless asked directly, just" whitaker motioned with his hands "try to keep to yourself." it was said carefully. unsure if it was more for himself than ogilvie. even if being aware of med students eagerness.
and off the side, tablet in grasp, robby laughed under breath.
they were still fresh. one more than the other. easy to spot and easier to kill. figuratively speaking. and while he finds humor in it now, the attending knows what it's like to have been bit by the shark and his wife. never has he admitted to it, but its happened once or twice in his career.
both exceptional and outstanding physicians, you guys were also extremely brutal. you more so than your husband.
robby was known to be hard. he was known to be honest. but your honesty couldn’t compare. your voice never raised. it never fell. it was collected. too collected for someone who was about to chew someone else out. he’d experienced it himself. and after that, he was careful on where to dip his toes.
“dr.park.”
you’d come in first, and not long after, your husband did. your eyes briefly panning over the room before landing on familiar ones.
“doctor.”
ogilvie stilled at the address. remembering just why you referred to him as that.
“I see you’ll be joining us?”
the student glanced over to whitaker. the advice from earlier apparent. he looked back to you, then to brendon— who was staring expectantly above his lashes— as if looking to the man would help the ms in answering his wife. james couldn’t tell what was worse. your stare. or brendons.
“she’s talking to you, genius.” park says it drily. the students brain catching up as he slowly nods. “I uh, yes.” you make a face of faux approval.
“okay then. feel free to interrupt during the assessment.”
your teeth already sinking in and he hasn’t even done anything. yet. robby pursed his lips at the penetration of your words. knowing what you meant, seeing as he was there for the first time.
“why don’t you go ahead and begin the presentation.” your head motioning for him speak. and albeit the initial impression he made with you, you were being genuine, even if your words came off as a bait.
“a tibial eminence fracture?” brendons brows raised as ogilvie finished.
“that’s what I heard.” you murmured from the patients side. “rare.” sending the kid a warm smile, a subtle hand squeeze— all before turning your body around. the switch was startling. if someone saw, they didn’t say anything. and they wouldn’t want to.
“xray?” you glanced up in expectancy.
robby pulls out the screen. brendon nodding when he sees it. “clean break.”
“anesthetics?” you asked, attention still on the patient. robby listing off the meds.
yours and brendons eyes find each others. surgery. a silent agreement. his head nodding as your gloves come off. “I’ll prep the OR.”
your eyes rolling at the announcement that you were waiting to deliver to the patient before brendon did. your eyes catching wet ones as the kid looks to you for assurance. trying to lift the weight of the situation, you make a face, hand waving back to where your husband walked out.
“he never listens.” you prop up the gurney rails to get him ready. “our boys do better.” the corner of his mouth perking up from one side as he wipes his nose. his hand grasping yours. squeezing like earlier if not tighter.
“do you guys know each other?”
the question has you smiling. exposed. out in the open. even if there were others still in trauma. the innocence of it causing your front to break. you glance to where brendon left. but before you could answer—
“they’re married.”
and just like that, you were back. giving one last squeeze to the kids hand as they wheeled him out. your head turning to ogilvie who stared wide eyed.
Why am I thinking of Andrew Cody trying to "define the relationship" with you when you introduce him as your friend to someone when they bump into you two in a public setting or something...
You two have been sleeping together for about 3 months, but you wonder...what does that mean in his mind?
He's never called you his girlfriend.
He’s not the kind to gush about feelings or offer clarity where there is none.
He’s protective.
Possessive in ways that don’t always make sense.
But he’s also closed off.
What you don't realize is that navigating abstract ideas like "relationship status" for Andrew is as challenging as deciphering a foreign language...
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
When you friend walks away, there’s a pause. Maybe he exhales sharply through his nose, fingers tapping against his glass. Then, finally: "Friend?"
He doesn’t say it like he’s upset.
More like he’s genuinely trying to parse it.
Andew has always been a man of few words, one who shows rather than tells. And the way he’s looking at you now—the weight of his stare, the slight furrow of his brow—maybe that says more than anything else ever could.
There’s an awkward pause, the kind where time feels oddly stretched, and you see his knuckles momentarily whiten around the rim of his glass. Then, almost as if he’s rehearsing in his mind before releasing the thought, he adds: "Just so you know. I don't fuck my friends."
Your heart flutters at the admission, and you inhale slowly.
"Good to know," you deliver with a nonchalant air as you hide your excitement behind his words.
"You're mine," he says simple. The statement is not loud or overbearing—just a gentle, almost vulnerable declaration.
"I am?" you whisper.
"Yes."
Andrew craves the clarity of commitment even while he fears that labeling what you share might box him in.
Or worse.
It might expose the tender and unpracticed parts of him.
He unexpectedly draws you closer to him in the bar booth.
His hand is tentative and meets yours as if silently asking a question. Leaning in, his voice lowers into a soft murmur.
A confession.
"I’m yours too?"
"There's no one else," you say. "Only want you."
His mind trembles under the weight of your words—he silently thinks, God, I'm so in love with you.
He tells you a week later.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
I’m so deep in my feelings for Pope. Please tag me in any Pope content. Craving this man so badly 🥹
synopsis: on her way home for a girls' night out, reader gets attacked. andrew's at home waiting for her, and he isn't happy when he sees her injuries.
warnings: hurt/comfort, injuries, mentions of reader getting attacked, mentions of stitches, pope's a murderous man
words: 0.8k
a/n: I haven't actually watched the show yet, so I hope this does his character justice!
Shit, you think as you limp through the streets of Oceanside, pressing a ripped piece of your shirt to your forehead to stop the blood. He’s gonna kill me.
Being a friend to the Codys, you’ve encountered your fair share of violence. You’ve never been involved in such an encounter yourself… until now.
Cursing yourself for letting your friends coax you into what they called “a fun night out”, you clutch your purse with a bruised knuckle, muttering obscenities to yourself as you squint under the pale streetlights, searching for your home.
When you finally spot the familiar building with its black door and bountiful hydrangeas, you let out a sigh of relief. But the sight of a familiar car - not yours - parked in the driveway stirs the tension right back up.
Shit, you think again. You were planning on patching yourself up and texting him, making light of the whole situation… but here was your intense boyfriend’s car, meaning he was inside your house waiting for you.
Considering turning around and finding another place to stay the night, you look up to the front door and huff in defeat, stumbling awkwardly up the stairs and taking out your key. It takes you a moment to successfully get it in the lock, but the door finally gives way, and you’re finally home.
You toss your keys in the key bowl and lock the door, deadbolting it and then checking that the deadbolt stuck. Your home is quiet except for the faint hum of what has to be a nature documentary, and you scoff at Andrew’s predictability.
“Honey, I’m home,” you say, stepping further into the house until you’re peeking into the living room. Andrew Cody sits manspreaded on your couch, a beer in one hand and the tv remote in the other. It takes him a split second to look away from the screen, and you brace yourself.
His expression, which first shows subtle signs of affection and relief, melts into one of anger and worry. Andrew jumps to his feet and rushes over to you, gently pulling you to sit down on the couch. “The fuck happened?”
You sink into the cushion. “Asshole on the street. I handled it.”
His eyebrows are pointed together, his lips pursed tightly. His jaw is clenched so tightly you’re sure he’s grinding his teeth to bits.
“I’m fine,” you assure him softly.
Andrew doesn’t listen. He stomps off silently, and you steel yourself for his return.
He comes back with the first aid kit and sits on the coffee table across from you. His large, rough hands raise and cradle your face with a gentleness only you get to see. He carefully peels your hand and the ripped shirt from your forehead to get a look at the cut just under your hairline. Infuriated at the sight, he raises to his feet and begins to pace, mumbling to himself.
“Andrew,” you say, trying to pull him back. He isn’t paying attention; he’s stuck thinking about how he could have lost you, how he should have been there. “I’m going to kill him,” he growls. He turns to look at you with such fury you’re frozen in your spot. You know that the anger isn’t directed at you, but knowing that he’s so worried that he’s angry stills your heart.
“Clean me up first?” you ask, tilting your head back in the direction of the first aid kit.
Andrew growls but obeys, sitting back before you and taking out the antiseptic. As he begins to dab at your face, you let yourself study his. You wish you could wipe away all the tension.
Reading his mind, you say softly, “It’s not your fault.”
He continues working on your face, but he grunts at your words.
“Hey,” you say, placing your hand over one of his. “I’m serious.”
He stills, looking directly into your eyes, his anger nearly melting at the trust and love you display. With a cough, he directs his gaze back at your forehead. “You’ll need stitches.”
“I trust you.” Nodding, you settle into a more comfortable position as he takes out the needle and thread.
For now, Andrew takes care of you. When he’s finished treating your wounds and analyzing the damage of your attacker’s blow to your knee, he helps you change into one of his shirts and settle into bed. When he moves to leave, you reach out and grab his hand.
“Stay,” you say. “Do what you have to later. For now… hold me?”
Andrew swallows, staring at you for a moment with that infamous Pope stare. But eventually he nods and slides in next to you, wrapping his arms around you tight and swearing to never let go again.
You glared at the computer screen, fingers flying over the keys as another warehouse layout popped up on the monitor. You marked exits and cameras, highlighting blind spots.
“No,” you muttered to yourself more than anyone at the table. “Mom said don’t waste time on computer science. ‘Go be a doctor, go be a lawyer.’ And what do I do with my sixty-thousand-dollar degree? I help thieves knock over big box stores and then lie on my resume about why I know so much about load-bearing walls and the fragility of bulletproof glass.”
Craig snorted into his beer. “Could be worse. You could be in Leavenworth.”
You blinked, slowly dragging your gaze up to him. “You’re an idiot.”
His brows shot up in offense. “How am I an idiot?”
“Leavenworth is a federal prison. For men. Who violate the UCMJ. In what universe am I any of those things?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. You went back to the keyboard.
“I’m not going to be available next month,” you said, almost casually.
The table went quiet. You could feel every pair of eyes land on you.
Smurf sipped her drink, assessing in that way that looked friendly but wasn’t. “Why not, baby?”
“I have a family thing. A yearly family thing.”
“What kind of family thing?” Deran asked.
“The kind where I sit at a speedway for a whole weekend in Talladega drinking beer and watching grown men left-turn for three hours while trying not to get sun-poisoning.”
Craig made a face. “You mean you’re going to willingly sit on a bleacher and watch cars drive in circles?”
You looked up slowly. “You’d love it. It’s loud, there’s alcohol, half-naked women everywhere. It’s basically your natural habitat. Plus, it generates around two hundred million per race weekend, so it absolutely falls under ‘Potential Cody Target’ on the spreadsheet in my soul.”
“Where even is Talladega?” Craig frowned.
“Alabama,” you said. “About sixty miles east of Birmingham and eighty northeast of Montgomery.”
He stared like you’d just listed Narnia suburbs. “I don’t know where those are.”
You stared at him, deadpan, then shifted your gaze to Smurf. “You just had to pull them out of high school, didn’t you? Couldn’t let them pass basic US geography first?”
“Hey, I dropped out, thank you,” Craig snapped, proudly.
You banged your forehead against the table with each word. “That’s. Not. Something. To. Brag. About.”
You sat back, rubbing your temples. “I am surrounded by dropouts. It’s like I’m reliving my college GAP year.”
“…what’s a gap year?” Deran asked earnestly.
You made a noise like a dying horse. “I can’t with you people. How are you criminal geniuses and total idiots about the real world?”
Your eyes slid back to Smurf. “This is your fault. If you’d raised kids instead of raising criminals, you might’ve ended up with functioning adults.”
“Careful,” she murmured over the rim of her drink, her voice smooth as honey but twice as deadly. “You’re wandering into dangerous territory.”
“Uh-huh.” You flashed her a sweet, empty smile. “Well, unlike you, Smurf, I have contingency plans if I suddenly go missing. And I call my dad twice a week every Tuesday and Saturday without fail, so good luck faking that for the rest of your natural life.”
Her gaze narrowed. Good. At least someone here had functioning neural pathways. You turned back to the laptop.
“I’ll send the layouts to my home computer, print them there, and scrub the backups.” You closed the laptop, slid it into your bag, and rose from the little table under the umbrella. “I’m out. Call if you need anything. Unless it involves physical labor heavier than lifting my phone. I don’t do that.”
Pope, who’d been silent long enough to almost pass as furniture, finally spoke.
“Yeah,” he said, voice low and unimpressed. “You just do the easy jobs.”
You froze with the bag strap in your hand, then slowly set it back on the table.
“Easy?” you repeated, turning your head slowly, dangerously. “You think what I do is easy?”
He met your stare, flat and dead. “You sit at a computer.”
Your eyes narrowed. “I map every inch of those buildings and hack security so your dumbass can walk in and not get ventilated. But sure. Let’s call it easy.”
“I’m just saying,” he shrugged. “Your pay days would be better if you actually got off your ass and did something physical once in a while.”
Oh.
Oh.
You stared at him for a heartbeat, then another, then smiled. It wasn’t friendly.
“Okay,” you said softly. “So that’s how you want to play this.”
You reached into your pocket, dropped your phone on the table, then reached up and calmly unhooked your diamond teardrop earrings.
The rest of the Codys watched like a wildlife documentary of two lions about to fight for territory.
“See,” you said, setting them down with a soft clink, “I’ve been treating you like a man with mental health issues. Smurf said, ‘Give him some grace, he’s readjusting after being inside.’ Blah fucking blah.”
You pointed at him. “But you’re a grown-ass man, Pope. Which means you’re about to catch a grown-ass problem.”
He snorted. “You? You think you’re gonna beat my ass? I’d love to see you—”
You lunged.
Your fingers fisted in his shirt, and you shoved with everything you had. His eyes went wide as the front legs of his chair lifted off the deck.
“Aw, shit,” Craig muttered, half-rising as the world tilted.
You and Pope went backward together, chair and all, crashing into the pool with a splash that slapped the tiles.
Chlorinated water roared in your ears. The chair sank out from under him, and you moved like you’d trained for it. Your arm slid around his throat, elbow snug beneath his jaw, forearm locked tight as your other hand anchored at your wrist. Your legs wrapped his waist, ankles crossing sharp.
He thrashed, bubbles clouding the water between you, hands prying at your arm. You only tightened, digging your heels into his ribs, refusing to give him an inch.
“She’s gonna drown him, Smurf,” Deran’s voice cracked from somewhere above, edges sharp with panic. “Smurf!”
She just exhaled like she was watching a cat fight.
Pope’s grip shifted. One hand slid from your arm down to your calf, thumb digging viciously into the muscle through your jeans. Pain knifed up your leg and your hold faltered just enough for him to shove your ankles apart.
Without the lock around his waist, he twisted, catching you around the middle and tearing you off him.
You broke the surface at the same time, and you swung on instinct, fist connecting with his nose with a sickening crack.
Pope lurched back with a snarl, hand flying to his face as blood poured between his fingers and streaked down his mouth. For one long second, he just stared at you, eyes dark and feral with something that definitely wasn’t just anger.
Your stomach dropped. “…oh, fuck,” you breathed, already spinning for the steps.
You’d barely hit the second one when a hand closed in the back waistband of your jeans and yanked hard. You slid backward with a yelp as Pope hauled you up out of the water like you weighed nothing.
His strength was something definitely to be lusted over later when you weren’t in a position to get your ass beat.
His other hand clamped around your throat, not choking, holding, reminding, the feeling firm, controlled, and infuriatingly confident, while your back slammed into his chest. You could feel the solid wall of muscle and braced fury behind you, his breath hot and ragged against your ear.
You drove your elbow straight back into his solar plexus. He grunted, doubling a fraction, but the hand around your throat only flexed tighter. Then he grabbed your arm, spun you around, and shoved you up the steps.
Your back hit the deck, wet wood scraping your shoulder blades. He crowded in close, thighs caging your hips, and pinned your wrists to the boards by your head.
You panted up at him, soaked and pissed, pulse vibrating with adrenaline.
His eyes were a hazel wildfire, anger, adrenaline, and lust, all indistinguishable, face inches from yours. You snarled, baring your teeth, and bit his bottom lip until it bled.
“Stop,” he snapped, tongue swiping his bottom lip, painting the tip of it crimson.
You tried to twist your hands free, shoulders straining. His grip didn’t budge.
You twisted your head, aiming for his fingers. He shifted your hands to one, catching your jaw in his other hand, fingers digging in just enough to hold you still.
“I said stop,” he growled, low and dangerous. “Or I swear to God, I’ll fuck this out of you right here.”
Heat flashed low in your stomach, rage or arousal, you refused to examine which. You shut your mouth and exhaled hard through your nose, chest heaving.
A drop of his blood slid off his chin and landed on your cheek, hot against your cold, wet skin.
“Go ahead,” he added softly, eyes burning into yours. “Test how serious I am.”
“Get. Off,” you ground out.
“Or what?” he asked, leaning in so close you could count his eyelashes and every speck of gold in his dark eyes. “What are you gonna do, princess?”
Rage flared white-hot at his patronization. You snapped your head forward and cracked your forehead into his broken nose.
He snarled, jerking back with another burst of blood. His hand tightened on your wrists, his other curling into a fist that drew back, knuckles white.
You screwed your eyes shut and turned your head away, jaw clenched.
“Andrew.”
Smurf’s voice cut through the air like a blade.
You opened your eyes to see his fist frozen an inch from your cheek, his jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumped.
“If she goes to work roughed up,” Smurf said calmly, “the cops are gonna start asking questions. Let her go.”
Pope’s chest heaved. He stared down at you, and this time his eyes weren’t just furious. There was something else there, dark, sharp, and hungry, and you hated the way it jolted through your veins.
“Andrew,” Smurf warned.
He sucked in a breath, then slowly released your wrists.
You ripped your hands free and shoved at his firm chest, wriggling out from under him and scrambling to your feet on unsteady legs. Your clothes clung to you, heavy and dripping, but you refused to fidget.
You marched to the table, grabbed a towel and your things, and threw the towel over your shoulders like a cape.
“You look like a wet—” Craig started.
You lifted a single finger without looking at him. “I just beat the shit out of your brother. You want the sequel?” you snapped.
Craig’s mouth clicked shut audibly.
You inhaled, then exhaled, forcing your voice to level out. You turned toward the gate, then paused and pivoted back to Pope, who was still on his knees on the deck, blood streaked down his face and chest, eyes locked on you like you were a problem he wasn’t done solving—and wasn’t going to stop until he did.
“Fuck you and the horse you rode in on,” you breathed. “I get off at four-thirty. Don’t be late.”
You didn’t wait for an answer. You stomped through the gate and slammed it behind you, wet footprints bleeding across the concrete toward your car.
Pope slowly pushed to his feet, spat a mouthful of blood onto the deck, and planted his hands on his hips, staring at the wet silhouette your body had left on the deck boards.
“Well, that was anticlimactic,” Craig muttered. “Zero out of ten, wouldn’t watch again unless I saw her boobs.”
Deran elbowed him. “Dude, shut up.”
Pope didn’t answer. He looked at the outline a second longer, something complicated moving behind his eyes, then turned and stalked toward the sound of your car door slamming, a hot and ugly burning in his chest.
summary: what it’s like to be in a relationship with Andrew when you both struggle with OCD.
characters: Andrew Cody x ocd!reader, Cody family mention
content: trigger warning for ocd discussion & description of thoughts/compulsions, medication mention, drugging without consent (Andrew, not by reader), fluffy ending - let me know if I missed anything!
a/n: I was wondering what it’d be like for Andrew to be with someone who also struggles with ocd, so (partially drawing from my own experiences) I wrote this!
Andrew understands (to an extent) why you do the things you do - the things others have called strange, or odd, or unnecessary. He understands the sensations in your body mixing with the thoughts in your mind that force you to act out repetitive motions, or phrases - or however else the compulsions manifest.
He is protective over the specificities you have and will speak up for you, or correct an objects position when you’re clearly uncomfortable with the misalignment. He notices when you’re beginning to dissociate from the present moment, trying to escape the demanding signals of your brain to, ‘do this, so that this..’. (essentially, processes that make you feel safe again.)
ocd!reader who’s aware of Andrew’s compulsive acts/thoughts that claim his world too.
You do your best to ease his discomforts by remembering what helps him feel relief, and appropriately setting up your space before he visits, so he can be comfortable too. (Ex. Bologna pre-cut into squares, and organized/tidied surfaces cleaned with Andrew approved cleaners.. etc etc.)
When Andrew admits to having been drugged by his family with medications that help his symptoms, you listen with an nonjudgmental openness he’s grateful for - & not at all used to. Then you let him cry into your arms as he becomes overwhelmed by the conflicting thoughts and feelings he holds within, surrounding the topic.
You let him know that whether or not he decides (*emphasis on it being purely his decision!) to start taking meds again, you will still be in his life, and want him in yours. the care/love you feel for him isn’t tainted by this part of him, bc all of him is lovable.
Andrew reciprocates the same sentiments back to you, strong in his conviction to embody and ground the truth of the words in reality. He vows to be the kind of person you deserve to be loved by, and with this new promise he starts to let himself believe he is worthy of a love like this too. ♥️
i kind of need pope x reader who works a job with them but fucks something up… him angry fucking her afterwards and talking about how he could kill her & no one would find the body… if that’s too much it could be softer!!
Request #001: eat the rich (or die trying)
a/n: thnx for requesting, this is like one of my firsts either in a long time or in general that I can remember, so I hope you like it !!
fandoms: animal kingdom tnt; andrew "pope" cody
pairing: pope cody x fem!reader
warnings/tags: 18+ (see above), reader does a job w/ pope, reader is a little crazy too, smut (car sex, teeters in consent), abusive language and behaviors, implications of mental illness, home invasion, jealous!pope, and kind of naive!reader.
wc: 988
You had been begging for months to be part of a job. Pope agreed to it on the basis that it was simplistic. Something to dip your toes into as an amateur. When you suggested a house in the Hills, because 'eat the rich', he held some skepticism. Worse, he was often scolded for doing jobs without his family. Something they all seemed to do behind one another's backs until they felt it was relevant to mention.
Everyone lied, was his problem. You were meant to be different. So, when the house you chose turned out to show familiar faces in family photographs--an ex of yours he recalled from your long-gone past--and an unaccounted-for additional housekeeper, he was furious.
"We're fucking burned. We're leaving," Pope seethed through his mask.
Heavy and fast footsteps carried you both back to the getaway car as someone from the rear called for them to stop. You knew that any worker wouldn't actually risk getting in the way of their rich asshole boss's shit from being stolen.
You laughed maniacally as Pope drove away, speeding down winding roads until he found an alleyway to leave the car in. As it wasn't part of the plan, you furrowed your brow to look over at Pope, who gripped the steering wheel. The leather beneath the worn and torn wheel squeaked under his hold. He had since pulled off his mask and shoved into it the bag with the rest of their finds and tools.
"Do you think I'm stupid, like everyone else? Is that it?" The muscle in his jaw jumped.
Your heart sank knowing you had been caught being petty. Pope turned to face you, grinding his teeth together as he tried to stop the voices in his head from getting louder.
"No," you said meekly. "I don't think that. You know I don't. I was just trying to have some fun..."
"What about us going to prison is fucking fun? What did you even take from him? You wanted him to notice you were there, huh? I'm not enough for you!" Pope shouted, banging his fist on the steering wheel.
He breathed out heavily through his nostrils before snatching your personal bag with the items you had taken. He dumped out a jacket along with some jewelry and a damn-near useless amount of cash you had found lying around.
"What is this?" He held up the jacket.
You shrank knowing this would be the final straw.
"My jacket that I left at his place years ago... Smells like another woman. Probably his wife."
Pope was up and out of the car. He should have been focused on bleaching the car and getting you out of there, but he was jealous. The immature sort of jealousy that had him wanting to stake his claim on you. He was on edge enough lately as it was. He hated everyone around him as his life fell apart, and if you fell through, too, he didn't know what else he had to live for.
Pope rounded the front of the car, already undoing the front of his pants before wrenching open the passenger door. He wanted to stop himself, that small part of him questioning as he opened the door to you. You felt you deserved it, a small punishment laden in pleasure and adrenaline of getting caught in public.
He moved roughly, pulling at your pants until they were down by your ankles. Pope maneuvered you so your back was against the armrests and cup holders, the cool air blowing past your bare ass and vulnerable cunt. You were breathing shakily, noticing something different in Pope's glossy-eyed look. His hands were a little careless, bruising as they grabbed at your thighs.
"You want to go back to that asshole, is that it? You wanted to risk my life and freedom for some prick who doesn't give a fuck about you?" Pope asked hoarsely. "I should fucking kill you."
You didn't know why the words were hardly shocking, though the fear remained. Pope was hard and you were wet--his fingers checked. He was leaning onto you now, pushing you knees up so they were out of the way while your pants and underwear kept them conjoined.
"I swear, Pope," was all you could say before he slid into you.
His hips were slow at first, until they weren't. You should have been used to how big his cock was, but every time he made you feel like a virgin.
You gripped wherever you could on the tan interior, whimpering out as Pope fucked into you. There was some stinging ache that dulled as he angled his hips and pounded into your G-spot.
He was still pissed beyond compare.
Pope pulled your pants and underwear away to toss them on the car floor, the same hand going to your throat. His fingers could leave marks behind if he just continued to squeeze and pin you there. Your windpipe begged for relief from the pressure, but your pussy begged to differ as his thrusts sounded that much slicker.
"Do you want there to be a next job?" Pope gritted out. "Who would come looking for you, if not me? He doesn't care about you."
You nodded helplessly. Your eyes rolling shut had less to do with being able to speak or breathe; instead, your fast-approaching orgasm was making you lightheaded. You locked your legs around his waist, and Pope dropped his head by your ear as his hand loosened on your throat.
"If you ever pull some shit like this again for an ex without properly scoping out the place, I'll put a bullet between your eyes, my love." Pope shuddered.
He pressed a kiss to the spot behind your ear, close to spending himself inside of you. You came then knowing you shouldn't have gotten off on his possessiveness, nor taken his threats lightly.
summary: pope has spent so long convinced he’d never have this: a family, a daughter, a reason to stay. now that he does, he’s still learning to believe it’s real.
wc: 1.5k
requested!
my masterlist!
The first thing you did after waking up was reach with your hand to the other side of the bed, only to find it empty, the sheets cold.
Still completely groggy, you carefully shifted in bed, turning your head towards the bathroom’s door to see if you could catch a hint of light from underneath the door that would indicate if he’s in the bathroom, but it was pitch black. All of it, he isn’t there or in the room.
And yet, you didn’t panic, you knew exactly where to find your husband.
Carefully, you shifted again on the bed, this time to sit down. The movements were slow and somewhat hesitant at first, since everything hurt you in ways you couldn’t describe, everything ached and was ultra sensitive. Once you were sitting down, you gently gripped the headboard and stood up.
That was always the worst part.
Taking a deep breath to handle the small surge of pain and the uncomfortableness caused by standing up, you made your way out of your shared bedroom and right next door, where the nursery was located.
And there he was, exactly where you expected him to be.
Pope was sitting down in the rocking chair right next to the bassinet, back straight, hands resting on his thighs as his eyes remained focused on your newborn baby, on her tiny little features, on the rhythmic movement of her little chest, up and down with her soft breaths.
He didn't notice you right away, lost in quiet thought, but when he did, he briefly turned his head to look at you, his expression soft and yet filled with so many emotions.
“You okay?” he asked softly, mindful of his tone to not wake up the newborn baby girl.
“I’m fine,” you gently assured him, knowing he worries out of his mind for you, especially now, with the labor being so recent and all. If Pope was an attentive husband before? It had definitely tripled now. “Don’t worry, love. Are you okay? Why are you still up? Did she fuss?”
“I’m okay, and she’s okay too,” he murmured, his voice and expression softening to a degree you’d never had the pleasure of witnessing before when he looked at your baby girl. “I just… wanted to be here, with her.”
You understood exactly what he meant, he wasn’t there because the baby had cried or because she needed tending to, but because the reality had yet to fully sink in for him, and he needed these quiet moments to come to terms with it.
Your baby girl is here. She's safe and sound, at home with you. She exists, she lives and she’s not a figment of his dreams.
Pope had spent so long believing he would never get to have a family of his own, that he would never be a father, that the reality of it actually happening needs its space to settle.
With a tender expression, you made your way closer to them, stopping next to the chair where your husband sat, your hand immediately finding his shoulder, sliding along the strong line of it and up the back of his neck, finding his soft curls, which had grown in the last couple of weeks.
He immediately relaxed, shoulders slumping a little, his head tilting back to rest against your palm. You wanted to reassure him somehow, remind him that your baby is safe and sound, that she’s not going anywhere and that he can relax and not feel guilty about it, but then again, this is how Pope is.
You gently sat down on the rocking chair’s armrest, still running your fingers through his soft hair. Pope immediately reacted to that, moving his arm to wrap it around you, his hand resting on the curve where your thigh met your hip, gently caressing the skin with his thumb. Additionally, he turned his head and pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder, which you reciprocated by leaning to the side slightly and pressing a small kiss to his temple.
“She’s so little,” he said, half in awe and adoration, half with anxiety and perhaps even a bit of fear.
Having a tiny little life to look after was overwhelming, you shared the sentiment. Babies are just… so small and precious, so fragile, and it isn’t until you have your own that you’re truly hit with the reality of how vulnerable they are, the world out there isn’t always nice. Reconciling that with the existence of a newborn takes time.
“She is,” you agreed, peering down at the innocent little bundle of joy, sleeping peacefully in her little bassinet without a care in the world. You admired the shape of her adorable little nose, the shape of her small mouth, her long lashes, those endearing little cheeks that made you want to kiss them again and again. She's so precious. “She's also incredibly beautiful. and cute, let’s not forget that, she’s so freaking adorable.”
Pope hums with amusement, absentmindedly tracing invisible shapes on your hip with light fingertips. “Mmm yeah, she looks just like you already, just like her pretty mama.”
“You think?” you indulge him, even if it is a little silly to suggest she looks like either of you, she’s barely three days old, she doesn’t look like anyone but her tiny little self, new to this world. “Dunno, I think she has your nose.”
At that, Pope scoffed, he wasn’t being mean, it was just disbelief, as if he still couldn’t imagine his features or even the smallest part of him being replicated in this perfect little being.
There's only a small night light on the distant corner of the room, which means the light is pretty limited, so he leaned forward a bit more to get a clearer view of the newborn. With tenderness flooding your heart, you noticed how his hand twitched slightly over his thigh, his fingers digging into his skin, holding himself back.
You knew that’s what he was doing. This precedent was set the very first day, when he’d been absolutely terrified of holding her back in the hospital, afraid of doing it wrong, of dropping her or causing her harm in any way. Apparently, the fear remained.
“You know you can hold her, right?” You reminded gently, your hand sliding down from his hair to his broad back, rubbing gentle circles there.
He looked up at you with what was, without doubt, the most vulnerable look you’d ever seen on his face, high up there with the expression he’d made at your wedding when he saw you wearing the white dress for the first time, walking down the aisle.
“I don’t want to disturb her.”
Your heart squeezed in your chest at that.
“You won’t disturb her, love, I promise,” you encouraged him softly, pushing gently on his back so he moved closer to the bassinet. “Just slide your hands under her, make sure to cradle her head with one hand and her little body with the other, just as we practiced, and she’ll be alright. I'm sure she would sleep even comfier in papa’s arms.”
His expression relaxed even more at that, then he nodded. He moved to stand up from the rocking chair, his hand cradling your side to make sure you wouldn’t jostle too much when his weight was removed from the chair. Once he made sure you were safe, he turned to the bassinet.
With the utmost care and a delicate touch, Pope leaned forward. His left hand pressed back first against the soft cushion of the bassinet, then smoothly slid under the baby’s tiny head, gently cradling it, adjusting his hold there so the neck would be supported, then with the same care, he slid his other hand under the baby’s little bottom, making sure to cradle her small body properly, and after taking a deep breath, he lifted slowly.
Your precious baby girl let out a soft little sound at that, a soft squeaky grunt that immediately made you smile. Pope froze for a couple of seconds, probably fearing the little sound would lead to a cry, but it never came, she settled. He took that as his cue and brought her delicate body up to his chest, safely tucking her there. The baby immediately settled there, instinctively curling up against his warmth, tiny little hand resting on his chest.
Pope's shoulders relaxed, letting out the breath he’d been holding, his hands held her safely, making sure to cradle her fragile body as if she were the most precious thing ever. Which to be fair, she is to you both.
There was no need for you to say ‘see? told you so’ because Pope’s expression already told you all you needed to know. He looked down at her, his thumb brushed her soft little head, and he leant in slightly, pressing a soft kiss to her small forehead.
"Papa's here,” he whispered to her. “Mama and papa will always be here for you.”
And just like that, reality was finally starting to settle for him.
you met deran cody first a few months ago. he was a friend of a friend who would hang out and surf with your group every now and then. sometimes his brother craig would be there too, ogling you like you didn't notice. you never actually learned much about deran, and he only knew you'd worked as a bartender for a while because you'd make some killer cocktails whenever they hung out at your place. still, he was sweet and fun, so you quickly took a liking to him.
therefore, when he called you saying he'd bought a bar and was looking for a girl to help him out, you—freshly laid off from your old job—were absolutely ecstatic to give him a hand.
that's why you're here now, serving beer to a group of drunk surfers and accidentally letting the glass in your hand overflow because your attention is somewhere else.
you can't help but stare at the end of the bar, where a lone man sits. no drink in his hand, just looking directly at you with his palms flat against the counter and his back impossibly straight.
"you keep spilling the beer." deran appears beside you with a rag, wiping up the mess.
"sorry, something is... distracting me" you apologize. he arches a questioning brow before following your gaze toward the man sitting in the corner. a chuckle escapes him as he pats your shoulder.
"that's my brother pope, you can ignore him."
but that was impossible. the man is gorgeous, although admittedly a little scary. his dark eyes follow you like a wolf stalking its prey. it should make you uneasy, and maybe it does, a little, but it also makes you eager to know more.
you grab a shot glass, pour some vodka into it, and place it in front of him with a confident smile.
"it's on the house." you announced, leaning over the counter slightly, trying not to be intimidated by the older man sitting across from you. up close, you notice the auburn hair curling at his temples and the freckles scattered across his face and neck, leaving you wondering how far down they went.
and you notice his frown softening slightly and his cheeks flushing a soft red, but maybe that was just the warm weather making everybody sweat inside the bar.
he doesn't say anything. at first, that makes you nervous, but this is the same man who'd been shamelessly staring you down only minutes ago. you shouldn't be the one feeling embarrassed.
"not even a thank you? so rude" your tone is disapproving but the smile on your face gives you away.
he lifts his head slightly. his frown deepens as he looks down at you, trying to appear more intimidating than before, but you refuse to budge.
"drink it".
the command disarms him immediately, like a bucket of ice-cold water had just been dumped over his head. the wrinkles at his brow smoothed out as his face transitioned into a stunned expression. his cheeks grew redder, it definetely wasn't just the weather now.
he still doesn't say anything, but he obeys.
he lifts the shot to his lips and downs it in one go, his eyes fluttering shut when the liquor burns its way down his throat. now you're the one watching him like a hunter, savoring the thought of this beautiful, strange wolf willingly wandering into your trap.
"it wasn't so bad, was it?" you ask with a satisfied smile when he taps the empty shot glass against the bar and clears his throat. the flush has spread down his neck and disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt, just a little bit of skin visible under the first button he'd left undone.
you're having fun now. you want to see how far you could push this man you barely knew but who seems to fold under the slightest bit of pressure.
glancing over your shoulder, you see deran dealing with a handful of customers on his own, you decide that he can handle it. so you slide back over to the beer tap, pour a tall glass without spilling a single drop this time, and place it in front of pope.
you don't even say anything this time, simply pointing at the drink with your chin and looking him in the eyes, challenging him. and he doesn't hesitate this time. he tooks the glass in his hand and chugs the ambar liquid until the very last drop, meeting your eyes with his. you never told him to drink it that fast and still, he seems awfully eager to follow your orders.
he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and you smile. that makes him visibly tense up again and his eyes widen slightly, like he just realized what he did, for you.
"so you're deran and craig's brother, huh?" you say as you gather the empty glasses, "guess i'll see you around, pope". you turn away, dropping the glasses into the sink before finally helping your boss deal with the growing crowd of drunk idiots piling up on the other side of the bar.
pope cody just sat there for a little longer, staring intensely at you once more. his face is still warm and his pulse keeps racing. he would figure you out later. now, he had to think of a way to walk out of the bar without everyone noticing the painful hard-on tightening up his jeans.
Interesting, I hadn’t gotten to the origins of the nickname Pope, but I had heard it was given to Andrew by Baz as a sort of mocking nickname, so I’ve been calling him Andrew since then—despite originally thinking Pope is a rad ass nickname. I’m on 609 right now and he actually only responds to Smurf when she calls him Pope and then he introduces himself to the girls she brought over as Pope.
That’s not to say that I don’t love when the reader addresses him as Andrew in fics. It reminds me of his time with Amy where I think he felt like a person again and some semblance of normal.
J and Deran trying to explain to Craig that Pope killed Cath is such a funny scene. It’s so not supposed to be, but it’s just Craig’s Twenty Questions all asked with indignation and disbelief
Season 6 is so hard to watch because we now have a competent cop that’s playing their games—going low to get info—and I’m so attached to these characters that I don’t wanna see them lose, even tho I knew how it ended before I even started the show
Especially the cop focusing on andrew, plus all the flashbacks and getting the full context of his trauma. Ughhhh, he deserved more. Can’t wait to fully dive into all the big ass fics to heal me after I finish
titus' wife who got injured and as a result now has a visible disability because of your wedding hunt. socialites make snide comments about you, saying how there's no way titus could actually be in love with you. but they're so wrong. and he makes it very clear that no one is to mention his wife in a negative way. lest they be pushed into the Pit.
being sammy bryant’s girlfriend includes hanging around with nate and tagging along for hand-off…
you’d been seeing sammy for awhile, met him at a party in castaic that one of your friends dragged you to. you had whined about it being too far, but her cop boyfriend had been throwing it and she didn’t want to show up alone.
you never considered yourself a badge bunny, not really— until you met sammy. he had been eyeing you from across the room, and eventually, you had come and sat by (on) him. the rest played out with you happily following him home.
it was little lunch dates, walks in your neighbourhood, and usually spending the night at either of your places after work. things didn’t really become official until about a few months ago, when he introduced you to his son. he had nate for the weekend, and you were glued to him ever since.
sammy absolutely adored that you were so taken with nate. he had been afraid that having a kid would scare you off, but to his surprise, you and nate just clicked.
he had still been a baby but you were absolutely enthralled. you gave nate your full 100: attentive when he felt sick, have nonsensical conversation like he was socrates, buying him ice cream, and playing pretend like it was the most important thing in the world.
although you had been in nate’s orbit, you hadn’t known much about or even met tammi. it was your surprise that sammy had so subtly dropped that he had to get nate from tammi, while peppering kisses on your face and waiting for the morning to start.
clinging onto sammy’s bicep, you two had been waiting on a bench in front of the park. he insisted that you didn’t need to come, but you insisted that you’d go to the diner that made nate’s favourite waffles afterward.
tammi’s silver suv had pulled up in front of you, and she was not much of what you expected (not that you really had any expectations). tiredly coming out of the car, her hair was a disheveled bun of blond kinks and her tired eyes were lined haphazardly with black and shimmery purple. she looked absolutely exhausted, then absolutely irritated when her eyes met you.
“you should’ve told me you were bringing your badge bunny.” she spat, shutting the driver door behind her as you two approached the front of the car.
“hey, don’t call her that.” sammy rolled his eyes. “and it was a last minute thing.”
with hesitation, you stuck your hand out and introduced yourself, “hi, tammi, so nice to meet you.”
she scanned you up and down and shook her head with a sarcastic chuckle, “let’s get this over with.”
rounding the car, sammy led you to the passenger side with a reassuring grin and a hand on your lower back. tammi, with a glare at you, swung the door open and reached for the carseat.
she cooed at nate and sammy slipped in a hey, bud. you stood off to the side, unsure where to put yourself. fiddling with your jacket sleeves, you watched the two argue about the carseat as sammy rested nate on his hip.
“are you bringing her around nate?” she scolded, hand on her hip, voice attempting a whisper but failing.
“she is my girlfriend, so of course i am.” sammy said definitively, fixing the tiny collar of nate’s shirt.
“well, i don’t want your little girlfriend around our son.” tammi snapped.
although you were only a few feet away, they acted like you weren’t even there. it felt like when adults would fight in front of you. standing wide-eyed and half-guilty, you thought you should say or do something, even though you weren’t involved.
“you should’ve thought about that before you cheated on me and had that man play nate’s stepdad.” sammy responded before heading to your direction.
tammi scowled as sammy handed nate to you. he trekked back to her to get another word in about you and his home and how it wasn’t tammi’s business anymore.
when rested in your arms, nate’s eyes met yours with a smile and a giggle. your bewildered face switched to bliss as you bounced him on your hip.
“hello, nate, you want some waffles?” you teased, pinching his cheeks lightly. he babbled, hands playing with your hoop earrings— the inexpensive ones you made sure to wear around him. “yeah? we can get you some waffles from tony. you remember tony?”
as sammy and tammi’s argument came to a wavering finish, nate’s eyes stayed on you, arms dancing in the wind. with the crinkle in his eyes, a word that you shouldn’t have been there for slipped through his mouth, “mama.”
your face dropped, eyes darting to tammi, who grew even more furious.
“did he just say his first word?” sammy asked, an amused smile on his face as he looked at tammi’s anger.
just a little blurb i had to get out after seeing evil tammi at hand-off in episode 1 of season 5. i don't want kids but i yearn for playing wife with sammy bryant and domesticity
